Grade a Stupid

by A. J. Lape

  “I won! I won!” he bellowed.

  Curling my hands into binoculars, I smooshed my face into the glass door, peering inside. Murphy was swinging Marjorie around by the waist as she had the white receipt for his Powerball Pick Three numbers scrunched tightly in her hand.

  Oh. My. Word. He. Won.

  How much, I didn’t know, but I was somehow going to work this to my advantage.

  18 UNEXPECTED WINDFALL

  IF YOU’RE A high jumper, the goal’s to raise the bar each attempt. If you’re talented, the legs do what you ask of them. They stretch to scale the height your brain told you was impossible. Being talentless, I liked to keep the bar low. That way I saw more success.

  Problem was, my idea of low would trip an Olympic athlete with a full run, no head wind, and nothing in his path. I didn’t shy away from things the logical person would say were stupid. Probably why I was wearing a black pencil skirt, fitted blouse, a smooth and polished ponytail, and heels that made me well over six feet tall. I wanted to look like a law clerk.

  My guess was, I looked like an idiot.

  An idiot with a plan, I should probably amend.

  I was off to see Oscar. How was this possible when I was grounded for running around with a questionable guy my father barely knew? It all came down to Murphy’s windfall in the lottery...and a little bit of creative thinking. I told Murphy if God blessed him then he needed to bless me by ungrounding me and gifting me with my Apple products. That’s what good people did. It was a simple approach—actually asinine—and he shockingly agreed with an overzealous, I’m-freaking-rich smile. This wasn’t Murphy Walker, though—I debated taking a blood sample—but I wasn’t going to spit in the face of his benevolence.

  I topped my outfit off with my studious, black cat-eyed glasses then stared in the mirror. “Are you in or not, Vinnie?” I asked impatiently, appraising my smile. Squirting some toothpaste on my brush, I quickly swept it over my teeth trying to remove my breakfast of Mexican wedding cookies and microwave popcorn.

  Vinnie grunted. “Dolce, you hurt my feelings taking off with that Liam character. I don’t know if I’m in or not.” This conversation was déjà-vu all over again, a rewind of asking him to go to the Valley Police Department just last week. Who would’ve thought Vinnie was the sensitive type or the type to hold a grudge? The longer we spoke, the more I realized the subject of Liam was far from over. All the same, I couldn’t help but wonder what Liam wanted to talk about that was confidential.

  He wasn’t going to be one of those guys that used me as a sounding board about his ex, was he? I might be desperate, but not that desperate. Still, he requested I call him back, and that was yesterday. Granted, Murphy vetoed my going anywhere with him—I was too embarrassed to unload that little morsel—but not following through made me look uninterested and frankly rude.

  I sighed, spitting some froth in the sink, concentrating on the teeth in the back. This no-braces thing was making me a hyper-brusher. What I was looking at was the final product and even though they were straight, I didn’t know if I was truly happy. Grabbing a Crest White Strip packet, I swished some water through my mouth, dried my teeth with a towel then affixed the bleaching strips to the top and bottom rows. “Claudia jus’ made some Mex-can weddin’ kookies,” I slurred out.

  He actually moaned. “How should I dress?” he asked.

  “Like a law-yur.”

  Twenty-five minutes later, Vinnie was standing in the foyer of my home. His hair was gelled back like someone from New York or Jersey’s mob, with a gold nugget pinky ring on his left finger. He was dressed in a navy suit and tie, spit-shined black shoes (he needed a size wider, but who was being picky), a briefcase in his hand...toting a bouquet of multi-colored tulips. Did he actually think we were getting married because of the wedding cookies?

  I already had a bad case of heartburn, and this sent me into an acid reflux coughing fit. Vinnie pounded on my back. “It’s Secretary’s Day, Dolce,” he chuckled. “These flowers are going to come in handy. If I teach you anything, know your audience.”

  Vinnie was sliding by through school with no immediate plans for the future if he didn’t get an athletic scholarship. Pity, was the first thought that came to mind. He had potential, but I feared he was going to blow whatever opportunity came his way anyway. Thing was, I knew my audience. I’d gotten my law clerk on and was somehow going to score a meet-and-greet with Oscar.

  Did I know how? No. Would I figure it out once I got there? Yes.

  Oscar was incarcerated at the Valley Juvenile Detention Center, or JDC. It was a few blocks over from the police department and was the holding facility for juveniles (under 18) who’d been charged with an unruly or delinquency offense. Once incarcerated, its residents were separated by age, sex, and the nature of their crime. Oscar’s was Murder One. My guess was he was hanging out with the baddest-of-the-bad, hopefully not in a pit in the ground. If convicted, this wouldn’t be his final resting place, for lack of a better phrase. The JDC’s a temporary housing facility until your fate’s determined. For Oscar, since they were trying him as an adult—because it was a capital offense with a weapon involved—he was going to the “big house.”

  When we pulled into the parking lot, I thought on the various stories behind these four walls. Some were guilty, some were innocent, some were probably guilty-by-association. Whatever the situation, I’m sure when they all got up on that one fateful morning, the last thing they thought was, Gee, I’d really like to go to jail today. But society had rules. You break those rules, and you’re either given another chance or deemed this was your day to pay.

  Some had no sense of principle, so crime came easy for them. They steal, cheat, murder, and bend the rules to serve their own hedonistic purposes. Others, I think, do crazy things when they fall into the depths of despair. They feel trapped with no way out, and actions that would mortify someone in a stable environment are eclipsed by “if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em.”

  I understood the depths of despair. No, I hadn’t broken countless laws, but I’d gone to places so dark, the only way I found my way out was by following the voices. Those sorts of things leave an irremovable mark on you. Something that woke you in the night with terrors, gasping for breath with lungs that have collapsed in fear. All those places I’d been were about the same on the Richter Scale of pain—except my mother.

  Viciously shaking my head, I buried that thought, doing a mental checklist of things I’d need. Clutched in my hand was one of Murphy’s old black briefcases that included a yellow legal pad, two black ink pens, my yearbook, and iPad. I didn’t know what I was going to do with any of it, but the lawyers I’d been around always came armed with paper and electronics.

  Luckily the day was sunny with a forecasted high of 69 degrees. Pop-up showers were likely, but I was hoping this was one of those days the weather forecasters got it wrong. That happened a lot here, people. You’re told one thing, and it’s not even close to what transpires. To show my optimism, I told the monsoon season to kiss-my-unstable-bum and wasn’t even going to carry an umbrella.

  Squeaking wide the door on the Bug, I stepped out onto the sidewalk. Rolling my neck around, I jumped up and down a few times as though I was getting ready to be put in a game—geeking myself up. Then I swallowed deeply, squared my shoulders, and walked side-by-side with Vinnie toward the front door.

  The JDC’s a big, red brick building with two American flags flying in the front. I paused while Vinnie said something about “America the Beautiful” then walked inside. The ambience was, in short, stunted. Even if you didn’t know prisoners were housed here, you could feel the defeat in the air. I imagined row after row of inmates parading outside or to the cafeteria—realizing I took for granted the simple joy of sunshine or a meal of your choosing.

  Vinnie shoved me toward the front desk. I had a moment of panic. If I couldn’t get past the receptionist, I had no backup plan. As I raised my chin and semi-confidently walked forward (okay, I w
as scared as ca-ca), I recalled Frank’s words. Oscar was assigned to Public Defender Odell Whitmeyer under Judge Ronald Van Winkle. Van Winkle was a hard-nosed blankety-blank, according to reputation. My guess was his public defenders had to stay on their toes.

  That probably meant Whitmeyer had already done his homework. That also meant he might be so on-the-ball he constantly thought of things he’d like to ask his client. At least, that was the angle I was going for.

  With a round face and black hair a little late on a dye job, the receptionist (Mona by her nametag) had “single mom” written all over her. Single mom and recently broken up with somebody. Her mascara was raccooning under both eyes as she dabbed a nose that was Rudolph-red. I fought a smile. This was luck. This was luck kissing me right on the mouth. Slumping over her desk, surrounded by pictures I assumed were her children, she sobbed, “Oh, Tony,” then blew her nose so loud it sounded like a foghorn. Giving her a few moments to collect herself, she gave one last honking blow, then attempted a smile.

  I crossed my fingers I didn’t look like a teenager. “Your name?” she sniffed to me.

  An idiot, I thought. On too many levels to count.

  My voice took the Midnight Train to Georgia because suddenly I couldn’t find it. Vinnie must’ve felt my panic because he magically appeared at my side. “Corleone,” he said deeply, extending the tulips, “Carlo Corleone. And may we take this time to say Happy Secretary’s Day, Mona. Without you, I’m sure this place would fall apart.” I was in no place to judge, but Corleone? Couldn’t he have picked a surname that didn’t come from The Godfather??

  Just like Guido Galucci, Vinnie pulled out a crisp, white business card and laid it on her desk. She half-heartedly looked, not taking her eyes off the tulips.

  “Thank you,” she sniffed and gushed. As with every other female, Vinnie had one of those moments where he rushed them with testosterone. He would never be my type in a million years, but it wasn’t like I didn’t appreciate the spectacle or find it entertaining. Vinnie was as big as a barn, but he had “something” because he brought out the barn-lover in everyone.

  Mona started blushing.

  She had a glass bowl full of hard candy on her desk. Once Vinnie was convinced he’d cast his spell, he plunged his beefy fingers inside and plopped a few in his mouth. Pulling his cell phone out of his jacket, he said, "Take over, Greta. Odell is expecting me in 45 minutes, so let the pretty lady know what we need.”

  He gave me a sheet of paper then turned on his heels.

  Greta?? Well, Greta didn’t know what lying called for, but I had a feeling the credentials fit me perfectly.

  Mona stretched across the desk in her high-waisted Mom jeans and popped the button. I acted like I didn’t notice when she anxiously refastened it. “What do you need?” she asked me.

  I put on my thespian smile. “Hi, Mona. I’m a law clerk with Odell Whitmeyer, and we’re here to talk to our client, Oscar Small.”

  A look of recognition crossed Mona’s face. “It’s Wednesday,” she said confused. “Visiting hours are only in the evening.”

  I nearly fainted. I stupidly assumed you could walk in whenever you wanted, but when I looked down at my hand, the sheet of paper Vinnie brought was a confirmation of a “Special Visitation” for an authorized visitor. Somehow, he’d thought of everything.

  I slid it over to Mona with a confident smile. After she briefly appraised it, she said, “Follow me,” then stood up and walked toward what I assumed were inmate rooms.

  I stared, stupefied.

  Once I came to myself, I fought the urge to look over my shoulder to see if I was being set up for entrapment or something. This was too easy. This was too easy, and grossly against the law. As Vinnie and I followed, I immediately was hit with a case of nerves so severe I almost toppled over. My knees hit a few times, but I talked myself out of running for the car. A look to Vinnie showed a big grin of satisfaction, where he knew he’d done his part.

  Thing was, now it was all up to me.

  After a guard patted us down, we were led to a ten-by-ten foot room that had a one-way viewing glass. For us it looked like a big window, but I surmised it was the place where authorities talked amongst themselves, considering their next move. We barely sat down when a prison guard led Oscar in, his hands and feet in shackles. I swallowed some grief. Oscar had always appeared older than everyone else, but the pain on his face wasn’t age—it was of someone that had grown up too soon. His beard hadn’t been shaved, his glasses were taped together at the bridge (like they’d been broken), and worse than anything, he looked gaunt. My guess was he wasn’t eating.

  I jumped out of my seat before he could say anything. “Hello, Oscar. I’m Greta. I work for Odell Whitmeyer. We have a few more questions for you.”

  Oscar’s right eye was swollen black and blue. Before I could ask what happened, Vinnie wrote a note on my legal pad and gave a look so ferocious to the prison guard it nearly floored him. “Make sure that doesn’t happen again,” Vinnie snarled, jerking his head to Oscar’s eye. “You’re supposed to be protecting him. I’ll be placing that in my report to the judge...along with your name.”

  There was a moment where I wanted to know how Valentine Vecchione knew the ins-and-outs of prison protocol, because the guard didn’t refute that was even typical procedure. He gave an austere nod then crossed his hands behind his back, staring at the clock on the wall.

  Pulling out a chair for him, Oscar slid into it—his shackles clanging—afraid to even speak. “Oscar,” I said softly, trying my best to give him a nonverbal signal to play along, “Mr. Whitmeyer has some additional questions about the day you saw Alfonso Juarez. Specifically what you saw in the school parking lot and your relationship with those individuals before that day.”

  Oscar looked straight ahead—no doubt considering future ramifications.

  We were sitting at a silver, stainless steel rectangular table. Two chairs were on each side, one on each end. Scooting one of the end chairs directly to his side, I touched his shoulder, whispering. “I’m here to help.”

  He gave a quick chin jerk to the camera mounted in the upper right corner of the room, the camera taping our exchange—the camera that was going to bust us if I couldn’t figure out how to block its view. Vinnie was okay, his back was to it, but my profile was as exposed as a naked baby’s bottom.

  Propping my elbow on the table, I covered my right cheek with my hand, pivoting to where I was almost sitting with my back to the lens like Vinnie. Vinnie slid the brief case across the table. I unclicked its latch and pulled out last year’s yearbook. Oscar told Ms. Dempsey there were four people at the dumpster that day. The only one he could identify definitively was Jinx King. I knew myself that Jinx was there with Justin Starsong—so, that’s two—but could I put the others at the scene, more specifically around the dumpster?

  Going through the index, I presented photographs of Adam Neeley and Juan Salas.

  Oscar whispered, “Yes,” to the photograph of Adam, and an even more vehement, “Yes,” as I produced the picture of Juan. In less than five short minutes, I’d placed all four males at the scene—males I knew were involved in the copper business like Oscar. Boys I’d bet my life were the “eyewitness accounts” of Oscar at the dumpster.

  “Oscar, you need to tell me what you know about the copper business in town. Frank told me a little, and I saw some things myself, but I get a feeling there’s more to it than two guys competing with one another. It’s organized, isn’t it?”

  Oscar gave a nod. “Jinx, is in a gang called Northside.”

  “Northside,” I repeated.

  “Yes, Northside.”

  I thought of the numbers six and twelve that were in that hand signal and wondered if, in fact, they were the Northside 12. “Could they be Northside 12?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Who leads Northside?” I asked. “Jinx?”

  He shook his head no. “Not the type.”

  “Could it be any
of the other three?”

  He furrowed his brow, wheels turning in his head. “Adam, no. Juan, maybe. Justin, most definitely.” Who was this Justin? Even Liam would give me very little information about him. Made me think he was one of those bad guys that were so bad, you didn’t even want his name to pass over your lips.

  I thought back to the two instances where I saw Juan and Justin in action unbeknownst to them. In UDF, Justin undoubtedly portrayed himself higher up the hierarchical structure than Jinx. He was giving Jinx commands, telling him he had some explaining to do. At the construction site, Juan was doing all the talking when I would’ve expected Justin—if, in fact, he were Mr. Hood—to be the person jawing the most. Instead, he wouldn’t even return the hand signal which almost appeared as him breaking ties.

  Whatever the case, I had incontrovertible proof that placed four other individuals at the scene of the crime. Granted it was Oscar’s word, but I personally could corroborate Jinx and Justin.

  “Oscar, did you describe these males to Odell Whitmeyer?”

  “Sort of. All I could tell him was they dressed alike with that red bandana. He spent a lot of time on that.”

  “Had you ever seen Alfonso Juarez before that day?”

  Oscar vehemently shook his head in the negative. “No,” he said, “but I know he’s AVO. Mr. Whitmeyer told me as much. Did you know AVO was already here?”

  I scratched the back of my neck, feeling like I was about to crawl right out of my skin. I figured as much. I mean, why would Alfonso Juarez even be in town?

  “Did you tell him about the copper?” I asked.

  Oscar breathed a deep breath that caused him to wince. Made me think he had a cracked rib. “I did, and I told him about Jinx and Northside. He wrote some notes down, but I think he was frustrated.”

  My guess was he was frustrated because he couldn’t tie anyone else to Juarez in some fashion or another. I knew how to do it. Tie Alfonso Juarez to copper and then you could explain the connection to Jinx King. Once again, that part of my brain that had no sense of danger, informed me I had to introduce myself to AVO. Once that was birthed in my mind, I realized that conceivably could be the last thought I ever had. AVO didn’t play around.