One and Done (Sam Johnstone Book 2)

by James Chandler

  “Dude, relax. It’s my agent.”

  “Really?” Sam said. “Then go ahead and take the call.”

  “Yeah?” Davonte said, and prepared to push “send.”

  “Yeah. Ask him what the market is for sixty-year-old ballplayers,” Sam began. “Because if you don’t start taking this shit seriously, you’re gonna be the baddest dude on the basketball court in Rawlins.”

  “What’s Rawlins?” Davonte asked.

  “That’s the location of the Wyoming State Penitentiary.”

  Reluctantly, Davonte put the phone in his pocket. “You a hard man, Sam.”

  “Harder than you know. Now, listen up for a minute. I think I could maybe get the State to agree to a ten-year sentence for manslaughter. You are young, you’ve got no serious record, and you’ll be under thirty when you—”

  “No, damnit!”

  “—get out,” Sam finished. He leaned forward and looked Davonte in the eye. “Davonte, I’m going to do the best I can. But twelve people—twelve regular, ordinary people—are going to decide what happened. I cannot guarantee results.”

  “I didn’t do it!” Davonte was on his feet now. Sam was afraid Davonte’s hair was going to get caught in the ceiling fan. “I am innocent!”

  “Lower your voice and sit down,” Sam commanded. Davonte sat down hard, like a scolded child might.

  “Sam, I’m telling you, I didn’t do this. I did not kill Kaiden.”

  “I understand what you are telling me, okay?” Sam softened his voice. “Look, it doesn’t happen as often as television and movie types would like us to believe, but innocent people do get convicted. The choice is this: you can swallow hard and do maybe ten years, or you can roll the dice and possibly do life without parole.”

  Davonte looked down at his expensive sneakers for a moment. He had tears in his eyes when he again looked at Sam. “You don’t understand. I’ve worked my whole life for this. I’m almost there. I didn’t do this,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s like a nightmare. I just want to get through this and get onto my dream of playing in the NBA.”

  He was either one hell of an actor, Sam thought, or he was showing real emotion for the first time. “Davonte, think it over. Talk to Sharon. I’m just saying it might be better to delay your dream and ensure a life worth living, versus taking a risk and having it all taken away—possibly forever.”

  “I can’t do it, Sam.” Davonte shook his head again. “I can’t admit to something I didn’t do. Not the way she raised me.”

  “We don’t have to decide anything today. Hell, the State hasn’t even made us an offer yet. I just wanted to get you to understand what’s at stake here.”

  “I understand, Sam. Look, man, don’t ever think I don’t know what’s at stake. It’s my entire life, man!”

  “I got it,” Sam said, standing. Davonte extended his hand—a first. Sam took it and held it tightly. “Now get out of here,” he said. “And make good choices.”

  “Thanks. I will,” Davonte said. “You got somewhere I can clean up? I don’t want. . . well, my boys. . .” He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.

  “Down the hall,” Sam said. “Third door.”

  Moments later, Sam watched as Davonte crossed the street to where Reggie and Damon were waiting. Apparently, Paul had run them off for good. Davonte walked up to them, running his mouth and acting like he had the world by the tail. Damon looked at Sam, then looked at Davonte. Sam noted Damon was wearing workout clothes featuring the Custer College logo, complemented by black basketball shoes. The shoes were large—like twin black limousines large.

  A few days later, Sam was in court with David Ebert, a client who was a terrible alcoholic. This was a guy, Sam thought, whose story could be in the back of the Blue Book. He’d been convicted nine times for driving under the influence, most recently less than a year prior. Because his most recent conviction was a felony, Ebert had been sentenced by Daniels, who’d given him three years. Daniels had suspended two years and ordered Ebert to serve one year in the Custer County jail, a sentence referred to as a “split.” Ebert had spent the year behind bars and had gotten out just three weeks ago. He was appearing this morning on charges of violating his probation. According to the affidavit, he’d found a way to drink and drive again by defeating the Intoxilyzer in his car. Sam hadn’t had much of a chance to talk with Ebert and was not terribly familiar with the details, but it wasn’t going to matter, as Ebert was determined to plead, do his time, and be done with it. As Daniels called the case, Sam thought about his exchange with Ebert earlier that morning.

  “I’m no good on probation, Sam.”

  “Dave, you plead guilty and you might very well do two years in Rawlins. I mean, given your history. . .”

  “I know it, Sam, but I just can’t not drink.”

  “Look,” Sam had said. “Let me argue for treatment. We’ll get you a bed date.”

  “I been there. Six times. I don’t want to go back.”

  “Dave, you’re going to die if you keep drinking.”

  “And I’ll die if I don’t,” Ebert had said.

  Now, after Sam waived an advisal of rights and a verbatim reading of the charges, Daniels asked Ebert for his plea.

  “I admit it, Judge,” Ebert said as Sam sat back, helpless. “I’m guilty.” While Daniels advised Ebert of the possible repercussions stemming from his persisting with an admission, Sam was looking at the scratches all over his client’s arms and face, wondering if he’d gotten in a scrap in the holding cell.

  “So, Mr. Ebert, what happened?” Daniels asked.

  “Well, me and a couple of the boys were drinking some beers over at the Longhorn—”

  “Which you were not supposed to be doing, right?”

  “Right, Judge,” Ebert said. “But I got a little thirsty. Anyway, them guys got too drunk to drive, so I figured I’d get everyone home safe.”

  “Ah,” Daniels said, removing his readers and rubbing his eyes. “No good deed goes unpunished?”

  “Well, kinda, Judge. So, anyway, I knew my car wouldn’t start if I had alcohol in my system, and everyone else had been drinking, too. So we was wondering what to do when this cat walked by.”

  “A cat?” Daniels asked. “Like a housecat?”

  “Well, yeah, but he was a little wild. And he was a big sonuvagun, too. Like that.” Ebert held his hands a couple of feet apart. “So, I had an idea. I walked over to him and grabbed him and . . . uh . . . got him in the car. Then I wrapped my hands around his head and put his mouth around the Intoxilyzer, and then I squeezed him to try and get the air outta him and into that Intoxilyzer thing,” Ebert said. Sam was afraid he was going to burst out laughing but pursed his lips instead to try and maintain a properly serious bearing. “See, I was trying to see if I could get enough air into the damned thing to start the car.”

  “So, what happened?” Daniels said, swiveling in his chair as if to check one of the bound volumes behind him. Sam could see his shoulders shaking from laughter. “Go on, Mr. Ebert.”

  “Well, the cat . . . he started to squirm, and he got his mouth off the thing and then he bit my hand and I dropped him, and he got loose in the car. The doors were closed, of course, and that bastard—I’m sorry—well, he decided he was gonna get even, I think, and he attacked us and bit the shit, er, bit the hell out of me, Ray, and especially Ed. I guess a cop was patrolling and saw the commotion and checked on us and ended up arresting me.”

  “That where you got the scratches?”

  “Yeah.” Ebert shook his head and looked at his outstretched arms. “That cat kinda ripped us a new one.”

  Daniels and Sam made eye contact. The old judge clearly couldn’t resist. “So, what happened to the cat?”

  “Well, last I seen he was stalking off, looking kinda pissed,” Ebert said. “His tail was standing straight up with the hair on it standing straight out.”

  “Let’s take a brief recess,” Daniels said, wiping his eyes with a handkerchief.
He stood and left the courtroom. Sam could hear the laughter from Daniels’s chambers after the door closed.

  “I don’t know what you want me to do, Paul.” Sam was getting exasperated with his old friend. They had been arguing over the client and strategy for twenty minutes. “He says he didn’t do it, and he won’t plead to a lesser. We’ve got to prepare for trial.”

  “The evidence is not overwhelming, Sam,” Paul said. “But I think it is enough to gain a conviction. Hell, when I was prosecuting—and it’s been a while, I admit—I took a few cases to juries where I had less than this.”

  “Murders?”

  “Well, no. But we’ve got other disadvantages, too. Our client, for one.”

  Sam’s hackles were raised. “Because he’s black?”

  “No, because he’s an ass.”

  Sam sat back and looked at Paul for a long time. “I think he’s young, Paul. I think the you and I of today would hate the you and I of twenty years ago.”

  “He’s an arrogant prick.”

  “Uppity?”

  “Give me a break,” Paul said. “You and I both know he’s not going to play well in front of a jury.”

  “That I agree with,” Sam said. “But look, we’ll use our guy’s gifts the best we can. We’ll get some character guys—like Ronnie,” Sam suggested. “Ronnie seems to love the guy.”

  “I don’t want Ronnie testifying,” Paul said.

  “But no one knows him better. How you treat the manager is a character check. As far as I can tell, they were—”

  “I don’t want him testifying,” Paul insisted.

  “And in an ideal situation I wouldn’t, either,” Sam said. “But it could come to that.”

  “Sam, look at us,” Paul began. “We’re doing a drill here to try and figure out what we can say that is positive about our own client. We’ve got a lot at stake here. The evidence is that he was there, and it tends to show something happened between him and that dead gay kid.”

  “I know.”

  “And the evidence is that Davonte doesn’t like gay people.”

  “I think we can attribute a lot of that to youthful indiscretion.”

  “In this day and age? I think you’re fooling yourself. I think when those jurors see and hear what he posted our stuff will be weak,” Paul said. “Besides, how you gonna do that? You can’t put him on the stand—you know that. Can’t you work on him a little more about a plea?”

  “I’ll keep working on him,” Sam said. “But I don’t think it’s gonna happen.”

  “Well, if he’s not going to do a plea, at least get him to tell us the truth so we don’t get ambushed. Because while I’m willing to admit I don’t know what happened, I do know his story to date is bullshit. And I don’t want Ronnie testifying,” Paul repeated, then stood and left Sam’s office.

  According to the calendar, it was the first day of spring. Sam was looking out his office window at two feet of snow as he waited on Davonte, recalling his time in Washington, D.C. and thinking the cherry blossoms ought to be in bloom. He needed to run some things by Davonte, so he’d called him and asked him to come in. Surprisingly, he was on time this morning. “So, Davonte, I called you in here so we could talk about what happened.”

  “I don’t know what happened.”

  “Well, I guess we are off to a poor start here. Let me begin again. The State can show that you and Kaiden were in a drug relationship. The State can show that you owed Kaiden money. The State can show the two of you knew each other well. The State can show that you had an argument with Kaiden the night he disappeared.”

  “So what?”

  “Why are you interrupting me?”

  Davonte looked at Sam for a long moment, then sat back. “The State can show,” Sam continued, “that you followed Kaiden out of the dorm.” Davonte started to speak but Sam stopped him with a raised hand. “There is video and eyewitness evidence tending to indicate that. The State can show that your phone was in the area where Kaiden’s body was found at the relevant time. The State can show you making demeaning comments about gay people, and the State can show you were the last person to talk with him. The State can show you had bruising and cuts on your hands a few days following his disappearance. The State—”

  “That’s all—whattaya call it?—circumstantial evidence!”

  Sam nodded. “And the State can show your DNA on the cap found at the scene,” he finished, adding, “Lots of guys doing life as the result of circumstantial evidence.”

  “Sam, I did not do this!” Davonte said, shaking his head. “This is all some small-town bullshit.”

  “I’m sure the State is developing other evidence as well. They are required to turn it over at some point, of course, but it will be icing on the cake. They’ve got enough right now,” Sam said. “So, as a minimum, that’s what the State has. Now, let’s look at what we have.”

  “Okay, let’s do it.” Davonte leaned in eagerly toward Sam.

  “I made a list,” Sam said. He pushed a yellow legal pad over to Davonte. On the pad, he had written, “Davonte says he 1) didn’t have a fight with Kaiden; 2) didn’t follow him; 3) wasn’t anywhere near the scene; and 4) didn’t kill him.” Sam waited while Davonte read what he had written. When Davonte looked up, Sam asked, “Do you see the problem?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Let me spell it out for you: they have admissible evidence tending to show all those things and more. We have you saying, ‘uh-uh.’ That, my friend, is the recipe for you to do the next forty years in an eight-by-ten room.” Davonte started to protest, but Sam stopped him. “My problem is I’ve got nothing backing your story. I’m not even really sure what your story is, because so far all you’ve told me is that you didn’t do it. What you haven’t told me is what you did do.”

  “What do you need?”

  “I need the truth. All of it. Good or bad.” Sam leaned forward. “I need to know exactly where you were the night Kaiden disappeared. Every second of the night. I need to know where you were, why you were there, who you were with, and what happened. Whatever it is,” Sam continued, “if I know about it, I can deal with it. I don’t give a shit if you are gay. I don’t care if you use drugs. I don’t care if whatever you tell me reveals your deepest, darkest secrets. But you cannot play ‘stump the chump’ with me any longer.”

  Davonte sat back and looked at his nails, then stretched his long legs to the side of the chair and looked at Sam. “So, I followed him—so what?”

  “So, in the cops’ eyes, that makes you one of the last people to see him alive. Try and follow me here: not infrequently, the last guy to see a victim is the one who made him a victim. Get me?”

  “Yeah, I hear you. But when I left, he was alive.”

  “Left where?”

  Davonte sat quietly, looking at nothing in particular. “Let me ask you a question,” Sam began. “Do you have a desire to be locked in a small room with another man for a few decades?”

  “Don’t be a dumbass, man,” Davonte said. “Of course not.” He continued sitting quietly. Sam said nothing. At last, Davonte spoke. “So, if I did tell you, then what?”

  “Then I would be better able to advise you and defend you,” Sam explained. “If you don’t come across, I’m going to talk with Paul. We might have to see the judge about withdrawing. So, telling me is a win for everyone.”

  Davonte stood and said, “I need to make a call.”

  “Seriously? There are guys your age leading rifle squads in Afghanistan right now, literally making life-or-death decisions for themselves and the men they lead, and you’re gonna call your mom to see if you should tell your lawyer the whole truth? What am I missing here?”

  Davonte ignored him and walked out of the office. Sam headed for the kitchen to get another cup of coffee and met Paul in the hallway. “Well?” Paul asked.

  “He’s going to come across, I think.”

  “It’s not too late to call this off, Sam.”

  “I know. I’v
e explained to him that I think we’re done if I don’t start hearing something that rings true.”

  “Sam, that ain’t gonna happen. He doesn’t trust us.”

  “I’m working on that.”

  “Not going to happen,” Paul said. “Keep me posted.”

  “Of course,” Sam said, and walked back to his office. He was sending an email to Cassie when Davonte returned, closed the door, and sat down. Sam turned to look at him. “Call your mom?”

  “No, but I’m good,” Davonte said. “Called the guy I needed to talk to. We good.”

  “What does that mean?” Sam asked.

  “Don’t worry about it. We’re cool. So . . . the little bastard hit on me,” Davonte said.

  “What?” Sam asked.

  “Kaiden. He hit on me, so I busted him one.” Davonte shook his head as if to say he wasn’t having it.

  “Let’s walk this back a little bit,” Sam said. “You had an argument with Kaiden that night about money, right?”

  “Yeah, and he embarrassed me in front of Ronnie and that other dude,” Davonte said. “That was disrespectful. I was gonna kick his ass.”

  “So, he left, you left, and you caught up with him where?”

  “Outside his dorm.”

  “Then what?”

  “We went to, like, the dayroom, or whatever. To talk it out.”

  “And then what?”

  “Then he apologized,” Davonte said. “I figured we were good, so I got up to leave, and he hugged me.”

  “So you thumped his melon because he hugged you?”

  “It wasn’t like a . . . hug, man. It was like a hug,” Davonte explained. “Like he was hitting on me.”

  “Davonte . . . you had some stuff on your phone. Porn. Leads me to believe—”

  “You are wrong, man.”

  Sam let it go. “What do you mean he ‘hit on you?’”

  “I mean, he was like crying and sad and everything, and then he wanted me to hold him.”