The Wages of Sin (13 page)

“Your honor, may we submit written suggestions in support of our position?”

Sighing, Judge Callaway closed his folder. “Have them ready at nine tomorrow morning. I want the suggestions e-­filed, but bring a hard copy to my clerk.” He pushed his chair back and stood. “I like to mark them up with an ink pen. I'm old school. Or just plain old.”

“Judge, you're not old. You're a classic,” Claire said. She had the nerve to shoot him a wink.

Elsie couldn't top that. She slunk back to the counsel table with a brave face. Madeleine stood and leaned in toward her; Elsie wanted to back away, but didn't dare.

“You'll bring the brief to me before you submit it.”

“What if I don't get the suggestions done till tonight? I have other stuff to do this afternoon.”

“Then bring them to my house. Tonight. Am I clear?”

“Can't I just e-­mail it?”

Madeleine moved in so close, their noses almost brushed. “Hand-­delivered. I don't want you to claim a technical glitch. Tonight.”

Elsie held her breath. It smelled like something rotten festered in Madeleine's gut.

 

Chapter Twenty-­Five

Elsie pulled into
the long driveway of Madeleine's home and snatched up a file from the passenger seat. Not bothering to lock her car, she followed the redbrick walkway to a fourteen-­foot door of carved oak. Through the leaded windowpanes of frosted glass, Elsie could see lights on in the hallway. She screwed up her courage and pressed the doorbell.

Nothing. She rang again, and pressed her eyeball to the peephole in the front door. When the center went from light to dark, she knew Madeleine was inside. The massive door creaked open, just wide enough for Madeleine to stick her head through. “Where have you been? What took you so long?”

The plastic smile of greeting on Elsie's face disappeared. “I didn't have any trouble finding the case law, but I searched for law review articles to support our position. Then I drafted suggestions from scratch. It took a while.”

“You should have been prepared in advance. I can't believe you froze on the case citation in court. How hard is it to remember a case name?”

She sidestepped to the opening in the door; in the gloom of the night, she could barely see Madeleine's face. “You want me to go over it with you?”

Madeleine huffed out with irritation, and Elsie caught a whiff: booze breath. Wine, maybe. A lot of wine.

“Let's do it tomorrow,” Madeleine said.

“Sure, whatever. Parsons said he wants to meet up in your office at nine? Or eight?”

“Eight. Eight fucking o'clock.”

Elsie blinked; was she having aural hallucinations? Or had Madeleine just said
fuck
?

“Okay, then. Here you go.” Elsie thrust the file holding the sheaf of pages through the crack in the door; thinking Madeleine had it in hand, she let go.

“Fuck. Goddamn it,” she heard.

Alarmed and more than a shade curious, Elsie grasped the doorknob and pushed the door wide. Madeleine was on her knees, balancing a crystal goblet in her hand as she scrambled to gather pages scattered in the marble entryway. The liquid in the goblet sloshed down the side of the glass.

Madeleine looked up. “Are you going to help me?”

“Yeah, sure.” Elsie knelt and scooped the papers into a pile. “You want me to put these back in order? I didn't number them.”

Madeleine sighed, pushing a wayward lock of hair out of her eyes. “Come on.”

Elsie followed her though the entryway into a great room with soaring ceilings, with a glass wall of windows looking out onto the wooded countryside. They made a turn into the kitchen. Madeleine made a beeline for the wine bottle that sat on the kitchen island. She refilled her glass, her hands moving with exaggerated care.

Elsie peeked at the label:
Mersault
. It was French, she was pretty sure—­not that she'd know from personal experience.

Shifting her attention to the copy of her brief, Elsie said, “We're not going to have a problem with this issue; case law is absolutely on our side. We don't have a criminal statute in Missouri addressing murder of an unborn child, but with our State Constitution declaring life begins at conception, it's a given. In Missouri, the unborn have protectable interests in life, health, and well-­being. Here's the citation: Section 1.205, Revised Statutes of Missouri. And there's a case on point from the Western District: in
State v. Holcomb
, they tried and convicted a man for the murder of a pregnant woman and her unborn child. He was the father of the baby, just like Larry Paul. And the conviction was upheld by the Missouri Court of Appeals in the Western District. They cited two Missouri Supreme Court cases—­”

“I know all that.”

The hell you do,
Elsie thought. She observed Madeleine covertly. Her speech wasn't slurred, but she was even more waspish than usual. Elsie sighed; it had been a rough day, all around. She decided to reach out.

“You want to talk about it?”

“What, this brief? I actually know how to read—­are you aware of that?”

“Come on, Madeleine. It was a rough ride in court today. And now we've got that defense toad Claire O'Hara to contend with. This is a tough case to deal with. You want to talk about that?”

She could see the hesitation in Madeleine's face. Finally, she gave her head a shake and rolled her eyes. “You want a glass of wine?”

“Sure,” Elsie said, settling onto one of the upholstered raised seats at the island. “Love it.”

As Madeleine walked to the cabinet, Elsie admired the goblet she'd been drinking from: faceted cut crystal. She bet if she flipped her fingertip against the rim, the glass would ring like a bell. Not that she'd dare.

“Here.” Madeleine sat an ordinary wineglass in front of her, the kind that could be thrust into a dishwasher without concern.

Madeleine filled the glass and Elsie took a sip. “Oh my God, Madeleine, that's fabulous.”

“I expect it compares favorably to the swill you drink at the Baldknobbers Tavern.” Madeleine pursed her lips to sip from her own glass. “But you're right. It is divine.”

Her hair fell into her eyes again, and Madeleine pushed it back with a careless hand. Elsie had never seen her in this state; garbed in a pair of striped pajamas, with disheveled hair and a naked face. She kind of liked it.

“Madeleine, I'm not so sure that Sam Parsons is going to be of any benefit to us. You know, you could tell that guy to bug off. Get in his car and drive back to Jefferson City.”

Madeleine tutted, making a scornful sound. “It's not that simple.”

“Madeleine, we don't need him.”

“But I asked him. I asked him to come. I implored the office. Used up a ­couple of favors.”

“So?”

Madeleine lifted her chin and stared at Elsie. “You know nothing about politics.” Her eyes were red; whether from drinking or crying, Elsie couldn't guess.

“I know how to try a case. You and I will team up and get it done. He's an out-­of-­towner; you know that doesn't sell around here. And an unnecessary player, an obstacle.” She paused. “Not to mention an asshole.”

“You think it's so easy. Pick a jury and put on a show. I have other things to weigh. My burden is different than yours.”

Elsie opened her mouth to speak, but Madeleine cut her off.

“It's so easy for you. You have no idea.”

Elsie wanted to say that she didn't think her job was particularly easy, but Madeleine turned away at that moment, to rise and walk over to the fridge. She pulled on the stainless steel door and stared at the interior. “I should eat something.”

Elsie watched as Madeleine stood before the open fridge for long moments. Finally, she pulled out a plastic container and tossed it onto the granite top of the island. Fishing in a kitchen drawer, Madeleine said, “You have no idea.”

Elsie said, “How's that?”

“What I went through. I graduated law school in 1983.” She gestured at Elsie with a spoon.
“Nineteen-­eighty-­three.”

Elsie cleared her throat. “Yeah. That's cool.”

“It was harrowing. Harrowing.” Madeleine pulled the top off the container and dipped the spoon inside. Elsie peeked at the contents: hummus. With fascination borne of horror, she watched Madeleine eat a glob off the spoon.

“Aren't you supposed to put that on crackers?”

Madeleine responded with a look, but her eyes were glazed. She swallowed.

Elsie sipped her wine, savoring it. “You were the first, Madeleine. The first woman to practice law in McCown County. That's really cool.”

“They treated me like an interloper. I wasn't a member of the club.”

“Well, that just makes it more impressive.”

“They made up rules to keep me out. The necktie rule.” She laughed, a humorless bark. “I came for my first appearance in court, all dressed in a navy suit and white silk blouse. It had mother-­of-­pearl buttons. They said no attorney could appear in court without a tie.”

Elsie felt a kernel of new respect for Madeleine. “That's bullshit.”

“They went into chambers and brought out a tie—­some decrepit monstrosity. Made me tie it around my neck before I could speak a word in court.”

“That is incredible. That sounds like a Title VII violation. You should've threatened an ethics complaint.”

“Nobody cared. Nobody.” She pushed the hummus to the side and set the spoon down with a clatter. “I was trying to live my father's life, but it was too hard.”

Elsie's brow wrinkled. “Your father wasn't a lawyer.”

Madeleine sat up straight. “He was a judge.”

She knew she should back down, but facts were facts. “He was a county commissioner, right?”

“But they called them judges. In the 1980s, commissioners were referred to as judge.”

“Yeah, but it was a courtesy title. He wasn't a real judge.”

“Oh, shut up.” Madeleine took a dainty sip from the goblet.

Elsie followed suit. Swallowing, she said: “Madeleine, it's a compliment. I'm just saying that you went further professionally than your father did.”

“I wanted to be my father. Live his life, make him proud. It was too hard. Impossible, actually. You don't understand.” She refilled her glass, emptying the bottle. “What he really wanted was for me to become Miss Missouri. I tried and failed. Became a lawyer; what a trip to hell that was. So I got married.”

As if on cue, a hum of the garage sounded. Elsie craned her head to look at the door that opened off a mudroom beside the kitchen. Donald Thompson walked through the door, garbed in muddy camouflage.

“Hey,” he said, running his hand though disheveled gray locks. Nodding at Elsie, he said “You're Elsie, right?”

Elsie nodded. “Nice to see you, Mr. Thompson.”

“I'm Donny, honey. Call me Donny.” He bent down and buzzed his wife's cheek. “Hey, there.”

She waved him off. “Donald, you're a mess.”

He laughed, a boisterous bark, baring shiny white teeth. Donny must use Crest White Strips, Elsie marveled. She didn't know a man in McCown County who fell prey to such vanity. She looked away, lest she be caught staring.

“Got a buck,” Donald said.

“Oh, Lord.”

He laughed again, filling the room with the sound of his mirth, as he reached in the refrigerator for a bottle of beer. “Got anything to eat?”

“I didn't expect you.” Madeleine's voice conveyed a chill; Elsie was used to hearing the frosty tone in meetings at the office. “You didn't drag that thing home on your truck, did you? Tell me you didn't.”

The bright teeth flashed. “Yep I did!”

“Dear Lord—­is it in my driveway?”

“It's in
my
driveway.”

Elsie heard the emphasis on the possessive; she was growing uncomfortable. She began to slide off her chair.

“You take that wretched corpse and deliver it to those ­people at Smokey Dean's so they can process it and package it.”

“I'll do it. When I'm ready.” He opened his Budweiser and walked away, swigging from the bottle. Before leaving them, he said, “Lay off the wine, Madzie; makes you bitchy. You'd be better off popping those Xanax you like so much.”

Elsie bent down to pick up her purse. She was eager to depart, embarrassed to have witnessed the scene. Elsie knew her father would never address her mother like that in front of a stranger—­or in private, for that matter. Madeleine's lot was not one to be envied, Elsie decided, for all her crystal stemware and fancy house and French wine. Tentatively, she pushed her legal brief a few inches closer to Madeleine.

“We can talk about the unborn child cases in the morning, if you want. I'll get there early,” Elsie said.

Madeleine nodded, a bare movement of her chin.

Elsie added, “Whatever time works best—­I'd be glad to get there at seven-­thirty, if that's good for you.”

Madeleine didn't meet her eyes. She mouthed the word “fine.”

As Elsie headed from the kitchen into the great room, Madeleine's sharp voice stopped her. “Do you need to call a cab? Are you in any condition to drive?”

Without looking back, Elsie let herself out through the front door. She resolved that she would gouge her own eyes out before permitting herself to feel sorry for Madeleine Thompson ever again.

 

Chapter Twenty-­Six

No breeze filtered
through the open windows in Judge Callaway's chambers, but the ­people assembled in the judge's office didn't complain, or even comment about the temperature. They knew better. Judge Callaway had an appetite for fresh air and a prejudice against central air-­conditioning that was famous in McCown County. The windows of his office, and the adjoining courtroom, remained open from April through October.

The freshly printed pages Elsie had prepared with such care the night before lay unheeded on the judge's desk. She had proudly presented hard copies to the defense, as well as to the judge, but no one was flipping through her written suggestions. It was a new day, with a new wrinkle in
State v. Larry Paul
. A hot new day, Elsie mused.

Of the seven individuals crowded into the chambers, six were sweating. Only the judge looked comfortable, with no beads of sweat on his forehead, no telltale ring round the collar of his white shirt.

The jailer of McCown County, Vernon Wantuck, appeared to be suffering the most from the temperature of the crowded office. A man of considerable girth, he had a red bandanna in his hand and was using it to mop his face and the back of his neck.

With a weary sigh, Vernon Wantuck spoke. “We got to get him out of there, Judge. Get that old boy out of our county lockup. That Larry Paul, he has got to go.”

Near the window, a beefy middle-­aged man stood with his arms crossed, a sheriff's badge pinned to his chest. “Ditto that, judge,” said Shelby Choate. He had served as the county sheriff for twelve years. His no-­nonsense, no-­frills approach to law enforcement made him a popular candidate with the voters in McCown County.

Claire O'Hara and Josh Nixon sat together, at the right end of the judge's desk. Madeleine's chair was between theirs and the jailer. Elsie stood behind Madeleine; no other seats were available. And Sam Parsons was absent, stuck in traffic that morning on highway I–44.

Josh Nixon leaned into Claire O'Hara. She whispered something in his ear, but Elsie didn't catch it.

“Your honor, we have to have access to our client. Larry Paul has Sixth Amendment right to counsel, and the right to assist in his defense. How can he exercise his rights if you send him away?”

Wantuck grunted, shifting his weight in a chair that was a tight fit. “Call him on the damn phone.”

The sheriff's eyes narrowed; the lines on either side of his mouth deepened. “You're in the presence of ladies, Vernon. Watch your mouth. And offer Ms. Arnold your seat.”

Elsie shook her head. “I'm fine, really.”

Wantuck made no movement to leave his chair. Sherriff Choate shook his head in disgust. “I don't see how you can let a woman stand when you got a seat. Vernon, you must've been raised in a barn.” His eyes cut to Josh Nixon. “Wouldn't expect any better from a defense attorney.”

“Ouch,” Claire said, flashing a feral smile at the sheriff. “Shelby. You wound me.” She winked at him. The sheriff frowned.

Claire leaned forward in her chair, her eyes darting from the judge to Madeleine. “Come on, boys and girls; I've got things to do today. Let's get back to our client: the unfortunate Mr. Paul. He's got to have his medication.”

Sheriff Choate spoke, his frown deepening. “We can't afford it.”

Josh said, “The county is responsible for his welfare. You're the ones who have him locked up in the county jail. Being held without bond, at the prosecutor's request.”

Madeleine wiped her upper lip with a dainty finger. The heat was affecting even her. “The defendant has been charged with two counts of murder—­”

“We know the charges,” Nixon said. “And it doesn't matter what you've accused him of. While he's in county lockup, he's the county's responsibility.”

Elsie knew that Nixon was right. She studied Judge Callaway's face, trying to predict what he would say; but he was a hard man to read. His face was relaxed, almost tranquil, as he surveyed the room through eyes that were partly closed.

Shit,
Elsie thought.
He's going to fall asleep. He's not listening to a word they're saying.

But she was wrong. The judge said, “So who has looked into this medication. This—­what do they call it? A drug cocktail? For AIDS?”

Vernon Wantuck groped in his shirt pocket and pulled out a sheet of paper folded into a small rectangle. “The Public Defender's Office up in Jeff City sent me a letter. A demand. This is it right here.” He pushed the paper across the judge's desk. “Just looking at it made me cross-­eyed.”

“We don't have the money,” Sheriff Choate repeated.

The judge picked up the wrinkled paper, which appeared to be slightly damp. He pursed his lips and blew out a shrill whistle.

“What did I tell you,” Wantuck said.

“We're prepared to file an action in Federal Court if the county won't accede to our demands for Mr. Paul's care,” Josh Nixon said.

Judge Callaway tipped his chair backwards and swiveled it, turning his back on the room and placing his feet on the open windowsill behind his desk. He crossed his feet at the ankle.
Just look how worn out his shoes are,
Elsie marveled. She wondered how many times the judge had the battered black wingtips resoled.

He was a thrifty man.

“You can go file in Federal Court, that's a fact. Go running up to Springfield, crying tales about us here in McCown County.” The judge's voice sounded thoughtful. They couldn't see his face.

After a pause, he spoke again. “Of course, nothing happens very fast in Federal Court.”

Elsie glanced at Josh, interested to see how he would react to the judge's pronouncement. A flash crossed his face; he sat up straight in his seat. “Nothing happens fast anywhere in the court system. We all know that. That's just how it works.”

“Oh, I don't know.” Judge Callaway fell silent, then uncrossed his feet and let them drop to the floor. “Ladies and gentlemen, we need to pack up and get to Greene County.”

Claire O'Hara smiled, then resumed a poker face. Nixon shook his head. “What for?”

“We need to pick a jury. Time to move the wheels on this old wagon.”

Madeleine was breathing hard; Elsie could hear it. Madeleine's voice had a faint tremor when she said, “Mr. Parsons isn't here. He's stuck in traffic; there was a wreck on the highway. I have to check with Mr. Parsons.”

“Well, he better get down here, then. If he's going to help you out. The presiding circuit judge in Greene County is an old friend of mine. I bet he can accommodate our jury selection with a ­couple of weeks' notice.” He studied his desk calendar, then lifted his eyes to Madeleine. “We're going to get this case tried. Are you ready?”

When Madeleine didn't reply, Elsie's voice rang out. “The State is always ready, your honor.”

Madeleine turned on her with a look of horror. Elsie responded with a shrug. It was an automatic answer.

“That's what I always say,” she whispered.

Nixon rose to his feet. “This is an action taken by the court to deprive my client of his rights.”

But Claire O'Hara grabbed Nixon's arm and pulled him back into his chair. “Settle down, kiddo. Don't get your panties in a wad.” Josh turned on her with a look of indignant disbelief, but she silenced him with a queenly wave of her jeweled hand. “I'm good with this, Judge. Totally good with it.”

“We're not ready,” Josh said.

When she answered, her voice was harsh. “We'll get ready.” Regaining her flirtatious banter, she said, “I hate to talk strategy in front of the enemy, sweetheart. But during jury selection, we can knock the law and order types off the panel with a deer rifle. Easy pickings. If we drag our feet, Greene County will forget. In a ­couple of years, it'll be Larry who?”

“That settles it, then. I'll be in touch with counsel for the prosecution and defense as soon as Greene County gives me a date. They may have a panel of prospective jurors called in for next week, for something that could plead out. They can give us the panel, and we'll pick them over; and once we've got our jury, I can clear a time for trial on my docket.” He smiled, sanguine. “That should take care of everything.”

“What about our demand for medication? For our client?” Josh was hot, his voice was rising.

“Oh, that.” Judge Callaway shut the case file in front of him and tossed it to the side of his desk. “I think I'll take that under advisement, for now.” When Nixon opened his mouth to speak, the judge cut him off. “You're all free to go. I have other business this morning.” He swiveled in his chair, turning his back to them, and propped his feet in the windowsill again.

As the group shuffled out the door, Elsie noted that the back of Vernon Wantuck's trousers were wet. Butt sweats, she surmised. Major butt sweats. Glad she hadn't been sitting on that soggy cushion.