As we drove up the face of the bluff—ten car lengths ahead of the cruiser—Nadine joked about the deputy staring a hole through her chest. I wasn’t quite ready to laugh. If he called in my plate to the wrong person, he might still pull us over and arrest us for trespassing. But when I peeled off eastward at the top of the bluff, he continued north into the city, and my pulse returned to normal. Nadine and I went back to my house and took a cursory look at the soil samples I’d collected. They were full of fragments, some of which were clearly charcoal, while others appeared to be pebbles. In the bag of dirt taken from beside the pier, I found three spheres that looked and felt like baked clay. They weren’t uniform in size, but each fit easily into my palm. A few small fragments from that bag had the feel of bone, that damp, ossified roughness of something that might once have been alive. But even if they were bone, we had no way to know if it was human. We also discovered two teeth that looked human, but I’d seen hog teeth that looked like they came from people, so I encouraged Nadine not to jump to conclusions. Our ultimate judgment was that we weren’t qualified to make any sort of valid analysis of those samples.
We were walking back to our respective rooms to get what sleep we could when she said, “Sorry about the kiss. I figured that was the best play.”
A smile came to my lips. “It wasn’t exactly hardship duty.”
Nadine smiled, too. “No.”
“Well, good night. For the second time.”
“Night.”
I waited for her door to close, then went into my bedroom. I needed a shower but was too exhausted to take one. As I kicked off my shoes, it struck me that I was living in a different world from the one I’d awakened in that morning. In the span of seventeen hours, I had lost two pillars of my childhood to violent death. Strangely, Sally Matheson’s death unsettled me most. Unlike Buck, who had pushed his luck past the point of prudence, Sally had seemed beyond the reach of violence. Untouchable, like a TV actress from my youth. And yet she was dead. For five months I’d been waiting for my father to die, and suddenly Paul’s mother had preceded him into the grave. As I lay in bed and tried to sleep, I saw the dancers on the Aurora roof opening up a circle as though fleeing a suicide bomber, only to reveal Max and Sally arguing viciously while a rock-and-roll legend watched them from his stage. God only knew what wild rumors that scene would inspire.
Before Nadine and I headed for town this morning, I gave her a key to my house and the code to my gate—2972 (Jet’s birthday, but Nadine doesn’t know that). I told her that if anything felt wrong during the day, if she sensed even the slightest danger, she should consider my house a refuge. If the drive seemed too far, she could come to the Watchman building. A few minutes ago, she texted to let me know that while her customers are obsessed with the shooting of Sally Matheson, our story suggesting that Buck was murdered at the industrial park is running a close second. And while public opinion seems split on Max’s guilt, it’s running 100 percent against me, Ben Tate, the coroner, and Buck himself.
After dropping Nadine at her shop this morning, I delivered half the dirt I’d collected from the paper mill site to Byron Ellis’s home. The coroner figures the county might fire him today, but he has a lawyer and two well-known black activists ready to protest any such move. In the meantime, he’s glad to have the soil samples to distract him from the politics. Byron’s no archaeologist, but he feels confident that he can determine whether the samples contain any blood or bone. Quinn Ferris is picking up the rest of the dirt later today. Quinn assures me she can get the samples to an expert at LSU in Baton Rouge, who can tell us exactly what Buck was digging into when he was murdered.
Since my texts with Nadine, I’ve been trying to settle on my next move. Thirty minutes ago, one of my reporters told me Max Matheson was due to be arraigned soon. I’ve put off dealing with in-house issues until I hear how that went. I’ve also kept my burner phone close, but I’ve heard nothing from Jet since last night. And though it’s been tough, I’ve obeyed her order not to try to reach her. I’m hoping Ben Tate’s forceful inquiries made the locum tenens pathologist nervous enough to do an honest autopsy on Buck, but I won’t know until I get a look at the report, which I might not see until the afternoon.
When my iPhone rings, I curse, wishing it was the burner. But at least it’s Carl Stein, the reporter covering Max’s arraignment.
“How’d it go, Carl?”
“The judge just granted Max bail.”
“How high?”
“A million bucks. For a hundred grand cash, he gets to walk free till trial.”
A hundred grand is pocket change for Max, but I expected this. “He’s a lifelong Bienville resident, a war hero, has gainful employment and no criminal record. Plus, the Poker Club has a lot of sway over the judges in this town, both circuit and chancery. Probably even federal.”
“I hear you, but that’s not why I called.”
“Something else happen?”
“You could say that. I called about his lawyer.”
An odd note in Carl’s voice gets my attention. “Arthur Pine?” I say, thinking of the de facto attorney of the Poker Club.
“Nope. Pine sat in the back row during the proceeding.”
“Who did Max hire?”
“Jet, man. His daughter-in-law. Can you believe that shit?”
I feel as though the earth just paused in its revolution around the sun. “No. Are you serious?”
“I knew that would freak you out. I still can’t believe it myself.”
Everyone who works for me knows Jet and I often collaborate on stories, and she’s given all my staff reporters help at different times. On matters of education or civic corruption, she’s the most reliable source in the city. But I’m not sure quite what to say to Carl Stein in this moment.
“Did the judge set a trial date?” I ask in a dazed voice.
“Not yet.”
“Did Jet post bond for Max?”
“Pine had the money. The bag man.”
My mind reels at the implications of this. “Is Jet still at the courthouse?”
“No, she cut right out.”
“Was Paul Matheson there?”
“Uhh, yeah.”
“Did he leave with his wife?”
“Don’t think so.”
“Okay, Carl. Good work.”
Before I can second-guess myself, I take out my burner phone and speed-dial Jet. Her phone rings five times. Then she picks up.
“I told you not to call me,” she whispers.
“Yeah, well, I just heard about your courtroom appearance.”
“What about it?”
“You’re going to defend Max? I thought you hated him.”
“Like I have a fucking choice? Damn it, Marshall. This is family I’m dealing with.”
Like I don’t know that? “Where are you now?”
Silence.
“Jet!”
“Look, how about I come by the paper and explain in person why I can’t give you an interview?”
She’s laying out the excuse she’ll give Paul for the visit. “Whatever works.”
“I’m still downtown. I’ll be there in five minutes.”
The phone clicks, and she’s gone.
I’m not sure what I did for the five minutes it took Jet to get to my office. I must have sat at my desk in a trance, trying to figure out how she’s rationalized serving a man she’s hated and despised for most of her adult life. When my door opens, I’m shocked yet again. She walks in wearing the standard uniform of a corporate lawyer in Jackson, Mississippi: navy skirt suit, cream silk blouse, Christian Louboutins, a Prada purse, a string of small but fine pearls, and the sapphire earrings she wore yesterday. Jet almost never dresses this way, even in court. What the hell is going on?
She closes the door softly behind her, then takes a seat on one of the two chairs before my desk. She sits with an unusual rigidness, as though she’s been summoned for an interrogation. No one watching this conversation would guess that we are lovers.
“Max asked me to represent him at his arraignment,” she informs me. “He asked me through Paul. Paul asked me in front of Kevin. I couldn’t say no, all right? He’s family.”
“Isn’t that the very reason to say no?”
“Not in the Matheson family.”
“Surely there must be an ethical conflict? A rule violation?”
“Would you let me finish? There are rules, and most of them don’t prevent me from representing Max. However, I’m likely to inherit money from Sally, and that will get me out of having to defend him at trial.”
“Would you even have considered doing that?”
She exhales slowly, as though restraining herself from snapping back at me. “After I consulted with Max this morning—at the jail—he asked me to represent him at trial. Begged me, actually.”
I’m shaking my head in disbelief. “Jet, what the fuck?”
“Please let me finish. This is difficult enough as it is. It’s no mystery why Max wants me to defend him on this murder charge. I’m a woman and a family member. Even though someone else will almost certainly end up defending him at trial, my handling the early phase says more to potential jury members about his innocence than anything else could.”
“Oh, I know why he wants you. But why have you agreed?”