When Jay walks into campaign headquarters twenty minutes later, the candidate has his long legs tucked under a vinyl-topped card table. He is working the phones, his poll numbers having taken enough of a hit on the news of his nephew’s arrest that direct contact with individual voters is about the only thing that might swing things back in his favor. Texans are, for the most part, a friendly bunch, and Jay guesses as many as half of the names on that call sheet will at least hear Axel out. There are men and women milling about, block walkers waiting on the day’s assignment, hovering near a grease-stained box of cold doughnuts. One woman, her blue Hathorne T-shirt knotted fashionably on her right hip, has a packet of nondairy creamer in her hand, opened sideways like a bag of Fun Dip. She licks the white powder off her index finger. The man standing next to her hasn’t yet committed to the campaign T-shirt. His is tucked into the back pocket of his jeans, the tail hanging out like a flag, an accessory he hasn’t yet pledged any allegiance to, not until someone shows up with a roll of twenties to distribute. Marcie, on the phone at her desk against the back wall, is rolling a wad of Kleenex over the ripples of fat on the back of her neck, mopping sweat. The room is poorly ventilated. Even with the front door propped open, it’s warm and smells of damp carpet. Axel has rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt, a constellation of sweat drops under each arm seeping through the fabric. “Yes, ma’am,” he says into the phone. He nods, listening to her side. “Well, that’s been my priority since I entered this race. We’re going to make neighborhoods like yours safe again. If I make it to city hall, with your help we can prioritize city resources in such a way that–” Cut off, he leans back in his chair, listening, the tops of his knees knocking the underside of the table. “My team has done nothing to interfere with the investigation, ma’am.” He rubs his face in exasperation. “I want to find the girl’s killer as much as anyone.”
Jay walks past the phone bank, past the copy machine and Marcie’s cluttered desk, all the way to an unlocked metal door, behind which appears to be the only private space in campaign headquarters and the place where Jay guesses he’ll find his client. He enters a small room lined with bolts of upholstery fabric. He passes two long folding tables, both sagging in the center of the weight of boxes and boxes of campaign paraphernalia, buttons and T-shirts, plus reams of copier paper. Besides the dusty fabric, there’s a hospital-size scale in here, a blue Coleman cooler, a broken vacuum cleaner, and a stack of two-by-fours. Jay doesn’t know what this place was before the campaign rented it, or what it will return to after the polls finally close on this twisted little election. Neal is laid out across a three-foot-long red pleather couch, his legs hanging off the arm of one side and his right forearm covering his eyes.
“Sit up,” Jay says.
He grabs a chair from one of the folding tables and turns it to face the couch. He sits down, kicking his foot against the base of the couch to wake up his client. “You do understand that I’m about to walk into state court to try to stop an election?” he says. “And so far, man, I’ve taken you at your word.”
Neal swings his feet to the floor, rising suddenly.
The door behind Jay opens, and Axel walks in.
Jay never takes his eyes off his client. “Leave us alone.”
“It’s okay,” Neal says. “He can stay.”
“There’s an eyewitness,” Jay says.
“That’s impossible.”
“What’s going on?” Axel says, hands on his hips.
“Somebody got on the stand in front of the grand jury and testified that they saw you and the girl struggling, right at the corner of Guinevere and Ledwicke.”
“They’re lying . . . or just plain confused.”
“Who is it?” Axe says.
“Something you want to tell me?” Jay asks Neal.
“I wasn’t there,” Neal says, raising his voice. “Didn’t you talk to A.G.?”
Surprised, Axel turns from Jay to his nephew. “What?”
“Yes,” Jay says, glancing at Axel then back at Neal, who’s now on his feet. “And guess what? He doesn’t seem the least bit interested in reclaiming his rightful spot in the Hathorne line, especially if it means testifying in open court.”
“I wasn’t there!”
“You talked to A.G.?” Axel says.
Neal looks at his uncle but doesn’t say anything.
Jay can’t exactly read the look between them, but Axel, whose skin is usually a warm maple color, looks downright ashen. “A.G.’s here, in Houston?”
“Tell me this,” Jay says to Neal. “Why Tuesday night?”
“What do you mean?”
“Why were you so hot to see him last Tuesday? You said yourself you were in the middle of a massive get-out-the-vote effort that day. So with the polls still open, why did you take a detour to the Playboy Club in Third Ward? Why that night to talk to your father for the first time?”
Neal looks at the ground.
He’s still reluctant to go any further.
“You got to give me something here.”
Neal sighs. “We got a call from Rob Urrea.”
“Who is that?”
“Our opp guy,” Axel says.
“He had a report on A.G.”
“Jesus,” Axel mumbles, reaching for the nearest chair to sit down.
“What kind of report?”
“I don’t know,” Neal says. “I didn’t order it.”
“Sam did,” Axel says, guessing.
Neal nods. “And Rob swore he wasn’t at liberty to share it.”
“Opposition research,” Jay says. “There something there?” Was there some bit on his younger son that Sam Hathorne wanted safely contained, typed up, and presented to him personally? “I need to see that report,” he says.
CHAPTER 17