McAllister sat back. “Now,” he said, “you can have at me.”
Anderson gathered his thoughts. “I appreciate your candor, Murray.”
Mirroring McAllister, Anderson held out his right index finger. “The bike you’ve already addressed. There are huge gaps of time during which either of the other two boys could have taken that bike somewhere and stashed it. We may never find it. However, it’s well-established that my client did have a bike, he went everywhere on it, and,” he added with emphasis, “the bike is currently nowhere to be found.”
Holding out two fingers, Anderson continued, “I don’t have a definitive answer for you on the story about the party. Maybe the boy misunderstood. Maybe the girl misunderstood. But, here’s the thing. Though it would be great for me to have that corroboration, because, frankly, I’d have you dead to rights, the fact that I don’t just means I don’t have a great defense. It doesn’t, in and of itself, make your case against my client any stronger.”
McAllister gave a gesture of acknowledgement. It was a good point.
Anderson held out three fingers. “This case may not be as high profile as you think. I spent an hour yesterday with Jim Dahlgren. I’ve known Jim for a long time. I think you have as well.”
McAllister nodded.
“I was, and am, a little aghast at what I’m about to tell you. The fact of the matter is, though, Jim doesn’t want this case prosecuted. Not against my client, not against the other two boys. He wants this case buried.”
McAllister leaned forward, a look of surprise on his face. “Why? Is he embarrassed because of the sexual assault?”
Anderson shook his head. “I thought that, and I spent a lot of time with him on the issue. But, it turns out, that isn’t it at all.”
Clearly curious, McAllister asked, “What then?”
Working hard to keep the disdain out of his voice, Anderson said, “It’s because his daughter has been dating my client. Jon is, as you may know, Jewish. Jim is convinced that, if word got out his daughter had been dating a Jew, it would hurt his chances for election. And, if there’s a trial, he figures it’ll get out.”
McAllister was no rookie. He’d seen plenty of human behavior over the years that was less than honorable, so he didn’t overreact. Still, there was scorn in his voice. “You mean to tell me his daughter has been assaulted, she’s clinging to life and probably won’t survive, and he wants to brush it all under the rug because he thinks it’ll hurt his chances for election? What kind of a father would do that?”
Anderson merely shrugged.
McAllister sat back, thinking. Then he got up and walked over to a file cabinet, opened it and retrieved a folder. He returned to his seat and removed a single sheet of paper from the folder. He consulted it for a moment, then refocused his attention on Anderson.
“I received this bulletin a couple months ago. It’s from the state attorney general, and it’s addressed to all prosecuting attorneys. I won’t bore you with all the details. Suffice it to say it provides political cover for dismissal of certain cases that are, for lack of a better term, marginal.
“You may have heard,” McAllister continued with a rueful look, “that there’s a war going on. The army, apparently, is looking for bodies. According to the attorney general, I’m authorized to consider, as a factor in plea bargaining, a willingness on the part of the accused to enlist concurrently with dismissal of charges. In this case, of course, I’d need confirmation from Jim Dahlgren that he doesn’t want to see your client prosecuted. If he gives me that, and if your client is willing to enlist, I’ll take a recommendation of dismissal to the judge.”
Now it was Anderson’s turn to sit back and think. How certain was he that he could get Jon off? He was confident in his abilities as a lawyer. But he’d been in enough courtrooms to know anything could happen during a trial. He simply could not guarantee that a jury wouldn’t convict.
Of course, Jon was still only sixteen, but Anderson knew his birthday was only a few days away. He also knew the army was accepting enlistees at age seventeen with parental or guardian consent. He was sure Marvella would give consent if it meant getting Jon out of jail and avoiding the possibility of prison altogether.
He looked at McAllister. “I’ll recommend it to my client.”
#
Ben Wheeler parked his truck across the street from the county courthouse. Inside the building, he was directed down a long corridor to an annex at the rear of the main structure. He waited in a short line, watching uniformed officers come and go. When he reached the front of the line, he gave the elderly woman at the counter his name, showed her his driver’s license and told her he was there to see a prisoner named Jonathon Meyer.
He was directed to a bench where he sat for a few minutes before being called by a sheriff’s deputy, who led him through a locked door and down another corridor. This one ended at a small anteroom, manned by another deputy who, when they walked up, set down a newspaper, removed a key from his pocket and unlocked one of the desk drawers. From the drawer, he retrieved yet another key which he used to unlock the heavy iron gate separating the anteroom from the series of cells beyond. He then stood to the side to allow Ben and the first deputy to pass through. As he did, he put a hand conspicuously on the butt of his service revolver. When he noticed Ben looking at it, he said, simply, “Regulations.”
Ben nodded and followed the first deputy inside. Behind him, the second deputy closed the gate and locked it. The first deputy walked to the door of the cell on the far right and removed a key from his breast pocket. Speaking into the cell, he commanded, “Stand with your back to the rear wall. Hands where I can see them.”
He then unlocked the door, stood back, alert, and motioned for Ben to enter.
As Ben stepped past him, the deputy said, “I can only give you a couple of minutes. I’ll return shortly. If you need assistance, call for the duty attendant.” He tilted his head in the direction of the other deputy.
Ben murmured, “Thank you,” and entered the cell. The door was promptly closed behind him.
Jon stood in shadow at the back wall, which was all of about four feet from Ben. He looked exhausted. Ben had steeled himself for this moment, but, when he saw Jon, his reserve crumbled. He reached out, Jon stepped toward him, and Ben wrapped his arms around the boy.
After a minute, Ben stepped back, his hands still on Jon’s shoulders, and looked at him more closely. The boy’s face was drawn. There were dark circles under his eyes. It didn’t look like he had slept in three days. Ben realized he probably hadn’t.
“Mary?” Jon asked simply. There was a look of desperation in his eyes.
“I was just there,” Ben said. “She’s in a coma.”
Pushing gently on Jon’s shoulders, Ben turned him and made him sit on the edge of the hard cot. Ben took a seat next to Jon.
“I talked to the doctor,” Ben said. “Probably the best thing for Mary at this point is that she is in a coma. That way, she can’t feel pain.”
“Will she get better?” Jon croaked.
Ben hesitated. The doctor had been very clear with his prognosis. He had expressed surprise she’d lasted as long as she had to this point.
“Maybe. But no guarantees.”
Ben could see something new appear in Jon’s eyes. The faintest glimmer of hope. He felt a little guilty, but he knew Jon needed something to hang on to.
“All we can do is wait and see.”
Jon nodded.
Ben took a breath. “Have you heard about the plea bargain?”
Jon nodded again. “Mr. Anderson was here this morning. He said the judge accepted it.”
Ben was relieved to see just the slightest hint of a rueful smile play on Jon’s lips. “I guess,” Jon said, “I’m going to learn the army way.”
Ben flashed a smile of his own. “I wish I could give you some good advice about how to cope with the army, but that’s something you’ll have to pick up on your own. They’ll show you everything you
need to know. Just keep your wits about you.”
Jon shrugged. “I’ll be ok.”
“I made some calls. A few of my old buddies are still in the army. A couple of them are pretty senior officers now.” Ben smiled again. “God help the army.
“Anyway,” he continued, “I got one of them to track down your file and mark you for assignment to the air corps. You won’t have a chance to fly. They don’t let enlisted men do that. But you’ll be around planes.”
“Thank you.”
Ben nodded. There was a clanking sound out in the hallway, and footsteps approached. The deputy who had let Ben in appeared at the door to the cell. “I’ll need the visitor to stand over here,” he announced, and he indicated a spot next to the hinged part of the cell door. “Prisoner, you stand with your back to the rear wall. Both of you keep your hands where I can see them.”
Ben and Jon stood. Ben turned to Jon, and they embraced. Ben squeezed tightly and said, “You be careful, son.”
When he stepped back, there were tears in Jon’s eyes. Ben turned quickly so Jon wouldn’t see his own eyes.
The deputy unlocked the door, and Ben stepped out. As the deputy closed and re-locked the door, Ben looked back at Jon. The boy raised a hand weakly. Ben returned the gesture. Then he turned and walked down the corridor, tears now shamelessly streaming down his face.
#
That evening, Jon was led from his cell out to a patrol car. After a short drive, the car pulled up to a bus depot. There were three people waiting in front of the building. Mr. Anderson was easy to spot. He stood talking to another man whom Jon recognized as the man who’d been asking all the questions at the Lodge the night Jon had been arrested. Tonight, instead of a sweater, the man was wearing a uniform. It took a moment for Jon to realize that the third figure, standing off to the side, was his grandmother. Jon was suddenly embarrassed.
“Take off those cuffs,” said the man who’d been wearing the sweater. The deputy who had driven Jon from the jail took out a key, inserted it into the lock and removed the handcuffs. Jon rubbed his wrists.
“Jon,” the man who’d worn the sweater said, “the bus we’re waiting for will take you to Indianapolis. There will be other recruits on this bus. At the depot in Indianapolis, there will be an officer in an army uniform. You report in and follow his orders. Do you understand?”
Jon nodded. “Yes, sir.”
The man looked at him for a moment. Then he nodded and, turning to Mr. Anderson, said, “I’ll wait over here.” He walked over to where the deputy was standing by the patrol car, and he leaned against it.
Mr. Anderson put out a hand, and Jon shook it. “Godspeed Jon,” Mr. Anderson said.
“Thank you, sir. For everything.”
Anderson held on to Jon’s hand for a moment. Then, he gave Jon a pat on the shoulder, turned and walked over to join the two men in uniform.
Jon looked at his grandmother and noticed for the first time that his knapsack was lying at her feet. She reached down, retrieved it and held it out for him. He took it from her.
Crisply, she said, “I put some essentials in there. Socks, underwear, toiletries. I also put in a couple of your books.”
“I didn’t do what they’re saying I did,” Jon blurted. “I didn’t do any of those things.”
“Of course you didn’t,” she replied quickly. “I don’t know where you get the notion you need to tell me that.”
She opened her purse, reached in and pulled out a stack of envelopes bound by a piece of string. She handed them to Jon. He looked at them. The envelopes were unmarked. He slid one out of the stack and looked inside. There were a few dollar bills and some coins, and he realized belatedly that this was one of the envelopes in which he’d brought home his pay from the hardware store. He looked at the bundle. It appeared as though every one of the envelopes he’d received at Dahlgren’s was there.
“I figure you could use some spending money where you’re going.”
Jon started to protest, and his grandmother raised a hand. “I don’t want to hear it.”
Jon nodded. He took the envelope he’d removed and slid it back into the stack. Then he put the bundle into his knapsack.
There was a rumbling noise, then the sound of gears being downshifted. A block away, a bus turned the corner and headed for the depot. A backlit sign on a panel above the windshield read “Indianapolis.”
“Now,” his grandmother said, “the rest of your clothes and things will be waiting for you when you get back. So will I.”
Jon had no idea what to say. There was a slight squeal of protest from the brakes as the bus pulled up to the curb behind him. With a metallic creak, the passenger door opened.
Without warning, his grandmother stepped forward and put her arms around Jon, pulling him to her. He dropped his knapsack and folded his own arms around her. It suddenly struck Jon just how small and frail she was. His grandmother had always seemed so fierce and indestructible to him. She squeezed him tightly, and he reciprocated.
One of the men cleared his throat, and Jon stepped back. His grandmother raised her chin and, in a clear voice, she said, “You return safely. Understood?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he replied. Then he picked up his knapsack, turned, and got on the bus.
12
As she had done every weekday morning for the past three months, Penelope Radkovich paused in front of the door to room 207 and said a quick prayer before stepping in. As usual, she called upon Saint Camillus of Lellis and St. Jude Thaddeus. However, because it was a Monday, and, in particular, the Monday after a long Fourth of July weekend, she also made an appeal to the Blessed Virgin Mary, who was the namesake of the poor girl in room 207. She then made the sign of the cross and stepped over the threshold.
As had been the case every day for the last three months, the pretty girl lay motionless in the bed, attached by a series of tubes and wires to the various plastic bags and monitoring devices arranged around her. Unfortunately, no change for the better. Fortunately, none for the worse.
Penelope, known as Penny to her friends, first opened the curtains to let in the bright morning sun. Even though the nurses said it made no difference to comatose patients, Penny considered it important that there be sunlight during the day. Perhaps, she thought, somewhere in the deep place the girl’s mind had gone it would have some salutary benefit.
On the chart attached to the foot of the bed, Penny wrote down the levels of liquid in the bags that provided nourishment to the girl and collected her waste. Lifting the light blanket, she massaged the girl’s right leg, starting with the ankle and working up to the thigh. She did the same with the left leg. Then she put her hands under the girl’s arms and lifted. Penny had grown up on a farm doing chores that would have fallen to the boys had her parents had any. With the strength she had developed on the farm, and with an experience borne from doing this work over the past five years, Penny easily turned the girl’s body on its side, and she massaged her back and buttocks, checking as she did so for signs of bedsores.
When she was finished, Penny returned the girl to her original position. She delicately pushed back a lock of blond hair that had strayed across the girl’s forehead. For good measure, she said another quiet prayer. Then she arranged the blanket, turned and walked to the door.
“May I have some water?”
Penny froze, unsure whether she had really heard or just imagined the sound. It had come from behind her. Barely audible, it couldn’t even be said to have qualified as a whisper so much as an exhalation of breath that carried with it a hint of phonetics. Penny turned slowly. The girl still lay in the same position, motionless, nothing to indicate any change in condition. However, as Penny took a step toward the bed, she realized that, through barely opened slits, a pair of extraordinarily blue eyes were looking back at her.
#
“When will she be able to go home?” Jim Dahlgren asked.
He was sitting in the office of the chief resident of neurology a
t the Terre Haute Regional Medical Center. The man’s tag read “Dr. Hudson.” Over the past several months, Dahlgren had encountered many of the doctors at the hospital. This one was new to him.
The doctor shook his head. “Difficult to say. Recovery from a coma is usually a gradual process, and it can be complicated by physical or psychological problems. I can tell you that, at this point, Mary is making good progress. Each day, she’s awake a little bit longer. She’s still very confused, however. It’s going to be interesting to see how she reacts when she sees you.”
Dahlgren was surprised. “Why is that?”
“Often with patients awakening from a comatose state, there’s some memory loss.”
“You mean she might not remember me?”
The doctor tilted his head and made a gesture with one hand as if to say, Perhaps.
Dahlgren processed the information. It had been a shock when he’d received the call earlier in the week letting him know that Mary had awoken, if only for a few minutes. He’d been prepared to make the trip down from Jackson right away, but the doctor had suggested he wait a few days to see how Mary responded to treatment. It had worked well with his schedule. He was in heavy campaign mode.
Dahlgren had prevailed in the Republican primary election a month earlier, defeating his two opponents handily. For the past several weeks, he had been criss-crossing the congressional district, giving stump speeches, attending fund-raisers and meeting with prominent supporters. His poll numbers were surging. Though he still trailed the Democratic incumbent, it was a workable margin, and he had all the momentum.
“When can I see her?” Dahlgren asked.
The doctor put two hands on his desk, preparing to stand. “How about now?”
Defiant Heart Page 21
