Evidently, Jack Hogan had no way to prove how often Duffy had used the apartment. He moved on, to the subject of golf, and his cross-examination lost its steam. Duffy knew much more about golf than the prosecutor, and the two haggled and bickered for what seemed like an hour.
It was almost 6:00 p.m. when Jack Hogan finally sat down. Judge Gantry wasted no time before announcing, “I have decided not to hold court tomorrow. I think the jurors need a break. I hope you have a quiet and restful weekend, and I’ll see you here at nine Monday morning. At that time, we will have closing arguments, then you will finally get the case. Again, the usual instructions. Do not discuss this case. If anyone contacts you and attempts to discuss this case, please notify me immediately. Thank you for your service. I’ll see you Monday.”
The bailiffs escorted the jurors through a side door. Once they were gone, Judge Gantry looked at the lawyers and said, “Gentlemen, anything more?”
Jack Hogan stood and said, “Nothing at this time, Your Honor.”
Clifford Nance stood and shook his head no.
“Very well. This court is adjourned until nine Monday morning.”
Chapter 18
For the first time in several nights, Theo slept well. He awoke late on Saturday morning, and by the time he and Judge staggered downstairs he was aware that a family meeting of some variety was under way in the kitchen. His father was at the stove scrambling eggs. His mother, still in her night robe, sat at one end of the table pecking at a keyboard and studying the monitor. And Ike, who, to Theo’s knowledge, had not been present in the house during the thirteen years Theo had been on the Earth, sat at the other end with the morning newspaper spread out before him. He was studying the classified ads and making notes. He was wearing a faded orange jogging suit and an old Yankees cap. The air was thick with the smell of breakfast and of conversations interrupted and unfinished. Judge went straight to the stove and began his usual routine of begging for food.
Various versions of Good Morning were exchanged. Theo walked to the stove and looked at the food. “All eggs are scrambled,” his father said. His father cooked even less than his mother and the eggs looked a bit raw, at least in Theo’s opinion. He poured himself some grapefruit juice and took a seat at the table.
No one spoke until Ike said, “Here’s a two-bedroom garage apartment on Millmont. Six hundred a month. That’s not a bad part of town.”
“Millmont’s okay,” Mr. Boone said.
“She makes seven dollars an hour and works thirty hours a week,” Mrs. Boone said, without looking up. “After taxes and a few necessities, she’ll be lucky to have three hundred dollars a month for rent. She can’t afford it. That’s why they’re living in the shelter.”
“So where do you think we’ll find an apartment for three hundred bucks a month?” Ike asked with a slight edge to his voice. He did not look up, though. In fact, at the moment no one was making eye contact with anyone else.
Theo just listened and watched.
Mr. Boone said, “If it’s a garage apartment, then it’s probably a single owner. I doubt if they’ll rent to El Salvadorans or anyone else who’s not from here.” He thumped some eggs on a plate, added a toasted wheat muffin, and slid it in front of Theo, who quietly said, “Thanks.” Judge finally got some eggs in his bowl.
Theo took a bite, chewed slowly, listened to the silence. Their disinterest in his involvement in whatever they were discussing irritated him. The eggs were too mushy.
He finally said, “Apartment hunting, are we?”
Ike managed to grunt, “Uh-huh.”
El Salvadorans. Living at the shelter. The clues were adding up.
“Woods,” Mrs. Boone said, still pecking. “Nick Wetzel advertises for immigration work. Is he a reputable lawyer? I’ve never met him.”
“He advertises a lot,” Mr. Boone replied. “He used to be on television begging for car wrecks. I’d stay away.”
“Well, only two lawyers in town mention immigration work in their ads,” she said.
“Talk to both of them,” Ike said.
“I suppose so,” she said.
“What are we doing here?” Theo finally asked.
“We have a busy day, Theo,” his father said as he sat down with a cup of coffee. “You and I have a very important golf game.”
Theo couldn’t suppress a smile. They played almost every Saturday, but for the past several days Theo had forgotten about his game. He, along with the rest of the town, had assumed that the trial would continue into Saturday and he certainly planned to be in the courtroom.
“Great. When?”
“We should leave in about thirty minutes.”
Thirty minutes later they were putting their clubs into the back of Mr. Boone’s SUV and talking about how beautiful the weather was. It was mid-April, no clouds, temperature expected to reach seventy degrees, the azaleas were blooming, and the neighbors were toiling away in their flower beds.
After a few minutes, Theo said, “Dad, where are we going?” It was obvious they were not headed to the Strattenburg Municipal Course, the only place they’d ever played.
“We’re checking out a new course today.”
“Which one?” Theo knew of only three in the area.
“Waverly Creek.”
Theo allowed this to sink in, then said, “Awesome, Dad. The scene of the crime.”
“Something like that. I have a client who lives out there and he invited us to play. He won’t be around, though. Just the two of us. We’ll play the Creek Course, so maybe there won’t be a crowd.”
Ten minutes later, they pulled into the rather grand entrance of Waverly Creek. A massive stone wall lined the road and disappeared around a bend. Heavy gates stopped all traffic. A man in a uniform stepped out of the guardhouse and approached them as Mr. Boone came to a stop and lowered his window.
“Good morning,” the guard said, with a smile and a clipboard.
“Good morning. Name’s Woods Boone. Here to play a little golf. Tee time at ten forty. Guests of Max Kilpatrick.”
The guard studied his notes, then said, “Welcome, Mr. Boone. Put this on your dash.” He handed over a bright yellow card and said, “Hit ’em straight.”
“Thanks,” Mr. Boone said, and the gates began to open.
Theo had been through them once before, a couple of years earlier, for the birthday party of a friend who had since moved away. He remembered the large homes, long driveways, fancy cars, and front lawns perfectly landscaped. They drove along a narrow road shaded with old trees, and passed a few fairways and greens. The course was manicured, like something out of a golf magazine. At every tee there were golfers taking practice swings and on every green there were more bent over their putters. Theo began to fret. He liked nothing more than eighteen holes with his dad on an uncrowded course, yet nothing was more unpleasant than trying to hit a ball with a foursome waiting and watching impatiently from behind.
The clubhouse was busy. Dozens of golfers were out on this fine day. Mr. Boone checked in with the starter, got a cart, and they began limbering up at the practice range. Theo couldn’t help but look around, hoping to catch a glimpse of Julio’s cousin. Or maybe he just might see Pete Duffy himself, out for a few holes with some friends after a rough week in court. He had posted bond the day of his arrest and had never been near a jail cell.
And, the way the trial was going, he was unlikely to be locked up.
But Theo saw neither man. The fact that he was thinking about them meant that he was not thinking about his golf swing. He sprayed a few balls around the range, and began to worry about his game.
They teed off on time, Mr. Boone from the blue tees, Theo from the whites, a little farther down the fairway. His drive was a line shot that barely covered a hundred yards. “Keep your head down,” his father said as they sped away in the cart. There would be more advice as the day progressed. Mr. Boone had been playing for thirty years and was an average golfer, and like most golfers he often could not res
ist the urge to give advice, especially to his son. Theo took it well. He needed lots of help.
There was a foursome in front of them and no one behind. The Creek Course was shorter, narrower, and therefore, less favored by the other golfers. It was designed to sort of follow the winding route of Waverly Creek, a pretty but treacherous little stream known to devour golf balls. The North Nine and South Nine were crowded, but not the Creek Course.
As they sat in the cart by the tee box and waited for the foursome to putt out on number three, Mr. Boone said, “Okay, Theo, here’s the plan. Ike is looking for an apartment for the Pena family. Something small and affordable. If they need a little help with the rent, then your mother and I can kick in some money. This is something we’ve been talking about for several months, so it’s nothing new. Ike, who’s got a big heart but a small bank account, is willing to help, too. If we can find a place real fast, then maybe Carola can convince her nephew, Julio’s cousin, to live with them. It will be a much more stable environment for all of them. Ike is searching right now. And your mother is talking to immigration attorneys. There might be a way, under federal law, to allow an illegal immigrant to become legal if he has a sponsor who is a U.S. citizen, and if he has a job. Let’s hit.”
They teed off, got back in the cart, and eased along the cart path. Both drives were in the rough.
Mr. Boone continued as he drove. “Your mother and I are willing to sponsor Julio’s cousin. I can probably find him a better job, a legitimate one, and if he lives with his aunt and her family he can probably obtain legal status within two years. Full citizenship is another matter.”
“What’s the catch?” Theo asked.
“There’s no real catch. We want to help the Pena family get out of the shelter, and we’ll do so regardless of what happens to the cousin. But we have to convince him to come forward and be willing to testify, to tell the truth, to take the witness stand and tell the jury what he saw.”
“And how do we convince him to do that?”
“That part of the plan is still evolving.”
Theo’s ball was near the cart path, a nice distance off the fairway. He hit a five iron well and put the ball fifty yards from the green.
“Nice shot, Theo.”
“I get lucky every now and then.”
Number six was a dogleg to the left, a wider fairway with beautiful homes along the right-hand boundary. From the tee box, they could see the rear of the Duffy home 150 yards down the cart path. Next door to it, a gardener was busy mowing grass. Theo thought, The way I’m hitting, that man’s in danger.
But the gardener was not injured after both Boones teed off. They crept along the cart path. Mr. Boone said, “You told me you had aerial maps of this place.”
“Yes, sir. At the office.”