by Laura Snider
“What happened?” Rachel said, leaning closer to Ashley.
Ashley followed Rachel’s gaze and saw a smattering of bruises running along her hand and up her forearm.
“I don’t know…” Ashley said, confused.
The bruising hadn’t been there earlier that day. Nobody had grabbed her around the wrist, and she didn’t remember hitting it on anything.
“I do,” Rachel said in an oddly distant tone.
The bruises were strange, but Rachel’s reaction to them was even stranger. How could she possibly have any idea what happened to Ashley’s arm? Ashley shook her head, dispelling the thought. It did no good to doubt a client’s intentions.
“So, Rachel.” Ashley pulled down her sleeve and folded her fingers together, placing her intertwined hands on the old, scuffed desk that separated her from her client, suddenly grateful for its presence. “You are probably wondering why I have not asked you about what happened in that hotel room.”
A row of wrinkles rippled across Rachel’s forehead, then vanished as quickly as they had appeared.
“I haven’t asked about it because I don’t want to know.” Ashley paused. “At least not yet. But maybe never.”
Rachel’s jet-black hair shimmered in the florescent lighting.
“The burden is on the State to prove you guilty beyond a reasonable doubt. You and I”— Ashley gestured toward Rachel and then back to herself—“we don’t have to prove anything. All we have to do is sit back and poke holes in their story.”
One dark eyebrow rose. A question. To what, Ashley wasn’t entirely sure. So she forged on.
“I will request the evidence from the prosecutor. We will go through it. If we are lucky, there will be suppression issues and other things to work with. My goal is to get as much of their evidence thrown out as possible. That could be a lot, or none, depending on which officers were involved.”
Ashley hoped her friend, Katie Mickey, had not been part of the investigation. Katie was an officer with the Brine Police Department. At one point, Katie had been sloppy, making mistake after prosecution-shattering mistake, but that was in the past. She had learned her lesson and was now meticulous, careful to follow every rule. It was great for the general population’s constitutional rights, but unhelpful for Ashley’s purposes.
Rachel nodded slowly, but the action didn’t feel like it was meant to be an agreement.
“What I am telling you is that I don’t care if you did it. All I care about is what the prosecution can prove. The State is the one that has to worry about good and bad, right and wrong. My focus is on winning.”
Rachel bit her bottom lip. It was red and chapped in a way that made it look as though she were wearing lipstick. “What do you mean by ‘winning?’”
That was the million-dollar question. A “win” could mean all sorts of things. Usually, it meant a better outcome than the State’s offer had been. Here, she doubted any offers would come from the prosecutor’s office. Not with the current political environment. So, a “win” for Rachel meant anything less than a life sentence.
“Honestly,” Ashley said with a sigh, “you will probably end up with some sort of conviction. Our best chance is probably going to be a child endangerment conviction with a ten-year prison sentence.”
Ashley had braced herself for an outburst. A shocked, Ten years? Ten whole years? Which was a lot to someone Rachel’s age. More than half her life. But Ashley saw no concern in Rachel’s eyes. No reaction. Rachel was devoid of emotion, like she’d been the entire meeting.
“Do you hate me?” Rachel asked. Her tone was flat, but not entirely uninterested.
Ashley patted the girl’s hand. It was pale and ice-cold. Rachel didn’t flinch away from Ashley’s touch, but she did meet her gaze for the first time. Something hard, something unyielding, lurked behind those breathtakingly beautiful eyes. They were a shade so light brown that her raven hair drew out the shreds of yellow and green within them.
If Ashley were younger, she might have envied Rachel. But she had long ago learned that Rachel’s kind of beauty came with a cost. It drew attention, and not always in a good way. Murderers were a dime a dozen, but a gorgeous girl accused of killing her baby, well, that was a case worth following.
“No,” Ashley said, “I don’t hate you.” Ashley didn’t judge her clients, no matter what the State claimed they had done. They got plenty of criticism from the public.
Something in Rachel’s detached exterior wavered, like a tiny door of trust was begging to open. But in that moment, Ashley’s phone began to buzz inside her bag. Rachel’s mouth closed, her eyes darting toward the bag. Ashley sighed deeply and picked her beat-up laptop bag off the floor, digging in it for her phone. The screen read Tom Archie.
Tom was the former jail administrator and Ashley’s current boyfriend. He had moved to Des Moines in the fall to study psychology at Drake University. She missed him. He had only been gone for a few months and he visited every weekend, but Ashley still felt like part of her was missing.
Rachel’s eyes widened at the sight of Ashley’s phone.
“It’s not your parents,” Ashley said, holding the screen at an angle so Rachel could read it. “I said I wouldn’t call, but that also means I won’t answer their calls. I’m not backdooring you like that.”
A muscle twitched in Rachel’s jaw.
The phone buzzed several more times. Ashley looked down at it longingly. She wanted to answer. It had been days since they last spoke, and the last call hadn’t ended well. Tom had been upset, claiming that she worked too much. That she “wasn’t making their relationship a priority.” Ashley understood his concerns, she really did, but she didn’t know how to fix them. Her clients, including Rachel, needed her. Ashley reluctantly pressed the silence button, thinking, I’ll call him in a minute. The meeting was almost over anyway.
“Your arraignment is at 1:00 this afternoon.”
Rachel furrowed her brow. A small dimple appeared between her eyes. It was adorable, which was a real problem. Juries were made up of people, and Rachel’s appearance was a detriment. Women did not generally like other women, especially ones as striking as Rachel.
“Arraignment?”
“It’s a hearing where we enter a plea. A formality. Usually, it’s done in writing, but the judge wants us in court. Judge Ahrenson likes to put on a show for the cameras.”
Rachel nodded like she had expected as much.
“It will be a short hearing. We will walk into the courtroom, Judge Ahrenson will read the indictment, and we will enter a plea of not guilty. We will then demand a speedy trial and the hearing will be over.”
“Speedy trial?”
“Yes. It means they must start your trial within ninety days from the date they filed the trial information, the formal charging document. That was filed a couple weeks ago. So, as of today’s date, our ninety days is down to seventy-six.” Ashley raised her hands in surrender. “I know it isn’t ideal, but it has its benefits. I demand speedy in all my cases. It puts pressure on the State. If, for some reason, we need more time, we can waive. But that also means you sit in here longer.”
Ashley paused to study Rachel’s expression. Still no change, no outrage.
“I will tell you that jail is far worse than any prison. At least prisons let you outside your cell for meals, work, and yard time. Not that you will end up in prison. I hope to avoid that as well, but we also need to keep this realistic. A prison term is the most likely outcome.”
“Okay,” Rachel said, her words a Ben Stein monotone.
“We have to do something about the way you look before your arraignment.”
“We do?”
Ashley studied the girl. “You need to look more…” She paused, chewing on her lip. “Frumpy.”
Rachel looked down at herself. “This isn’t frumpy?”
“No.” Ashley shook her head. “I mean yes, on most people. But you look like a character on Orange Is the New Black. The Hollywood version o
f a defendant. We need you to be unattractive. Maybe the hair…” She snapped her fingers. “That’s it. I’ll come back before your arraignment with a pair of scissors and some dark purple eyeshadow. We are going to paint bags under your eyes and cut you some uneven bangs. You should try to limit your sleep if you can. That should help for future hearings.”
“I’ll need help staying awake. There’s nothing to do in here.”
Ashley tapped a finger against her lips, thinking. “Do you like to read?”
“Yes.” Rachel’s face lit up for the first time. It was like the sun coming out from behind a layer of thick clouds.
“I think there are a few books around here. I’ll ask Kylie, your jailer, and see if we can’t get you a few.”
“Oh, thank you.” Rachel’s eyes began filling with tears.
“Don’t mention it.” It was such a small thing. Ashley was unsettled by Rachel’s sudden change in demeanor.
“I’m not sure about the hair idea.” Rachel touched the ends of her straight hair. “My father likes it how it is.”
Rachel said the word “father” in a lilting, sarcastic way. An accusation, like Isaac Smithson carried the title but had never lived up to it.
“Fuck him.” It was an automatic reaction. Probably not the most professional thing she could have said, but Ashley didn’t think any man had the right to dictate his adult daughter’s appearance.
A small smile crept onto the corners of Rachel’s lips. “Okay.”
“Try to relax,” Ashley said, patting Rachel’s hand. “The next couple months are going to be a shit show. I’ll do my best to protect you from the brunt of it, but there will be cameras. Lots of them.” There was no avoiding it. Rachel’s trial was going to be a media circus.
Rachel nodded and Ashley stood, the plastic chair scraping against the floor as she rose from her seat. Rachel stood, too, her wrist and leg restraints jangling.
“I’ll make sure they take those off for our next meeting.” Ashley nodded to the chains binding the girl’s hands and feet.
Rachel posed no danger to Ashley. Ashley was small, but this girl was practically skeletal. She had birthed a baby only weeks earlier, but it looked as though Rachel had not eaten a proper meal in months. Ashley pressed a small silver intercom button.
“Are you done?” asked Kylie, the jail administrator.
“Yeah,” Ashley said. She always felt strange speaking into the jail’s intercom system. Like she was talking to a wall.
“I’ll be right there.”
Ashley and Rachel were silent until Kylie arrived.
“You ready?” she asked, motioning to Rachel.
Rachel nodded and rose from her seat.
Ashley watched her client shuffle through the iron door and into the maw of the jail. The door slammed shut, swallowing her whole.
2
Katie Mickey
The air in the interview room was cold. A few degrees lower and Katie felt sure she would be able to see her breath. The whole police station was the same. Chief Carmichael was trying to save every dime, pinch every penny, so that he could keep all his officers. They only had six. One fewer would matter.
Budget cuts, Katie thought bitterly.
It was all thanks to the damned “shortchange the cops” movement. It started as a small group of misfits but gained traction after the arrest and conviction of John Jackie, a former Brine police officer, for bribery and murder. The group had even convinced Forest Parker, a Brine city council member, to join. Now they seemed virtually unstoppable.
Forest Parker, Katie thought.
She had once found him captivating, even handsome. Now she couldn’t believe she’d ever considered him moderately attractive. Katie blew into her hands and rubbed them together. She was waiting for Detective George Thomanson. Detective. A new addition to his name. He was the only one on the Brine police force. A year had passed since George’s promotion, which came after he and Katie solved the triple homicide that led to Officer John Jackie’s arrest. Katie had been the lead on that case, yet she had been passed up for the promotion.
Chief Carmichael was not intentionally sexist. His failure to choose her wasn’t purposeful or malicious. She knew that. He was a good man who tried to be fair. His bias was implicit. He was of a generation that thought police officers ought to be men, and nursing was a woman’s job. It was based in the misguided belief that men were protective and women nurturing. It was bullshit. Katie knew plenty of women who couldn’t nurture a houseplant, including herself and her friend Ashley Montgomery, and there were scores of cowardly men.
“This way.” Katie could hear George’s voice echoing down the hallway.
She stood just as he entered the room.
“Katie,” George said with a nod.
“George,” Katie replied through clenched teeth.
A tall, thin man with a wiry build and clean-shaven face followed closely behind George. The man stood erect with his shoulders back and his head held high. If Katie had to estimate his age, she would guess he was somewhere between fifty-five and sixty-five.
A woman came next, following three or four steps behind the men. She, too, was thin, her build petite. Heavy creases were etched across her face, creating two identical crevices around her mouth. Premature worry lines, Katie guessed. She wondered if it was genetics or life. Considering the reason for the interview, Katie guessed the latter. The woman held herself in a very different fashion from the man. Her shoulders were rounded, her head down. A woman trying to hide. From what, Katie didn’t know.
“Mr. and Mrs. Smithson,” Katie said, extending her hand. “So nice to meet you.”
The man eyed Katie’s hand, then stepped past her into the room. The woman shook it. She had a weak grip, and her palms were cold and slick with sweat.
“This is Officer Katie,” George said, gesturing toward Katie.
“Officer Mickey,” Katie corrected.
Mr. Smithson gave Katie a cool nod and Mrs. Smithson flashed a small, tentative smile.
“Right, right. My mistake.” George cleared his throat and straightened his suit jacket. Detectives didn’t have to wear the traditional blue uniform. There was no dress code, so George had started wearing suit jackets with jeans, an attempt to visually elevate himself above the rest.
“Have a seat wherever you’d like.” George motioned to the chairs on the opposite side of the table.
The conference room contained one long table surrounded by ten faux-leather rolling chairs. The chairs were worn, but they were high-backed and had that soft, broken-in feel. Detective Thomanson dropped into the chair next to Katie, and Mr. Smithson chose one directly across from George. Mrs. Smithson waited until her husband was seated and comfortable before choosing the chair across from Katie.
Katie watched the two interviewees closely. People often said plenty without even uttering a word. A few minutes around the Smithsons were plenty to start sketching a picture of the family dynamics. They had what some would term a “traditional” marriage. Mr. Smithson was the head of the household. He held the control. To Katie, that meant the buck stopped with him. All the glory, all the blame. But judging by his demeanor, she doubted he took a shred of the blame. That was left for Mrs. Smithson.
“Mr. Smithson,” George said, threading his fingers together and placing them on the conference table. “Your first name is Isaac, right?”
Mr. Smithson nodded.
“Mind if I call you Isaac?”
“That’s fine.” His voice was gruff but not outwardly intimidating. Deep with an almost hypnotic component to it. The kind of voice that seemed all-knowing, trustworthy. Easy to convince others to do things they might not have done without his encouragement.
“And Mrs. Smithson.” George turned his amber eyes to the woman. “You look lovely today.”
Mrs. Smithson smiled and patted her hair.
Katie blinked several times in rapid succession, annoyed.
“Her first name is Lyndsay,” I
saac said, hooking his thumb toward his wife. “You can call her whatever you want. She answers pretty well to ‘woman,’ too.”
Katie bristled. If the man was this disrespectful in front of police officers, Katie shuddered to think how he treated Lyndsay behind closed doors.
“Lyndsay it is,” George said, smiling broadly.
Of course, George would ignore Isaac’s maltreatment of his wife. He tried to pretend gender equality was important to him, but his actions told a different story. He didn’t care unless there was benefit in others believing that he cared. That benefit certainly didn’t reside anywhere within the vicinity of Isaac Smithson.
“I’m sure you know why you are here,” George said.
Isaac nodded. Lyndsay shifted her weight, staring down at her hands folded neatly in her lap.
Katie pulled a notebook and pen out of her pocket. She clicked the end of the pen and looked up at Isaac. She and George had discussed their approach before the meeting and decided it was best for George to handle the questioning. At least, George had decided it would be best for him to take the lead. Katie, as the inferior officer, didn’t have much of a choice in the matter.
“You have come to the police station of your own accord. You are not under arrest. You know the way in and out of this place, right?” George nodded toward the door.
“Yes. Same way we came in,” Isaac said.
Katie doubted Isaac knew the way out, but he wasn’t the type of man to ask for directions. The hallways in the police station were deliberately confusing, especially the one leading to the interview room. It wound around several cubicles and down two separate hallways. The walls of the building were all the same unadorned cinder block, leaving no clues, no breadcrumbs to mark the way out. Every turn was identical.
“You are free to leave at any time.”
It was something they told all interviewees unless the person had already been arrested. Not that Isaac and Lyndsay’s interview was expected to implicate them in any wrongdoing. The baby was their daughter’s, not theirs, and all evidence indicated that Rachel had been alone in that hotel room. Advising them of their rights was just standard procedure. It allowed all questions, even inculpatory ones, without first reading Miranda warnings. Miranda put people on edge. It made them guard their words. It was something best avoided during an investigation.
