The Wages of Sin (22 page)

 

Chapter Forty

Chuck walked to
the stand, pausing to shoot a desperate glance at the prosecution counsel table. For the first time since Elsie had known him, his appearance bore marks of strain. His auburn hair was dark with perspiration, and sweat stains showed in the armpits of his gray pinstripe suit jacket.

He took the oath and sat in the chair, clasping his knees with his hands. Claire approached him.

“State your name, sir.”

“Chuck Harris.”

“Your occupation?”

“Assistant prosecutor,” he answered, then corrected himself. “Chief assistant prosecutor, McCown County Prosecutor's Office.”

Claire stood inches in front of the stand, confronting him. “Directing your attention to Labor Day weekend of this year: where were you on Saturday, the Saturday of the holiday weekend?”

“Camping. I mean—­I was in Mark Twain National Forest. Camping.”

“Were you alone?”

“No.” His nose was dripping. He paused to wipe it with his hand. “I was with my girlfriend, Lisa Peters. She's a juvenile officer.”

Claire pivoted abruptly, facing the jury box. “When you were camping on Labor Day weekend, did you see anyone who is present in the courtroom today?”

“Yes. Yes, Larry Paul. The defendant.”

Claire didn't look Chuck's way. She kept her eyes facing the jury. “Identify the person you saw please.”

Chuck pointed. “It's the man in the orange jail uniform, sitting by Josh Nixon.”

She strolled away from Harris at a casual pace, remaining parallel with the jury box.

“Was the defendant alone on that date?”

“No. A man was with him, at his campsite. A shorter guy, with a ponytail. And a pregnant woman with purple hair. And a child.”

“Who was the pregnant woman?”

“Jessie Dent. The deceased.”

“Was she alive when you saw her?”

“Yes.” Chuck's voice caught, but he continued. “Yes, when I last saw her, she was alive.”

Claire turned to face Chuck Harris on the witness stand. “Describe the interaction you observed between the defendant and the deceased.”

He paused. “My girlfriend saw it. I just heard.”

“Well, then, tell us what the juvenile officer reported to you.” Claire glanced over to the prosecution table with a glint in her eye.

“Object, Madeleine,” whispered Parsons. “It's hearsay.”

Madeleine started to rise from her chair, but Elsie clutched her arm and stopped her. “Let them hear it. We won't gain anything by concealing the facts from the jury.”

Madeleine gave her a hard look, then nodded and sank back down into her seat.

Chuck said, “There was shouting at their campsite. Lisa said they were angry with the deceased, because she knocked over the cooler. She told me that the defendant, Larry Paul, knocked the deceased onto the burning campfire.” He paused. “I didn't see that. But when I left the tent, he had the deceased in a headlock. And I saw smoke coming off the shirt she wore.”

“Okay, then—­let me get this straight. Your girlfriend told you that a man was abusing a pregnant woman near your campsite. Is that right? Sound right?”

Stiffly, Chuck nodded. “Yes.”

“And how far away was this? Miles away? Feet? What?”

“Just a few feet. ­Couple of yards.”

“And then you saw the big man—­the big old defendant over there—­get the pregnant woman in a headlock. Saw her shirt was still smoking from the fire. That right? Have I got that right?”

“Yes.”

“A ­couple of yards away from you, a pregnant woman, great with child, is viciously attacked. Mr. Harris—­Chuck—­what did you do to defend her?”

“We couldn't get a signal to call,” he began, but Claire cut him off.

“I'm not talking telephones. I'm asking you, Mr. Chief Assistant, Mr. Hot Dog McCown County Law and Order: what did you do to help that woman?”

His face was scarlet. Beads of perspiration studded his upper lip. “We wanted to contact the police, but we couldn't because we couldn't dial 911.”

“Oh, shut up.”

Elsie's breath caught when she heard Claire speak the words. Parsons jumped up. “Objection, your honor. Counsel is badgering the witness.”

Before the judge could rule on the objection, Claire lifted a hand to concede. “No problem, Judge. I'll rephrase.” She studied Chuck for a long moment, pursing her lips, as though pondering what to say. Then, nodding sagely, she walked up to the stand. “So isn't it true that you saw the woman being savagely attacked, and yet at the moment it occurred, you did nothing—­absolutely nothing—­to assist her or defend her.”

Chuck was silent.

“Answer the question, Mr. Prosecutor,” she said, her voice dripping contempt.

At length, he answered. “That's correct.”

She pulled her eyes away as if she couldn't bear to look at him. “No further questions, your honor.”

Sam Parsons stood and attempted damage control. During questioning, he elicited testimony from Chuck that he and Lisa had driven to the nearest town, called in the information and reported it to the police. But Elsie watched the jury, searching for signs of recovery. She could read their faces.

They didn't like Chuck Harris. They judged him for his cowardice.

And Chuck was, though absentee, a member of the prosecution team, one of those who wore the white hat.

But once Claire was done with him, Chuck's hat looked dirty as a dog.

 

Chapter Forty-­One

When the judge
declared a recess, Madeleine's thin fingers snaked around Elsie's forearm.

“Did you make hard copies of the jury instructions?”

Elsie nodded. “They're on my desk.”

“Get them. We'll meet in my office. Immediately.”

Elsie grimaced. “I really have to go to the bathroom, Madeleine,” she said, but Madeleine's back was already turned, her head bent to Sam Parsons's ear.

Elsie's first stop was the second floor restroom, but the jury had beat her to it; a bailiff was standing guard. She dashed down the steps to the first floor, relieved to find herself alone in the facility. She sat in the stall with her eyes closed, relishing the quiet.

The outer door opened; she heard whispered laughter. Four feet appeared in the next stall, followed by the scent of cigarette smoke. Elsie sighed. Her break was over. If she walked into Madeleine's office with the odor of secondhand smoke on her clothes, there'd be trouble.

She trudged up the stairs to her office, passing Stacie at the reception desk. “How's it going?” Stacie asked.

Elsie responded by rolling her eyes back, pointing an index finger at her temple, and pulling the trigger.

Engrossed in performing the pantomime, Elsie failed to notice that the door to her nearby office stood open, and the room was occupied. Holly Hickman sat in Elsie's chair, rocking her baby. Ivy doodled on a sheet of paper with an ink pen. Tina Peroni was nowhere to be seen.

Elsie dropped the makeshift gun from her head and stuffed the offending hand in her pocket. “Hey,” she said in a voice of false cheer. “I figured you all would go on home. Ivy's been dismissed; you don't need to stay.”

Elsie anticipated that her announcement would cause a look of relief to cross Ivy's face, but she was wrong. The relief washed instead across the features of Holly, her foster mother. Ivy remained expressionless, working with increasing intensity on her sheet of white paper.

“Oh, thank goodness gracious.” Holly stood, hoisting the infant to her shoulder. The movement awakened the baby; he began to fuss. “Tina called us over here to keep an eye on Ivy, but I don't think that Ivy's brother wanted to stick around here much longer.”

Ivy's brother,
Elsie repeated in her head, her heart softening toward Holly Hickman. “Well, Ivy, what do you think? You ready to head out? You want to go on home?”

Ivy remained in her seat, drawing circles, bearing down so hard with her pen that she tore through the paper.

Elsie stared at the black hole on the paper. “Ivy?” She lifted her eyes to the child's face. “You ready to go?”

The girl's jaw was locked at an angry angle. She didn't lift her eyes to look at Elsie. Ivy raised the pen and began punching small holes into the paper with the ball point.

“Whoa, little sis. You're banging up my desk.” Elsie reached over and retrieved the pen from Ivy's grip. “The county of McCown will be jumping on both our backs if we damage government property.”

The small hand that had been robbed of its weapon splayed on the sheet of paper. Without looking up, Ivy said, “You ain't no good.”

The statement brought Elsie up short; the pen almost dropped from her grasp. Holly gasped and said, “Ivy! Mind your manners!”

An empty office chair sat next to the seat Ivy occupied. Elsie sat down, studying the girl with concern.

“Ivy, are you mad at me?”

Ivy didn't respond. She picked up the sheet of paper and wadded it up into a ball.

“Ivy, what's up, hon? I don't understand. Talk to me.”

Ivy threw the paper ball at Elsie. It bounced off her chest.

Holly said, “That does it. You are in big trouble, girl.”

Elsie turned to the woman. “Give us a minute, okay? Mrs. Hickman, do you mind waiting in the reception area? It's right outside my door.” When Holly didn't move, Elsie rose and stepped up to usher her out. “Right over there. You can't miss it.”

She saw a reluctant Holly through the door and closed it behind her, then turned to focus on her young witness. Ivy had regained possession of the ink pen, and was drawing circles on the palm of her hand.

“Ivy,” Elsie began, in a cajoling voice.

Ivy held up her hand, displaying the inky circle. “Cootie shot. Can't get me, I got a cootie shot.”

“Won't you please tell me? What went wrong? Did the courtroom scare you? Because I get it; I can totally understand that. Even grownups think it's scary to talk in court. I don't want you to feel bad. It's a scary place.”

Ivy muttered under her breath; Elsie barely caught it. It sounded like the girl said: “You done bad.”

Perplexed, Elsie sat back. The girl's head was ducked. She had new stains on her yellow dress, the product of Elsie's ink pen. “Ivy. What did I do?”

Slowly, the child raised her head. She glared at Elsie through the new eyeglasses. Her expression reminded Elsie of something she'd seen on television; and it was not an image from children's programming. It was the steely glare of Tony Soprano.

“You done set me up.”

The statement was so unexpected, so preposterous, Elsie let a laugh escape.

“Don't you laugh at me.”

Elsie composed her face into solemn lines. “I'm sorry, Ivy. I'm not laughing at you; you just surprised me, that's all. I don't understand. Why would you say I set you up?”

The child bent over her hand, pressing the pen to darken the ink spot on her palm.

“Ivy? How did I set you up?”

The pen stopped circling. Her head bent, Ivy whispered, “You had his bitch in there.”

“What?”

The blond head raised. Her eyes squinted as if assessing the threat of danger. “His bitch. Sitting right there.” The child's voice dropped. “You trying to get me killed?”

“Oh my God,” Elsie said, her thoughts darting to the gallery of faces in court. Had Larry Paul planted a conspirator among the spectators, someone who could intimidate the child? Did he have a friend on the jury? The idea seemed unlikely. But nothing was impossible.

She reached out and pressed Ivy's hand, searching her face for the answer. “Who frightened you? Who did you see?”

“I seen his bitch.” The voice was a whisper.

“Whose bitch? Larry Paul? Did he have a girlfriend, aside from your mom?”

The child rolled her eyes. “Not him. The Big Boy.”

Elsie repeated the name, like a magpie. “The Big Boy. Big Boy who?”

Again, the whisper. “Smokey.”

The light was beginning to dawn in Elsie's head. “Ivy, who is Smokey Dean's bitch?'

The eyes behind the classes surveyed Elsie with a look of disbelief. Ivy pulled her hand away from Elsie's grasp. “You don't know nothing.”

As Elsie's mind raced, she looked down at her own hand. She'd held Ivy's hand with such pressure, the ink had transferred. The palm of Elsie's hand bore a black circle. A cootie shot.

 

Chapter Forty-­Two

Ivy jumped when
the door to Elsie's office flew open with a bang. A skinny woman in fancy clothes stood in the hallway, her eyes flashing fire. “Where are the jury instructions?”

Ivy watched Elsie grapple with a file on her desk, nearly spilling the papers.

“I have them right here. I proofed them last night. They're ready.”

“Then what are you waiting for?”

The woman's gaze fixed on Ivy, then transferred to her foster mother, who stood in the open doorway. The fancy woman balanced her reading glasses on the bridge of her nose, and glared over the top of the frames.

“What's your name again?”

Holly placed a protective hand against her chest, holding the baby with the other arm. “Me? My name? I'm Holly.”

“Right. Holly, you can go. Take the children away. You're excused.” Turning back to Elsie, she said. “My office. Immediately.”

Ivy stood in the hallway, watching Elsie race down behind the older blond-­headed woman. She reached up to her foster mother, trying to catch her hand. But Holly shook her off.

“I've got to hold brother. And the diaper bag.” Holly shifted the bag higher onto her shoulder. “Come on, honey. Let's go.”

Ivy followed her foster mother down the steps of the courthouse staircase, clutching a golden hand rail. Holly looked over her shoulder, regarding Ivy with a face that looked cross. “Hurry up. Daddy will be wanting his supper. And I've got to get brother down for a nap.”

The big courthouse doors facing the front steps were blocked by a crowd of ­people with signs. Holly made an impatient noise; turning on her heel, she headed for the side exit, her diaper bag slipping from her shoulder. “Come on. Follow me.”

When they exited, the late afternoon sun shone into Ivy's eyes, blinding her. She paused at the top of the stone steps that led to the sidewalk.

“I can't see,” she said.

Her foster mother wheeled around on the step. “Ivy! We gotta get home.”

Ivy's hand grasped a metal railing that ran along the handicapped ramp. She eased down the steps, taking them one at a time, until she reached the pavement.

Holly pushed a button on the traffic light. “We have to wait. You don't walk until the little man on the light says you can.” After a pause, she added, “Always look both ways when crossing the street.”

There wasn't much traffic on the street that bounded the west side of the courthouse. But Ivy felt a prickle of unease.

“Let's walk now,” Ivy said.

“No, the light doesn't say we can go. You have to wait. It's the law.”

The rumble of an idling white Buick could be heard a short distance away. Ivy's eyes had adjusted to the afternoon glare. She took a hard look at the car, and then sidled up to her foster mother.

“Hold my hand.” Ivy's voice had a pleading note.

“What?” Holly peered down, her brows drawn together in a frown.

“I want to hold your hand.”

Holly groaned. “Honey, I have the baby, I've got the bag; I don't have another hand for you to hold.”

As Ivy inched nearer, she clutched Holly's denim skirt. Holly said, “Ivy, you're a big girl, you're in school. Let go of me. You're going to knock us all down.”

Only a moment passed before a body flew at Holly, flinging her and her baby to the pavement. The attack sent the diaper bag flying, its contents spilling onto the sidewalk. Holly's screams chorused with the cries of her infant son. Vaseline and baby wipes and Pampers diapers littered the street.

The screams made Ivy's ears ring. It seemed that time had stopped, and that she was watching from a far distance as her foster mother's face contorted, and scrapes on the baby's head seeped blood.

Then she was flying too, toward the white Buick that was waiting, as it had been waiting for her all along, for weeks and weeks.

When Bruce Stout threw Ivy into the backseat and the car roared off, she wasn't even surprised. But she was scared. Very, very scared.