I’ve been working with Silas for only a short time. He’s been getting acclimated to Middle Valley and our small-town mores. We have visited Paul twice where he sits in a cell awaiting … something, likely some judicial action … we just don’t know what, if a trial is in our future. All unclear.
The state seems to be satisfied with Paul’s confession, but I can’t imagine that that’s the end of it. I mean, why’d he do it? Was he acting alone? For someone else? Did his responsibility to the community even enter his mind or was he so single-minded (and addicted, apparently) that it didn’t matter?
Silas takes the lead in our preparation. “This Armand person … what do we know about this Armand person? Innocent until proven guilty and all, but where there’s smoke ….”
“Right.” What else could I say?
It pains me to say I don’t miss my husband. This business with Carson … it’s really changed him. Mother used to call him a “lay about” and all, and she was right, but the fact was at the time he was at least enjoyable company. This sudden awareness of our (rather, his) position in society is disconcerting. I think even Mother is stunned by it – they always played a little game between the two of them, counting kings and queens and how far removed they were from Lindy’s own nuclear family.
Truth be told, I’ve never been interested in his money. When I met him, he had a brain and ambition. It’s the money and boats and cars and staff that slowly wore that away.
The drive to the prison seems to take longer than before. This time we don’t need preparation. We wait anxiously in the same conference room. Paul is ushered in, a slight reticence in his gait.
“Afternoon, folks. I hope I can be of assistance.”
Silas is all business, even skips the salutation.
“We are aware that you frequented the racetrack when you were pursuing a musical career and guiding others. How did you meet this Armand person?”
Paul is flustered, grasping and glancing right and left.
“How did you find out …”
Silas stands and strides across the room. He can be imposing when he walks. I can only imagine what’s going through Paul’s mind.
“How often did you see him?” Silas asks. “Did you seek him out or did he find you? Did he have an office at the track where you would meet, or how did it work?”
Paul’s eyes are wide as Silas leans forward.
“Keep in mind that you’re going to take the fall for him, unless you tell us what was happening.”
Resigned, Paul nods his head.
“You can find him at the track,” Paul says, looking up at the clock. “He’s usually there about an hour from now.”
Jenny Page