“Awww, Jessie, don’t be mean. I did see her. I didn’t know the men. You ought to let Sookie go. Me, too.”
Jessie said, “I’ll tell Andy you remembered something.” But I could tell she didn’t hang any weight on Jane’s words.
We went out a side door and directly into the parish van. Jessie had two other prisoners in tow by that time: Ginjer Hart (Mel Hart’s ex-wife), a werepanther who had a habit of passing bad checks, and Diane Porchia, an insurance agent. Of course, I knew Diane had been picked up (which sounded better than “arrested”) for filing false insurance claims, but I’d kind of lost track of her case. Women were transported separately from men, and Jessie, accompanied by Kenya, drove us over to the courthouse. I didn’t look out the window, I was so ashamed that people could see me in this van.
There was a hush when we filed into the courtroom. I didn’t look at the spectator section, but when attorney Beth Osiecki waved her hand to catch my attention, I almost wept from relief. She was sitting in the front row. Once I’d noticed her, I caught a glimpse of a familiar face over her shoulder.
Tara was sitting behind the places saved for lawyers. JB was with her. The babies sat in two infant seats between them.
In the row behind sat Alcide Herveaux, leader of the Shreveport werewolf pack and owner of AAA Accurate Surveys. Next to him was my brother, Jason, and his packleader, Calvin Norris. Jason’s friend and best man, Hoyt Fortenberry, was nearby. Chessie Johnson, who was keeping Arlene’s kids, was having a low-voiced conversation with Kennedy Keyes and her boyfriend, Danny Prideaux, who not only worked at the home builders’ supply but was also Bill Compton’s daytime guy. And right by Danny glowered Mustapha Khan, Eric’s daytime guy, and Mustapha’s buddy Warren, who gave me a wispy smile. Terry Bellefleur stood at the back, shifting from foot to foot uneasily, his wife, Jimmie, at his side. Maxine Fortenberry came in, her walk ponderous and her face as angry as a thunderstorm. She’d brought another friend of Gran’s with her, Everlee Mason. Maxine was wearing her righteous face. It was clear that coming into the courtroom was something she’d never had to do in her life, but by golly she was going to do it today.
I had a moment of sheer amazement. Why were all these people here? What had brought them to the courtroom on the same day I had a hearing? It seemed like the most incredible coincidence.
Then I caught the thoughts in their brains, and I understood that there was no coincidence. They were all here on my behalf.
My vision suddenly blurry from tears, I followed Ginjer Hart as she entered the defendants’ pew. If the jail orange looked awful on me, it wasn’t doing Ginjer any favors, either. Ginjer’s bright red hair was a direct slap in the face to the Day-Glo shade of the ensemble. Diane Porchia, with her neutral coloring, had fared better.
I didn’t really care about how we looked in our jail clothes. I was trying not to think about the moment. I was so touched that my friends had come, so horrified they’d seen me handcuffed, so hopeful I’d get out . . . so terrified I wouldn’t.
Ginjer Hart was bound over for trial since no one stepped forward to bail her out. I wondered if Calvin Norris, leader of the werepanthers, hadn’t shown up to stand bail for his clanswoman, but I learned later that this was Ginjer’s third offense and that he’d warned her the first and second times that his patience had a limit. Diane Porchia made bail; her husband was sitting in the last row, looking sad and worn-down.
Then, finally, it was my turn to step forward. I looked up at the judge, a kindly but shrewd-looking woman. Her nameplate read “Judge Rosoff.” She was in her fifties, I thought. Her hair was in a bun, and her oversized glasses made her eyes look like a Chihuahua’s.
“Miss Stackhouse,” she said, after looking at the papers in front of her. “This is your arraignment for the murder of Arlene Daisy Fowler. You’re charged with second-degree murder, which carries a penalty of life in prison. You have counsel present, I see. Miss Osiecki?”
Beth Osiecki took a deep breath. I suddenly understood that she’d never represented someone charged with murder. I was so frightened I could hardly listen to the back-and-forth between the judge and the attorney, but I heard it when the judge said she’d never seen so many friends turn out for a defendant. Beth Osiecki told the judge I should be released on bail, especially in view of the very slim evidence that connected me to Arlene Fowler’s murder.
The judge turned to the district attorney, Eddie Cammack, who never came to Merlotte’s, went to church at Tabernacle Baptist, and raised Maine coon cats. Eddie looked as horrified as if Judge Rosoff were being asked to release Charles Manson.
“Your honor, Miss Stackhouse is accused of killing a woman who was a friend to her for many years, a woman who was a mother and . . .” Eddie ran out of good things to say about Arlene. “Detective Beck says Miss Stackhouse had solid reasons to want Arlene Fowler dead, and Fowler was found with Miss Stackhouse’s scarf around her neck, behind Miss Stackhouse’s workplace. We don’t believe she should be freed on bail.” I wondered where Alcee Beck was. Then I spotted him. He was glowering at the judge like someone had suggested whipping Barbara Beck on the courthouse lawn. The judge glanced at Alcee’s angry face and then dismissed him from her mind.
“Has this scarf been proved to be Miss Stackhouse’s?” Judge Rosoff asked.
“She admits the scarf looks like one she had.”
“No one saw Miss Stackhouse wearing the scarf recently?”
“We haven’t found anyone, but . . .”
“No one saw Miss Stackhouse with the victim around the time of the murder. There’s no compelling physical evidence. I understand Miss Stackhouse has a witness to her whereabouts the night of the murder?”
“Yes, but . . .”
“Then bail is granted. In the amount of thirty thousand dollars.”
Oh, yay! I had that much money, thanks to Claudine’s legacy. But there was that suspicious freeze on the check. Shit. As quickly as my mind ran through these ups and downs, the judge said, “Mr. Khan, you stand surety for this woman?”
Mustapha Khan rose. Maybe because he resented having to be in a courtroom (he’d had some serious brushes with the law), Mustapha was in full “Blade” mode today: black leather vest and pants (how’d he stand that in the heat?), black T-shirt, dark glasses, shaved head. All he needed was a sword and multiple guns and blades, and since I knew him, I knew those would be somewhere near.
“My boss does. I’m here to represent his interests, since he’s a vampire and can’t appear in the day.” Mustapha sounded bored.
“My goodness,” Judge Rosoff said, sounding mildly entertained. “That’s a first. All right, your bail has been set at thirty thousand dollars, Miss Stackhouse. Since your family, home, and business are here and you’ve never lived anywhere else in your life, I think you’re a low flight risk. You seem to have plenty of community ties.” She glanced over the papers in front of her and nodded. All was right and tight with Judge Rosoff. “You are released on bail pending your trial. Jessie, return Miss Stackhouse to the jail and process her out.”
Of course, I had to wait for everyone else, including the male prisoners, to have their moment in court. I wanted to leap up and run away from that bench where I sat with the other defendants. It was all I could do to refrain from sticking out my tongue at Alcee Beck, who looked like he was going to have a heart attack.
Andy Bellefleur had come in to stand beside his cousin Terry. Terry whispered in his ear, and I knew he was telling Andy I’d made bail. Andy looked relieved. Terry punched Andy in the arm, and not in a “hey, buddy” kind of way. “I told you so, asshole,” he said audibly.
“Not
my
doing,” Andy said, a little too loudly. Judge Rosoff looked pained.
“Bellefleurs, please remember where you are,” she said, and they both stood at attention, absurdly. The judge had a twitch at the corners of her mouth.
When all the prisoners had been arraigned, Judge Rosoff nodded and Jessie Schneider and Kenya herded us out into the van. A second later, the parish bus began loading the male prisoners. Finally, we were on our way back to the jail.
An hour later I was dressed in my own clothes again, walking out into the sun, a free woman. My brother was waiting. “I didn’t think I’d ever get to pay you back when you stood by me when I was in jail,” he said, and I winced. I hadn’t ever pictured that happening myself. “But here I am, picking you up at the hoosegow. How’d you like those toilets?”
“Oh, I’m thinking of having them put in at the house, to remind me of good times.” Since he was my brother, he ground it in for a couple more minutes. My nickname was now “Jailbird,” and my picture on Facebook had bars drawn over it. And on and on.
“Michele?” I asked, when Jason ran out of funny comments. Since we’d been together all our lives, Jason understood what I meant without the whole sentence.
“She couldn’t get off work,” he said, meeting my eyes so I’d know he wasn’t lying. As if I couldn’t have told by seeing directly into his brain. “She woulda come, but her boss wouldn’t let her off.”
I nodded, ready to believe Michele didn’t think I was guilty.
“The last time we talked about Eric, you and him were on the outs,” Jason said. “But he must be carrying a torch to have bailed you out like that. That’s a shitload of money.”
“I’m surprised myself,” I said. And that was a huge understatement. Based on past experience, when Eric got angry at me, he let me know about it. When he’d decided I was being prissy about killing a few enemies in a bloodbath, he’d bitten me without bothering to take away the pain. I’d let that incident go by without having a showdown over it—a mistake on my part—but I hadn’t forgotten it. After our terrible confrontation the night before my arrest, I had never expected this magnanimity from Eric. Even attributing it to a sentimental gesture on his part didn’t match what I knew of Eric. I definitely wanted to ask Mustapha a few questions, but he was nowhere to be seen. Neither was Sam, which was somewhat more of a surprise.
“Where do you want to go, Sis?” Jason was trying not to act like he was in a hurry, but he was. He had to get back to work; he’d taken an extended lunch hour to come to court.
“Take me to the house,” I said, after a second’s thought. “I have to shower and put on clean clothes and, I guess . . . go in to work. If Sam wants me there. I might not be such an advertisement for the place now.”
“Are you kidding? He went nuts when he heard they arrested you,” Jason said, as if I should have known what had happened while I was in jail. Sometimes Jason got what I was kind of jumbled up with “psychic” or even “omniscient.”
“He did?”
“Yeah, he went to the station to yell at Andy and Alcee Beck on Sunday. Then he called the jail about a million times to ask how you were doing. And he asked the judge who the best criminal lawyer in the area was. By the way, Holly’s been working in your place while you were out sick and this morning, just to pick up a little extra cash for the wedding. She says don’t worry! She don’t want to come back regular.”
When we got to Hummingbird Road, I thought,
I’m really free.
I didn’t know if I’d ever recover from the overwhelming humiliation of being arrested and going to jail, but I assumed that when I’d gotten over the oppressive weight of the experience, I’d have learned some lesson God wanted me to learn.
I had a moment of thinking of our Lord being dragged through the streets and pelted with offal and then having his court hearing in a public place. Then being crucified.
Well,
not that I was comparing myself to Jesus
, I told myself hastily, but I’d done that kind of backward, right? Almost been crucified,
then
been arrested. We had something in common, Jesus and me! I threw that thought out of my mind as not only a gross exaggeration, but maybe even blasphemy, and focused instead on what to do with my new freedom.
Shower first, for sure. I wanted to wash off the jail smell, plus I hadn’t showered since Saturday morning. If I’d gone back to my cell after the courtroom, I could have showered with the other female inmates. Woo-hoo!
Jason had been silent during our drive to my house, but that didn’t mean his brain hadn’t been busy. He was glad Michele was cool with my arrest, because it sure would have been uncomfortable if she’d thought his sister was guilty, and that might have delayed the wedding. Jason really wanted to get married.
“Tell Michele to come see the dress I bought for my bridesmaid dress, anytime,” I said, as Jason pulled up behind the house. I’d retrieved my purse when I’d been released, so I had my keys.
Jason gave me a blank look.
“The one I bought to wear to your wedding. I’ll call her later.”
Jason was used to me chiming in on his thoughts. He said, “Okay, Sook. You take it easy today. I never believed you done it. Not that she didn’t have it coming.”
“Thanks, Jason.” I was genuinely touched, and of course I knew he was completely sincere.
“Call me if you need me,” he said, and then he took off for work. I was so glad to unlock the door and be back in my own home, I almost started crying. And after being jammed into a jail cell with a hungover Jane Bodehouse, it was exquisitely sweet to be alone. I glanced at the telephone answering machine, which was blinking furiously, and I was certain there were some e-mails waiting for me. But a shower came first.
While I dried my hair with a towel, I looked out the window at the shimmering landscape. Everything looked dusty again, but it would be a couple of days before I needed to water, thanks to the recent rain. I actually looked forward to getting out in the yard, because after jail it looked incredibly beautiful. The extravagant growth and lushness had only increased while I was gone.
I put on makeup, because I needed to feel attractive. I put a ton of moisturizer on my newly shaved legs and sprayed on a little spritz of perfume. This was more like it. Every second I felt more like myself, Sookie Stackhouse, bar owner and telepath, and less like Sookie the Jailbird.
I pushed down the Play button on the answering machine.