Earth to Emily (14 page)

“What about the parking garage for the Maxor Building? Most everyone’s left for the day by now. The Downtown Athletic Club’s there, but people park on the first floor for it. I could meet you on the third.”

Jack frequented the DAC daily, for the workout and the shower facilities. So far, I hadn’t caught the workout bug.

“Wait. Isn’t there a restaurant in the building, too?”

“It’s only open at lunch.”

He nodded. “Okay. Pull in nose first by an empty space. Stay in your car. I’ll find you.”

He threw his car in reverse and backed out quickly.

“You’re welcome,” I called after him.

I cruised down Amarillo Boulevard slowly, getting honked at twice by impatient drivers. The worsening weather seemed to have everyone on edge. I pulled off the Boulevard back into downtown on Polk and came upon the Maxor courtyard seconds later. White Christmas lights sparkled from the iron fencing and trees. Someone had decorated the Center City’s buckskin horse sculpture with a wreath around its neck. I turned on Fourth Avenue, then into the garage, winding my way up the darkened ramp.

The third story was empty, and I picked a space far from the lighted elevator. When I’d parked, nose in, a car rolled behind me. Too late, it occurred to me that I should have told someone where I was and with whom before meeting a scary man I barely knew alone in a deserted parking garage. Well, it wasn’t like I didn’t know how to protect myself. I pulled out my Glock for the second time that day.

The rear end of the silver sedan eased to the wall, its white backing lights illuminating the space for a moment. The engine noise ceased. A door slammed with an echoey sound. A tap sounded on the passenger-side glass, sharp and sudden. I jumped, instinctively half-raising my gun hand.

“Put that thing away.” The window muffled Burrows’s voice, but I could hear him well enough to know he was irritated.

I lowered the gun.

“Not down. Away.”

I tucked the gun back into my handbag, but I left the purse in my lap. I hit the unlock button, and Burrows got in.

“You know how many people are killed each year with their own guns?”

I didn’t answer him. He didn’t know me and had no way of knowing the hours I logged in gun-safety courses and at the shooting range, or that my best memories with my father involved either horses or guns. Sometimes both.

So I changed the subject. “Who’s the woman in your car?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

It did to me. His evasive answer worried me even more. While Burrows wasn’t a large man, the interior walls of my car still seemed too close with him in it. I could feel the weight of the filed complaint against him in the air. I wanted this over with as fast as I could make it happen.

“This”—I waved my hand around the front seat in the air between us—“feels wrong.” I breathed through my nose slowly. One one thousand. Two one thousand. Deep breath in. Deep breath out. “Am I under arrest?”

Burrows readjusted in his seat to face me. “Not yet.”

I turned and looked him dead in the eye. “So I have no legal obligation to talk to you?”

“None.” He held my gaze without blinking. “But you need to keep your damn nose out of police business.”

“I don’t have my nose in police business.”

“Then what do you call tonight?”

If that was police business, were they onto Alan’s part in the smuggling ring? If so, Alan needed help, and I had some of the evidence to help him here on my phone camera, possibly. Alan didn’t belong behind bars like a criminal, not for the assault charge, and not for getting bullied and intimidated into this. I held my breath and prayed for our client and his family.

Finally, I answered Burrows. “Looking out for a client. I do work for a law firm, you know.”

He shook his head and his voice dripped acid. “Don’t give me that crap. You were spying, and we both know it.”

Louder than I’d intended, I said, “You have no idea what you’re talking about,” and smacked the steering wheel with the palm of one hand.

The silence after my mini-explosion was oppressive. A car drove up the ramps behind us. I heard the thrump-thrump of its wheels and felt the slight vibration of the structure. The tires squealed as it turned and moments later the thrumps moved back in our direction. The car slowed as it came to us, and Burrows turned to watch it. I did, too. The driver rubbernecked at us then drove on.

Burrows looked around the garage, like he expected someone to be there, and lowered his voice. “I hope we don’t have to have this conversation again.”

A sharp knock on my window nearly sent me through the roof. Someone shined a spotlight-strength flashlight in at us.

A man’s voice, high-pitched, asked, “Ma’am, are you okay?”

Burrows said, “Roll down your window. It’s a security guard.”

I turned my key to power the car and hit the down button. “Good evening, sir.” Good, now someone besides Burrows and the mystery woman knew I was here.

Burrows leaned over and held a badge in front of me. “Is there a problem?”

The security guard, peg toothed and skinny, lowered his light from our eyes. “Just doing my job.” He nodded at us and backed away. He put his free hand on his hip, where I saw a can of mace. I hoped he didn’t run into real problems. He didn’t look like he was strong enough to wrest the can from its holster.

Burrows tracked the security guard with his eyes.

I powered the window back up. “Were you following me, earlier?”

Burrows grinned, showing teeth so perfect they were like whitewashed pickets in a fence. “I needed a new retainer.”

He opened the door and got out, then leaned back down. “Quit making trouble with cops. Especially when you go around waving a fucking gun. It’s a good way to get shot, yourself.”

He disappeared into his car.

Jack and I met Alan and his wife in one of the tiny attorney-client conference rooms off the foyer to the 499th District Court in the Potter County Courts Building at eight a.m. the next morning. As I had guessed, Alan’s wife, Janelle, was the stressed-out woman who had rung up my purchases the night before at their resale shop. She recognized me, too, and we had a nice enough exchange, but really, how friendly can a woman be when she’s in court to say good-bye to her husband two days before Christmas as he heads to jail for a crime she doesn’t believe he committed? I didn’t want to be overly familiar with her, but I patted her arm, trying to transfer a little positive energy. Jack went over the morning’s schedule and strategy, and Alan didn’t say much, mostly just looked at the tabletop. When we were done, we exited into the foyer.

“Do we have to go through another?” Janelle asked, pointing at an oddly placed metal detector against the wall.

“Nope.” Jack held open the courtroom door. “This way.”

He led us to the front row of the gallery behind the wooden bar that separated the public seating from the courtroom proper. We squeezed down the row and took seats. The hard plastic fold-up seats barely held my tush, and across the aisle sat a woman three times my size. Hers spilled over the metal seat arms on either side of her. It looked incredibly painful. Under my feet was scrubby carpet in a color I’d have to call government neutral. It blended with the walls and the leather counsel and jury chairs. The room itself was an odd shape, like a quarter of a circle. The jury box was tucked into the curved section of the wall. The judge, court reporter, and witness box faced it at an angle that also encompassed the counsel tables and public seating.

The double doors behind us burst open. I turned in time to see Melinda Stafford breeze in. Her navy pencil skirt was as tight as usual, and she’d slung her matching jacket over her shoulder so that she could give us all a better view of her tailored white blouse. I hadn’t seen her since I’d punched her in the jaw, and, to my great disappointment, it didn’t appear I’d done any lasting damage. She took a seat on the front row, opposite from us.

“All rise for the Honorable R. Charleston Herring,” the bailiff commanded, moments later. She snapped the words out like a drill sergeant. “All rise, all rise.”

Everyone stood. In my peripheral vision I saw that the heavy woman had a lot of trouble extricating herself from the seat. What had the courtroom designers been thinking? One third of America was her size or more.

Judge Herring pulled my attention away from her predicament as he swept into the courtroom from his private entrance. The man cut an imposing figure. Well over six feet before he donned his boots and ascended to the bench, he wore his head shaved and his gray mustache neat. He was a legend in the District Attorney’s office before he became a judge, and most defense attorneys didn’t relish appearing in his court.

“Be seated.” He lowered himself to his chair. “Pretty big crowd for the day before Christmas Eve.”

I looked around. Half the gallery was filled.

He donned some half-glasses and then slid them down his nose while drawing a piece of paper toward himself. He adjusted it in the air a few times, then nodded. “Anyone here to pitch a plea agreement?”

Judge Herring entertained plea agreements before starting court each day, either by advance appointment, or because, like us, you came early and got in line.

Jack and Melinda stood at the same time. Jack inclined his head and waited for her to speak first.

A squatty man with jet-black hair sped through the batwing gate in the bar and to the defense table on the right. “Your Honor,” he said, in a voice with a New England accent, which sounded like Yowuh Ahnuh, “if I may, just a quick matter to discuss with you first.”

The judge didn’t look happy. “Counsel, return to the gallery until you have been called.”

In a strident voice, the man said, “But Your Honor, I drove in from Lubbock this morning and I have an appearance in the 457th at eleven and the roads are—”

Judge Herring rapped his gavel. “Out of order.” He pointed the gavel at the door. “You get one more chance to return to the gallery, and if you blow that one, you get no more chances.”

“But—”

“Bailiff, can you please encourage our unnamed counselor to remove himself.”

The man raised two thick hands. “I’m going, I’m going.” He walked to the gate, and flung it open. There was a resounding crack as the split doors hit the front row seats. He kept going, doing roughly the same thing with the double door exit. The courtroom grew deathly quiet.

Judge Herring raised an eyebrow at the bailiff. “Bring that one back.”

“Yes, Your Honor.” The bailiff scurried after the attorney, and the doors, opened and closed more softly this time, were the only sound.

Seconds later, the two returned through the bar doors.

“Your name?” the judge said.

“Stanley Perkins,” the attorney said, his voice belligerent.

“Ah yes, I recognize your name, Mr. Perkins. Since this is your first time in my courtroom, I’m going to give you a chance to avoid time in a holding cell for contempt of court. Do you have anything you’d like to say?”

Perkins shot a glance back at the gallery, his eyes searching for a clue as to his next move. Beside me, Jack kept his eyes down.

I whispered to him. “What’s going on?”

Without moving his lips, Jack spoke so softly I could barely hear him. “Herring wants an apology.”

Judge Herring’s voice boomed. “Mr. Perkins?”

“What?” the man barked.

Judge Herring smiled. “You’re not from around here, are you, Mr. Perkins? Boston, if I recall correctly.”

“No, sir. Yes, Boston.”

“Well, welcome to Amarillo, then. Bailiff, escort Mr. Perkins to the holding area. He will be allowed a phone call to reschedule his time in the 457th.”

Sputtering, Perkins backed up a step.

“Oh, I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Judge Herring said, and he smiled.

Perkins froze, then submitted and walked through the large metal door to the right of the defense table with the bailiff. Jack looked at me with one brow raised. Apparently, the rumors about Judge Herring’s toughness weren’t exaggerated.

“Now, where were we?” The judge looked at his watch then down at something on his desk. “Ah yes.” He looked up again. “Does anyone have a plea agreement to pitch?”

“Yes, Judge Herring,” Melinda said as she and Jack stood. “Melinda Stafford for the DA’s office.”

“Yes, Your Honor,” Jack said. “Jack Holden for defendant Alan Freeman.”

“Is the defendant present?”

Jack turned to Alan and nodded at him.

Alan stood, in the same suit he’d worn the previous day. “Present, Your Honor.”

Judge Herring beckoned them with four fingers, palm up. “Come forward, please.”

Jack, Alan, and Melinda went through the batwing gates in the bar, single file. Melinda moved to stand behind the table to the left, Jack and Alan to the right, next to the metal door through which Perkins had just disappeared.

The Judge waited for them to get situated then said, “ADA Stafford, you may begin.” He frowned down at her.

Melinda beamed. “Thank you, Your Honor. We have aggravated assault against a police officer, and resisting arrest. We’ve reached an agreement, subject to your approval, of course, sir, to plead down to ordinary assault for a two-year sentence, with eligibility for parole at six months.”

“Counselor Holden?” The judge smiled at Jack.

“Yes, sir. Judge Herring, this is Alan Freeman. Mr. Freeman is a tradesman by experience—does fine tile work, I highly recommend him—and recently came to inherit his parents’ business upon their deaths. ABC Half-Price Resale. Mr. Freeman is married to Janelle Freeman”—Jack gestured back toward Mrs. Freeman, and she stood and half-curtsied—“and they have three young daughters. Mr. Freeman wishes to plead guilty, Your Honor, to expedite the resolution of his case and ensure his speedy return to his position in the community and, most especially, in his home, so that he can care for his family.”

Judge Herring peered over his glasses at Alan. “Mr. Freeman, you understand that by pleading guilty you will wear the mantle of a convicted felon for the rest of your days?”

Alan cleared his throat. “Yes, sir.”

“You understand that it is two days before your wife and children celebrate Christmas—that you are showing up here less than one month before your trial, but before the holiday, and while you are still legally out on bail, when you could have, if nothing else, waited until after Christmas to come in—and that all of this is
highly
irregular?”

Judge Herring took his glasses off as much by turning his head away from them as by pulling them away from his face.

Alan’s mouth opened and shut.

The Judge continued, his voice deepening. “And, yes, I know who you are, Mr. Freeman. I know who all of my defendants are.”

Sweat trickled between my breasts. I wished that Janelle and I were sitting with Alan.

Alan glanced back at his wife, then back at the judge. “Yes, sir,” he said, but his voice was softer than before.

“This is all so irregular, in fact, that I have to ask myself what could possibly motivate you to do such an irregular thing. You understand?”

“Yes, sir,” Alan whispered.

Beside me, Mrs. Freeman made an anguished noise and put her hand to her chest.

The judge’s delivery sped up. “So, Mr. Freeman, are you here of your own free will?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Has anyone threatened you, explicitly or implicitly, to obtain your agreement?”

Melinda jumped to her feet. “Your Honor, may we approach the bench?”

He glared at her. “No.”

“But—”

“Did I not make myself clear?”

“Yes, sir, I’d—”

“Enough.”

She sat.

The Judge grumbled to himself for a moment, then said, “Mr. Freeman, let me ask you again. Has anyone threatened you, explicitly or implicitly, to obtain your agreement?”

“Yes, sir.”

Melinda leapt up again, but Judge Herring held his hand high in warning. She stood with her mouth hanging open.

“What, Mr. Freeman?” he asked.

“I mean no, sir.”

Again, Melinda sat.

“Are you receiving anything in addition to this reduced sentence in return for your agreement today?”

“I don’t understand what you mean, sir.”

The Judge shot new daggers, first at Melinda and then at something in the back of the room. I turned to see who it was, and saw a pasty, redheaded man and a tall Asian guy. I did a double take. I’d seen the Asian guy in pictures: Jason Wu, the former cop who said Alan assaulted him, and Burrows. At Burrows’s side was a woman who looked much like the one I’d caught a glimpse of in his car the night before. Maybe she was even the same one.

“I mean, has anyone paid you or offered you anything of value to enter this agreement?”

“Oh. No, sir.”

“You understand that you will be sentenced to two years, to commence immediately upon my approval of this agreement, if I choose to do so, at the Potter County Detention Center—which, by the way, is a highly disagreeable place, if I do say so myself—and that you will serve a minimum of six months of that sentence, away from the pleasures of hearth and home, with people I trust you will find to be of a most unsavory nature?”

“Yes, sir.”

The judge shook his head. “Mr. Holden, is there anything else I should be asking your client that could help us get to the bottom of this?”

“I wish I could think of something, sir, but I cannot. As far as I can tell, this is what he wants, and he understands what he’s doing, even if I don’t like it.”

“Nor do I,” Judge Herring intoned. He put his glasses back on. “With the greatest of reluctance, this plea is approved. Bailiff, remand Mr. Freeman into custody, please, sir.”

Alan looked back at his wife and mouthed, “I love you. I’m sorry.” A choked cry escaped from Janelle Freeman beside me, and I put my arm around her shoulders as the bailiff slipped handcuffs onto Alan’s wrists and led him through the metal door to the prisoner holding area beyond it.