The Secret History - Donna Tartt [217]
The sun was up, but it was hard to see much through the grime-streaked windows. Defunct timetables papered the walls; cigarette butts and chewing gum were stomped deep into the linoleum. The doors of the phone booth were covered in fingerprints. I closed them behind me and dialed Henry’s number, half-expecting he wouldn’t answer but to my surprise he did, on the second ring.
“Where are you? What’s the matter?” he said.
I explained what had happened. Ominous silence on the other end.
“Was he in a cell by himself?” he said at last.
“I don’t know.”
“Was he conscious? I mean, could he talk?”
“I don’t know.”
Another long silence.
“Look,” I said, “he’s going before the judge at nine. Why don’t you meet me at the courthouse.”
Henry didn’t answer for a moment. Then he said: “It’s best if you handle it. There are other considerations involved.”
“If there are other considerations I’d appreciate knowing what they are.”
“Don’t be angry,” he said quickly. “It’s just that I’ve had to deal with the police so much. They know me already, and they know him too. Besides—” he paused—“I am afraid that I’m the last person Charles wants to see.”
“And why is that?”
“Because we quarreled last night. It’s a long story,” he said as I tried to interrupt. “But he was very upset when I saw him last. And of all of us, I think you’re on the best terms with him at the moment.”
“Hmph,” I said, though secretly I was mollified.
“Charles is very fond of you. You know that. Besides, the police don’t know who you are. I don’t think they’ll be likely to associate you with that other business.”
“I don’t see that it matters at this point.”
“I am afraid that it does matter. More than you might think.”
There was a silence, during which I felt acutely the hopelessness of ever trying to get to the bottom of anything with Henry. He was like a propagandist, routinely withholding information, leaking it only when it served his purposes. “What are you trying to say to me?” I said.
“Now’s not the time to discuss it.”
“If you want me to go down there, you’d better tell me what you’re talking about.”
When he spoke, his voice was crackly and distant. “Let’s just say that for a while things were much more touch-and-go than you realized. Charles has had a hard time. It’s no one’s fault really but he’s had to shoulder more than his share of the burden.”
Silence.
“I am not asking much of you.”
Only that I do what you tell me, I thought as I hung up the telephone.
The courtroom was down the hall from the cells, through a pair of swinging doors with windows at the top. It looked very much like what I’d seen of the rest of the courthouse, circa 1950 or so, with pecky linoleum tiles and paneling that was yellowed and sticky-looking with honey-colored varnish.
I had not expected so many people would be there. There were two tables before the judge’s bench, one with a couple of state troopers, the other with three or four unidentified men; a court reporter with her funny little typewriter; three more unidentified men in the spectators’ area, sitting well apart from each other, as well as a poor haggard lady in a tan raincoat who looked like she was getting beat up by somebody on a pretty regular basis.
We rose for the judge. Charles’s case was called first.
He padded through the doors like a sleepwalker, in his stocking feet, a court officer following close behind him. His face was blurry and thick. They’d taken his belt and tie as well as his shoes and he looked a little like he was in his pajamas.
The judge peered down at him. He was sour-faced, about sixty, with a thin mouth and big meaty jowls like a bloodhound’s. “You have an attorney?” he said, in a strong Vermont accent.
“No, sir,” said Charles.
“Wife or parent present?”
“No, sir.”
“Can you post bail?”
“No, sir,” Charles said. He looked sweaty and disoriented. I stood up. Charles didn’t see me but the judge did. “Are you here to post bail for Mr.