Fathers House: A Preview, Page 3

  Chapter 2

  At four a.m. Monday morning, Ben Lovison’s eyes popped open. Beads of sweat peppered his forehead. His breaths came in short, quick pants. He lay in bed for a few moments, listening. Finally, he heard her. She was lying next to him. The light sounds of her breathing dimpled the quietness of the bedroom. Thank God, it had only been a dream! It was not time. He stared off into the semi-darkness of the bedroom, allowing his eyes a chance to focus, and then closed them again. As they did, the overhead light fixture materialized. It was a three-light, gold-hued ceiling fan, almost as ostentatious as a chandelier. He always thought that it was a bit too gaudy for the bedroom. But April had insisted on having it. He was now staring at it because he’d conceded to her wishes. Seeing the fixture too clearly now, he turned away from it and closed his eyes again.

  After another calming moment, he reopened his eyes, turned to his side, and looked at his wife. They’d been married two years, two of the happiest years of his life. She was so beautiful. Strands of her silky jet-black hair fell aimlessly about her face. She was sleeping peacefully, almost soundlessly. She was definitely not a snorer, he thought, unlike himself. His occasional nocturnal nose wailing was getting him dangerously close to being exiled from the bedroom. Curing that nighttime blasting was in the top five on his honey-do list. Still staring at his wife, he concentrated his gaze on her midsection. Her babies-mound was slowly, rhythmically, moving up and down. Perhaps nothing produced anxiety more than the realization that one was about to become a father, he thought. The babies weren’t due for another eight weeks. Dr. Shepherd said everything was progressing on schedule. Still, Ben worried. He leaned over and gently pecked his wife on the lips. She did not stir.

  Not able to return to sleep, and not wishing to disturb April, he moved from the restless quiet of the bedroom to the stillness of the kitchen. Ben stood comfortably over six feet tall. A broad shouldered man of thirty-three years of age, his face was lightly stubbled with a whisper of boyishness.

  He made coffee, poured himself a cup, and then sat down at the kitchen table where the night before he’d left his county-issued laptop and a couple of file folders. He punched in his password and sipped his coffee as he waited for the laptop to finish its startup. After a few moments, the desktop was visible. He tapped the icon for the district attorney’s office web system and signed in. A seemingly endless, orderly row of case numbers with names hyphened next to them appeared. He scrolled down the list until he reached case number 234455-Peyton Lars. He clicked on it.

  The Duraleigh County District Attorney’s office had gone green eight years ago. All its case files were digitally converted. Witness statements, police reports, plea agreements, discovery items, everything was virtually recreated, sending bible thick files the way of the dinosaur. The only hard files Duraleigh prosecutors carried around nowadays were just folders with yet to be converted file additions such as plea forms to be signed or witness statements taken outside the office. It was twenty-first century prosecution at its finest.

  It had been Ben’s first year in the DA’s office, and with all that first year prosecutors were expected to do, adapting to a new system had been the least of his concerns. Besides, the system had been no newer than any other aspect of the job. Like the other newbies, he’d spent the majority of his time in the courtroom, handling a multitude of misdemeanor cases. The misdemeanors were mostly simple drug possession cases, DWI cases, simple assault and battery cases, and some minor domestic violence cases. Most had been easy to prosecute, but then most of the frustration felt by young prosecutors was seldom related to the level of difficulty of any particular case, but rather in the sheer number of the cases. Ben had found out in short order that crime never stops wasn’t just an adage, it was a fact of life, as was the prosecution of that never ending crime. Prosecuting crime could be long, arduous, and oftentimes, thankless work. It could also be overwhelming and chaotic. Still, he loved it.

  Organization was the key to having a shot at keeping on top of things. The DA’s web system was a great benefit in that regard. It helped keep the DA’s office neat and orderly. All files were within a fingertip’s reach with all necessary forms easily accessible. Ben couldn’t have imagined what life had been like before the paperless era. During his first year, there had been so much to keep up with, and the office had provided very little assistance. After a month long training period, that seemingly went by faster than the speed of light; he had been cut loose and literally thrown to the wolves. He’d later figured out that had all been by design. Counselors who couldn’t handle the hectic, fast pace of the DA’s office were weeded out early.

  After scrolling through the Lars case summary, he turned his attention to the file folder that contained the plea agreement. He removed it from the folder and looked it over. Everything appeared in order. The deal had been offered and accepted on Friday: two years prison time followed by three years' probation. It was basically a slap on the wrist for the amount of drugs the kid had been caught with. But it would get him off the streets for at least a little while, and with any luck, the short prison stint might be just enough to convince the kid to try to do something more productive with his life.

  I keep giving these boys the chance my father probably never had, he thought wistfully. Although he’d never met the man, or knew anything about him, Ben wanted to believe that his dad was locked up somewhere, a victim of the Man and the System, rather than the very real possibility that he was dead, or worse, alive somewhere and not giving a shit about him. Anyway, he thought, pushing that craziness aside, he’d better make sure Peyton Lars hadn’t been the recipient of a prior plea agreement. He was scheduled to meet the teen and his attorney at noon today during the Storrs’ trial lunch break. The meeting was to take place in the chambers of the Honorable Judge Felix Mannielo where they would formally attach signatures to the plea deal. Mannielo was a fair judge, but he wasn’t exactly a big fan of second chances, and he sure as hell wouldn’t be that fond of a third one.

  He tapped a couple of keys, bringing up Peyton Lars’ case history. A single case file appeared. It was from 2002, his first year as a prosecutor. He clicked on it. “Hmm,” he mumbled as he scanned through it. He had been the handling prosecutor. But he couldn’t recall a thing about the case. A fact that really didn’t surprise him, that first year on the job had been a blur. Besides, except for the true regulars of whom there were a few, his brain shuffled most cases out of his mind as soon as the cases reached a resolution. As he continued reading through the file, he saw that the Lars kid’s other crime had basically been small potatoes, relatively speaking. As a ten-year old, Lars had shoplifted some candy and a toy from a convenience store. For sure, any sane parent would prefer their children be crime-free. But for some parents that threshold had necessarily been raised to a line just short of strong-armed robbery.

  Lars had received two months’ probation. It had been a juvie crime, and therefore, it would not affect Lars’ current plea arrangement. But as Ben started to close out the file, he paused. Something struck him as odd. He went through it once more and eventually pulled up the initial police incident report. He immediately saw it—1024 Holston Street. The address was that of Fathers House where Ben had stayed for five years after the murder of his mother. The home catered to disadvantaged, or otherwise wayward, boys.

  That was strange, he thought as he continued reading through the file. Why hadn’t he noticed it at the time? Slowly he scanned the file, looking to find an acknowledgement that he, the prosecuting attorney had a link to the house, but he didn’t find one. There was no mention of the address or any potential conflict of interest. How could he have overlooked such a thing? Of course, he hadn’t known Peyton Lars before that time, and he was of no relation to the boy. And the fact that the two of them had shared the address—1024 Holston Street, albeit separated by eight years was of no real relevance.

  Fathers House was run by Mayo Fathers, who was somewhat of a father f
igure to many of the boys. But being a father figure wasn’t the same as being a father. The boys weren’t actually brothers. So there hadn’t exactly been an ethical lapse. An acknowledgement that he and the boy had had a shared link, even a skeletal one, would have been the professional thing to do, but Ben hadn’t broken any laws in not having done so. He’d had other cases involving boys from Fathers House and to his knowledge; he’d acknowledged his link to Fathers House in those cases or had recused himself. He would mention the previous Lars link to Etlzer later that morning. But since the previous case had been a juvie crime, there would be no need to bring it up with Mannielo. Juvenile records were generally kept sealed.

  He closed out Lars’ old file and reopened the current one. He rechecked the boy’s current address and saw that Lars was no longer living at Fathers House. It was possible; he admitted to himself, that he was having reservations about the current plea deal because he didn’t think for one minute that young Peyton Lars hadn’t been in any other trouble over the past eight years. However, he quickly realized that in the final analysis, no one but Peyton Lars and perhaps the kid’s inner circle knew whether or not Peyton Lars had really been a solid crime-free kid for the last eight years or so. But that was of no consequence now because Lars had managed to stay out of the system. And as far as the current plea deal was concerned, that was all that really mattered.

  He closed out of the Lars file and returned to the home screen. He then keyed in the Cindy Storrs murder file. The case file materialized on the screen as he drained the last of his first cup of coffee. He went over to the counter and poured himself another cup.

  No one could say with any amount of certainty what makes a particular crime a high profiled one. Everyday somewhere in the country, a child is abducted, killed, or has wandered off. A girlfriend or wife has been killed by her boyfriend, lover, or husband. Some people simply vanish, never to be heard from again. The latest crime statistics claim that a murder is committed every 30.9 minutes. But of all the horrendous crimes that occur basically every second of every day, only a small pittance of them will garner the public’s collective imagination. One such infamous crime, at least amongst the citizenry of Duraleigh, was the brutal beating death of Cindy Storrs at the hands of her husband, Deacon Storrs.

  A part of the fascination with Cindy Storrs’ death could no doubt be attributed to the circumstances surrounding her murder as provided by her husband. Deacon Storrs claimed that he’d found his wife’s bloody body that morning in their marital bed. She’d been beaten to death with a hammer that was found at the scene. Deacon Storrs insisted he’d had nothing to do with her murder. According to Deacon, he’d left the apartment the night before, after an argument he’d had with his wife. The argument had been a loud one and had been heard by at least three of the couple’s neighbors. Deacon told police that he’d walked to a nearby bar, gotten drunk, and then returned to the couple’s apartment around 11:30 or so. He believed the door had been locked when he got there. He sort of remembered fumbling around for his key. Once inside the apartment, he relocked the door and then stumbled over to the couch where he passed out, not even bothering to check the bedroom where he now believed his wife had laid, already dead.

  Deacon Storrs was a very believable individual. He was thirty-one years old, medium height, medium build, a very unassuming figure. He looked his questioners directly in the eyes. He showed considerable remorse for the last argument he’d had with his wife. The argument, he’d said, had been a rarity. Although he’d had past disagreements with his wife, they’d never before reached the shouting phrase. His neighbors also attested that the Storrses had been a very quiet and friendly couple. Detectives could not find a single person to speak ill of the man. He was friendly, neighborly, went to work every day and was always on time, a very dependable employee. In fact, if not for his very implausible story, Deacon Storrs may have very well been left alone to mourn the loss of his twenty-nine year old, attractive wife in peace. But a ghost did not kill Cindy Storrs. A human did. And there’d been only one human locked inside that apartment with her. Deacon Storrs.

  Ben was second chair on the case. The lead prosecutor was a twenty-year veteran of the DA’s office, Jeff Stone. Stone was old-moneyed. His New England family had made its fortune in shipping. Stone had wanted no part in the family business. Though he stopped the line of renouncement at the monthly dividend check he received as part of his share of the family’s vast holdings.

  Stone rested the state’s case early Friday morning and anticipated a quick end to what appeared to be an open and shut domestic murder case.

  “When this gets to the jury,” Stone had said confidently, “they should get back in record time.”

  However, Ben wasn’t so sure. He’d remembered how Deacon Storrs had so cavalierly rejected the plea offer as if he’d had an ace up his sleeve. Still, Stone had insisted that Ben keep the plea form at the ready during the prosecutorial phase of the trial, as if Deacon Storrs would suddenly come to his senses after having heard the facts of the case repeated in the light of day in front of a jury. So Ben had dutifully brought the form, nestled in a thin manila folder, to trial with him every day. But he didn’t believe for one minute that the form was in any danger of getting an attack of signatures anytime soon.

  “I have no earthly idea,” Stone had said in response to Ben’s query of why Deacon Storrs would reject an involuntary manslaughter charge when the evidence clearly pointed to murder in the first degree. Stone, who had more than twice as much prosecutorial experience as Ben, had added, “I have long ceased trying to figure out the criminal mind. Maybe Storrs thinks killing his wife during a drunken rage doesn’t count, or maybe his defense will be that while he was passed out dead drunk on the couch, a spook teleported through the locked door and bludgeoned his wife. I really have no earthly idea. But it’s not my job to know. My job is to defend the rights of the people of this state. To speak for the victim who can no longer speak for herself. Deacon Storrs murdered his wife in cold blood. I believe we’ve proven that beyond a reasonable doubt. And the sooner the defense wraps up their bullshit, the sooner the jury can get the case, and the sooner we’ll be able to go about the business of putting other deviants behind bars.”

  “Maybe,” Ben said to himself in the empty kitchen. He took another sip of his coffee. Though he didn’t have a heap of murder trial experience, he knew enough not to underestimate the ability of twelve people in a jury box to see things entirely different than the prosecution. Especially if the defense continued bringing forth character witnesses as credible as their lead witness had been on Friday.

  The Reverend Ethel Storrs was an associate pastor of the First Faith Baptist Church. She was gray-haired and kind-faced with an old-fashioned grandmotherly demeanor. It was easy to imagine her preparing fruit bags on Christmas day for all of her grandchildren, even the grown­up ones. Her entire manner, from her graceful walk to the witness stand, to the careful and deliberate way in which she spoke, screamed honesty and forthrightness. She wore an understated flower-print dress and her hair had been set back in a bun. She was a used car dealer’s dream. If she said she’d only driven her now-for-sale car once a week and twice on Sunday, it would sell faster than a salesman’s fake grin could disappear. As they watched her being sworn in, Ben sensed a sliver of Stone’s over-the-top optimism evaporating. However, after the defense counselor, Keithan Jones, got deeper into his questioning of Rev. Storrs, Stone had perked up again. It appeared the reverend’s total devotion to the truth and honesty could cut both ways, even if one way could prove potentially harmful to her son Deacon.

  “Are you saying that you believed Cindy Storrs?” Keithan Jones had asked her. He posed the question delicately. Ben could only assume that Jones had covered this ground with the witness in his pretrial preparations. What he likely hadn’t anticipated was the courtroom’s reaction to the good reverend’s statement that Deacon’s wife, Cindy Storrs, had seen an omen predicting her own
death at the hands of a stranger, and Cindy had consulted a psychic regarding it.

  “I believe in signs from God,” Reverend Storrs answered.

  “Would a sign from God necessarily be a white pigeon on the roof of a house?”

  Reverend Storrs smiled. “Surely God is capable of using whatever methods suits his needs or desires to communicate with us.” Her voice was strong and steady. Still, there was a measurable groan in the courtroom. Judge Henry McMichaels banged his gravel.

  Jones altered his line of questioning. “Would you have recommended that your daughter-in­law go see a psychic about the white pigeon she’d seen on the roof of her apartment complex?”

  “No,” Reverend Storrs said matter-of-factly. Jones smiled. But she quickly added, “I would have recommended that she seek the Father, as I would have recommended to anyone else who’d ask my advice. I would have encouraged her to pray and study his word.” She glanced around the room as if speaking to everyone in it.

  “Did you recommend she go to the authorities?” Jones asked.

  “And tell them what exactly?” Reverend Storrs asked defiantly. “That she had a premonition that some stranger would break into her house and bludgeoned her to death? They wouldn’t have believed her, just like the prosecution doesn’t believe me now. But, it’s true. Cindy saw her murderer, and it wasn’t my son. But God’s will, will be done. The truth will come out, one way or the other.”

  Ben noticed a couple of jurors nodding their heads as if in agreement. Evidently, Jones noticed it too and he took it as an opportunity to steer the reverend away from the supernatural, and toward stories of the defendant’s upbringing. Her testimony ended the court day. Afterwards, Stone felt rejuvenated. He told Ben just before they left court that he was planning to revisit omens and psychics during Monday’s cross. It would be fair game, Ben supposed. If the reverend was seen as willing to use any means necessary to free her son, including espousing the virtues of omens and psychics, then there was a good chance her testimony could be refuted as just blatant hogwash. Blame it on nature. Blame it on the rain. Blame it on psychics and omens. But please oh please don’t blame sweet, innocent Deacon.

  To Ben, a belief in omens and psychics was a complete waste of time. He could not imagine why anyone would spend their hard-earned money on psychics, soothsayers, or any other such nonsense. Crap in life happened, pointblank, end of story. Sometimes it happened for no reason at all. You were in the wrong place at the wrong time, or even the right place at the wrong time, and something bad or good just happened to you. And you would have to deal with it. In other cases, crap happened to you because of you. For instance, if you didn’t pay your light bill, your lights were turned off. Or if you didn’t work, you didn’t eat. Of course, those types of crap you could reasonably control. The others, you just had to deal with and hope that your share of potential crap would be as limited as possible. To him, these were simple truisms that needed no crystal ball. His single-parent mom, may she rest in peace, had taught him these simple facts of life. And Mayo Fathers had reinforced them. Why most people spent a lifetime in a wilderness of misunderstanding on such matters was a big mystery to him. Life wasn’t that complicated. There was no man behind the curtain pulling strings, sending omens and white pigeons to hint about his intentions. It was only you and how you dealt with things. If the defense was preparing to blame Cindy Storrs’ death on the ethers, open and shut may in fact be a distinct possibility.

  He drained the last of his coffee and then closed out of the Storrs file. He looked at the digital clock on the stove. It was five minutes after five. He decided he had enough time for a jog before getting ready for court. Seven minutes later, he stood on his front porch, his breath forming intermittent fog-like wisps in the chilly January morning. He first looked to the east where the rising sun’s rays began to push across the sky, and then he looked west, before slowly taking off in that direction, a nice and steady run into the retreating darkness.

  His mind floated to thoughts of April. She’d still been asleep when he’d changed into his sweats, which was a good thing he told himself; especially since lately she’d had trouble sleeping. Everything on her body seemed to ache, her back, her legs, and just about every muscle. Her sense of smell had become acute. Most scents bothered her, including his aftershave. He’d had to switch to an unscented brand. She was nauseous most of the time. The doctor had assured him that all of this was normal during pregnancy. But it pained him to see his wife in so much discomfort. She had a routine doctor’s appointment later that morning, and he wished he could be there with her. But she’d insisted he go on to court. That she’d be okay. He figured that she only wanted him to go to court because she knew that he’d insist that they leave for the appointment a little early. His routine was to leave for any appointment well before he was due to arrive. His mantra had always been be early, even way early, but never late. Which was completely opposite of that of his wife. Whose mantra was undeniably—no mantras, period, end of discussion

  The two of them often jokingly wondered how they even fell in love in the first place, he of the rather be-an-hour-early-instead-of-a-minute-late-breed and she preferring late grand entrances over timely arrivals. But the chemistry between them had been instant, and the marriage, depending upon the onlooker’s perspective, had either been whirlwind or shotgun. A baby was conceived on the night of their first date, and the marriage had followed suit two months later.

  From the moment he’d first laid eyes on her, he was sprung. And when he’d found out she’d felt the same way, well that was nothing short of a miracle. They both had decided not to wait on the inevitable, electing to start their lives together immediately. The baby had miscarried shortly before the nuptials, but neither felt as though a mistake had been made. Their love was real and their feelings for each other were as strong as ever. And now, two years after having first laid eyes on her, they were going to have that baby after all, two of them in fact.

  Lights dotted on just about every other house in the neighborhood as the neighborhood slowly stirred to life. He ran past three cars idling in their driveways, their engines warming up, their mufflers billowing grayish-white exhaust fumes into the coldness. So far it had been a typical noncommittal North Carolina winter. On Friday morning, it had been a pleasant and spring-like sixty degrees during his jog. Now just three days later, it felt downright arctic. He ran up and down the two streets parallel to his own and then returned home. There was no need catching pneumonia while trying to stay in shape.

  After reentering the house, Ben went directly into the upstairs main bathroom for a shower. It was now 6:00. Fifteen minutes later, the steamy shower was completed and Ben emerged from it, dropping one wet foot after the other on a purple throw rug. Before April, the bathroom floor itself dried his feet. He smiled. Civilization had arrived in his life and it was a good thing. Considering all he’d been through in his life, losing his mother to a senseless crime, never knowing his father, and growing up in what was essentially a group home, he’d managed to accomplish a lot. He’d graduated college and law school. He was a rising star in the district attorney’s office. To boot, he had a beautiful wife with two beautiful baby boys on the way. To be sure, Mayo Fathers had been an essential reason behind his success. Ben didn’t know what would have happened to him if Mayo hadn’t taken him in. And he didn’t want to know. He’d overcome his past and that was all that mattered. His future was very bright.

  He finished toweling off and then wrapped the now damp towel around his toned midsection. He reached under the sink and grabbed his electric razor. He picked up a folded newspaper from the wicker stand that was against the wall behind him. It stood next to a matching white wicker wastebasket. After lining the sink with the newspaper to catch falling stubble, he began the tedious task of shaving.

  Despite the newspaper lining and his best efforts to avoid having them do so, fine black hairs still speckled around the edges of the white porcelain si
nk. After only completing one side of his face, he frowned down at the antlike hairy specks, and then heard the first of his wife’s shrieks blazing into the bathroom.