by Day Keene
“I thought of that in my cell this morning.”
“But you didn’t recall or remember anything that might help me prepare our case?”
“No.”
“You haven’t the least idea who might want to kill you?”
“No.”
“Does anyone stand to gain by your death?”
“Not directly.”
“You’re thinking of your brother-in-law?”
“I am.”
Avart dropped his cigarette on the floor and snuffed it with the toe of his white shoe. “I think I follow your line of reasoning. Olga is a very beautiful girl. Very beautiful indeed.” He straightened the knot in his tie and stood up. “We’ll go into that later. It’s an angle to consider. But right now, I’d better get out in the courtroom. And for God’s sake, remember one thing, Andy.”
“What’s that?”
“The record of this hearing will be carried over to your trial. So don’t let the parish prosecutor rattle you into losing your temper. When he asks how you plead, just say not guilty to both charges and leave the rest to me.”
“You’re my lawyer.”
“Remember that.”
The turnkey unlocked the door for the attorney and stepped out of the bull pen for a moment to ask the clerk of the court how long it would be before court convened.
The men in the bull pen seized on the opportunity to gang up on Latour. Hard fists smashed into his face and ribs. Still another fist found his eye.
“Push me around, beat me up, would you?” Villere panted. “So help me, I hope you’re released on bail. It’ll be easier for the boys to get at you. How come you had to force the girl? Won’t your wife put out? She looks like a plenty hot number to me. Or maybe you don’t get a kick unless you can abuse a girl.”
Latour fought back as best as he could until the turnkey returned and re-established order. “O.K. Lay off of him,” the man said. “I know how you boys feel. But keep your hands off him here.”
“That’s right,” an oil-field worker agreed. “What we need is a tree. And a nice long rope.”
Latour held his handkerchief to his mouth. A blow had cut his lower lip. His right eye felt as if it was going to swell. It probably would. As worried as he was, he couldn’t help being amused by the irony of the situation. If he’d taken Rita when she’d wanted him to, none of this would have happened.
His was the last name called. He could feel the hate as he stepped into the courtroom.
He looked for and found Olga. As she’d promised, she was sitting in the first row of chairs behind the wooden railing that separated the spectators from the court.
Georgi was beside his sister. There was a smug smile on his face. The youth’s reasoning was obvious to Latour. If he was executed for the offenses with which he was charged, Olga would be free to marry again, marry well this time, and he could spend the rest of his life sponging off her.
Still, Olga would have something to say about that. She’d called him her husband. She’d kissed him. She didn’t care whom he killed as long as he hadn’t been unfaithful to her. It was something to think about.
Judge Blakely asked, “How did the prisoner get into this condition?”
Latour said, “There was a small difference of opinion in the bull pen.”
In the deep silence that followed, the clerk of the court read the two charges against him.
“How do you plead?” Blakely asked.
“Not guilty to both charges.”
“If I may, at this point,” Avart said, “I would like to ask the court to entertain a motion. After the evidence has been presented by the prosecution, I beg that my client be admitted to bail on the grounds of reasonable doubt and his well-known past good character.”
There was an angry shuffling of feet and the spectators on the far side of the railing leaned forward, making the small room seem even smaller.
“The court,” Judge Blakely said dryly, “will be pleased to consider the motion at the proper time. But counsel has practiced law long enough to know that he is out of order.”
“Yes, sir,” Avart said meekly.
The spectators behind the railing sat back in their chairs and the parish prosecutor called Sheriff Belluche to the stand.
The old man was matter of fact. At approximately three o’clock on the morning before, his night deputy in charge, Jack Pringle, had received a telephone call from an as yet unidentified person, informing him that the caller had heard shots and a woman screaming in the Lacosta clearing on the Big Bend road. Pringle had notified him immediately, and he and First Deputy Mullen and Pringle had driven out to the clearing. On their arrival they had found Lacosta dead, shot twice through the heart. They had also found his young wife bloody and beaten and naked, lying on the floor of the trailer with visible signs pointing to rape. When she recovered sufficient coherency to talk, she had named Andy Latour as the man who had shot her husband and assaulted her. Latour had been found nearby, slumped unconscious behind the wheel of his car, pretending intoxication. However, a drunkometer test had proved him to be sober. Arrested and taken to the sheriff’s office, he had denied all knowledge of the attack, but two shots had been fired from his gun and, as it later transpired, his sheriff’s deputy shield, missing from the pocket of his shirt, had been found in the girl’s left hand.
It was Latour’s claim, brought out under questioning, that he had gone to the trailer to make certain the girl was safe, and that shortly after he had knocked on the door of the trailer he had been rendered unconscious by one or more blows on the head and had no knowledge of any subsequent happenings.
The cold anger of the people deepened.
Dr. Walker was called to the stand next. He testified that Lacosta had been dead on his arrival and detailed the external and internal injuries inflicted on the raped girl, but made no attempt to embellish his testimony by offering hearsay evidence as to what the girl had confided to him concerning the rape. He stated that surgery was necessary in treating her.
The prosecutor next presented a witnessed and signed deposition from the still hospitalized girl and asked the clerk of the court to read it. It was in question and answer form:
Q. What is your name?
A. Mrs. Jacques Lacosta.
Q. And your given name?
A. Rita.
Q. Do you swear that what you are about to depose is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?
A. I do.
Q. You were awakened last night by a knock on the door of your husband’s trailer?
A. Yes, sir. I was.
Q. Are you able to identify the person who awakened you?
A. I am. It was Deputy Sheriff Andy Latour.
Q. What time was this?
A. About two o’clock in the morning.
Q. It was dark in the clearing in which your husband’s trailer is parked?
A. Very dark.
Q. Then how could you tell that the man who knocked on the door was Latour?
A. He told me his name and flashed his flashlight on his face.
Q. You had met Deputy Latour before?
A. Yes, sir.
Q. When was that?
A. Earlier in the evening. That is, the evening before. My husband became intoxicated on Lafitte Street and Mr. Latour offered to drive us home.
Q. Did he enter the trailer with you on that occasion?
A. Yes, sir. We had a cup of coffee together.
Q. Just you and Deputy Latour?
A. Yes, sir.
Q. Did he attempt to become familiar or force his attentions on you?
A. No, sir. He did not. He was very much of a gentleman. Even when I told him how unhappy I was with Mr. Lacosta, due to his constant drinking and the difference in our ages, he made no attempt to take advantage of the situation.
Latour was relieved to find that his first snap judgment of the girl had been correct. Rita was basically a nice kid. She wasn’t trying to lie him into the cha
ir. She was making an honest mistake. She was merely detailing the tragedy in the trailer as she had seen and felt it. The clerk of the court continued:
Q. I see. Now to get back to two o’clock yesterday morning. You say you were awakened by Deputy Sheriff Latour knocking on the door of the door of the trailer?
A. Yes, sir.
Q. What did he want?
A. He asked me to unlock the door and let him in.
Q. Did he state the purpose of his call?
A. He said he wanted to talk to my husband.
A brief harsh sound filled the courtroom, an expulsion of breath rather than a laugh. Judge Blakely banged on his desk with his gavel. The clerk of the court cleared his throat and went on:
Q. Did you admit him?
A. No, sir. Because of the heat I was sleeping without a nightdress, on the built-in sofa in the living area. So I got up and put on a robe.
Q. What happened then?
A. He knocked again, much louder. It woke up my husband and he came out in the living area.
Q. Go on with your story.
A. Mr. Latour opened the door of the trailer and came in. And when Jacques protested, there were two shots. The next thing I knew he grabbed me and ripped off my robe. Then he threw me down on the floor and was attempting to have relations with me.
Q. You resisted him?
A. I begged him not to.
Q. What did he say?
A. He didn’t say anything. He seemed to have gone crazy. He did awful things with his hands and kissed me in an unnatural manner. Every time I tried to get away from him he beat me with his fists and bit me and forced me to submit.
Q. With your husband lying dead on the floor?
A. Yes, sir.
Q. Just before this happened, did you hear any sound of a struggle outside the trailer?
A. No, sir. I did not.
Q. You didn’t hear another man’s voice?
A. No, sir.
Q. And you swear that to the best of your knowledge, despite the fact that it was so dark in the trailer that you couldn’t see his face, it was Deputy Sheriff Latour who beat and criminally assaulted you?
A. I do.
There was no sound in the small room when the clerk of the court finished reading the deposition and returned it to the county prosecutor.
Judge Blakely looked at Jean Avart. “Does the counsel for the defendant still wish the court to entertain the motion he made concerning reasonable doubt?”
Avart held a whispered conversation with Latour. “I don’t like the crowd’s reaction,” he said. “And I don’t think we’ll be smart in asking that you be admitted to bail. I think you’ll be better off sweating it out in a cell until I’ve had time to gather enough evidence to substantiate our side of the story.”
“Whatever you think best,” Latour said.
The attorney said, “No, Your Honor. In the light of the deposition just read I withdraw my motion.”
“Then, on the evidence presented before the court, I order the prisoner bound over to a higher court to stand trial for the unprovoked murder of Jacques Lacosta and criminal assault on the person of Mrs. Lacosta.”
A hum of conversation filled the room. The spectators, for the time being, were satisfied with the order of the court.
“The prisoner will stand.”
Latour got to his feet and stood looking at Olga. She sat with the knuckles of one hand pressed tightly to her lips as if to keep from crying out. Georgi’s smile was almost a leer.
Jean Avart stood beside Latour.
Judge Blakely looked from Latour to Avart. “Has the counsel for the defense any further motion to make or any evidence to present to the court before I remand the prisoner into the custody of the Sheriff to be held in the French Bayou jail until such time as a date for trial is set?”
Avart addressed himself to the court. “No, Your Honor.” There was poorly veiled contempt in his voice. “This being merely a preliminary hearing rather than a judicial body empowered to act upon charges of so serious a nature, while counsel has every confidence in the defendant’s ability to refute and prove himself innocent of the false charges against him, we have nothing to say nor any motion to make at this time.”
The trace of contempt in his voice displeased the crowd. The hum of conversation grew louder and there was an angry undercurrent to it.
Latour knew what they were thinking. Both he and Jean came from old families in the parish, with political connections that extended into high places. The crowd thought that a fix was in the making. He wished that Jean hadn’t been quite so arrogant. There was such a thing as mob violence. And in the present mood of the town, French Bayou was ripe for a lynching.
“In that case,” Judge Blakely said, “the court remands the prisoner into the custody of Sheriff Belluche to be held in the French Bayou jail until such time as the high court shall fix the date for his trial on the charges of murder and criminal rape.”
Sheriff Belluche gripped Latour’s elbow. “O.K. Let’s go downstairs, Andy. It looks like you’ve had it.”
“So it seems,” Latour agreed.
Chapter Thirteen
THE GIRL in the cell across the corridor was gone. So were the drunks and the brawlers. With the exception of the trusties sweeping and mopping the floors, he was alone in the cell block and would be until late afternoon.
Latour paced his cell. Judging from the reaction of the men in the bull pen and the crowd in the courtroom, except for Jean Avart and Olga, there wasn’t a man or woman in the parish who didn’t think he was guilty.
His trial would be as much of a farce as the hearing had been. All the evidence was against him and he had no way to prove his innocence.
Two shots had been fired from his gun. The state would prove they were the shots that had killed Jacques Lacosta. He had been found at the scene of the crime. Sheriff Belluche, Mullen, and Pringle would so testify. Dr. Walker and his nurse would offer both medical evidence of rape and the fact that the shield torn from his shirt pocket had been found in Rita’s hand, certain evidence that she had struggled with him.
Then Rita, pale and wan and attractive after her painful ordeal, would take the stand and tell in detail the events of the assault on her person. She would name him as the man.
A few weeks or months later, after all possible legal delays had been exhausted, it would mean good-by to Olga. Good-by to French Bayou. There would be a quick searing jolt of electricity, a few minutes of protesting body straining against the straps that restrained it, and he would be saying good morning to Saint Peter.
If a lynch mob didn’t get him first.
Latour tried to think. He couldn’t. Still, he had to. He had to reason out what was behind all this before the power of thinking was taken away from him. He couldn’t just wait for death in a mental vacuum.
The man who had abused Rita and killed Lacosta and pinned the twin crimes on him was made of flesh and blood. He was someone in French Bayou, someone who wanted him dead. It was up to him and Jean Avart to figure out what the reason was.
Booted feet clomped down the corridor and Sheriff Belluche unlocked the door of the cell. He looked older than he had in the courtroom.
“How’s it going, Andy?” he asked.
Latour shrugged. “As well as I can expect, I guess. Blakely did the only thing he could do.”
Belluche sat on the woven metal of the bunk and took a pint bottle of whisky from his pocket. “Yeah. Sure. Binding you over for trial was the only thing Joe could do.” He offered the bottle he was holding to Latour. “I thought this might help you pass the time.”
Latour took the bottle. “Thanks. I can use it. But giving a bottle to a prisoner is slightly against the law, isn’t it?”
The old man shrugged. “Lots of things are against the law. If we enforced every statute on the book, nine tenths of the men in French Bayou, myself included, would be locked in here with you.”
Latour drank from the bottle as he waited for Bell
uche to say what he’d come to say.
The old man was a long time about it. “I guess I haven’t been much of a sheriff,” he finally stated. “At least since they found oil. I’ve been too busy catching up on all the things I missed. But, as you probably realized, it’s all over. Tom and I have had it. In a few hours reporters from all over the country will be swarming all over the place. They’ll come down to cover your trial, because you’re news.” He put a cigar in his mouth and rolled it between his lips, savoring its fragrance. “But when they find out what kind of town we’re running, they’ll be too busy writing up local color to give a damn what happens to you. And that will be the end of it as far as Tom and I are concerned.”
Latour waited for him to continue.
Belluche lighted the cigar in his mouth. “In a way I’m not sorry. It had to happen sometime. And, believe it or not, Andy, for thirty of the thirty-five years I’ve been on the force I kept my hands and my shield clean.”
“I believe you.”
Belluche ran gnarled fingers through his hair. “But that’s not what I’m here to talk about. I knew your father. I knew his father. I’ve watched you grow up. I saw you go away to war. I know your record. And it isn’t surprising for a Latour.” The old man realized he was rambling. “But all that is beside the point. What I’m here to tell you is that, in spite of the evidence against you, I don’t think you killed Lacosta. And I don’t think you did the other. Christ, with her husband just killed in front of her and it being as dark as it was in the trailer, with the beating she took and the fact that your voice was the last one she heard, I think she just jumped to conclusions.”
Latour expelled a lot of air. “Thanks, Sheriff. Thanks a lot.”
Belluche sounded unhappy. “On the other hand, every randy young buck in town and most of the businessmen think you killed Jacques so you could get at her.”
“I didn’t.”
“But proving it is going to be a cutie. Can I ask a personal question?”
