Ascension Day

5

Larry Durrant could feel his mother’s eyes on his right shoulder, all but burning a hole right through it. She’d always been there in the same position in the courtroom through those days of the trial, give or take a few seats either way. And Francine, too, had sat in a similar place — but they’d hardly ever been together at the same time because of them alternating on taking care of Joshua, except for the few times Franny’s mother had helped out.

Franny’s stare had been different: shifting, uncomfortable, not meeting his gaze directly for too long when on occasion he’d turned around, as if uncertain whether he was guilty or not. But his mother’s stare had been direct, unflinching: either she believed in him no matter what, or was trying to see through to his very soul to understand what might have possessed this being that she’d brought into the world to kill that poor woman.

He’d had the first dream then: a shadowy figure holding the gun on Jessica Roche, firing just as he was screaming out for him not to. Unsure if it was someone else, or he was merely looking at himself, that shaky, unstable side of himself that he had little control over and might have actually done it. The evidence said he’d done it, his memory, such as it was, said that he’d done it, and then he’d said it himself in his confession. But suddenly that shadowy figure was there to say maybe… just maybe.

When he’d first had the dream, shaking his head from fitful sleep as he sat by a bailiff ready for the next day’s court battle, his first thought was that it was a protective device for his psyche; creating another character who’d actually fired the gun, because part of his mind couldn’t accept that he’d done something so horrific.

But as the court case continued, with his mother’s eyes each day boring into his shoulder, he wondered if it was also partly for that; that if the shadowy figure in his dreams looked his way and he was able to see its face, he’d have been able to turn and call out to his mother that he’d seen who it was and it wasn’t him! ‘I didn’t do it!’

Yet the figure in his dreams never did turn his way, and so he was never able to rid himself of that penetrating stare and all the guilt, recrimination, anguish and lost hope that went with it.

And years later when he was still having the same dream, by then often mixed up with his mother staring at his back on those courtroom days — he was still never able to see its face. He was never able to phone his mother before she died, five years after the trial, as he’d hoped and prayed he’d be able to, and say, ‘Ma, I don’t think I did it.’

Bob Stratton was in his local bar watching his favourite football team, the New Orleans Saints, play the Arizona Cardinals, when his cell-phone rang.

He’d switched it off at the beginning of the game, but when the Saints were trailing 14-6 by the first quarter, his enthusiasm began to wane and, remembering the call he’d been waiting for hadn’t come through yet, he switched it back on.

‘Jim, is that you?’ he shouted above the noise of the television.

‘No, as I said, it’s Jac McElroy,’ Jac repeated a shade louder. ‘John Langfranc gave me your number.’

‘Oh, right. And what can I do for you, sir?’

Stratton nodded at intervals and watched Hambrick of the Cardinals rip though the Saints’ defence with another run as Jac explained what he wanted.

‘The problem is, I’m tied up with something right now,’ Stratton said. ‘Can it wait until tomorrow?’

‘No, that’s just the problem.’ Jac told Stratton why there was such dire urgency. ‘If this guard comes around before we have someone present to take his account — it could be too late.’

Stratton looked at his watch, then at the game on the TV. It didn’t look like the Saints were going to pull this around, so maybe he should save himself the pain. He could listen to it on the radio on his way out there, and at least vent his frustration in private by banging the steering wheel when need be. The couple of times he’d slapped the bar counter and shouted abuse at the TV, a few heads had turned his way.

‘It’ll take me at least two hours to get out there. Any use to you?’

‘Yes. Absolutely.’ Jac filled in the rest of the details. ‘Thanks, you’re a life-saver.’

Aunt Camille was looking keenly at Jac as he hung up. Having watched him pace like a caged lion at the close of dinner as he tried to get hold of Stratton, her interest had been piqued.

‘Important, by the looks of it?’

‘Yes, yes. It’s a murder case.’ Jac couldn’t resist it. In their last heated debate about his move to criminal law, she’d commented disdainfully: “Starting from rung one like this, it’ll be years before they hand you any worthwhile, heavyweight cases.”

Camille arched one eyebrow. ‘Murder, you say. Any case we might know?’

Jac eased back. Eleven years on, Durrant was still a landmark case, and in the run up to his execution was again grabbing major headlines. Camille would be bound to voice strong comment and, in responding, he’d risk breaching client confidentiality.

‘No, no. Nothing important. Just an also-ran.’

‘Oh, I see.’ Camille nodded and smiled tightly. ‘An also-ran case.’

Back to where she expected his legal career to be. Going nowhere fast.

The guard’s regular card game took place in the watch-room an hour after shut-down. Every lock and bolt had been secured, monitors checked, and residual hubbub and chatter from the inmates had by then faded out. All that lay ahead was a long, quiet night, so out came the cards.

Glenn Bateson presided, but not everyone was invited to join in. Bateson ran a strict game, minimum stake of $20 a hand, poker or thirteen-card canaster, and one of those who looked on with curiosity as voices and blood pressure rose with the heat of the game, but had never been invited to join in, was Miles Elden, or ‘Scope’ as he was nicknamed, because he was always scoping around, head turning and craning to every corner of the prison. Hardly ever stopped moving.

Scope was a regular visitor to the prison chapel, so Bateson always thought his religious principles would keep him away from the game — but now he was keen to have him join in. When he saw Scope pass the open door to the watch room and glance over, Bateson beckoned him over enthusiastically.

‘Hey, why don’t you join us?’ Bateson beamed his widest smile.

‘I don’t know…I…’ Scope hovered uncertainly by the door.

‘Come on. It’s not really gambling with thirteen-card canaster. More of a mind- and skill-game than chance. We’ll show you how to play and give you a few trial hands with no stakes — then go in at just $10 a hand if and when you feel confident.’

Scope put up a bit more resistance, but it was clear that Bateson wasn’t about to take no for an answer, and with a final welcoming smile and nod of encouragement he had a spare seat swiftly pulled up.

On the first night, Scope won $40, on the second $110, and Bateson waited until the third night to put in the sting. Scope dropped $680 on two almost unbeatable hands.

‘Don’t worry. Hands like that, you’re bound to make it back the next night,’ Bateson assured.

Scope didn’t. He dropped another $1,140 the following night.

Scope looked panic-stricken as he took Bateson to one side at the end of the game. ‘That’s a big chunk of my month’s salary there. I was hoping you might cut me a bit of slack and let me pay, say, over the next few months?’

Bateson sucked in his breath. ‘If it was just up to me, sure. I’d wait. But some of the other guys here, they got heavy commitments and maybe other dues from games they gotta settle. So it ain’t so easy.’ Bateson paused heavily, enjoying letting Scope stew for a moment more before becoming pensive. ‘But maybe there’s something else you could help me out with that could settle this.’

‘You didn’t have to agree to the date, if you didn’t want to, you know,’ Jean-Marie said. ‘Certainly not just because of me and Mum.’

‘I think I did, and you know it. Camille would have just kept on pushing, and you and mum would have got the worst of it. Thankfully, I only have to see her when I choose.’

They’d left Camille’s an hour ago, and Jac’s sister Jean-Marie had grabbed his ear as soon as their mother had gone to the kitchen to make coffee before he left.

Jean-Marie looked down thoughtfully for a second. Seventeen going on twenty-something, the past six years with their father’s business collapse, the cancer which finally led to his death, then the upheaval and move to America to live partly in the shadow of their aunt’s charity and favour, had made her world-weary beyond her years. Petite, quiet and studious, the extra age though didn’t show in her body or face, only in the sullen intensity in her eyes now and then; the same gaze she levelled now at Jac as she looked back up.

‘I suppose you’re right. She’s a determined old dog, even if often she aims to be well-meaning.’

Jac smiled. ‘I think you give her too much credit. I think she enjoys turning the screws and watching people squirm. You should have just ended on “old dog” — just about hits the right note.’

Jean-Marie chuckled. ‘Anyway, talking of “old dogs”, you certainly could do a lot worse than a date with Jennifer Bromwell. She’s quite cute, in fact — in a Britney Spears sort of way. “Hot” I think is the American term for it. Or is it “cool”? I forget now.’

Jac fired a doubtful grimace. His sister no doubt knew the right term long ago, but he rode along with the tease.

‘Spoilt though, I suppose?’

‘No, didn’t seem it. I’ve only met her a couple of times when she came over to Camille’s with her father — but she seemed quite normal and approachable. She spoke to me and Mum for a bit, and she was very friendly.’

‘That’s probably just because she thinks we’re royalty.’ Jac couldn’t resist teasing back.

‘No, I don’t think so. I got the impression that for her that was all just a their-generation thing — Camille’s and her dad’s. Royalty and money. I don’t think she gives a damn about either — came across as a bit of a hippy in that respect. Or maybe just a silly idealist.’

This time when Jean-Marie forced a smile, Jac couldn’t tell whether she was teasing or not. The lessons for them with money had come harder than most.

Jac feigned a crestfallen look. ‘Oh, that’s a shame. I was hoping that with my royalty connections, I might get “lucky”. If that’s the American term?’

Jean-Marie leant forward and lightly punched him on the arm. Few of their teasing jousts did she ever win, but the contests were becoming tighter as she got older.

With the jolt, Jac instinctively stole another glance at his watch — the umpteenth time he’d done so since leaving Aunt Camille’s. Why hadn’t Stratton called yet? He’d expected his call to say he’d arrived at the hospital over an hour ago now.

‘Is it the same thing you were worried about earlier?’ Jean-Marie asked. ‘You know, the murder case you called about when we were at Camille’s.’

‘Yeah, the same.’

‘And is it just an also-ran case, like you said?’

Jean-Marie knew him better than most, and from her tone he could tell that she’d read the earlier lie. No point in continuing it.

‘No, it’s quite a big case. But it’s only a clemency plea, and looks bound to fail. That’s why the senior partners have given it to me. So that when it goes down in flames, their reputations are well clear of any heat.’

‘And, as Aunt Camille asked — is it a case that anyone might know?’

‘Yes, it’s the Lawrence Durrant case.’ Jac said the words flatly, plainly, belying the gravity and intent they deserved. Perhaps because, by now, he’d become used to repeating them. Or due to the pervasive feeling that had swept over him as the evening progressed: a sense of guilt clinking glasses and chatting aimlessly while Durrant lay in his cell at Libreville, the clock fast ticking against him. Was that what it was going to be like for the forty-four days: guilt at every moment that breathed freedom and life, or was it just the sense of time being wasted that jarred?

‘Oh, I see.’ Equally flatly, plainly. Even within her own little world of studies, computer games, pop posters, starting to look at boys differently and coping with the transition from French to American culture — the increasing media barrage of the Durrant case had managed to penetrate.

‘But for God’s sake, don’t tell anyone — not even Mum. If she’s pushed by Camille, she’ll find it hard to keep it under wraps.’

Jean-Marie hastily shook her head. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t say anything. I promise. I’ll…’ She quickly side-tracked as she saw their mother walking back in with the coffee. ‘I was just saying to Jac that he shouldn’t worry about the date with Jennifer. She seems very nice.’

‘Yes, she does — as I already told Jac.’ Catherine set the coffee tray down. ‘No need to worry at all.’

But from his mother’s forced smile, Jac could tell that the thought of her son having to go on an arranged date because of the situation they were in was troubling her more than any of them.

Bob Stratton’s journey out to St Tereseville was marked by stages in the Saints-Cardinals game on his car radio.

As he started on the Lake Pontchartrain Causeway, they’d managed to claw back three points with a field-goal. But only four miles in, as the first swirls of mist started to hit his windscreen, they fell back eight points from a touch-down that was converted. And as the mist became heavier, as if mirroring the cloud of doom fast descending over his team, they fell back another three points.

Stratton switched off when the next touch-down against came. It was becoming too painful, and no way were they going to be able to play their way out of this particular hole. Immediately the radio commentary died, he heard the sirens from behind and saw brake lights through the mist ahead.

He tapped his brakes and followed behind a slow crawling tail-back for three minutes before it ground to a complete halt.

More sirens — two police cars and an ambulance twenty seconds behind — screamed past him.

Obviously a collision ahead. Stratton looked at his watch. Could be a long one. He toyed with the idea of tuning back into the game, but the combination of the Saints’ doomed performance and the traffic jam would probably be too much for his blood pressure.

He tuned into an easy-listening station, KMEZ, and started humming along to Glen Campbell’s Witchita Lineman.

Jac had heard the boyfriend’s voice next door only two nights after the big argument, but for the last three nights she seemed to have been alone. Or at least he hadn’t been able to discern any other voices from next door.

After the night of the argument — ‘I just don’t like other guys looking at you like that’ — Jac had become curious to see her, and he’d started working on a plan.

She probably headed for the stairs at the other end of the apartment complex — he never recalled hearing her pass his door after leaving. If it was at night, she’d put on the timed hallway lights, and if he left instantly and rushed towards the L-bend where the corridor turned towards the far stairway, he might catch a glimpse of her before she headed down. The corridor was carpeted, but if he kept his shoes off as an extra precaution, hopefully she wouldn’t hear him approaching.

Having devised a plan, Jac found himself listening out more acutely for movement and voices from next door, trying to gauge when she would be leaving so that he could accurately time his own exit. The first occasion, by the time he’d heard her door shut, it was practically too late for him to bother running out. The second, the only other opportunity so far, by the time he’d reached the corner of the L, she’d already started down the stairs the far side. She didn’t glance round in that fleeting second before disappearing from view, and he was no nearer knowing what she looked like.

When he’d first returned from his mother’s, he hadn’t heard any noises from next door. Just after midnight, she was either still out or already in bed.

But having still not heard from Stratton, Jac wasn’t ready for bed yet. And, sitting there with the TV on low and not really paying attention to Bloomberg’s financial forecasts and next day’s weather, suddenly he heard movement from next door. Sounded like the bedroom — cupboard doors and drawers being opened and closed. There’d been the sound of another door opening and closing just before — but it hadn’t been the front door. So probably she’d been in the bathroom furthest away from him. Sounds from there barely reached him.

He moved closer to the wall, ear nestled against it and strained for the minutest sound from next door — a familiar position for many of the past few nights now — and for a moment a picture of her fresh from the bath or shower, hair still wet, hit him. But still he had no face to match to that misty image.

He stayed there listening longer than he realized, his legs starting to have a few cramp twinges, and for a while the sounds became more muted and indiscernible. Probably she was getting ready for bed.

And so when he heard more strident opening and closing of cupboard doors, and then suddenly the front door slamming, he was caught by surprise.

Shoes off and thrown brusquely aside, he managed to reach his own front door in just two strides. Out and running, breathless. He tried as best he could to suppress it so that she didn’t hear him approaching like some rampant buffalo. Soft and swift strides too, stocking-feet on carpet.

He could hear the steady pad of her footsteps fifteen yards the other side of the corner, and prayed that it masked his own rapid stride.

And this time he did reach the corner before she headed down the stairs — just as his cell-phone rang.

She wheeled around, and he ducked back round the corner equally as sharply and hit the button to put the call into message service.

He could hear that she wasn’t moving, was still rooted to the same spot, and could almost feel her eyes boring through the bit of corner wall shielding him. He kept perfectly still, struggling to swallow back the weight of his breathing from his brief madcap run. He feared for a moment that she was going to head back towards him. He looked at the number calling: Bob Stratton! He was desperate to get to it before Stratton rang off — but couldn’t risk moving or making any sound.

She stayed in the same position a moment longer, undecided, though to Jac it felt like a lifetime with his back pressed hard against the wall, breath held, staring helplessly at Stratton’s number on his cell-phone as the vital seconds ticked by. Finally she turned and headed down the stairs.

He waited for her to get a few paces down before he raced back to his own apartment, and as soon as the door was shut he pressed to take the call.

‘Hello, hello! Bob! Are you still there?’

‘Yes, I… I was just leaving a message. I didn’t think you were answering.’

‘I was tied up for a moment. Sorry.’ Jac fought to regain his breath. ‘But I’m here now. So, tell me. How did it go?’

‘I was held up on the Causeway due to an accident — that’s why I haven’t been able to call ’till now. I was late getting there. But no worries — Marmont is still spark out.’ Stratton’s tone dropped. ‘The only thing was that one of Marmont’s prison guard buddies was already there when I arrived. Some guy called Miles Elden.’

‘Oh.’ Jac felt a twinge of concern. Elden? The name didn’t strike a chord. He had no idea if he was part of Bateson’s clique or not. Could be just innocent.

‘It was okay. I flashed my badge, and said no visitors unless first cleared with your office. Or, if anyone had a problem with that, the D.A. He didn’t look about to argue with the bluff, said he was simply looking in ‘cause he was Marmont’s best friend. And he left him a book to read for when he wakes up. Stephen King’s Pet Sematary.’ Stratton chuckled. ‘Probably takes a while for books to reach the comatose reading lists.’

‘At least we know one thing about this Elden: he’s an optimist.’ But Elden wasn’t the only one praying that Marmont wouldn’t die, Jac reminded himself.

Jac spent a moment confirming with Stratton how they were going to keep up the vigil on Marmont’s bedside before ringing off, then once again he was with his back against the wall, eyes closed, trying to wind down from the evening. Only a glimpse, but she was gorgeous: a coffee-cream mixture of African and Caucasian, with a hint of something else from the faint slant at the corner of her eyes: Malaysian? Philippino? He let his breathing fall steadily as he tried to bring her clearly into focus again in his mind.

But the rush to see her and almost getting caught, like some pathetic voyeur, only served to remind him of the sorry state of his love life. How lonely and desperate he’d become. It was probably best that he was going on an arranged date. He could hardly be trusted anymore to arrange anything for himself.