by Randy Singer
She formulated a strategy during the twenty-minute drive from her condo. She would talk to Child Protective Services on Monday. She could have a grand jury indictment by Tuesday. She would have an arrest warrant issued for the parents on Tuesday evening and request an arraignment and bond hearing for Wednesday morning. She would charge them with criminally negligent homicide, requesting a huge bond. She would seek a foster home for the children while the parents were behind bars. Even if the parents made bond, she would ask that it be conditioned on foster care for the kids pending trial on the theory that the best interest of the children required caregivers who would seek appropriate medical help.
She would pull the kids into her office and get some powerful videotaped statements before shipping them off to the foster home. She had cut her teeth on domestic-violence cases. She knew how to work the kids.
She would alert the media and promise exclusive interviews. And she would handle everything herself.
She thought about Sean’s comment, and the anger seeped in. This case wasn’t about her. Like every other case, it was about justice. She would be the voice for an innocent two-year-old kid who never had a chance. He died because of uncaring parents, just as surely as if they had slit his tiny throat themselves. Sure, they would come to court and cry about how much they loved their baby. But Joshua was dead. And no amount of crying could change that. Rebecca believed he would never rest in peace until those responsible had been brought to justice.
If doing her job on this case resulted in a promotion, so be it. It was about time Virginia Beach had someone heading up the commonwealth’s attorney’s office who cared about the victims. Career politicians had been running the place long enough.
She had labored for twelve long years in this depressing office. She had patiently waited the last five for Commonwealth’s Attorney Harlan Fowler to retire or get a judicial appointment. It was not going to happen. She had to take matters into her own hands now.
She was planning a run against her boss in November. She would make an announcement two months from now—in August. Sean had nearly perfect timing. She could indict the parents, demonize them in the press, and not have to worry about a trial until after the election.
Finally, the break she needed. The one she deserved.
She glanced at the clock and pulled into a 7-Eleven. She had a few extra minutes and was in the mood to celebrate. She grabbed some coffee with two creams and a glazed doughnut. She turned up her nose as she walked past the yogurt.
They hauled Charles Arnold before the magistrate on Saturday morning. He was still sporting his orange jumpsuit. The commonwealth’s attorney never attended bond hearings on a misdemeanor. The arresting officers represented the interests of the state.
“Case number 04-3417,” the clerk announced. “Commonwealth versus Charles Arnold.”
Charles stepped up to the magistrate’s bench. Officer Thrasher, the beefy cop with the pockmarked face, stood to his left. The deputies who had escorted the prisoners from the holding cell stood casually behind him. Everyone in the courtroom looked bored.
“You are charged with violating a noise ordinance and resisting arrest,” the magistrate said without looking up. “You’re entitled to a lawyer on the resisting-arrest charge. Can you afford your own lawyer, or do you want to see if you can qualify for the public defender?”
“Excuse me, Your Honor,” Thrasher interrupted. “We’re dropping the resisting-arrest charge and have no objection to a PR bond.”
Charles expected as much. They had no basis for resisting arrest. They just wanted him locked up for the night. Teach him a lesson. Respect the boys in blue.
“I’m assuming the defendant has no objection?” The magistrate glanced up at Charles.
“I suppose not,” Charles said. “But, Judge, they kept me locked up all night on a baseless charge, they processed me like a felon, and now they just waltz into court—”
The magistrate held up his palm, and Charles stopped midsentence. “Look, buddy, even if all that were true, there’s nothing I can do about it. I’m here to set bond, and the captain has generously offered you a personal recognizance bond. You get to go free as long as you sign a statement promising to appear on the trial date. It doesn’t get any better than that, pal, and I’ve got a lot of other folks to process.”
“Okay,” Charles said reluctantly. “But when is my trial date?”
“I set it for the first Tuesday of next month,” Thrasher said. “I’ll be in court that day on a number of other matters anyway.”
“That’s a month away,” Charles complained. A month of ribbing from his summer school students. A month of explaining his innocence to every one he knew.
And what if his ex-wife found out? He could hear her tsk, tsk, tsking him now. She’d find a way to blame it on him and the cops at the same time. She’d tell him to call the NAACP, countersue for a civil rights violation, show a little spine. No, he didn’t need this charge hanging over his head for a month. The sooner he could get it behind him, the better.
“I want the first available trial date.”
The magistrate grunted. It had probably been a while since a defendant asked for an early trial date. “You got anything sooner?” he asked Thrasher.
The officer checked his black book. “Well, actually, Judge, I’m in court this Wednesday morning. I’m just not used to defendants who are released on a PR bond being so anxious to get back to court.”
The magistrate chuckled. “Me either.” Then to Charles. “Does Wednesday at 9:00 a.m. work for you, Mr. Arnold?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Very well, then, gentlemen, this case will be heard Wednesday morning. And, Mr. Arnold, if for any reason you don’t appear, I’ll have a warrant issued for your arrest. Is that clear?”
“Crystal clear, Your Honor.”
“Call the next case,” the magistrate ordered.
On the way past the holding cell, Charles noticed Buster standing at the front of the cell, holding the bars in each hand, pressing his face against the steel. Charles stopped and moved closer.
“You bustin’ out?” Buster asked.
“I’m ghost,” Charles said. “Already got the resisting-arrest charge dropped.”
“I told you he was good,” Buster said over his shoulder to the other inmates. “Cash money.” He turned again to Charles, lowering his voice. “Don’t forget about me, man.”
“I won’t,” Charles said. “I couldn’t if I tried.”
They grabbed hands through the bars, another soul handshake. Charles sensed the man’s guarded desperation and decided to take another run at the Bible study.
“See you next Saturday night?” Charles asked.
Buster hesitated for just a moment. “Might as well,” he mumbled. “I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”
“Seven o’clock,” Charles said. He turned quickly to leave before Buster could change his mind.
9
“WHAT ARE WE GOING TO DO with all this food?” Theresa Hammond asked as she busied herself in the kitchen. “Everyone at church has just been incredible.”
Thomas sat in his favorite recliner in the living room. The kids were in bed. It was Tuesday night, the night after Joshie’s funeral. And it was like they had entered into an unspoken pact not to talk about Joshie’s death. Every time Thomas tried to bring it up, Theresa would cry. And so he learned. The emotions were still too raw. Pretend it hadn’t happened. Shelter yourself in the shock of it all. Deal with it later.
“Beats me,” the big man said, staring at the spot on the floor where he would wrestle with Tiger and wait for Joshie to pile on.
“You think the kids will make it through the night?” Theresa asked between the clinking of dishes.
“Prob’ly not. Stinky’ll come climbin’ into our bed about midnight; then Tiger’ll holler ’bout nightmares a few hours later.”
“You hungry?” She seemed desperate to talk about something—anything but Joshie.
�
�’Course not. Been doin’ nothin’ but eatin’ and talkin’ to visitors all day. Why does everybody in church think they’ve gotta bring food over, like we can’t cook our own meals anymore?”
“I guess they just don’t know what else to do.” As she talked, her voice quivered. Thomas could tell she was on the verge of tears again. He got up out of his seat and stepped into the kitchen. He leaned against the doorway and watched her for a moment. He saw the vacant stare in her puffy eyes and shared her bone-deep grief. Though she had never said as much, he sensed that Theresa blamed him. And why not? His lack of faith had surely caused this. It would be a burden that would haunt him the rest of his life.
Maybe he should walk over and rub her shoulders. Maybe he should just hold her and lie to her—tell her it would be all right. Truth was, he didn’t really know what to do. Emotions were not his thing.
“You all right?”
“Yeah.”
He nodded, then turned to walk down the narrow hallway toward the bedroom. A firm but polite knock on the front door stopped him.
“Can you get that?” Theresa called from the kitchen.
“I reckon,” he murmured to himself. “It’s prob’ly another casserole.”
When Thomas opened the door, the two men standing on the small wooden porch of the trailer were not smiling. They were dressed in the brown garb of the Virginia Beach Sheriff ’s Department. Their badges glistened in the light from the one bulb that had not yet burned out.
“Can I help you?” Thomas asked, standing in the doorway.
“Are you Mr. Hammond?”
He hesitated. “That’s me.”
“Well, Mr. Hammond, we don’t enjoy doing this under any circumstances—but we’ve got a job to do and hope you’ll understand.” The officer thrust some official-looking papers at Thomas.
“What in sam hill?”
“We’re serving you with a summons for your arrest on charges of involuntary manslaughter and criminally negligent homicide,” the officer said. “You are to appear tomorrow morning at 9:00 a.m. in Virginia Beach General District Court for your arraignment and bond hearing.”
“Thomas . . . who is it?” Theresa called from the kitchen.
“Nobody you know, Theresa,” Thomas replied. He stepped outside and closed the door behind him.
“Was that Mrs. Hammond?” the officer asked politely.
Thomas scowled. “Yes.”
“We have a summons for her as well. Same charges. You can deliver it to her yourself if you want to.”
Thomas reached out and took the papers without saying a word. The men did not leave.
“Is that it?” Thomas growled. They might just be doing their job, but he didn’t have to make it easy. “Are you fixin’ to take me to jail?”
“Not tonight,” the officer replied evenly. “The commonwealth’s attorney could have requested a warrant for your arrest tonight. Instead, this summons is basically saying that you’re being trusted to show up on your own.”
“Will I go to jail tomorrow?” Thomas pressed them. “Will I lose the kids?”
“You might go to jail. Depends on what the judge says about bond. As for the kids, well . . . the commonwealth is basically claiming that child neglect caused the death of your son. If you have other kids, there’s a chance you could lose custody of them pending trial.” As the officer spoke, he shuffled slowly back to the edge of the porch. Both officers eyed Thomas warily.
Thomas felt the warmth rise in his neck. His head started spinning and burning with anger. Who did these guys think they were? They come to his house the night after he buries his own son, they matter-of-factly accuse him of murder, and then they just stand there and calmly say they might take his other children from him as well. He looked down at his clenched fists and thought about how good it would feel to pop these guys.
“Leave,” he sneered.
“Mr. Hammond, I know this is incredibly tough, but don’t do anything drastic. Get yourself an attorney—”
“Leave,” he said louder. “Now!”
“We’re just doing our job, sir.”
“Nobody takes my kids from me.”
“What do you mean by that?” asked the officer who had not yet said a word, still hovering near the edge of the porch.
“You know exactly what I mean,” Thomas replied, taking a step toward him. “Now, if you’ve finished your job, get out of here.”
Both men backed down the steps without taking their eyes off Thomas. He stood on the small porch, arms folded across his chest, until the unmarked brown sedan backed out of the parking space next to his trailer and headed out of the trailer park.
Only then did he begin to read the official-looking papers that he held in his trembling hand. When he had finished, he punched the side of the trailer and heard the pop of the siding as it yielded to the force of his blow.
“Over my dead body,” he said. Then he braced himself to tell Theresa.
10
WEDNESDAY MORNING dawned hot and muggy. Virginia Beach in the early summer, the kind of weather that Nikki Moreno lived for. The tanning index registered a nine. Later she would catch some rays and work on her tan line. She would endure the late afternoon sun and the sand. It was tough work, but perfection had its price.
But first, unfortunately, there were matters of lesser importance requiring her attention. She would have to put in a few hours at her day job as a paralegal for Carson & Associates, a personal-injury firm that recently gained national attention on a high-profile civil rights case against the nation of Saudi Arabia. Nikki played a crucial role in that case, and for a few fleeting moments she had basked in the spotlight from the national media. She tried angling for an acting career, but the offers never came.
What did come was a whole boatload of new clients. Now Carson & Associates was busier than ever, incredibly shorthanded, and stretched to the breaking point.
A second matter required Nikki’s attention this morning as well. The courts called it their CASA program—Court Appointed Special Advocates. The program allowed nonattorneys like Nikki to serve the court system on a volunteer basis by looking out for the legal interests of innocent children caught up in custody disputes. Nikki would typically spend time reviewing reports from the Child Protective Services caseworkers and then recommend to the judge whether a child should receive foster care or not.
Nikki did not consider herself a do-gooder—the furthest thing from it really—and she had no desire to run around the courts protecting the best interests of children. But she had been required to serve one hundred hours of community service through CASA as part of a plea bargain she had entered into following the Saudi Arabia case. She considered herself a hero and believed her actions at the end of the case had been required by the circumstances. But the commonwealth’s attorney had seen it differently. No matter. She would do it the same way again. And in a few more weeks, she would be done with this stupid program and the charges against her would be dropped.
After more than six months working the court system, Nikki was getting comfortable with the drill. Virginia Beach General District Court on Wednesday mornings. Review a few reports. Talk to a few kids. Interview some prospective foster parents. Then recommend to Judge Silverman whether the kids should be placed in a foster home. She was good at it, and though she had started off a little shaky with the judge, he now seemed to like her. She was one of the few special advocates who could maintain a sense of objectivity and remain detached from the kids. It made her judgment all the more valuable.
It was not exactly rocket science. But it was an extra obligation that she didn’t need at the busiest time in her firm’s history. And it kept her, one of the hottest single female professionals on the beach scene, from getting as much time in the sun as her dark tan required. But still, she wouldn’t complain too much. It was better than picking up trash along the roadways with the guys in the orange jumpsuits.
With any luck she would be out of court this morning in fo
rty-five minutes and at Carson & Associates by ten.
Charles Arnold arrived early at the sprawling municipal complex in an area of Virginia Beach that was farmland a few decades ago. The courthouse building was a large four-story monolith that would have taken up an entire city block if it had been situated downtown. In its present location, it had replaced a good half acre of cornfields.
Charles survived the madness of the parking lot derby, the metal detector lines, and the escalators that did not work. He eventually made his way to General District Courtroom No. 6, on the second floor, the Honorable Franklin Silverman Jr. presiding.
At 8:50 a.m., ten minutes before court, Charles Arnold sauntered down the middle aisle of the already packed courtroom, his confident glide and “don’t mess with me” style masking the butterflies in his stomach. His charmed legal career had never landed him anywhere near General District Court, where traffic cases were heard, small-time criminals were prosecuted, small claims were resolved, and unimportant hearings on felony cases were conducted. General District Court was the Kmart of the legal world, rough-and-cheap justice for the masses, complete with blue-light specials when a liberal judge in a good mood on the right day might dismiss half the traffic tickets before him.
Charles had spent his career in loftier settings. High grades at Virginia Law School had earned him a coveted two-year clerkship at the Fourth Circuit Court of Appeals in Richmond, a federal appellate court just one step below the Supremes. Before heading to Richmond for this clerkship, he had married a fellow radical from his graduating class named Denita.
After his clerkship, he joined one of Richmond’s largest and finest law firms, a four-hundred-lawyer sweatshop where billable hours were the currency of success. Denita had started working at a similar sweatshop across town while Charles clerked, and by the time he started as a private lawyer, she had made a name for herself defending corporate America against charges of sexual harassment. Meanwhile, Charles put in three long years as a litigation associate, pushing tons of paper, taking hours of depositions, and seldom seeing the inside of a courtroom. They were both too busy building careers to think about how thoroughly they had sold out—African American revolutionaries tamed by the white man’s legal system.
