Local Rules

by Jay Brandon

  “This is a new one, Your Honor, based on new facts un­covered by the defense.”

  Judge Waverly sorted through the stack of paper before him and plucked out the motion to suppress. His dark eyes seemed to take it in at a glance, but Jordan knew that the motion was couched in such vague terms that it gave away nothing of its factual context.

  “We’ll hear this in one week?” the judge asked blandly.

  “That would be fine, Your Honor.”

  “We will also assign this case now a disposition setting,” the judge said. In his tone was the threat he knew was com­municated by the words. This game has a time limit. “Thank you, Your Honor. The defense requests a jury trial setting, and we would ask for the court’s consideration in making it a special setting, since I have to travel to be here and some of my witnesses will have to come from out of town as well.”

  A special setting would be a day on which only one case was set for trial. Such settings were given only to cases that very probably would go to trial. Jordan knew he’d surprised Judge Waverly—and the prosecution as well; he could al­most smell the consternation from the State’s table—but the judge’s face revealed nothing. “Very well, Mr. Marshall. Shall we say four weeks from Monday? Mr. Arriendez?” “The State will be ready, Your Honor.”

  “Then are we concluded? If—”

  “There’s one more thing, Your Honor. I’d like to renew my request for a bond reduction.”

  “That will be denied.”

  “Your Honor, in order to prepare a defense, I need free access to my client, and I’m not getting much cooperation at the jail.”

  “Mr. Marshall is to have unrestricted access to the defen­dant, Mr. Arroyo,” the judge said to his bailiff. “Pass that information along to your colleagues. Anyone who violates it will be in contempt of my court. Will there be anything else, Mr. Marshall?”

  “Thank you, Your Honor, that will do it for now.”

  “Then we are adjourned.”

  “All rise,” Emilio said swiftly, then upon the judge’s exit, the bailiff strolled up to Jordan. “Thanks loads,” he said.

  “Hey, I thought you’d be grateful, gives you a chance to boss old pit-face around.” The bailiff cracked a grin and sauntered away. Jordan turned to the State’s table but found the district attorney already gone. But he managed to catch Laura before she exited. She looked down ironically at his hand holding hers and withdrew it.

  “Your Mrs. McElroy told me something interesting.”

  “She’s not my Mrs. McElroy, and I wouldn’t take every­thing she says for gospel either.” There was a natural com­bativeness about Laura that let her accept nothing at face value, but her tone was pleasant, even friendly.

  “This should be a matter of public record,” Jordan said. “She said Ed Fecklewhite had an assault conviction.”

  “Ed? Really?”

  “Long time ago. You would’ve been just a child.” Laura laughed. “Where would a twenty-year-old record be kept?”

  “Basement, I think,” Laura said lightly. “I’ll ask Cindy.”

  “Thanks, I’d appreciate it. I’ll come see you.”

  In parting she gave him a fleeting, sidelong look. If she’d been mad at him, she’d gotten over it.

  Jordan turned back to his table and remembered his cli­ent. Wayne had been a minimalist presence during the brief hearing, sitting dead silent, not even letting his eyes roam. “We need to talk,” Jordan said.

  No response. Wayne didn’t even raise his head. “... later,” Jordan continued smoothly, which did catch his cli­ent’s attention. “Right now I’ve got something to check on here, and I’d better do it while they’re willing to help me. I’m going to come see you in a few minutes, and you’re going to tell me something important.”

  “What?” Wayne asked.

  Jordan liked his curiosity. He let it remain intact as the deputy took Wayne away. Jordan found the clerk, Cindy Garcia, in the court office. “How old is the record you want?” she asked petulantly. Laura, standing in the corner, smiled at Jordan at the tone of Cindy’s voice.

  “Could be twenty years, maybe more.”

  “Well, we wouldn’t have something that old in the com­puter,” Cindy said, flicking her fingers across her keyboard for confirmation. “No, nada. No Fecklewhites.”

  “That’s good to know. Where would the old file be?”

  “Laura says in the basement. The judge would know, but I don’t want to disturb him now. I don’t even know who would have a key, and Emilio’s gone to the jail.”

  “I could come back after lunch if that would make things easier.”

  “All right,” the clerk acquiesced with the obvious hope that one of them might be hit by a big truck over the lunch hour.

  “What’s the special today?” Jordan asked Laura.

  “Oh, you’d like it. Kitty kabobs.” They smiled at each other. Jordan wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of asking if the imaginary meal was composed for kitties or of them. “Would you—”

  “I, unfortunately, have a previous engagement, so I can’t join you.”

  “Oh. Well— ” The court reporter looked regretful, but Jordan didn’t trust any of her expressions.

  On his way to the stairs, a voice called his name. Mike Arriendez leaned against the table in the small conference room/law library across the hall from the courtroom. “See you a minute?”

  Jordan stepped inside and closed the door behind him. Arriendez was watching him minus the lazy smile. “I’ve got to hand it to you,” he said, “you sounded deadly sincere when you asked for a jury trial setting.”

  “I was. I’m getting some interesting breaks in the case. And I’ve got a theory why your local cops haven’t broken the Jenny Fecklewhite murder.”

  “Uh-huh.” The DA didn’t bother to ask. “Here’s the thing. You’re right, I was a little hard-nosed. I’ve reconsid­ered my offer. I’ll go thirty.” Arriendez frowned. It hurt him.

  “Gee, you’re almost in the realm of reason. By trial—” Arriendez shook his head. “This is as good as it’s ever gonna get, and it’s good for one week only. At our hearing next week it’s gone, we’re back to fifty.”

  Jordan had said things like that himself as a prosecutor. But he could have returned Arriendez’s sincerity compli­ment. The DA’s face was flat and hard, not eager to plead the case away.

  “Pass it on to Wayne,” the DA said.

  “That’s a good deal,” Wayne said thoughtfully, as if thought were occurring. “I’ll take it.”

  “It’s a suck deal, Wayne. But Arriendez’s got you pegged. He thinks you’re stupid enough to take it, and he’s right.”

  “It’s none of your damned business!” Wayne shouted. Even rising, his voice sounded muffled in the acoustic-tiled jail visitors’ room. “I’d be out in what, ten? I could do ten.” He snorted. Ten years in prison: How did that differ from his normal life?

  “Wayne, look. Things’re not the same as when Jimmy Cagney was making movies. Even a year in prison could be a death sentence if you get fucked in the ass by somebody who has AIDS.”

  Wayne’s fist clenched. “That won’t happen.”

  As gently as possible, Jordan said, “Wayne, you might be the toughest guy you’ve ever seen or heard of. But there are guys in prison who make you look like a two-day-old kitten. Guys so mean they could kill you by looking at you and who have a hate-on for everyone in the world. Listen, you’d better start making plans. What gang are you going to join in prison?”

  “I don’t need no damned gang.”

  “Yeah, right Well, when it’s rush week, and you get an invitation, you’d better turn ’em down real gently. There’s no Switzerland in prison, Wayne. They don’t allow neutrality.”

  Wayne’s fist was still clenched but as if to keep his hand from trembling. He was staring into space. Jordan had man­aged to give his client a taste of panic, which had been his goal.

  “Maybe you should take the offer, Wayne. Maybe it�
�s the best you can do. I don’t think the case is worth thirty, but I can’t guarantee anything better.”

  What Jordan had thought on the way from the DA’s office to the jail was that it might not matter what Wayne decided. The prosecutor’s generosity might have been prompted by a break in Jenny’s murder. If they could pin that one on Wayne, it would be a life case, no doubt about it, the murder of Kevin Wainwright would just be a tag end.

  “What was it you wanted to ask me?” came Wayne’s quiet voice. “Something important, you said.”

  Jordan leaned close to him. “There’s only one important question in your case, Wayne. Who killed Jenny Fecklewhite?”

  Wayne bit his lip.

  “You were coming back from the park when you attacked Kevin, weren’t you, Wayne? Was it you? Tell me, it won’t go any farther than this room.”

  “No.”

  “Then who, Wayne? You saw, didn’t you?”

  Wayne nodded dumbly. The blackness under his eyes was creeping down his cheeks. He mumbled.

  “Who?”

  “Kevin killed her,” Wayne burst out. He looked up hope­fully at his lawyer as if his troubles were over.

  “Damn it, Wayne, why didn’t you tell somebody that be­fore she was buried, when they were still collecting evidence?”

  Wayne looked surprised. The answer was obvious. “I didn’t want to get Kevin in trouble.”

  That’s right, Kevin had lingered for almost a week after Jenny’s death. Wayne had beaten him to death, but they were still friends.

  Jordan sighed. “You saw it?” he asked. “Or Kevin admit­ted it to you?”

  Wayne shook his head. “I knew he was meeting her at the park, and when I went there and found her dead, I knew it was Kevin had killed her. I went crazy after that, I guess.” That fit the bare facts. Someone had seen Wayne’s pickup driving fast into town from the park. But that fact also fit the prosecution theory that Wayne had killed both Jenny and Kevin. And when Wayne had found Kevin in the street on Wayne’s return from the park, they hadn’t had a discus­sion. The only recorded words preceding the fight were “I’m gonna kill you.” Jordan sighed again.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “There’s no evidence. We can’t even be sure of what hap­pened, and we damned sure can’t prove anything.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You didn’t give Kevin a chance to explain, did you, Wayne? You just found her dead and you assumed he did it.”

  “So?”

  “Maybe that’s how Kevin found her, too.”

  Wayne’s mouth stayed open. His eyes were wide for the first time in Jordan’s memory. As realization began to crowd in on him, Jordan turned away. His client’s face was too pathetic to watch.

  “You know the last time anybody was down here?”

  “Last time you had a hot date, Emilio?”

  The bailiff made a startled chuckle, laughing and frowning at the same time. “Boy, you got a mouth on you. You re­mind me of her.”

  Jordan didn’t have to ask who the other smart mouth was. “Really? Two of a kind?”

  The bailiff regarded him pityingly. “This’ll be fun. Next time I see you you’ll have this little whipped puppy look, ’cause she’s sliced off a little piece of it.” He held up his little finger to demonstrate.

  Jordan snorted. “You small-towners, you’ve got to make soap opera out of everything.”

  Emilio still spoke pityingly. “You’ve got it all over you, son. You watch. I will.”

  Jordan hesitated “Does she have somebody special?”

  The bailiff grinned. “Everything in pants’s taken a run at her. Some of ’em caught her, too, but nobody could pin her down. Laura wants something more than she’ll ever get.”

  From this town, Jordan thought. He said, “You take a run at her, too, Emilio?”

  The bailiff laughed good-naturedly. “I like ’em a little meatier, man. Listen—”

  They were in the dead, dank basement, where the only air-conditioning was provided by the fact that they were underground. At the bottom of the stairs they’d encountered the gate of a wire wall that closed off the whole basement. The bailiff opened it and spun the key on its ring.

  “—I’m supposed to lock you in here. It’s the rule. Can’t have you running off with our files.”

  “You’d be killing me, Emilio. I’ve got claustrophobia. Being down here’s bad enough without being locked in.”

  The bailiff considered. “Maybe the gate won’t click. But you get me in trouble, it’ll be worse trouble for you, understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Jordan stepped inside the wire cage, trusting as a child, then heard the gate swinging shut, much too fast. He turned, almost catching the gate in the face, and just before it latched, the bailiff’s hand caught it. Emilio walked away grinning.

  Immediately Jordan felt hot. He shed his suit jacket. Rows of metal shelves stretched before him, taller than his head. He felt something lurking in the stacks with him. The heat. The files shedding dust. And contained in the files, the lives that had turned to dust themselves.

  The files had been organized by someone who had taken the secret of the system to the grave. They were arranged by years mostly and alphabetically occasionally, but there were clusters of cases that someone, some time, had known were related.

  An hour later Jordan was still among them. He had a smear of muddy dust across his forehead and growing circles under his arms. One reason he had taken so long was that he had succumbed to the inclination to snoop. Having so many lives arrayed before him had proven too great a temp­tation. He had found an Arriendez with a criminal convic­tion, no telling if he was a relative of the current district attorney. No Waverlys, no Fecklewhites yet, but he had found a Stefone. It turned out not to be a criminal case, though, it was a divorce. Lewis and Pamela Stefone had dissolved their marriage of six years with a minimum of paperwork, but in the decree Jordan found one child of the marriage, Laura, aged five. Eyes stinging from the dust in the basement, Jordan suddenly felt even dirtier and thrust the file back among the others.

  He found Ed Fecklewhite soon after that, twenty-one years back in time, where Ed was imperfectly preserved as a younger, fiercer man who had attacked someone who was a stranger to Jordan. He had been hoping the conviction would drop a piece into place, that the victim would be Joan or Swin Wainwright, one of Wayne Orkney’s parents, some name that would lead him somewhere, but it wasn’t; the complainant was a plain Henry Smith, and the facts were vanilla. After a couple of days spent in jail, Ed had pled guilty and been given probation, which, as far as the file showed, he had completed without incident Jordan was about to replace the file in disgust when a name did leap out at him. He reopened the file to the judg­ment, signed by a county court judge with an unfamiliar name, but declaring that the defendant had appeared “with counsel Richard Waverly.”

  Jordan was struck by how hard it was to picture. Twenty-one years ago Richard Waverly had just been a young law­yer, about Jordan’s age now, representing petty criminals. He hadn’t yet been elevated to the title people used on him as if it were a hereditary position: “the judge.”

  Jordan wondered if Waverly had had that obsidian stare even then.

  7

  Where do kids go on dates around here?”

  “Gee,” Laura laughed, “as I remember, the old mill used to be a nice spot, but it burned down when I was in—”

  “I mean nowadays, old-timer.”

  “Nice talk. They teach you this technique in law school?”

  “Come on,” Jordan said, managing not to wheedle. “You’re not the only master of all the local lore. I could take my business elsewhere.”

  “Oh, and my days would become so empty.” Laura leaned back against the top of the last pew in the courtroom, where Jordan had stopped her on her way out. Up front, the judge and lawyers had cleared out, but Emilio and Cindy were finding business to keep them at their desks.

  “It�
�s hard on kids here,” Laura said seriously. “The movie theater closed even before John Wayne died, the closest other one’s thirty miles away, and if the girl’s parents won’t let her leave town, that pretty much just leaves school dances.”

  “Where do they go after dates?” Jordan probed.

  “Well, the few teenage couples I’ve followed around,” Laura said archly, “always seem to end up at the Pizza Hut. Where if the boy’s really ingenious, he’s got something to slip into the Pepsis, and the girl pretends to be outraged or not to see. I’ve sometimes thought a boy could save himself the trouble and expense of liquor if he just got hold of a flask. Those girls’d get just as giddy on watered-down Dr. Pepper as they do on bourbon.”

  Jordan was standing close to her, so their voices were soft. He had no business in her court today, so he’d spent time deciding what to wear. A suit would set him apart from most Green Hillers, but not from the lawyers Laura saw every day. He’d settled on pressed khakis and a blue sport shirt and now felt a tad dweebish.

  “And where do adults go on dates?”

  Laura looked at him with amusement in her posture and her cheeks but still with contemplation in her eyes. With the heat of August a constant threat just beyond the windows, she still looked cool, her skin fine as milk.

  “Everybody’s married here, Mr. Marshall, so anybody having a date would be sneaking around, and they haven’t let me in on where they meet.”

  “I thought we said Jordan.”

  Laura smiled. “And I said I’d have to work on it.”

  “Could we practice over lunch?” He hated the way he had to force the words through his tight throat as if her answer mattered. “Before I hit the dusty investigation trail again? I’m being a P.I. today instead of a lawyer.”

  Laura laughed. The snappy banter had given her time to think. She took that time and a little more before saying, “All right.”

  “Today I’m going to order for myself,” Jordan said. “I’ve heard the lunchroom serves something called prairie oysters, and I want to find out where they get seafood this far inland.”

  Laura laughed again. He felt the nearness of her arm as they went down the stairs.