Legacy of Masks

by Sallie Bissell

  The woman handed Mary a long sheet of paper attached to a clipboard. “Fill this out, then you can go in.”

  Mary stood at the desk and hastily filled out a form that registered her as a bona fide attorney, licensed to practice in North Carolina. When she passed the clipboard back to the officer, the woman’s mouth curled down.

  “Mary Crow?”

  Mary nodded. The woman’s vaguely derogatory tone had said it all—she was a loyal Loganite: no doubt she expected the infamous Mary Crow to walk on cloven hooves, her pointed tail whipping behind her.

  “Follow me,” the woman said curtly. “Your client’s this way.”

  The officer led her down another eye-poppingly yellow hall, where she surrendered her purse to be searched as she stepped through a metal detector. When everyone was satisfied that she had no contraband concealed upon her person, the desk clerk led her further down the hall, stopping at the last door on the right.

  “In there,” the woman said. “The detectives are talking to him now.”

  Mary took a deep breath and looked through the small window in the middle of the door. She knew what kind of operation Stump Logan had run, and she half expected to see a broken and bloody Ridge slumping in a chair, signing some manufactured confession. Though the same hulk of a detective was standing there scowling at the boy, Ridge himself sat at the table, stony-faced but looking no worse than when he’d walked out of the barn. Someone had given him a white T-shirt, which now had a line of four red bloodstains down the front. To Mary’s great relief, his features looked normal—his high cheekbones and coppery skin had not remorphed into whatever Mary had glimpsed in that hayloft. A dark-haired man sat with his back toward her, and a video camera high in the corner was recording the proceedings. At first glance, the scene was a textbook example of a legal interrogation. Praying that was truly the case, she took a deep breath and opened the door, trying to affect the incredulous, you’ve-got-shit-for-a-case demeanor of her old courtroom rival, Virginia Fox.

  “Hello, gentlemen,” she said, smiling at the two-way mirror, behind which she knew several more cops and possibly George Turpin himself would be watching. “My name is Mary Crow. I’m representing Mr. Standingdeer.”

  The dark-haired man in the chair stood up and turned around. He was tall and thin, and dressed casually, in jeans with a plaid sport shirt. The moment he saw her, he grinned. “Mary? Is that really you?”

  At first she didn’t recognize him, then the curly black hair and the glasses and the dimpled chin all fell into place. Years ago this man had been a chubby little bookworm who sneaked Philip K. Dick novels in behind his biology book. “Jerry? Jerry Cochran?”

  Awkwardly he wrapped his arms around her. Her former lab partner now towered over her by half a foot, and from the feel of his back, had turned his baby fat into solid muscle.

  “I heard you’d moved back to town.” He loosened his hold on her, no doubt aware that they were being watched by Ridge and the detective and God knew who else behind the mirror. “But I didn’t know you were practicing criminal law.”

  “And I heard you’d been elected sheriff. But I didn’t know you’d be involved in this case.”

  “We don’t get many murders here,” Jerry said, almost apologizing. “I wanted to make sure everything went okay.”

  Mary’s heart sank. In Atlanta, that usually meant the cops didn’t want to bungle a good-looking case. Here the subtext was harder to read, but it still seemed that Ridge must be their number-one suspect. She looked over at the video camera, which had just recorded their blissful reunion. “Pisgah County’s really gone high-tech.”

  Jerry started to say something, but the detective loudly cleared his throat. “Sheriff, do you want to go on with this now?”

  Ignoring the derision that dripped from the man’s words, Jerry answered, “We’ll go ahead, Driver. Roll that tape back and let Ms. Crow have a look. Then everybody will be on the same page.”

  Mary smiled. Jerry certainly didn’t have to make their previous questions known to her, but he had. Detective Driver slid his toothpick over to the opposite corner of his mouth, then moved the tape from the camera to a video player hooked to a TV set. He rewound the tape to the beginning and punched the PLAY button. Mary watched the whole interview. Driver had brought Ridge into the room, Jerry had read him his rights again, the questioning had begun. They hadn’t played good cop/bad cop. Jerry had asked simple, straightforward questions while Driver had stood glowering at Ridge like an underpaid bouncer in a backstreet bar. To her great relief, Ridge had answered every question with the same six words. “I did not kill Bethany Daws.”

  When the tape went blank, Mary looked at Cochran. “Okay. Shall we start over again?”

  Driver reloaded the camera, Jerry set up a folding chair for Mary beside Ridge, and the interview resumed. Mary glanced at her client, alert for any sign of nervousness, but the boy sat motionless, his eyes straight ahead, Zen-like in his stillness. She wished she felt half as calm as he looked.

  “Mr. Standingdeer, please state your full name and legal address,” said Jerry.

  “I did not kill Bethany Daws.”

  “Please tell us where you work.”

  “I did not kill Bethany Daws.”

  “Was Bethany Daws your girlfriend?”

  “I did not kill Bethany Daws.”

  Mary allowed Ridge to go on like this—he was kind of cooperating, and he wasn’t damaging his case. But after ten minutes and about fifty I did not kill Bethany Daws, Jerry turned to her. “Can you help us out here, Counselor? These questions are answerable by half a dozen people. We’d just like to hear what he says.”

  “According to that old Irish fart, he’s one of them Assy Galoshes,” said Driver. “He probably cain’t speak no better English ’n’ that.”

  Mary leaned over and whispered in her client’s ear. “It’s okay to answer these questions, Ridge. If they ask anything that will hurt your case, I’ll stop you from answering.”

  He turned to look at her with deep-set eyes so brown, they appeared black. “I did not kill Bethany Daws. Shki di!” Again he made that ancient scrape of his chin. She knew then that Jerry could question Ridge from now till Kingdom Come: he would still get the same six-word answer.

  “What did he say?” asked Jerry. “Do we need to get an interpreter?”

  “He speaks English,” Mary told the sheriff. “He simply chose to speak in Cherokee.”

  “So what did he say?” Driver demanded. “What did that chin signal mean?”

  “He said he didn’t kill Bethany Daws,” Mary replied. “His gesture meant that he has nothing more to say.”

  Driver snorted. Cochran tried a few more questions, but the boy would say nothing more. Frustrated, Jerry looked at his old classmate. “Does he know that if he doesn’t answer my questions I’m going to have to lock him up?”

  “Let me explain that to him.” Once again, Mary turned to Ridge, paraphrasing Jerry’s words in English, then repeating them in Cherokee. When she asked Ridge if he understood, he nodded.

  “You’ll be locked in a tiny room,” she explained further. “Bars on the windows, bars on the door. The lights never go off. It’s midday, even at midnight.” She remembered what Hugh had predicted in Deke’s car and added, in Cherokee, “It’ll be hard, Ridge. Like nothing you’ve ever known before.”

  He shrugged. His world had turned to shit. Nothing made any difference to him.

  Mary looked at the new sheriff and shook her head.

  “Okay.” Jerry turned to Driver. “Get Schultz and Brennan to escort Mr. Standingdeer to a cell.”

  “I can take him,” Driver offered eagerly.

  “No,” said Jerry. “I want you to file this tape, and fill out the report.”

  “Yes, sir.” Driver sighed in ill-concealed disgust.

  As two uniforms moved to escort Ridge to jail, Mary leaned over and whispered in the boy’s ear. “Do exactly what they tell you. Don’t make any trouble. I’ll se
e you later this afternoon.” His eyes were expressionless as he got up to go with the officers, his head held high.

  She watched him as he walked out of the room, then she followed Jerry back into the hall, leaving the sour detective to file his reports. Once the door closed behind her, she leaned against the wall, feeling as if she’d just avoided a fatal car crash by mere inches. She knew she’d been ridiculously ineffective in Ridge’s defense, but she knew, too, that she’d done no harm. Turpin didn’t have any more ammunition than he had before they brought the boy in.

  “You want some coffee?” Cochran gave her a shy smile. “You look a little upset.”

  She shook her head and told a small lie. “It’s just been a while since I’ve worked defense.”

  “Well, it’s been a while since I’ve worked a homicide,” he said evenly. “I guess that makes us even.”

  She looked up at Cochran and suddenly saw the irony of it all. She, newly reincarnated as a defense attorney, was chatting pleasantly with the enemy, her old lab partner, who was newly reincarnated as the sheriff. This was Pisgah County in a nutshell—a place where rebel statues faced east instead of north and the district attorney cared more about his barbecue recipe than his conviction rate. “I guess it does, Jerry,” she said, chuckling. “At least it’s good to know I’ve got an old friend running the jail.”

  While Mary chatted with the new Sheriff Cochran, Deke Keener sat waiting with Hugh Kavanagh, trying hard to keep himself zipped inside his own skin. For the past two hours he’d endured the old Irishman’s ranting about Ridge Standingdeer, all the while trying to figure out where in the hell Bethany could have stashed those goddamned tapes. He’d searched the most obvious places (dresser drawers, her student desk) after he’d sent Paula down to the kitchen, but the cops had come thundering up the stairs before he’d had a chance to delve into her closet or her bedside table. Now he was stuck here, with this querulous old mick, while God knew what all was going on at Glenn and Paula’s. He glanced at his watch. Christ, what was keeping Mary Crow? He needed to get out of here. He needed to get back and find those tapes!

  Suddenly a number of loud-talking people came into the lobby. Deke turned to see three men in ties and sport shirts, followed by one young woman with a camera. Reporters. Charlie Smith, from the Pisgah County Times, he knew. The others, he surmised, were stringers from the papers in Asheville and Charlotte.

  Story’s broken, he thought. Somebody’s blabbed. Either Glenn or Paula or some cop. He shrank down in his seat. The prospect of Charlie Smith recognizing him here, babysitting this crazy old Irishman, spooked him. As fun as watching Mary Crow wrangle that crazy kid out of the barn had been, he couldn’t allow himself to be identified further with this case. He was an ardent supporter of family values, law and order. He couldn’t be seen here, cooling his heels among real criminals. He was considering a quiet retreat to the men’s room when it suddenly occurred to him that he was missing the opportunity of a lifetime. Reporters were standing not ten feet away, ravenous for information. If he could spin this case toward a Cherokee witch-boy, then who would give a rat’s ass if some goofy tapes showed up? Worst case, he could tell them it was a joke or they were practicing for some church skit about preventing sexual molestation. Quickly he rose from his chair and walked toward the information desk where Smith was badgering the same female officer who’d given Mary the fish eye. Ignoring some rancorous bleating from Kavanagh, he hurried over and put a hand on Smith’s shoulder.

  “Hey, buddy,” he said softly. “How’s it going?”

  Smith turned. For an instant he stopped in mid-gum-chew, no doubt astonished to find the richest man in Pisgah County standing in the lobby of the jail. “Deke Keener! What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Just waiting for my new lawyer to tie up some loose ends on another case,” replied Deke. “What’s up with you?”

  “I’m trying to find out who they pulled in for the Daws murder.” Smith spoke with irritation, then paused. “You did know that Glenn Daws’ daughter was murdered last night, didn’t you?”

  Deke gave a sorrowful nod. “I was eating breakfast with them when they found her.”

  “Holy shit.” Smith leaned close and whispered, “Do you know who they collared for this?”

  Deke smiled. “Actually, I do.”

  “Jesus H. Christ—who?” Smith whipped out his notebook faster than a magician might pull a rabbit from his hat.

  Deke lowered his voice. “Ridge Standingdeer. A Cherokee witch.” He nodded at Hugh, seated by the window. “Works for that old guy, over there.”

  “A Cherokee witch? You mean like a satanic cult?” Smith’s eyes popped.

  Deke shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. Go ask the old guy. Name’s Kavanagh.”

  “Thanks, Deke, I will,” Smith started over toward Hugh, then looked over his shoulder. “I owe you one, buddy!”

  “I’ll remember that.” Chuckling, Deke leaned against the desk, watching as Charlie Smith walked over and sat down beside Kavanagh. For a moment, the old man looked happy to have someone to talk to, then his face turned that odd, vitriolic purple. Deke knew something was about to happen when the old man struggled to his feet and roared that Smith was “no better than the bloody cops.” Smith shook his head as if to deny the charge, but Kavanagh was in full rant. When the old geezer started poking at the reporter’s shins with his cane, Smith scrambled out of his seat and headed for the door.

  “See ya, Deke,” he said, on his way out. “This is great stuff. Check out the paper tomorrow!”

  Realizing they’d been scooped, the other newsmen started to gather around Kavanagh. Though it would be fun to watch another of the old man’s fits, Deke needed to stay on Mary Crow’s good side, and he knew she would be furious if she returned from Standingdeer’s interrogation to find her precious Kavanagh being hassled by the press.

  Taking Hugh by the arm, he told the other reporters that Mr. Kavanagh had no further statements to make and that all questions should be directed to his attorney, Mary Crow. With Ms. Crow nowhere in sight, they quickly went back to badgering their usual jailhouse source, the clerk behind the desk.

  Deke walked the old man outside, where several hollow-eyed women stood on the sidewalk, sucking in cigarette smoke as if it were manna from heaven.

  “I don’t understand any of this.” Kavanagh walked with his cane tapping on the pavement.

  “It’s really pretty simple,” Deke said brightly. “Somebody murdered Bethany Daws. The police want to nail your hired hand.”

  “But he didn’t do it!” the old man insisted. “He fancied her. They were sweethearts!”

  “That makes the cops all the more suspicious, Hugh. Most murder victims are killed by people they love.”

  “That’s a load of rot!” Kavanagh fumed. “Mary Crow will straighten this all out. Irene always said she was the best.”

  “Best prosecutor, maybe.” Deke shook his head. “I don’t think she knows that much about defense.”

  “Ah, to hell with you!” Kavanagh turned and started walking back toward the jail. Suddenly he cried out. “Sweet Jesus! Here she comes!”

  Deke looked over his shoulder to see Mary Crow hurrying toward them.

  “What happened?” blubbered Kavanagh. “Where’s Ridge?”

  “He’s okay,” Mary said gently, taking the old man’s hand. “But they’re holding him. He wouldn’t answer any of their questions.”

  “Holding him? In jail? I thought you were going to keep that from happening!” For a moment, Deke wondered if Kavanagh might crack Mary with his cane, just as he’d almost done to that cop.

  “Hugh, I’m not a defense attorney. All I did was make sure Ridge didn’t incriminate himself or confess to something he didn’t do.”

  “So what do we do now?” demanded Kavanagh.

  She looked deeply into the old man’s eyes. “I think we should go back home, Hugh. Ridge will be okay here. I’ve explained his situation to the new sheriff. Nothing bad w
ill happen to him.”

  Keener listened closely to Mary’s last statement. She’d talked to that wimp Cochran. At first it made him angry, then he realized having his attorney on friendly terms with the sheriff would do him no harm. “Mary’s right, Hugh,” Deke chimed in agreeably.

  Kavanagh frowned. “But is there no way we can get the lad home? Reporters are already calling him a witch-boy. I’ll stand for his bail, gladly.”

  Deke sighed in exasperation as Mary further tried to explain the American court system to the petulant old coot. “Hugh, a judge will set Ridge’s bail at a hearing, if he’s charged with this murder. Right now, there’s nothing more to do. We need to wait and see what happens.”

  Hugh slammed the end of his cane down on the sidewalk. “But you can get him out! Irene always said you were the best!”

  “Hugh, I’m not that kind of attorney. . . .”

  Deke was suddenly sick of all this. He’d hadn’t gotten more than an hour of sleep since the afternoon he’d driven Bethany and Kayla home. He needed to get quiet in his own head; he needed to figure out exactly who he needed to be next. “Mary’s right, Hugh. Let’s go back to your house now. Mary can explain on the way why she’s not the attorney for Standingdeer.”

  The old man glared at them both with eyes like ice. “Boyo, she’s explained all she needs to,” he growled. “I’m just glad Irene Hannah isn’t here to see what her precious Mary has become.”

  17

  “Hello?” Jonathan squeezed the telephone receiver between his left shoulder and ear, trying to answer the phone while scrubbing the dirt from between Lily’s toes. Though all day he’d been thinking about Mary, the actual sound of her voice on the phone surprised him. She was truly here. Last night had not been a dream.

  “I’ve got some bad news,” she said.

  His heart clenched, instinctive as a knee jerk. She was leaving, he knew it. She’d gotten her old job back in Atlanta or some new job somewhere else or maybe even Gabe Benge had wooed her back to Peru. “What is it?” He immediately adopted his Aunt Little Tom’s superstitious habit of holding the phone away from his ear, so bad news couldn’t touch him quite so closely.