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“Why are you so keen on this being the guy? A newbie in town that few people know. Criminal record. Parole jumper. Stopped for speeding in a school zone, and a weapon matching the kind used in the shooting found under the seat of his pickup?” Trapper winced with skepticism. “Seems way too slick and easy, and smacks of a frame-up. I thought an attorney might come in handy.”
“Well, it won’t matter if you reassemble O. J.’s dream team for him.”
Trapper slowed his pace and looked at Glenn.
“Ballistics came back on the pistol, Trapper. No question. The match was so good, it gave our DA a hard-on.”
“Your DA is a woman.”
“Figure of speech.”
The meaning of which didn’t escape Trapper, but he didn’t say anything more as they continued down the hall till they reached the specified room. Glenn stepped forward and opened the door. “Mr. Duncan, your lawyer is here.”
“Yeah, well, you and him can go fuck each other.”
Glenn turned back to Trapper. “He has an attitude. Thinks he’s smarter than everybody else.”
“Maybe he is.”
“Different circumstances, y’all could be friends.”
Carson passed his overcoat to Trapper, sidestepped Glenn, and entered the room. “Are the shackles really necessary?”
Glenn only harrumphed and pulled the door closed. “Kerra?”
She stepped up to the door and looked through the wired glass window. Trapper looked in from over her shoulder. Duncan appeared to be in his early thirties, although his eyes had the mistrustful, lupine quality of one who’d already endured a lifetime of hard knocks. He didn’t look relieved or show any particular interest when Carson introduced himself. His indolent posture didn’t change, although his surly lips moved, so he’d said something.
“I’ve never seen him before,” Kerra said and was about to move away from the window.
“Give it a minute,” Glenn said. “Maybe he’ll do something that’ll jog a memory.”
Trapper held Carson’s coat in the crook of his elbow and placed his hands on Kerra’s shoulders. “He’s right. Give it a minute.”
“But—”
He gave her shoulders a slight squeeze. The private signal worked. She stayed where she was, sandwiched between him and the door. Trapper asked Glenn, “Did you locate his wife?”
“Girlfriend. If she’s visiting her mama in Ardmore, she’s gone to the cemetery.”
“He lied about his old lady?”
“Worries us, because there’s been no sign of her.”
They couldn’t hear what Carson was asking or what the suspect was saying in reply, but occasionally Duncan would emphasize a point by stabbing his forefinger into the tabletop. Other times Trapper could tell even in pantomime that he’d given a flip response.
After several minutes, Carson took sheets of paper from his briefcase, spread them out on the table where Leslie Duncan could see what they consisted of, and went over the content of each sheet with him point by point.
“What’s all that?” Glenn asked Trapper. “His rate chart?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised. Mercenary son of a bitch.”
Carson asked Duncan something. He hesitated then nodded. Carson beamed, gathered up the papers and replaced them in his briefcase, latched it, and shook hands with Duncan as facilely as could be done with the manacles. Kerra stood aside, and Glenn opened the door for Carson.
As he was passing through, Leslie Duncan called from the table, “How do you like being dead so far?”
Trapper, anticipating that, had stepped around Kerra in order to gauge her reaction. Her lips separated in shock over hearing the familiar words, but when she realized that Trapper was watching her, she looked up at him and shook her head. “The voice is wrong.”
Glenn’s face was mottled with fury. “Now I get it. That’s what he was about,” he said, flinging out a hand toward Carson.
