Street of Angels

by Joe Derkacht

  As anyone familiar with mountain-top experiences knows, though, they don’t necessarily last long. For every mountain top there’s a valley, and if you don’t believe it, just go and read for yourself what happened when Jesus came down from the Mount of Transfiguration.

  Under normal circumstances, maybe Stella could have expected four or five days before the sense of glory all leaked away. But if she had no intention of descending into the valley, nonetheless it was rushing upwards, until it would find her and drag her down, leaving her only with faded memories of the way things had been--until her next dose of glory.

  Towards early afternoon, the gals in the office were still marveling at her buoyant spirit, her quick laughter and little kindnesses, when an unusually tall, gray figure of a man walked into the office and scanned the room in a manner that was both quick and deliberate.

  Stella saw him first and waved to him, and then he was striding down the aisle between desks to her own cubbyhole office next to Mr. Snodgrass’s. By the time Chance Odoms reached her, a dozen pair of eyes were riveted on them both. He bent over her, reminiscent of an eagle stooping toward its prey. The effect was purely psychological, borne of their own fears. Every one of them knew that face well; as the city’s top homicide cop, the news departments of Calneh’s two TV stations loved putting him in their crosshairs on a regular basis.

  “Miz McIlhenny,” he said, addressing her in a confidential tone of voice. “Captain Odoms,” she answered just as quietly. Neither one considered it ridiculous that they had known each other for decades, yet still would have felt uncomfortable using their first names.

  “I thought the courteous thing would be to tell you in person, and since I’m leaving town for a few days, this was my only opportunity.”

  “Would you like to sit down?” She asked, gesturing him to a chair. “I can bring you a cup of water--’course it’ll be one of those silly little Dixie cups, but the water is cold.”

  “No, no. I’ll only be a moment,” he said. “I wanted to let you know jury selection began this morning and the trial start date will likely be in one or two weeks.”

  “That soon?” she asked. Too herself, she marveled how long it had been since that fateful night in March.

  “Too soon for the guilty, not soon enough for the innocent,” he said, with a grim smile.

  “Sometimes too soon for the innocent, too,” she remarked.

  “How so?” He asked, noting her rueful expression. He reached for the chair she’d offered and slid it close to her desk.

  “Have you ever had to judge someone?”

  He shook his head and leaned forward, to lend persuasiveness to his answer. “Not something you should concern yourself with. You’re not judging the boy, you’ll only be offering testimony as to what transpired that night at your house, to help the jury make a decision.”

  “I know, but it’s like standing by, holding the coats, while everyone else does the dirty work.”

  “The boy belongs in jail, he might have killed you,” he answered quickly, ignoring her reference to Reverend Johnny’s Sunday sermon on Saul, the man who became the Apostle Paul.

  “We’re all guilty in one way or another,” she argued, her joy gone.

  “You were guilty of sleeping peacefully in your house.”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “I don’t,” he said, beginning to suspect it was true.

  “It’s my fault.”

  “It’s not,” he insisted, certain he was again on firmer ground. “You’re experiencing what a lot of people go through when faced with this kind of situation. Can they put the guilty in jail and live with themselves? Will their conscience allow them to go free while someone else pays for doing something they’ve maybe thought of doing themselves?”

  Stella shook her head, obviously not in agreement.

  Hurriedly, he said, “Naturally you would never consider doing what he did. I was just giving that as an example. There are all sorts of likely situations I could--”

  “Oh, you know I won’t hold back, when it comes to telling the truth,” she reassured him, seeing the worried look on his face. “And I’ll live with the consequences--so help me God.”

  Satisfied for the moment, realizing she was serious, he rose from his chair. “We’ll talk after the trial. Anna Lee and I will have you over for dinner some night.”

  “Thank you, Captain Odoms. That will be fine if Angel may come along.”

  “Certainly, Miz McIlhenny. Angel will be no trouble at all.”

  Afterwards, when he had gone and the gals in the office finished cross-examining her about how she knew Chance Odoms and why he would pay her a visit, she realized her sense of glory had leaked away. On the surface she still smiled, but Chance Odoms’ visit had been like opening a door into some dark room where she was assailed by the shadows of old and distant memories. The question was, with the trial looming ahead, would she emerge from that room vindicated, or would she find her own guilt confirmed?

  ****

  Chapter 15

  Stella Jo listened in rapt attention, beginning with the court clerk’s, “Oyez, Oyez, court is now in session, the Honorable Judge Higby J. Stanglhoefer presiding...” while Ioletta promptly fell asleep and had to be nudged awake (by Stella’s well-padded elbow) every time her snoring rose above a purr and threatened to elicit the wrath of the authorities, meaning the aforementioned Judge Stanglhoefer and the court bailiff.

  Come to think of it, it was probably best that Ioletta fell asleep during the opening proceedings. That way she did not have to suffer hearing the defense’s outrageous requests for dismissal, one of them being that the real culprit was an unidentified Negro who’d beaten up the defendant and escaped before the police arrived.

  “And who might this unidentified Negro be, Counselor?” Judge Stanglhoefer asked, peering down from the bench over the half-lenses of his reading glasses.

  “Since I just learned of the Negro a few minutes ago myself, Your Honor, perhaps that could best be answered by the D.A.’s office.”

  Hizzoner frowned, which the court appointed counsel for the defense would learn soon enough was a bad sign.

  “Mr. Gravely is to carry on your case, now, Mr. Onyers?”

  “If I may, Your Honor?” Prosecutor Gravely, the county’s newest deputy D.A., interrupted, which he would learn, like the defense, was not a good idea, either.

  “So, Mr. Gravely, you are willing to argue your opponent’s case?” Hizzoner asked.

  “No sir,” Gravely answered, “but I can explain the Ne--the black person in question.”

  “Please do,” he sighed.

  “The black man on the scene, it will come out in testimony, assisted the police in the apprehension of the defendant.”

  The judge rested his chin in the palm of his hand. “Mr. Onyers?”

  “If that is the case, Your Honor, why has the D.A.’s office denied us the testimony of a material witness?”

  “The ball is in your court, Mr. Gravely.”

  “Our office has made every effort to depose the witness, Your Honor. But as a military policeman on duty in Korea, understandably he is not readily available. I do assure you, however, we have other witnesses, including the victim, who will testify to the guilt of the defendant.”

  Judge Stanglhoefer adjusted his reading glasses on his nose and penciled a note to himself.

  “Motion for dismissal is denied, Mr. Onyers. Now, if there are no other motions?”

  Onyers noisily cleared his throat.

  “I hope you are simply fighting a cold, Mr. Onyers?”

  “Well, Your Honor, there is one further thing.”

  “What might that be?”

  “It has also come to my attention that one of the city’s finest was on the scene but was not deposed. I would hope the court would see just how irregularly the D.A.’s office is conducting itself in this case. I mean, just how far will they go to carry out a vendetta against my c
lient, a veteran, no less, who is guilty of nothing more than driving under the influence?”

  “By finest, I suppose you mean a police officer?”

  “I do,” he said.

  “Since that is the case, Mr. Onyers, you should know I will brook no disrespect of the Calneh Police in my court.”

  “None intended, sir.”

  “Just so you know.”

  “Thank you, Judge,” he said, appropriately shuffling his feet.

  “Do we know the identity of the officer?” He asked, peering at Gravely for an answer.

  Completely surprised by the possibility of yet another mystery witness, Gravely was about to offer his denial when Chance Odoms, sitting at the rear of the courtroom, stood up.

  “I believe I can shed some light on that, Judge.”

  Stanglhoefer frowned irritably at Gravely, who threw up his hands in a show of unfeigned innocence.

  “If you will approach the bench, Captain Odoms. Counsel too,” he said, gesturing for them to come forward.

  “May we assume you were the officer in question, Chance?” He asked quietly, with the three men standing in front of him at close quarters.

  “Yessir, I believe I am.”

  “There’s nothing in the police reports about your presence there!” Gravely whispered heatedly.

  Unruffled, Chance aimed his remarks at Stanglhoefer. “In my defense, Your Honor, I arrived on the scene after the commission of the crime. That’s why there’s no mention of my name in the police reports. I was looking in on the McIlhennys as a friend and neighbor.”

  The judge shuffled papers, searching a moment, and glanced at him over his glasses. “You still live in that hellhole on Flowers?”

  “Sure, Hig--Your Honor, I mean,” he said, barely suppressing a grin. The hellhole he meant was the street. A lot of people found it difficult to understand why any self-respecting white man would want to live on Flowers--the very reason he’d been able to buy the property for practically a song, upon his return from Japan in 1948.

  “And you’re prepared to testify under oath?” The judge pointedly asked.

  “I kept a crowd from coming into the house and then went in to assist the arresting officers,” he said, nodding his head. “The defendant was rendered unconscious prior to my arrival.”

  “I’ll bet he knows something about the Negro, Your Honor,” Onyers said.

  “The Negro is a neighbor. Unlike your client, he happens to be a real war hero and disarmed him before he could kill anybody. If not for him, they’d be pushing up daisies in the local cemetery.”

  Beside Chance, Gravely frowned to still a twitch in his right cheek. “Your Honor,” he said, “I don’t believe this Negro neighbor is relevant, nor Captain Odoms--”

  “I’ve heard enough,” Hizzoner said. “You may sit down. The trial will proceed. Chance, you are to make yourself available to the court if called upon.”

  “This is highly irregular--” Onyers said.

  “You can put that in your appeal, Mr. Onyers. We have our evidence and our victims. The show must go on.”

  Prosecution and defense retired to their respective seats, while Chance retreated to the back of the courtroom. Gravely stared daggers at Chance, who let out a sigh of relief as soon as he reached his seat. While now might not be the moment, in time the newest deputy D.A. would come to appreciate his skills as a homicide detective.

  As anyone should be able to gather from Franklin Onyers’ motions for dismissal, he tried his best to defend his client, him being the counsel for the defense and all. As for the defendant, the smart-alecky Mark John Davies visited by Stella in county lockup, he was no less so (smart-alecky, that is) in court, though he was smart enough not to brag about the availability of illegal drugs in jail. Mr. Robert Gravely, deputy D.A., did his best to see that the accused remained in jail and was successful in that regard, although not to the degree he would have liked. He, more than anyone else in the court, whether members of the jury or the defense, was the most surprised by Stella’s comments when her turn to testify came yet again on the third day of John Mark Davies very brief trial.

  #

  “I want it noted that Mrs. McIlhenny is a hostile witness, Your Honor,” Robert Gravely said, lurching to his feet. He lurched rather than jumped or leaped because her comments were so totally unexpected that they took a moment or two to register in his brain.

  This is the question asked by Franklin Onyers, counsel for the defense, that led, little by little, to the prosecutor’s lurching objection:

  “Mrs. McIlhenny--what do you feel should be done to the defendant?”

  Her gaze went to Davies. Dressed for the occasion in a dark gray suit provided by counsel, in combination with being clean shaven and his shirt cuffs hiding his tattoos, he looked quite respectable. Except for his empty eyes he was actually handsome, which to some might be a surprise considering he looked quite a lot like Angel. But Angel was handsome, when it came down to it, if you looked at his face and did not judge by the perfection of the whole or were concerned with deformed legs. It would help, too, if you looked past his general dustiness, earned from countless hours spent in close fellowship with Alabama hardpan.

  The defendant lost his sneer when he realized Judge Stanglhoefer, as well, stared down at him over his reading glasses.

  “I would hope the court--the jury, I mean, would be lenient,” she finally said, glancing from the judge to the jury box.

  That was not yet the moment Robert Gravely lurched to his feet. It’s not as rare or as unusual as one might think, quite frankly, for the victim of a crime to ask leniency for the defendant or even to express forgiveness. The prosecutor might not like the victim’s attitude toward the defendant, but it certainly was not enough to make him flinch, much less lurch.

  Onyers, on the other hand, Gravely being the first hand, had hoped to provoke a more violent reaction from Stella. He was one of those lawyers who like to take long pauses and to pace a lot in front of the witness, to stare hard, thinking he can intimidate or rattle the opposition by such tactics. While his client had insisted on an innocent plea, he doubted he could win freedom for him on the merits of the case. But if he could turn the jury against the prosecution’s star witness by making her appear irrational or hysterical, he would do it. Regardless of the merits of the case, he hated losing.

  Stella’s calm answer gave him pause for a closer look. Expecting to see her waver, at the least, instead he encountered a surprising matter-of-factness in her attitude that would, he sensed, take a great deal of arguing on his part to shake. Naturally, there were dangers in arguing with a witness. The judge and jury were sure to see through such a ploy and consider it as badgering.

  Since even the victim felt sympathy for Davies, maybe he could elicit the same from the jury if his questions were reasonably adroit. He decided that whatever she answered, he could make it into a so-called win-win situation for his client.

  “Why would you want to petition the court for leniency, ma’am?” He asked, pitching his voice in a kindly tone. With eyeteeth disconcertingly long and pointy, he should have foregone the smile.

  Instinctively, she turned to Judge Stanglhoefer and directed her response to him. “I feel I’m responsible for the boy’s crimes.”

  A shock wave seemed to pass over the courtroom. The immediate reaction for some was to think the witness was a nut: for others, someone who was compassionate to an extreme. But no one had expected her answer. Still, except for an annoyed scowl, Gravely had not yet moved. The professional legal minds in the room, whether by experience or case histories, knew victims occasionally identified strongly with the accused. How strongly, in her case, they did not yet know. Ioletta, sitting at attention among a handful of spectators, felt something like electricity course through her body. At the back of the room, on this, the third day of the trial, Chance Odoms leaned forward and cocked an ear to hear better.

  “How do you mean?” On
yers asked.

  “I believe he’s my son,” she answered quietly.

  This is the point where the prosecutor lurched to his feet and protested. To no avail. Chance nodded in triumph and sat back in his seat. Ioletta stifled a cry and wiped away a sudden tear. The defendant, nearly as stunned as Gravely, scowled at her and cursed.

  “Do you believe in God, Your Honor?” Stella asked, ignoring both Gravely and Mark John Davies.

  “I object!” The prosecutor exclaimed. “Relevance, Your Honor!”

  “Oh, let the poor woman speak,” Judge Stanglhoefer said, which elicited a grin from Onyers.

  “Do you?” Stella asked again, her eyes on the judge.

  “God or Fate, in his mysterious ways his will to perform?” He asked, nodding an affirmative but not really answering with his mouth, a response worthy of a politician.

  As unsophisticated as people like the judge and Onyers might think Stella Jo, she was not nearly so naive as to believe he had given her a straight answer. For one, she knew the Book well enough to recognize when people were only pretend quoting it. For another, she knew God and Fate were two very different things, if one may excuse the irreverence of calling God a thing. For yet another, she knew when people were patronizing her, even if she did not necessarily understand why. Her real failure, in this regard, was her inability to understand just how much the ordinary person judges others by outward appearances, in her case primarily her weight, her mismanaged hair, and the way her black dress sat upon her.

  Higby Stanglhoefer took pencil in hand and began doodling on his notepad. To everyone else in the courtroom, he looked to be taking notes. In reality, he was only listening with half an ear, half being a charitable description. While some people might think most men learn how to respond to a wifely tone of voice with appropriate nods and grunts shortly after returning from the honeymoon, the judge had honed that particular skill from growing up with five younger, prattling sisters. It was handy, in a courtroom, especially in boring cases, when he wished he could be elsewhere, whether the golf course or out bass fishing from one of his three bass boats, and it served equally well when he was forced into situations where he must converse with people he felt were beneath his station. For the moment what he wished for more than anything else in the world was a drink, preferably a shot of Jack Daniels, though he was not averse to the occasional Wild Turkey.