Hap and Leonard Read online

  “Well . . . he didn’t exactly ‘agree.’ I mean, this ain’t the first time for old Leonard there. We knowed it was him, living right across the road and all. So when we went over there to arrest him, he was just sitting on the porch.”

  “But he did tell you that he was responsible for the arson, isn’t that correct, officer?”

  “Oh yeah. Leonard said he burned it down. Said he’d do it again if those—well, I don’t want to use the language he used here—he’d just burn it down again.”

  “No further questions,” the DA said, turning away in triumph.

  “Did the defendant resist arrest?” Veil asked on cross-examination.

  “Not at all,” the deputy said. “Matter of fact, you could see he was waiting on us.”

  “But if he wanted to resist arrest, he could have, couldn’t he?”

  “I don’t get your meaning,” the deputy said.

  “The man means I could kick your ass without breaking a sweat,” Leonard volunteered from the defendant’s table.

  The judge pounded his gavel a few times. Leonard shrugged, like he’d just been trying to be helpful.

  “Deputy, were you familiar with the location of the fire? You had been there before? In your professional capacity, I mean.” Veil asked him.

  “Sure enough,” the deputy answered.

  “Fair to say the place was a crack house?” Veil asked.

  “No question about that. We probably made a couple of dozen arrests there during the past year alone.”

  “You made any since the house burned down?”

  “You mean . . . at that same address? Of course not.”

  “Thank you, officer,” Veil said.

  6.

  “Doctor, you were on duty on the night of the thirteenth, is that correct?”

  “That is correct,” the doctor said, eyeing Veil like a man waiting for the doctor to grease up and begin his proctology exam.

  “And your specialty is Emergency Medicine, is that also correct?”

  “It is.”

  “And when you say ‘on duty,’ you mean you’re in the ER, right?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “In fact, you’re in charge of the ER, aren’t you?”

  “I am the physician in charge, if that is what you’re asking me, sir. I have nothing to do with administration, so. . . .”

  “I understand,” Veil said in a voice sweet as a preacher explaining scripture. “Now, doctor, have you ever treated patients with burns?”

  “Of course,” the doctor snapped at him.

  “And those range, don’t they? I mean, from first-degree to third-degree burns. Which are the worst?”

  “Third degree.”

  “Hmmm . . . I wonder if that’s where they got the term, ‘Give him the third degree’ . . . ?”

  “Your Honor . . . ,” the DA protested again.

  “Mr. Veil, where are you going with this?” the judge asked.

  “To the heart of the truth, your honor. And if you’ll permit me. . . .”

  The judge waved a disgusted hand in Veil’s direction. Veil kind of waved back. The big diamond glinted on his hand, catching the sun’s rays through the high courthouse windows. “Doctor, you treat anybody with third-degree burns the night of the thirteenth?”

  “I did not.”

  “Second-degree burns?”

  “No.”

  “Even first-degree burns?”

  “You know quite well I did not, sir. This isn’t the first time you have asked me these questions.”

  “Sure, I know the answers. But you’re telling the jury, doctor, not me. Now you’ve seen the photographs of the house that was burnt to the ground. Could anyone have been inside that house and not been burned?”

  “I don’t see how,” the doctor snapped. “But that doesn’t mean—”

  “Let’s let the jury decide what it means,” Veil cut him off. “Am I right, judge?”

  The judge knew when he was being jerked off, but, having told Veil those exact same words a couple of dozen times during the trial already, he was smart enough to keep his lipless mouth shut.

  “All right, doctor. Now we’re coming to the heart of your testimony. See, the reason we have expert testimony is that experts, well, they know stuff the average person doesn’t. And they get to explain it to us so we can understand things that happen.”

  “Your honor, he’s making a speech!” the DA complained, for maybe the two-hundredth time.

  But Veil rolled on like he hadn’t heard a word. “Doctor, can you explain what causes the plague?”

  One of the elderly ladies on the jury gasped when Veil said “the plague,” but the doctor went right on: “Well, actually, it is caused by fleas, which are the primary carriers.”

  “Fleas? And here all along I thought it was carried by rats,” Veil replied, turning to the jury as if embracing them all in his viewpoint.

  “Yes, fleas,” the doctor said. “They are, in fact, fleas especially common to rodents, but wild rodents—prairie dogs, chipmunks, and the like.”

  “Not squirrels?”

  “Only ground squirrels,” the doctor answered.

  “So, in other words, you mean varmints, right, doctor?”

  “I do.”

  “The kind of varmints folks go shooting just for sport?”

  “Well, some do. But mostly it’s farmers who kill them. And that’s not for sport—that’s to protect their crops,” the doctor said, self-righteously, looking to the jury for support.

  “Uh, isn’t it true, doctor, that if you kill enough varmints, the fleas just jump over to rats?”

  “Well, that’s true. . . .”

  “That’s what happened a long time ago, wasn’t it, doctor? The Black Death in Europe—that was bubonic plague, right? Caused by rats with these fleas you talked about? And it killed, what? Twenty-five million people?”

  “Yes. That’s true. But today, we have certain antibiotics that can—”

  “Sure. But plague is still a danger, isn’t it? I mean, if it got loose, it could still kill a whole bunch of innocent folks, right?”

  “Yes, that is true.”

  “Doctor, just a couple of more questions and we’ll be done. Before there were these special antibiotics, how did folks deal with rat infestation? You know, to protect themselves against plague? What would they do if there was a bunch of these rats in a house?”

  “Burn it down,” the doctor said. “Fire is the only—”

  “Objection! Relevancy!” the DA shouted.

  “Approach the bench,” the judge roared.

  Veil didn’t move. “Judge, is he saying that crack isn’t a plague? Because it’s my belief—and I know others share it— that the Lord is testing us with this new plague. It’s killing our children, your honor. And it’s sweeping across the—”

  “That is enough!” the judge shrieked at Veil. “One more word from you, sir, and you will be joining your client in jail tonight.”

  “You want me to defend Leonard using sign language?” Veil asked.

  A number of folks laughed.

  The judge cracked his gavel a few times and, when he was done, they took Veil out in handcuffs.

  7.

  When I went to visit that night, I was able to talk to both of them. Someone had brought a chess board and pieces in and they were playing. “You’re crazy,” I told Veil.

  “Like a fuckin’ fox,” Leonard said. “My man here is right on the money. I mean, he gets it. Check.”

  “You moved a piece off the board,” Veil said.

  “Did not.”

  “Yeah, you did.”

  “Damn,” Leonard said pulling the piece out from between his legs and returning it to the board. “For a man with one eye you see a lot. Still check though.”

  I shook my head. “Sure. Veil gets it. You, you’re gonna get life by the time he’s done,” I said.

  “Everything’ll be fine,” Veil said, studying the chess board. “We can always go to Plan B.”

  “And what’s Plan B?” I asked him.

  He and Leonard exchanged looks.

  8.

  “The defense of what?” the judge yelled at Veil the next morning.

  “The defense of necessity, your honor. It’s right here, in Texas law. In fact, the case of Texas v. Whitehouse is directly on point. A man was charged with stealing water from his neighbor by constructing a siphon system. And he did it, all right. But it was during a drought, and if he hadn’t done it, his cattle would’ve starved. So he had to pay for the water he took, and that was fair, but he didn’t have to go to prison.”

  “And it is your position that your client had to burn down the crack . . . I mean, the occupied dwelling across the street from his house to prevent the spread of disease?”

  “Exactly, your honor. Like the bubonic plague.”

  “Well, you’re not going to argue that nonsense in my court. Go ahead and take your appeal. By the time the court even hears it, your client’ll have been locked down for a good seven-eight years. That’ll hold him.”

  9.

  Veil faced the jury, his face grim and set. He walked back and forth in front of them for a few minutes, as if getting the feel of the ground. Then he spun around and looked them in the eyes, one by one.

  “You think the police can protect you from the plague? From the invasion? No, I’m not talking about aliens, or UFOs, or AIDS, now—I’m talking crack. And it’s here, folks. Right here. You think it can’t happen in your town? You think it’s only Dallas and Houston where they grow those sort of folks? Take a look around. Even in this little town, you all lock your doors at night now, don’t you? And you’ve had shootings right at the high school, haven’t you? You see the churches as full as they used to be? No you don
’t. Because things are changing, people. The plague is coming, just like the Good Book says. Only it’s not locusts, it’s that crack cocaine. It’s a plague, all right. And it’s carried by rats, just like always. And, like we learned, there isn’t but one way to turn that tide. Fire!

  “Now I’m not saying my client set that fire. In fact, I’m asking you to find that he did not set that fire. I’m asking you to turn this good citizen, this man who cared about his community, loose. So he can be with you. That’s where he belongs. He stood with you . . . now it’s time for you to stand with him.”

  Veil sat down, exhausted like he’d just gone ten rounds with a rough opponent. But, the way they do trials, it’s always the prosecutor who gets to throw the last punch.

  And that chubby little bastard of a DA gave it his best shot, going on and on about how two wrongs don’t make a right. But you could see him slip a few times. He’d make this snide reference to Leonard being black, or being gay, or just being . . . Leonard, I guess, and, of course that part is kind of understandable. But, exactly like Veil predicted, every time he did it, there was at least one member of the jury who didn’t like it. Sure, it’s easy to play on people’s prejudices—and we got no shortage of those down this way, I know—but if there wasn’t more good folks than bad, well, the Klan would’ve been running the state a long time ago.

  The judge told the jury what the law was and told them to go out there and come back when they were done. Everybody got up to go to lunch, but Veil didn’t move. He motioned me over.

  “This is going to be over with real quick, Hap,” he said. “One way or the other.”

  “What if it’s the other?”

  “Plan B,” he said, his face flat as a piece of slate.

  10.

  The jury was out about an hour. The foreman stood up and said “Not Guilty” about two dozen times—once for every crime they had charged Leonard with.

  I was hugging Leonard when Veil tapped me on the shoulder. “Leonard,” he said, “you need to go over there and thank those jury people. One at a time. Sincere, you understand?”

  “What for?” Leonard asked.

  “Because this is going to happen again,” Veil said. “And maybe next time, one of the rats’ll get burned.”

  Knowing Leonard, I couldn’t argue with that. He walked over to the jury and I turned around to say something to Veil. But he was gone.

  Death by Chili

  “Well, I can almost see murdering someone for a good chili recipe,” Charlie Blank said, “but not quite.”

  “What if it had been barbecue?” Leonard asked.

  “Now, that’s different.”

  “Ah, hah!” I said. “That’s because you’re prejudiced. You think barbecue is The Texas food, when any idiot knows it’s chili.”

  “Only if you can’t get barbecue,” Charlie said.

  “One thing is for sure,” I said. “Goober Smith’s recipe for chili isn’t going to grace anyone’s dinner table from here on out. Other than the person killed him for it, that is.”

  It was a cold, rainy afternoon, dark as night, and we were sitting around Leonard’s dining room table drinking coffee and eating vanilla cookies, which Leonard thinks are some kind of food of the gods, but they’re just these plain ole vanilla things that you can eat about twenty-three zillion of and not realize you’ve eaten anything till you get on the scale. Even if you don’t like ’em much, you tend to eat ’em.

  Anyway, we were sitting at the table and Charlie was telling us about Goober Smith. It was a story we’d all heard before, but not the details. Charlie, who’s a lieutenant on the police force, got the story from someone at the cop shop, someone who had been around in 1978 when Goober got his head blown open and went face down in a bowl of chili.

  “Whoever it was came up behind him and let the boom drop,” Charlie said. “Killed him deader than the five-cent candy bar, then snuck off with his chili recipe. That recipe used to win all the chili cook-offs around these parts.”

  “What I wonder is what this person did with the recipe,” I said. “If they were stealing it to win cook-offs, it never surfaced. Right?”

  “Goober’s chili was supposed to be as distinctive as a chicken with dentures. No one could use it if they stole it. Unless they were at home.”

  “Must have been some really fine chili,” Leonard said.

  “Jack Mays thought it was the best,” Charlie said.

  “That the cop told you about this?” I asked.

  “Yep. He used to go around to cook-offs all over East Texas tryin’ to see if he could get a taste and figure who killed Goober. Solving the murder was kind of an obsession with him. Everyone else had given up. Course, Jack’s retired now.”

  “Now you’re on it,” I said.

  “I tinker with it now and then,” Charlie said.

  “And how are you tinkering?”

  “Not so good. I’ve looked at it from every angle possible. Why would someone come into Goober’s place at night, catch him at the table, shoot him in the back of the head with a Luger, and steal his recipe?”

  “What I’d like to know,” Leonard said, dunking a cookie, “is how anyone knows his recipe was stolen. He could have had it in his head.”

  “Nope,” Charlie said. “He was adamant about the fact he kept it under lock and key in his wall safe, and the safe was cracked open and money was still in it. Only thing seems to have been missing was the recipe. Least ways, no one ever found it.”

  “Seemed to be missing,” Leonard said. “But you don’t know for sure. Right?”

  “I guess so,” Charlie said. “Well, it’s all chili through the intestines now, isn’t it?”

  “Wasn’t the final official word it was suicide?” I asked.

  Charlie nodded. “He was found sitting at the kitchen table, nude. The Luger was on the floor by the chair, and his brains were all over the place, and he was facedown in an empty bowl that had contained chili. There was a pot of it on the stove.”

  “What made Jack think it wasn’t suicide?” I asked.

  “Funny stuff. The bullet had gone out the top of Goober’s head, hit the ceiling. The casing from the Luger was on the floor behind him, and there was powder residue on his hand. No note.”

  “Sounds like suicide to me,” Leonard said.

  “Problem was, a Luger ejects its shell forward. You put the barrel to your head, the shell casing would have been thrown forward onto the table or the floor. That wasn’t the case.”

  “Could have rolled,” I said.

  “Floor behind Goober was raised, a living area. It couldn’t have rolled up hill. And the lead in the ceiling. Had Goober put the gun to his head, even if he’d slanted it, doesn’t seem likely it would have gone into the ceiling at that angle. It could have, I guess, but it doesn’t seem likely. Someone else could hold it at that angle more comfortable. It’s difficult to do it yourself and get those results. Add to it the safe was open and the money was there but there was no chili recipe, and you got a mystery.”

  “Did Goober have reason to commit suicide?” Leonard asked.

  “He was sick,” Charlie said. “Rumor was it was a bad disease of some kind, but what it looks like is someone came up behind him, shot him with the Luger, wrapped his hand around the gun, and let it fall so it would look like suicide. Then they stole the recipe.”

  “The safe blown open?” Leonard asked.

  “No. But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t cracked by someone knew how. Or someone had the combination. An old girlfriend was one of the suspects, but nothing ever came of that. Actually, I still have my eye on her.”

  “The Luger belong to Goober?” Leonard asked.

  “No one knows. Wasn’t registered. A war souvenir. Goober’s dad had been in World War II, so it’s possible it had been passed down, but if it was, that doesn’t mean Goober shot himself with it. Someone could have used it on him.”

  “My uncle had a Luger like that,” Leonard said. “A World War II souvenir. I have it now.”

  “Hey, I got to go, boys.”

  Charlie put on his coat and I walked him to the door. It was very cold out there. Good chili weather. Charlie and I shook hands, and he drove off in the rain.

  When I came back inside, Leonard was pouring us fresh cups of coffee.

  “That recipe thing, that is kind of weird,” he said. “A real-life mystery.”