The D.A. puffed on his cigar and said, 'At the arraignment, your wife said you were broke. That true?'
'Yep.'
'Hard for an honest lawyer to make a living these days.'
'I have options.'
'The federal bench?'
'Not likely. The senator owes some sort of debt to Judge Morgan.'
The D.A. inhaled his cigar then exhaled and said, 'His daughter's a cokehead. In and out of rehab… and jail. Shelby keeps it quiet. It's a small island, smaller since Ike. BOIs stick together.'
'I understand that debt.'
'Come on, I'll show you Trey's boat.'
Scott followed him down the walkway. The farther they went, the bigger the boats became. Near the end of the walkway, the D.A. stopped in front of a FOR SALE sign on a large silver-and-black boat.
'Fifty-six-foot Riva, they call it a sport yacht. Full living quarters, galley, the works. A five-star hotel that floats. Heard Trey paid two million. Melvyn's got it for sale for half a million, be lucky to get that. Bad economy to be selling a luxury boat.'
'It wasn't damaged by Ike?'
'Heard he took it down to Padre to ride out the storm. Come aboard.'
Scott stepped onto the boat and followed the D.A. up a set of stairs.
'Flybridge,' the D.A. said. 'You can pilot this boat from up here or downstairs in air conditioning.'
'What size crew do you need to operate this boat?'
'One.'
'One person can drive this boat?'
'Pilot the boat.' The D.A. gestured with his cigar. 'Check out the galley.'
They went down two flights of stairs into the living quarters filled with leather and wood. The bed was king- sized. The kitchen was stainless steel and sleek. The liquor cabinet was well-stocked.
'Care for a drink?' the D.A. asked.
'No, thanks.'
'Don't mind if I do.'
The D.A. found a glass and blew the dust out then poured two fingers of whiskey. He held the glass up with a solemn expression.
'To Trey.'
The D.A. downed the drink and poured another.
'Rex, tell me about Melvyn Burke.'
They had finished the tour and were now sitting on leather seats in the upper salon as if they owned the boat. The D.A. smoked his cigar and sipped his whiskey.
'Melvyn is the dean of lawyers on the Island. Honorable to a fault.'
'He seems burdened by his past.'
'Aren't we all.'
'I'm representing my burden. What's his?'
The D.A. puffed on his cigar then pondered a moment. He came to a decision.
'Scott, I'm gonna tell you something about Melvyn in strict confidence. He's too good a man for this to get out.'
'Sure, Rex.'
'Melvyn is BOI and five years older than me. Went to Rice then UT law. Top of his class, could've hired on with the big Houston firms, made a career representing the Enrons of the world. Instead, he came back to the Island and set up a one-man shop, figured on being our Atticus Finch, if you can believe that.'
'Well…'
'Anyway, he had a good paying practice, but he took court appointments, for indigents. Judges appointed him because they knew poor folks would have a good lawyer. A great lawyer. Melvyn worked their cases just like his paying clients'.'
The D.A. blew out a cloud of smoke. He watched it hang in the air above his head then dissipate.
'Melvyn caught a death penalty case, teenage orphan boy, what we called a 'retard' back then, 'mentally challenged' today. Black boy, charged with raping and killing a white girl. Melvyn took a liking to the boy-he didn't have his own kids, something with the missus-got the judge to release the boy into his custody pending trial. Took him home with him, came to love him like a son. Melvyn proved that boy innocent-I wasn't prosecuting then, but I was there-but the jury-all white men- they convicted him anyway, sentenced him to death. Melvyn appealed all the way to the state supreme court, but lost. No DNA testing back then. State executed the boy a year later.'
'A year? That's fast.'
'That was back in the sixties when the State of Texas was executing black men like the Taliban executes loose women.' The D.A. paused and puffed. 'Few years later, the real killer confessed on his death bed. The boy was innocent.'
'Damn.'
'That case haunts Melvyn to this day. Blames himself.'
'Why? It wasn't his fault.'
'Because that's what good men do. Just like it wasn't your fault your wife left you, but you blame yourself. So you figure you gotta defend her.'
'How'd you know?'
'Twenty-eight years in this job, you learn about folks… and I've been there. Wife leaving you, that's tough on a man. You wonder what's wrong with you, how you failed her. You blame yourself. You start thinking differently about yourself. You go to the bar luncheon or the grocery store, everyone smiles at you but you know they're thinking you couldn't make her happy in bed, you couldn't satisfy her, you-'
'Weren't man enough.'
The D.A. nodded. 'My first wife left me twenty-five years ago. I always wondered if I had only been a better husband, a better man, a better… something… whatever she needed, maybe she wouldn't have left me. Took me a while to figure out it wasn't about me. It was about her. Just like it wasn't about you, Scott… It was about your wife.'
The D.A. drank his whiskey.
'She left me for a Houston doctor with a mansion in River Oaks.'
'Did she have an affair with the doctor, before she left you?'
'Yep.'
'Mine, too. I never knew.'
'We never do.'
'Looking back, the signs were there, I just didn't see them.'
'Life is clear in the rearview mirror.'
'When she left, I felt like I'd been stomped on.'
The D.A. inhaled the cigar and exhaled smoke. 'Scott, if you live long enough, life will stomp the ever-living shit out of you. And having a woman you love stop loving you, that qualifies as a stompin'.'
'How'd you get over her?'
'I didn't.'
'But you remarried?'
The D.A. nodded. 'Five years later. Took that long to stop drinking.' He held up his glass. 'This ain't drinking. You drink?'
'Not liquor.'
'Don't start. At least not over a woman. You seeing a gal up in Dallas?'
'No.'
'Prospects?'
'Well, there is this fourth-grade teacher…'
'But you can't take that step?'
'Not yet.'
