all those snowmobiles.
George had dark hair and the pale, milky complexionthat runs in some downeast Maine families, and a bluish five o’clock shadow on his small, stubborn jaw. His knuckles were permanently grease-stained; in Eastport, George was the man you called if you couldn’t get hold of that duct tape fast enough.
Now he looked patiently at his questioner. “No. She was ashamed. Old man hit her, she didn’t want folks to know about it. So I got the bandages for her.”
Then he returned to eating his dinner, while the DA's fellows pondered what they’d heard. “So somebody might say she was justified? Even that it was self-defense, or could have been?” the assistant asked.
“Absolutely,” I began enthusiastically, trying again to get the conversation back on track. But this time, Sam interrupted.
“That's not what she's saying. She's saying she didn’t do it. Or doesn’t remember it. Anyway, what happened to presumed innocent?”
I shot him a glance. We wanted them to feel sorry for Faye Anne, not angry at what they might perceive as deceptiveness, or defiance; not only the facts but the tone these guys presented them in would be important. But the damage was done:
“She is, isn’t she?” Cold Fish Number One said complacently. “First statement was that she couldn’t imagine where all the blood had come from.”
“And she did have a boyfriend,” Gill-Boy Number Two put in. “This guy she was seeing,” he added with a glance at his colleague, “Peter Christie.”
He spoke as if women possessing boyfriends also had the number “666” tattooed in hidden places on their bodies. Or at least that juries could be brought around to believing that they did. Peter Christie was just about the last person I’d have wanted these two to run into.
But: “Wait a minute,” Sam protested. “Peter isn’t aboyfriend. Not what you mean by a boyfriend. Besides, Faye Anne is—”
Married, he’d been about to say, stopping only when he realized that was the point in the first place: marrying a bum like Merle was blameworthy enough, in some eyes. But cheating on a bum…
Well, that was a hanging offense, or it could be if you presented it to that jury properly. Because when you came right down to it, this was all about perceptions. And about winning and losing.
Mostly the latter. “Peter Christie is a computer repair guy,” Sam said, trying to end what he’d started and becoming indignant in the process. “He's not hooking up with any married women. Why should he? He's from California” Which to my son was like being the Dalai Lama, but with sun! And fun!
“Sam,” I said, and at my tone the temperature in the room dropped ten degrees. A boyfriend was bad; a promiscuous one could be even more damaging. But as they explained over coffee and baked apples with maple syrup and cream, our guests already knew all about Peter Christie.
A recent Silicon Valley transplant who’d moved here to Eastport and set up, just as Sam had said, in computer repair—as a sideline he also fixed copiers, fax machines, and mobile phones—Peter hadn’t waited for the DA's men to find him and ask their questions. Instead I gathered that he’d sought them out and insisted on spilling his guts, incriminating Faye Anne more than ever, so as to clear himself of any possible suspicion.
Not, of course, that Peter had put it quite that way. But due to his forthcomingness the DA's men now knew things we might have preferred that Peter had kept under his hat.
Such as, for instance, that Faye Anne didn’t believe in divorce. And that despite Sam's opinion, Peter had been in love with her, or so he’d maintained; that he had begged herto leave Merle and marry him. But she’d refused, and in the end he’d told her that they would have to stop seeing each other. With Merle in the picture, Peter said he’d told Faye Anne, further contact between them would only go on hurting them both.
“So,” Ellie summed up
George had dark hair and the pale, milky complexionthat runs in some downeast Maine families, and a bluish five o’clock shadow on his small, stubborn jaw. His knuckles were permanently grease-stained; in Eastport, George was the man you called if you couldn’t get hold of that duct tape fast enough.
Now he looked patiently at his questioner. “No. She was ashamed. Old man hit her, she didn’t want folks to know about it. So I got the bandages for her.”
Then he returned to eating his dinner, while the DA's fellows pondered what they’d heard. “So somebody might say she was justified? Even that it was self-defense, or could have been?” the assistant asked.
“Absolutely,” I began enthusiastically, trying again to get the conversation back on track. But this time, Sam interrupted.
“That's not what she's saying. She's saying she didn’t do it. Or doesn’t remember it. Anyway, what happened to presumed innocent?”
I shot him a glance. We wanted them to feel sorry for Faye Anne, not angry at what they might perceive as deceptiveness, or defiance; not only the facts but the tone these guys presented them in would be important. But the damage was done:
“She is, isn’t she?” Cold Fish Number One said complacently. “First statement was that she couldn’t imagine where all the blood had come from.”
“And she did have a boyfriend,” Gill-Boy Number Two put in. “This guy she was seeing,” he added with a glance at his colleague, “Peter Christie.”
He spoke as if women possessing boyfriends also had the number “666” tattooed in hidden places on their bodies. Or at least that juries could be brought around to believing that they did. Peter Christie was just about the last person I’d have wanted these two to run into.
But: “Wait a minute,” Sam protested. “Peter isn’t aboyfriend. Not what you mean by a boyfriend. Besides, Faye Anne is—”
Married, he’d been about to say, stopping only when he realized that was the point in the first place: marrying a bum like Merle was blameworthy enough, in some eyes. But cheating on a bum…
Well, that was a hanging offense, or it could be if you presented it to that jury properly. Because when you came right down to it, this was all about perceptions. And about winning and losing.
Mostly the latter. “Peter Christie is a computer repair guy,” Sam said, trying to end what he’d started and becoming indignant in the process. “He's not hooking up with any married women. Why should he? He's from California” Which to my son was like being the Dalai Lama, but with sun! And fun!
“Sam,” I said, and at my tone the temperature in the room dropped ten degrees. A boyfriend was bad; a promiscuous one could be even more damaging. But as they explained over coffee and baked apples with maple syrup and cream, our guests already knew all about Peter Christie.
A recent Silicon Valley transplant who’d moved here to Eastport and set up, just as Sam had said, in computer repair—as a sideline he also fixed copiers, fax machines, and mobile phones—Peter hadn’t waited for the DA's men to find him and ask their questions. Instead I gathered that he’d sought them out and insisted on spilling his guts, incriminating Faye Anne more than ever, so as to clear himself of any possible suspicion.
Not, of course, that Peter had put it quite that way. But due to his forthcomingness the DA's men now knew things we might have preferred that Peter had kept under his hat.
Such as, for instance, that Faye Anne didn’t believe in divorce. And that despite Sam's opinion, Peter had been in love with her, or so he’d maintained; that he had begged herto leave Merle and marry him. But she’d refused, and in the end he’d told her that they would have to stop seeing each other. With Merle in the picture, Peter said he’d told Faye Anne, further contact between them would only go on hurting them both.
“So,” Ellie summed up
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