Fatherhood Read Free

Rogers asked.
    â€œAt least two hours.”
    The questions and answers continued, J.R. listening idly, glancing out into the bull pen from time to time, hoping to see McCorkindale or some other uniform escort Jim Conley into the room. He’d learned by then that Newt Lee was denying everything, claiming that the murder was being “put off” on him. He thought of the notes Craig Britt had found beside the body, the low, subliterate writing scrawled on them.
    â€œLet’s get back to Mary for a moment, Mr. Frank,” Langford said.
    Frank fingered a gold cuff link.
    â€œHad she ever been in your office before?”
    â€œNot that I recall.”
    â€œWhat about the other girls?” Starnes asked. “Were they in the habit of coming up to the second floor?”
    Frank looked at Langford quizzically, then turned back to Starnes. “In the habit?”
    â€œDid you bring these girls up to your office on a regular basis?” Black snapped.
    â€œI never brought them up,” Frank said.
    â€œWell, they been seen up there,” Rogers told him.
    â€œTo get their pay,” Frank replied.
    â€œDo they ever come up there just to see you?” Starnes asked.
    â€œMe?”
    â€œPay a call, you might say.”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œNo girl ever comes up there alone?” Black asked doubtfully.
    â€œTo get her pay, she might,” Frank said.
    â€œNever for anything else?” Starnes asked.
    Frank shook his head.
    â€œHow about Mary Phagan,” Langford said. “Had Mary ever been in your office before yesterday afternoon, Mr. Frank?”
    Frank’s right hand moved from his lap to his left cuff link. “Not that I recall. No.”
    â€œWell, you would recall it, wouldn’t you?” Starnes asked. “If she’d come up there before?”
    â€œNot necessarily,” Frank answered. “I mean, I have …”
    â€œA hundred girls, yeah, we know,” Black said sharply. He looked knowingly at the other men. “We’ve heard all about it.”
    Frank lowered his eyes, and for a moment J.R. tried to read the gesture. Embarrassment? Fear? Something else? The notes returned to him. He tried to imagine Conley writing them in the shadowy corner of the basement, hunched, apelike, over Mary Phagan’s dead body, dabbing the tip of the pencil on his thick red tongue, eyes rolling toward the ceiling as he tried to figure out exactly what he should “wright.”
    â€œYou’re not from around here, are you, Mr. Frank?”
    It was Starnes going at him again.
    â€œI was born in Texas,” Frank said.
    â€œTexas?” Black asked. “You don’t sound like you’re from Texas.”
    â€œMy family moved to Brooklyn when I was a baby,” Frank said. He offered a quick, nervous smile.
    â€œMy wife was born here in Atlanta, though. A native. Her father is head of the B’nai B’rith.”
    â€œWhat’s that?” Starnes asked.
    Frank’s smile vanished. “An association.”
    â€œOf what?”
    Frank grabbed his knees, squeezed. “Of Jews,” he said, glancing about. “Of Jewish people.”
    Langford nodded softly. “How long did you live in Brooklyn, Mr. Frank?”
    â€œUntil I graduated from college.”
    â€œWhat did you study, may I ask?”
    â€œMechanical engineering.”
    J.R. felt something shift in his mind. Could the notes have been planted by someone else? Someone a lot smarter than Conley? Able to figure out a double insinuation, put the murder on an inferior being. Conley, by making it seem that he, Conley, had tried to implicate a second inferior being. Newt. Knowing all the time that Newt would never fit the bill, but that Conley would. J.R. smiled at the idea of such a scheme. Clever, he thought.
    â€œNormally, you wouldn’t have been at the factory on a Saturday, is that right, Mr. Frank?”
    It was Mr. Langford asking,