“And?”
“And her credibility would fall apart. Next stop, death by lethal injection.”
“Why?”
“Because I know this woman, and she makes things up.”
“What things?”
“Everything. I’ve heard her stories, over and over. Did she in fact tell you she’s from a rich wine-growing family?”
Reacher nodded. “More or less. She said she’s from a thousand acres in the Napa Valley. Isn’t she?”
Walker shook his head. “She’s from some barrio in South Central L.A. Nobody knows anything about her parents. She probably doesn’t, either.”
Reacher was quiet for a moment. Then he shrugged. “Disguising a humble background isn’t a crime.”
“She was never a student at UCLA. She was a stripper. She was a whore, Reacher. She serviced the UCLA frat parties, among other things. Sloop met her when she was performing. Part of her repertoire was an interesting little trick with a long-neck beer bottle. He fell for her, somehow. You know, let me take you away from all this sort of thing. I guess I can understand it. She’s cute now. She was stunning then. And smart. She looked at Sloop and saw a rich man’s son from Texas, with a big fat wallet. She saw a meal ticket. She went to live with him. Came off the pill and lied about it and got herself pregnant. Whereupon Sloop did the decent thing, because he was like that, in a gentlemanly way. She suckered him, and he let her.”
“I don’t believe you.”
Walker shrugged. “Doesn’t matter if you do or if you don’t, and I’ll tell you exactly why in a moment. But it’s all true, I’m afraid. She had brains. She knew what happens to whores when they get old. It goes right downhill, and it doesn’t start very high, does it? She wanted a way out, and Sloop was it. She bled him for years, diamonds, horses, everything.”
“I don’t believe you,” Reacher said again.
Walker nodded. “She’s very convincing. Can’t argue with that.”
“Even if it is true, does it justify him hitting her?”
Walker paused a beat.
“No, of course not,” he said. “But here’s the big problem. The thing is, he didn’t hit her. Never, Reacher. He wasn’t violent with her. Not ever. I knew Sloop. He was a lot of things, and to be absolutely honest about it, not all of diem were good. He was lazy, he was a little casual in business. A little dishonest, to be truthful. I’m not wearing rose-colored spectacles. But all his faults came from the feeling he was a Texan gentleman. I’m very aware of that, because I was a poor boy by comparison. Practically trash. He had the big ranch and the money. It made him a little arrogant and superior, hence the laziness and the impatience with strict principle. But part of being a gentleman in Texas is you would never, ever hit a woman. Whoever the woman was. Not ever. So, she’s making all that up, too. I know it. He never hit her. I promise you that.”
Reacher shook his head. “What you promise me doesn’t prove a damn thing. I mean, what else would you say? You were his friend.”
Walker nodded again. “I take your point. But there’s nothing else to go on. There’s just nothing there. Absolutely no evidence, no witnesses, no nothing. We were close. I was with them a thousand times. I heard about the horseback riding accidents as they happened. There weren’t that many, and they seemed genuine. We’ll ask for the medical records, of course, but I don’t hold out much hope they’ll be ambiguous.”
“You said it yourself, abuse can be covert.”
“That covert? I’m a DA, Reacher. I’ve seen everything. Some lone couple in a trailer park, maybe. But Sloop and Carmen lived with family, and they saw friends every day. And before you told the story to Alice Aaron, nobody in the whole of Texas had ever heard the faintest whiff of a rumor about violence between them. Not me, not Al, nobody. So do you understand what I mean? There’s no evidence. All we’ve got is her word. And you’re the only other person who ever heard it. But if you take the stand to back her up, then her trial is over before it’s begun, because the other stuff you’ll have to say will prove she’s a pathological liar. Like, did she say she’d tipped off the IRS?”