“We have no reason to trust her.”
“And, one way or another, by tomorrow, the paper will have the story.”
“If not sooner,” Axel says. “I can’t see any reason why she and Parker would fabricate a charge and then not call the goddamned newspaper themselves.”
“We don’t know they did that, Axe.”
“The woman has a whole prosecutor’s office at her disposal. And twenty-six days before the runoff, my campaign manager and nephew gets arrested for withholding evidence in the investigation into what is now a murder in the very neighborhood where her opponent was raised. It’s front-page news.”
Axel is pacing, fuming.
“We don’t think the charges are of any substance,” Sam says calmly. “We just want to get out ahead of the story, protect Neal, and also protect the campaign, of course. But the clock is already running on this thing.”
“Where’s Marcie, your press aide?”
“You’re the only one we’ve told,” Axel says.
“Me?”
“We need you to do us this favor.”
“People like you, Jay,” Sam says. “They trust you, think you’re a man who’s always on the right side of things. Neal walks into a courtroom tomorrow, you at his side, and it sends a message to the city that a man, a good man, a man Pleasantville has chosen to honor and to protect their interests, is standing by Neal. It sends a message that a whole community is standing by the Hathornes, a message to Wolcott in particular, making her question her tactics, how far she wants to push things, what with a voting bloc at play.”
“You want to use me as a prop?”
“I want you to do me a favor.”
“It’s thirty-six hours,” Axel says. “They’re never going to take this to trial. They might even drop the charges before this goes to court, after squeezing a few front-page stories out of it. I’m fairly certain this will all blow over tomorrow.”
“We just need to help my grandson, who, smart as he is, does not know as well as you and I what can go wrong inside a police station, let alone a courtroom, how quickly things can get out of control. We just need to get Neal out of that police station, and out of this whole mess safely,” Sam says. “You have a son, don’t you, Jay?”
“Stop,” Jay says. He doesn’t need that kind of pitch.
“I’m begging here, Jay, and I don’t beg. And I never forget a favor.”
“You must have at least fifteen lawyers you could call, all with more criminal experience than me, all more than willing to take your money.”
“And don’t think the press doesn’t know it too,” Axel says.
“It’s a bad play.” Sam is shaking his head. “I don’t want anyone thinking I’m buying Neal’s way out of something, or that we’re hiding behind money, or that he has anything to hide at all. If we bring a gun to a knife fight, people will make more of it than it is, start asking questions about Neal.”
“Questions like what?”
Jay looks at Sam, and at Axel.
They’re too quiet, he thinks.
“You know where he was Tuesday night?”
“He says he was working,” Sam says.
“Work that he didn’t bother to put on the campaign schedule?”
“I have no reason not to believe him.”
“They found his number in her pager, you know. Did it ever occur to you that the cops might be right, that Neal knows more than he’s saying?”
“It’s a stunt, Jay.”
“I hate to back you into this,” Axel says. “I hate to trade on our past.”
“But there’s no one else for this,” Sam says. “You as Neal’s lawyer in the courtroom, you’ll put an indignant spin on the arrest, messing with Neal on a bullshit obstruction charge while there’s a killer still out there. It’s a thing of gold you got, really. A reputation like yours can be worth a lot of money.”
“I don’t want your money.”
“That’s the beauty of it,” Sam says, smirking a bit and slurring his words, looking, despite the circumstances, almost pleased with himself. “You’re clean, son. Not a soul in Harris County thinks Jay Porter does anything for money.” He reaches into his coat pocket for a pack of cigarettes, wobbling a bit on his bad leg, ignoring his son’s advice to slow down on the scotch. “But you and I know better, don’t we, Jay?” he says, lighting a cigarette. He exhales, blowing a hot breath of nicotine and liquor in Jay’s direction. “For what it’s worth, I think Jelly Lopez is a fool for turning his back on you, and I am alarmed by the number of plaintiffs who’ve been swayed by Ricardo Aguilar’s promise of a pipe dream, more signing that petition every day I’m told. I’d certainly be willing to do everything in my power to stem the tide, reverse it even.” He comes closer, moving his short bowlegs like fragile twigs, using the edge of a nearby chair to steady himself. “How much have you laid out on Pleasantville so far? It must be in the hundreds of thousands by now. Tell me, Jay, has it hit a million yet?”
Jay puts out a hand, anything to make him stop talking.
“Thirty-six hours,” he says.
He’ll take the deal on the table, his name and likeness in exchange for Pleasantville, his retirement plan, his ticket out. I can wait, he thinks. I can wait it out, B, long as it takes. He nods toward the open bottle of scotch. “Pour me one of those too.”
“Everything okay?” Lonnie asks, when he comes for the kids.