Scott Pratt - An Innocent Client

And yell they did.

When I walked through the fourth security checkpoint and into the cell block, the cacophony began. A man in a suit could only mean a few things to a maximum security inmate. Cop, lawyer, or prison administrator. They hated them all. By the time I made the thirty-foot walk into the office where I was to conduct my interview, I’d heard every momma, sister, wife, daughter and homosexual insult known to man.

The cell block was two-story, open, and oval-shaped. The guard who sat at the desk had a view of all twenty cells on the block, and they all had a view of him through the tiny windows in the cell doors. The guard, a sturdy young man who looked to be about twenty-five, led me into the office.

“I’ll go get him,” he said. “Won’t take but a minute.”

He started to leave, then hesitated and turned back toward me.

“I feel sorry for you,” he said.

“Thanks,” I said. “So do I.”

Maynard Bush had been recaptured four hours after his daring daylight escape from the Johnson County jail. Bonnie Tate’s body was found in her car in the parking lot at the Roane Valley golf club. Maynard had apparently gotten what he wanted from her and then shot her to death as soon as she stopped the car and unlocked his cuffs.

After he killed Bonnie, Maynard headed straight for his mother, who’d kicked him out of her home when Maynard was fourteen years old. Momma Bush saw Maynard approaching the house, called the cops, and the cops came running, guns drawn. When they got there, they heard a series of gunshots inside. Maynard wouldn’t respond to them. The Tennessee Highway Patrol’s SWAT team lobbed tear gas and rushed in an hour later. They found Maynard sitting at the kitchen table, clutching his burned eyes, a half-eaten sandwich sitting on a plate in front of him. His mother’s bullet-riddled body was lying less than five feet away. When they asked Maynard why he didn’t fight, he said he used up all of his bullets on his momma.

I’d spoken to Bernice Bush — Maynard’s mother — while preparing for Maynard’s trial back in May. She’d been left to raise Maynard alone after his father was carted off to prison for shooting his neighbor during a property border dispute. The strange thing about it was that Maynard’s father was a tenant — he didn’t even own the property.

Bernice was a slight, feeble woman of fifty-five who lived in a four-room shack about two miles off Highway 67 in Carter County, not far from the Johnson County line. Her place was as run down as she was. It smelled of dog urine and cigarette smoke. There were plastic bags filled with Keystone beer cans all over the house and the tiny front yard.

Bernice existed on Social Security disability benefits, food stamps, and the prescription drugs provided to her by TennCare, the state’s noble but misguided effort at providing health care to indigents. She told me that by the age of fourteen, Maynard had become a drug addict. He kept stealing her nerve pills, she said, and had started experimenting with a street drug called ice. He stopped going to school and was running with what she described as a very rough crowd. Sitting there looking at her, I couldn’t imagine a rougher crowd than the one she belonged to.

Bernice said she had an old mutt she called Giggles because of its peculiar bark. When she mentioned the dog, ten years dropped off her face, and her harsh voice softened. One evening fourteen-year-old Maynard came home late and high and sat down on the couch. She went into the room to try to talk to him, but he was rambling and agitated, so she started to go back to bed. Giggles, she said, jumped onto the couch and licked Maynard on the face. Maynard picked the dog up by the scruff of the neck. He carried it, squealing, into the yard at the side of the house, pulled a pistol from his belt, and shot it in the head.

The next morning, after Maynard had sobered up, she gave him a choice: leave or go to jail. He’d been in trouble before and was on probation. They both knew that if she called the law, he’d be shipped off to a juvenile home somewhere. Maynard chose the road. She was glad, she said, because she was afraid if they locked him up she might lose some of her social security benefits. He packed up a few things in an old duffel bag and got into a car with some of his friends around three that afternoon. She hadn’t seen him since. She hated him, she said. He killed her dog.

About six hours after Maynard was arrested and hauled back in, Judge Glass had called my office.

“I want to go ahead and reschedule the first trial as soon as possible,” he said, “and you might as well represent him on the new charges. He’s got an escape, four counts of first-degree murder, two counts of conspiracy to commit first-degree murder, and four counts of felony murder. You don’t mind, do you?”

Did I mind? It may have been the dumbest question ever uttered. Angel’s trial was bearing down on me, I was constantly on the lookout for Junior Tester, my mother was dying, my sister was in jail, and I felt at least partially responsible for David and Darren’s deaths. And to top things off, I knew if I represented Maynard after he’d killed two well-liked deputy sheriffs, I’d make a bunch of brand new enemies in Johnson County and probably wind up practicing law for another two years. Did I mind?

“Judge, I told you I don’t want any more appointed cases. I’m getting out of this business.”

“We’ve all got problems, Mr. Dillard,” he said. “And right now my biggest problem is dealing with this piece of garbage. You’re already appointed on the first two, a few more won’t hurt you. Make a package deal. Get it over with.”

“You’re not hearing me, judge.”

“The case law says I can appoint you to a case if I so choose. If you refuse, I can hold you in contempt. Now you’ll either deal with this like a professional or I’ll cite you for contempt and throw you in jail.”

“Where are they holding him?” I said through clenched teeth.

“My understanding is they’ve moved him up to Northeast, to the max block. We need to get him arraigned as soon as possible, unless you can get him to waive the rule. Do you think you can do that?”

“I have no idea. I’ll have to ask him.”

“Get up there by Friday.”

“I’ll go after the funerals.”

The sturdy young guard, along with two of his sturdy young buddies, returned with Maynard Bush in tow. He was smirking. There were bruises on his face and arms, I assumed from the police. The guards sat him in a chair across the room from me. There was no way to secure him to the floor, so the guards ran chains through his shackles and around the legs of the chair. That way, if he decided to make a run at me, he’d have to drag the chair with him.

“Do you want us to stay in the room?” one of the guards said.

“No thanks. I’ve talked to Mr. Bush many times before.”

“If you have any problems at all, just holler,” he said. “We’ll be right outside the door.”

I looked over at Maynard sitting there in his striped jumpsuit with MAXIMUM SECURITY emblazoned on the front and the back. He was staring at nothing in particular with that disgusting smirk on his face.

“You’ve been a busy boy,” I said.

“Appreciate the help,” he said.

“You son of a bitch. You used me.”

“You’re right about both things, counselor. My mama was a bitch, and I played you. Don’t worry about it, though. I played everybody. Why do you think I wanted that change of venue so bad? I knew them crackers in Mountain City wouldn’t have good security.”

“Why, Maynard?” I said. “Why did you have to go and do something so stupid?”

“Been wanting to plug that worthless old hag for twenty years. I shoulda done it when I was a kid. The only thing I regret is that I didn’t have more time with her. I was looking forward to seeing her suffer.”