“Uh-huh,” I said. “Well, I can understand why.”
“You know,” said Tim, “you ought to check Jackson’s Facebook or whatever that is. Instagram? I don’t know. But I bet he’s even put that down in writing.”
His brother said, “That sure would be dumb.”
“Yeah,” he said. “But how dumb you got to be, to tell a man in front of everybody that you’d like to see him dead, and then go killing him?”
When I got home I took Squatter for a walk in the dog park, hoping to clear my head. Talking to the Warton brothers had brought home how hard it was going to be for Jackson to get an unbiased jury. I’d seen jurors believe the damnedest things, but to see even his own kin thinking that way was alarming.
At his age, Squatter wore out quick, so he soon curled up in a sunbeam to nap. I sat on a bench with my phone, scrolling through Jackson’s social media. Apart from some surprisingly biting commentary on life in Basking Rock, which I mostly agreed with, it was mind-numbing. How many times, I wondered, did a person have to let the world know he supported legalized marijuana? I would’ve thought one meme stating that opinion ought to be enough, but Jackson apparently did not share my view. I scrolled through page after page, feeling like an old man as I shook my head at kids today.
When my phone rang it was a welcome interruption, and all the more so because it was Terri calling.
“Hey there, Oprah,” I said. “How you been? You solved the crime for me yet?”
She laughed. “Naw, I actually wasn’t calling about that at all. I just wanted to apologize for sticking my nose in your business last night. I don’t know why I listened to those rumors about you and Mazie.”
“I know how it is, though,” I said, as Squatter, curled up beside my foot, gave a muffled bark in his sleep. “In this town, rumors can all but replace reality.”
“They sure can.”
“Speaking of things replacing reality,” I said, “I’ve been doing a deep dive on, uh, his social media.” I looked around. There was hardly anyone in the dog park, but I didn’t want to say Jackson’s name out loud. “And I have to say, if social media’s more exciting than reality, then reality is even more boring than I thought.”
She laughed. “I can tell you how to search if you want. So you don’t have to scroll through all the memes and whatnot.”
“Could you? That would be—”
Another call was coming in. It was Mazie.
“Hey,” I said. “I got a call I need to take. Hang on one second, if you don’t mind.”
I switched over. She interrupted my friendly hello with a frantic, “Oh my God, oh my God!”
“What is it, Mazie?” I said, trying to calm her down, though I had a pretty good idea what was coming next.
“They found him, Leland! They arrested my boy! They’re charging him with murder!”
8
Thursday, June 20, Evening
I headed for my car. Mazie had said she and Jackson were at the county jail. My phone was buzzing with text alerts. I glanced at it, but the sun was so bright I couldn’t see anything until I shadowed it with my hand. Noah’s name popped up. His message said, Cops dragged him out of some shed in cuffs! Help!
I wrote back, I’m on it.
Then one from Terri popped up. I’d completely forgotten we’d been on the phone. She’d heard the news, she said, and would find out what she could.
I had the feeling I’d forgotten something else. I stopped on the sidewalk, trying to think what it was. Then I realized the dog purse slung over my shoulder, this ridiculous accessory Noah had gotten to keep Squatter from having to walk too much, was empty. I looked back. My poor old dog was still curled up beside the bench.
I went back and scooped him up. He was full of doggy joy at the sight of me. Unlike Noah, he had no clue I ever neglected him—or if he did, he had total faith I’d rescue him in the end.
I parked by the jail and headed in with Squatter in his bag. The guard manning the X-ray machine perused my ID and bar card for a good while, like he wished there was some problem with them so he could harass me. When they passed his heightened scrutiny, he zeroed in on the dog purse.
“Can’t bring that in,” he said. “I can’t put a live animal through this here machine.”
I held the bag out. “You want to take a look? I can’t leave him in the car. It’s almost 90 degrees.”
He peered at the sleeping Yorkie. “I take it that ain’t no kind of service dog,” he said. “He your emotional support animal?”
“Course not,” I said. I was getting a little annoyed.
“Well, then,” he said in triumph, “you can’t bring him in.”
There was no convincing him. I stepped aside to text Mazie. She came out of the waiting room to babysit Squatter, and the way she fussed over him made me glad I’d brought her the distraction. I pointed out the pockets with his treats and his leash, explained that I’d be incommunicado for a while because the cops would take my phone before letting me talk to Jackson, and left them to it.
I knew the cops wouldn’t let me see Jackson unless I called myself his lawyer, so I did. They said he’d been booked on suspicion of murder. One of them walked me to the interview room. Through the window I could see him looking like what he was: a sullen teenage kid who’d clearly got on the wrong side of somebody. The cop unlocked the door. Jackson looked up, part defiant, part scared. He was still in his street clothes, about as filthy as you’d expect someone who’d been sleeping in a shed to be. When I sat down
