Defending Turquoise (Thaddeus Murfee Legal Thriller Series Book 5)

by John Ellsworth

  “Mr. Murfee’s point is well taken.” The judge inclined his head toward the defendant. “Mrs. Steinmar, I’ve known you for a long time. While my personal proclivity is to allow you to remain free on your signature, I have official duties placed on me by my office as a judge. I’m sure you understand.” She nodded and returned his gaze. “But I’d like to ask you, will you come to court as required if I allow bail?”

  She nodded solemnly. “I will do that, Judge Gerhardt. Whenever you say I must be here, I will be. I’ve spent hours in these courtrooms and I take my obligation very seriously, Your Honor.”

  He smiled, and in just that moment, the thought occurred to Thaddeus that the judge and defendant might know each other a lot better than either was letting on. He decided to file that in his mind for future reference. He would ask Shep about the moment he had just witnessed.

  Addressing both attorneys, the judge said, “Gentlemen, my inclination is to set bail at one hundred thousand dollars.”

  “Ten percent?” asked Shep.

  “Of course. She may pay ten percent and post her house as surety. It’s so ordered. Now we still have the matter of the autopsy. Are you gentlemen prepared to address that motion?”

  Shep didn’t miss a beat. “Ready, Your Honor, and if I may say so, we’d like to amend that motion to add the Coconino County Medical Examiner. He’s the one who will be performing the autopsy.”

  The judge raised a hand. “As I understand it, Shep—Mr. Aberdeen—your client is claiming the decedent was biting her before or at the time the gun was fired. Is that correct?”

  Shep nodded vigorously. “Oh, yes, John Steinmar had his teeth buried in my client’s crotch when she blew off the top of his head. He wouldn’t let go and the pain was excruciating. He was warned, as well.”

  Angelina lowered her head and began sobbing as if on cue. She shifted uncomfortably in her chair. Pain between the legs? Thaddeus wondered. Was she cuing the viewers to some degree of painful distress to make her point? If it was intentional, she was a great actress. If unintentional, then the gods were smiling on her case because it was playing beautifully over the airways right now and would on tonight’s News at Six, as well. His respect for her sense of theater rose ten points. She was good.

  “Objection!” cried Moroney. “These are allegations, pure allegations. There’s absolutely no record of what she’s now claiming. In fact, she never mentioned to the police that he was attacking her when she pulled the trigger. The state claims surprise and objects!”

  “We will be supplementing the defendant’s motion for dental impressions of Mr. Steinmar’s mouth this afternoon, Your Honor. We have forensic photographs we’ll be attaching and amending our motion. For now, if the court would issue an order to the Attorney General and the Medical Examiner requiring that dental impressions be taken of the decedent’s bite and preserved—that’s all we’re asking. Next thing you know they’ll be trying to hurry him into the grave so that exhumation is required, if we don’t do this now. Worse, he could be cremated and we lose the evidence of his bite altogether.”

  “The court is inclined to agree, gentlemen. It costs the state nothing to preserve evidence of the decedent’s bite. It is ordered that both the Attorney General and the Medical Examiner take and make available to defense complete dental impressions of John Steinmar’s bite. It’s a simple autopsy procedure and the court has seen it done many times and the results are always accurate and convincing. The impressions shall be made by means common to such procedures and X-rays of the decedent’s teeth taken as well.”

  “Judge, X-rays?” said Moroney, pounding his fist into his hand. “For what possible reason would the defendant want X-rays?”

  The judge looked coolly at AG Moroney. “The X-rays are for me, Mr. Moroney. The court wants X-rays for its own purposes. Now go forth and do what you’re told.”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “Thank you, Judge,” Shep said quickly.

  “Have I missed anything?” Judge Gerhardt asked.

  Both attorneys said he hadn’t missed anything.

  The judge smiled and looked straight at the red light on the TV camera. “Will that be all?”

  Both attorneys said that would be all.

  “Very well. Mr. Murfee, I’ll expect to see your entry of appearance as co-counsel filed by close of business. Fair enough?”

  “Yes,” said Thaddeus, fighting to restrain his enthusiasm for being invited on board. “I’ll have it back before noon, Your Honor.”

  “Ladies and gentlemen, please remain seated while Deputy Baker unlocks the door. Court stands in recess. Defendant is remanded to custody of the sheriff pending bail.”

  Chairs scraped back and briefcases were packed. A seventy-year-old deputy everyone called “Hoss” laid a gentle hand on Angelina Steinmar’s shoulder. “Please come with me, Mrs. Steinmar.” She held out both arms for the handcuffs—mandatory—and looked at the floor while the iron was placed around her wrists.

  “I’ll speak to your father as we discussed, Angelina,” said Shep. “We’ll have you walking in the sunshine by noon.”

  She nodded and allowed herself to be led away.

  12

  Katy was playing Barbies with Sarai when her cell phone chimed. She touched her daughter’s hair and stood to retrieve the phone from the kitchen island.

  “This is Katy,” she said.

  The voice sounded distant and very small.

  “Dr. Murfee? This is Turquoise Begay.”

  “Turquoise. We haven’t spoken since the clinic. How are you?”

  “I’m not so good.”

  “Why not?”

  “My uncle, he’s—he’s—”

  She could hear the young voice break and begin weeping.

  “He’s what, Turquoise? Is he hurting you?”

  “Y-y-yes. He’s fucking me.”

  “When?”

  “Every night.”

  “Is that where you got the STD, from your uncle?”

  “Yes.”

  Katy felt the old rage work its way up inside her. Old feelings, old body memories, came rushing back. She wanted to fly to the girl, take her in her arms, and rip her out of that place. Sometimes she hated the reservation. Sometimes she hated the people there and how they preyed on each other and how sexual abuse was twelve times what it was in the rest of America. Two out of three women by the age of twenty-three had been sexually assaulted, fifty percent of the time by a family member. She knew the statistics, she was just about a doctor and she knew how important health statistics were to a statistical population. But she was more than that. She was also a survivor herself, a survivor of sexual abuse on the reservation, and her personal rage instantly overlaid on the rage she was feeling toward Turquoise’s abuser. She wanted to see that person behind bars. Or worse.

  But more than anything, the abuse had to be stopped.

  Small chance of that. It was the reservation. Women’s—and girls’—bodies were there for the pleasure of men. While it was a matriarchy—the Navajo Nation—when it came to crimes against women, the place was a good old boys’ club.

  She had to do something.

  “I’m coming to get you. Are you still living in the trailer where I dropped you after clinic?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is there anyone there with you?”

  “Uncle Randy. He’s passed out in my bedroom.”

  “Asleep on your bed?”

  “Yes.”

  “Anyone else there?”

  “My dad hasn’t been home in three days.”

  “Okay, I’m going to see what I can do. Go someplace safe. I’m going to first go by the clinic for help. Then I’ll come over and get you. Go outside and hide. When you see my car, come running. It’s a maroon Toyota Highlander.”

  “Maroon SUV?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. I called my caseworker, too. Someone will come for me.”

  “That won’t hurt. Whoever gets there first, you
go with them.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  She was seeing red—in fact, she wasn’t seeing anything. She was in a rage and she meant to stop the perpetrator before he could act again. That was her sole aim in life at that moment. Stop him. She changed from shorts into Wrangler’s blue jeans and the red roper boots with the walking heels, and shrugged into a T-shirt that said “Chicago Medicine.”

  She made arrangements for Sarai and waited while Mrs. Johnston from across the street waved her over. She carried Sarai over and deposited her with the friendly woman.

  “One hour, maybe two. You know Thad’s number if you need him.”

  “She’ll be fine here with me. Looks like we’ll play Barbies.”

  “Thanks, Mrs. Johnston.”

  “Of course, honey. Go do what you need and we’ll be here when you get back.”

  “So long.”

  So long, she thought. Maybe it was a Freudian commentary. She hated herself for even thinking that and hated the world that had taken away her innocence that would even let her think something like that. She furiously marched back across the street and left for the reservation.

  He had to be stopped.

  13

  Angelina was home from court by 2:30. First thing was to strip down and take a long, hot shower. She washed her short hair and shaved her legs and armpits. The loofah felt great across the back and butt. Then came the facial scrub and conditioner for the short hair. Then a five-minute soak and rinse, almost unbearably hot. She stepped out and toweled dry. Angelina would let her short hair air dry, of course, and she wiped away the steam from the mirror over the double his-and-her sinks. A standalone enlarging mirror was held to reflect her vagina. She twisted it this way and that, pursuing the elusive wound. She peered into the mirror and watched her fingers carefully lift the left labia away from the vagina. A definite two chords of bite marks were revealed. She uncapped the antibiotic ointment and applied a small dab inside and outside the labia. It burned but quickly relented in intensity. A very sensitive place to have someone bite you, she thought. She replaced the enlarging mirror on the cabinet top. She washed her hands and slowly dried them on the hand towel on her side of the counter. Across from her own sink, her dead husband’s electric toothbrush was still in its charger, green light aglow. He won’t need that, she thought. She resumed the preparations she had missed just before dawn, thanks to the incident with John.

  Teeth brushed, deodorant applied, small spray of Canoe across the shoulders—very light, just a mist. Satisfied with her preparations, she went into the bedroom and stood at the double windows looking down on the front yard and street. She was nude and would have been seen, but no one looked up at the figure in the window. She finally smiled and turned away. It was such a relief not to have to face them and force more tears. She had done all the crying anyone could hope for with the detectives just before dawn.

  KTVK Channel 3’s van was still parked in front, its satellite pointed aimlessly at the sky. Three other news agency SUVs were parked along the front yard, and reporters milled about, talking and comparing notes. When she arrived home they had gawked as she clicked and the garage door opener raised the door. Inside, she closed the door behind her and passed directly from garage to kitchen, avoiding the throng out front.

  The police cars and CSI van were gone, thankfully. They had cut out a huge section of carpet in the family room where John had marinated in his own blood and brain matter after she blew away the top of his head. Prints had been dusted and lifted, photographs taken from every conceivable angle and distance, drawings made, and evidence collected. Two detectives had questioned her. She had sobbed and appeared distraught. Through a wash of tears she had called Shep and he had shut them down. They had allowed her to retreat to the couch in the family room, where she lay on her back and moaned as if pierced by the horror of what had happened. She was dying for a cigarette the whole time, but didn’t dare light up.

  The gun was gone, of course, and she was sure they’d also found the bullets in the desk drawer. It was John’s gun; he kept it for self-defense and as the chief law enforcement officer of the county it had always made perfect sense that he have it around. While Flagstaff was a small town, it still saw enough transient blow-by that one could never tell what might be coming up or down the interstate next. John had been in the Army and knew all about guns. She knew almost as much, as he’d wanted her to take the self-defense course and become licensed to carry concealed, so she had acquiesced and done the course. The police hadn’t found her own gun, of course, and wouldn’t. She kept it stashed in the black and gray Coach purse on the closet shelf. It would go with her on her mad shopping sprees in Scottsdale. She loved having the Coach on her arm at those times; she believed it made a statement she liked. John insisted she carry the sidearm when she went to the Valley anyway. It made him happy.

  She was dry and she disappeared back inside the bathroom. She applied powder, moisturizer and a light blush. No eye makeup, no lipstick. No need for much; she wouldn’t be giving any interviews and she had no plans to go out, orders of Shep, who’d told her to stay home no matter what.

  She was slipping into her Ralph Lauren pants when her county-issue cell chimed. Calls from the Department of Children and Family Services reached her on that number. She went to the dresser and looked. Navajo Reservation number trying to reach her. It might be one of her kids from her caseworker duties, so she answered.

  “This is Angelina Steinmar, how can I help?”

  “It’s Turquoise, Mrs. Steinmar. You said I should call if he did it again.”

  “I did, Turquoise. Where are you right now?”

  “Home.”

  “Is he there?”

  “He’s in the back bedroom. I think he passed out after he did it to me.”

  “Are you bleeding?”

  “No.”

  “Did he hit you?”

  “No. He only threatened.”

  “With the gun?”

  “He showed me a knife. A switchblade. He asked me to choose.”

  “Choose what?”

  “He said I could choose what went between my legs. Him or the knife.”

  Son of a bitch! she swore in her mind. “Can you leave the trailer?”

  “His truck’s out front. Dad hasn’t been home for three days.”

  “You were going to call me,” Angelina said. She used a tone that wasn’t blaming. It was only a reference to their agreement.

  “I know. I forgot.”

  “Then your uncle came over. He must have known your dad was missing.”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you find the keys to the truck?”

  “He always keeps them in his pocket.”

  “Okay, here’s what I want you to do. You slip outside and start walking west along the highway. I’m going to come get you.”

  “You will?”

  “I told you I would, Turquoise. I said you only had to call me.”

  “I’ll go outside right now. Please don’t forget me.”

  “Turquoise, I’m on my way. Don’t accept any rides from anyone else. I’m one hour away. Take a bottle of water with you.”

  “Pepsi. I only have Pepsi in the fridge.”

  “Take that. One hour, Turquoise. I’m on my way. Remember, you’re to walk west, toward the mall.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Steinmar.”

  She hung up the phone and resisted the urge to fling it against the wall. She hated that son of a bitch, Randy Begay. Hated his guts. He was damn lucky someone hadn’t blown him away. Someone should, she thought, then her mind kicked in and she was thinking.

  Sitting on the bed, she kicked out of the RL pants and opened the bottom drawer of her dresser. Black Levi’s, hiking boots, and a Harley T-shirt quickly were assembled and tossed on her thin frame. She shook out a Harley bandana atop her head and pulled it together in the back. She tied a knot and looked at herself in the mirror. The bandana looked good,
all Harley. She turned. As tall as she was, it was an easy reach to the closet shelf and her Coach purse. She retrieved the .38 Detective Special, snapped open the cylinder and spun it once, slapped it shut, and dropped the sidearm into the right pocket of her denim Harley jacket. She slipped it on and spun before the mirror. The American eagle embroidered on the jacket flashed by as she turned. “Born in the USA,” the eagle cried. She dropped her cell phone in the left pocket and hurried downstairs.

  Downstairs she crept out the back door into their fenced yard. The Harley was kept on a cement slab behind the garage, beneath an awning. She removed the tarpaulin from the bike and pushed it to the back gate, out the gate and down the alley to the far end where it intersected Hoover Road. She inserted the key, hit START, and the engine caught on the first try. She reached behind and removed the helmet from the bungee and placed it on her head, shield fully down and covering her face. She looked both ways. So far, so good. No one was aware she was gone, no press, no police, nada. She toed it into first and slowly pulled out of the alley onto Hoover eastbound.

  Turquoise would be walking west on the highway; Angelina would come in from the east.

  Ninety minutes later she spotted the single-wide where Turquoise lived with her father and brother. The father’s gray primer Ford was missing from the front yard, but Randy Begay’s red Chevrolet Silverado was pulled up almost to the front stoop. It was missing the rear license plate. She shook her head and shut off the engine. A perfect stillness settled over the scene. It was almost five, but the sun was still high in the western sky. Overhead a chicken hawk curled lazily on a high desert thermal and a gentle breeze pushed in from the west. No other traffic for probably ten minutes, as it was a fairly deserted reservation road. It was blacktop, one lane either way, and she could see a good five miles in both directions. She squinted her eyes and looked west but couldn’t see anyone walking. Never mind, she would catch up to Turquoise. She patted the side pocket of her denim HD jacket, making sure that the gun had come on the long ride. Satisfied, she entered the trailer without knocking.