“But he could live another two years, as far as I know.”
“Hell, Leigh probably did it,” Dan says.
“Women have a million reasons to put us out of our misery. The surprising thing is that you don’t see it more often.” He grins at me.
“You know, I forget what an ambitious fucker you are. You pretend to be a sap like the rest of us on this floor, and yet behind all that eastern Arkansas corn pone you’re eaten up with this stuff.”
I have to bite my tongue. The bottom line is that you’re a talker, not a doer, my friend, I think.
“Not like Chet Bracken used to be.”
“You’re working on it,” Dan pushes himself to a vertical position.
“I’m out of here. I think I’ll go have my stomach pumped.”
Dan’s wrinkled shirt bulges out over his pants like a plastic garbage bag.
“Rosa used to say that’s not a lot of fun.”
Dan winks at me.
“Hey, I’m stupid, but I’m not crazy. I’ll just go home and eat until I pop open.”
I grab my coat. I might as well leave, too. On the freeway, I realize just how much Bracken has got my number. He knows how much I want to stay in and do this case. Shit, if he knows that, he also knows whether Norman has an alibi. But maybe not. I don’t trust anyone on this case, including myself.
In the waiting room a guy as bald as an egg stands up and says, “Mr. Page, I just got out yesterday from St.
Thomas. I found the papers you wanted.”
Rich Blessing? I stammer, “Good to see you. Let’s go on back to my office, and I’ll take a look.” He falls in step alongside of me, and I steal another glance at him.
Without his toupee, he didn’t have much hair, but now he looks like a retired caretaker for a nuclear power plant.
“How’re you feeling?” I ask, turning on the light in my office.
“Better,” he says, handing me an envelope.
“I was having a nervous breakdown because of my toupee. I began dreaming I kept having to chase it. My doctor got me admitted to the psychiatric wing at St. Thomas, but now that I’m out, I’ve decided to make a clean sweep of it,” he says, pointing to his head.
Given permission, I take a good look. Sweep, hell.
His skull looks like one of Woogie’s dog bones.
“Whatever helps you make it through the night,” I mutter, before I realize how bad I sound. I open the envelope and find, among more testimonials, a warranty. In the third paragraph, in big block letters, it says: DO NOT WEAR
IN WATER OR OUTSIDE ON DAYS WHEN WIND IS EXPECTED TO EXCEED TWENTY MILES AN HOUR.
“How windy was it that day when it came off?”
I ask, handing him the document containing the warranty.
“Practically a hurricane,” he says cheerfully as he begins to read.
I let him read in silence and watch his face fall.
“I never saw this.”
“We could try to argue the salesman misrepresented it to you,” I say, my heart not really in it.
Blessing stands up and shrugs.
“He didn’t. Actually, I don’t think I want to sue now. After a week of being on the funny farm with some really sick people I realize how inconsequential hair is.”
“Good,” I say, and hand him all his papers. I’ll get rich next time. I’ve got a more important case to worry about. I just hope Blessing can make a living.
At home I have trouble concealing my rotten mood.
It is Sarah’s night to cook, but when I look in the refrigerator to take out a beer all I see are food stains and a quart of milk three days past the date on the carton. As Sarah comes into the kitchen, I complain, “Why aren’t you putting stuff on the list?”
Sarah pushes up the sleeves on her wind suit and washes her hands in the sink.
“I don’t see your handwriting up there either,” she says mildly.
“Bad day, Daddy?”
I stare at her back. That kind of remark would have been considered impudent when I was her age. It seems as if I have no control over anything. Beginning with the custody deal this morning, followed by my meeting with Leigh this afternoon, and then just now with Chet, I have no power to affect events. I say candidly, “I think I’m upset because the more work I do on Leigh’s case, the more I’m convinced she’s covering up for her father, and yet there doesn’t seem to be anything I can do about it.”
Drying her hands on a dish towel, my daughter turns and admonishes me, “If there’s no evidence of his involvement you can’t do anything.”
I pour myself a glass of water instead of the beer I want. I shouldn’t be talking to her about the case, but I can’t seem to resist rubbing her nose in it.
“You’ve got to promise to keep quiet about what I’m going to tell you, but I’ve found out this afternoon your pastor had every reason to want his son-in-law dead.” I launch into an abbreviated version of my conversation with Leigh and add the highlights of my talk with Shane before I went to San Francisco.
“Shane Norman is a lot more likely suspect than his daughter,” I conclude, knowing I’ve exaggerated a few things, but not by much.
“You’re going to argue in court that he’s the murderer!” Sarah guesses, her voice high enough to shatter the glass in my hand.
“That’s so wrong. You’d destroy an innocent man’s reputation to win a case. You’re horrible, Daddy!”
Without thinking, I slap Sarah across the face. Instantly I regret it. I haven’t spanked her since she was five years old and ran out into the street. Still, I am sick of her high-and-mighty attitude.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about!”
Stunned, for an instant she stands watching me, un able to comprehend I have hit her, then bursts into tears and runs from the kitchen into her room.
“Sarah!” I yell, but she shuts her door. I can’t believe I have raised a hand to her. Yet she has no business talking to me like that. I go to her door and open it. She has thrown her self face down across her bed. I look around her room.
Clothes are strewn on the floor; Coke cans are every where; even the collage of her friends on the wall by her bed is askew. She is still such a child.
“I’m not the lead counsel in this case. Chet has no intention of making the argument that Shane Norman is implicated.”
“But you would!” she says in a choked, muffled voice.
“If I thought he might have done it, of course I would!” I say firmly.
“That’s my job.” She is silent, and I see her shoulders shaking as she sobs against her pillow.
She doesn’t move. I want to hug her, but I know she is too angry to let me. She will forgive me. She always does. I say, “I’m so sorry I slapped you, babe! That was terrible. Listen, I’m going to the store. We’ll eat when I get back.” I leave the room and shut her door. To hell with a list. We always get more than the items we put on it.
At Harvest Foods, filled with remorse, I wander the aisles almost aimlessly, unable to decide even between one or two percent fat milk. Sarah is by far the best part of my life, and I have hit her like all those parents I used to see when I worked child abuse and neglect cases as a social worker for the Division of Children and Family Services. What has she done except defend a man she respects? But what Sarah will never understand is that a defense attorney doesn’t have a lot of choices. If your client is going to have a chance, you better be prepared to show the jury some smoke and mirrors. Shane Norman, I am convinced, can take care of himself. If he’s innocent, this trial won’t hurt him much. Waiting in line while the manager breaks in a new checker, I realize how much rationalization I am doing. Unless Chet pulls off a miracle, one way or an other, Norman is going to be devastated by this trial.
At home I am greeted by Woogie but not by my daughter. Woogie jumps up against me as if I have been gone for a year instead of an hour. He needs his toenails cupped. The last time I tried to do it myself I made him bleed, but I am loath to spend the money. Sarah and I need to spend some quality time together and not mention Christian Life or the trial. Since I have been back from San Francisco, until tonight I’ve hardly talked to her. She has either been out (at Christian Life) or I have. Maybe we should just put up the groceries and go out for a steak. Food is still a bond between us.