IN TRUTH he was relieved. Grateful for the door shutting, and the van pulling away through the crowd, that he was no longer required to acknowledge.
And inside the courthouse, his family—his dear wife, his children, his Dunphy relatives he hadn’t had time to speak with—it was a relief to have escaped them, for now.
His wrists were shackled. His ankles were not shackled which was a kindness to him. There was a rough sort of comfort in this familiar place, in the windowless rear of the vehicle where he was seated on a kind of bench, hard beneath his buttocks as they made their way over a cracked and jarring roadway.
It had been a long time since Luther had sunk into any seat, as into a cushion or a soft mattress in anything that resembled a house. If he’d thought of it he would have felt a shiver of contempt for the softness of his old life.
At such interludes, in transition between the courthouse and the detention facility, he felt most at peace. His brain was awake but blank as a sky of pale drifting clouds. He was not happy, but he was not unhappy. Clutching his right wrist with his left hand and his left wrist with his right hand he’d found that (without shifting in his seat) he could exert a considerable strain in his arm and shoulder muscles and in that way strengthen these muscles. There were similar exercises he could do with his calf and thigh muscles, without moving or calling attention to himself.
Even in the courtroom, during the interminable trial, he could exercise certain muscles, in secret.
One of the guards was telling him a mistrial is a “rare occurrence”—like a “draw” in a fight—“real unpopular.”
He should know, the guard confided, there would be another trial. He wasn’t finished yet. The Broome County D.A. had his reputation on the line and would not give up so easily.
“But next time I predict, Luther—you’ll walk out of the courthouse a free man.”
Free man. Luther wondered was this in mockery.
The deputy had turned to speak to Luther through the grated Plexiglas partition as the other deputy drove. His manner was frank and confiding. How surprising it was, to learn belatedly that the deputy who was the elder of the two did not think he was guilty though the deputy wore the gray-blue uniform of the Broome County sheriff’s department and had not displayed any particular warmth or solicitude for Luther Dunphy before, that Luther could recall.
Thank you, Jesus. Among even our enemies there are friends.
This was a wonderment to him. For he had several times thought, in the courtroom, a captive animal amid those others who could roam free as they wished, and when they wished, that, if he reached for the police service revolver of one of the guards, and if he could manage to extricate it from its holster, the other guard, and perhaps other armed men in the courtroom, would shoot him down dead—and make an end of it.
“Because—hey Luther?—you did what the rest of us don’t have the guts to do, that’s why. Killing a baby killer.” The deputy paused, considering. “Yah. That took guts.”
Beside him the other deputy drove in silence for several minutes. Luther saw the tension in the man’s shoulders and neck and sensed opposition until at last he spoke, bitterly:
“Except he killed Tim Barron. What about that?”
“Well—Jesus! That was some kind of bad luck for Barron. That wasn’t what they call premeditated.”
“Look, I knew Tim Barron. He was a Vietnam vet. He was a great guy and shouldn’t have been shot down like that, like he was by this asshole son of a bitch thinking he’s Christ-almighty.”
The first deputy was abashed and did not reply.
In the rear of the van Luther Dunphy shut his eyes, and shut his ears.
“THIS DAY YOU SHALL BE WITH ME IN PARADISE”
This went back a long time. For she was a big girl now.
Shocked and astonished saying she did not understand how anyone could kill a baby.
In her loud girl’s voice she spoke like someone inside a great tin tub, calling upward aggrieved with no expectation or hope of being heard.
It was the bawling voice of her childhood that had been sabotaged when her Daddy had been taken from her. So she would come to believe.
Killing a baby! Her breath came short, she shivered at the thought.
She could not ever do such a thing.
THIS WAS BEFORE DAPHNE. Though confused in her memory with Daphne the little baby sister not-quite-right.