I’m not going to say that.
You are, or else you won’t talk to him at all.
Mom, I don’t want to.
Tell him I had somebody visiting here this afternoon. He’s not the only one who knows people. That’s something he ought to know, up there in hotshot Alaska.
22
THE PUBLIC DEFENDER ASSIGNED TO HIM WAS A YOUNG woman with red hair. She was three years out of law school and she’d been in possession of his police record for no more than an hour when she came to the Holt County Courthouse on the morning of the docket day to consult with him. She was carrying a stack of files under her arm, and they met in a little bare conference room down the hall from the courtroom, with a sheriff’s deputy waiting outside the door guarding another inmate. Hoyt was wearing his orange jailhouse coveralls and he looked pale and seedy after a month of confinement. She set her files on the table and sat down across the table from him.
Hoyt watched her flip through his police record. You’re about like the rest of them, ain’t you, he said. You want to know what I want, bitch? My number one priority is to get the fuck out of this goddamn place.
She looked at him closely for the first time. You can’t talk like that in here, she said. Not to me you can’t.
What’s wrong with the way I talk?
You know exactly what’s wrong with it.
Hell, he said. I was just getting a little excited there. I’m out of the custom of having any company. He grinned at her. I’ll try to contain myself.
She stared at him. Do that, she said. She closed his file. So, I don’t expect you want to go to trial. Do you.
I don’t know. You tell me.
I don’t think you do.
Why’s that now? I got things I might want to say. I have a right to be heard.
You’re certain of that?
Why wouldn’t I be?
Because your case probably wouldn’t go to trial for two months. Maybe longer. Depending on when it could be heard. Which means in the interim you’d go back to jail. You don’t have bail money, do you?
No, I don’t have no bail money. Where would I get money? They’ve had me locked up for twenty-nine days.
Then you don’t want to go to trial.
I said I didn’t.
When did you say that?
I’m saying it now, Hoyt said. How old are you anyway?
What?
How old a woman are you? You’re pretty good-looking for a lawyer.
She stared across the table at him. She took up a pen and began tapping it on the table. Listen. Mr. Raines.
Yes ma’am, he said. You got my entire attention. He grinned at her and leaned forward.
You know what, she said, I don’t think I do. Because you need to stop playing these stupid games. I don’t need this from you. I’ve got seven other cases to deal with this morning besides yours. You keep this up and we don’t get this resolved today, I’ll see you next month and you can go back downstairs and sit in jail till then. Now do you think you heard that?
Hell. He sat up straight and pulled down the cuffs of his coveralls onto his thin wrists. Take it easy, will you? You’re all strung up here. I never meant nothing. You’re just a good-looking woman, that’s all I’m saying. I haven’t even seen a woman for a month.
That’s only one of your problems, isn’t it.
Yeah, he said. But not for long. Soon as I get out of here I’ll take care of it.
She studied the expression on his face. She thought of saying something to him but then just shook her head. All right, she said. I’ve already spoken to the district attorney and I’ve negotiated the option of two plea agreements on your behalf.
What am I pleaing to?
What do you plead?
Yeah. What do I plead.
You plead guilty to a charge of misdemeanor child abuse. As stated in the police report. With the stipulation that there would be no additional jail time. You agree to have no more contact with the two children and to stay away from their parents’ house. Do you accept all of these conditions?