In Self-Defense

by A. W. Gray

  Sharon couldn’t believe that Midge had gone so far downhill in one twelve-hour period, but she had. All of the wave was gone from her hair, which fell over her collar in limp, greasy strings. On the teenager’s chin was the ugly red beginning of a pimple. She wore the same blue dress as she’d had on the day before, and the cloth was wrinkled as though she slept in her clothes. As Midge sat down, Sharon did her best to hide her shock and patted the teenager’s hand. Sharon risked one glance over her shoulder; from her aisle seat in the spectator section, Deborah North regarded her daughter as if she were watching a horror movie.

  Judge Griffin assumed her place promptly at nine. She’d announced yesterday that she was setting her docket off for final arguments, so there’d be none of the usual preliminary plea bargains or arraignments. Griffin motioned to the bailiff, and the audience stood in anticipation of the jury’s arrival. As they did, Milt Breyer stood on the prosecution side. Judge Griffin called out to the bailiff, who halted in his tracks.

  “Judge,” Breyer said, “the state wishes to offer a rebuttal witness.”

  Kathleen Fraterno turned in her chair to catch Sharon’s eye. “I’m sorry,” Kathleen mouthed silently, then lowered her gaze while surreptitiously pointing at Breyer. The feeling of something about to go wrong froze at once into a lump the size of a basketball and plopped into Sharon’s stomach. She stared at Fraterno. Lie down with dogs, Kathleen, Sharon thought.

  Russell Black popped to his feet. “They’ve already rested their case, Judge.”

  Breyer put clenched fists on his waist. “We rested our case-in-chief, Your Honor. We’re entitled to rebuttal. The witness isn’t on our list, by the way. As rebuttal, she doesn’t have to be.”

  Griffin beckoned and both sides approached. As Sharon stood alongside Russell Black, her feet tingled in anticipation. Fraterno wore a curve-hugging black pantsuit which Sharon thought made her lean look cheap, the girl of Milt Breyer’s dreams. For the first time Sharon noted that Judge Griffin had abandoned the makeup altogether and gone back to her old pale-faced self. Sandy’s makeup lady must have gone the same place as Midge’s hair stylist, Sharon thought.

  “Mr. Breyer, the district attorney’s office should know better than this,” Griffin said, leaning forward. “The defense rested yesterday afternoon, and if you’d wanted a rebuttal you should have said so.”

  “We didn’t specifically waive rebuttal, Judge,” Breyer said. Fraterno continued to watch the floor.

  “Same as,” Griffin said. “You kept your mouths shut and agreed to closing arguments this morning.”

  “We weren’t aware of this witness until last night,” Breyer said.

  Bullshit, Sharon thought. It was last night before you finally decided, To hell with what Kathleen wants to do, you pompous ass. Damn ethics, full speed ahead, is Marvelous Milton’s motto.

  “We’ve already wrapped up, Judge,” Black said, “and our witnesses are scattered to hell and gone. What if we have to rebut the rebuttal?”

  “While it’s highly irregular,” Judge Griffin said, pinching the bridge of her nose, “and while I’m fully aware that Mr. Breyer is being an absolute horse’s ass about this … the statutes allow the state broad latitude at the trial level.” She showed Black a look of apology. “I’m afraid I have to let him get away with this, Mr. Black.” She glared at Breyer, who smirked as though nothing turned him on like an insult. Griffin raised her voice. “Bailiff, summon the jury.”

  The body trooped in, men and women in sync as though trained by a drill instructor. The jury sat. While Sandy Griffin explained to them that there was one more witness to present, Sharon shuffled through her notes. Every person connected with the case was accounted for. Most had testified. Linda Rathermore, check. Troy Burdette, check. Chris Leonard hadn’t testified, but Sharon was dead certain the state wouldn’t have the nerve to put Leonard on, not with Linda’s motel trysts hanging over their heads. Besides, Milt Breyer had said that she wasn’t on the state’s list. Leslie Schlee? Sharon was suddenly cold.

  Christ, Sharon thought, what if their witness is Leslie? What if they’d applied enough pressure on Curtis Schlee to get her to change her story? Could they?

  “Call your witness, Mr. Breyer,” Judge Griffin said.

  Breyer half stood and turned toward the spectator section.

  “State calls,” he said, “Sonya Brown.”

  Sharon and Black stared at each other. Who?

  She looked at the back of the room. The courtroom door remained closed. There was no sign of Stan Green, who’d ushered all of the state’s witnesses in and out. What is this, Sharon thought, a joke? Then there was movement in front of and to the right of the defense table, and a guard brought Sonya Brown in from the holding cell.

  Midge Rathermore murmured softly, “Sonya.”

  Sharon stared at the teenager’s messy hair.

  Sonya Brown was thin as a whippet, and even in the plain jailhouse smock her walk was unmistakable, straight from Oakland Avenue, shoulders back, hips swaying in perpetual bumps and grinds. Hey, baby, want a date? Her skin was the color of buttered rum, taut over throat and cheekbones. She raised her hand for swearing in, then flowed into the witness chair and crossed her legs. There were bruises on both bony shins.

  My God, Sharon thought, have they sunk this low? Have they really gotten this freaking desperate?

  “Please state your full name for the record,” Breyer said to the witness.

  “Sonya Brown.” A female baritone, a South Dallas rolling of the letter r.

  “And where do you now reside, Miss Brown?”

  “I been over in the county four monts.” Sonya showed no embarrassment whatsoever, as if being in jail was like staying with her sister while looking for a new apartment.

  “That’s the Lew Sterrett Justice Center,” Breyer said. “The county jail?”

  “Yes, sir.” Sonya had big, loose lips which remained parted when she finished speaking, and teeth like curb stones. Light reflected from a gold inlay.

  “Miss Brown, are you acquainted with the defendant in this case, Midge Rathermore?”

  Sonya’s gaze shifted slightly, directed at nothing. “We cells togethah.”

  “Is she seated here in the courtroom?”

  “Right there.” Sonya’s pointing finger wasn’t precise in its aim, and for an instant Sharon thought the witness was pointing at her.

  “During the time the two of you have shared quarters,” Breyer said, “have you become well acquainted?”

  “I does Midge’s hair evah day. I couldn’t this mornin’.”

  “Because you weren’t in the cell?”

  “No, sir. They brung me ovah here around five-thirty.” As if for emphasis, Sonya yawned.

  Sharon watched the jury. Surprise jailhouse witnesses were common foils of the DA’s office, but the jurors didn’t know that. They seemed spellbound. Take a pathological liar, Sharon thought, hang a “state’s witness” sign around their neck, and suddenly they were Abraham Lincoln. The knot in Sharon’s stomach seemed to double at once in size. That Sonya did Midge’s hair would give the witness instant credibility with the women on the jury. The hairdresser knows all.

  “During the time you’ve known her,” Breyer said, “have you had occasion to discuss Midge’s knowledge of the death of her father?”

  “Oh, yes, sir. She told me she done it.”

  Sharon wondered briefly whether Breyer had bothered to tell Sonya that Midge was alleged to have hired the killing done rather than doing it herself. It wouldn’t have mattered to Sonya. If the testimony hadn’t had such drastic potential consequences, Sharon would have laughed out loud.

  “You mean, that she paid someone to kill her father,” Breyer corrected.

  “Yes, sir.” Sonya’s expression was moronically dull.

  “Miss Brown …” Breyer went through the charade of
examining notes. “Miss Brown, when was the last time you talked to Midge Rathermore?”

  “Last night after supper. We was talkin’ about me fixin’ her hair today.”

  “During that discussion, did the subject of this trial come up? Specifically, Miss Brown, did you discuss the testimony of a Mr. Steven Gallagher?”

  “The dude from outta town?”

  “Yes, Miss Brown,” Breyer said. “The gentleman from Kansas City.”

  “Yeah. Midge said after they changed the burglar alarm, she give the new code to this boy was gonna kill her daddy.”

  “You mean, the code for disarming the security system?”

  “Sure do.”

  “And you’re sure,” Breyer said, practically preening in place, “that Midge Rathermore told you that after the code was changed, she got the new code and gave it to a boy.”

  “Yes, sir. Ain’t no doubt about that.”

  “A boy who intended to kill Midge’s father?”

  “That’s what she said.”

  “Continuing with the conversation of last evening,” Breyer said, “did Midge Rathermore also mention Leslie Schlee?”

  “Sure did, sir.”

  “And what did she tell you in regard to Leslie?”

  Sonya drew up to her full seated height. “She said Leslie was her friend, and that her and Leslie made up this stuff about her daddy messin’ with teenage kids. Said Leslie was gonna lie to get Midge outta trouble.”

  One juror, a black woman in her forties, was looking at Midge. Heretofore Sharon had seen the same juror gazing upon the defendant with a sort of motherly tenderness, but now the woman appeared uncertain and even a little angry. The juror realized that Sharon was watching and quickly looked away. Sharon lowered her head and doodled on her legal pad. Her vision was so blurred that she didn’t have the slightest idea what she was writing down.

  On cross, Russell Black did his best with what he had to work with. “Miz Brown, what is it you’re in jail for?”

  “Objection.” Breyer’s hands were folded, his shoulders hunched slightly over the table. “The witness hasn’t been convicted, Judge.”

  “Sustained,” Sandy Griffin said, almost reluctantly.

  “Okay,” Black said. “Miz Brown, what have you ever been convicted of?”

  “Prostitooshon. Jist once.” Sonya managed to sound as though whoring was as innocent as baking cookies.

  “Well, lemme ask you, Miz Brown. What reward has the state promised you for giving this testimony?” Black said. A warning bell sounded in Sharon’s head. Should have asked the question differently, boss, she thought.

  Sonya’s eyes grew round as Whoopi Goldberg’s. Her mouth slackened. “You mean, they’s a rewahd?”

  Black looked down as laughter erupted. The question had backfired big time, and Sharon suspected that Russell Black got caught with his pants down in the courtroom about once in every century. Black waited until Sandy Griffin’s banging gavel had restored order, then cleared his throat.

  “Not a money reward, Miz Brown. I’m askin’ you what kind of a deal they made you for gettin’ up here and tellin’ this … story.”

  Now Sonya seemed indignant. “They didn’ promise me nothin’.”

  Sharon leaned back to glare at Fraterno. She wouldn’t turn her head in Sharon’s direction, though her face reddened even more. Of course they hadn’t given poor little Sonya a written snitch agreement. The deal with the state went like this: you do us good, we talk about it. Shortly after the trial, whatever misdemeanor beef had been filed against Sonya Brown would disappear, and no one would be any the wiser. Within months, even weeks perhaps, Sonya would return to jail on new charges. The Sonya Browns of the world always did.

  “And you’re not expectin’ anything, I guess,” Black said, “after you finish this testifyin’.”

  Sonya put on the same face she’d probably used when the cop had propositioned her, paid her, then had hauled her downtown after she’d assumed the sock-it-to-me position. Who, Me? “I wouldn’ know nothin’ about that, sir,” she said.

  Black inhaled, then exhaled slowly through his nose. He gave Sharon a look that was every bit as helpless as she felt at the moment. Finally he said, “Pass this woman. This … witness. No further questions, Judge.”

  Sonya sauntered out just as she’d come in, hips swinging, all but snapping her fingers. As she pranced by the defense table, Midge showed her hairdresser a vacant, happy smile.

  48

  “Dammit,” Sharon said, looking out the corridor window. The sky over downtown Dallas was a hazy blue; smoggy haloes blurred the outlines of the glistening ball atop Reunion Tower and the Renaissance Plaza spire. “Dammit,” she said again. “If only we could’ve had one more shot at Linda.”

  “Or maybe,” Anthony Gear said, “we should’ve used he old woman from the Windjammer Motel.” He was seated on the front edge of the bench with his forearms resting on his thighs and his tie hanging straight down between his legs. Deborah North sat alone across the hall, staring at nothing. Up and down the corridor, courthouse gossips gossiped and newspeople newsed.

  “I tell ya,” Russell Black said, bending low on the bench to scratch his ankle, “and I been doin’ this for twenty-five years. There’s never been a trial where you don’t feel like you’ve left somethin’ out you should have put in. Usually you’re right, too, but think. We already beat Linda up as much as we could, and showed she was havin’ relationships with those kids. And the old woman? She’d scare Godzilla to death, not to mention the jury. We put on what we put on, and did a damn good job of it. If the jury wants to believe that whore on the end, well, there’s not much we can do about that.” He glanced at his watch, then at Gear. “How long they been out already?”

  The detective checked his own watch. “Hour thirty-seven. The longer the better, huh?”

  Dallas Morning News reporter Andy Wade came close, and opened his mouth as if to speak. Black vigorously shook his head. Wade shrugged, did an about-face, and headed for Breyer and Fraterno. The prosecutors were about a hundred feet down the hall, talking in whispers.

  “Most people believe a jury out a long time is good for the defense,” Black said, “but that’s not always true. I got an acquittal once in forty minutes. Another time I remember, they were out four days and went ahead and hung my guy.”

  Sharon nervously smoothed her skirt, wanting to comfort Deb North but not having the slightest idea what to say, wanting to do anything to ease the tension. Russ’ final argument had been perfect as always, just the right blend of fact and heart-bending emotion. Kathleen’s closing statement had been … well, merely adequate, Sharon thought, but she’d honed in sharply on Sonya Brown’s testimony, which was about the only ammunition left to her. Sharon had to hand it to Fraterno; if Sharon herself had just been named a respondent in someone’s divorce, she doubted she could find her way to the courthouse. Breyer had shown good sense in letting Kathleen do the honors, Sharon thought. Midge’s fate was in the hands of the jury. Or God, Sharon thought, if there’s any difference between the almighty and twelve tried and true. We should win, she thought. We put on the best evidence. But anyone who believed that juries decided cases on the facts alone simply had their head in the clouds.

  She said softly, “I know there are exceptions, boss, but it’s usually true. If they stay out a long time they’re undecided.”

  “Or just dumb,” Black said, then looked guardedly around. “Christ, don’t let any of those reporters hear me sayin’ that. Headlines’ll be, ‘Black Calls Jury Dumb.’”

  Sharon laughed nervously, so did Anthony Gear, and Black finally joined in the merriment, three people on pins and needles, grasping at anything to keep from screaming in agony. Sharon suddenly had to go to the bathroom. She excused herself and headed up the corridor.

  And stopped in her tracks as assistant DA Edward Teeter
emerged from the elevators, accompanied by two uniformed county deputies. All three men showed grim faces.

  Oh, my sweet God, Sharon thought, not now of all times. They’ve found him. They’ve found that filthy pervert Bradford Brie lying in a pool of his own blood, and they’ve somehow traced him to me. Not now, she thought helplessly. Not until Midge’s verdict is in, until I can prepare Melanie for …

  As the men approached, it was all Sharon could do to keep from sagging limply to the floor. They stood before her, Teeter in the center, flanked by the two lawmen. One deputy was big with truck-sized shoulders, the other a squat redheaded fireplug.

  She looked at them.

  “We need to see you, Miss Hays,” Teeter said.

  Christ, oh, Christ. “I’m waiting on a verdict,” Sharon said, her speech rapid, her voice up an octave.

  “We heard,” Teeter said. “But this won’t keep. Tell her, Wilson.”

  The big deputy had stubble on his chin. “We just come from that fella Brie’s place. The grand jury returned a true bill and we just got a warrant this morning.”

  “Brie?” Sharon smiled, even though her lips felt like they might crack.

  “Yeah, you know. Somebody killed that guy, Miss Hays. Shot him in his living room with his own gun.” Wilson narrowed his eyes.

  “Oh, how …” Words stuck in Sharon’s throat. “Awful,” she finished weakly.

  “Anyway,” Teeter said, “we thought you ought to be one of the first to know about it. The guy won’t be bothering you anymore.”

  Sharon was about ready to extend her wrists to receive tile handcuffs. “Any idea who … ?”

  “None,” Teeter said. “To tell you the truth, that’s a file not likely to be closed anytime soon. Maybe years from now some guy already in prison will get a sudden urge to tell, but we’ve got too much else on the burner to waste a lot of time on a case like that. Anybody could be the suspect, killing that guy. Guess you wish it could’ve been you, huh?”