“Perfect.”
Elizabeth watched him fix her drink, then mix an old-fashioned for himself. Faircloth Jones was a lawyer, retired. He’d come from nothing, worked weekends and nights to put himself through school, and become—arguably—the finest defense attorney ever seen in the state of North Carolina. In fifty years of practice—decades of cases involving murder, abuse, betrayal—he’d only cried once in court, the day a black-robed judge swore him into the state bar, then frowned disapprovingly and asked the young man why he was so shiny-eyed and trembling. When Faircloth explained that he was moved by the grandeur of the moment, the judge asked that he kindly move his wet-behind-the-ears, crybaby self somewhere other than his court.
The nickname stuck.
“I know why you’re here.” He pushed the drink into her hand, sat in a cracked, leather chair. “Adrian’s out.”
“Have you seen him?”
“Since retirement and divorce, I rarely leave the house. Sit. Please.” He gestured to his right, and Elizabeth sat in a wooden-armed chair whose cushions were covered in faded, wine-colored velvet that had, in places, been worn white. “I’ve been following your situation with great interest. An unfortunate business: Channing Shore, the Monroe brothers. What’s your lawyer’s name, again?”
“Jennings.”
“Jennings. That’s it. A youngish man. Do you like him?”
“I haven’t spoken to him.”
“Young lady.” He lowered the drink onto the arm of his chair. “Water finds a level, as you know, and the state will have its pound of flesh. Call your lawyer. Meet with him tonight if need be.”
“It’s fine, really.”
“I fear I must insist. Even a young lawyer is better than none at all. The papers make your situation quite plain, and I don’t pretend to have forgotten the politics of state office. Were I not a million years old, I would have sought you out myself and demanded to represent you.”
He was agitated. Elizabeth ignored it. “I’m not here to talk about myself.”
“Adrian, then.”
“Yes.” Elizabeth slipped onto the edge of her chair. It seemed so small, the truth she needed. A single word, a few letters. “Was he sleeping with Julia Strange?”
“Ah.”
“He told me as much less than an hour ago. I just want verification.”
“You’ve seen him, then?”
“I have.”
“And you asked about the presence of his skin beneath Julia’s nails?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry.…”
“Don’t say no.”
“I wish I could help you, but that information is a matter of attorney-client privilege, and you, my dear girl, are still an officer of the law. I can’t discuss it.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“I’ve dedicated my life to the law. How can I do less when the days that remain are so few?” He drank deeply, visibly upset.
Elizabeth leaned closer, thinking perhaps he might feel the strength of her need. “Listen, Crybaby…”
“Call me Faircloth, please.” He waved a hand. “The nickname reminds me of better days that hurt all the more for their passing.” He settled into the seat as if a hand were pressing down.
Elizabeth clasped her fingers and spoke as if the rest of her words might cause pain, too. “Adrian believes someone planted evidence to implicate him.”
“The beer can, yes. We discussed that, often.”
“Yet, it was never challenged at trial.”
“For that, my dear, Adrian would have needed to take the stand. He was unwilling to do so.”
“Can you tell me why?’
“I’m sorry, but I cannot; and for the same reason as before.”
“Another woman has been killed, Faircloth, murdered in the same manner and in the same church. Adrian has been arrested. It will be in tomorrow’s papers.”
“Dear God.”
The glass trembled in his hand, and she touched his arm. “I need to know if he’s lying to me about the beer can, the presence of his skin beneath Julia’s nails.”
“Has he been charged?”
“Faircloth—”
“Has he been charged?” The old man’s voice shook with emotion. His fingers were white on the glass, spots of color in his cheeks.
“Not for the murder. He was picked up on a trespass charge. They’ll hold him as long as they can. You know how it works. As for the dead woman, I know only that she was killed after Adrian’s release from prison. Beyond that, I don’t know what evidence they have. I’m frozen out.”
“Because of your own troubles?”
“And because Francis Dyer doubts my intentions.”
“Francis Dyer. Phhh!” The old man waved an arm, and Elizabeth remembered the way he’d cross-examined Dyer. As hard as Faircloth had tried, he had never been able to discredit Dyer’s testimony. He was unshakable on the stand, utterly convinced of Adrian’s obsession with Julia Strange.
“They’ll hang him for this if they can.” Elizabeth leaned closer. “You still care. I can tell. Talk to me, please.”