CHAPTER 59
CAINE HAD ENOUGH clout to get me bumped to the front of the line, and I was transported from the jail to the Clara Shortridge Foltz Criminal Justice Center on West Temple. I was brought into the holding cell outside the courtroom, chained to three other guys, one of whom was about eighteen years old and pale with fright.
There was air-conditioning.
It was a miracle. I thanked God.
I sat for hours as my fellow prisoners left and came back. And then I was separated from my cellies.
Caine came to meet me, put both arms around me, and held me in a hard hug. He whispered, “Remember who you are. Look alive.”
I smelled bad, like the unwashed men in my cell. I was wearing yesterday’s clothes and had numerous cuts and bruises and a day-old beard.
I said to my lawyer, “Okay. I think I can fake that.”
I followed Caine into the courtroom. It was paneled, civilized, but it still reminded me of old prints of Ellis Island, where refugees were processed after three weeks in the hold of a ship, not knowing what would become of them.
The judge was the Honorable Skinner Coffin. I’d never met him, but I knew who he was. He was in his fifties, reputed to be touchy and opinionated. Justine had once said that he excelled at “creative interpretation of the law.”
I didn’t know if that was good for me or bad.
While Judge Coffin was in conversation with his bailiff, I scanned the gallery. There was a low rumble of people whispering, shifting in their seats. Babies cried. I heard my name. I turned to see Robbie Pace, the new mayor, coming toward me.
I remember thinking how clean he looked in his blue suit, his face shining from a recent shave. He leaned close and said into my ear, “I wrote to the judge. Put in a good word. I think you’re going to be okay.”
“Thanks, Robbie.”
“No problem.”
Doors opened at the front of the courtroom, and Fescoe entered, came up the aisle. He stopped to speak to Mayor Pace, looking at me over Pace’s shoulder while they chatted. Robbie’s head bobbed in agreement, then Fescoe nodded at me and went to the back of the gallery.
The doors opened again, and Justine came through them, a stunning picture of grace, fresh as a new rose, her smile weighted with sadness. She came up to me. Stopped short of hugging me. Contact was expressly forbidden.
“We’re all with you, Jack. Everyone at Private. We’re reaching out to street contacts, sifting through everything we’ve found, and we will keep at it until we’ve got something useful. Are you all right?”
“It’s good to see you.”
“I wish I could say the same. I know how bad it is in there.”
I thought, You can’t really know—and you should thank God for that.
I said, “So you don’t have anything?”
“Not yet. Tommy has an alibi.”
“So I heard.”
“His wife. He was home with her that evening.”
I sighed.
“We’re still digging,” said Justine.
“I’m okay,” I said.
“I know.”
Why had I slept with Colleen?
Why hadn’t I resisted that impulse?
Justine wished me luck, and then the bailiff called out a number. Caine said, “That’s us. Let’s go.”