Where Serpents Lie (Revised March 2013)

by T. Jefferson Parker

  “I’m due in court in twenty minutes,” he said. “I’ll see you after lunch. Anybody wants to know anything, you tell them to talk to me. Hang in there, Terry.”

  They put me in a protective cell, in a small block reserved for people so bad even other prisoners hate them. Module J, to be specific. I kept my head up and my eyes level as I looked into the other cells on the way by. The eyes that followed me were curious, resigned, amused, blank. My cell smelled faintly of urine and disinfectant, but the lice spray on my skin followed me in and cut down on the stink. It mixed with the smell of my own nervous sweat. When I heard the door slam shut behind me and echo down the long hallway, a part of my soul withered, broke off and blew away. Those echoes are the harmonics of hell.

  At 1:25 P.M. I was led into a booth in the Attorney-Bonds Visiting Room and told to sit.

  The deputy who led me in was four inches taller than me and probably outweighed me by forty pounds. You look at these young guys—I was one of them once—and you wonder at the predictable relish they take in their power, in the tiny cruelties that help them set the “us” apart from the “them.” You wonder at the absolute authority when one man can order another to sit, like he’d order a dog, and the man in fact sits, just like a dog would.

  I shook my head, smiled and sat. Of course, he just couldn’t let it go. The same way I wouldn’t have let it go twenty years ago when I worked this loud, stinking, overcrowded jail my first two years as a Sheriff deputy.

  “Is there some problem you’ve got with that?”

  “None at all, Deputy.”

  “You look like that Chet guy we had in here last week.”

  “I arrested him, and we don’t look alike at all.”

  “The kids you both screw look alike?”

  “Yeah. We like them young, dumb and blond. Like you.”

  “How would you like your ass kicked?”

  “Whatever fries your eggs, kid.”

  The booths offer a reasonable amount of privacy. There’s a glassed guard station behind where the prisoners sit, and the deputy can see everything in the room, but can’t hear much. There’s a table in front of you, separated from another table by a low partition. I watched Loren Runnels come through a door on the other side of the room. He lugged his briefcase toward me and sat. He studied me through silver wire-rimmed glasses that matched perfectly his thinning silver hair. The bald patch on the top of his head was a deeper tan than I had had in years. He had thin lips and bright white teeth he rarely showed.

  “You all right?”

  “I’m absolutely not fucking all right, Loren. They’ve got pictures but—”

  He sat back and looked around in an exaggerated manner, shaking his head.

  I looked away from him and felt the anger in my guts and the sadness and humiliation in my heart. How many times had I heard some guy say just about the same thing to me? And how many times had I assumed he was human sludge, a loser, a liar, a creep? I swallowed my pride a thousand times in that one brief moment. Then swallowed it a thousand more.

  And I let my attorney lead.

  “I’ve seen the complaint,” he said. “The arraignment is set for eleven tomorrow morning. It looks like Zant will be in court tomorrow. He’ll probably ask two hundred bail, as a flight risk. I’ll ask you be O-R’d as a deputy with an impeccable record. The judge can do anything in between, but unless we draw Honorable Ogden, I’d guess it’ll be more like fifty grand. Can you raise fifteen plus collateral for bond?”

  I hadn’t thought about the cost of my nightmare before this. Nothing is free, not even hell. I had about eighty bucks in my wallet—which was in the possession of the county. I had four hundred in a checking account, eighteen hundred in a savings account and ten grand in an IRA I couldn’t use without penalties. I had a Ford, eight years old, worth maybe nine grand on the market. I’d put thirty thousand toward the down payment on the Canyon Edge place, to match Melinda’s thirty. It was all the savings I had at the time.

  “I can get it.”

  “The sooner the better, Terry. I’ll send Alex from County-Wide over—you two work it out. I’m going to need five to get us through the arraignment. After that, we can talk. I’m not cheap but I am good. If you can afford someone you think is better, hire him.”

  “I called you because I want you.”

  “I’m proud to represent you, then.”

  “When do you want the dough?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “I’ll have it.”

  He nodded and looked at me. It was a long, thoughtful gaze, his pale blue eyes trying to sap something out of me, but I wasn’t sure what it was. “We’ll get you out of here, sooner than later. With luck, and without Ogden, we’ll have you O-R’d and out before lunch. Until then, stay cool.”

  I nodded but I didn’t say anything. It was strange, very strange, to have a friend. In fact, I’d never been so grateful to have a friend in all my life.

  “Loren, I’m being framed.”

  “That’s pretty obvious. We’re going to have to find out by whom. Listen, I don’t want you to say any names yet. Not here. Not now. But I do want you to tell me one thing: do you think you know who it is?”

  I held his stare, then shook my head.

  “All right.”

  “When can I talk to the press?”

  He looked at me quizzically. “Don’t, Terry. It’s going to be tough sledding, when they get hold of this one.”

  “I want a conference.”

  “No. And I’ll tell you why. The reporters will murder us whether you talk to them or not—and if you do, anything you say can be used against you by the media and, possibly, by the DA. There’s no confidentiality if you start making statements in public. Some defendants can get sympathy through the press, but it won’t work for us with these charges. I don’t have to tell you why. The more you show your face the more you make yourself a target. You think you can handle all the dirt they’ll dig?”

  “I didn’t do it, Loren.” I never, never thought I’d see the day when I reminded myself of the sniveling men I’d arrested so many times. I looked at him, then down at the table in front of me. I could feel my mind begin to fog up, then to haze over into a stupor. I felt like a vessel taking on water. I tried to fight it off. I was not sure, for just a moment, that this was actually happening. Loren Runnels’s hard-eyed stare assured me that it was.

  “Look, they’re going to dig and dig hard. Whatever privacy you think you had, you can forget. They’ll go back to your schooling. Back to your training. Your marriage, your divorce, your relationships. They’ll go back to what happened to your son. They’ll turn every stone and turn it again. You want to answer for everything you’ve ever done? We can’t look good, doing that. We can’t look good to anybody at this point, Terry, we can only look bad. You’re on the defensive. When we get you out of here we go on the offensive. That’s why you’ve got me. Use me. I’ll tell the media what they need to know, when they need to know it. Right now, you’re going to have to endure all the assumptions people might make. That’s your part of our deal here. It’s hard and I know it’s hard. But fuck ‘em for now, Terry. That’s how you’ve got to think. I’ve got a good team of investigators and we can get you out of this. I know a photographic examiner who can analyze those photos—Will Fortune—he’s ex-FBI and he’s the best there is. I’ve talked to him. He’ll cost you a hundred and fifty an hour, plus a hundred an hour to travel. Your time will come. Be patient.”

  “I have to say something.”

  “You are. Tomorrow you’re going to tell the world you’re not guilty.”

  I was arraigned in Superior Court 8, the Honorable Lewis Sewell presiding. Sewell is generally considered to be an old-time conservative, tough on crime, efficient in his courtroom. I had testified before him several times, and always liked the economy of his proceedings. He was a prosecutor’s judge. Now I dreaded him.

  The county courtrooms are large, modern and somewhat sterile. They hint of b
ureaucratic dispatch rather than the halls-of-justice drama you find in older, more seasoned ones. The room was jammed. The back part was irate citizens, all eager to see with their own eyes the cunning pervert once entrusted with the protection of their children. There was a bristling phalanx of reporters in the front rows, at least four sketch artists set up to capture me for their newspapers and networks. I immediately realized the wisdom of Loren’s refusing to let me talk to the media right then. Those people were there to crucify me, pure and simple, just like Donna had said. There were no cameras in Sewell’s court, for which I was profoundly grateful. I recognized people from the Times and Register, OC Weekly, KFWB and KNX radio and a rather beautiful reporter for CNB, Donna Mason. She looked up from the ranks as I was led in. Her pencil was poised over a reporter’s notebook and the look on her face was unrevealing. She looked at me without any visible trace of personal interest, which sent my guts into a free fall. But, under the circumstances, what else could she do?

  I sat beside Loren in my street clothes, which he was kind enough to have sent in earlier that morning. He explained that the street clothes were a risky move: he wanted the court to see me at my nominal best, but he didn’t want Sewell to think I assumed I’d be walking into the late April sunshine of Orange County in a matter of minutes. I had shaved and combed my hair, which was still wet from the dribble of water from my protective custody faucet.

  He slipped the Times and Register morning editions onto the table before me and I scanned the headlines, both quite large:

  Sheriff Deputy Named In

  Sex-With-Minors

  Charge

  and

  Crimes Against Children Cop

  To Be Charged As Molester

  “This is hard to look at,” I whispered to Loren.

  “That’s just the breeze,” he said. “Here’s the wind.”

  He slid the papers back into his briefcase, then set down our copy of the complaint. I read through the list of witnesses to be called against me:

  Joe Reilly, Director, Orange County Sheriff Department Forensic Laboratory

  Karl Neelson, Deputy Director, Orange County Sheriff Department Forensic Laboratory

  Margo Fixx, Assistant Director, Orange County Sheriff Department Forensic Laboratory

  Lieutenant Jordan Ishmael, Orange County Sheriff Department

  Deputy Alonzo Arriaga

  Deputy Edward Reston

  Deputy Frances White

  Timothy Monaghan, Special Agent F.B.I., Washington, D.C.

  Laurie Mize, Special Agent F.B.L, Washington, D.C

  Alton Allen Sharpe

  Caryn Lynn Sharpe

  Linda Elizabeth Sharpe

  Melinda Ellen Vickers

  Penelope Anne Ishmael

  I think my breath was short by then.

  I know it was by the time I read the items listed in search warrants for my home and workplace:

  Hair specimen

  Fiber specimen, clothing, carpet

  Soils specimen

  Floorboard fiber specimen, vehicle(s)

  Shirt, plaid flannel

  Shirt, plaid cotton (blue)

  Shirt, white cotton T

  Pants, cotton twill (beige)

  Pants, cotton denim (blue)

  Socks, blend (navy)

  Socks, cotton (white)

  Shoes, leather chukka (suede)

  I entered the haze again. Still within it, I looked behind me to see Donna Mason—and a million other faces—sizing my neck for the guillotine. Jordan Ishmael stood beside her with a fawning smile on his GQ face. Rick Zant was chatting with the KFWB and KNX reporters. Inside my ears there was a roar, then a silence, then the roar again.

  I looked back down at the complaint.

  The voice of the docket clerk rang out as Judge Sewell entered his courtroom and took his seat behind the bench. I stood on invisible legs and watched with fogged, uncertain eyes.

  A moment later the clerk spoke again:

  “Criminal Case 97-1103.”

  I walked to the podium, Loren on my right. I was dimly aware of our path converging with that of Rick Zant and Victoria Espinoza, a young deputy prosecutor. We met, loosely, in front of the bench. When I looked up at the Honorable Lewis Sewell, he was already looking down at me, with an oddly dispassionate expression. He nodded and said hello, Terry. I said hello, Your Honor, back. When I looked over at Zant, he caught my gaze with a piercingly anonymous stare, then smiled up at the judge.

  “Counsel,” said Sewell, “please identify yourselves for the record.”

  Zant took a half step to the side and said, in his sonorous courtroom voice, “Your Honor, Richard Zant for the People of the State. With me is Victoria Espinoza, deputy district attorney.”

  Loren said, rather quietly, “Loren Runnels for the defendant, Terry Naughton, Your Honor. We request leave, Your Honor, to file our appearance.”

  Sewell allowed the motion, which legally confirmed Loren as my counsel.

  Loren took a small step forward and away from me. I felt like I’d been left in a dumpster by my mother.

  His voice was a little louder, then, with a suggestion of controlled authority in it.

  “Your Honor, the defendant is before you now. We acknowledge receipt of a copy of the complaint, and waive a formal reading at this time. On behalf of Mr. Naughton, Your Honor, we ask you to enter a plea of not guilty to the charges.”

  “Plea of not guilty entered to the charges,” said Sewell. He glanced at me, then at Zant.

  Zant asked that bail be set at half a million dollars, citing my danger as a flight risk and my danger to the public of this fine county.

  “That’s absurd, Your Honor,” said Loren. “The defendant has obligations here he intends to honor. He has a long and distinguished record—a record unblemished until now—of public service. He intends to clear that record by vigorously defending himself from these charges. He is, may I remind Mr. Zant, a public employee on a public employee’s salary. Half a million dollars’ bail is punitive and unnecessary.”

  A low grumble rose from the crowd behind me. It stopped when Sewell peered back at them.

  Zant cited my recent, unannounced, unapproved and against orders trip to “someplace in Texas” as an example of my state of mind and my proclivity for flight.

  “Your Honor, the defendant took a leave on personal time to attend to personal business in Texas. No complaint had been filed at that time and we—”

  “—Mr. Zant, the accused’s travel itinerary prior to this proceeding could not interest this court less. What are you asking me to do, Mr. Runnels?”

  “Your Honor, we ask that the defendant be released on his own recognizance, to report as ordered for trial. He is neither a flight risk nor a danger in any way to any person.”

  Victoria Espinoza’s voice cut through the air. “Your Honor, if I may—this defendant is a risk to every child he might come in contact with. He is precisely the kind of accused for which bail can act both as a guarantor of appearance and a protection for the People.”

  An approving buzz issued from behind me. Sewell slammed his gavel down hard and the sharp report silenced the mob.

  “Mr. Runnels?”

  “Your Honor, we are simply asking the court to extend to Mr. Naughton the same respect and responsibilities the People were so willing to entrust to him before these allegations were created. He is, I’d like to remind Ms. Espinoza, innocent of all charges until proven otherwise. This piece of paper, Your Honor—the complaint—no more abrogates his twenty years of exemplary performance than it establishes him as a menace to society.”

  Sewell glanced out at the crowd, the reporters, then down at me, and over at Zant and Victoria.

  The room was nearly silent, but I could still hear a deeper hush descending upon it

  “I’m going to set bail at one hundred thousand dollars, securable to this court by a signature bond only. Mr. Naughton, I don’t see you in flight or in commission of crimes while you beh
ave yourself in my county. If you do, I’ll see that you pay for it in more ways than one.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor,” I managed.

  Yeah, we’ll shoot him dead! someone piped from behind.

  We’ve got Megan’s law!

  Castrate him!

  Sewell’s bailiff moved toward the seats, and the cat-calls stopped.

  “Any more cracks from back there and I’ll throw you all out of my court,” said Sewell. “Every last one of you.”

  The silence was begrudged and tentative.

  Loren asked for a preliminary hearing, which was granted, date to be set by whichever judge ended up with the case for trial.

  Loren bickered about the witness list being too wide in scope, but Sewell overrode him.

  The gavel hit wood. Loren tugged me gently toward the door that would lead us back to jail, where I would be processed and released. I followed him easily, lightly—as frail and unresisting as a ghost.

  I looked back to see Donna Mason watching me, with a small smile on her face. But how small that lovely perfect face was in the mob of citizens staring at me with absolute hatred in their eyes. I could hear the drone of their malice just beneath the shuffling of feet and opening of doors. It scared me.

  Once out of the courtroom I shook Loren’s hand. I was trembling. I would have done almost anything in the world for him then. I was still uncertain that I was not in a dream, but this part of the dream was, by comparison, a lot better than what had gone on before.

  “Call me when you land,” he said. “We’ve got some work to do. I’ll send Wilkers to help get you out with minimal circus atmosphere.”

  “Thank you. But explain one thing to me now. How come they listed seven photographs on the evidence list? There were only three.”

  Loren shook his head. “They got four more the morning you left for Texas. Another batch they found at Sharpe’s house. Allegedly, it took them that long to sift through his collection. And they found the negatives, too, for all of them.”

  I looked at him, literally tongue-tied.