Page 63 of The River We Remember
“You knew Jimmy Quinn.”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t want to kill him on occasion?”
It was Charlie’s turn to laugh. “Okay. Lots of people aren’t shedding tears over his demise. But tell me about your situation. I understand he accused you of stealing gasoline and fired you. Is that true?”
“He accused me of stealing gasoline. But that was only part of the reason he fired me.”
“The rest?”
“He couldn’t scare me.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Jimmy Quinn liked to believe that he was a powerful man, but he had no power over me. In his heart, he was small and afraid, and I knew that, and he understood that I knew.”
“So his firing didn’t anger you?”
“No.”
“Did something else anger you?”
He turned his eyes away.
“If I’m going to defend you, Noah, I need to know the truth.”
“I didn’t ask you to defend me. You said you would represent me.”
“In my book, that means a defense.”
“You’ll need a different book, I guess.”
“The complaint says you killed Jimmy Quinn, shot him with his own shotgun, carted his body to Inkpaduta Bend, and tried to make it look like he killed himself there. What do you have to say about that?”
“Nothing.”
“The buried tarp with Quinn’s blood? You have nothing to say about that?”
“Nothing.”
“Everybody knows Jimmy had insomnia and sometimes trespassed at night. Is it possible he wandered onto your property and you just mistook him for a burglar?”
Again, all she got was silence.
“You’re not making this easy.”
“I didn’t ask for your help.”
They sat there, Bluestone at his end of the cot and Charlie at the other. Between them was something unseen and, she was beginning to suspect, absolutely impenetrable.
“Are you a drinking man, Noah?”
“Not much,” he said.
“Well, I drink.” She reached into her purse and brought out a small flask. She took a long swallow of Johnnie Walker and held the flask out to Bluestone.
He eyed it a moment, accepted the flask, took a sip, then handed it back.
