"But you'll do it?"
"I'll sleep on it."
* * *
Harry Rex wasn't too thrilled with the idea either. Why should both of us get involved? We kicked it around over an early breakfast at the coffee shop, an unusual meal for us but then we didn't want to miss the first tidal wave of downtown gossip. Not surprisingly, the place was packed with anxious experts who were repeating all sorts of details and theories about the Fargarson murder. We listened more than we talked, and left around eight-thirty.
Two doors down from the coffee shop was the Wilbanks Building. As we walked by, I said, "Let's do it."
Pre-Lucien, the Wilbanks family had been a cornerstone of Clan-ton society, commerce, and law. In the golden years of the last century, they owned land and banks, and all of the men in the family had studied law, some at real Ivy League schools. But they had been in decline for many years. Lucien was the last male Wilbanks of any consequence, and there was an excellent chance he was about to be disbarred.
Ethel Twitty, the longtime secretary, greeted us rudely, almost sneering at Harry Rex, who mumbled to me under his breath, "Meanest bitch in town." I think she heard him. It was obvious they had been catfighting for many years. Her boss was in. What did we want?
"We want to see Lucien," Harry Rex said. "Why else would we be here?" She rang him up as we waited. "I don't have all day!" Harry Rex snapped at her at one point.
"Go ahead," she said, more to get rid of us than anything else. We climbed the steps. Lucien's office was huge, at least thirty feet wide and long with ten-foot ceilings and a row of French doors overlooking the square. It was on the north side, directly across from the Times, with the courthouse in between. Thankfully, I couldn't see Lucien's balcony from my porch.
He greeted us indifferently, as if we had interrupted a long serious meditation. Though it was early, his cluttered desk gave the impression of a man who'd worked all night. He had long grayish hair that ran down his neck, and an unfashionable goatee, and the tired red eyes of a serious drinker. "What's the occasion?" he asked, very slowly. We glared at each other, both conveying as much contempt as possible.
"Had a murder yesterday, Lucien," Harry Rex said. "Lenny Fargarson, that crippled boy on the jury."
"I'm assuming this is off the record," he said in my direction.
"It is," I said. "Completely. Sheriff McNatt asked me to stop by and say hello. I invited Harry Rex."
"So we're just socializing?"
"Maybe. Just having a little gossip about the murder," I said.
"I got the details," he said.
"Have you talked to Danny Padgitt lately?" Harry Rex asked.
"Not since he was paroled."
"Is he in the county?"
"He's in the state, I'm not sure exactly where. If he crosses the state line without permission he violates the conditions of his parole."
Why couldn't they parole him to, say, Wyoming? It seemed odd that he would be required to stay close to where he committed his crimes. Get rid of him!
"Sheriff McNatt would like to talk to him," I said.
"Oh does he? Why should that concern you and me? Tell the Sheriff to go talk to him."
"It's not that simple, Lucien, and you know it," Harry Rex said.
"Does the Sheriff have any proof against my client? Any evidence? Ever hear of probable cause, Harry Rex? You can't just round up the usual suspects, you know? Takes a little more than that."
"There was a direct threat against the jurors," I said.
"Nine years ago."
"It was still a threat, and we all remember it. Now, two weeks after he's paroled, one of his jurors is dead."
"That's not enough, fellas. Show me more and I might consult with my client. Right now there's nothing but naked speculation. Plenty of it, but this town's always good for a flood of gossip."
"You don't know where he is, do you, Lucien?" Harry Rex said.
"I assume he's on the island, with the rest of them." He used the word "them" as if they were a bunch of rats.
"What happens if another juror gets shot?" Harry Rex pressed on.
Lucien dropped a legal pad on his desk and rested there on his elbows. "What am I supposed to do, Harry Rex? Call the boy up, say 'Hey, Danny, I'm sure you're not killin' your jurors, but, if by chance you are, then, hey, be a good boy and stop it.' You think he'll listen to me? This wouldn't have happened if the idiot had followed my advice. I insisted that he not take the stand in his own defense. He's an idiot, okay, Harry Rex! You're a lawyer, God knows you've had idiot clients. You can't do a damned thing to control them."
"What happens if another juror gets shot?" Harry Rex repeated.
"Then I guess another juror will die."
I jumped to my feet and headed for the door. "You're a sick bastard," I said.
"Not a word of this in print," he snarled behind me.
"Go to hell," I yelled as I slammed his door.
* * *
Late in the afternoon Mr. Magargel called from the funeral home and asked if I could hustle over. Mr. and Mrs. Fargarson were there, picking out a casket and making the final arrangements. As I had done many times, I met them in Parlor C, the smallest viewing room. It was seldom used.
Pastor J. B. Cooper of the Maranatha Primitive Baptist Church was with them, and he was a saint. They leaned on him for every decision.
At least twice a year, I met with a family after the tragic death of a loved one. It was almost always a car wreck or some gruesome farm injury, something unexpected. The surviving members were too shocked to think clearly, too wounded to make decisions. The strong ones simply sleepwalked through the ordeal. The weak ones were often too numb to do anything but cry. Mrs. Fargarson was the stronger of the two, but the horror of finding her son with half his head blown off had reduced her to a shuddering ghost. Mr. Fargarson just stared at the floor.
Pastor Cooper gently extracted the basics, many of which he already knew. Since his spinal injury fifteen years earlier, Lenny had dreamed of going to heaven, of having his body restored, of walking every day hand in hand with his Savior. We worked on some language to this effect, and Mrs. Fargarson was deeply appreciative. She handed me a photo, one of Lenny sitting by a pond with a fishing pole. I promised to put it on the front page.
As always with grieving parents, they thanked me profusely and insisted on hugging me tightly as I tried to leave. Mourners cling to people like that, especially at the funeral home.
I stopped by Pepe's and bought an array of Mexican carryout, then drove to Lowtown, where I found Sam playing basketball, Miss Callie asleep inside, and Esau guarding the house with his shotgun. Eventually, we ate on the porch, though she only nibbled at the foreign food. She wasn't hungry. Esau said she'd eaten little during the day.
I brought my backgammon board and taught Sam the game. Esau preferred checkers. Miss Callie was certain any activity that involved the rolling of dice was patently sinful, but she wasn't up to a lecture. We sat for hours, deep into the night, and watched the rituals of Lowtown. School had just turned out for the summer, the days were longer and hotter.
Buster, my part-time pit bull, drove by every half hour. He would slow in front of the Ruffins, I'd wave as if things were fine, he'd ease away and return to the driveway of the Hocutt House. A patrol car parked two doors down from the Ruffin house and sat for a long time. Sheriff McNatt had hired three black deputies, and two of them had been assigned to keep an eye on the home.