“At least he’s willing to talk about a trial.”
There it is, out in the open.
Jay’s trepidation about, or downright fear of, standing in a courtroom again–it’s not as well hidden as he thought. “There’s not a one of us don’t know what you been through this year,” Jim says. “But the families out there, myself included, we’ve been through a lot too. We need a fighter, son.” He reaches into the pocket of his jeans for his wallet. From inside, he pulls several bills, leaving the bartender an extra ten for his time. To Jay, he says, “You still have my vote.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Jay watches him go, the bar’s padded door swinging closed behind him. The bartender offers him another beer, but Jay shakes his head. The first one left him feeling foggy and loose limbed, weak against the wind that just blew through him. He’s never lost a client before. Lord knows he can’t afford to start now.
CHAPTER 5
Jon K. Lee will have to wait, Jay thinks, as he walks to the Hathorne campaign headquarters, one block over on Travis. The volunteers are out this morning, a line of them wearing long-sleeved Tshirts, a deep, patriot blue, with the slogan HATHORNE FOR HOUSTON! in white. A staffer, a young black woman in braids, is handing out stacks of door knockers, glossy leaflets to be left on front doors across the city. The leaflets show Axel’s picture, an image of the candidate surrounded by a handful of men in blue. The Houston Police Department endorsed him in the general, and there is every reason to assume it will back him again in the runoff against Sandy Wolcott, the D.A., who easily scored the endorsement of the Harris County sheriff. The battle of the law-and-order candidates has made for one of the oddest campaign seasons in Houston’s history. Inside the storefront’s glass doors, there are more volunteers at a phone bank in the front part of the office. At a square of four card tables pushed together, they sit on folding chairs, copies of the county voter rolls splayed out in front of them, each volunteer hunched over a script and a telephone. Jay can hear their one-sided conversations: Hi, I’m ______, and I’m calling to ask for your vote for Axel Hathorne. Mr. Hathorne is a Houston native, and the first African-American police chief in the city. For nearly forty years, he’s fought to keep our streets safe.
“Can I help you?”
Jay turns to see the staffer with the long braids, pulled in a ponytail off her face. Coming in from outside, she’s got a large, bricklike phone cradled against her ear as she bends down to dump a surplus of leaflets into an open cardboard box. Standing upright, she rolls up the sleeves of her fleece pullover, eyeing Jay with more than a little curiosity. In his suit and tie, he stands out among the jeans and khakis, sneakers and Tshirts in the office. Nor, in this getup, would he ever pass for a member of the press. “You Detective Moore?” she says. The mention of a police officer catches Jay off guard, and before he can correct her assumption, the woman, moving fast, eager to check one more thing off her list, walks to a dented metal desk a few feet from the makeshift call center. “The station said you’d be by,” she says, holding up a finger to slow a staffer headed her way with a clipboard. “I’m the field director,” she says to Jay. “Marcie normally handles Neal’s schedule, along with Axel’s. But Tuesday, Election Day, everything was get out the vote, and I actually put together the schedule for that day.” She hands him a spreadsheet with detailed blocks of times and locations, and the names of the campaign’s key players, including the candidate himself. “It’s about what you’d expect, nothing out of the ordinary. There was one thing, though,” she says, her brow wrinkling.
“Tonya!”
Down a roll of thin carpet comes Marcie in acid-washed jeans and a Hathorne T-shirt, walking from the back offices, which are really just a series of cubicles set apart by fabric dividers. She’s breathless, damp with sweat. “Melanie Lawson at Channel Thirteen wants to tape a segment with Axel, history in the making, maybe some stuff with his dad, that sort of thing, to air after the debate tomorrow night, but they have to get a crew over here today to tape.”
“They’re at the Hyatt all day, doing debate prep.”
“Neal on his mobile?”
“Yes.”
Marcie turns, noticing Jay. “You were at Sam’s last night.”
“What?” Tonya says, looking confused at first and then panicked. She smiles tightly, eyeing the campaign schedule in Jay’s hand, but too timid to ask for it back in front of Marcie, her superior, for all Jay knows. In fact, the more anxious she seems, the more curious Jay is to know what exactly is on that schedule. He folds it and tucks it into the inside pocket of his jacket. “Just came for a bumper sticker,” he says, grabbing a blue HATHORNE FOR HOUSTON! decal from the corner of a call-center desk, before walking out and heading for the Hyatt.
Rolly has a connection at the hotel, a guy behind the front desk, who, for an ounce of hash every two weeks, provides any guest needing a ride the phone number for Rolly’s car company. For the same deal, he’s more than happy to get Jay a room number, sending him to a two-story suite on the seventh floor. The Hathorne campaign has had it for the past two nights, leading up to tomorrow’s debate on Channel 13. It’s one of the few on the floor that use a bolt lock instead of a key card. Through the door, Jay can hear the steel lock turn, just moments before Vivian Hathorne answers the door. She’s in a black sweater, something silky and wine colored peeking from underneath. Below, there are black slacks and slippers on her feet. She is, as he last saw her, holding a glass in one hand.
“They haven’t found her, have they?”
“That my fish?” a voice behind her calls out.
Vivian opens the door wider, giving Sam Hathorne a view of their visitor.