by Mark Gimenez
"I got my rights." He grinned at the Davenports. "And come November three, I'm gonna exercise my rights all day every day for two months."
The neighbor from hell.
"Billy Ray, if you ever shoot anything that's outside your property line, you're going straight to jail, you understand?"
Billy Ray gave him a hard look. Beck turned to the Davenports. "I'm sorry, but there's nothing I can do."
"Well, there's something we can do," Mrs. Davenport said.
"Now, Mrs. Davenport, I know you're disappointed, but you cannot take the law into your own hands."
She shook her head. "We're moving back to Cleveland. Texans are nuts."
"You got a tape player?"
Sheriff Grady Guenther was waiting for Beck when he returned downstairs to his chambers. Beck shut the door and walked over to his desk.
"There's one around here somewhere."
Beck sat and rummaged through the bottom drawers. He found a tape player and placed it on the desk. Grady reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a cassette tape. He snapped the cassette into the recorder.
"Not many folks know it, but the law requires the magistrate to record his communications with the suspect, so there's proof he gave him the Miranda warning and notified him of his rights. When my men took Slade before Walt that night, that was all recorded."
Grady hit the PLAY button. A gruff voice came across.
"Justice of the Peace Walt Schmidt presiding. It is ten-thirty P.M. on Saturday, September eighth. Appearing before me is Slade McQuade. Mr. McQuade, you have been arrested for aggravated assault, to wit, it is alleged that you did inflict serious bodily injury upon one Julio Espinoza."
There was the sound of paper being shuffled and then it was obvious Schmidt was reading.
"Slade McQuade, you are hereby advised that you have the right to remain silent, that anything you say can be used against you in a court of law, that you have the right to an attorney prior to questioning, and that you have the right to have an attorney present during questioning. You have the right to terminate the questioning at any time. If you cannot afford an attorney, you have the right to have one appointed for you prior to any questioning. You have the right to an examining trial at which this court will determine if probable cause exists to send your case to the grand jury. Mr. McQuade, do you understand your rights as I have explained them?"
Slade: "Yeah."
Schmidt: "Son, best you don't say nothing till your daddy gets here."
There were garbled sounds, something about "my football."
Schmidt: "Heckuva game last night. But why the hell did y'all punt on fourth-and-one?"
There was no response from Slade.
Schmidt: "Slade? Why'd y'all punt on fourth-and-one?"
Still no response.
Schmidt: "Son, are you gonna answer me?"
Slade: "You told me not to say nothing."
Schmidt: "I didn't mean about football. I meant about beating up the Mexican."
Slade: "Oh. Coach didn't want to run up the score."
Schmidt: "Why the hell not? Ah, here's the gal with my football. Can't wait to see you play for the Longhorns, Slade. State championship here, national championship there. Say, how about signing my football?"
Grady hit the STOP button.
"Walt's a big football fan."
He hit PLAY.
Schmidt: "Now, don't you worry, son. We ain't gonna let this keep you from playing football for us. We know how to handle Mexicans."
The sound stopped. Grady hit the STOP button, looked up at Beck.
"That one of those tape recordings?"
Beck was shaking his head.
"Why would Schmidt say that knowing he's being recorded?"
" 'Cause A, he don't do the recording. Clerk does, so half the time Walt forgets he's being taped—you wouldn't believe some of the stupid shit he says. B, law requires these tapes be preserved for four months, then they're destroyed, so he ain't never had one come back and bite him in the butt. Three, he—"
"C."
"See what?"
"No, you said A, B, three, instead of A, B, C."
"Oh. C, he didn't know he'd be presiding over Slade's examining trial. Stutz hadn't dreamed it up yet. And D, Walt ain't the smartest goat rancher in the county."
"How'd you get the tape?"
"Deputy that took Slade in that night, he told me what Walt said. So when you said you needed evidence, I just moseyed on over to his office and asked Ingrid for it. She's his clerk."
"Why'd she give it to you?"
"Like I said, Beck, most Germans here are good people."
"Grady, you got any advice on handling Schmidt?"
"Well now, I'm not telling you how to do your job, Beck, but was me I'd walk that order down the hall and hand it to Walt personally, then I'd step over to the shelf where he keeps that football and I'd pick it up and say, 'Why, is that Slade McQuade's autograph? When did you get him to sign your football, Walt?' Then I'd give him a look that says I know everything, see? And I'd whisper that if he objects to the transfer, that tape recording will be transcribed and printed on the front page of the newspaper. He won't want that. Unlike me, he needs his job."
"That's a good idea, Grady."
"Thought you might like it."
"Grady, how'd all this stay quiet for three weeks? Can't keep a secret for three hours in this town."
He nodded. "People in a small town do talk. But they also know when to keep their mouths shut. This was one of those times. Not many folks knew about it, but those that did knew it could be real bad for this town. So they kept it quiet." He looked at Beck. "But I figure that's about to change."
"Yeah, Grady, that's about to change."
Grady smiled and stood. "Well, good luck with that, Beck."
"Grady, you're not what I expected. I figured—"
"I was that sheriff from In the Heat of the Night?"
Beck felt his face flush. He lied. "Oh, no, Grady, I—"
He waved Beck off. "You know, that's my all-time favorite movie. 'Cause that old sheriff, he changed. Way I figured, I got my job because of my daddy, but I didn't have to be my daddy. I know what his reputation was, and I ain't particularly proud of it. I want my kids to be proud of their daddy."
Grady stepped over and opened the door.
"I've been holding that time bomb in my lap for three weeks … feels good to hand it off to you." He smiled. "Welcome home, Beck."
The Fredericksburg Athletic Club was not like Beck's downtown Chicago gym: there was no valet parking, no burled walnut lockers, no saunas or steam rooms, and no old naked men playing gin rummy in the plush locker room. This gym was located in a strip mall next to a taco joint and across from the Wal-Mart. Four-wheel-drive pickups were parked outside.
Inside, beyond a barbell archway, middle-aged men and women waged personal wars against gravity; they were running, pedaling, climbing, stepping, and striding on the treadmills, ellipticals, stair climbers, high steppers, and stationary bikes that faced two TVs tuned to Fox News and CNN. Young women got tans in a side room, and at the rear of the club young men pumped iron in the free-weight room and admired their muscles in the mirrored walls.
Beck was not in the free-weight room. He was in the circuit training room with the other forty-somethings, too old for barbells but too young to retire to a stationary bike. When he had arrived thirty minutes before, Judge Beck Hardin had been greeted like a local football legend. He was now on his last two reps on the lying leg press machine; his thighs burned from the one hundred fifty pounds of weight—nineteen, twenty.
He released the weight and sat up. He grabbed his towel and wiped sweat from his face and then from the vinyl seat. He walked over to the lying leg curl machine—and his eyes were instantly drawn to a beautiful butterfly. Its wings were bright blue with deep purple highlights and a four-inch span. In the center of each wing was an eye, a human eye staring back at Beck—and he was staring intently at the t
attoo inked into the smooth white skin of a young woman's lower back.
The butterfly was visible because the woman's black Spandex shorts barely rose high enough in the back to cover her bottom, much less conceal her body art. It was a very nice bottom. Three weeks before at last harvest, seeing Jodie stomping grapes with her skirt hiked high, the steel door inside Beck that had been locked shut for over a year now had cracked open just the slightest; but the bottom he was now staring at blew the door open like a bomb had gone off. His body was suddenly flooded with hormones that magically washed away the years and pains of life.
He was a nineteen-year-old boy again.
The woman was lying face down; her legs were extended and her ankles tucked under pads. Her muscular hamstrings again contracted and her ankles raised the pads that engaged the pulley connected to the iron plates until the pads almost touched her firm glutes. She released the weight and sat up. Both butterfly and bottom disappeared from Beck's sight.
"Hi, Judge Hardin."
Beck's eyes shot up to the woman's face. She looked familiar. She was Meggie's kindergarten teacher. Beck blushed.
"Oh … uh … hi, Ms. Young. I was just, uh … admiring your … tattoo."
She stood, and Beck fought to maintain eye contact, but he lost the battle. She was wearing the shorts and a black tube top; between them was an open stretch of white skin and lean abs, a sheen of sweat glistening under the fluorescent lights.
"Ms. Young, you look different without your clothes … on … outside school …"
She smiled. "Judge, I'm just Gretchen."
"Beck."
"I'm glad you won."
"I didn't win."
She frowned. "But you're the judge."
"Yeah, I'm the judge."
It had been a long first day.
Gretchen stepped away from the machine, and Beck stepped over and sat down. He set the weight at eighty pounds; on his first circuit, he had struggled to lift sixty pounds, but Gretchen had just lifted seventy.
"Meggie's a sweetie," she said.
"I like her," Beck said. "How's it going at school?"
"Oh, it's a battlefield at the primary school." She shook her head. "In Austin, we had gangs fighting for turf in school. These people fight over a foreign language." She bent over and stretched her hamstrings. Beck's face felt hot. When she came back up, she said, "But that's just old people scared of change—and this place is like Grandparents Day that never ends."
"There are a lot of old people here."
"But you know what I don't get?"
"What?"
"The young Anglo parents. They say, 'Oh, we don't hate Latinos. But they hold our kids back, so we've got to separate our kids so they get a good education.' They justify it by saying they're just doing right by their kids. But they can't do right for their kids by doing wrong to another kid."
"You really care about those children?"
"I'm a teacher, Beck. They're my children, at school."
"Why'd you move here?"
"For my horse. They tore down my stables in Austin for condos. It was either move or give her up."
"Well, your kids are lucky you came. Meggie, too."
"Thanks." She took a step away then pulled back. "You know, Beck, the only single males in this town are either goat ranchers or gays moved here from Austin to open another trendy restaurant for tourists. I haven't had a date in over a year. How about dinner, Saturday night?"
The nineteen-year-old boy inhaled sharply: The teacher was asking him on a date!
The forty-two-year-old man exhaled slowly: "Gretchen, how old are you?"
"Twenty-five."
"Well, I'm … a little old for you."
"Maybe. But you're a man, you're single, and you're reasonably handsome." She smiled. "Saturday night then?"
"But you're Meggie's teacher."
"I'm also a woman." She sighed. "Look, Beck, I fight for my kids at school every day. It's very tense, there's a lot of stress, people here are crazy. So I work out here every night. Then I feed my horse and I go home. I eat by myself, I watch TV by myself, and I go to bed by myself. I'm lonely. Beck, I have needs."
Needs? Beck was sure his heart had gone into tachycardia.
Gretchen put her hands on his shoulders and leaned into him and put her lips close enough to his ear that he could smell her sweaty scent and feel her soft breath on his skin when she whispered in his ear.
"Physical needs."
Beck's eyes darted around the room for a defibrillator. Gretchen stood straight.
"Saturday night."
"But we barely know each other."
"Beck, women my age, we don't wait for love."
She abruptly twirled around and walked across the room to another machine. Beck stared after her. After that bottom.
The nineteen-year-old boy was pumping his fist. Yes!
"Cute, aren't they?"
Jodie was standing next to him. Beck hadn't heard her walk up from behind. He had been in the zone.
"Who?"
Jodie nodded toward Gretchen.
"Children."
She walked off in her baggy sweat pants and tee shirt, her red ponytail bouncing behind her. And Beck Hardin was again a forty-two-year-old man with two children and a dead wife.
Dear J.B.,
Surgery is tomorrow. Modified radical mastectomy. I cried for my breasts, but now I just want the cancer out of my body. I want to be here for my children. I'm going to get fake breasts. Really big ones. Beck will love those.
A week later, Annie had written:
Home now. Very tired. Seeing the doctors again tomorrow. Pathology report on the lymph nodes. Love.
Another week passed. J.B. had sent an email every day asking about her. She finally responded.
Sorry for not writing back, J.B. I had my hopes built up, when we got the pathology results, I lost it. All lymph nodes were positive. The cancer has spread. Very bad. They call it metastatic. More tests tomorrow. Bone scan. CT scan. To see if it's in my bones, lungs, liver. They say I've had cancer for at least ten years and never knew it. I can't believe it.
Her next email:
It's everywhere, J.B. Stage IV. Crying now. Love.
"J.B., can I ask you something personal?"
"Boxers."
"Not that. Mom died a long time ago. Have you, uh … you know, been with … seen another …?"
"Damn, Beck, we're two grown men. You can say it straight out: Have I had sex since Peggy died?"
"Well, have you?"
"Not even with a farm animal."
"Why not?"
" 'Cause it never was like that between me and my goats."
"No. With a woman."
"Oh. Well, I didn't even think about it for the longest. Then the prostate acted up."
"You had problems?"
"Fifteen years ago. They cut it out. Things never worked since."
"They've got drugs now."
J.B. snorted. "What's the point if it requires chemicals?"
"You're only sixty-six. That's not too old."
"Too much trouble."
"Gretchen asked me out, today at the gym. She's, uh …"
"Young."
"That, too."
"You going?"
"She caught me by surprise, but after I started thinking …"
"About Annie?"
Beck nodded. "Doesn't seem right."
"Beck, Annie's been gone more than eight months now. She wouldn't want you to be alone all your life."
"I have the kids."
"They'll leave one day."
"I have you."
"I'll die one day."
"I'll have Butch."
"Butch don't belong to no one. Look, Beck, after your mother died, I didn't just withdraw from you, I withdrew from the world. From life. And then you left, and it was just me and the goats. I didn't see people or talk to people … until Jodie came to town. We started talking and I spilled nineteen years worth of thoughts on her. I lov
ed your mother, but I should've let another woman in my life. Someone like Jodie."
"She's a lesbian."
"I'd still marry her. Not for the sex—for the conversation. That's what I miss most about your mother, sitting right here and talking at the end of each day. Not that I didn't like the sex."
"Gretchen said she has needs."
J.B. chuckled. "When was your last physical?"
"She's got a tattoo."
J.B. grunted. "Never figured her for a tattoo. She shaves her legs."
"What does shaving her legs have to do with her having a tat … never mind."
"What kind?"
"Blue butterfly, right above her bottom."
"I'll be damned. Girl's got a nice behind, too. I'd like to see that … her tattoo. Don't hurt to look at her behind neither, does it? Your mother had a nice behind."
"J.B.?"
"Yeah?"
"Let's don't go there."
J.B. chuckled, then pushed himself out of the chair, said goodnight, and went inside. Beck forced himself to stop thinking about Annie and Gretchen and sex and focus on Heidi's case file in his lap. He had been reading the Autopsy Report, looking for something, anything, that might take him somewhere other than the medical examiner's conclusions. Cause of death: "acute cocaine intoxication." Manner of death: "accidental overdose." Not homicide. Not manslaughter. Nothing to suggest foul play. Just a tragic accident. His old high school buddy couldn't accept the hard fact that his daughter's death had just been a tragic accident.
J.B. reappeared wearing Hawaiian print pajamas and said, "Was thinking in the shower. Why didn't Aubrey tell you about Slade, him getting arrested? He's the coach, he had to know."
SIXTEEN
"What the hell do you think you're doing?"
At 8:45 the next morning, the D.A. was standing in Beck's chambers looking like he wanted to come across the desk and strangle him. Beck had taken Grady's advice; after he raised the possibility of the tape recording being transcribed and printed in the newspaper, Justice of the Peace Walt Schmidt had not objected to his transferring the examining trial to the district court.
"Mr. Eichman, you'd better find your manners or you'll be sleeping in jail tonight for contempt of court."