And then, because she can’t bear the look on his face, the concern inching toward pity, she says, “I figure I can sling drinks at night, still try to write some during the day. I’m not giving up or anything, I’ll have you know. I’m not.”
Jay nods absently, but is distracted by a distressing sight: his dissatisfied client, Jelly Lopez, with his wife and four-year-old daughter, Maya, walking through the crowd with a man Jay doesn’t recognize. He’s Mexican, like Jelly, with a Pat Riley slick-back and a very nice M Penner suit. They’re with a few of Pleasantville’s newest residents: Bill Rodriguez, Arturo Vega, and Patricia Rios, all clients of Jay’s too. He watches as they make their way through the Sunday crowd, using the moment of community solidarity to press an agenda, crossing religious lines to make their pitch. They’re shaking hands with their neighbors, making introductions, “Pat Riley” smiling covetously at everyone he meets. Ricardo Aguilar. Jay would put money on it.
He’s about to confront the man when Johnetta Paul, likewise making the rounds, stops him. “Jay Porter,” she says, dabbing at her hairline with a pink handkerchief, an act, he thinks. He has never ever seen her sweat. “I don’t believe I’ve seen you at any of my fund-raising events this season.”
“You don’t need my money, Johnetta.”
“Ha,” she says, laughing at the very thought.
“Besides, I don’t live in your district, remember?”
“Neither does he,” she says, nodding across the church lawn toward Ricardo Aguilar. “But he understands the value of spreading a little goodwill around.”
“Buying his way into your heart, I’m sure.”
“Buying his way in,” she says, as if this were obvious. “He knows how to play the game, unlike you, Jay. Whatever happens going forward, I want you to know I’ve always had the utmost respect for you. But I can’t afford to ignore the concerns or interests of Mr. Lopez, Mr. Rodriguez, and their faction, not with the numbers the way they’re going. Pleasantville isn’t always going to look like this,” she says, gesturing to the hot links and hair grease, Bobby “Blue” Bland playing on somebody’s car radio, black folks as far as the eye can see. “You’d do well to take that into consideration,” she says, before moving on through the crowd, shaking hands, maneuvering her way to the front of the barbecue line.
Lonnie rolls her eyes. “Is she for real?”
“Dad.”
It’s Ellie, tapping him on the shoulder.
She’s pointing toward Tilgham Street, where the Hathornes’ black Cadillac is parked. Vivian and her eldest daughter, Ola, slide into the rear as Axel climbs into the front. Frankie, the Hathornes’ driver, is coming up the church walk toward Jay. He pulls off his hat, wipes a film of sweat from his freckled brow, and speaks, so softly that Jay has to ask him to repeat himself. “Sam wants you to take a ride with us to the house. Says it’s urgent.” Frankie’s eyes dart left and right, looking at the crowd, the pastor nearby. “He said to come get you right away.”
“What’s this about?”
“I’m just saying what he told me to say, sir.”
“I’ve got my kids here.”
“I can take them,” Lonnie says, as Ben arrives holding a hot link wrapped in a slice of white bread in each of his small hands. “I mean, if you need it.”
Jay looks at Ben, then Ellie. “You guys okay?”
Ellie nods, and Lonnie puts an arm around Ben.
Jay turns to Frankie. “I’ll follow you.”
The ride is just a few short blocks.
He parks his Land Cruiser behind the Cadillac, right in front of Sam Hathorne’s house. Axel’s out of the car first. As he makes his way up the front walk, he doesn’t look at Jay. Vivian and Ola decline to exit the car, and Frankie remains behind the wheel, letting the Cadillac’s engine idle softly.
Jay lingers in his car, hesitating for a few seconds, a bad feeling in his gut. Finally, he climbs out, heading for the house. Inside, he finds Sam and Axel in the living room, Sam with his back to the door, standing by the bar, pouring himself a drink. “Absolutely not,” he’s saying to his son. “You stay as far the hell away from this as possible, for as long as possible. Wolcott gave us a head start with the press. She swears she had nothing to do with it, has promised to recuse herself from any supervision of the case.” He’s still wearing his hat and his overcoat.
“What’s going on?” Jay says.
Sam throws back the scotch. “Neal’s been arrested.”
“I still think I should go down there,” Axel says.
“Arrested for what?”
“Obstruction.”
“The Nowell girl?”
“They think he knows more than he’s saying.”
“He’s in custody?”
“Downtown.”
“They picked him up at his house, six o’clock this morning, not even an hour after the girl was found,” Axel says. “No way this isn’t Wolcott’s doing.”
“I wouldn’t have thought she’d go this low,” Sam says.
“Then it’s Parker.”
“Either way, he’s in trouble.”
“They’re holding him?” Jay asks, slightly incredulous.
Sam pours another drink.
“Slow down, Dad.”
“He’ll bail out today,” Sam says. “They’ll arraign him tomorrow.”
He throws back the drink, setting the tumbler on the bar top. With his back still partially turned, he pauses in silence, taking a moment that only he knows the meaning of, staring at family photographs along the wall, his grown kids. Jay has never seen him so retiring, so waylaid by an emotion Jay can name only as dread. Sam turns to look at him, lifting his gray fedora to perfect its position on the slim pompadour on his head. “I appreciate what you did for Neal the other day. But he needs a lawyer now more than ever.”
Jay looks between the two men, both of whom are staring back at him, waiting for him to do the simple arithmetic of why he’s been summoned here.
They can’t be serious, he thinks.
“He needs a criminal defense lawyer,” he says.
“What he needs is someone to get him through the next thirty-six hours,” Sam says. “Wolcott swore she gave us a head start, no leaks to the press, but–”