Redemption Road: A Novel (22 page)

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If Elizabeth was looking for further insight into Adrian, she didn’t find it in the first moments of court. He entered in full restraints, the nineteenth inmate in a row of twenty. He kept his eyes down, so she saw the top of his head, the line of his nose. Elizabeth watched him shuffle to his place on the long bench and tried to reconcile the man she saw with the video from the warden’s office. As disturbing as he’d appeared, he looked ten times better, now—not filled out but heavier, troubled but not insane. She willed him to look her way, and when the brown eyes came up, she felt the same shock of communication. She sensed so many things about him, not just willfulness and fear but a profound aloneness. All that flashed in an instant, then the din of court intervened, and his head dipped again as if weighted by all the stares heaped upon it. Cops. Reporters. Other defendants. They all got it. Everybody knew. Crowded as the room was—and it was packed—nothing brought the thunder like Adrian Wall.

“Holy shit. Look at this place.” Beckett slid in beside her, craning his neck at the double row of cameras and reporters. “I can’t believe the judge allowed this kind of circus. There’s what’s-her-face. Channel Three. Shit, she’s looking at you.”

Elizabeth glanced that way, face expressionless. The reporter was pretty and blond in bright nails and a tight red sweater. She made a call-me gesture and frowned when Elizabeth ignored it.

“Did you see the warden?” Beckett asked.

“You know what? Outside.” Elizabeth pushed against his shoulder and followed him off the bench. Eyes tracked them, but she didn’t care what Dyer or Randolph or any of the other cops thought. “You know, your buddy the warden is a real asshole.”

They rounded into the hall, a sea of people milling around them, parting at the sight of Beckett’s badge. Elizabeth crowded him into a corner beside a trash can and a tattooed kid sleeping on a bench.

“He’s not exactly my buddy,” Beckett said.

“Then, what?”

“He helped me once when I was in a bad place. That’s all. I thought he could help you, too.”

“Why was he at Nathan’s?”

“I don’t know. He just showed up.”

“What were you arguing about?”

“The fact I didn’t want him on my fucking crime scene. What’s going on here, Liz? You have no reason to be angry with me.”

He was right, and she knew it. Moving to a narrow window, Elizabeth wrapped her arms around her chest. Outside, the day was too perfect for what was coming. “He showed me the tape.”

“And the people Adrian killed?”

“The people he
might
have killed.”

“You don’t think he’s capable?”

Elizabeth stared through the glass. Adrian had been gentler than most, but like all good cops he had steel in his spine and an unflinching will. Could suffering such as his twist those things into something deformed and violent? Of course it could. But, had it? “People are rushing to judgment, Charlie. I feel it.”

“That’s not true.”

“Come on. When was the last time you saw so many cops at first appearance? I counted twenty-three, including the captain. What is it normally? Six or seven? Look at that.” She gestured at the crowd gathered at the courtroom door. It was twice as large as one might normally see: spectators and press, the angry, the curious.

“People are scared,” Beckett said. “Another woman. The same church.”

“This is a witch hunt.”

“Liz, wait.”

But she didn’t. She pushed through the crowd and found another seat in the area reserved for cops. People were still staring, but she didn’t care. Could Charlie be right? What was the path when your heart said one thing, and facts hinted at another? Adrian was tried in a courtroom very much like this, convicted by a jury of his peers. But they didn’t know everything, did they? There was a reason his DNA was under the dead woman’s nails.

Reasons and secrets, infidelity and death.

Adrian said no one knew he was sleeping with the victim, but was it really such a blur? What about Gideon’s father? If Adrian was sleeping with his wife, Robert Strange may have known. Sex. Betrayal. Wives had been murdered for less. If he framed her lover for the murder, it would be a neat little package: cheating wife dead, boyfriend locked away. But Robert Strange had an alibi. Beckett himself had verified it.

What about Adrian’s wife?

That was an interesting question. Did Catherine Wall know her husband was cheating? She was pregnant, possibly jealous. She wasn’t investigated because no one other than Adrian and his attorney knew about the affair.

What if that was not entirely true?

Against his own attorney’s advice, Adrian had refused to take the stand. Had he done so, he could have explained all the things that led to his conviction. He said he kept quiet because he didn’t wish to hurt his wife, and because no one would believe him, anyway. What if it was more than that? What if he didn’t want to implicate her? Take the stand against her?

Did Adrian go to prison to protect his wife?

If Catherine Wall knew of the affair, she had motive to kill Julia Strange. Did she have an alibi? Most likely, no one would ever know. The woman was gone, the case closed. So Elizabeth considered the crime itself. Manual strangulation took some strength. So did lifting bodies, posing them on altars. Could a woman do it?

Maybe.

If she was strong enough. Angry enough.

Maybe she had help.

Elizabeth watched Adrian, but he did not look up again. So, she scrubbed at her face and settled into the drudgery of court as first appearances took over. Prisoners met the judge, had their charges read, waited for lawyers to be appointed. She’d seen it a hundred times on a hundred different days. The first ripple came long before Adrian was even called. It started in front of the bar, and Elizabeth saw it like a breeze over grass. Heads came together; people muttered. She didn’t understand until the prosecutor leaned into his assistant and whispered, “What the hell is Crybaby Jones doing here?”

Elizabeth followed the stares and saw Faircloth Jones at a side door beyond the bar. He was frail but elegant, dressed in the same kind of bow tie and seersucker suit he’d worn for most of his fifty years in practice. He stood above a dark-wood cane and held perfectly still until even the judge turned his way. After that, the old lawyer had the stage, crossing the room as if he owned it, nodding at older lawyers, who grinned or nodded back or brooded over old cases and long-wounded pride. The younger lawyers nudged each other and leaned close, each one asking more or less the same question:
Is that really Crybaby Jones?
Elizabeth understood that, too. Faircloth Jones was the finest lawyer to come through the county; yet, he’d not been seen outside his own house in close to ten years. Even the judge accepted the impact of the old lawyer’s presence, leaning back in his chair and saying, “Okay. May as well deal with this, now. Mr. Jones.” He projected his voice at the row of seated lawyers. “Very nice to see you again.”

Faircloth stopped beside the first bench and seemed to bow without doing so. “The pleasure is entirely mine, Your Honor.”

“I’d rather not assume, but may I ask…?”

“Adrian Wall, Your Honor. Yes. I’d like to be noted as counsel of record.”

The DA rose, large and unhappy. “Your Honor, Attorney Jones hasn’t been seen in court for over ten years. I don’t even know if his license is current.”

“Let’s ask him, then. Mr. Jones?”

“My license is quite current, Your Honor.”

“There you are, Mr. DA. Quite current.” The judge glanced at the rowed prisoners, lifted a finger, and said, “Bailiff.”

Two bailiffs culled Adrian from the prisoner’s bench. He kept his head up this time and nodded at the old lawyer. Faircloth touched him once on the shoulder, then said, “I’d like to have these cuffs removed, if I may.”

The judge motioned again, and the DA could not hide his frustration. “Your Honor!”

The judge held up a hand and leaned forward. “It’s my understanding that the defendant is not before this court on a violent offense.”

“Second-degree trespass, Your Honor.”

“That’s it? A misdemeanor?”

“Also, resisting arrest,” the DA said.

“Another misdemeanor, Your Honor.”

“Yet, there are other circumstances—”

“The only relevant circumstance,” Faircloth interrupted the DA, “is that the authorities want my client locked away while they investigate another crime for which they have insufficient evidence to charge. It’s no mystery, Your Honor. You know it. The reporters know it.” Faircloth gestured at the press bench, which was packed shoulder to shoulder. Some famous faces were there, including some from the big stations in Charlotte, Atlanta, Raleigh. Many had covered the original trial. None of them could take their eyes off the old lawyer, and Faircloth knew it. “While no one would argue with the tragedy of another young woman’s early demise, the district attorney is trying to end-run the constitutional restraints of due process. Have things changed so much in my absence, Your Honor? Are we now some kind of banana republic that the state, in all its might and glory, could even contemplate such a thing?”

The judge drummed his fingers and glanced twice at the reporters. He was an ex-prosecutor and generally leaned in that direction. The reporters changed the math, and the old attorney knew it. So did the judge. “Mr. DA?”

“Adrian Wall is a convicted killer, Your Honor. He has no family in the community. He owns no property. Any expectations for an appearance at some later court date would be based on hope alone. The state requests remand.”

“For two misdemeanors?” Crybaby half turned to face the reporters. “Your Honor, I implore you.”

The judge pursed his lips and frowned at the DA. “Do you intend to file felony charges?”

“Not at this time, Your Honor.”

“Mr. Jones?”

“My client was arrested on land that had been in his family since before the Civil War. After thirteen years of incarceration, the impulse to return there is understandable. I’d further argue that any resistance he might have offered at the time of his arrest was in response to police overzealousness. Police reports indicate that twelve officers were involved—and I’d stress that number again—twelve officers on a trespass complaint. I think that speaks clearly to the state’s intent. On the other hand, Mr. Wall’s family has been in this county since the winter of 1807. He has no plans to leave and is eager to appear before this court so we might offer a vigorous defense to frivolous charges. Given all that, Your Honor, we consider remand an absurd request and ask only that bond be reasonable.”

The lawyer finished softly, the room so silent every word carried. Elizabeth could feel tension in the space around her. It went beyond the DA’s frustration or Faircloth’s dignified air. A woman was dead, and Adrian was the most notorious convicted killer of the past fifty years. Reporters craned where they sat. Even the DA was holding his breath.

“Bond is five hundred dollars.”

The gavel came down.

The room erupted.

“Next case.”

*   *   *

Outside, Elizabeth found Faircloth Jones on the edge of a crowd. He leaned on his cane as if waiting for her. “It’s good to see you, Faircloth.” She took his hand, gave it a squeeze. “Unexpected but really, really good.”

“Take my arm,” he said. “Walk with me.”

Elizabeth looped her arm in his and guided him through the crowd. They took the wide, granite stairs, found the sidewalk. A half dozen people spoke a word or touched the lawyer’s arm. He smiled at each, dipping his head, murmuring a kind word back. When they were beyond the crowd, Elizabeth pressed his arm against her side. “You made a very nice entrance.”

“The law, as you may have surmised, is equal parts theater and reason. The finest scholars might struggle in court, while mediocre thinkers excel. Logic and flair, and leverage where appropriate, such are the makings of a trial attorney. Did you see His Honor’s face when I mentioned the reporters? Good Lord. It appeared as if something unpleasant had taken up sudden residence beneath his robe.”

He chuckled, and Elizabeth joined him. “It was good of you to come, Faircloth. I doubt Adrian would have fared as well with a court-appointed attorney that didn’t know or care for him.”

Faircloth waved off the compliment. “The smallest thing. One courtroom appearance among a multitude of thousands.”

“You’re not fooling me, Mr. Jones.” She pressed his arm more tightly. “I was only one row behind you.”

“Ah.” He dipped his still-lean jaw. “And you noticed the sweat stain on my collar. The slight but unfortunate tremor in my hands.”

“I saw no such things.”

“Indeed?” Humor was in the word, a twinkle so lively she couldn’t help but smile again. “Then, perhaps, my dear, you should have those lovely eyes checked.”

They passed the last edge of the crowd and moved thirty yards in a slow shuffle, tarmac on the left, sun-cooked grass to the right. Neither spoke, but he pressed her hand with his arm. When they reached a bench in a spot of shade, they sat and watched a line of uniformed officers stand at the balustrade and stare in their direction. They disliked that Adrian was bonding out, that Liz was sitting with the lawyer who made it happen. “That’s a grim spectacle,” Faircloth said.

“Not everyone sees Adrian as we do.”

“How could they when they barely know the man? Such is the nature of headlines and innuendo.”

“And murder convictions.” The old lawyer looked away, but not before Elizabeth saw the pain she’d caused. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”

“It’s quite all right. It’s not as if I’ve forgotten.”

Elizabeth looked back at the officers. They were still watching her, most likely hating her. “I never visited,” she said. “I tried a few times, but never got past the parking lot. It was hard. I couldn’t do it.”

“Because you loved him.”

It was not a question. Elizabeth felt her jaw drop, the sudden flush. “Why would you say that?”

“I may be old, my dear, but I have never been blind. Beautiful young ladies don’t sit so devotedly in court without good reason. It was hard to miss the way you looked at him.”