Part of him wished he wasn’t walking into a law enforcement facility; a darkened back alley would have been preferred. Charles daydreamed of beating the snot out of Thomas, but he knew he had to resist such a drastic act given the circumstances.
He reached the door and punched the intercom button, waiting for the detention deputy sitting in the control room to acknowledge his presence and let him into the medium-security facility.
“Can I help you?” the crackling voice asked through the low-tech speaker.
“Yes,” he said, “I’m Charles Fleming, attorney for Michael Thomas.”
It wasn’t a lie, really. Charles had represented him at one time in his criminal career, so the words flowed out smoothly, giving the recipient no indication of deceit.
“Hold, please.”
He waited for what seemed like a very long time.
This isn’t good, he thought, further thinking that the jig was up, that Becky had called Anderson and told him about his plans. She’s such a busybody.
He heard the buzz and click that told him the door could now be opened. He pulled the handle; the triple-reinforced iron and steel door opened smoothly and Charles walked inside the chair-free waiting area and approached the counter that was shielded from the waiting area with bulletproof glass. The civilian and attorney side of the visitation area was much different than the one used by law enforcement, much more intimidating. He walked up to the glass and put his mouth near the speaker that was suspended in the middle of the glass wall. “I haven’t been here in awhile,” he admitted. “Do I need to sign something?”
It led to the same jail that Brown and Lind reported to for their short-lived interrogations, with the only difference being one of perspective: law enforcement officers go in the back way and don’t have to deal with the little speaker and other security precautions. Also, the deputy behind the desk (and glass) wasn’t the unattractive blond; it was an extremely overweight, sloppily-dressed older man, probably in his early fifties. No standards, Charles thought as he wondered what the guy ate for lunch every day and whether he would have any chance of catching a perp if one tried to get away. The latter fact was probably why he was assigned to a high security, locked-down facility. Can’t run away if there’s a steel door blocking your path.
“Please sign in on the clipboard,” the deputy said through very labored, asthmatic breathing, as he slipped a clipboard through a slit at the bottom of the glass and just above a counter, which was approximately waste high to Charles.
Charles picked up the clipboard and pulled a pen from his pocket. He hesitated a moment before scribbling his illegible signature in the left column and Thomas’s full name in the right one. Scanning the list, he noted that his name appeared to be the fourth name on it behind several other visitors who had been there days before, so the wait, he hoped, wouldn’t be long.
“Thanks,” Charles said as he slid the clipboard back through the slot.
“It’ll be a few minutes.”
“No problem,” he said. It’ll give me time to fine tune my speech, he thought as he grinned in anticipation.
Charles glanced around the waiting area. In addition to the reception station there was another equally imposing sight: a door even more foreboding than the one he had walked into just moments before. This one had a window-sized opening in the center about head high, but with the added touch of inch-thick steel bars. He pictured old cowboy movies where the convicts grabbed the bars of the jail cell door and shook them violently, demanding that they be fed something besides beans.
“You can go in now,” the rotund deputy said through the crackling speaker. “Use the phone in cubicle three.”
He turned to the side, said, “Thanks,” and walked to the door, which buzzed when he reached for its handle. It pulled open as smoothly as the main door though it was a bit lighter.
As he entered the visitation area, he saw several rooms to the right, with one occupied by a police officer and a prisoner who wore a tan jumpsuit instead of the regulation orange, which Charles knew meant that the man was likely a trustee and not much of a risk, probably working out some sort of deal in exchange for testifying against a former friend.
He walked past another reception desk and nodded “Hello” to the blond-haired deputy as he took his seat at cubicle three. The attorney-client visitation area was a place he’d become familiar with the last time he represented Michael, although he only had to visit him there once—he managed to get him released on bond afterwards, so the jail visits ended with what was then their first and last jailhouse visit. There was a row of chairs on each side of a wall, each wall’s top half consisting of thick glass and the bottom half built of cinder blocks. The chairs were separated by concrete partitions on each side, which created the feeling of separation between each cubicle. Those who didn’t know better thought they had some modicum of privacy. Unlike the outside reception area, there was no speaker suspended in its middle. Instead, Charles saw the familiar wired telephone handset mounted on the concrete partition on the left of each cubicle, and a matching one on the inmates’ side. Experience told him that every word of the conversation they were about to have would be recorded. He watched through the glass, waiting for Thomas to be brought out. His chair was a cheap orange plastic one similar to the ones in his law office break room. He let out a sigh. At least it wasn’t bolted down like the one on the other side of the glass.
Moments later Thomas shuffled in with hands and ankles still manacled together, and took the seat on the other side. He looked at Charles with a strange mix of fear and excitement. He even smiled as he picked up the handset on his side of the glass as Charles did the same.
“Hey,” he said. “Thanks for seeing me so soon.”
Charles almost felt dirty. His role of advocate was conflicting with his desire for revenge. He did his best to put on his poker face by smiling and nodding. “Not a problem,” he said into the mouthpiece. “So what are you in for?”
“Aggravated battery. They’re threatening to add attempted second degree murder, felony DUI and felony theft charges.”
Charles wanted to laugh. Apparently the investigating officers had not yet told Thomas that Robert was awake. In a different set of circumstances, if he actually were Thomas’ attorney, he might have been angry at the oversight. He might have even filed a motion to suppress any resulting statements as the product of intimidation or false information (though he couldn’t think of a case that supported such an argument). However, right now he was a victim, so anything the police could do to legally (or illegally, if his attorney was the typical court-appointed variety) get the guy to confess was fine with him.
Charles knew he had to be careful—the charade couldn’t proceed so far as to actually have Thomas utilize so-called attorney-client privilege and divulge what had actually happened, no doubt incriminating statements, to a potential state’s witness. Besides the obvious challenge it posed to the state’s case against Thomas, professional ethics wouldn’t allow it. The likely outcome of such a deception would be Charles’s public censure by the Kansas State Supreme Court, or even disbarment.
You’re not worth my law license, he thought.
“Stop right there,” Charles said. “I’m not here to represent you.”
“But I got money,” Michael begged. “I’m in big trouble this time, and I need you.”
“I don’t give a crap about your problems,” he replied. “I don’t want you to say anything else. The boy you almost killed is my grandson.”
Michael’s shoulders slumped and the anticipation that had earlier appeared on his face evaporated as he became engulfed by the fear that had never completely left him. He almost broke down in tears, but he said nothing.
Charles slid his chair back and stood up to leave, the handset still held up to his face. He glared at Thomas and said, with voice raised, “If it’s the last thing I ever do, I’ll make sure you rot in prison. I gave you a shot, and you paid me back by de
stroying my grandson’s future. He was set to play college baseball, full scholarship, and do something great with his life. You took something from him he’ll never get back, and I will make you pay.” He paused for a moment, reflecting on what Thomas had told him when he first spoke into the handset. “And if he dies—” He paused again, now looking up at the ceiling and then back at Thomas. “You better pray he doesn’t.”
He slammed the handset into its cradle and walked briskly toward the exit. The door was unlocked from the inside, so he turned the knob and pushed it open.
He was on the interstate and driving back to Oklahoma City less than ten minutes after he had arrived at the jail. His conflicted feelings of repentance and hate were battling each other for dominance over his soul, and he was unsure which one was winning at the moment. As he drove thought a couple of intersections and turned into the underpass to enter the highway that would take him back to Oklahoma City—he concluded that in his current state of mind he was in no condition to continue his independent investigation. For some reason he didn’t understand he suddenly felt the urge to pray. It was short. “Please God, tell me what I am supposed to feel right now. Please help me to figure out what is going on inside me.”
He was pleased that he had confronted the punk that did this awful thing to his grandson. But he did not feel peace. No matter what he told himself, he now saw himself the way he suspected others always had, at least those who didn’t know the sum and substance of his heart.
He put murderers and reprobates back on the street for a living. Charles was part of the problem, not the solution. What will I tell Robert? He considered. What will I do when I go into the office Monday?
Charles turned up the radio, which was tuned to a nationally syndicated conservative talk show, and tried to forget what he’d done. He silently prayed that Robert and his family had actually forgiven him, as they had already told him they had. He wondered what God thought, whether all the reservations he’d always had about his profession had been the Holy Spirit telling him to stop, to seek a more worthy career, one that glorified God and not his own desire to win at all costs. He shook his head back and forth and focused on the road and radio. “And if you vote for the Democrats,” the host said, “you’re voting for the trial lawyers and everything they stand for, high crime, no individual responsibility, and a built-in welfare payment to those multi-millionaires every time you see your doctor, buy a car, or fill a prescription.”
Charles chuckled to himself and said quietly, “So what the heck am I supposed to do now? Business law?”
He tuned the radio to a local country and western station and lost himself in the music. “You’ll get through this,” he said, a little louder than before.
Broken: A story of hope and forgiveness Page 34
