Redemption Road(45)

“Adrian, then.”

“Yes.” Elizabeth slipped onto the edge of her chair. It seemed so small, the truth she needed. A single word, a few letters. “Was he sleeping with Julia Strange?”

“Ah.”

“He told me as much less than an hour ago. I just want verification.”

“You’ve seen him, then?”

“I have.”

“And you asked about the presence of his skin beneath Julia’s nails?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry.…”

“Don’t say no.”

“I wish I could help you, but that information is a matter of attorney-client privilege, and you, my dear girl, are still an officer of the law. I can’t discuss it.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“I’ve dedicated my life to the law. How can I do less when the days that remain are so few?” He drank deeply, visibly upset.

Elizabeth leaned closer, thinking perhaps he might feel the strength of her need. “Listen, Crybaby…”

“Call me Faircloth, please.” He waved a hand. “The nickname reminds me of better days that hurt all the more for their passing.” He settled into the seat as if a hand were pressing down.

Elizabeth clasped her fingers and spoke as if the rest of her words might cause pain, too. “Adrian believes someone planted evidence to implicate him.”

“The beer can, yes. We discussed that, often.”

“Yet, it was never challenged at trial.”

“For that, my dear, Adrian would have needed to take the stand. He was unwilling to do so.”

“Can you tell me why?’

“I’m sorry, but I cannot; and for the same reason as before.”

“Another woman has been killed, Faircloth, murdered in the same manner and in the same church. Adrian has been arrested. It will be in tomorrow’s papers.”

“Dear God.”

The glass trembled in his hand, and she touched his arm. “I need to know if he’s lying to me about the beer can, the presence of his skin beneath Julia’s nails.”

“Has he been charged?”

“Faircloth—”

“Has he been charged?” The old man’s voice shook with emotion. His fingers were white on the glass, spots of color in his cheeks.

“Not for the murder. He was picked up on a trespass charge. They’ll hold him as long as they can. You know how it works. As for the dead woman, I know only that she was killed after Adrian’s release from prison. Beyond that, I don’t know what evidence they have. I’m frozen out.”

“Because of your own troubles?”

“And because Francis Dyer doubts my intentions.”

“Francis Dyer. Phhh!” The old man waved an arm, and Elizabeth remembered the way he’d cross-examined Dyer. As hard as Faircloth had tried, he had never been able to discredit Dyer’s testimony. He was unshakable on the stand, utterly convinced of Adrian’s obsession with Julia Strange.

“They’ll hang him for this if they can.” Elizabeth leaned closer. “You still care. I can tell. Talk to me, please.”

He looked out from under bushy brows, the narrowed eyes very bright. “Will you help him?”

“Trust him or walk away. Those are my choices.”

The old man leaned back in the chair and looked small in the rumpled suit. “Did you know that my family and Adrian’s have been together on this river for two hundred years or more? No reason you should, of course, but there it is. The Jones family. The Walls. When my father was crippled in the First World War, it was Adrian’s great-grandfather who taught me to hunt and fish and work the land. He cared for my parents, and when the Depression came, he made sure we had butter and beef and flour. He died when I was twelve, but I remember the smell of him, like tractor grease and grass and wet canvas. He had strong hands and a lined face and wore a tie when he came for supper on Sundays. I grew up and followed the law and never knew Adrian that well. But I remember the day he was born. A group of us smoked cigars on the porch right there. His father. A few others. It’s good land on the river. Good families.”

“That’s a lovely sentiment, but I need something beyond simple faith. Can you tell me anything more? About Adrian? The case? Anything?”

The last word smelled of desperation, and the old lawyer sighed. “I can tell you that the law is an ocean of darkness and truth, and that lawyers are but vessels on the surface. We may pull one rope or another, but it is the client, in the end, who charts the course.”

“Adrian refused your advice.”

“I really can’t discuss it.”

The old man drained his drink, the cherry bloodred in the bottom of the glass. He declined to meet her eyes, and Elizabeth thought she understood. He knew about the affair. He could have used it to sow doubt in the minds of the jury, but Adrian wouldn’t allow it.

“It saddens me, child, to have you here while I have so little of value to say. I hope you can forgive an old man for such a frightful lapse, but I find myself weary.”

Elizabeth took his hand, the bones within it light and brittle.

“If you would be kind enough to fix another drink.” He retrieved his hand and offered the glass. “My heart aches from thoughts of Adrian, and my legs seem to have lost much of their feeling.” Elizabeth fixed the drink and watched him take it. “Did you know that George Washington slept here, once?” He gestured vaguely; seeming tired enough to be transparent. “I often wonder which room.”