He looked at Barbara then, the first time since he had begun speaking. “That pact saved us both,” he said. “It got us through those years. We owed each other a lot from then on.”
Dismayed, Barbara asked, “Didn't anyone else in Gresham know about her?”
“I don't think there was ever the least suspicion. Homosexuality wasn't talked about, not in the air. I don't think anyone I knew had ever given it a thought.”
“What about at the university?”
“Midway through her freshman year, she met Olga,” he said. “By summer they were living together, considered to be roommates, friends. Maybe people suspected, I don't know, but I doubt it.”
Barbara stood and picked up the coffee carafe. “I'll get a refill,” she said. “Our lunch should be here any minute.”
What it meant, she thought, walking to the outer office, was that most likely there was no way she could establish the fact that Jill Storey had been a lesbian unless Olga admitted it. David's word would not be enough, and from Bailey's reaction to the dialogue she had read to him, neither would Amy's be good enough. The secret pact that had saved David and Jill in their turbulent adolescent years, could spell his doom now.
“Y
our Honor,” Barbara argued on Friday of the following week, “because Mr. Etheridge's continuing treatments require follow-up evaluations by his surgeon and neurologist, and regular sessions at the physical therapy clinic, plus demanding at-home exercises with specialized equipment, it is necessary that he be allowed to continue his medical regimen or risk the permanent loss of function in his dominant arm and hand. Such care would not be possible if he is confined in an overcrowded jail. I have statements from each of his doctors and the physical therapist outlining their prognoses and prescribed routine for the next several months.”
“Objection!” cried Roy McNulty, the assistant district attorney. “He stands charged with two vicious murders. By his own words he has demonstrated his disdain for government, his lack of respect for laws and his disbelief in the higher authority of religion to guide human behavior by a divine sense of moral and ethical conduct. There is no reason to believe that he will not fleeâ”
“Object!” Barbara said angrily. “This is not the Galileo court of inquisition. Mr. Etheridge has not been charged with criminal political or religious belief. He is not charged with heresy. His writings are not the matter before this court. He himself was subjected to a murderous attack that left him critically injured. The presumption of innocence must embrace his right to continuing specialized medical treatment and the opportunity for a full and complete recovery from those injuries.”
“He already had tickets to leave the country!” McNulty said in a grating voice.
“Which have been canceled,” Barbara snapped. “And he has surrendered his passport!”
Judge Carlyle waved them both down. “Back off. Let me see those medical reports,” he said to Barbara.
An hour later it was done and they were in Bailey's SUV on their way to Frank's house. Alan McCagno and David were in the back of the van, out of sight behind the dark rear windows. Alan helped David out of his coat and slipped it on. At Frank's house, Alan, flanked by Frank and Bailey, entered the house after Barbara went ahead to open the door. Another car had pulled in at the curb and a videographer jumped out, only to be met by another of Bailey's operatives, who managed to keep between him and the group entering the house. Inside, Bailey saluted and left, and a minute later he and David were on their way back to Shelley's house in the foothills of the Coast Range.
“Like clockwork,” Frank commented. “Good work in court today, Bobby.”
“Thanks,” she said. “Touch-and-go for a while. McNulty really wanted him in jail. I think it was a taste of what's to come.”
Frank nodded. An opening salvo had been fired.
Barbara was almost relieved that the charge finally had been brought, that the standstill had ended. Now, or at least soon, she would start getting discovery, probably many hundreds of pages of statements, testimony, dead ends, but also enough to let her know the basis for the prosecution's case. Now the case was out of Hoggarth's jurisdiction. It had been turned over to the district attorney's office.
After everyone was gone, Frank checked his telephone messages and was pleased to see one from Lucy McCrutchen. The pink poppies were ready to be dug and divided. He called her back.
“How about late afternoon tomorrow,” he said. “Is that a good time?”
“Fine. I'll expect you at about four,” she said. She paused a moment, then said, “Is it true, David was charged with both murders?”
“Unfortunately it's true.”
“I'm so sorry. It's so unjust. Amy will be devastated, I'm afraid.”
Frank continued to sit at his desk while pondering the question he had posed beforeâwhy was Lucy McCrutchen convinced that David was not her son's murderer? A man she had not seen for more than twenty years, and had known only as a student among others in the past. He was very much afraid that the time would come when he would feel obliged to ask her, and he was reluctant to do so.
When he showed up at Lucy's door on Saturday afternoon, Frank was carrying a bag of tomatoes in one hand and a spade in the other. The blade was unusually long and narrow, and it was sharp. He had sharpened it that morning.
Lucy was delighted with the tomatoes. She led the way to the kitchen where she set a shallow wooden bowl on the table and put the tomatoes in it. “Brandywines!” she exclaimed. “You grow Brandywines?” She held one up and turned it around examining it. “They'll never take first place in a beauty contest, will they? But they're the best.”
“To my mind they are,” Frank agreed. “And that one, the dark one, I found those seeds in a seed exchange. The woman who had them said her grandmother brought the seeds over from Germany, real heritage tomatoes. She called them Black Germans, and I do, too, for want of a name recognized by horticulture. They're very good, too.”
“I used to have a vegetable garden,” Lucy said. “It kept shrinking as the children grew up and then left, until I had only those few things I thought we couldn't bear to do without. Tomatoes, a few Kentucky Wonder beans. Just a few things. I haven't done that since. Perhaps next summer, I'll have those few things again.”
Frank nodded. He had done no gardening for three or four years following the death of his wife. He hefted the garden spade. “And this was meant to dig out taproots. Not much good for shoveling snow, but great for taproots.”
They went out to the garden. “I haven't cut the foliage back yet. I thought that should wait until you have a go at them. Can you use two?” Lucy asked.
She watched him closely as he made his way through the flowers to the poppies, then, apparently reassured that he knew not to trample anything, she withdrew to the shade of the dogwood tree. “It's funny how some plants find their own level, isn't it?” she said. “Lilies will work themselves as deep as they like it. I wonder how they manage to do that. And alstroemeria! I tried to dig some out once, and had to give up. Heaven only knows how deep those roots had gone.”
They both laughed as they exchanged garden stories. When Frank had his two poppies, he filled in the narrow holes carefully and covered them with mulch.
“You'll want to wash your hands,” Lucy said. “And then a glass of wine and a little snack to celebrate a successful mission.”
A few minutes later they were seated in the shade on the deck. Lucy had brought out a tray with chilled pinot grigio, and an assortment of cheeses. A bowl nestled in a bed of ice held shrimp, smoked oysters and pickled mushrooms.
“This is very pleasant,” Frank said. “A lovely garden to gaze at, excellent wine and good company. Thank you.”
“I like this time of day,” she said. “It always seemed things tended to calm down about now, no matter how hectic they had been earlier.” She glanced at him, looked away and asked, “Are you still working as an attorney?”
“Sometimes, but not enough to earn my keep. Right now I'm working on a book that's been edited by a moron. Damage control is how I see what I'm doing.”
“You also write books?”
“This is the second one. Legal cases. Not much of an audience for them, I'm afraid.”
She started to say something, then looked past him and said, “Hello, Henry.”
“Sorry,” Henry said. “I didn't realize you had company. I thought we might share a glass of wine.” He was carrying a bottle. “Oh, it's Mr. Holloway. How's it going? I hear that Etheridge was charged with two murders. Are you still involved in that?”
“He's our client,” Frank said.
“I always wondered what it would be like to deal so closely with criminals. Is the criminal mind different? Can you tell from talking to them? It must be hard to defend someone you know committed a serious crime. I mean, how can they rationally justify it?”
“Under our laws everyone deserves a fair trial,” Frank said. “It's that simple.”
“But can you defend someone you know is guilty? It seems a real conflict must arise in your own mind. Or does it?”
“Henry, for heaven's sake. If you're going to join us, go get a glass and take a chair. Stop looming over us like a gargoyle,” Lucy said. “And stop coming on like an avenging angel.”
“Sorry,” Henry said. “I never got to talk to a criminal attorney before. It's a fascinating subject. I'll get a glass.”
Frank laughed and sipped his wine. “Defense attorney is the phrase.”
Lucy smiled, but it was a strained expression. “He can be trying,” she said when Henry went into the kitchen.
Henry returned with his glass, sat down and helped himself to wine. He leaned forward, but before he could pose another of his questions, Frank said, “We were discussing the mechanism of how bulbs, rhizomes and the like can work their way into the soil to the level they find necessary. They have no musculature to accommodate such movement. It's a fascinating topic. How much do plants know, how do they communicate? We know that a disease or harmful insect can cause one plant to signal its presence, and soon nearby plants have activated their defense systems. How does that work? Some believe it's a chemical reaction. But that doesn't explain how they can move in the soil.”
“I tried to get a sea holly to grow in the border,” Lucy said, “and it just wouldn't thrive. But then several came of their own accord in among the stones of the patio.” There was a gleam in her eyes as she said this.
Henry picked up a shrimp.
“Volunteers are a mystery, too,” Frank said. “Sometimes things I've never had in the garden, and don't believe any near neighbors did, either, suddenly appear.”
“Getting back to the criminal mind,” Henry said. “Are they different?”
Frank shrugged. “I'm not a psychologist. You could look on the Internet for any studies.”
Henry picked up another shrimp.
After discussing the mysteries of plant life for a few more minutes, Frank glanced at his watch. “I really shouldn't stay any longer. Thank you for the poppies, Lucy. I'll give them a good home, even if not as beautiful as the one they're leaving.”
“I'll see you out,” Lucy said. “Be right back, Henry.” Walking through the house, she said, “Poor Henry. As Amy has said many times, he can be a pest. Thank you for the tomatoes.”
At the door, Frank hesitated a moment, then said, “May I call you sometime? Perhaps we could have dinner again?”
She nodded. “I'd like that very much.”
In his car, driving toward his house, Frank began to chuckle. Poor Henry indeed. He had known very well that Frank was there. The son of a bitch was jealous, Frank thought, and laughed out loud.
Amy had been driving aimlessly most of the afternoon that Saturday. She had stopped somewhere and walked, had driven again, walked, driven. It was dark when she returned home. Lucy was in the family room with the television on.
“Mother, we have to talk,” Amy said, entering the room.
Using the remote control, Lucy turned off the television. It had been on but she couldn't have said what had been on the screen. She nodded toward the other end of the sofa.
Amy chose a chair facing her mother instead of the sofa. “You know they arrested and charged David,” she said, fighting to keep her voice under control. Lucy nodded. “You have to tell them about that night, the night of the party,” Amy said. “What happened out on the deck. I told Barbara Holloway, but it wasn't enough. You have to tell them, too.”
Lucy shook her head. “I don't know what you're talking about.”
“You know. Mother, I was out under the dogwood tree. I saw and heard it all. And you did, too. I saw you on the deck. You saw and heard the same things I did.” Her voice was rising, and she drew in a breath. “Mother, you know David didn't kill Jill. You know why. She was a lesbian, not interested in him or any other man, and he knew that. You know it, too.”
Lucy moistened her lips and shook her head again. “I was in the living room. You were in bed.”
“Mother! I saw you!”
Lucy stood. “If she was a lesbian, they'll prove that without me. You're letting your imagination run away with you. I don't know why you're so interested in David. You don't even know him. If he didn't do it, they'll clear him.”
“What if they don't?” Amy cried. “Why won't you admit what you know? Robert's dead and gone and doesn't need anyone covering up for him. David needs help. Why won't you admit it?”
Lucy swayed slightly and held on to the arm of the sofa. “I can't,” she said in an agonized whisper. “You don't understand. I can't.”
“Why not?” Amy's voice rose to a near scream, and she jumped up, shaking all over. “Why not?”
“My son. My child. I can't turn against my own son. What if they accuse him of going after her? I can't do that!”
Amy sank back into her chair. “Oh, my God. That's what you think? He did it?”
Lucy's face had become ashen. “Don't say that. Don't even think it. Just leave it alone.” She closed her eyes, repeated, “Leave it alone.” She walked stiffly from the room.