First she took out the car manual, dotted with mold from having been in storage for so long, and the road map, as soft as silk with age. She spread the map across the bed. Mitchell had drawn his long-ago route from Oregon to Georgia in his grandfather’s old truck on it. He may have been a valued employee, but the people who made the shoes didn’t earn enough to buy them. He had been paid little over minimum wage, even as a new manager.
The VHS tape was next. She lifted it carefully with both hands, turning it over to examine the tape inside. After ten years in a bin, it might be too brittle to play. She turned on the television, then slid the tape inside. She adjusted the volume, then hit play on the video, aware that she was holding her breath. The tape hissed, and for a moment she thought it was broken. Then it began to play.
The camera had been set outside the bar. She could see a parking lot with several cars. A man appeared, walking away from the bar. He stopped midway across the gravel lot and looked back at the door. The picture quality was grainy, but his face was easily recognizable.
Mitchell Brown.
In his interview, the bartender said he had cut Mitchell off, and the young man had promised he would walk home—it was one of the sad ironies of the case. His new apartment was right down the street, across from the factory.
Instead, he fumbled for his keys. Maybe he had forgotten his promise. The truck looked like it had a million miles on it. Mitchell stabbed his keys at the lock. Ruby winced. He tried three times before he was successful, and pulled the door open. The video had no sound, but Ruby could imagine the creak.
She paused the video and leaned close to the TV screen. The image was too blurry for her to make out the plate number, but she recognized the design. It was an Oregon plate. She could tell by the fir tree rising in the middle. She restarted the video.
With the myopic precision of a drunk, Mitchell drove out of the lot, bumping off the curb. The last view of the truck was the flickering taillights, heading down the street.
From there, Ruby knew, he took a left when he should have turned right, and changed the course of his life. And maybe that of Betty Dubois.
The video stopped. The last grainy image was of the parking lot, with the remaining cars. She reached in her bag. She found her camera, and took a picture of the screen.
Outside, the heat was starting to feel oppressive. She found the telephone book, and looked up the name of the bar.
The Drinking Spot was still there, but a few years before, it had turned into a barbeque joint, with a smoker outside, tantalizing the air.
The inside of the place was dark, smoky with the smell of roasting meat. The few men at the bar were all double-beam wide. Ruby walked the length of the bar and sat on the stool Mitchell allegedly sat on that night, ten years before. The stool was warm, like someone had just been there. Looking up at the chalkboard menu, she decided to stay and eat when she was done. If it went well.
The bartender came down the bar. Ruby recognized him from the picture that had come up when she’d run his name. He was still here.
She smiled, friendly, and showed her license.
“When you have time,” she said.
He left to close out a bill, and the customer eased off the stool, which squeaked when he got up. The same pinball machine was in the corner—Ruby had looked up old pictures of the place.
The bartender was back.
“Let me guess, that fella facing death.”
“I’m sure I’m not the first one.”
“No, miss.” He sighed. “I had no idea helping out in a death penalty trial would lead to years of trouble. If it isn’t you people, it’s the district attorney’s office. Hope this is the end of it.”
“It should be.”
“I’ve heard that one.”
“He’s slated for execution in eleven days.”
“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that. Truly I am.”
“You doubted his guilt?”
He gave a shrug. “I never know what to believe.”
“Me either.”
She pulled a photo out of her bag. She had stopped at a print shop to have it developed.
“This is from your bar video that night.”
