Valentine(61)

He drinks the rest of his coffee in one long gulp and tosses the paper cup on the ground. We have the sheriff’s report, he says, and the hospital report, and we have you. That will have to be enough.

I give him a look and walk over to pick up the cup, making a show of putting it in a trash can that is hardly more than an arm’s length from where we stand. I wonder, not for the first time, if I ought to tell him about the ugly phone calls I’ve been getting all these months—You sure love wetbacks, don’t you Mrs. Whitehead? Know what happens to race traitors, Mary Rose? Maybe I’ll drive over there and rape you myself, you bitch.

I know they aren’t serious, just a bunch of bigots and drunks, and Keith would likely remind me that this is a free country, people can say anything they want. And I don’t want to ask for help, not from Keith or anybody else. What I want is to be left alone with Aimee Jo and the baby. And I want to be ready, if somebody shows up at my front door.

I’m ready, I tell Keith.

Good. Let’s get inside and stand under the air-conditioning for a minute or two. He gently presses one hand against the small of my back and we cross the parking lot. Christ almighty, he says, it’s hot. Hello, Scooter, he says when the defense attorney passes us on the stairs.

Keith warned me about Strickland’s lawyer last week when we were practicing my testimony. He sat in the dining room and called questions through the swinging door while I nursed the baby in the kitchen.

He’s a pushy little son of a bitch, Keith said after I had put the baby down and fixed us both a glass of iced tea. Pardon my French— He winked at Aimee, who had walked in behind me, a popsicle hanging out of her mouth. She stared at him like she was already planning their wedding. I’m going to be a lawyer, she said, like you. Smart girl, he said. Go to UT and study business law. Criminal law will break your heart.

When he reached over to steal her nose, Aimee batted his hand away and rolled her eyes. I’m too old for that, Mr. Taylor.

I guess you are. Anyway, he said, Scooter Clemens hails from Dallas. Highland Park. He wears a Stetson so clean you could eat a sandwich off the brim. All hat, no cattle. Keith leaned forward and looked me right in the eye. Family’s been in Texas since forever. Probably got a whole cedar chest full of white hoods in the attic.

How come? Aimee asked, and Keith stumbled around for a bit before telling her, Well, for Halloween, of course.

Aimee, that popsicle is melting all over the carpet, I said. Go eat it in the backyard.

She sighed and pursed her lips together, and I could tell she was thinking about arguing, but when Keith offered her a silver dollar if she gave us a minute to talk, she couldn’t get out of the dining room fast enough. We listened as the kitchen door slammed shut behind her.

Scooter Clemens is a stone-cold killer, Keith said. He’s been getting boys out of trouble for thirty years. Keep your answers short. Don’t let him rile you up, and whatever you do, don’t look at Dale Strickland when they bring him into the courtroom.

*

Judge Rice is a thick-necked old Aggie with heavy white eyebrows and shoulders like a linebacker. He reminds me of the bulldog that used to chase my brother and me home from school. When he’s not in court he runs cattle on family land that runs from Plainview, Texas, to Ada, Oklahoma.

When the bailiffs bring Strickland in, I hear them walk him over to his chair, but I keep my eyes on my lap. Scooter asks if they can take the handcuffs off—he ain’t going anywhere, he says, in his best country voice—and I feel a little of the air go out of my chest. But Judge Rice tells him absolutely not, this man is in custody until somebody declares him innocent or guilty. I breathe out through my nose. Try not to look at him.

After we all say the pledge and the prayer, Judge Rice pulls a pistol out from under his robe and sets it on his desk. West Texas gavel, he tells all of us. Welcome to my courtroom. I look up at him, but the judge is looking over all our heads. Y’all play nice, he says, and points his gavel toward the back of the room.

I stand up and swear the oath, all while staring at Keith’s face. Look at me, he said again and again as we practiced. Look at me, he says now. Tell me what you saw. I tell my story, and then we all take a fifteen-minute break. Other than the jury, there are a handful of people in the courtroom, all of them men of various ages, heights, and shapes. Keith points to a young man sitting alone on the last row. He wears a white dress shirt and a plain black tie, and his arms are folded across his broad chest. His mustache is neatly trimmed and his hair’s so short I can see patches of his skull underneath. Keith leans over. That’s the girl’s uncle, he whispers, and I long to jump from my seat, rush to him, and ask how she’s doing, where she is, why she isn’t here.

I am not back on the stand for more than a minute before I recall that conversation at our house, and the last thing Keith said to me before he packed up his briefcase and admired the baby, who was awake again, and crying and rooting. Do not look at Strickland, Mary Rose. Look at anybody else in the room, but not him.

So I stare at Mrs. Henderson until she looks up and winks at me. The pantyhose have a vise grip on my belly, but instead of clawing at my skirt I fold my hands in my lap and try sending a smile the judge’s way.

How are you doing today, Mrs. Whitehead? Scooter Clemens looks down at his legal pad as if he’s studying it carefully.

Well, I’m just fine, I say. Thank you for asking.