*
Elizabeth sat quietly stroking Charlie’s back as he lay curled up in her lap. It took two cans of her best food to calm him, and an offering of leftovers before he allowed her to beg for forgiveness.
A team of police officers paraded through her home, but she ignored their presence. Nothing appeared to have been taken or disturbed, other than Charlie. The police dismissed the break-in as a juvenile prank; however, she knew it was a targeted act to scare her. It was the Raymond Miller case. She guessed someone other than Dan wanted her off the case, but why?
Elizabeth was broken from her deep thought when Michael set a cup of steaming tea on the table in front of her.
“For your nerves,” Michael said, and she accepted without protesting, despite her preference for coffee.
“You can’t stay here. It’s not safe. I told you, you should have an alarm system, living alone and all.”
She stroked Charlie and didn’t respond to his lecture.
“You’re scaring me. Say something. Tell me what’s going on in your head.”
“Sorry. I’m scared, but I’m more pissed off. I’m not backing down.”
“Backing down?”
“It’s the Raymond Miller case. Someone is trying to scare me away.”
Michael digested this new information. “You can stay with me.”
“I like you too much to live with you. We’d be at each other’s throats in a week’s time.”
He raised his finger to protest but said nothing. They were best friends, but Elizabeth knew they were incompatible roommates. Michael had his rules and became very uptight when they were upset. She called them “anal retentive”; he called them “organized.” Either way, they both silently agreed that they would not share a home together, even for the shortest amount of time.
“So where to then?” he asked.
“My parents’, I guess.”
“Seriously?” he said with his face scrunched in disbelief.
“Seriously.”
Michael crossed himself.
“You’re not Catholic,” she reminded him.
“I figured it can’t hurt. You’re going to need all the help you can get.”
Elizabeth offered no retort and instead gazed at the entryway where Grace Donovan stood conversing with one of the uniformed officers. “A new friend?” Michael asked, but Elizabeth didn’t answer, and her eyes remained on Grace. “Have you slept with her yet?”
“What?” Elizabeth snapped back.
“Oh, that you heard.”
Elizabeth turned back to Grace and watched her approach with confident strides.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes,” Elizabeth responded softly. “What are you doing here?”
“I heard the call on the radio. I was nearby.” She turned to Michael. “I’m Detective Grace Donovan.”
“Michael Chan. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Detective Donovan,” he offered in a sickly sweet voice, causing Elizabeth to roll her eyes.
Grace trailed her eyes over Elizabeth, lingering for a moment on Charlie, who claimed proprietorship on her lap, causing Elizabeth to become conscious of her beleaguered state. She ran a hand through her tousled hair and adjusted her oversized sweater that was falling off her shoulder.
“Well, I won’t keep the two of you. I just wanted to make sure you were all right. The officers are almost done, and you can get back to your evening.”
She nodded to Michael before turning and walking back to the door, and Elizabeth watched her go in silence, too stunned by Grace’s presence in her home to ask the question nagging at the corner of her brain. Why are you really here? Elizabeth wondered if Grace also saw a connection to the Miller case, or maybe it was more personal.
Grace reached her car in a quick retreat and hastily pulled away from the quaint home, pushing her foot heavily on the gas pedal and keeping her eyes trained ahead until she was several blocks away, a safe distance from Elizabeth’s home, before she pulled over once again. “What the hell was I thinking going there! Cool and aloof, remember?”
Earlier on her drive home, she ignored the usual busy chatter on her radio, until she heard Elizabeth’s name. Concern overruling reason, she pointed her car in the direction of the suspected break-in. It was only when she witnessed Elizabeth curled into a chair, looking rumpled and lost, that she realized her mistake.
*
Elizabeth stood in the ornate entryway of her childhood home with a cat carrier in her hand. Charlie let out a few elongated meows of protest at his confinement, and Michael crouched behind Elizabeth.
“What are you doing?” she asked without turning around.
“Hiding. I’m hoping your mom won’t see me. She scares me.”
“There’s no use. She has a sixth sense, and she sees through walls. Nowhere in the city is safe.”
“Elizabeth, I thought that was you.” Elizabeth’s mother paused at the top of the stairs before she elegantly glided down the steps, a move straight out of a 1940s movie. Beatrice Campbell was a picture of refined elegance. She dressed as though she were going to an important outing every day because one never knew when unexpected company would arrive, like now for instance. As she descended the stairs, the pant legs of her tailored white suit flowed with ease in rhythm to her movements. Her highlighted brown hair was carefully cut and styled and her makeup artfully applied.
Elizabeth waited until her mother completed her traverse down the staircase before she spoke, afraid to upset her mother’s entrance. “Hi, Mom. You remember Michael.”
She turned halfway around to gesture to him, swinging the cat carrier. Charlie bellowed in response to the movement.
“What in God’s name is that!” Elizabeth’s mother exclaimed.
“It’s Charlie,” Elizabeth calmly responded.
Michael breathed a sigh of relief that attention was taken off him.
“You brought that beast in this house?”
“Yes, Mom. I can’t very well just leave him behind. He’ll be fine. He’s housebroken.”
Her mother visibly scoffed and turned away toward the library, no doubt to complain about the four-legged houseguest to Elizabeth’s father.
Elizabeth stepped forward and looked around the room and knew she would be safe here. Not because of the fortified walls, iron gates, alarms, and security guards. It was her mother that would keep the boogeyman at bay.
“Come on, my room is upstairs,” she said as she hefted a suitcase with her free hand. Michael lifted the remaining suitcase and garment bag and mutely followed behind.
Chapter Ten
“What do we have here?” sneered a tattoo-laden inmate who kicked the back of the plastic chair where Raymond Miller sat.
Raymond, who had been sitting in the common room coloring, bowed his head, pulled his arms tightly around himself, and slowly rocked his body. He had learned that answering was futile.
“Ah, the retard is coloring.” The inmate snatched up the paper and held it up for the fellow prisoners to see. “Isn’t it pretty?” Several of the men laughed in response.
“Oops, I’m sorry. Did I ruin your pretty picture?” the inmate said as he ripped the paper into several pieces and allowed them to fall to the floor.
Raymond remained mute.
“You too good to talk to me?” asked the inmate as he slapped the back of Raymond’s head, causing him to lunge forward and hit the table.
Tears streamed down Raymond’s face.
“Ah, he’s crying. The little bitty baby is crying.”
Before Raymond could straighten himself back into the chair, the inmate struck him in the face with a closed fist, sending him sprawling to the floor. Raymond tucked himself into a ball, covering his head with his arms. A wall of bodies encircled them and the inmate knelt beside him and began delivering blows to Raymond’s body. Raymond’s body trembled uncontrollably, and his muffled wails of pain and fear were drowned out by the excitement of the men.
When the blows stopp
ed, tears streamed down Raymond’s face, but he tried to stay quiet out of fear that any sound would bring about a new fit of fury. He peeked through his arm and watched the inmate pull off his shoe and lift the inside sole. He removed a handcrafted metal shank and admired it for a moment. “They are very upset. You shouldn’t have fucked with the way things are. Your friend, who is he? Huh, asshole, what’s his name?”
Raymond remained tucked in a ball and buried his face again. “Don’t feel like talking? No more pretty pictures for you, then,” the inmate sneered.
“What the fuck is going on in here!” bellowed the guard from the doorway.
The inmates quickly dispersed while Raymond remained trembling and sobbing on the floor.
The guard knelt next to him and spoke into his radio. “We have an inmate down in the comm room.”
“It’s a good thing for you that you had a visitor,” the guard whispered to Raymond as he waited beside him for the medical personnel.
*
Father Parker recited a prayer through the phone as a prisoner kept his head bowed, phone pressed to his ear, mouth moving with the words. Father Parker pushed his hand against the thick glass that separated them in an offering of a blessing. When he completed his task, the prisoner stood and gratefully thanked him.
“That’s the last one, Father,” announced the guard.
“Oh, but I thought there was one more,” Father Parker responded.
The guard consulted his list. “Oh right, the last one went to the medical unit, so you’re all done.”
“Perhaps the one in the medical unit could use a blessing,” he offered.
“No, he’s not up to visitors. Perhaps another day.”
Chapter Eleven
The courtroom bustled with activity as defense attorneys brokered deals with prosecutors, and the court personnel chatted amiably about their weekend. Elizabeth skipped the courtroom pleasantries and approached the court clerk and announced her case was ready. There would be no deal to be made in the Raymond Miller case. Elizabeth felt the eyes of one prosecutor boring through her as she moved to take her seat in the front row of the gallery. She ran her hand over the seat of the wooden bench that bore carvings of initials, gang insignias, and crude political statements about the justice system. She wondered how these wood-carving artists got away with it, sitting only a few feet away from the bailiff.
Elizabeth dismissed the thought and began taking in the room. She had never considered the similarities of the courtroom to the church. Change the cast and a different play formed—the court spectators as parishioners, the jury as the choir, and the judge as the preacher. The defendant would be cast as the sinner, but what about the attorneys? As she pondered that thought, she was startled back to her surroundings when the door behind the bench opened. Elizabeth rose with the masses as a sign of respect and waited for Judge Rose Walters to take her seat behind the altar. Before she had an opportunity to resettle, the clerk called her case.
She moved forward to the counsel table and did her best to hide her jittery nerves. She knew she was asking for a lot. Elizabeth wanted the court to vacate Raymond Miller’s conviction on the ground that his plea wasn’t considered “knowing and voluntary” under the law, given his mental status. She couldn’t help but throw in the fact that a subsequent murder with the same marking occurred, casting serious doubt on the veracity of Raymond Miller’s confession.
She felt the eyes of the prosecutor on her once again. Assistant District Attorney Robert Burke settled across from her, and a small smile formed on his face that resembled more of a sneer when he looked her way.
“Bailiff, please bring in the defendant,” the judge instructed.
Elizabeth began unpacking her bag, preparing for a fight—a three-ring binder with case law cited in her brief, the criminal code, a legal pad, two pens (in case one ran out), and a highlighter. This process settled her nerves. By the time her unpacking was complete, she was ready both physically and mentally, so she thought anyway.
Elizabeth didn’t hold back her gasp, neither did the judge, when Raymond came into the court. His face was badly bruised, and his left eye was nearly swollen shut. It was evident by his gait that walking, or any movement for that matter, caused great pain.
The bailiff gingerly led Raymond to the seat next to Elizabeth and uncuffed him.
“Bailiff, what happened to this man?” the judge asked.
“I’m sorry, Your Honor,” the bailiff stuttered. “I don’t know all the details. There was apparently an altercation in the prison. The defendant was attacked.”
The judge stared at Raymond, distress apparent on her face. “Mr. Miller, are you all right to proceed?”
Raymond didn’t answer, but only rocked in his chair, keeping his eyes trained on the table in front of him. Elizabeth leaned over to him and soothingly spoke in his ear and asked if he would like for them to continue. Raymond nodded, and Elizabeth wasn’t sure he truly understood what she asked or only agreed because it seemed easier.
“Your Honor, the defendant wishes to proceed.”
Satisfied with Elizabeth’s statement, Judge Walters continued. “I’ve read both of your briefs, and I find both the confession and the guilty plea troubling. The court cannot ignore the defendant’s IQ, nor can the court ignore the fact of the recent murder that has been published in the news. It seems that in the interest of justice, the court must vacate the defendant’s conviction, set aside his plea, and reset this case for trial.”
The sneer that once occupied the prosecutor’s face turned to disbelief. “But, Your Honor, this is highly irregular. There’s nothing in the record to indicate any impropriety.”
Judge Walters raised her hand and cut him off. “I’ve made my ruling. This case will be set for a grand jury.”
Feeling emboldened by the judge’s ruling, Elizabeth ventured forward. “Your Honor, may we address the issue of bail?”
“You have got to be kidding me,” the prosecutor nearly spit out.
“Mr. Burke, I assume that means you are opposing bail in this case?” Judge Walters asked, slightly annoyed at his tone.
“Absolutely, Your Honor. This man has been convicted of first degree murder.”
“Correction, Mr. Burke, he has been charged with murder. I have vacated the conviction.” Judge Walters looked at Raymond, who kept his head bent through the proceedings and nervously rocked himself.
“I have not seen any evidence yet to support the prosecution’s case against the defendant, so I will presume he is innocent until proven otherwise. It is clear from the report in Ms. Campbell’s brief that the defendant does not have the mental capacity of an adult, and it is clear that he does not have the mental capacity to care for himself in prison. It is also apparent that the prison is not capable of caring for him either. I’m going to order that the defendant be released on his own recognizance to the care of his mother. Should his mother’s home not be deemed an appropriate place for the defendant, then I trust, Ms. Campbell, that you will find suitable arrangements for the defendant and keep the court notified.”
“Yes, Your Honor,” was all Elizabeth could muster. Not in the most optimistic scenarios that she had conjured in her head did she see that coming.
Judge Walters concluded the proceedings, and Elizabeth gathered her battle weapons and shoved them into her bag. As Elizabeth moved past, she was stopped by Assistant DA Burke.
“All prior deals are off, Ms. Campbell. The death penalty is back on the table. Be careful what you wish for.”
Elizabeth didn’t make eye contact but continued moving past, determined not to show any reaction to his threat.
*
Raymond fussed in the front seat of Elizabeth’s car, giving her the impression that he had little experience riding in a vehicle. Elizabeth jumped when he twisted the volume knob on the radio, sending music blasting through the speakers. Raymond quickly covered his ears and began rocking.
She twisted the knob back and offered soothing
words to placate him, and he gave a sheepish smile in response. He turned to the window and looked out with interest.
“I know, I know.” He clapped excitedly.
“You recognize the neighborhood, don’t you?” she asked.
Elizabeth turned the corner to the street where the children had previously been playing soccer. She slowed down, remembering her last journey down this road. As she pulled in front of Raymond’s home, he began fidgeting in his seat. She couldn’t tell if it was excitement, nervousness, or both that kept him squirming.
“All right, Raymond, let’s go see your mom.”
Elizabeth hefted a small drawstring bag that contained Raymond’s worldly possessions from prison. Raymond opened the car door after a few failed attempts at the door handle and followed her up the walkway. She knocked on the door, and it was yanked open.
“He’s not staying here!” Delores Miller barked without waiting for Elizabeth to speak.
Elizabeth stared, her mouth slightly ajar.
“They called me. Told me he was coming,” Delores said.
Elizabeth assumed “they” meant the prison. “But, Ms. Miller, Raymond needs a place to stay. You’re his mother. This is the only home he knows.”
“You got him out. He’s your problem.” Through the exchange, Delores never acknowledged Raymond’s presence as he stood mutely at Elizabeth’s side.
Delores closed the door, cutting off any rebuttal, and Elizabeth stood dumbfounded. She turned and headed back to her car with Raymond’s bag dangling from her hand. It was only when she reached her car that she realized that Raymond remained standing on the porch staring at the closed door. She swallowed hard, her heart breaking for the childlike man standing at the door that his mother just closed on him. Elizabeth opened her car door and tossed Raymond’s bag inside and headed back up the walkway.
Sins of Our Fathers Page 8