Glenn Bateson presided, but not everyone was invited to join in. Bateson ran a strict game, minimum stake of $20 a hand, poker or thirteen-card canaster, and one of those who looked on with curiosity as voices and blood pressure rose with the heat of the game, but had never been invited to join in, was Miles Elden, or ‘Scope’ as he was nicknamed, because he was always scoping around, head turning and craning to every corner of the prison. Hardly ever stopped moving.
Scope was a regular visitor to the prison chapel, so Bateson always thought his religious principles would keep him away from the game — but now he was keen to have him join in. When he saw Scope pass the open door to the watch room and glance over, Bateson beckoned him over enthusiastically.
‘Hey, why don’t you join us?’ Bateson beamed his widest smile.
‘I don’t know…I…’ Scope hovered uncertainly by the door.
‘Come on. It’s not really gambling with thirteen-card canaster. More of a mind- and skill-game than chance. We’ll show you how to play and give you a few trial hands with no stakes — then go in at just $10 a hand if and when you feel confident.’
Scope put up a bit more resistance, but it was clear that Bateson wasn’t about to take no for an answer, and with a final welcoming smile and nod of encouragement he had a spare seat swiftly pulled up.
On the first night, Scope won $40, on the second $110, and Bateson waited until the third night to put in the sting. Scope dropped $680 on two almost unbeatable hands.
‘Don’t worry. Hands like that, you’re bound to make it back the next night,’ Bateson assured.
Scope didn’t. He dropped another $1,140 the following night.
Scope looked panic-stricken as he took Bateson to one side at the end of the game. ‘That’s a big chunk of my month’s salary there. I was hoping you might cut me a bit of slack and let me pay, say, over the next few months?’
Bateson sucked in his breath. ‘If it was just up to me, sure. I’d wait. But some of the other guys here, they got heavy commitments and maybe other dues from games they gotta settle. So it ain’t so easy.’ Bateson paused heavily, enjoying letting Scope stew for a moment more before becoming pensive. ‘But maybe there’s something else you could help me out with that could settle this.’
‘You didn’t have to agree to the date, if you didn’t want to, you know,’ Jean-Marie said. ‘Certainly not just because of me and Mum.’
‘I think I did, and you know it. Camille would have just kept on pushing, and you and mum would have got the worst of it. Thankfully, I only have to see her when I choose.’
They’d left Camille’s an hour ago, and Jac’s sister Jean-Marie had grabbed his ear as soon as their mother had gone to the kitchen to make coffee before he left.
Jean-Marie looked down thoughtfully for a second. Seventeen going on twenty-something, the past six years with their father’s business collapse, the cancer which finally led to his death, then the upheaval and move to America to live partly in the shadow of their aunt’s charity and favour, had made her world-weary beyond her years. Petite, quiet and studious, the extra age though didn’t show in her body or face, only in the sullen intensity in her eyes now and then; the same gaze she levelled now at Jac as she looked back up.
‘I suppose you’re right. She’s a determined old dog, even if often she aims to be well-meaning.’
Jac smiled. ‘I think you give her too much credit. I think she enjoys turning the screws and watching people squirm. You should have just ended on “old dog” — just about hits the right note.’
Jean-Marie chuckled. ‘Anyway, talking of “old dogs”, you certainly could do a lot worse than a date with Jennifer Bromwell. She’s quite cute, in fact — in a Britney Spears sort of way. “Hot” I think is the American term for it. Or is it “cool”? I forget now.’
Jac fired a doubtful grimace. His sister no doubt knew the right term long ago, but he rode along with the tease.
‘Spoilt though, I suppose?’
‘No, didn’t seem it. I’ve only met her a couple of times when she came over to Camille’s with her father — but she seemed quite normal and approachable. She spoke to me and Mum for a bit, and she was very friendly.’
‘That’s probably just because she thinks we’re royalty.’ Jac couldn’t resist teasing back.
‘No, I don’t think so. I got the impression that for her that was all just a their-generation thing — Camille’s and her dad’s. Royalty and money. I don’t think she gives a damn about either — came across as a bit of a hippy in that respect. Or maybe just a silly idealist.’
This time when Jean-Marie forced a smile, Jac couldn’t tell whether she was teasing or not. The lessons for them with money had come harder than most.
Jac feigned a crestfallen look. ‘Oh, that’s a shame. I was hoping that with my royalty connections, I might get “lucky”. If that’s the American term?’
Jean-Marie leant forward and lightly punched him on the arm. Few of their teasing jousts did she ever win, but the contests were becoming tighter as she got older.
With the jolt, Jac instinctively stole another glance at his watch — the umpteenth time he’d done so since leaving Aunt Camille’s. Why hadn’t Stratton called yet? He’d expected his call to say he’d arrived at the hospital over an hour ago now.
‘Is it the same thing you were worried about earlier?’ Jean-Marie asked. ‘You know, the murder case you called about when we were at Camille’s.’
‘Yeah, the same.’
‘And is it just an also-ran case, like you said?’
Jean-Marie knew him better than most, and from her tone he could tell that she’d read the earlier lie. No point in continuing it.
‘No, it’s quite a big case. But it’s only a clemency plea, and looks bound to fail. That’s why the senior partners have given it to me. So that when it goes down in flames, their reputations are well clear of any heat.’
‘And, as Aunt Camille asked — is it a case that anyone might know?’
‘Yes, it’s the Lawrence Durrant case.’ Jac said the words flatly, plainly, belying the gravity and intent they deserved. Perhaps because, by now, he’d become used to repeating them. Or due to the pervasive feeling that had swept over him as the evening progressed: a sense of guilt clinking glasses and chatting aimlessly while Durrant lay in his cell at Libreville, the clock fast ticking against him. Was that what it was going to be like for the forty-four days: guilt at every moment that breathed freedom and life, or was it just the sense of time being wasted that jarred?
‘Oh, I see.’ Equally flatly, plainly. Even within her own little world of studies, computer games, pop posters, starting to look at boys differently and coping with the transition from French to American culture — the increasing media barrage of the Durrant case had managed to penetrate.
‘But for God’s sake, don’t tell anyone — not even Mum. If she’s pushed by Camille, she’ll find it hard to keep it under wraps.’
Jean-Marie hastily shook her head. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t say anything. I promise. I’ll…’ She quickly side-tracked as she saw their mother walking back in with the coffee. ‘I was just saying to Jac that he shouldn’t worry about the date with Jennifer. She seems very nice.’
‘Yes, she does — as I already told Jac.’ Catherine set the coffee tray down. ‘No need to worry at all.’
But from his mother’s forced smile, Jac could tell that the thought of her son having to go on an arranged date because of the situation they were in was troubling her more than any of them.
Bob Stratton’s journey out to St Tereseville was marked by stages in the Saints-Cardinals game on his car radio.
As he started on the Lake Pontchartrain Causeway, they’d managed to claw back three points with a field-goal. But only four miles in, as the first swirls of mist started to hit his windscreen, they fell back eight points from a touch-down that was converted. And as the mist became heavier, as if mirroring the cloud of doom fast descending over his team, they fell back another three points.