It’s Friday and everyone in the courtroom is exhausted. I spend an hour haranguing a pimply, stupid little brat who claims he was at the same church service when Gardy called forth the demons and disrupted things. Honestly, I’ve seen the worst of bogus courtroom evidence, but I’ve never seen anything as bad as this. In addition to being false, it is wholly irrelevant. No other prosecutor would bother with it. No other judge would admit it. Kaufman finally announces an adjournment for the weekend.
Gardy and I meet in the holding room, where he changes into his jail uniform while I offer banalities about having a good weekend. I give him ten bucks for the vending machines. He says tomorrow his mother will bring him lemon cookies, his favorite. Sometimes the guards pass them through; sometimes they keep them for their own nourishment. One never knows. The guards average three hundred pounds each, so I guess they need the stolen calories. I tell Gardy to take a shower over the weekend and wash his hair.
He says, “Mr. Rudd, if I find a razor, I’m gone.” With an index finger, he does a slashing motion against his wrist.
“Don’t say that, Gardy.” He’s said it before and he means it. The kid has nothing to live for and he’s smart enough to see what’s coming. Hell, a blind man could see it. We shake hands and I hurry down the back steps. Partner and the deputies meet me at the rear door and shove me into our vehicle. Another safe exit.
Outside Milo, I begin to nod and soon fall asleep. Ten minutes later, my phone vibrates and I answer it. We follow the state trooper back to our motel, where we grab our luggage and check out. Soon we are alone and headed for the City.
“Did you see the Bishop?” I ask Partner.
“Oh yes. It’s Friday, and I think he starts drinking around noon on Friday. But beer only, he’s quick to point out. So I bought a six-pack and we drove around. The joint is a real dive, out east, just beyond the city limits. He says Peeley is a regular.”
“So you’ve had a few beers already? Should I be driving?”
“Only one, boss. I sipped it until it was warm. The Bishop, on the other hand, took his cold. Three of them.”
“And we believe this guy?”
“I’m just doing my job. On the one hand, he has credibility because he’s lived here all his life and knows everyone. On the other, he’s so full of crap you want to dismiss everything he says.”
“We’ll see.” I close my eyes and try to nap. Sleep is virtually impossible in the midst of a capital murder trial, and I’ve learned to grab it whenever possible. I’ve stolen ten minutes on a hard bench in an empty courtroom during lunch, just as I’ve paced back and forth in a dingy motel room at three in the morning. I often black out in mid-sentence when Partner drives and the van hums along.
At some point, as we head back to our version of civilization, I fade away.
It’s the third Friday of the month, and I have a standing date, if you’d call two drinks a real date. It feels more like an appointment for a root canal. The truth is this woman wouldn’t date me at gunpoint, and the feelings are so mutual. But we have a history. We meet at the same bar, in the same booth where we had our first meal together, in another lifetime. Nostalgia has nothing to do with it; it’s all about convenience. It’s a corporate bar downtown, one of a chain, but the ambience is not bad and it’s lively on Friday evenings.
Judith Whitly arrives first and gets the booth. I slide in a few minutes later just as she’s about to get irritated. She has never been late for anything and views tardiness as a sign of weakness. In her opinion, I possess many of these signs. She, too, is a lawyer—that’s how we met.
“You look tired,” she says without a trace of compassion. She, too, is showing signs of fatigue, though, at thirty-nine, she is still strikingly beautiful. Every time I see her I’m reminded of why I fell so hard.
“Thank you, and you look great, as always.”
“Thanks.”
“Ten days and we’re all running out of gas.”
“Any luck?” she asks.
“Not yet.” She knows the basics of Gardy’s case and trial and she knows me. If I believe the kid is innocent, that’s good enough for her. But she has her own clients to fret and lose sleep over. We order drinks—her standard Friday night glass of chardonnay and my whiskey sour.
We’ll have two drinks in less than an hour, then that’s it for another month. “How’s Starcher?” I ask. I keep hoping that one day I can pronounce my son’s name without hating it, but that day has not arrived. My name is on his birth certificate as the father, but I wasn’t around when he was born. Therefore, Judith had control over the name. It should be someone’s last name, if it has to be used at all.
“He’s doing well,” she says smugly, because she’s thoroughly involved with the kid’s life and I am not. “I met with his teacher last week and she’s pleased with his progress. She says he’s just a normal second grader who’s reading at a high level and enjoying life.”
