So much for Justice

The overwhelming stench of skunk woke me from a dark and profound sleep. I had been wrestling ineffectually with the demons of the last two days as we deadheaded through the dark rainy mountains of West Virginia on the way back to Richmond. My husband swears we didn’t hit the poor creature, but this was not the sort of odor that sits like smoke in the hollows in the daytime, it was more like the mountain had been set on fire using skunk oil as an accelerant. Windows down, the rain cascaded in, closed I gasp and choked at the eye watering aroma. I know how bad it is when my husband who is blind and deaf to smell catches the edge of it and remarks, “Oh, that is skunk, isn’t it?” The understatement lingers like the scent for the remainder of our 700-mile trip. After twisting about in my seat I finally give control back to the snake pit of churning emotion inside me and the smell becomes a background for my black thoughts.

It seemed like a normal security screening when we came into the rural Kentucky Circuit court. I had scaled down my pocket book to my single red alligator Prada billfold, the one my daughter bought for me off the back of a truck in DC. I felt a secret warmth of wickedness as I put it in the plastic WalMart basket and stepped through the metal doorway. An assault of red lights and loud beeping made me turn with what I hoped was a look of incredulity and innocence to the gray hair deputy sitting behind the table. I assumed it worked because he declined my offer to remove earrings as he waved me on through with a “you’re fine”. My husband behind me did not trigger the detectors and we nested in solitary conceit in one of the black chairs bolted together in a row down the long hall. A few minutes later another party arrived, a family of four, and they all walked through the gateway together without pausing. The lights flashed and alarms binged and we waited for the strip search of the group who looked like refugees from the dust bowl years. “What cute girls” exclaims the deputy as he waves them through. “They got trouble written all over them,” he jokes.

“You’re right about that,” says the mother laughing. So, I think to myself, these are friends of the officer, but still, he seems a bit derelict not to at least search her bag. Soon the next group approaches and the scene is repeated. In the next half hour several dozen people pass through the gates all of them but one triggering the security alarms, none of them checked. At least ten people slipped by through the exit, not even bothering with the gate and the smiling deputy standing guard. I will give him credit though; he asked all of us if we had a gun, knife, or any weapon. One man handed him the pocketknife he carried and picked it up later, another joked with him that he was packing. All of them went though without incident or search.

I sat praying that my brother, furious as he was with me for bringing this action, did not trip the alarms. Finally he arrived in his white sneakers and knit sport shirt, our fortunate family genes making him look much younger than his 70 years. He sat with his lawyer across the hallway and looked through me with no hint of recognition. It’s been two years since I’ve been in town, years in which I’ve changed in attitude and appearance. I recognized my lawyer whom I have never met by his sharp navy blue suit and because he an I are the only ones dressed for the occasion of removing my brother as executor of my Dad’s will after two and a half years of inattention. I asked him what are the chances of losing. He tells me honestly that in any other jurisdiction the case would be over before a word was spoken, but in this small town he is uncertain.

The judge did not look up at me as he asked, “Who is Elaine Haley?”

With no sound coming from my advocate I reply, “I am your honor.” Still, he did not glance in my direction. It was over in a manner of minutes and the judge set a new date for the presentation of evidence, July 9. Everyone agrees to the time, as I stand mute and frustrated, my trip wasted.

The flight through dark mountains goes on interminably, marked only by brief rushed stops. All the way home I pray to whatever gods might be listening, even petitioning my dead father to intervene. At two in the morning we arrive back home and gratefully fall into a familiar bed, familiar arms, too tired even for sex, too exhausted for anything but the release of sleep.

My father does not come to rescue me in dreams. Only the highway winds into the distance, black and uncertain, and the mountains loom, cold and unfathomable.