-11-
Annette
ANNETTE AND LOUIS’S LAWYERwas on speakerphone, the volume high. “OK,” said Louis, standing next to his statue of his childhood pony, Red, tugging at his too-tight jeans. “OK, listen. We’re just speaking to you as a precaution, Toby.”
“Robert didn’tdoanything,” said Annette.
“Right! Right!” said Louis. “Toby, I just want you to know. This is a good boy we’re talking about.”
“I absolutely agree,” said their lawyer, who was Louis’s parents’ lawyer, currently en route from Midland to Austin. “But…Are you sitting down, Louis?”
“Yes, Toby,” said Louis, annoyed. He looked at Annette, daring her to disagree.
“OK, so here’s what’s happening,” said Toby. “I just got an email from the Austin Police Department. Louis, Annette, they’re asking for Robert’s DNA.”
“What?” cried Louis. “His DNA? Why?”
Toby sighed. “I honestly don’t know,” he said. “I’ll be there soon. All of you need to sit tight, OK? Especially Robert.”
“Of course,” said Louis. He turned to his wife. “Where is Robert, anyway?”
“He’s in his room,” said Annette.
“Oh, he won’t say a word to anyone,” said Louis. “How soon will you be here, Toby?”
“Two hours tops.”
“I’m having a drink. You want a drink?” said Louis, walking to their full bar, a replica of the historic mahogany bar at the Menger Hotel in San Antonio (complete with a framed photo of Theodore Roosevelt at the famous watering hole). Louis lifted a bottle of Herradura tequila.
“No.” Annette went to the sliding glass door that led to their outdoor patio. Louis did not follow, pacing back and forth across their tricolor patchwork cowhide rug. She walked toward the place where she had last seen the coyote. Where had it gone? Was it alive? Annette sat down at the edge of the yard, the grass damp on her bare legs. She closed her eyes.
Maybe, in devoting herself to protecting her son, she had been mistaken.
Maybe keepinghimsafe hadn’t been the problem.
-12-
Liza
CHARLIE’S LAWYER’S OFFICE WASlocated downtown, at Fifth and Congress. I parked my Mazda, got out, and gazed at the capitol building, glowing under the merciless sun. I could have gone home to change into matching shoes, but I was too eager to meet Hilary Bensen, who Whitney had told me was “the best of the best.”
Clearly, Hilary wasnotthe best of the best, because she wasn’t representing Xavier. I’d asked, and Whitney had said, “Well, it just seemed like a good idea to get them each their own lawyer, you know what I mean?”
Ididknow what she meant. She meant that she was going to save Xavier, and if that meant throwing my son under the bus, so be it. “Clearly my lawyer’s thesecondbest of the best,” I commented.
“You’re hilarious!” said Whitney.
Still, it had been kind of the Brownsons to get me a lawyer at all, to tell me we could worry about her fees later. When I searched her name, a posting came up saying, “If you’re guilty, Hilary’s the one you want to call.”
Why would Whitney hire me a lawyer known for defending criminals? It seemed strange. If I didn’t trust her, I’d wonder if she were trying to frame me.
I walked into the lobby of the art deco building, rode an elevator that smelled of brass polish to the tenth floor. A secretary behind a giant desk told me Hilary would be out soon. I sat uncomfortably in the lobby pulling at my Artz Rib House T-shirt. It was so cold in the building; I felt goosebumps on my arms and wished for a cozy cardigan like the one the secretary wore.
My lawyer strode into the lobby in a red pantsuit and heels. She wore her blond hair in a motionless bob. (In fact I could still smell a bit of hairspray; she must have applied a coat before coming to greet me.) Her makeup was sparing but elegant: a bit of mascara, lipstick matching her suit. Her face was absolutely smooth, free of any lines at all, so it was hard to tell if she was thirty or fifty years old. She was beautiful in an unapproachable way, as if she’d perfected every piece of her visage, but it added up to more of a blurry photo of someone “pretty” than anything concrete or interesting. Hilary’s handshake was firm, and I liked the fact that she seemed oblivious to my disheveled appearance. “Let’s talk in my office,” she said.
Hilary had a framed JD from Harvard above a large, sleek desk. She had no photos, no tchotchkes, soda cans, coffee mugs, or snacks. “Have a seat,” she said.
“Thanks,” I said. “Look. I don’t even know that I need a lawyer. All the boys did was find a woman on—”
