by R.M. Haig
More broken glass, more gargling, more nicotine, more menthol... menthol, precious menthol, Jake's throat was tired of all the rest, but it still craved that soothing cool of Newport's menthol. He'd spent all of three hours at the Best Western of Garthby, a good portion of that time simply standing in the shower beneath a refreshing cascade of cleanliness.
Enriching the experience was the fresh scent of a complimentary bar of soap, insignificant though it was in size, which had triggered an epiphany when he found it on the bathroom counter. There were two of them, one labeled cleansing and the other exfoliating, right next to tiny bottles marked hair purifier and hair protector. Nearby was a similarly puny flask of mouthwash with a folded card declaring that toothpaste, a toothbrush and shaving supplies could be had by simply calling down to the courtesy desk.
Fuck, why hadn't he thought of that... perhaps subtracting the cost of those items from his mentally tabulated flight package would've allowed him to avoid the disastrous encounter with his soon-to-be ex-wife. Still, there would've been no time to shop for a replacement wardrobe suitable for court, and the investigation that would follow.
There hadn't been time for sleep either, but that was okay -- he wasn't tired, not yet at least. His mind had been racing for the entirety of his drive, and it still refused to slow down as he sat in the parking lot of the courthouse. He still heard the call of double indemnity, felt a strong desire to go there -- for a long and lonely vacation, in the oblivion of the abyss. He drank the complimentary Best Western coffee just in case, though it was more a choking down than a drinking because it tasted like day old liquified shit -- warm and rancid, with notes of hazelnut creamer and corn.
His eyes were dry and bloodshot, tired of being subjected to the open air and crying out for relief in the shelter of their lids. As it happened, he was never without an elixir to mend that omnipresent problem. Fishing through his cluttered glovebox, he found the bottle of Rohto Maximum Cooling Relief eye drops that lived inside, buried under enough Burger King napkins to make the fearless warrior known as seasonal allergies quake in its boots. Two drops in each eye, then blink repeatedly... simple and familiar, soothing and resolving.
When he checked Rohto's work in his vanity mirror, he saw a man much more recognizable to him staring back than the imposter of the night before. The onyx strands of his hair were tamed and gleaming, swept back from his face dramatically with the aid of Brylcream and a fine toothed comb. His pale white flesh was clean and rid of the oils that often plagued it, likely because the exfoliating soap cake was a fountain of wonders he wished he could've discovered before now, when his life was in its dusk. His eyes were sparkling and clear, thanks to the drops. The influence of excessive alcohol consumption had passed, with the crimson vessels that had risen in objection to his lack of sleep under siege and fading.
A glowing red zit had erupted on his neck, a byproduct of his oily skin, but it was the only visible blemish on his otherwise pristine and put-together appearance. It resided just above his collar, which was crisp and starched to perfection under the expert tutelage of Tracy Swete Gigu?re; master housekeeper and steward of her husband and his son. The shirt he'd chosen was a dark navy blue -- he never cared for white dress shirts, they made him look washed out -- and was complimented well by the pinstriped black suit coat he wore over top of it. A black silk tie made everything pop, a sterling clip just below his chest fixing it in place along its plunge and making it sparkle. His pants matched the jacket and were as crisp as the shirt, pulling everything together in a flattering and sharp package.
He looked like a million bucks... if only he felt that way.
Much to his dismay, however, he felt the clothing touching his left ribs and torso. That meant he wasn't wearing his Beretta, and that was unsettling given his predilection to carrying it at all times while out amongst the people of the world beyond his home. He wouldn't be allowed to have it on him in the courthouse, so it would be stashed under his seat until this portion of the affair was over, at which time he would promptly unbutton his shirt and strap it back on.
His fingers sensed that heat again, though it stung less than it had before, so he disposed of his cigarette butt and resolved to finally make his entrance. There were a lot of people loitering about inside the court -- more than he expected to see -- but he gave them little consideration as he scanned their faces cursorily in search of the one belonging to Launchpad. His highly polished dress shoes made adamant click clack noises on the marble flooring as he strode briskly across it, and the heads of several women snapped up to take him in feverishly with their eyes as he passed.
Donnell saw him in the crowd, recognizing his distinctly chiseled face immediately. In the days of old, Darkwing had been the alpha pretty-boy of all Burlwood Meadows -- a crown he could be heir to just the same at present. There was a rugged edge to him now, which he had earned with age, but it suited him well. The epitome of tall, dark and handsome, he was every bit the heartthrob he had been before. He looked so confident, so self assured -- almost cocky. There was no outward indication of the total mess he was inside, which is just the way he wanted it.
"Jake!" Donnell beckoned over the noises of the crowd, throwing up his hand since he was too short to be seen over the heads of those around him. "Over here!"
Jake saw the hand, a solitary flash of black standing out amongst the sea of whiteness that represented the constituency of Elsmere County. Apathetic with lack of sleep, his face was as stoic as his mood when he finally caught sight of his old friend. They shook hands when he was close enough to do so, but made no small talk in their meeting. Time was becoming an issue, and he wanted to get right down to business irregardless.
"So, what's going on?" he asked plainly, no inflection in his voice.
Donnell told him about his discussion with Deputy Rambo in as much detail as he could remember, referencing the notes he'd taken to be sure he didn't leave key information unaddressed. Jake simply nodded with understanding as he summarized the events concisely, showing no bias in favor of or malice against the accused, their mutual friend.
Of all the talking points conveyed, only one stirred something in him. When Donnell revealed the fact that Chucky had allegedly asked Billy Marsh for a kiss, memories started breaking through the fog of physical exhaustion in his mind. Memories of tears and of crying, of tight hugs and Chucky's trembling voice. Will you give me a kiss, Darkwing?
Wearing a thousand-yard stare, Jacob stopped Donnell to offer his only counter-commentary. "He was scared," he said, memories swirling, swirling. Memories of begging, of pleading... memories of compliance. "He likes people to kiss him when he's scared... it makes him feel better."
Donnell paused, thinking. Contemplating and piecing together.
"We don't even know for sure that it happened," he finally said. "They can't prove it did. They can't prove a whole lot of anything, really, at least until the blood results come back. Even then, I can discredit those if I need to, based on the way Louie says Boudreaux had a hard on for Chucky. I'll go full Steven Avery, if I have to -- they could've planted that shit, it's suspect that they didn't see anything wrong the first time they searched the car. Didn't see anything until they needed to. So far as Rambo knows, there's not much more to this case. We'll know for sure when we get the discovery packet... they'll have to show their hand."
"How long will that take?" Jake asked.
"They've got fourteen days from today to turn it over. They'll probably use up all of them, too, they usually do."
Jake considered this, deciding immediately that two weeks was too far out. He'd be in the land of double indemnity by then -- he would have to find the answers on his own, working blind and uphill. Hoping for a leg-up, he asked if they had any information to set a foundation on which to build. Scanning the crowd almost nervously, Donnell revealed the packet Rambo had given him.
"It's a start, I figure," he said. "I'll have LeTonya scan it when I
get back to the office this afternoon, and then I'll email you a copy. Other than that, we've only got the indictment to work with, and it says a whole lot of nothing."
Jake still wanted to see it, so Donnell retrieved it from his attach? and gave it to him. He read it, and seeing it in print was much more sobering and surreal than he expected.
"Jesus," he said, "these are serious charges."
Donnell shrugged. "We're talking about a murder here, Jake, murder is pretty serious. If he's covicted on all three charges, they could execute the man."
This made Jake shudder visibly, he'd forgotten that the death penalty was still on the table in his home state of Indiana. "They would do that?" he asked. "Even though he's --"
"Retarded," Donnell finished for him, when it was obvious he either couldn't or wouldn't say it. "We could argue against it," he explained. "The Supreme Court ruled that executing a mentally handicapped person is cruel and unusual punishment... but the threshold is extremely low, Jake -- we might have a hard time proving that he's challenged enough to earn that protection. Generally, it's only afforded to those whose IQ tests at 70 or below, and I'm not sure Chucky's would come back in that range. I'll ask the judge to have him evaluated to determine if he's competent to stand trial, that'll let us know where we're at... what our chances are of sparing him that way. It's a tough hurdle to jump, though."
"So," Jake wondered, surprised, "they've executed people like him before?"
"Ricky Ray Rector," Donnell replied in a sing-song and matter-of-fact manner. "For his last meal, he requested pecan pie as dessert. He didn't eat it, and when the guards asked him why he said he was saving it for later... for after the execution."
Jake looked disgusted. "And they killed him?"
"With 100 mEq's of potassium chloride, yes sir they did! I mean, there were a lot of extenuating circumstances in that particular case. He had been of sound mind when he committed the crime, essentially lobotomized himself in an attempt at suicide before he was arrested. He was definitely incapable of understanding what was happening when they killed him, though, and they did it anyway. I doubt they'll think twice about executing Chucky, if they decide he did this to Billy Marsh."
Jake stood stone-faced, witnessing the final moments of Rector's life in his mind, then imagining Chucky in his place. He saw the nurses set the picc line, dipping the needle in alcohol and swabbing his arm, as though infection was of any concern. He watched them flush it with saline, blood and water racing into the convicted's veins. He imagined the executioner, a highly educated and distinguished professional, to meet with modern sensabilities -- not the barbarian of antiquity, not wielding an axe or wearing a sackcloth hood to mask his identity. He envisioned the pressing of the button, heard the gasps of pneumatic machinery answering. Saw the plungers driving a deadly cocktail of poisons into the condemned's veins, and considered what the doomed man would be thinking. Was he looking forward to that piece of pecan pie he had saved? That last dessert, intended for him, that would end up, instead, being the bounty of the rats that called the prison's dumpster home. Now becoming the condemned, he felt the cool rush of chemicals in his bloodstream, the sting of impending death and the cessation of breathing as his systems began to shut down. He lived the death, experienced the fear that came when a low-functioning mind finally realized the end was imminent. Only when the attending physician had made the final declaration did he reply.
"We can't let that happen."
"Well, that's the goal," Donnell replied. "If Boudreaux is as determined to stake a claim with this case as it seems, he's probably going to urge the district attorney not to offer much in the way of a plea bargain. We'll probably be facing either life without parole as a deal, or the risk of execution if we take it all the way through trial."
Jake was obviously disturbed at what he heard, looking down into Donnell's eyes with conviction and confidence. "Chucky didn't do this, Donnell," he said. "He couldn't have done this."
"That may be true," Donnell replied, "but in this country, it's almost always guilty 'til proven innocent, you can take that from me. It sounds like Boudreaux is pretty hot-and-bothered, he's gonna give us a hell of a fight. I know Louie isn't sure, but I can't imagine he'd risk bringing this to court if he didn't have some pretty serious and compelling evidence that Chucky did it. Shit, it would be a disaster if he did... if a not guilty verdict came back, that would be a hell of a blow to his career. It's gonna take a lot of effort to get Chucky clear of this, that's what my gut is telling me... and my gut is usually right."
"We'll figure it out," Jake said, still confident. "I will figure out who really did this. I owe the man that much."
Donnell nodded, impressed at his conviction. "Okay," he said simply. "They're supposed to be bringing him to a conference room to meet us, then we'll be headed in to face the judge. It'll be quick and painless, just the reading of the charges and setting of bail."
"We could bail him out?
"No, it's just a formality... bail is automatically denied in murder cases contested here in Indiana. I'll ask for the psych evaluation, they'll agree to have it done, and we'll be in standby mode until I get the discovery packet."
"No," Jake said in retort, "I'm gonna go to work right away!"
Donnell nodded again. "I understand -- but it's still gonna be a long process, Jake. Could be up to a year before it's all been said and done."
"I'll find the answer," he replied, resolute. "He'll be out before you get the discovery papers, trust me."
TEN
