“Dead?” he managed.
“No,” Justin said.
Followed by Nelson, who said, “Testifying.”
His first thought, he was not even the least bit ashamed to admit, was a drink.
A warm bourbon, neat. If there were ever a time to break a foolish promise he’d made to himself, this was it. He caught Randie’s eye, and she sensed his struggle.
“I’ll make a pot of tea,” she said.
Justin and Nelson told him to have a seat, not to panic.
Bell Callis had not been on the original witness list, which had led the team to believe that, despite Darren’s worst suspicions, she had played no part in the grand jury evidence against her son; it was partially the reason for their bright faith that the trial was merely for show. But now word had come down that she had been added to the witness list last minute, and his lawyers would immediately go before Judge Pickens to try to block this or at least buy time to depose her. Darren suddenly found himself in a chair at the kitchen table, having no memory of the steps it took to get there. “It won’t matter, it won’t matter,” he kept saying, over and over.
Clayton was furious. “This woman has in every way put her own anger, her own petty grievances, ahead of your well-being. But even I never thought she would go this far.” Then, with a scolding tone he couldn’t conceal, he said to Darren, “I have told you, son, again and again. You can’t have anything to do with her.”
“Got it, Pop,” Darren said, his voice barbed with its own fury.
What was he supposed to do about any of that now?
Now that his entire life had arrived back at its nascence.
His life in his mother’s hands.
“Let her talk,” he said.
He told his lawyers not to fight it. There was no point in deposing her, as you could no more get the truth from her than you could get pee from a tree. Their best bet was to simply discredit her on the other side, on cross. He would get on the stand himself, if need be, to speak to all the times and variety of ways she had lied to her son. He could show the battle wounds of having been born to Bell Callis, would drag his uncle Pete into this if he had to. The whole of the Callis line was full of fabulists and criminals. “Under no circumstances are you getting on that stand,” Nelson said.
This whisper-thin case was the State’s to prove. Darren didn’t have to legitimize it by defending himself against a weak stream of smoke in the air, against mere insinuation.
“We won’t let you,” Justin said.
“It’s my case, my trial, and I’m saying let’s get this over with. Give her another day or two, and she’ll have placed me on the grassy knoll in Dallas.” He stood from the table, one hand on the Formica top to mask how much his legs were shaking, how weak he felt. He’d never felt so scared. But what choice did he have? “Let’s just get this over with.”
She took the stand on the second, and what would ultimately turn out to be the last, day of the trial. Vaughn was wearing his finest suit to date, a slim cut he didn’t yet have the figure for. But they were nine months out from election, and his transformation was nearly complete. A modish haircut that better suited his face and the new clothes, plus he’d laid off bread or beer, Darren guessed, as he recognized the recent lack of bloat in his own face. He had seen the same in his bathroom mirror these past months. Vaughn’s mood was soaring. He’d worn a smirk since the bailiff had called court to order, a look that so spoke to a perceived shift in his fortunes when it came to the case that Darren’s lawyers began to whisper speculations that Bell Callis was maybe a surprise to the DA as well. They still believed she hadn’t been a grand jury witness, but who was to say she hadn’t reached out to Vaughn during the trial, offering herself up at the last minute to, under oath, link the gun more directly to Darren? He had spent a sleepless night preparing himself for this very outcome, going so far as to show Randie where he kept his important papers. The house was paid for, but there would be property taxes to pay. He added her to two of his bank accounts and gave her the name of a man down the street who had a riding mower and might take care of the grass for a couple of twenties.
The tomatoes in the garden were heirloom and the last living thing his grandmother had touched, besides him and Clayton. “Watch the leaves when you water them. They’ll burn.” He asked her to please keep them going.
Bell was wearing an outfit similar to the one she’d had on when she’d walked back into his life months ago. Khaki-colored polyester pants and a cardigan. She wore no jewelry, not even a watch, and her hair was pressed and oiled. It had grown since he’d last seen her, the day of his arrest. She set her hand on the Bible and swore to tell the truth, her eyes lifting and meeting Darren’s as she did. He felt his stomach drop.
Then she sat in the wooden chair and placed her hand on the railing in front of her, as if bracing herself.
She answered one question correctly, the one that gave her credibility, that explained her whole reason for being in the courtroom today — yes, she had been the one to drop off the snub-nosed .38 at the district attorney’s office, the one that ballistics had proven was used in the Malvo murder — and then she proceeded to lie in response to every question Frank Vaughn asked. No, she did not leave an anonymous tip about finding the gun on the property of the defendant. She couldn’t imagine where anyone would have gotten that idea. “I found that little piece out back of the motel I used to clean. Knew enough not to hold on to it. Seemed right to turn it in.”
Vaughn was patient at first, believing that she was nervous in court, what with her son looking right at her, but as his direct examination continued, he grew red about the neck, and his tone became sharp. “Ma’am, did you not tell me that you had information that was pertinent to the case against this defendant? Do I need to remind you that perjury — that’s not telling the truth in here — that that’s a state crime in itself?”
“Sir, I wouldn’t never tell a lie on God.”
She invoked the Bible three more times as Vaughn tried to get her to return to whatever she must have told him she knew about Darren Mathews hiding a gun to get him to put her on the stand. The red-hot flush of his neck rose to his cheeks and at one point a sheen of perspiration shone on his upper lip. He broke several state rules of evidence, but each time Darren’s attorneys made like they might object, Darren shook his head. He mouthed the words he had said the day before: Let her talk. It took him a while to believe it, but once he realized what she was doing, a warm rush of relief enveloped him completely. She never made eye contact with him again, selling the part of her testimony that she and her son were estranged and therefore she had no reason to protect him. “And I don’t know that I appreciate you questioning my character, sir.”
She held firm that she couldn’t understand where Vaughn got the idea that Darren had anything to do with that pistol. Vaughn approached the bench seeking permission to treat her as a hostile witness, but by then Judge Pickens had lost his patience. He asked if Vaughn had another way to ask the same question he’d been asking for the past ten minutes, and when Vaughn conceded he didn’t, Darren’s lawyers passed on a cross-examination and by the next afternoon the case went to the jury.
The verdict was in before the sun went down.
A lie had haunted Darren for years, and a lie had freed him.
The celebratory dinner at the farmhouse was smaller than the one pretrial. His attorneys had to get back to Houston, and Lisa declined to join them. Greg gave him a hug at the courthouse and an update from his buddy at the Bureau office in Lufkin who’d opened a file on Thornhill. None of the families in Sera’s notebooks wanted to talk, and the Fullers hadn’t come forward with information about their daughter’s health status. The feds were wary about digging into a private citizen’s health-care records without true probable cause. And anyway, Carey-Ann Thorn and E. J. Hill were donating to enough 2020 candidates that Greg’s buddy at the Bureau was afraid that digging into their business dealings would give the appearance of a witch hunt, a new favorite phrase coming out of DC. “But I’ll keep trying,” Greg told him.
Lieutenant Wilson called Darren before he was even out of the courthouse parking lot. He offered his congratulations and told Darren not to be a stranger, come by the Ranger office in Houston sometime. Darren hung up, his body still shaky from the adrenaline.
In the end, the dinner was just Clayton and Naomi.
And Darren and Randie.
No one had had any time to cook, so barbecue and catfish plates from G.W.’s on the way out of town would have to do. Darren couldn’t imagine a better way to taste freedom. They sat around the kitchen table eating straight from the Styrofoam containers, their biting hunger covering the initial awkwardness among the four of them, the cloud of hurt feelings that hung between Darren and Clayton. His uncle had been around Randie for days now, but Darren still caught him watching her, making quiet notes, he thought. Of what, he didn’t know. But Clayton was studying her.
Darren braced himself for a barbed shot of criticism before the night was done.
But when the two men were alone in the kitchen, sharing a pot of ginger tea instead of a bottle of Jim Beam, Clayton surprised Darren by saying, “There’s a peace about you with her around. Even with all this mess with the case. You look good, son. You look happy,” he said, making his approval known. “And if she had anything to do with you quitting the department —”
“Wilson asked me to come back,” Darren said.
He hadn’t told anyone yet. Not even Randie.
“Son, if you haven’t learned from what just happened —”
“Let’s don’t, Pop.”
