“Why not?” Alvin DuPree and Clay: both had said the same thing—they wanted to move on.
“For one thing,” Lee Ann said, “there’s no statute of limitations on murder. If the judge was right and DuPree is innocent—and that sure is the way it’s starting to look to most everybody, I’d be lying if I told you otherwise—then the real killer is still out there. Unless he’s dead, of course. Which reminds me—did Johnny Blanton have any enemies, anyone who might have borne him a grudge or had it in for—”
“I’m hanging up.”
“Don’t, I—”
Nell hung up, and, as she did, heard the little click of someone else hanging up, too. She turned, strode upstairs. The phone rang.
She let it.
Nell didn’t knock, burst right into Norah’s room. Norah sat at her desk, the phone inches from her hand.
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“Yeah,” she said. “I listened in. So what?”
“So what? That was a private phone call.”
“You heard her—‘this is a public matter, couldn’t be more public.’”
“That has nothing to do with you—”
“Everything,” Norah said. “Everything, everything, everything.
He was my father.”
“I know that, but—”
“And you couldn’t even take care of the fucking pictures.”
“Don’t speak to me like that,” Nell said, shouting now. “Say it again.”
“Huh?”
“Without the ‘fucking.’ ”
Norah gave her a strange look, as though trying to see from a new angle. “You couldn’t even take care of the pictures,” she said, her voice suddenly almost punchless. “And where’s his computer?”
“What computer?”
“He was a scientist, wasn’t he? He must have had a computer.”
The phone rang before Nell could answer. Norah snatched the receiver. She listened, handed it to Nell, walked out of the room.
“Hello?” Nell said.
“Solomon Lanier, ma’am. Up in Stonewall County.”
“Yes, Sheriff?”
“Just wantin’ you to know we arrested a suspect in the Nappy Ferris killing. One of those Mexican drug dealers, like I thought.”
“So there’s no connection to . . . to anything down here?”
“Not so far as I can tell.”
“Thank you, Sheriff.”
“Don’t mention it, ma’am. Just wanted to give you a heads-up—D.A.’ll probably be needin’ you to testify if it comes to trial.”
That night Nell fixed a nice dinner—roast pork with orange and honey sauce, a salad of lettuce and cucumber, with red pepper from her own garden, and corn bread, made from a recipe handed down by Clay’s grandmother. She set three places in the dining room, using her best silver and plates, and was opening a bottle of wine when she heard the pickup turning into the driveway.
Nell paused, corkscrew sunk in the cork, waiting for the sound of the side door opening. It didn’t come. She went into the living room, looked out the window. The pickup was parked in the driveway; Clay sat behind the wheel. He didn’t seem to be on the phone or anything, was just sitting there.
Nell walked back to the dining room, drew the cork, poured two glasses of wine. She carried them outside, climbed into the pickup, sat beside him.
“Here.”
He took the glass, gave her a little smile.
“You okay?” she said.
“A long day, that’s all.”
“I’ve been thinking about our second date,” she said. The first date, in a coffee shop, had come a few days before—a year after the DuPree trial—mostly just setting up the second.
“Yeah?” Clay’s skin, normally so healthy-looking, seemed pale, almost a white line where it overlaid his cheekbone. At that moment,
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Nell realized she hadn’t been thinking about their date at all, but, reminded by the restaurant coaster, of hers and Johnny’s; she’d gotten all mixed up. “Hey,” he said, “what’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
He drank some wine. “I can still see the look on your face,” he said.
Their second date: Clay had taken her a few miles down the coast to Cotton Beach, with two eight-foot rods and a bait can. They’d waded out and he’d gone over the basics of surf fishing. On her very first cast, she’d hooked a three-foot sand shark, then jumped straight up out of the water. After, they’d eaten at a shrimp shack, not speaking much, and never about the case, the trial, Johnny, or the past at all; their salty bare legs touching once under the table, by accident.
Nell shifted closer to him, put her arm over his shoulders. “At least there was some good news,” she said.
“Like what?”
“Didn’t Sheriff Lanier get in touch with you?”
“Oh, that.”
“Come on, Clay. One of the Mexicans did it—so there’s no connection to the tape or anything like that.”
Clay took another drink, almost emptying the glass.
“That’s true, isn’t it?” Nell said.
Clay stared straight ahead.
“It isn’t? I’m missing something?”
He turned to her. “No,” he said. “It’s true.” He leaned forward, kissed her cheek.
“He said I’ll probably have to testify.”
“Maybe we can get you out of it,” Clay said, his lips moving against her skin.
“No, I’ll do it,” Nell said. She patted his face. “Corn bread’s waiting.”
Clay gave her another little smile. They got out of the car. A big wrecker was coming up the street, followed by the Miata, brand-new paint job glowing in the evening sun. The wrecker, YELLER’S AUTOBODY
written on the side in flaming letters, parked on the street; the Miata swung into the driveway and Yeller got out.
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“Hey, Chief, ma’am. All set. How’s she look?”
“Great,” said Clay. “But we could have come gotten it.”
“No problem, Chief.”
The three of them walked around the car. “Looks better than new,” Nell said. It really did; the thought cheered her.
“Did the insurance check come yet?” Clay said.
“All taken care of,” Yeller said. He winked. “Plus a couple l’il extras the insurance won’t be mindin’.”
“Extras?” Clay said, frowning.
“Brake job, new plu—”
Norah came out of the house.
“Hey, miss,” said Yeller. “How’s she look?”
Norah walked over. Her eyes widened. For a moment, she was so young, young and happy. “Wow,” she said.
Yeller grinned. He turned to the truck. “Hey,” he called, motion-ing for the driver to come out. The driver climbed down from the cab, approached. He was tall and lean, wore jeans and a sleeveless T-shirt, had a smiling red devil tattooed on one of his biceps. “Joe Don, meet Chief Jarreau and his lovely fam’ly,” Yeller said. “Chief, ma’am, miss—this here’s my son, Joe Don.”
Joe Don looked at them shyly. “Pleased to, uh, pleased to meet y’all.”
He had a soft voice, a graceful way of standing; in fact, was beautiful, and Nell wasn’t surprised when Yeller said, “Joe Don plays a mean guitar—you c’n hear him down at the Red Rooster Sadiday nights.”
Nell glanced at Norah; Norah appeared to be gazing at her reflection in the new paintwork.
“What kind of music?” Nell said.
“Uh,” said Joe Don, “guess you could call it like that alt country.”
“Sings a bit, too,” said Yeller.
Joe Don shuffled his feet; he wore black cowboy boots with silver stars.
“We’ll have to catch your act sometime,” Nell said.
“That’s not really, you know,” Joe Don said, his voice getting low, almost as though the next sound out of him would be the opening of
“Are You Lonesome Tonight?” or some song like that.
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“If you do, give me a buzz,” said Yeller. “Drinks on me.” He made a clucking sound, the way you’d summon a horse; he and Joe Don got in the wrecker and drove off.
“I hate country,” Norah said, her eyes on the departing wrecker; Joe Don behind the wheel, window open, lean left arm resting on the door frame.
“Can’t hate Willie Nelson,” Clay said.
Nell laughed; and Norah laughed, too. All at once they were all laughing.
“Remember the potato chip factory?” Clay said.
Norah threw back her head and laughed some more. The potato chip factory—culmination of a misadventurous road trip, hilarious in a small, family way, and of course the man who’d finally burst free from the giant potato chip bag had looked a lot like Willie Nelson.
They went in and sat at the dining room table. Clay passed the corn bread around. They all loved the corn bread, one of those unifying dishes.
“Butter on that?” Clay said.
“Thanks,” said Norah.
He passed the butter. Norah started buttering her corn bread.
“Whatever’s going on,” Clay said, “your mom and I are here for you.”
Norah put down her knife; dropped it, really. It clattered on her plate, fell to the floor. “And my father?” she said. “Where’s he?”
Clay turned pale.
“Enough of that,” Nell said. “This is your father, right here.”
Norah gazed at her, eyes blank, the effect infuriating. Suddenly Nell was on her feet. “Did you ever stop and think that a man in his position might have wanted another child, one of his own, so-called?”
“Don’t,” Clay said.
But Nell kept going. “You know what he said about that?” Was Norah actually looking bored? “He said, ‘I don’t want another kid—this one’s perfect.’”
Silence. Then Norah said, “Pressing my guilt button?”
“No,” Nell said. “I’m just trying to get you to see straight.”
“Yeah?” said Norah. “You know what I don’t see?”
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“No,” Nell said.
“Your guilt button.” She looked at Clay. “Or yours.” He went a little paler.
“What does that mean?” Nell said.
“Figure it out.” Norah rose and walked out of the room. Nell heard her footsteps on the stairs; then a door slammed.
“What is she talking about?”
Clay shook his head.
Dinner was over. Nell wrapped it in foil, put it in the fridge. All that laughter, Willie Nelson: what did it amount to? The truth of what they were really about? Or nothing more than the little high that came from seeing the better-than-new Miata back safe in the driveway?
Nell woke up
in the middle of the night. Clay’s breathing was slow and regular. She slipped out from under his hand, resting on her hip, and went upstairs, pulling on her robe. Norah’s door was closed, no light showing at the bottom, no sound. Nell went into her office, closed the door, switched on the computer. She started searching for information on Professor Urbana at Tulane. A frog croaked out back, maybe in the pool. She made a mental note to clean it again in the morning.
Nell found him in less than a minute: Victor Urbana, associate professor of psychology, author of an article in
Contemporary Issues in Psychology
entitled “Can You Point Him Out for the Jury?: Problems in Eyewitness Testimony.”
Abstract:
Weaknesses in eyewitness testimony can arise in three different areas. First, visibility may have been poor. Second, recent studies undermine traditional belief that people are good at facial identification. Three, police procedures may be deliberately or accidentally biased.
Nell read the article. She skimmed the obvious paragraphs on the effects of low light, bad weather, differences in relative motion, as
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when the eyewitness was in a moving vehicle and the suspect was not. Yes, nighttime in her case, but there’d been a full moon,
the
little ghost brother.
She slowed down as she went through part two, problems in facial identification.
Many laymen assume memory works like a video recorder. This is false, especially in times of stress or trauma, such as during a criminal attack. In fact, only experiential bits and pieces are stored, not necessarily in chronological or any other order. It is in the telling of the event, very often the first or other early tellings, that a “narrative” or “story” takes shape. Furthermore, eyewitnesses often perceive time to be slowing down during a traumatic event, leading them to falsely exaggerate the time available for absorbing data. Another factor, limited to cases involving a weapon, is a phenomenon labeled “weapon focus,” describing a tendency of eyewitnesses to be so distracted by the presence of a weapon that all other memories are distorted.
Stress and trauma, oh yes, and a weapon. But had all that distorted her memory? Nell sat back, closed her eyes, forced herself to go back twenty years and remember again. And right away got tripped up: Nell:
Maybe painters didn’t want to do landscapes at night.
Johnny:
Because it’s hard to see?
Almost as though Johnny was feeling his way toward questions that were only arising now, long after his death; like . . . like a fortune-teller. The sick feeling in her stomach she’d been getting lately came back. But despite the sick feeling, despite the retrospective eeriness of Johnny’s remark, she could still bring it all back: the man stepping out from behind the post at the Parish Street Pier; the strange deformity of his face, due to the bandanna; that single spoken word, “money”; the long blade in the moonlight; the face of the attacker—white, tending toward fleshiness, and those blue eyes, almost colorless. These memories were all still very clear; would probably be clear on her dying day.
Had she been distracted by the sight of the weapon? Nell didn’t
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think so; in fact, the sound of the stabbing, the collision of steel and bone, had made a deeper impact. And therefore?
She scrolled down to the last section: Police procedures may be deliberately or accidentally biased. An eyewitness to a serious crime and a police investigator often share a common goal, namely the solving of the case and the bringing to justice of the perpetrator. A motivated witness may be vulnerable to feedback, witting or un—
Nell heard footsteps in the hall.
“Nell?”
Her right hand shifted the mouse, clicked on the red
X
in the top right-hand corner of the screen, almost acting on its own. Professor Urbana’s paper vanished, leaving behind Nell’s browser page, a waterfall by Courbet.