by Erica Abbott
Todd was finishing with, “So I couldn’t get them to reset the hearing to a date certain because the applicant wasn’t sure when he could get the reports back from the water and sanitation district.”
Jean waited. When he didn’t continue, she asked, “So what’s the issue?”
He fiddled with his tie, which was slightly askew as usual. “We have to republish all the notices, right?”
Oh, for God’s sake. “Yes, Todd, you have to send out new letters to the interested parties and repost the property when the new date is set.” She refrained from adding, And any first-year assistant county attorney would know that.
He nodded as if he really had known the answer all along. Jean stared at him, wondering for the first time if Todd had really meant to ask her something else. “Are you all right, Todd?” she asked.
He stood suddenly, as if he’d made a decision. “Yes, thanks,” he said.
He was out of her office in a couple of seconds, almost trotting as if to escape.
Well, that was weird. The next moment she mentally dismissed Todd Moorman and pulled the pile of folders toward her.
* * *
Jean tossed her glasses on top of the nearest file and stretched her arms above her head. A glance outside told her that the sun had already set. Dusky shadows were darkening the county annex building across the street. The colors here were different than in Texas where she had grown up, or Southern California, where she’d been the last seventeen years. Texas was red clay and a damp heat that turned the sky hazy blue. The Coachella Valley was even hotter but the abundant water made it green and lush in the midst of the desert. San Carlos was warm and dry and every color of the earth, caramel and chocolate and toast.
She smiled to herself. Okay, I’m obviously hungry. She pushed the pile of folders away and reached for her keyboard to check her email.
She’d assigned Rita the task of trying to set a time for her to meet with sheriff Hawkins so she opened that email first.
Jean—
I talked to Vicki at the SO—she manages the sheriff’s calendar. She just laughed when I said we needed two or three days this week before the deposition. She can’t manage more than an hour on Thursday at 2 pm or Friday after three. You’ll have to talk to the sheriff personally to arrange something more. Vicki wouldn’t give me the sheriff’s cell but I gave her your number for the Sheriff to call you tonight. I hope that was okay.
Jean sighed, unhappy but not surprised. She spared an ungracious thought for her boss, who should have had the sheriff scheduled for deposition preparation weeks ago. She could probably kiss her weekend goodbye, assuming that she could even get the sheriff to agree to meet her.
The elevator took her eight floors down. The main county administration building was the tallest in downtown Tesóro, giving her a nice view from her office of what skyline a city with a population of just under a hundred thousand people could offer. The town had been founded in the 1850s during the Pike’s Peak Gold Rush, but most of the downtown dated from the steel mill boom of the early twentieth century. The existence of the mill and its strong history of labor unions led to the anomaly of a fairly liberal town in a largely conservative state.
It was too late to stop by the dry cleaners, so the only errand she had to run was dinner. The diner or takeout? She settled for chicken Caesar salad at a drive-through and ate it in her living room.
Charlotte would have been appalled. “For crissakes,” she would have said. “Is it too much trouble to get some fresh romaine and cut up a chicken breast?”
Jean shook her head at the salad. She tossed the empty container into the recycling bin and checked her personal email account. She was reading an email from her friend Maryke in Dallas when her cell phone rang. She didn’t know the number on the caller ID so she answered, “Jean McAllister.”
“This is Sheriff Hawkins,” a woman’s brisk voice said. “Sorry for calling so late.”
“No problem.” Jean used her best professional tone. Her job depended to a certain extent on maintaining good relationships with the county elected officials. “I appreciate that you took the time to call.”
“I understand you need some time on my schedule.”
Jean launched into an explanation of the deposition and the discovery process but Hawkins said, “I’ve been deposed before, so I understand. What I don’t understand is why the deadline is so short.”
Her tone was matter-of-fact rather than challenging but Jean knew she had to come up with an explanation. The question was: how to explain without bad-mouthing Del Franklin?
“I just received the case today,” she said truthfully. “I apologize for the urgency, but I spent several hours today reviewing the case and I think we’ll need a day or two to get you ready for the deposition.”
Hawkins said in an even tone, “That doesn’t really answer my question.”
Police officers, Jean thought in exasperation. She consciously relaxed her tense shoulders. “That’s true,” she admitted, “but that’s all I know to tell you.”
There was a brief pause. Then Hawkins said, “All right. The only way this is going to work is for us to meet on Saturday. We can have as much time as we need and if we need more there’s always Sunday.”
“Reminds me of a former boss of mine who used to tell us on Fridays that there were only two days left in the work week,” Jean said lightly. She was making an effort to connect on a human level with the brisk, low voice on the other end of the phone.
“That’s certainly true this week,” Hawkins answered dryly. “Look, do we need to meet at your office or can we do this somewhere else?”
The question surprised her. “It doesn’t matter. All I need is my laptop and a table to put about a half-a-dozen file folders on. Why?”
“Would you be willing to come out to my house? I really should be available here during the day. I’ve got an office at the house we can use, and I think I can manage lunch as well.”
“I, well, of course.” Kids at home, Jean assumed. “Just tell me where and when.”
Before she went to bed, she decided to do a little checking up on Sheriff Lea Hawkins. She pulled up the San Carlos County Sheriff’s website.
The home page had a photo of Sheriff Hawkins in her uniform. She looked straight into the camera without smiling, the very picture of serious and dependable law enforcement. Jean tried to guess her age from the small photo: early to mid forties, Jean finally decided, a little young to be sheriff. Hawkins wore her light brown hair just to the bottom of her ears, revealing tiny earrings. She had a strong, chiseled face. Her skin looked tan and something about her looked as if she had some Hispanic blood. Jean clicked on the sheriff’s bio and read it thoughtfully.
Hawkins had virtually inherited the sheriff’s office. Her grandfather and uncle had been San Carlos County sheriffs before her and she’d worked her way up through the ranks, serving in uniform, detention and the detective bureau before being elected to her first term six years ago.
She’d grown up in San Carlos County, graduated from Joya High School in the suburb west of Tesóro, but Jean was surprised to see that her college degree was from the John Jay College of Criminal Justice in New York City. Well, that must have been a bit of culture shock.
There was no mention of a family, so Jean wondered if she’d omitted the information or if Hawkins was just dedicated to her career. She’d find out on Saturday, she supposed.
Chapter Two
Jean walked rapidly toward the board of county commissioners’ conference room. She’d had all of two minutes’ notice to appear at the study session, the informal gathering where the board heard reports and recommendations from staff or presentations from outside groups that didn’t require a formal public hearing. Apparently Del had decided that the board needed an update on pending litigation and had called Rita to send down his new deputy. Jean was rapidly getting tired of always being at Franklin’s beck and call. Maybe it was a power thing, she thought in irritation.
She arrived at the door to the conference room just as it opened. Stepping back quickly to avoid a collision, she looked up to see the woman she’d seen in the photo, Sheriff Hawkins, leaving.
“Sorry,” Hawkins said briefly. She began to move away down the hall.
“Sheriff,” Jean said quickly. “I’m Jean McAllister. We spoke on the phone last night.”
Hawkins stopped and turned toward her. She was only a little taller than Jean, but her supple frame made her look even taller despite the bulk of the heavy duty belt she wore with her uniform. Jean keenly felt the extra ten pounds—okay, twelve pounds—she’d gained in the last year and a half. Sheriff Hawkins looked, as she had in her photo, to be the epitome of a law enforcement professional. There was a thin, faint scar that followed the line of her eyebrow above her left eye that Jean hadn’t seen in the photograph.
Jean offered her hand and Hawkins took it, shaking it with a firm grip. “Nice to meet you in person, Counselor.”
Jean decided she liked being called counselor. “Thanks again for taking the time to see me this weekend, Sheriff.”
One side of Hawkins’s mouth crooked upward. “We didn’t have much choice, did we? In case I forgot to mention it, don’t dress up. No need to wear the lawyer suit.”
Jean glanced down at her conservative navy skirt and matching jacket. “Don’t worry. I never wear pantyhose unless absolutely required.”
Hawkins spared a brief glance at her legs and Jean felt a flare of curiosity. She’d always thought her legs were her best feature. Hawkins said, “Not wearing pantyhose is a good rule. It was my main reason for going into law enforcement. The avoidance of pantyhose, I mean.”
Jean laughed. “Well, that’s a fine rationale for a career choice.”
Del Franklin appeared in the doorway behind them. “McAllister, what the hell are you…oh, Sheriff.” His tone changed at once from annoyance to unctuous anxiety. “I didn’t realize you were still here.”
“Just meeting my new lawyer,” Hawkins said coolly. “I need to get to another meeting. It was nice to meet you, Ms. McAllister. I’ll see you on Saturday.”
She left and Franklin muttered, “Enough chitchat. The board is waiting for us.”
The three board members were seated at the conference room table. The windows on one side faced west to give them a fine view of the Rocky Mountains. They were still a month or more away from any snow so the mountaintops were a clear blue-gray against a cloudless afternoon sky.
Jean took a seat with her back to the view and concentrated on the board. The chair was Jaime Fontana, a heavy-set man with black hair he slicked back with too much Brylcreem. Apparently he’d never heard that he only needed a little dab. Jean remembered hearing that he always used his full name on his campaign posters. It emphasized that he was both Hispanic and Italian and linked him to both of the largest minorities in the county. He’d been on the board the longest, halfway through his third four-year term. It would be his last, as he was term-limited.
Next to Fontana was Hayward Lyons, the newest commissioner. He’d previously served as the county public works director, making the jump from employee to elected official two years ago. Jean couldn’t imagine wanting to make the switch herself. Lyons was Ichabod Crane–thin with a prominent Adam’s apple.
Del Franklin went around to sit next to Carolyn Forsythe. She was the commissioner representing the northern part of the county, which included the higher income suburbs of Tesóro. Jean knew little about Forsythe, but she looked like every well-dressed matron Jean had ever met: nice manicure, hair carefully held in place with hairspray, outfit completed with matching earrings and necklace. She wore sizable diamonds on both ring fingers.
Franklin refilled a water glass and set it on the coaster in front of Carolyn.
“Oh, thank you, Del.” She all but patted his hand.
“Of course.” He smiled broadly at her. “Let me know if you need anything else.”
He smirked possessively. Yuck, Jean thought. She was never sure if her aversion to the more overt rituals of heterosexual mating was because she was gay or because they just reminded her of her mother, who was currently on husband number four. In this case, she decided, she just didn’t want to watch her married boss flirting with one of his presumably married employers.
“You remember my new deputy attorney, Jean McAllister,” Franklin said. There were nods from the men and a fluttery “Hello” from Carolyn Forsythe. “She’s here to give you an update on our pending litigation cases.”
He sat back and crossed his arms, apparently turning the meeting over to her. Thanks for the heads-up, Jean thought.
She ran through the minor cases first. There were a couple of land use appeals and a breach of contract case by a sub-contractor. Jean gave the board members a couple of sentences apiece on where each case was in the court system. Then she started in on the major litigation, outlining several personal injury cases.
“You can update them on Lambert as well,” Franklin said suddenly.
Jean blinked at him in annoyance. Franklin was handling that case, a federal court lawsuit involving a former public works employee who claimed he’d been wrongfully terminated by the county.
“Fred Lambert’s a pain in the ass,” Hayward Lyons said suddenly. “Road and bridge crews are always whining about something or other.”
Fontana asked, “Are we talking about settlement? We could—”
“Waste of time,” Lyons interrupted, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he spoke. “Lambert’s a liar who just wants to stir up trouble.”
Jean cleared her throat, careful not to contradict him directly. “We’ll have a mandatory settlement conference next month and we’ll be coming to the board for settlement authority before that. I imagine we’re looking at low six figures.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Lyons muttered. “He won’t take it. He wants to drag us into court.”
Sounds personal, Jean thought. “We’ll have a more in-depth analysis of our exposure for you when we talk about settlement authority. That leaves us with the Rosales case, the wrongful death suit by the family of the inmate who died while incarcerated in our jail.”
Franklin interjected, “The board will recall that I discussed this lawsuit with you earlier this year. Since Ms. McAllister handled a number of similar cases in California, I thought this would be a good one to get her feet wet.”
Seriously? Jean struggled not to let her emotions show. You dumped this disorganized mess of a case in my lap a month before the discovery deadline for my own benefit? How thoughtful.
“Is that wise?” Fontana demanded. “I mean, with all due respect to Ms. McAllister here, don’t you think we should have our biggest gun on the case? They’re suing us for a hell of a lot of money.”
“Seven million dollars,” Jean interjected smoothly.
Franklin’s face darkened. “The case needs someone who can devote twenty-four seven to it if necessary and as you know, my other duties and responsibilities for the board are very time-consuming.”
Carolyn Forsythe said, “Jaime, I’m sure Del knows what he’s doing. Let’s let him run his office, all right?”
Jean saw Fontana wince as Carolyn mispronounced his name, mangling the Spanish by pronouncing the first letter as J rather than H. Meanwhile, Del favored Carolyn with another smile.
Lyons said, “So what’s our position? Did the sheriff fuck up?” He looked cheerful at the possibility.
“Now, Ward,” Carolyn chided Lyons.
Jean wasn’t sure if her disapproval extended to his language or his hostility to the sheriff. Jean answered, “The plaintiff is scheduled to depose the sheriff next week so I’ll know more after that. My preliminary review of the case doesn’t reveal any obvious breaches of procedure on the part of the sheriff’s office. Mr. Rosales was in his cell when he began acting aggressively, yelling and pounding on the walls, when they sent in the extraction unit. He resisted and they attempted to restrain him. Eventually t
he extraction team used electroshock weapons but they were ineffective. They were forced to subdue him physically, then noticed he wasn’t breathing. The medical unit was unable to revive him.”
“Wait a minute,” Fontana said. “I thought those stun gun things basically short-circuited your nervous system. How could they not work?”
Jean was grateful she’d had time to do some research on this point before this morning. “The shock weapon works most of the time but not always. If the subject is, for example, high on certain drugs, they may still be able to move even after the shock is applied.”
“Was this guy Rosales on something?” Lyons asked.
She shook her head. “No, he’d been in the detention center for about twelve hours before the incident. But there’s evidence he may have been suffering from a condition known as excited delirium. If he was, the weapons wouldn’t have had an effect on him.”
“So what killed him?” Fontana wanted to know.
Jean grimaced. “That’s the problem. The death certificate gives the cause of death as ‘respiratory arrest.’ Excited delirium isn’t a diagnosis accepted by everyone in the medical community, but if Rosales was suffering from it, it’s likely what killed him. It causes cardiac or respiratory arrest.”
Carolyn asked, “So how do you get this excited delirium?”
“It’s usually a result of mental illness or drug abuse. The problem is that there’s no way now to prove he was suffering from excited delirium and the plaintiff is, not surprisingly, claiming that it was the use of the stun guns that led to the respiratory arrest that killed him.”
“So is that it?” Fontana asked. “We’re fighting over this excited delirium thing?”
“Not exactly,” Jean answered. She was dismayed that the board members had so little understanding of the liability issues for local government. Surely Franklin had told them all this before. “In order to recover,” she continued, “the plaintiffs have to prove that the sheriff had a policy of deliberate indifference. In other words, it can’t just be an accidental death; it has to be due to a defective policy or procedure on the part of the detention center.”