The Legal Limit

by Martin Clark

  “Who was the cop with you in Richmond?”

  “Aw, hell, it was Drew O’Connor, our favorite state trooper. I had him wear the crime-crusher uniform and stop by and say cryptic, boogeyman things to Hudgens, ’cause I anticipated they were goin’ to put the arm on me. Figured I’d show a little muscle myself, have Drew tail the dumb shit back to the airport, ride his bumper, flash the blue lights, get under his skin. Problem is, I didn’t know I was gonna be flexin’ on Godzilla. Turns out I was far too puny. I came with Schlitz; Hudgens was stockin’ Hennessy. Thank heavens Drew wasn’t there for the main course, if you catch my drift. He’d definitely freak.”

  “I guess a lawsuit and extortion charges are not on the horizon?”

  “My word against his, he was careful how he phrased it, and do I really want a jury and the papers gettin’ hold of this? I don’t see myself pursuing any legal remedies.”

  “Well, the upside is now I know, and the leverage from that is gone. We’ll put this in the hopper with my problem and sort through it. Stall Hudgens, string him along, give him the rope-a-dope, delay Atlanta but don’t burn the bridge in case you need a Plan B. You belong here, Custis, and if push comes to shove, I’ll give the people what they want and Herman Dylan can have his cash. I’ll tell the commission I’ve reconsidered. Chip-Tech isn’t completely awful, it’s just not the best we can do, and you’re more important than a thousand grants. I wish we could fuck Dylan and not have you crucified, and I hate to see us get hustled, but no matter what I’ll take care of your interests first, absolutely I will. At least we can solve your dilemma and you’re not staring at life in prison—be thankful for the bright side.” Mason hesitated, unable to resist, straying past tolerance, a juvenile with spitballs and rubber bands: “Of course, for you, life in prison…”

  The grand jury foreman, Dewey Lankford, had sent a note asking the judge if the indictment for the county’s commonwealth’s attorney was “allowable,” whatever that meant, and two jury members refused to vote, claiming any evidence against Mason Hunt had to be crooked, but ultimately Leonard Stallings got his wish and on September 8, 2003, Mason was charged with the first-degree murder of Wayne Thompson. Sheila called to tell Mason and Custis the jury had returned, and Custis was in the courtroom when the clerk read the indictments, Mason’s last, number 117.

  Stallings was a tiny man, not more than five and a half feet tall. He had a mop of red-orange hair, a prizefighter’s strut and skin marred by pimples and raw, vulgar bumps. He also was a dandy dresser, always wore a vest and watch chain, French cuffs with his initials embroidered in block letters. A pocket square. After the jury had been discharged, he boldly crossed the courtroom and introduced himself to Custis, offering to shake hands. Custis rebuffed the courtesy, then crouched down like he was addressing a child, hiking his pants at the knees as he lowered himself, his head tilted and framed by a spill of wooly dreadlocks. He glared at Stallings and said, loud enough so everyone could hear, “You better bring your bazooka, you carrot-topped little leprechaun. Better come big. You have Custis Norman’s vow you’ll be regrettin’ this.”

  Stallings wasn’t intimidated. “Leprechaun or not, Mr. Norman, you have my vow Mason Hunt will be found guilty and go to jail.”

  Stallings had tipped the newspapers and TV stations, and he preened and pontificated for them on the courthouse steps, serving up clichés about justice being blind to office and power. He directed his secretary to distribute a press kit that included his résumé and a color eight-by-ten of himself, his heinous skin retouched in the photo, the blemishes washed away. He claimed to have an airtight case. A slam dunk. Pat Sharpe and Jim Haskins responded the next morning, releasing a nine-page rebuttal document, which included a quote from Sadie Grace Hunt, stating her son Gates was a convicted drug dealer, a serial liar and utterly unworthy of belief, much as she hated to say it. The trial had already begun in earnest, months ahead of its proper arrival before a judge and jury.

  People quickly chose sides, and Mason was surprised and heartened by how thoroughly the county supported him. Stallings received his first taste of Mason’s popularity when the clerk of court, Susan Gasperini, pretended she couldn’t hear him after he politely asked if the order appointing him as special prosecutor had been filed with her and was on record. Sheriff Hubbard and every officer in his employ refused to serve the capias on Mason and take him into custody. “We’re too busy,” he gruffly informed Stallings, then proceeded to ignore the prosecutor’s many telephone calls and a directive from the attorney general himself.

  Stallings finally had to recruit a state police sergeant from Charlottesville to enforce the indictment and escort Mason to a magistrate. The officer phoned and declared his business, and Mason agreed to meet him at his law office—noon, sharp—and walk with him to be fingerprinted and processed, and so four days after the grand jury acted, Sergeant Max Lawrence arrived in Stuart prepared to formally arrest Mason, the paperwork in an ordinary off-white folder, the words Hunt Case scrawled in Magic Marker letters across the folder’s middle.

  Lawrence was professional, removing his hat at the threshold and asking Mason if he needed to call anyone or make preparations for bond before seeing the magistrate. “I do have to inform you, sir, you are now under arrest for first-degree murder,” he said as he presented Mason with a copy of the indictment. “Commonwealth of Virginia v. Mason L. Hunt” was typed across the top. The policeman had promised Pat Sharpe he wouldn’t use cuffs, but he did briefly take hold of Mason’s arm and steer him through the door and outside. When the cop released him, the two of them were alone in the bright sun, and Mason, his focus scattershot, nervously noticed the NO PARKING AFTER BUSINESS HOURS sign was missing a fastener and starting to droop from the wall.

  When they rounded the corner from the parking lot and began the climb to the ancient courthouse, Mason saw the throng of people, probably four hundred of them, and he initially was petrified, under the impression they were there to witness his shame, rubberneckers and busybodies eager to watch the spectacle of his misfortune, but he soon spotted Sheila and her husband, Roger, and there was Custis and Inez, and Sadie Grace, and he realized they were all assembled, on both sides of the street, occasionally three-deep, to wish him luck and embrace their own. Unsure of the crowd’s mood, poor Sergeant Lawrence reflexively groped for his pepper spray and spread his hand over his gun. “It’s okay,” Mason assured him. “Shouldn’t be any problem.”

  His mother and Custis flanked him, and the sheriff and several deputies fell in behind, and Mason shook hands and took every uphill step with modesty and thanked people for turning out and missing work. Custis informed him that Sheila and Susan Gasperini had called folks and asked them to come, and there would’ve been a larger group if they’d had more notice. Cecil Priddy was the last in line, and he promised to bring Mason by a bushel of peaches, saying he would’ve done it earlier but his foot had been stove-up and his wife had been feeling poorly. Like so many others, he never mentioned why he was there or the murder case, carried on like it was any other day and laughed when Mason good-naturedly warned him to keep the peaches away from his uncle’s still over in Woolwine.

  Mysteriously, three TV crews were waiting near the entrance to the magistrate’s office, and the cameramen scampered down the street to videotape the warm send-off. “Not exactly the perp walk our boy Stallings had in mind,” Custis said before Mason went inside.

  With the sheriff watching and Haskins and Sharpe hovering near the doorway, Sergeant Lawrence inked Mason’s fingertips and rolled them across a card, took his picture in front of a height chart and questioned him about his full name, address and Social Security information. It was a degrading state ritual that had greeted every thug, hoodlum, criminal and sociopath for decades, designed to isolate them with a string of numbers and drain their piss and vinegar, flagging them as at least probably guilty, giving them a taste of the state’s boot heel, and now Mason was an initiate, mug-shotted and listed as a defendant in th
ousands of police computers, on a par with every thief and rapist he’d prosecuted, never the same no matter the result of his trial, stained. Reduced. He seethed and thought of Gates, how much he despised him.

  Next came the magistrate, a lady named Peggy Taylor, and she was apologetic and flustered, but Mason told her not to worry and do her job like he was any other defendant, he understood. She set his bond at five thousand dollars and didn’t require any surety, basically freeing him on his signature and bare promise to be in court for his next hearing. As she was completing her forms, Taylor quit typing and peered at Mason and told him again she was so sorry, remarking how terrible it must be to have a brother like Gates. “The worst ever,” she suggested.

  “Well, he’s probably not as bad as Frank Stallone or Billy Carter,” Mason cracked, trying to take her off the spot, but she later told her husband she could see the strain in Mason, the weight already aging him.

  The trial was scheduled to last three days, beginning February 9, 2004. At the end of September, Jim Haskins and Pat Sharpe visited with Mason at his house on a Saturday morning, and told him they had both good news and bad. “Which you want first?” Sharpe inquired.

  “The good, please.”

  “We have a superb judge. The Supreme Court appointed Andre Melesco from over in Rocky Mount. You acquainted with him?”

  “Not really,” Mason replied. “I think I ran into him once at a commonwealth’s attorneys conference. He was a speaker.”

  Haskins produced his black comb and whipped it through his hair. He was dressed in corduroy and tweed and was silent, content to let his colleague carry the conversation.

  “I’ve been in his court,” Sharpe continued, “and he’s top-notch. Smart as a whip, prepared, fair and he understands reasonable doubt. He’ll make the right call, even if it’s unpopular. We’re fortunate.”

  “Great,” Mason said. “I’m relieved I didn’t draw a dud.”

  “He’s a nice guy off the bench, too,” Sharpe noted. “A pleasure to work with. We couldn’t ask for better. Oh—I know you’ve already checked—but I did talk with the state bar rep, and he confirmed there’s no reason you can’t continue to serve as commonwealth’s attorney. Like any other accused, you’re presumed innocent. He did suggest you might want to obtain some sort of written waiver from everyone concerned if you’re prosecuting a crime of violence or a very high-profile case. Or assign it to Custis until we get your matter resolved.”

  “So what’s the bad news?” Mason asked. They were in the kitchen, the breakfast dishes still in the sink, toast crumbs and a streak of Grace’s strawberry jelly waiting to be wiped off the table.

  “Two items,” Sharpe said. “I contacted several lawyers who practice with Stallings, and they all say he’s very competent. We shouldn’t underestimate him just because he looks like the dwarf spawn of Pippi Long-stocking and Alfred E. Newman. Consensus is the midget can try a case, and he relishes the spotlight. He’s no pushover.”

  “Okay. I wish we had a pigeon, but we don’t.” Mason was leaning against the counter. “What else?”

  Haskins spoke up. “Pat and I filed our discovery motion the day you were indicted and Stallings replied the next week and, to borrow a phrase, there’s no smoking gun, Mason. For the life of me, I can’t figure what he’s holding that’s making him so smug. I faxed him and called him and so did Pat, and he simply says he’s complied with discovery. Sent me a letter, sort of snide, and told us he knew the law and he’d produced everything we’re entitled to. I’m buffaloed. Are we positive he’s not posturing?”

  “Custis and I have thought and thought and thought, and we’re stumped, too,” Mason said. “No clue.”

  “Nothing worse than getting your tail caught in a trap at trial,” Sharpe remarked.

  “Well,” Haskins said, “since he gave us transcripts of your interviews with Bass and Minter, we know it can’t be a statement you’ve made to the cops, and it can’t be DNA or fingerprints or blood or other forensics. He’d have to produce it.”

  “So we’re left with a witness, maybe?” Sharpe mused. “You mentioned this hint from Ed Hoffman, maybe surveillance? A bug?”

  “There are no witnesses,” Mason declared. “It’s impossible. Unless someone’s lying. It didn’t happen, so no one could’ve seen it. Hell, any witness would’ve come forward years ago anyway. As for the other, I haven’t discussed the case with anyone but you, Jim and Custis.”

  “We’ll stay on it,” Haskins promised. “If this is their entire case—Gates Hunt and your ambiguous, perfectly innocent statement to the cops—we’ll blow their doors off.”

  “I’m not counting on it being so simple,” Mason said.

  In October, the assistant principal at Patrick County High School phoned Mason at work and told him a teacher had discovered Grace smoking cigarettes in the girls’ bathroom.

  “Grace? Smoking?” Mason was flabbergasted. “My daughter?”

  “Yes. She was also giving them to other kids.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Sorry to say, I am. Mrs. Rakes caught her with the butt in her hand and smoke comin’ from her nose. Pretty cut and dried unless she’s part dragon,” he said amiably and gently laughed.

  “Well, yeah, thanks for telling me,” Mason said. “She’s under a lot of stress. I’m not making excuses for her, but with this crazy case against me and her mother passing away, it’s been difficult for her. She’s a great kid—you and I hear that every day, but it’s no exaggeration with her.”

  “I agree,” the principal assured him. “We’re going to do an in-house suspension, but we can’t give her too much more latitude. In our world, this is fairly serious.”

  “I understand. I’ll sit her down this afternoon and read her the riot act and discipline her at home, too.”

  “So you’re aware, I checked with her teachers, and her grades are falling. She’s always been one of our best, but lately, according to her teachers, she’s not trying. Very withdrawn, they report. We’ve also noticed her…her appearance is changing, her clothes, makeup, kind of darker than before. We understand how fragile she must be, so we want to be proactive and deal with this before it worsens.”

  “Definitely. I feel like a fool for not noticing the clothes and whatnot myself. I see her every day, and I try the best I can to parent her correctly. We get together religiously, without fail, and review her assignments and discuss her, you know, her friends and school and whatever else. It…I don’t know. It must have been incremental. She seemed, how would I put it? Sloppier? Quieter? Tense? But I wasn’t aware it was so drastic.”

  “It’s probably only temporary, and I’m not sure I’d call it drastic. She’s a wonderful girl, and her small detour is completely understandable. We have counselors here and several other effective options. I’m positive we can nip this in the bud. We’ll partner with you and Grace to turn this around. Don’t worry, it’s what we’re here for.”

  “Yeah. I’m grateful. Thanks.” Mason had a thought and rushed to speak before the principal left the line: “Let’s not send her to a counselor or cross that line yet. I’d hate to…to overreact. I’ll try to handle it at home, and you keep me posted on her attitude at school. I’ll check back with you in a week or so.”

  “Absolutely. We’ll talk again soon.”

  Overwhelmed, Mason piled up his arms on his desk and laid his forehead on top of them and shut his eyes. His mind was quarantined, curtained off, a dim, bare stage with scant illumination, and he imagined two words, done in scorching yellow against the black, suspended by taut wires, silently screaming: IF ONLY…

  Grace was cigarette Gandhi—quiet, level, passive, detached, civil. Mason went to the school and summoned her from her last class ten minutes before the bell. Still in the parking area, yanking on his safety belt, he demanded to know why she was smoking at school and breaking the law by giving tobacco to other underage students.

  She shrugged. She wasn’t looking at him. He noticed her je
ans were ripped and her shirt black. Her mascara did appear different, too pronounced, too vivid.

  “Were you smoking?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Why? It’s dumb and harmful for so many reasons I can’t even begin to list them. You want lung cancer? Lizard skin and wrinkles? Want to get expelled from school and have colleges think you’re a disaster? Want a crappy job and no future?”

  “No,” she said, dully, submissively. “I’m sorry.” She rolled a strand of hair around her finger, then unrolled it. She was slouching.

  “Sorry? That’s it?”

  “I guess,” she said.

  “Were you giving cigarettes to other kids?” He left the school and accelerated onto the main highway. A window wasn’t completely closed and air whistled through the interior. Mason sealed the glass and ended the noise.

  “Just my friends. They wanted them. I didn’t sell them or anything.”

  “I’m very disappointed in you, Grace.”

  She didn’t respond.

  “Anything you want to say?”

  “No sir.”

  “So here’s the deal: no computer, no phone, no TV, no movies for two weeks. Additionally, you’re totally grounded. School and our house will be your entire universe. Understand?”

  She nodded.