“’Bye, Mommy.”
Mr. Walker swept MJ into the air, planted him on his shoulders. MJ’s high-pitched giggle rang out.
“Look, Mommy, look! I’m a giant!”
“She doesn’t deserve to be here,” Mr. Walker said to Chief Ward, who shrugged. “You always were a by-the-book prick.”
“Insulting me. Good plan. Tell it to the court, Tom. We’ll arraign her quickly. Three o’clock. Judge wants to be out on the river by four.”
“I’m sorry, Leni,” Mr. Walker said.
She heard the gentleness in his voice and knew that the man was ready to offer comfort. Leni didn’t dare reach out. Any kindness now could break what little control she had. “Take care of him, Tom. He’s my world.”
She stared up at her son on his grandfather’s shoulders, and she thought, Please let this be okay, and then the cell door clanged shut.
The rest of the day passed slowly, in unfamiliar sights and sounds, in a phone jangling, in doors opening and closing, in lunch orders being taken and delivered, in boots stomping across the station floor.
Leni sat on the hard concrete bench, slumped back against the cold wall. Sunlight streamed through the small cell window, heated everything. She pushed the damp hair out of her eyes. She’d spent the last two hours crying and sweating and muttering curses. Everywhere she could be damp, she was. Her mouth tasted like the inside of an old shoe. She went to the small, lidless toilet, pulled down her pants, and sat down, praying no one saw her.
How was MJ? She hoped Mr. Walker had found the stuffed orca (inexplicably named Bob) in his suitcase. MJ wouldn’t be able to sleep tonight without him. How had Leni forgotten to tell Mr. Walker that?
The station door opened. A man walked in. He had hunched shoulders and hair so tangled it looked like he’d been electrified. He wore hip waders and carried a scuffed green nylon briefcase. “Hey, Marci,” he said in a booming voice. Leni returned to her place on the bench.
“Morning, Dem,” said the female officer at the front desk.
He glanced sideways. “That her?”
The female officer nodded. “Yep. Allbright, Lenora. Arraignment at three o’clock. John’s coming in from Soldotna.”
The man headed her way, came to a stop outside the jail cell. With a sigh, he pulled a folder out of his dirty nylon briefcase and started reading. “Pretty detailed confession. Don’t you watch television?”
“Who are you?”
“Demby Cowe. Your court-appointed attorney. We’re going to zip in, enter a plea of not guilty, and zip out. The pinks are running. Okay? All you have to do is stand up when the court tells you to and say not guilty.” He closed the file. “Do you have someone who can pay bail?”
“Don’t you want to hear my side of it?”
“I’ve got your confession. We’ll talk later. Plenty, I promise. Brush your hair.”
He was gone before Leni could even really process that he’d been there.
* * *
THE COURTROOM LOOKED more like a small-town doctor’s office than a hallowed hall of justice. There was no shining wood, no pewlike seats, no big desk up front. Just linoleum floors, a bunch of chairs set out in rows, and desks for the prosecutor and the defense. In the front of the room, beneath a framed picture of Ronald Reagan, a long Formica desk awaited the judge; beside it, a plastic chair awaited witnesses.
Leni slid into her chair alongside her attorney, who was sitting close to the desk, studying tide charts. The prosecutor was seated at the desk across the aisle. A skinny man with a bushy beard, wearing a fishing vest and black pants.
The judge walked into the courtroom, followed by the stenographer and the bailiff. The judge wore a long black robe and Xtratuf fishing boots. He took his place behind the desk and glanced at the clock. “Let’s be quick, gentlemen.”
Leni’s lawyer stood. “May it please the court—”
The courtroom door banged open behind them. “Where is she?”
Leni could live to be one hundred and ten and still know that voice. Her heart did a little flip of joy. “Large Marge!”
Large Marge barreled forward, bracelets rattling. Her dark, aging face was speckled with tiny black moles and her hair was a tangle of fuzzy dreadlocks held back from her face by a folded bandanna headband. Her denim shirt was too small—stretched taut across her large breasts—and her pants were stained blue from berry picking and tucked into rubber boots.
She yanked Leni right out of the chair and hugged her. The woman smelled of homemade shampoo and wood smoke. Of Alaska in the summer.