“That little story about Hollis trying to shove a girl into the cab of his truck at that truck stop on Market–the bit in this that sold you against a lack of physical evidence, the fact that the semen wasn’t his–that story is bullshit. Hollis was out of state the date that supposedly went down.”
“Which is information that cop Resner could have given you,” Rolly says.
“But didn’t.” Lon reaches for the bottle herself, pouring double the last round. She winces as she remembers. “He also knocked out the boyfriend.”
“Hollis was always the best lead we had,” Rolly says.
“And I’m telling you, it’s not him.”
Under the kitchen light, Jay turns his face to the right, showing up the blossoming bruise coming in on the right side of his face, to match the ones healing on the other side. “The guy came at me with his left hand.” From Lonnie’s box of notes, he pulls out the autopsy report on Alicia Nowell. Across the tabletop, he lays out the photocopied pictures. The places where her face has been distorted, the skin a black-and-purple bed of ripe bruising, are all on the left side, meaning it had to have been someone punching her with his right hand. “It’s not his semen, it’s not his left hook,” Jay says. “It’s not him.”
CHAPTER 19
The call comes the following Monday, a week before Thanksgiving.
Jay Porter and all interested parties in the matter of State of Texas v. Neal Patrick Hathorne are to be in Judge Irwin Little’s courtroom at one that afternoon, the big man himself cutting lunch short to issue his ruling. The small room is packed with people–some of the same faces Jay saw before and some new ones. Sam is here. Neal too. They flank Axel Hathorne, who sits tall in a navy suit and slim red tie. Vivian and all four of her daughters are seated in the row behind them, the family turning the judge’s ruling into a test of their genetic fortitude and grace under fire, a test they intend to win, as if the injunction is victory itself, a triumphant end instead of the beginning of a battle they are not assured of surviving. Neal anxiously crosses the bar to join his attorney, a man who is having a hard time looking him in the eye. Jay already knows how this will go. He was in Judge Little’s chambers just two days ago for an off-the-record meeting with the judge, Matt Nichols from the D.A.’s office, and Wayne Duffie, the county clerk–not in the presence of a court reporter or even Little’s longtime clerk. Little asked just two questions–would Jay’s client waive his right to any pretrial hearings if the state pledged not to play games with discovery, and did any of them have any holiday plans that might take them out of the city for a considerable stretch of time–after which Jay knew how he would rule.
From the bench, Judge Little says much the same as he said in chambers, that if thirty days are all it takes to have a clean election without the mess of a murder trial and the grave accusations of wrongdoing on the part of Ms. Wolcott tainting everything, then he’s inclined to grant it. If her office truly has the goods on Neal Hathorne, it will have to prove its case in court; and likewise, if Mr. Hathorne is found guilty by a jury of his peers, then he will have had his day in court, and the voters can decide what, if anything, they choose to extrapolate from the Hathorne name on the ballot. Either way, the judge agrees with the argument put forth by Mr. Porter: that Mr. Hathorne’s interests, as well as those of the city at large, are best served by holding this trial as quickly as possible. Given the highly unusual set of circumstances, he has already been in contact with the clerk’s office at the criminal court building to be certain a courtroom will be available on such short notice, and a trial date–December ninth–has been set. Judge Little himself has reset the date for the runoff election: Tuesday, January seventh. Across the courtroom, Matt Nichols looks downright queasy.
“It’s a hell of a tight timetable, but you asked for a trial and now you got it,” the judge tells him. Again, he offers the simple way out: the D.A.’s office can drop the charges, to avoid any hint of impropriety, and refile after the election.
Nichols opens his mouth to speak.
But it’s Sandy Wolcott, who Jay had not realized is also in the courtroom, seated on the left side of the gallery, who answers the judge’s query.
Her integrity publicly called into question, she rises slowly.
In an aubergine pantsuit, her dark hair pulled into a severe bun, she looks almost martial, armed and ready. With permission to approach, she crosses the bar and stands before the judge. “No, Your Honor,” she says. “We’re more than prepared to go forward.” Judge Little nods, because what the hell else was she going to say? Admit in a room full of city officials and reporters that she pushed for a shitty indictment just to gain leverage in an election? Thanks to Jay Porter, her name has been tarnished almost as much as Neal’s. She has more invested in this trial than ever before.
The whole thing takes twenty minutes.
Jay is out in enough time to pick up both of his kids from school. This will be his last time for a while. He’ll have to arrange with Evelyn or Eddie Mae to get them home from school every day for the next month, while he’s knee-deep in this trial. He asks Neal for this one thing, this one afternoon, before he promises to pledge his life to his client, every morning, noon, and night.
Ben gets out of Poe Elementary before his sister.
Jay’s is the first car in line waiting for the bell.
They get ice cream at a market on Bissonnet, chocolate and strawberry for Ben, praline for Jay, and a scoop of peppermint in a cup for Ellie; Ben holds the cup in his lap all the way to Lamar High School.
“You won,” Ellie says when she arrives at the car.
“Dad got ice cream,” Ben says, teeth clicking from the cold. He climbs around to the back, ceding the front seat to his older sister without being asked.
“Your court thing,” Ellie says again. “You won.”