by Robin James
“Come on,” Nikki said. “They’re sitting on the porch out back. Grandpa takes his morning coffee there. There’s a pair of mallards he likes to yell at.”
I smiled and followed Nikki through the house. It smelled good. Like freshly baked cookies. Georgette had charming, rustic farmhouse decor, including an antique washboard nailed to one wall.
On another wall, she had two large portraits. One was a young girl, maybe three years old. It was an old photograph. Black and white. The child sat on a mini-rocking chair holding a red ball. She smiled at the camera with dimpled cheeks.
“That’s my Aunt Tina,” Nikki offered. “Grandma and Grandpa’s only daughter. She got sick not long after that picture was taken. I think she was four when she died. Leukemia. Back then they didn’t have treatments as good as they do now. Grandma always wonders whether she’d have lived if they did.”
“That’s so sad,” I said.
“And that’s my dad,” Nikki said, pointing to the other portrait. He was a handsome young man. He wore a brown suit with his blond hair slicked back. Clearly a senior picture, it had that old-fashioned fuzzy retouch, and an unnatural pose with his fist beneath his chin.
“Thomas,” Nikki explained. “He and Aunt Tina were twins. Dad passed away eleven years ago now. We just had the anniversary.”
“How awful,” I said. I looked out the screen door where I could see Grandma George sitting in a wicker chair next to Grandpa Lou. He threw bread at the ducks.
“They outlived both of their children,” I said. I kept the next thought to myself. They’d also outlived one of their grandchildren. Kevin.
Nikki opened the screen door and motioned for me to follow her.
Lou Sutter had thin silver hair and wore a polyester blue golf shirt, khaki pants, and white dress shoes with tassels.
“Get on outta there,” he yelled to the ducks as he tossed the bread.
“He doesn’t like them on the lawn,” Georgette said. “They poop everywhere. I keep telling him the bread doesn’t help.”
Lou waved her off.
“You’re supposed to feed them lettuce or kale or something,” Georgette said. “They don’t eat bread in the wild, Lou.”
He threw a piece of bread at Georgette, but there was no malice in it. His shot was wide. So was his smile.
“Hello, there!” Lou said, catching my eye. He had a twinkle in his that made me instantly like him.
Everybody’s grandpa. Someone had said that. Jason told me Lou was the real draw at the Sutter Bait Shop. Maybe even more than the worms. He said he had a story for every occasion and never forgot a face.
“That’s how they first got suspicious he was getting sick,” Jason had told me. “He started having trouble remembering names.”
“Hello,” I said, offering my hand to him. “I’m Mara Brent.”
“She’s the prosecutor,” Georgette said, leaning in close to Lou’s ear. His smile faltered. “She’s on our side, Lou.”
I watched as Lou Sutter escaped to some better place in his mind. He muttered under his breath and retrained his focus back on the ducks.
Georgette sighed. She kissed her husband’s cheek, then left his side. She gestured to a small bistro table nearby. I took a seat.
“So,” Georgette said. “Nikki said you want to tell us what’s going to happen today.”
“I do,” I said. “Mickey Harvey will be arraigned today. He’ll likely enter a plea. Then the judge will decide whether to set bail.”
“You think there’s any chance he will?” Nikki said. “Could Mickey be out and about after today?”
“I really doubt it,” I said. “The nature of this crime ... and to be honest, I think the judge is going to think Mickey’s safer in county lock-up than anywhere else.”
“He’s right,” Nikki said. “Ms. Brent, it’s getting nuts out there. Everybody thinks they know something. There are so many rumors.”
“I’ll call you as soon as the hearing is over,” I said. “Mickey’s lawyer will be there. I haven’t met them yet. But after that, there may not be a lot of activity for a few months. I’ll continue to interview witnesses, build the case. It’s likely a trial date will be set for sometime this fall. It’s important that you not discuss the case around town. I may have to call some of you as witnesses.”
Nikki’s face fell.
“Probably just you, Nikki,” I said. “To establish some background. But there will also be a lot of questions about how the Harveys and the Sutters are connected.”
“We’re not!” This from Lou. He turned his chair and faced me.
“Lou,” Georgette cautioned.
“He’s a crook,” Lou said. “Ed Harvey’s been trying to steal from my brothers and me since my dad was still around.”
“It’s complicated,” Georgette said. “A lot of the land we own now, Lou’s grandfather bought from Ed Harvey’s grandfather. But that was, oh, ninety years ago. Maybe more.”
“He called my brother a cheat!” Lou said, his face lined with fury.
“I’d heard something about an old boundary dispute,” I said.
“A long time ago,” Nikki explained. “He’s talking about Uncle Ray, right, Grandma?”
She nodded. “Lou’s oldest brother, Ray, is the one who built the store. My Louie was just a kid then. They had another brother, Henry, who died in the war. Lou always said that’s what killed their father. Henry was the favorite. Anyway, Ray was the oldest. He and his wife Rosemary more or less raised Lou after that. He grew up in that store.”
She got a wistful look in her eyes.
“It’s been hard,” Nikki said, lowering her voice. “Grandpa couldn’t run the day to day anymore. Then when my dad died …”
“I can imagine,” I said.
“Ray cheated nobody,” Lou said. “He paid fair and square for the west tract. If Ray hadn’t come along and offered on it, Ed Senior would have been sent to the poorhouse. He’d have been begging on the streets.”
“I know, Lou,” Georgette said, patting her husband’s hand. “I know. Now you’re getting all upset. It won’t do you any good. Come on. Come help me in the kitchen. I can’t get those pickles down from the top shelf.”
Lou’s face softened as his wife put her arm around him. He got up and followed her in the house.
“He doesn’t really know what’s going on,” Nikki said. “He fades in and out. I didn’t even think it was a good idea to tell him what happened to Kevin and the others. Grandma said he has a right to know. I suppose she’s right. But he remembers what doesn’t hurt, I think.”
“Nikki,” I said. “What about Kevin?”
I’d gone over the toxicology reports with her a few days ago. I’d left it up to her to decide what to tell her grandmother.
“She doesn’t know,” Nikki said, looking over her shoulder to make sure Grandma George and Grandpa Lou were out of earshot. “I didn’t have the heart to tell her Kevin was using again. What difference does it make now?”
“And you didn’t know?” I asked.
She shook her head. “Not really. It’s just ... do you have any addicts in your family?”
I paused.
“Never mind,” she said. “I know it’s none of my business. It’s just ... I know he was sick. I know it’s a disease process. But Kevin’s addiction is part of why I left Waynetown. Our mother, too. There were other reasons …” Her voice trailed off. Then, “But none of that really matters anymore.”
“I’m so sorry for what you’re going through,” I said.
“I tried to get him to come with me. I thought maybe a change of scenery would do Kevin good. Get him out of his old patterns and bad associations. We had an intervention for him a few years ago. My mom and I stuck to our bottom line. We moved to Seattle.”
“That must have been incredibly hard,” I said. “But also brave.”
“It worked,” she said. “Kevin turned his life around. Selling the bait store was part of that. He was making changes. I
swear, I didn’t know he was using. But I’ll blame myself forever for not really trying to find out.”
“You set your boundaries,” I said. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”
A tear fell from her eye. “Except now it’s too late.”
“Nikki,” I said. “Kevin’s full autopsy report is going to come out. I won’t be able to keep it out if this goes to trial. Obviously, it’s your call how you want to break things to your grandparents. But it will be public knowledge.”
She nodded. “I know. It’s just ... there’s been so much. I’ve tried to kind of tell them things in stages. She’s trying to hold it together for Grandpa. Gosh. She’s always done that. We’ve offered her live-in help. Kevin especially. After he sold the store, he could more than afford it. She’s stubborn, though. Now, I’m afraid of what that will mean for me.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“She wants me to stay,” she said. “She hasn’t come out and said it. But she keeps saying I’m all she’s got left. My dad is dead. Kevin’s gone. Now there’s a good chance she won’t get to see Ava much. We talked to that lawyer you suggested. Great-grandparents don’t really have any rights.”
“What about your mom?” I said. “Can’t she intervene and try to get some visitation?”
Nikki looked down. “She won’t. She’s trying to process things too. Kevin and I still had a relationship. He burned a lot of bridges with my mom. He didn’t treat her very well. He could be mean. But I know that was the drugs talking. They would have both come around. It’s just ... they ran out of time, you know?”
“I know,” I said. “And I’m so sorry for the pain this is causing you.”
“I can’t stay here,” Nikki started to cry. “Not forever. I know I have to be here for Kevin. For this trial. But I can’t move backward. My life is in Seattle.”
“What about the rest of her family?” I asked. “You’re not the only Sutter left in town, Nikki.”
“She has other help,” Nikki said. “Just nobody as close as me. Grandma George has a sister. Or half sister ... something. They live a little north of here. Her grandnephew Jody comes out. Runs errands. That’s who’s out there now chopping wood. She’s got him doing her landscaping and lawn care, keeping her cars running. Things like that. There are still a ton of aunts and uncles and cousins. They all check in. Some of my cousin Claudia’s family was here yesterday. A few of them will be in the courtroom today. Grandma kicked them out. She thinks they’re just buzzing around looking for handouts. Jody’s the only one besides me she lets in anymore. She says it’s because he’s not a Sutter, so he knows he isn’t entitled to any of their money. But since I came back, I’m who she wants. I’m the one who hears her crying herself to sleep, and I can’t make it better. How in the world can anyone make this better?”
“I’m so sorry,” I said.
Nikki wiped her eyes. “No. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to lay this all on you. It’s not all dire. Like I said. She still has tons of family around if she wants it.”
“But you need to process your grief too,” I said. “You can’t let yourself get dragged under the weight of this, Nikki. You know what they say about putting the oxygen mask on your own face before someone else.”
“Yeah,” she said. “Thanks. I mean that. Really. It helps to know you’re out there to handle this. I know you’re the best. So does Grandma.”
“Thank you,” I said. “And I’ll call you later today after the hearing. Promise.”
Nikki wiped her eyes again and rose with me. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s walk around the side of the house. She gets a hold of you again, you’ll be late for court.”
Her smile lightened my heart a little. But as we walked around the house, I could feel the gravity of her grief, of all of their grief, and knew this might never be a cheerful place again.
14
“Ho-lee crap,” Kenya said. She came up behind me as I sat at the prosecution table in Judge Denholm’s courtroom. The judge and his staff were out for an early lunch. His bailiff let me into the courtroom early so I could gather my notes and have a moment of peace before Mickey Harvey’s first court appearance started. Ironically, things were quietest inside the courtroom now. Half the town and every media outlet in Ohio waited outside to see Mickey.
“Holy crap.” She said it again. I turned in my seat. Hojo walked in behind her.
“You tell her yet?” he asked.
“Tell me what?” I asked.
Kenya handed me a single piece of paper. A court appearance, still warm from the printer. I looked at the caption and back at Kenya.
“Are you serious?”
“I thought she was retired,” Kenya said. “Hell, I thought she was dead.”
I looked back at the table. In the People of the State of Ohio versus Michael Edwin Harvey, his defense lawyer had finally entered an appearance.
“Elise Friggin’ Weaver,” Kenya said. “Weaver the Cleaver.”
“You want to enlighten me?” Hojo asked. “I’m sorry I don’t have the fancy pedigrees you two do. I just went to good old U.T. Law.”
Kenya rolled her eyes at him. “You also don’t have the same debt. I’m still paying mine off. You?”
“Elise Weaver,” I said. “She taught criminal procedure and trial practice at U. of M. Law School.”
“We both had her,” Kenya explained. “Though I was a few years ahead of Mara. She sliced students up. Weaver the Cleaver.”
“Why do I know that name?” he asked.
“She defended the Greendale killer in the early eighties,” I explained. “And Roger McLanathan? The guy falsely accused of being the Carey bomber?”
“Oh yeah,” he said. “He got more infamous than the real bomber. See, I don’t even remember that guy’s name.”
“Exactly,” Kenya said. “Well, son of a gun.”
“What in the world is she doing in …”
“All rise!”
I didn’t have a chance to finish my question. Judge Denholm moved quickly when he was ready. The back courtroom door opened and none other than Professor Elise Weaver the Cleaver stormed right in.
She looked exactly the same as I remembered from law school twelve years ago. Four-inch black heels. Impeccably pressed designer suit. Also black, but a pink silk blouse beneath it with a wide floppy bow. Only her hair had changed. Not the style. She still wore that in a neat, short cut, sprayed so it didn’t move. Only now, her hair was steel gray instead of black. She had a wide jaw and strong chin that kept her from aging.
“Elise Weaver on behalf of the defendant, You Honor,” she said. “I filed my appearance with the clerk twenty minutes ago.”
“Cutting it a little close, counselor,” Judge Denholm said. Behind me, I heard Hojo mutter a cleaver joke as Kenya shushed him.
Mickey Harvey came in next. Wearing prison orange and shackles, he shuffled to the table sandwiched by two large deputies.
Judge Denholm wasted no time and rattled off the charges against Mickey. Seven counts of first-degree murder.
“Your Honor,” Elise said. “We’re requesting bail be set at a reasonable amount. My client has strong ties to the community. He doesn’t pose a flight risk …”
“Got it,” Judge Denholm. “Ms. Brent, I take it you oppose?”
“Absolutely,” I said. “Due to the brutality of this crime and the substantial resources …”
“Save it,” Judge Denholm said. “I’m inclined to agree. Bail is denied. The defendant will be remanded back to Maumee County jail pending trial in this case. That’s all for now. I’ll see you both back here in two weeks for our first scheduling conference.”
He banged the gavel and dismissed the hearing.
“Your Honor!” Mickey shouted. “I didn’t get to talk. I didn’t get to say I’m not guilty.”
Elise grabbed Mickey by the arm and whispered something harsh in his ear. If I knew Elise Weaver, it was something along the lines of shut the heck up before I shut you
up myself.
Whatever it was, it caused Mickey’s color to drain. He held his jaw open, then clamped it shut. One of the deputies grinned but tried to cover. Else gave him a nod, then allowed them to take her client back to his cell.
“Ms. Montleroy,” she shouted to me, sending an old fear shooting down my spine. I expected her to make me recite the dissent’s analysis in Mapp versus Ohio.
“It’s actually Ms. Brent now.” I smiled, squaring my shoulders.
“Of course,” she said. “Is there somewhere we can talk?”
“Yes,” I answered. “My office is just across the street. Give me fifteen minutes to handle a couple of other things while I’m here and I’ll meet you there.”
I didn’t give Elise a chance to answer. I knew her. She’d want to try to put me on neutral turf at a minimum. I wasn’t in the mood for that particular game today.
I handed her my card and brushed past her, catching the sly smile on her face from the corner of my eye.
Elise Weaver showed up thirty minutes later. Caro walked her into my office and I could tell by the look on her face that Weaver had already rubbed her the wrong way.
“Have a seat,” I said, gesturing toward one of the two leather chairs in front of my desk. Elise did, but not before taking in the decor.
I kept things simple in here. Just one watercolor painting in a gold frame on the far wall. Sailboats. A local artist. Will picked it out for me at a street fair when he was only five years old. My law degree hung behind my head in a blue and gold frame. On the credenza, I had several of my favorite black-and-white pictures of Will.
“It’s good to see you again, Montleroy,” she said. “Oh ... right ... Brent?”
“Yes,” I said. There was a bit of an edge to Weaver’s tone. As if my name was an accusation.
“I’ve got to tell you,” she said. “I was kind of shocked to find you here. When they told me who was prosecuting that boy.”
“Mickey Harvey is hardly a boy,” I said. “And what are you doing here in Waynetown, Dr. Weaver?”