Rage

His white-gold wedding band was speckled with tiny blue stones and matched the one on the hand of the woman next to him.

She was around his age, slightly heavy, and extremely pretty with long, teased hair bleached nearly white and swept back at the sides. A white linen dress flared under a soft pink cardigan. A thin silver chain and crucifix circled her neck. Her skin was bronze and flawless.

The man stepped forward and blocked her face from view. “Drew Daney, sir.” Thick fingers but a gentle grip.

Sydney Weider said, “Doctor, these are some supporters of Troy.”

That made it sound as if the kid were running for office. Maybe the analogy wasn’t that far off: This was going to be a campaign.

Drew Daney said, “This is my wife, Cherish.”

The blond woman said, “I can’t see anything, honey.” Drew Daney retreated and Cherish Daney’s smile came into view.

“Troy’s supporters,” I said.

“Spiritual advisers,” said Cherish Daney.

“Ministers?”

“Not yet,” said Drew. “We’re theology students, at Fulton Seminary. Doctor, thanks so much for being there for Troy. He needs all the support he can get.”

I said, “Are you ministering to Rand Duchay as well?”

“We will if we’re asked. Wherever we’re needed- ”

Sydney Weider said “Let’s get going” and gripped Jane Hannabee harder. Hannabee winced and started to shake. Maternal anguish or some sort of dope jones? I told myself that was wrongheaded thinking. Give her a chance.

Cherish Daney said, “We’d better get going to see Troy.”

Her husband looked at his sports watch. “Oh, boy, we’d better.”

Cherish moved toward Jane Hannabee, as if to embrace the woman, but changed her mind and gave a small wave and said, “God bless you, Jane. Be well.”

Hannabee hung her head.

Drew Daney said, “Good to meet you, Doctor. Good luck.”

The two of them walked off toward the jail’s electric gate, keeping up a brisk pace, arm in arm.

Sydney Weider watched them for a few seconds, expressionless, then she turned to me. “Getting another interview room in the jail is going to be a hassle. How about I let you guys talk in my car?”

***

Jane Hannabee sat behind the wheel of Weider’s BMW and looked as if she’d been abducted by aliens. I took the passenger seat. Sydney Weider was a few yards away, pacing and smoking and talking on her cell phone.

“Is there anything you want to tell me, Ms. Hannabee?”

She didn’t answer.

“Ma’am?”

Staring at the instrument panel, she said, “Don’t let them kill Troy.”

Flat voice, slight twang. A plea, but no passion.

“Them,” I said.

She scratched her arm through her sleeve, rolled up the fabric, and worked on bare, flaccid skin. More tattoos embroidered her forearm, crude and dark and gothic. Weider had probably bought her the fresh clothes, dressed her up with an eye toward camouflage.

“In prison,” she said. “When they send him up, he’s gonna have a bad name. It’s gonna be cool to hurt him.”

“What kind of bad name?”

“Baby killer,” she said. “Even though he didn’t do it. The niggers and the Mexicans will say it’s cool to get him.”

“Troy didn’t kill Kristal,” I said, “but his reputation will put him in danger in prison.”

She didn’t answer.

I said, “Who did kill Kristal?”

“Troy’s my baby.” She held her mouth open, as if needing more breath. Behind the desiccated lips were three teeth, brown and attenuated. I realized she was smiling.

“I did the best I could,” she said. “You kin believe that or not.”

I nodded.

“You don’ believe me,” she said.

“I’m sure raising a son alone was hard.”

“I got rid of the others.”

“The others?”

“I got knocked up four times.”

“Abortions?”

“Three. The last one hurt me.”

“You kept Troy.”

“I felt like I deserved it.”

“Deserved having a child.”

“Yeah,” she said. “That’s a woman’s right.”

“To have a child.”

“You don’t believe that?”

“You wanted Troy,” I said. “You did your best raising him.”

“You don’t believe that. You’re gonna send him off to prison.”

“I’m going to write a report about Troy’s psychological status- what’s going on in his head- and give it to the judge. So anything you can tell me about Troy could help.”

“You sayin’ he’s crazy?”

“No,” I said. “I don’t think he’s one bit crazy.”

The directness of the answer startled her. “He’s not,” she insisted, as if we remained in dispute. “He’s real smart. He always was smart.”

“He’s very bright,” I said.

“Yeah,” she said. “I want him to go to college.” She turned and shot me another smile, closemouthed, subtle. Its arc matched the coil of snake on her neck and the effect was unnerving. “I figured he kin be a doctor or something else to get rich.”

Troy had talked about getting rich. Unperturbed. As if the charges against him were an inconvenience along the road to affluence. His mother’s delusions made my eyes hurt.

She placed her hands on the BMW’s steering wheel. Pressed down on the inactive gas pedal. Muttered, “This is somethin’.”

“The car?”

She eyed Weider through the windshield. “You think she’s gonna help Troy?”

“She seems to be a good lawyer.”

“You don’ ever answer a question, do you?”

“Let’s talk about Troy,” I said. “You want him to go to college.”

“He ain’t goin’ there now. You’re sending him to prison.”

“Ms. Hannabee, I can’t send him anywhere- ”

“The judge hates him.”

“Why do you say that?”

She reached over and touched my arm. Stroked it. “I know men. They’re all hate and jumping.”

“Jumping?”

“On women,” she said, working her way up toward my shoulder. Touching my cheek. I removed her hand.