Rush

by Wozencraft, Kim

  “Don’t get all uptight,” he said. “I want you to relax. That’s it, just lean back. Relax.” He sat quietly across the table from me, in the faint shadow cast by a portable film screen near the window.

  “Who shot you?” he said.

  “Will Gaines.”

  “You’re not sure of that, are you?”

  “It’s impossible to be positive,” I said. “Certainly it looked like him. He had a reason to want us dead.”

  “What I’d like to do,” he said, “I’m going to hook you up one more time today. I’m going to ask you ‘Do you know who shot you?’ and I want you to answer yes. Then I’m going to ask the same question again and I want you to say no.”

  He hooked me up and I did it just the way he asked. Yes I knew. No I didn’t know. He unhooked me and looked at his charts. He spent some moments staring at the paper.

  “You don’t know,” he said finally.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re not certain. The readings are identical for both replies.”

  “And?”

  “Did you take anything during that lunch break, have you taken any drugs?”

  “All I’ve had today is fried chicken and Dr. Pepper. That’s all.”

  He shuffled a couple of charts around, the paper rattling loudly in the empty room.

  “Sometime between the first test I gave you and the one you just took, on the shooting, your polarity reversed completely.” He pushed the graphs across the table. “The slope of your answers. Look at this. All during the first test, your answers sloped to the right.”

  The lines curved just as he said they did, sloping to the right, a series of small waves.

  “And this,” he said, “is the test we just finished.”

  Thin red lines troughed and crested across the paper, rolling to the left.

  “I’ve never seen anything like it.” He slumped back in his chair and began pulling at his eyes. “You didn’t take anything?”

  “Nothing.” I had answered as honestly as I knew how, and even the instrument was unable to distinguish which answer was the lie.

  “Would you give a blood sample?”

  “If I have to,” I said. “I’m not on anything.”

  “I know.”

  “Are we finished then?”

  “I think what we should do is go downstairs and tell Jim that you don’t know who shot him.”

  I didn’t know why he was suggesting it, what could possibly be their motive for wanting Gaines completely off the hook. I wasn’t sure why I agreed to do it. There was the confusion, from answering both ways and having the polygraph indicate no stress. And there was the unspoken threat that if I didn’t cooperate fully I might wind up worse off at sentencing time. But there was also this: I hadn’t been sure that night, hadn’t been absolutely positive. I believed I had seen Gaines. It happens all the time. Cops running around everywhere, demanding reliability, demanding absolute, positive identification, and the witness wants to perform admirably, wants to know. And once I’d gotten to the hospital, once Nettle had arrived, I no longer felt I had a choice.

  I will admit that during the interminable ride down the elevator, I thought about splitting. I remembered Pasadena, and how confident my schoolgirl witnesses had been when they pointed to the photo of Mr. Ashbey, picking him out the the lineup. That was what I lacked. Certainty. I would be labeled a liar.

  It made me itch all over, this interrogation business.

  Jim was sitting on top of a desk in the interrogation room. Maygrett was propped next to him, flicking ashes at the gray metal can in the corner. McPherson was leaning against the wall next to the door, tapping the heel of one shoe against the toe of the other.

  The examiner said, “Jim, Kristen has something she wants to tell you.”

  Jim sat quietly, his arms folded tightly across his chest, and when he looked at me his eyes were barely narrowed, the way they had been the night we’d flipped Walker. His jaw was tight, the muscles in front of his ears flexing ever so slightly, hardly noticeable.

  It clicked suddenly, all this attention to the shooting, and I realized for the first time exactly how vulnerable we were. They were looking for something to split me and Jim up, something that would cause us to talk against each other and make their task easier.

  If they managed it, things would get unbearably nasty. We would start laying things off on one another, and it would all boil down to a couple of junkie narcs. The feds wouldn’t have to upset the city fathers by indicting Nettle, and Nettle would have no cause to talk about where his orders had come from.

  I looked straight at Jim, then folded my own arms and leaned back against the wall. I saw the shift; he became witness-stand calm, eyes alert, lips relaxed, hands folded quietly in the lap. Unshakeable.

  “I’m not sure who shot us.”

  I said the words. I didn’t know, at first, if I was lying. And then it hit me. I was telling the absolute truth. Even if Gaines was the trigger man, I did not have the first fucking clue who was behind it.

  Jim looked evenly at me, while the agents stared at both of us, holding their collective breath.

  “That’s all right,” he said calmly. “I understand.”

  I turned to the examiner. “Can we go now?”

  He shrugged at Maygrett.

  “Yeah,” Maygrett said, “Let’s get out of here. We’ll escort you back to the hotel.”

  When we parked in front of our room, Maygrett rolled down his window.

  “Tomorrow at nine,” he said. “We’ll be in the office late tonight if you need anything.”

  We went to the motel coffee shop for supper. The counter was lined with salesmen, and tucked in among them were truckers in jeans and boots. A few of the booths held local teenage couples, sitting closely and sharing french fries.

  “Could be,” Jim said, “that it’s the feds who want Gaines out. You saw his history. Not a single conviction. Could well be that he’s done some snitching for them.”

  “What are you having?”

  “Son of a bitch probably turned cases for the DEA.”

  “I don’t see catfish on the menu.”

  “Talk to me girl,” Jim said.

  “It doesn’t matter. He’s a snitch? He’s not a snitch? The feds leaned on Dodd? Dodd was overwhelmed by guilt? Doesn’t matter. All I know is we can’t do a thing about any of it. We are dealing here with a higher authority.”

  The waitress came over and pushed the chili until Jim glared at her, then gave up and took our order.

  “I just want to know,” he said when she left. “I want to know who’s behind all of it.”

  “Hey,” I said, “Perry Mason is in reruns.”

  24

  The courtroom was cool and smooth, carpeted blue, ceilinged with tiles that soaked up noise and hushed even shouted words. The judge’s bench, the jury box, the witness stand, all of the furnishings were of cold, dark wood. Above the bench, centered high on the wall behind it, hung a huge seal: Department of Justice. It was the United States of America versus Donald Nettle, El Jefe against the feds.

  Dodd was to be the first witness. Followed by Jim, then me, then Rob and Denny and a couple of Beaumont patrolmen. The defense had subpoenaed Mr. Berthe, but he chose not to show, sending Marshall in his stead. It was a nonsense defense move anyway. Mr. Berth hadn’t done anything but try to keep a couple of cops alive.

  I was sitting in the witness room, pretending to read a magazine when he walked in, tan and fit as ever, and I managed to be calm until Marshall walked over to face me. I stood to shake hands with him, and then there were tears. We were both trying hard not to make some kind of scene, trying to wipe our eyes and somehow be discreet about it.

  “Always give yourself a chance,” he whispered, and then he was gone and I was sitting in the chair again, thinking that he didn’t understand. I was dependent now upon the mercy of the Court.

  I spent the next two days sitting in a chair in the witness room, leafin
g through magazines. When the bailiff walked in finally and called my name, I felt like the bottom had dropped out of my skull and my brain was sliding down the back of my throat. I forced myself up and followed him to the courtroom.

  They were all at the prosecution table. Maygrett and McPherson sat next to D. Lang Howell, the special prosecutor from D.C., across the table from a couple of assistant U.S. Attorneys from the Beaumont office. When he saw me, Maygrett’s left eye twitched in a kind of half wink, a gesture I found ridiculous. Pop me like a grape.

  The Honorable Frank was nowhere around. He had walked Jim and me into the courthouse, offering a “no comment” to the reporters outside, and disappeared after leaving us in the witness room. He’d said we knew what we were doing. “I’ll be at the office,” he’d said. The Honorable Frank. Head Wiener-in-Charge.

  Nettle’s defense attorney was named after a genuine Texas hero, Sam Austin. He was neighborly, a regular sort of fellow from right there in Jefferson County, sitting directly across from Nettle at the defense table. He was big and pear-shaped, wearing a string tie and cowboy boots, his hair slicked into a neat brown wave atop his large head. Nettle was his usual meticulously-groomed self, wearing yet another pair of new shoes, these in maroon patent with gold clasps. I remember thinking they clashed with his red hair. His wife was next to him. I could not find it in me to feel sorry for her, although she’d had nothing to do with anything. She was supporting her husband, being his woman, trying to show that he was a good family man, persecuted by the national government. Maybe she believed it.

  Though they called it preparation, the prosecutors had, for several days before the trial, rehearsed us as to what our testimony would be. We went over our parts again and again. I knew what they would ask, they knew what I would answer. When it came the defense attorney’s turn, anything could happen.

  Howell, the special prosecutor, was a petite fellow. Not short, but somewhat dainty by the real-man standards of Texas. He wore a bow ties and red button-on braces. His hair was cut in a John Denver special, over the ears and with bangs, but neatly. His appearance was not that of one who could ever even hope to win the hearts and minds of a red-necked Texas jury.

  He opened with the usual questions: where did I live and what did I do, Corpus Christi, school, etc., etc.

  A juror who looked like a farmer dressed in his best Sunday meeting suit scrawled his face up the first time Howell spoke, but seemed, after a few sentences, to begin listening to the words instead of to Howell’s marked Yankee accent.

  “Mrs. Raynor,” Howell said, “you and your husband have entered into a plea agreement with the United States, have you not, in which you have agreed to cooperate with the FBI and tell them the truth concerning the undercover narcotics investigation which you participated in here in Beaumont in 1978?”

  “Yes sir.”

  The courtroom gallery was completely full. There were people standing at the back, leaning against the wall, waiting to hear the cops’ confessions. I recognized a few of the defendants in the crowd, sitting there with twitchy smiles on their faces.

  “And you have met with the FBI and told them the complete truth about everything that occurred during that investigation. Correct?”

  “Yes it is.” In my mind, I heard the sound of children singing “Here We Go Round the Mulberry Bush.” Early in the morning.

  “Mrs. Raynor did you tell the FBI that you and your partner had falsified a case on Will Gaines?”

  “Yes sir we did.”

  “Did you also admit to them that you had used drugs during the investigation?”

  Sam Austin stood up, turned halfway to the jury, and said, “Your Honor, I object to this business of asking the witness what she told the FBI. I have no protection over that hearsay testimony of what she told the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

  The judge didn’t even blink. “She’s available for cross-examination. Overruled.”

  Howell nodded his appreciation and continued to ask his damning questions. On and on and on. I sat in the chair and tried to concentrate, here we go round the mulberry bush, but I answered mostly by rote. We’d been over it so many times.

  I felt a burning in the back of my throat, I tried hard to swallow, sat there gagging silently, answering Howell’s questions. Concentrate, concentrate, don’t throw up. Swallow. Just one swallow will make it go away. I am choking to death in front of these people. Yes sir. No sir. I don’t recall, sir. I wanted to save Jim. Sir. Swallow.

  I saw Maygrett, his eyes squeezed half shut as though he didn’t want to see what he was looking at. I hated him sitting there all smug and comfortable, defender of justice. Pop me like a grape, pop me like a grape. Just swallow. Squeeze me right out of my own thin skin, Nettle’s on trial but I’m the one copping out, up here telling the FBI’s truth and being stared at and examined and praying for just a little relief when sentencing time comes around.

  I swallowed. I answered Howell’s hard, polite questions. Suddenly he was saying, “Pass the witness, no further questions at this time,” and heading for the prosecution table.

  Sam Austin grabbed a fistful of papers and marched up to the podium in the center of the courtroom like he was bent on crucifying me. I felt like getting down on my hands and knees, crawling across the miles of carpet between me and the door.

  “Mrs. Raynor,” he drawled tiredly, “you don’t really expect this jury to believe that you and your partner accomplished one of the biggest drug busts in this state while you were addicted to cocaine, do you? Let me just read something into the record here.”

  He had news clippings, letters from D.A.s and judges and city managers, citations from the Peace Officers Association. He praised me, praised me, as a fine upstanding police officer who had gone above and beyond the call of duty in the struggle to wipe out drug traffic.

  “Do you think any reasonable person will believe that the chief of police of this city, a fine citizen, and good father, a churchgoing man who has spent his life fighting evil for the benefit of the community, you wouldn’t expect anybody to believe that he ordered you to falsify any case now, really, would you?”

  I felt suddenly tired, exhausted with all the courtroom tactics. I was trying to catch the direction of his argument, but at that moment the whole bizarre proceeding lost significance. It was only another show, Corruption and Conspiracy, Now Playing at a Courthouse Near You. I wanted to give Austin a workout, to be a hostile witness without seeming so to the jury. The farce had drained me to that level—I was tired of prosecutors putting words in my mouth, tired of being handled by the FBI, tired of living on the same planet as Donald J. Nettle.

  “Mrs. Raynor?”

  I was tired of being Mrs. Raynor.

  “Answer the question please.” The judge’s voice jarred me back to the courtroom.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “Could you rephrase the question?”

  Could somebody, somebody please rephrase the question. I looked to the prosecution table, hoping for an objection. I didn’t even know to what, but an objection, please. Somebody object. Somebody rephrase the question. Somebody do something here. Howell sat doodling on a yellow pad. Austin was talking.

  “. . . and you got upset at the way the department handled the shooting, that you had to live in a jail cell, that Jim’s wounds were not properly attended to, and you got upset, rightfully, that this fellow Gaines only got forty years. He tried to kill you. If he were free on the streets, you and Mr. Raynor could even things up. And if Gaines came there to Beaumont to gain a foothold for organized crime . . .”

  Howell looked up, suddenly aware of what was happening, and stood.

  “Objection, Your Honor, this is nothing but outrageous speculation on the part of the defense.”

  “Sustained. If counsel has questions, let him ask them of the witness. Otherwise, we can move on.”

  Austin flipped through his papers and tossed back his head.

  “Mrs. Raynor, did Will Gaines or anyone associated
with him offer you money to recant your testimony as to who did the shooting?”

  I wanted to scream. I sat there, my face crawling with heat while the rest of me froze slowly, until I felt like my skin would crack any minute into a million little pieces and crumble off my bones into a squat mound of powder on the floor. There was no money involved, there was no payoff to Jim or to me. Dodd? I didn’t know. The shooting? I didn’t know. Yes, I was a junkie. Yes, I helped stash on Will Gaines, and yes, somebody shot us. I thought it was Gaines, I believed it was Gaines, I wasn’t sure, I didn’t know absolutely, even the goddamn polygraph was inconclusive. I didn’t know anything. I simply wanted to scream.

  “No sir,” I said. My answer was given quietly.

  “Did the FBI offer you money to recant your earlier testimony?”

  “Objection!” Howell leaped from the chair, swung his pad in a wide arc toward Austin. “The question is totally and completely irrelevant.”

  “Overruled.” The judge peered at me over the edge of the bench, his glasses low on his nose. “The witness will answer the question.”

  “No sir.”

  “Then why did you recant your testimony,” Austin shouted, “why did you suddenly say that you weren’t sure who shot you?” He turned to the jury and raised his palms, like a preacher at a tent revival.

  I looked to Howell. He was writing something on his pad. I looked up to the judge.

  “I’m not sure I can answer that question.”

  Howell’s head popped up.

  “Your Honor, may I approach the bench?” he asked.

  “You may.”

  The judge leaned forward while Howell whispered something to him. I heard the word polygraph.

  “Thank you, Mr. Howell. The jury will be excused for ten minutes.”

  The bailiff escorted the jury through a small door at the side of the courtroom. Austin walked to the defense table and rested a hand on Nettle’s shoulder.

  “What’s the difficulty, Your Honor?” he asked.

  “Mr. Austin, please approach the bench.”