Chapter 6: Louisiana

“Here’s yar dinner.”

I responded, “Do you have some wine, maybe a 1995 Chardonnay? Two glasses, if you can join me.”

“Wise ass. Keep up that kinda stuff asshole and the judge tomorrow won’t ever let you get out of here.”

I sat in the corner bunk in a jail cell in Alexandria, Louisiana. The room was hot, fetid, and smelled of urine. I reflected back that only two hours earlier I had been sitting astride my motorcycle minding my own business near the town square, and working my iPhone to get directions to the home of an Army buddy – another Green Beret – named Andy Jefferson.

Then in a blink of an eye, I’d been accosted by three police officers, frisked and handcuffed while under the cover of drawn weapons, accused of armed robbery, and dumped in a jail cell. Supposedly, I knocked over a 7-11 convenience store around one o’clock in the afternoon, as well as one the previous evening. I’d been told an eyewitness nailed the description of the motorcycle and me, so there had been no doubt I was the felon the arresting officers sought. I’d been allowed one phone call, so I called the only person I knew in the area – Andy.

Dinner – without the Chardonnay – consisted of a helping of cold spaghetti with ketchup over the top instead of marinara sauce, cold mashed potatoes, turnips, a very small wedge of limp three-week-old lettuce, and a metal mug of water. I found myself hungry enough to sample the first two items on the tray, yet I wondered if I would contract some dread disease from the food. After eating, I settled back in the bunk to contemplate my future in this two-bit town.

About eight o’clock at night as I lay dozing in the lumpy bunk in the cell, the deputy on duty came and slammed his nightstick against my cell bars: “Hey, Mr. Motorcycle Man, wake up. You have a visitor.” He turned and walked away, leaving behind him an absolutely stunning older woman in business attire and carrying a briefcase.

She spoke brusquely, “You James Mellon?”

I nodded as she approached the cell. She looked me over, and then pulled over a rickety chair from the corner of the hallway that gave access to the six cells in the local jail. I was the only tenant. She sat on the other side of the bars, opened her briefcase in a most businesslike manner, pulled out a pad of yellow paper and looked at me. “Talk. Tell me the story about why you’re in here. I’ll see whether I can get you off.”

“You are?” I asked politely as I sat upright and moved to be closer to her on my cot.

“I am Attorney Lacie Landers and your only hope of a short sentence in the kangaroo court that presides over this town. Judge Entwhistle is ruthless. Now talk.”

“And you got here because?”

“Because you called your Army buddy – Andy Jefferson, and he called me because I am the best. Now talk, I’ve got better things to do on a Monday night than baby sit you all night.”

I thought for a moment and decided to give her a compressed version of the past six months.

I started with some sarcasm, “I’ll talk fast so you can get back to your astounding social life that I have pulled you from. First off, Andy and I were in the Green Berets together. I haven’t seen him yet; that was the purpose of my visit to Alexandria. It’s been over nine years since I saw him.”

Attorney Lacie Landers started to scribble wildly on a yellow pad of paper with a scratchy ballpoint pen.

I went on, “Six months ago, I wouldn’t have taken this trip, but Karen, my wife died at age thirty-two. Her death hit me hard so I decided to take a long ride to clear my head and put her wrenching illness and death behind me. I found a derelict motorcycle that had been my dad’s and worked for two months restoring the bike. I’m meandering my way through the forty-eight lower states ultimately aiming at my sister’s home in San Diego. I’ve come down the east coast mostly, and then up to Alabama from the Florida Gulf Coast, across through Mississippi, and then into Louisiana to here.”

Attorney Landers looked at me over the top of her readers, “And your little encounter with the 7-11 store about one o’clock this afternoon and last evening?”

I shrugged, “Sorry, but the last time I was in a 7-11 store was probably in Maine, two months ago – to pay for gas I put in my motorcycle.”

“So, you didn’t go to two different stores, pull a gun and hold it on two cashiers, and then rip each of them off for a couple of hundred dollars each?”

“Nope. Since I left the Army, I haven’t held a gun, although I have encountered one, as recently as ten days ago.” I pulled up my shirt and pointed to the bandages on my left side: “I got shot – the bullet went through without too much damage. Still healing. Reminds me, I need my meds – antibiotics I’m supposed to be taking twice a day. They’re in the right-side saddle bag of my motorcycle in a little brown plastic bottle.”

Landers studied me a moment: “You were shot. What were you doing?”

“Well, ma’am, I was preventing the rape of a young woman by four men who took serious issue with me stopping their fun. As a result, one of them died, two went to hospital with badly broken limbs, and the fourth didn’t remember anything because he’d been out cold after I punched him once.”

Attorney Landers said, “Tell me the details of that encounter too – when, where, police involvement, and so on.” I laid it all out for her, referring her to the business card in my confiscated wallet that Lieutenant Burr had given me so we could stay in touch. She continued wildly on her yellow pad, and then asked, “Where were you about two o’clock this afternoon?”

I thought for a moment then responded, “I was just leaving Tensas River Wildlife Preserve up north of here. I wanted to get a campsite near Alexandria before dark, and then announce my presence in town to my buddy. Instead, as you probably figured out, my friend Andy Jefferson became my one call from jail. I knew he’d know the best attorney in town. Thank you for coming on such short notice.”

Attorney Lacie Landers again wrote rapidly on her page. For all I knew, she could have been writing a chapter to some erotic story to post on the Internet. Eventually, she paused in her scribbling and said, “And last night – where were you about ten o’clock? The clerk from one store liked your mug shot and the picture of your motorcycle.” She gestured towards the booking desk outside the cell area with a toss of her head.

I smiled at her question and recalled the sexual romp I’d been in the middle of about ten o’clock the previous evening with Betty Sue Meyers in Tuscaloosa. Without the sexual details, I explained this to Attorney Lacie Landers. She took frantic notes.

“Can you give me the full names and numbers of any witnesses that can give you an alibi?”

I rattled off Betty Sue’s full name, address, and phone number from memory, and also referred her to Detective Burr in Tuscaloosa. I also explained that I’d had an interesting discussion with a receptionist-guide at the Wildlife Preserve that afternoon and that we’d even noted the time since I wanted to leave to get to Alexandria to see Andy. I did not recall the receptionist’s name, but I described the girl and told Lacie I had a small brochure from the Preserve in my papers on my motorcycle. The Attorney’s pen flew across the yellow pad, pages turning rapidly as she filled one page and went on to the next.

Finally, Attorney Lacie Landers stopped and studied me. I studied her as well. Around fifty, all business, well to do – dressed in expensive clothes and jewelry, trim but stacked, and fit – probably used a gym four days a week, unmarried – or didn’t wear rings, and on afterthought probably hid from a good part of the life around her by being a workaholic and pushing herself to do fourteen-hour days.

Attorney Lacie Landers stood abruptly. In an apologetic tone, she added, “You’ll have to spend the night. Sorry. With your permission, I’ll ask for your arraignment to be postponed to Wednesday morning; then I can verify your alibis and even share that information with Alexandria’s finest. When they see they’ve got the wrong person, maybe they’ll let you go with no formal arrest being recorded. I’ll be on this right away.” She packed up her briefcase with her pad and pens as she talked. “I’ll check back here with you first thing in the morning – you need anything?”

I nodded and said I needed a decent sandwich, my meds from my bike’s saddlebags, and some water to wash them down. Abruptly, she turned and left the small cell area.

A few minutes later the deputy came into the hallway carrying my antibiotics and another metal mug of water. I took my dose and handed the mug and pills back to him. He remained silent throughout the entire exchange. I thought, well, two out of three isn’t bad.

After the deputy had left, I lay down on the bunk and tried to get a full night’s sleep. Although the cell was smelly and the bed uncomfortable, I’d slept in worse places – lots worse - during my stint as a Green Beret.

I didn’t sleep well in the jail cell, not because of any angst due to my arrest, and not because the cot was uncomfortable. Instead, my mind raced with thoughts of Karen and the women I’d met on my trip.

I ruminated about Betty Sue. She’d been young, bubbly, and very sexy, plus she was comfortable to be around, caring and loving. I laughed aloud imagining the details of my visit that she was no doubt sharing with her girlfriends that very evening, proving once and for all that she was not ‘up tight.’ I left a piece of my heart with her. I had been lucky to have her by my side (and other places) as I recuperated from my gunshot.

A bigger piece of my heart remained with Kim Hume. I resolved to send her an email about the rape and shooting when I got out of jail. I wanted to see her again, not to displace her from her husband, but to just be with her again in whatever setting and geography time would allow.

I thought about the differences between Kim and Betty Sue, and what they had given me. Kim molded the world in front of her the way she wanted it to be, and more importantly, she helped lift me up from my depression about Karen’s death to a better place. She’d also helped me to be a better person, particularly in my romantic skills. Kim and I had chemistry.

Alternatively, Betty Sue had abruptly given in to her friends’ nagging to let loose and open herself to adventure. When circumstances unexpectedly brought me into her life, she welcomed me into her home and her heart. Talking to her and hearing her insights about polyamorous relationships, helped me think through how Karen might have thought about such things when she was in her twenties.

I had to admit to my ineptitude around women before this road trip. I’d learned enough to make it though eight years with Karen, but she’d been so tolerant of my moods, and I guess my plain vanilla lovemaking skills. I guess she knew that she would have seriously wounded my ego to call attention to either, and now I realize how more experienced she was in life – in sex.

My serial interactions with Lauren, June, Jan, and Trish had been interesting dalliances. Lauren and I both knew something serious could develop between us, but I wasn’t ready. I wondered if I could ever adapt to her being a Karen-lookalike, even with all the love we obviously had for each other. I wished I could revisit the four of them armed with the techniques and mindset that Kim had imbued me with.

Attorney Lacie Landers appeared about eleven thirty the next morning. Leading her into the cellblock were two men, both detectives I guessed since they were in civilian clothes. Attorney Landers briefly introduced them: Detectives Roux and Fournier.

The taller and older man spoke first as they walked up to my cell: “Mr. Mellon, Attorney Landers here has proven to us that you have what we call iron clad alibis for the times of the two robberies we’re investigating. Can you confirm what she told us?”

I stood as he talked. I responded in a friendly way, “Yes, I believe so. I explained to her yesterday that I’d been miles away up north of here yesterday when your 7-11 store was robbed, and the night before I’d been with a friend in Tuscaloosa. I gave Attorney Landers all the contact information I could remember. Fortunately for me, I’d talked to people in both locales that should remember me being there around the times of your robberies.”

Attorney Landers spoke in an authoritative voice to the detectives: “Let me reiterate what I told you earlier, yesterday afternoon at two-fifty, the time of the robbery on King Street, Mr. Mellon stood talking to Margaret Pilon, a guide at the visitor center of the Tensas River National Wildlife Refuge about three hours ride north of here. The evening before he was in the company of a Miss Betty Sue Meyers, a woman he met in Alabama when he prevented her rape. Near the time of the robbery, he also met two of Miss Meyers’ friends in Tuscaloosa. Mr. Mellon could have been no where near Alexandria at the time of the evening robbery that you arrested him for.” She crossed her arms across her chest as though she dared the men to disagree with her.

The shorter detective, Roux, with long shaggy hair turned to me and said, “Do you want to add anything Mr. Mellon? We’ve talked to the people she mentioned, and they confirm your story.”

I spoke, “Only that I’m on your side. If you need a character reference talk to Detective Lieutenant Howard Burr of the Tuscaloosa, Alabama Police. We spent some time together a week ago and I think he can also vouch for me – and my motives. And, now, when can I get out of here?”

The taller detective, Fournier, spoke first, “Yes, very soon. We have to get a release from the district attorney, but that’s already in process, and should be here any minute.”

The detectives nodded to each other and filed out leaving Attorney Landers and me standing a few feet apart, separated by the rather sturdy metal bars of my cell door. When they were out of earshot she said, “You’ll be out of here very soon. They’re not in the practice of annoying Judge Entwhistle with defendants who have iron clad alibis.”

I told her, “I’m most grateful to you – for your work getting me out of this stew. I gather you did quite a bit of homework and then dumped it on their desk to verify. I know you’ll bill me for your time, but I’d also like to do something nice for you – after I’m out of here. Can I take you to dinner or buy you a drink?”

Attorney Lacie Landers cocked her head to one side and studied me for a full minute in silence; then she smiled and spoke in a husky voice that she hadn’t used before: “You are my client up until you walk out that door a free man. After that, I’d be delighted to talk with you under better conditions and in better quarters. At that time, I’m Lacie – not Attorney Landers.” She looked around the otherwise empty cellblock to be sure no one else had heard her acceptance, and flashed me a disarming smile.

We chatted a little longer, until Detective Roux opened the door to the cellblock and came in carrying a key. He said, “Everything’s been signed off, so we’re releasing you. Just know that somewhere out there,” he gestured over his shoulder to the outside world, “there’s a guy who looks like you, riding a carbon copy of your motorcycle, and committing felonies.” He unlocked the cell door and let it swing with a loud squeak back on its hinges.

The detective pulled two grainy photos taken by security cameras from his pocket and handed them to me. In the first, a man about my age stood holding a gun on the clerk behind the counter of a 7-11 store; he looked a lot like me in build, hair color, and even facial features – we could have been brothers. In the second, an outdoor shot from another camera, the same man had just mounted a Harley Softail motorcycle the same color as mine with a lot of chrome, but not identical to the sharp eye; he traveled light, for unlike me he carried no luggage or bedroll. Now, I understood why when the cops saw me, they immediately arrested me. They must have thought that they had lucked out to find their villain so quickly.

The detective offered another piece of advice, “If I were you, I’d leave the area before we have you back in here again. This person is around here somewhere and will probably pull something else off.” He chuckled, “Make sure you have good alibis for a while.”

I asked a few other questions, collected the pile of things that had been on my motorcycle from a uniformed officer in the booking room, and went outside with Lacie to reclaim my motorcycle.

I explained, “I need to see my friend Andy for a few hours this afternoon, and then I’ll be ready for dinner – you’ll need to recommend a place and tell me how to connect with you. Also, what’s the best motel around here?”

Lacie responded in a friendly way to my questions, suggesting we meet at a restaurant and aiming me at Susan’s Cottages just west of the town – she gave the place a strong recommendation that later proved to be accurate. The cottages were super clean, neat, and just the thing after the night in the jail cell. After a few other formalities, Lacie and I parted ways for a while

Andy Jefferson still had that hard exterior ingrained in us during our Special Ops training: mine had softened, his hadn’t. He and I had been in the same Ops training together, and then in the same unit. We trusted each other with our lives; we worked hard; and we played even harder.

Our initial conversation as he pulled me into his house with a grand hug of welcome dealt with my brief incarceration and the whole situation of mistaken identity. I explained about my alibis and how it had just taken the police a while to verify I’d not been near the scenes of their robberies.

We sat on Andy’s front porch with beers talking about what it was like to be a civilian – and eventually how I was doing after Karen’s death. Andy told his story in a slow modulated tone with a deep bass you’d expect from someone as tall, and as broad as he was, “I mustered out when my third tour was up; I was thirty-two and all these kids were joining Special Ops; they could do what I’d been doing faster, better, and all while texting messages to each other.” Somewhere along the line he’d picked up a beautiful wife I’d only seen in snapshots and now he had two children – a boy in kindergarten and a girl in third grade.

Andy found a new talent in writing about sports for regional newspapers and magazines. On the road a lot, he had been noticed by ABC and hoped to jump into covering sports events that rated national coverage. I’d caught him at home between the weekends when he usually jumped around the Deep South covering nearly any newsworthy sport with that label on it.

Eventually, Andy laughed and said, “I forgot to ask you, what’d you think of Lacie Landers – she’s the best defense attorney in this state if you ask my opinion.”

I praised her efforts as my attorney and getting me sprung so quickly. I noted her attractive looks in a side comment and explained I had a dinner date with her to thank her for acting so promptly on my behalf.

Andy said with a raise of eyebrows, “You going to try to tap that tonight? That’s some fine southern ass there – aged to perfection, I’d say. However, I have to warn you. She has the reputation as impossible to get. There’s no one in town whose name has been linked with her. Oh, sure, there have been guys who tried to thaw her out but none have succeeded as far as I know.”

I smiled like a Cheshire cat and said, “I’m one to let nature take its course. Anyway, she’s older ... probably not that inclined to hop in bed with someone that was just her client and is ten years younger.”

“You gotta get back in the saddle my friend,” Andy chided. We’d already talked about Karen’s passing and my grief. I’d explained about how the motorcycle trip had become symbolic of putting the pain from her death behind me while I kept the great memories.

I responded with another grin, “And what made you think I’m not ‘back in the saddle’?”

Andy looked surprised, and gestured for me to start talking. “Come on, share. No secrets, remember?” Years earlier, there was nothing we didn’t know about each other.

I recounted my travels to date, telling Andy in a circumspect way about Lauren, the Circle in Pennsylvania, Kim and our trip from North Carolina to Florida – and even being exhibitionists for her husband, and finally my adventure in rescuing Betty Sue in Alabama.

Andy looked at me with total amazement, trying to gage whether I’d been fabricating my encounters. In the end, he just reached over and shook my hand to illustrate his high regard for me.

As an afterthought he added, “Yes, tonight Attorney Lacie Landers will get screwed ... that’ll be a laugh, the lawyer getting screwed for a change.”

A few minutes after seven that evening I met Lacie Landers at the Diamond Grill in downtown Alexandria – an upscale restaurant now residing in the space that had once been the area’s most exclusive jewelry store. Even with my dressiest slacks, shirt, and windbreaker, I felt underdressed for the upscale restaurant – living off a motorcycle has its limitations. She assured me I was fine, and I put my appearance worries behind me. Dinner was a superb blend of tastes emphasizing Creole cooking.

I found Lacie easy to talk to. She’d left the hard exterior of the criminal lawyer at home. I figured that out before she’d said a word when I found her alone in the restaurant’s bar: she wore a short leather skirt and spike heels that showed off a really beautiful pair of legs that her slacks had hidden in our earlier meetings. A white silk blouse completed the ensemble – a blouse that showed cleavage provided a tanned backdrop for the multiple necklaces she wore.

Lacie drew me out, getting my entire life story in more detail than she’d done when I sat in the nearby jail cell only twenty-four hours earlier. She commiserated with me over losing Karen, and when she heard about my little ritual of putting some of Karen’s ashes to the wind in pretty locales, she expressed a wish to show me a special place that I might like to use for Louisiana.

I learned much about Lacie’s life too: born in New Orleans, schooled at Tulane, and a law degree from Penn, she’d come back to Louisiana, passed the bar, and opened up a practice that covered about anything that came in the door. Her more interesting cases in her opinion were the criminal cases, so that became her focus. Over time, she had built up a reputation as a winning defense attorney despite how difficult the cases were. Now, she was sought after throughout the southeast, and increasingly found herself limiting her engagements to those closer to home. I realized how well known she was by how often she nodded or got acknowledged by some of the other patrons in the restaurant.

She had created a ‘machine’ as she called it, with an office only a couple of blocks from the restaurant. The ‘machine’ comprised another couple of younger lawyers, some paralegals, and a bevy of clerks and secretaries, all belonging to ‘Landers and Associates, Esq.’ She told me she was about to annex in a local private investigating company as well.

As we left the restaurant, I expected we’d part company but instead Lacie said, “Come with me, but first get the little envelope of ashes you might want to spread at a pretty place in Louisiana.” She was reverent and polite, so I followed her lead, digging in one of my saddlebags for the small pack of envelopes.

Lacie drove a silver Porsche Boxster. The restaurant valet brought the car whose top was down to the curbside in front of the Diamond Grill. I turned down her offer to drive and got into the passenger seat.

In seconds, we were on Interstate 49 heading west out of the downtown area at a very high rate of speed. Lacie drove fast – very fast. We covered about four or five miles in two minutes, and then she turned off the highway and wove along some dirt roads into an open field situated on a promontory by the Red River – a tributary to the Mississippi.

Lacie explained, “I got this land as payment for case I handled a few years ago. Mostly, kids with dirt bikes use it during the day. I love to come out here at night or when no one’s around – to one particular spot that I hope to have as my backyard some day soon. With the moon up the way it is, you’ll be able to see what I mean.”