CHAPTER NINE

 

“How’s your science class coming along?” Beverly asked her son during the drive to school. Or in other words, was he doing any better in the only class that seemed to give him the most trouble besides math.

“Okay,” he drawled unconvincingly, his Eagles Landing baseball cap tilted onto his brow, seemingly obscuring his vision.

Beverly didn’t want to baby or embarrass him. But she wanted to make sure his grades did not slip to the point of failure. “If you need my help, just tell me,” she said gingerly. “That’s what mothers are for.” And fathers, too, assuming they were they still in the picture and responsible enough to care.

“I don’t need your help,” Jaime insisted. “I’m figuring it out myself.”

Beverly hoped that was the case. “I’m glad to hear that, Jaime, really.” She glanced in his direction. He turned to look out the window.

She didn’t press the issue for now, realizing that he really was trying hard. The A on his math test demonstrated that.

Beverly recognized that her son had reached an age where he was becoming more and more independent and at times distant. It scared her in some ways that he would someday not need her at all. In other ways it thrilled her that he was becoming a young, responsible man right before her very eyes.

It had been two days since they were at odds over the nature of her relationship with Grant. Since then things had remained lukewarm between them, though she had gone out of her way to assure Jaime that her friendships with men had absolutely nothing to do with their relationship.

Even then Beverly knew full well that her relationship with any man had everything to do with Jaime. He was the important person in her life. The child she had given birth to. She would never place that in jeopardy. Her fervent hope was that in the long run he would be pleased that she wanted some stable and trustworthy companionship and be supportive.

Until then, she would not rock the boat when it came to balancing her life as a parent and intimacy with a man.

Beverly’s thoughts turned to another touchy issue that was unavoidable between them.

She turned toward her son. “I’d like to go visit your grandfather on Saturday.”

“I don’t wanna see him,” Jaime groaned with a frown.

“You have to,” she asserted, turning her eyes to the road and back to his profile. “He needs us, just like you and I need each other.”

“He doesn’t need us! Gramps doesn’t even know us anymore.” Jaime slouched and pouted.

“That’s all the more reason why we have to try and keep whatever faint memories he has left alive.” Beverly was nearly to the point of tears as she thought about her once robust father—who prided himself on having a razor sharp memory and fit body—now being reduced to a rambling, incoherent person she hardly recognized. “He’s my father, Jaime,” she uttered firmly. “And your grandfather. No matter how hard it is, we can’t ever lose sight of that fact.”

Jaime lowered his head. “I still love Grandpa.” He dabbed at his eyes that had begun to water.

“And he still loves you,” Beverly assured him, “even if he doesn’t always remember.”

They drove in silence for a few minutes, each collecting their thoughts.

Jaime broke the quiet, seemingly forgetting about the previous conversation. “Can I go to Paco’s house after school?” He raised his cap.

“What about your homework?” She pulled up in front of his school.

“I’ll do it over there,” he answered. “Or when I get home.”

“What time will you be home?”

He shrugged. “Probably eleven.”

“Make it ten,” Beverly said, exercising what control she still had over him. Even that seemed a bit late for a twelve-year-old to be out on a school night. But she realized that some tolerance in today’s active times was almost mandatory.

“No problem,” Jaime muttered, opening the door. “See ya.”

“See ya,” she repeated his words as he slammed the door shut and shuffled toward the building with other students.

Beverly waved goodbye, though he never saw it, and drove off. She turned her attention to her other life as an assistant district attorney. It consumed more of her attention than she sometimes cared for it to. On the other hand, it was what she had worked long and hard for and loved her job. With any luck, along with skill, she could go as far as she wanted.

Beverly thought about Maxine Crawford. She had been released from the hospital yesterday. The police had spoken to her, but there was no word on if there were any viable suspects at this point. She wondered how many people wanted the judge dead badly enough to kill him.

Could there be others on the hit list, too?

* * *

Beverly parked in the garage of the Criminal Courts Plaza. She headed to the elevator, briefcase in hand.

She had just stepped inside when she was practically bowled over by the District Attorney himself, Dean Sullivan. He was sixty-three, tall, and thin in a designer gray suit. Thinning white hair slicked backwards bordered a sagging face with a deep tan. He rubbed his long nose and gave Beverly the benefit of puffy China blue eyes behind silver wire-rimmed glasses.

“Good morning, Beverly,” he said in a hoarse voice, reflecting too many years of smoking before miraculously kicking the habit cold turkey a year ago.

“Morning, Dean.” Beverly had always been slightly intimidated by him, primarily because he was almost too friendly for her comfort. It was as if beyond his charms and easygoing demeanor lay a vicious, manipulative man, lulling people unsuspectingly in for the kill. Of course, she was sure this was far more her fertile imagination than fact.

The elevator doors closed and Dean pushed the button.

“How’s Jaime?” he asked nonchalantly.

“Growing up too fast, I’m afraid.”

“Don’t I know it.” Dean looked up at the numbers. “My son’s about to enter law school. Seems like only yesterday he was still in smelly diapers.”

Beverly chuckled. Like many other men in mid life, Dean had divorced his wife and married a younger woman, with whom he had his only child. If only women could be so fortunate with their biological clock.

Dean touched his glasses, eyeing her. “By the way, I want to congratulate you, Beverly, on a job well done in the Suzanne Landon case.”

Beverly blushed. Rarely had compliments come directly from the D.A. They usually came courtesy of the Deputy D.A.’s office, where Grant just might be less than objective given their personal relationship. Or they were delivered from the D.A.’s office via a general, indirect memo.

“Well, I had a little help,” she said unevenly, in reference to Grant and a supporting staff.

“Maybe,” he allowed, “but I like your style, Beverly. You know how to go after them the way I used to back in the day.”

She was starting to like this. “Just doing my job the best way I know how,” she said modestly.

The elevator opened on the sixth floor, where they both had offices. Beverly got off first.

“If you have a minute, Beverly, I’d like to discuss an upcoming pending case with you,” Dean said, walking alongside her.

As if she could refuse him in order to go file some briefs.

“All right,” Beverly said in a stilted, curious voice.

She followed him down the hall, where each greeted other staffers perfunctorily. When they passed by Grant’s closed office, Beverly recalled the last time she’d been in there, causing her body to suddenly burn with desire. Though the relationship had been somewhat discreet, she was sure everyone in the D.A.’s office knew that something was going on between her and Grant. While workplace romances were not necessarily encouraged, the unspoken policy was to date who you wanted, so long as it didn’t affect the job and there was not an imbalance of power that could potentially lead to charges of sexual harassment. It seemed to Beverly that she and Grant had the perfect recipe for romance. She wondered if it would be the same should he climb the ladder and become a judge.

They entered Dean’s spacious corner office. He closed the door behind them and offered Beverly a seat on an antique English chair. He sat on a matching chair at a forty-five degree angle.

Beverly noted over his head an oak bookcase filled with law books. Though piqued, she felt more than a little ill at ease for some reason. Probably because she could count on one hand the number of times she had been allowed into his office since becoming part of the D.A.’s team. Obviously, things were starting to look up for her. Or so she hoped.

Dean wrung his hands nervously. “I’m sure you heard about the tragic and senseless death of Judge Sheldon Crawford—”

“Yes, of course.”

“Well, Sheldon was a personal friend of mine,” he began. “I knew Maxine, too.” His brow furrowed. “I just received word that the police have honed in on a suspect and they plan to make an arrest shortly.”

Beverly was happy to hear that. “Who is it?”

“Rafael Santiago. Judge Crawford sent him to prison for murder twelve years ago. He was released last month. The bastard vowed revenge against Sheldon when he was sentenced and apparently made good on his threat.”

Beverly contemplated that. It would have to be proven in a court of law, no matter how guilty the suspect appeared to be. But she assumed that was what this meeting was about.

“What evidence do they have?”

Dean considered this. “Maxine Crawford picked him out of a photo lineup,” he said, as if this cinched the deal.

“Anything else?” Beverly had seen more than her fair share of cases where victims picked the wrong person from mug shots in which practically every arrestee looked the same. She presumed there was corroborating evidence to back up the victim’s identification of the suspect.

Dean looked at her as if resenting the question. “Detectives are putting together the necessary evidence, circumstantial and otherwise, to tie Santiago to the crime.” He removed his glasses. “I want you to prosecute this one, Beverly.”

“I’ll be glad to,” she said, knowing that the Suzanne Landon verdict had given her a leg up on this one. Though Grant could very well have said the same thing. So how did she get so lucky?

“And there will be no plea bargains!” insisted Dean. “We have to send a message to all the Santiagos out there that you don’t go around killing judges and raping their wives and expect to get off with a slap on the wrist. This is a death penalty case all the way if there ever was one.” He took a breath and peered. “Think you can handle it?”

She needed no time to think about it. “Yes,” she said emphatically, in spite of the intense media scrutiny this trial was sure to generate.

He flashed a satisfied half smile. “That’s what I wanted to hear. Feel free to choose anyone on staff as your co-counsel. I’ll move people around if I have to.”

Beverly could think of only one person she wanted as second chair during the trial. Grant Nunez. They worked well together in and out of court. There had never been a problem with egos between them, though he had been at it longer than her. Furthermore, it was Grant who was the first one at the hospital to get the jump on investigating Judge Crawford’s murder. It could come in handy.

“Thanks,” she said appreciatively to her boss.

“First off,” he told her, “you’ll need to get down to Police Headquarters this afternoon. After they pick up Santiago, he’ll be placed in a lineup for Maxine to positively I.D.”

“I’ll be there,” Beverly assured him.

“Good.” Dean put his glasses back on and stood, seemingly indicating the meeting was over.

Beverly got to her feet. She wanted to say a few more words, but decided they could wait for another time. She headed for the door.

She stopped in her tracks when Dean called out her name. She faced him.

He removed his glasses again theatrically. “I thought you might be interested in knowing that I’ve recommended to the governor that Grant replace Judge Crawford on the bench.”

Beverly was stunned, if only because of the suddenness of the news and the circumstances that had brought it about. She had always known that Grant was headed in that direction and was very happy for him. Did he know he was being considered for the appointment? Had he known when he asked her to meet him at the hospital?

“That’s wonderful news!” Beverly said with a smile.

“Yes, it is.” Dean smiled back, and then frowned. “I just wish it could have been under more favorable conditions. Of course, Grant has yet to be offered the judgeship. Until he does, let’s keep this under wraps, okay?”

“I understand,” she said, while thinking, Do I?

* * *

Beverly stood before her secretary’s desk. Jean Arness was nearly sixty and had been with the D.A.’s office for twenty-five years. Beverly cringed at the thought of being in any one place that long. But then again, if it was something you loved, why not?

Jean, shaped like a Christmas tree with a gray bouffant, looked up behind glasses. “You’ve got about ten messages here,” she groaned, handing them to Beverly one by one.

“And good morning to you, too.” Beverly looked at her with an amused smile.

Jean scowled. “It’s been anything but good this morning.”

“I can see that.” Beverly glanced at the messages. “At least there’s the rest of the day to look forward to.”

Jean rolled her hazel eyes. “Yeah, I can hardly wait.” She looked at her calendar. “You’ve got an appointment at eleven with Walter McIntosh.”

Beverly recalled setting up the meeting with the investigator for the D.A.’s office. But that was before the recent developments took precedence. “I have a lineup to go to. Reschedule it for tomorrow.”

“Not a problem, for me anyway. Maybe Mr. McIntosh might beg to differ.”

“I doubt that. Usually it’s Walter whose busy plate is too much for me to keep up with,” Beverly said.

She went into her office. It was a good deal smaller than Dean Sullivan’s, but big enough for Beverly to feel as if she belonged. Her wraparound desk was in typical disarray with open file folders, closed ones, a couple of trays filled with papers, and her laptop. Law books lined the shelf on the back wall and a single file cabinet stood in one corner.

She sat in her ergonomic desk chair and glanced out the window. The view was largely of other buildings in downtown Eagles Landing, though if she stretched her neck Beverly could make out the peak of Mount Tulan surrounded by some puffy clouds.

Her thoughts turned to her father. She hated the helpless feeling of watching him decline right before her very eyes. He barely recognized her now and had no memory at all of Jaime. Her son had trouble dealing with it, choosing mostly not to deal at all.

But she had to. Alberto Elizondo was still her father and Beverly owed it to him to do what she could to make him feel as comfortable as possible and know that he did have a family out there who cared about him.

Beverly made a few phone calls thanking those who had lent their support, expertise, or testimony in her last case. Aside from a common courtesy, she was also networking; well aware that it never hurt to maintain ties with people you might have to work with again.

Afterwards Beverly focused her attention on Rafael Santiago and Maxine Crawford. The two were about to form the centerpiece of her professional life and preoccupation. She accepted the challenge. She never liked to lose a case, especially one involving such violence and a high profile victim. But she was careful not to take anything for granted, knowing that surprises seemed to always wait in the wings, ready to potentially burst forth and jeopardize a trial at any time.

The mere notion left Beverly just slightly on edge.