Antiques Knock-Off (9 page)

Her favorite
Perry Mason
episodes (yes, we do value those previously mentioned DVD boxed sets highly) are the ones where the judge says to the court reporter—usually a squirrely-looking gent with a twitchy mustache (the court reporter, not the judge)—“Read that testimony back.” I don’t know why Mother likes those moments the best—I prefer it when Perry leans over and tells Paul Drake to go off and do something absurd (“Paul, hire a helicopter and fly over the Grand Canyon”) that will eventually crack the case.

Anyway, at two minutes to ten, the lawyers arrived, Mr. Ekhardt taking a seat on the aisle-end of my pew, and the county attorney—bespectacled, salt-and-pepper hair, nondescript navy suit—positioning himself directly across from Ekhardt. (No separate tables for Perry Mason and Hamilton Burger here.)

At precisely ten, a side door next to the judge’s bench swung open and His Honor swept in, long black robe flapping like Batman’s cape. The judge was pushing sixty, and pushing it hard, with silver hair and heavy bags beneath his eyes. He took his regal place behind the raised bench.

The side door opened again and a burly male bailiff in a tan uniform marched into the room, an army of one, taking a rigid position next to the flag of the USA on its sturdy if squat pole.

The only noise came from a small window air conditioner, doing its best to cool the already warm room. This hum was soon accompanied by the rustling of papers, as the judge readied for Mother’s case.

I felt sick to my stomach, and was glad I’d had the foresight to skip breakfast. Whether it was pregnancy or concern for Mother, or a combo of both, I couldn’t tell you.

The stern-faced judge caught the eye of the bailiff, and nodded, and the bailiff stepped back to the side door and opened it. I could see Mother waiting beyond in the custody of a female guard in a tan shirt and slacks, Mother wearing the same clothes she’d been hauled off in. The guard escorted Mother into the chamber, depositing her next to the standing bailiff, before fading back against the near wall.

Usually I took a perverse enjoyment in Mother’s tilts with legal officialdom, but I suddenly sided with my sister in thinking it might be better to be anywhere else. A murder
arraignment was something new and different in the Adventures of Vivian Borne, and quite disturbing….

Still, Mother looked surprisingly well, her clothes not at all rumpled, silver-white hair combed neatly back into a chignon at the nape of her neck. She even wore a little lipstick.

Mother bestowed me a serene smile, and I smiled weakly back.

I crossed my fingers that she was about to put on one heck of an eccentric show—not for its entertainment value, no; rather, to play unwittingly into our lawyer’s strategy.

The judge banged his gavel and everyone jumped a little in their seats. But Mother hadn’t stirred. She remained serenely, spookily immobile.

“The State versus Vivian Borne,” His Honor said in a properly booming voice. “Does the defendant have representation?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” Ekhardt spoke up.

“For the record,” the judge noted, “Wayne Ekhardt is representing the defendant.”

The court reporter’s fingers clicked faintly away at her machine. It sounded like little tiny tap dancers, whom I could picture in my mind. Maybe
I
should have gone for an insanity plea….

The judge addressed Mother. “Mrs. Borne, do you understand the process of this arraignment?”

Mother smiled sweetly. “Oh my, yes, Your Honor. I’ve been through it enough times.”

The judge grunted, “Very well. You are charged with felony murder. How do you plead?”

I held my breath. This is where I expected the antics to begin, with Mother rambling on incoherently until the exasperated judge would bang his gavel—if we were
really
lucky, he would bang it down on his thumb, like the last judge.

But Mother said simply, “Guilty, Your Honor. Guilty as charged.”

And no more.

I looked woefully toward Mr. Ekhardt.

He rose and said, “Your Honor, permission to approach the bench?”

The district attorney seemed startled by his opponent’s request, and when the judge nodded his approval, the DA followed Ekhardt up there, having to work to catch up with the old boy, in several senses.

What followed was a hushed conversation between Ekhardt, the judge, and the DA.

I could not hear what Mr. Ekhardt, or the DA, were saying, because they were facing away from me, but I did catch the occasional words from the judge, including “not established,” and “unverified.”

Which did not sound like good news, because he was apparently questioning Mr. Ekhardt’s tactic of an insanity plea.

Mother was also straining to hear, frowning, her eyes narrow behind the large lenses, serving to make them appear normal size.
Also
not helpful.

The defendant must have been aware that her mental health was being discussed, because she said loudly, “Permission to speak, Your Honor!”

The conversation at the bench halted as the three men looked toward her. And before His Honor could respond, Mother took the spotlight, and with considerable dignity.

“This is
my
arraignment—
my
life. I am in complete control of my faculties. I understand my rights, and I plead guilty. I will not waste the court’s time, the taxpayer’s money, nor my own limited resources in pleading otherwise
to a crime for which I take full responsibility. Nor will I put my family through the ordeal of a criminal trial.”

Finally some melodrama entered in, as Mother raised a finger.

“Furthermore,” she said, some ham coming in, “I cite the case of Frendak versus the United States … an insanity defense cannot be imposed upon an unwilling defendant if an intelligent defendant voluntarily wishes to forgo the defense—which I
do.”
Then as an aside she turned to the gallery and with her eyes big and buggy, and her smile cheerfully demented, added, “I’d like to thank the fine folks at Wikipedia for that information!”

Except for that last lapse, I could not remember seeing Mother more in control of herself, or hearing her speak more lucidly.

Which made my heart sink.

The judge said solemnly, “Mrs. Borne, please understand that I have a responsibility to make sure that you are completely aware of what you are doing, and the repercussions thereof.”

Mother pulled herself up even straighter. “Your Honor, I do indeed understand the letter of the law for felony murder. Class A—life without parole, unless pardoned by the governor—which is highly unlikely because I campaigned
against
that nincompoop. Class B—a maximum of twenty-five years. Class C—ten years with a fine up to ten thousand dollars. And Class D—five years and a fine up to seven thousand five hundred dollars. However, I do not qualify for either C or D, as my actions were premeditated.”

The judge stared at Mother for a moment, seeming to work hard not to let his jaw drop, then sighed. “Very well, Mrs. Borne—I must pay you the respect of assuming that
you know what you’re doing…. This court accepts the plea of guilty, and Vivian Borne will be confined in the county jail until sentencing.”

He banged the gavel.

It was over.

And I burst into tears.

While I bawled like a baby, the bailiff was escorting Mother through the side door. She called back to me, “Don’t worry, dear! It’s for the best!”

The courtroom emptied out, leaving a defeated Mr. Ekhardt seated next to a stricken me.

“Well, Brandy,” he sighed wearily. “It’s not the first time your mother has outsmarted us all.”

“But … but maybe the
last,”
I said, nodding, sniffling.

“If only she had misbehaved,” the lawyer said, shaking his head.

“That
wasn’t Mother,” I said bitterly. “That was Mother playing a part.” Like Joan of Arc going bravely to be burned. “What happens now?”

The elderly lawyer shrugged his slight shoulders. “We wait for sentencing.”

“Which could mean her getting, what …?”

He swallowed thickly. “Anywhere from twenty years to life.”

“But she could get out
earlier….
“

He nodded. “Yes. Yes, indeed. With good behavior.”

Well, that nixed Mother.

Mr. Ekhardt stood, a shade wobbly. He patted my near shoulder. “I’ll be in touch, child,” he said.

I sat there a while longer, all alone in the courtroom, just me and that lucky blissfully ignorant baby inside me. I was trying to imagine life at home without Mother, and suddenly felt very small. Like little Brandy, when Mother would be taken away for a while to get well.

But she always came back.

Not this time….

Outside the courtroom the gray-and-white marbled corridor yawned vacant. I walked along glumly, past hanging portraits of bygone politicians and presidents, their eyes seeming to follow me, their expressions unpitying.

At the top of the ornate circular staircase that led down into the rotunda, a woman stepped from behind a pillar, like the assasin who shot Huey Long. Had she been waiting for me?

In her late forties, or early fifties—professionally dressed in a brown linen skirt and jacket, sensible beige pumps, and a bulging bag hanging on a strap from one shoulder—she gave a small, tentative wave. Her large, intelligent eyes, straight nose, and wide mouth were framed by the soft curls of chin-length light brown hair.

I was in no mood to talk to anyone, and my face must have registered as much, because she gently asked, “Brandy? Brandy Borne?”

“Yeah.”

She extended a hand to be shook. “Judith Meyers.”

I shook it, the name registering. This was a longtime mental health advocate, who worked closely with NAMI (The National Alliance on Mental Illness). I had consulted her by phone, e-mail, and letter on various occasions about Mother.

I said, “Judith. Nice to finally meet you.” Not that it really was under these circumstances. “Don’t you live in Cedar Falls …?”

“I do. But I try to keep track of all regional cases, particularly those that get on the NAMI radar. And this one sure did.”

“I’d imagine.”

“I thought maybe you could use a little support about now.”

Two hundred and fifty miles was a long way to come.

I said, “I didn’t see you in the courtroom….”

“I slipped in a little late.”

I tried not to sound ungrateful. “Then you heard Mother plead guilty, so you must know there’s really nothing you—or any of us—can do.”

Her small smile gave a glimpse of straight white teeth. “Actually, there might be.”

“Really?”

She nodded. “I think I might be able to offer considerable help. Is there somewhere we can go? Grab some coffee, perhaps?”

Was it possible Judith Meyers could succeed where Mr. Ekhardt had failed? Could she help get Mother off, or at least get her sentence reduced? Maybe these were straws I was grasping at, but I was ready to grasp away….

I said, “There’s a diner-type joint over in the next block that shouldn’t be busy right now.”

“Great! Lead the way.”

We walked down the wide, curved marble staircase together. Though I’d never met the woman before, not in person anyway, her presence was enormously reassuring.

The Manhattan Restaurant, located on the first floor of a Victorian brick building on a side street kitty-corner from the courthouse, had been in business since Mother wore diapers (and I don’t mean adult diapers, either).

The Manhattan’s core clientele were those with a short lunch hour who worked at the courthouse, city hall, the county jail, and the police and fire departments … all within a three-block radius. So current owner, Pepe Kossives, employed no cute young waitresses who would encourage loitering, rather middle-aged ladies in uniforms
and hair nets, who marched up and down the aisles like prison matrons, making sure you chowed down and got out. Still, there was always a line of people waiting to get in (especially when chicken and noodles were on special), and such strict measures were mandatory.

The layout was typical for a downtown Victorian building—boxcar-style with the original high tin ceiling (painted burgundy) and ceiling fans. There were a few high-backed wooden booths, and some tables and chairs; gray carpet covered the old pine floor. Along one wall was a long counter with stools, for those too impatient to wait for a table.

The front window displayed a two-foot-high statue of Wimpy, Popeye’s pal from the comic strip by Elzie Segar (an Illinois native, just across the river). Naturally, the statue—which had been in that window since the 1930s—had Wimpy eating a hamburger. Once Mother tried to buy the precious collectible from Pepe, but he said that his grandfather had told him that if Wimpy was ever removed from the window, the restaurant would fall on hard times.

Once, a hooligan (long enough ago for him to still be called a hooligan) smashed the front window and stole Wimpy. (No, not Mother! She may have been a confessed murderer, but she was no thief.) Pepe was so inconsolable, the whole police department (who always got their coffee free at the Manhattan) went on unpaid overtime until the perpetrator was caught and Wimpy returned to his time-honored place.

I realize the previous paragraphs were a sizeable digression, even for me, but I share them with you because (a) I find the Manhattan and its history interesting, and (b) the first part of my conversation with Judith Meyers was a recounting of this same material. I was clearly trying to get my mind off the arraignment.

Judith and I settled into one of the high-backed wooden
booths. Other than two men in business suits deep in conversation over cups of coffee, we had the place to ourselves. One of those jail matrons in a navy dress uniform (no hair net) came over and we both ordered iced tea. A ceiling fan droned above us, providing some semblance of cool air.

While we were waiting for our drinks, and I was rattling on about Wimpy and hooligans and free coffee for cops, Judith dug in her overstuffed bag, and began pulling out papers, placing them on the table between us.

“First of all,” she said, her voice lowered for privacy, “I’d like to talk to you about your mother’s rights—rights
by state law
that protect the mentally afflicted while they are incarcerated. For example, she has the right to see her psychiatrist, to receive her medication—”