Halfway through Jac scribbling a contact number on the back of a business card from his wallet, Camille silently mouthed, ‘Well?’ She whisked the air with her raised hand as she added voice. ‘What do I tell her?’
‘Thanks, John.’ Jac sighed as he rang off. ‘Okay. Okay. Tell her we’re on for a date. But not this coming week. Too much to sort out. Next weekend.’ What would it harm, one date, thought Jac. How bad could it be? At least the pressure was off for all concerned. His mother risked a faint smile, relieved that battle was done. But as he saw his aunt’s fuller, more satisfied smile, basking in the glory of yet another triumph — once again he heard his father’s voice telling him that he should have put up more of a stand, shouldn’t have given in so quickly.
Perhaps in one way his Aunt Camille was right. Like his father, he was a dreamer. Any chances of saving Lawrence Durrant’s life were fast ebbing away before he’d even started. Jac dialled Bob Stratton’s number. But with each extra ring with no answer, Jac felt any remaining hope slipping further away.
5
Larry Durrant could feel his mother’s eyes on his right shoulder, all but burning a hole right through it. She’d always been there in the same position in the courtroom through those days of the trial, give or take a few seats either way. And Francine, too, had sat in a similar place — but they’d hardly ever been together at the same time because of them alternating on taking care of Joshua, except for the few times Franny’s mother had helped out.
Franny’s stare had been different: shifting, uncomfortable, not meeting his gaze directly for too long when on occasion he’d turned around, as if uncertain whether he was guilty or not. But his mother’s stare had been direct, unflinching: either she believed in him no matter what, or was trying to see through to his very soul to understand what might have possessed this being that she’d brought into the world to kill that poor woman.
He’d had the first dream then: a shadowy figure holding the gun on Jessica Roche, firing just as he was screaming out for him not to. Unsure if it was someone else, or he was merely looking at himself, that shaky, unstable side of himself that he had little control over and might have actually done it. The evidence said he’d done it, his memory, such as it was, said that he’d done it, and then he’d said it himself in his confession. But suddenly that shadowy figure was there to say maybe… just maybe.
When he’d first had the dream, shaking his head from fitful sleep as he sat by a bailiff ready for the next day’s court battle, his first thought was that it was a protective device for his psyche; creating another character who’d actually fired the gun, because part of his mind couldn’t accept that he’d done something so horrific.
But as the court case continued, with his mother’s eyes each day boring into his shoulder, he wondered if it was also partly for that; that if the shadowy figure in his dreams looked his way and he was able to see its face, he’d have been able to turn and call out to his mother that he’d seen who it was and it wasn’t him! ‘ I didn’t do it!’
Yet the figure in his dreams never did turn his way, and so he was never able to rid himself of that penetrating stare and all the guilt, recrimination, anguish and lost hope that went with it.
And years later when he was still having the same dream, by then often mixed up with his mother staring at his back on those courtroom days — he was still never able to see its face. He was never able to phone his mother before she died, five years after the trial, as he’d hoped and prayed he’d be able to, and say, ‘Ma, I don’t think I did it.’
Bob Stratton was in his local bar watching his favourite football team, the New Orleans Saints, play the Arizona Cardinals, when his cell-phone rang.
He’d switched it off at the beginning of the game, but when the Saints were trailing 14-6 by the first quarter, his enthusiasm began to wane and, remembering the call he’d been waiting for hadn’t come through yet, he switched it back on.
‘Jim, is that you?’ he shouted above the noise of the television.
‘No, as I said, it’s Jac McElroy,’ Jac repeated a shade louder. ‘John Langfranc gave me your number.’
‘Oh, right. And what can I do for you, sir?’
Stratton nodded at intervals and watched Hambrick of the Cardinals rip though the Saints’ defence with another run as Jac explained what he wanted.
‘The problem is, I’m tied up with something right now,’ Stratton said. ‘Can it wait until tomorrow?’
‘No, that’s just the problem.’ Jac told Stratton why there was such dire urgency. ‘If this guard comes around before we have someone present to take his account — it could be too late.’
Stratton looked at his watch, then at the game on the TV. It didn’t look like the Saints were going to pull this around, so maybe he should save himself the pain. He could listen to it on the radio on his way out there, and at least vent his frustration in private by banging the steering wheel when need be. The couple of times he’d slapped the bar counter and shouted abuse at the TV, a few heads had turned his way.
‘It’ll take me at least two hours to get out there. Any use to you?’
‘Yes. Absolutely.’ Jac filled in the rest of the details. ‘Thanks, you’re a life-saver.’
Aunt Camille was looking keenly at Jac as he hung up. Having watched him pace like a caged lion at the close of dinner as he tried to get hold of Stratton, her interest had been piqued.
‘Important, by the looks of it?’
‘Yes, yes. It’s a murder case.’ Jac couldn’t resist it. In their last heated debate about his move to criminal law, she’d commented disdainfully: “Starting from rung one like this, it’ll be years before they hand you any worthwhile, heavyweight cases.”
Camille arched one eyebrow. ‘Murder, you say. Any case we might know?’
Jac eased back. Eleven years on, Durrant was still a landmark case, and in the run up to his execution was again grabbing major headlines. Camille would be bound to voice strong comment and, in responding, he’d risk breaching client confidentiality.
‘No, no. Nothing important. Just an also-ran.’
‘Oh, I see.’ Camille nodded and smiled tightly. ‘An also-ran case.’
Back to where she expected his legal career to be. Going nowhere fast.
The guard’s regular card game took place in the watch-room an hour after shut-down. Every lock and bolt had been secured, monitors checked, and residual hubbub and chatter from the inmates had by then faded out. All that lay ahead was a long, quiet night, so out came the cards.
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.