Elvin Bodner's Stand

by Ronald Gaines

  She was getting increasingly upset as she neared the part about the violence and her baby’s death. “Little Paige….Oh my goodness….I’m sorry Your Honor….”

  Judge Bodner smiled and nodded his understanding as Patricia Faye tried to gather up her emotions.

  “Paige liked to splash when I gave her a bath; so I thought I would run some warm water and put her in it. That’s when she started tryin’ to push back on the sink with her legs and bowing out her chest. Oh God, she screamed out even louder and Cash came in the kitchen right by me and yelled some more!”

  Patricia Raskin was weeping, as Ken Stepp tried to help her continue. “Please tell us what happened next Mrs. Raskin. Take your time now.”

  “I sat her up on the towel by the sink and turned to him,” said the little girl’s mom, raising her voice and singling out Millard Raskin with an outraged glare.

  “I asked him to please shut up and stop yelling at Paige and me. That’s when he grabbed my arm and pulled me over to the stove and pushed my hand in the hot water. I know it was my loud crying that made Paige cry even more. He turned me loose and he went over and picked her up. He was cursing when he shook her and slung her into the corner of the cabinet and then on into the wall. That son-of-a-bitch used all his strength and threw my baby into the wall!” screamed Paige’s mother.

  Millard Raskin immediately stood and yelled; “You’re lying. Why are you lying? You know she was wet and had soap on her. She slipped out of my hands and hit her head. It was an accident!”

  Keenon Roberts jerked on Raskin’s arm, firmly pulling him back into the chair. “Millard, you’re not doing yourself one bit of good with that kind of crap. Stay in your chair and keep your mouth shut.”

  “Mr. Raskin, I heard your attorney’s words. You would be well-served to heed them. This court works with a short leash when it comes to that sort of thing. You’ve earned quite a reputation for outbursts around here, but they will not be tolerated in this court.”

  Before Keenon Roberts stood to start his cross examination, Anne Carlstead whispered, “A little bit of empathy would be good here.” Roberts was ahead of her.

  “Mrs. Raskin, we are all very sorry for your loss. Would you like a drink of water before we begin?”

  “No thank you.”

  “I have just one item where we might get some clarification. You say your husband picked up Paige from off the counter. Could you tell us just how he picked her up?”

  “He just grabbed her up and held her above his head.”

  “Yes, but was he holding her by her arms? Did he have one hand on her side and another around a shoulder? Did he have an arm and a leg? Or did he have his hands under her arms, around her chest?”

  Ken Stepp popped out of his seat. “Your Honor, are we heading some place meaningful here?”

  “Mr. Roberts let’s get to the point please.”

  “Certainly Judge….his hands were under Paige’s arms, around her chest…isn’t that correct Mrs. Raskin?”

  “Yes, I think they were.”

  “Don’t you think that’s a strange way to pick up a child you intend to, let’s see in your words – “sling against the wall”? Wouldn’t it be more logical to hold at least one arm or leg if you were going to “sling” a small person or baby against something?”

  Patricia Raskin paused. “All I know is my baby’s dead Mr. Lawyer.”

  “Yes she is Mrs. Raskin, and for that I’m deeply sorry.” With his response, Roberts’ objective was twofold. He certainly wanted to convey the sincere sympathy he felt, but he wanted to introduce some humanity at the defense table as well. The testimony of Paige’s mother had engendered terrible images.

  “And I have just one more thing Mrs. Raskin. You are asking this jury to believe that a man you lived with for almost ten years, a man you chose to marry, the father of your children would let a couple of hours of crying make him throw his baby daughter against a wall – sling his own flesh and blood so viciously against a wall that her heart would stop beating?”

  “There’s something….”

  “No further questions,” came Keenon Roberts’ terminating response, as he quickly sat down.

  “Now’s the time Ken. Now’s the time to use it,” whispered Marsha Dinardo, as she leaned closer to Kenneth Stepp.

  “Redirect Your Honor.”

  “Proceed Mr. Stepp.”

  “Mrs. Raskin, how would you characterize your relationship with your husband recently?”

  “Things had gotten worse since I got pregnant with Paige.”

  “Would you say worse than ever before?”

  “Well, things were different in the last two years.”

  “And why was that?”

  “Nearly every day he told me Paige wasn’t his – someone else was the father, not him. He said she came from some cheap motel room. He got real angry about it sometimes Mr. Stepp. It was never the truth – absolutely never, never the truth!”

  “Thank you Mrs. Raskin. No more questions Your Honor.”

  Be it by conscious choice or simple inability, his failure to communicate all potentially meaningful details to his attorney had permitted the prosecution to torpedo critical parts of the defense – just as Drs. Donley and Archer had discussed.

  In the coming days, Keenon Roberts called only three witnesses. One was a neighbor who testified to Millard Raskin’s three-year involvement with the Volunteer Fire Department.

  The second was another inmate who testified how Raskin cried himself to sleep in his cell at night – supposedly grieving for his daughter. That witness was in the Sturn County jail for indecent liberties with a minor and forgery, leaving his testimony all but fatally flawed.

  The third gentleman was introduced as “expert”, when it came to the debilitating effects of alcohol, its distortion of mood and its impediment to judgment and tolerance. Few in the courtroom could even follow his theoretical excursions.

  The fact is, Keenon Roberts and Anne Carlstead didn’t have much to work with.

  The jury deliberated less than three hours, before returning a guilty verdict. From the first day of the trial it seemed difficult to expect anything less. There were no recommendations attached. The sentencing would be the responsibility of Judge Elvin Bodner.

  8 Promises Promises

  Thursday, January 21, 2010 10:30 AM

  The crowd in court on the morning Raskin was to be sentenced was a little bigger than the group which attended the trial each day. Six members of Patricia Faye Raskin’s family were there, as were an increased number of media representatives from around central South Carolina.

  Elvin Bodner’s comments were simple and to the point. He chronologically recounted the events of that terrible night. The Judge chastised Paige’s father for belligerence instead of remorse and threatening words as opposed to a contrite heart. Bodner concluded his statement with Millard Raskin’s sentence.

  After hearing the words, “thirty years without the possibility of parole”, Millard Raskin’s eyes became little more than slits in his face. His voice was measured but strained, and the pumping action of his right hand and forearm simulated spearing someone’s invisible chest.

  “Judge Elvin Bodner, your days are numbered!” Then turning to his left he continued; “The same is true for you Solicitor Kenneth Stepp. I’ll get out of jail and I’m gonna kill you both. I swear it,” wailed Millard Raskin. Marsha Lowe placed a hand on her colleague’s arm as the fiery words flew.

  No sooner had the last syllable left Raskin’s lips than Bailiff Mel Hoxie had him by the nape of the neck. Moving toward the double doors, his feet barely touched the floor as Hoxie and another deputy drove their hands hard up under Millard’s arms.

  Cash Raskin’s declarations continued into the hall; “People, take a good look at Bodner and Stepp, two dead men,” – each word clearly heard before the huge wooden doors were slammed shut.

  Elvin Bodner brought the gavel down on the wooden pad and the courtroom began to clear.
Neither he nor Assistant Solicitor Stepp said a word as each headed in opposite directions – Stepp toward the front hall and Judge Bodner back to his chambers.

  Janeen Bodner was in the courtroom when the dramatic conclusion came. She had come to the courthouse late that morning for lunch with her husband. His wife of over twenty years didn’t know about her spouse, but the irate man’s guarantees gave her chills. She was reasonably certain her husband had never sat through anything like that in his legal career, certainly not since taking over the 17th Circuit.

  The Judge said nothing about Raskin’s threats in chambers or during the ride to Chester’s Eatery, one of the couple’s favorite spots. In fact, he’d been noticeably quite. It wasn’t until after they had ordered that Janeen broached the subject.

  “That man’s going away for a long time Elvin. You yourself said he was a big talker. Please don’t let that bother you.”

  “Oh that’s not really what’s bothering me dear. He’s not going to be in any position to hurt me or you. It’s the look on that young prosecutor’s face that I was thinking about. He’s the one that’s dealing with the shock value in those words.”

  Nothing else was said during lunch about the Raskin case or the defendant’s searing rants and irate words. It was a subject that didn’t need constant attention. Only some time would dull their troubling effects.

  9 A Concealed Weapon

  Sunday, January 24, 2010 9:20 PM

  Millard Raskin was on his bunk thinking about the longest ride of his life. He was scheduled to board the county bus at 8:00 AM for the ride from the Sturn County Jail to the new Lee Correctional Institution in Bishopville, SC. The near state-of-the-art facility opened in the early 1990’s. Raskin knew enough about the place to know any chance of escaping from there would be all but non-existent. No sir, he would have to escape from Sturn County, and to say time was running out was a huge understatement.

  Cash had been thinking all afternoon about how an attempt could be made, but each sketchy plan evaporated in the face of cement block walls, iron bars and angry twelve-foot fences, sporting shiny new razor wire.

  Should he detect even the slightest opportunity to make a latch-ditch attempt at freedom, a few things did seem to favor the effort that afternoon.

  First, the tough, experienced jailer, Hal Bruckner, was out with the flu and his replacement, young Tyree Lassiter, was as green as they come. At times, Lassiter acted more like he was accountable to the prisoners than the other way around. Lassiter could be suckered.

  Secondly, there were not many prisoners on the cell block to potentially gum up the works. Ten days of temperatures well below freezing and persistent cold winds had served to keep many of the county’s repeat customers at home.

  And then there was the really nifty piece of good timing. Captain Walter Wesley, after twenty-three years, was having his retirement party at the Sturnburg Steak House. Many of the deputies were there or planning to drop by there to pay their respects. The likelihood that one or two cars would unexpectedly stop by the jail was greatly reduced.

  But even with all this in his favor, Raskin still needed something else to break his way – something that would do away with the need for a locksmith’s skill, super human strength and a sprinter’s speed. He needed something realistic, something simple. And, it was about to come in the door.

  Corporal Moretz walked in the side door at ten PM with Pumpkin Mize in tow. Sally Moretz was a veteran officer, and Pumpkin Mize was a veteran crook. His record contained mostly misdemeanors, but they were numerous and wide-ranging. He’d been in or around Sturnburg all his life, looking to make a quick buck one way or another. And, if doing so meant sidestepping the law a little here or there, so be it.

  On that night, his offense didn’t call for a shyster’s wit and wisdom, or a sneak thief’s guile and technique. Pumpkin Mize was drunk.

  Tyree stood behind the counter anxiously watching Sally Moretz fill in several blanks on required jail forms. He was ready and willing to be of any assistance possible. The smartly uniformed Corporal shuffled the sheets into order. “No reason to print this guy Tyree. We’ve had him in the system for a long, long time,” said Moretz.

  “You got it by yourself tonight?”

  “I’m afraid so, Hal’s home with the flu. I got it covered though. There’s not many back there.”

  “Well, let’s put you one more in the house.”

  Moretz took Mize by the arm and waited for Lassiter to get the keys.

  She put her weapon in the lock box and walked with the young jailer down the cell block hall to #9. That’s where Pumpkin’s cuffs were removed before he stepped into his cell to hear the door clang shut and the large key turn over in the lock.

  “He shouldn’t give you any trouble Lassiter.” Old Pumpkin can get a little loud when he wants to, but I think he’s about past that part tonight. He’s probably just gonna want a blanket and some sleep.”

  “Where’d you pick him up Corporal?” asked Tyree as they stepped back into the booking area.

  Sally retrieved her weapon and headed for the door. “I got a call down to Montene’s place. He’d knocked some guy down and was pounding the hell out of him with that wooden leg of his.”

  It wasn’t just the authentic, old-fashioned wooden leg that the sixty-five-year-old Mize featured in his pirate act. He went all out at Sturnburg City Park, entertaining the children on Saturday afternoons.

  It was the authentic buccaneer shirt and pants, the three-quarter length heavy black coat, with the large shiny buttons and the knee-high turn-down boots that filled out the package. Of course, he always loved to hobble around with the wide shoulder-to-waist strap crossing his chest, holding up the tin sword and scabbard. All this was topped off with a purple scarf around his head, black leather patch on his left eye and that shoulder-length orange hair. He just kept the dye handy and grew accustomed to his nickname, “Pumpkin”.

  On that Sunday night, he was wearing his thick pirate coat and pants, something he often did when the weather was cold. The part time pirate was a friendly sort, generally liked by city police officers, county deputies and people on the street. He had become a weekend fixture around town.

  Since he’d entered the cell block hall, Cash Raskin had been staring at Mize, who was lying on the cot. When the new arrival opened his eyes, Raskin’s questioning look was the first thing he saw.

  Pumpkin slowly broke into a smile and addressed his new neighbor, “Howdy.”

  “Evenin’. So what the hell are you?” inquired Millard Raskin.

  Pumpkin laughed. “Yes sir, you must think I’m a strange lookin’ cuss a’ lying here with this getup on.”

  “Yeah, that’s pretty much what I was thinkin’ alright,” replied Raskin.

  “How’d ya lose the leg pirate?”

  “I was walkin’ in front of my daddy huntin’ rabbits. He thought the safety on that 12-gauge was on. It wasn’t. That number 6 load almost blew my leg off right behind the knee. OooWee, nasty,” said Mize, wrinkling up his nose and shaking his head.

  Pumpkin swung himself around off the cot, stood and walked over to the bars separating his cell from Raskin’s. He was beginning to sober, as he pressed his face between the bars, while holding on to the round steel above his head.

  “You’re Cash Raskin, ain’t ya?”

  “Yeah….that’s me,” replied the younger criminal, turning his head away from the question.

  “I read about your trial in the newspaper and your threat to bust out of jail and get that judge and prosecutin’ attorney. You really mean that Raskin?”

  “What business is it of yours peg leg?”

  “I’ve been a wantin’ to do somethin’ bigger than just be a sneak thief for a long, long time. I figur’ helpin’ you qualifies. Every one of these cops around here talks about ol’ punkin’ – how he’s a crazy old bird or old punkin’ is strictly small time.”

  “They don’t really know some of the things I’ve done and some of th
e things I can do, like helpin’ you get outta here mister. You probably oughta talk a little nicer to me fella. I might just be the very person you wanted in this cell next to you tonight. I might end up bein’ Cash Raskin’s hero.”

  Cash wasn’t looking away any longer. He watched as Mize tapped his way back over to his cot, where he sat down and pulled the elastic ring at the bottom of his pants leg well above his knee. Then he began loosening the three straps that held the peg’s socket snuggly to the stump of his right leg.

  Mize stopped a moment and looked up at the man in the neighboring cell. There was a wide smile on Pumpkin’s face, as he savored the moment. Motivated by growing anticipation, Raskin got up and walked over to the bars separating the cells. Mize had the felon’s full attention.

  His stringy orange hair fell down by Pumpkin’s cheeks and onto his upper chest as he looked down into the socket, keeping his hand near the bottom of the cotton-lined cup attached to the top of the peg.

  What he retrieved more than qualified as the additional break Raskin was searching for earlier that night. Raskin could not have imagined a more ideal development. Nor, standing in that cell, could he anticipate the series of developments that were going to go his way in coming weeks.

  In what was one of the most satisfying moments of Pumpkin Mize’s life, he used his middle finger and thumb to grasp and lift over his head the Raven MP-25 semi-automatic pistol. Millard Raskin’s mouth fell open as he watched his eccentric-looking cellmate swinging it like a black metal pendulum on a cuckoo clock.

  In the next few minutes, the two came to a straight-forward understanding. Raskin could have the loaded pistol, if he would agree to never tell anyone about Pumpkin’s help. All the orange-headed mischief-maker wanted was to silently revel in the role he’d played in “something big”.