The salary of an assistant district attorney in Ashley County wasn’t enough to convince a bank to open the vault and loan money to buy a fancy house. So when he moved to Paxton, Holt rented a forty-year-old redbrick, ranch-style home on a street much narrower than Magnolia Avenue. The most common trees on Holt’s street were pin oaks and pine trees. The neighborhood was a melting pot of blacks and whites. Fifty years of integration had broken down the divide between the races. Holt’s neighbors to the north were a white family of four. The father worked as a produce manager for a grocery store chain, and the mother was employed as a part-time aide at an elementary school. To the south lived a retired black couple who’d saved their money and bought a house in town closer to family and doctors.
Holt pulled into his driveway. The house was in the middle of a large lot, with a backyard surrounded by a sturdy chain-link fence. A fenced yard meant Holt would have room for a dog, and owning a dog was one of Holt’s top priorities in life. Within two months after moving into the house, he bought a Jack Russell terrier.
As soon as he opened the car door, Holt could hear Henry barking. Between sharp yelps, the small white-and-brown animal jumped up as if trying to scale the fence. Holt had no doubt that if Henry ever figured out how to wedge his feet into the spaces between the links, he would clamber over the top and leap to the ground below. Not far from the gate was a flat-roofed doghouse where Henry rested in the shade on hot summer days.
“I know. I’m late,” Holt said as he walked over to the gate.
Beside the gate latch was a yellow sign that read “Beware of the Dog.” Beneath the printed letters, Holt had added in permanent black marker, “We’re Not Kidding.” The sign wasn’t an idle threat. Three people could attest that Henry considered biting humans a legitimate canine activity. The meter reader for the local natural gas company was a two-time victim, and Holt now called in the numbers from the meter once a month. A teenage boy taking an unauthorized shortcut to a friend’s house hopped the fence one Saturday morning and ended up with Henry swinging from the bottom cuff of his blue jeans. The final victim was more serious. One evening, Holt returned from jogging and saw a man trying to hit Henry with a tree limb. When the man took his eyes off Henry, the dog latched onto the man’s hand. With a yell, the man dropped the branch and ran away into the gathering darkness. The intruder looked familiar, and Holt suspected he was the older brother of a man Holt had successfully prosecuted on a drug charge. In Holt’s mind, Henry was a better deterrent to intruders than an alarm system or loaded gun.
Originally bred as foxhunters, Jack Russell terriers needed an outlet for their energy and drive. Since foxes were rare in Holt’s backyard, Henry shifted his genetic focus to the nimble gray squirrels that craved the nuts from the large oak trees. There were easier, safer pickings for the squirrels from the oaks in the neighbors’ yards, but that didn’t deter them from trying to invade Henry’s domain. Especially in the fall, it wasn’t unusual for Holt to return home and find a gray squirrel carcass triumphantly placed on the small wooden deck at the rear of the house.
Holt opened the gate and watched Henry race around several times in a circle before slowing down and coming close enough to be scratched behind his ears. Inside the house, Henry went directly to the old-fashioned kitchen with its out-of-date appliances and began lapping water from a metal dish. Holt poured a cup of dry food into another metal bowl, and the dog began to contentedly munch his food.
Holt was hungry, too. He’d drunk a cup of black coffee for breakfast and nibbled on peanut butter crackers while working through the lunch break during the trial but eaten nothing since. He took a frozen dinner from the refrigerator and popped it into the microwave.
While his supper cooked, Holt went to the bedroom and changed into blue jeans and a short-sleeved shirt. His bedroom contained a king-size bed on a metal frame, a large wooden chest of drawers he’d bought at a secondhand shop, and a small nightstand. Holt’s mother had unsuccessfully offered to take him furniture shopping.
His closet, on the other hand, was filled with tailored suits and custom-made shirts. Two rows of shiny shoes lined the floor of the closet, and there was an extensive selection of silk ties on three racks. Holt knew appearance was a big part of any first impression, whether for a jury or for a judge. “Dress for success” and “Clothes make the man” were clichés he didn’t doubt. However, he drew the line at getting a manicure at Angelina’s salon.
Holt used a small second bedroom as a home office. In addition to the volumes on his e-reader, Holt had two bookcases. He liked biographies about famous trial lawyers and owned books about Clarence Darrow, Melvin Belli, F. Lee Bailey, Gerry Spence, and Earl Rogers, the California lawyer who inspired the Perry Mason TV series. When reading about attorneys, Holt would jot down anecdotal nuggets to use in the courtroom. An effective metaphor has a long shelf life.
The microwave beep sounded. Holt went into the living room and turned on the TV. Surfing through a few channels, he saw Alex Trebek’s face. It was time for the double-point round on Jeopardy.
Holt stopped to watch while he ate.
Trish placed a dish of freshly cut-up strawberries topped with whipped cream in front of her mother, whose wheelchair was placed at the end of the kitchen table so she could see the TV. It was a competitive night on Jeopardy, and all three contestants had a chance to win.
“There’s nothing better than Chinese food and strawberries,” Trish said with a smile.
“Keith called just before you got home,” Marge Carmichael said.
“Did he say what he wanted?”
“No, but if he’s going to propose, I think he’d do it in person.”
“Mama!”
“I thought you believed he was the one God had for you.”
“I did after we spent so much time together during the Christmas holidays, but Keith doesn’t seem to be getting the message.”
Marge ate a strawberry. “Waiting is hard,” she said, “but the woman usually knows these things before the man. That’s the way it was with your father and me. It took him six months to realize he ought to ask me out, and another year to propose. You and Keith have been seeing each other a lot less than that.”
“Yeah,” Trish sighed. “We talked for a while at the singles' Sunday school cookout last weekend, but he spent most of the evening pitching horseshoes with his buddies.”
“He took home the blueberry cobbler you made for him.”
“And gave me a long hug when he thanked me,” Trish said, then paused. “I don’t know. Keith is kind of boring. I mean, even though he’s two years older than I am, we’ve known each other since middle school. Maybe that’s not what I want.”
“Boring? What is that supposed—”
“Do you remember the Russian literature category last night?” Trish interrupted as Alex Trebek announced the topics on a fresh board.
“Uh, I know there were questions about famous sisters.”
“Holt Douglas, the assistant DA, quoted a line from one of Tolstoy’s novels this afternoon in court, and I knew which one it was.”
While they ate the strawberry dessert, Trish told her mother about the Callaway case, of course leaving out any mention of her budding romantic interest in Holt Douglas. Keith Pierce wasn’t the first male Trish had marked as God’s man for matrimony, and she didn’t want to make her mother’s head spin by adding a new name to the list so soon.
“The Louisiana Purchase,” Marge blurted out when Trish stopped to eat a final bite.
“What?” Trish asked.
“That’s the answer,” Marge replied. “The question was, what major nineteenth-century US land acquisition was thought by many at the time to be unconstitutional?”
“Are you listening to me?”
“Yes, but you know questions about US history are my favorite.” Marge shook her head. “And the goings-on in a courtroom make me nervous. I’m sorry.”
“That’s okay,” Trish said, checking her watch. “Hey, I promised Sue Ann we would hang out together after she puts the baby to bed. Mark is at a baseball game in Atlanta with some friends from work and won’t be home until late.”
“I wonder where their seats are.”
“Probably in the outfield,” Trish replied. “He and Sue Ann don’t have extra money for expensive tickets.”
“The Braves are playing the Phillies tonight. I’ll be on the lookout for Mark. They always show a close-up of the bleachers when someone hits a home run.”
Trish quickly rinsed the plates and started the dishwasher. Her mother would take out the clean dishes and put them away as soon as they cooled. They’d used some of the insurance money from the accident to modify the house and make it handicapped-accessible. Of course, there were many things money couldn’t fix or replace.
Getting in her father’s old red pickup, Trish backed out of the driveway. She drove the truck enough to keep the battery charged and used it every Saturday for a trash run to the local dump. Trish and Marge’s house was less than two miles from the Paxton city limits, but it was in a rural area. There was no urban sprawl beyond the town limits. Cow pastures and soybean fields came right up to the city boundary.
Trish flicked on the truck’s bright lights. There were two houses on the half mile of road between their house and the main highway to town. A neighbor’s German shepherd raced out to the road and barked fiercely as he chased the truck to the edge of his owner’s property. If Trish stopped the truck and got out, the dog would come over and lick her fingers.
Sue Ann Jackson, Trish’s best friend from high school, lived in a ten-unit apartment complex on the edge of town. Her apartment was on the second floor, a significant obstacle now that Sue Ann had to haul groceries and coax Candace up the steps. Trish opened the unlocked door and entered.
“It’s me!”
“I’m in the baby’s room!” Sue Ann replied. “But don’t come in here without a gas mask on!”
Trish ignored the warning and walked through a living room cluttered with toddler toys. Candace, a hefty two-and-a-half-year-old, no longer qualified as a baby. The child’s room was at the end of a short hallway.
“Whew,” Trish said when she reached the nursery. “You weren’t kidding.”
“I wouldn’t lie to you about something like that,” Sue Ann said, her back to Trish. “I’m going to have to give Candy another bath. I put the diaper in a plastic bag by the changing table. Would you mind taking it out to the Dumpster?”
Trish saw a partially closed plastic bag from one of the local grocery stores. Holding her breath, she gingerly picked it up and carried it out of the house. Even outside, the stench from the bag was potent. Trish tied it shut and threw it into the large metal container behind the building. She quickly walked away and sucked in a few gulps of pure air on her way back to the apartment. Candace was getting lathered up in the bathtub when she returned.
When she saw Trish, Candace called out, “Tish!”
“Hey, sweetie,” Trish said.
“Please hand me her shampoo,” Sue Ann said. “It’s somewhere up on that cabinet. Mark bathed her before he left and sometimes he puts it out of reach. It’s in a pink bottle.”
Trish retrieved the shampoo. Mother and daughter had wavy brown hair and brown eyes. Sue Ann’s baby pictures were virtually indistinguishable from Candace’s, a fact that made Mark jokingly question whether any of his genes contributed to the child’s creation. Trish leaned against the sink while Sue Ann finished vigorously washing and rinsing her daughter.
“Aunt Tish, she’s all yours,” Sue Ann said, pushing a stray strand of hair out of her eyes. “I’ll spray deodorizer in her room.”
Trish rubbed Candace dry with a soft towel. The child’s sturdy legs held rock-solid against the pressure of the towel. Trish finished and picked her up.
“I walk,” Candace protested.
“I carry,” Trish replied.
Taking the little girl into the bedroom, which now smelled more fruity than foul, Trish transferred her to her mother, who expertly slipped on a clean diaper and fresh pair of pajamas.
“She was asleep when she had the stinky diaper,” Sue Ann said.
“It’s a good thing you checked on her.”
“Yeah, but I’m never going to let her eat as many beans as she wants for dinner again. Mark thought it was funny.”
Sue Ann laid Candace in a bed with side rails. Trish knelt down beside the bed.
“I like your new big-girl bed,” Trish said.
Candace smiled and batted her eyelids.
“We had to do it,” Sue Ann said. “She was climbing out of the crib.”
Sue Ann leaned over and kissed Candace on the forehead. “Good night. I love you.”
“Play, Tish?” Candace asked.
“Not tonight,” Trish replied. “It’s time for you to go to sleep.”
Candace grabbed a small stuffed horse that Trish had given her as a baby gift, rolled onto her side, and inserted her right thumb into her mouth. Sue Ann turned off the overhead light. A night-light flickered on.
“Will she stay in the bed?” Trish asked softly as Sue Ann carefully closed the door.
“So far, which I consider a miracle on the same order as the Israelites crossing the Red Sea on dry ground.”
“What about her thumb? I thought you were going to give a pacifier another try.”
“I did. For the fourteen millionth time. She spits it out like it was covered in hot sauce. She’s a natural girl. I can only pray the thumb won’t mean braces later on.”
The two women went into the living room. Sue Ann collapsed into the recliner where Mark usually sat. Trish sat on a plush sofa and crossed her legs.
“I want adult conversation,” Sue Ann said, rubbing her forehead with her hand. “And I want it now.”
“Okay,” Trish said slowly. “I was in the main courtroom this afternoon with Holt Douglas.”
Sue Ann sat up straighter in the chair. “And?” she asked.
“We talked.”
“Did you tell him how good you are at chess? That will impress him.”
“No, it didn’t come up.”
Trish stopped.
“Keep going,” Sue Ann demanded. “Don’t make me drag it out of you. I want every tiny detail.”