by Martin Clark
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Part One
Part Two
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Part Three
Acknowledgments
Also by Martin Clark
Copyright
FOR MY WIFE, DEANA
So we look for a message and we search in our souls
As we sift through the wreckage like we’re shoveling coal.
—ROBERT EARL KEEN, “Train Trek”
In any prosecution for a violation of driving under the influence, the amount of alcohol in the blood of the accused at the time of the alleged offense as indicated by a chemical analysis of a sample of the accused’s blood or breath shall give rise to the following rebuttable presumption: If there was at the time of the alleged offense .08 grams or more per 210 liters of the accused’s breath, it shall be presumed that the accused was under the influence of alcohol intoxicants at the time of the alleged offense.
—Section 18.2-269 of the 1950 Code of Virginia, as amended
Part One
I became a judge when I was thirty-two years old, and my first novel, The Many Aspects of Mobile Home Living, was published when I was forty. Given my interest in both law and writing, people have frequently encouraged me to put together a nonfiction, insider’s book about the legal system, a temptation I’ve always avoided for two main reasons. Most notably, I very much value the business of the courts and the importance of what we do as judges, and I believe that parting our velvet curtains to offer the world a wholesale view of the cogs, cranks, belts, braces, booms and pulleys deep behind the stage is not necessarily a wise idea. Courts need a certain measure of dignity—and, yes, mystique—to function at their best. The Great and Powerful Oz was never the same after the dog embarrassed him, and without his mask the Lone Ranger would be a run-of-the-mill do-gooder, just another guy on a fancy horse.
Moreover, and at the risk of eroding that dignity and mystique, it’s fair to say that day-to-day jurisprudence is a numbing, flat, repetitive affair, leavened with occasional spells of predictable farce and eye-rolling nonsense. On probation-violation afternoons, for instance, the officers and clerks usually bet on which criminal with a dirty drug screen will be the first to claim—his right hand raised extra high for emphasis—he’s the victim of “some dude” slipping cocaine into his coffee. “Dudes are bad about giving their dope away as a prank,” I always respond with a straight face, while a five-dollar bill discreetly switches owners in the periphery. As an author, I’ve never seen where it would be worth the effort to chronicle such as this for three hundred pages.
My thoughts on not mixing law and literature lasted until 2003, when I changed my mind and decided to write about one of my cases and turn it into this book. At quitting time on a drab Thursday in November of that year, a deputy at the Patrick County jail phoned and informed me there was someone who hoped to speak with me, someone I knew. This call led to three lengthy meetings during which I became privy to a remarkable history, a narrative that was far more compelling than anything I could ever dream up, and it gradually occurred to me there might be a novel in the story I’d been told. I was convinced I’d gotten the truth in these meetings, but I nevertheless spent the next few weeks quietly nosing around and checking the particulars. I talked with a couple of the people involved, read old files, studied transcripts, and took a trip to state police headquarters. Everything jibed.
The Legal Limit, then, is not a literal diary of what I do as a circuit court judge—it’s not quite the undertaking that has been suggested to me—but it is at its core a reasonably accurate account of lives and happenings I discovered only because of my job and wouldn’t have come across otherwise. In terms of perspective and the angles I see from where I sit, this story should also give folks a taste of how it feels to make hard decisions, stick them in a lonely black robe and situate them so they can understand how the correct answer, the right ruling, sometimes brings along its own tricks and complications.
That having been said, this book is done as fiction. I cut several scenes from whole cloth, portions of dialogue are an educated guess as to the actual conversations and names are tweaked or rearranged in places, although my friends here in Stuart, Virginia, won’t have any problem deciphering who’s who. A few parts are inverted, sort of written backward. Much of the small detail, however, is reproduced exactly, with only a minimum of writer’s gloss. I was amazed by what people could recall two decades removed from events: a missing section of plaster in a room, a sound, a scent, an odd phrase, even the luckless kamikaze bird that introduces the first chapter. Simply put, there are plenty of facts in these pages, but I’ve definitely retooled them to serve the story I wanted to tell.
Finally, I suspect many people will find my choices in this matter troubling and disagree with how I determined to finish things, since my attempt at an act of conscience arguably doesn’t square with the familiar, black-and-white dictates of the law. Perhaps I made a mistake. Still, my predecessor on the bench, Frank Richardson, once advised me that a smart judge always has a little juju up his sleeve, even if the rules don’t contemplate it and the parties don’t see it coming. “Every now and then you’re entitled to play the wild card” was how he explained it. “Justice can occasionally be a fickle, blind bitch, and somebody has to keep her honest.”
Part Two
Chapter One
The shooting came in October 1984, abrupt and rash, a quicksilver bang.
The day it happened, Mason Hunt had spent most of his morning settled into the afghan-covered recliner at his mother’s house, watching a nondescript black and brown and white thrush fly against the big den window again and again as it tried to punch through the glass, the bird evidently sickly or a bona fide lunatic, remaining behind while its kin abandoned Virginia and migrated farther south. Despite the suicidal thumps and flutters that gained it nothing and left it pitifully outside its hope, the misguided bird never learned a lesson or gave up on its headlong, full-steam shortcut to sanctuary, never stopped, kept at the foolishness for hours. Mason was home from his final year of law school, visiting his mother and enjoying her flapjacks and rich casseroles for a weekend, waiting for his older brother, Gates, to arrive so they could saw up a maple tree that had blown over in the front yard and stack it into winter firewood. By the time Gates pulled in the gravel drive at eleven thirty, Mason had finished two cups of coffee, napped, read three issues of the Stuart Enterprise and carted the kerosene heater from the basement to its spot near the couch, even though there was no fuel in it and the weather wouldn’t turn cold for another month or so. Soon after he heard Gates cut his Corvette’s ignition, Mason noticed that the bird had quit its sallies and was stuck in a holly bush next to the window, one wing draped across a run of green, prickly leaves, its beak gapped, its head listing an
d its feet dangling, unable to take hold of anything.
Gates opened the mudroom door but didn’t move too far past the threshold, let out his neck like a terrapin leaving its armor to get a better view of Mason and his mother. “Hello, Mama,” he said in a voice a few notches above normal.
“Gates,” she said, not looking up from her kitchen work. She was peeling green baking apples, circling off the skin in deft turns and cuts that went from stem to bottom without a hitch.
“What’re you cooking?” he asked, leaning against the doorjamb.
“A pie.” The two words were absolutely neutral, ciphers. “The phone not workin’ where you were at last night?”
“I’m sorry; I know I promised I’d call when I can’t make it home. You forgive me?”
“It’s common courtesy, Gates—if you’re living under my roof you could at least let me know where you are. Twenty-seven years old, and it’s the only thing I ask from you.”
“It won’t happen again.”
“Perhaps you should ground him or take away TV privileges,” Mason joked, trying to lighten the mood.
“There you go,” Gates said. “That’ll keep me on the straight and narrow.”
“You ready to get started?” Mason asked, bending over to retie his shoes.
“Sure. Yep. Ready, ready, ready. Ready as can be.” Gates was wearing a Washington Redskins jersey with the name “Hunt” stenciled across the back in gold block letters. Five inches over six feet tall, he didn’t fit well into the doorframe. “Mason, man, I need you to run an errand with me before we take care of the tree, and then we’re right back here lickety-split.” He glanced at their mother. She still didn’t look in his direction.
“An errand?” Mason repeated.
“You boys be careful with the saw,” Sadie Grace Hunt said from the kitchen. “Chain saws are dangerous, Gates.” She finally made eye contact with him.
“Yes, ma’am,” Gates answered. “You don’t need to worry about us.”
“And if you’re goin’ somewhere with Mason”—she held the paring knife in front of her, pointing it at the ceiling—“you let him drive, you hear?”
“If it’ll make you happy, then I’d be delighted to have my little brother chauffeur me around.” He winked at Mason, promised his mom he’d be back for a piece of warm pie and headed out the door.
Mason was a large man as well, two inches shorter than his brother and not as thick through the shoulders and trunk, but substantial enough that the Corvette’s passenger seat was uncomfortable. The shape hit him all wrong, and he had trouble with his knees. He didn’t attempt the safety belt. “Damn, Gates, what—you just start distilling the hooch in your car, cut out the middleman? It smells like a speakeasy in here.” There was a plastic Star Wars cup—a faded fast-food giveaway—resting on the console; the contents were yellowish green, SunDrop and vodka without any ice to dilute the potency.
“I’ll roll the windows down and drive real fast.” Gates nudged a cassette with his index finger and a mechanism eased it from sight, inhaling it into the dash. He had recorded a Huey Lewis and the News album onto the tape, and “I Want a New Drug” came on mid-refrain. “While we’re on the subject, can I offer you a little nip?” he asked. “I’ve got vodka and a bottle of Wild Turkey Denny gave me for my birthday.”
“I’ll pass,” Mason said. “Thanks just the same. It’s a bit early, isn’t it?” The question didn’t have any bite in it, wasn’t a rebuke. He grinned at his brother.
“I’m grandfathered in for the entire day, a carryover from last night. So long as you don’t stop, it’s just a continuation, not the same as drinking for breakfast or somethin’ pathetic and alcoholic.” Remarkably, besides the odor and a few aggravated blood vessels in his eyes, Gates seemed fairly level. An occasional syllable was spit-heavy, but that was about it. “Our pal Robbie Hanes is leavin’ for the Navy, so we had a throwdown yesterday for him at the Woolwine Ruritan building. That’s why I’m behind schedule—the party took us hostage and wouldn’t let us go.”
“I’d have never pegged Robbie for duty on the high seas.”
Gates reached under his seat and located a Crown Royal bag, a deep-purple felt sack with bold yellow stitching and matching yellow drawstrings. He set the bag in his lap and took out a vial of cocaine and an elaborate spoon, the spoon either silver or pewter, in the shape of a mermaid, her hair serving as a grip, her toes clutching a tiny scoop. “I need to boost my shit, brother. I’m assuming you’re still not interested?”
“If I tried it, I’d probably like it way too much. In no time at all, I’d be pissing myself and scavenging butts from ashtrays at the bus terminal. Quoting Timmy Leary at the homeless shelter. Thanks just the same.” Mason turned down the music. “Perhaps we’d be wise to get out of Mom’s sight before you start doing that.”
“Only take a sec.” Gates dipped the spoon into the powder, raised it to his nose and snorted—hard—three times.
“By the way, why does everyone I know carry his dope in a Crown Royal bag? Or the cassette cover for an Allman Brothers tape? Can you explain that to me? I think the Supreme Court’s decided the cops have probable cause to search whenever they spot either of those in a car, regardless of the circumstances.”
“You have a better suggestion?” Gates wiped his nose, then sipped his drink. “The bag’s a pretty damn fine creation.”
“True. Can’t argue with you there.”
“You like the album?” Gates asked. “Huey Lewis and the News?”
“Yeah. It’s okay, though it’s a shame they don’t get any more airtime than they do. And I always feel like Huey might be sort of pulling our leg musically.”
“Too much schoolin’, I’m sorry to say, has made you into a boring smart-ass.” Gates fired the engine and they crept down the gravel drive, the car chugging and straining in first gear, the tachometer barely registering because Gates didn’t want to risk nicking the paint with kicked-up rocks.
“Where’re we going?” Mason asked. “What kind of mischief are you dragging me into?”
“Nothing too tough, I promise. Robbie’s leavin’ behind a nice dresser, and he said I could have it. You and me are going to meet Claude and him in Woolwine, load the dresser onto Claude’s pickup and haul it to Denise’s trailer.”
“How are you two doing? You and Denise, I mean?”
“Everything’s cool. She got a promotion at work—off the floor and into the office—and she finally finished her associate’s degree. Looks like a million bucks, still crazy about me.” He made a goofy face after the last declaration. “We’re thinkin’ about maybe considering buying a house together. The old Mabe home is for sale. I love that place—it’s on five acres, has a nice pond and a humongous porch for cookouts and warm-weather drinkin’. Man, you could just put the speakers in the windows, grill a steak, invite friends by. Only problem is that I need my luck to improve so I can pull my part, you know? I’m hopin’ this insurance job with State Farm comes through, so I can quit living fuckin’ hand to mouth.”
“Good for you. I think the world of her.”
“Me too.”
Mason wanted to maneuver more space for his knees and shins, but the seat was at its limit, had no play in it. “It’ll take us two hours to drive to Woolwine, load the dresser, then drive to Denise’s and unload, don’t you figure?” He wriggled into a new position.
“Close to it. You can call Mom from Robbie’s and give her an update.” Gates sniffed and touched his nostrils with the back of his hand. “So long as we have the tree done by dark, we should be okay.”
“We have all morning tomorrow if we need it,” Mason said, flashing his brother a wry smile.
It took them several minutes to cover the half mile of dirt and stone that led to the blacktop, but Gates slammed the accelerator the moment the wheels touched the asphalt, causing the car’s tires to spin and the rear end to break traction.
They met their friends and wrapped the piece of furniture in an o
ld quilt and laid it in the bed of Claude’s pickup. Before they started to Denise’s, Robbie warmed barbecued pig and baked beans, left over from his party. He placed the food on the tailgate of the truck, and they all dug it straight out of tinfoil tubs with plastic forks and wiped their hands and faces on paper towels. Gates poured himself another mixed drink, and the other three men popped cold Miller beers. The truck’s doors were open, the radio playing, the hardwood trees in southside Virginia turning crimson, yellow and fire-orange, an occasional dry, brownish leaf sifting through the air on its way to the ground.
Denise’s mobile home was in Five Forks on a small parcel of land she was buying from her uncle. She was a hard worker and a smart, solid woman with restraint and sensible tastes uncommon for her circumstances, and she kept her yard and dwelling neat. Mums and azaleas and other flowers and bushes that Mason couldn’t identify were planted here and there, the grass was still green and nicely trimmed, and the property was free of birdbaths, kitschy cement animals, busted lawn chairs, junked Monte Carlos and matted cur dogs chained to a rusted post. Gates had helped her build and stain a covered deck; a single dragonfly wind chime hung from the four-by-four that supported the tacked-on roof, a friendly jack-o’-lantern welcomed visitors from the top step.
Denise’s white Celica was parked in the drive, a Mazda RX-7 behind it, and the moment Gates saw the Mazda he became angry.
“Damn,” he snapped.
“What?” Mason peered across the interior at his brother. “What’s wrong?”
“That’s Wayne Thompson’s car.”
As Mason understood it, there had been a period when Gates and Denise, romantic since high school, had separated for a number of months. After Gates walked away from Virginia Tech, and after he failed to catch on with the Redskins, and after he declined a plum job at Masonite—human resources, a gig with dress shoes and a coffee mug, for heaven’s sakes—and after he barely squirmed out of a DWI over in North Carolina, and after Denise allowed as to how—six years removed from his graduation—he needed to find work, quit freeloading at his mother’s house and stop lollygagging around in the Corvette for hours on end, and after she finally gave him a deadline he spitefully ignored, after all this considerable forbearance, she sent him packing and began dating Wayne Thompson. Gates quickly enrolled in real estate school and signed a lease at the Dorn Williams apartment complex, begrudged measures that lasted just long enough to tamp down Denise’s ire but were sufficient to spark their reconciliation. At least he’d tried, she told friends who poor-mouthed her boyfriend and suggested she was making a mistake by offering him yet another chance.