“Of course, you know I’ve never defended a death penalty case before,” Lily reminded her.
“Well then, here’s your chance,” the judge said, handing over the file.
Lily accepted it with a heavy heart, and more than a tinge of resentment. “I assume you’re presiding?”
“Yes, I am,” the judge declared. “Is that a problem?”
“On the contrary,” Lily responded. There were currently two other judges who heard criminal cases, and neither of them held a candle to Grace Pelletier. There were also three public defenders that worked for the county. “And which one of our overworked public souls handled the arraignment?”
Grace Pelletier shrugged. “He hasn’t been arraigned yet.”
Lily was genuinely startled at that. “You mean he’s been sitting in jail since Monday without an arraignment?”
“Apparently, it took John Henry a while to decide what the charges were going to be.”
“I’ll bet,” Lily said with a scowl.
John Henry Morgan -- for some reason, he was always referred to as John Henry -- was the Jackson County Prosecutor, promoted in the wake of her father’s stroke, and elected to the office a year later. Lacking both the stature and the charm of Carson Burns, he retained the position as much because of his name as his ability, the Morgans having been original settlers, and one of the few families that had never totally abandoned Port Hancock.
However, knowing John Henry as she did, Lily also knew that the charge against Jason Lightfoot was never going to be anything but first-degree murder -- with special circumstances.
“His seventy-two hours came and went,” she muttered in disgust, “and because the poor bastard didn’t know any better, they got away with it. Whatever happened to due process?”
Grace hid a smile, seeing Lily engaged in spite of herself. “I understand it was an oversight, and I apologize,” she said. “But he never asked for an attorney.”
“How convenient.”
The judge ignored that. “We can schedule the arraignment for today, if you like,” she offered.
“I would most definitely like,” Lily declared. “I’m available at three o’clock.”
“All right then, three o’clock it is,” Grace said, clasping her hands in front of her, which was her way of signaling that the matter had been dealt with to her satisfaction, and it was time to change the subject. “So, how’s your dad doing?”
Lily shrugged. “He has his good days and his bad days,” she confided, because Grace Pelletier was a family friend and could be trusted with the truth. “I’ll tell him you asked.”
“No,” the judge said with a twinkle in her eye. “Just tell him I’ll see him on Sunday.” Whenever she could, Grace stopped by on Sunday afternoons, to chew the fat, as Carson called it, fill him in on all the courthouse gossip, let him win at Scrabble, and give Diana Hightower, his caregiver, a few extra hours to herself. Even in his healthier days, Carson Burns was nothing if not ornery, and the judge had plenty of reason to know he was not the easiest person in the world to please.
. . .
Lily made her way out of the courthouse, climbed into her dark green Toyota Camry, and drove eight miles east on the highway and then two miles south on back roads to the Jackson County Jail. The solid three-story complex was within hailing distance of the Olympic foothills, surrounded by scrub brush, and enclosed by a two-foot-thick, ten-foot-tall cement wall topped with strips of barbed wire. Not to be confused with the maximum security Jackson County State Prison some seventy miles west, this facility was used for those who were serving misdemeanor and low felony time, and those who were unlucky enough to be awaiting trial without bail.
She found Jason Lightfoot in a cell on the third floor of the jail’s west wing. Renovated in the late 1990’s, the typical space was now eight feet by twelve feet, and contained a steel bunk that was bolted to the floor, a lidless stainless steel toilet, a stainless steel sink, a small steel storage cabinet bolted to the wall, and a horizontal slit of steel-reinforced window too high to see much of anything but sky, and an occasional bird flying by.
The Indian lay across the bunk bed, staring up at nothing. There was nothing to see but a gray ceiling that matched gray walls. He was thirty-eight years old and looked fifty. He smelled bad, the orange jumpsuit they had made him put on when they took away his clothes was filthy, his long brown hair was matted, his normally ruddy complexion had lost most of its color, there were purplish bruises all over his face, arms and torso, and blood was oozing from a swollen lip.
An untouched breakfast tray of greasy eggs, sausage and cold coffee sat on the floor by the door. It was ten past eleven on Friday, he had been in the cell since Monday morning, and he had just lived through the worst four days of his life.
First, it was the pain from the beating he had taken. Then it was the shakes. Then it was the nightmares. Then it was as though he was coming right out of his skin. His brain was so messed up, he couldn’t think straight. He didn’t know what was going on. All he knew was that he needed a drink. He needed a drink so bad, he could almost feel his insides drying up worse than a creek bed in a drought.
Jason Lightfoot lived on the fringe, and had done so for most of his life. A bright enough kid, he was just about to enter the ninth grade when the county abruptly shut down the reservation school on the rather contradictory pretext that there was not enough attendance to keep teachers there, and too much violence to keep them safe.
He had the option of going to the white high school in town, but it was ten miles away, no bus service was provided, and he didn’t have a license to drive the old Ford
