by Neliza Drew
“And Charley was the cause then too, wasn’t she?” He waited to see if I’d admit it.
“You don’t know that.”
He shook his head like he was clearing mental cobwebs. “Forget it. Keep this clean, will ya?”
I shrugged and regretted it. I hadn’t realized how often I shrugged to avoid answering questions, or as an answer when further explanation seemed pointless.
He put down his scissors and peeled off his rubber gloves. “We were friends for years. Why didn’t you talk to me about this stuff?”
“Because we were friends.”
“We were more than friends, too. Or don’t you remember that?” He slammed his box closed, wouldn’t look at me.
“We went to the prom together. Or, we were supposed to. Prom’s about parties and getting drunk and having some awkward sex. It’s not about watching your mother get drunk, having some awkward sex, and never even making it to the damn dance. And it doesn’t mean you have to tell your date your life story.”
“I sat with you at the hospital. You never mentioned any of this. You never talked at all.” He paused for a second. “Wait, who’d you have sex with?”
“It was inconsequential. It still is.”
“You cheated on me. On prom night.” He gathered his stuff in silence. “I’ll see you later.”
I let him think whatever he thought because it was a much easier explanation, and I had things to do besides open old wounds for no good reason. I’d been in town an hour and I already had fresh ones.
“Thanks,” I called as he shuffled down the hall. “Really. For everything.”
He ignored me.
Chapter four
I hadn’t driven nine hundred miles to confront guys I’d had sex with in high school. I showered, slapped some bandages on the worst cuts, and threw on the pantsuit I’d brought. I found a fuzzy aspirin in my purse, along with a half-melted mint, and washed both down with water cupped from the bathroom sink.
Then I called my boss and had him draw up a simple power of attorney and guardianship papers. Since he considered my friends to be his friends and thought a few of Tom’s might be useful should he run for mayor, he was oddly pliable most of the time. Either that or it was his aggressive mood disorder that had scared off a record twenty-three legal secretaries and paralegals the year before he’d hired me. I’d been there almost two years because I basically treated him like Charley and reappeared at work every time he fired me in a crazy rage.
I had him fax the papers to a copy shop halfway between Charley’s and the police station, found a notary willing to bend the rules for a sob story, and disappeared long enough for her to think I’d gone to the hospital for Charley’s signature instead of forging it like we’d been doing it since we’d learned to write.
Tom was right when he said I’d have ended up locked away for life had we lived in any one town long enough for the law to catch up with me. Of course, who knew how we’d have turned out had we stayed in one place long enough for people to get to know us, for social services to catch up, or for Charley to get help.
Downtown Beaufort was more charming than sprawling. I found the police station, a small brick building with two cruisers out front, on Broad Street next to what looked like a boarded up train depot from a theme park. I parked next to a cruiser and stared at the department logo. Ignored the uneasy feelings it generated.
At the reception desk inside, a pretty, uniformed black woman offered me a massive grin. “Hi, may I help you, ma’am?” Her nametag read Winters and she had talons, all painted for the season with hearts and fake diamonds.
“I’m here about Lane Groves. I’m her sister.” I pulled out my wallet and showed Winters my driver’s license. Next to it was my conceal carry permit.
Winters tapped the counter with a pink nail. “You usually carry?”
“Not really, no.”
She didn’t look like she believed me.
The permit had been Tom’s idea, “a just in case you ever need it” thing. So far I hadn’t.
“You aren’t the legal guardian.” She picked up a nearby clipboard and flipped through logs or notes, rows and rows of the same cramped-capital cop handwriting. “Charlemagne Groves — the guardian — has been informed of the charges and all pending court appearances. It’s up to her to divulge information as she sees fit.”
“Our mother is in the hospital.” I reached into my bag and my usual assortment of toiletries, gym necessities and half-finished tasks jostled as I pulled out the folder.
She looked at me warily. “You just got these drawn up?”
“My boss is an attorney; he agreed to help me out.”
“He has a Florida address like you?”
“He’s admitted to the bar in North Carolina, too.” I gave her a look that said I didn’t really get it. Experience had taught me to only give them the information I had to.
She walked away, back into the semi-concealed office part of the building and returned a few minutes later with a file folder and a stack of reports. “She’s been arraigned. Judge wants her held for observation.”
An older white guy appeared on her heels from the bowels of the tiny building and gave me the full eye-fuck. “Looks like you got a little boo-boo there.”
“Fishing accident.”
“Girls shouldn’t be guttin’ their own fish.”
“I was helping my boss release a hundred-pound tarpon down in the Keys, but thanks for your concern.” I turned back to Winters. She hid the smile on her lips well, but not well enough. “Can you walk me through this real quick? My boss handles real estate, probate stuff, so he was a bit fuzzy on the system here. Down there, you do something too bad as a juvenile — multiple felonies, murder, run out of juvenile program levels — the judge holds you for twenty-one days in detention while the prosecutor decides whether to direct file you to county.”
“You know this from personal experience?” she asked.
“I have law enforcement friends.”
“Honey, I’d look for a lawyer,” she said. “Sheriff’s department found her at the scene covered in the victim’s blood. Vomit.”
“Is she still in the juvenile system?”
“Technically, yes, but she still gets to talk to an attorney if she wants to. We can’t question her without a parent or guardian present.” She gestured at the papers I’d brought. “Guy heading up the case may be giving you a call in the next day or two.”
“Did you try to get Charley in here?”
She flipped through the file. “Took us a while to track her down — she wasn’t home the first time we stopped by. When we did, she told us her name was Ramona Wilkerson. She seemed lucid, but her ID said Charlemagne Groves.”
I noticed a copy of a search warrant, but couldn’t make out what they’d been looking for. “I suppose you want me to let you talk to her.”
“Whether you do or not, it gets transferred to adult court and you get no say anymore, guardian or not.” She made it sound inevitable and I worried she might be right. “Since you’re here, though, want to consent to letting us ask her a few questions?” She smiled warmly.
Good luck. Lane had once gone almost a year without talking.
On the other hand, it would give me a chance to study Lane, maybe figure out what she’d been up to. And let her know I was there and to keep quiet.
I nodded.
“I’ll go arrange it. We’ll have to meet over at the jail. No reason to have her transferred for a little chat.”
The guy who’d been in earlier returned, his nose and ears pink. The smell of cigarette smoke clung to him. “Any idea why this guy was shot with your gun?”
“My gun?”
He leaned on the counter where Winters had been. “Dan Wesson 1911 Series Commander Classic Bobtail .45 caliber. Previously owned by Philip Lockhart, deceased. Transferred to you.”
I wondered just how bored they all were that they seem to have memorized the case. Not to mention the fact that the g
un had never been transferred officially. It’d been left to me in Phil’s will and his relatives had shipped it without legal documentation. “Why do you even know that?”
“I make it a point to know things. Like how Mr. Lockhart died.”
“Am I under arrest?”
“Should you be?” He cocked his head.
“I was in Florida when this guy got shot.”
“You sure about that?”
“I was in Florida when you all talked to Charley. I was in Florida when Charley called me.”
He hitched his belt and leaned on an elbow. “You know it’s a misdemeanor to improperly store weapons around minors, right?”
“Well you locked up the minor. Problem solved.”
He gave me a look that said he didn’t like that answer.
“Charley was supposed to keep them stored properly while I was in college.” I had no compunction about blaming Charley, even if she and I had never had such a conversation. She owed me a few.
“Don’t worry your pretty little head about that.” He grinned and I noticed he had bread stuck in his yellowed teeth.
I dug my fingernails into my fist in an effort to keep from telling him which part of hell he could take himself to and how. When I drew blood, I stopped and fought the urge to wipe it on my pants.
Winters walked back up. “I’ll have Detective Huber meet you over at the jail in forty minutes.”
“And visitation?” There was only so much I could gain from Lane with a cop in the room.
“Visitation’s for family, Sundays only.” Winters picked up a cheap pen and scribbled information on a Post-it note. I marveled at her ability to maneuver the decorated daggers. “The jail’s close.” She handed me the note with hours, directions and a crude map. “Oh, and here’s a card for the public defender.”
“Thanks for your help.”
She gave me the sort of sly smile I associated with being sized up. “Something tells me your friends aren’t the only reason you know about the juvenile justice system.”
I gave her my best innocent expression and wondered if that warrant in Texas had expired.
Chapter five
About a block away from the police station sat a giant red brick courthouse reminiscent of an antebellum South, with flaky, painted columns and bell housing, minus the actual bell. Inside, it held a bureaucratic labyrinth of industrial tile floors and dirty beige walls accented with dark paneling and a million little plastic signs leading visitors to courtrooms, offices and restrooms.
I followed the signs to the public defender’s corner of the building and waited on a gray plastic chair for the lone attorney, a small man with a neck like a turtle who looked like he’d take any opportunity to duck down into his brown suit jacket and refuse to return.
He led me to his office, stacked so full of files it was surely a fire hazard, and flipped through the guardianship papers. “I’m not sure I have time for this today.” He gestured at a folding chair opposite his desk. “Groves, right?”
“How many child murderers could you possibly represent a year?”
“Murder, not so many. Vehicular homicide, drug possession, domestic disputes…” He waved his hand at the stacks. “I’m not saying her case isn’t important, but,” he handed back my file folder, “she already had her secure custody hearing. Next step, they decide if she’s tried as an adult. When’s she turn eighteen again?”
“May.”
He made a face. “That’s not good.”
“Likely not, no.” I waited for him to offer some useful piece of information beyond the utterly obvious. When he didn’t, I tried a new tactic. “Look, all I know are the basics I got from the police. Any chance you could give me a little more insight on what happened?”
He shook his head and rummaged through a stack of folders. “They decided to hold her. I’d expect filings for a probable cause hearing any day now since it’s a felony case and she’s over thirteen. From there, they’ll probably transfer it to Superior Court and that’s when you’re going to want to hire her an attorney or come back and see me for an Affidavit of Indigency.”
If Charley were still Lane’s guardian, that wouldn’t be a problem. I nodded like that sounded great and planned to look for private counsel.
“If, and it’s likely, they transfer it, she’ll be eligible for bail, but I wouldn’t count on that.”
“Because they think she murdered this guy.” I gave him a look that said I expected him to elaborate.
“Because they found her at the scene, gun in her hand, bullet in the guy’s head.”
“In? I thought it was a .45 caliber.”
He thumbed through the file. “Right. ‘In’ is kind of a colloquialism here. William Guthrie’s head was mostly on the wall. The neighbor heard the shot around one-thirty and it looks like they made the first attempt to notify Charlemagne Groves after they finished the initial processing. Looks like they had to come back around eleven.”
“Yeah, Charley’s…not always herself. They recovered and tested the weapon?”
“One bullet fired. Seven left. Ballistics aren’t in yet, but early assumptions are the gun at the scene did the shooting.”
“Fingerprints?” I asked.
“Lab reports aren’t back yet. State lab should have early results by tomorrow or the day after. If you’re leaning toward a private attorney, they’ll get copies of all the reports as they come in.”
“But if she took the gun from our mother’s house and it turns out that’s what shot this guy, they’ll claim it was premeditated and she’s—”
“Looking at life in prison, if she’s lucky.”
I sighed and thanked him for both his time and the Affidavit I knew wouldn’t do me any good.
• • • • •
On the other end of the building, after some frisking and metal detecting and identity proving, I was shuffled into a small room with three mix-matched chairs, a seventies-era wooden table, and scarred acoustical tiles on both wall and ceiling. I picked one of the molded plastic chairs, leaving the one with the exposed cushioning.
A detective entered first and held the door while a corrections officer led Lane in, handcuffed and shackled. Lane looked at the leftover chair and sneered. “Of course you took the good one.”
None of them looked comfortable, so I assumed it had something to do with hers being the only one without arms. I shrugged and held back a wince.
The detective, a classic Old White Man from his nearly-bald head to his slight paunch, wore wrinkled khakis, blue collared shirt and tie. He motioned for Lane to sit.
She glared at him, but sat.
I stared at her. We no longer looked very much alike. She’d cut her hair short and dyed it black with a streak of orangey-red. The way it had grown shaggy told me Charley’s darker locks had been an imitation of Lane’s. The bags under her eyes seemed more an imitation of Charley’s.
The detective looked back and forth between the two of us. “I’m Wilson Huber. You can call me Detective Huber. I’m going to ask a few questions, and if your older sister here doesn’t object you can answer whichever ones you want. Got that?”
Lane snarled and I noticed the hole where a nose ring had been. “Fuck you. And her. She don’t care. I don’t even know why she’s here. And you can ask whatever the fuck you want, but I ain’t gotta say shit.”
Detective Huber didn’t bat an eyelid at her. “Did you bring a gun to the victim’s house?”
Lane stared at him, bored.
“Did you intend to shoot the victim or was it an accident?”
Lane moved her tongue around like she had something in her teeth.
“Were you in a relationship with William Guthrie?”
Lane twisted her mouth sideways.
“Did you shoot William Guthrie because of what happened to Amber Martin?”
My head tilted. “What happened to Amber Martin?”
Detective Huber glanced at me, then back at Lane, waiting.
&
nbsp; She said nothing, just rubbed her arm and stared.
“So, if it wasn’t a relationship gone wrong and it wasn’t about Amber, why would you shoot William Guthrie? Had to be some reason, right?”
Lane picked at her thumbnails, making the chains rattle.
“Maybe a burglary. Someone searched the bedroom upstairs. Was that you? Or are you covering for someone? What did you go to steal?”
Lane rolled her eyes.
“Did you go there alone or did someone help you?”
Lane smirked and stared off at the wall.
Huber leaned back in his chair. “So, you have nothing to say. You went, alone and armed, to the house of a guy who for all the world looked like he was a friend of yours and you shot him in the head for no reason. That’s what you want me to believe.”
“Ask Murphy,” Lane said without taking her gaze off wall. From the side, I could see remnants of hurt I knew I wasn’t projecting and wondered how long she’d been drugging herself to numbness.
Chapter six
I stopped for coffee on the way back to Charley’s. My phone had three messages from my boyfriend, Matt, but I ignored them. I had less idea what to say to him than to Charley. While waiting in line, I picked up a local paper from one of the yellow boxes and then settled in an overstuffed chair. The newspaper wasn’t thick, but one story caught my interest.
Local Man Shot
William Guthrie, a beloved employee of menhaden magnate and former commissioner, Eric Wright, was found dead in the early hours of Monday morning. Police responded to a call shortly after midnight but have not released further details.
Wright was not available for comment. Business partner Vince Zellner said, “Our hearts go out to the family during this time.”
Guthrie, a manager at the Downeast plant, leaves behind his mother, who works at Carteret General Hospital.