Evidence of Love

by John Bloom

  Rob finally tracked down a bondsman willing to handle the case. His name was Jack Swidler. Rob and Candy drove downtown to Swidler’s office, a storefront operation in a part of the business district where porno moviehouses and boxing gyms alternated with fleabag mission hotels and beer bars. But there were complications. Swidler suddenly decided he wanted extra surety. He wanted the deed to the Montgomerys’ house. Rob left to call the sheriff and explain the extra delay, and Elaine drove downtown to work things out with Swidler.

  Elaine was starting to think the whole world was nuts. Witnesses wouldn’t talk to her. The police were acting more than a little strange. And now, for some reason, the bail bondsman was afraid that this ordinary little housewife was going to skip town with her husband and two kids and fly to Bora Bora. She was getting angry, especially since she knew this was all a waste of time. The deed to a house was worth nothing to Swidler. Under Texas law, a homestead cannot be garnished or seized under any circumstances—even bankruptcy. She argued with Swidler until he was hoarse, but he wouldn’t budge. He wanted the deed, and he wanted a promissory note. Otherwise, he wouldn’t make this bond.

  Among the media, the word had been out for several hours that an arrest warrant had been issued for one Candace Lynn Wheeler Montgomery of Fairview, Texas. The “female friend of Allan Gore” suddenly had a name, and by midafternoon the name was as close as your nearest radio. Pat had left work as soon as he got Candy’s call and arranged to meet Sherry Cleckler at his father’s house in Euless. Together they would move the animals and the kids and the luggage back home. They were very conscious of time—they wanted to finish quickly and get home, where they could be reached by phone—so after putting the baggage in the back of Sherry’s pickup, Pat packed Ian and Jenny into his Volkswagen Rabbit and headed for Fairview. He had the radio on, as usual, and he had just passed the airport when a news report broke in on the music:

  A warrant was issued today for the arrest of a McKinney woman accused in the ax murder of a Wylie housewife. Candace Lynn Montgomery, described by police as a friend of the victim’s husband, was being sought this afternoon after being charged with murder in the hacking death of Betty Gore, a schoolteacher found dead in the laundry room of her home on June 13.…

  As soon as the report began, Pat glanced over at Jenny and knew it was too late. They had both heard everything. They recognized their mother’s name, and they knew what murder was. Up until then Pat had managed to avoid telling them exactly what was going on. Ian had asked why they had to live at his grandpa’s house, and Pat had told him that the police had made a mistake and thought their mother had done something. He didn’t know how he was going to explain this one.

  “Daddy, are they going to put Mommy in jail?”

  Jenny was always the one who cut right to the heart of the matter.

  “Well, we know Mommy,” Pat began slowly, “and we love Mommy, and we know she didn’t do it. We all love her.”

  Pat didn’t want to say anything more; he didn’t want the kids to realize how serious it was. But Jenny was very upset and began to cry. Ian was unaffected, because he didn’t understand exactly what was going on. They drove the rest of the way to Fairview in silence.

  Around 10:30, Candy called home from Jack Swidler’s office. She sounded tired.

  “Pat, the bail bondsman says he needs the deed to our house, but everything’s taken so long that I have to leave to go to court. You’re going to have to drive down here and straighten everything out.”

  “Okay, what do I need to do?”

  Candy spoke away from the phone for a second and then returned. “The deed to the house and a promissory note for $90,000.”

  “All right, I’ll leave now.”

  “Are the kids all right?”

  “They’re fine. They want you to know that we all love you.”

  The job of actually delivering Candy to the courthouse steps had finally fallen to Rob, and at this point it was a thankless task. The delay in getting Swidler to approve the bond had fouled everything up. Around eight o’clock that evening Rob called Don at home. “Judge Ryan just called,” he said.

  “Ryan’s involved in this thing?” said Don. “Wha’d he say?”

  “He said ‘Where’s your client? We’re waiting on her.’ I told him we’re having problems with the bond, but it should be finished any minute now.

  “But Ryan said, ‘You get that lady up here right now or else. Otherwise I’m gonna reconsider that bond reduction hearing you want in the morning.’”

  Tom Ryan and Don Crowder had met many times in the courtroom. Neither one of them thought too highly of the other.

  “I’ll call him,” said Don.

  But the bond problem didn’t go away. Two more hours passed. Rob was calling Jack Swidler’s office every fifteen minutes to get reports from Elaine. They always seemed on the verge of some agreement, but then it would fall apart again. When it got to be about ten o’clock, Rob called Ryan again. As he later related the conversation to Don:

  “Judge, wouldn’t it be easier if we simply brought Mrs. Montgomery in the morning?”

  “Mr. Udashen, the answer to that is not only no, it’s hell no!”

  This time Ryan took the offensive by calling Don at home.

  “Crowder, you have lied to me. You and your young lawyer have sandbagged me.”

  Don Crowder’s considerable temper started to flare.

  “What do you care, Judge? This is not even in your court. It’s not in any court. What do you have to do with it? It’s the sheriff’s matter, and we will have her up there.”

  “You’d better. Right now.”

  Don hung up, still angry, and immediately dialed Rob.

  “Get her ass up there! We’re pissing off a district judge, and that’s something we can’t afford.”

  That’s why Pat Montgomery was summoned to Dallas to finish the paperwork, and why Rob was racing up the North Central Expressway as the hour approached eleven o’clock. At least one good thing had come of all this, he thought to himself. It was too late to do the media any good.

  When Rob pulled past the brand new Collin County courthouse and turned left toward the Sheriff’s Office, he realized how wrong he could be. Bright television lights had been set up at the entrance to the building, there were camera crews and mobile vans everywhere, and at least a hundred people were gathered on the street outside, waiting for the show. As he edged down the street, people peered through the car windows, wondering whether this was the car with the notorious woman inside. He turned left again, into an official driveway, and someone standing nearby shouted something at Candy. Rob couldn’t make it out, but it sounded obscene. Candy didn’t notice at all.

  “What’s going to happen?” asked Candy.

  Rob was scared, but he tried not to show it. “Don’t worry, I have it all arranged. We’re going to pull into the sally port, and then they’ll pull the door down and close it off to the public.”

  He continued to edge through the crowd and eased into the garage, nodding at two uniformed deputies at the entrance. They didn’t nod back. A headline flashed through his mind. Lawyer dares police to jail ax suspect. Damned media.

  Neither of the guards made a move to close the door, and once the car was fully inside, it was too late. The throng had surged into the sally port right behind him.

  “Don’t open your door,” said Rob. He needn’t have worried. Candy had already locked it.

  Rob could see the door to the jail a few feet away. So he reached over and grabbed Candy’s hand and said, “Follow me.”

  Opening his door, he pulled her out behind him. As soon as he did, the crowd moved up close to them, and a reporter for a radio station screamed, “How are you going to plead?”

  Candy clutched a book tightly in one hand, looked around her, and smiled faintly.

  Just then Steve Deffibaugh emerged from the jail, holding a warrant in one hand and a small card with the Miranda warning written on it in the other. Beh
ind him stood a phalanx of TV cameramen, all pointed in the general direction of Candy. Rob was too stunned to say anything. He couldn’t violently object, because everything he did was being taped. He couldn’t move forward because the crowd and now Deffibaugh were in his way. So he simply stood there while Deffibaugh approached.

  The insistent reporter kept yelling questions. “Are you surprised by the charge?” he said.

  Candy looked around again and saw that, oddly enough, about a dozen children were among those watching the scene.

  “Candace Lynn Montgomery,” said Deffibaugh, his voice quivering slightly as he stared down at the paper in his hands. “You are under arrest.” He cleared his throat. “You are under arrest for the offense of murder. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you …”

  As he was speaking, Candy could scarcely hear the words. She was looking at the warrant in his hands. He could hardly hold it still, his hands were shaking so much. She wondered whether he was scared of her or the TV cameras. The thought was funny. She smiled again.

  After he had read the Miranda warning, Deffibaugh quickly took Candy by the arm and motioned her toward the jail door. Rob was angry. Why was all this happening for the benefit of the TV cameras? But he was even angrier when they got to the door. Another deputy stopped him from entering.

  “No,” he said, “you can’t go with her.”

  “Why not?”

  “You’ll have to go in through the main entrance.”

  Startled, Rob watched Candy disappearing into a sea of uniforms inside the jail.

  “Don’t talk to anybody,” he yelled at her.

  He turned around and forced his way back through the spectators, intending to run around to the front of the building. But yet another deputy stopped him before he could get out of the sally port.

  “You can’t leave your car in here,” he said.

  “Where can I leave it?” Rob said flatly.

  “In the visitors’ lot,” he said.

  Rob got back into his car and moved it to the parking lot, then ran back to the jail and announced himself to the book-in officer.

  “Have a seat over there, sir,” said the officer.

  “I need to talk to my client.”

  “Have a seat over there, please, and I’ll see about it for you.”

  Glen Swanner, the Justice of the Peace Rob had spoken to earlier in the day, had been as good as his word. The arraignment was swift, and bond was set at $100,000. As soon as Swanner was finished, Candy was fingerprinted and taken into a shower room, where two women deputies named Roberts and Lorance ordered her to take off her clothes. Candy untied her tennis shoes and then unfastened her blue jeans. When she stepped out of them, the women saw the unsightly purple bruises on her legs and the deep cut on her left middle toe. One of them left the room briefly and came back with a camera. All the bruises and cuts were photographed, and then Candy was given a stiff blue prison smock. She had an instinctive dislike for Roberts and Lorance. They were too cold and businesslike. Their attitude seemed accusing.

  After Deputy Deffibaugh learned of the injuries to Candy’s body, he conferred briefly with Roberts and Lorance and decided she should be examined by a doctor. Deffibaugh had a patrol car called into the sally port, and one of the woman deputies put a pair of handcuffs on Candy.

  “Do you really have to do that?” she said.

  The deputy didn’t bother to answer.

  During the short drive to Collin Memorial Hospital, Candy sat in the back seat of the patrol car, handcuffed, with Roberts on one side and Lorance on the other. Far from being awed by the display of police security, Candy found herself growing angry. It seemed as though they were proud of themselves. They enjoyed making her feel small. She was the weakest person in the car, and yet they all acted as though she were some dangerous criminal, the way kids acted when they put someone in “jail” under the kitchen table. Under any other circumstances it would be funny. She couldn’t wait to get away from these jerks.

  At the hospital, there was more showmanship. They made a great scene in the emergency room, hustling her through a crowd of people with exaggerated seriousness. Once in the hospital examining room, Deffibaugh left so Roberts and Lorance could conduct a second strip-search, as though she might have picked up some contraband on the way over in the patrol car. Then he came in and rephotographed the cut on her foot, while a staff doctor examined the bruises and recorded them. He didn’t notice the cut at Candy’s hairline—the scab on the scar had fallen off that day—and Candy made no effort to help him find it. After the examination, she was handcuffed again and placed in the patrol car for the ride back to jail.

  Rob had to wait only about twenty minutes before Elaine showed up with Jack Swidler, the bail bondsman. They had hurried up North Central with all the necessary papers to post the full $100,000. They took them to the bonding desk, but the woman on duty said, “Just a minute, sir,” and went into a back room. Ten minutes later she returned.

  “This won’t be sufficient,” she said.

  “What?”

  “The sheriff says the bond is not in order.”

  “Well, then, I need to talk to the sheriff right now. There’s nothing wrong with this bond.”

  “Sheriff Burton is busy right now, sir.”

  “I’ve got to see him. I’m entitled to some kind of explanation.”

  “If you’d like to wait, sir.”

  Unbeknownst to Rob, it was while he was waiting for Sheriff Burton that Candy was being strip-searched, photographed, examined by a doctor, and questioned about the bruises and lacerations on her body. That was something that had never occurred to him, but he knew something was wrong.

  Eventually Rob got his audience with the sheriff. Burton was adamant. The bond wouldn’t fly because it was from Dallas County. Burton was perfectly within his rights to refuse an out-of-county bond unless it was ensured locally.

  Rob went to a pay phone and called Don Crowder at home.

  “Don, they sandbagged us. They wouldn’t accept our bond. Candy’s in jail.”

  “What the hell?”

  “Burton said he couldn’t take it. I talked to him. All he’d say was that it was an out-of-county bond.”

  “The bastards.”

  “I wasn’t ready for them. Candy’s spending the night in jail.”

  “That’s all right. You just stick with it. Sounds like something Ryan would pull. I know how to play hardball, too.”

  “Swidler’s on the phone, trying to find a Collin County bondsman that will sign for him.”

  “Okay, you go on home. The bastards are jacking around with Candy’s civil rights, and that’s one thing I do know about. Tomorrow morning, if they don’t let her go, we’ll slap ’em with a federal suit. Bunch of small-town rednecks who think they can write the rules as they go. And Tom Ryan’s the leader of the pack.”

  When Don hung up, he felt a great rush of adrenalin. Things were getting rough. He threw on a bathrobe and went into his study to get out the lawbooks. He remembered that McKinney lay in the federal judicial district of William Wayne Justice, a libertarian renowned and sometimes despised for his left-of-center rulings on civil rights issues. One thing Don would dearly love to see is Tom Ryan being hauled before Judge Justice. It was time to take off the gloves.

  On the way back from the hospital, Deffibaugh suddenly turned around and leaned over the seat.

  “Well, Candy,” he said, “you’re being awfully quiet this evening.”

  Candy hated him. What gave him the right to call her “Candy”? She hated his fat face and his arrogant manner and the way he treated her like a piece of prize property.

  “I don’t believe I’m required to answer any questions,” she said coolly.

  “But I know you want to talk about this,” said Deffibaugh. “I can tell that you do. Don’t you want to say anything to me?”

  “No.”

  She wanted to say “Hell, no,” but she re
sisted the temptation.

  “Well, if you want to talk about it, I’ll be at the jail all night.”

  Candy had a quick sinking feeling. What did that mean? Was she going to jail? Why would he assume she’s going to be staying all night?

  Deffibaugh was quiet for a few moments. When he turned around again, his face was hard.

  “There’s no way you’re going to get out of this. You know that, don’t you?”

  Candy didn’t reply.

  At the jail, Candy was taken to an isolation cell with padded walls, the kind they use for mental patients. On the way down the hall, she pleaded with the jailer.

  “Aren’t I allowed to make a phone call?”

  “I guess so.”

  The jailer stood by while Candy dialed her house. Pat picked it up on the first ring.

  “They’re taking me to a cell, Pat.”

  “I know. Robert just called.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said they were having trouble getting the sheriff to accept the bond.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “He doesn’t know yet. He says that they’ll get a cosigner on the bond and then everything will be okay.”

  “Pat, I love you. And miss you. Kiss the kids good night for me.”

  Her voice almost broke.

  “We love you, too, and we’re thinking of you every minute.”

  Candy hung up the phone and was escorted to the solitary cell. Up until then she had kept her composure. But when the heavy door was slammed shut, she started to break down. Tears poured out of her eyes. There were no lights in the cell, so she moved as close to the door as she could, to be near the hall light. She was still clutching her paperback book. She opened it and tried to read a few lines. It was called The Far Pavilions. After a while she closed it. Pretty soon Rob would be there with a cosigner on the bond and she could go home. Long minutes passed. She opened the book again, but couldn’t read. Still nobody came. Against her will, she started to cry again. She flipped through the book, and a bookmark fell out. It was one of those cardboard bookmarks with a Bible verse on it. She read it twice. It was about “strength.” Suddenly she realized she was exhausted.