Wednesday, 9:00 a.m.
Giddings, Texas
My handbag vibrated in my lap the second I sat down. I glanced to the front of the courtroom, my favorite in the building, with its multilevel gallery facing a peach alcove with “Wendish blue” scrolls painted around the elevated judge’s bench. The county judge, Nancy Katz, was still shuffling papers at the wooden throne. I had a few seconds to check caller ID. I reached into my bag. It was amazing how having a baby in my life made me obsess over taking every call.
The judge’s matronly Southern drawl stopped my hand before I could turn the display to face me. Sort of a Paula Deen–meets–Judge Judy voice. “In the matter of the State of Texas versus Donald Henry, I believe counsel is here to present a plea agreement for my consideration.”
I stood, releasing the phone and letting my handbag plop to the floor.
Before I could speak, I smelled Chanel No. 5. “You’re not going to see if the call’s about Charlie?” It was my mother’s voice. Cindy Lopez, who’d been dead for two years.
Mother had spoken to me more from the great beyond than she had when she was alive, but in the same slightly disapproving tone she’d always used on me. Maybe if we’d talked more before, she would have told me about my older brother, who she and my papa had given up for adoption before they married. Or maybe not. Anyway, I liked it far better when it was my deceased husband Adrian’s voice in my head, but I hadn’t heard his in a very long time. So long, in fact, that we’d reached and passed the deadline for when I’d promised everyone in my life I’d consider dating. I pressed my fingers around the warmth of the brilliant enameled butterfly locket he’d given me. I wore it every day. Lord help me, I didn’t want to date. And I sure didn’t want to talk to my dead mother in a courtroom. Of course, my mother would have been the first person to accuse me of dreaming her up with what she deemed my overactive imagination.
The irony was rich, bittersweet, and slightly irritating.
I decided to ignore her, for now. If she was in my head, she knew I was worried the call was about my grandson, Charlie, too.
Across the aisle, the county prosecutor lumbered to his feet. He looked like an extra on Friday Night Lights, except he’d been the real thing. After a stint as an all-state lineman, Len Nelson had protected the Texas Tech quarterback’s blind side for four years. He’d stuck around for law school in Lubbock, then dived in at the DA’s office in Houston only to bail for Giddings within a year. He’d become a big fish in our small pond almost overnight when the former county attorney died in a car accident.
He was a good kid. I could call him that since I was forty-two and he was only twenty-seven.
“Yes, Your Honor,” I said, taking charge like an elder statesman. Or stateswoman. My brand of Texican feminism didn’t care which. As long as I was treated well and paid equally, I was good. But if I wasn’t, I could cause some hurt.
Len’s ears pinked, like they did every time I spoke around him. It gave him a Baby Huey vibe. He regained his equilibrium quickly. “Your Honor, Attorney Hanson and I have reached an agreement. I think you’re going to be pleased.”
She raised her eyebrows and projected her voice. “I’ll be the judge of that.”
Len and I smiled at her, then shared a sidelong glance. Judge Nancy was vamping for the senior citizens packing the back row of the gallery.
“I don’t have all day, you two. Spit it out.”
My client wiggled in his chair beside me. He probably regretted his wild weekend at home before heading back to Texas State in San Marcos, the one that landed him here. I couldn’t help feeling a little soft toward him since he was the same age as my stepdaughter, Annabelle.
I returned my gaze to the judge. “Your Honor, as you are aware, the state has charged Mr. Henry with vandalism and criminal trespass.” I kept my face neutral.
Point in fact, Donny had spray-painted the city water tower with a giant TSU. Well, a TS anyway, and part of what looked like it was intended to be a U. And he’d barfed all over the inside of the back seat of Deputy “Tank” Vallejo’s county vehicle. I’d had run-ins with Tank in the past, so that part amused me. Tank, not so much.
I continued speaking to the judge. “Mr. Henry is a first-time offender.” In my mind I amended: first-time-caught offender. He’d blurted out a long list of indiscretions when I sat down with him the first time. Let’s just say he wasn’t inexperienced with Jim Beam, spray paint, or cow tipping. “And he is racked with remorse.” Or racked with the terror of losing his financial aid, which was even more motivating. His mother cared for his disabled father full-time, so he couldn’t get help from them. “He wishes to make full restitution for the damage to the water tower. Attorney Nelson and I have agreed on eighty hours of community service to be rendered to the county on his university breaks—Thanksgiving, Christmas, spring break, and summer—and completed within one year. We have the support of his family on this matter.”
Judge Nancy nodded her head. Her steel curls didn’t budge. Donny’s mother attended the Sunday school class taught by the judge. “Len, is this arrangement to the satisfaction of the county attorney’s office?”
“Um”—Len cleared his throat—“Yes, ma’am, Your Honor. Along with a plea of guilty to the lesser offense of disorderly conduct.”
Judge Nancy beamed. “Donny, I think you’ve gotten off easy on this one. What say you retire from your life of crime?”
He nodded, and I nudged him with my knee. He jumped to his feet. “Yes, Mrs. Katz. I mean, Judge Katz.”
“All right, son.” She pulled off her glasses and used a Kleenex to blot her nose and forehead. “The plea agreement is approved. Michele, if you could approach, I have something I’d like to talk to you about real quick.” She nodded at the county attorney. “Unrelated to this case.”
I put my hand on Donny’s shoulder. “I’ll meet you outside. Wait for me there with the county attorney.”
“Thank you.” He fled the courtroom.
I approached the bench with heavy feet, knowing the judge was going to ask me for something. “Yes, Your Honor.” I kept my voice deferential, even though I wanted to check my phone more than anything right now.
“Michele.” She smiled at me. “I’m so pleased with the work that you’ve done since we approved you on the indigent cases.”
“Thank you.”
“I needed to remind you for Clarice, though”—Clarice was the county clerk—“to submit your expenses and billings to us in a timely manner. We don’t pay late submissions. You’re still within the time limits, but you’re getting close on the Jenner matter.” She was referring to a case I’d closed three months prior.
I thought carefully before answering. “I, um, I was just doing these pro bono.”
Judge Nancy put her glasses on and leaned toward me, scrutinizing me as if through a microscope. “Pro bono? As in you’re not asking to be paid?”
“Yes, Your Honor. I have some schedule flexibility currently. This seemed like the right way to use my time.”
I’d vowed never to return to the courtroom when I left the law in Houston to pursue a career as an editor. After a year of living in Giddings—where I had written and sold my second book—I couldn’t ignore the crushing poverty, the meth and opioid abuse, and the difficulty the indigent had getting effective representation here. I’d become passing friendly with District Court Judge Raul Gonzales after some proceedings in his court a while back. He’d encouraged me when I brought up the idea of dusting off my law license and pitching in.
“You’re sure?”
I clutched the handbag holding my phone with its unread caller ID display. “For now. While my circumstances permit it.”
I wasn’t rich, but I was very comfortable. Sex, Art, & Politics: The Love Child and Murder That Toppled the Herrington Dynasty had earned me a mid-six-figure advance. It was a New York Times best seller before even hitting the shelves. And writing it at the request of my neighbor, Gidget—the one who bore the love child in question and was murdered because of it—hadn’t cost me my relationship with her daughter, my friend Maggie.
“Well the county’s not about to turn down an offer like that.” Judge Nancy shut the folder in front of her. “For our records, though, if you could submit an hourly accounting on your cases and any actual expenses. Then you can claim a fee of zero at the bottom of your invoice. It helps us track hours expended on our docket for budgeting each year. You understand.”
Mentally I said a naughty word. I’d done three cases so far and hadn’t kept track of my time on any of them. I’d have to estimate. “No problem, Your Honor.”
“Thanks again, Michele.” She stood and addressed her bailiff. “Let’s break for lunch.”
I made my way out to the hall. My phone rang before I had a chance to check my Recents. My heart sped up to a lope. I snatched it out of my bag and accepted the call. “Hello?”
“Itzpa, there you are.” It was my papa’s warm voice, using the nickname he’d given me as a child, short for Itzpapalotl, a fierce mythical Aztec warrior butterfly goddess with knife-tipped wings. My abuela used to tell me stories about her, and Papa thought her name fit me. Since my mother’s death, Papa had sold his large-animal veterinary practice in Seguin and moved into the Quacker, the dilapidated travel trailer next to the house I was building. He split his time between filling in for vets in the area and overseeing my construction, much to the chagrin of the builder and crews.
“Hello, Papa. I only have a second.”
My phone vibrated with a text as I was talking to him.
“Okay, okay. Jillian called because you haven’t called her back. Charlie is sick.” My young and foolish son, Sam, cheated on his high school girlfriend one alcohol-fueled night during his senior year, with Jillian. Jillian was Charlie’s mother, and, as of recently, Sam’s wife.
My heart sped up to a gallop. “I’ve been in court. Are they in the hospital?”
“No, no, nothing like that. She was, well, I think she was looking for someone to take Charlie.” Jillian worked at Scott & White Hospital and was taking nursing classes at Blinn College in Brenham, where Sam was on a baseball scholarship. They lived half an hour from my house, making me an easy option for babysitting.
I refrained from saying, “Like she always is,” or “I could have helped her more a year ago if she and my son had asked me whether having sex without a condom was a good idea.” Jillian was not my dream daughter-in-law, but she was the only one I had. My stepdaughter Annabelle didn’t like her much either, unfortunately for Jillian, since Annabelle wasn’t shy about her feelings. My heart rate slowed.
“Thank you, Papa. I’ll call her, and I’ll talk to you later.”
I couldn’t keep Len and Donny waiting any longer. Jillian wanting help with a fussy baby wasn’t my crisis. Yet, anyway. I glanced at the incoming text as I walked. I had ten new ones, but the latest was from Rashidi John, a world-renowned expert on aquaponics—growing plants in water fertilized by the waste of resident fish—and an exotic, gorgeous Virgin Islander. My abdomen fluttered. I read We on for HLSR Friday?—then dropped the phone like it was on fire, straight into my handbag. Houston Livestock Show and Rodeo. A two-hour drive there. A fair. A livestock show and auction. A rodeo. A concert. A late drive home. What was I thinking when I said yes to that marathon for our first date?
When I got to the hallway where I expected Donny and Len to be waiting, I found only Len.
I changed the strap on my briefcase to my opposite shoulder. “Where’s my client?”
Len rubbed his smooth cheek. “Welp, he took off like a bat outta hell a second ago. Not a word to me. Didn’t answer me when I called after him. I decided it wasn’t worth getting somebody up here to arrest him.”
I put my hand to my mouth, then stopped myself before I nibbled a nail. “Dios mío.” My phone beckoned me from my handbag, but so did responsibility. “I’ll catch him.”
I congratulated myself on my wardrobe choice. This was the type of situation where pantsuits with sensible flats proved their worth. I’d given Donny a ride. Unless there was a car waiting for him on the street, he had no wheels. He might be young and have a head start, but running is my thing. Adrian was a semipro Ironman triathlete and my bicycling and swimming coach before his murder. When it came to running, though, I had coached him. I still logged thirty miles most weeks, not counting bicycling and swimming—just on my feet.
I clutched my briefcase and handbag under my arm and sprinted for the stairwell. I skimmed my hand on the polished wooden bannister as I navigated the turns and treads. Shame on Donny. Running out on the county attorney after he’s just given you a sweet deal no es bueno. I hit the ground floor at top speed. A pain gripped my left side, not unusual lately, and for a fleeting moment I worried about it. Lo que será, será. What will be, will be. And it would probably be fine. Not nearly as bothersome as the urinary tract infection I was fighting. The third one in as many months.
“Speedy Gonzales,” the Mexican American security guard called out to me as I dashed past.
“Speedy Lopez.”
He laughed.
I body-blocked the door open and burst into bright spring sunlight. It was already in the high eighties out and it was—what, only March 22? I didn’t pause, just hurtled down the steps and long walkway.
I shouted as I ran. “Donny? Donny?”
A blond head of short-cropped hair turned my way. The body under it hightailed it in the opposite direction. I cut across the enormous courthouse lawn, my footing less stable once I reached fresh, plump grass and the imperfect ground underneath it.
Donny stopped at the corner, checked me again, then lunged into the street. Giddings is not a large town, and its roadways are not traffic congested. But Donny timed it just right—or wrong. The driver of a dualie pickup laid on its horn. The truck lurched to a stop, but not before Donny glanced off the front bumper and was thrown to the ground in front of it. I sprinted full out. The truck door opened and slammed shut. Someone short and round came around the grill.
I was on Donny faster than the driver. He got up on his hands and knees, brushing dirt and debris off himself.
“Stop. We should call an ambulance.” I pushed him down by his shoulder, but he jerked away from me.
We were so close to the truck that the diesel fumes were overpowering. I breathed through my mouth.
“Are you all right?” The panicked driver was a pregnant woman about my height. I couldn’t imagine how she’d get back in her dualie without dropping the baby.
Donny’s eyes darted across the street. “I’m fine.”
I followed his gaze. There was the usual line of ranch trucks outside the Daily Grind coffee shop, and an old-model red Trans Am with a pockmarked undercarriage, a sure sign of back-road driving.
The woman unleashed on him. “Good for you. I’m not. You scared me half to death. You could have made me go into labor. The airbags could have deployed into my belly.”
“I . . . Sorry, ma’am.”
I put a death grip on Donny’s elbow and held firm when he resisted. “Let me get my client out of the street. Do you need anything?”
“Just keep his crazy ass where he’s not a danger to the public.” She put her cell phone to her steaming ear and stomped back to the truck.
I resisted the urge to follow her and make a hand step to hoist her into her ride. Instead, I dug my short but strong nails in until Donny finally let himself be guided back toward the courthouse. “Jesucristo. You ran out on the county attorney, and you nearly killed yourself, a pregnant mother, and an unborn baby. You better have a good excuse, Mr. Henry.”
“I’m, uh, I’ve got somewhere I’ve got to be. A work thing.”
“Which would have been fine if you’d told me.”
He stared at his feet.
I sighed. “Do you need a ride to work?”
“Uh, could we go somewhere else first?”
My internal alarms blared. “What’s going on?”
He leaned over, his hands grasping his thighs above his knees. “A friend’s in trouble and needs my help.”
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