by A. W. Gray
“Ten twenty-five on the dot when I let him out. Forty-five minutes ago, taking into account the half hour it took for you to respond to my call.” Sharon watched the skinny policeman. He sat up straighter, his expression now formal, and zeroed in on the far wall. When Sharon had answered the door, the older cop had been drinking a Coke from Kentucky Fried Chicken, and had later tossed the empty, ice and all, into the kitchen garbage. Sharon put both feet on the floor, crossed her legs, and let one bare foot rock up and down. Neither cop so much as glanced at her.
“I think the steak was out there long before that,” Sharon said. “The dog had been scratching to get out all evening.”
The young cop wrote something on the form. He looked up and opened his mouth to speak just as the telephone rang.
Sharon got up, crossed the room, and picked up the receiver. Her back to the policemen, she said, “Hello?”
“You asleep?” The rumbling voice on the line belonged to Russell Black.
Sharon bent her head forward. “Not exactly.”
“Bad news,” Black said. “They’ve already indicted our little girl.”
Sharon watched the carpet. “Damn.”
“I made a deal with Milt Breyer,” Black said, “that he’d let me know before they went into the grand jury. He told me he’d call me the minute the judge signed the adult certification order. Lyin’ bastard.”
Sharon permitted herself a small grin, and couldn’t resist saying, “I thought we didn’t talk about other lawyers, boss.”
“It’s different when it’s just between us.”
“That’s not what you told me.”
“Well, that’s what I’m sayin’ now,” Black said. “Don’t worry, I didn’t trust old Milt to begin with. I got a spy down at the jail, on the warrants desk. They’re movin’ Midge from juvenile down to the county tonight. If it wadn’t for the spy, the first we’d know about it was when the clerk called to tell us they were arraignin’ her on the adult charges.”
Sharon softly closed her eyes, picturing the grossly overweight teenager and what was likely to happen once they had her booked in with the big folks. “What time are they moving her?” Sharon said.
“About a half hour from now. I guess there’s not much for us to do ’til in the mornin’, but at least we can run over and visit her as soon as they open up.”
“No,” Sharon said hesitantly, then said more firmly, “No, Russ. I’m going down there.”
“Tonight?”
“That’s what I said.”
“I’m not stoppin’ you,” Black said. “But I don’t know what you think you can accomplish.”
“I just think someone should be with her. I know I’d want somebody there if it was my daughter. See you in the morning, boss.” Sharon hung up, then faced the two policemen. “I’m afraid I have to leave, gentlemen.”
The two cops appeared relieved. The younger one stood, holding his clipboard. “Well, if we can be of further help, let us know.”
“Oh, I will,” Sharon said. “Not only that, I’ll be at main police headquarters tomorrow to formalize my complaint. You fellas want to give me your badge numbers? Or maybe you can meet me and I won’t have to get the duty officer to call you in.” She smiled at them. “Say around two in the afternoon, okay?” Sharon said.
“Babysitting’s one thing,” Sheila said. “Dog sitting is another. Jeez, how much is in here?” She rattled the huge sack of Alpo which she had clutched to her chest, and bent her head to peer inside the bag.
“For Commander it’s a week’s supply,” Sharon said. They were in Sheila’s kitchen just inside the screen door. Trish and Melanie were bedded down in Trish’s room, though Sharon doubted that the giggly little girls would get much sleep. Visible through the screen, Commander sat on the bottom step with his head cocked in a puzzled attitude.
“I’m not keeping this monster for a week, Sharon. Friends are friends, but, you know.” Sheila wore a white shortie gown. Slim coffee-colored legs bent at the knees as she stooped to place the dog food on the floor.
“It’s just for tonight,” Sharon said. “I’ll guarantee you, I’ll pick him up by nine in the morning. And in return for you taking the girls to school tomorrow, I’ll pick up two days in a row. Scout’s honor.”
Sheila threw a dubious look in Commander’s direction. “I can see you bringing Melanie, but I thought the dog guarded the house while you were gone. How come I’m guarding him?”
“I can’t go into it now. Just trust me,” Sharon said. On the drive over, Melanie had grumped sleepily in the back while Commander nearly caused a wreck by sloppily licking Sharon’s face. If she took the time to fill Sheila in on the whole mess, she’d never make the jail in time. “I’ll tell all tomorrow,” Sharon said. “Promise.”
“Well, okay. Just this once. Can you feed him out of a bowl, or does it take a barrel?”
Sharon moved a step in the direction of the front door. She’d changed into jeans and scuffed white leather sneakers, and had given her hair a lick and a promise. “A big bowl,” she said. “A mixing bowl is what I use. I’ve got to go.” She hesitated, then said, “Sheila, have you got a gun?”
“Jesus, no, I’d shoot myself. Listen, if the old Mace doesn’t do the trick, I’m afraid I’m all theirs.” She dubiously raised an eyebrow. “What would you need a gun for?”
“No reason,” Sharon said quite softly, then strengthened her voice and said, “No reason, Sheila. Just thinking out loud, all right?”
Sharon arrived in the Lew Sterrett Justice Center basement just as they brought Midge through the tunnel into the glare of spotlights held aloft by gaffers as TV people pointed minicams. Midge wore ankle irons and handcuffs fastened to a chain around her waist. The mountain of a girl shuffled along in shackle-resisted baby steps, a burly deputy on either side as she moved slowly through the lobby toward the booking desk. Her unwashed hair hung in greasy strings; her eyes were wide in a dull stupor.
Sharon quickened her pace, her rubber soles whispering on painted concrete. A knot of reporters blocked her path. In the center of the group stood Milton Breyer, clad in a navy blue suit and tie, with Stan Green alongside wearing slacks and a sports shirt. Breyer smilingly answered the newspeople’s question while Green responded to inquiries with lantern-jawed silence; the Dallas County district attorney had brought another one back alive. Sharon grimly lowered her head and tried to walk around the group. Stan Green saw her and peevishly dropped his gaze.
A youngish male voice on Sharon’s right said, “Miss Hays. Miss Hays, any comment?”
Sharon turned. Andy Wade of the News approached, thick lenses shining in the glare like spacemen’s goggles. A Channel 8 minicam pointed its lens in her direction.
Sharon peered around the reporter to fix Milt Breyer with a look that might wilt roses. Breyer looked down at his shoes. Sharon faced the reporter. “This isn’t my show, Andy,” Sharon said. “It’s Mr. Breyer’s. Talk to him.”
“But it’s your client,” Wade said, steadying a steno pad, pencil ready. “At least tell me how she’s going to plead.”
Sharon expelled a breath. “What is it with you people? I guess the whole crew of you just happened to be in the jail basement at midnight in case a story breaks.”
Wade lifted, then dropped his shoulders. “I’m not sure. Somebody called the newsroom, I guess. Come on, any comment?” His voice took on a pleading tone.
Sharon had a comment, all right. A comment about DA’s who sneaked into grand jury rooms for indictments, then called press conferences in order to put helpless overweight teenage girls on display for the world to see. She opened, then closed her mouth. Finally she composed herself and said, “I haven’t seen the indictments. We’ll save our response for the courtroom, if it’s all right. Let me through, please.”
She shouldered her way in between Wade and a female reporter with the
Observer whose name Sharon couldn’t recall, and made her way past the mob. Midge was now halfway from the tunnel to the booking desk. One of the cameramen yelled something to the nearest deputy. The potbellied county man stood back in order to give the camera a better angle. Midge blinked dully at the lens.
Sharon quickly positioned herself between Midge and the camera. “For Christ’s sake, leave her alone,” she said. She quickly approached Midge. The deputy took a step forward to block her off. Sharon hissed, “I’m her lawyer. Stand back.” The deputy hesitated, unsure of himself, then moved aside. Sharon draped a protective arm around Midge and helped her toward the booking desk. Automatic Plexiglas doors hissed open. Three more uniformed deputies, two Hispanic men and a young black woman, waited at the desk.
Sharon put her lips close to Midge’s ear. “I’m sorry, Midge, they sneaked up on us. If we’d had any warning, we could’ve bypassed all these newsmen.”
Midge looked up. Blinding light painted a shadow of her nose on her right cheek. On her chin a ruptured pimple drained. “Where am I?” she said.
“It’s the main county jail. This is where they’re going to keep you now.” Sharon lowered her lashes in pity.
A female guard, a not-unpleasant woman in her thirties, approached to remove Sharon’s arm from Midge’s shoulders. “I’ll have to take her now,” the deputy said.
Sharon stepped helplessly away. Midge’s eyes were wet black jelly. Sharon tried to smile, but her mouth seemed frozen.
“I want to go home,” Midge said. “Please. When can I?”
The guard tugged her between the double doors toward the booking desk. The doors hissed closed. Sharon stood alone in the jail lobby as all around her cameras aimed.
Andy Wade said loudly, “Come on, Miss Hays, we go way back. Just one statement, huh?”
Sharon turned mutely to face the reporter. Her nose was suddenly stuffy, her vision blurry with unfallen tears.
14
Dallas County assistant DA Edward Teeter, chief felony prosecutor in the 357th District Court, already knew two of the three lawyers who now sat across from him. On Teeter’s left was Richard Waite, whose habit of filing appeal notices barely under the time-limit wire had earned him the nickname “Deadline Dicky.” Dicky Waite was rat thin with a pencil mustache, and wore designer jeans along with a tan Ultrasuede sports coat. Waite was strictly an appellate lawyer, seldom appeared in court, and dressed in whatever manner he pleased. I’m lucky, Teeter thought, that the guy’s not down here in his bathing suit.
Directly across from the prosecutor, on Dicky Waite’s left, sat Vernon Riggs. Impeccably dressed in a black three-piece, Counselor Riggs was bald as an egg and sported a full mad scientist’s beard. Riggs had recently won an acquittal in a robbery case with Ed Teeter representing the state. Teeter hated Riggs’ guts for whipping his ass in the courtroom, but being on Edward Teeter’s permanent shit list didn’t place Vernon Riggs in the minority. Teeter, in fact, hated every attorney who didn’t work for the DA’s office, and even despised some of those who did.
The third visiting lawyer was a man whom Teeter had never seen before. Teeter half rose and extended his hand across his desk. “Ed Teeter. I don’t think we’ve met.”
The stranger was medium height, medium build, with medium-length brown hair, and wore a charcoal gray suit with a starched white shirt. A bright red tie was his only distinguishing feature; the man was as ordinary-looking as Ross Perot. Teeter thought that if he didn’t get a good make on this guy, he’d never recognize him if he saw him again. The stranger took Teeter’s hand and exerted a medium grip. “Samuel Jones,” the stranger said. “Jones and Jones.”
I’ll bet even the guy’s shirt’s a medium, Teeter thought. He resumed his seat and smiled. “Three lawyers come to see a man on Monday morning, the man must be in trouble. What can I do for you guys?” Teeter’s smile appeared painted on and showed no warmth. All three visiting lawyers knew that the smile was a phony, Teeter knew that they knew it, and the four of them had an understanding.
Dicky Waite crossed his legs and folded his hands around his knee. “Eddie, we got a small disagreement we think you can solve for us.”
Teeter’s office was up on the Crowley Building’s eleventh floor, but he now held forth at the judge’s assistant’s desk behind the 357th courtroom, adjacent to the jurist’s chambers. Teeter bent forward to peer through the partly open doorway into Judge Ralph Briscoe’s pad. Rascally Ralph was in there, all right, iron gray locks inclined as he studied a magazine. Teeter hurriedly got up and closed the door, then resumed his seat. “Man, I can’t even referee the clerks’ arguments around here. How am I going to help three lawyers?” Teeter had a round face and pointed nose to go with an overhanging belly and pipe-stem legs. He wore his office suit, dark brown in contrast to the dress-for-power black he donned for trials.
Vernon Riggs stroked his smooth scalp, then pulled on his beard. “The problem has to do with a case in this court. State versus Wilfred Donello. You need to get the file?” He opened his briefcase to remove a thick manila envelope.
It was all that Teeter could do to keep from curling his lip; a man who beat Ed Teeter in court owed him one for life. In Riggs’ case, Teeter wouldn’t settle for less than a quart of blood. “I might,” Teeter said, “and I might not. Depends on what you want. I’m pretty familiar with the Donello case without the file.”
Samuel Jones, the stranger, sat forward and touched his fingertips together. “It’s your case? I thought—”
“It’s an inherited case,” Teeter said. “Sharon Hays actually tried it. She quit, as I’m sure y’all know. Milt Breyer was the main prosecutor on Donello, but now he’s on the Rathermore case. They indicted the Rathermore girl last week, so that will be Milt’s full-time occupation for a while. There’s nothing left on Donello but the sentencing, so for the duration the case is mine. Not much to that bastard’s sentencing, to be honest with you.”
“He’ll get some time, huh?” Waite said.
“You betchum, Red Ryder,” Teeter said.
“Ed,” Riggs said, drawing a stapled sheath of papers from his envelope, “I know you’re a busy man, so we’ll be brief. Wilfred Donello called my office the other day, and I visited him in the jail. In a manner of speaking, he’s retained me.”
“So he’s got a lawyer,” Teeter said. “Good. He needs one.”
“The problem is,” Riggs said, “that according to Mr. Waite here, he’s Donello’s lawyer.” He looked at Dicky Waite, who nodded emphatically.
Teeter rocked back in the judge’s assistant’s chair. “So he’s got two lawyers. That’s twice as good.” He grinned. It wasn’t that unusual for a jailbird to wind up hiring two lawyers; the dirtball would hire one attorney and then, if the first lawyer didn’t get any results, would retain another guy without dismissing the first attorney. The confusion among attorneys tickled the DA’s office to death; having two lawyers duke it out made it easier to put the screws to the defendant.
Samuel Jones pinched his chin. “There’s very little humor in this situation, Mr. Teeter.”
“There’s not? Let me guess.” Teeter pointed a finger. “You represent Donello, too. Now he’s got three lawyers. What, the fucking guy’s going for a record?”
Jones raised a hand, palm out. “No need to be profane.”
Teeter glanced back and forth between Waite and Riggs. “Where you come up with this fucking guy?” Teeter said. Riggs shrugged. Waite regarded the far wall.
“The fact is,” Jones said, “that I represent Howard Saw.”
Teeter blinked. “Now, that’s real nice, Mr. Jones. Howard Saw’s dead. But if you want to represent him, feel free.”
“His estate, that is,” Jones said. “I’m strictly a probate attorney.”
So that’s why I’ve never seen this guy, Teeter thought. “How much did old Howard leave?” he said.
&n
bsp; “That isn’t the issue.” Medium conservative attorney Samuel Jones obviously was having a hard time controlling himself. Which was exactly the position in which Ed Teeter loved to put people. Jones adjusted the knot on his tie. “I’m just expressing my position in this matter. Now that I have done that, I’ll fall silent and let these fellows carry on.”
“Good,” Teeter said. “You do that.”
Vernon Riggs heaved a sigh and rolled his eyes. “There’s a full docket this morning, Ed. In thirty minutes I’m pleading a guy in the 277th, at ten o’clock I got to be down in the 356th for a bond hearing. I’d like a few minutes to talk to my guy in the 277th before he cops to murder if it’s okay.”
Teeter motioned toward the door. “Be my guest. I’m not stopping you. You guys came to me last time I checked.”
“That’s right, we did.” Riggs pulled on his beard. “I’ll tell you what, though. If you keep on making with the jokes instead of listening to the problem, I’ll bypass you and talk to the judge.”
Teeter opened his mouth to tell Riggs where to get off, then hesitated. Riggs was just the kind of prick who would go to the judge, and the number one duty of the chief felony prosecutor in a district court, on days when a trial wasn’t in progress, was to see that the judge didn’t have anything to do. As long as he kept the judge happy, he could do pretty much as he pleased, but if Riggs was to interrupt Judge Briscoe’s magazine reading, there’d be hell to pay. Teeter relaxed his posture. “Well, what is it,” he said, “that you guys are having a problem with?”
“As I already told you,” Riggs said, “Wilfred Donello wants me to represent him in connection with certain things. I quoted him a fee.”
“Sounds reasonable,” Teeter said. “But what’s he want to hire a lawyer for? A court-appointed guy can stand up at his sentencing just as well. Either way the guy’s going to get the maximum.”
“That’s what I thought,” Riggs said. “But it turns out, Mr. Donello’s got other things in mind than his sentencing. The fee I quoted, well, he doesn’t have any money. He gave all his money to Howard Saw before his trial, and the fee he paid Saw included the cost of the appeal in case Donello was convicted. Now Mr. Donello says he doesn’t want to appeal, but wants a refund from Mr. Saw so that he can retain me.”
