by Nancy Allen
Elsie nodded. “And what did you see?”
“I seen Larry go after Mama. He punched her first, and she hit him back. Then he hit her in the head with the bat.”
“Did he hit her anywhere else?”
The child’s voice was a strangled whisper. “The belly.”
Elsie knew the child was ready to shut down. “And what about Bruce?”
“He just smoked the pipe. On the couch. He didn’t do nothing.”
Ivy’s face contorted. “He was her number two boyfriend. And he didn’t do nothing.” She flung herself onto the carpet, burying her head in her arms. Her shoulders heaved. Elsie watched in silence as one of Ivy’s arms snaked out, groping for the crayons and the package of Play-Doh. She scooped them under her chest, clutching them with a protective arm.
Chapter Fifteen
Ivy slumped in the chair across from the pastor’s desk. She pointed her toes, trying to touch the floor; but her legs were too short, the chair too high. She swung her legs, taking a peek at her new pink tennis shoes from Walmart.
The pastor smiled at her, his teeth shining like a wolf in the cartoon she saw on TV. Her foster mother let her watch cartoons every day, on Saturday and after school. The TV had cable. Before moving to the foster home, Ivy had never heard of cable.
“How’s everything at home, Ivy?”
She scratched her nose; the itchy patch was getting better. “Good.”
“You like your new house?”
“Sure.”
“Bet your mom makes good food for you. Good, nutritious meals.”
No answer.
“What’d you have for breakfast today?”
Ivy thought, took a moment to recall. “Cheerios.”
“With bananas?”
She frowned. “No.”
“I had cornflakes today. With slices of bananas and skim milk.” He held up his arms like a bodybuilder. “Breakfast of champions.”
Ivy flinched. She didn’t like to hear about cornflakes and bananas. It was Larry Paul’s favorite, too.
Last summer, on a rainy Sunday morning, they ate cornflakes and bananas in the trailer. By nine in the morning, Ivy’s mama already looked tired and worn; she was still working at Smokey Dean’s then, had been working all night. And Bruce Stout had brought his dog to the trailer the night before, and it peed on the rug again. Mama said she didn’t have the energy to clean it up. Ivy’s nose wrinkled from the stink of the dog’s urine. But she didn’t complain about it.
When Mama spoke up over breakfast, Ivy tensed in her chair. Because Mama brought up the baby again.
“Larry,” she said, shaking her head wearily, “you got to help me out.”
Larry hadn’t answered; just stared at Jessie over the rim of his water glass.
She pulled the tattered bathrobe around her swollen belly. “This baby has flat wore me out. Smokey says I can’t stay on at the plant much longer, I’m so big. You got to think about money. Maybe you can do more for Smokey. And shit, honey—you got to give me a hand around here. It smells like piss in here.”
Ivy stole a look at Larry. His hand was beginning to shake; it was a bad sign. A bad, bad sign.
The cereal flew so suddenly that Ivy thought she dreamed it, but the empty bowl rested in Larry’s shaking hands. And her mother’s face, frozen in dismay, dripped with milk. Cornflakes fell from her cheeks, and a slice of banana stuck to her chin until she wiped it off. Then Jessie told Larry she was sorry.
“Ivy?” the preacher said. “Ivy, what are thinking about?”
She tried to focus on the preacher, but it took a moment. Because in her mind, she could only see flying milk and cereal, with bananas spinning in midair.
“Are you happy with your new mom and daddy?” He leaned back in his chair, looking at her with benevolent interest.
Something about his voice didn’t ring true. Ivy wasn’t used to people who didn’t say what they meant. It confused her.
“You know they ain’t real. Real mom and daddy.”
The preacher shook his head with disbelief. “Why do you say that?”
“They ain’t my people.”
“Your what?”
Ivy tried to retreat into the chair, pushing back into the cushion. “My people. Family.”
The preacher picked up a pencil and tapped it on the pad of paper in front of him. “Who are your people, Ivy?”
The question made her stomach twist. Because to answer it, she had to acknowledge her loss.
“Nobody,” she whispered.
He leaned forward. “What’s that? I can’t hear you.”
She stared at him, reluctant to speak of it again. Finally, she said, “Nobody. I got nobody.”
The pastor spoke with a gentle tone. “Ivy, that’s not true. You’re blessed. You’ve been blessed with a foster mom and foster daddy. And a beautiful baby brother.”
She looked away, unable to look him in the face as he spoke the lie. Her foster mom was nice to her. Bought her shiny new things at the Walmart, possessions Ivy had never dreamed to own. But she knew the difference between the way Holly Hickman looked at her baby, and the way she regarded Ivy. Kin was kin. Everybody knew that.
“And you have a big family. A big, big family.” The preacher stretched his arms wide. “Everybody in this church.”
Ivy cocked her head. She felt no particular kinship with all those people sitting in the congregation on Sundays, and on Wednesday nights.
“Do you know that?” Reverend Albertson asked.
She shook her head.
“Well, it’s true. Do you know why it is? It’s because you, Ivy, are a child of God.”
Ivy digested the statement. It had a certain appeal.
“Why, Ivy, there’s lots and lots of people in this town who care about you. I was just talking to a man the other day, and he made me promise to keep an eye on you. You know who that was?”
Ivy shook her head. How could she know?
“It was your mother’s boss, before she passed away. Dean Mitchell, Jr. What do you think about that?”
Ivy sucked her lips over her teeth and pressed down so hard she bit herself. Smokey. Smokey was watching. Smokey was everywhere. Smokey wanted to know what she’d told the preacher. Wanted to know if she talked about the meth they kept at the trailer, to sell for Smokey. But she said nothing. Kept her mouth shut.
“How do you feel about your mother? The one who died?”
A jolting pain hit in Ivy’s chest; she gritted her teeth. “I sure do miss her.”
“Do you want to see her again?” His voice sounded like he was offering a candy bar. A Twix, or a Hershey’s.
“She’s dead,” Ivy said, her voice flat.
“But we can be reunited. At the throne. Ivy, you can see your mother again, and the sweet baby who never opened his eyes. But there’s one thing you must do.”
“What?” Because she’d do anything. Anything, to see her mother. She wasn’t so much interested in the baby. She never knew him.
“You must be born again.”
The overhead light reflected on his thinning hair. He was older than Larry, mom’s no-good boyfriend who had killed her with the bat. But Larry was hairy all over: his head and face and chest and back.
This preacher had a pink hairless face; and the thin golden hair on his pink scalp, parted and combed over, shone like a halo under the fluorescent light.
“You can be saved. Then you’ll see your baby brother and your mother. You’ll be reunited with them, and with our savior Jesus Christ. All you have to do,” and he leaned forward like Larry handing somebody meth, “is come up on Sunday morning and be baptized.”
Ivy didn’t know that the preacher could be trusted. And she didn’t like the idea of being up in front of the whole church. Too many eyes on her. It wasn’
t safe. But the offer was too tempting to pass up.
“Okay. I’ll think on it.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Maybe I’ll do that.”
Chapter Sixteen
It was midafternoon when Elsie opened the screen door into the courthouse coffee shop, delighted to see that it was nearly deserted. The morning coffee crowd and noon lunch diners had departed, leaving the cluster of gray Formica tables empty, save one in the corner.
The longtime proprietor Silas, a trim man in a stained apron, emerged from the cooler clutching a five-pound package of hamburger. “What can I get you, Elsie? Grill is still hot.”
“Oh, thank goodness, Silas,” she said. “I need a cheeseburger.”
“Onion?”
“Yes, please. No lettuce or tomato.”
“It’ll be just a minute. You need a Diet Coke?”
“Oh yeah.”
While Silas poured a soda from the fountain, Elsie unclipped a bag of Lay’s potato chips from the dispenser and opened it. Leaning against the counter, she eyeballed the couple at the sole occupied table: it was Josh Nixon and a middle-aged woman with strawberry-blond hair fashioned into an elaborate pouf.
“Elsie,” Nixon called. He waved her over. She picked up her Diet Coke and made her way reluctantly.
“Hey there,” she said.
Nixon pulled out the chair next to his. “Sit,” he said with false enthusiasm.
She slid onto the plastic seat. Pulling the paper from her straw with a tug, she gave him a no-nonsense look. “What’s up?”
“Do you know Claire? She’s from Springfield.”
Elsie nodded, giving the woman a tight smile. “We’ve met. In court.”
Claire O’Hara was a criminal defense attorney with a strong trial record and a tough reputation. She had worked as a defense attorney for twenty years, and was able to command some of the highest fees in southwest Missouri. Legend had it that Claire was a tiger, and she knew how to get the fee up front.
Claire extended a puffy hand. “Nice to see you again.”
Elsie gave the hand a brief squeeze, noting that a half-dozen gold bracelets circled the woman’s wrist.
Claire turned to Josh with a feral grin. “I was the defense attorney for one of Elsie’s very first jury trials. A stealing case, I think.”
“Embezzlement,” Elsie said.
Claire ignored her. “The jury was only out for twenty minutes. That’s a record for me—almost. Isn’t that right? Wasn’t it about twenty minutes before they found him not guilty?”
Elsie sucked on her straw. “Something like that,” she said. Elsie recalled the twenty-minute verdict like it was yesterday; she’d wept in the stall of the woman’s bathroom afterwards, battling self-doubt.
Claire nestled closer to Josh Nixon. “She was so wet behind the ears. I felt sorry for her, I really did.” Claire laughed heartily, then stopped abruptly. “Can I have a chip?”
“Sure,” Elsie said, offering the bag.
Claire took three. “My blood sugar. I’m getting woozy.” She turned to Josh and gave him a girlish grin.
“Elsie!” Silas called from the counter. “Got your burger.”
She picked up her Coke. “I should probably take it to go. Got stuff to do upstairs.”
Josh reached out and gripped her arm. “Eat it here. We need to talk.”
When he didn’t release her, she looked down at his hand on her arm, and gave him an inquiring look. “We do?”
“Yes,” he said in a decided voice.
Somebody wants to ditch old Claire, she thought with a mean fizzle of satisfaction. “Okay,” she said, setting her Coke back down. Josh freed her arm. “I’ll be right back.”
She winked at Claire, who looked like she’d sucked a sour lemon. Elsie picked up the burger, pausing to snatch up packets of mustard and ketchup, and settled back in her chair.
Claire had taken over the bag of Lay’s.
“What’s cooking with you two,” Claire asked in a deliberately casual tone. “Big bad case? Or big bad romance?” She turned on Josh with an insinuating smile.
He didn’t look at Claire when he answered. “Elsie is part of the prosecution team in the State v. Larry Paul case.”
Claire adjusted the sunglasses atop her head. “The murder case with the pregnant victim?”
Elsie and Josh both nodded, and Claire flashed a grin at them. “I don’t envy you all being on either side of that old mess.”
Elsie doctored her burger with the mustard and ketchup. “Murder cases are never uncomplicated,” she said loftily.
“Is that right?” Claire said. “How many murder cases have you handled?”
Blood rose in Elsie’s face. “One.”
Claire chuckled. Jingling her bracelets, she said, “Josh, if you need any advice from the soul of experience, just give me a call. I’ll be glad to lend a hand.”
He nodded. “Thanks, Claire. I will.”
She rose, hauling the leather strap of a cherry red Coach briefcase onto her shoulder. “I’ll let you kiddos get to work.”
Elsie was chewing on a bite of burger. “Nice to see you,” she said with her mouth full.
“Oh sure, yeah. You know, Elsie, we have a friend in common.”
Elsie raised her eyebrows, unsure who the friend might be.
“Dean Mitchell. Dean Junior,” said Claire. She gave Elsie a knowing wink, turned her back, and headed out the door.
Elsie nearly choked on the mouthful of hamburger. She sucked down Diet Coke to help her swallow.
“Who’s Dean Mitchell?” Josh asked.
“Dean Mitchell—Junior—is Smokey Dean. Son of Dean Mitchell, Senior, the original Smokey Dean. Dean Senior started the meatpacking and barbeque empire that Junior has inherited.” Staring at the doorway Claire had departed through, Elsie said, “Yeah, that was a shot. Dean Junior was my blood enemy, back in school. To this day, I do my best to avoid him. Why on earth would she want to be pals with Smokey? He’s mean as a snake. Good Lord, Josh, Claire O’Hara is insufferable.” Elsie turned back to Nixon and gave him a raised brow. “But she seems to like you.”
He expelled his breath with a long puff. “Thank God you showed up. I didn’t think she’d ever leave.”
“Faker. I knew you didn’t have any business to discuss.” Elsie stared inside her empty Lay’s bag. “Bitch ate up all my chips.”
Nixon reached into a folder and pulled out several pages. “Oh, there’s always business.”
While he sorted through the papers, Elsie said, “Did I mention that the tests came back on substances the police seized at the trailer the morning they took Larry Paul into custody? And the substance which looked suspiciously like meth turned out to be meth. Ashlock’s wondering whether your client would like to answer some questions about that. Want to set that up?”
Nixon barked a humorless laugh. “Oh, I think Ashlock has done all the talking he’s going to get to do with my client. Do you want to accept this copy of my new motion?”
“Yeah, sure. What is it?” Elsie pushed her plate to the side, so she wouldn’t run the papers through hamburger grease.
“Request for leave to take a deposition. And here’s something for you.” He tore off the spare carbon of a bright pink subpoena form. “I figured you’ll have to produce her.”
As she scanned the pink subpoena, Elsie’s brows made an angry furrow in her forehead. “What the fuck?”
“I’m going to depose her. The kid.”
The subpoena Nixon had served upon Elsie ordered Ivy Dent to appear and be deposed in the case of State v. Larry Paul.
“This is unprecedented.”
“Well, it’s a murder case. And she’s the only witness to the crime who’s still available. Stout fled.”
“She’s six years old.”
“Makes it even more crucial that the defense have the opportunity to fully examine her story.”
Elsie jumped to her feet. “We haven’t even held the preliminary hearing yet. You have no right, no right to do this now. I will oppose this.”
Nixon leaned toward her, speaking in a conciliatory voice. “Sit down, Elsie; let’s talk this through. This is a death penalty case.”
“Goddamn it, Nixon, I can’t let you take advantage of a child witness. I’m going to scream and shout to the judge on this. Why should you get to depose her when you’ll have the opportunity to cross-examine her at preliminary hearing? You’re double dipping. You just want to trip the kid up.”
“I’ll make a deal with you.” He reached out and put a hand around her wrist but she shook him off.
“Fuck you. What can you offer that I’d want to hear?”
“Maybe I’ll waive preliminary hearing.”
The suggestion took her by surprise. She stepped back to the table. He pushed the chair toward her again. “Sit down.”
She sat. “Is this a trick?”
“No trick. I’ll waive preliminary hearing if you’ll produce the kid for a deposition.”
Elsie looked away, debating the merits of the proposition. Aloud, she said, “In a deposition, the judge won’t be on hand to rein you in.”
“True,” he said. “But the defendant won’t be there either.”
Depositions could be long and messy, and a witness could be asked questions that a judge wouldn’t permit in court. But the environment was far less intimidating than a courtroom, particularly for a child witness.
Elsie gave him a hard stare. “I want that waiver in writing.”
“No problem. Do we have a deal?”
Elsie started to agree before she stopped in midphrase. “I’ll have to run it by Madeleine.”
Chapter Seventeen
Nell Stout drove her dirty white Buick sedan slowly down Delmar Street. On the passenger side of the front seat, her son Bruce sat beside her, wearing sunglasses and a fishing hat studded with lures.