The Slow Moon by Elizabeth Cox Page B

himself to swallow. He pulled himself out of bed and threw water on his face several times, rinsed his mouth. His face, swollen and dark-eyed, had a hard look that terrified him. He looked older than his sixteen years, and after today he would feel older.
    He pulled on his T-shirt and shorts to go downstairs, but his fingers felt huge and trembly, as though he had on gloves.
    “What do you mean ‘do it right’?” Crow stood in the doorway of the kitchen. Johnny sat at the table eating a bowl of cereal.
    “You have to
sound
right, son,” said his father. “To sound sincere.”
    “But I didn’t do it.”
    “Yeah, like that.” He clapped his hands.
    Crow hated that his father thought he was practicing.
    “I’m going today,” Johnny said. “I’m going to be there, unless you say no.”
    “Naw, man. I do want you there.”
    Helen smiled and touched Johnny on the back of the neck. “I told you he wanted you to come, honey.” She turned to her husband again. “Carl, you want eggs?”
    “I’m just saying,” Carl continued, “that even though everything’s going well—I mean, hell, not even the victim’s saying anything against him—I mean not so directly against him, since she doesn’t remember—and even with that, when Crow gets on the stand, he’s got to sound innocent.”
    They spoke as if Crow were not in the room.
    “Tell me what you’re talking about,” Crow said. He remained just inside the doorway of the kitchen, feeling unwelcome.
    Helen turned quickly. “But—” she said.
    “Let me finish, Helen. You never let me finish. He has to hold his head up, look people in the eye. He has to get up there and say how awful he feels about what happened to Sophie.”
    “I
do
feel that way,” said Crow.
    “Just keep your voice low.” His father turned to him now, motioned for him to sit down and eat something. “I mean, don’t get mad at anybody, son. No matter what you do, don’t get mad at anybody. You hear?”
    “Yessir.”
    Helen asked Crow if he wanted some eggs, but Crow shook his head and poured cereal into a bowl. “I’ve practiced with Mr. Butler,” he said. “He told me what to expect.”
    “Just come across as
hum
ble,” Carl continued. “You have one strike against you already because we’re wealthy, you know. That doesn’t help.”
    Crow didn’t say it, but it was a strike he had been dealing with since he was very young.
    “The papers are having a field day with that.” Helen pursed her lips as though she might spit something out. “And we’ve done so much for this town.”
    “We can’t even think like that, Helen. We’re on our hands and knees with this one.”
    Crow wanted to ask his father if he had bought off any of the jurors. He only thought this because of the way his father kept reassuring everyone, even the lawyer—though today, for some reason, he was not reassuring anyone.
    Carl picked up the paper and handed the sports section to Crow and Johnny. Helen made eggs for herself and ate quietly, until Carl announced, “Be ready at nine-thirty, everybody.”
    As Crow showered and dressed, he heard his parents arguing again, his mother saying that everything was going to be fine and urging Carl not to be pessimistic.
                      
    A few days earlier Raymond Butler had told Crow, “Your reputation at school is good, academically and socially. You’re from a good family. You’ve never been arrested or even been in trouble. All these things will build on a presumption of innocence, and the circumstantial evidence will seem misplaced, wrong.” He spoke as if he were already in court, as if he might not believe all he said but was trying hard to believe it. Even in a restaurant or in a small room, Butler’s voice could take on an air of fortification and rightness. It was just the way he was.
    “And we know,” he said, “that because of the evidence of sperm, there were multiple attackers, and that complicates the