by D P Lyle
“Ready?” Jimmy asked.
“Let’s do it,” Nathan said.
Jimmy, serving as referee, had them touch gloves in the middle of the ring, and then blew the whistle that hung from his neck, signaling the beginning of the three-minute round.
Sam danced to her left, circling him clockwise, while he plodded to his right to face her as she moved. She pawed a left hand at him, then another, then a lazy right off the top of his headgear. He slapped a left against her shoulder and she popped a right to his mid-section. For a minute and a half, they continued sparing, neither striking any major blows. Then, Nathan threw a wide right hook, catching her flush on the cheek, sending her to the canvas.
She immediately jumped to her feet. “Prison rules, huh?”
Nathan appeared surprised that he had hit her that hard and more surprised that she got up. The surprise disappeared when she slammed a left hook to his body, a right upper cut to his chin, and a left to his head. He staggered backwards against the ropes but quickly regained his balance. He fired a right and a left. Sam blocked one but the other caught her on the chin.
“Very good,” she mumbled around her mouthpiece.
They exchanged blows for the remainder of the round. Jimmy blew the whistle. They leaned on the ropes.
“Had enough?” Sam asked.
“Are you kidding? I forgot how much fun this was.”
“Want to kick it up a notch?”
“I thought that was kicked up,” Nathan said.
“Not by a long shot,” she said.
“Sure. Let’s get ready to rumble,” he said.
Jimmy blew the whistle and they squared off. Nathan released a three-punch combination, mostly deflected by Sam’s gloves. Sam responded with a hook to the head, then crouched and popped a low left hook to his ribs followed by another to his head. He spun and fell face down to the canvas, like a skydiver whose chute didn’t open.
Nathan groaned and rolled to his back, his glazed eyes searching for something to focus on, finding nothing. Shaking his head, he grabbed the bottom rope and hauled himself to a sitting position.
Sam knelt next to him, a gloved hand on his shoulder. “You OK?”
His eyes swept right, left, then clearing, focused on her. “I think so. I didn’t hurt you did I?”
She smiled. Despite being a night crawling worm, he did have his charm. “How about you?”
“I’ll be OK. Jesus, where did you learn to hit like that?”
“Misspent youth.”
“Sam.”
She looked up to see Lisa approaching. She wore green Spandex pants and halter top. Her skin glistened with perspiration, which she dabbed from her face with one end of the towel that draped around her neck. Sam stood. Nathan grasped the ropes and pulled himself up.
Lisa looked at Nathan, then Sam, then back to Nathan. “What’s going on here?”
“Deputy Cody was just showing me the price of an interview,” Nathan said.
“Welcome to Mercer’s Corner,” Lisa said. “Now you know why nobody, except Jimmy, will put on gloves with her.”
"Message received," Nathan smiled weakly.
“Sam,” Lisa continued, "just got a page. The jury has reached a decision. Judge Westbrooke will reconvene the court at 3 p.m."
*
The courtroom was filled by the time Sam took her front row seat, directly behind Lisa, the same seat she had occupied every day for the past three weeks. Hopefully, today would be the last time.
She watched as Hector Ramirez led Richard Earl Garrett to his seat next to Mark Levy behind the defense table. The chains that bound Garrett’s ankles rattled and scrapped as he crossed the room and the cuffs that secured his wrists clunked against the table when he sat down.
Lisa turned around, holding up crossed fingers, and said, "Let’s hope."
“Amen,” Sam agreed.
Everyone stood as Judge Westbrooke entered and took his place at the rostrum. He called the court to order, then brought in the jury.
Sam studied their faces as they shuffled down the two rows of six seats. They appeared drawn, tired. Yet, Sam sensed something else. Fear. Maybe fear was too strong, but at least they appeared tense, edgy. Their eyes darted around but their gaze remained low as if they feared eye contact with anyone.
An hour for lunch, two hours for deliberation, and they reached a decision. But, what decision? Could they sentence a man to death in two hours? This animal, maybe, but Sam couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling that rose in her gut. Surely, a death sentence would have taken more time, more discussion.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” Judge Westbrooke began, “the court has been informed that you have reached a decision regarding sentencing in this case.”
“That’s correct, your honor,” Roberto Sanchez, the new jury foreman said.
Sam flashed on Connie Beeson. It should be her standing in Roberto's place.
The silence in the courtroom was suffocating as if the air had been sucked out with the ambient noise, leaving behind a deep space like vacuum.
Judge Westbrooke cleared his throat, and then spoke. “Having found the defendant guilty of murder in the first degree with special circumstances on the first count of the indictment, the murder of Thomas Waters, how do you fix the punishment?”
Sam looked toward Harry and Noreen Waters, who sat stiffly, ghostly pale, breath held. It appeared as if the small part of their brains that continued to function homed on Roberto Sanchez, praying for the ointment a death sentence would apply to their wounds.
“We the jury fix the punishment of Richard Earl Garrett for the murder of Thomas Waters at death.”
A collective shout of joy arose, someone jeered “Kill the bastard” from the back of the room, and Mrs. Waters collapsed in tears against her husband’s shoulder. Sam noticed Nathan Klimek, leaning against the back wall, speaking into his hand, which concealed a cell phone from Judge Westbrooke’s view. Roll the presses.
Judge Westbrooke cracked his gavel down. “Order. Order in the courtroom.” Silence again fell. “If there are any further outbursts, I’ll clear the courtroom.” His eyes swept the room, narrowed as they settled on Nathan. “Mr. Klimek, either put away that phone or leave the courtroom.”
Nathan nodded sheepishly and stuffed the phone in his jacket pocket.
“You may continue, mister foreman,” Westbrooke said.
Similar verdicts were handed down on the other two counts for the murders of Lee Ann Hobert and Rachel Culbertson.
Judge Westbrooke peered over his half glasses at Garrett. “Will the defendant please rise.”
The scraping of the chair and the rattling of his chains as Garrett stood, cut through the tomb-like silence of the courtroom, causing several of the jurors to flinch. He faced Judge Westbrooke.
Sam, sitting only ten feet behind and to his right, eyed him as he stood, calmly, passively, as if waiting in line to buy a movie ticket. He in no way looked like a man just sentenced to death. The corners of his mouth twitched, curled upward slightly, but not enough to qualify as a smile.
“Mr. Garrett,” Westbrooke said, dropping his glasses on the rostrum before him, “Do you understand the jury’s recommendation?”
“I understand it perfectly.” His glare painted the jury, many of whom shifted in their seats as if they wanted to jump up and run through the oak double doors at the rear of the courtroom, into the streets, away from the monster that had strangled the tranquility, the security, the contentment from their lives. Run and never stop running until the memory of Richard Earl Garrett, the horror of the photos of the mangled children, and the stench of death could be leeched from their minds.
“Since it is two weeks before Christmas,” Westbrooke continued, “and I’m sure we would all like to finish this before the holiday, I will set formal sentencing on...” He replaced his glasses and shuffled through papers before him, finding the one he wanted. “December twenty-first at nine a.m.” He leaned forward, elbows on the rostrum,
peered over his glasses at Garrett. “Mr. Garrett, I see no reason to change the jury’s recommendation and offer a lesser penalty. I will, however, consider motions from your attorney as well as from the prosecution, before making a final determination. Do you have anything to say to the court at this time?”
“The court? You call this confederacy of dunces a court? I answer to a court much higher than you can imagine. More powerful, more pure, more just than this,” he waved a hand toward the jury, “could ever attain.” His eyes bored into Westbrooke, who cleared his throat uncomfortably. “The members of the jury have already sealed their fate. Would you care to join them, your honor?” he sneered contemptuously.
“Mr. Garrett, I must point out that any attempt to intimidate this court will be unsuccessful.”
“Then you have likewise sealed your fate,” Garrett said. Turning, he faced the jury and spoke in a low voice. “Do you see them, my Prince? These twelve who seek to reproach your disciple, to condemn his act of faith, to break his bond with you. Yet even now they lie groveling and prostrate on yon lake of fire.”
Chapter 5
Sam wheeled her white Sheriff’s Department Jeep into the gravel lot that flanked Millie’s Diner and crunched to a stop beside Nathan’s black SL 500 Mercedes Benz. Sleaze apparently paid well. She sat for minute, thinking, listening to the soft ticking of the cooling engine. She must be crazy to talk with a tabloid reporter, even if he was gorgeous. But, she had promised and he had earned it, so what the hell. At least Millie’s gave her home field advantage.
As she stepped from the Jeep, she saw Nathan through one of the side windows sitting in a booth, his silhouette visible through the faded, age-yellowed shear curtain that covered the eight dusty panes. He turned, pulled back the curtain, and waved. She nodded a reply and headed for the front door.
Millie’s Diner sat along Route 66 half a mile south of town. It’s rooftop neon sign had long ago faded to an anemic yellow and the “M” had died altogether, so that it now read “illie’s Diner.” Behind the sign, a steady stream of smoke and home-cooked aromas spilled out of the four-inch pipe that vented the kitchen.
Inside, it was small, clean, and loaded with calories. Everything on the menu was either buttered, fried, or slathered with gravy, mostly all three. The sprout and tofu crowd would probably drop dead on entry. More local and national political problems had been solved in Millie’s red vinyl booths than anywhere else in the county. Sam managed to have at least one meal there every day.
When she walked through the door, the smell of fried chicken, hot biscuits, and thick gravy greeted her. Millie, short, round, gray, and the best cook in the county, pushed through the swinging door from the kitchen, a basket of biscuits and corn bread in her hand.
“Hello, Sam,” Millie beamed.
“Millie. Looks quiet tonight.”
Millie handed the basket to Romona, her niece, waitress, and part-time cook, who ferried it to one of the tables. “We were busy earlier.” She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “That reporter fellow,” she nodded toward the booth where Nathan sat, “said he was meeting you.” Her eyes twinkled mischievously.
“Strictly business, Millie,” Sam frowned. “Don’t go starting any rumors. What are the specials tonight?”
“Fried chicken and meat loaf.”
“Smells great, as usual.”
As Sam slid into the booth opposite Nathan, she noticed two ABC reporters sitting at a table along the far wall. They flashed contemptuous glares at her, obviously not pleased that she sat with a competitor. Probably because she had granted no one an interview since the trial began. A pang of guilt tugged at her. But, she felt sure none of them would have had the guts to climb inside the ropes with her, so the feeling quickly dissolved.
Nathan smiled a perfect smile at her. The kind that made women soften, do foolish things. A slight bruise had blossomed beneath his right eye.
“Sorry about that,” Sam said.
His fingers gently touched his cheek. “I’ll live.” He flashed that Hollywood smile again. “What can I get you to drink?’
“Millie knows.”
Millie set a bottle of Corona in front of Sam, the twinkle still in her eye. Sam scowled at her.
“Ready for another?” she asked Nathan.
“Sure.” He looked at Sam. “Busy day?”
“Very. But now, maybe things will slow down again.”
“Do you think Judge Westbrooke will follow the jury’s recommendation regarding the death penalty?”
She sipped from the Corona. “Probably. Hopefully.”
Millie returned with Nathan’s Johnny Walker on the rocks. They ordered meatloaf and mashed potatoes.
“So, what can I tell you that you don’t already know?” Sam asked.
“Garrett. What’s his story? No one has been able to interview him and everyone wants to know about him.”
“He’s a child killer. That about says it all.”
“He certainly doesn’t look the part.” Nathan stirred the Scotch with the plastic swizzle stick that stood from it, then took a taste.
“Psychos don’t usually have murderer tattooed on their forehead.”
“True. On the surface, Garrett appears too normal. The ones I’ve seen were noticeably weird.”
“How so?”
“Scary eyes, usually unkempt, poor social skills, unable to communicate well. With adults at least.”
“Just kids, huh?”
He nodded.
“Have you seen many?” she asked.
“A dozen or so. More than I wanted to.”
“How do you do it? Your job? I mean, besides the stories you guys make up. The real stories. How do you cope with that?”
“We don’t make up stories.”
“Right.” Sarcasm intentionally dripped from the word.
“We don’t. And we see some pretty awful stuff.”
“Like Garrett?”
“Worse.”
“I find that hard to believe.” She ran a finger around the lip of her beer bottle. “I can’t imagine anyone worse than Garrett.”
“They’re out there.”
“Well, I hope I never see them.”
He gave her a fatherly smile. “Me, too.” Then, his eyes locked on hers. “Garrett. What’s he like?”
“He’s...”
Millie returned with two plates, each laden with two thick slabs of meat loaf and a mountain of mashed potatoes, everything smothered with her famous milk gravy. She smiled at Nathan, then raised an eyebrow at Sam. Sam narrowed her eyes, warning Millie to hold her tongue.
“You guys need anything else?” Millie asked.
“I think we’re fine,” Nathan said.
They began to eat. Sam used the momentary distraction to congeal her thoughts about Richard Earl Garrett. She had never really thought about what he was like. Except that he had murdered three kids and that she hated to be around him. She had walked away from every conversation she had ever had with him confused, almost disoriented. She couldn’t get a handle on why.
He was a cold-hearted killer, who had not shown even the slightest remorse. Yet, he portrayed himself as a victim. Convincingly so. If he were threatening or monstrous or a drooling, snarling beast, instead of passive, restrained, almost sad, she would have felt more comfortable around him. He would have been predictable, understandable. His outburst in the courtroom today was the only hint of anger or hostility he had shown since his arrest.
“He’s an enigma,” she continued. “To do what he did, you’d think he was psychotic or crazed. Something like that.”
“But?”
“He’s quiet, soft-spoken. Today in the courtroom is the first time he’s shown any emotion whatsoever. He’s intelligent. No doubt about that.”
“Does he believe he’s Satan’s disciple?”
“He says so. He told us that Satan came to him and told him to kill three children. If he did, he would be welcomed into Satan’s family. I’m sure you’ve hea
rd crazier stories.”
“Psycho killers always have justifications. Some are made up, others truly believe they are God or Satan or whoever. Do you think Garrett really believes his story or was it merely a defense strategy?”
“If it was a defense strategy, it didn’t work. Besides, his attorney, Mark Levy, wouldn’t be part of any shenanigans. He’s a good guy. And honest.”
“But, he did put forth the ‘devil made me do it’ defense,” Nathan said with a slight shrug.
“That’s what his client said. Swore to it.”
“I guess the big question is whether Garrett is possessed or not.”
“You’d like that wouldn’t you?” She drained her beer.
“It would sell papers.”
“Just make it up.”
“I told you, we don’t fabricate stories.”
“I call them as I see them.”
His sable eyes drooped sadly, most likely a practiced look. He stirred his potatoes with his fork, playing the injured little boy to the hilt.
“Look,” Sam said, “I’m sure you’re a very nice person, help old ladies across the street, and all that. But, your job is down there with personal injury attorneys.”
“That’s a low blow.”
Sam shrugged.
“I didn’t do this. Kill those children or make a pact with the devil or any of this. I just report the news.”
“And it pays well.” Sam nodded toward the $90,000 Mercedes penis-mobile out the window.
They ate silently for several minutes until Nathan spoke. “You arrested him. Right?”
“Yeah.”
“How? What happened?”
“Top notch police work,” Sam smiled.
“I assumed that.” He matched her grin.
“Actually, a witness saw the kids get in his car and when he heard they were missing, he called us. Another witness saw Garrett’s car head into the desert. North toward Devil’s Playground.”
“What’s that?”
“Part of the Mojave. Pretty desolate. Nobody goes there. Few people even know about it.”
“Interesting. Garrett took the children to Devil’s Playground.”
Sam could see the wheels turning. “That’ll make a good headline for you.”
