by Reed Arvin
“The odds of that happening?”
He shakes his head. “Pretty much zero,” he says. “Maybe your cat just got in there on his own, Thomas. It might seem like a stretch, but it’s easier to buy than this place being clean.”
I nod. “Yeah,” I say.
But neither of us is buying it; we both feel the violation in the place in our bones. Something malicious is in the air, something willing and able to commit a violent act. We walk back around the corner to the front of the house, when Paul gets a funny look on his face. “When did the cat disappear again?”
“I’m not sure. Two, maybe three days ago.”
He squints a second, then points. “What’s that?” he asks.
I follow his gaze. “Control box for the sprinkler system. Runs every Thursday.”
“Five days ago.” I can see the wheels turning in Paul’s mind; he switches the energy light back on and points it on the ground. Our footprints show up clearly under the pale glow. There are no visible prints around the box, however. Paul stands up and switches off the light. He pulls out his keys, reaches across the space between himself and the box, and using a key as a lever, carefully pulls the front face open. “What do you usually have this thing set on?”
“Forty minutes a zone. It runs at night automatically.”
Paul smiles grimly. “It’s on manual now. Eighty minutes a zone.” Using the key, Paul gently closes the box door. “So this guy walks into a fenced-in backyard. Once inside, he can do what he wants without being observed. He picks up the cat, dunks him in, and closes the lid over him.” A mental imagine of Indianapolis struggling to live jerks through my brain, and I wince. “Sorry,” Paul says. “I’m just thinking out loud.”
I look away. “Yeah.”
“The aggregate outside is a potential problem, but he could have walked back on the grass. The grass would leave footprints for a while, but it’s been three days. The sprinkler system puts out a nice blanket of water on the entire yard, washing off any debris and making the grass stand up.” We stand in silence awhile, the energy light casting an evanescent blue into the darkness. “I can come back tomorrow with a crew. We might find something.”
I shake my head. “It’s OK. The case is over. So is this, probably.”
“You mean Bol.”
“Yeah.”
“But not the other thing.”
“No.”
“Look, I gotta be honest with you. This doesn’t look like the Nation. Somebody thought this out.”
I exhale. “Yeah.”
Paul looks at me. “You own a gun?”
“I still have my officer’s pistol from the army.”
“I’d make sure it’s operational.”
I stuff my hands in my pockets. “Listen, thanks for coming out here at this hour. Tell Jenny I appreciate it.”
“No problem.” He reaches in his pocket and pulls out a card. “The clean-up service we use,” he says. “They do all the crime scene stuff for us, blood on walls, floors, you know what I mean.”
“Yeah.”
“Call them, Thomas. You don’t want to do this yourself. They’ll give you a rate, since you’re law enforcement.”
“Every cloud has a silver lining.”
“Be somewhere else when the service comes, Thomas. It won’t be pretty.”
CHAPTER
17
RHONDA HARTLETT, Tamra’s mother, wears a blue, knee-length dress, high heels, and fake pearls. The dress shows her ample cleavage, and the dress clings to her still-trim body. Danny Trent, the father, wears black pants and a white dress shirt. A pack of Salems is visible in the front pocket. Jason Hodges, not surprisingly, is nowhere to be found. Hartlett and Trent have taken seats behind the prosecution’s table in Ginder’s courtroom, waiting for Bol’s appearance. Rita is at the defense table, and beside her is Dr. al-Hasheed, the Arabic translator. Between them is Moses Bol, the man who confessed to raping and killing Tamra Hartlett. Behind him sits Fiona, who is as still and grim as death.
Every other seat in the courtroom is filled with a silent African. I don’t have to turn around to feel them. They are a physical presence in the room as palpable as the furniture. In two minutes, Moses Bol will petition the court to change his plea, and the court will accept. And Moses Bol will surrender the rest of his life to the penal system of Tennessee.
The seconds creep by. Fiona begins weeping openly now. Rita has her hand on Bol’s shoulder, steadying him. But it doesn’t look to me like Bol needs steadying. Bol stares straight ahead impassively, as though this is something he has to do, and having made his decision, he is unable to be further moved.
The door from the judge’s chambers opens, and Ginder, in robes, steps through. He takes his seat, and the bailiff calls for the gallery to rise. Forty Africans stand, silent as graves. Ginder takes his place and says, “Be seated.” He opens a sheaf of papers. “Mr. Dennehy and Mr. Stillman. Good to see you today.”
“Your Honor,” I say.
“Good afternoon, Ms. West.”
“Judge.”
“I understand Mr. Bol wishes to change his plea.”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“Fine. Mr. Bol, please rise.” Bol stands, Rita rising with him. “If you’ll translate, Dr. al-Hasheed.” The translator stands and leans in to speak quietly in Bol’s ear. “Mr. Bol, I want you to understand the penalty provided by law for aggravated rape in this state is not less than fifteen nor more than twenty-five years. In the matter of murder in the first degree, the minimum penalty is life with the possibility of parole, and the maximum penalty is death by lethal injection. Do you understand these facts?” Bol listens and nods. “Speak up, son.”
“I confess, please.”
Ginder shakes his head. “Do you understand the penalties, Mr. Bol?”
“Yes.”
“Mr. Bol, you are entitled by law to a trial by jury and also entitled to the legal representation you now have. If you change your plea to guilty, you will forfeit these rights, and there will be no trial. Do you understand this?”
Bol listens. “Yes, please.”
“All right, Mr. Bol. Regarding the matter of first-degree rape with aggravating circumstances, how do you now wish to plead?”
“I confess to guilty.”
“Let the record show the defendant responds with a guilty plea. Now, Mr. Bol, regarding the matter of first-degree murder with aggravating circumstances, how do you now wish to plead?”
“I confess to guilty.”
“I have here the statement that you made yesterday in the presence of both Mr. Dennehy and Ms. West regarding the circumstances of these crimes. In this statement you describe the manner and fashion in which you entered the victim’s home, committed rape upon her person, and murdered her. Is the statement you made to Ms. West and Mr. Dennehy correct, Mr. Bol?”
“I confess to guilty.”
“Is that a yes, Mr. Bol?”
“Yes.”
Ginder nods. “The court accepts your verdict in both instances, Mr. Bol. Take your seat.” Bol and Rita sit down. Fiona sits weeping behind them, her head up, tears streaming down her face.
Ginder shuffles through some paperwork. “Since we have guilty pleas, I see no reason why we shouldn’t proceed directly to the penalty phase of these proceedings. Mr. Dennehy?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“I have here a plea agreement between the district attorney and the defendant, which says the state wishes to rescind its initial intention to pursue the death penalty in this case.”
“Yes, Judge.”
“What is the state’s recommendation for sentence regarding the charge of aggravated rape, Mr. Dennehy?”
“The state recommends the maximum penalty of twenty-five years, Your Honor.”
“And regarding the murder charge?”
“The state recommends life without possibility of parole.”
“I see. Ms. West?”
Rita stands. “Yes, Your Honor.”
“No doubt you have some views on this matter.”
“Yes, Judge. Mr. Bol, as you know, is a Sudanese refugee. He has endured a great deal of suffering in his life already, through which Mr. Bol has been deeply traumatized. I believe that at the time of the crime, Mr. Bol lacked the cultural context to understand the implications of his actions.”
Ginder interrupts. “Are you saying he didn’t know raping and killing a woman was wrong, Ms. West?”
“No, Your Honor. But Mr. Bol, since he was eight years old, has himself been the victim of a series of violent crimes. I believe that locking up Mr. Bol for the rest of his life would simply compound one more tragedy in an already tragic life. I believe that given the right counsel and education and opportunity to understand the place where he now resides, he could one day become a productive citizen. I do not wish to diminish the brutality of Mr. Bol’s actions. But I ask the court to consider all the factors as it makes its decision.”
Ginder nods. “Thank you, Ms. West. I appreciate your comments.” He looks at me. “I understand there are some family members present, Mr. Dennehy?”
“The father and mother, Your Honor.”
“All right. If either of them would like to be heard, the court is willing.” They both shake their heads. The judge nods. “In that case, I’m ready to pronounce sentence. Mr. Bol, please rise.”
Bol comes slowly to his feet. With him rises every African in the room. The Africans stand in their crazy, inappropriate, hand-me-down clothes, faces set forward as sternly as Bol’s, as unmovable as granite. Ginder looks up, annoyed. “Just the accused, please,” he says. Nobody moves. Ginder looks at the translator. “Is there a language problem? You speak their language, correct?”
The translator stands. “I speak Arabic, Your Honor. The majority of these Africans do, also.”
“Please instruct the people in the gallery to have a seat.” The translator turns and speaks to the crowd. No one moves. Their expressions are implacable, almost blank. Ginder’s expression turns surly. “I’m happy to clear this courtroom, if that’s what it takes,” he snarls. “Now take your seats.”
Not a muscle moves. The bailiff steps off his chair and looks to Ginder for instructions. But the fact is, one bailiff can neither clear forty determined people nor make them sit. It’s a standoff, and Ginder is smart enough to realize that it’s better to end the proceedings in the next minute rather than risk a confrontation. He turns his face toward Bol. “Mr. Bol, have you anything to say before the court passes sentence on you?”
“I confess to guilty.”
“Very well. Dr. al-Hasheed, see that you translate what I say to Mr. Bol precisely.” He leans forward. “Mr. Bol, your counsel has made a plea for leniency on your behalf. I am not persuaded. You have committed an unconscionable act of violence upon another human being. It makes no difference to me from where you come or what happened to you before you got here. What matters to me is the extraordinary violence of these crimes, and the fact that you have expressed absolutely no remorse for committing them. Mr. Bol, regarding the charge of aggravated rape, I sentence you to the maximum penalty of twenty-five years. Regarding the charge of first-degree murder, I likewise sentence you to the maximum of life without possibility of parole. These sentences are to be served consecutively. I have no idea what kind of life you will have in prison, Mr. Bol. I don’t care, either. What matters to me is that you are kept locked away from the people of this state for the rest of your life. It’s my sincere hope that you never take another breath of free air as long as you live. I direct that this sentence is to begin immediately, and order that you surrender here and now. Bailiff, remove the prisoner.”
The translator finishes, his own face ashen. Bol stands perfectly straight, eyes ahead, unrepentant. Two officers accompany the bailiff to Bol, who doesn’t flinch while they shackle and cuff him. They lead him from behind the lawyer’s table, and he calmly walks toward the exit.
A single, plaintive wail comes from the back of the courtroom. The voice is joined by another, and another, until the room vibrates with sound. But this is not a war chant. The Africans are singing. Ginder stares, nonplussed, overmatched in his own courtroom. The exit door opens, and Bol turns briefly, looking back at the Africans. The sound surges upward, the melody deep and full of loss. Bol calls out something in Dinka, his voice strong and clear. The officers push him through the door, and it closes behind him.
The singing goes on, growing even louder. The lost boys of Africa stamp their feet in time to their song, adding thunder to the singing that has broken out in the New Justice Building of Nashville, Tennessee. The song is repeating, and although I can’t understand the meaning, one word occurs again and again. Benywal.
THE SIGN ON THE SIDE of the truck is discreet: Tennessee Environmental Systems. It could be anything from an air-conditioning service to asbestos removal. What the people loading up their equipment into the truck do, however, is decidedly more grotesque: they clean up a city’s horror. On this day, they removed the contents of my spa and disassembled it, so that nothing remains but the concrete surface upon which it sat. The concrete was bleached, and it’s as spotless as if the spa never existed. To look at my back deck, whatever freak perpetrated his abominable act against Indy never existed, either. Only the pungent smell of the powerful solvents the company used remains, and one of the workmen tells me that within a few days, that will be gone, too.
The crew started while I was in court, and I stayed gone until they were nearly finished. Now, at 5:30 p.m., I hand over a check to the crew foreman and watch the truck drive away. I turn and head back into the house. Damn cat. Never would stay inside, where he was safe. I walk inside, sprawl out on the couch, and think about Paul’s words: This doesn’t look like the Nation. Somebody thought this out. I grimace. To which he added, “You own a gun?” After a few minutes I rise, walk to the spare bedroom, and open the closet door. In the left corner is a small personal safe, used as much for its fireproof qualities as theft prevention. I drop to my haunches, spin the combination, and pull open the door. House title. Some bonds, due God knows when. My father’s ID from McConnell Air Force Base. My marriage license to Bec, for some reason never thrown away. Birth certificate. Passport. And wrapped in a white cloth, a Rock Island .45-caliber officer’s sidearm. I reach in, grab the weapon, and unwrap it; the barrel gleams black, impersonal and lethal. I close the safe and stand, feeling the heft of the weapon in my hand. It’s heavier than I remember it, but perfectly balanced. So it’s come to this. Loading a gun in my bedroom is now the price of doing the state’s business. I reach up to the top shelf in the closet, feeling around for the box of cartridges I left there years ago. I pull the box down and let a half-dozen bullets roll out into my hand. I load the weapon, slip on the safety, and put the gun in my nightstand.
The gun and Indy make what should have been a night of victory loom bleakly before me. Of course, it’s nothing compared to Moses Bol’s. Night number one of the rest of his life. Somewhere along the fifth year, the hopelessness will be official, and he’ll make some kind of peace with it. The lost boy of Sudan. Lost in Africa, lost in America, lost for good in the U.S. penal system.
I grab a Killian’s and flip on the TV, hoping to blank out on something mindless. A third of the way through something about a girl who finds herself having swapped bodies with her mother, the phone rings. I glance at the caller ID, drain the last of the Killian’s, and answer. “Miss Towns.”
She doesn’t speak. For a second, I think she’s going to hang up in my ear. Finally, she says, “So I owe you that drink. Because of what you said. That it’s not personal.”
That voice. It’s always just a little lower than I expect, with a trace of rasp. “That’s right,” I say. “When it’s over, you buy your adversary a drink.” I glance at my watch. “Nine-thirty, Arthur’s. OK?”
More silence. Then, “OK.”
She hangs up, leaving me holding the phone. Son of a bitch. Didn’t see that
coming. I flip off the TV and look at a second, unopened beer. “Well, Mr. Killian. It appears you’ll have to wait.”
Charcoal-striped two-button blazer, tan slacks. Off-white shirt, open collar. Ferragamo shoes. Then to the garage, where I don’t even think of taking the new truck. I crank the ’82, open the garage, and head into town.
Arthur’s is located in the old Union Station, a ritzy hotel converted from a closed-down railway terminal. The area around the hotel is still spotty, including some notorious stairs that lead down to the old railroad tracks, some of which are still in use. It’s a favorite hangout of prostitutes and homeless types, especially when there are open railroad cars parked there overnight. But Union Station was gutted and renovated from the ground up, and it’s the closest thing Nashville has to grand style. The appeal tonight, however, is its strictly enforced dress code: men in jackets, women dressed accordingly. One way or another, I’m going to see Fiona Towns in something other than that day’s version of the worker’s-uprising shirt.
I drop off the Ford at the valet stand—I give the kid who’s parking it a stern look, so he understands this isn’t just any truck—and drift into the bar. It’s an intimate place, with seating for maybe twenty at tables, another ten or twelve at the bar. The weekday business is light, and I grab a table to wait on Fiona. A well-dressed guy stands at the bar chatting up a blonde. The guy reminds me of Stillman; he’s got TV looks, and he’s definitely a player. He’s working on the blonde, who has definitely received the full Dr. Sarandokos treatment. She stands smiling at the guy, her round butt planted on a bar stool, cleavage emphatically calling for attention. I absently watch the guy soak up her parade of charms until the waiter comes. I tell him to give me a minute, that somebody’s coming. The guy at the bar is leaning toward the blonde, ready to close, when I see him move his eyes off her and plant them on the door. He locks there, five…six…seven seconds. The blonde, getting curious, turns to see what the hell is more fascinating than the doctor-enhanced symmetry in front of him. I turn, too, and see Fiona standing in the doorway.