Toni started to cry. María held her close and rocked the young woman. Toni’s tears on her chest felt like absolution.
“M’ija.” María spoke in her ear. “Do me a favor?”
“Anything,” Toni replied.
“Will you ask Father Vásquez to come and hear my confession?”
Toni nodded. Neither of them had a handkerchief, so María dried Toni’s face with the hem of her jail dress.
39
JENNY HAD LEARNED FROM HER MOTHER to spend money, and lots of it, on herself. Spending cured most problems in life. So before her lunch with Martin Shaw, she went shopping. But Jenny could not concentrate enough to enjoy the racks of dresses or rows of shoes. Her mother’s remedy was ultimately pointless. Who was going to notice her new outfits, anyway? During trials, Michael had always worked long hours and gotten irritable, which was why she hated the law. But now, he worked even longer hours. He wasn’t ill-tempered, but courteous and indifferent to her, and he had been sleeping on the sofa in his office. He said he was too busy with work and didn’t want to wake her.
Her last stop before lunch was the Modern Woman Shop on Clarence Avenue to check if any new styles had arrived. Angie Harriman caught up with her near the blouses. She smelled Angie before she saw her. An overwhelming floral perfume that gave anyone a headache if they stood near longer than five minutes.
“Why, Jenny Shaw, I haven’t seen you since your father-in-law’s wonderful birthday party.”
“How nice to see you again, Angie.”
They were the same age. Yet Angie already had three children, all with no chins, like her husband.
Angie stepped closer to feel the fabric of a blouse. “How is your handsome husband?”
“He’s fine, but really busy.”
“Oh, yes, that murder trial.”
Jenny began to perspire. She suspected that everyone who was anyone knew about Michael’s affair. Two weeks ago, at her weekly bridge game at the country club, she was sitting in one of the stalls when two women came into the bathroom cackling about how Michael Shaw was sleeping with a Mexican from North Park. A Mexican, of all women, they said. How humiliating. Poor Jenny, poor, poor Jenny. She stayed in the bathroom for fifteen minutes and then sneaked out the back door.
Angie patted Jenny’s shoulder. “You know you can call me if you want to talk.”
Holding her purse tightly, Jenny pointed to a gaudy blouse on the rack. “Look at this one. It’s your style, Angie. Please excuse me. I have an appointment.” But all the way out of the store, her high heels clicked out, “Poor Jenny.” Poor, poor Jenny.
At Louie’s Restaurant, Jenny asked for a table in the back. She scolded herself for not knowing what she should have known. She ordered a gin and tonic, double. Perhaps Michael knew what he was doing. How nice to become deadened. She scratched her ankle.
Martin stood beside her, startling her. “How’s my girl? I’m so glad you could meet me today.” He kissed her cheek and sat down. His face had thinned since his illness, which he chose to call an “incident.”
“How’s Melody?” she asked.
“Shopping.”
“I’m doing more of it lately myself.”
“Why not? Women deserve nice things.”
An older waiter came by with menus.
Martin took them. “We’ll order in a minute.” The waiter left. “Jenny, you know I consider you almost a daughter, more than an in-law.”
“Thank you, Dad.”
From his inside pocket, he took out the cigar he had waited to smoke all day. “Jenny, you must have noticed Michael’s preoccupation lately.”
She bit her lip at what he might say next. “Yes.”
“I want to assure you he’ll be back to normal very soon.”
Which normal, she wanted to ask. His drinking, his refusing to have a baby or buy a house? “That’s reassuring. I have been worrying about him.”
“Michael may not believe this, but I want to help you both have a prosperous life. Melody told me you liked a vacant house on Byrd Avenue.”
“I don’t think it’s still for sale.”
“Someone had made an offer, but never mind that—it gets complicated. Let’s say I checked into the matter, and I have put money down on the house. Consider it an early anniversary present. And this is not negotiable.” He smiled.
“Oh, Dad. This is too much.” She got up and hugged him.
The kitchen door opened. A young, pretty Mexican woman was scrubbing the dishes. Jenny frowned slightly at the reminder of who could stand in the way of her dream house and life. Martin sat back and smoked. If nothing bothered him, perhaps she shouldn’t be bothered, either. The Mexican girl was staring right at her when the kitchen door swung closed. Jenny returned to her seat. “I don’t know if Michael will let you do all that.”
“Don’t worry about him, dear. He’ll come around. Now, let me order for you. And I promise to tell Michael about the house. You don’t have to bother your pretty head with the business details.”
Jenny did not argue.
After lunch, she said good-bye to Martin and drove alone to the house she wanted so badly. One of the flamingos had fallen over, and she got out of the car and picked it up. The trees were overgrown. She went to the backyard and sat on the wood bench underneath one of the large trees. Her life would come to pass, as her mother had predicted, with fashionable parties in her own house. She envisioned windows warm with light from Thanksgiving candles. An opulent Christmas tree with each ornament personally selected by her. In the study, her husband held a glass of brandy and read a book. She shook her head. Wait, scratch the brandy. And, best of all, there was a baby napping in her arms. All her plans lay before her like a new dawn.
Still, the only thing Jenny could do was sob.
The moon held him in its light, like one of those movies where hard-boiled detectives sweated a suspect for a confession. Michael sat on the balcony, rocking back and forth, propelled by doubt. The next morning he had to argue for María’s life. In a strange way, he was defending his own.
Wearing a new pink sheer nightgown, Jenny slid open the glass door. “Michael, what are you doing out here? It’s chilly.” She closed the door and ran back under the covers.
When he came in, she was reading a magazine in bed. She bounced her legs under the covers, like a kid needing to go the bathroom. “I got chilled in my little nightgown,” she whimpered in a sexy intonation. She fingered the silk straps and slid a finger along the lace over her breasts. “Come to bed and warm me up?”
Instead, Michael sat down on the stuffed chair in the corner. “You go to sleep. I still have work to do.”
Putting down the magazine, she sat up. “You’re not going out, are you?” A warning more than anything.
“I’m not going out.”
She smiled and fell back on the pillow. “We need more time together. We can go out to dinner and dancing at the club after this case is over. Or maybe on a vacation to Palm Springs.”
“That won’t help.”
“I had lunch with your father.” She tried to make it sound nonchalant.
“Why, for fuck’s sake?”
She pulled up the covers to her chin. “You know I don’t like it when you talk like that. It’s common.”
“I guess I’m fucking common.”
Jenny pouted, but it didn’t last. She got out of bed and knelt in front of his chair. “He wanted to tell you first, but I can’t wait. He put money down on the house I love. He wants us to be happy.”
Michael put his head in his hands. “God, Jenny.”
“We deserve it.”
“Deserve what? Pink flamingos?”
“Why not?”
“Life isn’t like one of those Broadway numbers you keep singing. It’s not ‘Oh, What a Beautiful Mornin’ or ‘Some Enchanted Evening,’ goddammit.”
He clutched her arms and pulled her up from the bed. “There’s death and murder and lies out there. You’ve got to see the truth
of it. If you don’t, Jenny, you’re going to wind up like those women at the country club who play cards all day and drink a fifth of whiskey at night waiting for their husbands to come home.”
Michael released her. Jenny’s shock gave way to tears, and she fell against the headboard.
“I love you and want us to be happy more than anything in the world,” she cried.
He stood over her. Such a simple thing she wanted. “Sorry I grabbed your arms.” Staggering a bit, he pulled her forward again. “Come on, now. Go to sleep, Jenny. Dream of pink birds and green lawns and swimming pools over bomb shelters. Why the fuck not?”
40
AS TONI ENTERED THE COURTROOM, she rubbed her hands to warm them. Michael sat at the defense table, wearing the impeccable three-piece gray suit she liked. Inside, people chatted or shuffled feet and papers. She only heard a gurgling in her ears, as if her blood was draining away. For once the courtroom was cool, but she perspired at the prospect of seeing Michael. God, let me be brave, she prayed. As she was about to sit at the defense table, he looked up at her. His eyes were bloodshot. A stitched two-inch slash marked his forehead. He appeared to be a sleepwalker who had just awakened. Generally, he looked like hell. But his face went even grimmer with concern at the sight of her. He got up, took her arm and led her to the empty courtroom next door. She was too tired to resist and let herself go with him.
“What the hell happened to you?” he said after shutting the door.
Shaking off his hand, she repeated the fiction about the laundry bag. It took all her will to keep her voice flat and perfunctory. She couldn’t spare him any more of her emotions. He had taken too much already.
“Toni, please.” Michael reached out to her, and Toni pushed his hand away.
She stepped to the door. “We’ve got to get back.” She left him in the room.
Michael swallowed so hard his throat ached. He had hoped she would act childish and call him names, so he could be vindicated in breaking off the affair. Instead, she demonstrated poise when meeting the heel who had dumped her.
Back in the courtroom, Toni waited for María. She swiveled at the sound of the clicking handcuffs on Deputy Herb Bell’s belt as he brought in María. She hugged Toni.
As Toni held María, she noticed the deputy leered at her, as if he could see underneath her clothes. His right hand was bandaged. It was him. In her car. Threatening her. Assaulting her. Toni’s mouth and eyes watered, and she wanted to throw up. She couldn’t leave for the bathroom because court was about to start. So she covered her mouth.
“Something wrong?” María said.
Toni took away her hand and sipped water. “Nada.” She wiped at her eyes with her handkerchief.
“Toni?” Michael had sat down.
“I’m nervous. I’ll be fine.”
María pointed at Michael and said something in Spanish to Toni.
“What did she say?” he asked Toni.
“She’s not scared anymore because you’re on her side. She wishes you good luck today. You have my best wishes, too.” Toni gave a small smile, which she meant.
“Thank you.” His voice cracked.
Joe Brennan watched with satisfaction from the prosecution table. The rumors about Shaw and the woman were true. The stupid son of a bitch. The freshest gossip hinted at how old man Shaw had made Michael dump the Mexican mistress with threats of being kicked out of his fancy office. The intrigues made Michael Shaw vulnerable and ready to lose. Brennan considered sending the interpreter a bottle of tequila after the trial.
Before Bailiff George Roy had barely finished saying, “All rise,” Judge Hower entered the courtroom.
The judge took his seat at the bench. “Are you ready for closing arguments?” he asked the attorneys, who both indicated they were.
First, Brennan carefully outlined the state’s case against María Curry, from the police reports to the physical and medical evidence. With the dry facts out of the way, he made his real case for a guilty plea.
“Ladies and gentlemen, don’t let María Curry fool you. Yes, she’s a woman who appears cowering and powerless. Why, she even needs a translator to speak for her.” He smiled like it was a private joke between them. “Please, do not be misled. This woman took the law into her own hands, small as they may be, weak as they may be. Yet those hands were strong enough to drive a knife deep into the chest of Ben Curry on the night of August 18. She found the strength to kill.”
The county attorney took measured steps back and forth in front of the jury. “This murder was no heat of the moment incident, as the defense will lead you to believe. On August 16th, only two days before his death, María Curry had warned her husband that she was going to kill him. And with what weapon did she threaten her husband? A knife. A knife, ladies and gentlemen. What we have is premeditation. I know that is a legal word. But in this case, it means she knew what she was doing and carried out her intentions on the night of August 18th.”
Brennan pointed to Michael. “Now, Mr. Shaw will ask you to consider the color of her skin and her culture as if they were pieces of evidence, like the bread knife she plunged into her husband’s chest. He’ll even describe her as the victim who was trying to protect herself and her little dog. The defense is literally trying to color-blind you. But color and culture are no excuses for murder.”
Brennan again walked to the jury box but directed his gaze at María, who bent her head to hear Toni’s translation. “But this woman is no victim. During all those years when Ben Curry allegedly hurt his wife, she could have run away. But she didn’t. She could have asked for help. She didn’t. María Curry herself victimized a victim. By her own admission, her husband was practically an invalid who lived with tremendous pain because of his back injury. How could someone like that defend himself against an enraged woman with a knife? The answer is he didn’t. You saw the photographs of the deceased. María Curry did not stab him once, but many times.”
The county attorney’s voice gained ferocity. He pounded on the jury’s box. His eyes grew large with vehemence. He had practiced the actions the previous evening at home. “On that fatal night, María Curry could have called an ambulance to save her husband, but again, she didn’t. A few minutes could have saved Ben Curry’s life. What did she do instead? She sat and watched his life’s blood flow out of him.”
María nodded her head in agreement.
“I’ll admit Ben Curry was probably not the best husband in the world, but that was no reason for him to die. In truth, María Curry wanted her husband dead, and she made it happen. The only verdict possible is guilty of murder in the first degree.”
He stood there a while and then sat down.
“Mr. Shaw,” Judge Hower invited.
At the back, Jenny had entered a few minutes earlier and sat down, but Michael hadn’t noticed. She never had visited the courthouse, and the place made her feel ignorant. Now, the only reason she had come was to see the woman. She wanted to put a face on her fears. Jenny tilted her head for a better view. The young Mexican woman sitting at the front table concentrated on Michael as she translated for the older woman sitting next to her. Jenny frowned. The Mexican was very pretty.
After thanking the jury for their patience and hard work, Michael also reviewed the specific testimony of the witnesses about María’s many injuries at her husband’s hands. Before he continued and for the first time ever in a courtroom, he silently prayed he would win. His best argument was going to be María’s life.
Michael faced the jury. “María Curry is the first to admit she is no saint. She is just a human, with all our faults and fears. She is also a woman who endured hell.
“María fell in love with Ben Curry and married him and had the highest hopes for a good life. For years, he worked hard and supported her, but he also drank, and when he drank, he abused his wife. A slap here. A slug there. Then came the accident at the construction site, and the injury intensified his cruelty toward her and others. Her husband even whipped her l
ike an animal with a belt in a darkened basement.
“Now, María is a native of Mexico and was raised to believe, rightly or wrongly, that men were rulers of the household. So she accepted this as her lot, and the beatings and degradation became a part of her life. Yet because of her marriage vows, and more importantly because she loved Ben Curry, María did not leave.
“Her neighbors, her employer at the Santa Fe Motel and Father Vásquez all describe a woman who is meek, generous, honest and hardworking. That is María Curry. Yes, she drank occasionally, but who could blame her after living with such mistreatment at the hands of her husband?
“There is no denying that she and her husband had not arguments. They did, and loud ones. Yet, according to the officers’ testimony and hospital records, it was mostly María who suffered. You saw photographic evidence of how she had been savagely beaten, and that was only one time among many. She nursed not only broken bones but a broken spirit and lived without hope. And the single time María fought back with a frying pan, she paid for it with a knife against her throat and more threats against her life.” As Michael talked, he looked at each and every juror’s face, hoping to connect. They were listening intently. He had to convince them.
“While the prosecution tries to portray Ben Curry as a defenseless man, witnesses testified again and again about his violent nature. Even in pain, he still had power enough to hit and terrorize his wife. It is true for humans as well as animals that when wounded, they are the most dangerous, and so it was with him.
“On the evening of August 18, Ben Curry again played out his ritual of brutality. As he choked her, María believed she was really going to die. In desperation, she fought back and attacked with the only weapon within reach. But this was out of pure instinct. An act of self-preservation.”
Verdict in the Desert Page 23