Stone Cold Dead by James Ziskin (android e book reader txt) 📗

life, her face white, and fumbled for a cigarette from the crumpled package on the table. It was empty.

“Damn it,” she whispered.

I produced one from my purse. Not her brand, but she wasn’t about to beg off.

“So,” I asked as she inhaled deeply. “Does Darleen know anyone in Arizona? Perhaps someone with forty-three dollars?”

I could see that she was rattled.

“What is it?” I asked.

“It was last spring,” she began carefully. “Before Darleen took up with that Joey Figlio.”

She looked straight ahead, fixing her gaze somewhere between her nose and the stove against the wall. “There was this boy,” she continued. “Wilbur Burch. His family has a farm in Fort Hunter, back in the woods near the old Erie Canal lock. He was older than Darleen.” She paused to draw on her cigarette, still looking at nothing in particular.

“How much older?” I prompted.

She shrugged. “Eighteen or nineteen.”

“You didn’t mind that Darleen was seeing a grown man?”

“Of course I did,” she said. “And Dick went through the roof when he heard and put an end to it right away. He said Wilbur wasn’t good enough for Darleen and threatened to kill him if he didn’t stay away from her.”

“So he’s in Arizona now?” I asked.

“He’s stationed there at some big army base. There was a notice in the paper about four months ago.”

The family court was located in the County Administration Building, just one floor above the sheriff’s office. Judge Anthony Albertone, a portly man of about forty with slick, black hair and a Thomas Dewey mustache, entered the room at precisely 10:00 a.m., climbed the two steps up to the bench, and motioned absently for the assembled to take their seats. He retrieved some papers from a leather case, unfolded his half-moon spectacles, and began to read. Then he cleared his throat. He said nothing for the next few minutes, absorbed as he was with his reading, but he had cleared the airways just in case the urge moved him. At length, he whispered something to the bailiff, who nodded and stepped over to the door to the left of the judge. He disappeared inside, only to emerge a few seconds later pushing Joey Figlio before him.

Joey wasn’t shackled—as I had hoped and expected—and looked like a kid heading to school. He shuffled over to the large table in front of the bench wearing a wrinkled blue-and-white panel shirt, buttoned up to the collar, sleeves not quite reaching his bony wrists; brown slacks; and a pair of old, black leather shoes. He looked ahead, seemingly without seeing, with the same witless void in his eyes and anesthetized expression on his face. If he saw me, he didn’t show it.

I’d covered family court for the paper many times in the previous three years. In my experience, New Holland courts worked pragmatically and often quickly, especially in juvenile cases. It wasn’t unusual for the arraignment and fact-finding hearing to take place one after the other without adjournment. That’s why I was present, in case I had to give evidence against my aggressor, that dirty little JD, Joey Figlio.

Stan Pulaski was seated a row behind me. All business, he nodded at me without smiling. He was also in attendance in the event he’d be called to testify about the arrest. Behind Stan, a couple of tired-looking old men and three ladies wrapped in heavy winter coats appeared to be ready for a warm snooze out of the cold. The salacious details of the case might prove to be an entertaining bonus. From a seat near the door, a severe man in his late forties, looking somehow startled and angry at the same time, stared at me as if to trying to see through me. His hair was cropped close to his head, but still stuck up in thorny defiance, and I was sure his pillow played a greater role in his grooming than did his comb. I leaned back and asked Stan Pulaski who the gruff-looking man was, and he told me that it was Joey’s father, Orlando Figlio. As Judge Albertone tapped his gavel to call the court to order, Dr. Arnold Dienst, principal of Fulton Reform School, slipped through the door and took a seat next to Joey’s father. The two exchanged a silent look. They might have been through this before.

The court clerk asked all to sit, and that’s when I noticed Joey’s lawyer. Oh, God. It was Steve Herbert, a man I’d been seeing casually until I decided I’d rather pluck my fingernails out one by one than spend another night in his arms. Wasn’t this some kind of conflict of interest? Shouldn’t he recuse himself ? He threw me the slightest hint of a smile and blinked slowly in a way to suggest everything would be all right. I can’t say for certain, but I must have blushed crimson.

The judge announced that this was an arraignment of Joseph Figlio, a minor, accused of multiple probation violations, grand theft automobile (two counts), and assault with a deadly weapon (the butter knife, two counts). The judge cleared his throat once more and asked Joey if he understood the charges lodged against him. Joey shrugged.

“Is that a yes or a no, young man?” asked Albertone.

Steve Herbert whispered in Joey’s ear, and the boy told the judge, “Sure, I guess so.”

“You guess so?” asked Albertone. “Some of these charges are felonies. These are very serious offenses, young man.”

“Yeah, but I’m a minor,” said Joey, much to the consternation of his counsel. “I can’t get into too much trouble on account of I’m not an adult.”

The judge was taken aback but didn’t have an answer for him. At length, he asked the defendant for his plea.

“Innocent,” said Joey, without consulting his lawyer.

“Very well,” said the judge. “In that case, I will remand the boy without bail to the county jail until the fact-finding hearing can take place.”

“Your Honor,” piped up my pal Steve Herbert. “We ask that the defendant be remanded to