and now that she’s finally willing to come around, you clam up. Damn, I
don’t understand you sometimes.”
“I don’t want her anywhere near me.”
“Look, she’s sorry about what she did. It tore her up. I’m telling you.”
Luther swiveled his head around. “She thinks I’m mad at her?”
Jack sat down. For the first time he finally had Luther’s attention. He
should have tried this before.
“Of course she does. Why else won’t you see her?”
Luther looked down at the plain, wooden table and shook his head in
disgust.
“Tell her I’m not mad at her. She did the right thing. You tell her
that.”
“Why don’t you tell her?”
Luther abruptly stood up and walked around the room. He stopped in front
of Jack.
“This place has a lot of eyes, you hear niter? You understand me?
Somebody sees her in here with me, then somebody might think she knows
something she doesn’t. And believe me that is not good.”
“Who are you talking about?”
Luther sat back down. “Just tell her what I said. Tell her I love her
and I always have and always will. You tell her that, Jack. No matter
what.”
“So you’re saying thIs somebody might think you told me something even
if you haven’t?”
“I told you not to take this case, Jack, but you wouldn’t listen.”
Jack shrugged, flipped open his briefcase and took out a copy of the
Post. “Check out the lead story.”
Luther glanced down at the front page. Then he angrily threw the paper
against the wall. “Fucking bastard! Fucking bastard!” The words
exploded out of the old man’s mouth.
The door to the room flew open and a beefy guard poked his head in, one
hand on his standard issue. Jack motioned that it was all right and the
guy slowly backed out, his eyes glued on Luther.
Jack went over and picked up the paper. The cover story had a photo of
Luther taken outside the police station. The headline was in bold
three-inch letters normally reserved for when the ‘Skins won the Super
Bowl: SULLIVAN MURDER SUSPECT ARRAIGNMENT TODAY. Jack scanned the rest
of the front page. More killings in the former Soviet Union as ethnic
cleansing continued. The Defense Department was preparing for another
budget hit. Jack’s eyes glanced over but did not really register on
President Alan Richmond announcing his intent to take another stab at
welfare reform and a picture of him at a children’s center in
impoverished Southeast D.C.
that made for a nice photo op.
The smiling face had hit Luther right between the temples.
Holding poor black babies for all the world to see. Fucking, lying
asshole. The fist hit Christine Sullivan again and again and again.
Blood flew into the air. The hands wrapped around her neck like a wily
serpent, crushing life without a thought. Stealing life, that’s what he
had done. Kissing babies and killing women.
“Luther? Luther?” Jack gently laid a hand on Luther’s shoulder. The old
man’s frame was quaking like an engine in dire need of a tune-up,
threatening to fly apart, no longer able to confine itself within a
quickly eroding shell. For a terrible moment Jack wondered if Luther had
killed the woman, if his old friend had perhaps gone over the edge. His
fears were dispelled when Luther turned and looked at him.
The calm had returned, the eyes were clear and focused once more.
“Just tell Kate what I said, Jack. And let’s go get this over with.”
THE MIDDLETON COURTHOUSE HAD LONG BEEN THE CENTERpiece of the county. A
hundred and ninety-five years old, it had survived the British in the
War of 1812 and the Yankees and the Confederates in the War of Northern
Aggression or the Civil War depending on what side of the Mason-Dixon
the person you asked hailed from. A costly renovation in 1947 had given
it new life and the good townspeople expected it to be around for their
great-grandchildren to enjoy and occasionally go inside, hopefully for
nothing more than a traffic ticket or a marriage license.
Where before it had stood alone at the end of the two-lane road that