by Alan Lee
“I got an idea. Strike a deal. Today,” I said.
He didn’t respond.
“You plead to crime of passion or self-defense. You get less time behind bars. The two brothers might get what they deserve. And part of the deal? You get shipped immediately to a better prison.”
“Fine.”
“Yeah?” I said.
“Fine, whatever, fatty, just get me out of here.”
“Hah,” I said. Victoriously. “Wait till Darren hears this.”
“Who? What?”
“I said, You’re welcome. For protecting you from yourself.”
30
An hour later, Sheriff Stackhouse and Candice Hamilton met me in the front hallway of the Roanoke County’s Circuit Courthouse on East Main. Stackhouse drew a crowd wherever she went and today was no different. She was holding forth to an adoring audience of lawyers and cops. I caught her eye and she excused herself.
Candice asked me, “Grady will plead? I promised Phil Mason I’d have something.”
“The brothers scared him silly. We’re in business.”
Stackhouse punched me in the arm. “A dirty trick, babe. I’m proud. You’d make a good sheriff.”
We went around the corner and down a side hall. Stackhouse smiled at the guards and Candice flashed her bar card and we bypassed security. Judge Barker’s receptionist waved us through.
Stackhouse knocked on the wooden door and we pushed inside.
Barker’s chambers did not befit his near omnipotence. Old books, disorganized white binders, two faded framed photographs, cheap furniture.
“Come in, Stackhouse. Come in, Ms. Hamilton,” he called, standing from behind his desk. The man himself struck an imposing figure—six feet-two inches, maybe, two hundred pounds, looked like he still swam a couple miles every day despite being sixty. Bald as could be.
Stackhouse went to the desk and kissed Barker on the cheek. “Morning, doll.”
Barker didn’t mind. He said, “What’s so damned important we need an emergency conference, counselor?”
Phil Mason—young, ersatz beard, glasses, blonde hair, bad posture—stood with Darren Robbins on the other side of the judge’s chamber. Next to imposing and handsome Robbins, Phil looked like a newborn. Batman and Robin. Except stupid.
“Good morning, your honor,” said Candice Hamilton. “We need an immediate injunction on behalf of the defendant, and I think we might strike a deal.”
“Injunction.” Darren Robbins said the word like it was cute. “On what grounds?”
“He was attacked in prison. By the siblings of Juanita Yates,” said Candice.
“Bull shit. What siblings?"
“Language,” grunted Judge Barker.
Darren said, “Allegedly attacked. Any witnesses?”
“Seven. Plus cameras.”
Judge Barker turned baleful eyes on me. “You helped Brad Thompson. August, right? The hell happened to you?”
“The same two brothers who attacked Grady Huff, they also attacked me. That’s why they were in prison in the first place,” I said.
“And why we need Mr. Huff moved.”
Darren scoffed. “How convenient. They allegedly attacked you.”
Stackhouse winked at him. “I’ll vouch. I got to the scene quickly.”
“And then you turned the angry prisoners loose on the defendant,” said Darren. “Mistreatment of a prisoner. I need to speak with Mr. Huff immediately.”
“I’ll see what I have on my calendar, Darren,” Candice said sweetly. “Maybe sometime next week? In the mean time, I need him moved.”
Phil Mason spoke for the first time. “He wants to plead?” His voice squeaked only a little.
“There’ll be no plea deal,” Robbins answered. “Grady confessed.”
“Circumstances change,” said Candice.
Judge Barker’s arms were crossed and he looked between us unhappily. “New evidence?”
“Your honor, I’ve had no time for discovery. The trial is only—”
“I’d like to hear from the defense, please, Mr. Robbins.”
Barker nodded at Candice.
She said, “If it suits you, I’ll let Mr. August talk. He’s the investigator I hired to follow up on the sordid details.”
Darren rolled his eyes at the word sordid.
“Go ahead, Mr. August,” said Barker.
“Want the facts straight?” I asked. “Or in short story form?”
Judge Barker thought about smiling. But he didn’t.
“Why not. Short story,” he said.
“The victim, Juanita Yates, was a professional con artist,” I began, assuming a winsome tone.
“Bull shit,” said Darren again. “Your honor, this—”
“Be quiet, Mr. Robbins, or you’ll be outside.”
Darren’s head nearly exploded.
I started over. “Juanita Yates was a professional con artist. She cleaned the houses of forlorn bachelors, and the occasional lonely married man, and gradually seduced her feckless targets. I have three men ready to testify, four if you include Grady Huff.”
It was only a partial bluff. Mostly true. Or at least, not entirely false. None of the men had agreed to testify under oath but they existed.
“Feckless,” said Barker. “Go on.”
“Juanita Yates might not be her real name because most of the men know her as Carlotta. She worked her charms and in all cases the professional relationship turned amorous. Each man ready to testify was intimate with her. Juanita convinced them to skinny dip with her, which her brothers videotaped. This videotape was used to blackmail her clients. If her client balked, the brothers threatened harm. In Grady’s case, harm was in evidence.”
“This is absurd,” said Darren. “Why would the defendant not reveal this earlier?”
Candice said, “You’d need to spend time with him, your honor. Mr. Huff’s a special case. Almost unfit to stand trial. Simply put, he’s incompetent, embarrassed, ignorant, and foolish.”
“You said short story,” Barker reminded me.
“Long story short, Juanita was sexually aggressive as a profession, and in cahoots with her siblings. She and Grady became intimate. He fell in love. She attempted extortion, which triggered his deep insecurities and racism. The brothers smacked him around and threatened to kill him. Grady bought a gun. They returned. He fired, he missed, he shot Juanita by mistake.”
Darren Robbins groaned. “An accident? No way. Again, why wouldn’t the defendant reveal this?”
“He has crippling self-doubt,” I said. “He cannot admit his weaknesses, not even his bad aim. But it happened and it makes him feel kinda important.”
“This is a damned mess,” growled Barker.
“You think a jury would buy that cockamamie story?”
Candice said, “It’ll be child’s play proving Grady was tricked by a professional con artist. As for the bad aim? We might not even need to.”
Phil Mason the feeble prosecutor said, “You have the names and numbers of her former clients?”
“I do,” I said.
“Her brothers are in custody, having attacked both you and Mr. Huff?” asked Mason.
Stackhouse nodded. “They are.”
“Mr. Huff wants to plead?”
“He does,” said Candice.
Mason and Judge Barker glanced at one another. The implications were apparent—they both wanted this gone.
“But he confessed,” growled Robbins.
“He’ll confess under oath to self-defense,” said Candice. “He’ll confess his heart was broken, that he wasn’t in his right mind, that the love of his life betrayed him, that he feared for his safety, that he was being attacked, and that his aim was bad.”
“I will destroy that fat bastard on the stand,” said Darren.
“That’s a damned unprofessional thing to say, sir,” said Barker.
“Your honor, I think the community and its leaders would like to see justice done. This trial is about the rich and privileg
ed being held accountable for the mistreatment of the working class. This verdict matters. That’s why I’m donating my time. The congressman himself—”
“I don’t give a hill of beans about that pompous tulip. Tell him I said so. Mr. Mason, your thoughts?” asked Judge Barker.
“Your honor—”
“Close your mouth, Mr. Robbins, or I’ll sanction you all the way back to Washington.”
“In his defense, your honor,” I said. “Mr. Robbins is a nitwit.”
Phil Mason cleared his throat. “I need to take depositions, your honor. At least from Mr. August and Mr. Huff. If the testimonies cooperate, we’ll meet her prior clients and the two brothers. I anticipate the Commonwealth will recommend a plea deal. Manslaughter, maybe.”
“Manslaughter?” Robbins nearly shouted. “He bought a gun, shot the poor woman, and then confessed!”
Barker roared, “Quiet, Mr. Robbins!”
“A miscarriage of justice from a bunch of fucking rookies,” snapped Darren Robbins. He stormed across the room and fled, the door slamming behind.
A moment of silence.
Stackhouse grinned. “Want me to bring him back, your honor?”
“No. I like it better with him gone.”
Candice nodded at Phil Mason. “Let’s go talk, Phil. Your honor, thank you for your time. Meanwhile, about Mr. Huff’s safety?”
Barker sighed and grumbled. “Sheriff?”
Stackhouse winked at him. “No problem. I’ll get the brothers transferred today.”
“Good. Good,” said Barker. "Come back with your decision, counselors. That invitation does not extend to Mr. Robbins.”
The four of us paused on the courthouse steps between the wide columns. A northern wind was swirling down East Main, tearing leaves off the oak tree.
Darren Robbins waited there. He put his hand on my shoulder.
“You’re a real pain, August.”
“I know this,” I said.
Sheriff Stackhouse gave Darren Robbins a swat on the ass and she went down the steps. “So long, Washington big shot. Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.”
Darren watched her go, still gripping my shoulder.
“That woman cannot possibly be the sheriff,” he said.
“Time for you to go home, Darren. You struck out here.”
“I did,” he said. With a surprising amount of grace. “You got me on all counts.”
I frowned at him. Suspiciously and handsomely.
Candice said, “Phil, let’s schedule emergency depositions for tomorrow. Trial is not far and I want this settled.”
Phil, still hangdog despite being on the verge of offloading the toxic Grady Huff case, shrugged. “Yeah, I can do that. We’ll confirm some details, but this shouldn’t be an issue.”
I made to move but Darren held tight.
“Leggo.”
“What’s your hurry,” he said. “Got another issue I want to discuss.”
“Don’t care.”
“Well,” he said and paused. He was searching for ideas.
Holding me in place.
Keeping me still.
My inner alarms rang.
“Maybe we wait until Candice and Phil move on,” he said. “And talk.”
This was a setup.
A gun fired. I saw the flash in my periphery, roof across the street, second floor of the Marine recruiting station.
The shot missed. Maybe it hit the branches of the oak tree. Maybe the wind blew it off course.
Candice screamed. So did Phil.
I lunged into Darren, knocking us both down the wide concrete steps.
“You sonofabitch,” he snarled in my ear. “Why can’t you die.”
I’d gotten close.
More gun shots. Two of them. Misses. The steps nearby cracked.
Aiming a gun accurately is harder than people assume.
I was up and darting across the courthouse lawn.
Movement on the roof. Shooter retreating, I bet.
I pulled my Kimber 1911 from the shoulder holster.
Sheriff Stackhouse was charging back, gun drawn. She moved well.
“Shooter on the roof,” I shouted.
I went into East Main. A car swerved but hit me anyway, a glancing blow. I tumbled to the street. Got up. Hurled an imprecation. Retrieved the dislodged Kimber and finished crossing East Main with a pronounced limp.
Embarrassing. James Bond never gets hit by cars.
I came around the corner of the recruiting station into the parking lot next to Mac & Bobs restaurant.
Early lunch patrons were scattering, crying.
Toby Moreno and I arrived simultaneously. Front and back of the parking lot. He held an assault rifle. Getaway car had to be close.
“August!”
He raised the rifle.
I fired from the hip and his windbreaker jacket jerked and puckered. He staggered backwards. Stayed up, trying to aim.
From his blindside, another shooter opened fire. Three blasts from short range, no misses, caught Toby in the torso and hurled him to the blacktop. The sound caromed back and forth on the brick walls.
More screaming, pedestrians on the sidewalk.
Carlos stepped out of his old grey pickup, gun smoking.
“Señor August, you are okay,” he called.
“Yeah,” I said. “Hit by a car. Don’t tell anyone.”
I knelt beside Toby. He was already half gone, not long for this world. His eyes searching but not seeing. On the blacktop beside him, an AR-15.
“Carlos, what are you doing here,” I said, panting a little.
“The bastards. I knew they would try. Marcus, he say I could follow you.”
“A great idea,” I said and stretched my knee. “I owe you big.”
“No, Señor August. I am still in your debt.”
The sheriff arrived. She saw Toby and shouted orders, “Stay inside! Everyone inside!” Then she got on her radio.
Carlos said, “I was too late. I am sorry, señor August.”
“Right on time, Carlos. Saved the day.”
“No, migo. I saw it from my truck.”
“Saw what?”
“He missed you,” said Carlos. He pointed past me. “But the girl, the lawyer. The bullet got her.”
31
Candice Hamilton had been shot in the chest. The rifle bullet meant for me had pulverized her ribs and liquified the lower half of her right lung. She was lucky—only two miles from Lewis Gale Hospital. Stackhouse carted her there in a squad car in under three minutes despite the traffic. I sat in the back, holding Candice on her side, pressure on the wound to keep the lung inflated.
Stackhouse and I held vigil in the waiting room, holding hands. Took an hour before we stopped shaking.
She asked quietly, “Darren set it up?”
“Yeah. I was the target.”
She released some air slowly and leaned her head back against the wall.
Finally a surgeon came out to tell us, “The problem is the bullet’s tumbling effect. It ricocheted inside, causing extra damage. We’ll know more tomorrow.”
I left the hospital at dinner, unsure if she’d live.
I visited the following day but she was still sedated. I deposited flowers on her window sill.
Stackhouse called me Wednesday with an update.
“Hamilton will survive,” she told me. “Though she’ll never run marathons again.”
“Did she ever?”
“I don’t care, kiddo. She’s in an ambulance, headed to Johns Hopkins. Told me to tell you goodbye.”
“Ironic, no?” I said. “Both she and Juanita Yates, shot by accident. But Candice will live because she was shot near a hospital. Luck of the draw.”
“Candice was surrounded by good people. Juanita was shot trying to blackmail a fat and insecure lonely man. Sometimes these things make a difference, babe,” she said.
“You’re suggesting we’re the result of the accumulation of our choices?�
�
“You know, a handsome guy like you shouldn’t try so hard to be smart. What’s for dinner?” she asked.
“It’s Manny’s turn.”
“Thought so. I might take your father out.”
I hung up. Crossed my sneakers on top of my desk (worn in case I had to limp after dastardly malfeasants) and reached into the bottom drawer for Johnny Blue.
It was a commendable day for an entire gulp.
I did just that and I said a prayer for Candice. Popped the cork back in and closed the drawer.
My laptop was open. A new request for my services open on screen.
I glared at it. Tried to read it. Tried again. Gave up.
I didn’t want to think about it.
Not yet…
I woke up in that position, hypnagogia having snuck up like a thief in the night.
I wasn’t alone.
Ronnie Summers bent at the waist, lowering over my chair. Slid her arms around my neck and pressed her lips against mine. We stayed that way, intimate and proprietary, a long while.
There are worse ways to waken.
Finally she released.
“Hello Mackenzie,” she said, our noses still touching.
“Hello Ronnie.”
“You smell like scotch.”
“You smell like peppermint. And youthful vigor.”
“I’m on my way to court,” she said. “But I saw your car and grew prurient. Isn’t that one of your words?”
“Yes,” I said. “And now that you’re here, I am concupiscent.”
“Show off.”
“More like raw talent.”
“How’s your knee?” she asked.
“Better. Only hurts when I run.”
“I can’t stay,” she said. “I’m late. But I wanted to see you.”
“Let’s go on a date.”
“Yes. A thousand times yes. This time, you and Reginald won’t carry me home.”
“He still with you?” I asked.
“No. Marcus informed me Darren returned to Washington. The threat of exposure called off my aggressors. Reginald has been released to Marcus—I’m safe. And apparently the undisputed queen of marijuana this side of Richmond,” she said.
“Congratulations.”
“I’m a big deal. Care for some free pot?”
