The Wages of Sin (11 page)

 

Chapter Twenty-­Two

After a protracted
Larry Paul strategy meeting on Thursday afternoon, Elsie left Madeleine's office and pulled the door shut. Chuck Harris's adjacent office was bustling with activity.

Doug, the traffic attorney, was lounging in the open doorway. His suit pants were wrinkled and his tie loosened, revealing that he'd unbuttoned the top two buttons of his white poly-­cotton oxford shirt. “How am I supposed to cover two courtrooms at once?” Elsie heard him say.

She walked up beside Doug and popped her head into Chuck's office. “What's cooking in here,” she said.

Breeon stood next to Chuck; they were focused on his computer screen. Without looking up, Chuck said, “We're trying to cover tomorrow's court schedule.”

Breeon held a printed sheaf of papers in her hand. She pointed to a line on the first page and said to Chuck, “I'm in Rountree's court on a sentencing hearing at nine o'clock. Then I have a probation violation set for
State v. Breckenridge
. It'll take a while; the defendant hired Yocum, and he's fighting it. I can't help you out on the third floor tomorrow morning.”

Elsie stepped inside the room. “Sounds like the Friday docket is rocking.”

They ignored her. Chuck said, “Bree, I'll cover Carter's court until you're done. We've got Doug in Division 1. Doug, if another judge's bailiff pulls you out of Division I, you'll just have to deal.”

Elsie tried to catch Breeon's eye; but she was studying the hard copy of the court docket, frowning. Elsie said, “Wish I could give you a hand.”

“You and Madeleine will be in Callaway's court.” Chuck's tone was frosty.

“God, I know; that will be a real love fest, right? I'll sit beside Madeleine with a gag over my mouth. She won't let me say a damn thing.”

No one responded. Chuck clacked the keys on his keyboard. In the doorway, Doug pulled his gray necktie from its Windsor knot and shed it altogether, stuffing it into his trouser pocket.

“It's almost five o'clock. I'm heading upstairs, going to get ready to blow. Okay, Chuck?”

“Sure,” Chuck said, pushing the chair away from his desk. “See you tomorrow, man.”

Elsie walked across Chuck's office and dropped into a seat in the corner. “I'm meeting Ashlock at the Baldknobbers. Let's all run over there and have a beer. What do you say?”

Chuck and Breeon made eye contact. Elsie saw it and nearly squawked with surprise, hiding her shock with a cough. Chuck and Breeon had never established any personal kinship during his first year as chief assistant. Both Elsie and Bree had been righ­teously disgruntled by his appointment to the position, since both of them had more extensive trial experience than Chuck. What they lacked was political clout; and Chuck had political connections through his father, a big-­time Republican in Kansas City, Missouri. Both women knew that Madeleine gave the job to the person who could provide the most political benefit.

Chuck answered Elsie first. “No Baldknobbers for me, thanks. I'm exhausted. Pretty tough running the office by myself, since you and Madeleine have confined yourselves to the Larry Paul case. I am wore slick.”

Elsie eyed him as he sat behind his desk. His auburn hair was gelled into place; his shirt still appeared freshly pressed, and his tie looked bandbox fresh. His clothes bore no sweat stains or ketchup marks; his head showed no evidence of hands tearing through his hair in frustration.

But Elsie donned an expression of deep sympathy and said, “Then it's doubly important for you to come out tonight. So you all can relax and unwind.”

Chuck opened a desk drawer and pulled out a set of keys. “Sorry, Elsie; but I think we should avoid that kind of thing for now. I can't be a party to any conversations about the murder case, since I'm possibly a state's witness. Madeleine doesn't want me to be tainted.” His jacket hung from a wooden hanger on a hook near the door; he shrugged into it.

Elsie crossed and uncrossed her legs as she tried to frame the right response. In an encouraging voice, she said, “No need to stress over it, Chuck. You're not a part of our case in chief; Madeleine told me so. You can't shed any light on the actual murder. You just witnessed a prior incident of abuse. She may not use you at all.”

She watched him, hoping to see a nod or smile; positive acknowledgment of some kind. But he turned his back.

“No need to stress. Right. Thanks.” His voice was gloomy.

Giving her head a shake, Breeon left Chuck's office and walked down the hall, fanning herself with the paper copy of the Friday court docket. Elsie quickly departed Chuck's domain and followed a ­couple of paces behind Bree.

“Bree! Hey, big sis.” Bree turned to acknowledge Elsie's voice and Elsie jerked her thumb in the direction of Chuck's office. “What's up with Mr. Kansas City? He's playing like he has a case of PTSD.”

A shadow passed over Bree's face. “Back off Chuck, okay? He's having a tough time.”

“You mean because he has to run the dockets? He wanted to be chief assistant. Isn't that supposed to be his job?”

Bree's voice dropped to a whisper. “He's struggling, Elsie. Torn up with regrets, about what he witnessed and how it led to murder just days later. He and Lisa have split up over it. I've been telling him,” and she paused to look around the hallway, “He should get counseling. Professional help.”

“Wow. I didn't know.” The notion of Chuck suffering a clinical case of angst didn't fit his profile; but maybe she didn't know him that well. She caught Bree's eye and offered up a big grin, hoping to lighten the atmosphere. “You want to meet me at the Baldknobbers? I'll buy you a beer.”

Breeon made a face, wrinkling her nose and pulling down the corners of her mouth. “That's not my favorite venue.”

“Yeah, I know that; but Ashlock and I are meeting there. And I'd love to get to chat with you. We haven't talked in days and days.”

“That's true.” Breeon turned a doorknob and entered her own office. “Not since you got busy with the Larry Paul case.”

“About that—­I'd like to run some stuff by you, pick your brain,” Elsie began, but Bree cut her off.

“Sorry. Not interested.”

Elsie's mouth fell open in surprise. “You won't help me? Won't even talk to me about the case?”

“Nah. Don't think so.”

Elsie struggled with feelings of injury as she watched Breeon pack up her briefcase. After a tense moment of silence, Elsie said, “But you're my best friend. And my best coworker, for that matter.”

Bree gave the clasp of the briefcase a decisive click. “I don't believe in what you're doing. I'm opposed to the penalty you're seeking in this case. So—­if I won't take the case myself, out of principle, how would it be any different for me to provide you with assistance?”

Elsie's eyes stung. She and Breeon had formed a bond that dated back to her first days in the office, when she'd been a green lawyer fresh out of law school. Breeon had taken her in hand from the beginning, showing her the ropes; helping her with her first witness interviews and examinations; providing copies of motions and jury instructions. She always had her back. Until now.

Elsie tried to keep her voice even. “If I promise to stay away from shop talk, will you come on out with me?”

“Hmmm. Don't think so.” Breeon avoided Elsie's gaze. “I need to go to the grocery store. I'm pretty much out of everything. Got a growing girl to feed.”

Elsie knew she couldn't trump the working mother card. Breeon was a devoted mother. But on this occasion, the grocery excuse rang false.
Betcha she has a house full of food,
Elsie thought darkly, as she turned to make her way out of the office. She checked her phone for messages; Ashlock had texted an hour ago.

Running late,
he said.

Aw shit,
she thought.
I'm drinking alone
.

Again.

 

Chapter Twenty-­Three

When Elise pulled
up to the gravel parking lot of the Baldknobbers bar, she had her pick of parking spots at the front door. She pulled her car directly under the sign depicting a grinning hillbilly in a straw hat, smoking a corncob pipe. Years ago, a local joker had blacked out several of the hillbilly's teeth and added a mustache. The management never bothered to correct the modification.

She wasn't surprised to see that the joint was hopping. The empty parking lot out front was deceptive. Many patrons chose to park their vehicles in back, behind the bar, lest their cars or trucks be visible to passersby. In a small town, ­people didn't want to be associated with a barroom.

She slid into a booth, greeting Dixie, the longtime barmaid, with a wave. Dixie bustled over, her curly gray hair damp with sweat.

“You're busy, girl. They're working you tonight,” Elsie said.

Dixie pulled a woebegone face. “This place is going to kill me, I swear. You want a Corona?”

Elsie started to nod, then reconsidered. “Gin. Gin and tonic.”

“Call gin? Or the house rotgut?”

Letting out a weary sigh, Elsie said, “Tanqueray. It's been a hell of a week.”

Dixie returned to Elsie's booth in a wink and set a tall tumbler in front of her. “We got a two-­for-­one special until seven o'clock, but we're running out of short glasses. I made you a double in a big glass. That suit you all right?”

“Fine by me.” She took a gulp and closed her eyes, waiting for a hint of a buzz.

“Well, look who's here.”

Elsie's eyes popped open. Sliding into the booth across from her was Claire O'Hara, waving a long cigarette. “Remember me?”

“Sure,” said Elsie, instantly wary.

Claire dropped a pack of silver Marlboro 100s onto the wooden tabletop and reached for the black plastic ashtray that sat beside the salt and pepper shakers. “Mind if I smoke?”

Elsie regarded Claire through the smoky haze that filled the bar. “It's okay.” One cigarette wouldn't alter the Baldknobbers experience. Though a recent nonsmoking ordinance had been enacted in the city of Barton, existing barrooms were exempt.

Claire gestured at Elsie's cocktail with her cigarette. “The Larry Paul case already has you sucking down the hard stuff. Drinking your martini out of an iced tea glass.”

Elsie bristled. She made a show of toying with the cocktail straw and pushing the glass away, as if she didn't care for the beverage. “It's happy hour,” she said, affecting an air of nonchalance. “And it's not a martini,” she added. Not quite, she thought.

“How are you sleeping these days?” Claire's knowing smirk sent a shiver down Elsie's back. Involuntarily she shuddered, but tried to cover by tossing her hair over her shoulder.

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Big fib.” Claire took a deep pull on the cigarette, leaving a scarlet ring around the filter tip. “You're having some crazy nightmares.”

How does she know,
Elsie wondered. Elsie had battled insomnia in the past week. Afraid her face would give her away, she bent over the gin and tonic, stirring it frantically with the cocktail straw. She lifted the glass and took a swallow from the rim.

Dixie passed by the table. “What can I get you ladies?”

Claire stubbed the cigarette in the ashtray. “I'll have a club soda with lime. Bring my friend another of whatever she's having.”

Elsie said, “Really, I don't need—­”

But Claire waved her objection away. “It's on me. A friendly gesture. From one barrister to another.” As she lit another cigarette, Elsie studied the jewelry on Claire's hands, the bangle bracelets circling the wrist of the left hand and two big rings on her right, one with a diamond cluster, the other a square-­cut emerald.

Claire noticed. “I like shiny things. Just like a crow.” She waggled her pinkie, the finger adorned with the emerald. “I just picked this baby up in New Orleans. On Royal Street. They wanted a fortune for it. But I have negotiating skills.” She puffed. “An advantage of the profession.”

Sitting across from Claire made Elsie nervous. To fortify herself, she knocked back the tall cocktail in record time. She was glad to see Dixie arrive with fresh drinks. When the waitress tried to take away the near-­empty glass of gin, Elsie snatched it, tipped it back and drained it dry first. Then she took a sip of the fresh one. It was stronger.

Elsie leaned back in the booth. The gin was starting to do its job. She even found herself warming up a hair to Claire.
Hair to
Claire,
she thought with good humor.
That rhymes
.

“What are you doing at the Bald? You're hanging around McCown County pretty late. Don't you know that we don't like the sun to set on a city slicker's face?” Elsie grinned at Claire, only half joking.

Claire barked a laugh. She turned in her seat and peered around the bar. Even for a Thursday night, it was crowded; the pool table had a circle of players and onlookers, dressed in jeans and T-­shirts. All of the booths were occupied, and only a table or two sat empty. At the bar, men perched on stools, their generous derrieres hanging over the sides. The volume of the bar noise was increasing as the patrons drank.

Elsie looked around, too, hoping to see Ashlock walk through the door.
Rescue me,
she thought.
Come on come on come
on.

“I've got a date.”

Elsie turned back and focused on Claire. She lifted the gin and gulped at it before asking, “Local boy?”

Claire smiled with the mystery of the Sphinx. “Kind of.” Nodding at the front entrance, she beamed. “Here he comes.”

Elsie twisted around in the booth. Josh Nixon was making his way toward them, his jacket hooked over his shoulder.

Claire's smile showed all of her teeth, like a piranha. She patted her red pouf of hair.
She's got it bad,
Elsie thought. Josh Nixon set all the local hearts a-­flutter.

Josh stood at the end of the table. “Sit down,” Claire said, scooting over to make room.

He eyed Elsie before turning back to Claire. “I thought we were going to talk.”

“We are.” Claire patted the vinyl upholstery. “Sit down and relax.”

The sight of Josh's ambivalent expression gave Elsie an overwhelming desire to laugh. She could feel a snort working its way up her chest; to stifle it, she bent her head over her cocktail and sipped though the straw.

Nixon sat by Claire, keeping a hands-­breadth distance between them. As he pulled his tie from his collar, he asked, “What are we drinking?”

Claire rattled the ice cubes in her glass. “The defense bar is drinking club soda. I'd advise you to follow my lead. We don't have the local police force in our pocket.”

Elsie considered biting the bait, but didn't want to launch into battle; she was beginning to enjoy the gin's magic. When Josh ordered an iced tea, she raised her glass to Dixie as a signal.

“Have you heard the news? About me and Mr. Nixon?” Claire was looking at Elsie expectantly, her fuchsia lips curled in an insinuating smile.

“You're engaged,” said Elsie, deadpan.
I am so fucking
funny,
she thought, though a voice somewhere at the back of her head sounded a warning:
You think you'
re funny because you're
drinking gin
. The voice sounded like her mother. She shook her head to dismiss it.

Josh didn't laugh, but Claire did, throwing her head back and crowing till her red pouf shook.

“Oh please. He should be so lucky.” She reached over and squeezed his forearm. He moved it away. “We're cocounsel, girl.”

Elsie stared at Josh. “On what?”

“State v. Larry Paul,”
he said. His eyes flicked to the side.

Befuddled, Elsie toyed with her straw, using it to pierce the lime in her cocktail glass.

“How does that work?” Elsie asked. She pulled the lime off the cocktail straw and sucked on it. Claire O'Hara was not part of the Public Defender system; as a private defense attorney, she was not in a position to participate in the defense of an indigent defendant. “Who's paying you?” Because that was the million-­dollar question. Claire O'Hara was well known for her ability to exact “Mr. Green” from her clients. Ms. O'Hara never gave it away for free. And the Missouri Public Defender's Office was flat broke.

“Pro bono, baby.” Claire lifted her glass and shook it again. It no longer rattled; the ice had melted. But it set off the fire in her diamond ring. Elsie blinked.

“You are taking on a death penalty case for free. For nothing.”

“For fun.” Claire crossed her arms on the table and leaned forward, placing her cleavage right in Elsie's range of vision. Though she knew she should look away, she stared in fascination. “Madeleine and I go way back.”

Oh shit,
she thought. But it was no surprise that other women lawyers might have a vendetta against Madeleine Thompson. The cast of characters in the Larry Paul case was growing increasingly more complex.

“You think the judge will let you do that?” she asked.

“Judge Callaway? He invited me. We're old pals. And it just doesn't seem right, all that attorney general power at the prosecution table, and poor little old Josh, just sitting alone.”

Josh looked distinctly uncomfortable. Elsie pulled a face, conveying disbelief. “What does your office in Jefferson City say about this?”

He didn't get the chance to answer. Claire said, “Oh, they're so busy. They were really appreciative. Their capital murder team is buried right now. What is it about prosecutors in Missouri? So hungry for blood. ‘Off with their heads!' ”

Dixie delivered Nixon's iced tea, and he nodded in acknowledgment. “Claire, there's a booth in the corner that's emptied out. We can talk over there.”

He stood and said to Claire, “You ready?”

“Oh yeah,” Claire said, scooting down the cushion to follow where Nixon led.

As Claire rose from the booth, Elsie gave her a big smile. “See you in court,” Elsie said.

Claire leaned down and whispered in Elsie's ear. “You've got a big chunk of lime pulp in your teeth.”

Elsie dug in her purse, hunting for a mirror, but couldn't find one. She'd left her makeup bag at home. She sucked her teeth; she could feel the lime, but it was stuck so tightly she couldn't dislodge it. Draining the last mouthful of her drink, she swished it like mouthwash, but made no headway.

Diving into her purse again, she located her phone and checked her messages: nothing from Ashlock. She glanced at the clock over the bar. She'd been waiting for almost an hour, even taking into account that the clock was set ten minutes fast, registering “bar time.” She dashed off a quick text:
Where u at? Bored AF.

Rubbing her tongue over her teeth, she decided to visit the bathroom to battle the lime pulp. A weathered sign that hung over the entrance to the Baldknobber restrooms read,
YOU DON'T BUY BEER! YOU RENT IT!
She figured the adage applied to gin as well.

Making her way to the bathrooms in the back, she bumped into a young man bent over the pool table, aborting his attempt to shoot a striped ball into a corner pocket. He shot her an angry glance. It occurred to Elsie that she might be losing her equilibrium. It was always the first skill to go, when Elsie drank spirits. Balance first, power of speech last. It had occurred to her on many occasions that she'd be better off if it was the other way around. She tried to estimate the number of shots she had consumed in the past hour. Four? Maybe five?

She gave a toothy grin in the mirror, and decided, in her gin euphoria, that she liked what she saw. “Girl, you're looking good,” she said aloud, and pulled out a lipstick. She unfastened her pink silk blouse and removed her bra, stuffing it into her knockoff Tori Burch handbag, her genuine “
Toni
Burch.” Then she buttoned her blouse back up, but only partway. Elsie checked herself out in the mirror again, studying her reflection in profile. She would never be considered a willowy figure, but carrying extra weight had its charms.

Full of good cheer, she exited the bathroom and nearly bumped into Dixie, who was carrying a tray loaded with beer bottles. Stepping out of danger, Dixie gave Elsie a sharp once-­over. “Things are heating up around here, I reckon,” she said, with a meaning look at Elsie's blouse.

“Yeah. I think you slipped me a mickey.”

Dixie hooted, her face wrinkling with laughter. “Oh you'd hate that, all right.” She ducked by Elsie and headed to a table beside the pool table, holding the tray aloft.

The front door of the bar opened, briefly illuminating the room. Squinting at the doorway, Elsie identified the silhouette; Ashlock had arrived at last.

She made a run for the entrance. “Ash!” she cried, throwing her arms around his neck. Pressing her unbound chest to his, she gave him a lingering kiss.

They parted. He held her at arm's length, looking first at her breasts and then into her eyes.

“Oh shit,” he said. “Gin.”

Elsie sighed, smiling like the Madonna. “Yeah, baby. Gin.”