Alex Cross's Trial

“You’ve got that just about right,” he said, grabbing my hand. That hand had not been shaken so vigorously since Roosevelt operated it at the White House. Maybe it was a habit of politicians to inflict pain on new acquaintances, as an aid to memory.

    “Lizzie talks so much about you I feel like we already know each other.”

    Lizzie. The familiarity of the nickname made me wince inwardly.

    “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you,” I said. “She speaks fondly of you.”

    “Oh, now, he’s making that up,” said Elizabeth, coming up behind her husband. “Don’t lie, Ben. Richard knows I haven’t spoken fondly of him in years!” She threw her husband a big stage wink. “At least, not in public.”

    Nottingham laughed. “Isn’t she a delight?”

    I agreed that she was, in a most unspecific murmur. Then I followed them into a small drawing room off the rear of the center hall.

    “Ben, Richard and I are so happy you came. There may be a few people here you don’t know—”

    This looked a lot like the gathering at L. J. Stringer’s mansion: the same aging stuffed shirts, the same overstuffed dresses, a faint smell of mothballs.

    Elizabeth led me to a stout couple on the fringed velvet loveseat. “This is Senator Oscar Winkler and his dear wife, Livia.”

    I noticed that state senators dropped the “state,” turning themselves into real senators. Senator Winkler clasped my hand. “Nice to see you again, Ben.”

    I was surprised he remembered me. Many years ago, as political editor for the Eudora High School Bugler , I had interviewed Senator Winkler for a column entitled “Eudora Looks Forward.” He had been warm to me and wise in his comments. One thing he said I had never forgotten. He said it, then asked me not to print it: “The southern man who figures out a way to bridge this terrible divide between the black and the white will enjoy all the blessings our Lord can bestow.”

    I shook the senator’s hand and kissed his wife’s. As I was straightening up I heard Elizabeth say, “And I do believe you already know this fellow.”

    I turned. To my astonishment, I found myself smiling and extending my hand to one Judge Everett Corbett.

    He shook it quite formally and made a little bow. “Ben, always a pleasure,” he said. “I hope your business down here is going well.”

    Richard Nottingham clapped his hands. “Lizzie, I heard just a bit too much preaching this morning, and presently I’m about to starve to death.” Everything the man said had that odd quality of being humorously intended but not actually funny. “Could we please have our dinner?”

    Chapter 53

    I WAS PLEASED about two things immediately. One, Elizabeth seated me next to herself at the table; two, turtle soup was not on the Nottinghams’ menu.

    I’d eaten a skimpy breakfast, expecting the usual six-or seven-course southern exercise in dinnertime excess. Instead I found the food a touch on the dainty side: deviled eggs, shrimp rémoulade, cucumber sandwiches, various cheeses, and a big silver dish of pickles.

    My father was also dishing it up: the personification of silver-haired charm, as he could be at those times when he let himself be roped into a social event.

    “I really owe you and Elizabeth a debt of gratitude,” he told Nottingham. “If it weren’t for you, who knows if I’d even get to see my son again before he heads home!”

    I recognized that as a clear signal. Now that we’d seen each other and been observed acting cordially toward each other, my job was done. I was welcome to go back to Washington anytime.

    “Oh, I’m not going home yet, Father,” I said over the back of the settee. I held up my glass of claret. “I’m grateful too, Richard. My father and I don’t get to see each other enough. It’s so rare to see him in such a cheerful and expansive mood.”

    My father gave out a little laugh. “Ben is quite a character,” he said. “He’s come down to tell us all where we went wrong. He thinks the South ought to be able to change overnight.”

    Richard Nottingham was glancing from my father to me, as if wondering whether this dispute was going to lead to blows among all this expensive china and crystal.

    “I’m just hoping for a South that returns to the rule of law,” I said. “I just want a place where the Ku Klux Klan is not hanging black men from every available tree.” I knew that I was treading dangerously here, but I couldn’t help myself.

    “Now you’re being plain ignorant,” my father said. “You don’t seem to