When by mid-morning yesterday Emily had not arrived for work and missed her first appointment, Dot had gone into her office to check the calendar on Emily’s desk. That revealed nothing, because Emily had taken to keeping her calendar on her computer, which she could access with her new cell phone. Dot did not have Emily’s computer password so she had left several increasingly plaintive phone messages. In response, she’d heard nothing.
She hadn’t seen Emily for almost two days, and too many people were looking for her now to ignore it. Even that Tommy Olsen—the man who had the last appointment with Emily two days ago—had called. She remembered him because he looked so dirty, sad, and tired the first time he’d come in, but he was as clean as a whistle the other day—so much so she’d hardly recognized him.
She would have to do something if Emily didn’t show by tomorrow.
“Dude, you must be one horny sonuvabitch,” said Tommy’s new “friend” Elk, so called as the result of his having only two toes on one foot. Elk had only recently arrived in town and was a resident of the local halfway house, so Tommy had felt safe in confiding to him that he was drilling a really nice-looking lawyer.
“I can’t understand why she isn’t returning my calls or texts.” Tommy squinted as he tried to read the little numbers on his phone.
“Mebbe you didn’t rock her world like she rocked yours,” Elk opined.
“Dude—” Tommy began.
“Mebbe she’s checkin’ some associate’s briefs!” Elk guffawed.
“C’mon, man, this is serious. It’s been, like, forty-eight hours.”
“Dude, you got it bad, but remember: that kinda chick don’t owe you nothin’. To her, you’re just a blue-collared, one-night stand. She probably considered it a charity deal. You need to move on, like to that fat redhead down the end of the bar,” he said, pointing.
“Screw it, I’m gonna go see what her problem is.”
“I ain’t so sure that’s a good idea, boy,” said Elk. “You gotcha a belly full, so even if you don’t get busted for DUI, you’re just gonna show up pissed off and blow whatever shot you got.”
“Yeah, well. I’m pissed off now. So what?”
“So tomorrow you might find your dumb ass in the can, is what. Or maybe you’ll be back here, bitchin’ and moanin’ with nothing to look forward to.”
“Judge, how you doin’?” O’Hanlon asked, pulling a chair out for Howard.
“What a day.” Howard took a long pull from the frosty mug O’Hanlon had waiting for him. “Had a gal in front of me who was up for an initial appearance on felony possession of methamphetamine. I advised her of her rights and read the charges against her, advised her of maximum possible penalties and all that shit,” he continued as he sat down. “Then I started asking questions so I could set an appropriate amount of bond in order to protect the community and ensure she’d make her court dates. So I asked her about employment (none), phone number (none), residence (none), contacts with the community (few). Then I asked her if she’d ever been convicted of a felony. ‘No, Your Honor,’ she said. So, just to make sure, I asked the prosecutor, ‘Does the State show anything different?’ The prosecutor said she was convicted of felony possession in 2012.” Howard grabbed a handful of mixed nuts and tossed them into his mouth.
“She was lyin’, huh?”
“Right. So, I looked at the defendant and asked her, ‘Ring any bells?’ and she said, ‘I forgot.’”
“They always do, I bet,” O’Hanlon said.
“Indeed. I was getting ready to set her bond when she said, ‘Judge, I can explain!’”
“So, I said, ‘Please do. It might make a difference in how many zeroes are in your bond amount.’” Howard took another sip of his beer. “So she said, ‘I was convicted because my boyfriend put Viagra in my pants.’”
“I’ll bet that made for a stiff sentence!”
Howard smiled. “Yeah, I choked down comments about ‘hardened criminals,’ too. I think she meant Vyvanse, which is a stimulant.”
“Whatever. Judge, I don’t know how you deal with those folks every day.” O’Hanlon shook his head.
“Well, I find people interesting. Can’t say I love people, but I find them fascinating. At a lower level trial court like mine, most of the defendants are there due to drug and alcohol problems—they’re generally good people who’re making bad decisions.”
“Speaking of which, you want another drink?”
“No, thanks. I gotta get home before Margaret has dinner on the table.”
“Well, I don’t even mean the criminals. The lawyers, Jesus, they are hard to work with!”
“I hear you, but honestly, these local attorneys are pretty damned good overall. These are small-town, bread-and-butter lawyers. They go to work, represent their clients, and go watch the kids’ ballgames or recitals or whatever. You get an honest day’s work for your money. No one around here is billing $1,000 an hour to review transcripts or harass the other side with electronic discovery requests or any of that crap you see in the cities. They keep the nonsense to a minimum. I like working with most of them.”
“Yeah, well, my divorce attorney charged me a pretty penny and that bitch didn’t do shit.”
“Who’d you have?”
“Emily Smith. You know her, of course.”
Howard finished his beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Yeah, I’ve had some dealings with her.”
“Tell you what. She’s easy on the eyes, but weird as cat shit.”
It didn't appear anyone was home, but then, with a two-story apartment you could never tell. After ringing the doorbell and pounding on the door and getting no response, Tommy checked the handle—locked. He tried the first-floor windows. Same thing.
He was turning to leave when an old guy in a dirty white tank top stepped out of the apartment next door.
“She ain’t here,” he said.
“Who are you, and how do you know?” asked Tommy.
“I’m Gus, and I look after this place,” the old man replied. “Who the hell are you?”
“My name’s Tommy. I’m looking for Emily.”
“You ain’t the only one, boy.”
“Seen her around?”
“Can’t say for sure, but there ain’t been no one answer when the others come callin’,” he said.
“When’s the last time you saw Emily?”
“Who’s Emily?”
“The gal that lives here.”
“Sorry, didn’t know her name. Never met her. She’s kinda stuck up, you ask me.”
“When’s the last time you saw her?” Tommy asked.
“Well, I think it was right before you went into the house the night before last—’bout ten-thirty, weren’t it?” the old guy responded, and then, seeing Tommy’s look of surprise, he continued, “You is that guy, ain’tcha?”
“Uhhh. . . yeah, I guess it was about ten, maybe eleven.”
“Lotsa guys here trying to see her.”
“Swell,” Tommy said, knocking one last time before turning to face the old man. “Look, man, how about letting me in?”
“I can’t do that—you know that.”
“But I’m worried about her!”
“Sure you are, son.” Gus leered at him. “But you ain’t got nothin’ to worry about. I been keepin’ an eye on this place and ain’t seen no one go in or out since you left two nights ago.”
“Then she’s in there.”
“Might be. Maybe I missed her. But you’ll have to wait until she comes on out, just like everyone else. Now git, boy, afore I call the cops.”
Tommy stared at the old man for a moment, considering his options, then slowly turned and departed.
Howard was signing a stack of paperwork when Veronica entered his chambers. “What’s on the docket today?” he asked.
“Arraignments, followed by a change of plea. Light day,” she said.
“Who is the defendant?”
“Albert Smith, the wife-beate
r.”
Howard hated family violence matters. Smith had been busted twice already; if not for his wife’s prior recantations he’d be looking at a third conviction, which, under Wyoming law, would make it a felony. Unfortunately, like so many other victims, Mrs. Smith had a shortage of self-esteem and a surfeit of fear, and had twice gotten cold feet, forcing the county attorney’s office to accept a plea to a reduced charge of breach of peace. It was the best they could make of a bad situation. Everyone knew that within a week or so of Smith’s release law enforcement would be called to the residence again.
“Who is counsel for the defendant?” Howard asked. It made a difference. Some defense attorneys could turn even a change of plea into a grind.
“Emily Smith.” Howard noted the not-quite-concealed distaste in Veronica’s response. Never in his life had he come across anyone who engendered such emotion without saying a word—or even being in the room, for that matter.
“Any relation?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Well, get ahold of her office, would you? I hear she missed a couple of appointments yesterday in Judge Daniels’s court. I’d like to slip out early, if possible, and in any event, I don’t want to have to reschedule the setting.”
Dot had made up her mind: enough was enough. Mary and Veronica had now called her four times. She was going to find Emily, and when she did, she was going to read her the riot act—boss or no boss. It just wasn’t right, Emily leaving her to answer the phones, make excuses, and worry without telling her in advance that she was going on a little dalliance.
Certainly, what Emily did was her own business, but not when it affected her. Dot knew full well there were legal assistants in town who did a lot more for their bosses than cover up the occasional absence or forgotten appointment. My goodness, Lucy, the secretary over at the Lemke Law Office, was said to have practiced more law than a lot of third-year associates because of her boss’s more-than-occasional imbibing. But Dot wasn’t Lucy, and enough was enough.
She picked up the phone and made the call.
8
Officer Ron Baker had not been a cop very long, so it was with some degree of trepidation that he knocked on the door. He had the feeling this was not going to end well. “Police! Please open the door, Ms. Smith.”
He waited a few seconds and, hearing no answer, knocked again. “Ms. Smith, please open the door! This is the Custer Police Department; we are doing a welfare check.”
Consistent with his training, Baker proceeded to move in a clockwise direction around the small house, cupping his hands over his eyes as he peered through each window. At the back door, he repeated his demand for Emily Smith, whom he knew to be a local attorney, to answer. Still hearing nothing, he turned to Smith’s secretary. “What do you want me to do?”
“Well, no one has seen her in a couple of days,” Dot said. “She's missed several appointments and court appearances. I am worried. That’s kind of unlike her.”
“What do you mean, ‘kind of?’”
“Well, there’ve been a couple of times where she disappeared without telling me, but she didn’t miss any court.”
“Okay, hang tight. I am gonna make a call back to dispatch. I will be right back.” Several minutes later, Baker returned, this time with a piece of curved metal in his hand. “Ma’am, I’m gonna ask you to go sit in your car and wait until I come get you. It’s for your own safety.”
Dot complied, lighting a cigarette as she walked back to the car. Baker disappeared around the rear of the house and was gone for what seemed like forever. When he returned, he was ashen.
“Did you find her?” Dot asked.
“I did.”
“Is she okay?”
“No.”
“What does that mean?”
“That means it’s time for you to go back to your office. I have some calls to make.” Baker turned around and vomited. “We’ll call you when we need a statement.” Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he walked unsteadily to his squad car and got in the front seat, then took a long swig from a plastic water bottle and plucked the microphone from his vest. “Dispatch, this is Baker. We have a situation.”
Deputy County Attorney Ann Fulks was detailing recommended bond conditions when Veronica entered the courtroom from Howard’s private chambers passageway and passed him a note reading, “I need to speak with you. Now. Very urgent.” Howard hated to take recesses—especially with only one more defendant to arraign—and Veronica knew that. For that reason alone, Howard knew it had to be something important.
“I am very sorry, ladies and gentlemen, but the court needs to take a five-minute recess,” he said.
“All rise!” the bailiff bellowed as Howard departed.
“What’s going on?” the defendant asked the bailiff.
“I dunno,” the bailiff replied, moving his toothpick from left to right with a twitch of his lips. “But I know this: this ain’t gonna do you any favors.”
“But it’s just weed and meth!” wailed the defendant. “Ain’t like I killed somebody or nuthin’.”
Howard followed Veronica back to his chambers. “What is it?”
“Your Honor, she’s dead,” Veronica said.
“Who’s dead?” Howard asked.
“Emily Smith.”
“What? My God—how?”
“Well, the police department is saying someone attacked her—cut her throat.” She unconsciously massaged her own neck.
“Good Lord!” exclaimed Howard. “Who would do such a thing? She’s an attorney, for Christ’s sake!”
Daniels was growing increasingly impatient. Prior to his entering the courtroom, the parties had represented to his staff they had reached a plea agreement. In Daniels’s court, the normal procedure was that, following the announcement of a plea agreement, the prosecutor and defense attorney would put the terms of the agreement on the record. The judge would then take the plea, ask some questions to ensure the defendant was in fact guilty as charged, and then sentence. Today, however, the defendant was refusing to admit certain salient elements of the charge. Daniels was beginning to think the defendant was wasting his time.
“Your Honor, may I have a moment?” Sam asked.
“Yes, but please make it brief, Mr. Johnstone,” replied Daniels. “I have a full docket today.”
“I will be very brief, Judge.” Sam covered the microphone at the defendant’s table with his hand and turned to his client. “Listen to me,” he began. “I told you, before we agreed to this plea, that if you came in here and pleaded guilty you’d have to give a factual basis, and that you’d have to answer the judge’s questions. All of them. You keep dorking around, telling them you ‘don’t know,’ and you ‘forgot,’ and you’re gonna piss that judge off and he’s gonna queer the deal—got me?”
“Dude,” began the defendant, who was looking at three counts of conspiracy to deliver methamphetamine as well as two counts of delivery, “I start coughing up names and places and I’m gonna get killed.”
“If you don’t, you’re gonna get eight-to-twelve in the pen, man,” Sam replied. “With your priors, there ain’t gonna be any work farm or any of that shit, get me?”
“Better twelve years than eternity. These bastards scare me,” admitted the defendant. “Sam, I still owe the Mexican mafia about $30k for the shit I got busted with.”
“Just try and lay out as much as you can, then, okay? You gotta get enough on the record so the judge will accept your plea,” Sam counseled.
“Yeah, yeah—I hear you, man. But I ain’t no stool pigeon.”
Like every other meth user, the defendant was a “dealer.” He’d buy a quantity of meth with the idea of selling enough of it to cover his expenses, and then keep the balance of it for his own use. Of course, as his use and tolerance increased, he’d found himself keeping an ever-increasing portion of what he got. As a result, he needed to sell more to get his needed share, and as he gradually outpaced the circle of users he sold to
, he’d started doing dumb stuff—like selling to strangers in the alleys behind bars. Inevitably, he’d sold to a so-called “confidential informant,” cop-speak for “another user/dealer who’d already been busted and who had agreed to do controlled buys for law enforcement” in return for consideration when it came time for sentencing.
Sam was speaking in earnest to his client and Daniels was doodling on his yellow legal pad when Mary entered the courtroom through the anteroom off the judge’s chambers and handed him a note. Daniels abruptly stood and announced, “We will take a brief recess at this time. Please be seated at 10:30 sharp.”
The bailiff had everyone rise until the judge left the courtroom. “Know anything about that?” Sam asked the bailiff, who might have some insight since he’d worked in the courthouse for decades.
“You didn’t hear it from me, but the word in the halls is that the P.D. did a welfare check and found a body this morning. It’s Ms. Smith.”
“Who?” Sam asked.
“Emily Smith,” the bailiff said. “The lawyer.”
“What happened?”
“From what I heard, someone gutted her like a fish,” the bailiff said. “But that’s just what I heard.”
9
“Who found her?” Detective Ken “Punch” Polson asked while toeing a portion of the newspaper scattered on the bedroom floor with a handmade alligator boot. It was the editorial page, he noted. Ironically, it featured a three-column rant demanding something be done about the crime rate.
“Ron Baker, about an hour ago,” replied Corporal Mike Jensen, tipping his head toward the back of the house. “Apparently, her secretary called the station.”
“Welfare check?”
“Yeah.”
“Where’s Baker?”
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