Turning Angel

that most of the affluent children in town participate in-as velvet-clad toddlers dancing around a Maypole, clean-cut high schoolers waltzing with flattered tourists, or intoxicated college kids trekking home three times a week during March to don Confederate regalia and march to the strains of “Dixie” as members of the “Confederate Court.” Being asked to take part in the pageant is a mark of social distinction-based largely on one’s mother’s or grandmothers’ service to one of the powerful “Garden Clubs”-and certain roles confer star status on those offered them.

Annie has already played starring roles in the pageant, and this year she was offered a spot in “The Big Maypole,” one of the vignettes with roles for fourth-graders. This made my mother happy, but I was ambivalent about it. Mom believes Annie will be damaged more by not participating in the pageant with her friends than by acting in a racially questionable production whose subtleties she can’t even understand. “After all,” she asked, “what harm did it do you? You were in the pageant from the age of four to twenty, and you’re as liberal as they come.” I laughed, but Annie proved her wrong. A nine-year-old with black friends can easily grasp the issues, and when I explained them to Annie, she asked me to decline the role for her, which I did. I also asked her not to make a big deal of it at school, since so many kids in her class would be taking part.

“But I mean, ” Annie says in an exaggerated voice, “what’s the point of not doing something if you don’t tell people why you’re not doing it?”

As usual, she sounds five years older than her true age, and also as usual, she’s right. If you’re going to try to change things by example, you have to let people know what you’re doing and why, even if you’re only nine.

“You’re right, punkin. Go ahead and tell them why you’re not doing it. But you’d better expect some strong reactions, maybe even from your teacher. Things change slowly around here.”

She nods seriously. “I’ll think before I talk.”

I wish some adults I know would do that.“Good girl.”

“Dad?” Annie asks in a tone of some anxiety.

“Yes?”

“Timmy’s mom came and picked him up early from school today.”

Images of Ellen Elliott fill my mind again. “Did anyone say why?”

“No. But I heard some teachers talking in the hall. They said Dr. Drew was in some kind of fight, and that he’d done something bad.”

Damn gossips.“Did they say what he’d done?”

“No. But one of them called him a bad name.”

“Which teacher did that?”

“Mrs. Gillette.”

A cranky old sourpuss.I silently mark Mrs. Gillette down for further attention. “Dr. Drew hasn’t done anything for kids to worry about. You don’t pay any attention to people gossiping, okay?”

“I know. I just wanted to tell you, ‘cause Timmy’s seemed really sad lately.”

As I put my arm around Annie and hug her tight, a pair of headlights comes up Washington Street at slightly over the speed limit, then slows and darts to the curb in front of our house. Mia jumps out of her Accord with a smile on her face and a CD case in her hand.

“We’re gonna do some dancing, girl!” she says to Annie, popping out her hip in a move that seems to travel up her spine and out to her stiffened fingers by some occult law of physics.

Annie leaps to her feet. “What kind of dancing?”

“Cheer dancing!”

Annie claps and hugs Mia’s waist. She’s practically jumping out of her skin with excitement. This type of giddiness a father simply cannot generate-not in my experience, anyway.

“Run inside and put this on your boom box,” Mia says, cutting her eyes at me. “I’ll be right there.”

“Hurry!” Annie says, taking the disk and disappearing into the house.

“What is it?” I ask quickly. “What do you know?”

Mia’s smile vanishes. “Do you know about the grand jury?”

“Tell me.”

“This afternoon, four girls in my class got subpoenas to appear before the grand jury.”

My chest tightens. “Appear when?”

“This afternoon. It already happened.”

“Damn! Did they tell you what they were asked?”

“I haven’t talked to them myself, but I heard they got questioned by the district attorney, the black guy who ran for mayor last time.”

“Shad Johnson.”

“Right. All I know is that it was about Kate and Dr. Elliott.”

“This is unbelievable. Shad actually used Drew’s name?”

“I don’t know for sure. I can try to find out.”

“Please. No one’s supposed to talk about what happens in the grand jury room, but that’s probably all those girls are talking about.”Along with half the grand jury members,I add silently.

“Oh, definitely. They’re major mouths.”

“Do you think they knew anything intimate about Kate?”

“No. I don’t even know why those four got subpoenas.”

“Shad’s taking potshots. That’s all he knows to do. And he’s abusing the hell out of the grand jury system.”

“How?”

I click the button on my key ring, opening my car door. “A grand jury isn’t an investigative body. It’s constituted to decide whether people should be tried for a crime or not, based on evidence uncovered by law enforcement. Shad’s using the grand jury to bypass some important legal protections.”

“Like?”

“Like not questioning juveniles without their parents present. Police officers can’t do that. Shad could also call Drew in there and question him without an attorney present. But he has no grounds whatever to do that. Drew hasn’t even been charged with murder. If Shad brought his name up to the grand jury, the only justifiable reason would be in connection with the fight this afternoon. But Drew hasn’t even been arraigned on that charge.”

“Everybody’s talking about that fight,” Mia says. “I heard Dr. Elliott busted Steve up pretty bad. I saw the other two guys myself, Ray and Jimmy. They looked like they’d been hit by a truck.”

“The fight happened at lunchtime. Why weren’t those guys in school?”

“They ditched. Most of the seniors ditched today. A lot of them were scheduled to be questioned by the police or by sheriff’s deputies, and the rest just used that as an excuse.”

“What are people saying about Drew?”

“The word is mixed, believe it or not.”

“Really?” I want to ask more, but something tells me that Ellen Elliott can’t wait. “I’ve got to run, Mia. But I want to hear about this when I get back. And please find out all you can about what happened in the grand jury room.”

She holds up her cell phone. “No problem. See you when you get back.”

The front lawn of Drew’s house looks like a garage sale from hell. The grass is littered with tennis rackets, golf clubs, water skis, guns, cameras, and assorted furniture. Books and clothing lie strewn around the yard, most notably a tuxedo draped over a weight bench and a formal gown hanging from a low oak limb. I have to steer around a shattered flat-screen TV to negotiate the pebbled driveway.

As I get out of the car, the front door of the massive Victorian bangs open and Ellen staggers into the yard carrying a compound bow. I hold up both hands to show I’m not a threat. Ellen has killed more than a few deer with that bow, and she’s quite capable of taking me out with a razor-tipped broadhead.

“Ellen!” I call. “It’s Penn Cage.”

“You’re not welcome,” she says in a flat voice. “You’re the wrong kind of lawyer. Go home.”

She’s wearing some sort of floral housecoat that’s falling open from the waist up. Her usually well-coiffed hair hangs in limp strings around her face, and her eyes are puffy and red. Only her dark tan communicates any impression of health, but that’s an illusion purchased at the local spa.

“I’d really like to talk to you, Ellen.”