Abandoned

by Rhonda Pollero

  She was walking and reading at the same time. Luckily the case file was thin—just a charging document, some letters, copies of the arresting officer’s report, and a docket sheet.

  The deputy ushered her into one of the cells. Emma was instantly struck by the appearance of the person seated at the chipped Formica table. He had dark hair falling over one eye, and a soft new growth of fuzz above his lip and in patches around his chin. He had the look of youthful innocence, like he should be the poster child for some skateboard manufacturer. He didn’t look like a criminal, but then she knew how deceiving appearance could be.

  Tossing his head back, he treated Emma to an insolent smile. But she saw a trace of curiosity behind the bravado. “Who are you?”

  She dismissed the deputy. “Emma McKinley. I’m your court-appointed attorney. I’ll be defending you.”

  “You?” he scoffed, tilting his chair so it balanced on the back two legs.

  “Bill’s kid has the chicken pox, so you’re stuck with me. Is there some problem with that”—she paused to consult the file—“David?”

  The Segan boy shrugged his lanky, seventeen-year-old shoulders with forced disinterest. “Depends on if you’re any good.”

  “There are people who think I’m an exceptional attorney,” she answered blandly. She read his arrest record and the most recent letter from the State’s Attorney. “The State is willing to lower the charge against you to a misdemeanor if you’ll name your drug supplier.”

  “Right,” David sneered. “You aren’t from around here, are you?”

  “No.” She met his gaze. “Does that make a difference?”

  “If you were a local girl, you would understand how it is.”

  Okay, maybe I can make some headway with Purdue’s next generation. “Don’t call me a girl ever again. You think I don’t understand the ramifications of you taking the plea offer?”

  “Right the first time.”

  She rolled her eyes. “This may be a small town, but I’m pretty familiar with your situation. I’m guessing that if you rat on your friends, then you won’t have any friends. And you don’t want to be where you aren’t wanted, right?”

  “Yep,” David agreed. His initial tough guy exterior began to fade. “’Sides, it really was the first time I ever tried to score any weed.”

  And pigs fly. “So you just had the misfortune of committing your first felony in front of Deputy…Hammond?”

  “He’s an ass,” David slurred with derision.

  “He may be an ass. Don’t know and I don’t much care. But you aren’t in any position to be calling anyone an ass. You were the one lame enough to be caught buying a bag of sale-weight grass at nine in the morning.” She met his gaze. “Are you a user?”

  David averted his eyes and gripped his soda can tightly. There was a large black bruise beneath the nail of the thumb he was using to trace the outline of the soda’s logo.

  “Are you?”

  “Not really. I mean, sometimes I use…recreationally.”

  “Want to know how many people I’ve met that were ‘recreational’ drug abusers at seventeen and dead by twenty?”

  “What are you? My lawyer or a fucking DFS social worker?”

  She fished in her purse for her glasses. It was a stall tactic. So David was acquainted with the Department of Family Services. She put on her glasses and answered. “Your lawyer. Which is why I need to know these things.” She flipped through his arrest record. “You’ve got some Juvie fines for loitering, truancy, runaway, and a trespass on government property.”

  “Told you I wasn’t a druggie,” he retorted, crossing his arms in front of his shirt.

  “Then you shouldn’t dress like one,” she suggested. She noticed him flinch out of the corner of her eye. His black DEATH RULES T-shirt and grunge-style jeans wouldn’t exactly curry favor with the judge. “Is anyone bringing you clothes?”

  Her question shattered the pretense of toughness. David’s insolent eyes lowered as he took a sip of his drink. “No one I know is particularly interested in my appearance, Miss McKinley.”

  Checking her watch, Emma knew there wasn’t enough time to spruce her client up before court.

  Strike one.

  “What about school?”

  “Bailed last year.”

  Strike two.

  “Work?”

  His defiant expression returned. “Nothing yet. I’m holding out for something with decent health insurance and a 401K plan.”

  Strike three, he’s out. Closing the file, Emma said, “If you’re bright enough to know what a retirement plan is, then you should be bright enough to find a job.”

  His chair came forward with a resounding thud. “It isn’t all that easy here in Purdue. This isn’t Tampa or Miami, Miss McKinley.”

  “I’m sure it isn’t easy, but that isn’t an excuse for not trying to do something with your life.”

  “Jeez, lady!” he griped. “Mr. Whitley didn’t lecture me when he came here.”

  “What did he do?” Emma asked.

  “He said I should take the deal.”

  “Then what?”

  David blinked.

  “Then what were you going to do?” she pressed.

  He shrugged and crossed his arms on top of the table. This time he traced the obscenity carved into the tabletop. “I guess I’ll go on doing what I’ve been doing.”

  Frustrated, Emma snapped, “Listen, Rebel-Without-A-Clue. You’re too old to play these idiotic games.” She shot him a look designed to convey her disgust with his childish behavior. “I have a personal policy never to waste my time on idiots.”

  She stood, gathered her papers, briefcase, and purse. Her glasses dangled between her thumb and forefinger. “I’ll see you upstairs where you will not take the plea and probably be found guilty.”

  “Wait!” David yelled as soon as she turned her back.

  “What will happen to me? Mr. Whitley said Judge Crandall would send me to Jarrettsville if I got convicted.”

  “He was right. I’m guessing at least a five-year sentence.”

  “Can’t you do anything?” David fairly pleaded.

  She turned back to him. “I’ll help you on one condition.”

  “Get a job, right?” David moaned.

  She shook her head. “Your promise that you’ll get a life, David. You’re seventeen and smart. I function much better as an advocate if I know I’m helping someone who wants to help himself.”

  “So I take the plea and rat out my friends.”

  “They aren’t your friends,” Emma answered. “And you’re not taking a plea.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “You’ll see,” Emma said, smiling at him before leaving.

  If she was very, very lucky, David would reevaluate his situation before they went before the judge.

  * * *

  It was not so different than the other courtrooms she’d entered. Walking briskly and with confidence, she pushed through the wooden gate that separated the spectators from the litigants and placed her items on the trial table. The elevated bench loomed in front of her, a U.S. flag and a state flag guarding over the currently unoccupied, high-backed chair. She was vaguely aware of a din of whispered voices behind her and the open curiosity from the man standing at the prosecution table.

  Emma, as was her custom, made the first move.

  She introduced herself to the man in the pale blue suit. The smile he offered in return was authentic. And it testified to the man’s long-term adolescent visits with an orthodontist.

  “Hayden Blackwell,” he stated as he took her outstretched hand. “I heard rumors that Elgin was bringing in some new blood.”

  “Nice to meet you, too.”

  Hayden released her hand and pointed a finger-made gun at her. “Great to have a pretty face across the aisle. You don’t sound like you’re a local girl.”

  Battling to keep her smile in place, Emma simply said, “Georgia.”

  “I ha
ve people in Georgia. Whereabouts are you from?”

  Emma was relieved when the bailiff entered to announce the start of the session so she didn’t have to answer the question.

  Moving back to her table, she felt the interest of the handful or so spectators seated in the gallery. Then the bailiff announced court was in session.

  Judge Crandall entered the courtroom with the black sleeves of his judicial robe fluttering. He had a regal air about him, one that seemed in perfect harmony with his distinguished looks. Emma put him somewhere in the vicinity of sixty, and he was tall and slender, with just a hint of his white shirt and paisley tie visible at the neckline of his robe. His eyes were dark, his expression stern and authoritative. The only break in his taciturn expression came after he was seated. When his eyes focused on her.

  “Good morning,” he said in a voice that easily carried to the back of the room. “Where is Mr. Whitley, young lady?”

  “Chicken pox, Your Honor,” Emma replied as a side door opened and David shuffled in with shackles connecting his wrists and ankles. Seeing her client in chains made her angry. No wonder the kid rebelled against the system. Emma wondered how many of the good ’ol boys would enjoy being hog-tied and paraded around in public.

  “Bill has the chicken pox?” the judge asked.

  “One of his children, I believe. I filed the Notice of Substitution with your clerk on my way in. Emma McKinley, Your Honor. Attorney of record for David Segan.”

  The judge shook his head. “The new gal,” the judge commented as he lifted his gavel.

  “Wayne,” the judge said to the bailiff, “let the games begin.” The gavel came down and made a thunderous noise that echoed in the courtroom. Emma looked at her watch. Exactly one minute after ten.

  David fell into the seat next to hers. She gripped his upper arm, forcing him to stand. “Wipe that smartass look off your face and behave,” she whispered.

  David jerked his arm free, but his expression instantly turned less hostile.

  Wayne, the bailiff, read the charges into the record before the judge looked to Emma.

  “Plea?”

  “Not guilty.”

  “Motion for jury?”

  “Waived, Your Honor,” Emma replied.

  Her answers were followed by a series of whispers and a definitely shocked look from her adversary.

  “Proceed, then, Mr. Blackwell. Opening remarks?”

  Blackwell recovered quickly, but that was to be expected. She listened as he addressed the court, explaining that David Segan had been caught red-handed by Deputy Hammond out at someplace called Jonah’s Launch.

  When he was finished, Emma reserved her right to make a statement to the court.

  “The state calls Deputy Curtis Hammond.”

  A huge man with a chest as large as her first apartment in New York waddled up to the stand. His uniform was starched and cleaned, save for dark perspiration stains when he lifted his arm to take the oath. A dirty-brimmed hat was clamped in his pudgy left hand. He held his other hand on the butt of his gun as he climbed into the witness box.

  Hearing the nervous jingle of David’s leg irons, Emma leaned over and whispered, “You’re right; the deputy does look like an ass.”

  David snickered and the jingling stopped.

  “Deputy, did you have occasion to observe the defendant out at Jonah’s Launch on three January of this year?”

  “David and them other hellraisers—”

  “Objection!” Emma called politely, rising from her seat. “The witness is characterizing the defendant for the court.”

  “Sustained. Try to keep it simple, will you, Curtis?”

  A reddish blotch appeared on the throat of the deputy as he glared over at her.

  “I saw the defendant at the edge of the pier with three other…individuals.”

  “And what,” Blackwell asked, “if anything, did you observe?”

  “I moved closer to them because I figured they were up to no good.”

  “Objection!” Emma called out without standing.

  “Sustained,” the judge concurred.

  This time the glare came her way via the State’s Attorney.

  “Did you observe anything that caused you to be suspicious?”

  “The defendant handed one of the other individuals a folded bill. Then the same individual handed the defendant a full bag of marijuana.”

  “Objection,” Emma rose slowly, the pads of her fingertips rested on counsel table. “The witness is testifying about matters not yet in evidence. Further, Mr. Blackwell has failed to lay a proper foundation for—”

  The judge sighed with displeasure. “Do us all a favor, Mr. Blackwell. Move the contraband into evidence so we can get on with this.”

  Blackwell lowered his head briefly, then confessed, “There has been an irregularity with the evidence, Your Honor.”

  “Such as?” the judge prompted.

  Blackwell rubbed his forehead and said, “When Deputy Hammond went back to the station with the defendant, he was speaking with the sheriff while the defendant used the restroom. The defendant disposed of the evidence in the, uh, toilet.”

  “Objection!” Emma stated firmly. “The State’s Attorney is testifying.”

  The judge ran his fingertips over his neatly trimmed hair. Deputy Hammond looked like he’d enjoy nothing more than to rip his gun from his belt and shoot her on the spot.

  “Further,” Emma continued. “In light of the fact that the State can’t possibly prove its prima facie case without the narcotic allegedly seized at the time of the arrest, the defense moves for an immediate dismissal.”

  “For Christ’s sake,” Hammond grumbled from the stand.

  “Mr. Blackwell?” the judge prodded.

  “The State believes that this witness, who actually had possession of the narcotic for a time, has sufficient expertise to—”

  Emma took a deep, deliberate breath. “Objection, Your Honor. The State has offered no foundation for establishing this witness as an expert in controlled substances.”

  “Everybody knows what dope smells like, lady!” Hammond insisted, irritated and turning redder as the seconds passed.

  “Well,” the judge drawled, “Not everybody was responsible for securing the evidence, Curtis. Just you.”

  “Ask the sheriff!” Hammond argued. “He saw it on his desk before that little nose-wipe flushed it in the can!”

  Judge Crandall looked over Emma’s head and asked, “Well, Sheriff?”

  Curious to see if the sheriff was Laurel to Hammond’s Hardy, Emma turned her head. Her breath caught when he rose, whisking off his hat in one smooth movement.

  Ebony hair spilled on to his forehead, falling just shy of the most intense gray eyes she had ever seen. He was even more attractive than she had originally thought. But this was the first time she had seen him in decent light. Her pulse immediately became erratic and suddenly a flock of butterflies were zipping around in her stomach.

  The sheriff cleared his throat. “There was a plastic bag on my desk when David was being processed.” His eyes fixed on Emma. “I recall Deputy Hammond being extremely pissed—no pun intended—when he heard the toilet flush and realized the bag was gone.”

  She stared at his nameplate for a minute. Kavanaugh.

  Offering Emma a sly grin, Sheriff Kavanaugh replaced his hat, brushing two fingers against the brim in a silent salute.

  “See, we knew it was dope!” Hammond was insisting.

  Regaining her composure, Emma turned back to the matter at hand. So the knight in shining armor from The Grill was the town sheriff. She couldn’t allow that to distract her right now.

  “Your Honor, without the actual contraband, or an analysis from a certified laboratory, the deputy can’t really say what the defendant may or may not have possessed.”

  “She’s right, Curtis.”

  “It was dope,” Hammond repeated stubbornly.

  Emma turned to the judge. “Respectfully, Your Honor,
without any credible evidence to the contrary, the State can’t prove my client had anything more innocuous than, say, oregano.”

  “It wasn’t oregano,” Hammond sneered. Small sweat globules formed on his upper lip. “It was a greenish brown plant substance. I know marijuana when I see it.”

  Emma smiled at the man’s persistence. His attempt to camouflage his ineptitude with official-sounding rhetoric was admirable. Stupid, but admirable.

  “I’d like a ruling on my motion for dismissal, Your Honor,” Emma stated.

  “Sorry, Hayden, Curtis. But the gal’s got a point.”

  Blackwell twirled and returned to his chair at his counsel table. He wiped some perspiration from his brow with the back of his hand.

  “Case dismissed,” Judge Crandall ruled with an accompanying smack of his gavel.

  David came out of his stunned silence when the bailiff came over to remove the shackles. “That’s it?” he asked.

  Nodding, Emma placed her hand on his forearm. “Yep. Unless you decide to do something else really dumb.”

  “No fine, no nothing?” David was incredulous.

  “Nope.”

  “I can just go home?”

  “You’ll have to go back to the jail to fill out some paperwork,” she explained. “Then you’re free to go.”

  “Really?!”

  “Yes,” she promised him.

  “You’re really something, Miss McKinley,” David said without so much as a trace of his former insolence.

  “Yes, she is,” came a male voice from behind her. “She certainly is something.”

  His hat was pulled low on his forehead, shielding his eyes and his expression from Emma. She didn’t like that. Nor did she like the tauntingly curved smile on his chiseled mouth.

  “Go on, David,” she told her client.

  “We haven’t been properly introduced,” the Sheriff said as soon as David was whisked off by the bailiff.

  “You’ve told me your name,” Emma replied coolly. “You did forget to mention your official title, Sheriff.” She made the last word sound like a sarcastic expletive. Offering him her back, Emma stuffed her file into her briefcase, grabbed her purse, and headed toward the exit. It was blocked by six feet, four inches of Conner Kavanaugh.