Earth to Emily (12 page)

“I made the Rainbow Room visit to her at the Hodges’ place this weekend, like we’d discussed. I told them we were clearing out some items that we had to have off the books in 2014. Never mind that it didn’t make any sense. They bought it.” She smoothed one side of her wispy flyaways behind an ear. “I gave Betsy the backpack, but it didn’t go all that well.”

My stomach clenched. “No? What happened?”

“She started crying. She said she already had a backpack, that she lost it in “Mexico,” and that her mama made her promise she’d never lose it, so her friend Emily was going to find it for her.”

“Oh no.”

“Oh yeah.”

“I haven’t the slightest clue where to find that backpack.”

“Sounds like you’d better start looking anyway.”

“For real.”

“It got worse.”

“Oh?”

“The Hodges. They are some weird-ass people. Their place is like the Stepford wives, Branch Davidian version.”

Phil lunged forward in his seat. “Trevon and Mary Alice Hodges?”

Nadine turned to him. “Yes.”

“They go to that Mighty is His Word church, the ones where the assholes that harassed me go.”

My fists clenched in my lap. “We’ve got to figure out a reason to get her away from them.”

Clyde shook his head. “Freedom of religion is an important right, too.”

I lifted my shoulders and dropped them. “I wouldn’t disagree with you, Clyde, but in this case, it’s more like they’re inflicting their religion on others. Which can have the effect of depriving others of
their
right to freedom of religion.”

“Not to mention freedom of association,” Phil added. “And freedom to make a legal buck.”

I was impressed. Not all of our clients became so knowledgeable about the law, but Phil seemed to have it down. That, and a healthy capitalist spirit.

Clyde opened his mouth, but at that moment Jack burst in. I glanced at my computer screen. I’d missed his email reply, but it was there:
Tell him I’m on my way.

“Hello, all. Clyde, good of you to drop by,” Jack said.

The notion that Clyde could spontaneously drop by tickled me. Clyde had a home nurse, a housekeeper, and a driver, all of whom worked full time to keep him moving at all. He thrived on the law, though, and I knew that his continued involvement with the practice he loved kept him one foot out of the grave.

“How’d it go?” I let my eyes drink in the beautiful sight of Jack Holden as he answered.

“Crooked cop complaint filed. Red flag waved at bull. Or bulls, as the case may be.” He held up a plastic bag. “And one missing mobile phone returned.”

“What? They found my phone?”

He tossed it to me. “Surprise, surprise.”

“I’m so glad I hadn’t replaced it yet.” I pulled it out of the bag and turned it on.

Nadine snorted. “What is it about the cops in this town? We’ve got one Asian cop that practically lives up at the Polo Club, and he’s not there working security. He’s a lousy tipper, too. And one of our dancers is so freaked out about a bad cop she won’t even come to work.”

I had certainly had my fill of bad cops this week, but the others I’d encountered here were fine. “The one I met when I got conked over the head last fall was good enough.” The conking had occurred when I’d stumbled across a murder in progress, while I was trying to find Betsy. That cop—Wilson, maybe?—had a horrible mustache, but other than that he seemed nice. “Hopefully it’s a minority of them.”

“I’m not the one to vouch for that.” Phil shook his head. “I can’t get any help with those fanatics harassing me.”

Clyde raised a fist in the air at least six inches above his lap. “There’s a thin line between police and police state, and it’s our job to guard that line.” And with that, he collapsed in a heap in front of his chair.

“How’re you doing, Clyde?” I lifted the gnome-like hand from the bed and squeezed it.

We were at the Southwest Hospital Emergency Room, three hours after he’d bit the dust at our offices. I glanced around the curtained space and shuddered. I’d logged more time here than I’d cared to last fall, and I didn’t love being back.

Clyde waved his other hand at me. “A bunch of fuss about nothing. I’ve told these quacks I have to be home before dinner.”

Jack and I shared a smile, and Clyde’s regular home nurse, Betty, clucked. “Slow down, Mr. Williams. We’re gonna see what the quacks have to say before we go making any plans.”

If Betty ever left nursing, the beefy woman had a future in sumo wrestling. She certainly threw her weight around when it came to Clyde. She’d met us here minutes after we’d arrived and immediately taken charge. Clyde’s driver was out in the waiting room. The two doted on Clyde. We all did, really.

“Low blood sugar. That’s all it was. Low blood sugar.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Whatever it was, you can’t go running off by yourself like that anymore, you hear me? You’re lucky you didn’t break a hip in that fall.”

As Clyde started to wind up, Jack stepped between the two of them. “See you later, Clyde. Merry Christmas.”

I saluted him. “Merry Christmas, sir.”

Clyde’s face softened. “Merry Christmas, you two.” He motioned me over to him and I leaned close. “Tell Nadine I’m fine.”

I nodded gravely.

Jack held the door to the room open and I exited. As soon as it shut, Clyde’s voice resumed, arguing with Betty. I felt bad for the old guy, but I sided with her on this one. Thank God I’d had help around when Clyde fell. Getting old sucked, although it did beat the alternative.

Jack and I walked down the hall without speaking. I was hyperaware of his nearness, in a good way. When we reached the door to the parking lot, I slipped on my jacket, and he took my arm. We exited together, walking to my car. The cold hadn’t eased up, and the wind whipped against my face. I pulled the collar of my coat closed higher on my neck.

“The shop called. My Jeep is ready. Can you drop me by to get it?” he asked.

“Sure.”

“After that, can you hold down the fort by yourself for a few hours?”

“Don’t I always?”

He squeezed my arm. “You’re taking Wednesday off, right?”

“It’s Christmas Eve. I had planned to. Do you need something?” We approached my car and I pulled my keys from my pocket and clicked to unlock the doors.

“No, no. It’s just, well, in case we don’t get around to it before then, I thought maybe we could talk Wednesday night.”

“Christmas Eve night?”

“Well, if you don’t have plans.”

“Other than it being Christmas Eve, you mean?”

“Maybe you could come to services at my church with me. And then we could talk.”

I stood at the driver’s side, hand on the door handle, Jack beside me. My heart stopped beating in my chest. After a slow count of three it exploded into a chaotic rhythm. Was Jack asking me out?

Jack shuffled his feet. “If you aren’t already committed—”

“No, no. I’m not. I mean, yes, I’ll go with you.”

“Good. I’ll pick you up at five thirty.” He opened the door to my car.

I stood there beside him, smiling, floating, not sure if it was real yet. “Sounds perfect.”

***

I sat in an examination chair in Dr. Parks’s orthodontic office half an hour after dropping Jack at the mechanic. Large mauve flowers floating in a sea of green ivy assaulted me from walls in three directions. Apparently, Dr. Parks had consulted my mother for decorating tips.

The orthodontist probed inside my mouth and shook his head. “Well, can’t say I didn’t warn you. Oh, your poor mother. All that money, wasted.” He removed his hands from my mouth, then pulled off his gloves finger by finger, snapping the rubber as he did so. “I can have a treatment plan together for you after Christmas. Martha will take all your X-rays now.”

“Treatment plan? Can’t I get another retainer?”

He shuddered. “Goodness no. What’s there to retain? Your teeth are nowhere near alignment. But these days we can do wonders with products like Invisalign that work as well as traditional braces and are less obvious, in less time, too. No one will even notice you’re wearing them.”

“How long would I have to have them?”

“Well I haven’t seen your films, but maybe six months.”

“And the cost?”

“A few thousand. My office would get you the exact figures.” He pushed his stool away and rolled across the floor.

I nearly gasped. I wanted to ask him why I needed to do this, but before I could he said, “Martha will be here shortly,” and was gone.

“Thank you,” I whispered to the empty room.

My head reeled. My bank account couldn’t take that kind of hit. Every cent I had was accounted for in the adoption process and with the duplex. Even after Dr. Parks’s dire predictions—and presumptions—a few days ago, I wasn’t sure whether I wanted to do this. So what was I doing here? The X-rays would have to wait. I ripped the bib from my neck and got to my feet. I retrieved my purse and headed for the reception and billing area. I stopped at the window for checkout.

“Hello. My name is Emily Bernal. What is the charge for my exam today?”

The woman behind the counter had gray curls that lay flat against her skull like they’d been painted on. She peered up at me through half-glasses perched at the end of her nose. “Emily Phelps? It’s me, Mrs. Parks. How are you?”

Of course. The orthodontist’s wife had always worked with him. “Hello, I’m good. And you?”

“Dealing with the insurance companies gets harder every year, but, other than that, fairly well, thank you.” Her eyes swept the desk in front of her. “I’m afraid I don’t have your file.”

“Well, Dr. Parks examined me, and Martha was going to do X-rays, but my office called, so I’m going to have to run.” I held up my cell phone. “An emergency.”

“We’ll take care of the billing by mail then. Are you still at the same address?”

“Yes,” I said through gritted teeth. That question was almost as bad as when the host at a restaurant said, “Just one, ma’am?”

“Would you like to reschedule your X-rays?”

“I’ll call. Thank you and good-bye.”

She waggled her fingers at me.

I turned to go, and as I did, I almost ran headlong into a man coming in through the exit door. “Excuse me,” I said.

“Pardon me.” Police uniform. Red hair. Full face. He kept walking.

I called after him, “Officer Burrows?”

He looked back at me, eyes narrowed. “Yes?”

Steam built up in my ears. “You don’t even remember me, after what you did?”

“Hmmmm.” He pulled a small flip notepad and pen from his pocket.

Hissssssssss went the steam. “You arrested me and took my phone?”

“I guess.” Burrows scribbled something in his notepad.

“Officer Burrows?”

He looked up and snapped the notepad shut. “Take care, now.” He walked briskly down the hall, away from me.

What the H-E-double-hockey-sticks was up with him?

After I left the orthodontist, I returned to the office. I unlocked the door and let myself in. Snowflake didn’t run out to greet me, which was odd.

“Snowflake?”

No jingle of bells and dog tags. I was still a lot unsettled by my encounter with Burrows, and my heart pounded in my ears. I pulled the baby Glock from my purse. I knew Jack had said he wouldn’t be here, but he hadn’t said a word about the dog. I tiptoed down the hallway, moving cautiously up to and around the kitchen door, checking for intruders within. Nothing but the normal white refrigerator, white cabinets, and wooden-topped table and white chairs. I did the same at the door to Jack’s office, dropping into a shooting stance on the far side of the doorway as I peered in. No one. I bent over and checked for feet under his massive desk.

Clear.

I put my gun away. I felt a little silly wielding it, but better safe than sorry. This is why I practiced at the gun range, every month since my father gave me the gun. If the situation called for it, I knew how to handle my weapon. “You got no business owning a gun if you can’t use it properly,” he’d said. I’d just never needed to use it, and I hoped I never did.

I made a mental note to remind Jack to tell me anytime Snowflake wouldn’t be here, so I could skip the whole heart failure thing. I walked normally down the hall to my work area as the booming in my ears subsided to a thumping and then to nothing. When I got to my desk, my cell phone rang, its harsh sound making me jump. It wasn’t my normal ringtone.

“Geez!” I fumbled in my purse for it. Another note to self: change the annoying ringtone. As I answered I saw the caller was UNKNOWN. “Hello?”

Someone cleared his throat, at least I thought it was a he from the sound of it, but honestly, I didn’t have much to go on.

“Hello??”

The call dropped. Greg again? Surely not. The kids were safe on the Wrong Turn Ranch with Mickey and Laura. To be sure, I texted Laura:
How are things going?

Her reply was almost instantaneous:
We’re having fun! Been out riding with them, and now they’re exploring on their own.

Okay, so probably not the kids. My phone made another unfamiliar noise. I fumbled with it and saw that I had four voice mails. Scratch “change ringtone.” I needed to reset all my notifications and sounds. I hadn’t known I had messages. I played them, one by one. Two calls last week from an 806 number. That was probably the kids. Two calls today from an unknown number, one of which I had just experienced. Weird.

I put my purse away under the desk and booted up my computer. The background screen loaded Betsy’s sweet face and a pang shot through my heart. It was time to tell Mother I was moving out. That wasn’t a conversation I looked forward to having, although she’d understand why. I pulled up the network and clicked on the folder for Elizabet “Betsy” Perez and opened the draft complaint.

The office phone rang.

“Williams and Associates, Emily speaking.”

“Emily, give me Jack.”

I recognized the voice, but no way was I giving this woman the satisfaction of admitting it. In my slowest Amarillo accent, I said, “May I ask who’s calling?”

A withering sigh rattled the phone line. “Assistant District Attorney Melinda Stafford. You may remember me. Now give me Jack.”

I hadn’t talked to my childhood nemesis Melinda since I socked her in the jaw for telling me my miscarriage of Rich’s baby was “for the best.” She had threatened to sue me, but Jack had paid her off, and had a little too much fun doing it. Melinda was one of the ADAs, so I had to play nice, though. At least a little bit.

“I’m sorry, Jack isn’t available at the moment. May I take a message or assist you in any way?” The words and saccharin-sweet tone puckered my mouth.

“You can tell him to get control of his client, for one thing.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Perhaps if you give me a client name and a brief description of the incident I can relay it to him?”

“Cut the crap, Emily. Alan Freeman was up here demanding to meet with me so he could make a plea bargain.” She huffed. “He chose to work with your firm, so I’m not about to meet with him without Jack present. I had the receptionist send him packing.”

I paused, long enough that I could have written a message, if I were so inclined. I wasn’t. “Got it. Anything else?”

“Yeah. Tell him if he wants to get a plea bargain done, I’m off for the Christmas holidays as of six p.m. sharp today. Otherwise, he’s gonna get his ass kicked in court after the New Year.” She hung up.

“Merry frickin’ Christmas to you, too, Melinda.” I slammed the phone down in the cradle, and enjoyed it.

Jack was going to want to know this, stat. I picked the phone back up and pushed speed dial for his mobile. It went to voice mail. I ended the call and sent him a text message instead:
Call me ASAP. Alan went to Stafford asking for a plea bargain?? She’s off for holidays after 6 today.

What in God’s name had gotten into Alan? When we’d talked to him the week before, he seemed antsy about having his fate still up in the air. He hadn’t mentioned second thoughts, though. His case wasn’t rock solid, but neither was the city’s, and they had the burden of proving his guilt beyond a reasonable doubt. Assaulting Wu and resisting arrest were serious charges, and we trusted a jury of Freeman’s peers to treat them as such, especially in the wake of Ferguson: Freeman was black, Wu was a half-white Asian, and they told two completely different stories, with no witnesses to the alleged assault. Freeman had no priors, and he was no thug. I had faith the jury wouldn’t swallow Wu’s version of events. Freeman had faith, too, as far as I’d known up until five minutes ago.

With difficulty, I wrenched my attention back to the complaint for Betsy. The beginning of a case really didn’t reveal anything shocking or sexy. We were alleging wrongful death, that PCDC had caused Sofia’s by not providing adequate supervision to prevent her murder by other inmates, and that their violent actions were foreseeable. The upfront process was formulaic and had to do with establishing the county’s responsibility. Honestly, I’d never worked on one of these cases before and neither had Jack, so I spent a lot of time researching forms online. I had to keep reminding myself how important this lawsuit was to Betsy’s future to keep myself awake long enough to finish the draft.

I worked steadily for all of two minutes when the door whispered open. Without Snowflake to alert me to company and because I was concentrating on what I was doing, the visitor didn’t even register in my consciousness until Alan Freeman was standing right in front of my desk.

“Emily, is Jack here?”

“Oh!” Alan had dressed to the nines today. He wore a black suit and shiny cobalt blue tie over a white shirt. His scalp shined. I’d never seen him like this, and it took me a moment to answer. “Alan, wow, you look sharp. Jack’s not here, but the ADA called and spoke to me.”

He looked up and then down furtively, but he said nothing.

“Let’s go sit in Jack’s office. I’ll get you something to drink. Water? Soft drink? Coffee or tea?”

“Water. Thank you.”

I grabbed my cell phone, a pen, and a yellow pad, and Alan followed me down the long wainscoted hall with its Western paintings, past the kitchen on the right, and down to Jack’s office on the left. Really, it was Clyde’s office first, but Jack had inherited it with the practice and it was magnificent. Richly stained built-ins dominated the farthest wall. His desk consumed most of the central space, and a conference table and leather chairs on rollers sat nearest the door. Behind it was a
real
Remington painting, a huge splurge by Clyde back in the day. I put Alan at the near side of the table. He could enjoy the long wall of windows or the facing wall of photographs, art, and diplomas from there.

“I’ll be right back with your water.”

“Thanks.”

As I walked to the kitchen, I typed Jack another frantic message:
Alan here. Looking for you. Help.
Jack hadn’t answered my earlier message, but it had only been twenty minutes since I sent it. I wouldn’t panic yet.

I grabbed two glass tumblers from the cabinet and filled them with ice cubes and filtered water from the door of the refrigerator. I would have to talk to Alan, see what I could do to steady him, and stall like crazy until I heard from Jack. I walked back into the office.

Alan was standing at Jack’s wall of fame, looking at an arresting black-and-white photograph of an old, abandoned mine. Above its entrance hung a lopsided sign: SACRAMENTO SILVER MINE. The photo even had a name:
Old Dreams at the Wrong Turn Ranch.
I knew it by heart. It was the one Jack had mentioned when we visited the cemetery with the kids on Saturday. It was a beautiful piece, but I preferred the charcoal drawing beside it of a little girl and a spotted pony. The artist? Jack. The subject? His daughter.

Alan heard me and returned to his seat. He had placed coasters from the holder in the center of the table in front of his chair and one across from him where I’d left my pen and yellow pad. I set the glasses on the coasters, and sunk into buttery leather.

“The ADA said you tried to meet with her about a plea deal,” I said.

“Yeah.” He looked down.

“So, tell me what’s going on.”

He shook his head. “I can’t do this.”

“Can’t do what?”

“The trial.”

“I don’t understand. You didn’t seem to have reservations before. Have you and Jack talked about you taking a deal?”

“No. Well, at the beginning.”

“So, has something changed?”

He looked up at me. A single tear glistened in the corner of one of his eyes.

I put my hand over his. “What is it?”

His voice broke. “I can’t do this to my wife and daughters.”

“I know you’re worried about them. But if you plead guilty, you’ll be a convicted felon. That will impact them forever.”

“I know. But if I don’t it will be much worse.”

I licked my lips. I wished Jack would hurry up and get here. “What was the plea offer before, do you remember?”

“If I’d plead guilty to assault, they’d drop the aggravated part, and I’d do two years and be eligible for parole in six months.”

“So you want to be in prison for six months—or more? You think that will be better for your family?”

I heard the sound of the front door. Jack. I jumped to my feet.

A deep voice bellowed down the hall. “Anybody in here?”

Not Jack. But a voice that sounded familiar. Across from me, Alan’s face had frozen in a look of terror. I walked over to Alan and put my hands on his shoulders.

I whispered, “What is it?”

He didn’t answer, and I gave him a little shake.

He croaked out, “I need to go,” and jumped to his feet.

***

Samson’s uniformed bulk filled the doorway to Jack’s office, and, worse, Burrows appeared behind him.

I took a step toward them, between the two officers and our rattled client. “If you gentlemen can take a seat in the lobby, someone will be with you in a moment.”

Burrows ignored my words and pushed around Samson and inside, taking a visual inventory as he did. “I thought I heard voices. Where’s Mr. Holden?”

Alan sunk back into his chair.

I didn’t back up. “Sir, we’re in the middle of a private meeting. I will see you in the lobby in a moment.”

He lowered his voice. “I asked you where Jack Holden is.”

He frightened me, but I was determined not to show it. “He’s not here right now. I’m going to—”

From the doorway, Samson said, “Well, hello, Freeman.”

Alan was looking down again. “Officer Samson.”

I ignored the pleasantries. “Unless the two of you have an official reason to be in Jack’s office, like a warrant to serve, I am telling you in front of a witness that you are not invited to be in here and need to go to our lobby.”

“Not a problem. We’ll wait out there.” Samson held his hands up and gestured with his head for Burrows to follow him. To Alan, he said, “See you around, Freeman.”

Burrows joined him and the two men walked out.

“I’ll be right back, Alan.” I hurried after them. “Jack may be awhile. May I help you with something, Officers?”

Samson entered the lobby and Burrows walked over to my desk. Between the two of them, they blocked access to both my desk and the exit. Burrows blatantly read my computer screen, shuffled my papers, then grabbed one of my business cards from their holder.

I jabbed at the off button on my monitor. “If you don’t need something, then I need to ask you to leave, for the privacy of our clients and their information.”

Burrows slapped my card against the thumb of his left hand several times then made a show of reading it.

Samson said, “We came by to see if you or your boss have heard from those two teenage runaways.”

“What?”

Samson crossed his arms. “I spoke to you last Wednesday night about the two teenagers that had run away from their group home, Greg Easley and the Arab girl. I’m following up. Have they called you or come by? It sounded like you developed a rapport with them. And I hear you have a thing for strays.”

“No.” My head spun. Could he know they had, somehow? Surely not.

“And you’d tell me if they had?”

“Actually I’d call Byron first. They aren’t accused of any crime that I’ve been made aware of. He’s their caseworker. But I haven’t had my phone, so if they contacted me on it, I wouldn’t have known.”

Burrows pocketed my card and cut in. “So sorry to hear that. But you’ve got it back now, right?” He didn’t wait for me to answer. “I don’t know what kind of magic you’re expecting to happen by filing a complaint against Samson and me, though.” He pantomimed magic hands in front of his chest, his fingers doing a poof and his hands moving away from each other, down, and around back to his waist.

Samson laughed, a short bark.

“I think filing a complaint against you will do a lot of things. It already made my phone reappear.”

Burrows stepped closer to me. “Maybe other things will start reappearing now, too.”

Burrows turned and the two men took their sweet time walking out.