Page 20 of The Devil's Advocate

He’d stepped on a dry twig that had fallen from the tree.

The sound was familiar. He turned and made his way back to his car, thinking about the last time he’d heard that noise.

Thatsnap.

It was the same sound he’d heard as he choked Skylar Edwards to death – the small bones in her neck breaking under his thumbs.

THE SECOND DAY

CHAPTER EIGHT

EDDIE

I don’t normally see six-thirty in the morning. People who have seen me at that time normally say I’m not at my best. This morning, I woke to Harry’s snoring in the driver’s seat beside me. We had no choice but to recline the seats and sleep in the car. There was only one puncture repair kit in the rental, and the nearest road assistance crew said it would be six hours before they got to us. Eight hours later, they still hadn’t shown up.

The sun hit me through the windshield. It seemed to bore right through my eyelids directly into my brain. My back was singing a bad song, my head pounded, and I felt like I had a terrible hangover that I didn’t deserve. Harry woke up, got out of the car and stretched. I drank some water and joined him.

‘I take it all back. That is one comfortable car,’ said Harry. ‘You look like shit.’

‘Thanks. You’re not sore or anything?’

‘I slept in a wet foxhole for a month in a rat-infested stretch of mean jungle twelve clicks from Saigon. This excuse for a car,’ he said, patting the hood of the Prius, ‘is luxury compared to that.’

We both remembered seeing a diner on Main Street. In shirtsleeves, loose ties and crumpled pants we made our way to it on foot before the sun decided to really get to work. The town looked dirtier in the daylight. Most of the buildings lining the streets were low, one or two-story. Some had shabby awnings, pitted with holes. Others had bright yellow, plastic streamers advertising a sale in the window, but no indication of what might be on sale inside. We turned right at Main Street and found Gus’s Diner. It was classic Americana. Booths covered in red fake leather, hard plastic tables and a long, chrome-edged counter with tall leather stools screwed to the floor to service it. I pointed toward a booth in the corner.

Old habits. I like to see who is coming in, who is going out, and my back is always against a wall. Hangover from a life as a con man when survival depended on knowing how and when to make an exit. Same as being a trial attorney – the key to cross-examination is knowing the precise moment to shut up and sit your ass back down in that chair.

We took the booth, Harry flipped open the menu with difficulty. The combination of laminated pages, uncharted humidity and cold grease made it sound like someone ripping duct tape off bare skin. The diner wasn’t busy. Couple of guys in checked shirts, jeans and ball caps were sending their cholesterol count into orbit with fried chicken and waffles, an elderly man was reading the paper at the counter and a huge guy in a suit sipped coffee in the corner. It was his bulk that stood out, and that the suit was too tight.

A car pulled up outside. It had once been red, but now was mostly rust. There were a couple of holes in the hood, but they were largely obscured by the black cloud of smoke that billowed over the car from the exhaust. A woman in a waitress uniform got out of the car, ran into the diner. She came around the counter, put on an apron, grabbed an order pad and a pen. There was a big guy working the grill, he looked around the restaurant then sent her over to our table. By the look on her face, he hadn’t been too polite about it. She had dark hair, sad blue eyes and smelled of hot motor oil. Despite all of this, she put on a smile.

‘Hi, I’m Sandy, I’ll be your waitress. What can I get for you, gentlemen?’

We both ordered pancakes and coffee.

I watched the big guy in the suit get up, button his suit jacket with some difficulty and make for the counter. He called over the guy at the grill who wiped his hands on his white, cotton apron and leaned over the counter. The man whispered something to him, then they both turned and looked right at us. I waved a friendly greeting.

The grill man said, ‘Thanks, Mr. Wingfield,’ as the big guy in the suit left.

The grill man came over to the table. He had thick arms, no neck and a bald head filled with bad attitude. On the breast of his white shirt it said, ‘Gus’. I fixed him for the owner, but then again, we were in Alabama. Everyone in the diner could’ve been called Gus, including the rest of the waitresses. Gus wiped his hands on his apron.

‘Are you boys the lawyers for Andy Dubois?’ he said.

Harry looked at me.

‘What if we are?’ I asked.

‘Then get the hell out of my restaurant. We don’t feed folk who help filth like him. He murdered that girl, and he’s gonna fry for it.’ Without another word he stepped away and started hollering ‘Sandy ! We’re not serving these men. They’re leaving.’

Sandy came out from behind the counter with a coffee pot. She looked confused, said, ‘But they haven’t done anything, have they?’

‘They’re lawyers for Andy Dubois.’

‘So?’ she asked.

‘So you’re fired. Never question me in my own business. And this is your third time late this week. Get your shit and get out.’

Sandy put down the coffee, took off her apron and left before the reddening of her cheeks boiled into tears.