Ascension Day

by John Matthews

  Rodriguez looked even more uneasy. He raised a sharp eyebrow. ‘Larry’s family? Oooooh no. Definite no-go area. Larry guards them more jealously than any other secrets he might hold. I wouldn’ dream of –’

  ‘Look, Mr Rodriguez,’ Jac cut in impatiently, looking at his watch. He’d done nothing but bash his head against a brick wall so far with Durrant, he was damned if he was going to do the same with Rodriguez. ‘In forty-one days, Larry Durrant is going to die – if anyone in the state of Louisiana in fact needed reminding. And at that point, what his family means to him, or in turn him to them, is going to have little relevance – except in memory. So you’ll perhaps excuse me if I appear not to have much time for your tip-toeing around prison protocol and what might or might not seem right between you and Larry Durrant.’

  Rodriguez fired Jac a similar sly, challenging smile to Durrant’s when he’d finally conceded the other day, ‘You’re good.’ But then his expression quickly sank back into doubt as he weighed up his position.

  ‘Look, there was somethin’ that happened recently with Larry’s son, Joshua,’ he said finally, looking up. He bit lightly at his bottom lip, as if still uncertain he was doing the right thing. ‘But if I say anythin’ – it wasn’t from me, okay? I got ‘nough injuries already, without having to put up with a neck brace for a few months.’

  Jac smiled and nodded his assent.

  ‘And I say that not just because of breakin’ protocols between myself and Larry,’ Rodriguez continued, ‘but ‘cause of the confidences I should keep as one of the main men in the communication room. On both counts I shouldn’t be saying anythin’ about this.’

  Jac met the concern in Rodriguez’ eyes with a more solemn gaze, and nodded again. ‘I understand.’

  Rodriguez shuffled slightly in his seat, as if he was still getting comfortable with what he was about to say. ‘I don’t know whether Larry has told you or not – but he’s had very little contact with his son over the years. The first five years in here, Francine didn’t visit, so no contact at all. Then when she did start finally visitin’, at most once or twice a year – she only brought Joshua occasionally, maybe one in every three visits. So, eighteen months or two whole years would roll by without him seein’ his son. As a result, he’s only seen Josh a handful of times in all the years he’s been in here. And when Francine did bring him, she’d make sure to keep the boy in the background. “Say hello to your pa. Good. Now you sit back there like a good boy while we talk.” Maybe only a handful of sentences, too, have therefore passed ‘tween him and the boy.’ Rodriguez shook his head. ‘It’s been one of Larry’s greatest sources of guilt and regret, that boy.

  ‘In particular because of the promise he made to Francine at the time.’ Rodriguez paused as he levelled his gaze at Jac. ‘When Josh was born, he promised Francine: “That’s it! No more robberies”. Then just three months down the line he’s in the Roche home – which lands him in here. So, you see, he feels guilty for havin’ broken that promise and deserted the boy through all these years. In fact, he sees most of this in here as punishment fo’ that. Retribution and all that Bible stuff he got into later on. Maybe that was some kinda penance. Asking God’s forgiveness not jus’ for being a bad man and a murderer – but for being a bad father and lettin’ his family down.’ Rodriguez took a fresh breath. ‘But when Larry did have contact with Josh, I’d see the change in him. That weight o’ guilt would lift from his shoulders and there was a fresh light in his eyes; as if, finally, he saw some hope. Hope, maybe, that with fresh contact, he could make good on havin’ let the boy down and deserted him.’ Rodriguez shrugged and gestured with one hand. ‘But, like I say, his meetings with Joshua were rare, and so the same went for his hopes of makin’ good – until just under a year ago.’ This time Rodriguez’ pause was heavier, as if purposely adding significance or waiting for the prompt.

  ‘What happened then?’ Jac asked.

  ‘Well, yer know, I’d been handlin’ things in the communication room for over eighteen months by then – so I was first to see them come through: e-mails from Joshua.’ Rodriguez paused briefly again to let the information settle with Jac. ‘The first month there were just two. Then they increased to once or sometimes twice a week, with Larry always makin’ sure to answer ‘em by the next day.’ Rodriguez smiled. ‘Man, Larry was alive through that period like I never saw him before. Then, suddenly, about seven weeks back, without warnin’ they stopped. Nothin’. Nada.’ Rodriguez’ smile faded just as quickly. ‘And Larry sank back into his gloomy pit. But probably even worse than before. Because now he’d been given a taste o’ what things could be like with his son, only fo’ it to be yanked away again. No more contact – and, as Larry sees it, no hope again.’

  Jac rubbed his forehead as he considered the information. He could see now why Rodriguez was cautious about sharing it. It cut deep to the roots of Durrant’s family and personal psyche.

  ‘Any indication as to why the e-mails might have stopped?’ Jac asked.

  ‘No, only guesswork. Larry sent another half-dozen e-mails askin’ for a reply or explanation before his pride – foolish or otherwise – made him give up. Got to the point where he felt he was beggin’.’ Rodriguez shrugged. ‘Maybe his mom or new stepfather cut in, stopped him sendin’ more e-mails; or Joshua himself decided to stop – feared he was gettin’ too close, ‘specially when his father likely wouldn’t be around much longer. Lot easier to take the loss of someone you’re not that close to. Or his computer has broken down or his AOL account has been cancelled. In the end, we’re fishin’.’ Rodriguez grimaced. ‘That’s why things were planned earlier with the prison break. Larry didn’t rate the chances of Candaret givin’ him clemency, and, if he got out there – he could find out what’d happened with Joshua.’

  ‘Right.’ Jac nodded, glancing towards the glass screen. Even with the red light off, he felt uneasy at the mention of ‘prison break’. It wasn’t the best thread on which to hang Larry Durrant’s life, he thought: the wants and reasoning of a twelve-year-old boy. But at this stage he was glad of any small mercies. ‘So you think that if there was e-mail contact again from Joshua, or at least some reasonable explanation that would give him hope of future contact – that might make Durrant feel differently?’

  Rodriguez shrugged. ‘Again, only guesswork. But it’s the best chance I can think of to raise Larry’s spirits. Maybe make him wanna start livin’ again.’

  Asking a twelve-year-old boy to go through the emotional trauma of contact with his father while the shadow of execution hung over him, and no doubt with his mother and new partner strongly opposed to it for those same reasons – it wasn’t going to be easy. But it looked like the best he was going to get.

  Jac pushed a tight smile and nodded. ‘Thanks for that… and for those, too.’ He gestured towards the books. ‘If we can convince Larry Durrant that there’s still something worth living for, they might come in useful in convincing others he’s worthwhile keeping alive.’

  ‘S’okay.’ Rodriguez nodded back with a light snort. ‘Except that down here in the South, could be dangerous ground. Black man daring t’fool around with the classics – could send him for the chop straight-off for that alone.’ Rodriguez smiled slyly. ‘And thank God Larry never got ‘round to editing the Bible. If he had, and Havelin’ got wind of it – he’d make sure to switch on the poison-feed himself.’

  Early the next morning, while sipping at coffee, Jac took the folded paper from his jacket pocket and spread it out on his dining table.

  He’d looked at the printed e-mail and his reply already countless times, had unfolded and folded it back more often than he cared think about; but perhaps without the noise of the office buzzing around him, something might leap out that he hadn’t picked up on before:

  I hear you’re representing Larry Durrant. I know that he didn’t do it. It wasn’t him. I know, because I was there at the time. Don’t let him die.

  No name, initials or sign-off; just the e-mail addre
ss, durransave4 @hotmail.com, and the time and date. Jac’s eyes shifted to his reply:

  I need to know more to be able to do anything with this. Who you are? Or at least how and why you were there at the time? Also, why haven’t you come forward before? I need to know more to help save Larry.

  Only four lines, but Jac worried that already he’d said too much, frightened the sender off. Yet what else could he have said? He was just telling it how it was. On its own, the message meant nothing: he couldn’t help Durrant with it unless he had more information.

  But the other reason he was looking at it again now was because of something John Langfranc had said the other day. With still no reply, he’d finally told Langfranc about the e-mail and they’d brainstormed just who might have sent it – friend of Durrant’s, relative, hoaxer, any of the new supporters he’d found since hitting the press again recently, or capital punishment opponents keen to throw a spanner in the works at the last moment – when Langfranc arched one eyebrow.

  ‘Of course, one other possibility we haven’t thought of: the murderer himself. That need to confess that criminologists are always talking about. Not to mention guilt – with Durrant getting close now to his final day.’

  ‘No, surely not. I mean why would he –’ Then suddenly Jac stopped himself as he thought about the e-mail’s wording: I was there at the time. If it was just a hoaxer, then why not say simply that he knew or could tell them? Why be so bold and say that he was there at the time?

  Those same words leapt out at Jac now, until everything else on the page evaporated and that was all that seemed to be there… I was there at the time.

  9

  For the first ten minutes they skirted around each other, keeping the conversation to safe, inconsequential ground: how long had he been in the States? How was he finding it? Relationships with his mother and aunt? But with that, he found himself choosing his words carefully. He knew that, at least from Aunt Camille’s perspective, she considered the Bromwells to be quite close, and he didn’t want to be too ungracious.

  But as Jennifer Bromwell sensed his awkwardness, she reached across the table and lightly touched the back of his hand, their first physical contact.

  ‘It’s okay. I find her a big snob, too. Sometimes too much to take. So don’t be afraid to speak your mind.’

  And Jac, in turn, found her skewing her lip slightly when he asked about her father. He reciprocated by touching her hand back. ‘Look, I don’t even know him. But if I said he was a snob as well – would that make it any easier for you to talk about him?’

  They laughed, and from there the conversation flowed easily: family, work, life, France – she’d visited twice, Paris for two days as part of a whirlwind European trip, and a holiday of two weeks spent between Cannes and Monte Carlo. Her work was in the PR and marketing department of a local fashion house.

  They’d gone to Le Bon Temps Roule, his choice but under her guidance of liveliness and ambience before haute cuisine. ‘I go to enough stuffy high-class joints with my parents.’

  There was a funky jazz trio playing in the back room where they’d planned to go after eating, but all that reached them among the front dining tables was its steady bass beat and the occasional forceful vocals or saxophone burst.

  At one point Jennifer paused again more thoughtfully, as if, despite his efforts to put her at ease, something still perturbed her.

  ‘Look – about my father. My mother too, to a lesser extent. I feel I should say this now, before things get too far on, because if you found out later, you’d only be upset.’ Jennifer glanced briefly towards the bar before looking back at him directly. ‘All of this was my father’s idea, with my mom, as always, meekly backing him up. And mainly because of my boyfriend – who they don’t happen to approve of. Rock musician, you see, but just small gigs here and there. And, as my father likes to put it, not heading anywhere fast. Young lawyer with a blue-blood background looks a much better bet.’ She shook her head briefly and reached out and lightly touched Jac’s hand again. ‘But now that I’m here, don’t get me wrong – I’m glad I came. You’re a really sweet guy.’

  Jac resisted filling the gap with ‘But?’ – it would only make her feel more awkward, when it was obvious what the answer was: there wasn’t any sexual spark between them, and wasn’t going to be. He appreciated her boldness in speaking openly and, because it took the pressure off him, he felt the least he could do was return the gesture.

  ‘Same here with me – with my Aunt Camille doing the pushing. Except in my case it was because I haven’t had a serious relationship the past few years. Not since I split up with my girlfriend in France, Madeleine.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’

  Her hand reaching out and consoling again. Though Jac wasn’t sure whether the ‘sorry’ was for his split from Madeleine, or because with him not having much of a love-life these past years, he might have expected more from this date now.

  Jac shrugged. ‘I don’t do too badly. I get the occasional fresh date now and then.’ He didn’t want her to feel awkward for things not heading anywhere between them, but he stopped short of mentioning he had one of those fresh dates the night after next.

  ‘Like this one.’ She smiled. She started picking at the breaded prawn and calamares the waiter had just brought up. ‘Lawyer and blue-blood was the bait used to get me here. So, what did Camille use with you?’

  ‘Money.’ No point in tip-toeing around it; blunt honesty had been the order of the day so far.

  ‘Oh, that.’ She said it with the disdain that comes only from those who’ve had big money for a while: so used to it that it invokes only boredom, and by now sufficiently well-schooled to be wary of the associated problems and baggage that come with it.

  Jac went on to explain the tragic chain of events that led to them leaving France – his father’s financial collapse, illness and eventual death – and as a result being forced to live in Aunt Camille’s grace and favour.

  ‘What didn’t help also was me choosing to switch from corporate to criminal law. Otherwise things might have been a bit easier financially, and I’d have got my mother and sister out from under Camille’s wing by now.’

  Jennifer sipped thoughtfully at her wine. ‘Looks like you take after your father in that respect. You’re not that bothered about money.’

  ‘That’s exactly what Camille says. That, like him, I’m foolish when it comes to money, a dreamer. As a result, I make bad choices.’

  Jennifer shook her head. ‘I wasn’t criticising. I meant it actually as a compliment. Kelvin, my boyfriend, is exactly the same. Just follows his dreams and where his nose might lead him, doesn’t give a damn about money. That’s what makes him so different, so refreshing. The problem I always found was that guys either came sniffing around me because of the money – put more effort into trying to impress my father than me – or they got intimidated by it and were frightened off.’

  Jac studied her closely for the first time. More Belinda Carlisle than Britney Spears, a touch of red in her blonde hair hinting at depth and fire beneath. And Jean-Marie had been right – he did like her, she was far from the spoilt rich brat he’d feared. Though ‘cute’ was without doubt too lightweight, didn’t embrace her strong savvy streak. Jac wondered for a moment that if she didn’t have a boyfriend and if he didn’t have his thoughts filled with the girl next door – since setting the date, he’d kept running through mental scenarios of how it might go – whether anything might have developed between them.

  But they were past that point now, and almost two hours later when they’d exchanged more likes and wants and stories about family and work and put half the world to rights – she was again reaching that hand across the table, this time to set in stone how their relationship would be in the future.

  ‘Friends?’

  He nodded and smiled. ‘Yes, friends.’

  She said that she’d like to see him again and he nodded.

  ‘Yes, I’d like that too.’ Though wi
th the main reason for them continuing to see each other gone, he doubted that either of them would keep to it.

  Although, two consolations, Jac thought: he’d had an enjoyable evening when he’d feared originally it might be a nightmare, and in part it would be like a dry-run for his date the night after next, would help ease his nerves.

  But it wasn’t, and it didn’t.

  Watching the reaction in Francine Durrant’s eyes as Jac explained his dilemma with her husband was like viewing one of those old-fashioned, jolting-frame movies: pain, regret, fear, sadness, smiles and triumph – though the last were rarer, fleeting seconds, and always tinged with irony, as if they had no place amongst such an overriding swamp of regret and sadness. The past thirteen years of her life with Durrant condensed into a rapid succession of flicker-frames mirrored through her eyes.

  The home she shared with her partner was a small wood-framed bungalow in a sector of the Upper Ninth Ward close to Bywater clinging to middle-classdom by its fingernails, with half-derelict project complexes and shotgun houses only three blocks away. Green-painted shutters and a mass of terracotta-potted-plants on its front veranda assisted that clinging; though perhaps it was just to brighten its façade and make it more homely.

  Since the one photo Jac had seen of Francine in Durrant’s file, taken at their wedding, she’d aged well. Maybe she’d gone up a dress size from an eight to a ten, with a few faint lines now around her eyes, and her wavy hair was tinged lighter and redder now, stronger contrast against her coffee-light-on-the-cream skin tone – but otherwise, little change; except perhaps that her open smile from then was now far tighter, more constrained. Although possibly that had more to do with his visit and the subject being discussed. Maybe as soon as he left, her old easy smile would return.