Chapter 14: Tongue

The pale November sun was brightening Caitlin Seaver’s kitchen. Or maybe I was imagining that as her tears dried up. As she gathered herself, resigned that the worst had happened — her secret was out. Hers and Sandy’s.

Speaking in a monotone as if she were in a courtroom being judged, she said, “Arlington played for the Dodgers, but that was before my time. He was from Santa Ana and came back to visit. Family, I think, and friends. I’d seen him around Orange County, he liked bars.”

I nodded.

“He wasn’t a lush though. Two, three drinks. A lot of regulars bought him rounds. Still sort of a celebrity.”

I nodded again.

“Anyway, he came into Barney’s Brig a few times. He wasn’t cruising, wasn’t looking for a pick-up. He seemed to like the ... atmosphere I guess. Some straight guys are like that. Like girls who go to strip clubs.”

“I understand.” We have them at BaBoomz.

“So I was working at the Brig. Fake ID. Judge Judy got it for me. I needed the cash. Obvious reasons.”

“And then Arlington recognized you later. After you’d met Sandy and...”

“I had transitioned. Looked pretty much like I do now. But Arlington knew. He acted like he didn’t, but he knew.”

“So... ?”

“I moved on to a different bar. In Costa Mesa. Peggy’s. Sandy and I wanted to ... I’d had my name changed and everything. So we got married.”

“And that’s when Arlington showed up again.”

Caitlin poured us more instant coffee. I could have used something stronger. Like a quart of gin.

“Not right away. He waited until Sandy was in his second year with the Royals.”

“And Arlington started squeezing.”

Caitlin looked off into the distance. A whispered, “Yes,” so soft I could barely hear it.

Dragon Lady # 1 slid me in to meet with Bulldog and Emile. Just the three of us. No Mayor Lynch, no GM O’Grady.

I gave them a barebones outline. Neither would be interested in operational details.

“What’s really killing Caitlin is what Arlington is forcing Sandy to do. Give up runs. Baseball is his life and ... it’s like he’s ... tainting something holy.”

Emile made a rolling motion with his hands — yeah, yeah, we get it, Winter. No need to write out all the notes and lyrics.

Bulldog said, “What do you recommend?”

“Waiting. It’s the off-season, Arlington goes on trial next week.”

“What Arlington knows about the Seavers isn’t going to melt away.”

“No, but if he goes to prison...”

Bulldog said, “Courthouse rumors aren’t optimistic.”

Emile, “Even behind bars, he can still reach out to Seaver.”

“Well, for what it’s worth, Caitlin wants to fess up. Tell O’Grady. Hold a press conference, tell the world. Sandy won’t even discuss it. He thinks he’s being protective of her.”

Bulldog looked at me sharply, ‘Isn’t he?”

“In a macho way. Short term way. But it’s no way to live. Having that hanging over your head.”

Bulldog looked at Emile who said, “I’d wait.”

When Judge Emanuel Graves gaveled court into session, on the first day of the Douglas ‘Duke’ Arlington murder trial, I wasn’t there. I would be testifying later on. Walker was my eyes and ears. Eager eyes and ears. Notebook and coat and tie and earnest demeanor. With my written permission to cut classes for the duration.

Of course Ned and Hilary would fill me in. I’d sit in on meetings, after each day’s trial session and prior to the next day’s. But the trial, the insider look, was important to my son, so I gave him free rein.

“Pay attention to the jury selection process. Take notes. Rate each one — pro, con, unknown. And don’t forget to score the alternates too.”

He made a diligent note.

“Slick Dick has his ... evaluator sitting in. She’s a retired FBI profiler. Mags Mobely. Supposed to be aces.”

“Ironic. FBI against FBI.”

“Yeah. But Ned has his own expert. Another woman. She’s a professional poker player from Vegas and, these days, Macao. Bunny Horton.”

Pilar said, “Poker player?”

“She makes her living reading people. Looking for tells. And that’s what the underside of jury selection is — going beyond the surface. Looking past family, job, political affiliation. Getting to the heart of the person. The hidden heart.”

Pilar mouthed, “Hidden heart.”

Walker said, “Defense has the advantage, right?”

“In a way. They just need one juror, one holdout. If it’s a hung jury, we won’t prosecute Arlington again. Not without new evidence, compelling evidence.”

Gregory was watching, wide-eyed. An entirely new universe to him. Well, his mother’s an attorney, maybe not entirely new. If she talks with him.

Ned Daniels had assigned an investigator to follow Duke Arlington once the trial began. Hilary explained to me, “Ned thinks it’s better to know than not.”

Daddy.

Arlington had stopped going to bars once he’d been arrested. The fan reception just wouldn’t have been the same. He stayed home, watched TV. Woke in the morning and drove to River Market to meet with his attorneys at Richard Hyder’s 5th Street storefront office. Just four blocks from the Federal Courthouse on 9th, but you had to cross over those fucking freeways that cut through downtown.

Judge Graves pounded his gavel and jury selection began.

Hilary told me, “Hyder and Bloomfield go back to his office for the lunch break. Arlington goes with him. They order in so they won’t run into any jury members.”

Ned smiled wryly, “Nor the press. Hyder doesn’t like the no-media dictate from the bench.”

Knowing it was the least important question, I still asked, “Do they eat lunch in Hyder’s office?”

Hilary smiled, “Conference room. Usually it’s from Brown and Lowe.”

Walker refreshed Gertie’s drink adding both Tanqueray and rocks.

Pilar, “We’ve been studying rural America versus urban. Those fucking small town gomers have too much influence in DC. Way too much.”

Gertie smiled at her favorite pupil, “How so, dear?”

“A senator from Butt-Fuck Wyoming has just as much say as one from New York.”

Walker, “Or California.”

Gregory nodded, “Most populous state.”

Gertie stirred with her index finger, “And the solution?”

Pilar, “Constitutional amendment.” Walker and Gregory nodded.

Gertie, “Well, let’s see. Wyoming has around 600,000 residents. California is over 40 million.”

“See.”

“But America is no longer a federation of separate states like it was back when the country was founded.”

Pilar frowned.

“The United States is a profoundly integrated nation in a profoundly integrated world. You could argue that most of the talent, jobs, opportunities, the best schools are in urban states. And the rest of the country needs all the help it can get.”

Pilar crossed her arms.

“Now take a Constitutional amendment. Think those rural states are really going to vote to have their power in the upper chamber stripped away?”

Mutter, “Fuck.”

Gertie took a sip, “But you’re right. 2018 is vastly different from 1776. It would be interesting to see what the founders would have to say about how the Senate has turned out.”

Vanessa laid out a plate of sliced and salted Granny Smith apples. Tart and tasty.

Gertie said, “Perhaps we should look to the Republicans for a solution. To the conservative side.”

Pilar was staring with a focused intention rare for someone so young. 14.

“Democrats are, not incorrectly, associated with ceding more and more power to DC. Tax and spend. What if they flipped the equation and started supporting the states’ rights movement?”

To be saying something, contributing, I said “The laboratories of America.” Hobo looked at me thoughtfully.

Pilar, “Why? That’s already the problem. States where no one lives have too much power.”

“Think about it, honey. Individual states already decide on taxes. Legalizing marijuana. Gay marriage. And it’s the states that are now taking the lead in addressing climate change.”

Pilar, “States.”

“Give them more authority. Like the Republican-appointed judges want. The ‘originalists’. They argue that strong states were part of the original Constitutional design.”

“States.”

“Think about it. Gun control. Abortion. When we appealed Prohibition, we gave each state the right set its own policy on alcohol.”

“States.”

1300 Summit, the Arlington conference room. War room. Jury selection had taken three days and Judge Graves wasn’t pleased with the pace.

Hilary Dunne said, “Neither side is satisfied with the jury. Which means the process was more or less fair.”

Ned Daniels said, “Hyder got his sleeper — I was out of challenges. William ‘Wild Bill’ Hockney. A rabid Libertarian. Resents government overreach, especially the federal government. He thinks almost everything the government does is overreach. Hyder will play to him.”

Hilary gave him a tired smile, “You got your alpha too.”

Ned nodded, “Megan O’Reilly. Teaches drama at UMKC. Amateur playwright. Good analytical and logic skills.”

Hilary, “O’Reilly will be able to follow the narrative. Ned’s narrative. She’ll be his Pied Piper to the other jurors.”

Ned, “In theory.”

I honored my dinner pledge and met Chip O’Grady at Rye on the Plaza.

I’d showered, bathed, and shaved my legs after I returned home from that grueling encounter with Caitlin Seaver. Followed by my updating Bulldog and Emile.

I opened my Uber app and ordered a car.

Walker observed all of this — well, not the bath, not directly — and his antennae were up. He and I were alone in our loft, but he still whispered, “Are you going to sleep with Chip?”

“Of course not.”

He ran a palm up my calf, “You shaved.” Cheeky blighter.

“Which I do on a regular basis.” Oops, tone was a little defensive.

He said, “I like Chip.”

“You like that he’s the GM.”

“Yeah, but he’s pretty cool too.”

“Gawd, Walk, you’d whore your own mother out for a few baseball tickets?”

“You like him too. I could tell.”

“So? I am married, in case you hadn’t noticed. And I have a perfectly fine boyfriend. Well, not perfectly, but ... he’ll do.”

“I like Clint too. But he’s in New York. And Chip is ... pretty cool.”

“You mentioned that. Anything else? My car is here.”

He grinned, “You going commando?”

I grinned back and lifted the hem of my flippy skirt up to my waist.

Walker said “Uh oh.”

“Uh oh what?”

“Your thong is flesh-colored.”

I looked down, “And... ?”

Walker crossed his arms, nodded solemnly to himself, rendering a mute judgment.

Impulsively, I stripped off my thong, tossed it to him and pushed the elevator button. Adam and I left the building. Commando.

Chip rose from his seat at the bar and cheek-bussed me. “You look terrific.”

“My meeting with Caitlin is over.”

“You look ... sensational.”

I did. I was wearing a new navy blazer with gold buttons. Double breasted of course. No top, no bra — it was a look I’d been experimenting with. A look that I liked. A pale pink flippy skirt with 4-inch navy fuck-me’s.

The striking thing about the blazer-effect was the untanned strip across my chest. It contrasted smartly with the deep golden ... rest of me. The first time Pilar saw me in a blazer, she shook her head, “That’s almost unfair.”

Adam looked pretty dapper himself with a new regimental-striped collar. I’d called Rye ahead of time; they agreed to allow my service dog to accompany me. Dropping Vanessa’s name may have helped.

The floor manager smiled, “Hi, Winter, ready to be seated?”

“I am, thank you.”

Chip looked over the top of the menu, “Champagne?”

“Why not?” Uber. And Lyft for the return flight.

I’m not sure who generated more attention on our parade to the corner table — Adam or me. But I definitely had Chip’s eye. Eyes. Eyeballs. I said, “My face is up here.”

Completely at ease, “I know. And ‘tis a lovely face indeed.”

“Terrible brogue.”

“Thank you. But I wasn’t ignoring your face, just admiring your jacket. I like the epaulets.”

“Oh, it’s the epaulets you like?”

“Absolutely.”

Rye, with its James Beard awards, recently opened its Plaza outpost. Like its original restaurant out in Mission, it’s justifiably celebrated for fried chicken. Fucking Kansas.

I smiled at our waiter, “Whole, please Sammy.”

Chip smiled at me, “I like a girl with an appetite.”

“Oh, I’ll take most of it home to my family. My loving family.” Truth was, I could eat the entire chicken. And sides. And dessert. But I don’t unleash my appetite in restaurants, in public. In front of a guy. Even a guy I’m seeing for strictly business reasons.

Chip carried my doggy bag while my doggy and I walked with him to Fred P. Ott’s. A Plaza tavern just a block south of Rye, across the street from the tennis courts. Ott’s has a late-night license — not that I’d be staying out with Chip to all hours.

It’s a suitably dark little bar — not that I needed darkness for any ... business discussions.

No one commented on Adam’s presence; Ott’s is on the ritzy Plaza, but it has the ambiance and attitude of a dive bar in the West Bottoms.

Chip didn’t ask a single question about my Caitlin Seaver meeting. Perhaps he realized that I wouldn’t have shared anything. Perhaps his mind was on something else. Someone else.

We sat side-by-side at the bar, chatting, laughing, joking, sometimes just relaxed in companionable silence. Around midnight he leaned into me, placed his left hand on my thigh.

“Winter, I like you.”

“I could tell.”

“Sometimes the girl says, ‘I like you too’.”

“She does?”

“Sometimes.”

I patted his hand, “We’ll see.”

He said, “I never argue about religion, politics or the infield fly rule.”

“Quite wise.” Whatever the fuck that was.

Chip waited with Adam and me until my Lyft driver pulled up. Chip placed his fingers under my chin, bent down, and kissed me. I gave him a nanosecond of tongue, then stepped back.

I smiled up innocently, gave his bulge a light thumb-and-finger squeeze, “Sweet dreams.”

Pilar: “The past, the present, and the future walk into a bar.”

Walker: “It was tense.”

I gave Walker a ride to court on Thursday morning. I’d be testifying sometime before the lunch break. We walked up the wide steps of the Charles Evans Walker U. S. Courthouse on 9th Street. Two wannabe attorneys.

I patted his butt as he turned to enter the courtroom of the Honorable Emanuel Graves. I continued down the hallway to an anteroom where Hilary Dunne had told me to wait.

The rules of evidence required that the People and the Defense complete their discovery exchange no later than 30 days prior to the start of the trial. Both sides met the deadline, otherwise there could have been sanctions. Perhaps even a continuance.

Unfortunately for us, we had nothing new to introduce at the trial itself. I would testify about the possible purchase of a knife in Alabama. But we didn’t have any actual knives to enter into evidence.

Hilary had gone over the questions Ned would ask me. And prepped me as best she could for the Defense’s cross-examination. We had hoped by this time to have more, much more, to demonstrate Arlington’s guilt. Had hoped for far less reliance on circumstantial evidence. But I would learn that uncertainty is often part of the dance.

I wasn’t nervous, not very much anyway. I’d debated both in high school and at John Jay. I wasn’t a champ, but I held my own. And my task was made easier by the fact that all I was doing was relating the facts as they pertained to me.

Although there was one tricky patch — the odd juxtaposition of my private and FBI investigations of Arlington. Bulldog Bannerman and Sandra Fleming.

Ned had told me, “Just tell the truth. Don’t embellish, don’t speculate.” He gazed into my eyes, “Especially when Hyder is on cross.”

It turned out that the Defense decided to have Anita Bloomfield question me. Maybe they liked the optics better.

The second-floor courtroom was about three-quarters full. A lot of the usual jaybirds were in another courtroom, another courthouse. The Bumper Bandits had returned to Kansas City, been nabbed, and were now on trial for a variety of charges. Felonious assault by automobile, armed robbery, mopery. Well maybe not that. In any case, many of the spectators had migrated from Federal to City.

Judge Graves, behind the bench on the raised dais, was a diminutive black man with a tonsure of white hair. He peered over wire-rimmed glasses and ran his shop with a booming voice.

Like most federal judges, he was under unrelenting calendar-pressure to keep things moving. And he let both sides know when they were dragging their feet.

The Defense — Hyder, Bloomfield, and Arlington — were seated at a table to the left of the center aisle. Our team was to the right, closer to the jury box. Closer to God? Well, I couldn’t testify to that.

The jury were seated when the court deputy escorted me in. Five women, seven men. Four alternates — two and two. On the seated jury, there were three Hispanics, three blacks, one Asian. Our gal — Megan O’Reilly was seated in the front row, far right. She had an open notebook and a pen poised to do its business. A good sign for the good guys according to Hilary. A juror who takes notes is known as a scorekeeper.

Unfortunately, the Defense’s secret bullet — William ‘Wild Bill’ Hockney — had been elected foreman. An anti-government foreman. The Defense had out-alphaed us.

The woman next to Hockney was thin, white, around 50. She had a box of tissues on her lap and snuffled and coughed and made me glad I wasn’t too close. Bad cold at the least. Maybe flu. Well, there were four alternates. And our team had a favorite among them. So a one-in-four chance that he would be randomly drawn if Ms. Influenza went down for the count.

I had thought about what to wear. Had asked three of my law school profs — all women, natch. A business suit, but nothing too severe. Navy blue, not black. White blouse with thin green stripes. Top two buttons not ... um, buttoned. No cleavage though; other women, jurywomen, could resent that. Knee-length skirt, two-inch heels.

Nailed it.

Until Hillary Dunne gave me a heart-to-heart. “Dowd yourself up, Winter. Or down. Reign in the boobs. Lower the hem. Wear something off the racks. Midrange price. Pull your hair back into a bun.”

Over-thinking? Maybe, but maybe not. Attorneys over the years, over the decades, had learned what works and what doesn’t. Some of it through osmosis, some of it by analyzing all things courtroom — big and small.

After swearing on a Bible, eerily like on the TV shows, I had answered Ned’s opening questions just as he’d instructed me — truthfully. Short answers, no volunteering.

Name, rank, and serial number. Well, almost. He quickly went over my background — college, three years on the KCPD. Private practice with stints as an FBI consultant.

Arlington glared at me the two times I glanced his way. I stopped looking.