Key Witness (57 page)

“What do I have to do to earn it?”

“Fuck my brains out. Long and slow.”

“I guess I can do that.” She was a couple sheets to the wind herself.

“I’ve been known to last an hour.”

“Jesus. I might even have an orgasm of my own, you ride me that long. Although that’s gonna run you—time is money, honey.”

“I got the money, honey.”

“Then I got the time.”

“After which a journey down the chocolate highway has always pleasured me,” he said with a smile. “With a rubber, of course. I wouldn’t want to spread infection. From you to me.”

“Thanks for the safety concern,” she said, “except that’s not my style.” She threw open the door, which she had pulled the lock up from, and started to jump out.

This maneuver did not go down well with Elvis. He was out of the truck in a flash and had her wrapped up before she took ten steps, throwing her to the ground and ripping off her underpants with one hand while covering her mouth with the other.

He managed to penetrate her—the straight way—but she fought him like a wildcat, which gave him added satisfaction; hurting a woman while fucking her was particularly pleasurable.

He was about to climax when down the street came a police car.

Elvis’s getting caught was just dumb bad luck. Somebody had been breaking into one of the closed stores down the block, and the police had responded to the silent alarm. There had been a spate of burglaries in the neighborhood recently, and the cops were on extra alert. Finding a rape in progress wasn’t what they were looking for, but the bust was free for the taking, so they took it.

Which was why Elvis Burnside found himself in the county jail, going through the booking process, and about to enter the general population.

Elvis knew the charge against him was bullshit. The woman was a known prostitute, she had solicited him in the bar and he had witnesses—the bartender and a couple guys he knew from work—and they had been fucking. So they were doing it on the ground instead of inside his car or in a motel room. He had bought her and had every intention of paying her.

The deputy escorted him and sixty-eight other men into D block, which was going to be his home for the next few weeks until he was arraigned and went to trial. On the way to his cell, carrying his bedroll and toilet articles, he spotted a friend from his prison days. The friend was hanging by himself in a corner, reading a book by the dim light. No one was bothering him. He was the kind of guy people didn’t bother, unless they were ignorant, and when that happened they learned their lesson, usually fast.

But Elvis could bother him. They were asshole buddies.

He dumped his roll on the bunk he’d been assigned to—the top of a double, with another single sandwiched in. If a man had to pee at night he had to straddle the third man’s bunk while pissing, and sometimes the man in the third bunk would get piss drippings all over him.

Leaving his cell, Elvis sauntered down the hall and flopped next to Dwayne. “Hey, pard. Long time no see.”

Dwayne looked up, startled. “Elvis Burnside,” he exclaimed in ill-concealed distaste. This was the last thing he needed, someone from Durban who knew him.

“In the flesh, good buddy.” Elvis flashed a depraved smile.

Dwayne glanced around to see if anyone was paying them special attention. No one was—in this crowded cesspool they were just two more bodies, taking up space.

“How long you been in here?” Dwayne asked, shifting his position to get more comfortable and to have a better look at Elvis.

“ ’Bout an hour.”

“What’d they bust you for this time?”

“Fuckin’ a whore.”

“Since when’s that illegal?”

“Hey, you tell me. I asked the cop the same damn question.”

They both laughed.

“What about you?” Elvis asked. “I thought you were still pulling time at Durban.”

“I’m here temporarily. Testifying in a case.”

Elvis knew Dwayne was a snitch, one of the most notorious in the entire prison system. A lot of men would hate Dwayne for that and would tear his heart out if they could, but Elvis was cool with it. You do what you do and leave me the fuck alone. “Hey, it’s good to see you again,” he said.

Dwayne looked at him. He smiled warily. “It’s good to see you, too, Elvis.”

“This case you’re into,” Elvis said, “big deal?” Meaning, what are you getting out of it?

Dwayne’s snake smile creased his eyes into slits. “You been following this Alley Slasher story?”

Elvis’s double-take was classic. “You’re the snitch? Hot damn!” He knew all about this story. Every ex-con on the street knew this story—especially the ones, like him, who had a documented history of rape. He had been pulled in for questioning after the fourth rape-murder, when the authorities had started taking this shit seriously, but he’d had a rock-solid alibi: he’d been in jail at the time. The only time in his life he’d been glad he was in jail instead of outside in the free world.

Dwayne nodded yes to Elvis’s question.

“Well, shit, I reckon.” He looked his old friend up and down, “So what’s in it for you, ace?”

“The whole enchilada,” Dwayne told him. He couldn’t help bragging a little on himself. “Easy women, fast cars, lots of money. Especially the money.” In the joint, you kept what you knew and was happening to you to yourself, or you could find yourself in a world of pain. Witness Marvin White. But Elvis was different—they knew each other in ways that would preclude either from fucking the other up. “They’ll cut me loose, brother. Now and forever.”

Elvis cocked his head, regarding Dwayne with a peculiar look. “You got them authorities jumping through hoops, don’t you, bubba? You got them by the fuckin’ balls, man.”

“They don’t see it that way. They think it’s a righteous deal for all concerned.”

“Well, fuck, they should, man. You’re the man, Dwayne.” He paused. “Everywhere you go, that’s what people are saying.”

“They are?” Dwayne was skeptical, and also edgy. Talk among the people they knew was never complimentary without some jive contradictory appendix.

“They’re saying this key witness for the state—meaning you, now that I know it’s you—and the powers to be are going to run some poor motherfucker right into the gas chamber. Except it’s lethal injection now, ain’t it? Pussy way to die, if you ask me.”

“Run him in?”
Dwayne was instantly on guard. “I’m not
running
anyone in. This boogie did what he said he did. All I’m doing is repeating his words back.”

“Yeah, and my mother’s Oprah Winfrey,” Elvis said derisively.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” This fucking Elvis. This fucker could demoralize God.

“The word on the street,” Elvis said, “which I hear now and again, being as I am someone who lives and works thereon, is that this young black person is not the man the police want him to be.”

“Meaning?” Be cautious here. Be very cautious.

“Meaning that the one who did it ain’t even a nigger, Jack.”

“How the hell would anybody know what color he was?” Dwayne exploded. “There’s never been any witnesses.” He exhaled hard in exasperation. “The fucker
confessed
to me. He sat there and told me he did it. He provided details.” He dismissed Elvis with a wave of the hand. “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, man. That’s bullshit.”

Elvis leaned in to Dwayne, so that their heads were inches apart. “Maybe it is, Dwayne, and maybe it isn’t.” He paused. “My instinct tells me the real killer is still out there.”

The air hung over and isolated them like a shroud for two.

Dwayne shook his head strongly. “Your instinct’s gone wrong this time, Elvis. He did it, believe me.”

Elvis nodded sagely. “I don’t have to believe you, Dwayne. I ain’t gonna be sitting on that jury, unless Heaven and Hell change places, which ain’t likely.” He got up. “See you around, Dwayne. Hang ’em low.”

He walked away. Dwayne watched him disappear into the throng. His stomach was flipping. Elvis knew too much; nothing more than a con’s intuition, but it was unsettling, more than enough to put Dwayne on guard.

Tomorrow he’d transfer out of here, or get Blake to transfer Elvis. He had enough shit to worry about without someone from his past looming in front of him, fucking with his mind.

T
HE PSYCHOLOGIST’S OFFICE WAS
in the suburbs, one township closer to the city than theirs. Her building was part of a small medical-therapeutic complex shaped like a horseshoe, low two-story cedar-shingled buildings with outside walkways leading past the various offices. Lots of shrubbery, a central rock pond. Spring through fall the pond was stocked with koi, but they were transplanted to an indoor pond in the winter, when this one would freeze over.

Wyatt parked his car and checked the office number on a piece of scratch paper. Moira’s Audi station wagon was already tucked into a space in the shade. He couldn’t find a shady spot, so he left his sunroof open a crack. He was only a couple minutes late—he rationalized that he’d had a longer drive than Moira and Michaela.

Moira and Michaela had seen the therapist half a dozen times, individually and together. Now it was his turn to join them. He knew it was important, vital; and he wasn’t looking forward to it.

In truth, he was dreading this meeting. He wanted them to come together and heal, whatever that meant—but the timing was lousy. He was about to go into the most important trial of his career. Never before, in all his years of practice, had a man’s life been in his hands. To be ready for that and at the same time have to bare his soul and deal with the heavy emotions going on in his family, especially regarding his marriage, was too much on one plate.

He had to do this. He owed it to Moira. Somehow he’d get through it.

“Mr. Matthews.” The therapist stood and shook his hand. “It’s good to meet you, finally.”

“You, too,” he answered formulaically. He shook her hand. She had a firm handshake.

“Please, sit down. May I call you Wyatt?”

“Sure.”

Moira and Michaela were seated side by side on a small couch. He sat in a cushioned rocking chair next to Michaela. She reached out and took his hand and squeezed. He squeezed back, looked past her to Moira. Moira had a look of apprehension on her face. I feel like she looks, he thought.

“Hi,” he said to her past Michaela.

“Hi,” she answered back.

The therapist, whose name was Roberta Kell, sat in her leather desk chair. The desk faced the wall, so she could swivel in her chair and face into the room. She was a short, slender woman with curly red hair. Dark red, auburn. Freckles. She was probably fun outside the office, Wyatt thought. This—in here—wasn’t going to be fun.

She broke the ice. “How are you feeling?”

“In general or specifically?”

“Whichever you’d prefer to talk about.” She paused, her gaze shifting to Moira and Michaela for a moment, then back to him. “How do you feel about the way things are right now between you and Moira?”

“They’re not very good.”

“Could you talk about that?”

He shrugged. “Our communication’s lousy. I don’t think we trust each other very much. Basically, I don’t think we’re on the same page, Ms. Kell. I don’t know that we’re even in the same book.”

“Roberta, if you don’t mind, Wyatt.” She smiled, then turned to Moira. “How do you feel about what Wyatt just said?”

“It’s the truth—as far as it goes.” She looked at Wyatt, then turned away.

“Where doesn’t it go?” Roberta asked.

“He hates me.”

“Mom!” Michaela looked at Moira with alarm, then at her father to see his reaction.

Wyatt was maintaining his cool on the outside, but inside he was churning. He hadn’t expected this—not so strong, and not so fast. He started taking deep, slow breaths, like he did after a hard run.

Everyone was looking at him. When he felt under control enough to respond, he said, “I don’t hate you, Moira.” He said it looking straight forward, into a middle distance, not focusing on anyone or anything.

“You hate what I did.”

“Yes, I do. But what you did and who you are are two different things.”

“I don’t think you’ve been separating the two,” Moira said, pressing him.

He sighed. “There’s a lot of stuff going on. I haven’t been analyzing all my feelings—as you obviously have,” he said, his voice taking on a tense, defensive posture.

Roberta intervened. “Let’s take a step back. You’re not being judged here, Wyatt. Nobody’s accusing you of anything.”

“That’s not how it sounds to me.”

“I can understand that” She looked at Michaela. “Where are you with all this?”

Michaela looked down. “I feel guilty.”

“No!” Wyatt said quickly. He reached out and took her hand again.

“No, how?” Roberta prompted.

“You aren’t guilty of anything,” Wyatt told Michaela, leaning over to look her in the eye. “You didn’t do anything wrong. You know you didn’t.”

“I feel it,” she said.

“But you didn’t,” he persisted.

“Wyatt.” Roberta spoke his name.

He looked up.

“Putting aside what Michaela did or didn’t do—physically—what about the
feeling
she expressed? What about her
feeling
that she’s guilty? Not whether she is or isn’t in some real-world context.”

“I …” He felt overwhelmed. “I don’t know how to separate the two. Not about this.”

“Are you trying to tell her how she should feel?” Roberta asked.

“Like you tell all of us?” Moira kicked in.

He looked at her, hurt and angry. “I don’t do that.”

“You don’t?” Moira countered.

“I … no.” Which wasn’t exactly true. “But so do you,” he responded.

“I never said I didn’t,” she answered. “I said
you do.
There’s a big difference.”

He nodded. Turning to Michaela, he said, “I shouldn’t tell you how you should feel. You should feel however you feel. It’s not right for me to even try to make it that. I’m your father, that’s all, I mean, I want you, I want you to be happy. I mean, what’s wrong with that?”

Michaela smiled at him. “Nothing, Daddy. I like that. That you want that.”

“Good. At least we agree on something.” He felt like he’d been punched hard in the stomach, several times. He was having a hard time with the simple, natural act of breathing.