by Mark Gimenez
The drive home was quiet. Jodie rode shotgun. She said, "You okay?"
"Slade's out of control. He's going to hurt somebody."
When they arrived back in town, Beck cut over from Highway 87 to Ranch Road 16 and turned north to take Jodie and Janelle and their kids home. He drove a few blocks then abruptly turned west on Milam. He had gotten into the habit of driving through the barrio at least once a day. He stopped.
The barrio was gone.
The shacks, sheds, shanties, trailers, cars, furniture, trash, and even the Nativity scene were now just a huge pile of junk. The barrio had been scraped clean down to the dirt. Six massive bulldozers were scooping up the barrio and loading it onto dump trucks lined up and waiting to cart it all away to the city landfill east of town.
J.B. said, "I'll be damned."
Beck got out. He walked to where Julio's home had been. The Espinoza family had bought five acres outside of town and a trailer to live in until Rafael could build a house; they had moved out of the barrio two weeks ago. They had been the last to leave. They were gone, and the barrio was gone. And it was Beck's fault. He felt someone next to him.
"I'm sorry, Beck," Jodie said.
"I wanted to get justice for these people. I wanted to punish Quentin for his son's sins. But I punished these people instead."
Judge John Beck Hardin had forgotten the law of unintended consequences.
THIRTY-EIGHT
Christmas was different that year.
Three days after the game, Meggie and the doll woke Beck at six. Santa had found them at their new home, which had been a big concern for her. Beck acted happy for the kids. Jodie had helped him buy clothes and toys for Meggie, and he had bought Luke new baseball equipment and a bucket of batting practice balls. He smiled when he saw his presents. The baseball field was waiting. Then Meggie asked, "Will Mommy be back by next Christmas?"
And Luke's smile was gone.
Beck gave J.B. a belt with "J.B. Hardin" etched along the backside; J.B. gave Beck a pair of cowboy boots to replace the ones he had ruined in the river. J.B. then handed another wrapped present to Beck.
"From Jodie."
"She gave me a present?"
On the box was a note card that read: You're in a rut. Jodie. Inside the box was a Tommy Bahama shirt called "Walk the Plank." Beck was still in his pajamas and robe when there was a knock on the front door. Meggie was showing J.B. her gifts, and he was acting interested, so Beck stood and walked to the door.
"That's probably Aubrey."
It wasn't. Sheriff Grady Guenther was standing on the porch.
"Grady. Merry Christmas. Come on in."
Grady's face was somber.
"You'd better come out, Beck."
Beck stepped out onto the front porch and shut the door behind him.
"Something wrong, Grady?"
Grady stared into the distance and exhaled.
"It's Slade."
Beck's heart jumped.
"He killed someone."
Grady shook his head.
"He killed himself."
"Slade's dead? How?"
"Suicide. City cop patrolling about four this morning saw his Hummer outside the football stadium, so he stopped to check. Couldn't find him, so he turned on the stadium lights. There he was, spread-eagled on the fifty-yard line, with the championship trophy next to him. Self-inflicted gunshot to the head."
"He killed himself?"
"Yep. Gun belonged to Quentin."
The strength seemed to drain from Beck's legs. He dropped into a chair. He ran his hands over his face; the temperature was in the fifties, but he had broken a sweat.
"Quentin know?"
Grady nodded. "Drove out there myself. He said they had a big yelling fight the night before, about him bulldozing the barrio. Slade was pretty upset, crying and all. I searched his room—no note, but the place looked like a drugstore. Needles, vials, pills … and holes in the sheetrock, where Slade had punched. Quentin broke down and cried, said he was just trying to be a good father, pushing the boy to be better."
"I was worried he would hurt someone else. But not himself."
"Don't beat yourself up, Beck. Nothing you could've done."
"I could've put him in jail. I could've gotten him off steroids."
"Beck, you ain't his daddy. Quentin is."
"And Quentin isn't the judge. I am. Slade was my responsibility, too."
"You're just a judge, Beck. You can't make the world right."
At sunset, J.B. drove them into town for the Santa Run. He parked on Main Street at the finish line across from the courthouse and in front of the Marktplatz. He lowered the tailgate, and the four Hardins sat and waited for the Santas.
Christmas lights were strung over Main Street and wrapped around light poles and outlined every building, even the courthouse; the grounds were lit and the Eagle Tree spotlighted. The Marktplatz had Christmas trees and decorations and lights; every tree in the square was strung with lights. There was even a Nativity scene.
Hundreds of people had come into town for the run. The Santas had gathered at the starting line down Main Street at the Nimitz. They abruptly broke ranks and raced toward them, a herd of red-suited, white-bearded Santas stampeding their way. They cheered when Jodie crossed the finish line; she was the first woman. She won a prize. She came over and Meggie hugged her then Luke gave her a high-five. J.B. congratulated her, and then she looked at Beck.
"What's wrong?"
"Slade's dead."
Dear J.B.,
Merry Christmas. Did you get the photo? That's Beck's favorite one of me. That's how I want him to remember me, young and alive. Put it where he'll see it always.
Oh, you'll have to remind Beck about birthday and Christmas presents because I've always shopped for the kids and his secretary always shopped for me. He doesn't know I know. Ruth always called and asked what I wanted.
I gave Meggie a doll for Christmas. She said it looked like me. I gave Luke a practice hitting trainer. I had a dream, J.B. Luke was batting, you were pitching, and Beck was catching the balls in the outfield. Meggie was sitting in the bleachers. J.B., build that baseball field. Do that for me.
I have a hospice nurse now. Her name is Julie.
Love, Annie
THIRTY-NINE
Beck had failed as a husband and father. He had failed as the judge of a small rural Texas county. He had failed Felix Delgado and Julio Espinoza and eight hundred thirty-nine Mexicans and their children. He had failed Slade.
"It's my fault," Aubrey said.
"No, it's my fault."
"I knew he was on steroids."
"So did I. And I could've stopped him."
"But I helped him."
It was the next afternoon. Beck had driven into town past the high school where a TV satellite van was parked. Aubrey was now sitting on the other side of the desk in his chambers.
"You helped him do what?"
Aubrey exhaled. "Slade introduced the other boys to the wonders of science. I knew something was up when half the team gained twenty pounds of muscle over the summer. I threatened to kick them off the team, but they knew I was bluffing—their daddies run this place and everything in it. And they liked what the stuff did to them. Bigger, stronger, faster. Steroids work."
"So what, you became the team doctor?"
"I tried to educate them so they didn't hurt themselves. Some guy at a bodybuilding gym in Austin would tell Slade what to do, he'd tell the others, and the whole team's overdosing on the stuff. I had a bunch of goddamn psychos on the practice field. That's when I decided to help them."
"What'd you do?"
"Explained how to cycle, not to overdo it. Checked the stuff to make sure it wasn't made in Mexico from bull testicles."
"Did you supply the steroids?"
"No. Slade did. He bought the stuff in Austin."
"Jesus, Aubrey. I don't think you committed a crime, just giving them information, but you should've stopped them.
"
"Beck, they were gonna juice whether I liked it or not. These boys want out, and a football scholarship is a ticket out."
Beck sat back. "What am I supposed to do now, Aubrey? Look the other way? Aubrey, both of us should've done the right thing. Only two people in a small town with the power to stand up and do the right thing—the football coach and the judge."
Aubrey left, and Beck picked up the local paper. An entire section was devoted to Slade McQuade: his football career from seventh grade when he moved to town through his senior season that had just ended with a state championship. Slade's photos filled the pages; at nineteen his face was that of an action-hero chiseled from stone; at fifteen his face was still boyish and thin and … familiar. Where had Beck seen that face?
Kim Krause answered Beck's knock on her front door. He said, "May I see that video of Heidi again?"
She shrugged, went inside, and returned with the laptop. They sat on the steps, and she played Heidi's music video again. Beck watched closely.
"Stop. The face in the mirror. That's not you. That's Slade."
She nodded.
"Slade was the father of Heidi's child," he said.
Kim stared past him. "They were the two most beautiful kids in town." She shrugged. "They had to hook up."
"Did Slade know about the baby?"
She nodded. "His dad paid for the abortion."
Beck felt so tired. "Was she ever happy?"
"Happy? Who's happy?" Kim tapped on the computer. "Here's her Oprah interview."
"She was on Oprah?"
"We just pretended. She was practicing."
The video began playing. Heidi's image appeared on the screen. She was in her pink and blue room and wearing jeans, high heels, and a sweater. She sat in a chair next to her bed and faced the camera.
Kim said, "I was Oprah."
Kim's voice came across: "My special guest today is Heidi Fay, the nineteen-year-old star of the hit movie, Once Upon A Time. Heidi, this must be a dream come true."
Heidi, with a movie-star smile: "Oh, Oprah, it is. It really really is." She stopped abruptly. "I shouldn't say really twice. Sounds like a hick." She recaptured the moment and said, "Oh, Oprah, it is. It really is."
Kim as Oprah: "Tell us about your childhood back in Texas."
Heidi: "Oh, it was wonderful, Oprah. I grew up in a small Texas town, very quaint and beautiful, the perfect all-American town. My childhood was just wonderful. My parents are the greatest. They've been so supportive of my dreams and …"
The smile dropped off her face. Her shoulders slumped. She suddenly appeared sad. She said, "My father's a fucking prison warden, my mother's a fucking stage mother, and my hometown is a bunch of fucking goat ranchers scared of the outside world. Other than that, it's been a fucking great childhood, Oprah."
She looked at the camera—at Kim. She shook her head.
"God, Kim, I'd do anything to get out of this town. And when I go to Hollywood, it's just gonna be me and you. My mother is not coming."
She just sat there. Finally, Kim's voice came across: "I don't think you can say 'fuck' on Oprah."
Heidi looked at the camera, broke into a big grin, grabbed a pillow off the bed, and flung it at the camera. She jumped forward and knocked the camera over; it captured them rolling on the floor and giggling like little girls.
Beck now looked at Kim. Tears were rolling down her face.
"They both wanted to be stars. Now they're both dead."
Texas law requires that the medical examiner investigate all suicides, and if necessary to determine the cause of death, conduct an autopsy. Slade's body lay on a stainless steel table in the Travis County Medical Examiner's office in Austin. Beck went back to his chambers and called Dr. Janofsky; the M.E. said he would complete the autopsy and have results from blood tests back the next day.
FORTY
On November 22, 1963, Texas Governor John Connally sat directly in front of President Kennedy in the presidential limousine in the motorcade through downtown Dallas. According to the Warren Commission, Lee Harvey Oswald's first or second shot struck Kennedy in the back of his neck, exited his throat, then struck Connally in his back, exited his chest, then struck his wrist, and finally lodged in his thigh. A pristine bullet was found on Connally's gurney at Parkland Memorial Hospital. The so-called "magic bullet" made Lee Harvey Oswald the lone gunman and John Connally a Texas legend.
Real estate made him bankrupt.
In 1985, Connally borrowed $93 million to develop Barton Creek Estates and Resort on the western outskirts of Austin and above the environmentally sensitive Barton Creek watershed that fed the Barton Creek pool where for hundreds of years everyone from the Comanches to Robert Redford had swum. But where the Indians and Redford had seen untouched land and cool spring-fed waters, Connally saw million-dollar homes, a European spa, and a world-class golf course. The environmental group Save Our Springs opposed the development, but they were not Texas legends. John Connally built his Barton Creek Resort.
Two years later, it bankrupted him.
Now Beck was watching another Texas legend named Connelly whacking golf balls wildly on the driving range at the Barton Creek Golf Club. Chase Connelly was smaller than he seemed on television, no more than five-ten and perhaps one-fifty. He appeared almost gaunt, and he coughed like a heavy smoker. But he seemed congenial. He stopped when interrupted by fans seeking autographs; he signed, he smiled, and he allowed photos.
Beck sighed.
Chase Connelly had a wife and a four-year-old daughter. Would it be justice to put his wife's husband and his daughter's father in prison? Heidi had looked twenty-five and sexy. She had stalked him. She had voluntarily gotten into his limo and drank alcohol, snorted cocaine, and had sex. She had intentionally used her body to get an audition in Hollywood. Heidi had used Chase as much as he had used her. They were two of a kind.
Except she had been sixteen, and he had been twenty-nine.
That was almost five years ago. Chase was thirty-four now. Maybe he had grown up. Maybe he had been a boy back then and was a man now. Maybe he was a loving father and a faithful husband.
Maybe not.
A stunning girl wearing a tight blue sweat suit walked over to Chase and gave him a full-body hug and a strong kiss on the lips. She was too young to be Chase's wife and too old to be his daughter. Beck thought, Chase's wife and daughter would be better off without him.
Unlike in Chicago, golf courses in Texas remained open for play every day except Christmas. It was December 27th and sixty-eight degrees. Beck had walked into the clubhouse and found the golf pro on duty that day. He was middle-aged and a Notre Dame football fan; he remembered Beck Hardin. Beck gave him an autograph, and he gave Beck the tee time just before Chase's. For a $300 green fee.
Beck drove his cart over to the first tee on the Foothills Course. It was a 460-yard par four from the pro tees. Beck figured Chase's ego for the pro tees. At the country club in Chicago, Beck had been a two-handicap. He had given up golf when Annie had gotten sick, so his game would be rusty; but seeing Chase's swing, he wouldn't need to play to a two that day. Beck wanted to catch Chase on the course, so he hit his tee shot and drove the cart to the ball sitting in the fairway. He hit his second shot to the green and putted out in two. He waited for Chase on the second tee box.
When Chase arrived, he was smoking a cigar and drinking a beer. He walked over to Beck. He coughed into his hand, so Beck did not offer to shake hands. Instead Beck said, "I hate to play alone because I can't bet against myself. You a betting man?"
"Hundred a hole with carryovers?"
"Works for me."
Beck nodded toward the girl in the cart. "Your wife?"
"A perk."
"Perk?"
"Perks of the trade—girls, limos, jets."
"You must have a good trade."
Chase gave him a funny look. "I'm Chase Connelly … the movie star."
"A movie star? No kidding? What brings you to Austin?
"
"Celebrity golf tournament Saturday. Something about AIDS."
"Then back to L.A. Sunday?"
"Oh, yeah."
The second hole was a 381-yard par four. Beck stepped up on the tee box and drilled his drive down the center cut of the fairway. Chase drove his ball into the rough.
"Shit!"
Chase threw his cigar down, stormed to his cart, and drove off. Beck bent down, stabbed the cigar with a tee, and carried it over to his cart. He pulled a plastic baggie from his golf bag, placed the cigar inside, and zipped it shut. Chase's saliva on the cigar would make a nice DNA sample.
By the time they made the turn, Beck had collected Chase's cigar and beer can, and, from the way he was carrying on with the girl, Beck might soon have a semen sample. He thought about calling Wes in L.A. and asking how he had obtained the thong with Joe Raines' DNA, but decided against it.
Eight holes and Chase was in the hole $800. On the tenth tee box, he said, "Let's double the bet."
By the time they reached the eighteenth, a 560-yard par five, Chase owed Beck $2,500.
"Tell you what, Chase, what do say we go double or nothing on this hole? You win, we're even. You lose, you owe me five grand."
Chase coughed. "Let's do it."
Chase Connelly swung like Babe Ruth swinging for the fences. The ball rocketed off the tee and soared into the blue sky—turning hard left all the way. A massive hook into the lake. Chase's face turned bright red. He raised his driver over his head and slammed the clubface down onto the rock tee marker with great force. The metal shaft split in two. Chase held onto the top half of the shaft, but the lower half ricocheted up and the driver head struck him solidly on the mouth. He yelped. And he bled.
"Shit!"
Chase coughed and spit blood. He cupped his mouth, and blood dripped through his fingers. The girl came running with a small white towel. Chase grabbed the towel and covered his mouth. He stopped the bleeding, threw the towel down, and went over to his cart. He got in, guzzled his beer, and drove off.
