Gideon - 03 - Religious Conviction

by Grif Stockley

  Whatever closeness Leigh and I achieved (and I have at least the illusion that she has confided in me) vanishes We return to her parents’ house like a couple on their first real date, which didn’t quite work out. I feel I was near some information that would explain her to me. My remaining questions go ignored as she insists upon returning to the Christian Life compound. Instead, she protests mildly, “Why’d you say something smart to that boy? They could have hurt us.”

  I look over at her to see if she is serious. I am so frustrated I’m about to burst. The last hour has convinced me she is covering up for her father in some manner, but I don’t know how to get it out of her. I can’t remember the last time I felt this irritated with a client.

  “Was I supposed to kiss his ass?” I say crudely.

  “I suppose I should have told him to be my guest.”

  Shocked by my reaction, she seems to cower against the door.

  “Men are such bullies,” she complains.

  “You don’t sound any different than those boys.”

  “You’re forgetting I backed down,” I remind her.

  Bullies, are we? Is she talking about her father or Art or both? As we hit the traffic near town, I try again.

  “What did Art bully you into doing?”

  I look away from the road to see her reaction. For an instant I see anguish in her eyes, but she says nothing.

  What was it? I know there is something she wants to tell me but can’t. I blurt out, “I think you know your father killed Art but you won’t admit it.”

  In her eyes is the dumb fear you see in an animal’s face when it realizes it is trapped.

  “Daddy didn’t kill Art!” she says shrilly.

  I don’t believe her. I stop the Blazer in front of her parents’ house and get right in her face.

  “You’re going to have to choose, Leigh. I know you think Chet can get you off. But with the way the evidence is stacking up now, that isn’t going to happen. I know how much you admire your father, and except for one horrible moment, he may be the most wonderful man in the world. But you don’t want to spend the rest of your life in prison for a crime you didn’t commit. Unless his alibi is rock solid, we’re going to have to go after your father.”

  Leigh shakes her head and pushes her way out of the Blazer. As she runs around the front of the vehicle, I see her mother coming toward me down the walk. As before, she has the florid complexion of someone who has been drinking. Seeing the look on her daughter’s face, she pleads, “Where have you been? What’s wrong?”

  Leigh stops on the grass between the curb and the sidewalk.

  “Nothing, Mother,” she says stubbornly.

  “Just go back in the house.”

  mrs. Norman looks at her daughter and then at me.

  “What happened?”

  There is no doubt in my mind whose side Pearl Nor man will come down on. From the beginning, she has struck me as the kind of woman who would call her child a liar before she would believe an allegation of sexual abuse by her husband. Afraid Leigh will recite our conversation to her word for word, I say, “You understand my relationship with your daughter is confidential, mrs. Norman.”

  Pearl Norman blinks away the technicality.

  “Leigh is my daughter, Mr. Page.”

  “And she is my client,” I say firmly, watching her face flush. Where was she during the murder? I’ll find that out, too, but the truth is, I can’t imagine Pearl Nor man firing a gun any more than I can imagine my own mother doing it. She seems too helpless, too dependent on men to be able to kill one of us.

  “If you want to help Leigh’s case, you won’t pry.”

  It is as if Barney life had cussed out Aunt Bee. Her lips quiver, and ninety-proof tears begin to gush as if a dam had burst. She turns and rushes back into the house with Leigh following closely behind. She is as protective of her mother as she is of her father. Damn. An other conversation like this one, and I’ll be watching this case from the back of the courtroom. I drive off as frustrated as a teenager who didn’t even get a goodnight kiss. With this weather I can’t bring myself to return to the office just yet and decide to make the afternoon a total waste by looking for Jason’s spiritual development center.

  If I can get mrs. Chestnut’s money back for her, maybe she will adopt me and I can forget all this non sense about making a living. I have not been able to bring myself to return her call, but while I was in San Francisco, Julia said she had called with the address of Jason’s school: 10000 Damell Road. Since it is the only address in the last five years I’ve been able to remember without having to look it up, I consider it a good omen and head west again. In five minutes I see the sign, but instead of spiritual development, it promises Personality Enhancement in freshly painted letters.

  Maybe Jason has begun to doubt his own abilities and has begun to settle for more modest goals.

  I can hear dogs barking as soon as I get out of the car. I enter a rectangular wooden building and am met by a smiling young man behind a desk who asks if I am here to pick up Clarence.

  I clear my throat and look around the room. It has the hosed-down look of a vet’s office, but I can hear opera music in the background. I am hardly a fan (the golden oldies on Cool [KOLL] 95 are my speed); nevertheless, I hear the familiar Toreador song and realize I’m hum ming along with it. Maybe this is the key to my own spiritual development. I am tempted to confess to being Clarence’s master if it will give me the opportunity to escape. Somehow, I am having difficulty asking for Jason. All of a sudden I feel as if I am here to get my hair done.

  “No,” I stammer, “I’m just here to talk to, uh, Jason for a minute. Is he free?”

  The young man, who has the smile of someone enjoying a drug high, looks at his watch.

  “You’re in luck,” he says, beaming at me.

  “He’s just finishing a class right now.”

  Three p.m. right on the money. School’s out. I hear excited howls over the music. Why should this class be any different? Time to boogie.

  “Great,” I say.

  “Can I go on back?”

  “I better take you,” he says, standing up and extending a hand.

  “I’m Harvey,” he says. He, too, is dressed like a McDonald’s manager. We look as if we each work a different shift, but otherwise we could be father and son.

  “I like your tie,” he says.

  Target’s,” I admit.

  “I have four or five almost just like this,” I say, shaking his hand which, like mine, is small for his size. I glance down at his tie. It is striped like my own. No flower jobs for me and Harvey. We’re from the old school and proud of it.

  The fact that we are dressed almost identically must be reassuring to Harvey, for without another word, he leads me back through a kennel where there must be fifteen dogs in small cages. I get claustrophobic just looking at them. Every time I have had to board Woogie, he loses weight. I might get a little depressed myself. No table scraps here. Harvey yells over the din, “You interested in a class?”

  I am captivated by a toy collie in the corner. He looks so friendly I want to take him home, but another dog would break Woogie’s heart. A man might as well bring a mistress home to live alongside his wife. For an instant, I think Harvey means for myself.

  “Sort of,” I say ambiguously.

  “How often do they have them?”

  Harvey leads me through a back door into an area that has several empty pens.

  “It depends on the interest.

  Jason will have a class with as many as five. But fewer students than three, and there’s not much interaction.”

  I smile and get a sinking feeling. As I have feared, this is for real. The music, which has been so loud I can barely hear, ceases, and I respond, too loudly, not believing I’m having this conversation, “We learn best from each other all right.” Actually, there are not a lot of role models for Woogie in our neighborhood. My law-abiding neighbors keep their dogs penned and don’t let
them outside except on leashes. When I take Woogie for a walk after work, he gets a free shot at all the flower beds, hydrants, and trees he wants. My hometown of Bear Creek in eastern Arkansas had no animal control law (or if it did, it was unenforceable), and I can’t bring myself to accept the notion that central Arkansas insists upon such trappings of big-city life. However, the first time I have to bail Woogie out of the pound I suspect I will be convinced.

  We exit the building, and I look to my left and see a man about my age squatting down in the dirt, talking seriously to a cocker spaniel. Jason, I presume. I strain to hear what he says, and catch the words, “… having too many negative thoughts. Clay.”

  Clay, a buff-colored fatty with wet, friendly eyes, wags his tail at the mention of his name. He looks pretty happy to me. Negative thoughts have a way of energizing me, too. Some of us in the animal kingdom may not be educable.

  “Jason, this man would like a word with you,” Harvey announces, not particularly loath to interrupt work in progress.

  Jason looks up and gives me a glance that makes me glad I am not Clay’s owner.

  “There are no bad dogs,” he says.

  “Only bad owners.”

  I am not quite so optimistic about four-footed creatures, but I hold my tongue, figuring this conversation will be difficult enough. I introduce myself: “I’m Gideon Page.” I look around, since Jason does not rise to shake hands. I notice I am standing in an enclosed yard that actually is quite pleasant. Three large elm trees provide shade over half the area. Even in midsummer it would be possible to survive out here if one were of the canine persuasion.

  “I need to get back up front,” Harvey announces cheerfully, apparently oblivious to the lack of communication rapidly settling in between his boss and his boss’s visitor.

  He walks back into the kennel, while Jason scratches Clay behind the ear. At least the man seems to like his pupils, which is more than I can say for a lot of teachers

  “I know who you are. Giddy Page!” Jason suddenly hisses, still squatting on his heels like some Eastern mystic.

  “I’d swap every lawyer in this country for one of these,” he says, stroking Clay’s back like a lover.

  “Who have you lawyers ever made smile except criminals and greedy corporate thugs? You’d scrape the paint off your mother’s toes before she’d been dead an hour if you thought you could sell it. Why, this lovely creature,” he said, looking soulfully into Clay’s eyes, “brings more pleasure to people in five minutes than your profession has brought throughout the entire existence of its long, depraved history.”

  How does he know I hate to be called Giddy?

  “Mrs.

  Chestnut wants her five hundred bucks back,” I say, deciding that Jason is one of those people who plays defense as little as possible.

  “She isn’t at all satisfied with the work you did on Bernard Junior.”

  Jason leans backward to look up at me, and I realize the man is terribly deformed. I thought he was squatting on his heels, but, in fact, he is standing as upright as he will ever be. He is a dwarf, as humpbacked as anyone I’ve ever seen. As vitriolic as his personality is, it’s impossible to feel sympathy for him (as if he gives a damn), but I do understand his attitude a little better. No lawyer has ever loved him. The canine population (if Clay is any example) would elect him president by acclamation if they could vote. I’m not sure the country would be worse off if a couple of million lawyers suddenly decided to emigrate.

  “Bernard Junior was a rare jewel,” Jason says, glaring at me. Clay emits a low growl as he senses his teacher’s distaste for his visitor.

  “Bernard Junior had the soul of an angel. He was all heart. Mrs. Chestnut is an old prude. Just because he liked to lick himself didn’t mean he wasn’t advancing metaphysically. Pit bulls are so full of life and vigor that it would be a crime to expect to curb habits that have been programmed genetically. You think we humans wouldn’t do the same if we were physically able? Jealousy. Pure jealousy. Mrs.

  Chestnut was green with envy, and you can take that to the bank.”

  I think of mrs. Chestnut’s delicate, sweet old face, and realize I have some doubts about Jason’s sanity.

  “I

  don’t think a judge would come to the same conclusion.”

  “Of course not! Judges are lawyers! Talk about a conflict of interest, Mr. Giddy Page. I’ve never heard of one so brazen.” No longer growling. Clay rolls over on his back to let his teacher work on his stomach. His eyes seem to roll back in his head in pure ecstasy.

  I feel uncomfortable looking down at Jason and squat down on my heels to get at eye level with him. He is wearing green swimming trunks over black tights, sandals, and a T-shirt with a picture of Lassie.

  “Okay,” I sigh.

  “What did you teach Bernard Junior?”

  Jason drums his fingers on Clay’s midsection and Clay’s lips recede from his teeth. I could swear he is grinning.

  “Acceptance of his lot in life,” Jason says without hesitation.

  “Imagine having his physique and jaws and never once being allowed to rip off the head of a cat. He’s as bored as a lion in a zoo. He kept nodding off, but I understand that. If I had to live with Mrs.

  Chestnut, I couldn’t stay awake either. How do I teach a class? Lectures, music therapy, lots of individual attention I know what you’re thinking. Giddy Page. They don’t understand. How naive of you! Do your muscles understand a back rub? Does your mind understand Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony? Of course not! But even as coarse and self-absorbed as the mind of a lawyer is, you surely and without a doubt get the message. As Marsh McLuhan preached decades ago, ‘the medium is the message,” and I, Jason Von Jason, am the medium.”

  Jason Von Jason? Why not? I look enviously at Clay, whose teeth are twice as white as my own. I concede I’ve never looked so happy. If Jason could get on TV and pitch Slim Whitman records, he probably would make a fortune. No judge will have the patience to listen to this case for more than thirty seconds. Besides, Jason is the type to counterclaim for a million dollars.

  And win. I stand up.

  “If mrs. Chestnut hasn’t gotten a Ben Franklin from you in three days,” I bluster, “she won’t have any recourse but to sue.”

  Jason looks up at me and says scornfully, “Sue.

  Betty. Jane. Martha. You lawyers are the least imaginative species on the planet. Go bore a cockroach to death, Giddy Page. What kind of dog are you torturing?” I think of how bored Woogie must get during the day. He seems as if he accepts himself though. I don’t dare answer Jason. He’d crucify me.

  “Some kind of poor mutt,” he guesses, “who looks like a giraffe.”

  A chill runs down my back. Considering Woogie’s legs, Jason isn’t far off. Maybe I ought to ask Jason if Leigh killed Art. As I leave through the front of the building, Harvey, smiling beatifically, says, “Bring your dog for a visit. I’m sure Jason would love to enroll him.”

  I wave but keep silent. I’ve learned my lesson.

  “Chet bracken’s waiting for you in your office,” Julia says in hushed tones as I come up to her desk from the outside door. Uncharacteristically, she is speaking as if someone had died.

  “What have you been doing? You smell like a puppy farm.”

  I look at my watch. It is just after four. Leigh didn’t waste any time calling him. My stomach begins to bubble with anxiety. He is going to be furious that I went out to see Leigh on my own. Last night, when I got in from San Francisco, I left a message on his answering machine that I would call him as soon as my custody trial was over. Now my plan to see Leigh and then confront him doesn’t seem like such a good idea.

  “How long has he been here?” I ask, looking at my shoes, I might have stepped in something in the schoolyard.

  “About ten minutes,” she says, now a little nervous.

  “I took him on back. After the money he gave you, I kind of felt it was okay. He asked.”

  Julia obviously is
a graduate of the take-no-prisoners secretarial school and makes it a point of honor never to apologize. This is as close as she will come, and so I accept.

  “No problem. How did he seem?”

  Julia squints at me as if she is trying to understand something.

  “A little hostile. Is he well?”

  I wave her off and try to keep from running to my office. What all did Leigh tell him? Shit, this is as good a time as any to lay my cards on the table. He is sitting at my desk with the light off, his head resting against his arms on top of the desk-top calendar. The expression on his face when I hit the switch does not reassure me.

  “Are you trying to blow this case?” he demands as I take a seat across from my desk like some scared client.

  Pulpy, plum-colored circles under his eyes make him look as if he were in his fifties, but his voice rushes toward me like a freight train.

  “What in the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  All the frustration I have been feeling on this case finally boils over. I smack my desk with the palm of my right hand.

  “As far as I’m concerned, the odds are at least even that Shane Norman is involved in this murder, and if he’s not, he sure as hell looks like it. Though she won’t admit it, Leigh suspects it herself. She told me that Art believed that Shane had him investigated before they got married and tried to persuade her to wait.”

  Chet shakes his head and gets up to shut my door. I am practically yelling at him. Chet’s neck is swallowed by a pink Oxford shirt and a green tie with penguins on it. If he weren’t dying, I’d laugh. Julia sneers that he dresses worse than I do. He leans back heavily in my chair and says, “That doesn’t prove shit!”

  I rest my elbows against the corner of the desk, realizing how utterly passive I’ve been in this case.

  “Norman hated the man. Don’t you get it? Wallace was stealing his last daughter from him and turning her into an atheist who would make fun of him. Leigh had been Shane’s favorite since she was five years old. Art was a bastard, and nobody knew it better than Norman. For all we know, he may have even found out about the child porno deal.”