Next up: Allan George Hathorne.
On day five of the trial, and after a lengthy conference in Judge Keppler’s chambers, the agenda of which was a single item–a long apology and explanation from Jay, complete with a police report regarding the attempted abduction of his daughter at the hands of a felon–they are back on the record in the matter of State of Texas v. Neal Patrick Hathorne. Reese Parker claimed a hardship–regarding her time, not her conscience–as the reason she could not appear again in court on such short notice, and Jay, who had only one last question for her, gladly accepted an affidavit signed by Ms. Parker, clarifying some confusion she’d had on the stand (and so as not to appear that she had perjured herself). Yes, in addition to her work for the Wolcott campaign, she was doing some freelance consulting work with the PAC America’s Tomorrow. Yes, she did know about the bayou development flyer. And, yes, she hired Alicia Nowell and paid her two hundred dollars in cash over the course of a week to paper the flyers all over Pleasantville, which in and of itself was a violation of state campaign laws, since the work was not reported to any governing agency. It lacked the pomp and circumstance of the same being said into a microphone, echoing from the witness stand across the entire city. But it was evidence now. And Jay would take it. Lonnie was in the back of the courtroom, writing everything down. Ellie, thank god, was back in school, in second-period trigonometry.
A.G. walks into the courtroom, hunched over and squinting, kind of, as if he’s just stepped out of an after-hours club into the harsh white of daylight, his pockets full of empties and regrets, his legs unsteady beneath him. He keeps looking around the courtroom, as if he’s never been inside one before, as if he doesn’t know where to look or where to find his son. Neal almost stands when he enters, forgetting himself, and where they are and why. He watches his father walk to the stand. Twice, A.G. asks the bailiff if he’s going the right way. He’s wearing a black blazer, something out of Rolly’s closet that’s too tight through the shoulders. The cuffs of his pants drag behind him on the floor. He takes an oath to tell it like it is. Straightening his spine, he adjusts himself in the chair.
His famous hands, they’re shaking.
“Morning, Mr. Hathorne.”
“Good morning, Mr. Porter.”
“Mr. Hathorne, do you know the defendant, Neal Hathorne?”
“Yes, sir,” he says, his gaze finally landing on Neal. “He’s my son.”
At the defense table, Neal lowers his head. Jay hears a soft exhale. Behind him in the gallery, his grandmother Vivian cries softly. Axel holds his mother’s hand. They are the only two Hathornes in court this morning, though the presence of A. G. Hats on the stand has brought out quite a number of surprise guests. Fans, Jay guesses. Young white boys in homemade T-shirts with a bootleg mock-up of the Peacock Records logo on the front. Plus music reporters from the Chronicle and the Times-Picayune in New Orleans. And a good number of the “original 37,” the families who founded Pleasantville. Arlee Delyvan is here. Jim and Ruby Wainwright. Elma Johnson and her husband. But also Jelly Lopez, who appears to have cut out from work to see this, a piece of his neighborhood’s history on display. Jay, facing the witness stand, asks Mr. Hathorne if he’s ever gone by a different name, and when he nods and says, “A. G. Hats,” the white boys in the gallery, blues geeks every one of them, nearly break into applause. The stage name is a segue into his career, which is a segue into his current job as a janitor and all-around helper at the Playboy Club in Third Ward–an explanation, if one is needed, as to why a man of his background, from such a well-respected family, is so employed. “I like to be close to the music,” he says on the stand. And Jay nods and walks him right up to the night of Tuesday, November fifth of this year, when Neal walked into his father’s club. “He come in a few minutes after eight o’clock that night.”
“And you’re sure about the time?”
“Oh, yes,” A.G. says. “We don’t open the doors until nine most days, and I had just done all my rounds, checked the bathrooms, stocked the fridge, made sure the floors were clean, and I was sitting down at the keys. I like to play a little sometimes, if ain’t nobody around. You can imagine how surprised I was.”
“Why ‘surprised’?”
“I hadn’t seen him since he was”–and here he holds his right hand, palm down, kind of low around his knees–“just a little thing, since he was a boy.”
“But you recognized him?”
A.G. smiles. “He’s my son.”
“But this wasn’t the first time you’d seen his face since he was a boy?”
“No, sir,” A.G. says, polishing his language for the courtroom. “Mama sent me some pictures here and there. And I’d followed his career, seen his picture, his name in the paper.” He looks at Neal, at the wonder he’s become.
“Your mother, Vivian Hathorne?”
“Yes.”
“And your father is Sam Hathorne?”
“He raised me, yes,” A.G. says. “That’s my daddy.”
“Why is it that you didn’t raise your son, Mr. Hathorne?”
A.G. nods toward his mother, in the front row. “They offered, and I took ’em up on it. Didn’t see he’d do any better with me. I used to have a problem, drugs, you know. And I was right to give him up,” he says, nodding toward his son, as if to say, Look at him, as if he expects Neal to stand up and thank him right here. “I could have done better by him, though, not stayed away so much.”
“And why did you?”