True Colors

Each time she left the prison, Winona berated herself for her poor judgment and vowed not to return, and every week she broke that promise.

She couldn’t pinpoint the source of her obsession. Perhaps it was the mysterious tattoo (surely Vivi Ann was mistaken and it was on his right bicep; nothing else seemed truly possible), or the way Noah had smiled when she agreed to take this ridiculous case, or the way Dallas had asked about Vivi Ann and his son. Or maybe it was what Vivi Ann hadn’t said and should have: I asked you to help him twelve years ago.

Whatever it was, she knew that she couldn’t let go of this until he gave her an answer. That was all she needed, just a simple, No way, Win. A DNA test doesn’t make much sense to me. You know why.

She’d imagined that exact answer from him so many times that sometimes she woke up from a restless night thinking he’d actually said it to her.

“Okay,” she said aloud, “it’s time to do something else.” She glanced at the clock. It was 4:20 on Thursday afternoon. Mark would be here in ninety minutes to take her out to dinner and to a movie. She got out a piece of her special Winona Elizabeth Grey, Esquire, stationery. Beneath her imprinted name, she began to write.

Dear Dallas:

You win. I have no doubt that you could continue this little game of ours forever. Surely you cannot believe that I would attempt to see you again after all these years on a lark. Obviously I have business of a serious nature to discuss with you. That being said, I will only put forth so much effort. You are—as you no doubt intend—making me feel like a fool. It is in both of our interests—and certainly your son’s as well—that you accept my invitation to talk. I will be there Wednesday during the 4–6 visiting hours for your cell block. It will be my final attempt to see or speak to you.

Sincerely,

Winona Grey

She folded up the letter, sealed it in an envelope, stamped it, and carried it immediately out to the blue mail drop on the corner.

She was done now. It was in Dallas’s hands.

On Wednesday, Winona carefully packed up her desk, put everything away, and went out to tell Lisa that she’d be gone for the rest of the day. “If anyone calls, I’m in a meeting. Take a message and I’ll call back first thing in the morning. And before you leave tonight, will you water the plants in the sunroom? They’re looking a little wilted.”

“Sure.”

Winona went to her car and drove out of town.

It lightened something in her, this thought that it would finally end today. She had just recently realized how much Noah’s request had been weighing her down. Now, though, she would be out from under its pressure. Whatever sin she may have committed by omission at the first trial, she’d atoned for it in the past six weeks. Six times—seven, including today—she’d driven to the prison, waited for a man who never showed, and gone home. Each sojourn took up at least six hours of her time.

By now she knew many of the faces along the way and she smiled and made small talk as she checked in. It had all become so routine that when the officer handed her her name tag and said, “A private meeting, huh? That’s new,” she was too shocked to answer.

“Here you go. This is one of the lawyers’ visiting rooms.”

Winona nodded and went inside. It was a small room, with a big, scarred wooden table and several chairs scattered about. The walls were an ugly brown; the paint was worn through to show the concrete beneath. A uniformed guard stood in the corner, staring straight ahead, his hands clasped behind his back. Under his watchful eye, she took a seat at the table.

The door opened and Dallas hobbled in, his wrists and ankles shackled, his head bowed forward as he moved.

He sat down across from her, thumping his shackled wrists on the table between them. “What does my son want?”

She heard the way his voice caught on the word son. “I’d like to ask you a few questions. May I?”

“Like anyone could ever shut you up.”

She bristled at that, remembering in a rush how much she’d once disliked this man. Now that she was with him, she just wanted to be gone. “What arm is your tattoo on?”

He looked surprised by that. “My left. Why?”

Winona cursed under her breath. “Did Roy have an investigator, someone to go to places, check them out; you know, dig deep?”

“There was no money, you know that. He did the best he could.”

“Why didn’t you testify?”

“Jesus, Win. This is old news. I didn’t testify because of my criminal record.”

“People wanted to hear your side of it.”

“No, they didn’t.”