In Self-Defense

by A. W. Gray

  “We can’t be goin’ off half cocked,” Black said, sitting down across from her.

  “That’s why I spent most of the day in the library. Believe me, if there was a hole in it, I’d have found it.”

  Black propped his knee against the edge of her desk. “Don’t be talkin’ this around over drinks with anybody. I damn sure don’t want Milt Breyer gettin’ wind of what we’re up to, at least not ’til after she’s indicted.”

  Sharon placed her thumb on her lower lip, her forefinger on her upper lips, and pressed the two lips together.

  “Good as it is,” Black said, “it all depends on which judge hears the case. Luck of the draw.”

  “I know,” Sharon said. “But even if we draw a dunderhead that won’t listen, we’ll have ammunition on appeal. Somewhere up the line, some court will get the picture. Appellate judges aren’t all morons.”

  “We need to be gettin’ evidence together,” Black said. “If we can’t prove abuse, we’re whistlin’ in the wind.”

  “I know that, too. The day after the indictment, just watch my smoke. I’ll be digging up witnesses from all over. Just call me Nancy Drew.”

  “Are you planning on bein’ a witness?” Black said.

  Sharon leaned back. An attorney cannot investigate one’s own case; to do so risks disqualification as lawyer and a stint on the stand. A first-year law student understands this, and Sharon felt foolish. Chalk it up to zeal, she thought.

  “Deborah North has approved some money to hire an investigator,” Black said. “I’ve got a guy in mind.”

  “If he’s a good one, he’ll be worth whatever he costs.” Sharon was grateful that Russ Black hadn’t blistered her ears; for once, any dressing-down she’d received would have been deserved.

  Black rose, walked over to the open doorway, leaned against the jamb, and thrust his hands into his back pockets. “You looked outside?”

  Sharon got up and walked around her desk. “Not lately.”

  “Well, look, then,” Black said.

  Sharon moved up beside her boss and gazed through the front office window. Sunlight had broken through the clouds. On the sidewalks and in the streets, puddles shrank, and clean, dry concrete showed between patches of standing water. Sharon stepped into the reception area, nearer the window. In the sky directly over the courthouse, strung between remnants of thunderheads against a bright blue background, was a perfect half-circle rainbow.

  13

  Sharon couldn’t understand what Sheila Winston was saying over the phone, and said so. “There’s some kind of static.”

  “It’s not on my end,” Sheila said.

  Sharon switched the receiver from one ear to the other, shifting her position on the Spanish-style sofa as she did, and frowned at Commander as the shepherd scratched on the door leading outside. Ordinarily Sharon needed a cannon to drive the dog into the yard for the night—along with a heart of stone, Commander rolling on his back with his tongue off to one side in a begging attitude—but this evening he’d been asking to go out ever since supper. Even when Melanie had gone protestingly off to bed, Commander had forsaken his usual stunt of diving underneath the eleven-year-old’s covers and had continued to hang out near the den exit. Sharon had nearly opened the door for the dog several times, but something had stopped her. Sharon glanced at the clock: 10:20. If she didn’t let Commander out soon, she was liable to have a damp spot on the carpet. Commander whined softly. Sharon said into the phone, “That’s better. The line seems clear now. The way Melanie yanks the cord around, trying to talk to her friends while she rummages through the kitchen cabinets, I’m surprised I’ve got any connection at all. Now, what were you saying?”

  “I asked if you wanted a vahs,” Sheila said.

  “A what?”

  “A vahs. Don’t ask me, I’m just the dumb shopper. I kept saying, ‘That thar vayse is shore ’nuff purty,’ and this saleswoman would go”—Sheila deepened her voice and talked through her nose—“‘It’s one of our more popular vahses.’ She was some kind of Yankee, New England or someplace, and I guess she thought I was Ghetto Gertie. A desert scene with cactus flowers. It’s pretty, okay, but it just doesn’t fit with my green carpet.”

  “Oh, Sheila.” Sharon was cracking up. Sheila Winston had an interior designer’s taste and would have known damn well what would and wouldn’t go at her place, but also would have pictured Sharon’s pale gold carpet and light tan cowhide chairs and would have realized that the vase would blend perfectly at Sharon’s place. Sheila was like that. Spending hours shopping for a back-to-work gift for a friend, then pretending she’d bought the vase by mistake, fit right in with Sheila’s modus operandi. “How much was it?” Sharon said. “I’d insist on paying you.”

  “Nah. I told you, I’m stuck with it.”

  “If the plant leaves are the right shade of green,” Sharon said, “it might fit in at my office. God knows, something needs to.”

  “Wherever,” Sheila said. “How’s work going, by the way?”

  “It’s been kind of a drag, to tell the truth. Monday we had some action. I got to meet Midge Rathermore’s mother, and my boss agreed to let me use some stuff I’ve been working on to defend the little girl. Since then we haven’t hit a lick. Here it’s Thursday, only three days later, and I feel like it’s been a month since I’ve done anything.”

  “While you’re sitting around,” Sheila said, “there’s an article you might like to read. It’s by a Yale psychiatrist, on the problems of filling both parental roles. A little on the commercial side, but it isn’t bad.”

  And it would advise single parents, Sharon thought, to let the absent parent play as much of a part as possible in child-rearing. Sheila was as dear to Sharon’s heart as any person on the face of the earth, but when Sheila felt she had a point to make, shaking her off was like trying to disengage alligator jaws. Sharon said, with little conviction, “Well, maybe I’ll read it.”

  “God grant me nothing to do for a while,” Sheila said, obviously sensing opposition and deciding to wait for a better time. Sharon was certain that the subject of Rob and Melanie would come up over and over.

  “It’s different with you,” Sharon said. “Your practice is at home, and when you don’t have somebody’s head to shrink, you can work on your yard or something. Downtown I just sit around and stare at the street.” Sharon wore her standard stay-at-home grodies, pale blue running shorts she’d had since high school and an oversize Moot Court T-shirt. She was barefoot.

  “So dig up more clients,” Sheila said.

  “I’d love to if I knew where. I really shouldn’t complain, and I know it, but working for a lawyer who handles one case at a time isn’t as neat as it sounds. At the DA’s I always had a stack of files hanging fire, so if one case had nothing going I could work on another. Sitting around waiting for them to indict our client, gee, it’s like waiting for a time bomb to go off.”

  “If it’s tough on you, how do you think the client feels?”

  Sharon’s jaw tightened in sadness. “I’m not even sure she knows what’s going on. You should see this poor child. The damn newspapers are portraying her as some kind of teenage Lizzie Borden, but I’d like for one of those frigging reporters to spend an hour with her. Commander. Hush that.” The dog cut himself off in mid-whine, and sat on his haunches to regard Sharon with an accusing cant to his snout. Come on, lady. Lemme out of here.

  “I guess the state used old Gruntin’ Greg Mathewson as their expert witness to certify her, huh?” Sheila said.

  “None other. I don’t know why you don’t start collecting a few expert witness fees yourself.” Sharon straightened her leg, pointed and wiggled her toes. A slight cramp began in her calf. Back to the old treadmill, she thought.

  “I would if I didn’t like to sleep at night,” Sheila said. “Make that, I like to live with myself. I’ve been having problems sleepin
g as it is. I’ve got this woman that, someone’s stalking her.”

  “That sounds like a fun analysis visit,” Sharon said.

  “Tell me about it.” Sheila’s voice softened, her tone now just a bit frightened. “This lady’s a bundle of rags, Sharon. She can barely keep any food down. It’s always something that’s going to happen to someone else, right?”

  Sharon curled up her legs on the sofa and sat on her ankles. “Let’s hope it stays that way.”

  “It’s worse when you don’t have the slightest idea who it is. This creep, the other night he left a bag of shit on her doorstep. Human feces, can you believe it? He was hiding in the bushes, I’ll give you odds, and giggling like a moron while this poor woman screamed her head off.”

  There were long seconds of silence, a faint crackling noise over the line as both women imagined what it would be like to have the worst female nightmare of all come true.

  “What have you done about camp?” Sheila finally said. Her tone was more upbeat as she changed gears, though the lightheartedness in her voice was obviously forced.

  Sharon leaped at the opportunity to change the subject. “I made reservations at Sky Ranch for the second week in July, because it’s likely that’s when the Rathermore case will be in trial. It’s Melanie’s fourth year up there, so if I have to change at the last minute, the camp people will probably cut me some slack. Trish is still going, isn’t she?” Sharon wasn’t as worried as she had been during Melanie’s first summer at camp, but still liked the idea of Melanie having her best friend along.

  “You betcha,” Sheila said. “If she didn’t have her reservations at the same time as Melanie, Trish might assassinate me in my bed.” There was a pause, punctuated by paper rustling, then Sheila said, “I’ve written it down on my things-to-do list for tomorrow. Call Sky Ranch, second week in July. Wow, a week without the kids. Good time to fall in love for a few days, huh?”

  “Or a few hours,” Sharon said. Commander had resumed his insistent pawing at the door. “I’ve got to go before this dog drives me up a tree,” Sharon said.

  “Me, too. Be careful, Sharon, huh?” Sheila disconnected.

  “Yeah,” Sharon said softly. She replaced the receiver on the hook, her mouth tugging in worry. Good God, a bag of feces on the woman’s doorstep. Which is probably what Stan Green would like to leave at my place, Sharon thought wryly. She got up and went to the door, then scratched Commander between the ears as she said reproachfully, “Hold your horses, will you?” Then she turned the dead bolt and opened the door.

  Commander raced into the night as if his fur were on fire. His claws scraped wood as he charged across the deck and bounded into the yard. Commander never volunteered to leave the house at bedtime. Never. Frowning in apprehension, Sharon reached around the jamb and flicked on the outside lights.

  The sudden illumination revealed spires of Johnson grass waving over unmown Bermuda and a swing set which towered like a gallows. Sharon went out onto the deck. The redwood warmed her bare soles.

  Commander had pell-melled out to the fence separating the yard from the alley, and now picked something up in his mouth and lugged his prize in among the shadows cast by the swing set. The thing in his mouth was heavy and pliant, hanging loosely down from both sides of the shepherd’s jaws. Sharon narrowed her eyes. It could be a dead animal: a rat or a baby rabbit. There was a vacant lot a half block away, a perfect springtime breeding ground, and the previous year Sharon had chained Commander after the fourth or fifth time he’d assassinated an infant bunny and brought it proudly up on the doorstep. The babies liked to roam. Sharon thought she’d successfully closed the small hole at the bottom of the fence, but now wondered if the bunnies had found a new hatch. She stepped to the edge of the deck. “Commander. Here.”

  The dog was a shadow among deeper shades of darkness behind the swing set’s slide. He dropped his burden between his forepaws and stood stock still, but made no move to approach her.

  Sharon stepped down into cool, tickling grass and circled the swing set, thinking for the thousandth time that Melanie had outgrown the damned slide and swings and that she should get rid of them. Commander whimpered as Sharon approached. Just enough police school training remained for him to hesitate at her command, but whatever lay between his feet had enough of his attention that he wasn’t about to go off and leave it. Sharon stroked the dog’s head. “Dumb old flunk-out,” she murmured, then bent to pick up the thing from the ground. It was slickly wet and dangled weightily from her hand. She moved back into the light and had a look.

  She was holding a raw steak, with a thick rind of fat encircling its perimeter and one jagged piece of bone clinging to its edge. The red meat was marbled with fingers of gristle.

  Sharon lifted the steak to her nose and sniffed; there was a faint sour odor like rotten eggs. She peered into the darkness beyond the fence. Was someone out there?

  He was hiding in the bushes, I’ll give you odds, giggling like a moron while this poor woman screamed her head off.

  A sob climbed up from Sharon’s throat. She grabbed Commander by his collar and, carrying the meat in her free hand, hauled the dog through the yard, across the deck, and back into the house. She locked the door from the inside and sagged against the den wall. Commander whined and sniffed at the beefsteak. Sharon patted his head. Her hand was trembling.

  It was obvious that the cop didn’t consider attempted dog poisonings a high-priority item. “You keep the dog in?” he said. He glanced at Sharon’s bare legs, then looked quickly away. A report form on a clipboard rested on his thigh. So far he’d filled in Sharon’s name and address.

  “He stays in the yard unless he’s on a leash,” she said. “Every once in a while he’ll scoot out through the front door when my daughter leaves it open, but we run him down as soon as we can.” Sharon was uncomfortable, sitting on the sofa in gym shorts as the policeman looked her over as if she were naked, and she wished she’d pulled on a pair of jeans before this guy and his partner had arrived. The steak, sealed inside a Ziplock bag, rested on the sofa between Sharon and the cop.

  “I know you probably watch him as much as you can,” the cop said, “but these animals are tough to keep up with. What I’m saying is, he could be roaming when you don’t know it. A lot of people, you know, get het up over dogs messing around in their yards.” He was around twenty-five with a pudgy face and brush mustache. His billed uniform cap lay on the coffee table, and he was doing his best to talk this schizo woman out of filing a complaint.

  “I know all that, Officer,” Sharon said. “That’s why I watch my dog and don’t let him wander around.”

  A heavy footfall sounded on the deck, then the second policeman entered the house. Commander dutifully brought up the rear, sniffing in curiosity at the cop’s pants leg. The newcomer was a tall, skinny drink of water with pimples on his neck, a bit older than his partner but still a couple of years short of thirty. In a few years, Sharon thought, Melanie and her friends will be ripe for this pair. She didn’t like the idea.

  “There was somebody out there, all right,” the second policeman said. “There’s footprints in the mud outside the fence, and more pieces of mud in a trail down the alley.” He glanced at Sharon’s legs and didn’t look away nearly as quickly as his partner had. The plastic bill of his uniform hat practically touched his nose. He put one hand under Commander’s snout to raise the dog’s head and look him over. “He doesn’t look any the worse for wear,” the cop said.

  “If he’d eaten any of it,” Sharon said, “you wouldn’t be saying that.” In an offbeat sort of way, she was glad these two were leering at her. She’d been on the verge of hysteria when she’d dialed 911, and had cried some while waiting for the squad car to arrive. Now, with these two ogling her and not particularly trying to hide the fact, her shock had subsided and she was merely good and mad. She curled her shins underneath and sat on her ankles. The two c
ops watched the leg show. “Of course someone was out there,” Sharon said. “That piece of meat didn’t just walk into the yard.”

  The younger cop tapped his clipboard with the eraser end of his pencil. “I think you need to know, ma’am. Once we turn this meat in at the lab, they’re liable to have you come down and fill out a bunch of forms. Probably will, in fact. There’s a lot of red tape. I smelled the meat myself. It’s poisoned. I don’t see where the type of poison makes any difference.” He glanced at his partner.

  “Not unless you’re interested in catching whoever did it.” Sharon put on her sweetest smile. “I don’t mind filling out the lab forms. I work downtown, anyway.”

  The second cop sat in a wing chair and crossed long legs. Commander sat nearby on his haunches, panting. The dog eyed the meat. Sharon scooted the bag and its contents away from the edge of the sofa cushion.

  “I know it makes you mad for this to happen,” the skinny cop said. “But I got to tell you, miss. If we do catch this old boy, his punishment won’t amount to much.” He had thick lips and a pointed nose. He took off his hat, revealing mouse brown hair receding from his forehead.

  “It’s a class-B misdemeanor,” Sharon said. “Thirty days plus a two-hundred-dollar fine. Normally it’s pled down to a class C, and the perpetrator pays about fifty bucks court costs. I still want to know who did this.”

  Commander’s panting punctuated ten seconds of silence, after which the younger cop said, “You a lawyer or something?”

  “I was a prosecutor with the DA’s office, and sometimes I go to lunch with Jill Thomas. She’s over the misdemeanor section.” Sharon folded her arms. “I’d like this to be a formal complaint, please.”

  The younger cop took his gaze quickly away from Sharon’s legs and poised his pencil over the complaint form. He cleared his throat. “What time was this?” He was suddenly all business, his neck flushed slightly and his tone more subdued.