Blood in the Lake

by Anne L. Simon

  My mouth full, I shook my head no.

  “She’s damn good, and drop dead gorgeous as well. Juries love her.”

  I swallowed, wiped mayonnaise off my fingers, and took a sip of beer before I answered.

  “Watch out there, Tom. I hear she just got out of a marriage. You wouldn’t want to be involved with someone who’s ten years older than you are, would you?”

  Tom covered my tease. “No, but maybe,” Tom counted on his fingers, “seven years younger would be nice.” His blue eyes twinkled, and he gave me that great smile. “Seriously, it’s important to have a good lawyer as an opponent for a first degree prosecution. When I don’t, I have to check everything the defense does in order to prevent reversible error. Have you followed Rompilla? I think the US Supremes are gonna reverse another death penalty and send the case back down to the trial court, ten years post-trial, on the grounds of incompetent counsel. Now there’s a real nightmare, attempting to retry a case after that period of time. Half the evidence comes in as a dry record, testimony of long-gone witnesses read to the jury by some law clerk.”

  “I’m serious too. From what I see, our family will have two very good lawyers at work. I’m feeling damn lucky to be able to watch it all up close.”

  Tom sat up a little straighter. He must have given some consideration to his next question as he emphasized each word. “That lets me introduce another thought. Would you be interested in doing more than watch? I’ve been thinking about asking you if you would like me to approach Mr. Strait about taking you on.”

  “Taking me on? As what? I’m not yet a lawyer.”

  “As an intern/researcher for this prosecution.”

  Wow. I couldn’t give Tom a quick answer. I needed time to think. The prospect of working on a real case after three years of nothing but books, and the thrill of a major trial, made my heart thump. But a lot of baggage came with the offer. A case involving my own family? And what about working with Tom? I couldn’t ignore how I was feeling about this guy. Heart and mind at work at the same time? Usually a really bad idea, especially when some members of the family were sure to find fault with the way the prosecutor handled the trial. I’d be in the middle. But maybe another look at a prosecution in action would help me decide if I wanted a career in criminal law. I’d been canceling those appointments at the placement office and didn’t really know why. Perhaps the right option hadn’t yet been put on the table.

  Tom watched me struggle.

  “That’s OK, Mandy. Think about it. In the meanwhile, I do have a couple of evidence questions I need help on. Maybe you could do some research for me. With the law library right here you could—”

  I jumped at the chance to keep the offer open. “Yes. I’d be very happy to do some research for you, Tom. At least until after the first of the year when I have to cram for the Bar.”

  More than happy, to tell the truth. I wanted these meetings to continue.

  “The obvious first issue I need to have researched concerns other crimes evidence—how we tell the story of the investigation into your grandfather’s murder without mentioning the attack on Lydia Falgout. Could you research and write a memo on that subject?”

  “You’ll have to give me more of the facts.”

  “Of course. I’ll let you see the reports of the detectives and their conclusions. Basically, the case against Richard is circumstantial, but persuasive.”

  On one level, Tom recounted what the detectives had gathered so far. I asked questions. Beneath the surface, the emotional exchange between us led to a different kind of connection.

  I looked at the shock of blond hair falling on the left side of Tom’s forehead, the cleft in his chin. I let my left hand inch forward on the top of the table. Tom’s right hand moved forward toward mine. I thought about the tabletop game we played as kids, the Ouija Board. What were the spirits telling me now?

  Our fingertips touched.

  “Maybe you could even be my second chair at the trial, Mandy.”

  I had kept enough sense to recognize that as a bad idea. I’d research, and maybe I’d intern in the office for a while, but I would not sit at the prosecution table.

  “Oh, my no, Tom. You’ve mentioned Richie Castille. He’s the one. He has the experience of a zillion drug trials under his belt.”

  We were holding hands across the table now.

  “You’re right, Mandy. Richie wants a break from drug duty. A capital case might even get him to lose the Paul Bunyan-sized chip he’s had on his shoulder ever since Mr. Strait gave me the job as first assistant. Richie thought he’d done enough time-in-grade to deserve the promotion.”

  Tom picked up my hand and brought it to his lips. His eyes locked into mine.

  “Mandy, would you like to think some more about all these problems over at your place?”

  “Yes.”

  Tom put my hand down on the table, stood up and walked to the counter to pay the bill. We went back to my apartment and made love. He was tender and skilled. All my reserve vanished. I responded to Tom with abandon. When Tom joined me in a final moment I was not on this earth.

  Tom didn’t go back to New Iberia until the following morning.

  PART II

  New Job

  TOM HAD MADE the deal with Mr. Strait for me to clerk in the DA’s office until the Bar Exam results came in. Summoned to report for initial instructions, I rang the door buzzer at eight sharp. The lock clicked. I pushed. The door didn’t budge. Shit. Maybe I should pull. Yup. Not a smooth beginning.

  A giant copy machine and four unoccupied work stations cluttered with papers lined the perimeter of the reception area. In the center of the room, a middle-aged woman with coal black hair and crimson lips sat straight as a schoolmarm at a U-shaped station.

  “Mandy Aguillard?” she asked.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Mr. Strait is expecting you.” She pointed to her left. “The door’s open.”

  Mr. Strait raised his chin and, with a twitch of his head, indicated the chair I should take. A number of files lay open on his desk; Post-it Notes decorated the remaining surface. He and his receptionist had probably been at work for some time.

  “Good morning, Miss Aguillard—Mandy, now that you’re one of us.” Just a suggestion of a smile. Not exactly a rousing welcome.

  With his left hand on a stack of papers speckled with numbers, his right hand holding a pen poised mid-air over a yellow legal pad, Mr. Strait launched directly into an overview of the work in the prosecutor’s office. No social preliminaries.

  “I have two requirements of every person who works in the offices of the District Attorney. The first is professionalism. Whether my attorneys are supervising pretrial diversion, screening misdemeanors and felonies, trying a capital case, advising public bodies, whatever they do, they are expected to apply high ethical and professional standards to their work. The staff—investigators, secretaries, bookkeepers, clerks—are expected to exercise the highest principles appropriate to their professions. And everyone is expected to respect the independence of all the other attorneys and staff as they do their jobs. Do you understand?”

  His words tapped out like fingers on a keyboard, and with no more expression.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “In the three offices of the district you will find dozens of men and women hard at work making decisions that impact people’s lives. Some decisions are very difficult, such as whom to prosecute, what charge to bring, what is competent evidence. There are often competing considerations at work. My assistants and staff may seek guidance from me or from my first assistant at any time, of course, but usually I decline to express an opinion. Use your best judgment, I say, and be sure at the end of the day you can look at yourself in the mirror and be proud of your work. Do you understand?”

  Translation: Everyone around here is on his own. Don’t bother to annoy me with questions because I probably won’t answer them.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Second, in additi
on to professionalism, I require confidentiality, and this requirement also applies up and down the line: attorneys, a clerk such as yourself, administrative assistants, investigators, secretaries, even the clean-up folks who empty the waste baskets after dark. Everyone.

  “You will no doubt see and hear matters that are important, petty, funny, sad, even tragic. What you see and hear in these offices stays here. No exceptions. You will do your job—in your case, assignments from Tom to assist him in preparing the cases against Remuald Richard—to the best of your ability. You will do no one else’s job. If another person asks you to do something, check with Tom. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “That’s it. Professionalism and confidentiality are my only non-negotiables. Breaches of these two requirements are capital offenses.”

  No smile. He might really mean it.

  “Yes, sir.” I said again—and felt like an idiot making the same response four times.

  Done with business, and without taking his left hand off the pile of papers, he lowered his right hand to the yellow pad and leaned his chair back three inches—no more. His face relaxed a tad, and perhaps, with imagination, I could detect a trace of warmth in his tone of voice.

  “I have read your memo on other crimes evidence, Mandy. You are quite perceptive about the tightrope Tom must walk to persuade the jury of the integrity of the investigation into the death of your grandfather without them hearing a single word connecting his death to the assault on Mrs. Falgout. Tricky problem. They must convict, if they do so, only on evidence Richard committed the crime at issue and not for any other reason. Unfortunately, two key pieces of evidence we need for Boudreaux were picked up in the Falgout investigation: a wallet found in Richard’s car and incriminating statements made to the deputies. Quite naturally the jurors will ask themselves—because of course they cannot ask the attorneys—why the detectives were collecting evidence about Remuald Richard in Birmingham, Alabama.”

  “Yes, sir.” I said it again!

  Mr. Strait appeared to have command of our case. Although he had a reputation for detail, he couldn’t know every file in the office. Probably only the capital cases—and maybe the political ones as well.

  Mr. Strait continued. “Indeed, Tom runs the risk of mistrial or ultimate reversal if he so much as hints that Richard did something criminal other than the events for which he is on trial. Your research was thorough and your report persuasive, exploring some wise procedures Tom might employ. He will benefit from your analysis of the problem and your creativity in considering solutions. Good work.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  And thank you, Tom, for passing on my memo. I know I flushed at Mr. Strait’s compliment. I had thrown myself into the project and probably spent over a hundred hours over the Christmas break putting it together.

  Mr. Strait continued. “We are now at the point in the Richard case when the prosecution must evaluate what the detectives have uncovered. All circumstantial. No scientific evidence and we have no eyewitnesses. The analytical abilities I see in your memo will be beneficial.”

  Mr. Strait’s speech had the precision of legal document. Gone was the smooth and amiable politician who charmed the crowd at our family meeting. I wanted to thank him for offering me the position, but before I could get the words out of my mouth, a red phone on the back table buzzed. Mr. Strait turned his chair to the right to reach the instrument, showing me the left side of his head. Without a word, he lifted his left hand in a dismissing wave. I stood up and backed out of the room as if I were leaving a royal presence—and stumbled trying to straighten out my feet.

  Back in the reception area, the same secretary, who introduced herself as Bonnie, jumped up to steady my step. A smile conveyed her amusement and also her empathy.

  “Mr. Strait can be a bit intimidating, my dear. He has a lot on his mind this morning. He’s giving a statement to The Daily Iberian in about an hour. After that, he’ll be filmed for the evening news on Channel Three. Big scandal in the Housing Authority. Missing funds. You’ll read all about it in the afternoon paper. The job of the District Attorney involves a lot more than prosecution, you know.”

  And I should be damn grateful to get one little sliver of her boss’ time, she implied. I took a deep breath. I’d be OK in a minute. Her kindness would help me get there. A whimsical pink butterfly decorated her oversized glasses. Nice.

  Bonnie invited me to follow her through a door at the rear of the reception area, into the library, and then to a small room off to the left. A battered wooden desk, a plastic covered chair—original color no longer discernible—and a three-shelf bookcase filled up the room no larger than a broom closet. Only two books sat in the bookcase—last year’s paperback Louisiana Criminal Code and a two-year-old Code of Evidence. No window, and if I wanted to close the door, I’d have to climb on the desk to accommodate the door’s path.

  “Not grand, my dear, but it’s all yours!”

  Not really. From my cubbyhole I’d be able to overhear everything taking place in the combination library and conference room next door, and anyone there would know what I was doing as well. Obviously, a clerk didn’t merit private quarters. I wouldn’t need to worry about the place being bugged. Ears would do the job of surveillance just fine. No wonder confidentiality was number two on Mr. Strait’s short list of requirements to work in this place.

  I sank into the chair and grasped the arms to still the tremble in my hands.

  Bonnie returned five minutes later, pushing a cart of goodies that included a late model Dell computer, a flat screen monitor, and a snake’s nest of cables. With the expert movements of a veteran of a geek squad, she inserted a few plugs, pressed a few buttons, and the distinctive Microsoft melody played. I was in business. In addition to Microsoft Office for word processing and calculations, I’d been given two special programs: Crimes, a database of the district’s criminal records; Westlaw for nationwide legal research. Things were looking up. I could feel my shoulders relax as I logged onto familiar sites.

  What did Mr. Strait mean when he said we were to evaluate the evidence? Was he saying the evidence might be insufficient for a conviction? I didn’t want to think about that.

  I sensed a presence and glanced up to see Tom occupying the doorway. All of it. He’s very tall. The back of my neck tingled with excitement.

  “You look good there.” Tom leaned against the door frame and smiled. No kisses in the office must be another rule. “Sorry about your accommodations. The DA’s office has spread like kudzu throughout this building, but we still don’t have enough space for all our functions.”

  I think I told him everything was fine.

  “So, did you get the two-part lecture on professionalism and confidentiality? ‘At the end of the day, Ms. Aguillard, be sure you can look in the mirror and be proud of what you see.’” Tom mimicked his boss’s voice, precise diction, and cadence. So, Tom could lose the north Louisiana twang if he wanted to.

  “He called me Mandy.”

  “Well, that’s a good sign.”

  “So, Mr. Strait’s introductory remarks are always the same?”

  “Yup. You haven’t met everyone around here yet but you will. ADA Richie Castille can repeat the entire speech word for word, complete with the stern face, bobbing head, and no pause to take a breath. In addition to some less admirable proclivities, Richie’s a bit of a stand-up comic. He entertains us at every Christmas party. Maybe next time he’ll turn his monologue into a skit so you can play the part of a terrified new hire.”

  “Please, no! Gimme a break.”

  “One of his best personifications is of the courthouse ghost. Woo-ooo!”

  “Courthouse ghost? This place is haunted?”

  “So-say. When this courthouse was built—1940, I believe—the next big event after the ribbon cutting was the hanging of Honoré Migues, the first white man in the parish anyone knew to get the noose. Richie loves the story. Old timers tell us they strung him up over a
trap door, and then let it drop to accomplish the deed. Richie can do a pretty fair twitchy dance of death. Another so-say, the ghost of Honoré is still around. If you work too late, you’ll hear him walk.”

  “Sounds like a convenient urban legend to use to keep from having to work late.”

  “Right you are, and Richie’s been known to use the excuse, but if I did nothing but drug cases, I’d be looking for closing time. I guess you met Bonnie, Strait’s top sergeant. She’s devoted to her boss, maybe even more than that, not that Mr. Strait would even notice her feelings. She smoothes a lot of rumpled feathers.”

  “I gather she handles the computers. Invaluable. Mr. Strait gave me a nice compliment on the memo I wrote for you on other crimes evidence, and I thank you for that. He’s pretty scary.”

  We moved into the library. Tom set a red accordion file labeled State v. Remuald Richard on the conference table and explained he was overdue turning our case material over to the defense. He’d given Sarah the affidavits for the arrest warrants, some initial statements from a witness who identified Richard at one of the bunkhouses at the docks, the tape of the tipster who sent the detectives to the Birmingham hospital, and a couple of crime lab reports, but we’d gotten in a lot more since then.

  “We’ll need to copy the rest to be ready for Sarah’s visit tomorrow.”

  I jumped up and reached for the file, assuming his words were an instruction to me to start on the copying task. Tom laughed and touched my arm.

  “Easy there. For now you can just familiarize yourself with the material.”

  I had a lot to learn about being Tom’s assistant. Like not to shiver at his touch.