Dupree's Resolve

by Micheal Maxwell

  “Sounds like my high school English teachers.”

  “Exactly. I’ll tell you a perfect example of his attitude toward new thoughts or ways of doing things. We received a state-mandated request for a series of sensitivity training. It covered non-English speakers assimilated into our school community, LBGT issues, drug use, racial relations, and school-wide confrontation techniques to defuse potentially violent situations.”

  “That’s a mouthful.”

  “It is also unnecessary in several of the areas. This is about the whitest high school you’re going to find. But most teachers love it because it amounts to several days without students a year, and free coffee, doughnuts, and lunch.” English chuckled. “No big deal, right?”

  “Not what I would call heavy lifting.”

  “Exactly. Well, one of the days last year, the moderator of the training wanted all the teachers to move to one of the four corners of the cafeteria based on their favorite fruit. Oranges, grapes, apples, pears. The idea was that each group would role-play different issues and put them in the shoes of a student. Weston was having none of it. When everyone in the room got up, admin included, Weston stayed put. He had his nose it a paperback book. When the moderator approached him about participating, he said it was stupid and he wouldn’t do it. When the principal tried to intervene, the moderator waved him off saying we had a fifth group, prunes. That, Mr. Dupree, is David Weston in a nutshell.”

  “I know the type well.” Dupree was getting a closer look at his client. “Tell me, what do you think of him personally? How does the staff get along with him?”

  “I don’t know if I should be…”

  “Nobody here but you and me. I have a big job ahead of me, and the more I understand Mr. Weston, the better I can do my job.”

  “What if I don’t want you to do a good job?” There was no irony in English’s question.

  “How that?”

  “He’s a perv. He’s scarred those kids for life. I don’t know if you remember your high school years; the hormones, the fight to be accepted, figuring out your place in the world. Not to speak of trying to impress girls. How would you like to be the guy that got the ‘homo porn’?”

  “So, you’re sure Weston did it. OK. Tell me why. Man to man, what do you know?”

  “I don’t know, anything, I mean really. I got a gut feeling, and I got a pretty good gut. You have to, to do discipline in a high school.”

  “Nothing wrong with that. Your opinion is what juries are made up of. So, tell me, what does your gut tell you? Talk to me about Weston. School is all he has, so the people here see him more than anyone in the world. Describe him to me.”

  “No judgment. No political correctness BS?”

  “You have my word.” Dupree was sincere and English saw his word as such.

  “OK. For starters, he’s in his fifties, he’s single, and always has been. He is what you might call a bit effeminate. Even though he’s balding, he insists on having a ridiculous comb-over. Then he sends kids to the office when they give him crap about it. As I said, he wants nothing to do with the staff and is a cause of friction in his department. He walks the track at lunch while munching an apple. No camaraderie, total standoff. Worst of all and the part that makes my job difficult, he is not popular with the kids or parents.

  “His high standards are often unreasonable. He’s a really hard grader, it’s almost like he wants to fail a percentage of his class and has said so. And classroom management? He is unreasonably strict. He is beyond condescending; students are only allowed to talk when asked a question. You talk, you’re gone. He writes more referrals to the office than the next two teachers combined. Other than that, he’s prince charming.”

  “Thanks. Now I know what a jury will see.”

  “I won’t have to testify, will I?”

  “Not if I can help it.” Dupree stood and offered his hand, English shook it.

  “Tell me something, how can you defend someone like that?”

  “Who teaches government here?”

  “Mr. Thompson.”

  “Ask him.”

  Dupree made his way to his car, wishing he stayed at his office.

  CHAPTER 11

  “More coffee?” Dara smiled at the couple seated at a window booth.

  The Quarter Moon was bustling. It was a cold, blustery day and the windows were partially steamed up from the steaming food, hot coffee, and warm breath. The atmosphere was loud and jovial as people came in from the cold and the friendly warmth of the café.

  “You guys are awfully quiet today.” Dara stood at a table with three men who sat in silence. All three looked down at their plate of eggs, bacon, hash browns, and biscuits and gravy.

  “Was Mike Potter in earlier?” The man held out his empty coffee cup.

  “No, I didn’t see him.”

  “You remember seeing him yesterday?” A second man spoke.

  Dara frowned. “Now that you mention it, I haven’t seen him since Monday.” She looked down at the empty seat at the table. “Is he sick?”

  “Doesn’t answer his phone.” The third man finally looked up. “He hasn’t reported to work in three days. He hasn’t called in sick, I asked the boss. I called the house phone; his wife says she hasn’t seen him.”

  “Isn’t she concerned?” Dara couldn’t believe a wife wouldn’t be worried.

  The table got quiet.

  “What. Did I say something wrong?” Dara asked.

  The familiar face of Jim Sauser looked up at her. Sauser worked at the cable company with Mike Potter. They had breakfast together every morning for years. They were best friends and hunting buddies.

  “She doesn’t care.” Sauser’s voice betrayed the seething rage that bubbled just below his stoic demeanor. “I drove over to the house. His truck is there. She won’t even open the door.”

  “I see why you’re worried. I spoke with Mike several days ago. He seemed really down. He’s not the type to hurt himself, is he?”

  “Oh, heavens no.” The men at the table seemed to respond in one voice.

  “I had to ask, you know. I meant no disrespect.”

  “I’m ashamed to admit it, but I wondered the same thing. Nah, it just isn’t in his make up to do something like that.”

  “He’ll show up. Maybe he just needed to clear his head.” The oldest of the three spoke with a knowing certainty. “I had to do that once. I just went into the mountains and had a long talk with God.”

  “You?”

  “What’d He say?”

  “He told me to shut up and stop whining.”

  The three friends burst into laughter. Dara moved on to the next table.

  * * *

  “District Attorney’s office.” The woman who answered the phone suffered from either ‘I hate my job’ syndrome or possessed the most monotone voice in the world. Dupree couldn’t decide which.

  “I’m the attorney for David Weston. Who in your office has been assigned his case?”

  The woman did her best to stifle a giggle. “You must be new around here.”

  “How’s that?”

  “There are only two people in the office, that’s the DA, Mr. Salter, and an intern.”

  “I forgot where I was. Would it be possible to talk to Mr. Salter?”

  “Please hold.”

  Madonna was able to sing a chorus and a verse of Like A Prayer on the crackling music-on-hold before the DA picked up.

  “Salter.”

  “Mr. Salter, my name is Dupree. I represent David Weston.”

  “Yes sir, how can I help?”

  “I wanted to have a chat about the case and see where we stand as far as charges.”

  There was a long pause. “Mr. Dupree, I must tell you this is the worst case of this kind we have ever had in this county. The level and extent of pornographic material possessed by your client are staggering. To be perfectly frank, I’ve had to do a considerable amount of research just to determine how many felonies are involved here
. For a teacher to abuse their place in the community to this extent and in this manner is nothing short of perverse.”

  As Dupree listened, he realized the DA would not be open to any kind of plea bargaining in this case. He suddenly found himself in a position of complete defeat and the battle hadn’t even begun.

  “Mr. Salter, I’m guessing any suggestion of a plea bargain at this time would be out of the question.

  Salter laughed out loud. “To say the very least. Is there anything else?”

  “Couple of things. I need a copy of the SIM card from his phone.” Dupree looked down at his notes to make sure he asked for the right thing. “And when can I expect disclosure?”

  “I wouldn’t expect anything before ninety days. I’ll have the SIM card duplicated. You can pick it up tomorrow.”

  “Thank you for your time. I guess I’ll see you in court.”

  “Look, Dupree is it? Let me give you a little friendly advice off the record. In this community, a jury will crucify, draw and quarter, and burn your client at the stake. The best thing you could do for all concerned is to have your client enter a guilty plea and hope the judge looks favorably on him saving us a lot of time and money.”

  “I appreciate your concern; I will confer with my client.” Dupree hung up the phone.

  Dupree waited until after lunch to visit David Weston. The claustrophobic feeling of the cell wing bars slamming closed behind him didn’t lessen with Dupree’s continued visits. Having spent his entire career as a corporate lawyer, the idea of visiting a client in jail was completely foreign and repellent to Dupree. He realized that a small-town private practice would expose him to many things about the law he would just as soon not know.

  The deputy opened Weston’s heavy metal cell door. Weston was sitting on his bunk, he looked frail and broken as he looked up at Dupree.

  “Good afternoon.” Dupree moved toward the bunk.

  Weston did not respond.

  “There’s some information I need to make you aware of regarding the charges against you, as well as the state of your bail request. I spoke with the DA this morning and I’m afraid I do not have even a glimmer of good news. They are preparing a case consisting of multiple felonies ranging from possession of child pornography to distribution and electronic transfer of the same. The DA is out for blood. At this juncture, I can’t see that we have any recourse but to plead guilty and plead with the judge for reasonable and just sentencing.”

  “I am not guilty of any of these things.”

  “So you say, but I’m afraid there is an enormous body of evidence that says otherwise. I’m not asking you for a decision right now, only that you consider what I’ve said.”

  Weston’s shoulders began to shake. He put his head into his hands, resting his elbows on his knees. “This is a nightmare; this can’t be happening. Who has done this to me?”

  “I have a computer expert looking into your phone, which according to the police is where the pictures to the students were stored and sent.”

  Weston shook his head silently yet increasing faster and faster. He let out an almost primal groan that turned into a howl.

  Dupree tried to not react and sat in silence for several minutes while waiting for Weston to compose himself. Finally, Weston took a deep breath and let out a sigh that was calmer.”

  “You said you had information about my bail. How soon can I get out of here?”

  “I’m afraid there is something seriously wrong, Mr. Weston. You have no money. Your bank account is closed, your credit card is locked.”

  “Why…how can this….I don’t understand.”

  “Did you, in the days before your arrest, withdraw money from your savings account?”

  “I most certainly did not.” For the first time, Weston showed a spark of indignation. “Don’t you see what’s happening here? Someone is doing this to me. Someone has stolen my money and put that evil material on my phone. Are you willing to defend me and do what my legal counsel should, or are you going to let them destroy me and throw me to the wolves?”

  Dupree was stunned. For the first time since meeting David Weston, he thought that he possibly could be telling the truth. “I will request an investigation into your financial matters and will tell the District Attorney we will proceed to trial. You must be aware, without bail you will be incarcerated for at least ninety days while they prepare their case.”

  “I can’t do it. I’ll go crazy. I can’t stand it in here. You’ve got to get me out.”

  “Mr. Weston, I will do the best I can.” Dupree stood and moved across the room and gave the door two hard thumps with the side of his fist. As the door opened, Dupree looked back at Weston. He was lying on his bunk facing the wall, his knees drawn up in a fetal position.

  * * *

  There he was. Just a block off from where Pam Kinslow said he would be. The racing-red Land Rover seemed to rock side to side with the rhythmic pounding thump, thump, thump of the bass coming from the storage area mounted speakers. The backdoor vibrated with such an unhealthy metallic rattle, Perlang could picture the whole thing blowing off and landing in the street.

  Inside there sat a black man in a red baseball cap. There were no black people in White Owl. The few that worked at Kanaal drove in from out of the county, and just as quickly left at the end of the day. As Perlang watched, six cars pulled up next to the Land Rover, an arm was extended, money and a small plastic bag were exchanged and the car would speed away. Drive through dope, Perlang thought.

  He glanced at his cell phone on the seat next to him. Twenty minutes since he arrived. His next appointment was in an hour.

  A dusty, dented blue Ford pickup pulled alongside the Land Rover. Perlang couldn’t hear clearly but there seemed to be shouting coming from the pickup. The door of the Land Rover opened and the driver got out.

  The driver was tall. Dressed head to foot in red, except for white sneakers. He might as well have been in flashing neon. His warm-up pants and sleeveless shirt made him look like he was on his way to a pickup basketball game. His whole persona was completely foreign to the small mountain town, and his outfit totally inappropriate for the cold weather. The distance kept Perlang from identifying the logos on the red baseball cap, but he could see a round, gold label still attached to the bill. He wanted to roll down his window but he would never be able to hear anything above the thumping of the stereo.

  The encounter was brief, and seemed to be friendly as the passenger in the pickup appeared to fist bump the Rover driver. Apparently, he couldn’t hear either. Money and dope were exchanged and the old Ford’s engine popped and belched out a puff of smoke as it rattled away.

  For the first time, Perlang got a good look at Chris Whiting’s face. A splotchy layer of facial hair covered his nearly skeletal features and extended about three inches from his chin. He was tall and very thin, and for someone so young, possessed unusually bad posture. The hair beneath the ball cap was in multiple long braids, tied back and all appeared to be tipped in colorful beads. As he leaned against the car, he took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. The warm-up pants and sleeveless t-shirt of fire engine red were a stark contrast to his blinding white, high top basketball shoes. It was almost comical watching him check his pocket for a lighter. Finding it, he lit the cigarette that dangled from his lips.

  A late-model BMW rolled up to where Whiting stood. Unlike the other patrons, this car was full of young, white kids. The transaction was made and the Beamer pulled away, the customers pumping their fists and whooping as they made a U-turn and passed Perlang. The three young men and a girl were clean, white, and well-groomed. He could clearly see the letterman’s jacket on the driver. Good looking kids, not drug addicts, yet. Perlang would bet a hundred dollars they were from the community college.

  “This has to stop.” Perlang swallowed hard as he opened his car door and slipped quietly out.

  Adjusting his tie, and feeling for the revolver in his jacket pocket, Ray Perlang knew what he was goi
ng to do, must do. He crossed the street with a confident stride at just a slow enough pace to not alert Whiting, who now sat back in his car. The thumping beat stopped for a moment; the street seemed deafeningly silent. The peace didn’t last long as another song began with a slower, more deliberate, double thump beat.

  Perlang approached the window. The man in the car was much older and world-weary than Perlang first thought. He used his thumb, index and middle finger to make a counter-clockwise twisting motion to communicate his request to turn the music down.

  “Whatchu want?”

  “What do you have?”

  “You a cop?”

  “No.” Perlang didn’t change expression.

  “What are you, a preacher? You gonna save my soul?” The man laughed at his joke. “Why you all dressed up?”

  “I always dress like this; I sell real estate. What do you care what I’m wearing? What do you have for sale?”

  “Well, you are the most proper junkie I ever saw.”

  “Like those kids from Edmonds Community?” Perlang bent a bit forward to see in the car better.

  Sitting in the front seat was a large caliber, semi-automatic weapon.

  “I don’t know you. An’ I’m thinking you too old to be buyin’ my shit.”

  “You like college kids?”

  “Or they mommas. You best get out of my face and go about yo’ business.”

  “Today, you are my business. Or rather I am your business. You want my money or not?” Perlang pretended to move as if leaving.

  “Ok, Ok I got some Ice, Black T, A-Bomb if you like to smoke, Oxy if you like pills. What you want? How much money you got?”

  “Let me see.” Perlang casually slipped his hand in his jacket pocket. Before the man in the car could move or react, Perlang pulled his revolver and shot him three times in the head.

  The twenty-two made very little sound. The holes in the man’s head were clean and there was little, if any, splatter. The poison merchant died with a surprised look on his face. Perlang rounded the back of the car and made his way to the passenger door. Using his unfolded handkerchief, he opened the door and took the gun sitting in the seat. He closed the door and stuck the heavy gun under his jacket holding it securely with his arm.