One and Done (Sam Johnstone Book 2)

by James Chandler

  Back at the office, the partners worked on other matters. Paul was clearly hesitant to take on Davonte’s defense. Sam was interested and struggled to pay attention to the pile of real estate matters pending, but it had to be done. Finally, after drafting a set of covenants for a new subdivision to be located at the base of the mountains, he called it a day. On the way home, he decided to stop in the liquor store and buy a bottle. He’d made his purchase and was watching the clerk bag it when the headline on the Bugle caught his eye: ARREST MADE IN GAY SLAYING. Below the headline was a picture of an almost angelic-looking Miles juxtaposed against Davonte’s defiant booking photo.

  “And so it begins,” Sam said.

  “What’s that?” The clerk handed him the brown paper bag. “You want a paper?”

  “I might as well,” Sam said.

  “That’s going to be a real mess,” she said as she handed him the change.

  Sam couldn’t resist. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, just that you got a fairy killed by that black boy. Now, what kind of mess is that going to be for us normal folk?” She tucked her blue hair behind her ear. Sam counted at least a dozen piercings in addition to the gauges visible. “I mean, nobody can help what he is, but I wish they’d leave all of that stuff where they come from and just leave us alone. What do you think?”

  “I don’t even know where to begin,” Sam said, taking the bag and leaving the store.

  “Right?” he heard the clerk say as the door closed behind him.

  12

  “Sam, I’ve been thinking. Even if the guy comes up with some money—which I doubt will happen—I think this case might be one we need to steer clear of.” Paul was sitting in a chair in Sam’s office. “I think he might be guilty and maybe this isn’t such a good idea.”

  “It doesn’t look good. But like everyone else, our guy has rights,” Sam said. “That’s really what we’d be defending.”

  “You and I understand that,” Paul said. “But the average dude on the street, well, he doesn’t get it. Besides, our client is a jerk.”

  “Most people don’t get it,” Sam agreed. “And as for Davonte, remember, he’s a teenaged college jock. I’d like to see if he could come up with the money, at least.”

  “Sam, I think he is blowing smoke. Let the public defenders take the case. They’ve got some good people over there. They can try a case, and they’ve got state dollars to support them.”

  “He says he’s got the coin,” Sam said. “I say, ‘Show me the money.’”

  “Sam, this thing would become all-consuming.” Paul was up and pacing. “It would take our eye off the ball on virtually everything else we have going on for months.”

  “I know,” Sam agreed. “That’s why we bill his ass off. And I could maybe defer that school law thing?”

  “Our financial situation sucks right now,” Paul said, picking up and examining a hockey-puck-sized object on Sam’s desk. It appeared to be made of clear plastic. Inside were dozens of sharp metal objects and a couple of ball bearings. “What the hell is this?”

  “That’s the stuff they took out of my leg,” Sam said, smiling wryly at Paul’s reaction. “Before they decided to take the leg. It’s from the improvised explosive device that blew me up.”

  “You kept it?”

  “Evidently. I was told later I insisted.”

  “Jesus, Sam!” Paul said. “I’m sorry. I thought it was a paperweight.”

  “It is now.” Sam smiled as he watched Paul delicately place the memento back on the credenza. For a moment, he was back on the hospital ship under the bright lights and hearing the voice of the surgeon who had saved his life. Her name was Margaret. Major Margaret-something. Probably long retired and making a mint in private practice. He should find her and thank her, he thought, before returning to the subject at hand. “No sweat. But assuming for the sake of argument we got the money?”

  Paul looked at Sam. “Up front, Sam. We’ve got to have the money in hand. I’m going to stomp my foot if you’ve got any other ideas,” he said. “This isn’t Tommy Olsen, right?”

  “Oh, no. This is a business deal. Tommy was kind of a . . . project,” Sam said. “Okay, let’s do this: I’ll go and tell him we won’t consider making an entry of appearance until we have the cash.”

  In his old truck on the way to the jail Sam was listening to Wyoming Public Radio. They had the story and were playing up the racial and sexual orientation angles, just as the Bugle had. Just before he changed the channel, the radio personality cut to an interview with Bugle reporter Sarah Penrose.

  “What’s the picture on the ground in Custer?” Penrose was asked.

  “Well, to be honest, the town is in a bit of an uproar,” she responded. Sam was sitting at a red light, watching a mother and her children cross the street carrying paper cups from a national coffee chain. The interview continued, and as Sam drove by the college on the unseasonably warm Saturday afternoon, he noted a number of students on the vast property throwing footballs and Frisbees, while others lounged on the brown grass, looking at laptops. One even had a book.

  “A number of college students have told me they are afraid to go outside in this environment,” Penrose continued, as Sam stopped to allow three female joggers to proceed. “Vincent Beretta, Custer College president, has put out a statement urging calm and asking everyone to pull together, but it doesn’t seem to be having much effect. On the one side,” she continued, “are students seeking justice for the young man who died. Given Wyoming’s history in these matters, they want to see justice for their gay friend.”

  “And on the other?” the host asked.

  “On the other are civil rights activists and others wanting to ensure that the young African-American man accused of this heinous crime receives a fair trial,” Penrose said. “As we all know, this country’s history in that area is deplorable.”

  “Sounds as if things are tense in Custer,” the host opined.

  “Oh my, yes,” Penrose said. “You can feel it in the air.”

  Sam arrived at the jail and sat in his truck, thinking about the coming discussion with Davonte. In the park across the street, two fathers were playing basketball with their sons while two women talked at a picnic table nearby. A dog, leashed to the picnic table, watched the basketball game, barking and wagging his tail. As he got out of the truck, Sam could smell dry leaves, charcoal fluid, and meat roasting in the crisp fall air.

  After clearing security, Sam made it to the attorney/client room. A couple of minutes later, Tom brought Davonte in to see him. After chaining him to the table, Tom backed out of the room. “See you later, Mr. Johnstone. Let me know if you need something?”

  “I will, Tom,” Sam said. Because Sam had yet to make an appearance, he was deemed no more than a visitor, and he was still separated from Davonte by the plexiglass. “Davonte, how are you doing?” Sam began.

  “I’m in jail for something I didn’t do. The food sucks. I’m sleeping on a rock-hard bunk that was made for a midget. And the guards are all assholes. How the hell do you think I’m doing?”

  “I think you’re warm and dry and no one is shooting at your sad ass. That’s what I think.” Sam stood and was turning away when the pounding on the plexiglass got his attention. He saw Davonte motioning to him.

  “Where are you going?” Davonte asked.

  “I’m leaving. I really don’t need this crap,” Sam said.

  “Wait!” Davonte said. Sam waved off Tom, who was looking through the window, questioning what was happening. “Look, man. I’m just pissed off. This place sucks.”

  “I get it, but I’m not your momma, I’m not your punching bag, and I’m not here to listen to your sniveling,” Sam said as he sat back down. “I’ll remind you that the charge is murder. You will talk to me like an adult, or you will find someone else. There is no other option involving me.”

  “You my lawyer yet?”

  “Not until I see the money. All of it. I made that clear the oth
er day.”

  “I’ll get you the money, man.”

  “You’ve got an initial appearance Monday—that’s two days from now. You won’t have to say anything. They’ll give you the paperwork for a public defender.”

  “I don’t want no public defender, man!”

  “Then you’re not as smart as you think you are. Good public defenders try cases all the time. They’re sharp, know the system, know the judges, and they’ve got the resources of the state behind them. They’ll give you a good defense.”

  “I want my own guy. I want you.”

  “You don’t even know me. You don’t know anything about me.”

  “I know you are a hero. I figure you got big balls. From what these guys in here are telling me, there’s people outside want me strung up ’cause Kaiden was gay and I’m black. I didn’t kill that dude, and I need someone who isn’t going to be afraid. I don’t know about them other guys, but I know you won’t be afraid.”

  Davonte looked tired, Sam thought. “Davonte, everyone is afraid,” he said. “I’m not afraid of what those nitwits with their signs think or say, but I am afraid of representing another human being in a case like this. Everyone is. Can I control the fear? Yes. But that’s all I’m doing. Now, I’ve spoken with Paul. We can’t do this unless—”

  “What is that dude’s problem?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I can tell that dude don’t like me,” Davonte said. “Is it because I’m black?”

  “No. It’s because he thinks you’re a jerk,” Sam said. “And to be frank, so do a lot of other people.”

  “Like Ronnie? That’s his boy, right?”

  “Yeah, but Ronnie seems to think you are a great guy. At least, that’s what he is telling Paul.”

  Davonte sat quietly. “Ronnie is okay, man. Me and him, well . . . I didn’t do this,” Davonte said. “Can you do this by yourself?”

  “No. Paul is my partner. We work together.” Sam took a piece of paper out of his pocket, wrote a number on it, and pressed it against the glass so Davonte could see it. “That’s the number. All of it. If you want me there, the money needs to be in my hand or on account by Monday.” Turning to leave, he stopped himself. “One more thing, Davonte. A little free legal advice.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Keep your mouth shut. Talk to no one about your case. Trust no one.”

  “That ain’t gonna be a problem.”

  “Good,” Sam said. “And eat something. You’re already looking a little raggedy.”

  13

  The afternoon on the Black Hills spring creek had done wonders for Sam’s morale. The weather had changed overnight, and it was in the twenties when he left Custer at dawn. Several hours later, he was sitting on the bank thinking how the black pine and aspen contrasted nicely with the brown of the dead grasses, making the scene look like one of the photographs taken during Lieutenant Colonel General George Armstrong Custer’s 1874 expedition into this very area. Best of all, when the temperature got to thirty-seven degrees, a small hatch of blue-winged olives went off. Having caught several small brown trout, he stopped in a small South Dakota town, got some gas, and prepared for the half day’s drive back to Custer. While he was gassing the truck, he read several text messages and listened to a couple of voicemails. Apparently, members of Davonte’s family wanted to meet with him. He finished fueling his truck, bought a couple packages of beef jerky and a cup of coffee, and drove west. Hours later he had parked his truck and was opening his office door when he heard a woman ask, “Are you Mr. Johnstone?”

  Turning, he saw a tall, thin woman with her hand extended. Behind her were two large young men. “I am,” Sam said, taking her hand. “Sam Johnstone. You are?”

  “Davonte’s mother. He’s my baby. This is his brother Damon, and this is my sister’s boy, Reggie,” she said, introducing each.

  “Nice to meet all of you.” Sam nodded. “Come on in.” He opened the door and extended a hand for Davonte’s mom. The two men declined to follow. “After you,” Damon said.

  When they were all in the reception area, Sam looked at Davonte’s mom. “Coffee?”

  “Yes, please,” she said.

  Sam looked at the two men, who shook their heads. “Coffee for two coming right up, Mrs. . . . I’m sorry, ma’am, but I didn’t get your name.”

  “Blair. I’m a widow, Mr. Johnstone. My husband died years ago in an industrial accident. Please call me Sharon.”

  “Sharon, please call me Sam,” he said, and then indicated his office. “Why don’t you all have a seat in my office while I make us a cup of coffee?”

  Several minutes later Sam turned out the light in the kitchen and carried the two cups back to his office. Sharon was sitting in the chair directly in front of his desk with her purse on her lap. She was wearing heels and a plain blue dress and had a sweater across her shoulders. “It’s cold here,” she said.

  “Sometimes we’ve got a foot of snow by now,” Sam replied, putting the coffee on a coaster in front of her while watching the two men closely. Damon had taken a chair in the corner of the room and was watching Sam. He was not as tall as Davonte but had to be at least 6’6”. He had on a light jacket, jeans, and an expensive pair of black basketball shoes.

  Reggie, the shorter of the pair, had his back to Sam and was examining the law books and knick-knacks on the shelves. He wandered from shelf to shelf, picking things up, examining them, and replacing them with little regard for whence they came. “You a hero?” he asked, without turning to face the increasingly irritated Sam.

  “I did my job,” Sam said. Not thrilled with having this many people in his bubble, he was eager to get on to the business at hand. “How can I help you?” he asked Sharon.

  “I want you to represent my son.”

  “I spoke with your son yesterday, ma’am—”

  “Sharon.”

  “I spoke with Davonte yesterday, Sharon. I explained to him that defending against a murder charge is an expensive undertaking. As you can see, we’re not a wealthy firm.”

  “I understand, Sam,” she said. “He is my son. He has told us he wants you to represent him.”

  “I’m flattered, but I have a partner, and things haven’t been great. See, I’ve had some trouble—”

  “Tomorrow morning, I will go to the bank and have the full amount of your fee wired to your bank,” she said. “I just need your bank routing and account numbers.”

  Sam took a sip of his coffee to mask his surprise.

  “He thinks we’re from the ghetto, Mom,” Damon said. He and Reggie exchanged a knowing glance.

  Sam looked steadily at Damon. “Your brother has spent the better part of both of our conversations trying to convince me he is a badass from Detroit,” he said. “I’ve no reason—”

  “To think he’s anything other than some street thug?” Damon said, sitting up in his chair. Sam didn’t know what Damon’s problem was, but he was clearly spoiling for a fight.

  “Damon, let the man finish,” Sharon said.

  “Thank you, Sharon,” Sam said, then turned his eyes to Damon. “I was going to say, ‘I’ve got no reason to believe he is anything other than what he says he is.’” He paused as if to think. When Damon had sat back, Sam finished. “Which, I guess, would be a street thug.” He met the eyes of Damon and Reggie in turn, registering the fury in each set. “To use your term,” he concluded. He looked at Sharon and could swear he saw a twinkle in her eye.

  Except for the occasional indication that Sam had email arriving, the room was very quiet for what had to be a full minute. At last, Sharon reached for her cup, sipped from it, and wrapped her long, slender fingers around it, clearly enjoying the warmth. “You were a soldier, Sam?”

  “I was.”

  “My Ronald was a soldier. We got married the weekend after he got out of basic training. I stayed in Detroit—we did live downtown, then—while he went to advanced something.”

  “Advanced individual training.”
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  “That’s right. Somewhere back east. He finished that, then came and got me, and the next thing I know I was living in a little apartment in Germany. Place called Schweinfurt,” she said. “That’s where my Damon was born.”

  “I’ve been there, believe it or not.”

  “Have you? Well, we had a good time. Still have some nice things from there. Anyway, we stayed there for a couple of years, he got deployed to Iraq or Afghanistan or one of those awful places—I can’t recall which—and when he got back, I told him I didn’t want him deploying anymore. No more being a hero. Told him I didn’t want to be a war widow. So, we moved back, and he got a good job with the transit authority and we had Davonte and started raising the boys.”

  “Sounds like a made-for-TV movie,” Sam observed.

  “Doesn’t it?” She looked around his office and smiled wistfully. “And then he got killed in an accident and I was a widow anyway. Raised Damon and Davonte by myself.”

  “I’m sorry,” Sam said.

  “I appreciate it,” she said. “Sam, do you need anything from us? Besides the money, I mean?”

  “Sharon, let me do this. Let me talk with my partner and make sure he is okay with this. If he is, I’ll come back in tonight and draft an agreement. If you’d like to meet me here at nine a.m. tomorrow on the way to the bank, we can sign the agreement. There’s just one thing, though.”

  “What is that, Sam?”

  “Sharon, even though you are paying the money, my client is Davonte.”

  “And what does that mean?” she asked. In his peripheral vision, Sam could see the two young men listening closely.

  “That means that I’m not going to be able to share a lot of information with you,” he said, looking at each person in turn. “Whatever Davonte and I talk about is confidential. What happened, strategy, what he tells me—all of that will just be between me and Davonte and my partner, Paul. Anything said in front of you with Davonte present wouldn’t be confidential and might have to be disclosed in court.”