Sam felt relief swell through him. Over the roar emanating from outside at one end of the courthouse, he accepted a handshake from Davonte. “Hang tight,” he said. “We’ve got one more thing to do.”
They listened while Daniels thanked the jury, formally acquitted Davonte, released the million-dollar bond, and sent everyone on their way. It was over. While Davonte accepted congratulations from his family and supporters, Sam sat alone, thinking about Paul and Jeannie.
21
Late that afternoon, Sam was packing up the books and personal items in his office and happened to look out the window. The television trucks were no longer in front of the courthouse, and the activists who had been staked out for weeks had left as well. He’d tried to contact Paul, to no avail.
“Who has the time to do that?” Cassie asked, startling Sam. He hadn’t heard her come up behind him. “I mean, I’ve got things I feel strongly about, but I don’t have the time or interest to travel around complaining about stuff. I’ve got my own stuff.”
Sam smiled and took the box she was offering him. “A lot of those folks get paid to do exactly that. Of course, others are truly committed to the cause.”
Cassie shook her head. “I don’t understand it. You come into someone else’s town and tell them how to do business. That takes gall.”
“Indeed,” Sam said. “Did you get those copies made?”
“I did . . . So, Paul said to send you an invoice—” Cassie began.
“Invoice it.”
“But I don’t feel right about doing that,” she said.
“Do it.”
“With you getting started somewhere else, I just . . . well, it’s just not right. You and Paul have been friends for a long time.”
“We have. Things are a little raw right now. I can’t blame him. Ronnie is his son. Nothing can overcome that.”
“It’s all so sad,” she said. “Ronnie. You and Paul. All of it.”
Sam had turned back to the window. “It is,” he said. The meteorologists were predicting hail in the afternoon. With the wind picking up and the temperature dropping, Sam wasn’t so sure it would take that long. He sipped coffee and watched the trash and detritus left behind by the protesters dance in the wind.
“It sucks, Cassie,” Sam said. “But we know one thing: the jury did its job. Despite the unrest brought to town by the outsiders, twelve Custer jurors did what they had to do. They listened to the testimony, they saw the evidence, and they applied the law Daniels gave them to what they had seen and heard. They made a decision. We don’t always have to agree with jurors; they have the right and responsibility to make up their minds. But we should respect the process.” He watched as two signs, somehow separated from the cheap wooden handles that had held their messages high for all to see, floated down the street like a pair of ghosts.
“I’m going to miss you, Sam,” Cassie said to his back.
Penrose was pacing back and forth in Bill Gordon’s office. “I think there is still a story here!” she said. “I think the next trial will be just as controversial as this one.”
Gordon looked away from his computer screen and drank his soda. “Really? And why would that be?”
“Well,” she said. “My sources tell me that young man—Ronnie—might be gay.”
“Meaning?”
“That we might have a killing of a gay man by a gay man. That’s a storyline. Don’t you see?”
“No, Sarah. I don’t. I don’t see anything but an American tragedy. You see gay, you see black, you see whatever color or gender preference or sexual identity you want to assign. I see people. You see a gay-on-gay killing. I see a situation where two young men got in a dispute—apparently over nothing important. One killed the other in a fit of pique. It’s incredibly sad. It’s incredibly tragic. One family has lost a son, one almost lost a son, and one more might lose a son. Mothers and fathers and sisters and brothers must now go through the remainder of their lives with a hole in their hearts. I think that—and not their race or gender or sexual identity—is your story. Write that. This is the twenty-first century. The gay thing is passé. But young men killing each other is, unfortunately, a tragedy apparently without end. Write that.”
22
Sam took the next week off to rest and recuperate. Like all trials, Davonte’s had been a draining one, and like all trial attorneys, he needed some time to catch up in other areas of his life. He’d found a location to open his own office, and the night before he was to do so he was drinking beer and tying flies at his kitchen table when he heard the knock on his front door.
It was ten p.m., and because he didn’t get many visitors that late, he assumed it was a drunk neighbor at the wrong door. He was completing a size 16 Royal Wulff with a whip finish when the knocking resumed. He sighed heavily, put down his tying tools, slipped the small revolver into his waistband, and went to the front door. Peering through the peephole, he saw the top button of a dress shirt.
Smiling, he opened the door to Davonte. “Come in,” he said, and Davonte—followed as always by Damon and Reggie—entered. Davonte sat down and watched curiously while Sam applied a small drop of clear finish to the fly.
“You catch fish with those?” Davonte asked. He pointed a huge finger at the tiny fly.
“I do.”
“Where at?”
“I’ve caught fish all over the country with these,” Sam said.
“What kind of fish?”
“Trout.”
“So, little ones.” Davonte smiled. So did Damon and Reggie.
“Usually. But I like where the little ones live,” Sam replied. “Water is clean and pure. No people.”
“I hear that.”
“What can I do for you?” he asked, turning in his chair to face Davonte.
“Just wanted to say thank you.”
“Well, it’s my job.”
“I know, but my momma said to come and say it. She’ll stop by your office tomorrow. She really liked you. She told me all along to trust you.”
“She’s a classy lady,” Sam said. “What's next?”
“Got to get to Raleigh,” Davonte said. “My agent has got some guys lined up to help me get ready for the draft.”
“Very cool. NBA still an option, then?”
“Of course. Why wouldn’t it be?”
“The drugs? The gay thing?”
“Weed ain’t no issue,” Davonte said, dropping the smile. Damon and Reggie quit smiling, too. “Lots of guys do that.”
“And the other?”
“Hey, man.” Davonte spread his arms wide and looked at Damon and Reggie. “All anyone knows is I was hanging out with a couple of gay dudes. As far as they know, I’m just an equal opportunity kind of brother. Inclusive and accepting, you know?” He looked at Reggie and Damon again. They nodded their approval.
“That’s you,” Sam said, looking at each man in turn. “Inclusive and accepting.”
“Right on. So, I just kind of wanted to thank you, and to remind you that I’d prefer no one know about that other thing.”
“What thing?” Sam asked.
Davonte smiled. “War hero and smart, too.”
“I get by.”
“Yeah.” Davonte stood. “Well, me and the boys need to get back to civilization.”
“Right.” Sam stood as well. “It’s been . . . interesting.”
“Thanks again, man,” Davonte said, extending his huge hand. Sam took it, shook it, and was ready to release, but Davonte was hanging on. “Keep that stuff under your hat, you understand?” He tried to release his grip, but it was Sam’s turn.
“You had your chance,” he said, feeling the henchmen stiffen and staring at Davonte for some time before releasing his grip. He stepped back and gave the three men a wide smile. “I hear you. Now get the hell out of my house so I can finish my flies.”
Sam escorted Davonte, Damon, and Reggie to the door and closed it behind them. He got a fresh beer before returning to his chair, then sat and t
hreaded his bobbin, put a tiny hook in the jaws of the vice, and drank from the bottle in preparation to begin tying the next fly. The goal was to get a dozen tied tonight that he could use tomorrow. The weather was supposed to turn for the better, and he was hoping to get in a little early spring fishing before the run-off started. Tonight, he would enjoy the buzz and anticipate the fresh air on his face.
He picked up a fly that he’d finished three beers ago and frowned. It looked like something a cat coughed up. “Okay, let’s get re-focused here,” he said aloud.
Five minutes later the front door to his home opened, and Sam realized he’d failed to lock it after the three men had left. Assuming it was Davonte and the henchmen, he looked around his immediate area to see if they’d forgotten anything. Seeing nothing out of place, he said, “Davonte, what’d you forget?” Hearing nothing, Sam felt goosebumps rise on his forearms. He reached back and touched the pistol, just to be sure. “Davonte? Don’t be dicking around.”
When he felt the presence of someone on the other side of the kitchen door, he drew the small double-action revolver, dropped his hand to his side, turned toward the door, and waited. After what seemed like a full minute, Albert Smith stepped through the door and pointed a pistol at Sam’s chest. His eyes were red, his cheeks were wet with tears, and Sam could smell the booze from ten feet away. “You ruined our lives, you sonuvabitch!” Albert said.
“Mr. Smith, put the gun down,” Sam said quietly. “Let’s talk.”
“Ain’t nothing to talk about!” Albert said. “I warned you. You are a third-rate lawyer screwing with people’s lives! We just wanted to live as we please.”
Sam felt the hair on the back of his neck standing on end. “It was you,” he said quietly. “It was you making the threats. It was you following me.”
“You finally figured that out, mister smart lawyer? Who else would it be? How many other lives did you ruin, you bastard?” Albert wiped the tears from his face with a big paw. “I tried to warn you! You turned her against me. You ruined us with your protective order and your tellin’ her I’m bad for her! She said she was going to leave me!”
“Mr. Smith, you’ve been beating her up for years. You won’t get help. She’s leaving because of you.”
“No!” Albert said. “She loves me, but she told me this morning she was leaving and not coming back! It’s your fault!” Albert raised the pistol’s aim point from center of mass to Sam’s forehead. “You put the idea of leaving in her head!”
“Albert, put the gun down,” Sam said. “Shooting me gets you nothing.”
“It gets me even! You took Raylene away from me!” Albert shouted.
“No,” Sam said. “No, it doesn’t. Look around—you see anything I’m going to miss here?” Albert looked around the little apartment, then back at Sam when he started to speak again. “I’ve been blown up, shot, freaked out, and lost my girl. I’ve got nothing except an old truck and a couple of fly rods.” Sam shrugged. “Shoot me and I lose nothing. But you’ll do life. Then you’ll never see Raylene again. Let’s talk.”
“I’m done talking, and I’m done listening!” Albert said. He was waving the pistol around as he ranted. “But you bastard, you should know you are going to suffer, just like you made me suffer!”
“What do you mean?” Sam asked.
“That little lady you been seeing?”
“You mean Veronica?” Sam’s stomach was in knots.
“I dunno,” Albert said. He lowered the weapon and then smiled, showing an uneven row of yellow teeth. “I asked around. That little brunette who works at the courthouse? Well, if I can’t see my woman, you ain’t gonna see yours, neither. I seen to that.”
Sam felt his blood run cold, and he stood. “Albert, I swear to God, if you did anything to hurt her—”
“What? You gonna threaten me? I'm beyond that, counselor,” Albert said. “You might be a war hero and all, but it’s too late. It’s over. It’s all over.”
Sam raised his weapon and pointed it at Albert. “If you hurt her—”
“Too late, counselor,” Albert said, raising his own weapon.
“No!” Sam shouted, as Albert put the weapon in his mouth and pulled the trigger.
23
“I need to speak with Detective Polson,” Sam said, trying not to look at Albert. There was nothing to be done.
“Just a minute, please,” the dispatcher said.
“Please hurry,” Sam said. “I’ve got a dead man in my kitchen and there’s somewhere I need to be.”
Moments later he heard Punch pick up the line. “Polson.”
“Detective Polson, this is Sam Johnstone.”
“What’s going on, counselor?” Punch asked warily.
“Albert Smith—you know who he is?” Sam asked.
“Yeah. A world-class jackass and wife-beater.”
“Yeah,” Sam said. “He was that. Long story, but he just put a gun in his mouth and shot himself. In my kitchen. Before he shot himself, he told me he killed Veronica Simmons. I’m on my way over there now.”
“No!” Punch said. “Stay where you are. If it is a crime scene—”
“I’m on my way now,” Sam repeated, grabbing his wallet and keys. “I’ll leave the door to my apartment unlocked so your boys don’t need to break it down.”
“I see we’re getting calls about a shot at your place already,” Punch observed. “Everyone else is okay?”
“Fine.”
“I’m sending an officer to Veronica’s place. If she doesn’t answer the door, wait for my guys. Do not—I say again—do not screw up my crime scene, counselor.”
Sam could travel anywhere in Custer in a matter of minutes, but even with the short duration he was able to make five increasingly plaintive calls to Veronica en route. Despite the cold night air, sweat was pouring from him, and he could hear his own breathing and the blood pounding in his ears.
Arriving at her home, he sprinted to Veronica’s door and pounded on it, yelling, “Veronica, open up! It’s me, Sam!” He repeated the pounding and yelling to no avail. He heard the sirens emanating from approaching cop cars, turned his shoulder to the door, and was about to break it in when Veronica opened it. Her feet were bare, her hair was wet, and she had a towel wrapped around her.
“Sam Johnstone, are you drunk again? What are you doing here? I told you I need time to—”
Sam stepped through the doorway and gave her an enormous hug.
“What is the matter with you?” she protested, trying to push him away. “What’s happening? What’s with all the cop cars?”
Daniels rolled over and answered the phone. It was just after eleven o’clock. “Your Honor, are you awake?” Punch asked.
“I am now, Detective.”
“I need a warrant signed, Judge,” Punch said. “I tried to get Judge Downs to sign it, but she isn’t answering. It’s about Albert Smith.”
“What about him?”
“He . . . well, he just killed his wife, we think. Then he broke into Sam Johnstone’s house and killed himself in front of Sam.”
“Aw, shit!” Daniels said. “What are you looking for?”
“Just the evidence from the crime scene where Albert killed her and where he shot himself,” Punch said. “I’m . . . Well, I’m sorry, Judge. If I didn’t need this signed right now, I wouldn’t worry about it. I know that this has to be tough.”
“Just bring it over and let me take a look at it,” Daniels said, getting out of bed.
“What’s going on?” Marci asked.
“Cops coming over,” Daniels said. “Guy I let out of jail just killed his wife and then himself.”
“Oh, honey!”
Half an hour later, Daniels handed Punch the affidavit and warrant and took off his reading glasses. “Here you go, Detective. Be safe.”
The next morning, Mary took a deep breath. The door to Daniels’s chambers was ajar. For years, she’d had free rein to enter as she felt necessary, but this morning was different. Fi
nally, she exhaled and knocked before she entered.
“Your Honor?”
“What is it, Mary?”
“Judge,” Mary stammered. “I—I guess I don’t know how to say this.”
“Then just go ahead and say it.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I appreciate that. Nothing you can do. Brought this on myself.” Daniels stood and walked over to the cabinet where he kept his bottle. “That will be all for today. I’ve got some paperwork to sign and we’ll be done here.”
“What? But it’s only ten o’clock!”
“That’s fine,” Daniels said. “I am done for the day. Lock the door to the outer office when you leave.”
“Judge—”
“Mary, we’re done here,” he said. “No cases, no calls, no nothing. Tomorrow, I will write my letter of resignation and have you mail it to the Supreme Court.”
“But you can’t quit! You can’t blame yourself!”
“Well, Mary, then just who the hell is to blame?” Daniels asked.
“Obviously, he is!” she said. “Albert is the one who killed his wife and then killed himself. There is nothing you could’ve done about that.”
“I could’ve kept him in jail. I could have denied the motion to amend bond. For twenty years that is exactly what I would have done, but for some reason I thought I saw something in him.” Daniels drank two fingers of whiskey in a single gulp and poured another two fingers. “I don’t know what the hell I was thinking. But I made the decision to amend his bond and the sonuvabitch killed her. He should have been in jail!”
“It is never the judge’s fault when someone gets out and kills another person,” Mary insisted.
“Tell that to the people of the Twelfth Judicial District,” he said. He walked slowly to the chair behind his desk and sat down. “They are going to want my head on a platter, and I deserve it.”
“What can I do?”
“Nothing, really,” he said. He stood again, walked to the window with his glass, and looked out over the courthouse square. “Mary, to be honest, I’m not so sure I want to do this anymore. I’ve done the best I could do. I can’t say I’ve always been comfortable and confident that I made the right decisions, but I haven’t been reversed much—if that means anything. But now, two people are dead because of my decision to amend Albert Smith’s bond. I just don’t know that I could ever feel confident in what I’m doing again. Hell, I only had a couple of years left, anyway.”
One and Done (Sam Johnstone Book 2) Page 30
