Southern Discomfort

by Margaret Maron

  From time out of mind, Hamiltons had led the fight for an alcohol-free county. Every generation threw up at least one preacher or congressman or state senator who'd ride that hobbyhorse far as he could to the exclusion of all others.

  Englerts tended to be less vocal but generally more adamant about the evils of drunkenness. Every Englert generation threw up at least one backslider.

  Elizabeth Hamilton had unwittingly married her generation's backslider.

  Not that Lawrence Englert was intemperate by normal standards; just that by Hamilton-Englert principles, anybody who looked upon the wine when it was red (or whiskey when it was white, for that matter) was a potential degenerate perched atop the slippery slopes of hell.

  So Mr. Englert in his day, like his son Randolph in this generation, had done his drinking on the sly. He had cultivated a connoisseur's taste for smooth apple brandy. I don't know that my daddy supplied him—Daddy tells me he hasn't touched a brass worm in years—but they had been known to go hunting together a time or two, and Mr. Englert always tipped his hat to him when Daddy came to town.

  Anyhow, Mr. Englert died a couple of years ago and Mrs. Englert's rattled around in that big house all by herself ever since.

  On the night in question, she thought she heard someone downstairs and she'd called the sheriff's department rather than the town police, whom she considered incompetent.

  Dwight happened to be around and at loose ends that night, so he went along for the ride. "Never hurts to have an Englert appreciate special services the law can provide" is what he told me back when it happened. Not what he was testifying now, of course, when Doug asked him to describe what he'd found upon arriving at the Englert home.

  "Mrs. Englert called to us from the upstairs window and then came down and let us in."

  "Us?" asked Doug.

  "Myself and Deputy Raeford McLamb, who was on duty that night."

  "What did you do then?"

  "First we searched the ground floor thoroughly and examined all the doors and windows for signs of forced entry."

  "And did you find any?"

  "No, sir."

  "What did you do next?"

  "Mrs. Englert stated that she thought the noises she heard might have come from the basement, so we went downstairs and again conducted a thorough search."

  "What did you find?"

  "No indication of an intruder, but shortly after we entered the basement, the central air conditioner switched on and we heard a rustling noise in one of the ducts. We later ascertained that a piece of trash had fallen into the vent and was causing the noise that Mrs. Englert mistook for an intruder."

  "What else did you find around that air conditioner unit, Major Bryant?"

  "Objection," said Ambrose. "The prosecution is leading the witness."

  "Sustained," I agreed.

  "I'll rephrase," said Doug. "Did you find anything else that night?"

  "Yes, sir. Deputy McLamb drew my attention to two half-gallon jars of clear liquid behind the air-conditioning unit."

  "Permission to approach the witness, Your Honor?" Doug asked.

  "Permission granted," I said.

  Doug lifted a half-gallon Mason jar from the brown grocery bag beside his chair and carried it up to Dwight. "Major Bryant, I show you this jar and ask if you can identify it as being one of the jars you found in Mrs. Englert's basement on the night of June twenty-eighth."

  "It is. That's my mark on the lid."

  "I ask that this be entered as state's Exhibit A," said Doug. I nodded assent and he continued, "Did you open this jar?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "What does it contain?"

  "Objection," said Ambrose, standing with ponderous dignity. "Calls for an informed conclusion this officer is not qualified to make."

  There were snickers from the side benches that any Colleton County law officer couldn't recognize moonshine when he saw it.

  Doug, too, had a grin on his face. "Your Honor, Major Bryant is a veteran law officer with many years experience. I should call him eminently qualified."

  "So should I," I said, "but Mr. Daughtridge is technically correct. Major Bryant is not a chemist. Objection sustained."

  "I'm prepared to introduce into evidence a detailed analysis of the contents by an Alcohol Law Enforcement agent," said Doug. "I thought in the interest of saving time and—"

  Mrs. Englert had tugged at Ambrose's jacket and as he bent down to listen, the whole courtroom heard her exasperated whisper. "Why do you quibble so, Mr. Daughtridge? Everyone knows what it is. Get on with it."

  "Your Honor," said Ambrose, "the defense will stipulate as to Major Bryant's expertise in this matter."

  "Thank you," said Doug.

  As Dwight confirmed that the jars had held untaxed liquor that was probably at least eighty proof, I thought about the things we weren't going to hear from the witness stand today. Things like how a silly combination of circumstances could cause a waste of taxpayer money. Ordinarily, Dwight would have emptied those jars down the nearest sink drain, and that would have been the end of it. But young Raeford McLamb was pushing to go by the book and Dwight knew if he overrode McLamb, he'd lay himself open to charges of kowtowing to the rich and well connected.

  Now McLamb might have let someone else's liquor go down the drain; but three days earlier, Mrs. Englert had entered a complaint against his sister because his sister's cat occasionally used Mrs. Englert's herb garden as a litter box. McLambs are pretty clannish. Cut one and you've cut them all. If Mrs. Englert couldn't overlook a little cat urine, no way was Deputy McLamb going to overlook two jars of white lightning.

  Nor could Doug overlook them once McLamb brought the ALE in on it. Not that there was any love lost between him and Elizabeth Englert either. As a Republican, she'd supported his opponents in both races.

  "No further questions," said Doug.

  I looked over at Ambrose. "Cross-examine?"

  "No questions," he replied.

  "The prosecution rests," said Doug.

  "Mr. Daughtridge?"

  Ambrose stood, straightened the front of his beautifully cut navy linen jacket, and smoothed his silver hair. "Your Honor, the defense does not dispute that two jars of untaxed liquor were found when and where Major Bryant has so testified. What I do dispute is the implication that these jars were attained by my client or that they were ever in her possession. The district attorney has not proved possession and I would therefore move that this charge be dismissed."

  Doug was already on his feet. "Your Honor, is my worthy opponent suggesting that Mrs. Englert does not own the house? If so, I think we can have a copy of the deed up here in ten minutes."

  "Motion denied, Mr. Daughtridge," I said. "Present your case.

  "I would call Mrs. Elizabeth Englert to the stand."

  Mrs. Englert crossed firmly to the stand. The bailiff handed her a Bible and when Ally Mycroft asked if she swore to tell the truth, her frosty reply suggested she felt insulted at being required to swear to veracity. Surely the whole world knew a Hamilton never lied?

  As expected, she denied any knowledge of how those jars came to be in her basement. When Doug invited her to speculate on cross-examination, she declined. Yes, it was her house. Yes, under the terms of her late husband's will, she now owned its entire contents; but she had not brought every item into the house nor could she possibly know what else might lie hidden within its spacious confines.

  Ambrose asked that his client be declared not guilty, while Doug argued that possession is possession is possession.

  When they had finished, I sat back in my chair and regarded the participants. Mrs. Englert's eyes met mine and half-narrowed as it finally sank in that I and I alone had the power to prolong this public embarrassment. I suspect she was remembering her past petty snubs.

  I hoped she was.

  I leaned forward. "Mrs. Englert, the court sincerely regrets any personal emotional pain this incident may have caused you. In this court's opinion, you ha
ve been a victim of overzealousness, both on the part of the sheriff's department and the district attorney's office. Possession of untaxed liquor is a serious matter, as I'm sure you know; but you were clearly an unwitting possessor, therefore I find you not guilty of all charges."

  I smiled sweetly. Never had revenge tasted so good.

  "Thank you, Your Honor," said Ambrose; but Elizabeth Hamilton Englert suddenly looked like a person biting into an unpeeled persimmon. In three sentences, I had patronized her, implied that she was slightly stupid, and then put her in my debt for all time.

  Top that, sugar!

  Over on the side bench, Reid was grinning broadly and Dwight was trying not to.

  As Ambrose escorted Mrs. Englert from the courtroom, most of the attorneys left, too.

  No blood drawn from the new kid today.

  * * *

  When we resumed after a fifteen-minute recess, Cyl DeGraffenried was back behind the prosecutor's table.

  First up was a DWI revoked license and I gave him ninety days of active jail time. Even though it was my toughest sentence yet, I didn't give it a second thought. His daddy owns the largest building supply business between Raleigh and Wilmington, and I guess it was daddy's money paying for the services of Zack Young to defend him.

  Zack's probably the best attorney in Colleton County, but I'd seen his client in this particular courtroom a lot of mornings over the last three years since he got his driver's license and I knew he'd had the benefit of doubt extended to him more times than one.

  Zack gave notice of appeal and asked for bail.

  I looked to Cyl, who stood and said, "Your Honor, he's only nineteen; he can't even buy beer legally, yet this is his fourth DWI. If you'll look at his record, you'll see that not only does he drink, he just will not stay off the road when he's drinking. So far, he hasn't killed anyone, but by the law of averages, he's overdue. The state recommends that bail be denied on the grounds that he does pose a danger both to himself and to the community."

  For once I thoroughly agreed with her. "But we can't deny bail," I said before Zack could protest. "So how about we make this a half-million cash bond?"

  Zack bolted upright. "Cash bond? Your Honor, my client's father may own Tri-County Supply, but even he can't raise that kind of cash money at the snap of his fingers."

  "Good," I said. "Bailiff, take the defendant into custody."

  Three rows back, a fortyish woman in a designer black-and-white polished cotton and white jade necklace rose with a devastated face as Zack came down the aisle to her. They went out together with Zack patting her shoulder.

  Mrs. Tri-County Supply. But under the expensive dress and jewelry, a mother too, it would seem.

  * * *

  We briskly disposed of the rest of the calendar before lunch and I was about to adjourn for the day when a Mexican hurried up to Doug from the back of the room, waving a shiny plastic card. His English was so poor that Doug couldn't understand what he was saying, nor why he kept waving the card toward me.

  It was the bailiff who finally recognized him. "Tuesday," he reminded me. "Driving without a valid license. You gave him till today to bring you a North Carolina license."

  "Jaime Ramiro Chavez," said the preacher. "The man you were never going to forget."

  "Welcome to the bench, Judge Knott," said the pragmatist.

  CHAPTER 5

  LOAD-BEARING MEMBERS

  "Load-bearing structural members support and transfer the loads on the structure while remaining in equilibrium with each other."

  In my teens, Friday nights were TGIF necking at the only drive-in left in Colleton County, hotdogs with slaw and chili at the Tastee-Freez afterwards, and cruising Cotton Grove in an endless looping traffic jam of open convertibles and loaded pickup trucks, every radio blasting—R&R going head-to-head with the Okie from Muskogee.

  All through my twenties, except for the times I lived off, winter Friday nights were dinner dates and dancing at one of the Raleigh clubs; in summer, they were often the beginning of lazy weekends spent shagging at the beach, before everybody drifted off and got married or settled into "meaningful relationships."

  Now that I'm in my thirties, a lot of the people I used to party with are back single again, only this time we all have so many strings attached, partying is almost more effort than its worth.

  Terry Wilson had called me earlier in the week. His fifteen-year-old son, Stanton, was in a summertime baseball league and they were scheduled to take on the Dobbs team Friday night. Did I want to watch?

  "Sure," I said. Terry and I go back a ways and I've known Stanton since he was six and Terry used to get him for the weekends. Terry's been married and divorced again since then. As an SBI agent, he was working narcotics undercover at the time. Hell on marriages. On Friday I played phone tag and finally left a message at SBI headquarters that I'd meet them at the field because I had to drop by a funeral home first.

  Just because I had that fall's election wired didn't mean I could let up. The mother of one of the county commissioners had died. I never met the woman, but her son is one who'd remember if I didn't go and offer my condolences. Besides, once you gain elective office, you find yourself treating almost every gathering as another golden opportunity to press the flesh.

  I was in and out in under forty minutes, but then I had to go home and change from funeral home decorum to jeans and sneakers.

  * * *

  The game was tied 1-1 when I got there in the bottom of the second and it stayed that way through the next six innings. Two of my nephews were playing for Dobbs, so I sat on a bleacher between home and third with Terry and my brothers and their wives, and I hollered for both sides indiscriminately. In the top of the ninth, Stanton batted in the go-ahead run for his team; in the bottom, as shortstop, he caught a hard-hit line drive down the middle and stepped on second before my nephew could get back from third. Unassisted doubleplay. A high pop-up to center ended the game.

  Terry yelled himself hoarse, hugged me hard, and wanted to take everybody out for pizza, including my two nephews and their parents.

  "Can't do it," I said. "We carpenters have to get a full night's sleep."

  All through the game, my brothers had teased me about being so out of shape I probably wasn't fit to swing anything heavier than a gavel—I swear, I can't spit in Dobbs without having a brother in California call up the next day and tell me spitting's not very ladylike. They'd heard I was borrowing tools from Herman and thought they'd get my goat singing choruses of "If I Were a Carpenter and You Were a Lady"—words changed to suit my situation, of course.

  "Better do a good job," said Will as we climbed down from the bleachers, "or ol’ Rufus here'll make you do it all over again."

  My eyes met those of a trim, fiftyish man with thinning gray hair and an easy smile who had been seated a few rows down from us and whom we had overtaken on our way out. I'd seen that face around the courthouse occasionally, but couldn't remember that we'd ever been introduced. Will knows everybody by their first names, of course.

  "Say what, young man?"

  "You know my sister, don't you?" Will said. "Deborah, this is Rufus Dayley. He's the county's chief building inspector."

  "Everybody knows who Judge Knott is," he said gallantly. "Pleased to meet you, ma'am. Did I hear Will say you're building something?"

  "Only helping," I said.

  Will couldn't let it go. "She's gonna be pounding nails tomorrow over at that house those women are building by themselves."

  "Oh, yes." Dayley nodded. "I've had to pay one of my men overtime, so we can fit the inspections in around you weekend workers." He seemed to hear the less-than-gracious tone in his voice and backpedaled for my benefit. "Of course, if we're going to have a lady judge on the job, I'll have to tell him to go easy on y'all."

  "Oh, please don't do that, Mr. Dayley." Girlish sweetness sugared my words till it's a miracle I didn't choke. "Why, I'd just hate for him to think you've got a different set of standards fo
r people you know."

  He had to use his fingers to work it out, and then he didn't know whether or not to take it as a joke. His laughter sounded forced as he wished us a good evening.

  Amy shook her head. "I'm no feminist, but—" she began.

  "I'm a feminist, and," I grinned.

  "Can't take you anywhere," Terry grumbled.

  * * *

  Out in the clay-and-gravel parking lot, the night air was hot and still. White moths fluttered in the headlights as the cars pulled out in swirls of heavy red dust that fell straight back to the ground. No moon and too hazy to see many stars. Terry's hunted and fished with all my brothers, and we stood and talked lazily about dogs and bass till the boys were released by their coaches.

  They were laughing as they came up, loping dark shapes silhouetted by the field lights behind them. It'd been a satisfying, hard-fought game, nothing sloppy on either side and none of the three had been charged with errors, so they felt good about their performances. I hugged all three of them, loving their gangly height, their awkward social graces, their clean sweaty smell like young horses that had galloped through long grassy pastures. Aunts and former-almost-stepmothers can get away with stuff like that.

  "Aren't you coming with us?" they chorused as car keys jingled and our group scattered across the nearly empty parking lot. "Aw, come on, Aunt Deb'rah."

  "Next time," I promised. I got a brotherly kiss and a "Seeya, gal" from Terry, then he was gone, too.

  For a small town Friday night, the main streets back through Dobbs were busy with cars and trucks full of couples sitting close to each other, wrapped in their own bliss. As I drove through the white brick gate and pulled up to the side entrance of the house, WQDR was playing the Judds's "Grandpa, Tell Me 'Bout the Good Old Days."

  "And the good old nights," sighed the pragmatist, even as the preacher was patting me on the head in approval. —Bout time you quit burning your candle at both ends."