Blood in the Lake

by Anne L. Simon

  Right on, Sarah. I’d heard she called her baby blue MG “my melancholy baby.”

  “Just after five-thirty, a pickup so beat-up I couldn’t tell what color it once was, pulled in and parked on a patch of shells under a big pecan tree at the far end of the Dubois trailer. A man and a woman got out of the truck. I stepped up quickly and intercepted them as they reached the concrete steps leading up to the door. I called Bev by name and asked if I could speak to her a few moments. She stopped, but her husband kept walking right around her like he hadn’t heard me. He shrugged his shoulders, turned his key in the lock, and went inside.”

  I bet Sarah knew a few techniques about questioning a reluctant witness. I thought I might learn something here. Sarah’s extra weapon—being drop-dead gorgeous—wasn’t going to help her any with these folks. She continued.

  “I told Bev I represented her brother and wanted to talk to her. She froze—you’d think she’d seen a ghost or something—and then she let me have it. She said she hadn’t seen her brother in years and didn’t want anything to do with him now or ever. She already had one foot on the bottom step so I slipped around her and sat down on the step above. She was going to have to walk right over me to get to the door. ‘But your pants,’ she blurted out, watching my off-white slacks pick up two black eyes from the good inch of leaves and trash on the step. I smiled and said not a problem. I figured I could cough up for an extra dry cleaning if a woman’s natural abhorrence for dirt helped soften her up.”

  Well over her shaky start, Sarah now warmed to telling her story. She was proud of how she handled a reluctant witness. She told Bev her brother was in a shit-load of trouble, charged with a capital crime. She was going to have to explain him to a jury, tell them who he was. She said Bev just stared at her for a good thirty seconds. ‘You want to know who my brother is? Remuald Richard, that’s who. That’s the son-of-a-bitch’s name.’ Then Bev snorted out a bitter laugh. ‘Fuck! That’s a good one. Son of a real bitch,’ she said. I knew I had a challenge on my hands.”

  I thought back to the story of the detectives’ trip to the projects to visit Sylvia Tolbert, Remmy’s mother. Mommy Dearest hadn’t been at all sure which of her gentlemen friends was his father.

  Sarah continued. “I kept going, asking about growing up in her family. Bev put a hand over her eyes and got philosophical on me. ‘Family, family. You can’t ever seem to get free of your fuckin’ family. When you need ‘em, they lie hidden under a rock. Just when you don’t need ‘em, out they crawl.’ She said many times she prayed she’d never have to hear from a single one of ‘em ever again. With that last statement Bev kind of collapsed onto the step, next to me.”

  Sarah said she gave the interrogation her best shot. She looked Bev straight in the eye and said she had to convince a jury that if her brother did what the DA said he did, he must have had some cause, some reason, some explanation or motivation. She needed to know enough about him to pick men and women for his jury who could relate, who might care about what would happen if he lost his case. She needed jurors who realized that if they’d been dealt his hand, this might have happened to them. She said she told Bev straight out she wanted to save her brother’s life. Silence.

  “Then you know what came back to me in return for all my eloquence?” Sarah asked. “’You want to save my brother’s life? Lady, I’m not sure I do.’”

  Egad!

  Sarah said she told Bev their investigator had found an old address and was working on locating Remmy’s school records. The family seemed to have moved around a lot. “You know that expression eyes wide as saucers?” Sarah asked. “Make that dinner plates. A shudder rippled Bev’s shoulders. ‘Investigator? You people have an investigator? An investigator will be diggin’ into all our shit?’ I had to think quickly how to handle this. Bev was not just slow to cooperate; she seemed genuinely afraid. I told her there’d be no ‘diggin’ if she would just speak to us. Our investigator would leave her family alone and go on to talk to the defendants on the hundred other cases we had.”

  Sarah said Bev came through with an explanation for why they’d moved so much when they were young—to keep one step ahead of the State welfare lady who might take them away from their mom.

  Areas for inquiry were mounting up. Sarah next got to the issue of addictions.

  “I told Bev Remmy said he had a substance abuse problem, and that substance abuse may have been in the family. Bev yelped, tossed back her head, and laughed like the Joker. ‘Substance abuse? My God, lady. We’re all fuckin’ drunks!’”

  Tom seemed to be enjoying Sarah’s story, but I didn’t doubt for a minute his brain cells were clicking away. We weren’t taping, but he’d made a few notes and a few times looked over at me to indicate I should be doing the same. I had written a heading on my yellow pad: Family shit for mitigation. Then I listed quotes under several categories: unstable home, unknown father, family alcohol, previous removal of children (Mom’s info). And I wrote a question. Why is Bev afraid?

  Sarah continued.

  “Then Bev gave me some really good stuff, serious adverse childhood experience, ACE as we call it. I asked when her brother first started drinking. Must have been when he was around six, she thought. Their mom gave him drinks just so she and her boyfriend of the moment could get a laugh watching him stagger. ‘Poor fucker never had a chance,’ Bev said. Bev was three or four years older than Remmy so she must have been about ten when that happened. Bev said her mom had another reason for wanting her to be loaded around the mom’s boyfriends—to stay still for what the men did to her. Nice family, right? I asked Bev if she also had a drinking problem. She set her lips hard and said she’d had eleven months of sobriety and wasn’t going to risk everything she’d accomplished by getting involved with her brother’s shit. Bev stood up and stepped onto the top step, turned and confronted me, her eyes glinting. ‘In the name of God, lady. Will you please lay off?’”

  “Very few of the murderers I prosecute come from the sunny side of the street,” Tom said. Fortunately, no one needed me to say anything at this point. I couldn’t have.

  Sarah said she figured she’d done all she could for the day. She thanked Bev again and told her she was going to find an expert witness who would explain to the jury how a lifetime of alcohol abuse could make a person do things he wouldn’t ordinarily do. She told Bev she wanted to come see her again and asked if perhaps she knew other people who would remember her family when she and Remmy were young—other family members, neighbors, friends. Bev didn’t offer anyone. Sarah said she held out her hand to say good-bye. After a moment, Bev took it. Upset as she was, Bev couldn’t be rude. Her hand felt cold and limp. She turned and opened the door to go inside.

  “Then something interesting. Just before the door closed behind her, Bev looked back and spoke to me. ‘You could tell my brother for me I’m sorry about everything.’ The door slammed shut. Tom, that last comment gave me hope. Bev cared about her little brother. With a few more conversations, I thought she’d agree to help.” Sarah paused. “That was the last time I saw her.”

  Sarah reached for a bottle of water on the library table, twisted off the cap, and swallowed a third of it. Tom and I waited for her to be able to continue.

  Sarah said she got back in her car and used the driveway to turn around. The next door neighbor’s face—the neighbor Mike had told her about—peered out of the little window in her front door. Wide face, a shadow of a mustache over the top lip, but no curlers this time. Sarah flashed a smile and waved. An investment in the future. Sarah had a premonition she might need to talk to the neighbor-lady again. Once out on the highway, Sarah said she slapped the dashboard in excitement. For the first time since she’d met Remmy Richard she thought she had something to go on, a witness who could corroborate early drinking and testify that his mother got him started. Not a defense to the charges, of course—she knew the intoxication defense was just about impossible unless a defendant fell down drunk and accidentally set a gun off on th
e way to the ground—but at least something to talk about in the penalty phase, should she have to go there. ACE and lifetime alcohol abuse could be the basis for an effective argument in mitigation. Bev seemed intelligent and spoke well. With training, Sarah thought Bev could be a good witness for her.

  I wondered why Sarah was spilling out for us all the ammunition she had for the penalty phase. Trying to get Tom’s sympathy? I was really puzzled.

  Sarah said she left Bev’s home with her mind spinning so fast she lost concentration on her driving. Whomp. She felt warning bumps at the edge of the pavement just in time.

  “Bev was telling me to get out of her life, but I know I saw feeling in those dark eyes.”

  Sarah sighed and took another long drink of water. “But then everything turned to shit.” Her voice cracked.

  A couple weeks later, Sarah said, picking her head up from routine trials, she realized she’d let time slide by. She asked Mike to go check on Bev. He reported he sat outside the trailer three different times and found no one. Sarah asked him if he’d checked with the neighbors. No one seemed to be around there either. Three wasted days. Sarah said she screamed at Mike in frustration, regrouped, and said she’d go check it out herself.

  “I told the judge I needed a bit of extra time at lunch for a personal matter. I tore over to Anse Noire on the break, slamming to a stop beside Bev’s front steps. I didn’t try to hide my car this time. No truck in the driveway. A flyer from Domino’s Pizza hung on the doorknob. No answer to my knock. I went to the trailer next door—home of the sponge-roller lady. The door creaked open on the third knock. She appeared. No curlers but the same furry upper lip.”

  Sarah managed a weak smile at her own attempt at levity.

  “I told the neighbor I was looking for Bev Dubois and she didn’t seem to be home. She wasn’t home and she wouldn’t be, the neighbor snapped. I asked about Bev’s husband. He’d gone to see his sister for a few days but was due back the next day. ‘But, lady, I can tell you right now,’ the neighbor said, ‘he’s not going to be overjoyed to see you. You better forget about him.’ The neighbor slammed the door in my face.

  “I went again Wednesday. Still no luck. On the following day, yesterday, I found Spike Dubois at home. He answered the door, called me a few choice names, and actually tried to push me down the steps! I stood my ground. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘I’ll tell you what happened. You oughta know what you did.’ Then he let me have it, with both barrels.

  “After my visit, Spike said, his wife got moody. She referred to me as that damn fancy lawyer-lady who asked her cool as you please to talk about family, just like she was askin’ what did you do in school today. Spike said his wife couldn’t rest at night. She told him she had ‘monkey brain’—couldn’t keep crazy thoughts from jumping around in her head, from tree to tree like a monkey. And then nightmares. She told Spike about some of them. She’d be a young girl, sleeping in the sun after a swim in Lake Palourde. Z-z-z. She’d wake with a start. A big woolly beast would come crashing out of the underbrush. He’d fall on top of her, wide neck pinning her face. She’d twist and turn, struggling to get free. The beast’s paw would close over her mouth. She’d wake with a scream stuck in her throat. Stuff like that. I’m no shrink, Tom, but those are PTSD nightmares. The kind of stuff that haunts someone who’s been through major distress.”

  I could agree with Sarah on that. Tom showed no sign of impatience with Sarah’s long story. After a moment to compose herself, Sarah continued her account of the visit with Spike.

  “Spike said his wife told him none of her dreams actually happened. She never swam in Lake Palourde. There was plenty she could have dreamed about: the men, the music, the pain, the shame. By God, one time her dear mom pimped her to some guy in exchange for a used washing machine! Instead of recalling actual horrors, Bev had these floating, crazy images she tried to catch in her hands and crush out of existence.

  “Spike said about ten days ago his wife didn’t get up to go to her job at the donut shop. She just moaned and dug deeper into her covers. Later he found out why. The evening before, she’d walked down the road to her AA meeting, but she didn’t stop. She kept on walking until she reached the corner store. She bought a bottle of Jack Daniels, came home, and hid it in the shed. In the night, when Spike was snoring, she got up and went for it. A few pulls on the bottle and the soothing syrup sent her back to bed to merciful sleep. She slept all the next day. She confessed to Spike that she’d slipped, but she said it wouldn’t happen again. That night she went to her meeting and came home still sober.

  “Spike said his wife had two good days and two good nights. That’s all. Apparently, when Spike said he told his wife the guy from the lawyer’s office called again and said he wanted to talk to her, she cracked. She took money from his wallet, which he didn’t notice. A couple of days later she said she didn’t feel too good and stayed in bed.

  “About four afternoons later, Spike wasn’t sure exactly how many, he pulled his truck into the driveway after work. Up ahead he noticed something in the big pecan tree at the end of the trailer, next to the shed. Two bare feet, swingin’ free. Bev had propped a ladder against the side of the shed, climbed up on the roof, thrown a rope over a branch, tied the other end around her own neck, and stepped off into oblivion. That’s how Spike found her, hanging there, wide eyes bulging, face swollen and grey, her dirty tennis shoes below her on the ground.”

  Tears came back to Sarah’s eyes. Anger? Regret? Shame? Guilt? Maybe all of the above. I couldn’t put one label on what she was feeling. Tom took in her condition and left the room, returning in a few minutes with three cups of coffee and a plate of donuts on a tray.

  “I’m sorry, Sarah.” Tom spoke softly. He was feeling for her and offered the only solace he could think of. “I’m open to talking to the Boudreaux family about a plea to life for Remmy. No promises, but I could try.”

  Wrong thing to say. Sarah’s chin shot up. She spoke more in anger than any other emotion.

  “No, and hell no! My client is adamant. He denies he was ever around when Pierre Blanchard took the knife. I’m a mess right now, I know it, but believe me I’ll get control of myself and do my job. Remmy knows the risks, but knows what he wants. I’ll fight like hell for not guilty in the guilt/innocence phase.”

  “So he’s still claiming another dude did it? Isn’t that just the defense of last resort?” Tom seemed incredulous.

  Sarah had now totally regained her professional self. “I know you have evidence a jury might buy, Tom, but I think I’ve a damn good shot. Of course,” Sarah’s lips smiled but not her eyes, “I have to be ready for a bad result.”

  “And if you get a bad result?”

  “I’m not done. I’ve lost Bev as my witness in mitigation, and Spike may know stuff but isn’t going to do me any favors because he thinks I’m responsible for his wife’s death. ‘For two cents I’d string you up on the same tree,’ is what he told me. But there’s got to be someone out there who knows their story. I’ve spoken to John Clark, my boss, the chief PD for the district, and he’s opened the purse strings. I’ve some major private investigator talent digging. There were two older children in that family who were taken away by the state of Illinois. I haven’t found them yet, but I will. I know I lost the motion to qualify my guy on cocaethylene, but with time I think I can find an expert who will pass the preliminary qualification, now that I know how important the evidence is. But I’ve got to have some time. Tom, I need a continuance.”

  Tom shook his head. “You’re going to lose your motion for a continuance, Sarah, and I won’t have to say a word against it. SOB will do the job for me. Just like last time.”

  “Not if you join me, Tom.”

  “What? I’ve already told you—”

  “Think about this, Tom. If you get a conviction, and we have to go to the penalty phase, I’ll have pitiful evidence to offer. You’ll be on a fast track to getting the jury to give Remmy the death penalty. However, within a few
more months, you’ll be on just as fast a track to a reversal for incompetent counsel. Incompetent Sarah Bernard didn’t put on any defense, some appeal court will say. If not the State appeal courts, the federal habeas. Think on that for a few minutes. Do you want to retry this case down the road? When I’ve had time to locate witnesses and you may have lost yours? You want to put your victim’s family through this again?”

  Sarah looked at me when she asked that last question.

  Now I understood what Sarah had done and why she’d done it. She’d given us a reasonably good line of evidence in mitigation. If we didn’t allow her the chance to develop it, we’d have denied the defendant a possible defense. Damn clever.

  I almost opened my mouth. Tom’s raised eyebrows told me he also got it, and he probably saw even more than I did. I kept still.

  “I’m asking you again, Tom. Will you join me in the motion to continue?” Sarah asked.

  “I can’t join in your motion, Sarah. The Boudreaux family would eat my lunch. You know these hot potato cases are victim driven. But I have to say, you’ve got one of the better ‘po me’ stories I’ve ever heard. Old SOB might even go for it.”

  I’d never seen Sarah’s face so hard. “I’ve got to give it a good shot. What about we try Richard for the Falgout matter first? He admits the visit to her house, but he denies he did the bad stuff. If you brought a lower charge I might be able to get him to take a plea on that one.”

  “No.” Tom said only that one word.

  After Sarah left, Tom turned to me. “Quite a story.”

  I looked for a bottle of water. I’d been quiet so long my tongue felt like sandpaper.

  “Tough. I feel for her. To be the cause of someone’s death!”