by Grace Mead
“Yeah, I know you’re right. But I’ve had some early success in a profession that’s very conservative—my name and face are already out there. I haven’t seen any signs of discrimination at the office, but why should I take the chance?” Matt shrugged his shoulders, unwilling to add that, most of the time, he felt work was his only bulwark against loneliness and safeguard for sanity. “And what about outside the office? I should probably figure out whether I prefer men before I come out.”
“Well, honey, I’d be happy to help you make up your mind. I understand you want to take it slow, but it’d be a real shame to discover you’re gay after your twenties have passed. You want to join me in the alley?” Joey cocked his head toward the fire exit.
“I thought you understood I wanted to take it slow.”
“Settle down. I just need to take a leak and the bathroom line would keep me from you for far too long.”
“I thought pissing in the street could actually get you arrested, even in the Quarter,” Matt said.
“Live a little. I piss in that alley every weekend.”
“Okay. I could stand to take a leak myself.”
Matt stood. The table pitched and rolled in a shift of frame just short of the spins—he was drunk. He followed Joey, and, as they approached the exit, Joey rested his hand on the small of Matt’s back. He let it rest there for several seconds, then disentangled himself.
Joey’s slight shoulder pushed against the steel door and it swung open, clattered against the alley wall, then, behind them, thudded shut. Rain sleeted down, spilling over a three-foot overhang, stories above. Joey scrambled about five feet down the alley, trying to stay dry by hugging the wall, and then began watering it. Matt ventured ten feet beyond.
“Bashful as always. At least you’re consistent,” Joey said.
“I just don’t want to intimidate you,” Matt responded.
Joey tittered. Matt shifted the beer bottle to his left hand, unzipped, and whizzed on the garbage at the foot of the wall.
Movement drew Matt’s attention beyond Joey, where the street’s light painted the alley’s mouth in twilight. Three figures lurched toward them, and the largest, funneled closer by the brick walls, cast a shadow even in the alley’s depths. Then he loomed over Joey.
“I told you we’d find a couple of faggots back here,” said the massive man. “Hard to believe such little faggots would have cocks big enough to do anything to each other so far apart.” He shifted to a soft but ungentle drawl. “So, tell me, little man, are you a faggot ’cause you got a tiny cock?”
“Why? You interested?” Joey approached him and alarmed Matt; by closing the distance, Joey had narrowed their options.
“I could say we’re gonna beat the shit out of y’all because of that smart-assed comment. But we’ve been plannin’ to beat the shit out of some fag all night.”
His two companions grabbed Joey and pinned his arms behind his back. Matt zipped up. He considered going for help, but the men stood between him and the club door and behind him a large U-Haul truck and a dumpster choked off the exit to the street. He probably couldn’t weave his way to either without being caught.
Cornered, outnumbered, and outsized, Matt’s adrenaline spiked. Fear tinged with panic and fury spurred him to seize every advantage—rather than dropping the bottle, he dropped the hand holding it to his thigh, tilted it down so the dregs gurgled out, and then pushed it against his leg until he gripped the fat, slick barrel. He steadied himself and started toward the men. “You’ve had your fun,” he said. “Why don’t you let him go now? He was just taking a leak, like every other drunk in the Quarter tonight.”
“We haven’t had our fun. Our fun involves more’n just scarin’ your girlfriend here.”
The largest man turned toward Joey, pulled back a gargantuan fist, and unloaded it. Joey’s nose exploded and he sagged against the men restraining him.
“Tell you what,” Joey’s assailant said to Matt. “Why don’t you just hide over there by that dumpster for a while and we’ll think about cutting you some slack.”
“Sorry. Can’t do that,” Matt said.
One of the smaller men dropped Joey’s arm and he slumped to the ground. The man stepped out to meet Matt; his right hand went into his pocket; and there was a glint of steel—a four-inch blade. Matt had to act.
As the runt approached, he said: “Last warning. Why dont’cha be smart and get outta here? Maybe you’ll get lucky and we won’t chase you.”
Matt closed the distance and delivered a right uppercut to the body. As the man fell back a half-step, Matt pulled back, rotated his hips, and the muscles in his shoulder blade transformed his mediocre jab into a snapping left hook. Matt slipped it behind the smaller man’s guard, pointed the neck of the beer bottle toward the him, and concentrated on punching through his head.
The bottle tip crumpled the smaller man’s right temple. On instinct, Matt doubled up and swung again with the same left hook, which came harder. The man’s left temple collapsed, the neck of the beer bottle buried in his skull. Matt didn’t let go fast enough—inky blood coated his hand before the falling body tore the bottle from his grasp.
Matt rushed past the man’s two companions, who were standing stunned. He stuttered to a stop, pulled open the back door, and yelled, “Three rednecks are out here beating the shit out of Joey.”
The woman in the gold dress rushed out with a Louisville Slugger, a crowd of patrons surging behind her. The assailants bent over their friend on the ground.
The large man screamed, “Call 911! I think he’s dead.”
Chapter 2
The scream still echoed in Matt’s head as the patrol cars arrived. The flashing lights strobed red, white and blue and with each sweep his right eye twitched. He wiped his left hand against his jeans, but viscous blood and perhaps even brain matter remained—in each flash of light it was brick and burgundy; in darkness, charcoal and sludge.
Uniformed officers divided Matt, Joey and their assailants into groups separated by the emergency vehicles and at a distance from the gathering crowd. They frisked Matt and took his driver’s license but didn’t ask any questions. Matt went to wipe his hand against his jeans again, but a cop caught his hand; he then photographed it and took a sample of the congealed liquid. The cops started hanging yellow tape: Crime Scene—Do Not Enter. EMTs ministered to the prone figure before loading his slight body onto a gurney and into an ambulance, which drove away dark and silent.
“Don’t talk to the cops without a lawyer,” Matt whispered to himself. “Don’t talk to the cops without a lawyer.” He concentrated on that single thought and tried to avoid thinking about the harm he’d done to another person.
After twenty minutes or so, a tall, paunchy man with tawny skin and closely cropped hair approached. He wore a wrinkled denim shirt and well-worn khakis, and his eyes were bleary. “I’m Detective Scott Jones. Can you tell me what happened?”
“I don’t think I should say anything without representation,” Matt said.
“Representation, huh. You a lawyer?” Jones asked, sticking his hands into his pockets. He smiled and the whites of his teeth and eyes popped in the dark, but it hid whether the smile reached his eyes. “You know, I don’t think they tell you this in law school, but most of these fights are resolved by talking them through.”
Matt had talked himself out of trouble when the cops had broken up a few keg parties during high school, but he knew he was out of his depth. And he was in no shape to answer questions. “I’d still rather have a lawyer. I’m not saying anything.”
Detective Jones turned away, went over to Joey, and began talking to him. His voice then rose to a shout, he pointed his finger at Joey, and he shook his head in response to Joey’s answers. Matt wondered why on earth the detective would be angry with Joey.
Before Matt could decipher this, the detective abandoned Joey and shifted his attention to the giant and his remaining companion. After a fifteen-minute conversation, Detective Jo
nes marched back to Matt. “I’ve heard enough. You’re under arrest. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you. Do you understand these rights?”
The detective pushed him against an alley wall more revolting than the floor of the bar and pulled his hands behind his back.
Matt not only understood his rights, he knew their pedigree and origin. “Yes, I understand my rights,” Matt said. “I’m invoking my right to remain silent and to counsel. When can I call my lawyer?”
“After booking. Turn around.”
The detective ushered Matt toward a waiting squad car and thrust his head down to clear the roof. Matt slunk down in the seat, feeling the adrenaline fade and the leading edge of a wave of depression. Nausea threatened as he tried and failed to find a comfortable position. The squad car pulled away with flashing lights and a blaring siren and the French Quarter rushed past the windows.
The car pulled into the Orleans Parish Prison, a sprawling facility that covered several city blocks. The processing area teemed with black and brown detainees—most were washed-out and subdued. But the flapping and twitching, raucous cursing and foul body odor of a few stood out and drew attention. So Matt too—despite his pale skin—was lost among the brimming multitude caught by police officers and released to prison officials.
Officers took Matt’s mugshot in front of a white board that logged his height as five foot ten, took another sample of the drying blood on his left hand, cleaned it with alcohol, and then pressed each digit into black ink and then onto a blotter. As instructed, Matt then blew into a breathalyzer. Each stage was punctuated by a wait that gave Matt time to weigh his options.
He considered refusing the breathalyzer, but he couldn’t find the strength. He was guilty of public intoxication and the Fourth Amendment right against unreasonable searches and seizures doesn’t protect certain physical characteristics held out to the public, like fingerprints. Besides, he wanted to appear cooperative without jeopardizing his right to remain silent. He had to pick his battles.
A guard finally told Matt he could call his lawyer and pointed to a phone inside a tiny steel closet. Matt knew the phone number for exactly one attorney even remotely capable of handling the situation: his boss, Thomas Farrar.
He’d called Thomas at home before to discuss draft briefs and key documents before depositions, hearings and trials. The lawyer relished the practice of law so much he seemed to welcome the interruptions. He himself would call Matt at all hours of the night and early on weekend mornings with legal ideas he’d had while showering, shaving or eating breakfast—all nuisances that could potentially interfere with his practice. Farrar never seemed to worry about disturbing Matt, who’d labored through many phone conversations trying to mirror his boss’s enthusiasm and keep pace with his thoughts. The prospect of calling him now made Matt cringe.
He pushed past his trepidation and dialed Farrar’s home phone number. A woman’s voice answered with a drowsy, “Hello.”
“Mrs Farrar, can I please speak to Thomas? This is Matt Durant, from the office. It’s an emergency.”
“Of course.” She scarcely sounded surprised. Matt heard her say, “Honey, it’s Matt from the office. He says it’s an emergency.”
“Matt, what’s the problem?” Farrar asked in a crisp voice.
“Thomas, I’ve been arrested on felony charges and I’m at the Orleans Parish Prison.”
“What the hell? No, don’t say anything.” Farrar paused for a full thirty seconds—an interminable wait for Matt and a record-setting silence for Farrar. “For the benefit of anyone who might be listening to this phone call or a recording of it, Mr Durant and I are both attorneys. I’m communicating with him to provide legal advice, this is a privileged conversation, and you should stop listening right now.” Farrar paused again. “We shouldn’t discuss the substance of your problem over the phone. I’m sure this has to be some sort of mistake. But no night-court judge is going to let you bond out over the weekend, so there’s not much I can do right now. Monday morning, the DA’s office will decide whether to go for an indictment. I’ll call their office tonight and leave a message that I’m representing you at least for now, which will give me the right to appear at any grand jury proceeding.”
By the end of his instructions, Farrar had taken on the matter-of-fact tone of a lawyer who routinely deals with a wide variety of client emergencies. He’d address practical issues first. Later, he’d worry about Matt and any larger questions raised by his felony arrest.
“I really need to tell you something about what happened tonight,” Matt said. “I’m worried some evidence may go missing if we don’t get on it right away.”
“Well, you’re going to have to tell me then. What is it?”
“I was attacked by man with a knife in an alley behind a bar on Bourbon Street.” He couldn’t bring himself to say St Ann. Matt said, “The alley was behind a bar named Drink. I didn’t tell the detective about the knife because I didn’t want to say anything to the police, but now I’m afraid they won’t look for it. One of the other witnesses probably told him, but still—”
“I hear you. Do you remember the name of the detective who interviewed you?”
“Scott Jones.”
“I’ll handle it.”
“Thanks,” Matt said. Apologizing for waking Farrar up didn’t seem right. The seriousness of his situation eclipsed any inconvenience.
Matt rapped on the webbed window and an officer appeared. He led Matt through a heavy steel door that separated the booking area from the jail itself. Cells flanked a long corridor that led to a cavernous room containing dozens of people. Matt tamped down his panic about the roommate situation. His stomach unclenched as the officer stopped short of the massive room, opened the cell door to his left, and motioned for Matt to enter.
“It’s your lucky night; you get your own cell,” the officer said. “Breakfast is at eight. That’s only a couple hours away. I suggest you get some sleep. It’ll be good practice. You’re gonna be doing a lot of sleeping now.”
Matt tossed and turned throughout much of the night. Every movement prompted a new question, and the potential answers weren’t reassuring. Had he really killed a man? Could he have made it out of the alley before they caught him? Did all this really happen just because he’d decided to visit a gay bar? He wasn’t sure when his ricocheting thoughts lost enough momentum for him to fall asleep, but they finally did.
He startled out of twilight sleep to the sound of a metal breakfast tray shoved through a slot in the door. It held some facsimile of orange juice, eggs, and toast, which he choked down for energy and just to do something. Then—mired in melancholy and unable to string more than a handful of sensible thoughts together at a time—he waited through the remainder of a very long weekend and a Monday morning that felt even longer.
On Monday afternoon, about an hour after receiving a lunch fabricated from the same cardboard as breakfast, a guard appeared. “Your lawyer’s here. Put your hands through the slot.” He cuffed Matt’s hands and opened the steel bar door. “Thatta way,” the guard said, pointing down the corridor to the portal that led to the booking area. After passing through the threshold, he led Matt to a series of conference rooms with sturdy galvanized doors and plexiglass windows. He allowed Matt to enter the conference room alone.
“Matt, it’s good to see you safe and sound, even if the circumstances aren’t exactly ideal,” Farrar said. The gravel in his voice was as reassuring as his full head of silver hair; his even tan suggested calm. A yellow legal pad filled with his familiar scribbles rested on the table, Attorney Client Privileged, Work Product emblazoned on the upper right corner of the first page. Lisa sat next to Farrar with a piteous expression in her eyes. Humiliation colored Matt’s face and made him want to crawl under the table.
“Matt, I’m so sorry this happened to you,�
�� Lisa said. She reached out and lightly touched his cuffed hands.
“Events are unfolding very rapidly,” Farrar said. “The DA’s office secured an indictment this morning for first-degree murder.”
“So I did kill a man,” Matt said. He tried to bury his feelings under a monotone voice. But his stomach opened like a trapdoor above a bottomless pit—disorientation and guilt overwhelmed him and his gut went into free-fall. He lowered his forehead to his cuffed hands on the table, blinked back tears and exhaled.
After a moment, he pushed his head up. He only had limited time with Farrar and could figure out how to deal with those emotions later. He had to think about his situation analytically and methodically. It was his only hope.
“How could they possibly charge me with first-degree murder?” Matt asked. “Even if I’d meant to kill the guy, which I sure as hell didn’t, what sort of aggravating factors would support that charge?”
“The prosecution presented three witnesses to the grand jury,” Farrar said. “That detective, Scott Jones, was the first witness.” He looked down at his notes.
“The detective testified this Joey Buckner had four grams of cocaine on him when the police searched him. The other two witnesses were the companions of the deceased man in the alley. Their names are Donald Rand and John Harlan. Rand and Harlan testified they found you in the alley buying drugs from Buckner and they attempted to restrain both of you before finding a police officer. They said Buckner tried to escape, Rand hit him, and then you attacked the third man, whose name was Brian Cutler. The DA’s office is prosecuting you on the theory you killed Cutler while attempting to purchase cocaine.”
Indignation punched through Matt’s thin layer of detachment. “That’s not even close to what happened!”
