The Guilty by David Baldacci
She smacked her gavel, rose, and left the way she came in, not even giving Taggert a chance to say “All rise.”
Dan Robie was being removed from the courtroom right at the moment that the main door opened and Victoria appeared there. She was dressed all in black, with a skirt that hit right at her knees. Her high-heeled shoes matched the color of her clothes.
All heads turned to her, including Dan Robie’s.
Husband and wife locked gazes for a moment and then he turned and was led away. The door closed behind him.
Davis stuffed his papers back in his briefcase, then turned and glanced at Victoria, who still stood framed in the doorway, looking surprised that the hearing was already concluded.
Davis flicked a gaze at Robie and smiled.
Right before folks got up and started heading out, Victoria fled.
As everyone quickly filed out, Davis came up to Robie.
“Well, that was interestin’,” said Cantrell’s sole remaining prosecutor.
“What credible threats?” asked Robie.
“Can’t really say. We’re investigatin’ them, o’course. But I think your daddy will be a lot safer in jail than out.”
“He should have a lawyer,” said Robie. His mind, though, was on the expression in his father’s eyes when he had seen his son. It had not been what Robie had expected.
Indifference.
It was more painful to him than anger would have been. And here he had convinced himself that he didn’t care what his father felt toward him.
Davis said, “I’m not disagreein’ with you. He sure as hell needs a lawyer. Right now he’s got a fool for one, if you believe the old adage. Which I happen to. You got any influence, you should talk him into hirin’ one. Sure as hell got the money for it. Now I’ll be seein’ you. And let’s not forget ’bout that drink sometime, man.”
Davis walked off, leaving Robie alone in the courtroom.
Chapter
22
BASED ON THE man’s threatening gesture in the courtroom, Robie had thought that Pete Clancy and a group of his cronies would be waiting for him outside.
He wasn’t.
But someone else was.
Sara Chisum’s father was leaning against the handrail on the courthouse front steps.
He pushed off when Robie appeared at the doorway.
“I’m Lester Chisum,” he said, holding out his hand. The men shook. “I understand that you’re Will Robie, Judge Robie’s son.”
“I am.”
“As a man of God I can’t condone what he did.”
“Allegedly did,” said Robie.
“Allegedly did. But as a father I can’t say I’m unhappy.”
“But it’s clear now that Sherman Clancy didn’t murder your daughter,” countered Robie.
“Is it?”
Robie looked at him curiously. “He has an alibi.”
“And people lie all the time, Mr. Robie. I see it in my work. Humans are frail. They seek the easy way out too often. Lyin’ as opposed to tellin’ the truth. Tellin’ the truth is hard.”
“And why would Victoria lie? It had to have been embarrassing for her. She had every reason not to come forward. She could have just let Clancy be convicted. Telling the truth was hard for her.”
“Unless there was somethin’ compellin’ her to do so. That was stronger than her natural inclination not to come forward, as you say.”
“And what might that be?”
“I have no idea. I’m just pointin’ it out as a possibility.”
“I understand that your daughter knew Clancy.”
“My daughter was a sinner. A slut, if you will. As is her younger sister. That is all clear to me now. I don’t blame them. I blame myself. I have obviously failed them as a father. Sometimes I spend too much time on my congregation. Perhaps I have been too restrictive with them. So while they fell down, I also fell down. I have prayed over it ever since Janet was killed. I prayed over it even harder when certain facts came to light showin’ that my daughter was…complicit in certain things of a depraved nature. If your father or someone else hadn’t killed Clancy, I might have.”
“Don’t let Aubrey Davis hear you say that.”
“I know that it’s unbecomin’ of a man of the cloth to say such things. But I’m only human, too. And losin’ your child goes against nature. Children are supposed to bury their parents, not the other way around.”
Robie’s thoughts turned for a moment to the dead Sasha, whose mother would have had to bury her. “No argument there.”
Chisum looked at him closely. “I suppose you came back because of your father’s situation?”
“Yes.”
“We only came here three years ago. From Mobile, though I was born and raised in Mississippi.”
Robie was about to say that he knew some of this from Sara, but caught himself.
“Mobile is a nice town,” he said.
“Well, it’s certainly bigger than Cantrell. With far more to do. But I was offered my own church here. In Mobile I would have been an associate pastor my whole career.”
“So you made the choice to come here for your career?”
“I did. When I should have been thinkin’ of my family.”
“Life is complicated,” said Robie.
“Life shouldn’t be so complicated if you listen to the Lord.”
“Well, maybe sometimes he wants us to make mistakes so we learn for the future.”
Chisum took a moment to respond to this. “Maybe that’s what he did for me.”
“Will you stay in Cantrell?” asked Robie.
“Highly doubtful. We’ll wait to find out what happened to Janet, of course. After that, I think we’ll move on. To a bigger city. Even if I have to be an associate pastor. I’ve got two daughters left. I do not intend to bury another.”
“Big cities have big temptations,” cautioned Robie.
“And associate pastors have more time to spend with their families.”
He nodded at Robie, turned, and left.
Robie reached the street and saw it.
The prison van was coming around the corner. The sole passenger was Dan Robie.
He was shackled to the last seat. He looked out the window as the van slowed to make the turn.
Father and son were eye to eye, at least physically if not in any other way.
This time Robie looked away while his father still stared at him, his look inscrutable.
Then the van and his father were gone.
Robie stood there on the street gazing at the place where his father’s face had been moments before. A part of him felt he was living someone else’s life. This couldn’t possibly be him back here in Mississippi. He had been gone for twenty-two years. It might seem to some that no family rift could be so bad that the son would have made no contact with the father.
After Robie had arrived on the East Coast, his life had changed drastically. He had hoped to start a new life with Laura Barksdale. That had not happened. He had arrived at his new life alone, and both confused and angry.
His life and future had been saved by a confluence of events that had propelled him into the beginnings of the career he now had. He had thought of his father several times over the years. But his work involved a level of secrecy that had prohibited him from contacting his father or thinking of going back to his old home.
But things had changed. His father’s being charged with murder had been the catalyst for him to deal with a past that he probably should have confronted long ago. And he had been unable to complete his last assignment. His finger couldn’t pull the trigger. And it hadn’t been the face of the little girl that had held him back.
So now, to go forward, it looks like I have to go back.
And so here I am.
I’ve executed many missions over the years. But I always went in with a plan.
Now, I have no idea how the hell I’m going to do this.
Chapter
23
It was full of tiny, ramshackle houses with dirt patches for yards and not a trace of hope in sight.
Robie had always thought the name of the road had to have been somebody’s idea of a very bad joke.
Billy Faulconer’s house was just as small and run-down as all the others. Robie didn’t know what his former teammate had done after high school, but it apparently didn’t pay much money.
And then the cancer hitting him probably meant he could no longer work. He might be drowning in medical debt. It was a sad situation for anyone, but even more so for a man in his early forties.
Robie knocked on the front screen door. There was movement inside, and a black woman appeared in the doorway. She was tall, thin, and worn. Her long hands were veined, her nails short, and her forearms wiry. Her dark, curly hair was rapidly spreading to gray. The lines in her face spoke of a hardscrabble existence on this little patch of Mississippi soil.
“What can I do for you?” she asked, wiping her hands on a not-overly-clean cloth.
“I’m here to see Billy Faulconer.”
“He’s not seein’ nobody right now. He’s not well.”
“I know. His son told me. I’m Will Robie.”
She clapped a hand to her mouth and dropped the towel. Tears sprang to her eyes and she gripped Robie by the hand.
“Oh my God, Little Bill told me you were in town and might come by, but I never thought you would.”
“I’d really like to talk to Billy.”
“Come on in, Mr. Robie, please.”
“Just call me Will.”
“I’m Angie.”
“Did we go to school together?”
“No. I’m not from Cantrell. Billy and me met up in Oxford. He was a trucker and was passin’ through and had some lunch at the diner where I worked. Then he came by again and again. Pretty soon we was married. And then I come to live here.”
“You had kids early.”
“Well, we just got the one. I was twenty when Little Bill was born. We wanted more, but God had other plans for us.”
While they chatted, she led him through the tiny house and out the back.
“When did Billy get sick?”
“A year ago. Lung cancer. Too many cigarettes, I guess.”
“He’s been seen by doctors?”
“The one here, yes. He said there was nothin’ to be done for Billy.”
“Did you get a second opinion?”
Angie stopped and looked at him. “No. I mean, the doctor here said the cancer had spread and that was that.”
“Did he go through an operation? Is he on chemo or did he undergo radiation?”
“None of that stuff. Billy said he’ll die like a man. He won’t hang on and suffer, and give us pain by watchin’ him suffer. And all that costs a lot of money. Money we don’t have.”
“Do you have insurance?”
“No. When Billy lost his job the insurance went too.”
“You could get a policy. They can’t refuse him now for a preexisting condition.”
Her face tightened and she said stiffly, “I think we’re okay on that score, Will. But thanks for your concern.”
They had by now passed through the backyard and turned a corner.
There stood a battered, old Airstream trailer.
When Robie looked at her, Angie averted her gaze and said quietly, “Billy likes bein’ out here. He got that old trailer from a friend of a friend. Fixed it up and now he lives out there. Says he’ll die there. We can just close it up and leave him there when he does. Least that’s what he says.”
Her words were said lightly, but Robie could see the undeniable pain in the woman’s face at this terrible thought.
She led him up to the Airstream and rapped her knuckles on the door. “Billy, I got a surprise for you.” She turned and smiled at Robie. “Got me somebody you used to know real good.”
Then she opened the door and motioned Robie to pass by her. “Thank you for comin’, Will, know it’ll mean the world to him.” She turned and hurried back to the house.
Robie stepped up into the Airstream and looked first right then left.
Right was a small table with dirty plates and cups on it.
Left was in shadows, but as he moved toward the darkness, it lifted a bit.
“Son of a bitch, Will Robie,” came the weak voice.
Robie moved closer and the man came into full view.
Billy Faulconer had been one of the biggest human beings Robie had ever known growing up. Now he looked like someone had deflated him to barely a third of his former size. His skin was far darker than his son’s or wife’s. Back when they were teenagers, folks in Cantrell would come to cheer the team on, every game. They treated all the players the same, black or white. But when football season was over, things went back to the old ways, meaning that Billy became simply black and thus shunned by white society.
He was lying on an old, raggedy couch, his head propped up by a trash bag that was filled with something. Robie hoped it was soft.
He had on an old, tattered robe and his bare calves and long feet stuck out from below the hem. His short hair was filled with gray. His face was gaunt, his sunken chest drawing in and out in slow, elongated movements. There was sweat on his skin and not much life in the eyes. An oxygen tank on a little rusted roller sat next to him, its attached lines running up to his nostrils. He seemed to suck greedily on the air.
Robie looked around. He found a little stool covered in junk. He set the items on the floor, pulled it up next to Billy, and sat down.
Wheezing, Billy said, “Shit, man, you look like you could still suit up for Cantrell High.”
“We both did our bit there.”
“You ’member that goal line play in the second quarter of the state championship?”
Robie thought for a moment. “Read option right, faked the handoff to Kenny Miller on the A-gap, faked the pitch to Junior Deacon on the end-around. I ran left, you crashed down on the end and then had enough gas left to pancake the OLB, and I scored standing up. Just like Coach drew it up on the board.”
Billy smiled big and wide. “That was so sweet. And then in the third quarter? ’Member that play?” he said. “’Member? Tell me you do, man.”
Robie cracked a smile, thinking back, way back. “Your moment of glory. On the sidelines you told me they were overcommitting to stopping the run, and the O-backer and the strong safety kept cheating up to the box. So when we went back on the field you checked in receiver eligible. I ran a fake sweep to Donny Jenkins on the weak side, pulled the ball back outta his gut, turned and lofted you the prettiest pass in the end zone on the other side. And you caught it in those big mitts of yours. And then you fell on your ass!”
A crooked grin spread over Billy’s features. “Ain’t a defender within five miles’a me. All I could think was ‘Don’t drop the damn ball.’”
“I met Little Bill. Nice young man. You obviously raised him right.”
Billy shifted his withered body a bit so he could look more directly at his old teammate. His glee fell away and his features turned somber.