Gideon - 04 - Illegal Motion (45 page)

“I did, too,” I admit.

“I did, too.”

“Look at her. Dad!” Sarah exclaims.

“She looks so sweet.”

I bend down to the bottom cage and peer in at the greyhound staring back at me. These dogs are bigger than I expected.

“What a weird color,” I say to the attendant standing beside us. Black mixed in with tan. White socks on her feet and a white stripe running down her chest.

“Brindle,” the girl says enthusiastically.

“Want to see her?” She is about Sarah’s age and clearly a greyhound lover. She has been smiling and talking to these strange, skinny, big-faced, little-eared creatures nonstop. I look around the room at the other cages. For the number of dogs in here, there is very little noise. It is as if these retirees from the racetrack sense adoption is their last hope before they are sent to the glue factory or wherever it is doomed greyhounds go to die, and are on their best behavior.

Sarah answers for us, “Yeah!”

The girl, whose name is Barbara, opens the cage and slips a choke collar around the dog.

“Mindy Marie,” she coos, “come on out, girl.”

Mindy Marie heads straight for Sarah and presses her huge muzzle into my daughter’s waiting hands.

“She’s wonderful!” Sarah exclaims.

“She’s so gentle.”

Though it has been only a month since Woogie went to live with Marty, I need a dog in the house. Not a horse.

“Do people ever change their names?” I ask. Mindy Marie is too dainty for this animal.

“Sure,” the girl says.

“Just use her first name with the name you choose for a couple of weeks and then gradually drop her old name. She’ll learn.”

“Feel her face. She’s so silky!” Sarah instructs me, rubbing her face against Mindy Marie’s muzzle.

I squat down on my heels and bring my face close.

“Hi, girl.” She licks my ear.

“She likes you. Dad!” Sarah giggles delightedly “Can we take her outside?”

I suspect Mindy Marie would like Saddam Hussein if he took the trouble to pet her. Barbara, as smooth as a car salesman, hands Sarah the leash.

“When you get out the door, you can take her off this. It’s all fenced in.”

Sarah’s eyes shine with excitement.

“She looks more like a “Jessie’ to me,” she says as we step outside into a cold, gray drizzle.

Mindy Mane scampers away from us to the corner of the enclosure and deposits an impressive pile of shit near the fence. Shades of Woogie. The sight of her squatting on long, powerful haunches is comical.

“Jessie suits her,” I agree.

“She’s too solemn to be a Mindy Marie.”

Mindy Jessie, her business done for now, trots back over to us, and Sarah hugs her.

“She’ll be easy to house break

This is a done deal. I have already applied to be an “adoptive” parent; my references (Clan and Amy) have checked out. I had seen an article in the Democrat Gazette about the greyhound adoption program in West Memphis and got the paperwork done before even telling Sarah.

“I hope so. I’ll be the one cleaning it up.” According to the literature, greyhounds shouldn’t live outside-too delicate.

“So you think I should get her?”

“You know you want her,” Sarah says.

“She’ll be wonderful.”

She will be. She’ll probably tear up the house the first time my back is turned. But that’ll be okay. I can fix the house. It’s the rest of life that is beyond control. While I was making love to Amy this past weekend, I thought of Rainey, whose naked body I never saw. Clan, who scores a perfect ten on the domestic misery index, told me yesterday that he has dreamed of Gina for the past three nights.

“Let’s go inside, Mindy Jessie, and sign your papers,” I pretend to grumble.

In the Blazer going home Sarah chatters about her first-semester exams and turns in her seat to reassure Mindy Jessie, who seems to be wondering what she is getting into. As we cross the line into Blackwell County, she becomes quiet, and I ask her what she is thinking about. She leans back against the window and begins to finger a patch of curls above her right ear.

“I heard some gossip about what really happened between Dade and Robin,” she says.

“You have?” I say, instantly alert, but reluctant to sound too interested lest she decide to clam up. I had not counted on Dade’s being acquitted and consequently had not prepared him for the media, and he shot off his mouth more than he should have to a TV reporter about the university’s lack of support for him, a fact particularly galling to Coach Carter. I read in the Democrat-Gazette only last week that Dade may make himself available for the National Football League draft and not return for his senior year. Since I spilled the beans on myself, I know I have no chance to be his agent.

My daughter shifts uncomfortably in her seat.

“This may not be true, but it’s what I heard. About a week after the trial, Robin supposedly told Shannon that she and Dade both had lied, but that he had raped her.”

The word “rape” hangs in the air between us like a poisonous cloud. It is too ugly a sound to pretend it doesn’t affect me.

“So what did they lie about?” I ask, staring straight down Interstate

40.

“Supposedly, Robin admitted that she had gone out to that house on Happy Hollow Road not really caring whether they worked on Dade’s speech or not. They had started to make love, but she changed her mind and told him she didn’t want to. He made her anyway.”

Poor Robin. My heart feels as if it is about to stop. I cut my eyes over to Sarah. I can’t tell her that I have been guilty of the same behavior. It feels uncomfortably hot in the Blazer, and I crack the window on my side.

“Do you believe that’s what happened?”

Sarah nods.

“Shannon’s her best friend, and she doesn’t have a reputation for making stuff up.”

“Who’d she tell?” I ask.

Sarah presses her lips together, then mutters, “I can’t say.”

I understand. She probably has told me too much, certainly more than she ever wanted to.

“Given Robin’s promiscuity and the fact that she lied,” I ask, “do you think Dade should have been punished?”

Sarah says angrily, “He still raped her. Dad! Of course he should go to jail.”

I check the rearview mirror and stare into the soulful eyes of Mindy Jessie, whose main virtue is that she isn’t interested in this conversation.

“But under the circumstances, which I doubt if Shannon knew, it probably wasn’t all that easy for Dade to restrain himself.”

“Come on. Dad,” Sarah scoffs.

“When a girl says “Stop!” anything else is without her consent.”

To shut her up, I nod, “You’re right.” I don’t have the appetite to argue the point. If her father had been dealt with the way she wishes Dade had been, she wouldn’t have been born. I’m not up to it. I want my daughter to love me, not judge me. Prison. Not a great start for a college kid. If I had gone to Cummins for a year, my life would have been totally different. No Peace Corps, no Rosa, no Sarah, no law degree. It seems like a good argument to me, but one I’ll forgo for the time being.

As the traffic on the interstate begins to build, Sarah asks, “Do you think we’ll see the Cunninghams again?”

“I don’t know,” I say, slowing down behind a truck hauling lawn fertilizer.

“I liked his mother,” Sarah says, “and I liked Dade until I heard this. I had really felt a bond after we went over to Bear Creek.”

Unless Lucy told her at the trial, Sarah doesn’t know that I took Dade’s case because I wanted to be his pro agent.

“One wrong act in a person’s life shouldn’t condemn a person for life, should it?” I ask.

“It depends on what it is,” Sarah says stubbornly.

I go on around the truck.

“Mindy Jessie,” I say, deter mined to change the subject.

“She’s gonna be a fine pet.”

grew up in Marianna, Arkansas, and graduated from Rhodes College in Memphis.

For more than twenty years, he has been an attorney for Central Arkansas Legal Services, which is funded by the federal government to provide representation to indigents in noncriminal cases. He is also an adjunct professor at the University of Arkansas at Little Rock Law School. He is married to Susan Gill.