Blood in the Lake Page 7

  “What a bunch of crap. If you get the evidence the dude did it, if he admits he did it, that’s murder in cold blood. He should be taken out to the Delcambre Canal, stabbed, stuffed in his car, and sent into the water to drown. Just what he did to PawPaw.”

  Nell touched her husband’s arm. “Easy, Ti.”

  Tom kept his cool. “I understand your feelings, sir, but for right now we have to begin with the Grand Jury. That’s the law. We need to ask them for an indictment for First Degree Murder. Then we need time to prepare for trial. I assure you we’ll all go through this together, as quickly as legally possible.”

  Tom had looked his challenger right in the eye. With his quiet, deliberate manner, he had calmed the storm. Good job, Tom. I hoped my face didn’t flush again.

  Uncle J. Allen was thinking a step ahead of his older brother. He’d picked up that the penalty for first degree murder would be an issue.

  “First degree murder means he gets the death penalty, right? He dies for this?”

  Perhaps only I noticed Tom’s brief hesitation. “Sir, one of the penalties for first degree murder is indeed death. That decision—death or life in prison without parole—will be made by the jury, but the possibility of a death sentence is the reason why every step in this process must be taken with great care. Capital verdicts get a lot of attention in the State courts and then, when the State proceedings are done, in the federal courts as well. Year after year, defense lawyers, judges, and the prisoners themselves, go back and look at how the original trial took place. We have to do everything right at every step along the way.”

  Ti again. “OK, Barnett. If we have to have some half-assed trial, we do it. Then, what will he get, the gas chamber?”

  “At this time, in the State of Louisiana, if the jury decides on the death penalty, the sentence is carried out with lethal injection.”

  “Ah, yes. The needle. Good.” Ti stuck his thumb between his first and middle finger.

  Aunt Tut had the next question. “How about the lady he did such awful things to, Mr. Barnett? How’s she doing?”

  Tom looked relieved to move to another topic. “Lydia Falgout. She’s still in very bad shape, but she’s improving every day and might be well enough to tell the Grand Jury what he did. She’ll definitely be at the trial. I hope y’all get to meet her soon. She is one brave lady.”

  Mr. Strait came forward to put an end to the meeting. The ingratiating smile of the seasoned politician reappeared.

  “My friends, you have as many questions as those reporters who will be waiting for me at noon.” He looked at his watch. “Just an hour from now.” He paused. “One more thing. You will not read a lot about this case in the newspapers. We have to be very careful. If we have too much publicity, we give ourselves a problem finding jurors who haven’t already made up their minds. We don’t want to have to move the trial somewhere else. We want a good group of citizens of this parish to be our jury. Justice will be done, my friends, but for now, I’m back to the office to prepare to meet the press.”

  The sheriff would probably put on some TV makeup and spray his hair. Not Mr. Strait; he’d go before the cameras as is. But they both kept an eye on politics. I remember the DA I’d worked for in Baton Rouge always timed his press conferences for noon so his announcements could make the afternoon papers and be featured on the evening news. I hoped my family had given Mr. Strait credit. They wouldn’t be getting their information about the arrest warrant at the same time as the rest of the world.

  The DA, Tom at his side, passed out a few more pleasantries as the pair made their way to the door. Once there, Tom turned his head and found my eye. Mom took it all in. I guess a sixth sense comes with the role. Custom around here has the mothers of girls thinking about weddings before their daughters are eighteen. I was twenty-six and had no one Mom called a prospect. She made regular remarks about grandchildren.

  As the two suited men walked to the road, Mr. Strait’s head bobbing in time to his moving lips, the public smile fell from his face. No doubt he was running through the plan for his meeting with the press, putting in motion the instincts that enabled him to balance the political forces that kept him in power and the analytical brain that allowed him to mine the law for prosecution strategies. Tom had clued me in about the political games of this press conference. The first order of business for the DA would be to get control of the sheriff’s mouth. If Mr. Strait let Sheriff Landry face the public alone, the big fella, not the DA, would get the evening headline. To uncover Richard’s hiding place, they needed the help of ordinary people, but too many details about the crime might jeopardize the chances of finding impartial jurors.

  His expression stern, chin tucked, Mr. Strait headed straight for the passenger side of his SUV. He flipped his hand to Tom to tell him to take the wheel.

  What would Mr. Strait say when the press wanted to know if he planned to ask for the death penalty? He’d take on a grave expression, lower his tone, and give the answer of any experienced DA. “I plan to prosecute this case to the fullest extent of the law.” He’d leave the details for Tom to deal with down the road.

  Watching the two men, and imagining their conversation, I thought about the process that lay ahead. As a member of the family, I would have an insider’s view of the prosecution. And I’d get to spend time with a really exciting guy!

  Aunt Tut invited everyone to come to the dining room for something to eat. My aunts and uncles were subdued, but the younger generation soon switched to talk about someone who got a bright red Camaro when he turned sixteen, and about the prospects for the local high school in the football playoffs. New Iberia Senior High had a good shot to win the championship. For the younger generation, the sandwiches and chips were no doubt breakfast. Not for me. Sometime in the past year I crossed over the line to be adult about what I put in my mouth.

  Before long, the family went their separate ways, leaving Mom and me to pick up the remains of the meeting. Mom looked exhausted.

  “Go sit down. I’ll finish up here,” I suggested.

  “I can hold on for a bit more. I’m so relieved this business is finally all over.”

  I couldn’t allow her to be deluded about what lay ahead. “Mom, it’s far from over.”

  She dismissed my concern. “Sure, honey. I understand it’s going to take time. But we know who did that to PawPaw. Even when he’s tucked away in jail where he can’t hurt our family ever again. Now it’s just a matter of going through the motions.”

  “It’ll take more than time, Mom. Deciding on the death penalty takes a toll on everyone.”

  Mom looked puzzled. “Whether he gets the death penalty or not is out of our hands. The jury decides life in prison or death, at least that’s what the DA told us.”

  “Technically, you’re right, Mom. If the DA asks for the death penalty, the jury decides whether or not to impose it. But he isn’t required to ask for death.”

  No need to get into the details today. Mom would soon learn almost every DA is willing to cut a deal for a defendant to plead guilty in return for a sentence of life in prison if—and that’s the big if—the victim is willing. We had a family of victims. My family, and I had at least one uncle who sounded as if he’d insist on going for the ultimate. I wasn’t too sure about the rest of them—or myself for that matter.

  I folded up the last chair and gave Mom a hug goodbye. When I turned to walk to the door, Mom put her hand on my arm.

  “By the way, Mandy, you seem to know that assistant DA, Tom Barnett. I think I saw something going on there. He looks very nice.”

  “I’ve met him, Mom. That’s all. He called last week and said he’d be handling the prosecution. Nothing to get excited about.”

  “Really? That call was enough for you to get out of those ratty student jeans!”

  “Mom!”

  I had taken a little more time with my appearance, but I didn’t go into that. Nor did I tell Mom Tom had joined me last Sunday afternoon in PawPaw’s back yard. I
had wanted to keep Taddy company when he went fishing there for the first time since PawPaw’s death. Not having PawPaw was bad enough for the boy, but when he walked down to the water to cast his line, he darn near collapsed. There lay the body of his friend the Great Egret, dark spatters spotting the rock the bird lay on, blood oozing from his belly into the lake. The snow-white neck had been blown apart by buckshot. Three turkey vultures circled overhead, red wattles pointing downward toward their dinner.

  While I was consoling Taddy, Tom went up to the shed for a shovel. He came back to the shore and began to dig a hole in the side yard close to my old favorite spot. Silently, Tom buried the bird. That act alone won a piece of my heart.

  That night I fell asleep with Tom’s face behind my closed eyelids. And another visual rolled into my brain. When Tom had gone back to PawPaw’s shed to find a shovel, I had seen a white pickup truck parked in the shell turnaround across the lake. Why was someone out there again? Were we being watched from across the lake?

  Or was I just having a flashback of the last afternoon I’d seen PawPaw alive—the Sunday afternoon when the pelicans came in before the storm? I dozed off before I answered my question.

  Arraignment Day

  MOM SENT OUT her own All Points Bulletin. She commanded my aunts, my uncles, and me to be present for the arraignment of Remuald Richard. I protested.

  “This is ridiculous. Nothing important happens at an arraignment.”

  “He’ll be there, won’t he? Everyone in the family needs to get a look at him.”

  I tried my best to make Mom understand Remmy Richard wouldn’t even speak. His attorneys would enter a plea for him, and we already knew they’d pronounce him Not Guilty. The court officials would just use the occasion to strut their stuff for the voters.

  “Empty procedure, Mom. The judge will set a trial date, but even that’s fiction. The District Attorney told us first degree murder goes on a special calendar and will be reset for a date at least six months down the road. There’s absolutely no point making Dora fly in from Atlanta.”

  Or making me miss a class.

  “We need to be there to show our strength, and Mr. Strait wants a short meeting with the family at nine, an hour before the arraignment.”

  Ah! That cast the situation in a different light. Mr. Strait would no doubt have his first assistant at his side. Tom.

  I tucked my car into an empty space across Iberia Street, behind Migues Grocery. Cooking fumes assailed me as I opened the door. Who should I see getting out of his truck but George Miller, a high school buddy of my older brother. I’d heard he worked for the Clerk of Court.

  “Hey George!” I called out. “Is it OK to park here? Everything’s full at the courthouse.”

  “Sure. I park here often, but then I usually eat Sammy Migues’ plate lunch. You may want to try one. He fixes extra on criminal days.”

  “I’m here for just one arraignment. I hope to be well on my way back to class by lunchtime.”

  George and I walked across Iberia Street toward the front steps of the courthouse.

  “Pretty neat building, isn’t it,” I observed.

  “Yup. An art deco treasure, built at the end of the thirties. Renovations and extensive additions in the 1980s changed the wings and back of the building, but thank goodness they kept the clean, symmetrical white facade. It’s too bad the old courthouse on the bayou wasn’t saved for something.”

  I paused to admire the statue commanding the top landing like the prow of a ship. Twice human size, one foot forward, palms upturned, reminiscent of the sculpture of the ancient Greeks. “I really like our Lady Justice,” I said.

  “We’ve got the sculptor’s explanation in the clerk’s office. He says she isn’t the usual trite representation—robed, blindfolded, holding mechanical scales. Our lady announces that from this industrial, technological building comes justice that is clear-eyed, humane, compassionate and strong.”

  Hm-m-m. Most of the time, anyway.

  We mounted the fifteen steps leading up to the brushed stainless double doors. Stylized pelican-beak profiles pointed at us from the tall windows above and on either side of the doors. Inside, George turned left to the office of the Clerk of Court. “See you at ten. I’ll be on duty as Minute Clerk in the big courtroom.”

  I entered the elevator and signaled the second floor, under a brass plaque placed there in memory of the long time operator. The Good Lord pushed the button and Charlie Baudoin had to go. Because he was a beloved character, he kept his job for years after automation had made him irrelevant.

  Our family meeting began on schedule. A puff of breath left my mouth when Tom stood before us. I planted both feet flat on the floor so my legs wouldn’t wiggle.

  “As you’ll know, following a very important tip from a citizen, our detectives located Remuald Richard in Birmingham, Alabama, and arrested him for the murder of Pierre Boudreaux, your PawPaw. The Grand Jury met, we presented our evidence, and they returned an indictment for first degree murder. Today Richard is set to be arraigned—formally charged—with that crime and for the attempted murder of Mrs. Falgout. We fully expect to convict Remuald Richard of capital murder and of the other charge as well.”

  Tom sounded great.

  “As we’ve told you, the process of obtaining a capital crime conviction is reviewed by the upper courts again and again. Volumes of cases parse the fine points of every death penalty decision—both state and federal cases since we’re dealing with constitutional protections. We can’t afford to take any shortcuts. We have to do everything right.”

  “Bullshit. Bullshit! That’s what I think of what you call ‘process.’” Uncle Ti again. He sat in the front row, on the center aisle, the best vantage point from which to rant.

  Tom gave Uncle Ti a broad smile. “Mr. Boudreaux, I do believe I agree with you, but we live in America, and I don’t think there’s any one of us who would want to live anywhere else. The ‘process’ is the law of our country.”

  “The word on the street is the dirt bag confessed. Can’t anything be done to just get this over and done with?”

  Would Tom go there, I wondered? Yes. He put a toe in treacherous water.

  “Actually there is, Mr. Boudreaux. If we weren’t asking for the death penalty, the process would be much simpler.”

  Uncle Ti had nothing to say about that alternative. Tom gave him a steady look and moved on.

  Once again, Tom’s answers to the questions from the family were awesome. I thought so anyway. When he was done, he thanked everyone for coming. He walked down the center aisle toward the rear door, pausing as he passed my seat.

  “How about lunch today, Mandy? Want to come by the office after the arraignment?”

  I nodded my acceptance but couldn’t speak.

  A half hour later the bailiff formally opened court in the large courtroom. Forty members of our family were in place on the benches on the right side. In front of the family, within the bar—the railing separating the public from the officers of the court—District Attorney Gerald Strait sat at the prosecution counsel table with two assistants: Tom, of course, and Richie Castille. All three wore dark grey pinstripe suits. The prosecution had claimed the counsel table closest to the box where, at trial time, the jurors who would decide the case would be sitting. Inside the bar on the left, the pair of attorneys appointed to defend Remuald Richard occupied the other counsel table. The Chief Public Defender for Iberia Parish, Sarah Bernard, very tall, very blond, sleekly thin, sat in the center. For this public appearance Sarah had chosen a clinging, sharkskin, cream-colored pantsuit. Tom told me the lawyers referred to her as The Afghan Hound. If so, why not dress the part? Next to her, Reginald Denny, co-counsel sent by the State Public Defender Board to assist in capital defense—a dapper young African American with a full afro, a polka dot bowtie, and an unvented, iridescent grey silk jacket—sat at her side. A third chair, at the end of their table, awaited the defendant. The benches directly behind the counsel table, the plac
es customarily reserved for supporters of the defendant, were empty. Remuald Richard had neither family nor friends.

  The Clerk of Court himself showed up today, stationed directly in front of the judge’s bench. He came to read the indictments returned by the Grand Jury: First Degree Murder of Pierre Boudreaux and Attempted Second Degree Murder of Lydia Falgout. As an elected official, he used the occasion to shine his record-keeping job with a patina of judicial importance. He had George at his side to take the court minutes.

  Of course the Grand Jury returned indictments. Only the District Attorney puts on evidence; there’s no defense presence. Although no one knew any details about the testimony the jurors heard—the proceedings were closed—the general public skipped right over any problems the prosecution might have in proving guilt. Even my Mom thought Richard’s conviction was assured. The sheriff’s deputies had good evidence tying Richard to the crimes, and he had admitted his involvement. The only question? Would he or would he not get the death penalty?

  For the occasion, Sheriff Septimus Landry had stuffed himself into his dress uniform. With the two lead detectives on the case, Buddy Aymond and Deuce Washington, he leaned against the wall at our right, overlooking our benches. His upturned chin invited the Boudreaux family—voters every one—to feel protected and served by his sheltering presence. In the general audience, I spotted representatives of the media sprinkled among courthouse groupies and the merely curious. Eager young men and women with notebooks in hand, loose shirts concealing tape recorders they had strapped to their chests.

  Judge Sosthenes Oliver Bonin, who enjoyed initialing paperwork with the block letters S.O.B., emerged from a doorway behind the bench. An elderly bailiff jumped to his feet and bellowed into the room. “Oyez, oyez, oyez. All rise.” The judge mounted five steps to the dais and remained standing while the bailiff repeated his call to order.

  Judge Bonin settled his ample width into the high-backed armchair. Today a curtain covered the WPA-funded Conrad Albrizio fresco behind the bench. Damn. I wouldn’t get to see this famous example of the Diego Rivera period of art Tom had told me about. The subject? A central figure represented mankind achieving freedom by overcoming the forces of avarice and malevolent power. By some unfortunate coincidence, the flushed red face of the bald figure depicting a corrupt official sweeping coins into his clutches, avarice himself, bore an extraordinary resemblance to Judge Bonin. By order of the court, the bailiffs closed the curtain whenever Judge Bonin presided. I resolved to ask George to show me the fresco on another day.