“How’s she doing at the bar?”
“Running the show like she owns the place. My name is on the sign and the liquor license, but Sheila runs that building the way a general runs a base. I’m nothing but a figurehead. I’m the Queen of England of Big Tex’s Roadhouse. I wear the crown and wave from the balcony and Sheila makes every actual decision. Last Tuesday I moved a stack of napkins from one end of the bar to the other, and she moved them back before I’d finished my coffee. Yesterday I suggested moving a few liquor shelves to make room for Stormy’s new dessert display. She looked at me over those reading glasses and said, ‘Tex, when you die, I’m going to reorganize this entire building and nobody will be able to stop me.’ Then she poured a draft beer for herself and walked away. Conversation over.”
I’m eating and laughing. Tex is here and for now the world is just biscuits and my best friend.
“The doctor came by this morning,” I say between bites.
“What did she say? Any updates?”
“Yeah, they’re done with me here and are kicking my ass out as soon as possible. I need rehab at a dedicated facility. She recommended a place in Jacksonville.”
“Jacksonville.” Tex says. “What’s that drive from Panama City? About four and a half hours?”
“Yeah, that’s about what I figured.”
“That’s a significant distance,” he says. “That’s a distance that requires gas station snacks and a bathroom strategy. But it’s also a closer distance than I drove to pick up bar supplies I bought in an auction in New Orleans. I did that with a borrowed flatbed and no air conditioning in August. If I can drive four and a half hours for bar glasses and stools, I can sure as hell drive four and a half hours for you. The stools don’t even talk to me. You at least carry a conversation. Sometimes. When you’re not being difficult. You’ll go to Jacksonville if that’s the best place. We’ll figure out the visiting. Sheila and Stormy can hold the bar down. I’ll come over. We’ll make it work.”
“No, Tex. You can’t be driving that far. It’s a two-day trip.”
“Here’s what I’m thinking. I drive over on a Monday. Monday’s our slow day. The bar’s dead on Mondays. A funeral home has more energy than my bar on a Monday. Sheila and Stormy can handle it. I bring you food, I sit in the chair, I talk until you fall asleep or tell me to shut up, whichever comes first.”
I shake my head at him. “No, you’re not coming all the way to Jacksonville. It’s too far for a day trip and you can’t leave Stormy overnight. You’d be a nervous wreck thinking he was alone there at the bar at night. I won’t let you do that.”
“We’ll figure it out.”
“No, we won’t. Cut it out. I’m serious. I’m a big boy. I can handle it. They’ll work me so hard, I won’t have time to hang out anyway.”
“We’ll discuss it more when you get there. Have you heard anything about the case?”
“I talked to Morrison on the phone yesterday. The detective handling the case.”
Tex sets his coffee down. “And?”
“The kid with the gun, Trey Daniels, his lawyer tried to get the charge reduced. Said it was accidental discharge, that the gun went off inside the pocket and he never intended to fire it.”
“Bullshit.”
“That’s what I said. I told Morrison I saw his hand go into his jacket. The surveillance footage from your cameras backs me up. She showed me the still frames over a video call. You can see his hand go inside the jacket and you can see the angle change right before the shot. The state attorney isn’t buying accidental. They’re holding at attempted murder of a law enforcement officer. He’s looking at fifteen to life if it goes to trial.”
“That’s good,” Tex says. “What about the other three?”
“The other three pled out. Aggravated assault. Hate crime enhancement. The big one, the one you put into the wall, he’s looking at four to six. The other two are looking at three to five each. They pled fast. Nobody wants to sit in front of a jury and explain why they beat a man in a bar because he was gay.”
“They should have to explain it,” Tex says. “They should have to sit in that chair and say it out loud.”
“I agree. But their lawyers are smarter than they are, which is not a high bar. Morrison said they took the deals within forty-eight hours. The state attorney’s office wasn’t inclined to negotiate but the defense attorneys knew what a Bay County jury would do with a hate crime against a cop’s friend in a bar everybody knows. They pled fast because fast was their only play.”
“I’m sure glad I put those cameras in,” Tex says. “Every frame of footage is now sitting in the state attorney’s office. Best thing I’ve ever done.”
“There’s one more thing,” I say. “Morrison said the state attorney might want me to testify. At the trial. If it goes to trial.”
“In person?”
“Could be video. Could be a deposition. But they might want me in the courtroom.”
“How soon would a trial happen?” Tex asks.
“It’ll be a while. Could be a long time. Could be years. These things take time. If they want me in the room, I’ll definitely be there.”
