The Guilty

  inside. She led him to the last one on the left. She rapped on the door.

  “Judge Robie, you got you a visitor.”

  She looked at Robie, hiked her eyebrows, pointed a finger at him, and said in a low voice, “Ten minutes. That’s it.”

  She opened the door and Robie walked through. A second later the door was shut and locked. He heard her booted feet going back down the hall.

  The next instant Robie was slammed up against the wall. His cheek hit the brick and he felt it start to swell.

  “What the hell are you doin’ here?” barked Dan Robie right in his son’s ear.

  Robie broke his father’s grip, with some difficulty, circled him, bent Dan’s arm back and then behind the older man, and wrenched it upward, but not enough to do any permanent damage.

  “You going to calm down?” asked Robie quietly. “Or do I have to break it?”

  “I told them I didn’t want to see you.”

  “But here I am. Can we talk this out?”

  “You’re assaultin’ me.”

  “I’m acting in self-defense. You jumped me first. Now we can just stand here looking stupid or we can do something productive.”

  “Well, you can start by lettin’ go of my damn arm!”

  Robie released his father and stepped back.

  Dan Robie rubbed his limb and turned to look over at his son.

  “Why are you here?” he barked.

  “I got word that you were in trouble.”

  “I’ve been in a lot of trouble over the last twenty-two years. I didn’t see you show up then.”

  Dan Robie sat down on his bunk, which gave Robie a chance to observe his father more closely. The man was sixty-four now. He was still taller than his son, still lean with broad shoulders and ropy muscles. His hair was all white and starting to thin a bit, and his face was weathered in the way that only living near the ocean can inspire.

  “No, you didn’t,” replied Robie.

  “So why now?”

  “Maybe it has more to do with me at my stage of life than you.”

  “Okay, you’ve seen me. We’ve talked. Now leave.”

  His father turned away from him.

  “Did you kill Sherman Clancy?”

  His father said nothing.

  “If you didn’t, and I don’t think you did, then the person who did kill him is out there. Maybe it’s the same person who killed Janet Chisum.”

  His father didn’t break his silence.

  “I thought a Marine and a judge would not want to see a killer or killers walk free.”

  “I don’t. But that’s not my job, is it? And I’m hardly in a position to find out who it might be.”

  “That’s why I’m here.”

  His father turned to him. “You?” he scoffed. “What makes you think you can do anythin’ about it? Where have you been? What have you been doin’ with your life?”

  “Things. I’ve been doing things with my life.”

  “You think you can just waltz back in here and—”

  “I left you a phone number where you could reach me,” broke in Robie. “As soon as I got to where I was going. Twenty-two years ago.” He paused. “You never called.”

  “Why the hell should I? You left home. Snuck off in the middle of the night like the damn coward you were. Could never face nothin’ head-on, boy. Nothin’.”

  “If I remember right you left home when you were seventeen, lied about your age, and joined the Marines. Did you ever go back home? Because I don’t recall you ever mentioning that you did.”

  “That’s none of your damn business.”

  Robie ignored this and said, “I wondered why I never met my grandfather. Why you never even mentioned him. Did he beat the shit out of you? Did he insult you every day of your life? Because if he did, we have a lot of things in common.”

  Dan Robie looked across the narrow width of the cell at his son.

  “So you’re here to what? Vent? Stand up to me? Kick my ass to show you’re a man in your own eyes?”

  “I know I’m a man. I don’t have to vent or kick your ass to prove anything.”

  “Then why are you here?” snapped Dan.

  “Because you’re in trouble. And I help people who are in trouble. Even if they don’t deserve it.”

  “Oh, so you’re some kind of Good Samaritan?” his father said sarcastically.

  “I don’t think anyone who knows me would describe me that way.”

  A long moment of silence passed between the two men.

  “Did you kill Sherman Clancy?”

  “Well, if I did, it’s doubtful I would confess it to you.”

  “Did you think Victoria had slept with him?”

  “You stay the hell out of my life.”

  “I’m staying at the Willows.”

  Dan Robie looked like he might attack his son again.

  “The hell you are! I forbid you to stay in my house. You have no right to be there.”

  “I don’t think you have any say in it, what with your ass being locked up in here.”

  “I won’t be locked up in here forever.”

  “No. If you’re convicted they’ll send you to the state pen. Doubt it’s as nice as this place. By the way, you need a lawyer.”

  “I’m actin’ pro se. Do you even know what that means?”

  “Yeah, it’s Latin for ‘dumbass.’ I’ll ask around and find you somebody.”

  “You will do nothin’ of the kind, boy.”

  “And I’ll protect your family from harm.”

  Dan started to say something but then stopped. He looked at his son warily. “What do you mean by that?”

  “Credible threats? I’ve already met some folks down here that could constitute that. And I’ve also met some other folks who think the credible threat could be coming from a pretty dangerous source. If so, I doubt they’ll give a shit who they kill. So who do you want to rely on to protect them, the police force of Cantrell, Mississippi?”

  “And you think you’re any better?” his father said dismissively.

  “I don’t think. I know I’m better. That’s what I’ve been spending my life doing, Dad.” He rolled up his sleeve to expose the burn. “Sometimes it gets a little hairy. But you just keep soldiering on. And now that I know Ty is my little brother, it will take an army of them to get past me.”

  His father ran an eye up and down his son’s lean, muscled physique, but he came away looking unsatisfied.

  “Hell, you even know how to use a gun? Because everybody around here does.”

  Robie said, “You’re the second person in Cantrell to ask me that. And yes. I know how to use a gun. Better than anyone you’ll ever know.”

  Chapter

  26

  THINK OF THREE lawyers and then tell me the one you’d want to hire if your butt was on the line.”

  Robie was staring at Sheila Taggert as she sat behind her desk.

  She looked back at him, her gaze resigned.

  “Toni Moses is who you want.”

  Robie gazed skeptically at her. “Toni Moses? Is that a real name?”

  “Couldn’t tell you. But if you need a kickass lawyer, she is it.”

  “A woman, then?”

  “A black woman, then,” amended Taggert. “And the other good thing is she and Aubrey Davis can’t stand the sight of each other. I bet she’d do anythin’ to get this case.”

  “She’s that good?”

  “Thirteen capital cases in the last dozen years. Here and over to Biloxi and up on to Hattiesburg and even one in Jackson. She won ’em all. I’d say that was pretty damn good, considerin’ none of her clients were exactly upstandin’ citizens. And almost all of ’em were the same color she was. Which in Mississippi ain’t just good. It’s a damn miracle. So I’d say she’s aptly named. Least the Moses part. Leadin’ people to the promised land.”

  “Where can I find her?”

  “Right next door. She says she likes being next to the jail ’cause she can
just walk over and pick up clients. Only exercise she gets, so she claims, anyhow.”

  “You know her well?”

  “Well as anybody ’round here can.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Guess it went all right with your daddy, seein’ how you’re still alive and all.”

  “It was a close call for a while.”

  “You want somethin’ for that swollen cheek where he belted you?”

  “I’m good.”

  * * *

  Outside Robie gazed up and down the street until his eyes settled on the black metal shingle dangling from a small, tidy, brick building painted a stark white.

  He walked over and read off the sign. “Toni Moses, J.D. Counselor at Law.”

  He knocked on the door and could immediately hear a buzzer go off somewhere. He pushed open the door and walked in.

  A young woman sat at a desk in the small foyer. The desk held a sleek computer along with neat stacks of files. The woman was in her late twenties, Robie estimated, and had long red hair, a face covered with freckles, and beautiful green eyes. She rose and came forward.

  “Can I help you?”

  “I was looking for Toni Moses?”

  “Can I say who’s askin’?”

  “Will Robie. I’m here to see about her representing my father.”

  Her look told Robie that she knew exactly who his father was.

  “Just give me a minute, Mr. Robie.”

  She disappeared into an internal office. About ten seconds had passed when the door opened and Robie saw her.

  Toni Moses was barely five feet tall, but as wide as she was tall with a massive bosom. Her kinky dark hair fell over her shoulders. She wore glasses tethered to a cord. Her pantsuit was a bit small for her stout frame, and her thick feet were wedged into open-toed heels.

  Her brow was full and furrowed, and her eyes enormous and darker than her hair. Her mouth was wide, the lips painted a muted red. The nails were long and manicured.

  But when she spoke Robie forgot all about what she looked like.

  “Where have you been?” she demanded in a quiet voice that nonetheless seemed to have the impact of a clap of thunder.

  “Excuse me?” said Robie. He stepped back as she charged forward.

  “Where have you been? Simple question.”

  “I just came from the jail.”

  “Uh-huh. Your butt hadn’t eased across the county line for ten seconds when I knew all there was to know. Come on in. We have things to talk about.”

  She turned and walked back into her office. Over her shoulder she called out, “Your daddy could be a dead man walkin’. So time is definitely of the essence.”

  The young woman had eased out of Moses’s office and was looking sympathetically at Robie. “Would you like some coffee?” she asked.

  “No. And don’t get her any. Or any more.”

  “Robie!” cried out Moses. “Get your butt in here.”

  Robie hurried into her office, and the young woman quickly closed the door behind him.

  He looked around the small space that was dominated by, in addition to Moses, a huge desk piled high with paper.

  “Sit,” said Moses, indicating a chair piled high with paper files. “Just move those, honey. No, over there to the right on the floor,” she said, when Robie attempted to put them on another chair. “Have to keep organized.”

  He sat and looked at her. She stared back at him.

  “Well?” she said. “Are you here to retain me on behalf of your daddy?”

  “He doesn’t know I’m here. But we talked.”

  She pointed to the fresh bruise on his cheek. “I can see you talked all right. How many shots on him did you get?”

  “He needs a lawyer.”

  “Damn right he does. Representin’ himself? Damn fool. And he’s told that to quite a few folks in his own courtroom. I can say his spiel word for word: ‘Tryin’ to be your own lawyer is like playin’ Russian roulette with a full chamber of bullets. You got no chance ’cept to die.’”

  “You come highly recommended.”

  She inclined her head. “I was wonderin’ when you were goin’ to get around to askin’ Sheila Taggert ’bout hirin’ a lawyer.”

  “She speaks highly of you.”

  Moses nodded. “My terms are nonnegotiable. You pay my hourly fee, which isn’t cheap, but compared to New York or DC I’m basically free. I work my butt off on the case, leavin’ no stone unturned. If I win I get nothin’ extra.”

  “And if you lose?”

  “I get my fees paid in full. No hard feelin’s.”

  “I hear you have a lot of experience with capital cases.”

  “In Mississippi they have lots of laws where they can kill you if you break ’em. Now, they don’t execute folks on the level of say a Texas or Florida, but not for lack of tryin’. The main reason they don’t put more folks to death is because poor counties, of which there is an abundance here, can’t afford to provide defense counsel to indigent defendants, of which there is also an abundance here. And without that you’re not goin’ to survive an appellate challenge. So courts just give the defendant life in prison instead. And everybody’s happy,” she tacked on in a sarcastic tone.

  “Sorry state of affairs,” said Robie.

  “Just the way it is. Now one big thing your daddy’s got goin’ for him is he’s white. Mississippi doesn’t execute many white folks, particularly those with money or a position of respect, both of which he’s got. Mississippi has executed about eight hundred people over the last two centuries, and eighty percent of them were black men, so you can see the odds favor your daddy.”

  “Okay,” said Robie slowly.

  “Now, capital cases involve two parts. First, the trial to determine guilt or innocence. If guilt is found you enter the second part, which is the sentencin’ phase. That’s when both aggravatin’ and mitigatin’ circumstances are raised. The only aggravatin’ circumstance I see with your daddy is the catchall in the statute, namely, that the crime was especially heinous, atrocious, or cruel. Slittin’ a man’s throat? Maybe it is or maybe it isn’t. But they also may hold your daddy, since he’s a judge, to a higher standard, I don’t know. But on the plus side, he has lots of mitigatin’ circumstances to his credit. So odds are he won’t get the needle. But they can still lock him up for a long damn time, and he’s no spring chicken. So twenty years is like a death sentence.”

  “And if he’s guilty?”

  “That question doesn’t interest me not even one little bit.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s Aubrey Davis’s job to prove guilt beyond a reasonable doubt, so says the Constitution and the United States Supreme Court. He’s got the full resources of Cantrell and the mighty State of Mississippi behind him. All your daddy will have is me, but let me just say that I am a damn handful in any court in which I set foot. My job is to make sure Aubrey doesn’t get to where he wants to go, which is a conviction. He gets that, he’s the next congressman or maybe even senator from our great state, and I might have to slash my wrists and bleed out right here at my desk if that ever happens.”

  “I take it you two don’t get along?”