by Martin Clark
“I’ve called you twice Evers, two times. Didn’t you get my calls?”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t call back.”
“An in-law ass-chewing about once a month is generally all I need.”
The elevator arrived—a small electronic bell rang—and the doors withdrew into the walls on each side, made an air and lubricated sound, full of grease and wheels and metal. Several people stepped around them and got in.
“In a way, I guess, I’m glad you didn’t call me back. In a way.” Mrs. Covington was a small and tired lady, in her sixties, looking up at Evers, wearing a circle of pinkish lipstick, although some of the color was well off her mouth. Her hair was fixed, perfectly in place, and she smelled like perfume and old clothes, a damp, soggy smell, like the back of a bedroom closet. The perfume was porous and weak, and the musty, closet scent ran through it, overwhelmed it. She licked her lips. “All of this has been hard for me and my family.”
“I’m sure,” Pauletta said.
“I’m a decent woman,” Mrs. Covington said. “And I’m healthy and fit and expect to live a lot longer.” She smiled and turned her head, looked at Pauletta and Evers from a different angle. “I don’t want the wrong thing to come out of this.”
“Neither do we.” Pauletta had regained a lot of her breath.
“Did Pascal tell the police that he shot my daughter, Evers? Did he? Everybody tells me that.”
“They say he did. That’s what we’ve been told, that he confessed. He’s never told us that, though, Mrs. Covington. He’s never told Pauletta or me he’s guilty. Never.” The doors to the elevator slid shut.
“It’s hard for me to understand.”
“What do you want to tell us, ma’am?” Pauletta asked.
Evers noticed that the hall was getting crowded, filling up with criminals, lawyers, police officers, clerks and people with yellow traffic summonses in their hands. A group of four men came out of another courtroom. The men were smiling and laughing and shaking hands with a short, weedy man wearing a blue baseball cap that had the letters NRA written across the front.
“I … I don’t know what happened. I think Pascal’s a good boy. I don’t know how to explain everything. But … what I wanted to tell you, and I’ve tried to tell Evers, tried to call twice, and I sort of go back and forth on it, change my mind, is that Jo Miller left, well she sent it, mailed me, a copy of her note. The note they say was on the computer. She sent it to me.”
“Sent it? The same note? When?”
“It came in the mail two days after she died.”
“How do you know she sent it?” Evers relaxed his hands and bowed his head closer to Mrs. Covington.
“It was her writing on the envelope, and she signed it. And wrote some more to me across the top. A little message on the top. Not much, just a little bit more for me. She just said she thought what she was doing was best for everyone.”
“The same letter that was on the computer screen?”
Mrs. Covington wet her lips again. “From what I can tell, yes.”
“You’re sure it was from her?”
“Yes, of course.”
“What did it say?” Pauletta asked. “What was added?”
“Nothing that would make any difference to you, just some personal things.”
“So she sent you a signed suicide note, with an addition in her own writing.” Pauletta looked at Evers and raised her eyebrows.
“Do you still have the letter?” Evers asked.
“I don’t … know.” Mrs. Covington shook her head. “This is very hard for me. My other children blame you for this, Evers. Some of what they say makes sense.”
“Like what?” Evers frowned. “Why am I getting vilified for all of Jo Miller’s choices and failings? Why?” He folded his arms across his chest.
Mrs. Covington turned her head again, licked her lips. “It’s like watching a movie, Evers.” She stopped and licked her lips some more, made a sucking sound. “Like a movie, it depends on where you come in on it. You start in the middle and you may see someone do something that confuses you or seems mean, uncalled for, but it wouldn’t seem that way if you’d seen what came in front, if you’d started watching during another scene that came earlier. Very few things happen between two folks without a little push or word one to the other. Jo Miller didn’t just up and shoot herself without some help from you, Evers. Things don’t happen that way. Nope, they sure don’t.”
“What exactly are you saying?” Evers glared down at Mrs. Coving-ton, his arms still flat against his chest. “That I shot her? Or that I somehow caused her to shoot herself? Made her do it by treating her badly? What?”
“Some of that’s what I’m telling you, yes. Yes.”
Evers rolled his eyes and exhaled loudly. “How in the world could—”
“Judge Wheeling, you need to listen and think about her point. Just be quiet. This isn’t a debate that needs to be happening out here in the hall in front of hoodlums and strangers.”
Evers unfolded his arms and held his hands out in front of him, like he was pushing something away, blocking himself off. “Fine. That’s fine. You’re right. I’m sure it’s an argument I’m not going to win anyway.” He put his hands down. “Did you tell the others about the letter, that Jo Miller sent you a signed note?”
“No.” Mrs. Covington sighed. “I didn’t. I don’t think it would make any sense to.”
“Did you mention the letter to the police?” Pauletta inquired.
“No, I didn’t. But I did try to call Evers twice. He didn’t call me back. And now I’m telling you. And I’m not sure how important it is or, I don’t know, if it’s important at all since Pascal said he did it.”
“So would you tell the truth if we called you as a witness, ma’am?”
“I will tell the truth.” Mrs. Covington closed her eyes for an instant and dropped her head. “I will tell the truth, yes.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Pauletta said.
“Yeah. Thanks, Mrs. Covington. Thank you,” Evers added. “We didn’t know about this.”
Mrs. Covington stood a little straighter and adjusted a pin on her jacket. “Like I said, I haven’t told anyone else. I’d really just like to stay out of all the court goings-on, now that I’ve cleared my conscience. I would.”
“I understand,” Pauletta said. “It’s a problem without an answer.”
“Was there anything more specific, more detailed, in what she wrote to you, Mrs. Covington?” Evers asked, very suddenly. “Any explanation as to why she might decide to … to shoot herself?”
Mrs. Covington tightened her face, made her eyes and features smaller and flat. “Because, Evers, she didn’t want to be a cipher. To be almost forty and have nothing. Have to start all over. It’s easy to take hold when you’re twenty, but that’s when you begin, not when you’re halfway through your life. She told me about a month before she died that it was like eating a slice of white bread, and you’ve eaten all of the white part, eaten the center, and there’s nothing left on your plate but the brown crust.”
“I’m sorry,” Evers said. “Most of the time, I tried my best.”
“Can you imagine what it was like after she walked out her drive and put that letter in the mailbox, what it would be like walking back, by yourself, opening the door, shutting it, going in your house to take your own life?” Mrs. Covington’s voice quavered. “That’s what I see. Her walking down that road, by herself. No children and no husband with her.”
“Did she know about the problem with her throat? Maybe that had something to do with it.”
“I don’t think so. She’d been sick some, but that’s all. She never mentioned it to me. I knew that she was upset, but I had no idea this was coming. We talked the day before and she was chipper, in a real good mood.”
“Well, I appreciate your telling us. I’m sorry I didn’t call you back. I didn’t know what you wanted.”
Mrs. Covington smiled a little and shrug
ged, then turned around and walked back down the hall, away from Evers and Pauletta.
Evers shook his head. “That’s a nice spin and some colorful window dressing to put on her daughter’s shiftlessness and promiscuity, huh? It’s a little more fundamental than all that, and way less pure, isn’t it? Fucking a college kid, a cow farmer, and not really working because you prefer to sleep in and sip cappuccino with your friends. I think I just heard her make it sound like Jo Miller had this Albert Schweitzer melancholy, this metaphysical vapor lock and broken soul because she’d dropped the only vial of medicine that would’ve saved all the kids in the village from rheumatic fever. Shit.” Evers was watching Jo Miller’s mother walk down the hall; her pace and gait were steady, and she didn’t look back. She made a right-angle turn, very crisp, pivoted almost, to reenter the courtroom; a nicely dressed man held the door for her.
“I’m glad to see you’re so sympathetic and chastised.” Pauletta was watching Mrs. Covington as well.
“Oh, fucking wonderful. What am I missing, huh? Tell me.” Evers threw up his hands. “Thanks for all your backing.”
“I’m on your side, Judge Wheeling. Your wife did some unpardonable things. You have the moral high ground. But nothing happens in a vacuum. All sorts of different outcomes are possible, depending on who does what. And even if you’re totally blameless, you should still try to find a little bit of forgiveness in your hard heart. That’s all I’m going to say about it. This isn’t the time to discuss it, okay? We need to find Adam and Pascal and let them know about Mrs. Covington. Her testimony is gold. Absolute gold.”
“She shot herself, Pauletta. Jo Miller killed herself.”
“She did, didn’t she?”
“She shot herself,” Evers said again. “I knew it.”
Evers found Pascal eating peanuts and drinking a soft drink in a jury room. Pauletta was trying to locate Adam, so the brothers were by themselves, seated on opposite sides of a cheap table. Pascal’s tie was loosened, and his jacket on the chair next to him.
“So the confession is gone, correct?”
“Yes,” Evers answered.
“Why do I still have to go to trial?”
“Because the D.A. is demanding it. Don’t worry. The case will go out on a motion to dismiss. We won’t even have to put on evidence. We’re home free.”
“I still could lose, though. Anything is possible in court, right? Isn’t that what you told me?” Pascal put a foot on the table. His shoes were brand-new, the bottoms still tan and slick.
“I don’t see how.”
“Whatever.”
“And our case just got even better,” Evers told his brother.
“Oh? How’s that?”
“Jo Miller killed herself. That’s what I came back here to tell you. She sent the letter on the screen to her mom. Signed the fucking thing. Let me say that again. Signed the fucking thing. And added a little message at the top. She shot herself, Pascal. And her misspelled name and two dim-witted policemen have turned this thing into a tar pit as black as coal and as big as the doublewide.”
Pascal tugged at the button on his shirt collar. “So … wait a minute. When did you find out about the letter to Mrs. Covington? Is that something they had to divulge at trial? Something that Adam got from the D.A.? Why are you just now telling me? How could there be a signed letter?”
“Believe it or not, Mrs. Covington told us. Just a few minutes ago. She’d called me a couple of times, but I didn’t call her back. I assumed that she was just calling to scream at me. That’s my fault, isn’t it? But I’m not a mind reader. Sorry. Who would’ve thought?”
“Is the letter … real?” Pascal looked bewildered.
“Sure. It has to be. Why would Jo Miller’s mom make up something to help us?” Evers closed his eyes and tilted his head back. Both of the brothers were silent for a moment. Evers kept his eyes shut, rested the nape of his neck on the top of his chair. “Tell me why you confessed, Pascal,” he said, still not looking at anything. “What in the world was going on? This has to be the time for you to tell me.” Evers sat up and gazed at Pascal.
Pascal took his foot off the table and pulled his chair closer to the edge. The chair made a sudden, sharp metallic squeaking. The noise seemed loud and filled up the room’s quiet. “You know why, I guess.”
Evers felt hot and light, like he had felt in Pauletta’s office. The chair noise was still vibrating in his ears, still in the room. “No, I don’t,” he said. “Why?”
“It was something I owed you.” Pascal’s voice was low, almost a whisper, but it came through the noise in Evers’ head like a burrow into his brain, violent and direct. Evers’ face and neck turned crimson; the color switched on all at once, and a blood-red current jolted its way across his skin, buzzed around in his cheeks and chin and circled his throat. His lips came apart and made a smacking sound. Pascal moved closer. “I had to do something, to get all of the shit and failure and letting you down out of me, Evers. To even us up, make us brothers again.”
Evers closed his mouth, began running his bottom lip between his teeth. “I … I,” he stuttered and gave up, tried to talk but couldn’t.
“And I’m mixed up in it, too. I let you down. Caused a mess. This pays back some of my part.”
Evers put his head on the table, dropped his forehead onto the wooden edge so the table was pressing into his skin; his eyes and mouth were left suspended in the air over the floor. He wasn’t able to speak for a few minutes. “What in the world have you done?” he finally said. “Have you lost your fucking mind? Have you?” He didn’t raise up when he spoke to his brother, kept his face down and talked to the floor.
“Isn’t it wild and strange that she was going to die anyway?” Pascal said. “That’s the scary part—the wishes and the shrine and everything. That’s got to make you think.”
Evers didn’t move or speak or lift his head. Pascal got up from his seat, walked around the table and knelt down beside him. Pascal kissed the side of his brother’s face. Evers kept his brow on the hard edge, kept his eyes closed so the room was blacked out; his neck was red and scalded, and the noise from the chair had gotten into his skull and was spinning around like a pinwheel in a rush of wind. Evers and Pascal stayed silent for a few moments. Evers was finally able to sit up, and when he did he put his hand on his brother’s shoulder. “None of this plays out so well, Pascal. Are you trying to take the blame for me because you think I did it? Is that it? The other possibility is even less palatable—I damn sure didn’t want you to kill her.”
“Well … it did look pretty bad, I mean, you know, you wishing her dead and everything else. And you were all fucked-up after the police left.”
Evers let go of Pascal’s shoulder. “This doesn’t make any sense at all. I fucking told you the next morning where—”
“Where you were and the couch story—I know. Like you’re going to tell me you drove down there and killed her. I thought I was making the right call.” Pascal almost lost his balance, put his hand down to keep from tipping over. “Shit. Wow. So you really didn’t do it, huh?” He made a clicking sound with his tongue and teeth. “Shit. So much for my grand plan to pull you out of the fire.”
Evers looked at a brown plastic pitcher in the center of the table, and he knew—without even checking—no water was in it, that if he took hold of the handle the pitcher would come right off the table with no resistance at all, light and empty and full of nothing. He started reaching for the container anyway, stopped almost as soon as he started and peered down at his brother. “Get up off the floor and let’s talk about this before we go back outside.”
• • •
Hands was in a little better mood when he returned from lunch, but still angry. He met with Adam, Pauletta and Evers in Pendleton’s office before the judge returned.
“You sandbagged me, Adam. You screwed me on this. I think you told me twice that the motions were routine. That’s why we heard them today.”
“I filed
them well in advance, and I file similar motions in every confession case. The motions were routine. The facts were compelling.”
“Pretty fine line, isn’t it?”
“That’s what we do, Granger. We’re lawyers. Semantics and elliptical commitments.”
“It will affect the way you and I do business, I can tell you that.” Hands was petulant.
“So be it. I have a clear conscience. My job is to represent my client diligently and to deal with you honestly. I did both.”
“You fucking misled me, Adam. Intentionally. I didn’t expect that of you, and I’ll remember it in the future.”
“Maybe if you’d worked a little more thoroughly,” Pauletta said calmly, “you wouldn’t have to rely on the kindness of strangers, Mr. Hands. We’re not an information co-op, you know.”
“I didn’t say anything when you were rude to me earlier. But you are ignorant and unprofessional, ma’am. And I guess it’s easy to look good when witnesses like your doctor choose to lie under oath, and you choose to encourage it.”
“You weren’t looking too good with your two redneck, lying cops.” Pauletta raised her voice.
Adam stood up. “Folks, let’s not squabble. Maybe we can still do some business. Certainly you have a better offer now?”
“Let’s just try it,” said Hands.
“Granger, you don’t have a case. Zero. Right now you have an adulterous, terminally ill woman with a suicide note and a boyfriend who threatened her. The best you have is some carpet fibers that could have come from my client’s brother or some other carpet or been there for who knows how long. And some inconclusive hair fragments. That’s what the lab report said. Some common points, but inconclusive. And I think we can show that my guy was in Durham after the police had already visited him at his trailer. I gave you his accountant’s number, remember? One more thing. The powder residue on her hand—that’s going to be hard to explain.”
