by Chris Bauer
A former rodeo clown in a kid’s cowboy outfit who followed the Supreme Court. Something else was going on here.
“Let me get this straight. You’re a sports writer who’s also a judicial system groupie. How’d that happen?”
“Yeah. How about that.” Owen eyed the remaining hot dogs on the grill, both looking crispy at this point. His stare had some weight behind it. After a few seconds it succumbed to unfocused blinking, his face sagging. One-Mississippi-blink, two-Mississippi-blink, three Mississippi…
He ripped the last three hot dogs off the grill in succession with his bare hand then winged them into the yard with bad intentions. “You want a drink? I could use a drink. I’m getting a drink.” He reentered his house without waiting for an answer.
Judge wasn’t sure what had just come over Owen, but something disgusting hit home for Judge. Charred meat. A wrong choice for food after what had gone down at the trailer park this morning. His stomach felt uneasy. Owen returned with a new bottle of tequila and opened it.
“Sorry about that. I get emotional when it comes to the courts. One Supreme Court case in particular. Roe. It had its origins here in Texas.”
Judge waved off the tequila. Owen filled both glasses anyway, grabbed one, tipped it into his mouth, emptied it. His lips curled.
“My mother wasn’t like the rest of the folks around here. She wanted abortion legalized. Wasn’t ‘pro-choice.’” He opted for air quotes. “That was too tame a position. She was pro-abortion, period. ‘When it made sense,’ she said. And she loved the way the word abortion rolled off her tongue, how its first two syllables defined its reason for being. ‘Ab-HOR-shun.’ She’d use it, her enunciation of it, with impunity around me when I was a kid, fucking teased me with it. Terminating unwanted children appealed to her, period.
“I was born the year the decision was handed down. Nineteen seventy-three. I didn’t miss the significance of her teasing, even at an early age.”
Heavy shit. Owen’s mother sounded less like a parent, more like a special needs caregiver with a load of resentment. In contrast, Judge’s mother was a saint when his affliction reared itself. His father, a U.S. Senator, was the dickhead.
“As it was, the Roe decision appeals to me regardless of Mom’s ass-hattedness. Simple logic: the right to privacy, which is what the decision was based on. That, plus if you don’t want to have the kid, then don’t. Not a popular opinion in these parts. So what. Screw the religious nut jobs.”
Even Judge knew it wasn’t that simple. The age of the fetus came to mind. They’d shifted into drunk opinion territory again. Judge needed to leave before it got crazy. “Look, Owen, I’m gonna head out. Thanks much for feeding my dogs. Thanks for the drink.”
“You wanna know why I know so much about the courts? I write about them. Yep. Got two columns. One on sports, the second a courthouse beat column. I taunted Mom by using a pseudonym for it. When she got to bragging to people about me writing it, I denied it was mine. Someone who wishes her kid was never born shouldn’t get to revel in his achievements.”
His cat light-footed it past the bull on the edge of the property. Judge was glad for the distraction. “Your cat’s teasing your neighbor,” he told him. The bull grunted then bucked up against an electrified fence post. It zapped him. He snarled then backed off, quieted. The cat strutted away. “My cue to leave, Owen, before your bull buddy decides to make a move.”
“Señor Q, biding his time. You wanna know something else? She had the kid.”
Owen was all over the place, but his rambling had Judge intrigued. “Who? What kid?”
“Norma McCorvey. The real Jane Roe in Roe v Wade. By the time the decision came down she’d delivered the baby. A girl. Put her up for adoption. The baby’s whereabouts, then and now, are unknown. The adoption was closed, so neither party knew the other. She’d be in her forties now. Still might not know who she is.”
No shit. Judge couldn’t say he knew this. Interesting, but it wasn’t enough to make him stay. “Maeby, J.D., time to go, guys.”
J.D. fell in next to the grill, his leash intact. Maeby had discovered the hot dogs Owen winged into this mini-landfill he called a backyard. She fell in after J.D., smacking her thin terrier lips.
“So here’s how I can help you find this woman.” He downed the second tequila shot.
Jesus, Owen, concentrate much? “And this would be who now?”
“Your bounty. I know the Glenn Heights police chief and most of his cops. I know cops in Arlington. Dallas, too, and most of the cops in between, for reasons you can guess. That covers a lot of territory. Let me go with you when you pick up your gun. We’ll ask some questions, see what we can find.”
Judge needed a shower, a few hours’ sleep and time away from this guy.
“Give me your number. I’ll think about it.”
EIGHT
The business class seats on United’s Austin to Dulles flight were more accommodating than Naomi had anticipated. Wide, with an extended leg rest, a swivel table, a personal entertainment screen, and headphones for streaming Sirius radio or any playlist she had access to. Her table was strewn with paper and two hardbound legal journals, and accented by a half-empty wine glass. She had multiple court briefs open at the same time, some in print, some on her laptop, the seat next to her unoccupied. She keyed in notes as they popped into her head.
Across the aisle, Deputy Marshal Trenton was managing his spacious but still somewhat imperfect personal space nicely. It was all him underneath his unzipped jacket, she’d decided, with massive shoulders atop a barrel chest and a Sequoia tree-trunk waist, which from her vantage point looked rock solid. One of the largest Native Americans she’d ever seen. He sipped an iced tea, checked his phone, then settled into a straight-ahead deadpan look apparently necessary for the job. Their flight attendant topped off Naomi’s post-lunch rosé. They were about an hour outside D.C.
Naomi removed her earplugs and acclimated herself to the white noise of the pressurized cabin. She repositioned some paper, jabbed at her eyeglasses, stayed focused on her reading material.
“‘Toes,’” she said, directed at Mr. Trenton, and knowing she’d said it loud enough. “That’s an odd Indian name.”
“Yes, ma’am. My associates take liberties.” He spoke matter-of-factly into the seatback in front of him, no eye contact with her. “My Comanche name is White Paw, Your Honor.” A respectful answer, yet it sounded a tad weary of anticipating a need to deliver more of an explanation.
Naomi recalled the email that introduced him as Deputy U.S. Marshal Edward W.P. Trenton. “‘White Paw.’ Wonderful. Are your middle initials a coincidence?”
“No, Your Honor. It’s my middle name as well. There’s more truth to the name than symbolism. It’s because of a physical trait.” He repositioned his right foot into the aisle, extended his leg for effect. “All the toes on this foot are white. A birthmark.”
She studied his large black shoe, visualized how the birth-marked foot looked inside it: brown-skinned heel, arch, and instep, then five discolored toes, each splotched a milky white.
“My associates know no shame, ma’am. ‘Toes’ means no disrespect. Like White Paw, it makes me proud, Your Honor.”
“As well you should be, Mister Trenton,” she said.
His resume, shared by the Marshal’s Office, had been impressive. Early life on a reservation, an athlete at the high school and collegiate level, a high undergrad GPA, some grad school work. Mr. Trenton had every right to be proud.
Naomi pondered her own resume and upbringing, a Native American both by blood and by adoption. Her looks and coloring, her maiden name, her middle class life with parents who embraced many aspects of their common heritage. All of this pointed to a healthy, nurturing, unapologetic childhood. Not in the old ways of the Comanche, but in acknowledgement that these old ways existed. Still, in many respects, she was incredibly fortunate to be where she was, because she’d had some breaks.
“You’re new Supreme
Court justice Naomi Coolsummer, aren’t you?”
The question came from the attractive older woman seated two seats down in the same row, across the aisle. Her body was tucked into tight upper and lower ranch-boss denim blouse and jeans. She’d been quiet until now, probably because she’d been overly attentive to the constant stream of drinks she’d ordered. The “aren’t you” came out “arren-chewww,” her drawl probably Texan, and clearly alcohol-fueled.
“Yes, I am,” Naomi said. “Can I help you?”
“Just checking you out online, honey. Reading about you in the Wikipedia,” the woman said, “plus pa-roozing the minutes from your confirmation hearing. You’re one smart Indian, I’ll give you that.”
In Naomi’s junior year in high school a good-luck faucet had conspicuously opened in full force. She’d earned high SATs, but they were only borderline for the Ivies, yet Harvard and Yale both accepted her. Tribal councils, local and state business acquaintances, other private minority benefactors, they’d all acknowledged her as an overachiever, and a Native American one at that, so she decided to stay regional, opting for Oklahoma.
Mr. Trenton unbuckled his seat belt and leaned forward, to focus on the intoxicated speaker.
“You handle that McCarney, Texas, boy Gary Gilmore’s murder case?” the woman asked.
A 1977 capital punishment case, the first one tried in nearly ten years after the death penalty had been reinstated. Gary Gilmore was a Texas-born criminal sentenced to death by firing squad and executed in Utah, where the murders he was convicted of had been committed. He and the case itself were lightning rods that fueled the capital punishment debate. Gilmore’s case included two stays of execution by the Supreme Court, if Naomi’s memory served her. The stays prompted two suicide attempts. Gilmore wanted it over. His final words, “Let’s do this,” had resonated with the media.
“Sorry, ma’am, but no. A different state, and it was quite a bit before my time as a federal judge.”
“A pity what they did to him. The men he killed? Hell, they were probably Mormons. No big loss.”
Nothing good could come from further conversation with this woman. Naomi leaned back in her seat to avoid it, her thoughts returning to her career. Other breaks, like assignments as lead litigator to a few high-profile capital punishment cases, had come out of the blue. She had continued to impress somebody, more than a few important, unnamed somebodies, as she built a star-power legal resume. But she’d been thankful for one thing among others: the politicos had stayed away during her ascension through state and federal judicial appointments. Their anonymity was a welcomed gift horse, even though she’d found this across-the-board, arms-length conduct a bit curious.
“Got another one for you, Judge. The Babineau baby case. How ’bout that one?”
Much closer in context, Naomi thought. “That one was during my tenure as a federal judge in Texas, yes, but it was in another district court, so no, not my case.”
Women’s rights, religious freedoms, children’s rights, Native American rights. Her personal pro-choice and feminist beliefs were well documented from early on in her adulthood, considerably left of center and so very distant from the right-wing beliefs of local and state politicians, like revered long-term Texas Senator Mildred Folsom. The Babineau case: Texas women now had to view ultrasounds before they could terminate their pregnancy. It also posited that a fetus felt pain earlier than originally thought. Yet, unlike the politicians, her beliefs stayed compartmentalized, causing no personal bias and with no judicial impairment. Her associate justice appointment validated her success in this regard, a record she intended to maintain.
“Too bad,” her questioner said. “It would have been a nice change of pace hearing about a redskin on the side of saving babies rather than stealing them, know what I mean, darlin’?”
Mr. Trenton got out of his seat, and with a few long strides he reached the offensive passenger, but by this time the intoxicated woman was asleep, her chin on her chest.
“Stop serving her,” he told a flight attendant. “She’s being verbally abusive to Justice Coolsummer. U.S. Marshall’s Office orders.”
When he returned to his seat, Naomi addressed him. “Mister Trenton.”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“The skin gets thicker after a while. You for one should know that. Your intercession wasn’t necessary. But I do thank you.”
“You’re welcome, ma’am.”
“Would you mind if I called you Edward while we worked together?”
“Your prerogative, ma’am.”
“Thank you, Edward.”
It was a total of five hundred twenty-five divided highway miles and eight-plus hours on Interstate 40, from Little Rock, Arkansas, to Knoxville, Tennessee. Five hours into the trip, Larinda pulled into a Cracker Barrel restaurant in Nashville for a break, where she took time to pack a sterile gauze sponge into the gash in her left palm and triple-wrap it with gauze dressing.
She popped two five-milligram oxys, needed more, but she didn’t indulge herself. Two kept the suffering at a manageable level, the pain a reminder of her pilgrimage earlier in the year, and the sin that took her there. Pain was good, pain was retribution, but an oozing bloody discharge as evidence of it wasn’t.
She’d traveled to the Philippines during Holy Week for the crucifixion reenactment. Reverend Higby Hunt, a televangelist and one of The Faithful, had tried to talk her out of it. “God was far from questioning any of her faith, her dedication, her repeated penances and her loyalty, the reverend told her.”
Regardless, it was something she’d found necessary, out of her love for Jesus Christ and her need for contrition. Her search for absolution and grace was between her and her Savior.
She’d flown into Manila and gained audience with the Filipino cardinal on Holy Thursday. For show, like he did with the other sinners, he’d officially condemned her intentions to participate. She made a donation, was ushered by the locals to San Pedro Cutud. After another donation the local priests gave her the location of the reenactment.
Her feet had been washed in perfume. She received forty lashes minus one, the maximum allowed in accordance with Jewish law as was the custom, plus a crown of thorns, and later a veil to wipe her blood-streamed face. She both carried and dragged her cross in the street to a makeshift Calvary.
They placed her on the crucifix, tied her limbs down with red cloth strips, commenced nailing her hands and feet into the wood alongside the other Good Friday penitents, most notably Ruben Enaje, a carpenter like her, and the veteran of twenty-seven reenactments. Larinda bled profusely, but her greatest fear hadn’t been of dying, it was of dying before she could recite her prepared prayers. Before she could request God the Father’s forgiveness for her sins. With no memory of being taken down from the cross she’d walked out of a Philippine hospital two days later, on Easter Sunday, “resucitado” risen from the dead, some of the Filipino faithful had decided. They called her “Babae Hesus,” or “The Female Jesus.”
For her, the early hospital release had been a question of necessity. Mind over matter. Regardless of the pain, she welcomed it, embraced it, she had to get back to the States. Four of the five Holy Wounds, to her palms, her feet and ribs, took a few months to heal. The rib cage wound below her right breast was superficial, provided with much less intensity than the one Jesus had received, the one delivered to make sure He was dead. The others had nastier entry and exits, where large galvanized nails had been hammered though her flesh and had grazed bones on their way to exiting the body before entering the wood. The fifth wound, through her left hand, was still healing, a prolonged work in progress.
OxyContin, not using it as prescribed, which should have been a higher dose but for a shorter period of time, had gotten her into trouble. She’d chosen half the dose to keep the pain manageable while still forcing her, a sinner, to suffer, but she continued using it after the recommended period. It was now part of her daily routine. A dependency.
She had en
ough pills to accommodate her road trip, assuming eliminating new associate justice Naomi Coolsummer didn’t take too long. After that, or if things didn’t go as she planned…well, she’d worry about the after-that if the time came.
NINE
Judge liked Victorian B&Bs, the antiques, the architecture, the gaudy tile bathrooms with period fixtures, the frilly beds, and the high-calorie, pomp-and-circumstance breakfasts. It was how he’d met his girlfriend Geenie, a B&B proprietor when she wasn’t filling in as a nurse, her inn tucked into coal country in a small burg in the Pocono Mountains. Meeting Geenie solidified his love for B&Bs. His love for her hadn’t trailed far behind.
Judge picked up his key, apologized to the manager for his physical appearance yet offered no details. He retrieved Maeby from the van but left J.D. there to chill. He liked his crate. It was another security blanket for him, like keeping his leash on. He settled Maeby into their second-floor room. Judge’s face was smeared in fire soot he couldn’t scrub off, his jeans soaked in urine from the boy and his mom. Add tequila breath and a pervasive dead-body bouquet, plus a torn Cream Live! tee shirt, and it all conspired to sell him as homeless. Still, if he didn’t eat breakfast right then, he wouldn’t get to eat it at all.
The B&B’s enclosed porch served as the breakfast room, its old-fashioned wooden floor-to-ceiling windows crisscrossed with hand-painted white grilles, the panes individually puttied into place. Small flat-screen TVs were affixed to the porch ceiling, bookending the seating area. A fresh fruit cup topped with homemade whipped cream awaited each guest at café tables set for two. The aromas of spinach quiche and seasoned potatoes drifted in from the kitchen. Everything looked and smelled fantastic. In contrast, Judge didn’t. The couple at the café table next to him was unimpressed, the guy an older GQ type with sculpted white-gray temples, his tablemate a woman half his age with a dreamy-eyed, post-coital glow.