by A. W. Gray
Sharon dressed quickly, then went down the hall to waken Melanie. During the scuffle Sharon’s adrenaline had pumped like crazy and she’d had no sensation of fear, but now she trembled like a leaf. She swallowed, turned the handle, and entered the silent bedroom.
Sharon’s daughter slept like an angel, her head turned to one side with her cheek resting on the back of her hand, her back rising and falling in little-girl sleep breaths. Sharon said a silent prayer of thanks, and also asked the Lord to make Melanie’s life cheerful and free of worry. It was certainly someone in the Hays clan’s turn. Boy, Sharon thought, Sheila’s going to think her best friend’s turned into a lunatic. She gently closed her eyes, then bent to kiss Melanie’s cheek and shake her daughter into grumpy wakefulness. As Melanie tried in vain to bury her head under the pillow, Sharon wondered how a drunken Stan Green would fare in transporting the prisoner downtown. As she shook Melanie harder, Sharon decided that she’d better call for a squad car.
21
Bradford Brie grinned through the one-way mirror and stuck out his tongue. He poked his thumbs into his ears and waggled his fingers. Then he walked up to the glass and licked it. Finally he pointed at the mirror and silently formed the word “You,” then made a big O with his lips and squeezed his crotch.
“Lovely,” Sharon said. She was on the other side of the glass, watching Brie move about inside the police interview room. He now sat down at a bare wood table and crossed his eyes. “You’d almost think he knows we’re out here,” Sharon said.
“There’s always a funny man,” assistant DA Ed Teeter said. “Monkey see, monkey do. You’re really pretty lucky, Miss Hays. You’re positive this is the same guy that took your picture?”
Sharon hooked her elbow over the back of her chair and crossed her legs. “Sure it’s him.” She wore stretch blue denims and an orange cotton oversized knit shirt.
“Bradford Herman Brie,” the prosecutor said. “Four years ago he broke out of Coffield Farm and held a woman hostage in her house for nearly a week. She was in therapy for a few months after that. Finally she killed herself.”
Sharon looked at her lap as she smoothed her hair and bit her lower lip. “He wanted my daughter. You can handle all these cases as a lawyer, but it never seems real until it happens to you.”
Teeter was seated on the conference table with his feet dangling and his hands gripping the table’s edge. He wore a button-down sports shirt and pleated brown slacks. It was almost four in the morning, and Sharon had been at the station for over three hours.
“You’ve given a statement,” Teeter said. “I suppose that’s all we need for now.”
Sharon watched through the glass as Brie picked his nose. “How can that be all?” she said. “The only statement I’ve given has to do with seeing him downtown and him taking my picture.”
Teeter regarded his knees. “We can get the rest later.”
“I’m in the middle of an examining trial,” Sharon said. “After which we’re going to break our necks getting ready for the real thing. I’d as soon give my entire statement now, while it’s all fresh.”
“You seeing him around the corner from Howard Saw’s office,” Teeter said, “that’s corroboration for what our other witness has to say. We can use you.”
“Your other witness being Wilfred Donello?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Teeter said.
“That’s fine for Howard Saw’s murder,” Sharon said. “But what about the little matter of his breaking into my home?”
Teeter nervously cleared his throat. “It’s sure something to hold on to.”
Sharon arched an eyebrow. “I’m not sure I follow.”
Teeter brushed lint from his pants leg and looked up at the ceiling. “We’re talking a real bad actor here, and before we do anything else we’ve got to prosecute the more serious charge. That’s the murder. I’m not sure if we can get the death penalty, but we’ll try for it. You know the law, Miss Hays. Howard Saw wasn’t a cop or a fireman. I think we’ll go at it from the angle that Mr. Brie in there was trying to rob old Howard. At the very least we can get him an aggravated life sentence. That’ll keep him off the street for fifteen years minimum.”
Sharon rubbed her forehead. Texas death-penalty statutes applied to murder for hire, killing of a police officer or fireman in the line of duty, and murder during the commission of another felony, such as a rape or robbery. For any other murder the maximum sentence was life in TDC. The offense was aggravated if committed with a deadly weapon, which in Howard Saw’s case meant the belt which Brie had used to strangle the guy. “What I’m hearing is that you’re not going to prosecute this scumball for what he’s done to me, right?” Sharon said in a monotone. “That’s nice for you people. I’m sure the district attorney can take a shower without worrying a bit.”
“Not exactly, Miss Hays. We’re not saying we won’t prosecute.”
“Well what are you saying? Exactly.”
Teeter scratched his chin. “Look. Monday I go to the grand jury on the Saw murder. If we get him for that, it’s plenty. There’s no reason for you to have to testify to what this guy did at your place if we’re going to hammer him for the Saw killing. We’ve got your best interests in mind.”
Sharon curled up her legs and sat on her ankles. She wore Topsiders without socks. “Do you think I’m addlebrained, Mr. Teeter?”
He lowered his head, rubbed the back of his neck, and didn’t say anything.
“The Dallas County district attorney’s office doesn’t give a hoot in hell what I go through,” Sharon said, “as long as they can get a conviction. You get another notch in your belt if you convict this guy for breaking into my house and trying to assault me and my daughter, regardless of what happens on the Saw murder.”
Teeter covered his mouth and coughed into his hand. “Well, maybe we should hold the other case in abeyance until the Saw murder is history. After that, maybe a second indictment. I’ll be honest with you. I don’t think another case against this guy is going to be necessary, not with the ammunition we’ve got on the Saw murder. He told the whole thing to Donello. The two of them used to be boyfriend-girlfriend in the joint.” The prosecutor grinned as if he’d just revealed one for the tabloids.
Sharon was beginning to get it. Her jaw clenched. “Where’s Detective Green?” she said.
Teeter looked at his watch. “Detective Green?”
“Yes. You know, the witness who’ll supply corroboration for my story about the break-in. Is he sleeping it off?”
Teeter looked around the room like a second-story man in search of a quick getaway. “I think Stan’s … he might have gone on home.”
“As soon as y’all called Milton Breyer to report what happened,” Sharon said. She stood, folded her arms, and looked down at her feet. “I think I see, Mr. Teeter. For you to prosecute, your booze hound of a detective would have to tell what he was doing on my doorstep at that time of night. Well, you want to know?”
Teeter dropped his gaze. “It’s none of my business.”
Sharon’s eyes flashed fire. “Oh, yes, it is. Everything is your business if you’re prosecuting a case.” She put on her sweetest smile. “Your good detective was hoping for a piece of ass, Mr. Teeter, not that he was going to get to first base. So what you’ve got here is, one, your complaining witness is a female with a potential sexual-harassment suit against the district attorney, which makes you not exactly champ at the bit to handle the case to begin with, and two, your other witness doesn’t want to testify because it might be embarrassing to him.”
Sharon spun on her heel and peered inside the interview room. Two investigators had joined Brie, two guys in white shirts with rolled-up sleeves sitting across from the suspect. One of the cops offered Brie a cigarette. He turned down the smoke with a crooked-toothed grin.
Sharon whirled back to face the prosecutor. “I’ll tell you what
, Mr. Teeter. I don’t know just how far I want to push this, but that vermin in there had in mind to harm me and my little girl. If the district attorney screws up and lets that guy back on the street, then Mr. Brie is the one that’s going to need protection. From me. And if that’s not clear enough, I’ll be glad to say it into your tape recorder.”
22
Sharon Hays would be the first to admit that her ambition to be an actress had had more than a little to do with ego. Being on stage in the spotlight had been one monster of a high, and even today she fantasized occasionally by taking a few bows in the privacy of her bedroom. It had been a long time since she’d had curtain-up butterflies, but as she entered the courtroom on Wednesday morning, the wings beat in her stomach like riverboat paddles. The third day of Midge’s examining trial had them hanging from the rafters.
As Sharon paused just inside the doorway to look the situation over, all thoughts of the near disaster at her house involving Bradford Brie temporarily disappeared. Andy Wade and Rita Paschal from the News were in the courtroom, of course, just as they’d been the first two days of the hearing, but now both of them seemed uncomfortable. Whereas during the previous testimony they’d had the media section—which in Sandy Griffin’s courtroom were the first two spectator rows on the judge’s right—to themselves with plenty of spread-out room, today the News reporters were wedged in like a couple of sardines. On both sides of them sat men in shirtsleeves and women in slacks and business dresses, all with heads cocked attentively and pads and pens held ready. Sharon had heard the rumor yesterday (from the courtroom bailiff, who knew better than anyone what was going on) that there’d be a couple of reps from People magazine on hand today. That would account for some of the congestion among the media. Papers from San Antonio, Houston, and possibly even the New York Times would have heard that People was interested in the Rathermore case, and would have decided that something hot was brewing in Dallas. At least a couple of the writers present would be book authors, present on a freelance basis while their agents shopped proposals on the New York markets. Sharon could always spot the book writers; they were the ones huddled the most jealously over their notes, glancing suspiciously fore and aft, hoping against hope that they’d caught something in the hearing that their competition wasn’t aware of.
Sharon excuse-me’d her way around two men who were craning their necks in search of a vacant seat, then hurried halfway down the aisle and paused again. Angry warmth coursed up the side of her neck as she zeroed in on the area near the gate leading to the bullpen.
So Milton Breyer had heard the media rumors and picked today to finally put in an appearance. Old Milt looked as if he’d just returned from the beauty parlor, where the stylist had poured on an extra quart or so of Grecian Formula. The prosecutor had worn his Judgment Day suit, coal black with creases like stiff paper. As Sharon watched, Breyer leaned over the rail to shake hands with the head movie guy, the older man with sideburns and a mustache. Today the producer had on a pale blue western-cut suit and Sharon wondered briefly whether the movie guy wore those god-awful outfits back in Hollywood. The production company’s second banana—Rayford Sly, Sharon thought, that was the name on the card the guy had handed her as she’d stepped onto the elevator—stood off to one side with his head bowed and his hands folded in front. The main movie man held Breyer by the elbow as he introduced the prosecutor to a newcomer. She was a striking brunette with every hair and grain of makeup exactly in place, and as she reached over the rail to shake Breyer’s hand, she turned partway so that Sharon had a profile view. Sharon blinked in surprise. She’d never seen the woman in person, but this slick-looking chick was a coanchor on Hard Copy. Christ, the national TV tabloid. Ready whenever you are, C. B., Sharon thought. She stood in the aisle for a few seconds to survey the rest of the courtroom.
Deborah North must have arrived at the crack of dawn in order to nail down her front-row aisle seat, and now she determinedly sat her ground while those at the opposite end of her pew scootched sideways, their expressions irritated as they made room for a woman who must have weighed three hundred pounds. Deb wore a gray dress with a white collar. Sharon went down the aisle, leaned over, and whispered in Midge’s mother’s ear, “How’d it go last night?”
Deb’s face lit up like a moonbeam. “She remembered things I never thought she would. A couple of them when she was only two.”
Sharon squeezed Deb’s shoulder. “Good goin’,” she said. “Now, I want you to take your time. Don’t push Midge, but as soon as you think she’s ready, I want to bring our investigator over to talk to her. That’s Anthony Gear, he’s the guy who’ll sit between Midge and me at the defense table. The sooner Midge can talk to him, the sooner he can dig up witnesses and evidence to refute the crap they’re going to throw at us.”
Deb nodded. “Soon.”
“Great. Just remember, you’re the best therapy Midge can have right now.” Sharon winked and smiled, and continued on her way.
She shouldered in between Milt Breyer, the movie guy, and the Hard Copy woman without speaking, and went through the gate. As she neared the prosecution table, headed for the defense side, Kathleen Fraterno said hesitantly, “Sharon?”
She turned. She’d say this much for Kathleen, the workhorse of the prosecution team wasn’t putting on the dog for the media the way Milton Breyer was. Kathleen was her usual courtroom self, wearing a slim navy blue dress and matching medium-heeled pumps. Other than the usual courtroom banter, Sharon hadn’t spoken to Kathleen since lunch at Joe Willie’s, the day when she had lit out from the restaurant as if her pants were on fire. Since then her anger toward Kathleen had been replaced by a strange sort of pity. Fraterno had worked her tail off on the Rathermore case—that was apparent from her courtroom showing—and her reward for grinding her nose down to the bone was an occasional hump from Milton Breyer. What a booby prize, Sharon thought. She went over to where Kathleen sat and said impersonally, “Hi.”
Kathleen closed her case file and turned in her chair. “I just wanted to tell you I heard about your trouble. I hope everything’s all right. Is your daughter … ?”
“Melanie?” Sharon said breezily. “Nah, she’s fine. She didn’t even wake up while it was going on.” She felt pretty good herself, considering that less than thirty-six hours earlier she’d been parading naked through her house while a madman waved a gun at her. Yesterday in court she’d nearly fallen asleep during the second teenage killer’s testimony. Last night she’d hit the sack at eight and slept clear through to seven-thirty in the morning, with Sheila Winston subbing on the carpool duties. “Thanks for asking, Kathleen,” she said.
Fraterno threw a guilty look in Milt Breyer’s direction, then stiffened her posture. More formally she said, “Well, if there’s anything I can do …”
Sharon glanced at Breyer as well. He was watching the exchange between his assistant and the enemy with a disapproving scowl. Sharon considered thumbing her nose at the egotistical prick, but ended the conversation with a quick nod in Fraterno’s direction. “Thanks again, Kathleen,” she said, then hurried over to the defense side.
Russell Black wasn’t putting on a show for the media or anybody else. His charcoal pinstriped suit needed pressing, and his lizard boots were dusty. He was turned around in his chair, glumly regarding the spectator section. As Sharon approached, he said, “What we need here is a good trapeze act.”
Sharon set down her briefcase, smiled, and reached out to straighten the knot on Black’s tie. “There, that’s better,” she said. “Quit scowling so much, boss. Gee whiz, you’re going to smear your greasepaint.”
Sharon thought that the pains Judge Sandy Griffin had taken prior to her entrance into the spotlight were sort of pitiful. Judge Griffin was a plain woman to begin with, and given her alleged sexual preference, any attempt on her part to gussy up would be greeted with raised eyebrows. But nonetheless, here she came into the arena wearing fourteen tons o
f makeup, her cheeks a bright pink, her lipstick thick and cardinal red, and enough purple eye shadow to cover a clown convention. God, but it’s garish, Sharon thought. No one, but no one—with the exception of Russell Black, of course—seemed immune to the public eye. Judge Griffin assumed her seat in a royal posture. Sharon was afraid that if she made eye contact with Griffin, she’d burst out laughing, so she averted her gaze. Somewhere in the spectator section a woman snickered.
If the judge heard the snickering, she didn’t let on. She quickly called the court to order and told the bailiff to fetch Midge. The bailiff exited right as the audience swiveled heads like tennis fans. When he returned with Midge in tow, Sharon gasped out loud.
Midge’s hair was beautifully washed and combed, soft as down with a wave across her forehead. Her jailhouse smock was clean as a pin, starched and pressed, and for once the garment fit. Sharon knew from her days as a prosecutor that pressed jail uniforms didn’t come easy, and required a bribe to the inmates who worked in the laundry. There were also inmates who would do hair in exchange for cigarettes or ice cream. Sharon turned to look at Deborah North. She beamed at Midge as if she were wearing her first prom dress. So much for the source of the inmate bribes, Sharon thought. Deb had learned the ropes in a hurry.
Midge’s face was scrubbed clean, and her complexion seemed clearer. As she took her place beside Sharon at the table there wasn’t a whiff of body odor. Overnight, Midge had been transformed from a disgustingly filthy fat girl to a pleasant, plump, and almost attractive young lady.
Once Sharon was able to pick her lower jaw up from the floor, she patted Midge’s arm and whispered, “Your hair looks very pretty.”
Midge blushed and grinned. “A lady washed and combed it. She’s a hooker.”
