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Finally the prosecutor pointed at Doucet, his finger trembling, and said, "Your honor, you turn this man loose, he kills somebody else, goddamn it, the blood's going to be on our hands."
"Would counsel approach the bench, please? You, too, Detective Robicheaux," the judge said. Then he said, "Can you gentlemen tell me what the hell is going on here?"
"It's an ongoing investigation, your honor. We need more time," I said.
"That's not my point," the judge said.
"I object to the treatment of my client, your honor. He's been bullied, degraded in public, slandered by these two men here. He's been—" Doucet's lawyer said.
"I've heard enough from you today, sir. You be quiet a minute," the judge said. "Is the prosecutor's office in the process of filing new charges against the defendant?"
"Your honor, we think this man may have been committing rape and homicide for over three decades. Maybe he killed a policeman in Lafayette. We don't even know where to begin," the prosecutor said.
"Your sincerity is obvious, sir. So is your lack of personal control," the judge said. "And neither is solving our problem here. We have to deal with the charge at hand, and you and Detective Robicheaux both know it. Excuse my impatience, but I don't want y'all dragging 'what should be' in here rather than 'what is.' Now all of you step back."
Then he said, "Bail is set at ten thousand dollars. Next case," and brought his gavel down.
A few minutes later I stood on the portico of the courthouse and watched Murphy Doucet and his lawyer walk past me, without interrupting their conversation or registering my presence with more than a glance, get into the lawyer's new Chrysler, and drive away in the rain.
I WENT HOME FOR LUNCH BUT COULDN'T FINISH MY PLATE. THE back door was opened to the small screened-in porch, and the lawn, the mimosa tree, and the willows along the coulee were dark green in the relentless downpour, the air heavy and cold-smelling and swirling with mist.
Alafair was looking at me from across the table, a lump of unchewed sandwich in her jaw. Bootsie had just trimmed her bangs, and she wore a yellow T-shirt with a huge red and green Tabasco bottle on the front. Bootsie reached over and removed my fingers from my temple.
"You've done everything you could do," she said. "Let other people worry about it for a while."
"He's going to walk. With some time we can round up a few of his girls from the Airline Highway and get him on a procuring beef, along with the resisting arrest and assault charge. But he'll trade it all off for testimony against Julie Balboni. I bet the wheels are already turning."
"Then that's their decision and their grief to live with, Dave," Bootsie said.
"I don't read it that way."
"What's wrong?" Alafair said.
"Nothing, little guy," I said.
"Is the hurricane going to hit here?" she said.
"It might. But we don't worry about that kind of stuff. Didn't you know coonasses are part duck?"
"My teacher said 'coonass' isn't a good word."
"Sometimes people are ashamed of what they are, Alf," I said.
"Give it a break, Dave," Bootsie said.
The front door opened suddenly and a gust of cool air swelled through the house. Elrod came through the hallway folding an umbrella and wiping the water off his face with his hand.
"Wow!" he said. "I thought I saw Noah's ark out there on the bayou. It could be significant."
"Ark? What's an ark?" Alafair said.
"El, there's a plate for you in the icebox," Bootsie said.
"Thanks," he said, and opened the icebox door, his face fixed with a smile, his eyes studiously carefree.
"What's an ark?" Alafair said.
"It's part of a story in the Bible, Alf," I said, and watched Elrod as he sat down with a plate of tuna-fish sandwiches and potato salad in his hand. "What's happening out at the lake, El?"
