by Grace Mead
“I’m a pretty good lawyer,” Matt said, pressing his lips together and cocking his head to the side. “Can I offer to help inmates with their cases for protection?”
“Well, you’re the lawyer, but seems to me most inmates have lousy legal cases. You really want to lose a gang leader’s case?” Frank’s weathered skin compressed his eyes into slits. “That could get you killed. If you beat up someone real bad the first day, some gang leader’s gonna figure you useful for other things. And he may let you join if he thinks you’re useful enough.”
“And all I have to do is beat the shit out of some poor guy who other prisoners will then view as weak and victimize for years?” Matt asked, shaking his head slightly.
“Pretty much,” Frank said evenly. “You need to do whatever you need to do to survive. Nobody else’s gonna do it for you.”
“Let me ask you a different question. I guess you know that the fight that landed me in this mess happened behind a gay club. That going to hurt me?” Matt gazed at Frank.
“You know the answer to that question,” Frank said. “If they hear about it, they’re gonna figure you’re gay, which means they’re gonna assume you like sex with men. And the cons are gonna figure that means any man. Another reason to beat the shit out of another fresh fish.”
“Any advice on the specific gang leaders in prison?” Matt asked.
“Nope,” Hodges said. “I got out more’n a year ago, so the leaders could of changed by now. Outdated advice could be worse than no advice. I read about you in the paper and I wouldn’t want to be you.” He shook his head. “Most people in the pen who shouldn’t be there got convicted ’cause a witness lied. If you can cut a deal for anything less than life, you should take it.”
After leaving Tommy’s Gym, Matt started walking down Jackson Avenue toward the streetcar that would take him home. He spotted Joey Buckner across the street and froze. Stomach aching, he tasted bile in the back of his throat, but he tamped down on the panic to focus on the practical problem.
He needed to avoid that moron; he couldn’t say anything that could be twisted to look like witness tampering, and—no matter what he said—he could throw Joey much farther than he trusted him. He didn’t want Joey to be able to lie about any conversation to anyone else, but Joey caught his eye and started across the street.
Matt had seconds. Maybe Joey would leave him alone if he saw Matt on the phone. He pulled out his cell and called Lisa at the office. Then he had an idea. “Lisa, it’s Matt.”
“Hi. I really can’t talk right now. I’m trying to get a brief out—”
“No, it’s important. Joey Buckner’s across the street and he looks like he’s coming to talk to me.”
“What? You can’t talk to him. God knows what the prosecutor would do with that.”
“I know, but I have to at least tell him I won’t talk to him. I’m going to put my phone in my pocket and leave it on. Can you record the conversation with your voicemail?”
“Matt, this is a bad idea.”
“Just do it. Please.”
“Okay, but maybe I should grab Thomas.”
“No time. Just do it.” Matt eased the phone into his pocket, careful not to break the connection.
Joey weaved between the traffic—it didn’t stop—and approached Matt. Daylight revealed a smattering of acne, a swollen nose and a pair of black eyes. His t-shirt strained and failed to reach his waist, where a tarnished silver stud poked out from a nest of brown hairs. The carpet didn’t match the drapes. He wore the same jeans he’d worn that Friday night.
“How’ve you been?” Joey asked. He stood with his hands hanging loosely at his sides.
“I’m okay. Look, we really shouldn’t be talking. I think both our lawyers would agree on that.”
“Yeah, I figured as much, but I saw you across the street and wanted to see how you’re doing. What’s wrong with that?” Matt wondered if the nasal tone came from the injury, but perhaps it was nothing new and shouting over the music at Drink had just masked it. Joey looked down at Matt’s feet as he shifted weight from one foot to the other.
“Nothing’s wrong with that, but you know the prosecution could make it look like we met and talked about what happened in that alley before the trial.”
“Yeah, I guess they could.” Joey’s features drooped further and he stared down at his own feet. At that moment, Matt knew Joey planned to sell him out.
“I also wanted to say thanks,” Joey said. “You could have left me in that alley, but you didn’t. I would have gotten hurt even worse than I did if you hadn’t stopped those guys.”
“Not a problem,” Matt said. He worked to keep his expression neutral.
“I’ve been talking to my lawyer and he’s been negotiating with the prosecutors. I guess you found out about the coke—”
“We really can’t talk about this,” Matt said, shaking his head. “You just need to tell the truth to your lawyer and the prosecutors.”
“But you know I could go away for a long time,” Joey said, his nasal tone rising to a high-pitched whine bordering on a squeal. “This isn’t the first time I’ve been caught with drugs. And it’s not like it’s my fault those assholes jumped us in the alley—”
Matt interrupted. “I have to go. We really shouldn’t be talking and I have to meet someone.”
Matt strode away and traveled a block before looking over his shoulder to make sure Joey was gone. He called Lisa.
“Did you get it?” he asked.
“I got it, oh, did I get it. You’re on your cell phone?”
“Yeah.”
“Call back to the firm on a pay phone if you can find one.”
Matt located a pay phone and called Lisa; her secretary patched him through to Farrar’s office.
“Are you on a pay phone?” Farrar asked.
“Yeah.”
“Just in case, my name is Thomas Farrar and I represent Matthew Durant. We’re having this conversation so that I can provide legal advice to Mr Durant. This call is privileged.” Farrar paused.
“What do you think?” Matt asked.
“I think having Lisa tape that conversation was one of the riskiest things I’ve ever had a client do. But you’re no ordinary client, and this tape is going to be huge.”
“So you think you can work with it?” Matt asked.
“Work with it? It’s fantastic! He admitted you didn’t know about the cocaine, that you saved him in the alley, and that he was working to cut a deal that would keep him out of prison. I’ll have Lisa do some research to make sure you’re okay in terms of what you said to him. But you told him you shouldn’t be talking about the case and asked him to tell the truth. Hard to see how that could be considered tampering.”
“So this is good news?” Matt asked.
“You know it’s great news. I’m in court all day tomorrow, but let’s meet the next day at the office around one-thirty. I’m probably going to reach out to the prosecutor’s office before then. I think we have a strong argument they should drop the charges based on the tape. Let’s try to end this before it really begins.”
“Wonderful,” Matt said. A wide smile stretched across his face.
Chapter 6
The next afternoon, Matt left his house at four forty-five, allowing more than enough time to travel to his meeting—or date?—with Eric at PJ’s Coffeehouse on Annunciation Street. He waited for the St Charles streetcar, which had plowed through New Orleans for over a hundred years powered by electricity, steam, horse and even mule. He marched the few remaining blocks with his usual long, brisk strides, which helped disguise and take the edge off his anxiety at his approaching, uncertain destination.
He tried to compose himself as he arrived, early as always, but as he entered his eyes darted around and betrayed his nervousness at taking another chance on whether someone was trustworthy. The coffee shop bustled with a cross-section of artistic types, students, businessmen and construction workers: a teenage girl with purple hair and a
pierced brow was behind the coffee bar.
Matt spotted a young man with ginger hair, pale skin, freckles and a medium build already seated at a two-top tucked in a corner. He hoped it was Eric; if so, he was even earlier. “Are you Eric?” he asked, rushing into, “I’m Matt. Lisa’s friend.”
Eric rose, said yes, smiled, and put out his hand. He had a firm, self-assured handshake, and Matt responded with equal pressure.
“It’s good to finally meet you,” Eric said. “Lisa’s told me a lot about you over the past year or so. What do you want to drink?” He nodded toward the coffee bar.
“The iced coffee,” Matt said to the barista. Eric asked for the same, and they took their seats at the table for two.
“How are you holding up?” Eric asked.
“It hasn’t been pleasant. I really can’t talk about the case,” Matt said. “And now the newspapers have announced to the entire state of Louisiana that I was in a gay bar.” He caught himself: “No offense.”
“None taken. I went to quite a few gay bars before deciding I was gay, and certainly long before I came out. People need time and space to figure things out, and I had that. And, when I came out, I was lucky. I grew up in New Orleans, but my parents are originally from the Boston area. Having a child come out of the closet is hard for parents, no matter how liberal they are. But mine at least believed they should be tolerant and supportive, even if they didn’t always feel like it. Righteous New England liberalism runs deep in their veins. So, how are your parents handling things?”
“My father passed away years ago.” Matt said automatically, using his stock answer for strangers, which created some distance from a pain sharpest many years ago and that had since receded to a tolerable ache.
“I’m sorry to hear that.” The waitress brought their drinks, and Matt waited until she departed.
“My mother’s tried to be supportive and has repeated she loves me unconditionally, which I already knew. I think she’s just scared for me. And, of course, the issue of whether I’m gay has taken a back seat to the trial.”
“The two issues seem pretty intertwined to me, rightly or wrongly.” Eric took a sip, his lips pressing against a frosted glass displaying brown and tan patches overrun by whorls of white.
“True enough. I doubt those rednecks would have jumped us if we’d been taking a leak outside of Pat O’Brien’s.” Matt felt a pang at calling his victim—was he a victim?—a redneck. He fidgeted, reached for the milk, realized his coffee was as light as Eric’s, and withdrew his hand.
“When did you first realize you might be gay?” Eric asked.
“Well, I’ve found men much more attractive than women ever since I was attracted to anyone. Maybe middle school? But I managed to distance myself from those feelings with work and booze—both acceptable in Louisiana—for most of my life.”
Eric interrupted, “In Louisiana, booze may be more acceptable than work.”
Matt couldn’t repress a grin.
“Sorry,” Eric said. “I couldn’t resist. Keep going.”
Matt continued, “I’d broken up with my girlfriend a few weeks before I went to Drink and I figured now was as good a time as any to explore and figure out whether those feelings were real. And I wasn’t sure that I could ignore them much longer.” He chewed on a fingernail.
“It’s something that should be so simple for the outside world, isn’t it?” Eric said. “Sexual orientation depends on which sex you’re more attracted to. On its face, that shouldn’t be terribly relevant to anyone you’re not interested in or who’s not interested in you.”
“But complications quickly follow if you make what many consider a wrong choice,” Matt responded.
“Yeah, and they’re wrong about the wrong part and wrong about the choice part,” Eric said. “I didn’t experience much out-and-out discrimination but I had a few friends who became more distant, less available and faded from my life after I came out. My best friend didn’t take it well. Things have never completely returned to normal between the two of us. But it gets easier, and I now have many new friends who accept me for who I am.”
“What about discrimination at work?” Matt asked. “Don’t you worry about that?”
“Well, the firm has a policy against discrimination based on sexual orientation, but you do worry about people discriminating in ways that are difficult to catch. I work at a huge firm and, if you get a less desirable assignment, you can drive yourself nuts wondering whether a partner avoided you because you’re gay. But there’s nothing you can do about what you can’t find. So I just try to do my job well, and being happy helps me do it well.” Eric shrugged, looked down at the table, and then back up at Matt with the corners of his mouth slyly tilted upward. “To change the subject to something more pleasant, how did flirting with another man feel?” Eric asked.
“It felt natural and incredibly exciting.” Matt felt comfortable for the first time in a long while. “I felt as if I was crossing an invisible line between friendly banter and something else that’s harder to define.”
“Did you make out with this guy?”
“No. I enjoyed flirting with him, but I’m only now learning he wasn’t quite my type. He has a belly-button piercing.” Matt smiled.
“Was that in the report of some investigator you hired?”
Matt laughed. “Not quite.”
“I kind of like piercing and tattoos, but I’ve avoided both myself because I’m not ready for that kind of commitment. But there’s something about a belly-button ring on a guy that doesn’t do it for me. Actually, for me, it’s as a stop sign. It tells me not to go any lower.” Eric smiled, showing white and evenly spaced teeth.
“I couldn’t agree more,” Matt said.
“So you’ve never even kissed another guy?”
“No.”
“You still have a lot to figure out, don’t you?”
“Yeah. And that’s why I visited that gay bar by myself,” Matt said, coloring. “I was attempting to stay under the radar. It obviously didn’t work very fucking well,” he finished with more vehemence than he’d intended.
“Well, you’ve got to kiss a lot of frogs to find a prince,” Eric said.
Matt smiled despite himself and found his attention fully engaged for the first time since his arrest. He looked up from his coffee, his eyebrows raised and a gleam in his eyes: “Have you kissed a lot of frogs? Can I see you kiss one? This is Louisiana; we can probably find a frog pretty quickly. And it’s not the Amazon, so most are probably not poisonous…” The corners of his mouth ticked downward at the last; after all, he’d found a poisonous Louisiana frog.
Eric, who’d been grinning throughout Matt’s patter, looked at him steadily: “At least now you don’t have to go running to strangers if you want to talk about your sexuality. I’m here to listen and I’ll answer any questions I can. Or tell you how I figured out the answers for myself, even if we have different answers.”
“I appreciate that. Sorry I’m not more fun, but I’m just frustrated.” Matt picked up one of the paper wrappers that had encased their straws and began shredding it.
“And not just sexually, I’d imagine,” Eric said. “I’m kidding. You’re in an incredibly difficult situation. You know that Lisa thinks the world of you, right? And she has excellent judgment of other people. After all, she likes me.” He smiled.
“I think she’s pretty special, too.”
“How’s your case shaping up? Can you talk about it at all?” Eric asked.
“We’re just starting to make some headway. I think folks are going to be pretty surprised when some facts come out about Buckner, for example. But I really shouldn’t talk about it in any detail, especially here.”
“Thomas Farrar’s a great lawyer,” Eric said. “I’m sure if anyone can show those assholes are lying, he can. I would have gone to Farrar Levinson if I’d received an offer there.”
“What kind of law do you practice?” Matt asked.
“Real estate. It�
��s not terribly exciting, but I enjoy being in the middle of the city’s rebuilding efforts.”
“How’s it going?”
“Well, we’ve seen many businesses choose to stay and repair or rebuild rather than move out of town, which is good.”
“It’s good to hear that.” Matt smiled uncertainly. Eric, seeming to recognize the hesitation and fear, gently took charge with unobtrusive questions. About an hour into the conversation, the pair ordered another round of drinks. They reached for the milk at the same time and their accidental touch set off a frisson that left Matt disoriented. He wasn’t sure he could handle his immediate attraction to Eric in the midst of everything else.
“Hey, have you ever been to the Butterfly Garden and Insectarium?” Eric asked.
“No. Isn’t that only for tourists and kids?”
“Well, maybe mostly, but I hear it’s fun. I don’t have any kids, and I don’t think you do either. But there’s no reason we should miss out. I can drive. Let’s go,” Eric said, rising from the table before Matt could answer. Only then was Matt startled to realize that Eric was shorter than him by a few inches.
The two departed in Eric’s Land Rover, leaving Annunciation Street and going down Calliope Street to the Audubon Butterfly Garden and Insectarium. They entered under a silver archway with a crosspiece that displayed Audubon Insectarium in black letters and supported the bronze outline of a butterfly.
They paid and began walking through the main hall, which had a black-and-yellow something-a-pede—it had hundreds or thousands of legs and Matt didn’t stop to count—and an outsized blue crawfish hanging on the wall. Glass cases were embedded in the walls and interspersed along the hallway.
“Hey,” Matt said, intrigued by an exhibit, “check this out.”
