Copyright 1991 Aya Katz
Vaca City is the County seat of Vacuum County, apparently, and that's where I'm stuck right now. I'm actually staying at the Brown 'N Serve, that horrid place where the Sheriff took me that fateful day. There is no other hotel in town, and David -that's my lawyer- said it would be okay.
It must be okay. He eats here himself. I saw him at lunch today with the doe-eyed lady. She had on a bright red dress and seemed to be in a much better mood. David went out with his arm around her waist. He didn't see me.
Then the waitress came round to chat with me. I've always had a phobia of waitresses, they scare me half to death. Maybe it has something to do with the time my mother said I had better eat the spinach or she'd call the waitress. Anyway, I'm so spooked about this place, I think I overtipped her this morning, I mean, really overtipped her. So she came round to my table at lunch in an overture of friendliness. It was awkward. I never know what to say to menials. She was all smiles. "Hi. I'm Pipa. How are you doing?"
I forced a smile. "Fine, thank you."
Pipa was not at a loss for words. "I saw you in here the other day with Abner." There was an almost undetectable tinge of a Mexican accent to her delivery. "You're new here. So I thought I'd give you a warm welcome to Vacuum County."
I winced.
She shook her head. "Oh, I know you're in trouble. But with David representing you, you'll be just fine."
"I'm glad you think so," I said.
She nodded her head in emphasis. "No problem. David is a very good lawyer and he and the Judge are family. He'll take good care of you." Just one more thing for me to ponder, I thought.
I'm supposed to be deciding what to do about the stupid charge against me. David said not to feel rushed but that I should try to be sensible about it.
I went for a walk this morning, all around the square. It's actually very pretty, in a picturesque sort of way, if you take the time to notice. Vaca City is a stupid name for it, though. I mean, that conjures up images of wooden saloon towns, like in the westerns, or adobe buildings, and it's not like that at all. It looks more like ... well, like something Victorian, very prim and proper, with not so subtle attempts at Greco-Roman classicism. The Courthouse is at the center of the square that forms the hub of the town. There are parking spaces all around it, though on one side, there's still a hitching post, where they used to tether the horses.
According to the cornerstone, the Courthouse was built in 1845, so I imagine the town must have looked very different before then. Anyway, the County Courthouse has three stories and it's made of big white stone blocks, and there are round Greek columns liberally sprinkled everywhere.
Main street runs around the Courthouse like a moat, and the buildings on the other side of the street -the four other sides- are all made of brownstone, for some reason. I haven't figured out if it's some kind of city ordinance, or just a coincidence.
The Brown 'N Serve is right across the street from the South entrance to the Courthouse. Main street is mostly asphalt, but right in front of the hotel, it's cobbled. Well, not real cobblestones, like in Europe, more like bricks. David's office is in the first building North from the Southeast corner, on the second floor. There aren't any elevators here, not even in the Courthouse, so I've been getting lots of exercise just going up and down the stairs.
This morning, before my walk, I asked the guy behind the counter why they call it Vaca City. "Well, I reckon, 'cause it's the County seat," he said good naturedly.
I frowned. "What's that got to do with it?"
He leaned over the counter. "Vac-uum County, Vac-a City?" He drawled at me. "Get it?"
I shook my head. "Vaca is Spanish for cow. Vacuum is Latin for emptiness. There's no connection."
He gave me a lopsided grin. It took me a while to remember where I had seen a smile like that before. "Have you ever seen a cow, Miss?"
I shrugged. "Sure." I was thinking of my most recent visit to the petting zoo.
"But have you ever got to know one real well?"
I shook my head. "Can't say that I have."
"Well, they're real stupid, see. Real empty headed critters. You might even say the've got a hole in the head." He grinned again. "See?"
I stared at him for a moment. Then I nodded absently, and backed away. That's about the silliest conversation that I've ever had. But as I took my walk today, instead of being able to think about the DWI charge and what I should do about it, Eb Brown's words kept echoing in my mind. That's who it turned out he was. I found out this afternoon. He's the fellow who owns the hotel. Abner's brother.
I must have gone about ten times round the Courthouse, not counting detours into the side streets. And the only new thought I came back with was that by the same token, cows can be said to have vacant stares.
...............................
I took a little nap. Had nightmares about Abner Brown. Dreamt he was in the room with me and wanted to help me use the toilet. I really need to get out of here.
When they let me out of jail, that's when I met David Smith. It was in the courtroom, and it was probably about the second time I got a glimpse of the judge. I seem to remember they paraded me out there once right after the arrest, but I was in so much shock that I really can't recall any of it.
The Judge is tall and stately and silver haired and he looks very dignified. But scary, too. I can't tell what he's thinking. I seem to recall his mentioning the taxpayers and County funds, and I almost felt guilty about making them keep me in jail all that time. Very stern, was the Judge. But then, I'm easily cowed. (Maybe that's why it's called Vaca City.)
David was the first friendly face I had seen since I set foot in Vacuum County. The second, if you count the woman in the pickup.
I don't think I can even describe him, he's got such a unique case of good looks. Half an inch more on the jaw-line, or a slightly different spacing of the eyes, and he would be rather ordinary.
His eyes are baby blue and very caring. When he looks at you, it's as though you're the most imporant person on Earth. His hair is brown, with a faint reddish tinge. It curls a little, making him seem all the more candid, not totally in control. He's just short of six feet, and he's got a nice well balanced physique, as near as you can make it out in navy blue suits that he wears. He's always got on a blue tie to go with his eyes, only it's different shade each time. Oh, and he has dimples that show only when he smiles.
After the ceremonies were quite over -they let me go, I gather, because the County didn't want to continue paying for my bread and board, but they can pick me back up any time- David walked me over to his office.
He sat me down in a nice high backed chair, and he got his secretary to make me coffee. It came in a styrofoam cup in a plastic holder, and I sipped at it slowly, thoroughly content. I hadn't felt this safe in ages. Since my parents left, really. Deep down, subconsciously, I think I could sense that all this was about to happen. Not that I had any idea of the details, but I'd had a strange feeling of dread. That's odd when you consider that every morning since the arrest, I wake up saying: "I can't believe this is happening to me!"
"Have you ever just known that something awful was about to happen and at the same time been totally shocked when it did?" I actually asked David that, and he smiled and nodded and I felt totally understood.
He leaned back in his chair. "There's no rush, Verity," he said. "But whenever you feel ready, I'd like you to tell me what happened."
I put down the coffee, leaned forward and started to tell. It all gushed out, and he had to slow me down several times, because I was going so fast.
He took notes and nodded and when I got to the worst parts about the Sheriff, I could tell he was angry. Angry that someone like Abner could get away with that sort of thing.
He was silent for a while, then he said: "I'll talk to the D.A. I'll see if I can get it dismissed."
"How long will that take?" I asked. "I've already missed some school time. I'd like to get this over with."
David shook his head. "I don't know that it'll work at all. It's worth a shot. I worked in the D.A.'s office for a while. I know my way around. But Verity, I want you to start thinking about some other possibilities."
I didn't like the sound of that, but I could tell he was on my side. I trust him completely. "What?"
He steepled his fingers. "D.W.I. is a misdemeanor with a range of punishment -for a first time offender- on the low end of a one hundred dollar fine and 72 hours and on the high end of two thousand dollars and two years in jail. It can be anywhere in between, and the jail time may be probated -- or not. It makes a big difference which end of that range you wind up on, if I don't get you off."
"If you don't get me off?"
He grimaced. "There are no guarantees. And to be quite frank with you, you'd be better off with the Judge than the jury."
"You mean, we should try it without a jury. He'll let me off?"
David smiled sadly. "No, he can't let you off, Verity. He has to back Abner up. But he'd be a lot kinder than a jury."
"What do you mean, he has to back Abner up? Doesn't he care about the truth?"
David shifted in his chair. "The truth is a tricky concept. He can't know what the truth is. He wasn't there. And he can't just decide that the Sheriff is a liar."
I frowned. "Why not? You just did."
David laughed. Not a spiteful or condescending laugh. Just a simple sort of sound. "I decided that a long time ago. But it's not something Saul can take judicial notice of."
I hadn't the foggiest what he was talking about. "Well, then wouldn't a jury be better?"
"No. A jury would be very, very hard on you, Verity."
I bit my lip. "Why?"
"Number one: you're not from Vacuum County. Number Two: You're not even Texan. Number Three: You're not likeable..."
"Not likeable?" I wasn't even miffed. I just wanted to understand. Besides, the way he said it, I could tell he liked me.
He nodded. "A typical Vacuum County jury would have a lot of trouble identifying with you. They'd find some of your attitudes downright offensive and the D.A. will play on that." He paused. "And Number Four, your testimony won't sound plausible."
That really had me mystified. I just stared at him, waiting for an explanation.
He played with his class ring. "Abner will say you were intoxicated. Now, if you had said that you had had a drink several hours earlier, but that you had sobered up since then, a jury could buy that. Maybe they could even accept that you weren't intoxicated. Maybe they'd think you were a little tight, but decide to give you a break. Juries have been known to do that. But you have to go and say that you don't drink at all. That's bad. That's very bad."
I shrugged. "Why?"
"Because, first of all, they're not likely to believe you. Most people drink. Maybe just occasionally, maybe just socially, but they do drink. You're asking them to buy an odd story. And if they did believe that you generally don't drink, they'd probably expect there's a good reason for it. Like, that you're a recovering alcoholic, that you can't handle liquor. In which case, your credibility just went down the tubes. Especially, when you won't admit you have a problem." He leaned back again. "But it could be even worse if they believe that you don't drink, because you simply choose not to."
He paused, almost dramatically. I was considering waiting him out, but decided against it. "Why?"
"Because," he said, swinging forward, "they'll think -if you'll pardon the expression- that you're a tight assed bitch with a holier-than-thou attitude."
I winced when he said that. First of all, because I didn't like the expression. And secondly, because I was asking myself if maybe that wasn't an accurate description.
David's face was kind. "Now, you and I know it's not so, but that's how they'll feel. If it's good enough for them, it ought to be good enough for you." He started humming Old Time Religion, and I nearly cracked up.
"So what do you suggest?" I asked, after the laughter had subsided.
"Well, I've asked for a predisposition report. I made an appointment for you to see Seth Cain tomorrow." He handed me a piece of paper with the pertinent details. "Now, treat him nicely. Meanwhile, I'll check the dismissal possibilities. Give me a call Wednesday." He got up and I got up. He paused. "Don't worry about the Brown 'N Serve. You'll be perfectly safe there. Eb's a nice guy... Are you short on cash?"
I shook my head. "I've got a credit card. It's okay." Then I thought about it. "They decided I was indigent. But I'm not really. I'm all paid up at the dorm for a whole year and I have five hundred dollars in the bank."
He smiled. "Don't worry about it, Verity."
I shrugged and started to back out the door.
"By the way," he asked, very casually, "why is it you don't drink?"
That took me by surprise and I stared at him for a moment. Then I said: "I just don't want to."
He nodded. "That's what I thought."
.................................
He couldn't convince the D.A. to let me off. And I sat there through that silly interview with the overweight probation officer he sent me to. I wonder how a person decides to become a probation officer. Anyway, he seemed like someone with more than his share of problems. And the way he was looking at me tended to confirm everything that David said about a Vacuum County jury and its prejudices.
And now I have to decide whether it's worth fighting over. Worth risking jail time over. I don't really care about nailing Abner so much any more. I did at first. I was furious. Furious and frightened. At regular intervals, the predominant emotion would take over. And I thought it was my duty to prevent this from happening to anybody else, too. Only, lately, I've begun to think that this would never have happened to anybody else. Maybe it's just some weird quality in me that provoked him. Everybody seems to like Abner, pretty much. Everyone at the Brown 'N Serve, anyway. Even David said he's a good Sheriff, whatever that means. A perjurer, but a good Sheriff.
After all, I don't belong here. I don't understand their ways. Maybe they're perfectly happy the way they are. I just want to get out.
The only thing that bugs me is pleading guilty. That would be a lie. Why should he be able to force me into a lie? Why should I place the noose round my own neck? It's a pretty spooky system. Once you're charged with something, you're faced with all the hard choices and your accuser can just take it easy.
I never realized that before. I seem to recall being told just the opposite in government class. Something about the State having the burden of proof. Some burden!
I wish I could just go up in front of the Judge and tell the truth and let him decide. But David says we can't get a good deal unless I plead.
He says I don't actually have to say the word guilty. I can plead no contest, and he explained what the difference was, which I didn't really understand, but it still sounds like copping out to me.
I want to go home and I want it over with. I tried calling my parents last night, but didn't get anywhere. Didn't even get the embassy. The phone lines were all busy. Sure. I believe that.
Who am I kidding? There's really just one sensible choice.
.................................
I can't believe this is happening! It's got to be a fruit of my demented imagination. I'll wake up in the dorm any moment. Better yet, there probably is no dorm. I'm probably not in college. That would explain why I don't feel twenty-one. I'm probably seven years old, and I'll wake up in my parents' bedroom in Wilmington. And Mom will come in and tell me my oatmeal is getting cold, and I'll tell her I don't like oatmeal and she'll scream at me that she went to all that trouble and I'll start crying and ...
The again, maybe not.
We went before the Judge and there was this long catechism that everybody repeated by rote. The D.A. recited all this stuff about my offense and about my judicial confession -a long boring piece of paper I signed in triplicate- and about the probation officer's recommendations and how he agreed to them.
And the judge went on and on about how I was making this confession of my own free will and not because of any offers that had been made to me and that he didn't have to accept the recommendation and all sorts of garbage like that.
I just looked at David, trying to take my cue from him. If he nodded, I said yes.
And David went on about how I knew I had the right to a jury and witnesses and things like that and I had chosen to give those up and plead "nolo contendere."
And then the judge said that he found me guilty of the charge and that he would sentence me to six months probated over one year (or something like that) and a three hundred dollar fine and that I would have to abide by the terms of the probation, which apparently included paying the County probation fees, and meeting with the probation officers and not associating with people of ill repute and going to AA meetings and not leaving the County and not committing any other offenses during the period of probation.
Not leaving the County!
David picked up on that faster than I did. His face flushed. "Now hold on, Your Honor, we had no warning of any such condition."
The Judge was impassive. His speech was dignified and clear as a bell. "Counsel is well aware this Court has the discretion to name the terms of probation."
David was shaking with anger. "Now look here, Saul ..." he began, waving his fist.
The Judge was like ice. "Counselor, I'll see you in chambers." And he was a flurry of black robes as he made his way through the door at the back. David followed him and the D.A. tried to go, too, but the door was slammed in his face.
So then the D.A. and the court reporter and the bailiff and I just stood there staring at each other, while the Judge and David had it out. They were so loud, I think they could have been heard in the corridor outside. I couldn't quite make out what they said, but they were yelling. Both of them.
It took about fifteen minutes. David came out dejected. He took me by the arm over to the bailiff, who still had to do his number one me. "I'm really sorry, Verity," David said and I could tell he was. I almost felt sorry for him.
I went through the day in a daze. It's only now sinking in. What am I going to do?
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