Blood in the Lake

by Anne L. Simon

TOM AND I had been seeing each other casually for over two months. Brother Andry, the genial proprietor at Lagniappe, now greeted us by name. We danced to Beausoleil at the Gumbo Cookoff, but mostly we tried to meet in Lafayette for dinner and a movie to keep the office chatter to a minimum. Tom came to Baton Rouge to tail-gate for homecoming. I caught myself talking about him without realizing I was doing so. The lift in Mom’s eyebrows told me she noticed.

  One night at dinner in mid-November, Tom seemed unusually quiet. I asked him what he had on his mind. Just work, he said. He’d spent the day starting to dig into preparation for the trial of Remmy Richard. The set of his jaw told me he hadn’t left his work behind.

  “You have an interesting family, Mandy, and there sure are plenty of ‘em. I gasped when I saw that picture of your grandfather’s eightieth birthday hanging in the hall of the old house. No wonder we have a crowd every time the case comes to court. I envy you. Y’all have so much fun with each other.”

  “Fun?” I chuckled. “Some, yes. But it’s not all fun. We fuss, complain about each other, and we’ve been known to let the sparks fly like a bunch of Italians. Right now Uncle Ti is on the outs with his brother Etienne over a tractor ‘Tienne borrowed and ran without enough oil. Aunt Mazie keeps offering her sister Tut unsolicited advice about Burt, Jr. Mazie thinks she’s giving Tut news about her son’s drug use when, in fact, Aunt Tut has been coping with that problem for over two years. Advice about someone’s children is always a bad idea. As the World Turns, Boudreaux style.”

  Tom wasn’t picking up my light mood.

  “I’ve spent some time watching y’all interact, Mandy, and it seems the family lets Ti Pierre speak out. Is he the one who makes the decisions?”

  “Hell, no. He’s an embarrassment, to tell the truth. The sibs blow him off. Mom steps in when it matters. You’ll notice she’s the one organizing those family meetings.”

  “So your Mom is the real decision maker?”

  “In some ways, she is. But she doesn’t tell anyone what to do.”

  “What about your Uncle Etienne. He doesn’t have a lot to say.”

  “You got that right. But when he talks, everyone listens.”

  “So, you’re saying if I need an answer about something, I’ll have to deal with each family member individually?”

  Where was Tom going with this grilling to ferret out the family pack leader? Was he skirting around something?

  “Sorry about that, Tom. The short answer is yes. We’re a pretty independent lot.”

  “Actually, one-on-one is better.” Tom sat back in his chair, still all business. “The first date set for Richard’s trial is only a couple months away, although I’m pretty sure the fixing will be bumped a month or two.” The little furrow between his eyebrows deepened. “I can just hear Ti Pierre giving me the business over that.”

  “Yup, he’ll scream.”

  “The evidence is looking very good, but although everyone complains about how long it takes for the wheels of justice to grind, a cooling off period is probably a good idea. Emotion shouldn’t be the driving force in the courtroom.”

  I still didn’t know where he was going. So I asked. “What answers are you looking for anyway?”

  “Right now I’m thinking about who I might want to put on the stand to testify at the trial.”

  “Wait a minute. The family will have to testify? What do we know about what happened?”

  “A jury needs to care about the victim’s family. I’d like to have your mother and your Uncle Bub, if he can do it, take the stand to tell the jurors what they did when they realized your PawPaw was missing. Their account lets me get some sympathetic trial testimony in the back door. And in the penalty phase, if we have to go there, I don’t yet know who I might want on the stand to speak about the family’s loss.”

  “I think this will be a surprise to the family, and not a welcome one. We’re all riding along thinking we’re mere spectators of the whole process. Remember you told them the jury makes the decision?”

  Tom rubbed one hand over his face. “Yeah, I remember. All too well. That was my first day on this case. Faced with that room full of your family, I just wanted to say something and get the meeting over with. Maybe I made a mistake there.”

  “Or maybe that was a good way to start. They don’t know you. You had to convince them they had a prosecutor who would try his damnedest to get Richard the punishment he deserves.”

  “Right. I didn’t want them to think I didn’t have my heart in my work. My hope is that as they get to know me better they’ll have confidence in my decisions, whatever they may be.”

  This conversation was making me uneasy.

  “What decisions? Like who you want to put on the stand?”

  “Yeah. But there are other things they need to understand about the case.”

  “Like what?” I asked.

  Tom took a deep breath. “Like juries can be crazy. You can never be certain what a jury will decide. I lost my first case and learned a valuable lesson.”

  I prodded Tom to tell me more.

  “Right after Hurricane Rita—you remember Katrina’s caboose—we had a lot of Mexican workers here, mostly undocumented, doing clean-up. One night one of them took a knife to his wife at a party at the Iberia Inn. The defense was willing to have him plead guilty and go away for a short time, maybe enough time for his wife to find a new life away from his abuse, and be deported. Knowing he’d be back over the border in a matter of weeks, I wouldn’t go along. I tried him for attempted murder. The jury listened to lots of witnesses who could barely speak English. They muddied everything up. The verdict? Not Guilty. Talking to the jurors later, I learned they just didn’t give a damn about what a bunch of illegals did in their spare time. I care about my victims, consider them my clients., and am committed to serve them to the best of my ability. That time I didn’t. I’ve often wondered if the woman went back to her husband. If so, she’s probably no longer alive. Lesson learned—a bird in the hand.”

  I thought I understood what Tom was talking about. I learned in the DA’s office in Baton Rouge that getting convictions is harder than it looks. Jurors watch CSI and expect scientific proof. Without that, you need really powerful witnesses.

  Tom continued. “A death penalty trial is an incredible ordeal. Only one person has been executed in Louisiana in the past ten years and that only happened because the poor wretch said he was tired of living and asked to die. His lawyers honored his wishes and took a dive. But if a defendant puts up any fight at all, the post-conviction process goes on forever. And you know, it isn’t only an ordeal for the lawyers. The family has to relive the experience at the trial, and then go through the years of post-conviction hearings, again and again. No closure. Once emotions simmer down a bit, families are often open to thinking about ending the process.”

  “Wait a minute. Are you going to ask the family to agree to accept some plea?”

  “Definitely not yet, if ever. Now, I just want them to understand what we’re up against.”

  “I can’t see them backing down, especially if you need every one of them to agree. Actually, I can’t conceive of everyone in the family having the same opinion about anything. You bring all that up now, and they’re just going to think you’re a wimp.”

  Me included.

  “Exactly. And that’s why I haven’t yet mentioned plea agreement. No hurry, but in preparation for the possibility, and just because I want to serve the family, I want to know each one better. And they need to know me.”

  “All sixty four?”

  Now Tom’s mood lightened.

  “Hell, no. Just the eight children. That’s all I can handle.”

  “Even Uncle Ti Pierre? That should be fun.”

  “Yes, even Ti Pierre. He needs to see what’s ahead and maybe get some understanding that the world isn’t black and white.”

  I found a corner in my mind to remember this conversation, and told myself to listen more carefully to the family
talk. Except for one casual reference from Dora, I don’t think anyone had even considered anything but a capital prosecution. All I heard was ‘go get ‘em.’

  Actually, that’s where I was as well.

  * * *

  A month later, mid-December, Tom called from work on a Thursday afternoon.

  “I think I can make it to your place by 6:45, Mandy. I’ll check in again when I’m close.”

  Tom and I had realized we both liked college basketball. He’d once mentioned coming over to Baton Rouge for the first game of the season, but the conversation had been casual. I didn’t know if we had a firm date. Apparently Tom didn’t talk just to hear himself. I didn’t either, and that may be good or bad. Some people have unflattering names for my list making and careful calendaring of tasks.

  The basketball game promised to be a good one, a reprise of last year’s SEC conference final that Arkansas had won with a last second free throw.

  Tom made it across the Basin fifteen minutes early. He gave me a friendly kiss on the cheek, but even that gave me a warm flush.

  We walked through the campus gates, across the parking lots, and up the ramp at the Pete Maravich Assembly Center—Pete’s Palace. The facility once deserved the royal designation but now looked more like a commoner’s dwelling. Other SEC teams had magnificent new basketball arenas, but I loved the intimacy of the old place—and the fact that tickets for students were virtually free. All through school I’d found the games a great way to escape.

  A barrage of three point shots sent Arkansas out to an early lead. We scored, but never a three-pointer. Time and again, our nimble point guard sneaked back door, took the ball underneath the basket, and then either laid it up or kicked it out to the off-guard who had shaken his man with a flurry of deft passes. Tom kept punching his fist into the palm of his other hand as we traded two points for their three and stayed behind, but I wasn’t worried.

  “Easy, Tom. Look how our guys dominate in the paint.”

  Sure enough, the Arkansas long range shots stopped connecting, and we caught up. The score seesawed back and forth until half-time.

  To the deafening sound of the PA system, the tiger mascot plummeted down from the overhead scoreboard, the Golden Girls gyrated in their black tights and sequined tops, and Pete’s Palace rocked. Tom took my hand.

  “Let’s take a walk. I need to cut the tension.”

  His touch had the opposite effect on me.

  The lead changed twelve times during the second half of the game. Tom and I cheered and yelled as loud as anyone—except those red-clad Arkansas fans in snout masks shouting ‘Soo-ee.’ One team went ahead two points, then the other. With two minutes to go in the game and the score tied at 63-63, LSU took a timeout.

  I stood up and rolled my shoulders to work the knots out of my neck. “I need a timeout too,” I told Tom.

  The last two minutes of any basketball game can last fifteen. Intentional fouls, timeouts to ice a newbie on the line for a free throw, at least one good argument over a call. This evening our coach picked up a technical for which we paid dearly in a couple of free throws and loss of possession. I could see the headline in the sports section tomorrow. Coach Thomas’s Temper Tanks Team. Got to have that alliteration.

  At minus twenty seconds, with Arkansas one point ahead, the ball in the hands of red and white, not purple and gold, all seemed lost. Tom and I both sat back preparing to accept disappointment. Then our point guard stole the ball. We sprang to our feet and held our breath. Coach Thomas entwined the fingers of both hands on top of his bald head, a sign he had offered up the outcome to a higher power.

  “All the way in for a two pointer!” Tom screamed, along with half the fans in the arena, hoping the point guard wouldn’t panic and attempt a three pointer from too far out—and miss.

  With the time clock showing one second to go, the point guard got off a shot. The ball rolled and rolled around the rim, and dropped through the hoop.

  Our customary reserve towards each other vanished in the emotional release of the unexpected victory. Tom threw his arms around my shoulders. We danced up and down with the rest of the LSU crowd. Suddenly, we were still. Tom held me for a moment, then pulled his right hand back and tipped up my chin to kiss me gently on the lips. When we straightened up, I sensed a definite change in the air between us.

  Later, sitting in the Pastime with mugs of cold beer before us on the table, we were strangely quiet.

  “Shrimp po-boy?” Tom asked me.

  “Oh, no! Not this time of year, Tom. Oyster. The seasons for basketball and oysters are the same, you know. The perfect combination.”

  Tom got up and went to the counter to place our order. When he came back to the table I returned to the topic we had both put on hold. My family.

  “Have you decided to talk to my aunts and uncles one at a time, Tom?”

  “Yes. In front of the others, no one wants to be labeled as someone letting the victim down. But singly, maybe I can get somewhere.”

  A speck of doubt about Tom’s principles pricked my brain. I pushed away my beer mug. Where was it he wanted to go?

  “So why are you giving me the side eye?” Tom asked.

  “Am I hearing the interrogation technique of getting two witnesses separated and telling each that the other has spilled everything? You do things like that?”

  “No, no.” Tom smiled; a deep dimple dented his chin. “I just want each one to talk to me without the influence of someone else in the room. There’s no hurry about this. As the process goes on, I look for opportunities to gain their confidence. If they know me, they’ll feel more comfortable keeping me up to date. I’m not only looking for answers. I need to get to know each family member and figure out what makes him tick.”

  OK. I accepted that—probably because I wanted to.

  “Tell me about your Uncle Bub, Mandy. How’s he doing? He’s the one who seems to be having the most trouble handling the loss.”

  Tom showed sensitivity and obvious concern for the most fragile member of the family. I liked that.

  “He’s not doing well, Tom. Bub and his father were inseparable, you know, especially since Mama B died. Our lives are pretty much the way they were before, but not Bub’s. His whole world changed. PawPaw kept him going. Most days now he just sits and watches TV.”

  Should I be telling personal stuff to someone who isn’t family? The District Attorney represents the State, but he represents the victims as well. That made Tom our lawyer. I should be free to tell our lawyer everything, right?

  I wanted to.

  “Bub moved in with Mom and Dad the first night PawPaw went missing. Over two months and he hasn’t once spent the night in the barbecue house. He sleeps in our house, in my brother Emile’s old room. And he doesn’t go to his work at the sheriff’s office but maybe once or twice a week. I notice that if he doesn’t go in, they don’t even call. This is not good for him. When he sits still for a few hours, his stiffness gets worse. At this rate he’ll be back in the wheelchair before we know it. I’m glad PawPaw can’t see him like this.”

  Tom waited for me to speak again. Something else I liked about Tom, he knew when to say nothing.

  “Mom tells me Bub has been waking up in the middle of the night. I don’t hear him, but she does. Bub tells her he sees PawPaw standing by his bed, just standing there, in a grey fog, and the vision terrifies him. After a few seconds, Bub realizes he’s dreaming and begins to shake, trying to wake himself up. He can’t. Mom sometimes finds him gasping for breath and whimpering like a puppy until he drifts off again.”

  Tom reached out and took my hand. “Mandy, you know we have counseling for victims. I could arrange...”

  “Now I’ll give you an example of our crazy family dynamics. Mom wants to have Bub see someone, but Uncle Ti says we don’t need any shrinks messing in our private business. Then Uncle ‘Tienne agrees. ‘Tienne says he had to go to a psychiatrist after he returned from Vietnam, and the guy was a jerk. All in all, Mom i
s losing a lot of sleep right now. No, Tom. We’re not a perfect family.”

  “But you care a lot about each other. My brother has two boys, and I only see ‘em a couple of times a year. I really don’t know them at all.”

  “Tell me about your family, Tom. Do they still live up there on the cotton farm in Shangaloo?”

  “No, we have almost no one left. My parents sold the farm when I was in college and moved into a retirement complex in town. Too bad. Now they say there’s oil and gas under the whole damn place. But Mom and Dad don’t dwell on what might have been. They seem happy enough to do little more than play bridge and take a weekly minivan trip to the mall. I have only the one brother, and he moved to Memphis. So you see, I don’t have much to go home to. I go up maybe once a month, and frankly, it’s a chore.”

  Our number came up on the board, and Tom went after our sandwiches. We were quiet for awhile, sinking our teeth into the crusty bread, fat oysters coated with the fabulous Pastime batter and just a squirt of spicy mayonnaise.

  “You know, Tom, each one of the family brings his own back-story to the issue of the death penalty. Their experiences are probably a better predictor of their ultimate position than the statements they’ll make right now.”

  “Very perceptive, my dear. There’s good evidence to that effect, and that’s exactly the reason I want to get to know your family. I’d like to learn those back stories. What about you, Mandy? Are you in favor of the death penalty?”

  It took me a moment to answer.

  “I never thought so before, Tom. But now, when the victim is my own family? I have a different perspective. I know the arguments backwards and forwards, but it all looks different when it’s your loved one who was murdered. No one really knows how they’d feel in a vacuum. If there were some alternative...”

  “I know. I get angry when I think about a murderer continuing to live when someone’s loved one is gone.”

  “What about you, Tom? Are you for it?”

  “I can’t say one way or the other. I took an oath to follow the law, and the law provides for the death penalty for the worst of the worst. That’s OK with me. We’ve got some bad characters out there. But I’m fast coming to the point where I think the burden on the State to get from here to there is overwhelming. As for Remuald Richard, I’m convinced he’s a very bad guy. But, oh the agony of taking him to the end of the road! It’s my job, but it’s a tough one.” Tom paused. “Do you know the defense lawyer, Sarah Bernard?”