The Wrong Man

42

Tom Stoller happily chowed down on turkey, gravy, mashed potatoes, and split-pea soup. Aunt Deidre spent little time on her food, deriving her own pleasure from Tom’s.

We were in the visitation room. Deidre had charmed the guards over the eleven months Tom had been here, and when she mentioned there would be plenty of her home cooking left over, and she sure didn’t want to haul it all the way back home, they were putty in her hands. Deidre, I thought, was pretty good at getting what she wanted.

It was paper plates and plastic cutlery, but to look at my client’s contentment, you’d think he was sitting around the family kitchen table. I knew very well that Tom had a low opinion of the cuisine at the Boyd Center, as it was about the only thing he was willing to freely discuss.

The levity was severely undercut by the circumstances, naturally. This was in many ways like a last meal for Tom. But for God’s sake, if they could manage to find some enjoyment for an hour or two, let them.

I wished I had my cell phone. I was coordinating with Tori, whom I was going to pick up in an hour. We had a field trip scheduled.

Deidre left Tom to his chomping and pulled me to the far end of the room. “Do you have someplace you have to be, Jason? It’s okay. It’s Thanksgiving, after all.”

“I’ll need to be running in a bit here, yeah.”

“Are you seeing your folks?”

I laughed out loud. “No, ma’am. My mother’s deceased and my father isn’t close by.”

She cocked her head. “You’re all alone on Thanksgiving?”

“Not at all. I’m with you and Tom. That’s enough for me. It’s nice to see Tom enjoying something.”

“It is, it is. You should have seen him when he was a boy. His mother couldn’t keep enough groceries in the house.”

Then Aunt Deidre looked at me. She just stared at me for a long time and didn’t say a word. She didn’t need to say any words. I knew what she wanted.

“Deidre, we have a rough road ahead. You understand that.”

She finally broke eye contact. Her brain knew this. Her heart was hoping against hope for something different.

“I’m throwing a lot of darts at the board and hoping something sticks,” I continued. “I haven’t given up hope. And if we get a bad result, I think we have a pretty good appeal issue already, out of the gate, with the judge striking our insanity defense and not giving me more time. Most judges aren’t nearly so strict with discovery deadlines as Judge Nash. I think a higher court will be sympathetic.”

She nodded, trying to make this less difficult for me. It didn’t. It made it worse.

“The state has a circumstantial case,” I said. “I can drill some holes. Don’t give up.”

She didn’t look at me, but she rested her hand on my arm. “Whatever happens, whatever we get, it will be better with you than anyone else. I’m sure of it, Jason.”

She was putting undue faith in me. She was expecting something I was pretty sure I couldn’t deliver. It was a weight beyond what I normally carried on a case. I wasn’t sure how I was going to handle losing this trial.

I left on that note. I said good-bye to Tom, but he only looked up briefly, mashed potatoes and gravy on his chin, before he resumed his feast. I was going to remind him that I’d be back tomorrow, that we’d have to go over some things, but I didn’t want to ruin the small measure of enjoyment he was experiencing.

If things continued as they were, it would be the last home-cooked meal he’d ever eat.