Chapter 16
Revelation
Charles was pounding his head against the proverbial brick wall and not making a dent. He had talked to two detectives, a lieutenant, and several deputies, trying to find out who was in charge of the accident investigation. Each step up the ladder in the sheriff’s department led to a whole new bunch of egos to overcome. He suspected that no one was really in charge, that it was the typical good ol’ boy network of local yokels, combined with the natural effect of giving people who had marginal intelligence the authority to bash heads of former classmates or anyone clearly smarter than they were who once wouldn’t give them the time of day. They were riding high on a power trip in a one-horse county, he suspected, that wasn’t likely to draw Oklahoma’s finest. Those ended up in Oklahoma City and Tulsa, he surmised.
His latest troubles dealing with the Darkwell County Sheriff’s Department reminded him of Sherlock Holmes and the incompetence he experienced dealing with Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard, as well as Inspector Clouseau of Pink Panther fame. It appeared that incompetent law enforcement wasn’t limited to fiction novels, movies, or foreign countries. He chuckled to himself at his meditations.
Charles was the last person to expect any cooperation, given his propensity to aggressively cross-examine the very same officers on the exact same biases listed above, including in a few cases in Darkwell County District Court. Yes, Charles had to admit—he had an established relationship with the department. It wasn’t a good one. It was more similar to Winston Churchill’s relationship with Adolf Hitler than any productive, positive fact-finding relationship between an attorney and investigator.
“Maybe they forgot,” he said to himself, as he waited in the lobby with Max and Nolan for yet another different person to give him another different and equally less fruitful answer.
They were seated in ‘70s era, plastic-shelled, turquoise-colored chairs. Charles tilted his head back and closed his eyes, considering the obstacles they were facing at the moment, while Max sat quietly and Nolan played his handheld videogame. On three prior occasions, one a couple of years back and the other two so long ago he couldn’t remember exactly when, Charles had butted heads with the local district attorney and had emerged victorious, the most recent one resulting in an acquittal in a felony drunk driving case and the other two dismissed after he won the suppression hearings. With all critical evidence suppressed, the prosecutor had nothing to present to the juries.
Unbeknownst to Charles, the desk sergeant recognized him as soon as they walked into the station, and did everything in his power to send him to the wrong people regardless of whether he was on the right side of the law this time around. The overweight officer thought: let’s see how you feel now that the shoe is on the other foot. Charles suspected that in the end, his smooth tongue and persistent attitude combined with a finely tuned and trained legal mind would get to the bottom of things. He stood up and approached the sergeant once more, still not recognizing him as the arresting officer in one of his two felony DUI dismissals.
“How long will it be before we get to talk to someone who knows what’s going on?” he asked, doing his best to hide his frustration and mounting contempt for small town justice.
Max and Nolan, still seated, also felt frustrated, although they lacked Charles’s confidence that they would leave the station with some answers, and felt totally helpless since they were relegated to the sidelines and were totally at the mercy of Charles and a department that seemed anything but willing to help a grieving family.
Smirking, the rotund sergeant replied, “I don’t know. I told them you were here.”
Charles almost lost control of his temper, with the suddenly blood-reddened tone of his cheeks communicating to the sergeant that he was winning this battle of wills. The sergeant smirked and rolled his eyes in response to the reddening. They had already waited a good two hours, in between nonresponsive answers and seemingly endless referrals to yet more clueless people. Biting his tongue to keep from telling the officer what he really thought about him was getting harder and harder to do.
No wonder I won my cases down here, Charles thought, now much less enamored by his own lawyering skills than when the victories had come. It was incompetence on the other side, not his own skills, that had won the day, he now believed.
“This is ridiculous,” Charles bellowed. “I want to see the sheriff, now!”
Sitting behind the booking desk, it was not the sergeant’s turn to grow red-faced, and his face indeed grew redder. Sergeant Cassidy (it was the first time Charles had bothered to read his name tag), a twenty-year veteran of the department, finally leaked the reason behind the delay. “Feels a little different when you’re the victim, doesn’t it?” he asked rhetorically, punctuating the question with a grin. “Different than when you’re defending those drunk bastards, that is?”
Charles’s face reddened even more, so much so that a few normally invisible veins showed through the skin, which only happened when he totally lost control of his temper and that hadn’t happened in years. He was a control freak, and prided himself on taking his intensity right to the edge but then backing off at the last minute. At the edge he was at his best. Over the edge he was just a jerk. It was one of his many secrets of success in the courtroom. The other side lost control, not Charles Fleming. But this was different. His judgment was clouded by personal feelings for his grandson, and the person he now faced was keeping him from helping his own flesh and blood. Struggling to maintain his composure, Charles glanced around the room, searching for something that would redirect his attention away from the worthless law enforcement officer sitting in front of him and back on his grandson and the family.
Bingo! He thought, as a sarcastic grin spread across his lips and confidence replaced frustration and anger. He saw a familiar face on a large portrait to the left of the booking desk. Anderson! He knew the sheriff, though the Anderson he knew was much younger and thinner. But he was once a close friend of Charles’s back in college—they had been in the same fraternity.
“Is that how it’s gonna be?” he asked rhetorically, the extra blood drained out of his face and along with it the intense anger, replaced with the same old confidence that had brought him victories in countless trials. He couldn’t care less what answer he got. He was now about to take control and leave the worthless and spiteful desk sergeant in his wake. The smirk turned up to a grin as he considered whether the revelation he was about to share might turn into an official reprimand. “I don’t think so. I know your Sheriff. He’s a fellow OU graduate, and I am certain that he would have no qualms about firing your worthless butt if you insist on putting off one of his fraternity brothers. Either you let me talk to someone who knows about the Baxter case,” he added as he paused for dramatic effect, unsnapping his cell phone from its belt holster as he revealed it to Cassidy, “or I’ll call your boss and tell him how helpful you’ve been.”
Cassidy’s upper lip quivered. He wanted to leap over the counter and choke the arrogant, cocky defense attorney at least to the point of unconsciousness. Instead, he picked up the telephone and dialed a number, probably to talk to a supervisor or perhaps his lieutenant. Max and Nolan perked up and got out of their chairs, smiling as they did, with Max walking to Charles’s side to support him in the latest salvo. Max, now on Charles’s immediate right, exchanged a smile with the much taller, more intimidating man. He whispered, “Nice one.” Charles winked back in acknowledgment, though he was actually mad at himself for not thinking about it before, for not recognizing a good friend from his past.
It was often the smallest observations that yielded the highest returns, in court and elsewhere. He silently chastised himself for letting emotions get in the way of his judgment. He hadn’t even read the man’s nametag until the end of their confrontation, for goodness sake! If he had let things get even more out of hand, he might have gotten them thrown out before he saw the portrait of his “brother.” He made a mental note to
not let such an oversight happen again.
Within five minutes Deputy Brown walked out of the hallway connecting the booking area with the squad room. He approached Charles, the only one with a lawyerly look, and offered his hand. “I apologize for the delay. It’s been crazy around here.”
Charles accepted the greeting and apology, shook Brown’s hand, and replied, “I understand completely. Whatever it takes to get answers is fine with me.”
Charles glanced over at Cassidy and winked. Cassidy frowned in response and dropped his gaze to a blank sheet of paper in front of him.
“Come with me and we’ll see if we can’t accommodate you,” Brown said, as he turned around and walked back down the hallway with Charles, Max, and Nolan trailing not far behind.
As soon as they entered the squad room, Sheriff Anderson approached. “Charles Fleming!” he cheerfully gushed, extending his arms to offer a brotherly hug instead of the customary manly handshake. It was a habit of his Charles remembered, one that had irritated the snot out of him back in school and one that had apparently not abated with time. Not wanting to terminate the department’s newly discovered spirit of cooperation, he reluctantly responded in kind and they embraced as only brothers could. Some sort of handshake ensued immediately after the hug, but by the look of it, thought Max, it was probably a secret fraternity handshake that no one else was privy to. It was weird and seemed to include a few extra gestures that made Max and Nolan wonder what the heck was going on between the two older men. Then Anderson remembered the purpose of the visit and let a frown replace his smile, recalling Brown’s briefing with him just before Charles and his family members were escorted to the squad room.
“I am so sorry for what happened to your grandson,” he said, one hand still shaking his old friend’s, the other placed on a shoulder to comfort him.
Charles let sadness etch itself across his face as well, more an act this time, to win favor with the man in charge, and replied, “A terrible, terrible tragedy. He was on his way to Texas for college when it happened, baseball scholarship and a girlfriend waiting.”
Sheriff Anderson was tempted to exclaim, “Texas!” but instead shook his head back and forth. “Bad, bad situation indeed.” He looked over toward Lind, who had joined the group during the introductions, then back to Brown. He then told Lind, “Get the file and bring it to my office.” He then glanced back at Charles, Max, and Nolan. “You three come with me.”
They walked around the desks scattered about the room toward the only private office in the department. Anderson opened the door and entered the office, which belonged to the department’s sole politically-motivated official. He pulled the door shut after all four entered. They each took a seat, Anderson behind his desk, the grieving family members on the opposite side. It was a rather humble abode, Charles silently observed. One that made it clear that public funds were being spent wisely, at least as far as office equipment and furniture were concerned. He wondered how much money sheriffs made in rural Oklahoma.
“Can I get you something to drink?” Anderson asked.
“Coffee would be good,” Charles said, Max and Nolan nodding, the latter actually enjoying the stuff on occasion despite his young age. “Black and no sugar,” Charles continued.
“Same here,” Max replied. Not wanting to be the only non-manly one in the room, Nolan merely nodded his head in agreement, silently wishing Charles had asked for sugar, or at least cream.
Anderson hit the intercom button and buzzed his secretary. “Ann,” he said, “please bring four coffees, black and no sugar.”
“Yes, sir,” she replied.
A few seconds later they heard a knock on the door. “Yes?” Anderson said.
The doorknob turned and the door creaked open slowly. Brown stuck his head through its narrow opening. “Come in,” Anderson said, waving his hand in a reversed, open-palmed gesture, pulling it toward him as if such an action would suck Brown into his domain. Brown entered with file in hand. Lind did not.
I wish Lind were here, Anderson thought, recalling the uncomfortable exchange he had with the rebellious deputy.
Brown approached his boss and handed him a file and then sat down in the lone remaining chair in the far corner of the room, the one by the office’s only window. Anderson flipped through the file, pretending to know its contents, realizing that only one law enforcement officer in the room knew the case intimately. He glanced at Brown. “Why don’t you save us some time and brief Charles and Max on the case.”
The door creaked open again, all the way open this time, and a frumpy, middle-aged woman entered with a tray of coffee cups. Anderson, Charles, Max and Nolan each took one off the tray. “Thank you,” each said as she moved to the next. She left the room as quickly as she entered, never bothering to ask Brown if he wanted something, too.
After the door shut tight, Anderson looked at Brown. “Go ahead.”
He acknowledgment his superior with a nod, stood up, and walked toward the desk, hand outstretched. Anderson handed the file to him without bothering to stand up. Brown returned to his seat and sat down, then opened the file, more out of nervous habit than necessity since he figured he knew the case like the back of his hand. He looked over to Charles, who, sitting in the chair closest to him, had shuffled his chair at an angle so he didn’t have to look over his shoulder to see him.
Why are we helping this boob? Brown asked himself, recalling the embarrassment Charles put him through two years before. It was one of his cases that resulted in an acquittal after some of Charles’s defense attorney trickery, at least that’s how he saw it. Now he was expected to willingly help the enemy? What a snake, he added, stifling the snicker that was perched on the edge of his breath. Brown tried to recall the specifics of that case as he simultaneously gathered his thoughts for the briefing on this one. No specifics came to mind. He made a mental note to pull the file so he could remind his boss who they were helping, not a fraternity brother of old but a Benedict Arnold who had turned on his former friend by giving aid and comfort to the enemy.
His intermingled meditations must have occupied his mind longer than he realized. His boss was getting testy. “Is there something in there you want to share?”
Shaken out of his trance, Brown pulled his eyes out of the file, pausing for a moment. “Hold on,” he said as his face twisted, his mind straining to process the information he was looking at. He had seen this name before, but where?
Until this very moment, he had no reason to suspect anything unusual, but he hadn’t had time to run an FBI report, or search the name in the department’s own computerized records. He looked back at the file, noticing something that he hadn’t been privy to before that very moment. So much for knowing the case like the back of his hand, he silently reflected. A new wart had appeared. It was a newly printed Darkwell County arrest report that had been placed there by one of the department’s secretaries who had failed to let him see it before putting it in the file. Some SOPs were a good idea, and the one that stipulated that the investigating officer review all paperwork before putting it in the file was one that he would have to remind the file clerk about as soon as he left Anderson’s office. Now, taking a few more seconds to process, he realized something profound.
Oh my god! He thought. He had seen the name before! And he knew exactly where. He smiled, smirked, and let a slight laugh slip through his lips. Still looking at the sheet of paper, he said aloud, intending everyone in the room to hear it, “Unbelievable.”
“What?” Anderson asked, growing even more impatient.
Not wanting to spoil the surprise or miss the look on Charles’s face when he sprang the trap that was certain to rock the famed criminal defense attorney back in his chair and perhaps turn him off from his despicable profession forever, he replied, sarcastically, “What would you like to know?”
Anderson sensed Brown’s cockiness returning. He had responded favorably to the earlier reprimand by walking on eggshells and saying “yes, sir”
and “no, sir” to his superior and everyone else in the department, which he hadn’t done since Anderson took office months before. In general, he appeared to have been sufficiently humbled, in a good way, from the experience. But the look on Brown’s face at that moment told Anderson that he had something up his sleeve.
What are you up to? Anderson thought. Despite the little voice inside his head telling him—screaming at the highest octave possible, actually—to fire the bum on the spot and remove the file from his dirty, tainted hands, he didn’t. You better behave, he instead thought as he vainly tried to stare Brown into submission and communicate his thoughts to him via the ether that hovered between them.
“What happened?” Max asked.
“Well,” he began. “It appeared to be a standard hit-and-run by someone who was drunk or otherwise incapable of safely driving, so we combed the local motel parking lots and whatnot. And it paid off. We found a vehicle with a damaged and bloodied front bumper, verified that the driver had checked into the motel in question a few minutes after the accident most likely occurred, and inquired about the driver.”
I’m gonna stretch this puppy out as long as I can, he thought as he stopped talking and just looked at the reports in the file in front of him.
“Was it him?” Max asked, partly afraid of the answer, whatever it might be.
“Probably,” he said. “He had your son’s wallet and ID on him, as well as his backpack and computer, although the computer was pretty trashed from the crash. We booted up the computer and verified that it is your son’s.”
“Did he admit it?”
“Not yet, but we’re hopeful.”
Charles interjected. “Was he drunk?”
“Probably,” he smirked, looked at Charles, and added, “but I suppose you would know the answer to that question better than me.”
Charles squinted his eyes, wrinkled his forehead, and glared at Brown, who glared right back. His battle-honed trial skills told him that Brown was about to spring something on him, which totally perplexed him. He was, after all, the victim at the moment, or at least related to the victim. “What the heck is that supposed to mean?” he said in a much higher volume than before, his baritone “trial” voice kicking in.
Instead of telling him the name, Brown gently tossed the file onto his lap, pages flipped over the top to reveal the suspect’s name on top of the arrest report. Charles picked it up and glanced down at the file. Before actually looking, he felt a sick churning in his gut that told him that he was about to be shaken like never before. Brown said nothing; he didn’t have to. He just stared at the enemy’s eyes, not wanting to miss his ultimate moment of revenge, to make a vaunted criminal defense attorney finally see the error of his ways.
“What are you doing?” Anderson almost yelled. “This man’s a friend of mine and you’re treating him like garbage.”
Brown continued to stare at Charles, not wanting to miss the moment that was coming at him like a high-speed train on a collision course with a brick wall. Charles was now scanning the page Brown wanted him to see. Brown acknowledged Anderson with the palm of his hand, not daring to look in his direction, as if to say, “Just wait. You’ll see.”
Charles held the file with his left hand while skimming it with his right index finger and eyes. It was a speed-reading technique he’d picked up in college. His finger stopped scanning and his hand moved up to his forehead, which he began to firmly but slowly rub, beads of sweat now bubbling to the surface so fast that it was all he could do to rub them dry. His normal, slightly-tanned complexion turning chalky, almost bone white.
“Oh God,” he exclaimed. “Oh, my God.”
Brown stood up and walked to the door. “I’ll be at my desk packing my stuff,” he said to Anderson, refusing to look back. “You won’t have me to kick around anymore,” he continued as he opened the door and started to walk out. He then turned around and looked at Max. “I am truly sorry about your son,” he said, the cocky look replaced by one of genuine compassion and concern. “It’s not you I have a problem with,” he added, pointing a finger at Charles. “It’s him.”
“Get out!” Anderson demanded. “And don’t touch your desk. I’ll have it cleared for you. Ann!!!” he bellowed through the open door. Ann was in his office in a split second. “Escort former Deputy Brown off the premises. Take his badge and department sidearm before you do.”
Flustered, Ann, now standing next to Brown in the doorway, meekly replied, “Yes sir,” as she pulled the door shut and both walked toward the exit.
“I’m sorry about that,” Anderson consoled his friend. Charles said nothing. He just stood up, leaving Anderson, Max, and Nolan sitting there. He threw the file on Anderson’s desk, opened the door, and left the room, slamming the door from behind, not saying a word as he did.
Anderson, Max, and Nolan sat in silence, totally confused by what had just happened. Charles limped out of the building, feeling the pain of an old war wound in his left hip for the first time in years, but it was his heart that was the most wounded. He had always justified his profession by reciting his solemn duty to defend the Constitution and acknowledging for his own edification that it was his job to force the state to follow the rules, to do its part to uphold the sacred rights all Americans share, as only a criminal defense attorney could. But he somehow felt helpless now; he felt as if his entire career had been based on a lie, a lie that ultimately led to far more heartache and pain than any sacred constitutional right could justify.
Charles was now the criminal, he believed.
As he left the front door of the Sheriff’s Department building behind him, his knees buckled. He melted to the ground and began to cry uncontrollably. “What have I done?” he asked, over and over again. It was all he could say until Max and Nolan finally realized he was not coming back and left the building, too. When they reached him, each kneeled down by his side, Max on the right and Nolan on the left, they put their arms around his shoulders, and hugged him, still clueless as to what had set him off, wondering what unseen power could shake the foundation of the strongest man either had ever known.
The family’s rock had just crumbled into dust.
Broken: A story of hope and forgiveness Page 20
