by C. E. Case
"You hit it?"
"The impact was like, like, I don't know. So hard. Everything just stopped, and then got really fast again. I spun and then I was in the ditch."
Natalie had fragments of memory from her own accident. The deer, soft and brown and alive, looking right into her eyes with its own black ones. She shivered.
"What next?" she asked.
"I got out of the car. Their car was all smashed up. They--" He glanced at the mirror.
"You stayed."
"Of course I stayed. What kind of asshole do you think I am?"
"Did you call 911?"
"No. No, I didn't even think of it. I was stunned. I just... Someone passed by. And then pulled over. They must have." Luis put his head in his hands.
"What is it?"
"There was screaming."
Natalie wanted to reach out to him.
He rubbed his face, scrubbing hard, and glanced up. "I didn't ask for this to happen."
She nodded.
"It just happened. God, if those assholes hadn't--"
Natalie flinched.
"When do I get out of here?" he asked.
"Your bail hearing's at three."
"And then I can go home?"
Natalie took a deep breath. She'd hardly ever done this--given bad news to a suspect. To a murderer. This wasn't her field. She could break a victim's heart all day long. Justice wasn't coming.
But for Luis, justice was coming.
"Luis, look--"
"What?" He hit the table.
"Bail's going to be high. I don't know we can pay."
"Of course. Of course he wouldn't pay. He's against me. He just wants me to go the fuck away. Go rot somewhere."
"Who?"
"Who? The guy who hired you."
"Why do you think he--"
"He hired a prosecutor. I asked around. If he wanted to help me he would have hired Tim Hoyle."
"That what your buddies in lockup tell you?"
Luis sneered. "Why are you here?"
Natalie ran her fingers through her hair. She had no idea why she was here, getting a splitting headache, dealing with a client who hated her on sight. She'd been at the accident scene less than ten hours ago.
"I came to see you first. I haven't talked to your father yet."
"He's paying you."
"He's paying me to defend you."
Which wasn't quite true. She'd go on the public defender dole, based on Luis's income. He could have another attorney if he wanted. Despite already being on the log sheet for the pubilc defender's office, maybe Tim Hoyle was the one up to catch the case.
"Why do you think he wanted me, Luis? I'm not local. He wants someone who doesn't have to pick sides. Someone who doesn't know the police or your friends or the victims. I can be--"
"Impartial? It's always about him, isn't it? His reputation. First sheriff from El Salvador. Like it matters. They just thought he was Lumbee. Did you vote for him?"
"I wasn't here. Luis, where does this anger come from?"
He leaned back and folded his arms. "Middle child?"
She chuckled.
"You?"
"Only child."
"Yeah. What a surprise. You don't understand anything."
Natalie considered while he gave her space, tense and exhausted like a bull, flush with anger but unwilling to charge. Not yet. Not again. He wore too many wounds already.
"You think I don't understand family, Luis?"
"I don't think you'll ever understand mine."
She got up, gathering her things. "Well, if the truth is on your side, you won't need me at all."
Luis glanced away.
"But if it's not... you're going to have to tell me all about your family. And how it's all their fault."
"It is," he said as she left. "It is!"
# #
Chapter Thirty-Three
"The police report won't be finished for a few days," Duarte said
"What will it show?"
Duarte sighed and shook his head.
"Sheriff, accident reconstruction isn't my forte."
"I can tell you it looks like Luis was going about ninety miles an hour."
"So he was lying."
"He always lies." Duarte looked sharply at her. "You can't tell?"
"I would have assumed, if I was... in court. But I'm trying to give him the benefit of the doubt."
"You don't need to give him the benefit of the doubt to defend him."
"Does anyone?"
"He killed two people!"
Natalie was silent as Duarte got half-out of his chair, his face flushed red. He leaned on his hands on the desk. She counted breaths with him. At four, he sat back down. "I keep forgetting he's not just some guy we arrested last night. He's my son."
"What will he be charged with?" she asked.
"There are different charges we could pursue but..."
"But you always start with the biggest."
"Felony death by vehicle in the first degree."
A jolt went through Natalie. She rubbed her arms as goose bumps appeared. "You can't believe he actually planned to kill someone last night?"
"He was going to sooner or later."
"He's your son."
"Vehicular manslaughter is a cakewalk if you can plea it down."
"You didn't hire some slick personal injury lawyer from the phone book."
"I have before. What good did it do?" Duarte cleared his throat. "What am I going to do?"
"I promise you, he'll get the best defense in the state."
Duarte nodded. "Thank you."
"Will you be at the bail hearing?"
"No, no I don't think I should be. Fasan will be there, though."
Natalie got up.
"Stop at the clerk's office on your way out and give Fasan your email address. He'll forward you everything you need. I told him to cooperate fully."
"Thank you."
He leaned across the desk, offering his hand. "No, thank you."
#
Natalie felt a bit uneasy, sitting in the park on a warm September day, eating the peanut butter and jelly sandwich she'd packed for lunch. She should be with the boys, but between the meeting with Luis and the hearing, she wanted focus.
Her phone rang, as if to remind her she had responsibilities.
But when she saw the caller ID, it wasn't Mrs. Cranston or the jail or the prison, but a reporter she knew from Rocky Mount.
"Natalie Ivans, attorney-at-law," she answered the phone.
"Hi, Natalie, Erica Mendes. Do you remember me?"
"Of course. I haven't thanked you enough for the article you did on Meredith's conviction."
"That my editor fought me tooth and nail on. But then we looked good, didn't we? Being the only paper covering that side of the story. Thanks for the full access. I didn't get a Pulitzer, but I swear it helped."
"I'm glad you could exploit my family in the hopes of a trophy, Erica."
Erica laughed. "Now I'm calling to exploit someone else's."
"This isn't a social call?"
"Does it feel like a coincidence?"
"I just didn't know news traveled so quickly."
"The court has Luis Duarte on the docket for murder. Come on."
"Felony death by vehicle."
"Who's the victim?"
Natalie shivered, thinking of the two girls. "I can't tell you, Erica."
"Is it the same Duarte as the sheriff?"
"Yes."
"It's all over Twitter already anyway. But if I can get Rocky Mount News as the confirmation re-tweet--"
"Erica."
"Sorry. That's not why I called you. Just daydreaming. I want to do a story."
"How did you know to call me?"
Erica was silent.
"You didn't know to call me?"
"I called Tim Hoyle. Then I called Deputy Fasan. He gave me your name."
"Makes sense."
"I already had your number. So what do yo
u think?"
"Of what?"
"Let's meet for lunch. I haven't seen you in a couple of months, anyway."
"Not much happens in Tarpley to write about."
"One more pig roasting and I swear I'll kill myself."
"What about the Top Ten Toys That Will Kill You For Back to School?"
"That's the kind of stuff junior editors write. Come on, lunch? You owe me a favor."
Natalie did. The article on Meredith had been a godsend in a dark time. Luis could use that kind of help. Natalie liked Erica's company. Her intelligence and wit and the scary cutthroat work she did. Natalie missed having that in her life.
"You're buying," Natalie said.
"I'm buying. But isn't it unethical? Last time we went Dutch."
Two months ago Natalie had looked at her savings, her medical bills, and her mortgage. The car insurance money was gone to bills as soon as her company cut the check. No more wine brunches with Erica Mendes.
"I don't care," she said.
Erica whistled. "This is going to be a good case."
#
Beau scribbled furiously on a piece of blank paper. He thought purple was a great color.
Natalie sat next to him at the kitchen table, Merritt in her lap. The sun was still high but she knew she should start dinner. She didn't want to move. Merritt squirmed against her.
"Hot dogs for dinner?" Merritt asked.
Natalie winced. "Don't say that."
Merritt grinned. He liked the face she made when he said it.
Beau glanced up from his grape artwork. "Can I have two?"
"Yes, but you know the rule."
"Wait five minutes between eating them. Mommy's rule. But she's not here."
"Mommy's rules are my rules." Natalie gave Merritt a squeeze.
He beamed.
"Guys," she said.
They loved to be called guys. Not boys, like everyone called them. Or kids, which was so much worse. They both turned to her.
"Are you excited about school?"
Merritt nodded.
Beau resumed coloring.
"Now, when you get there, guys, there are going to be little kids there. They're not going to know as much as you. They might not know their ABCs, or how to spell their name. You have to be patient with them, all right? No making fun of them."
Beau nodded solemnly.
Natalie kissed Merritt's hair. "And, there will be guys there who know more than you."
Merritt frowned.
"I know, right? But they will. You can't get jealous. Just see if they'll teach you, and if they won't, teach the other kids instead, okay? No use in getting angry."
"There are worse things," Beau said.
Natalie nodded.
Merritt grabbed a white sheet of paper from the stack and, after considering Natalie's face, chose a forest green crayon. He carefully spelled out, "Natalie."
"That's me. Perfect."
Soon, she'd fix hot dogs and Merritt would spend 20 minutes putting little red and yellow dots of ketchup and mustard along the bun and then complain his food was cold.
Beau would stuff half a hot dog into his mouth and then spend long minutes trying to chew it into submission. Natalie would get to witness the glory of his open mouth.
For now, she just got her own sheet of paper and chose Merritt's favorite color, red, and wrote "Merritt" in scrawl as large as his.
"We can tape them to the door," Merritt said.
Beau nodded.
"What color, Beau?"
He handed his purple crayon over.
# #
Chapter Thirty-Four
Meredith rolled onto her side. She kept everything of value in bed with her. Her Bible lay at her elbow. By her hip were The Black Stallion and a People magazine.
Natalie's big idea was Meredith could read what the kids were reading. For two months, Meredith read Harry Potter with trepidation, waiting for the report her children were frightened, that they'd become occultists, that they would hate reading forever. Natalie brought her a picture of the boys in witch hats, and then confessed she bribed them to put them on for the camera. Magic, they could take or leave.
Her toiletries were in a bolted-to-the-floor locker on the other side of the room, under the sink. She could drown herself, or strategically slip and fall. But it wasn't that kind of place.
It was almost a nice place.
She had the room to herself, dormitory style. Convent style. She could go down the hall to the bathroom at night without asking permission. She had a radio. Not that Rocky Mount aired any decent radio stations. She strayed from sports to country to contemporary, but the music echoed shallowly in her and failed to move her.
Opening the Bible, she gazed again at the photographs. Her boys, posing for their yearly portrait at the mall, dressed for Easter, smiling in little suits. Her boys in the witch hats. A snapshot Natalie took in the car right before driving to the court house to drop her off for prison transport. Their last moments together. Natalie was grinning goofily. Meredith, behind her shoulder, was terrified.
For four months, Natalie brought the boys up every Saturday, and came up by herself every Wednesday. For the first month, Meredith would sit with Natalie at the picnic table outside, curled up in her arms, unmoving, not speaking, her eyes closed so she wouldn't see the guards. Natalie would always kiss her goodbye and the giddiness would last until Saturday.
The last night, the waiting, was always the hardest.
She carefully tucked the pictures back into the Bible pages. It hurt to see them. Her children marked the crease of Matthew 11. "John the Baptist, who was in prison…"
Guiltily, she closed the Book and put it beside her pillow. She picked up The Black Stallion.
#
Burdette stared disdainfully at Meredith's cereal. Meredith opened her milk carton without comment. Burdette had potato wedges and eggs on her plate and hard biscuits. Even the look of them made Meredith nauseous.
"That what your kids eat, Merry?" Burdette asked.
Every morning.
"I don't let them have the cereal. Just milk. They lap it like kittens."
Burdette's first smile of the day.
Meredith smiled back and began to eat her cereal.
Burdette stabbed a potato wedge with her plastic spork. It split into two. She scooped up a half. "Could use some ketchup."
Meredith glanced at the ketchup bottle two seats down. The rest of the table was empty. "Why don't we just sit there?"
Burdette stared at her as if she were crazy.
Meredith shrugged.
Burdette ate the other half and asked, her mouth full, "What's on the agenda for today?"
Meredith's morning would consist of lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the radio. The thought depressed her. Her afternoon was her shift at the infirmary. Then dinner, then staring at the ceiling.
Maybe she could call Natalie, but she felt weak, yearning to do that. If she felt weak, she should turn to the Lord, who was better suited. Natalie had so much on her plate. Meredith felt selfish for missing her.
Burdette waited patiently for her answer. She didn't have anything else to do.
"Better not to ask. You?"
Burdette slumped. "Group therapy. I hate that shit. Why aren't you going?"
"Infirmary shift."
Burdette scowled.
"Let me know what everyone says, okay?" Meredith asked, hoping to diffuse Burdette's jealousy, her anger at feeling so exposed, flayed open, day after day.
Burdette pushed at her food. The nausea set in. Meredith could see the greenish tint of her face. "I need a drink," Burdette said.
"Well, thank God you're here with me."
Burdette rolled her eyes and glanced away, at the other tables where sleepy women ate breakfast. But she stayed, patient and blank, as Meredith ate.
#
Meredith gazed at the ceiling and, for a lack of anything else to do, thought about Burdette. Burdette had no
other friends. She was aggressive in group therapy, but the rest of the time she was passive. Limp. Unattentive. Meredith had no other friends either. People were happy to see her in the infirmary, but out on the grounds she kept to herself.
She wasn't a junkie like over half the women here. She hadn't been caught up in any crime with her boyfriend. She'd been willing, and she felt different, separate from them. She tried not to judge.
Burdette was, she reasoned, the most like her.
"What are you in for?" Burdette asked the first morning, in a calm, dead tone Meredith would eventually get used to.
"Voluntary manslaughter. Of my husband." She didn't know if she was supposed to lie, if she was supposed to claim to be a cop killer, or make sure no one thought of her as a molester. She didn't want to say shoplifting at Macy's. Not when it was Vincent's death.
Burdette nodded, dissected her breakfast burrito. "I shot my old man. While he was asleep."
Revulsion bubbled up in Meredith. She swallowed hard to keep it in her throat. And with it, shame. This was how people saw her.
Burdette saw her.
"I stabbed mine," she said.
"So we're murderers," Burdette said, and politely looked away while Meredith cried all over breakfast.
Burdette was an alcoholic, and absent alcohol in prison, she'd tried to take up smoking, but her hands shook too much and the smoke made her cough. So, a dry drunk, she waited. At her prison A.A. meetings, she regaled the potency of alcohol. Life was better on the other side, all else was meaningless.
Meredith attended a few meetings. She found them more painful than the regular group sessions. She couldn't really understand why Burdette felt nothing.
Mail call went out over the loudspeakers. Meredith rolled out of bed.
#
Meredith carried three envelopes on her tray as she settled in at lunch. Burdette carried no envelopes and eyed Meredith's with interest. Most people opened their mail at lunch, wanting camaraderie to protect them from the emotional turbulence of news. Dear John letters were common. As were pictures from kids and the occasional angry screed from a lover or a parent.
Meredith got a letter from her cousin Hank once a week and had received two cards from the hospital. The prison gave her stamps to write back. The depression would sink and she'd have half-formed thoughts on paper.
"Dear, Natalie, you're all I think about, and it terrifies me."
She knew Natalie was exercising similar caution. She saved her affection for when they were face to face, and let her letters be full of frivolity and business.