Electric Beach

By Joe Hilley

After years in a drunken stupor, Mike Connolly is finally sober. His legal practice is back to being profitable and his life has reached a comfortable rhythm. Then a late-night phone call turns his world upside down. 

Camille Braxton is missing and Perry, her husband, is the target of a police investigation. When Camille's

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dunlavy Gray
• Release date: Feb 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9781736410509

Joe Hilley

Joe Hilley holds a Bachelor of Arts from Asbury College, a Master of Divinity from Asbury Theological Seminary, and a Doctor of Jurisprudence from Cumberland School of Law, Samford University. In 1999, he quit the practice of law to write. A lifelong observer of politics and social issues, Joe is the author of five critically-acclaimed novels, including Sober Justice, Double Take, Electric Beach, Night Rain, and The Deposition. He lives in Alabama where he spends his days writing and encouraging others to follow their dreams.

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by

Joe Hilley

Dunlavy + Gray

Houston

Dunlavy + Gray ©2021 by Joe Hilley

Library of Congress Control Number: 2020925949

ISBN: 978-0-9997813-9-5

E-Book ISBN: 978-1-7364105-0-9

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced without written permission, except for brief quotations in books and critical reviews. For information, contact the publisher at [e-mail].

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons—living or dead—events, or locales are entirely coincidental.

Typesetting and cover design by Fitz & Hill Creative Studio.

I’ve been locked up way too long

In this crazy world

How far is heaven?

—Heaven, Los Lonely Boys

Prologue

Morning sunlight streamed through the dining room windows and reflected off the polished mahogany table, casting a glare across the room. Positioned around the table were twelve matching chairs with cushions that accented the cream-colored walls and highlighted the rich, dark luster of the tabletop. Camille Braxton sat at the table in one of those chairs, with it cocked to one side. Her left elbow rested on the table and her legs were crossed.

She wore a crisp white tennis outfit with green piping along the hem of the skirt. Her white leather tennis shoes were spotless. Small round tufts on the back of her ankle socks were perfectly positioned against the tendons behind each ankle.

On her left wrist she wore a watch with a silver band. She’d purchased it during a trip to New York with friends. A girl’s trip for an extended weekend. She bought the watch as a memento of the event and also because she could and others in the group could not. She liked the sense of power it gave her. Of being in charge. Of having ability. An affirmation of sorts that she was a person in her own right, something that had been lacking for … for a long time.

On her right wrist was a diamond tennis bracelet. A gift from her husband, Perry. A makeup gift for something he’d done. There had been so many things like that she couldn’t remember what exactly the bracelet was meant to appease, but she liked it for many reasons. Not the least of which was the way Tina and the others looked at it. Rather green with envy, one might say.

With her left hand she held a cordless telephone. A friend told her they were a serious security risk. Signals bleeding all over each other. Neighbors listening. All of that. But she didn’t care. She liked the convenience of having it. And the land line with it, too. A relic of the past, but reassuring. Solid. Reliable. Not much reliable in her life lately. A pitiful commentary that the phone would become an anchor.

The scene in the dining room that morning was perfect except for two brown splotches of coffee that soaked through the front of her shirt. And the large drops of coffee that formed a trail from her place at the table to a saucer that sat an arm’s reach away. A cup on the saucer was slightly askew, tilted at a precarious angle against the handle of a sterling silver spoon that lay beneath it. Coffee filled the saucer to the rim.

A woman’s voice called from the phone. Camille … Camille? Are you there? Camille?

Camille’s mouth was open but her lips were motionless. Her pale, colorless face was devoid of expression and her eyes were fixed in a blank stare.

Bessie Lawson, the housekeeper, entered the room through the door at the butler’s pantry. Her eyes were wide and she had a puzzled look. Not quite concern, but alert. Miss Camille? There was no response. Miss Camille? Bessie moved around the table. Miss Camille, you all right? She gently took the phone from Camille’s hand and switched it off.

As Bessie set the phone aside, Camille let her hand drop to the table. It landed with a slap and she leaned forward resting her head on her forearm. He did it again, she mumbled.

Bessie set the phone on the table. Who you talking about?

Perry.

Bessie looked troubled. Something happen to Mister Perry? When Camille did not respond, Bessie picked up the cup and saucer. You’ve made a mess with your coffee. Let me get a rag and wipe that up.

Camille raised her head. That son of a—

Miss Camille, Bessie snapped, cutting her off in mid-sentence. Don’t talk like that.

Camille wiped her eyes with her fingers, sat up straight in the chair, and glanced down at the stains on her shirt. Suddenly, her face was red with anger and she pounded the table with her fist. How could he do this to me?! she shouted. How could he do this?!

Bessie jumped at the sound of her voice. The coffee cup rattled against the saucer and she struggled to keep from dropping them both.

Without warning, Camille flung her left arm in a backhand swipe that struck the telephone and sent it sailing across the room. It bounced off the wall at the end of the table and fell to the floor.

Bessie’s eyes were wide. Her mouth open in a startled expression. Miss Camille! What is wrong with you?

Camille pushed her chair away from the dining table and stood. Come with me. She started across the room toward the front hall. Bessie hesitated. Camille glared at her from the doorway. Don’t just stand there. Set that cup down and come on.

Bessie set the cup and saucer on the table and followed Camille from the dining room and down the hall to the staircase. As Camille started up the steps, Bessie once again hesitated. What’s wrong, Miss Camille? You ain’t acting like yourself.

Camille was six steps ahead when she paused. That was Mitzi. She saw Perry last night. She looked down at Bessie from the stairs. He was coming out of that tanning salon on Airline Highway.

Bessie frowned at her. A tanning salon? What’s wrong with that? Maybe he’s working on his tan.

Camille gave her a sarcastic look. It’s a whorehouse, Bessie.

Bessie looked perplexed. A whorehouse?

A whorehouse. Hookers. Prostitutes. Illicit sex. Camille continued up the steps. And who knows what else. Come on.

When Camille reached the top of the stairs she called out again. Come on, Bessie. I need your help. Bessie sighed in response and started up to the second floor, shaking her head as she went.

The master bedroom was located on the left side of the hall, facing the back of the property. Camille strode purposefully across the room to the dresser and jerked open the top drawer. She stretched her arms wide, grabbed the drawer on either side, and slid it from the dresser frame. Bracing it tightly against her chest, she wheeled around toward the door. Bessie stepped aside to let her pass. Camille scowled as she moved into the hall. Don’t stand there like that. Grab the next one and come on.

Perry’s study was across the hall on the front side of the house. His desk sat opposite the door. Behind it, two large windows afforded a view of the front yard below. Camille carried the drawer into the study and set it on the desktop, then moved around the desk to the first window, and raised it as high as it would go. Bessie entered the room with the second drawer as the window banged against the top of the frame.

Put it there. Camille nodded toward the desk. And get the next one. She steadied herself against the window frame and kicked the screen with her foot.

Bessie gasped as the screen ripped loose on one side. Miss Camille!

Camille kicked it again and the screen tore free. She leaned out the window and watched as it tumbled to the ground below. A smile spread slowly across her face as she took the drawer from Bessie. Go on, she insisted. Get the other one. And hurry up.

In one quick motion, Camille tossed the drawer out the open window. It crashed to the ground outside and splintered into pieces. Without hesitation, Camille lifted the second drawer from the desktop and threw it out, too. Bessie leaned around her and watched as it crashed on top of the first in the yard below.

Camille nudged her aside. Get the other drawer, now. Hurry up. Bessie started back to the bedroom.

When the last of the dresser drawers was gone, they took all of Perry’s clothes from his closet—shoes, shirts, suits, whatever belonged to him—and threw it out the window. Swept up in the relief of finally doing something, of taking control of her life and hitting back against Perry’s disregard for her, Camille tore the mirror from his dresser and threw it out. Somehow, she managed to push the dresser frame out after it, then started on the contents of the study.

When Camille and Bessie were finished, all of Perry Braxton’s personal belongings lay in a heap on the front lawn. As the last of it went out the window, his Suburban appeared at the end of the driveway by the street. Leaning forward, Camille rested her hands on the windowsill and watched while the Suburban moved up the driveway, then came to a stop.

From her vantage point, Camille could see Perry seated behind the steering wheel, his eyes wide with amazement and disbelief at the mess on the lawn. In a defiant gesture she thrust her hand out the second story window and pointed with her index finger toward the street. The Suburban backed up the driveway and disappeared.

Chapter 1

A little before nine Thursday night, Mike Connolly switched off the television and trudged down the hall toward the bedroom. At fifty-seven, he no longer cared for long days at work, and this one had seemed endless. He’d been mired in a robbery trial that had dragged on all week and left him tired to the bone.

Through the door at the end of the hall he could see the bed. Light from a lamp on the nightstand gave the room a soft glow. The bed looked warm and inviting. A few more steps and he’d be there, buried beneath the covers.

Connolly lived alone in the guest quarters behind The Pleiades, a four-story mansion built in 1901 by Elijah Huntley, a broker who made a fortune importing bananas from Costa Rica. Located on Tuttle Street in the better part of midtown Mobile, the house had been an architectural marvel in its day with elevators, electric lights, and a crude form of air conditioning. Now owned by Huntley’s great-great-granddaughter, Lois Crump, the house and grounds still evoked wonder and awe, but it was not a practical residence. By the time it passed to Lois, she was living in Birmingham and had little time or money for maintenance. To make the place more affordable, she rented out the guesthouse. Connolly was the latest in a long succession of tenants.

When Connolly reached the bedroom, he slipped off his house shoes, switched off the light, and fell into bed. As he was drifting off to sleep, the telephone in the living room rang, shattering the peaceful silence. Go away, he moaned as he rolled onto his side, pulled the covers over his head, and buried his face in the pillow.

After five rings, the phone fell silent. He gave a sigh of relief and removed the sheet from over his head. A moment later, though, the cellphone on the nightstand rang. He retrieved it and glanced at the screen to see the call was from the police station, a number he recognized immediately. A call from there, at night, meant only trouble, but that was the way he made a living. Defending people in trouble. He accepted the call and heard the voice of Perry Braxton. Mike, I need you.

Perry Braxton was the son of Charlotte and Hilton Braxton who operated a dozen discount shoe stores. Braxton had grown up knowing the good life in Mobile but had chosen to forgo the family business. Instead, he tried his hand at real estate development, investing his father’s money in waterfront condos. Most of the legal work on the real estate deals went to Hagar, Litton, and Lynch, a large firm in the Tidewater Bank Building. Braxton came to Connolly for help with DUIs and traffic tickets. He was a steady client. A paying client. But also, troublesome.

Yeah, Connolly sighed. What’s up?

They have me down here at the police station, asking me about Camille. I need you to help me.

What about Camille?

She’s been missing.

Connolly glanced at the face of the phone to check the time. You’re there now?

Yeah.

Who’s asking the questions?

Some guy named Hammond, mostly.

All right, Connolly said. I’ll be there in a few minutes. Tell them I’m on my way.

Okay.

And don’t answer any more questions until I get there.

Connolly switched off the phone and tossed it on the pillow, then shuffled across the room to the closet and slipped on the pants to a dark gray suit. He found the shirt he’d worn that day and put it on without a tie, then slid his bare feet in a pair of cordovan loafers, threw on his jacket, and started down the hall toward the door.

Outside, the night air was cool and damp. He cast a glance toward the night sky and noted the moon was rising above the trees. A smattering of stars twinkled through the glare of the city lights and he would have enjoyed watching as the hour grew later and the sky more obvious, but Perry Braxton was waiting for him and from the sound of his voice, the stress level at the police station was rather high. No telling what Hammond was doing with him.

Parked a few feet from the door of the guesthouse was a 1959 Chrysler Imperial. Connolly acquired it years ago from a lady on Japonica Street who had hired him to settle her husband’s estate. There wasn’t much left after they paid the bills and she had offered him the car for his fee. He was skeptical at first but now he was glad to have it.



Police headquarters was located in a three-story building on Government Street that had previously been the offices of an insurance company. Only a mile or two from midtown, it took Connolly five minutes to reach it from the guesthouse. He arrived there shortly before eleven.

The receptionist’s desk in the lobby was empty. He walked past it to the stairs and made his way to the second floor. At the top of the stairs he entered a large open room filled with desks that sat along the walls near the windows and in two rows down the center of the room. In between the desks were filing cabinets with papers sticking out between the drawers and more papers stacked on top. Anthony Hammond’s desk was located near the stairs. He glanced up as Connolly entered.

He’s in there. Hammond pointed toward an interrogation room to the right. Connolly nodded, opened the door and stepped inside.

The room was stark, with white walls and a plain tile floor. A metal table sat in the middle of the room beneath a fluorescent light. Braxton sat in a chair on the far side of the table. He smiled weakly at Connolly’s appearing.

What’s this all about? Connolly asked.

Camille is missing, Braxton replied.

Since when?

Day before yesterday.

Tuesday?

Yeah.

What happened?

I don’t know.

You don’t know? Didn’t you report it?

Braxton glanced away. I’m not living there now.

Connolly frowned. What about—

Braxton interrupted him. She threw me out.

When?

Couple of weeks ago.

Where are you living?

In an apartment on Louiselle Street.

Connolly found a chair across the room and brought it to the table. He took a seat across from Braxton. Does Camille have a lawyer?

Yeah. Braxton smiled. Bob Dorsey.

Connolly smiled, too. Dorsey was an attorney who did one thing very well—divorces. Most of his clients were women. He had a reputation for making unfaithful husbands pay. Who’s representing you?

On the divorce?

Yeah.

Nobody. Yet.

So, who reported her missing?

Our maid, Bessie. Bessie Lawson. Camille left the house Tuesday morning. Was supposed to be back by lunch.

Never came back?

Braxton shook his head in response.

Where was she going?

I don’t know.

Do they think you had something to do with it?

I guess. They keep asking me where I was. What I was doing. Who I was with.

What did you tell them?

The truth.

Which is?

I went fishing Tuesday. Was gone most of the day.

Where?

Horn Island.

What time did you leave?

Not too early. I think I was at the marina around nine.

What marina?

Klinefelter’s. In Pascagoula.

Pascagoula? Isn’t it closer to go from Dauphin Island?

Not really. I don’t like to put in out there anyway.

Was anyone with you?

No.

Buy anything that morning? Get some money from the ATM?

Bought some gas at the marina, Braxton replied.

Got a receipt?

Probably. Not with me. Might be one at the house.

What time did you get back?

Around dark.

All right. Connolly stood. Sit tight. Let me talk to Hammond.

Connolly left the room and found Hammond, still seated at his desk. You got anything more than a hunch? he asked.

She threw him out, Hammond replied. Hired a lawyer. Filed for divorce. He couldn’t stand the thought of losing all that money. That’s more than a hunch.

Losing what money?

Her money.

Camille’s money?

Yeah. Hammond rested his arms on the desktop and hunched forward. She’s one rich lady. He gave Connolly a knowing smile. Your client loves that money.

Connolly had no idea what Hammond was talking about, but that didn’t really matter. He was sure Hammond didn’t know much about what he was saying, either. Is he under arrest?

Hammond sat up straight. I’m not sure.

Is he free to go?

Not right now.

Then, he’s under arrest?

Technically. Hammond shrugged. Maybe.

Connolly leaned forward and propped himself with both hands on Hammond’s desk. Look, Anthony, the man says he was fishing. Put in at Pascagoula around nine and spent the day at Horn Island. I’ll get you a receipt where he filled up with gas. You got anything to show he wasn’t where he says he was?

Hammond sighed. No, he said, finally.

I didn’t think so. Connolly backed away. We’ll be going now. He walked to the interview room and opened the door. Braxton looked up. Connolly nodded. Let’s go.

Braxton rose and stepped through the door. Connolly looked over to Hammond. If you have any more questions, give me a call. Hammond leaned back in the chair and folded his arms behind his head while Connolly guided Braxton down the stairs.

Chapter 2

Connolly awakened the next morning before sunrise feeling groggy and tired from the late night dealing with Perry Braxton. Nevertheless, he forced himself to get out of bed and stumbled toward the bathroom. After a shower, he dressed and once again walked out to the car, this time for the usual morning drive downtown. On the way, he lowered the window and let the cool, damp air swirl through the car. Government Street was deserted at that hour. The sidewalks bare. The buildings silent and resolute. He liked that time of day, when no one was around and he had the city to himself.

Before long he arrived in front of St. Pachomius Church, one of the oldest existing structures in the city. It was located behind the courthouse, all but obscured by the thick foliage of oak trees and the steel and glass buildings that surrounded it. Connolly parked the car at the curb and got out.

Steps led from the sidewalk up to a portico, the roof of which was supported by large, round columns. Behind the columns were doors that stood about ten feet tall and led into the sanctuary. Connolly moved past the columns, pushed open one of the doors, and went inside.

Walls on either side of the sanctuary were lined with stained glass windows depicting scenes from the life of Christ. The early morning light, soft and at a low angle, illuminated the colors in a way that made the images appear three-dimensional and almost lifelike.

Down front, a railing separated the nave from the chancel steps. An opening in the railing allowed access to the marble steps that rose from the sanctuary floor to the chancel floor. It, too, was made of marble. Lecterns stood on either side facing the nave and behind them, pews were arranged for a split chancel choir. Past the choir, another railing guarded the altar near the rear wall of the church.

Connolly loved that place. Its size. The richness of its colors and textures. The luster of age. The grandeur and majesty. It spoke to him in a way words never could, and every time he entered the building he felt full and warm and complete.

After a moment to bask in the ambiance, he took a seat in a pew near the back and let his eyes move slowly around the room once more, absorbing the details, the smells, the silence. Before long, others began to arrive for the service of Morning Prayer. They quietly moved past him to find seats farther down the aisle, closer to the front. A few minutes later, a door opened near the railing and Father Scott entered. He climbed the steps to the chancel, the congregation stood, and the service began.



When the service at St. Pachomius ended, Connolly drove over to the Warren Building, a 1920s era structure on Dauphin Street across from Bienville Square. Once a prestigious address, it was now occupied by a motley collection of private detectives, solo law firms, and Connolly. His office was on the third floor. He arrived there a little before eight.

Mrs. Gordon, his secretary since the day he became a lawyer, was seated at her desk near the door. She scowled at him as he entered. What are you doing here?

It’s my office, Connolly replied. I work here.

Don’t you have something going on at the courthouse this morning?

Connolly stopped in his tracks. Panic gripped his chest. The case. A robbery trial. He was due in court at eight that morning. He glanced at his watch. I forgot all about it.

Mrs. Gordon stood. It’s all right. The file’s right here. She calmly stepped around the desk and retrieved a thick manila folder from a table nearby. Nothing left but closing argument. I’m sure you can think of something to say between here and the courthouse.

Connolly ran his hand through his hair. I can’t believe I forgot about a trial.

Did you oversleep?

No. Perry Braxton called me last night. I had to go down to the police station and get him out.

Something happening with him?

Yeah. But we can talk about it later. Connolly took the file from her. He’s supposed to come by this morning. Give him a call and ask him if we can meet this afternoon.

I’ll take care of it. You’d better get moving. Judge Cahill will be looking for you.

Connolly opened the door, then glanced back at her with a smile. Thanks, he said, gesturing with the file. She shooed him away. The door closed behind him and he hurried down the corridor toward the elevator.



Using the rear exit from the office building, and a shortcut through the alley, Connolly reached the courthouse before anyone noticed he was missing. The defendant in the armed robbery case was a young guy from Prichard who had been arrested while trying to knock off a convenience store in Whistler. Security cameras caught him in the act. Three witnesses who were in the store at the time identified him in court. There wasn’t much Connolly could do about the outcome of the case. Closing arguments took an hour and a half. The jury deliberated forty-five minutes before finding him guilty. He was back at the office before lunch.

Perry Braxton arrived at two and Mrs. Gordon ushered him down the hall to Connolly’s office. Connolly was seated at his desk. He stood as they entered. Sorry I couldn’t see you this morning, he said. They shook hands while Mrs. Gordon retreated from the room and closed the door. When she was gone, Connolly settled into his chair.

Braxton took a seat. You asked last night if I had any receipts that showed where I was the day Camille went missing. He took a piece of paper from the pocket of his jacket and handed it to Connolly. This is a receipt from the marina.

Good. Connolly glanced at it and laid it on the desk. I’ll check into it. He took a legal pad from a drawer and picked up a pen. Let’s begin at the beginning and go over the details. Who was she?

Braxton looked puzzled. Who was who?

The woman you were seeing. Who was she?

Braxton had a pained expression. What woman? What are you talking about?

Connolly propped his elbows on the desktop and leaned forward. First thing you’d better understand. Your job is to tell me whatever I want to know. He pointed with his index finger for emphasis. If you hold out on me, you’re on your own. Got it?

Braxton looked uncomfortable. Yeah. He shifted positions in the chair. Sure. All right.

Connolly leaned back and rested his hands in his lap. Now. Who was she?

Braxton gave a dismissive look. Not anybody you’d know.

Connolly abruptly stood as if the meeting were over. Braxton raised his hand for him to stop. Okay, he said. There was a woman, but she wasn’t anybody. Really.

Connolly moved around the desk and started toward the office door. Braxton continued to protest. Really. She was only a girl. That’s all. Someone to be with. Come on. Sit down. I’ll tell you about it.

Connolly stared at him. Braxton sighed. I don’t even know her name. Connolly reached for the doorknob. Honest, Braxton argued. I’m telling you the truth. I don’t know her name.

Connolly let go of the knob. You expect me to believe that?

Believe whatever you want to believe, Braxton replied. But it’s the truth. Connolly moved toward his chair behind the desk. And that was the problem, Braxton continued. I didn’t know her name or any of the others.

This wasn’t the first time?

No, Braxton said. It wasn’t the first time. I don’t even remember the first time.

So you’re telling me this was a sexual encounter, not an affair?

Yeah. Braxton nodded. That’s right. That’s exactly what it was. It was sex. That’s all. Sex. Nothing else.

Prostitutes.

Yes.

So, Camille found out you were frequenting hookers. When did she throw you out?

Braxton leaned against the armrest. I don’t know. Four or five weeks ago.

Last night, you said she filed for divorce.

Yeah.

Have they served you with papers?

Yes. They served me Monday.

Connolly frowned. Monday?

Yeah. Why?

Connolly sat up straight. You were served with divorce papers on Monday. She disappeared on Tuesday.

Braxton nodded. Doesn’t look so good, does it?

No, Connolly said. And neither does this. He took a copy of the morning newspaper from the corner of the desk and tossed it onto Braxton’s lap. The main headline across the top read, Husband Questioned in Wife’s Disappearance. The article says the day she went missing, you spent the day fishing at Horn Island. Did you talk to reporters about that?

No.

Did you tell anyone else?

Hammond asked me about that day. Before you arrived. I told him I had been fishing. I might have mentioned Horn Island.

Before I arrived.

Yes. He didn’t seem to believe me, so I told him I didn’t want to talk anymore and I called you.

How did the paper find out about your alibi?

I don’t know. Braxton scanned the article. I guess Hammond told them.

I doubt it. Connolly watched Braxton’s eyes. He seems to think your wife is rich.

Braxton laid the paper on the desk and looked at him. She is wealthy.

How wealthy?

Braxton shrugged. Who knows? She’s a Colquitt.

Connolly frowned. Is that name supposed to mean something?

Colquitt. Braxton repeated it, as if Connolly should recognize it. The Colquitt Trust owns Edgewood Mall. Lots of timberland. Half a dozen buildings here in town. Several warehouses on the waterfront. You’ve never heard of them?

Not that I recall, Connolly said, but Braxton hadn’t answered the question so he asked it again. You’re saying she’s wealthy?

Yeah. Braxton nodded. She’s wealthy. Do they think I did something to her to get her money?

Who knows what they think. They’re looking for a suspect with a motive. Right now, you seem to be it. Who manages the Trust?

Tidewater Bank.

Anyone in particular at the bank?

Ford Defuniak looks after it. Do you know him?

Connolly wasn’t sure. Name sounds familiar, he said. Did you ever have any dealings with him?

No. Not really. Braxton looked away. But if you want to know about the Trust, there’s an attic full of records at the house.

The house where you and Camille lived?

Yes.

Who owns that house?

We do.

Both of you?

Yes.

Your name is on the deed?

Yes.

If your wife is dead, how much will you get?

Braxton seemed disturbed by the question. You think I killed her?

I want to know where all the landmines are, Perry. If she’s dead, what do you get out of it?

Braxton glared at him. I get the house and a devastated twelve-year-old daughter.

Connolly ignored his attitude. Does Camille own any property outside of the Trust?

Yes.

Who would get that?

I would. Braxton nodded. You think I killed her?

Listen to me. Connolly leaned over the desk once more. "I’m not asking you anything the DA isn’t going to ask. I want to know your answers before he starts questioning you on the witness stand. And before I spend months building a defense that gets blown away by