by Martin Clark
Custis clenched his face. “Damn, Mace, what’s in your craw? Huh? The cops called and asked, and seein’ as how we’re the good guys and they’re the good guys and we work together I attempted to be accommodating. It’s not like I tried to hide it or sneak it in—the cop said you were ready to go, and I did it so you wouldn’t have to. Assistin’, like my job title suggests. I don’t give a damn if you submit it or toss it in the trash.” He glared at Mason.
“Exactly what did Bass tell you?”
Custis set down his files. “Said we have a confession and the gun and a motive. From what I gathered it was Law School 101, ripe fruit ready for the pickin’. He led me to believe you were on board.”
“Well, I’m not. There’s more to it.” Mason dropped his arms.
“Hey, cool, whatever. I just work here.” Custis was still perturbed.
“So we won’t be taking it to the grand jury. Not in June. Not ever. We on the same page?”
“Same page, same chapter, same book, same library, same universe,” Custis answered.
“Good.”
“No need to be so damn hateful about it,” Custis said, more hurt than angry.
“Sorry.” Mason pivoted and left the room, returned to his own office and shut the door. A few minutes later he went back and apologized to Custis again. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you,” he told his friend.
“No problem.” Custis’s suit jacket was draped over the highest peg of a wooden hat rack. His cuffs were unbuttoned, his sleeves rolled up. “What’s goin’ on? Why’re you so torn outta the frame ’bout this?”
“No reason in particular—bad couple days, that’s all. It’s not really connected to the murder case. Things in general could be better, I guess. I’m fine.”
“You sure? You seem awfully tense.”
Mason flicked his hands, grimaced. “You know, trying to deal with an eighth-grade girl, not sleeping worth a darn, worrying about work.”
“Can’t be easy rearin’ a chap by yourself. Especially when they start thinkin’ they know more than you.”
“True.”
“Hey, here’s an idea.” Custis maneuvered a foot onto the corner of his desk. “I’ve got ten pounds of top-notch ribs—I’m talkin’ primo eatin’, first-class—I brought home from Memphis last weekend. I was savin’ them for me and Inez, planning a big event, but I’m sure she wouldn’t mind if we sampled a few early. I’ll chop some slaw, cook my special baked beans, have you come by and fill you up. Nothing like a good meal and cold beer to float your spirits.”
Mason smiled. “I appreciate it, but—”
“Before you blow me off, let me also mention I have a little Puerto Rican panacea I imported from Tennessee as well. Follow what I’m sayin’? Seemed to cure your woes last time you were in the dumps.”
“Ah. Well, that was a singular experience for me.” Mason checked behind him to make certain no one was listening. “I’m afraid Rasta Mason has retired his dreads.”
Custis chuckled. His other foot joined the one already on his desk. “Your choice to make. It’d be strictly a medicinal use, my man. A remedy for what ails you. I got the major entertainment goods ready, too. My own mix CD, with War’s “Spill the Wine” and Renaissance man William Shatner lettin’ it loose on “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds.” A gem of a Cypress Hill cut. Plus I found Bride of Frankenstein for a dollar at the video store. I’ll bet the ranch ninety or so minutes of under-the-influence, black-and-white mad science will put you in a far different mood—can’t beat sparks flying in the lab and all those crazy sets.”
“Nope. Not for me, although I will have to admit San Juan was big fun. Still, I’d just as soon you don’t ever mention the topic again.” Mason was firm but there was no scold in his words. “I’m grateful for the food offer. Thanks.”
“You don’t need to be backsliding on me. You’re done with the blues, okay? I can’t afford another trip to resurrect you.”
“I’m fine,” Mason promised him. “I shouldn’t have jumped down your throat about the case.”
“Yeah.” Custis smiled. “Don’t do it again.”
Mason made it to Sheila’s desk before he stopped and headed back to Custis’s office for the third time in ten minutes. He tapped on the door and invited him to lunch, offering to pay. They ate at the Coffee Break, underneath the antique posters for Flatt and Scruggs and Chet Atkins and the autographed fender of Michael Waltrip’s race car, suspended from the ceiling. Custis ordered three hot dogs, double potatoes and a diet soda. Mason had a chicken salad sandwich he didn’t finish. When the booth behind them emptied and the customers were at the cash register, Mason removed a blank check from his wallet and wrote it to the order of Custis Norman in the amount of fifty dollars. On the memo line, he printed “Retainer.” He placed the check beside Custis’s napkin.
“What are you doin’?” Custis stopped chewing and tucked his chin. “Why did you write me a check for fifty bucks? We bein’ charged off the tourist menu or something?”
“Pick it up, please.”
Custis took the check. “Okay.”
“That’s a retainer. I’m hiring you to be my lawyer—”
“You don’t have to pay me to do legal work for you,” Custis interrupted. He was offended. “What’s wrong with you? Hiring me? What could you possibly want me to do?”
Mason hunched over the Formica table and squeezed Custis’s wrist. “Listen to me. For once, be quiet and listen. I’m hiring you as my lawyer. I’m in the middle of a nasty legal situation, and I think you might’ve just inadvertently become a witness against me.”
Custis pulled his wrist free. He pushed his plate to the side and cocked his ear. “Sorry. I’m lost.”
“Here’s everything you need to know and everything I can tell you: this Allen Roberts case isn’t about Allen. It’s a smoke screen. I know for a fact Allen didn’t shoot Wayne. There are people, most notably these pricks Bass and Minter, who have it in for me. I’m ninety-nine percent sure this whole Roberts investigation is a sham, a test. A trap of sorts.” Mason was whispering, hoarse. “So now you’re my lawyer, okay? You and I are going to walk up the street and cash your check at the bank and from here on out we’ll have attorney-client privilege.”
“I don’t need no check to go to the mat for you, Mace. You oughta know that by now. We’ve been in too many foxholes too many times. Been through too much.”
“I understand. And I believe you. Just the same, this will make it easier for us both if push comes to shove down the road.”
“Your call. If you think we need to, then off we go to the bank.” Custis cupped his hand over his mouth. A gold ring cut into his dark skin. “But I’m not up to speed here. I’m still fuzzy. Why would the state police be fuckin’ with you? Have you done somethin’?” He removed his hand and located his water glass. He thumped free an ice cube and began crunching it, the bulge switching from cheek to cheek.
“I didn’t shoot Wayne Thompson, if that’s what you’re asking. Obviously that’s not the problem.” Lois the waitress breezed by with a coffeepot and Mason hesitated. “Neither did Allen Roberts. He’s totally innocent.”
“Okay.”
“You know my worthless brother was a suspect in the Thompson shooting,” Mason said cryptically. He stopped talking and mashed his sandwich with the flat side of a butter knife. “My brother is now very angry with me.” He fussed with the knife and sandwich some more. “I was his alibi for certain parts of the evening.” Another emphatic, pointed pause, the dull tip of the knife piercing the bread and all the way to the plate by now. “I’m not able to say much more, but I hope the fog’s lifting a bit.”
“Shit.” Custis was rubbing and squeezing his chin between his thumb and forefinger. He appeared distressed. “Yeah, I’m gettin’ closer, but I’m not sure I’m there yet.”
“I’ve given this a lot of thought, and here’s the plan if you’re agreeable. You need to call Agent Bass, tell him you’ve drafted the indictment, conferre
d with me and we’re ready to charge Allen. Also inform him he’ll have to be here for June grand jury to present the bill and testify. We’ll run our own little experiment. You watch and see—there’s not a chance he’ll go in front of that jury and recite his bullshit under oath. You watch. We’ll call his bluff.”
“You told me no less than an hour ago we weren’t gonna go after Roberts. Not ever.”
“I said we wouldn’t indict him,” Mason replied. “I still don’t think we will. I’ll give you the script for the call while we’re walking to the bank.”
As soon as Mason and Custis returned to work, they went into Mason’s office, closed the door and had Sheila ring Agent Bass. They were squeezed side by side between a desk and a credenza, the receiver not flush against Custis’s ear so Mason could eavesdrop on the conversation.
“Agent Bass,” Custis said when he picked up, “Custis Norman here, from Stuart. Afternoon to you. We spoke the other day about an indictment in the Roberts case. First-degree murder of Wayne Thompson.”
“Yessir,” Bass said, his voice bland, professional.
“I spoke to Mason and he’s good to go, very much invested in your case. We both agree we should move on it next grand jury, in June.”
“Okay. So you talked to Mr. Hunt and he definitely wants to proceed?” He labored on the last word, unable to hide his astonishment.
“Absolutely. Mason and I went over it together and we had the sheriff bring Roberts by for tea and crumpets and a little visit. Mason’s convinced you guys have the right man.”
“Okay, well, I’m glad he’s come around. He seemed a little iffy when we saw him earlier in the week. So he personally approved this?”
“Yeah. Mason can be cautious. That’s his style. He’ll prod and poke and put you on the spot, but once he’s sold on the facts and has analyzed every speck of evidence, he’s like a junkyard dog.”
“So, what, you guys are going to indict? June?”
“Yeah, just like you wanted—that’s why I’m calling. We need you or your partner to present this to the grand jury. How about you be here around nine thirty on the fifth, and we’ll send you in first and have you back to Salem before they even miss you.” Custis widened the gap between the receiver and his ear.
“Well, uh, I guess, yeah, I think we can be there. Let me check and call you right back. I’m thinking we might already be scheduled to be somewhere else…already subpoenaed.”
“Can you let me know kinda quick?” Custis asked. “I realize it’s just April, but we don’t need anyone fumblin’ the ball in a murder case.”
“Sure. We’ll do our best.”
Custis hung up the phone. “No way he’s coming, Mason. Fucker was crawfishin’ on me to beat the band.”
“He certainly doesn’t seem so enthusiastic all of a sudden.” Mason leaned against the credenza.
“So where does this leave you? I’m not likin’ the vibe I’m gettin’, and the way I’m thinking this thing is traveling.”
Mason was preoccupied, gazing down at the bottom of a rickety file cabinet, the last drawer of which was pitted and dinged, marred by the first hints of rust. “Still in a jam,” he said distantly, “but at least I know who my enemies are and how this was supposed to operate.”
Two hours later, Bass’s supervisor called and requested that Custis delay the indictment and not submit it, told him neither of the agents would be available and, more important, there had been a “reevaluation” of several critical factors in the investigation. “So let us know,” Custis told him. “Far as we can tell on this end, we’re on solid ground and eager to take this one to trial.”
Chapter Twelve
The Saturday morning after the cops came to Stuart, Mason cornered Grace and attempted to make her answer him with more than a grunt or sarcastic frown or sullen, dismissive snort. Having wandered out of bed around ten thirty, she was watching the big-screen in the room where her mother used to paint and was still wearing pajama bottoms and a man’s plaid flannel shirt that evidently had some connection to her be-all-and-end-all sweetheart.
“What?” she said irritably when Mason straight-armed the control at the TV and the sound fell off incrementally. “There’s a mute button, you know,” she remarked. “So you don’t have to readjust it to where you want it.”
“I appreciate the tip—been feeling the first twinges of carpal tunnel lately.” He managed to sound jovial. “I’ve come to brighten your life,” he said, silly and clownish, keeping several days of temper under rein.
“Wow.”
“I thought, given the gorgeous weather, you might like to spend the morning with me. We could go to Dobyns and try a little trout fishing, then visit your grandmother’s for a late lunch. I could use the break, too. Work’s been merciless.” He made a cast with an imaginary rod and cranked an invisible reel handle. “I haven’t so much as wet a line since we moved here, and your uncle and I used to love the streams in the spring of the year. Any interest?”
“Ick. No. Why would I want to be stuck in the middle of nowhere and catch slimy fish?”
“Next plan: let’s drive to Stuart and buy a cool kite and take it to DeHart Park. Pack a picnic.”
She didn’t even answer. She watched silent TV.
“Okay, last option: I’ll take you and a girlfriend of your choosing, anyone but the obnoxious Wray kid whose parents I can’t stand, to Hanes Mall in Winston and you can buy overpriced, faddish clothes and act like you’re older and hipper than you actually are. Maybe a movie, maybe Chili’s for dinner.”
“Really?”
“Yep. A reward for your good nature and delightful attitude as of late.” He smiled crookedly, ironically. “I prefer the fishing or kite flying, of course, since at the end of the day we’d have this huge PAX channel moment, a touching father-daughter understanding where everything would be heartwarming and shot through a colored filter. We’d be beside a fantastic yellow stream or a shimmering red lake and soothing classical music would be playing as the camera panned in. I’d tell you how much I love you, and you’d puckishly punch me on the shoulder. Drop some cuddly line while we’re frying the fish over a campfire.”
“If we go, will you not hover and not be totally nosy and promise not to embarrass me?” She was growing excited.
“I’ll do my absolute best.”
She wound up inviting two of her friends, and Mason drove the three chattering teenagers to the mall. The girls all rode together in the backseat and huddled and giggled and tried on clothes at the Gap and Abercrombie & Fitch and did all they could to keep Mason at a leper’s distance. Outside the discount cinema, they begged, wheedled and whined and repeated “pleeeez, Mr. Hunt” and “pleeeez, Dad” like it was some powerful, sacred chant when he considered whether he ought to allow them to see Queen of the Damned. He didn’t yield, however, and they bought tickets to Ice Age. Mason sat in the last row and the girls in a far right corner close to the screen.
He was pleased to have the respite and the dark, and he sipped a fountain cola and picked at a tub of oily popcorn, concentrating on his complications with the police. Midway through the movie, he looked over the rows of rounded seat tops toward the front of the theater and found his child’s silhouette, and it made him mad as hell, livid, thinking about what was happening to him and what a weak, craven brother he was tethered to. The dim theater put him in mind of Richmond and tending to Grace during the early-morning hours, when her nursery was illuminated only by a gentle night-light and the streets and city were peaceful, particles of the baby’s sweet powder glinting in the gray glow after he changed her. “I will kill Gates Hunt before I let my daughter lose another parent,” he vowed, mouthing the words as Sid the Sloth hammed it up on the screen.
When Mason called Sadie Grace early Sunday and pitched a trip to visit Gates, she protested that she didn’t want to miss church and drive four hours to Powhatan. “Preacher Logan from Greensboro is coming, and he always has a good message. I just hate to miss it, and I
saw Gates a week ago.”
“Well, I haven’t been in a while. Grace is spending the day with the Anderson kids, and I’d certainly appreciate the company.”
“Oh, Mason,” she sighed.
“I’ll buy you lunch and you can smoke in the car,” he offered.
“Honey, you know I’d love to spend time with you, and you know I love your brother as much as a mother can, but to tell the truth, I’m not up for listenin’ to him fuss and say ugly things about us. It’s the same old song, same old accusations, same old crazy junk. I go see him faithfully, but it’s kinda like the way I go to the doctor for my flu shot. He sits there all puffed up, and he’s got more gripes than Carter’s got liver pills. I’m right tired of it.”
“I’m not disagreeing with you, but maybe if we both go it would be better.”
“I know y’all are feudin’, so why now? Can’t we wait till next Sunday? Give me a little more warnin’?”
“Next week is tough for me, and I’ve got Grace situated today. I want you to go because Gates and I haven’t been on the best of terms lately. Your being there will help, I think.”
Sadie Grace relented, of course, her mother’s conscience captured twice, first by Mason’s hopeful entreaty and then by the guilt of avoiding a trip to see her imprisoned son, no matter how rude and undeserving he was. “I can’t say no” was how she phrased it, none too thrilled about the prospect.
During the trip to the penitentiary, they listened to an oldies station and a full hour of a preacher on the FM band, a man whose purified, dulcet voice was tinged with accessibility and soft-pedaled seduction. Mason’s relationship with his mother was unassailable and deeply rooted but starting to blur. They’d cycled through the stark divisions between parent and child and begun the pivot at which Mason would watch over her and remind her she shouldn’t do this or that and telephone to make sure she’d remembered the dead bolt at night and slip her cash she was far too proud to request regardless of her needs. Driving together, they didn’t have very much conversation, but that was okay with Mason, a point of pride actually, how well he and his mother could abide silence, their comfort during the lags and frequent quiet spells. They felt at ease when nothing was being said, trusted each other’s nature, and didn’t prattle on for the sake of talking or chigger from topic to topic because they thought it necessary to always keep balls in the air. They’d ridden without a word for fifty miles when Mason pulled into the prison lot and said, “Thanks so much for doing this.”