Hush My Mouth

by Cathy Pickens

  I patted the door frame. “See you later.” I wanted to see if he had any more information about Neanna Lyles, but I first needed to get a bond set for Mr. Mart.

  The young deputy outside the interview room assured me that he could leave Mr. Mart in the interrogation room for a while longer.

  At the courthouse two blocks away, Alma, the court clerk, said the judge had set the hearing right before he took his lunch break.

  “Always a sandwich in his office,” she said, smiling over the purple glasses perched on her nose.

  “Thanks.” I gave her my cell phone number, in case things moved more quickly than she anticipated. “I do you have the copy of the petitioner’s file in the Mart divorce case? Mr. Mart has recently retained me.”

  I needed to explain my fee arrangement and get Mart’s signature on a fee agreement. At least I’d finally gotten smart and stuck several in my briefcase so I didn’t have to run down the block and across Main Street to my office. I put the photocopied sheets Alma had given me into my slender case and walked the two blocks back to the Law Enforcement Center. Might as well take care of some other business while we were waiting on the judge.

  Mr. Mart sat twiddling his thumbs in the bare room. He nodded numbly as I explained our business details, and he carefully penned his signature.

  “Would you like something to read?”

  He shook his head. “No, not really.”

  I’d rather be hung by my heels than left without book or paper and pen, but I slipped out and left him to study the stained Formica tabletop.

  Rudy was nodding into the phone, so I stopped in the doorway. He waved me in and kept nodding and muttering, “Mm-hm, mm-hm,” then, “Okay. Thanks.”

  Fascinating conversation. No wonder he hadn’t minded me listening in.

  “Yes’m, what can I do for you?”

  I didn’t tell him not to start with the “ma’am” stuff. He’d never let up if he thought it bugged me.

  “Any news about Neanna Lyles?”

  I plopped down in the chair across the desk from him. His office could barely hold its furniture: a large desk, two thinly padded chairs for visitors, a bookcase, and a credenza behind his desk. The only window faced out into the hallway.

  “Has the ME finished?” I asked.

  “Autopsy’s done. Report isn’t. Should get the tox report today. If we need more, a full run might take weeks. Good news, her sister didn’t have to view the body. The coroner accepted her ID of the photo.”

  I was glad Fran had been spared seeing Neanna’s body. Seeing a loved one is upsetting enough after the mortician has replaced the color drained from the face and covered what would haunt dreams and shouldn’t be seen.

  “What do you think? Did she kill herself?”

  He settled back in his chair. “Lots says she did.”

  “Such as?”

  “Single gunshot wound to the head. A killshot, disrupted the brain stem. Gun in the seat beside her. A positive GSR—gunshot residue—test on her hand.”

  “A note?”

  “No note. Not yet, anyway.”

  “Not yet?”

  “She could’ve mailed one to somebody. Or left a journal or something.”

  “Who saw her last?”

  Another shrug. “Dunno. She had a concert ticket stub in her pocket and a signed concert CD by the same group in her console.”

  “Have you talked to her sister Fran? Or to Skipper Hinson?”

  “I haven’t. It’s technically not my case.”

  “Oh.” That surprised me. Was I treading on tender territory here?

  Rudy gave a deep sigh. “A’vry, we just got this, okay. Things take time. There are other crimes around here that people also demand we pay attention to, you know.”

  More important than signing letters asking for donations to the Police League? I didn’t say that out loud since I didn’t want him to know I’d been reading upside down, curious about the surprising amount of paperwork he’d been signing.

  “Would you let me see the file?”

  He stared at me over the cluttered expanse of his desk. “When we get a file, Avery, I surely will.”

  My cell phone buzzed.

  “Judge Lane can see you now.” Alma’s rich drawl didn’t waste words.

  Judge Lane? Oh, no. Not him. Not twice in two days. Why hadn’t I bothered to ask which judge was holding the bond hearings today?

  “I’ll be back.” Rudy didn’t act heartbroken when I took my leave.

  Dang. The judge moved quicker than I’d expected. I hadn’t had time to read over the few pages Alma had copied for me on Tolly Mart’s divorce.

  I tried to glance through them as I half ran back to the courthouse. Good thing I hadn’t worn heels today. For Mr. Mart’s sake, I couldn’t risk being late.

  The only people in the courtroom to witness the judge’s displeasure were Mr. Mart and a very young assistant solicitor I didn’t recognize. Probably fresh out of law school—could she have just finished in May and be here handling cases on her own? Alma sat in the clerk of court’s chair waiting to take notes on whatever was making Judge Lane look so dyspeptic. My guess? Something to do with what I hoped I’d misread on my way up the courthouse steps.

  “Am I to understand that you are asking me to set bond for Mr. Mart?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  He sounded incredulous, as if bond did not exist, as if the Magna Carta itself had never seen the pen of King John.

  “Miz Andrews.” His frown deepened, directed only at me. “I realize you’ve come to town with quite a reputation for courtroom—” He paused.

  My adrenaline pumped and I fought the urge to tighten my muscles, relaxing and shifting easily on my feet. Fight-or-flight responses could backfire in a battle of wits if those primitive instincts weren’t channeled.

  “—fireworks,” he said finally. “Some successes, certainly.” His acknowledgment was grudging. “But I must say, in our two short meetings, I fail to see evidence of the courtroom prowess of which I’ve heard.”

  I kept my gaze steady, shifting my stance only slightly, my version of a fighter getting the feel of the ring. No way I’d let him think he’d landed a blow.

  “First, you failed to effectively counsel a client about the law prior to a hearing held at taxpayer expense. Then—” He leaned forward, as if to get in my face even though I stood a good ten feet away.

  “Then you come in here in my very next court session and ask me to set bond for a man who, despite my stern warning and his professed understanding of the consequences, has persisted in phoning his estranged wife, the petitioner in the case, a total of—” He stopped more for effect than to actually read the number. “One hundred twenty-seven times!”

  Exactly as I’d feared. I hadn’t misread the paper.

  “Not only that!” The judge’s face had bloomed into a burgundy hue. “He persists in denying that he’s done this, despite overwhelming—” His voice squeaked at that point. Judge Lane had never been a trial lawyer, and family court judging likely hadn’t allowed him to develop an oratorical timbre.

  He cleared his throat and took a long breath. Some of the redness faded from his cheeks. “—overwhelming evidence in the form of telephone company records showing these calls at all hours, day and night. Made from his phone to the petitioner’s home phone number. Does your client deny he was at his residence at 2:00 A.M. on Sunday night? Just to pick one instance.”

  Before I could respond, Mr. Mart was shaking his head.

  “No, Your Honor,” I said.

  Judge Lane took another deep breath, an angry one. “Miz Andrews, I suggest that you do whatever necessary to present yourself and your clients in a better light the next time you appear in this court. Because of the repeated nature of the offense, the lack of acknowledgment or remorse, and my concern over the petitioner’s welfare, bond is set at fifty thousand dollars. Court is dismissed.”

  He whacked the gavel with such force, I feared the h
ead would fly off. Even the court reporter flinched, her eyes wide as she spoke her final words into her dictating mask. The judge swept through the door behind his bench in an angry swirl of black robe.

  I sat down next to Mr. Mart. My legs were shaking too much from pent-up anger to stand. I released it in the only direction I had.

  “A hundred and twenty-seven times?” I leaned close, my voice low.

  He looked like he wanted to either start crying or throw up. He showed none of the flash of anger I’d felt at the judge’s berating. He leaned forward, his elbows propped on his knees, his fingers knotted together.

  “I haven’t.” He looked up, still shaking his head. “I haven’t. How do I prove I haven’t?”

  His voice trembled, like lava sending up a tiny vapor stream through a fissure. I liked the anger, glad he didn’t let it flare out of control but glad it was there. For me, it pointed toward his innocence. But then, I can be duped.

  “Wait here for just one sec,” I said, mostly to the police officer waiting to escort him away.

  I caught the young assistant solicitor just outside the courtroom and introduced myself.

  “I’m April,” she said, her handshake mostly limp fingers. She had heavy brown hair that swathed her shoulders and porcelain skin that shows up in retouched ad photos more often than on real people. In her very high heels, she towered over me. A distinct disadvantage.

  “I just got this case this morning and wanted to make sure I had the latest phone records and other information from your files.” I wasn’t asking a favor. Prosecutors are required, thanks to the U.S. Supreme Court’s Brady decision, to turn over all evidence—including exculpatory evidence that might free a defendant. Most do it without a formal Brady motion, but many have to be reminded.

  She hesitated, looking first at the creased brown accordion file under her arm, then at me. “Um, I think you do?” When her experience level caught up with her polished looks, she’d be quite formidable. By then, though, she’d be long gone from the Camden County solicitor’s office and hired on with a first-rate firm, making real money with her criminal court trial experience.

  I pulled a business card from my jacket pocket. “I’m not certain that I have everything, especially the phone records that precipitated the arrest this morning. The judge didn’t seem to be in the mood to talk about the evidence. Don’t know what blew a breeze up his robe.”

  “No-o.” She actually twittered, looking nervously around. Embarrassed for Judge Lane, for me, or for herself because she witnessed it?

  “I take it Mrs. Mart’s attorney supplied those records?”

  “Um.” She rolled her eyes up, thinking. “I believe so. I can check.”

  “Would you mind faxing over what you have? I got the file from the clerk’s office this morning. I’d appreciate seeing anything you have as soon as you can get it to me.”

  “Sure.” She nodded, her luxurious hair cascading as she wrestled with her bulky files and extended her hand. I shook her birdbone fingers.

  Mr. Mart still slumped in his chair at the defendant’s table. The deputy sat in silence near the courtroom door.

  “Okay.” I slid into the chair and leaned close for privacy.

  “I don’t have fifty thousand dollars,” he said, looking heartsick.

  “A bail bond usually requires ten percent and it doesn’t have to be in cash.”

  His expression said fifty thousand and five thousand were all the same to him.

  “I’ll try to find out what’s going on with these phone records. Meanwhile, it wouldn’t hurt for you to talk to a bail-bond company.” His cell buddy Dells could probably give him a name or two.

  “I’m sorry.”

  He nodded. He might be new to this, but he wasn’t stupid.

  “The judge didn’t order any restrictions on your phone use in jail, but they’ll be monitoring your calls.”

  I didn’t want to scold him and tell him to behave himself, but I sure didn’t want him to do anything stupid. I stared at him, hoping for an insight. I’d believed him when he said he didn’t know about the phone calls. Just how crazy was he?

  He studied the oak wood grain on the judge’s bench and gave an absentminded nod.

  “Call me if something comes up. I’ll be in touch with you. Also, I want your permission to hire a private investigator.”

  His gaze snapped around to me but his slump didn’t shift.

  “Her fees are reasonable and she’s quick. I’m afraid I won’t be able to get the bond reduced just based on you saying you didn’t do it because it’s apparently your word against some phone records. We need to find out what’s going on here, okay?”

  “So I can’t go back to work.”

  Who is this nut who’d gotten my number from a wife beater in a holding cell?

  “I’ll see you later,” I said and reached to shake his hand.

  The act of reaching to accept my handshake roused him a bit.

  “What can I tell my boss about when I’ll be back at work?”

  Good question.

  He shrugged, with a look that said he knew he didn’t have many options.

  Midmorning Tuesday

  As I strode down the block toward the Law Enforcement Center, I dialed Edna Lynch to give her the particulars on Tolly Mart’s case. When I had trouble walking and flipping through the few pages Alma had photocopied for me, I sat on the weather-worn cement steps cut into the hill leading up to the county agriculture extension office and balanced the file on my lap.

  “The complaint says one hundred twenty-seven calls,” I said, the bad news confirmed in writing.

  Edna’s harrumph needed no elaboration.

  “I’ll fax you the phone company records as soon as I get them.”

  “How ’bout you just leave them at your office for me to pick up?”

  “Mm, I could, I guess.” I was trying to think where I would be later in the day. Nothing today had worked out as I’d planned. “I probably won’t be back there to make copies until midafternoon.”

  “You say they came and arrested him as soon as he got to work this morning?” She didn’t sound happy—but then, Edna seldom does.

  “Yes’m.”

  “I’ll get back with you.” My phone went silent.

  I sat watching the occasional car pass, feeling for the first time the warm cement on my thighs and the increasing stickiness in the air as the sun moved higher. Nobody ever used these steps because the parking lot was around back, so a couple of the drivers slowed and stared, checking to see if I needed help or, more likely, to see if they knew me.

  Just past the graveyard, in the direction of Rudy’s office, the sidewalk lay in shade. Using the metal handrail, I pulled myself up and turned toward the shady sidewalk.

  At the Law Enforcement Center’s front desk, I said to the young woman on duty, “Chief Deputy Mellin, please.”

  “Your name?”

  “Avery Andrews.”

  She eyeballed me as she picked up the handset, probably making use of the identification skills she’d studied in a textbook at the academy.

  “Chief Deputy Mellin is not in his office.” Her tone said she expected that to be the end of the matter.

  “Could you page him for me, please?” I smiled sweetly.

  She held my gaze a moment, then reached for the handset again. Maybe she feared I was a stalker, a dangerous ex-girlfriend, or head of a citizens’ complaint committee—in short, bad news for Chief Deputy Mellin and, as a result, bad news for her.

  I paced about on the polished institutional tile, watching the heat shimmer on the car windshields in the parking lot. Civilian cars. The official vehicles were parked around back in a separate lot, both for ease in transferring arrestees and for security of the vehicles—vandalized police cars were hard to explain to the county commissioner’s budget committee.

  I glanced at my watch. Dang. Rudy had probably headed out the back to lunch.

  The switchboard set buzzed about t
he time I turned to the guardian of the gate to call off the search.

  She covered the receiver and whispered, “Your name again?”

  Less than a minute later, Rudy leaned around the door and motioned with a manila file folder for me to follow him.

  “You ready for lunch?” he asked over his shoulder.

  “Sure.” If you want to talk to Rudy, being ready to eat on command was a prerequisite.

  He tucked the folder under his arm and led the way.

  Rudy, the bulked-up remains of a successful 3-A high school right tackle, still works out sporadically, but he’s not running any wind sprints. He’s what my daddy calls a right big ol’ boy, the kind who can lift a perp up by the throat should the need arise, but he couldn’t easily turn and look over his own shoulder.

  He rounded the corner and stopped so quickly I almost plowed into him. He’d almost collided with a guy also wearing a deputy’s uniform, this one with a slight build and a challenge on his face.

  “Chief Mellin.” His tone said he might spit on Rudy’s shoes.

  “Rodney.”

  “I was coming to see you.”

  “I’m heading out.”

  The officer didn’t budge, his shoulders drawn back. The set of his jaw said he was looking for a fight.

  Rudy stood solid. The officer noticed me standing behind Rudy. My presence didn’t make him dial down his intensity.

  “I hear you’re messing with my case.”

  “I’m doing my job. Nothing stopping you from doing yours.” Rudy leaned forward, emphasizing his height advantage.

  “I’m going to the sheriff.”

  My eyebrows shot up. He sounded like some kid running to tattle to the teacher.

  “You got an extra set of balls, you go for it.”

  He stepped past Rodney, opening the way for me to follow. I couldn’t bring myself to look at Rodney, offering only a curt nod. His fury whistled through his clenched teeth as I passed.

  Maylene’s still had some breakfast stragglers. Rudy must not have made it in for breakfast this morning, since he was hungry so early.

  We slid into a back booth, with Rudy facing the door, and placed our orders.