“Sam, you know this is crap!” Paul said. He waved his arms. “We’re wasting our time.”
“Let me finish,” Sam replied, then turned to Davonte. “I’m having some trouble here. Remember when you told me you never touched any of Miles’s stuff?”
“Yeah?”
“Then how do you explain your DNA on the watch cap found at the scene?”
“I don’t. I never touched his hat,” Davonte said. “I got my own. We all do.”
“Did you hear me? I said your DNA is on his stuff.”
“I can’t explain that,” Davonte said. “You’re the lawyer. Maybe I saw it, picked it up, looked at it, and dropped it.”
“It was next to his body. So it had been covered with snow for the two weeks he was missing.” Sam watched Davonte closely. “Meaning you had to have touched it before he disappeared. But then, I think maybe you know that, and yet, you keep telling me you didn’t know him.”
“I didn’t know him, man, but I knew him. Know what I’m saying?” Davonte said.
“For Christ’s sake,” Paul said.
“Let me ask you something else, Davonte,” Sam began. “Who is picking up the tab for your apartment and living expenses?”
“My agent.”
“So, it’s one thing to declare for the draft—you can always go back,” Sam began. “Unless you sign with an agent. Then it’s a one-way street.”
“Right on, Sam.”
“So, you’ve committed yourself. You don’t get drafted as high as you want—or at all—and you’re done in college,” Sam mused.
“My boy says that isn’t gonna happen.”
“So it’s a draw against expected future earnings.”
“Right on. I can’t lose,” Davonte said. “Why do you wanna know?”
“Because I’m sure Detective Polson already knows, and I want to know everything he knows.” Sam looked at his notepad and then back at Davonte. “So, he wasn’t paying your expenses when Miles disappeared?”
“No. I just told you that.”
“So, let me ask you this. You are a non-qualifier—I get that. But why are you here? Why not red shirt for a year?”
“No game action, know what I’m sayin’?”
“I hear you,” Sam said. “What about overseas? Aren’t there guys taking their game overseas right out of high school?”
“Yeah, but they don’t have my mom.” He shook his head.
“That makes sense,” Sam said. Paul had gotten up and was looking out the window. Sam could almost see the tension in his shoulders. “Developmental league an option?”
“Chump change, man.”
“So, your mother didn’t think you were ready to be on your own overseas. I get it. So we here in Custer get a future NBA draft choice for a year. One and done, huh?”
“One and done, baby,” Davonte repeated, and smiled, showing his straight white teeth for one of the few times since Sam had known him. “Do my time and get the hell out of this shit-hole.”
“Well, I personally cannot wait to see your ass heading east,” Paul snapped. He turned from the window and pointed at Davonte.
“Man, I’ve about had all of you I’m willing to take,” Davonte said, reaching for Paul’s outstretched hand, which was quickly withdrawn. “Get him out of my face, Sam.”
“I think we’re done for today,” Sam said. “Both of you need to cool off. Davonte, we’re gonna need to talk again. Your story is not matching what I think the evidence shows.”
“Sam, I—” Davonte started to say, but stopped when Sam put up his hand.
“I’ll walk you out,” Sam said, and opened the door. Davonte walked slowly down the hall, followed by Sam and Paul. When they got to the waiting room, Sam took one look at the three old women crowded together in one corner, and the two younger men sitting with their legs splayed wide, taking three chairs each, and knew there would be no stopping Paul.
“Get the hell out of my office!” Paul barked.
Reggie and Damon looked at Davonte, then at Sam, and then at Paul before moving. At last they stood, put their phones in their pockets, and followed Davonte out the door. “Tell your client,” Paul said to Sam, “to leave those two wherever he found them before he comes back.” Then, turning to the three ladies, he cooed, “It’s the Morrison sisters. I am so sorry for my language. Please forgive me, ladies, and come on back to my conference room. Can I get anyone anything? Water? Coffee?”
Sam gradually opened his eyes, straining to see through a sort of fog. His mouth was dry, his head was pounding, and his stomach was doing flip-flops. He put on his leg and struggled to his feet, then made his way quickly to the bathroom and vomited. After washing up, he drank a glass of water, then brushed his teeth, showered, and ran a comb through his hair before dressing. He made a pot of coffee and then sat back down in the chair where he’d slept. While listening to the coffee brew he tried to recount the events of the evening. He grabbed his phone and examined it, beginning to remember some of the calls he’d made. He couldn’t really remember what all he had said, but he could recall enough to know the call to Veronica had been a huge mistake. He thought about what to do while he poured and drank the first cup, then threw up again. It was going to be a long day. Might as well get it over with, he thought, and dialed her number.
“Hello?” Veronica said.
“Hi,” he offered. “I’m calling to apologize.”
Because there was no response, he continued. “Listen, I got a little wasted—”
“A little?” Veronica asked. “You were out of your mind.”
“Yeah, vodka does that,” he said. “Look, I’m sorry. I was just drunk and—”
“And trying to get me to hook up with you.”
“Well, yeah, but there was more to it than that. I was hoping you might want to come over and talk, and maybe—”
“Well, you weren’t talking about talking last night, Sam. That was a straight-up booty-call,” she said.
“I might have said some dumb stuff—”
“You did.”
“But I didn’t mean anything by it,” he said. She was quiet, so he went on. “Look, I miss you. I miss us. I’ve been working on some stuff.”
“Well, how is it you were drunk last night if you are ‘working on stuff?’”
“I just . . . I just had a couple of New Year’s Eve drinks and I guess I lost count.”
“Sam, I am uncomfortable around you when you drink. You get . . . I don’t know. Sad. Weird. Scary.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I know, Sam,” she said. “But that’s not good enough. You said some hurtful, stupid things that indicate to me that what you want is not the same thing I want.”
“I said I’m sorry. Can we get together and talk about this?” He sipped coffee and waited.
“No.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Veronica, I made a mistake. I need you to—”
“Sam, you’re not the only one with needs. I can’t do this. Don’t call me.”
Sam started to speak, but the line was dead. “Sonuvabitch!” he yelled.
“Davonte,” Sam said. “Have a seat. How are things, considering?”
Paul and Davonte had joined Sam in his office. It had been a couple of weeks since their last meeting, and Sam wanted to touch base.
“Just ready to get this over with and get the hell out of here, man.” Davonte was on Sam’s couch with his legs extended, staring at the wall hangings. One in particular caught his attention. It was a picture of Sam rounding third after hitting a home run in college. “You play?”
“I did. We did.” Sam gestured toward Paul and then himself. “That’s where Paul and I met.”
“What’d you play?”
“Outfield. Paul here was a pitcher. A good one.”
“You look like an outfielder,” Davonte said, ignoring Paul. “I always liked baseball. Probably more than basketball. But when you’re 6’9”, well, peo
ple be pushing you one way, you know what I mean?”
“Sounds like you got pushed in the right direction,” Sam said, looking at an irritated and insulted Paul. “Now, we need to talk about the hearing next week. It’s called a preliminary hearing. The purpose is for the judge to determine whether there is probable cause to believe a crime was committed and you committed it. Understand?”
“I think so.”
“So, the State will just put an officer on, and he’ll testify to what he and others saw, heard, and found out. If the judge decides that there is probable cause, then you’ll get bound over to district court, which is where trial will be.”
“What if she don’t?”
“She will,” Paul said.
Davonte ignored Paul and repeated, “What if she don’t?”
“Well, I tend to agree with Paul—she will. All they have to show is that a reasonable person could believe Miles was murdered and you did it. It’s a low bar.”
“That’s bullshit, man. Why not just skip it?”
“Well, we could,” Sam said. “But I don’t generally like to do that.”
“Why not?”
“Well, I like to hear what the State’s witnesses are going to say. Gives me a head start on preparation for trial, and we can lock down some testimony.”
“So, my trial has to be held, like, speedy or whatever, right?” Davonte asked.
“Well, the 180 days start from your arraignment in district court. That will happen after you get bound over.”
“What? My 180 days ain’t started yet?” Davonte asked.
“Not yet,” Sam said.
“Then bind me over, man!” Davonte said. “Let’s skip it! If you already know what’s going to happen, why do it?”
“I’d like to see if we could gain some information,” Paul said.
“Does that happen?” Davonte asked.
“Not usually,” Sam admitted. “The prosecution plays things pretty close to the vest.”
“Sam, I need this shit behind me before the draft!” Davonte said. “Let’s skip this and get to district court. What I gotta sign?”
“Just a waiver.”
“Let’s do it.”
Sam looked at Paul. “What do you think?”
“We waive a right, things go bad, we’re up to our ass in alligators with the malpractice insurer. It’s not smart,” Paul concluded.
“Ain’t bright to waste time and energy on a foregone conclusion, is it?” Davonte asked.
Sam thought about it for a minute. “We waive this, you get bound over, we are on our way,” he explained to Davonte. “That speeds up the clock with us a little bit in the dark. Your choice.”
“What’s the surest way to have this behind me the quickest?”
“Plead to manslaughter,” Paul interjected.
“Man, be serious.” Davonte waved a dismissive hand at Paul. “Besides pleading to something I did not do, I mean.”
“That’s a discussion we will need to have,” Sam said. “Pleading to a lesser.”
“Ain’t happenin’.”
Sam watched Davonte closely, then looked to Paul. “All right. That’s good for today,” Sam said, standing. “Hang out in the waiting area. I’ll have Cassie draft a waiver of preliminary hearing, we’ll sign it, and I’ll get it filed today. We should be getting a call by early next week with a setting for the arraignment. That will start your 180-day clock ticking.”
“The sooner the better, man. The draft is in June. I got workouts to attend.”
Something—perhaps the chili or the several beers or both—was bothering Sam’s stomach. He’d been rolling around in his bed for an hour when at 3:15 a.m. he finally sat up, attached his leg, and made his way to the small kitchen, where he took a spoonful of baking soda in a little water. Remembering to remain upright or face a potential volcanic upchuck, he wandered the house for some time before sitting down at his desk and checking the college basketball scores, and then the news. The Colorado Rockies had (again) made no move in free agency; the Middle East was (again/still) in an uproar; domestically, politicians were (as always) at odds; and locally funding was (forever) insufficient for various projects being considered.
His email wasn’t any better. His inbox was filled with unsolicited ads from travel companies, fly-fishing product manufacturers, insurance reminders, and men’s health companies promising both renewed youth and sexual prowess. He spent some time deleting the spam and thought briefly about sending Veronica a note before thinking better of it and closing the laptop. He stood and stretched, debating whether to try and go back to sleep or to give it up, shower, get dressed, and go into the office. He had a hearing at ten a.m. on a contract dispute, so he decided to try and get a little sleep. He turned out the light in the kitchen, and while walking to the window, took a quick look outside and thought he saw something moving in the junipers lining the driveway.
He dropped below the level of the window and moved to the entranceway of the townhouse, drew the pistol from the holster hanging on the door handle, and moved back to the kitchen, staying low. Leaning over the counter, he put his face as close as possible to the sill and peered out with one eye. He scanned the area where he had seen movement for a couple of minutes but saw nothing. He donned his shoes and walked through the house, out the back door, and into the small space serving as a backyard. Keeping as close as possible to the side of the house, he slowly worked his way around the back, scanning every inch of the perimeter for signs of an unseen enemy and vowing silently to buy the newest in night vision optics if given the chance. Having cleared the backyard, he performed the same drill up the side of the townhouse, until he was at the front corner and in position to the junipers if he moved his head enough to look around the corner. He was getting ready to risk a look when movement in the lilacs bordering the yard caught his attention. He swung the pistol to the target in time to see a large black housecat scramble over the fence and into his neighbor Bill’s yard. The cat’s movement was detected by Bill’s security system, which illuminated, bathing Sam—who tried to minimize his exposure by pressing up against the wall—in blinding light. Hiding was futile, so he retreated to his home as quickly as possible, fearful every step would be his last. He was inside and still breathing heavily when his phone rang. Looking at the number, he saw it was Bill, and answered.
“This is Sam.”
“Sam, what the hell are you doing?” Bill asked. “I saw you running around with a gun outside. What’s going on?”
“I, uh, thought I saw someone.”
“Well, did you call the cops?”
“No.”
“Why the hell not?” Bill asked.
“I was, uh, gonna take care of it myself.”
“Damn, Sam. This isn’t Iraq or whatever. You see someone, you can call a cop,” Bill said, adding, “You okay?”
“I’m fine. I’m fine. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
“Okay, Sam. Take care of yourself, now.”
Sam hung up, then walked around the house and checked all the doors. He ate a bowl of cereal and took a couple of hydrocodone, then sat down on the toilet and took off his leg. He hopped in the shower, then got dressed and made his lunch, which—since Veronica had stopped seeing him—he had been eating in the office. While backing his truck out of the drive, he had a thought. He grabbed a flashlight, got out, and walked over to the juniper bushes lining the drive. In the small circle of light, he noted footprints in the dirt considerably larger than his own size 12s. He remembered the note.
16
It was early February and Sam was in his office pouring coffee and getting increasingly irritable. Davonte’s tardiness had become habitual, and Sam was mentally rehearsing the ass-chewing he was going to deliver when Cassie called to let him know Davonte had arrived. In January, Davonte had been arraigned, bond had been continued, and the trial had been set—at Davonte’s request—for May. The clock was ticking. Sam took a couple of deep breaths and vowed to practice the relaxa
tion techniques Martinez had given him. In the meanwhile, when Davonte finally arrived, he decided to overlook his lateness one more time and focus instead on the positive. “So, Davonte, tell me what’s going on.”
“You know,” Davonte began. “Hanging out, shooting some hoops, working out, playing some video. I’m pretty good at this one war game. Think I’da been a pretty good soldier. Maybe better than you.”
Sam took a deep breath and let it out. “So, we need to talk a little bit. I want to run through some scenarios with you.”
“Like what?”
“Like what happens if you get convicted.”
“Didn’t do it.” Davonte shrugged. “Ain’t gonna happen.”
“What if it does?”
“Then you did a shitty job.”
“Okay, so let’s say I do a shitty job and you get convicted,” Sam said. “Right now, the State isn’t seeking the death penalty, so you understand you could get life in prison with no possibility of parole, right?”
“I understand it—but I don’t see it happening, because I didn’t do it, man.”
“So,” Sam said, ignoring Davonte for the moment. “Worst-case scenario is you go away for life without possibility of parole. Best case is you go away for life, with the possibility of getting out at some point on parole. Like, way down the road.”
“Not happenin’,” Davonte insisted.
“That’s first degree. Mandatory life sentence,” Sam said. Davonte was looking at his nails while Sam spoke. “Now, just so you know, I don’t see that happening. I think the State overcharged this. I think the most that could be proved is second degree. You get second degree, and you’re looking at anywhere from twenty years to life.”
“Still not happenin’,” Davonte said, biting at the nail on an index finger.
“So, second degree, worst case is life with parole,” Sam explained. “Best case is twenty years in the can—get me?”
“Got it, boss.”
“Now, the next step down is manslaughter. That’s punishable by up to twenty years—are you listening to me? Because we’re not having this discussion for my benefit,” Sam said. Davonte was looking at his phone. “Put your damned phone away and listen or find yourself another boy!”
One and Done (Sam Johnstone Book 2) Page 17