by Alter, Judy
As if by rote, I recited, “The fireplace is the original tile, with decorative tiles inserted. It’s flanked by the traditional bookshelves on either side, but this one has a more decorative mantel than most of this era—the mantel is oak and carved, and the bookshelves, as you see, are a matching oak. Usually in these houses, they’re painted pine.”
“Yes, it’s quite attractive.”
“This is not a wood-burning fireplace and can never be,” I cautioned. “It’s not deep enough. But it can hold a gas stove, which is what it did in the old days, or a small set of gas logs. If you don’t want to carry out ashes, that’s an advantage.”
“Certainly.” A slight pause. “Ms. O’Connell, I’d like to buy this house.”
You haven’t even asked the price, and I don’t know what I’m going to ask for it when I’m done. Aloud, I said, “I can’t sell it in this state. I have to finish the renovation.” Her imperious manner brought out my stubborn streak.
“I’ll have my people finish it.”
My people. I hated the phrase. “Mrs. North, I want to sell this house. I want very much to sell it. But I won’t, until I’m satisfied with its appearance. I’m sorry. If you can wait six months….”
“I can’t.”
“Well, then we’ll just have to keep looking for other houses for you.”
Mrs. North gave me a black look, and we rode back to the office in silence. When she left, my client said, “Let me know if you change your mind. I’ll give you $400,000 for it.” And she was gone.
I gulped. The most I could hope for from the house was $250,000, if Anthony was as magic as I thought he could be. I went inside and sat at my desk for a long time, staring into space, thinking about the strangeness of the morning. Why would Mrs. North be willing to pay so much for a house in Fairmount? Why did she want it so badly, if it was for her elderly parents? It had to have something to do with the skeleton, but what was the connection?
Keisha looked over at me and said, “You thinkin’ deep thoughts?”
“Not deep. Puzzled.”
“That woman was something else. Came in here like she owned the place.” Keisha was quick to add, “I was polite. But I didn’t like her.”
I didn’t either. Doesn’t she have any identity besides Mrs. Jerry North? There was a lot about Mrs. North I didn’t know…and I knew just the person to ask.
I picked up the phone and dialed the Star-Telegram. “Martha Blackman, please.” I met the feature writer at several social events, and we’d hit it off. Still, I felt impertinent calling her.
“Martha Blackman.” The voice was businesslike.
“Martha? It’s Kelly O’Connell. I’m in real estate and we’ve met….”
“Kelly, of course. How are you?”
“I’m fine, and you?”
“Fine. What can I do for you?”
“I…well, I have a question about someone you might know. I just met a woman who introduced herself as Mrs. Jerry North and never gave me a first name. And there were several things about her that were puzzling. I thought you might know her.”
At the other end of the line, Martha Blackman chuckled. “So you’ve met Jo Ellen.”
“That’s her name?”
“Yeah, and don’t quote me, but she’s a dragon lady.”
“Well, I thought so, but I wasn’t sure. She wants to move her parents to Fairmount.”
“Why ever?” The voice was incredulous. “I don’t know who her parents are, but Jo Ellen has a huge home in Westover—she could move five families in there and not be crowded.”
The initials M.W.M. flashed into my mind. I was sure it was a wild guess, but she asked, “You don’t know who her parents are?”
“No. Jo Ellen and Jerry support all the right causes—Jewel Charity Ball, Zoo Ball, all that stuff, but they’re very private. They don’t give parties themselves or any of that.”
“You suppose she would have been a deb in her day?”
“Probably.”
“How would I find out?”
A great sigh. “You’d have to go back through old newspapers—thirty years ago, give or take, and watch for articles about debs. The Assembly probably keeps records, but they might not want to release them. Or you could look in wedding notices. Either one would take you a long time.”
I paled at the thought of endless hours of research. “Okay. Thanks. You’ve been a help.”
Martha laughed. “You going to tell me the whole story?”
“When I figure it out. But I don’t think it will make a feature for you. Thanks.” And I hung up. Maybe a feature for the local crime pages.
I went to see Anthony, tomorrow’s dealings with Joe Mendez much on my mind. Anthony was at work but still on the kitchen. I wondered if the kitchen would ever be finished so he could move on to the rest of the house.
As if he read my mind, he said, “I have plasterers coming tomorrow to work on the walls in the rest of the house, restore the original plaster. And the painters are scheduled. We’ll get there, Miss Kelly, but I don’t know how soon.” He shrugged. “The kitchen? It’s the most difficult. You order new appliances?”
I said yes. I didn’t even want to think about the dollars ticking away. If I was going to break even, I should sell this house within a month, and there was no way that was going to happen. “Anthony, I need to talk to Theresa tonight, absolutely must.”
“I bring her to your house.”
“Anthony, I have to talk to her in private.”
He gave me a long look, but he worked for me for several years, and he trusted me. “Okay. I bring her and leave. Come back when you tell me.”
“I can come get her….”
“You got the kids to worry about, and you shouldn’t be in our neighborhood alone after dark. I bring her. What time?”
“Six? I’ll give her dinner.”
“Okay. The boys and I will get a hamburger while you talk. They’ll like that.”
I smiled. “Thanks.”
Theresa arrived at six. I fixed chicken piccata, buttered noodles, and broccoli. I’d noticed already that in this house I felt more like cooking. As I dished out plates for the girls, I said, “Why don’t you eat in front of the TV in my room tonight? Special treat.”
They whooped with delight, though Em said, “Theresa, will you come kiss me goodbye before you leave?”
“Yes, Em, I will. And I’ll get a hug from Maggie, if she’ll give it to me.”
Maggie just smiled, suddenly shy, and they were gone down the hall.
“Theresa, I need to talk to you.”
A guarded look. “That’s what Dad said.”
“Tomorrow I am meeting with the prosecutor and then going to the sentencing hearing for Joe. He’s admitted to the vandalism. The kidnapping charge is not involved, since you didn’t press charges.”
“Are you going to press charges?” Her look was even more guarded, edging, toward hostility.
“I don’t know.” I spread my hands in a gesture of uncertainty. “I need you to tell me the truth about Joe. What kind of person is he? How do you feel about him? Is he just rotten through and through, or is there…oh, you know, some hope of turning him around?”
“Did he tell you why he did the vandalism?”
“Yes. My ex was paying him.”
Theresa nodded. “Joe told me. He bragged about it, and I told him he was dumb to do it and mean to frighten the girls.” She looked stricken for a moment. “And you too, of course. But I was more worried about the girls.”
“What did he say?”
“He said it was harmless, and nothing bad would happen. But then that’s what he said the night he persuaded me to go with him to North Side.”
“He didn’t kidnap you? You went willingly?”
She hung her head. “Yeah, Miss Kelly. I went with Joe, but then he left—and that’s when I got scared. He promised me it would be all right, but he was wrong. It wasn’t guys that hurt me—it was girls, but their boyfriends che
ered for them. And Joe later got into a fight with two of them.”
I remembered Joe’s black eye and bruises the day of the garage sale.
“I know Joe has a lot of faults, and he needs to straighten up, but I love him. My father would be furious if I said that to him.”
It was just what I’d suspected. I thought it would do no good to ask how she could love someone who would do those things. “Don’t say it for a while,” was all I could say to her.
“Joe’s never had a chance,” Theresa went on. “He didn’t have a dad like mine, who taught him right from wrong. His dad disappeared when he was little, and his mom, she works all the time, and she’s tired, and she doesn’t pay any attention to what he does. He’s grown up without rules.”
“Do you think…is he basically a good person?” What a dumb question.
Theresa chewed on her lip. “I’m not ready to give up on him yet. If he gets worse, yeah, I’ll move on. But for now, Joe’s what I want.”
“Okay. I think I know what I’ll do, and you’ve reassured me. But I won’t give him a total pass. I’ll help in the way I think is best.”
Theresa looked at her. “Miss Kelly, I’m like my dad. I trust you.”
“Okay, eat your dinner. It’s getting cold.”
****
The Tarrant County jail was a grim place, in spite of its modern construction and sleek red brick exterior walls. I found myself in a waiting room with tiled walls and concrete floor, telling the receptionist at a barred window why I was there. She directed me with a bored wave of the hand to one of the stackable dull grey plastic chairs that lined the room. I waited for about ten minutes—Okay, I’m ten minutes early because I’m uncertain about this whole thing and want to get it over.
A young man rushed in, and I recognized Larry Ashford, even though I’d only talked to him on the phone. He had the same harried air about him that I’d heard in his voice. He was older than I’d thought, maybe early thirties, but he wore the requisite blue suit, light blue chambray shirt, and red tie with a small pattern. “Ms. O’Connell? Kelly? I’m sorry if I’ve kept you waiting. I just couldn’t get out of the office, the phone….”
I cut off his wandering apology, rising and holding out my hand. “It’s okay. I was early. Let’s go see Joe Mendez.” I thought I showed a bit of bravado I didn’t feel.
We rode an elevator to the fifth floor, where, he explained, there were offices and “meeting” rooms. The jail cells were above. We stepped off the elevator into drabness—hallways painted an institutional color somewhere between gray and green, offices with windows covered by blinds. Larry Ashford led the way to a receptionist desk, where we signed in and were told what room to go to. He seemed to know his way around and took me to the proper room. He knocked on the door, and I heard a gruff, “Come in.”
“I’ll stay, if that’s all right,” Larry Ashford whispered.
I nodded. I couldn’t have said no at that point, if I’d wanted to.
Joe sat at a scarred Formica table, wearing the orange jumpsuit of an inmate. His hands were cuffed, which made me want to cry out that wasn’t necessary. Joe’s head hung down, and he didn’t look at me. A burly sheriff’s deputy stood at one side of the room, his hands clasped in front of him. He nodded at us, and I guessed he was trying to look inconspicuous.
Ashford held a chair for me, and I sat opposite Joe. Ashford sat at the end of the table and leaned back, as though he were an observer.
Okay, you asked for this meeting, and now it’s yours to handle. “Joe, could you look at me?”
He raised his head, and I saw that his bruises were faded, his black eye much better. “Why’d you come here? Theresa send you?”
“No. I came because …oh, I don’t know why I came, to tell the truth. I think you did some awful things—to me, my girls, to Theresa—but I don’t think you’re that bad a person, and I don’t know that I want you to go to Huntsville or wherever.”
He stared at me, clearly amazed. “I thought you’d want me locked up for years. Thought that was why you’d come.”
“No, I came to talk to you, to ask you why? You know Theresa won’t press charges for the kidnapping, but it’s up to me to decide what to do about the vandalism. It’s not as serious a charge as kidnapping, but you’d still go to jail. And right now you’re under suspicion of murder, which at the least would send you to Huntsville. None of that is as awful to me as the threats that were made to my girls.”
“That was the other guys talking. I wouldn’t have done that, and I wouldn’t have let them do anything.” He kept his eyes fixed on my face, and, looking at him, I didn’t see evil or malice. Instead I saw, perhaps, confusion. What are you now? A psychiatrist?
I plowed ahead. “I’m not sure I want that to happen. I think maybe you’d come out a worse person than you’d go in.” I saw a flicker of interest at that. “But I believe actions have consequences. I think you need some punishment.”
“So does my mother,” he said, the words mumbled to the point that I wasn’t sure I’d heard them correctly.
“Your mother?”
He nodded. “Yeah, she’s really mad at me.” He sounded like a child who’d been punished.
I turned to Ashford, “Can we talk outside for a minute?”
He nodded and followed me out of the room.
“Seems to me our friend Joe hasn’t gotten a fair shake in life. No one’s taught him about being an upstanding citizen and all that. He was probably beaten when he misbehaved, but no one showed him the right way.”
Ashford nodded, though I could tell he was wondering where this was going.
“If he were given…what do you call it? Deferred adjudication? Would he or could he be required to have some counseling?”
Larry Ashford rubbed his chin with his hand. “It’s not usual, but I suppose it could happen. Once again, it’s up to the judge. But to do that, Joe’s lawyer would have to agree to a plea of no contest. As it is, we’ve got a guilty plea. And, frankly, Kelly”—he didn’t even notice that he’d slipped into using my name—“my head will roll if the plea changes to a lesser one.” He thought a minute. “But under deferred adjudication, he might be required to do community service, and you could request counseling. I don’t know where the judge would go with it.”
“Perfect. Your head can stand to roll a lot better than his,” I told him. Then I turned and went back into the room. “Joe, who’s your lawyer?”
“Some dude…uh, guy…the court appointed. I can’t afford no lawyer.”
Exasperated, I said, “Do you know his name?”
He thought a minute. “Mc…something like that with a Mc in front of it. Uh, McGill, that’s it.” He looked as though he expected approval.
I looked at Ashford. “You know him? Can you get him on the phone in the next fifteen minutes?”
Ashford nodded and left the room, pulling out his cell phone as he did.
Turning back to Joe, I said, “Joe, you need to promise me a couple of things. I’m going to press charges because, as I told you, I think you have to understand the consequences of the things you did to my property—two pieces of my property—and to my life. My sanity, if you will. But I don’t want this to ruin your life. So, if you plead ‘No Contest,’ which means you did it but you aren’t exactly admitting it—I’m no lawyer and I’m on shaky ground here, but I think that’s what it means—the judge will give you, oh, say, six months probation, during which you’ll have to check in with a probation officer, do some community service, and, at my request, get some counseling.”
He stared at me again, and I wasn’t sure he understood all of it.
“Joe, do you understand?”
“I think so, Miss Kelly. Why you do this for me?”
“Because I don’t like to see us add another criminal to our population.” And then I added, “Because you tried to help Theresa. And I’m afraid she loves you.”
His face changed, and he said, as softly as I spoke, “I love Theresa
. But she don’t have nothing to do with what I did.”
“I know that.” Then, rising, “I’ll see you in court,” and I left.
I was drained. I rode down the elevator with Ashford, who was silent. When we reached the main floor, he finally spoke. “I…we need to talk before the hearing. I assume you’ll be there?”
“Oh, yeah, I’ll be there.”
“Where can we talk?”
It was after 11:00 and my stomach was grumbling. “I’m going to La Madeleine and have a Caesar salad, a potato cake, and a glass of wine. Want to come?”
He loosened just a bit. “Yeah, for all of it but the glass of wine. I don’t dare do that.”
“Too bad.”
After we went through the line, got our food and were settled at a table, Ashford said, “Okay, usually I tell the victim what to do. In this case, I guess you’re telling me what you’re going to do.”
“Did you reach Mr. McGill?”
“He’s supposed to call me any minute.”
“Well, you gave me a quick lesson in the law in the hallway, but I told Joe I thought he should plead no contest, with his lawyer’s agreement, of course,” —Ashford put his head in his hands— “and that I wanted to speak both on his behalf and for what I thought should be recommended. Can I do that?”
“Yeah. But I see my career as a D.A. going down the tubes.”
I took a sip of wine. “It can’t be all that bad. You’re saving society from another hardened criminal.”
“We believe in punishment,” he said righteously, and I resisted the urge to laugh.
Chapter Thirteen
The courtroom appearance wasn’t as intimidating as I expected. The room itself was everything a courtroom should be—paneled walls, padded leather seats for spectators, the traditional wooden railing polished to a shine, the two long tables for the defense and prosecution, and of course the judge’s wooden bench.
Ashford ushered me to the prosecutor’s table on the right and showed me a seat, but when black-robed Judge Sullivan entered, we all stood. I thought it went pretty much like TV shows, with the judge calling for the plea—“No contest.” But then the judge turned to Ashford and asked, “Does the prosecution wish to speak?”