Dead Boyfriends (31 page)

The camera operator nodded.

Tuseman made a noise that sounded like a growl. He formed a fist, but resisted putting it through the wall. Instead, he stared at his assistant.

“What does the sonuvabitch think he's doing?” he asked no one in particular.

Screwing you over,
my inner voice replied.
He's been doing it all along.
I gave G. K. a sideways glance.
Was it for Muehlenhaus or for her?
I wondered.
I would like Briggs better if I knew he was doing it for her.

Briggs said, “How was the county attorney going to take care of you?”

“He said he'd watch out for me, keep me out of trouble,” Nye said.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” G. K. clucked just loud enough for Tuseman to hear.

“Yeah?” said Briggs. “Well, that was Thursday, before you started beating up on women. Today is Friday. On Friday all the assholes belong to me.”

“Fuck you,” Nye said.

Briggs reached out with a flat, upturned hand. He made sure Nye got a good look at it as he slowly curled his fingers into a tight fist.

“I got your balls right here and I feel like squeezing,” Briggs said.

Nye cut loose with a long string of obscenities, although he didn't put much effort into it.

“You want a lawyer?” Briggs asked. “We'll get you a lawyer.”

“I don't need to pay some fancy-ass lawyer to cut a deal,” Nye insisted. “I can make my own deals.”

“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say—”

“I know my fucking rights,” Nye said. “I've been Mirandized a dozen times already.”

“Just so you understand.”

“Let's just get on with it, all right?”

“Let's.”

Briggs removed a lacquered pen from his jacket pocket and slowly rotated the barrel to lower the tip into writing position. He turned the yellow pad on the table in front of him until it rested at a perfect angle
before reviewing it. Nye beat an impatient rhythm on the tabletop with his fingers while he waited.

“First of all, you're already going to prison for five years,” Briggs said. “That's prison. Not jail. You violated the terms of your parole the second you picked up the gun.”

“Shit,” Nye muttered.

“You have a criminal history score of three,” Briggs added. “Do you know about the criminal history score? How it works?”

“Yeah.”

“In Minnesota, the more crimes you're convicted of, the greater your score.”

“Yeah.”

“The greater your score, the more time you do for each conviction.”

“I said I knew. Jesus Christ, get on with it.”

“All right,” Briggs said, not flustered at all and in no particular hurry. “We have you for first degree assault—”

“First degree?”

“Ms. Miller is in Mercy Hospital with a broken nose, fractured jaw, two broken teeth, three cracked ribs, and a ruptured spleen. Where I come from, that constitutes first degree.”

“Shit,” Nye said.

“With your score, that's one hundred and twenty-two months. We also have you for two counts of second degree assault for shooting at Ms. Miller and Mr. McKenzie. ‘Course, if you had hit 'em, then it would be first—”

“Fuckin' McKenzie was shooting at me.”

“Are you pleading self-defense?”

“I'm just saying.”

“Well, let's say that charge holds up. We could go for attempted murder instead. You beat up Miller. Miller calls McKenzie. McKenzie comes running. You ambush him. Yeah, I think I can make a case for attempted
murder. How ‘bout you? Want me to try? It'll screw up the math, but I'm willing.”

“Shit.”

“ 'Course, if we had been real lucky, McKenzie would have splattered your brains all over the parking lot—he's done it before.”

I continued to shiver behind the glass.

Nye smiled the uncontrollable smile of a man who knew he was in deep trouble and it was just getting worse.

“Something funny, Nye?” Briggs asked.

Nye shook his head.

“I'll tell ya what I think is funny,” Briggs said. “First degree assault, plus two counts of second degree assault at thirty-four months each, plus the five years for your parole violation . . . Why, Richard. You're going to prison for twenty-one years.”

Nye studied Briggs's beaming face for a moment.

“Fourteen years if I get a third off for good time,” he said.

“That's right.”

“Fourteen years if the judge adheres strictly to the Minnesota Sentencing Guidelines.”

“They usually do.”

“Fourteen years if the sentences are served consecutively.”

“Right again.”

“The sentences, they all could be served concurrently with the parole violation.”

“Could be,” said Briggs.

“That would mean I would get out in”—Nye did the math quickly—“six and a half years.”

“Six years, eight months to be precise,” Briggs said.

“Or less.”

“Could very well be less. Especially if you agree to testify in all the meth cases. Except. . .”

“Except what?”

“Do you see anyone around here willing to make a sentencing recommendation?”

Nye smiled and leaned across the conference room table. “What if I make it easy for you and cop a plea?”

“On what?”

“On everything.”

“That would make me very happy,” Briggs said. “Save the taxpayers a lot of money in court fees, too.”

“How happy?”

Briggs rubbed his chin, pretending he was deep in thought, pretending he hadn't known exactly what he was going to offer Nye before he even entered the room.

Tuseman muttered something unintelligible, then added, “Get on with it.”

“You go down for the nickel plus one,” Briggs said at last. “Six years.”

“Five,” said Nye.

“Six,” repeated Briggs. “And this time you do every fucking day.”

“I can live with that.”

“One more thing.”

“Yeah?”

“I want you to tell me the truth about Eli Jefferson.”

Behind the one-way mirror, G. K. Bonalay exhaled sharply.

David Tuseman stepped away from the glass and rested against the opposite wall.

I continued to shiver.

“I don't know nothing about Jefferson,” Nye said.

Briggs rose abruptly from his chair, snatched the yellow pad off the table, and moved toward the door.

“Wait a minute, man,” Nye called to him.

“Wait for what? You can do the fourteen.”

“C'mon, man.”

“Why did you force Debbie Miller to give you an alibi? Why did you beat her half to death when the alibi went sour?”

“Man, I'm telling you. I don't know nothing about Jefferson.”

“Bullshit,” Briggs shouted.

He crossed the room more quickly than I thought was possible for a man his size and shoved a finger in Nye's face, nearly poking him in the eye.

“I'll tell you what I think,” he said. “I think you did it.”

“No, man, no.”

“If I can prove it, that's thirty years in prison,” Briggs warned. “And I'll still nail you with the other shit just for the fun of it.”

“Oh, man . . .”

“If you didn't do it, all you have to worry about is the six.”

“I didn't.”

“Convince me.”

Nye rubbed his eyes wearily as Briggs backed off and resumed his seat at the center of the long conference table.

“I'm telling you the real thing, now,” Nye promised.

“I'm listening.”

“I went over to Merodie's house—”

“This was the Saturday Eli Jefferson was killed,” Briggs said.

“Yeah. In the morning.”

“Why did you go over there?”

“Do you want me to tell the story or what?”

Briggs spread his hands wide.

“I went over there to slap Merodie around, okay?” Nye continued. “I figured she was the one who put the finger on me on that meth bust. So I went over there to teach her a lesson. When I knocked on the door, this drunk dude answered. Jefferson. Man, I didn't even learn his name until the papers said he was dead.”

“Go on,” Briggs said.

“I swear I didn't say a word to this guy and he starts shoving me, you know, pushing me in the chest like he wanted to fight. I'm like, who is this jerk-off? He starts ranting about how I'm supposed to be Merodie's secret lover. I'm like, huh? So, he keeps shoving me. Pretty soon I start shoving back. Only there's nothing there. No strength in him at all, you know? It was like I was shoving a kid. I gave him one big push and he goes down. Then I notice, Christ, my hands are covered with blood. His blood, okay? This guy's bleeding like crazy. I look around—I'm standing in the living room—and I look around and there's blood everywhere. Just—fucking—everywhere. Then I see Merodie in the kitchen doorway. She's looking at me kinda strange-like, and I know it's because I'm standing over her old man with blood on my hands, and I'm thinking, I gotta get out of there. So I left.”

“What happened next?” Briggs asked.

“You mean after I got rid of the blood?”

“Yes.”

“I'm thinking that I'm going to get blamed for this somehow,” Nye said. “I'm thinking that Merodie set me up on the meth bust, why not this, too? So I go to Debbie, and I work out an alibi.”

“What did you tell Debbie?” Briggs wanted to know.

“I told her that some guys I knew before I went to jail were trying to force me back into dealing for them by blackmailing me with the cops.”

“She believed that?”

Nye smiled knowingly. “Some women,” he said, “who never had any real sex except maybe once in the backseat of some fool kid's car when they were in school, you start giving it to 'em real good, it's like their brains turn to jelly. They'll believe anything you tell 'em.”

Nye went on to explain his theories on how to seduce lonely women, but G. K. and Tuseman weren't listening. G. K. turned her back to the mirror and faced the county attorney. She spoke just above a whisper.

“I like you David, I always have. You were very good to me when I
worked here. You helped me a lot. Taught me a lot. I doubt I'd have my job today if it weren't for you. You must know that if I lived in the district, I'd be the first in line to vote for you come November.”

Tuseman continued to lean against the wall, his arms crossed in front of him.

“I like you so much,” said G. K., “I'm going to tell you my strategy for defending Merodie Davies. It's very simple, really. I'm going to put Debbie Miller on the stand to testify about Nye's phony alibi. Then I'm going to play the videotape of the interview we just saw for the jury, maybe, I don't know, a half dozen times. Especially the part about you cutting a deal for testimony. Do you believe it might create enough reasonable doubt to get Merodie acquitted? I think so. I also think there's a reasonable chance that you'll be brought before the bar on charges for witness tampering. ‘Course, I could be wrong. What's your opinion?”

Tuseman spoke very slowly in a voice that could freeze ice cream. He said, “No charges will be filed against Merodie Davies in the death of Eli Jefferson.”

“What about the case?”

“The case will be closed. Jefferson's death will be ruled an accident.” Tuseman smiled. “It would have been a difficult case to win anyway.”

G. K. glanced my way.

“I told you he was a reasonable man.”

“Salt of the earth,” I said.

“One more thing, David.” G. K. moved close enough to Tuseman that they could have kissed. “I want Merodie released.”

“After she serves her thirty days.”

“Today, David. I want Merodie out today. If she's not free by 3:00
P.M.
, I'll conduct a press conference outside your office at 3:30
P.M.
That should give the TV people plenty of time to prepare for the six o'clock news.”

“Are you threatening me, Genny?” Tuseman wanted to know.

“You betcha.”

 

 

The sun came up like a flamethrower, scorching everything in sight, setting even the shadows on fire. I felt the heat on my wet clothes as G. K. and I left the court building. Water vapor condensed and rose as fog from my shoulders. My clothes were streaked with dirt, and the knees of my jeans looked like I had knelt in a mud puddle, which, of course, I had. I slipped off my now shapeless sports jacket and pulled my shirt away from my skin. I felt like I was breathing through a damp washcloth.

“Where are you parked?” G. K. asked.

I pointed east on Main Street.

“Me, too,” she said.

“I didn't want to say anything in front of the county attorney,” I said as we followed the sidewalk, walking directly into the rising sun.

“Always a wise decision,” G. K. said.