by A. W. Gray
Deb lit up with trembling hands, puffed, inhaled. “I haven’t told you this. But I did talk to Midge once, four years ago.”
Sharon sat on the bench, crossed her legs, and folded her arms.
“It took some doing,” Deb said. “Friend of a friend, a lady who taught Midge in grammar school. I arranged for this woman to take Midge to the school office and call me in Oklahoma. I remember my one and only line. ‘Hello, darling. This is your mother.’”
Deb watched smoke drift toward the ceiling. “She didn’t say anything for … about thirty seconds, I guess.” Her face twisted in anguish. “Then she screamed something like, ‘My mother? I hate you.’ She said a few other things as well. Called me a wrinkled old bitch, if my memory serves me correctly. Do you wonder why I haven’t tried to contact the kids anymore?”
“I know that was tough,” Sharon said. “And I can’t promise there won’t be another scene. But something’s got to shock both Susan and Midge into talking to us, and I don’t know anything other than a confrontation with their real mother that might help.”
Deb’s mouth bunched at the corners. “What do you want me to do?”
“As far as Susan goes,” Sharon said, “we can cross that bridge when and if Mr. Gear locates her. But I want you to go with me to visit Midge tonight, in the special lawyers’ visiting area at the jail. I’ll arrange for us to be alone with her. For what it’s worth, you can count on me for a shoulder to lean on.”
Deb stubbed out her cigarette. Smoke rose from the ashtray in a thin bluish line. “I’ll go,” she said. “I’ll do anything that might help. But get ready to hang onto me. If my daughter rejects me again, I might run screaming out of the room.”
Kathleen Fraterno’s tone now hinted of horror afoot. “Chris, are you certain that’s what she told you?”
“Positive. Yes, ma’am.” Christopher Leonard, mop of black hair swept low on his forehead, straight from Beverly Hills 90210.
“In the food court at Valley View Mall, where you kids gathered from time to time?”
“In front of the taco stand,” Leonard said. “Midge ate a lotta tacos.” The corners of his mouth turned up, then immediately straightened.
“And this was right after she gave you the slip of paper with the security code written on it. The code for disarming the Rathermores’ burglar alarm.”
“Sure was.”
Fraterno bent forward in her chair to peer around Russell Black and Sharon, and to fix an accusing gaze directly on Midge. “This is very important, Chris,” Fraterno said. “So there will be no question. Repeat for the court what Midge Rathermore said to you at that time.” She leaned back and calmly watched the witness.
“She sa—” Leonard’s voice broke. He cleared his throat. “She said that she wanted him dead.”
“Her father?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Dead.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Fraterno rustled her file while, all through the courtroom, pens and pencils scratched as the reporters wrote madly away. Finally Fraterno looked at Russell Black. “Pass the witness,” she said.
Sharon reached over to pat Midge’s hand. Midge was watching Christopher Leonard with a look near hero worship. Thank God the jury’s not here, Sharon thought. Defense attorneys normally waived cross in examining trials, not wishing to expose any hole cards, but Sharon and Black had agreed to ask a few questions in Midge’s behalf. The defense was desperate for witnesses of their own.
“I’m Russell Black, Mr. Leonard,” the older lawyer said, “representin’ Miss Rathermore. Now, you said earlier that you and Mr. Burdette spent quite a bit of time over at the Rathermores’, is that right?”
“Yeah,” Leonard said, then caught Fraterno staring daggers in his direction and said more softly, “Yes, sir.”
“So the Rathermores’ house was a gathering place for you kids?”
“We went there a lot.”
“To eat, watch a little television …”
“Kind of fool around, yes, sir.”
“… kind of rally around in a cozy atmosphere.”
“Objection.” Fraterno testily folded her arms.
“Sustained,” Judge Griffin said. “Stick to the issues, please, Mr. Black.”
“Sure thing, Judge. Were there any other kids makin’ a habit of hanging around the Rathermore house, Mr. Leonard?”
“A few, sometimes.”
“Mr. Leonard, do you know a young lady named Leslie Schlee?”
“Sure. Yes, sir.”
“Was she at the Rathermores’ sometimes?” Black said.
“I guess she was.”
“Okay. Did Leslie Schlee, or anybody else, did anyone besides you and Mr. Burdette back there”—pointing at the spectator section, where the redhead sat between his parents—“hear Midge Rathermore make an offer to you two in exchange for killing her father?”
“No. It was just us three.”
“Just you three,” Black said. “What kids came over besides Leslie?”
Leonard flashed Fraterno a glance of alarm. “I’m not …”
“I’m askin’ you,” Black said, “what other teenagers, friends of yours, frequented the house at the same time you and Mr. Burdette were over there watchin’ television and playin’ Scrabble and whatnot. And plottin’ to murder this man in his bedroom.”
“Objection,” from Fraterno.
“Sustained,” from Judge Griffin, accompanied by an exasperated lifting of her eyebrows.
“I’ll withdraw the last part,” Black said. “Who else hung out over there, Mr. Leonard?”
Leonard seemed helpless; clearly the prosecution hadn’t schooled their witness for this line of questioning. Unexpected queries in cross-examination generally brought the most truthful answers given in the courtroom. Sharon favored her boss with a look of respect.
“There might have been one or two others,” Leonard finally said.
“One or two others. Can you remember any of their names?”
“Not except for Troy. The other kids, we didn’t know them.”
“How many other kids were there, Mr. Leonard?”
“Sometimes … fifteen or twenty, I guess.”
Black stiffened in shock, and Sharon pressed so hard on her pencil, taking notes, that she nearly broke the point. As many as twenty high school kids, sitting around waiting their turns for sex with Midge, or perhaps even good old congenial Mr. and Mrs. Rathermore. Sharon quickly wrote a note on a yellow stick-up and passed it over her shoulder to Anthony Gear. “We need to find some of these kids,” she whispered to the detective.
“And you can’t give us one single name?” Black said.
Sharon noted that Fraterno was scribbling as well. The prosecutor laid down her pen and gave the witness a quizzical look.
“I never heard any,” Leonard said.
“You sure of that?” Black’s shaggy brows moved closer together.
“Yes, sir, I’m sure.”
Black swiveled his head and looked at Sharon like, Anything else? She shrugged her shoulders. “No further questions,” he said.
It was nearly five, so Judge Griffin recessed for the day. Midge docilely followed the bailiff back to the holding cell while Black held an off-to-one-side conference with Kathleen Fraterno. Sharon hadn’t spoken to Kathleen since lunch at Joe Willie’s, and purposefully remained at the defense table, polishing up her notes. Anthony Gear hustled to the back and out into the hall; Sharon had arranged for the detective to meet with Deborah North to pick her brain. Sharon felt a hand on her shoulder. She turned her head around.
Stan Green bent close and said rather sheepishly, “Didn’t you get my messages?”
Christ, Sharon thought, his horn is honking. “All five of them, Stan. You used up nearly the whole tape on my machine.” She lowered her
head and continued to write.
Green lowered himself into a chair beside her. “Goddammit, Sharon, I need to see you.”
Sharon pursed her mouth and expelled air. “It’s over, Stan.”
“No, it’s not.” His jaw thrust forward. “It’s not over ’til I say it’s over.”
Sharon blinked in sudden anger. “God, what are you, Yogi Berra? It’s finished. Kaput. You’re wasting your time. And while we’re at it, quit calling me and hanging up. Please be adult enough to say something when I answer the phone.”
Green narrowed his eyes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’m talking about grown men who act like children, calling women at three in the morning and then hanging up. One of these times a man may answer.”
“I’ve never done anything like that in my life,” he said.
Sharon studied his expression. He didn’t look as if he was lying. Stan Green had an infantile streak a mile long, but …
“I don’t believe you, Stan,” Sharon finally said. “Who else would be calling me at that time of night?”
18
Assistant DA Edward Teeter entered the conference room and quickly assessed the situation: Vernon Riggs, dressed in a high-dollar blue suit, lounging in a chair with his shin propped against the long, polished table’s edge; Wilfred Donello alongside his lawyer, Donello’s close-set eyes glaring hatred, tattooed forearms showing muscle like twisted rope. Riggs’ beard was freshly barbered, the top of his head smooth as sanded wood. Donello wore white jail-issue shirt and pants. Teeter halted just inside the door and pointed at Donello. Teeter said to the guard, “This guy’s not handcuffed.”
The uniformed sheriff’s deputy, a thin-faced, clean-shaven man in his thirties, stood alone in the corner of the room. “You just said bring him over from the jail, you didn’t say nothing about cuffing the guy. He’s not going to pull anything with me standing here.” The guard adjusted the revolver inside his Sam Browne holster for emphasis.
“Well, I’d just as soon,” Teeter said, “that we don’t have you shooting a gun off in the courthouse. The judges might get nervous, you know? So handcuff the asshole.”
The guard frowned, but stepped quickly forward to cuff Donello to one arm of the chair. Attorney Riggs watched with an expression of mild amusement. Once Donello was cuffed, Teeter sat down across from prisoner and lawyer and grinned. “Mr. Donello,” Teeter said. “How you doing?”
Donello rubbed his shackled wrist and gave a look like, How you think I’m doing?
“Things aren’t going so well for you,” Teeter said. “Well, maybe this will make you feel better.” He set his briefcase on his lap, braced the edge of the case against his belly, and unsnapped the catches. He handed Donello’s lawyer a letter in duplicate. “Here go, Vern,” Teeter said. “One snitch contract, sealed, delivered, and ready for signing.”
Riggs held the letter by one corner and fished in his pocket for bifocals. He read silently. Donello cracked his knuckles.
“I never been a snitch in my fuckin’ life,” Donello said.
Teeter squinted to make certain Donello’s handcuff was secure, then breezily crossed his legs. “Let’s just say,” he said, “that you’ve never had the right opportunity. All you hardasses come over sooner or later. Being on the right side makes time easier to do. Trust me.” Christ, Teeter thought, look at the arms on the guy.
Donello’s expression said that he didn’t trust the DA as far as he could spit. Donello started to say something, but Riggs stopped his client with a wave of his hand. Riggs took off his glasses and laid them on the table, lenses down, with the earpieces sticking up in the air.
“This isn’t exactly the way we discussed.” Riggs waved the letter.
Teeter stayed deadpan, but inside he was laughing. Jerking defense attorneys around was the way he got his jollies. “What’s the problem?” he said. He winked at the guard.
“I think you already know the problem,” Riggs said, dropping the letter alongside his glasses. “We talked about time. Ten years, you said, and my guy could be on the street in eighteen months. My client’s agreeing to inform, but you’re not specifying how much time he’s going to do. Under this deal the judge could go ahead and give him the maximum.”
“We’re dropping the habitual clause in the guy’s indictment,” Teeter said.
“He can still get ninety-nine years,” Riggs said. “Big deal.”
Donello struggled, trying to rise. The handcuff chain tautened and clinked. The guard stepped forward in a movie gunslinger pose. Donello sat down. “I knew not to trust these fuckers.”
That’s the ticket, Teeter thought, get ’em by the balls and then stick it to the guy. “Hold on,” he said. “You got my word, the ten goes. Trust me.” He smiled.
Riggs flattened his hand and made a sawing motion. “With nothing in writing, no way.”
“Okay,” Teeter said. “Let me tell you how it is. I’m not making any promises to this guy until I know his information’s legitimate. He says he can give us the guy did Howard Saw. There’s a lot of people around town think whoever offed Howard should get a medal. But I’m a prosecutor. I got to prosecute, right? So if Donello gives up the guy, a deal’s a deal. But no way am I going to specify short time in writing until I got the fucking guy downtown here. What if we give Mr. Donello the ten and then he don’t know shit, huh? I’m going to look pretty stupid.”
Now it was Riggs’ turn to put on an Honest Abe expression. “His information’s good, Ed. We’ve got to meet one another halfway.”
Teeter stabbed the air with a finger. “Let me tell you what’s halfway. Your man is halfway to doing so much time he’ll be eating baby food by the time he hits the streets. I’m halfway to walking the fuck out of here and forgetting the whole thing. It’s just another case to me. Now. He gives us information about Howard Saw, sits up and testifies like a little man, the ten years is solid. One fuckup between indictment and conviction on your boy’s part, and there’s no deal. Nada. Take it or leave it.”
Riggs put on his bifocals and pointed at the letter. “Well, what’s wrong with reducing that to writing? What you just said. If Donello renegs, the deal’s off. What’s wrong with that?”
Teeter had known before he entered this meeting that he was going to pull the carpet routine, and decided that the time was right. “What’s wrong with it,” he said, “is that I’m not putting shit in writing. You got that. Now. You see that line?” The prosecutor pointed at the open corridor door. The conference room carpet was beige. The hallway carpet was green. The two carpets were joined in the doorway by a line of stitches. “I’m headed out of here,” Teeter said. “You want the deal, you make up your mind, right now. Once my foot lands on green carpet, the deal’s off. I got no more time to fuck with your client.” Teeter stood and straightened his coat. He picked up the letter and put it away in his briefcase. Riggs sat still, not saying anything. Teeter hefted his briefcase and took measured steps, one, two, three, four, and prepared to walk through the doorway. The carpet routine never failed. Determination was the key, no hesitation, convincing the defense lawyer that you were walking the fuck out and there was no turning back. Teeter lifted his foot. Donello said, “Wait a minute.”
Teeter relaxed, withdrew his foot from the hallway, and stepped down on beige carpet. He turned, smiling. “Yeah?”
Riggs pointed at a chair. “Sit down, Ed.”
Teeter returned to sit. Ah, the carpet routine. He crossed his legs. “Okay, I’m listening.”
Donello wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I got more than I told you.”
“Oh?” Teeter said. “Imagine that.”
“More information,” Donello said.
Sure, he does, Teeter thought. Nothing like the old carpet routine to get ’em to singing the high notes. “If you got more, you might make a better deal,” Teete
r said.
“This guy I’m talking,” Donello said. “He done Howard Saw, okay. But there’s somebody else he’s planning to off. A woman.”
Teeter lifted his eyebrows. A snitch telling about a murder was one thing. But preventing a killing? Edward Teeter, veteran county prosecutor, saving a victim’s life? He could see the headlines now. “Interesting,” he said, leaning forward. “Tell me, Mr. Donello. Who is this woman?”
19
Sharon chewed her lower lip, crossed her fingers, and would have crossed her toes if there’d been more room in the pointed ends of her shoes. For a lawyer to become emotionally involved in one of her cases was unprofessional at best—and destructive at worst—but Sharon couldn’t help her feelings. Every time Midge Rathermore showed one of her pitifully vacant looks, every time the mountain of a girl slouched into court or the jail visiting room wearing clothes which fit her like flappy tent material … well, at just the sight of Midge, Sharon’s heart dropped into the pit of her stomach. There simply had to be a way to get through to the child.
And if Sharon was nervous, Deborah North was a basket case over her first meeting with her daughter in eight years. Sharon wondered if she should have brought a tranquilizer along. As the women waited in the attorney visiting booth at the jail for Midge’s entrance, Deb wrung her hands until her knuckles were white. Her nails dug into her palms, leaving bloodless lines.
There was no bulletproof plastic shield in the attorney section; all that separated the prisoner and visitor was a row of thin steel bars. A six-inch slot was under the bars, a hole for passing papers back and forth, and in the attorney visiting section prisoners and visitors could touch one another. Opposed to the closely monitored bullpens, in the attorney section guards stayed outside the booths and minded their own business because the Constitution guaranteed prisoners privacy in meetings with their lawyers. More than half of the drugs in the jail came in through this room, Sharon knew; there were attorneys in Dallas County who made as much money smuggling dope into the jail as they did from the practice of law. A year earlier the sheriff had petitioned the court to allow searches of the lawyers’ briefcases, both on entering and leaving the booths. The Constitution had prevailed, the petition of the sheriff summarily denied.
