‘What happened then?’ Jac asked.
‘Well, yer know, I’d been handlin’ things in the communication room for over eighteen months by then — so I was first to see them come through: e-mails from Joshua.’ Rodriguez paused briefly again to let the information settle with Jac. ‘The first month there were just two. Then they increased to once or sometimes twice a week, with Larry always makin’ sure to answer ‘em by the next day.’ Rodriguez smiled. ‘Man, Larry was alive through that period like I never saw him before. Then, suddenly, about seven weeks back, without warnin’ they stopped. Nothin’. Nada.’ Rodriguez’ smile faded just as quickly. ‘And Larry sank back into his gloomy pit. But probably even worse than before. Because now he’d been given a taste o’ what things could be like with his son, only fo’ it to be yanked away again. No more contact — and, as Larry sees it, no hope again.’
Jac rubbed his forehead as he considered the information. He could see now why Rodriguez was cautious about sharing it. It cut deep to the roots of Durrant’s family and personal psyche.
‘Any indication as to why the e-mails might have stopped?’ Jac asked.
‘No, only guesswork. Larry sent another half-dozen e-mails askin’ for a reply or explanation before his pride — foolish or otherwise — made him give up. Got to the point where he felt he was beggin’.’ Rodriguez shrugged. ‘Maybe his mom or new stepfather cut in, stopped him sendin’ more e-mails; or Joshua himself decided to stop — feared he was gettin’ too close, ‘specially when his father likely wouldn’t be around much longer. Lot easier to take the loss of someone you’re not that close to. Or his computer has broken down or his AOL account has been cancelled. In the end, we’re fishin’.’ Rodriguez grimaced. ‘That’s why things were planned earlier with the prison break. Larry didn’t rate the chances of Candaret givin’ him clemency, and, if he got out there — he could find out what’d happened with Joshua.’
‘Right.’ Jac nodded, glancing towards the glass screen. Even with the red light off, he felt uneasy at the mention of ‘prison break’. It wasn’t the best thread on which to hang Larry Durrant’s life, he thought: the wants and reasoning of a twelve-year-old boy. But at this stage he was glad of any small mercies. ‘So you think that if there was e-mail contact again from Joshua, or at least some reasonable explanation that would give him hope of future contact — that might make Durrant feel differently?’
Rodriguez shrugged. ‘Again, only guesswork. But it’s the best chance I can think of to raise Larry’s spirits. Maybe make him wanna start livin’ again.’
Asking a twelve-year-old boy to go through the emotional trauma of contact with his father while the shadow of execution hung over him, and no doubt with his mother and new partner strongly opposed to it for those same reasons — it wasn’t going to be easy. But it looked like the best he was going to get.
Jac pushed a tight smile and nodded. ‘Thanks for that… and for those, too.’ He gestured towards the books. ‘If we can convince Larry Durrant that there’s still something worth living for, they might come in useful in convincing others he’s worthwhile keeping alive.’
‘S’okay.’ Rodriguez nodded back with a light snort. ‘Except that down here in the South, could be dangerous ground. Black man daring t’fool around with the classics — could send him for the chop straight-off for that alone.’ Rodriguez smiled slyly. ‘And thank God Larry never got ‘round to editing the Bible. If he had, and Havelin’ got wind of it — he’d make sure to switch on the poison-feed himself.’
Early the next morning, while sipping at coffee, Jac took the folded paper from his jacket pocket and spread it out on his dining table.
He’d looked at the printed e-mail and his reply already countless times, had unfolded and folded it back more often than he cared think about; but perhaps without the noise of the office buzzing around him, something might leap out that he hadn’t picked up on before:
I hear you’re representing Larry Durrant. I know that he didn’t do it. It wasn’t him. I know, because I was there at the time. Don’t let him die.
No name, initials or sign-off; just the e-mail address, durransave4 @hotmail.com, and the time and date. Jac’s eyes shifted to his reply:
I need to know more to be able to do anything with this. Who you are? Or at least how and why you were there at the time? Also, why haven’t you come forward before? I need to know more to help save Larry.
Only four lines, but Jac worried that already he’d said too much, frightened the sender off. Yet what else could he have said? He was just telling it how it was. On its own, the message meant nothing: he couldn’t help Durrant with it unless he had more information.
But the other reason he was looking at it again now was because of something John Langfranc had said the other day. With still no reply, he’d finally told Langfranc about the e-mail and they’d brainstormed just who might have sent it — friend of Durrant’s, relative, hoaxer, any of the new supporters he’d found since hitting the press again recently, or capital punishment opponents keen to throw a spanner in the works at the last moment — when Langfranc arched one eyebrow.
‘Of course, one other possibility we haven’t thought of: the murderer himself. That need to confess that criminologists are always talking about. Not to mention guilt — with Durrant getting close now to his final day.’
‘No, surely not. I mean why would he — ’ Then suddenly Jac stopped himself as he thought about the e-mail’s wording: I was there at the time. If it was just a hoaxer, then why not say simply that he knew or could tell them? Why be so bold and say that he was there at the time?
Those same words leapt out at Jac now, until everything else on the page evaporated and that was all that seemed to be there… I was there at the time.
9
For the first ten minutes they skirted around each other, keeping the conversation to safe, inconsequential ground: how long had he been in the States? How was he finding it? Relationships with his mother and aunt? But with that, he found himself choosing his words carefully. He knew that, at least from Aunt Camille’s perspective, she considered the Bromwells to be quite close, and he didn’t want to be too ungracious.
But as Jennifer Bromwell sensed his awkwardness, she reached across the table and lightly touched the back of his hand, their first physical contact.
‘It’s okay. I find her a big snob, too. Sometimes too much to take. So don’t be afraid to speak your mind.’
And Jac, in turn, found her skewing her lip slightly when he asked about her father. He reciprocated by touching her hand back. ‘Look, I don’t even know him. But if I said he was a snob as well — would that make it any easier for you to talk about him?’
They laughed, and from there the conversation flowed easily: family, work, life, France — she’d visited twice, Paris for two days as part of a whirlwind European trip, and a holiday of two weeks spent between Cannes and Monte Carlo. Her work was in the PR and marketing department of a local fashion house.
They’d gone to Le Bon Temps Roule, his choice but under her guidance of liveliness and ambience before haute cuisine. ‘I go to enough stuffy high-class joints with my parents.’