We Begin at the End(46)

“Vincent needs you.”

“Vincent needs a criminal attorney.”

He moved to pick up his beer, felt the shake in his hands and set it down again.

“Everything alright, Walk?”

“Tired. I haven’t been sleeping much.”

“It’s a lot to take.”

“Please do this, Martha. I know how it looks. I can see it, me showing up and asking for a favor. Believe me it hurts.”

“I believe you.”

“I can’t give up on him. Just come to the arraignment, stand by him while they charge. And then we can sort something out, we’ll make him see sense. I just … I know he didn’t do it. And I know how that sounds, like the words of a desperate man, but that doesn’t make me wrong. I need to figure things out. I need time to look into everything.

“I’ve thought about you over the years. Every day, I think about you and us and everything that went on back then. I know I can’t fix things, or roll back the clock, but I can help Vincent now. But I can’t do it without you.” He slumped back, exhausted, spent.

“The arraignment. When is it?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Jesus, Walk.”





18


THE COURTROOM IN LAS LOMAS was busier than usual.

A Tuesday in September, the air conditioning bust, Judge Rhodes fanned himself with a file and loosened his collar.

Walk sat near the front, just as he did thirty years before.

“There’s no hope of bail, not for a capital case,” Martha said. She’d met him outside early, and they’d crossed the street and grabbed a coffee. She was smart, suit and heels, light makeup, enough to make Walk feel dumb for ever thinking he might’ve had a shot at keeping her.

He looked around, lawyers and their clients, navy suits against orange suits, pleas and deals and deficient promises. Judge Rhodes fought a yawn.

The courtroom hushed when he was led in. The people seeking Death, a case with profile.

Judge Rhodes sat up a little straighter, rebuttoned his collar. Reporters at the back, no cameras, just pens and pads. Martha left Walk and went up to the bench, where Vincent settled beside her.

The D.A. Elise Deschamps, straight, stern, took to the front and ran through the charges. Walk tried to read his friend, but from where he sat he could not clearly see his face.

When Elise was done, Vincent stood. Walk felt the lean, edge of seats, eyes locked on the man that killed a child, then came back thirty years later for her sister.

Vincent stated his name.

Judge Rhodes detailed the charges again, then added the state would settle for life with no parole in exchange for a guilty plea.

Walk breathed again. The deal had been offered.

When Judge Rhodes asked for his plea, Vincent turned and met Walk’s eye.

“Not guilty.”

Now there were murmurs, talk till Rhodes quietened them.

Martha looked at the judge, something desperate in her eyes led to a call to approach. “Mr. King. Your lawyer is worried you don’t understand the charge and the offer,” Rhodes said.

“I understand.”

Vincent did not look back as the guard led him from the room.

Walk stepped out and into the morning sun. Las Lomas, the pretty square with the towering statue, a kneeling woman, her head bowed by the hallowed court.

The trial was set for the following spring.

The drive back, Walk’s body breaking to cold sweats, the quaking so bad it tired out his mind. He caught his eyes in the rearview mirror but could not rub the blood from them. The beard was long, he’d made a new notch on his belt. His uniform was big now, the shoulders fell over onto the tops of his biceps.

He pulled into a liquor store by Bitterwater and bought a six-pack.

Martha lived in a small house on Billington Road, far enough out of town. A white gate led to a path bordered by neat lines of flowers, the grass beside green and lush. Baskets hung from ornate hooks, the kind of house that would’ve made him smile on another day.

Inside was cluttered with papers, every inch of the house spoke of work, of defending those less able.

He found his way onto the privacy of the porch and was two beers down by the time Martha came out with a bowl of corn chips. He ate one and she laughed as the flavor seared off his taste buds.

“You’re an animal.”

“Some like it hot.”

They sat close, side by side as they drank.

It was not until the day fell away that Walk calmed. Two beers, that’s all he’d allowed himself. He wanted to get drunk, to scream and curse and shake sense into Vincent King.

Martha sipped wine. “You have to get him to plea.”

Walk rubbed the tension from his neck, always there now.

“Vincent’s case is not winnable, you do know that,” she said.

“I know that.”

“Which means only one thing.”

Walk looked up.

“Vincent King wants to die.”

“So what do I do?”

“You sit here and drink with me while we lament the sorriest state of affairs.”

“Tempting. Or?”

“You work the case.”

“I am.”

Martha sighed. “Knocking doors and praying someone saw something isn’t working a case. You have to get out there and find your angle. And if it can’t be found you make it yourself. Balls, Chief. It’s all about balls now.”