The Sacrifice (8 page)

Frank's father wasn't at home. He had a standing golf date every third Saturday with two of the sales reps who worked for him. When he was in middle school, Frank had unsuccessfully begged his father to let him tag along and ride in the golf cart. Now, he had no interest in watching someone hit a white ball across the grass with a metal stick.

Just turned eighteen, dark-haired Frank had his father's strong features and his mother's slightly dreamy brown eyes. His good looks, the unlimited supply of twenty-dollar bills in his wallet, and the silver sports car that he drove to school could have translated into popularity, but Frank didn't let anyone, male or female, get too close.

“Frank!” he heard his mother call out from upstairs.

He didn't respond.

“Frank!” she called louder. “Are you in the kitchen?”

“Yeah!” he responded. “I'm busy!”

“Jodie's leotard is on the table in the atrium. Bring it upstairs. We're late for ballet practice.”

The huge white cockatoo that his mother kept on an open-air perch in the atrium connected to the kitchen squawked when it saw Frank. The bird preened its feathers and moved back and forth along its perch. Frank picked up the leotard and held it up to the bird's beak. It leaned forward and pulled at the elastic fabric until a small hole opened.

Satisfied, Frank walked upstairs with a bowl of cereal in one hand and the leotard in the other. His mother came out of the huge walk-in closet in his sister's bedroom with a frustrated look on her face. In her left hand was a pink ballet slipper. He could hear the sounds of his eight-year-old sister in the adjacent bathroom.

“Have you seen Jodie's other ballet slipper?”

“I think the bird ate it,” he said.

“Here, give me that.” His mother snatched the leotard from his hand.

“We'll be back after lunch.”

Returning to his bedroom, Frank turned on his computer. The machine was his only steady companion. He slipped on a pair of headphones connected to a powerful music system in the corner of the room. Frank's taste went beyond the list of groups familiar to his classmates. Many of the CDs in his storage case came from an underground movement that pushed the message and the music beyond any recognizable category. Some of the screams on the tracks were real.

The sounds in his ears energized him as did the battle with the faceless combatants who joined him in an invisible world where the ability to weave a web of skillfully orchestrated spells, incantations, and deceptions was considered as pure an art form as a meticulously choreographed demonstration of oriental martial arts. Currently, only Frank and four other members of the group were free. Everyone else was held in chains of darkness until the game was complete.

6

The web of our life is of a mingled yarn, good and ill together.
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CENE 3

S
cott stopped by Dixon's Body Shop late Saturday afternoon. On weekends he exercised on the arm bike, a device that allowed him to pump his arms rapidly in circles and generate enough physical activity to elevate his heart rate for aerobic benefit. Perry came out of his office and walked over to the machine as Scott finished a hard forty-five minutes.

“You're the Lance Armstrong of the arm bike,” Perry said.

Still breathing hard, Scott gasped, “I don't know about that, but I feel like I've climbed a mountain in the Alps.” He wiped his face with a towel. “Guess who I had breakfast with this morning at the Eagle?”

Perry sat down on a bench beside him. “Give me a clue. Male or female?”

“Female.”

“That cuts it down considerably. There aren't that many single females in Blanchard County. Does she live in Catawba?”

“Yes, but she's married.”

Perry gave Scott a sober look. “Don't be going down that road.”

Scott laughed. “I'll be careful. I'm not interested in a load of buckshot. She's the teacher at the school who is going to be the sponsor of the mock trial team I told you about. Her last name begins with
W
.”

“Mrs. Willston!” Perry exploded. “I can't believe it! You had breakfast with her?”

“I ordered a full meal, but she only wanted a piece of cantaloupe. You know, it's easier for her to eat something soft. Her teeth are not in good shape.”

Perry's jaw dropped. “I can't believe this is happening to you.”

“It's going to be a character-building experience, but I'm sure I can handle it.”

“What did she look like?”

“Better than ever. She's aged well.”

“And her voice?”

“Just like I remembered, especially her laugh.”

“Mrs. Willston never laughed,” Perry said.

“This teacher does.”

“Huh?”

“It wasn't Mrs. Willston,” Scott said. “I had breakfast with Kay Wilson. You'd probably remember her as Kay Laramie.”

“Kay Laramie? Didn't you date her when we were seniors?”

“Yes. Now she's teaching English at the high school.”

“Did she marry someone from around here?”

“No. A guy she met in California. But they've been separated for months, and her husband has filed for divorce. He's living in Virginia Beach with his girlfriend.”

“What's she like now?” Perry asked. “All I remember is a skinny blond who made good grades.”

“Like I said, she's aged well.”

“Which means?”

“She looks great, but she's had a rough time over the past year. I didn't cross-examine her about the details.”

Scott selected a pair of dumbbells from a rack. Lying on a bench he began working on his triceps.

“How did you feel being with her?” Perry asked.

Scott paused after completing the next repetition. “I don't know. That's a tougher question than the one I asked you.”

The first thing Monday morning, Scott stopped by Mr. Humphrey's office. The older lawyer looked up.

“Come in. Did you talk to Dr. Lassiter at the high school?”

“Yes, sir. We ate lunch together, and I've also met with the faculty advisor. We have our first meeting with the students tomorrow night.”

Scott didn't summarize his past relationship with Kay Laramie Wilson. Mr. Humphrey was too busy to listen to a story about Scott's high-school dating history.

“You volunteered in the nick of time,” the senior partner said. “It would have been a shame not to have a lawyer helping from the beginning.”

Mr. Humphrey picked up a phone message and prepared to dial a number. Scott didn't move.

“I didn't come in to talk about the mock trial program,” he said. “I need to ask you about something else.”

The older lawyer put down the slip of paper. “What is it? I've got a full plate of phone duty left over from last week.”

Scott quickly outlined the Garrison situation and concluded by saying, “I can file a motion to keep it in juvenile court, but if the judge lets the D.A. prosecute Lester as an adult, my time will eat up the $2,500 fee long before it goes to trial.”

“Have you talked to the boy's father?”

“Not yet. He's a truckdriver, and it may take a couple of days to track him down. Even then, I'm not sure he can pay any more money.”

Leland Humphrey ran his thumb down the inside of his right suspender. “What do you want to do?”

Scott didn't hesitate. “I want to stay in the case.”

Mr. Humphrey rocked back and forth in his chair a couple of times then sat up straight. “All right. If the boy's father won't pay any more money, the experience will be compensation enough. Keep track of your time and turn it in to me. I'll explain it to the other partners.”

“And my lack of experience?”

“You'll learn quickly, but if it becomes a felony charge in superior court, I'll help you out.”

During the initial interview at the youth detention center, Lester had resolutely maintained his innocence; however, Scott had no illusions about the truthfulness of his client. In law school he'd heard that few lawyers handled criminal cases, fewer still did a good job, and even fewer enjoyed it. There was far more grind than glamour. But for Scott the Garrison case had the bloom of a fresh opportunity, and no matter what he thought about Harold and Lester Garrison personally, his client deserved due process of law.

In the law-firm library Scott found a thick treatise on criminal law in North Carolina. He buzzed the receptionist and told her to hold his calls. After several hours of research, he closed the volume with a much clearer picture of the possibilities facing his client. Lester was definitely on the bubble. He was young enough to enjoy the limited punishment provisions available in juvenile court but old enough that the judge had the discretion to allow him to be prosecuted as an adult. A delinquency conviction in juvenile court would probably mean a year in a youth detention center. A felony conviction in superior court could result in up to ten years of jail time, but such a stiff sentence was unlikely for a sixteen-year-old boy. Scott didn't need a lawbook to tell him that Lester's preference for racial segregation was a prescription for trouble no matter where he went.

Upstairs in his office Scott found Thelma Garrison's phone number. The old woman answered on the fifth ring.

After introducing himself, Scott said, “I need to talk with Lester's father. How can I contact him?”

“He's somewheres between here and Michigan. He don't never phone here to check on me or the boy. I don't know what he thinks I can do . . .” The old woman's voice trailed off, and Scott couldn't understand what she said.

He waited a second before continuing. “Something has come up on Lester's case, and it's important that I talk to his father as soon as possible.”

“I don't see how if he don't call.”

“But if you hear from him, please tell him to call me.”

“I doubt I will. What's your name again?”

“Scott Ellis.”

“I'll try to remember. Is Lester all right? I've been a-worryin' about him. He's been fretful recently, always banging around in that shed of his out back of the house.”

“Uh, yes, ma'am. He's fine.” Scott decided it would be better not to tell her about the fight at the detention center. “I'm working hard on his case.”

“Help him if you can. God knows I can't do anything. Bye.”

The phone clicked off.

Scott couldn't count on Thelma. He dialed the phone number for the trucking company where Harold Garrison worked and spoke to a dispatcher. The man promised to leave a message for Harold at his next scheduled stop.

As the last act of the day for his new client, Scott called the district attorney's office. It was after 5 P.M., and he doubted any government employees were still at work, but it was worth a try. To his surprise, a receptionist answered the phone.

“I'll see who is handling the file,” the woman said. After a moment, she added, “That would be Lynn Davenport, one of the assistant district attorneys.”

“Is she available?”

“I'll check.”

He stayed on hold until a woman with an accent that was more New York than North Carolina answered the phone. “Lynn Davenport, here.”

“Ms. Davenport, this is Scott Ellis with Humphrey, Balcomb and Jackson. I'm representing a juvenile named Lester Garrison. The receptionist said you were handling the case.”

“Yes.”

“Have you had a chance to look over his file?”

“Yes.”

Scott paused. It didn't appear that Ms. Davenport was going to engage in friendly banter with him about Lester's tattoos.

“I'd like you to consider handling the case as a juvenile court matter.”