“I’m not saying you should, but you have to consider the following facts: you’ve lied about your whereabouts, and the prosecutor will have a field day with it; you were overheard arguing the night before the murder, and so far as we know, nobody, including the police, has found a shred of physical evidence that any one else is a suspect. And three years and four months at your age is a lot more tolerable than spending the rest of your life in prison.” Plus the fact that your lawyer is knocked out with a pain pill for the night instead of pre paring your defense and will be out on his feet by three tomorrow afternoon if he lasts that long. But I do not mention this last extremely crucial fact. Why? Out of habit? Lawyers protect each other as much as doctors do. It is as reflexive as an eye blink and happens at least as often. I find a loaf of wheat bread in the freezer next to a Ziploc bag of chicken breasts and lay it on the counter to thaw. When I was a child in eastern Arkansas, the idea of freezing a loaf of Wonder Bread must have been heretical, since I was never privy to the phenomenon until I moved to the center of the state as an adult. What are bread boxes for? As warm and moist as the Arkansas Delta is, I’m surprised bread didn’t turn into penicillin right before our eyes.
Leigh stares into her coffee. I’ve never seen her face so sad. I’m certain there is something more she is not telling me. She says quietly, “Will you call Mr. Bracken for me?”
I nod but say, “Let me ask you a question first. Were you and Art drinking that morning? You don’t seem to handle alcohol very well.”
“No,” Leigh says, a little too abruptly.
“Please call Mr. Bracken.”
I shrug helplessly. Art’s autopsy report showed no alcohol content. In her voice is the tone of a martyr, not a killer giving up.
“I don’t think you killed Art,” I argue. Actually, I have no idea whether she did or not, but I can’t allow her to make this decision so easily.
“You don’t need to sacrifice yourself for your father.”
“I’m not,” she says, her voice flat.
“Please call Mr.
Bracken.”
I fight back a rising sense of panic. She may know the odds tomorrow better than I realize. Innocent people go to prison. Why spend her life there? I can’t make this decision on my own and dial Chet’s number from the phone in the kitchen, determined to wake him up, no matter how groggy he is. Wynona answers, and I tell her what has occurred.
“There’s no point,” she says.
“Jill called here an hour ago. I was able to wake Chet up just long enough for her to tell him she had withdrawn the offer.” I look at Leigh and feel my pulse begin to race from anxiety.
“How did Chet react?” I ask softly.
“I could tell it depressed him,” Wynona admits, “but he was pretty much out of it because of the pain pills.
I’ll tell him early tomorrow morning you’ve found Leigh.”
I thank her and hang up and tell Leigh, who smiles wanly.
“I guess we better get ready for the trial.”
I want to grab her and shake her and make her tell me what the hell is going on. Why did she run off and get drunk and hide in a motel room? Why isn’t she fighting for her life? Yet, I’m afraid if I push her, she will walk out the door just as she did at my house. I stare at her until she lowers her eyes. It was as if she were an actress who wanted to improvise for two nights before the play began but who ultimately resigned her self to sticking with the script. I test her by saying, “You realize that we’re going to be arguing tomorrow that your father might have killed Art?”
She closes her eyes but doesn’t respond.
I realize I am grinding my teeth and stop. Was her disappearance merely a classic case of stage fright? I can’t shake the feeling she is reading her words from a teleprompter. What is my part? Obviously, the ambitious understudy who is willing to play any role to further his career. As I prepare Leigh for her expected testimony, I have the sense that the whole production is coming apart because the director is home in bed. In an ideal world, the judge would grant a continuance and Chet would gracefully step aside. However, at this point the outcome would be the same. I realize how little I understand Chet. Has he told me everything? I don’t have a clue.
“Do I have to tell about the video?” she asks, nibbling at a fingernail while I write out questions at the kitchen table.
I glance up at her and see that she is embarrassed.
She is on trial to decide whether or not she will ever have another single moment of privacy the rest of her life, and she is worried about her sense of dignity. Human nature wins out every time. I try to think about the impact this revelation will have on the jury. The police presumably know nothing about it. Jill has not breathed a word about it, which she would have been required to do if she knew anything.
“Probably not,” I say, thinking an Arkansas jury would want to punish her for it. What is there to argue? Somebody who knew Art entered his house during the hour or so that Leigh went back up to the church to pretend she was there all the time. Who?
Shane Norman, of course.
When Rainey returns, thirty minutes later, we take a break for Leigh to look at the clothes Rainey has bought for her. Like a mother who has been on a shopping spree for her daughter, Rainey opens the boxes with a flurry of maternal excitement.
“I hope you like these.”
She holds up a chartreuse blazer against a white shortsleeved shell and a green skirt.
“I’ve never shopped so fast for a complete set of clothes in my life,” she says, giggling, and hands Leigh’s credit card back to her. Be sides outer garments, she has obtained shoes, a bra, panties, and stockings.
“The salesclerks thought I was wonderful.”
Leigh looks through the boxes and smiles at Rainey.
“They look great. Thank you.”
While Leigh goes into Rainey’s bedroom to try on her new wardrobe, I watch as Rainey begins to make the toast I have forgotten about. Between us is an un spoken truce. No matter how convinced she is of Shane’s innocence, she cannot help but respond to Leigh. She is too vulnerable right now, and Rainey was born rooting for the underdog. She takes eggs and turkey bacon from her refrigerator. For a few moments it is like old times. Too discreet to ask questions about the case, Rainey entertains me with gossip about the state hospital, my old stomping grounds from my days as a public defender, when I represented patients at involuntary commitment hearings.
When Leigh comes out of her bedroom, Rainey smiles and says, “You look fantastic!”
Obviously pleased with Rainey’s choices, Leigh hugs her as if they were sisters. While Rainey cooks and feeds Leigh, they chat about clothes and accessories as if tomorrow were to be a normal day instead of the beginning of a murder trial. I marvel at Rainey’s capacity to put others at ease. It is an art form, one alive and well in the South.
Afterward, as Leigh and I work alone in Rainey’s living room, Leigh says, “There’s some real chemistry between you and Rainey. I could tell just by the way you looked at each other.”
Distracted, I nod, unwilling to say that it has been mostly bad for quite a while. Feeling strangely out of sync (it may be exhaustion), I drive home at eleven. So much has gone wrong lately that even though the last few hours have been better, I go to bed feeling de pressed. I cannot believe this story will have a happy ending.
11
At precisely five o’clock in the morning, the phone rings, it is Chet, who sounds as wide awake as I am sleepy.
“I’ll be at your house in an hour,” he says.
“How is Leigh?”
I yawn.
“Resigned to go to trial. I still don’t know why she took off.”
Chet speaks quickly, as if he has assumed this would be the outcome all along.
“What time did you tell her to meet us?”