Page 95 of Shame the Devil

There was nothing like sitting in a den of low-grade misery for two hours, though, to turn raw emotion into resignation.

Now, he sat on the hard bench as another prisoner, his neck marked with crude tattoos, headed back out through the doors again, a weeping older lady blundered out of the courtroom doors at the back, and the bailiff called the next case. He whispered to Jennifer, “Doing OK?”

She muttered back, “I have to pee,” and he smiled. The only timethathad happened this morning.

“Go on,” he said. “I’m guessing we’ll be here more or less forever.” And she scooted past his sisters and left to do it.

Annabelle whispered, “Is she leaving?” A bailiff looked over at them, and Harlan shook his head. He sure hoped not, anyway.

Everything came to an end, though, even waiting for your father to enter his murder plea. By the time it was his dad coming through the doors, it was nearly noon, and the spectator section of the courtroom—whatever you called that—was almost empty. At the sight of the familiar puffy face, though, the line of women beside Harlan stiffened like they were about to jump up and do the wave. The row was anchored by his grandfather at the end of that line, because he’d never un-stiffened. Harlan would bet he was glaring now, that his grandma had hold of his hand to keep him from jumping up and taking his son-in-law out. He knew, because that was exactly how he was holding Jennifer’s hand.

He’d seen the orange jumpsuit before. He hadn’t seen the wrist and ankle shackles, though, and his sisters had seen none of it. He heard Annabelle suck in a breath, grabbed her hand, and muttered, “You’ve got this.” She took another breath and nodded, and he thought,I’m going to take care of you, Bug. I couldn’t do it before, or I didn’t, but I’m going to do it now.

His dad stared at all of them, but mainly, he stared at Harlan. The kind of look that, if Harlan had been a kid, he’d have turned away from fast.

He’d been rocked off his feet this whole weekend. Now, though, he realized that he wasn’t. He was doing the right things, and he was sure. The feeling was like helium rising up through his body. Even with Jennifer last night. He wassure.

He knew why he was here.

A guy in a suit stood up at a question from the judge and went to sit beside Axel at a table, so that must be where the defendant sat. There was some preliminary stuff, and the judge asked, “Do you agree to waive your right to hear your rights and the charges against you?”

The attorney bent to say something in his client’s ear, and his dad said, “No.”

Harlan would bet that wasn’t normal. His dad just wanted to cause trouble, to make this as hard as possible for everybody else.

The judge, a middle-aged, thin-necked guy with glasses who looked like an insurance adjuster whose only pronunciation of judgment would be whether your car was a total writeoff or not, read the familiar lines of the Miranda warning. And then came the charge. The words washed through the courtroom, and Harlan forced himself to listen to every one.

His mom deserved to be heard. She deserved to be avenged.

“… That the defendant, Axel Andreas Kristiansen, on or about October seventh … did willfully, unlawfully, deliberately, and with malice aforethought, kill and murder Nikki Layne Kristiansen, a human being, by choking her by the neck until she was dead …”

On and on, the words striking his flesh like the leather strap of that belt. The physical pain was the easy part. It was the malice in the hand wielding it that never left you.

Finally, it was over, and the judge asked, “How do you plead?”

“Not guilty.” That voice was the same as always. Firm. Loud.

“Have you hired an attorney, or do you require one to be appointed for you?”

“I have an attorney,” his dad said. “Obviously. He’s sitting right beside me.”

A little stir at that, and the attorney saying something sharp and short. Probably regretting taking this case, except that murder would be good money.

A discussion about bail, then. The lawyer arguing for a bail reduction. Talking about his father’s ties to the community, about his lack of a criminal record, his property ownership, his solid-citizen reputation—Yeah,Harlan thought,other than murdering his wife, he’s a great guy—and on and on. By the time he’d finished, you wondered why the mayor hadn’t given Axel the keys to the city yet.

The judge said, “I’m not convinced, Mr. Kristiansen, that you’re not a flight risk. You have a wealthy son, isn’t that correct?’

Axel said, “Yes,” and then, reluctantly, “Your Honor.” His back, the orange scrubs printed withBurleigh County Jailin black, like a bizarre Halloween costume, was rigid.

How does it feel,Harlan wondered,to be the one with no power? I hope it burns.

The judge said, “Is your son providing funds for your bond?”

Harlan stood up. The judge glanced at him, and a bailiff took a step in his direction.

“Yes?” the judge asked.

“Your Honor,” Harlan said, “I’m the son. Harlan Kristiansen.”