Mittman, Stephanie (46 page)

"So
you're folding," Charlotte said letting her disappointment show. "All
those times you told me to try a little harder, stand a little straighter, all
those lectures about the good I could do women with my example—was that all
just to keep me out of your hair and out of your house?"

Kathryn's
head whipped around and wide eyes stared at Charlotte. "You're trying to
make me angry. You've never doubted that I wanted what was best for you. You
got stronger and stronger—look at you! You have it within you to help
Ashford." She sighed helplessly and picked at the covers. "I can't do
a thing to help my own son."

"Oh,
yes, you can," Charlotte said, throwing back the covers and kneeling
beside the bed. "You can do something I can't. You can go into that
courtroom and sit right behind your sons. Brent will think twice before he
disgraces your own child in front of you. He's a decent man, and your presence
will make him very uncomfortable about bringing up Ash's indiscretions.

"And
if he does, the jury won't like him for it. They'll have sympathy for you and
it will spill over to Ash. They'll see you think he's innocent and they'll give
him the benefit of the doubt. It's all they need, Kathryn—reasonable
doubt."

The
old woman grabbed her hand and pulled herself up with it, easing her legs over
the side of the bed and feeling about with her feet for her slippers.

"The
lavender one," she said, pointing at the dress that rested at the foot of
her bed. "It's grown a tad large and I look more pathetic in it."

"I'm
proud of you, Kathryn," Charlotte said, giving the woman her arm to help
her rise.

"I
don't want to hear them say awful things about my son," she said when they
were eye-to-eye.

"I
don't want to hear them either," Charlotte said, "but I'd give my
right arm to be able to sit in the courtroom and let him know that I don't care
what anyone says about him."

Kathryn
patted her hand and stood up straight. She arched her shoulders and threw back
her head. "I'm proud of you too," she said softly. "Cabot and I
did a good job."

Charlotte,
who had begun to pull out the underthings that her mother-in-law would need,
turned and put her hands on her hips. "You did have a lot to work
with," she said with a smile.

***

Davis's
da was passed out cold on the sofa in the front room. Since Miss Mollenoff's
accident on St. Patty's Day, he wasn't saving his drinking for Friday nights.
Mostly, he was too drunk to hit Davis, but it didn't stop him from trying.

"And
where were ya thinkin' of going?" he roared as Davis tiptoed by the couch.

Davis
swallowed twice, breathed in, and said, "Miz Whittiers got work for
me."

His
father opened one eye. "Ah, but can ya be sayin' it three times
fast?"

The
smell of urine and vomit rose from the couch along with his father.

"You're
doin' better," he admitted, going to unbutton his pants and finding them
already undone. "Get me a bottle and a piss pot."

Davis
brought the chamber pot from beneath his bed and handed it to his father. A
creeping stain on his da's trousers showed he was a little late, and his father
grabbed the pot and finished his business before reaching out to take a swipe
at him.

"She
still dead?" he asked, coughing up some phlegm and spitting it into the
pot by his feet.

"Course
sh-sh-sh..." he began.

"Ah,
and has the lease run out on your tongue?" his father asked. "Where's
my whiskey?"

"You're
out," Davis told him, ready to dodge the blow that would follow.

Instead
his father put his head in his hands. "It's just as well, I suppose. The
doc—he's all right, Davey?"

Davis
went to nod, stopped himself, and said, "Yes sir," with only the
slightest hesitation.

"You
tell that man he best be taking extra care. There are people out there that are
wishin' him harm, there are, for sure."

"Who?"

"A
stand-up gent don't name no names," his father said, tucking his privates
back into his damp pants. "Suffice it to say I got ears and eyes and he'd
do well to be watchin' his back."

"I
gotta go," he said, inching back toward the door. His father was always
pretending to know stuff he didn't, and Davis didn't want to hang around for
the mailmen-know-things speech.

"Where's
my bottle?" his father asked again. "I'll be damned if I'll be
stoppin' in that bar to shoot my mouth off after this."

"After
what?" He picked up his father's chamber pot and placed it behind the door
to the water closet.

"My
fault." His father came to his feet, teetered, and fell back down onto the
couch.

Davis
took a deep breath. "Which bar?"

"And
on a saint's day! They'll all be rotting in hell for what they did to
her." He slid to the side and his head fell onto the arm of the sofa.

"Who,
Da?" he asked, taking several steps toward his father.

The
man was sleeping once again, snoring lightly while he no doubt lost his job.
Davis considered waking him up, but remembered what Mr. Whittier had told him
about letting sleeping dogs lay.

***

Behind
Ash something was happening in the courtroom. Before he could turn around,
Cabot grabbed his arm. "Don't look behind you," he warned. "Keep
your eyes on the jury and sit up straight."

"Don't
worry, I'm not about to change my plea this time," he said, shifting in
his seat to look for Charlotte and instead being treated to one of his mother's
gracious smiles. "What is she doing here?" he hissed at Cabot through
gritted teeth.

Cabot
shook his head, apparently baffled. "Smile at her," he whispered.
"The jury's watching you."

"Is
the defense prepared to call its first witness?" Judge Hammerman asked.

"A
moment, Your Honor," Cabot said, and began hurriedly sifting through his
notes.

"What's
wrong?" Ash whispered.

"My
first witness was the hooker you spent the night with on February eighth. I
can't call her with Mother here."

"You
found her?" Ash asked, more than surprised. "Where is she?"

Cabot
nodded his head in the direction of a stunning woman whose deep eyes slanted
slightly and whose black hair shone. Ash didn't recall ever having seen the
woman before. "You're sure?" he asked.

"She's
sure,"
Cabot answered. "But the jury won't like Mother hearing her
testimony."

"Counselor?"
Judge Hammerman asked.

"Yes,
Your Honor," Cabot said. "My wheel here seems to be jammed."

Ash
watched as he slipped the brake in place.

"Can't
get it to move. Might I ask the court's indulgence for a short recess?"

People
behind them began to shift in their seats as if the judge had already granted
the request. Ash realized that if the judge refused, the jury would be
sympathetic to Cabot, and consequently to him. And if he agreed, Cabot had
bought them some time. He was definitely getting the hang of this trial thing.
Just in time to be hanged himself.

"Arthur,"
Ash said, calling Cabot's man over when their request had been granted,
"go back to the house and get the new wheelchair as fast as you can."

"What
new chair?" Cabot asked.

"Who
are you going to put on?" Ash asked in response.

Cabot
studied the jury box, hesitating only a moment.

"Mother,"
he said, with just the hint of a smile.

"I
love both my sons," Kathryn said pointedly in response to Cabot's
question. "Though neither of them is perfect." There was a titter
from the crowd, and Cabot turned his new three-wheeled chair around easily to
smile at Ash.

"She
never did care for your table manners," he said. Ash's brain raced for a
comeback. Was there anything about Cabot his mother hadn't liked? "She
hates the way you suck on that mustache," he said, figuring no one
could
like it.

Cabot
looked shocked, and the courtroom erupted in laughter, which only quieted with
the banging of the judge's gavel and an order to proceed with the case at hand.

"Do
you think that Ashford Whittier could have set either of the fires of which he
stands accused?" Cabot asked their mother.

"I
do not," she said, looking down her aristocratic nose at the jury.

"What
makes you so certain?" Cabot asked.

"I
know every mother is sure that her child could do nothing wrong. And they can't
all be right, because bad things do happen. Obviously, someone's son did those
awful things. How do I know it wasn't my child? Because in all Ash's crazy wild
days, in all his wanderings about trying to find the meaning in his life, he
has never hurt anyone but himself. His crimes, if you want to call a man's
weaknesses that, were without victims."

She
turned to face the jury. "When my son was a very young boy, he was playful
and full of life. He had a streak of mischievousness that always made us laugh.
Told to do something, he didn't always obey. Called, he didn't always come.
Without going into it, let me just say that on one particular occasion it
resulted in a terrible tragedy. He was six. He never forgot and he never
forgave himself and he'd never talk about it."

She
looked straight at him then, and smiled slyly. "Now I suppose he has to at
least listen to me. I watched him as he carried his sadness around with him for
years, across oceans. And nowhere he went and nothing he did seemed to free
him.

"Until
recently. Within the last month or two I've seen a serenity replace his pain, a
satisfaction replace his hunger. He's finally stopped running from a guilt he
should never have felt. I know my son could never have set fire to his
warehouse, because it simply isn't within his nature, and because there is
nothing that would have made him risk that newfound peace."

Ash
didn't know when he had closed his eyes, but when he reopened them, his mother
was only a blur of regal bearing. He'd disappointed her over and over again,
and yet there she sat in the witness box with her head held high as if Ash were
someone of whom she could truly be proud.

"No
further questions, Your Honor," Cabot said in the hushed courtroom, and
then wheeled himself back to the defense table with ease. "You know, this
works remarkably well," he said to his brother, loud enough for the jury
to hear. "Thanks."

Ash
just nodded. What a time to find out what he meant to his family. Just before
he would break all their hearts by getting convicted and hanged.

"So
your son has had a sudden conversion, shall we say," Brent said as he came
to his feet and addressed Kathryn. "Why?"

Next
to Ash, Cabot's fingers went back and forth on the spokes of his wheel.

"I
believe he's fallen in love," Kathryn said, her eyes meeting Brent's.

"Really?"
Brent threw a gaze their way, lingering a moment on Cabot. "With
whom?"

Cabot
sucked at his mustache. Ash studied his fingernails. The courtroom was silent
as a tomb.

"He
hasn't confided in me," Kathryn said carefully.

Ash
held his breath, waiting for Brent to ask her to guess. Who'd have thought that
his mother would be a match for the district attorney?

"No
further questions," Brent mumbled, and all eyes watched his mother come
down from the stand and stop at his table to place a kiss on the top of his
head and squeeze Cabot's shoulder lightly as she passed.

"Defense
calls Nora Mui to the stand." Cabot wheeled out from behind the desk,
leaned over to get a better look at the third wheel, and did a sharp little
turn on his way to the witness box.

Nora
was sworn in and Cabot went through the pleasantries and preliminaries with
her.

"Do
you know the defendant?" he asked

"We
passed an evening together," she said.

"You
saw him socially, then?" Cabot tried to clarify delicately.

"You
could say that," she agreed.

"Actually
I'd prefer it if you did."

"I
saw him socially," she said amiably. Ash thought if Cabot told her to say
they swam the bay, she'd say that too. And he figured the jury felt the same
way.

"Where?"

"We
went to his ship." She looked down at her hand. "The
Bloody Mary,
it's
called."

"You're
sure that was the man?" Cabot asked, pointing at Ash, who by now was sure
he'd never seen the woman before in his life.

"I
remember the bird," she said.

"The
bird?" Cabot asked, wheeling near the jury as if he, along with them, were
hearing this for the first time.

"A
big red-and-yellow one. He called it a macaw, but I think it was really a
parrot, if you ask me."