Gideon - 03 - Religious Conviction by Grif Stockley

sympathy is my dominant emotion, and though I’m beginning to warm to him, the myths about him shape my feelings to a far greater degree than this homey snap shot. Wearing beltless faded blue jeans that are far too roomy in the back (they are in danger of sliding down his wasted shanks to his knees if he jams his hands in his pockets one more time). Bracken confesses he doesn’t have the energy to do much more until the trial.
    “I had to browbeat Leigh to get her to see you tomorrow,” he says, frustration working into his voice.
    “She’s been about as useless as I am.”
    Embarrassed, I study the ground in the growing dusk.
    Only last year Bracken won outright acquittals in four first-degree murder cases in a row. His ability, the courthouse talk goes, has been exceeded only by his arrogance. Obviously, the specter of his own death has vanquished the Chet Bracken of legend.
    “I’m a little surprised somebody in that church hasn’t tried to cover for her,” I say, voicing a notion that has recently occurred to me.
    “They raised that bond money in a hurry.”
    Bracken bends down to pull up a weed.
    “I know Nor man, and he wouldn’t allow anyone to do that,” he says sharply.
    “If she goes to prison, they’ll have ten members there for her on visiting day the rest of her life, but nobody would be permitted to lie for her no matter how much it would help. We don’t do things that way.”
    We. It is hard to take seriously Bracken’s conversion.
    If he’s so hot for it, how come he isn’t in church to night? Rainey was going. His sanctimonious tone sticks in my craw. Is he suggesting that I would suborn per jury? A decade ago, when Bracken was first making his reputation, the prosecuting attorney of Blackwell County claimed that he had bought a witness in a rape case but couldn’t make the charge against him stick. I can’t keep my irritation pushed down.
    “Joining a church doesn’t make a person a saint.”
    Bracken smiles as if I had said something funny. He pokes at his teeth with the weed he has pulled from the ground.
    “I want you to talk to Leigh’s father, too,” he says mildly.
    “You’re not going to get a feel for what I’m talking about until you do.”
    “I’ll be glad to,” I say, inwardly groaning at the thought. It is not only the Jim Bakkers, Jimmy Swaggarts, and Oral Robertses who have given Protestants a bad name. During John Kennedy’s campaign for the presidency. Catholics were suspect in Bear Creek.
    Home during the summer from Subiaco, I was told more than once everybody knew the Pope would be calling the shots if he got elected.
    “Did Wallace keep a gun in the house?” I ask, wanting Bracken to focus on the murder itself.
    Bracken leads me back to the deck.
    “Leigh claimed he didn’t own one, and the cops can’t prove he did, but that doesn’t mean anything. I’ve got three guns in this house that were given to me.” Apparently exhausted by our excursion to the garden. Bracken sinks gratefully into his chair.
    Seated again, I watch the rabbit bound into the cleared ground and head for the garden. Bracken doesn’t even bother to wave his arms.
    “As circumstantial as the case against her is,” I point out, “maybe we could get a good deal for her.”
    Bracken reaches for another beer.
    “The sticking point is her father—he doesn’t want her to have to spend a day in prison.”
    I finish my beer but decide against another one. How can a father believe his daughter is capable of murder?
    Sarah won’t even kill one of Woogie’s fleas. Bracken’s hand shakes slightly as he brings the can to his mouth.
    “He thinks it’s just a matter of time before some evidence turns up that takes her off the hook.”
    Wishful thinking is the only thing the brain is good for, according to my friend Dan. If not for that ability, there wouldn’t be any reason to get out of bed most mornings. Trey bounds through the door, then, almost standing at attention, says