No Woods So Dark as These

by Randall Silvis

  “Are you happy, babe?” she asked, and stroked his hand with her fingertips.

  “You make me very happy,” he said.

  “But in general are you happy? I want you to be completely happy.”

  “I am extraordinarily happy.”

  “Are you really?”

  “Really? Yes, really.”

  “Really and truly happy?”

  He blinked once, then stretched out his legs. “Well…I guess that depends on what you mean by ‘really and truly happy.’ What does that phrase mean to you?”

  “To be content with your life. Exactly as it is.”

  “Hmm. Well, in that case, I guess I’m probably not. Not exactly as it is.”

  “To be satisfied with the way things are.”

  “Is that even a good thing?” he asked. “I would have to answer no, I am not satisfied with the way things are. Not everything.”

  “To be pleased, fulfilled, at peace with the status quo.”

  “None of the above. Sorry.”

  “Me neither,” she said. The ache pinched like a claw around her heart, yet she continued to smile.

  “Jesus, we’re miserable people, aren’t we?” he said.

  Three

  “Court is now in session, the Honorable Judge Eileen Cleary presiding.”

  Despite its spaciousness and high ceiling and the abundant light painting the polished wood and marble with a soft glow, the courtroom seemed overheated to DeMarco. He and Jayme sat side by side behind the long counsel table and four chairs occupied by the prosecution’s team. Mahoning County sheriff Ben Brinker sat beside Jayme, with Detectives Olcott and Fascetti filling out the row. Behind them, the gallery was full and hushed, the air heavy with anticipation.

  “She’s a good draw,” Brinker had told them earlier of Judge Cleary. “Firm but fair. Law and order straight down the road, but unfortunately not a fan of capital punishment.”

  Nor would the prosecution be seeking the death penalty for Connor McBride. The young man had been cooperating with the DA and had agreed to plead guilty to the murders of Jerome Hufford and Justin Brenner in exchange for a recommendation of twenty years to life. The judge was not bound by that agreement, and could increase or decrease the sentence as she saw fit. McBride had turned twenty-one while in jail, and his relative youth, Brinker had said, “is likely to figure in” to the judge’s deliberations. “She tends to go a little lighter on the kids. Has five of her own.”

  He could remember only once when she had sentenced a man to death, and had prefaced that decision by saying, “This judgment does not weigh easily on me, nor should it. But as a shepherd of the public good, it is my responsibility to keep the flock from harm. And sometimes it is wiser to not merely chase the wolf away from the flock, but to ensure that the wolf can never return.”

  And now DeMarco sat motionless, hands clasped between his legs as he watched Judge Cleary at the bench. She leaned slightly forward in her seat, her eyes on a notebook laid before her. She was in her late fifties, had salt-and-pepper hair cut in a choppy shag that framed an attractive but solemn face. There was something about her that brought memories of his mother back to DeMarco. The ones from when he was small, before the weight of desperation and surrender grew too heavy in her. He remembered gathering autumn leaves with his mother. Remembered building snowmen and snow forts together in the dirty snow. In summer she would hand him a little white plastic bucket, take a bigger one in her own hand, and they would wander away from home to pick raspberries and elderberries along the roadside, or blueberries and wild apples in the woods. Those were his first excursions into the woods, the ones responsible for his love of trees and solitude and wild things. There had been lots of milkweed plants back then too, lots of caterpillars and butterflies to watch. Whatever wild fruits were in season, he and his mother would fill their buckets, then take the fruit back to the trailer, wash and boil it with sugar, make jars of jelly she would spread over slices of white Wonder Bread. Sometimes she would make french toast and spread the jelly over it too. Just thinking about it made his mouth water.

  Those were all good memories. The best he had of his mother. His father was a part of none of them.

  And now, as he waited for Judge Cleary to speak, he smiled to himself, and Jayme noticed that smile. She whispered, “Think of something funny?”

  He shook his head. “My mother. French toast with raspberry jelly.”

  Before Jayme could respond, Judge Cleary looked up. Her gaze went straight to the defense table. “In the matter of the State v. McBride,” she said, “Mr. McBride, how do you plead?”

  McBride and his attorney stood, and McBride, in a neat blue suit, white shirt and plain blue tie, with his gaze aimed several feet below the judge’s eyes, answered softly, “Guilty, Your Honor.”

  “Counsel,” she asked, and turned her eyes to the prosecuting attorney, “have you reached a settlement?”

  “Yes, Your Honor. The people have agreed to twenty years to life…” These words prompted a low rumble of murmurs from the gallery, which in turn prompted the young prosecutor to continue more quickly. “…contingent upon Mr. McBride’s continuing cooperation in the cases pending against Professor Gillespie and Daksh Khatri.”

  Judge Cleary nodded. Then again shifted her gaze to the counsel table on her right. “Mr. McBride, have you been informed that by pleading guilty you forfeit the right to a jury trial?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “I need you to look at me when you address me,” she said.

  He lifted his head. “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “And do you give up that right?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “Do you understand what giving up that right means?”

  “I do.”

  “Do you know that you are waiving the right to cross-examine your accusers?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “Do you know that you are waiving your privilege against self-incrimination?”

  “I do, Your Honor.”

  “Did anyone pressure you or force you into accepting this settlement?”

  “No, Your Honor.”

  “Are you pleading guilty because you did in fact suffocate Justin Brenner and Jerome Hufford, and then dismember and dispose of their bodies?”

  McBride’s mouth twisted up at the corner, and his eyes briefly closed. “Yes, Your Honor.”

  In the gallery, McBride’s mother moaned, and then began to sob.

  The judge was quiet for a full half minute as she studied his face. Then she turned her gaze to the left again, but looked just beyond those seated at the counsel table.

  “Sergeant DeMarco,” she said. “I believe my deliberations would benefit from hearing from you. If you wouldn’t mind.”

  He stood. “I am no longer with the Pennsylvania State Police, Your Honor. So the title of sergeant no longer applies.”

  “The respect afforded by that title still applies, sir.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor.”

  “The court would like to hear about the incident in which you and your partner were injured.”

  “Your Honor,” McBride’s attorney said, and the judge held up her hand. Then nodded for DeMarco to continue.

  “Well,” he answered, and paused for a moment to collect his thoughts. “After receiving a telephone call from Daksh Khatri informing us that Mr. McBride might be hiding out at the abandoned St. Margaret’s Hospital in Sharpsville, Pennsylvania, and as that hospital is located only fifteen minutes or so from our home, my partner and I decided to have a look. The first floor was clear, so we proceeded to the second floor. She took the stairs on one side of the building, and I went up the other side. When I proceeded through the doors at the top of the floor, Mr. McBride jabbed at me with a stun gun. As I fell away from him, he moved toward me with a knife in his other hand. I
had already drawn my sidearm, so I fired twice, striking him once in the shoulder.”

  “And your partner,” the judge said, and offered a quick smile to Jayme, “where was she at the time?”

  “At that moment, I wasn’t aware of her precise location. But I had my weapon drawn as I came through the doors because I had heard her scream.”

  “So would it be fair to say,” the judge mused, “that the only reason you weren’t incapacitated and probably stabbed by the defendant was because you were moving rapidly as a result of her scream?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “And then what happened?”

  “After disabling Mr. McBride, I was fired upon from the other end of the hallway. So I returned fire.”

  “And who was firing at you?”

  “Daksh Khatri. I recognized the report as coming from my partner’s weapon, so I assumed that she had been disarmed.”

  “You did not yet know her condition?”

  “I could see that she was supine and apparently unconscious.”

  “That was all you knew?”

  “That’s all, Your Honor.” He had an urge to look at Jayme then, but did not. Her eyes, he knew, would be filled with tears. And so, then, would his.

  “And did you proceed to advance on Mr. Khatri and to exchange fire with him?”

  “I did, Your Honor. After I managed to climb over a pile of chairs and tables in the middle of the hallway.”

  “So from that point on, Sergeant, you had no cover whatsoever?”

  “That’s correct, Your Honor.”

  And now the judge looked at Jayme, whose eyes were lowered, her cheeks streaked by tears. To DeMarco, Judge Cleary said, “Neither you nor Mr. Khatri was struck in the exchange?”

  “Well,” DeMarco told her, “I had to aim high, because of Jayme. And he…he was just a lousy shot.”

  Judge Cleary smiled. “And all this time,” she asked, “did you give any thought to the fact that the defendant might be coming at you from behind?”

  “I probably should have,” he answered, which elicited another smile from the judge and several people in the gallery.

  She said, “The DA has chosen not to charge the defendant for that incident, Sergeant. How do you feel about that?”

  Again he paused before responding. Then he answered, “I am very grateful that my partner and I are still alive, and that Mr. McBride has accepted responsibility for the deaths of three innocent people.”

  The judge nodded. “I understand that you were treated for a bruised coccyx sustained during that incident. That’s a very painful injury, is it not?”

  “It is, Your Honor. Though not fatal.”

  “I would also like to hear of any other harm that was done to you or your partner throughout the course of that encounter. And I encourage you to be as specific and thorough as possible.”

  His pause was longer this time. Then he said. “Your Honor, I consider my wound trivial compared to the physical and psychological trauma my partner suffered and is still suffering. Although the defendant did not personally inflict that damage, I believe he shares responsibility for his complicity in the ambush we were subjected to. According to two juveniles at the scene of the incident, they were paid twenty dollars by the defendant to tell us that no one else was inside the building. The ambush was obviously premeditated by the defendant and Daksh Khatri. Khatri, we believe, was hoping that the defendant would be killed in the encounter, thereby obfuscating Khatri’s involvement. The defendant, according to his own admission to the DA, had been instructed by Khatri to kill both my partner and me. I believe that he fully intended to do so.”

  The judge closed her eyes for a moment and pinched the bridge of her nose. When she looked up, her eyes were on Jayme. “I apologize for this next question,” she said. “Especially to you, Trooper Matson.” She smiled briefly at Jayme—a small, commiserating smile—before addressing DeMarco again. “And do you, Sergeant, attribute the loss of your unborn child to that attack?”

  A woman in the gallery gasped.

  DeMarco drew in a long breath. “It does seem reasonable to do so, Your Honor.”

  The silence that followed was a long one, broken only when McBride’s attorney stood and said, “Your Honor—”

  “Sit down, Mr. Davis.”

  He spoke quickly. “I just wanted to ask Ms. Matson if at any time before or after the attack she saw my client anywhere in the building”

  “She was unconscious, Mr. Davis. And your client has already entered his plea.”

  “I would also like it to be known to the court that a sizable reward of a quarter-million dollars was turned over to Mr. DeMarco and Ms. Matson. One might argue that generous reparations for their injuries have already been made.”

  Suddenly furious, DeMarco turned to face the attorney, but then felt Jayme’s hand slip into his.

  Judge Cleary asked, “Is that true, Sergeant?”

  He faced her again. “Theoretically, Your Honor.”

  “Can you explain that, please?”

  “We gave it away. Most of it to the victims’ families. Mr. Hufford left a wife and two adult children behind. The rest went to the Second Harvest Food Bank and the Pediatric Care Unit at St. Elizabeth. We didn’t keep a penny of it. We were paid a per diem by the county for our services.”

  The judge nodded. Addressed McBride’s attorney. “I think it is fair to say, Mr. Davis, and I am sure you will agree, that no amount of money could compensate for the harm done by the defendant to the victims and their families. And that you, sir, cast yourself in a very dim light by even making such a suggestion.”

  “I apologize, Your Honor. Might I make one last statement on behalf of my client?”

  “Make it brief.”

  “As I am sure you are aware, the deleterious effects on a fetus of a mother’s use of alcohol, drugs, and even cigarettes are well-established—”

  “Stop,” the judge said. “Your client has pled guilty to the charges. He was fully aware of the consequences of his actions.”

  “It’s just that there are mitigating factors that can help to account for his be—”

  “Enough!” she said, and leaned forward. “Far too little and far too late, Mr. Davis. I have heard from your client, I have heard from Sergeant DeMarco, and that is all I need or intend to hear on the matter this morning.”

  She looked down at her desktop calendar. Flipped a page. “Sentencing is scheduled for…November 12, 9:00 a.m. This hearing is adjourned.”

  Four

  Outside the courthouse, DeMarco felt as if he could breathe again, even if it was city air. Exhaust fumes, dirty sidewalks, concrete, and steel. City air always smelled dirtier when the sky was a clear, pale blue and the leaves on the few trees were full of natural color dulled by city dust. But the sky, at least, looked clean, and he tilted his head toward it as he inhaled.

  They had exited on the Boardman Street side, avoiding the front lobby crammed with reporters and cameras, where Sheriff Brinker and the lawyers would be held hostage for a while. He and Jayme moved a few feet to the side of the door, heard the voices inside coming closer, Detectives Olcott and Fascetti.

  DeMarco leaned close to Jayme and inconspicuously sniffed her hair. She always smelled good, no matter the season, and her scent was always revivifying, its effect like the smelling salts capsules the trainer had carried back in high school and sometimes broke open under DeMarco’s nose after he had driven his helmet into a runner’s chest. But sweeter. Some mornings her hair smelled like fruit, sometimes like flowers, but always the scent startled him and made him alert again to the inspiriting wonderment of life.

  He wanted to hold her now and apologize for the question about their baby—for bringing her to tears. But the others were only a few steps behind. He took her hand and she looked up at him and then Olcott was coming out the
door.

  “Slam dunk,” Olcott said, not loud, and briefly laid his hand against DeMarco’s shoulder.

  DeMarco answered with a small smile and nod. And now Fascetti was there too, holding out his hand. DeMarco shook it and nodded again and told himself, Stop acting like a bobblehead.

  Olcott said, “I’m betting on an upward departure sentence. Otherwise why would she have asked you about your injuries?”

  “Twenty years to life never should have been accepted in the first place,” Fascetti added. “For what he did? If it were up to me, I’d bring Old Sparky out of retirement and strap McBride and Khatri in side by side.”

  Olcott nodded. “Our DA is such a wimp.”

  Fascetti raised both arms in the air and stretched his back. “So how about the Capitol? Lunch is on me.”

  Ever since Jayme’s miscarriage the detective had been avuncular and kind, his dark eyes full of sorrow. DeMarco liked him better when he was snarky; knew better how to react to him.

  Jayme gave his hand another squeeze; he looked down at her, saw the plea in her eyes. “Some other time, okay?” he told Fascetti. “I’m pretty worn-out. Neither of us got much sleep last night.”

  “Sure. Whatever,” Fascetti said. “You guys take care.” He turned to his partner. “You hungry?”

  “What kind of stupid question is that?” Olcott said with a smile. He crossed in front of DeMarco and Jayme, briefly touched each on the arm in passing.

  The detectives walked to the corner, turned left and crossed the street.

  “Home?” DeMarco asked, and she nodded again and squeezed his hand.

  Five

  Sometimes now, two months after the loss, thoughts about the baby would leave her for a while and the fog of grief would lift away. But even on the brightest and clearest of days, a thin film of gray lay over everything, muting the pleasure she used to take in the woods and ponds and gentle hills along the two half-hour rides from Mercer to Youngstown and then back to Mercer, and the way their cell phones would say, almost simultaneously, chirping from their pockets or wherever the devices were at that moment, “Welcome to Pennsylvania” or “Welcome to Ohio.” Sometimes DeMarco would answer, “Thank you very much!” It always made her smile. But he had not done that since August.