Gideon - 03 - Religious Conviction

by Grif Stockley

  Rainey’s house, as always, is spotless. As much as she has been gone lately, I don’t see how she has even had time to water the plants that abound is the Hving room. I have spent many pleasant hours here and feel a wave of nostalgia wash over me as Rainey walks Leigh into her bathroom.

  “I’m putting Leigh in the shower,” she says.

  “You go to the kitchen and start some coffee.”

  Damn. Not even a little peek. I take a final look at Leigh before her transformation begins. Her stomach heaves beneath her sweatshirt as if she is about to be sick. Not exactly what I had in mind. I close the door behind me and make a right turn back into the living room on my way to the kitchen. If I bad turned left, I would have walked into Rainey’s bedroom. She and I must be the only two single heterosexual adults in the country who have professed romantic love to each other, meant it, had the opportunity on many occasions, but have never followed through. I remember the night I thought she was taking me to her bedroom and she opened the door onto a Ping-Pong table and proceeded to beat my brains out. Though we have played many games since that night and I have come close on occasion, I have never beaten her a single time. Some things just don’t seem meant to be.

  While I wait for the coffee to drip, I sit down at the kitchen table and worry that Leigh won’t sober up enough to be able to discuss Jill’s offer of a plea bar gain. We led Jill to think it was under active consideration but by the end of the day her patience was growing thin.

  Twenty minutes later, Rainey escorts a shaky but much improved-looking Leigh into the kitchen. In Rainey’s white terry-cloth robe, her dark wet hair gleaming under the bright light, Leigh looks like a bedraggled teenager who has paid the price for downing an entire bottle of Southern Comfort. I hand her a cup of coffee as she smiles uncertainly at me.

  “What are we going to do about clothes?” I ask Rainey. From her neck down Leigh looks almost fetching in the robe, which barely comes to her knees, but she is hardly dressed for a court appearance.

  “We’ve been talking about that,” Rainey says, flashing a Dillard’s credit card and what I assume is a shop ping list at me.

  “I’m going to run to the mall for Leigh.” It is a foregone conclusion that Leigh will not be calling her father tonight.

  I look at my watch. It is just before eight, and the mall closes at nine.

  “You better hurry,” I say.

  Rainey, whose salary as a social worker goes for her mortgage and not her clothes, grins.

  “They may be getting in a little overtime tonight.” In the background I can hear Rainey’s washing machine in the utility room and realize that underneath Rainey’s robe, Leigh can’t be wearing much. She is a good five inches taller and fifteen pounds heavier than Rainey.

  As soon as I hear me screen door close, I tell Leigh about Jill’s offer.

  “You could be out in just over three years with good time,” I say, thinking about the women’s unit at Pine Bluff.

  “I’ve been down there. It’s not as bad as it could be.” Who am I kidding? Prison is prison even if they let you get your hair done. Leigh’s hands shake as she brings the coffee to her lips. She needs something to eat.

  “You think you could eat some toast?” I’m not much of a cook, but I can handle bread if there is a toaster around.

  Leigh swallows, giving herself time to think.

  “Why should I plead if I’m not guilty?” she asks finally.

  The implication of Leigh’s remark is that she is innocent, but this is susceptible to more than one interpretation. The answer to her question is more complicated than my response, but out of habit, I give the short version.

  “I’m not saying you should, but you have to consider the following facts: you’ve lied about your whereabouts, and the prosecutor will have a field day with it; you were overheard arguing the night before the murder, and so far as we know, nobody, including the police, has found a shred of physical evidence that any one else is a suspect. And three years and four months at your age is a lot more tolerable than spending the rest of your life in prison.” Plus the fact that your lawyer is knocked out with a pain pill for the night instead of pre paring your defense and will be out on his feet by three tomorrow afternoon if he lasts that long. But I do not mention this last extremely crucial fact. Why? Out of habit? Lawyers protect each other as much as doctors do. It is as reflexive as an eye blink and happens at least as often. I find a loaf of wheat bread in the freezer next to a Ziploc bag of chicken breasts and lay it on the counter to thaw. When I was a child in eastern Arkansas, the idea of freezing a loaf of Wonder Bread must have been heretical, since I was never privy to the phenomenon until I moved to the center of the state as an adult. What are bread boxes for? As warm and moist as the Arkansas Delta is, I’m surprised bread didn’t turn into penicillin right before our eyes.

  Leigh stares into her coffee. I’ve never seen her face so sad. I’m certain there is something more she is not telling me. She says quietly, “Will you call Mr. Bracken for me?”

  I nod but say, “Let me ask you a question first. Were you and Art drinking that morning? You don’t seem to handle alcohol very well.”

  “No,” Leigh says, a little too abruptly.

  “Please call Mr. Bracken.”

  I shrug helplessly. Art’s autopsy report showed no alcohol content. In her voice is the tone of a martyr, not a killer giving up.

  “I don’t think you killed Art,” I argue. Actually, I have no idea whether she did or not, but I can’t allow her to make this decision so easily.

  “You don’t need to sacrifice yourself for your father.”

  “I’m not,” she says, her voice flat.

  “Please call Mr.

  Bracken.”

  I fight back a rising sense of panic. She may know the odds tomorrow better than I realize. Innocent people go to prison. Why spend her life there? I can’t make this decision on my own and dial Chet’s number from the phone in the kitchen, determined to wake him up, no matter how groggy he is. Wynona answers, and I tell her what has occurred.

  “There’s no point,” she says.

  “Jill called here an hour ago. I was able to wake Chet up just long enough for her to tell him she had withdrawn the offer.” I look at Leigh and feel my pulse begin to race from anxiety.

  “How did Chet react?” I ask softly.

  “I could tell it depressed him,” Wynona admits, “but he was pretty much out of it because of the pain pills.

  I’ll tell him early tomorrow morning you’ve found Leigh.”

  I thank her and hang up and tell Leigh, who smiles wanly.

  “I guess we better get ready for the trial.”

  I want to grab her and shake her and make her tell me what the hell is going on. Why did she run off and get drunk and hide in a motel room? Why isn’t she fighting for her life? Yet, I’m afraid if I push her, she will walk out the door just as she did at my house. I stare at her until she lowers her eyes. It was as if she were an actress who wanted to improvise for two nights before the play began but who ultimately resigned her self to sticking with the script. I test her by saying, “You realize that we’re going to be arguing tomorrow that your father might have killed Art?”

  She closes her eyes but doesn’t respond.

  I realize I am grinding my teeth and stop. Was her disappearance merely a classic case of stage fright? I can’t shake the feeling she is reading her words from a teleprompter. What is my part? Obviously, the ambitious understudy who is willing to play any role to further his career. As I prepare Leigh for her expected testimony, I have the sense that the whole production is coming apart because the director is home in bed. In an ideal world, the judge would grant a continuance and Chet would gracefully step aside. However, at this point the outcome would be the same. I realize how little I understand Chet. Has he told me everything? I don’t have a clue.

  “Do I have to tell about the video?” she asks, nibbling at a fingernail while I write out questions at th
e kitchen table.

  I glance up at her and see that she is embarrassed.

  She is on trial to decide whether or not she will ever have another single moment of privacy the rest of her life, and she is worried about her sense of dignity. Human nature wins out every time. I try to think about the impact this revelation will have on the jury. The police presumably know nothing about it. Jill has not breathed a word about it, which she would have been required to do if she knew anything.

  “Probably not,” I say, thinking an Arkansas jury would want to punish her for it. What is there to argue? Somebody who knew Art entered his house during the hour or so that Leigh went back up to the church to pretend she was there all the time. Who?

  Shane Norman, of course.

  When Rainey returns, thirty minutes later, we take a break for Leigh to look at the clothes Rainey has bought for her. Like a mother who has been on a shopping spree for her daughter, Rainey opens the boxes with a flurry of maternal excitement.

  “I hope you like these.”

  She holds up a chartreuse blazer against a white shortsleeved shell and a green skirt.

  “I’ve never shopped so fast for a complete set of clothes in my life,” she says, giggling, and hands Leigh’s credit card back to her. Be sides outer garments, she has obtained shoes, a bra, panties, and stockings.

  “The salesclerks thought I was wonderful.”

  Leigh looks through the boxes and smiles at Rainey.

  “They look great. Thank you.”

  While Leigh goes into Rainey’s bedroom to try on her new wardrobe, I watch as Rainey begins to make the toast I have forgotten about. Between us is an un spoken truce. No matter how convinced she is of Shane’s innocence, she cannot help but respond to Leigh. She is too vulnerable right now, and Rainey was born rooting for the underdog. She takes eggs and turkey bacon from her refrigerator. For a few moments it is like old times. Too discreet to ask questions about the case, Rainey entertains me with gossip about the state hospital, my old stomping grounds from my days as a public defender, when I represented patients at involuntary commitment hearings.

  When Leigh comes out of her bedroom, Rainey smiles and says, “You look fantastic!”

  Obviously pleased with Rainey’s choices, Leigh hugs her as if they were sisters. While Rainey cooks and feeds Leigh, they chat about clothes and accessories as if tomorrow were to be a normal day instead of the beginning of a murder trial. I marvel at Rainey’s capacity to put others at ease. It is an art form, one alive and well in the South.

  Afterward, as Leigh and I work alone in Rainey’s living room, Leigh says, “There’s some real chemistry between you and Rainey. I could tell just by the way you looked at each other.”

  Distracted, I nod, unwilling to say that it has been mostly bad for quite a while. Feeling strangely out of sync (it may be exhaustion), I drive home at eleven. So much has gone wrong lately that even though the last few hours have been better, I go to bed feeling de pressed. I cannot believe this story will have a happy ending.

  at precisely five o’clock in the morning, the phone rings, it is Chet, who sounds as wide awake as I am sleepy.

  “I’ll be at your house in an hour,” he says.

  “How is Leigh?”

  I yawn.

  “Resigned to go to trial. I still don’t know why she took off.”

  Chet speaks quickly, as if he has assumed this would be the outcome all along.

  “What time did you tell her to meet us?”

  Woogie presses against my back.

  “Seven,” I say.

  “I

  told her I’d pick her up.”

  “Good,” he says, after I give him directions.

  “I’ll be there soon.”

  I get out of bed and stumble into the shower, thinking perhaps this case may go better than I’ve been thinking.

  Chet’s voice sounded strong and determined. The rush that a jury trial of this magnitude brings may be enough to carry him through the couple of days it will take. Jill is afraid of him, and for good reason. Even ill he must seem invincible to her, and it is not beyond Chet to tell the jury that he is dying and wants to go to his grave knowing that an innocent woman has suffered enough.

  As I shave, I begin to miss Sarah desperately. She gets almost as excited as I do the morning of a big trial.

  Though she is deeply ambivalent about my profession, she usually sends me off to even a small hearing as though I were Rocky Balboa. Instead, the house is as quiet as a college dorm at six o’clock on Sunday mo ming How will I handle Sarah’s absence next year?

  Given my behavior a couple of days ago (I’m getting too old to have more than a beer or two), I’m afraid I know the answer. Though normally I am a big fan of the man in the mirror, it is obvious from the multiplying spider webs around his eyes that he has definitely passed the point of no return. Sarah, come home, he whispers, in clown face. In April she will hear about scholarship money. She wants desperately to go out of state, but without some major help it will never happen.

  Dressed in my new suit, I make some coffee and try to focus on the case. With Chet sounding so good, I have to resist becoming passive. The truth is, I may not do a thing during the entire trial except hand him a file folder. I assume we will get breakfast out, but still I walk around the house straightening up. Not that Chet will notice, but who knows? Wynona keeps their place like a bed-and-breakfast waiting for its first customer.

  What will she do after he dies? If he is as rich as I think, maybe nothing except wait for Trey to come home from school. I see car headlights flash against the Venetian blinds in the living room and check my watch.

  Six o’clock. It is not light yet, and I go to the door, remembering I haven’t turned on the porch light. I hope Chet hasn’t had to wander around.

  I open the door, flip on the switch, and, in the dim light, to my horror, see him standing by the Mercedes with a pistol pressed to his temple, his jaw clenched. I scream, “No, Chet!”

  An explosion rockets through the neighborhood stillness, and Chet crashes to the ground. I run down the stoop to his body but turn away as I glimpse his face.

  Thank God it is still mostly dark. I am about to vomit.

  I run back inside and dial 911 for an ambulance, my stomach heaving. I have begun to sweat, and after I complete the call, I throw up in the sink in the kitchen.

  I can’t bring myself to go back outside. I know I am an incredible coward, but I just can’t do it. Why? Is it the horror of seeing him in death, his face torn and mutilated, or is it the possibility that he is still alive and that I should be giving him mouth to mouth resuscitation?

  The stillness inside me house is terrifying as I try to imagine Chet’s last thoughts. Was he thinking about Wynona and Trey? The trial? Not surprisingly, it is still quiet outside. Since gunshots periodically ring out from “Needle Park,” the partially boarded-up housing project only three blocks away, my neighbors have doubtless chosen to interpret the noise as something familiar. My mind races frantically, until I finally realize I must call Wynona. Why did he do this? Damn him! My real question is. Why did he do this to me? But why not me?

  He wanted to spare Wynona and Trey the shock of finding his body, but even as I think this, I wonder if there is more.

  I calm down enough to look up his number and dial it, wondering what to say. The time it takes for her to answer the phone seems like an eternity, but my mind is blank.

  “Wynona, I’ve got some terrible news!” I blurt.

  “Chet just shot himself!”

  “Dear God!” she gasps.

  “Dear God! Is he dead?”

  I imagine her lying in the spot where her husband’s body had been just aa hour ago. I can’t bring myself to tell her I don’t have enough guts to check to see if he still has a pulse.

  “It looks bad,” I say.

  “I’ve called an ambulance. I’ll meet you at St. Thomas.” Tears running down my face, I hang up on her, so I won’t have to sa
y any more. Woogie, who apparently ran under my bed at the sound of the shot, slinks into the kitchen, his tail between his legs. I should be out trying to help Chet, stopping the bleeding, something. Instead, my teeth chattering, I call Rainey. My voice shakes so badly that I wonder if she can understand me.

  “It’s okay, it’s okay,” Rainey repeats as I admit to my cowardice.

  “There’s nothing you can do.”

  Her voice, soothing and gentle, touches something in me, and I begin to cry again.

  “I saw him do it!” I say.

  “Just take a couple of deep breaths,” she says.

  “You’re going to be all right.”

  I realize I am panting and try to gather as much air in my lungs as possible. I hear the wail of the siren. St. Thomas is barely five minutes away.

  “I’ve got to go outside,” I stammer.

  “I’ll see you at St. Thomas.” Not even for a moment do I assume she won’t come.

  I rush outside into the street and wave my arms as the ambulance careens around the corner toward me. Lights begin to go on all over the neighborhood. Denial can take my neighbors just so far. The door on the passenger side opens and, to my shock, the attendant is a young woman. What a job, I think. Lightheaded and dizzy, I point needlessly to the yard.

  “He’s there. He shot himself!”

  My neighbors on both sides of the house, Moses Gardner and Payne Littlefield, converge on me at the same time.

  “You shoot him?” Moses asks bluntly. He is an occupational therapist at St. Thomas, and is in his bathrobe with a pistol in his hand.

  What is he thinking? A drug deal that went wrong?

  Chet’s Mercedes is visible in the lights.

  “Fuck, no!” I say angrily.

  “He shot himself. He was dying of cancer.”

  Payne, a retired schoolteacher who can’t afford to sell his house and get away from blacks, nods.

  “Damn,” he says to Moses. We watch in fascinated horror as the female tech, using the headlights of the ambulance, checks chet’s pulse with a stethoscope and then places a tube down his throat. How she sees what to do through the blood streaming everywhere seems like a miracle. She nods, and the driver, an older black male, squeezes a bag attached to the tube. Within moments they have diet’s body loaded into the ambulance.