Dewey Ardonni, Texas Lawyer

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Dewey Ardonni – Texas Lawyer
A novelette by Rudy Young

Only an off-the-wall comedy like this can mirror the madness under which we live today.

Our hero, Dewey Ardonni defends a man accused of murder. The prosecution has fingerprints, twenty eye-witness, a DNA match, and a signed confession, but Dewey gets his client off. No tricks; just cool courtroom ingenuity. Later, however, he become the unwitting accomplice in an attempt to assassinate the President.

Chapter One

My name is Dewey. I’m the only lawyer here in Shorty, Texas, a little town of about five hundred people living on the east bank of the Cayenne River. We Shortian's drink a lot of beer, grow a lot of hot peppers, and generally kick back in the hot Texas sun. About a year ago my uncle Herbert died and left me a hacienda on an acre of land just east of town, so I took a bus out from the big city and settled in. There is no grass on my acre of desert, but plenty of cacti, with a split rail fence built all the way around. In the middle stands a little adobe house with poles sticking out across the front, like in those old pueblo paintings; and there’s a little shed out back for a donkey, but I don’t have one yet. I started attending law school through a correspondence course I found in the back of a men’s magazine, and while I studied at night I looked for a job in the daytime. I’ve always been pretty good at figuring things out, so I went to the Shorty Police Department and talked them into hiring me on as a detective. I convinced them that having a detective would make their police department look much more professional. But when I found out janitorial duties went along with my regular duties of investigating parking meter violations, I started looking for something else. After all, I was a law student. Also, to be a policeman, you had to shoot pistols and hassle people, and hit them over the head with sticks. I knew I couldn’t do that.

Next, I went to the Shorty Herald News and the editor, Mr. Roback, gave me a job as a reporter. But all I got to write were obituaries, while inside me burned the soul of a saga-spieling writer. “This isn’t an obituary, Ardonni,” Mr. Roback told me the day he fired me, “This is a goddamn novel!”
Of course I was disappointed at getting fired twice in the same week, but the timing couldn’t have been better. The following day I received my law degree in the mail. It had one of those yellow sticky messages attached to it; telling me thanks for the hundred dollars, and they thought I was going to be a very successful lawyer. Well, so did I. With my law degree I sensed a new mission in life, a new surge of energy. I rented an office in the Herald building, across the hall from the newsroom, and hung my degree on the wall. A bit of paint here and there, an ad in the paper, and it all began to happen; I was a lawyer.
The Herald building was the only three-story building within a hundred miles. From our rooftop you could see the Sierra Madres on a clear day, and Pancho Vila supposedly pissed somewhere in our parking lot. Everybody was friendly, and I couldn’t have picked a more peaceful place to live. Over time I was able to sign on enough clients so I could pay the bills and life was going great.

My mother lived somewhere in Ocussus, the corrupt city on the other side of the river. She moved to Texas the same time as Uncle Herbert, but ignored him completely, which I can easily believe since she left me in an orphanage when I was six. I always hoped to meet her again one day, but only chanced to see her now and then coming and going from Ocussus.
The city of Ocussus boasted thousands of lawyers, since every citizen had to have their own attorney to protect them against the other citizens’ attorneys. And should any of the hand-full of honest citizens living in Ocussus ever want to hire an honest attorney, they had to drive across the bridge to Shorty and see me. Yes, I’m an honest attorney. I believe truth to be the virtue upon which all others rest, and while Law is the opposite of Medicine, where you had to take an oath to do good stuff, I made a promise to myself I would always strive to do the right thing.
It wasn’t long before I got my first test, when I was called upon to defend a man on trial for his life. Being my first case I was a bit nervous, but thrilled at the challenge; I felt I was about to enter my element.

The adventure began for me one morning in my office. “I’m going to kill that sonofabitch, Mr. Ardonni,” Andrew P. Tucker growled, pushing me out of his way as he stomped around my office. His six-foot-ten frame stopped abruptly in front of a window and the room went dark.
I told him, “You’ve got to handle this legally, Mr. Tucker. You have to work within the law!”
“I bought a gun and some bullets,” he whispered, his eyes glaring side to side. “I’m going to blow the bastard’s head off.”
I remained in the chair where he had thrown me, but kept talking, “Get hold of yourself, Mr. Tucker. Kidnapping is a capital crime; whoever did this to your daughter will be severely punished.”
The man hung his head, his eyes closed. Crumpled suit, his hat rolled up in his hands, the man was below depression. “Mr. Ardonni,” he said, “when my private investigator located my daughter she had been sold in Arabia as a harem slave, twice. Mayor Falseworth did it, him and that District Attorney, Upton Rivers, and River’s wife, the one they call Wanda The Witch. They’re the devils who destroyed my life.”
“Is your daughter willing to testify?” I asked.

“My daughter, though badly scarred, her mind ravaged for life, came out of her coma long enough to point to Mayor Falseworth as the leader of the white-slavery ring, but then she drifted back to the other side.”
“Justice will be done,” I promised, getting to my feet. “But you have to let the authorities handle this.”
“You haven’t been here long, have you, Ardonni? Why do you think I had to come across the river to find somebody who hasn’t signed Satan’s pact?” Mr. Tucker walked to the door and opened it. Across the hall the Herald reporters were busy putting together the afternoon edition, and I could feel the rumble of the press warming up. Mr. Tucker stood there in the doorway, his tear-filled voice cracking as he spoke. “Mr. Ardonni, some people in this world deserve to die.”
“Give me a couple days,” I pleaded, “I’ll go to the state capitol.”
But Mr. Tucker was gone. He would be the third client that day wanting to murder the mayor of Ocussus. A parent - teacher association was waiting for me when I arrived at the office that morning. They wanted to know if there was anything the law could do about the Mayor closing down the schools, and in the process, relieving all teachers of their jobs. When I told them there was nothing I could do, they wanted me to advise them on how they couldkill the man.
“The only way to change that kind of insane leadership,” I told them, “is at the voting booth.”
“You haven’t been here long, have you Mr. Ardonni?” one of the committee suggested. “Mayor Falseworth owns the voting machines, and it’s the mayor and his henchmen who count the votes on election night. It’s all done in secret, and, needless to say, Mayor Falseworth always wins. But the people in Ocussus think it’s okay for the Mayor to cheat, if that’s the only way he can win; they love him for it.”

Later that afternoon, Sister Sarah, the head mistress at the orphanage, came to see me. “I want to make out my Will, Mr. Ardonni,” she confided. The woman was probably in her sixties, but attractive, what I could see of her under all that black and white clothing. Her eyes were solemn, peering at me over wire-frame glasses. “I’m going to do something very bad,” she said, “and they will probably lock me up for it.”
“Sister Sarah, I can’t believe that. Your paperwork here says you’ve been director of the Ocussus Orphanage for thirty-six years; what would they do without you?”
“Mayor Falseworth closed down the orphanage. I thought he had come to fix the plumbing, or maybe turn the heat and the electricity back on, but instead, he closed the building and locked it.
“You guys are right,” I admitted, “I haven’t been here long.”
“That man will pay in Hell, Mr. Ardonni, but my great sin is that I want to see him there as soon as possible.”
“Sister Sarah, Sister Sarah,” I muttered, trying to calm her.
The Nun broke down crying. “I’ve shamed myself gravely here today, Mr. Ardonni, wishing harm on another human being.” She took my arm, her desperate eyes begging for understanding. “But, Emory Falseworth is not a human being,” she explained, as if telling it to God, “he’s the lowest slime bag sonofabitch that’s ever crawled on its belly upon this earth!”
I sat back in my chair. “Sister Sarah,” I contemplated, “in your next life you need to be a prosecutor.”

Chapter two

The following morning I had a court appearance and came in early to avoid the impending rain. Unlocking my office door, I smelled Jasmine on the air, and knew my friend Margo had come in early, too. She was the Herald’s photographer, and worked across the hall in the newsroom. Tall and pretty, black hair cut in an old-fashioned Pageboy, she was a relative newcomer to Shorty, as was I. Our relationship so far had been as friends, but I think we were both considering the possibilities. I found Margo in her cubicle, going through photos at her desk. She looked up and smiled the way I like, “Good-morning, Dewey.”
“Good-morning,” I said, sliding onto the chair next to her.
Looking back to the photos she asked, “Wanna take a pretty girl to breakfast?”
I looked around. “Is she here? I though Helga worked evenings.”
Margo turned around in her chair, slowly crossing her arms and her legs at the same time. “Well, Dewey, I’m sure that when Helga’s not mopping the floors she dreams about you, too.”
We were both laughing at this when Mr. Roback appeared suddenly in her doorway. “Oh, Margo,” he said, “I’m glad you’re here.” Wearing a white, long-sleeved shirt, through which you could see the gray hair on his chest over the top of his tank-top undershirt, his tie was undone, his sleeves rolled up, Mr. Roback was bubbling with news. “We’ve got us a murder,” he grinned. “Somebody killed Mayor Falseworth this morning; stabbed him in the back outside his office.”

Of course, I immediately considered which one of my clients had done it.
Mr. Roback seemed to notice me for the first time. “Ardonni? What the hell are you doing here? Why aren’t you over at the Ocussus City Hall?”
“I didn’t know about the murder until you just told us, Mr. Roback.”
“What do you do down there at that police station; your scanner don’t play cool music; you have to find out about emergencies in the next day’s paper?”
“It’s worked so far, Sir,” I told him.
Margo laughed.
I continued, “I’m not a detective any more, Mr. Roback. I decided I wasn’t very good at it.”
“Well, that’s understandable; you weren’t worth a damn as a reporter, either.”
“Someday a publisher will pay big money for those obituaries, Mr. Roback.”
“Do you realize the family of one of the deceased is trying to sue us?”
“I’m sorry. I was just trying to help the paper. I thought more people would read the funeral notices if there was a little more color to them.”
“Snakeeyes Auntie Martha is survived by her brother, Mad Dog Uncle Harry?”
“See?”

He was not impressed. “So what are you doing since I fired your ass?”
“I’m a lawyer now.”
“Oh, yes; those business cards you keep sticking in my door. God help me if I ever need a legality done.”
Margo broke in, “Excuse me, Sir, about the murder; do they have a suspect?”
“Yes they do,” he replied. “Every man, woman and child on this side of the river, and a few on the other side, too. Falseworth was a hated man. Say, Ardonni, why don’t you do something helpful for a change and escort Margo over to Ocussus City Hall? See she gets through the police lines. I imagine all four hundred of their officers will be out on this one.”
“I’ll be happy to escort Margo,” I told him.
She picked up her coat and purse and we scampered across the hall to the elevator. Seeing us from his doorway, he snapped his fingers. “Are you still here?” he asked. “There’s a dead man waiting!”

The elevator doors closed between us.
Margo called ahead and we picked up hot coffee and sandwiches on the way. It began to rain heavily as we crossed the bridge, with lightning lighting up the black sky like flickering daylight. The city of Ocussus was completely surrounded by a twelve-foot concrete wall, with broken glass embedded in the top all the way around. This was so the hungry taxpayers living in cardboard shanties outside the wall wouldn’t try to get in and steal something to eat. We parked about four blocks from Ocussus City Hall. Mr. Roback was right, all four hundred of their police cars were there, but we only saw one officer on duty. It was our friend Mark Spade standing on the front steps in the rain. With Margo’s umbrella over us, we splashed through the puddles and up the steps to where he stood.
Margo said to him, “Must be a lot of radio traffic tonight.” She was referring to the three hundred and ninety-nine other police officers sitting safely in their cars, talking on their radios.
“Yes, Ma’am,” Mark said. “They talkin to they mommies.”
“We’re here about the murder,” I told him.
“Which one? The one by the back-stabber or the one by the hand of God?”
“There’s more than one?”
“There’s her,” he said, nodding to a small black pile of what looked like coal dust on the steps. “Woman was walking up the steps just like you, and, wham, lightning flashed and she wasn’t there no more.”

The victim was recognizable as a woman only by a single high-heeled red shoe, and a red and yellow flower-pattern purse laying a few steps below. Mark added, “I’m still in shock. I haven’t told anybody about her yet. You think I should? It’s just so strange, I’m not sure it even happened. I been pretending the street sweepers left that pile of dust there.”
Margo pointed across the steps. “There’s a trash bin turned over by the wind; maybe you’re right.” She noticed something else. “On the other hand, if that really is a dead woman, when her relatives come to collect the body somebody’s going to have to explain why she washed away down a storm sewer.”
Mark saw the ashes scattering in the rain and nodded in agreement. “That’s right, that’s right, and it’ll be me who’ll haveta do it. It’s no fun bein new man on the force, people.” He said to me. “I wish you’d hire on, friend, maybe then I could get a step up.”
“Mama Ardonni raised only cowards, Mark; I was her pride and joy. I wouldn’t be any better as a policeman than I was as a detective. I’m afraid of guns.”

Suddenly, he remembered something. “Hey,” he laughed, pointing at me. “I know who you are; you’re that lawyer fellow over in Shorty. I was over at you-all’s Courthouse paying a ticket last week and chanced to catch you at work in the courtroom. You were doin the talk, friend, and your man did the walk. I woulda sworn your client stole them chickens, but you somehow convinced the jury he was innocent. Hell, the man had a chicken feather stuck to his shoe.”
“Yeah, but it was down low where the jury couldn’t see it.”
“Well, I enjoyed the show. If I ever need somebody to defend my ass, I’m gonna come lookin for you. What’s your name?”
I gave him my business card. “Don’t you remember me, Mark?”
“I just met you, Louie,” he said.
“That’s, Dewey,” I corrected him. “Mark, are you okay? You’re acting strange. You’ve worked with Margo and myself on many investigations. Remember when Mrs. Andrew’s cow got loose?”
Margo tried to help, “Mark, my name is Margo. I’m a reporter at the Herald.”
“Glad to meet you.”
“Well, look,” she pressed on, “do you have any information on the dead woman?”
“Just what was in her purse; all the witnesses were gone by the time we got here. They were afraid of the lightning, like smart people supposed to be.”
“Lightning?” I considered, looking around. “It’s still raining, Mark, maybe we should all get inside somewhere.”

“Upton Rivers put me out here to hold back the mourners; so far they’s just you two.”
Margo copied the dead woman’s name and address from a driver’s license and gave it back to Mark. “Are you going to be all right, Mark?” she asked. “You aren’t acting like yourself.”
“I don’t remember what I’m supposed to act like, Ma’am. I don’t remember nothin after that lightning bolt struck that woman.”
She advised him, “You should go home and call a doctor; you’ve lost your memory. If you’re still here when we finish inside, we’ll drive you.”
“I’ll lose my job if I leave here,” he said. “I feel okay, I think.”
We splashed up the steps where I pulled the door open and called back to Mark, “Are you going to report the lightning killing the woman?”
“Let’s just wait and see if somebody comes up missing, worry about it then.”
“Good plan,” I agreed. “Well, we’ll see you in a bit.”
“Okay Louie.”

I followed Margo inside. A small crowd had gathered, mostly medical personnel and office-workers from upstairs, and in a glassed conference room we could see a group of people being interviewed by the District Attorney, Upton Rivers. I learned later that when the girls at Shorty City Hall found out Falseworth was dead, they cheered and broke into song. Dr. Dowell, the Coroner, had just pronounced the victim dead, and was supervising the loading of the body onto a stretcher - cart. The body was covered with a sheet, and the knife was still in the victim’s back, causing the sheet to rise in an abrupt peak. A woman I knew who worked upstairs stood quietly at the back door, waiting for the stretcher to approach. She caused it to stop, gently lifting back the sheet from the victim’s head, then spat on the dead man where he lay. The interns rushed to her and pulled her away. “You people need to stop doing that!” one of them scolded her. “If everyone keeps spitting on the corpse, it’ll contaminate any DNA evidence.”
Margo took pictures of the murder scene and I went to talk with the Coroner as the ambulance pulled away. “Do they have any leads, Dr. Dowell?” I asked.
He adjusted the spectacles on his nose so he could see me better. “So, you couldn’t make it as a policeman? What kind of man are you, Ardonni?”
“My heart just wasn’t in it, Sir.”
“Lawyerin? God help me if I ever need a legality done.”
“Yes, Sir. Did you find any fingerprints on the knife?”
“Lots of them. We’ll find this killer pretty quick.”

Margo joined us. “Do you have any suspects?” she asked.
“Not yet. But give us an hour in the lab and we’ll have our man.” Dr. Dowell went to the back door, where he opened his umbrella. “When I know something I’ll give Roback a call.” With this he pushed the door open, ducked under the umbrella, and hurried out to his car.
Mark refused to leave his assignment, so we left him in the rain and the lightning. Returning to the Herald newsroom, Margo took me to the microfilm room. She wanted to look in past issues for the name on the license, and in seconds she had a hit. On the screen was a story about an automobile accident that happened two years before. The story even had a photo of the pretty blonde woman who died in the crash. We were both amazed at what the woman was wearing.
“Explain to me,” Margo wanted to know, “how a purse and shoes from an auto-death two years ago ended up on the Ocussus City Hall steps? According to her date of birth, the woman who died from being struck by lightning this morning, already died two years ago.”

Chapter Three

I went to check the messages at my office, and when I came back Mr. Roback was explaining the background of the deceased Mayor to a new employee. The kid was probably the new copy boy, freckle-faced, still in high school, he seemed to be enraptured by his new boss’s colorful account. “Mayor Emory Bohard Falseworth betrayed every trust,” the editor explained, “and pocketed every tax dollar he could get his greedy hands on. He cut funding to the fire department, the orphanage, the schools, and he stopped all aid to the poor. It is said that since Falseworth was elected mayor, when a citizen of Ocussus reached the age of seventy-five they were given a bullet and told what to do with it.”
“I don’t believe that,” Margo laughed. “Even that’s below Emory Falseworth’s standards.” But, even as we all chuckled at this incredible notion, none of us could remember seeing an old person in Ocussus in a long, long time.
Mr. Roback was obviously happy his paper finally had something to print beside the price of chili peppers. He continued, “No one breathed without the Mayor’s permission, and then only after they paid a tax or bought a permit to do so. Luckily, Mayor Falseworth never got to know many of us over here at the Herald, at least not well enough to want to do us harm. In fact, he made it a habit to stay away from newspapers, where someone might take his picture. He kissed no babies, gave no speeches; he just maintained the low profile that allowed him to steal everything he could steal.”

“So, what went wrong?” I asked. “His lifestyle seems to have cost him his life.”
Mr. Roback nodded. “If you steal indiscriminately from the private as well as the public sector, eventually you’re going to step on somebody’s toes. Remember, these are the men who killed Kennedy, and they’re still mooning us from that grassy knoll.”
I made my court appointment, signed some divorce papers, and hurried the eight blocks across town to meet Margo for lunch at Attilla’s. We were in the middle of our Burrito’s when her cell phone rattled. She listened for a moment, and I could see her expression turn to shock as she jotted some things down on a pad. “That was Mr. Roback,” she said, putting away her phone and rolling our food into a large napkin. “They’ve confirmed the evidence; the prints, eyewitness accounts, and they’ve even got a DNA match; they’ve got their man.”
As I ran behind her to our cars she explained, “The main suspect in the murder of Mayor Falseworth is none other than Officer Mark Spade.”
I was stunned. “T-that’s impossible.”

“Facts are facts,” She said. “And you can’t argue with DNA?”
I followed her to the Shorty police station, where a guard took us to Mark’s cell. The prisoner got up from his bunk when he saw us, and came to the door smiling. He was wearing an orange jumpsuit. “My new friends,” he greeted us, “Margie and Louie,”
“Margo and Dewey,” Margo corrected him. “How are you holding up, Mark?”
“They say I killed Mayor Falseworth.”
“Did you?” I asked.
“I don’t remember nothin after the lightning struck that woman. She wasn’t standin more than ten feet from me.”
“What evidence do they have?” I asked Margo,” knowing she had taken notes on the phone call.
She read them off. “Twenty eye witnesses, fingerprints, and a DNA match.”
To which Mark added, “They also got my confession.”
“You signed a confession?” I blurted. “You aren’t even sure you did it.”
“That prosecutor said I did it. He seemed pretty sure. And how else could they have all that evidence?”
“Well, I wish you had waited,” I advised him. “Was that your knife used in the murder?”
“Yeah, it was mine. I kept in the top of my locker. Everybody used it, peeling orange, opening things, stuff like that; anybody who needed it.”
“What’s your bail?” I asked.

“They not none. This door isn’t even locked.” He moved it open and shut to show us. “There was a mob of Liberals gathered outside my window last night with a rope, hollerin they were gonna lynch the Sheriff if he didn’t let me go. The Sheriff told them he’d let me out soon as Judge Walkfree said he could, so please not to break down his door. They all went home.”
“Wow.” I was amazed. “I’ve never heard it told that way before.”
Mark added. “As long as I’m in Shorty, I think I’ll be okay.”
Margo agreed, “This town would never come up with twelve people willing to convict you or anybody else for killing Emory Bohard Falseworth; even with a signed confession.”
“Mr. Louie, will you be my lawyer?” the man in the orange jump suit asked.
“What will we use for a defense?” I asked. I had been considering what I would do if he did asked me. “They’ve got all this evidence; what will we tell the judge?”
“I’ll tell him my mamma raised me better than do something bad like that.”
I nodded. “That should do it. I think we’ve got it in the bag. I’ll come back tomorrow and we’ll go over everything that happened. I don’t think you killed the mayor, Mark, and, yes, I’ll represent you.”
“Thanks, Louie,” he said, trying to smile. “Luck’s been with me so far, my new friends, I’m sure it won’t let me down now.”
The Herald newsroom was alive with scurrying reporters, everyone working on the big story. Mr. Roback came to Margo’s door. “The Prosecution just got a change of venue,” he said. “The trial’s been moved across the river to Ocussus.”
“Oh, no!” Margo whispered. “Emory Bohard Falseworth was born in Ocussus.”
“So was their district attorney,” the editor added. “Those two men are Ocussus’ favorite sons. And now, with the death of the mayor, Upton Rivers has appointed himself the official hand of vengeance. Judge Walkfree is out; Judge Throwbook is in.”
“When do we pick a jury?” I asked.
“Jury’s already selected.”

I was jolted. “But I’m Mark Spade’s defense counsel; I’m supposed to be there for the Jury selection.”
“The Ocussus officials stayed up all night last night choosing a jury. Had some fist fights and two people are in the hospital. So many wanted to be on the jury that would hang the man who killed their favorite son, that things got out of hand. They finally added eight more chairs to the jury box to stop the fighting.”
“Twenty jurors?” I protested. “They can’t do that. And Mark hasn’t even been indicted yet.”
“I called Rivers about that,” Mr. Roback went on, “and he said that since they’ll be holding the trail in secret and on a weekend in the dark of night, a defense attorney won’t be necessary.”
“Welcome to Ocussus,” Margo said quietly.
Mr. Roback returned to his office, telling us over his shoulder, “Trial starts Monday morning, whether we like it or not.”
Margo and I sat at her desk bewildered. “Dewey,” she asked, “are you going to be able to mount a defense? It sure looks like Mark is guilty.”
“I’ll subpoena the entire township of Shorty if I have to, and after the jury hears how many people wanted Mayor Falseworth dead, maybe I can create a shadow of a doubt in one of the juror’s minds.”
“Good,” she said. “You do have a plan. But don’t forget, you’re up against a monster; District Attorney Upton Rivers has never lost a case.”
“Trust me,” I told her, and kissed her on the forehead.

Chapter Four

Saturday morning I was hoping to sleep in and get some rest before the trail on Monday, but the phone woke me up just before sunrise. “Hello?” I whispered.
A woman’s voice announced, “I’m outa Jack.”
I did not recognize her voice. “Who is this?”
“This is your mother. I need a ride to the liquor store.”
“Mother? Well, I’m glad you called.” I sat up in bed. After all these years of separation, a phone call like this was a definite breakthrough.
She said, “There’s something I’ve been wanting to tell you.”
“Certainly, Mother. Where can I meet you?” She gave me her address and then hung up. Everything I knew about my mother I had picked up from the society page in the newspaper. She made her fortune in real estate, moved to Texas ten years ago with her brother, and has been an outspoken proponent of money, Upton Rivers, and the Repugnant Party ever since. At the beginning of the second century, politics and government in America became so evil and corrupt that even the Republicans were outdone. As a result an entirely new party was created to represent this obscenity upon our land, the Repugnant Party. It followed naturally that the national headquarters for the Repugnant Party would be Ocussus, Texas, and their leaders would be Mayor Falseworth and Upton Rivers.

I followed mother’s directions to the front gate of Ocussus, found her mansion without much trouble, and buzzed her on the intercom from the gate. She came out immediately, and, after making it clear that riding in my ’65 Chevy truck was far below her standards, she got in and we cruised out of town.
Mother’s hair was dyed strawberry red, she stood about five-seven, her substantial weight stuffed into a million dollar dress, the hem of which brushed the ground behind her million dollar shoes. She was not unattractive, but the demeanor of her face said anything but Mother.
“Do you know where Thompson’s Tavern is?” she asked.
“I’ve heard of it.”
She explained her predicament, “My cases of Jack have arrived and I need to pick them up. My chauffeur Simon usually does this, but he died last night of a heart attack.”
“Is he the one who was pictured with you in the Herald’s ‘Richest Women in the World spread?”
“Yes. He was bringing me home from a Repugnant Party’s Child-Rapist Defense Fund meeting and dropped dead over the steering wheel at a red light. I tried to push him out of the way so I could drive but he was too fat; I had to walk the rest of the block home.”
“That’s too bad, Mother.”

“Yes. It’s too bad about Simon, too; he was with me twenty years.”
A mile outside town we pulled to a stop in front of a small bar at the edge of a barren desert. I followed Mother inside to a booth in back, where we slid into seats across from each other. Thompson’s Tavern was obviously old stomping-ground for dear old Mom, for even at seven in the morning she knew everybody and called out to them.
“I like this place, Mother,” I told her. “But I’m surprised it’s open this early.”
“I told Upton Rivers I wouldn’t vote for him unless he wrote new liquor laws into the Ocussus Constitution. You can buy hard liquor at church on Sunday these days.”
“The place is nice, but hardly the dive I’d expect a millionaires like you to hang out.”
“It’s the one connection with the past I allow myself.”
Without being asked to do so, the bartender, a huge man in a filthy tank-top T-shirt, his apron splattered with last week’s burger stains, came to our table and placed a cold Bud and a fifth of Jack Daniels in front of us.
Mother opened the bottle of Jack immediately and turned it vertical, the liquor making a glugging sound going down her throat. The bottle half empty, she smiled in contentment and wiped her lips. “Sam here, he’s got ESP,” she informed me, touching the bartender’s hairy, tattooed arm. “He knows what people want when they walk in the door.”
Sam was huge, bald, obviously a biker, with an eye patch and a scar that ran all the way across his face. Just to see what he would say, I told him, “I really wanted a Red Stripe.”
He smiled ever so slightly and, after a pause, told me very softly, “I can give you one of those.”
I laughed out loud and shook my head. “Just kidding, Sam. You got it right; you know a Bud man when you see one.”

Mother drank the rest of the fifth in a second gulp, and handed the empty back to Sam to take with him. Then she changed the subject. “Son, there’s something I want to tell you. I know I haven’t been much of a mother to you, and I wanted to apologize for ignoring you all your life. While I was off making money, you were left to fend for yourself. I have all these jewels and furs, and a garage filled with shiny cars, and yet I gave you nothing.”
“That’s all right, Mother,” I told her in truth, “I turned out okay.”
“How can you say that? Look at what you’re driving. And I bet you don’t even own a golf course.”
“Mother; I’m happy.”
“I left you on your own so that you would grow up strong and independent like me. Leaving you completely out of my life seemed the best way to do that at the time. But I guess I was wrong. I never dreamed you would grow up a Liberal.”
“Mother; I’m glad you wanted to get together. There’s so much I want to know about my past. Uncle Herbert wouldn’t even discuss most of it. I hardly even know who my father was.”
The bartender brought another Bud and a second bottle of Jack, and, without taking his eyes off me, set them down and picked up the money Mother had laid out. Still looking at me with eyes half closed, he returned to the bar. Mother wasted no time cracking the second label. Genuinely concerned, I asked her, “How can you function drinking that much alcohol?”
“How can I function without it?” She replied, as a fact no longer open for discussion. Then she mentioned, “I read where you’re going to be a guest on a television interview with Upton Rivers next Thursday. You think you’ll still be alive after the trial?”

“He hasn’t won, yet, Mother.” I replied. “My friend Margo is hosting a show on corruption. The District Attorney is representing the pro side, and I’m supposed to speak for the con.”
“Are you and this Margo going to get married?”
“Married? We’re just friends. Well, maybe, eventually.”
“Married is okay, I suppose,” she considered, “but once you become a parent you’ll know what’ it’s like for your life to be over.”
“Well, lucky for the world, Mother, most people don’t look on parenting the way you do. And speaking of parents, don’t you think it’s time you told me about my father?”
“It’s a story best left untold. And none of that matters now. All I wanted to do was apologize for being a crummy mother, not go tiptoeing through the memories.”
“I’m just happy to be sitting here with you, Mother. And you didn’t totally ignore me. You came to the orphanage to see me on my birthday.”
“Yes, that was nice. You were so cute when you were seven. I’ve got pictures.”
“I still have that cowboy hat,” I told her. “I’m saving it for my own little boy.”
She reached across the table and took my hands in hers. “All that matters in this life, …” Her expression went completely blank for an uncomfortably long moment.
I finally told her, “Dewey.”

“Yes, yes, of course; Dewey, all that matters in this life is money. God will protect you as long you devote every moment of your life to making money, any way you can.” She let go my hand and leaned back in her seat, her friendly expression turning into a smirk. “But I guess it’s no use talking reality to a you. Your kind only understands honesty and integrity, when it’s money and possessions that count in today’s world. Only the rich will survive, Dewey, so you’d better get on the gravy train while you can. Personally, I think all you Liberal’s should be lined up against a wall and shot.” She thought about this, taking another slug from the bottle. “Not you, of course; I need a ride home.”
“Really, Mother, I’d like to know about my father. The only thing I remember is his name was Carl.”
“His name was Bill.”

“Bill?” I gasped. “You waited sixteen years to tell me my father’s real name was Bill?”
“That’s the name he gave me.”
“Gave you?” I was even more confused.
She said, “All these riches and I never shared with you.”
“Mother, having wealth crossed my mind, but never enough to worry about it. I survived pretty well; got me a law degree, my life’s good.” This time it was I who took her hands in mine. “About my father,” I persisted, “until now I though his name was Carl, the one we threw out the fourth story window when I was six.”
“Carl had a temper.”
“He was trying to knife you, Mother.”
“Yes, well, I appreciate your stepping in with that cast-iron skillet.”
“I was only trying to protect you, and pay him back for the beatings.”
“Well, you did that. We had to dump him out the window to cover up the fact his skull was broken in so many pieces.”
I thought about it and smiled. I looked at her. “You know, Mother, we were close once, weren’t we?”
She shrugged but did not reply.
I let my mind drift over the past. “There was a man named Frank,” I remembered out loud. “He seemed to be around a lot.”
“I never loved Frank,” she interjected. “I never loved Carl. The only man I ever loved was the man who called himself Bill.”
“Why don’t you know his name for sure?”
“I didn’t know him that long.”

“Well, tell me what happened, Mother. I’m a grown man now; I want to know about my father.”
“Okay. I guess you’re right. I guess it’s time for truth all around. Well, first of all, I didn’t make my money in real estate like I’ve led the world to believe. Back in the eighties I was the most successful Madam in Chicago.”
I was startled. What can a man say when his mother tells him something like this?
“But I wasn’t always prosperous,” she went on. “I was plenty hungry in the early years, none more than nine months before you were born. I was working as a hooker in a waterfront ghetto neighborhood in New York, doing it in an alley behind a burned-down liquor store, working for a one-armed pimp named Gloss.”
I tried to suck in enough air to let out a gasp, but found I could not.
Mother continued, “Every night I serviced the grimy longshoremen coming off the tugboats, and the walking dead and the squalor of humanity coming from the blood-donor clinics down on Canal Street. I did it on garbage cans, cardboard boxes, and in the mud; I used to cut myself on broken bottles. But eventually I saved up enough to buy myself a bus ticket out of there.”
“M-my God, Mother,” I gasped, looking around. “This is probably more than I needed to know.”

“Well, make up your mind. You asked me to tell you about your father.”
I closed my eyes and nodded, “Yes, yes, okay, go ahead; but jump ahead to the part where my father bounces me on his knee and tells me bedtime stories.”
Mother lit a cigarette, took a long draw, and blew the smoke into the darkness above her. She continued, “Bill was the most handsome man I had ever seen. It was a miserably cold, rainy December night, I looked up from my work and saw him standing there in line with the sailors and drunken tamps from the docks waiting their turn. He was an unbelievably elegant, handsome man, dressed in what must have been a thousand dollar suit; he stood well over six-feet tall, with coal black hair and black, riveting eyes that were staring hungrily down at me. His presence was a shining jewel among the dregs standing around him. This man called Bill made love to me right there in the garbage, the mud, broken bottles and scurrying rats, like he was an angel from above sent down to conceive you. Why he was so gracious to me when it was him paying the quarter I will never know.”

I sat speechless, my mouth hanging open in shock.
She concluded, “He ruined that suit.”
“Mother, I’m blond, skinny, and not much taller than you; I can’t help but think you’re making all this up.” I immediately considered the implication of what I had just said, and, before she could answer, interjected, “Of course, you were there; you should know for sure.”
Her expression was that of resignation. “I guess what I’m saying, Dewey, is, I’m not positive this man Bill was your father, but he’s the one I always wished it was.”
I carried mother’s liquor cases out to the truck, and when I dropped her off at home I carried them inside for her. As I was leaving we actually hugged for what may have been the first time in our lives. I waved to her as I drove away. I had a good feeling about knowing my mother again. I guess visiting memories from the past can be a good thing.

Chapter Five

Monday morning Margo picked me up at my place and we rode together to the Ocussus County Courthouse for the first day of the trial. Several news crews from around the country were already set up, all the people from the News Herald were there, and out on the front lawn a monitor had been set up so the overflow from the courtroom would be able to watch the trail on television. A CNN reporter was giving a live, worldwide, pretrial newscast, “Good morning, America,” he said to the camera. “We’re here in Ocussus, Texas where a man is on trial for murdering the Mayor, Mr. Emory Bohard Falseworth. Ocussus, Texas is unique in America in that almost every citizen is a millionaire, even the maids and butlers. The garbage is picked up in BMW’s, and the fire trucks are made by Mercedes. Also, the only ones who pay taxes are the poor. In Ocussus, Texas, you are either a Millionaire or a Taxpayer, there is no in-between.” The reporter stopped a man entering the building. “Sir, are you a Millionaire?”
“Several times over,” he replied.

“And what about those citizens of Ocussus who are not Millionaires?”
“You mean the Taxpayers? Well, poor people don’t need money like we rich people do. They don’t need money for education because all the schools have been closed; they don’t need money for food because they have all they can eat in desert lizards and cacti, all for free.” The man chuckled, “Why do we put up with them? Somebody’s got to keep the sewers clean.”
Inside we found the courtroom filled to the balcony with people, with the line of people along the back wall pouring out the front door and out around the television monitor. I arranged to bring ten witnesses on a bus from Shorty, at my own considerable expense, and I also subpoenaed the secretaries who cheered and broke into song when they learned Mayor Falseworth was dead. They sat in their assigned seats, watching and waiting to testify. We didn’t have much of a defense, considering the prosecution had more than enough evidence, and our only hope was to find a kind heart somewhere on the twenty-panel jury.
A Deputy brought Mark Spade to the Defense table, unlocked his chains, and sat him down next to me. Mark and I had gotten to talk for about an hour the night before, but he told me little I though we could use. Some of us in the Herald building chipped in and bought Mark a suit from Harvey’s Gun and Pawn, and I’m sure he looked as good as he ever looked. He still didn’t know who we were, but it didn’t seem to matter.

The District Attorney, Upton Rivers, entered the trail area and pulled out a chair at the Prosecution table. The man was tall and lean, silver hair, wearing a blue suit, he was a handsome man until he looked at you. When his eyes met mine, I could see all the way down to his heart and found it covered with ice.
Upton Rivers was accompanied by his wife, and an assistant dressed in a tweed suit. The grin Upton Rivers gave me was not of good will. I had launched some complaints through the U.S. Justice Department, and though I was told to mind my own business about the jury selection, fearing bad press, the United States Justice Department conceded that, for the time being, the Mark Spade trial would have to be held in the daytime on weekdays. It was obvious to me that Upton Rivers was not pleased with my having done this.
He said to me, “You may have gotten one over on me, Ardonni, getting the law to intermingle in our private ways of doing things here in Ocussus, but it won’t matter. You’ve already made the biggest mistake of your short career, you’ve stepped into the same courtroom with the leopard, the mangler; Upton Rivers, the greatest Prosecutor in the history of the jury system.”
“Well, maybe I can learn something,” I submitted.

“My boy, you’ll learn something. You’re learn what it’s like to be humbled; you’re going to remember today’s lashing for the rest of your life.” With this he chuckled like a villain in some Saturday cartoon, and sat down at his table. He looked back and added, “The courts may run America, Ardonni, but Ocussus Cactus Oil runs the courts.”
Ocussus Cactus Oil was a cough syrup invented by a local mother who had a child suffering from a cold. One teaspoon of this syrup not only cured the child’s cold, but also fixed her teeth and gave the child an IQ of two hundred and fifty. When the town found out about this magic oil they patented the formula for themselves; leaving the local mother out of it. Everyone on the patent list became a millionaire.
The District Attorney’s wife, Witch Wanda, was obliged to pull out her own chair at the table, and she took a seat next to her husband. She had that witch’s profile, the nose and the thing that looked like a wart, and I have actually seen flowers wilt when she walked by. Tall and exceptionally thin, she was dressed for evil in a black suit and hat, and on her feet she wore black, six-inch stiletto heels. A black transparent net covered her face, making her almost attractive. But something strange happened. When her husband wasn’t looking, Witch Wanda glanced back over his shoulder at me and I saw immediately that her eyes, which had always looked upon me with the utmost disdain and contempt, now seemed filled with a pleading desperation. I was taken off-guard by this, and could only nod back to her. She took a compact from her handbag and began powdering what looked like tear stains beneath her eyes.

Twelve jurors were seated in the jury box, with the rest of them seated in front. The Judge entered by a hidden door behind the bench, and we all stood up as the clerk announced, “This court of Ocussus County, Texas is now in session. All stand for the Honorable Hangus P. Throwbook.”
The judge was in his fifties, quite fat, with a pasty white face and bushy black eyebrows. His head was covered with extremely white hair, cut into a butch haircut. He climbed into his seat, slammed his gavel, and motioned the clerk to introduce the first case.
“Your Honor, Mark Spade, the nigger who murdered our beloved Mayor last Friday morning, has been dragged before this court for sentencing.”
I jumped to my feet. “Your Honor, I object! My client hasn’t even been indicted yet, much less found guilty of anything.” I then told the clerk, “Sir, if you can’t address a man any better than that you need to learn some manners.”

The room fell silent. People in the audience looked at me, then at each other, than back to me.
“Manners,” I repeated. “Rules of life that help you act like a human being.”
The bewildered silence broke into “oo’s” and “ah’s” of new awareness, as the Ocussus audience contemplated this unique concept.
The District Attorney announced, “We’d like to call Dr. Dowell to the stand.” The Coroner came from the audience and sat in the witness chair.
Upton Rivers began, “Dr. Dowell, state your occupation.”
“I’m Coroner of Ocussus County”
“And you have done a thorough investigation into the murder of our dear, beloved mayor; the man who was sent from the planet Pluto to guide us?”
“That is correct.”
“Did you find any fingerprints on the knife?”
“There were several.”
“Dr. Dowell, to whom do the fingerprints belong?”
“They belong to Mark Spade, the defendant.”
I didn’t see how things could get any worse, but Rivers had that covered too. “Dr. Dowell,” he said to the witness, “I understand you have a DNA match.”
“Yes. Some of the fingerprints had Mark Spade’s cells attached.”
“Is that common?”

“I’ve never seen anything like it. Of course, DNA is still relatively new, especially here in Texas.”
The District Attorney asked, “Dr. Dowell, please tell the court about the first time Mark Spade came to the courthouse to kill the mayor.”
“Well, he actually came to ask the mayor if he could mow the courthouse lawn for extra money.”
“And with the lawnmower blade, did Mark Spade attack Mayor Falseworth?”
“No, the Mayor said he had a Taxpayer who mowed the lawn for next to nothing.”
“Was it then that the Defendant hit our dear, beloved mayor with the lawn mower blade.”
“No; he left.”
“He left! Of course he left!” Upton Rivers stepped back, turning around to face the audience. He was in a play. “The defendant ran to his locker to get his knife so he could come back and kill the Mayor for not letting him mow his lawn!”
Trying to maintain some logic, Dr Dowell interjected, “Upton, we don’t know why Mr. Spade murdered the mayor, we just know he did.”
I stood up, “Your Honor, once again I object.”

“Attacking a man with a lawnmower blade is a serious offense, Councilor,” Judge Throwbook chastised me, followed by “Sustained!” and a slam of his mallet.
The DA continued, “Dr. Dowell, the Defense will try to tell us what a crook and corrupt leader the mayor was. Isn’t it true that without the mayor and his Ocussus Cough Oil Company, our town would not be what it is today?”
“There is no doubt about that.”
“Thanks you, Dr. Dowell, that will be all.”
The jury was all men, all white, and all of them ready to hang somebody. The Coroner’s examination by the prosecutor was devastating to my case, and I feared any questions I might ask would only make things worse; but I had to try. I approached the witness stand. “Dr. Dowell, wasn’t it common knowledge that Mayor Falseworth was a thief.”
Strangely, Upton Rivers did not object to this accusation.
The Coroner laughed. “It was never a problem. You see; the Ocussus city council set up a fund of a few million dollars on the side for the mayor to steal from. That way he could still set a good example for our children, and not get into the real money.”
“Dr. Dowell,” I asked, “were there any other fingerprints on the murder weapon other than those of Mark Spade?”
“None.”

“Don’t you think it strange that a knife that was used at one time or other by everyone in the police locker room, including the District Attorney, should only have Mark Spade’s fingerprints on it?”
“It doesn’t matter. His were all we needed.”
I asked the Coroner, “Dr. Dowell, what is your association with Ocussus Cough Oil?”
“I’m on the board of directors. But it’s just a title; Falseworth made all the decisions.”
“Can you give us an example?”
“Well, you’ve probably heard about the child who was cured with one spoonful of Ocussus Cough Oil; that really happened. But problems began when Mayor Falseworth insisted on adding a preservative his brother’s company sold. It was an innocent enough preservative by itself; but when mixed with Green Scorpion Cactus Oil, the basic ingredient in Ocussus Cough Oil, it became a lethal poison. Everyone who took Ocussus Cough Oil after that died. The Mayor forbade any negative publicity, even after I told him how dangerous it was, so sales continue to this day around the world. It’s not doing so well in Ocussus any more, of course.”
“When you told the Mayor how dangerous the product was, what did he say?”
“I told him some of those people dying were dear friends of mine; all six of my grandchildren, most of their cousins, my wife and two nephews. I demanded Falseworth change the preservative, but he just laughed, ‘That would be admitting I made a mistake, Dowell,’ he told me. ‘I am Emory Bohard Falseworth; I don’t make mistakes!’ I recall telling him, ‘Children are dying for absolutely nothing.’ ”

“ ‘I don’t care how many brats have to die,’ the Mayor scoffed back at me, ‘I will not withdraw my product.’ ”
“That’s all for this witness,” I told the Court. I was stunned. Why were we even having this trial? We should all be down at the cemetery pissing on Mayor Falseworth’s grave. The Prosecution’s next witness was Alice Applebottom, Ocussus City Hall’s Receptionist. Short and plump, dressed in a red and black plaid outfit, she bounced as she walked across the floor.
“Mrs. Applebottom,” Upon Rivers began, once she was comfortable in the chair, “How long have you worked as City Hall Receptionist?”
“Sixteen years; ever since Mayor Falseworth took office.”
“Sixteen years with our beloved Mayor. He was a such wonderful man, wasn’t he?”
“He was the best mayor Ocussus ever had,” she proclaimed. “Where would we be today without his guidance, his leadership, his same-orientation marriage amendment to the Constitution?”
“True,” the District Attorney agreed, shaking his head in wonder at the thought. “The city would be crawling with left-handed people.” He paused while a murmur of ‘Amen’s’ drifted across the audience. “Mrs. Applebottom, at what time did you see the Defendant running from the building?”
“It was exactly eleven o’clock.”
“How can you be so sure?”

The witness explained, “There is a clock on the wall above the front door.”
Judge Throwbook had fallen asleep. The Clerk went around and woke him up.
“Where were you at this time?” the District Attorney continued.
“We were having a fire drill. Our insurance company requires we have a monthly fire drill; I was standing on the sidewalk out in back of the building.”
“When you came back from the fire drill, Mrs. Applebottom,” Upton Rivers pressed on, “did you notice anything unusual about your work area?”
“Yes, my office supply-cabinet was open. It had either been opened that morning or sometime during the previous week. The lock wasn’t broken or anything. Maybe the defendant had a key.”
“Mrs. Applebottom, did the defendant steal anything beside your pocket book, wallet, and everything you own?"
“No. The only thing he took was a can of spray adhesive. Lord knows what a nigger would want with a can of spray adhesive?”
I stood up to protest.
“That will be all for this witness,” Upton Rivers announced. He turned to face the judge, “Your Honor, Prosecution would like to add grand larceny to that charge of murder against Mark Spade.”

“Done!” the judge said.
I went to my table and took a long drink of water from a glass setting there, and when I put the empty glass down it began to rattle. Mark was so nervous the table was shaking. I would imagine he sensed better than anyone else in that room how badly things were going. I looked at Margo, who gave me her reassuring smile.
“Councilor?” the Judge called down to me. “Are you all right? If you’re sick and would like to forfeit the trial, it’s a beautiful day on the golf course.”
“No,” was all I could manage. I went up to the witness stand. “Mrs. Applebottom, you said the building was having a fire drill at the time the accused supposedly ran through the lobby?”
“Oh, he ran through the lobby all right; eleven o’clock on the dot.”
“Mrs. Applebottom, if all the City Hall workers were standing out back on the sidewalk, how can you say you could see the clock inside the building?”
“Oh, the District Attorney showed it to us later, on the security video.”
“There’s a security video?” I turned to the DA. “Why wasn’t the defense notified about this video in discovery?”

“Because,” he calmly replied, “I figured you’d probably want to see it. You’ve already caused this trial to go on lounger than it should have.”
“Of course I want to see it,” I told him. “Have you got it with you?”
“It’s in my office waste basket.”
“Your Honor,” I proposed, “would the Court please retrieve the video and play it so the jury can all see who is actually running from the building, and whether or not that person is carrying a can of adhesive spray.”
Judge Throwbook thought about it, and seeing no way out, nodded for the Bailiff to go get the tape. The Bailiff was back in minutes and stuck the tape into a player. Television cameras backed away, and I moved to where I could see the monitor on the table, and with the entire courtroom watching, the video began. First we saw the usual morning people coming to work through the lobby, and then the fire drill where everyone disappeared for a while. The reception area was empty until Mark Spade, my client, on trial for his life, came running across the lobby and out the door like he had just killed somebody.
I looked at Mark.
“I was late for work,” he shrugged.

The video ended, but not before I noticed something else. It was almost subliminal, just a flash of something that shouldn’t have been there. The video player was turned off, and the trial continued. I leaned close to Margo in the Press section. “Did you see that?” I whispered.
She nodded. “That clock on the wall skipped ahead two minutes right after Mark left the building.”
“You’ve got wonderful eyes, girl,” I told her. “Have I told you that?” She smiled as I added, “This trial is about to get real interesting.”

Chapter Six

When the tape stopped playing I approached the Bench. “Your Honor, this tape reveals nothing that links my client with the murder. And I would have the Prosecution take notice that nowhere on this video is my client carrying a can of adhesive spray.”
“Yes, yes,” Upton Rivers agreed. “Your Honor, you can rule the tape inadmissible. Prosecution suggests this tape is so irrelevant that it should be destroyed immediately.”
“Done!” Judge Throwbook yelled, bashing his gavel onto the desk.
“But sir?” I tried to intercede. “There’s something on the tape that needs to be examined.” But it was no use. A police officer came and took the tape from the player, and, with a second officer to guard him, carried the tape away. The only exhibit I could have used to save my client was now on its way to the incinerator.
The Prosecution next called the Nun, Sister Sarah. “Sister Sarah,” the DA began, “for what purpose were you in City Hall?”

“I went there to see the mayor about the orphanage.”
“Yes, Mayor Falseworth did love little children, didn’t he? And what time was this?”
“Eleven o’clock. I followed the stairs to the second floor, and found the mayor dead in the hallway outside his office.”
“What did you do then, Sister Sarah?”
“I nudged him with my foot to make sure he was dead.”
“That’s all I have for this witness,” Upton Rivers told the court, and went to sit next to his wife at the prosecution table. She did not respond when he touched her arm. I sensed trouble in the enemy camp. Or, maybe she was just upset over the death of the mayor.
“Sister Sarah,” I began my cross-examination, “when was the first time you met Mayor Falseworth?”
“When he came to close down the orphanage.”
“I object,” the District Attorney said casually, getting to his feet. “It’s the Mayor’s responsibility to save the Millionaire’s money! And what does closing an orphanage have to do with murder?”

“Sustained!” the judge agreed, pounding his gavel.
“Your honor,” I protested, “I am only trying to show for the record that Mayor Falseworth was a hated man; there are many people who would have liked to have seen him dead.”
“Record?” Judge Throwbook said in dismay. He looked at the District Attorney and they both chuckled with astonishment.
I had noticed there was no stenographer. I told the jury, “Mayor Falseworth ran a white slavery ring.”
Upton Rivers stood up and proclaimed, “For which he was awarded Ocussus Businessman of the Year!” The people applauded, coming to their feet.
I turned back to Sister Sarah. We looked at each other for a long moment. “Okay,” I said, “what did the mayor suggest you do with all the homeless children who lived at the orphanage?”

“He moved those poor ragamuffins out into the streets to survive any way they could. They were all so sick. He put a chain across the door and padlocked it.”

Again the crowd applauded, and the judge pounded his hammer hollering above the crowd, “Sustained!”
I looked at Margo. Her face was now buried in her handkerchief. I had one more question for my witness. “Sister Sarah, at the time you discovered the body, did you notice anyone else in the lobby or on the stairway?”
“Yes, Going up the stairs I passed a woman on the stairs. She was tall, dressed in a red and yellow flower-print dress from the forty’s, very colorful. She also had on a wide-brim hat, so I didn’t see her face.”

Judge Throwbook looked at the clock on the wall, then at his wristwatch. “It’s ten-thirty,” he announced. “The Court will now recess for a round of golf, and meet back here at two-o’clock.”
I had noticed a little red label on the security cassette tape when the clerk was pushing it into the player, giving the name of a local business that processed the video. With Court recessed, Margo and I took a ride.
“How’s the trial going?” the young man behind the counter asked. He had long hair, college age, good-looking kid.
“It’s going pretty badly,” I told him.
Margo interceded, “You’re doing all you can, Dewey. Surely not everyone in that courtroom is without compassion. Just keep doing what you’re doing.” Then she said to the young man, “We just watched a video tape during the trial that had your store's sticker on it. Did the District Attorney of Ocussus bring a tape in here for any kind or editing?”
“Yes, Ma’am. He had me remove a section of tape toward the end.”

Margo smiled, “Dear boy, I graduated high school last year; you don’t have to call me ma’am. Would you mind if we went in back and swept up the pieces and tried to put the tape back together again?”
“Why don’t I just give you the original?” He put the VHS tape in an envelope and handed it to Margo. Then he mentioned, “My Mama was the woman who invented Ocussus Cough Oil. Because of Mayor Falseworth and his wicked henchmen she never got a dime.” As we turned to leave he added, “Let me know if there’s anything else I can do. Mama would want me to help. ”

Chapter Seven

The trial resumed where it left off, with the District Attorney bringing on his next witness. “We call Slideball Willie to the stand.”
Everybody knew Slideball Willie. An ex-ballplayer, he was a familiar sight tooling around the streets of Shorty in his taxicab. Tall and skinny, a red ball cap clutched enthusiastically in his hand, he climbed onto the witness chair. The District Attorney began, “Mr. Willie, state your occupation.”
“I’m the taxi-driver over in Shorty.”
“Has the Accused ever ridden in your cab?”
“Oh, sure. Every Friday morning Mark Spade have me take him on his good-time ride.”
“And where does the accused go on these good-time rides?”
“Out to see Sapphire Lily in Broganville.”
“As District Attorney, I know Sapphire Lily to be a prostitute; is this correct, Mr. Willie?”
“Well, since you already know, yeah, I guess so. Mark say Lily help him relax so he can make it through the week. He don’t walk too good when he leave there; that why he pay me a dollar to drive him back to town.”

“So, Mark Spade and this-this, whore, this Sapphire Lily, have sexual encounters where they pour out their animal lust like the savages they are?”
“I guess so. Mark always smiling when he come back.”
“Any woman who would sell her body is a repulsive, festering boil upon this town’s Christian soul.”
Several “Amen’s” mumbled through the crowd, along with calls to, “Stone the bitch!”

Upton Rivers went back to his table. “Your Honor, this witness places Mark Spade at the scene of the crime at the time of the murder; I have no further questions.”
I stood up and told the Court, “Defense has no questions for this witness at this time, but we would like to reserve the right to recall Mr. Willie to the stand later in the trial.”
Upton Rivers told the judge, “Prosecution rests its case, Your Honor.”

Judge Throwbook was asleep again and did not respond until the Bailiff woke him. Then he came awake sputtering, trying to figure out where he was, and once oriented, looked at the clock on the wall. “It’s three-thirty,” he announced. “This trial will adjourn until nine tomorrow morning.”

I drove Margo to the airport and she got on a flight to Dallas. She was going to check out a suspicion we had. After seeing her off, I went to the Ocussus Police Station to survey the locker room in question. Everything was as Mark described it, and I found nothing I thought we could use. However, on the way out I passed the old evidence room were I found all kinds of things, from weapons like ball bats and tire irons, and most interesting of all, a rack of women’s clothing along one wall; skirts, dresses and suits, some including accessories such as matching shoes and handbags from modern times to the forty's.

Margo came home on the two a.m. flight; I picked her up at the airport and we went to my apartment to watch the tape. Fast-forwarding it to where Mark went running through the lobby, we now got to see what Upton Rivers had removed from the copy tape, the two minutes after the defendant left the building. Margo pointed to the screen. “Look,” she said. “It’s the old woman Sister Sarah saw on the stairway.”
I was also pointing. “And look what she’s wearing.”
Margo’s eyes got very big. We looked at each other the way we did when we knew we were both thinking the same thing. “Dewey, that’s the same dress worn by the woman in the car-wreck photo, the one we saw on microfilm.”
“And the woman who was hit by lightning.” But then I cautioned, “Or one just like it.”
We sat on the edge of the couch as Margo rewound the tape and played it several times. “Dewey,” she said, “why would a woman who died in a car wreck two years ago come walking through the Ocussus City Hall lobby wearing the same dress she died in?”

“Even more mysterious,” I offered, “why would she come back later that same night and have the misfortune to be struck by lightning. She got killed in a car wreck, came back as an angel for a while, got zapped by God; the woman couldn’t catch a break.”
“This thing is getting scary,” Margo said, sliding over next to me.
I was scared, too, so I reached out pulled her even closer.

When the trial continued in the morning I opened with, “Defense will now call Mr. Rudolph Tucker to the stand.” The huge man climbed into the witness chair, and I had him explain to the jury how Mayor Falseworth sold his daughter into white slavery. When he finished I was in tears, but the jury seemed unmoved.

Upton Rivers stood up slowly, wearily, shrugging his shoulders to the twenty men on the jury. He said, “I’d like to remind the jury that Mayor Falseworth launched his own investigation into that white-slavery thing and found there was absolutely nothing to it. And I fail to see what one of Mayor Falseworth’s business ventures has to do with cold-blooded murder.”
“Sustained!” the judge bayed, pounding his hammer. Then to me, “Councilor, stay within the indictment.”
“But, Your Honor,” I pointed out, “there has been no indictment!”
He assured me, “There will be by the time of the hanging.”
There was nothing else I could do.

The District Attorney asked the witness, “Mr. Tucker, are you telling this jury, in a court of law, on national television, that you wanted to murder the mayor?”
“Yes,” he admitted. “After I learned the fate of my daughter, it was comforting to think about killing the man who did it.”
Upton Rivers threw out his arms. “Your Honor, I request that this witness be taken into custody as part of the murder plot.”

“What?” I called out, as the crowd came to their feet cheering. I rushed the bench. “Your Honor, this is out of order!”
“You’re the one out of order, Councilor,” the judge spat at me, banging his gavel on the desk. “Bailiff, escort the witness to jail.”
I pleaded, “Your honor, I protest!”
Judge Throwbook smiled, and leaned toward me. “Do you have any other defense witnesses ready to confess they wanted to kill the mayor?”

My gallery of witnesses I brought in on a bus could have been watching a Ping-Pong tournament the way their faces moved from side to side, and I realized my only strategy had hit a brick wall. At the Defense table, Mark had disappeared, and I found him unconscious under the table. “Your Honor,” I called out, “Will the Court please call a recess; my client has collapsed.”
“Well, prop him up” was the judge’s reply. “The annual Ocussus Preschool Picnic is this weekend and we’d like to have the hanging at that time. It’s never too early to show our kids what we do with Taxpayers who don’t do what they’re told.”
Since I had Mark in a standing position, and was not sure I could get him there again, I walked him to the witness chair. “Your Honor?” I had to shout above the boo’s and hisses, “Defense will now call the Defendant Mark Spade to the stand.” Then the room went quiet; I heard a paperclip drop. Sister Sara stepped down from the witness chair, and she crossed herself when she walked past Mark. Still disoriented, Mark pulled himself into the chair and braced himself there with stiff arms.
“Mr. Spade, tell the Court what happened in the Police locker room on March fourth?”
He paused a moment, but soon remembered. “You mean about the beer?”
“Yes, Mr. Spade; tell us what happened.”
“Well, me and officer Hauberk were in the locker room drinking beer. The beer was warm because I had to hide it in my car until the locker room was empty. Drinking on police property is against the rules.”

“Then why did you do it, Mr. Spade?” I asked.
“Because I was depressed. I just returned from picket duty at City Hall. It was voting day and it was my job to turn back people trying to vote. You see, the voting ended at seven-fifteen that morning, but a lot of people though fifteen minutes wasn’t enough time to vote. There was only the one voting booth, and the line went around the block.”
“Tell us what happened in the locker room.”
“Well, I was drinking beer with Officer Hauberk, helping him relax after his hectic morning at the school crossing, when out of nowhere Upton Rivers comes walking into the room. I know he saw me drinking beer because I was pullin heavy on a can when he turned the corner. The man was even wearing rubber gloves, the kind like those forensic detectives wear on television, ready to grab up the evidence as soon as I put it down. But you know what he did? He told me to throw the can in the trash, and get the hell out of there.”
“What did you do?”

“I threw the can in the trash and got the hell out of there.”
“What happened to Officer Hauberk?”
“I waited outside the building, behind a dumpster across the street, and pretty soon I see Rivers bring Hauberk out and put him in the back of a police car. Rivers then went to his own car, got in, and drove away.”
“What did you do then, Mr. Spade?”
“I had to break that cop car window with a rock to get Hauberk outa the back. The next day Hauberk got fired, but nobody said a word to me.”
The DA stood up, “Your Honor, I would like to add damage to city property to the murder and larceny charges already pending against this defendant.”
“Done!” the judge announced, slamming his hammer.
But I no longer cared; none of this mattered to me any more. Since the night before, while watching the video with Margo, I knew who the murderer was. But before I would make my revelation, I wanted to check out some other things. I told the Court, “Defense will now call Sideball Willie back to the stand.”
The people began chanting as Mark left the stand, “Hang him! Hang him!” while dancing rabbit-hop fashion along one of the isles. The judge did not stop them. Willie came through the gate, nodded as he passed Mark, and took a seat.
“Mr. Willie,” I said, trying to talk above the noise, “what time was it when my client rode in your cab last Friday morning?”
“It was near ten o’clock.”

“But I understood you to tell the District Attorney you took Mr. Spade out to Sapphire Lily’s at eleven.”
“That’s what I usually do, most Friday mornings, but Sapphire Lily, she out of town last Friday.”
With the dialogue back to sex, the audience took their seats and again became attentive.

“So, if Sapphire Lily was out of town,” I questioned, “why did the defendant have you drive him to Ocussus City Hall?”
“Well, when Lily’s out of town, Mark say he scrape the bottom of the barrel and go see a white whore who works there.”
Upton Rivers shot out of his seat. “W-we have a prostitute working in the City Hall building?” he demanded. He was either genuinely offended, or had been spending his own money elsewhere, certainly somewhere less convenient.
“Oh, no,” Willie shook his head, “she don’t charge Mark nothin; she in love with Mark.”
Rivers was unimpressed. “It doesn’t matter if the defendant writhed in Satan’s lust with a hundred women working in our building, the accused still had plenty of time to murder the Mayor!”
“Your Honor,” I pointed out, “The District Attorney has already had his chance to question this witness.” By now I knew better than to expect a confirmation, so I went on with my examination. “Mr. Willie, how did Mark and this woman employee get away with having sex during office hours?”
“Mark say they do it in her closet.”

“Ah-hah!” Upton Rivers burst out, again standing up. “There are only two closets in the whole building big enough for something like that, mine and my wife’s. And besides, my secretary told me there were no visitors all morning.”
“Just the one,” Willie corrected him. “You see, this woman sneak Mark in through a back way. He said it was even easier this time because they was having a fire drill. I came back to pick him up a half-hour later like he wanted me to. It just started to rain and he was late for work, so he come runnin.”
“Ardonni,” the judge yawned, “is there some point to all this?”
Yeah, you Nazi sonofabitch, I thought to myself, and it’s coming right up. I was on a roll. “Willie, do you know who the woman was that Mark Spade went to see?”
“Mark said he was too ashamed to let on about it; her name was the one secret Mark swore he’d take to his grave. Under no circumstances, even the threat of death, would Mark reveal who the woman was.”

“Yes! Yes! It’s all true!” Witch Wanda exploded, standing to her feet at the prosecution’s table. “It was me! I love Mark Spade! I’ve loved him since we were sweethearts in high school.” The District Attorney’s wife walked across the isle to where Mark sat cringing in his chair. Though she was looking at him, she was speaking to her husband, “Yes, I’ll tell the world I love Mark Spade. You can shoot him, hang him from a tree; drag him down the street behind your pickup trucks, you can even give him to your friends down at the KKK Lounge on Foutheenth Street to do with as they please, but even if you were to tie him to the railroad track I will still love Mark Spade, even when he’s rotting in his grave!”

Chapter Eight

Mark had again collapsed beneath the defense table, and I went to lift him back into his chair. And then, with everyone around the world watching the trial on satellite TV, Witch Wanda threw herself into Mark’s lap. “I can’t help it,” she cried above the ensuing uproar. “I love him! I love him!”
Upton Rivers remained in his chair, taking it all very casually. With his wife cuddled in the reluctant embrace of the defendant, Upton Rivers asked without emotion, “Wanda, my dear, how can this be?”
The judge slammed his gavel. “I can’t see where the District Attorney’s wife having sex with some of us has anything to do with the defendant murdering the mayor.”
I told the Court, “Your Honor, if you will allow me, I will prove Mark Spade did not murder Mayor Falseworth.”

The judge frowned, looking at his watch. “Is this going to involve a lot of legal stuff?”
“As little as possible,” I promised. Turning to the District Attorney, I said, “Mr. Rivers, after you chased Mark Spade out of the police locker room last Tuesday, you took Officer Hauberk outside and locked him in the Police car. But when you got into your own car you did not drive away as the witness assumed; you drove around the building and parked in back of the police station. From there you returned to the locker room, where you retrieved not only Mark’s beer can, but also the knife you knew he kept in his locker. That’s why you were wearing rubber gloves when Mark saw you, not anticipating a beer can, but to look for some item in Mark’s locker with his fingerprints on it. What a bonanza it must have been to catch him drinking from a dry aluminum beer can.”
“That’s preposterous!” The District Attorney scoffed. “I know nothing of this!”
“Then you took the can and the knife home and transferred the prints to the knife handle.”
He blurted. “That’s impossible!” Then to the judge, “Your Honor, I’m not on trial here, the defendant is!”

“But you should be!” I shouted, losing my composure, and at the same time stunning the judge into silent confusion. “With rubber gloves on both hands, you sprayed the palm of one of them generously with the adhesive spray you took from Mrs. Applebottom’s supply cabinet. Then you picked up Mark’s beer can with that same hand, and, gripping it solidly in several places, caused Mark’s fingerprints to lift off the can and onto the adhesive-coated rubber glove. It was then only a matter of wiping Mark’s knife clean of prints, and gripping the handle tightly to transfer Mark’s fingerprints from the glove.”
“What about the DNA evidence?” Upton Rivers demanded. “How do you explain that?”
“During the procedure of lifting the prints from the beer can, you inadvertently touched the rim of the can with the adhesive surface, thereby lifting saliva cells from where Mark’s lips touched the can. That’s why Mark’s DNA was on the knife handle with the fingerprints. There is no other way it could have gotten there.” I turned to the judge and mentioned, “If the Coroner will again evaluate the fingerprints on the knife handle, he will also find spray adhesive along with the fingerprints and DNA.”

The District Attorney stood up and straightened his tie, smiling. “How could I do the murder, Ardonni? I was at the Wyatt Earp Motel in Dallas on business. You can check with my secretary.”
“We checked with the motel. When we showed them your picture they said they never saw you before. Mr. Rivers, you were here in Ocussus all the time.” I stepped to the VHS player next to the monitor and slid the original security video into it. I pushed Play before anyone could stop me.
“That video was disqualified yesterday!” Upton Rivers reminded the judge.
“Not this one,” I interrupted “This is the original; it contains the two minutes of footage you removed.” I had the tape synced to the right place and for the first time the audience got to see the old woman in the flower-print dress, walking across the lobby and leaving