Page 63 of The Devil's Advocate

‘I’ll tell you tomorrow. It’s okay. Is Andy alright?’

‘He just needs some time. I’ll see if I can get some meds tomorrow. We’re all out.’

‘What kind of medication?’ I asked. I wasn’t aware of Andy being on any kind of meds.

‘They’re for his anxiety. They don’t come under Medicaid, and I can’t always afford them. If my ankle is good for a couple of weeks, I can stock up. But it’s been bad, these past months.’

Only in the greatest country in the world would a working mother have to weigh up buying medication for herself or her son. She would go without, and endure the pain if it brought Andy some ease. I knew she would.

‘Is this a recent thing, the anxiety?’

‘No,’ said Andy. ‘I’ve had it from a teenager. Can’t sleep, can’t eat. And I get panic attacks. Stress makes it worse sometimes.’

‘Did you get access to meds in the jail?’

‘No, they wouldn’t give me anything.’

There was nothing in the files about Andy being on any kind of medication or having been diagnosed with any kind of anxiety disorder.

‘Do you mind me asking if anything brought on this anxiety? There doesn’t have to have been anything in particular, of course. Sometimes people just get ill. But if there was something, maybe some kind of trauma, I’d like to know about it. I don’t want any surprises in court.’

Patricia and Andy rocked together on the couch, and I could see it calming him. His chest didn’t heave so much, and the shaking in his legs had stopped.

‘There wasn’t one incident,’ said Patricia. ‘People don’t understand what it’s like being a young black person in America. I’m fifty-seven years old, Eddie. I thought life would’ve been easier for my kids. I don’t think things are better for black folks, if anything they’re worse. Is it any wonder a young black man is on anxiety pills in this country?’

‘I think you might be right. Lot of people out there feel they can speak their mind now, no matter how repulsive. This stain has always been on America. It’s just that we’re able to see it a lot clearer these days. Things will get better, in time,’ I said.

‘Do you believe that?’ she asked.

‘I think there’s a new generation who are not going to stand for this shit. Andy’s part of that. Young men like him will save us all.’

Patricia gazed at her son as I spoke, and I could see the hope straining tears from her eyes.

‘You said you had a nightmare, Andy. What was it? Talking about it can make it better.’

He looked at me then, and in all my time on this earth, I never saw someone so scared.

‘I’ve had the same dream every night for the past while,’ he said. ‘I was tied to a big chair, but the chair was on fire and I couldn’t get out of it. Mr. Korn was there. Laughing at me – watching me burn.’

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

TAYLOR AVERY

Taylor Avery turned off the hot water faucet. Listened carefully.

There it was.

Soft knocking at his front door.

He grabbed a dish towel, dried his hands. Before he left the kitchen, he reached up on top of the refrigerator for his pistol. He removed the locking mechanism with the key from his keychain, held the gun low, by his side, as he made his way toward his front door. Taylor was a man of average height, with light brown hair. He was a dairy farmer, and work was long and hard, which built lean strength over his frame.

The Avery farm was at least a mile from their closest neighbor, who was also a dairy farmer. It was after midnight. His wife and teenage boy were asleep upstairs. Whoever was at the door was not on a social call. He didn’t have a peephole in the door or any kind of security system. He was holding his security system in his right hand. He opened the front door to find a tall man standing on his porch. He wore a suit and was gazing out over the land, unconcerned about who would answer the door. The porch light gave a yellow hue to his pale skin.

‘Mr. Avery?’ said the man.

Taylor squinted in the darkness. The man was not armed. His hands were clasped in front of him, as if he were in church. It took a moment, but Taylor soon recognized the man at his front door.

‘Mr. Korn? Is that you?’