If that scum-bucket judge did his job and ruled for suicide, then Velvet would have no reason to stay. Her time in Port Leo would end, and her sojourn with him could begin. He would treasure each second with her, each second an eternity to play again in his mind for the rest of his life. His mouth dried with want. Then it would end, as always, and he would be sad for a while, until the next craving rose like a lick of fire.
So don’t do this. Don’t do this anymore.
The voice in his ear was not Mama’s, but a boy’s voice perhaps like his own from long ago. I’m sorry for what I do but it has to be done. I need it to be done.
He pulled his bowie knife out of its sheath and slid it beneath the driver’s seat. He had cleaned and sharpened it again after its last use.
The Blade saw Velvet hop out of her rental car and hurry inside the courthouse. She was modestly dressed, in black jeans, a thin, dark sweater, a baseball cap, and the reporters took little notice of her, which pleased him. He switched the Boys off. He could wait for her here. He smiled. Soon his Darling would breathe his same air, know his wanting, share the beginning of a brief forever.
Whit’s clerk was a chain-smoking widow named Edith Gregory. She was on the outer edge of her fifties, with a thin, sparrow’s body, dieted by years of smoking. She stood in Whit’s office as he pulled his judicial robe over an unusually somber blue button-down and khaki combo and eyed him critically.
‘Them pants need pressing,’ she said. ‘You think that little Russian gal could learn an iron.’ Edith was friends with Georgie. ‘Those Communists probably all wore grocery bags.’
‘I’m responsible for my own laundry, Edith.’
Edith worked her empty fingers as if she had a cigarette. ‘We need to get responsible for keeping you in office. I got to work for Buddy Beere, they gonna have to give me a raise.’
Whit straightened his robe and gathered the papers of the inquest record. ‘Okay, let’s go.’
Edith stopped him and he glanced at her. An unexpected softness touched her blue eyes, and he thought: If my mom was alive and here she’d be about your age.
‘You just got this hangdog look on your face that’s got me worried,’ Edith said. ‘Just remember, you’re a judge. Act like one. Make me proud.’
Six months and she doesn’t give me a pep talk until now. ‘Thanks.’
They walked out of his office and down the hall. He followed her into the small courtroom. Lloyd, the constable, bellowed, ‘All rise!’ and the packed courtroom stood in near unison. The Hubble contingent occupied the front row: Faith, Lucinda, a tired-looking Sam, the rest of the Democratic power base for Encina County; to their left, Claudia Salazar, watching him as though he were a leper trying to blow kisses, and Delford Spires and Eddie Gardner, a couple of patrol officers; his father and Irina. In the back sat a large bevy of the curious, Velvet squeezed among them, replete in cap and dark glasses. In the back corner, to his surprise, Junior Deloache lounged, wearing a Houston Astros baseball cap and a Houston Rockets T-shirt. Deloache stared at him, and he wondered if he ruled for homicide if Junior would just go outside, flip open a cell phone, and call in the death orders.
‘The Honorable Whitman Mosley presiding!’ Lloyd blared. Whit sat and the crowd settled into their seats, wood creaking as butts eased down. He opened his inquest file, carefully prepared by his clerk. He glanced at the court reporter, borrowed from the county court. He wanted a written transcript of the proceedings to file in the inquest report.
Take step one and don’t get killed.
‘Good morning, everyone. This is a tragic event, this loss of life, and it has received a lot of local publicity. But this is a courtroom, and outbursts will not be tolerated. Anyone who creates a disturbance will be held in contempt and removed from the courtroom by the constable. Is that understood?’
Silence from the gathered. Lucinda Hubble looked pained. Velvet looked tense. Junior Deloache pushed his Astros cap back farther on his head and scratched his forehead with a beefy finger.
‘Let me explain, quickly, the point of a death inquest hearing. It is to determine whether or not anyone is responsible for the death of another,’ Whit said. ‘I will question the witnesses. There is no jury in this case, and no one stands presently accused of a crime.’ He glanced at Lloyd. ‘Constable Brundrett, please call the first witness.’
Lloyd said, ‘I was unable to serve process on Heather Farrell, Your Honor. I have not been able to locate her. I believe she may have left the jurisdiction. She’s a known transient, and she lied to the police regarding her whereabouts.’
‘Did you find any trace of her, Constable?’ He already knew the answer but wanted it in the record.
‘Yes, sir. We found she had bought two tickets on Greyhound. Her reservation on the bus was for three days from now.’
‘But she’s already gone?’
‘Apparently, Your Honor.’
‘Thank you, Constable. Next witness?’
‘Calling Detective Edward Gardner of the Port Leo Police Department.’
Gardner came to the stand. Whit swore him in. Gardner gave a precise, rapid account of last Monday night’s events.
‘Did you find a suicide note?’ Whit asked.
‘No, Y’Honor. The deceased’s son brought one to our attention later.’
‘Who covered the deceased’s hands with protective bagging?’
Gardner stared at him. ‘I did, Y’Honor.’
‘I was told by the Nueces County medical examiner’s office the hands were improperly bagged.’
Gardner turned his gaze out to the crowd. ‘Yes, sir. I checked the chain of custody. At some point before delivery to the morgue the bag covering the right hand was damaged.’
‘The end result being the medical examiner’s office had difficulty getting an accurate gunpowder-residue reading on Mr Hubble’s hands. I suggest, Detective, before you investigate another crime scene that you refresh yourself on appropriate forensic procedures.’ Whit knew he sounded like a textbook, but he watched as the borrowed court reporter recorded every word.
Gardner’s face soured with anger. ‘Yes, sir,’ was all he said, but he did not look at Whit; he stared out into the crowd, as though at attention. Whit dismissed him from the stand. Claudia looked ready to jump out of her seat, notes in hand, but Whit didn’t call her as a witness.
Next Dr Elizabeth Contreras, deputy medical examiner for Nueces County, gave the same summation of autopsy findings she’d given to Whit, stressing that she could not make a definitive call as to whether the gunshot wound was self-inflicted. Whit asked her only a few questions and Liz kept her testimony concise.
‘Was there any other indication of violence to Mr Hubble?’ he asked. ‘Had he been drugged or assaulted in another way?’
‘He was intoxicated, and we’re awaiting toxicology results, but no, there were no other signs of violence on him.’
Whit thanked Liz and she stepped down.
‘I’m introducing into the inquest record,’ Whit said, ‘a suicide note found at the scene by the deceased’s minor son.’ Whit held up the note, properly bagged. The audience was silent; tears coursed down Lucinda’s cheeks. ‘In fact, I would like to read the note into the transcript of this hearing.’
Whit read the note aloud in a slow voice, the final pain of Pete Hubble and his confession for the death of his brother Corey. Lucinda sobbed, noisily, and Faith hugged her. Sam trembled, his eyes locked on Whit. Velvet made some protesting noise; the other attendees shushed her. She glared at Whit as he finished.
Whit let the silence hang before he picked up his gavel. ‘This court rules that the deceased, Peter James Hubble, committed suicide by self-inflicted gunshot wound on last October 12. I am going to certify a copy of the inquest summary report for delivery to the district court. This court is adjourned.’ Whit rapped his gavel. It was over quick, and he saw the disappointment in faces that the hearing had been peculiar and short.