Directly downstairs from Daniels, Circuit Court Judge Melissa Downs was getting ready for court. She had taken the bench less than a year prior, following the suicide of her predecessor, Judge Jonathon Howard. The ensuing scandal had been the talk of the town for a long time and was only now beginning to dissipate. She’d never given much thought to becoming a judge; in fact, she’d been quite content as a civil practitioner specializing in business litigation in Cheyenne. But when her husband decided that marriage “wasn’t for him,” she’d applied for the judgeship in a fit of pique and—much to her surprise—was appointed by the governor. The move to Custer had been uneventful, and her nine-year-old daughter was settling into school.
The circuit court was informally known as the “People’s Court.” In contrast to the district court over which Daniels presided, where the stakes were high and the pace somewhat ponderous, circuit court was fast-paced and wildly unpredictable. For Downs, the biggest surprise had been the paperwork—she discovered she could measure it daily in feet.
She was reviewing a petition for a stalking order of protection when her clerk came to retrieve her. “Ma’am, everyone is here. It’s a change of plea on a charge of sexual battery for one of our regulars.”
The defendant, represented by Sam Johnstone, had appeared in court on a felony count of sexual assault a couple of weeks earlier and waived his preliminary hearing, and Downs had bound him over to district court for further proceedings. The parties had subsequently reached a plea bargain wherein the matter would be reduced to a misdemeanor, so the parties were back before her. After calling the case and hearing the terms of the plea agreement from Deputy County Attorney Catherine Schmidt and Sam, Downs obtained the defendant’s plea and imposed a sentence—time served and a nominal fine. Eschewing the delivery of a lecture, Downs left the courtroom.
“Thanks a lot, Sam,” the defendant said. “I mean, I appreciate it. That little bitch—”
“Shut your mouth,” Sam said, quickly glancing at Cathy. “You got your deal. Now get your ass out of here. I don’t want to see you again.”
“Hey, counselor, I paid you good money.”
“And I earned it. Now leave.”
The defendant looked at Sam for a long moment and extended his hand. Sam looked at it and said simply, “I don’t want to get any on me.”
“Well, you sorry bastard! Who the hell do you think you are?”
“I’m the guy who is gonna beat your ass for feeling up that little girl if you don’t get out of my face right now,” Sam said quietly.
Looking at Sam in shock, the defendant slowly backed away. “I’m gonna report you to the bar association.”
“Do it,” Sam said. “Just make sure you spell my name right.” After the man departed, he looked at Cathy, who had been watching silently. Smiling wryly, he said, “Another satisfied customer.”
“I appreciate it,” Cathy said. “I didn’t want to put that little girl through a trial.”
“And I didn’t want to have to cross-examine her,” Sam said. “I just hope—”
“Me, too,” she said. “I’m praying he’ll keep his hands—and everything else—to himself for both our sakes.”
4
The campus field house was rocking with excitement. At six foot nine and 240 pounds, Davonte didn’t look like the other players on the court, and by halftime he’d outscored the opposing team by himself. With an array of three-point shots, drives, and dunks, he had scored forty-one points, gathered twelve rebounds, and had even dished out a couple of assists while dazzling observers and opponents alike.
“Why are we here?” Lucy Beretta asked her husband. “You care nothing for basketball.”
“We are here to show support for the team,” Vincent Beretta replied. He’d been president of Custer College for just under two years, and in that short amount of time he had presided over an expansion of the junior college’s offerings, to include the athletic program.
“Well, I’m not sure why I’m here,” Lucy said, examining her nails.
“You’re here because you are my wife,” he replied, smiling tightly and waving at one of the college’s boosters. “We need to put on a good front here until I can get hired somewhere else.”
“I can’t believe you brought us from Vermont all the way out here,” Lucy said. “It’s the first week in November and it’s already snowing.”
“If you’ll recall, you agreed to this,” he said.
“Well, I didn’t think it would be this . . . remote. My God, we’re 150 miles from a mall!”
“That’s why God created overnight delivery, sweetheart,” he said, and, looking at the crowd, mused, “Good turnout tonight. I know the people are here to see Davonte, but the video will show a full field house. That is going to reflect well on the college. Just look at this crowd!”
“It will reflect well on you, as well,” Lucy noted. She was watching an overweight woman in yoga pants several sizes too small take on the stairs. “My God—where are we?” she muttered.
“Coach Fitzsimmons is building a solid program, and Devonte will draw more student athletes of high quality,” Beretta said, ignoring her question. “At some point the program begins to sustain itself.”
“Who would have thought you—of all people—would oversee the building of an athletic department?” Lucy laughed softly.
“Athletics are one of the quickest ways to increase attendance at a small college. For one thing, you get the student athletes and their significant others. Moreover, winning brings the strap-hangers who want to be a part of something successful.”
“I suppose,” she said. “Who are those tall guys against the wall there?”
“Don’t point, dear,” he said, taking her hand and putting it in her lap. “Those are a couple of coaches from prominent NCAA men’s college programs. Coach told me they would be here tonight to watch Davonte. He is bringing national exposure to our program.”
“Good,” she said. “If he gets out of here, perhaps we can follow him and get back to civilization.”
Beretta looked at his wife of seven years for a long moment, then turned his attention to the game as Davonte drained a twenty-five-foot jump shot to open the second half, then stole the inbounds pass and dunked the ball effortlessly. “I certainly hope so,” he said. “I know one thing: I don’t know a thing about basketball, and even I can tell that Davonte is unusually good at what he does.”
Several seats away, Sam and his law partner, Paul Norquist, were enjoying the first home game of the year from the season ticket holders’ seats they received for their generous donation to the college’s athletics program. Paul was pointing out members of the audience when Daniels sat down beside them. “Evening, men,” Daniels said. “Mind if I join you?”
Paul and Sam nodded at Daniels. “Evening, Judge,” Paul said. “How are you?”
“Doing well, doing well,” Daniels said. “My goodness, that young man can play, can’t he?”
“He is amazing.” Paul shook his head. “Coach Fitzsimmons has recruited some ballplayers, but no one like this. Ronnie says he was a McDonald’s High School All-American and had offers from most of the Big Ten and Atlantic Coast Conference schools.”
“Why is he here?” Daniels asked.
“Non-qualifier, supposedly,” Sam said.
“What’s that mean?”
“NCAA schools require incoming student athletes to meet certain academic requirements. Those who don’t are loosely termed ‘non-qualifiers’ and cannot compete at the highest level.”
“So, what then?” Daniels asked, stuffing a handful of popcorn in his mouth.
“They have some options, one of which is to attend junior college.”
“So, come here—”
“Spend a couple of years, then go on to school,” Paul said.
“Or,” Sam said, watching Davonte steal a pass, easily outmaneuver a hapless defender, and dunk the ball, “get drafted and go play for money.”
“Seriousl
y?” Daniels asked.
“That’s what Ronnie is saying,” Paul observed. “Says the kid and the coaches here expect him to go in the lower half of the first round.”
“So, how is Ronnie doing?” Daniels asked, observing Paul’s older son on the sideline in his role as manager. “He’s sure grown.”
“He has, Judge,” Paul said. “He’s doing very well. He likes school, and managing is giving him some experience traveling. He’s good buddies with Davonte, there. And by hanging with the team he’s meeting some guys with backgrounds way different than his own.”
“I’ll bet that’s true.” Daniels chuckled, then turned his attention to Sam. “How are you tonight, Mr. Johnstone?”
“Doing well, Judge. Just out for a couple of hours to watch some basketball.”
“Not like you saw in D.C. in your previous life, though, is it?”
“Not exactly,” Sam said, recalling evenings spent watching the Washington Wizards as well as teams from Georgetown, George Washington, and George Mason play NCAA Division 1 opponents. “But I’m not sure I’ve seen anyone better than that guy.” He indicated Davonte. “That guy can play with anyone.”
The post-game party in Davonte’s dorm room had wound down, and those remaining—Davonte, Kaiden, Ronnie, and a young man named Trent Gustafson—were drinking whiskey and vaping THC oil.
“Davonte, you were something else tonight,” Kaiden said, handing Davonte the vape pen. “Sixty-one points! Holy shit!”
“Dude, these people never seen no one like me. Back in Detroit, now, there’s some ballers.” Davonte inhaled deeply from the vape pen.
“Whatever, man. You were awesome. Those D-1 coaches got a show tonight!” Ronnie added.
“Just gotta keep getting the rock and doing my thing, man.” Davonte handed the pen back to Kaiden.
“Someday I’ll be watchin’ you on TV, man!” Ronnie said.
“You will, you will,” Davonte agreed. He leaned back on the bed and looked to the ceiling. “Next year, if everything goes right.”
“You’ll comp us some tickets, right?” Kaiden asked.
“You got that midterm paper done?”
“Ronnie’s doing it.” Kaiden looked at Ronnie. “He says it’ll be done in plenty of time—right, Ronnie?”
Ronnie was sharing a couch with Gustafson. “Yeah, I’ll have it done.”
“Better be good.” Davonte looked at Ronnie and then Kaiden. “Or you ain’t gonna get shit, man.”
“Ronnie knows the deal,” Kaiden assured him. “He’ll get it done, email it to you by Friday. Then you copy and paste, and you email it in.”
“Who are you, man?” Davonte said, indicating Gustafson.
“This is my . . . uh . . . friend, Trent,” Kaiden said. “He’s from Fort Collins.”
“Where’s that?” Davonte shifted so he was on his elbows and could look at Gustafson directly.
“Colorado,” Gustafson said, returning Davonte’s stare.
“Weed legal there, right?”
Gustafson merely nodded.
“Looks like he’s Ronnie’s friend, too,” Davonte observed. “He solid?”
“Oh, yeah. As a rock, man,” Kaiden said, trying to sound street-wise. “He knows what’s at stake.”
“Can’t have no mistakes, man,” Davonte said, and again laid his head back on the bed. “Man, that is some good shit.”
“It’s that same stuff I had last time. You said you liked it.” Kaiden eyed Gustafson.
“Whatever. Some of my boys will be in town next week. You need to have some of that around for them, too.”
“This shit is expensive—they gonna be able to pay?”
“Pay what, man? These are my boys,” Davonte said. “They ain’t payin’ shit. Put it on account for me.”
“I can’t do that, Davonte,” Kaiden said. “I’m in about twenty-five hundred dollars. Been borrowing my ass off to keep us in this stuff.”
“You been sellin’ some, right?”
“Yeah, but we’ve been burning a lot,” Kaiden said with a sideways glance toward Gustafson. “I can’t cover.”
“Then you better figure it out, ’cause I expect you to cover me and my homies when they get to town.” Davonte took another hit from the pen and noted Gustafson’s raised eyebrow. “I mean, if you wanna keep hanging out. ’Cause, you know, if you can’t—”
“Davonte, I can’t do that, man! I need you to pay something, now!” Kaiden had stood and was looking down at Davonte, who was looking back up at him in surprise. “I need to cover my costs.”
“That’s your problem.”
“No, asshole, it’s your problem, too!”
Davonte sat up. “What’re you sayin’, little man?”
“I’m saying that if I don’t get shown some good faith here—some respect—that I might go have a talk with Coach Fitzgerald, or maybe write an anonymous note to the newspaper, or maybe whisper in one of those visiting coach’s ears.”
Davonte was fully alert now. He stared at Kaiden and then looked at Ronnie and Gustafson. Ronnie averted his eyes, but Gustafson again held Davonte’s stare. “Little man, are you threatening me?” Davonte asked.
“Yeah, I am. I’m tired of you taking advantage of me and disrespecting me,” Kaiden said. “I’m tired of you making promises and not keeping them. I’m tired of you—”
“Get your shit and get out,” Davonte said quietly.
“I’ll leave, but that ain’t changing nothing.” Kaiden looked at Ronnie and then Gustafson, as if seeking support. Ronnie was staring fixedly at the floor. Gustafson was watching the events unfold without emotion.
“Leave or I’m gonna throw your ass out, boy,” Davonte said.
“Fine, but I want my money!” Kaiden said, and to Ronnie’s surprise, walked over and got in Davonte’s face. “Or else!” he yelled. With that, he grabbed his backpack, pulled it on, and left, slamming the door behind him.
“That sorry sonuvabitch,” Davonte said. “Little mother—”
“Let it go, Davonte,” Ronnie said. “He’ll calm down. He’ll square you.”
“Nobody talks to me like that,” Davonte said. “Back home, you get killed for talkin’ shit like that, man.” While Ronnie and Gustafson watched, Davonte picked a basketball off the floor with one hand and again lay back on the bed. He began shooting imaginary shots toward the ceiling, catching the ball, and repeating the drill. After a couple of moments, he stood and walked over to the table in the small kitchen. He sat and began putting on his shoes, muttering to himself.
“Where are you going?” Ronnie asked.
“I’m gonna go find Kaiden and beat his ass.”
“He’s got people to answer to.” Gustafson spoke for the first time.
“Not my problem,” Davonte said, finishing with his shoes and standing.
“Could become a problem,” Gustafson said. “His source will want his money. If Kaiden doesn’t come across, the source might start looking for the end users.”
Davonte looked at Gustafson for a long moment. “Don’t threaten me, bitch,” he said. “You two little queens need to lock the door on your way out. And don’t touch my shit.”
5
Downs had advised the defendants of their constitutional rights as a group, and as a courtesy, would proceed with those defendants having an attorney first. “The first matter before the court is State v. Albert Smith. Defendant is present and represented by Mike Sharp. The State is present and represented by Catherine Schmidt. Mr. Sharp, will your client waive a verbatim reading of the charges?”
“He will, Your Honor.”
“Thank you. Because these are both felonies, the court will not take a plea here today. Mr. Sharp, are you in this matter for the long haul?”
“Yes, Judge.”
“All right. Defendant has retained counsel. I’ll hear from the parties regarding the terms and conditions of pre-trial release. Ms. Schmidt, what is the State’s position?”
“Your Honor, this is the s
eventh time law enforcement has had contact with this couple. Mr. Smith has twice been convicted of domestic battery, and in each instance the victim was his wife. While we don’t see the defendant as a flight risk, we do believe he poses a danger to the community. We’d ask the defendant be held in lieu of fifty thousand dollars—”
“Fifty thousand dollars? Are you kidding me?” Albert said as Sharp attempted to quiet him.
“Mr. Smith, I’ll tolerate no outbursts,” Downs said. “You and Mr. Sharp will have an opportunity to speak about bond here in a minute.”
“Fifty thousand dollars is ridiculous,” Albert said as Sharp went pale.
“Mr. Smith,” Downs said slowly, recalling that in her recent judicial training she was advised to ‘kill ’em with kindness.’ “I’ll not have that kind of language. Again, if you’ll act appropriately, you’ll have an opportunity to address me momentarily. Ms. Schmidt, anything else from the State?”
“No, Judge.”
“Mr. Sharp, what is your client’s position?”
“Judge, my client believes this is all a mistake. His wife, he tells me, had been drinking and she tripped and fell into a doorknob. He’s asking that he be released on his personal recognizance so that he can get back to his job and support Mrs. Smith and the couple’s dog.”
Downs sat quietly for a moment and was about to speak when she heard a voice in the back of the room say, “Your Honor?” She looked at the gallery, and a hand went up.
“Yes?” Downs said. “Do you have something to say?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m the . . . uh . . . I’m Raylene Smith. It’s all a mistake, Judge. I want Albert home. He’s a good provider. I need him.”
One and Done (Sam Johnstone Book 2) Page 3