Rage Factor

by Chris Rogers

  On the wave of silence that filled the courtroom, someone moaned.

  “They did it,” Belle said softly. “They let the bastard off.”

  Reporters rushed to capture the defendant’s reaction. Defense counsel looked as stunned as the prosecutors.

  Seeing Brenda’s stricken expression, Dixie knew what her friend was feeling—like being kicked in the stomach. Disbelief—she hadn’t heard right, the jury had made a mistake, the judge would grant a mistrial. Then guilt—how could I let this happen? What did I do wrong?

  Murmuring a hasty departure to Belle, Dixie waded into the throng, swinging her crutch past Regan Salles and Clarissa Thomas—huddled together with the witness coordinator, faces pasty with shock, no doubt worrying about reprisal from Coombs. He wasn’t the type to let bygones be.

  Dixie placed a steadying hand on Brenda’s arm. “You’ll get another crack at him.”

  “How many more women will he assault before one is brave enough to turn him in?” Blinking rapidly, as if fighting an emotional torrent, the prosecutor fished a piece of nicotine chewing gum from her pocket and fumbled the wrapper off. Her words came slow, fierce, and deliberate. “Regan Salles was beaten so badly she’ll never have children. She almost died, Dixie. The next woman very likely will die. Look what he did to you. Of all the reptiles I’ve watched slither out of this courthouse and back into society, Lawrence Coombs really scares me.”

  Dixie searched her soul for a crumb of reassurance; Brenda’s assessment was exactly right. Future victims would see Coombs’ acquittal as proof that their own testimony would go unheard. He could stack up conquests like firewood.

  A reporter approached, but Brenda’s angry stare turned him away. She slapped a stack of files into her briefcase. “I blew it. I totally blew it.”

  “You did everything you could. Sometimes the system works, sometimes it doesn’t.”

  “The system never works against men like Coombs. He’s too high profile, too glibly credible. If we rolled a woman into the courtroom on her deathbed, defense counsel would claim she inflicted her own injuries and blamed Coombs out of spite. And the jury would buy every lying word of it.”

  Rage smoldered in Brenda’s eyes. Dixie knew that rage. She’d felt it too many times herself.

  “Hey, girl, it’s over,” she cautioned softly. “You have to let it go.” But she owed Brenda more than useless platitudes. During the dead weeks that followed Dixie’s resignation from the DA’s office, all that kept her from becoming an embittered bar hag was Brenda’s unflagging willingness to alternately hold Dixie’s hand and kick her butt. Dixie owed her friend the same support. “Get your gear. Let’s work off some of that frustra—”

  Someone pushed between them. Dixie looked up to find Coombs’ tailored shoulders in her face.

  Ignoring her, he leaned forward to whisper in Brenda’s ear.

  Brenda’s face blanched white.

  Then Coombs was gone, striding toward the door in a swarm of reporters.

  Dixie took Brenda’s elbow. “What did he say?”

  Mouth slack, eyes wide, the prosecutor glared at the back of Coombs’ head. Then she twisted out of Dixie’s grasp and snatched up her briefcase.

  “Brenda, what did he say?”

  “He said, ‘Foreplay’s over, darlin’. Brace yourself for the main event.’”

  Chapter Six

  Not guilty? A scream rose in Sissy’s throat as she watched the clutch of reporters follow Lawrence Coombs toward the exit.

  Jesus help her. How could anyone sit here listening to the evidence day after day, then look that judge in the eye and issue a verdict of not guilty? She longed to slam the jurors one by one against the wall and scream the question at them. Not guilty?

  A courtroom groupie squeezed past, reeking of old clothes and cheap perfume. Sissy breathed through her mouth, fighting queasiness. How many bottles of cheap perfume had she sprinkled around her apartment trying to purge the Dumpster smells of cat litter and fetid garbage from her nostrils? How many boxes of discarded old clothes had she cleaned and mended to support herself after those months in the hospital?

  Lately she had begun to relive the hell of those hours after waking in the Dumpster. In the deadest part of a night, she would jerk erect in bed, soaked in perspiration, the truck’s whine in her ears, shame and confusion roiling in her brain. Then, gasping with pain, she’d relive the horror of falling and watching the compactor inch toward her, the fear of being buried alive by the next load of garbage, the agony of climbing broken and bleeding out of the truck.

  Hiding in a clump of bushes at the roadside, she’d been afraid to stop a passing motorist, afraid of being taken to a hospital, where she would have to answer questions. Bleeding and humiliated, she dragged herself to a YWCA, and from there had ended up in a women’s protection center, where she found help.

  A new name. A new life.

  A vow to never, ever be frightened again.

  And a new goal: to show other victims the way out.

  That terrifying time was long past—and so much good had happened since then. But in her nightmares Sissy still felt the blows from her husband’s huge fist, saw his silver-toed boot swinging toward her.

  During the Coombs trial, she had felt herself filling up again with hate and frustration, and she had fought it. But now, as Lawrence Coombs paused in the doorway to tip a sarcastic salute to the courtroom, Sissy felt a rage that threatened to send her wailing through the crowd to gouge out his eyeballs, to rip out his tongue, to stomp his slimy guts into the green asphalt tile of the courtroom floor. The rage was like a beast, clawing, snapping, eating at her. She had to get out of here. NOW. Before she burst into a thousand bloody fragments.

  But she had to do it slowly, calmly.

  Be still. Sissy.

  Do not make a scene, Sissy.

  You must not go back to the hospital.

  Someone was asking her a question. She had to answer sensibly, but what? What was the question again?

  Chapter Seven

  Dixie looped the racquet over her gloved hand and leaned against the wall to wait for Brenda. Her cast felt downright silly with her gym shorts. Outside the glass barrier, two jocks in muscle shirts stole glances at her, making her feel even clumsier. But she intended to get a good workout today if it hair-lipped the devil. After the weeks of inactivity, she felt as if a swarm of bees had been trapped inside her.

  From somewhere down the hall came the rah-rah music of an exercise class. This new club, all sparkle and glass, attracted too many dilettantes and spandexed weight-watchers. But the Downtown Y was overcrowded, and with Dixie’s uncertain schedule, lead time for reserving a racquetball court had become prohibitive. The new club was only a short drive from the courthouse. And the locker rooms smelled better.

  She saw Brenda making her way down the hall, racquet and goggles in hand, hair pulled back in a braid. Brenda Benson had never been pretty. Perhaps a plastic surgeon could’ve refined her square features; then with her muscular body and magnificent hair she’d be a knockout. But Brenda was more interested in improving the world than improving her looks.

  Noting the deep worry lines etching the prosecutor’s forehead, Dixie wondered if Lawrence Coombs’ parting comment was getting to her. Surely Brenda had been threatened before—hell, who on the DA’s staff hadn’t? Dixie recalled one red-letter day when she’d personally received three hate notes.

  “Let’s play.” Brenda swung through the door, adjusting her goggles.

  Dixie bounced the racquetball.

  “You wouldn’t rather talk first?” There’d been no chance after the trial to discuss Coombs’ cryptic remark.

  Brenda’s grim smile spread the web of fine lines that encircled her strong mouth. She swiped her palms on the seat of her gym shorts.

  “What’s to talk about? Are you trying to wangle a handicap for a little foot fracture?”

  Dixie bounced the ball again. Perhaps the activity would be better than talking; b
etter, certainly, for dealing with her own frustrations. She hated seeing the bad guys win.

  “Can’t fault me for trying to get an edge.” She bounced the ball once more, then served.

  It lobbed off the back wall and fell nicely within Brenda’s reach. Brenda whacked the hell out of it, sending it crashing from the wall to hit the front glass on the fly, then almost to the back again before touching down. Lunging, Dixie smacked the ball half as hard as Brenda had, coming down on the bad foot and stumbling.

  “I suppose that was Coombs’ face you just splattered all over Houston,” Dixie taunted.

  “You bet it was!”

  Dixie hoped the bitterness in Brenda’s voice was tempered with humor. As long as the prosecutor could smile as she vented her anger, it wouldn’t gnaw at her. Only a fool ignored a threat, yet you couldn’t let fear erode your confidence.

  “What do you suppose Coombs meant?” Dixie landed on her good knee to save a grounder and winced as floor grit scraped off a layer of skin.

  “You know damn well what Coombs meant. He’s coming after me.” Brenda missed a high ball, plucked it out of the air on the third bounce, and served without losing a beat.

  The ball stayed in a slow, easy play for over a minute until Dixie flubbed another grounder, landing on the same knee. Cursing the fancy gym that offered seventeen kinds of fresh-squeezed juice, but couldn’t keep the floors swept, she searched until she found a small black pebble, scooped it up, and tossed it into a corner.

  Brenda served—whawp!

  “You’ve had threats before,” Dixie said. “How many bogeymen actually materialized on your doorstep?” Whawp! “Coombs means it.”

  “You think he’s stupid enough to risk jail again?”

  “I don’t think he’s stupid at all.” Whawp! “But he believes he’s untouchable.”

  For several minutes Dixie concentrated on playing. Her foot ached like a bad tooth. To reduce running, she stopped going for wide shots. Soon she was hitting only the balls that lobbed within arm’s reach. But the movement felt great.

  She knew Brenda was right about Coombs. An egomaniac, he would believe he could wreak vengeance on the ADA without getting caught. When they stopped for a breather, Dixie regarded the woman who’d just creamed her at racquetball.

  “Think you need a bodyguard?”

  Brenda pulled off her goggles and wiped a towel across her face. “What I’m thinking is maybe I don’t want this job anymore.”

  “Aw, don’t say that, Bren. You’re too damn good at it. And you’re needed. You’ve locked up so many fist-crazy bastards I’m surprised the Women’s Help Center hasn’t given you a medal. Hell, you’re the DA’s Golden Girl.”

  The media nickname, coined for Brenda’s stunning hair as well as her occasionally brilliant courtroom procedure, failed to draw a smile.

  “You quit,” Brenda said. “And you seem to be doing all right.”

  Dixie bounced the racquetball so hard it jarred her wrist when she caught it.

  “Yeah, I’m doing all right.” She didn’t regret for an instant her decision to leave the DA’s staff, but sometimes she felt like a lily-livered deserter. She’d been good at her job, damn near as good as Brenda. If all the good guys laid down their swords, wouldn’t the bad guys finally take over?

  Brenda was studying her. “You set your own hours, right? Work at your own pace? You’re making more money now.”

  “A lot more money.” A hell of a lot more money.

  “And you finally have time for a love life.”

  Dixie felt a sappy grin spread across her face. “Yep, I finally have a love life.”

  “Aren’t you satisfied with what you’re doing?”

  “I’m satisfied, Brenda, but I don’t envision myself a bounty hunter forever. And I’m not contributing much to the greater good.”

  “Yes, you are! In your own way, you contribute a hell of a lot. We can’t convict the bail jumpers who skip off to Mexico only to resurface later doing the same dirty deeds. Working outside the system, you’re more effective, in some ways, than any cop.”

  “What are you leading up to?”

  Brenda looped the damp towel around her neck. “Do you think I could do what you’re doing? Bounty hunting?”

  Dixie could tell the prosecutor was serious, and she didn’t want to answer without giving the question some thought. Bouncing the racquetball, she listened to the hollow thunk, thunk, thunk echo in the small room.

  “You have the guts, Bren,” she said finally. “You have the stamina. And in defense class I’ve seen you practice hand-to-hand against some tough competition.” She looked Brenda square in the eye. “But could you kill a person, if that was your only reasonable choice?”

  “You’ve never killed anyone.”

  “Not yet. And I hope I never do. But every day of my life I face the possibility.”

  “I could shoot a dirtball like Coombs, easy.”

  “Even if you didn’t know whether the dirtball was guilty? Remember, I rarely know as much about a skip as I knew about Coombs.”

  “If they skip, chances are they’re guilty.”

  “I used to think so.” Until Parker. “A skip tracer brings them back to trial, and lets a jury decide on their guilt or innocence.”

  A scowl hardened Brenda’s mouth. “I’m not sure I could do that.”

  “Brenda, it’s only in old westerns that bounty hunters get to be judge, jury, and executioner.” Dixie wanted to say more, but all that came to mind were the same lame remarks some of her friends had spouted when she stopped practicing law.

  They played two more games, Brenda winning all three. Playing with an injured foot had been dumb, but the vigorous exercise had banished the trapped bees. Dixie felt exhilirated. As they prepared to leave, she limped to the corner and retrieved the black pebble she’d tossed there.

  “Wait up,” she said. “I want to share something—guess you could say it’s what keeps me chipping away from the sidelines.”

  Brenda eyed her warily, but ambled over to where Dixie knelt on the floor, drawing a big imaginary circle with her finger.

  “Throw a rock in a lake,” Dixie said, cradling the pebble in her palm, then tossing it to the center of the circle. “You’ll see ripples. Small, insignificant ripples. Scarcely noticeable.” She drew a second circle, smaller than her hand. “Toss that same rock in a puddle, and the ripples become great outward waves that turn everything to mud. Like that pebble, one evil man among the righteous is insignificant, a single dark shadow on a sunlit pool.”

  “Careful, preacher.” Brenda popped a chunk of nicotine gum in her mouth. “You’re sloshing pond water over your chic new footgear.”

  Dixie’s occasional metaphorical lectures, a persuasion technique learned from her Irish adoptive father, were an old joke between them from law school. Tedious or not, Dixie believed some things needed to be said.

  “Darkness,” she persisted, “is as much a part of nature’s scheme as you or me, or this rock. It’s not our job to eliminate all the shadows in the world, but to remain part of the light, part of the balance. Without us, the pool shrinks. The light dims. The ripples of darkness spread wider.”

  Brenda sighed, long, heavy, and defeated. “I get your belabored point. But I’m not sure our society has enough candlepower these days to brighten a broom closet.”

  Dixie scooped up the pebble and balanced it between her thumb and forefinger.

  “Benson, you’re one of the brightest spots in the whole system. Next to you, Lawrence Riley Coombs is like a single dust mote in a ray of sunshine.” She flipped the pebble off her thumbnail, caught it in the palm of her hand. “Insignificant.”

  The prosecutor frowned at the shiny black rock. After a moment, Dixie closed her fingers over it and shoved it into her pocket.

  They spent the next twenty minutes working out with free weights. Brenda seemed hell-bent on pressing as many pounds as the buff young men in the room. Only when she and Dixie were both tho
roughly spent did they head for the showers.

  Dixie needed to get home. Parker would be pissed if she was late for dinner again, and she had to call Belle Richards for specifics on where to pick up the client’s kid tomorrow morning. But Brenda’s mood worried her.

  She fished some coins out of her pocket—a phone call would ease Parker’s mind.

  “Looks like the beer’s on me tonight,” she told Brenda. “Might be your last big chance to tie one on at my expense.”

  “Think I can’t beat you when your foot’s healed?”

  “I think there’s a Mexican beer at the Suds Club with my name on it, and I could use the company for an hour or so.”

  Brenda looked at her, not buying it. “I’ve lost cases before, Dixie. I’m not going to do anything crazy tonight.”

  Dixie gave her a thin smile. “Crazy is in the eye of the beholder, old friend.”

  The ADA stalled a second longer, then shrugged. “I suppose the Suds Club will be bubbling with gossip about my failing record of late. Might as well give them an honest target to aim at.”

  Chapter Eight

  The mixture of odors at the Suds Club was like no other bar in town. The small brewery and pub sat alongside a laundromat, taking advantage of a captive clientele waiting for their clothes to dry. Like other lawyers, Dixie had started hanging out there not because she liked doing laundry but because the owner was a friend, another former prosecutor whose golden dreams of making a difference had tarnished. He and four other attorneys—who happened to also be musicians—had formed a band, calling themselves “The Convictions,” that played the club on weekends. Damned good vintage rock and roll. Tonight, a neon Wurlitzer provided music at a volume allowing easy conversation.

  But Brenda wasn’t doing much talking. They’d taken their usual booth in the smoking section. Although Brenda was trying to shuck the habit, and Dixie’s one childhood attempt had made her sick enough to swear off for life, their corner niche was tradition.

  Simulated padded leather walls and plush wine-red carpet muffled the hum of a hundred conversations. Neon beer signs provided the dim lighting. Brenda stared at a Corona bottle on the bar in front of her, alternately drinking from it, sucking on a lime wedge balanced on its rim, and scraping at the bottle’s label.