Paris Trout (37 page)

And then something stopped it, he didn't know what.
It was loose in his head, and then it was gone. He put his thumb on
the hammer and slowly brought it back to rest against the firing pin.
He pulled the gun away, the sheriff' s chin held its altitude until
he was sure it was gone. The smell of fresh urine filled the car.
Edward Fixx checked his lap.

The gun, still in Trout's hand, lay on the seat
between them. For a long time neither of them spoke.

"I want to stop we get to Petersboro County,"
Trout said. The sheriff nodded.

"Just tell me where."

"A phone, so I can call a man."

"
Yessir."

The sheriff moved his eyes from the road to the seat
and then back. The gun was still lying on the seat in Trout's hand.
He had the feeling Trout had forgotten it was there.

He rolled down the window,
realizing he was still alive.

* * *

THERE WAS A GAS station just across the county line,
bordering Hard Labor Creek. The sheriff slowed the car and stopped
without being told. Trout walked inside, carrying the gun in his
hand. A fat, heavy-lipped woman appeared at the screen door, her head
wrapped in a bandanna, and stared out. The sheriff lifted his hand, a
gesture to reassure her, but as he moved, she was gone.

The car filled with flies, and he slapped them off
his lap.

Trout was inside half an hour. He came out carrying a
Dr Pepper in his hand instead of the gun and got back into the car.
The sheriff considered taking the shotgun out of the rack and
shooting him as he opened the door, but there was a public
consideration to the Trout case: A lot of people didn't think he
ought to be going to jail in the first place. He had been arrested
and tried and convicted, but there was a limit to what the citizenry
would tolerate.

"
Let's go if we're going," Trout said.

The sheriff started the engine and backed out onto
the highway, catching a glimpse of the woman again behind the screen
door. The work farm was another twenty miles. As soon as they were
back on the highway, the sheriff said, "I thought that fat girl
might talked you out of your britches, you was in there so long ....
"

Trout did not reply, and
neither of them spoke again until they saw the farm.

* * *

"THERE IT IS" THE sheriff said.

They had just cleared a stand of pines, and the work
farm was sitting in the middle of a clearing a quarter mile off the
highway. There was a chain-link fence, eight feet tall and topped
with barbed wire, that went around the perimeter. The gate was wide
and open, a man in prison pants and an undershirt standing at it with
a shotgun.

He looked into the car, squinting, as the sheriff
slowed and lowered the window. "Got one for the warden,"
the sheriff said. The man pointed, one finger, at a large wooden
building in the middle of eight smaller buildings.

The sheriff drove past him without another word and
parked the car in front of the main building. "You want me to
take your gun for you?" he said.

Trout said, "I left it."

The sheriff opened his door, thinking he would stop
at the gas station on the way back and find out from the lady herself
what had gone on inside. They walked in. A single prisoner was
mopping the hallway, which smelled of lye soap and sweat. They walked
to the last door on the right. It opened as soon as the sheriff
knocked. It was the warden himself, Buddy White. Behind him the
sheriff saw two men he did not recognize, both of them in suits and
pointy ha1f-white shoes. A German shepherd lay with its chin on its
feet, watching Trout.

"
This here is Paris Trout," the sheriff
said, handing the warden the papers. He did not like this particular
warden, who had never as much as offered him a cold drink. The
sheriff believed lawmen ought to show each other professional
courtesy.

The warden took the papers without acknowledging the
introduction. As he looked them over, he said, "Mr. Trout, your
lawyer is over there to the desk."

He signed the acceptance form and returned it to the
sheriff "That's it?" the sheriff said.

"
Unless you got another one in the car."

The sheriff turned to leave, and a low rattle sounded
somewhere in the dog's chest. "I'll shoot that dog right here in
your office", the sheriff said, "before I let him chase me
out."

"Shut up, Butch," the warden said, and the
dog went still.

The sheriff saw they were waiting for him to leave.
It felt like he'd walked into one of Richard Dickey's fancy parties.
He turned without another word, opening the door for himself, and
made his way out. When he had been gone a minute, the warden said to
Trout, "I believe you have some bi'nes with these gentlemen
here," and walked outside. The dog stood up, stretching one end,
then the other, and followed him.

One of the men in the suits motioned Trout to the
desk. "I am Mr. Dalmar," he said when Trout was closer.
"This here is Judge Raymond Mims, who has come out in person to
hear this matter."

The judge was sitting behind the desk with his hands
behind his neck. "Your attorney informs me you have been the
victim of perjured testimony, Mr. Trout," he said. He was a
small man with a shined appearance. Trout saw he had never done any
work in his life. He nodded his head. "People have told things
about me in court."

"
I'm sure they have," the judge said. And
for a minute the three men stayed where they were without speaking.

It was the attorney who broke the silence. "There
is a matter of legal fees, Mr. Trout.  Ourselves, we'd
straighten this out gratis if we could, but Mr. White, the warden
there, is not a man who appreciates the moral issues .... "

Trout reached into his pocket and found the envelope.
It was two inches thick, and he handed it to the lawyer without
looking inside. The lawyer handed it to the judge, who did look.

"
Twenty thousand dollars," Trout said.

The judge paid no attention. When he had finished
counting, he took papers from his inside pocket, signed his name half
a dozen times, and then stood up, leaving the papers on the desk, and
looked out the window at the empty yard.

Rodney Dalmar studied the papers the judge had signed
and then offered Trout his hand.

"
The judge has issued an order freeing you on a
writ of habeas corpus, citing perjured testimony at your trial,"
he said.

Trout looked at the attorney's hand and then at the
man near the window. "I want proof he's a judge," he said.

Rodney Dalmar tried to smile, but there appeared to
be something wrong with one side of his face. He put his hand on
Trout's shoulder and moved to lead him toward the door. "I know
you're having a joke on us, Mr. Trout," he said, "but sir,
this is not the time."

Trout would not be led. "I don't make jokes
about twenty thousand dollars," he said. "I never seen you
before in my life, and I want proof what I paid for is legal."

The attorney held the orders open for Trout to see.
"This is the seal of the Superior Court," he said. "That's
as legal as it gets down here."

But Trout was looking past the document at the small
man standing at the window. "I give you twenty thousand
dollars," he said. "He counted it on that desk right there
and put it in his pocket. I'm entitled to proof."

The attorney looked quickly at the man in the window,
then back at Trout. "You got to understand," he said, "we
have a . . . sensitive situation here."

"
I ain't asked to put it in the Atlanta
Constitution, " Trout said. "I just want proof it's a judge
signed this paper."

"
Mr. Trout," Rodney Dalmar said, "as
your attorney I would suggest you drop this right here. If it wasn't
legal, the warden wouldn't let anybody out this room .... "

"
He ain't yet. And if he does, there's nothing
to keep them from bringing me back."

The little man at the window turned' slowly around.
The shined look was drained out of his face. "Judge," the
attorney said, "could you give us a minute? Mr. Trout is got
nervous being so close to jail .... "

"
Exactly a minute," he said, and moved to
leave the room. Trout stepped in front of him.

"Nobody leaves the room till I'm satisfied,"
he said.

"
Mr. Trout," the judge said, looking up
into his face, "all I need do is to whistle, and Warden White
will be back through the door with a shotgun, shoot off your legs at
the knees. It has happened in this room before. The dogs come in and
clean up the mess. I understand you are a man of some resources in
Ether County, but it didn't save you up there, and it can't save you
here. It's out of your hands now, and if me and Mr. Dalmar here
wanted to rob you, you are robbed."

Then he walked around Trout and out the door. Rodney
Dalmar ran his fingers through his oiled curly hair. He began to
smooth feelings, but something in Trout was out of control. He saw it
and left him alone. "Just have a seat there against the wall,
Mr. Trout," he said.

Trout did not move. The attorney followed Judge Mims
out the door. When he was gone, Trout reached behind himself and
found the handle of his pistol. He pulled it out of his belt. It was
a forty-five automatic, and the weight of it in his hand made him
patient. He moved a chair behind the place where the door was hinged
and sat down, holding the gun in his lap, and waited for the warden
to come into the room with his shotgun.

The office was quiet and hot. He pictured the bullets
lying in the clip in the handle of the gun, he remembered his
feelings in the car again when he was right on the edge of blowing
the chin off Edward Fixx. It was different from the way he'd felt
shooting the girl.

When he'd gone after her,
the anger blew into him from the outside.

* * *

IT WAS ANOTHER HALF hour before Trout heard the
warden's steps in the hallway. He cocked the hammer, holding the gun
between his knees. The warden opened the door and scolded the dog.
Trout heard his voice and knew he wasn't coming in with any shotgun.
He replaced the hammer against the firing pin and sat still.

In a moment he heard the dog — its nails against
the cement floor — and then it came into the office, shook, and the
door closed. The warden did not see Trout at first and started when
he did.

"
What in the world you doin' still here?"
he said.

A noise began to crawl up the dog's throat, and the
warden didn't hush him.

"
This is where I was put," Trout said,
watching the animal.

Something was taking it over, growing on itself, and
it bared teeth and black gums.

"
They supposed to take you along," the
warden said. "They bust you out, they supposed to take you out.
I come in here and find you playing with a gun?"

The dog was edging closer, making wet, growling
noises, his eyes seemed to he fixed on Trout's, except Trout could
not meet them. He leaned forward for a better look.

"
Sit down," the warden said in a tired way,
and in that instant the expression in the animal's face changed. He
sat and looked up at the warden, his tongue jiggling happily out of
one side of his mouth.

"
It's my gun," Trout said.

"
You brought your gun witch you to jail?"

"I wasn't going to jail."

"
You could of."

"
No," Trout said, "I wasn't."

The warden walked to his desk, set his hat on top of
it, and sat down.

"
I'd like to know how in Sam hill you're fixing
to get back. I don't run no bus service to Ether County, take you
half a day to walk to town."

Trout waited.

"
I guest I could get somebody to tote you over
.... Might cost you some change."

Trout did not say a word.

"
I expect I could get a trustee to ride you for
fifteen dollars. That ain't much to somebody like you, is it?"

Trout stood up, and the dog rose halfway with him and
froze. "I spent all the money in Petersboro County I'm going
to," he said.

The warden shrugged. "Suit yourself? he said.
"You go right out through the gate, walk to the highway and turn
south. Morganville is seventeen miles. I wouldn't count on nobody
picking you up around here if that's what you're thinking. The suit
don't help, people know you comin' from the prison. They think
everybody comes out this place is gone rob them and leave them dead
in a ditch. They got no way to tell you ain't like that, Mr. Trout .
. ."

Trout knew the man was laughing at him. He put the
forty-five back inside his belt and walked out of the office. The
prisoner was still in the same spot; he could have been mopping in
his sleep. Trout walked around him, through the wet spot on the
floor, and found his way outside.
 

He walked to the highway and turned south. Half a
mile from the work farm there was a snake. She was a copperhead, as
thick as a man's arm, mashed where a tire had hit her, and stuck to
the highway in her own gum. She lay still, except for a twitching in
the tail, until Trout was a few yards away. Then, without warning,
her head came up off the asphalt, striking slowly in Trout's
direction, again and again. Trout stayed where he was — a few yards
away — and then the snake suddenly turned on herself and struck,
three timcs, just in front of the spot where she was mashed.