‘I’m sure she must have thought of you. Many, many times.’
‘Like in thank God I don’t have those kids any more.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m sure not.’
‘I won’t know,’ Whit said, ‘unless I ask her.’
‘It can’t be heroin,’ the mother said.
She sat in Whit’s courtroom, small-claims court done, the litigants and their families either leaving with stern triumph in their faces or mouthing about the unfairness of life. Now a woman, gutted with grief, stood before his bench. The mother of the young man whose autopsy results Whit had picked up earlier in the week.
He smoothed down his robe and sat back down. ‘Mrs Gartner. I’m sorry.’ The courtroom was adjourned but still people were filing out, a couple stopping to watch the teary-eyed woman. ‘Why don’t we go to my office and talk?’ He wondered who had told her – probably the police department. Or she had called the ME’s office directly. It didn’t matter.
‘You cannot put heroin as his cause of death, or contributing to his cause of death. Or on anything official. Please.’ She did not look old enough to have a son in his early twenties. ‘That can’t be his legacy.’
‘Mrs Gartner, let’s go to my office, and I’ll get you a cup of coffee.’
She shook her head. ‘No, Judge. Out here. You hope you’re going to convince me to change my mind behind closed doors. I’m a mother; I have rights. Lance couldn’t have been using heroin. He was not a bad boy.’
‘I’m sure he was a very fine boy, Mrs Gartner,’ Whit said. ‘I can tell he was greatly loved. I’m so sorry for your loss, everyone here is.’
Her voice wavered. ‘Then do this for me, please.’
‘I don’t want to cause you a moment’s extra pain,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry. But the drug usage has to be listed as a contributing factor of death. I can’t go against the law.’
‘Ma’am.’ Lloyd Brundrett, the constable, stood close by. ‘Please, let’s sit down. Get you a glass of water.’
‘No!’
‘It’s okay, Lloyd,’ Whit said. He came from behind the bench, took Mrs Gartner’s hand, led her to the front row. Lloyd finished clearing the courtroom, closed the doors behind them.
‘A word on a document isn’t going to change the man your son was,’ Whit said. ‘You know that.’
‘But Lance’s grandmother, she heard the rumors about the heroin, she heard my sister talking on the phone. I would like for you to tell her it’s not true.’
‘I can’t falsify a death certificate. I am sorry.’
Mrs Gartner closed her eyes. ‘No. Tell her it’s not true. Privately. She’s outside sitting in my car. Would you talk to her now? She’ll believe you. You’re a judge.’
‘A little white lie.’
‘She’s in her eighties. She’s a hard-shell Baptist. Lance doing drugs will kill her. She has to think he simply drowned. She’ll never see a death certificate, I can assure you. If she hears it from you she won’t ask any more questions.’
‘I’d be happy to talk to her.’ Whit stood, smoothed out the somber black robe that covered his jeans, sandals, and pineapple-print shirt. He followed Mrs Gartner and walked out into the bright, hard sunshine.
It had been a difficult conversation, even without the mention of heroin. The old lady was Mrs Gartner forty years into the future, eyes blank with loss and shock. He lied and told her there were no drugs in Lance’s system, and he could see the relief embrace her like a wave. She kissed Whit’s cheek, thanked him for his kindness. He didn’t feel kind. He felt like he had shirked his duty, but what was the harm? An old woman’s mind put at peace in the wake of a terrible loss.
The old woman’s kiss was still warm on his cheek when his office phone rang while he was shrugging out of his judicial robe.
‘Judge Mosley’s office.’
‘Whit? Hi, this is Harry Chyme.’
‘Hey, Harry.’ Trying to sound relaxed.
‘I’ve found Eve Michaels. I followed the Bellini trail out of Detroit. She came to Houston with Tommy Bellini.’
Found. His guts knotted. ‘I could be there in a couple of hours.’
‘Don’t come here, Whit. First of all, I don’t have confirmation that this woman was once Ellen Mosley.’
‘How do we get a confirmation it’s my mother? Fingerprints? Pop quiz? Me bring my father there?’ He mentally vetoed that last idea as soon as he thought of it.
‘I suppose we should do an age progression on a picture of her, see if this woman resembles her enough…’ But Harry didn’t sound encouraging.
‘Or walk up to her and ask her if she’s Ellen Mosley. I’d do that.’
‘Well, that would be blunt,’ Harry said. ‘Interesting to see what reaction I’d get, but it tips our hand.’
‘Where in Houston is she?’
‘She’s living in a home owned by the Bellini family. She works in finance for a holding company Tommy Bellini owns. Her boyfriend manages a strip club they own.’
‘Let’s say I come to Houston,’ Whit said slowly. ‘You could tell me where she’s hanging out. I could talk to her. Nothing else for you to do.’
‘Except have it on my conscience if the Bellinis decide to use force to keep you from her. She might want nothing to do with you. She might not want to explain to her children where she’s been, what she’s been doing with her life.’
‘I’m coming up there. Tell me where she’s at.’
‘No.’
‘Harry, I’m your client. I pay you for information. You give it to me.’
‘I officially waive my fee. You’d be in way over your head, Judge.’
‘I’ve been in tough situations before.’
‘But this is your mother. You’re not thinking clearly.’ Harry paused. ‘She could run from you, Whit. She’s done nothing to have contact with you all these years. She hasn’t wanted to be found. I don’t mean to be brutal.’
‘I don’t care. I can come to Houston immediately, I’ll cancel court…’
Harry sighed. ‘No. I know how much this matters to you. Let me make the initial contact with her, okay?’ He paused. ‘My dad died ten years ago. What I wouldn’t give to see him again. I can’t deny you that, if it’s her.’
‘Tell me where to meet you in Houston.’
‘I’ll call you back, Judge. When I know. Speak with you soon.’ Harry clicked off.
‘Harry, please-’ Whit was talking to air. Fine. Finish court business, then head to Houston. Take his friend Gooch if he could go, Claudia if she was available and interested.
He picked up the phone, was three punches into her number when he slowly put the receiver down. Not Claudia. A police investigator might not be the first friend to introduce to dear old mom. And Claudia was opposed to this whole enterprise. But Gooch, he was fearless and nuts and inventive in tight situations. Harry might call Claudia, to check up on him, ensure he hadn’t come to Houston. So leave sooner rather than later, if Gooch didn’t have fishing clients today and could go. Do it before Claudia could stick her well-intentioned nose in and talk him out of going.
Houston. So close. He felt sick and dizzy and happy and afraid, all at once.
‘Edith?’ He called to his clerk. ‘Cancel my appointments for today and tomorrow. I’ve got a family emergency up in Houston.’
‘Military operation,’ Gooch said as he finished hosing down his boat. ‘That’s the way to look at your trip.’
‘I was thinking of taking flowers and seeing if she’d talk to me,’ Whit said.
‘Forget that, Whitman,’ Gooch said. He put up the hose, went belowdecks, pulled a duffel bag from a drawer and tossed clothes inside. Then three guns. Gooch was tall and massively muscled, ugly to the bone, the best fishing guide on the coast and the most intensely private man Whit had ever known.
‘Slow down, Dirty Harry,’ Whit said.
‘Families like the Bellinis, they understand a gun. Nothing else. The heartfelt emotion of a family reunion will be wasted on them. Especially if she wants nothing to do with you.’
‘She’ll want to see me,’ Whit said.
