“I’m sorry,” I lie.
“I know how upset you are.” Under the circumstances, he can’t be a friend, but I surely don’t want him as an enemy.
He turns and walks back toward Wynona and Trey and the members of his church. Though I cannot see his face, I am sure he is smiling once again. At this moment Sarah walks through the double doors, her eyes searching for mine. I have never been so glad to see anyone in my life.
“Rainey called the school,” she says, hugging me.
“Dad, are you all right?”
I turn and, out of the corner of my eye, see Rainey smiling at me.
“Yeah,” I manage and feel my cheeks wet, “but I’m sure glad to see you.”
“Poor Dad,” she says, her voice hoarse with emotion, “it must have been awful for you.”
I guide her outside into the sunlight so I can take a deep breath. Though she is wearing the jeans and a blue sweater I’ve seen a dozen times, she looks great. Happy to milk a little sympathy, I say, “It was pretty bad.”
“I’ll move back home this afternoon,” she says, with no trace of sullenness in her voice, “if you want.”
I want. I nod gratefully.
“And I’ll keep my mouth shut.” This isn’t the way I would have liked for her to make the decision, but I am learning fast that I control very little these days.
“For about ten minutes,” she says, her red mouth forming a familiar smirk.
I must seem okay for her to make a smart-ass remark.
If I had really looked shaky, she would have been too scared. Just seeing her has restored my spirits. Between her and Rainey I may make it through this week. I motion through the glass for Rainey to come out.
“Rainey’s been a big help,” I say, thinking of last night and this morning.
Sarah watches as Rainey nods and starts to come toward us.
“When has she not?” she says, her tone matter-of-fact.
“I can’t believe y’all aren’t married.”
I jam my hands in my pockets to keep from saying something stupid. We are covering a lot of territory this morning. If Sarah knew I had gone out to a club the night before last to pick up a woman, I’d hear no end of it.
“Well, let’s get poor Mr. Bracken buried first,” I say, knowing this remark will bring her up short.
As Rainey pushes open the door, Sarah asks solemnly “When is the trial postponed to?”
I wink at Rainey to let her know everything is okay.
It is apparent she hasn’t told Shane that Leigh is at her house. I wonder if she has finally begun to have her own doubts about Shane. Either that or she is being extremely loyal to me. Perhaps both.
“A good question,” I say to Sarah, wondering how long a continuance I’ll get. Now that I’m going to be in charge, I’d like to take some time and figure out some things. Judge Grider, whom I reached at home, was naturally shocked by my news. He told me to meet him in his office at eleven, after I explained what all was going on. At that moment with the police in the house verifying my story and the media and neighbors in the yard, it probably sounded as if I were having a party.
I thank Rainey and then take my daughter back to school. I am grateful beyond words that Sarah wasn’t the one who opened the door when Chet put the gun to his head. No telling what it would have done to her. I’m not really sure what it will do to me. If she had been there, I wouldn’t have been able to hide in the house until the ambulance came.
“Why’d he shoot himself?” Sarah asks, as I work my way through the traffic southeast toward her school.
Death has a way of even turning a kid’s attention from herself.
I glance over at her, wondering if Christian Life is responsible for toning down the way Sarah has made her self up. For the last couple of weeks I have noticed that Sarah was no longer wearing earrings to school or painting her fingernails. If they would let up on the dogma, maybe Christian Life wouldn’t be so bad. She doesn’t have to go to school every day looking like Arkansas’s answer to Gloria Estefan.
“He didn’t want his wife having to discover his body,” I say, deliberately misunderstanding her question, which, if I answer it honestly, will lead to another fight with her.
Naturally unsatisfied with this response, my daughter asks, “I mean, why, right before the trial was to start?”
Stopping at the last light before her school comes into view, I realize this is a wound that may never be permanently closed.
“I know you don’t want to believe this,” I say, pulling over to the curb when the light changes, “but Chet had come around to the position that Shane might have killed Art. He would have had to confront him in court, and I don’t think he could bring himself to do it. You must never discuss what I’m telling you.”
Sarah nods, her eyes bright with tears. She asks, “Then how can you do it. Daddy?”
I glance over my shoulder to make sure I am out of the line of traffic and then back at my daughter. She is biting her lip and with her right hand is twisting her luscious black hair, a familiar sign of anxiety. I have to prove Shane’s guilt to satisfy her, and unless he confesses that will never happen.
“Leigh told me just over twenty-four hours ago that she thinks her father killed her husband.”
Sarah stretches her mouth tightly against her teeth before crying, “You’ve put this into her head! She’d do anything to keep from going to jail!”
Have I? Most definitely. That day at Pinnacle Mountain I might as well have tattooed it on her hand. A red Probe whizzes by us, violating the school zone speed limit by at least twenty miles an hour.
“Would you accuse me of killing someone to save yourself?” I ask, not yet willing to admit what I’ve done.
“No!” she groans, wiping her eyes with her knuckles.
“But I’m not Leigh. They say she changed so much, even that she’s lost her faith.”
Frustrated because I have no adequate response, I wheel out into traffic.
“I’ve got an appointment with the judge,” I say harshly. For an instant I wish she hadn’t come back home. I need all the support I can get, damn it. I want to tell her that Rainey is now on my side, but this isn’t true. Like Sarah, she has come back into my life, but both are demanding something I can’t give. I’m afraid that if this case doesn’t go the way Sarah wants it to, like Leigh she will leave again, perhaps this time for good. I think I could live if I lost Rainey; something in me will die for good if I lose Sarah.
As we pull up in front of her school, my daughter commits the ultimate unthinkable act (it would be if there were any kids outside to witness it) by leaning over to kiss me on the cheek.
“I love you. Daddy,” she says shyly.
“I’ll see you when you get home.”
I fight a sudden urge to cry. I am closer to the edge than I thought. She will never touch me again if I get sloppy this close to her school. Still, I feel as if I have been given an unexpected present. I swallow hard and acknowledge the obvious: “I love you, too.”
George Glider’s chambers look less like a judge’s office than the headquarters of a successful politician. His walls are covered with photographs of himself with the Arkansas rich and famous: Dale Bumpers drapes his arm around him; David Pryor is forever frozen in the act of pumping his arm as if it is one of the nickel slots in Lake Tahoe; the late Sam Walton grins as if Grider had just told him a joke about Kmart; former Arkies Sidney Moncrief and Lou Holtz flank him as if they are escorting him to the dais to be introduced as a Razorback immortal; and, directly behind his desk, the most prized picture of all a blow-up of George with Bill and Hillary. The fly in George’s impressive caldron of political soup is that, unless they were dead drunk at the time, not one of these people could stand to be around him for over five minutes. He was one of the most obnoxious lawyers in the state to try a case against, and election to the bench hasn’t improved his personality. If judges were selected on merit instead of elected, he couldn’t obtain an appointment as justice of the peace.
But nobody with the exception of Warren Burger has ever looked more like a judge. At the age of fifty, George Grider’s handsome face, noble as a Roman patrician is crowned by a veritable bale of cotton. A former halfback for the Dallas Cowboys for two years, George looks as if he could suit up tomorrow for the season. In a room with more than six people, he is charming, affable, even witty. Behind closed doors he relaxes completely and becomes his usual snotty, arrogant self.
“You haven’t given me a legitimate reason why this case should be postponed one more day,” he says to me from behind his desk. I look at our prosecuting attorney, Jill Marymount, for help. A mistrial isn’t going to help her either. If she is pondering the possibility, I can’t tell it, for she seems to be engrossed in the details of Hillary’s dress.
“As I just explained. Your Honor,” I say, speaking slowly for George’s long-suffering court reporter, “Mr.
Bracken was going to try the case by himself. There were no plans for me to examine a single witness.”
George handles a gold-plated letter opener that he probably picked up in a pawnshop. As a former attorney for the county sheriffs’ association, he could probably provide an interesting tour of his basement.
“You just said you talked with the defendant about the case just last night,” George says, his voice a sarcastic whine that can’t be communicated on a transcript.
“She didn’t even speak to Mr. Bracken. It is quite clear to this court that you were actively involved in preparing for the trial.”
I suppress a sigh.
“I’m not asking for a long continuance just a week or so. This isn’t a case of whether my client shoplifted a Hershey bar. She could go to prison for life.”
Shifting around on a padded throne that looks comfortable enough to sleep on, Grider asks impatiently, “Why a week? You’re not telling me you haven’t been working on this case, are you, Mr. Page?”
What is it with this guy? Suddenly, I realize that Chet’s death has released him to be the bully he is. Chet intimidated lawyers and judges alike.
“I haven’t pre pared to be the lead counsel. Your Honor.”
Grider casually pokes at a cuticle with the letter opener.
“How long have you been working on this case with Mr. Bracken?”
As frustrating as it has been, it seems like a lifetime.
“About three weeks,” I say.
Cross-examining me as if I were a witness who could be pushed from one end of the courtroom to the other, he sneers, “You’re not telling me you don’t know the theory of the defense’s case after all this time, are you?”
I study Bill Clinton’s face. Judging by his expression, he knew what price he was paying to run for public office. Were this not a murder case, I’d risk a snide comment What theory? So far as I know, there wasn’t one.
“I’m not saying that. Your Honor.” I blurt, “Mr.
Bracken was dying of cancer. He was in a great deal of pain and was on medication to control it. He wasn’t able to prepare properly for this trial.”
Grider nods as if I have conceded the matter.
“If Mr.
Bracken was too ill to try this case, I assume he would have informed the court. Unless you’re prepared to tell me as an officer of the court that you weren’t hired to assist Mr. Bracken on this case, I’m denying your motion for a continuance and we’re beginning this trial to morrow morning, is that clear?”
“Yes, sir,” I say, feeling a knot begin to form in my stomach.
“I take it the court won’t be in recess for Mr.
Bracken’s funeral tomorrow afternoon?” I ask, my voice high with disbelief.
“Lawyers die every day, Mr. Page,” Grider snaps.
“There are far too many delays in the system already.”
Jill, in a berry-and-white-striped blouse and blue skirt, is more casually dressed than she would have been if we had gone to trial. She says, “Your Honor, my office, as you know, had many cases with Mr. Bracken.
I would appreciate it if the court would recess for the funeral. Some of the witnesses are from Christian Life and may want to attend as well.”
As soon as the words are out of Jill’s mouth, I realize that Shane will conduct Chet’s funeral. How am I going to accuse him of murder on the same day he prays over the body of the man whom he hired to defend his daughter? The last thing I want is Shane Norman pontificating that day, but it is too late. Changing his mind (he knows he would be criticized), Grider says gruffly, “It’s the taxpayers’ money, but if that’s what you want, I’ll recess the trial tomorrow afternoon. I am announcing to the press, however, that the Prosecutor’s Office asked for this recess so it could make sure that the man who had beaten it so often was really dead.”
Grider’s delivery of this zinger is so deadpan that Jill doesn’t know whether he is serious or not When I smile (there is a lot of truth in his statement) and Jill does not, Grider says to her, “Jesus Christ, I’m kidding, okay?”
In the hall next to Grider’s office, Jill, speaking in a slightly lower tone, says, “By the way, I’m not renewing the offer of a plea bargain.”
I wait until a couple of lawyers pass. Somehow the media has not gotten wind of this meeting or they would be standing on top of us. My hopes of some major flaw in her case disappear completely. She was purely and simply scared of Chet. Obviously, she isn’t afraid of me.
“You could have kept it open till Christmas,” I say, with more confidence than I feel.
“She didn’t shoot him.”
Jill looks unusually attractive. Her mane of thick dark hair in the last few months has developed a streak of white that is particularly striking. She says, with a tolerant smile, “Who did?”
Despite a natural antipathy for prosecutors, I can’t dislike this woman. She doesn’t have a killer instinct like some of her predecessors.
“I don’t know,” I reply innocently.
“I thought that’s why we had police.”
She shrugs, tossing her hair, and revealing more of the streak of white.
“I didn’t expect you,” she says dryly, “to tell me your case.”
I draw an imaginary line across my lips as if I had something to conceal. What case? I think, as I head down the hall.
During the afternoon, as I am struggling feverishly to get ready for the trial, Dan wanders into my office. He is wearing the first bow tie I’ve ever seen him in, which he undoes, as he stares out my window.
“Have you heard the gossip?” he asks, his voice far off and distracted.
I look up from my desk from the draft of the opening statement I’ve been working on. People who have necks the size of Dan’s shouldn’t wear bow ties. It looks like a stave about to pop off a beer barrel.
“That I’ve subpoenaed Elvis to testify?”
Dan whips off the tie and wipes his face with it.
“There’s crap going around,” he says wearily, “that you killed Chet.”
I stare at him in disbelief.
“The cops didn’t even take me down this morning.”
“Of course not,” he says.
“It’s not coming from Jill’s office. She and the cops have already issued a statement that their investigation has concluded Chet killed himself.”
My surprise is quickly turning to anger.
“So who’s putting that shit out?” I demanded.
“I don’t know,” my friend says, absently rubbing his tie on my window ledge.
“A bailiff told me it was going around. You think it could be your friend Shane?”
I look hard at Dan to see if he is serious. He shrugs, as if to say. Who else could it be? This makes no sense.
Even if Shane is implicated, surely he wants his daughter free. I will run this by Leigh when I go by to see her at Rainey’s in a few minutes to talk about her case.
“Maybe it’s my old firm of Mays amp; Burton,” I say, thinking of the client I stole from them after I was fired.
“They never sued me for taking Andy Chapman from them, but they always wanted to get even.”
Dan nods, “Hell, you know lawyers. It could be somebody who’s jealous of you getting tapped by Chet to work with him. It could be our old boss Greta. She wasn’t a big fan of yours either after the Hart Anderson murder.”
Enemies, I think, wearily, supporting my face with both hands on my desk. Every decent lawyer has a million.
And I haven’t even begun to count disgruntled clients.
“It could be my old rat-muffin divorce client.
She’ll go to her grave convinced I should have given her money back.”
Dan pats his stomach, thinking of my client who served her husband a rat in a pan of blueberry muffins.
“You should have brought in those muffins she fixed you and Sarah,” Dan says, still unable to forgive me for throwing out an entire pan she brought over to my house one morning.
Who else could it be? For all I know, Jason von Jason is putting up flyers all over Blackwell County warning people to keep their dogs penned up while I am still loose on the streets. I shove my papers into my briefcase and stand up to leave.
“How’s this for the beginning of an opening statement?” I say and in a parody of Richard Nixon, intone, “I am not a murderer. And neither is my client.”
Dan laughs, a pained expression on his face.
“A real confidence builder, all right.”
Shooing Dan out in front of me, I hurry from my office, wondering what Chet Bracken would make of this latest twist. From almost the beginning of his illustrious career, he was dogged by rumors that he meted out retribution to those who wronged him. Unfortunately, they were true. I rack my brain, trying to think if I offended him in any way. As paranoid as I’m becoming, I wonder if this rumor, too, is some kind of a payback by Shane Norman.