cagey behavior, the news from High Point, the old man and the oil, the cover-up, the real estate buys, the gov ernment’s sudden curiosity in Ms. Linsey, the calls from D.C. He runs the story all the way to its breathless end, plopping the meat of it at Thomas Cole’s doorstep. He ends grandly on the link between Thomas Cole and the deceased, the man who tried to kill Mr. Luckman’s client. This is his mess, Jay says, speaking of Cole. “And somebody ought to do something about it.”
Charlie walks to the office’s one window, which covers an entire wall. There’s a small bar parked in the thick carpet in front of the window. It’s got a mirrored tray on top, a pitcher of water and a coffee carafe and three different types of scotch. Charlie pours himself a glass of water, downs it, then pours a scotch. He looks up at the view in front of him, the green spread of Allen Parkway, cut in half by the serpentine bayou, the city’s main vein.
“What do you want?” he asks.
“I want to testify.”
Jay has never been on a witness stand in his life. He didn’t even speak at his own trial. His court-appointed attorney said they would tear him to pieces, getting into his reputation as a rabble-rouser, a troublemaker, a man with no love for his coun try. Jay was silent through the whole thing. But not anymore.
“They set her up. Let me get on the stand. Let a jury hear what really happened that night, who wanted to harm this girl, and, more important, why.”
“Mr. Porter, this case is not going to trial. They don’t have the evidence. Emily knows that,” Charlie says, calling the judge by her first name. “And I wouldn’t put you on the stand no way. My client says she was not at the scene, and the state has yet to provide any substantial evidence to say that she was. So why the hell would I ever put up a witness who says she was
“I could go to the other side,” Jay says.
“You coulda done that this morning. But since I’m looking at you right now, I’m going to guess that’s not the way you wanted to handle things.” He cocks his head to one side, regarding Jay from a distance. “I don’t think you want to see that girl hurt. The state, though, they got other plans for her.”
“Thomas Cole is the one who belongs behind bars,” Jay says.
“I don’t have nothing to do with that, I don’t want to know nothing more about it,” Charlie says. “My job is to keep that girl out of jail, that’s it.”
“ ‘That’s it?’ You’re just going to ignore the rest?” Jay asks, mildly incredulous. “You’re sitting up in this big firm, got all the resources in the world, and you’re just going to let this guy get away with what he did?”
Charlie tucks his hands in his pockets, studying the tips of his boots. He’s trying to find the right way to put this. “I don’t think you understand what’s really going on here. You really think a girl like Elise Linsey . . . forget the clothes, the diamonds and all that . . . you really think a girl like that can afford me?”
The words hang in the air for a minute before they finally settle in. “Thomas Cole hired you,” Jay says, finally getting it.
“Look . . . I’m gon’ do us both a favor, Mr. Porter,” Charlie says, his boots already gliding to the door. “I’m gon’ pretend like we never had this conversation.” He opens the door to his office, pausing at the threshold, where the two men pass each other, only inches apart. Here, Jay gets the closest look yet at the down ward turn of Charlie’s green eyes.
“You’re afraid of him,” Jay says. Then, “You’re a coward.”
The insult washes right over Charlie, as if Jay had been stating something as matter-of-fact as the color of the drapes or describ ing the carpet on the floor. He pats Jay on the back and actually manages a smile. “Mr. Porter, I wouldn’t spend another minute worrying over any of this,” he says, holding the door open. “This whole thing’ll be over by lunchtime anyway. You’ll see.” Lonette Philips sits on the bench directly behind Jay.
Just before the judge comes in, she puts a hand on Jay’s shoul der, leans forward, and whispers, “The calls from D.C. to Elise Linsey? That number you gave me? It was a Martin Burrows, an employee with—surprise, surprise—the Federal Trade Com mission. He was in their consumer protection division.”
Jay has not been home or changed his clothes or showered since his arrest. Lonnie is mercifully silent about his haggard appearance in Judge Vroland’s courtroom this morning. She’s in another flannel shirt, rolled up to her elbows.
“
“Mr. Burrows is no longer employed by the FTC,” Lonnie says flatly, repeating the information she received. “He was ter minated three weeks ago.”
Jay stares straight ahead.
Elise and Charlie are side by side, at the same table they occu pied yesterday afternoon, he in the same suit he was wearing in his office only an hour ago, and she in a white pantsuit, a thin gold belt at the waist. They’re facing straight ahead, passing the time in silence, not speaking to each other.
“I guess Cole really did it, huh,” Lonnie says to Jay. “The son of a bitch made a whole federal investigation go away.”
When the judge comes in, they all stand.
Lonnie whispers over his shoulder. “What happened to you anyway?”
Because there is no quick answer, Jay doesn’t even try.
Judge Vroland takes her place at the bench. Jay looks back and forth between the prosecutor, nervously fidgeting at the state’s table, and Charlie Luckman, whose legs are comfortably crossed, his hands resting in his lap.
The whole thing plays out exactly as Charlie said it would.
First, the judge offers her ruling on the search: the shoes are out. They were
