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“How long were you in Vietnam?” asked Jack.
“Two years. Feel like twenty.”
“Were you questioned by the police after you were arrested?”
“Two white dudes in suits got me in a little room. Say I killed them people and if I don’t want to die in the chair, I better tell ’em how and why I done it.”
“And what did you say?”
“I ain’t say nothin’. They started screamin’ at me, pushin’ me, smackin’ me and such. But I just looked at the wall and pretend I ain’t where I am. Finally, they got tired out and put me in here.”
Jack noted how stiffly Jerome was keeping his left leg. “Did the police hurt your leg, too?”
“Happened in ’Nam. Got shot there. Ain’t much good, hurts all the time, but least I’m alive.”
“You got a Purple Heart then?”
He said, “I got me lots of medals. So what?”
“Now, why you were at that house when the people were killed?”
“I worked there,” replied Jerome. “Drove ’em ’round in the car. Worked in the yard, the garage, the house, fixed stuff needed fixin’.”
“So like a handyman. How long had you worked there?”
“’Bout a year now. Big property, got lots to do keepin’ it goin’. But Mr. Leslie want to keep it all goin’ good.”
Jack glanced up sharply from his notes. “Mr. Leslie?”
“Yeah, Mr. Leslie and his wife, Miss Anne.”
Jack felt his skin grow cold despite the stifling heat of the room. “Leslie and Anne Randolph?”
“Yes sir. Good people, least they was.” He lowered his troubled gaze to the floor.
Jack didn’t personally know the Randolphs, but he certainly knew of them. They were one of the most prominent families around. And he did know their youngest child, Christine. And this man was accused of ending their lives. It must have been in the local news. But he hadn’t read a newspaper or watched TV because he’d been shut up in his office over the weekend working on various cases. His parents hadn’t mentioned it and he wondered why not.
He composed himself and said, “Can you tell me what happened?”
Jerome lifted his gaze. “You say Miss Jessup send you? But maybe you with the cops gettin’ me to say stuff so’s I end up in the chair.”
Jack handed his business card to Jerome. “I’m a lawyer in private practice. My office is on Marshall Street. And, despite what the police told you, Virginia has stopped executing people for now. There hasn’t been one done in five years.”
Jerome stared uncertainly at the card. “Where it say where you is?”
Jack pointed at the address. “Right there. Marshall Street.” He paused, something occurring to him. “Um, can you read, Jerome?”
Jerome stuffed the card into his shirt pocket. “What you wanna know?”
“Let’s get the big one out first. Did you kill them? You can tell me and I can never reveal it.”
“No sir, I didn’t.”
“It would be helpful if we can provide evidence absolving you of the crime.”
He frowned. “What that mean?”
“To show you couldn’t have killed them and then they’ll have to let you go.”
