Chapter 1

A few weeks ago, when my cousin Freddy came rushing into my office all bent out of shape about what he overheard that fat-ass Burt McCann saying down at the Sonic drive-in, I told him he must have been hearing things, having auditory hallucinations. There was just no way in hell the cops would have any reason to march our Aunt Margie out of her house in handcuffs!

But he insisted, “I ain’t shittin’ ya, Marty. That’s what he said. I swear!”

The mere idea was completely absurd. Aunt Margie!?

“Freddy,” I reasoned, “even if he did say it, you know as well as I do that Burt can’t put together two sentences without one of ‘em being a lie. It’s in his blood.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought, too, at first, but just now, not ten minutes ago, I ran into Harley over at the Quick-E-Mart buyin’ a can o’ Skoal, and I asked him straight out. He told me it was official police business and that he couldn’t talk about it, even if I was a relative. And you know Harley. He ain’t one for spreadin’ stories or lettin’ false rumors fly around all over town.”

Well, Freddy had me there. In my experience, old Harley, Police Chief of our fair city ever since I could remember, was one of the few cops in our neck of the woods that actually had anything resembling integrity, and if he said something was official police business, then there had to be something to it. But Aunt Margie? Arrested? That’s just crazy!

Still trying to make it not true, I argued, “Look, if there’s anything to it, then why hasn’t she called me? Am I not the only lawyer in the family? Seems to me, if she’s gotten herself hauled in on some kind of a legal charge, I’d be the first person she called.”

That sentence was hardly out of my mouth when I felt my phone vibrating in my pocket, and I wondered if I somehow missed her call because I forgot to turn on the ringer when I left court an hour earlier. I pulled it out and saw that, sure as hell, it was from Aunt Margie’s cell phone. I got that sinking feeling.

I connected, and before I even said hello, I started dispensing lawyerly advice. “Whatever is going on, Aunt Margie, don’t you say a single word to the police before I get there! I’m on my way ... What? ... Your winter coat? Whatever for, Aunt Margie? Lord, it must be ninety degrees outside! ... They WHAT? ... Okay, okay! I’ll bring it! ... Alright, Aunt Margie, I’ll be there in just a few minutes. Remember what I said, now. Not a word! ... Yeah, bye-bye, Aunt Margie.”

“Well fuck me with a broomstick!” (I tend to be a real potty-mouth when I’m upset.)

I grabbed my keys off the desk and headed out the door, yelling at Charlene, my secretary (also my second cousin), to clear my appointments for the rest of the afternoon. She said I didn’t have any, and I told her to quit pestering me with details and clear them anyway.

I drove my very cool, refurbished, teal-green ‘95 S10 pickup to Aunt Margie’s house, ran in and grabbed the only long winter coat I could find in her hall closet, then headed downtown to the police station.

I stormed into the cop shop, trying my best to appear righteously indignant, which I was, but before I could get a single word out of my mouth about travesties of justice and so on, Harley leaned out his office door and pointed down the hall. “Second cell, Marty. And before you ask, no, she hasn’t been interrogated, and yes, she has been read her rights.”

He looked at the coat I was carrying and asked, “That for Margie?”

“It is.”

“Good. So, I guess she told you we had to take her clothes as evidence.”

My mind flashed on a mental image of Aunt Margie walking around that cell bare-butt naked ... an image that might get me stirred up if I dwelled on it for very long because she had such a fine body. Not that I’ve ever seen her naked, but she fills out her clothes very nicely, if you get my meaning. If you were thinking in terms of an Aunt Margie being a frail, white-haired little old lady, you’d be off by a mile.

Then I remembered I was on a mission.

“Jesus, Harley, you didn’t strip her, did you? And evidence of what?”

He got a disgusted look on his face and snarled, “Don’t be an idiot, Marty. Of course, we didn’t strip her! This ain’t the goddam FBI! She took her own clothes off in the lady’s room and wrapped herself up in a blanket. I already sent someone to get her something to wear to court. Now, you best go talk to her, then come see me. I gotta walk her over to the courthouse in an hour for arraignment. Got no idea what Judge Wilmer is gonna have in mind for bail, but bein’ it’s Margie, I reckon there’s a good chance it’ll be ROR.”

That calmed me down some. “Um, thanks, Harley. And I didn’t mean any offence with that stripping remark.”

Aunt Margie was sitting on the lower bunk wrapped in a gray, institutional blanket; you know, one of those blankets that looks like it was woven from recycled dryer lint. The poor woman was looking all sad and woebegone. The cell door wasn’t locked, so I let myself in and sat next to her, sliding my arm around her shoulders and giving her a little hug.

I handed her the coat and turned my head away as she let the blanket slip off her shoulders and pulled it on.

She looked sideways at me, tried for a little smile and sighed, “I’m so sorry about all this fuss, Marty. It’s just a big misunderstanding. It has to be!”

“Well, of course it is, Aunt Margie. Did Harley tell you specifically what the charge is?”

She nodded her head and dropped her voice to almost a whisper. “He said I’ve been charged with multiple counts of sexual assault on a minor. Three boys, he said.”

I jumped to my feet and screeched, “WHAT?! Jesus, fucking, Christ!!”

“Marty Brenner!” Aunt Margie scolded, shaking her finger at me, “You mind your language!”

“Oh, uh, sorry, Aunt Margie. That just slipped out.”

The poor woman was fighting back tears as she continued, “Well anyhow, that’s what Harley said. He told me the County Attorney filed the charges this morning and ordered my arrest.”

I was seething as I started pacing the floor. “Why, that pompous, two-bit, braying jackass! He must be thinking about running for Attorney General again. He always goes for the biggest splash he can make in the newspaper whenever his damned political ambitions get stirred up.”

I came to a halt in front of her and asked, “Where the hell did these charges come from, anyway? What minors are you supposed to have assaulted?”

Margie shrugged and said, “I have no idea. The only young boys I’ve had anything to do with recently are a couple of my piano students. I can’t for the life of me believe either one of them would accuse me of doing anything improper. In fact, I was giving Dennis Leary a lesson when the officers came banging on my door. I guess he got scared from all the fuss they were making and took off out the back door. I yelled at him to go straight home.”

I took out my notebook and pen. “Well, give me the other one’s name, too, and I’ll start looking into it. Can you think of anyone else, any boys in particular you’ve had anything to do with in, say, the last six months or so?”

“Hmmm, let me think.” She knitted her brows and squinted her eyes like she was trying to force something out of her brain. “Well, aside from my cub scout meetings on Saturday mornings, there’s Benny Frank, the boy that does my lawn. He comes every Thursday, and Foster, the paper boy ... I don’t know his last name. Oh, and that nice young man that delivers groceries from time to time. His name is Jeremy Wilson. I can’t think of anyone else. Well, except for Franklin Markowitz. He helped me with some garden work once, but that was ages ago, way back last spring.”

I wrote down their names and asked, “And you can’t think of any reason why any of these kids would accuse you of this awful crime? None of them are angry or upset with you for any reason?”

“Why, of course not, Marty! You know I would never do such a thing!”

I bent over to give Aunt Margie a little kiss on the cheek, and tried to reassure her. “So far, it looks like a case of ‘he said, she said’.” (Except the charge said multiple counts.) “Unless they have something very specific by way of hard evidence, I can’t see this going anywhere. I think it’s gonna wind up being a frivolous complaint. I’m gonna walk down the hall to talk to Harley and try to get some details, then I’ll meet you across the street at the courthouse for the arraignment.”

I looked down at her bundled up in that heavy wool coat, and said, “Maybe I should bring you some other clothes. You still got your cell phone?”

“No, Harley has it, but he said I could use it whenever I want. He’s been real nice about all of this. And I don’t think I need any clothes because he sent one of the officers over to the county jail to get one of those orange jumpsuits for me to wear to court. Well, maybe some underwear would be nice, but I wouldn’t ask you to go rummaging through my undies drawer.”

“Those jumpsuits aren’t especially flattering. They make you look like you’ve already been convicted of something. Well, call me if you can think of anything else before the arraignment.”

Harley, a giant of a man at six-foot-eight, sixty-something with thick, silver-gray hair, was leaning back in his chair with his size fourteen clodhoppers on his desk and sipping on a big mug of coffee when I tapped on his door.

He waved me in. “Take a load off, Marty. Did Margie tell you what the charges were?”

I plopped down in the only available chair and snorted, “Hell’s bells, Harley, you don’t actually believe Aunt Margie could do something like that, do you? We’re talking about Margie Brenner, for Christ sake!”

He took a sip and dropped his feet to the floor. “Don’t matter what I think. Old Bullock has issued a warrant and I have to do my duty. It ain’t like it’s my investigation. Hell, I haven’t even had a chance to talked to the little shit that’s accusing her.”

“Well, who is accusing her? And what kind of evidence does he have?”

“The who is Jeremy Wilson, or more likely, that evil-tempered witch who claims to be his mother, although I’ve always suspected she’s actually the devil in drag. On a good day, that woman has all the charm of a wounded, pissed-off rattlesnake. Anyhow, Bullock’s office called over here this morning and said he had it from a reliable source that Margie was having sex with a young boy at her house, and to get some officers over there right away. That’s why we had to take her clothes and send them over to the county lab to be tested for bodily fluids. As for any other evidence, I guess it’s up to old Bullock to share that with you.”

“What did your officers see when they got there?”

“They said they heard someone playin’ the piano when they knocked on the screen door, and when she let ‘em in, there was a kid, Denis something, sittin’ there lookin’ like he was scared shitless. He and Margie were both fully clothed, so nothin’ sexual was goin’ on at the time. I guess the kid took off out the back door like a scalded dog when they told him he was gonna have to come down to the station and make a statement.”

“So,” I pointed out, “the complaint was obviously false! All they found was Aunt Margie giving Denis Leary a piano lesson, just like she said. Why in hell did they handcuff her and bring her in?”

“Because the warrant says she had sex with multiple boys on multiple occasions. It accuses her of being a sexual predator and a threat to society.”

“Oh hell, Harley! Now that’s just plain bullshit and you know it!”

Harley spread his hands, shrugged in a hopeless gesture and said, “You might be right about that, Marty, but I still have to follow procedure. There’s been an official warrant issued for her arrest on these charges, and I have to carry it out. Like I said, you need to talk to Bullock about what kind of evidence he’s got to back it up.”

“Yeah, but you know him. The old bastard will keep everything he has locked up tight as a drum ‘til the very last minute.”

I heaved a big sigh and stood to go. “Well, I guess I better head on over to his office and get all my threats in early; see if I can’t move ‘em along a bit. Thanks for the info, Harley.”