Auclairé
Deparmon fo Aubre, Celemsville
Gates clanged shut down distant halls, and dim lights shone from the ceiling. Stepping over to the police desk, Hox exchanged words with the officer on duty. Asking for papers, the correct paper work was passed along to him. The man at the desk nodded, and calling to another had the gate opened with the clang of a heavy metal key. The gate opened, and the young lawyer was let into the holding facility.
The air here was musty, heavy with the smell of mold and mildew. The walls were no less ancient than anywhere else, and under the ground they glistened with water that leaked in through the cracks or porous stone. The temporary holding facility for the police was close to the river-side, alongside the ferry terminal for Clemsville and the small river port. This close in and in moist ground, it was not entirely unusual. It peeled away the plaster from the wall in large chunks over a short length of time.
The smells intermingled with the common smells of man, the sweat and musk of unclean or unperformed prisoners waiting trial, or drunks sleeping off their excess wine or beer. In one cell Hox passed, a misty eyed middle-aged laborer starred blankly through the rusty old bars of his cell, apparently half comatose from narcotics. He was here to recover through his eye and after effects; a doctor would be called later to take him off their hands. For now, like the drunk tanks he was merely tucked away to keep him to the side and out of sight, to prevent interruption in Celemsville's streets.
The space the cells were kept was a long hallway with a single bank along one side. Benches lined the others and a single table at the far end kept an officer on duty. Is white uniform was the cleanest thing in the underground. The lapels of his uniform folded back to his shoulder to show a ruffled light-blue undershirt. Black holster straps kept his baton close under his arm. He rose, seeing the lawyer and his escort.
“Cell five, the kid's counsel is here.” shouted the officer. The other nodded and headed to meet them at the cell in question. His black hobnail boots drumming heavily on the cold gray granite of the floor.
They came to him as he shifted through a collection of heavy iron keys on a large ring. The young man in the cell was fully alert, and looking up at him. His eyes met with Hox's, but he showed no joy.
Seated on a plank bench the man there looked to be no more or less remarkable than anyone else. Dark, coffee colored skin, narrow nose, small shrew-like eyes. His hair shaved back and course like steel wool. But there was a sharp alertness deep in his green eyes, a thinking look far more expressive than the drunk or the stoned. He showed no reverent respect for the lawyer as Hox stepped in, but neither did he make any clear indication of dis-respect.
Dressed in the plain gray jumpsuit of a prisoner with a bright pink stripe across is waist and down his arms, his full well-fed form filled the one-size uniform well. He was a large man, that was clear.
“Good evening, Mersaul Clairmon. I'm Hoxua Lisseur.” said Hox, introducing himself.
Mersaul looked up at him. And simply nodded, empty of any enthusiasm or even pain. “I figured as much.” he said, his voice flat and unwavering. He had a still emotionless rattle. Hox found it unnerving, like speaking to a robot.
“So listen, I'm here you're in deep trouble and I'm here to help. I was hoping t-” he began to say.
“I don't need help.” Mersaul said.
“What do you mean?”
“I know exactly what I did, and I know exactly why I did it. I will not turn around and say I didn't do it, because I do not regret it.” Mersaul answered, holding the mono-tonal inflection.
“Are you really sure about this? This is murder after all? You killed a man, that's life in prison at the least?”
“How does it really matter whether I get life or not?” Mersaul asked, “I am a doomed man either way, whether or not I confess makes no difference, the police have all the proof they need. Whether or not I am defended will not change anything going ahead. Neither will where I live for the rest of my life.”
Hox sighed indignantly. “I don't even want a lawyer.” Mersaul added.
“Whether or not you want one is out of the question, because someone asked.” Hox told him, “We – I – was requested to defend you by your girl friend.”
“Elise?” Mersaul asked. But he did not seem to change his tone, even for her. The same sort of dead indifference carried itself between the subjects. Hox wondered if he even cared. He nodded, and Mersaul leaned his head back against the cool wet brick and sat silently. He thought for a while.
His chest rose and fell in a long dry sigh, “This isn't her problem. She should not have.”
“Well, listen. Either way I'm contractually obligated at this point. So the least you could do is have the interview. If there isn't going to be any fighting or pleading from you then this'll be as simple as the end of week.”
Mersault nodded, he understood. “Could you tell me one thing, though,” he began, “Why'd Elise send for a defense? The state would have provided one for free. Now though, it'll go through court for sure.”
“You're saying you just want this over with?” Hox asked.
“It would be for the best. I have no qualms, therefore I should not need to speak for myself or have an advocate speak for myself. There is no guilt in my heart or desire to see I pay less for my actions. I know what I did, and know well the full price. If full price is what I have to pay, then full price is what I will pay. But Elise, Elise I guess wants to get the deal out of it.”
“She must love you.” Hox said.
Mersaul nodded. “Well listen,” Hox said, “I take it I can reduce your sentence. If you're going to in the end plead guilty then I can get some time shaved off. You won't die in prison, you'll come out eventually. I hear it's awful to be an old man in prison, and at least this way I give you clemency for the end of your life.
“So to begin, why don't you just repeat to me what you told the police?”
“What for?” Mersaul asked.
“To make sure if there's anything different between what the police know and you, I can use this in the trial. It's not a crime to leave out details, but it is wasteful to do so on your lawyer. I can use them to convince the judge to lessen sentencing even after the jury convicts.”
Mersaul blinked, and nodded. “I killed a man with a .45 pistol on the bank of the river. I left his body on an open sandy beach a hundred meters from the
Emalais Parg outside of town.
“The man was Pierre Forge, a tourist from Amôn. He and I had gotten drunk and wine, and debated life after death. We both agreed that there was a place the soul goes after death, but disagreed as to what. He believed in reincarnation, and admitted he was willing to depart this life. I told him I can help him confirm this, and I shot him.”
Hox looked at him stunned. He looked over at the police man standing guard and he only shrugged indifferently. Squatting down on his haunches he leaned in close and asked, “Have you ever felt the inclination to violence before?”
Mersaul shook his head, “I have never so much as hit a man before.” he told him, “This is the only time, and I bear no guilt for it. I will see its consequences through. That is all.”
“You realize what you're telling me is highly irrational – absurd even.”
“Is the rest of life not irrational, absurd?” Mersaul asked, “What do we do every day but defy our own personal inspiration, desires. That is all I allowed myself to do, expressed myself as a free man. I made the conscious decision that if I was to do anything, it would be to him who was all ready to go. The blame of his death is all his, as is the blame of me eating a sandwich, or drinking wine. I was merely the instrument of its execution; and do hammers feel guilt for when they build a house, kill a mouse?”
Hox sat baffled. He shook his head, and attempted to bring the conversation back to rationality, “This man, Pierre Forge, have you had any encounters before. Did you have a fight before you sat down to wine?”
“We had met earlier that day.”
“And did you have a fight, any underlying reason you might have killed him?”
Mersaul shook his head. No he had not. “There was no grudge you could have held before against him, that you acted upon until then.”
“No, there was none. If there was anything I would say he was too cowardly to commit to his own suicide.”
“And this, you stand by this as the reason for your actions?”
Mersaul nodded.
The situation Hox found was far more straight forward than he anticipated. It terrified him, to see down the full length of where this was headed. What Mersaul was doing in the end was pleading guilty at the get go without much in the way of finding clemency. He did not imagine he would even appeal, even if given the chance. This would normally not be an issue, a case that was decided before it began, all that would need to be finished was the paper work. But without so much as a turn in the road it felt as if this was a train headed for the cliff, and Hox found himself riding that train to its disastrous conclusion.
This did not excuse that in many cases the defendant was generally found guilty anyways. That his job as lawyer was to lessen the sentence, give options for appeal and probation. In the little time he had been practicing, and all the time researching and performing discovery, he hadn't ever witnessed what was a civil train collision about to begin. It shook him, and he was part of it now too.
“Listen, I can plead insanity for you. Best case then is you are interred at a mental institution. Be far more comfier there. Is this something you would like?” Hox asked.
“I'm not insane.” Hox answered, dead pan.
“Yes, yes. But still, this is the option I'm taking away here. And it's not so much for your benefit: But Elise's.”
“Either option is poor for her, and equal to me. You could send me to the Blade and I would not worry. In the end I feel no guilt for what I did, and in the end had I the option for another life I would not want to forget this.”
Hox sighed, and stood up. “Then very well. If I need to speak with you again, I will. I'll need to go and collect the court dates.”
“It was a pleasure.” Mersaul said, as Hox left the cell. His persistent level tone inclined him to question whether or not Mersaul meant what it is he said.
Walking back down the long hall the escort said to him, “He's quite the character.” as Mersaul's cell door was locked further down.
“I never thought someone like him could well exist.” Hox said, “I've always...”
“Though killers would plead? Or be tough? Well perhaps, but he is a first for us too. Don't feel like you're alone on this.”
They came back to the check-in station for lock up, and the officer on duty let them through. The escort joined his companion in the little side room, sitting down to read a book.
“I hope your talk with him was productive, counsel.” said the desk officer.
“We'll have to see about that.” Hox said, “Is there any limits on seeing him?”
“Given how he doesn't try to start anything, and is content to sit and meditate away his hours, I don't think there'll be a problem. He seems to pose no risk.”
“Alright, thanks. I might have questions later.”
Outside again, Hox breathed in deep the sweat clean air. The smell of flowers and of distant farm fields was adrift on the warm breeze blowing in over the hills, and the fresh aquatic aroma of the river blossomed from the reeds along the river to meet it.
With the police station – white faced, and blue shingled – behind him, Hox reached into his pocket for his phone. No longer among the police, he could turn it on. He noticed he had a message, someone had tried to call. He recognize the number and walking towards his bike returned the call. It rang a couple times.
“Çoix.” said a voice finally, answering.
“Armon, you called earlier?” Hox asked.
“Yeah, I did. But you had your phone off. You still up for your share of the cognac?” Armon Çoix asked.
“Ah- what time is it?” Hox asked.
“A little after 13:00.” Armon answered.
“Then I go out on lunch. You want to meet at Fibbiro's?”
“I see no reason why not. I'll meet you there.” replied Armon, “Should I invite Sailie along? You should get Daphne. How long you got, a little over an hour?”
“It doesn't matter in the end. As long as I come back with case notes and in time to do anything else.”
“It's settled. I'll see you there.”
“You too.” Hox answered, as the line went dead.
The court in front of the police station was like a small garden, and the limited parking area was shaded by three large oaks. Squirrels darted about the grass and into the bushes as Hox walked passed, going into his contacts. He made another phone call. The recipient answered quickly. “Floer.” said a woman's voice.
“Hey, my winter lily. Are you up for lunch?”
Daphne Floer laughed giddily on the other end, “Damn you and your timing. I was about to make lunch! I was wondering if you'd call today. Where at?”
“Fibbiro's, next couple of minutes. I had to interview a client at the police station. Armon and Sailie are going to be there.”
“Then I see no reason why not!” the woman said excitedly, “It'll be a double lunch date then. I'll get a jacket on and meet you there.”
Hox smiled, “Me too. All the stars to you, m' amore.”
“And you too.” she replied, hanging up.
Hox breathed lighter, and mounting his motorbike fired it up. Backing out of his spot he headed towards the road, and sped off.
Fibbiro's was a small cafe across from a park. In the shadow of two larger buildings on either side it sat along a road slopping down to the river. A patio up front sat risen from the street, accessible by a set of stairs only a few steps high. Its orange face glowed in the hot afternoon sun, its red shingles a dull flame. The front windows, tall and broad were opened out onto the world, they were only wooden shutters. Inside a lunch crowd, their voices trailing out to the street.
Hox's bike pulled up along the curb, several blocks down. Down the streets, a couple was walking the opposite direction, and recognizing them they raised their hands and waved. “How goes the day?” the man said as they drew closer. He was the proprietor of last night's race. He was a tan-skinned man, out of the night's long cold shade. Portly, but handsome. His partner was a darker skinned lady, and her long black hair was brushed along the back of her ears, flowing the back of her dress, capped by a broad flowery bonnet.
“It goes as well it does, so far.” Hox said, “You just arriving?”
“Around the corner.” Armon said, waving back behind him. A man on a horse trotted past. “By the way, here's your cognac.” he added, holding out a bottle he had been carrying on his way up.
“Ah, mercy be!” Hox laughed.
“Don't get too excited for me, you will need to thank Carli the next chance you get. She's the one who deserves the happiness.” said Armon, as they began walking up into the cafe.
“Believe me, I will.” Hox said, holding the mostly empty bottle tight. The waiter didn't seem to notice as they were escorted to their seats. Or he did not seem to care. “How are things at the Vineyard?” he added, asking.
“They are doing well.” Armon's woman, Sailie said, “The quality of the grapes this year is wonderful, and they have a bolder flavor. It's up in the air with my father whether we'll have to cut them down to produce more of the same, or turn them into a special vintage.”
“How is the fungus?” Hox asked.
“We believe we have it beat. It's been receding the past few years. We have it more or less confined to a few odd vines.” Sailie announced gleefully, “Is Carli here?”
“I assume she's on her way.” Hox said. They were being seated.
“Would you like any coffee?” asked the waiter. He was a tall man, the tail of his red coat falling long down his thin white troisers and culottes. The hair on his head tied back into a pony tail.
“How does Carli like hers, creamed?” Sailie asked.
“I believe so.” Hox said.
“If that is fine with you guys, I will go for it creamed.” they agreed. The waiter nodded and disappeared.
“So what happened later last night?” Hox asked.
“The usual, you didn't miss out. We went to the bar, had a few rounds and left. That new kid couldn't do much, he had a round and I insisted the others buy him ginger beer. He left when the rest of us went out, about midnight.”
“So you buy the bottle at the bar, or elsewhere?”
“No, we got it at the bar.” Armon said, “It ended up being the third cheapest brand they had. But oh well.”
“My, Carli splurged.” Hox laughed.
Armon laughed, “I suppose she did.”
Sailie rose unexpectadly, half out of her seat to wave at someone behind Hox. He turned to see Daphne coming up. She came up to the table, and bowed down to kiss him on the head, and took her seat. “I'm not late, am I?” she asked. She produced a fan from her bag and began fanning herself with it.
Compred to Hox, she had a darker complexion, a soft sweet caramel that glower. A white dress hugging the soft round curves of her body, and a satin vest from her broad shoulders.
“No, you're not.” Sailie said, “Coffee was just ordered, creamed.” she added.
“Oh, thank you.” Daphne said, beaming. Moment later the waiter returned with a platter consisting of the effects to serve coffee, the cups, the copper pot, spoon for sugar. He spread it all out on the table, and left behind some menus. There was pleased 'thank yous' as he left.
“So what have you been up to?” Daphne asked the table as she let her hair free from the bun she wore. It fell about her shoulders, wavy, light, and dark.
“At home.” Armon said, “Working on my bike. I wasn't needed into work at all. Sailie was working with her father to figure what to do about the vineyard.”
“I had a new case.” Hox said.
“Oh, is that why you called in the middle of the afternoon?” Daphne teased.
Hox smiled, “Yes, and it's quiet the unusual one.”
“Do tell, or- er, what can you say?” Sailie asked.
“Well it turns out it made the morning news today, so I can say what I know.” Hox began. “It's a murder case, I went to see the client today in the holding cells.”
“Oh wow, a murder. I didn't know you handled criminal proceedings.” Armon said.
“Apparently I do now.” Hox said, reaching out to the pot to pour a cup, “The man's a strange one.”
“How so?” Daphne asked, taking the pot next. Placing a cube of sugar on the spoon first though, she poured the coffee over it. Letting it melt the cube away and drip down through the holes in the bottom of the spoon.
“Have you ever known a man comfortable being guilty for being a killer?” Hox asked.
“Well, in a book.” Daphne said, leaning closer to her boyfriend as she gently held the cup in her hand, “I was read Jean Mierre's Dark Night. The killer in that book is totally remorseless. The client is someone like him, is it? He deserves to be locked away, don't even try.” she advised him, in partial jest.
Hox smiled and laughed, “No, he's far from it.”
“How can you be far from something like that?” Armon exclaimed, “That's... absurd.”
“That's what I told him. But it turns out he's completely comfortable. I get the impression he doesn't care what I do.”
“So why'd you take it?” asked Sailie.
“Because I'm being paid. Turns out it's not the man himself that hired out to my boss for help. It's the man's girlfriend.”
“Really? Have you met her?”
“No, I haven't. I didn't suppose it was the point to be honest.”
“It seems strange.” said Armon.
“The whole thing is.” Hox agreed.
