David Alan Dedin
Oh Baby, Let Me Be Your Lovin’ Teddy Bear
Twenty
Oh Baby Let Me Be Your Lovin’ Teddy Bear
2006
NEVADA
“I’m Archie Holden, your Public Defender,” the young lawyer said cheerfully, coming into the courthouse’s spartan meeting room where Patrick was now seated. The prisoner watched the attorney place his brand-new briefcase on the table, open it, take out a brand-new pen and brand-new pad of legal paper, then sit across the table from his client, whose name was – he glanced at today’s roster – Patrick Tyler. The public defender smiled, offering his hand –
“Pleased to meet you.”
The inmate, dirty hands cuffed to the table, didn’t share the sentiment.
“Well then” – Holden took his hand back – “You’re scheduled to appear before a judge in an hour, so we should probably discuss your case.” His pen hovering above the yellow paper, the attorney struggled to maintain eye contact, as Patrick’s appearance clearly made him squeamish. The inmate’s entire body looked black and blue. There were stitches across his arms and bearded face, and one of his eyes – an ugly mess of purple and puss – was completely swollen shut. A red spot on his orange jumpsuit’s shoulder suggested that something beneath was still bleeding.
“I’m assuming we’re pleading guilty?” Holden asked.
“That’s not what Bob intended to do,” Patrick said, his voice like gravel.
“Well, I imagine Mr. Gross didn’t expect to get beaten to death by your friend, either,” the lawyer said, skimming Patrick’s file. “Which puts a different spin on the case.” He tapped his pen while choosing his next words carefully. “In fact, with Gross’s passing, the scope of the charges against you have taken a different direction” –
Thump, thump, thump!
The two looked up as the door unlocked and opened.
“Are you sure you can’t afford a real attorney?” Holden whispered quickly.
A large black woman in a surprisingly expensive business suit entered, accompanied by a guard who carried a third chair into the room, positioning it so she could sit. She joined the table, opening her own briefcase – click, click! The guard shut the door behind as he left, while the State’s Attorney laid multiple files in front of Patrick, who read their labels as they appeared:
Tyler, Patrick – Elder Rado Casino (bingo)
Gross, Bob – Elder Rado Casino (bingo)
Tyler, Patrick – Slots to Win (bingo)
Gross, Bob – Slots to Win (bingo)
Tyler, Patrick – Painted Gecko (keno)
Gross, Bob – Painted Gecko (keno)
“This is what we have so far,” the woman said coolly, “but we’re searching Mr. Gross’s offices and home, and we’re confident we can find where he keeps his real files off site. You’ve given us quite a puzzle to piece together Mr. Tyler” – she looked up – “but I assure you that my office is very good at assembling puzzles. Especially puzzles with missing pieces.”
“What kind of charges are we dealing with?” Holden asked.
“I’m honestly not quite sure yet,” the woman admitted. “There’s so much here to work with, I have no idea where to start.” She reached into her briefcase. “But the reason I asked to meet ahead of time, is because I received this, this morning.” She passed Holden a fax.
“What’s this?” Holden asked, surprised. “Wait – this is from fifteen years ago.” He showed Patrick the paper. It was a copy of a Peoria County arrest report, dated 1992 –
Its charge was restaurant theft.
“How does a fifteen-year-old arrest report – from another state, I might add – have anything to do with what’s on the table now?” Holden asked.
The woman had expected the question – “Because of this.”
As Patrick and Holden watched, the State’s Attorney added another file to the table. She placed it directly on top of the others, tapping it with a pink fingernail:
Lavinski, Alan (at large)
“This is the man suspected in the murder of Bob Gross,” the woman said. “We know that he was staying in the same home that Mr. Tyler had been using, and we also know that he visited Mr. Tyler in the correctional facility, as well as communicated through phone calls.” She looked up again. “Unfortunately, as is often the case with the late Mr. Gross’s clients, records of those conversations have gone missing.”
Patrick stayed silent.
“I’m sure you’re familiar with the circumstances of Mr. Tyler’s case,” the woman told Holden, “But you might want to flip through that file” – she nodded at Alan’s – “as it appears that your client has a lifelong friendship with Mr. Lavinski. And before he chose to end Mr. Gross’s life, Mr. Lavinski was also his client.” She looked directly at Patrick.
“Just like you, Mr. Tyler.”
Opening Alan’s file, the young attorney began to read.
Waiting for him to finish, the woman crossed her hands on the table. She watched Patrick looking her over, while she did the same to him. He was the first to speak – “What’s your name, ma’am?”
“Wendy,” she said calmly. “Wendy Bosh.” She nodded towards his injuries. “Did that happen inside?” He nodded yes.
“I’m truly sorry about that,” she said.
“Okay, so, Tyler and Lavinski are friends,” Holden said, closing the file and throwing it back on the table. “And they happened to know the same lawyer – so what? I feel like I knew Bob Gross personally myself, because of all his commercials. What’s your point?”
Using two fingers, Bosh drew a triangle in the air – “I see a trio of people here, Mr. Holden…we have Mr. Gross, we have Mr. Tyler, and now we have Mr. Lavinski. Each has a different role to play in the whole. Tyler runs the skim, Gross does the legal work and laundering, and Mr. Lavinski does…what?” She looked directly at Patrick.
“What role does Alan Lavinski play in all this?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “Really, really bad friend.”
“That’s how you’re playing this?”
“There’s nothing to play,” Patrick said. “What I’m saying is the truth.”
“Not to imply that previous statements weren’t truthful,” Holden interjected.
“Why would a friend,” Wendy asked, “even if he is a bad one, have beaten Mr. Gross to death in your own home, Mr. Tyler? You see, that makes no sense to me. Especially now that Mr. Lavinski has gone missing.”
“Wait – this guy is on the run?” Holden asked, perking up.
“Mr. Holden, have you even read Mr. Tyler’s file?”
“I had some money hidden in the house, and Alan knew where it was,” Patrick told her. Maybe that had something to do with it.”
“Whoa, wait! Don’t say that!” Holden blurted, coming forward and chuckling. “He didn’t mean to say that…and I don’t want it on the record.”
Wendy clicked a pen, looking at Patrick. “How much money, Mr. Tyler?”
“Don’t answer that, Peter!” Holden said.
“It’s Patrick,” Patrick snapped. “Just look at my fucking file!”
“Mr. Tyler?” Wendy pressed.
“I don’t know, but it was a lot. Some of it I took myself, but most of it I was keeping for Bob. I wasn’t the only person that he was…” his voice trailed off in frustration. Patrick tried to cover his face with his hands, but the cuffs wouldn’t allow it; he placed his head on the table instead. Wendy noticed that someone had taken a chunk of Patrick’s hair in the back.
“Was it over a hundred thousand?” she asked.
“More like six hundred thousand,” the inmate said from the table. “Maybe seven.”
Holden looked aghast. “Patrick, I can’t help you if you keep saying things like” –
“Can I have a different lawyer, please?”
The Public Defender scoffed – “Fine.” He gathered his things and closed the briefcase, standing. He called for the guard to let him leave. When the door opened Holden added, “Just do yourself a favor and don’t say anything else right now, okay?”
Patrick flipped him off when he left –
Wendy smiled slightly.
“It’s your right to wait for an attorney,” she said, “but I can promise you that things will go much easier for you if you’re honest with me up front and tell me everything – absolutely everything – that you know.”
“I don’t suppose that means no jail time?” Patrick’s head asked.
Wendy sighed. “No, I’m afraid that jail is inevitable…but how much time depends on what you do next.” She looked at him sternly, though her voice had a trace of compassion.
“I’m going to ask for a continuance today,” she told him, gathering the files. “I wasn’t kidding when I said that we have a lot of pieces in this puzzle, and there will be additional charges – I’m not going to lie to you about that.”
Patrick looked up. His eyes were shiny.
“But I will also say that we’ve had our suspicions about Mr. Gross for some time, and though his death was indeed unfortunate, it has allowed us to pursue those suspicions, and get to the bottom of a number of things. I will hold you accountable for your role at the Elder-Rado, but any information you can offer regarding Bob Gross will affect how fervently I pursue previous matters. Very honestly, you’re in enough trouble for this one, as it is.”
“What do you want from me?” Patrick asked softly.
“First off, I want you to find a competent attorney,” Wendy said, closing her briefcase. “The continuance will allow you some time to do that. It would be inappropriate for me to say any more than that, but once you have representation – and I’m not talking about whoever we get to stand beside you in 45 minutes – then I expect a very, very lengthy statement. And I suggest you start thinking about what that statement will be today.”
“Are you offering a deal?” Patrick asked.
“No.” Her voice was firm as she stood –
“But I can promise you that my prosecution will be fair and take into account all mitigating factors.” She paused at the door. “On a personal note, my family has had dealings with Bob Gross before. They were…unpleasant.”
She called the guard.
The door unlocked and opened.
“This man needs a change of jumpsuit,” Wendy told him.
“And find him a doctor. That spot on his shoulder is twice as big now than it was when I first came in.”
* * * * *
Illinois
“Dinner’s in five, dear!” Audrey called down the stairs, to Stephanie’s open door. “Could you please set the table?”
“I’ll be right there!” Steph called back from her bedroom. She slammed her math book closed, welcoming the chance to get away from homework for a while. Throwing her legs over the side of her bed, she smiled as she felt the cushion of new carpeting below her socked feet. It still smelled new. Her whole bedroom felt new. It was a shame that the septic line didn’t back up more often.
Scampering up the stairs, she greeted her Papa as he came into the kitchen from work.
They were having chicken and dumplings tonight.
It smelled delicious.
* * * * *
Later, after the dishes had been washed, the young girl excused herself and returned to her bedroom. She still had homework to finish, but she needed a few minutes before looking at a math book again. She grabbed her expensive new MacBook Pro laptop – the spoils of having been in not just one, but two car accidents – and connected it to the phone line for internet. A few minutes later, You’ve got mail!
As the sun set in the window behind, she scrolled her new messages and frowned.
Still nothing from Alan.
She wasn’t all that surprised, of course. She had been following Patrick’s story online, and the police had actually come to her school and questioned her, asking if she had any information on where Alan might have gone, or in what frame of mind he might be in. But what could she possibly know, she’d reminded them?
She was, after all, just a little girl…
* * * * *
Much later, as bedtime neared, Steph laid out clothes for the following day at school. Tomorrow was “class ring day,” the day everyone placed their orders if they wanted something expensive to hang from their car mirror in a year. Stephanie wanted a big one with diamonds, but despite her grandmother’s input, Papa only agreed to pay for something modest – I just bought you that damn computer, Stephanie. I’m not made of money.
William had no way of knowing that after her recent trip to Vegas, his granddaughter was just the opposite. A hundred thousand dollars’ worth of opposite in fact, enough, if she wanted, to buy a goddamn car with a mirror to hang it from – and a closet of new clothes, to wear while driving.
But she wasn’t going to do that.
Her mother had taught her well, specifically on a night when Steph had to drive her home after dinner, when Guinevere had ingested one too many Chuck E. Chee-tas. Even tonight, Steph could still remember her mom’s slurs, “Steph, listen…if you ever have a time in your life when you come into a shit load of money, please save some of it. Don’t waste it – hic – like I did at Checker’s.”
But Stephanie wasn’t about to take advice from a lush.
Rather than some of it, she’d chosen to stash away all of it, and now kept it hidden in her panic room, in the same place her mom used to hide booze.
I’ll put it in the bank when I turn sixteen and can open a savings account without Nana or Papa’s cosignatory.
Stephanie may have seemed like a little girl on the outside, but this bitch had grown up fast, much quicker than anyone realized.
She checked her email one last time before going to bed – nothing.
Shutting her light, she dreamed of what she might look like in ten years, when all of this was behind her, and her life had moved on into a direction that no one – herself included – could have possibly imagined…
* * * * *
Ten years later, with her modest class ring still hanging from her rear-view mirror, Stephanie greeted Patrick with a hug when he was finally released from prison.
Her hair was Windex-blue.