caught her eye, his gaze flickering. He probably didn’t favor being called to this room over a parolee of his, with police chief and lawyer, maybe any minute the D.A., men far above his pay grade. Mr. Ford, I didn’t have a two-inch knife. Or a ten-inch one. Just a whiskey bottle resting in a bottom drawer. Doesn’t signify, not a plug nickel, because it come down to me or him.
Pug-nosed Tucker took the first chair, head drifting back, eyes squeezing shut, and produced a misty sneeze. He patted his pockets, fished out a handkerchief. Mr. Blankenship pulled out the chair across from Tucker for Delpha, inclined his head at it. She sat. Unexpectedly, he ushered the chair—with her suddenly unbalanced in it—to the table. He took his place next to her. Abels, the detective with the mustache and sideburns, slid off his hounds-tooth jacket and hung it on the back of his chair. He plopped down a white tablet and sat heavily. Scraped the chair forward, uncapped a pen.
“OK, Delpha. On the afternoon of August 15, 1973, where were you?” A bulldog wearing a drill sergeant’s hat glowered from his forearm.
“Office of Phelan Investigations, downtown on Orleans Street.”
“Was anyone with you?”
“No.”
“Where was your employer?”
“Out on a case.”
“When the…deceased came to the door, you invited him in?”
“He walked in.”
“Door wasn’t locked?”
“No.”
“What did you say to him?”
“Asked how I could help him.”
“OK. What did he say?”
“Said a girl said she left a book for him outside the door, but it wasn’t there.”
Abels waited for her to continue and when she didn’t, said, “What did you say?”
“Told him I brought it in and I’d get it for him and he could go.”
“You were in a hurry to get rid of him?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why was that?”
“He wanted to know if my boss was gone. Looking around to make sure I was by myself.”
“Maybe he was just looking at his surroundings,” Abels said, maintaining the neutral-cop tone.
Delpha’s eyes flicked to Tucker’s then settled back on Abels’. She answered nothing.
“You believed he intended to harm you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Without him making any kind of threat?”
She nodded.
“How’d you come to think that?”
“Front of his pants was standin’ up.”
And so on, slow and methodical, through the moment her attacker had pulled a knife, and the events that followed. Then, a detailed recapitulation of those events. It was eighty-nine minutes before Abels switched gears and the lawyer sitting next to her meaningfully shifted his posture forward.
“OK, Delpha. In April of this year, you were released from Gatesville Women’s Prison?”
“I was.”
“You were incarcerated for what charge?”
“Voluntary manslaughter.”
“Your victim was—”
Miles Blankenship finished the sentence. “A rapist, Detective. That’s enough of those questions. They’re irrelevant to the matter at hand. We all know Miss Wade happens to be on parole. And we all know that what we have here is justified self-defense. An individual with more than a reasonable belief that the use of force was necessary, defending her life against a depraved and aggressive predator. As any man in this room would have done without a second thought. Let me emphasize that. Without a second thought. Any man.” He scanned the faces in the room, skipping Delpha’s.
“There is no crime here, gentlemen. Miss Wade was carrying no weapon, so there is not even a parole violation. Not even that. This interview is a formality, the necessity of which we all understand. But let’s get this formality over with. Keep in mind that you’ve removed my client from a hospital bed.”
Whereas the cops gazed flat-faced at Miles, Delpha noticed that her parole officer Joe Ford straightened up against the wall. He had unfolded the long arms he had barricaded in front of his chest and slipped his hands in his pockets. No violations, no way he could be faulted.
Abels, brow raised, cut his eyes toward the Chief, who hiked his chin a quarter inch.
The detective’s gaze sank back to hers. He jerked his neck to the side and back, getting his head on tighter. “All right, say again for the record, you were alone when the deceased came to the office?”
“Yeah.”
“You invited him in?”
“He walked in.”
“OK. Did you talk with him?”
Their verbal exchange was repeated for a third time. Delpha told the same story, reiterated that No, she had not met the man prior to this time nor seen him. Yes, she had heard of him from her boss, Mr. Phelan.
“And what was it your boss told you?”
“That he was preying on boys.”
“You knew that for a true fact?”
“Know for a fact Mr. Phelan believed that.”
Abels’ mouth screwed to the side. Irritation sparked in his eyes. For only a second—then his tone traded its dogged neutrality for a mild, false curiosity. “Why’nt you just run, Delpha?”
“’Cause he was hopin’ I would.”
Without unfolding his arms, Chief Guidry spoke up. “You read his mind?”
“Read the way he waved the knife.”
“What waving technique was that?” Fake confusion from Abels.
“Invitin’ me to make a break for it.”
Tucker sawed at his nose with a horizontal finger. “You coulda hollered for help.”
She nodded agreeably. “He woulda liked that.”
“How would you know? Explain that for us.” Tucker sniffed.
“No, sir. You hadn’t been in a knife fight, I cain’t tell you. Ruther you asked me a specific question.”
