“If you want me to. I thought maybe I wore out my welcome last week talking about Egypt and the Fletchall law firm.”
“As I recall, I asked the question and violated the cardinal rule of cross-examination.”
“Never ask a question for which you don’t know the answer?”
“Correct. Ten minutes?”
“I’ll be there.”
Mac stayed in his office. He heard the front door open, but Mindy didn’t buzz him. Judy and Vicki left to go home, and after a few minutes, he walked to the reception area to see if David had arrived. He found the young lawyer standing by Mindy’s desk with a sealed plastic container in his hand.
“Ready?” Mac asked.
“Sure. I’ll be in the library in a minute.”
Mac went to the kitchen. He decided to pop some popcorn in the microwave and waited while the bag slowly turned around on a paper plate. He put the popcorn in a bowl and took it to the library. David still wasn’t there. He returned to the kitchen for the mugs and drinks and set them up on the library table. After waiting another minute, he was about to go back to the reception area when David came in with the plastic container under his arm.
“What do you have in there?” Mac asked, as he poured his beer into the mug.
“Chocolate-chip cookies. Mindy made them for me. Do you want a cookie with your beer?”
“No, but I know what we need to talk about today.”
“What?”
“The ways of women.”
David put the cookies on the table and tipped his water bottle into his mug. “All she did was give me some cookies.”
“You’re smarter than that. First it’s cookies. Then she’ll move up to something more serious.”
“Like what?”
Mac took a drink. “Cookies are a reliable indicator of a woman’s feelings, but they’re still kindergarten stuff. There’s only one foolproof way to know if you’ve met the right woman. If she cooks this for you she’s the right one, and you should never let her go. It’s proven to be one hundred percent accurate.”
David waited. Mac ate some popcorn and took another drink. Finally, David said, “Come on. Give me the benefits of your wisdom and experience.”
“You have to really want to know.”
David chuckled. “Please, tell me. How’s that for pleading?”
“Are you listening?”
“Yes, sir.”
Mac took another drink and leaned forward. “You know you’ve met the right woman if she invites you over for a big plate of hot, juicy, fried chicken livers. Any woman who will do that for a man understands the meaning of true love.”
Anna Wilkes lived in an older area of Chattanooga named after David Brainerd, the New England missionary of the early 1700s who spent his short life preaching the gospel to native Americans in New Jersey and Pennsylvania. Hundreds and hundreds of Cherokees were educated and converted to Christianity through the efforts of the missionaries inspired by Brainerd’s efforts, and many forced to relocate to Oklahoma along the infamous “Trail of Tears” sang hymns as they walked and died along the route west. All that remained of the original 1800s mission was a small cemetery at the edge of a shopping mall parking lot.
Mac turned onto a short street that ended in a cul-de-sac. Anna’s house was an old brick split-level with well manicured bushes and flower beds. A basketball goal stood beside the driveway near the two-car garage.
Hunter opened the front door before Mac could ring the doorbell. “I saw you pull up,” he said. The young boy led Mac into the kitchen where Anna was standing at the stove, wearing a blue sweater, jeans, and a white apron decorated with strawberries. Mac could smell an apple pie in the oven.
“Welcome,” she said with a smile. “Supper is behind schedule but in process.”
Mac looked down at his tie. “I should have gone home and changed.”
“Don’t worry about it. Have you met Jean?”
At that moment an older woman about Anna’s size but with short white hair and thick round glasses came into the kitchen. “Jean Simmons, this is Mac McClain.”
Jean extended a wrinkled hand and gave Mac a surprisingly firm handshake.
“Do you want to see my room?” Hunter asked.
“Go ahead,” Anna suggested. “We’ll eat in about ten minutes.”
Mac followed Hunter to the upper level of the house and walked into a clean, tidy bedroom. Two trophies given for participation in a youth soccer league sat on his dresser next to a Frisbee and a large conch shell. An old teddy bear rested his frayed head at an angle against his pillow.
“Is your room always this neat?” Mac asked. “I’m impressed.”
“Of course not. Mom told me to pick up everything before you came, but that would have been impossible. I dumped most of it in the closet.” Hunter slid back the door to reveal a jumbled conglomeration of personal belongings.
“Where are your baseball cards?” Mac asked.
“Under the bed.” Hunter lay on the floor and pulled out a pair of boxes. “I have some old cards from the 1980s to show you.”
“1980s? That’s not old.”
“It’s before I was born.”
Mac didn’t try to argue.
They sat on Hunter’s bed and looked at the cards until Anna called them to supper.
“Since Mr. McClain is here,” she said, “we’ll eat in the dining room.”
Anna sat at one end of the dining room table with Hunter to her left, Jean on the right, and Mac at the other end. In the center of the table sat a baked chicken filled with cornbread stuffing, green beans garnished with almonds, carrots in a butter and brown sugar sauce, corn on the cob, and yeast rolls.
“Do you want tea?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“I’ll pour your drink if you’ll carve the chicken,”
Anna handed Mac a carving knife and fork.
“White meat, please,” Hunter said.
The meal was delicious. Mac especially enjoyed the moist stuffing and the carrots.
“Hunter, do you eat this well all the time?” he asked.
“Uh, sometimes. Mom doesn’t fix carrots unless we have company.”
Mac speared a carrot with his fork. “The company appreciates the carrots.”
Mac asked Jean questions about her life and learned that she never married, spent most of her life as a fifth-grade schoolteacher, and had retired the year before receiving the call from Anna to come to Chattanooga. “It’s been a blessing for me to live with Anna and Hunter,” she concluded.
Mac cleaned his plate. Hunter left a few carrots. “I’ll eat my pie later,” the boy said and ran upstairs.
“I left room for pie,” Mac said.
“Coming up,” Anna responded.
In a minute Jean presented Mac with a generous slice of warm apple pie topped with vanilla ice cream, then set a cup of black coffee at his elbow. She and Anna fixed smaller portions for themselves.
When they finished, Jean said, “I’ll clean up.”
While Jean worked in the kitchen, Anna turned in her chair and picked up a sheet of paper from a small table behind her chair. “Can we talk business for a minute?” she asked.
“Okay.”
“I have the name of another drug that could have caused Pete’s amnesia. It’s called gamma-hydroxybutryate, or GHB.”
“Never heard of it.”
“Listen to this.” She read from a sheet paper, “ ‘Used years ago by serious bodybuilders to stimulate muscle growth, GHB had serious side effects and was pulled off the market in 1990. In higher doses it can cause dizziness, confusion, and memory loss. Usually seen in a liquid form, GHB is colorless and odorless, and although much less publicized than Rohypnol or flunitrazepam can have the same or worse effect.’ ”
She handed the sheet to Mac, who studied it for a minute. “Looks like another blood test is in order,” he said.
“I thought so. Enough business. Bring your coffee into the living room.”<
br />
Glancing toward Hunter’s room to check his escape route, Mac followed Anna through a pair of wooden French doors. The living room contained a short ivory-and-blue couch, a pair of dark blue side chairs, an antique coffee table, and a shiny grand piano.
“That’s quite a piano,” Mac said.
“It’s too much for this room.”
“Do you play?”
“Jean and I both play. Hunter’s just a beginner.”
“I’d love to hear something.”
“You don’t want to play Scrabble instead?”
“Positive.”
Anna slipped onto the bench. “Old or new music?”
“Classical.” Mac sat down in one of the chairs.
The psychologist launched into a Chopin sonata that transformed the cozy living room into a miniature concert hall. Her nimble fingers sped up and down the keyboard, and her small hands demonstrated surprising strength and vigor when the music demanded forceful emphasis. Mac closed his eyes and listened.
The last note faded and Mac said, “Superb. How did you learn to play like that?”
“Practice and genes. It’s the way I relax and relieve stress.”
“I like to split wood to relax and relieve stress. I’ve had a lot of practice, but it doesn’t match Chopin.”
Anna took a sip of coffee from her cup resting on top of the piano.
“Now, it’s your turn.”
“Turn for what? I can barely play ‘Chopsticks.’”
“Your life story.”
“No, it’s too long and boring.”
“It’s barely eight o’clock, and I don’t bore easily.”
Mac realized that his plan to bolt for Hunter’s room wouldn’t work. He didn’t start with his first memory, but he took her through his early years in Dennison Springs, college, and law school. He hesitated, then told about meeting and marrying Laura.
“Laura is a beautiful name,” Anna said.
The room was relaxed and peaceful. With a full stomach and a compassionate listener, Mac’s protective shield cracked open. His reservations about unwrapping his life didn’t seem so vital. He talked about his sons. “Zach was like your Hunter, easygoing and positive. Ben was smart and tenacious.”
“Like his dad.”
“I guess so. He looked more like me, too. Ben graduated near the top of his high school class and went to Georgia on a full scholarship. Zach was in his senior year of high school and on his way to Georgia Tech.”
“How long ago was this?”
“Nine years this coming December.” Mac’s eyes got a faraway look, and like a plane on autopilot the story went forward under its own initiative. “Ben was home on Christmas break. There was a cold snap, and the weatherman predicted a light dusting of snow in the mountains near Dennison Springs. We had a four-wheel-drive Jeep at the time and decided to head into the mountains until we reached snow. We left home about ten o’clock in the morning and by eleven-thirty we were surrounded by soft falling flakes. There is a small lake on top of the mountain, and we found a place to park, bundled up in our coats, and walked around the lake as the snow began to accumulate on the trees. Ben and Zach played like little boys, throwing snowballs at each other and catching snowflakes on their tongues. Laura and I walked together under the trees. It was beautiful, like a fairyland.”
Mac was with his family again. “After we completed a loop around the lake, we had a snack at a table under a picnic shelter. The temperature kept dropping and even with the Jeep I was concerned about the safety of the roads. We got in and started down the mountain.
“We hadn’t gone far when I realized that I’d forgotten to engage the vehicle’s four-wheel drive. When I leaned over to flip the switch, the right front tire slipped off the roadway. I jerked the steering wheel and almost straightened it out but hit a slick spot. We went off the road, down an embankment, and into the trees.”
Mac’s voice became flat. “A huge limb shattered the windshield and ripped through the interior. Laura and Ben died instantly. Zach suffered a severe head injury. I broke my right leg and had some minor facial injuries from exploding glass but remained conscious. The scene inside the Jeep was indescribable,” he stopped as his voice cracked.
A single tear rolled down Anna’s cheek.
Mac closed his eyes for a moment before continuing, “I knew Laura and Ben were dead, and I could hear Zach’s groans in the seat behind me. In a few minutes, paramedics were on the scene, but we had to wait for the fire department to bring the Jaws of Life to cut Zach and me out of the vehicle. By that point, I was hysterical, and they gave me a shot to knock me out. Zach died in the ambulance. They brought him back once, but his heart stopped a second time and they couldn’t revive him. I woke up in the hospital, hoping it was all a terrible nightmare but having to face the fact that it wasn’t. I left the hospital in a wheelchair to attend the funeral and went back in the next day for surgery on my leg. The whole time is fuzzy in my mind now, and I’m sure I was in some kind of shock. The drugs they gave me for pain probably contributed to my haze.
“I thought about—” he paused. The tear Anna had earlier wiped away was joined by others. She wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand.
“Do you want me to stop?” he asked.
“No, go ahead,” she said. “I thought I could listen with enough professional detachment to avoid emotion, but I can’t. I’m human.”
“There’s not much more to tell. I still have a recurring nightmare in which I’m trapped inside the Jeep, unable to catch my breath and screaming for help.”
“How long were you in the hospital?”
“A couple of weeks. After I was walking again, I tried to live in our home, but it didn’t work, so I sold it and built a house north of town. I’ve gone on, but recently, I’ve found myself thinking more and more about quitting.”
Mac meant ending his life, but Anna thought he was referring to his law practice. “What is the typical retirement age for a lawyer?” she asked.
Mac shrugged. “Several methods are used to calculate the best time to hang it up. Too much money, too much booze, or too many divorce cases are common yardsticks. A few weeks ago I dressed in the dark and put on two different types of black shoes. I didn’t discover my mistake until I was arguing a motion in front of the judge. Maybe that was a sign to hang it up.”
“Or a sign to turn on the light when you go into your closet.”
They sat in silence for several moments.
“I’m sorry,” Anna said simply.
Mac looked at her still-moist eyes. “Somehow,” he said, “I knew I was going to tell you all this. Why?”
Anna got up from the piano bench and pulled a tissue from a box on the coffee table. “Not because I’m a psychologist,” she said.
“That didn’t enter my mind.”
Anna touched her eyes with the tissue. “I can think of a couple of reasons. First, you heard my story. I’m no stranger to pain.”
Mac nodded.
“Second, I care.”
19
Have we eaten on the insane root that takes the reason prisoner?
MACBETH, ACT 1, SCENE 3
When he arrived home, Mac let Flo and Sue out for a late-night romp through the woods. Then he went inside the house to check the messages on his answering machine. A bothersome client had called wanting to know the status of his case. The machine beeped, and the next message started.
“Mr. McClain, this is Lieutenant Cochran at the correctional center. Your client, Peter Thomason, was taken to the hospital tonight for a suspected drug overdose. Please contact the jail as soon as possible.”
Mac fidgeted while the machine played three more messages, but there was nothing else about Pete, and he quickly dialed the number for the jail.
“Booking department, Sergeant Fred Davidson.”
“Fred, Mac McClain. I had a message on my answering machine from Lieutenant Cochran. What happened with Thomason?”
Fred lowered
his voice. “It looks like he scored some speed and decided to get high.”
“It wasn’t a suicide attempt?”
“Not from what I heard. He just went on an amphetamine joyride for a few hours and started acting crazy. Second shift took him to the hospital to make sure he was okay. He’s in one of the drunk tanks now.”
“Did he pass out?”
“I don’t think so. I peeked in a few minutes ago and he was sitting on a bench.”
Mac called David and told him the news. “This doesn’t make any sense,” David said. “After what he told us about not using any drugs. How—”
Mac interrupted him. “Remember what you told me after Pete failed the stipulated polygraph?”
“That he might be guilty?”
“Yeah.”
“To me, this is worse than the polygraph. But it still doesn’t change our job description.”
“Should we go to the jail tonight?”
“I’ve tried to talk to stoned clients in the past, and it doesn’t work. You have to repeat everything the next day.”
“Did he pass out?”
“No, the booking officer said he was sitting on a bench in the drunk tank when I called.”
David hesitated. He’d thought his midnight prayer session with Pete less than twenty-four hours before had been on target. Now this. “I still think we should see him,” he said.
Mac sighed, “You’re probably right. Can you meet me at the jail in thirty minutes?”
“Yes.”
Mac and David arrived at the same time and got out of their cars.
“What are you going to do?” David asked.
“Try not to yell at him,” Mac said grimly. “Hopefully, he’ll tell us what’s going on.”
Mac watched Pete walk down the hall. Eyes glued to the floor, the big redhead looked more beaten down than the first time Mac saw him.
“Sit down.” Mac said. “How are you feeling?”
“Tired.”
“Did you see the State’s psychiatrist this afternoon?”
“Yeah.”
“How was it?”
“He seemed okay.”
“How long did he spend with you for the evaluation?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Don’t start that ‘I don’t remember’ stuff with me tonight,” Mac said, his voice rising a few decibels.
The Trial Page 16