Back to Lazarus (Sydney Brennan)

by Judy K. Walker

  “Why aren’t you in school?” I asked.

  “We finished last week, remember? What’s wrong with Noel?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. Was that a lie? Was I lying to him again?

  “Ben, sit down.”

  He looked at me apprehensively and slid one of the chairs from beneath the kitchen table. “What’s up?”

  I sat directly across from him and fought not to look away from his eyes.

  “You know how I told you I was an only child, and that I didn’t have any family. Well, that wasn’t exactly true. In fact, it wasn’t true at all.”

  He didn’t look particularly stunned, so I took a deep breath and went on. “I had a brother who died when I was about your age, and I have a sister. We had a falling out when my brother died, or I guess you could say I had a falling out with everyone else.”

  “What happened?”

  “They lied to me.”

  My words came out more forcefully than I had meant them to, as if I had resumed my argument with Noel, and I took a deep breath before going on.

  “I took off and didn’t see much of my family for a while. Then my mom died about 10 years ago, and I haven’t spoken to my dad or my sister since then. Not that we were ever very close.”

  “How’d he die? Your brother, I mean.”

  “Car accident, late one night. He was—“ He was what? Young? Handsome? Betrayed? “Well, you know how it goes.”

  “Yeah.” Ben started picking at a callus on his hand. “Sorry about your brother. How old was he?”

  “Nineteen.”

  “Man, that really sucks. The rest of it doesn’t surprise me though.”

  “Really?”

  “Nah. I could see you doing that, just walking away. You know, there are times when I’ve wanted to do that myself, just walk away and be done with it.”

  He was still looking down at his hand, admiring his handiwork, but for the first time I could see the pain in his face that I’d ignored so easily. For the first time, I wondered why he’d eaten dinner with me every night this week, why he stopped by every evening even when I wasn’t laid up. He seemed to feel my stare and looked up, but the vulnerability was gone. He was a teenager again, with things to do, energy only just held in check.

  “I gotta go. I’m riding with Kelly over to the car place.”

  “Kelly, huh? Guy Kelly or Girl Kelly?”

  He grinned. “Girl Kelly. You don’t think I’d ride across town and sit in the car shop for Guy Kelly’s ugly face, do you?”

  I was glad to see his good cheer return, but at the risk of squelching it I still had to ask him one more question. “Ben, you’re not mad at me, are you?”

  He looked surprised. “Why, ‘cause you lied about your family? No, of course not. It’s obviously something you don’t like to talk about, and it’s not important. I mean, I guess it’s important to you, but it’s not important to me. And I know you’d never lie to me about anything important.”

  Ben paused at the door. “Don’t go getting all morbid and old fogey on me.”

  I laughed, with more relief than humor.

  “I won’t. I promise.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  The drive west was uneventful, both physically and intellectually, meaning I had none of my hoped for great revelations or insights. I drove my own Cecil rather than taking a rental. Perhaps I needed the comfort of the familiar, including the same motel I’d stayed in before. Mrs. Waters was glad to see that I was well and that I’d returned to her humble business despite my bad experience with those hooligans. Being a big believer in the restorative powers of chocolate, I assured her that I owed my recovery entirely to her luscious brownies.

  Mike and Richard picked me up for a working dinner after I got settled. We ate at a Mexican place where everything was drenched with cheese and the iced tea tasted slightly of sulfur. It was no Rosalia’s by any means, but when I switched my beverage to a Corona, the taste of the food improved dramatically. Maybe it was the interaction with my antibiotics—good thing I didn’t read those labels after all. We sat in a corner under a precariously hung rotting sombrero, making plans. After reassuring myself that the sombrero would disintegrate rather than cause injury if it landed on our heads, I was better able to concentrate.

  Richard told us he had a good friend who was an Assistant State Attorney, someone he had gone to law school with that, according to Richard, had not yet been corrupted by the politics or the power of the position.

  “Jim Gilbert is fair and impartial, the kind of guy who actually thinks he’s going to the office to see justice done.”

  “Poor misguided soul,” Mike said.

  Richard pretended not to hear, but I gave Mike a conspiratorial grin. For some reason, Richard seemed to be stuck with the role of parent tonight. Poor misguided soul. I tried not to giggle.

  “More importantly, Jim owes me. Big.”

  “How big?” I asked. “This is likely to burn up a lot of good guy capital. The kind where he doesn’t take your calls anymore when we’re done.”

  “As big as it gets. Let’s just say I rendered a favor to Jim, the magnitude of which probably cannot be paid off in this lifetime.”

  Mike and I looked at Richard with interest, and respect, but no more details were forthcoming.

  “I’ve spoken to Jim and explained the situation. Sydney, you’re scheduled to meet with him in the morning, and he’ll let you review the State Attorney’s file from Isaac’s case while you’re there.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “Yeah. He’s a nice guy. Don’t abuse him.” Richard’s sudden stern gaze made me feel even more like a naughty child.

  “I also talked to Rudy Nagroski. He was the original investigator in charge,” Richard explained for Mike’s benefit. “He’s available all afternoon to speak with us. Mike, if you don’t mind sitting this one out, I thought Syd and I would handle it. Rudy’s pretty laid back, but three people might feel too much like an ambush.”

  “Makes sense, and I’ve already made plans of my own with the lovely Serena. She works records at the police department. Most people call her ‘The Gatekeeper,’ but she’s always been pretty accommodating with me,” Mike explained.

  “I’ll bet she has,” I said.

  Ben would have had a smartass reply. Mike pretended he either didn’t hear me or didn’t care, but his flushed face betrayed him.

  “The trick is to bring candy as a peace offering, preferably those miniature Dove bars. I’ve gotta take care of some stuff at the office in the morning, but I thought I’d camp out in her office for the afternoon, see if I can find anything on Vanda or Isaac.”

  “Look for the incident in the bar. Miss Johnson said it was a place called Jimmy’s.”

  “Will do.”

  A few minutes later they were dropping me off at my motel. The only other car in the lot was a silver mini-van piled with a contradictory mix of blankets and beach umbrellas. My eyes automatically examined the license as we slowly drifted by. New Mexico. I always like New Mexico license plates, the bright yellow Land of Enchantment. My room was four doors down from the van, and Richard parked directly in front of it. It wasn’t dark outside yet, but the edges of the sky were just turning to citrus. I drank the air as I slid slowly from the car, and for a moment I was surprised by the weight of it. Nope, definitely not in New Mexico any more.

  “Are you sure you want to stay here? Again?”

  Richard had obviously mistaken my Corona languor for uncertainty. My initial reaction was to play dumb, or offended. But why? Why play anything?

  “I have a different room.”

  “Yes, but—“

  “I wasn’t attacked at the motel.”

  “Still, the association—“

  “By that logic I’d never be able to eat at Lorna’s again.” I couldn’t resist a smile. “Then the terrorists really will have won.”

  Richard’s left lip curled. It reminded me of Noel. “All right, I give up.”
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  He called good night as he folded himself into his car, but he didn’t leave until I was secure in my room, or at least inside with the door locked. In fact, I must have felt secure, ignoring the siren song of motel cable and going straight to bed. It was early (especially by Central time) but I slept immediately and soundly.

  I was up bright and early for my appointment with Gilbert. Because the State Attorney’s Office was in the same building with the Public Defender, I had no difficulty finding it and was actually a few minutes early. I didn’t have to wait long before Gilbert met me in the lobby. He insisted that I call him Jim, but I found that difficult to do. With his dark, graying good looks he somehow didn’t look like a Jim. Richard’s name games must have been rubbing off on me. As he introduced himself, Jim held my hand just a few heartbeats too long, but I felt certain it was habit rather than an intentional message.

  When we got to his office, I saw that his chair was no more ostentatious or comfortable looking than my own. That was one point in his favor. He had decorated his office with pictures of his family, including his dogs, rather than ones of him glad-handing politicos. That was another.

  “Richard says you’re a good guy. That’s high praise coming from a P.D.”

  “High praise indeed. Of course, he has to say nice things about me. I know all the secrets from his younger, wilder days,” he said as he raised an eyebrow. I’ll just bet he did.

  “Were you with the State Attorney’s Office when Isaac Thomas was prosecuted?”

  “I was, but I didn’t rise as quickly here as Richard did at the P.D.’s office. I had just started doing felonies and wouldn’t see a capital case, even as a second, for a couple more years. Chet Hawkins prosecuted the case, and I don’t think he had co-counsel for it. Probably would have if they’d made it to trial, but since it was plea bargained there was no need. Unfortunately Chet died a few years ago. I’m afraid the file will be your best source of information.”

  “Will the people in your office wonder why I’m here?”

  “No, probably not. Postconviction appellate counsel in capital cases is always provided with a copy of our file. It’s not uncommon for them to have someone come by to look at the originals. I doubt anyone here now would remember the Thomas case, and they certainly wouldn’t remember the disposition.”

  Jim smiled. “Besides, I sent out an email this morning letting everyone know an infidel would be in our midst today to look at files. I doubt anyone will speak to you at all unless absolutely necessary. Richard and I are the exception. Here at the State Attorney’s Office, we can be pretty chummy with private attorneys, but when it comes to true blue public defenders, there’s not a whole lot of fraternization. And vice versa.”

  He led me to a small, spartan room where a single banker’s box sat on a lonely folding table, accompanied by an office chair. “If you need copies of anything, ask for Renee. She’ll take care of you.”

  I didn’t know what I was looking for, but whatever it was I didn’t find it in that box. Going through everything quickly but thoroughly, I didn’t see anything of consequence that I hadn’t seen in the trial attorney file. I even double-checked against the trial attorney file inventory I’d done over the weekend. Nothing. That struck me as odd. Where was their case? Come to think of it, where were the handwritten notes by the Chet Hawkins, or memos to his investigator? Who was his investigator? I saw no reference to one in the file, but in a capital case he wouldn’t have been without one.

  Worst case scenario, if Hawkins hadn’t had an investigator he would have been asking the police or sheriff’s officers for help on things like following up on evidence testing, checking out the suspect’s priors. But there were no notes to LEOs, and no references to Isaac’s priors. Conviction or not, if there had been an incident at Jimmy’s, it should have been in the ASA’s file. There was no correspondence at all, to law enforcement, to the defense, to Vanda’s family to inform them of progress or disposition. Nothing.

  Renee, as Jim’s “Girl Friday,” must have had him microchipped. She apparently knew where he was at every moment and led me to a conference room where he was meeting with some other attorneys. She asked me to wait outside, then returned a moment later saying he would meet me in his office in a few minutes.

  He was once again true to his word, and in about five minutes I was experiencing déjà vu, sitting in the same chair I’d been sitting in a couple of hours earlier. Perhaps it was my general paranoia exacerbated by the missing file items, but I felt as though I were meeting him again for the first time, that this was a man I really knew nothing about.

  “Mr. Gilbert—“ I began.

  “Jim,” he interrupted.

  The interruption annoyed me, and I felt, as I often feel with men in power, that his cordial insistence that I use his first name was actually a not-so-subtle display of power. I was tempted to continue using his last name, but I didn’t. Probably because I also wondered if I wasn’t just looking for an excuse to be pissy to a prosecutor.

  I explained about the items I felt were missing. He looked genuinely perplexed. “You’re sure?” he asked. I told him I was.

  “That doesn’t make sense. In case you didn’t notice, we’re sort of flying under the radar here. I didn’t review it, but I retrieved that file myself. No one knew I was getting it, and as best as I could tell it hadn’t been touched in years. I even had to wipe the dust off the box when I retrieved it from storage. Everything should be in there.”

  “What about the investigator? Do you know who his investigator was?”

  “He may not have had a dedicated one at that time, but you are onto something. Even if he didn’t he would have been getting assistance from the investigating agency.”

  Jim leaned forward, tapping his cupped hand against his upper lip. “And there was nothing handwritten in the file? Nothing at all? Or typed?”

  “No.”

  “Chet was meticulous about his files. He used to drive the secretaries crazy because he insisted on typing his own memos, one finger at a time. He used carbons so he’d have copies for the file, and he always made a mess. I don’t like this.”

  Jim tapped away a while longer, long enough for me to decide my recent animosity probably was just me being pissy. Having finally come to a decision, he rose to shake my hand again and escort me out.

  “Sydney, I’m going to make some calls, do a little digging and see what I can find out. If you don’t mind, I’ll just contact you through Richard. It’s a little less… obvious.”

  I thanked him for his help and left the building, only to walk around to the PD’s entrance. It was nearly lunch, and I was hoping to grab Mike and Richard for a quick bite and update. They were both out, but Millicent—I mean Melinda—said Richard should be back soon and let me into his office to wait. There was a small sofa along one wall, upholstered in coarse navy fabric.

  When Richard returned 20 minutes later and found me sleeping, I had the presence of mind to hope the upholstery hadn’t given me a waffle face, but that was the extent of my embarrassment. A couple of weeks earlier, I would have been mortified to be caught napping in someone else’s office, but now it didn’t seem to matter so much. I was still just concentrating on doing whatever it took to get me through the day. Right now that was a nap, hopefully followed by copious quantities of food.

  Richard was happy to oblige on that count. We went to Lorna’s, where I gorged myself on fried chicken and mashed potatoes. In between bites, I told him what I’d found, or rather hadn’t found, at the State Attorney’s Office. His confidence was reassuring.

  “Jim will figure it out. I’m sure I’ll hear from him within a couple of days. Look, I’ve got to go back to the office after lunch. A couple of minor depositions got pushed up, but it shouldn’t take more than an hour or so. Why don’t you head back to your motel and get some rest? I’ll pick you up when I’m finished, and then we can go see Rudy.”

  My failure to argue was an indication of how tired I really was.
Must have been all the chewing. Returning to my room, it took all of my meager stores of discipline to pull the envelope of crime scene photos from the trial attorney box and settle down at my cramped little motel desk. (I couldn’t be trusted to sit on the bed.) The photos were tagged with sticky notes from my previous reviews, but I wanted to glance through them again before meeting with Rudy Nagroski. My intentions were good, but when I realized that I was on my second round of the stack without noticing that I’d finished the first, I decided I wasn’t really seeing anything and allowed myself to settle on the bed and fall instantly to sleep.

  Perhaps the photos hadn’t done much for my conscious mind, but they certainly stirred up my subconscious. Forty minutes later my eyes opened suddenly with that frustrating feeling of having dreamt important things, of images slipping through my fingers upon waking like sugar through a sieve. The only one I remembered was both familiar and unexpected, the tactile sensation of a finger gently tracing the side of my face. I could feel the hand turn against my face to expose the palm.

  I had often dreamed of my brother Allan doing that precise motion, but this time when I’d opened my eyes I hadn’t seen his familiar fingers with their perfectly rounded nails and their half moons at the base. The deep creases on Allan’s knuckles always seemed such a contrast to his unlined palms, but I didn’t see those either. Instead, I opened my eyes to see a pale callused palm contrasting with a rich brown hand. The fingers had similar moons, but these nails were a little longer than Allan kept his, and slightly curved under on the end.

  It was Isaac, of course, young and handsome as he had been in Ida’s pictures. Isaac before the death of his wife, before his own slow death in prison. His head tilted sideways, as if trying to see around an obstruction, or compensating for an astigmatism. Or trying to get his eyes to assimilate what his mind could not. His mouth parted slightly for a moment, but he didn’t speak. His lower lip started to tremble until he squeezed his lips together, forcing whatever had nearly escaped deeper inside. His breath caught on a deep intake of air, but his lips relaxed into fullness on the exhale. Then his mouth started to curve on one side. Just like Noel.