The Wages of Sin (15 page)

 

Chapter Twenty-­Nine

Sunday night, Elsie
bent over a file on the scarred wooden tabletop at the Baldknobbers. With a pen, she crossed out a line and scrawled in the margin, her handwriting nearly illegible.

Dixie walked up with a platter and set it beside the file. “Burger and fries.”

Elsie straightened in the booth, looking hungrily at the cheeseburger. “Thanks, Dixie. This will give me strength. I need something to inspire me. Like grease, and salt.”

Dixie slipped into the booth across from her. “Could've gone for inspiration this morning.” She pulled a pack of Winstons from the pocket of her apron and lit one.

Elsie squirted mustard on her hamburger bun. “What are you deviling me about?”

“I'm saying we missed you at church this morning.” She blew out a plume of smoke and added. “Ashlock was there.”

Elsie pulled a face. Pushing her papers safely out of the way, she grasped a ketchup bottle and shook it. “Don't hold your breath waiting to see me back at Riverside Baptist. That place does nothing for me. Dixie, this ketchup's almost empty.”

“Just squeeze a little harder.” She rolled the cigarette in the ashtray. “I thought maybe you were thinking about joining, with Ashlock being such a regular. Now that he's got his boy with him and all.”

Elsie chewed a french fry. “Joining up at Gay Bash Baptist? No way. How often does Reverend Albertson weigh in on the sin of same-­sex relationships? Once a month? Twice?”

Dixie waved a hand through the smoke cloud she'd created. “Honey, he's a Southern Baptist preacher. What do you expect?”

“So why do you warm a seat in there?”

“Oh, I'm too old to change.” She grinned at Elsie, her face creasing with mischief. “Besides, he's pretty cute.”

“That sanctimonious nut job? Oh please.” Elsie gave the cheeseburger a vicious bite.

“He's got attendance way up at Riverside. We're getting lots of new members, young ­people with kids. He's got the magic. Has folks running down the aisle for the chance to get saved.” She took another hit from the cigarette. “He baptized your little witness today.”

“Who?”

“You know. Little girl with the glasses. The one whose mother got murdered by her boyfriend.”

“You mean Ivy Dent?” Elsie was talking with her mouth full. She swallowed and said, “Ivy's just six years old. Are you saying she went forward to be saved?”

“Yeah. Poor little shit.” Dixie stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray.

“That preacher is summoning six-­year-­olds with an altar call?”

“Hey, I was about six when I was saved. It was in a river, though. At Turnback Creek.” She shivered. “Damn, that water was cold. Scared the dickens out of me.” She stood up. “You want another Diet?”

“Yeah. Please.”

Elsie consumed the cheeseburger meditatively, thinking about her young witness's emotional state. When finished, she pushed the plate away and pulled her notes back in place. She had no time to worry about Ivy now; she was trying a second-­degree burglary case on Monday.

Madeleine, meanwhile, would be heading to nearby Greene County with Sam Parsons, to pick the jury for the Larry Paul case. As Judge Callaway predicted, his friend on the Greene County bench had worked a miracle to accommodate Callaway's request, offering up a jury panel on Monday that would otherwise be dismissed. Judge Callaway and the lead counsel for both sides would spend the next ­couple of days in Springfield, picking over the prospective jurors to find a dozen who would decide Larry Paul's fate.

Elsie's exclusion from the jury selection process ruffled her feathers. The makeup of the jury could determine the outcome of any case. She had offered to seek a continuance for the burglary trial so that she could assist in the selection, but Madeleine had brushed away the offer, assuring her with little grace that they needed no help from Elsie. A mean corner in Elsie's head harbored a hope that Claire would smack Madeleine around in the Greene County courtroom, though she knew that she should be ashamed to entertain the notion. She and Madeleine were on the same team.

When Dixie returned with a red plastic tumbler fizzling with Diet Coke, Elsie said, “So Ash was there today.”

“Oh, honey, everybody in town was there. Saints and sinners.” A look of distaste crossed her face. “Jesus Christ. Nell Stout. Never thought I'd see the day she'd darken the door of a church house. When she slunk in there today, I thought for sure that lightning would strike.”

“Who's that?”

“Nell Stout. Works for Smokey Dean's, over at the commissary where they butcher the hogs.”

“Smokey Dean's Barbeque?”

“Yeah. I've known her since I was a pup.” Dixie shuddered. She repeated, “Never thought I'd see the day.”

“Well, maybe she saw the light.” The name Stout rang a bell; but Elsie didn't have time to think about it. She would be heading into trial in fourteen hours. She picked up her pen and bent over her file, hoping Dixie would get the hint. Dixie started to say more, but halted before she spoke. Turning slowly, she walked away, muttering, “Nell Stout. In the Lord's house. I'll be dawg.”

 

Chapter Thirty

On Tuesday afternoon,
Elsie sat at the prosecution table and held her breath as the jury in her burglary case exited the jury room and filed into the jury box. They had been deliberating for nearly three hours; this was a close one, with an unsympathetic victim, and she was by no means certain of the outcome. She scanned the faces of the twelve Missouri citizens, looking for a sign. Most avoided eye contact.
Oh shit,
she thought. Then she caught the foreman's eye, and he gave her a barely perceptible smile. Every muscle in her body relaxed. That was good, very good.

When Judge Rountree read the verdict aloud, and pronounced that the jury found the defendant guilty, it came as no surprise to Elsie. Mission accomplished.

She gathered her papers and some scattered exhibits as the courtroom emptied out. There wasn't much of a crowd; the man on trial had been a small-­time burglar, with no family to speak of and no cheering section. Even the victim, a middle-­aged drunk who owned a run-­down motel on the highway, hadn't waited around for the verdict. The reporter for the
McCown County Record
, the local newspaper, had disappeared after Closing Argument. Elsie supposed she might cruise into the Prosecutor's Office on Wednesday and ask about the outcome.
This verdict won't be the pinnacle of my career,
she thought, but she was grinning a little, nonetheless. She liked to win, and the defendant was good for it. Of that she was absolutely sure.

She also liked to be absolutely sure. And the defendant, a persistent offender, would be heading directly to prison. No passing go, no collecting two hundred dollars. Not this guy.

And no lethal injection.

The thought crept into her mind unbidden; she pushed it away, unaware that she was literally shaking her head.
Not gonna think
about Larry Paul today,
she thought.
I'm taking the day
off from State v. Larry Paul.

Two cops who had investigated the burglary and testified for the prosecution were waiting in the courthouse hallway as she walked out with her files.

“Score!” said Deputy Joe Franks; he lifted his hand for a high five. She had to juggle her files to slap his uplifted palm, and almost dropped her load. He said, “Hey, you were great in there today. I liked your closing: getting their minds off the victim, and making them focus on the crime. Good argument.”

Franks was no investigative genius, but he did solid work and made a respectable appearance on the witness stand. In light of their joint victory, Elsie decided to forget the injury of being called a heavy load during Larry Paul's first appearance.

Matching his jovial tone, she said, “If they'd been focused on our dirtbag ‘witness for the prosecution,' the defendant would be doing a victory dance in the streets this very minute. Why can't I ever get a Pollyanna type as a star witness? Could you guys work on that?”

“Prosecutors always plead out the good cases.” Franks shrugged. “These weak cases are the ones that end up on trial. For all that, you've got a pretty long string of victories. How many guilty verdicts in a row does this one make?”

“Oh, who knows,” she replied, with a smile that was the slightest bit smug. “It's not like I'm keeping score or anything.” Elsie knew every detail of her trial record by heart.

Joe Franks's companion, a young deputy named Beauregard, broke in. “Joe, aren't you going to talk Elsie into joining us?”

Franks said, “Come on out for a victory drink at the Bald. I'll buy your first beer. You can pick up the next round, since you're a rich lawyer.”

“Oh please, spare me,” Elsie said, with a lifted eyebrow. “McCown County pays all of us with food stamps, Joe.”

Deputy Beauregard put a hand on her shoulder, and Elsie turned her attention to him. “Franks is a damn tightwad,” he said. “You'll be like a celebrity tonight. Come and drink with us. I'll let you put the quarters in the jukebox.”

“You're a real prince,” Elsie said. “Will you pick the songs out for me?” She gave him a flirtatious grin. Beauregard was cute, a high-­testosterone specimen whose exploits led to whispers of awe among women in the courthouse regarding the size of his penis. If not for Ashlock, Elsie would jump him in a New York minute.

“You can play anything you want, as long as Patsy Cline sings it.”

“I tend to sing along with the jukebox when I'm drinking.”

“Yeah, I heard that,” Deputy Beauregard said.

Oh hell,
she thought. Maybe she should cut out the singing at the Baldknobbers. But she was getting an itch to join them. It was only Tuesday, but she had burned the midnight oil through the past weekend. “Well, maybe I'll head that way after work,” she said.

As she walked away from the deputies she saw Breeon, sitting on the far end of the wooden bench outside Judge Rountree's chambers, marking on a sheaf of papers with a Sharpie.

Elsie paused. “Hey there.”

Breeon looked up. “You all wrapped up in there? I need to talk to Rountree.”

“Yeah, just got the verdict.” She shifted the files she carried to her right arm; the left was aching from the load. “They found him guilty.”

Breeon's face broke into a smile. “I bet they did. No surprise there.”

The words warmed her; the Larry Paul case had built a wall between them, and she missed their customary camaraderie. Elsie sat down on the bench beside Breeon, balancing the files on her lap.

“What have you got going with Rountree?”

“Nothing much. Received a motion on a parole violation; I want to set it for hearing.”

Elsie continued before silence became uncomfortable. “How's Taylor?”

Breeon shook her head, letting loose with a sound that was a cross between a laugh and a moan. “That girl. What a monster. Do you know what she said to me this morning?”

Elsie smiled; this was a familiar refrain. Safe territory. “Tell me.”

“I was trying to get her out the door—­harder to do with every passing day, I swear. You know what she said? ‘Chill your tits.' Jesus, that child. Really—­‘chill your tits.' ”

Elsie snorted. “What did you do?”

Breeon rolled her eyes, the epitome of the long-­suffering mother. “I read her the riot act. What would your mother have done?”

“Same thing. Marge was a screamer, not a hitter.”

“I guess I'm following in her footsteps. Damn—­does that mean Taylor is going to turn out like you?”

Elsie laughed, the sound carrying a shade of a false note, as she wondered whether Bree was actually trying to make an unflattering parallel. Determined to battle past the iron curtain that had separated them since Elsie's assignment to the death penalty case, she pressed on.

“Joe Franks and some county guys are going to hit the Baldknobbers, to celebrate. Beauregard is going—­the hottie who works for the county. Want to run over there after work?”

Breeon looked away from Elsie's gaze. Elsie could see her turning the invitation over in her head. “Huh. It's a Tuesday.”

Elsie scooted closer to Bree on the bench; their arms brushed. She sang, slightly off-­key, “ ‘Club going up on a Tuesday.' ” She paused, unsure of the next line to the song.

Breeon ceded a laugh, but just a small one. Encouraged, Elsie continued: “ ‘Girl in the club and she choosy.' ”

“That's not it.”

“What? What did I get wrong?”

“ ‘Got your girl in the cut—­' ” Breeon began, then stopped, waving a hand as if she was shooing away a fly. “Whatever. Doesn't matter.”

“Okay, my rap singing needs work. Want to go out? It'll be fun.”

“Better not. Taylor will be looking for a hot supper.” She fell silent, and then added, “Probably needs me to help her with her homework.”

Elsie could spot the lie. Taylor was the smartest kid in her eighth grade class; if she had any homework, she would burn through it without any assistance from her mother. She almost tried to cajole Breeon into joining her, then stopped. No point in forcing the issue. If Bree didn't want Elsie's company, that was fine. Just fine.

“Okay, then,” she said, standing and hoisting the files, hugging them to her chest. “See you later. Good luck with all that homework.”

Breeon nodded, still not meeting her eye, and Elsie turned to go.
Fucking Larry Paul,
she thought.

Elsie carried the armload of files through the front door of the Prosecutor's Office. In her mind, she battled the kneejerk funk triggered by Breeon's rejection, trying to retain the adrenaline high from her guilty verdict.

Stacie swiveled in her chair, clutching the phone to her chest. “You gotta talk to Tina Peroni.”

Elsie turned on Stacie, still distracted by the jury trial and her thoughts about Breeon. “I just got out of court. I'll call her in a little bit.”

“No, she's on the line. You have to talk to her now.” Into the receiver, Stacie said, “I'll transfer you.”

Struggling to tamp down the irritation that was quickly replacing her victory buzz, Elsie dumped her files on the desk and picked up the ringing phone.

“Yeah? Tina?”

“You have to go see about Ivy.”

Elsie dropped into her chair and leaned backwards, closing her eyes. “I just wrapped up a jury trial.”

“Sorry to bug you, honest. But I'm over in Chris­tian County and I can't get away, and all hell's breaking loose over at Ivy's school. The foster mother called, saying there's some crisis and Ivy can't go home on the bus.”

The adrenaline lift had deserted her. Elsie slipped her aching feet out of her high heels. After spending the day on her feet in court, her toes felt like bloody stubs. She propped her left foot onto her desk to examine the damage, and was amazed to see that it looked fairly normal. “Tina, what does this have to do with me? She has foster parents.”

“The dad's at work and he won't go. The mom is home with the baby; he has some kind of stomach bug, she doesn't want to take him over there.” A desperate note came through the phone. “Elsie, I don't have anyone else I can call. My supervisor is out of the office. Please. Ivy knows you. Go over there and see what's happening and take her home. Okay?”

Elsie let out a harried breath.
No rest for the wicked,
she thought, stuffing her feet back into the torture chamber of footwear.

“I'm on my way.”

“Oh, God—­thanks, Elsie. Get in touch as soon as you deliver her home, okay? It's got me worried.”

“Yeah.” With an effort, Elsie pushed out of the chair, teetering on the high heels. Next time she bought a pair of shoes that felt a little tight when she tried them on at Shoe Carnival, she would walk away. Even if they were half price and looked like something you'd see on a red carpet.

Elsie drove across town and pulled into the parking lot of Ivy's school. Mark Twain Elementary School was a sturdy Depression-­era structure built of brown brick and granite. Air conditioner units jutted out of various windows like warts. The grounds were neglected, and the outdated playground equipment looked utilitarian and forlorn.

Elsie wound through the chain link fence that surrounded the playground and made her way to the entrance. By the time she climbed the stairs to the principal's office, she was limping.

Spying the main office, she opened the door and walked up to the wooden counter. A secretary sat at a desk behind it; she was fishing in a box of Band-­Aids while a young boy stood by, blood dripping from his elbow. She looked up at Elsie, her face harried.

“Are you with the Children's Division?”

Elsie shook her head. “The Prosecutor's Office.”

“Oh,” the secretary said, with a short laugh. “I know you; you're Marge Arnold's daughter. We worked together at Keet Middle School, before I transferred over to Twain. Are you here about,” and glancing at the child next to her, she dropped her voice to a whisper. “Ivy?”

Elsie nodded. The secretary carefully placed the Band-­Aid over the boy's cut, then nodded on the direction of the principal's office. “Just walk on in; they're all back there. And tell your mama that Shirley said hello.”

Elsie tapped on the closed door and entered. “Okay if I come on in? I'm Elsie Arnold, from the Prosecutor's Office; Tina Peroni asked me to stop by.”

The principal, a pretty woman in her thirties with short dark hair and red lacquered fingernails, sat behind a gray metal desk. The small room was crowded, with books and binders stacked on the floor. The walls were plastered with children's drawings and homemade cards celebrating Principal's Day. An open bag of Funyuns lay on her desk, next to a jug of Red Diamond sweet tea. “Sorry, everything's a wreck,” the principal said. “I spend the lunch hour in the cafeteria with the kids, so I grab a bite when I can.” The principal shoved the Funyuns into a desk drawer. “So, I guess Tina told you we had a situation?”

Elsie nodded. “She said. Didn't give me any details.” With mounting confusion, Elsie studied the three ­people seated in the office.

Ivy sat beside the principal; next to her sat Reverend Albertson. He was holding Ivy's hand, patting it.

Elsie pasted an encouraging smile on her face. “Hey, Ivy. It's Elsie, from the courthouse. Are you okay?”

Ivy didn't answer. The principal stood, extending a hand. “Frances Key, Ms. Arnold; I'm the principal. Tina called and said we could expect you. Do you know Reverend Albertson?”

Elsie and the preacher exchanged an unfriendly glance. “Yeah. So, Ms. Key, Tina said you had a problem over here today.”

“Take a seat.”

“I can stand, thanks,” Elsie said, hoping to communicate her desire to swiftly get to the heart of the matter.

Ms. Key darted a look in Ivy's direction, then pointed to a box on her crowded desk. Elsie stepped closer to look. It was a package of Trojan condoms, with a sticker on the cellophane wrapper that read,
For Ivy.