TCOT Absurd Assumption Chapter 1, a perry mason fanfic

TCOT Absurd Assumption Chapter 1

Note: This is the first chapter of my attempt at what I think are missing moments from Perry Mason Returns. The movie bothered me from the very first broadcast and every repeated viewing since, so I decided a couple of years ago that I would attempt to 'fix' it and dashed off a few chapters. Then I shelved it to write stories with the late, great Michelle Weiner, and pulled it out of my bunny file after finishing Destination Christmas.

I don't consider this an alternate universe type of story, because it follows the plot of PMR. What I wanted to do was make the movie make sense to me so I can finally sleep at night.

A huge thank you to my beta, the one and only, great and powerful StartWriting, who added just the right word and/or phrase here and there that I didn't realize needed to be added. ~ D

Clang!

Three sets of iron doors, closing behind her emphatically, punctuating the current circumstances.

Clang!

How improperly incongruous was it that all she could think about was Judy Garland and a trolley car?

Clang!

A cage of iron bars crowded with twenty other women having arguably as bad a day as she was.

Della had run through all of the clichés from surreal to ludicrous to nightmarish to describe the past several hours, and none of them came close to tapping into the suffocating grief and bewilderment she felt. Arthur Gordon was dead. Murdered. And she had been arrested for his murder. How could that be?

She rubbed at her wrists, chafed from the handcuffs placed on her by Lt. Cooper after her dress – that awful dress she'd bought to satisfy a standard of decorum – had turned up in her trash can bloodied and torn. The most damning piece of evidence uncovered in what she thought – what she knew – would be a fruitless search of her house, she was actually perversely pleased to be rid of the shapeless floral disaster…a violent shiver traveled through her and approximately twenty pairs of curious eyes pinned themselves on the new arrival, so obviously out of place, a perfect little lady from head to toe struggling to maintain her composure in a most unexpected, unlikely setting.

A tall girl seated on the end of the lone, long wooden bench in the cell stood and beckoned to the newcomer. Her overly-permed hair was dyed an alarming shade of red that clashed horribly with her skintight orange knit dress, and heavy make-up disguised the youthful contours of her face. She couldn't have been much over eighteen. "Take mah seat, ma'am," she said in a thickly southern-accented voice, busily chewing a wad of gum.

This was probably the one time Della wasn't nettled by being called ma'am. She smiled gratefully at the girl, who upon closer inspection Della determined could have been pretty if not for the garish, clashing colors she was covered in. "Thank you. I will." She sat down on the battered bench as the girl, easily six feet tall in her stiletto heels, stood sentinel next to her, sending a clear signal for the other cell inhabitants to stay away from this well-dressed fish out of water.

"Y'all don't look like ya b'long here, ma'am. We 'uns all say that, but y'all really don't." The girl smiled, exposing a mouth full of crooked teeth as well as the glob of pink gum.

"I – I didn't do what I was arrested for, if that's what you mean."

The tall girl's smile became sly. "Weeelll, we 'uns all say that, too, don't we, Lou? 'Ceptin' we really did do whut we was 'rested for!"

"Speak for yourself, Lady," interposed the pale, rickety girl sitting next to Della on the bench. Lou, about the same age as the tall girl, with jet-black hair, and dressed in much the same outfit as her compatriot, nudged Della with her elbow and lowered one eyelid caked with frosty pale blue eye shadow. "I didn't do what I was arrested for either. I was just walking down the street, minding my own business. I s'pose you were too, Lady…mindin' your own business, that is."

The tall girl let out a loud laugh. "That's whut street walkers do…mind their own bus'ness!" She placed her back against the painted cinder block wall and slid her body down it until she was resting on her haunches, oblivious to the view every other woman in the cell was treated to. She blew a big bubble that popped and hung from the tip of her nose. "Beggin' yer pardon, ma'am, but y'all don't look like one of us. Ya sorta look like a poor little shined deer." She removed the gum from her mouth and nose, and inspected it thoroughly before placing it back in her mouth.

"My name is Della," Della said impulsively after the third use of ma'am, wondering what a 'shined deer' looked like.

"Ya don't say! Mah given name is 'most the same. Adelaide. 'Cept mah go-by name be Lady. Ain't that funny?"

Della didn't quite know what was funny – the similarity of their names or the fact that a street walker's 'go-by' name was Lady. She merely nodded, careful to keep her last name to herself.

"At home mah go-by name be Addie." Lady lowered her voice. "In case y'all haven't noticed, I ain't from 'round here."

Della smiled, despite the absurdity of the situation, thoroughly enjoying this little talk with the clever Lady and Lou. "No, I hadn't noticed."

The dark-haired girl sitting next to Della burst out laughing and nudged her once more with a sharp elbow. "She got you at your own game, Lady!"

"That's a good 'un, a 'right," Lady admitted, her grin once again displaying that mouthful of overlapping teeth. "I's borned an' raised in Kentucky."

"That's a long way from California. Whereabouts in Kentucky?"

"Oh, a little holler I ain't even heared of." Lady's eyes sparkled with mischief at her own joke.

Della chuckled. "How did you get to California, Lady?"

"Well, mah daddy married me off ta Call-yer Jessup, an' he got it in 'im ta head out here ta be in the pit-chers. Call-yer, he's a tom cat's kitten an' can charm birds outen' the trees, an' some gal tole 'im the camera liked 'im, an' that was that." Lady shrugged, clearly not knowing what that meant. "You prolly seen 'im an' never even knowed it. Was in just 'bout ever Sears an' Roebuck catalog a coupla years ago. In his skivvies, no less. Spent all our money on fixin' his teeth an' they never let 'im smile!"

"You're married?"

"Since I's fourteen," Lady confirmed with a nod. "But Call-yer, he throwed me out to work when thar warn't no babies. Said I hadda earn mah keep if'n we was ta stay married."

"I'm sorry, Lady."

"Pssheeew," Lady said with a dismissive wave of her hand. "Joke's on Call-yer. Warn't but a month I's walkin' the street an' come up with a baby. Call-yer says he's the spittin' image of his daddy."

"But I thought you said…" Della wondered why Lady was still, um, working now that there was a baby.

Lady laughed at Della's confusion. "I ain't all that smart, Miss Della, but I's smarter than Call-yer Jessup." And she left it at that, very self-satisfied.

Della glanced at Lou, who just shrugged.

"Whatcha in for, anyways, Miss Della?"

"Um, well…my employer was…killed last night."

Lady's eyes widened. "Ya kilt yer boss?"

Della shook her head. "No, no. It's all a misunderstanding."

"We all say that, too," Lou chimed in, leaning toward Della.

"Ya got a good law-yer?"

Della nodded. "Actually, I used to work for a lawyer. He's a judge now."

"Pssheeew," Lady exclaimed, impressed. "How's it yer penned up in here if yer 'quainted with judges an' such?" She blew another bubble, smaller this time, sucking it back in before it popped all over her face again.

It was Della's turn to shrug. "The wheels of justice," she stated.

Both girls just looked at her, trying not to show they didn't quite understand.

"Sometimes," Della explained, "the police make you play by all the rules."

Both Lady and Lou nodded vigorously at that in complete understanding.

There was a clanging at the front of the detention cell and the three of them looked up toward the noise, as did the seventeen (Della counted) other inhabitants of the large cell.

"Miss Street! Miss Della Street! Time for your phone call." The matron who had escorted Della to the detention cell was waving to her.

Della rose and shook out her wrinkled skirt. "Thank you for letting me sit down, Lady," she said. "I appreciate it very much."

"Your last name is Street?" Lou asked, unable to contain a grin. Her teeth were straighter than Lady's, although tinged a deep shade of yellow.

Lady walked herself back up the wall to her full, impressive height. "Mama tole me to always act like I got some raisin', Miss Della. I'll save the place for ya 'til ya come back."

"That's very nice of you, Lady."

"Ya gonna call that judge?"

Della stomach flip-flopped and the smile she attempted trembled. "I think I will."

Normally Perry Mason wouldn't answer his telephone and let the answering machine pick it up, but years of being told by a certain someone that if telephones ring before eight o'clock in the morning or after ten o'clock at night the call was almost certainly of great importance forced his hand from under the covers to grab at the handset and drag it to his ear.

"It's seven-eighteen in the blessed a.m. on a Saturday," he grumbled ominously, "whoever this is better make a good case for calling so early."

The voice on the other end of the line, tiny, uncertain, barely a whisper, was the voice his own thoughts spoke in. "Perry…"

Perry Mason threw off the covers and sat bolt upright, heart pounding. "Della? Della, what's the matter?"

"Perry, Arthur was…he was killed last night."

Perry ran his hand through sleep mussed hair as a sheen of sweat appeared on his forehead. "Arthur? Tragg was killed? How? What happened? Is Mildreth all right?"

"N-not Arthur Tragg…Arthur Gordon."

Arthur Gordon? "Gordon – your boss? Your boss was killed last night?"

"Yes. Murdered." Her voice grew stronger with each word. "Perry…I've – I've been arrested."

"Arrested? What the… Are you all right, Della?"

"Considering I'm in the hoosegow," she replied sarcastically, "I'm just dandy." Hearing Perry's voice had restored the vim Arthur said he admired so much...oh dear. "I'm sorry for calling you so early…I only have one call and..."

"Good grief, Della, don't apologize. Why didn't you call sooner?"

"I-I couldn't. The police dragged me out of bed before the crack of dawn for questioning at Arthur's estate, then they searched the house, and the next thing I knew, I was cuffed and stuffed into a police car."

At any other time, 'cuffed and stuffed' would have made him chuckle. "You let the police into the house? Without a warrant? Della, what on earth were you thinking?"

"I was thinking that I had nothing to hide," she snapped irritably, recalling the countless times he had warned clients not to let the police search their premises without Perry being present or being presented with a duly signed search warrant. "At least I didn't think I did. The police think otherwise. "

"Oookay. I'll make a few calls and you'll be out before they finish processing the paperwork."

"Perry, the paperwork is already processed. It's murder. I don't think you can get me out of jail from San Francisco with a few phone calls. I need a lawyer."

"I'll get you a lawyer," Perry promised grimly. "Don't worry, Della. I'll take care of everything. Sit tight and try to take it easy."

"I – I have to go now. The matron is signaling my time is up...I'm sorry to have bothered you, Perry."

Perry sat staring at the handset for several seconds after Della hung up, mind working furiously. What the hell? Della Street charged with murder? A squealing tone emanated from the handset and he dropped it back into the cradle. Then he immediately picked it back up and dialed the first of three telephone numbers he'd swiftly decided to call.

None of the numbers were for a Los Angeles exchange.

After completing the third and last call, Perry Mason bounded out of bed and headed for the living room of his pre-war apartment to the mahogany roll-top desk he abhorred but had been coerced into buying on a weekend of 'antiquing'. He sat down and pulled a legal pad in front of him. With great flair and a decided flourish, His Honor Perry Mason began furiously scribbling a document guaranteed to send shockwaves through every hall and chamber of the San Francisco Civic Center, as well as up and down Mission Street.

Della had been surprised and grateful, yet oddly disappointed, that following her telephone call, well calls, since the matron allowed her to make a surreptitious second call after hanging up with Perry; she was not returned to the crowded detention cell and her new friends Lady and Lou, but was escorted to a semi-private cell with only one other occupant. She was even more grateful that the other occupant had chosen to stretch out on the top bunk, leaving her the relative privacy of the bottom bunk. In all her years working for Perry Mason, whenever she had been detained, and even the one time she had been arrested and charged for concealing a witness, Della had never spent one minute in a cell. Usually Lieutenant Arthur Tragg or District Attorney Hamilton Burger himself would hold her in their offices until after much manly posturing and tossing of legal brick-bats, Perry 'convinced' them to release her. The prestige of being Perry Mason's secretary extended far into the legal system back then. Everyone knew that the formidable attorney was a sleeping tiger when it came to his secretary, and avoided poking him whenever possible with that particular stick unless absolutely necessary.

What she didn't know, was that the prestige and privileges afforded her as Perry Mason's secretary paled in comparison to the esteem in which she was held personally by the legal system. That was actually why she never spent a minute in a jail cell, even when she technically should have.

The dark confines of the bottom bunk comforted her a bit, and after removing her suit jacket and placing it over the flat pillow, Della laid down on the hard, thin mattress, pulled a scratchy blanket over drawn-up legs, and laid there, grateful thricely that the rather impressive snoring of her cellmate covered the sound of her sobbing.

She must have dozed a little, because it seemed as if immediately after her grieving sobs for Arthur Gordon subsided, and she started to wonder when the attorney Perry hired would arrive, and who it would be, the friendly matron returned and unlocked the cell door noisily.

"Up and at 'em, Miss Street," she called out cheerfully. "Your lawyer has arrived. We're going to bend another rule and let you meet face-to-face instead of behind glass."

Della sat up and blinked, running her hand through unruly curls. "What time is it?"

"About eleven o'clock," the matron, Darla, replied cheerfully. "Just another four hours and I'm off shift. Come on, time's money with these lawyers." She cackled with much amusement at her own joke, which caused the occupant of the upper bunk to snort and flop around on the mattress that wasn't much softer than a cement slab if it was anything like the bottom bunk.

Della climbed out of the bunk and into her fine leather pumps, and with a covert glance at the exposed commode at the opposite end of the cell, pulled on her suit jacket and adjusted her twisted, wrinkled skirt. "Lead the way," she told Darla.

"We'll stop at the ladies room outside the visiting center in the Criminal Courts Building," Darla whispered as she relocked the cell door. Darla had allowed Della to use public facilities after her telephone calls, because she firmly believed a lady like Miss Street shouldn't have to be humiliated, no matter what the cops thought she might have done. The matron had accompanied her, unlocking only one hand from the restraints, even though she knew Miss Street was not the type who would try any funny stuff.

Della smiled her thanks. "No restraints?" She had been restrained during her transfer from the detention cell to the telephone, and then again from that room to the semi-private cell.

Darla shook her head of frizzy permed hair. "You must have a guardian angel in the police department, Miss Street. Orders keep coming down to treat you more like a guest than an inmate. I'm just doing what I'm told to do."

Inmate? Ye gods, Della thought. I'm an inmate.

Darla cackled again. "Otherwise you'd still be in the detention cell between those two charming ladies and hoping your bladder won't burst because it's harder to pee in front of twenty awake women than it is in front of just one that's asleep."

Impressive, Della thought. Perry's phone calls had yielded quick results. "I appreciate it, Darla."

They walked in silence through two more clanging iron bar doors, out of the women's jail facility and to a prisoner transfer elevator that would deposit them in the Criminal Courts Building. "I would have used the commode no matter how many women were in that detention cell," Della announced suddenly, after the metal doors slid shut.

Darla gave Della a sidelong glance. "I think you would have," she said with unconcealed admiration. "You were always the picture of a lady, Miss Street, always nice to us matrons at the jail even when your boss's clients sometimes weren't. I don't think you could kill anyone. I've learned to size people up after working here for twelve years. There just isn't that criminal thing in your eyes."

"Why, thank you for that vote of confidence, Darla. I assure you that I did not kill Mr. Gordon."

The elevator bumped to a stop and the doors opened. Darla stood back to allow Della to exit first, and held her arm as she escorted her down the corridor toward the interview rooms. The matron came to a halt in front of a metal door marked WOMEN. "Miss Street, I'm so confident that I'm not even going in with you this time."

Della stood with her back to the entrance of the visitor's room, suit jacket off, arms wrapped around herself, staring out the window at the courtyard below. How many times had she been in a room similar to this – or possibly in this specific room – over the years? Hundreds, that's how many. Hundreds of clients, hundreds of statements, hundreds of steno pads filled with stories of deceit, betrayal, victimization, guilt, innocence, fear. Who would take down her story today? She didn't know if Frank Heartwell, Perry's law school friend and the most likely attorney she figured he would call on to handle her case, still used a secretary to take down statements since his of nearly twenty years had retired recently, or if he recorded them on tape as so many of the younger attorneys, as well as the police, were doing nowadays.

She heard the door of the room open and close, but heard no approaching footsteps. The little hairs at the back of her neck began to prickle in a familiar way…she spun around toward the entrance.

"Ever since you called this morning I've been thinking about who should represent you," Perry said gruffly without greeting or preamble. "And the best attorney I could think of is me."

Della's chin began to wobble and tears pooled in her eyes. Of all the possibilities, this was the one she hadn't dared to consider. She hugged her suit jacket close for strength. "Since when," she began, overcome by his presence, "since when are appellate court judges permitted to represent defendants?"

"They're not."

Tears slipped down her cheeks. "You'd have to step down from the bench, Perry."

He heard the plea in her voice, as well as the resistance. "I've already signed my resignation."

"Perry," she whispered brokenly, trying to object, tears now streaming down her face.

He held up his hand. "Della, let's just say I'm tired of writing opinions. This is where I need to be."

"Oh…Perry." Della took one faltering step and fell into his waiting embrace. Perry held her slight, trembling body against his, one hand at the small of her back, the other pressing her head to his chest, smoothing disheveled curls as she sobbed. Yes, this was exactly where he needed to be.

"Shhh, baby" he said gently. "It's going to be all right, Della. I'm going to meet with the District Attorney – you remember Jack Welles – in about twenty minutes. You'll be home by one."

She lifted her head and looked at him, tried to speak, but all that emerged was a choked sob. Perry shushed her and placed her head back on his expansive chest, laying his chin against her temple. But she pushed away from him again.

"I thought you'd send Frank Heartwell," she said, gulping and hiccupping between every word, hands gripping the lapels of his topcoat.

"Well now, Frank is a good, reliable attorney," Perry answered a mite smugly, eyes twinkling, hoping for a smile from her, "but he's not me."

Della rewarded him by lifting the corners of her mouth slightly. "No. Frank is definitely not you. Sometimes I can't believe you're you."

"You'd better watch what you say to your attorney," he cautioned, tapping the tip of her pert nose with his index finger. "Your attorney who brought coffee."

"Coffee?" Della perked up instantly, looking around and finally spying the cup on a table near the doorway.

Perry allowed himself a chuckle as Della made a beeline for the Styrofoam cup, leaving him standing in the middle of the room holding her suit jacket. "We don't have much time, Della. I need you to give me the highlights before I see Jack Welles. I can't believe he allowed this to happen."

Della closed her eyes and inhaled gratefully the heady aroma of steaming coffee. "Eight years is a long time, Perry," she said pointedly. "Most of the people we worked with have either retired or…" she couldn't say the word, in fact, could barely think it. She sniffed. They had lost too many friends and colleagues in that span of time. And now one more.

"There are still enough old-timers around who would recognize your name."

"You mean your name," she said archly over the rim of the squeaky Styrofoam cup.

"Young lady, I assure you that your name carried far more weight in the judicial system than mine ever did."

It pleased Perry very much that she laughed. He moved toward her and draped the suit jacket over her shoulders, giving her a reassuring squeeze in the process. "Well, the matron did say I must have a guardian angel somewhere in the system," Della admitted. "I was moved from the main detention cell to a semi-private cell right after I called you."

"There's your proof. I didn't make any calls to Los Angeles." He could barely stand the thought of Della in that detention cell, a veritable cesspool of shady characters, but in his haste to get to LA he hadn't made a single call on her behalf.

"You didn't?"

"No." Perry shook his head. "Once I decided to defend you myself, there wasn't time. I submitted my resignation, packed, and chartered a plane."

Della cocked her head slightly to the left and raised one eyebrow. "I guess three hours in a jail cell is a small price to pay for the services of the greatest criminal attorney in the country."

Perry actually thought he felt red spots appear on his cheeks, and Della's satisfied smirk confirmed their existence. "Well, after all, Della…"

"Perry, I'm not complaining. I think I'm quite possibly in shock. Losing Arthur…being accused of murdering him, and then you showing up…it's a bit much to take in."

"Speaking of being accused of murder, what the devil could they have on you to precipitate that?"

Tears sprang to Della's eyes again. "For starters," she said, voice unsteady, "an earring, muddy shoes, a bloody dress, the dual facts that I had twenty-four hour access to the Gordon estate and don't have a corroborative alibi for my whereabouts last night. But they're being coy about something, something they must believe to be the piece de resistance."

"We'll get to the bottom of that soon enough," Perry said grimly. "They can't suppress evidence."

"You'd better leave now." One eyebrow slanted upward. "You do recall the way to the DA's office, don't you?"

Perry circled her shoulders with one arm and drew her to his side in a quick hug, impressed with her sassiness. "You'll be out of here within the hour," he promised.

He hoped he could keep that promise.

"No comment, no comment, and no comment." Perry announced jovially to the crowd of pestering reporters, settling himself in the driver's seat and starting the engine of the rented convertible. "But…you can quote me on that."

Della resisted the urge to laugh as Perry piloted the car away from the curb in front of the Criminal Courts building fifty-three minutes after promising she would be released within the hour. The reporter's questions had been blessedly general, nothing especially probing, and she was glad for that. What Perry had done would certainly become the talk of the town soon enough.

"That was adroit," she commented, the slightly chilly breeze making her cheeks rosy.

"Like falling off a bike," Perry said almost gleefully.

"Like riding a bike," Della corrected.

"No, I meant to say 'falling', as in as easy as…never mind. Those reporters were cubs, assigned to the court beat to cut their teeth. It was hardly fair."

"They did all seem to be terribly young. Are novice reporters still called 'cubs'?"

"Hell if I know," Perry replied cheerfully.

"Did you really pick me up in a white car?"

Perry gave her a sideways glance and a flash of dimples. "Indeed I did, damsel in distress."

Della drummed the fingertips of her left hand on the retractable console arm between them, her mind working feverishly on something to say that wouldn't spark an argument, cognizant of the fact they had already said many things to each other that shouldn't have been said. But this was a new situation entirely, for her, for him, for them, and the terms of their delicate relationship had already been mightily stretched.

At a stoplight, Perry placed his hand over hers to still the nervous drumming. "Della…" he broke off almost in surprise, lifting her hand and holding it by the fingertips.

Her ring. The vintage amethyst and diamond ring he had bought from a former client's estate sale because she loved it, right about the time they had to cope with the worst nightmare of their life together.

She withdrew her hand as slowly as she could. "It goes with the outfit," she said quietly. It could have gone with the outfit on her right hand, but it felt more natural on her left, where he had placed it…oh, why had she chosen to wear this particular suit today? She could have worn the cranberry suit, which was more flattering, but she hadn't really been thinking this morning at four o'clock when the police rousted her out of bed and she'd needed to dress quickly.

The light turned and traffic picked up speed once again. Perry drove thoughtfully for a few moments before speaking. "Maybe we'd better follow the articles of the contract more closely from here on out," he mused, fishing for a response from her.

The contract.

She couldn't decide if she was relieved or peeved he had brought up the contract first.

Would they ever again have a conversation that wasn't bound by the limitations of that dratted contract? At the time it was drawn up the contract had allowed them to creep tentatively back into friendship; to randomly pick up the telephone and call one another just to say hello; to send each other goofy greeting cards for birthdays; to share their families and the rich history of thirty years together without making anyone too uncomfortable. For two-and-a-half years they had effectively hidden behind whichever article of the contract most closely fit whatever situation they found themselves in, securely bound by rules fueled by alcohol and the peculiar sense of humor they shared.

But was there an applicable article in the blasted contract that would cover the Party of the First Part being accused of murder and the Party of the Second Part resigning his governmental position in order to defend the Party of First Part?

Della slid the amethyst stone of her ring around into her palm and closed her fingers around it, trying to remember when she had begun to wear her rings again, and why.