But the judge would probably regard them as signs of hard living.
“Screw it.” Impatient with his self-scrutiny, he turned away from the bathroom mirror and went into his bedroom to dress.
He had considered wearing a suit, but figured that would be going overboard, like he was trying too hard to impress the judge. Besides, the navy wool blend made him feel like an undertaker. He settled for a sport jacket and tie.
Although the small of his back missed the pressure of his holster, he decided not to carry.
In the kitchen, he brewed coffee and poured himself a bowl of cereal, but neither settled well in his nervous stomach, so he dumped them into the disposal. As the Cheerios vaporized, he got a call from his lawyer.
“You all right?” The qualities that made William Moore a good lawyer worked against him as a likable human being. He possessed little grace and zero charm, so, although he’d called to ask about Crawford’s state of mind, the question sounded like a challenge to which he expected a positive answer.
“Doing okay.”
“Court will convene promptly at two o’clock.”
“Right. Wish it was earlier.”
“Are you going into your office first?”
“Thought about it. Maybe. I don’t know.”
“You should. Work will keep your mind off the hearing.”
Crawford hedged. “I’ll see how the morning goes.”
“Nervous?”
“No.”
The attorney snorted with skepticism. Crawford admitted to experiencing a few butterflies.
“We’ve gone over it,” the lawyer said. “Look everyone in the eye, especially the judge. Be sincere. You’ll do fine.”
Although it sounded easy enough, Crawford released a long breath. “At this point, I’ve done everything I can. It’s now up to the judge, whose mind is probably already made up.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. The decision could hinge on how you comport yourself on the stand.”
Crawford frowned into the phone. “But no pressure.”
“I have a good feeling.”
“Better than the other kind, I guess. But what happens if I don’t win today? What do I do next? Short of taking out a contract on Judge Spencer.”
“Don’t even think in terms of losing.” When Crawford didn’t respond, Moore began to lecture. “The last thing we need is for you to slink into court looking pessimistic.”
“Right.”
“I mean it. If you look unsure, you’re sunk.”
“Right.”
“Go in there with confidence, certainty, like you’ve already kicked butt.”
“I’ve got it, okay?”
Responding to his client’s testiness, Moore backed down. “I’ll meet you outside the courtroom a little before two.” He hung up without saying good-bye.
With hours to kill before he had to be in court, Crawford wandered through his house, checking things. Fridge, freezer, and pantry were well stocked. He’d had a maid service come in yesterday, and the three industrious women had left the whole house spotless. He tidied his bathroom and made his bed. He didn’t see anything else he could improve upon.
Last, he went into the second bedroom, the one he’d spent weeks preparing for Georgia’s homecoming, not allowing himself to think that from tonight forward his little girl wouldn’t be spending every night under his roof.
He’d left the decorating up to the saleswoman at the furniture store. “Georgia’s five years old. About to start kindergarten.”
She asked, “Favorite color?”
“Pink. Second favorite, pink.”
“Do you have a budget?”
“Knock yourself out.”
She’d taken him at his word. Everything in the room was pink except for the creamy white headboard, chest of drawers, and vanity table with an oval mirror that swiveled between upright spindles.
He had added touches he thought Georgia would like: picture books with pastel covers featuring rainbows and unicorns and such, a menagerie of stuffed animals, a ballet tutu with glittery slippers to match, and a doll wearing a pink princess gown and gold crown. The saleswoman had assured him it was a five-year-old girl’s fantasy room.
The only thing missing was the girl.
He gave the bedroom one final inspection, then left the house and, without consciously intending to, found himself driving toward the cemetery. He hadn’t come since Mother’s Day, when he and his in-laws had brought Georgia to visit the grave of the mother she didn’t remember.
Solemnly, Georgia had laid a bouquet of roses on the grave as instructed, then had looked up at him and asked, “Can we go get ice cream now, Daddy?”