Gumbo Justice

by Holli H. Castillo

  “Oh, you insist, do you?” The judge glowered. “Okay, Mr. Klegg, I didn’t realize you were the boss. I’m going to set a bond on his traffic violation. What’s the charge?”

  “DWI,” Ryan answered.

  “And what are his priors?”

  “You can’t consider his priors on a traffic violation,” Klegg stated.

  “I am setting a bond in criminal district court. That means I can.”

  Ryan read off the rap sheet. “Nineteen arrests, ten felony, nine misdemeanor. Prior convictions for forcible rape, indecent behavior with a juvenile and cocaine possession.”

  “And, Your Honor,” Bo spoke up, “the defendant has made repeated threatening calls to the victim from jail, calls which are recorded and have already been ruled admissible at trial by Judge McAllister. ”

  The judge nodded slightly. “I see. Well, you are absolutely right, Mr. Klegg, your client is entitled to a bond on the DWI. If you can make bond on the DWI in the next three hours that I will be in this building, then we’ll get everybody back over here and I will be forced to rule on the 701.” The victim gasped, and the judge held up his hand, pausing for a moment. Ryan had a feeling she knew exactly where he was going. “Bond is set at one million dollars for DWI.”

  Ryan smiled. She couldn’t stop herself. At least she didn’t laugh out loud.

  “Your Honor, I strenuously object!” Klegg jumped up and slapped the table. “That bond is outrageous and excessive, and there is no way my client can afford that.”

  “Do not beat on my furniture, Mr. Klegg.” The judge shot him a dour look. “And if your client cannot afford the bond, then he stays in jail. That doesn’t happen to be my problem or concern. And I’m putting a hold on the bond so that it can not be reduced by another judge until your client appears before the traffic court judge. And then I am personally going to call over to traffic court and get your client a court date for the end of next week. In the meantime, your client will be tried in here on Monday.”

  “This is a travesty of justice!” Klegg was used to being theatrical, but he had never tried a case in front of Judge Jackson. Ryan sat on the edge of the desk, wishing she had popcorn to munch while this scene from the Living Theater played out.

  “Two million dollars,” Judge Jackson said. “Bond is now set at two million dollars. Cash only. No property, no ROR.”

  “What?” Klegg yelled, slapping the table again, and now Wilson was standing as well.

  “Ten million dollars!” Judge Jackson pounded his gavel several times. “Bond is set at ten million dollars!” The judge stood up and leaned over the bench, pointing a crooked finger at Klegg. “And one more word from you, Klegg, and you’ll be joining your client in jail. You never should have pushed me to set that bond. Your client can thank you for that.”

  “I ain’t getting out?” Durrell Wilson asked, turning to Klegg. “Mother fucker, you was paid five thousand dollars to get me out.”

  “Mr. Wilson, I suggest you invoke your right against self-incrimination and save your comments for when you are out of this Court’s presence,” the judge warned him. “Anything you say in this courtroom can be used against you.”

  “Fuck you,” Wilson yelled. “My time ran today, you got no right to keep me in jail. Klegg, you better fix this shit right now.”

  “Mr. Wilson, you will appear back in this courtroom in two weeks for a contempt hearing.” The judge scowled fiercely. “This is not the ‘hood’, young man, this is my courtroom. And I demand that everyone who sets foot in here behaves with decorum and respect. Deputy, give him a subpoena in case he bonds out before Monday.”

  Ryan did laugh out loud this time.

  Wilson pointed to the judge. “You fucked up, judge.” He then turned to Ryan. “And you too, Ho. You should have stayed out of my business. You both gonna be sucking my dick when I get out of here. Ain’t no bars strong enough to keep this nigger down.” Wilson continued ranting, and Klegg suddenly looked scared. Wilson tried to move, but was stopped by three deputies, who had no trouble subduing a man in shackles and handcuffs.

  “That’s another contempt charge, Mr. Wilson,” the judge said. “Mr. Klegg, you would be wise to warn your client to control himself in my presence. And I am going to personally speak to the District Attorney about charges for the threat against me and Ms. Murphy.”

  Wilson had his face pressed into the fluffy carpet and couldn’t have spoken if he wanted to. The deputies finally picked him up from the ground and carried him to the courtroom holding cell.

  “Mr. Klegg, if I ever hear another outburst from you in my courtroom, you will become a guest of the state for as long as the law allows. Am I making myself clear enough for you? Now, if there’s nothing else, court is adjourned.” The judge pounded the gavel and stalked back to his chambers.

  “You really saved me on that one,” Bo said and pushed his glasses back up with a relieved smile. “Why don’t I treat you and your junior to lunch? It’s the least I can do.”

  As much as Ryan didn’t want to break bread with Bo Lambert, lunching with Bo would give her the opportunity to rub the Gendusa case in Bo’s face.

  “I’ll put my car on Tulane,” Bo said, waiting for an answer.

  “We’ll meet you out front,” Ryan answered as Mike began packing up the files.

  Ryan had just walked into Della’s, a soul food restaurant across Broad Street, when her cell phone rang. The caller ID showed Sean’s cell. She turned to Bo and Mike. “Excuse me, I’ve got to take this.”

  “Yeah.” She walked outside to escape the noise inside the small restaurant.

  “Did you see the twelve o’clock news?” Without waiting for a response, he continued, “Conchita Beliza did a story about Devon Jones.”

  “How did she find out about him? And what did she say?”

  “She didn’t give his name, only that there was a witness to Smith’s murder and that the witness was the juvenile brother of a drug arrest made the following night. And I was about to ask you how the press had gotten the information.”

  “How should I know?” Then she realized what he was getting at. “You think I leaked something like that to the press?”

  “Not that many people knew about it, and you do have a relationship with Halley.”

  “Go to hell, Sean,” she said and hung up on him. As if she would tell Chance anything about the case. And Conchita Beliza was Chance Halley’s competition. Even Sean should have known that the two reporters worked for competing stations. If Ryan had given the information to Chance, Conchita wouldn’t have been the one doing the story. Sean should have checked out his own facts before accusing people. She wondered if this was how some of Sean’s suspects felt.

  She was about to walk back into Della’s when her phone rang again.

  Thinking it was Sean calling back, she answered and said, “I hope this is your apology.”

  “What did I do?” Shep asked. “Or should I apologize in advance for something I’m going to do?”

  Ryan didn’t try to hide the disappointment in her voice. “Oh, it’s you.”

  “Glad to hear your voice too, princess.”

  She sighed. “I thought you were Sean. We just had an argument.”

  “Sean will get over it. Where are you? I looked for you at the office, but they said you were still in court. Then I walked over to court and they said you had just left. I have something for you. Are you on your way home?”

  “I’m at Della’s.”

  “I don’t suppose you’re alone? I could meet you there.”

  “No. I’m having lunch with Bo.” She peered through the plate glass window and saw Mike already talking to the waitress.

  “Oh.” Shep didn’t say anything for a moment. “I can call you later if I’m interrupting something.”

  “You’re not interrupting anything, trust me. I’d rather be eating alone. What do you have? And if you’re calling to accuse me of giving the press information on Devon, Sean already did that. And as us
ual he doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

  “That’s not what I’m calling about. But what are you doing with that douche-bag Lambert? I thought you had better taste than that.”

  “Mike’s here too. Bo’s treating us because I saved his ass on a 701 today.” She explained to him what happened with Durrell Wilson.

  “I fail to see how having lunch with Bo Lambert is reward for saving his ass. First he gets you threatened in court by a rapist, then you get stuck eating with him? Doesn’t seem like a fair trade to me.”

  “You’re not jealous, are you, Chapetti?” she asked, an involuntary smile springing to her lips.

  “No. I’m sure I can have lunch with Lambert whenever I want,” he answered. “Can you meet me at your house?”

  “Now? I didn’t even order yet.”

  “Eat at home, unless you’re really in the mood for chitlins and pig’s feet. That stuff will kill you anyway, clogs your arteries.”

  “You’ll have to pick me up. My car’s still at court.”

  “I’ll be there in two minutes.”

  Ryan walked back inside. “Sorry guys, I gotta bail. Got a detective on the way about a case.”

  “Which case?” Mike asked. “Not Gendusa, huh?”

  Ryan looked for a reaction from Bo, but he had none, the usual blank expression on his face.

  “No, just Chapetti. He needs to talk to me about the case from last night,” she lied. “Some new information just came in.”

  “Anything important?” Bo asked, seeming interested.

  Ryan gave him a bored look. “Nothing earth shattering.”

  “Rain check, then?” Bo asked.

  “Oh, most definitely,” Ryan answered with a fake smile.

  Ten minutes later, Shep finally pulled up.

  “It’s about time,” she told him, just as he had told her four days ago. Had it only been four days? This had been the longest week of her life.

  “Here,” he said, and he threw a po-boy wrapped in white paper to her as she got in the Vette. “Fried shrimp, dressed. I was going to eat it myself, but since you’re missing lunch, I figured I’d let you have it. I know how mean you are when you’re hungry.”

  “Thanks,” Ryan said as she opened the wrapper and tore into the sandwich. The outside of the French bread was warm and crusty, the inside soft, filled with crispy fried shrimp and crunchy lettuce and tomatoes. There was just enough Tabasco to give it a kick.

  He handed her a fountain Coke. “I had fries, but I ate them on the way.”

  She took another bite of the po-boy, realizing for the first time that she hadn’t eaten anything substantial in days. She took a sip of Coke as her eyes watered from a glop of hot sauce. “I thought you didn’t like Tabasco on your shrimp.”

  Gilbert’s smile appeared. “I don’t. I really ordered it for you.”

  She couldn’t help but smile back. Shep could definitely be charming when he wanted to be. She took another big bite, wiping ketchup off of her chin with the back of her hand.

  Shep handed her a paper napkin. “You look sort of cute when you’re attacking food. You get that same look on your face when you’re going after a defense attorney.”

  She blushed slightly, remembering his comment last night about Chad. After all, they were on the way to her apartment, where they would be entirely alone. She looked at the body underneath the badge. She wasn’t made of steel. “So, what do you have to show me?”

  “Be patient. You’ll see when we get to your house. Any trouble ditching Lambert?”

  She shook her head. “But I feel sorry for Mike. He got stuck eating with Bo by himself. I think he was hoping I was going to invite him along.”

  “I’m glad you didn’t,” Shep said, and then added quickly, “This isn’t something you would want anyone else to see.” He refused to tell her anything else, and a few minutes later, they were in front of her house.

  Shep carried an expandable file up the front steps. As soon as Ryan opened the front door, he handed it to her.

  She could tell from the case number on the file that it was an older file from the D.A.’s office. Patti’s name was typed on a label under the number.

  “Shep?” She slowly looked down at the expandable, afraid to look at the documents inside. “What is this?”

  He made no move to walk further into the house. “The story of your kidnapping, everything that happened to you, is all in there.”

  “How did you get this?” she asked, not quite believing him. “This is a D.A. file.”

  “The police file was missing. Your father probably has it stashed somewhere,” he answered. “But the closed file from your office was in the D.A.’s storage facility out by the airport. I made a phone call to have it pulled and then I picked it up. You could have done that at any time, you know.”

  She looked down at the file in her hands. Finally, she said, “Do I really want to know what’s in here?”

  Shep seemed to understand what she was really asking. “I don’t know if you do or not, Ryan. But I can tell you that your family isn’t keeping anything bad from you. I promise.”

  “Can you leave this with me?” She walked inside and put the file on the coffee table, leaving Shep behind in the doorway. “I want to take my time looking through it on my own, if that’s okay?”

  “It’s been closed for twenty-four years. Nobody will even care that the file is gone.” He turned to leave, but stopped and asked, “You want a ride back?”

  She shook her head. “I’ll get a ride back later.” She walked back to the front door and touched his arm gingerly, not quite sure what to say. “Thanks. I really do appreciate this.”

  “If you want to talk later, give me a call.” He looked down at her hand on his arm, and brushed a strand of hair away from her face, touching her cheek in an intimate gesture. For the first time, she noticed his hands, big and wide, with long fingers and short, neat nails. And then, with his hand still on her cheek, he brushed his lips lightly across her forehead, before saying, “Take care of yourself, okay?” He walked quickly to his car, leaving her in the doorway with her heart racing.

  Ryan watched as Shep drove off, wanting to contemplate what had just occurred, but also wanting to find out about what had happened to her all those years ago. Finally, the past won out over the present, and she went back to the file. Breathe, she ordered herself, waiting for her heart to start beating at a normal pace, the whole while thinking about what Edie always said about men with big hands. She closed her eyes for a second, still feeling Shep’s lips on her forehead, and exhaled loudly.

  When she finally opened her eyes, she forced herself to focus on the contents of the brown expandable in front of her. Inside was a green file, indicating it was a second class felony, which meant the crime charged was punishable at hard labor. Ryan grabbed the police report from inside the file.

  She skimmed the report quickly, authored by now-retired Detective Ribson. A call had been made by NOPD officer Kelly Murphy that his sister-in-law, a known heroin addict and prostitute, had kidnapped his four-year-old daughter, Victoria Ryan Murphy, known as Ryan, from her uptown home. Patricia Ryan had gone into the home under false pretenses of discussing a medical problem with her sister, Kelly Murphy’s wife Angela Murphy, who was a registered nurse.

  When Angela left the room to make coffee, Patricia Ryan grabbed the child and left the residence in an older model blue Chevy station wagon. Seven-year-old Sean Murphy immediately alerted Angela, who observed the car as it fled the area. Angela wrote down the license plate number and called her husband. A warrant was immediately issued for the arrest of Patricia Ryan.

  Ryan’s memory was jogged by the report. She recalled running out of her parent’s house with Patti, and Patti saying it was going to be a funny joke on her mama. And then she started to feel that something was horribly wrong when Patti made her get into the car and then drove away. She had started crying, and had fallen asleep in the back seat.

  That was the end
of the initial report. There was one supplemental report, also authored by Ribson, and contained the same item number. The item number on the police report was assigned as soon as a crime was reported, and indicated the month of the crime by a letter, A through L corresponding with January through December, a dash and then a two-digit number indicating the year, and then a unique number assigned for every crime committed that year.

  The supplemental report was longer. Two hours after the kidnapping, an anonymous tip was called in that a child matching Ryan’s description was seen with a woman inside an apartment in the St. Thomas Development. The tip gave the building number, but not the apartment number. A task force went to the building, and searched every apartment until they found the child in one of the units. Patricia Ryan was present in the apartment as well.

  Ryan was painfully jolted back in time, sitting on a lumpy gold sofa, shrinking back into the worn cloth, trying to avoid the roaches scurrying around her.

  She was crying, because she was afraid of the nasty bugs, because she thought she was going to be in trouble with her mama, and because she knew the man talking to Patti was a bad man, the kind her mama and daddy had always warned her about. He was scary, even though he was smiling, and sat so close to her she could smell his stinky breath.

  In the corner of her eye, there was a flicker. Somebody else was there, somebody who didn’t scare her.

  And then she was back in the present, wiping tears from her face. She found her place in the supplemental report, deciding she needed to find out what had happened to her back then more than she needed to have a breakdown right now. There would always be time for a breakdown later.

  Patti told the police that she was Ryan’s biological mother, and insisted that she was only trying to get her daughter back, claiming that Kelly Murphy had planted heroin on her when she was pregnant, so that she would be forced to give the child up to him while she was in prison.

  A neighbor, however, disputed the story, reporting that she had been sitting on the stoop in front of the apartment when she overheard Patti arguing with two drug dealers about trading Ryan for heroin.