The footsteps entered the hallway. “Marco,” he called once again and laughed. He walked across the floor, put his hand on the bear. “Qué tal, oso?” he said. I came out from behind the bear and pulled the trigger on the antique rifle. It didn’t go off, but I was close enough to jam the barrel into his gut. His 9 mm handgun got off a round, but he had doubled over by the time it did, and the bullet went into the floor. His head was down around his knees by then, and I took the butt end of the rifle and smashed it. “Puta madre,” he mumbled.
A light came on. Cindy stood in the doorway armed for combat, with the kitchen knife in one hand and a frying pan in the other.
Jorge appeared to be out, but I hit him once more for good measure. “Polo,” I said.
26
MANOLO GUTIÉRREZ DIED in Whit Reid’s study. Whit didn’t die, but he had been wounded badly enough to make Jorge Fuentes believe he was dead. Whit had been either a luckier man that night or a better shot. The killing of Manolo Gutiérrez could have been self-defense, or it could have been murder. It was a close call. The DA agreed not to press charges for the Gutiérrez killing if Whit pleaded guilty to conspiracy to murder Justine Virga, an easier crime to prosecute because Jorge Fuentes had confessed and turned state’s evidence in exchange for a reduced sentence for his part in the conspiracy. Whit might have gotten himself a better deal if he’d been able to hire a first-rate defense lawyer, but he was way broke. He had to sell his mother’s antiques to pay the lawyer he did get. Compared to an Argentine torture cell, the state pen could feel like the Biltmore to Jorge Fuentes, but it would be a hellhole for Whit Reid. No polo matches or tennis games to amuse him there, and the special treatment the other inmates thought his background entitled him to would not be Whit Reid’s idea of entitlement. He would have been better off if he hadn’t paid his fine and had gone to Club Fed with all the other S&L crooks. At least he would have been among his own kind.
When the DA made his decision about how he intended to charge Martha, Anthony Saia invited me over to his office to talk about it. He had that shorn look men get right after they’ve been to the barber.
We sat down in our respective places in his office. “You had your hair cut,” I said. He ran his fingers through it and waited as if my appraisal would make or break his morning.
“You like it?”
“It is a little short for winter,” I told him.
“It doesn’t get that cold in Albuquerque,” he replied.
“Cold enough.” I bit the bullet. “Well, what’s it going to be for Martha Conover?”
He picked up a rubber band, stretched it between his index fingers and began moving the fingers back and forth in opposition, like a sideways seesaw. We were back where we’d started from, facing each other across the desk and hoping to see justice served or at least to reach a settlement on what happened Halloween night when two women, an old one and a young one, apparently faced each other across the headlights of a Buick.
“Like I said before, it’s a tough call. There’s no legal precedent for this case in New Mexico, and there are circumstances that make prosecution difficult. There weren’t any witnesses. Although Jorge Fuentes and Whit Reid’s version of events implicates your client, theirs is a self-serving account.”
They’d had no reason to lie when I heard their version in Whit’s study, I thought.
“Your client is an old lady.”
She wasn’t that old.
“It could be difficult to convince a jury that she belongs in prison with a bunch of hookers and drug dealers.”
They did it to Leona Helmsley.
“Justine Virga/Niki Falcón was a known assassin.”
Yeah, but the guy she assassinated was a pig.
“It would be hard to work up any sympathy for Justine in a courtroom.”
I’d like to give it a try, only I had been hired to defend Martha Conover, not Justine Virga, and Justine Virga had paid for her crime.
“Your client might have felt threatened…”
She might. She might also have been suffering from Halcion-induced paranoia. Justine’s gun was locked in her glove compartment. She was unarmed.
“…and acted in the heat of passion. On the other hand, there may have been premeditation. When you get right down to it, there’s no way of proving or even knowing what went on in those ladies’ minds that night.”
Maybe, but there were no brake marks in the road; Martha hadn’t even slowed down.
“Still there’s no doubt that Conover’s car hit her and that she was driving it. We do have the evidence to prove that. Dorman wants to file charges of second-degree murder and vehicular homicide alternatively and let the judge decide which one to try.”
Saia had been verbally presenting my arguments to me; I’d been mentally presenting his arguments to me. I knew why I’d been countering, but what had he been up to? He appeared to be telling me that he didn’t want to prosecute this case and that he was looking to plea-bargain. “Suppose Martha agrees to plead no contest to involuntary manslaughter?” I asked. “I think she might go for that because she wouldn’t be admitting to hitting Justine with intent.” Involuntary manslaughter is a fourth-degree felony with a maximum of eighteen months in jail and a five-thousand-dollar fine, a minimum of one year probation.
“How about she also agrees never to drive again?”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“All right. You talk to Conover. I’ll run it by Dorman.”
“Okay.”
Saia ran his fingers through his hair once more, trying, maybe, to make it look longer. “You really think it’s too short?”
“It’ll grow.”
He stood up and put his hand out; I took it. “Pleasure as always working with you.”
“You, too, Anthony,” I said.
******
Prison got Whit out of Cindy Reid’s life, but even before he was sentenced she moved to her own apartment at Los Cerros. She and Emilio began spending a lot of time together. Their high school dream had come true but, as happens with dreams that come true, not exactly in the way they’d intended. Martha put up with Cindy’s seeing Emilio, or maybe she didn’t notice. Learning that her ideal son-in-law had plotted to incapacitate her and take over her business was a blow, and she was fading. The vaguer she got, the more Cindy took charge. They went through that dance where the child becomes the mother and the mother the child. Martha wasn’t going gracefully into old age, however, which wouldn’t make mothering any easier for Cindy. I wondered if she’d be any better at it than her mother had been. Cindy had reached that point where you have to decide whether you’ll be there for the mother who wasn’t there for you, be tolerant of the mother who didn’t know tolerance. Be good, be kind, be mature and—if you’re not careful—be manipulated. Sometimes it’s a fine line.
The day after I saw Saia, I went by Martha’s to tell her what had been said. Cindy was there, rattling glasses in the kitchen, and Mozart was playing on the CD. It was the kind of music that makes you want to move but not to dance. When I was in college I used to get stoned and play my roommate’s Mozart tapes when I had papers to type. Mozart has a certain kind of regular rhythm that’s good for typing. It wasn’t bad for mixing drinks either.
Martha came to the door immaculately groomed, as if she were going to court, and in a way she was. “I’ll get you a drink,” she said to me. “What is it you like? Gin and tonic?”
“I’ll have a vodka,” I answered. This was a business meeting, but what the hell. Whatever help was available today, I felt entitled to it. “Hold the ice,” I said.
“You got it,” Cindy responded, opening the kitchen cabinet, taking out a glass and banging it against the counter.
“I’m capable of getting my guest a drink.” Martha moved toward the kitchen.
“No one said you weren’t capable, Mother, but I happened to be in the kitchen, and I know how Neil likes her drinks.”
“So do I. No ice.” And only a few minute
s before, Martha had been offering me a gin and tonic. “Why are you using that glass?” she snapped at Cindy in her best disapproving-mother voice. “That glass has dishwasher spots all over it.”
“So what?” Cindy answered back.
“How many times have I told you not to put those glasses in the dishwasher?”
“About a thousand, Mother, if you really want to know, or maybe it’s two thousand. I’d say you’ve told me at least two thousand times not to put those glasses in the dishwasher.”
“Then why do you insist on doing it?”
“I hardly ever wash the glasses, Mother. You do. You’re the one who puts the goddamn glasses in the goddamn fucking dishwasher.” I’d be willing to bet that was the first time Cindy had ever said the ƒ word in this household. Was that empowerment? The Mozart symphony or concerto or whatever it was built to a crescendo, brass answering brass. Maybe it was music to fight by. If Mozart, the supreme genius of music, was the one who understood the power of harmony, then he’d know what you have to go through sometimes to get there.
“You don’t have to shout at me. I’m not deaf, you know,” said Martha.
“Who’s shouting?” said Cindy.
“You are.”
“I am not.”
The surge passed. The music leveled off. The strings came forward. “I forget sometimes,” Martha said in a small voice.
Cindy bent close to hear her. “What?” she asked.
“I forget.”
“I know.” Cindy put her arm around her mother. The time when the child becomes the mother and the mother the child doesn’t happen all at once. A powerful mother can turn frail and weak and then turn unexpectedly strong again. It’s a dance to the death. Till then, Cindy would probably go on loving her one minute, resenting her the next.
“What happened to my drink?” I asked.
Cindy opened the freezer, took out the smoking-cold bottle, poured a shot. “Here it is.”
“Thanks,” I said. “And now, Cindy, if you’ll excuse us, I need to talk to your mother alone.”
“Okay,” Cindy said. She left, and the music ended on a harmonious note that made me wish life were as orderly as Mozart. Martha turned off the CD, and we sat down on the chintz sofa. She placed her glass squarely in the middle of a coaster. I took one large sip from mine, put it down on an end table and left it alone; sooner or later I’d be driving home.
“The DA wants to file charges of second-degree murder and vehicular homicide and let the judge decide which charge to try,” I said.
Martha pressed her hands together tight. “What are the penalties?”
I had already told her, but I went over it once again. “The maximum for second-degree murder is nine years and a ten-thousand-dollar fine. Vehicular homicide is a third-degree felony, with a maximum of three years and a fine of five thousand dollars. If he had charged you with first-degree murder, the penalty would be life.”
She winced at that. “But it wasn’t my fault.”
“I think we could work out a plea bargain if you plead no contest to involuntary manslaughter, a fourth-degree felony. You’d be admitting to being in a fatal accident but not to intent to hit Justine.”
“What’s the penalty for that?”
“A maximum of eighteen months and a five-thousand-dollar fine. A minimum of one year on probation. I think there’s a good chance you’ll get probation. You’re an upstanding citizen with no record, and they don’t really want to put you in prison. They would like you to agree never to drive again as part of the bargain.”
“But I can’t do that,” she objected.
“Why not? Losing your license is a small price to pay for staying out of prison.” Besides, I thought, we’ll all be safer if you just stay home.
“But that will mean I’ll be dependent on Cindy or someone to take me everywhere.”
Those are the breaks, I thought, but what I said was, “We know more or less what happened now.” The only thing we didn’t know was what had gone on in the participants’ heads. “Your son-in-law tried to set you up, but it didn’t work; Justine got away from Jorge Fuentes and Manolo Gutiérrez. The Argentines intended to hit Justine with your car and frame you. They screwed up, but you did it yourself.” It was one of those bends in the highway, one of those strange events that once set in motion seem to take on a destiny all their own. “Justine came to see you, and you ran her down.” In cold blood, too, was one possibility.
“She stepped out in front of the car in the middle of the night. I didn’t know what she wanted. She killed Michael, my grandson. For all I knew, she had a weapon. I had no time to react.” The truth we’d been dancing around had surfaced now, sitting like a lump of mud on Martha’s coffee table.
“You could have stepped on the brake,” I said.
“My foot slipped off.”
“And you could have told me the truth in the very beginning.”
“I was under the influence of Halcion; I didn’t know what I was doing. It seemed so unreal to me, like a bad dream. Like it had happened to someone else.”
It might have been a substance-induced fog, but it hadn’t been a bad dream. “For you, maybe; for Justine Virga it was the end of her life.”
“Maybe she wanted to end it.”
Maybe.
“I’m not the kind of person who murders people. I always fulfilled my responsibilities. I kept my family together, and I raised Cynthia all by myself, you know.”
I knew.
“I don’t belong in prison. It was an accident, a bad accident.”
One woman’s accident is another’s subconscious wish. “Did it ever occur to you that Justine wasn’t a threat, that she found out Whit had plotted to set you up and she’d come to tell you?”
“Not until recently.”
“Well, what’s it going to be? The prosecution has a strong case. Your car hit and killed Justine—there’s no denying that or that you were driving it. I can’t stand up in a courtroom and say it didn’t happen. You can take the risk and the expense of a trial, or you can plead no contest to involuntary manslaughter and give up your license. The judge will be more lenient if you plead.”
“What do you recommend?”
“That you plead no contest.” There was one more option if she chose to pursue it. “But you might find another lawyer who sees it differently.”
She thought it over, twisting her ring around on her finger, wondering, maybe, if there was a man out there who would take her case and make it all right again. Does anyone ever get old enough or powerful enough to stop thinking that? She took a big sip of her drink. “All right,” she said. “I’ll plead.”
Before I left I went to her bathroom, opened the medicine chest and put back all that were left of the Halcion I had removed. I gave the container a shake, watching the pills while they settled in place. It looked to me as if her stash hadn’t diminished much since the last time I was here.
******
When the sentencing hearing came up, I advised Martha to show remorse. Maybe she did, maybe she didn’t; maybe her idea of remorse was different from mine. She had her own excuse for what she’d done. As every New Mexican knows, our criminal justice system takes a tolerant view of substance abuse. “It was the Halcion, Your Honor,” Martha said. “My doctor didn’t warn me that drug causes confusion in combination with alcohol. I wasn’t myself that night. I couldn’t react quickly enough. I’ve stopped taking the Halcion now, and I am not a danger to society.” Her performance satisfied the judge; she got the minimum sentence—one year probation—and the maximum fine: five thousand dollars. I drove her home afterwards and parked the Nissan in her space at Los Cerros, right at the edge of the hundred-mile view. She sat in my passenger seat with her purse placed square in her lap.
“You will be sending me your bill?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Thank you very much for your help.” She reached for the handle on the door.
I had another question, but it
was one I hadn’t wanted to ask until now. “Tell me one thing,” I said. “Were you really under the influence when you hit Justine that night?”
She straightened her back and looked at me with her ice-blue eyes. “Only as much as I had to be,” she replied.
******
I let Martha out, drove down the road and went to Emilio’s apartment, where he and Cindy were waiting. Emilio put three Tecates, a plate of sliced limes and a shaker of salt on the coffee table. Cindy and I sat on the sofa. He sat in his wheelchair. We were like three teenagers conspiring to do the forbidden again, except that Emilio had lost his legs, Cindy had lost her child and I was a lawyer. Cindy reached across the coffee table and held Emilio’s hand while I told them that Martha, blaming Halcion, had received the minimum sentence and the maximum fine.
“The old lady joins the killers club”—Emilio shook his head—“and she gets a fine. That won’t hurt.” He squeezed some lime juice on top of his Tecate can. “You know what the penalty would have been if I’d been driving that car?”
It wouldn’t have been probation and a fine. I knew that.
He sipped at the beer. “You did a good job for her, Nellie.”
“I guess,” I said. Martha, who’d played the part of a woman addled by Halcion, had had enough rattled moments herself to be convincing. She’d won the legal game, and one part of me—the lawyer part—had to admire her for it. “What do you think?” I asked them. “Is it worse to kill somebody when you’re under the influence or sober?” It’s a question I’ve never been able to answer.
“Sober,” said Emilio. “It’s worse when you know what you’re doing. I always thought I was sober when I pulled the trigger in Vietnam, but I could have been wrong.”
“Under the influence,” said Cindy. “It’s so irresponsible. You could kill anybody at all when you’re loaded.” She sighed. “I should go to Mother; she’ll need me now.”
“Why?” asked Emilio. “She got off, didn’t she?”
“Yeah,” said Cindy. “But she won’t see it that way. She’d think any penalty was unjust. Life is so much easier when you get along with her, but no matter how you slice it, your mother is your mother. When she suffers, so do you. When she gets older, so do you. When she dies, some of you gets buried too. You have to hope you get a good one, because right or wrong, good or bad, there’s a part of you that needs to love your mother. You’re connected to her by a cord you’ll never be able to sever.”
The Lies that Bind Page 23
