by Claire Adams
No, that’s it. I don’t say anything or do anything else. I just put down my sandwich to indicate that I’m done eating and I leave it at that.
It’s not clear whether Ash knows what I’m doing and why or not, but she puts her sandwich down, too, and we start clearing up the food. We’re hardly speaking to each other.
We get the food put away and we start carrying everything toward the car, waiting a moment for a jogger to pass before crossing the paved walkway. Only, the jogger doesn’t pass. She stops about five feet away from Ash and I. She peers at us.
I squint through the evening sun toward the woman walking toward us. She looks really familiar.
“I’m sorry, I know this is going to sound weird, but do we know each other?” the woman asks.
“A friend of yours?” Ash asks.
“I don’t know,” I answer quietly, before looking back to the woman. “You do look really familiar.”
“What’s your name?” she asks. “I’m Heather.”
“I’m Mason,” I answer, looking to Ash for a moment for any kind of advice on what to do here.
“That name sounds really familiar, too,” she says. “Do we know each other?”
“I honestly couldn’t tell you,” I answer.
“I’m sorry,” Heather says, extending a hand toward Ash. “I’m Heather. I would tell you how I know your husband, but—”
“Oh, we’re not married,” Ash interrupts.
“Oh, well, I’m really sorry to bother both of you, but you just look so familiar,” Heather says.
This is more than a little weird until it clicks and I remember who she is. Now it’s a lot weirder. I’m just hoping she either really doesn’t remember me, or that she knows better than to let it slip.
“That’s right,” she says, her voice sounding remarkably like the mockery of the universe at my expense. “It was at the mall here in town.”
“Oh yeah,” I respond, hoping that’s as far as she goes. “I remember you.”
She starts giggling.
Oh please, for the love of god…
“Yeah,” she says. “I was just hanging out in the food court, waiting for some friends to show up when you came over and started talking to me.”
“Yeah, I remember that,” I tell her. “Well, it’s been great to see you, but we should really—”
Heather giggles again.
Oh, just make this stop.
I glance back at Ash to try to gauge her mood, but her expression is inscrutable.
“You were pretty convincing,” she says. “Not that I didn’t flirt right back.”
“Oh, really?” Ash asks. I cannot, for the life of me, tell whether hers is a teasing tone or an “I’m about to gut you right here and now” tone.
“Yeah, well, it’s good to catch up, but we’ve got to get this stuff in a refrigerator before it spoils,” I tell Heather.
She just giggles at me again.
This is exactly what I don’t need right now.
“Was the office behind a Sbarro or an Orange Julius?” she asks. “I don’t remember.”
“Pretzel Maker,” I answer, hoping I’ve sated her curiosity.
“I thought you two said you were in the food court,” Ash says. “What were you doing in an office behind a Pretzel Maker?”
Someone kill me.
Heather giggles again, and although I’m positive Ash pretty well has the basic idea down, she doesn’t say anything. Apparently, Heather isn’t so shy.
“I had just gotten out of a bad relationship,” Heather tells Ash. “The guy was a real jerk, but I could just never quite seem to put an end to it. Then, of course, he slept with my mom and my sister, and—”
“You slept with this woman’s mom and sister?” Ash interrupts.
“No,” I answer quickly. “No, absolutely not.”
“I’m talking about the guy I was with before I met Mason,” Heather explains.
How can she not get that she really needs to stop talking? She knows where this story goes and how she thinks it’s an appropriate conversational topic is beyond me. Still, she continues.
“Mason and I never really got to know each other that well,” Heather says, staving off my nervous breakdown for at least a few seconds. Of course, then she immediately undoes all the good that statement could have done. “I really needed a good lay with a stranger, and I don’t know how he knew, but he knew.”
“We’re talking about Mason now?” Ash says.
“Oh yeah,” Heather responds. The way she says it would be very flattering if I wasn’t standing right next to Ash. “He did things in that little room I can’t even begin to describe. I’ve got to thank you for that,” she says. “Before then, I didn’t know I was particularly flexible. Now, I do yoga.”
Seriously, take a knife and stab me. Take a gun and shoot me. Take a rope and hang me. Hire a hitman. I’ll pay for it.
Unfortunately, the only two people here that might be able to help me with any of the above are the person telling a story I really don’t want told and my girlfriend who seems determined to hear all of it. I guess I’ll just have to deal with it.
“You two used to date?” Ash asks.
“Briefly,” I answer.
“I don’t know if I’d call it dating as much as I would a sweaty romp in an empty office,” Heather laughs. I don’t laugh. Ash doesn’t laugh. Heather just keeps on going, “He was very smooth,” Heather says. “I didn’t even realize you were flirting with me at first, and by the time I did, I’d already started flirting back, myself. It was inevitable, once he sat down and we started talking.”
“Well, I really think we should get this food put away,” I say just a little bit too loudly, hoping to communicate to Heather that she needs to put an end to this.
She doesn’t pick up the cue.
“The way I was screaming in there, I’m still surprised security didn’t come in and bust us,” she says. “He’s really got a nice touch. You know,” she says, STILL TALKING, “up until that day, I always thought I was going to have a quiet life and if I ever did get married, it’d be to some jerk who never really fulfilled me, but after you bent me over that desk—”
“Okay, seriously?” I ask. “I’ve tried to keep quiet because I didn’t want to make this any worse than it already is, but do you honestly think this is appropriate?”
Heather looks startled at having come back into contact with reality, but she still finishes the thought. “I just wanted to tell you that you convinced me not to settle for someone who wasn’t going to make me feel the way you made me feel that day,” she says. “So, thank you.”
She’s still talking.
“It was a long time ago,” Heather says, turning to Ash. “I’m married now.”
“Well, it’s been great catching up,” I tell Heather. “Good luck with the marriage.”
This time, I don’t wait to see if Heather’s going to stop. I just start walking toward the car.
“Well, all right,” Heather calls, now behind me. “It’s good to see you!”
Ash catches up to me a couple seconds later. She looks over her shoulder and back.
I’m still not sure how I’d managed to get this far with Ash. I mean, the first time we met, I was half-naked with someone else’s blood on me. That’s not really the sort of thing that makes for a great first impression. That’s usually the sort of thing that’ll get people calling the cops.
Even with her nurse’s stomach, I was pretty damn lucky to get even a second look from Ash. Tack onto that my conman brother and the fact I used to pick up women in the food court at the mall, and I think we’re about done here. All that’s left is the breakup itself.
This is going to suck.
“You know,” Ash says as we near the car, “I get that you’ve been with other people and everything, but I swear that woman would just not stop talking.”
“It was a long time ago,” I tell her. “Well, I guess it was only a couple of years ago, but I don’t
do that kind of thing anymore.”
“Oh, I don’t care about that,” Ash says. “I would have caught you if you were stepping out on me. You’re not a very subtle kind of guy, Mason.”
I don’t know how she’s so okay with what just happened. I’m not sure that I would be. Knowing your partner has been with other people isn’t a big deal, but having one of those other people walk up and give a detailed-enough account of the dirty hour or so we spent together back in the day is sort of a different thing.
I want to ask her why she’s not more bothered, but I don’t want to press my luck, either. Ash genuinely has nothing to worry about from Heather. Apart from spotting her in and around the food court of the New Hills Mall, I haven’t seen her at all since that day. We never had a repeat performance.
It would be great if I knew Ash was just being cool about this, but I’m still getting that feeling she’s only being cool because of whatever she’s hiding. Maybe her secret is so bad that she’s trying to soften my reaction by letting me off the hook about Heather and the wildly inappropriate conversation we just endured.
The question I’m really asking myself right now is whether this is something that I really need to get to the bottom of right now or not. I can press Ash, possibly even getting her to spill whatever’s been so on her mind; or I can just let it drop and hope for the best.
“We never got to the chocolate, did we?” I ask in the most thinly-veiled attempt at changing the conversation possible.
“It’ll keep,” Ash tells me.
Chapter Sixteen
Crimes and Crimes
Ash
Mason and I are sitting in the courtroom, waiting for Chris to be brought forward for his arraignment. They just brought him in, shackled in his red-and-white striped jail garb.
He was supposed to be arraigned half an hour ago, but it looks like the court is backed up with people in for possession of cannabis and others who are there because of identity theft.
“What do you think they’re going to do?” I whisper to Mason as the judge rules that the defendant must surrender his vehicle and he remands the teenaged pothead to state custody, pending trial.
“I don’t know,” he says. “Knowing Chris, though, I’m sure we don’t even know the half of it.”
“Did he ever tell you exactly what he did?” I ask.
“No,” Mason says. “I think—” he starts, but stops when the bailiff gives him a dirty look.
The judge calls the next defendant, a man accused of embezzling over $500,000 dollars from a local charity. The prosecutor explains that only about a third of the money has been recovered. The judge sets bail at $20,000.
Nobody says anything.
Next, the bailiff calls Chris and I give Mason’s hand a squeeze, whispering, “No matter what happens, we’re going to get through it, all right?”
“Yeah,” Mason says, his eyes set on his brother.
Chris shuffles down from the jury box and stands next to a lawyer wearing an immaculately-fitted, $60,000 Kiton suit. What can I say? My dad’s an enthusiast.
Right now, we’re about to find out whether Chris took Mason’s advice to heart, or if he’s already worked out some shady deal to avoid as much responsibility as possible. After sitting through enough defendants to get an idea how this court is run, I’m just glad Chris didn’t get caught with a joint or he might be in real trouble.
Then again, I still haven’t heard exactly what they’re charging him with.
Before the judge starts, the prosecutor speaks up, saying, “Your honor, before we continue with this defendant, I would like to amend the indictment to include four additional counts of fraud and twelve additional counts of theft by deception. More victims of Mr. Ellis’s cons have come forward—”
“Your honor, I am unaware of any such witnesses, and I move that the charges against my client, including those Mr. Babish decided to wait until the last possible moment to try to get filed, be dropped,” Chris’s attorney retorts.
“I do apologize for the delay, but many of these witnesses have only just come forward, your honor,” the prosecutor says, handing a file to the bailiff who takes it up to the judge. “Given the serious nature of the crimes Mr. Ellis has committed over the span of numerous years along with his natural ability to con and his apparent predilection of committing such crimes, the people ask that Mr. Ellis be remanded, pending trial.”
“Your honor, I understand that Mr. Babish is trying to grandstand here, but he’s suggesting remand before my client—who has never been arrested—has even had a chance to indicate his innocence!” Chris’s lawyer says.
“What do you think?” I whisper to Mason. “Do you think he’s going to plead guilty?”
“No,” Mason whispers back. “Even if he decided to listen to me, he’d never give up a bargaining chip like that. I think the best we can hope for is that he doesn’t take any illegal shortcuts to get a better deal.”
The judge looks down at his desk, assumedly at Chris’s file or the papers the bailiff just passed from the prosecutor, and he looks back up, saying, “On the charge of fraud against James Bodine…” the judge holds up the pages in front of him for a better look. He sets it down and removes his glasses, asking, “Is this going to be a split plea where I’m going to have to go through each of the…” he looks at the paper again, “forty-some-odd charges against your client individually, or can we cover this by type of charge, Mr. Silver? I recognize that this is unusual, but this court does have a full schedule today, and I’m reasonably certain we’ll be here ‘til lunch if we do it the other way.”
“Split plea?” I ask Mason, but have to wait for the bailiff to turn away before I get a response.
“Guilty to some, not guilty for others, I imagine,” Mason says quickly as Chris’s lawyer continues.
“We are not looking at a split plea at this time, your honor,” Chris’s lawyer, Mr. Silver, replies. “We’re fine with a comprehensive plea.”
“In that case, Mr. Ellis, on the charges of fraud, how do you plead?” the judge asks.
“Not guilty,” Chris answers.
“On the charges of theft by deception, how do you plead?” the judge asks.
“Not guilty,” Chris answers.
“On the…” the judge looks down at the paper yet again. “On the surprisingly numerous charges of impersonating a doctor, how do you plead?”
“Not guilty,” Chris answers.
“A doctor?” I ask Mason.
He shrugs and the judge continues.
“On the charge of impersonating an officer of the law, how do you plead?” the judge asks.
“Not guilty,” Chris says.
The judge sighs and double-checks his page to make sure he’s covered everything. He finds something else.
“On the charge of resisting arrest, how do you plead?” the judge asks.
“He didn’t look like he was resisting,” I whisper to Mason.
“Yeah, but we didn’t get there until after he was already in cuffs,” Mason whispers back.
“Not guilty,” Chris says.
“Finally, on the charge of lewd conduct, how do you plead?” the judge asks.
“Not guilty,” Chris says.
I glance over to Mason to see if he knows what that one’s about, but he just shrugs again.
“Do the people have anything to add regarding their request for remand?” the judge asks.
“Your honor, we are looking at a man who has spent the better part of his life trying to swindle decent people out of their hard-earned savings,” the prosecutor starts. “I think the court would be doing not only this city, but this state and possibly others, a great injustice by not remanding—”
“Your honor, all of these charges can be easily explained and we have nothing but the word of the people Mr. Babish has cobbled together to form his prosecution,” Mr. Silver interrupts. “We’ve had no time to look over these new charges, and honestly, I’m appalled at the behavior of Mr. Babish,
trying to publicly railroad an innocent man just to get his name in the papers.”
Mr. Babish almost shouts, “Your honor—” but the judge holds up his hand.
“Mr. Silver, this court has seen a lot of things. As a judge for fourteen years, I’ve presided over hundreds of cases. With that said, I haven’t seen a list of charges like this in a long time,” the judge says. He leafs through his papers a moment and out of nowhere, he starts chuckling.
“Your honor?” the prosecutor, Mr. Babish, says.
“Could the two of you approach the bench?” the judge says, trying to hide his smile.
The judge covers his microphone as the prosecutor and Chris’s attorney make their way to the bench. They’re talking quietly for a few seconds until the judge can’t hold it in any longer and lets out a loud guffaw.
“What do you think that’s about?” Mason asks.
“I was about to ask you the same thing,” I tell him.
I have no idea whether this is good for Chris, bad for Chris, or if there’s just an amusing misprint on one of the pages in front of the judge and he just wanted to share. Finally, the lawyers go back to their original positions and the judge uncovers the microphone.
“Mr. Ellis,” the judge starts, “while this court can find some sort of amusement in regard to the specifics of some of these charges, the charges are no less serious. I am granting the people’s request for remand until trial which will be on the…” the judge trails off, looking to his clerk.
“We can do it on the eighteenth at ten-thirty, or if you’d prefer, there’s some open space the following Monday, that’s the twenty-first at noon,” the clerk, a smarmy-looking man who’s sweated through his shirt so thoroughly at this point, it looks like it’s made from a darker fabric.
“Given the sheer volume of charges, I’m going to schedule trial for the twenty-first at noon,” the judge says. “Mr. Silver, I trust that will be enough time to fold these new charges into your defense?”
“No objection, your honor,” Chris’s lawyer answers.
“So ordered,” the judge says, tapping his gavel. “Mr. Ellis, you are hereby remanded to the custody of the state until the completion of your trial. I encourage you to refrain from attempting this kind of deception while in custody. Neither prisoners nor guards are known for responding well to the efforts of confidence men.”