by Martin Clark
“Mr. Hands, for what it’s worth, my brother didn’t kill Jo Miller. He didn’t do it, and he’s not a bad person.” This was the first time Evers had spoken to Hands. “Putting him in jail isn’t going to solve anything.” Everyone in the room looked at Evers. “Can’t we come up with something that will save face for everyone?”
“We have a strong case, Granger,” Adam said.
“If it’s such a great case, Adam, then let’s try it,” Hands snarled. “You shouldn’t be worried.”
“I agree,” Pauletta said. “Let’s go.”
“Same offer?” Adam asked. “That’s all you can do?”
Hands thought for a moment. “Three years to serve on involuntary manslaughter, ten suspended. Plus you release the information on the boyfriend and his threats, put it in the record when we do the plea.”
Adam was quiet. “That’s not what I had in mind. Of course I’ll have to ask our client.”
“Okay.”
Pauletta looked at Evers, then at Hands. “There’s no way he’ll take it. This case will never get to a jury. And when it’s discussed, I’ll tell the press exactly what went on and how cowardly and scheming you were throughout. That’s a shitty offer.” Pauletta stared at Hands. “And, in fact, we have another little surprise for you. We have a suicide note, one that Jo Miller Wheeling signed and mailed.”
“Is that so, Miss Qwai?” Hands smiled. “I don’t really care what you have or what you do. In fact, because you’re so belligerent, I may just withdraw my offer.”
Adam touched Pauletta on her shoulder. “Let’s go talk to Mr. Wheeling.” He looked at Hands. “You know it’s not a good offer, Granger. And you know we’ll all tell him not to take it.”
“I don’t care. I don’t,” answered Hands. He stood up and walked out of the room.
“You don’t actually have the note, do you?” Adam asked. “The actual note? We’ll just have to use her mother’s testimony, right? I’m correct about that, aren’t I?”
“Correct,” Evers said. “But I think that Mrs. Covington will tell the truth if we have to rely on her.”
“I’m not sure how much it matters,” Pauletta remarked. “Why is your neck so splotched, Evers? You look like you’re about to faint; I noticed it when we got back from lunch. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. This is just stressful.”
“Why?” Adam wondered. “Why are we not concerned about Mrs. Covington?”
Pauletta reached inside her suit jacket and took out a single sheet of paper. “This was left for me in the courtroom when we came back after the break. It would seem to be a copy of the note.”
“Damn,” said Adam. “Good news falling out of the sky. Hard to beat that.”
“You have the letter? You have it? I didn’t know that.”
“I just found it a few minutes ago, Judge Wheeling. You were with your brother.”
“May I see it? I’d like to know what it says.” Evers held out his hand.
“I will read it to you. You may not have it—I think giving it to you would be a breach of trust. I feel I have some obligation to Mrs. Covington.”
“For heaven’s sake, Pauletta. That’s fine—read it to me then. As if that makes a big difference. You can be so fucking sanctimonious sometimes. Maybe you should just whisper it to Adam and let him tell me after you leave.”
“Maybe I shouldn’t tell you anything, because you have no sense of decency, fair play and courtesy. The world spins around on small, kind gestures. You have no respect for that, do you?”
Adam ducked his head, opened one of his files and started shuffling and arranging everything inside the folder. He was wedded to the task, was not about to look up or join the argument.
“I’m sorry. I apologize. Please, read me the letter. I’m sorry.”
“I doubt you are.”
“Tell me what it says, Pauletta. Please,” Evers pleaded. His shirt was wrinkled, and he had taken off his suit coat.
“You owe Mrs. Covington quite a debt.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry. I was just really anxious to find out what my wife had written.”
Pauletta peered at Evers over the top of the letter; the paper blocked all of her face below her eyes, made her look like a robber or a highwayman. “The handwritten part reads: ‘I’m sorry it has come to this. Sorry for us all. I wish things could have turned out differently, but I truly believe that I have been a good person and a good wife and that this is the right thing for me, for you, for Evers, for everyone. I deserve my freedom. Jo Miller.’”
“Christ,” Evers snorted. “What is she, in high school or something? ‘I deserve my freedom’? What is that? How absolutely trite.”
“It strikes me as really bland, Judge Wheeling, sort of passionless and generic.” Pauletta pursed her lips. “Really … aloof,” she added after thinking for a moment.
Adam raised up. “That’s what I thought, too, Pauletta. Pretty damn cold for the last thing you write your momma.”
“What did you guys expect?” Evers asked. “Flannery O’Connor?”
“It’s just so empty,” Pauletta mused.
“So was she,” Evers said.
The three of them went into the courtroom and took Pascal out into the hall. Adam explained again that his confession had been suppressed, and that it was almost a certainty that he would be found not guilty. On top of that, there was Mrs. Covington’s information about the note and the copy Pauletta had discovered. There wasn’t even enough evidence for the case to go to the jury. After the state rested, the charge would be dismissed. There was very little risk, in Adam’s opinion. Or Pascal could take three years in jail.
Pascal turned to Pauletta. “What do you think?”
“Not a very tough call,” she said in her perfect speech. “There is simply no case against you. There is no risk.”
“There’s always a risk,” Pascal said. “Strange things happen. Weird things, inexplicable things. What do you think, Evers?”
“You have a very strong case.” Evers put his hands in his pockets. “Pauletta is correct.”
“How long would I be in jail on three years?”
“A matter of months,” Adam answered. “Six or seven, maximum.”
“You’re certain?” Pascal asked.
“Probably less,” said Evers.
Pascal stepped back, rocked against the wall and folded his arms in front of him. Evers could tell that he’d gone outside and smoked a joint. Pascal was tight and careful when he moved. “I think the plea agreement is fair. That’s what I want. The three years. That’s my choice.”
Pauletta knotted her face. She stepped toward Pascal. “What is wrong with you? You’re a bright man. You’re getting ready to give up several months of your life to the state. Plus you’ll be a convicted felon. For no reason. In a few hours you can walk out of here free.”
“She’s right, Pascal. I have to tell you I disagree with your decision.” Adam was dumbfounded, all his features filled with shock.
“Tell him, Evers,” Pauletta raised her voice. “Don’t let him make a bad choice.”
Evers looked at his brother against the wall. “Pascal can choose what’s right for him. Everyone has to make their own peace, deal with things the way they see them.”
“You’re both fools,” said Pauletta. “Crazy. Why the hell did you confess to begin with?”
“Pauletta, listen. I understand what I’m doing. I hope you understand, too. You and Adam have been kind to me and great lawyers. But I want the time. I deserve it, in a sense. Balance the scales. Cell life for a month or two—very ascetic.” Pascal practically mumbled the last part. He straightened up. “Come here,” he said to Pauletta. Pascal put his arm out and around her. “It’s a good deal for me.”
Pauletta and Evers left the courthouse, and Evers walked with her to the passenger side of his car. He opened the door for her, but she didn’t get in and sit down; she stood outside the car holding her briefcase and looking straight ahe
ad. She was silent and stubborn, standing beside the door with her chin tilted up, staring off down the street, catching the tops of buildings and a billboard and the lowest part of the sky … barely paying attention to what was in front of her. “So,” she said.
“So what? What’s wrong with you?”
“So are you going to tell me what’s going on? About all the switchbacks and detours we took to get here? Or is the story too sinister and pathetic?”
“Oh, no. No. It’s a good story. A great story.”
“Really?” Pauletta dropped her chin and looked Evers in the eye.
“Yes, it is.”
“Then suppose you tell me what just happened,” Pauletta demanded.
“It’s a wonderful story, especially when you’re expecting black smoke and sulphur and the sort of run-down, inevitable trailer-trash coda that should come from all of us—fatalistic dope smokers who’ve made giving up an art form. It’s a great thing, what Pascal did. There’s nothing bad or depraved about it.”
“Really.” Pauletta kept her eyes locked on Evers, kept standing beside the Datsun. “Are you going to tell me?”
“Sure. You should know. Pascal thought I’d killed Jo Miller, so he confessed and took the blame to protect me. He thought I was involved and was trying to help me.”
“Help you?” Pauletta grunted.
“Exactly. Pascal got up to make the nine hundred call, the couch was empty and his car was gone—Ruth Esther took it to Lowes, remember? He’d been smoking a little dope, and he figured that I’d killed Jo Miller. I was in the bedroom; right after the police left the next day, I told him that Ruth Esther and I had switched places. I told him, told him that she had gotten on the sofa because the bedroom was too dark and cramped, but he thought I’d just made everything up, that I wasn’t telling the truth about changing places.”
“Didn’t he check the bedroom, look in to see who was in there?”
“He said that he saw Ruth Esther’s car, so he didn’t bother. I wasn’t on the sofa, he knew the Lincoln was gone, and Jo Miller turns up dead. Plus we’d just been talking about, well, about how poorly she’d treated me.”
“She did kill herself, right?”
“She killed herself,” Evers said very deliberately. “But Pascal didn’t know that, and he became convinced that I’d done something to her.”
“That’s pretty remarkable. Huh … Pascal was trying to help you. So that’s why he confessed.” Two pigeons flapped onto a ledge above the street, and Pauletta looked up for a moment. She pointed at Evers with her free hand. “When did you figure all this out? Damn—you didn’t know the whole time, did you?” She laid her briefcase on the roof of the Datsun, laid it down flat and kept her fingers on the handle.
“I just found out, just now. Think about it, Pauletta. What more could someone do for you? Think about what he did for me. Or, well, what he tried to do.”
Pauletta let go of her briefcase. “He just falls on his sword for you, without asking you about anything? Just guesses that you killed your wife and decides to confess? How smart is that? This still sounds a little crooked to me. Are you sure about this?”
“I was a little angry and pissed and baffled at first, too. I almost puked, felt like I was going to pass out or collapse or something. Then I thought about it, thought about Pascal.”
“So why is he going to jail for no reason?” Pauletta asked.
Two state patrolmen in sunglasses walked by the car, and Evers waited for them to pass out of earshot before he answered. “I guess there’s always a little risk in every trial, even the ones you’re sure you can’t lose. You know that. But, I think, I think … after talking to him, that the main reason he took the deal is because he’s … well, he was … sort of broke.”
“What?”
“He was just broke. He’d gone through so much, and gone through everything he had, and this was his way to settle things with me. I mean, obviously, I didn’t want him to go to jail. He didn’t have to do that, but I think he wanted to.”
“‘Broken,’ you mean. Is that what you’re saying?”
“That too. That’s what I’m saying. But now he’s pretty much restored, and even with me.” Evers looked at the ground and smiled. “I can always count on Pascal in the long run. That’s for sure. For certain. The other day, there was this uprooted tree at the edge of my yard, a big maple laid on its side, and its roots were everywhere like tangled-up red-and-white hair. And I was thinking—there’s just so much to battle. You close your eyes at night and you see dots and lights that just spin and bounce wherever they want to. A fan belt breaks. A gene mutates. Things jump and start, and you feel like a dwarf reaching up trying to grab a banana off a shelf or something. It snows in May. But in the long run, there’s one little stick of certainty in all the shit and unfairness and chaos.”
Pauletta sat down in the car seat. “You have a good brother. Maybe this will straighten him out a little.”
“Maybe.”
“So that’s it?” Pauletta asked. “Now we know?”
“That’s it,” Evers answered.
“The whole story?”
“Yes.”
“You’re telling me the complete, absolute truth?” Pauletta was starting to relax.
“I swear.” Evers raised his right hand.
“It’s pretty remarkable. Even for you guys.”
“Did you really think he was involved? Or that I was?”
“I certainly considered the possibility, but all of you are so lazy and shiftless and obstinately detached that I decided it would be far too effort-intensive for you or Pascal or Henry or Rudy to drive a couple of hours to kill someone.”
“I knew you believed in us,” Evers said, and he shut the door to the car. Pauletta looked up at him through the glass, and Evers saw a little spread of cheer in her face and eyes. He started around the car and noticed that she’d left her briefcase on the roof, and he smiled and pointed at the top of the Datsun.
He and Pauletta had dinner in Durham, and they ate a long, full meal and drank two bottles of expensive champagne. Evers got a little buzzed, a little high, but it wasn’t the spastic, wallowing kind of doubled-over obliteration that he worked up to sitting in the bug-zapper light drinking scotch and red wine until every bottle at Pascal’s trailer was empty. He and Pauletta were giggling and laughing when their bill came, and they asked their waiter to help them remember some of the words to the theme song from Gilligan’s Island.
When they got in Evers’ car to leave the restaurant and were sitting in the dark, before Evers cranked the motor, he kissed her for a long time, and when she stopped kissing him she put her head on his shoulder and her hand on top of his thigh. They sat there in the car, in the parking lot, for over an hour, closing their eyes and almost falling asleep, not saying anything, and occasionally Pauletta would move her head or her hand, little rubs and shifts, and for a while Evers could feel her breathing on his neck.
They slept in different beds in the same hotel room, and he woke up before she did, still in his dress shirt and suit pants. He left her a note and walked several blocks to a convenience store, bought some orange juice and doughnuts. He stopped at a pay phone on a wall outside of the store and put his juice on top of the metal box around the phone. It was early in the morning, and the sun was out, a warm, plain, blue day. The phone cord was twisted and coiled, a trail of stiff metal segments, and someone had left a beer bottle on the ground next to Evers’ feet. He called Jo Miller’s mother, and the phone rang a long time before she answered.
“You ever notice how the pay phone cords look like a metal snake?” Evers said when his mother-in-law finally picked up.
“What?”
“This is Evers. I’m calling from a pay phone.”
“Why are you calling? Did you say something about a snake?”
“You can keep the farm. All of it. Whatever’s there. I want to give it to you.”
“Why? What’s the catch?”
“No catch. I’d rather for you to have it than your wicked brood, but that’s up to you. I appreciate what you did for Pascal. And I don’t have the resolve for another year of jungle warfare with Aimme and Cliff. It would be nice if you could get them off my back; you could do that for me.”
“You’re sure about this? Are you drinking?”
“It’s eight in the morning, a little early even for me. I’m certain.”
“All right.”
“Good luck to you, Mrs. Covington. Good luck.”
“I’ll have Mr. Wolf draw up the papers.”
“You do that.”
When Evers got back to the hotel, it was quiet in his and Pauletta’s room, and he could hear the air conditioner running, pushing cool air out of the vent next to the window. The curtains were closed, and the room was dim. Evers went to Pauletta’s bed and woke her. He had to shake her, and when she opened her eyes she was startled for a moment, jumped a little with her arms and legs.
“What? What do you want?” Pauletta was cross. “Why did you wake me like that?”
“I thought of something last night, right before I fell asleep. I know how we can find out about the letter.”
ELEVEN
LESTER JACKSON RAN A NICE SHOP. HIS BUSINESS WAS IN A good neighborhood of Winston-Salem, operated out of a portion of an old tobacco warehouse that had been refurbished, painted, reclaimed, track-lit and gentrified. The front of the building was brownish brick with thick mortar joints, the floors inside tongue-and-groove oak, and all the beams and trusses were shellacked and exposed. Lester’s store was full of mahogany and inlays and claw feet, sturdy secretaries, sideboards, tables, chairs, armoires and lowboys. When Evers first spied him, Lester was Nazi-starched and walking around—hands held behind his back—with a thin, coffee-tan, chemical-peeled, middle-aged woman. The woman had on expensive shoes and a business suit, though it was doubtful she worked anywhere, especially since it was three o’clock on a weekday afternoon, and she barely, slowly, moved, like a brown, languid snake on a warm rock, coiling through headboards and a pair of end tables, no hurry, nowhere to go except perhaps to another store or out to Reynolda Road to meet a friend at the contemporary art gallery. Lester was at her heel, straight and sinister, nodding and chatting, a breath or two away from her ear, master of all the furniture and knickknacks and whatnots he surveyed.