by Nancy Allen
Softly, the juvenile said, “I hear you, man.” After a beat, his mouth twitched with a smile. He said. “You’re like Spider-Man.”
An inmate with a lank mullet ponytail occupied the cell with Spider-Man; the man groaned and said, “Shut up, you crazy fuck.” He pulled a rubber flip-flop off his foot and threw it at his cellmate. The shoe bounced off Spider-Man’s head.
“Sorry, dude. Can’t help it, man,” Spider-Man said in a whispered entreaty to his cellmate. “It’s them spiderwebs.”
“Talk about rats or spiders one more time and I’m gonna ream your ass.” The ponytailed inmate sat up on his bunk to address Tanner. “Wonder how come Wantuck didn’t double you up in here. Not like he gives a shit whether you’s a bitch or you ain’t.”
Tanner gave the man a rocky stare.
“Who’s your lawyer?”
Tanner shrugged.
“Don’t you know? You so dumb you don’t know your lawyer’s name? You got the public defender?”
“I got some old man,” Tanner said.
“Ain’t no such thing as an old public defender. We all got the public defender in here, and they don’t hardly look old enough to get they dick hard,” the inmate said. “My name’s Darren. You that Monroe kid, right?”
He nodded.
Darren leaned back in his cot, sucking his teeth as he contemplated. “Wantuck’s doing you a favor, shutting you up by yourself. Only time I saw Wantuck give a fuck about an inmate’s security was one time when a guy had hired old man Yocum. Is that who you got? Yocum?”
“Dunno,” Tanner said with disinterest. “He’s an old fuck. Smells like Ben-Gay.”
“I don’t care if he smells like a shit sandwich—I’d get Yocum if I had the green. Ain’t got it. But Yocum’s the ticket.”
Pulling down his scrubs, Spider-Man crouched on the stained toilet in the cell he shared with Darren. He commenced scratching wildly at his backside, making high-pitched noises. “Spiders, spiders hatching. Them eggs is hatching.”
In a low voice, Tanner asked Darren, “Is the spider guy crazy?”
“Crazy motherfucker. Just waiting for his court date. Even the goddamned prosecutor’s shrink says he’s batshit crazy. They’re letting him go NGI.”
“So he walks? Because the doctor says he’s insane?”
“Nah. He’ll go to the state mental hospital in St. Joe.”
“Is that better? Than prison?”
The man shook his head. “Dunno, kid. Ain’t never been. Psycho time may be easier. Just about have to be. But it ain’t gonna be no shorter. Callaway don’t let a crazy walk out of the hospital till he’s been there awhile.”
Tanner stretched out on his cot and surveyed Spider-Man in the next cell. The inmate stopped scratching his butt and gave the juvenile a smile, revealing again the bloody gums and blackened teeth.
“Are you my friend,” asked Spider-Man with a childlike longing in his voice.
“Yeah, man,” Tanner answered. “You bet.”
Chapter 24
PUSHING OPEN THE door to Associate Division 3, Elsie spotted Chuck Harris at the counsel table in Judge Carter’s courtroom. Chuck reclined in his chair, with his feet stretched out before him.
“You’re the picture of relaxation,” Elsie said.
“The product of a clear conscience,” he replied.
She handed the State v. Tanner Monroe file to him. “Thought you might want this.”
Chuck took the file and tossed it on the table. “Don’t get all wrought up. The public defender is waiving preliminary.”
“You mean the conflicts public defender,” said Elsie.
The local public defender’s office had declined to represent Tanner Monroe. They claimed they had a conflict, as they’d been appointed previously to defend Barry Bacon’s drug case, and until investigation of his hanging was completed, they would not undertake Tanner Monroe’s murder defense.
“Have you talked to the conflict attorney today?”
“Nope. Been busy.” Chuck pulled out the McCown County Record and turned to the entertainment section. “Do you think I could get on The Bachelor? They’re holding auditions in Oklahoma City.”
Elsie managed to look away before he could see her expression. “Chuck, I think you match the profile perfectly. Go for it.”
Eldon, Carter’s bailiff, was sitting at his desk beside the judge’s chambers door. Hanging up the phone, he said, “I’m going to the jail to get that boy. It’s dang near time.”
As he left, Elsie pulled up a chair beside Chuck and sat. “Conflict PD is late,” she observed.
“Always,” Harris agreed.
The door to the courtroom opened with a creak. Looking over her shoulder, Elsie saw Bob Ashlock.
She looked away with a jerk of her chin, turning in her seat so she faced the empty jury box. She and Ashlock had not spoken since their run-in in the coffee shop.
Chuck waved, calling, “What brings you here, bro?”
Elsie hid a smirk. She didn’t expect Bob considered Chuck a brother.
Ashlock said, “I thought I’d make sure you don’t need me today, Harris.”
Chuck tipped back in the chair, crossing his feet on the table. “Wasted a trip, dude. Monroe’s waiving.”
Ashlock nodded. “I think I’ll stay and watch. Make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid.” He took a seat in the back row of the gallery.
Elsie kept her back to him, her posture rigidly erect. Despite the frosty air-conditioning in the courtroom, she felt her face grow warm. She couldn’t help but remember the words spoken in the car after the trip from Tulsa. The words still rang in her ears: Stupid. Irresponsible. Unprofessional. Immature. Motherfucker, she thought, her heart rate increasing.
Hanging over the back of his chair, Chuck asked Ashlock about the progress of the forensic testing on evidence seized from the bus. Ashlock answered in the baritone voice Elsie loved so well. Used to love, she corrected herself.
When Harris cracked a joke, Ashlock laughed, and Elsie’s body reacted involuntarily to the sound.
What the fuck is the matter with me, she mused, running her fingers through her long hair and pulling it away from her face. She stood abruptly. “I better get downstairs,” she said, and turned to go.
Harris stared at her, uncomprehending. “But it’s just about to start. Stick around.”
As he spoke, the courtroom door opened, and Eldon ushered in Tanner Monroe.
The juvenile crept in, his feet shackled so close together that he was forced to take baby steps. With his arms cuffed behind his back, his chest was thrust forward. But his head hung down, whether in despondency, or to watch his feet to avoid falling, Elsie couldn’t tell.
Eldon escorted Monroe to the defense counsel table, where the boy sat alone.
The door to Carter’s chambers opened, and the judge stuck out his head. “Ready?” he asked.
“Defense attorney’s not here,” Chuck replied.
The judge slammed his door shut. The noise made the juvenile jump in his seat, as he sat in his shackles, his head still hanging down.
Elsie, looking at him sidelong, watched a smile begin to play on the boy’s mouth. He turned his face slightly toward her, shot her a wink, and returned to his woebegone position.
That boy is from crazy town, she thought, as she craned her neck to look at his hands. They were hidden in the chair, so she couldn’t check out the letters she’d seen before on his fingers.
The courtroom door behind her opened with a mighty creak, and as she swung round in her chair, Billy Yocum made his entrance.
“Counsel for defendant appears,” he boomed.
Elsie and Chuck looked at each other. Chuck piped up: “What you here on, Billy?”
“State v. Tanner Monroe,” the attorney replied, walking up t
o the defense table and laying a kindly hand on the boy’s shoulder.
Elsie said, “Billy, Mr. Monroe is represented by the conflicts attorney.”
Opening his worn leather brief case, Billy pulled out a legal pad. “Conflicts attorney had a conflict.”
Eldon rapped on Judge Carter’s chambers door, and the judge emerged. Attired in his black robe, the judge took the bench. He was a slim man in his forties, with a head of prematurely silver hair.
“Appreciate you taking this on, Billy,” the judge said, with a friendly nod in Yocum’s direction.
“Glad to oblige, your honor,” Yocum said, before he sat next to the juvenile and huddled in consultation with the boy.
Elsie jerked on Chuck’s jacket, pulling him around to face her. “What’s going on?” she hissed.
“How should I know?”
“Is he going to waive or not?” Clearly, the state was not ready for preliminary, and Elsie knew from past experience that Judge Carter would not be happy to hear that the state was not prepared to proceed with evidence. Elsie had been down that road before in Judge Carter’s courtroom.
Chuck rose from his seat. Approaching Yocum, he tapped the lawyer’s shoulder with a tentative hand. Yocum looked up with a scowl. He said, “Mr. Harris, I’m speaking to my client in confidence.”
“Sorry, Yocum. You’re going to waive preliminary hearing, right?”
The irritation disappeared from the old attorney’s face, replaced by a toothy grin. Yocum guffawed as he slapped Chuck Harris on the shoulder.
“That’s a good ’un, young man. I’ll tell you something: in forty years of practicing law, I have never once waived preliminary. Not once. I regard it as malpractice.” He slapped his pad on the table and clicked his pen. “Get your first witness ready.”
Chuck looked at Elsie, bug-eyed. He whispered in her ear. “I’ll ask for a continuance.”
“You won’t get it,” she hissed, but Judge Carter was settling in his chair, and Chuck was already approaching the bench.
“Judge Carter,” Harris said, apologetically, “we got a situation.”
The judge peered down at Harris from the bench.
Harris continued, “We thought the defendant was waiving preliminary hearing. I had it on good authority, from the conflicts attorney.”
“Conflicts attorney doesn’t represent defendant,” the judge snapped.
“Yeah, I know, I can see that. But that’s why the state is not ready to go.”
Judge Carter slammed his hand on the bench.
Yocum rose, shaking his head. “Your honor, these young attorneys know that my client—a mere boy—is being held at the county jail. Being exposed to hardened criminals in an open cell, with the risk every blessed day of their criminal influence. He’s in danger”—and his voice dropped to a grave whisper—“of assault from perverse infidels.”
Elsie turned to see how the juvenile would react to the exchange. She saw him shut his eyes during the attorney’s speech. Tanner Monroe’s chest convulsed; his lips twitched. Is he laughing or crying? she wondered incredulously.
The judge inclined his head to Yocum. “When did you enter your appearance?”
“Yesterday. Yesterday afternoon.”
“The Prosecutor’s Office should know that. They should be up to speed.” As Harris opened his mouth to protest, the judge cut him off. “I don’t even want to hear it. Proceed,” he said, with a shake of the gavel.
“The state respectfully requests a continuance.”
“Denied. Proceed.”
“Give us a minute, Judge,” Harris said. He hustled over to Elsie; bending his head to hers, he whispered, “What the hell are we going to do?”
“Just put Ashlock on,” she whispered back. “He’s holding his file; you know he’s got the juvenile’s statement in there. Ashlock can testify about the bus and the body and the statement and the knife. That’s enough for probable cause.”
Chuck’s eyes were wild; she could see the whites all around the iris. “I don’t have an exam prepared.”
“Just wing it.”
“I can’t. I can’t put him on cold.”
Harris looked over his shoulder at Ashlock, then back at Elsie. “You do it.”
“What?”
“You put him on. You can put him on cold; you’re used to warming him up.”
Elsie’s eyes flashed. As she opened her mouth to snap a fitting retort, the judge intoned, “Call your first witness, Mr. Harris.”
Elsie turned in her seat, facing Ashlock at the back of the courtroom. “The state calls Detective Bob Ashlock.”
Ashlock’s brow lifted slightly in surprise. He met Elsie’s eye squarely and walked up to be sworn. As he passed Elsie on his way to the witness box, their shoulders brushed, and she could smell the scent of the deodorant soap he used.
After taking the oath, Ashlock settled in the witness chair, file in hand. Elsie stood before him, unsmiling. “State your name,” she said.
“Detective Bob Ashlock.”
“What is your occupation?”
“Chief of detectives for the City of Barton Police Department.”
“How long have you been employed in that capacity?”
“Ten years in the Detective Division, eight years on patrol before that.”
“I direct your attention to the twelfth day of June of this year: did you have occasion to be called to a crime scene?”
“I did.”
“Where?”
“I was called to the Muddy Creek bridge on Farm Road 233.”
“Is that location in McCown County, Missouri?”
“It is.”
“For what reason did you go to that location on that date?”
“I was called in to investigate a body found in the riverbed, under the bridge.”
“Upon arriving, what did you observe?”
“A white female, aged forty to forty-five, was lying on her back in the bed of Muddy Creek. Her throat was cut.”
So far, the exam was an easy give and take, a routine that both Elsie and Ashlock had danced many times before. She relaxed, leaning against the counsel table, and asked, “Was the woman alive?”
“She was not.”
“Objection!” Yocum jumped to his feet, pointing a gnarled finger at Ashlock. “The witness has not indicated any medical training, he’s not qualified to make that judgment.”
Elsie looked at the old attorney in disbelief. “Is this going to be the basis of the defense? That the victim wasn’t dead? Lord, Yocum, is that the best you can do?”
The defense attorney’s angry reply was cut off as the judge ordered, “Qualify your witness, Ms. Arnold.”
Cocking an eyebrow at Ashlock, Elsie said, “Describe the woman you found in the creek bed, Detective.”
Ashlock’s graphic description of the condition of the body, the location of the wound, the bloating from decomposition and the attention of the flies and the resulting maggots made the judge wince, but Elsie kept an expressionless demeanor. Ashlock concluded, “The victim was not breathing. Had no pulse.”
“Detective Ashlock, in the course of your eighteen years of police work, have you had occasion to see a dead body?”
“Many times.”
“In your opinion, what was the condition of the woman you observed in the Muddy Creek?”
“Ma’am,” he intoned, “she was dead.”
Yocum jumped up, waving a gnarled hand. “Your honor,” he began, but the judge stopped him.
“Overruled. Whatever objection you were about to make is overruled. Let’s move on.”
Ashlock testified regarding the discovery of the woman’s identification. On a hunch, Elsie asked, “Do you have the ID with you in court today?”
“I have a copy.”
He ope
ned his file and produced a copy of the license. Elsie had the court reporter mark it as an exhibit, and handed it back to Ashlock.
“I’d like to show you what’s been marked for identification as state’s Exhibit #1,” she said. “Will you tell the court what that is?”
When Ashlock opened his mouth to reply, Yocum spoke from his chair. “Objection, Judge. Best evidence rule. Where’s the original?”
The judge sent an inquiring glance Elsie’s way. Smoothly, she asked Ashlock, “Can you tell us where the original document can be found?”
“At the highway patrol crime lab over in Springfield, Greene County, Missouri. Undergoing testing.”
“Is state’s Exhibit #1 a fair and accurate representation of the chauffeur’s license you found on the deceased’s person on June 12?”
“It is.”
“Your honor, the state offers state’s Exhibit #1 into evidence.”
Yocum rose, shaking his head. “Now, wait a minute, Judge. The witness didn’t say anything about the original being destroyed. They just didn’t take the trouble to get the original to court today. I object to the admission of state’s Exhibit #1.”
“Your honor, we’ve demonstrated that it’s unavailable.”
Yocum scoffed. “You’ve demonstrated it’s in Springfield, that’s all. That’s not ‘unavailable.’ You could get there in forty-five minutes. Thirty, if the detective turns his siren on.”
Elsie was making moist palm prints on the counsel table, so she wiped her palms on her skirt. Her pulse raced; she had to get the license into evidence, for she must prove the identity of the murder victim named in the criminal complaint. Clearing her throat, she said, “Judge, the detective has testified under oath that the license is a fair and accurate representation. Mr. Yocum’s objection to the exhibit is baseless.”
Yocum slapped his hand on the table. “Bring in the ID! It’s a piece of plastic. It’s not like I’m asking to see the Mona Lisa,” he cried.
“Now you’re being ridiculous,” Elsie snapped.
The judge intervened; with a weary look, he admitted the exhibit. “Let’s get on with it,” he ordered.
Elsie faced Ashlock again. “After finding the body, did you have occasion to take a statement at McCown County Juvenile Hall?”
