Love Her Madly

by Mary-Ann Tirone Smith

  Everybody reholstered and took up previous positions.

  I said to the cop, “What did you use to hit me over the head with? The same hammer you used to drive nails into my tire?”

  The lawyer jumped up. “Don’t answer that.”

  I knew he’d do that just as I knew his order would incite the cop further. The cop said, “What? Hey, you’re the one got laid out in Austin, ain’t you? I didn’t do that. I’d never do such a thing. I ain’t crazy.”

  Brewster said to me, “Agent, what say we cover one thing at a time?” Then he said to the lawyer, “I want us to all settle down and talk things out before our gal from Washington creates some kind of international incident.”

  International. Texans still think of Texas as an independent republic.

  He sat, the rest of us sat, and I crossed my legs, rendering them all momentarily speechless. While their eyes were riveted on the eight or so inches of my exposed thighs, I said, “Mr. Medved, I want to know the deal you intended to make when you walked in here. Obviously, no one’s under arrest, as my fellow agents did not disarm your client. And since, according to your client, he’s not your client, I should think the chief might want to make a deal.”

  Brewster said, “If I may, here is the deal. And for Mr. Brown here, trust me, it’s the only deal.”

  “It’s Mr. Purcell,” said the cop.

  “Mr. Purcell, Mr. Brown, whichever. I would like to know the name of the fella who paid you to put an FBI agent’s life in danger. Then I want you to use my phone to make known your intention to resign from the Houston Police Department this very day. Then I will let you out of here and you can go into the nearest church, get down on your fucking knees, and thank the Lord God Almighty that things ain’t worse for you than that. If that deal don’t appeal to you, I got an alternative.”

  Brewster looked to me. I used the same shrug as Northrup.

  He said, “I will use the power invested in me to arrest you for a federal offense—the attempted murder of a peace officer of the Federal Bureau of Investigation—and I don’t need to tell you the penalty for—”

  The cop jumped up. “He only wanted to put a scare in some guy screwin’ around with his wife. Put a nail in his tire. He lied. I didn’t know a lady would be drivin’ the car, and I didn’t know she wouldn’t be from around here, and I sure as hell didn’t know she’d be FBI.”

  Medved reverted to shouting shut up again.

  Brewster said to the lawyer, “We got a deal goin’ here. Let me finish.” Then he went back to the cop.

  “Since I’m not going to arrest you, here’s what I expect you to do. Tell the people who made up the wife-adultery story that you were fool enough to believe it, but you’re not fool enough to harass a big-shot FBI agent no matter how much they pay you. And I want you to do it right now or you will find yourself in some very deep shit. But just before you do, tell us—”

  The cop said, “It wasn’t the money. It was just a favor. For an old friend.”

  The lawyer said, “He tells you the name and we’re out of here, is that it?”

  Purcell decided to hurry and tell the name. “Tommy Kego.”

  Brewster said, “Who is—?”

  “Used to be a cop. Knew him in Houston. Retired.”

  “Where’s he at now?”

  “Little town outside Austin.”

  The chief smiled at Medved. “Counselor, I have only one question for you, but I believe Miz Rice should have the privilege of asking it.”

  I didn’t get a chance to ask it. The lawyer had had enough. “Ma’am, the man who asked me to protect the interests of Mr. Purcell is a philanthropist who helps out police officers in need and who prefers to remain anonymous. I don’t know the name Kego, and I am not going to tell you my client’s name. He has that right. And there’ll be no need for you to tap my phone because he doesn’t speak to me directly.”

  I said to the lawyer, “Not to worry. He’s going to speak to me. No one needs you to find out who he is. And I’d suggest, for your own good, you break your ties with your philanthropist and consider going back to handling dog-bite cases and water in the cellar.”

  The lawyer said, “Don’t you threaten me, Agent. Officer Purcell is correct. I was here to protect his interests but not to represent him. However, I would suggest to him that he procure representation elsewhere as soon as possible.”

  He picked up his briefcase and headed toward the door. Northrup opened it for him, and H. Johnson Medved was gone.

  Brewster said to Northrup, “See he’s followed. See he’s bugged. His office, his house, his garage, his car, his fuckin’ dog. S’cuse my French, Agent. And find out who his fuckin’ philanthropist is.”

  Exit Northrup.

  “Now. What did you say your name was, Jack?”

  The cop couldn’t get his name out. He was hyperventilating.

  The chief said, “Never mind. Your friend, this Kego? He got some clout?”

  Cop managed a yes.

  “Next time some nutcase wants you to do a bad turn for them, don’t be influenced by clout. Just say no. Now, before you get the hell outa here, step into my outer office and my secretary will get you the outside line you’ll be needin’. And make sure I get an invitation to your retirement party, you hear?”

  Exit the cop.

  Brewster sighed and looked at me. “I need a drink. Will you allow me to buy you a stiff one, Agent? By way of an apology from my office. We’ll get the guy with the brick soon. But we’ve got to let this Purcell loose so he can contact Kego, and then we’ll see where Kego leads us. Boys outside are primed to take care of that, as you pointed out to Mr. Medved, Esquire. Won’t take but a day or two is my bet. So how about the drink?”

  “Actually, I’m starving.”

  “Well, good. The place I got in mind serves a thirty-two-ounce porterhouse the likes of which never get exported outa the great state of Texas.”

  Maybe Texas actually is another country. They talk import-export.

  I uncrossed my legs. “Sounds great,” I said, to the top of his head. Dining with Texans was going to force me to renew my membership in a DC fitness center.

  By the time we got to the restaurant, a seventeen-second drive from the Federal Building, Brewster had received news as to the present role of the retired Houston cop Tommy Kego, old pal of Officer Purcell, now a retired cop as well. Kego was a state appointee, appointed specifically by the present governor eight years ago and still serving on the Texas Board of Pardons and Paroles. The very board that turned down all of Rona Leigh’s appeals for a reprieve.

  Over our four pounds of cattle, the chief would interrupt himself every few minutes to take a message from his cell phone and then pass along the news. “Ya see, ma’am? Those boys on the parole board?” He waved his fork. “They don’t like to be disturbed. They got a cushy situation for themselves and they been havin’ a lot of trouble lately. It’s in their best interest to keep killers movin’ in a direct line from death row to the death house and just keep quiet about it all. They been havin’ trouble stickin’ with no comment lately because the press has been houndin’ them so bad. They never figured gettin’ hounded would be part of the job.”

  Three mouthfuls later, his phone would beep again. The facts continued to roll in, and the Waco chief would chew and then fill me in. “Kego was a cop on the Houston force seventeen years ago when Rona Leigh was arrested at his precinct, though he was not the arresting officer and did not take part in the apprehension or investigation. After she was convicted, though, he got a big promotion within the department, a new job with more money and one hell of a lot more prestige than merely pounding the beat. Shortly after that he married the daughter of a rich doctor who catered to the up-and-coming of Houston.

  “Doctor, name a Blake Redmon, relocated to Austin, and now he runs several a those factories where they zap your eyeballs so you can throw your glasses out with the garbage. This Kego continued to rise and rise in the department, and the
minute the governor was elected he appointed Kego to the parole board.”

  Over dessert, the phone filled in more blanks. While we spooned upside-down cake saturated with goo that had to be one part butter to one part brown sugar to a third part some alcoholic compound, Brewster told me that the guy’s father-in-law lived in the Texas equivalent of the Kennedy compound—big ranch outside Austin with a big house and a bunch of medium-sized houses for his grown children and their no-’count husbands and wives, including Kego.

  Then he said, “So what we need now, Agent, is the connection. Need to know why this Kego worried about your presence. And we’ll find out who knocked you cold, too, trust me. Kego couldn’t count on a friendly favor for that. He had to hire a real piece of shit. We’ll get him, I promise you.”

  He pushed his chair back a foot so digestion could commence uninterrupted by the pressure of the table edge on his large stomach. “But whoever’s unhappy that you came pokin’ around this Rona Leigh thing—well, by now they know you’re back and continuin’ to poke. So whoever hired the piece of shit, he’s presumably gettin’ unhappier by the minute. Therefore, I would like to know your whereabouts at all times.”

  I leaned forward on my elbows. “I count on my assistant to act as my whereabouts. Her name is Delby Jones.”

  I gave him Delby’s card.

  He pulled his chair back up to the table, leaned over, took my hand in both of his large ones, and looked into my eyes, his own filled with concern. “I will continue to do my best to regain your trust, Poppy Rice. I hope you accept my apologies for what you’ve been through.”

  I removed my hand. “I will accept your apologies, and you’ll regain my trust, as soon as you find a few more connections and see that whoever hit me over the head is behind bars.”

  I told him I loved the steak. I wondered if Brewster was his first name or his last. It was late when I got back to Gatesville.

  I called Delby and told her to get what she could on Doc Redmon.

  She said, “Tonight?”

  “I’d appreciate it.”

  “Okay, I’ll do that. Call the director so he quits bothering me. Dying to congratulate you.”

  “Okay.”

  He was still at the office. He said, “Poppy, I heard from the lab today. I don’t know how you did what you did, but the guy in the church movie is the guy in the room with Rona Leigh Glueck making the videos. The voices are one and the same.”

  “Has Auerbach seen the movie?”

  “Auerbach’s in charge.”

  “Thought so.”

  “Your boundless commitment to this department will never fail to…”

  When I got rid of him, the phone rang immediately. Delby again.

  “Who’s Fred Helton?”

  “I don’t … wait. Let me think.”

  “Take your time. I got all night. Not a single one of my kids has an ear infection.”

  “Fred Helton. He’s Melody Scott’s brother. He was in the witness room.”

  “Oh. No wonder he sounded like such a miserable dude. You feel like talkin’ to him? He asked.”

  “Where is he?”

  “He lives outside Houston, halfway to Austin. And a neighbor of his would like to talk to you too.”

  “A neighbor?”

  “One of the jurors who convicted Rona Leigh. Helton said Cardinal de la Cruz advised him to see you. That cardinal’s all over like shit, ain’t he?”

  “Cardinals obviously have more responsibilities than meet the eye. Give me Helton’s number.”

  I would love to hear what that juror wanted to say. But before I could call Melody’s brother, I had things to do. First, Max Scraggs. I got the same woman as last time. She recognized my voice, said, “Hold on a sec, Agent.” I heard the sounds of bodies rolling over.

  He said, “I’m here.”

  “Max, the FBI found the guy with the hammer and nails. Now don’t flip out; they threatened him and let him go.”

  First I let him finish flipping out.

  “I told you not to flip out. They want to follow his tracks.”

  “For Christ’s sake, the man hit you over the head with a brick.”

  “Someone else did that.”

  “How would you know that?”

  “I could tell. I had the pleasure of meeting him this afternoon in Waco.”

  “Who the fuck is he?”

  “A cop.”

  “Sweet Jesus.”

  “He did it as a favor for another cop, the son-in-law of a doctor named Blake Redmon.”

  Silence.

  “Do you know him, Max?” More silence. “You live in Texas, you’ve at least heard of him. What’s the cop’s name?”

  “Can’t say. If I do, your guys will be following him too, and your guys and my guys will end up shooting each other.”

  “Listen, Max, could you come up to Gatesville in the morning? We’ll have breakfast, we’ll talk, and then I need to use you.”

  “How?”

  “Melody Scott, Rona Leigh’s victim—her brother wants to talk to me. Him and one of her jurors. If they want to tell me something that has anything to do with the possibility that Rona Leigh may not have gotten the kind of trial she’s guaranteed under the U.S. Constitution, I want the Texas law there with me.”

  “Poppy, if for some reason that I sure as hell can’t figure out, you’ve got Blake Redmon interested in you, I’m not going to let you out of my sight. I’ll be with you for breakfast.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “We’ll talk in the morning.”

  “One more thing.”

  “What?”

  I told him who sprung Rona Leigh. Gave him the name and all I knew.

  I doubt the man went back to sleep.

  Delby called me. “Boss, my fax has been pourin’ out some major shit. Here’s the connection you’re looking for. It’s a humdinger. That forensic physician who testified for the prosecution against Rona Leigh? Dr. Glee? Dude name of Blake Redmon.”

  I think I said fuck me.

  “Well, here’s the story on that scumbag. This guy Redmon’s daughter got knocked up seventeen years ago by your Houston cop, Kego. She was a kid just about to finish high school at the time. They ran away to Mexico and got married. So this doctor who never testified at any other trial before or since told Rona Leigh’s jury he could smell her on the ax handle. Then, right after the conviction, Kego gets his reward, a big promotion. Real real big. That’s because the Houston police department prides itself on being more successful than any other department in the state as to number of convictions and is especially proud of the number of death penalties, more than any other county in Texas and the rest of the U.S. too, for that matter.

  “So basically, you’re one rich doctor, your daughter has just participated in a debutante ball to the tune of twenty-five grand and suddenly she announces she’s married to some bottom-of-the-barrel patrolman who has also knocked her up. What do you do? You agree to testify in a murder trial where everyone’s crying for blood. You hand over that blood with your false testimony, and consequently the defendant never has a chance in hell for justice, but the prosecutor gets another notch in his belt and therefore your son-in-law gets a free ride to a prestigious level of law enforcement thereby ensuring that Daughter maintains her place in Texas society.”

  Delby took a breath and said, “Now that last bit’s an oxymoron, right, boss?”

  This is why I love, cherish, and honor Delby Jones.

  She said, “So here’s the rest. Soon as the present governor was elected, he appoints Kego, the son-in-law, to his present position on the Texas Board of Pardons and Paroles. Turns out the governor and this here Dr. Glee went to prep school and college together, and according to the brothers at Delta Kappa Shmappa the doc was the sole reason the governor made it through college at all. The doc called the governor, who was a legislator at the time, and asks for the entrée necessary to volunteer for Rona Leigh’s trial. Only way the doc’s ass stays
covered now is for Rona Leigh’s sentence to be carried out.

  “So I’m thinkin’ about all you told me, and the way I see it is the governor granted her a reprieve after all when he told the warden at Gatesville to call an ambulance. If he hadn’t, the warden would have stalled around and Rona Leigh would have choked to death on her own vomit. Man, I love irony, boss. Or, as we call it in my neighborhood, findin’ out somethin’s been shoved up your ass without your knowin’ it.”

  I said, “Delby, I am a great observer of ironic developments myself, but there are more pressing matters. Has this Redmon ever done anything illegal?”

  “Honey, the guy has had more malpractice suits filed against him than a centipede has feet. And has never had to pay anybody a dime. Seems it’s like this here: You don’t like I sent a laser beam so far into your eye you need a dog to cross the street? How would you like two broken legs so’s you need a wheelchair to go along with the dog? That’s how he settles his malpractice cases. Some, anyway. I’m exaggerating just a little bit. But he’s got a whole bunch of guys, led by his son-in-law, who back up threats he makes. The guy with the hammer and nails is entry-level. Whoever dropped a rock on your head is probably one rich fellow about now. Long gone unless he’s a halfwit, sorry to say.

  “Bottom line: Guy sold Rona Leigh down the river solely for the advancement of his testosterone-heavy son-in-law. Top line: Boss, long as you’re in Texas, watch out for pickpockets and don’t drink the water.”

  “I won’t. Delby, I have just one more thing to ask of you.”

  “I got it right here.” She gave me Redmon’s phone number.

  The person who answered Redmon’s phone identified himself as Staff.

  I said, “Listen Staff. My name is Poppy Rice, I’m with the FBI, and I need to speak to the doctor.”

  “Is this an emergency? It’s quite late.”

  “I know what time it is.”

  He asked, “May I ask what this would be in reference to?”

  “I have a pain in my ass.”

  Staff put me on hold.

  Dr. Redmon was all charm, all DEKE, the way the boys are when their moms come to college on parents’ weekend and they have to hide the fact that they’ve been placed on academic probation.