“So am I,” Matt said just as untruthfully.
The two men looked at each other, nearly identical in their height, build, and coloring and in their matching expressions of proud, false confidence. As Zack reached for his suit coat, Matt cleared his throat and reluctantly said, “If . . . if I were to need to use this, what do you want me to do?”
Looking in the mirror, Zack knotted his tie and said with a shrug and a lame attempt at humor, “Just try not to bankrupt me, that’s all.”
An hour later, in the courtroom, standing beside his attorneys, Zack watched the bailiff hand the judge the jury’s verdict. As if the words were spoken in a faraway tunnel, he heard the judge say,
“—guilty of murder in the first degree . . .”
Then after a brief trial to assess punishment, Zack heard another verdict more excruciating than the last: “Punishment is assessed at forty-five years to be served in the Texas Department of Criminal Justice at Amarillo . . . . Bail pending appeal is denied on the basis of sentence exceeding fifteen years . . . . Prisoner is remanded into custody . . .”
Zack refused to wince; he refused to do anything that might reveal the truth: He was screaming inside.
He stood rigidly straight, even when someone grabbed his wrists, yanked them behind his back, and slapped handcuffs around them.
10
1993
“LOOK OUT, MISS MATHISON!” THE shrill warning from the boy in the wheelchair came too late; Julie was dribbling the basketball down center court, laughing as she whirled to make the shot, then she caught her ankle in a footrest of a wheelchair and went flying backward, landing squarely and ignominiously on her rump.
“Miss Mathison! Miss Mathison!” The gymnasium reverberated with the alarmed shouts of handicapped kids in the gym class Julie supervised after school, when her regular teaching duties were over. Wheelchairs gathered around her along with kids with crutches and leg braces. “You okay, Miss Mathison?” they chorused. “You hurt, Miss Mathison?”
“Of course I’m hurt,” Julie teased as she shoved herself up on her elbows and scooped the hair out of her eyes. “My pride is very, very hurt.”
Willie Jenkins, the school’s nine-year-old macho jock who’d been acting as observer and sideline coach, shoved his hands in his pockets, regarded her with a puzzled grin, and remarked in his deep, bullfrog’s voice, “How come your pride hurts when you landed on your bu—”
“It’s all in your perspective, Willie,” Julie said quickly, laughing. She was rolling to her feet when a pair of wing tip shoes, brown socks, and tan polyester pants legs entered her field of vision.
“Miss Mathison!” the principal barked, scowling ferociously at the scuff marks all over his shiny gymnasium floor. “This hardly looks like a basketball game to me. What sort of game are you playing?”
Even though Julie now taught third grade in the Keaton Elementary School, her relationship with its principal, Mr. Duncan, hadn’t improved a whole lot since the time he accused her of stealing the class lunch money fifteen years ago. Although her integrity was no longer an issue with him, her constant bending of the school rules for her students was a permanent thorn in his side. Not only that, but she plagued him to death with innovative ideas and when he nixed them, she rounded up moral support from the rest of the town and, if needed, financial support from private citizens. As a result of one of her notions, Keaton Elementary now had a specially designed educational and athletic program for physically handicapped children, which she’d created and was constantly altering with what Mr. Duncan viewed as typical, frivolous disregard of his preestablished procedures. Miss Mathison had no sooner gotten her handicapped program under way last year than she’d gone on another—stronger—tangent, and there was no stopping hen She was now waging a private campaign to stamp out illiteracy among the women in Keaton and the surrounding area. All it had taken to set her off on this crusade was the discovery that the janitor’s wife couldn’t read. Julie Mathison had invited the woman to her own house and started tutoring her there, but it soon evolved that the janitor’s wife knew another woman who couldn’t read, and that woman knew someone, who knew someone, who knew someone else. Within a short time there were seven women to be taught to read, and Miss Mathison had pleaded with him to let her use a classroom two evenings a week to teach her students.
When Mr. Duncan had protested sensibly about the added cost of utilities to keep a classroom open at night, she’d sweetly mentioned that she’d speak to the principal of the high school then. Rather than look like a heartless ogre when the high school principal yielded to her blue eyes and bright smile, Mr. Duncan had agreed to let her use her own classroom at Keaton Elementary. Soon after he capitulated on that, the irritating crusader decided she needed special learning materials to help speed up the learning process for “her” adults. And as he’d discovered to his everlasting frustration, once Julie Mathison had set her mind on some goal, she didn’t stop until she found a way to achieve it. Sure that she was right, that some important principle was at stake, Julie Mathison possessed a stubborn resiliency combined with a boundless, energetic optimism that was as remarkable as it was annoying to him.
She’d been frustratingly single-minded about her handicapped kids, but this literacy program was a private quest of hers, and nothing he said or did was going to deter her. She was determined to get the special materials she needed, and he was certain her need for two days off in order to go to Amarillo had something to do with finding the money to pay for them. He knew for a fact that she’d persuaded the wealthy grandfather of one of her handicapped students—a man who happened to live in Amarillo—to donate funds for some of the equipment they needed for the handicapped program. Now, Mr. Duncan suspected, she intended to try to prevail upon the unsuspecting man to donate funds to support her women’s literacy program.
That particular “fund-raising” penchant of hers was what he found most distasteful and most embarrassing. It was completely undignified when she went “begging” for extra funds by appealing to wealthy citizens or their relatives. In the four years she’d been teaching at Keaton Elementary, Julie Mathison had managed to become the proverbial thorn in his side, the blister on his heel. For that reason, he was completely immune to the fetching picture she presented as she got to her feet and waved her students into the locker room, calling instructions to them about the game next week. With her face scrubbed clean of makeup, as it was now, and her shoulder-length chestnut hair pulled off her forehead and held in a ponytail, there was a glowing wholesomeness about her and a youthful vitality that had fooled Mr. Duncan into thinking she was sweet, pretty, and uncomplicated when he hired her. At 5’5” tall, she was fine-boned and long-legged, with an elegant nose, classic cheekbones, and a full, soft mouth. Beneath gracefully winged dark brows, her large eyes were a luminous indigo blue, heavily fringed with curly lashes, eyes that seemed both innocent and gentle. As he’d learned to his misfortune, however, the only feature on that delicate face of hers that gave a real hint of the woman beneath was that stubborn chin of hers with its tiny, unfeminine cleft.
Mentally tapping his foot, he waited until his troublesome young teacher had finished dealing with her “team,” smoothed her sweat suit, and raked her fingers through the sides of her hair before he deigned to explain the reason for his unusual afterschool visit to the gym. “Your brother Ted called. I was the only one upstairs to answer the phone,” he added irritably. “He said to tell you that your mother wants you to come to dinner at eight o’clock and that he’ll give you Carl’s car for your trip. He—ah—mentioned you were going to Amarillo. You hadn’t said that when you asked for the time off for personal reasons.”
“Yes, Amarillo.” Julie said with a smile of bright innocence that she hoped would put him off but merely put him on his guard instead.
“You have friends up there?” he said, his brows snapping together over the bridge of his nose.
Julie was going to Amarillo to meet with a wealthy rel
ative of one of her handicapped students in hopes of persuading him to donate money to her literacy program . . . and she had an awful feeling Mr. Duncan already guessed it. “I’m only going to be gone for two school days,” she evaded. “I’ve already arranged for a substitute to take my classes.”
“Amarillo is several hundred miles away. You must have important things to do up there.”
Instead of responding to that thinly veiled query about her purpose for the trip, Julie shoved up the sleeve of her sweatshirt, glanced at her watch, and said in a rushed voice, “Goodness! It’s four-thirty. I’d better hurry if I’m going to go home, shower, and get back here in time for my six o’clock class.”
* * *
When Julie emerged from the school building, Willie Jenkins was waiting beside her car for her, his small face furrowed in a deep frown. “I heard Mr. Duncan and you talking about you going to Amarillo,” he announced in the incredibly gravelly voice that made him sound like a grown man with laryngitis. “And I was wondering, Miss Mathison—I mean, am I going to get to sing or not in the Winter Pageant?” Julie suppressed a smile. Like his older brothers, Willie Jenkins could play any sport and play it well; he was always picked first for every team; he was the most popular kid in the lower grades, and so it rankled him sorely that he was last choice when it came to anything that had to do with music. The reason he was never given a singing part was because when Willie opened his mouth to belt out music, he emitted sounds that sent the entire audience into paroxysms of helpless giggles.
“It’s not my decision, Willie,” Julie said, tossing her briefcase onto the passenger seat of her old Ford compact. “I’m not in charge of the Winter Pageant this year.”
He gave her the impish, thoughtful grin of a male who knows instinctively that a female is soft on him—and Julie was. She loved his spunk, his pluck, his spirit, and most especially his innate kindness toward a particular handicapped boy in her class named Johnny Everett. “Well,” he croaked, “if you was, I mean were, in charge, would you let me sing?”
“Willie,” Julie said, smiling as she turned the key in the ignition, “the day that I get to decide who sings, you’ll sing.”
“Promise?”
Julie nodded. “Try coming to church someday and I’ll prove it. I’ll let you sing in the children’s choir.”
“My folks don’t hold with too much preachin’.”
“Well there you have it—a real dilemma,” Julie said as she began to back slowly out of her parking space in the teacher’s lot, talking to him through the open window.
“What’s a de-lemma?”
She reached out and rumpled his hair. “Look it up in the dictionary.”
The route to her house took her through the center of “downtown” Keaton, four blocks of shops and businesses that formed a square around the stately old county courthouse. When she first came to Keaton as a child, the little Texan town without boulevards or skyscrapers—or slums —had seemed very odd and foreign to her, but she’d quickly come to love its quiet streets and friendly atmosphere. It hadn’t changed noticeably in the last fifteen years. It was much as it had always been—picturesque and quaint, with its pretty white pavilion in the center of the municipal park and its brick-paved streets surrounded by shops and immaculately kept homes. Although the population of Keaton had grown from 3,000 to 5,000, the town had absorbed its new citizens into its own lifestyle, rather than altering to suit theirs. Most of the citizens still went to church on Sunday, the men still assembled at the Elk’s Club on the first Friday of each month, and summer holidays were still celebrated in the time-honored way—in the grassy town square, with the Keaton Municipal Band playing in the bandstand, which was draped in red, white, and blue for those occasions. Original Keaton residents had arrived on horseback and in buggies for those festivities. Now they came in pickup trucks and compact cars, but laughter and music still rang out on the summer breeze, just as it always had. Children still played tag among the ancient oaks or strolled about, holding onto their parents with one hand and an ice cream cone with the other, while their great-grandparents sat on park benches and reminisced. It was a town where people clung tightly to old friendships, old traditions, old memories. It was also a town where everyone knew everything about everybody.
Julie was a part of all that now; she loved the sense of security, of belonging, that it gave her, and from the time she was eleven, she had scrupulously avoided doing anything whatsoever that might bring down the censure of the gossips. As a teenager, she dated only those few boys of whom her parents and the entire town approved, and she only attended school-sanctioned activities and chaste church socials with them. She never broke a deadline or a traffic law or a serious rule; she lived at home while she attended college, and when she finally rented her own little house on the north side of town last year, she kept it immaculately neat and made it a policy not to allow any males who weren’t family members into it after dark. Other young women growing up in the 1980s would have chafed under such restrictions, self-imposed or not, but Julie didn’t. She had found a real home, a loving family who respected and trusted her, and she was determined that she would always be worthy of it all. So effective were her determined efforts that, as an adult, Julie Mathison had become Keaton’s model citizen. Besides teaching at Keaton Elementary and volunteering her time to the handicapped program and her reading program, she also taught Sunday school, sang in the choir, baked cookies for church bake sales, and knitted afghans to help raise money for a new firehouse.
With absolute determination she had eradicated all traces of the reckless, impulsive little street urchin she had been. And yet, every sacrifice she’d made brought her such rewards that she always felt as if she was the one who was blessed. She loved working with children and she got a thrill out of teaching adults. She’d carved a perfect life for herself. Except that sometimes, at night and alone, she couldn’t quite banish the feeling that something wasn’t quite right about all this. Something was false or missing or out of place. She felt as if she’d created a role for herself and wasn’t certain exactly what she was supposed to do next.
A year ago, when the new assistant pastor, Greg Howley, had arrived to help out Julie’s father, she realized what she should have considered long before: She needed a husband and family of her own to love now. Greg thought so, too. They’d talked about getting married, but Julie had wanted to wait until she was certain, and now Greg was in Florida with his own congregation, still waiting for her to decide. The town gossips, who thoroughly approved of the handsome young assistant pastor for Julie’s husband, had been disappointed when Greg had left last month after Christmas without putting an engagement ring on her finger. Julie approved of him, too, objectively. Except sometimes, late at night, when those vague, inexplicable doubts set in . . .
11
LEANING HER HIP AGAINST HER desk, Julie smiled at the seven women between the ages of twenty and sixty who were learning to read. Her heart had already been won over by their determination, their courage, and their intensity, and she was only beginning to learn to know them. She had less than twenty minutes before she was due at her parents’ house for dinner, and she hated to end the class. Reluctantly she looked at her watch and said, “Okay, everybody, that about does it for tonight. Are there any questions about the assignment for next week or anything that anyone wants to say?”
Seven earnest faces looked up at her. Rosalie Silmet, twenty-five and a single mother, raised her hand and said shyly, “We—all of us—want to say how much it means to us that you’re doing this. I got elected to tell you because I’m the best reader so far. We want you to know what a difference you’re making just by believing in us. Some of us,” she hesitated and looked at Pauline Perkins, who had recently joined the class at Rosalie’s urging, “don’t think you can teach us, but we’re willing to give you a chance.”
Following the direction of her gaze to the dark-haired, solemn woman of about forty, Julie said gently, “Pauline, wh
y do you think you can’t learn to read?”
The woman stood up as if she were addressing a person of great importance and admitted to Julie with painful dignity, “My husband says if I weren’t stupid, I’d have learned how to read when I was a kid. My kids say the same thing. They say I’m wastin’ your time. I only came here because Rosalie said she’s learnin’ real quick and never thought she could, neither. Either. I said I’d give it a try for a few weeks.”
The other women in the room nodded reluctant agreement, and Julie briefly closed her eyes before she admitted to them the truth she’d hidden so long ago and forever. “I know you can all learn to read. I know for a fact that not being able to read doesn’t have anything to do with being stupid. I can prove it.”
“How?” Pauline asked bluntly.
Julie drew a deep breath and then said wryly, “I know it, because when I came to Keaton, I was in the fourth grade and couldn’t read as well as Rosalie already does after a few weeks in this class. I know how it feels to think you’re too stupid to learn. I know how it feels to grope your way down a hall and not be able to read the names on the bathroom doors. I know the ways you’ve figured out to hide it from people so they won’t laugh at you. I’m not laughing at you. I’ll never laugh at you. Because I know something else . . . I know how much courage it takes for each one of you to come here twice a week.”
The women gaped at her openmouthed, and then Pauline said, “Is that the truth? You couldn’t read?”
“It’s the truth,” Julie said quietly, meeting her gaze. “That’s why I’m teaching this class. That’s why I’m so determined to get you all the new tools that are available for adults who want to read now. Trust me,” she said, straightening. “I’ll find a way to get you all those things, that’s why I’m going to Amarillo in the morning. All I ask for now is that you have a little faith in me. And in yourselves.”