‘He’s laying on the compliments like thick treacle to soften her up, and she’s blushin’ and so open to anything by now that she might as well have her panties down by her ankles. So then he gives her the first test jab, sayin’ that he’s sure that’s not what Larry Durrant meant by that article. “What makes you say that?” she quizzes, knees twitchin’ now, worried that she might have made a big mistake leaving herself so open. But it’s too late; with a little teasin’ smile, he rams home wit’ the “Fuck you”, says that if she noticed in the article, Durrant uses the third person throughout: he sites Texas statutes regarding Mary-Beth Fuller, and his own lawyer with culpability doubts in his own case. At no time does he express those opinions as his own.
‘She starts splutterin’…. “That as may be…” realizin’ now that she’s gettin’ fucked, but not sure how to stop it — and he rams home with the final killer stroke.’ Rodriguez did another sword swipe in the air to accompany his hip thrust. ‘“And that’s supported too by what, from his files, Mr McElroy was faced with when he first saw Larry Durrant.” “What was that?” she asks, wide open again — this girl jus’ wouldn’ learn.’ Rodriguez smiled crookedly and shook his head. ‘ “The fact that at that point Durrant said he wanted to die — didn’t want a plea made on his behalf”.
‘Mr Smooth-southern-ass then looks at the panel long and hard, and says: “Now you can’t get more accepting of guilt than that. You see, it’s not Larry Durrant himself who’s questioned his guilt or felt that his life might be worth pleading for — it’s his lawyers: Mr Coultaine, Mr McElroy, and now myself. And if we’ve been wrong in doing that, then I humbly apologize”.’ Rodriguez was in his element playing to his audience, laying on a thick southern accent for Ayliss and switching to high and squeaky for beehive Elleridge. Rodriguez punched a fist skyward as he finished. ‘Fuckin’ ace!’
Peretti was the first to show his support by slapping the flat of one hand against the table with a ‘Yeah, yeah,’ which set off more table-slapping along with some ‘Wuh-wuh’ frat-boy monkey chants, Rodriguez taking a quick bow before he caught the quizzical glare from Elden on guard duty at the far end.
But as Rodriguez sat back down, the clamour as quickly dying, he knew that it was mainly bravado to fire everyone up, kid them, and himself, that there was still strong hope left. Drag them away from the reality: only eight days left now for Larry, and little hope.
‘Okay. Give me the low-down.’ Roche wheezed heavily into the phone, the panic of the past forty-eight hours and the nervous anticipation waiting for Nel-M’s call back weighing like a rock in his chest. ‘What have you been able to find out about him?’
‘Darrell Christopher Ayliss. One of Mike Coultaine’s old colleagues from way back. One of the best criminal lawyers in Mississippi at the time. We’re talking almost twenty years back to seven years ago, late-nineties — before he went to Mexico.’
‘Mexico?’
‘Yeah, that’s where he hi-tailed it to after his divorce. Messy business. On top of the half, his wife wanted a big chunk of his new partnership. He said, Fuck it, in that case there is no partnership. Headed to Puerto Vallarta and started selling real estate and handling some conveyance for Americans buying there. He sent her maintenance, though not what she was claiming, plus presents and money for their daughter Christmas and birthdays. She apparently pursued him for the extra money for a while, then gave up the ghost when she moved to Oregon a few years back.’
‘Is that why maybe he feels it’s safe to come back here now?’
‘Maybe. But if that’s the case, it was a sudden decision. Like the minute that Coultaine got on the phone and said he needed help, Ayliss was on the next plane. Because from what I can find out, up until now he’s been in Mexico.’
Roche chewed the information over for a moment, his breath falling more steadily. ‘So he owes Coultaine a favour or two, or they’re close enough for that?’
‘Uh-huh. Ayliss was with Bowyer and Turnbull in Jackson before, then did a two-year stint with Payne, Beaton and Sawyer. That’s where he and Coultaine first met — and when Ayliss went back to Jackson to start up a partnership, they kept in contact. And obviously they have since, too.’
‘One of the best criminal lawyers at the time, you say?’
‘From what I hear. Of those in the early nineties tipped to be the next F. Lee Bailey, Ayliss was a prime contender.’ From Roche’s more troubled breathing at the other end, that obviously wasn’t what he wanted to hear. Nel-M forced a tentative chuckle. ‘But after eight years selling condos in Mexico, he’s probably as rusty as shit.’
Silence, just the steady rise and fall of Roche’s laboured breathing. He wasn’t in the mood to be humoured.
‘And the psychiatrist?’ Roche asked after a moment. ‘Have you been able to find out if it’s game-on again with him?’
‘Bateson says, yeah, apparently so.’
‘When?’
‘Day after tomorrow.’
Roche exhaled tiredly. ‘All that palaver with McElroy just to gain three days. Back where we started, and by the looks of it with a stronger lawyer to boot.’
Nel-M had half expected the taunt with it being his plan, but he was damned if he was going to apologize for it. Despite everything once again slipping sideways, it had without doubt been their best plan yet. ‘Three days delay. That might be all we need at this stage. And the second session planned is for some reason two days later; before with McElroy it was scheduled straight the day after. So another day delay there too. You know, ticking away, ticking away.’
‘You want to convince yourself so that you feel better about it, fine. But don’t expect me to buy into it. If this psychiatrist cracks Durrant, whether it’s a day or just an hour before his execution, we’re screwed.’
Nel-M felt like reaching down the phone and squeezing the last feeble breaths out of Roche, but he had a point. ‘Not exactly much we’re gonna be able to do about it. As we’ve just seen, we get rid of the psychiatrist, they’ll just get another one in.’
Nel-M could sense from Roche’s breathing becoming heavier, more troubled, that this was the hardest part for him. Letting go. A lifetime of controlling, manipulating with his grubby little paws, it was completely alien to him admitting that, for once, he couldn’t push and mould things exactly how and where he wanted.
‘We might just have to ride this one out,’ Nel-M added after a moment. ‘And, of course, pray.’
But Roche was hardly listening, his thoughts cannoning frantically in rhythm with his fractured breathing. ‘There must be something we can do… something?’
33
Darrell Ayliss was sweating profusely as he paced back through the seemingly endless, cavernous grey corridors of Libreville. He was a large man with an awkward gait, and the sweat poured off him.
Testament to just how hot it was in Libreville, or perhaps equally it was from Durrant’s words still burning through his head from the session just finished with Greg Ormdern. Or the crushing reminder that had run through him like a red-hot pulse in time with the wall clock ticking down the minutes of the session: only six days left now to possibly save Durrant.
Ayliss inhaled deeply of the air outside just before he got in his rented Dodge Stratus, observed the 20 m.p.h speed limit for the two miles of shale road back towards the guard post, then gunned it once clear the other side. He let out a slow, heavy breath, as if blowing off the steam of the prison and the session, and hit play on the tape recorder on his passenger seat.
Ormdern’s voice drifted out, Durrant’s more muted timbre interspersed, the tinny tone of the recorder almost matching how he’d initially heard it through the small speaker in the observation room with Pete Folley at his side, looking on through the glass screen as Ormdern questioned Durrant on a camp-bed set up in the adjoining interview room.