A Reasonable Doubt Susan Sloan (chrysanthemum read aloud TXT) 📖

opened my eyes.  So, you drink it for me.”  He laughed, but it was a humorless laugh.  “Sure never thought I would hear myself sayin’ that.”

His uncle shrugged and downed the beer, and then drank his nephew’s, as well.  It wasn’t the alcohol so much as it was that he was also quite thirsty.

“Sorry,” the old Indian said.  “I guess, where you been, it could change a whole life around real quick.”

“That’s okay,” Jason told him with a grin.  “It only hurt for a minute.”

Their meal was devoured, the fire was down to embers, and the two men were settling into the cave for the night.  Graywolf had brought Jason a blanket, a change of clothes, a pair of moccasins, a towel, and some soap.

“So, tell me -- how’d you get out of that place?” he asked.

“I found some cracks goin’ up the wall,” Jason said.  “I worked at ’em, every chance I got, till I got enough of ’em big enough, and then it was just a matter of waitin’ until no one was watchin’, and then puttin’ one toe in and then another toe, and finally just heavin’ myself over the top.  Got a coupla cuts from the wire, and gave my leg a real poundin’ when I landed, but nothin’ was gonna slow me down.”

“What’s your plan?”

“To stay here for a while, see the sun come up in the mornin’, watch the stars dancin’ at night, breathe the fresh air, eat my fill of good food, and with a little luck, clear my brain.”

“And after that?”

Jason took a deep breath.  “After that, well, we’ll just have to see.”

. . .

“Is there any reason why what you found in the bathroom has to be made public?” Lauren Scott inquired, making a deliberate point of dropping over at Lily’s house during Sunday dinner with her parents.  “Can’t you maybe just throw it away?”

“It could be evidence at trial,” Lily reminded her.

“Evidence of what?” the widow argued.  “So maybe my husband used drugs sometimes, but I can’t see how it makes any difference now.  He’s dead.  The Indian is gone.  It’s been a week.  They aren’t going to find him.  There isn’t going to be any more trial.  And he’ll never pay for what he did to Dale.  Isn’t the fact that he ran away proof enough of his guilt?  Do you have to drag a good man’s name -- a  man who did a lot for this community --  through the mud for no reason at all?”

“People run for a lot of reasons, not always having to do with guilt,” Lily said -- fear coming to mind.  “But I promise you this, if a mistrial is declared, no one will ever hear about what we found, at least, not from me.”

It wasn’t exactly what the widow had come for, but it was what she was willing to leave with.

. . .

It was dark, with only a few stars lighting up the night, and he wondered why he could see the two men at all.  But he could.  And he could hear them, too, loud and clear.  They were arguing about something, going back and forth at one another.  He couldn’t make out what the argument was about, but he knew that, whatever it was, it was serious.  Suddenly, one of them just up and punched the other one in the face, and then it wasn’t an argument anymore, and the fighting started for real.

He tried to decide whether or not he should interfere, considering it was pretty one-sided, and the guy who had gotten punched in the face was clearly getting the worst of it.

It reminded him of the fights he used to go to with his uncle, years ago, when he was a kid -- loud and raucous and rough, and the crowd cheering it on -- except that this was one fight that should have been called by the referee way before now, and he wondered why it hadn’t been.

He thought maybe he should help the guy who was down on his knees -- or at least find the referee, but he didn’t.  He didn’t do anything.  He just stayed where he was, warm and secure, and let it go on.

Until it was time for it to stop so he could get to sleep.  He needed to get a good night’s sleep.  But it didn’t stop, it kept on going.  They had come to his place and ruined his sleep, and he’d had enough.  But he didn’t know what to do about it.  The shouting became grunting and then the grunting became screaming.  And all of a sudden, he was right there at the ring, shouting over the screaming, grabbing hold of the metal railing, trying to hang on to it, trying to keep his balance.  And then there was a noise -- so loud, so close, it made him jump.

Jason awoke with a start.

. . .

On Monday afternoon, a week and a day after Jason Lightfoot had jumped the fence at the Jackson County Jail and made his escape, a clearly perplexed warden called Lily at her Broad Street office.

“I don’t know exactly how to say this,” he said, “but your client is asking for you.”

“My client?” Lily asked.  “What are you talking about?”  Now that Jason was gone, she had no clients at the jail.

“I’m talking about Lightfoot,” the warden said.  “He’s sitting right here in front of me, and he’s asking to see you.”

“You caught him?”  Lily sat bolt upright.  “When?  Where?  Nobody notified me.  I haven’t heard a word about it.”

“Well -- uh -- that’s just it, you see, we didn’t exactly catch him,” the warden said, clearing his throat.  “He -- uh -- he just turned himself in.”

“He -- what?”

“Half an hour ago, he just walked right through the front gate and gave himself up.”

Even as she was leaping out of her chair and reaching for her bag and calling for Dancer, Lily was dumbfounded.

“Why?” she couldn’t help herself from asking.

The