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  “The never-ending cold war.” Carolyn’s comment now slices into what is a tart silence. No one protests; Carolyn is too old to be fooled.

  Chapter 4

  Friday, September 17, 1999 - 30 days remain

  Cort is rounding the corner of the house when they pull into the driveway and Sophia wonders whether to explain her reservations about him to Carolyn, but she is too quickly out of the car. Sophia joins her, making introductions, opening the trunk.

  He peers in and his eyes widen at the sight of all the luggage. Sophia stifles a sigh. Carolyn repeats her closet cleaning story and it sounds even less plausible. Cort must doubt it too. She thinks the glance he gives her is nothing if not commiserating.

  Hefting the suitcases, he looks at Carolyn. “Where to, ma’am? Garage? Attic? Goodwill?”

  She laughs. “Only as far as my bedroom. I can show you.” She shoulders her tote and lifts two smaller boxes.

  Cort falls in behind Carolyn mentioning that Sophia had a visitor while she was gone. “Wick Bowen? He left a basket of fresh tomatoes for you on the patio table.”

  “Who’s he?” Carolyn asks.

  “A patient,” Sophia says and she rues the lift of pleasure hearing Wick’s name gives her. She deliberately keeps her gaze from Carolyn, thinking to herself, Please don’t ask. She has no idea what she would say. That Wick is a patient and she feels something for him and it’s most certainly inappropriate? That he pays her in tomatoes?

  Sophia comes around Cort to unlock the backdoor and she follows him and Carolyn into the kitchen. Cort sets down the suitcases. Carolyn goes into the hallway, but then pauses to look back at him. “Forgive me, but it’s so much in the news, are you by any chance related to Jarrett Capshaw, the man on death row, the one they call the volunteer?”

  “He’s my brother.”

  “Oh my God! There’s an article about him in USA Today. I read it on the plane. How terrible. I’m so sorry.” Carolyn is stammering, astonished. She comes back into the kitchen, sets the boxes on the countertop. “Mom, did you know?”

  Sophia puts her purse down on the kitchen island, feeling grim. “I saw something about it earlier.” She meets Cort’s glance. “On television. Trent Hunter’s segment on Good Morning, Texas? I was going to ask.”

  “I hate that guy, Hunter.” Cort smacks his open palm with his fist. “He’s all about the hype, never about the truth.”

  “I wish you had let me know you were related.” Sophia holds Cort’s gaze until he looks away.

  Plucking a rag from his pocket, he busies himself cleaning his hands, one finger at a time. Each one trembling, Sophia notes, and against her will, her heart softens. It hadn’t occurred to her that these men would be so closely related, although why the fact that they are brothers makes a difference to her she doesn’t know. She is disturbed by Cort’s expression too, his grief, the calamity in waiting that so painfully shadows his eyes, the element of awful incredulity. How has he landed in this situation? A brother on death row? How did it happen?

  Cort says he’s sorry. “You’d think talking about it would get easier, but it doesn’t.”

  “I shouldn’t have brought it up,” Carolyn says.

  “No, it’s all right.” Cort’s grin is wry, engaging. “I get the ‘Are you that Capshaw?’ from a lot of folks. It’s one of the perks of having a celebrity in the family. Name recognition.”

  “The story’s big in Illinois.” Carolyn says. “There was something about your brother in the Chicago Sun last Sunday.”

  “Because of Anthony Porter,” Cort says.

  “Who is Anthony Porter?” Sophia asks.

  “An inmate who was found innocent within two days of being executed,” Cort says. “Someone else confessed and now, instead of being dead, Anthony Porter is free.”

  “The governor is calling for a moratorium. He wants to reopen every single death penalty case and drag them all back through the court system.” Carolyn sounds incensed. “The next thing you know, he’ll open all the cell doors too and let the murderers out on the street.”

  Sophia looks at Carolyn and wonders when and where she came by her opinion regarding the death penalty. As far as she can remember, they had never discussed it. Unless Carolyn and Russ had talked about it when they were off having one of their long afternoons together.

  “He said he’d sleep better nights,” Carolyn continues. “But there are a lot of folks who don’t care about his sleep. Imagine if you were the family of one of those killers’ victims and you had to endure having the whole tragedy raked up again. I feel sorry for them.”

  “Well, you don’t have to worry about that happening in Texas,” Cort says. “Juries in this state don’t get another option other than death in capital murder cases and they won’t, not as long as we’ve got cowboys like Bush in office.”

  “People call him the Texecutioner,” Carolyn says.

  “Because he’s a serial killer.” Cort waves his arm. “He’s sent more men to their death than any other governor in the history of the United States, more than one hundred this year alone. Talk about losing sleep. I couldn’t close my eyes if I was him.”

  There is a ringing pause and then Cort goes on at a lower volume. “It’s on all of us, though, killing people this way. It’s not just the fault of the judges or the juries or the governors. We go along, all of us, blind, like sheep.”

  “But what’s the answer?” Carolyn asks.

  Cort’s silence is eloquent in its bewilderment, its appeal. Someone should provide a remedy. Someone should rescue his brother. He, Cort, is failing in the attempt. Powerless to prevent this terrible thing that is going to happen. It’s his fault. He should be able to do something. Sophia sees all of this; she reads it in the ether. And she turns from it, taking her purse from the kitchen island to the desk as if presenting her back will absolve her.

  Cort is saying if his brother’s jury had been given another option, they might have chosen it. “There are extenuating circumstances.”

  Sophia faces him, feeling somehow compelled and when he meets her gaze, she gets the sense that he is appealing directly to her now and it seems inevitable.

  He says, “If we can just get the right information in front of the right judge, maybe a miracle will happen. Maybe Jarrett can win clemency. At least then he’d be here where his wife and kids could visit him. At least I would still have my brother in my life.”

  “Does he want that?” Carolyn asks.

  “He doesn’t want anything except to die. His family, we’re the ones who want to stop the clock.”

  “I read about his wife,” Carolyn says. “She’s trying to get a court order, right? She wants her husband to take medication for depression. She doesn’t agree that he was in the right frame of mind to call off his appeals. I was really amazed by that since—”

  “Since Jarrett shot and killed her dad. Yeah. I know. It’s weird. Complicated.”

  “I remember when it happened.” Sophia says this slowly almost speaking to herself. The pulse at the base of her throat flutters and she puts her hand there. “It was around six years ago, wasn’t it? There was a raid, a government raid on Louis Tilley’s restaurant.” Sophia looks at Cort.

  He nods.

  “They went there to recover artifacts,” Sophia says. “In particular, I remember a Mayan codex that was stolen. An agent was killed.”

  “A federal marshal. That meant the death penalty was automatic. But no one’s excusing what Jarrett did. No one’s saying he’s innocent. He isn’t. He did the crimes.”

  “But he could still have his sentence overturned, couldn’t he?” Carolyn says. “I mean, look at Jody Doaks. You know about him, don’t you?”

  “Carolyn....” Sophia protests.

  “You know Mom’s testimony got his sentence commuted.”

  “No,” Sophia corrects, “that was the Texas pardon board’s decision per Governor Bush’s instruction. He said that the jurors hadn’t been told certain facts about Jody during
his initial trial. I only stated what those facts were and provided my professional opinion. What I observed of Jody’s behavior that seemed to support the claim of mental deficiency.”

  “The media called the clemency an unprecedented act of mercy,” Cort says, “which may mean Bush has a heart after all.”

  “I’m sorry,” Sophia says, “but if you came here thinking I would intervene in a similar fashion on behalf of your brother, I can assure you, I won’t.”

  “I don’t need your help,” Cort says. “Or your pity.”

  Sophia frowns. “I’m not offering pity.”

  Cort picks up Carolyn’s suitcases. “I should get back to work. Want to show me where to put these?”

  “This way.” Carolyn gestures him toward the stairs and then casts a glance at Sophia and her expression seems to contain a reproof, but she’s gone before Sophia can decide.

  o0o

  Sophia hears Cort come back downstairs and the click of the front door when he closes it behind him and now the muffled tread of Carolyn’s step overhead is audible and steady, as if she’s agitated, but perhaps she is only putting things away. Not home an hour, Sophia thinks, and already they are at odds. She would like to go and talk to Carolyn. Explain that she is not without sympathy; she would help the Capshaws if it were possible. But it simply isn’t. Sophia fills the kettle and puts it on for tea. And now, there is this other thing to worry about with the stolen artifacts, that Mayan codex. She had nearly forgotten about it.

  Russ had been perturbed when the story broke. He had collected pre-Columbian art too. Sophia didn’t care for it; it was too crude and primitive. She hadn’t liked Russ’s preoccupation with his collection either. It had seemed obsessive to her. The way he’d looked at the pieces when he’d handled them. He had appeared so enrapt as if there was nothing in the world of more importance. Really, it had been as if no other world existed. She could be in the same room and he wouldn’t notice. If she spoke to him, he wouldn’t hear. It had bothered her. It still does.

  But now the phone rings and she reaches for it, glad for the distraction.

  “I wanted to be sure Carolyn got in all right,” Phil says, “and to make sure you’re both still coming tomorrow.”

  Sophia carries her cup of tea out onto the deck outside to the patio table. “Wouldn’t miss it. Shall I bring the potato salad?”

  “It wouldn’t be the same if you didn’t.” There is the slightest hitch before Phil says what Sophia is thinking. “Of course it won’t be the same anyway, will it, without Russ?”

  “No,” Sophia agrees. Phil and Russ had been on friendly terms; they’d played an occasional round of golf together after which the four of them, Phil and Dorie, Russ and Sophia, might go out to dinner or to the ballet or the symphony. It had been a pleasant relationship, a comfortable routine, gone now, or at least altered beyond recognition. Three’s a crowd, three blind mice, three strikes and you’re out.... Sophia sips her tea that is too hot and scalds her tongue . . .

  ...and now, inexplicably, a thought of Wick Bowen appears in her mind, something to do with being able to picture him in a theater seat at the ballet but not on a golf course. She wouldn’t mind if Wick hated golf right along with pre-Columbian art. What she does mind are her thoughts about him.

  “Are you all right, Sophia?” Phil asks. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  She says it’s all right, that she’s all right. She says, “You know I’m having the house painted,” and when Phil asks how the job is coming, she says, “It’s fine,” adding, “but you won’t believe who the painter is or I should say who he’s related to.”

  “You’re kidding,” Phil says when she’s finished explaining.

  “I wish I were. Truly, I should have known. The day Cort came and asked for the job, he brought up Jody Doaks, but I thought it was out of curiosity.” Sophia fiddles with her spoon, eyeing it unhappily.

  “You think he wants your professional help with his brother.”

  “He denied it.” Sophia makes a tiny snick with her tongue. “Did you happen to see Trent Hunter’s segment about Jarrett Capshaw this morning? Hunter mentioned Jody and I kept waiting to hear my name too. I’m surprised he or some other reporter hasn’t called me. I can’t take it again, Phil. All that awful publicity.”

  “Well, you can bet it’s getting ready to explode. You’ve got two governments mixed up in it and a man on death row sitting in the catbird seat. Personally I don’t think they’ll execute Capshaw, not as long as there’s a chance he’ll tell them where the codex is.”

  “I had nearly forgotten about all of that. Louis Tilley, involved in a smuggling ring. Why? The man could have bought whatever he wanted. Why steal it?”

  “That’s what greed does for you. Or to you.”

  Sophia is quiet.

  “Russ knew Tilley, didn’t he?”

  “Not well.” Sophia pushes her hair behind her ear. She gets up to pace, sits down again. “At least not that I know of.”

  “You seem upset. Are you? You don’t think Russ was involved, do you?”

  “Russ? Heavens no.” Did she? “Russ didn’t like Louis; he called him a blowhard.”

  “Huh. Did you realize that his daughter is married to Jarrett Capshaw?”

  “Louis Tilley’s daughter is Jarrett’s wife?” Had she known this?

  “Uh-huh. Grace’s Table? Louis’s restaurant? He named it for her. She’s been running it ever since he died.”

  Sophia doesn’t answer. She walks into the yard trying not to notice the birdbath, crusted with algae and tipped far to one side. Underfoot the scratchy assortment of yard litter, what is the drab discarded dress of a summer’s worth of neglect muffles her steps. She’s been an indifferent gardener in recent months, but until today, she hasn’t noticed really. She supposes her awareness is a sign of healing, but there’s a part of her that doesn’t want it. Some errant impulse that doesn’t want to recover, to start over. To take up the thread and face her life again. In the cold light of Russ’s absence.

  That empty, heartless light.

  She looks down the path at the arbor that is smothered now in the faded blooms of an old Bourbon rose as lavish as its name, Zephirine Drouhin. It needs pruning, an overall tidying.

  “Sophia?” The note of caution is back in Phil’s voice and catches her attention. “This changes the subject, but you remember Greg Slade, the young man who was treated in the ER a few years ago after a drug overdose?”

  “How could I forget?” She’d been with Phil the night he’d been called to the hospital by Greg’s parents. The Slades had taken their son there after finding him at home nearly dead from the effects of a toxic cocktail of methamphetamine mixed with cocaine. Sophia had sat with Greg’s mother Sharon, while Phil dealt with Greg’s doctors. It had been a long, strange and hideous night that had somehow ended in the grace note of a miracle when Greg survived. But that night is just one more thing Sophia wishes she could forget. “Please tell me the Slades aren’t coming tomorrow. You said before they couldn’t make it.”

  “I know, but it turns out they’re going to be in town after all attending a presidential campaign fundraiser for Governor Bush.”

  “I suppose it was foolish to assume I would never run into them again.”

  “Sharon asked me specifically whether you’d be here. She asked about Carolyn, too. She mentioned Carolyn and Greg knew each other, that they went to high school together. I don’t know that I ever knew that.”

  “They worked together on Greg’s dad’s first run for state senate. Carolyn was a huge fan of Jasper’s, but I think she’s lost touch with Greg.”

  “He lost touch with most of his friends when he took up company with whatever drug was available,” Phil says dryly.

  “Suppose all of that comes up tomorrow?”

  “I don’t know why it would, but it’s not a problem, is it? Unless you didn’t tell Carolyn.”

  A pause jitters.

  “Sophia?” Phil prompts.
“Please tell me you told her.”

  “About Greg’s overdose, yes, but not—” Sophia bends her head to her hand pinching the bridge of her nose. “I didn’t tell her about my experience.”

  “But during the Doaks’ trial when Hunter was nosing around, when you were worried he could find out, you said then you were going to tell her.”

  “I meant to.”

  “I know Russ was against it, but he’s—” Phil expels a huge, frustrated breath. He won’t say it, the word dead and it hangs between them.

  Sophia says, “I still plan to, in time.”

  “You mean once Russ has been gone long enough.”

  “And Mother, too. When there’s no one left who can be—” Hurt. Another word shimmers in Sophia’s brain. She touches her temple, the corner of her mouth. She has patients like herself, who keep information from her. They keep secret certain crucial facts that might be helpful in treating them. She has said to those patients: How can I help you if I don’t know your whole story? If you keep things back. She has been frustrated by them. She is frustrated with herself. She could tell Phil; she could explain it all to him; she knows he’s safe and even if he found what she had to say appalling, he would still only want to help her.

  He says her name, asks if she’s all right. He says, “If it’s any consolation, Sharon made a point of mentioning how much she and the Senator appreciate your continuing discretion.”

  “As I appreciate theirs. Sharon did promise,” Sophia adds.

  “I’m sure they’ll honor—” Phil begins.

  Sophia cuts in. “What I don’t understand is why they’re making such a thing of it. Greg was your patient. You’re the one who helped him kick his addiction, not me.”

  “You’re splitting hairs, Sophia. The important thing is that between us, they got their son back. You can’t put a value on that.”

  Sophia didn’t want to put a value on it; she wanted it forgotten.

  Chapter 5

  Saturday, September 18, 1999 - 29 days remain

  After breakfast, Jarrett lies on his bunk; he closes his eyes. He would sleep but the air is full of noise from the new kid, Cameron Dancey, housed in 29 cell halfway down the run. He’s howling and the sound is brutal, a jackhammer of fear. It’s got everyone stirred up, pacing, yelling. There are answering shouts: “Shut up! Shut the fuck up!” The discordant chorus bangs off the concrete walls. The guards pace back and forth. They’ll call out the goon squad and gas Dancey’s cell if he doesn’t stop. He bellows on, oblivious, calling for his mama, Jesus. Anybody. He’s a man lost, abandoned in a remote galaxy, beyond hope of rescue. Condemned. Like every man in here. Jarrett cocks his elbow over his eyes. The ragged cries eat at him; they shake the ground of his apathy, pierce the cultivated shroud of his indifference. He sits up.