Free A Judgment of Whispers by Sallie Bissell Page A

confession, it got ten times worse. I think that’s what finally drove my husband away. It was awful for him—awful for all of us.”
    â€œI had no idea,” said Mary.
    Grace reached for Mary’s arm. “I’m just telling you—we can’t go through that again. After Whaley came yesterday, I realized I’d met someone—you—who might understand. Could you help us?”
    Mary opened her briefcase, thinking that far worse than Whaley was going to come if they found DNA on those underpants. But now was not the time to go there. She pulled out a legal pad. “Tell me exactly what Whaley said. You may have a case against him for harassment.”
    â€œThat they needed more DNA. If Zack didn’t voluntarily give it, he would get a court order and take him down to the station in handcuffs. Mary, policemen just terrify my son.”
    â€œBut Whaley didn’t serve you with any papers?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œWell, that’s good news.”
    â€œSo this isn’t so bad?” Grace asked, the hope palpable in her voice. “This might just be Buck Whaley’s idea of a joke?”
    â€œNo, he wouldn’t come out here and ask for DNA for a joke.” Mary couldn’t share what Victor had told her, but she still wondered why Whaley had jumped the gun by a full day. Maybe Cochran and Whaley knew something Victor didn’t.
    Tears spilled from Grace’s eyes. “I don’t know what to do. If all this Teresa Ewing stuff starts up again, we can kiss Hillview Haven good-bye. That’s Zack’s last chance—my last chance—for him to have a semi-independent life.”
    Mary wondered how well someone who pummels drywall might do in a group home, but that was not her call. “I’d advise you to do nothing right now,” she told Grace. “If Whaley shows up with a warrant for DNA, call me. I’m happy to represent Zack, and I promise you nobody will bully him this time.”
    â€œBless you.” Grace wiped away tears, then said, “I don’t have a lot of money. I teach art at the college, and occasionally sell a painting. It might take me a while to pay your bill.”
    â€œDon’t worry about it, Grace. For now let’s just trade—my legal advice for all that gorgeous artwork you created for my campaign.”
    â€œ Wahdoe ,” Grace whispered, for the first time speaking in Cherokee, the language she and Mary both understood.

Eight
    Jerry Cochran stood in front of his white board, blue marker in hand. In front of him, Rob Saunooke, Victor Galloway, and Buck Whaley sat in a semicircle, looking at him, watchful as retrievers. “Okay, gentlemen, tell me what you’ve learned in the past twenty-four hours.” He turned to the board. “Saunooke?”
    The young patrolman stood up. “Nobody at the yard sale noticed any unusual activity. They said there were some kids playing on the dirt piles the bulldozers pushed up, but their parents yelled at them to come down. I bagged two cigarette butts people had thrown away.”
    â€œGood,” said Cochran. “We’ll run a check.” He turned to Whaley. “Buck?”
    â€œI got the employee rosters from the construction firm,” reported Whaley. “Found some DUIs and a couple of assaults. No rapists or pedophiles, though a bunch of their workers are illegals with no records. Checked with the arborist who pruned and fed the tree back in February. He didn’t notice anything buried in the roots.”
    Cochran nodded. “Galloway?”
    Victor unfolded himself from a chair. “According to the SBI, the underpants were made by the Carter Company around 1988. The size would have fit a girl of Teresa’s height and weight. The sandwich bag was made in Illinois in 2011 and contained traces of sodium nitrate, a chemical used to preserve meats like bologna and bacon. The cigarette is American Spirit—a