One to Go (25 page)

By morning, his ribs felt slightly better, a hopeful sign they were bruised, not broken, and his left nostril had partially cleared. He'd shuffled slowly down to breakfast, which consisted of a small scoop of powdered eggs and a floppy piece of cold white toast. He kept to himself, and Lopes and his posse completely ignored him. He'd caught the little bald black man who'd been eyeing him at dinner again giving him the evil eye, but each time Tom turned his way, the man abruptly cast his gaze down to his food tray. Tom still couldn't place him.

After breakfast, the inmates returned to the dayroom. Earlier, Tom had noticed a bulletin board mounted along one wall. A sign above the board read:
Daily Visitor Schedule
. He took a seat in a yellow plastic chair close to the board. Oddly, the hard plastic actually provided some relief to his rib pain. He'd considered asking Briscoe to take him to the infirmary, but feared he might get stuck there. What he really needed was a drink. He'd heard the compulsion to drink in the morning was a sign of alcoholism. But then, wouldn't everyone who enjoyed a Bloody Mary with their Sunday
brunch be considered an alcoholic? Satisfied with his logic, Tom allowed himself the pleasure of imagining an ice-cold Stella in his hand.

Eva had promised to visit, but hadn't told him when. He absently watched the TV in front of the room until Briscoe entered and headed toward the bulletin board, where he posted the visitor list with two clear plastic pushpins. Immediately, half the inmates rose as if in church and moved to the board. Tom used his strategic position to slot himself third in a ragged line of prisoners interested in seeing who might be coming to visit on Saturday.

“Back of the line, New.”

Tom recognized the deep voice as that of his bunk bud. “Virgil, I was here first and I'll be quick.”

Virgil pushed him hard and Tom tripped over the yellow plastic chair, falling on his ass. He yelped out as the sharp edge of the chair hit flush across his broken nose. Pain shot up from his lower back to his ribs, but no one paid him any attention. Tom looked up to Briscoe for help.

Briscoe shrugged. “News at the end of the line.”

Tom gingerly crawled to his feet and made his way to the back of the line. By the time he reached the board, the print-out had been torn in two places and was dangling by a single pushpin. The names were listed alphabetically, and Tom was surprised to see two visitors listed next to “Booker”—Zig, and his cousin, Estin. Thought he couldn't see visitors until Tuesday. Maybe the weekends were an exception. But no Eva, and no Father Matthew. He turned to Briscoe.

“My lawyer and priest were supposed to be on this list.”

“Attorneys and clergy can visit anytime. When they arrive, someone will come get you.”

He heard a shout from one of the inmates. “Hey, New, you got a stripe!”

Tom turned to the TV.
GMA
had switched to the local ABC affiliate at the bottom of the hour for weather, traffic, and local news headlines. A red banner decorated the top left corner of
the screen like a birthday present:
Washington Intern Murder!
The crawl at the bottom of the picture read:
Washington lawyer accused of killing his jealous lover
. There wasn't much room in the middle for an actual video transmission, but a picture of Jess appeared on the left.

With its stylized image and soft lighting, the photo showed a bright, smiling girl that any parent would love to have as a daughter or daughter-in-law. The picture looked like a college yearbook photo, and made her appear not only beautiful, but innocent. Actually, she
was
innocent, and seeing her picture tugged at Tom's heart. So young, so much promise. Her life snuffed out because… because why?

Next to Jess' photo was a picture of a scowling man with hooded eyes, a purple bruise under his left eye and—holy shit! They must've used his mug shot, taken almost immediately after being transported, battered and bruised, from the hospital. To anyone watching, the face staring out from the screen could easily be a killer.

The picture changed to two women and a man standing in front of a bank of microphones. Tom recognized the woman speaking as Senator Guthrie.

“…and on behalf of their friends and neighbor Oklahomans, I want to say to Jill and Ed Hawkins, who just arrived from Norman to collect their loving daughter, Jessica, and take her back home, we grieve with you, and you have been and will be in our hearts and prayers.”

Jess' mom looked just like her daughter; her father was big, rawboned with a salt-and-pepper buzz cut. Both, adhering to a Western stoicism, controlled their emotions. But anyone watching could tell from their sunken eyes and haunting expressions that each was dying inside.

The senator continued, “Jess was not only a constituent, she also worked in my office as an intern. When you spend time in Washington, it's easy to become cynical. But then, someone like Jess Hawkins enters your life. Fresh, energetic, optimistic, not a
duplicitous bone in her body. And you realize she, and others like her, are the antidote to Washington fever. She reminds us what's important. Washington isn't America. Jess Hawkins is America.”

Onlookers standing behind the press applauded enthusiastically, and Tom saw faint smiles on her parents' faces.

A familiar reporter from the CBS affiliate—Tom couldn't remember her name—asked, “Do you believe Tom Booker is the killer?”

Tom shuddered. His name had never been mentioned on TV before, and the thought his debut would consist of the question,
Do you believe Tom Booker is the killer?
was surreal. He was glad his parents weren't alive to see it.

“We will let the justice system work its will,” said Guthrie. “But I can assure you that my office will be bird-dogging this case until justice is done. We believe in capital punishment in Oklahoma, and the monster who perpetrated this unimaginable tragedy should pay the ultimate price. Thank you.”

The eyes of the inmates lingered on him for a moment. A flicker of respect?
Yeah, the white dude capped the bitch. Got hisself a stripe
.

He had to kill one of them by midnight.

Tom remained in the dayroom until 8:00 when inmates could have access to the bank of four phones mounted along the wall next to the bulletin board. Another crowd arrived for the phone line, but this time, no one appeared to object to Tom's place at the front of the line.

Maybe his red stripe had given him a little street cred. He inserted his phone card, then quickly punched in Eva's numbers. She answered on the first ring.

“See you made it through the night.”

“Yeah.”

“Any problems?”

“Nothing major. When are you coming by?”

“After lunch. Going over this morning with the PDS investigator to check out the ballistics and fingerprint raw data.”

“There's something else I'd like you to do.” There were not even minimal partitions between the phones and he lowered his voice. “Can you find out something about my fellow campers here?”

“Who?”

“All of them. Or as many as you can. Limit it to my cell block.”

“Why?”

“Some of these guys are pretty scary, and I just want to know if there are any particular nasties I need to worry about.”

“Did something happen?” He could hear the fear in her voice.

“I'm fine. Zig and my cousin, Estin, are coming to visit this morning, so that'll break up the time. Did you have a chance to contact Father Matthew?”

“Said he would come. Didn't say when. But I'm curious. Why him? You're not Catholic.”

“I met him at Georgetown. We bonded.”

A gravelly voice behind him. “Time's up, New.”

Tom looked over his shoulder and one of Lopes' posse glared at him. Guess the red stripe didn't impress him.

“One more thing,” said Eva. “You may be contacted or visited by the media. At the risk of stating the obvious, keep your mouth shut and refuse to speak or meet with them. Unfortunately, your case has gained a bit of notoriety.”

“I know. Got a red stripe. See you in a few hours.” He was tempted to end with some sort of personal sign-off acknowledging his feelings for her, but couldn't think of anything fast enough. He hung up the phone.

Tom remained in the video conferencing room after Estin left, since Zig was scheduled immediately after him. Weird, talking to his cousin on a TV screen. Like big-boy Skype. Estin had tried his best to be uplifting and volunteered to testify as a character witness if called upon. Tom felt so guilty all he could do was nod. Actually, that Estin was himself a law enforcement officer wouldn't hurt if they ever got to a forum where character testimony was needed. Tom gave him Eva's number, and Estin promised to call and appear in person Monday at the bail hearing if she felt it would help.

When Zig arrived, the first thing he did was mug for the camera.

“I think maybe speed dating started out this way.”

Zig's well-meaning attempt at cheerful expression came across as contrived. Tom couldn't blame him. Really, what was there to be cheerful about? Not wanting to offend, Tom offered a weak smile.

Zig's expression turned serious. “Want you to know, everyone at the firm, including Bat, is behind you 100 percent.”

Tom was a bit skeptical. He doubted all the attorneys at SHM would view his red stripe with the same respect as his new camp pals.

“No one believes you could ever do such a thing,” said Zig.

“Thanks, means a lot,” said Tom. Actually, it did. “Eva thinks their motive theory is weak. At some point, she'll want you and Marcie to testify that the exchange between me and Jess at Bat's party was no big deal.”

“No problem. Fact is, you were cool; Jess was the one who'd gone a little tilt. Besides, not like you were jealous. You had the hots for Eva.”

“They say Jess couldn't let go when I dumped her for Eva. She got angry when she saw us together at the party. Later she calls me to go over to her place to, I don't know, apologize or something. We get into an argument, it escalates, and I shoot her. They find my prints in her house, and then there's the gun.”

“Completely illogical. Even if the first part were true, and even if the gun was yours, why would you carry a gun into her place? And your prints were there because you'd spent the night. One night, that's it, the only time you'd been there.”

“Actually, I did go over there that night. Door was locked, she didn't answer. Left without seeing or talking to her.”

“They know that?”

“Some old lady saw me.”

“You see anybody else?”

“Just a shadow. Looked like someone leaving, but I was too far away to be certain.”

“I know there's nothing I can say to make you feel better, but just want you to know, I don't believe for a second you killed her, and I'm not going to rest until you're exonerated. I'll be in court Monday to vouch for you.”

Tom was genuinely touched and was surprised to find himself choking up.

“Thanks.”

Immediately after gulping down lunch, Tom hurried to the phone line. He had to contact Gayle and Janie. With all the publicity, good chance the media would get around to them sooner rather than later.

After four rings, she answered.

“When caller ID said DC Jail, I figured it was you since, at the moment, you're the only person I know who happens to be staying at that particular venue.”

“Gayle, listen. I'm only allotted a small amount of time here. First, I swear to you on my love for Janie that I did not kill Jessica Hawkins. Second, you might've already seen a story about the case on TV and—”

“Seen it? Jesus, Tom. It's impossible to miss. Look, no matter what happened between us, I know you're not a murderer. You have your faults, but you wouldn't hurt a fly.”

“I'm really sorry,” he said. “Wouldn't be surprised if the media attempts to contact you, so be prepared. How's Janie doing?”