Prologue
She never wanted to send her little girl to daycare, but working mothers don’t have choices, so her six-year-old was waiting for her, small and alone on the front porch of the run-down house where she spent her after-school hours. She hustled her daughter to the car, buckled her in, and handed her a warm juice box that had simmered on the seat all day under the brutal Mississippi sun.
"How was school today, honey?" The whining of a loose fan belt swallowed the child’s words, so she turned down the air conditioner. "What, sweetheart?"
"Momma, if I tell you something bad, you promise I won't get in trouble?"
The mother raised her eyebrows. What kind of question was that? What kind of trouble could you get into at daycare?
"Of course not, honey. It’s a lot better if you tell me, ‘cause I’m going to find out, anyway." When she twisted in her seat to flash a reassuring smile, the little girl’s black face had faded to the sickly grey of used chalk, and she was trembling, shaking with waves that started in the tips of her fingers then crested in her chest with such violence that she was jerking against the straps of the booster seat.
The bumper scraped the curb as she yanked the car to the side of the street. She flew to her daughter’s side, threw open the door, and grabbed the girl’s thin face with both hands to steady her.
"Honey," she said, "what’s wrong?"
The little girl clenched her lips as if she was trying to keep her final breath from escaping.
"What is it?" the mother said.
"I don’t wanna go back tomorrow.”
“Why not, honey?”
“I’m afraid of goin’ back." The tiny whisper was almost too soft to hear.
The mother relaxed, feeling the rush of adrenaline slip away as she realized that it was just a panic attack, or that separation anxiety like they talked about on television. Take a clingy six-year-old away from her mother, and this is what you get. She smiled at her daughter, forcing brightness into her voice.
"It's all right, baby. Everybody gets scared sometimes, but this is just part of being a big girl—Momma goes and does her work, and you go and do your work. You understand that, don’t you?"
The little girl nodded, one quick little movement of her head, like a small bird snatching up a seed from under the watchful eye of a snake. Looking from side to side as if to make sure they were alone, she leaned forward so that her lips were right next to her mother's ear.
"But I got hurted."
The mother’s eyes flew over her daughter—knees, elbows, head—no sign of a fall from a slide or even a push from a young bully. The woman felt her heart speed as the sound of passing cars faded into the background. She had watched enough television to know that dark things existed, that people did things, even to little children. But not to her little girl, and not here—not in the middle of cotton fields, and farms, and churches. She wrapped her arms around her little girl as if she could somehow shield her from her suspicions. She didn't want to ask the next question.
"Who hurt you? Tell Momma."
The young girl’s face twisted; she clearly wanted to tell, but was holding back for some reason. Finally, she said, "He said it was our secret."
The mother closed her eyes and felt tears already forming. She began rocking back and forth, still holding the little girl tight to her chest.
"Where did he hurt you, honey?"
"In my bottom."
She tasted tears and stomach acid as she forced out the question. "Where in your bottom, baby?"
"In my privates."
The mother clamped her lips shut and forced the bile back down her throat. There was no song, no saying, no prayer that would make it all better, so she just pulled her baby tighter and stroked her hair, murmuring useless words under the fading rays of the Delta sun.
Chapter One
Monday morning in Chancery Court, and Will Luckman was on a roll. “Thank you, Your Honor.” Judge Thomas nodded, already motioning a fresh pair of attorneys into his chambers for the next hearing on the morning calendar. As Will stepped into the hallway, the opposing counsel touched his elbow for a moment.
“Are you going to draft the order?”
Will nodded. He had just home-towned the Memphis attorney, and could afford to be magnanimous. Will didn’t envy him—he was going to have to explain to his client (a faceless bank headquartered God only knows where) that a small-town lawyer had convinced a small-town judge to stop a foreclosure on a farmer who hadn’t paid his mortgage in nine months. The bank could either grin and bear it, or file an appeal that would take two years to resolve. Will expected that quiet negotiations would result in a payoff figure his client could afford—his real objective from the beginning.
Will turned down the hallway of the sprawling brick courthouse. The original three-story Victorian monstrosity had finally burned down in the fifties, much to the relief of the lawyers and staff, who were tired of the lack of air conditioning and elevators. The new courthouse was finished the year his father started practicing.
As he walked past the Circuit Clerk’s office, he caught Bud Rogers, the Clerk, just walking in. Bud gave him a wry smile, as if they were sharing some painful moment.
“What’s going on, Bud?”
The Clerk kept smiling and shook his head.
“Seriously, Bud. What is it?”
He had known Bud for almost thirty years, ever since elementary school. When Will went off to college, Bud stayed and worked his family’s farm into the ground. A poor farmer, he was a fair Circuit Clerk.
“I might have heard your name this morning.”
“You hear everything that goes on in this courthouse. Now, come on and tell me what it is.”
“It looks like Judge Lamar is gonna appoint you to the Curtis case.” He looked at Will for a reaction.
“I don’t know what that is.”
“Really? Well, I don’t want to spoil the surprise, so you’d best hear it from the Judge.” Bud made a zipping gesture across his lips, flashed the sad smile again, and disappeared into his office.
This wasn’t good. Will hadn’t heard of the Curtis case, but he knew it wouldn’t be anything he wanted. Not that it would matter. Like most attorneys in Coahoma County, he was on the list for conflict cases. When two defendants were racing to roll over on each other and confess what the other one did, the public defender got one liar, and the Judge would appoint a lawyer off the “conflict list” to represent the other. Nominally, it helped each defendant get a fair trial; in reality, it ensured that all the members of the local bar got some of the county’s gravy to the tune of a hundred dollars an hour. It looked like it was Will’s annual turn at the trough.
He turned down the hallway to Judge Lamar’s chambers. The two rooms tucked behind the Circuit courtroom didn’t have the rich paneling of the Chancery chambers, but were larger, and connected to the courtroom, the jury room, and, via a private hallway, the District Attorney’s office.
Lucy Patterson was at her desk when Will came in. She had been Judge L.Q.C. Lamar’s legal secretary since her twenties, and still had soft blonde hair and a soft body that was rumored to have been a great comfort to the judge when his wife died of cancer.
“Will, I’m so glad you dropped by—The Judge wants to see you.” Her smile was unnatural, like an alligator eyeing a bird with a broken wing.
As she opened the door to the inner sanctum and motioned him in, Will wondered just what the old buzzard had in store for him. Five foot six on a good day, the years had stripped away the little meat Lamar had and shrunk him into a caricature of an old man—the first impression was bones, and sinews, and a sharp nose pointing accusingly from between bushy grey eyebrows.
He was quick-tempered, caustic, and abusive—a fine combination in a trial judge. Ever on the lookout for even a perceived slight to his cherished dignity, Judge Lamar was quick to pounce on his brother lawyers, laying into them with his tongue like a vulture stripping away flesh with its claws.
Diplomas and awards covered two walls of his office, and a tall mahogany credenza full of artfully arranged law books filled a third. In the center was a huge desk with careful stacks of papers. Unlike Judge Thomas, who eschewed a large desk in order to make his office into a place for impromptu conferences and hearings, Judge Lamar relished the trappings of his position, using every inch of his enormous desk as an affirmation of his own importance.
“Sit down, Will,” Judge Lamar motioned to one of the two straight-backed chairs he kept for lawyers, positioned just far enough away that they had to clutch their files in their laps and shuffle papers from one leg to the other as they tried to argue their points.
“How are you doing with that practice your daddy left you?” the old man said. Will waited a beat before answering; nothing could be taken at face value with a man who collected scraps of knowledge and parsed every comment for ammunition.
“Just fine, Your Honor. I’m staying busy.”
The old man nodded, satisfied. “Now, didn’t you go to that conference last year down on the coast?”
Will nodded.
“I seem to remember there was a session on child molestation.” The Judge stopped, his voice indicating he expected a response.
Will searched his brain. “I believe there was, Your Honor. I didn’t go to that session, though – there was one on DUIs at the same time.”
“Nevertheless, you’ll still have the materials. I’m sure they will prove very helpful.” The judge handed Will a thin, red folder. Opening it, Will saw an indictment headed STATE OF MISSISSIPPI VERSUS WENDELL CURTIS.
Count One. That Wendell Curtis, between March 1, 2010, and August 29, 2010, did unlawfully, willfully, and feloniously, for the purpose of gratifying his lust or indulging his depraved licentious sexual desires, handle, touch, or rub with his hand the breast area and private parts of Jermisha P., a female child under the age of fourteen years, and he, the said Wendell Curtis, was over the age of eighteen years, all contrary to the peace and dignity of the State of Mississippi.
Will looked up from the folder as Lamar continued.
“He was bound over to Circuit Court this morning, and when the D.A. brought me the folder, I just immediately thought of you for defense counsel—what with the training you got at that conference, and all. Plus, I seem to recall your father represented Mister Curtis several years ago, so your firm has a history with him. I know how you revere history.”
Amazing that Lamar remembered that Will had majored in history at Ole Miss. It was even more amazing that no one had ever given in to the urge to reach across that desk and smash in the old man’s yellowed teeth. Somehow, day after day the lawyers managed to restrain themselves, swallow their pride and their manhood and play the game. Will was no different.
“I’ll surely do my best, Your Honor.”
“Oh, I don’t worry about that. You should know I’m going to fast-track this one. I want it ready for trial at the beginning of the next term of court.”
Will quickly calculated—less than a month to prepare a felony child molestation case for trial.
“That might be pushing it, Your Honor. I have other cases that I have to prepare—” he stopped as the old man waved a hand.
“I’m sure you’ll do your best, Will. After all, I know you wouldn’t neglect any of your paying clients for an appointed case. Especially one that’s so cut and dried.”
Will tensed as pressure built behind his eyes. Not only was the judge having ex parte communication about a pending case, but was essentially telling Will to blow off the preparation of the case because conviction was a foregone conclusion. There was more shit on this stick than he had imagined.
“Uh, no, Sir. I’m sure I’ll juggle things just fine.”
“Good. Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .” Judge Lamar motioned toward the door. As he left, Will was so dazed that he almost failed to notice Lamar’s slight smile. Almost.