He hurried into the courtroom, where he placed the doll in his briefcase and slammed it shut. Billings jumped. Bradley found it nice to know he wasn’t the only one on edge.
He waved Lou over.
“What is it now?” Lou asked, obviously irritated. “More doll issues?”
“You’ll see,” Bradley replied flatly. “Please inform the judge that counsel would like to speak with her before the jury returns.”
Lou shrugged. “All right, but it’s your funeral. You know she’s not going to like another delay.”
“I think she’ll understand. This warrants her attention.”
Lou huffed and disappeared through a doorway behind the bench. Moments later, he returned with Judge Nevarro in tow. She did not look happy.
She sat down in her chair. Leaning over the bench, all the while glaring at Bradley, she crooked her index finger. “Counsel, you may approach.”
Bradley grabbed his briefcase and hustled to the bench. The prosecutor was slow to follow, his face reflecting his confusion.
“This had better be good,” the judge warned.
“Your Honor,” Bradley began, his voice like silk. “The victim’s father has been threatening me. Since his testimony has no relevance to this case, I ask that he be stricken as a witness and removed from the courtroom.”
The prosecutor leaned forward. “Mr. LeFevre’s testimony will place his daughter’s whereabouts at the time of her abduction—”
“Which is undisputed—”
“And will detail the numerous occasions upon which he’d seen the defendant’s automobile outside his home. As to any threats made against Attorney Walsh, this is the first I’m hearing of them.”
“Mr. LeFevre’s testimony is relevant. He will be allowed to testify.” Judge Nevarro stroked her chin. “But Mr. Walsh’s claims are troublesome, to say the least. I am extremely hesitant to remove Mr. LeFevre, given his obvious interest in the outcome of this trial and the public nature of this courtroom. Still, I take threats very seriously. Do you have proof to support your allegations?”
“I most certainly do, Your Honor.” Bradley felt smug. The judge grimaced but said nothing.
“He created a voodoo doll with my likeness. It’s here in my briefcase.” He lifted his leather case and placed it upon the bench. Lou stepped forward, but Judge Nevarro waved him off.
“Let me just …” Bradley unclipped the latches. He never finished the sentence, for when he opened the briefcase, the voodoo doll was gone.
He shuffled around his folders. He reached beneath his documents and deep into the inner sleeve. Bradley could feel Nevarro’s eyes upon him, judging him as judges did.
Come on . It has to be in here somewhere . Bradley panicked. He dumped the contents of his briefcase onto the floor.
“Mr. Walsh …”
If the judge said more, Bradley didn’t hear her. He crouched and sifted through pens and papers scattered about the courtroom floor, looking for something that clearly wasn’t there, unwilling to concede the obvious truth.
“I don’t understand,” he murmured. “I never took my eyes off it. He must have …” Bradley gathered his things into his arms and stood. “I don’t know how he did it, but it was here; I swear it.”
“Swear all you like, Mr. Walsh,” the judge replied. “You’ve never had much credibility with me. If I find out you’re playing some kind of charade to keep Mr. LeFevre from testifying, I’ll have you jailed for contempt.”
Peering over the rim of her glasses, her unblinking eyes narrowed on Bradley. Judge Nevarro meant it. Bradley was stunned. He had many tricks and employed them freely, but this was not one of them.
“Now pick up the rest of your things. Lou, have Mr. LeFevre approach.”
Bradley dumped the contents of his armload in a heap upon his table. He collected the few sticky notes and pens that remained on the floor and added them to the pile. Billings watched him with a raised eyebrow.
“Everything’s under control,” Bradley whispered. He hurried back to the bench just as Lou was returning with the demon who called himself Pepe LeFevre. Bradley scowled at him, but LeFevre nodded respectfully to the judge.
“Mr. LeFevre,” Judge Nevarro began. “I’ll get right to it. Have you been threatening this man?” She jabbed at finger at Bradley.
“I’m sorry, jenn fanm ,” LeFevre answered, a heavy Haitian accent lacing his words. “By chance, we had a rather uncomfortable meeting in the restroom, but I made sure not to say anything at all because I didn’t think he and I were supposed to talk to one another. Mr. Walsh appeared angry with me though I am not sure why. I’m afraid my appearance does seem to alarm people at times. Perhaps this was one of them. I left the restroom as quickly as I could.”
“He’s lying!” Bradley blurted.
“Settle down, Mr. Walsh.” Judge Nevarro sounded like a mother scolding her child. Bradley kept his mouth shut, not wanting to press his luck.
“I can’t believe I’m asking this, but have you created a voodoo doll or any other type of doll or figurine that looks like Mr. Walsh?”
“No,” LeFevre responded, smirking. “Of course not.”
“Did you bring any dolls or figurines with you to this courthouse today?”
“None whatsoever.”
“Will you agree to stay away from Mr. Walsh, to not approach him or speak with him except to answer the questions he asks you while you are giving sworn testimony in the course of this trial?”
“Certainly,” he said, his smile disappearing. He nodded at Bradley. “I have nothing to say to Mr. Walsh.”
“Good enough for me. Counselors, take your seats. Lou, have Mr. LeFevre return to the stand then bring in the jury. Let’s get this trial done, gentlemen.”
“But—” Bradley tried to protest.
“I’ve made my decision.”
Defeated, Bradley sulked back at his table. A moment later, the jurors filed in, and the prosecutor began his direct examination of Pepe LeFevre.
Bradley glanced at his Rolex. Fifteen minutes had passed. In that time, LeFevre had failed to advance the state’s case against his client in any meaningful way.
He’s just whining about the loss of his daughter . Boo- dee-fucking-hoo. Cry me a river . He cracked his knuckles then went back to doodling on his legal pad. LeFevre was no threat to his defense. He began to wonder why he had ever been worried about him in the first place.
He panned the jury box. Sure, they feel sorry for him. They’re eating up his sob story like a bunch of old ladies watching soap operas. But he hasn’t even pointed a finger at Billings, and it doesn’t sound like he’s going to, either. I won’t even have to cross-examine the bastard .
Bradley folded his fingers behind his head and leaned back in his seat, smiling inwardly. The case was coming to an end. He winked at Billings. A most favorable end, indeed .
When the prosecutor rested, Bradley flashed him an arrogant grin. He had never been above gloating, and with another victory just moments away, he swaggered out from behind his table.
Two words would end it all. He opened his mouth. Words formed upon his lips. “No questions,” was all he had to say. If he didn’t want to show off so badly, he wouldn’t even have to show the court proper deference by standing to utter those words.
He did stand. He did strut. And he did speak. But the words that came out of his mouth were not the words he intended.
“Mr. LeFevre,” he heard himself say. “Who is Clint Billings?”
The question had flowed from his mouth though his mind had never formed it. The judge eyed him queerly. The prosecutor looked downright flabbergasted. Everyone in that courtroom knew he had won. Yet for some reason, Bradley pressed forward.
Was it black magic? Did LeFevre have an accomplice, someone manipulating the voodoo doll while he testified? What kind of sinister incantation had programmed it—and, through it, him —to speak? Bradley tried to scan the courtroom, but his head wouldn’t turn. At that moment, he k
new he was in real trouble.
His eyes were forcibly locked on LeFevre’s. He peered deep into those milky-white globes. They seemed viscous. The more Bradley stared, the more the lines of LeFevre’s sockets blurred until his eyes were like egg whites spreading in a frying pan.
He wanted to scream, to run from that courtroom. But his body was no longer his to control. If only his outside reflected what he felt on the inside. Couldn’t Judge Nevarro see his panic?
Help me! he shouted, the words imprisoned within his mind. For God’s sake, won’t somebody help me?
LeFevre gritted his teeth. Their yellows blended with the whites of his eyes, his face a featureless monstrosity. The courtroom around him glazed over. The flesh of the judge and the jurors melted like cheese. Their hair ran down their faces like mascara in the rain. Their mouths were cast in horrific poses, silent screams, and unnatural shapes impossible for the human form. Is this what Hell looks like?
Still, he couldn’t close his eyes. He couldn’t even blink. Terror seized him. The fear made him howling mad, particularly because he could do nothing about it.
Though he could no longer recognize LeFevre, Bradley knew he still faced the man. Somehow, he knew the son of a bitch was enjoying this. He hadn’t answered the question, instead savoring the moment, letting Bradley squirm inside while an unseen puppeteer acted out a script the lawyer hadn’t written.
“Clint Billings is the man who …” LeFevre choked up. His gaze fell away.
Bradley’s breath returned. So did his movements. He blinked away the blurred world. He was free!
Now’s my chance! Thinking fast, he spoke. “No more—”
LeFevre’s head shot back. “Clint Billings is the man who brutalized and murdered my beautiful daughter,” he said at last, his tone righteous. A fire burned behind LeFevre’s eyes, and Bradley knew he saw Hell. Somehow, Hell had regained its hold upon him.
“And how do you know that?” his voice asked.
“Because he gave you the metal pipe he used to beat her with. You put it in a safe at your office. My daughter’s blood was still on it.”
More than one juror gasped. Another ran his hands down his face. Most stared on with their mouths hanging open. For a moment, silence pervaded the courtroom. Then the murmuring started, the peanut gallery’s hushed voices collecting into a low rumble. The prosecutor stared at Bradley, accusations dancing in his eyes.
Judge Nevarro pounded her gavel repeatedly. “Order! I will have silence in my courtroom.”
And Bradley’s pride fell. His shoulders slumped. His heart sank. He had been tried and convicted in the minds of those who’d heard LeFevre’s claim, reduced to the lowest form of criminal, revealed as the lowest form of man. He was guilty until proven innocent.
It wasn’t the first time Bradley had helped conceal a crime, but it was the first time someone had found out about it. All his other discretions—the hookers, the gambling, the drugs—could be covered up by greasing the right palms. But this allegation had been presented to a courtroom full of palms, some of which would not take kindly to greasing.
Judge Nevarro shook her head. “The jury will disregard that last remark. No evidence or testimony has been presented that would substantiate or corroborate Mr. LeFevre’s statement, nor is the witness speaking from personal knowledge. Further, I’m ruling that the answer given was nonresponsive. It shall be stricken from the record.”
Bradley sighed. The judge had actually cut him some slack. But though the testimony had not come into evidence correctly and was properly stricken, Judge Nevarro had no love for him, and the prosecutor wasn’t going to object to a gem like that.
Suddenly, he lurched forward, nearly stumbling into the witness box and the vile man who sat within it. The strings controlling him had been severed. His body was once again his though he didn’t know how or why. He’d waste no time minimizing the damage done.
“No more questions,” he blurted, expecting some force to cut him off again.
The prosecutor stood. “The state rests.”
“Your Honor, at this time, the defense would like to …” Bradley started. Move to dismiss is how his mind envisioned ending the sentence. A cold tingling surged throughout his body like thousands of thin tendrils penetrating through his pores. There was nothing he could do. His body submitted once again to another’s control.
And his words that followed were, “Call myself as a witness.”
Clint Billings shot up from his chair. He looked as though he wanted to rip Bradley’s head off. Lou must have gotten the same impression; his hand rested upon the grip of his gun.
Bradley hoped he would come for him, maybe break the invisible bonds with his pummeling fists. Unwillingly, his arm rose, a flat hand held out to pacify his client.
“This is rather unorthodox,” Judge Nevarro said. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”
“Your Honor, Mr. LeFevre has brought my name into this case. I feel it will do the jury a great service to hear the truth.”
“What is the state’s position?”
The prosecutor stood, his face revealing his amusement. “No objection, Your Honor.”
“Very well. I’ll allow it, but only to the extent of addressing the comment that was made. I’ll remind you, Mr. Walsh, that the statement is not in the record, and the jury cannot use it for any purpose whatsoever. But if you insist on clearing the air, by all means do it quickly. I’m giving you a little rope here, counsel. See that you don’t hang yourself with it.”
Bradley already felt as though he were dangling from the rope. The noose around his neck squeezed tighter and tighter. Hope left him. He was at the mercy of a vengeful father. He was a prisoner unable to act, forced to watch from the confines of his mind.
His legs were set in motion. They carried him to the stand. Lou followed closely. Was he laughing?
At the stand, Lou administered the oath. Bradley raised his hand and swore to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help him God. His mouth kept that vow.
“What Mr. LeFevre claimed I did is true. I accepted the weapon my client, Clint Billings, used to slaughter Jeanette LeFevre. I kept it in a safe at my office for a time until I found an opportunity to dispose of it. I dropped it off the East Bridge.”
The words sounded so calm and collected. Bradley could not believe they were his, their tone a stark contrast to the turmoil within him. With more dignity and poise than he could have mustered on his own, under the circumstances, he stood.
“I now rest my case. I hope the jury will see that justice is served.”
From that point on, the remaining semblance of law and order was shattered. The spectators burst from their seats. Cries of anger and outrage filled the air. The judge banged her gavel as if she were driving in a railroad spike. The prosecutor slunk low in his chair, perhaps fearing that bullets would fly. The jurors froze with anxiety as if they were on a roller coaster heading toward the big drop. Court officers tried to order chaos. Clint Billings charged at his attorney.
“I am going to beat you far worse than that bitch ever got!” he shouted, his massive frame barreling forward like a charging rhino. Even with his ankles chained together, he made it to Bradley before anyone could stop him, if anyone had tried.
“You’re dead, Walsh,” Billings said between clenched teeth. Spit flew from his mouth. His hands wrapped around Bradley’s throat. “So fucking dead.”
Chaos became a cluster fuck. Court officers and attendees swarmed Billings, taking shots at him freely. Some went for Bradley. He was kicked, punched, and beaten, all while an angry behemoth throttled his neck.
A jolt of electricity shot through him. Then another. And another. With each jolt came mind-blanking pain. The courtroom flashed white. For a moment, he was blind.
When his sight returned, Bradley saw Billings pinned to the ground with Lou clenching his legs between his arms. Another officer drove his knee into the back of Billings’s neck. A third cuffe
d him. Still others were holstering their Tasers. Bradley had no idea where they all had come from, but he now had a good idea what had caused his teeth to chatter.
It took many officers to hoist Billings from the floor. His face bled from multiple locations. One of his eyes was swollen shut. A deep gash ran across his lips. His mouth poured blood, and several teeth were cracked or missing altogether.
Yet even as he was being dragged away, Billings laughed the laugh of the defiant. He swore revenge against everyone in the courtroom. He had some particularly choice words for Bradley.
Most of the crowd had hit and run. The judge and jury had disappeared, likely hiding out in the judge’s mysterious inner sanctum.
Bradley rubbed his temple. It ached something awful and was trickling blood. Soreness ran throughout his body, but with the pain came the realization that his body was his again—a not-so-small consolation.
He walked sheepishly back to his seat, where he nearly fainted into his chair. He stared blankly at his table, unaware of the passage of time and the goings-on around him. He still sat speechless when the judge returned and notified the attorneys of her decision to give their predetermined jury instructions behind closed doors and send them off to deliberate. Slowly, some of the crowd crept back in. Billings did not return.
The jury came back with a verdict in less than ten minutes. Billings was found guilty on all counts, including murder in the first degree. A sentencing hearing would determine whether that finding included a death penalty, if the beating Billings had just taken didn’t kill him first.
With the verdict read and the jury dismissed, the courtroom emptied. Judge Nevarro ordered the attorneys and Lou to remain. She stared at Bradley with a disgust he’d normally let slide over him. But in his pitiful state, her revulsion sharpened the sting.
“In all my years on the bench, I’ve never seen anything quite like that. What you did took guts, Mr. Walsh—a heck of a lot more guts than brains, that’s for sure. But it doesn’t even come close to excusing your revolting conduct. I’m recommending immediate disbarment. I’ll leave it to the state to decide whether it wants to press criminal charges.”
Wrathbone and Other Stories Page 7