“The Devil,” the Kydd repeats.
“That’s why the shoes are important,” I tell Harry.
He nods, giving up the point, and then turns back to the Kydd. “Old-timers take Goody out and dust her off any time they sit around a campfire with their grandchildren,” he says.
“To ensure the folklore lives on,” I explain.
“But mostly to terrify the little tykes,” Harry adds.
“The Devil,” the Kydd says yet again. He takes a deep breath, folds the newspaper in half, and hands it back to Harry. “Get it out of here,” the Kydd says. “Louisa is low enough. She doesn’t need witch talk.”
He’s right, of course. She doesn’t. And in spite of the inappropriateness of it all, I’m touched by his genuine concern for her. He’s a good sort, the Kydd. His heart’s in the right place, even if his pants sometimes aren’t.
Harry tucks the folded paper under his arm and moves to a chair at the bar, behind our table. As soon as he leaves, Judge Long and Louisa enter the courtroom simultaneously, the judge from chambers, Louisa from lockup. A flustered matron rushes to deliver Louisa to us and an equally ruffled Joey Kelsey tells us to rise after everyone in the room is on their feet. I’m not the only one who’s a beat behind this morning.
Louisa looks somewhat refreshed, markedly better than she did yesterday. She smiles at the Kydd and me as she joins us and I realize her eyes aren’t bloodshot anymore. I’m reminded of the Rule of Alternates, a principle Harry shared with me years ago. People newly imprisoned—most notably first-timers—tend to sleep on alternate nights. It’s impossible to fall asleep the first night in the joint; impossible not to the second. For some, the pattern persists throughout their entire stay in county facilities.
Judge Long tells us to sit and everyone except Wanda Morgan does. She stays on her feet instead and walks to the bench with a file that apparently needs the judge’s attention. I lean closer to Louisa so I can whisper and the Kydd leans toward her too, so he can listen. “About the trial date,” I ask her, “what’s your preference, sooner or later?”
Left to its own devices, the machinery of the Commonwealth will deliver a case like this one to trial in about a year. But if there aren’t an excessive number of discovery disputes or pretrial motions, that time can be shortened, sometimes by as much as a few months. For defendants who have a decent shot at acquittal, it’s a no-brainer. They want to get to trial as fast as possible. This particular defendant, though, isn’t one of them.
“That depends,” Louisa answers, looking at the Kydd and then back at me, “on how long the two of you need—”
I shake my head. “That’s not an issue.”
She shakes her head too. “—to find the murderer.”
Now that’s an issue. “What?”
“My head is clear this morning,” she says, “for the first time since this nightmare began. And now it’s obvious.”
“What’s obvious?” The Kydd’s starting to squirm.
“I didn’t kill Herb,” she says. “And I didn’t attack him. But the only way I’m going to convince these people of that”—she nods toward Geraldine and Clarence—“is to prove who did.”
The Kydd stares at me and loosens his tie a little.
“I’ll work every minute of every hour,” Louisa continues. “I’ll make notes. I’ll give you every detail that might be remotely connected to Herb’s death. I’ll do everything I can to figure out who killed him.”
She pauses and looks at both of us again. “But I’m stuck in this dreadful place,” she says, “so you two will have to go get him.” She faces front and folds her hands on the table, as if it’s all settled now.
The judge and Wanda are still poring over their file and after a moment, Louisa twists around in her chair. “Good morning, Harold,” she says.
Harold leans forward and squeezes her shoulder.
She points to the newspaper in his lap. “Is that the Herald?”
He nods.
Her eyes move from Harry to the Kydd and then to me. “Have you read it?” she asks us.
We all nod. The look on Louisa’s face tells us she’s read it too.
“It’s preposterous,” she says, facing front again and folding her arms.
She’s right, of course. Preposterous is Lou McCabe’s middle name.
Louisa turns away from the Kydd and leans over the arm of my chair, as if what she has to say next is just between us girls. “Honestly,” she whispers, “what in the world was that man thinking?”
I shrug. Louis P. McCabe doesn’t think, as far as I can tell.
“A woman with my coloring,” she continues, leaning into me and pursing her perfect lips, “wouldn’t be caught dead in scarlet shoes.”
CHAPTER 26
Geraldine leaves her table and strolls back to the bar—and Harry—as soon as Judge Long goes into his chambers. The Kydd and I are busy packing up. Clarence is too. And all of our yellow legal pads are peppered with multiple dates, the most important one either circled or underlined a few times. Louisa Rawlings’s murder trial is scheduled to begin on September 18, eleven months from today.
“Splendid,” Geraldine says to Harry, her face deadpan, her voice flat. “You’re here.”
Harry jumps to his feet and his chest puffs up a little. That might be the nicest thing our District Attorney has ever said to him. “I didn’t know you felt that way,” he says. He leans into her, as if he doesn’t want the rest of us to hear, and uses his best bedroom voice. “One of us is going to have to break it to Marty.” He shakes his head sadly. “I guess we all should have seen this coming.”
“Puh-leeze.” Geraldine closes her eyes and tosses a few printed pages at him. “Spare me.”
Harry groans. He knows an arrest report when he sees one. “Who?” he asks.
Geraldine laughs and taps her temple, as if trying to recall. “Rhymes with stinky,” she sings.
“Oh, for crying out loud.” Harry falls back into his chair, checking the report to see if Geraldine is serious. His frown answers the question. She is.
He reads silently for a moment and then runs both hands through his thick hair before looking up at her again. “So when do we tango?” he asks. He sighs and slouches in his seat, stretching his legs out toward our table, not looking like much of a dancer at the moment.
She laughs again. “This afternoon,” she tells him. “You’re on my dance card.” She checks her list and glances over at the pendulum clock. It’s ten forty-five.
“The Rawlings matter is scheduled for one,” she continues. “If you’re back here by twelve-thirty, the judge might squeeze you in first. Otherwise,” she shrugs and starts walking back to her table, “we’ll see you and the King of the Road at open session.”
I laugh and snap my briefcase shut. “You’re slipping in your middle age, Geraldine. We just finished the Rawlings matter.”
She frowns across the room at me, the “Get a brain, Martha” look she perfected when we worked together. “Not that Rawlings matter,” she says. “The other one.”
The other one? I stand and step over Harry’s feet so I can walk toward her. “What other one?”
“The daughter filed a petition,” she says, turning her back to me. “It doesn’t concern you.”
My client is charged with capital murder. Everything concerns me. “A petition for what?”
She takes a short stack of documents from Clarence, perches on the edge of her table, and begins reading. She waves me off without looking up.
“Geraldine, if anyone even remotely connected to Louisa Rawlings is going to be in a courtroom with the judge and the prosecutor on her case, I want to know about it.”