Angela’s intensity forces me to drop my eyes.
I’ve been waiting to hear these words for two months, but given the moment, I’d be a fool to believe them right now. The problem is, I’m in love with her. I stand up, and say, “I need to go home and think about all of this, Angela.”
She stares at me and nods.
“I know.”
I leave her sitting at the table and let myself out of the house,
thinking I am a damn fool. How could I get myself in such a mess?
My phone is ringing when I walk through the door in my house. It is Dickerson, who wastes no time in getting to the point.
“Angela called Paul.
According to him, she says that Class is going to make a deal and testify against him.”
“You better talk to Angela,” I say, stalling, “and get the facts. I didn’t tell her that. She’s just worried that her friend Paul is going down.” I have no idea how much Dick knows about their relationship. I doubt if Paul has told him the truth, but maybe he has by now.
“What I want to know, Gideon,” Dick says harshly, “is whether your client is going to testify against Paul. Either he is or he isn’t.”
“I don’t know,” I reply, “and that’s the truth.
He may feel he has no alternative.”
“He’ll be perjuring himself,” Dick says fiercely.
“Paul may be many things, but he’s not a murderer.”
I have heard that too many times.
“How in the fuck do you know, Dick?” I blast into the phone.
“Unless I’m a total idiot, Paul has lied to you already about this case, so I wouldn’t be so damn sure if I were you.”
“What in the hell are you talking about?” he sputters.
I can’t imagine that Paul hasn’t admitted to him by now that he was having an affair with Angela. On the other hand, perhaps he has, and Dick merely wants to see if Angela’s confession matches Dick’s. Well, I’m not going to give him that satisfaction. He can talk to Angela if he wants. I’ve been humiliated enough already.
“Dick,” I say, knowing I am enraging him, “it’s not up to me to figure out this case for you.”
There is a deadly silence on the other end.
“If you are suborning perjury in this case,” Dick finally says, “I will spend the rest of my life seeing that you never practice law again. And if I hear of you talking to Paul again without my permission, you can be sure you’ll be reported to the committee on professional conduct.”
I feel my forehead grow warm. If Bledsoe goes through with his plan to implicate Paul and then a year from now begins to suffer from a guilty conscience, I know one person who will take him seriously. I wonder how close I have come to encouraging Class to lie. A good lawyer could argue that I put the idea in his head because I wanted revenge against Paul. And Dick is definitely a good lawyer.
“I think I’d spend some time on this case if I were you, Dick.”
Dick sputters into the phone that I better tell him what Bledsoe is going to do. For the first time since I have known him, there is a sound of desperation in his voice. He knows that he didn’t have time to take this case. He knows now that he will have to prepare for the worst, regardless of what I say. Finally, he concludes by saying, “Your mother would be ashamed of you, Gideon. I’m glad she’s not here to watch how you’re handling yourself.”
I’m glad she isn’t either, but I’m not about to admit it and give Dick that kind of satisfaction.
He’s such a holier-than-thou prick he makes me want to puke. Abruptly, I tell him I have to get off the phone and do some work, and hang up.
To hell with the old fart.
At three o’clock the next afternoon I’m on the road to Bear Creek.
Judge Greer, who has a history of heart trouble, became sick on the bench and abruptly declared a mistrial, freeing me to focus on Doss’s case. I’m headed straight for Oldham’s Barbecue. I was out there a month ago and got nothing out of him, but maybe I didn’t ask the right question. Henry Oldham is nothing like his nephew. A tall, light-colored elderly man with short, white hair, he was a high school math teacher who, according to Class, lost his job when the schools were first desegregated and then was hired back when blacks got control of the school board. He retired from teaching three years ago and worked out his arrangement with Paul. On my way to his restaurant, I pass the Cotton Boll, and suddenly it hits me that the one person who may put some things in perspective for me is an old gay man who never had much
respect for my abilities. I have been out of synch for most of this case, and I don’t know why. My recollection of what went on in Bear Creek when I was growing up doesn’t seem to jibe with what others rem em her. Maybe Mr. Carpenter, who has spent his life on the outside looking in, can clue me in. I will stop by here as soon as I finish with Oldham.
Oldham’s Barbecue is a nondescript whitish concrete block house out Highway 1 just inside Bear Creek’s city limits. There are five vehicles parked in the gravel out front, and I realize I have arrived at the worst possible time to talk to him.
Inside there are only six plain vanilla tables and metal chairs on a concrete floor. Most of Oldham’s business is carry-out. Uke last time, a black girl who surely isn’t out of high school is at the counter handing over Styrofoam containers to a black customer, with two behind him. I remember that before Oldham was out back tending his cookers. I retrace my steps, go around the north side of the building, and almost run into Oldham, who is leaning up against the wall smoking a cigarette. The smell of barbecue is delicious. I tell him I realize he can’t talk but a minute or two, but that it is important to his nephew’s case. He gives me a look of scandalized distaste. Clearly, the last thing he wants to do is be called as a witness. Throwing his cigarette into the grass beside him, he says, “I told you everything I know last time.”
Knowing I won’t get much out of him, I ask the most important question first.
“Mr. Oldham, all I want to know is whether Paul Taylor had talked to you about retiring at any time or giving up your arrangement with him, either before or after Willie Ting was murdered.”
“Why do you want to know?” he grunts, irritably.
“All I can tell you is that it’s important to your nephew’s case.”
“Well, I don’t remember right now,” he says cagily.
I want to throttle the old man.
“Class can easily end up on death row if you don’t tell me what you know.”
Mr. Oldham gives me a skeptical look.
“You tell me why you need this.”
“I can’t do that right now,” I insist.
“You know that I represent your nephew. All I’m looking for is the truth.” This last sentence comes out sounding hollow and trite. What am I looking for? I have felt so conflicted about this case I don’t even know.
As if the odor of hypocrisy is overpowering the smell of the cooking meat, the older man frowns.
“I gotta go help inside,” he says abruptly, and wheels to his left inside a back door into the building.
Frustrated, I stomp around to the front, get back in the Blazer, and
drive back toward the Cotton Boll, where I pull in and give Mckenzie an order for chicken fried steak, lima beans, cole slaw, mashed potatoes, corn bread, and iced tea.
Maybe I will have a heart attack and die so I won’t have to try this case. I dawdle over my food and order coffee and a piece of pecan pie for dessert. By 7:30 the last of his few customers has cleared out, and Mr. Carpenter himself brings out a pot of coffee to pour me a refill.
“Gideon, you’ve never come by,” he reproaches me, wiping his hands on a mostly clean apron.
I cut through the syrupy crust. It is wonder 3
folly sweet and perfect with coffee.
“I’d like to come by tonight,” I say, watching him refill my cup, “if you’re not too tired.”
He gets up from the table.