Nell Zink: Mislaid

Of course no one in the family told Meg’s parents. Byrdie visited them over the holidays as he always did. In conversation he stayed with the topic that had become his standard with them: his vocation for public service. They never mentioned his mother or sister, hadn’t seen them in a long time, and didn’t know how to get in touch with them. The Vaillaincourts were great respecters of privacy.

Karen and Temple didn’t come out of Karen’s room much. She said she had homework, and Temple had to catch up on his reading. Dee put her ear to the door and heard Karen say, “I think your mom is eavesdropping.”

They talked a lot about Meg. They agreed that she was living vicariously through Karen. “We should make her read some Jane Austen,” Karen said. “If she knew how happy men make a person, I know she’d relax and meet somebody. When I was at home, I figured she was just holding back because of me, but now I think she might be shy around guys. I mean, didn’t you ever notice Lomax’s way cute friend the Seal?”

“Not really.”

“He likes Mom a lot . We ought to send them out in the boat together when there’s a storm coming. They’d get trapped, and the Seal would save her. It would be so romantic.”

“But you wouldn’t actually try to kill your mom to get her laid, right?”

“I just wish she had a life, so she wouldn’t pay attention to me.”

Christmas at Lee’s parents’ place was less relaxed than usual. Lee boycotted Byrdie’s legal situation. If the subject came up, he would leave the room. That helped him stay calm, but it made the conversation revolve around Byrdie for several minutes every time.

Byrdie’s grandfather always took the same line: Go straight to the top, highest court you can. Don’t get a judge who reads case law, get a judge who makes it. Trip said it would never come to that — a trial — because the judge he had chosen had the case well in hand. Byrdie agreed that a trial would not be necessary. They were all a little drunk, nearly all the time. It was Christmas!

The facts of that long-ago October were mentioned only once. Byrdie remarked, “I don’t see how they can convict me. The plant gave the drugs to the dweeb, and the dweeb gave them to the blondette. We subpoena the informant and the dweeb and make them give sworn testimony. Case closed.”

“You’re thinking again,” Trip said, shaking his head. “Think harder. Prosecutorial misconduct as a defense! So far it’s nothing personal. You’re a martyr for the cause of freedom. Keep it that way.”

Byrdie’s grandfather said, “It would break my heart if they went after Lee.”

“He’s safe,” Byrdie said. “I’ve been over the house with a fine-tooth comb. And the yard, too. You know how visitors hide stuff and forget it. But it’s been years since I found anything good.”

“You should have known him when he was younger,” Trip said. “People always left something on the nightstand, and your mother was such a good hostess, whatever it was, she’d bring it downstairs and dump it on the coffee table. And the doors of perception were opened.”

“Do not tell me,” Byrdie said.

Lomax became antsy. He would get hunches that a raid was coming, and send Flea out at odd moments — in the middle of a meal or the middle of the night — to inspect the driveway and report back with a walkie-talkie. They had their first disagreement.

Meg and Luke had gone to bed, and Flea sat down next to Lomax and played with the little wreath of hair over his ears. “Stop that,” he said.

“I need tenderness,” she said. “Maybe if you didn’t smoke so much pot you could get it up?”

He said, “Maybe if you weren’t so big and heavy?”

She looked down. She was as slender as ever, but there was no denying that she was five foot eight, with breasts. “I can’t help it. I’m not a little girl anymore.”

“Are you accusing me of something?”

“I’m just saying I’ve been with you for ten years. My body’s changed.”

“Well said. You’re free, white, and twenty-one. Maybe Luke likes her ladies voluptuous.”

“Why are you hurting my feelings? You know I never look at anybody twice, especially not a woman.”

“When’s the last time you met a man? Being my prisoner and all. I could sell you to the Seal for a night. Would you like that?”

“You are seriously shitting all over my love for you!”

Seeing her tears, Lomax felt a pang of remorse. “Come here, Flea. Don’t pout. You’re still cute as the first day I saw you. We can be an old married couple forever and ever! I promise!”

“I’m sorry, sweet pea,” she said, nestling into his lap.

“And you got one other thing wrong. I am habituated to the chronic. That means it is physically impossible for me to smoke too much pot.”

By January the Commonwealth’s Attorney’s Office and the police force were unanimous: Prosecuting the case was an exercise in frustration. Mike had gone overboard as state’s evidence, taking responsibility for things that contradicted all their best theories. He said he put twelve hits of acid in the girl’s pocket. But it didn’t wash. He had never been alone with her. No one had seen him do it. It was obviously a false confession, intended to protect someone he was afraid of. Whom the girl had incriminated directly — a big fish, a much more desirable catch. But the big fish was stonewalling.

They had indicted Byrdie on felony charges of distribution of a hard drug. And he seemed to find the indictment something approximately as troubling as. . as nothing at all. He showed up to his arraignment unshaven, in boat shoes and ostentatiously wrinkled natural fibers. He asked his taxi driver to wait for his lawyer since he was fresh out of cash. He said not one word. He just marked time until they finished, like someone waiting to get the check in a restaurant with service issues.

The prosecutor was pleased to be frustrated. A garrulous penitent is useless in a trial situation.

The legal process known as “discovery” entitled the defense to see Byrdie’s previous criminal record, copies of his statements to the police, and the physical evidence.

Since there was no criminal record and no statement, there wasn’t much to discover. His lawyer looked at the damp, dirty blotter paper (the actual LSD had washed away in the rain), the friendly note from “Thetan Hegemon,” the cryptic postcard, and Karen’s lost coin purse containing twenty-one cents. De jure, that was all Byrdie’s attorney could uncover about the prosecution’s case.

De facto, the pretrial hearings were exclusive affairs, conducted over afternoon cocktails at the country club. As an experienced criminal defense attorney with a high caseload, Byrdie’s lawyer led with a motion to dismiss. “I don’t have time for a trial, but I can’t negotiate with a mandatory minimum sentence,” he said.

“Well, I can’t dismiss out of hand,” the judge replied. “It’s bad enough that I’m trying it. Calling it off would be blatant nepotism. The press would have my ass in a sling.”

“I don’t want to go to trial. It’s too big a risk.”

“But you said it yourself. I got zero latitude.”

“A year and a day suspended and he retains his civil rights?”

“Who are you working for, anyway?” the judge asked. “Do I have to explain myself?”

“You see a chance?”

“Look. You’re forgetting that a different boy confessed. Now, you can’t talk about that in court, but you and me know it. And on the other side, what’s the prosecution got? Some pieces of paper and a little high yellow girl. That’s what indicted Byrdie. How hard would it be to stop her from testifying? And if she does get on the stand, who’s saying she didn’t steal that LSD from the other boy, or sleep with him for it? Go to trial! Ask her about it. There won’t be a trial to speak of, not one worthy of mention.”