The Wages of Sin (17 page)

 

Chapter Thirty-­Three

A fresh October
breeze rattled the screen door at the Battered Women's Center of the Ozarks. Elsie breathed it in with pleasure as she presided over the front desk of the facility, housed in an old hotel on the wrong side of the tracks in Barton, Missouri.

Elsie had served as a volunteer at the BWCO since the prior winter, when she went to trial in
State v. Taney
, a hard-­fought incest case. She didn't resent dedicating two Sundays a month to work the front desk at the women's shelter. As a prosecutor, she had seen firsthand the need for refuge that the building provided.

She walked to the screen door and opened it, looking at the hard blue sky overhead. The past four weeks since the jury selection had flown by, bringing a change of weather along with the approach of the Larry Paul trial. Madeleine's ordinary mood had declined with the temperature, transforming her everyday pique to wild-­eyed hysteria. Elsie would have liked to lean on Ashlock, but his paternal duties kept him busy—­and though she was learning to accept that with grace, she still missed the support. And Breeon remained taciturn and distant. As the leaves turned to vibrant autumn hues, then fell, Elsie approached each day with listless dread, and found that it was increasingly difficult to sleep without a nightcap or two. Or more.

She had always loved October, the change in the colors of the sky and landscape, the cool mornings, the air as crisp as a Jonathon apple. But this year, she anticipated the season with a mix of impatience and trepidation. On some days, she wanted the trial date to hurry up and arrive, so she could get it behind her.

On other days, she wished a truck would run over her.

As she stared at the ancient, crumbling storefronts that faced the old hotel, she reflected that a major bodily injury sounded increasingly tempting. Maybe the truck could just roll over one leg. That would put her in the hospital, free her from the Larry Paul case. But it wouldn't kill her.

And sometimes, she thought that the Larry Paul case would. Kill her, that is. Because the case itself was a killer; it was screwing her up. Maybe. The thought had whispered in her head repeatedly over the past weeks, that maybe she wasn't really cut out to handle a death penalty case.

The ring of her cell phone interrupted her dark thoughts, and she walked to the desk to pick it up. When she saw the caller's name, she smiled.

“Hey, Ash,” she said into the phone. Elsie sat on the desktop; it was a century old, but held her weight better than the vinyl-­topped metal desk at the courthouse. “What you up to?”

“Sunday afternoon at the grocery store. Got stocked up for the week.”

“Well, that's using your head. No one will call you Old Mother Hubbard.”

She liked the sound of his voice in her ear. It was warm and strong, and had a calming effect.

“Yeah, well. Burton's a skinny kid, but he'll eat me out of house and home.”

“Growing boy,” Elsie responded.

Ashlock said, “Are you still at the Women's Center?”

“Yeah. But it's been quiet. Which is a good thing.”

“Yes, ma'am—­on a number of levels. Glad to hear no one's having to run for shelter today. Did you get some work done?”

“In fact, I did.” Elsie's eyes shifted to her briefcase, which had the direct examinations for her witnesses in the Larry Paul case. She had gone over them twice that afternoon as she sat in the empty hotel lobby, and they were fine-­tuned. “I've got all my exams for trial. Did my laundry last night. So I'll have clean panties to wear for the jury.”

“That's always a plus.”

“So I've got a great idea.” She scooted off of the desk and circled it as she talked. “Let's get something to eat tonight, since our Sunday jobs are done. Something fat and fabulous. It feels like chili weather. Let's go to Casper's Chili Hut.”

She heard the pause, anticipating the disappointment that was coming. “Well, you know my new Sunday routine. Burton and I will be heading to Riverside Baptist.”

She cleared her throat. “Didn't you go this morning?”

“We did.”

The silence lingered until it was just short of uncomfortable. “Um. So if you've had your sins washed away once today already, why do you have to do it again? Rinse and repeat?”

“Elsie, we've been through this.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I know.” She chided herself for making it difficult for Ashlock. She knew his time with Burton was important. More than important; it was paramount.

“My ex had a set of conditions.”

“Right, you've told me. I get it, Ash, I honestly do.” She sighed into the phone. “It's been kind of lonely lately, that's all.”

“Still rocky?” His voice was sympathetic, and she wished she could literally lean on his shoulder, right at that moment.

“Yeah.” She dropped into the wheeled wooden rolling chair and swiveled in it, pushing it across the floor with her feet.

“With Breeon?”

“Uh-­huh. We never hang anymore. Not even lunch. Or coffee.”

“The two of you will get past this, Elsie.”

“Lord, you'd think so.” She checked the hour on the grandfather clock that ticked off the minutes in the corner, still keeping time behind a broken face. It was nearly four o'clock; time to go. She picked up her pen and dropped it into her purse, saying, “I'm sure going to be glad when the next week is done.”

“I bet. Hey, Elsie; why don't you come on tonight with Burton and me? I'll pick you up at six.”

“No. Thanks, but no.”

In an encouraging voice, he said, “It's not bad on Sunday nights. They feed you a Sloppy Joe. And the ser­vice is short.”

“You remember? I swore I'd never set foot in Albertson's temple again. Can't go back on an oath.”

“You'll see your little witness, Ivy.” He huffed a laugh. “Seems like those Hickmans are at church every time they unlock the doors.”

At the mention of Ivy's name, Elsie tensed. Ivy was the only crucial, high-­impact witness that Elsie would examine at trial. Her other examinations were necessary witnesses who packed no punch: the records custodian at the hospital; the x-­ray technician who x-­rayed the deceased mother and child; the police officers who made up the chain of custody for the admission of physical evidence from the crime scene. Those direct exams would be routine.

But with Ivy, nothing was ever routine.

Ashlock continued, “Don't you want to run into her? Wish her luck, saying ‘see you this week.' ”

“I saw her at the courthouse last week; we did a run-­through. We're good.”

“Got a new member at Riverside you'd be interested to hear about.”

The screen door swung open. A middle-­aged woman with a long gray braid entered. Elsie smiled and waved; the woman was her replacement at the front desk. Elsie shouldered her purse and briefcase; moving the phone away from her mouth, she said to the woman, “No activity today. All quiet.”

“Good,” the woman replied.

Elsie walked out with the phone at her ear. “Why would I care who joined?”

“Old schoolmate of yours. Dean Mitchell.”

“No! You're shitting me.”

“It's true. Joined up this month. Don't you want to come watch him singing hymns?”

“Shit. I hate Dean Mitchell. Hate him worse than your gay-­bashing preacher. Didn't I tell you Dean Mitchell held my head under at the pool?”

Ashlock laughed into the phone. “I believe you mentioned that.”

Elsie's Ford was parked on the street. She unlocked it and threw her bags onto the passenger seat. Frowning, she said, “I hate his guts. I don't want to see his face.”

“Girl, you sure can hold a grudge.”

Elsie considered the statement as she started up the car. It was true, she decided. Rolling down the driver's side window, she rested her elbow on it and let the engine idle.

“I think it's a family trait. I got it from my mother's side.”

“Hey, Elsie—­so why don't you head over and see the folks? I bet Marge and George would love a visit. Wouldn't be surprised if she'd feed you supper, to boot.” Elsie considered the temptation of a home-­cooked meal, but discarded the notion. She was a little too keyed up to be good company; and her mother's good intentions and advice might grate on her, in her present mood.

“Better not. I think I'll drive-­through Little Hong Kong and get some cashew chicken. Spend my evening with the
Sister Wives
.”

Ashlock laughed. “Elsie, for a smart woman, you have the worst taste in television. Dang near shameful.”

She scoffed. “You're heading off to spend your time with Little Smokey Mitchell and Reverend Albertson. Who's got the shitty taste?”

“Okay, I get it.”

She smiled; her voice took on a teasing note. “Ash, maybe I should add: you gotta lotta taste—­it's all in your mouth.”

“That's an old line. Elsie, try to relax and ease up tonight. I miss you, baby. See you tomorrow.”

“Okay.” She hung up and tossed her phone into her open purse.

She had just pulled away from the curb when the phone rang again. What did he forget, she wondered, scrambling to pick up before the call went to voice mail. Keeping her eyes dutifully on the road ahead, she answered.

In a saucy tone, she said, “So you decided you want to tie me up and fuck me instead of going to church.”

There was no response on the other end.

Elsie said, “Ash? You there?”

She heard an intake of breath, followed by a cackle. “You are such a trashy bitch.”

Elsie gasped. She looked at the phone in her hand, but the number wasn't one of her contacts. “Who is this,” she said, switching to her most dignified courtroom voice.

The laughing voice on the line made her cringe. “It's Claire, hon. Claire O'Hara.”

Elsie gritted her teeth. “Well, I sure do apologize, Claire. Thought you were someone else.”

“I'm so disappointed! I thought you were lusting after me.”

“No, nope. Not.” Elsie fell silent.
Tell me what you need so I can end this call,
she begged silently.

“Oh, I'm teasing you. I know you're banging Robocop. Everybody in southwest Missouri knows that. But I didn't know you're into bondage. That's kinda spicy.”

“It was a joke.” She saw the Hong Kong Inn and signaled a right turn. “What can I do for you, Claire?”

“Well, since we start up tomorrow, I just wanted to check and see that you've provided us with all the information we're entitled to.”

Elsie pulled into the drive-­through and up to the station to place her order. She braked, frowning into the phone. “I don't understand. You and Josh have discovery; you've had access to our file for weeks.”

“Oh, I know that. I'm just wondering if you have any little secrets you're not sharing.”

“Secrets? Like what?”

“Other statements. Witness summaries.”

Impatience made Elise's chest knot up. “I don't know what you're digging for, Claire, but I'm too busy to fool with this right now.”

A voice came from the metal intercom box: “Welcome to Little Hong Kong. Please place your order.”

Elsie tried to cover her phone with her hand, but without success. She bristled at the sound of Claire's laughter.

“You're one busy lady—­yes indeed. Important business at Little Hong Kong. Top Secret.”

“Place your order, please.”

“Just a minute, okay?” Elsie pleaded to the voice inside the metal box. Turning her head away from the car window, she spoke in a harsh whisper. “We don't have any secret, undisclosed witness statements. I don't even know what you're looking for.”

“What about Ivy?”

“You've got her statement and deposition, for God's sake.”

“Hmmm. I was wondering. Do you have any handwritten notes? From your meetings with Ivy?”

The question took her by surprise. Elsie did have notes from her encounters with Ivy, where she recorded her observations and jotted strategic points. But she was not about to share her notes with the defense.

“That's my protected work product.”

“You think? There's a man's life at stake, and you want to haggle over what you will and won't reveal? Haven't you been in trouble with the ethics commission before?”

“That was all bullshit. Josh Nixon knows that.”

The box hummed again. “We need you to place your order. There are cars lined up behind you.”

In fact, four cars had pulled behind Elsie, and a glance in the side mirror showed that at least one of the drivers was visibly unhappy with her.

“I want the cashew chicken special with fried rice,” she shouted into the box; then turned back to the phone. “Back off, Claire. I'm not the green kid you slapped around in court four years ago. You can't bully me. I'm not taking any shit off of you.”

Claire sighed. “I guess we'll find out what kind of lawyer you've become. Gonna find out this week. Enjoy your cashew chicken.”

She hung up. Elsie pulled her car to the pickup window. The brown paper bag they handed to her was warm and fragrant.

But she had a sour stomach.

 

Chapter Thirty-­Four

It was six
o'clock in the morning. The big day had arrived. Elsie stood under the shower, trying to pump herself up. As the warm water pelted her face, she counseled herself:
It's almost over. A week or two, depending. Then you won't have to think about it anymore.

As Madeleine had instructed, Elsie pulled her car into the parking lot of the Kinfolks Kafe diner, directly across the square from the courthouse. She checked the time on her phone: eight o'clock on the dot, she noted with relief. She wouldn't be met with a hairy eyeball for running late.

She hurried in through the back door, and saw Madeleine and Parsons sitting in a booth near the kitchen door.

“Morning,” she said, trying to hit the right note, conveying a can-­do attitude mixed with solemnity. How did you greet your coworkers when you were walking into a death penalty case? She didn't want to appear too jocular.

Madeleine looked her up and down. Elise felt self-­conscious; she had to stifle the urge to glance down and see whether her bra strap was visible.

“Go look out the front door. Check the courthouse. Then report back.” Madeleine's eyelid twitched.

Elsie walked the short distance to the front entrance of the Kinfolks, tugging at her zipper and adjusting her bra as she moved down the aisle. The morning sun blinded her; she had to shield her eyes to make out the activity in front of the courthouse.

At first, it looked like any Monday in October at the McCown County Courthouse. A lawyer mounted the steps, swinging a brown leather briefcase. Two county employees smoked a cigarette by a side door, chatting lazily and dropping ashes on the pavement.

But two local TV vehicles pulled to the curb, one after another. As the reporters alighted carrying cameras and equipment, a large unmarked van that was parked nearby came to life. The doors slid open and ­people poured out, carrying signs.

Elsie fairly ran back to the table. “Things are heating up.”

Parsons smiled. “Are my ­people here?”

“I saw a big van unload when the TV mobile units arrived. It's a big old van, probably holds a dozen or more ­people.” She glanced at a coffee carafe of black and gold plastic sitting on the table. “Can I have a cup of that coffee?”

“No. No time.” Madeleine clutched her purse and slid to the end of the booth, but Samuel Parsons leaned back in the seat, smiling like the Cheshire cat.

“No need to rush, Madeleine. Let's all have another cup of coffee. Give the pot a chance to bubble and boil over there at the courthouse.”

Elsie looked at Madeleine for the order to stay or go; but she saw her relent, saw it in the drooping of her shoulders under her silk jacket. Elsie reached over, picking up a clean coffee mug from an empty booth nearby. She scooted in beside Madeleine and poured a cup. She and Madeleine sat in tense silence.

Parsons didn't appear to suffer their first-­day jitters. “This will be a breeze to kick off. Jury selection is behind us, so we just jump right in.” Parsons folded his arms on the table and leaned toward Elsie. “You got your Opening Statement ready to go?”

Rather than answer, Elsie dove into her bag and pulled out the neatly handwritten pages. The top of the first sheet read “OS.”

Parsons's eyebrows shot up. “You don't do it on the computer?”

“I've told her. I've told her time and again that any professional should create a Word document when preparing arguments or examinations. You compose and make a record of it at the same time. She never listens.” Madeleine's eye twitched again. She gave her eyelid a delicate rub with a pinkie finger, as if she needed to remove a speck.

A small metal pitcher of milk, sweating with beads of moisture, sat near the coffeepot. Parsons reached for the milk and poured a measure into his coffee cup. “What TV stations are out there?”

“One of the Joplin Stations,” Elsie said.

“Joplin always gives us good coverage,” Madeleine said. She pulled a silver compact out of her purse and opened it, studying herself in the mirror.

“What about Springfield? Is Springfield out there?”

“Maybe. I couldn't see.” Elsie leaned out of the booth in an attempt to peer out the front window, but her view of the street was blocked.

Parsons stirred his coffee with a battered spoon. “We need KY3. KY3 from Springfield. Their audience is huge.”

“Joplin's stations go out to four states,” Madeleine said. She sounded defensive.

“Yeah, but KY3 has a better market.”

“Oooh,” Elsie said, with mock awe. “The Queen City.”

Parsons looked at her in confusion. “Huh?”

Madeleine answered. “Springfield. It's the Queen City of the Ozarks.”

Elsie met Madeleine's eye and they broke into genuine laughter. Elsie waved a hand in apology. “Sorry, Sam. In out-­state MO, we like to have a little laugh at Springfield's expense. They think they're such big shit over there, third largest city in the state.”

“So cosmopolitan in Springfield. They have a mall. And four Walmart Supercenters.” Madeleine flashed her a wink from the non-­twitchy eye. It occurred to Elsie that the sisterhood of small-­town Missouri was one of few connections she and Madeleine shared.

Parsons sipped the last swallow of his coffee, holding a hand over his tie to protect it from a stray drip. “Let's roll, ladies.”

They strolled across the street to the courthouse entrance, Parsons and Madeleine shoulder to shoulder, Elsie a pace behind. They hadn't proceeded far when Elsie heard Parsons whisper, “What the hell?”

Peering around Madeleine, she saw the ­people surrounding the van: a dozen or so, as she estimated. But they didn't look like any Right to Life supporters Elsie had ever seen. They were assembling posters of another kind. She caught a glimpse of one:
Down with the Death Penalty.
It depicted a hypodermic needle with a large X painted across it.

Standing alone, at the end of the courthouse steps, was a woman holding a sign that said,
End Abortion Now
.

Parsons made a beeline for the anti-­abortion protester. Elsie heard him ask, “Where's your friends?”

The woman shrugged, a helpless movement of her shoulders. Then the cameras—­both of them—­moved in, and the death penalty opponents made a dash for the press.

“Move,” Elsie said. “Now.”

She gave Madeleine a shove, almost causing her boss to trip up the stone steps. The three of them ran for the door, followed by a reporter with an outstretched microphone, shouting, “How does it feel to be part of a death penalty case?”

The deputy in charge of security was a new hire; when they reached the door, he instructed them to empty their pockets and send their bags through the metal detector.

Madeleine scowled at him, her eyes ablaze. In a high-­pitched shriek, she said, “Get. Out. Of. My. Way.”

Oh shit,
Elsie thought,
she's losing it.
Glancing over her shoulder, she saw that the reporter had captured it on camera.

Parsons tugged at her elbow. “Come on,” he said, and they bypassed the elevator, heading up the stairs at a brisk trot.

On the second floor, Claire O'Hara leaned over the rotunda railing, laughing as she watched their procession. “That was quite a show. Brava,” she called. Her voice echoed in the vaulted space.

Madeleine's fingers shook as she pressed the security code buttons for entrance in the back door of the Prosecutor's Office. Once inside, she marched back to her private office, unlocked the door, and hurled her briefcase against the wall. It connected with her law school diploma, knocking it to the floor.

Parsons turned to Elsie; they exchanged a look. “Does she get like this often?” he asked.

Elsie opened her mouth to answer, then clamped it shut.

Parsons shut the door behind him. Elsie sat in her customary seat on the couch, but he remained standing, watching Madeleine with a wary eye as she fiddled in her purse and pulled out a prescription pill bottle.

“You'll have to excuse me, Sam. I'm not myself this morning.” She shook a small tablet into her hand and dry-­swallowed it. “Get me water,” she said to Elsie.

Elsie slipped through the door, glad to have a reason to escape. As she pulled it shut, she heard Madeleine say in a wavering voice, “I think this death penalty issue is getting to me, Sam.”

The admission bolstered Elsie's spirits. The specter of Larry Paul's execution was certainly boring into her. Twice, in the previous night, she had resorted to staring at the gory photos of Jesse Rose and her unborn son, to bolster her resolve and give her strength to make it through the night. When the images didn't provide the relief she sought, she added an additional step to her regimen: she poured a shot of gin and downed it. Liquid valium, she thought, jumping to her own defense. Not everyone could resort to the luxury of Madeleine's pill bottle.

In the reception area, she met Stacie, stowing her lunch in the community office refrigerator. “Hey, Stacie. Do we have any bottled water around here? It's for Madeleine,” she added as an afterthought, hoping it would add weight to the inquiry.

Stacie blew her wispy bangs out of her eyes with an impatient explosion of breath. “What am I, a convenience store?”

Elsie interpreted that as a negative. She peered through the glass door into the rotunda, debating the wisdom of a dash to the courthouse snack bar. But the hallways were already filling up, with spectators for the Larry Paul trial by the looks of it.

She dodged into her office and opened the small fridge where she stowed her personal stash. Elsie had refilled it on Friday, as a necessary preparation for trial. It contained twelve cold cans of Diet Coke. She grabbed one and ran down to Madeleine's office.

When she entered, Elsie saw that Madeleine and Samuel Parsons were bent over her handwritten Opening Statement, as if checking if for errors. Elsie's jaw clenched. She'd presided over more trials in the past four years than Madeleine and Parsons combined.

She set the Diet Coke on the desk by the Opening Statement, giving Madeleine a look of resentment. “Drink this,” she said. She bent over and snatched up the pad with her handwriting, flipping the pages back into place and smoothing them with a possessive hand.