Shred of Evidence

He stared silently at his glass of beer, the look of an old man who’d made a decision.

His rough worn jeans and flannel shirt were out of place in the bar populated by what he’d invariably call “young ‘uns,” professionals in suits and ties.

“What are you doing here?”

“Thinkin’,” he told me. “You?”

“Drinking,” I said with a slight chuckle. I took a deep swallow of my Sam Adams while the man looked at me.

“You’re not a drinker,” he said.

“How’d you know?”

“Your face. You ain’t drank much beer, ‘cause of the face you made.”

He took three deep gulps of whatever he was having. I noticed no change in his face and assumed he drank more than his share of beer.

“So, if you’re not a drinker, what brings you here to tip a mug?”

“Just thinking,” I said. “A lot on my mind.”

He smiled just a little, a knowing smile, but not a happy smile.

“And what about you? You don’t exactly fit in here,” I said.

“Just thinkin’ myself,” he said.

“Well, I’d think you’d be more happy in a cowboy bar.”

“Got that right,” he said, “But there hasn’t been a decent bar in town in too many years.”

I nodded as though I understood.

We sat in silence for a while. When he tasted his beer, he took deep swallows. I sipped at mine, slowly getting used to the bitter taste.

Finally, I extended my hand. “I’m Bishop. Bishop Doyle,” I said.

His firm handshake surprised me, given his age.

“Bishop?”

“Yea,” I said. “My dad was a chess nut. At least he didn’t name me Queen.”

The man smiled, let go of my hand and said, “Call me Red.”

More young people filed into the bar as the afternoon grew closer to 5 p.m. They ordered hot toddies, buttery nipples and all sorts of other drinks, and Red didn’t approve.

“In my day, bars were for men,” he said. “And men drank beer.”

I smiled and said to the bartender, “A Long Island ice tea, please.” I figured it was time to shift to something that tasted better, and I just couldn’t think of another drink I’d heard of.

Red smiled, rolled his eyes and clanked his beer against my glass.

“So what do you do?” he asked me.

“Attorney. You?”

“Cowboy.”

I smiled at him. “Really?”

“Yup,” he said then took a long swig. “Real work, man’s work.”

“And there are still cowboys today?”

“Yes, but it ain’t like it was years ago,” he said. “We used to spend the day on horseback, driving the cattle from one pasture to another, looking for good grass, water. Then we’d drive them to market.”

“Like a slaughterhouse?”

Red shook his head. “No. Just a stockyard or auction. Worked in a slaughterhouse once, though.”

I didn’t say anything, but I guess the look on my face told him to keep talking. He looked as though he struggled with his thoughts for a moment before speaking.

“I didn’t last long,” he said. “Was just a boy, maybe 18. The smell was bad enough, but there was something about the cows.”

“What?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “The look. The screaming sounds they made. It never left me.”

I nodded. “Sometimes I feel like I work in a slaughterhouse, but I’m done.”

“How’s that?”

“I can’t take it anymore.”

“Lawyerin’ that bad?”

I smiled at the term lawyerin. “No it isn’t, but my type is.”

“Whatcha do?” Red asked. “Divorces. Now that’d be a pain in the ass job.”

He was right about that, divorces sucked, but the money was pretty good.

“No,” I said. “I’m a defense attorney.”

“I see,” Red said, then downed a beer and nodded to the bartender. He sat another bottle of Sam down and took the five Red had lay on the bar.

“What?”

“Defense attorneys,” Red said. I could sense the disgust in his voice.

“Man’s entitled to his defense,” I said, suddenly offended that my profession was under attack.

“Truth is a man’s defense,” Red said. “And justice shouldn’t hang on a technicality.”

“I happen to agree,” I said, muttering the words into my drink.

“When I was a boy, I saw something,” Red said. “Fella by the name of Johnny Whitaker. He was just an old hothead who drank too much and fought more. They always said he’d kill someone.”

“Did he?”

“Yep. One day, he burned an old shack to the ground. Had a colored family in it. He bragged about it left and right. Told everyone—a flappin’ mouth is a good reason to not be a drunk.”

Red swallowed deeply, downing about half his beer in one gulp it seemed.

“Anyway, Sheriff finally got around to arresting him,” Red said. “Now listen, he told all sorts of people he did it, but the judge decided that since no one saw him do it, there was no case. A technicality.”

“Sometimes the guilty goes free,” I said. “Sometimes there’s no justice.”

“Oh there was justice,” Red said. “My paw and some others found Johnny and hung him that night. Saw it myself. You don’t burn a family up and get away with it.”

I sat shocked at the bombshell he’d dropped on me. I hardly knew this man and he was confessing to witnessing a murder many years earlier.

“Shame your father isn’t around today,” I said. “We could use him.”

“The trial?” Red asked.

“Yes,” I said silently. Tyrell Gossett was on trial for brutally raping a 10-year-old girl in the courthouse that shadowed the bar. He was guilty as the day is long, but I was good. Too good.

“A technicality?” Red asked.

I nodded.

“He guilty?”

“Oh yea,” I said. “But the investigators bungled the rape kit and the DNA evidence. He’s gonna walk.”

Red nodded.

“Rape,” he said. “Hell of a thing. That girl, she’ll carry it with her forever. And that man will be walking free as the wind.”

“I know,” I said. “I’ll never defend the guilty again. I feel awful.”

“Not as bad as that girl, and that’s something you gotta live with,” Red said. “My Rosie. When she was 30 she was raped. It changed her. We never made love again.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “Must’ve been tough to stay loyal.”

Red shook his head. “She was my Rosie,” he said. “I loved her ‘till the day she died, and beyond.”

He fumbled with his beer, picking at the label.

“They never caught him,” Red said.

Red downed the last of his beer with a loud gulp.

“You’re that good, huh?” he asked me.

“Yes. I’m the best.”

“Good to hear,” Red said.

He looked at me holding my eyes for a long second, then looked at the courthouse across the street, where the crowds were gathering. He threw a couple of bucks down on the bar, stood and walked the slow hunched walk of a man past his prime.

I hurried to follow him out, wanting his number. I’d enjoyed our conversation and the way he made me think. Perhaps I’d want to speak to him again.

As I burst into the sunlight pounding on the little town square, I noticed the gun on his hip. Tyrell walked down the steps of the courthouse, adding shame to the dignified old building with his smug look.

Tyrell’s smugness evaporated when Red blew a hole in his chest, gaining justice for a little girl when the system had failed.

As deputies wrestled Red to the ground, I remembered my promise to stop defending the guilty. Red had killed Tyrell plain as day.

But my promise could wait one more case.