by A. W. Gray
Brie loaded the lights, camera, and battered suitcase into the LeBaron, then drove over to meet Guillermo. The Mexican was on time as agreed, and handed Brie a wad of American money in exchange for fifty-eight rolls of prime-quality pussy film. Brie had thought of something during the night, and now slung his arm around Guillermo’s shoulders to make a request in hushed tones. Guillermo nodded, then led the way on foot two blocks down dusty streets with water-filled gutters to knock on the door of an adobe shack. An old man answered. Brie then paid the old man two hundred dollars for four sets of steel handcuffs, fifty feet of quarter-inch rope, and an eighteen-inch dildo. Two sets of cuffs were for the lawyer lady and her daughter; the spare cuffs were just in case the lady’s nigger friends happened to be along. Bradford Brie thought of everything. He didn’t expect to have to deal with the jungle bunny and her picaninny, but a smart and stand-up con like Bradford Brie came prepared. Besides, a little salt-and-pepper action would make good film.
Barely an hour later, Brie stopped at the border checkpoint on the US side of the Rio Grande bridge. He told the Customs people that he had nothing in his car except for his clothing and picture-taking equipment, then snugged up his sunglasses and watched the tourists—women in slacks or shorts, men showing white legs in Bermudas with cheap-ass cameras dangling from their necks—stream back and forth between the States and Mexico while the federal assholes searched the LeBaron’s trunk. Finally the Customs agent made a notation on a clipboard and waved the old Chrysler through. Brie had known that the feds wouldn’t search his pocket; the stupid assholes never did.
With Mexico now behind him, one smart con named Bradford Brie pointed the LeBaron’s nose north on the San Antonio highway. It was a six-hundred-mile drive to Dallas, and Brie would take his time. By now the lawyer lady would have gotten over the poisoning of her dog, and would just now be letting down her guard. And that’s just the way a smart con like Bradford Brie wanted the broad. He briefly pictured Sharon Hays’s little girl, her scrawny legs as she’d dashed through the rain into the schoolhouse. Brie wasn’t certain, but thought the child was old enough to sprout some pubic hair.
17
As Kathleen Fraterno called state’s witness Christopher Leonard to the stand, Sharon Hays leaned back and whispered to Anthony Gear, “The redhead, third row. He’s the other one.”
Anthony Gear was seated just behind and in between Sharon and Midge Rathermore at the defense table. Gear was a private detective who had retired from the FBI three years ago. He was in his fifties, dark-complexioned, with sagging jowls. His face was lined with sun wrinkles. Gear wore dark slacks, a plaid sports coat, a yellow shirt, and a dark green tie. Russ Black had employed the detective two other times, and had told Sharon that Gear wasn’t any more of a goof-off than any other private cop. Given Black’s opinion of retired law enforcement people in general, the older lawyer’s assessment was high praise. Sharon had called Deborah North in Oklahoma City, and Midge’s mom had borne the additional expense without batting an eye.
Gear directed his attention three rows deep in the spectator section. State’s witness Troy Burdette was seated in between his parents. Burdette’s mother wore a pale red suit and a fifty-dollar Neiman-Marcus upswept hairdo. The witness’ father was in a blue pinstripe suit that was five hundred dollars off the rack if it was a dime. Troy Burdette had bright red hair and wore an oversized gray polo shirt. If Sharon hadn’t known that this kid had helped bludgeon a man to death, he would have had her vote for Most Likely to Succeed. True to form, the state had permitted its witnesses to remain free on bond for the duration of the Rathermore trial. Though the cushy deal cut for the two young murderers was reduced to writing, it wasn’t engraved in stone. The boys’ sentencing wasn’t to occur until after Midge’s trial, and the degree to which the state lived up to its bargain was dependent on the witnesses’ testimony. So goes justice, Sharon thought.
Defense counsel had waived the Rule for purposes of the examining trial. The Rule, if invoked, would have required that all witnesses stay outside the courtroom during testimony, and the waiving of the Rule had caused glances of triumph between Fraterno and Milt Breyer. The prosecution’s joy, Sharon knew, was just fine with Russell Black. The Rule was a sham to begin with; Breyer and Fraterno would have filled their witnesses in on testimony during breaks in the action anyway. With the witnesses in the courtroom, Anthony Gear could have a good look at Leonard, Burdette, and, hopefully, Midge’s stepmother, Linda Rathermore. Gear turned to Sharon and whispered, “I’ve already got Burdette on my list.” Sharon nodded and returned her gaze to the front.
Christopher Leonard raised his right hand. The clerk asked Leonard if he swore to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help Leonard God. Leonard responded with a subdued “I do,” just as the DA’s would have tutored him. This boy was tall, dark-haired, and rangy as a rookie golf pro. As he listened to Fraterno’s initial question, he broke into a what-me-worry grin. The jury’s going to love this pair, Sharon thought.
“Please state your full name for the record.”
“Christopher Thomas Leonard.” Voice straight from Dobie Gillis.
Sharon tuned out the testimony and madly searched her notes. Prior to the court’s convening there had been a meeting in Judge Griffin’s chambers, during which Fraterno had raised the roof over the defense’s shotgun approach at Midge’s certification hearing. The judge had instructed that whichever defense attorney began questioning of a witness, the same lawyer had to ask all questions until another witness took the stand. Black had pow-wowed with Sharon, and the two had agreed that he was to ask the questions today while she attended to other knitting. She located a name on her legal pad, wrote “Leslie Schlee,” on a phone slip, underlined the name twice, tore off the page, and nudged Anthony Gear. Gear leaned forward.
Sharon whispered, “This chick. She’s the one that originally snitched on these boys. We need to know all about her and why she’s not on the state’s witness list. Chris Leonard’s her boyfriend. Or was.” She handed the slip to Gear. Gear nodded, folded the slip, and put it away.
Sharon turned to the front to find Judge Griffin staring daggers at her. Sandy Griffin had wavy blond hair, a smooth forehead, and a pointed chin. She had left the DA’s office to run for judge during Sharon’s third year as a prosecutor. As a lawyer, Judge Griffin had been every bit as thorough as Kathleen Fraterno, which was saying a mouthful. The judge shunned all social activity—which had caused speculation among some as to whether Sandy Griffin was a lesbian, which Sharon considered a crock—her only apparent passion the law. She would listen open-mindedly to arguments from both sides, and she didn’t stand for any bullshit in her courtroom. Sharon showed the judge an apologetic smile and pretended to concentrate on what the witness was saying.
Fraterno’s question was: “And it was just this year that you transferred from public to private school?”
Sharon already knew the answer. The fine young man now testifying on behalf of the state had been a student at W. T. White, a public high school, and had stolen the principal’s car. The court had granted juvenile probation, and daddy had opened his wallet to send the kid to St. Mark’s. Had really straightened the boy out, Sharon thought. Now he’s only a murderer. Leonard answered yes to Fraterno’s question.
“Would you please tell the court how you first became acquainted with Midge Rathermore?”
On Sharon’s right, Midge yanked on a wad of greasy hair that was plastered together. On Sharon’s special request the court had ordered Midge provided with clothes that fit, the result being that she now wore a male prisoner’s jumpsuit the size of a circus tent. Her body odor permeated the surrounding area; when Anthony Gear had first spotted the client, the detective had visibly winced.
“Midge?” Leonard said.
“Yes.” Fraterno was alone on the prosecution side, her company being two empty chairs that normally would have held the
respective fannies of Milton Breyer and Stan Green. After the preliminary jousting in the judge’s office, Breyer had made excuses and left. Milt had announced over the weekend as a candidate for the currently vacant congressional seat for the North Dallas / Highland Park district, and likely was off to meddle in politics. Stan Green, Sharon knew, was seated at the rear of the courtroom with Linda Rathermore. The homicide cop would be giving the state’s star witness some last-minute prompting, and likely would be trying to figure the closest route into Linda’s pants. Fat chance of that, Sharon thought. Fraterno folded her hands and waited for Leonard to answer.
“First time I ever saw Midge was at a dance,” Leonard said.
“A school function?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“St. Mark’s and Hockaday are socially coordinated, aren’t they?”
Leonard showed the Alfred E. Neuman grin. “Beg pardon?”
“I mean, Hockaday invites St. Mark’s boys to their dances, and vice versa.”
“Yes, ma’am, that’s true. This was a Christmas dance last year.”
“And who introduced you to Miss Rathermore?” Fraterno said.
“Nobody, exactly. There were all these guys around her.”
“Was one of them Miss Rathermore’s date?”
Leonard looked at Midge. His grin widened. “Oh, no, ma’am. Nobody’d ask old Midge for a date.” He snickered, and an answering giggle came from the spectator pews. Sharon turned. Troy Burdette had a hand cupped over his mouth. After a stern nudge from his father, young Troy straightened up.
Coldness clutched Sharon’s insides as she glanced at Midge. Since her transfer to the main jail, her complexion had cleared and she’d even lost some weight. Sharon was familiar with the Lew Sterrett menu from her days as a prosecutor, and understood why Midge was thinner. “Thinner” didn’t mean “more attractive” in Midge’s case because the weight loss had created folds of loose, blotchy skin. The pitiful teenager regarded her own intertwined fingers. Nothing in life, Sharon thought, could be more heartbreaking than being the girl whom no one wanted to date, and even Midge was bright enough to feel the pain. Sharon blinked a tear back and concentrated on the testimony.
Fraterno spoke in a flat monotone. “So she had no date, but there were boys around her. What happened next?”
Christopher Leonard continued to smile. “This guy, I think it was a guy named Randy, told me they were fixing to get her outside.”
Sharon gently closed her eyes as, on her left, Russ Black drew a breath. Since the purpose of the examining trial was to get the state’s case out in the open, objections at this point would be foolish. But criminy, Sharon thought, do they have to get into this?
“Get her outside?”
“Yes, ma’am. For … you know.”
Sharon looked at Judge Griffin, whose gaze was riveted on the table before her. Even the judge was having a hard time with this.
“For sex?” Fraterno said.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Fraterno paused for effect, then said, “And did they?”
“Sure did.”
“Chris, weren’t there chaperones at these school functions?”
“They had some, some teachers and parents. Nobody paid much attention to us.”
Now even Fraterno sounded put off. “So you and the other boys took Miss Rathermore outside?”
“To a car. Yes, ma’am.”
“And you’d never seen Miss Rathermore before that night.”
“Seen her, yeah.” Leonard’s grin was so maddening that Sharon wanted to stalk to the witness stand and slap the boy’s face, contempt citation or no. “Old Midge is hard to miss.” Leonard’s smile broadened.
“Young man.” Sandy Griffin sat stiffly forward, her voice like that of a drill sergeant. “I’m going to instruct you to answer the questions without the added humor. If you think these proceedings are funny, maybe they’ll look more serious to you from jail.” The judge looked at Black like, That’s all the help I can give you.
The smirk disappeared from Leonard’s face, and he looked down at his knees.
“Chris,” Fraterno said, “how many boys had sex with Midge Rathermore that evening? As best you remember.”
On Sharon’s right, Midge sniffled. A tear rolled down, streaking blotchy skin.
“It’s hard to say,” Leonard said. “Must have been twelve or thirteen. I was way back in line.”
Anthony Gear touched Sharon’s elbow from behind. She turned as he jerked a thumb toward the rear of the courtroom. “This note,” he whispered, offering a folded slip of paper. “Lady back there wants you.”
Sharon gazed past rows of reporters, who were madly scribbling on steno pads, and zeroed in on the courtroom exit. Good God, Sharon thought.
Deborah North stood behind the last row of spectator pews. Deb was watching the witness stand, an expression on her face as if she were viewing a horror movie. Her mouth was open in shock.
Sharon made tracks. Ignoring the questioning look from Judge Griffin, she went through the gate and hurried up the aisle. Stan Green and Linda Haymon Rathermore were in the two seats nearest the aisle on Sharon’s left, two rows from the back. Linda was blond and showcase beautiful, with the confident posture of someone used to being in the public eye. The homicide cop seemed out of his element, clodhopper Romeo beside Royal Princess. He glanced up at Sharon. She ignored him, reached the rear of the courtroom, and hustled Deborah North out into the corridor.
“I’m sorry you had to hear that,” Sharon said.
Deborah North sank onto a bench like a deflating tire. “My sweet Jesus,” she said.
Sharon sat down as well. “I want you to know that’s the first time we’ve heard that garbage.”
“Even if it’s true,” Deb said, “what’s the point?” She wrung her hands.
“It goes to the character of the defendant,” Sharon said, “which the state is entitled to present. I’ll have to think on it, but that crap might backfire in front of a jury. It shows that Midge might not be, well, all there.”
“That she’d do that …”
“I know,” Sharon said. “I wish you hadn’t come. My message was just for you to call me.”
“I couldn’t stand sitting up there in Oklahoma doing nothing, so I drove down this morning.” Deb wore matching green slacks and blouse, with a light green scarf at her throat. She touched the scarf. “I’d meant to go shopping and come by your office later, but I couldn’t stay away.”
“Has anyone from the prosecution tried to contact you?” Sharon said.
Deb shook her head no.
“Well, they might. They know you’re her mother. Listen, I called you because if we’re going to help Midge, we’re going to have to change some ground rules.”
Deb raised one plucked brown eyebrow.
“None of us can communicate with Midge,” Sharon said. “She’ll brighten if you want to talk about what’s on at the movies, but anytime we try to discuss the case, she clams up. Her contribution thus far is less than zero. Defending a client who won’t help you is next to impossible.”
“I suppose it hurts her,” Deb said. “It hurts me, too.”
“That makes three of us. Believe me. Here’s what we’re facing, Deb. Midge is emotionally disturbed, but an insanity defense is out of the question because the crime is premeditated. The defense we’re about to hang our hats on has to do with sexual abuse, father against daughter. Her sister … Susan, is that right?”
Deb looked at Sharon like, yes, it is.
“According to the only information we’ve been able to get out of Midge, he abused Susan. I suspect he may have tried to put the girls in competition for his attention in some way. If we have a chance in this world, we’re going to have to prove the abuse against Susan, and Susan’s own words are the only things that can help us. We nee
d for Susan to testify.”
Deb seemed far away, an exceptionally attractive woman approaching middle age, not wanting to face up to the fact that she’d given up her children, taken the money, and run. Sharon’s own choice to raise Melanie the best way possible come hell or high water gave her trouble working up sympathy for Deb. Sharon had a boat load of compassion for Midge, however, and needed Deb’s help in the worst of ways.
“I’m listening,” Deb finally said.
“Susan’s vanished,” Sharon said. “Oh, the prosecution knows where she is, you can bet on that, and so does Linda Rathermore. Susan withdrew from Hockaday School three days after the murders, and the people at the school don’t know beans about her whereabouts. Anthony Gear—that’s the investigator we’ve hired—I suspect Mr. Gear can locate Susan pretty quickly, but finding her is only part of the problem. The only chance we’re going to have in getting Susan to talk about what happened is for you to intercede, Deb. It’ll strip you of your anonymity, but I think it’s the only way. Susan won’t respond to me or Russ Black any more than Midge is doing. We have to have your help, and I mean with something besides your checkbook.”
Deb fumbled with her purse. “Can I smoke here?”
Sharon glanced up and down the hall. “All these county buildings are designated smoke-free, but wait a minute.” She got up and went down the hall to a utility closet. Two custodians were inside, smoking like fiends, their feet up, shooting the bull. The smoke in the closet was thick as acrid fog. Sharon excused herself, found an ashtray on a shelf, and returned to Deb. “Puff away,” Sharon said. “If anyone says anything, I’ll cover for you.”
