Rough Justice

by Brad Smith

  Now she sipped her brandy while looking at the man sleeping in the chair. He was, if anything, better-looking than he had been as a young man. He was a few pounds lighter than she recalled, yet he had filled out, grown into his looks. He was not pretty and never had been but he had a sexual quality about him, and a toughness that he didn’t cultivate. The lines around his eyes and the gray in his hair made him a little older, but not much. There was a scar on the bridge of his nose that she remembered and one on his upper lip, only partially concealed by his mustache, that she did not. His hands were calloused and misshapen, the fingertips blunted and marked by years of pounding nails, shoveling dirt, carrying shingles and whatever else he’d been up to since she’d seen him last. He was a man who could do things. Or at least he was a man who could do things of a physical nature.

  If there were traces of gray in his hair, there was nothing else about him that would qualify as such. He had always been someone who viewed things in black and white, even when he was on the wrong side of a situation. This had been particularly true with regard to the event that had landed him in prison. Frances remembered quite clearly how attracted she was to him as a teenager, and how infuriated she was with herself for being so. There was nothing about him at the time that she approved of, not a single redeeming feature. He was like a case study of bad behavior, a stereotype. He drove a Harley, he smoked and drank and fought, he worked blue-collar jobs, one after another. He impregnated Frances’s sister when she was still a teenager. He was a picture postcard of everything Frances disapproved of. And yet there was something about him that had been attractive to the fifteen-year-old girl. It wasn’t the image of the bad boy – Frances had never been interested in that particular cliché. He was honest, albeit in a frustrating way. The fact that he lacked any real sense of diplomacy often made that honesty hard to detect. But it was the thing that had attracted Frances to him, even if his lifestyle had not.

  And now he was back. And the man who lived his life in black and white was now quite obviously in a gray area that he clearly didn’t recognize. Frances had never seen him uncertain about anything before. Not that he was the first father in history to be estranged from his daughter but Frances could see that he was at a loss as to what to do about it. He was a man who could do things but this wasn’t something he could fix with a hammer or a saw or an axe.

  She watched him asleep in the chair. She had been of the opinion that she would never see him again. Indeed, she hadn’t known where he was or even if he still was. It wasn’t something she thought much about. He was ancient history, like a lot of people in her past. All that changed tonight. If nothing else, he happened to be the father of her niece.

  Which had to count for something.

  FOUR

  The next morning Browning took down Debra Williams.

  ‘The summer of 1995.’ It was ten in the morning and Browning was on his feet and talking as soon as Debra was installed on the stand. He was like a dog that hadn’t eaten in a couple days and could barely wait for the food to be poured into its bowl. He was talking to Debra but looking at the jury, scanning the faces one by one. ‘You were fourteen years old. Is that what you said?’

  ‘Yes,’ Debra replied. Braced by Browning’s hungry pit bull, her body language was suddenly different. Her shoulders were hunched, her eyes guarded. She glanced from time to time at Grant, as if seeking refuge there.

  ‘And you were in … what grade?’ Browning asked, still taking inventory of the jury. It seemed to Kate that, under his scrutiny, some of the twelve looked every bit as uneasy as did Debra Williams.

  ‘I had just finished ten. Going into eleven.’

  Now Browning turned to face her. ‘Were you a virgin?’

  ‘Objection,’ Grant said, and he stood up.

  It seemed that Judge Pemberton had been expecting this, or perhaps something like it. He had his elbow on his desk, his chin on his fist, as he looked from Grant to Browning, shifting his eyes without actually moving his head. ‘I’m going to allow it,’ he said after a moment. ‘To a point.’

  ‘Were you a virgin?’ Browning asked again.

  ‘No.’

  ‘As of – what was the date of your claim – July eleventh, 1995? As of July eleventh, 1995, how many sexual partners had you had?’

  Debra stalled, and in that delay she lost something. She lost it in a split second and she would not get it back. ‘Two or three,’ she said finally.

  ‘So you don’t know,’ Browning said. ‘You were fourteen years old, you were sexually active but you really don’t know how many partners you’d had? You don’t know if it was two or three, so it could’ve been four or five or six?’

  ‘No,’ Debra said.

  ‘What is the point in this?’ Grant demanded.

  Judge Pemberton looked at Browning. ‘She answered your question, counselor.’

  Browning bowed slightly toward the bench. He went back to his notes, spoke without looking up. ‘Did you, Ms Williams, use drugs at this time?’

  ‘No,’ Debra said, but her voice trailed. ‘What drugs?’

  ‘Well, let’s try to narrow it down, shall we?’ Browning said. ‘Did you smoke marijuana?’

  ‘Yes. I tried it.’

  ‘You tried it?’ Browning said. ‘You were arrested for possession of marijuana in April of 1995. Had you tried it at that point or were you just carrying it around for ballast?’

  ‘Mr Browning,’ Judge Pemberton warned.

  Browning held up one hand, as if holding himself accountable. Kate looked at Grant. It was obvious that he had no knowledge of the arrest. He sat stone-faced at the big table, his jaw muscles tight.

  ‘I tried it,’ Debra said again. ‘Those charges were thrown out.’

  ‘They weren’t exactly thrown out,’ Browning told her. ‘You were given a conditional discharge, due to your age, which means you were found guilty but do not have a record.’ Browning looked over at Grant. ‘Such information is sometimes hidden away in the catacombs of jurisprudence past.’

  Grant smiled at the slight but his expression was that of a man in need of a laxative. Browning turned back to the stand.

  ‘Did your mother know about the arrest?’ Browning asked.

  ‘No. I don’t remember. I don’t think so.’

  ‘That’s three answers to one question,’ Browning said. ‘Would you care to pick one and go with it?’

  ‘She didn’t know.’

  Browning shook his head as he went back to the table. ‘Now the record shows that the conditional discharge was granted in August of 1995. Is that correct?’

  ‘I guess. If that’s what it says.’

  ‘That’s what it says. Do you agree or not? We need to be accurate here. That’s the one thing I must insist upon.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Browning took a moment with his notes. ‘Do you know a Shelly Bosfield?’ he asked then.

  It took a moment for Debra to reply. ‘Yes, I knew her.’

  ‘How did you know her?’

  ‘We went to high school together.’

  ‘You also went to court together,’ Browning reminded her. ‘Ms Bosfield was also charged with marijuana possession. The same incident as you. Is that true?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is it true that you boasted to Ms Bosfield that you were very good friends with the family of the accused – Joseph Sanderson the third – and that you merely had to ask Mayor Sanderson to have the charges against you dismissed and it would be done?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I would advise you to be careful now,’ Browning said. ‘You are under oath. Ms Bosfield will be testifying. Are you certain you never made any statements to that effect?’

  ‘I don’t remember ever saying that.’

  ‘You don’t remember saying it. That’s a little different from denying you ever said it.’

  Browning waited for a comment but did not seem concerned when none was made. ‘While we’re testing your memory, let’s try this one. I
suggest to you that sometime in July of 1995 – approximately the time you claim you were attacked by the defendant – you were indeed in the lake house alone with Mayor Sanderson. And at that time you did indeed ask him if he would intercede on your behalf with the courts with regard to your outstanding marijuana charges. Does any of this sound familiar?’

  Kate looked over at The Mayor. He was watching neither Browning nor Debra Williams. He was staring at a spot on the wall above the jury box, his face in quiet repose, nodding slightly, as if he was listening to a concerto.

  ‘That never happened,’ Debra said. She was sitting forward in the witness box now. She held her left hand tightly with her right, as if the very act was holding her together.

  ‘I suggest to you that it did happen,’ Browning said then. ‘I also suggest to you that Mayor Sanderson told you that he was sorry but he could not intervene on your behalf. Is that true?’

  ‘No. I asked him for his advice,’ Debra said. Kate saw the air go out of Prosecutor Grant. ‘Nothing more than that.’

  ‘His advice,’ Browning repeated. ‘Did you tell Shelly Bosfield of the mayor’s refusal to help you?’

  ‘Yes. I mean no. He didn’t refuse to help me. I never asked for that.’

  ‘That’s right. You didn’t ask for that,’ Browning said. ‘You just asked for – what was it? His advice. Did you tell Shelly Bosfield of the alleged attack on you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No?’ Browning asked. He turned and walked toward the jury. ‘Funny that you would mention one thing and not the other. Funny that you would neglect to tell her that you had been raped. Allegedly.’

  ‘I never told anybody.’

  ‘Just your mother, right?’ Browning asked, still with his back to the stand. He was now regarding the jury as if they were all sharing in a private joke.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Will your mother be testifying as to that in this courtroom?’

  ‘My mother is dead.’

  ‘When did she die?’

  ‘Two years ago.’

  ‘When specifically?’ Browning pressed, still facing the jury. ‘If you don’t mind.’

  ‘Two years ago in March.’

  Now Browning turned. ‘And you brought these charges against my client two years ago in June. Isn’t it odd that you waited until the one person who could in some small manner corroborate your story was no longer around? Isn’t that odd?’

  Debra stared back at him, then looked at the judge. ‘Am I supposed to answer that?’

  ‘Let’s call it rhetorical and move on,’ Browning said. ‘Ms Williams, have you ever been convicted of defrauding money from welfare services?’

  Debra looked quickly over at Grant. ‘I made a mistake once,’ she said, offering her reply to him instead of Browning. ‘I started a new job, and I wasn’t going to get a check for two weeks, so I thought I could cash my assistance check.’

  ‘Answer the question,’ Browning said. ‘Were you ever convicted of welfare fraud?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Browning smiled. ‘See? Wasn’t that easy?’ He walked to the table and had a look at his notes. ‘Let us keep in mind that that is all in your past. You have since pulled yourself up by your bootstraps. Isn’t that right?’

  ‘I don’t know what that means.’

  ‘It means that you no longer seek to acquire money by dubious means.’ Now Browning turned to her. ‘Ms Williams, do you know a Lawrence Filsinger?’

  ‘We’ve met.’

  ‘What does Mr Filsinger do?’

  ‘He’s a lawyer.’

  ‘He is indeed a lawyer,’ Browning said. ‘Is it true that he intends to launch a civil action on your behalf against my client if my client is convicted of these charges? A civil action that would presumably seek a sizable cash settlement?’

  ‘I don’t know what he’s gonna do,’ Debra said. ‘Nothing’s been agreed to. Not on my account anyway.’

  ‘Have you discussed the matter with him?’

  ‘I’ve discussed this case with people. Yeah.’

  ‘I’m not interested in all of the fascinating conversations you’ve had regarding this matter,’ Browning said. ‘Just this one. Will you please answer the question? Have you talked with Mr Filsinger about mounting a civil action against my client?’

  ‘We talked about it. Yeah. But nothing was agreed to.’

  Kate was watching Grant again. He looked like a man at a poker table who was thinking forward to his next hand rather than the one just dealt him. Because he knew the one he was holding was a loser.

  ‘You talked about it,’ Browning said then. ‘And in talking about it, I’m sure Mr Filsinger informed you that without a conviction in this court, you have no civil case against my client. Without a conviction, there will be no pot of gold at the end of the rainbow for you.’

  ‘Objection,’ Grant said half-heartedly.

  ‘I withdraw the remark,’ Browning said. He looked up at Judge Pemberton. ‘I have nothing more for this witness.’

  FIVE

  Carl woke early and took a moment to remember he was in the guest bedroom at the farmhouse. The room was fancier than he was accustomed to – a lot of pillows, lacy curtains with floral patterns, a settee with red upholstery in the corner. It was just dawn as he got out of bed and dressed. There was a bathroom next to the bedroom. Washing his hands after relieving himself, he noticed a man’s razor on the vanity, along with a can of shaving cream. He assumed that the items belonged to Mr Land Rover. He made it downstairs and out the door without seeing anyone. He got into his truck and headed for town.

  In a diner on Main Street he ordered ham and eggs and toast, then drank coffee while he waited for the food, realizing he’d had quite a bit to drink the night before. The booze, like everything else of late, had seemed to come at him in a rush.

  Forty-eight hours earlier he’d been at work at NuTech Industries in Dundurn. After work most of the crew was heading to Shooter McGraw’s for beer and wings and to play some eight ball. Carl considered going home to catch the six o’clock news but the apprentice Billy Curtis kept pressing him to go for a beer. A recent hire, the kid had for some reason decided that Carl was his mentor. Carl had no idea why, but he gave in, thinking he could watch the news at the bar.

  Shooter McGraw had played twelve years in the NHL, mostly with the Maple Leafs, with a couple of quick stops in Philadelphia and Chicago at the end of his career. How he’d acquired his nickname was a topic of conversation in the bar from time to time. Since he’d never scored more than ten goals in a single season in the majors, any notion that he was a sniper was invalid, and even ridiculous. He was a lousy pool player, so it seemed unlikely he’d earned his name on the felt. Billy, who was rarely short of theories, was of the opinion that McGraw was so named because of his propensity for downing large numbers of shooters.

  That fact that Shooter was a colossal drunk gave credence to that particular thesis. He’d purchased the bar seven years earlier, and promptly renamed it in his own honor. There were twenty TV sets in the place, everything from a sixty-inch flat screen against the back wall to smaller plasma units mounted over the bar. Shooter carried all the pay-per-view events, and he threw large, artery-clogging parties for Super Bowl, the UFC championships, various NASCAR races and virtually anything else that drew a crowd. Most mornings he opened the place at eleven and most nights he was so drunk by eight o’clock that he had to be driven home by one of the staff. Early on, given the unruly element in a place that catered to pay-per-view sports and young drinkers, Shooter had taken on the role of bouncer. He’d proven in the NHL that he fought about as well as he scored, and a man who couldn’t fight when he was sober was unlikely to improve his skills after he’d had a couple dozen beers. It took only two or three shit-kickings in the parking lot to convince Shooter of this. Nowadays, he allowed his wait staff to handle the roughnecks.

  Billy Curtis and Carl arrived this Thursday at the same time, having left NuTech’s parking lot one
behind the other. Julie was working the bar, wearing a skirt that showed her excellent legs and a red Shooter’s t-shirt. Her blond hair was in a ponytail, revealing a neck that was every bit as fetching as the legs. She wore dangling silver earrings that looked like fishing lures. Carl and Billy sat at the bar and ordered draft beer.

  ‘Any chance you could put the Rose City news on that set?’ Carl asked.

  Julie was probably the only one in the town who knew why Carl would prefer to watch the news rather than first round coverage of the PGA Colonial Classic from Ohio. Before drawing the beer she found the remote and changed the channel.

  ‘Woman’s got an awesome body for her age,’ Billy said, watching her.

  Her age, Carl knew, was forty-two. He also knew that she had a terrific body for any age.

  ‘Why don’t you take a run at her?’ Billy asked.

  ‘Why don’t you?’

  ‘I tried. She called me a pup and told me to pound salt.’

  ‘So she’s got a good body and good judgment?’

  ‘Fuck you.’

  Julie brought the beer and Carl paid, tipping her too much. She gave him a look of reprimand and then moved off to serve someone else.

  ‘She likes you,’ Billy said. ‘She’s always checking you out, dude, when you’re shooting pool or whatever. She looks at you like … I don’t know, but she looks at you. You could fuck her, easy.’