William Lashner - Falls The Shadow

“Your Honor,” said Beth, “Mr. Dubé was only-”

“I know what he was trying to do, Ms. Derringer. But it is your responsibility to control your client. He has made this decision ever more difficult, but I find I have little choice. Mr. Dubé, I’m granting you your new trial.”

There was a gasp, a series of exclamations of incredulity and anger from the crowd. François Dubé stood again and hugged Beth. Mia Dalton shot up and said, “But, Judge-”

Judge Armstrong slammed his hammer twice, the bailiff yelled out, “Quiet.” The noise in the courtroom ceased.

“We’d like the opportunity to brief the issues raised in the hearing,” said Dalton.

“No, I don’t need your briefs.” The judge put his hand on a stack of paper two feet high sitting beside him on the bench. “You’ve all written enough briefs on this matter to kill a forest. I’m as disappointed as you, Ms. Dalton, but I read every case you both cited, and I don’t see that I have a choice. Don’t look to me, look to Detective Gleason. Are you prepared to go forward and prosecute this case again without Mr. Dent’s testimony?”

“Absolutely, Your Honor,” said Dalton.

“Who’s trying it for the people?”

“I am, Judge,” said Dalton.

“Need much time, Ms. Dalton?”

“No, sir.”

“How about you, Ms. Derringer?”

“The sooner the better, Judge.”

“Good. Put on your seat belts, people, because this case isn’t going to sit. I’ll hear you on bail, Ms. Derringer.”

As Beth stood and began to speak, trying to get François Dubé out of jail pending his trial, I looked back at the courtroom, saw the resigned weariness on Detective Gleason’s face, the sad compassion on Whit’s – compassion for whom, for me? I saw the anger and bereavement flood through Mr. Cullen’s eyes. And I spied the slender turquoise high heel, the narrow back, and the glistening blond hair of Velma Takahashi as she exited the courtroom door.

Like a mongrel chasing a purebred bitch in heat, I followed.

I caught up to her at the elevator. She smelled rich, like a lilac bush. On a citrus farm. In spring. With a servant serving cocktails and a light breeze coming off the sea. Yeah, like that.

“Did you enjoy the show, Mrs. Takahashi?” I said.

“No, I’ve never been to Tallahassee, Mr. Carl, why?”

“Who said anything about Tallahassee?”

“I’m not sure I understand a word you are saying. Are you inviting me to Tallahassee? That’s quite forward of you.”

I pushed my tongue through the gap in my molars, rubbed it along the scab where my tooth had been. Dr. Bob had told me under no circumstances should I disturb the scab with my tongue, which was why I couldn’t stop myself.

“Is something wrong with your head?” she said. “It appears today to be particularly misshapen.”

“I lost a tooth.”

“Yes,” she said, “I think the truth is always best, don’t you?”

I slowed down my speech, enunciated as precisely as I could in my current condition. “I lost a tooth.”

“Ah, I see,” she said, pushing the elevator button. “That would explain the drool. Well, let’s hope you find it.”

“Do you have a minute?”

She looked at the elevator door as if hoping it would open and save her, but when it did, instead of getting on, she let it close without her and stepped to the side. She seemed quite uncomfortable to be there, in that hallway, with me. Funny, having seen my grossly swollen jaw in the mirror that morning, I could understand. I was tempted to give her the whole I am not an animal, I am a human being speech, but I worried that she might just think I was inviting her to Cleveland.

Speaking as clearly as I could, I said, “I mentioned before that we would need an additional retainer if we succeeded in getting Mr. Dubé his new trial.”

“So you did. But can we discuss this at a different time and place?” She glanced over her shoulder, I turned to follow her gaze. Mrs. Cullen was staring at us from just outside the courtroom door. Interesting.

“Sure. I was only reminding you. Anytime that’s convenient would be fine, as long as it’s soon. Preparing for a trial requires a big commitment of both time and money.”

“And you prefer checks.”

“You remembered, how sweet. The judge is probably going to set bail for François. It will be high, but reachable for a Takahashi. Are you willing to put up what’s necessary?”

“No.”

“Cash would work, but some sort of guarantee could be arranged, too.”

“Backed by my signature?”

“Or your husband’s.”

“I won’t put up a cent. Tell François to raise the bond money on his own. Maybe his father-in-law will help.”

“Somehow I don’t think so. I don’t understand, Mrs. Takahashi. You’re willing to pay for his defense, but not his bail?”

“At least your hearing is clearer than your speech. François has spent three years behind bars. I think he can handle a few months more.”

“Just so long as your husband doesn’t learn of your assistance to the cause.”

“Is that all? Can I go now?”

“Someone’s been laying flowers at Leesa Dubé’s grave. Every Thursday. Quite touching, actually.”

“Her parents loved her very much.”

“I’m sure they did, but it is not the Cullens leaving the flowers. Every Thursday afternoon your driver takes you to the cemetery. You step across the other sites, kneel at Leesa Dubé’s grave, and lay a single white rose on the grass above her coffin. Then you stay there awhile, smoothing out the grass, cleaning off the leaves, taking away last week’s offering.”

“She was a dear friend,” said Velma Takahashi.

“Weekly visits and tears three years after the fact are not the acts of friendship. They are acts of something else. Love, perhaps. Or guilt.”

She looked at me, something dark and fierce in her eyes, and then she stepped away to the elevators. She punched the down button, crossed her arms, tapped a tidy toe, before stalking back to me.

“You had me followed.”

“But only out of a deep and abiding affection,” I said.

“Don’t forget your place, Mr. Carl. And be certain of one thing: Whatever you do, you will leave me out of it.”

The elevator doors opened. She reached out and sharply pinched my swollen jaw before marching off into the elevator, leaving me collapsed against the wall in pain.

It was the second time she had treated me like someone she had bought and paid for, someone whose sole purpose of existence was to serve her own mysterious ends. It was the second time she had treated me worse than a dog.

This was starting to be fun.

Mrs. Cullen now stood directly between the courtroom and me. She was a solid, pale woman with short white hair and navy shoes to match her stolid navy suit. Altogether formidable, and not looking too kindly at me as I made my way toward her. That’s one of the things I’ve always loved about courtroom work, the gentle feelings of all the participants, one to the other.

And if you think divorce cases are tough, try murder.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Cullen,” I said slowly and clearly as I approached. “I know how difficult this is for you.”

“Do you now, Mr. Carl?”

“No, I suppose I can’t. Not really.”

“She was my youngest daughter, my last child. She came late, a gift from God.”

“We don’t mean any disrespect toward your daughter. We’re only trying to ensure that Mr. Dubé gets the fair trial he deserves.”

“He got everything he deserved, trust me on that, young man. And what did my daughter deserve?”

“She deserved better than she received,” I said.