Deadly Politics

by LynDee Walker

  Craig let the pause ride, the crowd buzzing louder by the second, until the judge banged his gavel and called for order. I kept my eyes on Jerry. I could swear that was sweat gleaming on his forehead, and it was sixty-five degrees in the courtroom, tops.

  The plastic of my pen bit into my fingertips.

  “Jerry, how much did my clients agree to pay you for your . . . services?” Craig spun on the heel of one perfectly polished wingtip and crossed back to the witness box.

  “A third of what I sold. Half for hooking a new customer.” Jerry suddenly found it impossible to sit still.

  “And how much were you making, say, in a week?”

  Jerry’s eyes cut to the defense table. Two of the three guys were stone-still, not even looking at him. The big one on the end facing the murder charge looked ready to snap the dealer’s skinny neck.

  “Maybe a grand. Probably.” Jerry tugged at the collar of his shirt. “Usually.”

  “And how about if you add in what you were stealing?” Craig asked.

  The gallery erupted, the buzz from a few seconds ago quickly growing to a roar. DonnaJo’s spine went ramrod straight, her shoulders rising and falling with slow, even breaths that told me she was fighting to keep her seat—and control of her temper.

  I made notes, watching Craig. He was good with the bravado. But the kid stealing from the defendants was almost expected—criminals will be criminals, after all. He was going somewhere with this. Somewhere besides here.

  Jerry still hadn’t answered that last question when the judge threatened to throw out anyone who didn’t shut up. Craig didn’t care. He kept his eyes on the witness and moved on. “Jerry, did you know Ben called you to come out that day because he knew you were skimming from his profits?”

  Jerry’s eyes fell shut. He nodded.

  “We’re going to need a verbal reply for the record,” Craig said.

  “Yes. Scooter told me they were onto me.” The words were directed at the ceiling, Jerry’s tone soft.

  “Scooter, or Ricky Wayne Lesko, who was killed in the explosion that night.” Craig clicked two more slides and a young man in a Kid Rock T-shirt, his long, stringy hair falling past his shoulders around a scruffy face, stared at the jurors. “Jerry, did you know Scooter would be there that night?”

  “I did not.”

  “Jerry, did you tamper with the propane feed to the burners after you talked to Ben that day?”

  There it was. Three of the jurors sat forward in their chairs.

  Jerry shook his head, his slicked-back, baby-fine hair throwing loose strands around his face. “No, sir, I did not.” He sniffled on the last, pulling a balled-up Kleenex from his pocket and dabbing at his nose.

  DonnaJo’s hand moved in a blur over her legal pad, her assistant still missing.

  The judge let murmurs ripple through the gallery for less than thirty seconds before he banged the gavel again.

  “No further questions, Your Honor.” Craig returned to his seat. I could swear he winked at me as he crossed the floor.

  I bent over my notebook, transcribing what had just happened like I was actually likely to forget it.

  “Ms. Marsh?”

  DonnaJo stood. “Not at this time, Your Honor, but the commonwealth reserves the right to recall this witness.”

  “So noted.” The judge turned to Jerry. “You are excused, but you may not leave the building. Ms. Marsh, call your next witness.”

  “The commonwealth calls Special Agent Kyle Miller of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms, and Explosives.”

  My head swiveled to the doors the bailiffs were opening, my eyes following Kyle to the witness stand. He took the oath and his seat, his arms spread wide, body language easy and open. DonnaJo took only ten minutes to get a positive ID of the defendants and a firsthand account of the damage the explosion did not just to the surrounding trailers, but to the air the kids in the whole trailer park were still breathing. I starred that comment and jotted a note to look up the study Kyle quoted about exposure to chemical inhalants and lung disease.

  “Agent Miller, who examined the propane tanks at the scene?” DonnaJo asked.

  “I did.”

  “And did you find anything unusual about them? Any signs of tampering?”

  Kyle’s brow furrowed. “No, I did not.”

  DonnaJo smirked at Craig before she turned back to Kyle. “Thank you, Agent. No further questions, Your Honor.”

  Another murmur rippled through the gallery—quietly this time, with the scowl radiating from the bench—when Craig declined to cross-examine Kyle. I guess discrediting Jerry was easier than discrediting a cop with Kyle’s flawless résumé, but it wasn’t like him to give DonnaJo an easy pass on an expert witness.

  The judge thanked Kyle and dismissed him, calling a fifteen-minute recess at DonnaJo’s request. She followed Kyle out of the courtroom, Craig on their heels. I got stuck behind a circle of chattering Courtroom Clancys—that’s what we called the retirees who hung out all day popping into different galleries to watch the action live. By the time I got around them, Kyle and both lawyers had disappeared into the recess crowd. Damn. I leaned against the wall outside the ladies’ room and checked my phone. No new messages.

  We were at minute twelve, the hallway clearing, when I spotted Kyle waiting by the elevators.

  “You made quick work of that,” I said, walking up beside him. “Though the star witness who came right before you was a little lackluster.”

  He raised one eyebrow. “Jerry? How so?”

  I gave him the highlights as he punched the down arrow. He shook his head.

  “It won’t matter. They were still dealing, they were still cooking, it was still their trailer. That’s admirable sleight of hand on the part of the defense, but it shouldn’t create reasonable doubt in terms of responsibility. DonnaJo is smart. She knows that.”

  “You sound awfully sure. I saw a couple of the jurors react pretty strongly to the question about Jerry tampering with the propane.”

  “But nobody can prove that. I just testified that there was nothing wrong with the tanks.” He shook his head, a hard edge on the words. “Those guys are going to prison. That’s all that matters here.”

  “Tell me Governor Baine isn’t about to join them, please.” I lowered my voice, not that anyone was nearby.

  He punched the button again. “No comment.”

  “Kyle, come on.”

  He stuck his hands in his pockets and rocked up on the balls of his feet, his eyes rolling toward the black plastic camera eye in the ceiling. “Sorry, Nichelle,” he said. “It’s just business.”

  Right.

  I returned to the courtroom just in time to hear DonnaJo skip recalling Jerry to the stand. She walked around the table and looked every jury member dead in the eyes as she asked the bailiff to dim the lights and called up the photo of little Dakota Simpson again.

  “Dakota Simpson should be finishing his seventh week of second grade this afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. Packing his Spider-Man lunchbox into his backpack and getting his desk straightened up to head home for the weekend as we speak. But Dakota can’t do any of those things, because his life was cut short by the greed, thoughtlessness, and illegal activity of people his mother had the misfortune to live next door to,” she said.

  She paced as she recounted the child’s life and family story for the jury—his mother working two and sometimes three jobs to take care of him, his love of superheroes and peanut butter sandwiches—every word skillfully directing their anger over the child’s death at the men behind the defense table. “Now, Mr. Terry has done a good job today of trying to cast doubt on his clients’ responsibility by disparaging a witness for the commonwealth, but you heard that witness deny responsibility for this tragedy, and you heard a highly decorated federal agent swear under oath that the propane tanks were unharmed. So as you listen to the defense, as you consider your recommendation to the judge, you mustn’t be fooled by legal parlor tricks designe
d to make you doubt what you know is right. What you know is true. These men”—she swung one arm their way and pointed at each in turn—“are responsible for the death of this child. For the death of this young man.” She clicked up the photo of Scooter, not pausing her speech. “And, in a way, for the deaths of countless drug overdose victims across the state. There is only one just verdict available here, and that is guilty on all counts.”

  She clicked the remote once more before she resumed her seat, leaving Dakota smiling at the jurors from the screen. Number six definitely wiped her eyes that time.

  I followed the rest of the courthouse press corps out to the hallway for Craig’s end-of-day statement. DonnaJo didn’t care for splashy recaps, preferring to let her arguments stand on their own.

  Tucking my phone into my bag and pulling out a notebook and pen, I stopped behind Charlie as Craig turned to face us.

  “The commonwealth has done an excellent job of stating its case this week, and the evidence on their side is formidable,” he said. “In light of the arguments presented today, my clients have agreed to change their plea. If you’ll excuse me, I’m due in the judge’s chambers for that discussion. Thank you all for being here today—I’m confident justice will be served.”

  Hand to God, he looked right past three people to find me in the crowd on the delivery of those last words.

  5

  Chaos.

  We all expected Craig to put his hands up and walk away when the questions erupted, but they flew out of our mouths anyway, everyone trying to shout over the five people closest to them.

  He left.

  We whirled for the elevators. More than a little shoving and swearing ensued, trickling all the way to the front doors.

  I strode outside, barely noticing the fiery red tips of just-changing leaves on the maples dancing in front of a clear, crisp cornflower sky—and those trees were one of my favorite things about fall in Richmond. The breeze carried the perfect level of chill: still warm enough to not be cold, but whispering the promise of cuddly sweaters and warm nights in front of the fireplace in Joey’s new apartment.

  I had three hours to get Bob the trial recap and still have it on the web before the TV stations went on air. I had two more stories to write in the meantime.

  And all I could think about was Lakshmi Drake. Her gorgeous hair, light-up-a-room smile, melodic-bells laugh. There was more to that one than beating Charlie to the headline. More than keeping the publisher off Bob’s back, more than the adrenaline rush of putting a light on dark truths: I knew this girl. I had talked to her. Tried to help her. Liked her.

  Why was she dead?

  Hours closer to Charlie’s next broadcast, I wasn’t a bit closer to an answer than I’d been when I left the newsroom. At least I knew she’d been stuck in court all afternoon, too.

  Like the thought conjured her, Charlie hustled past me, her quick steps shortened by her circulation-endangering pencil skirt.

  She was just in a hurry to get the trial ready for air, I told myself, my feet speeding anyway. I sat behind the wheel of my car, staring at the front of the courthouse and wondering where Kyle had bolted to. And where I could look for a lead.

  I thought going by the university would be helpful, but Gaskins didn’t have much to offer. Or did he? Had Lakshmi put up with Ted Grayson for more than just the money?

  She was smart enough to know politics traded in secrets and lies more than policy and principles. If her ambitions really were political, what secrets had she picked up on?

  And did one of them get her killed?

  I started the car and sped back to campus, parking near the math building.

  Problem: I had no idea where to go next.

  I dropped onto a stone bench under a maple, streaking sunlight creating the illusion of flame licking the branches. Pulling out my phone, I opened a text to Bob. I don’t think I’ll have more on the capitol murder tonight, but clear space on the front for the meth trial: the defense is changing their plea. Send.

  I watched the screen while he typed. Buzz. That’ll move it up from Metro. Thanks for the heads up. Still three more pieces from you for tonight?

  I shot back a thumbs-up and tucked the phone back in my bag.

  Everyone on this campus who knew Lakshmi Drake was probably long gone. Except the guy I’d already talked to, or people I didn’t know to ask.

  What I needed were names.

  I stood, looking around for a campus map.

  It looked like the library was about fifty yards the other side of the student union behind me.

  Excitement hurried my stride.

  I pulled the door open, the paint and plastic smell that said the building had been recently updated still overshadowed by the slightly musty perfume of old paper. I’d spent most of my childhood in the library across the street from my mom’s flower shop. The smell was like a welcome home.

  I found a computer catalog and searched for a Who’s Who for the grad school from two years ago.

  No results found.

  Graduate directory.

  Nothing there either.

  Damn.

  I turned a slow circle, rising shelves stretching for ceilings on three floors and miles of tables in the open atrium giving my search a true needle/haystack feel.

  My eyes skipped over a pretty redhead in an Alpha Tau Alpha T-shirt and shorts that came dangerously close to showing more than most bikinis, and landed on the reference desk.

  Lakshmi was in a sorority. That’s where the call girl ring started.

  I closed my eyes, trying to get my freakish memory to call up which one.

  I’d typed it close to fifty times between the dean’s arrest and the trial.

  Kappa. Omega Delta Kappa.

  I strode to the big U-shaped desk, flashing a smile at the petite brunette in the blue sweater behind it.

  She smiled back, setting her book down. “What can I help you with?”

  “I’m wondering if y’all happen to have copies of sorority yearbooks in your collection?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “Most of our Greek houses don’t even do electronic ones these days, because they all keep up with each other through social media.”

  My face must’ve fallen, because she frowned. “I’m sorry to disappoint you.”

  “No, it’s—” Before I could get the “fine” through my lips, a guy in chinos and a rust-colored windbreaker sprinted through the front doors and straight for the desk, vaulted it, and swung the librarian off her feet in a circle.

  She giggled quietly as a chorus of shushing floated their way, shaking her head as he put her back on her feet. “I take it it’s here?” she whispered.

  He pulled a magazine from his overstuffed backpack and waved it in her face before she snatched it.

  “My first published study,” he crowed.

  More shushing. He ducked his head. “My first published study,” he whispered, a smile playing around the scruffy corners of his lips.

  “I’m so proud of you.” Her eyes shone as she gazed up at him.

  Mine went to the computer on her desk.

  Published study.

  Lakshmi was a grad student, and “publish or perish” was still a very real thing. Had she published anything that might tell me who else I could talk to?

  I cleared my throat, snapping the girl’s attention back to me.

  “Oh, I’m sorry! Was that all you needed?”

  “No worries.” I nodded to the boyfriend. “Congratulations. Does the university have copies of all the journal articles published by students?”

  The young woman nodded. “They’re upstairs in the reference room,” she said. “You can search the catalog in there if you know the subject or the author’s name. Third floor, take a right and go straight and you’ll see the room.”

  I thanked them and half jogged to the stairs.

  I expected the reference room to be dark and empty on a Friday afternoon early-ish in the semester, and it didn’t disappoi
nt. I closed the heavy walnut door with a soft click and tapped the mouse on the computer directly across from it. The walls were lined with fat leather binders that contained collections of academic journals, curated by subject and date.

  The computer screen came to life and I clicked to search by author. Typed in Lakshmi’s name.

  Twenty-seven hits. So, no danger of the “perish” part of that old saying.

  I clicked the first one and looked through shelves until I found the right heavy binder. Statistics journals. I opened the first issue and skimmed a random article, finding less than five words in every fifty that made sense to me. Which meant I would need a translator to know what Lakshmi had been working on. Fantastic.

  I found Lakshmi’s article: Modern Statistical Extracts, summer issue. I pulled my phone out and took a snapshot of the page. Back to the computer. Next.

  Fifteen articles later, my arms were more than a little weary of lifting the binders off of and onto the shelves, and I had fifteen snapshots of math jargon I could barely read to show for it.

  I stretched my arms back over my head when I stood, flinching when my phone buzzed against the polished cherry table.

  My lips tipped up when I saw Joey’s name flash on the screen.

  “Hey, you,” I said, putting it to my ear. “I’m doing some research, but I’m still looking forward to dinner.”

  “I’m afraid I’m going to be late, princess.” His voice was low, tight. Trying too hard not to tremble. I stood up straighter, my eyebrows drawing down.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “Nothing for you to worry about.” He tried for smooth.

  Missed. Joey never missed.

  “I’ll see you tonight. Your place around eight?” he continued.

  “But I thought we—” I stopped before I got the rest of that out. Duh. He didn’t want me at his house for some reason.

  “Sure.” I forced brightness into my tone. “I’ll be ready.”

  I frowned at the phone until the screen went dark after it beeped the triple-tone call end signal. All week, he’d been looking as forward to our weekend as I had. So what changed?