Chapter 7
It's been a while since I've ridden shotgun with Walt, and that hasn't required a whole lot of active avoidance. For the first couple of weeks after everything went down, he was occupied with the mountain of paperwork for Branch, and he spent more time with Cady and more time at home, as he should have. Only a few cases even required both of us to go, and when they did, we went. We talked, but not much. Mostly about the case at hand, or sometimes about Henry or Branch. He wasn't very aware of me during that time, and I was glad. I needed to get settled with myself and my circumstances. It's only been recently that he's come back around.
In your eyes, it's all so calculated and self-seeking where Walt is concerned. I'm that selfish ditz who only thinks about people in terms of how their situations relate to me. I won't argue that too many of those three minute trials, especially over the last year, have provided ample evidence in support of the prosecution. Your conclusions are accurate enough, and I'm trying to get to the bottom of why that happened, how I became that person. Whether you buy it or not, though, you never got the whole story. Right now, I don't know the whole story, either, but I want to know. What got me to that place where my interactions with people became largely about how I could get my own needs met? Do what you must with the information you have, but I'm giving myself a chance to set things right.
Now, as we drive towards Quail Ridge, the sun low in the sky, the temperature dropping, it feels like it used to feel. He explains the limits of the law where mass dog breeding is concerned; he gives me the background on the squatter; he points out a red-tailed hawk, then a circle of buzzards—must be something dead out there, he says. Most of the time I look out the window as the landscape transitions from rolling prairie to pine forest.
I turn to look at him when he's been silent a while, when I think he won't notice. His right arm is out-stretched on the wheel, and his left hand is on his thigh. His cheek and neck are smooth from the shave, and tidy pieces of his hair are curling up slightly from beneath his hat. Only the starched collar of the new royal blue shirt is visible above the collar of his jacket. And he smells clean, like maybe he's wearing aftershave.
I lean my head against the cool glass and turn my attention back to the outside world. It has to be for someone, and I'm scared it's going to come up. Would you believe me if I said I sincerely want him to be happy, regardless of what that means? I do. I'm just not ready to hear about it tonight.
