I was floored. “Roy—I don’t know what to say. Thank you so much. That is unbelievably generous.”
He grinned and winked at me. “It ain’t charity,” he said. “It’s PR. If we don’t look successful, clients won’t think we’re any good.”
He rapped on my desk with his knuckles, drawing things to a close, and stood up. “I’m having lunch with Collin Porter, and we’ll be golfing the rest of the afternoon. I’ll have Laura give you a Blue Seas file to get started on. I never much enjoyed the research and writing end of things. The more of that you do, the more I get to take clients golfing.”
I said, “Sounds like a win-win right there.”
“Exactly.”
An hour later, that good news was tempered by a frantic call from Mazie. Jackson had been hurt in jail and taken to the hospital, she said, but the hospital wouldn’t let her visit because he was under armed guard. Only his lawyer, they’d told her, was permitted.
As I pulled out of the lot, I smiled at the thought that Roy would be happy, on his return from the golf course, to see my piece of junk had vacated the premises. On the causeway, the combination of my speed and the wind from the ocean loosened a corner of the plastic sheeting. It slapped against the frame so loudly it was like having a seagull trapped in the car with me. Apparently, even with the most versatile tape on the market, I was still not capable of carrying out solid repairs. The law was truly the only thing I was good at.
I hoped I’d be good enough for Jackson.
Our county detention center, where prisoners awaiting trial were held, was too small to have an infirmary. It had experienced medical staff, though, so Jackson must have been pretty seriously injured to be admitted to the local hospital.
When I got to his room, I showed my bar card to the cop at the door. He nodded. A nurse was in the room changing IV bags. Something was beeping. She was blocking my view of Jackson’s face, but I could see his left hand was cuffed to the bed rail.
As I walked in, I got a better view. His face was bruised to hell, and his jaw was wired shut. He glanced over when I said hello, then winced and let his head fall back where it had been.
“Oh God,” I said. I could only think of one reason a person’s jaw would be wired shut. I asked the nurse, “Broken jaw?”
She nodded. “Sorry I can’t say more,” she said. “There’s a form he’ll need to sign if he wants you to be able to get his medical information. I’ll leave the two of you to talk. You can use his communication board, if you want.”
From the foot of his bed, she picked up a plastic board with the alphabet and the numbers from zero to ten printed on it, plus a few words: Water. Hungry. Hot. Cold. Pain.
“He doesn’t like using this,” she said. “But maybe with you he’ll feel more like talking. I did just give him his morphine, but he should still be lucid for at least another twenty minutes or so.”
“Okay, well, thank you.”
When she left, I followed her to the door and told the cop, “I’m just going to shut this while I’m here, to consult with my client.”
He shrugged. I shut it.
I went back to Jackson and asked, “How you feeling?”
He gave me a look.
I picked up the communication board, scrutinized it, and said, “I’m not sure why, but ‘I feel like shit’ isn’t one of the options. Just hot, cold, and whatnot.”
I heard a little snort and saw a smile flicker, then turn into a wince. He’d laughed, but it hurt. I had a gut-wrenching flash of déjà vu from when Noah was hospitalized in Charleston.
“Goddamn,” I said. “I’m sorry. Okay, listen, I’m not going to hang out here too long. That morphine’s going to put you to sleep, and I’m sure that’s what you need. But if somebody at the jail did this to you, you tell me. I can get you moved, or I might even get them to revisit bail.”
His eyes stayed closed. He knitted his brows together, but I couldn’t tell if it was from pain or, possibly, anger.
“How about this,” I said. “Just tap the sheet with your right hand. Once for yes, two for no. Did a prisoner do this to you?”
His eyebrows were still drawn together. I wasn’t sure he’d heard me, but then his hand moved. Two taps.
“Goddamn it!” I said. “It was a guard?”
A tap. Then another.
“No?”
He didn’t move.
“Not a prisoner or a guard? Are you sure?”
He clenched his fist and pounded it on the bed. Three times, four times; it had no apparent meaning other than anger.
I tried another angle. “Listen, Jackson. I’m your lawyer. Anything you tell me is confidential. If you don’t want me telling your mother what’s happened, I won’t. It’s just between us.”
He seemed to be pointing at something. The communication board, I realized, where I’d set it halfway down the bed. I held it up.
He opened his eyes a slit and jabbed his index finger at four letters: F-E-L-L.
“You fell?”
One tap on the mattress. Yes.
I stared at him. He had at least half a dozen bruises on both sides of his face. I didn’t see how a person could hit his face in that many different places in a single accidental fall.
“Okay,” I said, giving up for now. “I’m sorry if somebody back there’s got
