Blood of Angels (19 page)

I drive down Second Avenue, past 222 West. The tourist traps are all shuttered after a Friday night of draining money from country music fans.
Shee-it, we just missed Shania Twain. I hear she was in the Wild Horse Saloon, night before last.
I drive past the little park near Fort Nashboro, a reconstructed piece of history that harkens back to before the Civil War. The General Jackson, a dinner-cruise riverboat that inexplicably features a group of Chinese acrobats as its entertainment, sits peacefully at its docking, a slight wake lapping against its giant sides.

Thirty-five hundred bucks. That was an interesting choice. Dr. Gessman will definitely have words of wisdom for that one. “Your attachment to your sworn enemy is a metaphor for your inner conflict. You don't know what side you're on, anymore. Check please.”

I pull to a stop at a light.
Is that true? Is that why she gets to me? Because I actually want to switch sides?
I drive on, thinking I seriously need to get through this case. Nail Bol, take a vacation. Sort things out. Hell, the department owes me about twenty weeks. And the twenty weeks right after this case wouldn't be the worst twenty weeks to be somewhere else. I'll just let Rayburn handle the flack. That's what he's good at, and anyway, he's given everybody orders not to talk to the media. So good. Bol goes down, and a couple of days later I'm practicing my bone-fishing skills in Biscayne Bay.

BANANA
.
CUP OF PEET
'
S
. Daily Zoloft. Breakfast, in other words. I stare at the blue pill, wondering if it makes sense to take it with coffee.
Sort of defeats the purpose.
Nevertheless, I'm amazed again at the
psychic weight—
Dr. Gessman's term—that one human being can carry while continuing to smile, crack wise, and otherwise appear to fully function. All it takes, apparently, is a blue pill and a Sunday to decompress.
Sunday, day of rest.
No local TV news. No talk radio, either, which means Dan Wolfe won't be fanning the anger of his hounds.

The reverend Fiona Towns will be preaching her proletariat-uprising message to a scattering of souls, no doubt, and thanks to a pretty hefty Visa bill I've incurred, she won't be doing it with the outside air pouring into the room. Other than that, everybody can just chill, even me. I do not, for the first time in my career, spend the day before a trial begins poring over every detail of the case. Bol's voir dire will kick off the festivities—and festivities they will certainly be, when the Wolfe Pack, the anti-death-penalty crowd, the Nationites, and the Sudanese all meet in one twenty-first-century, political cluster fuck in about a fifty-square-yard space outside the courthouse—and that conflagration is too much to take on in advance. What I need, I realize, is a fucking day off.

I spend two hours on the Internet, trolling through boat ads, picturing myself on one vessel after another, juggling numbers and interest rates. Apparently, offshore fishing is a rich-guy's sport, because two hundred grand buys thirty-six feet of used boat with mechanical issues, not the gleaming forty-five-footer I want.

The day looks up considerably when, to my shock and amazement, Indy shows up. He saunters through the animal flap in the back door casual as hell, like he's just stepped out for a drink, not disappeared for two days. He walks over, checks out the half-empty bowl—God knows what he's been eating while he's been gone—and looks up at me expectantly. I climb off the couch and size him up. “Well,” I say. “Look what the cat drug in.” He swishes his tail dismissively, then looks around, wondering where the good food is. “Listen, cat,” I say, “even I eat leftovers.” But Indy takes a hard line, so I open up a can of Fancy Feast, spoon it into the bowl, and set it down on the floor. The cat digs in, without so much as a by-your-leave.

I nap an hour in the afternoon, my body smart enough to know what's coming, storing a little energy in preparation. “Calm before the storm,” as Carl said. Monday, the news organizations will be back on my ass in force. Monday, the trial begins. Monday, I realize with a shock, is Carl's last official day. Monday, it seems to me, can go to hell. I stay in for dinner, brew some more Peet's, and settle in on the couch with a book.

Maybe it's because of how Fiona showed up, but when the doorbell rings around 7:30 that evening, my first thought is that it's her.
Turn her around, send her home. Whatever it is on her mind, it's too late now.
I push a hand through my hair, unlock the door, and pull it open. There, looking concerned and beautiful, is Bec, just back from Orlando.

“Rebecca. What are you doing here?”

“Aren't you going to invite me in?”

“Yeah. Yeah, sure.” She walks past me, her black hair in a ponytail, wearing Mr. Designer everything, looking like the doctor's million bucks. Her skin, fresh from a weekend baking under the Florida sun, is as dark and luscious as mocha ice cream. She hugs me, somehow distant and close at the same time, which is exactly what an ex-wife is.

“Is Jazz OK?”

“Of course.” She looks around, taking in the living room like she hasn't seen the changes, even though she has, at least a dozen times. “Maria kept the papers while we were gone,” she says. “I know about the gun at the barn, the explosion at the church, everything. I came as soon as I could get Jazz unpacked and answering her fifty e-mails.” I breathe her in automatically—she smells good, like lavender—then step away. She walks past me, stopping in the middle of the living room. “So how are you? Are you hanging in there?”

“Yeah, I'm fine. Why are you here, Bec?”

She shrugs, her slender shoulders moving in a petite, dismissive arc. “I thought you could use some company.” Her eyes run along the furniture, like she's looking for dust. “Everyone you know works at the DA's office,” she says. “You're all in the same shape. You need someone from outside.” She looks toward the kitchen. “I smell coffee,” she says. “Pour me a cup?”

I follow her into the kitchen, and she sits, looking like she never left. I walk to the cupboard and take down a cup, filling it three-fourths with coffee. I add cream and sugar in the precise measurements that a thousand repetitions make automatic. Rebecca looks out to the deck off the back. “You've done a lot of work here.” She leans back in her chair. “I always liked this place, you know.”

I set the coffee down in front of her. “So Jazz had fun in Orlando.”

“Um hmm. She's probably telling all her friends about it online.”

“Watch who she talks to on that thing, Bec. There's bad people around.”

She frowns, still beautiful, as though her mouth was made to frown, shaped perfectly for it. “I know what this gun situation must mean to you, Thomas. How's Carl taking it?”

“You know Carl. The man's a rock.”

“Yes.”

I can't figure out why she's here. Seeing her without Jazz hasn't happened since the divorce. “So you thought I could use some company,” I say.

“Um hmm.” She runs her finger along the rim of her cup thoughtfully. “Well, I had something I wanted to discuss.”

“What is it?”

“I didn't come here to fight, if that's what you mean.” She picks up the Zoloft prescription bottle and reads the label.

“Not that it's any of your business,” I say.

“There's no shame in it,” she said. “I'm glad you're taking something.”

I close my eyes, knowing that she won't move until she's ready, and that she won't be ready until she says what's on her mind. I pour myself a cup of coffee and walk to the table. “So?” I ask.

“I think you should leave the DA's office, Thomas. It's no good for you.” I laugh out loud, and she interrupts before I can respond. “I know you're going to say it's terrible timing,” she says. “But you're wrong. It's the only timing that has any chance of working.”

“I think this is the point where I say something like, ‘I like my work at the DA's office, Bec. We've got a whole script we could play out here, if you like. But since you left me for Michael, I don't really see the point.'”

“I didn't leave you for Michael,” she says quietly.

“I think that would be a surprise to us both.”

She shakes her head. “I mean, yes, Michael was a factor. But there was a reason I was so vulnerable.”

And there it is, three years of polite conversation, up in smoke. “Was it my weakness or his millions? On second thought, I can't see what difference it makes.”

“Weakness? Don't be ridiculous. You're the strongest man I've ever met.”

“Fine. Then it was his millions.”

She looks hurt. “What do you expect me to do, Thomas? Michael has money. It doesn't make me a hypocrite to enjoy it. It would make me a hypocrite not to.”

“Then enjoy. It doesn't have anything to do with me.”

“The plastic surgeon is stable, Thomas. And I'm not talking about money. I mean he goes to work and comes home the same man.”

“Sounds perfect.”

She smiles softly. “Perfect, Thomas, would have been you, if you had done something else with your life. But that wasn't one of my options.” She watches me a moment, her eyes unblinking.

I set down the cup, ready to end the conversation. “Look, Bec, we're in different worlds now. You live your life. I live mine. If it weren't for Jazz, we'd never even see each other.”

“Jazz adores you, and I adore her. So what kind of father she has makes a difference to me.” She stands, frustrated the way only an old, badly ended love can frustrate. “You're not like Carl. If this thing about the executed man goes against you, you're going to unravel.”

“If it goes against me, I'm quitting.”

She looks up sharply. “Is that true?”

“Yes. I've already decided.”

She walks to the windows and looks out over the woods. The tips of the trees are backlit with an early evening gold. “I want you to get police protection until this is over, Thomas.”

“I'm fine, Bec.”

She exhales. “I have a bad feeling.”

I smile grimly. “More than the usual, you mean?”

She's quiet several seconds. “You've worked for so long with so many horrible people.”

“And I've been fine.”

“So far.” She walks toward me, hugs me briefly. “Jazz needs a father, Thomas. Take care of yourself.”

She lets herself out. I stand alone in my kitchen
—our
kitchen, the one she had painted the beautiful terra cotta, surprising me after work one day with the finished product. I stare out the small window above the sink, looking at the hazy, warm air of August sitting still and immobile on the Cumberland Valley.
She's got a bad feeling. Hell, she had a bad feeling the whole time we were married. And I'll be damned if I get police protection. Might as well paint a bull's-eye on my chest. And anyway, the protection goes home sooner or later, and you're right back where you started.

I walk into my bedroom. I can still feel Bec's presence in the house, along with the vague agitation that being together always brings.
Jazz needs a father, Thomas. Take care of yourself.

MONDAY
.
EGGS
,
BACON
; coffee, immaculately prepared, then the blue pill. Indy fed, Fancy Feast again, and glad to be of service. Two-mile run, shower, dressed, the drive into town.

Court begins at nine, so I meet Stillman at the office before eight. Even at this hour, there are already four or five reporters hanging around the building, begging for scraps. I ignore a barrage of questions as I make my way through to the elevators: “Are we still going for the death penalty? Is Bol a sacrificial lamb? Was Wilson Owens innocent?”

The DA's office is eerily quiet; we are a fortress now, and the mood is battle-hardened, with one exception: the swirl of activity around Carl's office. It's his last day, and I want to see him early, since I'll be in court until late. I walk down the hall and see a sign posted on his office door:
YOU MAY ONLY SAY GOOD-BYE ONCE.
I stop and smile. He refuses to be sentimental, which only makes the office feel his leaving more acutely. The secretaries have brought so much cake and cookies that his retirement party this weekend is starting to look redundant. It's impossible to get any work done within fifty feet of his door, which is irritating him to the point of distraction. Not that he has anything to do; he's been packed for a week. It's watching other lawyers slack that's driving him nuts. By the time I walk in, he's as red-faced as an Eskimo. “Thomas!” he thunders. “For the love of God, tell these people to give me some peace and do something productive.”

“Let them love you, old man,” I say, smiling. “They only have a few more hours to do it.”

He scowls and walks over to the windows that look down on Titans field. “David says you're not taking my office.”

“That's right.”

“You should. You earned it.”

“Maybe in ten more years.”

“Shut the door, Thomas.” I shut the door, and we're alone. Carl is between the window and his desk, which is depressingly, finally, clean. “I've been thinking about this case you're starting. David's right. It's going to be about the preacher, not the kid.”

“Looks that way.”

“You want some parting advice?”

“I'd love it.”

He nods. “You remember the story of Rahab? Book of Joshua, as I recall.”

“No.”

“Harlot. Beautiful woman, apparently. She lied her head off to save the lives of some Israelite spies. Hid them in her house when the soldiers came looking for them, then let 'em out of a side window to get away.”

I smile. “So what's the point?”

“You'd think a liar and a prostitute wouldn't come out too well in the Good Book.”

“Stands to reason.”

He shakes his head. “Turns out, saving an innocent man's life trumps lying. Hell, it even trumps selling your body for money. Rahab is a hero of the faith. Gets listed as a direct descendant of Christ.” He looks up at me. “You reckon Fiona Towns has read the story of Rahab? Her having a theology degree from Harvard and all?”

“Yeah, Carl, I reckon she has.”

He nods. “Don't lose your focus, Thomas. If Towns has the right motivation, she won't have any problem putting her hand on a Bible and lying, just like Rahab.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Just thought you'd want to know.”

I nod. “Thanks.”

“You'll be OK. Don't give Stillman too much grief. He's a horse's ass, but he might do some good before it's all over.”

“Listen, Carl—”

“Better go,” he says, cutting me off. He's walking me toward the door, his hand on my back, and I realize this is it: Nine years come to an end in this moment. I turn to shake hands and end up bear-hugging him. We disengage, and I'm damned if there aren't tears in his eyes. He brushes them away, irritated, as usual. “Son of a bitch,” he says, pulling out a handkerchief.

“Yeah.”

“Get some cake on your way out.”

“I will.”

He turns and walks back to the windows and the view of the river he's stared at for twenty years. His view: nine floors up, 222 West.
I'm never taking his office, that's for sure.
I'd rather it stay a shrine to what we miss with Carl Becker not around anymore. I walk out, shutting the door behind me. Stillman is standing at the far end of the hallway, looking impatient to get to court.

“Yeah,” I say, holding up my hand to him. “I'm coming.”

 

THE
DELUSIACS
HAVE NOT
been idle. Moses Bol might be from the completely fucked country of Sudan, he might speak only marginal English, and he might even be a cold-blooded murderer. But because his is the next capital murder case tried in Davidson County, he is also a human line drawn in the sand. So when Stillman and I cruise by the front entrance of the New Justice Building, there are already fifty protestors waiting. We stop at a red light, and Stillman looks past me and whistles. “Man, it's like the state fair over there.”

He's right; between the placards and the balloons—no shit, Buchanan's troops have brought balloons—it's hard to tell a man's life is on the line. There are posters with the photographs of well-known criminals still on death row. And now, thanks to the efforts of Buchanan, we're treated to the first of what will certainly be many images of the face of Wilson Owens, the man already executed for the Sunshine Grocery murders. Representing the Confederate States, the south side of the lawn is covered by half the population of the Nation. They have come to demand justice for one of their own: Tamra Hartlett. On the north side, separated by a twenty-foot-wide strip of concrete stairs, about sixty Sudanese refugees stare at their adversaries. “Stillman,” I say, “if this city gets through this alive, it'll be a fucking miracle.”

We park underground, come up the stairs, and clear security. Stillman clears after I do, and I pull him aside to look him over before we hit the elevators. He looks like he just stepped out of a TV show, something called
Stillman to the Rescue.
“You look good, Stillman. Maybe I'll let you question the women.”

“Fuck you, Senator,” he says, smiling. “You ready for this?”

“Yeah.”

We ride up to the third floor and head to Ginder's courtroom, which is guarded by Greg Seneff, Ginder's large, affable bailiff. “His Honor's waiting in chambers,” he says, waving us in. “Rita's already there.” Stillman and I walk through the empty courtroom and pass through the doors at the back. Ginder's clerk waves us in.

Ginder sits behind his huge walnut desk, not yet in his robes. Rita is there in a wing chair and looking vexed. “Good,” Ginder says, waving us in. “We can start.”

Everybody shakes hands, and Ginder sits us down. “Well, Mr. Dennehy,” he says. “It seems you've made something of a spectacle of yourself over the weekend.”

I nod. “Yes, sir. It does, indeed.”

“Care to explain what you were doing talking to a key witness of the case without the presence of opposing counsel?”

“The witness invited me to church, Your Honor.”

“To church.”

“I believe the purpose of the visit was to elicit my sympathy for the accused, and to request the state drop the death penalty in this case.”

“And was she successful?”

“No, Your Honor.”

Rita grimaces. “I've discussed what happened with the witness, Judge. We have no complaint with the interaction between the two.”

“Good. I don't need the extra grief before everything even gets off the ground. Just thinking about it gives me a headache.” He leans back in his chair. “There's a lot of damned earnest people on the grounds today, and damned earnest people are my very least favorite kind.”

“Yes, Your Honor,” Rita says.

“Didn't ask your opinion. Point is, I've decided to sequester this jury for the duration of the trial. I don't like the idea of jurors having to maneuver through this crowd we've got outside every day. Agreed?” We shake our heads yes. “Good. Now, I've got the three seats for the Hartlett family you asked for, Thomas. I've got another ten for the media. But I'm not going to start counting chairs for Africans and white people. It's a slippery slope, and I'll never make anybody happy. So it's first come first served in the gallery, and if there's an empty chair, the bailiff is going to make sure the next person in takes it. Might do these people some good to sit among each other for a change.” He smiles. “Now, Rita. Anything on your mind we haven't covered?”

“I'd like the courtroom cleared during voir dire,” she says. “I don't want potential jurors answering questions while people hostile to my client stare them down.”

Ginder nods. “Already seen to. Anything else?”

“Police protection for my client, Judge. I think it's pretty obvious the attack on the church three nights ago was aimed at him.”

“It isn't obvious to me,” Ginder says. “I'd say the Reverend Fiona Towns is none too popular among a certain portion of the population. But if you're worried about your client's safety, we've got a nice, secure jail where he's welcome to stay for the duration. How's that?”

“No, thank you, Your Honor.”

Ginder smiles. “Wonderful. Now let's go get ourselves a jury, shall we?”

 

ONCE WE
'
RE IN THE
courtroom and on the record, Rita predictably and utterly ineffectually petitions the court that the odds of assembling a jury of Moses Bol's peers within the confines of Davidson County, Tennessee, are exactly zero. She asks the court to imagine the reverse: namely, that a bunch of suburban Nashvillians preside over legal proceedings in tribal Sudan. It's a hell of a good point, and, as I explained to Rayburn, it doesn't make a damn bit of difference. Further, since Ginder likes to keep his courtroom humming along, what with people's right to a speedy trial and all, he proclaims that if he's to remain in a good mood, in a day and a half twelve citizens of Davidson County will be impaneled to decide whether or not Moses Bol will live or die.

The morning goes well for Rita when she gets two she dearly wants: a retired political science professor from the University of North Texas who blames the United States for everything that's happened in Africa since the collapse of colonialism, and a house painter with a surly expression who says he thinks most people who work for the government are crooks, but he's pretty sure he can disregard those feelings when it comes time to deliberate. Balancing out these two prizes, Stillman and I land two women in the afternoon who have daughters of their own. Both blanch visibly when they're told they're sitting on a murder trial where a young woman has been raped and killed. It all goes to hell when another set comes up from the jury pool and gets disqualified for one technicality after another. At four o'clock, Ginder's had enough. He gavels things to a halt and sends the lawyers home until nine the next morning.

Stillman and I emerge from the bubble of court back into the circus outside the building, which has gone on more or less continuously during the day's proceedings. Now, however, the cameras are circling voraciously, looking for suitably amped-up subjects to deliver the perfect sound bite. I can see all the usual reporters, plus several from out of town. The antiwar, antiglobalization, anti-death-penalty crowds have merged, and they're chanting something at full volume. Dan Wolfe's Wolfe Pack is chanting back at them, trying to drown them out. The reporters look so happy they may break down and cry.

“You know something, Stillman?”

“What?”

“All we need is some Confederate reenactors, and we can have a dandy little war break out.”

“Kind of makes you wonder how any justice is gonna get done,” he says.

“No shit.” I reach in my pocket and turn on my cell phone, which has been off during proceedings. Ten seconds later, it rings. “Dennehy.”

“It's Josh Ritchie.”

“Talk to me.”

“You better get down here, pal. The party's started over at Tennessee Village.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“It means one of the Sudanese kids got the shit beat out of him today.”

I close my eyes. “Tell me it's not Bol.”

“No, but he might be next.”

“What happened?”

“Some Nationites picked one of the Sudanese up off the street. They dropped him back off about an hour later, much the worse for wear.”

“How much worse?”

“He's at Vanderbilt Hospital.”

“Shit. You there now?”

“Yeah, and so is your girl.”

I freeze. “You mean Towns?”

“Yeah, and so is the Nationite army. This thing is about five minutes from a total meltdown.”

“Stay there. We're on our way.” I kill the call and dial 911. “Thomas Dennehy, DA's office. Something big is going down at Tennessee Village Apartments. It might be a riot. Get whoever you can over there ASAP.” I flip shut the phone. “Stillman, by the time this is over, nobody's even going to care about Moses Bol. It's gonna blow up in our faces.”

 

STILLMAN AND I HAUL
out of the courthouse and head down I-40 toward the Nation. The truck's V-8 punches us back in our seats as we accelerate through the on-ramp. We slip through the traffic and make it to the Forty-sixth Street exit in less than ten minutes. A right rolls us to Nebraska, the southern edge of the Nation. I slam on the brakes.

“What the hell is that?” Stillman asks.

The road's been barred by two vehicles parked head to head in the street. One of the vehicles is a pickup, like mine, and a couple of shotguns rest in a gun rack in the rear window. The other is a clapped-out, four-door Chevy. Two men in their early twenties sulk against the vehicles, wearing pissed-off expressions. But that isn't what we're staring at. What has us galvanized is a figure made of broomsticks hanging from a tree beside the road. The sticks are clothed with torn pants and a white T-shirt, upon which is written AFRICANS GO HOME. The head, which is a deflated volleyball, has been painted black. Sticking out of one side is a large, wicked-looking knife. I look behind us, scanning for cars. “People in the Village getting off work are going to head straight into this.”