Black Water Rising

From the pocket of his ever present leather vest, Rolly pulls out a bundle of papers, folded over lengthwise and rolled as tightly as a good cigar. He rests the papers on the edge of Jay’s desk. “What’s this?” Jay asks, opening the pages somewhat tentatively, as if he were opening a present he’s already sure he won’t like. “Calls from the condo,” Rolly says. “Out on the plantation.”

Jay spreads the papers across his desk.

Of all the phone numbers printed, calls coming in and going out, one number leaps out at him, over and over, page after page: 713-247-4475.

“He’s been talking to her this whole time,” Rolly says.

“Jesus,” Jay says, whistling at the wonder of it, the devilry it implies. He shakes his head to himself, feeling a pinch in his chest, an unexpected tug in this woman’s direction. “Somebody’s got to say something to that girl,” he says, looking up and pausing at the same time, as if he were waiting, hoping even, for that somebody to walk into the room and volunteer. But Jay and Rolly are the only two people here, and Rolly is keeping his mouth shut.

“She’s gon’ be on trial for her fucking life, man, and got a snake right up under her,” Jay says. “Somebody’s got to tell her what’s really going on.”

“You’re all right dude, man. I’ve always known that about you, Jay. But might I remind you that it was running to save this girl that got you in all this trouble to begin with?”

“This is bigger than the girl.”

“All the telephone activity out at the condo stopped a couple of days ago,” Rolly says. “You even know where she is?”

“No,” Jay says. “But I know where she’ll be.”

There are some things in life that can’t be avoided:

Death, for sure. Taxes. And court dates.

The pretrial hearing for the matter of the State of Texas v.

Elise Linsey , case number HC-760432, is already under way by the time Jay makes it to Judge Vroland’s courtroom that afternoon. There’s a cop on the stand, a detective, Jay can tell by the awk­ ward pairing of a camel-colored sports coat and navy trousers.

Charlie Luckman is standing behind a podium set up between the state’s side and the defense table, where Elise Linsey, in a moss green blouse and black trousers, is sitting primly, her back stiff and at almost righteous attention.

Jay takes an open seat on the bench directly behind her. By Charlie’s posture, the way he leans his weight on the heels of his alligator boots, one hand in his pocket, the other relaxed at his side, Jay thinks he sees something familiar in Mr. Luckman’s self-assured demeanor. It’s the look of a lawyer with all his ducks lined neatly in a row, the cocksure stance of someone who believes the facts are on his side. Any theatrics, at this point at least, are down to a minimum. Charlie speaks in an even, respect­ ful tone, asking the judge if he might approach the bench, as politely as if he were asking her if he might refill her glass of iced tea. He walks two stapled papers to the bench and asks that they be entered in as “defense exhibit A.” Judge Vroland peruses the pages briefly, then hands them to the cop at her right. The detec­ tive barely glances at them. He seems to know already where this line of questioning will start.

“Detective Stone, do you recognize the papers in front of you?”

“Yes, sir,” the detective answers, though the “sir” sounds per­ functory and not at all sincere. Jay wonders if the two men knew each other in Charlie’s other life as a prosecutor. “And that’s my signature on the second page,” the cop says, stepping on Charlie’s next question. From behind the podium, Charlie smiles, cool as a snow cone in January. “Very good, Detective Stone. You want to tell us, however, what exactly you’re looking at?”

“Your Honor.” The prosecutor, the same bull terrier from the arraignment, stands behind the state’s table. Her suit is navy and two sizes too big. “The search warrant has already been entered into the record. We’ve all read the thing. Do we have to go through a whole dog and pony show with it too?”

Her tone is so defensive, so pushy and unladylike, that Charlie is right to simply keep his mouth shut. The judge levels a disap­ proving gaze on the prosecutor. “I can assure you, Counselor, I don’t take any of this to be a show. And I will allow the detective to answer Mr. Luckman’s question.”

“Thank you, Your Honor,” Charlie says. “Mr. Stone?”

“It’s a search warrant,” the cop says. “For 14475 Oakwood Glen, last known residence for the defendant.” He nods toward Elise.

“Yes, and as you’ve already mentioned, it’s a search warrant that you yourself signed, along with a Judge Paul Lockhart, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Judge, may I approach again?”

Judge Vroland nods, waving him forward at the same time.

Charlie approaches the bench with a single typed piece of paper in his hand. He offers it to the judge, calling it “defense exhibit B.” Jay leans forward in his seat, waiting, hoping, for Elise to turn around. From his jacket, he pulls a slip of white paper, a receipt from the taco place on Travis. He scribbles the words we need to talk on the back, then folds the piece of paper into a tight square, clutching it in the palm of his hand. Then . . . he waits.

“Detective Stone,” Charlie says. “This new thing we got here, will you let the court know what it is you’re looking at?”

“It’s an inventory,” the cop says. “What we took from the town house.”

“All right, then,” Charlie says, tucking both hands in his pock­ ets, looking down briefly at the tips of his alligator boots. “Let’s start with the warrant.”

When Charlie has the detective read through the warrant, the list of court-approved items that police detectives—one Detec­ tive Harold Stone and a Detective Pete Smalls—were legally allowed to remove from 14475 Oakwood Glen, last known resi­ dence of the defendant, Elise Linsey, includes:

A .22-caliber pistol.

Bloody or soiled clothing.