“Will you meet with Keith, assess him? I’ll need a diagnosis if I’m going to go for a PTSD defense.”
“Of course,” Christian said. “I would be honored to help this young man.”
Honored. That was a word Michael hadn’t heard in connection with one of his clients in a long time. So many of them were guilty as hell. He was proud to be a part of the criminal justice system—an important part—but he was rarely proud to defend an individual client.
It made him think of Jolene, for whom honor was so important. She would have liked that he took this case. He rose to his feet, shaking Dr. Cornflower’s hand, saying, “Thank you.”
All the way home, he thought about Keith, and this new defense … and what had happened to this formerly good and decent young man in Iraq.
What happened to him over there?
And then, he thought: Jolene, what’s happening to you?
He was late getting home, as usual, and he knew by the look on Betsy’s face that she’d been counting the minutes, adding them up to hold against him. The thought of another angsty teenaged tirade, which he deserved, was more than he could stand.
His mother came into the kitchen. “I had no problem staying an extra hour. Don’t worry about it.”
“Thanks, Ma.”
As he said it, the phone rang.
Somewhere, Betsy screamed—actually screamed—“I’ll get it!”
He heard footsteps thundering down the stairs.
Michael smiled ruefully, walking his mother to the back door. “Thanks again, Ma.”
She kissed his cheek. “By the way, an e-mail came in from Jolene. Lulu is dying to read it, but I reminded her of the rules—no reading it until you got home—and she’s a bit … excited.”
Michael kissed his mom and watched her walk out to her car. He thought, not for the first time, that he couldn’t have handled this without her. When she’d left, he went into the kitchen and poured himself a drink.
Lulu marched into the kitchen. “We got an e-mail from Mommy. Can we read it now?”
“Can I have a drink and change my clothes first?”
“No, Daddy, I’ve been waiting FOREVER.”
Michael glanced at Jolene’s calendar, seeing that tonight dinner was supposed to be baked chicken and rice. He thought a can of mushroom soup was involved. “Okay. Go get your sister. I’ll meet you at my computer.”
Lulu ran upstairs. Mere seconds later, she was back, her little face scrunched up tightly, her cheeks red. “She’s on the phone.”
“Tell her to hang up.”
“She won’t.”
“Well, we can wait—”
“NONONONO!” Lulu wailed. Tears filled her eyes.
Michael knew he was the boss here, but frankly, the thought of a Lulu tantrum was more than he could handle right now. With a sigh, he went upstairs, found Betsy in her room, talking on the phone. “Can you call her back, sweetie? We’re going to read Mom’s letter before your sister levitates.”
Betsy turned her back on him and kept talking.
“Betsy,” he said in a warning tone.
“Get out, Dad, I’m on the PHONE.”
He took the phone from her, said, “She’ll call you back in ten minutes,” and hung up.
You would have thought he pushed the red button on a nuclear warhead. Betsy screamed, That was Sierra! so loud he went momentarily deaf.
“We’re reading the letter now. Come downstairs.” He left her standing there, so mad she was practically emitting smoke, and went down to his office.
There, he planted Lulu on the chair at his desk and went to the sofa to wait for Betsy. It didn’t take long. She stomped down the stairs and swept into the room like the Red Queen, muttering, Fine, where’s the stupid letter?
Betsy scooted Lulu sideways and sat down, then Lulu scrambled onto her sister’s lap, saying, “Read, Betsy.”
Betsy pulled up the e-mail, opened it.
A photo filled the computer screen. In it, Jolene and Tami were standing in front of some open-air market stall with their arms around each other. Everything was washed out, a little colorless, as if maybe it was raining or really windy. But you couldn’t miss how bright their smiles were.
“Mommy.” Lulu pointed at Jolene.
Betsy scrolled down and started to read the letter out loud. “It was a long flight over here…”
… and I have to admit that I’m tired.
Betsy, you wouldn’t believe how flat it is, and how everything is the same color, like dying wheat. And man is it hot. I think I was sweating before I even got off the plane.