by Loy Holder
She nodded. “Yep. I just need to run to the restroom.”
Bill paid the tab, and they took a walk along the strip. He pulled her into a shop and bought her a fancy, bejeweled jean jacket. She immediately put it on, even though it clashed with her red sundress. She found him a hat that said, “What Happens in Vegas, Stays in Vegas. He tried it on, and oh, how she loved the sound of his laugh, so carefree and full of life.
A little later, they bought hot dogs and stood to watch some street entertainers just off the strip. They was a group of mimes who portrayed a short love story through their dramatic body movements. When the performers finished their act, Liz glanced at her watch and looked up at Bill. “I can’t believe it’s time for me to go back to the hotel. They were so good; I could stand and watch them for hours.”
Bill flinched. “I can’t believe it either. Come on, I’ll walk you back.”
He held her hand too tight on the way to the hotel, and they were both quiet. The elevator was crowded, and he never let go of her hand. When they got to her room, he kissed her hand, and studied her face. His expression was sending her a message. She cupped his face in her hands. “Something’s on your mind. Do you want to come in so we can talk?”
He answered in a firm, “No.” Bill’s tongue ran over his lower lip, and he slid a finger down her nose. “I can tell by how I feel that it could be more than talk. Then you’d regret it, and I don’t want to risk that. I’ll call, but if you don’t hear from me for a while, don’t worry. We’ll be together soon, I promise.”
“Well, at least kiss me good-bye.” She needed it to subdue the gnawing uncertainty that his words brought. She stepped toward him and caressed his jaw.
He leaned into her touch and pulled her close. His kiss was gentle, yet full of restrained passion. He stepped back, gave her a playful pat on the butt, and ruffled her hair. “See you soon, pretty lady.”
Liz watched as he walked toward the elevator and punched the button. He waved as he got into the elevator, and she unlocked her door.
Inside the shower, her muscles began to loosen under the hot water. She turned her head from side to side to stretch the tight cords in her neck. She was dealing with an odd combination of feelings: gratitude and respect that Bill did the right thing by her and Joyce, sexual frustration, and panic about the trial. She murmured, “God help me.”
She went through the motions on the stage, but her mind was elsewhere. When she went on her dinner break, Bud joined her at the break-room table. “What’s bothering you, sweetie? You’re not your spunky self.”
“I got a lot on my mind, Bud.”
“You want to tell me about it?
“No. I don’t want to go on stage with red, teary eyes. Thanks though.”
“Well, it’s kind of a slow night. Why don’t you get out of here and get some sleep? You look beat.”
Liz jumped up and kissed him on the cheek. “Oh, thank you so much. I’m dead tired.”
When she got to her room, she took another hot shower and got into bed. She chased her worries about the trial away by fantasizing about her first time with Bill.
A week after Ron was arrested, Roscoe Bettancourt from the public defender’s office paid Ron a short visit. Roscoe talked, and Ron listened. “You’re doing the right thing, pleading not guilty to all the charges, and if the evidence corroborates your story, I think I can present a credible case. Hell, from what you’ve told me, your ex-wife sounds like an absentee parent, but you’ve got to be patient, Ron. This could take some time.” Before Roscoe left, he explained the steps in the legal process.
Ron was impressed. I like him. He’s no pretty-boy, and when he opens his mouth, he sounds smart.
The day before the trial, Roscoe paid Ron another visit. He filled Ron in on the pretrial and handed Ron a bag of clothes for the trial. He looked at Ron with narrowed eyes and frowned as he handed the bag to Ron. “Don’t mistake this as a show of friendship or generosity. If you look decent, I have a better chance of winning your case. Got it?”
“Yeah, man, I get it. I’ll wear ’em.” Ron pointed at Roscoe’s cane. “Say, what happened to you?”
“That’s none of your business. Don’t ask again.”
“Sure, man. It’s fine. I was just curious.”
Early the next morning, the guard woke Ron up. He was allowed a shower after breakfast; afterward he dressed in the street clothes Roscoe had brought him. The tan pullover, brown slacks, socks, and loafers were a perfect fit. He didn’t have a mirror, but he just knew he looked good. His mind was racing. Once he got out of this cesspool jail, he’d deal with Liz. He wanted her dead. Rotting in his cell with a hard sphere of hate lodged in his belly had left him feeling frenetic. He was convinced that his peace would come only when Liz was dead.
The deputy transported Ron from the jail to the courthouse, and they rode the short distance in silence. They walked through the cold, white and cream marble hallways and Ron shivered, remembering his past court experience. This time will be different.
It was crowded when they got on the elevator, but no one spoke a word. The tall, rangy redhead handcuffed to another deputy stood too close to him. Her scantily clad body reeked of sweat and sex. Curious, Ron stared at her. Her smile revealed she was missing her two upper front teeth. She stared back and asked, “You want some of this, baby?”
He shook his head and snarled, “Hell no,” and he looked away. He didn’t need any trouble.
When the elevator reached the fifth floor, the deputy motioned for Ron to get out and escorted him down another chilly hallway, into the courtroom, and to the defense table. After he sat beside Roscoe, the deputy removed his handcuffs and walked to the back of the courtroom. Roscoe looked sideways at Ron, and raised an eyebrow. “You ready for this?”
Before Ron could answer, the bailiff called out, “All rise. Court is now in session. The Honorable Judge Kenneth Cornelius is presiding.” Ron stood and stared at Kenneth Cornelius. He was an impressive mountain of a man, and his expression was grim. The judge took his seat on the bench, and the bailiff said, “You may all be seated.”
Ron caught a glimpse of Liz in the back of the courtroom before he took his seat. She was looking all prim and proper. After he sat down, Ron whispered, “Why is my wife in the courtroom?”
Roscoe whispered back, “Listen! You see those twelve people over there?” Roscoe motioned toward the jury box with his head. “They’ll be deciding your fate. We need to convince them that you’re not guilty, so be on your best behavior. No sass, no outbursts, and forget about your ex-wife. She has a right to be here. Got it?”
“Yeah, man, I’m cool.” Ron slouched back in his chair, and Roscoe continued reviewing his notes.
Since his attorney was busy, Ron turned his attention to the jurors box. He noticed that there were more women than men. That put him on edge, wondering if the heavier feminine influence would spell trouble for him. He leaned toward Roscoe and whispered his concern. Roscoe looked up from his notes, shook his head, and whispered, “Nah, don’t worry about that.” Then pointing toward the prosecution’s table, he said, “Shh, let’s listen. The prosecuting attorney is about to give his opening statement.”
Ron was intimidated. Peter Sandhill moved toward the jury with the grace and confidence of a tiger stalking easy prey. Tall, broad in the shoulders, and dressed in a dark power suit, he paused about ten feet from the jury. His hands were free of notes as he made a welcoming gesture; his voice was deep and clear.
“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen of the jury. My name is Peter Sandhill, prosecutor for the district attorney’s office. The case you are going to hear is about a defendant who’s been charged with breaking and entering, kidnapping, child endangerment, and child neglect. Although the children involved are his own, I will present evidence, through exhibits and the testimony of various witnesses, that will prove the following three points. One”—Peter held up his index finger—“The defendant violated a restraining order and the conditio
ns of child visitation stipulated in his interlocutory decree of divorce, to unlawfully enter and take the children from their babysitter’s home late at night. Two”—Peter added a finger—“The defendant drove the children to Beal’s Point at Folsom Lake while under the influence of alcohol, proceeded to a campsite, set up a tent for spending the night, and continued to drink alcohol and terrorize the children.”
Peter moved closer to the jury, paused, and held up three fingers. “And, three. The evidence will show that the defendant left the children at the campsite and walked two miles down the beach, where he was found several hours later by sheriff deputies.” Peter gestured dramatically toward the floor. “He had collapsed in a drunken heap in the sand with an empty fifth of whiskey lying under him.” Peter straightened and stepped back from the jury box. “That, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, is the case before you. I’m confident once you view the exhibits and hear the testimony, you will find the defendant guilty as charged.” Peter Sandhill returned to his seat at the prosecutor’s table.
Throughout the prosecution’s opening statement, Ron fumed and squirmed in his chair, but he kept quiet because he trusted Roscoe. When Peter Sandhill took his seat, Ron grabbed Roscoe’s arm and whispered, “Man, what bullshit. It didn’t happen like that at all.”
Roscoe pulled his arm away, smiled at Ron, and whispered back, “Don’t worry. He’s just doing his job. Relax. I’m up next.”
The court took a short recess, and then Roscoe Bettancourt stepped away from the defense table. He smiled reassuringly at Ron and began walking slowly with his cane to the jury box. Ron was sure his short, bald, bespectacled attorney was his savior. Roscoe wasn’t a handsome man, but he appeared experienced, calm, and serious. He stopped about nine feet from the jury, and while leaning slightly on his cane, he held out his hand in a welcoming gesture. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, first of all, I want to thank you for your jury service.”
His booming voice startled Ron and probably the jurors, too, since their heads seemed to jerk to attention. “My name is Roscoe Bettancourt. I am the defense attorney from the public defender’s office, representing Ron Harmon. I intend to prove that Mr. Harmon did not commit any crime and ask you to engage your heart and soul in weighing the evidence before making your decision.”
Roscoe paused and moved a few steps closer to the jury members. “The evidence will show that Mrs. Liz Harmon, the children’s mother, is virtually an absent parent, the children are being raised by strangers, and Mr. Harmon has been unlawfully denied visitation with his children. Those facts drove my client to desperate measures. Yes, my client abuses alcohol, but the evidence will further show that Mr. Harmon has made an effort to deal with his alcohol problem and get his life together while trying to cope with the terrible fact that he is helpless to remedy his children’s situation.”
The attorney paused and leaned even closer to the jury box. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I am confident that once you hear the compelling witness testimony, you will find my client, Mr. Ron Harmon, not guilty of all charges.”
He smiled at Ron as he ambled toward the defense table. Ron gave him a thumbs-up but kept his mouth shut.
* * *
Chapter thirty-three
The time had come. Liz raised her right hand and responded, “I do,” to the bailiff. She smoothed the skirt of her dark-blue suit and touched her hair, tucking a stray strand into her bun. Peter Sandhill approached, and her smile told him she was ready.
Peter paused for a moment before he began his questions. After Liz had answered several questions about her work, he asked, “Mrs. Harmon, explain to the court why you dance for a living and work so many hours.”
“I don’t know how to do anything else, and I work all those hours because I need to support my children.”
Ron scowled and slapped his hand on the table as he stood, seething. “Liz, that’s bullshit. You could have stayed with me.”
Judge Cornelius banged his gavel. “Mr. Harmon, sit down. One more outburst, and you’ll be removed from my courtroom. Mr. Bettancourt, take a moment to admonish your client for his behavior.”
Ron sat down, and his twisted face made Liz shudder. Roscoe said, “Yes, Your Honor,” and whatever he said to Ron seemed to work. After a few seconds, Roscoe looked up at the judge. “Your Honor, we’re ready to proceed.”
The judge nodded. “Prosecution, resume your questioning.”
Peter raised an eyebrow at Liz. Her nod said continue. “Mrs. Harmon, your second job, dancing in Las Vegas, adds significantly to the number of hours you’re away from your children. Why did you choose a second job out of state rather than in Sacramento?”
“The job pays more, and my expenses are covered.”
Peter shot a glance at the jury and then back at Liz. “Mrs. Harmon. Let’s talk about your ex-husband. Tell the court what happened the day you took the children and left the family home.”
Liz went into detail, describing the terror she and her children had experienced and the medical and dental bills she’d incurred as a result. Ron squirmed in his chair. Next, Peter asked, “Mrs. Harmon, have there been other incidents in which Ron Harmon was abusive to you?”
Her throat went dry, and she started to choke and cough. Peter asked for a short recess so she could get a drink of water and regain her composure. Alone in the ladies room, Liz drank some water and stared at her pale, anxious reflection. She had to ignore Ron’s intimidating glare and answer Peter’s questions even though it forced her to relive the abuse. The jury needed to hear every ugly detail.
Liz returned to the witness stand and described other incidents that had led up to her leaving: how Ron had kicked, raped, and sodomized her when he was drunk, and how he’d slapped her so hard that she’d slammed into the bedroom wall.
“Mrs. Harmon. Did you ever call the police or file a complaint against Mr. Harmon for his alleged abuse, either before or after you left the home?
“Yes. On the day I left, I called the sheriff’s office and asked for protection while I went back to the house for some clothes and things. I also called the sheriff when Mr. Harmon tried to break into the Frantz house where I was staying.”
Roscoe punched his fist through the air and stood. “Objection, Your Honor. Mrs. Harmon’s last sentence of testimony refers to a prior arrest, unrelated to the charges in this proceeding.”
The judge responded, “Sustained,” and motioned to the court clerk. “Strike Mrs. Harmon’s last sentence from the record.” The court clerk nodded, and the judge turned to Peter, “Proceed, Mr. Sandhill.”
“So when Deputy Mark Hansen came to the family home so you could get your things, did he see the injuries Mr. Harmon had inflicted on you?”
“Yes.”
Peter stepped back from the witness box. “Thank you, Mrs. Harmon.” He addressed the judge, saying, “Your Honor, I have no further questions. However, I have several exhibits I would like Mrs. Harmon to identify prior to jury review. Mr. Bettancourt is privy to these exhibits.”
“Proceed, Mr. Sandhill.”
Peter brought the exhibits from the table to the witness stand. He began by handing the interlocutory decree to Liz. “Mrs. Harmon, would you identify this document and tell the court what it stipulates with regard to child visitation?”
Familiar with her divorce papers, Liz turned immediately to the right page. “It says Mr. Harmon can only have visitation with the children when he’s sober and with my express permission.”
Liz handed the papers back to Peter, and he handed her the restraining order. “And now would you identify this document and what it says?”
Liz look at the paper. “It’s my restraining order. It says Mr. Harmon is not allowed within three hundred yards of my residence, any residence or facility in which my children are present, or any place where I may work.”
Peter handed the other exhibits to Liz, one by one. She identified her bills and paid receipts for medical, dental, and legal expenses, and her most r
ecent pay stubs. When Liz finished identifying the exhibits, Peter nodded. “Thank you Mrs. Harmon. No further questions, Your Honor.”
Judge Cornelius asked, “Do you wish to cross-examine, Mr. Bettancourt?”
Roscoe scrambled to his feet. “Yes, Your Honor.” Roscoe smiled as he ambled toward Liz. He shifted his gaze from the floor to her eyes and stopped in front of her. He was no longer smiling. “Mrs. Harmon, why didn’t you seek counseling when your marital problems began?”
“It was hopeless. Fear killed my love for him.”
“Mrs. Harmon, were you aware that you could have applied for welfare and received financial support, on-the-job training, and child care?
“Well.” Liz frowned, insulted. She’d researched welfare but had decided against accepting charity. “I couldn’t—”
“Answer the question, yes or no. Were you aware of the welfare option?”
“Yes,” Liz hissed through her teeth and decided right then that she despised Roscoe Bettancourt.
“Thank you, Mrs. Harmon. Did you attend California State University in Sacramento for a full year?”
The muscles in her face tightened with frustration as she hesitated. It was obvious what he was getting at. “Yes.” Liz swallowed and remembered Peter’s coaching. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
“You previously testified that you don’t know how to do anything else besides dance. I find that hard to believe. Do you prefer to dance because you enjoy men ogling you?”
That was a loaded question. Hell, the attention I get is just a minor perk. “No, I prefer dancing because it provides a good income.”
“Mrs. Harmon, since you started flying to Las Vegas, how many hours a week are you away from your children?”
“Uh…ninety-five hours.”
“When did you meet first meet Mr. and Mrs. James?”
“When I first moved into the Folsom residence last October.”
“When Mrs. James offered to babysit, did you ask for a background check on her and Mr. James?”