by Robin Gideon
It was mildly disconcerting that his children still didn’t like him. They made no effort to hide their contemptuous feelings either. That was a disappointment to Andy Fields since he would have preferred to parade them around come election time, but the fact of the matter was, his contempt for his children was commensurate to their contempt for him, so, cardplayer that he was, he figured he was even on that score and didn’t give the matter much thought.
With his head resting on the plushly upholstered back of the sofa and his eyes closed, Andy was suddenly aware that a slightly cool breeze passed through the room. He smiled. It was a stiflingly hot evening, and the breeze felt good upon his skin.
Good, that is, until he sensed that he was no longer alone in his den and that whoever had entered the room had not come through the door.
“Don’t move.”
The two words were spoken calmly, in a conversational tone. Every muscle in Andy Fields’s corpulent body tightened, and though he tried to remain calm, he couldn’t even breathe. He opened his eyes but did not turn his head, afraid that such movement might somehow anger the intruder. Out of the corner of his eye, stepping out of the shadows, he saw Garrett Randolph approach from the veranda. At that moment, his heart almost stopped because in Garrett’s hand was a long-barreled Remington revolver, and absolutely everyone knew Randolph simply didn’t carry guns.
Unless, of course, special circumstances forced him into a situation where he needed to use them. For instance, if he needed to kill a juror…
“Dear God, please don’t hurt me,” Fields whispered.
Garrett approached slowly, the muzzle of his revolver never losing its deadly aim at Fields’s nose.
“God? Hardly. Just me. I’ve come to offer you the deal of a lifetime.”
Fields liked what he heard. He asked, “And what is that?”
“More money than you can imagine.”
“And if I refuse?”
Garrett leaned closer, looking Fields straight in the eyes, and said, “If you refuse, I’ll kill you here and now and be done with it. This isn’t a time when you can take the time to negotiate for the best deal.”
For several seconds Fields simply looked at Garrett, contemplating the veracity of his last statement. Then, slowly, he realized that while Garrett Randolph might bluff in a courtroom, he’d never bluff in a situation like this. The cards in this game were being dealt faceup.
“Don’t even think about trying to trick me,” Garrett said, his voice barely above a whisper, yet still carrying an authority that other men could never achieve. “Just listen to what I have to tell you.”
“Yes,” Fields said. He swallowed dryly, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. “Yes, sir,” he added, just in case a certain formality might prove favorable. He tried to take his eyes off the unwavering muzzle but couldn’t. Unmindful of his words, he mumbled, “Sir, yes, sir, sir, sir.”
“Shut up, Fields.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You are, in theory, what constituted my strongest political rival. Can the political arena really be so desperate for candidates that it would even accept men such as you?” Garrett said quietly.
“C–Can I off–offer you a drink?” Fields said, trying to be polite, to sound casual. He was not a man who was stable under pressure, and Fields knew it showed.
“I’m particular about those I drink with,” Garrett explained. “Now listen up, because the things I’m going to tell you I’m only going to tell you once.”
“Yes, sir,” Fields whispered. “Whatever you say.”
Garrett looked around the room, a deadly hatred pooling within his breast. Andy Fields was just the type of man who would put Pamela in prison, or even send her to the hangman, without ever giving his decision a second thought. Because of that, Garrett wanted desperately to make him pay in such a way that he would remember this evening for the rest of his life.
“That’s right. Whatever I say.” Garrett realized he had little capacity for cruelty, as he had little capacity for revenge, but he was determined to do something—anything!—to make Andy Fields pay for the havoc his corruption had heaped upon the good people of Whitetail Creek. “Are you listening to me?”
“Yes.” He trembled visibly. “I told you I was.”
Garrett smiled. He meant the expression to be intimidating.
“Pamela Bragg didn’t kill Richard Darwell,” Garrett said, leaning against a bookshelf. “In fact, she is about as far from the person responsible for the murder as she can be.”
Andy had regained at least a little of his composure now that Garrett wasn’t quite so near. He adopted what he hoped was a nonchalant posture.
“How can you be so sure? And why should I believe anything you’ve got to say anyway? You’re defending that Bragg gal in court. I’m the head juror. For God’s sake, man, I shouldn’t even be talking to you.”
“I’m about to cross a line. It’s a thousand times more illegal than anything I’ve ever done before.”
The men looked at each other, Fields fearful for his life, Garrett fearful for his soul. Could he, a respected attorney with political aspirations, really follow through with the plan even he concluded had been poorly thought through?
“I need another drink,” Fields said, beginning to rise from the sofa.
“Sit,” Garrett snapped, and Fields dropped back onto the sofa as though he’d been shot. “Pamela didn’t kill Richard Darwell. Angie Darwell did.”
Garrett watched as Fields’s expression evolved, first reflecting shock then doubt then a modicum of understanding. Anyone who knew Angie would not be overly surprised to discover she was a murderess.
“I’m telling you this for a reason,” Garrett continued after giving Andy Fields enough time to fully digest the information. “There aren’t many people who know that Angie killed her brother. I know. You know. Angie knows, of course, and so do her father and brother.”
“Why are you telling me this? If you know it, why haven’t you brought it up in court?” Andy Fields knew he was not an overly bright man, and the twists that had so recently taken place had thoroughly confused him. When he had accepted the five hundred dollars from Jonathon Darwell to ensure a guilty verdict in Pamela’s trial, Fields had accepted the money without concern. The facts, at that time, all pointed to Pamela.
“I’m the Midnight Phantom,” Garrett said quietly, just a hint of a smile now curling his mouth.
Andy Fields recoiled in his chair, wanting desperately to run from the room, knowing in his heart he didn’t have a prayer of escape. How had everything gone so wrong when all had, just minutes ago, seemed so right?
“I was on the balcony the night of the celebration of the hospital’s opening, and I watched you take Jonathon Darwell’s bribe,” Garrett continued. “I know Judge Dahlmann is also taking money under the table from Darwell. I know that Angie killed Richard because Michael told me.”
“But…but—”
“Silence!” Fields began to shiver. It was a pathetic sight. “I’ll be letting the Darwells know that you’re aware of Angie’s guilt. Of course, by doing this, I’ll be putting you in jeopardy. If I were to hazard a guess, I’d say Jonathon Darwell will probably hire a gunman to kill you. You and I both know how protective he is of his only daughter.”
Andy Fields at last was able to tear his eyes away from Garrett’s revolver. He stared at the carpeted floor in front of him, his mind working feverishly. There had to be some way for him to get out of this mess. Perhaps Garrett was lying about everything. Perhaps it was all just a bluff.
“I’ll tell him I don’t know anything,” Fields said suddenly as though this was a great revelation.
“How can you convince Darwell that you don’t know his daughter is a murderer? By bringing the subject up, won’t you be proving that you do know it? And we both know what Jonathon Darwell is like. Just to be on the safe side, he’ll have you killed. Face it, Fields, you’re expendable, any way you look at it.” Garrett moved close
r, so that he was standing over the seated man in a most intimidating manner. “How does it feel to be a dead man?”
“I’m not dead yet!” Fields said, suddenly looking around the room as though to determine what he would take with him when he rode away from Whitetail Creek without a backward glance.
“Going to leave town?” Garrett asked, curious as to whether Fields would leave his wife and children so abruptly.
“Tomorrow,” Fields answered, nodding vigorously. “Right after the bank opens.”
Garrett smiled bitterly. It took a cold man to abandon his wife and children and a thoroughly heartless one to leave them penniless. “You don’t want to do that just yet,” he said quietly.
When Fields started to fidget in his chair, Garrett raised his revolver just a little more. Fields froze. “Listen carefully because I’m only going to tell you once. You’ll be leaving town, all right, but not tonight and not tomorrow morning.”
“That’s what you think!” Fields replied, spittle flying from his lips. He was infinitely more frightened of Jonathon Darwell, whom he knew to be a murderer, than of Garrett Randolph.
Garrett stepped closer and very lightly touched the muzzle of his revolver to the tip of Fields’s nose. Andy Fields’s eyes crossed as he stared at the barrel. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he tried to remain calm, proving he couldn’t.
“You’re going to convince me that you’ll do everything I’m about to tell you. You see, when I’m finished talking, I’m going to look into your eyes, and if I believe that you’ll do what I tell you, I’m going to let you live. However, if I have my suspicions about whether you’re able to follow my instructions, then I’m simply going to kill you right here and now, and be done with it.”
“Yessir, yessir, sir,” Fields stammered.
* * * *
“It’s nearly three o’clock, damn it all. Can’t we come to a conclusion? We’ve been sitting in this room for four hours, and there’s not a breath of air in here.”
Robert Simms was the juror who was doing the complaining, though he wasn’t the only one to protest their frustrating inability to arrive at a verdict on the murder charge against Pamela Bragg.
All eyes in the room turned toward Andy Fields. He was staring at his own hands, which were folded before him on the table. A dribble of sweat ran down the back of his neck, to be soaked up by his collar. He’d very nearly sweated through his clothes, though it wasn’t hot enough to warrant that.
“You’re the only vote of dissent,” Simms said, biting the words off, glaring at Fields. “Damn it all, you know she killed Richard Darwell. All the facts point to her.”
Fields looked up, didn’t like the accusing eyes staring back at him, and then looked down again. Never in his life had he felt so trapped, so thoroughly caught by forces stronger than himself.
“Everybody in this room knew Richard Darwell,” Fields said, searching for some way of justifying his argument that Pamela was innocent. “Hell, at one time or another, we’ve all thought of putting a bullet in his back.”
That comment drew a chuckle from several of the jurors. Richard had had friends only as long as he was buying the drinks or the women at Lulu’s for his friends’ enjoyment. The minute that stopped, nobody wanted to be in the same room with him.
“Maybe so,” Simms said, clearly not at all amused. “But none of us in this room killed him. Pamela Bragg did. Now why can’t you see that?” Simms leaned across the table, glaring furiously at Fields. “I have much better things to do with this day than argue with you. Unless, just maybe, you’ve got a reason for not seeing the facts the way the rest of us do?”
Andy Fields wanted to die when he heard those words. He had taken money from Jonathon Darwell to guarantee a guilty verdict, and he’d taken money from Garrett Randolph to guarantee a not-guilty verdict. Fields had sold his soul, and now, he suspected, someone was going to pull his heart right out of his chest.
He had always known he wasn’t a truly popular man, but he had become a successful businessman in Whitetail Creek, and he threw lavish parties that were attended widely and praised by all. Now he was being accused, perhaps in a roundabout fashion, of having a vested interest in seeing to it that Pamela Bragg was found not guilty. Most frightening for Andy Fields was that this accusation, put forward by Simms out of sheer frustration, was dead on the mark, and a serious investigation might possibly probably reveal as much. If these men turned on him, they’d go for the jugular like a pack of hungry wolves, and Fields knew it.
“Well, say something,” Simms demanded.
Fields closed his eyes and tried to block out every voice so he could hear his own thoughts. The previous night he’d been frightened right down to his boots when Garrett Randolph had suddenly appeared out of the shadows, holding a revolver, threatening to kill him while his family slept upstairs. Garrett’s bargain, if that was what it could be called, was really quite simple. Andy Fields was to make sure that Pamela Bragg was to be found not guilty of the murder of Richard Darwell. As soon as the trial was over, he was to take the money Garrett had given him—money that had been stolen from Michael Darwell, Fields had been informed—and ride out of town immediately, never to return.
It had seemed a pretty good deal last night. Easy enough to accomplish, and Fields would be many thousands of dollars richer when it was over.
Except every man in the jury believed that Pamela was guilty, and no amount of arguing on her behalf could convince even one of them to agree with him.
“Well, Fields, what the hell have you got to say for yourself?” Simms demanded.
Andy Fields tilted his head up, looked Simms straight in the eyes, and said, “I say we vote again.”
The men all sat down at the long table, and fresh white slips of paper were handed out. Each man, pencil in hand, scribbled upon one, folded it in half, and then placed it in the hat handed around the table. The hat ended up with Andy Fields, the head juror.
Fields looked around the table one last time. These men would destroy him if he continued to oppose them on the verdict, and he knew it.
He reached into the hat and began pulling the slips out one at a time, unfolding each and reading off the vote, which he tallied on a piece of paper.
“Guilty…guilty…guilty,” Fields read, saying the words slowly, as though he actually had to read them to know what the count would be.
This time the count was different. This time it was unanimous—Pamela Bragg was guilty of the murder of Richard Darwell.
“At last!” Simms exclaimed, pushing back his chair, almost leaping to his feet. It had taken six votes to reach a unanimous decision. “Now I can get back to my office. I’ve wasted too much of my day here as it is. Hang the wench. That’s what I say.”
* * * *
The jurors entered the courtroom, and Garrett unconsciously held his breath. How did they look? He studied the faces of the men. Were they pleased with the decision they’d come to?
Beneath the table, Garrett reached over, placed his hand upon Pamela’s, and gave it a confident squeeze, and then he smiled at her.
“Everything is going to be just fine,” he said.
She closed her eyes.
Judge Dahlmann turned a grave face toward the jury. Garrett looked at the judge, remembering how confident he’d appeared when he had accepted Jonathon Darwell’s bribe. It seemed so unjust that such a man should have power over so many honest people.
“Has the jury reached its verdict?” the judge asked.
Andy Fields rose to his feet. Garrett noticed that his hair was sticking to his forehead, plastered there by perspiration. It was hot, but not that hot. And then Fields glanced from the judge over to Garrett, and Garrett’s fear level soared. Fields looked absolutely lost.
“The jury has reached its decision,” Fields said, his voice soft.
“Please speak up,” Judge Dahlmann said.
“You bet, Judge,” Fields replied.
There was a moment of laug
hter from the spectators in the audience at Andy Fields’s disrespectful reply. The spectators were silenced instantly when the judge glared at them. He had the power to intimidate an entire room full of people with just a look.
“Ah, sorry, Your Honor,” Fields replied. He pulled at the collar of his shirt to loosen it then cleared his throat three times in succession. “The jury…” he began then stopped. His gaze darted from Judge Dahlmann to Garrett Randolph then over to Jonathon Darwell.
Garrett’s stomach tightened into a knot. He couldn’t breathe.
“Well?” Judge Dahlmann prodded, leaning toward the jury box, clearly annoyed that Fields was taking so long.
“The jury finds the defendant…not guilty.”
Robert Simms, sitting in the back row of the jury box, bolted to his feet, exclaiming, “What the hell?”
Angie Darwell also rose swiftly at the verdict, shouting, “She’s guilty! Hang that bitch or I’ll kill you all, you stupid bastards!”
Her father and brother moved to restrain her, but the jury was clearly stunned by her outburst. Angie’s face turned crimson as she struggled to extricate herself from Jonathon and Michael. She was trying to get to Pamela, and from the look in her eyes, one would conclude she intended to kill Pamela Bragg herself.
Garrett guessed what had happened during the jury deliberations. Deception could be the only explanation for Robert Simms’s exclamation. Garrett knew that if Simms had a chance to explain, everything was lost.
All his life, Garrett Randolph had loathed chaos, confusion, disorder. Now, he had to create what he hated to protect the woman he loved.
He exploded to his feet, intentionally striking the table, causing it to topple over, sending all his notes and papers to the floor.
“This jury owes my client an apology!” Garrett declared at high volume, rushing toward the judge’s bench. He wanted Dahlmann paying attention to him, not to Robert Simms. “This trial has been a mockery of justice. A travesty. I want an apology for my client.”