Silent Son

by Gallatin Warfield

  Joel Jacobs stood at the window of his suite in the Anderson Mountain Inn and looked out at the valley. The lush green of summer was spread from horizon to horizon like an avocado dip. Orchards. Meadows. And fields of clover. It was a far cry from New York, where the only respite from concrete and asphalt was Central Park. In its own quaint little way, it was charming.

  Jacobs placed his hands on his hips and turned to survey his room. It wasn’t the Plaza, but it would do. He’d requested the best accommodations in town, and the best room in the house, and they’d turned over the keys to the Lincoln Suite. A place where the President had allegedly stayed after Gettysburg, but which historians had never documented. Furnished in period antiques, it was regal enough for a chief executive or a Joel Jacobs.

  Suddenly there was a knock at the door.

  “Who is it?” Jacobs called.

  “Me,” a voice answered.

  Joel went to the door and opened to Drew Udek’s narrow face.

  “Come in, Drew,” he said.

  Udek was a tall, thin man in his fifties, emaciated as Ichabod Crane. He entered the room and looked around appreciatively. “Niiice,” he said.

  “Glad you like it,” Jacobs replied.

  They sat at a round mahogany table in the bay window alcove.

  “Got your data here,” the investigator said, pulling a stack of papers from a beat-up leather case.

  Joel put on his reading glasses and thumbed quickly through the stack. “This is going to be very helpful,” he said.

  Udek smiled. Over the last twenty years, he had turned over a lot of rocks for the old man. Uncovering little secrets that enabled Joel to one-up his opponents with a vengeance. In that department, Udek had never let him down. “Information was tight,” the investigator said, “I can tell you that. I had trouble getting this much.”

  Jacobs frowned. “That doesn’t sound like you, Drew.”

  “This is a small town,” Udek replied. “People notice when someone’s poking around. They’re suspicious. I had the same trouble last time I was down here—”

  Jacobs suddenly flashed an angry look, as if Drew had broached a forbidden subject.

  The investigator caught the stare and reddened. “Uh, I mean, it’s tough to root things out in this pigtown.”

  Jacobs went back to the file, and Udek stood. “Thanks again, Drew,” the lawyer said without looking up.

  “Welcome,” the investigator replied on the way out the door.

  After Udek had gone, Jacobs walked to the telephone beside the four-poster canopy bed.

  Seconds later his call to Annapolis had gone through.

  “Court of Appeals.”

  “Chief Judge Biddington, please.”

  “May I say who’s calling?”

  “Jiff Jacobs.” Joel lapsed into his law school nickname. Jiff. Like the peanut butter. Smooth and sweet. But hard to digest.

  “One moment, sir.”

  There was a click, a pause, and a familiar bass voice came on the line. “Jiff! You made it down!”

  “Hi, Bid,” Joel answered softly. “I’m here.”

  “How long do you expect to stay?”

  Joel paused. “Not really sure. May have to go to trial.”

  “Can’t work it out, huh?”

  “Not so far. Listen, Bid, I wonder if you could do something for me.”

  “What is it?”

  “Can you arrange a trial assignment up here?”

  There was a brief silence. “Assignment?”

  “Can you arrange for a particular judge to hear a particular case?”

  Again, there was a short silence. “They’re not exactly under my jurisdiction. Assignments are up to the local administrative judge.”

  “But if you made a suggestion, they’d listen.”

  “Yes,” Biddington answered. “They usually follow my advice.”

  “Okay. Can you make a recommendation in the Starke case?”

  “I suppose I could. Judge Danforth and I are pretty close.”

  “Good. We just had a bond hearing, and I found the judge to be top-notch. An excellent jurist.”

  “That’s quite a compliment,” the chief judge replied. “And you want that judge to hear your case.”

  “Yes,” Joel said. “If it can be arranged.”

  “We can swing that,” Biddington answered. “What’s the judge’s name?”

  “Hanks,” Joel said sweetly. “Judge Carla Hanks.”

  Gardner was at the therapist’s office in Veil Valley. He was still struggling with his decision to issue the material witness summons because of the effect it might have on Granville. He wanted the boy home. And it looked like the summons was the only way to make it happen.

  “There could be problems,” Nancy Meyers told Gardner in the privacy of the therapy room. Toys were still strewn on the floor from a previous session, and the smell of paint and glue lingered in the air. “Forceful removal could seriously set him back,” she continued.

  “But isn’t that what already happened?” Gardner cut in. “His mother took him. What’s the difference?”

  The therapist groped for a response. “Carole is not the sheriff. It might confuse him,” she continued. “He won’t know who to listen to. Who to trust…”

  “He’ll listen to me,” Gardner said.

  “Don’t be so sure. You take him from his mother, and he may turn on you. He’s very attached to her…”

  “But he’s close to me too,” Gardner argued. “He loves me—”

  “This isn’t about love.”

  Gardner looked her in the eye. “I think it is!”

  “No. It’s about trust and being in a safe place. Tell me, Mr. Lawson, can you provide him a safe place? After the sheriff takes him away? Do you really think he’ll feel safe?”

  Gardner closed his eyes for a second. Meyers was not making the decision any easier. “He’ll be safe with me.”

  “But he won’t necessarily feel safe,” Meyers said.

  “So what choice do I have?” Gardner asked. “Leave him where he is?”

  “It might be best,” the therapist replied.

  “But what about his treatment? His sessions with you? He’s been making progress. Shouldn’t he continue?”

  “In time…” Meyers answered.

  “But we don’t have any more time,” Gardner said.

  “As long as he’s in a stable environment, he’ll be okay. Therapy can resume later.”

  Gardner stood up. “Are you telling me not to issue the summons?” he asked.

  Meyers pushed her glasses against her nose. “I have no right to do that. I’m just telling you the possible consequences.”

  “Possible,” Gardner said.

  Meyers nodded. “You asked, I told you.”

  “I’m going to do it,” Gardner said resolutely. “I have to. Granville is a strong boy. He’ll be okay with me. We have to prepare for the case.”

  Meyers shook her head slightly. “That may be, but this is not about a case, Mr. Lawson. It’s about his life.”

  “Thanks for your time,” Gardner said. He had to get back to the office to finish the paperwork. The decision had finally been made. If they didn’t win the case, Granville might not have a life.

  Although bond had been set that morning, IV Starke and Roscoe Miller were still locked in the detention center at 6:00 P.M. They occupied separate cells on the B wing, a section that held the most dangerous of the county’s pretrial detainees. On Gardner’s orders, the warden had kept the two men apart, so they were placed in staggered cells on the block, with another indicted murder defendant occupying the space between their narrow steel enclosures.

  “Roscoe!”

  Miller got up from his bunk and shuffled to the bars. The voice was coming from the cell next door.

  “Roscoe!” It was a loud whisper, not intended to attract the attention of the guards.

  Roscoe edged his cheek against the cold steel. “Yeah!”

  “Heard you
got a bond.”

  Miller smiled. His neighbor was not so lucky. Hank Smatt. Killed his ex-girlfriend, her new lover, and threatened to kill the rest of her family. His status was no bond. “Yeah, they put one on me,” Roscoe whistled through his teeth. “Gave me the armband too.”

  On the other side, IV Starke was listening. He had quietly slipped close to the bars so he could eavesdrop on the conversation. He was going to be released first thing in the morning when the bank certified the funds in the fifty-thousand-dollar check that Joel Jacobs had posted after court. The delay had angered him, but Joel told him to shut up, so he bit his tongue. Just a few more hours, and he’d be free.

  “I had that bitch one time,” Smatt continued. He was talking about the electronic tracking device that the sheriff bolted to the wrists of released defendants. Its signal was displayed on a locator map, and every movement was tracked.

  “Yeah? What’s it like?” Roscoe had never been given the honor of wearing one.

  “Sucks!” Hank hissed. “Can’t do shit without them knowin’.”

  IV leaned against the bars and canted his ear toward Smatt’s cell.

  “But I heard that you kin beat it,” Hank went on.

  “Huh?” Roscoe whispered.

  IV held his breath and perked his ears.

  “Heard that Tommy Pascoe done beat it.” Another notorious county tough guy, well versed in every conceivable punishment. “That’s what I heard. He found a way to knock the damn thing out.”

  Roscoe grabbed the bars with both hands and squeezed. “What’d he do?”

  IV slowly let out his breath, took another, and held it.

  “Microwaved the son’bitch. That’s what I heard. Somehow got the fucker in the damn microwave and blew out the signal.”

  Roscoe clutched the bars tighter. “In the microwave? What about his hands?”

  The sound of a clanging door at the end of the long hall interrupted the answer. A guard was approaching.

  “His hands!” Roscoe repeated. “What’d he do with his hands?”

  “Gloves,” Smatt rasped. “Wore some kinda gloves.”

  The guard’s footsteps were echoing down the corridor. Miller and Smatt silently retreated to their bunks.

  And IV Starke remained standing with a curious smile on his face.

  Carole and her mother were seated at the dining room table of the Andrews home in suburban Baltimore. Kathryn Andrews was angry, her well-preserved face creased with worry. She was a gray version of the dark-haired Carole. Attractive, feisty, and just as sharp with her tongue. The Gardner-Carole impasse was getting old fast.

  “You cannot keep doing this!” she said sternly. “You must work out your problems!”

  Carole glared at her mother. “I’m only trying to protect my son!”

  “But you can’t keep him away forever!”

  “God, Mother!” Someone had tried to kill Granville. Didn’t the woman understand that?

  “And what about Gardner?” Kathryn was trying her best to keep the situation under control.

  “What about him?” Carole screamed. “Do you know what he did? He tried to get Granny to talk about the case.”

  “So what? He’s the father. He’s entitled—”

  “But he promised not to!” Carole hit the antique cherry dining table with her hand. That was her memory from their conversation at the hospital. Gardner was not going to use Granny as a witness.

  Kathryn Andrews winced. She had always liked Gardner. Even after the divorce she had tried to maintain cordial relations, although Carole had regarded it as betrayal. Gardner was a good man. He had his flaws, like anyone else, but his love for Granville made up for his inability to hold Carole’s affection. “So what do you plan to do?” she finally asked.

  “Don’t worry, Mother,” Carole said grimly. “I’m not going to involve you anymore.”

  “What are you going to do?” Kathryn repeated.

  “I’ve got a friend in Switzerland. She has a chalet on Lake Lucerne. We can stay there.”

  “Europe?” Kathryn’s face registered shock.

  “I’ve already booked the flight. We’re leaving day after tomorrow. Then you won’t have to be involved.”

  “What’s Gardner going to say?”

  “Nothing he can say!” Carole snapped. “All he cares about is his case! He could care less what happens to Granny!”

  “That’s not true, dear,” Kathryn said gently, trying to touch her daughter’s arm.

  Carole pulled away and stood up. “I can’t go back…”

  During the argument, Granville had been in the upstairs den trying to watch TV. The loud voices had rung out over the sound of the TV show, and he’d gotten scared. Quietly he’d descended the stairs and walked to the door of the dining room.

  “But, dear…” Kathryn persisted.

  “No!” Carole screamed. “We’re going away, and that’s final!”

  Suddenly she noticed the small figure in the doorway. “Granny!” she called.

  But the boy turned and ran back upstairs.

  “We’re going away!” rang in his ears like a refrain. He ran back to the TV room and curled up on the couch in the fetal position. “We’re going away! Going away!”

  His memory seemed to have begun with that phrase. Mom looking down into his bed one night and telling him, “We’re going away.” The words were bad. They went away, and Dad didn’t come with them. Mom cried all the time, and he had nothing to do but watch TV. And when they came home, Dad wasn’t there anymore.

  Carole ran to the upstairs room and lifted Granville to a seated position. “Granny…” she said softly.

  It was the same words, the same look. And it was all bad. “I don’t want to, Mom,” he said.

  “What?”

  “I said I don’t want to.”

  “Granny,” she consoled, hugging him but not responding.

  “No, Mom!” He tried to wiggle out of her grasp.

  “Stop it, Granny,” she said sharply.

  “No!” He kept wiggling.

  “Granny!” Carole finally got his small body still, and she hugged him with a powerful grip.

  “Mom,” he moaned, his voice cracking into a whine.

  Carole’s eyes filled with tears. This was going to be tough, but there was no other way. They had to go away as far as they could. Away from the killers, and Gardner, and the case.

  After a while Granville calmed down and Carole went downstairs. Granville rolled over, put his face against the couch, and whispered a single word: “Dad.”

  Joel Jacobs was in Kent King’s private office. It was late in the evening, and the two men were alone. King leaned back in his chair and put his feet up on the desk. He was dressed in shorts and a knit shirt. Jacobs was casual also. He wore a lime green golf ensemble.

  “We’re gonna do this together, or we’re gonna have trouble,” King said. “Coordinate and cooperate.”

  Jacobs smiled. “What makes you think I can’t handle my case alone?”

  King sat forward and placed his elbows where his feet had been. “They’re gonna try to tie our guys together. Whatever your guy did is gonna be attributed to mine, and vice versa.”

  “So we sever the trials and take them one at a time,” Jacobs replied.

  “Or we hold them together and knock the bottom out with one blow,” King countered.

  Jacobs looked his fellow defense attorney in the eye. The report on King that Udek had shown him was glowing. The man was a maniac in the courtroom. A history of devious procedural maneuverings had marked King as a master of deception. Jacobs knew he had to be careful. “Give me your client’s version, and I’ll consider it,” the New Yorker finally said.

  King smiled. “Okay, but you give me yours first.” In truth, as Gardner had said in the bond hearing, it was a conflict of interest for the men to even talk. As codefendants in a murder case, either could turn against the other at any time and make a deal for leniency with the state. If that was done, th
e other would go down for the count. Any information passing between them could sow the seeds of their own destruction.

  Jacobs returned King’s cynical smile. “Maybe it’s better if we keep our respective client’s business to ourselves and find some common ground to plow.”

  King nodded. Neither man was going to tell the other any lawyer-client secrets. “Looks like a one-witness case all the way,” King said.

  “The kid,” Jacobs replied.

  King nodded again. “Uh-huh.”

  “What do you have on him?” Jacobs asked.

  King broke into a smile. “I don’t think he’s gonna be here for trial.” He knew that the boy was in Baltimore with his mother.

  “Sure about that?” Jacobs inquired.

  “That’s how it’s shapin’ up. Without his testimony, they don’t have a case against anyone!”

  Joel crossed his leg at the knee. “You have any contingency plans if your prediction fails to materialize?”

  King reached into his desk and pulled out a stack of legal papers. “In a case involving juvenile witnesses, it’s a good idea to have them tested by a shrink.” King handed the papers to Jacobs. “This set of motions has knocked more than one rug-rat out of the box.”

  Jacobs scanned the motions. “So we get him examined? What does that do?” He knew the answer, but he was playing dumb. Working on King’s ego. Softening him up.

  “By the time the shrink is done, we’ll have five conflicting versions of the story. He’ll never even get to the jury.”

  Jacobs smiled. “That sounds promising. What other little gems do you have hidden in there?” Jacobs jerked his chin toward the desk drawer.

  King pulled out another set of papers. “Motions to suppress. Discovery. Qualification of juvenile witnesses. Enough paperwork to choke Lawson to death.”

  Jacobs took the second set of papers and examined them. “Do you mind?” he asked.

  “Be my guest,” King said cordially. “You can give me something later, if you have a chance.”

  Jacobs frowned. “Such as?”

  “Dunno,” King replied. “Maybe if your snoop finds something that’s helpful.”

  Joel tried to smile, but it didn’t come. King knew about Udek. It was supposed to be a secret, but King knew. Jacobs wondered what else the crafty attorney was hiding.