Where the Crawdads Sing(79)

“Who is it?”

“It’s yo’ lawya, Mr. Milton.” Metal-to-metal clanks sounded, as Jacob unlocked her door and handed her the package. “An’ this here’s from Jumpin’.” She laid the parcel on the bed and followed Jacob down the hall and into a room—even smaller than her cell. Tom Milton rose from his chair as she entered. Kya nodded at him and then looked out the window, where an enormous cumulus cloud with peach-colored cheeks puffed itself up.

“Good evening, Kya.”

“Mr. Milton.”

“Kya, please call me Tom. And what’s wrong with your arm? Have you hurt yourself?”

She jerked her hand, covering the webs she’d scratched on her arms. “Just mosquito bites, I think.”

“I’ll talk to the sheriff; you shouldn’t have mosquitoes in your— room.”

Head down, she said, “Please, no, it’s okay. I’m not worried about insects.”

“All right, of course, I won’t do anything you don’t want. Kya, I came to talk about your options.”

“What options?”

“I’ll explain. It’s hard to know at this point how the jury is leaning. The prosecution has a good case. It’s not solid by any means, but considering how people in this town are prejudiced, you have to be prepared that it won’t be easy for us to win. But there’s the option of a plea bargain. Do you know what I’m referring to?”

“Not exactly.”

“You have pleaded not guilty to first-degree murder. If we lose, you lose big: life in prison or, as you know, they are seeking the death penalty. Your option is to plead guilty to a lesser charge, say, manslaughter. If you were willing to say, yes, you did go to the tower that night, you did meet Chase there, you had a disagreement, and in a horrible accident he stepped backward through the grate, the trial might end immediately, you wouldn’t have to go through any more of this drama, and we could negotiate with the prosecution over a sentence. Since you’ve never been charged with anything before, they’d probably sentence you to ten years, and you could be out in, say, six years. I know that sounds bad, but it’s better than spending life in prison or the other.”

“No, I won’t say anything that implies guilt. I will not go to prison.”

“Kya, I understand, but please take some time to think about it. You don’t want to live your entire life in jail, nor do you want—the other.”

Kya looked out the window again. “I don’t need to think about it. I won’t stay in jail.”

“Well, we don’t have to decide now. We have some time. Let’s see how it goes. Before I leave, is there anything you want to discuss with me?”

“Please get me out of here. One way or—the other.”

“I’ll do my best to get you out, Kya. But don’t give up. And please help me. Like I’ve mentioned before, you need to be engaged, look at the jurors now and then . . .”

But Kya had turned to leave.



* * *



? ? ?

JACOB LED HER BACK to the cell, where she picked up the package from Jumpin’—unwrapped by the warden and taped up haphazardly again. She opened it, saving and folding the paper. Inside was a basket with some tiny vials of paint, a brush, paper, and a paper bag of Mabel’s corn muffins. The basket was lined with a nest of pine straw, some oak leaves, a few shells, and long strands of cattails. Kya sniffed deeply. Pinched her lips. Jumpin’. Mabel.

The sun had set; no dust motes to follow.

Later Jacob cleared away her supper tray. “I declare, Miz Clark, ya didn’t eat much a’tall. Them poke chops and greens as good as dey git.” She smiled lightly at him, then listened as his steps clomped to the end of the hall. She waited to hear the thick metal door shut with heavy finality.

Then something moved on the hall floor, just outside the bars. Her eyes swung there. Sunday Justice sat on his haunches staring at her dark eyes with his green ones.

Her heart raced. Locked up alone all these weeks, and now this creature could step wizardlike between the bars. Be with her. Sunday Justice broke the stare and looked down the hall, toward the inmates’ talk. Kya was terrified that he would leave her and walk to them. But he looked back at her, blinked in obligatory boredom, and squeezed easily between the bars. Inside.

Kya breathed out. Whispered, “Please stay.”

Taking his time, he sniffed his way around the cell, researching the damp cement walls, the exposed pipes, and the sink, all the while compelled to ignore her. A small crack in the wall was the most interesting to him. She knew because he flicked his thoughts on his tail. He ended his tour next to the small bed. Then, just like that, he jumped onto her lap and circled, his large white paws finding soft purchase on her thighs. Kya sat frozen, her arms slightly raised, so as not to interfere with his maneuvering. Finally, he settled as though he had nested here every night of his life. He looked at her. Gently she touched his head, then scratched his neck. A loud purr erupted like a current. She closed her eyes at such easy acceptance. A deep pause in a lifetime of longing.

Afraid to move, she sat stiff until her leg cramped, then shifted slightly to stretch her muscles. Sunday Justice, without opening his eyes, slid off her lap and curled up next to her side. She lay down fully clothed, and they both nestled in. She watched him sleep, then followed. Not falling toward a jolt, but a drifting, finally, into an empty calm.