“Things he said. Things he posted. Things he wrote.”
“Sarah, he’s what? Eighteen years old, nineteen maybe?” Gordon asked. “You want to be held responsible for things you said when you were eighteen?”
“He’s an adult, Bill. Legally, he’s responsible for everything he says or does, to include murder.”
“I understand that,” Gordon said. “Look, Sarah, suppose I agree with that. What does it mean? He’s not from Wyoming.”
“He’s going to college here. He’s got an attitude shared by many here.”
“And one opposed by many here, Sarah,” he said. “And there’s a third faction, one that I think is way bigger than the others.”
“What’s that?”
“There are a lot of people who don’t give a damn one way or the other who someone sleeps with. They just want to be left alone, free from learning about anyone’s sex life.”
“Then they are part of the problem, Bill. Don’t you see? Acceptance and apathy are not enough.”
“How can leaving someone alone to live life as he chooses not be enough?”
“Because for eons gay people have been discriminated against. It’s not enough to merely accept them; we need to ensure these people are made whole.”
Gordon turned to his keyboard. “I’m on deadline for this editorial,” he said. “Write your story, Sarah, and I’ll look at it. But again, focus on the elements aside from the why, please. You might find one young man killed another young man simply because they got in an argument or for no reason at all. Get the facts. We will deal with the social ramifications—if any—after that.”
A couple days later Sam was in court with Raylene Smith. Albert Smith, having been bound over to the district court for further proceedings, was appearing for his felony arraignment. Sam had agreed to accompany Raylene to observe. Although he had no direct role in the proceeding, because he represented her in her civil domestic violence proceeding, he wanted to accompany her. They sat in the last row of seats and watched as her shackled and bound husband was brought in to face the judge.
“He looks so small,” Raylene said.
“Raylene, he’s 6’3” and weighs 250 pounds and has been beating on you for thirty years,” Sam whispered.
“I know, Sam,” she said. “But I can’t help it. I love him.”
Sam bit his tongue. It wasn’t rational, but he knew enough to know he wasn’t going to change it.
Daniels entered promptly at eleven a.m. and began immediately. “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen, court is in session. We are on the record in the matter of State of Wyoming vs. Albert Smith. The State is represented by Ms. Schmidt. The defendant is represented by Mr. Sharp. Is everyone ready to proceed?”
“We are, Judge,” Schmidt said.
“Defense is ready as well, Your Honor,” said Sharp. Sam hadn’t worked with the man much—just enough to dislike him.
Daniels then proceeded to advise Smith of his rights, as well as the charges against him and the maximum possible penalty. After ensuring that Smith understood, Daniels had him stand. “To the allegation that, on or about the 4th of November, you committed felony domestic battery, how do you plead?”
“Not guilty, Judge,” Smith said.
“Be seated, Mr. Smith,” Daniels said, writing on a pad in front of him. “The parties will be heard regarding bond. Ms. Schmidt, what says the State?”
“Your Honor, we think Judge Downs set a fair and well-considered bond. Mr. Smith has been convicted of domestic battery multiple times. We think it is clear he represents a significant danger to the community, and especially to Mrs. Smith. We’d ask that bond be continued as set by Judge Downs.”
Daniels nodded noncommittally. “Mr. Sharp?”
“Your Honor, the defendant would request a personal recognizance bond. He—”
“That’s not going to happen, Mr. Sharp. These are serious charges. Your client has a history, as you know.”
“Judge, I’m not trying to minimize the charges at all. But I’d remind the court that my client is to be deemed not guilty of all charges until and unless proven otherwise. He is otherwise a productive citizen with a job and a mortgage and a wife to support.”
“Yeah, right,” Sam said under his breath. “He’s a danger.” Raylene looked at Sam but said nothing.
“Moreover, Judge,” Sharp continued, “I’ve been in contact with Mrs. Smith and she wants him home. I have a copy of the letter she prepared for me just yesterday. May I approach?”
Sam sat still, except to shrug when Daniels looked at him. Raylene leaned over to whisper in his ear. “Sam, I’m sorry, but—”
“Please don’t say another word,” Sam said through clenched teeth while looking straight ahead. “We’ll talk outside here in a minute.”
Daniels read the letter and then looked at Raylene. Apparently satisfied, he said, “I’m not convinced this is the best decision I’ll make today, but at the request of the defendant and the alleged victim, I’m going to modify bond. Defendant will be held in lieu of fifty thousand dollars cash or commercial surety. Mr. Smith, if you get out, follow these terms and conditions . . .”
While he was outlining the terms and conditions of the new bond, Sam grabbed Raylene’s arm and escorted her from the courtroom. In the hallway, he saw Fricke and Frac. Nodding to them, he escorted Raylene a little farther down.
“Raylene, what the hell?”
“I need him, Sam,” she said, her eyes welling up with tears.
“For what? My God, Raylene, he treats you like trash! He’s going to get out and eventually hurt or kill you!”
“Sam, I know he’s sorry. I—I made him mad. He just lost it for a minute. I know he loves me!”
“Raylene, no man who actually loved you would treat you like that! It’s part of a cycle. There’s a tension-building phase, then an abusive incident, then a honeymoon phase. You’re in that honeymoon phase now, but as soon as you’re back together the tension will start building again, until . . . well, you know.”
“Sam, I’m old and fat and I don’t bring any money into the house. I couldn’t have kids and so it’s just us. I owe him—”
“Nothing! You don’t owe him anything! Can’t you see that?” Sam’s voice was raised, and he could see people looking in their direction. Worse, he could see Raylene cowering. He softened his voice as best he could and put his hand on her arm. “Let me take you to the women’s shelter, at least. That way, you don’t have to stay in the home with him.”
“But I’ll be alone.”
“I know, but—”
“Sam,” she said, taking his hand, “I’ll—I’ll be fine. This has happened before. He’ll be sorry. We can get some counseling.”
“Raylene, I just . . . I can’t . . .”
“Sam, you’ve done so much for me already,” she said. “I’m fine. I feel safe. Just tell me how to get him out of jail. I sold one of our old cars and I have the money.”
Sam explained the procedure and watched as she walked quickly to the side door. He might have sworn there was a bounce in her step.
Sam was still angry when he got back to the office. He slammed his briefcase down and was taking off his coat when Cassie appeared in the door. “Sam, there is a Mr. Blair on the phone. He wants to talk with you.”
“The practice of law would be so much fun without clients,” he said, taking his chair. He took a deep breath. “Put him through.”
“Sam Johnstone,” he said when the phone rang. His head and his nonexistent leg hurt, and he searched in his desk for a hydrocodone.
“This is Davonte Blair. We met a while back. You came and spoke at my class. I’m in jail for a bullshit charge.”
“What charge is that?” Sam asked, having a pretty good idea.
“Murder. These assholes think I killed Kaiden Miles.”
“How can I help you?”
“Get me outta here.”
“Well, it’s a little more complicated than that,” Sam said.
He took two pills with tepid coffee left over from earlier that morning. “If you want to retain me, there’s the little matter of my fee.”
“All about money, huh?” Davonte observed. “I thought you were all about justice when you spoke at my class.”
“Welcome to the real world. I have expenses. Rent. Paper and pens. Secretaries. Bartenders.”
“You’ll get paid.”
“By whom?” Sam asked.
“What do you care?”
“I prefer to be paid by my client,” Sam said. “If I’m going to be paid by someone else, then I want to know who it is.”
“Money’s all the same.”
“Not to me, it isn’t,” Sam said. “I know who the source is, or you find yourself another boy.”
“How much?”
“I don’t know yet,” Sam said. “And I haven’t even started with my conditions. I don’t need this,” he lied. “I have plenty to do, and I don’t know if I want to take this on. It will depend.”
“On what?”
“Well, where the money’s coming from, for one. And more importantly, what you have to say when we talk.”
“I didn’t do it,” Davonte said. “That’s all you need to know.”
“Davonte, I don’t care whether you did it or not,” Sam explained. “I’m only interested in whether you’re going to listen to me.”
“What?”
“Something you didn’t understand?” Sam asked. Davonte was quiet at the other end of the line, clearly thinking. “Let me help you, Davonte,” Sam said. “There are people who will take the case, no questions asked.”
“I need someone who believes me,” Davonte said. “Someone who can get me off.”
“You pay enough money, you’ll get both.”
“But you’re different, huh?”
“I am,” Sam said. “Tell you what: I’ll come see you here shortly. We’ll talk.”
“See ya,” Davonte said, and hung up.
Sam walked down the hall to Paul’s office. He was reading a contract. Sam noticed the reading glasses. “Got a minute?”
“Sure,” Paul said. “Close the door.” After Sam sat down, Paul ran a hand through his thinning gray hair. Sam remembered when Paul’s hair was long, dark, and thick under his ever-present baseball hat. “What’s up, Sam?”
“I like the readers,” Sam teased.
“Bite me. This getting-old thing sucks.”
Sam smiled. “Got a call from Davonte Blair. He’s been arrested for killing that Miles kid.”
“He wants to retain us?”
“Apparently.”
“You agree?” Paul asked.
“Of course not,” Sam said. “I told him I wanted to talk to you.”
“You quote him?”
“No. Basically told him it would depend,” Sam explained.
“On what?”
“I left that open, but told him there would be conditions, the primary one being that he would listen.”
“Will he?” Paul asked.
“Don’t know.” Sam shrugged. “Maybe if it is part of the deal. I think we ought to at least talk to him. Might be that we’re not a good fit.”
“I don’t like it.” Paul shook his head. “I think this one has media circus written all over it. Ronnie says there are groups on campus making this a gay thing already. Get a black guy accused and you’ve got that to fight in addition to the prosecution.”
“What do you mean, ‘that?’”
“I mean that whoever defends him is going to have to battle the race angle as well as everything else.”
“Do you really see that as an issue?”
“Not for a jury, no. They’ll do the right thing. But I’m worried more about the press and the publicity, Sam. I mean, I’ve done some criminal work, but . . . well, murder defense is a whole different ballgame.” The old friends sat and looked at each other. “What’s he say?” Paul said at last.
“Says he didn’t do it.”
“You believe him?”
“Haven’t even thought about it,” Sam admitted. “Does it matter?”
“I suppose not,” Paul said. “I don’t know, but . . . I mean, I know it’s your practice, but I’ll say it again, just like I did with that Olsen guy: this is all I’ve got.” Paul gestured around the room. “This one is going to be controversial. I want to go along.”
“I’ll set it up,” Sam said. He stood and was leaving when Paul’s voice stopped him.
“Sam, I know you want this one, but we’ve got to get the money. And a lot of it.”
“Agreed.”
The Custer County jail had been on site for almost a century. As Sam and Paul walked down the long, windowless hallways, Sam was reminded of some of the buildings at Fort Benning: staid and colorless, but functional. They were escorted to the counsel room by a long-time jailer. “Boys, I’m gonna have to look through your bags and do a quick pat-down.”
“No problem, Tom,” Paul said. “How are the kids?”
“Doing fine, doing fine. Got me a grandkid that’s going to be a ballplayer, too,” Tom said while patting down Sam. He stopped at Sam’s leg. “I’m sorry, I forgot.”
“No problem,” Sam said.
“Paul,” Tom continued, “if he’s half as good as that P.J. of yours, he’ll be something!”
“Well, thanks, Tom,” Paul said. “Gotta keep him healthy. He’s still a little small.”
“He’ll fill out. He’s got speed—and you can’t coach that,” Tom observed with a smile. “Ya’ll go on in. I’ll be here in the hallway, if you need something.”
Sam entered first, followed by Paul. Davonte had been issued the orange jumpsuit. His hands were cuffed together, and he was chained to the table on the far side of the room, the links running from the cuffs through a C-shaped weld on the top of the table. A pane of plexiglass separated the two ends of the table. “Forgive me if I don’t get up,” Davonte said.
After the door was closed, Sam began. “Davonte, this is my partner, Paul Norquist. As I mentioned, we work together on these things. We wanted to meet with you tonight to see if it is possible for us to represent you.”
“Okay.” Davonte shifted his weight in the tiny plastic chair. “Ronnie is—”
“My son,” Paul said.
Davonte nodded. “What do you want to know?”
“I want to start with what happened after you got arrested,” Sam said. Both Paul and Davonte looked at him blankly. “That was last night—the 22nd, right? Now, where were you?”
“Outside my dorm.”
“And what happened?”
“I was gonna go get some food—”
“Just what happened from the arrest on, please.”
“So, I’m walking out, and that Polson dude and that hanger-on who is always with him came up to me and Polson told me I was under arrest,” Davonte said. He sat back and waited.
“And then what?” Sam asked.
“He told me to put my hands behind my back. He threatened to use his taser on me. That ain’t right, is it? They can’t do that, can they?”
“And then what?” Sam asked, ignoring the questions.
“They cuffed me and then put me in the back of that police car, then they took me to the police station,” Davonte said. “They searched me. That was humiliating, man!”
“And then?”
“They, uh, took my prints—for a second time. Put me in a cell,” Davonte said. “Gave me some paperwork to ask for a phone call and a bond.”
“Did you say anything to them while all this was going on?” Paul asked.
“Told ’em they had the wrong guy and they could kiss my ass,” Davonte said. “Told ’em I was gonna sue their asses off when this was over.”
“Did you talk about what had happened at all?” Sam asked, looking at Paul. This was the key question.
“Not other than to tell him I didn’t do it. Told ’em I wanted a lawyer. The Polson guy, he read me my rights and said he had probable cause to be
lieve that I was the guy who killed Kaiden—which is bullshit.”
“What evidence did he say he had?” Sam asked.
“He said . . . like, video and phone records and texts and cell phone tower stuff.”
“That it?”
“And DNA. On a hat. And cuts on my hands,” Davonte said.
“Other than the inventory, did you make any statements or sign anything?” Sam was watching Davonte closely.
“No. Well, I mean I told him that it wasn’t me.”
“Okay, but you didn’t tell them why, or discuss an alibi or anything like that? Nothing else?” Paul asked.
Davonte looked at Paul. “I just told them I knew that little dude but that I didn’t kill him.”
“Did they take any blood samples, cut any of your hair, clip your nails, or test you for drugs or alcohol?” Sam asked.
“No, not last night.”
“Davonte, I need to talk this over with Paul,” Sam said. “We will be back in a couple of minutes.”
Sam and Paul stepped into the hallway and spoke in low voices. “So, what do you think?” Sam asked.
“I don’t know what to think, Sam,” Paul said. “We never asked him about the crime.”
“Yeah, well, I used to start with, ‘What happened?’ and got unicorns and rainbows from the client, so now I make the client tell me in his own words what the prosecution has,” Sam explained. “It keeps them from blowing smoke up my ass.”
“Okay,” Paul said. “Makes sense. What are you thinking?”
“I’m not sure. If you don’t have a strong feeling one way or the other, let’s go back in and talk to him,” Sam said. Paul nodded, and the two men started to re-enter the room.
“Sam, before we go back in.” Paul put a hand on Sam’s arm to stop him. “One more time: we’ve got bills to pay. You’ve got to cover. I can’t keep this ship afloat much longer.”
“I understand.”
“Davonte,” Sam began, when they were all in the room again, “before we make a final decision, I want your version of what happened.”
“Nothing happened, man.”
“Let me try this again: how long have you known the deceased?” Sam got the events of the past few weeks as best he could from Davonte before Tom told him it was time to cut it off.
One and Done (Sam Johnstone Book 2) Page 13