Pleasantville (30 page)

“Barely sighted,” Carr says, coughing out a laugh before realizing the implications of his joke. He swallows hard, looking at Nichols and then again at Jay. “Uh, nearsighted, sir,” he says finally. “I have another pair for reading.”

“And were you wearing your glasses on the night of November fifth?”

Again, Carr looks over at the D.A. “I believe so, yes.”

“You're not sure?”

“I, uh, well, I had been reading some magazines earlier but I don't remember switching from one pair to the other. But I must have had these on,” he says, tapping on the right stem of his current pair of glasses with his finger.

“Because otherwise you wouldn't have known what you were looking at.”

“Objection, Judge. That's not a question.”

“Sustained.”

Jay moves on.

“And what you actually told Detective Moore is that the man you saw outside your window
looked
like Neal Hathorne, not that it
was
Neal Hathorne, isn't that right, Mr. Carr?”

“That's right.”

“Earlier you testified you were closing up the house for the night, pulling curtains, that sort of thing; tell me, Mr. Carr, was the light in the study on or off at the time you saw the commotion outside the window?”

Mr. Carr squirms a little in his chair. “I can't say I rightly remember.”

“You agree that it would make a difference, though, in terms of what you would have been able to see outside, on a dark night, don't you?”

“Well, yes, the light would have created a reflection on the window.”

“And you wouldn't have been able to see clearly outside?”

“But I did see it, so, yes, the light was off.”

Jay, not gaining much traction, tries a different tack. “How long would you say you stood at the window, Mr. Carr: a few seconds, less than a minute?”

“No, it was a little longer than that.”

“But you weren't standing there recording ‘evidence,' were you, sir? I mean, you didn't really know what it was you were looking at, did you, sir?”

“Objection, compound question.”

“Sustained.”

“You didn't call the police after you witnessed this ‘struggle,' did you?”

Magnus Carr looks down, fiddling with the tail of his tie. “I should have.”

“You glanced at something out the window, as you were closing your curtains for the night, glasses on or off, the lights on or off, but you can't be–”

“The light was
off
.”

“In passing, sir, you can't for certain say what it is you saw, can you?”

“Wasn't in passing. Naw, I stood and looked,” Carr says. “We've had some problems out there, you know, so I looked, I watched for a little bit. Some of the old-timers out there, we've kind of put it on ourselves to do what we can to keep the place safe, calling in things here and there. But we've been wrong before, not seeing what we thought we were seeing, so I guess I kind of hesitated.” He pauses here, clearing his throat a little and straightening his spine, a corrective posture against the shame written all over his face. “As to not calling the police, well, I'm gon' have to live with that one. I think about that girl, I do,” he says, and this time he looks out, searching the courtroom for the face of Maxine Robicheaux. Given that she and her husband are the closest kin to the victim, they have been afforded seats in the front of the gallery, just behind the state's table. Pastor Keith Morehead sits beside them in a black suit and paisley tie. Jay, because of what Mr. Carr has just said, turns to look in Keith Morehead's direction.

And that's when he sees T. J. Cobb in the courtroom.

In a black T-shirt and a faded denim jacket, a toothpick sticking out of the side of his mouth, he has been watching Jay's back for who knows how long, and now, given the chance to regard
the man face-to-face, he gives him that same overbroad smile, the one that so disturbed Jay the first night he came across it. What in the world is this piece of shit doing in here? The courtroom has fallen silent, and the witness is fidgeting on the stand. “Mr. Porter,” the judge says.

“A moment, Your Honor.”

He turns to the defense table, but doesn't have to say a word. Rolly is already on his feet, buttoning his suit jacket. As the two men pass each other, Jay whispers two words in his ear. “Crush him.” Rolly nods, jaw tight, as he starts out of the courtroom, just a few strides behind T. J. Cobb.

Jay finally returns to his witness.

“I should have called the cops,” Carr says, shaking his head, reaching into the side pocket of his sports coat for a handkerchief, dabbing his forehead. “But I just didn't put it together, what was happening. I didn't see a van. When the other girls, Tina and Deanne, were taken, there was talk about a white van–”

Nichols is fast on his feet.

“Objection,” he says. “May we approach?”

Jay follows Nichols to the bench. The D.A.'s cheeks are red. “Stuff about the other girls is inadmissible, and he knows it,” the D.A. says to Keppler, who is twisting the turquoise and coral ring on her right ring finger, which is long and thin as a blade of grass. Up close, Jay can smell the stale coffee on her breath.

“That came out of Mr. Carr's mouth, not mine,” he says, making clear that he is honoring the judge's single pretrial ruling, that the murders of Tina Wells and Deanne Duchon would not be a part of these proceedings. “The state should have coached its own witness not to touch on the other murders,” he says.

Judge Keppler agrees.

Still, she is bound to instruct the court reporter that the last piece of Mr. Carr's testimony should be disregarded and will be stricken from the record. On his walk back from the bench, Jay steals a glance at the jury box. The jurors are as alert as he's seen them since Mr. Carr took the stand. One of the white men in the back has his arms folded tightly, his brow deeply wrinkled. The judge's direction to ignore the mention of the two other dead girls has only drawn more attention to it, a lucky break for Jay, and the last he will receive for the rest of this first day of testimony. On redirect, Nichols presents Mr. Carr with a copy of his affidavit, reminding him of his words at his second police interview, when he was shown a picture of Neal in a photo lineup. “I said, ‘Well, hell if the man didn't look like Neal Hathorne.'” To Judge Keppler, he adds, “Excuse my language, ma'am.”

They are, by then, nearing the hour of five o'clock.

Judge Keppler adjourns for the day, asking for the principal players to return at eight thirty the following morning. It takes a long time for Neal to stand as the courtroom starts to clear. And when he finally does, he takes one look at Jay and says matter-of-factly, as if he were getting used to the idea, “We're going to lose.” He turns and joins the Hathorne family in the gallery. Sam puts a hand on his grandson's shoulder, guiding him out of the courtroom.

Jay's phone rings
before he's out of the courthouse.

“Rolly,” he says.

But it's Lonnie, calling with news. “I got it,” she says. “I got the flyer.”

“You found the printer?”

“Tracked the invoice, everything,” she says.

Passing through the front doors of the criminal court building, Jay is rather grateful for the useful prop of the cell phone, pressed to his ear. It has a strange, pacifying effect on the throng of TV and newspaper reporters, bringing their questions down to a reasonable pitch, as if they're hoping to pick up the other end of Jay's phone conversation. Gregg Bartolomo leans against the railing at the bottom step, waiting for him.
Jay ignores him as he did every day of jury selection. Walking faster, Jay thanks Lonnie for making something out of this shitty first day of trial. “But there's a problem,” she says.

Of course there is
, he thinks.

By the time Lonnie finds him at the office, about a half hour later, Eddie Mae is already gone for the day. Having a week ago completed an extensive inventory of all things Pleasantville–every environmental report from the civil case, every deposition and client file, the ones that were there and the 290 files that are still missing–she is, by Jay's own instructions, free to leave by five. She left some sliced ham and a pot of soup for them on the stove, and upstairs in the conference room an updated key and map to the filing system she set up for
State of Texas v. Neal Patrick Hathorne
, every piece of paper associated with the case accounted for. The only thing she hasn't touched is the cardboard box from Lonnie's days at the
Post
. The corners are starting to tear, and Jay is careful to lift the flaps gently. He is rooting around in the interior when Lonnie walks in. “You heard from Rolly?” he asks right off. “He's not answering my calls.” It's not like him to disappear, not at all.

Lonnie shakes her head as she sets her leather hobo bag on the conference room table, followed by a plate of ham and a stack of dill pickles. She stopped by the kitchen on her way up. She nods toward the box. “What are you doing?”

“Looking for the person who delivered Alonzo Hollis to the cops.”

“It was the van, remember? They had an ID number off the side.”

“Right,” Jay says, nodding. “And maybe he was parked out there once or twice, catching a smoke or a nap sometime in his van and someone made note of it. But Magnus Carr today . . . that's what reminded me. The community has been keeping
their eyes out for years. So who was the one who told that bogus story about Hollis trying to get a girl in his van, over at the truck stop on Market Street, the one the cops refuted because Hollis wasn't in the state when it happened?” He slaps a stack of papers down, digging into another pile.

“Jesus, that's him,” she says, realizing. “That's the guy.”

“Why else would anybody make something like that up?”

“Unless they wanted the heat on somebody else,” she says.

Jay nods, because he knows it too. “It's someone in Pleasantville.”

Lon jumps in, nudging him aside. “Let me. I have a system.”

She starts in on the years of handwritten notes of police reports and witness statements, digging her way to the bottom of the box. “You better hope I'm as good a reporter as I think I am. If I didn't write it down at the time, it's not here. Resner never gave me copies of any police reports, just a quick peek.”

“What happened with the flyer?” he says, getting to the other big news.

“Yes,” she says, moving away from the cardboard box to reach for her leather bag. Inside is a photocopy of a handwritten invoice. Jay takes it from her. Stapled to the back is a copy of the printer's original mock-up. It's the BBDP flyer all right, exclamation points and all. “It was a special order,” Lonnie says. “The guy had to find a special typewriter to make it look that old.”

“Where?”

“Print shop out Highway 6, edge of the county.”

Jay flips back to the copy of the invoice, the line just below the date.

The invoice is made out to “America's Tomorrow.”

“Wolcott's name is nowhere on this.”

“And therein lies the problem.”

“You're saying this
wasn't
Reese Parker's doing?”

“No,” Lon says, bending at the waist to reach for a dill pickle.
“I'm saying I don't know who or what ‘America's Tomorrow' is, and until I find out, we don't know anything.” She crunches into the pickle on the side of her mouth, looking comically like the Vlasic stork. She reaches for a slice of ham.

“He have a description for who placed the order?”

“White male,” she says, chewing. “They grow on trees out here.” She shrugs. It's hardly useful.

Jay's mobile phone rings.

He slides it from his pants pockets, checks the number on the screen. He should have heard from Rolly by now. But it's Evelyn. “I have to go get my kids,” he says, sighing. He starts scooping up Lonnie's handwritten notes.

“Leave it,” she says. “I'll go through it.”

“You sure?”

“Go get your kids. I'll stay and pick at this and find out what I can about what's happening with Tomorrow in America, or whatever the hell it's called.”

“How are you going to do that from
here
?”

“That little box down there called a computer,” she says. “I got all night.”

“I don't know if I like the idea of you here by yourself.”

Lonnie smiles, sheepish.

“Well, Amy might stop by,” she says. “Her man's out of town.”

“Right,” Jay says. “The mysterious Amy.”

Across the table, Lon stares at him, searching for something.

“Go on and say it. You think I'm being played for a fool.”

“I think it's none of my business.”

“I hate when you do that, you know,” she says, hurt or disappointed, he can't tell. “You think you're making some kind of grand show of respect, giving people their space, but what you're really saying is that you don't give a shit.”

“I care,” he says. Then, as if there were a need to clarify, “About
you
.”

“Well, this is my life we're talking about, Jay, and I'm inviting you to chime in for once. It's called a friendship, man, you should try it sometime.”

“You sound like Bernie.”

“Smart woman.”

He sighs. He doesn't do this well, not at all.

But Lonnie, she
is
a friend, one he's willing to wade in the muck of human emotion for. “I think if you give her an inch, she's prepared to go ten miles, so, yes, you should make her choose. She has no kids, right? Then it's got to be you or him. And if you don't press her, then you
are
a fool.” He winces, bracing himself for the blowback, as if he thinks it's entirely possible she might deck him.

But Lon only smiles.

“Go get your kids,” she says.

Jay nods, heading for the door.

At the threshold, he stalls, turning back. “If you're looking for my approval or something, you got to have the balls to bring her around sometime.”

Lonnie gives him a mock salute. “Yes, sir.”

“And if you want to be my friend, you can't disappear on me like you did.” It's the first emotional need he's expressed to another soul besides his wife.

“I know.”

“This year has been hell.”

“I know,” she says. “But I'm here now, Jay.” This case, it's more than just a paycheck, she says. She would never let him out on a limb like this on his own. Jay nods, tapping the door's wooden frame. “Don't stay too late, huh?”

She nods. “Yes, sir.”

Rolly lost
T. J. Cobb before he even got out of the courthouse, in a crowded swirl of bodies on the first floor near the elevators, and was too pissed at himself to call Jay; at least he couldn't call right away, not until he tracked Cobb down. He had a name after all. He'd done more with less, and the night was long. He left the courthouse alone, heading to his El Camino, parked in a lot off Franklin, peeling layers as he went–jacket, tie, dress shirt–so that by the time he made it to his truck, he had stripped down to his white undershirt and his slacks, getting the smell of justice off him, at least the kind that comes drenched in a D.A.'s cheap cologne. He was planning to swing by his garage, to make sure it was still standing, make sure his drivers and mechanics hadn't made off with his best tools, make sure they were still getting to their gigs on time. He'd been given the all-clear on the A.G. situation that afternoon: only one weak-ass escape attempt reported. The bluesman had claimed the toilet was backed up and when the motel's maintenance man knocked at room 209, A.G. opened the door and ran out, knocking the super on his ass. But seeing as he had made it through half a carton of Newports, he didn't get very far, out of breath and doubled over before reaching the motel's stairs. Since then, “I ain't had no trouble with him,” Rolly's pal Bitty had said. Frankly, he was starting to suspect the old man was finding solace in his surrender, happy to put his feet up for a few days, his meals paid for, a little drink in hand. Through the stucco walls, he often heard the TV going. Reruns of
Good Times
and
One Day at a Time
. And westerns at night. It had to be better than cleaning toilets in a gin joint. Relieved, Rolly had planned a night with his girl. He owed her a steak-and-bake after her valiant service to the cause. He had a dime bag in the glove compartment of his truck and was going to pick up a couple of T-bones on the drive down to Hitchcock, some
charcoal too, until the kid, strolling into the courtroom, had fucked things up, rearranging his whole night.

He was hardly through cursing his name when god himself seemed to have a change of heart about ol' Rolly Snow, rolling a gift right across his windshield, at the corner of Franklin and Crawford, while his truck was idling at the light. He leaned over the steering wheel, peering past his headlights. It was T. J. Cobb, all right, there in front of him on the street. Long and lean, with a mean, skulking walk. Among the gray army of office workers and bank tellers, women in shoulder pads and high heels, he stood out like a peacock in a flock of pigeons. He was wearing that same faded denim jacket and black T-shirt, his right index finger curled around a cigarette.

Rolly, feeling lucky, tailed him for a few blocks.

Not so easy when the man was on foot.

He was about to ditch the El Camino and put his own two feet on the ground when T. J. Cobb ducked into the vestibule of a bar. The Last Call sat behind a windowless brick wall painted black and unadorned, save by a small wooden sign over the door. Rolly rolled past the bar's front door just as Cobb slipped inside. He made the block before deciding to pull over and roll on him. The man had come to Jay's home, near his kids. And Rolly wasn't having that. He found a dirt lot and parked, not far from the old abandoned Union Station. This part of downtown, heading toward the menacing shadows of the 59 Freeway overpass, is grimly pastoral, the natural world taking back what the city no longer wants. There are weeds shooting up three feet from cracks in the sidewalk, and between the many vacant brick buildings, dirt lots dot the landscape. Rolly grabbed his piece from under the driver's seat, the Colt .45. But he never got to use it. He was made before he even got out of his truck. By the time he got to the Last Call, Cobb was hiding in the dark
vestibule, waiting for his mark, the real one he'd been eyeing in the courtroom. He put the muzzle of a handgun to Rolly's chest, a .38 Rolly guessed, realizing too late that he'd been set up. It was his last coherent thought. He doesn't remember the shot itself, remembers only the sound of his tooth cracking when his face hit the sidewalk, and then footsteps, sneakers on pavements, slipping far, far away.

Jay got
the call this morning, after failing to reach Rolly all night.

It was Marisol, Rolly's girlfriend, phoning from St. Joseph's Hospital.

Court was due to start in less than five minutes, and Jay's attempts to obtain a delay were rebuffed by Judge Keppler, who reminded him they'd put a city election on hold for this trial. To Nichols, she said, “Call your next witness.”

Next up: Kelley Young, crime scene technician.

Jay glances at the empty chair on the other side of Neal. He has not told his client the reason for Rolly's absence, nor does Neal seem in the least bit curious about where the investigator is. He is staring straight ahead, watching as Ms. Young, a blonde in her thirties, takes the witness stand. Jay, on the other hand, is distracted to the point of near incompetence. He is sweating in the warm courtroom, his dress shirt a thin film against his damp back, and his throat is dry. He actually misses the D.A.'s first two questions for the witness, and makes a guess in his notes that they had to do with the correct spelling of her name and her years of service to the county. She is here to establish that a body had indeed been found in the early morning hours of Sunday, November tenth, and under what conditions. Matt Nichols needs to get in the fact of the rain that fell between the girl's disappearance and the discovery
of her remains–an explanation as to why no DNA tying the defendant to the crime was ever found. Ms. Young also processed the items that were in the deceased's purse, which had been discovered one day before the body. One by one, she holds up the bloody items, individually sealed in clear evidence bags, for the jury to see. Jay glances at his client, thinking the same as Neal: we are going to lose.

Next up:
Roy Singh, medical examiner.

It's testimony Jay has been dreading. No one should have to witness what was done to Alicia Nowell, least of all her parents. But there it is, up on a three-by-five-foot projection screen, just to the left of Judge Keppler's seat at the bench. The courtroom falls silent as the first image pops up. The only sound Jay hears is Maxine Robicheaux's footsteps as she walks out of the courtroom. A couple of the jurors, two older men, squirm in their seats. One of the black men in the second row has his hands clenched tightly in his lap.