Deadlock

by James Scott Bell

  A bailiff rushed over and warned Aggie to quiet down. Sarah Mae slumped in her chair. Charlene stood clamped to the floor, unable to move, watching the aftermath of the destruction of her world.

  But worst of all was not what the decision meant for her. No, she could somehow recover from this. The worst thing was seeing Sarah Mae’s head fall into her hands and her small, girlish body begin to shake.

  Charlene put a hand on her shoulder. Almost immediately she felt a hand on her own. Aggie was pulling Charlene away. “Don’t touch her,” she said.

  “Please – ”

  “No! Sarah Mae, come along. Now.”

  Helpless, Charlene watched as Aggie yanked Sarah Mae up like a sack of linens. Sarah Mae’s eyes flashed at Charlene, a mix of confused emotions Charlene could not read. Following her mother through the railing, Sarah Mae Sherman disappeared from view, and for all Charlene knew, from her life.

  She fought back tears. She would not cry, not here. But she longed for someone to talk to.

  Anyone except Beau Winsor. He offered his hand to her. “Don’t feel too bad,” he said. “There will be other fights.”

  Charlene opened her mouth, and there it stayed. Open and without speech.

  “You’re young. You’re talented. Ever think of joining a firm?”

  Slowly Charlene shook her head.

  “Give me a call. Let me take you to lunch.”

  All she could do was shake her head.

  Winsor said, “If you change your mind…” And then he nodded and walked away.

  Larry Graebner also offered his hand, and Charlene felt compelled to take it.

  “I’d consider his offer,” Graebner said. “It’s a good one.”

  “This isn’t over,” Charlene said weakly. “I’ll file an appeal.”

  Graebner glanced at the courtroom doors. “If you do, and you lose, our position will become precedent in this circuit. Would you want that?”

  “Has it occurred to you we might win on appeal?”

  “It really hadn’t,” Graebner said. “But anything’s possible.” Larry Graebner smiled. “Good luck, Ms. Moore. You did a fine job.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  1

  Millie was beginning to hate the word hope. Jack Holden had used it several times already in the eulogy. And each time he said it, she heard a few mumbled “amens” behind her. She felt herself wanting to sear these people with a don’t you understand? look.

  Hope was in the casket, about to be buried. The hope that she would get more time with her mother. The hope that had been waved in front of her when her mother had managed to talk to her at the hospital.

  “ ‘Therefore, since we have been justified through faith’ ” – Holden was reading, and she heard the words as if outside the building – “ ‘we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ, through whom we have gained access by faith into this grace in which we now stand. And we rejoice in the hope of the glory of God.’ ”

  This was how her mother would have wanted her funeral, and for that she could endure it. But not the word hope anymore. Please.

  “ ‘And hope does not disappoint us, because God has poured out his love into our hearts by the Holy Spirit, whom he has given us.’ ”

  More amens. Holden had asked her if she wanted to say a few words, and she had declined. What did she have to say to these people? She was an outsider. She had once been one of them, but she had left long ago. In body and in spirit.

  She dutifully stayed for the meal that had been prepared by several in the congregation. She dutifully shook hands and received condolences. She dutifully said what needed to be said without sounding rude.

  They were good people, and they had been her mother’s family. Millie hated the way she felt about them now. She was jealous – of the times they’d had with Ethel that Millie had not. Her smile felt forced. But she smiled. Mom would have wanted it that way.

  She was grateful for the job Jack Holden had done. But she was also jealous of him. He had had time with her mother, too.

  He approached her at the back of the fellowship hall, where Millie had sought some respite from talk.

  “You’ll be going back to D.C. soon?” he asked.

  “Two days,” Millie said.

  “May I say something?”

  “Of course.”

  “Even though the circumstances are not the best, it’s been good to talk with you. You know. About all the things we talked about.”

  “My mother thought highly of you,” she said. “You were a great comfort to her.”

  “You have her qualities.”

  “I wish.” Ethel Hollander was so unlike her daughter. Or was it the other way around?

  “I’ll be here if you need anything,” Holden said. “Arrangements with the house, that sort of thing.”

  “I appreciate it.”

  “And I’ll be praying for you.”

  She felt a scream welling up inside her. It did not issue, but the pressure was intense. “Why wasn’t I there?” she said suddenly. Loudly. “Why wasn’t I with her?” She wanted to grab Holden’s shirt and shake him, shame him out of his assurances, force him to join her in guilt and doubt.

  Her mother was gone. There would be no more words. Ever.

  2

  Anne was starting her second espresso when she heard a knock. She looked through the peephole and saw an African American man in a sharp brown suit looking directly at her.

  “Ms. Deveraux?” he said.

  He must have been waiting for the light to change in the hole when she put her eye to it. She still didn’t say anything.

  “Detective Markey, D.C. police,” he said. “Can I have a moment of your time?”

  Police? “No,” Anne said. She watched him through the fish-eye glass.

  “Are you refusing to speak to me?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “That is quite unusual.”

  “I’m busy. Slip your card under the door. I’ll call you.”

  “It concerns your boss.”

  Anne paused, then thought she’d better get this over with. If he had something on Levering, she had better get it.

  “Let me see the badge,” she said. Markey held his shield to the lens. Anne unlocked the door.

  “Careful, aren’t you?” Markey said, stepping inside.

  “You have no idea,” Anne said. “I’m in a hurry. Can you make this quick?”

  “Certainly. You had a run-in with a man yesterday.”

  “The homeless guy? He reported it? I can’t believe this. He was…”

  “He was what, Ms. Deveraux?”

  “He was approaching me in a menacing way.”

  “So you maced him?”

  “That’s why I carry it. Is this some major case? The guy want money?”

  “The guy you took down is a street person. They call him Elijah.”

  “Who does?”

  “The other street people.”

  “Okay, so his name’s Elijah. What do you want from me?”

  Markey said, “Well, Elijah is not someone unfamiliar to us. We’ve talked to him before.”

  “About?”

  “Your boss.”

  Anne blinked, feeling very annoyed. She’d been around cops many times, for various reasons, and usually got what she wanted from them. Now this guy thought he could play detective with her, like he was in some bad HBO movie, doing the cat-and-mouse thing. Anne did not do mouse.

  “Detective,” she said, “I’ve got a full schedule. Just give me the whole thing in one gulp, and let’s get on with it.”

  “Where was Senator Levering on the night of June fourteen?”

  Anne felt her throat clenching. “Why?”

  “Do you know where he was?”

  “Senator Levering has a busy schedule.”

  “You know his schedule, you probably tell him where to go and when. You troubleshoot. All the usual stuff. It wouldn’t be hard for you to check your book, or your palm thing, whatev
er it is you keep a calendar on.”

  “Detective, I’m not inclined to check anything until I know the relevance. And what does any of this have to do with that guy on the street?”

  Markey said, “You assaulted a witness.”

  “Witness?”

  “You remember that on June fourteenth, Justice Hollander was hit by a car?”

  “Of course. Everybody knows.” Anne tried to keep her voice even.

  “She was with someone right before it happened but won’t say who.”

  “So? Maybe she wants to save a friend embarrassment or something.”

  “Like the senator?”

  Anne swallowed. “Come on.”

  “About a week after it happened I got a call from the desk that somebody wanted to talk about the accident. Somebody who was probably nuts. It was a slow morning, so I took it. Turned out to be our friend Elijah. And he had a very interesting story to tell.”

  “A street person,” Anne said, making it sound as ridiculous as possible.

  “That’s what I was saying to myself. He said he was out by the Lincoln Memorial when he saw Senator Levering with a woman in some sort of wrestling hold, and then the woman ran off. He followed the woman. And he saw what happened.”

  “Wait a minute here. Are you trying to tell me some street bozo sees Senator Levering in the dark and can identify him?”

  “Who said it was dark?”

  Anne put her hands on her hips. “I’m assuming.”

  “I try never to do that. “

  “Still, you’re taking this guy seriously? Where’s the credibility?”

  “You’re right. We didn’t take him seriously. He had kind of an odd way about him, you know, that crazy kind of look.”

  “That’s what I’m saying.”

  “But then yesterday, somebody sprayed Elijah. A witness wrote down the license plate number of the person who did it. The guy in dispatch who ran the plates crossed it in the computer with Elijah, and sent it to me. So now it looks like Senator Levering’s number-one aide sprayed mace at a potential witness, one who IDed the senator. Suddenly, I’m interested again.”

  This isn’t happening, Anne told herself. The potential damage was huge. “Senator Levering was not out wrestling with Justice Millicent Mannings Hollander,” she said. “That much I can tell you. But even if he was, why are the D.C. police interested? Would that be a crime?”

  “Maybe.”

  “That’s not what this is about, is it?” Take the offensive. “It’s about some low-grade detective trying to notch a prominent politician.”

  He looked at her evenly.

  “I’ve seen this before,” Anne said. “You’re not kidding anybody. So why don’t you go get some real bad guys for a change?”

  “You are not being very cooperative. It would help your own situation, you know.”

  “I don’t think I follow you.”

  “You maced a guy. That’s an assault, too.”

  Anne felt frozen in place, as if a police officer had asked her to assume the position. “You cannot be serious.”

  “I’m afraid I am, Ms. Deveraux,” Markey said.

  “Then you can contact my lawyer. Our interview is over.”

  Markey took out a pad. “Who is your lawyer?”

  Anne glared at him. “You’re the detective. You find out.”

  3

  Aggie Sherman angrily shook her head. “You shouldn’t of come here.”

  Charlene stood in the doorway of what could only be described as a shack. A bare yellow lightbulb on the porch gave a strange circular glow in the night. Facing Aggie Sherman through the screen door, Charlene looked past the huge mosquitoes hovering around the mesh and said, “Please. I need to say something.”

  “Say nothin’. You lost us a load of money and we don’t need to hear you say any more! Now get off my porch afore somebody sees you.”

  “I need you to forgive me,” Charlene said.

  In the long silence that ensued, Charlene felt as much as heard the din of the cicadas in the night. What would be her fate? Thumbs-up or thumbs-down? Then Aggie Sherman wordlessly unlatched the screen door and opened it.

  “Thank you,” Charlene whispered as she stepped inside.

  “Just so you know,” Aggie said, “Sarah Mae’s been crying ever since we got back here.”

  Charlene’s heart cracked. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Sit down then.”

  Charlene sat down on the sagging brown sofa. Aggie lit a cigarette and sat opposite Charlene in a faded recliner. “You like my place?” Aggie asked with bitter sarcasm.

  “It reminds me a little of the place I grew up in,” Charlene said.

  A look of curiosity came to Aggie’s face. “That right?”

  “We didn’t have much,” Charlene said. “We had each other. Same way you have Sarah Mae.”

  “That’s all I got. That girl. I wanted better for her than this. Her daddy run out on us when she’s ten year old. You think that don’t hit a child?”

  “I know it does,” Charlene said, remembering her own father. The warmth she felt in his arms, the security. That Sarah Mae was denied this hit Charlene personally. This whole matter was hitting her personally. That was why she was sitting here.

  “That’s why I wanted that settlement money,” Aggie Sherman said. “Look at this place, will you?”

  Charlene took a deep breath. “I talked you into going forward with the case. I told you God wanted us to do it. I made you believe you would get more money if we kept going. I did that because I wanted to win this case. I hate what happened to Sarah Mae. I wanted to win for her. But I also wanted to win for me.”

  Aggie Sherman sat silently behind thin wisps of smoke.

  “I got to thinking I was God’s special woman,” Charlene continued. “I guess I found out I’m not so special. I could have had help on this case, there were groups that offered, but I wanted to do it alone. I wanted to be the one who did it, who won it all, and then maybe the people who told me I’d never make a good lawyer would see me. But I failed to be a good lawyer. A good lawyer looks out for her clients first and always, and that’s why I came here tonight.”

  Aggie took a puff on her cigarette and brushed some ashes off her lap. “You tried,” she said. “No one’s takin’ that away from you.”

  “I’ve been on my knees asking God what to do, and all I keep hearing is that I need to be broken. I need to get myself out of the way. But I don’t need to quit, either.”

  “What’s that mean?” Aggie said.

  “An appeal.”

  Aggie Sherman shook her head. “Can’t afford it.”

  “I wouldn’t ask you to pay anything.”

  “You’d do that for us?”

  “Yes,” Charlene said.

  Aggie Sherman looked at Charlene, long and hard. Outside, the moan of a cat sounded like a creaking door.

  “I hated you,” Aggie said. “I hated that you made me want more money. And I hated you cause you’re black and we needed your help. Guess I need forgiveness, too.”

  Charlene Moore had heard the word grace countless times in church. But she knew at that moment that she had never fully understood it. And the feeling that she had let God down, let Aggie and Sarah Mae down, gave way to a sense that, at last, God’s will might truly be done in her life. She did not know how, could not see it yet, but she trusted it would be. And she was ready for it. For maybe the first time in her life, she was really ready for God’s will to be done.

  4

  Anne Deveraux could tell Senator Levering was in a foul mood. Really on edge. His drinking was not doing him any good, either, but Anne was not a nursemaid. She was a highly paid aide, and as long as he was well enough to authorize her checks, she’d let him do what he wanted with his personal life.

  “This Unborn Victims Act they’re trying to get to the floor,” Levering said the instant Anne sat down. “It could be dangerous. They think they get that language in, unborn child, then the
y have ammo to go back to the Supreme Court and overturn Roe.”

  “That bill won’t pass,” Anne said. “Let’s be realistic.”

  “I’m just tired of dealing with it. I’ve got some crazy minister back home on his radio show calling me a Nazi. After all I’ve done for the state! You know how that grates? I work my whole life for the rights of women and children and the poor. And this is what I get for my troubles. So, please, have some good news for me.”

  A vein stood out in Levering’s forehead. Anne looked at it with fascination. It did not look healthy.

  “Sorry my news isn’t better,” Anne said.

  Levering rubbed his head, reached into a drawer, and pulled out the largest bottle of Bayer aspirin she had ever seen. “All right, let’s have it. Is it a report on Hollander?”

  “Not exactly,” Anne said.

  “What does that mean?”

  “It has to do with your little tryst.”

  Levering stared at her, then popped a couple of Bayer in his mouth and downed them with a glass of water.

  Anne waited until his eyes returned to hers. “The cops have a witness,” she said.

  Levering’s face screwed into disbelief. “Of what?”

  “You and Justice Hollander doing a dance number by the Lincoln Memorial.”

  “Who is this witness?”

  “That’s the only good part of this. He’s a street person. But…”

  “But what?”

  “I had a little run-in with this guy.”

  “Run in?”

  “I sprayed mace in his face.”

  Levering’s disbelief morphed into something like shock. “Let me get this straight. You sprayed a police witness, someone who says he saw me with Justice Hollander?”

  “It was a total coincidence. I can’t explain it. The odds have to be astronomical. But it happened, and there’s a detective who’s got starch in his underwear over it. He questioned me; he’s probably going to want to question you next.”

  The senator stood up, his face looking beefier than usual. Part of it was the stark light of the office. The other part was his obvious pique. Anne readied herself for a diatribe.