The Guardian (14 page)

       “Then, how did you get to Houston?”

       “I kept driving.  I only saw an old Ford truck in the trees near Lake Charles, but that was it.  But his vehicle was supposed to be in Winnie.  When we got to Winnie, I didn’t see any vehicles there either.”

       “Did you take any exits?  Stop at any gas stations?”

       “Once, but just to put gas in my car.  That was it.”

       “And when you arrived in Winnie, Texas, what happened?”

       “Amos’ beeper kept going off.  He told me to keep driving.  I was listening to Tupac.  I really wasn’t paying him any attention.  When I saw the Houston sign overhead, I kept driving.  I remember him saying we should turn around –“

       “How fast were you driving?”

       “I’m ashamed to say.  Over a hundred at one point.  Not for any particular reason.”

       “Did you talk to Big John in the beeper shop?”

       “Yes.”

       “What about?”

       “I told him that we’d been looking for him … what took him so long …. And when Amos told me that he and I were riding back to Louisiana together, I walked out.  I didn’t know that man.  I was pissed off.”

       “Did he ever tell you that he was going to put these kilos of cocaine in the airbags of your car?”

       “No.  I would’ve never –“

       “Objection, your honor!  This is absurd!”
       “One more outburst from you, counselor, and I will relieve you of your duty.”
       Connie Nguyen sighed and said, “That’s all I have your honor.”
       “You may cross-examine the witness, Mr. Delacroix.” Judge Theodore Pope called aloud from the bench.
       “Ms. Miles, when you were inside that beeper shop, could you hear any money being counted? A whiffle of bills, perhaps? Hear anyone talk about stashing cocaine in the passenger side airbag of your vehicle?” Delacroix started toward her with firmness in his step.  He was dignified and purposeful and had every intention of making a mockery out of the state’s star witness.
       Dawn stared at Delacroix’s grimace from the witness stand and wondered if any woman ever found that face charming.  A fool did, perhaps.  She could just see the desperate whore now.  Red headed with pouty collagen-injected lips, bony facial features and eyes burning with dollar signs.  That’s the only kind of woman he could lure.  And she was just as certain that the North Pole had issued a missing person’s report for its prized resident.
       “No.  When everyone went into the back room, I was told to stay out front and pick out a beeper.”  She could feel the rise of sarcasm in her voice, wanted to stuff those packages of cocaine down his throat …
       “Is that when you chose the beeper with the marijuana leaf on the front?”  He picked up the beeper and showed it to the jury.
       “Yes, but that’s not why I chose it.”  She gazed at the jury, studying their glances of the beeper.
       Bernard Delacroix gave a chuckle, locked eyes with jurors, and said,  “That’s not why she chose it, ladies and gentlemen.” He whipped around and faced Dawn.  “Do you … smoke marijuana, Ms. Miles?”
       “Objection, your honor!” Lydia shot up out of her chair.  “What’s the meaning of this? 
Does she smoke marijuana
?  Ms. Miles isn’t on trial here –“
       “Get to the point, counselor.”  Judge Theodore Pope glowered at Delacroix.  “You will answer the question, Ms. Miles.”
       “I’ve never smoked.  Not even cigarettes.” She found Edward’s eyes staring back at her.  He was smiling.  He knew she was being honest because her life insurance policy required a nicotine test.
       “Oh, spare us the lies, Ms. Miles.   Those DEA agents searched your car and found a compact disc case in the console between the front seats –“  he faced the jury again, arms crossed, his back to Dawn, “and do you know what’s on that compact disc cover, Ms. Miles?” he faced Dawn now, “a marijuana leaf, only with bright colors. Vivid reds, yellow, green and orange—“
       “It’s the symbol of my favorite reggae group. “
       A middle aged juror snickered and coughed quickly to hide his laughter.
       A moment, then: “Ms. Miles … why don’t you tell the court how you know my client Amos Jones.”
       The courtroom was quiet as a mouse, all except the creaking noise of the courtroom pew as someone in the audience adjusted their position to get a better look at her face.
       “I’ve known him since my freshman year in high school.   He used to date a close friend of mine.”
       “And how do you know they are not an item now?”
       “I don’t.  I haven’t spoken to her since high school –“
       “Really?  Well, does the name Harold Fletcher mean anything to you?”
       “No,” she responded sharply.
       Bernard Delacroix moved close to the witness stand and said with gritted teeth, “Well, why don't I refresh your memory—“
       Lydia stood, “Objection, your honor! Leading the witness.”
       “Sustained.  I’ll allow it.  Objection overruled.” Judge Theodore Pope peered at Bernard Delacroix over the rim of his spectacles.  “This better be good, Counselor.  I’m sure the court is getting rather bored with this charade.  I know I am.”
       “Mr. Fletcher alleges you met up with him at an Exxon gas station off of the Evangeline Thruway in Lafayette.   Is that true, Ms. Miles?”  And before Dawn could answer: “Do you recall that meeting?  He knew you.  Said you knew him.  Said how you ranted on and on about how pissed you were at Amos Jones. The same man
you
claim not to know so well. As a matter-of-fact, Ms. Miles, you know Amos Jones very well! Don't you?! Tell us…tell the jury why were you so pissed at Amos Jones!”
       Dawn didn’t answer.  She couldn’t answer.  Suddenly, a blinding, yet calming light poured into the courtroom blocking her view.  Easing her building tension.   A light only
she
could see.  The light was so brilliant in Dawn’s eyes; she could see no one.  Not even Bernard Delacroix standing six feet in front of her, but she could feel the tension ease from her muscles and the words spill from her tongue courageously.  She’d never felt so at peace.  So confident.
       So protected.
       “Your honor, Mr. Fletcher is here with us today. I respectfully request the court's permission to call him into the courtroom to testify --”
       “Objection, your honor!  The state has no knowledge of this!”  Connie Nguyen was opposing now and furiously.
       “I’ll allow it, Ms. Nguyen.  Please be seated.  Bring in the witness.”
       Bernard Delacroix moved close to the witness stand smirking over the rim of his glasses at Dawn.  “Do you want to withdraw your answer?  You
are
under oath.” He grimaced.
       A security guard entered, walking briskly toward the judge's bench, keys and handcuffs jangled from his belt.  He mumbled over the judge’s bench, and then hurried away, exiting the courtroom.
       Judge Theodore Pope gave Bernard Delacroix a discerning look.  “Counselor, it seems Mr. Fletcher will not be joining us after all.  He’s been in a fatal car accident and was pronounced dead on the scene.”
       Bernard Delacroix turned his attention back to Dawn and said, “Well, isn’t this your lucky day.”
       The light dissipated.
       Dawn looked into the crowded courtroom and locked eyes with Sylvia.  What just happened? And as if Sylvia could read her daughter’s mind, she responded with a smile.
       “The defense rests its case, your honor.”
       “Why don’t we break for a short recess, ladies and gentlemen.  I believe we could all use that right now.  Court will resume at two P.M.”  Judge Theodore Pope banged his gavel.
       Just inside the judge’s chambers, Dawn paused on the threshold.  She saw the prosecutor standing with her arms crossed at the window, staring out.  The sun barely shone through the dark wooden slats of the mini-blinds.  The woman’s silhouette was of an average height and her stance said she was frustrated…betrayed.  Moving from the window, she came around the desk, obviously disgruntled, and leaned against the edge of the office desk.  It was when Dawn sat in a proffered chair that she noticed the hole above the knee in Connie’s pantyhose.
       Lydia stormed in the room like a tornado and slammed the door shut behind her.  Fear and confusion beamed in her eyes.  “You better start talking!”  she shot a finger toward the door.  “Delacroix could’ve buried you in there!”
       “Who in the
hell
is Harold Fletcher?”  Connie shot Lydia a glare, then returned her attention to Dawn who was shocked by the prosecutor’s choice of words.   Her tone of voice was threatening.  An ambush.  She found herself utterly helpless between the two women who were supposed to protect her.  In the line of fire, she sat there, her palms sweating, her heart beating outside her chest, waiting to be dismantled.
       “I-I don’t know --” Dawn stuttered.
       “Give me a break.” Connie huffed.
       Dawn felt her confidence in the possibility of a deal unravel and the shards of it seemed to crest over her like a mighty ocean wave, drowning her in its wake of destruction.
       Frustrated, the prosecutor pushed off of the desk and paced the room.  “Why are you wasting my time, Ms. Miles?”
       Dawn looked at Lydia searching for guidance.  George wouldn’t even give her an eye.
       “A lot of people approached me when I went home.  Harold Fletcher could have been any one of them.”
       “Why didn’t you warn me of this?  What else does Delacroix have that we don’t know about?  Amos has some serious money backing him. Delacroix doesn't defend anyone for less than three-hundred-thousand.  If there's something you're not telling us, you need to start remembering because you best believe, Delacroix will find out and discredit you as a witness.  If the state decides to take the deal off the table –“
       “Which I am really considering --”
       “There's nothing left to tell.  I don’t know Harold Fletcher.  I don’t remember—“
       “You don’t remember?  Just like you don't
remember
if you were in the goddamn beauty shop or in Houston to apply at U of H?!  Aren’t those the stories you told the arresting officers?  What a crock of shit
this
one is!   You have two of the most respected attorneys in Houston, which is why I even agreed to cut a deal with you in the first place, but if you jack me around one more time, the deal's off!”
       “Okay!  There was a guy!”
       Everyone’s ears stood on end.
       “But I only remembered him when Mr. Delacroix mentioned the gas station.  I don’t know Harold Fletcher well or anything like that.   I don’t even remember his face.  That was my first time meeting him.  He approached me mouthing off about the incident.   Apparently, he knew Amos or whatever, but I didn’t know him.  I did mention to several people that I was upset at Amos for getting me into this mess, but that was it!”
       “Why didn’t you tell me this before?  He could’ve discredited you as a witness.  Fletcher could’ve been wearing a wire --” Lydia was alarmed.
       “I was afraid of this—“George added, peeking out of the window, as if trying to avoid a knowing glance from whomever he was looking at.
       “What is it, George?” Lydia could see the concern in his face.
       George watched as three men dressed in dark clothing climbed out of a black Mercedes and sauntered up the front steps of the courthouse.  Their black shades disguised their eyes as they moved toward the building.  He swore one of the men saw him.  The one with the large tattoo across his face.  A sign of the devil.  His heart was racing when he turned away from the window and glommed at Dawn.
       “You have no idea the kind of people we're dealing with, young lady.  You have to be straight with us about everything you know.  Think!”  George demanded.
       The first time Dawn met George at the jail, he’d comforted her, coaxed her into testifying with his superfluous speech.  She’d agreed to testify based on what she felt George knew and his experience in the legal system.  She’d found solace in the old man’s voice, as if he were her own father.  She sensed fear in that voice now.  Fear in everyone.  Even Lydia.
       “I’ve told you everything,” Dawn spoke overcome with grief.  “I was behind on my car payments. Amos offered me five-hundred dollars to drive him to Winnie, Texas.  I kept driving to Houston without a clue—“
       “Why didn't you tell
that
to the cops when they pulled you from the car? We wouldn't be here right now!”  He shot a finger at the window.  “And those gangsters wouldn't know my name!”  He snatched up a briefcase and started toward the door.
       “What did you see outside, George?” Lydia’s forehead creased with perplexity as she watched the old man move at a steady pace across the room.
       George grunted and stopped in his tracks.  The attaché dangled from his grasp.  It’s too late to run now.  Too late to get scared.  The damage is already done.
       “This is absurd,” he mumbled and paused a moment with his back to everyone, then added: “How about some lunch?  I could use a good sandwich.  A cold soda.”
       “Sure,” Lydia agreed hesitantly.  “Connie?”
       “Thank you, but I’m just gonna take care of some things around here.  Why don’t you all go?  Get some fresh air.  Might do Ms. Miles some good to get out of this place.  Clear her head.”  She glanced at her watch.  “Court won’t reconvene for another two hours.  Go on.  Get out of here.”
       And they did just that.
       Lydia grabbed her purse, George was already standing with his beloved attaché and Dawn, well, she had the entire world on her shoulders.

Chapter Twelve

Edward had taken Sylvia to a hotel so she could rest; the interrogation of her daughter had been too much for her to bear.  She felt sick.  Light headed and faint.   She was positive that the symptoms weren’t related to the recently diagnosed high blood pressure or the food she’d eaten the night before –
AUTHENTIC MEXICAN
the sign read on the food truck.   This was a different kind of pain.   It was the agony of heart break.  A discomfort she could not shake.  She’d never cried that much in all of her life.  Her children meant the world to her and she was stricken with a grief so deep of almost losing her daughter to the prison system, that just entering the front doors of the courtroom shook her.
       As Dawn walked along the sidewalk with Lydia and George, trudging past other pedestrians bundled in heavy coats and long trench coats against the wintry chill, she glanced at cars sitting in the afternoon traffic and looked nervously at the drivers and their passengers.
      
Members of the cartel are here and they are looking at me now with death stares.
       She’d lived her whole life in Louisiana.  Didn’t know what it was like to walk along the city streets of such a metropolitan city.   Houston could never be home.  She didn’t care for the cold, harsh personalities of the natives and the city skyscrapers blocked out the beauty of God’s creation.  People like Connie Nguyen and George Nielson lived there.  They were impersonal and abrupt.  She was certain everyone else was just the same.
       Lydia seemed innate to her surroundings – police sirens wailed in the distance, a whistle screamed at a traffic officer’s lips, dark and cloudy fumes from the city buses permeated the air, and the pedestrians … there were so many people walking to and fro in their commutes from the courthouse to surrounding law offices.  Dawn noted the women in skirts and tennis shoes and wondered if a pair of designer heels was stored in those rolling attaches.
       They stopped at another pedestrian crossing.   How many more were there?  Just how far was this place?  It was freezing out, and if anyone were after them ….
       Growing nervous now, Dawn found herself glancing around at everyone who stood nearby.  Her breaths, puffery wisps of cold air. 
Pull yourself together.  No one is going to attack in broad daylight.   Traffic this heavy should be safe.
      
A black Mercedes revved its engine at the red light like a raging bull anxiously waiting to be released from captivity -- clouds of exhaust looming behind it … beside it like ghostly flames of wrath.  Obeying the traffic signal and oblivious to the show-off gunning the twelve cylinder, George proceeded to cross the street in conversation -– more talking than listening.  Lydia tailed, hanging on every word.  Dawn followed.   
What a show-off.  Just some teenager who got his hands on his father’s keys and decided to take a joyride through downtown Houston at lunch time … the peak of day when court had been adjourned …
       From her location on the sidewalk, Dawn caught a glimmer of the sunlight reflecting off of the metal.  In horror, she watched as the all-black machine hammered through the intersection like a winged demon straight out of hell.  And just in the nick of time, she grabbed Lydia by the arm, yanking her back to the sidewalk, as if she’d been a stubborn child.
       But there was no hope for George.
       People were screaming frantically from every direction: “Look out!  They’re not stopping!  Get out of the street!”
       It was too late.
       CRACK!
       The big body sedan struck George like a bowling pin.  His body somersaulted in mid-air and toppled onto the hood like a sack of potatoes, then bounced off the shatter-proof windshield.  No slack in the car’s glide, George’s body careened over and landed hard on the asphalt twenty feet away.  His legs twisted and disfigured.   Still conscious, his eyes wide with terror, George painfully raised his head as if to signal he was still alive.
       “Help … me ….”
       “George!”  Lydia screamed, cried frantically, and attempted to run toward him, but it took Dawn and another horrified pedestrian to hold her back … TO RUN!
       George struggled to pull his body against the blacktop, tugging with both hands.  A grisly trail of sparkling crimson marked his path.
       The deadly machine screeched to a halt in the middle of the street, burned rubber in reverse, heading straight for George, then it’s back left tire rolled over his upper torso, but it was the front left that barreled over his head.
       POP!
       George’s head was gone.  A splattered mess of pink brains trailed behind the wheels of the two-ton monster.
       Frantic screams rang out in every direction.
       In its final attempt to escape, and with its tires glistening wet with George’s blood, the deadly sedan strode upon a group of shocked onlookers standing on the corner -- men and women appalled by the gruesome scene they'd just witnessed.   Everyone stood frozen in fear gawking at death on four wheels with its glossy black windows staring back like extraterrestrial eyes.
       Just then, the car slowed to a rolling stop.   The rear window lowered and the long barrel of a gun appeared aimed at the sidewalk of bystanders.  Gloved fingers wrapped around the barrel, as if the weapon was part of the gunman’s hand.  Without warning and before anyone could attempt to flee, the automatic weapon fired aimlessly, spraying bullets into the unsuspecting crowd.  Bone-chilling gunshots reverberated destroying everything in its path.  Those ducking for cover now were hunted like wild game.  Bullets ricocheted off stone walls, shattered office windows, and tore through flesh.  The gunman hadn't missed a beat.  In less than three minutes, the mighty machine invoked its final mayhem and barely alluded police.  Seconds after the Mercedes disappeared on what seemed like two wheels, SWAT arrived to the garish scene of death and destruction.
       So many innocent lives.
       So much blood.
       Dawn and Lydia were still running by the time the last bullet sounded.  Five blocks away, they could still hear the blood curdling screams of terror and pain from those who’d been shot.
       From those who’d survived.
       Lydia moved quickly, ushering Dawn down foreign alleys, evading the city streets.  She knew they weren’t far from her office, maybe six blocks, but she didn’t have the key; she’d dropped her purse blocks ago.   And the only other key was in George’s pockets… Poor, poor George.  If only she could have saved him.  Pulled him back onto the curb, but had she stepped out just one foot beside him, the car could’ve easily torn her leg from its socket.  The car struck George with such force, she thought she heard the breath knocked from his lungs.
       Delacroix’s office wasn’t that far away.  Just two blocks.  Three at best.  But they couldn’t dare go there; the gangsters would surely find them.  For all she knew, Bernard Delacroix may have led the men right to them.  Or worse, he’d been the shooter.