Darren wondered again how deeply his mother was tied to this. Had she anonymously dropped the gun at the sheriff’s department’s door, wiped clean as a newborn baby’s bottom, as she’d told him? Or had she fed Vaughn a story that would nail her only son? In the dark cell, whose blackness was graying, as Darren’s eyes continued to adjust, Vaughn uncrossed his legs and stretched them out in front of him. There was a forced casualness in the gesture that made Darren sit up even straighter.
Vaughn cleared his throat lightly and said, “What were you doing in Thornhill?”
Darren didn’t speak right away. One, he was shocked to hear Vaughn mention a town and a company that were not in his district — as a county prosecutor or a wannabe congressman. Two, he suspected his silence would be useful. Because sure enough, after a few seconds passed, Vaughn seemed to feel pressure to broach the topic of why he was asking. He crossed his legs again and said, “Where we arrested you…”
Vaughn waited for him to fill in the rest.
Darren was too curious now to waste a bit of awkward silence.
There was a new restlessness in Vaughn, a twitchiness in his limbs. He shifted a few times in his chair, which creaked softly. “The folks out there appreciate your concern for one of their families,” he said, “but there’s no story there, Mathews.”
“Folks.” Darren finally spoke. “You mean the cops who wouldn’t help?”
Vaughn smiled again. This time it felt pinched, his lips pressed together.
“This is coming from higher than that.”
Carey-Ann Thorn’s face popped into Darren’s mind.
And then he understood. “How much are they giving you?”
He took a second look at Vaughn’s suit, its clean stitching and the sharp fit through his shoulders. He glanced down at boots made of buffalo leather smooth as apple butter. Someone had had him replace his Timex with something Swiss and shiny, someone who knew they had to pretty a hog before taking it to market. Yes, someone was pouring in money to turn this country lawyer into a United States congressman.
“Carey-Ann Thorn and E. J. Hill?” Darren said. “How much have they contributed to your congressional race?”
Vaughn set the soles of his boots on the floor and pressed his hands into his knees.
“I got Judge Pickens here at eight in the morning tomorrow,” Vaughn said as he stood, looking at Darren as if they were colleagues in this, a piece of business that couldn’t be helped. “Oughta lay your head down for an hour or two at least.”
He started for the cell door, calling for a deputy as he went. Within a few seconds, one of the sheriff’s men led the DA away, leaving Darren alone in a cell that suddenly felt pitch-black again. He leaned his head against the wall. His throat was thick and scratchy, as if a nest of leaves were clotted at the back of his mouth. He called out for a glass of water. None was forthcoming, but about five minutes later, he heard the oscillating fan start up again, and, despite himself, he was deeply grateful.
23.
HIS LAWYERS spirited him from the jail at a quarter to seven. They had a change of clothes and offered to give him privacy in the attorney-client meeting room in the courthouse, but Darren told them not to bother. He didn’t want to waste time. He wanted to talk about the arraignment, yes, but he also wanted any news about Sera Fuller. Without mentioning Frank Vaughn’s visit last night, he asked if there’d been a break in the case. Could they check with Thornhill PD or the Nacogdoches sheriff’s department? Or even call her parents? Had they heard if she’d been found? He was tucking a white button-down into a pair of black slacks that were not his size. His lawyers, Justin Adler and Nelson Azarian, asked him to stop pacing and have a seat.
They were a little spooked by the fact that Vaughn had pulled it off, gotten an indictment on his fourth fucking try. Even though they’d warned Darren for months that this could happen, they wondered aloud what had changed, if there was some new evidence that swung this grand jury. Darren wondered too: Had his mother testified for the grand jury or was Bill King Vaughn’s new ace? He did not mention the visitors’ log at Telford Unit. There was in his conversation with Vaughn last night an indication that he was maybe reopening the Ronnie Malvo homicide case. In fact, a conviction in an obstruction case against Darren almost demanded it.
Darren knew shame was a useless emotion when dealing with your lawyers, but it was why he couldn’t bring himself to admit, maybe especially to them, men of the law themselves, that he’d coerced a confession. He was every dirty cop, and he just couldn’t say the words out loud. Justin and Nelson were too focused on the arraignment anyway, busy crafting rebukes about the time it took for them to be informed of their client’s arrest and that Darren hadn’t been given a chance to call them himself. Darren told them to take their feet off the gas a little. Vaughn had this county under his thumb. “They’ll just say I fell asleep or that Vaughn and the judge wanted to settle on a court date before they bothered y’all all the way down in Houston.” He told them their best bet was to talk up his roots in the community, the fact that his family had been in this county since they were enslaved. If he was gon’ run, it would have been a long time ago. “That means something around here.” White, black, whatever. “Tell them this is my home.” He still didn’t mention Vaughn’s visit to his cell last night. He wouldn’t unless he had to — if Vaughn reopened the Malvo investigation, which might mean several convictions hanging over him. The thought made him lightheaded. He was now nearly four days without a drop of alcohol, and he bit his cheek against the want. Chewed on himself like a wounded animal trying to break from a trap. One day at a time was an ocean to cross. He would only survive this mess by taking it one breath at a time.
The arraignment was surprisingly swift.
Judge Pickens seemed vaguely put out and sweaty beneath his robe. The room was warm and empty, only half of the overhead lights turned on. Darren’s was the only case on the docket, and it indeed seemed that Vaughn had dragged the judge in on an off day just for this. Pickens waved Vaughn through his argument for a stiff bail, then listened rather attentively to Darren’s lawyers use Darren’s own argument that he be released on his own recognizance, adding with a flourish that he was both a respected member of the community and a man of the law. “A Texas Ranger.”
“Former,” Darren said.
“What’s that?” Pickens said.
“Former Texas Ranger.”
His lawyers glanced his way, twin expressions of confusion on their faces.
Had he not told them he’d quit? The past week had started in a daze of alcohol, losing Randie and Sera Fuller and chasing down leads with his mother. His mother. He felt a flush all over his body. He counted the next five breaths and declined to say more.
Still, the judge let him go, as his was not a violent crime and he had no record.
He was free to leave.
Darren turned and saw Greg sitting alone in the gallery.
The real show was outside, where Frank Vaughn was making a statement to several camera crews by the time Darren walked out of the courthouse. It seemed the stunt of pulling a district judge out of a hat had had everything to do with Vaughn getting this “win” for himself in the press as soon as possible. Stringers for Fox and Newsmax and two others Darren didn’t recognize at a glance. He heard the words vigilante and menace and some bit about there being no place in America for a man, black or white, who decided he was above the law. That’s rich, Darren thought as he considered the state of the country. He followed Greg toward the parking lot, where, miracle of miracles, his truck was sitting tall. He had a quick conference with his attorneys, during which Darren promised to be at their Houston offices as soon as possible. They’d again advised him to take precautions regarding his safety, as demonizing Darren publicly was part of Vaughn’s strategy. Then, he and Greg were finally alone, and Darren learned how Greg had found out about his arrest.
From Bell, of all people.
He’d gone by the house on Lanana Street when Darren stopped returning his calls. He’d introduced himself to her as a friend of Darren’s, which Bell had accepted without further inquiry. “Vaughn got him,” she’d said.
“She used his name?” Darren asked.
He was behind the wheel of his Chevy, Greg riding shotgun. He bit at his cheek again when Greg nodded. This spoke to an intimacy between them, Bell and the DA of San Jacinto County, a familiarity that he added to his internal list of circumstantial evidence that his mother had testified before the grand jury that had indicted him. He gripped the steering wheel as he turned onto State Highway 150, heading for the farmhouse in Camilla. Greg had been calling Darren nonstop because he’d gotten some big news. “You finally got something off her cell phone?” Darren asked hopefully.
Greg shook his head. “DNA.”
“What?” Darren was surprised the lab had come through that fast. “You found a match?”
“Not yet, but the blood isn’t Sera’s.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“The DNA was male, Darren.”
