Crime Beat Girl Read online

  "Okay. Now, just let me finish loading up the groceries," she said to her toddler before giving him the last bit of cookie she'd saved. Sure, it was only 8:30 in the morning, but sometimes a sweet bribe made her life a bit easier. Besides, a donut would be just as bad, maybe even worse.

  When the mom turned back to her cart, two skinny white men in their twenties, wearing baseball caps pulled low on their heads, confronted her.

  "Your keys," one demanded, holding a gun discreetly next to his body, aimed straight at her belly.

  The woman backed up to shield her toddler.

  "Your keys!" the man shouted.

  The man's partner, looking around the lot, added, "Hurry up! Or we'll shoot you."

  "Let me get my baby, and you can have my keys. They're on the front seat," the woman begged, as she turned to unbuckle her toddler from his seat.

  "Security!" one of the men said as he reached for the woman's shoulder and yanked her back away from the car. "Get in!" he shouted to his partner while slamming the back door--with the baby still inside.

  The mother screamed and clawed at the door handle that separated her from her child. The man with the gun aimed at the woman and fired.

  "My baby! My baby!" the mother wailed as she bled onto the parking lot.

  A single-file line of people wearing orange jumpsuits was ushered into the courtroom by sheriff's deputies. They entered through a door near the jury box and witness stand, one that was not open to the public. A deputy stood at the front of the line, gesturing the inmates toward the jury box seats. Another filed in at the end of the line, while a few more deputies were dispersed throughout the courtroom, positioned to keep an eye on the prisoners and to prevent family members, or victims who were sitting in the gallery, from getting too close.

  It was an arraignment docket and Roberto Simmons, the man charged with killing Travis Hunt, was scheduled to appear.

  Even though court proceedings rarely began on time, Debbie still arrived twenty minutes before the docket was set to start. She wanted to stake out the perfect vantage point--close enough to the front of the courtroom to maybe have a chance to listen to the sidebar discussions between the judge and the lawyers, as well as far enough in the back to eavesdrop on the muffled exchanges of the public in the gallery.

  For that prime seat, Debbie chose the second row of benches behind the swinging doors that separated lawyers from the public.

  A woman in her late twenties wearing a business suit, with long dark hair cascading smoothly down her back, entered the courtroom through the judge's door. Accompanying her was a fifty-something woman with faded blond hair and dark roots who wore dark blue slacks and a rumpled black sweater. She pushed a gray metal cart stacked high with greenish-blue files.

  A young prosecutor and an experienced clerk with the prosecutor's office, Debbie guessed as she watched the two women and made a few notes in her reporter's notebook as she told herself, I really need to cultivate more lawyer sources.

  The judge's clerk leaned toward the prosecutor and spoke in a tone too low for Debbie to make out. The lawyer glanced back at Debbie, exchanged a few more words with the clerk, and then the lawyer disappeared through the private judge's entrance.

  Two more lawyers entered the courtroom from the public entrance. One of them was Chase Laclede, his right hand clutching a black leather briefcase. It looked nothing like the case her father had carried. The leather on the handle on her father's briefcase had worn away from years of use. The main section of the case was no longer a firm rectangle. Over the years, it had been stretched to the limit with files so that eventually, it was lumpy and misshapen. That briefcase still sat in the corner of her mom's office. The spot where she'd left it after cleaning out her husband's files following his death.

  Chase smiled and nodded at the lawyers and legal staff on the exclusive side of the swinging door--the thin line that separated the audience from the actors. Debbie overheard the word reporter.

  He hadn't noticed Debbie when he arrived. But now Chase turned and settled his gaze on Debbie. He set his briefcase down on the counsel table and made his way over.

  "If I didn't think I was flattering myself, I'd say you were following me," Chase said as he extended his hand to hers.

  Debbie grasped his hand firmly. "Maybe I could say the same thing."

  "So what brings you here?" Chase asked.

  "I've come for the arraignment of the defendant charged with murdering Travis Hunt, um, Roberto Simmons, I believe is his name."

  "Simmons is my client."

  "Really?" Debbie said. This was a piece of information she hadn't yet uncovered.

  "I just entered my appearance in the matter a few moments ago. His family hired me yesterday."

  "I don't suppose you want to talk about his case?"

  "I do give you an A for effort, Ms. Bradley, but no."

  "Well, what are you doing after the arraignment? How about grabbing lunch? Totally off the record."

  "Can't. I'm booked solid. But my parents enjoyed meeting you. How's your mom?"

  "She's at home. She's supposed to be recovering,"

  Chase nodded. "I should get back to my work."

  "Please consider lunch," Debbie said. "I'm not the enemy."

  Just as Chase left, a woman in her late thirties wearing a navy pantsuit with a crisp white shirt, perfectly painted lips that were neither too bright red nor too soft pink, and a chestnut-colored bob made her way to Debbie.

  "Excuse me," she said to Debbie, "I don't believe we've met."

  "Debbie Bradley."

  "Ah, River City. We've emailed each other; talked on the phone. I'm Michelle Lee, the public information officer for the circuit attorney's office."

  "Oh, so pleased to finally meet you," Debbie answered, knowing full well that Lee was an important gatekeeper who could provide news tips, respond to sunshine law requests, clarify information, arrange interviews, and maybe slip her some tidbits on deep background. "Thanks again for sending over the probable cause statement in the Travis Hunt killing; the one that charged Roberto Simmons."

  "Yes, that's right. That is today?"

  "Yes," Debbie answered. "Say, you don't happen to know if they've found the other three yet, do you?"

  The PR rep shook her head. "I would have to check."

  "If you could do that, I would really appreciate it," Debbie answered.

  "Sure, I'll take a look. In the meantime, if you have any other questions, please don't hesitate to let me know. Here's my card," she said. "Oh, and by the way, our office policy is that we don't allow prosecutors to talk to the press without my presence. So, just so you know, because if you do try to talk to one of them, they'll send you to me."

  "I see," Debbie answered--while refusing to promise that she wouldn't still try to talk to the lawyers without the minder present.

  "It isn't that we're hostile to the press. It is just that the ethical rules are tricky when it comes to public statements that may impede a defendant's Sixth Amendment right to a fair trial."

  "But there's also a First Amendment right to free press," Debbie blurted out.

  "Absolutely," the smooth-talking rep responded. "My job is to try to balance the First Amendment, the public's right to know, the defendant's Sixth Amendment right to a fair trial, and ensure the attorneys aren't disciplined or disbarred for running afoul of the ethical rules. I'm sure you understand."

  "Completely," Debbie replied, trying her best not to betray her irritation with the rules of engagement that Lee had outlined.

  As Debbie watched Lee leave, she noticed a familiar-looking face. It was the young woman with the two children whose door she had knocked on the day before.

  The woman mouthed silent words to Simmons in the jury box. It took a few minutes before Debbie pinpointed the defendant--a stocky man with broad shoulders and a shaved head. The woman was pointing to her purse. A little girl sat on her lap. The young mother hadn't brought the baby. Perhaps she was asking for money, Debbie t
hought. The man shrugged and used his head to gesture toward Chase Laclede. Perhaps the money went to his lawyer.

  "All rise," a bailiff commanded. "Court is now in session."

  The judge, a woman with closely cropped silver hair and blue-rimmed glasses who appeared to be in her early sixties, entered the courtroom. Once she took her seat from the highest perch, the rest of the courtroom followed suit.

  After a brief recitation of the courtroom rules, the judge nodded to the bailiff, who then read the first name on a printout. A man in the jury box stood up. His lawyer came forward, and the prosecutor quickly read off the charges. When asked by the judge how he would plead, "Not guilty," was the prompt answer.

  Assembly line justice, Debbie thought to herself. Each person quickly going through the motions to get to the next stage in the criminal justice proceedings.

  When Roberto Simmons's name was called, Chase Laclede maneuvered to the front, his smooth athletic movements a contrast to the lumbering, heavier attorneys. Debbie's mother had often talked about the toll the legal profession took on people. The stress and high stakes left some seeking solace in food, others found it in the bottom of bottle, some searched for it in a pill, and finally there were those who found escape in a series of extramarital affairs. The ones with less-than-healthy coping mechanisms were often easy to spot. It clung to their bodies; big bellies, yellowed skin, maybe a gaze that leered a bit too much at young women. Chase seemed fresh and wholesome in comparison.

  The little girl, the daughter of Simmons, Debbie guessed, fidgeted on her mother's lap and waved when Simmons stood up. The mother quickly grabbed the girl's hand and pushed it down. Chase presented a memo that indicated his client was waiving the right to a reading of the charges and that his client was entering a plea of not guilty.

  The judge looked at Simmons. "Is that correct? Do you wish me to enter a plea of not guilty?"

  "Yes, your honor," Simmons responded.

  The judge nodded. The arraignment was over in a matter of moments. Chase packed up his briefcase and headed toward the exit. He motioned to the mother and child, who got up and left the courtroom. Roberto, who had been escorted back to the jury box with the other prisoners, watched as his lawyer and his family left the courtroom.

  Debbie felt her phone vibrate with a text message. It was from Officer Parker. An incident at a grocery store in South City. "Urgent," she had typed.

  Debbie gathered her bag, shoved her notebook inside, and walked briskly out of the courtroom, darting past Chase's impromptu hallway conference.

  In the corridor, she also spotted the back of a familiar figure leaving the prosecutor's warrant office. He was in a hurry.

  Flannery.

  The grocery store lot was crowded with police cruisers and television news vans, which forced Debbie to park her car on the residential street nearby. Usually, she was the only reporter at a crime scene.

  Something big went down, she thought.

  Debbie pushed through the crowd of people that had gathered and made her way to a TV camera operator who was waiting on a reporter to gather his notes.

  "Hi. Debbie Bradley. I work for River City magazine. I'm new to town. Well, I grew up here. Just came back."

  The camera operator nodded. "Yep. Crime Beat Girl. From D.C."

  "News travels fast, doesn't it?" she said.

  The cameraman shrugged. "You know what they say about St. Louis. Besides, our evening reporters are looking at your blog to get story ideas to pitch."

  "Interesting. But you beat me to this one. What happened?"

  "Carjacking," he responded. "Young mother with a baby."

  "Geez!" Debbie said.

  "Yep," he said. "The carjackers took the car--with the baby inside. And they shot the mother."

  "Oh my God," Debbie said. "Is she...?"

  "She's alive," the camera operator explained. "Fortunately, the carjackers were in a hurry or had bad aim--or both. They grazed her arm. She's gonna need stitches. The cops are searching for the bullet."

  "What hospital?"

  "She's still here. She says she's not leaving without her baby."

  "What do we know about the guys who did it?" Debbie asked as the TV reporter who worked with the camera operator walked up.

  The TV reporter, his notebook open, explained, "I was just asking about it. There were two men. White. Baseball caps. Right now, there's not much of a physical description. Medium height, thin build. That's about it. The grocery store security folks and the police investigators are going to review surveillance tapes to see if they can learn more."

  The camera operator chimed in. "Okay, we're about to go live."

  "Thanks for your help," Debbie said as the TV reporter grabbed the mic.

  If the mother was hurt, then the paramedics would probably be near her, Debbie reasoned. And the parking lot was so big, the scene so chaotic, Debbie was able to find a path to get near the ambulance.

  The mother's eyes were red, her face puffy. Her hands trembled as she shooed away the emergency technicians who were trying to get her onto a bed. "No! I'm not going anywhere," she screamed. "What if they bring my baby back?"

  Detective Flannery stood next to her. He grabbed a blanket from a paramedic and gently draped it over her shoulders, one firm hand lingering for a moment, as if he was trying to transfer some of his calm reassurance to the distraught woman. He sat down next to her.

  "My baby," the woman cried as she rocked back and forth. Flannery sat still, his voice low. Debbie inched closer, trying to pick up what he was saying. With all the commotion of the TV cameras, as well as the growing crowd of shoppers-turned-spectators, no one had seemed to notice the print reporter.

  "We're scouring the area," he said softly. "I have my officers searching Fillmore Park, just across the street. Carjackers want your car, not your son. They probably just panicked when they saw security. And we sent a police car to your husband's office. They're bringing him over right now to be with you."

  The woman looked at the detective through tear-filled eyes. "I'm a horrible, horrible mother. I should never have put my baby in the car first. I should have paid attention to what was going on around me. That's what they always say. Pay attention."

  Flannery placed his hand gently on top of hers. "No one expects this sort of thing. And besides, you may have saved your child. By strapping him into his seat, he's got some added protection. The fact you are here, instead of in that car, means we know what happened and we can flood the area with patrols. If you were in the car, there's no way you would be able to help him right now." He paused. "You're a good mother," he said emphatically.

  The crowd parted as a man pushed through.

  "Kevin!" the woman cried to the person who Debbie guessed was her husband. "Oh, Kevin!"

  Officer Parker appeared. Debbie wondered if she'd escorted the husband. The scene was unfolding so rapidly that she couldn't be sure. "Detective, we may have found the baby."

  The parents froze. Flannery, the mother, the father, and even Debbie stopped breathing for a moment.

  "There's a car seat in the park with a baby strapped inside. The child seems okay," Parker said. "The patrol car that found him is on its way here."

  At that moment, a patrol car with lights flashing and siren blaring pulled into the lot. The crowd fell back to let it pass. It stopped near the parents as the cameras converged on the scene. An officer opened the door to the vehicle.

  The baby, spotting his mother, began to cry. The parents rushed forward. Ignoring the pain of the bullet, the mother wrapped her arms around the child. The father wrapped his arms around them both.

  Flannery nodded to the emergency medical technicians. "Get all three to the hospital."

  And with his back still to Debbie, he said, "Were you able to get all of that, Ms. Bradley?"

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Revelations

  A medical exam is no day at the spa, no matter how many posters of beaches and mountains are plastered on the walls, De
bbie thought as she sat with her mother, waiting for the surgeon to enter. Tranquil pictures sandwiched between biohazard waste containers, blood pressure bands, and medical glove dispensers weren't enough to make the space safe.

  As they waited, the women knew there was a lot at stake. It was Beth's first appointment after her surgery. If everything went as planned, Beth would be getting the test results back on her tumor and lymph nodes. The insights from those tests would help decide whether chemotherapy was in Beth's immediate future.

  To break the tense silence, Debbie turned to work. "You know, I still find it annoying that the mayor arrived at the grocery store parking lot just as the officers were bringing the toddler back to be reunited with his parents."

  It was the day after the carjacking. And while the baby had been found, and the mother had already been released from the hospital, the two criminals were still at large.

  "Mayor Robertson," Beth said, shaking her head as she sat on the exam table, a gown wrapped tightly around her. "If there's good news, and the cameras are rolling, he'll shove everyone out of the way to bask in the limelight. Now, I guarantee you that if things had taken a turn for the worst, Detective Flannery would have been pushed in front of the microphones and forced to explain the situation to the public."

  "You're probably right. Although I suppose I shouldn't be too quick to criticize," Debbie admitted. "My story about the carjacking and kidnapping got a lot of hits on River City's website. It's pinging around Facebook like a pinball. And Flannery should be sending me a big thank-you for that moving photo I got of him comforting the mother."

  "Did you have to lead with every mother's nightmare? Kinda sensational, don't you think?" Beth asked.

  Debbie shrugged. "Hey, isn't it every mother's nightmare? Moms lug their kids to the grocery store all the time. My readers can easily imagine themselves in the same situation."

  Beth sighed. "I suppose. I have to say that Detective Flannery is rather striking. The photo was a good choice. I thought he'd look much grumpier, based on your description of him."