The Riches of Mercy (28 page)

Meredith would never forgive her. The universe would probably never forgive her.

She closed the door on Merritt's yearning face and got in the driver's seat. "See you next week, Mr. and Mrs. Jameison."

Merritt finally let out a wail.

Beau kicked the back of Natalie's chair. "I hate you!"

Natalie put the car in gear and waited for the blur of her own tears to recede before pulling out of the driveway. Beau didn't mean it. His grandparents bribed him, or stuffed him with candy, or slandered her. The voodoo magic would wear off by the time they got home. Beau would have his own toys, and Hollingsworth.

Not Natalie. She would never be enough enticement to stay.

"Wait until you find out what we're having for dinner," she said.

#

When Natalie put the boys to bed, she wanted to ask them if they really hated her. She wanted them to apologize. She wanted them to feel guilty for breaking her heart, for making her feel bad. But she made them read to her, trying to be at ease with Beau comfortably in her arms, pointing at the pictures. Dog. Balloon. Girl.

Merritt fell asleep quickly, his stomach filled with ramen and turkey. Beau lingered, warm and squirmy. When Natalie closed the book and lowered the light, he blinked at her.

"Love you, Beau," she said, kissing his hair.

He nodded. He hesitated.

She waited. If she didn't give him his space, he would react defensively and close up before she got to know the secrets causing ripples in his cheeks, fluttering in his eyelids.

"You know," he said, a phrase that made him sound so much like his mother Natalie's heart lurched, "There are worse places I could be."

She smiled.

#

The television was on mute, showing an eleven o'clock sitcom Natalie was glad she didn't have to pay for. She'd cleaned the kitchen after dinner, but the small family room was in disarray. Toys were underfoot. The blanket over her lap smelled like applesauce. The big screen television she'd brought with her from Charlotte took up too much room, crowding out books and puzzles.

The television. The legal briefs spread out around her. Bad food on the coffee table. Despite uprooting her entire life, despite finding love, and family, despite losing the job that defined her, Natalie's nights were exactly the same as they were a year ago.

She didn't know how long she'd have to wait for change. She wanted to be patient. But she didn't want this.

The thought of cleaning depressed her. The laptop was in her lap. If she stared at Quicken long enough, maybe more money would appear. And everything else she might need. She'd already checked her email a dozen times. She'd only gotten a message on Facebook from Melanie, a paralegal at the state prosecutor's office, inviting her back for a weekend.

As if she could afford the gas.

Food stamps got her pretty far. Her court-assigned social worker, Rebecca, had looked askance at her when she explained she'd quit a $60,000 a year job to come to Tarpley with no job prospects. But with two boys and no assets--not even a car anymore, just Meredith's station wagon, she'd qualified.

"You just sold your condo," Rebecca said.

"In the Charlotte market."

Rebecca winced sympathetically.

"I have some savings, but I have medical bills, too."

Rebecca read her form. "And Meredith Jameison isn't receiving income?"

"Not in prison."

"You never know. Are the children on Medicaid?"

Natalie shook her head. "Blue Cross."

Rebecca ran the numbers. Natalie's life, reduced to a federal equation. Reduced to her ability to hold off bill collectors long enough to pay the power bill. Court costs hadn't helped, either. But she'd left with $50 per child per month, which she supplemented, despite feeling guilty, by buying cards from junkies at sixty cents on the dollar outside the Food Lion.

They wouldn't starve. At least not until Meredith came back and could starve with them. Maybe they could move. Charlotte, or California, or Moscow.

Anywhere but here.

Rebecca took her hand. "Natalie, there's other things you can do."

"I'm listening."

She'd left with a promise of hope. The church that had abandoned Meredith would deliver groceries the first of each month. She could get free school supplies, free clothes.

"What I really need," she'd said to Rebecca, "Is a job."

Rebecca squeezed her hand, but offered no hope.

Beau and Merritt didn’t complain about the food. Fresh eggs and good cereal and juice and vitamins in the morning, and whatever came out of a box at night.

In four months, she'd done two wills. One for Jake's father and one for another Laotian immigrant long past retirement age. She'd contested four speeding tickets and she'd helped Mrs. Cranston's friend Ida, whose neighbor's dog kept crapping in her yard.

It all amounted to less than $1000 in legal fees. The first time she'd gotten a gig, she'd taken the boys to MacDonalds to celebrate. The second time, she'd just taken them to the library.

There had also been her Big Case, coming from the public defender's rotation, two meth heads who'd been caught selling from their truck. She wasn’t able to get them into rehab, which was non-existent except for a facility three counties away and the A.A. and N.A. meetings around. She wasn’t able to get the sentence reduced. Five days in county jail.

But she got paid a hundred bucks.

She'd met a couple other public defenders in Duplin County doing the same beat as her. Family law practice, on call public defenders. Patrick tried to get her a transfer to the fourth district court, but the few positions were all held by lifers.

She'd make do.

Quicken suggested she sell her soul. Or maybe one of the kids. She knew immediately which one it would be. She'd have to live with the guilt of a quick, impure, unloving thought all night. She turned up the volume on the television. Maybe something mindless would distract her. She closed Quicken. Behind it was her letterhead. Natalie Ivans, Attorney at Law. Sad and empty. A blank slate.

The hospital was hiring. The meth heads she'd defended worked there in laundry services. No longer. They, too, would be going to see Rebecca. Natalie might see them outside Food Lion. Maybe they'd offer her a deal on food stamp cards for representing them. Maybe they'd firebomb her house for not getting them off.

The sitcom faded to a commercial, loud and jolting. She grabbed the remote and turned it down again, then listened for reaction upstairs.

Silence.

Her phone rang, equally jarring. She scooped it up from the coffee table, glancing at the caller ID. Her heart raced, hoping it was Meredith.

"Natalie Ivans," she said into the receiver.

"Ms. Ivans, this is Sherriff Duarte."

"Sheriff? Is everything all right?"

They'd do a notification at the front door. They wouldn't call her--

"I got your name from the public defender's list."

She nodded. They'd met, in passing. He would know her name already.

"I was looking for it," he said.

"What can I do for you, Sheriff?"

"Can you come up to Route 40? Up by River Landing, Northbound. There's been an accident. A--An accident."

"Of course." She slid the laptop off her lap. "Someone need a lawyer?"

"Yes. Someone needs a lawyer, Ms. Ivans. My son."

"I'm on my way."

He hung up before she lowered the phone. She glanced at the staircase. She didn't know if she should change into her suit. Certainly she couldn't go in her jeans. The September heat would be stifling, even at night.

And the boys. She could take them, leave them in their booster seats, safe in the car, locked away. Screaming. Demanding attention. She couldn't call a sitter this late at night, on no notice. She crept upstairs, first to her bedroom, changing into khakis and a sweater. Checking her briefcase. Delaying the inevitable. But Sheriff Duarte' voice held urgency and River Landing was a good 20 minute drive, even this late at night.

The boys were asleep, and only shifted slightly when she slipped into the room. She set Meredith's cell phone on the table between them, with a note.

Call Natalie.

Do not pass go. Do not collect $200.

All they had to do was hit send.

Hollingsworth meowed from Merritt's bed. She patted his head. She wished he were a dog. A big, protective, parental dog.

"I'll be back," she said.

# #

Chapter Thirty-Two

Natalie parked along the shoulder, behind squad cars and an unmarked Toyota. She got out, nervous of the trucks lumbering past. The squad cars' blue lights were blinding in the night. The accident scene was wrapping up. Ambulances were gone. A car was being lifted onto a flatbed tow truck. Natalie could tell it was totaled.

A policeman stepped away from the sheriff and approached her.

"Natalie Ivans," she said.

He nodded and they walked together toward the sheriff. Her hand was sweaty as she gripped her briefcase. Beyond the tow truck was a state trooper's car. Natalie blinked, water-eyed from its lights, and turned to the sheriff, who held a blue pallor.

"Thank you for coming," he said, offering his hand.

"Of course, Sheriff."

The sheriff glanced at the policeman, who nodded and went toward the state trooper car.

Natalie cleared her throat. "Is your son in trouble, sheriff?"

Duarte gestured toward the state trooper car. "Luis. This is his fifth DWI. He..."

Natalie waited. The way she waited for Beau. The way she waited for her leg to heal, for Meredith to come home, for a jury to come back with a verdict.

"This time, he killed someone."

She nodded.

"Two girls driving down to see their parents at River Landing. They were so close to getting there." Duarte coughed hoarsely and gazed up. Stars glittered overhead.

Natalie put her hand on his elbow.

"They weren't intoxicated, that we could tell. Just..."

Just dead.

"I don't know what to do with him," Duarte said.

I know."

"He killed somebody."

"I'll help."

"I thought you could. I remembered you. Because." He met her eyes but didn't finish his thought.

Because Meredith killed somebody.

Natalie hadn't been her attorney.

She glanced at the state trooper's car. She thought about her kids.

"Go on over. We're almost done here. Deputy Fasan will be handling the case," Duarte said.

Natalie nodded and went to the squad car. The state trooper opened the back door for her. Crouched against the window on the other side was Luis Duarte, crying. He gazed at her with wild, sorrowful eyes, and then his expression tightened. Toward anger.

"Luis, I'm Natalie. I'm your attorney."

He swallowed and nodded. "Yes, ma'am. Dad--"

"Yes. Luis, I'm going to need you not to talk to anyone else."

"It was their fault," he said, his nail-polish-vomit breath washing over her, loud enough for the state trooper outside the door to hear. "They swerved right in front of me. If they hadn't--I was fine."

"Luis--"

"I know I could have made it home. It was their fault."

He bent over, shuddering with sobs, gripping his thighs. He was handcuffed. He'd wet his pants. The smells and his attitude made Natalie want to retch, want to flee.

She sat, trying not to think of him as a worthless human being. The kind she'd held no sympathy for as a prosecutor. "Get them off the streets," she once told juries. "Before they kill somebody."

Luis raised his head. "What did you say your name was, ma'am?" He inhaled, fighting more tears.

"Natalie."

"Natalie. I've been through these. I appreciate the help, but I know the procedure better than you do. I know what they're going to do to me."

"Probably."

"Then what are you doing here?"

"Someone died. Changes things."

"They swerved right in front of me."

"Are you injured?"

Luis shook his head. "No, ma'am."

Two girls died and he was scratch-free. Natalie's stomach twisted. She pictured the girls' parents, not grieving and broken, but angry, unforgiving, wearing the faces of Anthony and Irene Jameison.

The state trooper knocked on the window.

"I've got to talk to your father, all right? Luis?"

Luis glanced at her. "Don't say anything to anyone."

"I'll see you at the jail in the morning, okay?"

"What about bond?"

She put her hand on his shoulder. "There's not going to be any bond."

He nodded.

The door opened. She slid out. The trooper handed her a card. "Tarpley's city jail."

"I know where it is. Thank you."

He got into the driver's seat. Natalie walked toward Duarte.

"How is he?" Duarte asked.

"He's not hurt. I'll meet with him in the morning."

Duarte nodded. "I just can't--I can't believe it." He was a more composed version of his son, the tears and fury and recrimination hiding behind a lifetime of police work.

The state trooper's car pulled out, and the tow truck left, leaving only the two squad cars and her own car. Broken glass littered the nearest lane and the shoulder. Chalk marks marred the road, though everything had been cleaned up. The pictures had been taken.

"I'll need the police report," she said.

"Everything will go through Fasan." He gave her a card. Fasan's name, cell phone number, and the case number were written on the back.

"Thanks," she said.

"What are his chances?"

"For what?"

Duarte gazed at the accident scene. "For not being--For getting better."

"I don't know." She set up an appointment to talk to him tomorrow afternoon, and then got back in her car. She checked her phone, even though it hadn't rung. No calls. She prayed the boys were still asleep.

Then, because it was habit every time she prayed, she sent a good thought to Meredith.

And then for Luis Duarte, and the parents getting a knock on the door in the middle of the night in River Landing. Fasan would have to go there. Not Duarte. That was too much for any man.