Black Water Rising (21 page)

“So you gon' blackmail me now?” He laughs bitterly. “Well, you got the wrong guy. Do what you want with it, Cynthia. I don't care.”

“Oh, I know you better than that, Jay,” she says. “Have you forgotten?”

He thinks she's trying to charm him, and it makes him like her even less than he already does. “These men are coming to you for help,” he says, standing. “If you betray them, that's on your conscience. Why don't you try to not let yourself down for once?” He starts for the leather-cushioned door to the outside.

“Jay, wait,” she says behind him. “There's something else.”

“Good-bye, Cynthia.”

“I need to know why you were asking about the homicide in Fifth Ward.”

Jay stops at the door, feeling a flutter of worry, and the sorry knowledge that Cynthia is incapable of making anything easy for him. “I thought we agreed you weren't going to ask me any questions about that,” he says.

“She turned herself in, you know.”

“What?” He inches toward Cynthia, not sure he heard her correctly.

“The girl,” Cynthia says. “She turned herself in.”

“How do you—”

“The grand jury came down with an indictment this morning.”

He's aware that he's being watched, studied, that she's following his every move, reading his reaction. “The cops were going to arrest her anyway. This way her lawyer avoided a perp walk. The arraignment's this afternoon.”

“I thought you said the evidence was light.”

“They turned up something in a search.”

“The gun?”

There's something desperate in his tone, a note of panic that makes Cynthia nervous. “Jesus Christ, if you know something, Jay—”

“I don't.”

“I know you have people out that way. Bernie's family.”

He holds up a hand.
Don't.
It's simply more than he can take: the woman, an arrest, his wife's name out of Cynthia's mouth.

“I know you've done some cases out that way, Jay. I know you've got connections in Fifth Ward. If you know something, you need to talk to the authorities…the police or the district attorney's office.”

“I can't do that, Cynthia. I can't explain it right now. I just can't.”

“Well, I already told them about you,” she says.

“What the hell did you do that for?”

“Don't worry, I didn't use your name.”

He wishes like hell he had any reason to believe her.

“I told the district attorney that I know someone who might have information about the case. They want to talk to you as soon as possible.”

“Jesus, Cynthia.”

“I had to say something, Jay. The D.A.'s office is hot as hell on this one,” Cynthia says, explaining, apologizing almost. “The girl went and hired herself someone right out of their office, an ex-D.A. by the name of Charlie Luckman.”

“Are you shitting me?”

“You know him?”

“Charlie Luckman?”

Jay thinks of all the unreturned phone calls, Mr. Luckman's secretary reporting over and over that her boss was with a new client on urgent business.

“Are you in some kind of trouble, Jay?”

“I'm in a lot of trouble, Cynthia.”

He turns and opens the front door, squinting against a blast of white light. The rain has stopped, and the sun has found its place again, its oppressive position on high. The heat is dizzying. On the street, Jay stumbles back to his car, playing the words over and over again in his mind:
she turned herself in
.

They bring in the defendants in groups of five.

Jay, palms slick with sweat, watches from the back row of the gallery.

He scans the faces in the courtroom, knowing the risk he's taking by being here. There must be a dozen or so spectators in the gallery, mostly men in sports coats and slacks. He wonders if any of them are cops.

If he's asked anything, he'll lie. He decided that on the ride over.

But he needs to know what, if anything, Elise Linsey said to detectives.

For arraignments, the defendants sit in the jury box, to the right of Judge Emily R. Vroland's bench. Two armed bailiffs
stand on either side, taking note of any stray movement, any unnecessary shifting or yawning or whispering among those waiting to be formally charged. The men and women in custody are a solemn bunch. Most have spent a night or two in lockup, been forced to trade their clothes and personal effects for a county-issue jumpsuit, and are not exactly in the most cheerful of moods. They stare straight ahead, waiting their turn.

Jay remembers looking out into the gallery at his own arraignment, searching first for his mother's face, then Cynthia's. He knew right away something was wrong. His mother's absence didn't surprise him. It hurt, but it didn't surprise him. But when he looked out into the courtroom and did not see Cynthia, he felt actual alarm. Something was seriously wrong. He felt it before he understood the weight of her absence, how bad things would get for him.

That first court appearance, Bumpy Williams was the only cat who showed up for Jay. After all the organizing Jay had done in support of his brothers in lockup, the arrested or wrongly accused, most of his comrades-in-arms stayed away in those early days. It was the first true indication that the charges against him were more serious than the cops had initially let on. This was bigger than some trespassing charge or a case of unlawful assembly.

He was too ashamed to push Bumpy on the Cynthia issue when it became clear she was pointedly avoiding him, not showing up at the arraignment, never once coming to see him in lockup, and not returning the calls it took great pains to make from jail. He hated to send Bumpy on a romantic errand. But pride aside, he knew the issue of Cynthia's absence was bigger than his personal feelings for her. In order to beat the charges, he needed Cynthia as a witness.

Then, a few days after the arraignment, Bumpy came to see
him in lockup. Jay remembers he held the plastic phone receiver, looked at Jay through the dirty bulletproof glass in the visiting room, and, unsolicited, offered up the information he had, what he'd heard from one too many sources. Cynthia Maddox was gone. Off campus, out of the city, maybe out of the state. Gone.

 

Elise Linsey is still a no-show.

Nor does Jay see Charlie Luckman in the courtroom.

At the bench, the judge is sipping tea-colored water out of a plastic cup, what could be Jack Daniel's for all Jay can tell at this distance. Emily Vroland is young for a county judge. Ashy blond and prettily made up, she looks like the kind of woman who actually has plans for after work. Maybe jazz at the Warwick Hotel or country and western at a stomphouse down in Victoria. Whatever her social agenda, her afternoon calendar seems to be interfering, running longer than maybe she anticipated. Under the courtroom's fluorescent lights, Judge Vroland listens to her clerk read criminal charges into the record. Solicitation or DWI or felony assault. Misdemeanor theft or city code violation or vehicular manslaughter. She listens as the defendants mumble pleas, defense lawyers waive their pretrial hearings, and prosecuting attorneys argue for a stiff bail penalty. She attends to all of this leaned way back in her chair, saying as little as possible about the sleepy proceedings, seemingly lulled by the constant ticky-tapping of the court reporter's stenograph machine.

Jay checks his watch and glances around the courtroom again, looking for some sign of Mr. Luckman or his client. This time, his eyes land on a familiar face. Across the aisle, second row from the back, the man from the black Ford is staring right at him. The man tips an imaginary hat in Jay's direction, a faint smile on his lips, as if this is all going according to some plan, as if he's
tickled by Jay's lawyerly predictability. Of course Jay would show up at the arraignment, and of course the man from the black Ford would be here too, to monitor his $25,000 investment.

Jay will not get up and leave. The decision is made right then. He won't turn tail and run. What he needs is a minute to think, to decide on an approach. He wonders how much the guy knows—Jay's call to the mayor, the trip to the courthouse and to Rolly's bar—and how long he's been watching. Caught, Jay considers whether his best defense is an offense, if he ought to confront the guy right here and now, in a room full of people, to make clear he hasn't technically broken their agreement. He's almost onto his feet when the door behind the clerk's desk opens wide and the last defendant is led in.

Even at this distance, he recognizes her at once.

She's heavily made up for court, wearing a powder-blue pants suit with a pinkish, seashell-colored blouse, primly buttoned all the way up to her chin. There's no county-issued jumpsuit, no handcuffs for her. Mr. Luckman is already earning his fee, and then some. Jay thinks he's maybe underestimated Charlie Luckman's power, his true pull in the courts. Being an ex-D.A. apparently has its perks. Jay would almost bet that Elise Linsey never spent more than a couple of hours in lockup. And here she is now, about to be charged with murder, and the only metal on her wrists is a pair of gold, diamond-encrusted bracelets. Her hair, lighter than Jay remembers, is tucked softly behind her ears.

A bailiff guards Ms. Linsey on one side. On the other, Charlie, in an oyster gray three-piece and matching quill ostrich boots, leads his client by the elbow, gently showing her the way. She's doing a grand job of pretending that this is all new to her, that she hasn't been here a dozen times before, at a defendant's table, in front of a judge. The clothes and the makeup are a cover, the shell that hides the girl from Galena Park, a thief and a prosti
tute. Jay can't believe the trouble this woman has caused him. He has an impulsive, perilous thought of leaping from his seat and wrapping his fingers around her bony neck.

When the clerk commences the formal reading of the charges, there's a pronounced hush in the room as the words are said out loud:

The state of Texas versus Elise Linsey. Case number HC-760432.

Let it be noted for the record that the defendant is hereby charged with one count of criminal homicide, in violation of Texas Penal Code section 19.02, a felony to wit the defendant, on or about the date of August 1, 1981, did knowingly and intentionally cause the death of one Dwight Sweeney.

Jay makes a mental note of the name.

“Mr. Luckman,” the judge begins the proceedings. Gone is the limp and listless late-afternoon handling of the court's business. Her voice has taken on a deep note of sobriety. “How does the defendant plead?”

They all watch and wait.

Charlie Luckman clears his throat, steadies his cowboy boots on the flat brown carpet. He, to Jay's mind, seems nervous. “Not guilty, Your Honor.”

Elise Linsey never says a word.

“My client would like to waive the reading of her legal rights under the U.S. Constitution, as counsel has explained all in great detail.”

Judge Vroland nods. “Does the state have a problem with that?”

“No, Your Honor,” the prosecutor says. The assistant district attorney assigned to the case is a short, squat woman in her forties, with a Peggy Fleming bowl cut and a rather strong resemblance to a bull terrier. “The state would like to request at this time that bail be set in the amount of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”

“Your Honor,” Charlie says, his voice a honeyed drawl. “I don't imagine the court needs reminding that my client turned herself in to authorities. That's about as clear a show of good faith as you're likely to get,” he says, putting his best folksy foot forward. Jay imagines Charlie as the type of lawyer who believes that condescension masked as plainspokenness has a winning way with women.

Judge Vroland is not impressed.

“Do you have an actual counterargument to make, Counselor?”

Charlie clears his throat, his voice coming back as flat as a Midwestern plains state. “Defense requests no bail, Your Honor. We ask that the defendant be released on her own recognizance. We believe she has shown her intention to cooperate fully with both the police and the D.A.'s office in this matter.”

“The court does not treat that lightly, Counselor.”

“Thank you, Your Honor.”

The bull terrier at the prosecution's table huffs under her breath several times. “Your Honor, the state asks the court to consider the heinous nature of this crime. The defendant is charged with shooting a man, not once, but twice, in cold blood. She left her victim to die, alone, on a—”

“You'll have plenty of time to lay out your case before a jury.”

“We would also like to remind the court that Ms. Linsey has an extensive criminal history.”

“Which is of no relevance here, Your Honor,” Charlie says firmly.

“Its relevance won't be decided here, that's for sure,” the judge says, picking up an ink pen on her desk. “In regard to the issue of bail, the court appreciates Ms. Linsey's show of cooperation with the police detectives and D.A.s involved in this case, but the
court appreciates
more
the seriousness of the criminal charges against the defendant. Bail is set in the amount of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”

“Your Honor,” Charlie says quickly. “I'd like to make a motion for a pretrial hearing.”

“On what basis, Counselor?”

“Defense counsel would like to make a motion to suppress evidence seized during the search of the defendant's residence.”

The slightly panicked look on the D.A.'s face tells Jay that the state's case against Elise Linsey must rely heavily on whatever it is the cops took from her west side town house. He can't imagine what that might be. He would lay money that the gun used to shoot Dwight Sweeney is floating somewhere at the bottom of Buffalo Bayou. It's
his
gun he's not so sure about.

Jay turns his head toward the back of the room, catching a glimpse of the back rows out of the corner of his eye. He sees two men he takes for reporters and an older Mexican man in a plaid shirt. The man from the black Ford is gone.

“Pretrial hearing is set for Thursday, August twentieth,” Judge Vroland says, nodding at her court clerk and making a note on the docket papers on her desk. “Bailiffs will escort Ms. Linsey downstairs for processing.”

“Your Honor,” Charlie says. “I don't think the cuffs are necessary.”

“I do.” It's her final word on the subject.

The armed bailiffs treat Elise gently. They ask her politely to please turn around, to please place her hands behind her back. “It's okay. I'll meet you downstairs,” Charlie says. Finally, Elise relents, pulling her thin arms behind her and turning her backside to the two bailiffs. She looks into the gallery and sees Jay for the first time. Their eyes lock. Jay feels a jolt in his chest. He is her one true witness, the only one here who knows what hap
pened that night. At the sight of him, her posture stiffens. But it's the only outward acknowledgment that he is more than a stranger to her. Her face is impassive, almost stony. She doesn't utter a single word as the bailiffs lead her, handcuffed, out of the room.

 

Jay is up and out of the courtroom in a matter of seconds. He ducks into the hallway, thinking if he moves quickly enough, he can get to Elise downstairs before her lawyer does. He's halfway to the elevators when he feels a cold grip on the back of his neck. The muscles in Jay's back seize up, his body suddenly taken hostage. Behind him, the man from the black Ford guides Jay roughly down the hall, shoving him behind a nearby door before Jay can adequately defend himself. On the other side of the door, there's a narrow stairwell. Jay falls down several steps, his body rolling onto a landing below. Above him, he hears the door slam and the echo of the man's footsteps in the stairwell. Jay tries to get to his feet. But the man is on him before Jay is even upright. The first blow comes up under his chin. He feels his teeth knock against each other inside his mouth, feels a shot of pain through his skull. He tries to speak. “Wait.”

The man lifts him by the collar and tosses him down the next flight of stairs. Jay feels a burn along the right side of his face as he skids across the linoleum. He hears the footsteps again, coming toward him on the stairs.

“I'm not going to have a problem with you, am I, Mr. Porter?”

Jay is on his side, trying to get on his feet.

The man hovers over him, taking his weakened position for obedience.

“Good.” He slaps a hand on Jay's shoulder, patting him in a rough, friendly manner, as if Jay were a dog, a thick-headed animal. “Good boy.”

It's the word
boy
that does it, launching Jay onto his feet. He charges the guy, butting his head into the man's abdomen. The force of the blow sends them both tumbling down the stairwell. Jay lands on top of him. He pins his knees to the man's chest and punches him twice across the face, knuckles hitting bone. The man from the black Ford pushes himself up at the waist and, using his head as a weapon, bashes Jay across the forehead, knocking him back. Then he socks him good in the stomach. Jay feels his breath leave him. He collapses onto the linoleum floor. When he looks up, the man from the black Ford is standing over him. He lifts his right boot and kicks Jay across the face.

This time, Jay tastes blood.

The man lifts Jay by the throat, slamming the back of his head against the wall. “Stay away from this, Mr. Porter,” he says. “Go home to your pretty wife. Don't make this any harder on her than it has to be.” He releases Jay, whose head slumps over to one side, his whole bruised body sinking onto the cold, hard floor. Through the slits of his rapidly swelling eyes, he watches the man retreat down the stairwell, the sound of footsteps fading on the stairs.