A Tuesday in September, the air conditioning bust, Judge Rhodes fanned himself with a file and loosened his collar.
Walk sat near the front, just as he did thirty years before.
“There’s no hope of bail, not for a capital case,” Martha said. She’d met him outside early, and they’d crossed the street and grabbed a coffee. She was smart, suit and heels, light makeup, enough to make Walk feel dumb for ever thinking he might’ve had a shot at keeping her.
He looked around, lawyers and their clients, navy suits against orange suits, pleas and deals and deficient promises. Judge Rhodes fought a yawn.
The courtroom hushed when he was led in. The people seeking Death, a case with profile.
Judge Rhodes sat up a little straighter, rebuttoned his collar. Reporters at the back, no cameras, just pens and pads. Martha left Walk and went up to the bench, where Vincent settled beside her.
The D.A. Elise Deschamps, straight, stern, took to the front and ran through the charges. Walk tried to read his friend, but from where he sat he could not clearly see his face.
When Elise was done, Vincent stood. Walk felt the lean, edge of seats, eyes locked on the man that killed a child, then came back thirty years later for her sister.
Vincent stated his name.
Judge Rhodes detailed the charges again, then added the state would settle for life with no parole in exchange for a guilty plea.
Walk breathed again. The deal had been offered.
When Judge Rhodes asked for his plea, Vincent turned and met Walk’s eye.
“Not guilty.”
Now there were murmurs, talk till Rhodes quietened them.
Martha looked at the judge, something desperate in her eyes led to a call to approach. “Mr. King. Your lawyer is worried you don’t understand the charge and the offer,” Rhodes said.
“I understand.”
Vincent did not look back as the guard led him from the room.
Walk stepped out and into the morning sun. Las Lomas, the pretty square with the towering statue, a kneeling woman, her head bowed by the hallowed court.
The trial was set for the following spring.
The drive back, Walk’s body breaking to cold sweats, the quaking so bad it tired out his mind. He caught his eyes in the rearview mirror but could not rub the blood from them. The beard was long, he’d made a new notch on his belt. His uniform was big now, the shoulders fell over onto the tops of his biceps.
He pulled into a liquor store by Bitterwater and bought a six-pack.
Martha lived in a small house on Billington Road, far enough out of town. A white gate led to a path bordered by neat lines of flowers, the grass beside green and lush. Baskets hung from ornate hooks, the kind of house that would’ve made him smile on another day.
Inside was cluttered with papers, every inch of the house spoke of work, of defending those less able.
He found his way onto the privacy of the porch and was two beers down by the time Martha came out with a bowl of corn chips. He ate one and she laughed as the flavor seared off his taste buds.
“You’re an animal.”
“Some like it hot.”
They sat close, side by side as they drank.
It was not until the day fell away that Walk calmed. Two beers, that’s all he’d allowed himself. He wanted to get drunk, to scream and curse and shake sense into Vincent King.
Martha sipped wine. “You have to get him to plea.”
Walk rubbed the tension from his neck, always there now.
“Vincent’s case is not winnable, you do know that,” she said.
“I know that.”
“Which means only one thing.”
Walk looked up.
“Vincent King wants to die.”
“So what do I do?”
“You sit here and drink with me while we lament the sorriest state of affairs.”
“Tempting. Or?”
“You work the case.”
“I am.”
Martha sighed. “Knocking doors and praying someone saw something isn’t working a case. You have to get out there and find your angle. And if it can’t be found you make it yourself. Balls, Chief. It’s all about balls now.”
Wind blew across the highway and smoked dust from the ground. Early evening, only a couple of pickups but Walk heard music before he reached the door. He stopped for a moment, looked at the wide strip of San Luis and thought of Star there, dragging the kids behind her.
Inside was dull light, the strong smell of tobacco and stale beer. The booths were empty, just a couple of guys at the bar and a small cluster around a stage built from painted wooden crates. The singer was old, bluegrass, a long way from home but the men tapped their thighs as they drank.
He had a description of the guy from Duchess, given over when he’d sat her down and they’d slowly gone through the kind of months and years that saw his head heavy by the time they were done. The girl had spoken with an evenness that wrenched his soul, like she knew nothing of childhood at all.
He found him straight off, cropped hair and thick beard, strong arms that hinted at field work. Bud Morris. Walk sidled up as Bud rolled his eyes like trouble with the law was a consequence of his way.
“Could I speak with you?”
Bud looked him up and down, then laughed.
Walk drank club soda. He was not a man who enjoyed confrontation, despite the training, the badge and what it meant. Words rang loud in his ears. Leave it to state. He gripped his glass hard. Martha’s words rang louder.
Bud went to the restroom. Walk stood and followed him in, took a deep breath and drew his gun as the man was pissing.
He pressed it to the back of Bud’s head.
Adrenaline coursed, his hands shook, his knees shook.
“Fuck.” Bud pissed on his jeans.
Walk pressed harder. Sweat ran down his nose.
“Jesus, alright. What the hell is wrong with you?”
Walk lowered the gun. “Now I could have done that at the bar, in front of your friends, made you piss your pants for an audience.”
Bud glared, then
