In Self-Defense

by A. W. Gray

  The guard hooked his thumbs through his front belt loops. “’Bout time you done some work, old thing.” He wore a gray short-sleeve uniform with the county sheriff’s shield on the left sleeve in gold thread. Encircling the shield were the words Integrity, Dependability, and Vigilance. “Old thing” was the name which the guards used for all inmates, young or old.

  Donello showed yellowed teeth in a patronizing grin. “Just doin’ my time, boss. Keepin’ busy makes it pass.”

  “I seen you lookin’ that young’un over, old thing, don’t think I didn’t.”

  “What young’un you mean, boss?” Donello turned the mop over and used the scraper to disengage chewing gum from the floor.

  The deputy sneered. “What young’un. That young’un you was makin’ eyes at, what young’un you think?”

  Donello kept his gaze on his work. “I don’t fool with no homosectuals, boss.”

  “Bull shit. You don’t fool with no homosectual lessen it’s nighttime and ain’t nobody likely to be comin’ around, is what you mean. Listen here, old thing, you got you a vis’tor.” The guard used a forefinger to close one nostril, and snuffled up.

  Donello stood upright and cocked his head. “Who be visitin’ me? I got no people on the street no more.” He was a good three inches taller than the guard and had broader shoulders, the forearms of a linebacker, and a scar running from his disfigured ear to the point of his chin. Donello also had thick jet black curly hair and mean eyes set so close together that at times he appeared cross-eyed. The tattoo on his left forearm was a writhing naked woman with long hair. On his right arm was a coiled rattler over the caption NOT TO BE FUCKED WITH.

  “I don’t keep no appointment book for you gentlemen, old thing,” the guard said. “Man calls up from downstairs, says you got a vis’tor, I haul yo’ ass down to the visitation room. ’S all I do. You follow me, you hear?” He turned and walked away without another glance in Donello’s direction, the deputy’s right arm rubbing against his leather John Brown gun holster. Firearms weren’t permitted in the jail, but the deputies all wore empty holsters, likely to remind prisoners that, if crossed, the deputies had the firepower to blow one into kingdom come. Donello dropped the mop wetly into the bucket, leaned the handle against the wall, and plodded along behind the deputy.

  The route to the visiting room led down two corridors—the first lined with eight-man cells, the second holding solitary prisoners, guys with death-penalty sentences who stared dumbly through the food slots in their cells at passersby—and through a big holding area. The guard stopped before the entry, and Donello assumed the position without being told, spreading his feet, leaning forward against the wall for the guard to pat him down for contraband. The search complete, the deputy clanked open the entry and stood aside. “You rattle when you finished, old thing, you hear?” he said. Donello entered the visiting room.

  The room was a bullpen with inch-thick bulletproof plastic windows around its perimeter. The visitors sat in booths which looked into the bullpen. Each visitors’ booth contained two chairs, a metal desk, and an intercom phone. It was lunchtime, and only two other prisoners were in the bullpen, a pudgy white man who yelled at a lady over the phone, accusing her of screwing around, and a black teenage boy who stared numbly out while a gray-haired man with tears streaming down his face looked in. In a couple of hours the room would be packed. Donello squinted, searching the booths one by one until …

  Christ, Donello thought. He sat down in front of a window and picked up a phone. “I thought we made a deal,” Donello said.

  Bradford Brie’s sunglasses lay before him on the visitors’ booth table. “How you doing, pal?” Brie said. His eyes were pale blue. Crusts of sleep were stuck between his lashes. The hand which held the phone had filthy nails.

  “The deal was,” Donello said, “that we ain’t having no contact.”

  “I miss talking to you.” Brie inclined his head to peer around Donello into the bullpen. “We got any friends in there?” Brie said. “Guys we know?”

  “Bobby Jett,” Donello said. “Guy used to shell the peas on Coffield Unit. You remember Bobby, huh?”

  “Yeah, sure, I know his sister,” Brie said. “What they got Bobby on?”

  “He’s doing a misdemeanor trespass he pled down from a burglary,” Donello said. “Couldn’t nobody put him inside this building he done, you know? Bobby says he could have beaten the case flat, but they offered him sixty days on the trespass so he took it. He’d have done six months waiting for a trial on the felony anyway, you know how that works.”

  “Yeah.” Brie giggled through his nose. “You can beat the rap, but you can’t beat the ride.” His Hawaiian shirt was yellow with big blue flowers. He yanked on his goatee. “Anybody else?”

  Donello transferred the phone from his scarred ear to the normal ear. “Couple of guys, but that’s got nothing to do with what I’m talking about. We’re not supposed to be having contact.”

  “I heard you before. Hey, it’s lonesome out here.”

  “Jesus Christ, Bradford. I told you I wouldn’t say nothing about you, and I didn’t. They asked me a lot of things, too, about who was taking them pictures and all. You coming down to the jail, you might as well say, Hey, I’m this guy’s partner.”

  “I signed in as somebody else. I got this driver’s license.”

  “Don’t matter,” Donello said. “A lot of people down here know you by sight. What if somebody sees you and drops a dime?”

  “I’m not worried.”

  “Good that you ain’t. I am.” Donello narrowed his eyes. “You got rid of them other pictures, huh?”

  “I’m keeping them for a while. Some of those girls got parents, you know? People might pay for the negatives.”

  “That ain’t the deal,” Donello shouted, then looked guardedly around and lowered his voice. “I’m s’posed to say nothing about you, you’re s’posed to get rid of the pictures. How come we’re not communicating?”

  Brie picked up his sunglasses and stuck an earpiece into one corner of his mouth. He peered around Donello again, then dropped his gaze. “Look, Wilfred. You’re not fooling around in there, huh?”

  Donello swallowed. “What kind of a question is that, asking a man? It’s different in here, you know? We got women on the street.”

  “We kind of had an arrangement.”

  “We didn’t have no arrangement on the streets,” Donello said. “Any arrangement you got in here don’t go once there’s women. We already talked about it, three or four times. I ain’t no fucking queer.”

  Brie gestured with the sunglasses. “I just don’t like the idea, you with somebody. You know what I done to them guys that cut you up down on Coffield Unit. That scar on your face, you know? That’s kind of what I’m talking about, sometimes somebody means something to a guy.”

  “You quit it. You keep that queer talk up, I’m ending this visit.” Donello made a move to hang up.

  Brie lifted a bony hand. “No. Wait. I won’t say anything else.” His expression was earnest.

  Donello replaced the phone to his ear. “No more talking like queers. That’s disgusting. You get rid of them pictures like we said.”

  Brie hesitated, then said, “I showed one to a guy.”

  Donello arched an eyebrow, not saying anything.

  “Your lawyer,” Brie said.

  “He’s dead.”

  “Well, he looked at the picture first.” Brie put his shades on and grinned.

  It took a second for it to sink in, what this crazy Bradford Brie was saying. Donello finally said, “Man, that was you?”

  “You said the guy was dogshit. Didn’t do anything for you but take your money. That DA lady, too, she done bad things to you,” Brie said. The gaps between Brie’s teeth appeared larger than normal. Must be the bullet-proof plastic, Donello thought, distorting the image.

&n
bsp; Donello stabbed the air with a forefinger. “You listen to me. I got nothing to do with no murder.”

  Brie shrugged. “Who said you did? I’m just trying to show you, I can’t stand anybody doing bad to you. Man or woman.”

  Donello cocked his head. “You done something to that DA lady?”

  “So far I just took her picture.” Brie sniffed. Tears welled up in his eyes. “Tell me you ain’t fooling with nobody, man. I can’t stand that.”

  “I done told you …” Donello trailed off. All he needed was a big queer scene right here in front of everybody. He forced his tone to be gentle. “No, man, I wouldn’t do that to you. Some things are permanent, you know?”

  When his visit was over, Donello rattled the door for the guard, waited five minutes, then rattled again. Finally the deputy came, ambling along, taking his time, and admitted Donello back into the innards of the jail. Donello returned to his workstation, picked up his mop, and began to scrub the floor. His mind was working furiously. For now his thoughts centered on Bradford Brie; Donello had even forgotten the punk.

  Wilfred Donello now had information about a murder which had come down, and his sentencing was still three weeks away. He’d never been a snitch in his life, but he’d never been looking at a twenty-five-year minimum, either. He still could cut a deal, he was sure of that, but he was considering the proper timing.

  The wad of gum was still stuck to the painted concrete. Donello bent to dig at the tacky mass with his thumbnail. Be nice, Donello thought, if I could wait until Brie gets through with what he has in mind for the lawyer lady. Everything would be damn near perfect if I could hold off until then.

  10

  Sharon had a guilt trip over deserting Melanie for the law library on Saturday, so on Sunday she took her daughter and Trish Winston to Six Flags over Texas. Sharon did a lot of things outside the budget for Melanie—the cost of a trip to Six Flags for three never fell short of a hundred-dollar bill—and often wondered if she was spoiling the child. She was enough of a self-analyst to realize that her generosity had a lot to do with hustling to make up for Melanie’s lack of a father, and she watched her daughter’s relationship with other children very closely for signs that Melanie might be turning into a brat. So far Sharon hadn’t seen any telltale evidence that she was ruining her daughter, and until she did notice such signs, she wasn’t going to worry about it. Raising children, Sharon thought, was one continuous knock on wood.

  Sunday marked the first time in the year in which the temperature reached ninety degrees, and the amusement park teemed with girls in shorts and halter tops—most of them showing pale wintertime skin ripe for a bitch of a sunburn—and husky teenage boys in tank tops and loud Bermudas. Sharon wore thin white cotton slacks, Nikes, and a pale green summer blouse, and finally relented to let Melanie drag out the hand-me-down jean cutoffs. To escape the heat as much as possible, Sharon kept Melanie and Trish on the log and canoe rides. The long slides and final drenching plunges into water did provide cooling relief, but by mid-afternoon Sharon’s hair had twisted into damp, tangly clumps. Melanie and Trish ate three funnel cakes apiece, covered with strawberry compote and powdered sugar, and for once Sharon said to hell with her waistline and had two of the delicious cakes herself.

  Later in the day, Sharon let the girls ride the Texas Chute Out and Shockwave roller coaster on their own while she sat them out on a bench in the shade. For one thing, mommy was pooped, and though she’d never admit it to the kids, rides which sent one high in the air to do loop-de-loops and teeth-rattling dips scared mommy to death. Furthermore, sitting all alone while Trish and Melanie whooped it up on the rides gave Sharon time to think about the Rathermore case and what she’d found out the day before at the library. Dammit, she just knew she was right. The first thing tomorrow morning she was going to make an all-out assault on Russell Black, doing her damnedest to convince the older lawyer to give her the go-ahead sign.

  It was while the kids were on the roller coaster when the first strange chill hit her. Sharon was seated on the green wooden bench along with a plump lady in pink britches and what looked to be half of a grammar school class, little boys and girls who twisted and turned and just wouldn’t be still. Two hundred yards away, the Shockwave whipped through one of its double upside-downers. Sharon squinted to pick out Melanie and Trish, but saw only a jumble of waving arms, as though the roller coaster car was a hundred-legged insect.

  Sharon was suddenly cold. Ice cold. Goose bumps raised instantly on her forearms and she shivered.

  The feeling passed in seconds. Sharon looked all around, at a man selling red, green, and blue helium-filled balloons which tugged upward against restraining strings; at a woman in a yellow straw sun hat; at a child whose ice cream had melted all over his hand. Just the normal Six Flags crowd, parents worn to a frizzle and kids yelling for more. It’s only a sinking spell, Sharon thought.

  The second blast of icy coldness struck around eight o’clock, as Sharon walked between Melanie and Trish through the amusement park’s self-serve parking lot. It was almost dark; the overhead fluorescent lights shone brightly from silver poles. After the tumult of Six Flags, the parking lot was strangely silent. Sharon’s Volvo was between a station wagon and a pickup truck, just fifty yards away.

  The coldness shot through Sharon’s being like a giant icicle. She stopped in her tracks and looked fearfully around, seeing no one. Melanie looked curiously at her mother. Sharon grabbed both little girls by the hand, and the threesome sprinted for the Volvo. When they reached the car, both Melanie and Trish nearly collapsed with giggles.

  As Sharon poked the key into the door lock, she continued to scan the dimness warily. It had to be her imagination. But just for a second there, Sharon had been certain that someone unseen was watching her.

  11

  A spring cool front blew into Dallas early Monday morning, and with it brought fearsomely boiling clouds, thunder blasts, and buckets of rain. In nearby Rockwall, Texas, a cyclone touched down, knocked over a trailer park and drive-in grocery, then twisted merrily on its way. Sharon awoke around four as lightning illuminated the sky like daytime, followed in a half second by thunder which rattled the windows. She buried her head beneath her pillow and snuggled down among the covers, and the steady drumbeat of rain lulled her back to sleep in minutes.

  With sheets of water cascading from the rooftops, wild lovemaking filled Sharon’s wee-hour dreams. She often had such dreams when it rained, and always her lover was faceless. A muscular male dream body appeared, its features hidden in shadow, to stroke her endlessly; first with gentle, then, as she writhed under his touch, frenzied hands. Finally the dream man mounted her with tender-violent thrusts which left her giddy with ecstasy. Rolling thunder accompanied her final jaw-clenching orgasm.

  The radio alarm woke her for good at six-thirty to David Allan Coe’s tenor with twangy guitars in the background. She dressed in semi-light as she listened to the morning traffic reports on Country 96.3. It was pouring outside, and driving downtown was going to be a nightmare.

  She woke Melanie twenty minutes earlier than normal, and pressured the eleven-year-old through breakfast. Commander didn’t help matters much, the buff-colored shepherd sitting beside the table with his head cocked in a begging attitude. The second time that Sharon caught Melanie slipping the dog a chunk of buttered toast under the table, she brought the activity to a screeching halt. She grasped Commander’s collar firmly and ushered the shepherd onto the back porch, there to cower and whimper under the overhanging roof. I suppose this makes me the original Hard-Hearted Hannah, Sharon thought. She then contributed to Commander’s delinquency by tossing him a chunk of toast herself, and finally hustled Melanie into clean Guess’ jeans and a gray Harvard University sweatshirt. Convincing the child that she’d catch pneumonia if she didn’t wear her bright red rain slicker and overshoes required more pressure from mommy.

  By quarter to eight sh
e had Melanie deposited into the Volvo’s backseat and, squinting to peer past the thunking windshield wiper, drove down to stop in front of Sheila’s and beep the horn. Trish came charging through the rain, pink rubber splashing sidewalk water, and dived in alongside Melanie. The two girls then twisted and giggled all the way to school, and once Sharon came within inches of rear-ending a blue Dodge pickup after turning her head to threaten the little darlings with mayhem. Finally she sat at the curb and sighed with relief as the kids dashed madly for the cover of St. Thomas Episcopal. The private school was a drain on Sharon, just as it was on Sheila, but the two young mothers had agreed in countless bull sessions that private school beat the alternative, Dallas Independent School District, hands down. Just the previous week at a public middle school, a seventh-grader had shot the playground coach. Her carpool duties over for the day, Sharon pointed the Volvo’s nose to the southwest and made her determined way downtown. Sheila would pick up and keep the kids at her place until Sharon got home; Sharon felt deep guilt that Sheila bore the heaviest childcare load. But Sheila didn’t seem to mind a bit, which, Sharon thought, was what real friends were all about.

  She wanted to park in the covered converted gas station across from the office, but decided that six-fifty a day was too steep even in a frigging blizzard. She left the Volvo in a two-buck lot across the freeway south of downtown, then sloshed through a nine-block trek in heavy drizzle with her head bent beneath her umbrella and her loaded briefcase bouncing off her raincoat. During the walk she decided that the six-fifty might well have been worth it.

  Once at the office, Sharon paused just inside the entry, held the umbrella out the door, and shook off what water she could. She hung her slicker on her hall tree, dropped the umbrella’s curved handle over a hook, and found the Mr. Coffee in the utility room. The pot was filthy, Russell Black apparently being a dump-the-dregs-and-fill-it-back-up man, so Sharon attacked with soap and water. Finally, with hot brown liquid dribbling and making steam rise, she lugged her briefcase in to the Xerox and copied her research work. For the next half hour Sharon watched sheets of water jelly the windowpanes as the green fluorescent moved back and forth, back and forth, with a series of dull clunks. After she’d made a duplicate set of research notes for Black, she went into her office to sit, silently rehearse her argument to go ahead with her Midge Rathermore defense project, and, for the most part, twiddle her thumbs.