Silent Son

by Gallatin Warfield

  That seemed to shut the lady up, but the expression on her face said she was still troubled.

  “Any other questions?” Jennifer asked, praying there were none.

  The jurors were quiet.

  “Very well, then,” Jennifer said. “You know the procedure. Sergeant Brown and I are going to leave the room, and you will vote on each count in each indictment. When you have concluded, please have the foreman sign the indictments and come outside to get us.”

  Jennifer and Brownie turned to leave when a voice rang out, “Miss Munday!” It was the back-row lady again. “What if we can’t agree?”

  Jennifer looked her in the eye. “If you all take reasonable positions, I’m sure that you can.” Then she walked out and left the jurors alone, crossing her fingers tightly as she shut the door.

  At the custody hearing, Carole’s attorney had called Nancy Meyers to the witness stand. As petitioners, they had the burden of establishing that it was in the best interests of the child to remove Granville from his father. Meyers was a so-called neutral party. Her only allegiance, presumably, was to her young client.

  She was on direct examination by Bieman. “Ms. Meyers, how many meetings did you have with Granville Lawson prior to today?”

  “I met with him five times,” the therapist said.

  “And during that time did you have occasion to form an opinion as to his physical, uh, check that, uh, as to his mental condition?” Bieman was looking at his notes as he spoke.

  Meyers smiled. “Yes, I did.”

  “And can you tell His Honor, Judge Cramer, what that opinion is?”

  “Yes, sir—”

  “Objection!” Gardner jumped to his feet. “This witness is not a medical doctor, a psychiatrist, or even a certified psychologist. She’s not qualified to give an opinion!” Nancy Meyers was merely a certified “social worker” with a degree in psychology. She’d never taken the boards to become a qualified psychologist.

  Bieman smiled coldly. “She’s got the experience to give an opinion, Judge. Counsel has already stipulated that she’s been a therapist for ten years. That alone qualifies her.”

  “But not to give a formal diagnosis!” Gardner argued. Anyone who had seen Granville since the shootings could say he was withdrawn and moody. But Nancy Meyers should not be permitted to give his condition a clinical name.

  Judge Cramer squeaked forward in his chair. “If she’s got no other credentials, Mr. Bieman, I’d be inclined to agree with Mr. Lawson.”

  “We’re not going into some complex evaluation here, Judge,” Bieman said calmly. “We just want her to acquaint the court with his general condition.”

  “I think we can permit that,” Cramer replied. “Just a general overview. But no specific diagnosis.”

  “But Your Honor…” Gardner argued.

  It was too late. Cramer had ruled, and that was it.

  “Tell the court the nature of the boy’s problem,” Bieman said.

  The therapist nodded. “Disassociative behavior, due to severe trauma—” she said.

  “Object!” Gardner yelled, springing back to his feet. “How much more clinical can you get?”

  Judge Cramer looked annoyed, as if his directive had been disobeyed.

  “Sustained! Ask another question, Counsel.”

  Bieman looked nonplussed. “Miss Meyers, you cannot characterize Granville’s condition in clinical terms. The judge has ruled that. Please simply describe his demeanor during the times you saw him.”

  Judge Cramer nodded as if to say that question was okay.

  “Very turned in on himself,” Nancy Meyers said. “Noncom-municative. Withdrawn. Very reluctant to participate in any interrogative aspects of therapy.”

  “And did there come a time that you prescribed a course of treatment for this condition?” Bieman continued.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And what was that?”

  Meyers glanced at Carole, and then at Gardner. “I decided that play therapy was the best course. Allow him to communicate through play and art if he wanted to, but no direct questioning, and no pressure.” She flashed another glance at Gardner when she said the last part.

  “And did you discuss this course of treatment with the parents?”

  “Yes, sir.” Meyers looked at Gardner again.

  “And what reaction did you receive from the parents?”

  “The mother, Carole Lawson, was totally cooperative.”

  Now Bieman stared at Gardner accusingly. “And the father?”

  “I had no problem with him either, at first…” Her voice trailed off.

  “But later?” the attorney prompted.

  “Later he disregarded my advice. Tried to force his son to answer questions about the crime.”

  “Objection!” Gardner said. “She doesn’t know that.”

  Judge Cramer twisted his seat toward Gardner. “What’s the basis of your objection, Mr. Lawson?”

  “Hearsay, Your Honor,” Gardner answered. “She has no personal knowledge of that fact.”

  “Did you actually see him do this?” Judge Cramer asked the witness.

  “Uh, no, sir.”

  “Then how do you know it happened?”

  Nancy Meyers looked at Carole. “Mrs. Lawson.”

  “Hearsay,” Gardner repeated.

  “Objection sustained,” said the judge.

  Bieman went on with the therapist’s questioning for another half hour, emphasizing the fact that Granville’s appearance as a witness would cause irreparable damage to his psyche. Gardner knew that, it was said. He’d been told of the consequences, but he forged ahead anyway.

  Finally, Gardner was permitted to cross-examine. He rose and walked to the witness stand. “Just a few preliminary questions, Your Honor.”

  Judge Cramer nodded okay.

  “Ms. Meyers, are you familiar with the murder case against Roscoe Miller and Wellington Starke the fourth?”

  “Object!” Now Bieman was standing. “Beyond the scope of my direct.”

  “Background, Judge,” Gardner countered.

  “I think she can answer,” Cramer replied.

  Bieman sat down.

  “I’ve heard about the case. Yes, sir,” Meyers said.

  “And then you must know, as it has been reported, that Granville has already communicated some important facts about the case.”

  “The drawings,” Meyers said.

  “Right,” Gardner replied. “Contrary to your testimony that the boy is reluctant to communicate, he has in fact communicated an important clue as to the identity of one of the murderers.”

  Before she could answer, the door to the courtroom opened and two men walked in and sat in the back row.

  Gardner shot a furtive glance in that direction. Kent King and Joel Jacobs. Together! Gardner tried to get his mind back to the task at hand, but seeing King and Jacobs momentarily sent him into a spin. King had tried to stab Jacobs in the back, and the old bastard didn’t even know it! And now they were cheek to jowl, on a joint spy mission. They took seats on Carole’s side, like family at a wedding.

  Gardner stepped back from the witness stand for a moment to gather his thoughts. King and Jacobs had a vested interest in unnerving him. If he faltered in his presentation, the ruling could go against him. The judge could take Granville away and forbid any contact. And the murder case would be over.

  “Uh, can I have a moment please, Your Honor,” Gardner said.

  “Very well, Counsel,” Judge Cramer replied.

  Gardner walked to the rear of the courtroom and leaned over the seated attorneys. Without acknowledging Jacobs, he looked directly at King. “I’ve been thinking about your offer” he whispered. If they wanted to play games, so could he. This one was divide and conquer.

  King smiled wanly, and Jacobs didn’t stir. “Good,” King whispered.

  Gardner gave Jacobs a wink. “Real loyal partner you’ve got here.”

  Jacobs remained immobile. Either he didn’t get the
innuendo, or the whole thing was a setup from the start, cooked up to torment the prosecution. “I’m surprised you can sit in the same room, after what he just did.” Gardner cocked his head toward King.

  A thin smile crossed Jacobs’s lips. “I have no problem with Mr. King,” he said casually. There was still no sign he understood what Gardner was trying to communicate.

  “You don’t?” Gardner said through his teeth. It was time to give it a name. “He just tried to sell your man out!”

  Jacobs didn’t flinch. “There’s nothing to sell,” he said calmly.

  Gardner glared at King. The defense attorney grinned sheepishly and shrugged his shoulders. He’d obviously covered his tracks with Jacobs. Warned him that the prosecutor would try to split them apart with false accusations. King was always a step ahead.

  “Mr. Lawson!” Judge Cramer called from the bench. “Can we please get back to business?” The witness was still on the stand.

  King and Jacobs looked like Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum. Gardner’s attempt to shatter the alliance had failed.

  “Don’t turn your back on him,” Gardner told Jacobs. Then he spun around and headed toward the stand.

  “Uh, Ms. Meyers,” he said, trying to refocus, “did you not tell me at one point that it was therapeutic for my son to confront, actually confront what happened to him?”

  The witness brushed her gray hair to the side with her hand. “No.”

  Gardner’s eyes widened. “No? Was the play therapy not designed to give him the opportunity to express himself? To get it out, as it were?”

  The witness had to think about that one. Her prior testimony contradicted the answer. “That could be a result, but it was not designed for that purpose.”

  “What was it designed for?” Gardner glanced at the judge, who was hanging over the bench, listening attentively.

  “Play therapy is a nonadversarial treatment course that allows the child to proceed at his own pace…”

  Gardner looked at the judge again. “That answer is not responsive to the question. What is the ultimate goal of play therapy?”

  “To make the child comfortable,” Meyers replied.

  “In order for the child to be able to do what?” Gardner asked.

  “She’s already answered the question!” Bieman hollered, leaping to his feet. “Objection!”

  “She has not given an answer!” Gardner argued.

  “Answer his question, Ms. Meyers,” the judge instructed.

  “Uh, what was the question again?” Meyers asked.

  “What is the ultimate purpose of the play therapy?” Gardner said.

  The witness hesitated. She was supposed to be neutral, but her bias was starting to show through. “To release tension. To provide a calming atmosphere…” Her voice trailed off.

  “In order to enable the child to do what?” Gardner was running out of patience.

  “Objection!” Bieman yelled angrily.

  “Overruled!” Judge Cramer said firmly. “Please answer the question, Ms. Meyers.”

  The witness fell silent, as if she knew the answer, but could not bring herself to utter the words.

  “I’ll answer it for her,” Gardner said. “Play therapy sets the stage for remembering. That’s what it’s all about. Let the child relax, so he can remember!”

  “That’s not a question!” Bieman yelled from the other counsel table.

  “Isn’t that right, Ms. Meyers. You let them play to stimulate their memory?” Gardner continued.

  Meyers looked down. “Uh-huh,” she said under her breath.

  “You’ll have to speak up,’” the judge said.

  Meyers raised her chin. “Yes,” she said, “that is correct.”

  Gardner smiled and turned toward the rear of the courtroom. King and Jacobs were gone.

  Jennifer paced nervously outside the Grand Jury room. It had been over an hour since they’d made the presentation, and the jurors still had not agreed on indictments. What was taking them so long? The usual procedure was a three-minute rubber-stamping of the State’s Attorney’s proposed list of charges. But today, they were hung up.

  Jennifer had sent Brownie on his way. There was nothing more he could do there but wait, so she had released him. He was anxious to get back out to Prentice Academy.

  Jennifer checked her watch. Another five minutes had passed and the door was still locked. What on earth could they be doing?

  Suddenly she noticed two men approaching from the other end of the hall. In an instant, their features clarified into King and Jacobs. They were laughing. She was trapped in the hall until the Grand Jury let her back in the room. And there was no place to hide.

  “Waiting for a bus?” King said sarcastically. He knew their case was on the Grand Jury docket, and that any delay in returning the indictments spelled trouble for the state.

  “Funny, King,” Jennifer said.

  King tried to switch from sarcastic to sincere. “Really, Jennifer, how long have they been out?”

  “A while,” she replied. There was no reason to say exactly how long. And in front of King, it was never wise to show concern.

  “How long?” King persisted.

  Jennifer crossed her arms. “Couple of minutes,” she lied.

  King looked at Jacobs. “Over an hour,” he said.

  Jennifer winced internally. As usual, King knew everything.

  “They must be having trouble making a decision,” Jacobs said.

  “It’s a complex case,” Jennifer countered. “Not unusual for them to consider it carefully.”

  “They’re hung up,” King said. “That’s obvious.”

  Jennifer prayed that the door would open at that moment and the jury would come back with the full slate of charges, but it didn’t.

  “Your case or mine?” Jacobs asked King.

  “Huh?” King had seemed to sense Jennifer’s anticipation about the door opening, and he had turned in that direction.

  “Do you think it’s Mr. Miller or Mr. Starke who’s giving them trouble?” Jacobs asked.

  King glanced at Jennifer. “What’s your view?”

  Jennifer leveled an unflinching stare at King. “I’d say that my view is none of your business.”

  King smiled again and motioned for Jacobs to leave. “Guess we’re not wanted here,” he said. “Let us know if you hear anything by midnight.”

  Jennifer stood silently while they left. The smugness was knee-deep, and she had an urge to run over and rake King’s face with her nails.

  She looked at her watch again. Ten more minutes had passed, and the door was still sealed shut. Her eyes wandered the long passageway toward the domestic relations court. This was starting out to be a bad day. She only hoped that Gardner was faring better than she was.

  Brownie parked his lab van in the gravel lot at Prentice Academy. The school year was officially over now, and the campus was deserted. The green lawn in the quadrangle had been recently cut, and the hedges along the walkway trimmed. Brownie closed the door to the truck and looked around. A soft breeze off the mountains shook the maple leaves overhead. Brownie leaned on his vehicle and let his mind drift.

  The Bowers-Roscoe Miller connection had given the crimes a twisted kind of logic. The killings were deliberate and planned. But the underlying question remained unanswered. Who was behind it all? Miller? King? Starke? IV’s tie-in was puzzling. He too was connected to the Bowers in some bizarre way. But his tie-in was more mysterious. More illogical. He was a privileged kid with a billion bucks. Why would he want to hang around with Miller? The macho “rebel with a tattoo” played okay on TV, but Starke had too much going for him to settle for wannabe status. And then there was the phone call. Henry, or Addie, calling him from the store.

  His reverie was snapped when he detected motion and saw a figure scampering across the far end of the athletic field. Brownie shouted, and raised his arm. The figure stopped, then ran over a crest and disappeared.

  Brownie went from stop to full
speed in three seconds. Something was wrong. Whoever it was did not want to talk. And that made Brownie all the more curious. He raced across the grass toward the hill and the woods beyond.

  Brownie ran full speed across the carpeted grass of the Prentice Academy athletic field. The shadowy figure he’d called out to was not stopping. Like a spooked animal, he was running away, fleeing toward the underbrush.

  “Stop!” Brownie yelled. “County police!”

  The man kept running, entering the overgrown thicket on the threshold of the woods without breaking stride. And then he was gone.

  Brownie took six more steps and pulled up. There was too much of a lead, and the vegetation was too thick. He’d never be able to catch up.

  Brownie unsnapped his radio and called the police station.

  “Patch me to the sheriff’s office,” he told the dispatcher.

  The call was transferred, and a deputy answered.

  “Detainee surveillance,” Brownie said.

  Again, there was a transfer.

  “Deputy Smawley.”

  “Pete, Joe Brown,” Brownie gasped into the mike. He was still breathing hard from the run. “Give me the current locations on Miller and Starke.” From the size, shape, and hair color of the mystery man, it could be either one.

  “Uh…” Smawley sounded frustrated.

  “Hurry up!” Brownie huffed. If he could get a read-out, maybe he could swing around the woods and intercept.

  “Didn’t you get the word?” Smawley asked.

  “Word?” Brownie didn’t like the sound of his voice.

  “We lost them three days ago. Equipment failure.”

  “What?” This was the first Brownie had heard.

  “Sam Ellen reported it…” Smawley said.

  “They never told me!” Brownie yelled. Two dangerous defendants loose without a leash, and the sheriff had never informed the prosecutors. Gardner was going to explode when he found out.

  “So you’re showing nothing on either of them,” Brownie said.

  “Right,” Smawley replied. “Thought you-all knew.”

  Brownie stopped his slow drift toward the woods. By now Miller, or Starke, or whoever it was, had found an escape path out.