Verdict in the Desert

by Patricia Santos Marcantonio

She shook her head. “Only for a few months at a time.”

  “Why?”

  “He told me the bosses were stupid, and they fired him for nothing.”

  “María, did Ben ever strike you when he drank?”

  Her eyes fluttered.

  “María, you must answer.”

  “When we first got married, he might slap me if he was real drunk or if I made him mad. It was nothing. After he got hurt, he drank a lot and beat me more often. I kept asking, ‘What’s wrong, Ben? Tell me, and I won’t do it again.’ Most times, he didn’t say nothing and kept hitting me.”

  “With his fists?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he ever strike you with an object?”

  She lowered her head. “His belt buckle.”

  “When did this take place?”

  “About two years ago, in February.”

  “Tell us what happened.”

  “Do I really have to, Mr. Shaw?”

  “Yes, María.”

  She never liked to think about that day. Not only because of the physical hurt she went through, but it was the day she almost came to hate Ben.

  “María, please answer,” Michael said.

  “I was taking a box out to the shed, and I accidently spilled a big jar of motor oil all over the floor. I was cleaning it up when he came home. He started yelling and calling me a stupid woman. I didn’t think he’d get so mad.”

  “Was he drunk, María?” Michael asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “He grabbed me by my hair and arms and dragged me into the basement of our house. Then he took off his belt.” Ashamed of herself and for her husband, María kept her head down as she talked, but Toni looked right at the jury.

  “Ben sat in an old rocker, watching me and slapping the belt against his palm. He told me to take off all my clothes.” Her voice vanished into nothing.

  “Please, María,” Michael said.

  “I took off my dress and underclothing. I begged him not to hurt me, but he didn’t answer. Then, then, he whipped me with the belt.”

  Several of the female jurors held hands to their mouths. A male juror gnashed his teeth.

  “Where did he strike you?”

  “On my legs and back. I asked him to stop please, please stop. He kept whipping me and saying, ‘María, you belong to me, and I can do anything I want. Even kill you. You’re so worthless.’ And I said, ‘Yes, Ben, you are right.’ I think I passed out after that.”

  “When you came around, what happened?”

  “I could hardly move. Ben drove me to the hospital.”

  “What did he say when he dropped you off?”

  “He said if I told anybody what he did that he would kill me. So I told the doctor and nurse that I had fallen.”

  “María, why didn’t you call the police when he beat you?”

  “Ben told me the police would ship me back to Mexico in a cattle truck.”

  “Is that why you stayed?”

  “I loved him, Mr. Shaw. When we got married, I promised to stay with him in sickness and in health. We had fights, yes, but sometimes he would bring me presents afterward. Sometimes, he even cried. Imagine a big man crying so I wouldn’t leave him?”

  “Did you threaten to kill Ben the night of August 16?” Michael had to address the issue but let María explain why.

  “Yes, sir.” Shame slowed her heartbeat.

  “What led up that?”

  “It was our anniversary. We both celebrated, and I had too much beer that night. But so did Ben, and he began punching me for no reason. He knocked me down and kicked me.”

  “Why did you threaten him?” Michael’s voice lowered.

  “Because he told me he would kill me and dump my body in the desert. He told me no one would miss me, not even him. I felt … ” Her head stayed down.

  “What, María?”

  She raised her head. “Hopeless, sir. I thought I could scare him, but he wasn’t scared of me.”

  “Now I want to talk about the night of August 18th.”

  María feared the question and reached for Toni’s hand beneath the railing.

  The whole thing had started over a chicken dinner and a paycheck.

  Ben had tired of sitting around waiting for María to come home. His back ached throughout the day. No position gave him comfort, not in bed, not in a chair. All he had anymore was the damn pain. Like a rusty saw cutting him in half. The medicine the doctor prescribed didn’t do much for his back but made him constipated and useless in bed. He couldn’t sleep and couldn’t remember the last time he had had a satisfactory shit. He wanted to die, but not without a drink first. Beer suppressed the misery. He drank until he passed out and started again in the morning. He wondered why his idiot doctor didn’t prescribe pure grain alcohol.

  All he did was wait. Wait for María and her paycheck. Wait for relief from the booze her paycheck would buy. The minute hand advanced, and the teeth of the rusty saw deepened into his mid-back.

  He heard the porch creak.

  María stepped cautiously into the house, praying for a restful night, one where Ben had already drunk himself to sleep without touching her. As usual, he was sitting in his big chair, watching television. For the past month, the house had grown even hotter with his temper. He had lost another job, this one at the motel where she worked. He hadn’t looked for another job since. He constantly complained about his back and drank every day until he passed out in his chair or in the bed. Whenever he talked to her, there was accusation in his voice, as if she was responsible for his pain.

  As María shook off her tennis shoes and got into her cozy but worn pink slippers, his eyes followed her. His heavy gray brows drew into his eyes. A familiar signal of a storm forming inside him.

  “Where’s your paycheck, María? I want to buy some beer. There’s nothing in this house to drink.”

  “Ben, we have to pay the rent. Mr. Lowell says he’ll kick us out in the street.”

  His silence frightened her.

  “I’ll cook chicken tonight, the way you like it.”

  “I fucking hate chicken. That’s all we eat.”

  “I’ll fix it special, with onions and chilies.”

  With a large knife, she split the chicken at the breast and placed the pieces in a pan with the onions. A splash of hot oil stung her hand, and she rubbed it. She peeked back at Ben, who still sat in front of the television. “I’ll pay Mr. Lowell, and we can go out to Willy’s on what’s left over. We’ll have a fun time.”

  “That chicken stinks. I can’t eat it.”

  “Ben, you need to eat. You’ll find a better job soon.”

  “A man ain’t nothing without work.”

  “You’re still a man.”

  She heard him get out of the chair as it cracked against the wall. His footsteps coming toward her. Please God, no more. She leaned over the counter. No more.

  “I said I don’t want no chicken. I want that paycheck.”

  Slapping the right side of her face, Ben knocked María to her knees and out of her pink slippers. Her forehead banged the corner of the counter. The knife she held flew onto the floor.

  “You can have the check. It’s in my purse.” The blood from the cut streamed into her eyes.

  María didn’t smell beer on him. His eyes were clear and dense with hate. Ben bent over, and one hand went around her throat, and then his other hand. He began to squeeze. María made the sign of the cross. She was going to die. Oscar began to bark from his round pillow in the corner of the room.

  “Ben, I love you,” she croaked.

  “Then you’re stupid.”

  She started kicking hard. He released his grip and straightened up, putting his hands immediately to his back. His face contorted. “Dammit. Dammit.”

  The dog charged Ben and nipped his back heel.

  “Shut that goddamn dog up, or I’ll do it for you.”

  Through all their fights, the dog alwa
ys slept miraculously, and Ben paid Oscar no mind. Tonight was different.

  “Don’t hurt him, I beg you.” María stood, rubbing her hand across her bleeding head.

  “Ever since you found that mutt wandering in the street, you’ve treated it better than me.”

  He backhanded her, and she again folded.

  “Know what? I’m going to put the dog out of its misery. Then you, María, and finally, me.”

  Ben stepped toward Oscar, who continued barking and nipping at Ben’s leg.

  “Leave him alone.” María rushed to her feet and grabbed another, longer knife on the counter.

  Ben chortled and grabbed Oscar by the scuff of the neck. The dog yelped. “One twist and doggie heaven.”

  María swung.

  The knife made a slight flittt sound as she jabbed it into his stomach. Ben gasped and dropped Oscar, who yelped and ran into a corner. A spot of red appeared on Ben’s T-shirt.

  “Ungrateful fucking bitch. I got you out of Mexico and made you a goddamn American.” He reverted to English, which she didn’t understand. “This is how you treat me for all I’ve done for you?”

  Ben took another step and swung his massive fist, but she put up the knife, and the blade sliced the meat of his hand.

  “No more, Ben. I’ve hurt you.”

  “I’ll say when it’s enough.”

  With his other hand, he pushed her chest. She fell on her back, and the knife skidded out of her hand. María scrambled, picked up the knife and stabbed his stomach and chest so fast she wasn’t really aware of what she was doing. He looked down at his T-shirt, now soaking with blood.

  “Bitch. Now you’ve really done it.” He came after her again.

  “No!” She swung hard with both hands. The knife went into his chest up to the handle. She let go of it.

  Ben stared down at the knife. “I didn’t mean nothing by it,” he whispered in Spanish, like a boy who had stolen money from his mother. Stepping backward, Ben slid down the wall.

  Blind with tears and blood, María scooped up Oscar. She sat across from Ben until his chest stopped moving, because she didn’t want to leave him alone as he died. His face had a restfulness she had not seen since they met. María smiled.

  The overhead fans whirred. No one made a noise or moved.

  “Were you afraid for your life that night?” Michael said.

  “Yes, Mr. Shaw. I had never seen Ben so crazy. He had threatened to kill me before. But that night I knew he was really going to do it.”

  “So you defended yourself?”

  “Yes. I tried.”

  “María, did you intend to kill your husband?” Michael said.

  “No, I didn’t.” She sobbed into a handkerchief that Toni handed to her.

  “Thank you, María.” Michael gave her a small nod that said, “You did well.”

  The judge motioned to Brennan, who had watched the jurors’ faces for signs of sympathy. Chagrined, he found a few. He wanted to lose no time changing the jury’s minds about this killer.

  “Before the night Ben Curry died, did you ever strike him?”

  The question jolted María and Toni, even though Michael had warned them the prosecutor would ask that.

  “Yes, sir. With the frying pan.”

  “Did he bleed?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Did you ever hit your husband with anything else?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What?”

  “A stick and some plates.”

  “Did you draw blood from him in those attacks?”

  “Yes, sir.” This was part of her punishment, María thought. Telling her sins.

  “When you threatened to kill your husband on August 16th, how were you going to do it?”

  María looked at Toni with befuddlement on her face. “I don’t understand, sir.”

  Michael was not confused. He knew how the question would be answered, and it would do María no good.

  “Did you tell him you were going to shoot him?” Brennan asked

  “No, sir.”

  “What did you tell your husband you would do to him?”

  María closed her eyes. “That I would get a knife and slit his throat.”

  Brennan glanced at the jury. Some of the sympathy began to dissipate, and he promised himself a gin and tonic.

  “Mrs. Curry, you testified you were afraid of the police and that’s why you didn’t call for help. Were you also afraid of an ambulance?”

  She opened her eyes. “I don’t understand.”

  “On the night of August 18th, why didn’t you call for an ambulance to help your husband?”

  “Ben died, sir.”

  “Did you watch him die?”

  A distressed nod. “There was nothing I could do.”

  “Oh, I see. You’re a doctor.”

  “No, sir.”

  “How long between the time you stabbed him and when he died?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Ten minutes?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Twenty?”

  Michael stood. “Objection. She answered the question. She didn’t know.”

  “Sustained,” Judge Hower said.

  Brennan shrugged ever so slightly and turned to María. “On the night of August 18th, did you intend to kill your husband?”

  “I wanted him to stop hurting me.”

  “Did you intend to kill him?”

  “I wanted him to stop.”

  “Did you kill Ben Curry?”

  “Yes.”

  Brennan let the statement sink through to the jury and then took his place at the prosecution table.

  Michael immediately stood up. “María, those few times you fought back against Ben Curry, what happened afterward?”

  “He beat me worse.”

  “After the incident with the frying pan, did you ever touch your husband again?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because the next night, Ben woke me up and was holding a knife against my throat. He told me if I ever touched him again, he’d slice my neck like a deer.”

  “María, up until the moment he died, did you love your husband?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was he a good man?”

  “Good or bad, he was my husband.”

  “Thank you. Your Honor, the defense rests.”

  Judge Hower cleared phlegm from his chest. “Let’s call it quits for today. We’ll take the weekend and start with closing arguments on Monday. All rise for the jury.” The judge stood and sighed at too much death, too many human frailties.

  The courtroom began to clear. María still sat at the witness stand. She picked up Oscar and put him on her lap. Toni hugged her.

  Michael walked over. “María, I’m very proud of you, very proud,” he said in halting Spanish he had asked Toni to teach him.

  “Gracias,” María said.

  They petted Oscar, whose tail went wild because of all the attention.

  35

  MICHAEL RODE THE ELEVATOR to his office to finish the notes for his closing argument. In the evening, the building settled into silence. He whistled a made-up song, thinking that an acquittal was a real possibility. Goddammit, a great possibility. Still, the optimism and his song didn’t last past the third floor. He and Toni hadn’t spent any time together since the brick through the window, and he had lost his best suspect. Adam had been in Phoenix for a meeting, so that meant someone else knew about them.

  Opening the door of his office, he stopped at the threshold. His father sat behind Michael’s desk. The inside of Michael’s mouth suddenly felt dry. Michael attempted to hide his anxiety. Martin Shaw was there for a reason. Maybe a little sarcasm would get rid of him.

  “What a surprise. I don’t think you’ve visited my office since you ordered me to rip down the Marilyn Monroe photo from the wall.”

  “Where’s your translator? I hear you two are inseparable,” Martin said.

  Mi
chael walked over to the credenza on the opposite wall and pulled out a bottle and glass. Here it comes, he thought, another brick through the window. Michael hadn’t planned on drinking that night, but seeing his father dehydrated his soul. Pouring a short one, he sat down on the chair in front of his desk. “The interpreter is visiting María Curry. I hate to sound rude, but I’ve got lots of work to do, and what the hell do you care anyway.”

  “I’ve heard that woman is helping you in ways you can’t discuss in court.”

  “You heard wrong.” Michael swigged some of his drink.

  Martin leaned over his son’s desk. “Exactly what is your relationship with this woman?”

  “None of your goddamn business.” Michael got up and paced in front of the window. He got mad at himself for acting like a guilty man, which he was.

  “This sleazy affair is causing our family ridicule.”

  Michael gave a laugh, albeit a shallow one. “Sleazy? Come on, Martin. You sound like a Fannie Hurst novel.”

  “Sit down!” Martin boomed.

  At last, the great Martin Shaw had lost his cool. Michael almost refused, but he reluctantly obeyed his father and sat back down.

  Martin adjusted his silk tie. His voice quieted. “You have a brilliant future ahead of you, Michael. If you take control of your drinking, you can go as high and as far as you want. This woman only wants to trap you.”

  Michael took another sip of his drink, although the whiskey burned his stomach more than usual. “You’re summing up for the jury. You even used your sincere voice.”

  “Have you given her money? Presents?”

  Michael set down his glass. “Not a thing. And she hasn’t asked. But I’ll tell you something, she can have anything she wants.” He should have told that to Toni. He was a damn fool.

  “It’s embarrassing to me personally. I walked into the barbershop the other day, and two men from the bank stopped talking, and you know exactly what they were talking about.”

  “What about all those times I was drunk on my ass? I suppose such behavior was acceptable. What hypocritical horse-shit, even from you.” Michael could do nothing but grin.

  “I’ve worked too hard for you to ruin us in this town and in this state.” Martin stood up and walked around the desk.

  Not wanting his father standing over him, Michael stood up uneasily and pointed at his father with his empty glass. “Son of a bitch. I finally get it. This sticks in your craw because she’s a Mexican. But if her first name was Peggy or Suzy or Janie, now, those are appropriate mistresses. Then again, Martin, you’re the expert there.”