Alex Cross’s Trial

“I’ll be staying at Maybelle Wilson’s,” I said. “I’m here on business.”

We crossed to the First Bank and turned left onto Commerce Street. It was right then that I had the feeling that I had entered into one of Mr. H. G. Wells’s fabled time-transport machines. “My God,” I said under my breath. “How can this be?”

Chapter 22

THERE BEFORE ME was my first sweetheart, Elizabeth Begley, instantly recognizable with her blond curls, her delicate face, a sweet young girl in a pretty pink-checked sundress.

I realized with a start this was neither a dream nor a memory. This really was Elizabeth Begley. And she truly was eleven years old!

Then I saw the very real and very grown-up Elizabeth Begley step out of Ida Simmons’s notions shop and call out to the little girl standing before me.

“Emma? You wait right there for me.”

I called out Elizabeth ’s name. She turned, and her face lit up instantly.

“Why, good Lord! Ben Corbett! The heat must have gone to my eyes. This cannot be you!”

“It’s Ben, all right. Your eyesight is just fine.”

As was everything else about her. Elizabeth looked as beautiful as when I used to sneak glances at her all through our school years together. If anything, she’d gotten even prettier as a woman.

“Well, Ben, what brings you back to our little nothing of a town?” she asked.

I told myself to close my mouth, which had fallen open in astonishment, partly at the chance meeting, but also at the sight of this lovely woman.

“Oh, just some work for the government. Interviewing candidates for the federal bench, potential judges. And I suppose I needed a breath of good old Mississippi fresh air.”

“Honey, everybody in town is just gonna be beside themselves with excitement to see you,” Elizabeth said and beamed. “The famous Ben Corbett, the one we all thought had gone off forever to be a Yankee lawyer, has finally come for a visit! I know your father must be thrilled.”

“I hope he will be,” I said. “It’s a surprise. The job I’m on came up suddenly.”

I doubted that many people in town-especially my father-would be all that happy to see me. But that wasn’t the kind of information to share with Elizabeth. Instead I remarked that Emma was as pretty as Elizabeth had been as a girl, which happened to be true, and made both of them smile.

“I see you’ve still got honey on your tongue, Ben,” she said, with a hint of a blush. And then a wink, to show her sense of humor was intact.

“I’m just speaking the truth,” I said, smiling. It really was good to see her.

“Ben, I would love to stand here and visit with you and get more compliments, but Emma is going to be late for her dance class,” she said. “I do want to talk to you. Where is Mrs. Corbett? Did you abandon her at the station?”

“She stayed home,” I said. “The children are involved in their lessons.”

“I see,” Elizabeth said, with an inflection that suggested she didn’t quite comprehend that version of events. “It’s been too long, Ben,” she went on. “I hope we’ll see each other again?”

“Of course we will. Eudora is a small town.”

“And that’s why we love it.”

She took her daughter’s hand and headed off toward the shade of the oak trees surrounding the town square. I turned around and stood watching Elizabeth and Emma as they walked away.

Chapter 23

HERE’S SOMETHING I truly believe: a man should be able to walk through the front door of his childhood home without knocking. I was thinking this as I clutched the ring of the brass knocker on my father’s front door. I may have spent the first eighteen years of my life here, but it was never my house. It was always his house. And he never let me forget it.

It was six years ago, at my mother’s funeral, that I had last laid eyes on my father.

It hadn’t gone well. I had just buried the most understanding parent a man could possibly have. When the service was over, I was left with a stern, distant, conservative father who had no use for a lawyer son who leaned the other way. After the funeral luncheon, after all the deviled eggs and potato salad and baked ham had been consumed, after the Baccarat punchbowl had been washed, dried, and put away, my father had an extra glass of whiskey and began to pontificate on the subject of my “Washington shenanigans.”

“And if you don’t mind, what might those terrible shenanigans be?” I asked. “How have I disappointed you?”

“Believe it or not, son, y’all don’t have a lock on every form of human knowledge in that Yankee town you now call home,” he said. “The news does travel down to Mississippi eventually. And everybody I know says you’re the most progressive young lawyer in Washington.” I had never heard that word pronounced with a more audible sneer.

I didn’t answer. All the way down on the train, I had vowed to myself not to react to his temperamental outbursts.