Deucie's asleep on the couch, drooling buckets. One of Marshall's friends wanted to nickname the baby Jitterbug because, when awake, he moved around so much. Marshall objected. "Right now we're calling him Deucie or the baby," he declared. "Not no Jitterbug, you understand?"
The house is clean and uncluttered, with vaulted ceilings and broad windows offering expansive views of the hills. Large framed pictures of Faulk posing in football attire crowd the walls. Mythic Faulk. Determined Faulk. Sexy Faulk. There's no question that whoever owns this place has either a sizable opinion of himself or a limited grasp of what qualifies as fine art. On the 50-inch big-screen TV in the den, the inevitable Judge Ito is holding court.
Faulk's brother Kinsey is visiting this afternoon. "What I don't understand," he says, "is why they don't look at the spy satellite film to see who murdered those people."
At 34 Kinsey is the eldest of Faulk's siblings, and behind his old-time black-frame glasses he bears an uncanny resemblance to the young Louis Armstrong. As Marshall searches for something to eat in the kitchen, Kinsey rustles up a photo album crowded with pictures of a barbecue stand and a deli he once owned. He points to a kitchen complete with pots and pans, an electric meat saw, a table loaded with food. "Used to be mine," he says with a note of sadness.
Kinsey is a cook, as are all of Faulk's brothers. You grow up in New Orleans, Kinsey says, you learn how to cook. Even Marshall can cook. Fried chicken. Pork chops. Cakes and pies. "My specialty is desserts," Marshall says from the kitchen. Had football not been in his future, the odds favored a career in the kitchen. "Maybe," he allows. "I never thought about it."
It's Kinsey's idea to bring first-class Cajun and barbecue cooking to San Diego. He has enlisted Marshall, the only millionaire in the family, to help bankroll the project. Kinsey estimates they can make a killing.
But back to the Simpson trial. "Those satellites can see everything," Kinsey continues. "They can see through your shirt, they can get so close. If they look at the film, they'll see where everybody was at the time it happened. If O.J. wasn't there, the pictures'll show it."
Marshall doesn't say anything; he's too busy hunting food. Kinsey closes his picture book and leans back on the couch. "I guess because it's a state case, they can't use those satellite photos," he says. "But now if it was a federal case...."
The truth is, Marshall is in no mood for Judge Ito or satellites or old pictures of steaming brisket. Last night the baby was up till all hours, and Marshall didn't sleep. Now that his nails are done, he would like some peace and quiet. When Deucie cries, it sounds worse than a chain saw that has cut one too many trees. The one real sanctuary in the house is Marshall's game room, and he goes there now and stretches out on the couch.
"I've been in here before from sunup to sundown and then some," he says. "When it rains outside, or when I want to get away, this is where you'll find me—here on this couch, playing my games."