Battlemind

by Michael Waddington

  She started crying. "What did you people do to my husband?"

  "Ma'am."

  Her voice turned from fear to anger. "You people attacked my husband, in front of my kids, you animals!"

  "Ma'am. Stop!" I said in a forceful voice.

  Suddenly, she became quiet, like she'd flipped a switch. "I'm, I'm so sorry," she said. "They came and took him away. I have no idea if he's okay. The kids don't sleep." Her voice faded.

  "Your husband's okay. He asked me to call you."

  "You're his lawyer? What is going on? We have to fight this."

  "Your husband released me this morning," I said. "You should discuss that with his new attorney, L. Edward Williams."

  "Who?"

  "A lawyer from North Carolina. He's very experienced."

  "We can't afford a lawyer."

  "My understanding is that Mr. Williams will be representing your husband at no charge."

  Gabby listened as I gave her a synopsis of the case. By the time I finished, she was a little calmer. Probably because I kinda, sorta led her to believe that Tyler had a fighting chance. Let someone else be the bearer of bad news. I hung up and sprinted up the stairs. Annabelle was naked under the sheets - and snoring like a buzz saw.

  Chapter 23

  David Weathersby Kline II was the senior partner at Stanford and Kline, Attorneys at Law, a position he had occupied in Columbia for almost 20 years, ever since dear old dad handed it to him - as his grandfather had done decades before. No one ever questioned whether Kline should ascend to such heights. No one ever questioned D.W. Kline about anything. In Columbia, South Carolina, he represented an unshakable pillar in the community, and he was a legend in his own mind.

  Kline cared about three things. One, the law. Whether it was the prestige of leading one of the South's best-known firms, the money the position produced, or any sense of the beauty of justice, no one knew.

  Second, Clemson University. The Kline family worshiped at the shrine of the Tiger Paw. Kline's office unabashedly displayed his adoration of all things Clemson. Pictures of Kline with Danny Ford, Terry Allen, Vic Beasley, and even an aging William "The Refrigerator" Perry, autographed and suitably framed, hung on the wall directly behind various footballs, which had been signed by every single member of the team, every, single year. IPTAY, the Clemson booster association, might have started off as, "I pay ten a year," but for Kline, the acronym meant "I pay thousands a year."

  Any associate invited to sit in Kline's box in Death Valley on a Saturday afternoon was tagged for the partnership track. No invitation after three years? Best to dust off the resume.

  Last, but certainly far from least, Kline cared about his goddaughter, Annabelle Hillyard. "Sorry," he would always say. "I mean, O'Donnell." Kline and his wife of 30 years had never been able to produce a daughter. When his old friend, Sterling Hillyard, offered the opportunity to accept the "spiritual and social upbringing" of infant Annabelle, well, there was no hesitation at all.

  It was Kline who taught Annabelle to drive in his Mercedes. Kline, who "called a few friends" on the occasion of Annabelle's "youthful indiscretion" that resulted in an arrest for underage alcohol consumption. The charges evaporated.

  On her 16th birthday, Kline presented Annabelle with a giant red ribbon under which sat a gleaming, red Lexus convertible. "Anyone can drive a BMW," he said.

  When Annabelle, age 18, appeared in tears at his office and sobbed through a sad story of a starry night, a magical prom, a dashing All-State quarterback, raging hormones, and a faulty prophylactic. "Uncle David" made all the appropriately discreet arrangements with an appropriately discreet doctor in an appropriately discreet clinic several hundred miles from Columbia.

  Kline had initially been pleased when Annabelle called him and said, "Uncle David, I'm engaged!" She was elated. "Max this" and "Max that," and, "Max is so great." Until he met me at a barbeque. I wore a t-shirt with a Puerto Rican flag on it that said, "Boricua."

  Kline pointed at my shirt. "What does that mean?" he asked and took a bite of his pulled-pork sandwich.

  "It means I'm Puerto Rican."

  He swallowed hard to avoid choking. "I thought your name was O'Donnell." Kline was honestly confused.

  "It is. My dad's side is Irish. My mother is from Puerto Rico."

  Kline stared. "But you don't look black."

  The interview was brief and uncomfortable. David Kline, the great man himself, three-piece suit, a silk tie with matching handkerchief, and a Rolex that would choke a horse, invited me into his office.

  "Thank you for meeting me, Mr. Kline," I said. I was expecting, "Call me David." It didn't happen.

  "Nothing's too good for my darling, Annabelle." Kline flashed a disingenuous smile. We chatted about innocuous things for less than four minutes, when someone knocked at the door. Kline said, "Come in," with a little too much zeal. A trio of suits entered. "These gentlemen will show you around," Kline said. The job interview was over. We shook hands. I could have sworn Kline flinched.

  The three Senior Associates who led me to the Conference Room were as douche-i-fied as imaginable. Their names were Preston, Holloway, and Fleming. Who names a kid, "Fleming?" Also joining us was David Weathersby Kline, III (aka Trey), David's son. In high school, Trey's infatuation with Annabelle bordered on creepy, but she kept him squarely in the friend-zone. A few years out of law school, Trey was on the greased track to partnership at his father's firm. On the office tour, we talked a little about the actual practice of law, but mostly, "Who do you know?" (which was nobody they knew), and, "Does the Army let you fire anything that's full-auto?"

  Before the scheduled lunch with "Uncle David," I fabricated an "emergency" and drove to Fort Arnold. I did not want to spend more time than necessary with any of these jokers.

  Chapter 24

  Inside his cell at Fort Custer, Jefferson waited with anticipation for his savior, L. Edward Williams. Jefferson only knew Williams by reputation, and what Cullen had told him, but he felt confident Williams would waltz him right out of the Brig like a debutante at her coming-out party.

  Cullen and Jefferson had spent the prior evening talking about Williams's most famous murder case. A decade ago, the state police had stopped a BMW sedan doing over 100 mph on the interstate. Both state troopers recognized the driver. Everyone in the area knew the All-Pro receiver, and both troopers could spot someone high on cocaine. The football player grew agitated when they asked to search the trunk, so he took a swing at one of the officers.

  Probable cause.

  They popped the trunk and found the lifeless body of a woman who turned out to be the player's ex-wife. Within two days, L. Edward Williams had pounced on the case.

  After a sensational trial, the player walked away scot-free. The moral giants of the NFL even hired him again. He signed a new contract with a massive bonus, destroyed his knee in training camp, and retired to Boca. Williams rode the hype like a rodeo cowboy. Now, every time CNN needed a "noted legal analyst," Williams's toothy grin dominated the screen.

  "He got that guy off, our case should be a cakewalk," Jefferson said.

  "Fuck, yeah." Cullen fist-bumped Jefferson. "These Army prosecutors are gonna shit themselves when he shows up."

  "We're going to sit back and enjoy every minute of it."

  "Amen, brother," Cullen said. "This is gonna make us famous."

  "We're going to get a book deal after the acquittal." The image of walking out of jail, a free man looped in Jefferson's mind. He envisaged holding a press conference and raising his arms in victory on the courtroom steps.

  Williams showed up at the Brig in El Paso as promised. However, he spent the morning in a one-on-one huddle with Cullen. After the meeting finished, Williams passed Jefferson's cell without saying a word. Jefferson asked the guard. "Hey, when is my appointment with my attorney?"

  The guard glanced at his clipboard. "You don't have one, shitbird." And the first domino fell.

  Chapter 25

  H
aving skipped lunch with Uncle David, I spent the rest of the day packing up my office in preparation for my civilian life. Afterward, I worked out at the gym with a co-worker. By the time I arrived home, it was dark, no illumination on the porch, not a single light in the house. After fumbling with the lock for a minute, I opened the front door and stepped into the small foyer.

  An edgy voice leaked from the darkness. "I cannot believe you left Uncle David in the middle of lunch."

  "Actually, I left before lunch," I said.

  Again, the voice. "You just walked out? You didn't even make an effort."

  I weaved my way toward the sound. "Shit!" The pain in my right knee erupted about the same time I heard the vase shatter on the floor.

  The voice remained flat. "You promised me you would try." Then came the litany of complaints I'd heard before:

  "You never follow through."

  "You always take the easy way out."

  "You won't fight for yourself or your family."

  She saved the best for last. "Daddy was right about you."

  I dropped into the first armchair I managed to find in the dark. I heard movement.

  The voice changed positions. Now, it was closer to the stairs. "Sleep on the couch, Max."

  Chapter 26

  Over the weekend, I hung out at home, doing the dishes, playing with the kids, and completing my honey-do list. I was tired of being in the doghouse. I wanted out. So, I swallowed my pride, called David Kline, and apologized for having to run out on our lunch date. I told him it was a "military necessity," and he said he "completely understood." Both were lies, and we both knew it. Our feelings were mutual. He wanted nothing to do with me, and the lunch was a courtesy to Annabelle. By walking out, I did him a favor. Kline promised to get back in touch; to reschedule. I was more likely to believe he would attend an NAACP rally.

  Annabelle must have gotten word of the call because dinner passed without incident, and at lights out, I was back in my own bed. I leaned over and kissed Annabelle's forehead. Half asleep, she smiled, patted my hand, and closed her eyes.

  Then, my cell phone rang. "Hello," I said in a whisper.

  "This is Colonel Paine calling. Is this Captain O'Donnell?"

  I sat upright. "How can I help you, sir?"

  "I'm following up on the plea deal," Paine said. "If there is no deal, then we need to discuss dates for the preliminary hearing."

  "I'm off the case," I said as quietly as I could.

  "The Army appointed someone else?" Paine sounded surprised.

  "A civilian attorney, L. Edwards Williams, has taken Jefferson's case."

  After a few seconds of silence, Paine started laughing.

  "What's so funny?" I asked.

  "Mr. Williams put in an entry of appearance on behalf of Sergeant Rodney Cullen," he said. "He does not represent Sergeant Jefferson. In fact, today, we discussed a plea deal in which Cullen would testify against your client."

  What the fuck?

  "There must be a misunderstanding," I said. "I have a lot going on here. My wife is about to give birth."

  Covington Paine suddenly morphed into a human being. "Captain O'Donnell, I completely understand. My wife and I have five great blessings. Rest assured, if you are still on the case, I will work with you and set a convenient date for you and your family."

  "I appreciate that."

  "Well, God bless your wife and your family," he said. "We'll get this sorted out. Goodnight." He hung up the phone.

  I peeked at Annabelle - her eyes were closed - I prayed she'd been asleep. I bent over to kiss her head. She snatched the sheets and turned her back to me. "You're such a liar, Max."

  Chapter 27

  The next morning, I made pancakes for Ethan and Eva and got ready for work. I left the kids on the couch, watching cartoons. Annabelle stayed in bed, brooding.

  At the office, there were no calls from Jefferson. I figured something had been lost in translation, that Williams had contacted Jefferson, and that all was right with the world. I brewed a pot of coffee and spent the morning working on my resume. For lunch, I went to the Post Exchange and ate Popeye's spicy fried chicken with red beans and rice. After lunch, I planned on heading home early, surprising the kids, and making amends with Annabelle. Then, Jules called.

  "Are you expecting someone in the office today?" she asked me.

  "No. Why?"

  "Sergeant Jefferson's family is here to see you. They seem a little desperate."

  "I'm on my way," I said and hung up the phone.

  Ten minutes later, I entered my office's waiting room. A man and a woman sat chatting. Each held a child. I approached the woman and extended my hand. "I'm Captain O'Donnell," I said. "We spoke on the phone the other night."

  The woman stood and shook my hand with a firm grip. "Captain, I apologize for how I acted."

  "It's okay, Mrs. Jefferson." I gave a dismissive wave of my hand. "It's nice to meet you in person."

  "Please, call me Gabby."

  I smiled and nodded.

  "This is Aliyah, and this is Elijah." Gabby motioned to the children. "And this is Tyler's father, Reggie." She pointed to a giant black man who had been seated beside her.

  Reggie stood and crushed my hand with a frying-pan-sized palm before I got a firm grip. Diamond studs the size of peas decorated his ears; a wooden toothpick hung from the corner of his mouth. "Reggie Jefferson," he said. "Twenty years with the Dallas PD."

  "Nice to meet you," I said, wondering why that was relevant.

  "I wish I could say likewise," he said through a clenched jaw. The pupils of Reggie's bloodshot eyes were obsidian. His weathered face bore a deep scar. He appeared to be a guy you didn't want to mess with. After an uncomfortable 10 seconds, he let go of my hand.

  "We've been on the road forever," Gabby said. "We just got here."

  "Gabby, I'm not sure how I can help. I'm no longer on the case."

  Reggie stepped toward me. "Your office, now." He jerked his head toward the door. It was not a request. "This pretty young thing here can keep an eye on Aliyah and her brother," he said, pointing at Jules.

  "Elijah, Aliyah." Gabby wagged her finger. "You behave for the nice lady, hear?"

  This time, Jules reacted. "The nice Captain," Jules said, without any edge in her voice at all.

  "Yes, ma'am," the children said in tandem, well-behaved and polite.

  Inside my office, Gabby and Reggie sat in Vietnam-era imitation leather chairs. She was tense. He was angry. Reggie's voice was low and threatening. "What the fuck's going on, counselor?"

  "Mr. Jefferson, calm down," I said.

  "You quit fuckin' over my boy and lyin' to his wife. Then, I will calm the fuck down."

  "Mr. Jefferson, I don't represent your son."

  Reggie slammed his paw on my desk. "There's your first lie, motherfucker."

  I pulled open a desk drawer and reached for a yellow legal pad.

  "If you're thinking 'bout goin' for a piece," he said. "I'll drop you before you blink."

  Was this guy for real?

  "Mr. Jefferson." I raised my hands in surrender. "I'm getting a notepad."

  Reggie leaned forward, like a cobra ready to strike.

  Gabby put her hand on his massive forearm. "Enough, Reggie," she said. "If you can't behave yourself, then step outside."

  Reggie crossed his arms and slouched in his chair like if his mother had put him in time out.

  "Captain O'Donnell," Gabby said in a soft voice. "Tyler called me yesterday. He was frantic. Said something about getting screwed over, about being used. He said his 'friend' Cullen." She used air quotes. "And some scumbag lawyer were throwing him under the bus. He could barely talk he was so upset. After I hung up, I called Reggie, and we drove over here."

  "You drove from Dallas?" I asked.

  "All 16 hours." Gabby struggled to hold back her tears.

  Reggie's face was impassive, but his eyes blazed. He'd rip me apart if I gave him a reason. Biceps strained agains
t the cotton of what had to be an XXL tee shirt. His waist was thick, but not fat. He was 6 feet 4 inches, minimum. "We're flyin' blind here," Reggie said, unable to control his temper. "What the hell is going on?"

  I started from the beginning and outlined the case as I knew it. I closed with the 10-year plea deal. I did not mention that the deadline had expired.

  "So, you think Tyler should cut a deal?" Gabby asked, her voice wavering.

  "It beats life in prison, and . . ." I hesitated. "There's a chance they could seek the death penalty."

  I expected a meltdown. For Gabby to throw herself on my desk screaming, but her face registered nothing.

  Suddenly, Reggie lunged forward and stuck an index finger the size of a sausage in my face. "Get this straight, Mr. (he read the nameplate on my desk) 'Senior Dee-fence Counsel.' Playtime is over. Like it or not, you're my son's attorney. Get your shit in a pile. Cause if you let this thing go to hell without a fight, I am going to grind your Irish ass into cornmeal. You got that?"

  Reggie walked toward the door. Then, he turned to face me and said, "Don't bother asking me if that is a threat, Captain. It wasn't. It's a mother-fuckin' promise. Now, grow a pair and get to work. Here's my number. Call when you get more information on the case. I'm at your disposal." He tossed a card in my direction, and they were gone.

  Chapter 28

  After the Jefferson's left, I felt uneasy. I didn't really want this case. I didn't need the headache. My time in the Army was almost up, and I had to find a job. Quickly. Getting involved in a losing murder case, with an irrational client and his unstable father, did nothing to improve my situation.

  I glanced at my bookshelf, and my eyes locked onto a photo of my mom that was taken days before she succumbed to cancer. She fought until the end and always had a smile on her face. She was a warrior. What would she think of me now? I thought of the Roberto Clemente jacket and the asshole who stole it. I remembered the emotion from that day - before I got my jacket back. It was the same as now. It was fear.