“Sir Leslie Hewitt,” Thomas said.
“Yes, what about him?”
“He’ll represent her,” Thomas said. “He hates Sir Winston’s guts, as his father before him did.”
“Well, then, give him a call.”
Thomas shook his head. “You don’t understand.”
“Explain it to me.”
“Leslie was once a first-rate barrister, one of the best, in fact.”
“And now?”
“He’s well past eighty; he hasn’t tried a case in at least fifteen years; and…”
“And?”
“And he’s…failing, you know? I mean, he’s bright as a new penny at times, but at other times…”
“I think I get the picture,” Stone said. “You’re suggesting that an eighty-year-old barrister who’s half gaga should defend Allison Manning?”
“No, that’s not what I’m suggesting. You’ve got a hearing tomorrow morning at ten, and somebody besides you has got to be there to go through the motions, to be the barrister of record until you can get somebody in here from out of the country.”
“You mean from England?”
“Probably. You could go to Antigua, which is another former British colony and which has a similar legal system, but that’s too close to home. Those people are going to have to get along with Sir Winston, too, if his political dreams come true, and they are very likely to.”
“I thought about London. I do a lot of work for a firm in New York, and I can ask them to recommend somebody in London. But I don’t know whether Allison can meet that kind of expense.”
“Then she’s between a rock and a hard place,” Thomas said. “Right now, I think you and I had better go see Leslie Hewitt.”
They drove along the coast road to the western end of the island and turned off toward the beach onto a rutted dirt road.
“Where are you taking me?” Stone asked.
“Leslie has a cottage down by the beach,” Thomas replied. “It’s been in his family since the seventeenth century.”
“Is he black?”
“Yes.”
“I would have thought that in the seventeenth century, any blacks on this island would have been slaves.”
“You’re not far off the mark there, but an ancestor of Leslie’s bought his freedom and started a stevedoring business. They were a very prosperous family indeed until we got our freedom from Britain. Then the new government confiscated nearly everything Leslie had inherited. His wife died, his children fled the country, and he was left here with nothing but this cottage.” He pulled up before a whitewashed building.
It was larger than Stone had imagined. He got out and, with Thomas leading the way, approached the Dutch front door, which was open at the top.
“Leslie!” Thomas called out. He beckoned to Stone and entered the cottage. They walked through a small foyer and into a comfortably if somewhat seedily furnished living room. “Leslie!” Thomas called out again, but there was no reply. “Let’s take a look out back.” They walked through a neat kitchen and through a pretty garden, then down to the beach. A tiny black man in faded shorts and a straw hat was pulling a dinghy up the beach from the water. “There he is,” Thomas said, approaching. “Leslie, how you doing?” he asked.
“Thomas? Is that Thomas Hardy?” Leslie Hewitt asked, shielding his eyes from the light.
“Sure is,” Thomas said. “Come to see you, and I brought a friend.” He introduced the barrister to Stone.
“How do you do, Sir Leslie,” Stone said.
“I’m very well, Mr. Barrington; and you?”