Rush

by Wozencraft, Kim

  “I’m not up to this,” he said.

  “You have to be,” Nettle said. “You made the buy.”

  The bailiff came out and rolled the chair into the courtroom. It was beautiful, with oak wainscoting on the walls and huge windows running along two sides of the room. Etched-glass light fixtures hung from an incredibly high ceiling. We walked across shining marble-chip floors toward the judge’s oak bench, and then I saw Gaines.

  He was sitting next to his attorney at the counsel table, dwarfing the captain’s chair that held him. We locked eyes instantly, and it was as if there were a malevolent, almost supercharged current flowing between us, pulling and repelling at the same moment. I pressed my arm against my side and felt my gun in its holster and thought how easy it would be to yank it out and just blow him back over the cherrywood bar and into the pews of the gallery, put an end to the fear, return his sick little midnight favor. Rob had tried his best to put the man down, but in the end, Gaines made it back into custody alive, taking the safe way, calling his attorney to arrange a surrender. But this wasn’t the shooting case. This trial was on the delivery charge.

  As the bailiff positioned Jim in front of the bench, I turned from Gaines and stood next to the wheelchair. In line with us were Dodd, Nettle, and a lab technician from the Department of Public Safety, there to testify that the powder submitted as evidence in the case was in fact cocaine. The bald-headed bailiff, wearing a five-point star the size of Texas on his pocket, stepped between the witnesses and the bench and raised his right hand.

  “Do you solemnly swear or affirm that the testimony you are about to give will be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God? Answer I do.”

  We answered in unison. I looked straight at Judge Hammit while the oath was given. He leaned across the top of his huge bench and looked at the lot of us, frown lines creasing his face.

  Jim would be the first witness. The bailiff wheeled the chair around to face the gallery and ushered the rest of us from the room. Both sides had agreed to invoke “The Rule.” Witnesses were allowed in the courtroom only while they were testifying.

  I followed the bailiff to Judge Hammit’s chambers and sat down on a red leather couch to await my turn. A few minutes later I stepped into the judge’s private bathroom to swallow another Valium.

  “I will remind you that you are under oath,” Judge Hammit said as I took my seat in the witness stand.

  I nodded and looked straight ahead. Vince, the same A.D.A. who had taken me through the grand jury, tugged at his earlobe to remind me to make eye contact with the jury. I looked to my left, tried to catch their eyes. Only one of them, a young man about my own age, refused to return my glance.

  Gaines crossed his hands on the defense table and stared at me. I stared back, and he mouthed the word liar. I looked back at the jury.

  Vince stood up and said something, began walking toward me.

  As he approached the witness box, I wondered whether he believed the case he was prosecuting. Though he had given no indication that he doubted our report, I wondered. There were judges all the way up the line—street-cop judges deciding whether to arrest or release after questioning, the D.A.’s office judging whether to present the case, the grand jury choosing whether to indict, and finally, finally, it all wound up in a courtroom before a group of citizens who didn’t have a clue.

  They paid their taxes and portions were allocated to law enforcement, to the keepers of the peace. That was what cops and courts were for, to ensure that the taxpayers were not disturbed. I didn’t know exactly what Gaines had done to bend the city fathers so far out of shape, only that he had. I didn’t know who all he had on film. There was no telling what kind of insurance he carried. The tape with the Trojanette on it would sure have made Daddy mad, and from what that patrolman had said, Willard Freeman was the kind of Daddy who could always get the chief of police on the phone. I didn’t know. I simply didn’t know.

  But this was it. The end result of that quiet meeting with Nettle behind the grocery store when he’d said, “When are you going to make the big case?”

  * * *

  Early Sunday morning, the gospel music was blasting from Jim’s hospital room. He had the bed raised to sitting position and was snapping the fingers of his left hand in time to the music.

  He smiled when I walked in and then said, “Ain’t no white woman in the world can sing like that. Listen to them.”

  “They’re good.”

  “Goddam right. Beautiful.”

  “You getting religion here or what.”

  “I just like the music,” he said. “You can’t fake adoration.”

  Around noon he switched the station to listen to the news. Still no decision. A solid week of trial and two days of deliberation. No verdict. I washed his hair and shaved him and gave him sponge bath.

  “Watch out,” he said, “I’m beginning to feel like a human being again.”

  Each hour, all afternoon, we listened to the news. Around six, they announced that the jury in the Will Gaines cocaine trial was hopelessly deadlocked.

  * * *

  I pushed the cart loaded with the remnants of Jim’s hospital stay and an attendant pushed Jim’s wheelchair. Almost two months after the shooting, they were releasing him. He wore a leg brace and rested his new cane across the arms of the wheelchair.

  Stack had found a safe house for us, off a highway on the south side of town. We loaded the trunk with the potted plants that had been given to Jim during his weeks in the hospital. The D.A.’s office had sent one, there were several from local churches, a few from various judges, even a cluster of marigolds from Chuckie the Lawyer. He could spare a few bucks for flowers and still manage his Christmas cruise. Stack stood leaning on the car door while the attendant and I eased Jim into the front seat.

  When we pulled into the drive, I leaned up to whisper, “It’s okay. I don’t expect you to carry me over the threshold.”

  He smiled at me, but he looked nervous at being out in the open again.

  At night, that first nightfall, the roaches came out. Hundred of them. Big ones, with wings. South American cucaraches.

  I had stacked the mattresses from the three beds in the house in one corner of the living room and put Jim up there. I pushed an old, heavy dresser in front of the front door, threw a blanket down on the floor next to it, and gathered our guns around me. I sat in the corner, keeping an eye out for roaches that might approach Jim’s bed and staring at the huge plate-glass windows in the middle of the living-room wall. A safe house, Stack called it. There was a squad car parked in the backyard, complete with dozing patrolman. A two-lane highway ran in front of the place. Anyone could cruise by and lob something through that window, or let go a shotgun blast.

  For the first day and a half, they left us there without food. I called Stack several times at the five or six numbers he had given me. Someone answered at each one, but no, Melton wasn’t in. They sounded like they might be girlfriends, just the sort of charmers who would be attracted to a guy like Stack.

  “Forget it,” Jim finally said. “Where’d that Jack Daniel’s go?”

  We ate Placidyl and drank whiskey, but even with that I didn’t sleep much. Little naps in the afternoons. At night I sat in the corner, cradling the Ithaca .12 gauge against my shoulder, watching the window and waiting. Jim lay on the mattresses.

  I don’t know how many days passed before Nettle pressed his way into the living room and sat gingerly in a chair. His nostril flared with disgust as he looked around. Jim still smelled of open wounds, but I had gotten used to it.

  “You might want to get cleaned up,” Nettle said. “You’ll be having some company this afternoon.”

  “Who?” Jim asked, still flat on his back on the mattresses, staring up at the crusty brown edges of water stains on the ceiling.

  “A Mr. Berthe,” Nettle said. “He’s been appointed chairman of a new committee, the governor’s Committee Against Drugs. He’d like t
o meet you.”

  “CAD?” I asked. “What kind of action is that?” Disdain dribbled onto Nettle’s lips when he looked down at me. I sat on my blanket in my corner, next to the front door, surrounded by our arsenal—the Ithaca pump action, my Colt .357 revolver and .25 automatic, a Browning 9 millimeter and Colt .45. And a couple of Buck knives, in case it came to that.

  “Clean up,” Nettle said. “He’ll be here in a few hours.”

  Stack had not bothered to furnish our honeymoon suite with sheets or dishes or any of the simple amenities that make it possible to exist with any comfort. We had a package of paper cups and plates. Jim rested on bare mattresses. We didn’t complain. It wasn’t important. We took medicine and drank and watched each other’s backs. All we wanted to do was stay alive.

  I got up to shower when Nettle left. The bathroom tile was pink and cool and layered with dust. I checked to make sure the window was locked. There wasn’t a towel in sight.

  I reached into the stall to turn on the water. There was a sickening whoosh, then a blast, and the room went pink as I dove to the floor, scrambling; it was happening, and I heard, for an instant, the sound of a faraway waterfall, so very far away, so distant, and then everything went black.

  Something was cool against my forehead, cool and hard, like glass, like tile, and then I could smell dust. I was breathing in dust. I heard water running, forcefully, splattering loudly against something. I pulled myself up, afraid to look at the narrow, frosted-glass window, terrified that Gaines’s face would be there. The shower was running, hot water gushing against the back of the prefab stall. There was a crack in the plastic where the shower head had hit it.

  I rested against the wall until my back and buttocks had warmed the tile against me. At some point I leaned over the toilet and tried to vomit, but nothing would come. I pulled my clothes back on and turned the water off before going back to the living room.

  Jim was asleep on his mattress, zombied from Placidyl. I went to the kitchen and swallowed a Seconal. The patrol car was still parked in the backyard, the cop inside reading a paper. I wondered if he liked his job.

  I don’t remember the arrival. I remember sitting on the blanket on the floor, amazed to see a man who was not afraid to sit in front of the window. The chairman of the governor’s Committee Against Drugs was afraid of nothing. I knew that it was only a matter of time before something came through that window, but he sat there calmly, ignoring Nettle and talking with Jim about the investigation.

  He was wearing a pinstripe suit with a pale blue shirt and dark tie, and wing tips. His bright silver hair was cropped so close to the scalp that it seemed almost flesh colored.

  I did not say much. The Seconal had me struggling to keep up with the conversation and watch the window at the same time.

  He stood up suddenly and paced back and forth before it. Finally he turned to Nettle and said, “Chief, this is ridiculous. Let me take these people to Houston, get them some good medical care, keep them safe until they’re through testifying. I’ll guarantee they’ll be present in court whenever you need them.”

  Nettle cleared his throat and shook his head no. In that sickeningly smooth, calm voice he said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Berthe, and we do appreciate your offer, but it’s impossible.”

  Berthe’s eyes narrowed. He was obviously not used to hearing the word no.

  “They have to be available for trial on very short notice,” Nettle said. “It’s not feasible to take them anywhere right now.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Berthe said. “Just plain nonsense. I can have them here in under two hours. Day or night.”

  Nettle shifted in his chair and plucked at his suit coat.

  “They have to stay within the county.”

  Jim and I were still looking at each other when Berthe stood up abruptly and reached down to shake my hand, then Jim’s.

  “You people take care,” he said, looking at me closely. “Here’s my card in case you find yourselves in Houston.”

  They were barely out the door when Jim hobbled to the kitchen. Neither of us could think of a reason in the world why Nettle was demanding that we stay inside the county, unless it was that he wanted us found dead within the boundaries so he could have some control over the investigation.

  While I gathered our weapons and the few clothes we had brought, Jim made a call.

  “Get here now,” I heard him say. “As fast as you can. We’re not going to sit around here and wait for somebody to come blow us away.”

  Rob pulled up out front a little after ten. We waited until almost midnight and then I went to the kitchen window and checked the back yard. The patrolman was asleep, his head against the headrest, his mouth hanging open. We moved the dresser from the front door and hauled our things out to Rob’s Wagoner. Jim crawled into the black seat; I huddled down in front. Rob waited until we were down the road to turn on the headlights.

  Rick Carrio didn’t ask a question when Rob delivered us to his doorstep in Houston. It was nearly three in the morning, but Rick brought us inside and said, “I guess we could use a fire,” and went out to the balcony to get some wood.

  He got it started while I settled Jim in the upstairs bedroom. The drive had exhausted him. When I came out, Rick was just putting the poker away.

  “Make yourself at home,” he said. “I’ve got to work in a few hours. I’ll say good-night.” He clumped downstairs and everything was quiet.

  I propped the shotgun against the edge of the mantel and sat down cross-legged in front of the fireplace while my husband slept in the next room. I would call Mr. Berth in the morning.

  * * *

  The first thing he did was get us an apartment. The second thing, a few weeks later, was to get Jim back into the hospital. Mr. Berthe’s security chief had dropped by to check on us one afternoon, and the next thing I knew Jim was installed in a private room in the maternity ward, registered under an alias. They operated that afternoon, opening his leg to cut out infection.

  They kept him almost a week for observation. I slept on a cot next to his bed, in a room that had huge, colorful storks painted on one wall, their beaks holding blankets full of newborns.

  The apartment Mr. Berthe provided for us was a split-level two-bedroom place, complete with alarm system, tear gas, and an AR-15 with a laser sight. We were instructed to knock the phone off the hook if there was trouble. The troops would be there in less than three minutes. But we knew the inside of three minutes like nobody’s business.

  We were briefed weekly on the activities in Beaumont. Mr. Berthe had his sources and, though he didn’t go into detail, said that if and when we did have to return, we would do so under guard. We were to consider everyone, even the people in the D.A.’s office, as potential assailants.

  He took care of everything. Our belongings had been gathered from the mobile home, the two apartments, and the jail, and placed in storage. Our cars were parked in a garage somewhere downtown. We were to try to stay in the apartment unless it was absolutely necessary to go out. That meant if we started going stir crazy. Jim slept a great deal.

  * * *

  I don’t know how Nettle got the number. I answered the phone one night, expecting it to be a security check, and his sick-sweet voice said. “When are you coming back?”

  I wanted to throw the phone into the fireplace. I wanted to smash something. His sugar-coated venom drooled out of the receiver and I sat there, no words, unable to communicate my rage. I remembered how I’d felt the time speed-freak Lester said, “My philosophy of life if slit thy neither throat and pimp his kids.” I’d wanted to gut-shoot him, just rid the community of a maggot.

  “You can’t be serious,” I said. “You know damn well I won’t be back.”

  “Well that presents a little problem.” He cleared his throat. “Not for Jim, his retirement paperwork will be through any day now.” He cleared it again, with that obnoxious dry little cough of his. “But your circumstance is different,” he said.

&nbs
p; “How is that?”

  “You are to return to Beaumont immediately or you’re off the payroll. If you’re not coming back, I’ll need a letter of resignation. A couple of lines will do fine.”

  “Chief,” I said, “I’ll write you a fucking book.”

  * * *

  I don’t remember waking up. The first thing I knew I was standing at the top of the stairs aiming at darkness, watching Jim bounce down the staircase in his underwear, step by step, waving a gun in his left hand, his right arm in a sling.

  “Come on, motherfucker!” he screamed. “Come on!”

  I tumbled down after him, feeling the noises working in my chest, trying to hold them down, terrified, certain that it was happening again, and wishing, after staying ready for such a long time, that it would.

  The apartment was empty. Something, maybe the rumble of traffic from the expressway, had caused the alarms to go off. The tiny plastic boxes aimed at the front door and the patio sliding-glass entrance shrieked obscenely in the empty room. I stumbled past Jim and yanked the plugs from the wall.

  When I turned around, he was sitting on the stairway his head in his hand, rocking slowly back and forth.

  “God damn them,” he said. “God damn them.”

  We held each other until we could think again and then for some reason I went to the patio and brought logs to the fireplace. We lay there in front of the fire for the rest of that night and well into the morning, wrapped around each other, trying to rest.

  After that night, the fireplace because my talisman. I made myself believe that as long as I was in the circle of its warmth, I was safe. Day after night I sat watching the flames, concentrating only on shades of orange and yellow and blue, on the shapes that flamed so briefly, changed so quickly, that I wasn’t sure they had even been there. I think I was trying to let it hypnotize me.

  What sleep I got came when I was there, wrapped in the blanket, hidden behind a row of brown corduroy cushions that I took each evening from the couch and stacked in front of me.