by Ted Clifton
It was only a short trip, so Vincent and Tucker decided to walk. Younger said he would meet them in a little while. The air was cool, with a slight breeze, making the world seem fresh and clean, and they had a pleasant, mostly silent, walk.
“Thought you were going to storm the jail doors earlier to see Flores,” Vincent said, finally. “Change your mind?”
“Yeah. I think this has nothing to do with anyone specifically targeting Flores—he was just arbitrarily selected to take the tumble. For what, who knows? But the goal is to get Rick out of jail, and that’s best done in court. I think we can get him released, since I doubt they’ve actually charged him. And if they have charged him, then we should be able to get him out on his own recognizance. If the judge had the reputation of being in someone’s pocket, I might take a different approach, but that doesn’t seem to be the case. So, it’s probably best to simply play it straight and by the book.”
They entered the courthouse, passing through the metal detectors. The judicial offices were on the third floor. Tucker had Vincent wait while he went in to see if he could talk to the judge’s clerk. He was back in only a few minutes. “Very nice lady. Apologized for the jail officer refusing to let Flores meet with his attorney. She said she’d pass that information along to the judge. She also said we could see Flores now. He’s here. She made the call, and they’re expecting us.”
“You didn’t have to threaten her.” Vincent was grinning.
“My guess is that if I’d threatened her, I might have been at some physical risk.”
They followed the clerk’s directions and were soon in a small, windowless, cinderblock room with Rick Flores. They introduced themselves.
At the mention of his parents, Flores almost lost his composure. “I didn’t do anything, and I have no idea what this is about. Can you get me out?” He spoke quickly, very tightly wound.
Tucker did his best to calm him, and assured him that the worst would likely be over soon. He asked Flores about everything that happened, including how he came to have the money, and details of the arrest. The interview went on for some time, and eventually there was a light tap on the door.
“Sorry to interrupt, but we need to take him back to the courtroom holding area. His case will be called soon.” The officer could not have been more polite.
Rick was still anxious, but a little calmer than at first.
“We’ll see you in just a little bit. Stay strong.” Tucker wasn’t used to dealing with this kind of client. The majority of his cases had involved career criminals, people who were guilty of something bad, even if not the particular crime they were charged with. He had taken their money and headed on down the road. This was different.
“Shouldn’t George be here by now?” Vincent asked.
“Keep your pants on. A lot of criminal lawyers have busy practices, always running from courthouse to courthouse. He’ll probably show up at the last minute.”
Court was already in session when they entered, and the judge was running through “housekeeping” duties for the moment. It was clear he had been dealing with various matters for the entire morning. The time set for the hearing was, as always, an estimate, and several defendants were scheduled for the same slot. As a result, there was a small crowd of attorneys present, besides a group of defendants in jail garb behind a glass barrier. Tucker approached the court clerk, the same one he’d talked to before, and they exchanged whispers. She pulled a file from the stack and handed it to the judge.
“Maybe you’re right, Vincent,” Tucker said when he got back. “Younger should be here by now. Nothing we can do about it, though. We have the co-counsel agreement in place, and that gives us standing with the court, so we’re fine for the moment. We’re going to have to go ahead without him, and ask about it later.”
“Case number CV-21806548-90, Rick Flores.” The judge opened the file and, after a short look through it, looked up at the assistant district attorney. The DA, Jefferson, wasn’t present. “Can you explain what this is about? It appears that Mister Flores hasn’t been charged with anything, and you are requesting his bail be denied. How do you square those two sets of facts, Mister Adams?”
“Actually, I can’t, your honor. We were told that Mister Flores would be charged before his hearing today, but that hasn’t happened.”
The judge stared at Adams like he expected him to say more. When Adams didn’t, the judge referred to a note. “Mister Tucker, you’re representing Mister Flores?”
“Yes, your honor. But, sir, I seem to be doing a lousy job. My client’s been held in jail for almost two days, though he hasn’t been charged with anything. He’s had his property taken from him, and he’s been handled in a rough and aggressive manner by police. He was never read his rights in a proper fashion, nor told the reason for his arrest. And when I asked, and my local co-counsel asked, to see our client, we were told that he was being held incommunicado until the DA said otherwise. So, I must be doing one lousy job if I can’t protect my client from this kind of obvious abuse. My client doesn’t have a criminal record, he’s been an upstanding citizen for many years, and he’s helping to support his parents in Santa Fe, yet he’s being treated like a major crime figure in some old-time movie—lock him up and throw away the key. He should be released immediately.”
The judge turned back to Adams. “Mister Adams, I’m not sure I agree with all of Mister Tucker’s hyperbole, but I definitely agree with the substance of what he’s said. The state does not have the right to hold someone indefinitely without charging them. Do you know what is going on here?”
Adams looked queasy. “I—I have to say, I don’t know what is going on, your honor. I’m sorry.”
“You’re going to be a lot sorrier soon, if this isn’t put right. I’m holding you personally responsible for making sure that Mister Flores is released from jail within the hour. And I mean on the street within the hour—not released six hours from now because of some procedural nonsense at the jail. We will take a short break so you can make those arrangements.”
The judge rose, the bailiff declared court adjourned, and everyone groaned—more waiting. Once Rick was taken away, Vincent and Tucker went outside to wait. In less than forty minutes, Rick was back in his street clothes, and looking a lot happier.
“Thanks, Mister Tucker.” He clearly meant it.
“Did they give you the money back?” Vincent inquired.
“I wasn’t sure what to do, but it’s not my money. I told that guy Adams, I didn’t want it. He seemed annoyed, but he got a form and filled it out, and I signed it. I wrote on the form that I did not know why the money was left for me at the hotel. Was that wrong?”
Tucker thought about it. “No. I should have thought of it beforehand, but I think that was exactly the right way to handle the money. I don’t think this is over, Rick. But for right now, you’re not charged with anything. So, you’re free to go and do what you want.”
“What I want is to go back to Denver, and see if I can get my old job back—forget any of this ever happened.”
“Then that’s what you should do. We’ll exchange contact information and maybe Vincent can come up and visit you in a few days, and go over everything that happened, in detail. If anything changes, you need to call me immediately, or Vincent, if you can’t get me for some reason. If you’re arrested again, you don’t say anything until I’m there—nothing, absolutely nothing, no matter what the police say to you. This is really odd, but I think there is some chance it will just go away.”
Vincent added his two cents. “If that Simpson guy shows up again in Denver, and you feel even a little threatened, call the police immediately. Don’t even think about it, just call and tell them he’s harassing you. Don’t talk to him, got it?”
“Got it. Thanks to both of you. Sorry to be so much trouble.” Rick shook their hands and left.
“Guess we head back to Santa Fe. Can I get a lift?”
“Sure. That’s very weird that George Younger did
n’t show.” Vincent was frowning.
“Yeah. Should we try and contact him?”
Vincent scrolled to the number and called, but it went to voice mail. He left his name and number, and said they were headed back to Santa Fe at the moment, but he wanted to talk with him about the hearing. “I don’t like this.” He sounded unsettled. “But Younger is more than capable of taking care of himself. I’m sure I’ll hear from him soon.”
“Let’s make sure Rick Flores gets out of town okay,” Tucker said. “This whole mess is screwy.” He shuddered, though it wasn’t cold.
“We’ve got to get our act together on this show. Anna was all calm and nice when we first talked about it, but lately she’s on my case about everything, asking about every little detail—it’s driving me nuts!” Cindy was normally calm, but this morning she needed to vent.
“I know,” Jerry said. “I’ve heard her. Look, everything is together. We’ve got the caterer for the reception, all the rooms are cleaned within an inch of their lives, and we’ve arranged for extra chairs and tables. I don’t know what she’s so damn nervous about. We will not put up with her attitude. If we have to, we will just end it.” He also was getting frustrated with Anna. “Maybe it’s time to tell her to calm down, or she can hold her damned show somewhere else.”
“Someone going to kill Anna?” Vincent walked in on the conversation, and jumped in with his usual bad humor.
“Welcome home, Vincent.” Cindy was all smiles, completely ignoring his comment. “That was so wonderful that you and Mister Tucker were able to get Rick out of jail. Mary and Hector can’t wait to thank you.”
“Yep,” Jerry chimed in. “Really good job. Got your note about Mister Tucker being in one of the rooms—no charge. Glad you’re both back. What do you think happens next?”
“Don’t know for sure, but my guess would be literally nothing. The Durango police have really screwed the pooch on this one, and I’d bet they never want to hear about it again. Just to make sure we’ve got everything covered, I’ll run up to Denver in a few days and arrange a session with a stenographer for Rick to tell his full story while it’s fresh in his mind. Then we’ll have his statement in our back pocket, in case something does pop up.”
“Well, we’ve got those art-show guests arriving next week, and a reception here for about forty people, so it’d be great if you could be around for that. Anna’s nervous about everything and making herself a real pain, but we agreed to do it, so we need to have everyone’s help to make it a success.” Jerry wanted to pull it off, more for Cindy than for the customer.
Vincent nodded. “Sure, I’ll be here. Rick’s statement can wait. What’s the problem with the arrangements for the show and reception?”
That was when Cindy jumped in. “Nothing. There is not one actual thing that she’s complaining about, but she acts as if one tiny mistake will bring the world to an end. She wanted an absolute guarantee from me that the caterers have done this type of reception before, and that they won’t get anything wrong. I gave her the only sensible answer to that question, which is that I can’t absolutely guarantee anything, other than they’re the best in town and that I’d watch them and do everything I could to make sure there are no screw-ups. She came unglued and said something to the effect that I must not know what I am doing. I’ll tell you, Vincent, at that point I was very close to telling her to forget the whole damn thing, and she could go to hell.”
Vincent and Jerry were both quiet for a moment. Neither wanted to step in front of the charging Cindy train.
“Cindy you’re doing a wonderful job,” Jerry finally said, when she seemed to lose steam. “Don’t let this Anna woman get to you. Let’s just do the best we can and then, after it’s over, we’ll forget about her. Remember, we have a nearly full house for the next three weeks after the art show. All the promotions and advertising you’ve been doing are paying off, which means we don’t need Anna Marks’s approval.”
“Wow, three weeks of full bookings,” Vincent said, glad to see things shift to a happier topic. “Congratulations, you guys. That’s great.”
“Clive, you and I have never really bonded, which may be because every time I turn my back on you, I expect to be stabbed.”
Anna was in a foul frame of mind already, and just seeing the fidgety Clive Walton had worsened her mood. Clive smiled without joy. “Anna, my dear, I can walk out of here right now, and your make-or-break show would collapse into an ugly pile of crap. So, why don’t you try to be nice, at least until the show’s over? And then maybe we can discuss how we break up our little arrangement.”
Anna stared at Clive with malice. “I agree. You get a nice bonus off the sales at this show, and I get some money to change my life. After that, we need to stop tormenting one another. I’ll make the effort—if you will—to ensure that this little gathering is a financial success. You have to keep your people engaged in the art, and buying. We need to sell every piece here in Santa Fe, and at top dollar. That’ll ensure the other shows will be successful, too. I want no surprises. And I want you and my financial advisor to stop being all lovey-dovey in public—my god, Clive, the man is married.”
Clive’s whole being took on a new persona when he was angry, and he was angry now, although he didn’t raise his voice. “Anna, I think you should concentrate on controlling your own weaknesses—not mine. And although it’s none of your business—and why he has not told you, I don’t know—Francis is divorced. I’ll keep my buyers in line, and they’ll buy what I tell them to. You just keep your little bitch from saying anything stupid to these people. They don’t want to spend millions on a bunch of paintings and then find out that the artist is just a potty-mouthed little tart.”
There was a pause. Neither seemed to have won a decisive victory. But it was time to concentrate on the matter at hand, and leave personal vendettas for later. Anna began, “Fair enough. She can be a problem. I’ve talked to her mother, who’s assured me that Ilse will be on her best behavior. The success of this show is critical for her, too. I think the biggest risk is the show at the Blue Door Inn. I almost regret arranging for Ilse and her mother to stay there, and to have the reception there, as well. They’re a new bed-and-breakfast, and the owners don’t seem to have a lot of experience. But, it’s too late to make changes. I need you involved, making sure everything goes right at that reception. If we get through that without some kind of fuckup, I think we’ll be okay.”
“Mother, I don’t care what you think I should do. You and Dirk should do as we planned. Fly to Albuquerque, and you will be picked up and taken to Santa Fe. I need a little break before this show. I’m going to Denver to visit a friend. I’ll either rent a car and drive to Santa Fe, or I’ll fly, but I need a day or two to compose myself.”
“Ilse, please, don’t do this. You know Anna’s going to blow a gasket if you’re alone in Denver when the show’s already scheduled.”
“Fuck Anna. And what you mean is that I won’t be watched. Well, I’m tired of being watched, so you just do what I say. I’ll be in Denver for a couple of days, and I’ll get to Santa Fe in plenty of time for the show. All this financial pressure, and bullshit about me being something I’m not, just so people can make money off my art—it’s making me sick. Don’t you get it? If I don’t get away from everything for a few days, there’s no way I’ll be able to deal with these awful people, including Anna. Believe me, then you’d see some bad behavior. And from now on, I decide who handles my work, not you and Dirk.”
Bente Smit’s response to all emotional threats was to cry, so she did. The tactic had worked for years on most men, and even on her daughter until the girl reached her late teens, at which point Ilse stopped giving a damn. Now she told her mother she wasn’t going to sit around and watch her cry. She stormed out of the room.
The next day, Ilse left Amsterdam for New York. It was a grueling flight, but being alone, and upgrading to business class, made it almost enjoyable. She knew she was on the verge of a nervous break
down. She hadn’t been able to paint for months. She had never had a dry spell like this. The money problems, her constant battles with her mother, the absence of anyone she could trust—it all had her on edge, emotionally spent and ready to lash out at anyone. Before, she’d painted with flourish, a free spirit who saw the whole painting from the beginning. But now that vision was gone, and she was scared she wouldn’t be able to get it back. Something told her this show could be her last for a while, which alarmed her, but was also somehow soothing. She really needed the money. But being out of the public eye for a while afterward would be good for her.
There was one person she absolutely trusted. When she was eighteen, and emerging as an up-and-coming artist, she won a scholarship to attend a prestigious art school in Boston as part of a special program for young artists from around the world. They chose only twelve artists every year. For three months they were involved in great programs about art, but also about money management, how to manage your art career, and how to maintain your sanity once you were discovered. It was there she met Bobby Hawkins. She almost giggled now when she thought about the first time she’d seen him—it had literally been love at first sight.
Now she was going to see him in Denver. In Boston, all that time ago, if he’d asked her to marry him, she would have. Hell, if he’d asked her to give up her art career and bake cookies for him, she would have. But he hadn’t. He encouraged her to push as hard as she could to reach new heights with her art. He said she was the best he had ever seen. He said all the right things, except “I love you.” It was after that emotional period she became the self-absorbed, self-destructive creature she was. She reached new heights in her art, and new lows in her life.
