In Self-Defense

by A. W. Gray

  She gazed down the slope. “Some layout.”

  Black folded his hands in front of him. “Waste of people’s money. Guys living in these houses along here, they’re just asking to get robbed.” Sharon had never been to Russell Black’s house, but was certain that it was no bigger than he needed for it to be. Nothing pretentious about old Russ. Sharon knew a lot of men who made a big to-do of having money—a lot of them making more of a show than they could really afford—and she’d found most of those guys pretty shallow. With Russell Black one got exactly what one saw. The door swung open on oiled hinges. Sharon peered into the house.

  A tall man, skinny as a war captive and wearing a tie and tails, said, “Yes?” What, Sharon thought, are you kidding me? Next a ghost in armor would appear. Or Anne Boleyn, her head tucked underneath her arm.

  Black cleared his throat. “Russell Black. And this is Miss Hays. Here to see Mr. Schlee. I think Mr. Anthony Gear’s hiding in there someplace, too. We work with him.”

  The butler stood aside to usher them into a stone-tiled entry hall featuring a two-story domed ceiling of stained glass. Just inside the door was a six-foot grandfather clock whose pendulum swung monotonously back and forth, back and forth, ticking and tocking. Twenty feet ahead was a staircase. The polished wood banister gleamed like new auto paint. The beige-carpeted steps led up to the second floor, leveled off into a foyer, then took off upward again for parts unknown. The butler led them around the banister toward the back of the house. “Mr. Schlee is in the den,” he said. His tails waved below his bottom like flags. In her white jeans and sneakers, Sharon felt like Little Match Girl. If Russ Black was embarrassed by his own cotton pants and egg-stained shirt, he didn’t let on.

  They entered a den that was forty feet long if it was an inch. The room’s main attraction was a fireplace of uneven stone which cast shadows on its own surface. There was a stuffed elk’s head mounted dead center over the mantel, its antlers spread like twin firs. Mr. Schlee obviously didn’t worry about utility bills; the refrigerated air raised bumps on Sharon’s forearms.

  At the far end of the room was a long sofa, and on it sat Anthony Gear in his trademark plaid sports coat, yellow shirt, and tie. A healthy-looking guy in his forties was seated on the other end of the divan, wearing a tennis outfit and spotless white shoes. He had graying temples and a dark sunlamp tan. The butler led the newcomers over to stand in front of the sofa, said stiffly, “Mr. Black to see you, sir,” bowed, and withdrew.

  The detective handled the introductions, his weatherworn face impassive as a poker player’s. “Mr. Schlee, that’s Russ Black, and the lady’s Sharon Hays. This is Leslie’s dad. We’ve been talking.”

  Schlee stood, shook Black’s hand, and threw a wink in Sharon’s direction. “Curt Schlee,” he said in a businesslike tone. He had slim, hairy legs. Sharon resented the patronizing wink, and immediately labeled Schlee as a dyed-in-the-wool sexist.

  Schlee resumed his seat, crossed his legs, and rocked one white sneaker up and down. “There are some ground rules for seeing my daughter.”

  Gear sat down as well and didn’t say anything. He’d made the contact; the rest was up to the lawyers. Black sank into an easy chair adjacent to the sofa. Sharon glanced about, then pulled an armchair away from a table containing an ivory chess set and seated herself beside her boss. As far as Curt Schlee was concerned, his guests apparently could fend for themselves. Sharon’s resentment of him was growing by leaps and bounds.

  Black favored Schlee with an impersonal blink. “Thanks for having us over, Curt. And your rules suit us as long as they don’t interfere with us lookin’ out for our client.”

  “Who is Midge Rathermore?” Schlee’s mellow tenor voice carried the tone of a man used to having his orders followed.

  “Who is Midge Rathermore.” Black’s tone said that he didn’t follow orders from anyone. This should be interesting, Sharon thought.

  “You know I’m a lawyer,” Schlee said.

  “No, I didn’t,” Black said. “There are a lot of lawyers I don’t know.”

  A sudden light blinked on in Sharon’s head. Sure, Collins & Schlee. One partner was the former national director of the IRS, had resigned when Carter had brought the Democrats swooping into office, then had set up private practice in Dallas to help local Repubs hide their assets from the Carter regime. The other half of the firm was the personal lawyer for both US senators from Texas and a score of congressmen. Sharon wasn’t certain which partner was the politician and which was the income tax man, but when one mentioned the firm of Collins & Schlee, one was talking mucho stroke and then some. To say that Russ Black and Curt Schlee were both lawyers was like saying that Van Cliburn and Jerry Lee Lewis were both piano players.

  Sharon cut in. “I know the firm, Russ. He’s—”

  “I didn’t catch your name.” Schlee grinned, his gaze roaming up and down Sharon’s body in the standard tits-and-legs once-over. She was getting about all of this guy that she could stomach.

  “Sharon Hays,” Black said. “She’s my cocounsel.” He had caught Schlee’s attitude as well, and his tone said, She’s not my flunky and she’s not a candidate for any moves on your part, bud. Sharon nodded slightly and favored Schlee with a steady gaze.

  “Glad to meet you,” she said. “His firm does corporate work, Russ.”

  One corner of Black’s mouth tugged toward his ear. He didn’t say anything.

  “As I was saying,” Schlee said, bending at the waist to scratch his lower leg, “if you want to talk to Leslie, there are restrictions. That’s the way I put it to the DA’s office, and that’s the way I’m putting it to you. Sending your detective”—he jerked a thumb at Gear, who defiantly folded his arms—“around yelling subpoena doesn’t scare me one iota. Leslie tells you nothing unless you agree not to call her to testify.”

  Now Black frowned. “I can’t make that guarantee. It depends on what she has to say.”

  “Well, if you can’t, we’re wasting time,” Schlee said. “I can’t afford to have my child mixed up in this. I’ve kept her name out of the newspapers so far, and I intend to go on doing that.”

  Good God, Sharon thought. On Curt Schlee’s list, his daughter’s well-being was way down below the publicity which Schlee himself couldn’t afford. Sharon changed her opinion. She didn’t merely dislike Schlee, her feelings went much deeper.”

  “All I can give you is this,” Black said. “If what she tells us can be gotten into evidence any other way, we won’t put her on. But if we need her, we’ll subpoena her. We got a client.”

  “And I’ve got a daughter.” Schlee pointed a finger. “You try playing hardball with me, and you’ll be putting on a witness when you don’t have the slightest idea what she’s going to say. That I promise you.”

  Black leaned forward and rested his forearms on his thighs, sizing up Curt Schlee, obviously wondering how far he could push it. His tone softened. “I’ll say this much for you, Curt. I’ve been practicing law around here a bunch of years, and I’ve never seen anybody tell the DA how the cow ate the cabbage the way you have. You must be a campaign donator.” Black’s speech was suddenly crisp and precise, all of the backwoods preacher’s dialect gone. He could turn the good-ole-country-boy act on and off at will.

  “I give some,” Schlee said.

  “Well, you listen to me,” Black said, “We’re representin’ a mixed-up teenage girl here. I don’t say she’s lily white, but it’s way off base to try to railroad her into the penitentiary in her condition.”

  Schlee looked with satisfaction at the elk’s head over the mantel. “I’m glad that’s not my problem, sir. I was only doing my duty as a citizen, having Leslie talk to that detective to begin with. I don’t see I’ve got any duty to have her talk to you at all.”

  Sharon sat up straighter. “You mean, talking to the police wasn’t Leslie’s idea?”

  “Of c
ourse not. She’s a teenager. Nobody would have known anything if we hadn’t overheard her.”

  “Overheard?” Black said.

  “On the phone. Kids stay on the phone constantly. The best way to know what’s going on is to record them.”

  Hoo, boy, Sharon thought. “You record her phone calls?” she said.

  “Every one. It’s one way to keep her on the straight and narrow.”

  And the best way to make her hate her parents, Sharon thought. Sheila Winston counseled a steady stream of troubled teenagers, and she had told Sharon that many of them had problems no greater than that their parents acted like parole officers rather than loving moms and dads. If Leslie didn’t feel trusted, she’d perform on the level expected of her.

  From the den entrance a clear female voice said, “Curt?”

  Sharon swiveled her head. The source of the voice was a slim, compact woman with honey blond hair, wearing a pink cotton jogging suit. Her face was flushed from exertion, her skin unwrinkled.

  “I’m handling this,” Curt Schlee said.

  “That’s what I’m afraid of, dear.” The woman crossed over to stand near the sofa. She nodded in turn to Black, Sharon, and Anthony Gear, then said, “I’m Virginia Schlee. What’s going on? I heard someone mention Leslie’s name.” The lady of the house could easily pass for mid-thirties, but Sharon thought she was probably closer to fifty. For many Highland Park wives, a good cosmetic surgeon was the key to living the good life and keeping hubby at home.

  “These people”—Schlee made a contemptuous gesture directed at the room in general—“are the defense lawyers for Midge Rathermore. I’ve told them the ground rules.”

  Virginia Schlee stiffened her posture. “No, you haven’t, Curt. You’ve told them your rules, which are whatever you think will offer the most protection for you.”

  Schlee rubbed the top of his tennis shoe. “We’ve been over this, Virginia.”

  “No, we haven’t. You’ve been over it. We never should have covered for that slime while he was alive, and now we’re not about to continue the charade.”

  Sharon and Black exchanged glances. Anthony Gear sat forward in interest.

  “You keep quiet. We’re asking for trouble if we tell these people the time of day,” Schlee said.

  Virginia rested her fanny on the arm of the couch, flattened a hand behind her, and crossed her ankles. “Y’all will excuse my husband. He’s thinking about running. He doesn’t know for what office as yet, but he’s already begun his campaign.” She had high cheekbones and the complexion of a face-cream model.

  Schlee’s mouth curved downward in a petulant frown.

  Virginia alternated her gaze between the three visitors as she said, “Y’all want to question Leslie, I suppose.”

  Russ Black rested his chin on his lightly clenched fist. “There’s been testimony about Leslie in pretrial hearin’s, Mrs. Schlee. For reasons which your husband’s now explained to us, the prosecution’s decided not to use her as a witness. If she can help our case, we plan to.”

  The lines around Virginia’s mouth softened. “We should have made a clean breast of it from the beginning. Now that we want to, the district attorney’s office doesn’t seem to be interested in the details.”

  Sharon assumed a woman-to-woman tone. “I’ve got a daughter myself, Mrs. Schlee. Please believe that we don’t want to put Leslie through any more than absolutely necessary.”

  Virginia glanced at Curt Schlee, who regarded the carpet. She stood. “I’ll go get Leslie now.”

  Schlee lifted his head. “Virginia, wait.”

  She glared. “And if you don’t want to hear this, Curt, you might go on to your tennis game. Frankly, I’m not sure I care what you do.”

  Leslie Schlee’s toes pointed slightly in when she walked, and she sat like a sorority rushee. She wore spotless white baggy shorts which ended just the correct distance above her knees, along with a red Bugle Girl shirt with the collar turned up. She had her mother’s complexion and her father’s perfectly formed legs. Her makeup looked like a Neiman-Marcus professional job, and probably was.

  “Pleased to meet you,” Leslie said. Perfect diction, the greeting as if programmed on Curt Schlee’s office computer. She sat between her parents on the sofa. Anthony Gear had moved over to make room, and now seemed more of a spectator than part of the group in the den. To Curt Schlee’s credit, he hadn’t gone off to play tennis. The game probably hadn’t been important businesswise or politically, Sharon thought. Otherwise Schlee likely wouldn’t be sitting here.

  “Leslie, these questions we’ve got,” Russ Black said, relaxing in his easy chair. “We’ll make this as quick as we can.”

  “Don’t hurry,” said Leslie politely. “I’ve talked this over with my mom. Anything you want to know.” Virginia Schlee patted her daughter’s hand. Curt Schlee sagged like a deflated raft.

  “A lot of it we already know,” Black said. “You were datin’ Chris Leonard, is that right?”

  Leslie blinked. “No, sir, it isn’t.”

  “I’m sorry? Miss Schlee, the state’s witness … you know Detective Stan Green?”

  The teenager blinked again. “Yes, sir.”

  “Well,” Black said hesitantly, “Detective Green said at Midge’s adult certification hearin’ that …”

  Leslie looked at her father. Once during Sharon’s freshman year in college, she’d been afraid that she was pregnant. It had turned out to be a false alarm, but she’d had to sit down with her mother and dad and tell them about it. At the moment Sharon felt very sorry for Leslie. Curt Schlee ignored his daughter and seemed quite interested in something located above the stuffed elk’s head.

  Virginia squeezed Leslie’s hand, then said, “Mr. Black, so you won’t have any more surprises, I’ll get something out of the way. My husband has only told you part of what happened. It’s true that he found out what was going on by tapping Leslie’s phone. But Leslie never met with that detective in person but once, after Curt had already gone to the police station and given Detective Green the boys’ names. The story about Leslie having dated one of those boys is pure fiction, made up between my husband and the police in order to explain Leslie’s role. She won’t be allowed to date until she’s sixteen, which is two months from now.” She smiled at Leslie. “Go ahead, darling,” Virginia said. Curt Schlee regarded the floor.

  “I never met those two dudes,” Leslie said, “until one day over at Midge’s house.”

  “It’s just two doors down,” Virginia said. “Leslie and Midge have been friends since, oh, they were nine or ten.”

  “So Midge was your friend and not Chris Leonard?” Black said. Gear had taken out a small spiral pad and pen, and now wrote something down.

  “Well … Midge didn’t have many friends,” Leslie said. “I liked to go over to her house, but I can’t exactly say she was my friend. I didn’t want anyone at school to know I was going over there.”

  Sharon and Black looked at each other.

  “Midge could get good dope,” Leslie said. “That’s the only reason anybody had anything to do with her. And most of the kids thought Midge’s parents were pretty cool.”

  “Cool how, Leslie?” Sharon said.

  Leslie looked at her father. Schlee bent his head and gazed down between his knees.

  “How were Midge’s folks cool?” Sharon said.

  Leslie folded her hands demurely in her lap and smiled. “They gave us dope. Uppers. Some blow.”

  Black’s voice came out in a soft rumble. “Did they use it themselves?”

  “No, sir, not that I ever saw. They kept it for kids that came around.” Leslie’s gray eyes wavered with uncertainty. “Mr. Rathermore … liked to mess around with the girls.”

  “I suppose,” Black said, “that’s why he gave them the dope.”

  Leslie shrugged. “Sure, that
was the deal when you went over to Midge’s. None of the girls let him mess around because they wanted him to. That guy was awful old.”

  Sharon’s stomach churned. Virginia Schlee averted her gaze while her husband buried his face in his hands. This child is only four years older than Melanie, Sharon thought.

  “I have to ask you, Leslie,” Black said. “Did Mr. Rathermore … mess with you?”

  Curt Schlee’s head popped up. “I don’t see what that has to do with—”

  “I don’t like askin’ the question any more than you like hearin’ the answer,” Black said, raising a hand. “But it looks like we’ll have to use her as a witness.”

  Schlee said with warning in his tone, “Leslie.”

  She ignored her father and said evenly to Black, “Yes, sir. He did.”

  “You know that Mrs. Rathermore isn’t Midge’s real mother, don’t you?” Black said.

  “Oh, sure. Linda talked about that all the time, when she wanted to put Midge down. She’d go, You don’t think that’s my kid, do you? Something like that. Midge would cry, but that’s what Linda was wanting. Midge hated Linda, like, awesomely.”

  Sharon firmed up her chin. “Leslie, did you know Midge’s sister, Susan?”

  Leslie raised one foot from the floor, squirmed on the couch, and sat on her ankle. “Yes, we all went to Hockaday together. Susan’s younger, a couple of years.”

  “Was Susan there when y’ all were taking drugs?” Sharon said.