I could picture it now.
Damn … could I ever picture it now.
Whoa, Dix. Back it up here.
What I meant to say was, with any luck he’d be out of that security guard outfit, I would introduce him to mother, and we’d have a great time in Florida for the rest of our short stay. Yes, I remembered, Mrs. Presley wanted to go to bingo before we went home. With a fat red marker, she’d been circling the big money ones in the local newspaper.
~*~
True to his word, Cotton Carson was at the courthouse when I arrived. I don’t know what I expected. Visually, I pictured someone somewhere between Matlock and that cranky guy from Law and Order. I was wrong.
Cotton Carson wheeled himself along the halls of the Criminal Justice Center at a faster clip than the two flustered young articling clerks carrying his briefcase and court papers could keep up with. He growled at the prosecutor, nodded to the clerk, grumbled to the deputy, and smiled sweetly at my mother as she sat down beside him. They’d had the opportunity, of course, of a pre-hearing consultation. And I learned that all this took place in the early hours of the morning. Apparently, Carson had been at the jail before 7 a.m., sent one of his clerks out for coffee and croissants for him and my mother, and spoken to my mother for a solid hour and a half. No, he hadn’t needed to be there so early. Nor go over matters with her for such a lengthy time period, but if it got her out of that jail cell, that was good. And if it intimidated the bejesus out of the cops, all the better.
By the time I saw Mother at the bail hearing, she was much more relaxed than I’d left her last evening. Not exactly all smiles; she looked like she hadn’t slept a wink. But some of the tension had subsided.
I liked Cotton Carson.
Mother turned in her seat and offered a half-hearted wave to me. She pointed me out to Carson and I could make out the words, ‘That’s my daughter’.
I wished of course that I could stand right up, jump over the partition and tell Mother the good news. But that fun would be reserved for the Wildoh.
I had put in a voice mail to Deputy No-Nuts before I’d left Dylan’s room at the Goosebump Inn. He’d be at the rec room for the early-morning gathering, I had no doubt. If for no other reason, to ask how come I knew so many four-letter words as per the voicemail.
So no, I couldn’t jump over the railing and yell my ‘a-ha!’ right then and there. But I did relax in my seat a bit, leaning back with a self-satisfied smile. I just damn well knew the day would be ending on a happier note than it began.
I was wrong. Damn wrong.
Oh boy … wrong.
~*~
“Bail is set at one hundred thousand dollars!” Judge Wm. P. Robbins didn’t need to bang the gavel. I jumped in my seat without it, thank you very much.
The dick of a crown prosecutor had convinced Judge Robbins that Mother was a definite flight risk with her expertise in stealth, “Expertise to which her daughter attested to in the presence of Deputy Almond.”
A hundred thousand freaking dollars!
This was way beyond what I’d expected. Way beyond what I’d scraped together. Mother would have to spend a few more hours — God if it wasn’t for the fact that I’d soon have the fucker in jail, probably a few more days — in jail before I could get this together. Of all the rotten….
“Ready to go, Dix?” Mother was all smiles.
“There’ll be a slight delay, Mother,” I sputtered. “That hundred thousand dollars caught me off guard. But with any luck, I’ll have you out of here by noon without posting a dime.” Of course I didn’t know if Noel Almond would move all that fast to get my mother out. And there still was the matter of the missing Frankie Morrell.
One problem at a time, Dix.
Cotton Caron leaned forward and shook my hand. His grip was firm, rough and warm. “Ms. Dodd,” he began. “There seems to be a bit of a miscommunication here. Bail has been taken care of. Instructions were left with my assistant last night — no matter what the sum.”
Holy shit!
“Holy shit.”
My first thought was of Peaches Marie. But on associate professor salaries, both of them, I doubted that either she or her girl friend would have that kind of cash on hand. And how the hell would she have found out? I know bad news travels fast, but really! That fast across the ocean?
Dylan? The Foremans had money, and they could certainly swing it. But this fast? And Dylan would surely have told me.
Mother looked at me, perplexed. “If not you, Dix … then who?”
With a snap of his fingers, Cotton summoned forth one of his clerks. She delivered to him a UPS envelope, then backed away practically bowing, to take her seat again.
“This was couriered to my office last evening. It’s a blank cheque made out to my trust account. I was instructed to fill in the amount, and get Mrs. Dodd ‘the hell out of jail’. It’ll take a couple of hours to clear it through the system — less if I hover around the desk sergeant.” He smiled at my mother. “I’ll do that off the books, Katt. My pleasure.”
Despite the assurances she was on her way home shortly, despite Cotton’s obvious kindness to my mother, there was worry in her voice when she spoke again. “But who arranged this, Cotton? My friends don’t have that kind of money. I sure as hell don’t.”
I answered for Cotton. “Jane Presley.”
The gentleman looked up at me and nodded.
I knew Mrs. Presley was a shrewd businesswoman. I knew she was a thrifty person. And though I’d never given it much thought, it didn’t really surprise me that she’d have that much cash at her disposal.
But how did I truly know it was Mrs. P? It was the ‘get Mrs. Dodd the hell out of jail.”
“Jane? Jane did this?” Mother’s voice was small. “I’m … I’m grateful, but she doesn’t even really know me. We just met the other day.”
I tried to shrug, but it came out stiff and awkward.
True to his word, Cotton Carson had Mother out of jail in an hour and a bit. I watched him work, or rather, I watched him watching everyone in the Sheriff’s office work on Mother’s file. He not only watched, Cotton scrutinized. With open hostility. He dogged them with his eyes and chased them with a demanding, unwavering, confident scowl that said ‘screw up and I’ll have your ass’.
He didn’t have to by any means — and he assured us it was off the clock — Cotton Carson drove us home. His articling clerks looked more than relieved as they headed to the bus stop.
“Poor kids,” he said glancing at them going. “I ride them hard, but it’s a tough business. I’d rather them get used to the grumpy old bastards like me now rather than later when it really counts. Those two will make hellishly good lawyers some day.”
“You mean it’s all an act?” I asked from the back seat.
“An act?” He smiled at me. He winked in the rear-view mirror. “Hell no. I am a grumpy old bastard.”
Mother laughed, “somehow I doubt that, Cotton.”
When we arrived back at the Wildoh, it took a minute for the mechanical chair topper to descend the wheelchair from the top of the car. But once it was down, it took no more than ten seconds for Carson to settle himself into it, engage the hand gears and wheel around. He opened the door for mother while I let myself out of the back.
I knew not to dally getting out of the car. I did not linger or stroll or wait for Mother.
Much. Okay, so I’m a nosy daughter. I wanted to know what was going on.
But it didn’t take shitloads of intuition to figure out Mother had a little bit of a crush on Cotton, and though he was younger than she, I knew damn well the feeling was mutual. No harps were playing overhead. No birds were chirping delightfully and smiling in that cartoon way (or I’d have to kill them). And if I ever see anything even remotely resembling a cupid in the offing, I’d gleefully break every arrow on hand.