“Merodie,” I said. “We’ve been speaking to Priscilla St. Ana—”
She was off her chair and across the room in an instant. Her fists were clenched, and I was sure that she was going to hit me.
“I told you to stay away from her,” she said.
“Remember when I told you I was your friend?”
“Yeah, so what?”
“So shut up and sit down.” I was pointing at the chair. “I mean it.”
“McKenzie . . .” G. K. said.
I kept pointing at the chair. “I’m in a real bad mood,” I said.
“Your cold is better,” Merodie said. “Did you use the Vicks like I said?”
I nearly began to laugh. If they were going to strap her in the electric chair, Merodie would be warning her executioner not to stand too close.
When she was seated, I asked, “Why didn’t your tell us about your daughter?”
“Look at me, McKenzie. What do you see? You don’t have to say it, I’ll say it. You see a pathetic drunk. If I didn’t know it before, I know it now what with writing my history on a chalkboard all week. Silk, she shouldn’t have to suffer cuz of that. That’s why I gave her to Cilia, so she wouldn’t have to suffer. She’s got a good life with Cilia. My life has been just one thing after another, and some of it ain’t my fault but most of it is, and my daughter, she ain’t gonna suffer cuz of that. So you, you just shut up now about Silk. I’m the boss, I’m the client.” She glanced from me to G. K. and back again. “You have to do what I say, and I say you don’t talk about Silk and you don’t talk about Cilia. I don’t want no one pointing at them and saying things. I’d rather—I’d rather go away than let that happen.”
“Go to prison,” I said.
“Yes.”
“Merodie,” said G. K. “I think we have an opportunity to make sure that doesn’t happen.”
“Oh yeah?”
G. K. brought her hands together in a way that made it seem like she was appealing to the deity and said, “There’s something I want to say, but I don’t want you to interrupt until I’m finished. Okay?”
Merodie nodded.
“Now bear with me,” G. K. added. “It gets a little complicated.”
Merodie nodded again.
“It would be extremely valuable to us if we could furnish the county attorney with a second suspect in Eli’s death. Now, we wouldn’t need to prove this second suspect actually committed the crime—”
“The crime is hitting Jefferson on the head with the bat,” Merodie said.
“Yes, exactly. But, please, don’t—”
“I won’t.”
“Interrupt.” G. K. said. “A second suspect would interject reasonable doubt into the case to the point where the county attorney might consider dropping it altogether.”
“Do you really think—”
“Merodie, please,” G. K. said, exasperated.
“Sorry.”
“The question is, who would that second suspect be? Now, in your initial statement to the police, the one you gave when they first brought you to Mercy Hospital, you said, well, wait a moment. . .”
G. K. unsnapped the locks on her briefcase, opened it, and withdrew a copy of the Supplementary Investigation Report filed by the deputy who had taken Merodie to Mercy Hospital. I was looking at the door to the interview room, wishing I were on the other side of it. I always knew that defense attorneys would do almost anything to get their clients off, including coaching them into what might or might not be a lie, but watching it happen—it made me feel like a co-conspirator, and I didn’t like the feeling.
Finally, G. K. found the passage she was seeking and quoted from it. “You said, ‘Some guy with blond hair came into the residence and got into a fight with him,’ meaning Jefferson.”
Merodie nodded.
“ ‘I asked Davies’—that’s the deputy speaking now—’I asked Davies who that might be and she told me that she felt it could have been a former boyfriend. I asked for the name of the boyfriend but Davies claimed she could not remember.’ Now, here’s the thing, Merodie. If you could remember who that former boyfriend was . . .”
“I’m not sure.”
G. K. leaned forward in her chair.
“I was wondering if the former boyfriend might have been Richard Scott Nye, who has blond hair. Now, he had good reason to come to your house. He had just been released from jail on a drug conviction, and he believes you informed on him.”
“I did inform on him,” Merodie insisted.
“Yes. So Nye could have come to your house that day . . .”
“Yes.”
“To get revenge . . .”
“Yes.”
“And got into a fight with Jefferson.”
“Yes.”
“The question is: Do you remember Nye coming to your house and getting into a fight with Jefferson? In your statement you said that a man with blond hair who could have been a former boyfriend got into a fight with Jefferson. Do you remember now that the man was Richard Nye? Because if you do, we might be able to get you out of here.”