by A. W. Gray
She carefully folded her jacket and laid it on the front seat along with her shoulder bag, rolled up the sleeves of her blouse, and lifted one of the boxes. She balanced her load on her thigh, propping the front edge of the box against the fender while she closed and locked the door. Then, thus weighed down, she stood upright and looked around. Two big, strong male lawyers in suits hustled by on the sidewalk, briefcases held importantly, glanced in her direction, then quickly looked away and continued on into the courts building. No matter, she’d learned to do it on her own a long time ago. She whistled softly the opening bars to “Eighteen Wheels and a Dozen Roses,” her spirits still high as she headed across the street with the box resting heavily on her upturned forearms.
A sheen of perspiration had formed on Sharon’s upper lip before she’d completed the fifty-yard journey from the parking lot to the steps leading to Black’s office. She’d had to stop a couple of times in order to shift her load into a less uncomfortable position. It wasn’t particularly hot, the temperature in the upper seventies, but a thick cloud cover blotted out the sun, and it was as if she was wading through the humidity-laden air. It was the first of May. For the next month or so it would rain cats and dogs nearly every night, and sometimes pour all day as well. Then summer would bring a blistering drought which would carry on into early October, at which time the downpours would commence all over. Not to mention the tornado watches and warnings. Dallas my hometown, Texas, Sharon thought, has the worst all-around weather in the Western Hemisphere, and while one could excuse the natives for loving the area, the reason that northerners kept moving to town was a total mystery to her. Must be something in the water, Sharon thought. She had absolutely adored New York City, and if she’d had the good sense to keep from falling in love—and, God, she thought, the good sense to keep my frigging legs crossed—she’d probably still be in the Big Apple, living on Spam, packaged smoked turkey breast, and Kraft American cheese slices while she worked off Broadway and had the time of her life. But, she thought with a twinge of conscience, if I’d kept my legs crossed, I never would have had Melanie. Tit for tat, Sharon thought.
She took a shallow but determined breath and lifted one foot to mount the steps as, from behind her, a tenor male voice said, “Hey. Hey, I wonder if I could get you to …” Sharon turned her head toward the sound and blinked.
About twenty steps away and coming in her direction was a man. He wore snow white summer-weight baggy pants and an oversized Hawaiian shirt with green, red, and purple flowers splashed over the fabric. The short sleeves hung below his elbows, and his forearms were skinny and pasty white. His face was pale as death as well, a narrow face with a big, bent honker of a nose. He was clean-shaven except for a pointed brown goatee, and his I-want-to-sell-you-a-condo smile revealed a wide gap between his two front teeth. His hair was thinning, combed straight back, and he wore dark sunglasses in spite of the overcast. A professional-looking camera with a flash attachment hung from a strap around his neck. “Won’t take a minute,” he said.
Sharon’s eyes narrowed warily as she backed away from the steps. “I beg your pardon?”
“Bradford Brie,” the man said. “Photographer. Last name spelled just like the soft cheese. I’m shooting a few street scenes for this album I’m putting together, and, hey, you’d be perfect. Beauty at work, you know?”
Sharon felt a slight chill. “I don’t pose for pictures, Mr. Brie.” If the guy had called and asked for an appointment, she might have felt differently. Instinct told her that there was something not right about this situation.
He raised his camera and squinted through the viewfinder. “Could you maybe turn just a little to the left?”
“I told you, I don’t—” There was a sudden flash of light, accompanied by a loud click. “Hey,” Sharon said.
“That’s the”—click-flash—“way. Natural beauty, but a modern woman not afraid to get her hands a little dirty, hey?” Click-flash. “Perfect, perfect.”
A surge of anger went through her. “You stop.” She placed the box on the bottom step and faced him with hands on hips. “I’ve never seen you before in my life.” God, he was aiming the camera again. She started to cover her face, but she wasn’t quick enough. Click-flash.
He lowered the camera. “Great. Man, would I like to spend an hour with you.” His smile disappeared, replaced by a serious pucker at the corners of his mouth.
Sharon’s forearms quivered. “You get away from me.”
“Man.” His shoulders sagged. “Well, if that’s the way it is, that’s the way it is. But, man, can I ever use these shots. I’m doing an album.”
Sharon took a hesitant step toward her box on the steps. “Look, I’m not trying to be rude.”
He grinned again. “You could make a living as a model, you know.”
In fact, Sharon did know, and had done some commercial photo sessions for Southwest Airlines, in addition to her waitressing jobs, when she’d been in law school. If she’d wanted to get by on her looks alone, however, she could have done some things a whole lot easier than posing for pictures. Had even had a few offers in her time. “What kind of album is it?” she said.
“You work in there, huh?” He jerked a thumb toward the building.
“Yes, I—” Damn, he’d caught her off guard. “What kind of an album?” she said sternly.
“Super.” He took a few quick steps away from her, then turned and raised the camera again. Click-flash. “Great. I’ll be in touch.” He snugged up his sunglasses on his nose, showed wide-gapped teeth in a grin, and hustled away down the block while shouldering his camera.
Sharon yelled after him. “What did you say your name was? You’re not using my picture without a release.”
He paused and turned. “Brie, just like the cheese. You’ll be hearing from me.” He went around the corner and disappeared from view behind the building.
Sharon was really frightened. What kind of an album? she thought fearfully.
Sharon had practically forgotten about the strange photographer—or at least had filed the incident into the section of her mind labeled “Scary but Unimportant Happenings”—by the time she’d made her second trip to the parking garage and, huffing and puffing, had carried the rest of her belongings up the steps, through Russell Black’s reception area—which held a secretarial desk, chair, and files, but no receptionist that Sharon had seen as yet—past the library and into the cubbyhole of an office which was to be hers. She checked the time. God, only an hour before she and Black were to leave for court. Her struggles with the heavy boxes coupled with the humid outside air had left her quite a bit less than fresh. God, what she wouldn’t give to shower and change her clothes. No way could she, however, a quick redoing of her makeup would have to get her by. She opened the first of the boxes, plugged in her radio, set the volume on low (“Small Town Saturday Night” was the jumpy C&W tune in progress), and went to work.
Fifteen minutes later, the boxes were empty, and Sharon’s briefs, sample motions, and paperback law books were stacked on top of her desk. The desk was old and pretty banged up, but someone had recently painted it dark brown so that the scratches didn’t jump right out and bite you. The swivel chair had a slatted back and wooden seat covered by a portable rubber cushion, and creaked loudly when she sat down. The walls were bare. There was a metal file cabinet in one corner and a dusty imitation rubber plant in the other. The disgusting plant will have to go, she thought, replaced by some real greenery, and she was going to bring a few pictures from home in order to spruce up the place. The ancient chair was soon to be history as well; she was going to have a comfortable place to sit even if it meant digging into her own pocket. She was standing in front of her desk, holding her framed law degree in one hand and a small hammer in the other, and trying to make up her mind as to the best place to hang the sheepskin, when she sensed movement behind her and to her left. She turned.
Ru
ssell Black stood in the doorway. He was coatless, wearing a pale blue shirt and navy tie. He jammed his hands into his back pockets, leaned against the door frame and showed a crooked grin. God, Sharon thought, he looks like the sheriff of Last Ditch Gulch. Square, leathery-tanned face with creases around the eyes, a broad, flat, cute-ugly nose, ice blue, stare-’em-down eyes. Interesting face, Sharon thought. Small roll of chub around the middle, barely noticeable beneath the shoulders of a retired football jock. Not unhandsome at all, Sharon thought. She was taller than most men, but her eyes were barely on a level with Black’s chin. Even if she wore heels he’d be a half head taller than she. Six three if he’s an inch, Sharon thought.
She jumped slightly as she realized that she, as the new person on board, was entertaining her boss with a twangy rendition of “Baby’s Got Her Blue Jeans On,” which was the song now playing on the radio. Sudden warmth flooded her cheeks as she bent to turn the volume knob. The music faded and died. “I’m sorry. Was it too loud?” Sharon said, and hoped that she didn’t look as silly as she felt.
Black didn’t seem to hear the question. His gaze swept the room, zeroing in on empty boxes, pausing there, shifting to rest on the stacks of books and motions, taking in all, missing nothing. “Gettin’ squared away, huh?” he said. Sharon halfway expected him to add, “pardner,” which would have gone right along with his laid-back manner of speech. “Listen,” Black said. “I got to apologize for not helpin’ you carry in your gear. I don’t think real quick some days.”
Sharon had had a flare of resentment when the two lawyers had passed her by on the street, pretending not to see her while she’d struggled with her load, but never in a million years would she have expected her boss to pitch in. “Oh, it wasn’t much to do,” she said. She looked past him toward the reception area. “Is your secretary out today?” she said.
“Don’t have one. I used to have one, but she quit three years ago. There’s a typin’ pool up the street that does whatever letters I need done. The answerin’ machine takes care of the phone, unless I’m in a mood to answer myself. If the judge calls for a brief, I get my daughter to type it. She’s a business major at SMU and does a pretty legal paper. Or I guess I used to get my daughter to do it. That’ll be your job now.”
For the first time since coming in for the interview, Sharon felt resentment. He’d told her that she would do the briefing, she couldn’t complain about that, but hadn’t said a word about doing her own typing. When she’d been at the DA’s, she’d merely dictated to the secretarial pool by telephone, and her correspondence, brief, whatever, had been on her desk the next morning, typed neat as a pin. Sharon had never even taken a typing course, and no small part of her resentment was due to the fact that Black had assumed, merely because she was female, that she’d be gangbusters on the keyboard. Anyone who thought that Sharon Jenifer Hays was going to act as a glorified secretary had another think coming, and that went for Russell Black or anybody else. She held her tongue in check and didn’t say anything. He had answered one of her unasked questions; his having a daughter meant that he had a wife as well.
“My wife,” Black said, as if reading her mind, “used to do all my typin’ years ago. Before she died.” He studied the floor for a moment, and then raised his gaze to say, “How ’bout givin’ me a thumbnail on this juvenile certification business?”
Sharon’s flare of resentment had subsided at once, replaced by a sudden sadness when he’d mentioned his wife’s passing, and now the sadness left her for a kind of heady anticipation. Her ego was no smaller—and, she liked to think, not any bigger—than anyone else’s, and filling in someone like Russell Black on the law was going to be downright invigorating. Not that she was surprised because he didn’t know much about the juvenile code; a lawyer of Black’s stature would never have to. Years ago, Sharon knew, when Russell Black had first begun to practice law, teenagers seldom if ever had had felony charges strapped on them. With the current number of murders committed by high school students, however, juvie cert had become a common thing.
Sharon sat in her chair with a protesting squeak of wood. Black continued to stand in the doorway, his salt-and-pepper brows lifted expectantly. Sharon took a couple of seconds to get her thoughts in order, then said, “I suppose I don’t have to tell you that they’ll certify her. She’ll stand trial as an adult. She can’t get the death penalty, but they can give her up to life in prison. I believe I read that Midge Rathermore is sixteen.”
Black thoughtfully rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I think so.”
Sharon would have liked to have given him something brilliant, the new assistant saving the day, but felt sort of down as she said, “Juvenile certification is really a formality. The judge won’t even hear the case, he leaves that up to the family court master. That’s kind of … sort of a junior judge, like the magistrate in federal court. The master can’t rule, not officially, he can only make a recommendation to the judge, but the judge just rubberstamps what the master recommends.” She paused to lick her lips, searching Black’s face for a hint of a reaction. Approval? Disapproval? Boy, is she ever smart? Black maintained a poker face. Sharon went on:
“There’s two issues at stake in the hearing. First, she’s got to be at least fourteen, and second, they’ve got to demonstrate that she understood the nature of her act. That the act was wrong. Legally a juvenile can be certified to stand trial as an adult for any felony, but in practice it’s only done where you have a habitual, really a badass kid, or where you’ve got an unusually heinous crime. Which hiring someone to kill your father is without question. The amount of publicity has a lot to do with it in Dallas County, and really, you can’t get more public than the Rathermore case.” As Black frowned, Sharon’s mouth softened. “Don’t guess I’m giving you much encouragement, huh?” Sharon said.
“No problem,” he said, waving a big hand as if batting mosquitoes. “’Bout what I had figured, tell you the truth. The hearin’s worth it, though, ’cause they’ll have to put some evidence into play. Give us some idea what we’re lookin’ at, defendin’ the little girl.”
Sharon hesitated before saying, “I’m afraid not.”
His frown deepened. “Huh?”
“It’s not like a bond hearing or examining trial, where the state has to put on any probable cause evidence. The charges in a juvie cert hearing speak for themselves. As I said, only two issues, Russ. Is she over fourteen, and did she understand that murdering someone was wrong? They’ll probably put a cop on the stand to testify what a dastardly deed’s been committed, but he’s not going to offer any evidence that hasn’t already been in the newspapers. It’s like a lot of things that happen in open court. Just a formality, but a hearing has to be held to make it official.”
“Damn. Another waste of time.”
“Maybe not entirely,” Sharon said. “It’ll give us a chance to visit with our client in person. Try to see what makes her tick. Have you ever met Midge?”
“Nope, and I’m out of line there. I should’ve. I’ve talked to her mother four or five times over the past couple of weeks, and she’s damn sure got one relative on her side.”
“Well, if nothing else,” Sharon said, “the hearing gives you a chance to spend some time with your client other than in the jail visiting room. And by the way. Ten days before a juvie cert hearing seems awfully late in the game to be hiring a lawyer. Looks like she should have had legal representation from day one.”
Black said, almost absently, “I told you, she had a court-appointed lawyer. Andy Tubb.”
“If you want to call him a lawyer,” Sharon said. “He’s one I know. He was on the other side of a robbery case I tried.”
Black showed sudden irritation. “Somethin’ you have to learn, Sharon, like every pup from the DA’s office that wants in private practice. You don’t go around knockin’ other lawyers. Now, I know that’s not true when you’re workin’ for the county, that they spend
half their time over there sittin’ around drinkin’ coffee and sayin’, This lawyer dudn’t know what he’s doin’, and, That lawyer got fired off of such-and-such a case. As long as you got that government paycheck comin’ every two weeks, you can get away with sayin’ just about anything about anybody. But on your own, you’re dependin’ on other lawyers for your livelihood, referrals and whatnot. Now, I don’t know what went on with Andy Tubb and Midge Rathermore or Midge’s mother, and didn’t ask. I got to get along with Andy, and stickin’ my nose in his business idn’t the way to go about it.”
Sharon’s ego deflated like a ruptured tire, and a slow burn worked its way through her insides. Knifing through her rush of anger, though, was the knowledge that Black was right on the money. It was his manner of putting his point across that really got to her. She tried a meek “I just thought …”
“Well, that’s somethin’ you shouldn’t be thinkin’.” Black checked his watch. It was a big watch with a big face, the size of a Rolex, though it occurred to Sharon that Russell Black wasn’t the Rolex type.
“I wouldn’t think that anyone with Rathermore money could have qualified for a state-paid lawyer to begin with,” Sharon said, swallowing pride in a big gulp, switching the subject away from other lawyers and their methods.
“The little girl’s got nothin’ on her own,” Black said. It’s all her daddy’s money, and since it was him that she’s supposed to have had killed, her family’s not real crazy about hirin’ her legal counsel. Until her mother stepped forward she was goin’ to have to take charity.” He thoughtfully folded his arms. “What about appeals? If they certify the little girl, can we get it overturned?”
Sharon mentally relaxed. The conflict over her knocking Andy Tubb had vanished as if by magic. “Afraid not,” she said. “Juvenile certification isn’t even a criminal proceeding. It’s civil, so the ruling is based on preponderance of evidence rather than anything beyond reasonable doubt. The judge can rule any way he wants to, and there’s nothing we can do about it. She’s not under indictment and can’t even be charged with the crime until she’s certified, and a juvenile doesn’t even have Fifth Amendment privileges. There are a few … If you could show that she’s really childlike, maybe spends all her time playing video games, you’ve got a chance to beat certification sometimes. The fact is, it’s just like about every facet of the law, the DA’s office uses juvie cert more as a plea-bargain hammer than anything else. You know, when I was a prosecutor, if we didn’t have much of a case against a kid we’d tell him, either plead guilty as a juvenile or we’ll certify you as an adult. But on a premeditated crime like this one it’s different. I doubt they’ll even offer a deal. They’ll want to trot her out in public and really let her have it with the cameras grinding. I’ve only read the newspaper accounts, but this was a pretty brutal killing.”
