by Claire Adams
“I don’t know if I’d call it dating as much as I would a sweaty romp in an empty office,” Heather laughs. I don’t laugh. Ash doesn’t laugh. Heather just keeps on going, “He was very smooth,” Heather says. “I didn’t even realize you were flirting with me at first, and by the time I did, I’d already started flirting back, myself. It was inevitable, once he sat down and we started talking.”
“Well, I really think we should get this food put away,” I say just a little bit too loudly, hoping to communicate to Heather that she needs to put an end to this.
She doesn’t pick up the cue.
“The way I was screaming in there, I’m still surprised security didn’t come in and bust us,” she says. “He’s really got a nice touch. You know,” she says, STILL TALKING, “up until that day, I always thought I was going to have a quiet life and if I ever did get married, it’d be to some jerk who never really fulfilled me, but after you bent me over that desk—”
“Okay, seriously?” I ask. “I’ve tried to keep quiet because I didn’t want to make this any worse than it already is, but do you honestly think this is appropriate?”
Heather looks startled at having come back into contact with reality, but she still finishes the thought. “I just wanted to tell you that you convinced me not to settle for someone who wasn’t going to make me feel the way you made me feel that day,” she says. “So, thank you.”
She’s still talking.
“It was a long time ago,” Heather says, turning to Ash. “I’m married now.”
“Well, it’s been great catching up,” I tell Heather. “Good luck with the marriage.”
This time, I don’t wait to see if Heather’s going to stop. I just start walking toward the car.
“Well, all right,” Heather calls, now behind me. “It’s good to see you!”
Ash catches up to me a couple seconds later. She looks over her shoulder and back.
I’m still not sure how I’d managed to get this far with Ash. I mean, the first time we met, I was half-naked with someone else’s blood on me. That’s not really the sort of thing that makes for a great first impression. That’s usually the sort of thing that’ll get people calling the cops.
Even with her nurse’s stomach, I was pretty damn lucky to get even a second look from Ash. Tack onto that my conman brother and the fact I used to pick up women in the food court at the mall, and I think we’re about done here. All that’s left is the breakup itself.
This is going to suck.
“You know,” Ash says as we near the car, “I get that you’ve been with other people and everything, but I swear that woman would just not stop talking.”
“It was a long time ago,” I tell her. “Well, I guess it was only a couple of years ago, but I don’t do that kind of thing anymore.”
“Oh, I don’t care about that,” Ash says. “I would have caught you if you were stepping out on me. You’re not a very subtle kind of guy, Mason.”
I don’t know how she’s so okay with what just happened. I’m not sure that I would be. Knowing your partner has been with other people isn’t a big deal, but having one of those other people walk up and give a detailed-enough account of the dirty hour or so we spent together back in the day is sort of a different thing.
I want to ask her why she’s not more bothered, but I don’t want to press my luck, either. Ash genuinely has nothing to worry about from Heather. Apart from spotting her in and around the food court of the New Hills Mall, I haven’t seen her at all since that day. We never had a repeat performance.
It would be great if I knew Ash was just being cool about this, but I’m still getting that feeling she’s only being cool because of whatever she’s hiding. Maybe her secret is so bad that she’s trying to soften my reaction by letting me off the hook about Heather and the wildly inappropriate conversation we just endured.
The question I’m really asking myself right now is whether this is something that I really need to get to the bottom of right now or not. I can press Ash, possibly even getting her to spill whatever’s been so on her mind; or I can just let it drop and hope for the best.
“We never got to the chocolate, did we?” I ask in the most thinly-veiled attempt at changing the conversation possible.
“It’ll keep,” Ash tells me.
Chapter Sixteen
Crimes and Crimes
Ash
Mason and I are sitting in the courtroom, waiting for Chris to be brought forward for his arraignment. They just brought him in, shackled in his red-and-white striped jail garb.
He was supposed to be arraigned half an hour ago, but it looks like the court is backed up with people in for possession of cannabis and others who are there because of identity theft.
“What do you think they’re going to do?” I whisper to Mason as the judge rules that the defendant must surrender his vehicle and he remands the teenaged pothead to state custody, pending trial.
“I don’t know,” he says. “Knowing Chris, though, I’m sure we don’t even know the half of it.”
“Did he ever tell you exactly what he did?” I ask.
“No,” Mason says. “I think—” he starts, but stops when the bailiff gives him a dirty look.
The judge calls the next defendant, a man accused of embezzling over $500,000 dollars from a local charity. The prosecutor explains that only about a third of the money has been recovered. The judge sets bail at $20,000.
Nobody says anything.
Next, the bailiff calls Chris and I give Mason’s hand a squeeze, whispering, “No matter what happens, we’re going to get through it, all right?”
“Yeah,” Mason says, his eyes set on his brother.
Chris shuffles down from the jury box and stands next to a lawyer wearing an immaculately-fitted, $60,000 Kiton suit. What can I say? My dad’s an enthusiast.
Right now, we’re about to find out whether Chris took Mason’s advice to heart, or if he’s already worked out some shady deal to avoid as much responsibility as possible. After sitting through enough defendants to get an idea how this court is run, I’m just glad Chris didn’t get caught with a joint or he might be in real trouble.
Then again, I still haven’t heard exactly what they’re charging him with.
Before the judge starts, the prosecutor speaks up, saying, “Your honor, before we continue with this defendant, I would like to amend the indictment to include four additional counts of fraud and twelve additional counts of theft by deception. More victims of Mr. Ellis’s cons have come forward—”
“Your honor, I am unaware of any such witnesses, and I move that the charges against my client, including those Mr. Babish decided to wait until the last possible moment to try to get filed, be dropped,” Chris’s attorney retorts.
“I do apologize for the delay, but many of these witnesses have only just come forward, your honor,” the prosecutor says, handing a file to the bailiff who takes it up to the judge. “Given the serious nature of the crimes Mr. Ellis has committed over the span of numerous years along with his natural ability to con and his apparent predilection of committing such crimes, the people ask that Mr. Ellis be remanded, pending trial.”
“Your honor, I understand that Mr. Babish is trying to grandstand here, but he’s suggesting remand before my client—who has never been arrested—has even had a chance to indicate his innocence!” Chris’s lawyer says.
“What do you think?” I whisper to Mason. “Do you think he’s going to plead guilty?”
“No,” Mason whispers back. “Even if he decided to listen to me, he’d never give up a bargaining chip like that. I think the best we can hope for is that he doesn’t take any illegal shortcuts to get a better deal.”
The judge looks down at his desk, assumedly at Chris’s file or the papers the bailiff just passed from the prosecutor, and he looks back up, saying, “On the charge of fraud against James Bodine…” the judge holds up the pages in front of him for a better look. He sets it down and removes his glas
ses, asking, “Is this going to be a split plea where I’m going to have to go through each of the…” he looks at the paper again, “forty-some-odd charges against your client individually, or can we cover this by type of charge, Mr. Silver? I recognize that this is unusual, but this court does have a full schedule today, and I’m reasonably certain we’ll be here ‘til lunch if we do it the other way.”
“Split plea?” I ask Mason, but have to wait for the bailiff to turn away before I get a response.
“Guilty to some, not guilty for others, I imagine,” Mason says quickly as Chris’s lawyer continues.
“We are not looking at a split plea at this time, your honor,” Chris’s lawyer, Mr. Silver, replies. “We’re fine with a comprehensive plea.”
“In that case, Mr. Ellis, on the charges of fraud, how do you plead?” the judge asks.
“Not guilty,” Chris answers.
“On the charges of theft by deception, how do you plead?” the judge asks.
“Not guilty,” Chris answers.
“On the…” the judge looks down at the paper yet again. “On the surprisingly numerous charges of impersonating a doctor, how do you plead?”
“Not guilty,” Chris answers.
“A doctor?” I ask Mason.
He shrugs and the judge continues.
“On the charge of impersonating an officer of the law, how do you plead?” the judge asks.
“Not guilty,” Chris says.
The judge sighs and double-checks his page to make sure he’s covered everything. He finds something else.
“On the charge of resisting arrest, how do you plead?” the judge asks.
“He didn’t look like he was resisting,” I whisper to Mason.
“Yeah, but we didn’t get there until after he was already in cuffs,” Mason whispers back.
“Not guilty,” Chris says.
“Finally, on the charge of lewd conduct, how do you plead?” the judge asks.
“Not guilty,” Chris says.
I glance over to Mason to see if he knows what that one’s about, but he just shrugs again.
“Do the people have anything to add regarding their request for remand?” the judge asks.
“Your honor, we are looking at a man who has spent the better part of his life trying to swindle decent people out of their hard-earned savings,” the prosecutor starts. “I think the court would be doing not only this city, but this state and possibly others, a great injustice by not remanding—”
“Your honor, all of these charges can be easily explained and we have nothing but the word of the people Mr. Babish has cobbled together to form his prosecution,” Mr. Silver interrupts. “We’ve had no time to look over these new charges, and honestly, I’m appalled at the behavior of Mr. Babish, trying to publicly railroad an innocent man just to get his name in the papers.”
Mr. Babish almost shouts, “Your honor—” but the judge holds up his hand.
“Mr. Silver, this court has seen a lot of things. As a judge for fourteen years, I’ve presided over hundreds of cases. With that said, I haven’t seen a list of charges like this in a long time,” the judge says. He leafs through his papers a moment and out of nowhere, he starts chuckling.
“Your honor?” the prosecutor, Mr. Babish, says.
“Could the two of you approach the bench?” the judge says, trying to hide his smile.
The judge covers his microphone as the prosecutor and Chris’s attorney make their way to the bench. They’re talking quietly for a few seconds until the judge can’t hold it in any longer and lets out a loud guffaw.
“What do you think that’s about?” Mason asks.
“I was about to ask you the same thing,” I tell him.
I have no idea whether this is good for Chris, bad for Chris, or if there’s just an amusing misprint on one of the pages in front of the judge and he just wanted to share. Finally, the lawyers go back to their original positions and the judge uncovers the microphone.
“Mr. Ellis,” the judge starts, “while this court can find some sort of amusement in regard to the specifics of some of these charges, the charges are no less serious. I am granting the people’s request for remand until trial which will be on the…” the judge trails off, looking to his clerk.
“We can do it on the eighteenth at ten-thirty, or if you’d prefer, there’s some open space the following Monday, that’s the twenty-first at noon,” the clerk, a smarmy-looking man who’s sweated through his shirt so thoroughly at this point, it looks like it’s made from a darker fabric.
“Given the sheer volume of charges, I’m going to schedule trial for the twenty-first at noon,” the judge says. “Mr. Silver, I trust that will be enough time to fold these new charges into your defense?”
“No objection, your honor,” Chris’s lawyer answers.
“So ordered,” the judge says, tapping his gavel. “Mr. Ellis, you are hereby remanded to the custody of the state until the completion of your trial. I encourage you to refrain from attempting this kind of deception while in custody. Neither prisoners nor guards are known for responding well to the efforts of confidence men.”
“Your honor,” Chris’s lawyer says, “I move that the last portion of your remarks be removed from the record as I believe it to be prejudicial against my client.”
“The guy’s got some balls calling out a judge,” Mason whispers to me.
Even the judge looks stunned for a moment, but after considering the request, he states, “So ordered. My personal comments directed at Mr. Ellis are to be stricken from the record.”
“Holy shit,” I mutter, then cover my mouth.
I never swear, and I just did it in a courtroom. Not only that, I must have said it pretty loudly, because the people around Mason and I are stifling laughter and the judge is now staring me down. I’m almost expecting to be arrested for contempt or something.
Still, Chris’s lawyer just got the judge presiding over his case to strike his own remarks to the defendant. It’s entirely possible that Chris’s lawyer is, himself, a conman, and I don’t just mean in the same way that every lawyer is skilled at parsing the truth. The guy may very well be in the confidence game.
Chris doesn’t really react as they take him away. He just goes as he’s guided with those shuffled little steps.
With that, Mason and I get up and leave the courtroom.
It’s not until we get out of the courthouse that it feels okay to talk again.
“What do you think they were laughing about?” I ask.
“I really don’t know,” Mason says. “You’ve heard as much about what he’s actually being charged with as I have. He never really goes into specifics with that kind of stuff because he knows I’ll lecture him. It’s a strange world when I’m the responsible one in the family.”
“Seriously,” I tease.
“Chris has actually pulled some funny stuff over the years, if I’m honest,” Mason says, chuckling. “Like, when I was just about to turn eighteen, he decided I needed something to burn the day into my mind. So, he called up a local radio station and told them I had this rare genetic disease that made everything taste like a roast beef sandwich.”
“What?” I laugh.
“It was actually pretty great there for a little bit,” Mason says. “The radio station said something about it on the air, and before I knew it, people were sending me gift certificates to restaurants and coupons for free sauce and that kind of thing. I was a little pissed he’d given my address to the DJ, who apparently then blabbed it on the air, but I ate really well for a couple of months. So yeah, he made the call on my eighteenth birthday and just told me that my present was in the mail. I guess people thought if I just had the right kind of food, I’d be able to taste something else—I don’t know, it sounds pretty weird saying it out loud, but he’s always loved making a con look like a stupid prank.”
I try to imagine the way that conversation between Chris and the DJ must have gone down, but I can’t get past how biz
arre the story was to begin with. People do get what’s called dysgeusia, which is where a person’s sense of taste is altered, but I’ve never heard of anyone only ever tasting roast beef sandwiches.
Mason’s laughter, once boisterous is now quiet, reserved. It’s possible I’m focusing on the wrong part of the story.
“That’s funny,” I cover. “Did you get any coupons for places that serve roast beef sandwiches?” I ask.
“Almost exclusively,” Mason chuckles. “How did you know?”
“It seems like the only kind of restaurant that wouldn’t be hurt by doing that sort of thing,” I answer. “The worst thing you could say about a roast beef sandwich with such a peculiar form of dysgeusia is that it tastes like a roast beef sandwich. But say you got a coupon to an Italian restaurant and ordered cavatappi with marinara sauce and a red wine reduction and you say that tastes like roast beef, people would probably stop eating there.”
He’s laughing as we get to the car. “You know,” he says, “sometimes I forget just how much smarter than me you are.”
“I’m happy to remind you,” I tell him and smile, putting the key in the ignition. “What do you want to do now?” I ask.
“I’m still pretty beat from the gym,” he says. “Would you mind if we just relaxed with a movie or something?”
“Okay,” I tell him. “If you want, we can go to my place. Jana’s at work for the next little bit and my only class for the day got out before I came and got you. It doesn’t really matter to me, but it’s an option.”
“That sounds good to me,” he says. “I’m kind of glad to get out of the house for a while.”
We chat a little bit and the tensions of the last while are finally starting to ease. It’s hard to say what caused the change, but we’re talking and laughing in a way we really haven’t since Chris’s arrest.
We continue to enjoy each other’s company right until the moment we’re at my apartment and I’m opening the door to find two people I didn’t expect to see sitting on the couch.
I immediately close the door, but the jig is up.
“Darling?” that grating, affected voice comes wafting through the air just like that expensive perfume she may as well bathe in, and Mason’s looking at me not having any idea what’s about to happen.
