One and Done (Sam Johnstone Book 2)

by James Chandler

“A little too fattening for me,” she said.

  “Really? That’s not George Jones—or even George Strait,” he said, waving a wing in the air to indicate the music.

  “It’s the new stuff.”

  “I’m not into it. Sounds too much like what you'd hear on adult contemporary.”

  “Hick-hop,” she said. She dipped a piece of fried cheese into a cup of marinara sauce and popped it into her mouth.

  “Now that's funny!” He laughed. She covered her mouth, grinning as well. Looking around the tavern, he noted several patrons he had represented, two of whom were not supposed to be in a bar or liquor store due to their probationary status. Both avoided eye contact with him.

  “So, how are you doing?” she asked. “I mean really.”

  “I'm doing fine.”

  She looked at him for a moment. “I never know whether that is true, or if you are just saying that.”

  “I don’t generally say things that aren’t true,” Sam said. “Or at least that I don’t think are true.”

  “I can’t tell. I don’t really know you, I guess.”

  “You know me,” he said, shaking an ice cube from the plastic glass into his mouth. “Well enough to have dinner with me. Well enough to sleep with me.” He winked and crunched an ice cube, making her wince.

  “Doesn’t that hurt?” she asked. He shrugged in response. She drank some wine. “I really don’t know anything about you.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Your life in two minutes or less. Go.”

  Sam looked steadily at her, trying to decide whether to comply. When he’d made his decision, he looked at his watch and began. “Raised outside Bozeman. My dad was a drunk. Sold used cars and chased barflies. Mom died when I was a kid, leaving my dad and an endless string of alcoholic women to raise my big brother and me.”

  “I didn’t even know you had a brother,” she said.

  “You’re cutting into my time,” he said. “May I continue?”

  “Yes. Sorry.”

  “He was three years older. Killed a guy some years back. Went to prison. Haven’t seen him since.” He ignored her look of shock. “I hated school. Didn’t like my teachers and they didn’t care much for me. I got into a lot of trouble drinking, doing drugs, and fighting. Stayed in school so I’d know where the parties were and because I liked to play sports. Went to college. Drank a lot, played baseball. No future in that. Got bored after graduating. Was working with a national company for a couple of years in marketing. Had a big account selling cat food. Woke up one day and realized I’d never be satisfied if the measure of my life boiled down to the volume of cat food I sold.”

  “You probably weren’t a great fit.”

  “I faked it. One day I got moderately drunk and walked into an Army recruiting office. Told them I wanted to wear that green beret. Had no idea what it involved or what it meant, just thought it looked cool. Did basic training, Officer Candidate School, and Infantry Officer Basic Course at Fort Benning. Then Ranger School while I was in the 101st Airborne at Fort Campbell. Got picked up for Special Forces Qualification School, but before I could get into my class, my unit got activated and I went overseas. Did a tour in Iraq, came back, and got assigned to Fort Drum and the 10th Mountain Division. That’s light infantry. Was again ready to ship to the qualification course when I got picked to command an infantry company getting deployed to Afghanistan. Couldn’t turn that down. Took command, got deployed, and got blown up after just a few weeks in the country.” He crunched more ice. “Never did get that green beret—still pisses me off.”

  She was shaking her head sadly.

  “Spent almost a year getting fixed up. Could have stayed in, but honestly, I’d lost my enthusiasm. Went to law school using the GI Bill and VA disability. Didn’t fit in, didn’t do great, but got through. Through some connections I had—and I think a little bit of pity—I got a job in a firm in Washington, D.C. until I screwed up and got fired. Paul offered me a job. Here I am. How’s my time?”

  Veronica smiled briefly, but it disappeared. “That’s terrible about your mom.” She shook her head again.

  “It was. I was six.”

  “And your dad? Is he alive?”

  “Not sure,” he said.

  “You hold a grudge.”

  “I do.”

  They were quiet for a moment. “I have a favor to ask,” she said, brightening.

  “Did I pass your test or something?” he asked, eyeing her near-empty wine glass and signaling the waitress. “How can I help?”

  “I want you to accompany me to a charity gala. It benefits battered women and children. I need a date.” She smiled at him.

  “Sorry.” He shook his head. “No can do.”

  “Sam, it’s important to me. I’m on the board of directors and—”

  “Veronica.” Sam held up a hand to stop her. “It’s not that I don’t want to go. It’s that I can’t go. Not right now.”

  “It’s important to me!”

  “I know that. And I’m sorry,” he said. Seeing the look in her eyes, he repeated, “I’m sorry.”

  “We wear the scars of where we’ve been,” she said, and sighed heavily before swallowing the last of her wine. He was thinking of how it would taste on her lips. “Will you think about it?” she asked.

  The waitress brought their steaks. “I’ll think about it,” he said. “But for right now, the answer is no, and if you want someone to go with you, you’d better find someone else.” He picked up his knife and fork. “I’m okay with that.”

  She sat back in her chair and stared at Sam. They finished their meals in silence.

  “Veronica . . . Mr. Johnstone, how are you tonight?” Ron Baker of the Custer Police Department had approached their table unnoticed.

  “Fine,” they answered simultaneously. Baker smiled.

  “Making your rounds?” Sam asked.

  “Yup. Keeping the peace. Well, that and seeing how many of your clients aren’t doing what they are supposed to be doing, counselor.” Baker waved his hand at the near-empty bar area and smiled at Veronica. “Veronica, you look great, as always. Sam here ought to have you on the dance floor. I would.”

  “Not gonna happen,” Sam said, shaking the ice in his tonic water.

  Baker said nothing. He had a faraway look in his eye.

  “Ron, if you’d like to ask me—” Veronica began, but Baker waved her off and pointed to his ear.

  “He’s getting a call,” Sam said.

  Baker nodded and said, “Roger,” to whoever was on the line. Looking at Veronica and Sam, he said, “Gotta go. Saturday night in Custer. Somebody’s beating on the wife.”

  “Be safe, Ron,” Veronica said, and got a wave in response. She turned her attention to Sam. “Are you ready to go?”

  “I am.” He chugged the last of the tonic water and put the cup down. “Let’s do it.”

  Moments later, on the way to her house, they passed Baker’s patrol car, parked in front of a convenience store. Through the glass, they could see Baker talking with the clerk.

  Baker had been a patrol officer for five years, but as he was pulling his cruiser into the parking lot, it somehow seemed longer than that. Dispatch had indicated a possible kidnapping and/or domestic at a convenience store on Yellowstone Avenue. The clerk, he was told, had the information he needed. Entering the store, he wasted no time. “What’s going on?”

  “A man and a woman were in here a while ago,” the clerk began. “They bought beer, chips, and stuff, you know?”

  “Okay,” Baker said. “And?”

  “And when the guy turned around to grab a package of jerky, she mouthed, ‘Help me,’ to me, so I called 911 as soon as they left.”

  “Did they drive away?”

  “Yes. White Chevy truck.”

  “Good. Only a couple thousand of them around here. Did you get a plate?”

  “I did. It was County 25, 4-2-2-1-0.”

  “You’re sure?” he asked. She
nodded. “Okay, let me call that in.” Having done so, he returned to questioning her. “Real quick, how about a description of the couple?”

  “Well, I didn’t look real close at him. He is a big one—I’d say six-three or four. My ex was six-two and he’s at least that tall.” She was smacking her gum and looking off in the distance, trying to recall what she had seen. “And he was big. Not a skinny type at all. Kind of chunky. Had sleeve tattoos on both arms. Jeans. Sweatshirt that said ‘Custer High School Wrestling.’ She was real pretty, once—cheerleader type, you know?”

  “Okay, thank you—Lisa, is it?” Baker said, looking at her name tag.

  “Yeah. Lisa Crandall,” she said. “And the woman has a black eye and a busted lip. She’ll be easy to recognize.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Crandall. I’m sure there’ll be someone along to talk with you soon,” Baker said as he headed out the door. Back in his car, he relayed the vehicle information to dispatch and just moments later was given the address of a residence on Long Street matching the registration. He knocked on the door and a large man fitting the description of the suspect answered.

  “Mr. Smith?” Baker asked.

  “Yeah,” the man said. “What do you want?”

  “I want you to step outside and talk with my partner here,” Baker said, indicating Corporal Mike Jensen, who had arrived soon after he did. “I’m going to talk with her.” He indicated a woman sitting on a couch in the living room of the small, shabby home. Surprisingly, the man complied.

  While Jensen spoke with the male suspect, Baker interviewed the alleged victim—Raylene Smith—who in fact had a black eye and a busted lip. Ms. Smith was extremely upset and in significant pain, and explained that she and her husband, Albert, had been having some issues due to his excessive drinking. Notwithstanding, the two of them had been drinking together most of the day when, for reasons she could not recall, an argument broke out. She had told him to leave, which he did—after he had thrown her cell phone through the large-screen television. He returned an hour later even more intoxicated, she said, and kicked in the front door when she would not let him in. He punched her in the face and then dragged her into the bedroom before trying to strangle her. She was able to get loose when their dog bit him. She then convinced him she needed to go to the store to get some dog food. When they arrived, she alerted the clerk while the suspect was getting something and bringing it to the counter.

  Baker then spoke with the suspect, Albert Smith, who was sitting on the front steps. “What’s going on tonight?”

  “Nothing,” the big man said. Baker was eyeing him closely. He had the feeling this one wasn’t going to end well. “Nothing you need to know about.”

  “Well, something’s going on. We got called because someone was afraid your wife was getting hurt.”

  “Whatever happened to her has nothing to do with me.”

  “Are you telling me she did this to herself?” Baker asked.

  “I’m telling you she is drunk,” Albert said. “She’s always drunk. Probably fell and hurt herself. She does that a lot.”

  “Really. You expect me to believe that?”

  “I don’t care what you believe. I’m just telling you I don't know what happened. We had a verbal disagreement. I left and she was fine; when I got back, she looked like that.”

  “Did you kick that door in?”

  “Hell yes,” Albert said. “That bitch can’t lock me out of my own house away from my dog and stuff!”

  Baker looked at Albert for a long moment, then walked up the steps and looked at Raylene and around the living room of the filthy little house. She was sitting on the couch rocking back and forth with her arms wrapped around herself. He felt the anger well up in him and took a deep breath. “Albert, turn around. I'm going to place you under arrest for suspicion of domestic battery. I want you to listen closely while I advise you of your rights.”

  “Are you kidding me? I didn’t do anything!” Albert said, struggling with the officer trying to put the cuffs on his wrists. “Raylene, you tell these bastards I didn’t do anything!” Another officer had joined the fray.

  “Get him out of here!” Baker ordered, drawing his taser, just in case. “I don’t want to listen to this.”

  “You’ll be listening soon enough, asshole! I’m going to sue you—” Albert’s voice trailed off as the officers took him outside, placed him in a patrol car, and shut the door.

  “Raylene,” Baker said, putting his taser back in its holster. “I’m going to have an officer accompany you to the hospital so we can get you looked over. You’ll be safe for tonight.”

  “I wish you hadn’t done that,” she said, continuing to hold herself and rock. “Every time y’all arrest him it just makes it worse.”

  “Raylene, when are you going to get out of here? I’m afraid that one of these times he is going to hurt you bad.” Then, quickly realizing what he had said, he added, “I mean real bad. I’m sorry.”

  “I know what you mean. But you don’t understand. Albert loves me. It’s just that sometimes I say stuff that makes him mad. And there is so much pressure on him to make a living and pay the bills and . . . well, it just all wells up in him and then—”

  “And then he beats you.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t call it that,” she said.

  “Well, I would. I am. Now, get what you need. I’m taking you to the hospital and then to the women’s shelter.”

  3

  Twelfth Judicial District Court Judge Preston C. Daniels had been on the bench for two decades. In that time, he had seen a lot of defendants come to court drunk. While to a normal person it might seem bizarre, to a judge it indicated either a lack of coping skills or a level of alcoholism that had them consuming a little more than necessary to stiffen the backbone.

  “Mr. Park, court security is telling me you smell like a brewery,” Daniels said to the defendant. “So I’m going to have you submit to a portable breath test here this morning to ensure you are fit to proceed. Do you understand?”

  “Oh, yes, Judge,” the defendant said. “I maybe had a little too much to drink last night, but I’m okay this morning, sir.”

  “Well, why don’t you kind of hold your tongue there, okay?” Daniels suggested. “You’ll remember that you’re on bond and are not supposed to be drinking at all. So before you say anything else, why don’t you just go into the back with the officers there, and we’ll see where you’re at?”

  “Okay, Judge,” Park said. “But I want you to know that I’m okay. I wouldn’t do nothing to disrespect you.”

  “I’m sure,” Daniels said as Park was led away. “Ladies and gentlemen, let’s take a brief recess.”

  In his chambers several minutes later, Daniels heard court security approach. “Judge,” the officer said, “looks like he’s about a .06. How do you want to proceed?”

  “Well, he’s legal to drive, right?”

  “Presumptively,” the officer said.

  “Okay, well, let’s go back out on the record.” Daniels stood and donned his robe. “Give me a minute.”

  After the security officer had left, Daniels closed his door and spent a brief time in meditation. He was irritable. It was never a good idea to go into court in a bad mood, especially now, while he was serving a period of judicial probation following his being sanctioned for decisions he’d made during the trial of Tommy Olsen. He’d come to grips with the sanction over time, and while he would never agree, it didn’t really matter. He took a deep breath and reminded himself to be careful. Back on the bench, he began to proceed with sentencing when the young public defender stood. “Your Honor, I’m made to understand my client showed positive for alcohol.”

  “That’s my understanding as well.”

  “Well, then, I object to continuing this proceeding. He might well not be capable of understanding today’s proceedings.”

  “Mr. Anderson, your client has a blood alcohol content of approximately .06. That’s a three-beer buzz. I’m go
ing to go out on a limb here and postulate that your client—who has nine lifetime DUIs—is fully capable of following today’s proceedings with a three-beer buzz. Appeal me.” The young public defender looked at his client and then at Daniels, clearly uncertain of what to do. Daniels decided to cover the young man. “Your objection is noted, Mr. Anderson,” Daniels said. “And is overruled. I’m going to find that Mr. Park is fit and competent to proceed.”

  “Thanks, Judge.” Park shook his head. “Be embarrassing to be found too drunk to proceed with a .06.”

  After the hearing was over, Daniels called for his long-time judicial assistant, Mary Perry. “Mary,” Daniels said. “Can you get me Rebecca Nice on the phone, please? I need to talk to her about next week’s trial.”

  “Do you want me to get Mike Sharp on the line, too?”

  “No, just get Rebecca. I’m not worried about an ex parte communication.”

  “Judge, don’t forget that you have an initial appearance on that sexual assault this afternoon.”

  “I know that, Mary. Just get Rebecca on the line if you would, please.” Daniels stood and walked over to the cabinet but didn’t find what he was looking for. “Mary—”

  “Judge, you need to be on your best behavior. You know that you are still on probation with the Commission on Judicial Conduct and probably being watched by the Wyoming Supreme Court because of the Olsen case. And I’ll remind you that you have always said a trial court judge’s job is to follow the rules and to apply the law. But during the Olsen case you made the decision to . . . well, let’s just say you adjusted the rules. Now they are watching you, and you need to be careful.”

  “Those were judgment calls! Judicial discretion! Half of those people don’t have the slightest idea what they’re talking about, and the other half haven’t been in my chair for a long time. More importantly, you know what? I’d make the same damned decision again!”

  “Judge, please watch your language!”

  “Mary, let me remind you: being my handmaid is not your job.”

  “Well, Judge, whether it’s my job or not, I’m gonna do it.” Mary put her hands on her wide hips. “For your information, my future might very well be tied to yours. There is no guarantee that I will have a job if you get fired and another judge gets appointed. Your probation runs in six months. After that you can do whatever you want, but between now and then, I’ve got bills to pay, so it’s in my best interest to keep you out of trouble. And that’s exactly what I intend to do!” She turned and left his chambers, slamming the door behind her.