He looked out from under bushy brows, the narrowed eyes very bright. “Will you help him?”
“Trust him or walk away. Those are my choices.”
The old man leaned back in the chair and looked small in the rumpled suit. “Did you know that my family and Adrian’s have been together on this river for two hundred years or more? No reason you should, of course, but there it is. The Jones family. The Walls. When my father was crippled in the First World War, it was Adrian’s great-grandfather who taught me to hunt and fish and work the land. He cared for my parents, and when the Depression came, he made sure we had butter and beef and flour. He died when I was twelve, but I remember the smell of him, like tractor grease and grass and wet canvas. He had strong hands and a lined face and wore a tie when he came for supper on Sundays. I grew up and followed the law and never knew Adrian that well. But I remember the day he was born. A group of us smoked cigars on the porch right there. His father. A few others. It’s good land on the river. Good families.”
“That’s a lovely sentiment, but I need something beyond simple faith. Can you tell me anything more? About Adrian? The case? Anything?”
The last word smelled of desperation, and the old lawyer sighed. “I can tell you that the law is an ocean of darkness and truth, and that lawyers are but vessels on the surface. We may pull one rope or another, but it is the client, in the end, who charts the course.”
“Adrian refused your advice.”
“I really can’t discuss it.”
The old man drained his drink, the cherry bloodred in the bottom of the glass. He declined to meet her eyes, and Elizabeth thought she understood. He knew about the affair. He could have used it to sow doubt in the minds of the jury, but Adrian wouldn’t allow it.
“It saddens me, child, to have you here while I have so little of value to say. I hope you can forgive an old man for such a frightful lapse, but I find myself weary.”
Elizabeth took his hand, the bones within it light and brittle.
“If you would be kind enough to fix another drink.” He retrieved his hand and offered the glass. “My heart aches from thoughts of Adrian, and my legs seem to have lost much of their feeling.” Elizabeth fixed the drink and watched him take it. “Did you know that George Washington slept here, once?” He gestured vaguely; seeming tired enough to be transparent. “I often wonder which room.”
“I’ll leave you alone,” Elizabeth said. “Thank you for speaking with me.”
She made it to the tall, wide doors before he spoke again. “Do you know how I got my nickname?”
Elizabeth turned her back to the curving staircase and the floor stained black by time. “I’ve heard the story.”
“That flint-eyed judge was right about one thing. Lawyers are not to become emotionally involved. We are to be strong when clients are weak, righteous where they are flawed. It’s a simple conceit. Discipline. The law.” He looked up from the depths of his chair. “That worked for every client until Adrian.”
Elizabeth held her breath.
“We spent seven months prepping his case, sat side by side for long weeks of trial. I’m not saying he was perfect—God knows he was as human as the rest of us—but when he was convicted, it was like something inside me broke, like some vital, lawyerly organ simply stopped working. I kept my face, mind you. I thanked the judge and shook the prosecutor’s hand. I waited until the courtroom was clear, then I put my head on the defense table and wept like a child. You asked if there was anything I could tell you, and I guess that’s it. The last trial of Crybaby Jones.” He nodded at the liquor in his glass. “A sad old man and tears, like bookends.”
*
When Elizabeth returned to the police station, she marched through the front door without slowing. Adrian was telling the truth—that was the old man’s message. Now, she wanted to know what they had on him. Not the trespass. The murder. She wanted answers.
“What are you doing here, Liz?”
She rounded into the bull pen, still moving fast. Beckett worked his large body between the desks, trying to catch her as she narrowed the angle to Dyer’s door.
“Liz. Wait.”
Her hand found the knob.
“Don’t. Liz. Jesus…”
But the door was already opening. Inside, Dyer was standing. So were Hamilton and Marsh.
“Detective Black.” Hamilton spoke first. “We were just talking about you.”
Elizabeth faltered. “Captain?”
“You shouldn’t be here, Liz.”
Elizabeth looked from Dyer to the state cops. It was hours after dark, too late for the meeting to be random. “This is about me?”
“New evidence,” Hamilton said. “We’d like your take on it.”
“I won’t allow that,” Dyer said. “Not without representation.”
“We can keep it off the record, if you like.”
Dyer shook his head, but Elizabeth raised her hand. “It’s okay, Francis. If there’s new evidence, I want to hear it.”