Terry, these kids wouldn't have nobody to straighten them out. And this gig is all about them kids, man.'
Listening to him, Mason understood Centurion's talent. He played to his audience, picking the stereotype he guessed was expected. He chose a mix of street jive, humor, and humility to make Mason feel like one of his homeys. Mason bet Centurion did a killer Colin Powell for the Chamber of Commerce and a knockout Shug Knight for the brothers. Mason had represented enough street punks and boardroom con artists to withstand Centurion's charm.
'If they clean their plates and take out the trash, do you let them drive the Mercedes on Saturday night?' Mason asked.
Centurion laughed again, an easy chuckle. 'You know somethin', Mason? I didn't want that car 'cause I was afraid people like you might get the wrong idea about me. But the dealer, see, he sponsored the garage and said to me, CJ-he's one of those white boys calls everybody by their initials-I can't put the Mercedes logo on the outside of the garage and let you put a Ford Escort inside the garage. How's that going to look? Well, we needed a garage and that was that.'
'No sacrifice too great,' Mason said.
Centurion kept his smile. 'Mason, why are you busting my chops on such a beautiful morning? My man Terry is doing his job. I'm doing my job. We're taking care of these kids. You're wantin' us to cut you some slack with Jordan Hackett. Didn't your momma tell you about getting more bees with honey than vinegar?'
'Sorry,' he said to both of them. 'You've got a great place here.'
'That we do,' Centurion said. 'And we keep it great 'cause we stay focused and disciplined. Ain't that right, Terry?'
'Focused and disciplined,' Terry repeated.
'So everybody makes an appointment in advance to see a resident. Ain't that right, Terry?' Centurion asked.
'Everybody,' Terry answered.
'Everybody but you, Mason,' Centurion said. ''Cause you got the balls to bust my chops and the good sense to stop before I lose my sense of humor. Terry, you make sure Mason here gets what he needs. And Mason, you be careful. That Jordan is a handful.'
Nix told Mason to wait for Jordan outside the machine shed. While he stood in the shade, a pickup truck carrying a load of teenagers in the cab and the truck bed skidded to a stop next to the barn. The kids scrambled out, wiping dust and sweat from their faces, and headed for the house. He could hear them joking and poking one another with the ease of summer camp friendships.
A few minutes later, Jordan drove up on a four-wheel ATV pulling a small flatbed trailer loaded with tools. She killed the engine and looked up at him.
'You Lou Mason?'
'That's me.'
'My parents hired you, right?'
'Right.'
She stepped off the ATV and began unloading the tools, putting them away in the shed without further comment. Mason watched her work, impressed with her economy and intensity. She was of average height, slender but strong enough to sling a shovel, pick, sledgehammer, and posthole digger over her shoulder one at a time like they were Wiffle-ball bats. Finished, she stood in front of him, hands on hips, narrow chin jutting out like a dare, breath a beat above steady. Her face and neck glistened with sweat.
'I didn't kill her, okay,' she said.
'Okay,' Mason answered.
He guessed that she'd been working since sunup and, judging from the layer of grime she wore, it had been hard, physical work. Still, she hadn't swung the sledgehammer enough times to pound out the rage he saw in her. It was in the knotted muscles of her shoulders and neck. It was in the impatient tapping of her gloved fingers against her hips. It was in the sharp crease of her eyes as she sized him up.
'We done here?' she asked him.
'Just a few more things.'
'What?'
'Your parents are paying me, but you're my client. Do you want me to represent you?'
'Do I need a lawyer?'
'The cops took your fingerprints and they took samples from your clothes and hair. Maybe they're doing that with all of Dr. Gina's patients. But if they find your fingerprints, your hair, or your fibers on the broken window or the body and you don't have a good explanation or an alibi for the night of the murder, you need a lawyer.'
Jordan yanked off her work gloves and stuffed them in her belt. 'Fine. I need a lawyer. What else?'
'Are you always this much fun?'
She cocked her head, split a small grin, and dialed back her force field a notch. 'Yeah,' she said. 'I'm a barrel of laughs.'
'Where were you Monday night around ten o'clock?'
'Here. In my room. Lights-out is at ten.'
'Does Terry do a bed check?'
'Whenever he gets a chance,' she answered.
Mason filed away her double entendre for future reference. 'When was the last time you saw Gina Davenport?'
Jordan straightened, her elbows stiff against her sides. 'My last appointment was Friday, before the holiday. You can check her appointment book.'
'The cops will do that for me. How did you get to her office?'
'Terry usually took me. Once in a while, Centurion would do it.'
'What about your family?'
'What about them?'
'They ever take you?'
Jordan folded her arms in front of her. 'Look, let's not talk about my family unless it's about where they were at ten o'clock on Monday night.'
Mason couldn't tell if she was just venting or was serious. 'Why should I ask your parents if they have an alibi?'
'Forget it,' she said. 'My brother and my parents have alibis for everything.'
'I didn't know you had a brother.'
'Oh, yes. Brother Trent, the fair-haired son. He's the real master of the alibi. Be sure to ask him.'
A stream of kids poured out the front door of the house hurrying to their next projects, slapping hands and touching fists with one another like a football team taking the field. Two girls, one black, one Hispanic, walked past them into the machine shed, giving Jordan a cautious 'Hey, girl' while pretending not to notice Mason. They emerged with a chain saw and heavy-duty shears. Jordan looked past Mason to the veranda, nodding her head, Mason following her gaze, Centurion and Terry Nix responding with friendly waves, Jordan putting on her work gloves.
'Time to get back to work?' he asked her.
'Yeah.'
'You have a car?'
'Not here,' she said, shaking her head. 'We're supposed to stay focused and disciplined. Terry says we don't need a car to do that.'
'Focused and disciplined,' Mason said. 'Sounds familiar. What if I wanted to take you back to my office to work on your case, maybe pick up a pizza and beer on the way.'
Jordan lowered her head, as if Centurion and Terry could read her lips at a distance. 'We can't be focused and disciplined all the time, can we?'
'Centurion and Terry can, but we can't,' Mason answered. 'I'll pick you up tomorrow afternoon around five. One last thing.'
'What's that?'
