Antiques Frame

by Barbara Allan

Although the courthouse—a turn-of-the-last-century rococo wedding cake of a structure—was merely across the street (albeit kitty-corner), I was to be transported via a squad car that had been pulled up to the rear door of the police station.

  Amid the flashing of cameras, the hungry eyes of video cams, and the shouting of reporters, Mia again hustled a hands-cuffed-behind-me me, got behind the wheel, then drove the short distance to the courthouse as the pack of media ran after us.

  She pulled the car up to a special entrance for prisoners, and within moments we were inside, being greeted glumly by Officer Munson. As we three climbed a back staircase, a few wily reporters ambushed us on a landing, shouting overlapping questions that I couldn’t even make out, and Officer Munson fended them off while Mia and I continued on.

  On the second level Mia hurried me into a small conference room, then shut the door and barricaded it with her back in case anyone else from the Fourth Estate might try to enter.

  “Good Lord,” Mia huffed. “Is your show really that popular? Or did Vivian call every news agency in the country?”

  “I’m going to say the latter,” I managed, out of breath. The old girl had probably been up all night.

  We weren’t alone in the room. There was someone else—a small, frail elderly man with thinning white hair, swimming in a navy pin-striped suit. He was asleep at the conference table, head cradled on his arms, like a kid in class who’d nodded off at his desk.

  Wayne Ekhardt was Mother’s longtime attorney and, consequently, mine, as well. Now pushing ninety, the trial lawyer had rocketed to fame in the 1950s, when he got a woman acquitted for murder after she (in self-defense, of course) shot her abusive husband five times in the back.

  These days, Ekhardt still kept an office downtown, maintaining a limited practice, which included us, but recently his health appeared to be in decline.

  Mia asked me, “The counselor would seem to be a little out of it. Want to call someone else?”

  “No. I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

  Pretty sure.

  Almost sure.

  Not sure at all . . .

  “Up to you,” Mia said, hiking a skeptical eyebrow.

  The policewoman stepped out, and I crossed to the table and sat next to the slumbering lawyer, my hands still uncomfortably cuffed behind me.

  “Mr. Ekhardt?” I said. Then louder, “Wake up, Mr. Ekhardt!”

  His eyes opened, and he straightened, turned to me, frowned, then asked, “Where am I?”

  “The courthouse.”

  “Of course I am. Who are you again?”

  “Brandy Borne. Vivian’s daughter? You’re representing me at my arraignment in a few minutes.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Didn’t my mother call you last night?”

  “I believe she did. What is her name again?”

  I was starting to sweat. “Vivian Borne.”

  He frowned. Then he brightened and said, “Ah! Now I remember. She got me out of bed, the vixen. Killed someone, did you?”

  “No! I’m innocent.”

  “No matter. Just say you’re not guilty when the judge asks.”

  “Don’t you have some questions to ask me?”

  “Later. This is just a formality, don’t you know. Come. Let’s get this over with so I can get home. I didn’t get my eight hours. You’ll want me to have had my eight hours when I represent you at the trial.”

  I helped him to his feet. It was like picking up a bundle of kindling.

  My arraignment was held down the hall, in a secondary courtroom used mostly for traffic violations, where herds of ensnared citizens were processed in a quick, noisy cattle call to vehicular justice. I’d been in there many times for Mother’s various vehicular infractions, and the antiquated room was always stifling. In the summer there was no air-conditioning, and the high ceiling fans did little but move the hot air around; and in the winter the old radiators put out too much heat. Discomfort was always the verdict here.

  At precisely 9:30 a.m., a male bailiff in a tan uniform escorted me into the courtroom via a side door next to the judge’s bench, walked me to the table where Ekhardt sat with his eyes closed, placed me in the chair next to the lawyer, then took his rigid position next to a flag of the USA on a pole nearly as straight as he was.

  The only other people in the room were the judge, the county attorney, and Mother. (The court reporter had been replaced recently by a computer system called DART, which made Mother furious because one of her favorite moments in a Perry Mason episode was when the judge asked the court reporter—usually played by the same milquetoast actor—to read back part of the transcript.)

  His Honor, black robed, about sixty, with silver hair and heavy bags beneath his eyes, banged the gavel.

  “The State versus Brandy Borne,” he said in a properly booming voice. “Does the defendant have representation?”

  All eyes went to Ekhardt, who was quite asleep, eyes closed, head bowed, softly snoring. At least his head wasn’t on the table.

  I twisted to look with alarm at Mother, who was seated directly behind the lawyer; she leaned forward and tapped him on his shoulder. It took several taps.

  “Wayne,” she whispered. “Wakey-poo!”

  Slightly put out, the judge repeated, “Does the defendant have representation?”

  Ekhardt, who didn’t stand or open his eyes, said, “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “For the record,” the judge noted, “Wayne Ekhardt is representing the defendant. And, for the record, representing the State is the county attorney, Jason Nesbit.”

  Nesbit was young, slender, with dark hair overly styled with product, glasses with invisible wire frames, and a fashionable two-day stubble on his narrowly handsome face. He was going places. I hoped his next stop wouldn’t be putting a minor celebrity in prison for something she didn’t do.

  The judge continued, “Ms. Borne, do you understand the process of this arraignment?”

  I stood. “Yes, sir.” My voice sounded small, particularly next to His Honor’s rafter-rattling boom.

  “You have been charged with felony murder. How do you plead?”

  Behind me, Mother whispered, “Nolo contendere, dear,” which had always been her obstinate response at arraignments. But I didn’t feel like being obstinate. I didn’t feel anything but scared witless.

  “Not guilty, Your Honor,” I said.

  And he said, “A trial date will be set. Until then you will be remanded to the county jail and held without bond.”

  I looked at Ekhardt, who didn’t protest the no bond ruling, perhaps due to the murder charge, but I was disappointed that the old boy didn’t even try.

  The judge banged his gavel.

  As the bailiff moved toward me, I turned to Mother, who said cheerfully, “Say hello to the girls in stir for me, dear!”

  Not exactly the words of encouragement I had hoped to hear from her, though I wasn’t really all that surprised. She had been a guest at the county jail a number of times and had made more than her share of friends.

  Then I was led away.

  * * *

  The county jail was relatively new, a state-of-the-art facility with no barbed-wire fence or guard tower or bars on the windows, either—nothing to give any impression that the three-story, octagonal structure was a place to store prisoners. It might have been a large office complex or clinic.

  But it wasn’t.

  My new home was located conveniently across the street from the courthouse and directly behind the police station, an arrangement that made the wheels of justice in Serenity turn most efficiently.

  As I’ve mentioned, I was not new to the county jail, even if I couldn’t rival Mother in number of visits. But this time around I knew to ask for a well-laundered faded-orange jumpsuit, instead of a bright newer one, which could be scratchy. Also, I requested that my matching slip-on tennies be a size larger so they wouldn’t rub the backs of my heels raw.

  Live and learn.

&nb
sp; I was turned over to a guard named Patty, with whom I had some history. Patty—a woman in her forties, rather plain faced, with short dishwater-blond hair and no real enthusiasm for her job—took me through a series of locked doors to the area where female prisoners were kept on the first floor. (The men were on the second and third.) The women’s section had a central area where they watched basic cable TV on an old tube number, played board games lacking assorted pieces, and ate starchy, lousy meals. This shared area was encircled by about a dozen single-person cells.

  At the moment, the doors on those cells were closed for the usual enforced morning lockdown, during which the women were supposed to take a rest break. A break from what? I couldn’t tell you, since there was no work for them to do. A rest from each other, probably. Anyway, I was thankful for the lockdown, as I didn’t feel much like meeting “the girls” right now.

  Patty escorted me to my cell, which was only slightly larger than my previous accommodations at the police station. But here I had a regular bed (single size), a toilet and sink (separate), a built-in closet (no door), and a high window (that perhaps a toddler might squeeze through).

  Truth is, the cell was larger and, well, better than many college dorm rooms, and at least in this case I didn’t have a drunken roommate.

  Patty said, in her bored, businesslike way, “Lunch in one hour.” Then, a little snotty, she added, “But you know that, don’t you?”

  She left, and the door locked.

  Bone tired, I curled up on the bed in a fetal position, facing the wall, and was about to drop off when I noticed something written on the wall that was partially hidden by the bed. After propping myself up on one elbow, I pushed down on the mattress to read the missive in block letters.

  “Vivian was here. Have a nice day!”

  And a smiley face, of course.

  * * *

  I was shaken awake, if gently, and sat up to see leaning over me, with a smile, a pretty, rail-thin young woman with long, straight blond hair. I knew her, as well as the older woman standing behind her, a husky inmate sporting a crew cut.

  The thin one was Jennifer; the stocky one, Carol. They were the two prisoners who, back when Mother was in residence, had tried to escape while performing her play at the Fort Dodge penitentiary (Antiques Knock-off).

  Now back in captivity, the pair had had another sentence added to their original ones, for drug use (Jennifer) and assault (Carol).

  “Time for lunch,” Jennifer said.

  “What’s on the menu?” I asked.

  Carol made a face. “Cold turkey sandwiches, stale potato chips, and canned fruit.”

  Actually, that didn’t sound too bad; I was hungry enough to eat gruel. Maybe that would be for supper.

  Jennifer backed away as I stood, but they remained planted before me and seemed to want something.

  “You know,” Carol said, “your mother got us better food when she was in here. Maybe you could do the same?”

  Since her question sounded more like a demand, I just smiled. “Well, I can certainly try. But I can’t compete with my mother.”

  The stocky woman nodded. “Y’know, Viv was really good to us when she was top dog here.”

  “Oh yeah,” Jennifer chimed in. “If it wasn’t for her puttin’ us in that play, we wouldn’t’ve almost got away.”

  “How did you get caught?” I asked. Mother had never shared that.

  “Oh,” Jennifer said, “’cause we were clowns.”

  “Well,” I said, “don’t be too hard on yourselves.”

  Carol said, “She means we were dressed as clowns in the play and should’ve figured a way to change our clothes.”

  Or their ways.

  “Anyway,” the stocky woman went on, “Jennifer and me would like to pay Viv back for all that.”

  “Oh?”

  Carol nodded. “We wanna do something for you.”

  “Well, uh, that’s really sweet of you,” I said, eyeing them warily, hoping that “something” didn’t include embroiling me in another half-baked escape. “What d’you have in mind, ladies?”

  “We’re gonna have your back,” Carol replied. “Really look out for you. Of course, there’s only three other women in here right now—but, kid, are they tough.”

  “Really mean,” Jennifer added with a shiver.

  Carol jerked a thumb at herself. “But they’ll steer clear of you when they see we got you covered.”

  “I appreciate that,” I told them.

  We left my cell together for the common area, where food waited on a cart. As usual, the noontime meal was a cold box lunch, while the evening meal would be hot (gruel?), eaten on plates with plastic sporks. Whoever came up with that term ought to do some time him- or herself.

  In the center of the room was a picnic-style table, where two other inmates were already eating, seated next to each other. Carol, Jennifer, and I got our box lunch (which included milk) and then sat opposite them.

  I said, “Hi. I’m Brandy.”

  The pair stopped eating.

  “Lupe,” said one. She was curvy, with long dark hair streaked with red, and an attractive if hard-looking face. I guessed her to be about thirty-five.

  “Tamicka,” said the other, a little younger. She was muscular, with angular features and black hair worn in a ponytail.

  Lupe said, “I hear you’re in for murder.”

  I nodded. Not the time or place to plead innocent. “How about you girls?”

  Lupe sneered over her sandwich. “Violating my probation.”

  “For . . . ?”

  “Credit card fraud.” She seemed almost proud of it.

  I turned to Tamicka.

  “Manslaughter,” she said, then shrugged. “Involuntary.”

  I said to Carol, who was sitting next to me, “You said three other prisoners. Isn’t there another?”

  Behind me a voice said, “That would be me.”

  Coming around the table was a woman in her forties, with mousy brown hair and cow eyes. She tossed her box lunch on the tabletop, then plopped down across from me. “Fancy meeting you here, Brandy. Small world. Small county.”

  Although a submarine dive alarm was going off in my head—ah-oo-gah! ah-oo-gah!—I responded casually, “Well, hello, Frieda.”

  I can’t use the woman’s real name without spoiling one of our cases for those who have not read it; therefore, she will be referred to herein as Three-Fingered Frieda, or TFF, for short. Her first name is not Frieda, but she does have only three fingers on one hand, and readers who have kept up with our accounts will know who she is. What those of you who haven’t read Antiques Fate need to know is (a) Frieda was in “stir” because of Mother and me, and (b) she very likely blamed the loss of those three fingers on us, as well.

  Tamicka looked from TFF to me. “You girls know each other?”

  TFF smirked, “Indeed we do, don’t we, Brandy? You see, she and that crazy mother of hers put me in here.”

  “Wow.” Lupe laughed at me. “You just got here, and already you pissed off the top dog.”

  TFF was top dog? I wasn’t sure Carol and Jennifer could protect me.

  But my fears receded somewhat when Carol told TFF, “Look, there’s gonna be no payback around here, understand? We’re all stuck under this roof for this and that. No more fusses or rough stuff. We’ve lost too many privileges already.”

  “Yeah, and we just got back TV,” Jennifer said. “And anybody who makes me miss any more episodes of Caitlyn Jenner is gonna have to deal with her.” She nodded to Carol.

  Three-Fingered Frieda spread both hands. “Hey, I’m not lookin’ to cause any trouble. I say let bygones be bygones.”

  “Really?” I asked dubiously.

  “Sure. It’s all fingers under the dam.” She cocked her head. “Besides, from what I hear, you’re in just as deep as I am.”

  Not exactly. TFF had been charged with three counts of murder; me, merely one.

  Guard Patty came over. “Brandy . . . vis
itor.”

  I was so glad for an excuse to get away from TFF that I didn’t bother asking who it was. Of course, there were only two possibilities: Ekhardt or Mother.

  Patty took me through a security door, down a short hallway, then through another locked door, and finally to a small cubbyhole room much like those provided by banks for customers to look over the loot in their safe-deposit boxes. While Patty waited outside—there really wasn’t room for more than the two of us, without the guard taking part in the conversation—I sat in the only chair in front of a Plexiglas window.

  Opposite was Mother, looking well rested, wearing a cheerful holiday sweater of dancing reindeer who were doing a Rockettes high kick.

  Instead of phones, a little microphone was embedded in the Plexiglas, and we leaned forward a little to speak.

  “How are you doing, dear?” Mother asked.

  Before I could answer, she raced on. “Are any of my special girls in there with you? You remember, dear . . . Sarah the bank embezzler, Angela the drunk driver, Rhonda the burglar. . . . I know Carol the assaulter and Jennifer the drug dealer are there! Naughty girls. They really put an end to my play’s prison tour! Oh, how I envy you. What I could do in your place, organizing a new play! There’s a new one Off-Off-Broadway called The Penis Papers, which would make a great companion piece to The Vagina Monologues. Of course, the girls would have to play men in this one, but Carol would be terrific as the cabdriver.”

  She finally stopped for air, while I just sat there, staring.

  “What’s wrong, dear?” Mother asked. “You look a fright.”

  “Maybe I should be wearing that little black dress you so thoughtfully provided me,” I said.

  She shook her head. “Probably not appropriate inside.”

  Staring her down, I said, “Mother, guess who’s in here with me? An old pal of ours.”

  She lit up. “Who, dear?”

  “Three-Fingered Frieda.”

  Mother’s eyes, already magnified behind her large lenses, grew to enormous size. “Good Lord! She would be, wouldn’t she? Why, I had forgotten all about her.”

  “Well, she doesn’t seem to have forgotten about us.”

  Mother shifted uncomfortably in her chair. “Good heavens. We’ve simply got to get you moved—or get Three-Fingered Frieda moved! I’ll talk to Sheriff Rudder right away. Now, don’t you worry, dear. Mother’s on it!”