Black Water Rising

by Attica Locke

  ish that Jay doesn’t understand.

  “You think Elise Linsey had any idea what she was getting herself into?”

  Lonnie shrugs again. “Don’t matter no way. She’s in it.”

  Jay looks out the front window of the restaurant. There are 372 Attic a L o c ke

  clouds moving in, blackening the sky. It’s going to storm again, he thinks. “He used her and then he tried to get rid of her.”

  “You really think Thomas Cole tried to get this girl killed?”

  Lonnie asks softly, careful not to let the words drift past their table. They seem to both know that their whole conversation has been leading to this one question.

  Jay shrugs.

  What the hell does he know, really?

  He turns his head toward the window again, watching the changing light in the sky, wondering how long before the clouds break beneath their own weight, how long before the storm hits. “I’ll tell you what, though,” he says, his eyes still pointed toward the window and the charcoal sky. “If you can put Dwight Sweeney and Thomas Cole together, I mean, find some connec­

  tion between the two of them.” He turns to look at her. “There’s your story.”

  C h a p t e r 2 7 Rolly’s girl at the phone company can give them sixty days, going back to sometime in June, but any records beyond that are stored on the eleventh floor, she says, on a mainframe that she does not in any way have access to. By whatever romantic or pecuniary arrangement he and the girl have worked out between them, Rolly is able to get the phone records in hand by Thursday, the day Judge Vroland had set for the pretrial hearing in Elise Lin­

  sey’s case. Rolly brings the printed pages by Jay’s office around lunchtime. He comes in smelling like a chili dog and drinking a Dr Pepper out of a paper bag. He takes an open seat across from Jay, lights a cigarette, and stretches out his long legs. Jay flips through page after page of phone calls to and from Elise Linsey’s west side town house, marking the numbers that 374 Attic a L o c ke

  show up repeatedly, careful to note any calls to or from Wash­

  ington, D.C., of which there are quite a few.

  He asks Rolly how many of the phone numbers he was able to identify.

  “It’s whatever the girl could give me,” Rolly says. Jay starts with the D.C. calls—six to Elise’s place through June and early July, and two calls from her place to the same 202 number in late July. The most information the girl at the phone company could get, Rolly reports, is that the calls came from a phone line within a telecom network run by the U.S. govern­

  ment. To get more specific about who or what office the 202 number belongs to was a phone call the girl was not willing to make without knowing why Rolly was asking in the first place. Jay makes a note to turn the number over to Lon Philips. The Houston calls are easier to identify.

  Jay recognizes one of them on his own. He’s called Charlie Luckman’s downtown office enough to be able to recite the dig­

  its in his sleep. According to the phone logs, Elise Linsey made her first call to Mr. Luckman’s office on August 3, the day the discovery of Dwight Sweeney’s body made the paper. That she did not call a lawyer right away, on the night of the shooting, even, is not all that surprising to Jay. What is interest­

  ing, though, is the fact of who she did call at 1:27 in the morning, early Sunday morning, August 2, not two full hours after the gunshots they heard on the boat.

  The phone number, 713-247-4475, appears on nearly every page of the computer printout, showing up once, sometimes twice a day, for months. The correlating address, Rolly tells Jay, is a residence located at 1909 Willowick Road, not even a stone’s throw from the River Oaks Country Club. According to Rolly’s girl at the phone company, 247-4475 is one of two residential phone lines belonging to a Thomas P. Cole.

  Bla c k Wat er R isi n g 375

  Jay thinks again of the night of the shooting: Elise, bruised and nearly beaten, came within an inch of her life, twice. He pictures her in the backseat of that car, how she fought, shooting her way out of a bad situation. He remembers pulling her from the bayou, barely breathing, and dropping her off in front of a police station. Somehow, she had survived it all. And the first person she called was Thomas Cole. The very man Jay suspects of having orchestrated the hit on her life.

  “My god,” he mumbles to himself. “She has no idea.”

  From the pocket of his ever present leather vest, Rolly pulls out a bundle of papers, folded over lengthwise and rolled as tightly as a good cigar. He rests the papers on the edge of Jay’s desk.

  “What’s this?” Jay asks, opening the pages somewhat tentatively, as if he were opening a present he’s already sure he won’t like.

  “Calls from the condo,” Rolly says. “Out on the plantation.”

  Jay spreads the papers across his desk.

  Of all the phone numbers printed, calls coming in and going out, one number leaps out at him, over and over, page after page: 713-247-4475.

  “He’s been talking to her this whole time,” Rolly says.

  “Jesus,” Jay says, whistling at the wonder of it, the devilry it implies. He shakes his head to himself, feeling a pinch in his chest, an unexpected tug in this woman’s direction. “Somebody’s got to say something to that girl,” he says, looking up and pausing at the same time, as if he were waiting, hoping even, for that somebody to walk into the room and volunteer. But Jay and Rolly are the only two people here, and Rolly is keeping his mouth shut.

  “She’s gon’ be on trial for her fucking life, man, and got a snake right up under her,” Jay says. “Somebody’s got to tell her what’s really going on.”

  “You’re all right dude, man. I’ve always known that about you, 376 Attic a L o c ke

  Jay. But might I remind you that it was running to save this girl that got you in all this trouble to begin with?”

  “This is bigger than the girl.”

  “All the telephone activity out at the condo stopped a couple of days ago,” Rolly says. “You even know where she is?”

  “No,” Jay says. “But I know where she’ll be.”

  There are some things in life that can’t be avoided: Death, for sure. Taxes. And court dates.

  The pretrial hearing for the matter of the State of Texas v. Elise Linsey, case number HC-760432, is already under way by the time Jay makes it to Judge Vroland’s courtroom that afternoon. There’s a cop on the stand, a detective, Jay can tell by the awk­

  ward pairing of a camel-colored sports coat and navy trousers. Charlie Luckman is standing behind a podium set up between the state’s side and the defense table, where Elise Linsey, in a moss green blouse and black trousers, is sitting primly, her back stiff and at almost righteous attention.

  Jay takes an open seat on the bench directly behind her. By Charlie’s posture, the way he leans his weight on the heels of his alligator boots, one hand in his pocket, the other relaxed at his side, Jay thinks he sees something familiar in Mr. Luckman’s self-assured demeanor. It’s the look of a lawyer with all his ducks lined neatly in a row, the cocksure stance of someone who believes the facts are on his side. Any theatrics, at this point at least, are down to a minimum. Charlie speaks in an even, respect­

  ful tone, asking the judge if he might approach the bench, as politely as if he were asking her if he might refill her glass of iced tea. He walks two stapled papers to the bench and asks that they be entered in as “defense exhibit A.” Judge Vroland peruses the pages briefly, then hands them to the cop at her right. The detec­

  Bla c k Wat er R isi n g 377

  tive barely glances at them. He seems to know already where this line of questioning will start.

  “Detective Stone, do you recognize the papers in front of you?”

  “Yes, sir,” the detective answers, though the “sir” sounds per­

  functory and not at all sincere. Jay wonders if the two men knew each other in Charlie’s other life as a prosecutor. “And that’s my signature on the second page
,” the cop says, stepping on Charlie’s next question. From behind the podium, Charlie smiles, cool as a snow cone in January. “Very good, Detective Stone. You want to tell us, however, what exactly you’re looking at?”

  “Your Honor.” The prosecutor, the same bull terrier from the arraignment, stands behind the state’s table. Her suit is navy and two sizes too big. “The search warrant has already been entered into the record. We’ve all read the thing. Do we have to go through a whole dog and pony show with it too?”

  Her tone is so defensive, so pushy and unladylike, that Charlie is right to simply keep his mouth shut. The judge levels a disap­

  proving gaze on the prosecutor. “I can assure you, Counselor, I don’t take any of this to be a show. And I will allow the detective to answer Mr. Luckman’s question.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor,” Charlie says. “Mr. Stone?”

  “It’s a search warrant,” the cop says. “For 14475 Oakwood Glen, last known residence for the defendant.” He nods toward Elise.

  “Yes, and as you’ve already mentioned, it’s a search warrant that you yourself signed, along with a Judge Paul Lockhart, is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Judge, may I approach again?”

  Judge Vroland nods, waving him forward at the same time. Charlie approaches the bench with a single typed piece of paper in his hand. He offers it to the judge, calling it “defense 378 Attic a L o c ke

  exhibit B.” Jay leans forward in his seat, waiting, hoping, for Elise to turn around. From his jacket, he pulls a slip of white paper, a receipt from the taco place on Travis. He scribbles the words we need to talk on the back, then folds the piece of paper into a tight square, clutching it in the palm of his hand. Then . . . he waits.

  “Detective Stone,” Charlie says. “This new thing we got here, will you let the court know what it is you’re looking at?”

  “It’s an inventory,” the cop says. “What we took from the town house.”

  “All right, then,” Charlie says, tucking both hands in his pock­

  ets, looking down briefly at the tips of his alligator boots. “Let’s start with the warrant.”

  When Charlie has the detective read through the warrant, the list of court-approved items that police detectives—one Detec­

  tive Harold Stone and a Detective Pete Smalls—were legally allowed to remove from 14475 Oakwood Glen, last known resi­

  dence of the defendant, Elise Linsey, includes: A .22-caliber pistol.

  Bloody or soiled clothing.

  Shoes, ladies’ size 6½. Possibly soiled. High heeled, with a zigzag pattern on the sole.

  The detective lays the warrant on the wood veneer ledge in front of him. Charlie has him pick up the inventory next, the list of what the cops actually pulled as evidence from Elise Linsey’s town house during their search.

  “If you would, Detective, why don’t you go ahead and read through it.”

  “The whole thing?”

  “The whole thing.”

  Detective Stone looks at the judge, who nods.

  Bla c k Wat er R isi n g 379

  The detective clears his throat. “ ‘Ladies’ shoes, white, size six and a half. Two pairs of shoes, brown, size six and a half. Three pairs of shoes, black, size six and a half. Sandals, brown, size six and a half. Boots, burgundy, size six. Sandals, red, size six and a half. Two pairs of boots, black, size six and a half. Shoes, silver, with some kind of rhinestones on them, size six and a half. Shoes, pink, with rubber soles, size six and a half. Two pairs of tan loaf­

  ers, ladies’ size six and a half. Three pairs of sneakers.’ ” He looks up from the piece of paper. “ ‘Size six and a half.’ ”

  “That’s a lot of shoes,” Charlie says.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Let me see, did I count . . . ,” Charlie says, making a rather exaggerated show of incredulity. “Was that eighteen pairs of shoes?”

  “That’s what I read.”

  “And those eighteen pairs of shoes are the only things listed on that inventory sheet, the only pieces of ‘evidence’ that you and Detective Smalls pulled from Ms. Linsey’s town house on Oakwood Glen?”

  “Yes.”

  “No gun? No bloody clothes?”

  “No, sir,” Detective Stone says to Charlie. “It’s just the shoes.”

  “Eighteen pairs of shoes.”

  “All size six and a half,” the detective says.

  “Well, now, that warrant you signed was asking for shoes with blood on ’em and dirt, and, more important, it was talking about high-heeled shoes with a zigzag pattern on the sole. So, which of the shoes on that piece of paper matches that description?”

  “None of them.”

  “Am I to understand then that you and your colleague did not find any shoes in the defendant’s home that had blood on them 380 Attic a L o c ke

  or dirt from the crime scene, nor any shoes with a zigzag pattern on the sole? Is that right?”

  Detective Stone’s jaw tightens ever so slightly. “That is cor­

  rect.”

  Jay remembers Elise’s bare feet on the boat the night of the rescue. He thinks of the black bayou water, the bits and pieces of this story it has swallowed whole, the deeds it washed clean. He thinks of the shoes, the gun, the prosecution’s whole case, sunk all the way to the bottom of Buffalo Bayou, hidden in the muddy earth, washed over ten, twenty, a hundred times a day. But where, then, is his gun?

  Elise Linsey, seated before him, holds her head remarkably high, following the action in front of her. Jay clutches his hand­

  written note. He scoots to the edge of the bench he’s seated on, not three feet behind the defense table. He coughs lightly, once, then a second time. Elise Linsey never turns around. Out of the corner of his eye, Jay senses some movement in the gallery. He turns to his right and sees a new face in the courtroom. Among the courthouse lookiloos and beat reporters, there’s a man wearing a tailored charcoal gray suit. He’s taken a seat to the right of Jay, on the bench behind him, positioning himself closely enough that Jay can see the sea green color of his eyes from where he sits. The man keeps his jacket buttoned, his hands in his pockets. Unlike the others in the gallery, he is not watching the lawyers or the defendant or the witness on the stand. He keeps his eyes on Jay.

  “Might you explain to the court then, Detective,” Charlie says, “why you saw fit and legally justified to take every shoe in my client’s closet?”

  “They were in plain sight.”

  “So was the woman’s furniture. Did you pack that up too?”

  “The law gives police officers some leeway here. I believed Bla c k Wat er R isi n g 381

  that the shoes were relevant in terms of putting the defendant at the crime scene. The shoes were in plain sight. So, yes, my partner and I picked them up as evidence.”

  “And do you still believe the shoes are relevant, Detective?”

  “Inasmuch as they establish the defendant as a size six and a half,” the cop says, looking at the judge briefly before eking out another piece of information. “The shoe prints we found around the car at the crime scene were a ladies’ size six and a half.”

  “And one more time,” Charlie says. “Did any of the shoes you took from the defendant’s residence match the zigzag shoe print at the crime scene?”

  “Objection, Your Honor, asked and answered,” the state’s attorney says.

  “Nothing further, Your Honor,” Charlie says.

  Jay steals another glance at the man in the charcoal suit. He is still, at this moment, staring at Jay, who gets the distinct feeling that the man is no casual court observer. He wonders again if he’s being followed. Jay swings back around in his seat. He closes his eyes and tries to recall every detail of the man’s face. He wants to know if he’s seen this man before. The prosecutor is soon on her feet for the cross. Detective Stone sits up in his chair, looking as if someone had just brought something to the dinner table that he might actu­

&nb
sp; ally be able to stomach. He’s careful not to go so far as to smile at the prosecutor. But everything in his posture says that this is the part of the process he’s been waiting for.

  “Detective, you and your partner, Detective Pete Smalls, interviewed the defendant in the days after Mr. Sweeney’s body was found, is that right?”

  “Yes, ma’am. We interviewed her twice. The day the body was found, we interviewed her at her home that evening. And then again a couple of days later, the following Tuesday, I believe.”

  382 Attic a L o c ke

  The prosecutor nods. “Can you tell us what led you to the defendant?”

  “We found her fingerprints inside the vehicle in which the deceased, uh, Mr. Sweeney, was found. We were operating under the assumption that Ms. Linsey was possibly the last to see Mr. Sweeney alive.”

  “I see,” the prosecutor says. “And what did Ms. Linsey tell you, Detective, in your initial interviews with her?”

  Charlie makes no objection to the breadth of the question, no motion to stop this whole line of inquiry on the basis of rel­

  evance. Instead, he’s set back in his chair, legs crossed comfort­

  ably, his demeanor completely unflappable.

  “Ms. Linsey said, during both interviews, that she had had dinner with the deceased, at a Mexican restaurant in the Heights. She said they parted company around ten thirty that evening, and she went home.”

  “How did she explain to you her fingerprints in the victim’s car?”

  “Ms. Linsey said that she and the deceased had met at a Church’s Chicken parking lot and that she rode out to the Heights in his car. She claims Mr. Sweeney dropped her back off at her car when the date was over.”

  “Did you ask her if she was with Mr. Sweeney on Clinton Road at any time on the night of August 1, 1981?”

  “She maintained, repeatedly, to both me and Detective Smalls, that she was never at any time on Clinton Road or anywhere near the field in which Mr. Sweeney’s body was found on the night of August First or any other night for that matter. She was real clear on that.” He looks across the courtroom at Elise. Jay turns once more in his seat. The man in the charcoal suit is staring straight ahead now, watching the prosecutor’s cross, his elbows resting casually on the seat back behind him. He’s chew­