Verdict in the Desert

by Patricia Santos Marcantonio

  Brennan started on redirect. “Mrs. Richards, did Ben Curry express any fear of his wife?”

  She shook her head hard. “Yes, sir, he did. On July 4th, I was out watering the lawn. Ben called María a dirty stinkin’ Mesican. Then he said, ‘You’ll be the death of me.’ I’ll never forget that.”

  The judge called a break, and Toni sighed with relief. Mrs. Richards strode down the middle of the courtroom, stopping to glower at María. If true justice occupied the world, Mrs. Richards and Mrs. Hernández would move next door to each other. Then again, they might become the best of friends.

  Daniel Curry wore animosity like his ten-year-old suit. Both were well lived in. When he was sworn in as a witness, his eyes didn’t leave María, who put her head down so as not to look at him.

  “WHAT’S HE GOING TO SAY?” Toni wrote on a note she passed to Michael.

  “IT WON’T BE GOOD,” Michael wrote back.

  “Mr. Curry, when was the last time you heard from your brother?” Joe Brennan stayed seated. He didn’t want to get in the way of the witness’s vehemence toward the defendant.

  “In late April of last year.”

  “What was the circumstance?”

  “Ben came up to Prescott. He had lost a job and wanted to borrow some money.”

  “During your brother’s visit, did he say anything about his marriage?”

  “Objection.” Michael stood up. “This is not relevant. How is this line of questioning material to this proceeding?”

  “Your Honor, I can assure you this query will pertain to the state of Ben Curry’s mind before his death,” Brennan said.

  Michael could almost see Hower weighing the arguments.

  “Overruled. But don’t take advantage of this, Mr. Brennan,” Hower waved.

  “Never, Your Honor. Mr. Curry, now tell us about your brother’s feelings for his wife.” Michael got to his feet again. “Objection. Daniel Curry wouldn’t know what his brother felt.”

  “Sustained.”

  Brennan wiped down his glasses. “Let me put it another way. Mr. Curry, what did your brother Ben say to you about his marriage?”

  “He said he needed the money because his wife was always drinking and playing bingo at the church hall.” Curry spoke with the deliberation of the hunter.

  María shook her head no as Toni translated.

  “But María Curry worked, didn’t she?” Brennan said.

  “Yes, cleaning at some motel. But Ben said she went through her money quick and then went through his.”

  “Did he express any fear of his wife?” the county attorney asked.

  “My brother said he worried about her temper. She cracked his head with a frying pan, and he showed me the scar. It was a nasty one. Right here.” He pointed to the place on his own head. “My brother also said he kept one eye open at night because she kept telling him she’d kill him one day while he slept.”

  “Your brother was a big man, and he was still afraid?” Brennan asked.

  “He said María had a mean streak. She was small but fast and spiteful when she had a few beers in her. You know those Mexicans.”

  “Objection,” Michael said.

  “No opinions, Mr. Curry,” the judge said.

  “Did you talk to your brother after his visit?” Brennan went on.

  “No. I never saw him alive after that.”

  “No more questions.” The prosecutor sat.

  Michael wasted no time. “Did your brother say why his wife hit him with a frying pan?”

  “No.” Daniel Curry gripped both sides of the stand.

  “Let’s go on for the moment. When your brother visited you in Prescott, did you two go out drinking?”

  Michael had recognized a man with a thirst like his own. During their first encounter in court, Curry’s red face wasn’t due to the emotion of the moment. He had the broken veins of an alcoholic and smelled like stale foam.

  Curry licked dry lips. “I think we went out for a beer or two.”

  “Only two?” Michael said, and people snorted in laughter.

  Curry gave Michael a lethal glare.

  Brennan rose. “Objection. What does this have to do with anything?”

  “You opened the door, I just stepped through,” Michael said.

  “Enough,” Judge Hower ruled. “Mr. Shaw, get to the point soon.”

  “Immediately, Your Honor. Mr. Curry, when I saw your name on the witness list, I called the Prescott Police Department. They sent me a report about how you and your brother got into a fistfight with four guys at a place called Max’s Bar and Grill. Your brother was arrested for clobbering one of the men with a barstool. Remember that?”

  “Kinda.”

  “Too drunk to remember?”

  “No.”

  Daniel Curry appeared ready to leap off the stand at Michael, who hoped he would just to demonstrate the family’s love of aggression.

  “In fact, didn’t you and your brother spend the night in jail for that brawl?” Michael asked.

  “Those guys started it.”

  “And you certainly finished it.”

  “Mr. Shaw …,” the judge said.

  “Sorry, Your Honor. Mr. Curry, María says her husband never mentioned you. Why do think that is?”

  “Ben was ashamed he married a Mexican.”

  “Did your brother say that, or are you guessing?”

  Curry crossed his arms. “I’m guessing. But I’m right.”

  Michael saw an opening and took it. “Before that April visit, when was the last time you had seen your brother?”

  Daniel Curry closed his eyes in memory and then opened them. “Maybe twelve years.”

  “So you two weren’t exactly close?”

  “He was my brother.”

  “That doesn’t answer the question. Did you and your brother have a disagreement?”

  “Yeah.”

  “About what?”

  “’Cause Ben married a Mexican.” Daniel Curry looked at María as he spoke.

  “One last question. Did you lend your brother any money?” Michael said.

  “No.”

  “I’m done with this man.” Michael threw up his arms to show the jury he hadn’t taken Daniel Curry seriously. He hoped they wouldn’t either.

  “Redirect, Mr. Brennan?” the judge asked.

  The county attorney approached the witness. “Did you love your brother, Mr. Curry?”

  “We were blood. He was my only brother.”

  28

  ON THE WAY TO TONI’S HOUSE, Michael tripped on a hole in the alley he didn’t see in the darkness. He fell to one knee. Cursing through clenched teeth, he watched for Mrs. Hernández peeping out of her curtains. But if Michael couldn’t see the rut, he certainly couldn’t see Deputy Herb Bell in his parked car farther down the alley.

  After court ended for the day, Bell had gripped María Curry’s forearm and hauled her back to the jail, but a little claw raked at his stomach. He had learned to listen to that inner signal. He heeded it when he decided not to go hunting with his father-in-law. It was the right decision, because the old man got shot in the back by some fool who took him for a deer. He listened to his innards when he decided to go into the county sheriff’s business, instead of staying a clerk at J. C. Penney. Even though the job offered a manager’s spot in six months, something told him far better things waited for him at the courthouse. Some people may have called it intuition. Bell called it his ulcer to the human soul.

  Bell had backtracked to the darkened courtroom. The doors were shut, but he opened a side door slightly and put his face smack against the opening. He made sure no one else was watching him. “Well, well,” he muttered. “Ain’t that touching.”

  Inside the empty courtroom, in the corner near the jury box, Michael Shaw pressed the Mexican woman to the wall. Their arms intertwined like obscene vines. Later, he got the Mexican’s address from a county clerk and sat in his car in the dismal neighborhood. His ma used to say the Lord punished peo
ple by making them poor. By that account, these North Park people had all sinned and were doomed to lives of low wages at jobs white men didn’t want. However, his ma never did answer his question about why they were punished.

  As soon as it got dark, Bell waited for Michael Shaw in the alley. He half hoped the lawyer would stay home, but there he was, slipping into the brown whore’s house.

  “My, my, counselor.” Herb Bell now had one more duty to perform.

  Michael and Toni sat drinking strong coffee at the kitchen table.

  “Michael, you’re worried. Now I’m worried.”

  “Let’s just say the nosy neighbor and Ben Curry’s brother didn’t help our case.”

  She didn’t respond.

  “God, Toni. What if I muff it?”

  She placed her hand on Michael’s. “You won’t.”

  “Brennan’s working hard to portray María as a vengeful woman capable of killing. The jury might start doubting our self-defense argument.”

  “You’ll remind them how her husband hurt her over and over again. When she tells her story, the jury won’t be able to do anything else but set her free. I know this world is crazy, but María deserves justice, doesn’t she, Michael?”

  “My dear Toni, you know better than me that Lady Justice can’t see beyond her nose sometimes, with or without the blindfold.” He took her hands and kissed their palms. “Quit trying to cheer me up with all that damn encouragement. I want to wallow in self-pity and uncertainty. It’s what I do best, especially with a drink … or five.”

  “A waste of time. Besides, I do have something to pep you up.”

  She walked to the record player and a stack of albums.

  “Toni, your jazz records are not cheery.”

  Thumbing through her collection, she found a record and smiled as she put it on the turntable. An infectious, scratchy Mexican song played. Oscar woke up from where he napped on his pillow in the corner. Toni danced over to Michael. Her arms out. Her hips calling.

  “I’ll teach you real dancing.” She tried to tug him out of the chair.

  “My feet hurt.”

  “What? I can’t hear you. Music’s in my ears.”

  She pulled at his arms until he got to his feet. Dancing energetically around him, she took off his tie. He resisted. She swung his tie around and tossed it on the floor next to Oscar, who began to chew on it.

  “We’ll forget our troubles,” she said.

  “We’ll get exhausted.”

  She took his hands. “Follow me.”

  “I’m no Gene Kelly. I can’t even waltz.”

  She jerked him to her. “This is sort of like a polka. Can you polka?”

  “No.”

  “Everybody can polka. How come you white people never learned to have fun?”

  “Now, don’t be insulting.”

  She grinned. “I think you can’t have fun because you don’t have enough trouble in your lives.”

  He smiled now. “What? My life is nothing but trouble, Toni, especially since I met you.”

  “That’s ridiculous. You don’t have any spice in your lives, no change, no challenge, no chili. We have to live with all that, so we have to keep moving.” She bumped her hip against his.

  Michael began to follow her. “You could be right.”

  “You bet I am.”

  Michael followed clumsily at first. She put her hands on his hips.

  “That’s it. I’ll make a Mexican out of you yet.”

  Soon they were dancing around the room. Michael laughed. He tripped and grimaced when he stepped on her toes. But her eyes were splendid. The feeling made him almost dizzy, like being on a merry-go-round.

  He led her over to the bed. “These steps I know.”

  They slid off their clothes, hips touching and moving, even though the song had ended.

  They descended onto the bed and made another type of music. Afterward, they lay on their backs. Their bodies were silvery with sweat. Michael dozed. Toni knew she had to wake him soon and send him home. While she watched him, it occurred to her that nothing else mattered outside the small space they shared. Her hand went between her legs to the wetness of their lovemaking. She smelled the saltiness.

  She smelled the ocean.

  29

  LAYING ON THE BUNK IN HER JAIL CELL, María wished she had cotton to stuff in her ears. Her cellmate, a squat Mexican woman named Dede who had robbed a jewelry store with her boyfriend, never stopped talking about her rotten life. María welcomed lights out, when Dede would finally shut up and start snoring. In those tranquil times, María shut her eyes tightly, clasped her hands together and prayed to Jesus. Not to the Jesus whose face appeared painted on votive candles or on statues at church. She prayed to the Jesus of New Mexico.

  Years before, she and Ben were driving to one of his construction jobs in Albuquerque when she begged him to take a side trip to the Santuario de Chimayo, south of Taos. The shrine was famous for its statue of the Santo Niño de Atocha, which people claimed walked at night and brought about healing. The faithful even brought the statue baby shoes, the soles of which were dirty the next morning.

  As they neared the Santuario, María was convinced of its holiness because pilgrims crept on knees up to the chapel with the statue of the young Jesus dressed in a blue frock, wearing a cavalier hat and holding a shepherd’s crook. Their faces glowed with devotion. She had urged Ben to come see the statue, but Ben refused to go inside. He had been raised a Baptist and never forgave his parents for taking all the joy out of living, he had told her. He had no use for them or God. It was the only time he had ever mentioned his family. Glancing at his watch, he told her, “I’ll wait in the car. You got an hour for your miracles.”

  At the front of the church, a carved wooden Jesus on the cross dominated the sanctuary. Even the flames of the candles bent toward him. He was not the blue-eyed, pink-skinned Jesus she had seen in pictures. This Jesus had skin dark as hers. Painted blood from a crown of thorns flowed thickly over his black hair. Real nails had been pounded into his wooden hands. María was seized by the agony on Jesus’ face. Here was a man who knew suffering as she had known it at Ben’s hands.

  After the visit, María no longer prayed to the golden Jesus found in so many churches. She prayed to the Jesus of wood and sorrow she had seen in the church in New Mexico.

  30

  BEFORE THE NEXT TRIAL SESSION, Michael sat at the defense table studying his notes. He expected the prosecution to wrap up that day, since Brennan had no more witnesses.

  He turned to inspect the gallery. Few people had shown an interest in the proceeding. Only one or two courtroom workers slipped in during their break for the chance to hear juicy testimony. Unfortunately, Kent Wyman, the reporter from the Daily Sun, sat in the front row every day, wearing a cheery polka-dot tie as he scribbled in his notebook. Wyman had once confessed to Michael that he loved covering trials because they were true life, not the births or society news. Crime revealed the meat of humanity, albeit rotten meat. Michael thought Wyman had the substance of wet newsprint.

  Michael turned back to his notes and could smell Toni’s perfume. He wondered what would happen after the trial ended, as if it and his relationship to Toni were fused together.

  Judge Hower entered, and the trial day began.

  Joe Brennan cleared his throat. “The State calls Isabel Ontiveros.”

  Who the hell was that? Michael held onto his trial poker face. He turned to María, whose face scrunched up with worry, and that made him worry.

  With a cue from the bailiff, a slender young woman peeked through the open door. With two fingers, Judge Hower waved her forward and pointed to the witness stand.

  Michael leaned over and whispered to Toni, who sat next to him. “Ask María how she knows her.” He stood up with an objection to gain some time. “Your Honor, this woman’s name wasn’t on the list of prosecution witnesses.”

  “Miss Ontiveros came forward only a day ago with pertinent information in this
case,” Brennan said.

  “So convenient,” Michael said.

  “Mr. Shaw, it’s too early in the morning for your sarcasm. I’m going to allow her testimony,” Judge Hower responded.

  “Then the defense seeks a postponement of a day to prepare,” Michael said. So-called surprise witnesses were more the devices of television shows and the movies, but they did happen, and the surprise usually worked against the defense. He knew this because he had called a few himself when he had sat at the other table as a deputy county attorney. The testimony of last-minute witnesses seemed to carry a sense of urgency, as if they were a burning bush of justice. Besides, it would be damn hard to prove that the surprise witness was no surprise at all to Brennan.

  “Motion denied,” Judge Hower said. “Let’s get on with this, but Mr. Brennan, you had better come to the point.”

  Michael sat and listened to what María said via Toni. “Isabel used to work with her at the motel. María says the woman doesn’t like her.”

  “Why?” Michael said.

  “She thought María got her fired.”

  Judge Hower cleared his throat. Michael didn’t have more time to listen because Brennan had started his questioning. Michael did know one thing about the witness. She was probably going to be dangerous.

  Isabel Ontiveros had shiny raven hair and wore a white blouse, black skirt and glossy new pumps. Michael guessed she was in her early twenties. She would have been a pretty girl except for the hawkish squint of malice on her face.

  “How do you know María Curry?” Brennan asked the witness.

  “We used to work as housekeepers at the Santa Fe Motel on Tobin Street.” Her voice lifted in an exaggerated gentility that put Michael further on edge.

  “How long did you work together?” the prosecutor said.

  “From December of last year to July of this year.”

  “Was María Curry a good worker?”

  Isabel Ontiveros shook her shiny hair. “Oh, no, sir. She was lazy, and she steals.”

  “Objection,” Michael stood up. Here was one more person victimizing María. One more beating. “Without any foundation, I call this prejudicial to my client.”