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"She attended our church for a while. I always had the feeling she'd been raped or molested. But I'm not an expert on those things."
"Did she ever say anything on the subject?"
"No, she just seemed to be one of those people who always have reflections inside their eyes, like ghosts or memories no one else can touch. Maybe I watch too much late-night television."
No, you don't, Mack, I said to myself.
I had spoken boldly to both Molly and Helen Soileau about wiping up the floor with Val Chalons. But my casual attitude was a poor disguise for my real feelings. It was ten minutes to nine now and my stomach was roiling, in the same way it does when an airplane drops unexpectedly through an air pocket. My scalp felt tight against my head and I could smell a vinegary odor rising from my body, like sweat that has been ironed into fabric. I bought a can of Dr Pepper in the department waiting room, ate two aspirin, and called Dana Magelli at NOPD.
"Do you have casts from the area where Holly Blankenship's body was dumped?" I asked.
"Yeah, there were footprints all over the place. Some homeless guys use it for a hobo jungle. What are you looking for?" he said.
"Size eleven rubber boots or ten-and-a-half workboots?"
"Why don't you call the task force in Baton Rouge?"
"My prints showed up at a crime scene they were investigating. They're not big fans."
"Hang on a minute," he said. He set the phone down, then picked it up again. "Yeah, there was one set of footprints that could have been made by rubber boots, around size eleven or twelve. Wal-Mart sells them by the thousands. What was that about your prints at a crime scene?"
I started to tell Dana the whole story, but I had finally grown tired of revisiting my own bad behavior in order to publicly excoriate myself. So I simply said, "Come on over and catch some green trout."
"Thought you'd never ask," he replied.
I wished I had come to appreciate the value of reticence earlier in life.
Molly and I met with my attorney outside the court at 10:45 a.m. He was a Tulane law graduate and a good-natured, intelligent man by the name of Porteus O'Malley. He was a student of the classics and liberal thought, and came from an old and distinguished family on the bayou, one known for its generosity and also its penchant for losing everything the family owned. Because our fathers had been friends, he seldom charged me a fee for the work he did on my behalf.
I was sweating in the shade of the oak where we stood, my eyes stinging with the humidity. Porteus placed his hand on my shoulder and looked into my face. He was larger than I and had to stoop slightly to be eye-level with me. "You gonna make it?" he said.
"I'm fine," I said.
But I could tell something else besides his client's anxiety was bothering him. When Molly went inside City Hall to use the restroom, he said, "Ever hear of a woman by the name of Mabel Poche?"
"No, who is she?"
"She's hired an oilcan to sue you. The oilcan also happens to do legal grunt work for the Chalons family. She's also filing criminal charges."
"For what?"
"She claims you took her four-year-old son into a restroom at Molly's place and molested him." His eyes shifted off my face.
"It's a lie," I said.
"Of course it is. But that's how Val Chalons and his friends operate. Screw with them and they'll make a speed bump out of you."
Judge Cecil Gautreaux was an ill-tempered, vituperative man, disliked and feared by prosecutors and defense lawyers alike. He was also a moralist who liked to bait the ACLU by making references to Scripture while handing down severe sentences. A wrongheaded remark by a defense attorney could make his face tremble with quiet rage. He lectured rape victims and showed contempt for the collection of indigent drunks who were brought daily into morning court on a long wrist chain. Huey Long once said that if fascism ever came to the United States, it would come in the name of anticommunism. I had always believed that Huey had the likes of Judge Gautreaux in mind when he made his remark, and that Judge Gautreaux, given the opportunity, could make the ovens sing.
"You're entering a plea of not guilty?" he said.
"Yes, Your Honor," I replied.
He rubbed his little, round chin. His eyes were sky-blue, the size of dimes, and they stayed riveted on mine. His facial skin was soft, translucent, with nests of green veins at the temples, his nostrils thin, as though the air he breathed contained an offensive odor. "Just to satisfy my own curiosity, can you tell me why you had to destroy a man's place of business in order to satisfy a personal grudge?"
Porteus O'Malley started to speak.
"You be silent. Counselor. I'm talking to your client. Would you please answer my question, Mr. Robicheaux?" the judge said.
