Дэвид Балдаччи - The Guilty

The network here is faster than the Internet , thought Robie.

“She’s holding up.”

“Uh-huh. She’s a damn good-lookin’ woman. Everybody knows that. I been married ’bout fifteen happy years but I got me two good eyes, don’t I?” He laughed and then grew serious. “My point is, if things go against your daddy, and I’m not sayin’ they will, but if they do, she’ll be okay. Still young and all. Find somebody else.” He dropped his voice lower and leaned in closer to Robie. “But let me just voice a concern I got me.” He paused and cleared his throat. “Now she’s just got to be better at who she spends time with.” He scrunched up his face like he’d swallowed something foul. “Sherm Clancy? Now, I got to prosecute his killer to the fullest extent of the law o’course and I will. But that don’t mean I had to like him, ’cause I didn’t. Poor choice for Victoria. Poor choice. You might want to talk to her ’bout that. Know it drove your daddy—” He paused and sighed heavily. “Well, we seen what it did to him. So sad. So damn sad, and I don’t normally cuss. Hell, I’m a deacon at the Baptist church.” He tapped Robie on the shoulder and said in a conspiratorial tone, “Now speakin’a Clancy, I heard tell you had you a run-in with Pete and some’a his boys. Now don’t you worry ’bout that. I know Pete. He can be a little hotheaded. But he comes to me ’bout prosecutin’ you for assault, you just leave it to me. I’ll handle it.”

Robie noted that the lawyer didn’t say how he would handle it.

Davis straightened on his stool and smoked down his cigarette, looking pleased with his soliloquy.

Robie just drank his coffee, figuring any response he made would simply prolong this encounter. Lawyers were really good at taking your words, twisting them around, and firing them back at you. Robie used bullets to kill. This man used nouns, verbs, and the occasional adjective to do the same.

“So how long you stayin’ in our fair town, Will?”

“Long as I need to.”

“Well, we do things right fast down here. Could’a done that O. J. Simpson case in two days, so help me God. So’s you won’t have to wait too long, I reckon.”

“That’s good to know, so long as you don’t leave justice out of the equation.”

More smoke was exhaled and more ash tapped. Davis grinned. “Remember that state championship?”

“Not until I came back here.”

“We did the town proud, didn’t we?”

Davis had been a third-stringer on the team and saw action only in the final few minutes of the championship game. Cantrell had been so far ahead that the coach had seen fit to give everyone who hadn’t played a chance to share in the glory. And Robie hadn’t minded. Despite the lopsided score, the game had been hard fought, and his body had been a mass of bruises and contusions. And he later learned he’d played the second half with a concussion and a broken thumb.

“Yes we did.”

“Old Billy Faulconer ain’t doin’ too good. You ’member him?”

“Best left tackle in the state. I plan on seeing him while I’m here.”

“Fine, fine!” Davis stubbed out his cigarette and rose. “You have a good day, Will. Let’s have a drink sometime, okay? Got me a homegrown whiskey put hair on your eyeballs, man.”

He laughed and slapped Robie on the back far harder than he had to and walked out of the diner, waving and smiling at all he passed.

Robie set his cup down, paid his bill, and walked out behind him.

He didn’t give a crap about Davis’s taunts.

He was focused on one thing only.

In a very short while he was going to see his father for the first time in twenty-two years.

And that suddenly scared him more than possibly anything ever had.

And for Will Robie, that was definitely saying something.

The courtroom was small, plainly furnished, warm as an oven but still buzzing with suppressed excitement. Robie’s intuition that seats would be hard to come by had proven correct. The place was almost full by the time he stepped inside, nearly a half hour before the arraignment was scheduled to take place.

He wedged himself into a seat on the aisle near the middle of the courtroom. After he sat his gaze swept the space. Pete Clancy was here minus his entourage. He had cleaned up his face and his bandages were gone. But the beating Robie had given him was still quite evident.

Sheila Taggert, in her uniform, stood near a door leading into what Robie assumed must be the holding cell for prisoners waiting their turn before the judge.

Little Bill Faulconer was sitting across the aisle from Robie. He motioned for him to join him.

Faulconer made room and Robie settled down next to him.

Robie said, “I plan to visit your dad today if he’s up to it.”

“He’ll be real glad to hear that, Mr. Robie. I’ll be sure to let him know.”

Robie looked around at some of the people. “Is any of the other Clancy family here?”

Faulconer pointed at a group near the front. “His three boys and one daughter from his marriage before. And damn if his two exes ain’t sitting right next to each other.”

Robie took in the four grown children, who all looked miserable. Then his gaze fell on the two women. One was Sherman Clancy’s age. She must be Cassandra Clancy, deduced Robie. The other was about twenty years younger.

The bimbo.

“I’m surprised they’re sitting together,” said Robie.

“Well with Sherm gone it’s all about the money, ain’t it? They probably figger it’s better to work together than fight it out and let the lawyers get it all.”

“You’re probably right.”

Little Bill grinned. “But if it does get ugly over the dollars, we might have another murder trial on our hands, too.”

Robie spotted Sara Chisum sitting with another group of people, a man and woman who were probably her parents. The younger girl next to Sara was no doubt her remaining sister, Emma.

Little Bill confirmed that this was indeed correct when Robie asked him.

“I’ve listened to Chisum’s sermons,” said Little Bill. “And I walked out feelin’ like I’m on a straight line to Hell no matter what I do while I’m still drawin’ breath.”

Mr. Chisum was dressed in black with a white shirt. He did have a stern, pious look to him, thought Robie. His wife was small and mousey, and while her husband simply looked angry, her flickering gazes showed a woman utterly defeated in body and spirit. Sara looked at the back of the person in front of her. Her sister Emma kept her gaze on her lap.

Twenty minutes later Aubrey Davis made his appearance. He walked in with the same swagger he had shown in the diner. He carried a bulky briefcase and set it down next to the counsel table. He turned and put his hands on the railing separating the audience from this section of the courtroom and surveyed the crowd. As they all stared back at him, Robie could easily tell, from the man’s satisfied look, that Davis was enjoying every second of this spotlight.

Davis sat down at the table, opened his briefcase, took out some papers, and started riffling through them, looking both focused and important.

Robie glanced over to see Pete Clancy shooting daggers at him. The young man lifted his hand, pointed his index finger at Robie, and, using his thumb as an imaginary gun hammer, shot Robie in the head.

Unconcerned, Robie looked away. From what he had seen of the man, he doubted Clancy could hit anything farther than a foot away, with either gun or fist.

He next saw Sara Chisum staring at him. Her look was worried and somewhat pleading. Robie guessed that she was fearful that what she had told him would end up as public knowledge. He inclined his head slightly at her, trying to be reassuring. As he lifted it back up her father was staring dead at him. He looked from Sara to Robie and then at his daughter once more. He said something to her. She went pale and immediately looked down.