Fouled out, p.2
Fouled Out, page 2
“When are you leaving?” Olivia asked.
“Monday, I guess. The trial starts Tuesday.”
“Okay. Have fun and bring me something.”
I laughed. Olivia gets out of town more than I do. “A bottle opener from some backroads truck stop?”
“Sounds perfect.” Olivia smiled and went back to work.
Having made peace with my fate, I figured I better get prepared. I clicked on the icon for the newspaper’s intranet and started looking into Conner Braxton, former star forward for the Blue Ridge University Knights and current accused double murderer. All I had to do was type his name in the search box, and for that modicum of effort, I received in return a beautiful list of 16 articles we had written about him. Most were about the murders, one covered a streak of great games he had two years ago, and one was about a vandalism incident when Connor was in high school. Another 37 mentioned the Braxton family name. A quick scan of those headlines revealed stories mostly about his father’s charity golf tournaments and business deals. Mr. Arthur Braxton hobnobbed with the rich and powerful.
Research is so easy now. Back in Seattle, in my early days as a cub reporter, we had to traipse down the back stairs to the morgue—our profession’s word for library—to look at actual clippings that the librarian had torn out of the actual paper, using a ruler to keep the edges neat. (At least we didn’t call the librarian the coroner.) Those clippings were then filed in manila envelopes that ended up in swinging metal bins that sat in rows in giant revolving motorized files the size of small Ferris wheels. There were four of them, one just for photos, and they took up an entire wall. You could hide an average sized human body in one of those rows of files.
The librarian, Martha, was a hoot. She was barely five feet, counting her high heels and hair, and she wore jewelry that weighed more than my arm. When the files jammed, Martha would take off her leather pumps, climb a ladder and thrust a broomstick handle into whatever row was out of place, stabbing the bin back into line. She always looked like she enjoyed the process. Even back then, newspaper budgets didn’t stretch to include repairmen.
I miss Martha and the morgue. I miss a lot of things from my past, come to think of it. Fat lot of good it does me to dwell on it, though.
I leaned back in my chair as far as it would go and started reading the twelve articles about the murder in the order they originally appeared. I learned that Olivia was right. The murders of Gina and Marcus were gruesome crimes. Both victims were stabbed to death and suffered multiple wounds. Connor was sitting in their blood when the police arrived. Gross.
The second story covered the events leading up to the killings. Fourteen months ago, on the Thursday before final exams in May 2015, all the Blue Ridge basketball players went out on the town. “It’s a tradition,” explained one of the players interviewed. I groaned. Traditions always bring trouble of one sort or another, in my experience. The team rented a bus, and just after noon started visiting all the bars within a twenty-mile radius of the campus. There were rules for what to drink where and prizes for completing the “goals,” as well as penalties for failing to keep up. The cheerleaders met them at the last bar as the icing on the cake. All good clean fun and not sexist at all.
Supposedly, Connor was far from the life of the party that night, which was out of character for him. People said he kept to himself and acted like something was eating him instead of taking his usual place right in the thick of everything. He went through the motions, they said, but without his customary zeal. Now, I tend to be suspicious of people’s descriptions of criminals or their victims after the fact. Their memories are tainted with what think they are supposed to have noticed or thought. Still, I filed that tidbit away to think about later. What made him feel or act out of sorts?
The school’s public relations office immediately labelled it an “alcohol fueled tragedy.” The administration promised to tighten regulations on student drinking. The coach – the legendary Haywood Ford - mourned publicly over losing two star players in such “an awful way.” Ugh. I hated the way he lumped killer and victim together, but I guess from his perspective, there were his players before they became killer and victim.
A couple of the photos accompanying the later stories said even more to me, though. Not about the crime, but about the killer. Or the accused as I would be calling him in writing. When I compared his mug shot and an old basketball team photo with a picture taken recently at a pre-trial hearing, it looked like Connor had lost something like sixty pounds in his fourteen months in jail. He looked diminished.
I filed that away too and went back to reading. I learned that the case was going to trial, despite the overwhelming evidence of Connor’s guilt because the prosecutor never took plea deals. She said her policy was that “the community should always have a say, that it shouldn’t be up to her.” Huh. Madison Kupchak, Esq. must either be an idealist or a publicity hound. Or not very busy. At the least, extremely unorthodox. But Waynesville was a strange place to be unorthodox, I thought.
Connor’s lawyer, Isaac Sutton, was another unorthodox piece of the puzzle. I could not find a single comment from him. Most defense lawyers would play the press, but not this one.
I was starting to see why Alex wanted boots on the ground. I still wished they didn’t have to be my boots.
I pushed the keyboard away and put my head on the desk. My traditional thinking pose. If the thinking got really heavy, I put a jacket or sweater over my head to block out the world. I have been known to use a box, too, in a pinch.
I tried to digest what I had read. The more I chewed over the situation, the more a lot of things didn’t make sense. Why did this rich kid have such a limp lawyer? Why had he lost so much weight? I rubbed my eyes and stretched and pulled up the next to last article. It was on courtroom renovations. Boring.
I grabbed my mug and took the last sip of the tepid brown liquid that was still trying to be coffee and forced my eyes back to the screen when my phone buzzed. Internal calls buzzed, external calls rang. It could only be Alex.
“Did you find Jerry?” I asked.
“Nope –”
“Hey,” I said, interrupting. “I think I will take you up on the offer of looking at film of some of Connor’s games. It will at least give me something to do in my boring evenings.” I was getting sucked in, like I always do. It’s why I never have a life outside of work. Or it’s part of the reason.
“Roger that. I will have it sent up. We don’t have much, but some magic interns scrounged some last summer. I called because I need that piece on the Bay Bridge repair timetable before you go.” I was still working a little for Metro on the sly. No by-line, but I didn’t care. Alex did take care of me. She said she didn’t want me to get stale.
“Sure. Anything else?”
“Drive carefully,” Alex said and hung up.
Three
Saturday – Sunday, July 2- 3
I finished the Bay Bridge repair story on Saturday morning. I already had all the research and interviews and photos, I just hadn’t put the pieces together. Basically, the bridge will take forever to fix. And then it will need to be fixed again. I gussied that conclusion up a bit, but it was clear enough to probably make those in charge of the project not so happy. The truth is the truth, though, and my job is to find it and write it without regard to anyone’s happiness.
After I sent the story on to Alex, I went to the kitchen and snacked on the food everyone brings in to ease the pain of having to work on a holiday weekend. Newspapers run on a skeleton staff on holidays, but they do run. Nobody is happy about it. Except me. I hate holidays, so I like an excuse to avoid them.
No luminaries died, so obits was quiet. I took the time to organize the past two months of my work so I could hand it off, assuming (hoping) I would be back at Metro full time after the trial.
I left the building around 4 pm and walked home. The paper is about three miles from my neighborhood, and I usually take the Metro, but I didn’t feel like waiting. I also wanted to pick up some wine, and my favorite shop is halfway between home and work. I needed dinner, too, but mostly wine. It took forever to get home, and I was drenched with sweat when I arrived. But I had two bottles of Pinot Gris and a chicken kebab platter for the evening’s sustenance. which I set on the kitchen counter.
My apartment occupies the middle floor of an old rowhouse, which is gorgeous but definitely not made for tall people; I hit my head at least once a week. It’s also long and narrow – I think of it as a ranch-style apartment. The kitchen is at the back and my bedroom and tiny bath are in the front. The living room is in the middle.
The third floor is vacant and has been since I moved in three years ago. It is wonderful not to have to listen to anyone banging around up there. Part of the first floor is an art gallery. The front door of the building door opens to a tiny lobby. From there you can choose to take the staircase up to my apartment, go straight and end up in our shared laundry and storage space, or turn right and pop into the gallery. Kathleen Price owns the gallery and the building, as well as the one next door where my favorite neighbor Leo lives. Leo is on the top floor of that one – in the winter he can look down from his balcony onto mine. Nice young professional couples move in and out of the other two apartments.
Kathleen is a fantastic landlord. She hasn’t raised the rent in three years, she’s quick to call a repairman if something needs fixing, and I like the art in her gallery. All in all, it is a pretty good living situation. The icing on the cake is that I get to park my Corvette snug and dry and safe in her garage around the back because she doesn’t drive.
The lemon-yellow machine is my prized possession, a gift from my mother to entice me to move back east. Okay, so it was a bribe, but I didn’t care. Everyone can be bought, and the car reminded me of my father—wild and free and beautiful.
I was looking forward to a quiet evening. I had been on a streak of bleak Scandinavian movies that I thought I would try and continue if I could find a good one. Sounds of avian rustling interrupted my search.
“Hey, you,” Hawk seemed to say, “I’m still here. I know I’m just a bird, but I’m your bird, your responsibility. Feed me. Love me!”
“Okay, okay, I am coming,” I said.
One rustle from Hawk can say a lot. I got his food from the Tupperware on the counter, walked back into my wreck of a bedroom and gave him a scoop. He acknowledged the arrival of dinner with a spasm of feather cleaning which is his regular pre-meal ritual. I keep his cage where he can look out the window. Sometimes I wonder if that is mean. I hope it isn’t.
Hawk is not a hawk. He is a cockatiel. The irony amuses me and, I assume, him. While he tolerates the commercial cockatiel pellets, he prefers the homemade meals my ex-husband, Brian, used to make for him. Brian got Hawk for me as an anniversary present, back when we gave each other presents. I think Hawk was for our fifth. God only knows why he got me a cockatiel. Our disconnect went far deeper than misguided gifts. When I left Seattle and Brian, it just seemed easier to take the little guy than argue about it. Hawk and I have our good and bad days; but I’m used to him now, and except for missing his personal chef, I think he is used to me, too.
With Hawk fed, I did the same for myself and turned my attention more fully to the television and the wine. Wallowing in misery, my mother would call it. My mother was a big believer in staying busy. All my life, I never saw any white space on her calendars. Even on the weekends. But I knew better. Wallowing in misery was much, much different. This was surviving, my way.
After drinking the entire bottle of wine, I got what I deserved when I woke up on Sunday. My head was killing me, and my mouth felt like it was stuffed with half a dozen used cotton balls. I couldn’t remember when I went to bed, and I was still wearing yesterday’s shirt. The more the fog lifted, the worse I felt. I did not intend to drink so much. I opened and closed my eyes.
Sensing the activity, Hawk flapped his wings and scratched at the newspaper, eager for his breakfast. I looked at the clock: 9:15 a.m. Ugh. Turning my head made me nauseous. That did not bode well for anyone’s breakfast.
Five minutes later, I scrunched up the courage, untangled myself from the sheets, placed my feet on the floor, willed the room not to spin, and stood up. Hooray for me. Then I lurched to the bathroom, lifted the toilet seat and threw up. It took three tries to get rid of all of whatever was in my stomach. But as I rinsed my mouth and brushed my teeth, I felt much better. I splashed some water on my face and neck, stripped and pulled on an extra-large Seattle Mariners T-shirt and a pair of running shorts. Not that I planned on running for a while, but running shorts have built-in underwear which save a step in the dressing process, a big point in their favor right now.
With my eyes shut against the overeager morning light, I padded into the kitchen as quickly and as gently as I could, touching my fingers against the walls for guidance. The kitchen is my favorite room in the apartment. A few months ago I painted the walls a deep turquoise in my first ever home improvement project. Kathleen says it is a Caribbean blue. Just standing in it makes me feel better.
Squinting, I ground the coffee beans and poured water in the reservoir. Coffee started, I opened the refrigerator and glanced at the vodka bottle before grabbing a yogurt to soften the landing of the aspirin I desperately needed.
“I hope it’s a long time before I have to resort to the hair of the dog,” I said out loud to no one.
I fed Hawk, and when the coffee was ready, I poured a cup and moved to the back window of the kitchen. It overlooked a garden no one really took care of but that still looked beautiful despite the neglect. It looked like it was going to be a perfect day. There were a few puffy clouds and no sign of the usual summer haze. I leaned against the cabinet and sipped my coffee. First cup down, I drank two cups of water out of the same mug, choked down the aspirin and then poured more coffee. The headache was slowly surrendering, so I went into my living room, which pulled double duty as my office, and turned on the computer to read the Star. Nothing earth shattering happened overnight. Then I showered and changed. Exhausted by that effort, I took a nap after which I felt strong enough to do some chores.
Coming back to a dirty apartment after a work trip is unpleasant even for me and my low standards, so I cleaned the bedroom and bathroom. Then I puttered around on the computer again. For a person whose work day is intimately tied to a computer, I am always stunned by how much time I can spend surfing the Internet. There is always something to read, something to look at, something to get upset about, something to think about buying. When it finally got tiresome, I let Hawk out to fly around the apartment. After a quick trip to the market, I fixed our dinners using actual fresh vegetables and had the first drink of the day at 7:30, which seemed quite reasonable. It was Saturday night after all, everyone’s favorite time to forget the world for a while.
An hour later, I was curled up on the couch watching a re-run of The Mary Tyler Moore Show, contemplating packing for my trip and enjoying a second glass of wine. My last for the evening, I promised. And it was only a half glass.
The crack of a gunshot made me nearly jump out of my skin.
“What the hell?!” I yelled. Hawk screamed in his cage. Was he hit?
Then more gunshots—pop, pop, pop, pop, pop. I needed to hide, and now, I thought. Fueled by adrenaline and staying low to avoid the bullets, I sprint-crawled across the living room and down the short hall to the safety of my windowless closet. I squatted in the back behind piles of shoes and dirty laundry, chest heaving and hoping Hawk was okay. Then, just as I was bracing for the attack, I heard laughter. With a painful turning of gears in my head, I realized it was almost July 4th. My gunshots were fireworks. Early celebrants.
“Goddammit,” I said aloud, grabbing my head with my hands to hold it together. I tried to take a few deep breaths. I hated fireworks. July 4th wasn’t until tomorrow. These were just neighborhood idiots. Assholes. I went back to the living room in a fit of anger and opened the front window.
“Could you please not light firecrackers in the street? It’s not safe or legal, you know,” I said to the man and girl standing about twenty feet from my window. I had expected a group of teenagers when I poked my head out. The man held his lighter to the fuse of the next one.
“These are bottle rockets, ma’am, and they are legal.” He waved it at me. “So, what are you going to do about it now?” He looked like he had spent most of his 40 odd years driving a truck during the day and doing a lot of serious drinking at night.
Can they really be legal, and if so, why do those guys always know more about the law than I do? “Nice attitude in front of the girl.” I responded.
“You started it. We’re just having fun. What’s your problem? It's the Fourth of July! You hate America or something?”
“Look, just go somewhere else, please. You scared the shit out of me and my bird.” Why did I open the damn window in the first place?
“Don’t cuss in front of my daughter. Hey, come back here squirt," he called to the girl who had wandered off. He grabbed her hand, bent down and said something in her ear, and they left, making a path for the park. I closed the window and raised both my middle fingers at his retreating back, unable, or more accurately unwilling, to do anything else. I have turned into a physical coward, which might just be for the best.
Then I went back in the closet to change my shirt. It reeked of fear sweat. I turned on the radio in the kitchen, and a Miles Davis track was playing. It is hard to stay upset while listening to Miles, I thought, as I could feel my blood pressure dropping. I checked on Hawk and let him out of his cage. He immediately flew under the bed. I lay down and shimmied under the bed to comfort him. I can’t stand to see an animal afraid. Or a person for that matter. Unless they deserved it.
“It will be okay, baby. It’s all over.”
His bird eye said: “Yeah, I believe you, but I still need a few minutes. I’m thinking this is somehow your fault, and I want some time to decide if I need to punish you.”
