Aldean, playing as children, sneaking beers as teenagers, crying in his arms the night before she had to report to court.
“I think she liked it,” Marydale said finally.
“That’s right.” Aldean put his arm around her, enveloping her in the smell of cigarette smoke and burnt acetylene. “You know why I’m not a happily married man?”
“Because you’re a slut.” Marydale leaned against him.
“It’s because the only woman who’s really worth having won’t play for my team.”
“That’s bullshit, and you know it.”
Aldean laughed. “Well, if she doesn’t fall madly in love with you, she’s an asshole and a damn fool.” He squeezed her a little closer. “Just don’t get your hopes up too high. Okay, princess?”
9
The next week passed uneventfully, the hot weather breaking and then getting hot again. Marydale left for work early and came home late, and the house on Gulch Creek Road felt empty. When she and Kristen did cross paths, Marydale would offer her a little wink and a “hey, gorgeous,” but then she’d disappear into her bedroom or whistle to Lilith and vault up into the cab of her truck.
On Monday Kristen went back to work feeling, as she often had in Portland, that there was something she wished she could have done, someplace she wished she could have been. But instead of a vague yearning for something out there , it was Marydale. Marydale singing as she cooked. Marydale reading in an easy chair while Kristen watched TV. Marydale sitting on the porch railing, a little jam jar of whiskey dangling from her fingers.
In the courtroom, Kristen barely heard Douglas Grady,
“You still here, Law School?”
“Yeah,” she said, staring at the clock above the judge’s bench.
“What’s it been, a month and a half?” Grady added. He made it sound both too long and not long enough to be proud of. “I don’t know why you brought this case.”
Kristen didn’t know either, especially when Relington had passed over two domestic-violence cases that had landed the victims in the Burnville walk-in clinic.
“Ask your friend Boyd,” she said.
“Boyd Relington’s no friend of mine.” Grady glanced at his client, a dark-haired man in a plaid shirt. He looked like a boy compared to Grady, in yet another pearlescent, off-white suit. Grady looked back to Kristen. “This is a bullshit case, and you know it.”
She cared, but she was thinking about Marydale.
The arrival of Judge Kip Spencer interrupted their talk. Grady stood, resting his hand on the enormous white hat on his table. Kristen rose also.
The case was a simple bicycle theft. She hadn’t wanted to prosecute. The price of the trial could pay for a hundred ten-speeds. But Relington had called it a gateway crime and had demanded that she prosecute.
Kristen called her first witness. The woman confirmed the details in the police report. She had seen a Latino man riding the bicycle at dusk on the night it was stolen. She later identified the defendant in a photo lineup.
Grady crossed and shuffled a stack of photographs in front of the woman. She picked one with confidence.
“Mrs. Peterson,” he said with overdone courtesy. “Thank you for taking time out of your day to be with us here. Can you tell us a little bit about what it’s like to live out on Old State Post Highway 10?”
“Objection, irrelevant,” Kristen said.
Judge Spencer glanced at her over the expanse of his handlebar mustache. “Really, Miss Brock? Been watching Law and Order ? I’ll allow it.”
The woman described life on a small ranch where her family had lived for three generations.
“Off the main road, aren’t you?” Grady asked.
“About half a mile.”
“Hard to know if you’re looking at Mr. Juan here.” He shuffled the photos in front of her. “Or Mr. Jose.”
“Objection. This isn’t a shell game,” Kristen protested.
“Withdrawn,” Grady said, and ambled back to his seat. “Your turn, Law School.”
Kristen called a man
“I think she liked it,” Marydale said finally.
“That’s right.” Aldean put his arm around her, enveloping her in the smell of cigarette smoke and burnt acetylene. “You know why I’m not a happily married man?”
“Because you’re a slut.” Marydale leaned against him.
“It’s because the only woman who’s really worth having won’t play for my team.”
“That’s bullshit, and you know it.”
Aldean laughed. “Well, if she doesn’t fall madly in love with you, she’s an asshole and a damn fool.” He squeezed her a little closer. “Just don’t get your hopes up too high. Okay, princess?”
9
The next week passed uneventfully, the hot weather breaking and then getting hot again. Marydale left for work early and came home late, and the house on Gulch Creek Road felt empty. When she and Kristen did cross paths, Marydale would offer her a little wink and a “hey, gorgeous,” but then she’d disappear into her bedroom or whistle to Lilith and vault up into the cab of her truck.
On Monday Kristen went back to work feeling, as she often had in Portland, that there was something she wished she could have done, someplace she wished she could have been. But instead of a vague yearning for something out there , it was Marydale. Marydale singing as she cooked. Marydale reading in an easy chair while Kristen watched TV. Marydale sitting on the porch railing, a little jam jar of whiskey dangling from her fingers.
In the courtroom, Kristen barely heard Douglas Grady,
“You still here, Law School?”
“Yeah,” she said, staring at the clock above the judge’s bench.
“What’s it been, a month and a half?” Grady added. He made it sound both too long and not long enough to be proud of. “I don’t know why you brought this case.”
Kristen didn’t know either, especially when Relington had passed over two domestic-violence cases that had landed the victims in the Burnville walk-in clinic.
“Ask your friend Boyd,” she said.
“Boyd Relington’s no friend of mine.” Grady glanced at his client, a dark-haired man in a plaid shirt. He looked like a boy compared to Grady, in yet another pearlescent, off-white suit. Grady looked back to Kristen. “This is a bullshit case, and you know it.”
She cared, but she was thinking about Marydale.
The arrival of Judge Kip Spencer interrupted their talk. Grady stood, resting his hand on the enormous white hat on his table. Kristen rose also.
The case was a simple bicycle theft. She hadn’t wanted to prosecute. The price of the trial could pay for a hundred ten-speeds. But Relington had called it a gateway crime and had demanded that she prosecute.
Kristen called her first witness. The woman confirmed the details in the police report. She had seen a Latino man riding the bicycle at dusk on the night it was stolen. She later identified the defendant in a photo lineup.
Grady crossed and shuffled a stack of photographs in front of the woman. She picked one with confidence.
“Mrs. Peterson,” he said with overdone courtesy. “Thank you for taking time out of your day to be with us here. Can you tell us a little bit about what it’s like to live out on Old State Post Highway 10?”
“Objection, irrelevant,” Kristen said.
Judge Spencer glanced at her over the expanse of his handlebar mustache. “Really, Miss Brock? Been watching Law and Order ? I’ll allow it.”
The woman described life on a small ranch where her family had lived for three generations.
“Off the main road, aren’t you?” Grady asked.
“About half a mile.”
“Hard to know if you’re looking at Mr. Juan here.” He shuffled the photos in front of her. “Or Mr. Jose.”
“Objection. This isn’t a shell game,” Kristen protested.
“Withdrawn,” Grady said, and ambled back to his seat. “Your turn, Law School.”
Kristen called a man
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