by A. W. Gray
On Sunday afternoon she took Melanie to the movies. Sharon had managed to duck the opening two weeks of Jurassic Park—even though Melanie was the only kid in town who hadn’t seen the frigging picture—and still harbored misgivings about whether any movie starring dinosaurs ripping humans to shreds could possibly be suitable for an eleven-year-old. Nonetheless, mommy gave in, and was pleasantly surprised. There wasn’t any actual blood or guts in the picture, and, thank God, nobody went to bed with anybody. Sharon had to admit that the raptors stole the show.
Melanie was so high on Sunday night that she was bouncing off the ceiling, and Sharon had to threaten bloody murder in order to get the child into bed. It was close to eleven before Sharon rescued the kid’s pea green duffel bag in a tug of war with Commander, then stuffed the bag with camp paraphernalia while the shepherd lay nearby with his head cocked inquisitively. Around midnight, it was all that Sharon could do to crawl in between the sheets.
Exhausted as she was, she didn’t sleep for almost an hour. She kept rehearsing her cross-examination of Linda Rathermore, and every time she closed her eyes an image of Linda popped into her mind. Then Linda would fade out, replaced by Midge Rathermore, the pitiful teenager expressionless as tears streamed down her cheeks.
Sharon had never been very religious, but before she finally drifted off she said a silent prayer. If it would help Midge’s chances, Sharon supposed that she’d do most anything.
Monday the Fourth was no holiday for the two young women who took their daughters to camp. Sharon and Sheila wore themselves to a frazzle hauling boxes, duffel bags, and suitcases to load them in Sheila’s Pontiac station wagon. By the time they pulled away from Sheila’s, there was barely room for the women to sit in front while Melanie and Trish snuggled into the back with Commander in between them. Sheila had put up a tussle over taking the dog along, but the kids had won out. After all, they’d chorused, Commander wasn’t going to have anyone to play with for two whole weeks.
The trip was an hour’s drive, fifty miles on Interstate 20 watching barren countryside change into lush pine forest as they headed farther east, then a ten-mile jaunt on a two-lane blacktop road that was twisty as folded linguini. The journey’s final leg took them through the sleepy little town of Van, Texas, then north to negotiate a one-lane dirt track leading over an earthen dam. Sky Ranch Camp lay behind a small man-made lake. The day was hot and windless, the lake still as mirrored glass. From the dam, the camp’s swimming dock was visible across the way, and just off the end of the pier floated the Blob. This was a huge inflated rubber raft which was slick when wet, and off which squealing youngsters slipped and slid. Sharon had never been certain why the mere sight of the floating monstrosity sent the kids into orbit. As the station wagon labored across the dam, Trish and Melanie screamed, “There it is,” as they giggled and pointed and pressed noses to the glass, and as Commander nearly tore the backseat to shreds, barking and leaping at the window. Sharon and Sheila locked exasperated gazes, then rolled their eyes.
It was nearly dark when, assisted by energetic college kids in shorts and Sky Ranch T-shirts, the mothers had the children moved finally into their cabin. Just as they did every year, Trish and Melanie had signed up on the buddy plan. They played “One potato, two potato” for choice of bunks. Melanie lost and glumly accepted the lower. The cabin counselor was a perky, tennis-anyone redhead named Nancy—a drama major at Stephen F. Austin U in Nacogdoches, Sharon was interested to learn—who seemed mature and responsible. Four summers ago, the first time the girls had come to Sky Ranch, Sheila had fidgeted and fretted because Trish was the only black child in the entire camp. She needn’t have worried; Trish and the white kids had become instantly thick as thieves. Now there were a number of black children scurrying about, and Trish thought that showing the new African American kids the ropes were really big stuff.
After dark there was a fireworks display, where all joined hands and sang the “Star-Spangled Banner” while skyrockets exploded overhead and Commander whined and tugged at his leash. Firelight danced over Melanie’s smiling features, and Sharon was in awe of how beautiful her little girl had become.
Finally it was time to leave. Melanie ran to her mother in the parking lot, threw her arms around Sharon’s neck, and hugged for all she was worth. “I love you, Mom,” she said.
Suddenly Sharon was in tears. She sniffled and buried her face in the side of Melanie’s neck. “Me, too, precious,” she said. “You have a good time, you hear?”
Luminous yellow highway stripes raced by the station wagon as it chugged on through the night. Headlight beams shone on a green overhead sign reading, in glistening reflector print, DALLAS 42, FT. WORTH 71. Sharon’s feet were up on the dash. She snuggled into the corner formed by the seat back and passenger door, and hummed a silent tune. The trees were dark shapes against a blue-black background.
Sheila said, “What is it?” Exquisite chocolate-colored skin tinted red by the dash-light glow, both hands on the steering wheel. She had the cruise control on, her feet splayed out on either side of the gas and brake pedals.
Sharon said, “Hmm?”
“You haven’t said a word in twenty miles.”
Sharon propped her elbow on the armrest and laid her cheek against her palm. “Just thinking.”
“About the trial?”
“What else?” Sharon said. From the backseat Commander gave a whiny yawn.
Sheila steered the Pontiac nearer to the median. “I’m surprised you haven’t asked about my interviews with Midge and Susan Rathermore.”
“I was getting around to it.”
“You aren’t worried that the prosecution’s going to make a big deal of the fact that we’re friends?”
“Sure they will,” Sharon said. “They’ll bring up our friendship the same way that we’ll bring up the fact that Gregory Mathewson’s testified ten zillion times for the state before. You’ve got all the credentials, Sheila. You’ve never testified in a criminal trial, and since you’re waiving any fee, the jury’s going to see that you’ve got nothing at stake. This is one case where our witness will outshine even old Gruntin’ Greg.”
“I hope so,” Sheila said, then paused and said, “Susan has blocked it all out, by the way. The sexual abuse.”
The AC fan was running on low; since sundown the car’s interior had grown chillier and chillier. Sharon reached up to move the control switch from Norm to Vent. The air warmed instantly toward room temperature as goose bumps faded from Sharon’s bare legs. “She won’t talk about it at all?” she said.
“It makes a better case for abuse if she won’t,” Sheila said, “though how you get that across to the jury is up to you. It’s not easy talking to her with those Havenrest people watching over my shoulder. I suppose you know the staff out there called and cleared it with the DA’s office before they’d let me see her.”
“I expected them to. It’s good they did, we want the other side to know we’re talking to Susan. It might slow their horses a bit. How come you say it’s a better case if Susan won’t discuss the abuse?”
Sheila shifted in the seat, moving her left foot over to the right side of the gas pedal, crossing her ankles and stretching her legs. “Anytime the subject of her father comes up, she goes into another world. Won’t react to any mention of his name. It’s classically typical of sexually abused children, and to that I’ll testify. If you want confirmation, check with someone from Harvard or any other brain factory. They’ll all tell you the same thing, and the name that the kid blocks out is the pervert who’s abused them. A hundred percent of the time.”
Sharon rubbed her forehead. Wind rushed by outside the window in a whispered hiss. “God, I’d hate to have to put that poor child on the stand.”
“Breaks your heart,” Sheila said. “In the long run it’d be good for her to talk about it. It’s likely the only chance she’ll ever have for normalcy.” Her voice sof
tened, her tone more hesitant as she said, “Midge was a bit more of a problem.”
“Did her mother go to the jail with you?”
“She was right there. Midge is more talkative than Susan, and I’ve got to tell you that I don’t think Rathermore abused Midge. Per se.”
Sharon sat up straighter. “Sheila …”
“Not physically. But I think he made her feel inferior to her little sister, which in ways is a more serious kind of abuse.”
“Like, Susan was desirable but Midge was ugly?”
“Something like that,” Sheila said.
The station wagon cruised underneath another luminous green sign, this one reading, DALLAS 36, FT. WORTH 65. Sharon said, “Sheila?”
“Uh-huh?”
“Does Midge really believe that she planned the murder with those boys?”
“I’m afraid she does. Why, what’s your theory?”
“We think they used Midge as a stooge, and that Linda wooed the Burdette boy into love with her—”
“Into having this permanent hard-on, is what you mean.”
“Right. I think Linda planned it all, had the boys talk Midge into thinking she was plotting a murder, and then threw Midge to the wolves. Linda gets the bulk of the estate, the lovesick little boy gets to do next to zero time, and Midge gets to spend years in prison. The Burdette kid probably thinks that when he gets out, Linda will be waiting with open arms.”
“Is he in for a shock,” Sheila said. “It’s a bunch to prove, kid.”
“That’s why we’re going ahead with the sexual-abuse defense. If we can’t hang old Linda, then we’ve still got a chance of defending Midge based on the theory that she was only protecting herself from more abuse.” Sharon sighed. “I hope I sound really confident. I’m afraid I don’t feel that way.” She fell silent, listening to the station wagon’s radials click-thud over the highway expansion joints.
Sheila finally said, “On another subject.”
Sharon lifted her eyebrows. “Yes?”
“Watched any TV this week?”
“Some.”
“Seen the fall lineup?”
Sharon folded her hands in her lap. “I saw him. Super cop himself.”
“You’ve got to admit,” Sheila said, “that a starring role on CBS is a pretty big deal. What’s the name of the show?”
“Minions of Justice.” Sharon laughed in spite of herself. “He’s the cop, another guy’s the prosecutor. I guess I’m happy for Rob, though I’d have to think about it.” The highway ahead was now dotted with a dozen or so pairs of red taillights, interstate traffic thickening as they drew nearer to Big D.
“I know you’ve told Melanie who he is,” Sheila said.
Sharon started, then relaxed. “I suppose I knew she’d tell Trish. I didn’t tell her voluntarily. She found Rob’s letter in my bedroom.”
“Well, you know the more publicity he gets, the harder it’s going to be on her. He’ll do interviews. He’ll pop off to some reporter, and the next thing you know you’ll be getting a call from the newspapers.”
Sharon looked down at her knees. “All those years pretending he didn’t exist …”
“As your personal psychologist,” Sheila said, “I’m advising you to let him see her. He is her father, after all.” Sharon rubbed her eyes and swallowed a lump from her throat. “I’ve got to think of one thing at a time, Sheila. As soon as the trial’s out of the way, I’ll just have to figure out how to handle Melanie.”
“Just don’t let your own self-interest get in the way,” Sheila said. “It’s easy to do.”
“I understand that.” A slight testiness crept into Sharon’s tone, and she felt instantly guilty.
“If you need backup,” Sheila said, “just let me know.”
Sharon leaned back, folded her arms, and regarded the ceiling. “I got myself into this. I suppose I’ll just have to figure out how to dig myself out.” She closed her eyes. “I’d as soon take a beating, tell you the truth.”
33
Tuesday morning dawned. Preliminary fingers of pink touched the edges of wispy clouds, then the main-event sun appeared. The blinding circle of fire climbed slowly above the horizon, and by eight-thirty the thermometer hovered near ninety degrees.
Sharon Hays left the Volvo on the third parking level, then hurried onto the crosswalk leading to the Crowley Courts Building. Her high heels clicked a double-time march. A navy blue pleated skirt swirled around her calves and her bangs flipped testily. Her satchel was packed with motions and briefs, her lips firmed in a bring-’em-on, game-face expression.
So intent was Sharon with psyching herself up that she very nearly barged headlong into Cissy Breyer just outside the revolving courthouse entry door. Raven-haired Cissy had her own blinders on, head down, black Gucci shoes moving like piston heads, diamonds twinkling on fingers and earlobes. Sharon put on the brakes and smiled a timid greeting. During her final days as a prosecutor, when Milt Breyer had really been putting the pressure on her sexually, Sharon had dreaded running into Cissy, and encountering Breyer’s oft-jilted wife still made her nervous. As Sharon opened her mouth to speak, Cissy swept past without a word and stalked into the Crowley Building. Sharon’s mouth closed with an audible click.
Winthrop Stone, founding partner of Stone, Stone and Buckalew—law offices in Dallas, Austin, and Washington, finger in the state legislature’s vagina and lips near the governor’s ear—followed close on Cissy’s heels. Stone was dressed in courtroom navy blue. He brandished a silver-headed walking stick, his satchel burnished leather, his black ferret’s eyes moving rapidly from side to side. He favored Sharon with the curtest of nods. She said softly, “Hello.”
Something brewing, she thought. She hadn’t seen Cissy Breyer at the courthouse three times during her entire tenure with the DA, and Winthrop Stone never personally appeared in court unless on behalf of the selectest of clients. Which Cissy’s father definitely was, the selectest of the select, oil by the megabarrel and enough Texas land to form a state of his own, and then some. Big doings coming down, Sharon thought.
By the time she’d pushed through the revolving door and mounted the escalator toward the second level, she had dismissed Cissy Breyer and her high-powered lawyer from her mind. She had a client of her own to represent. Anticipation growing within her, Sharon turned her face upward toward the head of the escalator and drummed her fingers on the handrail.
The corridor outside Judge Sandy Griffin’s courtroom was a madhouse, side benches jam-packed with humanity, reporters standing expectantly near the windows, men in short-sleeve shirts toting minicams. One TV camera aimed its lens in Sharon’s direction as she came through the door leading from the foyer, and Andy Wade simultaneously flipped his steno pad as he said loudly, “Miss Hays. Got time for … ?” Sharon dodged around both newsman and cameraman and kept on truckin’. Just outside the court entry, Rayford Sly blocked her path. The movie second banana offered Sharon another of his business cards as he said, “If you should reconsider, Miss Hays …” Sharon ducked her head and pointedly ignored the guy. Sly turned and said something to the leggy on-the-scene Hard Copy reporter, who shrugged.
The courtroom was to have an extra bailiff for the Rathermore trial, in addition to the regular deputy who escorted prisoners in from the holding cell and ran errands for the judge. The reinforcement, a curly-haired jail guard whom Sharon had seen around, stood at attention in front of the entry. He’d traded his khaki deputy’s uniform for a blue blazer which was too small along with pleated gray slacks which were too baggy, and he was taking tickets. Each district judge had their own system for handling crowds during high-profile trials. In Sandy Griffin’s system the two front rows on the left-hand side were reserved for the press while one front row, dead center before the bench, was for victims’ relatives and supporters of the defendant. The rest of the spectator section was open seatin
g. The bailiff had counted the available seats and had an exact number of red pasteboard tickets available. At eight o’clock courthouse hangers-on could line up for the tickets on a first-come, first-serve basis, and once the doors opened at eight-thirty only ticket holders got inside. No tickee, no laundry. The backup bailiff showed Sharon a wink of recognition, opened the door, and stood aside like a Broadway usher.
Sharon didn’t waste any time in her trip down the aisle, through the gate, and to the defense table, pausing only to give Deborah North’s shoulder an affectionate squeeze. Deb was seated first-row aisle, and wore a blue pantsuit with a white ruffled collar. Sandy Griffin was already on the bench, accepting a plea from a chubby black youngster in jail garb, and Sharon had been right about the makeup consultant. Judge Griffin had done wonders since the examining trial, her lip rouge and cheek highlights done in just the right pale shades. Only two prisoners were handcuffed inside the jury box, a fat white man and a skinny Hispanic guy with a mustache. On most mornings a dozen or more repentants were dying to ’fess up and take their medicine, but today Judge Griffin had arranged for a short docket call. The Rathermore trial would be underway promptly at nine.
Ticket-holding spectators filled the pews end to end and, Sharon knew, were about to be disappointed. As soon as the plea bargains were over, the judge would clear the room for jury selection. Then the panel from the central jury room would file in, solid citizens, each with an excuse not to serve in mind, and the process would begin. The panel members would recite the various spouse fatalities and homes on fire which would make it impossible for them to be sworn in as jurors, and the judge would deny all such attempts at begging off. From both the defense and prosecution’s viewpoint, agreeing on twelve tried and true to stand in judgment over Midge Rathermore wouldn’t take too long; Sharon and Russ Black would accept just about anybody who wasn’t a homicide cop or member of the district attorney’s staff. If Judge Griffin admitted the child-abuse evidence, a jury of professional hangmen would be hard pressed to convict Midge; but if Sandy Griffin excluded the abuse question, the twelve apostles themselves wouldn’t show much mercy. The state had its druthers, of course, but a prospective juror being the parent of teenage children wasn’t proper cause for dismissal. It would suit Sharon if the judge seated the first twelve citizens in the courtroom.
