Verdict in the Desert

by Patricia Santos Marcantonio

  Within a few months, Leo had assigned Michael the case against Marcus Fields, who was a twenty-six-year-old ruffian and heir to one of Borden’s largest trucking companies. Fields was accused of fatally shooting Lester Howard, a bricklayer who happened to be dating Marcus’ old girlfriend, a hapless piece of ass named Shirley Walsh. Fields’ defense attorney, a hired six-gun from Phoenix, had kidded Leo McCall about giving the case to a novice, namely, Michael.

  Leo sputtered a laugh. “This kid right here is hungry. He’ll eat your spleen and ask for seconds.”

  Burying surprise at Leo’s confidence, Michael smiled at the defense attorney as if he had slept with his wife.

  In preparation for the trial, Michael spent hours talking to witnesses and friends of the victim. He intricately mapped out the state’s case on a blackboard in his tiny office. Almost every aspect of Fields’ and the victim’s lives earned typed pages in his file. He came to know them better than a relative. His girlfriend at the time, Jenny, pouted up a storm because he broke dates and missed dinners. He even abstained from heavy petting, drinking and playing Sunday football because he feared they’d diminish his edge.

  In court, Michael did indeed taste spleen. He gouged a hole in the defense’s case and worked it to a gaping wound with honed questions and objections.

  The defense admitted that Fields and Lester had fought, but claimed the defendant’s .22 pistol accidentally discharged when Lester tried to kick Fields out of Shirley’s house. Michael’s evidence revealed how Fields had stalked poor Lester for months before the killing. The defendant had also garnered a record of assault against anyone who happened to go out with his old flame.

  Michael discovered his own style in court that was different from Leo’s or his father’s. He was strident when called for, sympathetic to the right witnesses and harsh to opponents. During summation, a female juror even cried as he talked about Lester teaching Sunday school and serving as a Little League coach. In thirty minutes, the jury voted Marcus Fields guilty of first-degree murder. Two deputies held back Fields as he lunged for his defense attorney. As they dragged him out, Fields cursed Michael and called him the fucking devil. Michael returned that with a wink.

  Although he never admitted it to anyone, Michael compared that first trial to losing his virginity. The physical one had gone at age seventeen to Beth Vermont, a blond with an IQ lower than her bra size. The whole thing took place in his room at a party when his father was out of town. Beth begged for another try, but he declined, suspecting she really wanted to get knocked up in order to marry his father’s money.

  Sexual consummation with Beth Vermont and several others he could mention was not half as sweet as the moment the jury pronounced Marcus Fields guilty. He had found the law could be as skittish as a virgin he was trying to talk out of her panties, vengeful as a whore gypped out of ten bucks, seductive as a countess with state secrets. And he loved them all.

  Michael perennially joked with Adam about his tenure at the county attorney’s office, but he enjoyed the camaraderie built on the common mission of seeking justice instead of billable hours. Over dinner one night, he informed his father he wanted to run for county attorney after Leo retired. His father’s face was stolid, which unsettled Michael more than anything. Without raising his voice, his father warned the county job amounted to a career dead end. Michael could expect to be prematurely aged by the aggravation of tight budgets, heavy workloads and dealing with the criminal element. At every opportunity, his father worked on him like an artist chiseling at marble. He covered every angle of pending failure until Michael began to wonder why he ever contemplated running for the county job in the first place. Michael finally quit and went into the firm.

  At the memory, his fingers hardened around the briefcase handle. He got up from the bench and started down the sidewalk. Reaching the bank building, he glided through the doors and up the elevator. The perspiration on his neck and back dried quickly in the air conditioning. He waved to Mrs. Whitehead, his grandmotherish secretary, to follow. Michael put his feet on his large desk and closed his eyes. He pointed to his head.

  With a good-natured smile, she began rubbing his temples. Her cat-eye glasses dangled from a chain around her neck.

  “Will you marry me, Mrs. Whitehead?”

  “You know I’m already married, and so are you, Mr. Shaw.”

  “Well, abandon him, because you’re too much woman for one man.”

  “Mr. Shaw, please.” Her cheeks flushed pink.

  Like Margaret Dumont in the Marx Brothers’ pictures, his secretary never got the joke. “Thanks, Mrs. Whitehead. That did the trick.”

  She consulted her notepad. “The clerk’s office called. Oh, and I arranged a meeting with your new client, María Curry, tomorrow at ten at the county jail. They found an interpreter for you because the woman didn’t speak English very well. The interpreter will meet you there. I checked your appointments, and that will fit your schedule.”

  “Anything else?”

  “The Klingmans’ attorney pushed back depositions until three tomorrow at their office, and the attorneys in the Raymond case want to talk about a settlement. You also have a new client. A Mrs. Douglas Sparrow.”

  “Let me guess, a divorce?”

  “Good guess, sir.”

  “Mrs. Whitehead, won’t you even think about leaving your husband?”

  “Mr. Shaw, really.” She left his office.

  In his chair, Michael swung around to face the large windows behind his desk. He had never felt so good and capable as in that case against Marcus Fields. After he left the county attorney’s office, he had searched for that same experience every time he went to court. But it was so elusive, like trying to snatch the sun’s reflection in the gold and glass dome of the courthouse.

  Swinging back to his desk, he went to work on the papers before him.

  7

  MICHAEL INHALED AS MUCH CLEAN AIR as he could manage. He was about to enter the Mitchell County Jail, which was located adjacent to the courthouse. When simmered by the August heat, the smell of the place made him want to wail like a toddler. Worse, it clung to his suits like smoke from a trash fire. The stink mixed cigarettes, armpits, stale coffee and whatever the jail cook had massacred for dinner.

  Swallowing more clean air, Michael pushed through the smeared glass doors. Several women, both white and Mexican, sat on the scarred benches. Wearing teased hair and too much lipstick, they waited for visits with husbands or boyfriends who found it easier to do crime than earn a living.

  The smell wasn’t the only thing that made Michael want to leave as soon as he entered. Deputy Herb Bell leaned against the front desk counter. Six foot and slender as nerves, Bell sprayed a fine mist with words ending in s. Worse, the deputy talked more than an insurance salesman trying to fill a quota. Bell used to man a desk in the sheriff’s office in the courthouse, until Michael and every practicing lawyer complained. Sheriff Bobby Maxwell reassigned Bell to the jail because he figured no decent folk minded if the deputy spit at prisoners.

  “Why, Mr. Shaw. Haven’t seen you in a coon’s age.” Bell’s lips curled with pleasure.

  Michael mustered a weak smile. Coon’s age. That was the deputy’s way of declaring himself one of the good ole boys, a good ole white boy, at any rate.

  “How’s it going, Herb?” Michael discreetly stepped back to avoid the mist.

  Bell lit up like a bulb at anyone interested enough to ask. “Not bad. The jail does good business. This weekend, the wetbacks were partying like all get-out and spending their paychecks from the mill and the mines. We got so many in here, pretty soon cook’ll have to put friholies on the menu.”

  To anyone within his squeal of a voice, the deputy put down Mexicans. They were the only people who had less power than Bell, Michael surmised.

  “I need to see María Curry.”

  Checking the clipboard, the deputy sent a wiry finger down a list of names. “I’ll take her down to interview room number 4. The
interpreter’s waiting in the hall. Wouldn’t you know it. She’s a Mex. One wet speaking for another. My, my, what a world.” Bell chuckled.

  That was the extent of Bell’s wit. The heavy door buzzed and clicked, then rattled open like metal bones. Bell sent a grand salute. Michael took advantage of the escape and swept through the door. A young woman sat on a bench in front of the line of interview rooms. Her legs were crossed at the ankles. Her hands sat on her lap like a statue at rest. Her hair was in a black knot at the back, revealing sharp and high cheekbones and fluid neck. Never had a blouse and skirt been filled out so well.

  Michael stared. She was pretty. But more than that. Her body emitted pure defiance with its straight back and her head up as if ready to pick a fight. And he believed she would.

  Michael fixed his tie and walked over to where she sat. “Hello, I’m Michael Shaw. I’ll be defending María Curry. You must be the translator.” At least, he hoped so.

  Toni stood up and stuck out her hand. Michael’s mouth opened slightly at the straightforward manner. Usually, Mexicans kept eyes down. Her hand was warm as it was steady. Amber-colored eyes held his, as if they sized up his soul.

  “Antonia García.”

  “I guess that makes us working together, Miss García.”

  She smiled a little. “That makes us working for María Curry.”

  Michael cleared his throat and opened the door to room number 4. “They’ll bring her in a few minutes.” Even through the stink of the jail, she smelled of honey and sage.

  English and Spanish curse words were scratched into the dark blue walls of the small room, which held a chipped wooden table and three chairs. A clanking ceiling fan barely circulated air. Michael messed with his expensive briefcase. She changed her purse from one hand to the other. They kept heads lowered with a discomfort created from attraction. In the closed room, they both felt as if they were taking in each other’s breath. He shoved a stick of gum in his mouth and offered one to her. They chewed in silence for a minute.

  Michael couldn’t stand it any longer. “I don’t remember ever seeing you around the courthouse, Miss García.”

  “This is only my third job as interpreter. I recently moved back home from Phoenix.”

  Michael smiled broadly. “Why the hell did you come back to Borden? This is the town that time forgot.”

  “So why are you still here, Mr. Shaw?”

  “I asked first.”

  “I wanted to be closer to my father.”

  “Ah, the sentimental type.”

  “Only when it comes to family. Don’t you feel the same way?”

  Without warning, Herb Bell brought María into the room. “Here she is.”

  The arrival made Michael happy because he didn’t want to talk about family.

  María shivered inside a huge blue jail dress. The skin under her eyes had been blackened. Her thin neck and arms showed vicious purple marks. Stitches lined up across her forehead. She looked like a mangled rag doll fished out of a garbage bin. The older woman brightened when she saw the interpreter.

  Toni introduced everyone, since Michael’s Spanish did not get past ordering beer and food at restaurants.

  He motioned for both of the women to sit down. Taking a seat on the other side of the table, he pulled out a pad from his briefcase. “Mrs. Curry, I’d like to ask you questions about the night of your husband’s death.” He spoke loudly and slowly.

  “Mr. Shaw, she’s not deaf, and I understand English,” Toni said.

  His cheeks seared with embarrassment. He pushed at his tie. “Sorry. Now about that night … ”

  María ignored Michael. “Where’s my little dog, Oscar? The police took him from me that night,” she told Toni in Spanish.

  “I don’t know where he is,” Toni said.

  “Ay, my little boy. I tried so hard to protect him. Now he’s gone.” María started to cry at another loss in her life.

  “I’ll find him. I promise.” Toni put her hand on María’s shoulder.

  María nodded. She believed the young woman. Her eyes held resolve, as if she had never been unsure of herself.

  They continued to talk in Spanish. Feeling a foreigner in his own country, Michael waved his large hands in the air. “Wait, wait, what’d she say, Miss García?”

  “She wants to know what happened to her dog.”

  “Mi Oscar, yes, yes.” María had a dense accent.

  “What dog? I don’t know anything about a dog.”

  María again spoke to Toni.

  “María says that Ben tried to kill Oscar that night. She was afraid Ben was going kill both of them.”

  “Oscar. Who the hell is Oscar?”

  “The dog, Mr. Shaw,” Toni said.

  “Oh. Please tell her I don’t know where her dog is.”

  After Toni translated, María sobbed again and wiped her face with her arm.

  Michael gave the woman his handkerchief and cursed himself for not being out of the country when the judge assigned the case. The little woman in front of him didn’t stand a chance in court, not even if he was fucking Oliver Wendell Holmes and Clarence Darrow rolled into one. She may have wielded the knife that night, but the word “victim” was probably stamped on her birth certificate.

  He was going to go down in goddamn golden flames.

  As María cried into his handkerchief, he got a closer look at the severity of the wound on her forehead. “Did your husband hurt you that night?”

  The way he asked the question made Toni reevaluate her impression of Michael Shaw. At first his confidence practically filled the room like the scent of his expensive aftershave. He was handsome in a pampered way. His gem-colored blue eyes weren’t as tough as his exterior.

  Although the pricey suit fitted him well, he reminded her of a little boy forced to dress up on Sundays. His voice conveyed tenderness when he questioned María. Then again, maybe that compassion was a lawyer trick.

  “You don’t have to be afraid, María. I’m here to help,” he said. “Did your husband beat you that night?”

  María closed her eyes. Since her arrest, she felt as if she moved within a nightmare she alone had created. A place of dusk even in the daylight. The aching bruises and cuts on her body were just a reminder of her great sin and why she couldn’t wake up from her bad dream. She opened her eyes.

  “I made him mad,” María said through Toni’s translation. “I got home late from cleaning the motel. I was going to cook him a nice dinner, but he wanted my check to buy beer. I told him we had to pay the rent or we’d be kicked out. See, I really was the one to start the fight.” María’s voice was small as a tear.

  “Okay. Now we start working,” Michael said.

  The questions and translations between the three of them advanced without effort. In her voice, Toni carried María’s emotions and inflections, as well as her words.

  “How long were you married to Ben?” Michael said.

  “Fifteen years.”

  “Children?”

  “God didn’t give me any.”

  “The police say they often came to your house because of fights between you and your husband.”

  María’s nod barely registered.

  “Do you drink a lot, María?”

  “Sometimes. I never used to, but I started to drink beer because Ben liked beer. It made life hurt less.”

  Michael tapped his pencil on the paper. He couldn’t have said it better himself. “Other than the night he died, did your husband ever strike you, Mrs. Curry?”

  She didn’t answer. Michael looked at Toni.

  “Please, tell him. He only wants to help,” Toni told her in Spanish.

  María held up her head. “Sí.”

  “Several times?”

  Disgrace clouded her face. “All the time.”

  Michael noticed the woman’s hands were cut and bruised. “María, I know this is difficult, but you’ll need to tell me about those times you were beaten. You’ll also have to tell me everythin
g that happened the night your husband died.”

  María’s small face was wet with tears. “I know I’m in trouble. I didn’t mean to kill Ben. I loved him, sir. But something broke in me that night when he went after Oscar. I know I’ll never leave this place. God will punish me.” Her sobs turned louder and her body quaked. Snot ran down to her lips.

  Toni took out her own handkerchief to clean the woman’s face.

  Michael’s jaw tightened. He couldn’t make up enough lies to comfort his client. Then the interpreter spoke to María Curry in Spanish, and she turned almost serene. He continued his questioning.

  “Thank you, señor.” María took one of his hands in hers before Herb Bell took her away.

  “What’d the hell did you say to her, Miss García?” Michael asked Toni.

  She smiled. “I told her we’d find Oscar and take good care of him until she gets out of jail. I also told her not to worry because you’re a very good lawyer who loves dogs.”

  8

  LEANING AGAINST HIS BLACK JAGUAR XK120 roadster, Michael jumped away in a hurry after burning his backside. With two fingers, he loosened his tie under the noon sun. He noticed a scratch running the length of the hood.

  “Goddammit.”

  He loved to speed at one hundred miles an hour along the back roads to his father’s house, screech up on the gravel driveway and leave a gigantic dust ball near the front door. Now he and his British sports car were parked outside the dog pound, a city facility in name only. The decrepit brick building sat on dirt. Weeds sprouted from its eroding foundation. The tin roof buckled and radiated the heat. Inside, dogs howled and barked at their own impending death sentences. Why he allowed the interpreter to talk him into this he didn’t know.

  Yes, he knew why.

  Toni came out of the door of the city dog pound carrying a small white mutt. The bun was gone, and her hair swung around a determined face. He opened the door for her and started the car. He planned to take her to lunch at the Mesa Inn, a charming out-of-the-way restaurant west of town.