Dawn came shortly after five o’clock. The night sky turned gray as morning crept toward the horizon. Minutes later the sun burst over the treetops along the eastern shore of Mobile Bay in a blaze of light, drawing the downtown buildings from the receding shadows into the early morning glare.

 

A man sleeping on a park bench under the massive oak trees in Bienville Square rolled on his side and draped his arm across the side of his face, shielding his eyes. Another lying on a nearby bench pulled yesterday’s newspaper over his head. By five-thirty the cool of the night was gone. In its place, stifling heat and suffocating humidity enveloped the city.

 

Across Bienville Square on Dauphin Street, the Warren Building looked out on the waking city. Constructed in the 1920s, it had been the marvel of the downtown business district in its day. Its central air conditioning and gleaming elevators were the first of either in the city and made it the location of choice for most of the prestigious firms. Now worn and tired, it was home to a collection of private investigators, sleazy plaintiff’s attorneys, and Mike Connolly.

 

That morning, Connolly was fast asleep in his third-floor office. Slumped forward in his chair, his head rested on top of the desk. Both arms dangled at his side. To the left of his head was the telephone. Next to it sat a round pencil holder filled with pencils, pens, and a letter opener. To the right, a half-empty gin bottle sat a few inches from his nose.

 

Shortly before eight o’clock the telephone rang. The ringing pounded in Connolly’s head and beat against his ears until he was roused from sleep. Thinking it was an alarm clock, he swatted with his hand to turn it off. His hand came crashing down on the pencil holder. Two pencils turned pointed end up stabbed him in the palm of his hand.

 

Startled by the pain in his hand, he jerked his head up from the desk so fast he strained a muscle in the back of his neck. He grabbed the phone with his left hand and clutched his neck with the other.

 

“Hello,” he growled.

 

In response he heard only a dial tone. He slammed down the phone and leaned backward. His head flopped against the back of the chair and sent a stabbing pain through the muscles of his neck. He moaned and closed his eyes.

 

In a few moments, the phone rang again. This time, he rocked forward without moving his head and grabbed the receiver on the first ring.

 

“Hello,” he said.

 

“Connolly?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Connolly, this is Walter in Judge Cahill’s court. Judge wants to see you.”

 

“When?”

 

“Now.”

 

“Alright. I’ll be right there.”

 

Connolly hung up the phone and gently returned his head to the desktop. The muscles in his neck throbbed. A pounding headache made him dizzy. He closed his eyes.

 

Sometime later, the phone rang again. Once again he jerked his head up from the desktop. The ache in his head was more intense than before. His neck muscles were in knots. He lifted the telephone to his ear.

 

“This is Walter in Judge Cahill’s court. You coming over here this morning?”

 

“I just told you I’d be right there,” Connolly groused.

 

“That was forty-five minutes ago,” Walter replied.  “Judge wants to see you right now.”

 

Connolly checked his watch.

 

“Alright,” he groaned.   “I’m on my way.”

 

He hung up the phone and pushed himself up from the chair. With one hand against the wall for support, he made his way around the desk to the doorway and shuffled out of his office.

 

A little way down the hall was a tiny room that served as both a break room and copier room. In the far corner was a sink with a cabinet above it and a small mirror on the wall behind the faucet. A refrigerator sat next to the sink with a microwave oven on top. A small table by the door held a fax machine. The photocopier took up the rest of the space.

 

He opened the cabinet above the sink and reached inside for a toothbrush. When he finished brushing his teeth, he splashed water on his face and ran his fingers through his hair. As he did, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. His hair was still thick and full, though most of it was turning gray. Tiny wrinkles stretched from the corners of his eyes. Beneath them, large dark circles sagged toward his cheek bones. He rubbed lightly across his face with his fingers and felt the stubble of his beard.

 

“No time to shave,” he thought.

 

He buttoned the top button of his shirt and pulled the knot of his tie up tight against his neck.  At least he had avoided the thick jowls and double chin most men his age acquired. Though he was fifty-eight years old, his chin was still square and sharp, his jawline straight and lean. Drinking didn’t leave much time for eating.

 

Back in his office, he rummaged around in the desk and found a legal pad with a few clean pages. As he looked through the drawer, the gin bottle on the desk caught his eye. He wanted a drink but Judge Cahill would smell it on his breath for sure. Instead, he put the cap on the bottle and shoved it in the bottom drawer of the desk. He took a pen from the pencil holder, grabbed his jacket, and

headed out the door.

 

Downstairs, he slipped out the back of the building into Ferguson’s Alley. He made his way down the alley, across Conti Street, and emerged at Government Street directly opposite the courthouse. He arrived in Judge Cahill’s courtroom a few minutes later.

 

Walter sat at a desk to the right of the judge’s bench, busily working through a pile of court files. He looked up as Connolly entered the courtroom.

 

“He’s in his office,” he said, nodding toward the door behind him.

 

Connolly walked around Walter’s desk and disappeared through the door to the judge’s chambers.

 

Beyond the door was an outer office furnished with nondescript chairs and a small table with a lamp. On the wall to the left was a picture of Judge Cahill and the governor. To the right was a citation Cahill received while serving in the Alabama National Guard. At the far end of the left wall was the door to his office. The door was slightly ajar.

 

“Walter,” Cahill called, “did you get in touch with Mike Connolly?”

 

Connolly stepped to the door and peered through the opening. Cahill was seated behind his desk across the room facing the door. His desk was covered with stacks of court files. He glanced up as Connolly appeared.

 

“Come in here, Connolly,” he called.

 

Connolly pushed the door open and stepped inside.

 

“Good morning, Your Honor.”

 

“It doesn’t look so good for you,” Cahill frowned. “You look as rough as I feel.”

 

Connolly managed a nervous smile, suddenly aware of his rumpled appearance.

 

“Sorry, Judge. They said you wanted to see me. I just came right over. Didn’t have time to go home and get cleaned up.”

 

Cahill shook his head.   He gave a long, heavy sigh.

 

“You need to lay off the gin.”

 

“Probably so,” Connolly replied. “Probably so.”

 

His voice trailed off as he crossed the office and stood in front of Cahill’s desk. Cahill picked up a file from the stack in front of him.

 

“I’m going to appoint you to a capital murder case. Think you can handle it?”

 

“I’ve done it before.”

 

“This one’s a little different,” Cahill said. “You watch the news last night?”

 

“Ahhh . . . saw the first part.”

 

“Then you probably know Keyton Attaway’s dead.”

 

“Yeah,” Connolly lied. He hadn’t watched television in months. “I fell asleep in the middle of the report,” he continued. “Where did they find him?”

 

“Pinto Island.   Not far from the shipyard.”

 

“How’d it happen?”

 

“Not sure. Police think it might have been part of a robbery.”

 

Connolly’s forehead wrinkled in a look of concern.

 

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said. “Keyton was a good man. Any idea who did it?”

 

Connolly didn’t realize how ridiculous the question sounded until the words were already out of his mouth. He stared at Judge Cahill a moment, as if expecting an answer, then a broad smile broke across his face.

 

“Police think Avery Thompson did it,” Cahill snorted with laughter. “They’ve charged him with capital murder.”  He tossed the court file toward the edge of the desk in front of Connolly. “Here. Take a look at the file. You can get somebody to help you if you like. Or, you can work it by yourself. I don’t care.”

 

Connolly picked up the file and opened it. Cahill leaned back in his chair and draped both arms over the top of his head.

 

“You got any problem defending him?”

 

“No,” Connolly replied. “I guess not.” He was supposed to know Keyton Attaway. The name sounded familiar, but right then it was a struggle to remember his own name much less anyone else’s. Still, his momentary lapse of memory didn’t stop him from continuing the conversation. “I knew Keyton,” he said, “but we weren’t that close.”

 

“Alright.” Cahill lowered his arms and leaned forward again. “Thompson’s up in the jail. You can go see him when you get the time.”

 

Cahill picked up another file from his desk and opened it, a signal for Connolly to leave.

 

“What about bail?”

 

“No bond,” Cahill snapped.

 

He was already reading the next file. He didn’t bother to look up as he spoke.

 

“You saying you didn’t set an amount,” Connolly asked, “or you saying you’ve ruled he’s not entitled?”

 

Cahill glanced at Connolly, then back to the file in his hands.

 

“I’ve considered the question of bail. He’s in on no bond. You can request a hearing if you want to,” Cahill said. “But I’m not letting him out.”

 

Connolly stepped to the door. Cahill tossed the file he was holding into a bin on the corner of his desk, then picked up another.

 

“Give the file to Walter when you get through with it,” he mumbled as he reached for the next file.

 

Connolly took a seat at the counsel’s table in the courtroom and opened the court file. There wasn’t much inside. A cover sheet, a warrant, and a booking sheet created when Thompson was processed in at the jail. He made notes from what little information he found.

 

Avery Thompson was forty-eight years old. He was accused of murdering Keyton Attaway with a pistol. Because he had previously been convicted of murder, the charge against him was a capital offense for which he faced the possibility of the death penalty. Information in the file indicated forty dollars in cash and a watch valued at one thousand dollars had been taken from Attaway, but there was no indication Thompson was charged with robbery. Connolly jotted down the information and handed the file to Walter.

 

“We’ll have a preliminary hearing sometime in the next three or four weeks,” Walter said. He took the file from Connolly and tossed it on a cart behind his desk. “I’ll let you know.”

 

“I’ll be waiting,” Connolly replied.

 

From Cahill’s courtroom Connolly took the elevator to the courthouse lobby and made his way to the front exit. A blanket of summer heat wrapped around him as he stepped through the door. Sweat seeped from every pore in his body. The air was thick and humid. Two steps up the sidewalk he peeled off his suit jacket, slung it over his shoulder, and trudged toward the office.

 

Myrtice Gordon, Connolly’s secretary, was seated at her desk when he returned. At seventy-five she was long past retirement age, but she refused to quit. Always at her desk by eight-thirty in the morning, she remained there until five-thirty each evening. A routine she had followed for thirty-four years. She was the only secretary he had ever had.

 

“Good morning, Mrs. Gordon,” Connolly said as he passed her desk.

 

“Have you been to the hospital this morning?” she asked, ignoring his greeting.

 

“No,” he frowned.   “Why?”

 

“Your daughter . . . .”

 

Halfway down the hall Connolly whirled around to face her. He looked stricken.

 

“Rachel?”

 

“She had a baby last night. Your first grandchild,” Mrs. Gordon said. The tone of her voice indicated it was a matter they had already discussed. “Didn’t you go over to the hospital to see them?”

 

“Oh,” he said. He turned away. “No. I didn’t make it.”

 

He walked down the hallway to his office, hung his jacket on the coat rack, and flopped into the chair behind his desk. When he looked up, Mrs. Gordon was standing in the doorway holding a neatly wrapped gift.

 

“I bought this for you to take with you,” she said.

 

She stepped toward the middle of the room.

 

“What is it?”

 

“It’s a gift for the baby,” she said. She set the package on his desk and glanced at her watch. “If you go now you can see her before Rachel has to feed her again.”

 

“Her?”

 

“She had a little girl, Mike. You need to go see her.”

 

He looked away.

 

“I haven’t seen or heard from her in over a year.”

 

“Rachel’s your daughter,” Mrs. Gordon replied. “Go see her.”

 

She stepped to the door and walked up the hallway. Connolly leaned around the end of the desk and looked to make sure she was gone. Satisfied she was out of sight, he slid open the bottom drawer of the desk and took out a bottle of gin.