The Devil's Palm

by Bob Knapp

  Tom stood straight and tall and looked directly at the judge. “Ya Honor, my guns puts food on my family’s table. Except for what we can raise up on the ridge, them’s the only way I kin support my family.” Tom’s voice didn’t waver.

  Fowlkes knew what Tom was thinking. As far as Tom was concerned, he had done nothing wrong; it was this outlandish law. But he would soon find out.

  “And this dang drought, it...”

  Judge Frederick Newsome interrupted. “Mister Jenkins, we are not looking for excuses.” He made his voice sound even more forceful. “We must see that justice is done. People cannot just do whatever they want, or there would be anarchy.”

  “Anarchy?”

  “Yes, anarchy. Didn’t you go to school, Mr. Jenkins?”

  Tom didn’t flinch, but Ann's shoulders shook as she held her hand over her mouth. She regained her composure and looked determinedly at Newsome.

  The judge continued, “You understand that anarchy is mob rule, disorder, lawlessness. We can’t have that in a civilized world.”

  “Your Honor, I beg your pardon, but we ain’t got no anarchy whatsoever up at Lost Cow. We are civilized folk.” The audience nodded its head in approval. All of the Jenkins children were well behaved and industrious. “But we got guns, or we had guns,” Tom said.

  Newsome's eyes narrowed as he leaned toward the defendant. “Watch your impertinence, Mr. Jenkins, or I’ll hold you in contempt of court.

  “You are not at all repentant, Mr. Jenkins,” continued Newsome. “Madison County finds you guilty, by your own admission, to three counts of unregistered firearm possession, which, as you know, is now a felony.” He glanced to the back of the courtroom where Sheriff Terrance Fowlkes stood erect in the doorway. Fowlkes gave an approving nod. Ann wept aloud.

  In a kindlier tone the judge added, “We will drop charges of resisting arrest and interfering with the duties of a law enforcement officer.” He didn’t look at Fowlkes.

  Brady smiled grimly at his shoes.

  Now Newsome stared at the sheriff at the rear. “Mr. Jenkins, you are hereby ordered to pay a fine of two hundred dollars for each firearm, for a total of six hundred dollars, plus court costs. Or in lieu of the fine you are ordered to serve six months in the Madison County Jail.”

  A sudden gasp came from the townsfolk. Not Tom Jenkins! Terrance Fowlkes’ face wore an amused grin.

  Ann swayed in her seat and clutched at the chair in front of her. She pushed herself upright as the last sounds of Judge Newsome’s gavel rang through the auditorium.

  Ann wobbled to her feet and gripped the seat in front of her. “Your Honor,” she said, then placed her hand on her chest to take great gulps of air. She had no more idea now than when she jumped into the pickup as to what she was going to do or say.

  “Your Honor, we...”

  Judge Newsome stared at Ann Jenkins. This was not the pretty Ann Jenkins people remembered from what seemed just a few short years ago. Gaunt and haggard came to mind. The ravages of toil and insufficient nutrition showed on her face and body. Prominent cheekbones and dark circles under her eyes competed for attention. Once soft and feminine, now her bones poked at worn clothes in various places. Her hands were rough and calloused.

  “We have concluded the trial,” Newsome said. His eyes softened as she trembled before him. “What is it you wanted to say? Please speak up.”

  Ann took a deep breath. “Your Honor, we is rich, but not with things or money.” The auditorium stilled and people leaned toward her. “We can’t come up with no money for a fine like that.”

  Most folks had heard the rumor that Tom never had accumulated more than twelve dollars at a time. He sold chicken eggs to Hanover’s Store to raise the money for his five or six-dollar monthly electric bill. Electric light was their one modern convenience.

  The judge could see people nodding their head in agreement. Some called out, “That’s right.” Newsome caught himself almost nodding with them. He rapped his gavel for order.

  “This is the law, Mrs. Jenkins,” said Judge Newsome, recovering. In spite of himself, his tone had softened. He avoided her eyes and looked down at the papers in front of him.

  From behind the crowd Fowlkes glowered at the judge and tried to catch his eye, but to no avail. Newsome had better not let Jenkins off!

  Ann ignored the judge and went on. “And besides, we, both Tom and me, have to work our place, just for food on the table.”

  “That is not the court’s concern. Maybe you should pay a visit to Mrs. Culpepper up in Paden City.” Mrs. Culpepper was infamous, but not due to any fault of her own. She was the social welfare agency for Wetzel, Tyler and Madison counties. To quiet the murmuring, Judge Newsome rapped his gavel again. Welfare wasn’t popular in Mills Valley.

  Ann stuck out her jaw and stared hard into the judge's eyes. “The Jenkins don’t do that, Judge Newsome.”

  Tom turned and smiled at his wife.

  Judge Newsome looked to the back of the courtroom and caught Fowlkes’ stare. Newsome tried to sound gruff. “This court upholds the law. Mr. Jenkins, step closer to the bench.”

  “This court has arrived at a sentence,” Newsome continued. “You are fined six hundred dollars.” He again looked to the rear of the courtroom. Fowlkes was still glaring through his sunglasses at him. “Or six months in jail.”

  “Your Honor I—I could pay five dollars per month until the fine is paid off.” That was roughly the cost of his monthly electric bill. He would do without the electric lights.

  “This is not a bank, Mr. Jenkins. We do not make loans. Deputy Brady, please escort Mr. Jenkins to his new resi-”

  “Wait!” a voice said from the doorway.

  Judge Newsome, ready to hammer home the sentence, stopped his gavel in midair as Michael Hanover dashed to the front, his short brown leather jacket riding high above his grocer's apron.

  “Your Honor, please excuse the interruption,” Hanover said. “I came immediately when I got word of the trial.”

  Sheriff Fowlkes bellowed from the back, “Deputy Brady, remove Mr. Hanover from the courtroom, at once!”

  Judge Newsome sighed. “Wait—just a minute, Deputy. This is my courtroom.” Then in a tone obviously meant to mollify Fowlkes, he said, “I warn you, Mr. Hanover, you are interfering with the proceedings of the Court of Madison County. This had better be important and relevant, or you may experience the wrath of the court yourself. Approach the bench.”

  His face a crimson red, Fowlkes fumed at the back of the room.

  “I'll pay Tom's fine—“ Hanover said, glancing at Jenkins's disapproving frown. “—as a loan to Tom. I need help at the store. He can work off the debt.”

  * * *

  Fowlkes sat in his patrol car, ground his teeth and watched his emancipated prisoner, Jenkins, emerge from the courthouse. When Jenkins skittered toward his battered pickup, Fowlkes inched his cruiser next to him, and stopped. The men's eyes met. Jenkins's eye bored back at Fowlkes’.

  21

  Almost Heaven

  “Grant!” There was a pause. “Grant!” Abby's voice pounded Hopper's brain. “I know you hear me.”

  Hopper swiveled his chair to face the doorway so his voice would carry down the steps. “All right. I'll get the Morella boy to cut it tomorrow.” Hopper, the Bayer Plant's chief chemist, was used to being in charge. At home it was different.

  “I didn't say anything about the grass. That was your conscience. Cut it yourself and work off a little fat.” Abby shifted to a more acerbic tone. “What I said was, 'bring my suitcases down. Marcy'll be here any minute.” The decibel level of Abby's voice continued to rise. “And don't forget to pay the gas bill. The bug man is coming on . . .”

  Hopper leaned back and returned his feet to his desktop. His head rolled back to rest on the cushioned high back. She's probably ready now, waiting for my call—the all clear. He already could feel the hammering inside his chest. I'll let her knock a few times, then peek out the door and pretend I do
n't know it's her.

  “It's cold out here. Let me in,” she'll say. “I hope the food is still warm.” Her eyes search my own, slip a glance at my lips, then come back to my eyes. I reach for the bag—Millie's Cool River Café, it reads—and she slips into my arms. I take a step back to keep my balance. The bag falls to the floor as she . . .

  “Look at you.” Abby, with hands on hips, stood in the doorway of their office—the room with a desk, a computer and a printer. “What's happened to you? A decent, caring husband would have my suitcases out on the porch by now. I'm not carrying them. I scrub the floors, wash your dirty underwear, sleep in your bed—with you—and now I gotta nurse an invalid mother and clean her place again. I never get a minute's rest and you don't even have the decency to carry my suitcase. I'm gonna have Marcy come up here and see what a sluggard looks like. She and I will carry them down.”

  “I'll take care of them in a sec', Sweetie. I was thinking how to get everything done around here while you're gone.”

  “Thinking? Hah!” Abby reached for the door to slam it, but forgot it had been removed as part of the remodeling. She settled for Hopper's sweater draped across a chair and slung it at him.

  Hopper ducked and smiled. Abby was a good-looking woman whose fire had attracted him, to say nothing of her bank account. The flame had become an infernal conflagration, but the money was handy. It had put early retirement into the picture.

  Hopper didn't wish the old lady, his mother-in-law, ill. Heavens, no! Anyway, not so much that she might die, but stay sick enough so lady luck—Helen—could continue to knock at his door.

  He got up and looked out the window across the porch roof at his maple, its nearly bare branches caught by the light from his window. He noticed his reflection on the glass in front of the tree. The image would soon be joined by that of his love.

  Helen Wagner. What a find. Everybody thought of her as matronly. She had fooled him, too, for a while. Abby would never suspect her, even if she by chance saw them together—at least at work at the sheriff's office, or even downstairs.

  Hopper sat at his desk with his elbow on its top and his chin in his hand.

  Helen pushes me onto the couch and leans over me. Her silky, flowing hair brushes my face. She laughs, her eyes dance. She asks, “Do you want to eat—or see my new under things?”

  I reach for the Millie's Cafe bag. “Oh,” I say, “I thought that was food in that bag.” She giggles and giggles. I don't know if she is laughing at my silly joke or at me. She unbuttons a couple of buttons on her blouse to show an under thing—what there is of it. She doesn't look at all matronly. She kisses me some more and pulls me toward the stairway. Clothes drop on the steps as we rush to the bedroom.

  The night is like heaven: ecstasy then peaceful slumber, then sleep and then bliss, over and over.

  “Grant.” Abby again. “Grant! Marty's at the door. Either bring my stuff down and put it in her car trunk or we're coming up.”

  * * *

  “Actually, Orlando, I think the video camera will be easier for you to use,” Waxter said from in front of his bathroom mirror. “It won't need a light. I'll take Slim's 35 millimeter. It's pretty much like one I snatched from a customer.”

  “The same one that helped put you in the slammer, I suppose?” Orlando León asked. He looked around him at Waxter's messy housekeeping, or lack thereof. By contrast, Waxter's computer desk looked out of place. The equipment was dustless and in ergonomic order. There were no scattered papers, stacks of books or strewn clothes. He called it his RCC—remote control center. It operated lights in his three rooms, turned on ceiling fans, locked doors, set the alarm, opened and shut blinds and of course operated his TV, DVR player and sound system. Too bad it didn't hang up clothes and put dishes in the dishwasher.

  Waxter didn't answer. Tonight he had emulated León in his attire—silky black shirt and trousers, pointed black shoes, hair slicked back and shiny with hair oil. Night jobs required black clothes, León had explained, and Waxter had asked for suggestions. He actually looked good, except his back and underarms were already wet with perspiration. Of course his shirttail hung out.

  León could tell the clothes added to Waxter's excitement. His fingers shook as he tried to button the top button at the collar to match León's, but finally gave up. He switched to rubbing his foot on the back of his pants legs to bring a shine out on his shoes. León covered his eyes and turned his back, but couldn't help but sneak a peek.

  Frowning, Waxter ran his hand across his hair, and wiped his hand across the top of his shoes. He tried the foot-on-the-back-of-the-pant's-leg routine again. He smiled at the shine, then grimaced as he put weight back on his foot. “Man! These pointed shoes!” he said. He worked his foot back and forth in his shoe. “Don't tell Fowlkes, but I'd do this job without the gravy.”

  “Me, too, Amigo. But we still don't want people knowing what we're up to.”

  “Shouldn't be a problem. At nine o'clock and with it this cold, not too many people will be moseying around. Now let's get going.”

  Waxter gave a sigh of relief as the cold air hit his body. Bright stars pierced the black sky overhead. León pulled his black leather coat collar up and hunched his shoulders.

  “Air's got a little kick, huh, Orlando?” Waxter said, and began to whistle.

  “Yeah, and get quiet.”

  “If somebody is going to see us, they'll see us,” Waxter said. “We should act normal.”

  “Hey, you're right. When do we walk anyplace?” León's teeth chattered. “Let's use your squad car. I don't care what Fowlkes said about leaving the cruisers out of this. I'm freezing.”

  “Yeah, Orlando. We'll park right in front of Hopper's house. Any question, Hopper'll swear he called us for an emergency.”

  “Can't let these duds go for nothing, either. On the way we'll stop at Millie's and chug a few. Give some babes a chance to appreciate these outfits.”

  * * *

  The downstairs curtains, having been pulled closed, glowed with the light from inside. Soft music with a slow steady beat could be heard from the front porch. León circled the house, trying to get a peek inside to determine the occupants' location, but had no success. A rear second floor window cast a scant blush.

  León walked softly back to where Waxter waited. “Follow me.”

  León led Waxter back to the rear of the house where a small entry way protruded from the rear wall. There were no windows in the protrusion, but an outside door opened above two wooden steps. León tried the door. It swung open. Stepping inside the dark opening, he found himself on a landing from which six steps on his right led up to a closed door under which could be seen a sliver of light. In the other direction he discerned a step down and then blackness. He assumed the step led to a basement.

  León signaled Waxter to ready his camera before pushing the door ajar to reveal a kitchen flickering with light from a half-burned candle. The door creaked as León stepped inside. The table had been set for two persons, but was unused. He waved Waxter inside, his finger to his lips. Refrains of, “Are you lonesome tonight?” wafted to them from the inside doorway. León put his hand and mouth to Waxter's ear. “What's that music?”

  “Pat Boone, old time pop singer.”

  León nodded his approval.

  They crept into what proved to be the living room where a table lamp in front of a curtained window cast a warm glow. On the far side of the room was a striking white staircase set off by a walnut rail, made even more eye-catching by some articles of clothing strewn on its steps and through the balusters. A new song, “Chains of love have tied my heart to you . . . Well now I'm your prisoner . . .” crooned by the same voice, floated down the steps. It had a strong but slow beat. Voices and an occasional laugh sometimes overrode the music.

  León, in rhythm with the song, strode toward the steps. Waxter grabbed his arm and signaled him to stop.

  “Wait,” Waxter whispered. “I know what's next on this CD.” He pointed to León's c
amera. “First, let's get some pictures of these things all over the place.”

  “I'm surprised you thought scattered clothes were picture worthy.”

  “Women's clothes,” Waxter corrected.

  Loud strains of, “I got a gal, her name's Sue…” filled the house. It had a stronger and faster beat.

  “This is the song.” Waxter gestured with his head toward the stairs. In spite of the cover the music provided, they trod carefully, stepped in time with the strong beats of the drum and bass and avoided tripping on the clothes. “…She knows just what to do.” León kept the camera rolling.

  From the head of the stairs the intruders saw through a half-opened doorway into a dimly lit room. They stalked down the carpeted hallway. They failed to notice their own rapid breathing as they concentrated on the panting sounds coming from the bedroom. The 35-millimeter camera was slippery in Waxter's sweaty palms.

  León's grin featured a five-inch band of white teeth.

  At the doorway León saw the foot of the bed but could not gain entrance to the bedroom without moving the door. No use taking chances on stopping the action. He guided his video camera around the door with one hand and kept the shutter button down while his own face pressed the opposite side of the door. He slowly wagged the camera to make sure he photographed something.

  “Let me see,” Waxter said, and nudged León again and again, wanting entrance, while León's camera hummed. Frustrated, Waxter kicked open the door but lost his grip on his camera, barely catching it before it hit the floor.

  Helen screamed. Both lovers reached for the covers. Unfortunately for them, they had long ago kicked them to the floor. Waxter found the camera shutter and fired one shot after another.

  “Get out of here, get out of my house!” Hopper's curses rose above Helen's screams as he hung over the side of the bed and struggled to retrieve the sheets and blankets. He snatched up his bedside phone. “I'm calling the pol-” Hopper's crimson face paled. “Deputy León. Waxter.”

  Muffled cries of, “This isn't what it seems. This isn't what it seems. This isn't what it seems,” came from behind the pillow with which Helen had hidden her face.