"I got your stuff ... but we can't help you," the coordinator said. "One of our attorneys defended the victim three years ago in a misdemeanor shoplifting charge, back before he joined the PD's office. And you know we're too tiny, Bernie, to build a Chinese wall around whoever takes St. Bride on."
Bernie sighed. For a Friday, it was feeling a hell of a lot like a Monday morning. "Okay. I'll go to my backup list. Thanks."
He hung up and shuffled through a rubber-banded sheaf of cards he kept in the front compartment of his desk, a group of attorneys in private practice whom he called on, now and then, when the public defender's office had a conflict. Finally, his eye caught on one name. "Here we go," Bernie said, smiling slowly, and he picked up the phone.
The third time he heard a crash, Jordan put down his cup of coffee and went to investigate. He moved through the hallway like a bloodhound on a scent, until he found the source of the noise--behind Thomas's closed bedroom door. Which was exceptionally strange, since Thomas had left for school nearly two hours earlier.
Another crash. Then: "Goddamn!" Jordan pushed open the door to find Selena sprawled on the carpet, which had been covered with newspaper. She wore a tank top and a pair of his own boxer shorts. Her mahogany skin was dotted with blue freckles, and a paint roller lay several feet away, in a puddle of its own pigment.
"Whatever kind of look you were going for ... you missed," Jordan said.
Selena narrowed her eyes, "If I throw a stick, will you leave?"
He stepped into the room. "Not until I figure out why you're painting Thomas's ceiling ..." He paused to read the label on the can a few feet away. "Woodsmoke blue."
"Because you haven't done it?" She waved a hand about. "For God's sake, Jordan. The kid's fifteen. You think Easter egg purple and bunny wallpaper work for him?"
Jordan glanced around, seeing Thomas's room through new eyes. It had belonged to a little girl when they'd bought the house. For a year now, Jordan had been promising Thomas it was something they'd tackle together. He glanced down at his sweatpants and river driver's shirt. Nothing that couldn't get ruined, he supposed. Stepping closer, he picked up the paint roller. "At least I know how to climb a ladder. Christ--from the racket, it sounded like you were holding a WWF tournament."
"For your information, I could stay on the ladder just fine." Selena frowned. "It was the roller that kept losing its balance, every time I let go of the handle."
Jordan rolled a smooth rectangle of blue paint onto the ceiling. "Didn't think you'd even need a ladder, Amazon that you are."
By now, Selena was standing. She automatically lifted the paint tray so that Jordan wouldn't have to dismount to refresh the roller. "Very funny."
"Sarcasm is just one more service we offer." He squinted. "Why blue?"
"It's calming. And you're missing that whole section. See?"
Jordan scowled. "It looks perfectly fine to me."
"That's because you're as good as blind." Selena slapped her hands on the rungs of the ladder, encircling Jordan, and began to climb up behind him. He twisted to allow her access to duck beneath his arm, as she reached up and pointed to a spot that had not been covered thoroughly. "There," she said.
But Jordan wasn't listening. He was inhaling the scent of Selena's skin, feeling the heat of her pressed behind and beside him. He closed his eyes and, moving just the slightest bit, inclined his head closer to hers. "I'm not blind, Selena," he murmured.
They remained tangled in a knot of possibility. And just as Jordan tipped forward to kiss Selena, she turned so that he grazed the nape of her neck, instead. "Jordan," she whispered. "We know better."
"This time, it could be different. I'm different."
She smiled softly. "An erection doesn't count as personal growth."
He opened his mouth to contest that, but before he could, the telephone rang. Trying to extricate himself from his position on the ladder, he wound up knocking down both Selena and the paint roller once again. He leaped over her, ran down the hall, and grabbed the portable from the living room.
A moment later, he appeared at the threshold to Thomas's bedroom. Selena stood on the ladder again, the muscles in her arms flexing as she stretched overhead to paint. When she turned, her gaze was positively blank, as if what had just passed between them had never happened. "Please tell me it's that idiot mechanic telling me my car's ready."
"It was Bernie Davidson, at the courthouse," Jordan said, still a little dazed. "Apparently, I'm back in practice." He turned to Selena, a question in his eyes.
"Count me in," she said, and stepped down beside him.
*
Like every other human over the age of eight in Salem Falls, Jordan knew that Jack St. Bride had been convicted once for sexual assault. That he was now on the receiving end of a rape charge didn't bode particularly well, either. One thing was for certain: with a prior under his belt, St. Bride wouldn't be getting bail. Which actually suited Jordan just fine, because a guy who was locked up couldn't get himself into any more trouble.
His hair was still wet from his shower when he arrived at the county attorney's office in Ossipee. As far as he was concerned, he had one job, and that was to get as much information as he could early in the game. Rape trials were always a bitch; the more Jordan knew, the better chance he'd have of landing on his feet.
He waited for the secretary to buzz Matt Houlihan, an assistant county attorney Jordan disliked just on general principles. The fucker was too cocky, and if Jordan felt that, it was really saying something. Jordan wasn't sure what pissed him off more--the young county attorney's persistence or the fact that his hairline wasn't receding even the tiniest bit.
Matt appeared around the corner of a cubicle, grinning. "He has risen!"
Smiling just as widely, Jordan held out his hand to shake. "Reports of my demise have been greatly exaggerated."
Matt gestured down the hall, toward his office. "Where have you been, Jordan? After the Harte case, you dropped off the face of the earth."
"No ... just into Salem Falls." Jordan's mouth twitched. "So you may have been right in the first place." He took a seat across from Matt. "I've been appointed as counsel for Jack St. Bride," he said without preamble.
"Thought he was getting someone from the PD's office."
"Apparently, there was a conflict. What you see is what you get."
Matt's eyes sparked. "I like a good challenge."
There wasn't much Jordan could say to that without the words getting stuck in his throat. Defending a guy who seemed to be a two-time loser against Matt Houlihan ranked just about at the bottom of things Jordan enjoyed doing. "I don't see any reason to contest your bail request," Jordan said confidently, although no attorney in his right mind would think there was any chance in hell St. Bride might be released. "Assuming you can give me the police reports you have up to this point."
Matt tossed him a file. "There's the charge, and the victim's statement."
It was a gift, Jordan knew. Without it, the victim would be a complete cipher and it would be nearly impossible to prepare a case. He opened the file, and the name of the victim leaped out. Jordan kept his face poker straight. "Well," he said, getting to his feet. "We'll talk again."
"About what?" Matt steepled his fingers, his casual pose completely at odds with the grim determination in his eyes. "I've got a young girl saying some jerk raped her, a jerk who was just in jail for doing the same thing. There's nothing to talk about, Jordan. I'm gonna lock your client up for twenty long years."
The moment Jordan McAfee walked into the celled corridor of the sheriff's department beneath the county court building, Jack got to his feet. Jordan met his gaze immediately, something the deputies tried not to do. "Hi, Jack," he said smoothly. "I know we've met, but I'm not sure you realize why I'm here. I've been practicing law for nearly twenty years, and occasionally I help out when the court needs someone because the public defender's office has a conflict. I've been asked to stand up in your case."
&n
bsp; Jack opened his mouth to say something, but Jordan held up his hand. "There's not much we can accomplish this morning, so we're just going to keep our powder dry. We're not going to say anything about the case, and we're not going to ask the judge for anything."
"You have to get me released on bail."
"Jack, you have a prior conviction. You have about as much chance of walking out of here today as a groom at a shotgun wedding. You're going to have to trust me on--"
"Trust you? Trust you?" Jack's eyes were wild. "I don't even know you."
Jordan was quiet for a moment. "You know I take my coffee light and that I read the New York Times and not the Globe. You know I leave a twenty percent tip, every time. That's more than most defendants know about their attorneys. Now, I wasn't the one who landed you in this cell. ... Apparently, you were able to do that all by yourself."
"I don't want to go back to jail," Jack said desperately. "I didn't do what they said."
Jordan looked at Jack's disheveled clothing, his wild eyes, the long scrape on his cheek, and let the words roll right off his back. If he'd had a nickel for every time he'd heard that, he'd have been living the high life in Belize. "I understand you're upset right now. Let's just get through the arraignment, and then we'll start to look at our options."
"The last time a lawyer told me we'd look at my options," Jack said, "I spent eight months in jail."
Jordan shrugged, silent. But he was thinking: This time, it's going to be much worse.
"If this isn't deja vu," said Judge Freeley, opening the file on his desk again. "Mr. St. Bride, I see you're now being represented by Mr. McAfee."
Jordan stood and neatly buttoned his suit jacket. Immediately, he could feel the eyes of the cameras in the back of the courtroom blinking to life. "Yes, Your Honor. I've explained the complaint to my client, and he's read it and he understands it. If I could ask the court to enter a not-guilty plea on the defendant's behalf?"
"Fine," the judge said. "Is there an issue about bail?"
Matt Houlihan unfolded his lanky body and glanced at Jack. "This was an extremely violent crime, Judge. Moreover, the defendant already has a prior conviction and has virtually no ties to the community--he just moved here, has no family nearby, owns no property--all these facts indicate that he's a flight risk. Finally, Your Honor, this community would not be safe if he were to be released. This man has been charged with violently sexually assaulting a young girl, and he has already been convicted once of doing the exact same thing. The court could expect that on release, he'd only go out and find yet another victim. For these reasons, Your Honor, the state requests that bail be denied."
The judge turned toward the defense table. "Mr. McAfee?"
"I don't have a problem with that at this point, Your Honor."
Judge Freeley nodded. "All right then--"
"The reason," Jordan interrupted, "that I don't feel a need to contest the state's request for denying bail is because frankly, it's the safest place for my client. You see before you a man whose first amendment rights have been stripped away by the force of rumor and conjecture--a man who has committed no crime but in reality has been victimized. Your Honor, the town of Salem Falls has been out for Jack St. Bride's blood since the moment he arrived."
The judge gestured at the cameras. "I'm sure the academy is enjoying your Oscar-worthy performance, Mr. McAfee," he said dryly. "Let's pity the justice who draws your trial. Next?"
As the clerk called the following case, Jordan turned to his client, who was speechless. "What?" he demanded.
"I ... I didn't expect you to stick up for me," Jack admitted.
Jordan stuffed the manila file from the county attorney's office in with his other papers. "Well, if I can give you the benefit of the doubt, maybe you can find it in yourself to do the same." He watched the bailiff approach to take his client away to the jail next door.
"Wait," Jack called over his shoulder. "When am I going to talk to you again?"
"Not today. I've got a really busy schedule." Jordan tucked his briefcase beneath his arm and walked out of the courtroom, wondering what Jack St. Bride would think if he knew that for the rest of the day, Jordan had absolutely nothing else to do.
November 1998
Loyal,
New Hampshire
Sometimes, when Jack watched his girls fly down the field, time stopped. He would hear only the beat of his own heart and see the small dark stitches sewn by their cleats as they ran from goal to goal, and he would think: It does not get any better than this.
"Let's go, let's go," he called out, clapping. "Arielle's open!"
He watched his strikers scuffle against the opposing team, a hurricane of feet and mud obliterating the play for a moment. Then his right wing sent the ball spinning toward Arielle, his center. The senior captain of the team, Arielle was the best striker he had. She was on the field continuously, with the second-and third-string centers coming in only briefly to give her a chance to catch her breath ... and even then, only when Jack felt that they were winning by a decent margin. Jack watched with pride as she sped toward the net with her eye on the ball, intent on heading it in. But just as the crown of her head connected, she slammed her left shoulder into the post. The ball skimmed off the top of the net, rolling offside, as Arielle crumpled to the ground at the goalie's feet.
A hush fell over the field. Players from both teams stood restless as colts, pawing at the ground in an effort to stay loose while they waited for Arielle to get up.
But she didn't. Jack's breath caught as the ref blew his whistle. He ran out across the field to where Arielle lay flat on her back, staring at the sky.
"I misjudged the goal," she moaned, cradling her arm against her belly. Jack watched her hold the limb tight against her, rounding her shoulders against the pain. He'd bet anything it was her collarbone. Christ, he'd smashed his own three times when he was playing in college.
Sliding an arm around her waist, Jack helped Arielle off the field. There were cheers from the fans of both teams. "Maybe if I rest a minute, I can go back in," Arielle suggested.
He loved her for that. "I think we'd better play it by ear," Jack said. The ref held up his hands, looking to Jack for a replacement so that play could be resumed.
The second-and third-string centers on the bench stared up at him like wallflowers at a dance, praying with all their hearts that this time, they might be chosen. Jack's eyes flickered from one to the next, settling on Catherine Marsh, the daughter of the school chaplain. Her teammates seemed to like her; Jack had never really paid enough attention to form an opinion. Now, she stared up at him, full of hope. It seemed to light her from the inside.
"All right," Jack said. "You're in."
Ohmygod, Catherine thought. Ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod.
She stood in the spot usually handled by Arielle, who had been taken to the hospital. Catherine's eye was so focused on the ball that any minute she expected it to burst into flames. Coming in at the goal kick, the very play where the ball had gone out of bounds, gave her no time to ease into this.
Shaking out her arms and legs, she loosened her body and instructed herself to relax. Not that it did any good.
Settle down, she ordered, but it only made her heart beat harder. She imagined her blood raging like a river. Her eyes followed the trajectory of the ball as the wing attempted a shot. The goalie, a bulk of a girl if Catherine had ever seen one, deflected it with one massive hand ... but the ball spiraled up and over the metal rim of the net, thudding down beyond the boundaries of the field.
"Corner kick," the ref yelled from somewhere behind her. Catherine knew her position. As the wing stood at the squared edge of the field behind the goal, Catherine moved closer to the net. Her right fingertips brushed the goal, a sensory print of where she was standing. A hundred thoughts raced through her mind: If she arcs it, I can head it in. The rim of the goal is warm to the touch. The sun's in my eyes. God, what if I miss? Fingertips grazing again, she fought to see around
the goalie, who was a full head taller than she was. Eye on the ball. Wait. Head it square in. Don't look like an idiot.
The wing's foot shot out, but she whiffed the ball--Catherine craned her neck to see it arch, heading away from the goal. Oh, God, I'll never get to it, thought Catherine, and an enormous pressure lifted from her chest, because she was no longer obligated to perform. Catherine watched the ball hang like a second sun in the air ... and then it outpaced her, a spinning sphere angling over her right shoulder in a sweet, true arc.
Without conscious thought, Catherine leaped. As her shoulders dropped down, her legs came up, and she scissored her legs in a bicycle kick, so that her right foot rocketed the ball back in the direction from which it had come.
Catherine didn't see the ball speed over her shoulder, to stretch the upper left corner of the net. She didn't know at first why all her teammates were screaming and piling on top of her, so that she couldn't have gotten up even if she'd wanted to. Instead, she lay flat on her back with the wind knocked out of her.
A teammate offered her a hand up. Catherine searched the sea of faces on the sidelines, all cheering for her ... for her! She finally stopped when she found the one she was looking for. Coach St. Bride stood on the sidelines with his arms crossed. "Thank you," he mouthed silently.
Catherine smiled so wide she was sure all her happiness would simply spill out at her feet. "My pleasure," she whispered back, and turned to the field to play.
Muddy and spent, but buzzing with the euphoria that comes on a victory, the girls gathered their water bottles and jackets and headed into the locker room. Fans drifted from the sidelines like milkweed blowing from a pod, wandering to the white buildings of Westonbrook or the parking lot, where they could wait for the players they had come to cheer on.
The school nurse had passed along the news that Arielle's collarbone had snapped; she'd be out of commission for six weeks. But where this news would have sent Jack into a tailspin just that morning, he was now remarkably calm. And all because of Catherine Marsh, a little wren he'd never even noticed simply because he'd been too busy admiring the peacock.