The Other Shoe

by Matt Pavelich

  “In short, though, a blow caused this death? A blow to the back of this young man’s head?”

  “Yes.”

  “The state has nothing more at this time.”

  Giselle Meany’s whole urinary tract felt heavy and hot. She’d been trying to keep her voice lubricated by drinking water. She’d devised her line of interrogation for the doctor just two nights before, and her notes were essential; notes spread in front of her on the counsel table, a client indifferent at her side. “Dr. Fitzroy, how many head injuries would you estimate you’ve seen as a medical examiner and as a practicing physician?”

  “There are probably ways I could assemble those numbers, but . . . a thousand. It would be very safe to say I’ve seen a thousand such injuries. More of them in my living patients, of course, but it’s quite a common cause of death in forensic practice as well.”

  “Were these all homicides or attempted homicides, these head injuries you’ve seen?”

  “No,” said Fitzroy dismissively.

  “What percent of these injuries, then, were from blows inflicted by other people?”

  “Percent? I couldn’t begin to estimate without an extensive review of my records.”

  “Is it more than half?” she asked.

  “No. By no means.”

  “People injure their heads falling down?”

  “Yes.”

  “Things fall on their heads? They’re thrown from moving vehicles and animals?”

  “Yes, and . . . yes. It’s a vulnerable part of the anatomy, of course.”

  “There are many possible sources of blunt force trauma, aren’t there, Dr. Fitzroy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Would it be fair to say that the thousand head injuries you’ve seen have occurred in at least a hundred different ways?”

  “Again, you’re asking me to . . . ”

  “Merely asking you to summarize your experience.”

  “Heads are vulnerable. They are damaged in any number of ways, as is true of all physical injury to any part of the body.”

  “Anything can happen?”

  “It often seems that way.”

  “Now, around the wound, such as it was, this small lesion you mentioned, what did you find? Was there any residue of any kind?”

  “A certain amount of dried blood. I found no traces of anything extraneous, but there had been bleeding, which tends to flush away debris, and you have to understand that our budget is very . . . ”

  “No residue?”

  “None that I could see.”

  “Nothing to tell you exactly what came into contact with this young man’s head?”

  “No. As was made clear in my report, I had no idea about that. Perhaps with better . . . ”

  “Dr. Fitzroy, apart from the fatal injury, what was the condition of the body?”

  “There were some first-degree burns, sunburn undoubtedly, on his nose and the tops of his ears, very common among pale-complected people. Extensive anterior bruising. Bruises on his back, the backs of his legs, his buttocks, one heel. The state of lividity of these injuries would indicate they came about at some point preceding his time of death.”

  “What would have caused all these bruises?”

  “As you yourself have established,” Dr. Fitzroy exulted, “it may have been anything.”

  “But you don’t know what caused the bruises?”

  “No.”

  “You cannot determine exactly what caused any of the injuries you observed on the deceased?”

  “No. But the most probable . . . ”

  “Thank you,” said Giselle, “but we can’t indulge in speculation here, doctor.” She could not remember having been happier. “Nothing further at this time, Your Honor.”

  Hoot Meyers once again declined to redirect. He was attempting to have the bailiff call the state’s final witness when Judge Samara intervened, “The court hasn’t given you leave, Mr. Meyers, to call that witness, and the court does not intend to. Not today.” The judge then continued, silently, to look upon Meyers, and he looked upon him long enough for nearly everyone to guess there must be some significance in it, and then he addressed the jury. “I’m going to call it a day for you folks. You’ll not be sequestered, which means I’m trusting you to go home tonight and not talk about what you’ve seen and heard here today with anyone, not even among yourselves. We’ve got the television people and the newspaper people here, and you’ll have to leave it up to them to do the reporting. If you were to have any improper contact with someone, anyone, before we reach a verdict, then you could scotch the whole thing, and we’d have to start all over again. I’ll warn you now, that’s expensive, and you can be required to pay for it if I find that it was your fault. It does not appear that this is going to be a very long trial, and the court expects that the case will be in your hands some time tomorrow. In the meantime, go home, have a barbecue if it isn’t too chilly, or do something that takes your minds off it, so you can start fresh tomorrow. We’ll need you back here not a second later than nine o’clock tomorrow morning.”

  The jury filed out, but before Judge Samara closed session he said, “Ms. Meany, I’ll see you and your client and the county attorney in my chambers.”

  This was the pinhole, Giselle feared. Now something was happening to her seamless defense. She knew it had gone too well. While she’d been enjoying herself so much, something had gotten by her. What had put the judge in his snit?

  In half the judge’s chambers, a room fit for storage, sat Judge Samara behind his completely empty desk, and into the other half of it were squeezed the clerk of court, the court reporter, Henry Brusett and Tubby Ginnings, and Hoot Meyers and Giselle, and a climate developed at once among them as on the airless floor of a rain forest. Things had been going far too well, Giselle thought. Judge Samara’s self-regard was such a large and unchartable territory that it was impossible to anticipate how and where he might take offense, and he was pursing his lips, waiting for the court reporter to set up again, and Giselle awaited trouble.

  “This is District Judge Carbon Samara,” he said when the court reporter gave him the nod, “in closed session, and stating: On September 2 of this year, I gave the Conrad county attorney leave to file an Information in the instant case, the State of Montana versus Henry Brusett. In so doing, I found and affirmed that there was probable cause to go forward with a charge of deliberate homicide against Mr. Brusett, a homicide alleged to have been committed on the person of one Calvin Teague. The court wishes to make a distinction at this time. The court may, when considering whether probable cause has been established, take into account the suspect’s silence. When I permitted the county attorney to file these charges, it was my understanding that he would be supplementing his case in some way sufficient so that he might reasonably hope to prevail at trial where Mr. Brusett’s silence could not be used against him. I placed my trust, perhaps unwisely, in the county attorney’s experience and judgment to build a case he could conscientiously bring to trial.”

  He nodded to the court reporter, who raised her eyebrows and let her machine stand idle as she left the judge’s chambers, followed by the clerk of court.

  “Hoot,” said Judge Samara when they had gone, “I know what you’re doing in there. You arranged all this just to publicly humiliate your sheriff’s department? Maybe they deserve it, it’s not exactly a crack unit, I’ll agree. But this is not the place for it. You don’t educate these clodhoppers in my courtroom. It seems to me you’re trying to descend to their level. This is just so half-assed it’s embarrassing. I’m embarrassed.”

  “It happens,” said Meyers. “Embarrassment. Probably good for the soul.”

  “What?”

  “Humility, huh?”

  “No,” said the judge. “No thanks. I drive a hundred miles each way, every day you drag me down to this . . . On or off the record, Mr. County Attorney, you’re still subject to contempt of court. I’m letting you know something right now—if you don’t get some
thing very solid out of the one witness you’ve got left tomorrow, then there’s a good chance that I’d rule favorably on a motion by Giselle for a directed verdict. You haven’t established a prima facie case so far, and from where I’m sitting, it doesn’t appear that you even tried. If I make such a ruling, Hoot, I’m considering sanctions against your office. I may just have you pay for this little boondoggle out of your budget. If this proves to be a complete waste of time, the county attorney’s office may be paying for it.”

  “You’d be a long time collecting,” said Meyers. “I guess you could get it out of my salary. Unless I quit.”

  “Before you get yourself into some kind of contempt that causes a mistrial here, Mr. Meyers, I’m going to wrap this up. I will grant you this much: We must be going at some kind of record pace for a murder trail—but it’s embarrassing. This has been, and I’ll say it in Mr. Brusett’s presence, a damn poor showing. Just a friendly word of advice to a fellow member of the bar, Hoot: Get some counseling if you need it. You’re not yourself.”

  “Well, let’s hope not.”

  ▪ 24 ▪

  SHE WAS FINALLY able to meet with her client again. They’d been given ten minutes alone together in the jury room, the room where she’d first talked to him and where she’d stumbled into her unshakable faith. This time, though, they stood near the windowed wall, and this time the larch were turning on the mountains. In all the year, this was the hour, the day, the month when the light would be most filled with longing, and she meant to hold on to this moment for a very long time. “Well, you mule-headed old . . . guy. This looks like it might be turning out pretty well, after all. Doesn’t it? Don’t get me wrong, it’s been a very precarious ride, but one thing about it, if you win one, really win one, then it’s over. Your guy just walks away, and it’s over. But I’d have a win. Man, you cannot know what this means. How do you feel, Henry? Did you understand that in there? Know what the judge was saying?”

  “Fine,” said Henry, distracted. His wife was down on the tawny grass, strolling the courthouse lawn.

  “Henry, Henry, I think we may have this thing just about won. It’ll come down to Karen now, and she tells me she’s not giving them anything. She’s always given me the impression that she doesn’t intend to help them. And they need a lot of help. Ooh, Henry, if I’m not very much mistaken, I think you’re good to go. Almost. Acquitted. What would you think about that?”

  “I’m glad you’re happy. So what would she have to do, just sit there?”

  “About that, yeah, and unless I’m mistaken, that’s exactly what she intends to do.”

  “Can she get in trouble doing that?”

  “Conceivably, but I don’t think so. I really don’t think she will. There’s a few charges they could threaten, but that wouldn’t get anything out of her. Come on, Henry, you should be happy too, the judge as good as told us. I think by lunch tomorrow . . . You may owe me lunch, buddy. I may even let you buy me a drink. What do you say?”

  “You did real good in there. But I wouldn’t put too much stock in anything that judge says. He talks, but he hardly says anything if he can help it.”

  “Sure, he’s an asshole, but he’s our asshole now.” Giselle was dancing—she thought it might be the twist or the pony. “If he wants to be on my side for once, let him. Whoop-ee.” And Giselle had a long moment where she forgot she was inadequate. Mrs. Brusett walked below with her hands at the small of her back, pacing a tight circuit on the broad grounds, her head bent. “Shit,” said Giselle. “Shit, shit, shit. She wanted me to tell you that she’d been excluded from the courtroom. Which was actually my doing. I made a motion to exclude, which is standard, and I hadn’t even thought about it, but it kept her out of court until after she’d testified, and since she’s testifying last—she told me to explain why she wasn’t there, and I forgot. She told me to be sure, and I forgot. I just got so wrapped up in everything else, doing everything else, I’m so sorry. I hope you didn’t think she’d . . . I usually get so flustered, but for the most part, not so much today. Today I was pretty good, I think.”

  “You were good,” he said.

  “You don’t have to keep saying it.”

  “No, you were real good. Couldn’t have asked for better. Thanks. But we better not make Tubby late for his supper; there’d be your crime against nature. Sure, you did great.”

  “You’ve been worth it, Henry. I know you are.”

  With a flourish she turned him over to his cousin waiting outside the jury room door, and Tubby hustled him down the stairs and out the door of the courthouse, where Karen saw them and began to jog across the lawn toward them.

  “Whoa,” Tubby called to her, “hey, whoa there. Things are goin’ good. Better not screw it up now. It’s still not over, and you’re still a witness. I just do not want to screw things up for you guys, so you better not try talkin’ to him. Tomorrow. Tomorrow he’s all yours again, I bet. Tomorrow he’ll be home.”

  She stood on the lawn in her slacks, and in a tailored jacket with quaking fringe, something new and sporty she’d got, and she watched Henry Brusett make his short passage to the jail; she put her right fist on her heart and lay her other hand over that, and she mouthed, “I love you,” and for once he understood her.

  “You got somethin’ goin’ with women,” said Tubby when they were safely inside. “Boy, I’d sure like to have your secret, cuz. What is it? Is it ’cause you’re such an outlaw? I’ve never got anywhere near that kinda loyalty out of ’em. You can just wear this same outfit tonight, Henry. How was I supposed to get around to washing your jumpsuit? You’d just have to change into it for court tomorrow, anyway. Now I’m here all night, you know that? Again. I never, never get a break anymore, I might as well commit a crime myself, much as I’m here. Tomorrow you walk, and I’ll be . . . at work, man. Goddamn, win the ladies over, that’s how it’s done, huh? That’s how you get over. Oh, no. No, no, no. You smell that? It’s that make-believe meatloaf again. Man, I am tired. Tired. Oh, you better give me that pencil before we go back.”

  “There’s a half-dozen pencils back there, Tubby.”

  “Yeah, but they’re all those carpenter’s pencils, those stubby little deals. Can’t be used for weapons. This number two you got, you could really poke somebody with that thing. I’m not sayin’ you, but once it’s back there, there’s no tellin’. No weapons, that’s my jail. Not if I can help it. See my point? My point. Ha. Ha. Ha. Henry, you got one more day left, and then maybe you’ll get out there and run into somebody with a real sense of humor. But that meatloaf, man, how could I even be funny? Knowing? How’m I supposed to?”

  Henry Brusett was no more enthusiastic for the meal than anyone else, but he felt he had to have it. For strength.

  At dinner, Tubby passed word of Henry’s almost-certain good fortune and his imminent release, and upon hearing the news, Leonard said that he was tired, at any rate, of being limp and wasted, and he grinned in his limp and wasted way at Nat, a grin to signal the coming end of the moratorium, to say that they had months before them to share with no further interference. That special intimacy. Nat wept.

  Leonard napped again after supper; he’d been napping twenty hours a day, stupefied for the remaining four, and even when Tubby had finally understood what was going on, he’d never thought to challenge it. Life had for these few weeks been so much easier with the big man well drugged. The barracks cell was no more volatile than a hospital room while Leonard was napping, and Tubby had agreed with himself to take whatever help, whatever peace came his way. He was so shorthanded. Tubby cleared the supper dishes and took them into the kitchen and washed them, and then he threw a spare mattress on the floor of the laundry room and went to sleep on it. If he dreamed, he would not later remember those dreams.

  There were just the three prisoners in the barracks cell that night.

  Leonard napped on a top bunk. Nat watched television, a game show, and the cheat devised a routine where he spoke the answer even as the ho
st was speaking it, so that he could pretend he’d thought of it just in time. Nat briefly forgot his troubles. He said he’d be winning tens, maybe hundreds of thousands if he ever got on that show, and the first thing he’d do was try and get his mother’s car out of the impound lot. He’d buy some insurance and some savings bonds, and he’d start being a lot more cautious about the company he kept. He had some ideas about turning things around. The excitement of the game show seemed to put these ideas within reach. The South American country named for an Italian? “Ur-uhhh . . . Co-lombia.” Nat could almost feel the host placing the key to the next door in the palm of his slightly sweaty hand. This would be a good night for him, a pleasant little night tonight. Tomorrow . . . He’d think about tomorrow tomorrow, if then.

  Henry Brusett had accumulated so much correspondence from his wife that at some point it was no longer convenient to keep the bundle under his mattress. A grocery sack stood half full at the head of his bunk, and this too was defeating all practicality. She’d put her best and bravest thoughts on many kinds of paper for him—and the letters had piled up. But how deep would be the pile of her misgivings, the thoughts she hadn’t sent? He had never supposed he deserved her. There were particular letters that he kept apart in a separate packet, and these he continued to read every night, long after they’d laid claim to his memory.

  Dear Henry,

  There is a little clearing not far up the hill from our place. I have been in it before a few times but not at night. At night and I don’t know why this would be so you can see the stars a lot better from there.

  and

  Dear Henry,

  Remember when you told me that Triumph would always be trouble. It has been a great car and it still is a great car. This is a great car even if it won’t go very fast. It has always got me everywhere I wanted to go.

  and

  Dear Henry,

  You were the nicest man when I met you. You were always such a nice surprise to me through the years.