Evelyn stands too, smoothing down her coffee-colored hair, the few strands of gray professionally colored over with red and bits of gold. “Can I get you something else, Mr. Morehead?” Her skirt is hiked a few inches above her knees from sitting. She makes no effort to lower the shade on his view.
“No, ma’am, I’ve got to get on.” To Jay, he says, “Is there somewhere we can talk?”
Jay walks him to the living room. Once they’re alone, Morehead tells him, “She’s to be buried this weekend. Maxine, Mr. Robicheaux, they’ve asked me to consider speaking at the service. I’m to meet the pastor at Sunnyside Baptist to talk over the details of the home-going.” Jay nods, reaching to rub the sore spot at the back of his head.
“What can I do for you?”
“This is delicate,” the pastor says, clasping his hands together. “And let me first say I appreciate the degree to which you must be feeling split, between your commitment to the community and your fidelity to the Hathorne family.”
“I have no commitment to anyone other than Neal, my client.”
“You have other clients too,” Morehead reminds him, in an overly avuncular manner that irritates Jay coming from a man at least ten years his junior and with no skin in the game, as far as Jay can see. Keith Morehead lives, not in Pleasantville proper, but in neighboring Clinton Park. “And the men and women in Pleasantville are suffering over this recent blow, what feels like a growing rift in their own family, a Hathorne accused of preying on their children. The very fact of the indictment raises questions about the other girls and Neal’s involvement. Not everyone is willing to accept it,” he says, speaking as if Neal’s guilt were a foregone conclusion. “My only interest is looking ahead, to where we go as a community after this tragedy. I agree with Arlee Delyvan, that deep down you’re doing what you think is right, and it’s something I will personally remind folks of in the days ahead. I’d hate to see the good people of Pleasantville lose what little momentum they had in the civil lawsuit.”
“Why didn’t Arlee call me herself?”
“I think there are some concerns about where your loyalties lie.”
“Neal didn’t kill that girl,” Jay says, raising his voice a little, as if trying to call forth his earlier convictions, which have drifted just out of his reach.
“See, it’s that kind of pushy statement of absolutes, when so many others are feeling unsure, that has been off-putting to some, especially coming from a hired attorney. Their attorney, they thought.” He sighs, looking down at his clasped hands and closing his eyes. For all Jay knows, he may be praying. “I’m not on anyone’s side, I hope you do know that,” he says. “I want only the best for the Robicheauxs and the men and women who put their faith in my hands.” He puts a hand on Jay’s shoulder. “Now or later, I hope that you’ll likewise be prepared to do what needs to be done to make this right.”
“For whom?”
“Pray on it, Mr. Porter.” Turning toward the door, he asks Jay to please give a warm hello to his kids, Ben and Ellie, whom he met at the church. His last words are a sage reminder of faith in god in all things. “We will get through this.”
“Guy’s a phony,” Rolly says, loping into the living room once he hears the front door close behind Morehead. “No better than Johnetta Paul getting herself on TV, making this all about him.” He gets another look at the injuries on Jay’s face. “Sorry, Counselor, I got distracted with the preacher, got my hackles up, him coming in the house like that, unannounced.” He glances out the front windows, making sure the street’s clear in both directions. “What’d Hollis want?”
Jay turns; first things first. “The kids okay?”
Rolly nods. “They’re in their rooms.”
“Get Lonnie on the phone,” he says, as he turns toward the main hallway that leads to the bedrooms, checking on Ben first and then Ellie, who is on the telephone. She looks up when her dad pushes open the door softly. She’s beaming. She puts a hand over the mouthpiece and whispers, “Lori called.” Despite himself, Jay smiles, feeling a hiccup of joy that, where his kids are concerned, can pop up in the most unexpected places. His daughter’s fifteen-year-old pregnant friend called, and Jay is unquestionably happy, for both of them, actually. And happy as well to have solved the mystery of why no one had answered the home line when he phoned from the road. Ellie had simply ignored the call waiting. “It’s a school night,” he reminds her, before quietly closing her door.
Lonnie arrives about twenty minutes after Evelyn leaves.
The three of them gather at the kitchen table, Jay and the sole members of his legal team, making sure to keep their voices down so his kids can sleep.
“It’s not him,” he says.
“Hollis?” Lon asks, looking from Jay to Rolly.
“Any chance Resner’s setting you up?” Jay says.
Lonnie is quiet for a moment, staring at the two men.
Her mind is ticking through the last few days, every off-the-record chat.
The only words out of her mouth are a muttered, “Oh, shit.”
“He knows you’re talking to me?” Jay asks.
“Yes.”
Rolly is rolling an unlit cigarette across the lacquered cherry-wood tabletop, flicking it back and forth with his middle finger. He reaches for the bottle of scotch in the center of the table, the only anchor in this rocky night of twists and turns. He pours a finger for the former reporter. She bites through it in one gulp. “Wolcott, the A.D.A. Nichols,” Jay says, “they knew I would reach for Hollis–walking reasonable doubt–and they knew all along it couldn’t have been him.” He feels sick to think how badly he may have been played, Wolcott holding game pieces behind her back, purposefully misleading him, or how wrongly he may have played himself, rushing into a trial he can’t win.
“Are you sure?” Lon asks.