by Mel Odom
The other woman pled guilty to a charge of dealing meth, but the public defender interjected, “Her circumstances were still pending, Your Honor.”
“Means she’s gonna rat somebody out.” That came from the young man seated beside Bekah. His breath was harsh and his body odor was severe. The sniffles he kept having and the jittery way he sat there told her that he was probably a meth addict.
The judge was quiet a moment as he read over the next sheet of paper. Then he called out her name. “Rebecca Ann Shaw.”
6
“HERE, YOUR HONOR.” Bekah stood and tried to ignore the man chuckling beside her.
“This ain’t homeroom, girl.”
Harrelson adjusted his reading glasses and looked over the paper again. “Says here you attacked a man last night.”
“I defended myself.” Bekah wanted that distinction made very clear.
“With a tire iron.”
“He had a knife.”
Harrelson gazed at the paper again, then cut his gaze over to Alvin Trimble, who stood in one corner of the courtroom. “You’re the arresting officer, Deputy Trimble?”
“Yes sir.”
“Did you find a knife?”
“No sir, I did not.”
“Did you look?”
Trimble hesitated just a second before answering. “Yes sir, I did. Long and hard.”
“No knife?”
“None, Your Honor.”
Harrelson glanced back at Bekah. “Buck Miller has been in my courtroom a time or two. In my opinion, the man outweighs you by a hundred pounds, Ms. Shaw. That about right?”
“I wouldn’t know, sir.”
“Well, we’ll just take my estimate into account for now.”
Bekah nodded.
“That’s a considerable size difference. Knife or no knife, you might feel you needed a tire iron to fight him.”
“There was a knife.” Bekah spoke coldly and precisely. “I saw it. The knife was there. Someone picked it up.”
“Do you have any idea of who might have done that?”
Billy Roy’s name was at the tip of Bekah’s tongue, but she shook her head. “No sir. There were a lot of people at Darlton’s.”
“Says here you’re a Marine reservist.”
“Yes sir.”
“Seen action?”
Bekah nodded. “One tour in Iraq. One in Helmand province. Afghanistan.”
“I know where Helmand province is.” Harrelson stroked his jaw with the backs of his fingers. “That’s rough country. Marines are having a hard time there.”
“Yes sir.”
“I was a soldier too. Served in regular Army back when Vietnam was the hot spot. I remember coming back home and how hard it was to adjust after being in-country. Felt like I was going to jump out of my skin every time somebody moved too fast. Those were hard times.”
Bekah didn’t know what to do with that, so she let it pass.
“What I’m trying to say, young lady, is that sometimes those experiences lead us to make mistakes when we’re trying to integrate with the civilian populace again.”
“That isn’t what happened. Buck Miller attacked a friend of mine. I tried to get her out of there. Buck Miller turned that into a physical confrontation.”
Harrelson looked back at Alvin. “Has anyone talked to the friend?”
Alvin nodded. “Yes sir. Says she slipped and fell, and then Bekah Shaw went wacko.” He shrugged. “I think it must have been the sight of blood.”
“You do, do you?” Harrelson’s tone turned chilly. “You’re an expert in combat fatigue, Deputy?”
Alvin’s face turned red. He straightened up self-consciously. “No sir.”
“Then maybe you’ll keep your opinions regarding such matters out of my courtroom.”
“Yes sir.”
Harrelson glanced at the sheet again. “Drunk and disorderly? Was Ms. Shaw given a Breathalyzer test?”
“No, Your Honor.”
“Why wasn’t she?”
“I didn’t see the need for one. I smelled the liquor on her.”
“I see.”
“My expert testimony, Your Honor. Lots of experience in field sobriety testing.”
Clearly irritated, Harrelson placed the paper down in front of him. He looked back at Bekah. “Were you drunk?”
“No sir.”
“Had you been drinking?”
“One beer an hour before this happened.”
Harrelson nodded. “It would help if your friend would come forward—or anyone else who was at Darlton’s for that matter—and tell this story your way. Any chance of that happening?”
Bekah swallowed and thought about it. There was a chance that most of the people in the bar and grill didn’t know what had happened that night and weren’t sure who started the fight. But Bekah was willing to put money on the fact that Buck Miller and his cronies had already put pressure on anyone who might be willing to testify on her behalf. They’d handled things that way in the past, and everyone in Callum’s Creek knew that.
“If it hasn’t happened before now, Your Honor, I don’t think so.”
Harrelson sighed. “Me neither. And that being so, I have no choice but to carry your case over to trial. Is there someone here to post bail for you?”
Before Bekah could reply, her granny stood up. “I am, Your Honor.”
Harrelson looked out into the audience. “Who are you?”
“Mrs. Alice Shaw. Her grandma.”
“That’s fine, Mrs. Shaw.” Harrelson nodded toward the bailiff. “Have someone help Mrs. Shaw.” He turned back to Bekah. “We should have you out of here in just a little while.”
Gratefully, Bekah nodded and resumed her seat. She couldn’t wait to get out.
A half hour later, Bekah stood at the booking desk with her granny and Travis. Her son rested in her arms, holding on fiercely while he looked around at the strange surroundings.
“This is a police house.” Travis’s voice was a whisper.
“It is.” Bekah didn’t bother trying to make the distinction between police and sheriff’s deputies.
“They’re the good guys.”
“They are.” Bekah wasn’t feeling too friendly toward the law enforcement department at the moment, though.
“Did you do something wrong, Momma?”
That was a hard question to answer, and Bekah hesitated.
Granny came to her rescue, smiling up at the boy and patting him on the shoulder. “No, sweetie, your momma didn’t do anything wrong. The police just don’t have their facts straight. Everything’s going to be just fine.”
“Good.”
Bekah shot her granny a look, but the old woman shook her head. There were things they didn’t talk about around Travis. When the deputy handed her the manila envelope containing her personal effects, Bekah checked them over, then signed the sheet.
Granny reached over and took her arm. “Let’s go get you something to eat. I didn’t have much of a breakfast this morning.”
Travis rubbed his stomach. “Me neither. Can we have McDonald’s?”
Bekah grinned at her son and bumped heads with him playfully. “Of course you can have McDonald’s.”
Murchison, Oklahoma, was the county seat, so it was a lot larger than Callum’s Creek, but it was still small-time next to Oklahoma City, Tulsa, or Houston. Bekah hadn’t traveled much in the United States, so she hadn’t seen the cosmopolitan cities like New York or Los Angeles.
However, the town did boast a McDonald’s, and Travis loved to go there every chance he got. He sat through half of his Egg McMuffin, then begged to be set free. Now he was crawling through the brightly colored PlayPlace.
Bekah picked at her breakfast, but she was hungry enough and sensible enough that she knew she was going to work her way through it. Once Travis had gone to find “new friends,” Bekah told her granny what had happened the previous night.
“This is all my fault.”
“Nonsense.” Gran
ny lightly slapped her hand. “You were defending Connie Hiller. I’d have thought less of you if you hadn’t. I’m just thankful you weren’t hurt. Things could have gone the other way.”
“I know. I got lucky.”
“I think maybe there was more than luck involved, Bekah Ann. You’re a good Marine. You knew what to do and you did it.”
At first, Granny hadn’t embraced the idea of Bekah serving in the military. And that was before Bekah’s activation and first tour as part of the support teams from the First Battalion, Twenty-Third Marines based in Houston.
For a time they’d been at odds over the kind of momma Bekah would be for Travis. Bekah had argued the point, saying she needed training for something, and she couldn’t manage college on her own. The money she earned as a Marine would help with that.
Then she’d felt guilty about leaving Travis with her granny, knowing taking care of the boy would be a hardship. Granny had made that easier for her, pointing out that Travis would have to live with his closest relative while Bekah was gone, and that there was no one else around since Billy Roy Briggs and his family weren’t going to have anything to do with her son.
Granny shook her head angrily. “What chaps my hide is the fact that none of those people in Darlton’s will come forward and tell the truth.”
“Buck Miller and his friends have a reputation for hurting folks who cross them.” That said, Bekah felt an uneasy feeling slide through her. “We might need to watch ourselves for a while.”
“Pshaw!” Granny waved that away. “I keep a loaded shotgun at home and I’m carrying my pistol in my purse. Buck Miller and his trash had better not come around and try to start trouble.”
Bekah glanced at Granny’s purse. “You carried the pistol into the courthouse this morning?”
“Of course not. I left it out in the truck, in the glove box. I just put it back in my purse while you were taking Travis to the bathroom.”
Smiling, Bekah took a deep breath. Her granny had carried the .38 revolver for years. Her grandpa, a retired volunteer peace officer himself, had insisted on it. He’d given Bekah her first pistol, a .38 just like her granny’s, when she’d turned sixteen and started working at Hollister’s Fine Dining, the local greasy spoon where Bekah picked up shifts when she wasn’t with the Marines. She hadn’t carried it, though, and had left it at home in the box it came in. She’d grown up with shotguns and .22 rifles, and she’d been qualified as a marksman on the Marine range. She took pride in that skill because shooting was something her grandpa had taught her.
Travis climbed through the PlayPlace, squealing with joy as he chased after his new friends. Bekah watched him. “I’m in a lot of trouble, Granny.”
Her granny reached out and took her hand, squeezing it briefly. “Trouble’s something this family is familiar with, baby girl. You just remember that, and remember that we’ve always seen it through. We’ll see this through too. Just you wait and see.”
“The courts are calling this a felony. I can’t have a felony on my record and stay a Marine. Not something like this.”
“You don’t know that yet. One step at a time. Just like me and your grandpa taught you to do. No matter how hard you try, you can only live life like that.”
After excusing herself and leaving Travis in her granny’s care, Bekah walked into the McDonald’s parking lot and punched in Connie Hiller’s number. The phone rang and rang at the other end of the connection. When the voice mail picked up, Bekah hung up and called right back. She was mad and couldn’t let it go.
Finally, Connie picked up and her voice was thick and sounded congested. “What do you want?”
“I want to know why you’re telling everyone that you slipped in Darlton’s.”
“Are you recording this phone call?”
Bekah couldn’t believe it. “No. Of course not.”
“Because if you are, I slipped and fell. You can’t make me say anything else.”
“Buck Miller was slapping you around like a rag doll.” Bekah’s voice got higher than she’d intended. An older couple with three grandkids stepped away from her on their way into the restaurant.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Are you trying to make yourself out to be some kind of hero, Bekah Ann?”
“No, but I’m in trouble with the law, and I’m in that trouble because of you.”
“I didn’t ask you for no help.”
“You weren’t exactly able to, as I recall.” Bekah wanted to scream, but she knew it wouldn’t do any good.
“I got my nose broke and stitches in my cheek trying to help you get your child support.”
“Fine. Then tell it that way. But tell it.”
“This wouldn’t have happened if you stood up to Billy Roy. I was only doing what you’re too afraid to do.”
“That’s insane.” Bekah couldn’t believe it. “I stood up to Buck Miller, and he had a knife.”
“I got hurt because you wouldn’t take care of your own business. Now you want to blame this all on me? You want me to stick my neck out where Buck Miller and his thugs will snap it off? And you know he’s running with some of those methheads now. You’re not a very good friend, Bekah. I can’t believe it’s taken me this long to figure that out.”
The phone clicked dead in Bekah’s ear.
Angry and frustrated, Bekah looked at the phone and thought about calling back. But she knew it wouldn’t do any good. Connie had already chosen her path through the current mess. There was nothing she could do to change her mind. Feeling down and whipped, Bekah retreated back into McDonald’s.
7
THE NEXT DAY, Bekah parked her twenty-year-old Chevy pickup out behind Hollister’s Fine Dining. The day’s heat had already started to kick in, but the Chevy’s air-conditioning had played out a couple years ago and she hadn’t wanted to replace it because it was so expensive. She drove the pickup with the windows down, but that didn’t help much except to give her a driver’s tan, left arm darker than the right.
She listened to the last bit of one of her favorite Kellie Pickler songs, then shut off the radio and picked up the brown waitress apron with Hollister’s Fine Dining in gold thread across the bottom. At least Hollister’s allowed casual wear while waiting tables. She wore jeans, tennis shoes, and a kelly-green blouse. As she walked around the restaurant, smelling the burgers and fried onions, she tied the apron around her waist.
Hollister’s wasn’t “fine dining,” but the small brick restaurant was the place in Callum’s Creek where all the locals came to eat when they were tired of eating at home. Or Sundays after church. The church crowd was always good, but the servers had to dress up a little better then. It was not a hardship to Bekah. She liked the energy that filled the restaurant on those days. Things just seemed more positive.
She’d worked there since high school. Her grandpa, though she hadn’t known it at the time, had arranged her job through Mr. Evan Hollister, the original owner. Grandpa had always looked out for her, and it was embarrassing when Bekah found out a couple years later. But Grandpa had meant well, and Mr. Hollister had been a good boss, training her on everything.
The present Mr. Hollister—the original had died a few years before Grandpa—wasn’t so good. Dwight Hollister was in his forties and tight with a penny, and he made sure every employee he had worked hard for their wages. He could call the shots on that because there weren’t too many places in town where high school kids—and single moms—could work flexible schedules.
The jobs at the Beep ’N’ Buy got handed down by the Morton family, and they were picky about whom they hired. The rest of the work around Callum’s Creek was all ranch and farm related. Nobody wanted to work at Fancher’s pig farm. The smell lingered even miles away. The only other choice for work was Murchison, which was a seventeen-mile drive, one way. The cost of gasoline would eat into whatever check she brought home.
The bond money, which she had insisted on paying back to her granny, had cut deeply into Bekah�
�s savings, and finding a lawyer to represent her at trial was going to be even more costly. She’d gone to bed with that in her mind last night, and it had been the first thing she’d thought of this morning.
Things were bad enough that she was beginning to hope her unit might get activated again. The increase in pay would be awesome, but she would have to be away from Travis again for God only knew how long.
Who are you kidding? God doesn’t see you. You’re invisible on that particular radar screen.
Drawing a final breath, looking forward to the air-conditioning inside, Bekah pushed the door open and walked in. The restaurant was casual—tables and chairs that mostly went together, checked curtains that were faded but regularly cleaned. The concrete floor had wear patterns between the tables and booths, but the restaurant still smelled like home cooking: chili and cornbread and fried chicken.
She inhaled, remembering those cold nights in Afghanistan when all she’d had to eat was an MRE that certainly didn’t fit the description printed on the package. Outside of her granny’s kitchen, Hollister’s was the place that smelled most like home.
It was a quarter to seven and a dozen or so regulars, most of them seniors who spent most of the morning gossiping, sat in the dining area. Conversation stopped for a moment as they all looked at her.
Glad to see the local grapevine is still in effect. Bekah nodded and focused her attention on the door to the kitchen. She needed to punch in and get started. She was pulling a double today.
Once she was through the back door, Dwight Hollister called her name. He sat in the small office off the kitchen, a squat little man with too-perfect hair, a short-sleeved shirt, and bland brown eyes behind thick-lensed glasses.
“Can you come in here for a minute?” Dwight rested his hands over his paunch and leaned back in his chair.
Bekah had a bad feeling. Dwight was being polite. The man was never polite. Uneasily, she took the chair he waved her toward. She sat and waited.
“Bekah, there’s no good way to put this to you, but I’m going to have to let you go.” Dwight looked sour.
