Page 24 of Never Flinch

But that was just a day or two after Alan Duffrey died, it was in the paper, and if the Rev made the connection…

How unlikely is that?

Very unlikely… but unlikely isn’t impossible.

The Rev is finally sitting down. The gathering murmurs,Thanks, Reverend Mike, and the discussion finally begins. Trig doesn’t share because he doesn’t know what topic the Rev finally suggested when he finished blathering. Also because he’s focused on those broad shoulders and balding head.

Trig is thinking he might kill a fourth one after all before taking some time off. Just to make sure the unlikely doesn’t happen. And really, who is more innocent than a recovering addict—a fiend—who loves God?

An unworthy thought comes to him, but it’s also anamusingthought, and he covers his mouth to hide a smile.Shutting him up would be doing the recovery community a favor.

After the meeting, Trig shakes the Rev’s hand and tells him how much he enjoyed listening to him. They talk for quite awhile. Trig confesses to the Rev that he’s having a serious problem making amends, then listens patiently while the Rev quotes (verbatim) from Chapter 5 of the Big Book: “We must be willing to make amends where we have done harm, provided we do not bring about still more harm in so doing.” So on and so forth, blah blah blah.

“I need some counseling about this,” Trig says, and watches as Big Book Mike almost visibly expands. They make an appointment for Trig to stop by the Rev’s little house at seven PM on the 20th.

“It’s near the Rec Center.”

“I’ll find it.”

“Unless,” the Rev says, “you think you might drink over it. Then you can come tomorrow. Or even right now.”

Trig allows that he’ll be okay until May 20th, mostly because he doesn’t want to continue his mission so soon. He grips the Rev’s meaty arm. “Please don’t talk about it to anybody. I’m ashamed of needing help with this.”

“Never be ashamed of reaching out,” the Rev says, his eyes sparkling with juicy disclosures to come. “And believe me, I won’t say a word.”

Trig believes this. Reverend Mike is a bore and a windbag, but he’s also good AA. Trig has heard him declaim from the Big Bookad nauseum, but never a story or even an anecdote about a fellow sufferer. The Rev takes that end-of-meeting command, “What you hear here, when you leave here, let it stay here,” very seriously.

Which is good.

8

While the murderer of Annette McElroy, Dov Epstein, and Frank Mitborough is attending an AA meeting in Upsala, Isabelle Jaynes is in her cubicle at 19 Court Plaza, calling Letitia Overton. Tom Atta located her through Overton’s ex-sister-in-law, who said she only had Letitia’s number because she forgot to delete it from her contacts. She called Overton “that bitch,” but the soft-voiced woman who answers Izzy’s call doesn’t sound in the least bitchy.

Izzy identifies herself and asks where Overton is currently located.

“I’m at the Trellis Apartments, in the town of Wesley Chapel. That’s in Florida. Why are you calling, Detective Jaynes? I’m not in trouble, am I? About that… thing?”

“What thing would that be, Ms. Overton?”

“The trial. Oh, I’m so sorry about what happened, but how were we to know? Poor Mr. Duffrey, it’s just awful.”

Izzy has what she called for but wants to make absolutely sure. “Just to be clear, you were on the jury that convicted Alan Duffrey of a third-degree felony, to wit trafficking in pornographic material involving the sexual exploitation of a child or children?”

Letitia Overton begins to cry. Through her tears she says, “We did the best we could! We were in that jury room for almosttwo days! Bunny was the last to give in, but a bunch of us talked her around. Are we in trouble?”

In a way yes, and in a way no, Izzy thinks. Is she going to tell this woman, who did the best she could with the evidence she had, that awoman was found murdered with Overton’s name in her dead hand? Chances are excellent that she’ll find out eventually, but Izzy isn’t going to tell her now.

“No, Ms. Overton—Letitia—you’re not in trouble. Do you know who else was on the jury? Remember any of the names?”

There’s a hearty sniff, and when Overton speaks again, she sounds a little more in control of herself, maybe because the detective calling from her old hometown has told her she’s not in trouble.

“We didn’t call each other by our names, only our numbers. Judge Witterson was very strict about that, because of how sensitive the case was. He said in other trials there had been death threats. He mentioned one about a man who killed an abortion provider. Maybe to scare us. If so, it worked. We had these stickers we put on our shirts. Mine said Juror Eight.”

Izzy knows that the identity of jurors in high-profile cases—and Duffrey’s was front-page news—is often kept from the press, but she’s never heard of it being kept from the other jurors.

“But ma’am—Letitia—weren’t you called up forvoir direby name?”

“You mean the questions they asked when they took our names out of the pool?” Before Izzy can answer, Overton bursts out, “I wish to God I’d never been picked! Or that one of the lawyers had said, ‘She won’t do!’?”

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