Little Boy Lost

I listened and took notes, and then, eventually, we had just one more for the day.

Emma brought me a cup of coffee and set it and the file on my desk, then leaned in. “You do this last one”—she patted my shoulder and whispered—“then you run to the jail before four o’clock. The DWI retainer agreement is on my desk.”

Emma left as Deonna Villa and her sister came into the office.

I pointed to the seats in front of me, introduced myself, and took a sip of the coffee, hoping the caffeine would bring me back to life. “And which one of you is Deonna Villa?” I looked back and forth until, eventually, Deonna identified herself. “Well I apologize for the wait.” I nodded, forcing a smile, and she nodded back. “Been a long day, but I’m sure it’s been a longer day for you.”

Neither said a word. They sat on the edges of their chairs. It was as if I were the doctor and they were the patient waiting for the diagnosis, which wasn’t too far from the truth.

“You haven’t been treated right.” I paused. “If your kid was blond with blue eyes, this would’ve been on the news a long time ago and there would be a real investigation. But now, at last, people are paying attention.” I put my hands together, an unintentional moment of prayer. “You don’t trust the police, and I’m not here to argue with that. As I’ve told the other families, I can’t make any guarantees about finding your son. I’m not a detective. I’m a lawyer. The best thing that I can do is gather your information, and then I’ll make sure that the Saint Louis Police Department is aware and starts really looking for your son.” I paused. “Do you understand that?”

Deonna nodded. “I’ll do anything to get him back.”

“I know you would.” I opened her file and read the preliminary information that Emma had gathered. “Your son’s name is Brendon, and it looks like he’s been missing for a year. True?”

“Yes, sir.” Deonna reached out and took her sister’s hand. The mere fact that somebody was asking her about her son had almost pushed her to tears.

“You’ve filed a missing person report, but the police haven’t contacted you.”

Deonna’s face hardened. “Never.” She looked at her sister. “They ain’t never called.”

“So I have some pictures of the boys that the police haven’t been able to identify.” I paused. “The pictures are the remains. After months, maybe years in the ground, there isn’t much left, but maybe you’d recognize an item of clothing or something else.” I opened a three-ring binder. It was filled with the documents and photographs that I had gotten from Schmitty; each missing boy was separated by a tab. “And I’d like you to look—” I was about to push the open binder across the table but stopped. “You OK?”

Deonna closed her eyes and gathered herself. “Think so.”

“I’m doubtful that your son will be in here or that you’d be able to tell by the pictures, but I have to ask you to look.” I handed the binder across the desk to her. “We just need to rule it out.”

Deonna took the binder, and then she and her sister looked at the first set of pictures. Both shook their heads. Then they turned to the next tab and looked at the second set of photographs. Again, no match.

Deonna looked up at me. She was struggling. I could tell she wanted one of the pictures to identify her son, Brendon, even though she would never want him to be dead. The need for closure was that great.

She turned the page, working through the binder, staring at some photographs longer than others. Tears rolled down her cheeks and dropped onto the laminated pages.

“Ain’t him.” She closed the binder and looked up. “These ain’t him.”

I nodded. “Just because you don’t see anything doesn’t mean he hasn’t been found. The police have all their DNA and ran it through the system, but there was nothing on file that matched a name. So the only way we can make an identification is through a family member. We’d like to get a quick sample from you to see if there’s a match. Is that OK?”

Deonna agreed to provide a sample, and I took the binder back from her, closed it, and put it to the side. “I’ll make an arrangement to do a DNA test. Just to see. It’s pretty quick.”




I arrived at the self-described Justice Center ten minutes before the front desk clerks left for the day. Instead of going up the elevator to the courtrooms, I went through the metal detectors and took a left down a hallway, through a waiting area, and up to a person sitting behind a window of bulletproof glass.

“Afternoon.” I removed the thin file from my briefcase, reading the name printed on the top. “Here for . . . Stanley Kantor.” I took out my card as well as a check for the maximum bail amount that can be levied in a DWI case. “My paralegal made arrangements for me to post this bond on his behalf and have him released to me with a court date.”

The clerk let out a heavy sigh, looking at the clock. “Little late for this, dontchathink?”

“Apologies.” I slid the paperwork and the cashier’s check through the slot in the window.

The clerk, being unable to refuse my request, took it. She examined every page, looking for an error. She needed a technicality to give her a basis to reject it, send me on my way, and go home early.

She found none.

“Have a seat.” She pointed at the rows of chairs, mostly empty.

A half hour later, Stanley Kantor was released. He was ecstatic to be out of jail. He couldn’t stop thanking me. He didn’t know that he would have been released the next morning, regardless of whether he had hired me or had any attorney at all.

The police can only hold somebody for seventy-two hours without charging them, and the prosecutor’s office was so backed up with work that DWIs got a low priority.

But, with bail money and a private attorney, the Saint Charles businessman didn’t have to spend an extra night in jail. He got to go home to his family, while old Cecil Bates was held. That’s how it worked.





CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR


It was after dinner by the time I got home. The carriage house was dark, but there was life in the main house.

I found Sammy, my mother, and the Judge sitting around the table eating ice cream from the Clementine’s Creamery on Lafayette Square.

“Looks good.” I squeezed Sammy’s shoulder and pulled up a chair. “What’s the flavor?”

“Mine’s the Malted Milk Ball.” Sammy stuffed a spoonful into her mouth. “Grandma and the Judge got the naughty kind.”

“Bourbon Kentucky Pie.” My mother smiled slyly. “Made with real bourbon. The Judge made me get it.”

“True.” The Judge laughed. Then he switched to his official voice so he could make a formal declaration. “A good bourbon, frozen and creamed with an appropriate number of pecan pieces, is always a fair and just selection.”

“And it is so ordered by the court.” I loosened my tie and leaned back. It had been such a busy day, and yet, satisfying. It was as if the black storms had rolled off, just a little bit, and I could see some sunlight in my mind.

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