Dirty Deals, page 17
“Oh my stars, I just knew something was rotten!”
“The Boonsboro Baptist Sunday school class is going to be furious.”
27
That night after dinner I presented my case to a captive audience. A captive and powerful audience, which I’d need to take down a corrupt regime. Ronnie Summers, feared litigator. Stackhouse, a respected sheriff. Manny Martinez, federal marshal. And Timothy August, elementary principal, who grew squeamish during the video and left, upstairs to take a shower, and I didn’t blame him.
They watched the video on my phone and I explained the doctored version. Then, using Manny, I acted out what I deduced happened off-screen. Manny portrayed Caleb, and I the drunk arresting officer. During our tussle, I pulled my imaginary service pistol. I had hold of Manny by the shirt collar. I aimed at him and I was drunk and we were fighting and I missed, hitting my own hand instead, the hand holding Manny’s collar, and then striking Kim Harper beyond.
I (Ervin) fell to the ground, leaving Manny upright to run help the wounded Kim Harper, until I lumbered to arrest him, ignoring my fallen sister-in-arms.
Reviewing the facts later that night, Chief Robertson had made the call—this could never reach the public. Especially not after Kim was shot by a cop already busted for drunkenness on the job. He and Ervin would never survive the ensuing tsuris.
Manny said if I tried to explain what tsuris meant he would hit me in my tender nose with his shoe, so I carried on.
They concocted a plan to blame it all on Caleb, who, to be fair, had resisted arrest and looked like a wild man on the video. A perfect scapegoat.
How deep did the corruption go? I bet not far. The more people who knew, the greater the chance of exposure. Chief Robertson knew and Elaine Terry knew, the old Lynchburg guard, conspiring over the years to cover a multitude of sins. The inner circle.
However, there must be a second layer of trustees who were told a partial truth, that Ervin had been drinking but Caleb was the real killer. That a good defense attorney could use Ervin’s inebriation against them, possibly getting the murderous wicked cop-killing Caleb off the charges, which couldn’t be allowed to happen. This second layer of trustees might involve officer Whiteside and his goons, and the prosecutor Terrance Goodwin (who was new to Lynchburg), and maybe even the judge. Small towns were good at circling the wagons for the greater good.
Let’s put the murderous wicked cop-killer away quickly. Let’s cut him a good deal so he’ll plead and this entire headache vanishes.
Tomorrow Ronnie would arrange for subpoenas. Then Saturday, when Robertson would likely be out of the office, we’d descend apace on evidence lockers and police documents. If Robertson and Elaine were willing to doctor the video, then they’d be willing to tamper with the police report and other evidence, like the gun. The original video was enough but I wanted additional ammunition, proof of their fraudulence, enough that Sally might not be suspected as the source, enough that Internal Affairs wouldn’t blink at backing us.
“You’re forgetting something, Mackenzie,” said Ronnie.
My case made, weary, I sat down. “I do not forget.”
“Someone else is in the inner circle. Ervin Lane,” she said.
I hadn’t forgotten him. I only didn’t want to think about him yet.
“That’s right, babe. You’re crazy about the guy,” said Stackhouse. “He moved out west and turned his life around, like Pa Ingalls. You said he’s sober and doing great, even with one hand. One big ugly rubber hand only good for carrying a bucket, but he’s trying anyway. And you’re going to ruin his new life.”
Ervin Lane on his little farm, a pastoral Eden, feeding the chickens. Serving me lemonade. Careful not to drop things with his one hand, the hand he didn’t blow off with a Glock. Ervin looking into the distance, telling me he’d forgiven Caleb, to please leave Caleb alone.
A pink heart in the window. Some lucky lady in town who’d hit the jackpot with this former cop, retired, tattooed, a kind man now. Losing weight, driving his truck to AA meetings, no longer the angry drunk.
“To prove Caleb’s innocent,” said Ronnie, “you’ll ruin Ervin’s life.”
“Must we?”
“Who’s this we?” said Manny. “You’re the hombre gonna ruin the cop’s life, guy with only one hand, not me.”
“Caleb will no longer be the wanted man,” Ronnie said. “It’ll be Ervin. Which is how it should be, according to that video.”
All of a sudden, the words of Robin Lucas floated back.
If you ask me, Mr. August, they’ve both paid enough. And you should leave them be.
I wasn’t sure I could do that.
28
Ronnie’s office was located off Salem Avenue in a renovated brick two-story building near the train yard. A modernized, vogue spot, where cool kids plied their trade. She worked on the second story in her boutique private firm behind a handsome and heavy wooden door. Her white baseboards and crown molding were tall and the walls were painted a trendy pale blue, and the place looked designed to be the office of a feel-good-movie’s plucky young up-and-coming heroine boss babe.
Ronnie wanted to expand. She’d been threatening to for a while, but recently she’d ramped the intensity, and she needed more space if she was to hire a couple fresh-faced attorneys. We sat side-by-side on the little couch, dreaming about the future, about a different office, about what could be. I was also dreaming about how to get her shirt off, but she had meetings at the courthouse soon about getting subpoenas for the Lynchburg shooting, and before that a zoom, so it probably wasn’t the right time to chase my dreams.
Charlotte Andrews knocked on the front door and called, “Knock knock, anyone home?” and Ronnie’s receptionist Katie Drake greeted her. Ronnie stood from the couch and they hugged like women do, differently than men do, and Charlotte apologized for coming by without an appointment.
Charlotte Andrews, Ronnie’s childhood friend, seeking a divorce from her baby’s father because he’d sold his two restaurants and was using his newfound autonomy to write a novel.
I knew enough about women’s shoes to know Charlotte’s heeled sandals were expensive, and so was her green Coach bag. Her flat-front khakis and sleeveless blouse looked formally fashionable, now out-of-date and tight. She knew it and wore the shame of it, compensating with energy. The shame was self-imposed and worsened by her comparison to Ronnie, and Ronnie knew it and tried to put her at ease by mentioning the good handbag and her modish hairstyle—short, chin length, bangs kinda like Audrey Hepburn.
“What happened to your face?” Charlotte asked me.
“Walrus.”
“Walrus?”
“Walrus.” Us good detectives always repeat stuff.
“Okaaay. Don’t tell me. Well. Today’s one of the mornings I get to dump Ethan off at childcare and be an adult.” Charlotte closed her eyes and smiled with the catharsis. “Sit at a coffee shop and scroll Instagram and read magazines and fall in love with myself again. Care to join, Ron?”
“I wish I could. I’m booked solid.” Ronnie smiled at her and I’d never get over how good her teeth were. Like little piano keys if little piano keys had sex appeal. “Besides, whenever I spend time with only myself, I fall farther out of love with her.”
“Oh Ron.” Charlotte laughed and laughed. “With a body like that, I’d spend the day in front of the mirror. God, one day I’ll have it back. One day. Then we’ll go out dancing.”
I eased toward the door.
“No no, don’t go,” Charlotte cooed. “I’m not interrupting, only need quick legal advice. Would you advise I stay off Tinder?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Not your advice, handsome,” said Charlotte.
“Tinder, the dating app?” Ronnie said.
“That’s the one!” Charlotte clenched her fists, like she’d grabbed something heavy. “I’m eager for a man. A real man.”
“Charlotte, sweetie, I’ve been procrastinating on our phone call. I needed to tell you. I can’t be your attorney,” said Ronnie.
Charlotte’s fervor deflated like she’d been popped.
“What! Why not? What happened? You’re the best.”
Ronnie leaned backwards on her desk, kinda sitting on it. “Because I don’t think you should leave him.”
Charlotte blinked.
“You’re not allowed to say that.”
“To a random client, I wouldn’t. But you’re not. You’re Charlotte Andrews and I love you,” said Ronnie.
“You’re a divorce attorney.”
“I’m your friend first.”
“Well don’t be,” said Charlotte.“Why shouldn’t I divorce him?”
“Because it’s bad for you, sweetie.”
“It’s bad for me.” Charlotte spat the word bad and the word bad fell on the ground like a bag of concrete. I really wanted to leave. “What the hell does that mean, Ron?”
“Does your husband hit you?”
“Of course not. Though he’d like to, some days,” said Charlotte.
“Is he emotionally cruel?”
“I don’t know. He quit his job, Ron.”
“Did he abandon you?”
“No, he’s around too much. Far too fucking much,” said Charlotte.
“Did he have an affair?”
“He’d like to do that too, I’m sure.”
“Is he an involved father?” said Ronnie.
“Ron. Baby. You’re not listening. He quit his job. He’s listless, sitting at his computer, reading books, God, it’s awful. Ethan and I are worn out.”
Ronnie pressed her lips together and shook her head.
“These aren’t grounds for divorce.”
“So what? Do some lawyer shit. I’m not happy. What do you mean divorce will be bad for me?”
Ronnie looked into Charlotte and beyond her and she squinted, searching for the phrasing to sway the jury of one.
“I don’t know how to explain it. It’s an indefinable conviction, sweetie, that you’ll be happier staying married.”
“Oh my god,” said Charlotte.
“And not only that, work on being a better wife.”
Charlotte looked like she might die.
“Are you kidding me,” said Charlotte. “You’re the worst fucking divorce attorney I ever…”
“I know. I’m sorry for the bad news.”
“This bullshit is easy for you to say.” Charlotte waved a hand my direction. “You married the right one.”
I shrugged modestly.
“He’s not the right one. He’s just a man,” said Ronnie.
I took my shrug back.
“He makes me happy. But I’m the happiest when I’m a good wife,” said Ronnie. “Not when he’s a good husband.”
“Wow,” I said.
Ronnie closed her eyes and pinched at the bridge of her nose. “I know. I’m mortified that cornball shit came out of my mouth. But I believe it’s true.”
“This is…” said Charlotte. “This is… What the hell kinda feminist are you?”
“I’m still a feminist. But a feminist in love. One who has reached the end of feminism and found it incomplete.”
“No. You’re like a… I don’t know what you are, but you’re like a… He brainwashed you.”
Ronnie’s chin came up and her eyes did a flashing thing. It was scary and she wasn’t even aimed at me.
“Charlotte. My father gave me no money for college, and yet here you are, standing in my law office. I’m a successful businesswoman. I make twice my husband’s salary. Sometimes I hire him as a private contractor. My firm is ready to expand. I’m not the one seeking a divorce from my husband because he might no longer provide the lifestyle I cannot provide myself. I don’t appreciate your insinuation. Trust me, I’m a feminist.” Ronnie took a deep breath. “But before that, I’m a female. And a wife. And I’m fucking committed to it. What kind of example of a feminist would I be if I break my promises? If I’m a liar?”
Charlotte searched for some good words to use, for a rebuttal. If she’d been in court, she would’ve asked the judge for a short recess.
“But…” She did her best. “But I told you I’m not happy. I’m miserable.”
“Yes I heard you.”
“And your advice is, instead of getting a divorce, I should make my husband happy,” said Charlotte.
“I said no such thing. What did I say?”
“I…”
“Did I say that, Mackenzie?” Ronnie was still flared with anger. “Did I say she should focus on making her husband happy?”
“You didn’t, but pretend I’m not here.”
“I said you should work on being a better wife,” said Ronnie.
“That’s the same thing!” Charlotte cried.
“No it isn’t. I don’t know him, I don’t care about him, not a single damn bit, sweetie. I care about you. And…based on my few years with Mackenzie, I can tell you that working on being a better wife will make you happier. That’s what Mackenzie does, constantly improving himself, working on being a better husband, finding completeness in the work, and he’s so damn happy and content sometimes I want to hit him. I’m suggesting you do a selfish thing. Stop chasing your own happiness, because it’s making you miserable.”
Charlotte threw up her hands.
“That’s absurd!”
“I know. It’s upside down. But it works.”
“When did you get so preachy?” said Charlotte. “No.” She shook her head, gave a slight sneer. “No. Look at you. Those gorgeous legs, that tiny waist, you never birthed a child, your Botox and the hair… You don’t get to judge me. You don’t have the right.”
“Your husband doesn’t hurt you, he’s around, you two share a child, and you made him a promise. I’m not judging, I’m predicting—divorce won’t make you happy. You came for advice. Here it is. No, don’t get on Tinder. You already swiped right, or whatever the hell it is. Now do your best. If your husband begins abuse, come back. Until then—”
“Come back. No fucking way am I ever coming back.” Charlotte turned on her heel, the heel of her good expensive sandal, and left. She stomped, she stormed. She called, “Bitch!” over her shoulder and she was gone, like a storm with a Coach bag.
Ronnie and I held our places, with no words. We couldn’t see Katie Drake but I bet she was frozen too. If we remained still, Charlotte might not return.
She didn’t.
Ronnie rolled her eyes.
“I did that poorly,” she said.
“I object.”
“I didn’t want to say that tripe. I don’t even know if it’s true. It sounded so odd.”
“The truth can be cumbersome,” I said.
“But she has to grow up. She’s believing lies.” Ronnie made a long sigh. “Isn’t she?”
“I think so. But I’m a man. Not the man, just a man.”
“Ha ha.” She pushed away from the desk and we hugged and I enjoyed her body against me. “I’d rather be shouted at by a judge than do that again. But I think I’m correct. I think she needs the work of growing up. It’s hard but it’s good.” She was talking into my shoulder. “Growing up has been good for me. And her husband sounds like he bears her no ill will. I’m not sure how he puts up with her.”
“No need to continue your defense. The arbitrator already decided in your favor.”
“I’m sorry I said I wanted to hit you.”
“Do you?” I asked.
“Sometimes. When you get preachy.”
“I do not get preachy.”
“Where do you think I learned it from?” she said.
“Careful. The arbitrator is on your side but it’s now tenuous.”
A smile in her voice. “I have no fear. The arbitrator is mad for me. He’s biased.”
“But also capable of making decisions in spite of his prurience.”
We were still pressed together and she shifted her hips against mine.
“Is the arbitrator prurient now?” she said.
“Almost always.”
“He’s only biased because I wore high heels and I’ve been using $300 Le Mer body cream.”
“For a lot of reasons,” I said. “But the heels are dispositive.”
“Would he like to have intimate congress if I close the door and we’re quiet?”
“Did you say three hundred dollars?” I said.
Ronnie released me and stepped into her reception area and told Katie Drake to get some coffee and croissants and to take her time. Katie left quickly and Ronnie returned to me and she said, “Mackenzie. Don’t focus on the cost. Focus on me.”
“Three hundred dollars?”
“Mackenzie.”
“You have a zoom soon,” I told her.
“Me,” she said. “Focus on me. Me, me, me.”
We did.
But we both benefited.
29
Manny and I sat on the front porch in rocking chairs fixing the universe. We did this without speaking but it happened nonetheless.
One of the pleasant things about Roanoke was the absence of light pollution. The city produced some but it was like the earth glowed instead of the sky. The night was partially hidden by thick green leaves but what we could see of the cosmos twinkled smartly, the Milky Way indistinct but apparent, reminding us that we were insignificant and it was a good thing. I could feel people in their homes all around, and feel the loom of the city to the north, but these environs knew to remain soft and unobtrusive.
Manny’d had a date that night. Holly Waters, anchor of the local CBS news broadcast at noon. Holly had driven to our house, insisting on picking Manny up, insisting on driving him, which she thought would be fun and show her gumption. It doomed her from the start. Manny was the driver. You didn’t force yourself on Manny. She’d tried winning him over the way she would a television audience, with power and pizzazz and appeal, but Manny wasn’t a man to be won. He was a rock to shatter against.
