The Legal Limit

by Martin Clark

  “Good folks?” Mason asked through a mouthful of cake.

  “Definitely.”

  “Connected or rich or high-profile relatives? Too much prominence always makes it harder to cut ’em a break.”

  “Nope. And not trash nouveau, I’m happy to confirm.”

  Mason wrinkled his brow. “‘Trash nouveau’? Haven’t heard the term before. Did I sleep through a seminar at the convention?”

  “Minted it myself, Mace.” Custis grinned. “It refers to the newest breed of white-trash royalty, the haughty third-generation simps who inherit the last of a little coin and hang around the family business thinking they’re the cocks of the walk. Get the picture?”

  “I’m beginning to.”

  “Their grandfathers wore the narrow ties and dress hats with those tiny curlicue feathers sticking out of the felt band. Lived frugally and made buckets of money sawmilling or manufacturing furniture or truckin’ freight. Fine men. Their fathers took over the business and the profit margins sagged—couple wives, aborted plant expansions, expensive condo at Myrtle Beach, too many bourbon nips before quittin’ time—and now you’ve got these saltine kids with an attitude and the damn Internet, shoppin’ at Banana Republic online and drivin’ the roads in a hocked-to-the-gills BMW even though they fucked up freshman year at two different colleges. The first in their clan to write a bad check. Lie on a credit card application. Buy a case of Natty Ice at Wal-Mart because of the buzz it packs for cheap—trash nouveau. I toyed with ‘uber-neck,’ but it doesn’t carry quite the same wallop.”

  Mason chuckled. “Very apt, Custis. I think you’ve outdone yourself. Sociologist that you are, why don’t you hip-hop on over to the Old Dominion and field-test your new nomenclature on the leather-vest crowd at the counter and see how they take to it. ‘Axe’ them for their reaction. Run it by a focus group.” He ended with a big, broad smile.

  “Yeah, there you go—I’ll get my clipboards and the number-two pencils.”

  From the start, Custis and Mason had enjoyed a comfortable, freewheeling give-and-take where race was concerned, clashing only once, when Custis returned from court with a strut and Mason called him George Jefferson and sang the chorus of “Movin’ on Up” in front of Sheila and a lady from the clerk’s office, injuring Custis’s feelings for reasons that seemed thin to Mason. Mason had apologized but was puzzled because the ribbing was far less raw and point-blank than some they’d both delivered in the past.

  “So the Gammons kid is okay?” Mason asked, back on topic.

  “Yeah. An honor student who was valedictorian of his class here at the high school. Scholarship to Virginia Tech. Works a job at college. Even the sheriff’s wife called on his behalf.”

  Mason swallowed the remainder of his coffee. “Was he cooperative with the cop?”

  “Nice as could be. Very apologetic. Didn’t do badly with the field-sobriety tests, speech was normal, mild smell of alcohol. They caught him at a road check—luck of the draw.”

  Mason thought for a moment. “A DUI will break his mother’s back paying for insurance. Pretty much ruin his opportunities after college. Probably wouldn’t hurt to find him a little breathing room.”

  “We’re usually flexible with point-oh-eight. I mean, it’s the lowest rung of the ladder, just barely there, and the simulator came up an eleven instead of a ten, so his lawyer can argue the machine’s off a fraction. I know a few months ago we reduced that Arrington guy’s case when he had an eight and no record. Gammons told the cops he’d been drinkin’ champagne at a weddin’. Claimed he’d never tried alcohol before and didn’t realize how much he could or couldn’t drink. From all reports, he’s probably bein’ truthful. His lawyer’s Charles Aaron—claims the DUI will cost the kid his scholarship. I’ve got some sympathy for him.”

  “So what do you want to do?”

  “Reduce it to reckless driving and a fine, send him to liquor school, stick him with a hundred hours of community service, make him walk for thirty days or so.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Mason agreed. “You certainly have my blessing. Make sure you let him know we’re doing him a favor. Aaron, too.”

  The same day, while Mason was eating lunch at his desk and reading the Roanoke Times, Gates called from the penitentiary, collect as always, and Sheila announced he was on the line. For the first time since he’d been sentenced, he was surly with Mason, combative and bitter. “I have a question for you, Mason” was how he started the conversation.

  “What?” Mason asked. “What’s up?” He assumed Gates was calling to unspool yet another harebrained defense theory, the most recent prison wisdom that would provide him the keys to his cell. Mason’s tone was terse and prickly, betraying his annoyance.

  “What exactly are you doing to help me beat this charge and get outta this place?” He didn’t pause for an answer, plowed ahead. “I mean, actual positive steps you’ve taken. I’ve been here for ten fuckin’ years, Mason. Ten years in this hole, and I don’t think you or Mom or anyone else gives a damn.”

  Mason’s hackles rose. “You mean beyond sending you weekly care packages and money twice a month and typing your thirty-page habeas pleadings free of charge and intervening so you could be transferred closer to home and driving Mom to visit you and accepting every collect call you’ve ever placed? I’m sorry if that’s inadequate by your standards. I’ll see what I can do about a personal chef and a water bed complete with a hooker.”

  “Crumbs, Mason. Crumbs and window dressing that don’t move me one inch closer to leavin’ here.”

  “What exactly is it you have in mind, Gates? Huh?” Mason was angry, his voice loud. Custis opened the door between their offices and looked in. “You cool?” he asked quietly, and Mason nodded, waving him away.

  “Listen, Mason, you and I both know you can pull a string or two for me, okay?”

  “We’ve had this conversation before—there’s nothing I can do. I might as well be an astronaut for all the influence I have in your case. I’m not a judge, I’m not the governor and I’m not the parole board. And I’m not going to arrange something unethical, even if I could.”

  “Exactly. No shit.” Gates was shrill, belligerent. “You’re king of the hill in your big house, everybody’s darling, callin’ the shots, and you really don’t care what becomes of me. There’s no reason in the world you can’t take five minutes to walk up and see the judge and put in a word for me. Or call somebody in the system. You’re the commonwealth’s attorney, for fuck’s sake. Why won’t you even try?”

  “You know, Gates, you are absolutely an unappreciative dick.”

  “Yeah, well, you just try and remember how many times I saved your ass. Runnin’ and cryin’ when Curt was on your tail—and this is how you repay me. How you take care of your big brother. Shit, Mason, there’re guys in here whose court-appointed lawyers fight harder for them than you do for me.”

  “This is the last time I’m going to tell you: there is no magic bullet, no escape hatch, no error in your trial. No attorney can help you. You were guilty and your trial was clean and the law was followed. Every court you’ve appealed to has affirmed your convictions. Why? Because you were selling dope and then elected to lie on the stand. End of story.” Mason exhaled a rough, abrupt breath. “While we’re on the subject, let me remind you how you, Gates Hunt, stubborn asshole, refused to take a plea agreement that would’ve had you free by now. But—”

  “Yeah,” Gates interrupted, almost yelling, “which shows what the correct sentence was, the five years they offered, and now I’ve pulled more than that and I’m still here. How can anyone say I’m being treated fairly?”

  Mason laughed sarcastically. “You know, Gates, when some dumb shit falls for Carol Merrill’s lovely arm sweep and sparkly evening gown and trades his new washer-dryer combo for a donkey because he picked the wrong curtain, Monte doesn’t allow him a do-over. You had your chance.”

  “Fuck you, Mason.”

  “Drop dead,” Mason snapped
and slammed down the phone.

  Gates called back immediately, but Mason told Sheila to refuse the charges, left him hanging.

  Two months later, in May, Mason and Allison hosted a costume party at their house to mark Allison’s birthday, her fortieth, and it was a hoot and a success. The big day fell on a Wednesday, and Allison was determined to celebrate accurately, deciding not to move the party to the weekend. Loads of people came, and Mason dressed like Captain Hook with a plastic sword and buccaneer’s striped shirt, and there was only one glitch, only one uncomfortable moment, which occurred early in the evening when Mason greeted a friend’s husband—a man he’d never met—and offered him a fake dime-store pirate’s hook only to discover the poor fellow had in fact really lost a hand and was extending the genuine article, a stainless-steel pincer attached to a prosthetic forearm. Later on, after a round of drinks, the man joked about the awkwardness and told Mason not to worry. Allison was a knockout vampire, and Grace, who was allowed to stay up late and enjoy the party, was a twelve-year-old hobo, a getup she insisted on no matter what, declining more conventional choices like a princess or genie or rock star or Simba’s lioness wife.

  After the last of the guests left, at close to one in the morning, Mason brushed his teeth and drank a glass of water and called for Allison to come to bed and she didn’t answer. He called again and then walked through the living room and the kitchen, plates stacked in the sink, trash bags filled and cinched. He went all the way to the opposite end of the house, to Allison’s studio. The door was pulled shut but not completely closed. He pushed it open and saw her, without the long black wig but still in her ghoulish makeup, wearing loose green army pants instead of her costume bottom, her Gothic, pale vampire blouse above the pants, listening to music, a brush in her hand, painting.

  She turned when she sensed him there, stopped her work. The canvas was part of a suite she was preparing for a New York gallery, her best ever as far as Mason was concerned: a rhino peered over a man’s shoulder, contemplating a table of cheese, crackers and wine, the hues piercing, the details painstakingly precise. She smiled at him, the both of them happy, rapt. Neither said anything. She returned to her easel, and Mason left her alone, checked on their daughter and went to bed. A whip-poor-will switched on in a front-yard tree, and the bird’s three-beat racket kept Mason from falling asleep right away despite how tired he felt.

  Allison was beside him, conked out, when he woke at seven; he’d not heard her join him, didn’t know how long she’d been there. He had to shake and poke and cajole Grace to get her going and dressed for the school bus, but they did enjoy a nice breakfast together, French toast and scrambled eggs, a bit more than usual since Mason didn’t have to be at his office until ten, a precaution he’d taken in light of the party. He tidied the kitchen, filled the dishwasher, hiked the trash to the top of the drive, showered and dressed for work, kissing Allison’s cheek as he left the room. She didn’t respond, only moved her feet slightly under the covers.

  That same afternoon, Sheila Shough was at her desk chatting with her friend Vicki about the Hunts’ party when the phone rang. It was one thirty. Mason was in his office talking to a family about a trespass problem, and Custis was upstairs in the office’s small law library, doing research. Sheila listened for less than a minute and dropped the receiver, which hit her desk, then the carpet. She abandoned her friend without an explanation, just said “Oh God” and lost her color and headed for the stairs to fetch Custis, the cord catching her shin as she left, nearly pulling the base of the phone onto the floor.

  Custis was seated at a rectangular wooden table, surrounded by law books, and Sheila was crying by the time he saw her. Frantic. He stood, and before he could speak or ask why she was upset, she said, “Mason’s wife. It’s Allison. The police called…Terrible.” She walked to the closest chair and collapsed there, cried and cried and wasn’t much good to anyone for several hours.

  Downstairs, Custis found the phone disconnected and bleating, and upon discovering that Sheila’s friend Vicki had no answers or information, he hustled out the door and spotted a state trooper, Darrell Bowling, striding toward the office. They met under the office’s awning, and Darrell stood close to him, gripped Custis’s biceps and spoke in a voice that knew how to modulate dreadful news. “Mason’s wife was in an accident in Patrick Springs,” he said, his eyes tracking Custis’s. “The intersection at Charlie Martin’s old store. Vehicle come through the Stop sign and T-boned her. She was dead when the rescue squad got there.” Darrell shook his head and removed his hat. “Impact was as bad as I’ve ever seen.” He’d released Custis’s arm. “Tough,” he said. A tear appeared, but he didn’t bother with it. It didn’t affect his posture or the clarity in his voice. “Me or you?” he asked. “You want me to give him the news? I was on my way to do it.”

  Custis had both hands on top of his head, his elbows angled. He kicked the ground and bowed at the waist, stomped a half circle before twisting back to face the trooper. “You’re sure? It was her?”

  “We’re sure. T. J. Meade and Bryant Pruitt were first on the scene.”

  “How?” Custis asked, his face pained, his hands still raised. “I mean, what happened?”

  “From what we can tell, this driver in a Ford, a full-size pickup, didn’t see the sign—happens all the time—and tore right into her. How many accidents we had there, Custis? Fifty? Sixty? Lord only knows.”

  “Who was drivin’ the truck? Is he hurt?”

  “Boy by the name of Lonnie Gammons, a college kid. Home for a long weekend before exams or some such. He’s got a few cuts and scrapes, but that’s about it. Always happens like that, huh?” Darrell hesitated and cleared his throat. “Bryant says this Gammons fellow was in court not so long ago with a DUI. We checked, though, and he was okay to drive. Wound up with a reckless driving and a thirty-day suspension, so he was perfectly legal.”

  Custis lowered his hands and arms. He stared at Darrell. “Oh shit. How about this time? Was he drinkin’?”

  “Nosir. Straight as an arrow. Not a drop. Zero on the alka-sensor, nothing in the car. He’s all to pieces over it, cryin’ and whatnot. He’s at the ER. You hate it for him, too. It’ll stick to him the rest of his life.”

  “Well, maybe it should,” Custis said, frowning. “Damn.”

  “Just one of those things,” Darrell said. “An accident nobody intended.”

  “I’m gonna let you break it to Mace.” Custis loosened his tie and unbuttoned his collar. “I need to check on somethin’. You stay with him, Darrell, don’t leave him alone till I get there, you hear?”

  Darrell knocked on Mason’s office door and asked the group of elderly men and women inside if they could excuse themselves. He told them in a quiet voice there was an emergency, and it was important that he speak with the commonwealth’s attorney. He stood formal and erect, his dark blue hat in hand, his gaze downward, as they filed from the room.

  Mason rose as Darrell was closing the door. “What is it, Darrell?”

  The trooper made it a point to be near Mason, went to where he was standing, within easy reach. He didn’t beat around the bush. “There’s been a bad wreck, Mason. Allison was in it.” He waited a moment, swallowed. “I wish I wasn’t the one tellin’ you, but she didn’t make it. I’m so sorry.”

  And that was how Mason heard the news, how he discovered his wife was dead. He was silent for an instant, folding in his arms to his chest, his hands gripped together underneath his chin. Everything seemed to lag and warp, then his legs lost their resolve, tumbling him down into his chair. “Allison’s dead?” he asked the trooper. “My Allison?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh God.” Mason left his arms pressed against his chest and cocked his head toward the ceiling and sealed his eyes, clenching his whole face as if he were trying to fend off Darrell’s words. “You have to be wrong.”

  “I’m gonna sit here with you,” Darrell said. “For a while, anyway.” He took a seat and tugged a folde
d white handkerchief from his uniform pocket, did his own grieving. They’d known each other since elementary school, two local boys who’d grown up together.

  “Where is she?” Mason asked after a few seconds. “What happened?” He paused, balling his hair inside a fist. “What am I going to do?” Tear on top of tear sliced down both cheeks. Several kept going and wet his lap, his sleeves.

  “I reckon she’s still at the hospital. You’ll need to make some arrangements, but there’s plenty of time for that. I’ll drive you when you’re ready. Whatever I can do.”

  The phones were ringing and not being answered. Sheila wobbled into the office sobbing and Darrell allowed her a brief stay before helping her leave, steering her away with a gentle hand on her shoulder.

  “The wreck was at Charlie Martin’s intersection,” Darrell said when they were alone again. “Pickup come through and didn’t slow down.”

  “Did…? The car…How did it happen? I mean…” Mason slumped forward. “Did she…?”

  “It was over in a second,” Darrell promised him. Two decades of dealing with covered gurneys and disemboweled automobiles had taught him what needed to be heard. “She never knew.”

  Mason just stared at him, shell-shocked, slowly throttling down, his vitality leaking from every pore, like a child’s mechanical toy sucking the last juice from weak batteries, wallowing to a harsh, metallic stop. They could hear voices in the waiting room, the phones were still noisy but not being attended to, and through the window, Sadie Grace was visible, hurrying from her car, the door left open behind her.

  “There’s one other thing about the wreck I, uh, need to tell you,” Darrell said.

  Custis had jogged to the Enterprise office and found Gail Harding, the paper’s editor. Because it was Stuart, she’d already heard the miserable report and didn’t seem altogether surprised to see him. She told Custis she was heartbroken and asked after Mason and reached out and squeezed Custis’s huge hand, got mostly fingers. They walked to a corner and Custis leaned against the wall. “Here’s the deal,” he said. “It’s gonna surface that this Gammons boy was in court for DUI not so long ago. He was a good kid, Gail. College, job, scholarship, raised by a single mom. No record. Everybody and his brother callin’ to support him. I reduced the charge. If I’d left it alone, he would’ve been suspended for a year and not drivin’ today. Instead, I gave him his license back after thirty days. Shit.”