Contempt: A Legal Thriller

by Michael Cordell

  “I’ll put that on my list.”

  Hannah stepped forward and gave Caitlin a hug. Caitlin hugged her back and started to step away, but Hannah wasn’t ready to let go just yet. “I’m heading home,” she said, letting her go at last. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay. And thanks again for manning the store tomorrow.”

  She grabbed her purse and turned to go, but when she reached the door, Caitlin called out to her.

  “Hey, Hannah? You look real beautiful.”

  Hannah stopped for a moment, then glanced back over her shoulder, more grateful than the young woman could ever imagine. “Thanks. I don’t believe you, but thanks.”

  “And I think your hair looks fantastic!” Caitlin shouted. “He’ll feel like nothing’s changed.”

  Hannah tried to respond, but the words got stuck in her throat, so she settled for a nod. Quickly closing the door, she walked toward her car, slowly at first, then faster and faster, determined to reach it before the next wave of tears kicked in. She knew she wouldn’t make it.

  CHAPTER

  THREE

  Forsman Penitentiary’s ability to castrate a man’s spirit was legendary. Built in the thirties to incarcerate felons too savage for other prisons to handle, its thirty-foot concrete walls had turned a jaundiced yellow. A dirt courtyard in the center of the prison had been pounded rock-hard by the thousands of men who had been herded across it over the past eighty-six years.

  On the far side of the courtyard, Thane sat alone on the bottom row of a rotting wooden bleacher. He was out of his ill-fitting sports coat and back in the dirt-brown uniform he had been wearing for the last five years. He stared straight ahead at the other inmates who either migrated toward the weights or the basketball court, strutting as though they owned the place. A smaller group of men stood along the far wall, keeping to themselves, as if waiting for a bus to pick them up and take them away.

  While his eyes faced the courtyard, Thane’s radar stayed locked onto Baby, a steroid-soaked inmate the size of a refrigerator but half as bright, lumbering towards him from his immediate left. Baby’s head, larger than a bowling ball, boasted a scalp shaved so close that it reflected the sun. Thane had steered clear of the man after watching him snap another inmate’s shoulder blade with one hand while holding a biscuit in the other. Apparently, the biscuit had somehow caused the altercation.

  Thane leaned down and pretended to tie his shoe. Moving his hands over the shoestring like a third-rate mime, he discreetly grabbed a handful of dirt and sat back up, resuming his study of the weightlifters. He used to think if he knew a trick, then surely every prisoner in Forsman knew it, but he’d now been there long enough that he could outwit many of them. He hoped his sleight of hand went unnoticed in case it turned out he was prey.

  As the behemoth approached, Gideon Spence appeared on Thane’s right, casually lowering his bulk next to him. Thane didn’t acknowledge him, although his clenched fist relaxed a degree or two. Gideon, a stout African American man in his early fifties, glared directly at the approaching convict, almost daring him to come nearer.

  After a couple more steps toward Thane, Baby veered off-course and plodded toward the basketball court. Thane dropped the handful of dirt as though it was just another day in the yard. Such was life in Forsman.“You got beef with Baby?” Gideon asked.

  Thane shrugged. “Does that ever matter?”

  “Maybe he just wanted to show everyone the legend of Forsman Prison ain’t such hot shit,” Gideon said, a small grin crossing his face.

  “Don’t start.”

  “Hell, you not only kick yourself off death row, you suddenly get to strut your ass out the door. That’s big shit.”

  Thane nodded, pretending to consider this for the first time. “Yeah, it is, at that.”

  Gideon leaned back, resting his arms on the wooden plank behind him, the cheap fabric of his prison-issued uniform straining against his barrel chest. He nodded toward the small pile of dirt at Thane’s feet. “You’ve learned a lot since you first showed up.” He nudged Thane and cackled. “We’ll make a proper convict outta you yet.”

  Thane knew Forsman had changed him, though he didn’t like to think about it. For one thing, he was stronger now, more physically powerful than he had ever been before. And he had grown cunning as well, constantly calculating—and always looking over his shoulder for brutes like Baby. “Maybe your parole will come through next time,” he said simply. “Maybe you’ll get out of here, too.”

  “Nah. I appreciate your help and all, but I never do too good at those hearings. Bunch of self-righteous, tie-wearing dickheads thinking they can judge me. Who the fuck they think they are?”

  “They think they’re the parole board, and like it or not, they do get to judge you. So try sticking to the script we practiced, okay? And quit spitting every time you think a question is stupid.”

  Gideon looked up, then muttered under his breath, “Speaking of things that make me want to spit.”

  Chuck Yoder, a prison guard with a permanent scowl, strode over and stood directly in front of Thane, his chest puffed out like he was asking for a fight. His hair was the color of a sparrow, a dirty brown that managed to look greasy even on a quarter-inch crew cut, and his two front teeth were gray. His uniform, however, was always pristine.

  Thane hadn’t been in Forsman long before getting on Yoder’s bad side. It happened when Thane had first arrived, before he understood that reporting a guard for misconduct was a quick way to make enemies. He also hadn’t realized that Yoder kicking a prisoner simply because he could wasn’t a surprise to anyone. As far as prison officials were concerned, that was just a regular Tuesday. Yoder wasn’t reprimanded as a result of the complaint, but he was pissed off.

  As he got closer, Thane avoided eye contact, but Yoder brought out his metal baton and rapped it against his open palm. The baton had a grim collection of dings and dents on it, most of them caused by contact with human bone.

  “Got something you want to say, Banning?” Yoder said.

  Thane continued staring at the ground and shook his head. “No.”

  Yoder brought his baton down hard, smashing it into the bench an inch from Thane’s hand, but Thane didn’t flinch. The sharp crack of the wood caused two distant guards to whip their rifle scopes toward the source of the sound, but they resumed their positions when they saw that it was just Yoder.

  “Stand up.”

  Thane stood slowly and raised his eyes to meet Yoder’s.

  “You speak to me, it damn well better have a ‘sir’ on the end of it,” Yoder said. “You understand?”

  Thane nodded. He continued looking directly at Yoder, holding eye contact far longer than was wise.

  Yoder’s face tightened. “Fucking piece of shit lawyer. It don’t do nobody no good when death row scum like you gets sprung. This whole place is gonna be a damn monkey cage for the next few weeks cause of you, and I’m the guy who’s gotta clean it up.”

  “You’re releasing an innocent man,” Thane said. “If that makes it any less painful for you. Sir.”

  Yoder’s lip curled, as if he’d just heard a good dirty joke. “You think I’m just being a hard-ass? You still don’t give me no credit for trying to keep things orderly around here. Maybe you should report me to the warden.” Yoder slowly raised his metal baton like a hammer over Thane’s head. “Although I guess I’d need to give you something to report.”

  Gideon stood and Yoder pivoted quickly, pointing the baton at the large man’s forehead. “You don’t want to be standing up, boy. I’ll drop you like a big ol’ black bear.”

  Gideon continued giving Yoder the dead eye. The commotion started to draw a crowd, including several other guards. Yoder turned back toward Thane as he lowered the baton.

  “You always act like you’re better than everyone else. Smarter than everyone else. But you’re not. Which
one of us gets to walk out of here at night, huh?” Yoder said.

  “I’ll be walking out of here tomorrow.”

  Yoder glared at Thane. “Maybe. Maybe not. A hell of a lot of shit can happen between now and tomorrow. Real ugly shit. Either way, you need to remember that as long as you’re behind these walls, I’m in charge.”

  Thane nodded to Gideon, then turned and walked away from the guard. He heard Yoder mutter something, but it was just background noise, like traffic outside the prison walls. Yoder was something from his past now, one more thing to forget, like everything else in Forsman.

  As long as he survived to see tomorrow.

  Thane lay on his cot, staring up at a quarter inch-wide crack that zigzagged across the cement ceiling while he thought about what was to come in the morning.

  Soon he would be sleeping in a real bed with sheets and blankets that didn’t feel like they were made of asbestos. And in that new bed, would Hannah be lying next to him? The prison social worker had only sent word of transportation being arranged, but he had no idea if it would be Hannah. A small part of him hoped it wasn’t. The rest of him prayed it was.

  He had written to her three years ago, telling her to move on with her life and not visit anymore, a letter that took him a week and most of his sanity to write. And he’d refused to go to the visitation room the four times she came after receiving the letter, even though it tore him up to know that she was there waiting, maybe a hundred feet from his cell. But he knew that if he’d tried to say goodbye in person, he never could have let her go.

  Tomorrow would be the first time in three years he’d see her face.

  If she came at all.

  His release meant Stone had decided against trying to keep him locked up, which didn’t surprise him. But being freed on a technicality didn’t mean anyone believed his innocence. He would not be welcomed back to society like a hero or a martyr, the way the scenario always played out in his imagination. Instead, he would still be seen as a killer. A lucky killer.

  The sharp click of dress shoes echoed down the corridor as the night guard made his rounds through the cellblock. That meant it was 3:30 a.m. There was a precision to life here in Forsman, things that could be counted on, some good, but most not so good. What would it be like to once again have control over his own time? To have ownership of his own life?

  He knew one thing for certain: people would say what they wanted about him and the circumstances of his release. They would say he got away with murder, and some would make it their life’s mission to ensure he continued to suffer for his sins. There was nothing he could do to change any of this; but it was all a small price to pay for never again having to tell the time by the sound of another man’s step.

  CHAPTER

  FOUR

  District Attorney Bradford Stone hated what he was about to do.

  He sat ramrod straight at his desk as if he were wearing a brace, even though there was only one subordinate in his office with him. But even alone, his rigid posture always conveyed the look of a man testifying in front of a Senate Subcommittee.

  “So where do we go from here?” his senior deputy assistant asked.

  Stone paused before answering, calculations running through his head. “We deal with it as quickly as possible, then we move on. That’s all we can do.”

  Wallace Winston nodded. A rotund man in his early sixties, he always looked as if he should have a dab of mustard on his wrinkled shirt collar. His flabby jowls were accented by a drooping, bushy brown mustache, and eyebrows that looked as though they were combed with an eggbeater.

  “You still don’t think we can retry him? Because I really do believe we would . . .” Winston started.

  “We’re not retrying him and I’m not going to keep having this conversation. We’re done with this case. I just don’t want to have to go through the theatrics of this press conference. The whole thing is bullshit. The public is going to say we couldn’t keep them safe. They have no idea what that actually means.”

  Down the hall, a pack of reporters were tuning up, trying to sharpen their questions enough to draw blood. He could handle them, but no matter what he said, his office was going to look unprofessional—or worse, incompetent.

  “You’ve done more to make this city safe than the three previous DAs combined,” Winston piped up.

  Winston had kept his job through four District Attorneys because of two important qualities: he was unquestionably loyal to his boss, and he had absolutely no interest in advancing his own career. His lack of ambition posed no threat to anyone, and that, coupled with the vast reservoir of historical knowledge he’d accumulated over the years, made him invaluable.

  “I remember how bad things got around here when we lost Lauren,” he continued. “Now Banning’s going to go free and the whole grieving process will start all over again.”

  Stone shoved his chair back and stood. “None of this ever should have happened in the first place.”

  He exited his office, his pace confident as he strode toward the conference room full of reporters. Stone paused for a moment before opening the door and taking his place behind the podium.

  Camera lights cranked to full intensity made the room a good fifteen degrees hotter than Stone’s office. He surveyed the gathered horde, refusing at first to make eye contact with them, viewing them instead as one great faceless mass.

  “The murder conviction of Thane Banning,” he began, “was overturned yesterday afternoon by the Second District Court of Appeals of Los Angeles. He is to be released at three o’clock this afternoon. It is an understatement to say this office is disappointed with Judge Williams’s ruling. However, as Officers of the court, we have no choice but to respect his decision.”

  Stone paused and looked at the podium, shaking his head almost imperceptibly. Almost. If there was anything to be gained from this circus, he wanted the reporters to know that he did not in fact respect the judge’s decision.

  “Mr. Banning may still be retried for his crime. He was not found innocent; he was only released as a result of the judge calling a mistrial on the original hearing. However, the passing years have made a second trial exceptionally difficult, in large part due to the death of our primary witness. But we have not ruled out this option. A decision will be made within the next six weeks, at which time you will be informed of any future actions this office may pursue. I will now take questions.”

  Reporters’ voices clamored from around the room. Stone raised his hand to try to silence the group, then pointed toward Dan Larson, an older reporter in the front row. The man stood, notepad in hand, and offered up the predictable question.

  Let the blame game begin.

  “As District Attorney, do you take responsibility for Banning’s release?”

  Stone answered without hesitation. “I take responsibility for all actions in my office. But let me be clear: There was no dereliction of duty on the part of anyone working in this office. None whatsoever.”

  Stone pointed to a young woman sitting in the middle of the pack.

  “How is it that a real estate lawyer was able to overturn a capital murder conviction? He’s never practiced criminal law a day in his life.”

  “I’m not going to talk about the specifics of the case at this time. Next.” He pointed at a reporter who looked young enough to be working for a high school paper.

  “You were elected in large part based on your conviction of Thane Banning. Do you think his release will result in your being removed from office next election?”

  Stone unclenched his jaw. “First of all, I disagree with your initial assumption. But be that as it may, I serve, and always will serve, at the pleasure of the citizens of Los Angeles. They should consider how safe they felt before I took office, look at the progress we’ve made over the past four and a half years, and then decide. But they should also remember that releasing
Thane Banning was not my decision.”

  “Then you still believe he’s guilty?” said an unmistakable baritone voice echoing from the back of the room like a bullhorn.

  For the first time during his years of press conferences, Stone was thrown off-guard. Russell McCoy had somehow managed to slip in through the rear entrance. Allowing the father of the slain girl into the press conference was the journalistic equivalent of tossing chum into a shark tank. The cameras swirled toward the man, causing McCoy to squint his eyes and take half a step back, as if the heat of the lights carried enough punch to move him.

  McCoy, who stood a head taller than most everyone in the room, looked over the reporters and addressed Stone eye-to-eye. “Well?” McCoy continued. “Do you?”

  Stone focused his attention solely on McCoy. “It doesn’t matter what I believe or don’t believe, Mr. McCoy. That’s not the way the system works.”

  McCoy shrugged his massive shoulders and turned to leave the room. “Yeah. The way the system works,” he said as he walked out the door.

  The reporters looked as if they were struggling to decide whether to follow McCoy or see the press conference through. Stone struggled with the same dilemma, but didn’t want to give McCoy’s words any weight.

  “Next question.”

  CHAPTER

  FIVE

  The main gate to Forsman opened at three o’clock, and the first thing Thane noticed was the sky stretching endlessly toward the horizon, not broken by concrete walls and razor wire.

  A mob of press awaited him; he would have to take in this new landscape later. He had figured there might be a couple of low-level media hacks awaiting his appearance, but more than forty eager reporters stood yelling for his attention. He walked behind the three guards who were stationed like linebackers along a rope to hold the press at bay.