Moore pushes the sheet of paper an inch or two away from him. “Yes.”
“If the victim had knowledge that these flyers, disparaging Axel Hathorne, were circulating around Pleasantville, wouldn’t that be a reason she might have reached out to Mr. Hathorne’s campaign manager, Neal, to let him know?”
“Objection, speculation.”
“Overruled,” Keppler says.
“I never said she called him,” Moore says.
“Well, you wouldn’t know because you didn’t check.”
After getting the detective to repeat, for the fifth or sixth time, that law enforcement found no physical evidence that tied Mr. Hathorne to Alicia Nowell and her murder, Jay sits down, telling the judge and the witness he has no further questions. Maxine Robicheaux, in the gallery, is staring at Jay, sudden doubt on her face. When Keith Morehead leads her and Mitchell out of the courtroom, she seems turned around, lost, even in the few steps it takes to get from her seat to the door. At the close of court, Nichols again asks for some heads-up as to whether Jay is planning to call any witnesses or mount a defense at all. Jay is cagey, knowing he doesn’t owe the prosecution a look at his playbook, the thing he has planned for day one of defense testimony.
“I want to go after Parker.”
“Absolutely not,” Sam says.
It’s after six o’clock, and they have all gathered in Jay’s office on the eve of what they believe will be Nichols’s announcement the following day that the state is resting its case. Sam even brought over a bottle of Macallan from his personal collection, so confident is he that they are that much closer to putting this whole awful thing behind them. Eddie Mae, who stayed long enough today to see Ellie off safely with Evelyn and Ben, passed out paper cups, and helped herself to a couple of swallows. Neal hasn’t held back either, downing three shots in as many minutes. Only Jay and Axel have refrained from drinking this early in the day, or this early in the judicial process, for that matter. Vivian stayed outside on the front porch, smoking a cigarette. Through the windows of the front parlor where they’re gathered, Jay can see her hugging herself against the night air. A few doors down, music is pouring out of the Diamond Lounge, a lick of blues guitar followed by a long harmonica note, a wounded man’s howl.
“I’m willing to give in on A.G., and anything else he might say on the stand,” Sam says. “I’m willing to forgive him anything if he comes through for Neal, but I think it’s a grave mistake to turn this into a crusade, especially when we’re so close to a win. When this is over, and Neal is acquitted, we can walk back into the mayor’s race, heads held high, knowing we didn’t sling mud.”
“That’s not your decision to make.”
“Neal,” Sam says, turning to his grandson.
Neal, warmed by the whiskey, is sweating. His skin looks dewy and flushed, as if he’d run a mile, as if he’s warming up to get back into a fight. “I don’t think we need it,” he says, nodding at his grandfather in agreement.
The candidate is leaning against the armrest of one of the room’s chairs, his long legs splayed out so far in front of him that the argyle design of his socks is visible. He has his arms crossed. “I feel that I, of all people, ought to abstain from a vote, given that it’s my campaign Dad is trying to protect, and the fact that I pushed for this, the injunction and all of it, putting Neal on the line. But let me ask, isn’t my brother’s testimony enough?”
“All we need to do is dismantle the eyewitness’s story,” Neal says.
“And A.G. does that.”
“Parker on the stand just confuses the issue,” Sam says.
Axel stands. “Or worse, like we’re making this all about politics.”
“It is about politics,” Jay says. “She sent that girl into Pleasantville with an agenda. And here’s your chance to air it in open court, what they’re doing.”
“Reese Parker isn’t the reason that girl was killed,” Sam says.
“You do understand what I’m telling you?” Jay says. “They put a mark on Pleasantville, a test case for the rest of the nation. Some of the biggest names in this city, in this state, including Cynthia Maddox, your supporter, they are funneling money into Wolcott’s campaign, not because they want her to win, but because they’re willing to fund Parker’s work to win the next election and the one after that. If you don’t make this plain right now, you will lose, understand? Not just the mayor’s race. But everything you fought for during the past forty-plus years. The power of your vote, the power of Pleasantville, you will lose it all.”
The room falls silent.
Axel lowers his head, looking queasy. Neal turns to his grandfather, everything, for him, hinging on Sam’s reaction. The man himself clenches his fists at his sides, his dark eyes narrowing behind his spectacles. “Which is why we need to get back out there and fight,” he says, “just like we always have.”
“Pop is right,” Neal says, nodding vigorously, too vigorously, Jay thinks.
“I’ll handle Cynthia,” Sam says.