Out of the Darkness

by Robert D. McKee

  Solid proof of at least one of these causes had to be provided to the court or the case would fail. The parties couldn’t even stipulate that one of the causes existed; evidence by independent means had to be shown.

  Micah believed society had it backward. It should be as difficult to get married as it was now to get a divorce, and it should be as easy to get a divorce as it was now to get married. With that change, marriage would become a much happier institution.

  But until that day arrived, Micah had to deal with the law as written, and based on the information Cedra had provided, it didn’t look good. From what she said, the conditions of her marriage did not fit within any of the eleven causes.

  The one possibility, as Micah saw it, was the situation of Emmett’s refusal to do anything about his son’s violent behavior. After all, Micah himself had witnessed the results of Sonny’s brutality at Chester’s house his first night back from Cheyenne. So, based on that, Micah pled his case under cause eight, intolerable indignities. Rumor had it, though, that Benjamin Walker, the district judge from Casper who covered Probity, held a narrow interpretation of “intolerable indignities.” He resented lawyers using that as a catch-all for whatever took their fancy.

  “Where’s Mr. Dunn this afternoon?” Micah asked Sue Anne. Marcus Dunn, the clerk of court, was a man Micah had known for years. Mr. Dunn and Micah’s father had been Masons together and the best of friends. When Micah was growing up, Mr. Dunn had been like an uncle to him.

  Sue Anne file-stamped and dated the documents as she spoke. “Oh, my, he’s very busy today, very busy. He’s out, and I don’t know when he’ll return. It’s been so hectic. I hardly ever work past noon, but Mr. Dunn insisted I stay late while he and a couple of errand boys rounded up the grand jury.”

  “Grand jury?”

  “Oh, my, yes, As soon as Mr. Dunn can get everyone located and brought in, Mr. Anderson is calling a special session of the grand jury.”

  “Why’s that?” Micah asked. “Do you know?” Proceedings before a grand jury were supposed to be confidential, but Micah suspected Sue Anne had some knowledge. Courthouses were notorious gossip mills.

  “Well, I don’t know for sure, but my guess is it has something to do with the arrest that was made today.” She handed Micah his stamped copies and a receipt for his filing fees.

  Micah slipped the papers into his satchel. “What arrest was that?” he asked as he buckled down the satchel’s flap.

  “Oh, my,” Sue Anne said. The sound of her disbelief caused her voice to rise an octave. “You mean you haven’t heard?”

  When Micah entered the sheriff’s office, Brad Collins sat with his boots propped up on his desk reading a two-month-old issue of Harper’s Weekly.

  Collins peered over the top of the magazine. His eyelids were heavy with laziness. “You need some help?” he asked without taking his feet down.

  “I’ve come to see Dr. Hedstrom,” Micah said without further greeting.

  Collins nodded toward the door to the cell block. “I expect you’ll find him that way,” he said with a smile and returned to his reading.

  Chester was lying on his bunk, his hands folded across his chest. He sat up when Micah came in, but he didn’t stand.

  Micah walked to the far end of the narrow aisle between the cells where Collins kept a straight-backed wooden chair. He dragged the chair over in front of Chester’s cell, then straddled it, leaning his forearms across the top.

  For a long moment neither of them spoke. It was Micah who broke the silence. “I admit to being new at this,” he said, “but I think it’s customary to send for your attorney when you get in trouble with the law.”

  Chester said nothing.

  “It looks like Anderson keeps a grand jury impaneled in this county all the time. He’s having them rounded up right now. My guess is we’ll be seeing an indictment by noon tomorrow. Are you going to tell me about it, or do I have to wait to hear the barroom version over at Buck’s with everybody else?”

  Chester shrugged. “Not much to tell,” he said. “I did an abortion on Polly Pratt yesterday. Mrs. Eggers told Anderson about it this morning—” He looked about at his surroundings and waved a hand taking it all in. “—so here I am.”

  Micah scratched the side of his face with his thumb and murmured, “Damn. Do you do that sort of thing often?” he asked.

  “Never before.”

  “It’s been a while since I’ve read that statute,” Micah said, “but as I recall the only time an abortion is legal is if the pregnancy gets all fouled up and you need to do it to save the life of the mother.”

  Chester shook his head. “That’s not the case here.”

  “So why’d you do it?” Micah asked. When Chester didn’t answer, Micah asked again.

  Finally, Chester responded with, “I had my reason.”

  Micah studied him through the bars. He knew his friend well, and he was certain Chester did have what he considered a valid reason for doing what he’d done. He also knew if Chester in his stubbornness decided he would not tell what that reason was, nothing Micah could say would change that. But, he told himself, he needed to try.

  “Are you going to tell me what that reason is?” he asked.

  “Nope,” Chester said. “I’m not.”

  Micah didn’t push it further. He knew it didn’t make a whit of difference what the reason might be. Short of a mother’s dying if the abortion was not performed, there was no defense to this crime. None.

  “Do you have any idea how much Eggers told them?”

  “No,” Chester said. “But it couldn’t have been much. I didn’t allow her into the surgery while I did the procedure. And for the most part I was the one who cleaned things up afterward.”

  Micah sat up straighter. “Well, it could be they don’t have much of a case.”

  “No,” Chester said. He stood, moved to the cell door, and leaned against the bars. He gave a half-frown. It was the kind of look Micah had seen Chester give his parents many times when he and Chester were in their teens and Chester had taken something apart and not been quite able to get it back together. “I’d say they have a pretty good case.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “I confessed.”

  Micah felt himself flinch. It was as though they were actors in a play and he was sitting in the front row watching them deliver their lines.

  “You did what?” Micah heard the actor playing him ask.

  “I admitted to Anderson and Collins that I had done it.”

  Micah looked up into Chester’s wide eyes. “Good Christ, Chester, why would you do that?”

  “He asked, and I told him. Let Anderson do his worst. I wasn’t going to lie to the little son of a bitch.”

  Micah yanked the hat from his head and slapped it against his thigh. “Who said you had to lie? You didn’t have to tell him a God-damned thing. You could’ve kept your mouth shut; did you ever think of that?” Micah stood and turned away from Chester. He gave the chair a shove with his foot. He walked to the cell across the aisle. He had to think, and he was certain his brain worked better when he was on his feet. But it didn’t seem to be working too well now. “This carries a maximum sentence of fourteen years,” he said. He turned back to Chester and repeated himself. “Fourteen years.”

  “Yes,” Chester acknowledged, “so I’ve heard.”

  The indictment was served on Chester in his jail cell late the next morning. Micah was with him when the sheriff brought it in.

  After giving the papers to Chester, Collins turned to Micah and said, “They say they can set the arraignment in front of Porterhouse at two this afternoon if you’re willing.”

  “I expect we will be,” Micah said. “I’ll let you know here in a minute.”

  “Good enough,” said the sheriff as he went back into his office.

  “What does he mean, ‘if we’re willing?’ ” Chester asked without looking up from the papers he’d been given.

  “They can’t arraig
n you in less than twenty-four hours after you’ve been served unless you’re willing to waive that right.”

  “So what do you think? Should I waive?”

  Micah cupped a hand around his ear as though he hadn’t heard. “What’s that? Are you asking my advice about something here?”

  “Sure. Why not? There’s no law that says I have to take it, is there?”

  Micah ignored that question and answered the first one. “I can’t see any reason to wait on the arraignment. They’ll do it sooner or later. We need to get bail set, anyway.” He looked toward the clock on the cell block’s far wall. It had been less than twenty-four hours since the arrest. This Earl Anderson was an eager prosecutor.

  “So what is an arraignment, anyway?” Chester asked.

  “A short hearing where the judge explains the charges to you and asks how you plead. On an indictment, it’s usually held in front of a district court judge. Since Walker’s not around, it looks like we’re getting Porterhouse.” Micah pointed toward the papers that were still in Chester’s hand. “Are you finished reading those?”

  Chester handed them through the bars. “Yes,” he said. “Go ahead.” Standing, he shoved his hands in his pockets and walked around the cell. “So they’re already going to ask me how I plead, huh?”

  “That’s right,” Micah answered while he read. He was learning a lot about Anderson by the flowery language of the man’s pleadings.

  “Well, that’s easy,” Chester said. “I’ll be pleading guilty.”

  Micah finished the sentence he was reading before he realized what Chester had said. “What? Pleading guilty, did you say?”

  “That’s right.”

  Micah gave a quick, stunned laugh. “The hell you will,” he said, coming to his feet.

  Chester turned to face him. “What are you getting so huffed up about?” he asked.

  “You’d be insane to plead guilty today.”

  “Micah, did you forget? I’ve already admitted to Anderson and Collins that I did it.”

  Micah nodded. “That’s true,” he said, “you’re right. You’ve already proven you’re insane, but let’s not make it any worse by pleading guilty.”

  “Well,” said Chester, flopping down on his bunk and resting his legs on the cross-piece of the bars, “that’s what I’m going to do.”

  “No,” said Micah, “you’re not.” He tried to sound assertive despite knowing no one had ever asserted much control over Chester Hedstrom once his mind had been made up.

  Chester rose to an elbow. “What do you mean I’m not? Have I even hired you as my attorney? I don’t remember hiring you as my attorney.” He lay back down. “I’m sure that’s something I’d remember.”

  “Whether you know it or not, and whether you like it or not, I am your damned attorney. At least I am until I see another one in here with you. And I’m telling you, you are not going to go in there and plead guilty—not today, anyway.”

  Chester was lying on his back looking up. “Why prolong the inevitable?” It sounded as though Chester was not asking this question of Micah, but more to himself, or the ceiling beyond the cell, or whatever it was beyond the ceiling. After a moment, he turned to Micah again and repeated, “Micah, I am pleading guilty today and getting it over with.”

  Micah’s quick temper suddenly took over, and he was furious. “For Christ’s sake!” he shouted. Despite his inexperience, Micah knew even as the words came out how unprofessional he sounded—how young and even frightened he sounded. “Will you please listen to reason, Chester?” He wondered if he might have better skills at client control with a defendant who wasn’t his best friend.

  If he was going to succeed in this business, he could only hope.

  Chester put on a flippant air, but Micah knew better. He could see from the dark circles beneath Chester’s eyes and the slight tremor in his hands how Chester was being affected by all this. It was almost enough to make Micah agree and give Chester’s pleading guilty his blessing. There was something, though, that held him back.

  “Chester,” he said, trying to take the edge out of his voice, “you can always plead guilty later. Let’s at least wait and see if we can’t work out some kind of a deal.”

  “Anderson will never deal,” Chester said. “He’d never settle for anything less than the maximum sentence, and he knows Judge Walker’ll give the maximum if it goes to trial and I’m found guilty.”

  Chester was right about that. Benjamin Walker was a fair jurist and an honest man, but he was known to be harsh at sentencings.

  “There’s no rush to plead guilty, though, Chester. The trial won’t be for at least another three months. And if Anderson won’t offer us anything, by God, why not take him to trial? That way, we can make him work for his fourteen-year sentence.”

  That argument seemed to brighten Chester up a bit. “It does seem a shame to play dead, doesn’t it?”

  “It does, indeed.”

  “On the other hand,” Chester went on, “forcing a trial would drag Cedra and Polly into the mess further than they already are. I won’t do that, not when there’s no point to it. I’m guaranteed to be convicted.”

  It was hard for Micah to argue with that. “But that’s not a decision we have to make today,” Micah said.

  Chester ran both hands through his hair. He looked very tired.

  “I’ll have to think about it,” Chester said.

  “Think about it? Come on, Chester, what’s there—”

  “No,” Chester snapped. “No more, Micah. I’ve got to think about it. That’s all there is to it.”

  “All rise,” shouted the bailiff as Justice of the Peace R. Mc-Craken Porterhouse ascended to his bench. Actually, it was less of an ascent than it was a squeeze. Judge Porterhouse was a large man, famous for being proud of his girth. According to the scales down at the sale barn, he weighed three hundred and forty-seven pounds. At least that was what he had weighed four years earlier when he’d bet Mr. Barrows, the editor of the local newspaper, one hundred dollars that he weighed more than three-fifty. Micah suspected Judge Porterhouse would be a hundred dollars richer if the wager were held today.

  The county courthouse was on the second floor of the First National Bank Building. At one end of that floor were the offices of the county clerk, treasurer, and assessor. At the other were the offices of the county attorney and the clerks of the justice and district courts. What little was left over—a room about twenty feet by twenty feet—was the courtroom. When the tiny room was stuffed with all the parties necessary for an action at bar, plus a three-hundred-and-fifty-pound judge, it took on congested proportions.

  “You folks sit down,” grumbled Porterhouse. There was an old shibboleth that all fat people were jolly. Porterhouse proved it was wrong to generalize. “Court’s in session. We’re here for an arraignment on an indictment handed down from the grand jury this morning against Chester Hedstrom, M.D. I’m Judge Porterhouse, justice of the peace for this county. Since the district court judge was here last week and won’t be back around for another three months, I’ll be handling this hearing today in my capacity as Judge Walker’s court commissioner.”

  Porterhouse wore small wire spectacles that were almost swallowed up by his huge eyebrows and bulging cheeks. “I note the presence,” he said, “of the defendant, Dr. Hedstrom, along with his attorney, Mr. McConners. The state’s represented by the county attorney, Mr. Anderson.”

  The judge, who seemed to be winded, breathed through his nose, and with each breath there was a whistling that sounded like a signal from a distant locomotive. “Have you received a copy of the indictment, Mr. McConners?”

  Micah stood. This was a week of firsts. He was about to address his first judge in a courtroom as an attorney. “Yes, Your Honor,” he said, “we have.” He felt his stomach flutter.

  “Have you discussed it with your client?”

  “Yes, sir. We’ve gone over it in detail.”

  Porterhouse directed his gaze at Chester. “St
and up,” he said. When Chester was on his feet, the judge asked, “Is what your lawyer said true? Have you gone over the indictment with him?”

  Chester nodded. “Yes,” he said, “I have, just before coming in here.”

  The room was warm, and Micah could see kernels of perspiration in a row across the judge’s brow. “You’re a smart man,” Porterhouse said to Chester, holding the charging papers up for all to see, “and I’m not going to take the time to read this whole thing to you.” He jerked his head toward the prosecutor, and when he did, his jowls waggled. “Anderson here is a long-winded sort of fella who takes ten words to say what most folks could say in three. I’ve tried to break him of it, but it doesn’t seem to work. It’s a flaw in his character, I suppose. But what this thing says is that you performed an abortion upon the person of one Polly Pratt on the twenty-seventh day of August, 1900, right here in this town and this county and this state.”

  Porterhouse turned around, reaching for his statute book on a shelf behind the bench. As he turned, his chair gave a plaintive creak, and Micah had a vision of the poor, abused piece of furniture finally giving up and shattering into a hundred pieces. But, as the judge turned back to face them without incident, it appeared the chair would survive at least for a bit longer.

  The thick statute book he took down was bound in beige calf skin, and it had gold letters against a red background on the spine. Porterhouse flipped through it, stopped, and began to read. Micah noticed as the man read to himself, he mouthed the words.

  “Yep,” said the judge, “that’s what I thought. Fourteen years. That’s what you stand to get if you plead guilty or are found guilty of this crime. Do you understand that, Dr. Hedstrom?”

  “Yes, sir, I do.”