Dying Brand

by Wendy Tyson

  Judge Lint had been one of Allison’s original clients. A sixty-seven-year-old Third Circuit judge with a severe fear of public speaking and a secret shoe fetish, Judge Lint had been using Allison as his secret weapon for remaining on the bench. Together, they practiced the relaxation skills and cognitive therapy techniques that kept the judge from hyperventilating on the stand. Lint came twice a week religiously. Allison could only reschedule under the direst of circumstances.

  She hadn’t felt that her current circumstances qualified as dire.

  “Belly breaths, Judge,” she said now. “Breathe from here.” She pointed to her diaphragm. “Not here.” She motioned toward her chest. They were in the client room, a briefing room strategically decorated in soft shades of peach and brown and designed for client comfort. Some years ago, she had purchased a small version of a judge’s stand, and before each session, Vaughn carried it in and set it up. The judge did better if he had props.

  “I’m…I’m trying.” Sweat poured down his face and he wiped his brow with a pristine handkerchief. He pulled his shoulders back and plucked at a rubber band on his wrist that Allison had given him to combat obsessive thoughts.

  “Take your time. Continue when you’re ready.”

  “As I was saying, historically the Third Circuit has taken the following stance on witness protection.”

  The judge continued his speech about protections offered witnesses in federal cases. He always prepared lengthy discourses on subjects relevant to his cases, an effort he saw as killing the two proverbial birds with one stone. Allison rarely listened to the substance, preferring instead to focus on his breathing, body language and any signs of panic or discomfort. But this time, she perked up.

  Witness protection. Federal crimes. Witnesses.

  The woman in North Philly whom Leah mentioned, the one who was a possible witness to Scott’s murder.

  “In 2007,” Judge Lint continued, “in Wilson versus Moran, the Third Circuit held…”

  Allison watched her client’s mouth move. Her professional self continued to monitor his vitals, but her mind was far away. Venturing into Philly to speak with a witness seemed a little extreme, even for her. But there was a lot at stake.

  When the judge paused to take a breath, Allison said, “Judge Lint, is there anything under the law that prohibits a citizen, not someone accused in a case, from talking to a witness about what he or she may have seen?”

  Judge Lint looked momentarily startled.

  “For purposes of intimidation?”

  “No, simply to better understand what may have happened.”

  “Like a friend or relative asking questions of a potential witness?”

  “Sure. Like that.”

  The judge shook his head.

  “Not unless there’s a gag order in place. A witness is generally free to speak to whom he or she wants, and the media, strangers and friends are free to ask questions, unless of course they are trying to intimidate a witness. Are you sure that’s not the case in your hypothetical?”

  “Quite sure. Thank you for the information.”

  Judge Lint looked at Allison over the top of his black-rimmed bifocals.

  “Allison, in all the years we have worked together, you have never stopped to ask me a question about the topic du jour. Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “I’m fine, Judge. I was just curious.”

  “Well, I like your inquisitiveness.”

  Allison smiled. She’d always been so focused on the mechanics of the judge’s speeches, not the content. She’d have to show more interest in the future.

  “No way, Allison. Are you crazy?” Vaughn slammed his hand down on his desk. “There is no way you can go sauntering into that section of Philly.”

  “And why not?”

  He looked at her over his glasses.

  “Really? Do I need to tell you the reasons?”

  Allison grabbed her coat off the hook. It wasn’t even one o’clock. She had plenty of daylight. Outside, the sun was shining. A perfect day for a trip into the city.

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “Allison—”

  She stopped short of the door and looked at him. After her session with Judge Lint, Allison had done an internet search and found the name of the witness who claimed to see the boys running away from the scene of the crime. Edith Myers, fourteenth block of Light Street. Allison understood Vaughn’s hesitance, but it occurred to her that maybe this woman would talk to her, woman to woman, if she went down there. She had to try.

  “Let me at least go with you.”

  Allison started to protest. Her mind spun for a reason, and she realized that maybe having Vaughn there wouldn’t be such a bad idea, not so much for protection but because he had been born and raised in Philadelphia.

  He would know his way around, and he might provide more of an entrée to a conversation with the neighbors. She was an outsider. People would be suspicious of an outsider, especially if trouble really was afoot.

  “Fine,” she said. “But only because I adore you for helping me patch things up with Jason.”

  Vaughn smiled. She loved the way his eyes smiled, too. Not for the first time, Allison wished life had worked out differently for Vaughn. He’d make an amazing father and husband. That wasn’t in the cards with Mia. But who was she to judge their relationship? They seemed to work, and that was all that mattered.

  “Didn’t take much convincing, Allison,” Vaughn said. “Jason wanted to believe the best.”

  “Still, it would have been hard for him not to jump to conclusions.”

  Vaughn nodded. “He’s an easygoing guy. But just because he doesn’t demand attention doesn’t mean his needs aren’t important.”

  Allison felt her face redden. “Did he say that?”

  “No, no. Strictly my observation. Jason’s willing to be the wind beneath your wings, to quote that sappy song from the eighties. With people like Jason, it’s easy to take things for granted. Forget the photos. I’m talking stuff bigger than that.”

  “Like marriage?”

  “Like showing Jason he’s a priority in your life. Whatever that takes.” Vaughn shrugged. “Look, what the hell do I know about relationships? And this is coming from me, not Jason. He’s an awesome guy, Allison. Don’t lose him.”

  As they put their coats on and headed outside, Allison almost told Vaughn about their engagement. Almost. But something held her back. Maybe she needed time to adjust to the thought. Or maybe she was afraid that sharing the news and giving in to the happiness would mean it would be snatched away.

  NINETEEN

  After three hours of waiting, no one showed up. Eleanor thought about breaking in. It would have been easy enough to do, but she figured that wouldn’t be the best way to start her new relationship with her deceased father’s former live-in. So she packed up and paid cash at one of those tiny motels along the Maine coast. She’d registered as Doris Long, shelled out four twenties, and cursed the real Doris Long for not being home.

  At noon on Wednesday, she was making her third trip to Dunne Pond. For a reclusive nut job, Doris sure was out a lot.

  Third time’s a charm, she thought. This time, an old Subaru station wagon was sitting in the driveway, its white paint and undercarriage dotted with rust. Before she’d opened her car door, Eleanor saw a round face peering through the window in the house. She climbed out of the Civic and heard dogs barking.

  The front door of the small cabin slammed open and Doris’s two German Shepherds ran toward her, barking madly. Eleanor climbed back in the car and rolled down the window. She had expected this. In fact, she was relieved to see the dogs. They’d offer protection.

  “Doris!” She yelled out the window. “Damn it, Doris, it’s just me! Eleanor!”

  The dogs kept barking. Eleanor was certain Doris could hear her, though. She�
��d seen the front window open. “Doris!”

  Eleanor looked around the interior of her car for a treat...anything to calm the beasts. She was reaching for a Power Bar when the front door opened again and Doris came outside. She looked angry, but then, Doris Long always looked angry.

  “What do you want?”

  “Nice to see you, too, Doris.”

  “Nice is a word I save for people I like.”

  Eleanor took a deep breath. She needed Doris now. With no access to her funds and cash running low, she needed a place to hideout, somewhere she could think and plan. Doris couldn’t know the truth. It would scare her. No, correct that: Doris wasn’t a woman who scared easily. It was probably more accurate to say it would be a nuisance. Doris Long hated a nuisance, like her boyfriend’s children. Eleanor would have to appeal to Doris’s very greedy nature.

  “Doris, I know we’ve never been close, but—”

  “This oughta be good.” Doris took a few steps closer, gnarled hands on sturdy hips. She wore a white Polo knock-off, tucked severely into blue elastic-waistband hiking pants. Her cropped hair was a steely gray that framed a round face and beady, distrusting brown eyes. Those eyes squinted in Eleanor’s direction.

  “I have a proposition. It involves money,” Eleanor said quickly.

  Doris made a tsk, tsk noise. “Are you here alone?”

  Eleanor nodded.

  A storm cloud wafted across the sky and the sudden shadow darkened Doris’s woody corner of the world. Doris looked up, moving her squint from Eleanor’s face to the cloud and back again. “I guess you can come in.”

  Eleanor eyed the dogs. “Will they attack?”

  “Brick and Mortar?” Doris asked stonily. “All bark, and that’s when I’m lucky. I tried training them to attack. Attack with kisses, maybe.”

  Eleanor got out of the car warily, but all the dogs did was wag their tails and look at her expectantly.

  “Oh, for gawd’s sake,” Doris huffed at the dogs. She took a hard look at Eleanor. “You’ve aged. Too much sun. Still doing all that rock climbing and other nonsense?” She waved her hand. “Never mind. Don’t want to know.” She walked toward the cabin. Over her shoulder, she said, “Come on in. Let’s hear about this proposition.”

  Edith Myers lived in well-maintained brownstone in North Philly. Her house had fresh green paint on the windowsills, potted plants and two wrought-iron chairs on the small front porch, and a cross that had been nailed to the front door, as though to ward off evil. Allison figured the bars on the windows were also for that purpose. Sadly, the houses on either side of Edith’s were crumbling, once-stately testaments to neighborhood blight and skyrocketing crime rates.

  Edith’s doorbell didn’t work. Vaughn knocked, but no one answered. He tried again, more insistently this time, and they heard the frantic yipping of a small dog. Finally, the door opened violently, catching on the chain. An angry face peered out, eyeing them up and down.

  “Not talking to no more reporters.”

  She started to slam the door again, but Vaughn inserted his foot in the doorway. “Mrs. Myers, we’re not reporters,” he said quietly.

  “Then who are you?”

  “May we talk for a few minutes?”

  The woman’s eyes widened. “Who are you? Police? Duane’s not here.”

  “We’re not police,” Vaughn said. He looked at Allison.

  “Mrs. Myers, my name is Allison Campbell.” She held out a business card through the door and the woman snatched it. “I just want to talk to you about the man who was murdered nearby a few weeks ago.”

  “And which man would that be?”

  There was no reproach in the woman’s voice, but Allison felt a jolt of shame. The murder of a well-to-do white man in this neighborhood might be big news, but she reminded herself that men—kids, mostly—were murdered here on a regular basis. The world paid scant attention.

  Allison said, “I’m sorry Mrs. Myers. You are Mrs. Myers, right?” A faint nod, but enough. “I want to talk about Scott Fairweather.”

  “What’s it to you?”

  “I don’t think those kids did it,” Allison said. “And if they did, I don’t think they were acting alone.”

  “Exactly how are you involved, Ms. Campbell?” Edith Myers asked. Once she heard the reason for their visit, she’d let them inside her house—insisted they come in, really—and ushered them to a small parlor off the front entrance. Like the house’s exterior, the inside was clean and neat. Floral wallpaper and a vinyl kitchen floor, visible from the parlor, dated the décor, but everything about the place said this was the headquarters of a woman bound and determined to fight the decline of her neighborhood. Edith herself seemed to be out of a different period. She wore a prim floral shirtwaist dress in shades of lavender and ivory. Her silver hair had been plaited and the plaits pulled into a neat bun on her head, a striking contrast to her ebony skin. She was painfully thin, and when she sat, Allison saw dark bruises on her arm.

  “I knew Scott,” Allison said. “And please, call me Allison.”

  “Allison, I don’t think I can tell you anything I haven’t already told the police.” Edith’s hands flitted before she busied them by stroking her dog’s back. The dog was some kind of miniature poodle mix, and had finally stopped barking. “I didn’t really see anything anyway.”

  Vaughn said, “But the papers said you saw a group of teenagers running away from the scene.”

  “And that’s the truth.”

  “Hmmm.” Vaughn tilted his head. “Did you actually see the kids with the body, Mrs. Myers?”

  “No. By the time I got there, they had run.”

  “So it’s possible they had stumbled upon the body, too?”

  “Are you calling me a liar, Mr. Vaughn?”

  “Not at all,” Vaughn said. “I’m just trying to figure out whether these boys may really be innocent.”

  Edith stood, placing the dog on the floor. She pointed a shaking finger at Vaughn.

  “These boys are not innocent. Make no mistake. I know these boys. They’re the reason I can’t go out at night, why folks are afraid to leave their houses in the day sometimes.” She shook her head, emphasizing each word. “They may look like babies on the outside, but they were done being babies long ago.”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Myers. I didn’t mean to suggest—”

  She waved her hand at him. “Don’t be sorry. You wouldn’t understand what it’s like around here. It used to be so pretty. Church-going folks, nice houses, not much crime. Nowadays these kids run wild. They have guns.” She shook her head again, saying to no one in particular, “Children with guns.”

  “So the boys who you saw near the victim…they’ve caused trouble around here before?” Allison asked.

  Edith looked down at her dog, who had curled up next to her feet. “Hold-ups, harassing folks near their own homes, breaking in, selling drugs to children. When I saw them by that body, I knew they hadn’t just happened upon it.” She looked up just long enough to glare at Vaughn. “I told the police: that man was buying what they were selling.”

  “And you didn’t see anyone else in the area?” Allison asked.

  “No one who could have done that.”

  “Were the kids carrying guns?” Vaughn asked.

  Edith shook her head. “I didn’t get close enough to see. I saw the body, I saw those boys, and I called the police. I have learned my lesson many times over, Mr. Vaughn. I mind my own business.”

  “Yet you called the police,” Vaughn said softly.

  Edith looked up and met his gaze. Allison saw stubbornness in those eyes. That was the grit that had allowed Edith Myers to remain in one of Philly’s worst neighborhoods.

  Just then, the front door opened and a young man sauntered inside. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with a handsome, chiseled face and cold eyes. He stopp
ed short when he saw Allison and Vaughn.

  “Who the hell are they?”

  “Watch your mouth, Duane.”

  “Stop talking to reporters.”

  “They’re not news people.”

  “Then who did you let in here, Gram?” His voice was low and menacing. “Did you even ask them who they were?”

  “Of course I did. Who they are is none of your concern.”

  Edith sat back down in an attempt to seem calm, but it wasn’t working. Allison watched Edith’s hands shake. She felt bad for causing Edith trouble.

  Allison stood. “Thank you for your hospitality, Mrs. Myers.”

  “It was no problem. I was just going to suggest some tea.” The older woman glanced in Duane’s direction. “Maybe my grandson would like some, too. Once he finds those manners he seems to have misplaced.”

  Duane took a step toward his grandmother just as Vaughn stood up, blocking his way. “Come outside with me, Duane,” Vaughn said. His voice was low, matching the menacing tone Duane had used with his grandmother. “I would love to talk to you for a few minutes.”

  Allison watched as the boy looked from his grandmother to Vaughn and back again. He seemed to be around nineteen or twenty, and while he was tall and heavy, Vaughn was taller and much fitter. Vaughn clenched his fists in an unspoken threat. Allison saw the telltale vein pulsing on the side of Vaughn’s forehead. He wasn’t just looking for information. Vaughn was angry.

  After a silent minute, Duane muttered shit, man under his breath and followed Vaughn outside.

  “He used to be such a good boy,” Edith said after he was gone. “Good grades, good manners. I’ve done what I could for him.”

  “Bad crowd?”

  Edith looked at Allison for a long time before answering. Finally she said, “There ain’t nothing else but bad crowds, Ms. Campbell. Around here, even the good ones don’t have a chance. And nobody cares.” She sighed, and Allison heard the echoes of heartbreak in that simple sound. “Children with guns, killing each other. What kind of world we living in when no one seems to care?”