Chapter 12 - The Road to Charleston
The red International Harvester truck rattled so hard past the county line that the rearview mirror shook loose and had to be wedged between the sun visor and the headliner with an old receipt for feed corn.
Clara sat in the middle of the bench seat, her hands jammed deep into the pockets of her blue denim jacket, watching the telephone poles blur into a grey picket fence against the rainy sky. Enzo drove with one hand, his fingers resting lightly on the cracked plastic of the steering wheel. He hadn't worn a suit since he’d thrown his Italian loafers into a dumpster behind the Greyhound station in Clarksburg, but in the canvas work shirt and heavy trousers, he looked heavier—harder to move.
"You don't have to come into the courthouse," Enzo said as they crossed the bridge over the Kanawha River. The water below was swollen and brown, carrying whole sections of riverbank downstream.
"I’m not letting you walk into a room full of lawyers by yourself," Clara said, not looking at him. "You still think everyone you meet is trying to figure out how much you're worth."
"And you don't?"
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"I know what you're worth," she said quietly, turning her head to look out the frosted passenger window. "You're worth about four dollars in rubber boots and a loaf of rye that's too dark on Tuesdays."
Enzo didn't answer. He turned the truck into the parking lot behind the grand, limestone-pillared facade of the Kanawha County Courthouse, where the state seal of West Virginia was carved deep into the lintel above the double oak doors.
