“You fired your field director a day after she talked to Detective Moore.”
“I would have fired her for talking to my grandmother without running it by me first. You can’t do that kind of shit in the middle of a campaign.”
“It looks bad, Neal,” Jay says. “It looks like obstruction.”
“This is all Reese Parker, you understand that, don’t you? The arrest, using Wolcott’s office to file charges on me. This will go down in history as one of the boldest moves that’s ever been pulled, having the opposing candidate’s campaign manager arrested,” he says. “My kids will be talking about this.”
“Tonya gave them a copy of the schedule, Neal. Tuesday night, all key campaign staff can be tracked by the minute, everyone except you, from about seven to nine thirty that night. So again, where were you, Neal?”
Neal rolls his eyes at Jay’s earnestness, his honest belief that there’s anything to this little judicial charade. “Let’s just get this over with,” he says, pushing past Jay, through the washroom door and into the hall.
They are not even speaking to each other when they enter the courtroom, which is packed after lunch. Gregg Bartolomo is here, having received a tip in time to hear the judge call the first item on the afternoon’s calendar. But the sight of Maxine and Mitchell Robicheaux in the second row of the gallery is Jay’s first clue that something is wrong. Why, he thinks, are they here for an arraignment on an obstruction charge? Maxine, in a white T-shirt like the one she wore the morning of the search, is staring at Jay. The judge, nearing seventy, his pale, freckled pate shining under fluorescent bulbs, enters and takes a seat at the bench, calling the Hathorne matter first. “Do we have counsel present?” he says. He looks over the black rims of his reading glasses.
“Yes, Your Honor,” Jay says.
“Is the defendant present?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, approach, please.”
There’s a small wooden gate between the gallery and the well. Jay holds it open for Neal, nudging him to the defense table on the left. On the other side of a lectern, the assistant district attorney handling the matter has his head in a stack of paperwork at the state’s table. “All right,” the judge says. “I’ve got here State of Texas v. Neal Patrick Hathorne.” He looks up. “Appearances?”
“Jay Porter for the defense.”
“Matt Nichols for the state, Your Honor.”
The judge looks at Jay. “Is your client ready to be arraigned, Counselor?”
Neal speaks before Jay has a chance to. “No, Your Honor.”
Jay turns to his client. “What are you doing?”
“Mr. Porter?”
“Your Honor, can you give us a minute?”
“A very short minute.”
Neal, the former law student, lowers his voice. “I want to defer my arraignment,” he whispers to Jay. “The runoff is in twenty-five days. If they still want to charge me, they can charge me after Axel’s elected mayor.”
Fine, Jay thinks.
That’s way past his thirty-six hours.
“Judge, on the matter of the obstruction charge,” he says, “we’d ask for a deferred arraignment on this. My client has already posted bond to the court.”
“I’m sorry,” the judge says, looking down at his papers. “I’m looking here at a charge of capital murder.” He looks up, ripping off his reading glasses, staring down at Jay and his client. “What are you two talking about?”
The assistant D.A., Mr. Nichols, a sandy-haired lawyer in his thirties, raises a hand. “That’s my fault, Your Honor, Mr. Porter doesn’t have a copy of the amended complaint. This came down from the grand jury this morning.”
“What’s going on?” Neal whispers in disbelief.
Jay feels his stomach sink. “They think you did it.”
“What?” He looks at his lawyer, then the judge. “Are they serious?”
“They have an indictment.”
“This is absurd.”
“Don’t say another word,” Jay tells him.
“Stop this,” he hisses at Jay.
“I can’t.”
From her desk beside the judge’s bench, the clerk holds a freshly stapled stack of papers. Jay, stunned, doesn’t move right away. It’s Nichols who crosses the courtroom to the clerk’s desk, retrieving the amended complaint and delivering it to opposing counsel himself. Jay stares at the first page, the words laid out in black and white: they’re charging Neal with first-degree homicide.
“Are we ready to proceed, Mr. Porter?” the judge asks.
“Uh,” Jay says, stammering. “Just a minute, sir.”
He turns to his client, who, for the first time since they met, is speechless. He appears to be in shock. Behind them, Gregg Bartolomo is scribbling away in a notebook. Jay can see him out of the corner of his eye. Ellie too. He hadn’t noticed her before now. She’s back from the clerk’s office with a quarter-inch pile of white papers in her lap, and she’s staring at her father. His breath jagged and quick, he seems fragile in a way she’s never seen. “Dad?”
“I’m fine,” he says, swallowing the sour taste in his mouth.
He looks at Neal and then the judge.
“Yes, Your Honor,” he says finally. “We’re ready to proceed.”
“No,” Neal says, shaking his head. “No, I want to postpone.”
Nichols, the A.D.A., objects on behalf of the state. “Considering the gravity of the new charge, Your Honor, I don’t see how that’s prudent.”
“I agree,” the judge says.
Jay listens as the judge reads the official charge into the record: “State of Texas versus Neal Patrick Hathorne. Case number HC-986723.
“It shall be noted for the record that the defendant is hereby charged with one count of criminal homicide, in violation of Texas Penal Code 19.02, a felony to wit the defendant did knowingly and intentionally cause the death of one Alicia Ann Nowell.”
Neal, panicked, looks from the bench to Jay. “What the hell is going on?”
“They think you did it,” he says again.