Conscience Money, fiction by M.E. Proctor
The show was about to begin. The judge was behind his desk. The court secretary was primed to type. The prosecutor, a lanky type with a ponytail and hipster glasses, had his stack of files ready. The jury was seated. At the defense table, the man whose freedom was at stake, chafed in clothes too tight for his bulk. He was big. The hard wooden chair, the dimensions of the courtroom squashed him. It was eerily symbolic. This giant of a man was about to be crushed by the judicial machine. He studiously avoided looking at the lawyer assigned to his case, and said lawyer, an elderly gentleman who should be fishing instead of haunting a courtroom, looked like he’d rather be anywhere else. Fishing on the lake, indeed, with beer in the cooler.
Deputy Sheriff Maeve “Mae” Rollins sat in the back of the room, close to the exit doors. She didn’t come to trials often, she had enough on her plate to keep her busy, but the circumstances around this defendant interested her. She was familiar with the case even if she hadn’t worked on it. Quentin Samuel Holbrook, 48, had beaten and raped a ten-year old girl. There wasn’t any doubt about it. The trial was a formality and every professional involved knew it. The jurors were about to learn more than they ever wanted to know about DNA. Mae wasn’t curious about what would happen to Holbrook, he was guilty and should be locked up. She wanted to hear what his family members had to say. The prosecution had listed them as witnesses. It was intriguing. The Holbrooks were notorious in the area, criminals all, drugs and weapons mostly. Mae couldn’t believe they had suddenly grown a moral fiber and were outraged at their relative’s behavior. He was a repeat offender, a serial rapist and abuser, and the family had forever kept mum.
Mae heard the squeak of the door behind her. Her colleague, Ronnie Gaff, slipped into the bench next to her.
“He deserves to hang,” Gaff whispered, “and in a few years, he’ll be released, again, like the other two times. It’s disgusting. Look at that mug.”
Holbrook had the face to match the crime. Brutal, deeply creased features that were almost cartoonish in their villainy. Mae squared her shoulders in the tan uniform shirt. She had seen Holbrook from close by at the time of his arrest and her hand had been on her sidearm all the time. She wondered how the female jurors felt. There were five of them. The jury was textbook balanced. White, Black, Hispanic, and Native American. Mostly middle-aged, but one of the women looked early twenties and one of the men might be late sixties. A jury of your peers. Holbrook’s peers were behind bars where they belonged.
“Whaddya think? Fifteen minutes deliberation after closing arguments?” Gaff said.
Mae shook her head. “You never know. Juries can be weird. Are you here to get me, something happened?” The Sheriff Department was short staffed and emergencies frequent.
“Nah, we’re good. Nothing burning. A buddy of mine is in the jury. Nick Pollard. Juror number five.”
Mae scanned the serious faces in the enclosure. A young man, blond hair, blue shirt, dark jeans, clean cut. His eyes were taking in the scenery. It must be his first time being selected. He had that newbie look, curious with a slight trepidation. Mae bet his leg was bouncing with excitement, drumming on the wooden boards of the jury platform. The woman seated next to him was giving him annoyed looks.
“What’s he do for a living?”
“Substitute teacher,” Gaff said. “He tutors kids on the side, small gigs. He’s losing money staying here. He’s thinking of moving to Houston. Can’t blame him. The boonies.”
Mae shot a glance at the young deputy. He was a good officer, smart, calm, still a bit green. She wondered why he remained in country. Never asked him. Everybody had their reasons.
Chairs rattled. The proceedings started.
#
The family members’ testimonies were devastating for Quentin Samuel Holbrook. Brothers and sisters, cousins, looking as ragged and dangerous as the defendant, made a beeline to the witness stand. Mae took notes. Some of them were bound to cross her path someday. It was amazing, really, that they hadn’t yet. The parade of lowlifes was bone-chilling and entertaining in equal measure. The public and the jurors felt safe in the confines of the courtroom, like visitors staring at big cats through thick cage bars and tempered glass. The litany of insults emanating from Holbrook’s relatives quickly grew tiresome. The judge kept hammering, cautioning the lawyers, to minimal effect. Mae thought the prosecution’s strategy might backfire. The district attorney didn’t realize he was losing the jury by letting the muck pile on. Around five, the court adjourned for the day. The people that were not under arrest went home to have dinner or commit crimes.
Mae took a leisurely drive through the countryside. Her wandering led her further and further from town. Deep woods, red dirt roads, muddy creeks. The Holbrook compound was a mile away. It was worth a look. She circled the sprawling place. Nothing stirred. Trucks and rusty carcasses were at final rest in the driveway. She observed from a distance and wished she wasn’t in the prowler and could stay all night. She almost called Gaff to ask him to come over. He was new enough at the law enforcement game to enjoy a stake-out. The Holbrooks were cooking something, she was sure of it. And it had to be related to the trial. These people didn’t come out of their holes in broad daylight for the heck of it. They were clawed creatures of the dark.
Work kept Mae from the trial the next day. She called the bailiff who gave her a summary of the events. The victim’s testimony was heart-rending, as expected. The entire court, Holbrook excepted, clutched hankies, women bawled. The case would wrap up on Friday. That guaranteed a quick jury decision. Everybody wanted to put this oozing nightmare away before the weekend.
Mae was up to her ears in a string of B&Es in an upscale neighborhood on the lake. Kids, probably, but more organized than the usual juvenile delinquents. They had a nose for valuable knickknacks. Or they were working on spec, which meant good intelligence, definitely a different class of criminals. Mae was on the phone with Houston detectives for most of the day pumping them for names of fences and shady antique dealers.
The call from the bailiff caught her in the middle of a search for pawn shops and pseudo flea markets.
“It’s a mistrial,” the man said.
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Nope. Don’t know what happened in that jury room but the foreman was pissed, I can tell you. Everybody expected a quick vote. Didn’t happen. They came out and it was six to six. Can you believe it?”
“The judge instructed them to try harder, right?”
“Yeah, no cigar. Got ourselves a mini Twelve Angry Men. And women, sorry Mae.”
A movie buff bailiff. Mae’s alarm bells rang a deafening symphony. First the over-the-top attacks from the relatives and now a mistrial. Something was definitely off.
“Where’s Holbrook now?” she said.
“Released. Case dismissed. I wouldn’t relax if I were him. With all that bad blood in the family, he might be better off in jail. No skin off my back, frankly. They plug him, good riddance.”
Mae thanked the bailiff. She switched off her computer and stared at the puke green walls of the squad room. Justice was supposed to make sense, at least in theory. She had been in the job long enough, twelve years and counting, to know that it didn’t always shake out the way it was supposed to, but this was obscene. A child was viciously attacked and the culprit went free. She picked up the phone and called Ronnie Gaff. He was off tonight. Friday night. Was he planning to go out with his buddies and get sloshed? Too bad. She had a job for him.
#
Quentin Samuel Holbrook lived in a drab bungalow, worse than a double-wide, on the grubby side of town. What distinguished it from its equally blighted neighbors was a large weed-choked yard mercifully free of rusty fridges and discarded bathroom fixtures. It was exceptional enough to attract attention.
“I thought all the Holbrooks lived together,” Gaff said. “At the ranch, or the farm, whatever they call it.”
They were in Mae’s cruiser, lights off, under the cover of trees, with a good view of the house. Gaff had dropped whatever he had on his agenda and hauled ass in his own car, a beige Toyota that would have made the perfect getaway vehicle. You forgot it the moment you saw it. He wasn’t in uniform but he’d grabbed his badge. It hung from a lanyard around his neck. His service weapon was in a hip holster. He looked rogue cop movie ready. He smoked, excited, maybe he’d belted a couple before Mae called, yet he was careful to keep the red nub of his cigarette below the dashboard.
“He moved here after being released the last time,” Mae said. “With his proclivities, a little privacy couldn’t hurt.”
“What are we looking for?”
“I’ll know when I see it.” Mae switched off the cruiser’s courtesy light. “We can’t do anything from here. If anything goes down, we’re too far to be any use. Tell you what, I’ll observe the back of the bungalow, you take the front. Hide. And don’t go in unless I tell you to. I’ll ping you on the radio. Leave the cruiser door open in case you need to get in here quick. ” She turned the volume on her radio to the lowest level.
The moon peek-a-booed behind a thick layer of clouds. Mae trotted, bent in two, glad she was wearing her dark uniform windbreaker over the pale shirt, even if she started sweating immediately. She spotted a clump of tree in the back yard and made herself comfortable behind a leaning pine. Time trickled. Lights went off in the bungalow. Quentin Samuel Holbrook had gone to bed. Maybe. The darkness made Mae more aware. There was the rumble of the road nearby, the hoot of a hunting owl, critters scurrying in the weeds.
Then the screech of a screen door.
She sat up against the pine tree and pulled her gun half out of the holster. A shape darker than the night slinked out of the bungalow’s back door. It was Holbrook. His hulking back and big bald head were distinctive. He had a loping gait, something out of an old-timey horror movie. He carried a Coleman lantern, a pickaxe, and a bag.
Mae moved to the side of the tree to have a better view. Holbrook raised the pickaxe and went to work on the back porch. He broke chunks off concrete tiles and used the pickaxe as a lever. Soon, he had lifted two big heavy squares and was kneeling by the hole. His face shone with sweat in the warm night air.
A sound of crushed dry grass nearby startled Mae. Gaff who got impatient, damn him! She was about to hiss a warning when a sliver of moonlight touched a pale head three feet from her, on the other side of the pine tree. It wasn’t Gaff. It was his friend, the juror, Nick something. What the hell was he doing here?
Holbrook had resumed his loud hacking at the tiles.
Mae swung around the tree and grabbed the young man by the neck, one hand over his mouth. She pushed his face into the ground, and sat on him.
“What’s the deal, why are you here?” she whispered.
“Curious,” he muttered, spittle against her hand. “Like you I guess.”
“I should arr…”
Two gunshots rang, close together. Then a volley of screams, curses and shouts of pain, and two more reports, loud echoes. Mae let go of her prisoner and rolled on her belly, arms extended, her Colt trained on Holbrook’s back porch. Three more shots came from the corner of the house. She saw erratic movements, counted five people. One fell, then two more were on the ground, one of them was Holbrook.
The cruiser’s siren wailed and red and blue lights flashed. Mae grabbed her radio. Gaff beat her to it. He had the speaker on, yelled: “Police, drop your weapons.” Funny how that sounded so much louder and ominous at night. The two shooters that were still standing understood the deputy’s order as a signal to run. In a few seconds, and before Mae could react, they were off the porch and into the woods behind the house.
“Stay here,” Mae told the young juror.
She got to her feet, spoke on the radio. “Gaff, you okay?”
“Yeah, I called for back-up.”
Mae was near the porch now. Nothing moved. The lantern had been kicked to the side. She switched on her flashlight. Three bodies and a lot of blood. “Call the coroner, and an ambulance. Meet me in the back.”
Gaff came trotting. His friend with the pale hair was in front of the pine tree. “Nick? You’re involved in this?”
“No. I mean, uh ... can I talk to you for a minute?”
“Get his statement,” Mae said. She pulled on gloves and focused on the scene. Three men, three handguns. Holbrook had been shot in the head. The two others had wounds front and back. Bloody footprints led toward the woods, a few blood drops punctuated the trail. At least one of the two runners was injured.
Mae aimed her light at the hole in the back porch. A large duffel bag was shoved down there. She leaned over and unzipped it. Stacks of banknotes and bags of pills.
“Holy shit,” Gaff said. “How much is that worth?”
“Enough to cause a lot of misery.”
Sirens and lights were approaching. The place would soon be swarming with uniforms.
“What did your friend have to say?”
Gaff sighed. “You’re going to be angry with me. I let him go.” He removed his Stetson and scratched his head, bashful. “He found an envelope in his mailbox. Three grand. To, uh, vote a certain way. It’s more than he makes in a month, Mae.”
“Three thousand to get Holbrook off,” Mae said. “Compared to what’s in the duffel, it’s bargain basement stingy.” Still too much for a worthless piece of shit who’d put his filthy hands up a kid’s skirt. Taxpayers were on the hook for a lot more to get him locked up.
“He wanted to know what it was all about and came to have a gander,” Gaff said. “I’m sure he wasn’t the only one to get a paycheck. The votes were six-six. Who wanted Holbrook out, Mae?”
“Whoever knew he had a fortune stashed away. The family show in court was some half-assed attempt at an alibi. Don’t come after us, we hate the guy. Might have worked if we hadn’t been here and they hadn’t started shooting each other. Damn stupid but what do you expect … Dead bodies and nobody gets the loot.” She shrugged. Criminal stupidity was bottomless. “We need to get a search warrant for the Holbrook compound. There’s somebody in there with a slug in them.”
Gaff twitched. “What about Nick?”
“He didn’t have to tell you about the envelope. Means he’s got a conscience. If he’s got some common sense to go with it, he’ll leave town.” Mae’s radio squawked. “As far as I’m concerned he was never here. You do the paperwork.” She pushed a button. “Yeah, Rollins here. The circus is in the back.”
###
Website: www.shawmystery.com
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