Black and gold streamers fluttered from the marquee outside
Purcell High School. The caricature of a black panther
snarled at the passing cars on the highway and temporary
letters spelled out pounce permian. On the field inside the
stadium, the football team was working out and running
plays. The marching band, its instruments flashing in the sun,
was rehearsing Friday night's halftime show on a practice
field.
The activity looked so innocent. For a moment, Alex regretted
her mission and what its outcome would most likely
mean for the community. She dismissed her guilty feelings
quickly, however, when she reminded herself why she was
here. A harvest of rejection, as well as her grandmother's
harsh accusations, were stored in her mind if she ever, even
for a second, forgot what had brought her to this point in her
life. She could ill afford the slightest sentimental regrets.
Downtown Purcell was almost deserted. Many of the commercial
buildings and offices facing the square were closed
and barred. Foreclosure signs were too plentiful to count.
Graffiti was scrawled across plate-glass windows that had
once been filled with enticing merchandise. There was still
a hand-lettered sign on the door of a deserted laundry. Someone
had scratched out the r, so that the sign now read, 3
shits/$1.00. It crudely summed up the economic climate in
Purcell County.
She parked in front of the county courthouse and fed coins
into the meter at the curb. The courthouse had been built of
red granite quarried in the hill country and hauled by rail to
Purcell ninety years earlier. Italian stonecutters had carved
pretentious gargoyles and griffins in every available spot as
if the amount of decoration justified the expense of their
commission. The results were ostentatious, but gaudiness was
one of the edifice's attractions. Atop its dome the national
and Texas state flags flapped in the brisk north wind.
Having worked in and about the state capitol of Austin for
the last year, Alex wasn't intimidated by official buildings.
She took the courthouse steps with a determined stride and
pulled open the heavy doors. Inside, the plaster walls showed
peeling paint and signs of general disrepair. The aggregate
tile floor had faint cracks in it that crisscrossed like the lines
in the palm of an ancient hand.
The ceiling was high. The drafty corridors smelled of industrial-strength
cleaning solution, musty record books, and
an overdose of perfume that emanated from the district attorney's
secretary. She looked up expectantly as Alex entered
the outer office.
"Hi, there. You lost, honey? I love your hair. Wish I could
wear mine pulled back in a bun like that. You have to have
real tiny ears. Wouldn't you know it, I've got jug handles
sticking out from the sides of my head. Do you put henna
on it to give it those reddish highlights?"
"Is this District Attorney Chastain's office?"
"Sure is, honey. Whatcha need him for? He's kinda busy
today."
"I'm from the Travis County D.A.'s office. Mr. Harper
called on my behalf, I believe."
The wad of chewing gum inside the secretary's cheek got
a rest from the pounding it had been taking. "You? We were
expecting a man."
' 'As you can see . . ." Alex held her arms out at her sides.
The secretary looked vexed. "You'd think Mr. Harper
would have mentioned that his assistant was a lady, not a
man, but shoot," she said, flipping her hand down from a
limp wrist, "you know how men are. Well, honey, you're
right on time for your appointment. My name's Imogene.
Want some coffee? That's a gorgeous outfit, so high-fashion.
They're wearing skirts shorter these days, aren't they?"
At the risk of sounding rude, Alex asked, "Are the parties
here yet?"
Just then, masculine laughter erupted from the other side
of the closed door. "That answer your question, honey?"
Imogene asked Alex. "Somebody prob'ly just told a dirty
joke to let off steam. They're just bustin' a gut to know what
this hush-hush meeting is all about. What's the big secret?