“You got outta here right after high school, didn’t you?”
“Something like that.”
“Guess you know what I do for a livin’,” Davis said, not really trying to sound modest.
“I heard.”
“And I guess it’s no secret why you’re back here. Sad day for the Robie family. Sad day. I’ll be the first to say it.”
Robie sipped his coffee and stared straight ahead. “I guess that depends on how it turns out.”
“O’course, o’course. Justice will have its day and say, yes sir it will. Leastways while I’m the prosecutor for Cantrell, Mississippi.”
“Must be difficult for you to do this, I mean with a judge you’ve appeared in front of so many times. Hope you don’t feel conflicted.”
Davis smiled though it didn’t reach his eyes. He took a moment to light up an unfiltered Marlboro he pulled from a pack in his side pocket along with a metal lighter with the initials AD engraved on it. He blew smoke out of his nostrils and dropped his ash in the cup saucer. “Well, damn good thing I’ve always been able to see the big picture. Petty shit don’t influence me one bit. Now I take no pleasure in prosecutin’ your daddy, I’m sure you know that. But it is my job and I’ll carry my duty out faithfully.” He waved his hand at the other folks in the diner. “Hell, it’s what all these voters here who placed me in this honored position would expect.” He rapped his knuckles against the countertop. “And nothin’ less.”
“You going to let him out on bail?”
“Can’t get into that with you, o’course. But I’m a fair man, always have been.” He blew more smoke and tapped more ash. “You seen your daddy yet?”
Something in Davis’s voice told Robie that he knew his father had refused to see him at the jail.
“I’ll see him today.”
Davis’s shrill voice dropped an octave as though to evidence confidentiality. And sincere concern. “How’s your stepmomma holdin’ up? Heard you were stayin’ out there with her, and ain’t that fine. I’m sure your support is… appreciated.”
The network here is faster than the Internet, thought Robie.
“She’s holding up.”
“Uh-huh. She’s a damn good-lookin’ woman. Everybody knows that. I been married ’bout fifteen happy years but I got me two good eyes, don’t I?” He laughed and then grew serious. “My point is, if things go against your daddy, and I’m not sayin’ they will, but if they do, she’ll be okay. Still young and all. Find somebody else.” He dropped his voice lower and leaned in closer to Robie. “But let me just voice a concern I got me.” He paused and cleared his throat. “Now she’s just got to be better at who she spends time with.” He scrunched up his face like he’d swallowed something foul. “Sherm Clancy? Now, I got to prosecute his killer to the fullest extent of the law o’course and I will. But that don’t mean I had to like him, ’cause I didn’t. Poor choice for Victoria. Poor choice. You might want to talk to her ’bout that. Know it drove your daddy—” He paused and sighed heavily. “Well, we seen what it did to him. So sad. So damn sad, and I don’t normally cuss. Hell, I’m a deacon at the Baptist church.” He tapped Robie on the shoulder and said in a conspiratorial tone, “Now speakin’a Clancy, I heard tell you had you a run-in with Pete and some’a his boys. Now don’t you worry ’bout that. I know Pete. He can be a little hotheaded. But he comes to me ’bout prosecutin’ you for assault, you just leave it to me. I’ll handle it.”
Robie noted that the lawyer didn’t say how he would handle it.
Davis straightened on his stool and smoked down his cigarette, looking pleased with his soliloquy.
Robie just drank his coffee, figuring any response he made would simply prolong this encounter. Lawyers were really good at taking your words, twisting them around, and firing them back at you. Robie used bullets to kill. This man used nouns, verbs, and the occasional adjective to do the same.
“So how long you stayin’ in our fair town, Will?”
“Long as I need to.”
“Well, we do things right fast down here. Could’a done that O. J. Simpson case in two days, so help me God. So’s you won’t have to wait too long, I reckon.”
“That’s good to know, so long as you don’t leave justice out of the equation.”
More smoke was exhaled and more ash tapped. Davis grinned. “Remember that state championship?”
“Not until I came back here.”
“We did the town proud, didn’t we?”
Davis had been a third-stringer on the team and saw action only in the final few minutes of the championship game. Cantrell had been so far ahead that the coach had seen fit to give everyone who hadn’t played a chance to share in the glory. And Robie hadn’t minded. Despite the lopsided score, the game had been hard fought, and his body had been a mass of bruises and contusions. And he later learned he’d played the second half with a concussion and a broken thumb.
“Yes we did.”
“Old Billy Faulconer ain’t doin’ too good. You ’member him?”
“Best left tackle in the state. I plan on seeing him while I’m here.”
“Fine, fine!” Davis stubbed out his cigarette and rose. “You have a good day, Will. Let’s have a drink sometime, okay? Got me a homegrown whiskey put hair on your eyeballs, man.”
He laughed and slapped Robie on the back far harder than he had to and walked out of the diner, waving and smiling at all he passed.
Robie set his cup down, paid his bill, and walked out behind him.
He didn’t give a crap about Davis’s taunts.
He was focused on one thing only.
In a very short while he was going to see his father for the first time in twenty-two years.
And that suddenly scared him more than possibly anything ever had.
And for Will Robie, that was definitely saying something.
Chapter
21
THE COURTROOM WAS small, plainly furnished, warm as an oven but still buzzing with suppressed excitement. Robie’s intuition that seats would be hard to come by had proven correct. The place was almost full by the time he stepped inside, nearly a half hour before the arraignment was scheduled to take place.
He wedged himself into a seat on the aisle near the middle of the courtroom. After he sat his gaze swept the space. Pete Clancy was here minus his entourage. He had cleaned up his face and his bandages were gone. But the beating Robie had given him was still quite evident.
Sheila Taggert, in her uniform, stood near a door leading into what Robie assumed must be the holding cell for prisoners waiting their turn before the judge.
Little Bill Faulconer was sitting across the aisle from Robie. He motioned for him to join him.
Faulconer made room and Robie settled down next to him.
Robie said, “I plan to visit your dad today if he’s up to it.”
“He’ll be real glad to hear that, Mr. Robie. I’ll be sure to let him know.”
Robie looked around at some of the people. “Is any of the other Clancy family here?”
Faulconer pointed at a group near the front. “His three boys and one daughter from his marriage before. And damn if his two exes ain’t sitting right next to each other.”
Robie took in the four grown children, who all looked miserable. Then his gaze fell on the two women. One was Sherman Clancy’s age. She must be Cassandra Clancy, deduced Robie. The other was about twenty years younger.
The bimbo.
“I’m surprised they’re sitting together,” said Robie.
“Well with Sherm gone it’s all about the money, ain’t it? They probably figger it’s better to work together than fight it out and let the lawyers get it all.”
“You’re probably right.”
Little Bill grinned. “But if it does get ugly over the dollars, we might have another murder trial on our hands, too.”
Robie spotted Sara Chisum sitting with another group of people, a man and woman who were probably her parents. The younger g
irl next to Sara was no doubt her remaining sister, Emma.
Little Bill confirmed that this was indeed correct when Robie asked him.
“I’ve listened to Chisum’s sermons,” said Little Bill. “And I walked out feelin’ like I’m on a straight line to Hell no matter what I do while I’m still drawin’ breath.”
Mr. Chisum was dressed in black with a white shirt. He did have a stern, pious look to him, thought Robie. His wife was small and mousey, and while her husband simply looked angry, her flickering gazes showed a woman utterly defeated in body and spirit. Sara looked at the back of the person in front of her. Her sister Emma kept her gaze on her lap.
Twenty minutes later Aubrey Davis made his appearance. He walked in with the same swagger he had shown in the diner. He carried a bulky briefcase and set it down next to the counsel table. He turned and put his hands on the railing separating the audience from this section of the courtroom and surveyed the crowd. As they all stared back at him, Robie could easily tell, from the man’s satisfied look, that Davis was enjoying every second of this spotlight.
Davis sat down at the table, opened his briefcase, took out some papers, and started riffling through them, looking both focused and important.
Robie glanced over to see Pete Clancy shooting daggers at him. The young man lifted his hand, pointed his index finger at Robie, and, using his thumb as an imaginary gun hammer, shot Robie in the head.
Unconcerned, Robie looked away. From what he had seen of the man, he doubted Clancy could hit anything farther than a foot away, with either gun or fist.
He next saw Sara Chisum staring at him. Her look was worried and somewhat pleading. Robie guessed that she was fearful that what she had told him would end up as public knowledge. He inclined his head slightly at her, trying to be reassuring. As he lifted it back up her father was staring dead at him. He looked from Sara to Robie and then at his daughter once more. He said something to her. She went pale and immediately looked down.
Mr. Chisum turned back to Robie and gave him an expression that was, politely put, uncharitable, particularly given he was a man of the cloth.
Robie looked away when Taggert opened the door she was standing guard by, and there he was.
Dan Robie was dressed in an orange prison jumpsuit, the same outfit he had no doubt seen other prisoners wear many times in his courtroom. His white hair was neatly combed, his chin shaved, his physique still formidable, and his posture bolt upright, even as he shuffled along in the shiny shackles binding his waist, hands, and feet.
Taggert and another uniform escorted Robie to the counsel table, unshackled him, and he sat there alone. He had on a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. His hands were tanned, big, veiny, and balled into fists as he rested them on the worn wood of the table.
Robie watched as Davis cocked his head and glanced at the man he would shortly be prosecuting across the width of the space between the tables.
Robie could not see Davis’s expression but supposed it was one of barely contained glee.
Taggert looked at her watch, took a step back, and announced, “All rise for the Honorable Judith Benson.”
They all did as the back door to the courtroom opened and out stepped a woman, tall and big shouldered, with short, graying hair. She had on thick glasses and carried herself with assuredness as she climbed the steps to the raised bench and sank down in her chair.
“Be seated,” said Taggert as soon as the woman’s butt had hit the leather.
“Call the case, please,” said Benson, her tone no-nonsense.
Taggert picked up a clipboard and called out, “State of Mississippi versus Daniel Robie. Charged with murder in the first degree for the willful killing of Sherman Clancy. This here is the arraignment hearing.”
She put the clipboard down and stepped back.
Judge Benson ran her gaze first over the courtroom and then she eyed Davis and then Dan Robie. She came away puzzled.
“Does the defendant not have counsel?” she asked.
Davis rose. “Your Honor, over the state’s heated objections, defendant has waived the right to counsel and desires to represent himself.”
Benson did not look pleased by this. Her gaze swiveled to Dan Robie.
“Mr. Robie, you understand that the charges leveled against you could result in your imprisonment for the remainder of your life or even bein’ put to death?”
Robie stood. “I do.”
“And with that in mind you still do not desire counsel?”
“I believe that I am my own best counsel, Your Honor.”
“I have no doubts as to your legal abilities, but I want you to understand that I strongly recommend that you seek independent legal counsel. As you well know if you cannot afford one, counsel will be appointed for you.”
“I understand that, but I stand by my decision.”
“We will revisit this question, Mr. Robie, at a later date. How do you plead, sir?”
“Not guilty,” Robie said immediately.
She turned to Davis.
“Counsel?”
Davis strode out in front of the table to let everyone get a better look at him. Hands in his pockets he said, “Your Honor, everybody hereabouts knows Dan Robie. He’s been a member of the Mississippi bar for a long time. And as you well know, for many a year he sat in the very seat you are now currently occupyin’.”
Benson looked annoyed. “We can forgo the history lesson, Mr. Davis. We are only here for an arraignment. Defendant has pleaded not guilty. Let me hear your position on bail.”
“We request that no bail be set, Your Honor. Instead we ask that the defendant be remanded into the custody of the Cantrell jail until his trial.”
She looked askance at him. “I realize that the charge is a serious one, but do I understand that you’re not proposin’ any bail whatsoever?”
“No, Your Honor, we are not.”
She looked at Dan Robie.
“Mr. Robie, you care to respond?”
Robie cleared his throat and said, “I’ve lived in Cantrell for the better part of my life, Your Honor. I have substantial ties here. My wife and young child are here. I own a home here, and I have a job here. I have no criminal history whatsoever. I’ve never even been cited for speedin’. I do not represent a flight risk and thus I argue that reasonable bail is appropriate and should be set, regardless of the seriousness of the charges, to which I have, this day, emphatically pleaded not guilty.”
“Mr. Davis?” said Benson. “Care to rebut that?”
“I agree on all points with the defendant, Your Honor. Perhaps I did not explain myself adequately.”
“Apparently you did not,” said Benson in a chiding tone.
“I do not necessarily consider the defendant a flight risk. But it has come to our attention that it would be safer for the defendant to remain in jail pendin’ his trial.”
Benson hiked her eyebrows. “Safer? Can you explain that?”
“To come to the point, Your Honor, we have received threats against the defendant’s life.” He pulled some pieces of paper from his briefcase and asked permission to approach the bench. It was granted and he showed her the pages.
She read over them slowly and then handed them back.
“You consider these credible?”
“We do.”
“You understand that simply because the defendant has been threatened does not necessarily mean he should be kept locked up? The state does have a duty to protect him from such illegal threats regardless of the charges against him.”
“Of course we do, Your Honor, but we must be practical, too. We’re not a big city with lots of deputies available to watch over the defendant twenty-four hours a day. I sincerely want him to remain safe so that he may be tried for the crimes he’s charged with. And I don’t want his bein’ free on bail to serve as an incitement for others to commit the very same act with which he’s charged. I hope you can understand my dilemma.”
Benson looked uncertain for the first t
ime. She glanced at Dan Robie.
“Mr. Robie, do you have anything else to say?”
“Only that I can take care of myself, Your Honor. And anyone seekin’ to harm me or those connected to me would do well to rethink such action because it will end in a way other than what they intend.”
As he said this Dan Robie turned and looked over the entire courtroom.
When his gaze hit upon his son he stopped, but only for an instant. Then he kept going and turned back around.
Benson nodded. “I will take the arguments under consideration. Until such time as I render a decision the defendant will be remanded into the custody of the State of Mississippi.”
The Guilty Page 12
