The Boy from the Woods(104)

“No, Delia. The tape won’t be enough. Raymond Stark will stay in prison.” Hester took a breath, tried to sound reasonable. “But please, listen to me—”

“No. I’m leaving now.”

“You helped lock him up. You can’t just—”

“Goodbye, Hester.”

“I could tell.”

Delia smiled and shook her head. “No, you couldn’t, Hester.”

Hester stood there, her fists at her side, her body shaking.

“First off,” Delia said, “there is no evidence. I’ll just deny it. But more than that, you won’t violate attorney-client privilege. Even if it meant saving the world from Hitler. Even if it means an innocent man stays in jail.”

The system was flawed, but it was still the system.

Delia Maynard left the office then. For a few minutes, Hester didn’t move. Sarah McLynn came in and said, “Your next appointment—”

“Cancel.”

“I can’t just cancel. He’s—”

“Cancel.”

The tone left no room for argument. Hester circled back to her desk. With a shaking hand, she picked up the phone and dialed the number.

The voice that answered sounded tentative. “Hello?”

“Oren?”

She hadn’t spoken to him in three weeks, not since the pizza date. She hadn’t returned his calls or answered his texts.

“Are you okay, Hester?”

“I need you to take me someplace. I need you to take me now.”





CHAPTER

THIRTY-NINE



Two hours later, Oren pulled the squad car onto the shoulder of Mountain Road. He turned off the ignition. For a few moments the two of them just sat in silence.

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

When Hester nodded, Oren got out of the passenger side and opened her door. Up ahead, Hester saw the weathered makeshift cross. It was odd for her to see it here—her son had been raised somewhere between agnostic and Jewish—but for some reason, Hester didn’t mind it. Someone had cared. Someone had tried.

Hester walked over to the edge of the highway and looked down the steep embankment.

“So this is where…?”

“Yes.”

Hester had never had the courage—if courage was the right word—to come here. Ira had. Many times. He wouldn’t tell her. He would say he was going out for a ride or to pick up milk at the 7-Eleven, but she knew that he would pull his car over on the shoulder, maybe in this exact same spot, and get out and look at the makeshift cross and sob.

Ira hadn’t told her. She wished that he had.

“Where did the car end up?”

“Down there,” Oren said, pointing to a spot far down the hill.

“You were one of the first officers on the scene.”

Oren couldn’t tell whether that was a question or a statement. “Yes.”

“The car was on fire.”

“Yes.”

“Wilde had already pulled David out.”

Oren just nodded this time.

“Wilde told me he was the one driving,” Hester said.

“He told us that too,” Oren said. “We didn’t charge him though. No alcohol in his system. The roads were wet.”

“Was Wilde driving?”

“That’s what our report said.”

Hester turned to him. “I’m not asking you what your report said.”

Oren’s eyes stayed on the ravine. “When the only survivor of a car accident tells you he was the driver, it’s hard to prove otherwise.”

“Wilde lied, didn’t he?”

Oren didn’t reply.

Hester stood so that they were shoulder to shoulder. “Wilde and David were best friends. You know that, right?”

Oren nodded. “I do.”

“That night, they went to Miller’s Tavern. In David’s car. My David didn’t drink much or go for bars much—that was more Wilde’s scene, I think—but he was having problems with Laila. Nothing serious. Nothing they wouldn’t get past. So the two best friends went out to blow off some steam or whatever men do. David drank too much. The hospital ran a toxicology report when he was rushed in—when they still thought my boy would survive. Wilde didn’t want to get David in trouble. So he said it was him. That he was driving.”

Oren still said nothing.

“Is that what happened, Oren?”

“Did you ask Wilde?”

“He insists he was driving.”

“But you don’t believe him.”

“I don’t, no. Am I right?”

Oren looked down. She watched his eyes. They were so clear, so honest, so beautiful. “Oren?”

Then he said something that surprised her: “I don’t think you have it exactly right.”

For a moment she couldn’t find her voice. When she did: “What do you mean?”

“Wilde would never have let David drive drunk.”

“So…” Hester didn’t know what to say. “I’m not following.”

“We checked Miller’s Tavern. Wilde was a regular, as you said. David wasn’t, but that night, yeah, he got pretty drunk. Anyway, nothing we could prove, but one patron said Wilde left at least half an hour before David. On his own.”