Jane Hannabee sat behind the wheel of Weider’s BMW and looked as if she’d been abducted by aliens. I took the passenger seat. Sydney Weider was a few yards away, pacing and smoking and talking on her cell phone.

“Is there anything you want to tell me, Ms. Hannabee?”

She didn’t answer.

“Ma’am?”

Staring at the instrument panel, she said, “Don’t let them kill Troy.”

Flat voice, slight twang. A plea, but no passion.

“Them,” I said.

She scratched her arm through her sleeve, rolled up the fabric, and worked on bare, flaccid skin. More tattoos embroidered her forearm, crude and dark and gothic. Weider had probably bought her the fresh clothes, dressed her up with an eye toward camouflage.

“In prison,” she said. “When they send him up, he’s gonna have a bad name. It’s gonna be cool to hurt him.”

“What kind of bad name?”

“Baby killer,” she said. “Even though he didn’t do it. The niggers and the Mexicans will say it’s cool to get him.”

“Troy didn’t kill Kristal,” I said, “but his reputation will put him in danger in prison.”

She didn’t answer.

I said, “Who did kill Kristal?”

“Troy’s my baby.” She held her mouth open, as if needing more breath. Behind the desiccated lips were three teeth, brown and attenuated. I realized she was smiling.

“I did the best I could,” she said. “You kin believe that or not.”

I nodded.

“You don’ believe me,” she said.

“I’m sure raising a son alone was hard.”

“I got rid of the others.”

“The others?”

“I got knocked up four times.”

“Abortions?”

“Three. The last one hurt me.”

“You kept Troy.”

“I felt like I deserved it.”

“Deserved having a child.”

“Yeah,” she said. “That’s a woman’s right.”

“To have a child.”

“You don’t believe that?”

“You wanted Troy,” I said. “You did your best raising him.”

“You don’t believe that. You’re gonna send him off to prison.”

“I’m going to write a report about Troy’s psychological status— what’s going on in his head— and give it to the judge. So anything you can tell me about Troy could help.”

“You sayin’ he’s crazy?”

“No,” I said. “I don’t think he’s one bit crazy.”

The directness of the answer startled her. “He’s not,” she insisted, as if we remained in dispute. “He’s real smart. He always was smart.”

“He’s very bright,” I said.

“Yeah,” she said. “I want him to go to college.” She turned and shot me another smile, closemouthed, subtle. Its arc matched the coil of snake on her neck and the effect was unnerving. “I figured he kin be a doctor or something else to get rich.”