Chapter 3: Five Minutes

A locked room.

The county jail sits
behind the courthouse.
They let me see Jude.
Maybe all those years
keeping my head down
have finally bought me something.

I taught them not to look twice.
Made myself ordinary—
another chair in the corner,
not worth the fuss.
Today, they look right past me
and open the door.

The deputy at the desk
hardly looks up. Young.
Name tag says
Parker.

Takes me a second
to remember him—
ran with Jude’s little brother,
both of them more mouth
than years.

Now he works a piece of gum,
thumb sliding over his phone,
like I’m the one
making trouble
by showing up.

I set the inhaler
on the counter.

“Jude’s brother said
he might need it.”

It ain’t much of a lie.
Last I knew,
Jude could swim clear across
the county lake,
climb out breathing easy,
and cuss the water
for leaving him wet.

But Parker don’t know
my lungs from Jude’s.
He looks at the inhaler.
Then at me.

“You Cal Mercer?”

I nod.

Parker gives a little snort.

“Yeah. Tate said you and Jude
used to run roads
before he lit out.”

He looks at the inhaler again.

“Figures you’d be the one
standing here.”

That’s hurtful,
but I don’t know why.
Don’t matter.

I can see him weighing it—
who he’d have to call,
what he’d have to ask,
turn one small lie
into a whole damn thing.

Then he decides
he don’t want the trouble
and tips his head
toward the back.

“Five minutes.
Don’t complicate things.”

I take the back hall
where he points.

The hall smells shut up—
old mop water
and something damp
working loose inside the walls.
Paint lifts from the cinder block
in pale little tongues.
Every door we pass
keeps its own dark.

Behind one of them,
a man starts laughing.
Then, like somebody’s
laid a hand on him,
he stops.

“Guess Wade weren’t as straight
as that uniform.”

Another voice joins him.

I wait for Parker
to say something.
He don’t.

Nobody does.

That’s when it lands.
Far as they’re concerned,
the ugly part ain’t saying it.

It’s that nobody in the hall
hears shame in it.

Only truth.

My hand stops
before it reaches the handle.

Then I open the door.

###

Room’s the regular kind—
bare walls,
one table, two chairs,
no windows.

Jude’s folded up in the far chair,
elbows on his knees,
hands hanging loose
between them.

No cuffs.
Not yet.

He looks smaller
than he did last night,
like the room’s already started
working him down.

His shirt’s wrinkled down the front,
collar bent wrong,
like he dressed in a hurry
or quit caring
how he looked.

Bruise blooming on his jaw,
mean and dark.

He sees me,
then looks past me toward the hall,
checking who else
I brought.

Nobody.

His mouth pulls sideways,
not quite a smile.

“Well,” Jude says finally,
eyes cutting toward the door.
“If it ain’t home callin’.”

“Hey, Jude.”

That’s all I give him.
Anything more
would’ve cost me.

The latch catches
behind me,
and the hallway goes dead
on the other side.

Jude studies me
with that long, cutting look
of his.

For half a second,
the boy he used to be
works up through his face
like an old bone
coming loose from red clay.

Then he lays the dirt
back over it.

“You always wear that look?”

“What look’s that?”

“Like you know something
you wish you didn’t.”

I pull the chair back and sit.

“How you holdin’ up?”

He lets out a joyless laugh.

“Oh, I’m just peachy, Cal.
County’s rolled out the red carpet.
Sheriff gave me his best
‘sorry for your loss’ voice.”

“That’s Vance.
Always knows the right thing to say.”

Jude works his jaw.

The bruise moves with it,
dark under the skin.

“They already got me pegged,” he says.
“Asked me the same question
six different ways.”

“What question?”

“If I hit him.”

His eyes catch mine,
waiting on something
in me to answer.

“They’re saying I hit him.
Saying I ran him down
in my truck.”

The quiet sits
longer than it should.

When I ask,
it comes out soft.

“Did you?”

He lets that sit awhile,
staring down at his hands
spread open between his knees
like they might testify against him.

When he looks up,
something in him has gone hard.

“I was mad,” he says.
“I’ll give ’em that much.
Me and Wade fought.
Ain’t fixin’ to pretty it up now.
I done told enough lies
to know what they cost.”

“What about the truck?”

His eyes leave mine.
His jaw works over
before he speaks.

“Clipped a stump
on the way out.
That sharp turn by the cedars—
you know it?”

I agree.
Everybody does.

“Hell, everybody’s
left a mark out there
one way or another.”

“Maybe,” I say.

I’m not here for everybody.

“Blood?”

His eyes leave mine.
His jaw works
before he speaks.

“He was bleeding before the truck.
Split his lip.
We were both half lit.
He said it wasn’t anything.”

“How’d he split it?”

Jude drops his eyes, voice low.

“When I shoved him.”

“Where?”

“Porch.”

“What happened?”

“He caught the rail—
hip, mouth.
Didn’t drop him.
Hurt enough to open his lip.”

“Did he bleed on you?”

“No.”

“On the truck?”

Jude goes still.

“You asking me,
or telling me?”

“Asking.”

He watches me a second,
trying to figure out
whose question it is.

“Maybe. I don’t know.
He followed me out, grabbed at it
coming for me again—
hood, maybe the side.
I wasn’t counting.”

I don’t rush him.

“You leave him there?”

His voice drops, throaty.

“I left him breathing.”

The table between us
feels narrower.

No use circling what comes next.

“He walked off,” Jude says.
“Headed down the road
like he needed something.
Air, maybe.
Somebody to stop him.

Or maybe just another fight.
Hell if I know. I waited a minute,
got mad all over again,
and left.”

“Went where?”

Jude looks at me then,
eyes hardening.

“Hell, Cal, you come in here to see me—
or count my sins for ‘em?”

“That ain’t what I’m doing.”

“Feels like it.”

He looks toward the door,
then back at me.

“They already asked where I went.
What I touched. What I hit.
Asked till every answer
felt like I was helping them
bury me.”

I leave that be.

“If you don’t tell me,” I say,
“they get to tell it for you.”

That lands ugly.
He drops his eyes.

“Quick Stop off County Line.
Bought coffee.
Pack of cigarettes.”

“Anybody see you?”

“Raylene was working.
Camera over the register too,
if the damn thing works.”

“Sure he walked off?”

He meets my eyes
and holds them.

“Yes.”

I believe him.
Near as I can, anyhow.

Still leaves the rest
sitting there wrong.

“That night,” I ask,
“was it bad between you?”

Jude gives a tired little laugh.

“We were good till we weren’t.”

That’s my take on Wade, too.

“Wade talked like everything
had already been decided—
like God handed him the book
and left the rest of us
to stumble through it blind.”

“That badge’ll do it,” I say.

Jude looks off,
focus slipping to the wall.

“He wanted me quiet,”
voice softer now.
“Not closeted. Quiet.
There’s a difference.”

I tilt my head down.

I know that difference
like I know my own name.

“They keep asking
why I didn’t call somebody.
Why I left it alone.
Like they don’t already know.”

“What’d you tell them?”

“That I didn’t want
to be the story.
Didn’t want to give
some church lady
a reason to nod over her pot roast
and say she knew all along.”

I get that.
Lord, I do.

Next thing to ask—
no way around it.

“You ever hit him before?”

Jude flinches, then scoffs.

“Maybe. We’ve been worse to each other
and called it nothin’.”

“Anybody see last night’s shove?”

He shakes his head.

“Not that I know.”

“And after you left—anybody see Wade?”

“Same answer.
No.”

Quiet gathers between us.

“They ain’t going to let this go,”
Jude says.

“No,” I say.
“They won’t.”

He leans forward, eyes sharp.

“You believe me, don’t you?”

It’s more need than question.

“Yes,” I say. “I believe
you didn’t kill him.”

Jude shuts his eyes,
just for a breath.

Opens them again—
wet, but steady.

“Not the same as saying
I ain’t part of what happened.”

“No,” I say. “It ain’t.”

The door swings open.

Sheriff Vance steps in.
Two deputies behind him.

Jude looks at them,
then at me,
as that cocky little edge
goes clean out of his face.

“Stand up,” Vance says.

Jude doesn’t move.

“For what?”

Vance gives him the kind of look
a man gives a thing
already decided.

“For the murder of Wade Larkin.”

Jude goes still.

Then one deputy moves in,
takes him by the arm.

That’s when
the cuffs come out.

I step forward.

“Off what?”

Sheriff Vance looks at me,
calm as church glass.

“Wade’s blood on the truck,” Vance says.

Jude just stares at him.

“No,” he says. “That ain’t right.”

But the cuffs are
already closing.

Vance starts in on the rights,
voice flat as paper.

Jude keeps looking at me, eyes fixed,
like if he looks away
the whole thing becomes true.

They take him through the door.

I follow.

Out in the hall,
Parker stands up
from behind the desk,
halfway too late.

Vance doesn’t stop.

“Later,” he says.

Parker sits back down
like the chair told him to.

Then Vance turns back.

“Go on home, Cal.”

“What happened?”

“You’ll hear soon enough.”

Then he keeps walking,
Jude between the deputies,
hands locked behind him now.

He gave them plenty—
temper, a shove,
a busted fender,
maybe even blood
on the truck.

Enough for Vance
to build a story.
Then Vance gave them worse.

Wade’s blood.

I stand there with all of it
stacked in my head.

Too much pointing one way,
too fast to trust.

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