Rage (7 page)

Crusted
makeup failed to mask a bruise on her left cheek.

The
police report said Troy had hit her from time to time.

She
looked older than Weider.

I
said, “Pleased to meet you.”

Jane
Hannabee bit her lip and looked down at the oil-spotted floor of the parking
garage and slipped me cold, dry fingers.

Sydney
Weider said, “Doctor, I’m sure you’d like to talk to Ms. Hannabee.”

“Absolutely.
Let’s set it up.”

“How
about now?”

Taking
control.

I smiled
at her and she smiled back.

“You
do
have time for Troy’s mother, Doctor.”

“Of
course,” I said.

Weider
turned to the other two people. “Thanks for bringing her.”

“Anytime,”
said the man. He was in his late twenties, solidly built, with thick, wavy dark
hair that reminded me of an overripe artichoke. Broad, pleasant face, meaty
shoulders, a wrestler’s flaring neck. He wore a corduroy suit the color of
peanut butter, black boots, a navy blue shirt with long collar points, and a
baby blue tie.

His
white-gold wedding band was speckled with tiny blue stones and matched the one
on the hand of the woman next to him.

She
was around his age, slightly heavy, and extremely pretty with long, teased hair
bleached nearly white and swept back at the sides. A white linen dress flared
under a soft pink cardigan. A thin silver chain and crucifix circled her neck.
Her skin was bronze and flawless.

The
man stepped forward and blocked her face from view. “Drew Daney, sir.” Thick
fingers but a gentle grip.

Sydney
Weider said, “Doctor, these are some supporters of Troy.”

That
made it sound as if the kid were running for office. Maybe the analogy wasn’t
that far off: This
was
going to be a campaign.

Drew
Daney said, “This is my wife, Cherish.”

The
blond woman said, “I can’t see anything, honey.” Drew Daney retreated and
Cherish Daney’s smile came into view.

“Troy’s
supporters,” I said.

“Spiritual
advisers,” said Cherish Daney.

“Ministers?”

“Not
yet,” said Drew. “We’re theology students, at Fulton Seminary. Doctor, thanks
so much for being there for Troy. He needs all the support he can get.”

I
said, “Are you ministering to Rand Duchay as well?”

“We
will if we’re asked. Wherever we’re needed— ”

Sydney
Weider said “Let’s get going” and gripped Jane Hannabee harder. Hannabee winced
and started to shake. Maternal anguish or some sort of dope jones? I told
myself that was wrongheaded thinking. Give her a chance.

Cherish
Daney said, “We’d better get going to see Troy.”

Her
husband looked at his sports watch. “Oh, boy, we’d better.”

Cherish
moved toward Jane Hannabee, as if to embrace the woman, but changed her mind
and gave a small wave and said, “God bless you, Jane. Be well.”

Hannabee
hung her head.

Drew
Daney said, “Good to meet you, Doctor. Good luck.”

The
two of them walked off toward the jail’s electric gate, keeping up a brisk
pace, arm in arm.

Sydney
Weider watched them for a few seconds, expressionless, then she turned to me.
“Getting another interview room in the jail is going to be a hassle. How about
I let you guys talk in my car?”

* * *

Jane
Hannabee sat behind the wheel of Weider’s BMW and looked as if she’d been
abducted by aliens. I took the passenger seat. Sydney Weider was a few yards
away, pacing and smoking and talking on her cell phone.

“Is
there anything you want to tell me, Ms. Hannabee?”

She
didn’t answer.

“Ma’am?”

Staring
at the instrument panel, she said, “Don’t let them kill Troy.”

Flat
voice, slight twang. A plea, but no passion.

“Them,”
I said.

She
scratched her arm through her sleeve, rolled up the fabric, and worked on bare,
flaccid skin. More tattoos embroidered her forearm, crude and dark and gothic.
Weider had probably bought her the fresh clothes, dressed her up with an eye
toward camouflage.

“In
prison,” she said. “When they send him up, he’s gonna have a bad name. It’s
gonna be cool to hurt him.”

“What
kind of bad name?”

“Baby
killer,” she said. “Even though he didn’t do it. The niggers and the Mexicans
will say it’s cool to get him.”

“Troy
didn’t kill Kristal,” I said, “but his reputation will put him in danger in
prison.”

She
didn’t answer.

I
said, “Who did kill Kristal?”

“Troy’s
my
baby.” She held her mouth open, as if needing more breath. Behind the
desiccated lips were three teeth, brown and attenuated. I realized she was
smiling.

“I
did the best I could,” she said. “You kin believe that or not.”

I
nodded.

“You
don’ believe me,” she said.

“I’m
sure raising a son alone was hard.”

“I
got rid of the others.”

“The
others?”

“I
got knocked up four times.”

“Abortions?”

“Three.
The last one hurt me.”

“You kept
Troy.”

“I
felt like I deserved it.”

“Deserved
having a child.”

“Yeah,”
she said. “That’s a woman’s right.”

“To
have a child.”

“You
don’t believe that?”

“You
wanted Troy,” I said. “You did your best raising him.”

“You
don’t believe that. You’re gonna send him off to prison.”

“I’m
going to write a report about Troy’s psychological status— what’s going on in
his head— and give it to the judge. So anything you can tell me about Troy
could help.”

“You
sayin’ he’s crazy?”

“No,”
I said. “I don’t think he’s one bit crazy.”

The
directness of the answer startled her. “He’s not,” she insisted, as if we
remained in dispute. “He’s
real
smart. He always was smart.”

“He’s
very bright,” I said.

“Yeah,”
she said. “I want him to go to college.” She turned and shot me another smile,
closemouthed, subtle. Its arc matched the coil of snake on her neck and the
effect was unnerving. “I figured he kin be a doctor or something else to get
rich.”

Troy
had talked about getting rich. Unperturbed. As if the charges against him were
an inconvenience along the road to affluence. His mother’s delusions made my
eyes hurt.

She
placed her hands on the BMW’s steering wheel. Pressed down on the inactive gas
pedal. Muttered, “This is somethin’.”

“The
car?”

She
eyed Weider through the windshield. “You think she’s gonna help Troy?”

“She
seems to be a good lawyer.”

“You
don’ ever answer a question, do you?”

“Let’s
talk about Troy,” I said. “You want him to go to college.”

“He
ain’t goin’ there now.
You’re
sending him to prison.”

“Ms.
Hannabee, I can’t send him anywhere— ”

“The
judge hates him.”

“Why
do you say that?”

She
reached over and touched my arm. Stroked it. “I know men. They’re all hate and
jumping.”

“Jumping?”

“On
women,” she said, working her way up toward my shoulder. Touching my cheek. I
removed her hand.

She
gave me a knowing smile. “If there’s something a man needs, I know it.”

I
shifted backward, touched the door panel. “Is there anything you want to tell
me about Troy?”

“I
know men,” she repeated.

I
caught her gaze and held it. She touched the bruise on her cheek. Her lips
quivered.

“Where’d
you get that?” I said.

“You
think I’m ugly.”

“No,
but I would like to know— ”

“I
used to be hot,” she said. “My tits were like water balloons, I used to dance.”
She pressed her palms to her chest.

“Ms.
Hannabee— ”

“You
don’t have to call me that. Miz. I’m no Miz.”

“Jane—
”

She
wheeled, grabbed my arm again. Claw-fingers bit through the wool of my sleeve.
No seductiveness this time. Desperation, as cold fear brightened her eyes and I
caught a glimpse of the girl she’d once been.

“Please,”
she said. “Troy didn’t kill no
baby.
The
retard did it. Everyone knows it.”

“Everyone?”

“He’s
the big one, Troy’s little. Troy’s my little man. It weren’t his fault he
hooked up with the retard.”

“Rand’s
the guilty one,” I said.

Her
grip on my arm tightened further. “Zactly.”

“Did
Troy tell you that Rand killed the baby?”

“Yeah.”

I
glanced down at her fingers. She coughed and sniffed and removed them.

“He’ll
get better,” she said.

“Who
will?”

“Troy.
You give him a chance and he’ll get better and go to college.”

“You
think he’s sick.”

She
stared at me. “Everyone’s sick. Being alive’s being sick. We got to be
forgiving. Like Jesus.”

I
said nothing.

She
said, “You understand? About forgiving?”

“It’s
a wonderful quality,” I said. “Being able to forgive.”

“I
forgive everyone.”

“Everyone
who hurts you?”

“Yeah,
why not? Who cares what happened before? Same with Troy, what he did is over.
And he didn’t even do it. The retard did.”

She
turned in the seat, bumped her hip against the steering wheel and flinched.
“You gonna help him?”

“I’ll
do my best to be truthful.”

“You
should,” she said. Leaning closer. Her scent was a strange mixture of old
laundry and too-sweet perfume. “You could look like him.”

“Like
who?”

“Jesus.”
She smiled, ran a tongue over her lips. “Yeah, definitely. Put a beard on you,
a little more hair and yeah, sure. You could be a real cute Jesus.”

T
om Laskin’s clerk called me a couple of days later to
check on my report. I told her I needed another week, picking the time
arbitrarily, not sure why I was asking for an extension.

I
spent ten more days on the case, interviewing the social workers and the
eligibility officers who covered 415 City, visiting the project and chatting
with neighbors, anyone who claimed to have something to offer. Each time,
Margaret Sieff was out. Jane Hannabee had moved and no one knew where.

I
visited the boys’ school. No one— not the principal or the guidance counselor
or the teachers— had more than a vague remembrance of Troy or Rand. The last
time either boy had been graded was a year ago. C minuses and a couple of D’s
for Rand, which was social promotion; my testing had shown him to be illiterate
with math skills at the second-grade level. B’s and C’s and D’s for Troy. He’d
been judged “bright but disruptive.”

* * *

To
the project workers, the young killers were names on forms. The residents all
agreed that prior to his arrest, Rand Duchay had been viewed as a harmless oaf.
Everyone I spoke to was certain he’d been turned bad by Troy Turner.

No
divided opinions on Troy, either. He was seen as cunning, nasty, mean, “evil.”
Scary despite his small size. Several residents claimed he’d threatened their
children but the details were vague. One woman, young and black and nervous,
stepped forward as I was leaving the project and said, “That boy done nasty
things to my daughter.”

“How
old’s your daughter?”

“Gonna
be six next month.”

“What
happened?”

She
shook her head and hurried away and I didn’t go after her.

* * *

I
asked to reinterview the boys but was blocked from doing so by Montez and
Weider.

“They’re
adamant,” Tom Laskin informed me. “Went so far as to file motions to keep you
away.”

“What’s
the problem?” I said.

“My
feeling is it’s mostly Weider. She’s a manic shark.”

“She
does talk fast.”

“Everything’s
conflict with her, even when it doesn’t need to be,” said Laskin. “She says
you’ve had more than enough time with her client, doesn’t want his head messed
up before she brings her own experts in. Montez is a loafer, takes the path of
least resistance. I could probably push it, Alex, but if I’m reversed I’d
prefer it not be for something picayune. Do you really need more time?”