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Authors: Larry D. Thompson
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Some worked at the medical school and its adjoining hospitals. Others
worked in hotels, restaurants and shops along the beach and in the old section
of downtown known as The Strand, at the port on the east side of the island,
and servicing cruise ships that disembarked from Galveston and circled
Caribbean islands on a weekly basis. Galveston needed its tourists but if truth
be told, residents would probably just as soon be left alone on their island.
CHAPTER 18
The causeway fed traffic onto
Broadway, a four lane boulevard with a wide, grassy esplanade separating
southbound traffic from those headed north. The north end of Broadway had
little appeal to tourists. Lined with convenience stores, cheap restaurants,
bars, motels that could be rented by the hour, and boarded-up buildings, many
“tagged” by rivaling gangs, most visitors just wanted to get to 61 st Street where they could turn right and get to the beach in five minutes or go
straight and head to the Strand or the cruise ship terminals. Wayne let
thoughts of his boyhood in Galveston run through his mind in an effort to keep
the reason for his visit from surfacing. Still, when he got to 21 st ,
he turned left and in a matter of blocks was pulling into the parking garage at
the courthouse and jail complex.
Built in the sixties, some architect
chose to get away from the classic courthouse design so prevalent in Texas
counties, courthouses that were still stately and graceful well over a hundred
years after construction. Instead, this was a “modern” courthouse for its time.
Forty years later, it was past its prime and ugly was almost too kind a
description. In fact, the county had decided to fork over the money to build
another. Maybe this time the architect would get it right.
Wayne walked into the courthouse and was
greeted by a deputy sheriff at the metal detector.
“Well, I’ll be damned. Look what the
cat drug in. How ya’ doing, Wayne? I didn’t know they let city slickers like
you on the island any more.”
“Come on, Bud. You know I was born
here. My mom still lives just two blocks away.”
Bud grabbed Wayne’s extended hand and
escorted him around the metal detector. “You don’t need to go through that. You
headed upstairs to a hearing or a civil trial?”
“No, Bud. I’m paying a visit to my
old boss. You seen him come in yet?”
“Yep. Sure did. He got here about
thirty minutes ago. Oh, shit, Wayne. I know what this is about. It’s your
brother, ain’t it? I heard he got beat up pretty bad the other day. I’m sorry
about that and sorry he’s got to be here. Hell, he was once a hero in this
town.” Bud’s voice trailed off, not knowing what else to say.
Wayne nodded, got into the elevator
and rode alone to the top floor. Wayne’s footsteps echoed in the empty hallway
as he walked to the door at the end with a sign proclaiming “Harry Klein,
District Attorney.” He opened the door like so many other times years before
when he was a young lawyer. Little had changed. The paneled walls were maybe
slightly darker; the brown carpet had a few more bare spots, but the sitting
area had the same old coffee table, couch and stuffed chairs. If he looked
closely, Wayne half suspected that the magazines were the same ones he read
when he worked for Klein.
Another constant was Harry’s
secretary, Nancy Crider. Harry was her third district attorney. Everyone who
walked through the outer door knew that she was in charge. To get an audience
with her boss, one must be on best behavior and find her in a good mood. Wayne
was the exception.
The gray-haired lady didn’t look up
from her computer when she asked, “Can I help you?”
“Yes ma’am. Has Harry got a few
minutes this morning?”
Hearing the familiar voice, Nancy’s
normally dour features turned into a smile. “Wayne Little, the prodigal
returns. You want your old job back?” Nancy’s expression changed as she
continued. “No, I know why you’re here. It’s about
worked in hotels, restaurants and shops along the beach and in the old section
of downtown known as The Strand, at the port on the east side of the island,
and servicing cruise ships that disembarked from Galveston and circled
Caribbean islands on a weekly basis. Galveston needed its tourists but if truth
be told, residents would probably just as soon be left alone on their island.
CHAPTER 18
The causeway fed traffic onto
Broadway, a four lane boulevard with a wide, grassy esplanade separating
southbound traffic from those headed north. The north end of Broadway had
little appeal to tourists. Lined with convenience stores, cheap restaurants,
bars, motels that could be rented by the hour, and boarded-up buildings, many
“tagged” by rivaling gangs, most visitors just wanted to get to 61 st Street where they could turn right and get to the beach in five minutes or go
straight and head to the Strand or the cruise ship terminals. Wayne let
thoughts of his boyhood in Galveston run through his mind in an effort to keep
the reason for his visit from surfacing. Still, when he got to 21 st ,
he turned left and in a matter of blocks was pulling into the parking garage at
the courthouse and jail complex.
Built in the sixties, some architect
chose to get away from the classic courthouse design so prevalent in Texas
counties, courthouses that were still stately and graceful well over a hundred
years after construction. Instead, this was a “modern” courthouse for its time.
Forty years later, it was past its prime and ugly was almost too kind a
description. In fact, the county had decided to fork over the money to build
another. Maybe this time the architect would get it right.
Wayne walked into the courthouse and was
greeted by a deputy sheriff at the metal detector.
“Well, I’ll be damned. Look what the
cat drug in. How ya’ doing, Wayne? I didn’t know they let city slickers like
you on the island any more.”
“Come on, Bud. You know I was born
here. My mom still lives just two blocks away.”
Bud grabbed Wayne’s extended hand and
escorted him around the metal detector. “You don’t need to go through that. You
headed upstairs to a hearing or a civil trial?”
“No, Bud. I’m paying a visit to my
old boss. You seen him come in yet?”
“Yep. Sure did. He got here about
thirty minutes ago. Oh, shit, Wayne. I know what this is about. It’s your
brother, ain’t it? I heard he got beat up pretty bad the other day. I’m sorry
about that and sorry he’s got to be here. Hell, he was once a hero in this
town.” Bud’s voice trailed off, not knowing what else to say.
Wayne nodded, got into the elevator
and rode alone to the top floor. Wayne’s footsteps echoed in the empty hallway
as he walked to the door at the end with a sign proclaiming “Harry Klein,
District Attorney.” He opened the door like so many other times years before
when he was a young lawyer. Little had changed. The paneled walls were maybe
slightly darker; the brown carpet had a few more bare spots, but the sitting
area had the same old coffee table, couch and stuffed chairs. If he looked
closely, Wayne half suspected that the magazines were the same ones he read
when he worked for Klein.
Another constant was Harry’s
secretary, Nancy Crider. Harry was her third district attorney. Everyone who
walked through the outer door knew that she was in charge. To get an audience
with her boss, one must be on best behavior and find her in a good mood. Wayne
was the exception.
The gray-haired lady didn’t look up
from her computer when she asked, “Can I help you?”
“Yes ma’am. Has Harry got a few
minutes this morning?”
Hearing the familiar voice, Nancy’s
normally dour features turned into a smile. “Wayne Little, the prodigal
returns. You want your old job back?” Nancy’s expression changed as she
continued. “No, I know why you’re here. It’s about
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