Judge Me When I'm Wrong

by Cheryl A Head

  “No,” Charlie said. “I hadn’t done that yet. They’re minors. Friends of hers from the local high school and weren’t listed in the police report. Did Jason give you their names?”

  “Yes, I have their names, and I’m going to try to track them down tomorrow. I looked them up on Facebook. I’m thinking about hanging outside the high school to see if I can spot them.”

  “If I didn’t know better, Mr. Acosta, I’d say you were a letch. Stalking high-school girls is bad business.”

  “The things I do for Mack Investigations,” Gil joked.

  “Did you get to speak with the local police?”

  “No time today,” he said, turning serious again. “But I will tomorrow. I also plan to visit the library and check what the local papers are saying about the case.”

  “That all sounds good.”

  “Say, how was jury duty?”

  “The things I do to be a good citizen.”

  “That bad?”

  “White-collar crime doesn’t make for much excitement.”

  “That’s true. You back at it tomorrow?”

  “Yep. So, keep me posted. I’ll check messages during one of my breaks. Don’t get arrested slinking around the high school.”

  “I’ll be careful. Say ‘hi’ to Mandy for me.”

  “Will do. Also hello to Darla from us.”

  # # #

  Darla Sanchez wasn’t like any other woman Gil had dated. Like him, she was a third-generation Mexican-American. She was devoted to her family and proud of her heritage, and as laid-back as one of his basketball buddies. In fact, she loved basketball and most other sports—and cars. He’d met her two summers ago when she drove her 2005 Jeep Cherokee to his uncle’s dealership for a tow package. They started dating after that. She wasn’t the most beautiful woman he’d hooked up with, but Darla was pretty, funny, independent, and confident. He really liked her style. He realized he’d fallen in love with Darla this past summer when they’d taken a long weekend trip to the U.P. Gripping the wheel with determination, she had navigated her Jeep over the Silver Lake Sand Dunes in Western Michigan. Her tanned, muscular arms glistened with perspiration, her raven-colored hair blew around her head with abandon, and she laughed with the delight of a child flying a kite.

  “You done working for the day?” Darla asked now.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “How’s your hotel room?”

  “Lonely.”

  “I bet you’ve used that line before.”

  “Maybe I have.”

  “You’re back tomorrow though, huh?”

  “Yes. But late. How was your day?”

  Their nightly conversations were catch-ups on the day, check-ins on family, and a ritual of the growing connection they had. Gil had witnessed this kind of fitting together only a few times in his thirty years. First, in the forty-year relationship of his mother and father, and more recently in the relationships his two business partners enjoyed with their significant others. He’d begun to believe that this kind of love would elude him. Then Darla drove him across the dunes, and he saw her for the first time.

  “Charlie and Mandy said hi.”

  “Are they doing okay?”

  “Yes. They have a new dog.”

  “Wow, they’re really becoming domestic.”

  “Maybe it’s about time for us to be domestic.”

  There was a long pause on the line until Gil said: “Crickets?”

  Darla laughed. “Good night, Gil Acosta. I’ll see you tomorrow. Love you.”

  “Love you, too.”

  # # #

  Charlie and Mandy had discussed the pros and cons of getting a dog for months before they brought Hamm into their lives. Charlie hadn’t grown up with pets, and her dander allergies kept her at arm’s length from most cats, even the irresistible kittens Judy had brought to the office a few weeks ago. Don had adopted one kitten for his son, Rudy. Two of the other tenants in their building had scooped up a couple of the furry balls of adorable. But Charlie’s watering eyes kept her from succumbing to their cuteness.

  The dog debate had ended last month when a visit to the local pet shelter put Mandy and Charlie in proximity to a lop-eared mixed-breed who had a friendly tail, and soulful eyes revealing the rough times he’d witnessed. The compromise on a canine name came by using their first initials: MC—and, of course, Hammer had to follow.

  Hamm lounged on a doggie bed across from the bedroom door, his huge paws splayed on the soft corduroy rim. In his usual nighttime pattern, he’d settled down to the soothing voices and soft laughter of his new owners; then, moments later he assaulted the quiet with his old man’s snore.

  “I don’t know why Hamm can’t sleep with us,” Mandy said, adjusting the pillow under her neck. “There’s going to be a thunderstorm tonight, and loud noises scare him.”

  “He’ll be all right. I’ll put the protective blanket over him before I turn out the lights.”

  “If we let him get on the foot of the bed now, you won’t have to get up again.”

  Mandy’s dancing eyes flashed the love she felt for all four-legged creatures. She’d considered a career as a veterinarian before her brother’s death on 9/11 had set her on a different path.

  “Tonight we’ll let sleeping dogs lie, shall we?”

  Mandy punched Charlie’s firm bicep to acknowledge the bad pun, then waited for an outstretched arm so she could snuggle against Charlie’s breast.

  “So, another boring day of jury duty tomorrow?”

  “Yep. We’re being overwhelmed with documents. We only heard three live witnesses today. The rest of the time we listened to audio recordings, read along on transcripts, and watched a few video depositions.”

  “All that sitting’s gonna get to you. Since your morning workouts aren’t possible, you think you should go to the gym before you come home?”

  “I could. Or maybe I’ll just use our treadmill and weights on the weekdays, and do the gym on Saturday. The one thing I absolutely must do in the morning is prepare a thermos of coffee. The stuff at the courthouse is horrible.”

  “Well, don’t worry about walking Hamm. I can do that before I leave.”

  “You’re a good helpmeet.”

  “What?”

  “A Bible term for a partner who helps you meet your needs.”

  A flash of light careened beyond the edges of the mini-blinds, followed ten seconds later by a clap of thunder. Hamm rose to his feet, his ears morphing into antennae. He stared longingly at the human bed. Charlie rose to get the flannel comfort vest and secured it around his chest with the Velcro straps. The advertising said it was guaranteed to provide well-being to thunder-afflicted pooches. Hamm licked Charlie’s face, and she gave him a rub under the chin.

  “Do you need a chin rub, too?” Charlie said, slipping under the sheets.

  “No, but I wouldn’t mind a little spooning.”

  Charlie doused the lights and rolled over, pressing her thighs against the back of Mandy’s. She draped an arm across her lover’s torso and pulled her in tight. The storm’s light-and-sound show eventually subsided, and the rhythm of their breathing, along with dog snores, lulled them into a contented sleep.

  Chapter 4

  Tuesday

  The morning was crisp, sunny, and the sky a robin’s egg blue. Gil finished a thirty-minute workout in the hotel gym, then called ahead to arrange a breakfast chat with Detective Candace Holt of the Kalamazoo Police Department. They met at the front desk of police headquarters, and walked a quarter mile to the Depot coffee shop.

  Holt was tall, slim, with shoulder-length hair, and skin the color of café au lait. She was self-assured and aware of her attractiveness. The coffee shop was trendy—all chrome and dark wood, with a dozen round tables and a half-dozen booths. A haphazard photo collage of railroad cars, horse-drawn carriages, and buses dotted the walls of what the designer must have imagined as a hipster hangout. In actuality, the Depot was a stopover for a mix of city residents more concerned wit
h convenience than cool status. Early lunchers ordered sandwiches, salads, and lattes to go. The decibel level rose tenfold when a group of chattering au pairs—charges and strollers in tow—rolled in like a baby parade. Gil and Detective Holt took their coffees and breakfast sandwiches to a window in the farthest corner of the restaurant.

  “We’ve seen the video. It does seem to show your client in the room, but not active in the assault.”

  “Do you know who took the video?”

  “Not yet. We got a call. An anonymous one.”

  “Can I get a copy?”

  “I’m not sure about that.”

  “Will you check to see if I can get a copy?”

  “Sure.”

  “Will you be the police witness at the grand jury trial?”

  “It’ll be me or Detective Stafford. Probably me though.”

  “Got it,” Gil said, scribbling in his notebook.

  “You have a rather interrogative approach to conversation,” Holt said. “Sort of a Sgt. Friday ‘just the facts, ma’am’ style.” She smiled, lifting a flirty eyebrow.

  Gil smiled back. “I’m sorry. I really am. I’m usually a better meal companion. It’s just that I’m catching up on this case, and I have two or three other things to do before I head back to Detroit. I appreciate the cooperation you’ve given. We don’t always get help from the police.”

  “I did some research on your firm after I met with your partner, Ms. Mack.”

  “Oh?”

  “She’s attractive.”

  “She is. We’re good friends.”

  “Just friends?”

  “Yes. And business partners.”

  “I couldn’t find any information about you having a wife.”

  “I don’t have one.”

  “Are you seeing anyone?”

  “I am.”

  “Serious?”

  “The most serious yet.”

  Holt shrugged her shoulders. Her countenance changed from flirtatious to c’est la vie.

  “What about you? Are you single?” Gil asked.

  “Divorced. A year ago. My ex-husband still lives here. It’s a small town, and there aren’t a lot of men of color who aren’t attached.”

  “Maybe it’s time to move to the big city.”

  “I’ve got a little boy. He’s three, and his father has visitation rights.”

  “I see. Well that makes things a bit more difficult.”

  “Look. Here’s my card. That’s my cell number.”

  “Here’s mine,” Gil said, sliding his business card across the table.

  Holt looked at the card, and stared boldly at Gil. “I’ve got to get back. I’ll check on whether I can share a copy of the video with you.”

  # # #

  The Canova trial continued into day two with a series of police witnesses. After three hours of direct and cross-examination, the judge, wisely, offered the jury a twenty-minute morning break. Most jurors raced to lockers or cars to access their tools of communication, but Charlie opted for the spacious jury room.

  In the area nearest the door was a large modern conference table with swivel chairs. A row of upholstered seats lined the wall flanking the table on one side, and on the other side were two worktables and folding chairs. The rear of the room had a couple of sofas, a few stuffed chairs, and two cushioned window seats. Charlie sat at the window looking out onto a small courtyard where the smokers gathered. A couple sat close together on a bench, puffing and talking. A gathering of four people standing on a grass border created a large plume of smoke that swirled around their heads. The others stood in solo practice of their vice.

  Charlie understood tobacco’s appeal. She’d been a smoker for a few years when she owned her first business—a public relations and marketing company. The high-pressure, long-workdays, no-weekends lifestyle seemed more bearable with cigarettes. But because she was also a physical fitness nut, she’d kicked the habit.

  Approaching footsteps made Charlie look over her shoulder just as her jury-box seatmate, the retiree, joined her at the window.

  “I used to smoke those cancer sticks,” he said, staring down into the courtyard. “I was a pack-a-day guy until I came to my senses.”

  “Me too.”

  He offered Charlie a stick of chewing gum. She accepted the tiny wrapped rectangle and plopped it into her mouth. They both watched as two of the single smokers, their fellow jurors, came together to chat.

  “Say, didn’t I hear you’re an investigator?”

  “That’s right. A private investigator.”

  “So, you like to hunt down missing people and spy on cheating spouses? That sort of thing?”

  “We get our share of the domestic snooping cases, but we also do other work. It depends on what the client needs.”

  “We?”

  “I have a team I work with.”

  “My name’s Fletcher. Richard Fletcher,” he said, offering a handshake.

  “Charlene Mack.”

  “I didn’t know private investigators were so attractive. You married?”

  “No, but I’m in a relationship. I live with my partner in the Berry subdivision.”

  “Hmm. Lucky man.”

  “My partner’s a woman, and I’m the lucky one.”

  “Oh. Hmm.” Fletcher gave her an appraising gaze. Charlie couldn’t read his expression.

  The court clerk entered the room, cutting short the awkward conversation. She directed the jurors to return to Courtroom Five, and everyone began gathering their belongings. Fletcher gave a last look out the window.

  “Looks like the smokers are done killing themselves. But who knows, the way this trial is going we might all die of boredom anyway.”

  # # #

  Gil cruised in his Mustang along West Valley University’s main road. It was a typical Midwestern campus with academic buildings centrally situated on an enormous quad. Residence halls and apartment-style student housing sat along the side streets intersecting the main drag. The autumnal light sparkled the leaves with color and gave the grounds a cheerful glow. Gil drove beyond the college buildings, dormitories, and athletic stadiums to the residential neighborhoods of the university’s fraternity and sorority houses. He checked his phone for the address of Gamma Squared, and pulled his car into a no-parking zone across the street.

  The Gamma fraternity house was unassuming except for the yellow-painted Greek letters mounted across the front façade. The neighborhood was equally commonplace, with well-kept lawns, mature trees, and three-story brick homes. A glass bus shelter marked the corner of the block, and adjacent to the no-parking area was a bicycle rack. On a bright midweek morning, the innocuous house on this quiet street looked nothing like a violent crime scene.

  The campus police’s final report on the assault was as Charlie had said—cursory in facts and depth. Maya hadn’t returned to her dorm the night of the rape. She’d somehow made it to her family home twenty miles away, but she couldn’t remember how she’d gotten there. She told campus security maybe someone had put her in a cab or driven her home. Gil surveyed the rooftops and street poles for city surveillance cameras. There were none. Several homes had security signs in the front yard, and a few likely had cameras facing the street. It was a moot point since campus security hadn’t bothered to follow up on Maya’s account of getting home. Maya and her father reported the rape to the campus police at six the following morning. Sunday. However, the police hadn’t questioned the occupants of the fraternity house until Monday morning.

  Gil looked at the campus map he’d picked up from the bookstore, and pulled away from the curb. Even with traffic lights, the three-mile ride to the university police station took only five minutes.

  # # #

  Maya’s old high school was a forty-minute ride from the campus. The modern complex included three one-story buildings and two athletic fields. Two parking lots were clearly marked—one for students and visitors, the other for teachers and administrators. Gil parked in a visitor’s spa
ce and stared into the lens of a camera secured to the roofline of the building. He had printed photos of Maya’s friends from their Facebook pages, which he now realized would be of no use to him at this sprawling high-school compound. So he put on his jacket and walked through the front door. He signed in at the security desk and was directed to the main office.

  During his high school days, no student ever wanted to visit the administration office. Being summoned there always meant trouble, and usually involved an awkward conversation with an adult—like the principal, school nurse or truancy officer. Things had changed. This office bustled with chatting, enthusiastic students. Some worked at computer terminals, some in cubicles, others at a counter with a line of reference books. A small cluster of students waited in an area marked with a hanging sign that read “Advisors.”

  Directly across from the front door was an alcove marked “reception” where four computer kiosks blinked a welcome. Gil stepped up to one, touched the screen, and followed the directions provided. There was a process for contacting students at Mayflower Hills High School, which was both efficient and secure. It included consenting to a photograph and signing your name. The kiosk transaction ended when Gil received a numbered ticket describing his request and the time completed. Connecting with Maya’s friends wasn’t going to be casual, easy, or anonymous. Gil returned to the parking lot under the careful eye of a dozen surveillance cameras.

  His next stop was the main branch of the Kalamazoo Public Library. It wasn’t far from the Depot coffee shop, so he picked up a chai to go. The library was airy, high-tech, and clean. To keep it that way, food and drink weren’t welcome, so Gil sipped his tea at a bench near the front door and watched a steady stream of people go in and out of the well-used facility. He followed signs to the newspapers and periodicals section, which had an array of terminals for internet access. The staff librarian was a friendly, not-quite-middle-aged man with the demeanor, clothing, and voice of Fred Rogers. His desk nameplate identified him as Mr. Thornton.