Crime Beat Girl

by Geri L Dreiling

  Beth's eyes moved to her daughter. "Please?"

  "All right," Debbie sighed as she picked up her laptop.

  Julie reached into her purse. "I almost forgot. Here's your mom's instructions about the interview tomorrow with Judge Jamison."

  Debbie reached for the paper and looked at her mother. Beth's eyes were closed but her lips couldn't help but form the shape of a satisfied grin.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Trials and Tribulations

  It was the dark circles around Maurice Jamison's eyes that Debbie first noticed as she was ushered into the judge's chambers by his assistant, a woman in her mid-forties with slightly sagging shoulders and lips that drooped at the corners.

  "Come in, come in," the judge said, only briefly looking up from a legal file. Returning his concentration to the pieces of paper in front of him, Jamison gestured with his arm to a chair across from his desk. "Please, take a seat."

  The assistant hustled out of the office.

  Debbie remained still. When she was a kid, and there was a day off from school, her parents often took her to their law office. Sometimes that meant going with them to court while they filed documents or stopped in for a quick chat with a judge.

  "Judges are busy. Their decisions have consequences," Cary explained to his daughter when Debbie complained about the rudeness of judges. "If they're in the middle of a thought or analyzing some problem, they need to finish it before turning their attention to a new issue. All day long, people are streaming in to interrupt them. Besides," he added, "I consider the silence an opportunity; a chance to recharge my brain for a few minutes by letting it rest."

  Years later, Debbie realized her dad was using the time for micro-meditating, even if he never, ever, not in a million years, would have described it that way.

  Those courthouse visits also taught Debbie to be comfortable with silence. As a reporter, she leveraged the unease her interview subjects experienced during lulls in the conversation. People felt compelled to fill in the spaces left by a long pause. That's when they'd start rambling--and sometimes revealing important details or uttering a sound bite that they'd later regret.

  For Debbie, those verbal streams uttered by interviewees to fill the silence often created magical moments for her stories.

  While Jamison reviewed the documents, Debbie studied the physical trappings of his office inside the building that was both a courthouse and a detention center for kids. There was a plaque from Legal Services of Eastern Missouri that recognized him as an equal access to justice champion, as well as a resolution passed by the St. Louis Board of Aldermen to honor him for his innovative work with juvenile offenders that had helped reduce repeat offenses and improved community relations. And there was a Legal Legends award from the Mound City Bar Association, one of the oldest black bar associations west of the Mississippi River. Before he was a judge, Jamison had served as its president.

  "You're Cary and Beth's kid. I've heard a lot about you," the judge finally said, looking up from his file and taking off his glasses, smiling when he mentioned the names of Debbie's parents.

  "Yep, that's me," Debbie said, still not knowing how to respond to links to her parents.

  "I suppose your mom told you that your dad and I were close friends in law school. Sometimes I helped your dad get through a class. Sometimes he helped me. Your dad was one of my groomsmen. I was one of his. Your parents wrote letters on my behalf when I decided to put in an application for a judgeship. They also called some very important city politicians to help me out. I know you and your mom lost an amazing man when Cary died. But the St. Louis legal community also suffered a loss, we're poorer without his presence. And I'm sorry to hear about your mom's cancer. She's tough. She told me she's going to get through it."

  "Thank you," Debbie said. She'd been away from St. Louis a long time. Away from people who had known her parents. In some ways, coming back brought Debbie closer not only to her mom but also her dad.

  "Lord knows she's stubborn," Debbie added. "Cancer will have a tough time beating her."

  The judge laughed. "And your mom has mellowed considerably. Man, was she argumentative and combative in law school. I think that is what attracted your dad to her in the first place."

  It was funny, she never thought of her parents as young. Beth and Cary had always been Mom and Dad. But yes, they had once been struggling students trying to survive law school and then trying to carve a path into the courthouses of St. Louis. The fact that they did it together, and built a firm all on their own, was impressive. Even Debbie had to give them credit.

  And, Debbie realized in a brief moment, she'd probably left St. Louis to get out of their shadow; to make it on her own. She became a reporter to be her own person. And somehow, she was finding herself being pulled back into her family's orbit.

  The judge grasped the eyeglasses he'd laid on the desk and slid them back on his face. "I understand you're working on a story about a boy in juvenile detention facing some serious charges," Judge Jamison said.

  "Yes, your honor."

  "Let's talk off the record, okay?" Judge Jamison requested.

  "Certainly," Debbie said, putting down her notebook.

  "I never talk to reporters. But I respect your parents. They're honorable people. I'm going to assume, because they're your folks, that you got a double dose of integrity. Don't let me down, okay?"

  Debbie nodded. She wasn't planning on breaching confidentiality. But now, she was even more invested in shielding the conversation because the judge had invoked her parents. She wasn't going to betray her mother or her father, or tarnish their reputations.

  Jamison continued, "We're seeing an uptick in the number of young people here in juvenile court who've been out joyriding in stolen cars. It's dangerous. Dangerous for the public and dangerous for the kids. Someone was bound to get hurt. Unfortunately, we have an innocent dead teen. I can't tell you why we're seeing more of these cases," Jamison said, rubbing his forehead. "But I can tell you this: I want it to stop."

  Debbie nodded. "Many people would agree with you. I went to the victim's funeral. The pastor called it babies killing babies. And I've heard the same thing from older people who live in the community. They're all fretting."

  Judge Jamison said, "If you write a story, maybe it will help shine a light on this problem. Maybe the police will put more feet on the street. Of course, I'm in a sensitive role. Granted, I'm not handling the case of the juvenile you're investigating but I am a representative of the bench. I can't give you confidential information. However, I can point you in the right direction so that you can find public information."

  Debbie took a deep breath. She parsed his words. He'd give her hints but she'd have to work hard to get the information. There was no way he was going to hand over juicy bits in a neat package wrapped with a tiny bow.

  The judge continued, "The police department keeps stats on juvenile offenders. You could even manually add up the number of incidents on the daily crime reports published by the department. You've probably seen them. The SLMPD's crime and happenings report. If you could compare this summer's numbers to last year's, I think you'll see a big uptick."

  "What about Joshua Lucas? How does he fit into all this?"

  Jamison shrugged. "As I said, his case isn't on my docket. And you're a witness. So you're tap dancing on an ethical minefield. But, as you know, the boy is in some serious trouble."

  Jamison sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. "His poor grandfather."

  "Grandfather?"

  Jamison continued. "At least his grandfather hired Chase Laclede."

  "Well, what do you think of Chase?"

  "He's smart. Like you, a product of a lawyer marriage. He's still needs a bit more breaking in. He needs to be knocked around a bit more in the courtroom so he can lose that tinge of smugness that gets coated on those private school boys in St. Louis. But he's idealistic. Thinks he can change the world. The injustice and unfairness in society hasn't battered him d
own yet. We need people like that. Although, if he stays in this line of work long enough, lawyers usually either become bitter because the rules don't get applied evenly to everyone, or he'll detach, adopt a gallows sense of humor, and erect a thick shell because it makes it easier to deal with human suffering, especially children. Not everyone falls into those two categories, but most do. And some end up bailing altogether, deciding that if they can't make a difference they may as well cash in and defend corporations."

  "What about Detective Flannery?" Debbie asked. "What's he like?"

  "Dan?" Jamison hesitated. "Straight shooter. Clean. By the book. Maybe that's because it is in his nature, or if he messes up, he's gone. His family's roots go way back in this town."

  "What do you mean, if he messes up, he's gone?" Debbie asked.

  "Sounds like you have more investigating to do, Debbie Bradley," Jamison answered before standing up and reaching for a black robe that was hanging on a coat rack. "Unfortunately, my next hearing starts in a few minutes. I need to get out on the bench."

  Jamison looked at the clock on the wall. "You know, rich kids get in trouble, too. But their parents have money. Those parents ship their kids off to in-house treatment facilities, or a boarding school, or pay a lawyer to make the mess go away. Poor parents--and grandparents--are stuck inside the system. When they can't control their kids, they've got to call the police. And then they wind up here, and we try to get the kids back on track in a less-than-ideal environment."

  He put on the robe and reached for a get-well card on his desk that he handed Debbie. "Will you give this to your mom?"

  "Of course. I can't thank you enough."

  "I've got one more favor to ask."

  "Anything," Debbie answered.

  "Take care of your mom for a bit. She's carrying a lot of weight on her shoulders. Not only her problems but those of her clients. If you help her, that's the best way to thank me."

  Debbie had every intention of heading straight for the exit after leaving Judge Jamison's chambers. She would show him that she could be trusted.

  But that was before she rounded a corner in the courthouse. An old man with snow white hair, clad in a white long-sleeved dress shirt and dark gray worker's pants, was talking to a boy dressed in a detention jump suit, red shirt, and red pants. A sheriff's deputy was standing next to the pair.

  Debbie recognized the boy. She couldn't forget that face. It was the one she saw the day she flung open the car door of the Audi after it crashed: Joshua Lucas.

  "You thought you was a big man," the old man said, his calloused hands trembling slightly. His voice sounding weary rather than outraged.

  "Pop-Pop, I told you, just like I told the judge," the boy whined, trying to hold back tears. "I didn't steal the car. I found it. Near our house. The driver's window was broken. The keys were inside."

  "Even if you're telling me the truth, that didn't mean you had to get in and drive. Last time I checked, you was too young to have a driver's license."

  The boy looked down at his feet. "I know. I'm sorry. I know."

  "I'm just glad your grandmother wasn't here to see this. When your momma got all hooked on crack, it hurt your ma-maw bad. When your momma died after your daddy shot her, I thought your grandmother was going to die, too. But you were her second chance. Thank the Lord in His infinite mercy and wisdom that she didn't live to see this day. She'd be so upset that the money she made me put aside for your college didn't go to school. She wanted so bad to see someone in her family go to college, just as she did. But instead, that money went to yet another lawyer."

  Teardrops fell from the boy's face, leaving streaks on his cheeks.

  "All right, time's up," said the guard who had been standing next to Joshua "Time to get you back. I'm not really supposed to let you stop here anyway. I only did it 'cuz your grandmother was the best teacher I ever had."

  "Thank you, Elijah," Joshua's grandfather said to the sheriff's deputy.

  "I want to go home," the boy pleaded.

  "Hush now. You gotta be a man. You need to go with Mr. Elijah. I gotta talk to Mr. Chase. You be brave. Stay out of trouble. It'll only make things worse."

  Debbie pretended to be looking at her phone as she eavesdropped on the conversation, trying to blend in with the caseworkers and lawyers who periodically passed in the hallway. Anything that would allow her to linger just a little bit longer.

  "Sad, isn't it?" a voice said from behind Debbie. Her back stiffened.

  "Detective Flannery, um."

  "Don't bother explaining. I've been standing here a few minutes. You didn't even notice me."

  "I," Debbie began, "it was an accident. I met with Judge Jamison. I was on my way out."

  "But you just couldn't keep walking, could you?"

  Debbie sighed.

  "You know, if Joshua Lucas was half the man his grandfather is, he wouldn't be in this mess," Flannery said.

  "He obviously cares about his grandson."

  "Yes, he does. Did you know Ronald Lucas is a Vietnam vet? He was discharged with a Purple Heart. Went to work for the St. Louis School District as a janitor. That's where he met his wife, a kindergarten teacher in St. Louis public schools. She was one of those well-loved teachers who taught several generations of St. Louis kids. There's a school garden on the North Side named after her. She kept in touch with many of her students. She celebrated their successes. Unfortunately, her own daughter was a disaster. Crack. Joshua's dad shot Joshua's mom one night. He's still locked up. Joshua went to live with his grandparents. The grandmother died last year. The grandfather is all the kid has left."

  "His grandfather sure didn't deserve this," Debbie said.

  "Yep. And Rainaa didn't deserve to die either," Flannery answered.

  Debbie nodded, as she recalled the image of the pink coffin and Rainaa's parents looking into it. Who were the good guys and bad guys? she wondered.

  "What brings you here?" Debbie asked

  "I told you on Sunday. I had court."

  "Joshua?"

  Flannery shrugged. "It seems like lately I can't seem to get away from you or the young Mr. Laclede."

  "You're lucky, I guess," Debbie said. "Any news about that shooting on Sunday? The one on Pawnee?"

  Flannery glanced behind him for a brief moment. "This is off the record, but the ballistics report indicates that the bullets from that shooting, the bullets that were pulled from the corpse, matched the gun that was used on Travis Hunt, that kid who was killed a few days earlier outside his mother's apartment."

  "Really?" Debbie replied, too stunned by the revelation from the tight-lipped detective. "They were both drug dealers, right?"

  Flannery shrugged. "So they say."

  "Do you think this could be a gang war?" Debbie asked.

  "Not enough info," Flannery said. "More evidence is needed. It is never wise to jump too hastily to conclusions."

  Debbie decided to push her luck with Flannery. "What kind of gun?"

  "The bullet casings that were found at the scene were a .40 Win S&W."

  "Plain English?" Debbie asked.

  "It is a bullet that was jointly developed by Winchester and Smith & Wesson. Popular with law enforcement and the personal defense fans," Flannery answered. "It would fit into a .40 caliber handgun, a gun that is easy to conceal and carry. As you know, each gun has a distinctive fingerprint."

  "And you don't have the gun, right?" Debbie asked.

  Flannery nodded. "No, it's missing."

  Debbie knew she shouldn't question a gift. But she just couldn't help it. "Why are you telling me this?"

  Flannery looked her in the eyes. "I'm not sure. You have a habit of showing up at every crime scene with your notebook, your phone camera, and a truckload of questions--I figure you might be one more set of eyes on the street that might help track down this gun. You're snoopy. A bit too snoopy. But people don't seem to have their guard up around you as much as they do a cop. Maybe you could be useful."

  Debbi
e rubbed her forearm. "I see. You aren't trying to be nice. You just think I could be useful. And for now? Can I make it public that the same gun was used in both crimes?"

  "Not so long as I'm your only source. If you find out in some way that is public, I can't stop you. But for now, no one should be hearing about this."

  Debbie groaned. "The second most frustrating thing about being a reporter is having information you can't use."

  "What's the most frustrating thing?"

  "Having no information at all."

  "It doesn't make any sense," Debbie said to her mother.

  Beth, an impatient patient, had spent a little over twenty-four hours in the hospital. Sometime after the midnight following the surgery, she'd refused additional morphine.

  "The last thing I need is to get hooked on drugs," Beth had declared to the night nurse and to her sister, Julie. The night nurse frowned. Patients who took their meds slept well. And sleeping patients were easy patients.

  By the time the surgeon stopped by at about ten in the morning the day after surgery, Beth had shuffled past the nurses' station several times as part of her self-prescribed walking therapy. And when the surgeon arrived, Beth made the case that she should be released. She'd been mobile for hours, even with the pain. The surgery had gone well. She only needed one drain for her wound. She had no fever. And she'd rest better at home.

  The surgeon relented, and Beth was home by early afternoon. Debbie found her mother asleep on the living room couch when she arrived.

  "What doesn't make sense?" Beth asked, trying to focus on her daughter's words rather than the pain in her arm and chest.

  "What Joshua was saying to his grandfather. The key was in the car and the window was broken. When I saw the car the day of the accident, the driver's window was shattered. I don't think it was shattered in the crash. The damage was mainly to the front of the car, not the side. So why would you break a window to steal a car if you had the key?" Debbie wondered.