‘DCF?’
‘Department of Children and Families, Health Services Division. We handle Baker Acts. I take it you are Beverly Vernon?’ Without waiting for a response, she pointed a long crimson fingernail at the table on the opposite side of the courtroom. ‘Sit over there.’
Keeping my mouth firmly closed so as not to express any of my uncomplimentary thoughts about her, I obeyed. I sat. I heard a couple of other people slip in and sit to the back of me, in the chairs behind the railing, but before I could turn around to see who they were, a weary-sounding old man in a brown uniform not unlike that of a UPS driver bawled, ‘All rise!’ and as we did so, Judge Simmons made his entrance.
I have a bad habit of picturing people in my mind before I even meet them, and I had pictured Judge Simmons as a middle-aged, overweight, balding man in a black robe. For once, I was right, except regarding the robe. Sweating, he wore lightweight slacks and a short-sleeved shirt with a tie – but he had loosened the tie. Once in his big chair flanked by the state and national flags, he rapped his gavel and said, ‘Be seated.’
I sat, studying him rather more anxiously than I studied most people. He had remarkably large earlobes, capacious enough to accommodate multiple piercings had he so desired. His nose, bulbous, complemented his earlobes, and his eyebrows, scanty and graying, complemented his hair. His eyes and nose were neither smiling nor petulant; like a good poker player, he showed no expression. I supposed neutral effect was appropriate for a judge. And a neutral accent. He had none that I could discern.
Leaning back in his chair, he scanned the courtroom and said, ‘If I had known there were gonna be so few of us, we could have held this hearing in chambers. Heck, we could all sit in the jury box.’
Realizing how very much there was no jury, no court stenographer and no black robe helped me relax a little – those things and the judge’s casual tone. Directing his bland gaze to me, he said, ‘Are you Mrs Vernon?’
I stood up, as I had failed to remember to stand up at my own daughter’s wedding when she was here-coming-the-bride. ‘Yes, Your Honor.’
‘Where’s your lawyer?’
‘I fired him, Your Honor.’
‘Why?’ Still poker-faced.
‘I didn’t like him. He’s an ambulance chaser. And I didn’t see any need for him to complicate what seems to be a simple matter, Your Honor. You just have to decide whether I qualify to be Baker Act-ed, correct?’
His gaze a little less bland, although maybe no more friendly, he responded, ‘Concisely put. Please be seated. Mrs Ledbetter?’ He turned his attention to the other table. ‘You filed this action?’
Wilma Lou did not stand; she looked shaky, bleating, ‘Her sister tole me to.’
‘Your Honor!’ Jill Spintaro shot up to stand far taller than seemed possible, until I saw her shoes, elevated soles, eight-inch heels. ‘The charges here specified are of a serious nature notwithstanding their origin, and—’
‘And you’re out of order,’ interrupted Judge Simmons with a rap of his gavel. ‘Sit down. I want to hear what Mrs Ledbetter has to say. Mrs Ledbetter?’
Wilma Lou clawed at the table edge in an attempt to stand.
‘Please remain seated, Mrs Ledbetter, and explain to me what happened.’
From her chair, Jill Spintaro glared at Wilma Lou, looking flinty enough to spit fire. Obviously uncomfortable, Wilma Lou faltered, ‘I got this phone call, see, tole me things, but I’d already seed some myself. I just wanted to be a good neighbor, but she tole me she weren’t Christian and when I wanted to know what-all she meant, she said she worshipped animals, which I took to mean goats and bats and such, minions of Satan …’
I had great difficulty keeping my mouth shut, waiting for my turn.
‘Go back to the phone call,’ Judge Simmons prompted Wilma Lou.
‘It was some woman, said she was Beverly’s sister, and she tole me them other things, about the ghost and suchlike craziness, and she said it was up to me to stop it because I was the next-door neighbor but she didn’t live no place near.’
‘And this person’s name was?’
‘I disremember. I ain’t sure she ever rightly tole me.’
Jill Spintaro rose to her feet again. ‘Your Honor, no matter what the source of these allegations, they are of serious concern to the Department of Children and Families, Health Services Division, concerning the public well-being of—’
‘Sit down, Miss Spintaro. I think I know how to do my job. Mrs Vernon.’ He turned to me and, as I began to rise, he said, ‘Please remain seated. This is an informal hearing, not a trial. Still, I expect you to tell the truth as if you were under oath. Did you tell Mrs Ledbetter you worshipped animals?’
‘Does what I worship determine my sanity?’ In this part of the country, such an approach seemed frighteningly possible.
‘Please just answer the question.’
‘Yes, I told her that I was not a Christian and that I worshipped animals, in the context that I wanted her to get out of my house and stop shoving tracts at me.’
I hoped to see the corners of his mouth twitch, repressing a smile, but they did not. ‘So do you worship animals?’
‘I do not formally worship anything, and my feelings of awe and wonder are not limited to animals. I have a spiritual sense about nature in general. I guess you could call me a pantheist.’
‘She brung me this to show me about that there pancreasm!’ shrilled Wilma Lou, surprising both me and, apparently, the judge. We looked over to see her holding up the tiger-lily-seed-pod-etc. angel, surprisingly recognizable considering the time that had passed.
‘Wilma Lou,’ I exclaimed, ‘how did you keep that from wilting?’
She flashed a triumphant grin at me. ‘Spray starch all over.’
‘All over what?’ snapped Judge Simmons.
‘It’s an angel. See? Made out of all them things she believes in, like acorns and sunsets and such.’
I sat, touched to the heart and speechless. His Honor peered at Wilma Lou as if she, not I, were the candidate for the psych ward.
‘She can’t be no Satan worshipper and believe in angels,’ Wilma Lou said, so earnest she looked as if she might levitate. ‘I was mistook—’
Before she could say any more, Jill Spintaro sprang up to control the damage. ‘Your Honor, no matter what doubt the complainant may now be experiencing, she did file this action, and it is now a matter of public record—’
‘Sit down, Ms Spintaro.’ That order from the judge evidently included a tacit shut up. Welcome silence followed, and Judge Simmons turned to me.
‘Mrs Vernon, I have just a few questions for you.’ He opened a manila folder and consulted something inside it, presumably his copy of my own personal Baker Act file. ‘Did you ever vandalize your own home, then state that a ghost did it?’
I answered quite truthfully, ‘No.’ I hadn’t messed up my house.
‘Have you ever produced paintings which you then declared to have been done by a ghost?’
‘No, not at all.’ I hadn’t painted those pictures.
‘Your neighbor stated that you believe your house is visited by a ghost. Do you?’
‘Wilma Lou has no personal reason to say that, Your Honor. I have learned she was told to say it by my sister-in-law, my deceased husband’s sister, who cannot possibly know what goes on in my home. She hasn’t visited in two years, for the simple reason that she dislikes me.’
‘Duly noted,’ the judge said dryly, ‘but you have not answered the question. Do you believe your house is visited by a ghost?’
Confound that word ‘ghost,’ which had always seemed utterly the wrong moniker to me, connoting something that went bump in the night, wore a white burka, rattled bones or chains and said, ‘Boo.’ The visitor in my house wasn’t like that; it was a spirit, a revenant child. Yet ‘ghost’ supplied me with a comeback. I took a deep breath and said, ‘Your Honor, there are a lot of people around here who swear every Sunday that they believe in a holy
ghost.’
Maybe he was one of those people. He frowned. ‘Mrs Vernon, are you refusing to answer?’
A voice I should have recognized came from right behind me. ‘Your Honor, may I speak?’
Judge Simmons addressed his frown to her. ‘Coroner.’
Marcia! All of a sudden I could have cried just because she was there for me. But I hope that feeling didn’t show in my face.
‘I believe I can assist the court in this matter,’ Marcia was saying.
‘By all means, please do so.’ Judge Simmons sounded a bit owlish.
‘Thank you.’ I heard her stand up. ‘I want to say, as one who deals with dead people, that it makes a difference. I am not sure whether you know that quite recently Beverly Vernon happened to find a skeleton buried in her backyard …’
The judge’s eyes widened. He hadn’t made the connection.
‘A young child about six years old at the time of death,’ Marcia was saying. ‘A very disturbing discovery, suggestive as it is of abuse, neglect or murderous brutality. Beverly Vernon was appropriately affected by those implications, and due to her concern for the dead child, she and I have become acquainted. I would like to say that she is one of the most big-hearted and sensitive yet courageous persons I have ever known. And I think it quite possible that, like me, she has a problem with the word “ghost.” Beverly?’
‘You think right.’ As I spoke, I turned around to smile up at her and received another surprise: standing next to her was Detective Tadlock.
Marcia told the judge, ‘Spending a lot of time with dead bodies as I do, I have sometimes experienced a sense of the deceased person’s presence, and I refuse to ascribe this feeling to imagination, because my mind is totally occupied with my work at such times. Nevertheless, I feel an inkling or an intimation of the deceased person’s essence, or soul, or spirit, call it what you will, there in the room with me, quite benign, not at all frightening, just patiently waiting. I would never say I have seen or heard a ghost, because I have seen or heard nothing, and of course people would think I was bonkers if I believed in ghosts. Anyway, it’s not a matter of believing anything. It’s just a sixth sense. Is that the way it’s been for you, Beverly?’
By way of answering truthfully, I beamed at her. ‘Thank you so much for explaining! Yes, “ghost” is utterly the wrong word, isn’t it?’
Hearing Judge Simmons clear his throat, I turned around like a pupil facing the teacher. But T.J. Tadlock spoke up first. ‘Your Honor, may I say something?’
‘Detective Tadlock?’ Judge Simmons frowned at her. ‘You’ve had dealings with Beverly Vernon?’
‘Yes, as I am investigating the circumstances relevant to the skeleton found on her property.’ Hearing T.J. take a deep breath, amazed she was there to speak for me, I wished I knew her first name, could thank her that way. Teresa Joy? Tammy Jo?
She spoke on. ‘Your Honor, although I have known Mrs Vernon only a short time, I can testify that she is coping with a difficult situation at a very high level, not at all like a person who requires psychiatric intervention. Mrs Vernon has answered questions that defeated me, found witnesses I could not locate; she has been exceptionally helpful to the cold case investigation. In my experience, she is an intelligent, resourceful person of notable integrity.’
‘Dumbfounded’ means to be unable to speak (dumb) because of astonishment, so I suppose that’s what I was. The ‘founded’ part may have something to do with foundering, like a lame horse. Anyway, I sat there with my mouth open but unable to utter a word.
‘Thank you, Detective Tadlock. Please be seated.’ Judge Simmons turned his unreadable scrutiny to me. ‘Mrs Vernon, in your folder I also have a letter from Doctor Roach on your behalf, stating in his usual forceful tone that as your personal physician he considers you perfectly sane, he considers this action a mockery of the Baker Act, et cetera.’
Quite agreeing with Dr Roach, I managed to blurt, ‘That’s nice.’
Judge Simmons nodded, looking bemused. ‘Three professionals have offered expert testimony on your behalf, Mrs Vernon. But I am wondering: where are the throngs of indignant family members who usually fill my courtroom on occasions such as these?’
I had to smile. ‘I have a very small family, Your Honor, indignant or otherwise, and they live rather far away from here.’
‘Then I must call on one more expert witness.’ He slewed his gaze to Wilma Lou. ‘Mrs Ledbetter. Placing this document entirely aside’ – he demonstrated, shuffling all the papers together in the folder and shoving it to a dramatic distance – ‘with no reference to any previous statements, would you please tell me about Mrs Vernon.’
Jill Spintaro rose to protest. ‘Your Honor—’
‘Be seated and be silent, young lady. This is my courtroom, and I’m curious. Mrs Ledbetter?’
Wilma Lou faltered. ‘I don’t hardly know what to think about her. She says she ain’t no Christian, but she’s a real nice person, anybody can see that, and she don’t seem like one of the lost – not when she believes in sunsets the way she told me.’
‘In your opinion, is she likely to hurt herself or anybody else?’
‘You mean like hit a person with a brick or something?’
‘That’s exactly what I mean.’
‘No, sir. She’d never do that, Yer Honor.’
‘Thank you. I believe Dr Wengleman and Detective Tadlock agree, and so do I. Therefore, I am upholding Mrs Vernon’s appeal.’ For the first time, he smiled at me, and he seemed quite amused. ‘Mrs Vernon, you are free to go.’ Gavel thump. ‘This hearing is adjourned.’
TWENTY-SIX
I spent the rest of that day in kind of a fugue state of exaltation and, I suppose, some exultation too. I remember things only vaguely, through a kind of golden haze. That’s the way I recall turning around to thank Marcia – and I would have thanked T.J. also, most sincerely, but she was already heading toward the nearest courtroom exit. Avoiding me?
‘I hope y’all ain’t got no hard feelings,’ shrilled Wilma Lou, sudden as an apparition under my chin, shoving an Avon catalog at me. Maybe my empathy for T.J. was wasted; maybe she was just ducking Wilma Lou, who had already served the judge, the DCF and the coroner with Avon papers.
No hard feelings, no, indeed. In my beatific mood, I may actually have thanked Wilma for the catalog, which may be why Marcia took me in hand as if I were mildly drunk, leading me off to lunch with her someplace that was definitely not Waffle House. I retain only a dreamy impression of excellent seafood and high-caliber conversation, and I don’t remember driving home at all, but that’s not unusual. I do remember emailing my daughters with the good news that I was deemed sane, feeling a bit guilty for not phoning each of them but too damn tired. Then I suppose I headed straight to the sofa for what I call a happy nappy. I know that’s where I was when the phone rang – not an electronic warble, not from my old rotary, but an honest-to-noisy metallic clangor – waking me up.
‘Mom!’ It was Cassie. ‘So they let you go home!’
‘Yes, I was deemed unworthy to be a psychiatric case, thank God.’
‘Mom, you don’t believe in God.’
‘I keep forgetting.’
She laughed at me and teased, ‘Should I start worrying about Alzheimer’s again?’ But before I could answer, she suddenly became serious. ‘Mom, why didn’t you phone me? Why haven’t you been phoning me? You promised me you’d call every day. Is something going on that you don’t want me to know about?’
Conditioned by my morning in front of the judge, I answered with reflexive truth. ‘Um, yes.’
‘Mom!’ Cassie sounded simultaneously outraged and intrigued. ‘What is it? What’s going on?’
I wasn’t supposed to let her know that LeeVon had an unexpected gender, let alone a name and a family. And then there were my hopes for him, too tentative to bear the scrutiny of my clear-eyed daughter. I bleated, ‘Didn’t we just concur that I don’t want you to know?’
‘Mother, that�
��s unfairly logical!’
‘I can’t argue with you, sweetie. I’m falling-down tired.’ I really was exhausted; I guess reaction was taking over as my adrenaline flow slowed down. ‘I love you.’
As if I could hear them, I knew her eyes were rolling. ‘Whatever, Mom. Love you too.’
The next morning I felt quite restored, or, as Wilma Lou would have said, full of piss and vinegar. First thing after brushing my teeth, I scanned the studio for anything new from LeeVon, but found nothing. Next to my big question mark, his mother still hung from the gibbet; he wasn’t ready to give me an answer. Disappointed, I reminded myself that I could hardly understand what he was going through. Communicating with his sisters had probably taken a lot out of him.
After breakfast, I phoned Marcia Wengleman.
‘Beverly!’ She sounded actually pleased to hear from me. ‘How are you?’
I chuckled. ‘Better than yesterday, for sure.’
‘Silly question. I can’t imagine. But I thank you again for being so discreet.’ At lunch the day before, she had complimented me for managing to tread a narrow path between perjury and revealing the whole truth about LeeVon. ‘As far as I can tell, there still haven’t been any leaks.’
‘Good. I don’t want a publicity circus any more than you do.’
‘Amen to that. But,’ she added with good humor, ‘I’m guessing you haven’t called me at work just to chat?’
‘Good guess. I’m hoping maybe, because your specialty is dead people, you might be able to help me find a place to bury LeeVon.’ I went on to explain that I was trying for the most informal of all possible funerals in my home. Nothing churchy, no preacher or undertaker, just a small coffin LeeVon’s family and I could take all by ourselves to a gravesite.
‘For LeeVon, since he’s just bones, you won’t need a vault or anything. No sanitation precautions. I think you can get away with just a coffin.’ Marcia sounded thoroughly intrigued.
‘Good. The problem is what gravesite, where?’
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