Chapter 9 - Thomas Had Not Spent Thirty-One Years Waiting For Me
I asked where he'd been.
Thomas said:
“Living.”
I almost slapped him again.
He saw it.
“Different states. Different jobs. One marriage. One divorce. No children.”
“Why no contact?”
“I did contact Dad.”
“Not me.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because I was angry.”
“For thirty-one years?”
“Not continuously.”
He almost smiled.
“I had hobbies.”
I hated that I laughed.
Then hated that I had missed his humor enough for it to hurt.
“You saw Samuel Cole.”
“Yes.”
“When did you find him?”
“He found me.”
“How?”
“An old employment record.”
No secret surveillance.
Samuel had retired, then spent years trying to reconstruct several cases he regretted.
“He apologized?”
Thomas looked toward the window.
“Eventually.”
“For what?”
“Delaying his report.”
“Did Dad order him?”
“Asked.”
“Difference?”
“To Samuel, apparently enough.”
“What did he say happened at 11:40?”
Thomas leaned back.
“Dad told Samuel I was leaving voluntarily and asked him not to put my departure into the incident report until morning.”
“Why?”
“Dad wanted one night to convince me to come back.”
There it was.
Not a conspiracy plan.
A father asking the law for personal time.
Samuel agreed.
By morning Thomas had taken a bus out of state.
Henry panicked.
“Why didn't Samuel correct it then?”
“He said Henry told him reporting the late sighting would make it look like police knowingly let a potential evidence suspect leave.”
My jaw tightened.
“So now they both had something embarrassing.”
“Yes.”
“Then the delay grew.”
“Yes.”
One day becoming a permanent timeline.
“What did Samuel want when he found you?”
“For me to correct the record.”
“You refused.”
“At first.”
“Why?”
“Because I had a life.”
“That excuse sounds familiar.”
He looked at me.
Good.
“Also because Dad was dead by then.”
“So?”
“I did not want my return turned into a trial where one dead man became every answer.”
That surprised me.
“You're protecting Henry?”
“No.”
Thomas shook his head.
“I’m refusing to make him simpler because he's dead.”
That hurt.
Because I had spent decades doing the opposite in the other direction.
Our father, Judge Henry Carter.
Integrity.
Discipline.
Procedure.
A monument.
“What happened with Samuel?”
“He wanted to tell you.”
“Why didn't he?”
“I told him he should.”
“He never did.”
“No.”
“Then?”
“He got sick.”
Thomas became one of his home-health aides under the name Thomas Vale.
Not planned at first.
Samuel needed increasing care.
Thomas was working for an agency.
When he saw the name on the assignment, he almost refused.
“Why didn't you?”
Thomas took time.
“Because I wanted to know whether he was still the man I hated.”
“And?”
“He wasn't.”
“Forgive him?”
“Some things.”
I looked at the photograph.
“He knew you were his aide.”
“First day.”
“What did he say?”
“‘Well, this is awkward.’”
I laughed despite myself.
“That's Samuel.”
“So I'm told.”
“What did you talk about?”
“Mostly baseball.”
“Not the case?”
“Sometimes.”
“Did he ask you to come back?”
“Yes.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
“Why?”
Thomas stared at me.
“Because you were giving speeches about Dad.”
There.
“You watched.”
“Some.”
“What did I say?”
“That Henry Carter believed no family name deserved an exception from the law.”
My stomach tightened.
I had said that at my swearing-in as chief judge.
Front row full.
Standing ovation.
Thomas continued:
“I knew what it cost him to make one exception.”
“And you decided I was still choosing him.”
“Yes.”
“Without asking.”
“Yes.”
Good.
His turn.
“What changed now?”
Thomas looked toward the courthouse wall.
“They were naming a wing after him.”
“So this is about Dad.”
“Partly.”
“What else?”
“You.”
I stared.
“You were giving the speech.”
“And?”
“I wanted to know if you could stop before somebody forced you to.”
“You could have called.”
“Yes.”
“Why the box?”
“I thought you'd dismiss a phone call.”
“Probably.”
“Exactly.”
“That doesn't make using Noah right.”
“No.”
He accepted it again.
Then:
“I also needed Aaron Cole to see the box.”
“Why?”
“Because Samuel told me Aaron found his notes.”
My anger sharpened.
“Samuel knew?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Aaron mentioned the box once when Samuel was ill.”
Aaron had said he only looked twenty minutes.
Apparently Samuel noticed.
“What did Samuel think?”
“That Aaron would eventually tell you.”
“He didn't.”
“No.”
“Why involve him?”
Thomas's face hardened.
“Because I wanted to see whether he would reach for the same kind of delay his father did.”
“He did reach for the box.”
“Yes.”
“That proves almost nothing.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
Thomas looked ashamed.
“More now.”
Good.
I sat.
For the first time since he entered, silence didn't feel like war.
Then I asked:
“Where is the access log?”
Thomas looked at me.
“Gone.”
My pulse changed.
“What?”
“I destroyed my copy thirty years ago.”
“Why?”
“Because I was afraid Dad was right that I had broken the law obtaining it.”
I stared.
“So all of this depends on memory.”
“No.”
“What else?”
“Martin Pike confessed.”
I froze.
“To who?”
Thomas looked toward the hallway.
“His daughter.”
“Where is Pike?”
“Dead.”
Of course.
“But his daughter is alive.”
May you like
Thomas continued:
“And she has spent twenty years waiting for somebody from the Carter family to ask her the right question.”
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