movies and rope and a pair of handcuffs. Cases of generic soda and shelves of empty aquariums with algae-smudged glass. Videogame consoles, a karaoke machine, a miniature foosball table. When Eric imagined the apartment, the light was soupy and dust-heavy. The air smelled of turpentine.
Garcia had shared what he knew with Eric and Laura, but he betrayed considerably less at the press conference. It took place in Corpus on the steps of the Nueces County Courthouse; Eric, Laura, Griff, and Cecil watched on television at home while Justin was still asleep. Just then his lopsided sleep schedule seemed a blessing; they could watch without fear of burdening or hurting him. When reporters asked pointed questions, Garcia claimed Texas rules of ethics prohibited him from discussing specific details of an open investigation. Good, Eric thought. Very good. The discrepancy of information, the void between what Garcia offered the public and what he’d confided to Eric and Laura, seemed vital. Empowering. Hopeful. Eric could imagine teams of detectives and lawyers being deployed, gathering unassailable evidence, devising legal traps and strategies; the mechanisms of the law, the relentless logic of the process by which justice is meted out, were inspiring. Even innocuous information seemed damaging if Garcia withheld it from reporters. Buford’s parents were retired and living just outside Southport; they docked a boat, a thirty-two-footer named
Oil-n-Water,
at the marina; Buford was a registered Republican; he was a few credits shy of an associate’s degree in business—all of this weakened Buford in Eric’s mind. Knowing what Buford didn’t know they knew was fortifying. Even that Garcia was the only person to appear on camera at the press conference, that he’d denied everyone but the family the opportunity to gaze upon Justin, seemed a sign of strength and confidence.It seemed something they were lording over Buford. When a reporter asked when they might glimpse Justin, Garcia said, “Our office’s primary objective is a successful prosecution. Yours is to grant that boy some privacy. They’ve all been through enough.”
Eric was nodding emphatically, as if at church.
A T SCHOOL ON M ONDAY , E RIC ’ S STUDENTS PRESENTED HIM with a WELCOME HOME poster for Justin: a lime green background and a pasted newspaper photo of Justin’s billboard with the word FOUND spray-painted across his image. Above the clipping were the words TEXAS HISTORY IS MADE ! and around them were the kids’ signatures. Some of the students brought cards and presents from their parents—gift certificates to the Castaway Café, plates of cookies, bags of tamales. He tried to act professional, lecturing on Santa Anna and Sam Houston and assigning a chapter on the Battle of San Jacinto for the next class, but it was no use; his every thought veered back to Justin. He started to feel that beautiful weightlessness again. “You should just let us go early, Mr. Campbell,” Clarence Ogden said. “Justin probably wants to see you more than we do.” So he did. In the hallways, teachers went out of their way to shake his hand, clap his back.
When he wasn’t teaching, and while Justin slept in, Eric ran errands. He swung by the pawnshop and brought home a bigger aquarium for the mice Laura had decided to keep as pets; she’d named them Willie and Waylon. Eric and Cecil drove to Marine Lab and retrieved Laura’s car, then stopped in Portland for fruit cups dusted in chili powder—a treat the boys had always loved. The running around afforded him a feeling of usefulness, just as hanging the flyers had before, and whenever he returned home there always seemed a new development. (Again, those early days of fatherhood came back, days when his sons seemed to grow an inch in an hour, learn five new words in the time it took him to mow the yard.) The governor’s office sent a small palm tree and a signed card, welcomingJustin home. Another five bouquets of
Garcia had shared what he knew with Eric and Laura, but he betrayed considerably less at the press conference. It took place in Corpus on the steps of the Nueces County Courthouse; Eric, Laura, Griff, and Cecil watched on television at home while Justin was still asleep. Just then his lopsided sleep schedule seemed a blessing; they could watch without fear of burdening or hurting him. When reporters asked pointed questions, Garcia claimed Texas rules of ethics prohibited him from discussing specific details of an open investigation. Good, Eric thought. Very good. The discrepancy of information, the void between what Garcia offered the public and what he’d confided to Eric and Laura, seemed vital. Empowering. Hopeful. Eric could imagine teams of detectives and lawyers being deployed, gathering unassailable evidence, devising legal traps and strategies; the mechanisms of the law, the relentless logic of the process by which justice is meted out, were inspiring. Even innocuous information seemed damaging if Garcia withheld it from reporters. Buford’s parents were retired and living just outside Southport; they docked a boat, a thirty-two-footer named
Oil-n-Water,
at the marina; Buford was a registered Republican; he was a few credits shy of an associate’s degree in business—all of this weakened Buford in Eric’s mind. Knowing what Buford didn’t know they knew was fortifying. Even that Garcia was the only person to appear on camera at the press conference, that he’d denied everyone but the family the opportunity to gaze upon Justin, seemed a sign of strength and confidence.It seemed something they were lording over Buford. When a reporter asked when they might glimpse Justin, Garcia said, “Our office’s primary objective is a successful prosecution. Yours is to grant that boy some privacy. They’ve all been through enough.”
Eric was nodding emphatically, as if at church.
A T SCHOOL ON M ONDAY , E RIC ’ S STUDENTS PRESENTED HIM with a WELCOME HOME poster for Justin: a lime green background and a pasted newspaper photo of Justin’s billboard with the word FOUND spray-painted across his image. Above the clipping were the words TEXAS HISTORY IS MADE ! and around them were the kids’ signatures. Some of the students brought cards and presents from their parents—gift certificates to the Castaway Café, plates of cookies, bags of tamales. He tried to act professional, lecturing on Santa Anna and Sam Houston and assigning a chapter on the Battle of San Jacinto for the next class, but it was no use; his every thought veered back to Justin. He started to feel that beautiful weightlessness again. “You should just let us go early, Mr. Campbell,” Clarence Ogden said. “Justin probably wants to see you more than we do.” So he did. In the hallways, teachers went out of their way to shake his hand, clap his back.
When he wasn’t teaching, and while Justin slept in, Eric ran errands. He swung by the pawnshop and brought home a bigger aquarium for the mice Laura had decided to keep as pets; she’d named them Willie and Waylon. Eric and Cecil drove to Marine Lab and retrieved Laura’s car, then stopped in Portland for fruit cups dusted in chili powder—a treat the boys had always loved. The running around afforded him a feeling of usefulness, just as hanging the flyers had before, and whenever he returned home there always seemed a new development. (Again, those early days of fatherhood came back, days when his sons seemed to grow an inch in an hour, learn five new words in the time it took him to mow the yard.) The governor’s office sent a small palm tree and a signed card, welcomingJustin home. Another five bouquets of
Similar Books
