The Wages of Sin

by Nancy Allen

  “That doesn’t mean I can’t draw a line,” Breeon said.

  They reached the courthouse steps. Elsie remained at Breeon’s side, ready to offer support if necessary.

  Madeleine wheeled around to face Breeon. “Why am I just hearing this? You’ve been on my staff for four years.”

  “Five. Five years.”

  “Fine—­five years. Whatever. Why on earth did you withhold your opinion on this issue?”

  “It never came up.”

  Madeleine turned on her heel and climbed the courthouse steps, the high heels of her shoes clicking an angry staccato beat. Elsie watched as she bypassed security and disappeared through the rotunda.

  She sidled up to Breeon and gave her arm a friendly squeeze. “Geez, Bree, I didn’t know you felt so strongly about the death penalty.”

  “Well, I do.”

  “Where’s this coming from?”

  With a weary sigh, Breeon leaned her back against a marble pillar on the courthouse exterior. “Where’s it coming from? What do you think? I’m a black woman from St. Louis. Grew up not far from Ferguson.”

  “Oh,” Elsie said. The shooting of an unarmed black teenager in Ferguson, Missouri, had led to national riots. “So that’s why? Because of what happened in Ferguson?”

  “No, it’s because of the way the death penalty is applied. Have you ever looked at the numbers? The stats? The percentage of black ­people who are executed, versus white ­people? The death penalty isn’t fairly implemented. It’s another legal tool that fosters inequality in the justice system.”

  Breeon pushed away from the pillar and headed into the courthouse. Elsie followed, digesting Bree’s objections as a deputy waved them through the security entrance, and the women bypassed the metal detector.

  Elsie caught up to Bree. “I get what you’re saying. And I know that the penalty tends to be misapplied on a socioeconomic basis: poor ­people get the death penalty, rich ­people don’t. But still, Bree—­in a case like this.” Elsie’s voice dropped to a whisper. “A pregnant woman clubbed and beaten to death. It gives me a gut reaction: son of a bitch that killed her ought to fry.”

  Breeon shook her head. “See? Your terminology shows how out of date that point of view is. Nobody fries. The electric chair is obsolete. We don’t burn ­people or boil them in oil. Just take care of it with a ­couple of injections. But that doesn’t make it better.”

  “I didn’t literally mean ‘fry.’ ”

  “No, you meant it in a figurative sense. Which implies that you want the defendant to suffer a hideous death. And that proves my point. It’s a bloodthirsty penalty, founded on vengeance rather than justice.”

  “Geez, you sound like I’m Count Dracula. This is a philosophical question. Don’t make it personal.”

  “It’s not just philosophy to me. Two guys I went to high school with are on death row.”

  Bree’s revelation shocked Elsie into silence, and they walked up the stairs without further comment, making their way to the second floor of the courthouse. Outside the main entrance of the Prosecutor’s Office, Stacie, the office receptionist, was waiting for them.

  “Elsie,” she said, waving a frantic arm. “Madeleine wants to see you.”

  Breeon turned to Elsie with a knowing look. “You’re up.”

  “You think?”

  Elsie hurried around the rotunda and dodged into the office, fairly running down the interior hallway. Madeleine’s office door was wide open.

  Elsie stuck her head inside. “Hey,” she said.

  Madeleine sat slumped at her desk. Her scarlet lipstick was freshly applied, but without precision, like a clown’s mouth.

  “Before you come in: do you have any philosophical opposition to the death penalty?”

  Elsie paused for a moment, turning the question over in her head. In this particular case, the defendant was a white man, so she would not be contributing to Breeon’s view of unequal application by race. And there was no question in her mind that the crime was heinous enough to merit the maximum penalty. “Not in this case, no.”

  “Are you a witness? Did you encounter the defendant or the deceased on a camping trip last weekend? Or, I don’t know—­does the suspect hang out at any seedy bars you like to frequent?”

  The last comment stung. Elsie crossed her arms at her chest in a reflexive gesture and leaned against the door frame. “Well, I can’t say for certain. Because I go to a lot of dives.”

  “More’s the pity.” Madeleine rested her elbows on her desk and buried her face in her hands. “Get on in here,” she said.

  Chapter Six

  Ivy walked up the steps to the first grade classroom. She paused at the door before entering, to scent out danger. It was a habit of hers, borne of experience.

  The teacher, Mrs. Fulton, stood in the corner with a parent, taking instructions about her son’s peanut allergy. A few students were already seated and talking, others were still putting their rain jackets and backpacks away at the back of the classroom.

  Ivy walked up to the coatrack. She didn’t have a jacket; her foster mother said they’d wait till next month, when the check came. But she didn’t mind, the weather wasn’t even cold yet. She pulled her blue backpack off her shoulder and hung it on a hook. She liked how the foster mom had written IVY on it in black marker. It really belonged to her.

  A classmate had a SpongeBob lunch box hanging next to his Batman backpack. Ivy experienced a flash of envy. The kids who brought lunches in lunch boxes were an elite group. Not required to wait in lunch line for cafeteria workers, they grabbed a lunch table by the open window, unzipping their hordes of riches: real sandwiches made at home, tubes of pink and green yogurt, cookies, Goldfish crackers.

  Spongebob’s face smiled at Ivy on the vinyl lunch box; she gazed at it with longing, wondering what treasures were stored inside. Without meaning to, she reached out and stroked the yellow box with her index finger.

  “Hey!” Jacob stood at her shoulder. “That’s mine!”

  Ivy snatched her hand away and hid it behind her back. Jacob pulled the lunch box off the hook and clutched it to his chest. “Don’t touch my stuff.”

  Ivy’s face burned. A second boy, taller than Jacob, ran over and stood by his side. “Ivy germs,” he whispered.

  Jacob hung the yellow box on another hook, at a safe distance from Ivy’s blue backpack. “You can’t touch anything of mine. I don’t want Ivy germs.”

  Rigid, Ivy stood in the spot by the coatrack hooks, focusing on the happy face of the princess on her blue backpack. The teacher, Mrs. Fulton, called over to them in a stern voice.

  “Jacob? Ivy?”

  When the children didn’t answer, she walked toward them, though Jacob’s mother placed a restraining hand on the teacher’s arm.

  “What’s this all about?” asked Mrs. Fulton.

  Jacob’s face was flushed. “She was touching my lunch box.”

  Mrs. Fulton’s voice was calm, but firm. “We talked about this, Jacob. You know our class rules. How do we treat each other?”

  Jacob’s mother tapped the teacher’s shoulder. Ivy stole a glance at the mom. She was pretty, with shiny dark hair. The skin on her arms was smooth. She didn’t have sores and spots like Ivy’s mom had.

  Ivy mentally corrected herself: like the mom she used to live with. Before she was killed dead.

  Jacob’s mom said to the teacher, “He’s sensitive about the peanut allergy. We’ve taught him to be. He has to be so careful.”

  Mrs. Fulton ignored Jacob’s mom. Through her glasses, she fixed the two boys with a knowing look. “What were you saying?”

  The taller boy hung his head, but Jacob wasn’t cowed. “We don’t want her germs,” he said stoutly.

  “Now, Jacob,” his mother began, but Mrs. Fulton cut her off. “We talked about this yesterday, but I guess you wer
en’t listening. At recess, you’ll walk the playground three times before you can play with your friends.”

  Jacob’s eyes shone with tears when the teacher pronounced his sentence; but still, he whispered, “She has germs.”

  “Four times,” Mrs. Fulton said. “You’ll walk it four times.”

  Jacob’s mother tugged at the teacher’s elbow. In a hushed voice, she said, “Really, Mrs. Fulton, everyone’s concerned. It was all over the news this week. There’s some really disturbing talk about those ­people. How do we know the children aren’t in danger?”

  The teacher quelled her with a look, but Ivy didn’t see it. She just stared at the princess’s smiling face on the blue backpack and clutched her hands into fists. Don’t touch anything, she told herself.

  The princess’s face blurred. Ivy missed her mom.

  The dead one.

  Chapter Seven

  Seated in a purple vinyl booth at the Sycamore Diner on the west side of the town square, Elsie watched Madeleine tear into her third packet of Equal sweetener. Madeleine stirred the white powder into her steaming coffee with a vengeance, clinking the spoon against the sides of the crockery cup.

  “So you talked to Lisa Peters today? That juvenile officer who witnessed the abuse at the campground?” Madeleine asked.

  Elsie nodded. “I went by to see her this afternoon, talked to her over at her office at Juvenile Hall. She’s pretty freaked out about it, kept saying that if she and Chuck had just done things differently, Jessie Dent might still be alive. If Larry Paul had been arrested for the abuse at the campground, he wouldn’t have been free to kill her in their trailer Monday night.” She shook her head, recalling Lisa’s distress. The young woman had wept when she talked to Elsie, her face swollen with grief, repeating time and again that they’d called 911 when they finally got a signal, but it wasn’t enough. They should have followed up. They hadn’t done enough. “I think she’s going to take some time off this week.”

  “Oh fine. Another government employee who will be unavailable. My chief assistant. His friend, the juvenile officer. And Breeon.”

  Elsie cleared her throat before she spoke. “I think Bree explained it pretty well. The historical application of the death penalty in this country—­”

  “I know all about the history of the death penalty,” Madeleine said. The corner of her mouth twitched. “We’ll just have to deal. You and I. Working together.”

  Elsie leaned forward, her elbow on the laminate tabletop, trying to ignore Madeleine’s clear reluctance to join forces. “Sure. We’ll be fine.” She focused on Madeleine’s spoon, still clattering in the cup.

  “You’re good with children.”

  Elsie looked up, surprised by the admission. “Well, thanks.”

  “The little girl, the witness. She’ll be your job. I need you to—­”

  Madeleine’s instruction was interrupted by the arrival of the waitress, a portly girl in jeans and a worn Route 66 T-­shirt, wearing a plastic nametag which read Jeanie. She set a green salad in front of Madeleine.

  “You forgot the dressing. I ordered my dressing on the side.”

  “I’ll get it,” the waitress said as she placed a steaming plate before Elsie. “Elsie, for your vegetable, did you say you wanted the macaroni and cheese, or the cottage cheese?”

  “Mac and cheese, please.”

  “I’ll bring it right out, Elsie.” With a glance at Madeleine, the waitress added, “And that salad dressing.”

  Elsie caught Madeleine looking at her dinner with disapproval. “Smothered chicken,” Elsie said, a shade defensive. “Can’t get it just anywhere.”

  Madeleine pursed her lips and looked away. “Macaroni is not a vegetable.”

  Elsie reached for the saltshaker. “Do you think you’ll want the little girl on the witness stand at the preliminary hearing?”

  Madeleine picked at a tomato wedge with her fork. “What do you think?”

  Elsie nearly dropped the saltshaker into her gravy. Setting it down beside her plate, she stopped to think, staring at the mound of mashed potatoes without seeing it. She began, “We’ll need her at trial for sure. She’ll be instrumental when we face a jury. Not only to talk about what she saw, but to generate sympathy. And to make the case for death.”

  Madeleine nodded, sipping her coffee. “In a murder case, ­people forget the victim.”

  “I know. I felt that in the Tanner Monroe case, no one was thinking about the poor dead bus driver; the whole focus in court was on the fifteen-­year-­old defendant.”

  “It happens.”

  A grudging seed of respect germinated in Elsie’s head. Maybe Madeleine knew more than Elsie realized.

  Madeleine twisted around on her side of the booth, eyes darting up the aisle.

  “What?” Elsie said.

  “I need more coffee.”

  Their waitress appeared through the swinging kitchen door, and Madeleine called to her, her voice a bark.

  “Coffee! Please!”

  The coffeepot arrived. The waitress wouldn’t look at Madeleine as she poured. To Elsie she said, “How’s everything tasting today?”

  “Oh my God, Jeanie, it’s great.”

  “I had it for lunch. It hit the spot.” Jeanie’s sullen look brightened.

  As the waitress walked away, Elsie turned her attention back to Madeleine. “The witness is really young—­just six years old, right? She’ll need work. First off, we’ll have to demonstrate that she understands the oath.”

  Madeleine nodded her agreement. Child witnesses had to establish to the court that they understood the difference between telling the truth and telling a lie; the judge had to be satisfied that the child’s oath was meaningful.

  “The summary of her statements in the police report was horrific.” Madeleine nibbled the corner of a saltine cracker. “I can’t sleep. It’s keeping me up nights.”

  Elsie sawed at the chicken patty with her knife. Staring at Elsie’s plate, Madeleine said, “I don’t know how you can eat that.”

  “I gotta keep up my strength.” Elsie looked down at the platter; the Sycamore served generous portions, and she’d devoured a fair amount. Maybe she should leave a bite or two on her plate, just to look dainty.

  But her resolution was destroyed when Jeanie swept by and slid the side dish of macaroni onto the table, saying, “Sorry. Almost forgot.”

  With a sigh, Elsie dug her fork into the golden dish of starch. She looked up at Madeleine and said, “Gotta eat my vegetables.”

  A brass bell hanging from the front door of the diner jingled, and a young man in white shirtsleeves, with longish sandy-­streaked hair, walked to the cash register.

  “It’s Josh Nixon,” Elsie whispered.

  Madeleine twisted around in the booth to take a look. “Don’t say anything. He might hear you. Your voice carries.”

  “I called in an order to go, Octavine,” Nixon told the cashier.

  Octavine, a woman past sixty whose curly perm was an alarming shade of pink, whispered something to Nixon that made him laugh. Madeleine watched them with suspicious eyes, then leaned in across the booth, speaking close. “Judge Carter appointed the Public Defender to represent Larry Paul. I suppose that means Josh Nixon will be his attorney.”

  Elsie watched Nixon flirt with the redheaded cashier. “Could be worse. Nixon’s not a liar, not unethical.”

  “Is that the best you can say about him?”

  The women scooted back in their seats as Nixon turned to them and approached. With a cordial expression, he walked up and grasped a metal coatrack attached to Elsie’s side of the booth.

  “Looks like you ladies are working overtime,” he said.

  Madeleine sat very erect and spoke in her chilliest tone. “Mr. Nixon, we’re consulting on a case. So if you don’t mind—­”

  Nixon pluc
ked a dinner roll from Elsie’s platter. Pulling off a chunk of bread, he said, “Bet I know the case you’re talking about.” He popped the bread into his mouth and chewed.

  “Don’t put your dirty hands on my food. Damn it, Nixon, you probably just came from the county jail.” Elsie pushed her plate out of his reach.

  “As a matter of fact, you’re right, I did.” He focused on Madeleine. “Just had a chat with a new client I’ve been appointed to represent. Guy named Larry Paul. He tells me your detective at the Barton PD interrogated him before he had a chance to obtain counsel.”

  Elsie spoke up. “You can be absolutely certain that Detective Ashlock advised him of his rights before questioning. One hundred percent certain.”

  “Well, that’s a comfort. I’ll sleep better.” He wiped a bread crumb from the corner of his mouth. “Of course, I’ll attack it. Move to suppress the statement. It wasn’t voluntary. My client was under the influence of narcotics.”

  Research the effect of inebriation on the validity of a suspect’s waiver of rights, Elsie thought; her hand itched for a pen, so she could write a note-­to-­self. But she retained her game face. Her expression was serene as she said, “Good godamighty, Nixon. If Larry Paul was all turnt up, that’s no fault of Ashlock’s.”

  “How’d the autopsy turn out? On the deceased?”

  Elsie glanced at Madeleine; she was sure they had not received the autopsy yet. The procedure took time, and they would have to await a written report of the pathologist’s findings. It would be an even longer wait for the toxicology reports.

  Madeleine stiffened. Piercing Nixon with a look, she said, “You’re not entitled to discovery yet. We won’t be sharing any particulars with you at this time.”

  “Hey, Josh! Honey, I got your order.” At the cash register, Octavine held a white paper bag aloft.

  Josh didn’t move away. He tossed the filched dinner roll onto the tabletop, then said, “Better have your doctor test the tissue for AIDS. Your deceased gave it to my client. Poor old Larry.”

  Nixon walked off with a leisurely stride, stopping to pick up the bag from Octavine.