Shelly looked up at her.
“Is it?” Her eyes desperate now. “Is it a selfless act to do that? He’s so sweet, you know, he’s so good and sweet and he needs a better sister than me. Can you give him that, Shelly? I’m losing him, he’s turning hard. I can’t let that happen. He gets up in the night and he needs me. He calls out. And if I’m not there—”
Shelly pulled her in and held her tight.
“Fuck.”
“It’s alright.”
“It’s not. None of it is.”
“I would never do it to you, Duchess. I wouldn’t do anything without talking to you first. And I can see this isn’t right. Siblings need to stay together. I’ll keep looking. We’ll find the right fit. I promise I’ll keep looking.”
37
WALK AND MARTHA DRIFTED THROUGH three days so torturous they drove back to Cape Haven and lay awake in Walk’s bed, unable to clear the painted picture, the prisoner that spent thirty years planning revenge on the girl he could not have.
Opening statements were brief, plans laid out, seven minutes for Martha, eighteen for the District Attorney, Elise Deschamps. Deschamps was impressive, lengthy list of credentials, smart clothes, black hair framed a pale face. Sincerity poured from her as she applauded the jury, told them she worked for them, for the state of California, and for Star Radley and her orphaned children. She was their voice, their justice. Proof would be overwhelming, premeditated, cold-blooded. Vincent King was a murderer. He took the life of a child, then the life of a fellow prisoner. Killing came easy. They would see they had no choice but to find the man guilty, and, in doing so, pass on a sentence of death. It would not be easy, but she needed them. The Radley children needed them.
Deschamps was skilled, alumna of Yale Law, flanked by two associates who watched and scribbled and nodded at the right times.
Clerks, bailiffs, the artist, the reporters. A small collection to watch a man’s fate decided.
Despite the grand theories, the expert way Deschamps lulled the jury, the facts presented were hard and incontestable. She brought in the pathologist from the state crime lab, who reeled off qualifications so towering Martha moved to call yeah, he could be considered expert. Deschamps barked, Judge Rhodes handled things well enough. Walk smiled as Martha held her ground. He saw Vincent do the same.
The pathologist took them on the kind of journey that saw photos dealt, jurors shake heads, one cried. He detailed blows, hard enough to break three of her ribs. He tracked the path of the bullet, the kill shot, into the chest, likely she was dead before she hit the ground. Charts on easels, anatomy spelled.
A fingerprint guy took them through prints lifted from the Radley house. Vincent King had been in the kitchen, hallway, living room. They lifted one from the front door. After an hour the jury tired. That Vincent King was at the scene was never in question.
Another expert, ballistics, a hired gun to talk guns. And then of the gun itself, though it could not be found the bullet pulled from Star Radley’s body was a .357 Magnum.
And then Deschamps ran, like they knew she would. She pulled out paper and waved it round like it was lit. Vincent King’s father had a gun registered in his name, a Ruger Blackhawk. She asked the jury to guess the caliber, the type of bullet it fired. Walk watched them close and saw each of them follow the ball way out of the park.
On the cross Martha tried to score minor points by getting the guy to admit the .357 Magnum, though a little less common, could still be purchased widely. The damage was done.
Deschamps went on to detail Star’s life, difficult childhood, her younger sister’s tragic death and then her mother’s own death. She recounted the events. Vincent King sat there impassive, only closing his eyes when she talked of the strip of woodland where they found that little girl’s body. Left to die, cold and alone. And then on to the suicide of Star’s mother, how Star had found her, how that might have felt. And, finally, brighter promise, troubled though she was, she doted on her children, Duchess and Robin, now settled into a group home in a town they did not know, at a school where they had to start over, a thousand miles from home. Another photo, the three together on the beach, Walk had taken it himself on a rare day of calm.
Walk was called as a state witness, along with a handful of first responders. First on the scene he took his seat in the hallowed hall, cleared his throat and told the truth in all its ugly. Blood on Vincent, calm in his voice. He did not slant detail, just laid it out and glanced at his friend now and then. Vincent offered him a slight smile, it’s alright, you do your job, Walk.
After eight days the state rested, Walk and Martha went to the bar across from the courtroom, where they took a booth in the back and picked at fried shrimp fresh from the freeze.
“How’s Vincent doing?”
“Oh he’s just swell,” Martha said. “I’ve got half a mind to put him on the stand, let the jury see how calm he is, we call insanity, padded cell for the rest of his life. Beats the needle, right?”
Walk picked up a shrimp, studied it, placed it back on the greased paper. “How long will you take?”
“A couple of days. I’ll say my piece, call my people, and then they’ll get the case and they’ll put him to death.” She stared into her soda.
“You’re doing good, Martha. Really, you look good up there.”
“Try not to look at my ass so much. It’s predatory.”
“It’s the shoes that get me. Your commitment to Chuck Taylor.”
She reached into her bag and pulled out a bottle of hot sauce.
“You’re kidding me with this. You actually carry it with
