Jake almost blacked out when he heard the mother say she thought everyone was fine. One of the EMTs said he wasn’t taking her word for it and loaded the excited kids into the back of the ambulance along with their mother. Sirens blaring, red and blue lights flashing, the ambulance left the street.
The first cop approached Jake. “We need to take you down to the station, Mr. St. Cloud. We’ll take your statement there. I’m not going to handcuff you, so behave yourself. Okay?”
Jake nodded as he climbed into the backseat of the patrol car.
Jake knew he was getting preferential treatment. He wisely kept quiet as the second cop read him his rights. Then he was asked if he understood those rights, and he said he did. The ride to the police station was made in total silence.
Jake had never been inside a police station. He looked around. It smelled of sweat and burned coffee. From what he could gather, they were going to charge him with speeding and reckless endangerment. Guilty on both counts. Lock me up and throw away the key. I deserve it.
Jake signed the statement he’d given, which was short and to the point. I was driving faster than I should have been driving and didn’t see the van until it was too late. I slammed on my brakes and spun around. That’s it.
“Why aren’t you squawking for a lawyer?” a detective named Roscoe Logan asked.
“Why, do I need one? I’m guilty. What more do you want?”
“You could have killed those little kids,” the detective said.
“I know that. I’m sorry. I know those are just words. If I had to do it over again, I’d drive five miles an hour. Look, I said I was guilty, so do whatever you have to do. Just tell me, are the mother and kids okay?”
“Yeah, for the most part. Shook up. They’re getting checked out.”
Jake nodded.
“Why do I have this feeling you’re not telling me the whole story, sir?” the first cop asked.
Like there’s some excuse I can trade on? Like, hey, I just found out a few hours ago I have a kid brother and I went to see him to do whatever I could for him and his mother because I broke a promise to my dying mom and I was trying to make it right and then this yellow butterfly alights on my windshield, the same butterfly that was at the cemetery—is that the kind of stuff I’m leaving out?
“That’s my story, Detective. I’m guilty. Look, don’t let my name influence you here. Don’t go there, okay? I don’t want to hear that the St. Clouds employ half this town. That’s not me. I don’t have anything to do with that. I take full responsibility for what happened.”
“Okay, Mr. St. Cloud. We’ll be booking you now. You’ll have a bond hearing in the morning. You sure you don’t want a lawyer? If you can’t afford one, the court will appoint one for you.”
“Nope. I’m good.”
“You sure now, Mr. St. Cloud?”
“Just for the record, Detective, I’m not my old man, okay? I told you, I’m guilty, and I take full responsibility. Don’t worry, the wrath of God will not descend on the police department by way of the St. Cloud name. I guarantee it.”
The detective stared at Jake, his eyes showing his skepticism. “Then if you’ll follow me, we can get you settled nice and tidy into a cell.”
Bet you’re so proud of me, Mom. I let you down again. Betcha five bucks my kid brother wouldn’t have done what I just did.
Chapter 3
Eighty-year-old Nathan Broussard leaned back in his leather chair, his eyes on the black robe hanging on a coat tree near the door. In a few minutes, he had to go out into the courtroom for the last time. He wondered what he would encounter by way of a farewell in the place where he’d served over forty years, just as his brother, Henry, had served the people of Louisiana. Henry was a mean son of a bitch who went by the book and the letter of the law. Nathan, on the other hand, was a meaner son of a bitch who only went by the book when it served his purposes. No sense not calling a spade a spade when it was called for.
After court that day, he would attend his retirement party, then head off into the sunset with his wife of fifty-five years. That was what the press release said; a trip around the world that he’d promised his wife on the day they got married and every year since. What he was actually going to do was head to Rhode Island, where his seventy-seven-year-old brother, Franklin, ran an assisted living facility. All the paperwork had been completed months ago. Franklin had assured Nathan that he had the best doctors in the state on call to treat his Alzheimer’s. On his last checkup, in Rhode Island, the specialists had told him he was in the first stage of the disease, but that his condition was aggressive, and further warned that he should not make any more rulings in his courtroom. That had scared the bejesus out of him. If word of his condition got out, every case he’d ruled on for the last ten years would become suspect. His wife, Agnes, his voice of reason, had minced no words and put their plan into action.
Time to go. Don’t look back. You had a hell of a run, old boy. Get through today’s court docket, attend your retirement party, and walk away. How simple that sounded. It was going to be the hardest thing he’d ever done in his life.
Nathan looked at the clock hanging directly in his line of vision. He still had ten minutes to finish his coffee and the article he had been reading in the Times-Picayune before his clerk helped him on with his robe and handed him the daily roster of who was to appear in front of him. His gaze dropped to the article he’d been reading about Angelica Dancer and her daughter, Fancy. He found it interesting that Angelica Dancer, a prima ballerina, had been struck down with rheumatoid arthritis at the height of her career. She’d studied with the Bolshoi and gone all the way. Nathan felt sorry for the woman just the way he felt sorry for himself, but after her diagnosis, she made a life for herself and her young daughter, Fancy, who later followed in her mother’s dancing footsteps. The story should have had a happy ending at that point, but as Nathan read on, he saw that on the night of young Fancy’s much-ballyhooed debut, the stage had collapsed, severely injuring her and several other dancers. Young Fancy’s career ended as tragically as her mother’s. Neither woman would ever dance again.
While Angelica Dancer was confined to a wheelchair, and young Fancy was crippled and scarred, neither woman had given up. They ran and operated the Dancer Foundation, a home for abused and battered children. They’d started small and currently operated a facility, right there in St. Tammany Parish, that was filled to capacity with twenty-five children. According to Angelica, they needed more volunteers and more contributions. Fancy had added that they were desperate for volunteers because they found it impossible to turn any child away.
“Joseph,” Nathan called to his clerk, “did you read this article on the Dancer ladies?”
“I did, Your Honor, before I left the house to come to work. My wife said she’s going to pledge two days a week to the ladies and that maybe some of her bingo partners might join her. It’s sad that two such beautiful women should have such tragedy in their lives. I guess it’s true what they say. When the Lord gives you lemons, make lemonade. Here’s the roster. A full day, Your Honor.”
Nathan shrugged into his black robe and snapped it shut. His watery gaze raked the list of names on the roster. He stopped at the third name and squinted. Jacob St. Cloud. His back stiffened, and his eyes turned cold and hard.
St. Tammany Parish Judge Nathan Broussard swooped into his courtroom to hear the most beloved words in his vocabulary: “All rise! The Honorable Judge Nathan Broussard presiding.”
Judge Broussard made short work of the first two cases that came before him. It was a record even for him. His law clerk frowned, as did the bailiff.
The bailiff called the third case on the docket. “The State of Louisiana versus Jacob St. Cloud.”
“Beth Goins for the prosecution,” a pretty blond woman said, addressing the judge.
“Who is counsel for the defense?” the judge asked, peering over the top of his glasses at the people in the courtroom.
Jake got
to his feet and was about to speak when he heard three different voices.
“Alex Rosario for the defense.” His voice was drowned out by two other voices.
“Estes Symon for the defense.”
And then, “Elroy Symon for the defense.” “Well, which is it?” Judge Broussard growled, his unhappiness apparent to all in the courtroom.
“I’m defending myself, Your Honor,” Jake said. “I didn’t hire anyone. I’m pleading guilty.”
“No, he’s not pleading guilty,” Rosario said.
“He certainly is not,” Estes and Elroy Symon said at the same time.
Judge Broussard leaned forward as though he were going to pop over the top of his desk. “I will not have a mockery made of this court. Now, one at a time, who is counsel for the defense?”
Jake looked around, his face a dark cloud. “They mean well, Your Honor, but I did not hire them. I am my own counsel. I plead guilty.”
“Did you ever hear the saying that when a man represents himself, he has a fool for a client?” Judge Broussard snapped.
“No, Your Honor, I never heard that. I guess I’m a fool then.”
“Asshole,” Alex Rosario hissed between his teeth. “This is the meanest, the orneriest judge in the state. Don’t go pissing him off now,” he continued.
Estes, or maybe it was Elroy, stepped forward and leaned on his seventy years of friendship with Nathan Broussard. “The boy is in shock, Nathan. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. We have represented him for all his life. We can’t walk away from him now.”
Damnation, this isn’t supposed to be happening. “I’m calling a ten-minute recess for all of you to decide what you’re doing. A warning to all of you: do not try my patience.” The judge banged his gavel extra hard to make his point before he swooped off his seat like some dark-cloaked avenger.
Back in his chambers, Judge Broussard looked at his longtime, loyal clerk. “Well, if that isn’t a fine howdy do!”
“What are you going to do, Your Honor?”
“For starters, if those three lawyers open their mouths again, I’m going to find them in contempt. The kid said he was his own attorney, and that’s good enough for me. Now, this is what I want you to do. Listen . . .”
Back in the courtroom, Judge Broussard settled himself at his bench. He was pleased to see that the three attorneys had taken seats in the back of the courtroom. Jacob St. Cloud remained seated at the defense table alone.
“Will the defendant please rise!”
Jake stood up, ramrod stiff. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the door open and his father step through. Shit.
“Do you still want to plead guilty, Mr. St. Cloud?”
“I do, Your Honor.”
“Are you asking for bail?”
“No, sir, I’m not.”
“Then are you ready to be sentenced?” Jake tried to stand even taller. “Yes, Your Honor.”
“You admit you were driving at an excessive rate of speed.”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“You realize that you were lucky this time that no one was seriously injured. There were children and a young mother in that vehicle.”
“Yes, Your Honor, I realize that.”
“Do you have anything to say in your own defense, Mr. St. Cloud?”
“No, Your Honor.”
“There are a number of ways I can sentence you, young man. But first I want to ask you a question. How does a year in jail sound?”
Jake almost blacked out. “Not good, Your Honor, but if that’s your sentence, I’ll accept it.”
“How about a ten-thousand-dollar fine?”
“I’ll pay it, Your Honor.”
“How does a year’s probation working and living at a shelter for abused children sound to you? Along with a fifty-thousand-dollar donation to the shelter? At the end of the year, your record would be expunged. You would be assigned a parole officer with whom you will have to check in once a week.”
“That’s fine, Your Honor.”
The judge leaned forward again and stared out over the courtroom. “Mr. Rosario, in your zeal to represent this man I am now giving you another chance. I’m appointing you his personal parole officer. You will send a report to my replacement, whoever that might be, once a week. I’m not taking no for an answer, Mr. Rosario. Mr. St. Cloud, I am waiting for your response.”
Jake blinked. It was a question. “I thought I did answer it. I said it was fine with me. I can handle that, Your Honor.” In a pig’s eye, I can handle that.
“Consider it done then, Mr. St. Cloud. Tomorrow morning, at precisely seven o’clock, you will report to the Dancer Foundation. The deputies will come by your house and transport you there. And you will remain there for one full year from today, occupying whatever accommodations are provided for you. You are not allowed to use any of your own funds to make life more comfortable. Is all that understood? I’m cutting you some slack here, Mr. St. Cloud, so you can return to your home, get cleaned up, and gather your things.”
Jake nodded before he was led away by two deputies.
“Next case!” Judge Broussard bellowed as his gaze locked with that of Jonah St. Cloud.
In the anteroom outside the courtroom, the three lawyers rushed at Jake. “What the hell were you thinking in there?” Alex demanded. “I could have gotten you off, you dumb schmuck.”
“Well, that doesn’t sound like justice to me. I did it, okay? I’m guilty. What part of that don’t you get? I deserve to be punished. At least I didn’t get jail time. How the hell did you know I was here, anyway?”
“Are you kidding? Every person on our street called my mother at the restaurant to tell her. She called me. I tried to get in to see you last night, but it didn’t happen.”
“Who is this person?” Elroy asked, or maybe it was Estes. “We’ve been your attorney of record since the day you were born. We could have reasoned with the judge. He’s a friend and a distant relative.”
“For starters, this guy standing here is my brother. You got that? My brother! Yeah, I know you didn’t know that, but it’s true. Take a good look at him. He looks just like my father. I don’t want any favors called in. I did a dumbass stupid thing, and now I am going to pay for it. And well I should.”
For the first time in their lives, the Symon brothers went silent.
“What the hell happened yesterday? If I had even an inkling you were suicidal, I never would have left you. You looked okay to me when I left. What the hell would make you speed on a street like mine? Did something happen, or did I just get under your skin?”
Jake shrugged. “I wasn’t suicidal. There was this... this butterfly . . .”
“What the hell?” Alex said.
“Okay, okay, this is what happened . . .” Jake recounted the events that led up to the accident.
“Yes, then it was a good thing you did plead guilty,” Estes said, or maybe it was Elroy. “No one, least of all Nathan, would have believed a story like that. But we do believe it, don’t we, Elroy?”
“Yes, yes, we believe you, son. So how do we make out the check to the place where you will be spending your next year?”
“You don’t. I’ll pay it myself out of my own money. Thanks for showing up. You, too, bro. Sorry you got nominated as my parole officer.”
“Ah, hell, I have a lot of free time.”
“Did you show up so I’d have to pay you a retainer, so you could use that money for the twenty percent down payment on your new A/C unit?” In spite of himself, Jake burst out laughing at the expression on Alex’s face.
“Nah, well, yeah, sort of, but my mother made me come. You happy now?”
Jake laughed again.
A deputy entered the room and said, “Sit down, Mr. St. Cloud, so I can fit you with this ankle monitor.”
“Say what?” Jake exploded.
“Oh yeah, ankle monitors are Judge Broussard’s favorite thing in life. He never tells the defendant he’s getting one. He loves surprises. I told
you he was an evil, nasty, cantankerous old buzzard. Just for the record, you’ll never get used to it. It’s going to itch and chafe, but you’re stuck with it. The other surprise he didn’t tell you is that he lifted your driver’s license for a year. He’s a real cutup, that judge.” At Jake’s look of outrage Alex laughed. “You know what they say—you play, you pay. One way or another.”
The Symon brothers looked like two precocious squirrels as they watched Jake being fitted with the ankle monitor. Both grumbled that it was ugly and cumbersome.
“In case you didn’t see him, the sperm donor showed up as you were being sentenced. He gave me the evil eye, and I gave it right back. Just so you know. I wouldn’t want to be keeping any secrets from you at this point,” Alex said.
“You’re an asshole, Alex. I saw him.”
“That’s my line. One last thing, Jake. You can’t leave the premises once you’re taken to the Dancer Foundation. And you cannot have guests visiting you. I’ll get a transcript of everything and bring it out to you when I check on you next week. You are going to have to retain me, however. I might be able to appeal a few things, like your leaving the premises if someone drives you, or the part about people visiting you. And we might be able to get the judge to allow you to use your own money to improve your accommodations. No promises, though. Depends who they name as Broussard’s replacement.”
“Yeah, okay. Thanks.”
“Don’t thank me; thank my mother. She threatened to snatch me bald if I didn’t show up to represent you.”
“Well, then, thank her for me. You seem to do better at following orders than I ever did.”
“See you, Jake.” Alex clapped him on the back and left by a side door.
“I guess we should leave, too,” Elroy said, or maybe it was Estes. “We will keep watch on you, son. Do a good job, and the time will go quickly. And then you can get your life back. Was that story really true about the butterfly?”
Fancy Dancer Page 4
