“No idea.”
“Then why did you say you threw it in the woods?”
Sonny shook his head. “I don’t know. That whole part-my testimony-is just a fog now. Was then, too, to be honest.”
“What was the point of getting on the stand at all?” Wyatt said.
“It was pointless in retrospect. Back then, I thought…” His voice trailed off and he got a distant look in his eyes.
“What? What did you think?”
Sonny shrugged. That shrug of his-almost teenage-like, and Sonny had been hardly more than a teenager at the time of the trial.
“You weren’t even there, were you?” Wyatt said.
Sonny looked up, confused. “In court?”
“At thirty-two Cain Street.”
Sonny reached out as though to touch Wyatt’s knee, stopped with his hand inches away. “I was there, Wyatt. No getting around that.”
“I meant inside. You didn’t go in. You weren’t part of the home invasion.”
“It’s the same under the law. Let’s not go over that again.”
“Not if you went there to stop it,” Wyatt said. “Arrived too late, or something like that.” Sonny was watching him, mouth slightly open. “That’s the real story, isn’t it?”
“I wish it was.”
“You’re still protecting someone.”
Sonny gave him a long look. “Any idea what you’re going to do in life, after school and all that?”
“No.”
“Give it some thought. You’ve got the brains to go all the way in something.”
“No, I don’t.”
“You’re wrong about that,” Sonny said.
Wyatt waved that away, at the same time realizing the gesture was exactly like Sonny’s. “This is about filling in the missing parts,” he said. “Who are you protecting?”
“Nobody. I can’t make it any clearer. You’ve got all the missing parts, all that matter. I hope it helps.” He smiled. There was something sweet about Sonny’s smile, and maybe brave as well. “This has really been something,” he said, “getting to know you a bit. I can’t help thinking that if-”
Whatever Sonny couldn’t help thinking remained unspoken, because at that moment the visitors’ door opened and Greer walked in. She glanced at Wyatt and Sonny, then sat at the far end of Taneeka’s row. “Hey, Greer, how’s it goin’?” Taneeka said.
“Great,” said Greer. She took a book from her pocket, started reading. She looked great, completely undamaged except for a scab on her biggest knuckle.
The inmate door opened and a pale, heavy man entered. He was dressed in rumpled khaki, had a bandage over one eye. Greer jumped up. “Dad-what happened?”
The inmate approached her. Greer rushed forward and threw her arms around him.
“Hey!” Taneeka said.
Greer and her father separated.
“Hi, Greer,” Sonny said.
Greer turned to him. “What happened to my dad?” she called across the room.
Now Taneeka, too, was watching Sonny. “I actually don’t know,” he said.
“Was it that horrible man, Hector?” Greer said. “The one with Jesus on his face?”
“Couldn’t tell you,” Sonny said. But out of the corner of his eye, Wyatt had seen Greer’s dad flinch at the mention of Hector’s name.
“It was an accident,” Greer’s dad said. “In the shop.”
“You’re sure?” Greer said.
“Yeah. I’m fine.”
“Accidents happen all the time in the shop,” Sonny said. “Isn’t that true, Taneeka?”
“True enough,” said Taneeka.
“I’m fine,” Greer’s dad said again, not looking at anyone in particular, in fact gazing down at the floor, a cement floor painted the color of cement.
“Bert?” Sonny said, rising. “Like you to meet Wyatt. Wyatt, Bert Torrance.”
Bert looked up. “Heard a lot about you,” he said.
“Hi,” Wyatt said. He stood up, tried to think of some good follow-up. “I, uh, liked the batting cage.”
“Thanks,” Bert said.
Wyatt felt Greer’s glare at the same time.
“Come on, Dad,” she said. “Let’s sit down.”
They sat in the far corner, began to talk in low voices. The visitors’ door opened and more visitors entered, lots of them, maybe a dozen. More inmates came through the inmate door, and more COs. In less than a minute, it got pretty crowded. Taneeka sat up straight, plucked the gum from her mouth, and stuck it under the seat. Two women took the spots where Wyatt and Sonny had been sitting. Wyatt and Sonny moved toward the inmate door, stood near a CO with sergeant stripes on his sleeve.
“Looks like we’re in for one of those busy days,” Sonny said. “I’ll say good-bye.”
“There’s one more thing,” Wyatt said, keeping his voice down. Sonny leaned in to hear. “Why did Doc name you as the shooter?”
The sergeant’s eyes shifted toward them.
“Have to ask him,” Sonny said.
“I didn’t get the chance.”
Sonny went still. “You’re telling me you saw him?”
“In Millerville. Didn’t you know he was out?”
“I did,” Sonny said. “But Millerville? Why would he go back there?”
“Isn’t that where he’s from?”
“No. He came from Wichita originally.”
“Maybe it’s because of this girlfriend,” Wyatt said.
“What girlfriend?”
“It’s kind of strange,” Wyatt said. “I got the idea she might be married to someone else.”
“That wouldn’t stop Doc,” said Sonny. “More of an incentive, if anything. What makes you think she’s married?”
“I kind of followed him to her place. He parked far away and then must’ve snuck in the back. And later when I was talking to her, he came back, and she wasn’t happy about being out in public with him. She’s actually kind of a tough lady-I think she owns a bar.”
There was a pause. “A bar?”
“Good Time Charlene’s,” Wyatt said. “Her name’s Charlene Waters-I read it off her mailbox.”
Sonny swayed backward slightly, as though having a little trouble with his balance. He leaned against the wall. Beside him, the inmate door opened and more men in khaki came in. Voices rose all around them.
“Gonna have to clear some of these folks out of here,” the sergeant said. “Sonny? You about done?”
Sonny nodded, pushed himself off the wall. He left through the inmate door.
27
Wyatt sat in the parking lot at Sweetwater State Penitentiary. The parking lot lay in the shadow of the front wall, the wall facing the river. A dark rectangle of a shadow with a dappled margin at the end: that pretty topping was the razor wire. In the distance, a school bus was driving across the bridge; the river water looked black and viscous, almost like something solid and reptilian. Soon Wyatt would be crossing that bridge himself, then following
