“Which campaign, Ms. Hardaway?”
Tonya looks down for a second, fiddling with the hem of her dress, where it rests just above her knee. “We all thought it was the Wolcott campaign.”
“Including you?”
Following a small, sharp exhale, Tonya says, “Yes.”
They break for the day earlier than usual, following a quick conference at the bench to discuss the pace of the schedule, Nichols wanting to know if Jay plans to call any witnesses, so he might prepare. Jay assures the judge no decision has been made as to whether he’ll offer a defense, and Nichols, put on the spot by Judge Keppler, admits he has plans to call only one more witness before the state rests. Jay is momentarily stunned by the news. The state’s case, laid out in open court, is even weaker than he thought, not so much a condemnation of Neal as a light scolding for not doing everyone the courtesy of at least appearing less guilty, making Nichols stand up and sit down, stand up and sit down for the past two days. Neal, leaving the courtroom with his uncle and family, shows the first hint of a smile in days. He looks at his lawyer and gives him a grin, lopsided and unsure, but hopeful nonetheless. Sam pats Jay on the back on their way out. Axel’s sisters are not in court today, but Vivian, in a teal coatdress, the color deep and stormy, holds her grandson’s hand as they exit the courtroom. Ellie, slinging her backpack onto her shoulder, follows her dad down the fifth-floor hallway to the side stairs, both of them avoiding the crowd at the elevator bank. Outside, the air is cold, Houston being famously late to the fall dance, waiting until the second week of December to wring the last of the summer’s humidity from the air. It’s dropped below fifty for the first time since last Christmas. There’s a curling wind snaking through the high-rise buildings downtown, rolling sideways down the length of Franklin Street, lifting wayward leaves and gum wrappers along the curbs. As they approach the Land Cruiser, parked in a twelve-dollar-a-day lot on Caroline, Ellie, in her cotton sweater, shivers. Jay peels off his suit jacket and drapes it over her shoulders. Then he hands her the car keys. “Now?” she says. She seems nervous, not just because she’s never driven downtown, but also because she senses another talk coming on. She’s slow to put herself behind the wheel. By the time she’s in place for this impromptu driving lesson, Jay already has his seat belt on in the passenger seat, the photocopied list of donors to America’s Tomorrow sitting faceup on his lap.
Earlier Lonnie left a message on his cell phone, calling from Rolly’s hospital room to say that Rob Urrea had never heard of the PAC but was spooked by the donor list. “I definitely picked the wrong horse,” he said, before wondering openly if he could break his contract with Hathorne. If it were up to him, Jay would fire his ass. While Urrea was busy digging into Wolcott’s sexual imbroglios, a group of high-profile political players had dipped a toe in the city’s mayor’s race, unseen. They included ProFerma, Thomas Cole, and Cynthia Maddox. Three of the biggest headaches in Jay’s life were tangled up in this somehow.
Ellie puts the key into the ignition. The engine turns, rumbling softly, and lighting up the radio console. KCOH is running a predinner debate on its boards: “Christmas or Kwanzaa, people?” The host, Big Mike, chuckles at his own personal act of provocation. He announces the phone lines are open, before playing a scratchy recording of Otis Redding’s “White Christmas.” The horns sting Jay, so painful are the memories riding on that sound. He had just gotten used to the idea of the tree–erect, but undecorated still, in a corner of their living room–and now there’s music too, the breadth of his loss finding a new sense to explore. It kills him to think that there are notes of his life that will never be played again, save by rolling in circles in his mind, old recordings on a turntable.
Ellie pulls the car out of its parking space, narrowly missing the tail end of a Subaru as she turns the wheel. Jay tells her to make a right turn out of the lot, as Big Mike announces the first caller, Danielle, from Northside Village. “Now, I’m a Christian, y’all, but I do think we need to have our own celebrations.”
The next caller, Don, from Fifth Ward, takes it a step further, starting with “Assalamu ’laikum, brother,” before launching into a lecture about Christ being a tool to keep the black man down since slavery time. “Brother Farrakhan is our true prophet and the Nation of Islam our true religious home.”
“You telling me you never gon’ eat another Christmas ham?” Big Mike says, with no small amount of skepticism. “You had me up till that point.”
“Naw, brother, I’m done with that hog.”
“I’ll eat his, shoot,” the next caller, “Bullet, they call me,” says. “I was raised in the church, I was raised in Christ, and I’m gon’ eat what the lord provide, pork, beef, or chicken. We got to raise these kids out here with Jesus.”
Jay reaches for the knob, turning down the volume.
“Don’t ever do that again,” he says. “Don’t you ever walk out of school and get on a city bus without telling me where you are, you understand me?”
“Okay.”
“ ’Cause I could show you autopsy photos of what happens to a girl walking around this city alone–”
“I said, ‘Okay.’”
“I’m serious, El.”
“Okay.”
“I don’t know what you and your mother talked about, at the end, I don’t know what she said to you, but I need you to understand–”