Rage

CHAPTER 8

I met with both public defenders in a conference room at the jail.

Lauritz Montez was there when I arrived, a slightly built man, thirty or so, with dark hair pulled back into a ponytail. An extravagant waxed mustache overpowered a fuzzy chin-beard. He wore a vintage gray tweed three-piece suit and a skinny blue bow tie that was more like a shoelace.

Sydney Weider breezed in a few seconds later. She was older- early forties- thin and tall, with efficient blond hair and wide pale eyes. Her tailored black suit and crocodile bag and big pearl earrings were beyond a P.D.’s salary. Maybe the rock on her finger explained that. Maybe that was a sexist assumption and she’d cleaned up in the stock market.

She sat down and twisted the ring so the diamond faced inward. Put on a pair of tiny little gold-plated reading glasses and said, “Well, here we are.” Her words came out crowded together. Big hurry to express herself.

Both of them had wanted individual meetings. I told them we’d start out together and see how it went.

It didn’t need to go further. They worked on me individually but their goals were identical: emphasizing the youth and criminal inexperience of their clients, pointing out the wretchedness of each boy’s upbringing, letting me know that anything other than a juvenile trial would be cruel and inhuman.

By the end of the hour, they were working as a team. From talking to Troy I sensed Weider would be laying everything on Rand, but it wasn’t my place to bring that up.

As she warmed up, she talked even faster, seemed to dominate Montez. Ending up with a long dissertation on the evils of video games and public housing, she snapped her Filofax shut, removed her glasses, and cross-examined me with her eyes.

“What’s your report going to say?” Machine-gun burst.

“I haven’t written it yet.”

“You must have come to some conclusions.”

“I’ll be reporting to Judge Laskin. He’ll send you copies.”

“So it’s going to be like that,” she said.

“Per Judge Laskin, that’s the way it has to be.”

She collected her papers and fiddled with her ring. “Think about this, Dr. Delaware: Psychology’s a mushy soft science and psychologists can be made to look pretty vulnerable on the stand.”

“I’m sure they can.”

“More than vulnerable,” she said. “Downright ludicrous.”

“I’m sure some of them deserve it.”

She sat up straighter, tried to stare me down, looked disgusted when she failed. “Doctor, you can’t seriously be considering these kids for an adult trial.”

“It won’t be up to me- ”

“Judge Laskin is relying on your expertise, so for all practical purposes it will be up to you, Doctor.”

“From what I’ve seen, Judge Laskin is a pretty independent guy.”

Montez said, “All we’re aiming for is basic justice, Doctor. Let’s give these kids a chance at rehabilitation.”

Weider said, “Doctor, we’ll be bringing in our own experts.”

I said, “Mr. Montez has already hired Professor Davidson from Stanford.”

Weider turned and eyed her colleague. He twirled a mustache and nodded. “It took awhile to get his fees authorized, but he’s on board.”

Weider shot him a cold smile. “How funny, Lauritz. I called Davidson last week. His secretary told me he had a prior commitment.”

“If you want him for your kid, maybe we can work something out,” said Montez.

“No need,” said Weider, breezily. “I’ve got LaMaria from Cal.”

I said, “Do either of you have a theory as to why your clients murdered Kristal Malley?”

They swiveled toward me.

Weider said, “Doctor, exactly what are you asking?”

“What you think your clients’ motive was.”

“Isn’t motivation your thing, Doctor?”

“I’d imagine it would be yours, too.”

She stood, shook her head, stared down at me. “You really think I’m going to lay my strategy out right here?”

“I’m not interested in strategy,” I said. “Just insight.”

“Doctor, I don’t have any insight. Which is precisely my point vis-à-vis your report: A fresh perspective is required. I hope you’re prepared to deliver that.”

Montez’s eyes followed Weider as she walked to the door. “See you in court, Doctor.”

Montez left a second later; he avoided looking at me.

I sat there for a while. Wondering what I was going to do.

As I entered the jail parking lot, Sydney Weider called out my name. She was standing next to an ice-blue BMW convertible, tapping the croc bag against a long, lean thigh. To her left stood two women and a man.

Weider waved as if we were old buddies. I walked over. When I reached her, she smiled as if we’d just shared a pleasant afternoon. She drew one of the women close. “Doctor, this is Troy’s mom, Jane.”

Jane Hannabee was several inches shorter than the attorney and she seemed to shrink further under Weider’s grasp. My files put her at twenty-eight. Her sallow face was scored with paper-cut wrinkles. Her long-sleeved knit top was bisected by a wide red stripe and looked brand new. So did her baggy jeans and her white sneakers. A snake tattoo coiled up past the sweater’s crewneck. Its triangular head terminated just behind her left ear. Fangs bared, some sort of adder.

She had a thin body, thin lips, thin nose, lank brown hair that hung past her shoulders. Three holes punched in each ear but no earrings. A tiny black dot on her right nostril said that region had once been pierced. A caved-in mouth foretold missing teeth. Her eyes were blue and red-rimmed.

Crusted makeup failed to mask a bruise on her left cheek.

The police report said Troy had hit her from time to time.

She looked older than Weider.

I said, “Pleased to meet you.”

Jane Hannabee bit her lip and looked down at the oil-spotted floor of the parking garage and slipped me cold, dry fingers.

Sydney Weider said, “Doctor, I’m sure you’d like to talk to Ms. Hannabee.”

“Absolutely. Let’s set it up.”

“How about now?”

Taking control.

I smiled at her and she smiled back.

“You do have time for Troy’s mother, Doctor.”

“Of course,” I said.

Weider turned to the other two people. “Thanks for bringing her.”

“Anytime,” said the man. He was in his late twenties, solidly built, with thick, wavy dark hair that reminded me of an overripe artichoke. Broad, pleasant face, meaty shoulders, a wrestler’s flaring neck. He wore a corduroy suit the color of peanut butter, black boots, a navy blue shirt with long collar points, and a baby blue tie.

His white-gold wedding band was speckled with tiny blue stones and matched the one on the hand of the woman next to him.

She was around his age, slightly heavy, and extremely pretty with long, teased hair bleached nearly white and swept back at the sides. A white linen dress flared under a soft pink cardigan. A thin silver chain and crucifix circled her neck. Her skin was bronze and flawless.

The man stepped forward and blocked her face from view. “Drew Daney, sir.” Thick fingers but a gentle grip.

Sydney Weider said, “Doctor, these are some supporters of Troy.”

That made it sound as if the kid were running for office. Maybe the analogy wasn’t that far off: This was going to be a campaign.

Drew Daney said, “This is my wife, Cherish.”

The blond woman said, “I can’t see anything, honey.” Drew Daney retreated and Cherish Daney’s smile came into view.

“Troy’s supporters,” I said.

“Spiritual advisers,” said Cherish Daney.

“Ministers?”

“Not yet,” said Drew. “We’re theology students, at Fulton Seminary. Doctor, thanks so much for being there for Troy. He needs all the support he can get.”

I said, “Are you ministering to Rand Duchay as well?”

“We will if we’re asked. Wherever we’re needed- ”

Sydney Weider said “Let’s get going” and gripped Jane Hannabee harder. Hannabee winced and started to shake. Maternal anguish or some sort of dope jones? I told myself that was wrongheaded thinking. Give her a chance.

Cherish Daney said, “We’d better get going to see Troy.”

Her husband looked at his sports watch. “Oh, boy, we’d better.”

Cherish moved toward Jane Hannabee, as if to embrace the woman, but changed her mind and gave a small wave and said, “God bless you, Jane. Be well.”

Hannabee hung her head.

Drew Daney said, “Good to meet you, Doctor. Good luck.”

The two of them walked off toward the jail’s electric gate, keeping up a brisk pace, arm in arm.

Sydney Weider watched them for a few seconds, expressionless, then she turned to me. “Getting another interview room in the jail is going to be a hassle. How about I let you guys talk in my car?”

Jane Hannabee sat behind the wheel of Weider’s BMW and looked as if she’d been abducted by aliens. I took the passenger seat. Sydney Weider was a few yards away, pacing and smoking and talking on her cell phone.

“Is there anything you want to tell me, Ms. Hannabee?”

She didn’t answer.

“Ma’am?”

Staring at the instrument panel, she said, “Don’t let them kill Troy.”

Flat voice, slight twang. A plea, but no passion.

“Them,” I said.

She scratched her arm through her sleeve, rolled up the fabric, and worked on bare, flaccid skin. More tattoos embroidered her forearm, crude and dark and gothic. Weider had probably bought her the fresh clothes, dressed her up with an eye toward camouflage.

“In prison,” she said. “When they send him up, he’s gonna have a bad name. It’s gonna be cool to hurt him.”

“What kind of bad name?”

“Baby killer,” she said. “Even though he didn’t do it. The niggers and the Mexicans will say it’s cool to get him.”

“Troy didn’t kill Kristal,” I said, “but his reputation will put him in danger in prison.”

She didn’t answer.

I said, “Who did kill Kristal?”

“Troy’s my baby.” She held her mouth open, as if needing more breath. Behind the desiccated lips were three teeth, brown and attenuated. I realized she was smiling.

“I did the best I could,” she said. “You kin believe that or not.”

I nodded.

“You don’ believe me,” she said.

“I’m sure raising a son alone was hard.”

“I got rid of the others.”

“The others?”

“I got knocked up four times.”

“Abortions?”

“Three. The last one hurt me.”

“You kept Troy.”

“I felt like I deserved it.”

“Deserved having a child.”

“Yeah,” she said. “That’s a woman’s right.”

“To have a child.”

“You don’t believe that?”

“You wanted Troy,” I said. “You did your best raising him.”

“You don’t believe that. You’re gonna send him off to prison.”

“I’m going to write a report about Troy’s psychological status- what’s going on in his head- and give it to the judge. So anything you can tell me about Troy could help.”

“You sayin’ he’s crazy?”

“No,” I said. “I don’t think he’s one bit crazy.”

The directness of the answer startled her. “He’s not,” she insisted, as if we remained in dispute. “He’s real smart. He always was smart.”

“He’s very bright,” I said.

“Yeah,” she said. “I want him to go to college.” She turned and shot me another smile, closemouthed, subtle. Its arc matched the coil of snake on her neck and the effect was unnerving. “I figured he kin be a doctor or something else to get rich.”

Troy had talked about getting rich. Unperturbed. As if the charges against him were an inconvenience along the road to affluence. His mother’s delusions made my eyes hurt.

She placed her hands on the BMW’s steering wheel. Pressed down on the inactive gas pedal. Muttered, “This is somethin’.”

“The car?”

She eyed Weider through the windshield. “You think she’s gonna help Troy?”

“She seems to be a good lawyer.”

“You don’ ever answer a question, do you?”

“Let’s talk about Troy,” I said. “You want him to go to college.”

“He ain’t goin’ there now. You’re sending him to prison.”

“Ms. Hannabee, I can’t send him anywhere- ”

“The judge hates him.”

“Why do you say that?”

She reached over and touched my arm. Stroked it. “I know men. They’re all hate and jumping.”

“Jumping?”

“On women,” she said, working her way up toward my shoulder. Touching my cheek. I removed her hand.

She gave me a knowing smile. “If there’s something a man needs, I know it.”

I shifted backward, touched the door panel. “Is there anything you want to tell me about Troy?”

“I know men,” she repeated.

I caught her gaze and held it. She touched the bruise on her cheek. Her lips quivered.

“Where’d you get that?” I said.

“You think I’m ugly.”

“No, but I would like to know- ”

“I used to be hot,” she said. “My tits were like water balloons, I used to dance.” She pressed her palms to her chest.

“Ms. Hannabee- ”

“You don’t have to call me that. Miz. I’m no Miz.”

“Jane- ”

She wheeled, grabbed my arm again. Claw-fingers bit through the wool of my sleeve. No seductiveness this time. Desperation, as cold fear brightened her eyes and I caught a glimpse of the girl she’d once been.

“Please,” she said. “Troy didn’t kill no baby. The retard did it. Everyone knows it.”

“Everyone?”

“He’s the big one, Troy’s little. Troy’s my little man. It weren’t his fault he hooked up with the retard.”

“Rand’s the guilty one,” I said.

Her grip on my arm tightened further. “Zactly.”

“Did Troy tell you that Rand killed the baby?”

“Yeah.”

I glanced down at her fingers. She coughed and sniffed and removed them.

“He’ll get better,” she said.

“Who will?”

“Troy. You give him a chance and he’ll get better and go to college.”

“You think he’s sick.”

She stared at me. “Everyone’s sick. Being alive’s being sick. We got to be forgiving. Like Jesus.”

I said nothing.

She said, “You understand? About forgiving?”

“It’s a wonderful quality,” I said. “Being able to forgive.”

“I forgive everyone.”

“Everyone who hurts you?”

“Yeah, why not? Who cares what happened before? Same with Troy, what he did is over. And he didn’t even do it. The retard did.”

She turned in the seat, bumped her hip against the steering wheel and flinched. “You gonna help him?”

“I’ll do my best to be truthful.”

“You should,” she said. Leaning closer. Her scent was a strange mixture of old laundry and too-sweet perfume. “You could look like him.”

“Like who?”

“Jesus.” She smiled, ran a tongue over her lips. “Yeah, definitely. Put a beard on you, a little more hair and yeah, sure. You could be a real cute Jesus.”