‘His own recognizance would be best—’ Lupita began.
‘Not going to happen. Best-case scenario is they lower the bail to fifty thousand, but even that isn’t certain.’
‘But—’
‘Okay. Look, it’s a long shot getting him released right away. The most likely scenario – here’s the speech. You up for it?’
‘Yes.’
‘The judge has imposed extraordinary bail. That can’t be changed unless we can show extraordinary facts why it should be lowered. That’s where an evidentiary hearing comes in.’
‘What’s that?’
Mr Ross looked at his watch again. ‘It’s a hearing for the purpose of determining what evidence should be suppressed or whether claims made by the prosecution in seeking such high bail are supported by evidence at all.’ He paused.
‘And?’ said Lupita.
‘It’s not a one-step dance. First, the court will have a hearing to decide whether or not to grant the motion at all. Then, after determining that, how much time it will take, whether or not depositions must occur, how much time for written response prior to the hearing—’
‘Wait!’ said Lupita. ‘Can’t you just tell me how long it will take?’
‘No.’
‘No?’
‘Welcome to the legal system. This case is too hot right now – he’s accused of killing two tourists in a tourist town. That’s why a strategic release hearing right away is best, so pertinent facts can come to light for the benefit of the media and at least let in some doubt. But frankly, unless by some entirely unlikely miracle the grand jury doesn’t indict, he’s going to be in jail a while.’
Lupita sighed. Outside the window she had a good view of the shop across the street, vintage clothes on display: a pair of cowboy boots leaning against each other, an old prairie dress covered with ricrac. Junk. Junk, she thought, the clothes and the tourists who bought them; then she thought of her Nana, her heart broken, and Chico, her beautiful good brother who had never ever been in trouble in his whole life.
Except that one time, no, twice, actually, when he was sixteen and got caught with some marijuana. But he was a juvenile, and the record was sealed so it didn’t really count. And neither did that school detention stuff either.
Stuart Ross whooshed out a sigh. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘you may not know as much about your brother as you think you do. You’re going to have to trust his attorney. That’s me.’
‘But what—’ Lupita began, but Mr Ross held up a hand.
‘Not now,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a court appearance in ten minutes. And one more thing. You’re entitled to come to all the hearings, but you need to control yourself. It’s not going to help Chico if you make a scene.’
‘Kate!’ said Windsong and Posey, excited, in unison, as Kate came in the hissing sliding doors. ‘Look at this!’
‘What?’
‘You’re famous,’ Posey said.
‘Hey!’ said a customer. ‘Are you planning to ring me up or just socialize?’
‘Sorry.’ Windsong rapidly weighed a bunch of grapes, rang up some Brown Cow yogurt. When the customer left, he reached under the counter and brought up a copy of the Arizona Daily Star. ‘Read this!’ he said, pointing to an article.
She scanned the article; it was about the murders and contained mostly information she already knew. She paused at the line: Many Dudley residents doubt Flores’ guilt. ‘It’s the Chamber of Commerce,’ Doreen Davies, an aromatherapist, commented, ‘deciding who’s guilty and who isn’t.’
‘Last paragraph,’ Windsong said.
Kate Waters, a Dudley Natural Foods Co-op employee, she read, had her picture taken with Caroline Cooper’s cellphone earlier in the day but would not comment on the encounter.
‘What!’ Kate said. ‘I didn’t tell him anything, and he still has to go and mention my name?’
‘He’s an asshole. He talked to me too,’ said Windsong in a hurt tone. ‘I said almost exactly the same thing Doreen did, and he never mentioned my name once in the whole article.’
‘Well, I wish he mentioned you instead of me,’ Kate said.
‘Why do you care?’
‘It might show up online.’
‘So?’ said Windsong. ‘Aren’t you kind of overreacting a bit?’
‘It’s a long story.’
‘That crazy ex?’
‘Who, Harry?’
Windsong smiled. ‘Ha! I knew there was one.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘’Cause there’s something about you that’s ever so slightly paranoid.’
‘God! You know what? People in this town are crazy. I thought Vermont was bad, but this is worse.’
‘Hey.’ Windsong looked stricken. ‘I’m sorry, I really am. Maybe it’s true what my ex used to say, that I have Asperger’s syndrome. I really am sorry. Look, I honestly think this has to do with drug cartels and stuff like that. Carrie seemed like a very nice person, but that doesn’t mean she wasn’t dealing drugs. I don’t think you’re in any danger.’ He paused. ‘At least, not from whoever killed the tourists. Don’t worry, we’ll protect you here at the Co-op. It’s part of our basically non-existent benefit package.’
‘Comforting,’ said Kate.
‘Where is he, anyway?’
‘California.’
‘What I think is, you’re a nervous person. You need to learn how to chill. You might try yoga; there’s a really good yoga teacher, Marsha— Wait.’ He stepped out from behind the register. ‘I’ve got something for you. They just came in, a whole line of mists.’
‘Look,’ said Kate. ‘I’ve already tried the sublingual vitamin B complex. That didn’t do anything.’
‘Oh ye of little faith,’ said Windsong. ‘You have to keep trying. Now, these mists, they have to do with chakras and stuff like that. Here—’ He handed her a blue bottle. ‘It’s on me.’
Kate held it in her hand, read the label out loud. ‘Ghostbuster Mist: generously mist in closets, around windows, behind furniture, under and above beds to prevent bad dreams and banish any unwanted monsters of all shapes and sizes.’ She stopped and looked at Windsong. ‘Come on.’
‘I know, I know,’ Windsong said, ‘but it might work, what if it does? Besides, what else is working? Economies are crashing all over the world except in China, the Middle East is one big uprising, Iran is making atomic weapons, and three houses on my street have gone into foreclosure. So tell me that: what else in this whole world is really working?’
Maybe it would be better to stay at Dakota’s for a while, Kate thought when she got home, after that newspaper article. She could leave her car here and walk to Dakota’s. She collected some things to take with her and then checked her email: one from speak-of-the-devil Harry with the subject line Sorry.
She opened it – I think in the end you’ll be sorry for what you’ve done with your life, you’re not young any – closed it and hit delete.
And who was this? The subject line said: Hi Kate?
Hi! Is this the right Kate Waters? This is Ellen Wilson, we knew each other in New York City? Or did we? I’ve been trying to find you (your facebook page is old old old) and suddenly there was your name in a Tucson newspaper.
Ellen Wilson. New York City. Back before Vermont, long ago.
Yes, Kate typed back, it’s me. Hi Ellen! Hope you’re well. What’s going on with you? and hit send.
Suddenly, she felt more grounded, as if she were not just a person in the present but also someone with a past.
Ellen answered immediately. I live in the suburbs outside the city now. Just inherited a house from my aunt in New Jersey. I’ll probably sell it when the market settles. In the meantime I’ve been searching out old friends – we can all get together and kind of camp out for a couple of days at auntie’s house. How about that? ☺ Ooblecks forever!!
Kate smiled. Ooblecks. Oobleck was green goo from a Dr Suess book. New to New York City, she and Ellen had hung out together with a group of fri
ends, gone to the same bars, lingered around the art world fringes. ‘Who are we?’ someone had said. ‘Just Ooblecks.’
She had some money in the bank, inherited from her mother, but it wasn’t enough to live on for any length of time; it was just for special emergencies. It would be too expensive, too hard to justify, but for a moment she yearned to go hang out with Ellen and all the other Ooblecks again for a few days, as if she could skip all the pain and sorrow and go back to that part of her life where nothing bad had yet happened.
Biker Bill had a black beard and long black hair pulled back in a ponytail. He was way over six feet tall and probably weighed, what? More than two hundred pounds for sure. Biker Bill bowed to Kate. He smiled. His smile was innocent and ingratiating. ‘Just yell out if you ladies need anything,’ he said. He turned and lumbered away.
‘He’s probably good,’ said Kate, ‘in hand to hand combat, but what if the other person has a gun?’
‘Rumor has it,’ Dakota said, ‘he’s got an arsenal inside that house.’
Inside Dakota’s studio her paintings lined one wall, acrylic on canvas, dreamy stretches of muted desert colors, Agnes Martin-like, punctuated by what looked like clusters of large black ants. Kate and Dakota sipped at cups of Tension Tamer tea with honey made by American, not Chinese, bees.
‘You know what really pisses me off?’ Kate said. ‘Harry’s making this big fuss, when I’m almost positive something was going on with him and this graduate student. Anna Marie Romero. She was gorgeous, but that’s no excuse.’
‘Maybe nothing was going on,’ said Dakota, ‘but the thing with Rick made you paranoid, you know?’
‘God. I remember a couple of times when I stopped in at Rick’s studio. Hannah was there. Rick said she was reviewing some of his work. I never thought a thing about it.’ She could talk about it to Dakota, but she couldn’t really think about it. Her mind slid away. ‘How can I ever ever get together with someone again?’
‘You asking me?’ Dakota said. ‘Plus, you have to watch yourself once you get into your forties with guys. The ones that look good usually turn out to be alcoholics or addicts, have borderline personalities or intermittent explosive disorder or are taking antidepressants that are about to stop working.’
Kate and Dakota simultaneously took a long sip of tea.
Dakota set her cup down. ‘That’s what I’m calling this series of paintings.’
‘What?’
‘Intermittent Explosive Disorder.’
‘Ah,’ said Kate.
‘Widowers,’ said Dakota thoughtfully. ‘That’s what you have to look for, widowers.’
Lights out, Chico lay in his prison cell. It wasn’t uncomfortable – he slept on a harder bed when he spent the night in his studio on the Gulch downtown. It wasn’t even a test. Chico liked tests, going farther than he had the day before. He could do this okay. Already, he was having some interesting ideas: A Jail Series, he could call them – maybe strip down his palette to just jail colors.
He worried about Lupita though. She was taking it harder than he was. But she didn’t have her art to focus on. That was what he planned to do, focus on his art.
His biggest problem now was his memory. He remembered being in the St Elmo Bar, early, because it was Brewery Gulch Days and people started drinking around noon, and there was this blonde woman, but after that – nothing. And where had the gun come from? He owned a gun, a little .22, not the Smith and Wesson, model something or other, he’d been told he was holding. Maybe he’d slipped into a parallel universe? Wasn’t that possible? Or maybe this wasn’t even happening but was just an idea planted in his brain. That was what that movie Inception was about.
Except where was Ellen Page, the actress in the movie? He really liked her. She reminded him of those smart girls in high school that he got crushes on, even though they weren’t supposed to be hot. Where was she now, Ellen Page? Not coming to visit him in jail, throwing him little kisses through the plate glass.
He thought of his life the day before the gun and the murders – his sister Lupita’s face laughing, dancing around the living room with his Nana, to an old Jose Hernandez CD. He could remember far back too: his father coming home drunk, and he and Lupita hiding in the closet. His father had shouted and thrown things, and once he’d hit their Nana. His father had been really really sorry afterwards, but Chico could never forget the sound of his angry voice and Nana screaming.
Maybe he had done it after all. Maybe he was just like his father underneath but couldn’t face it so he’d blacked out. Maybe he had killed those tourists. Even though he was raised Catholic, Chico hadn’t gone to church in years, but he still believed firmly in hell.
Art, focus on my art.
Three days later, a grand jury indicted Chico Flores on two counts of negligent homicide.
TEN
A van from KOLD-TV Channel Thirteen, Tucson, was parked by the side of the courthouse on the day of the hearing to modify conditions of release for Chico Flores. The bailiff was just coming out of the Division Two courtroom into the lobby as Malcolm ascended the stairs.
‘Division Two is now in session! The honorable Judge Collins presiding!’
Malcolm stayed outside for a moment, chatting up the security guard Hector Rodriguez to get the lay of the land inside.
‘Mesa PD, huh?’ Hector said. ‘Must be pretty lively up there.’
‘Lively it is,’ Malcolm said. ‘Anyone inside for the defendant?’
‘Some hippy-looking types went in, probably there for him, him being an artist and all.’ Hector grinned. ‘That’s about it.’
No Lupita? Malcolm wondered. He was here because she’d begged him to be there. ‘How about anyone for the victims?’ he asked.
Victims – in the case of homicides, their relatives – had the right to make a statement to the judge concerning any releases. And in Malcolm’s experience they invariably opposed it.
‘One guy,’ said Hector. ‘A doctor.’
‘Oh, yeah?’
‘A Dr Paul Sanger. Not a relative, he said, just a friend. He’s the guy with the Buddy Holly glasses.’ Hector grinned. ‘Can’t miss him.’
Malcolm entered and sat.
Chico, in traditional prison garb: orange jumpsuit, white socks, brown rubber sandals, was at a table next to his attorney, Stuart Ross. The prosecutor, Stan Freeman, sat at the other table. A couple of TV cameramen were set up in the front, near a woman in a blue suit and carefully coiffed hair. The reporter from the local paper sat slouched near the back.
Malcolm scanned the courtroom. There was a cluster of arty types in one corner, those friends of Chico’s. He spotted the man who must be Doctor Sanger in one corner by the door, a man in his forties, sitting stiffly, the big black glasses almost cartoonish.
Photographs of former judges lined one wall. The high windows looked out on the big Arizona cypress trees that surrounded the courthouse. One of the windows was open; it got musty sometimes in courtrooms. A breeze swayed the cypress tree, littered with grackles that were kicking up a rumpus.
Stuart Ross stood, about to speak. Where was Lupita?
Then he saw her, in a long purple top, boots from another era, stumbling through the door, radiating angst. She was carrying a brown accordion file. But she smiled when she saw Malcolm and sat down next to him.
‘Thanks for coming,’ she whispered. ‘I brought you the files.’
‘Great,’ Malcolm whispered.
‘Your honor,’ Stuart Ross was saying, ‘we approach seeking a reduction in the one-million-dollar bond presently set for the defendant. His community connections and reputation are totally at odds with such an amount. Also, it might appear to the enlightened observer that law enforcement’s quote-unquote rapid investigation and lightning fast arrest were entirely motivated by the Dudley Chamber of Commerce’s concern to signal to the tourist crowd that the coast was clear for their return to Brewery Gulch and the many fine restaurants of Dudley.’
‘Your honor—
’ Stan Freeman protested.
Malcolm stood up and took the files Lupita had given him and left the courtroom.
Outside, it was a breezy day, Arizona cypress trees blowing in the wind, clouds racing over the sun. Malcolm sat on one of the stone benches and opened the files.
Right on top, as if as a reminder, were the victims themselves – a printout of photos taken by Carrie Cooper’s cellphone. One of a pleasant-looking man who must be Wes, standing in front of the Copper Queen Hotel, wearing a polo shirt and khaki shorts, and smiling the way you do when you say ‘cheese’, and another was presumably of Carrie, an attractive blonde, in the same pose in front of the hotel. Her clothes were almost identical to Wes’s, but her smile was bright and happy and utterly genuine.
Malcolm felt a pang.
Two more photos: one of a mural somewhere, and the last of Carrie and a dark-haired woman, both smiling. Carrie’s smile not so genuine this time, almost strained. The dark-haired woman he recognized. It was Kate Waters, the women he’d spoken to at the Sail Rabbit Arts Collective Gallery. She and Carrie were friends? He’d have to talk to her sometime.
He put the printout aside and began to read the first file.
Chico had been slumped in the alleyway, reeking of alcohol, holding the gun when the police arrived. He’d been arrested immediately. Malcolm didn’t know about Dudley PD police work; was it up to par? He stopped reading and did a quick scan through the rest of the files – of course, all the reports weren’t in yet, so maybe that was why there weren’t results of any drug tests, alcohol tests, a test for gunshot residue.
Hopefully law enforcement hadn’t decided all those tests that cost money wouldn’t be needed, it was all so obvious.
The medical examiner’s report revealed two shots, each shot entering the medulla oblongata: one shot for Carrie, one shot for Wes. Hits to the medulla oblongata bled profusely. It explained all the blood. The medulla oblongata was the best place to aim for if you wanted to kill someone instantly. The accuracy of the shots was uncanny, astounding, unless you knew what you were doing.
Empty Houses Page 5