After the trial, on a golden, autumn afternoon, our small clan assembled in my uncle Deke’s garage, still stunned by the verdict. We’d intended to hold a delayed wake in honor of my sister. Lisa Marie was dead, but at least the monster had been punished. Or so we’d expected.
Instead it felt like Lisa had been slaughtered all over again. Along with her unborn child. A Canfield baby none of us would ever hold.
But there was beer on ice, hot dogs and potato salad already laid out. And folks have to eat.
So we gathered around the banquet table in somber silence, Canfields and La Mottes, in-laws and cousins. But with none of the usual good-natured banter. No one spoke at all. Until my mother, Mabel Canfield, turned to me for an explanation.
“I don’t understand it, Paul,” she said simply. “How could this happen? Where’s the justice in it?”
“Justice doesn’t actually exist, Ma. It’s only a concept. An ideal.”
“I still don’t—”
“When people go to court, they expect to win because they’re in the right. But the truth is, every trial is a contest. Like a debating match between lawyers with a judge for a referee. The jury chooses the winning side and we call it justice. And usually, it works pretty well.”
“Not this time,” my cousin Bo La Motte snorted. “The jurors were morons.”
“No,” I said, “they were just home folks. Like us. Mel Bennett’s a professional salesman and that jury was just one more deal to close. He had a sharp lawyer and the prosecutor thought the case was a slam dunk—”
“It should have been!” Bo snapped. “Lisa’s blood was splattered all over Bennett’s damn car!”
“But the Daniels woman had keys to that car. When she took the Fifth and refused to say where she was at the time of Lisa’s death, the jury had reasonable doubts. And they gave Mel the benefit of those doubts.”
“Is there any chance at all that Daniels woman could actually have done this thing?” my mother asked.
“No,” Uncle Deke said quietly. “I had some people look into that. Word is, she was shooting pool at the Sailor’s Rest when Lisa was run down. She’ll probably claim she bought dope or committed some other petty crime to justify taking the Fifth, but her alibi is rock solid. She didn’t kill Lisa, Mel Bennett did. I expect Fawn collected a fat payoff to cover for him.”
“Then I say we should pop that bastard today,” Bo said. Burly and surly, my cousin Bo is the hothead of the family. He inherited his father’s straight dark hair, obsidian eyes, and black temper. But in school, nobody ever picked on me when my cousin Bo was around.
“Popping Bennett is a great idea, Cousin,” I said, “as long as you’ve got no plans for the rest of your natural life.”
“Bull! No jury in the world would convict me! They’d—”
“You just saw firsthand what a small-town jury can do! You’re already a two-time loser for weed and grand theft auto, Bo. Nobody’d give you the benefit of a doubt.”
“Then to hell with them! And to hell with you too, Professor!” Bo snapped. “If you got no belly for this, go back to school and leave the rat killin’ to men who ain’t afraid to—”
Whirling in her chair, my mother backhanded Bo across the mouth. Hard! Spilling him over backwards onto the garage floor.
He was up like a cat, fire in his eyes, his fist cocked — but of course he didn’t swing.
Instead, he shook his head to clear it, then gingerly touched his split lip with his fingertips. They came away dripping blood.
“Damn, Aunt May,” he groused, “most girls just slap my face.”
“Not Canfield girls,” my mother said. Uncle Deke chuckled, and gradually the rest of us joined in. It was a thin joke, but our family hadn’t done much laughing lately.
Uncle Deke tossed Bo a paper towel to mop up the blood and we all resumed our seats.
“All right, Professor,” the old man growled. “You’re the closest thing we got to a legal expert in this family. What are our options now? Is there any way to get justice for Lisa? If we dig up more evidence—?”
“I don’t think it would make any difference,” I said. “Now that Mel’s been found not guilty, he can’t be tried again, period. He could confess to killing Lisa in a church full of witnesses and the worst he could get is a perjury charge. A year or two, no more.”
“You’re saying the law can’t touch him?” Bo said dangerously. “Is that what you’re telling us?”
“Look, I’m only a teacher, Bo, not a lawyer. But I don’t believe there’s anything we can do. Legally, it’s over.”
“Except it ain’t,” Bo said.
“It is for now,” my mother said firmly, rising stiffly, looking up and down the banquet table. “Deacon, you’re my older brother and I love you, but you’ve got an evil temper and your three boys are no better. Lisa was my daughter, not yours. You missed most of her growing years while you were in prison. I absolutely forbid you to throw any more of your life away in some mad-dog quest for vengeance.”
“You forbid me, Mabel?” Deke echoed, with a faint smile.
“I swear to God, Deacon La Motte, if you or Bo go after Mel Bennett, I’ll cut you off. I’ll never speak to either of you again as long as I live, nor will any of my family. Ever.”
“That’s too hard, Sis,” Deke said, his smile fading. “That sonofabitch murdered your girl and her unborn child. I can’t let it pass.”
“I’m not asking you to. I’m only saying we should wait. In six months—”
“Six months!” Bo interjected. “No way!”
“In six months we’ll all have cooler heads,” Mabel continued firmly. “Maybe we’ll feel differently. Maybe Bennett will get hit by a bus or someone else will settle his hash. If not, in six months, we’ll look at this again. But for now, I want your word, Deke, yours too, Bo, that you’ll stay away from him. We’ve already had a Valhalla verdict. We don’t need a La Motte verdict added on top of it.”
“That’s bullshit, Aunt May—” Bo began.
“Watch your mouth!” Uncle Deke barked, slamming the table with his fist, making the beer bottles jump. “Mabel’s right, as usual. If Mel Bennett gets struck by lightning or catches the flu, the police will be coming for us. Because they’ll know damned well we were involved. We’d best lay back in the weeds awhile, and cool off. Think things through. If anybody’s got a problem with that, he can step out back and talk it over. With me.”
Deke was glaring at Bo, his oldest boy. Uncle Deke is rawboned with thick wrists and scarred knuckles, dark hair hanging in his eyes, lanky as Johnny Cash back in his wilder days. Pushing fifty, though.
Twenty years younger and forty pounds heavier, Bo has a serious rep as a bad-ass barroom brawler.
But when we were boys, my uncle Deke shotgunned Bo’s mother and her lover in a local tavern. Then ordered up a beer and sipped it while he waited for the law to come for him.
Fourteen years in Jackson Prison, he never backed down from anybody and had the battle scars to prove it. None of us had any doubt how a scrap between Bo and Uncle Deke would come out.
Not even Bo.
“Whatever,” he muttered.
“Speak up, boy,” Deke said. “I didn’t hear you.”
“Whatever... you say. Sir,” Bo added, glaring at his father. Then at me for good measure.
“It’s settled then,” Deke nodded. “We wait six months.”
But he was dead wrong about that.
I called one of my old professors over the weekend, but she only confirmed what I already suspected. Simply put, “double jeopardy” means that once you’re found innocent of a charge, you can never be tried for that crime again. Period. A civil lawsuit for damages might be possible, but it would be a long, expensive process with only a faint hope of success.