Gideon - 04 - Illegal Motion

by Grif Stockley

  “This is how a defendant gets convicted in these kinds of cases!” I storm at him as I come to the light on Arkansas and Dickson.

  “What else have you lied to me about?”

  “Nothing!” Dade insists, looking at the window.

  “I had forgotten about having a couple of beers. I drank them over an hour before I met Robin. It wasn’t a big deal.”

  As the traffic thickens near the university, I wonder if this is merely the tip of the iceberg. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all. Still, I’d rather find out now than be clobbered with it in trial.

  “You can bet your last dollar the prosecutor will make every lie you tell a big deal if this case goes to trial.”

  Dade is silent, perhaps because every time he has opened his mouth I have yelled at him. Perhaps it is my imagination, but as we drive through the campus on our way to Darby Hall, it seems as if the students walking along the streets are livelier, more animated. A couple of male students spot Dade as we stop at the light at the law school and yell at him, “Great game, Dade!” The win over Alabama has put a spring in their steps they didn’t have before. It is incredible that a game should matter so much, but it does. Too bad we couldn’t have had the trial on Sunday.

  Before I drop Dade off in the parking lot next to his dorm, I ask him about Eddie Stiles.

  “Level with me on this guy, okay? Did he ever give you drugs?”

  “I didn’t know he even sold!” Dade says vehemently.

  “He just let us use the place.”

  “For your sake,” I say angrily, “I hope you’re telling the truth. You know you’ve got to stay away from people like that anybody who tries to give you a freebie of any kind. There’re a million people out there trying to use athletes.”

  Chastened, he nods. I should know. By any honest definition I’m one of them. As Dade gets out, I make him promise to call me if he hears any information about Robin.

  “Until we hear different, we’ve still got a trial date in January.”

  “Do you think we’ll hear this week about what the school will do?” he asks.

  “I don’t know what either the prosecutor or the university will do,” I confess. Politics within a university bureaucracy is as mysterious to me as the inside of a computer.

  “But it seems to me that if you keep winning, it will be harder for them to want to punish you.” As soon as I say this, I realize more victories could have the opposite effect on the university. The school administration may bend over backward to make it appear that it is not making a decision based on our chances of playing in a major bowl on New Year’s Day.

  Dade suddenly looks older than his twenty-one years.

  How much more pressure can he stand? I ought to be happy if he just tells the truth. I leave him on the side walk outside his dorm and drive over to Ole Main, thinking I remember that Sarah has told me that she works until one on Wednesdays. Maybe she can grab some lunch with me.

  Sarah is walking out the door as I come in. She says she has class in ten minutes but tells me there is a WAR rally again tonight and that I should come. I explain that I have cases piling up on my desk back home and don’t mention there is a possibility that Dade’s case could be dismissed. I don’t want to get her started. As students stream past us on their way to classes, I ask, “Did you hear about the polls? The Hogs are as high as fourth.”

  She reaches over to pull off a thread from my sports coat, which after five years of constant wear doesn’t have many to give. I need to break down and buy some clothes. Maybe I could get Amy to go with me to keep me from buying stuff that looks like I’m getting buried in it.

  “Dad,” Sarah says softly, “that’s what’s wrong with this place now. Sports is all anybody really cares about.

  It’s absurd.”

  She’s right. It is ridiculous, but according to Clan, so is having two eyes, two ears, two arms, two legs, and only one penis.

  “You’re absolutely right,” I say, trying to keep things light, “but it beats armed insurrection.”

  As I walk down the hall with her, she asks seriously, “Do you really think men are just so naturally aggressive they can’t help being violent?”

  Part of me is glad she’s got class.

  “I do better when I don’t think, babe,” I say, trying to finesse this subject.

  “After about two seconds I get bogged down. If they haven’t figured this stuff out by now, I sure as heck don’t figure my two cents’ worth will make a dime’s worth of difference.”

  She smiles indulgently, confident that her generation, or maybe even Paula Crawford by herself, will find the answers. If they do, I just hope women don’t line us up and shoot us. I give her a hug and tell her I will see her soon. She confides, “There’s a rumor going around that the administration will decide this week about Dade.”

  Interested in this information, I ask the source, but am told it was just “some girls talking.” I leave and, forgetting that I haven’t eaten, drop by my “office” on Mountain Street and discuss with Barton the statement Dade gave this morning to Binkie.

  Behind his desk, hands clasped behind his head, Bar ton rocks back in his swivel chair and stares at the ceiling

  “If Dade is doing drugs,” Barton says, “there’s no way Binkie will cut him any slack. That’s one subject he’s tough as nails on.”

  “Dade swears he’s not,” I say, still irritated by the revelations of an hour ago.

  “I don’t know whether to believe him or not.”

  Barton glances at his Rolex.

  “These kids aren’t saints,” he says primly.

  “They’re treated like gods when they win, and it’s easy for them to get used to it.”

  Barton is busy, and I should get out of here. I need to think about this case before I do any more about it. From the library I call Binkie back and get him in his office.

  “Are you getting ready to slap some new charges on Dade?” I ask bluntly as soon as he comes on the line.

  “Obviously, you know a lot more about this situation than I do.”

  “I wasn’t trying to sandbag you,” Binkie says, not quite apologetic.

  “It’s just we’ve known for years the owner of Chuck’s Grill gives big-time players like Dade free drinks. A player with his reputation can’t go any where without somebody knowing who he is. And as far as drugs go, I can’t prove for sure yet that Eddie Stiles is dealing, but whether he is or isn’t, I’d make sure Dade stays as far away from him as humanly possible if I were you. Dade seems like a good kid. I’d hate to bust him for drugs, but I would. Real quick, too.”

  “Tell me about Eddie,” I say, thinking I should pay him a visit before I get out of town. He and I could benefit from a heart-to-heart talk.

  Binkie responds, his voice becoming slightly sarcastic.

  “He’s one of those part-time students who never graduate and seems to have more money than he should. His thing is hanging with jocks. He pleaded guilty to possession of marijuana on a reduced charge in Oklahoma City a couple of years ago, but that’s his only record we know of.

  Maybe he’s a wonderful guy and has a heart of gold, but I doubt it. I just hear his name a little too often to be convinced of it.”

  Before I hang up, Binkie tells me that Eddie can usually be found at a bar named Slade’s, which is on the road to Springdale about five miles from campus.

  “We talked to him during the investigation, but he didn’t give us any thing. He admitted he owned the house on Happy Hollow Road and sometimes let athletes use it. We know he rents a couple of other houses in Payetteville to students. That was it. That’s why we didn’t bother with a statement from him.”

  I thank Binkie for the information and hang up, thinking he is probably one of the most decent prosecutors I’ve ever run across. What good will it do to put one more black male in prison? A lot of crime comes simply from being around the wrong people.

  Instead of heading south out of town, I point the
Blazer north toward the Missouri border. On both sides of the road is wall-to-wall commercial activity. Unlike the area of the state where I grew up, northwest Arkansas is booming, thanks in no small part to the thriving poultry industry. Still, the Arkansas Roosters doesn’t have quite the same ring. I find Slade’s in a shopping center that is crawling with customers. It seems an unlikely place for athletes, but inside it has student-friendly prices and its walls are lined with framed 8 X 10 pictures of Razorback stars all the way back to the sixties. I take a seat at the bar and order a beer from a pretty brunette in a football jersey and wait for my eyes to become accustomed to the gloom. With a mix of mainly guys ranging from obvious students to construction worker types, Slade’s is doing a healthy business for a weekday afternoon. Maybe every body drinks free here. I wonder where Slade is. There’s not a male behind the bar, and I don’t see any blacks either and ask the barkeep if she has seen Eddie Stiles.

  The girl, who appears to have a couple of fully inflated footballs stuffed under her jersey, ignores my gaze, which has lingered a little too long (I suspect it’s not the first time) and smiles pleasantly at me.

  “I’ve seen him all afternoon. You passed him on your way in. He’s sitting in the first booth by himself.”

  “Great!” I say, feeling equally pleasant. I pull out a five and leave it.

  “I think I’ll go join him.”

  She winks, happy with a three-dollar tip. So Eddie is a white guy, I think stupidly as I saunter back toward the entrance. I had assumed he was black and would look like some kind of dude who specializes in drive-by shootings when his drug deals go sour. Despite my liberal past, my preconceptions, unfailingly wrong, never fail to amaze me.

  “Eddie,” I say sliding in across from him, “I’m Gideon Page. I’d like to visit with you for a few minutes.”

  Eddie Stiles is a short, pudgy young man with watery gray eyes and with a hint of a mustache (or maybe it’s just dirt) above his lips. Though the temperature outside is pleasant, he is wearing an expensive dark blue two pocket chambray workshirt unbuttoned over a muted striped T. I can’t see his pants or his shoes, but Eddie apparently doesn’t need any help spending his money.

  “You’re Dade’s lawyer,” he says, eagerly reaching for my hand.

  Ridiculously flattered that he knows who I am, I allow him to pump my hand as if I were visiting royalty or a major dope supplier. I realize I was nervous about this encounter, but this kid is hardly an intimidating figure.

  “Eddie, let me get to the point. I want you to stay away from Dade. I don’t want you to talk to him; I don’t want him using your house. I don’t know what your story is, but the prosecutor says you’re one of their favorite topics of conversation.”

  Eddie, his soft face as innocent as a baby’s, whines, “I been stayin’ away from him! The cops think I sell drugs, but they’re crazy! They’d bust me so fast, man! It’s just that I like the Razorbacks. They’re great athletes. Dade could go pro right now. Are you gonna negotiate his contract if you beat the rape charge? It’d be worth a bundle.”

  I look at this guy in amazement. Words tumble from his mouth like a string of firecrackers being shot off. I prefer him on the defensive.

  “You’re violating NCAA rules,” I tell him, “by letting players use your house.”

  Eddie taps his glass against the Formica tabletop like a judge gaveling an unruly lawyer out of order.

  “No way, man! I let non athlete students use my house for parties. If I do that, there’s no violation.”

  Eddie, like other criminals I have known, has an answer for everything.

  “Listen, I can help Dade if you’ll let me. I saw Robin coming out of the house that night when Dade was supposed to have raped her. I’d just pulled into the yard and could see her face in the porch light. She wasn’t upset at all. She was smiling even.”

  I believe that like I believe I’m going to grow wings and a halo. I knock back a slug of beer. What do guys like this do when they allegedly grow up? Become lobbyists, I guess. Always wanting to help somebody out.

  “Some how, you failed to mention this to the cops.”

  Eddie has his hands up as soon as I get the words out.

  “They didn’t really ask. Those guys hate my guts. They even think I’m a fag. That’s bullshit. Ask Dade. He wouldn’t put up with that kind of shit.”

  What a pathetic little creature.

  “Sometime soon, when I’m back up here, I’d like Dade to show me inside the house where the rape was supposed to have happened, but you never seem to be at home. You must spend a lot of time at the library.”

  Eddie smiles at my little joke.

  “Anytime you say, man.

  Anytime you say. Anything I can do to help, I will. Just call here and ask for Eddie.”

  “I’ll do that,” I say and slide out of the booth and head for my car, figuring it will do no good to stop by Dickson Street and have a chat with the owner of Chuck’s Grill.

  He’s not going to admit that he gives free drinks to star athletes. Dade will have to take responsibility for him’ self. I drive home, wondering if I’m any different from Chuck and Eddie. That little weasel acted as if he had known me forever.

  “i confess i feared the worst,” Amy says, laying her knife and fork on the chipped plastic dish in front of us.

  “Actually, this was delicious. Here you’ve cooked me dinner, and you should be preparing for your burned baby case tomorrow.”

  “For the money she’s paid,” I say, “I’m overprepared, believe me.” Amy must really have it bad for me. All I’ve done is burn a steak on the grill, popped two potatoes in the microwave, and thrown together a salad. I pick up the plates and take them to the sink. Dirty dishes make me feel queasy.

  “The best part of our relationship,” I add, “is that you have such low expectations.”

  Still seated, Amy leans down and pets Woogie, who has stationed himself by her chair.

  “As long as I can still get a heartbeat,” she says, grinning at me, “I’m not gonna complain. You’re a low-maintenance kind of guy.”

  I turn on the hot water and rinse vegetable juice off the faded dishes, wondering if she means I’m cheap. It hasn’t occurred to me until tonight that new cutlery wouldn’t send me to the poorhouse. It’s not as if I’d be outfitting a restaurant chain.

  “I still can’t get over the fact you like ‘em so old,” I say, returning to a subject I know I am worrying to death. Yet, most people don’t go prospecting in a played-out mine if they have other options. As cute as she is, Amy doesn’t even have to dip her pan into the water.

  Tonight, her tight jeans are making my heart speed up.

  Clothed, her short, compact frame had led me to believe in the past she was always on the verge of carrying too much weight. Seeing her at the track cured that misconception. Unlike most humans, the more flesh Amy re veals, the better. Though her waist is short, her stomach, which is partially revealed beneath a jade shirt that is tied at the bottom, is as taut as a drawn bowstring. Above the waist she is delightfully voluptuous, a fact usually concealed by business suits and running bras.

  “Let’s get this resolved once and for all,” she says, coming over to load my ancient dishwasher, and in the process patting me on the butt in a proprietary manner.

  “I

  know this isn’t very original, but you remind me of my father.”

  Damn. And they say men aren’t romantic. But if you don’t want spinach, don’t ask for it.

  “I’m flattered,” I lie.

  “You should be. He was a wonderful man,” Amy says firmly.

  “Am I getting you for dessert?” She pinches my right cheek through my favorite pair of old jeans, thread bare in the extreme but totally comfortable.

  Again, I am reminded of the contrast with Rainey. She would have cut off her hand before she would have played grab-ass with me.

  “You want me to get out the Cool Whip?”

  “I like you plain, Gi
deon,” Amy says seriously before pressing her full mouth against mine. Though I’m not crazy about making love on a full stomach, Amy’s tongue is delightful. So warm and eager. How nice it is to be wanted by her. If I have a heart attack, it will have been for a good cause.

  In the bedroom I turn off the phone. Gina Whitehall has already called me once tonight. I know she is anxious about tomorrow, but surely I deserve to be off the clock a little while. As before, Amy proves to be a delightful, appreciative lover. From her purse she takes a vial of liquid and rubs oil over our vital parts until they smell like vanilla ice cream cones. After we do it twice in the same bed where I made love to Rosa thousands of times, curious, yet a little afraid of the answer, I ask, “So what was your father like?”

  Cradled in the crook of my right arm like a child with a fairly fresh sheet almost but not quite covering her breasts, she says, “He felt responsible, the way you do.

  Like him, you’re a worrier. You worry about Sarah.

  You’re always worried about your clients. You’re like an old mother hen. I like that. A lot of men my age just worry about their cash flow.”

  I reach across her and turn the phone back on, feeling her slightly damp hair against my left ear.

  “You’re doing wonders for my masculinity.”

  “You don’t need a bit of help in that department,” she says, her voice playful, yet, I hope, respectful, too.

  The phone rings immediately as if to protest my audacity in briefly silencing it. She giggles like a child caught playing doctor. Since Sarah has been off at school, I have moved her telephone into my room.

  Twenty years ago telephones seemed as immovable as bathroom fixtures. Now it’s like a drug I need on the hour.

  “Hello,” I say, fearing it might be Rainey. She still calls occasionally.

  “Dad, are you okay?” Sarah asks.

  “You sound out of breath.”

  “I’m fine, babe,” I say.