He’d switched it off at the beginning of the game, but when the Saints were trailing 14-6 by the first quarter, his enthusiasm began to wane and, remembering the call he’d been waiting for hadn’t come through yet, he switched it back on.
‘Jim, is that you?’ he shouted above the noise of the television.
‘No, as I said, it’s Jac McElroy,’ Jac repeated a shade louder. ‘John Langfranc gave me your number.’
‘Oh, right. And what can I do for you, sir?’
Stratton nodded at intervals and watched Hambrick of the Cardinals rip though the Saints’ defence with another run as Jac explained what he wanted.
‘The problem is, I’m tied up with something right now,’ Stratton said. ‘Can it wait until tomorrow?’
‘No, that’s just the problem.’ Jac told Stratton why there was such dire urgency. ‘If this guard comes around before we have someone present to take his account — it could be too late.’
Stratton looked at his watch, then at the game on the TV. It didn’t look like the Saints were going to pull this around, so maybe he should save himself the pain. He could listen to it on the radio on his way out there, and at least vent his frustration in private by banging the steering wheel when need be. The couple of times he’d slapped the bar counter and shouted abuse at the TV, a few heads had turned his way.
‘It’ll take me at least two hours to get out there. Any use to you?’
‘Yes. Absolutely.’ Jac filled in the rest of the details. ‘Thanks, you’re a life-saver.’
Aunt Camille was looking keenly at Jac as he hung up. Having watched him pace like a caged lion at the close of dinner as he tried to get hold of Stratton, her interest had been piqued.
‘Important, by the looks of it?’
‘Yes, yes. It’s a murder case.’ Jac couldn’t resist it. In their last heated debate about his move to criminal law, she’d commented disdainfully:
Camille arched one eyebrow. ‘Murder, you say. Any case we might know?’
Jac eased back. Eleven years on, Durrant was still a landmark case, and in the run up to his execution was again grabbing major headlines. Camille would be bound to voice strong comment and, in responding, he’d risk breaching client confidentiality.
‘No, no. Nothing important. Just an also-ran.’
‘Oh, I see.’ Camille nodded and smiled tightly. ‘An also-ran case.’
Back to where she expected his legal career to be. Going nowhere fast.
The guard’s regular card game took place in the watch-room an hour after shut-down. Every lock and bolt had been secured, monitors checked, and residual hubbub and chatter from the inmates had by then faded out. All that lay ahead was a long, quiet night, so out came the cards.
Glenn Bateson presided, but not everyone was invited to join in. Bateson ran a strict game, minimum stake of $20 a hand, poker or thirteen-card canaster, and one of those who looked on with curiosity as voices and blood pressure rose with the heat of the game, but had never been invited to join in, was Miles Elden, or ‘Scope’ as he was nicknamed, because he was always scoping around, head turning and craning to every corner of the prison. Hardly ever stopped moving.
Scope was a regular visitor to the prison chapel, so Bateson always thought his religious principles would keep him away from the game — but now he was keen to have him join in. When he saw Scope pass the open door to the watch room and glance over, Bateson beckoned him over enthusiastically.
‘Hey, why don’t you join us?’ Bateson beamed his widest smile.
‘I don’t know…I…’ Scope hovered uncertainly by the door.
‘Come on. It’s not really gambling with thirteen-card canaster. More of a mind- and skill-game than chance. We’ll show you how to play and give you a few trial hands with no stakes — then go in at just $10 a hand if and when you feel confident.’
Scope put up a bit more resistance, but it was clear that Bateson wasn’t about to take no for an answer, and with a final welcoming smile and nod of encouragement he had a spare seat swiftly pulled up.
On the first night, Scope won $40, on the second $110, and Bateson waited until the third night to put in the sting. Scope dropped $680 on two almost unbeatable hands.
‘Don’t worry. Hands like that, you’re bound to make it back the next night,’ Bateson assured.
Scope didn’t. He dropped another $1,140 the following night.
Scope looked panic-stricken as he took Bateson to one side at the end of the game. ‘That’s a big chunk of my month’s salary there. I was hoping you might cut me a bit of slack and let me pay, say, over the next few months?’
Bateson sucked in his breath. ‘If it was just up to me, sure. I’d wait. But some of the other guys here, they got heavy commitments and maybe other dues from games they gotta settle. So it ain’t so easy.’ Bateson paused heavily, enjoying letting Scope stew for a moment more before becoming pensive. ‘But maybe there’s something else you could help me out with that could settle this.’
‘You didn’t have to agree to the date, if you didn’t want to, you know,’ Jean-Marie said. ‘Certainly not just because of me and Mum.’
‘I think I did, and you know it. Camille would have just kept on pushing, and you and mum would have got the worst of it. Thankfully, I only have to see her when I choose.’
They’d left Camille’s an hour ago, and Jac’s sister Jean-Marie had grabbed his ear as soon as their mother had gone to the kitchen to make coffee before he left.
Jean-Marie looked down thoughtfully for a second. Seventeen going on twenty-something, the past six years with their father’s business collapse, the cancer which finally led to his death, then the upheaval and move to America to live partly in the shadow of their aunt’s charity and favour, had made her world-weary beyond her years. Petite, quiet and studious, the extra age though didn’t show in her body or face, only in the sullen intensity in her eyes now and then; the same gaze she levelled now at Jac as she looked back up.
‘I suppose you’re right. She’s a determined old dog, even if often she aims to be well-meaning.’
Jac smiled. ‘I think you give her too much credit. I think she enjoys turning the screws and watching people squirm. You should have just ended on “old dog” — just about hits the right note.’
Jean-Marie chuckled. ‘Anyway, talking of “old dogs”, you certainly could do a lot worse than a date with Jennifer Bromwell. She’s quite cute, in fact — in a Britney Spears sort of way. “Hot” I think is the American term for it. Or is it “cool”? I forget now.’
Jac fired a doubtful grimace. His sister no doubt knew the right term long ago, but he rode along with the tease.
‘Spoilt though, I suppose?’
‘No, didn’t seem it. I’ve only met her a couple of times when she came over to Camille’s with her father — but she seemed quite normal and approachable. She spoke to me and Mum for a bit, and she was very friendly.’
‘That’s probably just because she thinks we’re royalty.’ Jac couldn’t resist teasing back.
‘No, I don’t think so. I got the impression that for her that was all just a their-generation thing — Camille’s and her dad’s. Royalty and money. I don’t think she gives a damn about either — came across as a bit of a hippy in that respect. Or maybe just a silly idealist.’
This time when Jean-Marie forced a smile, Jac couldn’t tell whether she was teasing or not. The lessons for them with money had come harder than most.
Jac feigned a crestfallen look. ‘Oh, that’s a shame. I was hoping that with my royalty connections, I might get “lucky”. If that’s the American term?’
Jean-Marie leant forward and lightly punched him on the arm. Few of their teasing jousts did she ever win, but the contests were becoming tighter as she got older.
With the jolt, Jac instinctively stole another glance at his watch — the umpteenth time he’d done so since leaving Aunt Camille’s.
‘Is it the same thing you were worried about earlier?’ Jean-Marie asked. ‘You know, the murder case you
