Contents

Welcome

Hostile Witness

Cover

Title

Dedication

Copyright

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Thank you

About the Author

Silent Witness

To Speak For The Dead

Cover

Title

Copyright

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

About the Author

Acknowledgments

An Innocent Client

AIC Cover

Title

Dedication

Part I

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Part II

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Part III

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Thank You

About the Author

Special Circumstances

Cover

Title

Books

ISBN

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Thank you

About the Author

Acknowledgments

Books:Connect

Buying Time

Cover

Title

Books

ISBN

Dedication

Prologue

Part 1

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Part 2

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Part 3

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Part 4

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Part 5

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Chapter 80

Chapter 81

Chapter 82

Chapter 83

Chapter 84

Chapter 85

Chapter 86

Chapter 87

Chapter 88

Chapter 89

Chapter 90

Epilogue

Thank you

Author's Note

Acknowledgements

Questions

Welcome...

to “Partners in Crime,” for the first time

combining the bestselling talents of

Rebecca Forster

Paul Levine

Scott Pratt

Sheldon Siegel

Pamela Samuels-Young

© 2014 by Phoenix Flying, Inc. ISBN: 123-4567891011

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

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

Hostile Witness

Hostile Witness

by

Rebecca Forster

For Steve

E-book Edition 2010

All rights reserved

Cover design by True Blue Media

Published 2004 by Signet Fiction

All rights reserved. This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Prologue

Today California buried Supreme Court Justice, Fritz Rayburn. Governor Joe Davidson delivered the eulogy calling the judge a friend, a confidant, and his brother in service to the great state of California. The governor cited Fritz Rayburn as a man of extraordinary integrity who relentlessly pursued justice, continually uplifted those in need and, above all, protected those who were powerless.

It was a week ago today that Judge Rayburn died in a fire that swept through his Pacific Palisades home in the early morning hours.

No formal announcement has been made regarding who will be appointed to fill Justice Rayburn’s position, but it is speculated that Governor Davidson will appoint Rayburn’s son, Kip, to this pivotal seat on the California Supreme Court.

KABC News at 9 O’clock

Chapter 1

“STRIP.”

“No.”

Hannah kept her eyes forward, trained on two rows of rusted showerheads stuck in facing walls. Sixteen in all. The room was paved with white tile, chipped and discolored by age and use. Ceiling. Floor. Walls. All sluiced with disinfectant. Soiled twice a day by filth and fear. The fluorescent lights cast a yellow shadow over everything. The air was wet. The shower room smelled of mold and misery. It echoed with the cries of lost souls.

Hannah had come in with a bus full of women. She had a name, now she was a number. The others were taking off their clothes. Their bodies were ugly, their faces worn. They flaunted their ugliness as if it were a cruel joke, not on them but on those who watched. Hannah was everything they were not. Beautiful. Young. She wouldn’t stand naked in this room with these women. She blinked and wrapped her arms around herself. Her breath came short. A step back and she fooled herself that it was possible to turn and leave. Behind her Hannah thought she heard the guard laugh.

“Take it off, Sheraton, or I’ll do it for you.”

Hannah tensed, hating to be ordered. She kept her eyes forward. She had already learned to do that.

“There’s a man back there. I saw him,” she said.

“We’re an equal opportunity employer, sweetie,” the woman drawled. “If women can guard male prisoners then men can guard the women. Now, who’s it going to be? Me or him?”

The guard touched her. Hannah shrank away. Her head went up and down, the slightest movement, the only way she could control her dread. She counted the number of times her chin went up. Ten counts. Her shirt was off. Her chin went down. Ten more counts and she dropped the jeans that had cost a fortune.

“All of it, baby cakes,” the guard prodded.

Hannah closed her eyes. The thong. White lace. That was the last. Quickly she stepped under a showerhead and closed her eyes. A tear seeped from beneath her lashes only to be washed away by a sudden, hard, stinging spray of water. Her head jerked back as if she’d been slapped then Hannah lost herself in the wet and warm. She turned her face up, kept her arms closed over her breasts, pretended the sheet of water hid her like a cloak. As suddenly as it had been turned on the water went off. She had hidden from nothing. The ugly women were looking back, looking her over. Hannah went from focus to fade, drying off with the small towel, pulling on the too-big jumpsuit. She was drowning in it, tripping over it. Her clothes – her beautiful clothes – were gone. She didn’t ask where.

The other women talked and moved as if they had been in this place so often it felt like home. Hannah was cut from the pack and herded down the hall, hurried past big rooms with glass walls and cots lined up military style. She slid her eyes toward them. Each was occupied. Some women slept under blankets, oblivious to their surroundings. Others were shadows that rose up like specters, propping themselves on an elbow, silently watching Hannah pass.

Clutching her bedding, Hannah put one foot in front of the other, eyes down, counting her steps so she wouldn’t be tempted to look at all those women. There were too many steps. Hannah lost track and began again. One. Two. . .

“Here.”

A word stopped her. The guard rounded wide to the right as if Hannah was dangerous. That was a joke. She couldn’t hurt anyone – not really. The woman pushed open a door. The cock of her head said this was Hannah’s place. A room, six by eight. A metal-framed bed and stained mattress. A metal toilet without a lid. A metal sink. No mirror. Hannah hugged her bedding tighter and twirled around just as the woman put her hands on the door to close it.

“Wait! You have to let me call my mom. Take me to a phone right now so I can check on her. ”

Hannah talked in staccato. A water droplet fell from her hair and hit her chest. It coursed down her bare skin and made her shiver. It was so cold. This was all so cold and so awful. The guard was unmoved.

“Bed down, Sheraton,” she said flatly.

Hannah took another step. “I told you I just want to check on her. Just let me check on her. I won’t talk long.”

“And I told you to bed down.” The guard stepped out. The door was closing. Hannah was about to call again when the woman in blue with the thick wooden club on her belt decided to give her a piece of advice. “I wouldn’t count on any favors, Sheraton. Judge Rayburn was one of us, if you get my meaning. It won’t matter if you’re here or anywhere else. Everyone will know who you are. Now make your bed up.”

The door closed. Hannah hiccoughed a sob as she spread her sheet on the thin mattress. She tucked it under only to pull it out over and over again. Finally satisfied she put the blanket on, lay down and listened. The sound of slow footsteps echoed through the complex. Someone was crying. Another woman shouted. She shouted again and then she screamed. Hannah stayed quiet, barely breathing. They had taken away her clothes. They had touched her where no one had ever touched her before. They had moved her, stopped her, pointed and ordered her, but at this point Hannah couldn’t remember who had done any of those things. Everyone who wasn’t dressed in orange was dressed in blue. The blue people had guns and belts filled with bullets and clubs that they caressed as if they were treasured pets. These people seemed at once bored with their duty and thrilled with their power. They hated Hannah and she didn’t even know their names.

Hannah wanted her mother. She wanted to be in her room. She wanted to be anywhere but here. Hannah even wished Fritz wouldn’t be dead if that would get her home. She was going crazy. Maybe she was there already.

Hannah got up. She looked at the floor and made a plan. She would ask to call her mother again. She would ask politely because the way she said it before didn’t get her anything. Hannah went to the door of her – cell. A hard enough word to think, she doubted she could ever say it. She went to the door and put her hands against it. It was cold, too. Metal. There was a window in the center. Flat white light slid through it. Hannah raised her fist and tapped the glass. Once, twice, three, ten times. Someone would hear. Fifteen. Twenty. Someone would come and she would tell them she didn’t just want to check on her mother; she would tell them she needed to do that. This time she would say please.

Suddenly something hit up against the glass. Hannah fell back. Stumbling over the cot, she landed near the toilette in the corner. This wasn’t her room in the Palisades. This was a small, cramped place. Hannah clutched at the rough blanket and pulled it off the bed as she sank to the floor. Her heart beat wildly. Huddled in the dark corner, she could almost feel her eyes glowing like some nocturnal animal. She was transfixed by what she saw.  A man was looking in, staring at her as if she were nothing. Oh God, he could see her even in the dark. Hannah pulled her knees up to her chest and peeked from behind them at the man who watched.

His skin was pasty, his eyes plain. A red birthmark spilled across his right temple and half his eyelid until it seeped into the corner of his nose. He raised his stick, black and blunt, and tapped on the glass. He pointed toward the bed. She would do what he wanted. Hannah opened her mouth to scream at him. Instead, she crawled up on to the cot. Her feet were still on the floor. The blanket was pulled over her chest and up into her chin. The guard looked at her – all of her. He didn’t see many like this. So young. So pretty. He stared at Hannah as if he owned her. Voices were raised somewhere else. The man didn’t seem to notice. He just looked at Hannah until she yelled ‘go away’ and threw the small, hard pillow at him.

He didn’t even laugh at that ridiculous gesture. He just disappeared. When Hannah was sure he was gone she began to pace. Holding her right hand in her left she walked up and down her cell and counted the minutes until her mother would come to get her.

Counting. Counting. Counting again.

***

Behind the darkened windows of the Lexus, the woman checked her rearview mirror. Damn freeways. It was nine-friggin’-o’clock at night and she still had to slalom around a steady stream of cars. She stepped on the gas – half out of her mind with worry.

One hundred.

Hannah should be with her.

One hundred and ten.

Hannah must be terrified.

The Lexus shimmied under the strain of the speed.

She let up and dropped to ninety five.

They wouldn’t even let her see her daughter. She didn’t have a chance to tell Hannah not to talk to anyone. But Hannah was smart. She’d wait for help. Wouldn’t she be smart? Oh, God, Hannah. Please, please be smart.

Ahead a pod of cars pooled as they approached Martin Luther King Boulevard. Crazily she thought they looked like a pin setup at the bowling alley. Not that she visited bowling alleys anymore but she made the connection. It would be so easy to end it all right here – just keep going like a bowling ball and take ‘em all down in one fabulous strike. It sure as hell would solve all her problems. Maybe even Hannah would be better off. Then again, the people in those cars might not want to end theirs so definitely.

Never one to like collateral damage if she could avoid it, the woman went for the gutter, swinging onto the shoulder of the freeway, narrowly missing the concrete divider that kept her from veering into oncoming traffic. She was clear again, leaving terror in her wake, flying toward her destination.

The Lexus transitioned to the 105. It was clear sailing all the way to Imperial Highway where the freeway came to an abrupt end, spitting her out onto a wide intersection before she was ready. The tires squealed amid the acrid smell of burning rubber. The Lexus shivered, the rear end fishtailing as she fought for control. Finally, the car came to a stop, angled across two lanes.

The woman breathed hard. She sniffled and blinked and listened to her heartbeat. She hadn’t realized how fast she’d been going until just this minute. Her head whipped around. No traffic. A dead spot in the maze of LA freeways, surface streets, transitions and exits. Her hands were fused to the steering wheel. Thank God. No cops. Cops were the last thing she wanted to see tonight; the last people she ever wanted to see.

Suddenly her phone rang. She jumped and scrambled, forgetting where she had put it. Her purse? The console? The console. She ripped it open and punched the button to stop the happy little song that usually signaled a call from her hairdresser, an invitation to lunch.

“What?”

“This is Lexus Link checking to see if you need assistance.”

“What?”

“Are you all right, ma’am? Our tracking service indicated that you had been in an accident.”

Her head fell onto the steering wheel; the phone was still at her ear. She almost laughed. Some minimum wage idiot was worried about her.

“No, I’m fine. Everything’s fine,” she whispered and turned off the phone. Her arm fell to her side. The phone fell to the floor. A few minutes later she sat up and pushed back her hair. She’d been through tough times before. Everything would be fine if she just kept her wits about her and got where she was going. Taking a deep breath she put both hands back on the wheel. She’d damn well finish what she started the way she always did. As long as Hannah was smart they’d all be okay.

Easing her foot off the brake she pulled the Lexus around until she was in the right lane and started to drive. She had the address, now all she had to do was to find friggin’ Hermosa Beach.

***

“For God’s sake, Josie, he’s a weenie-wagger and that’s all there is to it. I don’t know why you keep coming in here with the same old crap for a defense. Want some?”

Judge Crawford pushed the pizza box her way. It was almost nine o’clock and they had managed to work out the details on the judge’s sponsorship at the Surf Festival, discuss a moot court for which they had volunteered, polish off most of a large pizza, and now Josie was trying to take advantage of the situation by putting in a pitch for leniency for one of her clients.

She passed on the pizza offer. Judge Crawford took another piece. He was a good guy, a casual guy, a local who never strayed from his beach town roots in his thirty-year legal career. His robes were tossed on the couch behind them. His desk served as a workstation and dining table. In the corner was his first surfboard. New attorneys called to chambers endured forty-five minutes of the judge reliving his moments of glory as one of the best long boarders on the coast. Three years ago, when Josie landed in Hermosa Beach, she got the full two-hour treatment but only because she knew a thing or two about surfing from her days in Hawaii. She’d spent the extra hour with Judge Crawford because he knew a thing or two about volleyball.

Josie Baylor-Bates had been big at USC but when she hit the sand circuit she’d become legendary. Everyone wanted to best the woman who stood six feet if she was an inch, played like a professional, and won like a champion. Few did, but they started trying the minute the summer nets went up. Of course USC and Judge Crawford’s surfing days were both more than a few years ago, but still their beach history tied them together, made them friendly colleagues, and gave them license to be a little more informal about certain protocols – including the judge speaking his mind about Josie’s current client, Billy Zuni: the surfing-teenage-beach bum with a mischievous smile and penchant for relieving himself in city owned bushes.

“That’s a gross term,” Josie scoffed as if she’d never heard of a weenie-wagger before. “And it is not appropriate in this instance. I’ve got documentation from their family doctor that Billy has a physical problem. He’s tried to use the bathrooms in the shops off the Strand, but nobody will let him in.”

“That’s because Billy seems to forget he’s supposed to lower his cutoffs after he gets into the bathroom, not before,” the judge reminded her. “Nope, this time he’s got to stay in the pokey. Hey, it’s Hermosa Beach’s pokey. Five cells and they’re all empty. Billy will have the whole place to himself. It’s not going to kill him, and it may do him some good. I’m tired of that damn kid’s file coming across my desk every three months.”

“Your Honor, it’s obvious you are prejudiced against my client,” Josie objected, pushing aside the pizza box.

“Cool your jets, Josie. What are you going to do, bring me up on charges for name calling?” Judge Crawford laughed heartily. His little belly shook. It was hard to imagine him on a long board or any other kind of board for that matter. “Listen. I understand that kid’s got problems. You’re in here like clockwork swearing he’ll be supervised. I know you check up on him. Everyone at the beach knows that, but you can’t do what his own mother can’t.”

“That’s exactly the point. Jail time won’t mean a thing. What if I can find someone who’ll take him for a week? Will you consider house arrest?”

“With you?” The judge raised a brow.

“Archer,” Josie answered without reservation.

Judge Crawford chuckled. “Not a bad idea. Sort of like setting up boot camp in paradise. That would make Billy sit up and take notice. I don’t know anybody who wouldn’t toe the line just to get Archer off their back.”

Josie touched her lips to hide a smile. Judge Crawford steered clear of Archer after a vigorous debate on the unfortunate constitutions of judges facing re-election. As Josie recalled, words such as wimps and sell-outs had been bandied about freely. It wasn’t that Archer was wrong, it was just that the opinion was coming from a retired cop who wasn’t afraid of anything, who got better looking with age, and could still sit a board while the judge. . . Well, suffice it to say the judge had been sitting the bench a little too long.

“Archer might do Billy some good,” Josie pushed for her plan.

“Or scar him for life.” Crawford shook his head and pushed off the desk. “Sorry, Josie. It’s going to be forty-eight hours this time and community service. Best I can do.”

“I’ll appeal. There are a hundred surfers down on the beach changing from their wet suits into dry clothes every morning. Half of them don’t even bother to drape a towel over their butts. The only reason you catch Billy is because he’s stupid. He thinks everybody ought to just kick back – including the cops.”

Crawford stood up, put the rest of the pizza in his little refrigerator, and plucked his windbreaker with the reflective patches off the door hook as he talked.

“That’s cute. You still think you’re playing with the big boys downtown? Josie, Josie,” he chuckled. “What’s it been? Three years and you still can’t get it through your head that Billy Zuni and his little wooden monkey wouldn’t rate the paperwork for an appeal. Let him be. They’ll feed him good in Hermosa.”

“Okay, so I can’t put the fear of God into you.” Josie shrugged and got to her feet.

“Only if you’re on the other side of volleyball net, Ms. Bates. Only then.” Judge Crawford ushered Josie outside with a quick gesture. She waited on the wooden walkway as he locked up.

The Redondo Courts were made up of low-slung, whitewashed, Cape Cod style buildings with marine blue trim. All the beach cities did business here. It was a far cry from downtown’s imposing courthouses and city smells. Redondo Beach Court was perched on the outskirts of King Harbor Pier where the air smelled like salt and sun. Downtown attorneys fought holy wars, and life and death battles, while standing on marble floors inside wood paneled courtrooms. Here, court felt like hitting the town barbershop for a chaw with the mayor. Sometimes Josie missed being a crusader. The thought of one more local problem, and one more local client, made her long for what she once had been: a headline grabber, a tough cookie, a lawyer whose ambition and future knew no bounds. But that was just sometimes. Mostly, Josie Baylor-Bates was grateful that she no longer spoke for anyone who had enough money to pay her fee. She had learned that evil had the fattest wallet and most chaste face of all. Josie could not be seduced by either any more.

“You walking?” Judge Crawford called to her from the end of the walk.

“No.” Josie ambled toward him.

“Want me to walk you to your car?” the judge offered.

“Don’t worry about it. This isn’t exactly a tough town, and if another Billy Zuni is hanging around I’ll sign him up as a client.”

“Okay. Let me know if you and Faye are in on that sponsorship for the Surf Festival.”

“Will do,” Josie answered and started to walk toward the parking lot. The judge stopped her.

“Hey, Josie, I forgot. Congratulations are in order. It’s great that you’re signing on as Faye’s rainmaker.”

Josie laughed, “We’re going to be partners, Judge. I don’t think there’s a lot of rain to be made around here.”

“Well, glad to hear it anyway. Baxter & Bates has a nice ring, and Faye’s a good woman.”

“Don’t I know it,” Josie said.

Faye Baxter was more than friend or peer; she was a champion, a confessor, a sweetheart who partnered with her husband until his death. Josie was honored that now Faye wanted her, and Josie was going to be the best damn partner she could be.

Waving to the judge, Josie crossed the deserted plaza, took the steps down to the lower level parking and tossed her things in the back of the Jeep. She was about to swing in when she caught the scent of cooking crab, the cacophony of arcade noise, the Friday night frantic fun of Redondo’s King Harbor Pier and decided to take a minute. Wandering across the covered parking lot she exited onto the lower level of the two-storied pier complex.

The sun had been down for hours but it was still blister-hot. To her right the picnic tables in the open-air restaurants were filled. People whacked crabs with little silver hammers, sucked the meat from the shells, and made monumental messes. On the left, bells and whistles, and screams of laughter from the arcade. Out of nowhere three kids ran past, jabbering in Spanish, giggling in the universal language. Josie stepped forward but not far enough. A beehive of blue cotton candy caught her hip. She brushed it away and walked on, drawn, not to the noise, but to the boats below the pier.

These were working craft that took sightseers into the harbor, pulled up the fish late at night; they had seen better days and were named after women and wishes. The boats were tethered to slips that creaked with the water’s whim and bobbed above rocks puckered with barnacles. Josie loved the sense of silence, the feeling that each vessel held secrets, the dignity of even the smallest of them. The ropes that held these boats tight could just as easily break in an unexpected storm. They would drift away like people did if there was nothing to tie them down or hold them steady.

Josie leaned on the weather worn railing and lost her thoughts to the heat and the sounds and the look of that cool, dark water. At peace, she wasn’t ready when something kicked up – a breeze, a bump of a hull – something familiar that threw her back in time. Emily Baylor-Bates was suddenly there. A vision in the water. The Lady of the Lake. Yet instead of the sacred sword, the image of Josie’s mother held out sharp-edged memories. Josie should have walked away, but she never did when Emily came to call.

Even after all these years she could see her mother’s face clearly in that water. Emily’s eyes were like Josie’s but bluer, wider, and clearer. They shared the square-jaw and high cheekbones, but the whole of Emily’s face was breathtakingly beautiful, where her daughter’s was strikingly handsome. Her mother’s hair was black-brown with streaks of red and gold. Josie’s was chestnut. Her expression was determined like Josie’s but…but what?

What was her mother determined to do? What had been more important than a husband and a daughter A good daughter, damn it. What made her mother - even now after all these years she could barely think the word - abandon her? Why would a woman cast off a fourteen year old without a word, or a touch? There one night, gone the next morning.

Suddenly the water was disturbed. Emily Baylor-Bates’ face disappeared in the rings of ever widening concentric circles. Startled, Josie stood up straight. Above her a group of teenagers hung over the railing dropping things into the water. They laughed cruelly thinking they had frightened Josie, unaware that she was grateful to them. The water was mesmerizing, the memories as dangerous as an undertow. Emily had been gone for twenty-six years. Twenty-six years, Josie reminded herself as she strode to the parking lot, swung into her Jeep, turned the key, and backed out. The wheels squealed on the slick concrete. She knew a hundred years wouldn’t make her care less. Time wouldn’t dull the pain or keep her from wanting to call her mother back. On her deathbed, Josie would still be wondering where her mother was, why she had gone, whether she was dead, or just didn’t give a shit about her daughter. But tonight, in the eleven minutes it took to drive from Redondo Beach to Hermosa Beach, Josie put those questions back into that box deep inside her mind. By the time she tossed her keys on the table and ruffled Max-The-Dog’s beautiful old face, that box was locked up tight.

The dog rewarded Josie with a sniff and a lick against her cheek. It took five minutes to finish the routine: working clothes gone, sweats and t-shirt on, and her mail checked. Faye had dropped off the partnership papers before leaving for San Diego and a visit with her new grandson. The tile man had piled a ton of Spanish pavers near the backdoor for Josie to lay at her leisure. The house of her dreams – a California bungalow on the Strand – was being renovated at a snail’s pace, but Josie was determined to do the work herself. She would make her own home; a place where no one invited in would ever want to leave.

In the kitchen, Josie checked out a nearly empty fridge as she dialed Archer. It was late, but if he were home it wouldn’t take much to convince him that he needed to feed her. Josie was punching the final digits of Archer’s number when Max rubbed up against her leg, wuffing and pointing his graying snout toward the front door. Josie looked over her shoulder and patted his head, but Max woofed again. She was just about to murmur her assurances when the house seemed to rock. Snarling, Max fell back on his haunches. Josie let out a shout. Someone had thrown themselves against the front door, and whoever was out there wanted in bad. The new door was solid, the deadbolt impossible to break, but the sound scared the shit out of her. The doorknob jiggled frantically for a second before everything fell quiet – everything except Josie’s heart and Max’s guttural growl.

Bending down, Josie buried one hand in the fur and folds of his head. With the other she picked up the claw hammer from the tool pile. Standing, she smiled at Max. His eyebrows undulated, silently asking if everything was all right now. For an instant Josie thought it might be, until whoever was out there flew at the door with both fists.

“Damn.” Josie jumped. Max fell back again, snapping and barking.

Clutching the hammer, Josie sidestepped to the door. She slipped two fingers under the curtain covering the narrow side-window and pulled the fabric back a half an inch. A woman twirled near the hedge. Her head whipped from side to side as she looked for a way into the house. Her white slacks fit like a second skin, and her chiffon blouse crisscrossed over an impressive chest. A butter colored belt draped over her slim hips. Her come-fuck-me sandals had crepe-thin soles and heels as high as a wedding cake. This wasn’t a Hermosa Beach babe and Josie had two choices: call the cops or find out what kind of trouble this woman was in. No contest. Josie flipped the lock and threw open the door.

The woman froze; trembling as if surprised to find someone had actually answered. She started forward and raised her hand, took a misstep and crumpled. Instinctively, Josie reached for her. The hammer fell to the floor as the woman clutched at Josie’s arm.

“You’re here,” she breathed.

Close up now, Josie saw her more clearly. The dark hair was longer than she remembered. The heart-shaped face was still perfect save for the tiny scar on the corner of her wide lips. Those long fingered hands that held Josie were as strong as they’d always been. But it was the high arch of the woman’s eyebrows and her small, exquisitely green eyes that did more than prick Josie’s memory; they shot an arrow clear through it. It had been almost twenty years since Josie had seen those eyes, and the face that looked like a heroine from some Russian revolutionary epic.

“Linda? Linda Sheraton?”

“Oh, God, Josie, please help me.”

Chapter 2

THE last time Josie Baylor-Bates saw Linda Sheraton they were twenty years old and sharing a cheap apartment in downtown Los Angeles. Both were on a USC athletic scholarship, and both were poor as church mice. Josie, for all intents and purposes, was orphaned. Linda hailed from a trailer park, raised by a mother who didn’t give a damn if her daughter ended up in poverty or Princeton. That was where the similarities ended.

Josie cleaned fraternity houses to make ends meet; Linda dated the fraternity. Linda would rather dance the night away than crack a book. Josie knew law school wouldn’t consider bar hopping a fine arts credit. Linda was hard living, sure of herself, plain talking, and smart as a whip. Unfortunately, her whip didn’t crack for academia unless it had to.

She could talk anyone into anything - teachers into grades, boys into adoration, men into gifts, and Josie into setting her up on the volleyball court so that she, Linda, came away looking like a star. It wasn’t hard to figure out why men succumbed to Linda’s particular brand of charm. There was a strong, sinewy animal beauty about her; a beauty that promised more than she ever intended to deliver. The one thing Josie could never figure out was why she had fallen for the act. Maybe it was because Linda Sheraton made you feel like she deserved the favor, as if she would reward you twofold if you came through for her just once. Josie pulled Linda’s ass out of one fire after another, thanking her lucky stars that Linda never asked her to do anything illegal or immoral. Luckily, two things happened before Linda did ask: Josie got a clue and Linda took off.

Three months into their junior year Linda hooked up with a guy from France leaving Josie with an apartment she couldn’t afford, a pile of phone bills, and a couple pair of jeans. Josie wore the jeans, got a second job to make the rent, and had the phone disconnected.  Sometimes Josie wondered about Linda when she sat at Burt’s at the Beach, watching the sweet young things snuggle up to a potential meal ticket. Now Josie didn’t have to wonder what happened to Linda Sheraton. Something, or someone, had caught up with her. Despite the clothes, the jewelry and the make-up, she was a mess, and scared to death.

With a snap of her fingers, Josie backed Max off to his rug in the corner. In a jumble of questions and answers she settled Linda on the couch, determined she wasn’t hurt or in imminent danger, then left her long enough to grab a bottle of scotch and a glass from the kitchen. She poured two fingers and handed the glass to Linda.

“Thanks.”

The glass quivered as Linda knocked back half the drink, sank deeper in the couch and tried to get a grip. Josie sat in the leather chair and put the bottle on the table between them.

“Do you have an ashtray?”

Linda’s deep, pebbly voice shook. Her eyes darted around the living room. Spare of furnishing, there were blueprints and books spread over the desk in the corner near the picture window. Linda seemed to see nothing as she fidgeted with the buckle on her belt and the stitching on the couch cushion. Josie got up, found an empty beer can in the trash and put it on the coffee table.

“You don’t mind. . .”

Linda put her drink aside, fumbled in her purse, found her pack, tapped one out, and finally put a cigarette between her lips. Her lipstick had faded, leaving only a faint outline of claret colored pencil. Her hand, and the cigarette in it, trembled as she snapped a silver lighter open. It took three times to catch but finally there was flame. Linda sucked hard and the tip glowed red. She held it away and blew out a plume of smoke while Josie studied her. Three of Linda’s knuckles were scraped but they weren’t bleeding. Her clothes were messed, but not torn. She seemed to tremble more with outrage than fear.

Finally, Linda tossed the lighter back in her purse, reached for her glass and shot the scotch. One more puff and she dropped the cigarette into the can. It sizzled in the last swallow of beer and died.

“I almost didn’t recognize you. It’s been awhile,” Josie said.

“Yeah, well, you haven’t changed.” Linda eyed Josie’s sweat pants, and the muscle shirt from Gold’s Gym that Josie had pulled over her sports bra. “I should have known I’d find you in a place like this. You must still be playing volleyball.”

“Pick up games,” Josie answered.

She didn’t ask if Linda still played. The cut of her clothes, the length of her nails, and the paleness of her skin spoke volumes. Linda wasn’t really interested anyway. Her observation was a reaction; Josie was the physical manifestation of word association. Linda licked her lips as if her mouth were dry. Josie nodded toward the glass. Linda pushed it across the table, leaning forward as she did so. Josie did the same.

“Still getting in over your head?” Josie asked while she poured.

“You have no idea,” Linda whispered, holding her drink in both hands. She didn’t look at Josie when she said: “My kid – my daughter – she’s been arrested for murder, Josie.”

“Where?”

“In Santa Monica,” Linda said.

“Christ.”

Josie reached out to touch Linda. Women did that during trying times. But this time the connection wasn’t made. Neither of them were that kind of woman. Josie’s way was like her father’s. Figure out the problem. Deal with it. Linda’s way was to stand removed until she figured out who was with her, and who was against her.

“Who do they say she killed?”

“Fritz Rayburn,” Linda answered.

“Justice Rayburn? The California Supreme Court Justice?”

There wasn’t much that shocked Josie anymore, but this did. There had been no hint that the fire was suspicious much less the jurist’s death. Linda poured herself another double. It was gone before Josie could blink. Linda came up for air and looked into the empty glass as if it was a crystal ball.

“The one and only Fritz Rayburn. The governor’s buddy. Beloved of all lawyers. Champion of the underling. Soft spoken, confident, fearless, witty, brilliant, perfect California Supreme Court Justice, Fritz Rayburn.” Linda raised her glass in a cheerless toast. “That’s who the cops say my kid killed.”

“Oh, my God,” Josie breathed.

“I couldn’t have said it better myself.” Linda cocked her head and gave Josie a small, wretched smile. “I’m talking mega trouble, Josie. The Goddamn Vice President came to Fritz’s funeral. They were talking about nominating him to the real Supreme Court if any of those old shits ever died. The cardinal said the mass. There were a thousand people in that cathedral, and those were only the ones that were invited.”

“What’s this got to do with your daughter?” Josie got up, grabbed a cold beer and popped it on her way back. Linda hadn’t missed a beat.

“Fritz Rayburn was my father-in-law. He was down from San Francisco for the summer break. When he was here he stayed in an apartment at the Palisades house or at the place in Malibu. We were all in the Palisades the night of the fire. ”

Linda’s fingers trailed over the deep cut of her blouse and found their way to the side of her jaw. She leaned into the touch nonchalantly, her posture a strange contrast to the twitching of her eye, the taut cording of her neck muscles.

“Hannah – my daughter – she didn’t like it in the Palisades. She’s city all the way. Independent. She didn’t particularly like Fritz, but to say she killed him is just plain ridiculous.”

“When was she arrested?” Josie took a long drink but the beer tasted wrong.

“Just now. Tonight. We got home from the funeral. I changed. My husband and I were going out to dinner to . . .to talk about something important.”

Linda ran the back of her hand under her nose. She shook out her hair. This was the way she used to act when she had to pull herself together for competition. Linda was at her best under pressure. The near-tears were gone; the face she turned toward Josie had fixed to a look of brutal resolve.

“You’ve got to get her out of this mess, Josie. Hannah is sixteen, she’s scared and she’s innocent. I want you to get her out of that God damn jail tonight.”

Josie rested her arms on her knees, the beer dangling between her legs. She remembered what she hadn’t liked about Linda Sheraton-Rayburn. She demanded. She expected. She wanted. Under any other circumstances Josie would have shown her the door. But whether or not her daughter was guilty, Linda was in for a lot of pain. For that Josie was truly sorry and she was sorry she couldn’t help.

“There’s nothing I can do, Linda. Your daughter’s been processed. She is in for the night.”

“Don’t give me that. I busted my butt tracking you down tonight because I knew if anyone could help, you could.”

“This isn’t college, Linda. I can’t just fast-talk a problem away.” Josie put her beer on the side table. “Besides, I don’t work with juveniles. You need some who specializes. . .”

“Don’t tell me what I friggin’ need.” Linda whacked the coffee table with both hands. The sound cracked through the house. Max’s head came up. Linda’s face was white with rage.

“Hey,” Josie warned, “Take it down some, or take it somewhere else.”

Linda may be in trouble, but this was Josie’s turf. Maybe not the kind she used to claim, but nobody told her what to do here. Linda, though, didn’t give up so easily. She shoved aside the glass, the bottle, and the makeshift ashtray, as if she was clearing the field for battle.

“Okay. Okay. Last I heard you were hot stuff. I mean you got that woman off a couple of years ago and she was guilty as sin. My kid is innocent and I need someone I can trust, damn it. You’re not too big to help an old friend who really needs it, are you, Josie?”

“I’m not too big for anything, Linda. I just don’t handle the kind of case you’re talking about.”

Josie looked away. Linda moved her head trying to retain eye contact, doing her best to cajole.

“But you could, couldn’t you? I mean, there aren’t any rules about that sort of thing, right?”

“No. Nothing like that.”

“Then name your price, Josie. Money isn’t a problem. I’ve got enough to buy and sell you.  I’ve got. . . .I’ve got. . .”

That was as far as she went. Whatever truth or pity she saw in Josie’s eyes it was enough to make Linda stop. Her voice caught. When she spoke again she was begging.

“Please. I’ve got no one else. My baby didn’t do it. I swear. She didn’t do it.”

Chapter 3

JOSIE'S memories spiraled in snippets and snatches.

Big case. Terrified defendant. Protestations of innocence. Josie as champion. Television cameras. Crime scene photos. Interviews. Points of law. Fearful testimony. Children waiting for their mother and the world waiting for the jury.

Worst of all – victory.

Back then Josie believed everyone deserved a defense. Then she met the one woman who didn’t. Kristin Davis played Josie like a fine fiddle until every string snapped. Josie who believed that a mother could do no wrong; Josie who looked at Kristin’s children and promised to send their mother back home. She should have seen through Kristin Davis. But that was past, and the present had its own set of compelling quick cuts and consequences.

A sixteen-year-old kid in prison for murder. A desperate mother. An old friend. Innocence. Guilt. Who knew? Fire. Fame. Fortune. The eyes of a state – perhaps the country - focused on her through the lens of a television camera. Josie didn’t want to be evaluated, critiqued, or judged for standing center stage as crime became entertainment. She did not want to speak for someone who could have, might have, or maybe did the unthinkable. Josie had had enough of that to last a lifetime.

“You’re Fritz Rayburn’s daughter-in-law, Linda. Call his firm. Talk to your friends. That’s the kind of power you need.”

“I already did that.” She shook her head. “I spoke to Ian Frank, Fritz’s old partner. That firm is filled with civil attorneys. They deal in big money. And there are – problems – extenuating circumstances.”

“What about Hannah’s father?” Josie dared Linda to cut off another avenue of opportunity.

“What about him?”

“He must know good criminal attorneys through his father,” Josie insisted.

“Hannah’s father took off before I even got the word pregnant out of my mouth. I married Kip Rayburn two years ago. He’s Hannah’s stepfather. Even I know this isn’t the best time to ask him to run interference for Hannah.”

Linda’s bottom lip disappeared under her top teeth. She put her hand against the wall near the window, looking out as if she was expecting someone. It wasn’t a person she was looking for but a decision she had to make. Finally she looked at Josie.

“Okay, I’ll be honest. There are business considerations, careers to worry about and Hannah is a small cog in a very big wheel. When Fritz took the bench he had to put his partnership into trust so there wouldn’t be any conflict of interest. That didn’t keep the firm from trading on Fritz’s reputation. It meant high profile clients because an original partner was a California Supreme Court Justice.”

Linda put both hands on the back of an overstuffed chair. Her nails poked into the fabric. Her voice dropped another octave.

“Before the funeral we found out that the governor is going to appoint Kip to his father’s seat on the California Supreme Court. He was going to announce it in the next few days while emotions still ran high for Fritz. A legacy goes on kind of thing. The firm keeps trading on its association with the highest court in the state, money keeps rolling in, and power is consolidated in their little dynasty. So we go to the funeral. The governor is checking out how Kip handles himself. It goes well. Then Hannah gets arrested and it’s everybody for themselves.

“When I asked for help they say they have to think. How is this going to affect Kip’s appointment, the firm’s bottom line? They distance themselves. Hannah and me are left swinging in the wind. I understand how business works and I love my husband, Josie. I respect the tough spot he’s in, but my daughter is a child and she needs help now. So I’m doing what I’ve got to do.”

“And your husband doesn’t mind the firm is treating you this way?” Josie asked.

Linda shook her head, exhausted. “Right now I don’t know what he thinks. Everything happened so fast. He just kept asking how they knew his father was murdered. How did they know? I mean, he thought the old guy died in an accident. It was like somebody put Kip on a roller coaster and didn’t strap him in. He’s mourning his father one minute, being tapped for the court the next, and then he finds out the cops think someone deliberately took his dad’s life. It’s a mess. Everyone’s out for themselves. I don’t have a whole lot of time to figure out how much a stranger will get behind my kid. You’re not a stranger. I want you to help her.”

Josie got up and turned toward her bedroom.

“Okay. I’ve got a couple of favors to call in. I’ll get my book.”

Linda moved fast, crossing the living room, pulling Josie back.

“No. I want you to do it. I know you. You wouldn’t let her suffer. You know what it’s like to be a kid who’s afraid. You know what it’s like to be alone.”

“This isn’t the same, Linda. You’re helping your daughter, not running away from her. Besides, for all I know she could have done it.” Josie pulled away. Some part of her was flattered by Linda’s confidence, another was wary.

“And what would it matter?” Linda threw her hands up in frustration. “She’s still entitled to a defense. That’s the law. Isn’t that right?”

“It doesn’t say she’s entitled to me,” Josie answered flatly.

“But she didn’t do it, Josie. Nobody did. It was an accident. Someone’s making a terrible mistake. Josie, you were never mean or cruel. Don’t be now. My whole family is in turmoil. Hannah’s my baby,” Linda cried. She babbled, trying to find the magic that would make Josie change her mind. “She was terrified getting on that bus, being taken away from me. I followed them all the way out to Sybil Brand and they wouldn’t let me in. She’s alone. Help her. Stop making excuses and help us, damn it.”

Linda’s fingers dug into Josie’s arms again. Her long nails were sharp but the rest of her was losing ground. Linda’s deep voice caught. She whispered frantically, pleading as only a mother can do.

“Do it just this once, Josie. Just go see Hannah. That’s all I’m asking. If you saw her, you’d help her. The last thing you’d want is for a kid to be alone and scared.”

They stood eye to eye, both of them taller than most men, both of them fascinatingly attractive, and both locked in an emotional tug of war.

“They took her to Sybil Brand?” Josie asked cautiously.

Linda nodded slowly, her face a play of concern and questions.

“They said she couldn’t be released until they had a bail hearing because of the charges. That’s not going to be ‘till Monday. Josie, what is it?”

“Juvenile offenders are taken to East Lake, Linda, not Sybil Brand. Your daughter is in the women’s jail. The DA is going to charge her as an adult.”

“What does that mean?”

“That means she’s looking at hard time if she’s convicted. Chowchilla prison, somewhere like that. No sealed records. No short-term juvenile facility.” Josie dug deep to find the courage to give Linda the worst-case scenario. “If the DA tacks on special circumstances he could conceivably ask for the death penalty.”

***

Linda was gone by eleven, leaving behind her phone number, her address, and a retainer. Josie put the retainer check in the top drawer of her desk. It could be torn up as easily as cashed, but right now she didn’t want to see it. She just wanted to think.

Leashing Max they walked to the Strand, crossing the bike path, wandering on to the sand. Josie headed north, wondering why she'd agreed to see Hannah Sheraton, and knowing it didn’t take a rocket scientist to come up with the answer.

Tomorrow a sixteen-year-old kid would wake up scared and stay that way until this thing played out. Hannah Sheraton may never get over what was happening to her, but Josie could at least make sure there was an end to the ordeal. If Linda had needed help Josie would have made that referral. This, though, was a child. This, Josie was drawn to.

Wanting to root around a bit, Max pulled Josie left. The moon was high, the tide low, and the heat heavy. In the distance, party music mixed with the thin wail of sirens. The music belonged to Hermosa, the sirens to some bigger, more impersonal, more challenging place. Thank God she didn’t belong to the sirens anymore. Josie looked back at the place that was now her hometown. Hermosa meant beautiful beach. The place used to be a sweep of hills dotted with sheep and barley fields that stretched all the way to the Pacific. Now it was 1.3 miles of small hotels, houses, restaurants, and people who believed in letting everyone be. When it came to crime, Billie Zuni was as bad a dude as the place could come up with. In December there was a sand snowman contest, in August the Surf Festival. In the sixties, the city declared itself a wild bird sanctuary. Little did the founding fathers know that wild birds weren’t the only ones who would find sanctuary in this place.

Josie kicked at the sand and gave Max’s ancient leash a tug. Hot pink, worn to shreds, it was still clipped to his collar when she found him half starved under the pier. Josie wouldn’t buy a new one. That leash might mean something to Max, the same way her mother’s hula-girl plates meant something to Josie. She tugged again. It was time to go, just not time to go home. Linda had kicked up a lot of dust, and Josie needed someone to help her clear it. There was only one person she knew who had twenty/twenty vision when it came to navigating the storms of indecision.

She headed to Archer’s place.

***

It took Linda Rayburn forty-seven minutes to get to the Malibu house. She parked the car, retrieved her shoes and purse from the passenger side floor, didn’t bother to lock the doors, and didn’t care if the hems of her very expensive slacks got dirty.

She walked through the gate, ignoring the impressive entrance. It had grown ordinary like so many things Linda once found intimidating and fascinating about the Rayburn’s world. Not that she would trade it. Not that she disliked it. All this stuff was like air: essential and expected, missed only when taken away. She let herself in to the house. Every light was on and the damn thing was quiet as a mausoleum. The shoes and purse were left on the floor for the housekeeper to pick up in the morning.

Linda looked in the kitchen, though she doubted that’s where Kip would be. She checked the living room. The glare of the lights made her feel like a walking corpse. She slipped the belt from her hips and tugged her blouse out of her slacks as she went.

The pool lights were on and the floods, too. The dining room with its long glass table and twelve high backed stainless steel and silk chairs shivered with reflected light.

Having searched downstairs there was nowhere to go but up. Resisting the desire to get in bed, close her eyes, and make everything go away, Linda climbed the stairs and walked down the long hall. The gigantic unframed oils that Fritz had been so fond of now looked crass and ridiculous. So much black cut by random slashes of red that looked like open wounds on the dark skin of the canvas. Fritz may have been smart about the law, but his taste in art sucked. What was he thinking hanging those things on the smooth white walls of the Malibu house? Hannah’s paintings would have been better. At least she used more than two colors. In fact, right now, Linda would burn all of Fritz’s big, ugly, highbrow stuff herself, just to have a little bit of Hannah around.

Linda was at the end of the hall just outside The Room. That’s what they called it. Not Fritz’s room, not the library, just The Room. It was where the chronicles of Fritz’s life were kept: pictures of Fritz with governors, senators, and even a president or two. Fritz with celebrity lawyers. Fritz with foster children. Fritz, Fritz. Fritz. Pens and plaques, embossed portfolios. Fritz, Fritz, Fritz’s place. Little sculptures of judges made of bronze and wood. Gavels sprouted off polished wood surfaces. He hadn’t used the room in years and yet it remained untouched. It was a shrine while he lived; God knew what it was supposed to be now that he was dead, now that Kip was in there.

Linda composed herself. There was no door to the room, only a short hall that opened up onto a big space. Linda walked through and hovered at the end. The room was dim, only the desk light was on. Two of the four walls were made of glass. The half moon hung like a piece of artwork in the middle of one of them. Kip sat in Fritz’s chair looking as if he’d wandered out of a Norman Rockwell illustration and into a Dali landscape.

Linda shivered. She liked neither Rockwell nor Dali. She liked Kip the way he used to be. Before all this he was his own blank canvas. She liked the Kip who relied on her or Fritz for definition. But Fritz wasn’t here anymore, the governor was holding out the things Kip wanted – power, attention, notoriety of his own - and she wasn’t the same woman who had left the house earlier that evening. For the first time, the next step in Linda’s life wasn’t clear.

Kip didn’t look at her when she came in. He barely moved as he methodically picked up, looked at, and placed his father’s things in a box on the side of the desk. Linda felt him vibrating, radiating frustration and anger. It rolled around the room like a Dervish.

“I don’t want to talk, Linda,” he said quietly, his voice trembling.

“We have to talk.”

“No,” Kip held up his hand, “we don’t”

“Then what do you want to do? Just sit and wait until we know what ever it is that they know? You want to wait for other people to make their moves before we do? You want to pretend this isn’t happening?”

Linda started toward the desk but stopped short. The usual ministrations wouldn’t work to soothe him. He didn’t want to be touched. She couldn’t coax him to bed. He had been changing ever since Fritz died. It hadn’t been unattractive or unwanted – until now. Linda backed off, holding herself in check. She would tread carefully until she had the lay of the land. She talked, thinking on her feet.

“You’re right. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I just can’t believe this is happening. Everything was going so well,” she held out her hands to stop him from interrupting. “But we can control this situation. I spoke to an attorney about Hannah. She’s an old friend. She’ll get Hannah out of jail. Once that happens we’ll send her away to school. Lots of people have problem kids. Everyone will forget about this. My attorney won’t bring you, or the firm, into this. She’ll deal with this discreetly.”

“Discreetly?” In the blink of an eye Kip was up, standing behind the desk, his plain features contorted into disbelief and rage. He picked up a picture of his father and hurled it across the room. Not at her. Luckily, not at her. “How in the hell do you figure the murder of a California Supreme Court Justice can be handled discreetly? When they thought this was an accident nobody was discreet. We won’t be able to sneeze without people trying to figure out what goes on in this house. They’re going to want a reason Hannah was arrested and if they can’t find one they’ll make it up. Hannah caused problems from the minute she walked through the door. For my father. For me. Even for you. But now she’s going to ruin my life.”

“Okay. All right,” Linda screamed. She backed up. Afraid of her husband for the first time since she met him, Linda would never let him know. “You’ve always wanted her gone. Do you want me gone, too? You’re such a big man now you don’t need me? If that’s what you’re saying then I’m out of here. I’ll take care of myself and I sure as hell won’t care who gets taken down if they prosecute my kid.”

Kip put his hands on one of Fritz’s awards. It was a heavy thing made of crystal and wood. Even in the dim light Linda could see his arms shaking with the tension of his pent up emotions. He fought with himself wanting to lift it, throw it, and cradle it to his breast.

“It was supposed to be my time. I was making it my time. I was standing up. . .it was all for you and me.”

Linda Rayburn watched her husband implode. Slowly he sank back into the chair, his hands still around the hunk of glass and wood. He lowered his head until it rested on the cool wedge of crystal. Linda bowed her own, her hair covering her face, her shoulders slumping. Maybe they were all lost. Finally, Linda raised her head. Her eyes narrowed. Inside there was a sliver of steel left. A little gift from her mother who made Linda what she was –a damn survivor. Linda was going to share that gift with Kip because the last thing she wanted to do was leave.

Slowly she walked toward her husband and wrapped her arms around his head. She pulled him into her. His arms went around her waist as she buried her lips in his hair.

“I know what you did for me. I know what it cost you,” she whispered.

“You do?”

“Yes, and I was proud. And now you’ve got to stay brave and see this through,” Linda said.

“I can, but you’ve got to help me now,” Kip mumbled. “You owe me that. After everything I’ve done. After all the risks I took for you. You owe me, not her. I hate her. It’s my turn now.”

Linda’s heart turned to stone. Just when she thought life was going to be easy it took the cruelest turn of all. She hadn’t even wanted one and now she had two children pointing at her, making her part excuse, part reason, part inspiration for the things they did. It wasn’t fair.

Linda sighed and caressed Kip’s hair. She would do what she could. She’d push Kip to his limit and make him find his courage again. She’d be smart, she’d watch and wait, and move only when it was necessary. But in the end, if Hannah didn’t do her part, they were all screwed.

Chapter 4

JOSIE woke up at six with the sun in her eyes, the smell of Archer all around. It was in the sheets, on her body, in the scent of the dark coffee he preferred, the piquant smell of the chemicals he used in his darkroom. The sense of him was everywhere. In the way his clothes were hung precisely in the closet, and in the book of forensic techniques that lay open on the bedside. Once a cop, always a cop. On the bookshelf, a rosary hung over the neck of an empty bottle of tequila. It was a long story. Short version: Archer found religion one night while a buddy lost his. He said he kept the rosary to remind him to play savior only when it was a sure thing. Josie didn’t believe him. He could never be so calculating. He had saved her, and she wasn’t a sure thing. Josie threw an arm over her eyes for a second, and then rolled onto her side to touch the place where he had slept. The sheets were cold. He’d been gone for a while.

Josie got out of bed and searched for her clothes. She found her muscle shirt and panties but the sweats and sports bra were missing in action. She shimmied into what she had, glanced at the picture of Lexi, Archer’s dead wife, and then went looking for the man they shared. She found him on the rooftop balcony, a perk of owning the building.

“Morning,” Josie walked up behind him and wound her arms around his waist. He was a big man; made her feel downright dainty. She loved the smell of his shirt. Starched and pressed by the man who wore it.

“Don’t move,” he commanded.

Josie didn’t but only because she didn’t want to. She held her breath, loving the feel of him when he was excited by what he saw through his lens. His gut tightened beneath her hands. A solitary muscle rippled. Quick like a snake. A click. He sighed with satisfaction and stood up slowly, surveying the beach once more before turning around to kiss Josie. She kissed him back just long enough for them both to be happy. When she slipped out of his arms, he let her go. No nonsense. No jealousy. No neediness. Respect. Affection. Comfort. Chemistry. It was the kind of relationship people who could take care of themselves did well.

Archer and Josie did it extremely well.

They met a year ago. Archer snapped a picture of her at the pro-am volleyball tournament. She had her hand on her hip, baseball hat on backwards, sunglasses covering her eyes. When the picture was printed, Josie was pleased. She could see her six-pack abs, the ropes of muscles in her legs, and the fine definition of her biceps. Archer said that wasn’t what he saw. He saw her glaring at him from behind those glasses, unhappy that she had lost a critical point, determined she wouldn’t lose the next one. He knew they would be more than good friends. It took Josie a month longer to figure it out.

“You want more coffee?” Josie picked up the thermal pot to pour herself a cup. He shook his head. Josie and her coffee joined him by the balcony railing.

“I got the sun coming up. I picked up some woman skinny dipping around five.” Archer lifted his chin to indicate the surf. Josie looked at him. He had a wonderful profile. He looked like an Irish boxer: strong jawed, short, straight nose, eyes that were dark and close together. Those eyes held a person tight in his line of sight. His was a man’s face and a man’s body. He didn’t own a suit. He was as different from the men Josie used to date as Baxter & Associates was from the kind of law she used to practice. What had she seen in those men in designer suits? Josie leaned into him, playfully banging his shoulder with her own.

“You’re going to get sued one of these days when somebody sees themselves on a postcard or in a magazine.”

“I know a good lawyer. She wouldn’t let me down.” He pushed back. Not a hint of a smile. It wasn’t his way. He smiled with his eyes, with his touch. Josie knew when Archer was happy. It was the same way he showed hurt and anger and compassion - with his eyes, with his touch.

“I wouldn’t count on that,” Josie said wryly. “I might decide you’re not worth it one of these days.”

Archer put a big hand on the back of her neck and followed up with a kiss. He pulled Josie into him, draping his arm over her shoulder.

“This from a woman who lets herself in and has her way with me in the middle of the night? I think I can count on her.”

Josie sipped her coffee and stayed nestled against him. He waited just long enough, and then gave her the nudge she seemed to want.

“So? You weren’t exactly talkative last night.”

Josie chuckled softly. The truth was they hadn’t exchanged two words. Archer once told her that he could tell what she needed by the way she came to bed. If Josie wanted to talk she crawled in already debating. When she needed something else – something more personal – she came in quietly, stayed close, he could hear her thinking. He even seemed to know whether it was old troubles, or new, that had to be dealt with.

Then there were the nights like last night. It wasn’t sleep she wanted, or talking she needed. Josie needed to clear her mind so she could rest, and Archer had a way of making that happen.

“I had a visitor last night. . .” Josie began, training her eyes on the runner of sand and the never-ending carpet of blue ocean as she filled him in.

Twenty minutes later they were sitting in the beach chairs on the balcony sharing a bagel, Josie’s coffee was cold and her story was over. Archer knew it all: Linda, the history, the girl, the charge, the victim, the retainer – impressive - and the fact that the next move was Josie’s.

“You told her you were going to check it out. So check it out.”

“Jesus, Archer. You know how I feel about murder – women involved in murder. It’s not that easy.”

Josie took a bite out of the bagel. She wasn’t hungry; she just didn’t relish trying to explain again why it wasn’t easy. But Archer had made his living investigating criminals, so lawyers were not a great challenge.

“Why not?” He laced his hands behind his head and looked right at her.

Most people found it uncomfortable to look Archer in the eye. They said his eyes were flat, cold and judgmental. Josie always thought of his gaze as a level playing field.

“Because it opens a can of worms. If she’s innocent, she’s going up against a lot – the press and the DA who really wants a pound of flesh and who knows how the governor’s office will play into all this. If she’s guilty and I get an acquittal, I don’t think I could live with myself. It’s sort of like being an ex-nun. I still believe in God, I just don’t think He’s omnipotent. Besides, it’s been a long time since I put together a defense like this.” Josie put her fingers to her mouth. She didn’t exactly bite her nails but she came close.

“You handled really big cases for sixteen years before you came here,” Archer reminded her.

“Linda’s a friend,” Josie countered.

“She’s an acquaintance. If she was a friend I would have heard about her.”

"Okay. Okay. Then there’s the fact that this is a juvenile matter.” Josie held up her hand. “And before you say anything about her being charged as an adult it’s still a child we’re talking about. I don’t know what to do with a kid.”

“You know what to do with a client, Josie.”

Archer snapped the pedal of his black racing bike he kept on the roof, instead of the garage. The garage was full of files from old cases, keepsakes from the house he shared with Lexi, and a Hummer. That vehicle was a man’s hunk of metal that could go anywhere he thought there might be a picture or a perp. Archer watched the pedal twirl for a minute and then looked at her.

“When Lexi died I didn’t want to look at another woman. Then you stood right in front of me. I couldn’t ignore you and that caused a lot of pain, Jo. I had to figure out if I was happier being with a live woman or living with the memories of a dead one. Do you think you don’t miss what you used to do? Maybe this thing is a test. Go see this girl. If you feel hinky, walk away. Just do it because it’s the right choice.”

“Good job, Archer. Make me feel like two cents. I’m not afraid if that’s what you think. I could go down there. I could see this girl and make up my mind.”

“Then do it. That’s all the mother is asking.”

“No. You don’t know Linda. She’s expecting me to make the trouble go away,” Josie objected.

“Who cares what she expects? I’m just saying that if you turn your back now, you’ll never look in the mirror the same way again.”

“Says you, Archer.” Josie pushed herself off the beach chair. She should be on the beach picking up a game, checking on Billy, or laying all that tile. She should be biking to Santa Monica with Archer. She shouldn’t even be thinking about dead people and murderers, innocence and guilt, and the thousand ways she knew to spin evidence to make her story sound like God’s own truth. And Archer should be a little more helpful. He could at least concede she had a reason to be cautious. When he didn’t, Josie bailed.

“I’m going home.”

As she walked past, Archer reached up and took her arm.

“You should know what you’re made of, Josie. Everybody should know that.”

“See you tomorrow.” Josie kissed him on top of his head. “Or maybe next week.”

She found the rest of her clothes in the bedroom, dressed, and collected Max. If it had just been her, Josie would have hustled down the three flights of stairs. With Max, it took a little longer. On the Strand, Hermosa was coming alive. Rollerbladers, walkers, a mother pushing a stroller, people sipping coffee, reading their paper, and surfers straddling their boards, waiting for the wave they could ride, or the one that would drown them.

Josie didn’t bother to watch and see which it would be. She felt her own wave coming and she wasn’t ready.

***

From the rooftop balcony Archer leaned on the railing and watched Josie go. He didn’t bother to turn the tripod and take a picture of her. He never liked to take pictures of people walking away so he just watched Josie as the early morning people turned to look at her. She was so tall and striking, tanned and confident. He also saw she walked just a little too fast for comfort and not fast enough for exercise, she kept old Max close to her like a friend along to help her find her way in a strange place.

But Hermosa wasn’t strange. It was the call of an old, frightening, fascinating place that had Josie Baylor-Bates spooked. Archer could have talked her through it, past it, or out of it, but he didn’t. That woman had been fooling herself for a long time. Josie thought she chose to live near the beach in Hermosa and work in a neighborhood law firm because she was disillusioned. That was a lie. Josie had run to Hermosa, hidden her head in the sand of Faye Baxter’s little law firm. Now somebody was tugging on her head, and she was trying to keep it stuck in the sand.

Archer took a deep breath and looked away. She was almost out of sight and there was nothing he could do for her now except wait for her to come back. Much as he wanted to go with her, stand guard when she came face to face with that kid, he wouldn’t.

Instead, Archer put himself behind the camera and turned it back to the sea. That’s how much he loved her.

***

“Playing devil’s advocate.” Alex held up his hand. “Can’t we pick up those dollars somewhere else? One of the unions maybe? Then we could look for someone with a little more star quality for that slot on the bench.”

Davidson himself dismissed that plan.

“It’s getting too hot to hit the unions up again. I don’t want any more of those ‘legislation for dollars’ news stories. Kip brings quiet money. Kip’s appointment won’t look like payback.”

“We’re dancing around the real benefit. Kip is president of the CLA,” Cheryl reminded them.

“He’s a hell of an administrator,” Alex agreed. “The California Litigator’s Association has been real happy with him. Those guys have the bucks and Kip’s the main man. He’s an easy sell to the public and a moneymaker. There’s no downside, so I say we announce tomorrow and minimize coverage of the girl’s arrest.”

The governor toyed with his glass. His face was long and colorless, his expression unreadable. Finally, he spoke.

“Kip understands we’re expecting a lot from him in terms of support during the election and before he takes the bench, right?”

Alex nodded, “Absolutely. Until he takes the oath he raises funds. After that, no impropriety, just association.”

“Exactly. Letter of the law is important.” the governor mused. “Just to be safe, call Kip. Tell him we’d like a few days before the announcement. Bring me a poll analysis by, say, Monday afternoon. If it’s good, I’ll announce.”

Cheryl and Alex nodded. Cheryl would do a quick and dirty poll, check with Kip, and write a press release to have at the ready. Alex would contact donors and feel them out. If everyone was happy, Kip’s appointment would move ahead.

“One more thing.” Cheryl hesitated before leaving the hotel room.

“What?” The governor was focused on his ever-present notepad now that breakfast was over.

“The girl. Shouldn’t we say something about the girl?”

“The purpose?” the governor asked.

“She’s only sixteen. They would expect you to say something about her,” Cheryl suggested.

“What’s our stand on juvenile offenders in the admission of a felony?” Davidson asked offhandedly.

“It’s been a sub-platform to our law and order stance. We’ve been tough on crime across the board,” Alex answered.

“Then we support prosecuting her to the full extent of the law. We have the greatest faith in our justice system and even more faith in those we appoint to uphold the law.” Davidson shook his head slightly as if he was disappointed he had to do everything.

“But this is different,” Cheryl suggested. “I mean, this girl isn’t exactly a hard case, she’s Kip Rayburn’s stepdaughter.”

“She’s irrelevant except as a concept,” Davidson muttered.

“A concept,” Cheryl reiterated as she glanced at Alex who shrugged. A second later Davidson looked up.

“Any more questions?”

“No.”

Cheryl and Alex left the governor to his notes and parted ways. Both of them hoped if they ever found themselves on the wrong side of the law, the governor would think of them as something more than a concept. Both of them knew that was a false hope.

Chapter 5

“THAT someone would take the life of a man like Fritz Rayburn . . .What can I say to that? I can only hope whoever did this feels the full wrath of our justice system – regardless of who they are. I promise, the person I appoint to fill Justice Rayburn’s seat will have the same commitment to law and order; perhaps feel even more strongly about it than I do.” -  Governor Joe Davidson, Good Day LA Interview

“Hannah Sheraton.” Josie tattooed her name on the jail log as she stated her business.

“Room three, counselor. It’ll be a few minutes.”

The officer behind the window flicked her head to the left as she finished searching Josie’s portfolio and purse, and then pushed them toward her. Josie nodded her thanks and dodged the guy behind her as she turned to leave.

“Bitch of a place to be on a hot day,” he muttered as he pulled the log toward him and signed in.

“Bitch of a place to be any day.” Josie answered back, but she was the only one who heard it.

Josie was already standing in front of the door that led to the interview rooms at Sybil Brand. Pushing through the first of two doors when the buzzer sounded she paused, waited for the second buzzer, and then went through. The door locked behind her while she was still wondering if she shouldn’t just forget the whole thing.  In room number three, Josie tossed her briefcase on the table, sat down, and looked through the glass at the LA County women’s jail.

The place was a sprawling complex of old buildings that housed women who committed real crimes: murder, arson, burglary, assault. Hannah Sheraton would be a ‘keep away’, cut off from the general population for her own protection because of her age. If she were convicted, though, this could be home; this prison with the pastel butterflies painted on the walls to inspire the inmates to come out of the cocoon of Sybil Brand bigger, better, and smarter. But this was also the prison where yellow footprints were stenciled on the floor and each prisoner stepped on them, as if they were balancing on the razor’s edge. Forbidden to veer away. Forbidden to look back.

Josie shifted, trying to get comfortable on the wooden chair. It had been a long time since she’d been in this place. It could be twenty minutes before they fetched Hannah. Josie closed her eyes and rested her head against the cold, concrete wall and replayed the conversation with Linda Rayburn.

Linda wove her own story in with her daughter’s. Josie had directed, but Linda knew how she wanted the tale to go. One thing was clear; Linda and Hannah did not exist without the other.

Hannah Sheraton. Sixteen. She had been carted around the world with Linda and her lovers, gone through puberty with a bang, and started acting out when she was twelve. Nothing big. Nothing Linda hadn’t done. Nothing Linda couldn’t handle. Skip classes, smoke a little weed. Try cigarettes. Hang out with guys too old to have good intentions. Chip off the old block.  Really a good kid though, just a little wild. Grew up too fast.

Linda went through the scotch like water. She didn’t so much as slur a word. She was a hell of a drinker. And always it was back to Hannah.

Smart kid when she was in school. There had been so many schools, but everyone said the same thing. Talented, talented kid. Painter. Oils mostly. Some acrylics. She experimented with other mediums. Hannah had a future if she could just settle down. A big future. Bigger than Picasso.

Josie raised a brow. Linda caught it but didn’t back off far.

Okay, maybe not Picasso, but big. Linda took Hannah’s paintings to a guy in Beverly Hills. He bought a painting for five hundred bucks. Five hundred was big stuff before Linda met Kip, when Linda was between friends. Hannah was so happy when her painting helped out. That kid was so selfless. But then, it wasn’t hard work for her. Hannah was only happy with a brush in her hand.

Josie ran out of scotch. Linda didn’t run out of information.

The fire. It started in Hannah’s studio. Okay, it wasn’t really a studio but Fritz let her use the old west wing to do her painting. She used the bottom floor. When Fritz was in town he stayed in the bedroom suite above. That’s where he died. That’s where the fire started. Hannah loved that studio. Jesus, if Josie had seen her when they first started living in the big house. It was like being a princess...

Josie put a hand on Linda’s arm. Linda refocused. She moved her hands around like she was rearranging a piece of a puzzle.

Hannah got weird. The Rayburns didn’t think she was all that endearing, but what could you expect from two men? One had been a widower for ages and the other hadn’t married until he was fifty. They were set in their ways. It was hard enough to get used to Linda, much less Hannah. They didn’t like the way she looked one bit. But Hannah was beautiful. Linda wanted Josie to know that. Oh, and Fritz took a great interest in Hannah’s painting. But the Rayburns also said Hannah needed discipline. Kip was impatient when he paid attention at all. He thought Hannah reflected badly on the family.

Things got worse. Hannah had new tricks. She didn’t sleep well. She made everyone crazy with these weird little things she did. Hey, they’d gone from a one-bedroom apartment to a mansion. They’d gone from being two, to being part of a family. That was tough. There would be adjustments. Fritz thought different. He put Hannah into therapy, spent hours talking to her when he was home. He called to check on her. He was a good guy that way. Linda thought, as Hannah’s mother, she should make the decisions, but she and Kip weren’t married long enough for her to object. Linda didn’t want to appear ungrateful and no one had ever been so nice to them before. Damn her acting out like that. Always head games with Hannah. For God’s sake, she just didn’t know how lucky she was – they were – to be Rayburns.

So Josie was thinking about the dynamic in the Rayburn house when the door opened. There stood the real thing. Hannah Sheraton, drop dead gorgeous and jumpy as a racing pulse.

Even in an orange jumpsuit Josie could see that her body was perfect: slight but full breasted and broad shouldered. Her long black hair hung down her back and framed her face in a riot of tight curls. Her skin was dark, smooth, luminescent, but her eyes were that same spring green of her mother’s. She could have stood in front of the Taj Mahal in a gold sari or danced on the beaches of Bali and looked at home. Hannah was an exotic creature, petite and feminine where Linda was tall and feline featured. Hannah was a child of the world and all Josie could think was that the other half of her genetic equation must have been something gorgeous to look at.

The guard, it seemed, was not impressed with Hannah. She put her hand on the girl’s shoulder and then gave her a verbal shove.

“Move ahead, Sheraton.”

Hannah lifted her foot but before she put it down again, her left hand touched the doorjamb. Once. Twice. Four. Five times.

“Come on, Sheraton. I haven’t got all day.” Startled by the order, Hannah stepped into the room, her face tightening in anger. Before the girl could give the guard any lip, Josie stood up.

“Thanks. We’ll call when we’re done.”

The woman nodded curtly even as her eyes lingered on Josie. Three years had passed but people had long memories. Josie had almost lived at Sybil Brand during the Kristin Davis trial. She had been the poster girl for defense attorneys – get ‘em out of jail whether they deserved it or not. Law enforcement didn’t care for Josie’s brand of lawyering; Josie hadn’t cared for it either after Kristin.

“I said I’ll call when we’re done,” Josie reiterated.

The guard left. Hannah didn’t move. Her hands were clasped behind her back, her shoulders twitching as if she were pumping those hands up and down.

“Where’s my mother?”

Hannah’s angry voice wasn’t half as attractive as the rest of her. Josie’s smile faded. She had worried about calming a frightened girl, not fighting with a pissed off chick.

This was a mistake, Archer.

“Your mother’s at home,” Josie answered plainly. She motioned to the only other chair in the room. “Sit down.”

“Did you check?” Hannah stepped forward then back again, screwing with Josie.

“I saw her night before last night.”

“No, I mean did you check this morning? You’re sure she’s there?” The girl’s voice rose with agitation.

“Yes, your mother is at home. She sent me here to help you.”

“Are you a doctor? I don’t need a doctor.” Hannah cut Josie off, her expression a mix of arrogance, anger, and a bit of childish hope. Kids like Hannah never thought anyone saw the hope.

Josie shook her head.

“My name is Josie Baylor-Bates. I’m a lawyer. Now, are you going to sit down or am I going to have to call a guard to put you down.” Those green eyes sharpened. Hannah wasn’t going to give an inch and the sooner Josie took control the better. She pointed to the chair again. “You’ve got one minute, or I’m out of here.”

Hannah’s eyes closed briefly. She squeezed her shoulders back. Those hands were pumping again and then it was over. Her body relaxed, her expression eased into something close to relief. Throwing back her hair she reached for the chair. Josie saw the burn; Hannah saw Josie’s look of surprise.

From fingertip to wrist, the skin on Hannah Sheraton’s hand was swollen and mottled, red and white. A lacy looking roadmap of darker pigment was the only reminder of what that hand used to look like. It had been over a week since Fritz Rayburn’s death. The injury must have been horrible if it still looked that bad.

“Does it still hurt?”

Hannah furrowed her brow and turned her hand to the right and left, right again as she sat down. Putting her injured hand palm down on the table, she gazed at it.

“I don’t think so.”

“You have to think about it?” Josie sat, too.

Hannah raised her eyes without lifting her head. She was a demonic sprite with those eyes, that skin, her wild hair, and the piercings on her nose and ears. Her full lips curled around her words as if casting a spell.

“Some people can’t stand it when the wind blows too hard. There are degrees to everything. I don’t recognize pain. I don’t even remember it hurting when it happened.  I didn’t even cry. ”

Josie pulled a pad of paper from her portfolio.

“I don’t know if that’s anything to be proud of.” Josie noted the date and time on the top of the paper, trying to ignore the warning in her gut.

“I didn’t say it was, did I?”

Hannah’s burned hand went to her hair, grasped the longest tendril and wrapped it behind her ear. She pulled it forward, wrapped it back and forward and stopped as suddenly as she had begun. She put her hands under the table and looked right at Josie.

“Will you be able to paint?” Josie asked.

“If I can’t paint I’ll kill myself.”

“No you won’t. You’re in protective custody,” Josie muttered, making a point about powerlessness that Hannah seemed to miss. “You can’t breathe without someone watching you. But that doesn’t answer the question. Your mother told me about your painting, and that the fire that killed your grandfather started in. . .”

“My s-t-e-p.” Hannah spelled it out. “Fritz was my step.”

Hannah’s hostility spike at the mention of Fritz Rayburn wasn’t lost on Josie. She tried again.

“The fire that killed Fritz Rayburn started in the place you used as a studio. Do you know anything about that?”

Hannah came right back at her.

“Why don’t you ask me if I did it? Why ask me if I know anything about it?”

“Because I want to know what you know about it,” Josie reiterated. “If I want to know if you did it, I’ll ask you.”

“I know that the place was on fire. I know if I wanted to burn down the house I wouldn’t have tried to put it out, would I? My paintings were in there.” From beneath the table came a light and rhythmic thumping. Hannah leaned close to the wood, her hair spilled onto it, her anger shot toward Josie. “I don’t know why you’re here. Kip will get me out of jail and take care of everything. He got me back in school when I got kicked out. He fixed it so my mom could get into some fancy club.” Hannah’s eyes sparkled with challenge,  “Kip and Fritz fix everything.”

“Not this time, Hannah.”

Josie twirled the pen between her fingers as she listened to Hannah’s view of her world. The truth was that sometimes saving people wasn’t simple, sometimes saviors weren’t who you expected them to be, all people don’t get saved, and not everyone deserved to be saved. It was time Hannah heard those facts of life.

“Look, Hannah, Fritz is dead, and if Kip were going to help you he would have done it by now. Your mother knows that, so she sent me.” Josie leaned forward, crossed her arms on the table and looked right into that gorgeous, defiant face. “You are in a shit load of trouble. Now, if you want to go home to your mother then you look at me, you talk to me, you listen to me, and you cut the crap because, believe me, this is the last place on earth I want to be.”

Hannah bit her bottom lip – a gesture so like her mother’s. Those broiled fingers were at her hair again. Front. Behind. Front. Behind. Over the ear once, then again. She swished her hair and her lips moved as if she were counting. Her eyes wandered as if Josie was no more interesting than a gnat.

Frustrated, unnerved by her surroundings, sick of this kid’s self-absorbed nonsense, Josie shot out of her chair. Her thighs pushed the table as she reached across it and clamped down on Hannah’s wrist.

“Stop that,” she growled.

Hannah’s eyes narrowed. She tried to jerk away. Josie held on tight and Hannah bared her teeth.

“I can’t. Do you want to make something of it?”

Chapter 6

JOSIE backed off, slowly releasing Hannah’s wrist. She was shaking, stunned at her anger and Hannah’s admission.

“No, I don’t want to make anything of it.”

Josie sank back into her chair. Grown women broke their first hour in this place. Hannah Sheraton was ready to fight. She had guts, Josie would give her that.

“So then don’t call me on it.”

Hannah slumped in her chair, resentment seeping out of her. Her jumpsuit gaped open. Josie could see one perfectly formed breast sans bra. The nipple was pierced. There was a tattoo staining her shoulder, blue/black and red. Her hand knocked underneath the table in a maddening rhythm. Everything about her said hard as nails but Josie didn’t buy it. There was something beyond the anger that intrigued Josie; something in the way Hannah stood up for herself that Josie admired.

“So tell me about what you’re doing. There isn’t time for me to guess, and you don’t want the prosecution to know anything your own attorney doesn’t know.”

Hannah closed her eyes and kept them closed.

“I do it because that’s what I do. I touch things twenty times. It makes me feel safe. I’m obsessive/compulsive. All the doctors say the same thing.” Hannah’s lashes fluttered. Her lids raised half way in an expression that was weary and guarded. “What a waste of money. What’s wrong with liking to know my boundaries? It doesn’t hurt anyone. It doesn’t even hurt me.”

“I think I’ll wait for your doctors to tell me if you have severe behavioral problems,” Josie said.

“That’s rich. They only know what I tell them.” Hannah dismissed Josie only to find the ensuing, insistent silence annoying. She filled it. “I’m better with doors than I used to be. I saw you looking at me when I touched the door. That’s why I figured you for a doctor. You look like the kind of doctor my mother likes.”

“And what kind would that be?”

“My mom likes women doctors. Extreme women.”

Hannah put her burned hand to her throat and dropped the fingers down to the opening of her jumpsuit. This was a Linda move. Hannah was a puppy, learning all the wrong things before she was weaned. Sensing Josie’s discomfort, Hannah teased.

“The kind of women my mom likes either hate to screw, or they screw too much. That’s the kind of extreme they are. She probably likes lawyers like that, too. Which one are you?”

Josie shook her head.

“I’ve heard that word before, Hannah, so why don’t you tell me something I really want to know. Tell me what kind of doctors Fritz liked.” When Hannah fell silent Josie pushed on. “Your mother said Fritz Rayburn took an interest in you. She said he paid for some clinics and your doctors.”

Josie wasn’t playing Hannah’s game and Hannah wasn’t interested in Josie’s.

“They were just places, just people. I don’t think he ever met any of the doctors in them. He just sent me there.”

“How did you feel about that?”

“Like he was sticking his nose in where it didn’t belong; like he was punishing me when I didn’t do anything.”

The hair was going back and forth again but slower now as if she was seeing Fritz, hearing him, and was pissed at him. Between the words Hannah breathed her numbers. When she reached twenty twirls she stopped and put her burned hand on the table, always in the same place. She was done.

“I’m not going to talk about Fritz. He was just in the house sometimes, that’s all. He was a damn hypocrite always talking about the law, and justice, and art, and people falling all over him like he was better than everyone else. Well, he wasn’t better, and he wasn’t around a lot. So let’s not talk about Fritz.”

“How did all that make him a hypocrite, Hannah?” Josie pressed for information, looking for the bottom of Hannah’s resentment.

She shrugged, “I don’t know. He thought he was above everybody. Forget it. Forget him.”

“That’s all anybody’s going to be talking about, so you better get that through your head. You’re charged as an adult. You’re going to have to start acting like one.”

Hannah shifted. She sat up straight, still cautious but suddenly engaged.

“Okay. I’ll be an adult. I have some questions. How come my mom sent you and not some guy?”

“We went to school together,” Josie answered. “I told her I’d see you through the bail hearing, and then find someone to help if you go to trial.”

“Why can’t you do it?”

“I haven’t done criminal work for a long time,” Josie said, averting her eyes. “Not like this anyway.”

“How come?”

“Because I haven’t,” Josie retorted, peeved that this kid should insist on an answer.

“But why?” Hannah persisted.

“Because I was very good at it, and sometimes I got people off who should have gone to jail. Sometimes they hurt more people. That’s why.”

“Oh, so you’re scared,” Hannah decided.

“I made a decision not to do major criminal work any more,” Josie insisted.

“You didn’t choose. You quit. You were scared you’d do it again.” Hannah smiled as if they had suddenly found a meeting ground. Now they could be friends. “I’d want you to help me. People who are scared think better. Besides, if you choose not to do something you can choose to do it again - if the person is innocent - right?”

Josie wasn’t listening to Hannah. Another voice came out of the walls and wrapped itself around her brain in tantalizing whispers. She had been in this room, in this place, listening to another client say the same words. Choose me. Help me. I’m innocent. I am.

“Isn’t that right? You can choose, right?” Hannah demanded, and Josie blinked.

“We’ll keep our options open,” she answered. “Do you have any other questions?”

Hannah eyed Josie, checking out every twitch, every evasion, and every noncommittal statement. Then she started to probe.

“Do you know my mom really well?”

“I did a long time ago.”

“Did you know she gave up being a pro volleyball player so she could have me?”

Josie inclined her head. Josie didn’t care about that little bit of fiction, but she noted the point of it: Hannah the child wanted to be life-changingly important to her mother. That was something Josie understood better than anyone on earth. In Hannah’s case she probably had been, just not the way she thought.

“So, are you sure Kip isn’t going to do something for me?” Hannah suddenly demanded.

“Yes, I am.”

Hannah nodded. Her fingers were tapping. Twenty. Then her left hand covered her right and stroked the mottled skin. Twenty. Josie’s muscles tightened in annoyance. It was hard to watch, this lack of self-control.

“There’s another question.” Hannah said finally. “I want to know if you think I’m crazy?”

Josie eyed her coolly and answered honestly.

“I don’t know. I haven’t talked to your doctor.”

“I mean from what you’ve seen? Counting and touching stuff. Do you think that’s crazy?” The tapping began again.

“No, that doesn’t fit the legal description of insanity if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Are you sure?” Restless and troubled, Hannah’s hands moved a mile a minute.

“Why would you want me to think you’re crazy, Hannah? Why would you want anyone to think that?” Josie asked, trying to read between Hannah’s lines.

“Because if I was crazy they couldn’t say I murdered Fritz, could they?”

Josie finally got it. This girl was thinking ahead, figuring ways to get herself out of this predicament. Her permutations were flawed, but Josie found the exercise to be extraordinarily clear headed for someone so young.

She had done the same thing when her mother disappeared; planned her own destiny, planned how to find Emily.  In the end Josie failed to find her mother and learned that destiny had a will of its own. If nothing else, Josie understood and empathized with Hannah Sheraton. When she spoke again, Josie committed herself more deeply than she intended.

“Hannah,” Josie said evenly. “I want you to listen to me very carefully. I can review the information the District Attorney has, and try to get the charges dismissed. If I can’t make that happen, you will be indicted for murder. Then you’ll have a choice: plead guilty, plead to a lesser charge, or we can fight.

“If we fight don’t think for me. Don’t try to beat this system on your own because it can’t be done. Knocking on wood and twirling your hair doesn’t constitute an insanity defense. Do you understand that?”

Hannah listened, thinking hard, weighing the worth of Josie’s advice against that of other adults she knew. Finally she made a decision. Slowly she brought her hands from under the table, unbuttoned the cuffs on her jumpsuit and deliberately rolled up her sleeves - ten rolls each. Twenty in all.

Hannah held up her arms. At first Josie’s eyes were drawn to her hands. Then she saw what Hannah was offering. On the delicate skin of her forearms was a web of scars and welts, red scratches and deep cuts, some viciously fresh. Josie took a deep breath and forced herself not to look away.

“Does this count for crazy?” Hannah asked, holding out what she considered to be her ticket to freedom.

“No, Hannah. It doesn’t count for crazy.” Josie whispered.

Hannah’s expression changed, the hope drained away, the light in her eyes dimmed. She didn’t seem as much disappointed as sadly accepting. Lowering her arms Hannah rolled her sleeves down, buttoned the cuffs, buried her hands beneath the table and started knocking the underside again.

One, two, three. . .ten. . .twenty.

Chapter 7

ARCHER: “So? How’d it go?”

Josie: “She needs help.”

Archer: “And?”

Josie: “Bail hearing’s tomorrow.”

Archer: “You going to be there?”

Josie: “Yeah.”

Archer: “Sounds good, Jo. ‘Nite, babe.”

Josie: “Nite, Archer.”

There were no halls of justice in trailer C, department 32 of the Superior Court, the Honorable Judith Davenport presiding. There were, in fact, no halls at all.

Hannah was scheduled to be arraigned in Santa Monica but the actual courthouse was overcrowded. The proceedings would take place in one of the modular units the state had plopped in the middle of the parking lot in an effort to solve the problem. Unfortunately, while that had been a practical decision it sorely undermined the dignity of the court.

Still, it was what Hannah Sheraton drew. Josie had no doubt that if it came to an actual trial The People v. Hannah Sheraton in the matters of arson and murder would be played out on a much finer stage.

It was early. Half a dozen cars were scattered over the asphalt parking lot. Beyond the fence that separated court property from the West LA police station cops were changing the guard. Black and whites pulled in and out. Tired officers went home; fresh ones hit the streets. A roach coach was doing a brisk business in breakfast burritos and bad coffee.

Checking her watch, Josie hurried past a woman dragging a two year old behind her, a couple of attorneys conferring by a green Mercedes, and two marshals before opening the metal door to Department 32. It closed with a thud. The walls wobbled. This was a judicial trailer park hoping for a bureaucratic tornado to wipe it out. Still, there were things that made Department 32 feel just like every other courtroom: a Court TV camera, a jar of candy on the clerk’s desk, an empty jury box, and the seal of the state hanging behind the bench. But there was one thing missing: people. Josie thought the place would have been packed. Instead, she tagged only the AP and the LA Times reporters. A young blond man sat in the back. He was too well dressed to be a court watcher, and too relaxed to be the prosecutor. Linda was up front alone. If this was all the public interest the DA could muster, that was a good thing.

Josie shrugged into her jacket then walked down the aisle toward Linda. They had been on the phone for over an hour last night discussing Hannah’s history, and what the family was willing to do to secure bail. Josie touched Linda’s shoulder and motioned her to move over. Linda looked up, gratitude plastered on her face like an extra layer of make-up.

“I was worried. I thought maybe I was in the wrong place.” Linda kept her voice low.

“How long have you been here?” Josie asked.

“Half an hour. Seems like forever.” Self-consciously Linda touched her hair. It was pulled straight up and gathered into a sleek knot on top of her head. On her ears were diamond hoops. She was nervous but controlled, a far cry from the woman of a few nights ago. They would have to talk about clothes if this went to trial. The last thing Josie wanted was for Hannah and Linda to look like escapees from Rodeo Drive.

“Is your husband coming?”

“No, he couldn’t make it. He had a meeting. But he wanted to. He did.”

Josie nodded, understanding it was futile to hope Kip Rayburn would stand by Hannah. Josie shifted closer to Linda.

“There’s a camera in the back of the courtroom. Don’t react to anything you hear during the proceedings. If you have a question, let me know about it when we’re out of here, okay?”

Linda nodded. Josie started to get up. Linda grabbed her.

“What about you? Are you okay? I mean I know you didn’t want to do this.”

Josie slipped her hand from Linda’s.

“Everything is fine. Don’t worry,” Josie assured her.

Just then the back door opened. Rudy Klein, Deputy District attorney had arrived. It was time to go. Rudy and Josie passed through the bar together.

“It’s been a long time, Rudy,” she said.

“Not long enough,” he muttered.

They took to their respective tables. Things moved quickly after that. The door to chambers opened. Her honor, Judge Judith Davenport, was announced. Everyone stood. The court was called to order. There was a millisecond of silence before Hannah Sheraton, still dressed in orange, was led into the room.

This time she was buttoned up to the chin.

Chapter 8

HANNAH looked exactly as Josie hoped she would: stunned, vulnerable and innocent. That was good. Fear could be very useful when your client was arrogant, disturbed and young.

Her hands were cuffed making it impossible for her to twirl her hair. The space reserved for the accused was too wide for her to touch a wall. Her hands rose and fell in frustration; she connected with nothing. Panic showed in the way she licked her lips, the way her eyes searched for, and found, her mother.

Josie glanced at Rudy Klein in time to see a shadow of regret pass over his face. Their eyes locked. He was younger than she, but not by much. He had cut his prosecutorial teeth on the Kristin Davis case as a pinch hitter, and Rudy had given Josie a good run. Today he was a surprise, a challenge. She wished the prosecutor had been a stranger.

Josie looked away. Her palms were moist, her heartbeat noticeable. It had been too long since she’d been responsible for someone’s whole life. She was afraid. But there was no turning back now so Josie faced the bench. It was time to play.

“Good morning. Call the case of the People v. Hannah Sheraton.” Judge Davenport planted her elbows on the desk, clasped her hands and gave them permission to touch gloves. “Counsels?”

Rudy Klein and Josie Baylor-Bates identified themselves. Davenport gave the nod to Josie who waived the reading of the complaint. Everyone knew why they were there. Davenport swiveled toward Hannah. All eyes followed.

“How do you plead?”

“Not guilty.”

Hannah looked past Josie to Linda and something passed between mother and daughter. Assurances. Strength. Commitment. Whatever it was, Hannah was overwhelmed by it. She swayed slightly, closed her eyes briefly, and then looked at Josie. She gave Hannah an encouraging nod, knowing whatever she did could never match what a mother had to offer.

Davenport was on to business.

“So recorded. If there are no objections, I’ll set a date for a preliminary hearing eight days from today. That will be on-”

“Your Honor,” Rudy interrupted, “the prosecution will be proceeding directly to the grand jury for indictment.”

Stoned faced, Josie kept her surprise to herself. A grand jury indictment meant that Hannah could be bound over for trial without her defense attorney being privy to the prosecution’s case. Not a good thing.

“When is the grand jury scheduled to meet, Mr. Klein?”

“In three days, Judge,” Rudy answered. “We’re already scheduled.”

“Your Honor, I’d like for the D.A. to present any exculpatory evidence to the grand jury and save the defense, this court, and the taxpayers time and money,” Josie argued.

“If there were any evidence to exonerate Ms. Sheraton we wouldn’t be here.”

Rudy smiled brilliantly. Josie ignored him. She’d seen his act before: handsome and boyish, nice suit, charm the pants off everyone within spitting distance. An ex-actor who decided being a lawyer was better than playing one, Rudy Klein had a perfect stage presence, a prosecutor’s conviction, and a good mind to boot.

“Very well, then. Notify my clerk immediately if the grand jury indicts. Do either of you have any other business?”

Josie was about to speak when Davenport furrowed her brow and directed her peevishness in the general direction of Josie’s camp.

“Bailiff, what is that noise?”

All eyes went to Josie and, not finding the answer to that question, segued toward Hannah. She had closed in on the wood and glass partition, hungry to make contact with something. Her knuckles drummed and knocked against the wood. Her wide lips parted as if she were blowing on a candle as she breathed the count, comforted in her recital, removed from this place and these proceedings.

Embarrassed to be caught napping, the bailiff took Hannah’s arm and moved her back. Like an animal disturbed in sleep Hannah bristled but Josie caught her eye. Hannah stepped back but, unable to control herself, she lunged forward again. The bailiff held her tight.

“Apologies, Your Honor,” Josie said to the court. “My client suffers from obsessive/compulsive disorder and has been under a psychiatrists care for some time. In order for her to continue her treatment, I would like to arrange for bail at this time.”

Rudy was right there.

“Judge this woman set a devastating fire that resulted in Fritz Rayburn’s death. This is a woman with a long history of drug and alcohol abuse. . .”

Josie cut in, demanding the judge’s attention.

“This is a young girl who has been under a doctor’s care. We will report on her rehabilitation as a condition of her bail. And, I might add, Ms. Sheraton has been wrongly detained. She was, in fact, burned in her attempt to put out the fire that occurred at the Rayburn home. The prosecutor should save his opening statement for the appropriate time, when he has an appreciative audience.”

“And Ms. Bates shouldn’t jump to conclusions, Your Honor. The defendant is unreliable. She has not been a willing participant in her own rehabilitation. In July of two thousand and two she escaped from the Forman Rehabilitation Center in Oregon.”

“If it pleases the court,” Josie drawled in disgust. “The Froman Rehabilitation center in Oregon is not a prison facility. She wasn’t in custody when she entered, and she was not on the lam when she left.”

Rudy was still reciting Hannah’s transgressions as if he had Davenport’s ear since the first minute he opened his mouth.

“In September of two thousand and three Ms. Sheraton was AWOL from another clinic in Northern California. As recently as six months ago, the defendant was apprehended in San Diego just before reaching the Mexican border.  In her company was one Miggy Estrada who had an extensive juvenile record and two arrests since his eighteenth birthday. They had stolen her stepfather’s car. In short, Ms. Sheraton is a flight risk, Your Honor.”

Josie came back seamlessly into the argument.

“I can bring two thousand files into this court on Los Angeles teenagers who have been joyriding. Ms. Sheraton holds no passport. Her driver’s license has been revoked. She is, at worst, high-strung – much like the prosecutor, who seems prone to melodrama.”

“And the defense is naïve, taken in by the defendant. She is not giving enough weight to her client’s actions,” Rudy responded. “Ms. Bates should have learned something from her previous experience.”

“That is a cheap shot and irrelevant. We are talking about my client’s alleged actions,” Josie argued angrily, “there is still the burden of proof, and I don’t shoulder that particular burden.”

“We are talking about the death of a California Supreme Court justice.” Rudy talked over her.

“Who died in this tragic fire should be of no consequence to this court’s final decision. Determining whether or not my client is eligible for bail is this court’s only business.”

“There is no need to tell this court its job, Ms. Bates,” Judge Davenport snapped. “And both of you seem to prefer arguing at each other rather than convincing me of the matter at hand. I would suggest you behave and get on with it. I have a full calendar.”

Josie took a deep breath. This wasn’t like her. She felt like a child pointing a finger at a playmate. He started it. In years past she had been smoother, more self-assured. In the beach court she was downright laid back. Her nerves were showing. She had reacted badly when she should have steered the argument. That wasn’t good. When she spoke again it was with a modulated voice, and eyes that did not dart toward Rudy.

“I’m sorry, Your Honor. But the question of bail is clear. Since the fire at the Pacific Palisades home the defendant’s family has moved to Malibu. Flight is more than difficult given the isolation of the property. If Mr. Klein is that skittish, we’ll submit to court ordered home monitoring. The Rayburns will pay the fee and allow the prosecution access to the reporting so Mr. Klein can sleep at night.”

Josie stepped out from behind the defense table, a confident calm coming over her as the territory became more and more familiar.

“I would further like to make a motion that the court considers a change of venue. The press coverage will be extraordinary in Los Angeles making it difficult to pick a jury. A move to Ventura County might be preferable.”

“Oh, please. Your Honor!” Rudy’s hands were raised in a gesture of amazement. “This is ridiculous. In this case, who the victim is does matter. Justice Rayburn served all of California, and all media will give equal weight to covering the story.”

Judith Davenport had heard enough. Her clerk handed her a note. She glanced at it, folded it, and wrapped up the matter of The People v. Hannah Sheraton.

“You’re right, Mr. Klein. The motion to change venue is denied. Deal with the press as you see fit, Ms. Bates. As to the bail request, there is a difference between someone leaving a private institution and fleeing the jurisdiction. Bail is set at a million dollars. I won’t require monitoring, but let me be clear. If your client so much as brushes up against the line of the restrictions of her bail she will be back to square one. No second chances. Understand, Ms. Bates?”

“Yes, Your Honor. Her family is willing to take full responsibility.”

“I hope they keep their eyes open.” Davenport raised a brow as if to say the alternative wasn’t pretty.  What happened to good old Fritz was top of every judge’s mind these days. None of them would want Hannah under their roof.

“One last item, Your Honor.” Josie raised her hand. “I would like to request that Mr. Klein bring forward any eyewitnesses he has to the alleged arson.”

“So ordered, Mr. Klein.” The judge intoned.

“We have no such witnesses, Judge,” Rudy responded.

“If that circumstance changes, the order stands. Advise the court and arrange for a line-up. Are we finished?”

They were.

Rudy packed up and walked out without another word to Josie. Hannah disappeared with the bailiff, a young man with long, dark hair stood in her place. Linda stood up and fell in step with Josie.

“I knew you could do it,” Linda said under her breath. She clutched Josie’s arm, holding her tight. “Didn’t I say you could do it?”

“It’s only the first step. There’s a long way to go. The grand jury. . .” Josie’s eyes stayed on Rudy’s back longer than she realized. She was curious about his vehemence. It seemed he was taking Hannah’s case personally.

“But I can take her home now, right?”

Linda tugged on Josie’s arm. Josie nodded, attentive to Linda as they left the courthouse together.

Josie?” Linda asked as she reached for her sunglasses once they were outside. “Do you think someone saw who set the fire? Is that why you asked about a witness?”

“No. It’s a standard question. I didn’t really think they had anyone.” Josie dug for her keys and kept talking. “But they have something; otherwise they wouldn’t be taking this to the grand jury.”

“Is that a problem?”

“It means there won’t be a pretrial hearing. That mean’s the grand jury votes to indict based on what Rudy tells them. There is no chance to present a defense case. I don’t like it.”

“I didn’t think they had an eyewitness,” Linda mused, seemingly relieved. “The house is so far off the street. It was so late. Everybody’s got security patrols.”

“I’d actually prefer an eyewitness. I’d have someone to discredit.” Josie took a deep breath. She smiled her reassurance. “Look, I’m not even conceding the fire was deliberately set, but I have to assume the prosecutor’s solid on that.”

“Hey, Josie.” Huddled together, Josie hadn’t seen the AP reporter until she was right on top of them. “Nice to see you back in the thick of things, Josie. What’s your take on the charges?”

“You mean other than wondering if the District Attorney has lost his mind?” Josie laughed and then gave the reporter something to work with. “Top of my head, I’d say the D.A. has tunnel vision. Hannah Sheraton wasn’t alone in the house that night. Mrs. Rayburn and her husband were home. They had entertained that evening and their guests stayed late. The maid was in the house. Her son had been by earlier. The caterer had two employees with him. If the fire was deliberately set – and that’s a big if - I could probably make a case against any one of them.”

“Who looks good to you?”

Josie wagged a finger.

“I’m not playing that game. I’m only telling you my client had nothing to do with Fritz Rayburn’s death.”

Ending the interview, Josie took Linda’s arm only to stop when the reporter called after them.

“Josie, what do you say to those who might wonder if your opinion is reliable when it comes to your client’s innocence? Considering the Davis case, and all.”

Josie turned around slowly. Her gaze was steady. The bright morning light caught her hard on one side of her face so that she appeared divided, black and white.

“I say Hannah Sheraton is a young girl who is to be afforded all the protection of the law including a vigorous defense. I intend to make sure she gets it no matter who speaks for her in court.”

“Does that mean you won’t be-”

Josie turned her back. There would be no more questions from anyone. Rudy Klein hadn’t left and Josie wanted to have a few words with him.

“Linda, get Hannah home. Tell her she did good today.”

Josie strode across the parking lot. She called to Rudy Klein as he was hanging his jacket in the back of the car, looking for his keys, getting on to the next piece of business. He turned and watched her approach. His handsome face was impassive, his eyes imminently readable. The message was clear. He didn’t particularly care for Josie Baylor-Bates, and that surprised her. They hardly knew one another. She hadn’t given him a second thought since the Davis trial.

“That was quite a show you put on in there. A little harsh, don’t you think?” Josie smiled, knowing the ice needed to be broken. Unfortunately, it was rock solid.

“I would have gone for special circumstances and the death penalty,” Rudy said flatly. “But the D.A. didn’t want to take a chance there would be any sympathy for this kid.”

“That’s a little harsh even for John Cooper.  If he’s trying to curry favor with Governor Davidson by showing he’s got balls of steel, he might as well forget it. John Cooper won’t get Rayburn’s seat even if he burned my client at the stake.”

Rudy slammed the back door of his car and opened the front. He hung on it for a minute, shaking his head.

“Boy, you haven’t changed a bit. Always looking for the angle, aren’t you? John Cooper has been prosecuting juvenile felons as adults since he took office. Cruelty has nothing to do with chronology just the same way chronology doesn’t have anything to do with innocence. Or did you miss that during your last trial?”

“Kristin Davis wasn’t my last trial.”

“Really? I didn’t know you were still practicing. I thought you crawled into a hole and stayed there.” Rudy put on his sunglasses. “Now that we’re clear on the DA’s motivation for prosecuting this girl, is there anything else you wanted?”

“A deal,” Josie said, surprised he took his failure during the Davis trial so hard.

He had stepped in when the original Deputy D.A. suffered a heart attack. It was late in the game and Josie was in the end zone. Rudy did his best, he had done it brilliantly, but it was too little, too late. Josie won. Six months later Kristin was at her murderous best again and Josie realized she no longer had the stomach for defending those who should have been indefensible. Rudy, it seemed, didn’t look at the adversarial system quite so objectively. He carried his disappointment with him like a ball and chain. Victory wasn’t exactly an easy burden but it was something Josie dealt with. The chip on his shoulder was beginning to piss her off but it wasn’t exactly relevant right now.

“Forget it.” He started to get into the car.

“Are you sure you don’t want to think about that?” Josie stopped him. “You led with your best shot and I still got her bailed. That should tell you something. If you’re going to charge her as an adult, then give her the same break as an adult. You plea people out all the time for worse than this.”

Rudy turned around slowly. The car door was between them.

“Fine. Twenty-five to life, no parole before eighteen.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Josie scoffed. “You might as well ask for the max on all counts and make them consecutive.”

“That’s exactly what I intend to do. The investigators pegged this as arson an hour after they knocked down that blaze. She’s guilty.”

“That’s not enough for murder,” Josie argued.

Rudy crossed his arms over the top of the door.

“Then how about this, Bates? Fritz Rayburn sustained a skull fracture. Your girl hit him under the chin hard enough to send him flying. Hit his head on the side of the bed frame and split his skull.”

“Did you see my client?” she asked. “Do you think she could hit a grown man hard enough to do that?”

“I’ve seen women beat up men twice their size and so have you.”

“Then I say it’s internal bleeding from the fall that killed him. That’s not second-degree murder. I might give you assault if you can prove Hannah hit him. But murder? Forget it.”

“I could probably make a case for first degree,” he said quietly. “Justice Rayburn didn’t die from the head injury. He was still alive when the fires were set. Hannah Sheraton killed Fritz Rayburn when she could have helped him. She set those fires knowing he would burn to death. Just one of those special little touches your female clients seem to like.”

Josie barely breathed. They stared at one another, Josie silenced for a minute by his rancor. Her throat was dry. The sun seemed to have distorted her vision. Josie swayed ever so slightly but Rudy didn’t reach out to steady her. He knew what she was thinking. How could a sixteen year old possibly be so vicious? How could it happen again?

Finding her voice, Josie said:

“Someone killed him Rudy. Don’t forget that. There could be someone else.”

“Not this time, Josie. That girl assaulted the judge earlier in the evening. There was a witness. Rayburn told the witness he was going to talk to Hannah later.”

“And who’s the eyewitness to that meeting?” Josie drawled. “You’ve got nothing but circumstantial evidence.”

“And there’s a reason circumstantial evidence is admissible, Bates.” Rudy pushed away from the door. “I’ll send over the discovery. You take a look and see what you think about your client then.”

He slid into the driver’s seat and was about to close the door. Josie held on to it. She rounded the open door and stood between him and the sun. She was nothing but a silhouette and he looked at her as if he could see through her.

“You still haven’t answered the million dollar question, Rudy. Why would she want to hurt that old man?”

“Since when do your clients need a motive, Bates?” he asked, pulling on the door handle. Josie pulled back and kept it open. The metal was hot on her hand.

“Wait a minute. I want to know what this is all about. I want to know if you’re going to dump on Hannah Sheraton because you’re mad I got Kristin Davis off.”

Rudy shook his head.

“No, I’m not mad at you. I think defense attorneys like you are pitiful. You sell out. You create a maze of evidence and argument to help criminals, but you never acknowledge the victims.” Rudy looked away. “I’m mad at myself. I should have put Kristin Davis away before it was too late. I’m going to make sure I don’t make the same mistake this time.”

“It’s not the same,” Josie insisted.

“How can you be sure, Bates?” He closed the car door with a slam and looked at her through the open window. “How could you live with yourself if you were wrong again?”

***

Josie peeled off her jacket and slapped it into the backseat of the Jeep. She threw her briefcase in after.

Goddamn Rudy Klein thought he had a lock on conscience? The hell with him. How dare he judge her? Or her motives. Or Hannah’s innocence. She pulled herself into the Jeep and snapped on the ignition. The radio blared. Josie flipped it off, threw the car into reverse, and swung out of the parking space. She shifted into drive and curved around to the gate, only to slam on the brakes.

“Jeez!” She slapped the steering wheel.

A truck blocked the exit, the blazing sun was fueling her anger, and all she wanted to do was get back to the office and talk this out with Faye. It was too late to put up the ragtop, so Josie reached in the back seat for her baseball cap.

Her hand was on it but her eyes were on something else. Linda Rayburn was in her car; her head was back. She had loosened her hair so that it fell over her shoulders. Her arm was held out the window and there was a cigarette dangling between her fingers. She was talking to someone sitting beside her.

Josie looked closer, trying to see who it was. Perhaps Kip Rayburn had arrived late but Josie doubted it. This man was too young to be her husband. As Josie watched, Linda sat up. She leaned forward intensely interested in what her companion was saying when she should have been gone long ago, rushing to bring Hannah home.

The passenger door of Linda’s car opened.

The man got out.

Josie strained to see.

It was the young, blond man who had been in the back of the courtroom. He was still leaning into the car as Linda turned toward him.

A horn honked. Startled, Josie looked ahead. The truck had moved. There were cars behind her. Josie tore her eyes away from Linda, grabbed her baseball cap, put it on her head, and put her hands on the wheel.  Josie Baylor-Bates eased into the left lane and merged onto Santa Monica Boulevard. It wasn’t even ten o’clock.

Chapter 9

LINDA Rayburn shivered, but it had nothing to do with the air-conditioning in the waiting area at Sybil Brand, it had to do with her imagination. She hadn’t seen past the steel door that separated the waiting area from the prison but Linda knew what was there and it made her sick. For three days Hannah got up when she was told, went to bed when she was told, ate when and what she was told. She wore that ugly jumpsuit and slept under a coarse blanket. The real world wasn’t just far away, it was forbidden.

Linda was imagining herself behind that door when it suddenly opened. She stood up, hands together, sweat beading on her upper lip. What would she say to Hannah? How would they get through the next moments? But the woman who came out wasn’t young and beautiful. Her hair was chopped off at the ears, her face pock marked, and her skin leathery. She looked at Linda with flat eyes, unimpressed by the tall lady with the fancy clothes. Linda looked away. She could have been that woman if she hadn’t been smart enough, talented enough, and tenacious enough to change everything.

Shaking her head, Linda walked toward the back of the room, then turned on her heel and retraced her steps. The window in the center of the steel door was laced with chicken wire. She paced off the waiting room, empty except for the long row of molded plastic yellow chairs bolted to the floor around the perimeter of the room.

Just when Linda thought she couldn’t take another minute, the door opened again and there stood Hannah dressed in the clothes she’d worn when she was arrested. Linda mewled, making a sound that translated into anxiety, relief, and apology.

“Mom?” Hannah’s arms pumped. Linda didn’t move. Scared now, Hannah’s arms went faster. She pleaded, “Mom?”

Hesitantly, Linda stepped forward then rushed across the room, gathering the girl into her arms, nearly crushing her. She held Hannah back, pushed at her hair, and touched her cheek. Then Linda pulled her close again.

Hannah held on tight, her arms wrapped around her mother. Linda felt the patting and counted to twenty. Then it started again, and again Hannah counted to twenty. Linda clung to her daughter and buried her face in the wild frizz of Hannah’s hair.

“Oh, baby. You did so good. So good. ” Linda whispered her assurances over and over again, but when she looked again she saw the door. It opened two ways. It let women in and it let women out. Quickly Linda Rayburn turned her daughter away from it and headed to the exit. “We’re out of here, and we’re not coming back.”

“Promise?” Hannah asked as they walked free, out into the bright sunlight.

Linda didn’t answer. It was hard to talk when she heard the quiver in her daughter’s voice, and felt Hannah’s hands holding tight to her clothes like she used to when she was small.

Promise?

How could she? No matter how much she wanted to, Linda Rayburn couldn’t do that. Not with what she knew.

***

“That was Alex Schaeffer.”

Ian Frank hung up the phone and leaned back in his chair. Kip Rayburn kept looking out the floor to ceiling windows of Ian’s office. To the casual viewer he might look pensive. Truth of the matter was he felt sick. He was afraid to hear what Alex Schaeffer wanted. He hated the fact that some kid was the Governor’s mouthpiece and another kid, his stepdaughter, might stand between him and an appointment. The last thing he wanted Ian Frank to see was his fear. Finally, he took a deep breath and turned around.

“What? I’m sorry, Ian. What did you say?”

Ian almost smiled. After all these years Kip was still inept at playing his hand. Not that it mattered. Kip had his uses. If the truth be told, Ian almost preferred the son to the father. The son was less complicated, more malleable, smart without being too smart, and Kip was just desirous enough of success to know he would never get it on his own.

“I said that was Alex Schaeffer on the phone. He was at the bail hearing this morning. He talked to Linda after the hearing.”

Kip wandered over to a chair and sat down. He crossed his legs. His arms crossed over his chest. He’d stay that way until he was satisfied all was well. It took a lot to make Kip Rayburn relax.

“What did he say?”

“Hannah’s bailed. Linda went to get her. They should be home by three. The prosecution is taking it to the grand jury, but Alex is feeling good that there won’t be an indictment. He thinks the bail is a good sign.”

“Is he a lawyer?” Kip asked.

“Nope, a politician’s paid eyes and ears. Those guys understand nuance. That’s their job. He’s got a good feeling.”

Kip sat silently. His arms were no longer crossed over his chest. Instead they rested on the arms of the chair. He was feeling better, but Ian knew he still needed reassurance.

“Kip, it’s okay. The governor was very clear that Hannah’s problems won’t derail the nomination if you handle them the right way.”

“I shouldn’t have to handle them at all,” Kip grumbled. His eyes slid toward Ian. “What would you do? I mean if you were me.”

“I guess first thing I’d do is figure out if I thought she was guilty. I’d have a tough time even looking at someone who did that to my father,” Ian answered truthfully. His gaze met Kip’s head on and he revised that thought. He was, after all, talking about Fritz. “But, that’s something you’ll have to deal with personally. Next thing I’d do is act judicial.”

“Meaning?”

“Think about it. How does a judge comport himself?”

“I don’t know, Ian. Why don’t you tell me?” Kip snapped.

“Well he doesn’t act like a spoiled kid, for one thing. And don’t start with me for another,” Ian answered coolly. “I’m not your father and all I care about is the health of this firm. If you want my help and support during your confirmation, I would suggest you listen. Be proactive, or Hannah’s troubles will overshadow your opportunities.”

Kip swung out of the chair and paced. “I don’t want anyone looking into my private life, or Fritz’s. I don’t want them looking into my business.”

“Don’t worry about it. Business is totally irrelevant to what’s going on,” Ian insisted. “If you hide away, though, people will ask questions.”

“And if I show my face people will ask questions.”

Ian threw up his hands, “Kip, come on. Don’t think what could happen; decide what you want to happen. If you answer questions then you control the spin. You’ve got to make a pre-emptive strike because the sooner Hannah is out of the public eye, the sooner she’ll be forgotten, your father will be forgotten, and you can get on with your life. Only you can make that happen.”

Ian Frank smiled as Kip Rayburn’s eyes lit up - finally.

“So you’re saying-”

“Have a game plan. Ask yourself what you can do to make this disappear faster. There’s no upside to dragging this out like a civil matter.”

Kip’s fingers drummed on the arms of the chair as he thought.

“If there’s a trial?”

“Assist Hannah’s attorney. Give her what she needs to wrap it up fast.”

“If there’s no trial?”

“Send the kid to boarding school. Once she’s eighteen she’s on her own,” Ian said, opening his hands as if he had the world between them. “Unless Linda would object.”

“Linda?” Kip cocked his head as if he had just heard something disturbing. “Linda has been very protective.”

“Okay, work that out later. For now be supportive, talk about your faith in the law and do what you can to expedite this. The key word is expedite. Do that, and Hannah Sheraton is nothing but a memory.” Ian rested his cheek on an upturned hand and smiled. “Expedite, expedite. Expedite the matter of Hannah Sheraton.”

***

“Hi. Good morning, Ms. Bates.”

The new receptionist grinned as Josie came through the door. She was a coat tree of a girl: all skin and bones, hard angles and points. Anorexia would have been the logical assumption if Tiffany wasn’t constantly munching, eating, tasting and sipping. Today it was a tall Frappacino and pizza bagel.

“Tiffany, I want you to call me Josie. Got it? Josie.” Tiffany grinned and nodded while Josie collected her message slips. There was only one, and Tiffany gave the audio version while Josie read.

“Mr. Fistonich called and said he’d be in the neighborhood and could sign his living will any time. No problem.” She stopped for a breath and a bite. “I think he likes you.”

“I like him, too,” Josie muttered. “Call him back and tell him it’s ready. Check with Angie so she can be available as a witness. Whatever time this afternoon is good with me.”

“Okay.”

Tiffany made a note and took another huge bite of her bagel. Josie crinkled her nose.

“You don’t do that when anyone is waiting, do you?” She raised her chin indicating the bagel that had just disappeared into the receptionist’s mouth. Tiffany shook her head and put her fingertips over her lips; too polite to speak when it was full.

“Is Faye here?” Tiffany nodded, swallowed hard and said:

“Yes. She wants to see you the min. . .”

Josie was already gone, stopping in Angie’s office to ask her to open a file on Hannah Sheraton, putting her briefcase in her own office, heading down the hall to Faye’s, and dropping into one of the client chairs.

“Boy, am I glad you’re back. I have had one miserable morning.”

“Funny, I heard you had a great morning in Santa Monica.” Faye set aside her work and took off her glasses. She looked tired – or worried. “I got a call from Marge Sterling at the AP. Then a man named Wobley from the Times got on the horn. They wanted a comment regarding your representation of a girl accused of murdering Fritz Rayburn.”

“What did you tell them?” Josie asked.

“I told them the firm had no comment and would issue a statement when it was appropriate. So,” Faye opened her hands, inviting Josie to fill her up with information. “What happened between the time I left Friday night to see my grandchild, and this morning? Leaving me a message that you were helping out an old friend whose daughter was in trouble wasn’t exactly on target.”

“That’s what I was doing.”

“And you didn’t think to mention that this had to do with Justice Rayburn?”

“It was a bail hearing,” Josie insisted, knowing she should have given Faye a head’s up. There was only one reason she didn’t. If she failed, she didn’t want Faye to know.

“A bail hearing doesn’t take all morning,” Faye pointed out.

“I talked to the prosecutor about a deal. I thought I could make it go away.”

“And could you?”

“No.” Josie shook her head. She looked at her short nails. Her fingertips were calloused from tile work. She dropped her hand, and when she looked at Faye her expression was one of frustration and confusion, anger and concern. “I have a history with the prosecutor. I’m not his favorite person.” Josie sat up and forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “He thinks I knew Kristin Davis was guilty when I defended her. He thinks I only cared about winning.”

“What’s that got to do with this girl?” Faye asked.

Josie’s blue eyes rested thoughtfully on a midpoint over Faye’s shoulder.

“He wants a pound of flesh to make up for Kristin.”

“Is that what you want? To make up for Kristin?”

“Maybe.” Josie’s gaze met Faye’s. “Maybe a little of this is making up because Kristin’s kids died because of me. I don’t carry it around the way Rudy does, but I think about it. I dream about it. When he laid into me, I wondered what I was doing with Hannah Sheraton. I mean, is she just a challenge? Is the case a challenge? Is that what I was doing there this morning, or was I trying to make amends?”

Faye leaned her cheek on an upturned palm for a second, and then laced her hands in front of her.

“To tell you the truth, Josie, I don’t care why you were there. I care that you were.” Faye sighed. She looked disappointed. “Three years ago you swore you just wanted to be part of a quiet, neighborhood law practice and now it seems that’s not what you want at all. I’ve always said you had wide discretion when it came to clients, but I also assumed that you would do me the courtesy of consulting me if what you were doing would impact this firm.”

“Everything I do impacts this firm, Faye, and I think all of it has been good. Isn’t that why you left me the partnership papers to sign Friday?”

“Don’t play games, Josie. You argued for bail, and I had two reporters call for statements. I’m not some yokel. I know this is just the beginning. Thirty years ago I may have enjoyed the attention, but not now.”

Faye took a deep breath. She wasn’t happy.

“We help real people. Some of them are women running away from bad situations. Some of our clients are old. Most are just plain happy being in this small town. Do you think they’ll feel comfortable with the press crawling all over this case? Do you think our clients are going to like it when they see your picture on the five o’clock news, or they can’t get hold of you because you’re in court for weeks, instead of hours?”

Josie’s fingers went to her lips again but she stopped short of biting her nails. She hadn’t done that since she was fourteen.

“You’re right. Everything happened so fast,” Josie mused.

“I understand the lure of old times and old challenges. Look, you’re an athlete, Josie. Sport isn’t only a physical thing. Once you get wrapped around this you won’t quit until you’ve won.”

Josie wriggled her fingers. She made a fist before flexing again. She moved in her chair like a fighter unwilling to admit he was past his prime, but still eager to see if he could survive one more bout in the ring.

“It’s the girl who’s important.” Josie said. “I had a connection with her that I just couldn’t ignore.”

“That’s valid but will you be able to live with whatever you do for her?”

“Rudy is taking this to the grand jury. I’ve got at least three days to figure that out, I guess.”

“Well, then I suppose we’ll see what happens in three days, won’t we?” Faye picked up her glasses, but when she put them on she didn’t seem ready to work. She was looking at Josie as if she wore magnifying glasses.

“I don’t want to see you hurt, Josie, and I don’t want to see my practice compromised.”

Josie tilted back in the chair. She tapped her feet softly. Faye’s perspective had put her off her timing and her tenuous commitment. She stood up.

“I’d never do anything to compromise this practice, or you. I’ll pass on this if you say so, but Hannah’s a step kid stuck in between her mother and Fritz Rayburn’s son. Who else is going to defend someone like that?”

“There are plenty who will, Josie,” Faye answered truthfully.

“Not the way I will, Faye. I’ve been on top; I don’t care whether I get there again so I don’t have an outside agenda. Linda is worried about her marriage; her stepfather wouldn’t mind if she disappeared. I’ll be there just for Hannah.”

Faye knew Josie was walking into a brick wall but she also knew she couldn’t do anything about that so she gave neither blessing, nor veto.

“Keep it to a dull roar, Josie, that’s all I ask.”

Josie stepped away from the desk, a half-smile on her face. This was no resounding cry of support, but it was something. She was almost out the door when Faye called to her.

“Josie, nothing you do for this girl will make up for the past. Not your lawyer past, or your daughter past. You do know that, don’t you?”

“Of course,” she answered.

It was the first time she had lied to Faye.

Chapter 10

“TODAY, the grand jury indicted Hannah Sheraton on charges of arson and murder. She remains free on bail. No trial date has been set.” - Superior Court Press Office

“I am pleased to announce that I will ask the Commission on Judicial Appointments to confirm the nomination of Kip Rayburn to the California Supreme Court. Mr. Rayburn brings a wealth of experience to the bench. On a personal note, Mr. Rayburn’s father, Fritz Rayburn, was the victim of a horrible crime. While the Rayburn family has suffered greatly, this experience will set Mr. Rayburn apart in terms of empathy and fortitude. I look forward to Kip Rayburn’s confirmation so that he may carry on the excellent work his father began.” - Joe Davidson, Governor of California

“I’m honored by the governor’s nomination and look forward to the confirmation process. Until then, I will do everything possible to support my wife, and her daughter, during the coming days of Hannah’s trial and hope that a judicious solution to this sad problem can be expeditiously found. No, I’m sorry, no more questions.” - Kip Rayburn, California Supreme Court Nominee

Archer was in Mexico checking up on a young pup CFO whose board of directors believed he was smuggling drugs in the widgets they manufactured down there in Baja. He had proved them right in record time, sent a bill from Cabo and was now on a picture safari, incommunicado, camping on some beach, taking his time coming back. He didn’t know that Hannah had been indicted, but everyone else in the world did. Nobody could have kept a lid on what was going on. California loved a triangle and, as triangles went, this one was a doozy. Talk radio aficionados were already split with those who figured the stepdaughter was a bitch of the first degree and should fry, those who sympathized with the plight of a stepchild probably pushed to take drastic steps to be noticed, and those who refused to believe a child could possibly have had anything to do with Judge Rayburn’s death.

Baxter & Associates was reeling from the impact. Faye wasn’t happy. Josie was subdued. Angie, who was used to drawing up standard paperwork, was now organizing the discovery documents: arson reports, timelines, police reports, forensics, autopsy report and interviews with anyone who ever had any contact with Hannah Sheraton. Tiffany barely had time for a snack as reporters called for comments, and new clients with big problems called for consults.

Linda was devastated. She had convinced herself this was all a mistake. When Josie told them about the indictment and what would follow, Hannah touched her mother over and over again trying, perhaps, to comfort them both. Hannah’s green eyes never left Josie’s face, and Josie did not suggest they think about finding another attorney for the trial. She couldn’t in the face of Hannah’s silent fear.

On the beach, people who hadn’t realized Josie was an attorney suddenly looked at her differently; they had an opinion about Hannah Sheraton. Billy Zuni told Josie to friggin’ kick ass. Josie couldn’t sleep, so half the patio tiles were laid in the dead of night. When she got the jitters thinking about cross-examination, exhibits, and evidence, she felt suddenly overwhelmed by a task that long ago had been second nature. She wanted Archer back every minute that Hermosa lay under the blanket of dark. But daylight came and there was work to be done and Josie put aside her disquiet.

Four days after the indictment, Linda summoned Josie to Malibu. It was still hot, even though fat, grey clouds hung off the coast adding humidity to the heat equation, as Josie drove Pacific Coast Highway. The Rayburn’s beach house was set back two hundred yards off the highway. The closest neighbor was a mile away. The place was lit up like a movie set and might as well have been on its own planet.  A giant fingerprint whorl of sand stone served as a driveway; the landscaping was exquisitely sparse: cactus, sea grasses, smooth stones, and jagged boulders. Beyond that there was beach. Prime property. Rayburn had done well for himself before taking the bench.

Twirling the Jeep into the drive, Josie stopped next to a Mercedes. A Lexus and a yellow VW bug shared the space in front of a four-car garage. Josie yanked on the emergency brake, and checked out the VW while she collected her things. The bug needed a wash and there was a boot on the back wheel. Hannah wasn’t going anywhere in that thing. Josie got out of the car, tossed her baseball cap in the back, and checked out the amazing piece of architecture the Rayburns now called home.

A seemingly simple construct, closer inspection revealed a marvelous origami box of a home: glass butted stucco, stucco melted into copper, copper ran into tile, and that tile surrounded a pool of water that welcomed visitors with a serenity that masked the problems of the people inside.

A flight of low-rise steps brought Josie to a door as tall as the ten-foot wall that surrounded the house. It had oxidized to the strangely pleasing blue-green of exposed copper. A relief of angles as sharp as a maze of thorns was etched onto its surface.

“Come in, Josie.”

Linda’s voice, made deeper by the intercom, came through a hidden speaker. Josie scanned for the camera. She should have tagged the security before she was seen.

“What’s the trick?” There was no knob or handle on the door.

“Push it.”

Josie did as she was told and both sides swung open. Another touch and it revolved. Yet another and it closed again. It was a brilliant collaboration of art and engineering. She pushed again and passed into a courtyard paved in buff colored tile surrounded by walls of smooth stucco. Cut through the middle of this outdoor room was an endless pool.  The water seeped under a glass wall that bared the heart of the house.

In front of the glass, in the middle of the pool, stood a bronze statue of a nude woman. She was contorted into a position of perpetual pain, or ecstasy, depending on one’s point of view. Josie saw pain of the most humiliating and personal sort. Given what she knew about Hannah, Josie saw . . .

“Are you coming in?”

Josie tore her eyes from one tortured woman to another. Hannah stood in an opening in the glass wall. Her jeans were cut so low on the hip she could have belted them at her knees. Her white and blue checked long sleeved top was tied under her breasts. Her bellybutton had two piercings. There was a tattoo on her right hip and a streak of dried blood that stuck her shirtsleeve to her arm. Josie’s eyes flickered toward that wound only to look away and see the statue.

“Nice place,” Josie commented dryly.

“Un-huh.” Hannah walked to the pool, hands pumping, counting as she considered the statue.

“What do you think about that?”

“I can’t even begin to imagine what’s happening to her,” Josie said.

“I can.” Hannah’s voice was flat.

Silently Josie moved away. It would be easy to be drawn into the whirlpool of Hannah’s problems, real or imagined. But Josie wasn’t her shrink. Josie wasn’t her mother. Josie was her attorney and she had to resist Hannah’s attempt to make her anything else.

“Your mom’s expecting me.”

“Kip, too,” Hannah said.

“That’s half the battle,” Josie muttered as she followed Hannah into the house.

“No it isn’t,” Hannah assured her.

Chapter 11

KIP Rayburn was nothing to look at. He wasn’t unattractive, simply unmemorable. Light brown hair and not much of it; narrow face and not much to it. He had a slight body that let his clothes hang well but without flair. Yet, Kip Rayburn compensated for his ordinariness. His power was there in the way he stood on the fringe, instead of presenting himself front and center. There was power in his money. There was power now in his nomination.

“Josie, this is my husband, Kip.”

Linda touched Josie’s arm, then she turned and raised her hand toward her husband. She was a veritable Vanna White in the game of domesticity. Josie had too much to do to play along, so she walked across the huge living room and put out her hand.

“It’s good to finally meet you. I’m glad we could all get together,” she said.

Kip did a once over and seemed to frankly find her lacking. He didn’t like her casualness, her athletic and boyish figure, and her less than classic features. Maybe he didn’t like the fact that she wasn’t as impressed with him as everyone else seemed to be these days. Still, he hid his feelings under a thin blanket of hospitality, and smiled perfunctorily.

“Some of my colleagues know your work. I understand it was impressive,” he said by way of greeting.

“It still is.” Without waiting to be asked, she sat in a horseshoe chair and put her portfolio at her feet. “Congratulations on your nomination.”

“Thank you. I hope I can live up to the honor.” Kip settled on the curved sofa and put both his arms across the back.  The pose did nothing for him. “I was going to take over a partnership interest in Rayburn & Frank, but public service is a great opportunity.”

“Your father would be proud if you followed either one, I’m sure.”

With that, Kip Rayburn changed. One arm came down and rested in his lap, closing him off, the other dropped to the cushion. He crossed his legs. The mention of his father made Kip seem less than master in this house.

“Linda,” Kip said. “Will you get us something to drink? Hannah could help you.”

“Sure, honey. What do you want?” Linda asked.

“A glass of wine.”

“Josie, what can I get you?”

“Nothing, thanks.” Josie’s eyes flickered to Hannah.

Linda stood up and summoned her daughter. “Hannah?”

“I don’t want anything.” She crossed her legs and sank to the floor next to Josie, close to Josie.

“Hannah.” Linda was sharp. This was no request; it was a command. Hannah stiffened, sitting up straighter. One finger jumped as it tapped frenetically against her knee. Finally, reluctantly, Hannah acquiesced and followed her mother. Josie waited until they were gone before talking to Kip.

“Don’t you think keeping liquor here is a little hard for Hannah?” Josie raised a brow.

“The cabinet’s locked. We’re very clear on the consequences if Hannah steps out of line this time.”

“I know the conditions of her bail are very specific,” Josie commented, “but it might help her if you simply didn’t have alcohol in the house.”

“I’m referring to my conditions, Ms. Bates, in my home.”

Kip’s gaze was steady, his decision final. Josie had underestimated him. Perhaps Davidson had made a good choice in nominating Kip to replace his father. She backed off on Hannah and made small talk instead. She spoke about the house, Fritz’s love of art, the huge black canvases slashed with red that were the judge’s favorites, Fritz’s real estate acumen, Fritz’s -

“Here we are.”

Linda was back with refreshments, a glass of water for Josie just in case. The only thing missing was Hannah.

“Shouldn’t this be a family meeting?” Josie asked.

“It is,” Kip answered and Josie understood. Hannah was Cinderella but instead of ashes and stepsisters it was Kip and sand dunes.

Linda settled herself next to her husband. Her long legs were crossed at the ankles, her hand rested on his thigh. Square cut diamond earrings winked brilliantly as she moved and settled and still couldn’t seem to find a comfortable place next to Kip.

“Ms. Bates,” Kip began. “No matter what the court says, Hannah is still a child and a very disturbed one at that. She is good at letting you see what she wants you to see. The point is, Hannah is ill and she is our responsibility. Her problems are deep, chronic and unresolved. The girl needs intensive therapy, and that’s what we intend to see she gets.”

“Kip, we shouldn’t overstate the situation.” Linda broke in but Kip quieted his wife, tightening his grip on her hand. Linda gave no indication that she felt it as she addressed Josie. There was still some of the old Linda left, the woman who had a mind of her own.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about Hannah when I first came to see you, Josie. I don’t like to admit how disturbed she is. Things have been awful since she found out she has to stand trial. She’s cutting herself more often.” Linda glanced at Kip and now her hand curled around his. They were together again. “We don’t believe she will be able to make it through a trial.”

“I’ve made some inquiries regarding a plea bargain.” Kip took over. Josie remained impassive, her heart hardening with each word spoken. “I believe the District Attorney would be open to that. I think a plea bargain would be in everyone’s best interest.”

The silence was palpable in the glass house with the high ceilings. It wafted upward like heat, leaving the space between Josie and the Rayburns. It was a frigid, unwelcoming place.

“Really? And what are the conditions of your plea?” Josie asked quietly.

“Care, not incarceration, is what we’re after,” Kip answered.

“That’s what you want, Linda?” Josie asked.

Linda got up, unable to look Josie in the eye. She walked toward the tall windows that opened onto the beach. Her reflection in the glass was ephemeral: hands lengthening as they wrung together, face contorting into a rubbery mask of grief, her body a watery column of sky blue silk. Her back was to Josie. That was a dangerous position to be in because Josie’s outrage was as sharp as a dagger. But her anger was meant for Kip Rayburn. He was like the kid who plays hide-and-seek, then rats on everyone so he can win the game. When Linda muttered her agreement, Josie turned on Kip.

“Do you believe Hannah killed your father?”

“No. No we don’t.” Linda was quicker than her husband but he weighed in.

“I didn’t say that,” Kip insisted.

“Then you have no faith in my ability to defend your daughter,” Josie pushed. “Is that it?”

“No.” Kip said.

“Of course not . . .” Linda walked around the couch, trailing the thought into nothingness as she sat down next to her husband. “Josie, our decision has nothing to do with you.”

“Well it must if you feel that your husband has to act as counsel and discuss a plea behind my back. I didn’t realize you were a criminal attorney, Mr. Rayburn.”

“I’m not, but I understand that there are always options in any trial. I believe if you can expedite a matter to the benefit of everyone concerned, then it should be done.”

“And that’s just going to be a fine attitude on the bench, isn’t it?” Josie drawled sarcastically. “Forget justice. Forget the question of innocence or guilt. You’ll just make sure everyone’s happy by making problems go away.”

“Josie, please. This is about what’s good for Hannah,” Linda cried.

“No it isn’t. In fact, I don’t exactly know what this is about.” Josie leaned on the arm of her chair and pointed with one hand at Kip Rayburn. “And if you’re so all fired up and determined to do what’s right for Hannah, where were you when she needed your help? The night she was arrested, for instance? The day of the bail hearing when, for your information, I already flew that plea balloon past Rudy Klein. He wouldn’t even discuss it. Where were you then?”

“I was mourning my father, Ms. Bates, and I don’t appreciate you questioning my motives. My concern is for my wife, myself and, yes, my stepdaughter. If you question that, then why don’t you convince me that you can prevail if we go to trial?”

“Why don’t you ask me to walk on water?” Josie threw up her hands. “I’ve had the discovery documents less than a week. If you want me to lay out a defense I can’t do it, but I can tell you there are problems with the prosecution. Klein hasn’t asked that lesser charges be considered. That means he will have to prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that Hannah intended to kill Fritz, and I’ll make that damn near impossible for him.”

Kip scoffed, “That’s too simplistic. Nothing is ever certain with a jury trial.”

“Kip’s right. Nearly impossible isn’t good enough,” Linda murmured.  Her green eyes clicked a notch to look past Josie’s shoulder. Josie tried to engage her again.

“But, Linda, if we plead out Hannah still goes to jail.”

“That’s not what we want,” Linda said quietly. “We don’t want her in jail at all.”

Josie pulled back, surprised and curious.

“What do you think could happen? What do you think they would do with her? Slap her wrists and tell her not to play with matches?”

“Hannah can be remanded to a psychiatric facility for treatment. She’ll plead no contest to arson and reckless endangerment in the death of my father.” Kip was firm. He spoke for both of them yet, unlike Linda, his face was as blank and transparent as the end sheet of a book. “It would be best for everyone. Linda and I both agree.”

Josie’s elbow was cocked on the arm of the chair. She cradled her chin and looked at the two on the couch. Finally, she shook her head and dropped her hand.

“No. I won’t let her plead out to a sentence in a state run psychiatric facility. I’m sorry.”

Josie started to get up, but Kip stopped her with a warning.

“You don’t have a choice here, Ms. Bates.”

“But I do have a voice. Linda gave it to me when she retained me. Listen, if you put Hannah in a place like that she’ll never get well. She will be locked up with women who are certifiably insane. Hannah may have problems, but there is no way you can put behavioral difficulties on a par with schizophrenia and homicidal . . .”

Josie paused and sat up just a little straighter. She’d almost missed it. She slid her eyes Kip’s way.

“This isn’t about Hannah. It’s about you, isn’t it? You’re worried about your confirmation, so you’re going to sacrifice Hannah. Is that it?”

“I resent that.” Linda half rose from the sofa but Kip held her back. She shook him off hard. “I’m the one that begged you to take this case, and that should prove I’m worried about my daughter. A trial will jeopardize Hannah’s mental health and that’s what we’re concerned about. Period.”

Josie opened her mouth to argue, but before she could Kip asked the million-dollar question.

“How do you know she didn’t murder my father?” Kip asked quietly.

“Because she said so in court,” Josie pointed out.

“How do you know she didn’t set the fire that resulted in my father’s death?”

Josie understood the implication. Setting the fire without knowing Fritz was in the house would be a lesser offense and, indeed, Josie could plea bargain down on that. But she knew something they didn’t.

“It doesn’t matter. Death in the commission of arson doesn’t apply here.” Josie looked straight at Kip Rayburn. “Your father sustained a head wound before the fire started.”

“Hannah hit him? She attacked my father?” Kip stuttered in disbelief.

“We don’t know who hit him.” Josie answered honestly. “It could have happened in a fall and then we could argue death in the commission of arson. But Rudy Klein believes it was a deliberate assault. That’s why a satisfactory plea is going to be nearly impossible. Your only choice is to let me build a defense. Hannah is entitled to that, at least.”

“You can take all your entitlement crap and shove it,” Kip shot back.

“Kip, please,” Linda pleaded, but Kip was on a roll. He ignored her, intent on Josie as if she were responsible for the demon child in their midst.

“From the very beginning we’ve had to wonder if Hannah set that fire, now we have to think that she may have beaten him? This is too much, Linda. I’m not going to have this woman waltz in here and tell us that we’re heartless and self-centered if we don’t do what she says. I know Cooper will work with us and that’s what I want.” Kip paced, so angered he could hardly contain himself.

“But there’s a good chance she’ll be acquitted,” Josie objected as he threw himself onto the sofa, pushing into a corner of the couch.

“Then prove it to me now. Prove that, and we’ll go to trial. If you can’t, then I have to believe Hannah’s a murderer and we are at risk if you get her off. The fact that you’re talented enough to do that makes my blood run cold.”

Josie was incredulous. What kind of demand was this? Show me the killer; Hannah can be free. It was appalling; a black and white demand with no room to maneuver. Even in court Josie would never have to find an alternative perpetrator.

“My job is to prove that Hannah didn’t murder your father, not find out who did. You’re acting like Hannah is a natural born killer. She’s never been violent before, has she?”

“Stop pretending.” Kip stood up quickly. His leg hit the coffee table. The glasses shuddered. One fell, spilling the wine over the glass top. “She cuts herself up like a piece of meat. I’d say that’s violent.”

“Hannah hurts herself, not other people.” Josie snapped her head toward Linda. “Linda, for God’s sake, there would have been something big before this. Hannah would have killed small animals, torn the wings off butterflies.”

Kip whirled and leaned on the empty chair next to Josie’s.

“You’re not a psychiatrist. We’ve spoken to her doctor a thousand times. And what does he say? He says ‘well, I don’t think she’s dangerous, but these situations are unpredictable.’” Kip’s mimic of the doctor was cruel, and his next words bitter. “If he doesn’t know, how in the hell do you?”

His plain face morphed as he pushed away from the chair. He was in charge. He was driven, determined to have his way.

“We’re telling you we need this resolved now. We are the ones responsible for her. We’re the ones who have to live with her, not you.”

Josie stood up. Kip Rayburn didn’t have enough game to shut her down. She didn’t care whose son he was, or who he was about to become.

“I’m Hannah’s attorney and, as such, I am responsible for the welfare of my client. So let me tell you what I know. Hannah won’t last a minute if she serves a sentence in a psychiatric facility. You think she’s got problems now? Just wait until they release her someday and she shows up on your doorstep. I guarantee you won’t turn your lights off at night. Or are you one of those bleeding hearts that think criminals actually go into those places for treatment?”

Josie’s hands punctuated every word that came out of her mouth. She whipped toward Linda and back to Kip, trying to find one who would stand with her for Hannah.

“Those places are dark, third rate institutions where overworked doctors make out reports and prescribe electroshock and pills that will keep Hannah so doped up she won’t even know when one of the low life orderlies decides she looks like prime pickings. So he’ll rape her, and she won’t even know it. Or another inmate will…”

“Stop it! Josie, stop it!” Horrified, Linda cried out as she buried her face in her hands. It was Josie who got to her first. She took Linda’s hands in her own and forced them down.

“Linda, listen to me.”

“Wait just a minute,” Kip rushed to the sofa. Josie met him head on, daring him to interfere.

“Back off,” she growled, tired of him now.  “Linda, look at me. This is your daughter’s life. It’s not a game. It’s deadly serious and what you do now is going to affect her whole life, Linda. You’re her mother for God’s sake. Do you really think she did something she should go to jail for?”

Linda’s bright eyes darted everywhere, searching for the right answer. Her lips parted – pink, pink lips – but it was hard for her to speak. She turned those eyes toward her husband, but Josie put one hand to Linda’s cheek and made her focus on the question.

“Do you want Hannah to suffer?” Josie whispered angrily, pushing for a decision.

“I don’t want her in jail for something she didn’t do,” Linda answered back with words that were dry and fragile. Josie chased after them, collecting Linda’s wishes like fall leaves and bringing them back to drop in Linda’s lap.

“Then don’t throw her away. Don’t abandon her. A mother can’t do anything worse than that.”

Linda glanced at Kip. She hung her head and curved toward Josie. They were a conspiracy of two, excluding Kip. This was between them, women who understood a child’s life was at stake.

“Can you win?” Linda whispered, and the undercurrent of absolute terror didn’t escape Josie’s notice. She felt it, too.

“I’ll give it everything I’ve got, Linda. Your gut said to trust me, so trust your gut now.” There was a heartbeat of silence, a bubble of apprehension surrounded Josie and Linda. Josie held tighter, whispered more urgently. “Let me try.”

Linda slid one hand from Josie’s and then the other. She put her fingers to her lips. They trembled. From behind them she called to her husband who stood apart, his eyes shuttered, his body taut.

“Kip?”

“You decide, Linda. She’s your daughter.”

Josie closed her eyes. Those words were so cruel, so unnecessary. She willed Kip Rayburn to give his wife a sign that he would stand beside her. He didn’t. Linda would have to stand on her own. She did it well.

“I want you to try, Josie. I owe Hannah so much.”

Josie dropped her head. Linda’s pain of indecision was real, but Josie couldn’t believe there was even a choice here. If Hannah were her daughter, Kip Rayburn would have eaten their dust.

Exhausted, relieved, Josie stood up. She walked back to her chair and picked up her briefcase. She had to pass Kip Rayburn as she left. She stopped beside him. They would need him.

“It’s for the best, Mr. Rayburn. I promise you. No one will think differently.”

“We all have to do what we think is right,” he said quietly, his back to her. Josie started to leave but he called to her, walked toward her, and spoke to her. “Just so we’re clear. I don’t like the way you’re playing with our lives. My father is dead, and I think Hannah had something to do with it. I don’t know what it was, I don’t know how she did it, I don’t know if she actually lit the match, but I’m telling you she’s trouble. So, go ahead and prepare your case. I’ll pay your fee. I’ll sit in that courtroom and support my wife, but don’t you expect me to root for you after what you did to my family tonight. Do you understand?”

“Sure,” Josie muttered, knowing she didn’t understand anything about this family – especially where Hannah fit in.

Chapter 12

JOSIE breathed deep, filling lungs that seemed to have had all the air sucked out of them. This was not the triumph of architectural living space she originally thought. It was an exquisite tomb, and the time spent in it made her feel intellectually brittle and emotionally dry. Hannah, Kip and Linda, all with their own issues, their own guilt, their own needs, were now going to be locked together through the eternity of this trial because Josie had forced the issue.

The things Josie had known when she arrived - the trial schedule, the essence of her strategy – now seemed less the beginning of a stunningly constructed defense and more a desperate attempt to dazzle a jury that would have the same concerns that Kip had. Worst of all, she hated Kip for making this so damned personal. Josie didn’t know if she fought hard because she believed in Hannah, because she wanted to prove that she could win, or because Kip Rayburn’s reticence seemed inhuman even under the circumstances.

Still, it bothered Josie that she hadn’t acknowledged the fundamental problem. In this family the accused and the victim’s survivor were linked together by the tenuous thread of Linda. One of them would lose – or perhaps all of them – and still Josie would be standing. She could retreat to her office at Baxter & Associates when this was all over. She had an escape route. She wasn’t in danger of losing a husband, or a daughter. That realization put Linda in a whole new light. She deserved a heck of a lot of respect for what she’d done tonight.

Josie walked back over the flesh colored tiles, past the horridly graphic statue and thought of Hannah, a girl who had no say in her future. Hannah was Fritz Rayburn’s charity case; not even a blip on the radar for Kip. Maybe that was what bothered Josie the most. They spoke of Hannah as if she was a leaking faucet that annoyed everyone, but not enough to fix it once and for all.

Josie pushed open the huge copper door and walked back out to the real world.

The stars were brilliant. A near full moon made the white sand sparkle, and spilled a shimmering path of light right down the center of the ocean. Josie lifted her face as a surprisingly cool breeze sifted through her hair. The night was pungent with sea smells, but still she was ill at ease. Something was forgotten. It wasn’t until Josie saw Hannah sitting behind the wheel of her Jeep that Josie remembered what it was. She should have said goodbye to her client.

“Hey,” Hannah called as Josie ambled toward the Jeep. The floodlights made the black finish look like onyx and Hannah like a vision.

“I thought you were going to leave without saying anything to me.” Hannah’s lashes covered her eyes in a long, languid motion. Her head swirled and when she looked at Josie again her expression was almost vacant.

“I was,” Josie admitted. Whoever said the truth never hurt anyone was wrong. It hurt Josie. She wasn’t sure what it did to Hannah. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have forgotten. I was just thrown off base a little by our meeting.”

“Still trying to figure out what happened?”

“I guess so,” Josie admitted. She put her hand on Hannah’s shoulder and gave her a gentle shove. “Move over.”

Hannah crawled over the gearshift into the passenger seat. Her right hand touched the door handle as she settled herself in the new place. Josie waited, forcing herself not to count along. When Hannah was done, she said:

“Kip’s jealous, that’s what it is. He’s supposed to be getting all the attention and everything, but I’m getting it. Plus, he doesn’t like things to be complicated. I’m the complication. The trial is a complication and now you are, too.”

“What about your mom? She doesn’t think you’re a complication, does she?”

Hannah whispered. “My mom loves me. Nobody can say different.”

“I didn’t mean to imply that.” Josie put her head back on the seat and looked up at the sky. Hannah’s defensiveness was familiar. Josie had been that way about her own mother at Hannah’s age. The difference was that Josie wasn’t sure if her mother actually did love her.

“She wants to make sure we stay safe,” Hannah went on as if she hadn’t heard Josie. “She’d do anything to make sure we stay safe. I know she thinks it would be better for both of us if you could just get the District Attorney to send me to a hospital. Kip just thinks it would be easier.”

“What do you think?”

“I think it’s fucked and so do you,” Hannah laughed. It was the first time Josie had heard her do that. It was a beautiful sound and gone too quickly.

“How do you know that’s what I think?” Josie laughed, too. It felt good on a night like this when everything else looked so dark and desperate.

“The master control on the intercom is in the kitchen. I heard you fight for me. I didn’t hear all of it. I thought mom was coming. She thinks I don’t know about the hospital thing.”

Josie sat up, retrieved her baseball hat and took her keys out of the console. “So, now that we’ve got that out of the way, is there something you want to tell me?”

“Yeah, I came out here to check on your car twelve times. Then I sat in it and waited for you,” Hannah said.

“And….” Josie prodded, not quite getting the point, anxious to be home.

“Twelve times. Not twenty. Shit, twelve times!” Hannah threw up her hands. She shook her head, angry and frustrated. Her burned hand hit the console hard, keeping double time with her words. “Shit, shit, shit! I thought you’d get it. That’s a good thing.”

Josie laughed again in spite of herself. She stopped Hannah. Held her hand before the girl reached twenty hits.

“A breakthrough,” Josie said softly.

“It’s not funny,” Hannah jerked away.

“I’m not laughing at you. I’m proud of you. Twelve is better than twenty and two would be better than twelve. Hey, simple arithmetic,” Josie assured her.

“Do you think I could do that?” Hannah stared straight ahead, rigid next to Josie, waiting for her to predict failure.

“Sure, why not?” Josie put her key in the ignition. She turned her head and looked at Hannah. “We’ve got a couple of weeks before things get going, Hannah. If you could get to two that would be good. If you didn’t count at all that would be great.”

“Maybe. I won’t promise.”

Sadly Hannah’s expression was blank again, the laughter gone. Josie would have given anything to know what was behind that beautiful mask. Some lies, some information withheld, but the bottom line was real; Hannah wanted to be defended and that’s all Josie had to know.

“No problem. I know there aren’t any promises, so don’t worry.” They sat in silence. The night was so big Josie felt as if it could swallow up their problems. Hannah had a different thought altogether.

“I’m not an idiot, you know.”

“I never said you were,” Josie sighed. Children were hard to deal with; children who were on the verge of adulthood must be the hardest of all. Maybe she’d been too difficult for Emily, and that was a sad thought.

“I just want you to know that I’m afraid. I would be a real idiot if I weren’t. I can’t show it, but for me to know I’m afraid is good. That’s a big step.”

“Then I’m glad because you should be afraid,” Josie said quietly.

“Are you?” Hannah asked.

“Afraid?” Josie kept her eyes on the stars. It wasn’t a hard question; it was just hard to answer out loud.

“Yeah,” Josie whispered. “I am, but probably not for the reasons you think. You’re so young. You have such a long life ahead. There’s always a chance I won’t win.”

“And then there’s the thing you told me about that other person you defended, the person who shouldn’t have gotten off.”

“Sure. There’s that. It’s history,” Josie said quietly. She wouldn’t burden Hannah with the story of the crime; she wouldn’t scare her with the story of Rudy Klein’s desire to avenge that loss.

“Good. You have to think about me as someone who deserves to win, Josie. Someone who is totally, totally innocent. I want you to think about me that way, okay?”

With that, Hannah climbed out of the car. She didn’t get far before she turned and came back. She touched the Jeep and left again.

“Goodnight, Hannah,” Josie called and started the car.

Once again Hannah ran back toward the Jeep but this time she went to the driver’s side. One of Josie’s hands was on the gearshift; the other was on the steering wheel. Hannah stood so close Josie couldn’t have left without backing over her. Fast as lightening Hannah touched Josie twice, near caresses given with such gentleness, such hope, such raw need and intimacy they unnerved Josie.

“Two times,” Hannah whispered and then she was gone.

***

Kip Rayburn pulled the little chain on the desk lamp and opened the drawer to his right. Inside was his Los Angeles BAR address book. He took it out and turned the pages, found the number he wanted, and dialed.

He crossed his legs and waited. The phone was answered on the second ring and Kip asked to speak to Rudy Klein. Kip’s hand was clammy. His heart beat just a little faster. The things he had done tonight: challenging people, becoming angry, thinking ahead, taking his shot - were so out of character. It felt good; it was frightening. He could still hang up, but then Rudy said hello.

“Yes. Mr. Klein. This is Kip Rayburn.”

Rudy Klein didn’t seem surprised to hear from him but then that was the sign of a good lawyer. Nothing should surprise a good lawyer - or a good criminal for that matter. Minimal pleasantries were exchanged before Rudy asked what he could do for Kip.

“I received a call from your office some days ago, Mr. Klein,” Kip said. “I understand you would like to interview me.”

“I’m hoping you’ll cooperate. I know it will be difficult given your relationship with Ms. Sheraton. I promise to do everything I can to get information I need from other sources, but . . .

“That’s fine, Mr. Klein. You don’t have to worry. You’ll have no problem with me. I’ll cooperate in any interview and will answer a subpoena if necessary,” Kip interrupted. To his credit, Rudy asked no questions. He thanked Kip.

The two men hung up. Kip Rayburn kept his hand on the receiver, thinking he might actually pick it up again and tell Klein that it had all been a mistake. There really wasn’t any need to testify. Not yet. Maybe he should have waited to see how things went before putting himself out there. Then he thought again. Ian Frank had been right. Preemptive strikes were weapons of the powerful. Only fools waited until they were on the spot and Kip had been a fool for years, waiting until things with his father got out of hand before trying to put a stop to them. No, he’d done the right thing. Expedite. Expedite.

“Kip? Are you coming to bed?”

Startled, Kip took his hand off the phone. Linda stood in the doorway – tall and gorgeous - looking at him curiously. She was different since Hannah had been arrested; they were different together, too, and not in a bad way. Kip took a deep breath. He would have to tell her. He would have to tell her soon what he was doing.

“Don’t you want to come to bed?” She asked and those long fingers of hers trailed across the deep neckline of her negligee.

Yes. He’d have to tell her sooner - or later.

***

“Was that business, daddy?”

“Yeah, sport, that was business.” Rudy Klein scooped up his son and threw him over his shoulder. Mikey giggled, the way five-year-old boys will, as Rudy twirled him around once for good measure. “Yeah, that was business, and now I’m going to give you the business.”

Mikey laughed louder as Rudy carted him down the hall like a sack of potatoes. He sang a song about the wheels on a bus and bounced on his dad’s shoulder. Rudy breathed in the scent of his boy as they went. Soap and powder, the smell of a child’s soft skin that would disappear in the next few years; there was nothing like it. Rudy never wanted to forget any of it. The same way he wouldn’t forget the sound of Mikey’s laughter, the feel of those chubby hands against his back, the voice that was as clear as an angel’s, the all too precious moments of childhood that Rudy was allowed to share as his little boy was shuttled between mother and father.

“Here we go!” Rudy whipped him off his shoulder and cradled his back so that Mikey became an upside-down airplane. In a second he landed smack dab in the middle of the little bed. Rudy always kept it made up with fresh sheets in case Pam let him have more than his court ordered visitation.

“Do it again!” Mikey cried, holding out his arms, his little body wiggling with anticipation.

“Nope, it’s too late. Time for big boys to be asleep. Mom is coming early in the morning to get you.”

“How early?” Mikey asked as Rudy tucked the sheets tight and turned out the bedside light.

“Too, early,” Rudy said lightly, trying to keep the sadness out of his voice.

He could put criminals behind bars, he could fight the bad guys on every front, but he couldn’t convince the judge who handled his divorce that picking a kid up at five in the morning wasn’t good for anyone.

“Daddy, I could stay here ‘till you got back from business,” Mikey said seriously, willing to forgo the pleasure of putting on his little back pack at five in the morning so mommy could drive him to day care and she could get to her job on time.

“Sorry, sport” Rudy said and ran his hand through Mikey’s dark curls, “but mom says she can’t stand having you gone one more minute. Not one more.”

“Can you stand me gone one minute?” The little boy asked.

Rudy touched his son’s face. He smiled and kissed Mikey’s cheek.

“No, sport, I can’t stand it when you’re gone any minutes,” Rudy said truthfully. “And that’s a good thing. That means that no matter what happens, there are always two people in this whole wide world who want you.”

Mikey smiled and turned on his side, settling himself into his little nest, one last thought on his mind.

“I bet some kids don’t even have one person who loves them so much,” he said with satisfaction.

“I bet you’re right, sport,” Rudy whispered back.

Standing up, Rudy looked at his boy, still feeling guilty that he didn’t have the perfect family. Then he thought of Hannah Sheraton and realized Mikey didn’t have it so bad after all. At least he didn’t have anyone who was willing to throw him away – or some prosecutor determined to put him away.

***

Hannah sat on a stool in her room.

It was a very low, very small red lacquer stool. Her knees were drawn up and she leaned over far enough to rest her chest on them. Her arms were wrapped around her legs and her face was turned toward the glass door that opened her room to the beach. Hannah could see out; anyone could see in. But there was no one to see. Kip owned the beach, and the house, now that Fritz was dead.

At her feet was a small black porcelain dish, a delicate silver fish painted in the center. She could see each scale shimmering on its perfect little body. A razor blade lay across the fish’s belly. No one could figure out how she managed to cut herself. The cook watched the knives. Kip used an electric razor. Linda rationed disposables so Hannah could shave her legs thinking she couldn’t do anything obscene with them. Clever Hannah saved one now and again. She broke open the plastic casing, took the tiny blade and hid it in a pouch in the back of her closet. Hannah still had two blades left in her pouch. The third was on the dish with the fish.

Curled on her stool, Hannah stared at that blade for the longest time. Where, she wondered, did the light come from that caused it to glint in the darkened room? How big was the machine that beveled the edges of that tiny piece of metal? Who invented cutting blades a million, zillion years ago? Hannah wondered if that person had a name, or if they were just like her – just someone.

Time came and went and finally Hannah picked it up. The blade was so small Hannah took some pride in being able to cut just deep enough, just far enough, to draw just enough blood with such a tiny instrument.

She looked over her shoulder on the off chance that her mother might see what was happening and stop her. When the door of her room didn’t open Hannah made a parallel cut alongside a long-healed scar. The second cut was short. The third was a series of three cuts all in a line. SOS. Dot. Dash. Dot. Hannah looked at her handiwork, pale in the limited light. There wasn’t much blood. She hadn’t gone deep. Tomorrow she would go deeper.

Unwinding herself, Hannah stood up and opened the glass door. Leaving her shoes behind, she crossed the patio. The sand was cold; the air was warm. There was a breeze that tousled her hair. Hannah bent down and dug a hole. She worked relentlessly as the dry sand fell in on itself again and again. When it was deep enough, Hannah buried her blade so no child who might stumble upon this private beach would be hurt. Hannah would never want a child to be hurt. Never.

When Hannah was done she prowled the perimeter of the house, holding her cut arm up to the ocean air. The salt stung and the wounds tingled but nothing could really hurt Hannah. Not much, anyway. Not often, anyhow. There had been a time not too long ago, when she was hurt so bad she thought she would die. But that time was almost forgotten. When the trial was done she’d forget it altogether.

Hannah twirled, arms out, her long hair floating in the breeze. Her eyes were closed and every time she peeked Hannah expected to see day. But it was always night. The hours hadn’t passed and that’s when Hannah got sick.

She stumbled back to her bedroom and sat on her little stool, pulling herself tight in a ball as she rocked. She wished she could paint, but no flammables were allowed around her. That was a no-no. The judge said so. If she could paint, the sickness inside would go away. Hannah made a muffled little mewling sound and rocked her feet heel to toe.

Her chin hurt because it was pushed hard into the knobs of her knees. Her cheekbones felt as if they would crack from the pressure as she clenched her jaw. Hannah closed her eyes and rocked. She thought of Josie. There’s a lesson Hannah. Take a lesson from Josie, Hannah. Life’s hard. Deal with it. Fight for it. Stand up, Hannah. Do it for yourself.

Then it didn’t matter whom Hannah thought about. She sprang from her seat, stuck her hand between her mattress and box spring and found the other things she kept hidden. She opened the little box. Three little joints left. Three was her lucky number. Three blades. Three joints. Three people in this house.

The matches were in the bathroom, hidden in the box of tampons. They wouldn’t let her have paints but nobody checked for matches. How dumb was that? Outside again, Hannah cupped her hands, bent her head and put a match to the roach. She sucked the smoke in deep and held it. The sick feeling didn’t leave. It squeezed her head so she started to walk around the house, ticking and shaking the little box of wooden matches as she went. Shake and shake, counting the times she heard the scratching sound they made. Hannah shook and shook, trying to count the number of matches by the sound. Hannah walked to the back of the house and looked up toward the bedroom her mother shared with Kip. The lights were out. They were asleep. Kip hadn’t looked at Hannah yet. All Linda did was look at Kip. All Linda did was say everything would be all right. Hannah just didn’t know which of them she was saying it to. Guilt. Guilt. It was the word that connected them all, and kept them all apart.

She walked to her side of the house. Head down and steps measured she paced off her prison. When Hannah had journeyed ten times on that route she detoured inside and walked up the stairs. Hannah was a shadow. No one knew she was there even when it was light. Half the joint was gone; the other half snuffed out and cupped between her hands along with the box of matches. No one would hear them shake as Hannah walked up those stairs and stood outside her mother’s bedroom door. She peered through a crack in the door. They were there. Her mother with her long hair and naked shoulders, Kip curled around her in sleep; Kip who would be a judge; Kip who was just like his father. They were there. In bed. Together.

Hannah turned around and walked down the stairs.

Hannah walked up those stairs again and stood outside the bedroom door and looked.

She walked down.

She walked up and stood and looked.

She held the matches and the roach cupped in her hand so no one would hear, no one would smell the smoke, and no one would know she was standing outside the bedroom door looking and thinking and wondering if she had really done the right thing the night of the fire.

***

Josie sat with her back to the wall, one foot dangling toward the floor, the other propped up on the bar stool next to her. One arm was on the bar, her hand wrapped around a glass of beer. It was still full, but the foam had long since faded. A half eaten burger was on the plate beside her. Eric Clapton was on the jukebox, and a couple of baseball teams silently ran around on the big-screen TV in the corner. A woman nursed a martini at a table near the window. A couple was having a heated disagreement in the hallway that led to the bathrooms. Other than that, it was a quiet night at Burt’s at the Beach.

“Is it my cooking?”

Josie swiveled her head but didn’t lift it from the wall behind her. She smiled at Burt. Burt, who was once one of the finest male volleyball players on the circuit, still looked ruggedly handsome despite the crow’s feet, and the gray through his long blond hair. He crashed and burned on his motorcycle in ninety-four. Broke about every bone in his body. He still looked damn good, but he lost everything that made him one of the best on the beach: his speed, his agility, and his range of motion. He spent the next two years trying to kill himself with booze and pills. Then he found a good woman and opened Burt’s. The good woman wasn’t as good as he thought, but Burt’s at the Beach was a godsend. He loved his place, and so did people who called Hermosa home. You never had to dress up, the food was basic, good and priced right, every woman was safe, every man who wasn’t was asked to leave, and Burt knew everyone’s name.

“It’s Cordon Bleu as usual, Burt. I’m just not as hungry as I thought I was.” Josie pushed the beer mug his way. “Or as thirsty.”

“I knew that the second you came through the door. Next time I’ll just refuse to serve you. Hate stuff going to waste.”

Burt took the plate and put it under the counter. He tossed the beer and put the mug in the sink. He checked out the martini woman and the feuding couple who now seemed to be making up. Then he crossed his arms on the bar and didn’t say anything more. He waited for Josie.

“So what do you do when someone mistakes professional help for personal interest, Burt?”

Burt pulled back slightly. “You can’t handle some guy? That’s a new one.”

Josie laughed softly, “Naw, nothing like that.”

“Some woman?” Burt raised his brows and wiggled them as he smiled. One of his front teeth was still broken. He didn’t want to fix it because it reminded him of how stupid he had been on his bike.

“Some kid,” Josie answered. “Some poor messed up kid.”

“Bummer,” he mumbled as he considered the ramifications of that.

“Yeah. I’m not sure what to do. What do I know about kids?” Josie traced a pattern through the water ring her mug had left on the bar as she lapsed into a thoughtful silence. “Or maybe I’m making too much of it.”

Finally Burt sighed real deep. He stood up, took the towel from his waist, and Josie’s arm by the wrist. He lifted her hand and wiped the water away. He patted her hand.

“You do what everyone else in the whole world does, Josie. Go home. Get some sleep. Start doing your job in the morning. Everything else will work itself out. It always does. Besides, Archer’s due back day after tomorrow, isn’t he? That’s going to make all right with the world.”

“You’re right. I’m tired. I’ll take Max for a walk and get some sleep.”

Josie dropped her foot off the stool, and ten bucks on the bar. Burt swiped it up, watched her go, and wondered if Josie was dumb enough to believe that piece of crap. The truth was, personal stuff like that didn’t just hang on, it burrowed like a tick, and that could make you real sick if it was the right kind of tick.

Chapter 13

“MY client looks forward to getting back to being a child.” - Josie Baylor-Bates

“I have great faith in the justice system.” – Kip Rayburn

“I want my daughter home.” - Linda Rayburn

Linda and Kip dashed up the steps of the courthouse. Josie Baylor-Bates was close behind with Hannah cringing inside her protective arm. Reporters followed, tossing questions and shoving microphones their way. The three adults threw their answers over their shoulders intent only on getting to the quiet of the courtroom.

They had exchanged no more than hellos when they met on the street. Each gave a one-sentence statement. Kip rebuffed Josie’s attempts to thank him for coming, for showing support. He was there to show his support for the court, for the system, for a girl who was only accused. It was the line the governor’s right hand man, Alex Schaeffer, had suggested he stick with. Kip hated it. Holding Linda’s hand was his idea. Linda clung to him. Even when Josie held the door open for them Linda hung back as if afraid something might happen to her if she walked through them. That was understandable. Josie had rushed up these steps with another client three years ago and met her Waterloo. Kip was taut, anxious, and trying to hide at every turn. Understandably so. He wouldn’t be able to watch the trial. The prosecution had subpoenaed him. He would wait outside the doors until it was his turn to testify. It was a despicable move by Klein and there was nothing Josie could do about it. Hannah was the only one who remained silent, her eyes downcast, hearing, no doubt, every nuance in the terse exchanges between parents and attorney, attorney and reporters.

Inside, no one spoke. They passed through the metal detectors single file. Purses, briefcases went through the conveyor belt. Arms out. Wands were passed over each of them. They waited for the elevator and entered together. They exited with Linda leading, her arm around Hannah, Kip on the other side of the girl. A tense caravan, they walked into a courtroom filled with curious, respectfully subdued spectators. The clerk was handling last minute housekeeping. The bench rose high off the floor, the seal of the state hung heavy on the wall. Josie and Hannah parted ways with the Rayburns. They went to the seats behind the bar, Josie and Hannah to the table in front of it. Josie put her briefcase on top, pushed the chair aside with her leg. Hannah was already settled, her hands in her lap, looking exactly as Josie had requested. Her wild hair was plaited in a braid down her back, wisps of caramel colored hair curled around her temple, highlighting her eyes. She wore a white sweater set, long sleeved to cover the scars on her arms. Her skirt was flowered in black and navy. It hit below her knees. Her shoes were low heeled; her multiple piercings discarded save for pearls on each earlobe.

Josie leaned down, put her hand on Hannah’s shoulder and whispered:

“I’ll be right back.”

Hannah was quick. Her hand caught Josie’s. She held on tight. Without a word she begged Josie with her eyes. Don’t go. Don’t leave. Josie extricated herself. She half-smiled knowing she wouldn’t be effective for Hannah if she couldn’t banish the ghost of Kristin Davis real fast.

“I’ll only be a minute. You can talk to your mom. It’s okay.”

Josie looked at no one as she pushed through the door, walked halfway down the long hall, went into the ladies room into a stall and closed the door behind her.

Sitting on the toilet fully dressed, Josie cradled her head in her hands. She felt heavy, unworkable, in need of some cosmic grease for joints that hadn’t moved in years. She had been so sure the determination, the excitement, the game-day exhilaration would drive away any doubt or fear that still clung to her like a fine sea spray. She was wrong.

“Come on. Come on” Josie gritted her teeth and cheered herself on. This wasn’t three years ago. Her client wasn’t an evil woman with an increasingly wicked agenda. This was Hannah who called and talked just to make sure Josie was still with her. This was a kid who showed Josie exactly how she tried to put out the fire. This was a case where all the prosecution had was circumstantial evidence. She could do this. She could win, and it would be right.

Sitting up straight, Josie took a deep breath through her nose and held it in her lungs. She put her hands in the pockets of her blazer and squared her shoulder. Her fingers curled around the picture she’d almost forgotten was there. Archer had come early in the morning, missing her as she walked Max. He had taped his favorite picture of her to the door of her house: Six pack abs showing, square jawed face straight on to the camera, hat on backward, and glaring eyes behind the glasses. He had taken it when she lost a point; Archer could see that she meant to win the next one. Now the next one was here. She wanted to do him proud, she wanted everyone to be proud including herself.

Pocketing the picture, Josie got up, washed her hands for good measure, and walked down the center aisle of the courtroom where she sat next to Hannah as the Court TV cameras rolled. Cyrus Norris, the trial judge, took the bench, Kip Rayburn left the courtroom, and Rudy Klein began his case with Chris Keenan, the arson investigator.

Young enough to be the kind of guy every woman would want to have around to put out her fire, old enough to be competent, he was the perfect witness. Blue eyed, black haired and handsomely dressed Mr. Keenan answered clearly and spoke directly to Rudy. They’d run through the preliminaries: when he arrived at the scene, ordering up the dogs, cordoning off the scene, and the suspicious color of the smoke indicating accelerants had been used. Now Rudy propped a board on an easel in front of the jury.

Exhibit one. The crime scene. The handsome Mr. Keenan pointed out where he had found the first indication that accelerants had been used to start the fire. Six feet inside the French doors on the ground level.

Exhibit two. Enlarged photos of the flooring shadowed with burn marks. Spalling, he called it. Caused by either high heat or mechanical pressure.

Keenan flashed a bright white, perfect smile at Rudy that radiated right into the jurors’ hearts. “The marks were made by high heat. A petroleum-based flammable was spilled on the asphalt tile floor and set afire. When the asphalt curled in the heat the liquid seeped through to the concrete and pooled in cracks. Bottom line, the fire on the first floor was deliberately set using a flammable liquid as an accelerant.”

“And could you identify that agent?’ Rudy asked.

“Turpentine,” the witness answered.

“And the second floor?” Rudy pointed to the exhibit.

“The vapor samples were consistent with a turpentine spill.” Keenan answered. “The fire was deliberately set just inside the door of the bedroom where the body of Justice Rayburn was found.”

“Is it unusual to find two independent points of origin in the matter of arson?”

“No. It’s very common. The arsonist realized she couldn’t rely on the first fire to accomplish her objective.”

“Your Honor, the use of the pronoun is prejudicial!” Josie was on her feet. Keenan might as well have hung a guilty sign on Hannah with that one.

“Restate, Mr. Keenan,” Judge Norris said offhandedly, leaving the outrage for the attorneys.

“In my experience, the first fire is set to destroy something and the second would be started in the hopes of destroying the evidence of the first arson or an additional crime.”

“So in this case, the objective of the first fire would be to make sure Fritz Rayburn was killed in that -”

“Your Honor! Speculative and highly prejudicial.” This time Josie flew out of her chair. Beside her, Hannah’s hands hit the underside of the table in agitation.

Judge Norris shot a finger at the prosecutor. “Mr. Klein that will not be tolerated. The jury is instructed to disregard Mr. Klein’s comment. Mr. Klein, you know the boundaries. Don’t cross them.”

“I was just connecting the dots, Your Honor,” Rudy explained, his deceit obvious to his peers. To the jury, that comely face of his wore a look of innocent surprise that he had displeased the judge.

He backed away, smiling apologetically, until the jury could no longer see his face. When he passed Josie, his expression was rock hard. He was happy to have drawn the first blood. They didn’t acknowledge one another as Josie stood. Two could play at this game. He nicked a vein; she would go for the witness’s jugular. Squaring her shoulders Josie let the jurors get a good look at her. She didn’t want them trying to figure out how tall she was when they should be watching as this witness went down in flames.

Chapter 14

“MR. Keenan, you testified that there were pools of flammable liquid found in the crevices of the concrete floor on the ground level. Would you consider that unusual given the inventory you noted in that room?”

“The concentration of the fluid was unusual,” the witness answered.

“But the room was used as an art studio. Would it be unusual to find turpentine in a studio?”

“No.”

“I wouldn’t think so either, Mr. Keenan.” Josie smiled, happy that they could instantly agree with one another. “In fact, you referred to the pooling of turpentine as a spill. Would you say it was unthinkable for an artist to accidentally spill turpentine in the course of completing a project?”

“No, it’s not unthinkable but. . .”

Josie turned back to him, all business, non-threatening. She was simply intellectually curious, a direct contrast to Rudy’s more affable style.

“So it is possible that in a studio, anyone going about the business of creating art could have accidentally spilled turpentine in that particular area.”

“Yes.”

“And even if the artist wiped it up, it would be impossible to see the liquid pooling in the cracks and crevices of the floor. Yes or no.”

“Yes,” the witness answered, chaffing against the restraint of a one-word answer.

“Thank you, Mr. Keenan. Now, can you tell me what overlap is?” Josie changed tracks effortlessly. Let Rudy use the dirty tricks; she would use finesse.

“Overlap is a phenomenon by which a fire burning on one floor licks up to the floor above it and ignites a separate fire.”

“During stage two when the fire is free burning, is it possible for a fire to spread by flashover, Mr. Keenan?” Josie asked.

“Yes.”

“How about spontaneous ignition?”

“Yes, in certain condit -”

“Convection?”

Josie questioned without defining terms. The rhythm made the words frightening, mysterious and important. She felt swept along with the tempo of the moment. It was a good feeling.

“Yes.”

“Pyrolysis?”

“Possible.”

“Could a fire spread vertically?”

Keenan raised his hand slightly in exasperation.

“Yes, it could spread up stairwells or pipe shafts. But in this case. . .”

Josie interrupted, turning toward his sketch of the crime scene.

“What is this area indicated on your sketch of the scene?” Josie pointed to a green box.

“That is a dumb waiter.”

“A dumb waiter is a hollow shaft between the first floor and the second floor of that wing, isn’t it Mr. Keenan? And the inside of this dumb waiter was charred wasn’t it, Mr. Keenan?”

“Yes.”

“Consistent with highly accelerated vertical travel of the fire?”

“Yes.”

“And this stairwell, Mr. Keenan?” Josie pointed to a rectangular area. “Another vertical path upon which the fire from the first floor could travel?”

“Yes, but that doesn’t take into consideration the flash point of the fire upstairs.”

Josie lips twitched. She barely took a breath.

“Mr. Keenan, can you tell us when the accelerant was spilled upstairs?”

“Considering the burn patterns, the rate of vaporization of the accelerants, the amount of accelerant left in the carpet samples the spill happened within minutes of being ignited.”

“And how was the fire initiated?” Josie asked, leaning toward him as if she was hanging on his every word.

“We found matches on the ground floor. We’re still testing debris on the second floor. ”

Josie walked slowly toward the jury. She stood close as if she was part of them, as if they were a team. Her skepticism radiated outward, engulfing them.

“Mr. Keenan, can you tell us who used that match to set the fire downstairs?”

“No, I cannot.”

“Could you tell if the match was dropped by someone? A smoker? Someone lighting a candle?”

“I don’t think that is probable.”

“But is it possible?” Josie prodded.

“It is possible, but not probable.”

“But it is possible,” Josie insisted.

“Yes,” Keenan acquiesced, his face coloring.

Josie nodded thoughtfully. She began to walk toward Hannah. She was almost at the table, almost by her client’s side, when suddenly she looked over her shoulder, held up a finger as if remembering something important.

“Mr. Keenan? How long have you been an arson inspector?”

If looks could kill, Josie would have been incinerated where she stood.

“Six months,” he answered.

“That long?” Josie drawled.

“And how many arson investigations have you conducted?”

“Two,” he said quietly.

“Including the Rayburn fire?” she asked.

“Objection, Your Honor!” Rudy had finally had enough. “The defense stipulated to his expert status before he took the stand. She has nothing to gain by trying to insult this witness.”

“Withdrawn,” Josie said quietly, confidently, her point well taken.

Rudy stood up without an invitation to redirect. He didn’t button his coat. Instead, he stuffed one hand in his pocket and ran his other through his hair.

“Mr. Keenan, have you completed all the necessary training an arson investigator needs to be qualified in the State of California?”

“I was top of my class.”

“And what did you do before you became an arson investigator?”

“I was a firefighter for fifteen years.”

“And could you tell the court why you are no longer a firefighter?”

“I lost my leg when I fell through the roof of a burning building while attempting to rescue a woman on the second floor.”

Rudy dismissed Chris Keenan, keeping his eyes on Josie as he walked back to his table. Disgust radiated from him. Josie’s eyes locked with his. She had nothing to be ashamed of. He would have ripped Chris Keenan to shreds if he’d been in her shoes. He just would have done it with a smile.

“I have no more questions for this very expert witness, Your Honor.”

“Then this seems to be a good time to break for lunch.”

Judge Norris ended the opening skirmish. Rudy Klein left the courtroom, Linda and Hannah walked out after the spectators. Josie sat for a minute, looking at the bench and the witness stand. The  muscles in her body had been locked since the proceedings began and now, suddenly, she realized they had miraculously relaxed. Josie laughed a little and shook her head. She was still standing.

Josie got up and rapped the wooden table for luck and turned around in the silent courtroom, turned around and found that she wasn’t quite alone after all. She walked down the center aisle, stopping when she reached the last pew.

Chapter 15

“HEY, Faye. Checking up on me so I don’t give the firm a bad name?”

Josie slung her purse over her shoulder as she pushed through the swinging gate. Smiling, she joined Faye and together they walked into the hall.

“Just happened to be in the neighborhood.”

“Right,” Josie laughed and touched Faye’s arm, steering her around a knot of attorneys and their clients who had gathered outside department 50. Hannah and Linda were gone. Kip was nowhere to be seen and Josie could only hope that he was with his wife and stepdaughter.

“I met Kip Rayburn. Introduced myself as your partner,” Faye said before giving her a sly wink. “I don’t think he appreciates your talents.”

“There are only twelve people I want to appreciate me,” Josie answered. “And I don’t want to talk about Kip Rayburn. Come on, I’ll buy you lunch. It’s the least I can do for the only friendly face in the crowd.”

“I tried to get Archer to come but he wouldn’t,” Faye said as she got into the elevator.

“I wouldn’t expect him to.”

Josie pushed the button for the ground floor and stood back, a small smile on her face. Faye didn’t understand that Archer had been with her since this whole thing started.

***

Kip Rayburn saw Josie leave the courthouse but gave her no more than a passing thought. Hidden behind the blackout windows of the state owned SUV, Hannah and Linda already sent away in another car to lunch, he concentrated on what Cheryl Winston, the governor’s campaign manager was telling him.

“Our polling results indicate there’s a fifty two percent approval rating for your appointment. The governor is happy with that.”

Kip nodded. Happy was not pleased. Pleased was not thrilled. The governor was simply happy about the results and Kip knew, without a doubt, that two percentage points were all that stood between him and mediocrity. He managed a thin smile while she kept going.

“The focus groups were supportive of you standing by your wife. They split on whether or not you owe Hannah anything. That’s to be expected. A criminal case like this engenders strong feelings both ways.”

“Did you ask them what they’d think if I testified for the prosecution?” Kip asked.

“Admiration. You score big there. They think you would be courageous. The public doesn’t view this as they would a husband testifying against his wife. Remember, half the families in this country are blended. You’ve got a lot of people who may like their new spouse, but don’t care for the kids. Or, they inherited a real bad apple when they got married. No big deal. When it comes to your nomination, they just don’t know how you stand on certain issues but they’re willing to give you a shot because of your father. Those we polled figured they don’t know anything about their local judges either, so what the heck. All in all, Mr. Rayburn, I think we’re on target. Just hang in there. Stay cool during the trial.”

Cheryl closed her folder and gave Kip a broad smile. She was just a kid. Kip hated being at the mercy of kids. Still, he smiled back. The governor obviously had faith in her, and Kip wouldn’t do anything to undermine his standing with the governor.

“I will. It will be tough, but I believe in the system.” Cheryl seemed to wince. Kip knew he had to work on his presentation. Sincerity had never been a strong suit.

“That’s admirable.” Cheryl answered in a way that made Kip feel as if he had shown his teacher a particularly unmemorable piece of artwork. “We’re thinking confirmation in about two months. I’ll let the governor know everything looks okay down here. If you need us or have any questions, just call me or Alex.”

Kip took her card, noted the plethora of numbers – fax, phone, e-mail, and cell – and said: “Thanks.”

“Get some lunch.” She patted his arm. “It looks like it’s going to be a long day. It’s great that you’re willing to hang out. Makes you look like you’re concerned. Oh, you may want to bring something appropriate to read since the press will be seeing you waiting outside the courtroom to testify. Recent Supreme Court Decisions might make for a good photo op. I can get you a copy if you want,” Cheryl suggested. “And don’t worry. Looks like you’ve got a good lawyer for Hannah. I have a feeling this thing is going to run at record speed. By the time you’re confirmed, this trial will be a memory.”

With that, the governor’s gal took off. Kip didn’t take her advice about lunch. He wasn’t hungry. Instead, he wandered back into the courtroom wishing he could sit and listen. He wanted to know what the prosecution had. He wanted to know if Hannah was going to be out of his life for good. But he was the one who offered himself as a witness. He couldn’t have it both ways. Besides, he really didn’t care about the battle; it was the war he wanted to win.

Slowly he walked down the center aisle, his eyes roamed over the jumble of cables and wires that connected the Court TV camera. Everyone was gone. They would be gone for an hour and a half. Kip passed the bar and stood in front of the bench. It wasn’t an unfamiliar place but, in his career, his handful of trials had not created a sterling resume of accomplishment. Now, if he were patient, all that would change.

Yes it would.

Without a second thought, Kip Rayburn mounted the steps to the bench and sat in Judge Norris’s high-backed chair. Kip leaned back. He swiveled right then left. He looked at everything: the full calendar, the small clock, the state-of-the-art computer, and the gavel.

It was the gavel he found interesting. He picked it up and ran his fingers down the carved handle, over the heavy head with the brass band declaring it a gift of an appreciative staff.

Kip Rayburn sat forward, thinking of nothing and everything all at once. Looking at the gavel he raised the head and brought it down on Judge Cyrus Norris’s desk and whispered:

“Guilty.”

***

Josie and Faye grabbed a sandwich at the courtyard coffee shop of St. Vibiana’s. Los Angeles’s new Cathedral had risen like Herod’s palace in the desert of downtown.  The whole thing had cost good Cardinal Mahoney a bundle of dough and an avalanche of bad press. Some inventive reporter had tagged the thing the Taj Mahoney for all its grandeur in the midst of so much need. Homeless, displaced Hispanic families, the poor of L.A. could be housed and fed forever on half of what it cost to build the thing.

Still, all was not lost. St. Vibiana’s served a purpose. It was another stop on the tourist track, a graveyard for those who could afford twenty grand for a prime crypt, the sandwich shop did a brisk business, and the courtyard was an oasis. Statues of Buddy Christ, His sacred thumb raised in a sign of corporal encouragement, were lined up in the gift shop. None of it impressed Josie. She’d seen better churches, and had better sandwiches, but the company was blessed. It was a miracle that Faye had come all this way.

“She’s prettier in person. Her pictures don’t do her justice. Your client, I mean.” Faye pushed aside her sandwich.

“She’s a beautiful girl.” Josie rose long enough to throw away the paper plates and Styrofoam cups. When she sat down again she asked, “How much did you see?”

“Enough to know you didn’t lose any ground,” Faye answered. “You should be proud of yourself. You handled that witness well. You’re a regular Clarence Darrow.”

Josie cocked a grin. “That means a lot coming from you even if it is a line of bull.”

“Take it for what it’s worth. But when have you known me to lie?’ Faye reapplied her lipstick then dropped it in her purse. “Angie put the police reports in order for you. You’ll have a summary on your desk tomorrow.”

“Good. She’s been working hard. I’m sorry I’m taking up so much of her time.”

Faye’s attention was caught by the Biblical garden; sand and date palms were more interesting than talk of business and Josie took a minute to really look at her. Faye Baxter could have been one of the church ladies whose buses came and went as they checked God’s little L.A. acre. Everything about her was perfect – hair, make-up, clothes - but the years and loss of a husband had added weight to both body and soul. When Josie remained silent, Faye took a quick breath and smiled, seemingly embarrassed to be caught daydreaming. She put her elbows on the table, clasping her hands so that she could lean her chin against them.

“The prosecution seems to have dotted all their ‘i’s. What’s your case looking like?”

“I’ve got my own forensic people and an independent review of the autopsy. It contradicts the prosecution’s contention that Fritz Rayburn was alive when the fire started. What it really boils down to is, we say/they say. Klein’s got a lot of circumstantial evidence, and I’m going to have to make sure I knock down the building blocks.”

“Are you going to call the girl to the stand?” Faye asked.

“Hannah?” Josie said her name just to hear it. The girl label grated on her ears, it made Hannah seem irrelevant. “I hope not, but I won’t know until Rudy wraps up. I want something proactive for the defense; something that jury hasn’t heard before. Maybe the police reports will have something tight I can use.”

“You’ll figure it out,” Faye assured her.

“You think?” Josie asked.

“I know.” Faye stood up and looked over her shoulder. Her nose crinkled. She pushed her glasses up and shook her head at the cathedral. “This place is ugly. It looks like a bunker. I’m not going to make this drive again so I might as well see what all the fuss is about. Come on, I’ll help you pray for inspiration.”

Faye laced her arm through Josie’s, only letting go when they crossed the threshold, walking up a wide, sloped, marble concourse that opened onto a cavernous, cold and calculated place of worship. A couple hundred million bought a hell of a lot of space, some incredible artwork, and a football field of marble that served as an altar. Massive organ pipes ruptured the wall fifty feet above the faithful. Christ was made of bubbled iron, his hands and feet deformed as he hung on a cross, stuck in the floor, earthbound instead of rising miraculously toward heaven. A wood throne was impressive, carved and detailed down to the dimples that would cradle the Cardinal’s holy cheeks. The Virgin Mary had been transformed from a veiled, long-suffering, courageous mother to a strange alien-like presence. Her hair was buzz cut, her face a collage of cultures, her gown less a garment and more a suit of armor.

Josie sidestepped into a pew. Faye crossed herself and knelt. Light filtered through paper-thin alabaster panels. There were no windows. Colossal, politically correct tapestries hung on one towering wall; the Stations of the Cross were missing. Pews were lined up stadium style for an unobstructed view of the pageantry du jour.

Today maybe fifty people milled about looking for God. Even Josie was curious. Where was His warmth, the love the faithful sought from the Supreme Being? There were no nooks and crannies for him to nestle in, nor any towering symbol of His might. God was MIA, leaving visitors to be awestruck by man’s creativity and cleverness. Not that any of this mattered to Josie. These were observations of an agnostic. Josie was thirty-three the last time she made a simple request of God; send Emily, her mother, home. It didn’t work. God didn’t listen so she didn’t bother trying now. She sat quietly and watched Faye, her eyes closed, her hands folded. Well, maybe He did listen a little. Something had brought Faye downtown, and Josie would be forever grateful. Closing her eyes, Josie took advantage of the quiet and calm while Faye prayed.

When Josie opened them again she was staring at a little girl walking backwards instead of following her teacher down the center aisle. The teacher caught on and hustled the girl back ‘round until she was on the right path again. Josie cocked her head. Her eyes wandered to the blood-red marble altar. Faye got off her knees and slid onto the wooden pew next to Josie.

“I said a prayer for you. It is guaranteed you’ll come through this unscathed.” Faye smoothed her skirt. Josie wasn’t listening. Her brain had kicked up a notch. Not quite to miracle status but definitely to an epiphany mode. It wouldn’t have surprised her if a chorus of angels started singing and a shaft of heavenly light was surrounding her head. It had nothing to do with Faye’s prayers. This was pure inspiration.

I’d die if I couldn’t. . .

Josie sat up straighter and muttered:

“Hannah said she’d die if she couldn’t paint.”

“What?” Faye asked.

“Hannah said she’d die if she couldn’t paint.” The tips of Josie’s fingers lay lightly on Faye’s arm as if that would make her get it. “Faye, look at these people. They’re like sheep. They go down the center aisle, to the side, down the steps to the crypt and back up. They don’t touch anything. They don’t even talk out loud. They’re respectful.  No, it’s more than that. They would die before they did harm to this cathedral.”

“And your point is?”

“That’s exactly what Hannah does,” Josie whispered excitedly, finally facing Faye. “She walks around her house on a specific course because that’s the only thing she has faith in, the only place she reveres. Hannah said she checked on her paintings every night. She has shown me that route. The paintings are the last thing she checks. Why? Because the entire house is as precious to her as this church is to these people – her studio is the sacristy.”

I tried to save them.

“Faye, I thought it was a figure of speech when she said she tried to save them. You know, like people swearing they’ll die if they don’t get to the gym.”

“But Hannah really meant it, is that what you’re saying?”

“Exactly. She would have to feel almost spiritual about her paintings if she was willing to put her hand into a fire. And, if she feels that way, then I bet she couldn’t have set that fire because there’s a divine significance to the material. There is a meaning attached to those paintings that is greater than the self. That’s how Hannah felt about her studio and that is the way these people feel about the house of God.”

“That is nice, but what’s it suppose to mean to a jury?”

“If Hannah’s purpose in life was to paint, if the one place she felt safe and comfortable was her studio, then she couldn’t destroy the purpose or the place without destroying her own life.” Josie snapped her fingers. “I want Angie to get me as much information as she can on obsessive/compulsives: specifically the extremes of their behaviors regarding their environments. I want to know what kind of reaction they would have if that environment was disturbed, or destroyed.”

Faye shook her head. “Forget it. The paintings and studio are gone and Hannah’s still kicking. She didn’t die because those things were destroyed.”

“But,” Josie said pointedly, “she didn’t destroy them. They were destroyed. That’s a whole different thing. She tried to put that fire out because she couldn’t be responsible. It’s a mental thing, not a physical thing. We call the physical evidence into question – no problem – and with the next punch we establish that Hannah is incapable of destructive behavior regarding her environment.”

“That is a stretch, Josie.” Faye was guarded but Josie was energized.

“No, it isn’t. I can make that jury believe it and understand it. I’ve done it before. Say it with enough conviction, enough passion, get an expert to back you up, and it becomes real. I need to know how adaptable someone with Hannah’s condition really is. That’s the key to this whole thing.”

Josie checked her watch.

“I’ve got to run. It’s late. Have Angie start checking the literature and the experts the minute you get back. Rudy Klein may not have to prove Hannah had a motive for setting the fire, but I’m going to give them a hell of a reason why she never could have done it.”

Josie sidestepped across Faye and was headed out of the Cathedral when she remembered something important. Rushing back to Faye, she leaned down:

“Thank you for coming. You may make me a believer yet.”

Faye sat in silence looking at the curious, the sightseers, the true believers, and the bored school children as the sound of Josie’s footsteps faded away. It was late. Time to go if she didn’t want to hit traffic. Before she did, though, Faye Baxter got on her knees once more. She crossed herself twice. Faye had a terrible, terrible feeling that things weren’t going to be as simple as Josie thought.

Chapter 16

“I don’t know. I figure she did it but she’ll probably get off. I mean she’s rich, right? If you’re rich you get off in Los Angeles.” - Steven, 21, man on the street interview regarding Hannah Sheraton

In the four days that followed, the lab technician testified that the charred matches found in the debris of the Rayburn fire were damn near one of a kind or, at least, very unusual. Each matchstick was carved into a tiny octagon, the Chinese symbol for good luck was almost microscopically stamped on each shaft and the sulfur on the head was a neon rainbow of colors. The company that manufactured those matches was in Taiwan. They had a decent foothold on the East Coast but only a handful of customers on the west. The Coffee Haus in the Palisades Village was one of them. Hannah Sheraton was a regular at the Coffee Haus.

Josie asked the lab tech if the charred matches found on the first floor of the Rayburn house came from the box found in Hannah Sheraton’s room. He could only be certain that the matches at the scene were exactly the same as those in the box found in Hannah’s room. Josie asked if anyone could be sure they came from a particular box.

No, probably not, but . . .

Josie cut him off but a quick look at the jury told her she’d gained no ground. They liked the connections Rudy had already made with this witness. Rudy called the detective who searched the Rayburn home when it was determined it was a crime scene.

How many boxes of matches from the Coffee Haus had he found in the Rayburn home?

“Two,” said the witness. “The Coffee Haus matches logged with my mark and entered as exhibit eleven were found in a foyer table that was situated between the front door and Ms. Sheraton’s bedroom. The Coffee Haus matches logged with my mark and entered as exhibit twelve were found in Hannah Sheraton’s bedroom, hidden beneath her mattress along with marijuana and a small stash of pills. There were no other matches of that particular brand found in the rest of the house.”

“Did you conduct a thorough search of the Rayburn home including the wing that was damaged in the fire?”

“Yes, the house was thoroughly searched and no, I did not find a Coffee Haus box in the wing where the fire occurred.”

“So you only found two boxes of those particular matches. One in a hall table near the defendant’s room, the other hidden in Hannah Sheraton’s room,” Rudy asked.

“Yes,” came the answer.

Rudy wanted to know about the other things the detective found hidden in Hannah’s room.  Josie objected. The question was overly broad. Rudy got more specific.

“What kind of pills did you find hidden in the defendant’s room?”

“Vicodin. Prescription pain relievers.”

“Were the pills in a prescription bottle?”

“No,” came the detective’s reply

“Did you find a prescription for Vicodin in Hannah Sheraton’s name anywhere in the house?”

“No.”

“Did you determine what bottle the pills in Hannah Sheraton’s room came from?”

“Objection, Your Honor. Speculation. There is no way to know if those pills were taken from a specific bottle,” Josie insisted.

“Sustained.

“Didn’t you find a prescription bottle on the premises?” Rudy would connect the dots another way. “There was a bottle of the same medication in Justice Rayburn’s bathroom.”

“Was the bottle damaged?”

“The bottle was dirtied with soot and slightly melted, but the label was intact.”

“And what did you conclude?”

“I found that a prescription for Vicodin had been filled for Fritz Rayburn the day before the fire. There were seven pills missing from the Justice Rayburn’s bottle; six pills were found in Hannah Sheraton’s room. The autopsy showed that Justice Rayburn had ingested one pill approximately five hours before he died.”

“Did you find any fingerprints other than those of Justice Rayburn on the pill bottle?”

“We found a partial that matched Hannah Sheraton’s right thumb.”

“What did you conclude from this?” Rudy asked.

“That Ms. Sheraton had taken pills from that bottle sometime before the fire started.”

“Why are you sure she touched that bottle before the fire started?”

“The defendant’s right hand was burned in the fire. We could not get a clear thumb print during our booking procedure because of her burn but she had been fingerprinted after an arrest earlier this year.”

“I see.” Rudy nodded sagely. “It is sad when someone will go to such lengths for drugs.”

“Move to strike,” Josie called.

“So stricken. Watch it, Mr. Klein.”

Rudy barely acknowledged the judge as he went on.

“You also found marijuana cigarettes during your search.”

“I did. One was partially smoked.”

“Where did you find the marijuana, the Vicodin, and the matches?”

“I found all of these things in a small box. The partially smoked marijuana cigarette was in the matchbox. All these things were hidden in the defendant’s bedroom.”

“And did the matchbox carry any identification?”

“Yes, it came from the Coffee Haus in the Palisades village.”

“The same coffee shop that was referred to by the lab technician?”

“Yes.”

“Asked and answered,” Josie objected.

“Could you tell if a match from that box had been struck recently?” Rudy moved on.

“Yes. There were marks and sulfur residue on the scratch strip of the box.”

“Can you tell when the match or matches had been struck?” Rudy asked.

“Not precisely but the sulfur residue was fresh.”

“Was there sulfur residue on the second box?”

“No.”

“Were there fingerprints on the first match box found in Ms. Sheraton’s room?”

“Yes. They were Hannah Sheraton’s fingerprints.”

“And on the matchbox found in the hall?”

“There were partials we couldn’t match.”

Rudy turned to Josie.

“Your witness.”

Chapter 17

“WHAT pills?” - Note from Josie to Hannah

“Fritz gave them to me. For when I hurt.” - Note from Hannah to Josie

Josie took her place in front of the witness. Hannah’s explanation sucked so she would have to run around the ‘why’ of the pills.

“Detective, after you found the box of matches in Hannah Sheraton’s bedroom where did you put it?”

“I put the matches in my right pocket,” he answered, shifting in the chair. He was an old hand and he did that to be comfortable, not because he was concerned about Josie.

“You put them in your pocket after you tagged them, is that correct, sir?”

The detective blushed. He knew what was coming.

“No, I didn’t initially tag the matches.”

“Then what did you do with them?” Josie asked, her brow beetling with curiosity.

“I put the box from the bedroom in my right coat pocket. The box from the hall table I carried to the car where I tagged them both.”

“Have they changed police procedure, detective?” Josie asked.

“No, ma’am.”

“Then correct me if I’m wrong, but aren’t you supposed to tag and bag evidence where you find it to protect the integrity of evidence?”

“I ran out of evidence bags.”

“So, let me get this straight,” Josie said thoughtfully. “Instead of leaving the matches at the scene, going to your car to get the evidence bags and returning, you took this critical evidence with you?”

“Yes.”

“And why did you do that?” Josie asked.

“So that the chain of evidence wouldn’t be broken. I didn’t want anyone else picking up that evidence.”

“So you took a chance on contaminating the evidence rather than breaking the chain.” Josie nodded as if she understood completely. She asked, “When you reached your car did you immediately mark the box in your hand?”

The detective shook his head. He shifted back to the other side of the chair.

“Not exactly. I put the box from the defendant’s room in my right pocket while I unlocked the door to get more evidence bags.”

Josie held up two boxes of matches before putting one in each pocket of her jacket. She moved toward the jury, speaking casually as she went.

“Then we can be sure that the box of matches from Hannah Sheraton’s room came out of your pocket and was marked and set aside.”

“That is correct,” the detective replied.

“Just like that?” Josie held up a box of matches. “From your right pocket?”

“Yes,” the detective replied.

“Let the record show that the matches I showed the detective were taken out of my left pocket.” Josie faced the jury as she held up a small box of matches. “Perhaps the detective had the same problem with left and right on the day he collected and tagged these exhibits.”

“Objection, Your Honor,” Rudy called, “this is not a made for television movie.”

“One more question,” Josie said as the judge overruled the prosecutor’s objection. “Detective, how do you account for the marijuana cigarette being inside the matchbox and hidden in Ms. Sheraton’s room?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“I mean, in your expert opinion, do you think it reasonable that this sixteen year old girl could set a deadly fire in two places, return to her room, have the presence of mind to put her half smoked joint in the same box of matches she used to commit arson and take the time to hide the whole thing neatly under her mattress before running back and sticking her hand in the fire? Do you really think Hannah Sheraton could, or would, do that?”

“Sure, why not?” The detective answered with a shrug.

“Do you know that it takes a minimum of six and a half minutes to run from her room, through the house and to the west wing of the house?”

“I haven’t timed it,” the detective answered.

“Did you know it took the fire department three and a half minutes to respond to the alarm?” Josie pointed out.

“I read that in their report.”

“And did you read that the fire was fully engaged when they arrived?”

“I did.”

“And you still believe it is possible that Hannah Sheraton burned her hand, returned to the house, hid the matches without anyone seeing her, and returned to the scene so she could sit behind a fountain and wait for the fire department?”

“Maybe she runs really fast.”

“Maybe you need to do the math,” Josie snapped.

“Objection.” This from Rudy.

“Withdrawn,” Josie said with obvious disgust.

Josie took her seat; satisfied she’d given the jury something to think about. She only hoped that Rudy didn’t point out there were at least three ways to get from Hannah’s room to the scene of the fire and two of them took slightly under three minutes at a full run.

Rudy stood up and buttoned his coat.

“How many matches were there in the box found in Ms. Sheraton’s room?”

“Twenty. The other box had twenty-five matches. The boxes are packed with twenty-five matches at the factory. I contacted the manufacturer and confirmed this. I also made notations regarding the count before I left Ms. Sheraton’s room. Before I left the hall area I also made a notation of the number of matches in exhibit eleven.”

“And would you examine exhibit twelve please?”

Rudy handed the man a clear plastic bag that he opened. He took out the box and opened that, too.

“There are twenty matches plus a partially smoked marijuana cigarette,” the detective answered.

“Then I suppose it didn’t matter what pocket you put the two pieces of evidence in, did it, detective. It is not as if the content of these two boxes was identical.”

Rudy was done.

Josie made a note. She would collect as many Coffee Haus matchboxes as possible and count out every single one. She wanted the detective’s history regarding evidence tampering and collection. She wanted it all before the defense had to present its case.

On the third day, court resumed at one thirty. Mr. Hilbrun, proprietor of the Coffee Haus, took the stand. He was short, tanned, uncomfortable in his tie, and unhappy. The Coffee Haus didn’t run itself. He should be working.

Of course he knew Hannah Sheraton. She came to the Coffee Haus all the time. Sometimes she was alone, and sometimes she was with a boy with crazy hair. Sometimes she sat in a corner and drew pictures. Mostly she just drank coffee by herself and looked out the window. She fiddled with things. Fiddled and fiddled. Drove him crazy.

Rudy asked. “Is there another reason Hannah Sheraton stuck out in your memory?”

“She ordered a small coffee and took stuff every time she came in.”

“What kind of things did she take?” Rudy asked.

“That girl took napkins and those little wooden stir things. She took sugar packets and made piles of them on her table.” Mr. Hilburn’s face was flushing with the thrill of having a public forum to air his complaints about Hannah.

“What else did she take?” Rudy asked.

“She took matches all the time.” Mr. Hilbrun waved his hand and scrunched his nose in disgust at her habit.

“Why do you remember matches in particular?”

“She orders a coffee for a buck fifty and then takes twenty boxes of my matches. Even if I stand there and watch her, she counts out twenty and doesn’t get the hint. Kids don’t know how much money it costs to run a business. Anyway, she doesn’t even smoke.”

Rudy crossed his arms.

“What did she do with all those matches?”

“Sometimes she lit them, blew them out, and left them on the table in rows. Like twenty little burned people,” He pulled his hands out in front of him like he was pulling taffy.

“Your Honor,” Josie groaned.

“Sir, if you would answer the questions simply.” Judge Norris waved them on.

“The detective just testified that he only found two boxes of your matches in the Sheraton House. If Ms. Sheraton took twenty each time she came in then why do you think he only found two boxes.”

“She didn’t take all of them home with her. Sometimes she left them outside. Stacked them up like a little kid.”

“Did she leave all of them?”

“Sometimes, and sometimes she took some with her. Kids, they don’t know that everything costs. Napkins, matchboxes, lids, toilet paper, wooden stirrers.” He ticked the items off his fingers.

“Thank you, Mr. Hilbrun,” Rudy interrupted but the witness wanted to say what he had to say.

“ . . . sugar packets, straws. . .” He shook his finger at Hannah. “If you take all of them, there’s nothing left for anyone else. I have a business to run. That’s not good. I told you. You should listen, little girl. You should listen.”

Hannah stayed attentive to Mr. Hilbrun. She looked as close to beatific as Josie had seen anyone look, but under the table her hands were clasped together in a fist that gently touched the underside of the wood. It took Judge Norris three tries to get the witness quieted down. When he finally managed, Josie was given the nod. She stood up and cross-examined from behind her table.

“How many boxes of matches did people take from your shop last week, Mr. Hilburn?”

“I don’t know. Maybe fifty. Maybe a hundred.”

“So you had a hundred customers in your shop who smoked?”

“I don’t know if they smoked. I just see the matches are gone, so I put more in the basket.”

“So you couldn’t tell me how many you give out in month or a year?” Josie raised an eyebrow.

“Not this minute,” he sniped. “I probably would know if I looked it up and figured out when I order more.”

“But it’s a lot, isn’t it? You reorder quite often.”

“Yeah, a lot,” he grumbled.

“Do you remember everyone who comes into your coffee place, Mr. Hilbrun?”

“I remember her,” he said and pointed at Hannah. He was working himself up again, his cheeks were scarlet and his eyes sparkled as he warmed to his subject. “I remember who comes and goes in my place and who doesn’t treat it right.”

“Do you know if this lady has come in for coffee?” Josie indicated Linda sitting front row center. He shook his head.

“No, I don’t know her.” Mr. Hilbrun crossed his arms.

“How about the lady sitting next to her? Do you recognize that lady?”

“No, I don’t know her neither.” He barely looked but that was okay with Josie. She addressed the court.

“The defense would like to identify Mrs. Peterson, the Rayburn’s housekeeper.” Josie walked close to Mr. Hilbrun. “Would it surprise you to know that Mrs. Peterson stops at the Coffee Haus at least three times a week?”

“That’s good,” the witness huffed.

Another giggle from the jury. Josie smiled as if to say this all wasn’t so bad, just a misunderstanding. She took her hands out of her pockets and pointed to the housekeeper.

“Would it surprise you to know that Mrs. Peterson has, at one time or another, taken matches from the Coffee Haus?”

“One at a time is okay.” He was petulant, tired of being the center of attention. Josie had counted on his waning attention.

“And would it surprise you to know that Mrs. Peterson had a box of Coffee Haus matches in her car the night of the fire?”

“Why should it surprise me?” Mr. Hilbrun shrugged. “I sell good coffee. I should be selling coffee right now and not talking about who comes to buy. So can I go now?”

“Let the record show that the defense has identified Mrs. Linda Rayburn and Mrs. Peterson who lived at the Pacific Palisades home. Both had access to the hall table as well as the defendant’s room.”

“Hey, can I go now?”

Josie gave Mr. Hilbrun a small, perfunctory smile and excused the witness.

The last witness Rudy called on the end of the third day was the chauffer who had seen Hannah arguing with Fritz. Rudy was to the point. Josie’s cross of Theodore Smith, a large, hulking man with a whispery voice, was short.

“You just testified that the defendant and Justice Rayburn were arguing? Could you hear what they were saying?”

“Nope,” the man answered.

“Then how did you know they were arguing?” Josie asked.

“Her hands were going all over the place. I can tell when somebody is pissed, can’t you?” He raised a bushy eyebrow. Josie ignored the question and the challenge.

“Did you know that my client suffers from obsessive/compulsive disorder, sir? That she often reaches out to touch something to make herself feel safe?”

“How could I know that?” He dismissed her with a toss of his head.

“Now that you do know, could it be that the defendant was simply trying to find something to touch. Could it be that’s why she was waving her arms?”

“Calls for a conclusion, Your Honor,” Rudy objected.

Point made. Josie took a tangent.

“Could you see both Justice Rayburn and Ms. Sheraton completely? Their full bodies? Their faces?”

“I could see the old guy’s head. I was looking at her back mostly. Sometimes I could see her from the side”

“Then you couldn’t always see both of the defendant’s hands?”

“No, not always. She moved around a lot,” Theodore admitted.

“So you really couldn’t tell if the defendant pushed Justice Rayburn or touched him or, perhaps, tried to help him because he lost his balance? He was an old man, after all.”

“He wasn’t that old.” Theodore Smith sized up Josie and nodded a couple of times as if to say no broad was going to trick him up. “That girl pushed the old guy. I saw him fall. I didn’t see her try to catch him. That was not the way she was moving.” He looked at the jury and warned them: “Don’t you believe what she is saying. That girl pushed the old guy.”

“Your Honor,” Josie snapped. “Instruct the witness to answer my questions and move to strike that last comment.”

“So ordered,” Norris instructed.

Josie’s jaw twitched in annoyance. She began again, drawing up to her full height, clasping her hands behind her back.

“You’re a very big man, Mr. Smith. If you believed there was an altercation, why didn’t you try to stop it?”

“It happened fast. They were talking, and then he was on the ground. There was no time.”

“Talking?” Josie reiterated. “That is a far cry from someone angry enough to assault another person.”

“Arguing,” the witness corrected. “They were definitely having a strong difference of opinion.”

“Did Justice Rayburn call to you for help?”

The man shook his head and his chin dimpled as he drew it up thoughtfully.

“Nope.”

“Did he cry out when he fell?” Josie demanded.

“No. But someone needed to help him.”

“And why would you draw that conclusion?” Josie pushed. The witness bridled.

“Because he looked afraid,” Smith said tightly. “And don’t ask me how I know. I know afraid, and that man was afraid of her.”

He pointed right at Hannah. He did so with righteous indignation. The rhythm of Hannah’s knocking increased. The witness heard it too and his finger wavered the longer Josie remained silent. Finally he lowered his hand then raised it again to wipe his forehead seeming to question his own conclusion. Josie looked at the jury and mused at the witness.

“I guess that little girl scared you, too, since you didn’t try to help Justice Rayburn until after she left.”

“Objection, Your Honor,” Rudy called. “Insulting a witness is not a question.”

“Withdrawn.” Josie sat down, smiled at Hannah and patted her arm. Hannah’s eyes rested on Josie. Judge Norris called it quits for the day and, as soon as the jury was out of the courtroom, Josie asked one more question.

“I want to know about those damn pills.”

***

“One. Two. Three!” Josie and Archer strained to lift the marble fountain and mount it on the side of the patio wall. Josie made the final adjustment. They both stepped back. A flip of the switch and nothing. No water spewed out of the little bird’s mouth.

“Forget it. Just forget it. It’s too late for this, Archer. Let’s call it a day.”

Josie sat down on the ground and surveyed the half laid patio tile, and the mounted fountain that wouldn’t work. She could see through the open door to the dining room table where papers and files were spread among Chinese take-out containers.

“I can’t walk and chew gum at the same time today.” She sank to the ground, her back up against the patio wall, one leg up, and one stretched out. Sweeping up the can of beer by her side, Josie tipped it only to find it empty. Archer offered his and then put his hand atop her head. He ruffled her hair as he leaned against the wall and listened to her complain.

“What happened today to set you off?”

“Nothing,” she muttered. “Everything, I suppose. I’m missing things, Archer. The cops found Vicodin in Hannah’s bedroom along with a roach. Rudy’s setting up to say she killed Rayburn for drugs and tried to cover it up with the fire. Hannah says Rayburn gave the pills to help with the pain when she cut herself.”

“And what do you say?”

“I say this is beginning to stink. If Rayburn were this saint who sent Hannah away to rehab to get her sober, why in the hell would he give her something as addictive as Vicodin? It makes no sense no matter how much pain Hannah was in. And that’s another thing. Hannah doesn’t show pain. Not when she cuts herself, not when she burned herself. She made that clear the first time I met her. I spoke to her psychiatrist. Hannah’s pain is so internalized she could probably slit her throat and watch it bleed and not blink. So, why would Rayburn be so concerned?”

“Maybe he was the one who had a low threshold for pain. You know how some people are. They nurture, and they worry. Sometimes they don’t do it the right way,” Archer suggested.

Josie shook her head vehemently. “Nope. He was a judge. Rayburn would be guilty of breaking a dozen laws if he handed out prescription medication to a minor. I don’t buy it.”

“So Hannah is lying?” Archer asked, taking the beer back.

“I don’t want to think so but what other conclusion is there? Especially given her reaction. Hannah was too furious when I suggested she was lying. Way too mad, if you know what I mean. She was trying to make me feel guilty for even suspecting she was untruthful. To make matters worse, I think Linda knew something about it.”

“What was the boy wonder doing this whole time?”

“Kip? He was about as interested as a deaf, dumb, and blind man. Once we were behind closed doors it was pretty evident he’s barely tolerating Hannah, or me.” Josie’s fist pounded the ground lightly before she drew her open palm over the tile she had so lovingly laid. “I’m starting to think I made a real bad choice taking this on.”

Archer sat down beside her. Josie leaned into him. They sat in silence, shoulder-to-shoulder, hot and tired. Max wandered by. Archer and Josie put out their hands and let them roll across his back as he headed toward the grass. Josie handed the beer back to Archer. When he took it, Josie put her head on his shoulder.

“Are you ever sorry you didn’t have kids with Lexi?’ she asked.

“Nope.”

“Never?”

“I didn’t worry about what we couldn’t do. It didn’t weigh on Lexi.” He took another drink, tipping his head back, closing his eyes as if he wanted to savor the moment. The can clattered against the already laid tile as he set it down. “They would have been good kids. Beautiful kids, if Lexi had ‘em.” He put his hand on Josie’s knee. “You’d have beautiful kids, Jo.”

“Not me. I wouldn’t know how to do it.”

“Last I heard it didn’t take any practice to do it.” Archer’s hand traveled up her thigh. His finger caught a thread on her cutoffs.

Josie smiled and turned her head just enough to smell the salt on his bare arm, the leftover sunshine from his day photographing the lifeguards for the city.

“I know how to do it; it’s the other part that I wouldn’t know about; the part about taking care of a kid. I would be so neurotic. I’d be all around, never let him go anywhere. I’d be a hovering mom.”

“So? That’s good. Just the opposite of what your mother did,” Archer said.

Josie disagreed. “No, that’s not all there is to it. Look at Linda. She’s with her daughter all the time, but there’s something wrong there. Linda is still selfish and Hannah is so screwed up it might have been better not to have had a mother at all. Nope, no kids for me. In fact, right now, I’d give anything just to get Hannah out of my head.”

“Anything?” Archer asked. Taking a sip of beer then putting his cold lips against her warm neck.

“If it worked, sure,” Josie whispered, snuggling into him.

“Tell you what. Why don’t we try the cure, and then discuss how much it’s worth later.”

Josie raised her head, looked into that rugged, wide face of his and then took it between her hands. She kissed him hard. She was going to owe Archer a fortune. Hannah Sheraton was already nothing more than a memory.

***

“Are you going to be okay, honey?”

Hannah looked up. Linda was put together perfectly: a white dress and jacket, a gold pin on the lapel. Her shoes were bone; her purse so small there was only room for cigarettes and a lipstick. Her hair was down around her shoulders and her make-up was minimal. Though the change had been made for the benefit of the jury, the look had been kept because Kip thought it far more appropriate for a judge’s wife.  Linda’s peach colored smile faded when Hannah’s eyes trailed back to the paper.

“What are you working on?” Linda asked even though she knew exactly what Hannah was doing. For the last six hours Hannah painted as if she were sculpting, chipping away at the paper and Linda’s nerves. The dining room table was littered with watercolors and brushes, glasses of water and rags. The table was a mess. Hannah had painted without consideration of the furniture, the housekeeper’s time, the. . .

Linda stopped before she said what she was thinking. All she had to do was keep Kip from seeing this and keep Kip from seeing Hannah. A few more weeks - a month at most - and everything would be sorted out. As it stood now she was living with two children: Kip demanding she attend to him and his newfound prominence, Hannah and her constant need for reassurance. Linda knew too much about both of them.

Forcing herself to smile Linda put her hands on Hannah’s shoulders, kissed the top of her daughter’s head and breathed the scent of shampoo. She let her lips linger in the softness. She almost convinced herself that this was her little girl, her baby, but then Hannah stiffened. The shrug of distaste was slight but imminently insulting. Linda dropped her hands; one look at Hannah’s painting the smile followed suit.

Gone were the clear bright colors of oil replaced with opaque grays and blacks, thin blues and sheer browns of watercolor. Night shadows, indistinct figures, and just enough definition so that interpretation could be open for discussion. This painting was damn personal. Linda saw what Hannah wanted her to see: a woman with her back to a girl, a fire behind them both. The woman’s hair was long and dark; it streamed out behind her as if she was running away from the girl.

“What do you think?” Hannah asked sharply. Her eyes were down. She pushed the tablet to the side giving Linda a better look.

“Do you think that’s funny, Hannah?” Linda fussed over her purse. Hannah pulled the pad back in front of her. The spiral binding scratched the table. Her burned hand held a paintbrush up, its bristles pointing heavenward. Linda pulled out a chair and sat down. “Well, do you?”

The hard end of Hannah’s brush clicked against the table. A drip of water squeezed out of the bristles and trailed down the shaft until it fell like a dirty tear onto Hannah’s hand. The sound, the movement, the mere idea of this counting was making Linda crazy.

“No,” Hannah said, her voice small, the tapping ever more quickly.

“I haven’t walked out on you, have I?”

“No.” Hannah’s voice got smaller but still it slid on a slick of defiance. “They think I’m a drug addict.”

“And we know you’re not,” Linda snapped. “When are you going to get it through your head that all this stuff is just stuff? The thing that matters is whether or not Josie can convince that jury that they can’t be totally sure who you are, or what you did. That’s what our case rests on – not six Vicodin.”

“It’s not our case, Mom.” Hannah slid her eyes toward Linda. “It’s mine. I’m the one that everyone is looking at and everyone is talking about? I’m the one they think killed Fritz and the one who does drugs and sets fires. Or have you forgotten?”

“No, I haven’t forgotten one damn thing.” Linda’s voice dropped. “If it hadn’t been for me you wouldn’t have nice clothes or a big house to live in or a car. You sure wouldn’t have the time for all this self-indulgent tapping and walking and checking crap. I haven’t forgotten that I’m the one who got you a great attorney, and I really haven’t forgotten that I promised you every thing would work out. I always deliver on my promises. Name me one that I haven’t.”

Hannah’s lashes fluttered. The paintbrush tapped, tap, tapped. The gray water wept from the bristles. “Kip’s going to testify against me. Josie wanted to know what I thought he was going to say. I don’t know what he’s going to say, but I’m scared.”

“He has to testify, Hannah. They subpoenaed him. There’s only an exception for husband and wife. I’ve talked to Josie about his testimony, too, and I’ll tell you what I told her. Kip barely paid attention to you since we’ve been married. What can he say? What can he know?”

When Hannah remained silent, Linda took a deep breath.

“Look, Hannah, my priority has always been to keep you and me together but I’m in the middle here. I told you when I married Kip keeping him safe would keep us safe. Without him we’d be back in those cheap apartments. Without him we couldn’t pay for your defense. You should get down on your knees and thank him for that because he didn’t have to. . .”

“Why should I get on my knees? You’re already there,” Hannah hissed.

Before the last word was out, Linda grabbed her daughter. Hannah’s chair teetered. The paintbrush flew out of her hand; the thick pad of watercolor paper slid across the table and fell to the floor. Linda put her face close to her daughter’s. Her make-up had sunk into the lines around her eyes and the small fissures above her lips. Anger aged her; frustration dried her out.

“You listen to me, Hannah. I’m no prostitute. I do what I do so we can both survive. You think there haven’t been times when I wanted to just leave you behind and make my life easier? I could have put you in an orphanage. I could have dropped you in a trashcan, but I didn’t. I kept you with me, I fed you, and I’m sure as hell not running out on you and you better not run out on me.” Linda tried to shake the look of cold fury off Hannah’s face. “Do you think this is easy for me knowing what I know? Knowing what went down? Do you think it’s easy?”

“No,” Hannah mumbled.

Linda’s loosened her grip but her voice was no less passionate.

“Without Kip we don’t have money. Without money, we don’t have a life. Without money, you don’t have a defense. Learn that lesson.”

“That’s not true!” Hannah’s anger flared and she struggled to pull away. “Josie would defend me even if we didn’t pay her anything.”

Linda laughed once as she let go. Hannah might as well have punched her in the gut with that one. The goddess Josie was with them even here. Linda draped her arm over the back of her chair and shook her head sadly.

“I’ve raised an ungrateful fool.” Linda’s lip curled in an ugly smile. “How many people have let us down, Hannah?”

Hannah stared at the floor. Linda leaned forward. Her breath, hot and sweet smelling, brushed her daughter’s cheek. Linda’s perfume surrounded Hannah and Linda’s voice was sticky with truth.

“I’ll tell you who let us down. Everyone except Kip, so don’t kid yourself. Josie cares about this case, but she doesn’t care about you more than I do. Nobody cares about you more than I do because I’m your mother.”

“I think you care, more than anyone, what happens to me, Mom. I think about it all the time,” Hannah said icily. “But Josie cares about all of me.”

Mother and daughter’s matching eyes met and held.

“You think like a child.” Linda reached out to touch Hannah’s face but Hannah pulled away just far enough. Linda smiled tightly. She stood up and stepped toward the door but couldn’t leave without getting one more thing off her chest. “Josie’s got nothing invested here but time. She doesn’t care what’s in that sick head of yours. She’s not going to go out on a limb for you, especially if she knew the truth. The one thing Josie hates is a liar.”

“You’re wrong, Mom.” Hannah whispered. “She did understand.”

Linda’s shoulders slumped. It was so hard to be young and optimistic. Maybe it was even harder to be old and know the score.

“No, baby. Nobody does anything just because they like someone.”

“They do if they love them,” Hannah mumbled.

“Yeah. If you love someone you do anything for them,” Linda reiterated almost to herself. She pulled herself out of the reverie. “Just remember that.”

“I do,” Hannah whispered, reaching out to touch her mother. Two, three, ten times. Linda shook her off.

“Josie wouldn’t know how to love you, baby. You think a woman who has no husband, no children, and no mother of her own would know how to love a screwed up kid like you? All you are is a challenge, Hannah. Both of us are, and that is why we need to stick together. We’re two of a kind honey so don’t wish for something that doesn’t exist. I know what I’m doing. I always have, haven’t I?”

Hannah watched her mother with clear, sad eyes. When the silence became too tedious, Linda wrapped it all up.

“Oh, for God’s sake don’t look like that. Everything is going to be all right.”

Linda needed to go. Kip wasn’t happy these days when she spent more time than necessary with Hannah. Still there should be something more, something settling she should say.

“I’m sorry about what I said about Josie. She cares what happens to you. Just don’t count on her for too much. Never count on anybody for too much.”

***

Linda was having cocktails with Kip at Shutters in Santa Monica when Hannah closed the door of the Malibu house and ran to the shoulder of Pacific Coast Highway. Her hair was pinned up, hidden under a bandana. She wore a hat pulled low over her eyes even though it was almost dark. Her sweatshirt was old, her jeans baggy. Heavy clothes for a hot night but Hannah didn’t want to be recognized. She stuck out her thumb, moving from foot to foot, praying that somebody would stop soon because she didn’t have much time. She had to be back before Linda and Kip.

The fourth car on the road swerved sharply and Hannah thanked God for small favors. She ran for the Toyota, hollered ‘Huntington Beach’ when asked where she was going and climbed in the back even though the guy at the wheel wanted her up front. He let her out in Long Beach. It took her two more rides to make the short hop to Huntington.

Pulling her hat down further, Hannah walked six blocks then circled around the back of Turc’s, pulled on the ancient door and slipped inside. No one gave her a second look. The band was playing. People were drunk. The entire place was sweating pheromones and Hannah needed to find the one man who would understand what she needed; the man she hadn’t seen since the night Fritz died.

***

Josie curled into Archer. He was warm. His arm was heavy across her waist. Taking his hand she put it on her breast as he looked at the clock by the bed. It was two in the morning. It was unlike her to wake in the wee hours of the morning yet here she was with her eyes open, staring at the bedside table. Then she heard it, the sound that had roused her.

On the table, her cell phone vibrated like chattering teeth. She’d forgotten to turn it off and now someone was calling. She inched away from Archer and grabbed it.

“Yeah?” She whispered, her mouth barely working.

A whisper came back.

“One, two, three. . .”

Josie closed her eyes and listened until Hannah stopped. She closed her eyes, sleep coming over her, Archer reaching out for her again.

“I didn’t lie,” Hannah said but her voice was far away, the words were lost, Josie was asleep.

Chapter 18

“THERE'S no question that Rudy Klein has done a fine job of establishing that the defendant had both the means and the opportunity to commit this crime. Big points are going to be scored today, though. It says something when Kip Rayburn, stepfather of the defendant, is testifying for the prosecution. That really says something, doesn’t it?” - Court TV

Eight forty-five. The last day of the prosecution’s case. Judge Norris was late taking the bench, and that was just as well because Linda and Hannah were late, too. Josie sat at her table, looked at her watch, then stared at the bench. Finally she checked with the clerk and asked when she thought the judge would be ready. Ten minutes. Not exactly a reprieve, but there was some leeway.

Oblivious to Rudy Klein’s curious look and the reporter’s more interested ones Josie left the courtroom. The hallway was nearly deserted. Washington’s Birthday was just around the corner. Only the courtroom kitty-corner from Norris’s was in session. A crying woman sat on the bench outside it sniffling and blotting her nose. Everyone had troubles and Josie’s were multiplying by the minute.

She reached into her pocket, got her phone, punched the numbers too hard, missed one and had to start all over. The phone at the Rayburn place rang until the machine picked up. Josie left a short message. She called Linda’s cell and did the same.

Where in the hell are you?

Josie dropped her phone in the pocket of her blue blazer. She was halfway to the elevators when one of them opened. No one came out. Josie kept going. Another ding. The scraping of the doors. This time Hannah and Linda emerged. Josie covered the next ten yards fast.

“Where have you been?” She grabbed Linda by the arm and twirled her around. The other woman teetered in her heels.

“Traffic. It was down to one lane on Pacific Coast Highway. My cell phone battery was dead so I couldn’t call. Hey! Slow down,” Linda yanked her arm away. “Are we in trouble or what?”

“Not yet. Judge Norris was delayed. You just cut it damn close. I want us settled at the table before they bring the jury in.”

Josie pushed Linda forward while she held the door open. Linda went in but Hannah had fallen behind and veered off toward one of the long benches that lined the hall.

Annoyed, Josie went back for her. Her client had taken a nosedive. Hannah’s hair frizzed around her shoulders, her skirt was long and almost transparent. A short-sleeved t-shirt bared her arms. If Josie could make out the tracks of scars and scabs on her arms the jury could too, and that was the last thing Josie wanted the jury to see.

Josie put her hand on the girl’s shoulder, angry that all their hard work was going to go up in smoke. “What were you thinking? I told you to keep your arms covered, to keep your hair simple. Those people in there aren’t going to like. . .”

Josie’s tirade trailed off. Hannah’s head bounced gently like a bobble-head doll, all springs and joints. Unsmiling and bleary-eyed, one thing was clear: Hannah was stoned. So much for Fritz Rayburn’s good intentions.

“Hey!” Josie backed Hannah up against the wall. Furious, she still had the presence of mind to keep her voice down. “What’s going on? Are you high? You tell me straight up, Hannah, or I’ve got one foot out the door.”

“No. Valium,” Hannah whispered. “It’s just Valium.”

“Oh, Christ. Why would you do something that stupid?” Josie snapped.

“My mom gave it to me so I wouldn’t be upset. Kip’s going to talk today.” Hannah shook her head, trying to find a normal rhythm to her words. “She said it would help. Don’t be mad. Please. Please. Don’t be mad.”

Hannah leaned into Josie. Her limp arms came round Josie. Josie’s own hovered and finally wrapped Hannah up and held her close. Hannah relaxed, falling into Josie as if she had found a safe warm place. Taking a breath that started in her gut, Josie tipped her chin up and looked at the ugly fluorescent light fixtures, the long cold halls, the wooden doors that led into courtrooms where any bit of information could be twisted and tied into a package to suit anyone’s version of the facts. The prosecution had made a big deal of finding the pills and the joint found in Hannah’s possession, and today Linda was pumping her kid full of Valium. Wasn’t that a fine visual for the jury? Linda couldn’t have screwed up more if she tried. Why in the hell, when mothers screwed up, did it feel like they meant it?

Josie sat Hannah down, ripped off her blazer and draped it over the girl’s shoulders. Beneath her own strong fingers Hannah felt birdlike, thin and vulnerable. Josie glanced over her shoulder. Kip Rayburn was watching them. He sat on the bench outside the courtroom waiting to be called. She hadn’t noticed him before. The bastard was watching them. Well, Josie would give him something to watch.

Deliberately she got Hannah to her feet.

“Okay, Hannah. It’s game time,” Josie said quietly. “Keep your arms underneath my jacket. Keep your chin up. Just look at Kip when he talks and remember, when he’s done, it’s over for the prosecution. I’ll be there every minute for you. I promise.”

Hannah gave Josie half a smile as Josie laced Hannah’s hand under her arm.

“You care what happens to me, don’t you?” Hannah asked softly.

“Yes, Hannah, I do,” Josie muttered as they walked past Kip Rayburn and into the courtroom.

Rudy was there ready to convict Hannah. Kip was there ready to speak against her. Linda had sabotaged her daughter with her ‘good intentions’. This sure wasn’t going to be the best day of their lives and Rudy Klein was going to draw it out as long as he possibly could. He was saving Kip for last. Tom Winston, fireman, would kick off the day.

“I found the defendant crouching behind a stone fountain a few feet away from the French doors of the west wing of the Rayburn home.”

“What did you do when you found her?” Rudy asked.

“I knelt beside her. The furnace had blown inside the house. I thought I might have to shield her from debris if something else was going to blow. When the danger was past, I saw that she was injured. I escorted her away from the scene and took her for treatment.”

“Did you speak to the defendant?” Rudy asked.

“No, I did not.”

“Did the defendant speak to you?”

“She said, ‘It’s all my fault’. She kept repeating that statement. ‘It’s all my fault’.”

Rudy turned away leaving the witness’s statement sitting on the jury’s doorstep like an abandoned baby.

“Mr. Winston.” Josie stepped to the side of the table. “Did you ask the defendant what she meant by the statement?”

“No,” Tom Winston answered.

“Thank you.”

Josie sat down. Check. Unclear. Uncertain. That was no confession. Hannah didn’t even remember saying it. Josie would deal with all that in her closing arguments when it would be one of many bits of information woven into the story of the multiple mistakes and misinterpretations made in the case of Hannah Sheraton.

Rudy called the coroner. DNA consistent with Hannah’s had been found in various places in Fritz Rayburn’s apartments.  Hannah’s hair was in the bedroom. A drop of her blood in the bathroom. Worst of all, the slightest trace of Hannah’s blood was found on Fritz Rayburn’s jaw where a blow had landed before he died. The coroner testified that Rayburn’s head trauma also occurred before he died. Actual death was due to smoke inhalation. The body had been partially burned.

Rudy was prepared with show and tell.

One by one he posted pictures of a pitiful, helpless old man sprawled on the floor near his bed.

A close-up. Waist down. Burned to a crispy critter.

The back of Fritz’s head. A contusion at the base of the skull, raw and ugly, surrounded by silky, silver hair.

A close-up. Fritz’s chin.

Mid-range. Fritz, his hands flung out. One clutching the bedpost as if he was trying to pull himself up, one curled like a child in sleep.

Rudy Klein was building an epic storyboard, making his case about youth and age, limits and a desire for independence, Fritz Rayburn’s success and Hannah Sheraton’s abject failures. Now he was drawing the lines around Rayburn’s vulnerability.

Question: Who could do this to an old man?

Answer: A young, selfish, indulgent, neurotic girl. That’s who. Youth gone dangerously awry right here in River City.

The coroner’s testimony was destructive; the pictures of Fritz were devastating.

The spotlight turned on Josie.

Rudy looked at her.

Beat that.

Josie did what she could.

The coroner could not tell when Hannah’s hair and blood had been left in Fritz Rayburn’s apartments. The heat and smoke had dried out the samples.

He had no explanation for the minute trace’s of Hannah’s blood on Fritz himself unless the defendant had struck the victim, splitting her own skin and leaving blood traces on his chin. Unfortunately there was no way to tell if that was what happened since the defendant’s hand was burned, erasing any sign of an injury sustained in an earlier confrontation.

Josie thanked the coroner, wishing they could let the jury go home with nothing more than memories of what had been said here. They were on the edge of a four-day weekend and that could blur even the most prudent juror’s impressions. But there was more: the housekeeper. Mrs. Peterson spoke to her hands until Rudy asked her to raise her head and speak clearly.

“I woke up at one forty-five in the morning. I sometimes have a hard time sleeping. I watch television and fall asleep in my chair.”

“Did you watch television that night?” Rudy asked.

“Yes, but I heard something outside.”

“Outside your window?”

She shook her head. “No, outside - down the drive. It is very quiet at night. You can hear things from blocks away.”

“What did you do?” Rudy asked.

“I looked out my window,” she responded.

“And what did you see?”

“Hannah running back to the house.”

“Did you see where she had run from?”

“From beyond the trees, from the street. I heard a car right after I saw her.”

Do you think Hannah had just returned from somewhere?”

“Objection. Speculation,” Josie said.

Judge Norris sustained the objection. Josie sent a note to Hannah.

Who were you with?

It was a car on the street.

Josie slid her eyes toward Hannah. They would take up the question again after the day was won. Josie gave Rudy her undivided attention.

“Did Hannah go back into the house?”

“Yes.”

“Did she stay in the house?”

“No. I went to her room to see if she was all right. She’s a nice girl. Just lonely, you know. ”

“Your Honor, please,” Rudy appealed to the bench.

“The witness is instructed to answer the question.”

Mrs. Petersen nodded and chanced a glance at Hannah. She shifted in the witness seat.

“Hannah wasn’t there.”

“Did you look for her?” Rudy asked.

“No. I knew what she was doing.”

“And what was that?”

“Your Honor,” Josie said, “calls for a conclusion.”

Rudy retraced his steps. “When was the next time you saw the defendant?”

“Ten minutes before the fire started I saw her walking around the back of the house going toward the studio.”

“And what time was that?”

“It was about twenty minutes before I heard Mrs. Rayburn call out that the house was on fire.”

“And the next time you saw the defendant?” Rudy asked.

“She was near the fire truck. They had bandaged her hand.”

“Did the defendant say anything?”

“She said, “why did it have to be like this?” and “it’s my fault.” She said both things.”

“Was she screaming?”

“No. She was very calm.” Mrs. Peterson glanced toward the defense table. “I’m sorry, Hannah. I’m really sorry.”

Rudy turned the woman over to Josie.

“Mrs. Peterson, did you see Hannah get out of a car?”

“No.”

“Had you seen anyone pick Hannah up the night in question?”

“No.

“Mrs. Peterson,” Josie asked. “Are you a doctor?”

She shook her head, “No, of course not.”

“Then you would have no way of knowing if Hannah Sheraton’s reaction to this fire was normal given the circumstances.”

“No, I wouldn’t know.”

“You wouldn’t know if she was in shock, would you?”

She shook her head again. “No, I suppose not.”

“And Mrs. Peterson, did you actually see Hannah go into the studio?”

“No, I only saw her walking toward the studio.”

“Thank you.”

Josie sat down. While Mrs. Peterson returned to her seat Josie surreptitiously looked at Hannah. The girl’s eyes were sad and blank. Her Valium lethargy was passing, though it was still evident. When Kip Rayburn was called to the stand Hannah stiffened, her eyes sought Josie’s. Then, as Kip swore to tell the truth, Hannah Sheraton’s eyes turned downward. She couldn’t look.

Chapter 19

“HOSTILE WITNESS - An adverse witness who is known to offer prejudicial evidence as a result of adverse interest or bias. - Black’s Law Dictionary

When Emily Baylor-Bates abandoned her daughter, the marine families closed rank. Josie was transferred to the home of a girl who qualified as her best friend by virtue of the fact that they had arrived in Hawaii at the same time. It took her father three days to get home and, in those three days, Josie imagined her father would blame her for driving Emily away.

But on a warm evening, just around dinnertime, Josie’s father appeared. He reached out his hand and with that one gentle gesture he made the world right, made her part of a family again.

That wasn’t the way things would play for Hannah. Kip didn’t acknowledge her. Hannah listed to the left, her shoulder touching Josie’s ever so slightly. She was looking up, right at Kip, telegraphing her anxiety as she knocked the table from underneath. Twenty times. Pause. Knocking again. To Josie it sounded like thunder but no one seemed to notice. Every eye was on the witness

“Mr. Rayburn, what is your relationship to the victim?”

“He was my father.”

“And what is your relationship to the defendant.”

“She is my wife’s daughter.”

“Mr. Rayburn, are you testifying of your own free will?”

“Yes, I am.”

Josie moved in her seat. This was a powerful salvo. Rudy did not want anyone mistaking Kip Rayburn’s testimony as hostile or less truthful because he was connected to the defendant.

“Given your relationship to the defendant, do you feel that you can answer my questions truthfully?”

”I will answer your questions truthfully. My father believed in the sanctity of the law, and so do I.”

“Mr. Rayburn, given the circumstances, do you feel animosity toward the defendant?”

“No, sir,” Kip answered.

Satisfied, Rudy moved another step closer to the witness.

“Can you describe the relationship your father had with Hannah Sheraton?”

“Objection, Your Honor. The witness cannot attest to such a relationship,” Josie objected.

“Mr. Rayburn and his wife and stepdaughter lived in the victim’s home, and Justice Rayburn interacted as part of the family. Kip Rayburn can testify to the dynamic of his own household,” Rudy argued.

“I’ll allow it within reason, Mr. Klein. Your objection is overruled, Ms. Bates.”

Rudy gave the bench a perfunctory nod.

“Mr. Rayburn? Can you tell us about the relationship between your father and Hannah Sheraton?”

“Over time, my father became very interested in Hannah’s welfare. He believed that Hannah was an extraordinarily talented artist and wanted to see her reach her full potential.”

“And how did he show his interest?” Rudy asked.

“My father spent a great deal of time with Hannah when he was home. He talked about art. He explained his collection to her. He bought her gifts to enhance her talent: books and paints, and such. He offered to take her to museums when his schedule allowed.”

“And how did the defendant react to this attention?”

“I think Hannah enjoyed being the center of attention at first.”

“Objection,” Josie called. “The witness cannot know what was in my client’s mind.”

“Sustained,” Judge Norris intoned.

“Mr. Rayburn,” Rudy went on. “Isn’t it true that the defendant’s attitude toward your father was antagonistic?”

“Eventually Hannah became belligerent when my father was in Los Angeles. She would become angry. She told my wife she didn’t want him in the house.”

“And what did you think about that?”

“I thought it was strange considering it was our home –my father’s and mine. She had only been living with us for a short time. Her attitude was appalling given how generous my father had been.”

“Did the defendant give you a reason for feeling this way?”

“She said he watched her. He always seemed to be around. She liked her independence. She complained about many things.”

“Did Justice Rayburn do those things? I refer to watching Hannah Sheraton.”

“I’m ashamed to say he took more of an interest in her than I did. He was very attentive. Perhaps if I realized the depth of her anger toward authority figures my father would still be alive.”

“Objection, Your Honor.” Josie raised her hand, disgusted with Kip’s answer. He was going out of his way to point his finger at Hannah. “The witness is not the jury and can draw no such conclusion. Move to strike.”

Judge Norris ordered the strike and Kip cleared his throat. He touched his tie but didn’t adjust it. There wasn’t a tremor in his voice, and his eyes remained steadily on Rudy.

“Was Justice Rayburn ever concerned for his own safety?” Rudy asked.

Kip shook his head. “No. Never. Even though I think he should have been.”

“Why is that?”

“I initially believed a relationship would be good for both of them. I didn’t have the artist’s eye that my father held in high esteem. I was happy to see he had someone to share his interest.” Kip tipped his chin a little higher, his lips turned up in what passed as a smile. “I seldom saw him when he was home anymore. But Hannah was young, she needed his attention. My father understood that Hannah’s mother and I were busy.”

Rudy let Kip transgress but even he couldn’t ignore the sound of a beat that had, by now, become familiar to everyone in the room.  The upper part of Hannah’s arms rested against the tabletop. Underneath her clasped hands hit up on the wood, working diligently as if she could break through it and find her freedom. Her hair had spilled over her shoulders; her eyes were trained on Kip. Anger radiated off her. Josie could feel it, hoped the jury wouldn’t sense it.

Kip ignored Hannah and the sounds but every now and again, a small muscle in Rudy’s neck spasmed in sync with the knocking. Judge Norris shifted on the bench, unhappy with the distraction. Josie slipped her hand under the table, putting it between Hannah’s fists and the wood. Without missing a beat, Hannah hit Josie and Josie took the blows on her warm, soft palm.

“When did you first notice the relationship between your father and the defendant change?” Rudy filled the silence quickly, unwilling to be distracted.

“Hannah had been with us almost a year. It was summer. She started to be disrespectful to my father. She was rude. She preferred staying in the room she used as her painting studio. Hannah went out and stayed out late if she wasn’t painting. There was an older boy who did not go to school. Hannah started seeing him. He was unkempt. He looked like a transient.”

“And what was your father’s reaction to Hannah’s behavior?”

“He told me not to worry. He told me she would settle down.”

“Did something happen to change your father’s mind?”

He found Hannah and this man in his bedroom. They had been drinking. My father had come back unexpectedly from San Francisco. They had gone through his things. Hannah had an antique pocketknife my father treasured. She held the knife on him long enough for the man to run away. I wanted to call the police but my father didn’t want to press charges. He was extremely concerned about her at that point. He took it upon himself to help her. My father cared very deeply what happened to Hannah.”

Josie listened carefully, and was suddenly aware that Hannah had stopped knocking. Josie cast a quick glance her way, sensing a rising anxiety in Hannah. She was reassured to see the girl sitting quietly, moving a pencil through her fingers under the table. When she stayed silent, Josie clasped her hands and leaned toward the witness as Rudy continued.

“How did your father help the defendant?”

“He spent even more time with Hannah. My father arranged and paid for treatment. He sent her to some of the finest rehabilitation facilities available. My father was extraordinarily compassionate. I’d never seen him that concerned about a child – any child.” Kip’s voice caught. It was as if his childhood was suddenly coming into focus. He put his fist to his mouth and cleared his throat. He apologized, “Sorry.”

Rudy reassured him with a smile.

“How did the defendant react to Justice Rayburn’s attempts to help her?”

“She ran away from the rehabilitation center. Every conversation was an argument. She stole my wife’s car. The police found her approaching the Mexican border in San Diego – with that same man. She started smoking marijuana. She began cutting herself. She was always angry. Hannah was either very verbal, or totally withdrawn. It was difficult to know what to do.”

“Mr. Rayburn,” Rudy stepped forward to wrap things up. “Did you ever see or hear the defendant threaten your father after the incident with the knife?”

Kip’s eyes trailed to Hannah and she seemed to shrink, huddling under the blazer like it was a tent. Her head shook in miniature movements, silently denying Kip’s testimony or begging him to say nothing more. With no sign that Hannah moved him, Kip Rayburn looked away.

“The defendant screamed at my father that she wished he were dead. She said he would get what was coming someday. That he should just wait.” Kip’s gaze snapped back to Hannah. He struggled to keep the loathing from his voice. “After all that he had done for her. She wanted him dead. I thought it was a figure of speech. I was wrong.”

“Your Honor!”

Josie shot out of her chair ready to object. Rudy looked over his shoulder. Judge Norris swiveled toward the defense. It wasn’t Josie they focused on, but Hannah. She was rising from her seat, tears poured from her eyes and down her cheeks. Her body vibrated and shuddered.

“I didn’t. . .” she said sharply, her fury directed toward everyone. “I didn’t want him d-dead.” She tipped her head back as if she could reverse the flow of her tears. “I just said it. I didn’t do anything to him...” A second more ticked away, and then the silence of the courtroom was ripped by gut wrenching sobs. Her teeth gnashed together as if she could bite off her words. Her hair whipped in front of her face, her eyes blazed at the jury, the judge and then at Kip. Her voice rose and she demanded everyone in the room listen “I just wanted. . .him. . . to. . .leave me. . . alone.”

Over and over again she said it, one fist pounding on the table in rhythm. No longer passive and content to have Josie fight for her, Hannah reached for her mother. The blazer fell from her shoulders. Her arm shot out, she pointed at Linda.

“Mom! Tell them now. Don’t let him do this. He is lying. You know he’s lying. ”

Paralyzed, Linda stared open mouthed at her daughter. A juror suppressed a cry. Another looked away. Someone gasped. Reporters scribbled trying to describe the bloody mess that was Hannah Sheraton’s left arm, trying to explain how a common pencil could become a gruesome weapon of self-mutilation. There was no razor blade but there was no stopping the pain and rage inside Hannah Sheraton from getting out.

Suddenly, the bailiff lunged. Hannah reacted, striking out at him. Off guard, he stumbled back only to come at her again. Linda screamed. Kip shot straight up out of the witness chair but made no move to help.

It was Josie, taller than the bailiff, more determined to do what was right, who pulled a thrashing Hannah to her, felt the blood wet her blouse, and did what had to be done. Stumbling with her client toward the bench, Josie led Hannah past Judge Norris as she said:

“I’d like to request a recess.”

Chapter 20

“I should have been a mechanic like my father.” - Judge Cy Norris to his clerk upon leaving the bench.

Josie once dated an emergency room doctor. She loved his wickedly dark sense of humor, his goatee, and the way he cooked. She didn’t like the fact that being near a body of water larger than a bathtub made him seasick, and he wanted to have a house in the suburbs filled with children.

They had parted ways after a year but Josie always remembered something he said. A great deal of blood could come from just one wound. Once you found the wound, you could make a decision about what to do: work to save the poor bastard or let God deal with it.

In the windowless holding cell off Norris’s courtroom Josie leaned up against the wall and looked for Hannah’s wound while someone else cleaned up the blood. The jurors were at lunch, though she doubted they had an appetite. Judge Norris called a doctor, advised he would expect Josie back in the courtroom for her cross, and gave permission for Hannah to be excused in the company of her mother to seek further medical attention – mental or physical. Josie sent back her thanks. He was not only a kind man he was a smart one who wanted to control his courtroom now that the floodgates had been opened: Hannah being half carried away, blood everywhere, Linda barred from the room as Hannah became ever more hysterical, while crying that she was so sorry. So sorry.

For the last ten minutes, though, all had been quiet. The doctor who had responded to Judge Norris’s call was an older woman, unfazed by what she found. She spoke little, did her work well, and bandaged Hannah’s arm with great care before she left. Hannah’s arms were crossed on the tabletop, her head resting on them, and her eyes were closed. It was the first time Josie had seen her completely at rest. No tapping, no counting, worn out, and psychically and emotionally exhausted.

Josie watched her thoughtfully and counted her own failings. She had seen a hundred other clients proclaim their innocence, fall into despair, cry and wail against the system. At one time in her life, Josie had been able to gauge guilt in a split second. It had been a talent left dormant, a dull blade that no longer sliced easily through a client’s guile – until now. Now Josie believed what she saw: Hannah was only a poor, confused girl who had sealed her own fate, whether guilty or not. Finally Josie pushed herself away from the wall. It was time to probe for Hannah’s real wound.

“We’re okay here.” Quietly, Josie dismissed the bailiff. He hesitated but eventually left them alone. Josie touched the door as it closed behind him then pulled a chair close to Hannah and laid her hand atop the girl’s head.

“Hannah, come on. We’ve got to talk.”

Hannah’s lashes fluttered. Her eyes opened. She stared, but saw nothing. It was another minute, maybe two before Hannah found the energy to speak.

“I’m sorry about your shirt. I’m sorry about everything.”

“Forget the shirt.” Josie petted Hannah, smoothing her hair, talking quietly. “It’s the everything we need to talk about. Can you sit up? Can you talk to me?”

Hannah’s body trembled. She raised her head. It was so hard for her. Finally she sat up. Her hands fell to her sides. She looked at the bandages.

“I don’t even remember doing it. I just remember Kip talking and talking.”

“Hannah do you want your mother to come in while we get things settled?” Josie asked.

Hannah shook her head. “No. She’ll just say she was right all along. I should have done what she said. I should have gone to the hospital but I wanted to show her I was strong, too. I wanted to be strong like her.” A pitiful sob bubbled up and escaped. Just one. She put her fingers to her lips. “I just couldn’t listen to him anymore.”

“Your mom is worried, not upset. We’re all worried about you,” Josie whispered.

“When you see her, tell her I’ll be good from here on. I promise. I don’t want to go to jail. I want to go home with my mom.”

“That’s what we need to decide Hannah.” Josie cleared her throat. It was tough to say this. “I think we need to cut our losses here.”

Josie fell silent. It was hard to think. If Hannah was unbalanced enough to hurt herself that badly, in such a horrific manner, then what could she have done to Fritz . . .

“Josie, why haven’t you ever asked me if I’m innocent?” Hannah leaned close as if she knew what Josie was thinking.

Josie chuckled darkly. She sat back in her chair and crossed her arms to look at her client. She told her the truth.

“Because I was being a good defense attorney. If I asked you and you told me you were guilty, I couldn’t put you on the stand if I had to. If I knew you were going to lie, I’d be suborning perjury. No defense attorney ever asks that question.”

“Don’t you want to know?”

“I thought I did know, Hannah.” Josie held Hannah’s gaze.

“Until now, is that it?” The last flicker of hope drained out of Hannah’s eyes when Josie didn’t answer. “It’s okay. I understand.”

“No, you don’t. I still don’t think you deliberately killed Fritz Rayburn. I’ll never believe that. But Hannah, nothing is ever black and white. People can look at the same thing and see it differently. You could swear you were innocent and those people in that room would look at the evidence and be sure you’re guilty. It’s a huge risk we’re taking now that this has happened.”

“But everything’s going to be okay, right?”

Josie lightly touched Hannah’s arm. “If you can do this to yourself, then there are really deep problems you have to contend with. I’m going to ask for a continuance. I want you to talk with some doctors. I want the jury to take a breather because what happened just now isn’t going to help. Hannah, I couldn’t live with myself if I screwed up and put you in jail when your mother was right all along and you need treatment.”

Hannah clutched at Josie’s hands, missing and trying again until she had them in both her own.

“Please, please don’t give up on me. Josie, you can’t. I know you don’t want to know, but I didn’t start the fire. I hit Fritz. Okay? I mean, I think I did. I know I pushed him. I did that. I was in his bedroom. I did scream at him. That’s all the truth. I should have told you before, but I didn’t think it was important. I thought the fire was important.” Hannah pulled on Josie’s hands like a child wanting an adult to see things her way. “I didn’t see him fall and hit his head. I didn’t set the fire. I didn’t kill him. I just wanted to get away from him.”

“Hannah, stop. Stop.” Josie yanked her hands away and fell back in the chair. She put one hand to her temple and closed her eyes. She wanted to close her ears. There it was: the truth. Hannah had been there. Hannah had struck him. Hannah probably set that damn fire and whatever was in her sick mind just wouldn’t let her admit it. Josie opened her eyes again, dropped her hand, and leaned forward.  “Listen to me, Hannah. I’m your attorney. I have to tell you when it’s time to give up.”

“But it’s not time,” Hannah cried. Desperately she tried to control her anger, her good hand scratching at the bandages on her wounded arm. Josie grappled with her until she had Hannah’s hand in both of hers. Finally, nose-to-nose, Josie begged:

“Then help me believe that. Did you say you wished Justice Rayburn were dead?” Josie relaxed her grip. She lowered her voice. They were both breathing hard. “Did you?”

Hannah blinked and sat straight up. She clasped her hands and pounded them into her lap as she whispered:

“I didn’t mean it. I wanted him to leave me alone. That’s what I told him that night. I told him he had to leave me alone. He said he wouldn’t and I pushed him. I . . . I could have hit him. I know I pushed him. . .I told him. . . .”

Tears came out of her eyes, not in drops but in sheets of moisture that shimmered over her beautiful bronze skin, washed down her cheeks, and fell onto her skirt. Once begun, Hannah couldn’t seem to stop crying. It was as if she had saved it up all her life.

“Hannah. What am I suppose to say to that jury? Fritz Rayburn spent time and money trying to get you the help you need. Kip heard you say you wished his father were dead. You were in Rayburn’s bedroom. His pills were under your mattress. Now you admit that you hit him, or pushed him, or whatever. How can I convince that jury that you meant anything else except to harm Fritz Rayburn?”

“No. No. No. It wasn’t like that. I swear.” Hannah sniffed, she sobbed, and she put her hands on Josie’s knees. Her eyes were red rimmed and the green iris’s sparkled bright. “Fritz was going to hurt me. I had to stop him. Don’t you see?”

“Hannah, please.” Josie didn’t want to hear her fantasies.

“He would sneak up and tell me what he was going to do and then he’d show that little knife to me. He said it was his favorite knife to cut with. That old one. I just wanted to take it away and hide it.”

“Hannah, deal in reality.”

“Wait, wait,” she pleaded, her hands patting Josie’s knees, babbling on. “I didn’t lie about the pills. He gave them to me because I would need them someday, when he did something that really hurt. And I was afraid. I kept those pills because I never knew when he would come after me, or when I’d start feeling something. He was happy when I was afraid. If I wasn’t afraid Fritz wouldn’t think it was fun anymore. If he couldn’t hurt me, it wouldn’t be fun. I practiced cutting on myself so it wouldn’t hurt if he did it.”

Hannah was crying again and sniffing. The words poured out as she tried to coax a smile of faith out of Josie. Josie took her client’s hands and put them together to keep them quiet. She spoke quietly, but firmly. It was time to end all this. Hannah had to admit the truth.

“Hannah, if all this happened why you didn’t tell someone?”

“Who was going to believe me? Who was I going to tell?”

“Your mother,” Josie answered. “She probably would have killed him.”

Hannah bolted upright. She shut her eyes and shook her head violently.

“No. No. No.” She said harshly. “Fritz said he knew exactly how to hurt her. He told me that all the time. That’s what he said. I know how to hurt your mother. I couldn’t let him do that.” Hannah’s eyes searched Josie’s face looking for hope, for help. It wasn’t there. “You have to believe me. I’ve never told anyone except for you. Josie, please, please. Look, I’ll show you.”

Hannah shot up, pushed back her chair and frantically gathered up her long skirt. There was too much fabric and Hannah lost hold. Finally she had pulled it to her waist. Josie saw it all: her agitation, the bandaged arm, the healing hand, the wild eyes that saw something Josie didn’t. This child was so near broken Josie wondered if she could ever be put back together.

The plain-faced clock ticked away a minute and a half before Hannah turned back to Josie, a triumphant smile on her tormented face. She tugged at her skirt and stuck out her leg forcing Josie to look.

“Oh, Hannah.”

Josie’s stomach turned at the sight of the final hurt on Hannah Sheraton’s body. Running from thigh to hip was a raised and puckered scar, near white on her beautiful dark skin.

“I just wanted him to leave me alone. That is why I was in his room. That is why I pushed him, that is why that man saw us arguing,” Hannah said quietly.

Hannah’s young face was bright with hope. Slowly Josie got out of her chair and knelt on the cold hard floor. She reached out but couldn’t bear to touch Hannah’s skin.

“You want me to believe Fritz Rayburn did this to you? You want me to believe that a California Supreme Court Justice was a sadistic monster?”

Hannah nodded but Josie didn’t see. She’d fallen back on her heels, her arms at her side. This changed everything. Hannah was certifiable. She had no grip on reality and Josie’s heart broke.

Hannah let her skirt fall over her legs, and then crouched down in front of Josie and changed everything again.

“I can prove it. I know about other people. I know what he did to them. I’m not the first person he hurt, Josie. I’m just the last. Aren’t I the last?”

There, on the floor of that cold, small, windowless room Hannah Sheraton told her stories until the bailiff opened the door and told Josie it was time to begin again.

Chapter 21

“THIS one is over.” - Maeve Clark, reporter, to herself.

Josie learned how to hold her breath when she was ten. Not just hold it for a minute but hold it as if it was a matter of life or death.

The first morning they were in Hawaii, before the boxes were unpacked, Emily Baylor-Bates bundled her daughter into their old car and drove off the base to find an adventure.

Two hours later, Emily and Josie picked their way down a bluff through a light tropical rain toward a stretch of white beach, blue water, and waves that curled on to each other. Laughing, meeting the waves head on, Emily ran into the water. Josie went after, apprehensive, but so anxious to be her mother’s daughter. Emily turned her back. A wave caught her and lifted her up. She reached out her hands calling to Josie over the roar, moving further into the bright blue water, moving away from Josie.

Josie, smaller and more vulnerable than Emily, was buffeted by the waves. It took all her might to stand her ground. One hit her. Another came. A third slapped her down, dragging her into a whirlpool of sand and water. Josie was twisted head over heels, her small arms flailing, until she didn’t know which way was up, or where down was. She hit the sand hard. Salt stung her shoulder where it was scraped bloody by shell and rock. Over and over again Josie was tumbled and dragged on the rocky bottom only to be sucked back up into the churning, crystalline bubble of water. She was suffocating. Death was around the corner. There was no savior in sight. She wanted her mother. Where was her mother, Josie wondered, as Hannah fought for her life?

Just when Josie was sure she couldn’t hold her breath one minute longer, just when she was sure she was going to die, the ocean threw her up on shore. Lying on the sand, gasping for air, Josie looked up. Emily was dancing in the waves, oblivious to everything but her own pleasure.

Hannah Sheraton had been like Josie. She had held her breath as she tumbled through the beautiful treacherous waters of the Rayburn house while Linda and Kip danced outside the surf and Fritz dragged her under the tide of his sickness. Linda hadn’t saved her, but Josie would. She was convinced that Hannah’s story was not a fantasy. The girl knew too much, gave too many names, and was too specific as to Fritz Rayburn’s particular habits. By the time the court reconvened Josie knew what she had to do. She had to believe in Hannah unconditionally.

Mired in her outrage, guarding against the slippery slope of skepticism, Josie stood rigidly behind the defense table; eyes forward as she controlled her breathing and planned her attack. Josie didn’t realize Linda was near until she heard her voice.

“You can’t keep me out of that room,” Linda hissed. “I’m her mother.”

Josie looked at Linda, unmoved by such outrage. It was too little too late. Josie stepped to the bar, close enough to smell Linda’s expensive perfume, to see the little scar on the side of her lip twitch.

“I can do what I damn well please,” Josie assured her coldly.

“You’re going to kill her. I told you that in the beginning. It was just a matter of time before she went nuts. Tell the judge now. Tell him you want to talk to the prosecutor about a plea.”

Josie looked at the empty jury box. She could hear Linda’s voice but Josie’s mind was elsewhere. Her entire defense would have to change now and she wasn’t clear what direction it would take. Self-defense? Battered woman’s syndrome? All Josie knew was that Linda hadn’t just ignored her daughter’s pain; she had inflicted it on Hannah with her selfishness. Finally, she looked at Linda.

“You are disgusting. Did you think I wouldn’t find out what Rayburn was doing? Why didn’t you tell me up front? What was there to protect? Your husband? Your reputation? It would have all been so different if you just told me.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Linda snapped, but she’d gone pale. She took hold of Josie’s arm. “What are you going to do? What did Hannah tell you?”

“You’ll know when everyone else does,” Josie growled. “Now let go of me and sit down, or I swear I’ll make this worse for you than it needs to be.”

“Josie, I don’t know what Hannah told you. . .”

But Josie had turned her back. People were watching. Linda sat down, pulling herself tall, squaring her shoulders. Behind her, spectators were filing in, wondering about Hannah and judging Linda. Linda hated judgment. How could they know anything about her life? How could these people – the press, the spectators, the vacant faced bailiff and clerk, the jury and even the judge himself – presume to think they knew anything about Linda, or the way she had raised her daughter, or the things she had to do to survive? It sickened Linda Rayburn to think that anyone felt superior to her – even if it was only their perception.

Linda threw back her head, turning just as Rudy Klein walked past. He fixed his eyes on her until he pushed through the swinging gate of the bar. Unnerved, Linda’s chin dropped and her hand went to her throat. There was something in those eyes of his that put her off as sharply as if he had poked her with a stick; as if she was a rock he was trying to turn to see what crawling things were underneath.

Then the judge was seated, the court reporter’s hands were poised above her machine, and Kip was being called back to the stand for Josie’s cross. Kip stopped to touch Linda’s hand. That was all it took to put her on the right track again. The end was too close to let anything knock them off course. Finally Kip seemed to understand that.

Judge Norris instructed the jury to attend to the matters at hand and gave Josie the nod. Standing in front of Kip Rayburn, Josie clasped her hands low, planted her feet and led with her strength.

“Mr. Rayburn, isn’t it true that your father, Justice Fritz Rayburn, abused you?”

The silence lasted exactly five seconds before the buzz started.

What did she say? Did I hear that right?

“Objection, Your Honor!” Rudy called out, on his feet, as pale as his witness. “This is outrageous and beyond the scope.”

Josie was quick and fierce. Her head snapped toward the bench for only as long as it took to explain herself.

“Goes to credibility, Judge.”

“Request a sidebar, Your Honor,” Rudy demanded.

Norris crooked a finger, simultaneously calling for quiet, threatening to clear the courtroom if he didn’t get what he wanted. Josie went reluctantly, unwilling to take her eyes off Kip Rayburn. She wanted him to feel the depth of her disdain. Norris covered the microphone on the bench and leaned forward. Rudy went first. He was so incensed Josie feared he would combust.

“Your Honor, this is outrageous. Ms. Bates will have a chance to present her case but to abuse this witness with histrionics is blatant sensationalism and demeans this court.”

“Oh please,” Josie shot back in disgust. “You opened the door. This witness has testified to the kind nature of Justice Rayburn. He has painted a picture of a selfless man bent only on helping my client and that is, quite simply, untrue according to my client. I should be allowed to explore the character of the victim since the prosecutor is holding that character up to scrutiny. ”

“She is right counselor,” Norris ruled.

“Then limit the scope, Your Honor,” Rudy pleaded. “Allow Mr. Rayburn to testify only to what he experienced in regard to the defendant.”

“Your witness is already on the record regarding his insights into Justice Rayburn’s treatment of my client. If you limit me, I will have no way of discrediting his testimony without him admitting to perjury. Please, Your Honor.  This girl deserves every opportunity to prove her truthfulness.”

Norris hesitated. This case had taken a turn that would whip public interest to a frenzy and that worried him. He was already hearing the sound bites, the debates, and the speculation that would erupt on talk shows and in the press. A California Supreme Court Justice had gone from saint to sinner and it was clear Josie Baylor-Bates was going to milk this for all it was worth. Still, he had a job to do. Much as he hated to, Norris would let this play out.

“Overruled, Mr. Klein. Step back.”

Rudy went back to his corner, unnerved by the ruling. He was barely seated when Josie closed in on Kip Rayburn. The man looked gray. His hair seemed to have thinned. He seemed to have wilted inside his suit. Then she saw a spark deep in his eyes. Kip wasn’t afraid. He was examining the predator and the nature of her attack in order to protect himself. That meant only one thing. Hannah hadn’t lied.

“Mr. Rayburn. I ask you again, when did your father, Fritz Rayburn, start abusing you?”

“I am not going to answer that.”

“Your Honor, permission to treat as hostile.” Josie never took her eyes off Kip Rayburn as she circled and left him open to the jury’s scrutiny.

“So directed.” Norris instructed.

Josie inclined her head in thanks. She could now demand his answers, insist on the truth, pound at his responses until she was satisfied her client had been well served.

“Do you need the question read back, Mr. Rayburn?” Josie asked.

Kip let his eyes linger on Josie for a minute. His expression was condescending. His gaze wandered to Linda. Josie could feel the minute their eyes locked. Methodically he surveyed the spectators and the jury. Finally, disdainfully, Kip Rayburn answered the question.

“My father never abused me, Ms. Bates.”

“Did Justice Rayburn use a wooden paddle on you when you were eight?”

“Yes.”

“When you were twelve did your father cut your right index finger so deep that it exposed the bone and took twenty-seven stitches to close it up?”

“That was an accident. He was trying to show me how to whittle,” Kip said.

“With a carving knife, Mr. Rayburn?” Josie asked disdainfully.

“You had to be there, Ms. Bates,” he answered.

“And on your ninth birthday did your father lock you in the closet with a. . .”

“This is ridiculous.” Kip Rayburn muttered. One hand went to his mouth; the other was cocked back on the arm of the witness chair.

“Mr. Rayburn, you are directed -” Judge Norris began but Kip had other ideas.

“No. I will not be directed to talk about things that are personal. The way my father and I dealt with one another is no one’s business. This isn’t about me. It’s about her.” Kip tossed his head toward the empty defense table.

“Fine,” Josie stepped forward. “Then tell us this, Mr. Rayburn, did your father abuse Hannah Sheraton?”

“Of course not,” Kip snorted.

“Verbally?”

“No.”

“Emotionally?”

“No.”

“Did he touch her, Mr. Rayburn?”

“Only in the way a concerned old man would touch a child he cared about.”

“Did he physically discipline her?” Josie snapped.

“He disciplined her within reason,” Kip shot back.

“Did that include burning her with wax from a candle, Mr. Rayburn?”

“I beg your pardon.”

“Wax. Hot wax on her thigh. Hot enough to burn through a summer skirt. Did your father do that?”

“No! I mean, how would I know? I didn’t monitor my father’s behavior.”

“Considering the way your father disciplined you, don’t you think you should have watched how the great Justice Rayburn interacted with the defendant?”

“Hannah was a big girl. . .”

“So you’re saying that your father only abused small children. Is that what you’re saying?”

“No, that’s not what I’m saying. Do not twist my words. You cannot twist them to suit you. Hannah was the one who abused my father. Hannah was the one. . .”

Josie threw herself back into the courtroom, her arms raised in disbelief.

“Hannah was fourteen when she came to live in your home and barely fifteen when your father first took an interest in her. We’ve all seen her. She weighs one hundred pounds, and you want to tell this court that she was the one who abused. . .”

“Objection,” Rudy roared. “Counsel is blatantly badgering this witness.”

Forgetting Kip Rayburn Josie turned on Rudy.

“What is outrageous is that my client is on trial when it is the Rayburn family that should be held accountable for what they have done to her. How far did you look for a perpetrator, Mr. Klein? How far were you willing to go to sacrifice a child so that you could make a name for yourself – or was it to protect the reputation of a dead judge?” Josie’s eyes slid to Kip. “Or is your office protecting the next Justice Rayburn, Mr. Klein?”

“Ms. Bates, that is enough,” Judge Norris warned.

“No, I want to know. Were you afraid if you tried to find the real criminal someone might have dug up the fact that Fritz Rayburn wasn’t such a good guy after all?”

“That’s ridiculous. Your client had the means and the opportunity. Your client set that fire.” Rudy was half out of his seat, outraged at the turn of events.

“That is enough!” Norris roared and his gavel crashed onto his desk.

Josie took too many steps back, moving so close to Kip that she could almost touch the wooden railing between them. She rerouted herself again. It was wrong to be so aggressive, so outraged. Righteous indignation would help her client, not an attack. The silence was deafening. Rudy Klein sat down. Josie pulled herself together.

“Continue with this witness in an appropriate manner, Ms. Bates or you will be sanctioned.”

She turned toward the jury then back again, her head bowed in thought. Rudy fumed in his chair. Josie was composed once more.

“Is it true your father was abusive to you, yes or no?”

“No.”

“Mr. Rayburn isn’t it true that in the two days before his death you and your father fought violently.”

“I wouldn’t characterize it that way,” Kip answered.

“Did you argue?”

“Yes.”

“What did you argue about?”

“A business matter.”

“During that business disagreement, were you so outraged that you threw a glass decanter at your father?”

“Yes. It was a mistake.”

“Did you resolve the matter?”

“We would have,” Kip replied.

“So at the time of his death, you still harbored ill will toward your father for a current transgression. Yes or no.”

“No.”

Josie didn’t give him time to breathe.

“Did you harbor ill will toward him for his treatment of you as a child?”

Kip swallowed hard and answered, “No.”

“Were you upset that your father paid so much attention to the defendant.”

“I didn’t think it was healthy.”

“You didn’t think it was healthy,” Josie reiterated. “That’s an interesting choice of words, Mr. Rayburn. For whom was it unhealthy? For Hannah Sheraton?”

Kip ignored the question and answered as he liked. “There was an unhealthy concern on my father’s part for a girl who didn’t know the value of his attention.”

“Are you still contending that your father only had Hannah Sheraton’s best interests at heart?”

“Yes.” Kip leaned forward in his chair, daring her to take this further. Josie pulled herself to her full height, a small smile on her lips.

“Mr. Rayburn, do you know the penalty for perjury?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Then answer this question truthfully. Was your stepdaughter abused by Justice Fritz Rayburn?”

Kip couldn’t contain himself any longer. He stood up and leaned over the railing of the witness box. His tone was cruel, and his plain eyes seemed dead.

“If I had any knowledge of abuse in my home I would gladly tell you because then everyone would see that Hannah is a murderer. If my father did such a despicable thing, if any of what you said was true, at least that little shit would have a decent motive for killing my father. Or didn’t that occur to you, you bitch?”

Time stopped. The courtroom reverberated with the echoes of Kip Rayburn’s fury. His face, so ordinary in repose, took on angles and shadows carved by the twin blades of raw emotion and brutal honesty. He trembled as he stood looking down on Josie Baylor-Bates. His hatred of her was palpable. She took a step forward, holding out her right hand as if to ask the judge to give her a moment. It was Josie and Kip in that instant. Everyone else faded to black and the camera captured them in close-up.

“If everything I said is true,” Josie said firmly, “then Hannah isn’t the only one with a motive to kill your father is she, Mr. Rayburn?”

Chapter 22

“IN my chambers!” - Judge Cy Norris

“Sit down!”

Judge Norris bellowed as he swept into his chambers. He yanked at the zipper on his robes and fought his way out of them. Behind him Linda and Kip, Rudy and Josie scattered. Linda took a chair, as did Rudy. Josie and Kip stood on opposite sides of the room.

“Your Honor,” Josie began.

“Not yet. Not yet, Ms. Bates. You just give me a minute here to cool my jets.” Norris huffed. Adrenalin kept him from his seat. Behind the desk he paced like a caged animal; long strides in a short space. His hands were on the side of his head before they landed on his hips. The temperate looking man who had initially taken the bench had a formidable temper.

Finally he stopped, grasped the back of his chair, and hung his head. In the silence that ensued he finally sat down, tented his fingers and looked at them. He was, in a word, appalled.

“Mr. Rayburn. I will not accept that kind of behavior in my courtroom. Period. And I am disturbed to think that your behavior might be repeated in your own courtroom were the governor to allow you to take the bench.”

“It isn’t my courtroom I’d worry about, it is your own.”

“Mr. Rayburn,” Norris snapped.

“This entire trial is a farce.” Kip sounded off. “You’ve enabled that woman to degrade these proceedings by attacking me and my father in public when she had every opportunity to ask me those same questions before this trial began. This is a calculated attack.”

“You will show this court respect, sir,” Judge Norris intoned, “because you have no standing except as a witness here.”

“It doesn’t matter when I ask a question,” Josie insisted, ready to fight with Kip. “I expect a truthful answer. If you were going to turn a blind eye to what was happening in your own home then I had no choice but to bring it to the court’s attention.” Josie whipped her head toward Judge Norris. “Your Honor, I request a continuance. I need more time to fully prepare now that I have this information. I need to see what bearing the victim’s behavior, this witnesses’ behavior, has on my case.”

“Your Honor,” Rudy jumped in. “There is no need to put the court out because Ms. Bates’ client has been less than forthcoming. The defense has had ample time to uncover and investigate all aspects of this matter. We aren’t talking about forensics that need additional testing, or an eye witness that needs to be located.”

“I should say not,” Kip drawled. “There couldn’t be a witness, or evidence, because nothing happened to that girl. Ask my wife. Ask her.”

All eyes turned toward Linda. She sat with her knees together, her hands fisted in her lap. Her face was the color of chalk, her eyes cold as ice as she stared at Josie.

“Why are you doing this to us?” Linda lifted her hands slightly.

“Did you know, Linda? Did you?” Josie asked quietly. But Linda didn’t answer. She turned to Judge Norris.

“Your Honor, my daughter is ill. She lives in a world of fantasy. Hannah lives in her own mind. She paints pictures; she makes up lives for herself. She smokes marijuana. She reinvents herself every. . .”

“Linda!” Josie cried. “What are you saying? Hannah has been abused, and she has the scars to prove it.”

Linda dropped her head before swinging it toward Josie, glaring at her from beneath her long lashes.

“Don’t you dare tell me about my daughter, Josie.”

“I’m not. I’m asking you to look at her objectively. Look at what that man did to her,” Josie pleaded.

“And I’m telling you to look again.” Linda shook back her hair and sat up straighter. “You always could tell a fake when we played ball, Josie. You should be able to tell one now.”

Josie’s eyes narrowed. Something was wrong. It was there in Linda’s tone, the shadow behind the eyes.

“This isn’t sport, and Hannah isn’t my opponent, Linda,” Josie said cautiously.

“No, this isn’t sport,” Linda whispered before finding some strength and starting again. “Hannah is a sick girl who has taken up every minute of my life with worry. I don’t mind for myself, but she can ruin my husband’s career, and the reputation of a fine man who died a tragic death.” She turned toward Rudy then to Judge Norris. “How can you let this happen? How can you let her insinuate these things? Whatever Ms. Bates believes she saw, Hannah probably did it to herself; whatever she told you are the imagining of a lonely teenager who has never fit in anywhere.” She turned her gaze back to Josie. “This isn’t helping Hannah, Josie. This isn’t helping any of us.”

Kip stepped in.

“If you stay this course, Ms. Bates, you will be on the wrong side of a slander suit. We want Hannah to plead no contest to all charges. Mr. Klein, I’d like you to negotiate a plea bargain. We will advise you of new counsel.”

Josie scoffed.

“You know counsel can’t be replaced without good cause, and I haven’t done anything but act in the best interest of my client.”

“That’s a laugh,” Kip snorted. “I can replace you this minute. I won’t pay one more cent for this kind of representation.”

“So this is all about money and appearances.” Josie nodded, resigned to what she had to do next. “Fine. Let’s remove her from you – not me from her. Judge, Ms. Sheraton is being prosecuted as an adult. She should make her own decisions and, if there is a question as to the legality of that, Your Honor, then I’d like to go on record with my intent to file for emancipation of the minor Hannah Sheraton to sever all legal ties with Linda Rayburn.”

“You can’t do that,” Linda cried half standing. Kip grabbed her shoulders and settled her again.

“Your Honor, this is a mockery of the system,” Rudy argued. “Emancipation was never meant to be used this way.”

“Then leave me alone to defend that girl!” Josie pushed the envelope without a thought to the consequences.

“Quiet. All of you.” Norris cut the air with his hand and looked at each one in turn. Josie infuriated and determined, Linda stiff with rage, Rudy anxious to get this proceeding back on track, and Kip Rayburn hurt, angry and dangerous. There was something else in Kip Rayburn, too, but it took Norris a minute to identify it. Then he had a word for it. Shame. Shame could be a powerful motivator.

He gave his order.

“I’ll talk to the defendant. Alone.”

Chapter 23

JOSIE knew one thing: all problems could be solved.

Fritz Rayburn was a problem. Someone solved it by eliminating the source. Josie’s father solved his problems by the book. Emily Baylor-Bates ran away. Linda turned a blind eye, some people ignored their troubles, and some created bigger ones to take their place. Then there were people who solved their problems the good old-fashioned way – they worked at it. Ask the right questions, determine if answers were truthful, make a plan, follow through and regroup if necessary.

Now they were waiting to see how Judge Norris would solve the problem of Hannah Sheraton.

Linda and Kip sat in the empty jury box, isolated, huddled together, and holding hands. Kip didn’t move; Linda couldn’t sit still. She leaned into her husband, put her hand on his knee, draped her arm over his shoulders, dropped her head so that it nestled against his jaw, and spoke to him in whispers. The only thing Linda Rayburn didn’t do was look at Josie pacing in the back of the courtroom.

Josie checked her watch incessantly, and wished a thousand times that Norris would have let her stay in chambers while he spoke to Hannah. She promised silence. He had dismissed her, and now time wasn’t going any faster because Josie was up and moving. She sank onto the back pew, put her knees together, and splayed her feet outwards considering the fine point on the toe of her high-heeled boots.

“Bates?”

Josie started and sat up straighter, instantly on her guard. Rudy Klein swung himself onto the pew in front of her.

“What’s going on out there?” Josie cocked her head toward the door, keeping her voice low.

“The press is getting ready for a feeding frenzy. You’re headlines again. That’s quite a talent.”

“Anything else?” Josie had no patience for him and this little game of dredging up the past.

“No. I guess not. Just thought you might like some company. I suppose I was wrong.”

Rudy started to get up. Josie stopped him.

“Sorry. Sorry. I’m a little sensitive at the moment.”

Rudy sat down again. He hung one hand over the back of the pew. He spoke quietly, thoughtfully.

“You’re not the only one. And you’re not the only one who feels bad about all this.” Rudy sighed. His fingers drummed lightly on the back of the bench. “I’ve got to tell you it makes me feel terrible. I admired Judge Rayburn. I don’t want to think he could do what you’re saying he did. Not to a kid. Not his son or that girl.”

Josie looked at Rudy as his voice trailed off. He was a truly handsome man. His hair waved back from a broad, intelligent brow. The eyes that looked so lazy were actually bright and telling. He had probably been a hell of an actor but he wasn’t acting now. Rudy was disturbed and fighting to stay true to his own charge.

“I don’t think anyone wants to believe it, but that is what we’ve got,” Josie said.

“Maybe. Maybe not,” Rudy sighed and rubbed his hand over his eyes. “I just wonder if you really know what you’re doing. I mean the press is going to run with this, a lot of things are going to be called into question: Rayburn’s judgments, the governors, your own part in this.”

“Are you concerned for my professional reputation?” She slid her eyes toward him, wary of the opponent at rest.

“I wouldn’t like to see you go down the tubes and I think you might.  You’re running with a ball but you didn’t consider who made the pass.” Rudy rested his chin on his hand. “Maybe asking for a continuance and checking out the kid’s story before you came out with all guns blazing might have made a little more sense”

“It’s nice of you to worry about me. I think my reputation will survive,” Josie drawled.

“Hey, come on. I’m not rooting for you to go down, this is just some advice. Whatever is between you and the girl’s mother is between the two of you. But what she has to say about this girl being delusional, or self destructive, or whatever, may be right.”

“And I believe my client,” Josie answered. “That’s enough.”

He shook his head, sliding his arm off the back of the bench in dismay, genuinely distressed.

“Then you’re going to be the only one. Fritz Rayburn was a California Supreme Court Justice. I can recite his resume chapter and verse. There has never, ever been a hint of scandal and now a girl with mega problems is crying foul. You’ve got to see the downside of all this.”

Josie pulled her feet together and leaned forward. She kept her voice low.

“Rudy, why does age and accomplishment count for more than youth and fear? I think telling me about this was a pretty gutsy thing for Hannah to do. I wish she’d done it earlier. She knew people would react the way you are. Nobody wants to scrutinize Fritz Rayburn, or call him to account. Do you think Kip would have stood up for Hannah if she told him? Do you think her mother would?”

“I would, had there been credible evidence,” Rudy insisted.

“Right. The same way you’re willing to believe her now,” Josie scoffed. “Give me a break, Rudy.”

She turned her head. Kip was watching them, and when Josie caught his eye she was overwhelmed with sadness for everyone: Kip, Linda, and especially Hannah. Then she looked around the courtroom and the feeling passed. No one in here did anything because they felt sorry for a fellow human being. Here everyone was driven by a higher purpose, and Josie’s was justice for a girl who had no power.

“You said you and the DA want to hold kids who kill accountable.” She sat up straighter but still spoke quietly. “Why shouldn’t accountability work both ways? I’d like to think you’d prosecute Fritz Rayburn if he were accused. I’d like to think I would defend him because everyone is innocent until proven guilty. But Fritz Rayburn isn’t my client. Hannah is. She deserves everything I’ve got to give including laying the truth out like a bed of nails and making you lay down on it. I expect you to fight back hard, but what I really expect, Rudy, is that we’ll just get to the truth. Most often this is where the truth finally comes out if you dig deep enough.”

Rudy Klein pulled his lips together. Josie Baylor-Bates believed in her client as much as he believed Hannah Sheraton was responsible for Justice Rayburn’s death.

“I can bury you with this abuse thing if you pursue it, Bates. It’s motive pure and simple,” he said bluntly. “I’ll talk to the District Attorney about a deal. Let’s make this go away before it goes any further.”

Josie looked over at Kip Rayburn then back at Rudy. “No, Rudy. This time I’m right. It’s a reason for Hannah to have defended herself not the other way around. No deal.”

With that, Josie stood up. The door of chambers had opened. Judge Norris had Hannah by the arm and was escorting her into the courtroom.

Linda rushed out of the jury box, hands out to her daughter. Hannah looked away and stayed close to Judge Norris. Kip stood behind Linda. Rudy followed Josie until they had all congregated behind the bar. Judge Norris and Hannah were in front of it. Norris spoke quietly and firmly.

“I have decided to grant a continuation per Ms. Bates’ request. This trial will resume on Tuesday the sixteenth. This court will recognize Ms. Sheraton’s adult status without emancipation proceedings. She has chosen to have Ms. Bates continue as her defense attorney. She has also decided there will be no further discussion of plea bargain unless the attorneys are present, and the defendant agrees.”

“Oh, God.” Linda uttered a cry under her breath and turned into her husband.

“I am, however, in a quandary regarding where Ms. Sheraton will live for the duration of these proceedings.”

“I don’t understand. She’ll come home with me,” Linda said. “Didn’t she say she wanted to come home with me? Hannah?”

“After today the court will decide where Hannah lives. It is clear to me that the emotional wounds in this matter run deep and cut two ways. The court is sympathetic to both parties, but” he held up one hand, a finger toward heaven, “I will not have this defendant intimidated or subjected to undue influence during the course of this trial. Because of what happened here today, I am reluctant to release Ms. Sheraton to the custody of her mother while she resides with Mr. Rayburn.”

The judge looked over Linda’s shoulder to her husband.

“I understand how difficult this must be for you, Mr. Rayburn. I know that the choice to testify for the prosecution must have been a very difficult one. However, that choice will not soon be forgotten in the same way that your suspicions will not be put to rest easily. There will be no magic once you walk out of this courtroom that will allow you and Ms. Sheraton to reside civilly under the same roof for the duration.”

“Judge,” Josie stepped forward, “the ramifications would be even worse if Hannah was remanded to county care. I know the court wouldn’t want to see any more harm come to her.”

Norris smiled sadly, “No, this court does not. But harm comes in many guises. While I don’t want her in physical distress, I also don’t want to see any deterioration of her mental state. If the hostility exhibited today continues because she is confined to her home I’m afraid that’s what I see in her future.”

“But. . .” Josie began to argue. It was Kip who ended the discussion.

“I won’t be going back to the Malibu house,” he said. Linda gasped and turned toward her husband, forgetting Hannah.

“Kip, there’s no reason to do this. I’m sure we can work this out,” Linda insisted but Kip ignored her.

“I won’t be going back, Judge.” Kip’s voice was flat, his expression determined. He seemed unmoved by Linda’s touch, her panic, and her need.

“Ever? Kip, you don’t mean you’re never coming home, do you?” Linda whispered softly.

“Mrs. Rayburn?”

Judge Norris called. Linda blinked. She hesitated, reluctant to take her eyes off Kip. Her skin was pale. Her hands were trembling as they grasped her purse. She looked stunned.

“Mrs. Rayburn, I will need your assurance that your priority will be your daughter. From now until the end of this trial you will be responsible for your daughter’s whereabouts twenty-four hours a day. Is that clear? Mr. Rayburn will not be in the Malibu residence. If you see him, you will take steps to ensure that your daughter is monitored and safe.”

Linda looked from Kip to the judge and back again. Linda was being called upon to divide the baby and Josie held her breath, wondering which she would choose. Finally, her voice low, her eyes unable to meet Norris’s, Linda nodded.

“Yes. I understand.”

“Fine. Mr. Rayburn will advise this court of his residence.”

“The house in the Palisades.” Kip’s gaze leveled first at Hannah, and then at Josie.

“My clerk will need the full address and phone number,” the judge instructed. “Mrs. Rayburn and Ms. Sheraton will continue to reside in Malibu. If there is a problem with this, other living arrangements will be made for the defendant. I would prefer that doesn’t happen. In fact, I hope I have made clear how very much I don’t want that to happen.”

“Can I take Hannah home now?” Linda asked.

“Yes. I won’t change the provisions of bail as long as Ms. Sheraton abides by them. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir,” Hannah whispered, her eyes darting to her mother, her right hand moving against her thigh in measured beats.

“Good. Then I suggest you all go home. Mrs. Rayburn is to leave every possible channel of communication open for Ms. Bates and her client. Is that understood?”

“Yes,” Linda murmured.

Josie stepped forward to offer her support but Linda was quick. She wanted nothing to do with Josie. Linda bundled Hannah up and pulled her away from Josie, the court, the judge, and Rudy Klein. Josie followed, catching up with Linda at the door.

“Hannah. Linda. Wait,” Josie called.

Linda’s head whipped around. She pulled Hannah closer.

“Haven’t you done enough today?” Linda sneered.

“Mom, please,” Hannah begged. “I did it. I told her.”

“Shut up, Hannah. Don’t make it worse.” Linda’s eyes blazed as she stepped forward so the judge wouldn’t hear them. “Just stay away from us. You’ve ruined everything. You’ve ruined my marriage. You’ve made my daughter crazy.”

“Mom,” Hannah cried. “Please, it isn’t her fault. I only told her about what Fritz did to -”

“Shut up, Hannah. Don’t say anything else.” Linda tightened her hold, claiming Hannah.

“You can’t keep her away from me, Linda,” Josie warned quietly.

“I’ll do what the judge says, but it doesn’t mean I’m going to let you destroy everything either. I earned this family. It is mine and I’ll figure out a way to keep it together.” Linda hitched her purse and tightened her grip on Hannah. “Now, I think my daughter has had enough for one day. I know I certainly have.”

“Hannah, are you all right?” Josie asked, bypassing Linda.

Hannah nodded.

“Okay. I’ll call later.”

“You will not,” Linda snapped before remembering the judge’s order. “At least give us a little time.”

Josie stepped away, hands up as she backed off.

“Okay. Okay. Just listen. The press is set up at the main entrance. It’s a zoo out there. Take Hannah down the freight elevator to the left.”

Josie held Linda’s gaze. Hatred in Linda’s eyes; resolve in Josie’s. Without another word Linda put her hand on the side of her daughter’s head, steered it onto her shoulder, and hustled her out the door.

Josie turned back to retrieve her jacket and briefcase. Kip Rayburn was deep in conversation with Rudy. Judge Norris had returned to chambers and Josie had eleven days to find out exactly what kind of man Fritz Rayburn was, and who else might have wanted him dead.

***

Linda started drinking at six. She smoked half a pack of cigarettes while she listened to Hannah tear up her room.  Hannah’s rampage lasted forty-five minutes. The silence stretched into two hours as Linda waited for Kip to walk through the door. She was positive he would defy the court order and come to her.

At nine Linda figured she was on her own. Putting aside her drink and her cigarettes, Linda walked to the back of the house. Hannah was sitting on her stool, rocking and counting. The bedding was in a pile, the pillows tossed toward the bathroom. Hannah’s clothes were ripped from their hangers, grabbed from the drawers and dumped on the floor. A razor blade was in a small dish at Hannah’s feet. It hadn’t been used, thank God. Linda closed her eyes, breathed in through her nose and said:

“You don’t have to worry. Kip isn't coming home.” Hannah kept rocking. Linda tried again. “He’ll come around. When this is all over, we’ll still be here.” Linda eased into the room. She stopped with her back against the wall when she was within Hannah’s range of vision. “Did Fritz do what Josie says he did?”

“Yes,” Hannah whispered.

“Why didn’t you tell me, baby?”

Linda choked on the words. She sniffled and put her hands to her lips. Just the thought of what Hannah had been through brought back bad memories of Hannah’s father. His dark eyes and thick lashes, the way his hands felt on her, the way he made love - the way he hit her, twisted arms, broke bones. He had been gorgeous to look at and deadly to live with. Linda hadn’t told anyone about the abuse because there was no one to tell in a country where beating your woman was a sign of manliness. Eventually Linda walked away because she could. It was different with Hannah. She was a kid. She had tried to run and Fritz had always brought her back. Still, Hannah could have said something. If she had, everything would have been different. Everything.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Linda asked again. She swayed against the wall and put out her hands to steady herself. She had drunk too much, thought too much, and lay awake too many hours over the last weeks trying to figure out what to do. “Why didn’t you tell me, Hannah?”

“Because you didn’t want me to.”

Slowly Hannah turned to look at Linda. Her hair fell across one side of her face, her green eyes sparkled. The energy it took to destroy her room, the futility of all this, had left her exhausted.

“That’s not true, Hannah. If I had known it would have changed everything. It . . .”

Linda was on the floor, her arms around Hannah before she knew what had happened. Her hands were in Hannah’s hair, holding her face, her tears falling on Hannah’s shoulders.

“You’re drunk, mom. You’re drunk.” Hannah pushed Linda away but her mother held on tight.

“No. I just feel so sad. If I had known what he was doing I could have bested the old bastard. Everything would have been so simple. So different.” Linda sobbed and clutched at her daughter but Hannah pushed her hard. Linda fell back, splayed on the floor. “You must have been so scared. If you told me I could have stopped him from hurting either one of us. It would have been so simple.”

Hannah sat on her stool and listened to her mother’s protestations. There had been no comfort in Linda’s embrace. The sound of her mother’s voice didn’t soothe her. The promise that it would have been different didn’t mean shit because Fritz was dead. It was done. All of it.

Kip Rayburn let himself into the Palisades house and did everything he always did when he got home. He walked up stairs to his bedroom and put his wallet and his key on the bureau in the dressing room. He flipped on the bathroom light and the lamp at the bedside. He sat on the bed and took his watch off.

The place was as it always was: spotlessly clean, perfectly appointed. He should have come home weeks ago when the police released the property. He wandered through the house, touching the elegant, traditional furniture, looking at the classic artwork. Fritz had done well with this house. Anyone would have believed he had come from money, grown up with the finest things. He was a master of disguise, that old man.

Kip went down to the kitchen but he wasn’t hungry. He poured himself a drink but didn’t taste it. Finally, he did what he knew he was going to do all along: he opened the front door and walked the grounds.

Kip passed the fountain where the fireman had found Hannah. The little stone peeing boy atop it was dry for the time being; the water cut off while the wreckage was cleared. Part of the staircase still stood. One of Hannah’s paintings had only been partially destroyed. A workman had propped it near the fountain as if he had found something precious. Kip kicked at it as he walked, resisting the temptation to stomp it into the ground. This wasn’t the time to lose control. He’d never done it as a kid - he’d only done it once as an adult - and look what happened.

His shoes scraped on the bare foundation. Funny how the smell of fire lingered, clung to nothing but concrete, how it felt hotter the minute he stepped onto the slab, how the tinkle of the ice in his drink seemed to echo off the nonexistent walls.

Sinking onto the bottom step of the staircase Kip Rayburn looked up into the night sky, then out toward the gardens. He looked at the hills and canyons of the Palisades and then he started to laugh. Anyone listening might have mistaken it for crying. It struck him funny that he was sitting in the ruins of his home, facing the ruin of his life, the loss of his father and the estrangement of his wife. In the final analysis, Fritz Rayburn was the only thing that had ever, really, truly belonged to Kip Rayburn and Hannah Sheraton had taken that away.

Wouldn’t Fritz get a kick out of this mess?

Wouldn’t he love to see how miserable everyone was?

Kip Rayburn thought about all this as he put his head against the wall and laughed and laughed until he cried.

***

Rudy Klein got home just before the late news began. He stripped down to his t-shirt and boxers. Dinner was a box of crackers and a hunk of cheese, a glass of milk, and a Ding-Dong. A Rudy dinner; a Mikey dessert. Rudy picked up the Ding-Dong and started taking off the silver wrapper just as a commercial came on.

Keeping an eye on the television he dialed his ex-wife.

“Hey,” he said. “It’s late. I’m sorry. I just wanted to ask a favor. Go in and kiss Mikey once more for me.”

“He’s asleep, Rudy,” Pam grumbled. “And I was almost asleep.”

“I know. But what’s it going to hurt? Come on.”

Suddenly, thoughts of Mikey and his ex-wife flew out of his head. Rudy Klein hung up the phone while Pam was still complaining. The news had started and the headline was the Rayburn trial.

***

Josie and Archer sat near the window at Burt’s at the Beach so they could keep an eye on Max who was fast asleep on the still warm sidewalk. The burger platters were on order, a pitcher of beer sweated between them, and Archer’s contact sheets were spread over the table. Before he could hand Josie the loop, before Josie could tell him what had happened in court, Burt called:

“Hey, Josie. They’re talking about you on TV.”

Everyone in the place fell silent. All eyes turned upward as Burt adjusted the sound on the set.

“Oh, my God,” Josie breathed.

Archer tipped back in his chair and whistled softly. Josie looked back at him. He raised an eyebrow.

“Had a tough day, did you, Jo?”

***

Alex Schaeffer and Cheryl Winston were dressed to the nines. Governor Davidson hadn’t bothered with black-tie, but then he seldom did. In another part of the Bel Air mansion, two hundred people dined on game hens, heart of palm salad, lobster bisque, and crème fraiche atop apple tartlets. They would raise an easy half a million for the governor’s coffers this evening, as long as no one saw what the three of them were seeing now.

Lead story on the news was Linda Rayburn and her daughter surrounded by a crowd of reporters jostling for position. CBS had done a fabulous job. Their cameraman got a clear shot of Linda’s beautiful, angry face, and their reporter managed to stick a microphone right under her nose to catch every vitriolic word.

“What about my rights as a parent? That’s what I want to know. The judge says that Josie Bates has rights, and my daughter has rights, but I have none. I’m disgusted. My daughter needs help. She doesn’t need to be pulled in six different directions by the court. Where are the people in this world who believe that a parent has the best interest of their child at heart? Where are the people who will stand up for the family? I can’t believe any of this is happening. Josie Baylor-Bates should be shot for what she’s done today.”

Alex turned off the television. The skirt on Cheryl’s dress rustled as she turned toward the governor. The governor stared at the blank screen for a minute then stood up, buttoned his coat and said:

“Find out what happened in court, and why the wife of our Supreme Court nominee is acting out in front of everyone in the whole damned state.”

Chapter 24

“WHO does this lawyer think she is? God?”

“Those parents are financially and morally responsible for their daughter. If that lawyer wants to be responsible for a child, then let her have one of her own and take all the responsibility.”

“This is like a really late term abortion. That girl is being ripped from her mother and somebody should do something about it.”

“Maybe something weird is going on here. Maybe something did happen to that girl. Shouldn’t someone find out about that?” – Callers to KFI Talk Radio

“Come on in.” Faye opened the door of her home wide and gave Max a pat as she motioned Josie toward the sunroom.

“Thanks. Sorry I didn’t get the message until now. I was at Archer’s last night.” Josie said. “I feel like I’ve been run over by a truck.”

Josie veered off to the kitchen, settled Max, and poured herself some coffee. In the sunroom she sank onto a chair, tucked her legs beneath her, and wrapped her hands around her mug. Faye was already settled. A teacup was on the table at her elbow. The weather had cooled and she wore a sweater to keep out the cold but the look of consternation on her face sent that chill right to Josie.

The Los Angeles Times was on the table with the tea. The front page carried a picture of Linda Rayburn holding onto Hannah for dear life. Faye had the Valley paper and the Daily Breeze. Each one was opened to that picture of Linda and Hannah outside the courthouse.

“The Times has an old picture of you on the inside page.” Faye tossed it toward Josie. “You looked good with long hair.”

Josie shifted. One foot hit the ground just as the LA Times fluttered to the floor. She reached down, picked it up, and snapped it open. Josie bit her bottom lip as she scanned the story, then looked with disgust at the picture on the front page.

“Linda deliberately put herself in this situation,” Josie muttered. Then to Faye: “I told her to go down the freight elevator. I don’t think she cares about Hannah at all.”

“Did you threaten to file for emancipation?” Faye asked, not bothering to respond to Josie’s observation.

“Yes, I did,” Josie answered. “They were trying to railroad Hannah. They were dismissing her accusations. Linda was ready to give her up. Everyone in that courtroom had an agenda that didn’t include what was in Hannah’s best interests.”

Faye shook her head in disbelief.

“What you did was drastic and uncalled for, Josie. Your client had enough problems without alienating her mother and half the people in this city. There is a serious question that you overstepped your bounds as an attorney. Threatening emancipation was emotional blackmail.”

“Oh come on, Faye.” Josie tossed the paper onto the floor. “Everyone in that room was ready to go to bat for a dead judge. Without me, Hannah wouldn’t have had a voice at all. Linda and Kip Rayburn would have sold her out for an insanity plea just to keep this quiet.”

“Did you ask Hannah what kind of representation she wanted, or whether she wanted to be legally and irrevocably severed from her parent?”

“Since when does a client dictate strategy?”

”Since her life is at stake on so many levels. I would think her input would be invaluable – at least to an attorney who honestly cares about what is best for her client,” Faye shot back.

“That’s all I care about, and all I think about, Faye. Hannah was in no condition to think about anything, much less make decisions. It’s all there.” Josie indicated the newspapers. They hadn’t missed a thing, not Hannah’s self mutilation, not Kip’s outburst, Linda’s outrage, or Josie’s accusations

“I think that was the point Linda Rayburn was trying to make,” Faye said. “Hannah is a disturbed kid, and you’ve put yourself in an untenable position. You’re a lawyer, Josie. You can advise. You can suggest. You can’t change legal relationships – especially that of a parent and a child – at your whim. You didn’t confer with your client, or her mother, before you made that threat. Why are you being so bullheaded about this?”

“Because it is unfair. Because if I don’t fight hard, Hannah will end up in a mental facility and she doesn’t belong there. And she sure doesn’t belong in prison. Not knowing what we know now.” Josie untucked her other leg. She thought Faye was going to help her, stand by her. Now it felt like Faye was lined up against her. “Look, I spoke to Doctor McGrath late last night. He’s one of the country’s foremost experts on obsessive/compulsive disorder. He’s sending me a complete report on the ability of a person who suffers from this disorder to affect their chosen environment. For some people it’s wiping up the kitchen, for others it’s locking the doors. They couldn’t do anything to alter that environment. It would be akin to them cutting off their nose to spite their face, literally. When they are threatened by outside influences - like Rayburn’s abuse – they work harder than ever to protect the things and places that make them feel safe and secure.”

“That’s what you’re relying on? Josie, for goodness sake, you’ve lost your perspective,” Faye cried.

“That’s compelling stuff when you add it to the questions about the physical evidence and how the fire started. This will explain Hannah’s DNA on Rayburn, but exonerate her of the act that actually killed him. I know that when I wrap it up in closing and tie it all together, they won’t have any choice but to acquit.”

“I’m sorry Josie, but the prosecution has a leg up. A girl killing an abusive man is a whole lot easier to swallow than a girl being unable to light a match because she doesn’t like to upset the balance of nature. To argue that Fritz’s abuse made her compulsion worse sounds like hocus-pocus. It’s dangerous what you’re doing. You say you want to help, and yet you don’t see that you might be solidifying a more acceptable motive.”

“Okay. Fine.” Josie was peeved. She put her hands on her thighs. “Look, Faye. You haven’t been behind this from the beginning. And I don’t want to be rude, but this is a little out of your league. I promise I know what I’m doing. I have options, so let’s drop it.”

Her nerves frayed, Josie started to get out of her chair but Faye stopped her.

“It’s not going to be that simple, Josie. I hadn’t quite decided what to do, but you just helped me make up my mind.” Faye’s eyes never left Josie’s. There was no hesitation. Indeed, Faye suddenly seemed to harbor a smoldering anger. “I don’t want this case in-house one more minute.”

There was a beat of silence, a pause in which Josie and Faye squared off. Faye had the advantage of surprise.

“I’ve called Sandra Johns. She’s sharp, quick on the uptake. Hannah would do well with her and you’ve got ten days to bring her up to speed. I want you to recuse yourself and pass this along.”

“Don’t you think we should ask Hannah how she feels about new counsel? Or maybe we should just let Sandra show up when court resumes and surprise her?”

Josie’s voice was dry with sarcasm.

“You didn’t ask her about emancipation, did you? What you should do is tell Mrs. Rayburn so she has a chance to meet Sandra... What you should do is show some respect, Josie.”

“I am showing respect to my client by doing my damndest for her. I won’t let this go because I hurt your feelings by pointing out the obvious. You’ve never been in this arena, and you have no experience with which to judge.”

“Stop treating this like a personal challenge. Hannah is sixteen years old, Josie,” Faye cried. “Do what is best for that girl and get her someone who is more objective. Bring her mother back into the picture or you’re going to destroy Hannah, the relationship with her mother, and yourself.”

Josie shook her head hard. Ruining a mother’s relationship with her daughter was the last thing she wanted.

“You’re wrong. There are priorities. The first is to win this trial. Once that’s done we can worry about relationships. Besides, Norris would have to approve new counsel. He’s not going to do that after today. This thing is already too hot to handle. If you’ve got a problem, let’s talk about it. Don’t go behind my back and talk to Sandra Johns. If you don’t have that respect for Hannah, at least have it for me.”

“Okay, let’s talk about professional respect,” Faye agreed. “Let’s talk about Helen Sterling. You were supposed to talk to her about her property settlement. You never called. Billy Zuni was released and has been trying to see you for the last three days. Not even a phone call. Let’s talk about your time sheet. You haven’t done one, and the billing cycle is already over. Let’s talk about Angie who’s been working overtime for you every night and not a word of thanks, just more directions and demands. Where do you want to start, Josie? What do you want to discuss when it comes to your professional behavior?”

Agitated, Josie waved her hands.

“I’m sorry, okay? I’ve let a few things slip, but now I have some breathing room. I’ll get all that done in the next few days. I’ll have the time sheet on your desk Monday morning. But you’re forgetting that this isn’t just about the next few weeks. This is about an opportunity for this firm,” Josie insisted, hoping Faye would look at the big picture. “The fee we’re getting for this is big and we can use it to upgrade. We can afford another paralegal. The notoriety will bring in bigger and better clients, Faye. This case could put this firm on the map.”

Faye got up but she didn’t go far. She turned away from Josie for a second and collected her thoughts. When she was ready to talk again Faye was a calm, controlled, and committed woman.

“Charlie and I founded this firm, Josie. I nurtured it. I kept it small and quiet because the people who need me are small and quiet. I told you when you started this thing with Hannah that I didn’t want it to impact my business, but that’s what’s happening. I don’t want Angie’s time monopolized. I don’t want reporters on my doorstep. I don’t want my clients to worry that we’re going to take anything away from them the way you have taken Hannah away from Linda Rayburn.”

“That’s unfair,” Josie argued. “This is a unique situation.”

“Josie, you know exactly what I mean and I resent you thinking you can out maneuver or shame me on this. I won’t allow it.”

Josie dropped her chin. She looked at her hands, spread her fingers, and checked out her short nails. Quickly she pulled those fingers in, making two fists. Her hands were shaking.

“You said there were options. I only heard one. Referral.”

There was a heartbeat and then another. Faye was rock solid. There wasn’t a shadow of doubt or regret on her face. There wasn’t a tremor of indecision when she said:

“You can take care of this on your own, Josie.”

“Faye,” Josie breathed in disbelief. “You’d cut me loose?”

“I don’t agree with your tactics. I resent the fact that you think I don’t understand them. The publicity is going to do my firm more harm than good. Tiffany took a phone call late last night threatening us because of what you did to Linda. Your troubles haven’t begun and already I’ve had enough.” Faye was exasperated. She moved closer to Josie and sat on the edge of the coffee table. Her voice was reasonable and sad. “What am I supposed to do? Spend my day worrying about how Hannah Sheraton is going to affect me, and my business, instead of serving the people I care about?”

Josie could feel that chill starting deep in her gut. She had that same feeling the morning her mother disappeared, a deserter from the family post. She felt it when she learned Kristin Davis’s children were dead. Josie wrapped her arms around her body but raised her head high. She had learned something during those long ago tests. Fear was one thing, showing it quite another.

“This isn’t just your firm anymore, Faye. We’re partners, or have you forgotten?” Faye’s expression melted into genuine sadness. “You never signed those papers, Josie. You have no legal standing in my firm.”

Josie was out of her chair, agitated, frightened, disbelieving, and still wanting to fight.

“Faye, I can’t believe you’d do this. . .”

Don’t send me away. Don’t leave me alone.

“You’ve left me no choice,” Faye answered.

“Why is it that someone like Hannah doesn’t need as much help as somebody down the block? Because she’s pretty? Young? Because she has big problems? You haven’t even talked to her, Faye. You don’t know her at all. She couldn’t have done what she’s accused of, and I know it in here.”

Josie put her fist to her chest. It was a ridiculous, melodramatic gesture of solidarity, but that was what she felt for Hannah Sheraton. Everyone was willing to walk out on this kid or throw her away, and that made Josie’s heart hurt.

“I don’t want to talk to her,” Faye cried in frustration. “I want you to forget about her, come back to work, and deal with the people you told me you wanted to represent when I hired you.”

“You are so full of it. You’re not even listening to yourself. You want us to help people but only certain people.”

Josie planted her hands on her hips and turned her head toward the window. Her back was to Faye. Clouds hung over the horizon. Josie wanted the sun to come back so she could go outside and pick up a game of volleyball, sit on the beach with a beer, and get her work done between nine and five. She didn’t want to feel this kind of passion again, yet there it was. Her gut burned with it. Whatever had driven Josie all those years ago was driving her again. But this time it was fine-tuned. This case was more than a challenge to Josie’s intellect; it was a challenge to her emotional well being. Faye had drawn the line. Josie would have to step over it.

“You’re not putting limits on what we do as lawyers, or how we do it, but on who we do it for. I wouldn’t have expected it from you, Faye.”

“I wouldn’t have either, Josie. I just know this isn’t what I want for my firm and, bottom line, this is still my firm.”

“You’re not giving me any real options here, Faye,” Josie whispered.

“Refer her, or take her out on your own,” Faye said plainly.

Josie didn’t move. She couldn’t move. Something inside her said that she was the only one who could help Hannah. The arrogance of that was ridiculous, but there it was.

“Josie?” Faye’s voice surrounded her, challenged her.

“I heard you.” Josie faced Faye. “Those are ultimatums, not options.”

“I’m not going to defend my decision,” Faye answered. “Even if you win, there isn’t going to be a happy ending, Josie. Sad thing is that I think you’re the one who is going to be hurt when this is over. You make a commitment as a lawyer to be a clear-eyed, clear-headed advocate. You are supposed to be unmoved by the mitigating circumstances, and able to put aside your experiences and emotions as a woman in order to do your job. You’re not doing any of that. This is just too personal for you. Step away now and take a real good look at yourself, Josie, before you go any further.”

“I’m doing the right thing. I may be the only one who is. Bottom line, Hannah deserves her day in court. That’s the business we’re in.”

“I agree, just let her have that day with another attorney.” A flush crept along Faye’s jaw line, and regret in her eyes, but she didn’t back down.

“I hate all this, Faye,” Josie said.

“So do I,” she answered.

“Then hang in there with me. Get back to where you were thirty years ago when you promised to be a lawyer, not just someone who steps in when Mr. Jones down the street gets a DUI.”

“That’s low, Josie. I won’t have you talk to me that way.”

“And I’m hurt,” Josie answered. “I’ve got to believe there is a reason Linda came looking for me. Maybe we’re supposed to help this girl just to prove our brains work and our hearts aren’t all closed off. Maybe you need to care about something since your husband died, and maybe I need to learn to live because I checked out of the real world three years ago. Did you ever think of that?”

“Don’t go there, Josie. You don’t have any right to talk about Charlie. As for you, I don’t know anything about you. You’ve been protecting yourself ever since you walked through my door. All I did was give you a place to hide.”

“Then maybe that’s what I’m supposed to find out. Not just what kind of attorney I am but what kind of woman I am.” There was a heartbeat of silence. Josie took a deep breath. “I can’t go back to the office and pretend this doesn’t matter. I need to take a leap of faith in Hannah’s innocence and my own worth. I’m asking you to stand with me, Faye.”

“And I’m telling you I won’t,” Faye answered without hesitation.

“Then do it for friendship.”

When Faye didn’t answer, Josie nodded. With a snap of her fingers she called Max from the corner, clipped his leash and said:

“Screw you, Faye.”

Chapter 25

“A cold front is moving in. Expect temperatures in the sixties through Thursday.” -Johnny Mountain, Channel 7 Weather

There is an impressive vein of concrete that winds from the hills of Palos Verdes and ends in Malibu. It ribbons through all the beach cities in between and plays host to anyone who is drawn to the ocean. Josie and Max ambled down Hermosa’s portion of that mile-long bike path after they left Faye’s place. A quarter of a mile from her own house, Josie stopped. A guy on a fifteen hundred dollar bike whizzed by her, intent on breaking the land speed record to Malibu. The smell of grilling onions filled the air. Lunch was being served up at The Strand Café. Four men with gorgeous bodies played volleyball with a vengeance, yet somehow unable to get their game into a rhythm. Josie could have shown them how it was done, but even a pick up game wouldn’t cure what ailed her.

An ancient woman in baby-blue warm-ups and rhinestone glasses held hands with a man in purple pants and a checked shirt. Families walked together, dogs pulled their owners on roller skates, and no one minded that the weak sun left the water looking gray and uninviting – no one except Josie. Faye had knocked the air out of Josie’s world, flattening it so there was no place to maneuver.

Behind her, Josie heard the scrape of skates and a chorus of giggles. She pulled Max close as a group of teenage girls went by. They had poured their overactive glands into swimsuits the size of postage stamps and laced their feet into roller blades as big as Nevada. They were oblivious to the chill, unaware that the earth was out of kilter, but they looked damn cute with their Frankenstein feet, their big tits and tiny butts.

To her left was Archer’s building. His very own. It was purchased long ago when Lexi was alive and Archer thought he had the world on a string. It was one of the original three-story apartment buildings that graced Hermosa Beach before the money came in and people who could afford to tear down a bit of California history did just that. But this one still stood. The paint on the wood framed windows was peeling. Rust streaked from the metal balcony and spilled over the rose-colored stucco like mascara tears rolling down old rouged cheeks. The salt air was a landlord’s bane, but there were flowers in the little bed, and tenants to Archer’s liking in each apartment.

Josie looked up. She could just make out Archer’s camera pointed out to sea. Hitching Max close, Josie climbed the stairs slowly letting the old dog rest at each landing. At the top she didn’t bother to knock.

“Archer?”

Josie walked around a brown tweed sofa, wide enough for two to snooze comfortably on a lazy Sunday. The back was dimpled with three giant buttons covered in the same fabric. Josie’s mother had a coat with buttons that big when she was young and Josie was a baby. She saw a picture once. It was the only picture she could remember where her mother was dressed up. Josie wondered about that coat. It was too frumpy for the days of hip huggers and peasant blouses; too old for someone so young and beautiful.

Archer’s papa-san chair was in one corner. There was a La*Z*Boy and a low coffee table strewn with travel magazines. She looked toward the balcony. It was empty.

“Jo?” Archer stood in the bedroom, a towel around his waist another in his hands, ready to dry his hair.

“Hey.” Josie stood her ground but let Max go. Archer ruffled the dog’s ears and kept his eyes on Josie.

“What happened?” Archer pushed Max aside and took a few steps.

“Faye just booted me out, Archer. I’m on my own with Hannah.”

Archer wrapped the smaller towel around his neck. Josie walked toward him. He held out a hand and drew her close. He was dewy from his shower; water droplets were still nestled in the hair on his chest. Josie put her head on his shoulder; her arms were caught beneath his. He had wrapped her up like a treasured possession.

“Want some help?”

“Got any problems helping me prove Rayburn was one sick son of a bitch?” She asked forlornly.

“Not a one, Jo. Not a one.”

Chapter 26

“EVEN if there’s an ounce of truth to what they’re saying about that judge, then that girl had a right to do what she did – if she did it. Well? Need I say more? Ever hear of the movie The Burning Bed, for God’s sake?” - Talk radio/Inland Valley

“So, like, here’s the question. Did Governor Davidson know this guy was a sicko when he appointed him? If he did, then I’m voting Republican. Hey, what about the guy’s son? Maybe he’s a weirdo, too. Politics. Davidson can go pound sand.” -  Talk Radio/Sacramento

“Hey, have you seen that chick? Sixteen ain’t sixteen anymore. She probably loved it.” - Talk radio/Hollywood

“If they just would put prayer back in the schools. . .”- Talk radio/San Diego

Josie walked out of terminal three and dropped her duffle bag at her feet. She dialed Archer’s cell. He was where he said he would be: Starbucks just off Sepulveda, nursing a coffee, waiting for her call. Ten minutes later he maneuvered around LAX and pulled his Hummer up to the curb. Josie threw her bag in the back seat and settled herself in the front.

They met in the middle and kissed one another. Archer checked his side mirror and was back in the flow of traffic before he heard the click of her seat belt. He skipped the turnoff to Sepulveda south that would take them home, and instead rolled down Century Boulevard at a decent clip for that time of day.

“Where are we going?” Josie asked, disappointed she wasn’t headed home.

“Dinner.” he answered.

“It’s three o’clock,” Josie pointed out.

“Yeah, well, it will take us awhile to get there.”

“Okay.” She sighed and rolled down her window. It had been bone-chilling cold in San Francisco. Los Angeles was cloudy, but still warm enough for Josie to be comfortable in her shirtsleeves. She cocked her elbow in the open window, and laid her left arm over the back of the bench seat.

“Hannah’s story checks out,” Josie said. “I found Lyn Chandler. The woman clerked for Rayburn for six months third year of law school. Now she’s on the partnership track at Monikar & Finacker. Smart lady. Good looking. Petite. Light-skinned African-American.”

“Interesting,” Archer commented. He changed lanes, moving the tank of a car through traffic like he was slaloming on razor-sharp skis.

“So, Lyn Chandler was working for Rayburn for three months when he puts his hand on her shoulder and squeezes hard. You know, he hits that little nerve right here.” Josie dropped her hand to the base of Archer’s neck for a second. “She says she didn’t think anything of it at first. He’d touched her before. There was nothing sexual about it. Usually the contact was brief and in context of him looking at her work. But that time he hurt her. She said something, but Rayburn made light of it. Told her if she wanted to be a player she was going to have to toughen up. That’s what the law is about.”

“Lay it on her. Nice touch,” Archer muttered with a dispassionate approval. He had a great appreciation for those who performed well, whether they be cop or criminal.

Josie adjusted her sunglasses as he stopped at a light. The neighborhood had changed. Warehouses and airport hangers gave way to one of those nondescript arteries that connected the vital parts of LA. This one was peppered with small houses and smaller businesses. Every window was barred, every flat surface graffitied. The billboards were in Spanish. Instead of touting sleeper seats to the Orient, they advertised family planning and beer. Josie leaned her head back and closed her eyes, as if trying to remember the sequence of her interview. Archer hit the gas, Josie picked up the story.

“It gets better. Rayburn left an open knife in the top drawer of his desk. Newly sharpened. She had reached in that drawer a thousand times to get his calendar, but this time there’s a knife sticking out the side of the book. She cut her hand and wanted to use his bathroom to get a towel to stop the bleeding, but Rayburn wouldn’t let her. He didn’t offer to help, and suggested she use the bathroom down the hall for the clerks. Rayburn let her clean up the blood in there, and told her she could see a doctor on her lunch hour if she thought the cut needed attention. In his opinion though, it looked like a clean slice.”

“Nice of him.” The Humvee slid forward as smoothly as Archer’s next question. “How’d he explain the knife?”

“He didn’t. Lyn said he never explained anything. Not when he dropped Blacks Law Dictionary on her hand. Not when he grabbed her arm hard enough to leave a bruise. He would just keep talking as if nothing had happened. She said it was spooky. At the end of the day she’d always wonder if these things were accidents. She wondered if she was nuts.”

“Sounds like he enjoyed the head games as much as he liked the physical stuff. That’s why nobody ever caught on. Rayburn had no nerves, I swear,” Archer said. “What’s the upshot?”

“I asked her to testify. She said no. The bastard was dead but there were just too many people who still thought Rayburn was God’s gift. She figures it is in her best interest to have clerked for a respected justice for six months, than to be the one who levels accusations against him.”

Josie slid her arm off the back of the seat and opened her purse. It had been dry in San Francisco. Her skin felt tight but she didn’t have any cream, nothing to soothe that feeling that she was going to crackle like old glass. She flipped her bag shut.

“I could subpoena her, but she’d put such a spin on her testimony it would end up looking like she was grateful to Rayburn for keeping her on her toes. What did you pick up?”

“Rayburn had two disciplinary actions against him when he was with the LAPD.”

“That was a lifetime ago.”

“Still of interest for our purposes. Shows a pattern. He picked on hookers. One was beat up pretty good. Cut and burned. Another tripped, and Rayburn dislocated her shoulder and broke some teeth when he helped her up. It’s ancient history. Got it from a couple of retired cops. They figured the hookers got what they deserved.”

“Any chance of finding those women?” Josie asked without much enthusiasm.

“Nope.” Archer tapped the brakes. A woman was trying to navigate a stroller and three small kids across the middle of the street even though a crosswalk was half a block away. “But I got a good lead on something more current. And this is where we find out if my source is any good.”

Archer drove another half block, made a sharp left, and cut off conversation with a pull of the emergency brake. He sat for a second before getting out of the car. Josie did the same and met him half way. Leaning against the hood she pulled her shoulders back. Josie tightened the muscles in her butt to work out the kinks from her flight, and used the time to get the lay of the land.

The strip mall had seen better days. The parking lot needed to be resurfaced. White stall lines had faded to perforation marks. Vandals had scored the glass of the phone booth; the phone itself was missing a receiver. A liquor store anchored one end, a dry cleaner the other. The liquor store did the better business. In between were a pet store that specialized in snakes, a Japanese Anime video shop, and Marguerite’s – tamales, burritos, and check cashing.

“Rosa Cortanza is who we’re looking for.” Archer took a few steps toward Marguerite’s and opened the door. “Come on. I’ll buy you a taco and won’t even put it on my expense account.”

Josie pushed off her perch and took him up on his offer. She walked into a place that was just like a little slice of heaven.

In Los Angeles there are restaurants that served Mexican food, and Mexican restaurants. This was the latter, the real deal: fresh salsa, tortillas made by hand, meat roasted until it fell off the bone, shells deep-fried in lard. Dark, rich mole. Carne asada. Chilis. Frijoles. Marguerite’s restaurants wore those smells like a coat of wet paint but it was empty except for a young woman sitting at one of the tables flipping through a magazine.

Her black hair was short at the crown and waved long at the nape of her neck. Razor cut bangs fell over eyes outlined in kohl, and shaded in gray. Her nails were long and purple. Rhinestones winked from the tip of each one. Her jeans were tight; her shirt was big and loose. The sleeves were rolled up just enough that Josie could see that the tattoo on her forearm was homemade. She closed the magazine when Josie and Archer took a table by the wall. A picture of Our Lady of Guadalupe blessed their choice. A red neon Coors sign hung along side like the Virgin’s nightlight.

The woman came at them with a basket of chips and a tub of salsa. She slapped both on the table. From under her arm she whipped out two menus featuring a matador and bull on the front. The matador was poised on his toes, his cape a flourish at his feet, his body angled forward as he stabbed the bull with a massive sword. It was an appetizing image.

“Rosa Cortanza?” Josie asked the minute the woman disappeared.

“Fits the description,” he answered as his eyes ran down the menu. He closed it, set it aside and dug into the salsa. “Wish I had my camera. I like her look.”

Rosa was back. They ordered: number 8 combo with enchiladas, tacos and tamales, beans, rice and a side of corn tortillas for Archer, two tacos for Josie. The waitress didn’t say a word as she took their order, and their menus. Far from surly, she wasn’t exactly worried about their dining pleasure either.

Rosa Cortanza brought Archer’s combination on a platter and Josie’s tacos on a small plate. It took them seventeen minutes to eat and they waited on Rosa five more before the check arrived. They were still the only ones in the place. Josie checked out Rosa, letting her mind linger on the woman a little longer each time she came to the table.

Rosa was a young woman who had nowhere to go and nothing much to do. She kept body and soul together, pampering the body with fake nails and makeup while ignoring the soul. Maybe she had a kid waiting at home. Maybe she lived in a two-bedroom house with a dozen family members. Maybe she had a man. It was a no-brainer she’d hung with the gangs; all Josie had to do was look at her tattoos to know that. What wasn’t so easily divined was whether or not Rosa would want to talk to them - much less to a jury – or whether a jury would give credence to anything she said.

Rosa put the check down with the same flair she had delivered the salsa. Archer held up a twenty. She reached for it. They were both holding onto the greenback when he said:

“I wonder if we could talk to you about Fritz Rayburn.”

The bill quivered, pulled taut between her and Archer. Rosa’s eyes narrowed for a split second, and then she laughed. It was the sweetest sound. Rosa whipped the bill out of Archer’s fingers and laughed all the way to the register. When she came back with the change she brought a chair with her. Rosa put the change on the table and straddled the chair. Resting her arms on the high back, Rosa Cortanza looked at the both of them and said:

“What the hell. Let’s talk.”

Chapter 27

“MY mom’s husband was gone, so when the job came at the Rayburn house she grabbed it. Worked like a slave, but what was she going to do? She had me and my brother to feed, put clothes on us. My brother, he was older than me. I was ten. Hell, I thought I’d died and gone to heaven living in that big house.”

Rosa snorted at her ridiculous fantasy. She unrolled the fingers of one hand, poking holes in the sky with her rhinestone tipped nails.

“Why is it poor people are so friggin’ stupid, huh? We think if we live between the walls and climb under those pretty white sheets in our little rooms in the back that we’ve made it to the big time. We’re so damn grateful. I hate that shit. I look back, and I can’t believe we ever fell for all his crap.”

“Do you mind if we start at the beginning before we get to the crap part, Rosa?” Josie tossed back the drink their hostess had offered when it was clear they were going to be at this for a while.

Rosa had locked the door and flipped the open sign around. Marguerite’s was closed. Not that anyone, as Rosa pointed out, would really care. The place was about to go belly up and she was just sticking around because that’s what she did. She stuck around people and places and things until they broke down on her, shit on her, or just went away.

Josie could get behind that. When Rosa brought out the shot glasses, the salt, the limes, and the tequila, Josie was proud to drink with her. She saluted Rosa on the first two shots. They both sucked the salt from their hands, their dark heads tipping back, their long throats opening up to let the burning liquor slide down into their bellies. They sucked on the lime to cool their lips and Rosa refilled the tiny glasses. Josie nodded her thanks but kept this one in front of her, fingers lightly on the sides of the shot glass. Her eyes were trained on Rosa as she did her math. Rosa was twenty, maybe twenty-two at most but she seemed older by at least a decade. It was in the way she sat talking with them so casually, the way she drank so indifferently, and the way she let them know in the smallest ways that she was never relaxed enough not to be on her guard.

“Okay. You got the time; I’ll give you the whole story.”

She shot her liquor and pushed away the glass. Rosa spread her fingers to check out her nails. They were an expensive set, but she wasn’t admiring her manicurist’s handiwork. Rosa Cortanza was either thinking how far she’d come, or trying hard to remember way far back. She gave her head a little jerk, one of those very nifty gestures that street kids seemed to learn before they can walk. She wondered where Rosa had picked it up. Not living at Fritz Rayburn’s house as the maid’s kid.

“I was born here, in the U.S. My parents were wetbacks. I have a brother in Mexico somewhere. He went back home one Christmas before we started living at the Rayburn place. He couldn’t get back into this country. My mom always meant to send money to get him but it never worked out. There was a sister after me. She died when she was little. Needed a heart or something. She died and then a little while later my brother went back to Mexico. My mother starts getting weird. She figures she’s a failure because I was the only one left. You know all that shit about children being blessings from God. My mom really believed it. She figured she was cursed because she couldn’t take care of her blessings. So that woman loved me to death. Like if she couldn’t take care of me it meant that God was pissed at her and she’d go to hell.”

“That’s a lot to lay on a kid,” Archer muttered.

“Tell me,” Rosa laughed. “When my dad left for a better piece of ass I was really in for a treat. You’d think I’d been the Virgin birth. God was telling my mother that she had one more chance to get into heaven. Hey, either of you smoke?”

Archer and Josie shook their heads. Rosa shrugged. She was used to not getting what she asked for.

“It’s okay. So, anyway, my mom couldn’t keep the apartment without my dad’s paycheck. She was cleaning houses. Forty bucks a pop. I used to think we were rich because she kept all that cash in a little box. I didn’t know that’s all we had. Most of it was ones and fives so it just looked like a lot of bucks.” Her nails clicked against the chair back. “Hey, doesn’t matter. Anyway, somehow she finds out about the job at the Rayburn place. It was a live-in gig. No more rent. I’d get to go to the Palisades’ schools. God had dropped a damn plum in her lap. She spent all night on her knees giving thanks when she got that job.”

The door rattled. Two men in work clothes were hungry. Rosa turned around to look, but ignored them. When they wouldn’t give up she yelled at them in Spanish in a tone that didn’t sound like she was too concerned about losing their business.

“Was Rayburn living in the house fulltime?” Archer wanted to know.

“The old judge? Well, I guess he wasn’t so old, but he seemed that way to me. Old and kindly.” Rosa chuckled wryly. “But what did I know? I was a kid. Anyway, yeah, it was the old man and the son living there.”

“And life wasn’t so good?” Josie asked.

“For a while it was. I went to school and I came home on the bus. It was a hike back to the house because the bus didn’t go on that street. Palisades didn’t like their streets mucked up with buses. So that brings us to the good stuff. The old man kind of came and went. He was traveling a lot.”

Rosa’s chin fell onto her crossed arms. There was a tear tattooed next to her right eye. She’d lost at least one homeboy. There were probably a hundred thousand tears tattooed on her soul if she was anything like Hannah.

“It was raining one day when I got off the bus. Rayburn pulls into the neighborhood at the same time. I don’t know if it was planned or if it was just fate. You know. Whatever, he was there. He picked me up and took me home. Man, he was something. Big car. Big house. A judge. I was safe in Rayburn’s house. Nobody messed with me.” Rosa snorted a laugh. “What an idiot I was.

“The guy was sick. It started out with little stuff. You know. A pinch. A push. I had a splinter. He used a pocketknife to get it out. But it was the rainy day when I knew I was in big trouble. He picked me up when I was half way back to the house. I was all wet. Rayburn took me inside. Took me up to his private bathroom and dried me off. Told me he wanted to help out my mom because she worked so hard. We would surprise her and get me all cleaned up.

“Rayburn got a towel. He dried me off. My shoulders. My legs. Nothing weird about it. Then he got another towel and he started drying my hair. You know how you do?” Rosa lifted her chin and checked out her audience to make sure they were attentive. She put her hands up and pantomimed. “He threw the towel over my head and started to rub, but it was really hard. I guess I hollered or pulled away or something. He stopped. He kept the towel over my head for a minute then dragged it real slow off of me. I looked up and could see him in the mirror. I’ll never forget the way he looked at me.”

Rosa’s expression changed. Her features snapped tight, muscle-by-muscle, like shutters in a house closing against a big wind.

“He was thinking real hard, like he was looking for something he couldn’t find. You know how something changes and you can’t put your finger on it? That’s what happened to him. He sort of melted. I don’t know how to explain it. His eyes weren’t nice anymore. They were dead. His face kind of lost all its muscles. His skin was hanging off his cheekbones. It was like some kind of horror movie. There was something wrong.”

Rosa lapsed into silence. It lasted just long enough for her to be in that room again, looking up at Fritz Rayburn with her big, dark, innocent eyes. When she started again Rosa talked slow, her voice was sad.

“So, anyway, he’s mad. He tells me he didn’t hurt me. So I figure I’m an ungrateful little slut and better get out because I don’t know how to take a favor nicely. But he grabs my arm when I try to leave. Rayburn says you have to finish what you start. You always have to do that. So I figure, okay. I mean, who am I to say no to him? I’m standing there in this big marble bathroom. I’m in all these mirrors and he’s in all these mirrors. I look like a rat and he’s dressed in a really nice gray suit and a shiny blue tie. His shirt was really white. My mother ironed those shirts. She starched the heck out of them and they could stand up by themselves when she was done. He looked perfect and I looked like what I was – a piece of shit.”

Rosa breathed deep. She looked at Archer then spoke to Josie.

“So I’m looking at him in the mirror. He walks around me, standing kind of in front of me but facing the mirror. I’m like this little soldier standing really straight with my arms down by my sides. I remember shaking but thinking I better not let him see that I’m shaking or he’ll get mad. He picks up the blow dryer and holds it near him. I remember thinking it looked like he was loading a gun. He held it down at his middle and checked it out, looked at the settings. Finally he turns around and points the thing at me. Not at my hair but at my face. He doesn’t turn it on, just points it at me then he walks real slow until he’s standing right behind me. The thing was always pointing at my head like he was holding me hostage.

“He looks at us in the mirror. He put one hand on the side of my head, the hair dryer is pointing at the other side of my head. He pushes my hair to the side so that my neck is bare. It was cold there because my wet hair had been all stuck against my skin.

“Rayburn puts the blow dryer in his other hand so the cord is around my neck.” Rosa’s hands were going through the motions. “I put my hands up, you know, to push the cord over my head. He told me to leave it. He said it real quiet, just like he’s telling me to go back to sleep. So I didn’t touch the cord even though I could feel it pulling against my throat. I was shaking, man. Nothing bad had ever happened to me before, but I knew something bad was happening right then.”

Rosa smiled wryly as if having some sick appreciation for the moment now that she could look back on it.

“But he was so smooth. It was so slow. Rayburn turned on the dryer. He turned it on hot. First he put it so that my hair blew out around my face. He ran his fingers through it. His fingers got caught in the tangles. He yanked through them and tears were coming to my eyes because it hurt so much. Once I could see that a whole bunch of hair came out when he pulled. I think he could feel me shaking because the side of his body was touching my back. He smiled a little. Just a little bit. Then he started drying the hair down here, at the neck. It was getting hot. I moved my head. It hurt so bad. He. . . .”

Rosa put a hand over her mouth. Then she reached over and pushed her shot glass to the middle of the table. Archer poured. Rosa drank it fast, not bothering with the salt or the lime.

“Shit, I haven’t thought about this for a long time,” she muttered. “So, okay. Rayburn takes his free hand and he holds my head and he puts that damned hair dryer on my neck. Right on it.  Man, I could smell my skin burning and then I screamed. That bastard kept it on me like a second more and then he takes it away. It burned me bad. I’m telling you, it was like a hot iron”

Rosa lifted the back of her hair and turned so that Archer and Josie could see the raised white scar just behind her ear.

“That bastard branded me.”

They sat in silence. Archer and Josie watching; Rosa with her head down, her lashes lowered. Finally she looked at them again, tears in her eyes. She wiped them hard; she was ashamed they were there.

“Then?” Josie asked.

“Then he was normal again. He told me that the burn looked bad. He knew I wouldn’t want to bother my mother so I should stop crying. Then he said didn’t I feel better now that I was all dry, and didn’t I love the rain.”

“And that was it?” Josie pushed, wanting every damning detail.

“No. He gave me a tube of something. Told me it would help with the pain where I accidentally got burned. Man, that was the weirdest part, you know. To do something like that and then pretend like it was an accident. I’ll never forget it. Never.”

The afternoon came and went, the dark descending early now. Rosa got up a couple of times. She turned on the lights including the Coors sign hanging near the picture of the Virgin Mary. She told her stories as she put the frijoles over a low flame. Josie helped set out the silverware for the customers Rosa said would come after they got off work in the factories, and the airport, and made their way home to tiny houses and dilapidated apartments.

Rosa talked about a reign of terror that lasted until she was fourteen.

Rayburn came at her when she least expected it. She stayed at school as late as she could. She dodged her mother’s questions, endured her mother’s laments that she was going bad because she stayed away from home, because she stopped going to church. God was going to send Rosa’s mother to hell because she had failed the jobs of a woman – wife and mother.

“I got so damned sick of hearing all that crap.”

“But you never said anything.” Josie spoke quietly as she centered the fork and knife on a small table. Rosa leaned over to arrange the salt and pepper at the same time. They didn’t look at one another. Rosa said:

“He would have sent my mother away. She would have been deported. You can deal with a lot when your mother’s there, you know? I was protecting her. I was brave for her. I wanted my mom to go to heaven.” Josie flinched. Rosa saw it. They had something in common after all, the lawyer and the woman who served beer and beans. Rosa whispered. “Yeah, you know.”

Josie stood back. She said: “It didn’t go on forever. You survived. Did Rayburn lose interest?”

Rosa shook her head. “He never lost interest. He hurt me wherever he found me alone. The principal told me I was a lucky girl that such a great man took an interest in me. Mostly he talked. He told me what he was planning. He whispered it because he liked the fear. Naw, he loved the fear. Then one day he did the worst.”

Rosa was having trouble talking. She paled. Those black-rimmed eyes darkened until they looked like holes. Josie could almost reach through them and touch the pain that had left Rosa’s body and lived in her brain.

“Rosa,” Josie said quietly. Archer picked up the bottle on the table. He lifted it her way. Rosa put out her hand as if to say it didn’t really help.

“It was just before Christmas. The INS came. Rayburn told me later he had my mother deported. They didn’t take me because I was a citizen. Great country, huh?”

“What happened to your mom?” Archer asked.

“I don’t know.” Rosa smiled weakly, as though she had lost emotional blood and desperately needed a transfusion. “She never came back for me. Hell, she probably figured I was going to be well taken care of.”

“What did you do then?”

Archer was still leaning in the corner of the booth, one leg half up, one arm on the table. She gave Archer a small smile with her answer.

“I went to a friend’s house that night. There weren’t many Latinas in Palisades High School. We stuck together. When my friend’s parents tossed me out, I found myself some new friends on the street.

“When the governor appointed Rayburn, I laughed so hard. I remember because I was in jail for assaulting a guy who tried to do me when I didn’t want it. I nearly killed the dude. I guess it was just a delayed reaction, you know. He hurt me. I hurt back this time. I get popped, and he walks. So when I see a guy like Rayburn getting in charge of the law I figure everyone’s screwed. I felt safe locked up and I was there long enough to get my GED. I had a teacher who cared. She made sure I knew how to talk right in case I wanted to get a real job when I got out.”

Rosa filled the last saltshaker, screwed on the top and took care to center it just so with the pepper. Her fingers lingered on the cheap glass.

“I think my mom’s dead. I just have that feeling. But you know what?” She didn’t bother to look at Archer or Josie. “I think she’s in heaven. She didn’t know about Rayburn. She did her best.”

They didn’t have long to consider the state of Rosa’s mother’s soul. Rosa had unlocked the door and now it opened. A mean looking man came in holding a tiny baby in his arms. A woman with beautiful long black hair followed. They sat in the far corner, probably tagging Archer for a cop.

Rosa did her thing. Salsa and chips slammed on the table, menus handed out. Water glasses filled. No ice. She made her rounds and ended up back with Josie and Archer. She swiped the bottle of tequila off the table.

“Not like it hasn’t been fun, but it is rush hour,” she said flatly.

Josie put her hand out. She took hold of Rosa’s sleeve.

“Would you testify for us? My client is sixteen. Rayburn did her, too.”

“Yeah, I know. I read the papers. I’ve got nothing to lose, but I don’t think it’s a good call. The prosecutor will pull my record.”

“But you won’t say no?” Josie asked.

Rosa shook her head, “Naw. I’ll even wear a dress if you want. You know, cover up.” She shook back her sleeves and showed her tattoos.

“Thanks.” Josie held out her card. Rosa looked at it. Finally she took it.

“If you think of anything else, you call me. Okay?”

“I have a feeling I’ll be thinking of a lot about Rayburn.”

Archer left a big tip. Josie shook Rosa’s hand. Archer had the door open; Rosa was taking the big man’s order. Josie was about to leave when she remembered something. When Rosa went back to the kitchen, Josie followed.

Rosa was tossing peppers and onions into a hot pan. She looked over her shoulder. Josie stepped to the side. It was hot in the little kitchen.

“Rosa, you never really talked about Kip Rayburn. He was living in the house, right?”

She shrugged, “If you call it that. I doubt he’s ever lived.”

“But he was in the house so didn’t he know what his father was doing to you?”

She threw a handful of shredded chicken into the pan then reached for a huge jar of cumin.

“He didn’t pay attention. I could have been the dog for all he knew. I stayed out of his way and he stayed out of his father’s way much as he could. Those two were a mess,” she said as she stirred the peppers. “If the old man liked it, Kip hated it. If Kip loved it, the old man hated it. It didn’t matter what it was. Me, a piece of meat, the color of the wallpaper,” she shrugged. “The only difference between those two was that Kip just hated what his father loved. The old man destroyed whatever his son loved.”

Rosa heaped the chicken and peppers onto tortillas, folded them and doused them with green sauce. She looked at Josie and gave her a lopsided grin.

“It’s a good thing Kip didn’t love me, huh?”

Chapter 28

IT was dark, not late, when Archer pulled up to Josie’s place. Josie’s head was back, her eyes closed. It looked like she was asleep, but she was thinking about Rayburn’s M.O. His preference was clear. Dependent girls. Women of color. Young. Each of them accepting Fritz as just a scummy part of life. All of them had a lot to lose: mothers, careers. All of them assumed they couldn’t fight back. All except Hannah who was just that much more flawed than the rest, and that made her even less believable.

“We’re home, Jo.” Archer said.

“Thanks, babe,” Josie whispered. “We did good today.”

Archer took Josie’s duffle out of the back.

“You coming in?” she asked.

“Am I still on the clock?”

Josie shrugged. “What if I said no?”

“Then I’m coming in.”

Archer carried her bag, one arm slung over her shoulder. Josie picked up the mail, opened the door, and flipped on a light. Max ambled out of the back room. Archer petted him and let him out into the backyard, leaving the French doors open.

Josie filled his dish with food, replaced the dog’s water. It was good to be home. She put the coffee on. Archer had wandered into the dining room and was looking at her mother’s plates.

“I like these.” He pointed to the wall.

“You say that every time you look at them,” Josie laughed.

Josie liked them, too. Her mother’s hula girl plates were her prized possession, two intact and one broken. Years ago Josie’s father had dropped the plate while packing away Emily’s things. When he was asleep, Josie opened the packing boxes and took the two plates. She retrieved the broken one from the trashcan and hid all three in her room. They were the first things Josie hung in her home. She could still see the crack that dissected one of the hula girls. Josie once thought she kept those kitschy plates because one day her mother would come back and be grateful. Now Josie knew she kept them to remind her that broken things can be mended, but there is always a scar.

Archer moseyed toward the living room; Max wandered back in. All was right with the world for now. Josie poured two cups of coffee, handing one off as she passed Archer.

“What are you going to do, Jo?” Archer asked.

“I’m thinking about breaking this down into two phases. First one is the assault on Rayburn. I’d put Rosa on the stand in a heartbeat. She’s sympathetic. Rudy won’t break her down. I’d like to find someone else who would corroborate in court.” Josie took a drink, staring at the floor while she thought. “On the arson, I’m going to go with the doctors. Hannah couldn’t have burned her studio. The defense is clear, and understandable, if I break it down that way.”

“That jury is going to want another option on the arson.”

“Then we go after Kip. He’s the likely option. Something Rosa said puts me in the right frame of mind to look more closely at him. He’s not the passive fool I thought he was. He proved it in court. There’s a lot of anger there. I want to know what Kip and his father fought about. If it was Linda, Hannah, or business like he said.”

Josie’s words trailed off as she noticed the blinking light on her answering machine. She pressed play out of habit and took a minute to collect her thoughts. The first message was Ian Frank’s secretary. Yes, Mr. Frank would meet with Josie in the morning, nine sharp.

“Want me to go with you?” Archer asked. “Might be good to have someone else listen in on what Rayburn’s old partner has to say.”

“No. I’ll see him on my own. You check out. . .”

The machine was talking again. It was Hannah asking if Josie was okay. Counting. Counting softly but Josie could hear it. Asking Josie to call when she could. Then something muffled. The phone clattered and the line went dead.

Josie stopped the machine and picked up the phone. She dialed the Malibu house.

“She doesn’t sound good,” Archer muttered and then fell silent. “Nothing?”

Josie shook her head. She disconnected.

Archer checked his watch, “She’s probably on her walk.”

“Probably,” she mumbled but Josie was unsettled. Josie punched the answering machine again hoping the next message was Hannah calling back, surprised to find it was Linda. She had tired of waiting at the house and was at Borelli’s restaurant. She wanted to see Josie. Please.

“Please?” Archer looked surprised.

“Please,” Josie reiterated with a grin.

“Want me to go with you, Jo?”

“Sure.” Josie disappeared into the bedroom. She tossed her duffle on the bed and came back to the living room with her leather jacket on. “I guess Hannah must be with her.”

“Suppose so,” Archer answered as they parted on the doorstep. Josie wanted to walk and clear the tequila out of her head. Archer garaged the Hummer. They met at Borrelli’s front door within a minute of each other.

Linda was waiting in the bar at a table for two, dressed all in black from the tips of her Italian boots to the last coat of mascara on her lashes. She started to smile when she saw Josie but lost it when she figured out the man who opened the door was part of the package.

“Linda?” Josie greeted her.

“Who’s this?” Linda eyed Archer.

“Archer. Linda Rayburn. He’s working with me on Hannah’s case.”

Linda nodded. Archer checked her out then made his excuses. He would wait at the bar; the two women would talk.

“Do you want something?” Linda lifted her cocktail when they were alone.

“Yeah. I’d like to know where Hannah is.” Josie took a seat.

“She’s at home,” Linda said, peeved that she wasn’t directing the conversation. “I meant did you want something to drink?”

“No, thanks and I’m not sure Hannah is at home. I just called. There was no answer.”

Linda waved away the concern.

“She’s probably out doing her walking thing. You know how it goes. Couple times around the house. Some weird dancing on the sand. Back in the house. Back outside again. I wouldn’t worry about it.”

Josie took a deep breath. She put her elbows on the table and raised her hands, clasping them under her chin.

“But I do worry, Linda. If you’re not with Hannah, and I can’t reach her, you are defying a court order. Judge Norris didn’t say to take Hannah home and lock her in. He said that you were supposed to supervise her.”

“He didn’t mean twenty-four hours a day.” Linda complained.

“Yes, he did.”

“Well, that’s ridiculous. She’s in the middle of nowhere without a car. You know, there are things I absolutely have to do and that’s just the way it is.”

“Like what? Sneaking out to see your husband?”

Linda stiffened and grabbed her glass. She drank deep and then hesitated. Slowly the glass came down. She put it on the table and kept her eyes on it for a minute as if suddenly realizing it wasn’t the answer to anything.

“No. Like walking away to see a friend,” Linda said quietly.

“Christ, Linda,” Josie breathed.

“No. I mean it. Don’t sound like that. This isn’t some kind of game,” Linda insisted, uncomfortable with her confession. “Look, I don’t know about you but not a lot has changed since college. We were never very good at making friends.”

“I was too busy studying,” Josie reminded her.

“I was too busy chasing after the next guy,” Linda said. “Now I’m alone. I’ve never been alone before. Kip hasn’t called. He won’t come to see me. All the women I used to know are steering clear until they see how this plays out. Jesus, Josie, I’m not made of stone. I needed someone to talk to.”

“It’s not like you to feel sorry for yourself,” Josie said.

“I’m not. I’m lonely, Josie, and I’ve been that way for a long time.”

“Then just imagine how Hannah feels.”

Linda sighed and closed her eyes; her free hand went to her forehead.

“I’ve spent a lifetime imagining how Hannah feels.” The hand came down. Linda looked bleary eyed and sad, but Josie imagined it was the liquor. This may be the first time she had ever seen Linda Rayburn drunk. “Don’t you think I know exactly what kind of mother I’ve been? I was too young to have a baby and I made Hannah grow up too fast. Maybe I thought she was going to be my built in friend. I didn’t know how to be a mother. You were the smart one. You never had a kid. Women like us shouldn’t have children.”

The glass was up again. Josie watched her drink, unsure of what to say. She had been ready for a fight, ready to defend her strategy. She was off her stride now that Linda had asked for her friendship.

“You want to know something?” Linda leaned across the table. “I thought raising Hannah was about feeding her and putting clothes on her back until she was eighteen. But it’s more than that. It wasn’t until this happened that I realized I really loved my girl. I really, really do and that’s the real hard part.”

“Then why are you fighting to sell her out, Linda?” Josie interrupted. “Why are you taking chances with her freedom now? You’re not stupid. You know Norris wanted you with Hannah twenty-four seven. Do you want her to go back in prison?”

“Who’s going to tell Norris that I took a little R & R? You? I don’t think so.” Linda sighed. “See, that is the funny thing. You like Hannah better than you like me, so you’re willing to protect her more than me. That’s not right. You were my friend first. Maybe I need you now.”

“Don’t do that, Linda. Don’t use people, especially not Hannah,” Josie said wearily. “It isn’t about who I like or don’t like, it’s about the rules.”

“I’m tired of rules,” Linda cried, her eyes filling up again. “You don’t know what it’s been like. Every time I try to play by rules I get smashed into the ground. You know, I really loved Hannah’s father and I tried to be good for him. Where did it get me? Beaten up and kicked around. So then I started sleeping around and having some fun and you know what it got me? Good times, nice things, money, beaten up, and kicked around. Then I met Kip and you know what that got me? Every damn thing I ever wanted: someone who needed me, nice things, and a good home for me and my kid. He loved me back. He needed me.”

Linda motioned for another drink. The bartender nodded. Josie caught Archer’s eye for an instant, and Josie knew how lucky she was. They were silent as Linda was served, the empty glass taken away. Linda held onto it.

“Now it’s all going away. Kip doesn’t live with me. The Governor isn’t sure if he wants to appoint him to the bench. You’re running around trying to prove Fritz was a sick son of a bitch. And he was. I don’t doubt he was. But Jesus, Josie, it’s over. He’s dead. He’s dead and everything was going to be okay until you did that to Kip. God, Josie, don’t you see. What you do to him, or to Hannah, you do to me. I thought we were friends. I really need you to be my friend.”

“I am your friend. I’m trying to save your daughter.”

“How? By sacrificing my husband?”

“If that’s what it takes. If that’s where the truth is.”

“You don’t care what the truth is.” Linda’s fist pounded lightly on the table. The little candle flickered and jumped. “You just want to prove you can get Hannah off the way you got that other woman off. You didn’t care what the truth was then either.”

Linda turned her head but Archer was right there, boxing her in. She didn’t like the direct hit of his gaze so she swung her head back in time to see a shadow cross Josie’s face.

Linda picked up her cigarettes and tapped one out. She tried her lighter but it wouldn’t catch. Opening her purse she pulled out a box of matches. The flame flared, illuminating the middle of her face. She blew out the flame, tossed the match into the ashtray and pulled in the smoke hard, letting it out at her leisure. Her head was back, her hair hung past her shoulders. The smoke wafted toward the ceiling. She watched the smoke, Josie watched her. It was illegal to smoke in a restaurant in Los Angeles County. No one stopped her. No one ever stopped a beautiful woman from doing anything.

“You’re not sure about Hannah, are you?” Linda chuckled, but it was an ugly sound. “Oh, God, all this time I’m thinking I’m a little off here, but it’s you. You started something you’re going to finish, no matter who you hurt, and still you’re not sure that Hannah didn’t do it.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“No, no,” Linda insisted, pushing across the table, her cigarette held high. “You’ve been thinking what I’ve been thinking. What if you’re wrong about Hannah and she’s like that woman you got off. The one who killed her kids after you defended her.”

“This is nothing like that. Nothing,” Josie insisted.

Linda ground out her cigarette.

“Maybe it is. Maybe Hannah’s got you fooled the same way that lady did. Maybe you’re going to screw up Kip’s life and mine and send Hannah home and. . .”

Josie got up. Her chair toppled. She reached back to get it. Linda’s eyes narrowed. Her jaw tightened. She grabbed for Josie. Her face tipped up, her long neck looked like alabaster in the dim light, her eyes like jewels. “For once in your life, think about other people instead of what you want.”

“No one else matters but Hannah,” Josie said in a whisper. “Why isn’t that crystal clear to you?”

“Because life is more complicated than that, and you know it better than anyone.” Linda pushed her case, her fingers digging into Josie’s arm. Linda was a strong woman. “You had tunnel vision with that Davis woman, too. That woman wasn’t what she said she was. You got her off, and then she turned around and killed her children. I saw some pictures. Those children looked like sleeping angels, didn’t they? All covered up with white sheets, their arms crossed over their chests. Their hair so light against the pillows”

Josie yanked away but Linda spoke in a frantic whisper. Her voice mesmerized Josie.

“And when they pulled those sheets back those little children had no bodies, did they Josie? Their mother had slit them open and taken everything out just to see if she could. No other reason.”

“I don’t need to hear this. It has nothing to do with Hannah,” Josie shot back.

“It has everything to do with Hannah, and me, and Kip,” Linda growled, half rising. “Only this time it could be the daughter doing it to the mother. That woman used a knife to do her dirty work. Hannah lit a fire. In the end it’s all the same, though, isn’t it? People die horrible, gruesome deaths because there are horribly, sick people out there who aren’t held accountable.”

Josie was listening but all she could see was Linda’s lips curling around words she couldn’t understand.

“I guess what I want to know is why haven’t you learned anything, Josie? Why don’t you err on the side of caution? Do you want to see me like Fritz? Do you want to see my legs burned black and know my lungs were seared. . .”

“It would never happen.”

Josie straightened. She could feel Archer watching her, ready to come to her rescue. But who could rescue her from memories, possibilities, and visions?

“Don’t ruin me, Josie. Don’t ruin my family. Don’t make a mistake that might harm all of us. Send Hannah where she belongs. Get her help, Josie. Help me.”

Josie closed her eyes, trying to banish the thought that Linda could be right. Her knees were weak, her breathing shallow. Maybe it wasn’t Hannah who needed defending, but those around her. Josie opened her eyes, suddenly exhausted. Her lips parted but no sound came out. Linda, was looking at her, purse in hand, ready to leave, but needing to share one last thought.

“None of us really knows what the right thing to do is, Josie. I just came here tonight because I needed a friend. I guess I didn’t find one. If you get Hannah off you’re playing with my life. If you keep pointing at Kip you’re playing with his, and still you don’t know if Hannah is really innocent. Could you live with yourself if you bet wrong twice, and you were responsible for letting another killer go?”

“This isn’t the same, Linda. This isn’t the same at all.”

Josie put her fingertips to her temple. Her head hurt. It was the tequila. Or maybe it was the worry over Hannah. No, it was Linda. Linda was conjuring up ghosts that did more than haunt Josie. They feasted on her heart and soul; they made her question her motives and her judgment.

“Sure it’s the same,” Linda whispered urgently. “Maybe you can’t see it, but I can because I’m the one that has to sleep in that house and now I’m alone there with Hannah. I have to wonder every night when I go to bed if I’m going to wake up. I’m scared, Josie. I’m not asking you to throw the trial. I’m not asking you to forgive my mistakes as a mother, but I shouldn’t have to wonder if I’m going to die because of them.”

“Stop it, Linda.” Josie dropped her hand. She wasn’t going to be seduced by this woman’s speculations or threats. “You’re not afraid of anything. You never have been.”

“Okay, Josie.” Linda was resigned. “Think what you want. If anything happens, you won’t have anyone to blame but yourself. And when it does, you won’t have anyone to live with but yourself. Maybe that’s the saddest thing of all.”

Linda left Josie standing alone at the table. Archer pulled out her chair. She sat down.

“Take a minute, Jo.” He slid into the chair Linda had just left. “She doesn’t leave it very warm.”

Josie’s eyes flickered up and then away. Finally she leveled her gaze and looked right into Archer’s eyes.

“Could I be wrong about Hannah?” she asked.

“Yeah. You could be.”

“Do you think I am?”

He shook his head. “Rayburn hurt her bad. Maybe she snapped. I don’t know. I guess it’s a matter of faith.”

“I don’t have any of that, Archer.”

“It’s okay. I do,” he answered.

He reached in his own pocket, pulled out a couple of bills and put them in the little black folder the bartender had left. Taking a deep breath, Josie reached for her phone. She dialed Hannah once more. Once again the phone rang and rang.

“I’ve got to go home, Archer.”

“She’s still not answering?” Josie shook her head.

“Don’t worry about it, babe. Her mom will be home soon enough. If there’s something wrong, she’ll call. She’s not that stupid.”

Josie got up. Archer did the same. Josie was half way to the door when Archer called to her. She looked back. He reached to the floor and ambled over to her.

“I’ve got a present. Linda Rayburn left it.”

Archer lifted her hand, put something inside and closed her fingers over it. When Josie opened it she found a box of matches that had come from Linda Rayburn’s purse; matches that stood in when her fancy silver lighter couldn’t manage a flame.

“Coffee Haus,” Archer said.

“She stops there sometimes,” Josie said wearily, twisting the box between her fingers with little interest.

“It’s not exactly around the corner from Malibu so either she’s been up that way to see her husband or. . .” Archer hesitated.

“Or?”

“Or, Linda Rayburn had them in that purse all this time. The cops searched the house, but I’ll bet they didn’t search the people who lived in the house.”

Josie’s hands closed over the matches.

“You’ll check it out?”

“First thing in the morning, babe.” Archer put his arm over her shoulder and steered her out the door. “I’ll swing down Malibu way while I’m at it. Just a little drive by to make sure Hannah is doing okay?”

“Thanks, Archer. Want to come home with me?”

He shook his head. “Not tonight. You’re tired. Get some rest.”

Josie kissed him. Her arms went around his waist. He felt good but he was right. She needed to be alone. There was a lot to think about. Flipping up the collar of her jacket she walked home.

Josie lay down on the couch with the phone in one hand, her other buried in Max’s fur. Her eyes were on the picture window even though she couldn’t see the ocean. Not meaning to sleep without talking to Hannah, sure that Linda’s accusations and protestations would keep her awake all night, Josie somehow drifted off. She dreamed of dead children and childless women.

Chapter 29

HANNAH sat on her little stool in the sand. She had a joint but it was untouched. She had spent the night pacing the beach, the house, her room, measuring off space to pass the time until her mother came home. Josie was gone. Hannah had left a message and Josie would call. She was sure of that. Once Hannah thought she heard the phone ringing and she ran fast into the house, but it must have been her imagination. No one was on the line. She went back to the beach, and her stool, and the cold, wet night until it got too cold, and too wet. Finally she went inside, wishing she wasn’t alone - until her wish came true.

Kip had come in so quietly, so unexpectedly that Hannah almost died of fright. It had been days since she’d seen him and nothing had changed: not his long face, his thinning brown hair, his white shirt and beige coat, his khaki slacks. He looked the same yet there was something different. Kip was looking right at her. He actually saw her. He had never done that before.

“Where’s your mother?”

Hannah shook her head. She tried to answer and couldn’t. The second time she managed a whisper.

“I don’t know.”

Kip didn’t move. He didn’t seem to be breathing but his eyes trailed over Hannah. He took in the twists and turns of her hair, the slope of her cheekbones, her lips, the cut of her t-shirt, the cleft of her breasts. Hannah’s skin jumped with the prickle of nerves. Her heart beat faster even though she breathed more slowly. Maybe everything hadn’t ended with Fritz’s death. Maybe. . .

Kip took a step. He was leaving. No. He changed his mind. Hannah could see the vent on his coat, the flash of a heel on his shoe. She could feel him thinking. His hatred seeped through the wall. His heel was raised as if he might go forward, but then again he might fall back. She prayed for him to disappear. Instead Kip Rayburn walked right into her room. She cringed on her stool. One more step. He was standing over her, so close she could smell him. The smell of fear was on him. Hannah knew it well.

“You are a stupid little bitch. Everything would have been fine without you. Everything.” Kip lowered himself, hunkering down so he could look straight at her. “The mere fact that you exist is abhorrent to me. What you did to my father turns my stomach.”

“I didn’t -” Hannah said.

“You didn’t what? Hit him? Push him? Seduce him? Make him so much less than he was? Well,” he sighed, “I think you did. But what’s really sad is that, in the end, it’s all my fault. I brought you into this house. I knew he was weak, and I brought you here to tempt him. You and me, we’re guilty as sin. But he was my father, Hannah. Mine. And you took him away from me when he didn’t really want you.” Kip pointed a finger at her. His entire body vibrated with his desire to hurt her. “In fact, no one has ever wanted you, have they?”

“My mother did. My mother does,” Hannah whispered.

“Really?” Kip stood up and looked around at the room. “Then where is your mother? She’s not here. If she wanted you so much then why isn’t she here?”

Hannah shook her head. Her lips moved with the counting. But Kip had had enough. He reached out and clamped his hands on the side of her head to stop her. He pulled her close, half off her little stool.

“Stop it. Stop it or I’ll. . . .”

Just when Hannah thought he would squeeze hard enough to crush her skull they heard sounds. A door closing. Footsteps. They were paralyzed, linked together in their private little power struggle only to be suddenly reminded there was another world. Slowly Kip released her. He was pale, shaking as if surprised to find he could be so vicious, yet not really surprised at all. It ran in the family.

“Kip?”

Linda Rayburn stood framed in the doorway looking at everything. Hannah. Her legs pulled up to her chest, arms wrapped around them, trembling as if she was chilled to the bone. Against the wall was Kip, his arms hanging slack by his side, his expression melting with his anger and grief and, above all, hatred.

No one spoke. Finally, Kip threw himself toward the door and pushed past his wife. Panicked, Linda screamed at Hannah.

“What have you done? What?”

“Mom, I -” Hannah said, but Linda didn’t wait for an answer. She darted after her husband.

“Kip, wait. Wait.” She caught up with him in the dining room, unable to make him stop until she sprinted ahead.

“Get out of my way, Linda. It’s all over. My life is over. Everything is over. And it’s her fault. I don’t want to look at her. I don’t want her in my house.”

“What about me? Do you want me? Isn’t that why you came? To get me? I can make it better. I always have. I always will.” Linda hustled in front of him, her hands out, touching his chest, his shoulders.

“Just get out of my way,” he slapped at her hands but she persisted.

“No, answer me. Kip for once in your life say what you want. What do you want?”

Kip grabbed her hands and shook them.

“I want people to stop talking about us. I’m sick of it. I can’t go anywhere. People ask me if my father really did those things to me. At the club they make jokes about the women and girls and my father. They look at me and wonder if I ever did what he did. The governor called. He is withdrawing the nomination. Can you change that?”

“Yes. Yes. I promise. I’ll talk to him. We’ll figure something out. It will be all right,” Linda insisted, frantic to calm him. It was an impossible task.

“Don’t be stupid. Nothing will be all right. Not until she is gone.” He whipped his head around to glare at Hannah. She had followed cautiously, hugging the walls, the furniture, watching to see where the danger was coming from. But Kip’s eyes were blurred. He saw nothing, and he could do nothing. He dropped his head and shook it. “Everything was fine when it was just him and me. No one knew. I could take anything if nobody knew.”

Linda pulled him to her. When he resisted, she moved into him, forcing herself on him, angry and determined to stop the hemorrhaging emotions that would kill reason.

“I know. I do know. I swear. I’ve been there. But I can make it right.”

She soothed him with the truth. It was an awful, ugly truth that weakness was better stomached in private, behind the doors, in the dark. Fritz knew that. Kip knew that and, most of all, Linda knew. The weak were bound together. Maybe that was why Fritz and Kip and Linda had coexisted as easily as they had. Maybe that was why Hannah never found her place in the Rayburn mix. Her weakness was open. It didn’t shape her heart and soul; it only touched the delicate tissues of the mind.

“Mom?”

Instinctively Linda pulled Kip closer as if to protect him from her daughter. Kip twisted out of her grasp and stepped behind his wife. He ran a hand through his hair. His plain face was mottled with the color of emotions long held private.

“Leave him alone.” Linda closed in on Hannah and lowered her voice. “Haven’t you done enough?”

Hannah’s eyes flicked to Kip and back to her mother. Her hand reached out. She touched Linda’s arm. Once, twice, three times and Linda slapped her away.

“Mom, please. I didn’t do anything. He came here. He scared me. I thought it was going to be like Fritz.”

“Stop it.” Linda grabbed Hannah’s arm and railroaded her back into her room. She whipped Hannah against the wall, out of Kip’s sight. “It’s not going to be like that. Don’t even think it. Kip’s not like that, but don’t push him, that’s all I’m saying.”

“But. . .” Hannah grappled to get a hold on her mother. Linda gathered Hannah’s hands together and held them tight.

“I’m telling you to trust me. I’ve got to take care of Kip so I can take care of us - of you.”

“No, I’m not going to do it anymore. I’m not going to take care of her,” Kip screamed.

Linda let go of Hannah’s hands. Kip wasn’t finished with them.

“Kip, calm down. We’ll work this out.”

“You work it out. You take care of it.” Kip turned to leave. “But not with my money. Not in my house. Not for that little bitch.”

“Christ,” Linda muttered, watching his back as he stormed away. “Kip, wait. I’m coming with you.”

“Mom!” Hannah screamed, choking back her sobs. “Don’t leave me. Please, Mom. Don’t leave. Don’t.”

Linda bared her teeth and her eyes flashed as she turned on her daughter. Everything was walking out that door, and she’d be damned if she’d let it go without a fight.

“We need him you little bitch,” Linda hissed, turning again to rush after her husband.

It was then Hannah changed the trajectory of the night. With a scream she flew past her mother and lunged at Kip Rayburn. She was crazed with the fear of being left alone, out of her mind with the thought that her mother – her mother who she loved beyond reason, who she would do anything for and had done anything for – would leave her for this person.

“You can’t take her away. She’s supposed to be here. I’m not supposed to be alone,” Hannah screamed.

Tripping on the slick floor, Hannah’s knees hit hard but she was close enough to take hold of Kip’s legs. She grappled. She pulled hard. Kip fell forward, smashing his shoulder against the wall. Fritz’s black and red canvas shivered above as he steadied himself.  Hannah grunted, crawling up his leg, snatching at his clothes and screaming, but he was quick. One leg was free. Kip kicked hard catching the side of Hannah’s head. She reeled back and rolled into the opposite wall. Linda screamed. Hannah’s arm flew across her brow, her other hand went to her lips to stifle the cry. She would not cry. Never again. Never in front of him.

“Kip stop!” Linda joined the fray, yelling again and again.

Hannah heard him coming. She heard Linda’s high heels click on the floor and Kip’s grunts as he struggled with his wife. Then it was over. Only the sound of breathing could be heard in the big, high-ceilinged house. Hannah felt Kip standing over her. Her eyes flew open. She would not close them. She would watch whatever was coming. This time Hannah Sheraton was determined to watch it happen.

But Kip Rayburn did nothing. He just stood there, his fists balled as he looked at her.

Slowly Hannah struggled to stand up. Kip stepped back. She leaned against the table, pained to see that Linda was waiting to see what would happen, and who would win. Kip stepped back again and again until he was at the door. Hannah matched him. Her head hurt. She put out a hand to steady herself. She took one step forward, and then another. Her lips moved with counting.

“Two,” she whispered. “Three. Four. . .”

“You’re a lunatic,” Kip said coldly.

Hannah stopped moving, counting, thinking. Linda was immobile even when Kip walked past her, heading out the door to his car. Mother and daughter looked at one another: One pleading for help, the other steeling herself with determination. Linda rushed to Hannah and took her by the shoulders. She shook her hard.

“Don’t you call anyone; don’t you answer the phone. They’ll take you away if you do. I swear they will. They’ll take you away Hannah. Do you understand? Don’t do anything until I get back. I’ll fix it, if you don’t screw it up now.”

Those were the last words Linda Rayburn spoke before she ran after her husband. Hannah stumbled after her mother, stopping before she reached the thorn gate. She heard two car doors slam and the squeal of tires on the drive. In the ensuing silence, for just a moment, Hannah Sheraton crumpled onto the tiled patio. Her only company was a tortured woman of bronze forever standing alone in the still pond waters of Fritz Rayburn’s home.

***

Hannah dressed fast. A coat. A hat. A scarf. She looked at the phone once more, wanting to call Josie.

Don’t talk to anyone.

Don’t screw up.

They’ll take you away.

Hannah buttoned her coat as she ran through the house and opened the door to the outside. The Volkswagen was there, still booted. The old Mercedes was in the garage. Hannah ran for the kitchen and rummaged through the drawer where they kept extra keys. Nothing. She pulled the drawer further out to search in the back but she pulled too far and the drawer fell with a clatter to the floor.

Jumping back, Hannah cursed and ignored the mess. If the key to the Mercedes was there she didn’t have time to look. She needed to figure this out and there was only one place she could go.

Seconds later Hannah was running through the house, past Fritz’s paintings, out the front door, and past the statue. She burst out of the thorn gate and didn’t bother to close it. Hannah ran all the way to the highway. The sound of the ocean drove her on. The sound of cars pulled her forward. Someone would stop for her. They had to. She would make them. Someone needed to get her where she was going before she did something she shouldn’t do.

***

Linda Rayburn stood naked at the long windows that overlooked the grounds of the Palisades house. One arm was crossed under her heavy breasts, the other was crooked, a cigarette held between her fingers. Thoughtlessly she brought the cigarette to her lips, pulled the smoke deep into her lungs, and held it there before letting it seep out through her lips.

Behind her Kip slept in the big bed, curled like a child into a tight ball, one hand under his cheek, exhausted from his meltdown.  In front of her, Linda could see the west wing of the house. The charred wood had been removed, new wood rose in its place, framing the room just as it had been before the fire. The yellow crime scene streamers were long gone. The little stone boy peed into the fountain. The gardens were manicured. The stars twinkled. The Palisades slept and Linda Rayburn wanted to lay her head down on her pillow and do the same, but there were too many things to think about.

Hannah. Number one. Always Hannah. That had been an ugly scene. Kip had been wrong to kick her, Linda wrong to leave her, but what was done was done. Linda should feel guilty for following Kip, but she didn’t. A genetic flaw. Her perpetual failing. She wouldn’t apologize for it even to herself. You worked with what you had, you did what you could, and you made choices based on need. Kip needed Linda more than Hannah did, and Linda needed Kip. Hannah was strong and always had been. She would survive the night. Linda wasn’t sure Kip would have if he’d been left alone.

Josie. She was in the mental mix. Funny how, in the dark, Linda could see so clearly. Her path had crossed Josie’s so long ago and only for a short time. Yet it was as if Josie had been with her every damn day of her life since college, looking over her shoulder, passing judgment. She put her back against the wall and watched the cigarette smoke wend its way toward the ceiling. She admitted it was all in her mind - this thing with Josie. That sense of competition, of being not quite as good as Josie Bates. Or at least it had been. Now it was real. There was a tug of war for Hannah’s future, and that’s not what Linda had anticipated at all when she sought Josie out. This was supposed to be a win-win situation, but Linda was losing.

The cigarette came to her lips. The smoke filled her lungs.

No, this wasn’t what she had anticipated at all.

Her eyes roamed the room. It was more beautiful than any she could have imagined in all of her years before she met Kip. She let her gaze rest on her husband.

Kip. Kip. Linda would like to think that she loved him, but the bottom line was she didn’t know how to do that. He made her the center of his universe, which was better than Linda had ever had, so she was grateful. He’d had it tough with Fritz. Linda understood. She was sympathetic. She even liked Kip because he didn’t demand a whole lot. But love him? No. She was broken somewhere inside. She couldn’t love like other people. But for Kip she came close. For Hannah she came even closer. For herself?

Well. . . .

Linda stubbed out her cigarette and crawled into bed with her husband. He uncurled himself. She put her arms around him and lay with her face against his back. She could have done worse. She had done worse than Kip Rayburn. In the end, it was really Hannah, Linda worried about. Poor, sad, sick, dangerous Hannah. Only Linda knew how dangerous Hannah could be, and it scared her to death.

Chapter 30

“405 North is packed and the transition to the 10 toward downtown is backing up.  Rush hour has started early. Expect more delays than divorce court.”- KFWB traffic report

“I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, Ms. Bates. The freeways get worse everyday.”

Josie ended her call to Archer. He was headed to Malibu just as Ian Frank walked into his office. He didn’t waste a lot of time on the niceties, but wasn’t one to disregard them either. He was pleasant, focused, and comfortable in his domain. And a nice domain it was.

This man, worth millions, lived his professional life in a room that, at first glance, was less than impressive. It was the second glance that did the trick. The desk was simple with clean lines, as was the chair, but the wood quality and leather grade was exquisite. Instead of the artwork and honors Rayburn favored, Frank’s walls were noticeably bare save for his Harvard Law School diploma and that was hung on a slice of wall near the door as if, once earned, it was of little consequence. Large plants in full foliage brightened the corners. Floor to ceiling windows afforded a spectacular view of the Hollywood hills behind Ian Frank. At Josie’s back the view was equally rich. The eye bumped over the stair-steps of the downtown skyline before skimming over the cities that paved the way to the coastline. On a clear summer day Ian Frank could see the ocean but Josie doubted he was ever tempted to play hooky. There was a bit of the farmer in him; he looked up to check the way the wind blew. From his greeting Josie imagined she was just a breeze in Ian Frank’s world.

“So what can I do for you?”

“I want to talk about Fritz Rayburn,” Josie said, telling him something he already knew.

“What can I tell you? I didn’t much care about Fritz’s personal life while he was alive, and I don’t much care about it now.”

“Don’t you think you should, Mr. Frank?” Josie asked.

“And why should I, Ms. Bates?” Ian Frank seemed amused.

“Because a law firm is reliant on its goodwill, and the firestorm surrounding the Rayburns could affect that. Telling me about them might keep damage to a minimum.”

Ian laughed. He had a wonderful face, a beautiful head of dark gray hair. Trim and handsome, he was a man that would set widows and divorcees scheming.

“Fritz Rayburn’s interest in this firm was put into a trust when he took the bench. He wasn’t a practicing partner. Whatever you’re digging up may impact your client, but the goodwill on my balance sheet is going to be worth exactly what it was worth yesterday, or the day before.”

“You seem to be the only one who isn’t concerned about the impact of Fritz Rayburn’s habits. The governor is worried. The family is worried. The DA is worried,” Josie pointed out.

“The governor has reason to worry. Fritz was his prized appointee. No one will believe that Fritz’s shortcomings weren’t discovered in a background check. So, if Fritz was a bit off, and the governor’s office covered up, that will be a public relations nightmare. You can’t put the horse back in the barn, you know. ” Ian shook his head with certainty. “As to Kip, he’ll be disappointed and embarrassed when the appointment doesn’t go through, but he’ll still be a partner in this firm. Money soothes a great many hurts. But all that aside, gossip or fact, none of this affects me.”

“Your clients might not feel the same way.” Josie pointed at him as if he kept those precious people nestled in his breast pocket.

“Hell, half my clients are worried about their own skeletons, Ms. Bates. In fact…”

He was interrupted when the door opened. Standing just outside of Josie’s line of sight was a woman who was dutifully giving Ian Frank a reason to curtail this meeting.

“John Blosser is on his way,” she said with all the interest of someone who had done this a thousand times over the course of as many days.

“Thanks, May. Ms. Bates and I will be wrapping up soon.” Ian Frank gave Josie his full attention and a ridiculously patronizing look that was meant to hurry her on. She, in turn, didn’t give him an inch.

“Mr. Frank, I’m not intimidated by you, and I am not impressed by your clinical analysis of Fritz Rayburn’s conduct. I used to live in a place like this. I used to sit in a chair just like yours. I know, in these surroundings, that nothing is sacred – not even the idea that business exists in a vacuum. I am living proof that it doesn’t.”

“I know your history, Ms. Bates, but this is very different. We deal in numbers, in mergers, in huge estates, and corporate entities,” Ian Frank countered easily. “That kind of business doesn’t titillate the public interest.

“Unless someone tells the tale correctly and I can tell it in a way that will make people sit up and take notice. Do you think the mothers and fathers in California would take kindly to knowing that the man who was legal counsel to Comfy Toys also terrorized young girls? Do you think the very vocal black coalition in this state is going to turn the other cheek when they find out that Rayburn’s taste ran to women of color? ”

“And I would be curious to see who the mothers and fathers of California have more loathing for: an attorney who uses her power to isolate a young woman from her mother or an old, dead man who hasn’t been affiliated with this firm for over seven years. And, if Kip Rayburn were to admit his father was overzealous in his discipline, there would be a great deal of sympathy for him, don’t you think? Oh, Ms. Bates, we can all spin and in the end, when all is said and done, neither of us will win but I’ll come out on top. I know my clients. Their attention span is even shorter than mine.”

Josie sat forward in her chair, too. She tried another tack; one that she had no doubt would fail, but, when desperate, desperate measures are called for.

“Then tell me about Fritz Rayburn and his son because you’re a good man, Mr. Frank. Tell me because it might help Hannah Sheraton.”

A flicker of interest ran across Ian Frank’s face. For the first time he was truly engaged in the conversation.

“It isn’t as though I don’t have sympathy for your client, Ms. Bates. My sister has a daughter that girl’s age. It’s hard to know what’s true and what isn’t even when it is your own child, so I will be truthful. I don’t know anything for sure that will help you. If I don’t know it to be fact, then it doesn’t exist and that’s really all there is to it. I give you credit for sticking your neck out but, then, you don’t have all that much to lose, do you? I’m not in the same position.”

Josie jumped on the opening. It wasn’t more than a hairline crack in his demeanor but it was enough to tell her that he had a conscience.

“You’re right. I don’t have anything to lose so that means I can fight tooth and nail. Just tell me what you suspect. Give me access to your personnel files. Let me talk to the women in this firm. Tell me if you know anything about the fight between Fritz and Kip Rayburn. All I need is your permission. I’ll be discreet. All you have to do is give me the sword. I’ll slay the dragon and you keep the castle.”

Ian Frank put his elbows on top of his well-kept desk and clasped his hands. He let them fall back against his lips once and then he put them in front of him. He didn’t think longer than a second.

“There isn’t a businessman on this earth who would believe what you just said. No. I won’t open this firm up to you. Though I have a great deal of faith in the practical mindset of our clients, I won’t help you tip the balance. Now, I know you’re a fine attorney, but I’m probably better. If you try to get a court order to go into my records, I will stop you.” Ian opened his hands as if in apology. “Eventually you may get what you want but I’ll keep you tied up until this trial is over. I’ll protect what’s mine and that, as they say, is that.”

“I thought this firm belonged to Kip now, too,” Josie reminded him.

“You think he’s going to give you permission to go after his father on his own turf?” Ian laughed.

“No, I was just curious to find out if he understood he’d be second fiddle around here. That you’re the one who will be making all the big decisions.”

“That’s exactly how it is, Ms. Bates, and I don’t think Kip will mind. I’ve done well at the helm of this firm. I will continue to do my job well and make him rich. I will support him if he is on the bench. I have a great deal of respect for Kip.”

“Did Justice Rayburn have the same respect for his son?”

“I have no idea,” Ian laughed. “Fritz and I weren’t friends. We were business partners. We made business decisions.”

That was it. The moment Josie was waiting for. Ian Frank was lying. Josie had cross examined too many witnesses, completed too many interviews, represented too many defendants not to know that lies weren’t always dotted with beads of sweat and didn’t always quiver with the telling. Sometimes lies came as they did with Ian Frank; behind an expression so controlled it was unnatural. He looked straight at her. There was just the hint of a smile on his lips. It had been there before she asked the question and it remained after. He didn’t react to the ridiculousness of the query by waving it off or throwing himself back in the chair as if she was wasting too much of his time.

“You liar. A law partnership is closer than most marriages. You know everything.” Josie put her hand on the top of his desk; she made sure she didn’t look away. “You’re not concerned about the emotional value of Fritz Rayburn’s legacy so what’s the deal you made? Was Kip going to be an active member of the firm? Was he just going to collect the partner’s share? There had to be documents that were signed, discussions held, decisions made. Were you and Fritz on the opposite sides of the fence when it came to good old Kip?”

Ian Frank’s eyes clouded. He was wary, on his guard. Sexual aberrations were something to pass off but now Josie was treading on sacred ground – the firm’s.

“Fritz didn’t know he was going to die, Ms. Bates, so passing on his interest in the firm wasn’t exactly top of mind.”

“Fritz Rayburn was a lawyer, Mr. Frank, and so are you,” Josie drawled. “Lawyers don’t leave anything to chance where their firms are concerned. Was Kip the beloved son, trusted with the legacy over your objections? Did you welcome him, but Fritz wanted him controlled? What was the deal? You might as well tell me because I swear I am going to kick up a ruckus until I find out.”

“Mr. Frank?”

Ian Frank’s eyes snapped to the doorway. May was back.

“Yes, what is it?”

The woman’s expression changed from bland to startled. It was tough to be snapped at when you were just following orders.

“Mr. Blosser is on his way up.”

Ian Frank dismissed her by looking back at Josie. She pressed her case.

“I know that Kip and Fritz had a huge argument just before he died. I want to know if it was about business. I know that you. . .”

Ian Frank stood up abruptly. He put out his hand and said:

“This interview is over, Ms. Bates. I have an appointment.”

Josie hesitated. She stood up too but ignored the hand he held out to her.

“I’ll be calling you to court, Mr. Frank, so clear your calendar.”

Ian Frank lowered his outstretched arm. He was not insulted, and he wasn’t stupid enough to dismiss the message.

“That is your prerogative, Ms. Bates. In fact, if time permits, I might even show up. It could be fun to see what would happen between us in a courtroom.”

“I assume you wouldn’t ignore a subpoena?” Josie raised a brow.

“I’ve always found sympathetic consideration given to the schedules of busy attorneys. Even the court knows its only business at the end of the day,” Ian reminded her.

“No, Mr. Frank, at the end of this day we’re talking about a young girl’s life and I’ll bet the system will see it my way. If I want you on that stand, that is where you’ll be.”

Josie made her statement and her exit. Ian Frank let her go without another word. By the time she made it to the elevator he was dictating a memo. When the elevator came, Josie had to step back for a man who was in a hurry. The receptionist greeted him as Mr. Blosser, the man Ian Frank was waiting for. In the minutes it took the elevator to whisk Josie down fifty-four floors Ian Frank and his client had probably slapped one another on the back a few times and were sitting down to business. Ian Frank probably hadn’t given Josie Baylor-Bates another thought, but someone else had.

“Excuse me.”

Fingers touched Josie’s arm. The touch was light and surprising. Josie’s mind had been on the rich possibilities opened up by Kip’s fight with Fritz, and now a woman she didn’t know was railroading her. The woman’s body pulled in tight against Josie, steering her to a corner of the lobby before Josie reached the door to the valet parking. Josie looked down to see who was insisting on a moment of her time. It was May, the one whose job it was to interrupt Ian Frank.

“I have to talk to you,” she said, her voice quiet, her eyes lowering as she linked arms with Josie. Deftly the short woman herded the tall one into an alcove. She backed Josie up until they were well hidden behind a wall of black marble and a bank of telephones.

“I don’t want to testify in court, okay. I don’t want to lose my job, okay. But somebody needs to tell you about him.” May laid out the ground rules before Josie even knew what the game was.

“You mean Fritz Rayburn?”

“No, no. Not the old man. The young one. Kip. Stupid name for a grown man. Kip is the one you need to know about.”

She squinted up at Josie but it was her tone of voice that was telling. May hoped she wasn’t talking to an idiot.

Chapter 31

THE conversation lasted no longer than five minutes. May was her last name; she didn’t offer a first. Easy enough to find out, but Josie wouldn’t unless it was absolutely necessary. May lived up to Josie’s initial impressions. She was exacting, professional and got to the point.

She heard what Josie had asked. About Kip Rayburn. About Fritz Rayburn. She had worked for the firm for fifteen years. She’d seen a lot. She wouldn’t lie. If it was anything else except this, she would have kept her mouth shut, but she’d been following this case. May had read about it in the papers, heard about it on the news, and discussed it with people in the firm. Oh yes, despite what Mr. Frank thought, people in the firm were talking about Fritz like crazy, and that included some clients. May thought it was awful that they had brought charges against Hannah as an adult. She wasn’t convinced that the girl had killed her grandfather. Why? Because May knew that other people were really upset with Justice Rayburn. Not that she liked what Josie had done. She thought the emancipation deal was a raw one. There had to be another way. But there it was. The ball had bounced. Still, at the end of the day, May figured Josie’s instincts were right.

“Specifically?” Josie wanted to know everything May did.

“Kip Rayburn,” May answered. “He and his father had been fighting for six months and it was getting ugly.”

“Because?” Josie prodded though May seemed less in need of encouragement than waiting for Josie to ask a question. May had been around lawyers too long.

“Justice Rayburn was going to assign his share of the partnership to Mr. Frank unless his son –“ May paused and shook her head. She made a face as if there was something distasteful in her mouth “Unless he divorced his wife. I’d never heard anything like it. That old man wanted his son to trade his wife for money. I heard them arguing. I typed the codicil to his will.”

May had heard at least three fights about the matter. Mr. Frank wasn’t in favor of it. Kip had worked with the firm. He was an asset. Justice Rayburn was unmoved. He hated Linda and her ‘half breed’ daughter. May heard Mr. Frank accuse Justice Rayburn of playing dirty, just doing it to make Kip miserable, just doing it because he could. He was angry because Justice Rayburn was using the firm badly. Mr. Frank hadn’t liked Mr. Rayburn for a long while. She could tell by the way Mr. Frank answered the phone when the judge called, and the way Mr. Frank ran the firm like it was his own without consulting Justice Rayburn on important matters.

“So, what happened?” Josie asked.

“I don’t know,” May shrugged. “I don’t know what Kip Rayburn decided to do but his father was bringing it to a head. For some reason he wanted Kip to make a decision fast. Now that I’ve heard about what he did to that girl, maybe he wanted to get rid of the evidence. Get the mother out of the house and the girl goes too. Maybe that is why he offered Kip that weird deal.”

“Did Mrs. Rayburn know about this?” Josie asked.

“I never saw her. I don’t know. But I do know that Kip was going to fight tooth and nail. He didn’t want a divorce. He said she loved him and nobody ever had. It was sad. I heard him crying once. The old judge was laughing at him.”

“Do you think he was mad enough to do something desperate? Do you think he was angry enough to kill his own father?”

Josie looked over May’s head. A man had stopped in the entry to the alcove. May looked over her shoulder and eased herself away. The man changed his mind and went on to the parking structure. May lowered her voice and talked faster.

“I don’t know. I saw bits and pieces. They were really angry. I heard raised voices, and you didn’t hear that when it was only Mr. Frank running the place. Even he got crazy when the other two men went at it. What was sad is that Justice Rayburn seemed to be having such a good time. I think he liked sticking it to his son – maybe even to Mr. Frank. I think he’d been doing it so long it was second nature. I felt sorry for Kip Rayburn. Grown man being treated like that just isn’t right.”

“What about Mr. Frank?” Josie’s eyes scanned the comings and goings outside the alcove. No one was interested in them.

“What about him?” May followed Josie’s lead and checked over her shoulder now and again.

“Maybe it was in his best interest that Kip didn’t divorce. Then he wouldn’t answer to anybody if Rayburn died. Maybe he wanted to hurry along the process so he could have the firm to himself.”

May rolled her eyes. She knew two things better than most people: the law wasn’t always about justice and that lawyers sometimes weren’t very practical.

“If Mr. Frank killed Justice Rayburn he would still have had Kip for a partner. The codicil hadn’t been filed. Nope, if you have to look at anyone, look at the son. He was between a rock and a hard place and he was in agony. The girl he didn’t care about, but the wife was a different matter altogether.”

Archer didn’t have to look far to know that there was a problem at the Malibu house. The huge copper gate stood open, twisted to three quarters as if someone had slipped out in a hurry. He pushed it all the way open with a fisted hand and walked in, calling for someone – anyone. The place was silent as a tomb.

Careful not to touch anything, Archer checked it out. Front door: open. Entry rug: off center, one corner flipped back. Dining room: two chairs down. He moved slowly. Warily. Silent now. Ready to run into a living, breathing human being, or step over a body.

Nothing in the hall.

Hannah’s room. A mess. Little stool tipped over. Little dish with a blade. Archer peered closely. No blood. Good sign. French doors that led to the beach. Open. A closer look. Sand at the entry. Feathered. There was no wind now so it had to have been open all night.

Archer moved upstairs, staying close to the wall, watching the doors. All were open. All was silent. The master bedroom was pristine. The bed hadn’t been slept in. Downstairs again he wrapped his finger in the tail of his shirt and activated the answering machine. Last thing he wanted was his prints in this place. There were two messages from Josie asking Hannah to call. The kitchen: crap all over the floor. A junk drawer ripped out and spilled. No cocktail glasses, no dishes, no food, nothing normal. Whatever had gone down had happened fast and furious and followed a path – Hannah’s bedroom, through the dining room and living room, out the front door, and through the gate.

Poof.

All gone.

He walked the perimeter looking for anything that would give him a clue as to where gone was. Linda’s car was in the driveway unlocked. Hannah’s bug was still booted. Someone had come to get Linda, or Hannah, or both. Archer guessed Kip, but Kip wouldn’t take Hannah to the corner if she begged on her knees.

Archer planted his feet in the white sand and looked out to sea. If Linda was taken away and Hannah left behind, then where was she? He hoped to God she wasn’t out there, under the deep blue sea. There was only one way to find out, and it wasn’t by making a phone call and asking politely. He’d have to find the gruesome twosome - Kip and Linda – and look them in the eye to find the truth. Archer trudged back around the house just as an old Valiant pulled into the drive. A woman dressed in white got out, a sweater over her arm, and a shopping bag in her hand.

The maid.

“Hola,” Archer called and went to meet her.

It took less than two minutes to find out she came every other day. She would be no help to Archer. He thanked her, told her the place was a mess and heard her mumble ‘so what else is new’ in Spanish before he got in his car and set his sights on the Palisades to check out the Coffee Haus, and track down the elusive Rayburns.

***

Josie inched along the freeway, got through the tight patch, and took off as soon as she passed the Century turnoff. The ragtop rattled, she could hear the engine purring under the hood, and her brain was hanging right in there with the car. She wanted to call Archer but knew there would be no way to hear him over the freeway noise, so Josie made mental memos as she wove into the fast lane and out again to pass a tractor-trailer.

Archer was top of the list. Josie would have him running for the next three days, checking out every bit of the Rayburn’s lives: the women Linda hung with at the gym, the few she drank with, the ones she served with on those charitable committees where someone named Rayburn would be welcome. Josie would have him talk to the partner’s wives at Rayburn & Frank. Archer would go to Kip’s club, talk to those who knew him well. Purpose: find out who knew about Fritz’s ‘deal’ with his son.

Josie changed lanes again taking cursory note of the mobile impressions: a man on a cell phone, a gray Mercedes, a girl singing at the top of her lungs in a white Toyota. Billboards went by in a rush of color and light. The electronic message board warned of a slow down at the next turnoff but Josie flew past – no traffic jam in sight. She exited the freeway at Rosecrans. Thirty minutes later she’d navigated the surface streets and was home. Gathering her purse Josie walked down the driveway snapped the remote over her shoulder and closed the garage door. She dug in her purse for her keys and hurried around the corner of the garage only to slow her step, stunned to see who was waiting on her doorstep.

***

“Hey.”

“Hey,” Archer called back, raising a hand as he hiked across the impeccable lawn that swept up to the Rayburn’s Palisades estate. The kid who called to him was short, tanned, and buff. His shirt was off and he was surrounded by a couple thousand dollars’ worth of flowers and plants.

“Did you bring the mulch?”

“Nope. Sorry. Wrong guy.”

“Damn. I need that mulch. These beds are like totally dead after that fire. I need to work in some mulch here. I called the company two hours ago.”

“Sorry,” Archer shrugged, “can’t help you. I’m looking for the Rayburns. Are they here?”

“I got here about six. I haven’t seen anybody.” The kid squinted toward the main house. “I seen the cars, just haven’t seen them.”

“Archer.”

He put out his hand, shook the kid’s

“Rene,” the young man filled in the blank.

“Nice to meet you. I’m actually looking for the daughter.”

“Hannah?” Rene nodded. “I haven’t seen her either.”

“What about before the fire? Did you see anything then? Anything out of the ordinary?” Rene squinted into the sun as he thought.

“I’m here one day a week. I don’t know what’s ordinary. They walk right by me. Except Hannah. She said hi when she saw me. The old man didn’t like it.”

“Was he mad?”

“Naw. Only heard him mad once. I was here late because the sprinklers weren’t working just right. So I’m over there,” he chucked his chin toward a bank of leaded glass windows. “And I’m fiddling with the timer trying to get it reset and I hear the old man and his son going at it. I never heard a peep out of that house before and then it sounds like World War three going on.”

“What did you do?” Archer walked over to the fountain and ran his hand through the clear, cool water. Rene followed.

“I listened,” Rene laughed again. “It’s not like gardening is real exciting.”

“Did you hear what they were saying?”

“You a cop?” Rene asked.

“Just a friend of the girl.”

“I didn’t hear much. I. . .” Rene hesitated. “Hey, you’re not going to tell them I was listening are you? I don’t want to get fired.”

Archer shook his head and flicked the water off his finger. “I’m the last person you have to worry about. Just curious, that’s all.”

“Mostly I just heard the yelling not all the words. Then the young guy comes close to the window and he screams at the judge and I hear him say, “she’s your problem, not mine” and “what’s there to be afraid of?

“Then he moves away and I can’t hear what he’s saying, just the yelling. I almost have the sprinklers fixed when I hear this big crash. I dived onto the grass because I thought it was a gunshot. It wasn’t. Somebody threw something and it hit the window frame just where I was standing.” Rene shook his head remembering the day. “I would have been in big trouble if that thing hit the window because I was just underneath it.”

“What happened then?”

“Nothing,” Rene answered matter-of-factly. “They said a few more things I couldn’t hear, and then I was done and I left.”

“When was this?” Archer asked.

“One, maybe two days before the fire.”

“Anything after that?”

“Not that I know. Nobody was living here after the fire. I just kept the grounds.” Rene’s eyes narrowed and he nodded toward the circular drive. “They’re back now.”

Archer followed Rene’s gaze. Linda Rayburn had come out the door. She was dressed in a long, filmy gown the color of cantaloupe. It didn’t leave much to the imagination.

“What a babe,” Rene sighed.

“Yeah,” Archer answered, “A real sweetheart.”

***

“Faye?” Josie jogged the last few steps, hugging Faye Baxter with her free arm, pulling away long enough to grab her keys and rush to the front door. “My God, I can’t believe you’re here. I’m so happy to see you. I’ll say it. I missed. . .”

“Josie, I’m sorry. I couldn’t get you on the phone,” Faye talked fast but Josie was talking over her. Faye tried again, louder to make herself heard. “I tried your cell but couldn’t get through.”

Josie pushed open the door and motioned Faye in with a nod of her head.

“I was downtown. Probably out of range. Come on in. How long have you been here?”

“About twenty minutes. Josie, I’ve got. . .” Faye inched closer.

“Just a sec. I’ve got to let Max out.” Josie was a step inside the door when Faye clamped her hand on Josie’s shoulder.

“Josie, stop,” Faye cried. Then more softly, “Stop.”

“What? What is it?” Josie dropped her briefcase. Faye had her attention.

“It’s Hannah. She’s been hurt.”

“Where? Where is she?” The blood rushed to Josie’s cheeks.

“She’s in Long Beach Memorial Hospital.”

“Long Beach? What in the hell is she doing there?”

“I don’t know. I only know she’s hurt pretty badly.”

“Please tell me she didn’t try to kill herself?” Josie pleaded.

Faye shook her head. “No. Nothing like that. It was an accident. She was hitchhiking. A truck swerved to miss a car on Pacific Coast Highway and hit her. She was in Huntington Beach and the paramedics took her to Long Beach Memorial. Hannah had your card with the office number in her pocket. The nurse in ICU didn’t go through her clothes until this morning. Hannah’s been there since late last night.”

“Does Linda know?”

“Not from me. I told the police who Linda was so I’m sure they’ve contacted her by now.”

“Maybe, maybe not.” Josie balled her fists on her hips. “I swear, I don’t know what Linda was thinking leaving Hannah alone. What a mess. Hannah running away is unbelievable. I told her. . .” Suddenly Josie stopped. She put a hand to her brow. “Oh God, then Hannah’s alone at the hospital.”

“I just don’t know anything else, Josie.” Faye clasped her hands in apology.

“I know. It’s okay. I appreciate you going out of your way, Faye. I really do.” Josie walked a circle. She slapped the wall with her open palm and stormed across the room. She ripped the receiver off her cradle.  “Linda wants the mother of the year award and then leaves Hannah alone to do whatever she wants. God, she’s stupid. Norris will have Hannah back in jail before Linda can blink and it will be her fault.”

“Norris may not have time to revoke Hannah’s bail, Josie. From the little I know, Hannah may not live that long.”

Josie held the receiver away from her ear. Faye could hear the ringing of Linda Rayburn’s cell phone go unanswered and then Linda Rayburn’s voice came over the line. She wasn’t home but if the caller would leave a message she could get back to them.

Faye picked up the receiver and listened just as Josie ran out the door.

Chapter 32

“ARE you family?”- Nurse/Intensive Care

“Yes.”- Josie

Hannah wasn’t beautiful anymore.

She was swollen, raw, shaved, bruised and broken.

Her face was red and black on one side, her skin shredded where she hit the pavement; microscopic flecks of blacktop were still embedded in her skin. A patch of hair had been shaved from the top of her head to her right temple. A long, ugly line of stitches ran from the edge of her eyebrow into the bald patch. A monstrous bit of machinery had her head locked steady, bolting her into a box that would keep her from moving if she ever woke up. One arm was bandaged from fingertip to shoulder. The other was in a splint. Josie could see the outline of Hannah’s legs and breathed a sigh of relief when she counted two. Without her make-up, her piercings, without being able to see those green eyes, Hannah suddenly became what Josie had always argued she was – a hurt child.

Josie touched the sheets that were so tightly tucked around Hannah. Her fingertips quivered. Her arm felt heavy. The memory of the Davis children, dead under pristine white sheets, flashed into Josie’s head. She snatched her hand back.  Instead of looking under the sheet, Josie leaned forward and touched what was left of Hannah’s hair and whispered.

“Hannah, what have you done to yourself? Hannah?”

Hannah didn’t answer but someone else asked:

“Who are you?”

A small woman in big green scrubs walked into the room like she owned it. A surgical mask and stethoscope dangled around her neck. She glanced at Josie, grabbed Hannah’s chart, spent some time with it, looked at the monitors and finally at Hannah, yet it was clear she was waiting for an answer.

“Josie Baylor-Bates.” Josie slid her hand away from Hannah.

“You don’t exactly look like a relative? Only relatives are supposed to be in here.” The woman in scrubs hung the chart back on the end of the bed.

“I’m her attorney. The cops called my office. I just got the message.”

“Attorney, huh?” The woman actually smiled. “Guess in some cases that might qualify as family. You must have got here before he did.”

“Who?” Josie looked over her shoulder.

“There’s a cop outside,” the woman said matter-of-factly. “He’s not supposed to let anyone in or out. I told him it’s not like this baby is going anywhere any time soon, poor thing. I told him he might as well go home, but he looks like he’s digging in.”

The woman adjusted the drip tube on Hannah’s IV. She looked at a monitor above the bed once more.

“I’m Fran Taglia. I caught her in emergency.” Doctor Taglia stepped back, her expression one of compassionate detachment. “She doesn’t look like a murderer.”

“This one isn’t even close,” Josie muttered. “Do you know what happened?”

“Not the details, just that it was a car accident. They must have hit her hard.” Taglia sighed and crossed her arms. “I’d like to say she’s a lucky girl, but I don’t think this kid has had a stroke of luck in her life. I was following her trial. I figured you worked things out, because I haven’t heard a peep lately.”

“We’ve had a recess. Unfortunately, we’ll be back on the front pages when the press gets wind of this. She was supposed to be monitored twenty-four/seven.”

“You don’t have to worry about that now. We’re a twenty-four/seven kind of place.”

Doctor Taglia put her hand out and held onto the IV stand like she was leaning on a fence post. From across the hall came the sounds of Jeopardy. A muted call bell rang. Dinner trays clanged while they were collected. The scents of alcohol and medicine, bodies long unwashed, salves and creams overwhelmed Josie. Taglia was immune to it all.

“We’re going to keep Hannah heavily sedated so she won’t move her head,” she said. “There’s some swelling on the brain. Her neck’s bad. There’s a hairline crack at the base of her skull and a big one on the right side of her head. We’ve already been inside to take care of the internal bleeding. She had a ruptured spleen, and a collapsed lung. Taken together it seems overwhelming, but Hannah is young, she’s in good shape. She’ll get over everything if she wants to.” Doctor Taglia straightened up. “I saw her arms. She’s a cutter. There’s a lot of hurt with cutters. Maybe she’ll just lie there and wish herself away.”

“No,” Josie answered positively, “she won’t do that. We’ve come too far for her to do that.”

“Unless she didn’t want to go as far as you did,” Taglia mused.

“I guess we won’t know until she wakes up, will we?” Josie raised her brows.

“Guess not.” Doctor Taglia checked her watch. She had better things to do than debate a lawyer. “There’s a call button right behind her head. If she moves, ring.”

“If anyone calls you it will be me, not her.” Linda Rayburn filled the doorway for an instant then stormed into the room. “I want that woman out of here now, and I want to know who let her in. Only family is supposed to be in here and I sure as hell don’t count her as family. Now get her out.”

“Hey,” Doctor Taglia stopped Linda with a word and a hand on her shoulder. “I think you better keep your voice down.”

“And you better keep out of my way.” Linda ripped Taglia’s hand off her shoulder. “I’m Hannah’s mother and I want to be alone with my daughter until the doctor who treated her can find some time to come up and talk to me.”

Linda tried to push her way past Taglia but the doctor wasn’t easily moved. This time she had Linda’s arm and she gave it a yank, keeping her tone friendly and concerned.

“Well that’s just fine because I’m the doctor in charge. Now let’s calm down or that man outside this door will help you into the waiting room so you can cool off.”

Doctor Taglia cocked an eyebrow, silenced Linda, and took her hand.

“Good girl. I’m glad you’re here. Hannah needs a reason to come back to the land of the living. What she doesn’t need is a knock down drag out at her bedside. She’s drugged up pretty good but that doesn’t mean she can’t hear and feel. So, are we on the same page?”

Linda drew herself to her full height and pulled her hand away from Taglia.

“Yes. Now, may I please request that only the family be allowed in this room?”

“Linda,” Josie said, “Give me a few minutes. That’s all I want.”

The look Linda shot Josie was loathsome.

“It’s your fault she’s hurt, Josie. She was running away. She couldn’t take this fighting and bickering any more. She didn’t want you to. . .”

Josie moved away from Hannah’s bed, mindful that the sleeping girl might hear her. Instinctively, Linda shadowed Josie.

“Linda I need to know where you were last night before I talk to Rudy Klein and Judge Norris. I need to know, now.”

“You’re going to lay this on me? That is rich.” Josie turned her head away from Linda’s venomous whispers. Linda ducked hers to make sure Josie looked at her. “What do you know about being a mother? You never even had one. You don’t know about the choices you have to make to protect your kid. Last night I was damned no matter what I did. You don’t think this is going to make me feel like shit for the rest of my life?”

A deep fury exploded inside Josie, but she lowered her voice even further so Linda would be the only one to hear what she had to say.

“You were doing what you wanted to do last night; I just don’t know where you were doing it. I swear, when I find out where you were I’m going to recommend Norris charge you with contempt and child endangerment. That means jail time, Linda.”

“You want to have it both ways, Josie? You want Hannah to be an adult until she screws up, and then you want it to be my fault because I didn’t babysit her. Screw you, Josie.”

Josie backed off, reading Linda’s danger signals. This wasn’t going to do Hannah any good.

“Okay, you’re right. I’m sorry. It’s time for us to be adults and let Hannah be the kid. But when she’s better, Norris is going to want her in a monitored place.”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.” Linda had had enough, but Josie was insistent. As much as it tore at her to see Hannah hurt, Josie was a lawyer and knew that contingency plans had to be made.

“Linda, mistakes have been made on both sides. I apologize for mine, but the fact of the matter is we need to be together on a plan for the court.” Josie paused almost convincing herself that leaving Hannah alone was a mistake and not a selfish indulgence. “I want Norris to release Hannah to me instead of putting her through the system. That way you can have access to her and. . . .”

Linda grabbed Josie’s arm and spoke through clenched teeth.

“What is wrong with you? My marriage is ruined, Hannah’s lying there unconscious, and you’re worried about who the judge is going to let her live with? How about just worrying whether or not she is going to live? How about that, Josie?”

“Mrs. Rayburn. Mrs. Rayburn.” Doctor Taglia called to Linda as she pried her fingers loose. “Stop now. This isn’t doing anyone any good.”

Linda blinked, looking at the doctor as if surprised to find her so close.

“She wants my daughter to live with her. How can she ask me to make that kind of decision?” Linda asked quietly, as if Doctor Taglia had the answer.

“You don’t have to make any decisions right now,” Taglia assured her as she walked Linda to the bed and settled her. Linda seemed as weak as her daughter, the fight gone out of her. When she spoke, it was as if she were only a curious observer in all this.

“Does she hurt? If she’s going to die, will she hurt?”

Taglia caught Josie’s eye as she put her hand on Linda’s shoulder.

“She’s not in any pain. I promise we haven’t missed anything on your girl. Hang in there for seventy-two hours, okay? I promise she won’t die.”

“Are you sure? You’re really sure?”

Doctor Taglia hesitated. It wasn’t the question that was odd, only the way it was asked, as if Linda wanted Taglia to look again.

“Yes, I’m sure,” Taglia answered, patting Linda’s shoulder. “If Hannah knows you’re here everything will be fine. Okay?”

Linda’s shoulders were hunched; her head was bent. Doctor Taglia eased away but not quickly enough to miss the next question.

“Did she say anything about me?” Linda whispered.

Josie moved forward, curious to hear the answer.

“Hannah couldn’t ask for you, but I know she would want you here,” The doctor answered. “Maybe she said something to the people who transported her.”

“Who did that?” Linda’s eyes were still on her daughter.

“The paramedics? Their names will be on the report. I’ll make sure you get it. Right now just stay with your daughter.”

Doctor Taglia shrugged and melted away. There were other patients, other people to be cared for. Josie moved to the foot of the bed.

“Linda, I’d like to stay with you.”

“Don’t talk, Josie. Just go away,” Linda muttered.

“Hannah needs both of us now,” Josie insisted quietly.

“Go away Josie or I swear, I’ll kill you. Linda’s voice was dull and dark. It made the threat seem terrifyingly real.

“I care about her, too,” Josie breathed, stunned to find out how much truth there was in that, but Linda was unmoved.

Linda’s head swiveled toward Josie. Her green eyes were so much like Hannah’s and yet so different: harder, worn, and unforgiving.

“I never asked you to care about my daughter. She was your client. That’s all, Josie. Hannah was just your client. Now go on. Get out.”

Josie opened her mouth and then thought better of speaking. Without another word Josie walked out of the hospital past the uniformed officer and knew Linda was wrong. Hannah didn’t belong to either of them now. Rudy Klein had claimed her as a ward of the court.

Chapter 33

“STOP," Josie whispered, pushing Archer’s hands away.

Archer rolled onto his back amid the tangle of blankets and sheets. Minutes ago they had been a tangle of arms and legs, lips and hands. They tried too hard to find love and found only sex and not very good sex at that.

Now they looked at the ceiling, seeing nothing through the darkness, overly aware of each other’s disappointment, disenchantment, and disillusionment. Archer because he could do nothing to help Josie; Josie because she could do nothing to help Hannah.

“It wasn’t your fault,” he finally said.

“Exactly what isn’t my fault, Archer?” Josie asked. “That Hannah ran away, or that she got hurt? Or that there’s a guard on her, or that she’s going back to jail? Or that Linda and I are in this bizarre tug of war over what’s best for her?”

Archer stayed silent, unmoving, knowing the only way to heal her soul was to let her talk.

“Maybe the police are at fault? Her mother? Her father – whoever he is. Her stepfather? Rudy? Maybe it’s Hannah’s own fault, Archer. I really haven’t ruled out that possibility. You know, maybe she’s just a murdering, sociopathic kid who thought she knew how to work the system, got caught in the wheels and panicked.” Josie turned onto her side, her back to Archer. “Maybe she was running out on me. It has happened before; people leaving me without a word.”

Archer’s jaw tightened. That was it. He swung his legs over the side of the bed. He loved Josie but he’d heard this song before, this self-pity, this little girl lament. People got over shit. It was her time.

“She wasn’t running out on you – she was just running. The weird thing was that she was going north on Pacific Coast Highway. I took pictures when I checked it out.”

“Well, aren’t you just so damn efficient, Archer? Besides, which side of the road she was on doesn’t mean anything. Rudy will argue she was fleeing. You should know that.”

“Hey, Jo, I’m not the enemy and this isn’t like you.”

Archer walked toward the bathroom. In the dark Josie could just see his silhouette: big, filling her bedroom, taking up her space when she wanted to be left alone.

“Oh, Christ,” Josie muttered before hollering at him as he started to close the bathroom door. “You don’t know a damn thing about me.”

Archer threw open the door. His arms held either side of it as if he was trying to restrain himself.

“I know what it’s like to have a tough case. I know what it’s like when you feel like your client royally screwed you.”

“Hannah didn’t screw me up. I screwed myself when I started caring about her instead of just working like a lawyer should.” Josie sat up fast and reached for her t-shirt. She didn’t want to be naked around Archer. She didn’t want a shred of intimacy in a life that was feeling so cold and out of control. “You’ve only known me for a year, Archer. It’s all been so good for us. You’ve never seen me when things aren’t good. Now you are. I’m pissed and I’m sad and I’m torn up inside because something happened, and I wasn’t there for Hannah. Her mother wasn’t there. She’s just a kid and she was trying. . .”

Archer threw up his hands in frustration.

“Jo, stop qualifying this thing. You couldn’t have done anything about this. Hannah was bolting God damn it!” He walked toward the bed. He put out his hand and smoothed Josie’s hair that had spiked where it rubbed against the pillow. He put his hands on her bare thighs and hunkered down, speaking softly.  “I’m sorry she’s hurt and I’m sorry she’s going back to prison but shit happens, Jo. You can’t make the world right, you can only try to make some things okay.”

“I only had one case, Archer. I used to juggle ten. If only I had called Hannah once more last night. If I’d sent Linda home right away. . .” her voice trailed off. “But I didn’t, did I?”

“Hannah made her choices. You didn’t push her. You can’t defend someone who doesn’t want to be defended,” he pointed out.

“Or someone who is guilty? Is that the next part of your little sermon, Archer?”

“Jo. Please. Don’t do this.”

Josie pushed his hands away. He retreated but didn’t back down.

“Look,” he said, “I gave you what I had and we both know what the prosecution’s going to do with it. The fight between the Rayburns was about Hannah. It looks like Hannah was running. She admits to being in Rayburn’s rooms, she admits hitting him. Call Klein. See if you can work a plea. The DA can’t be too happy about the way things are going. It could be in everyone’s best interest to make this go away.”

“What do you want, Archer? Why are you here? I don’t need anyone to tell me to throw in the towel. I already thought about it.” Josie dug her hands into the pillow. “But that would make me a quitter, or a fool, because I believed Hannah. Isn’t that just the way I want to think of myself, as a loser and a fool.”

Archer found his pants and whipped them off the chair. He was an easy-going guy but even he had his limits.

“I’m saying you need to shake it off like a pro. Your job is to make the call, take care of your client.”

“I’m going to take care of her. I’m going to defend her.”

“You’ll lose.”

“You haven’t even heard the defense. How can you condemn her, and me, at the same time, Archer? You of all people.”

“I don’t want her to go down for life, Jo, but I don’t want you dreaming about that kid for the rest of yours.”

Archer pulled his shirt on and sat on the edge of the bed with his shoes in his hands. He turned around so he could look at her. Even in the dark Archer knew that all Josie wore were a t-shirt and a look of despair.

“Once the prosecutor finds the gardener you won’t be able to argue self defense. He was clear that Kip was aware his father was afraid of Hannah. The accident investigation shows that Hannah was in Huntington to meet Miggy Estrada, the man she was arrested with last year, the man who broke into Fritz Rayburn’s apartments with her. Estrada has disappeared. Nobody is going to believe she’s just a poor, sick kid anymore.”

Josie raised her head defiantly. “I’m not going to do anything until I talk to Hannah. I want to hear it from her.”

“You can’t even talk to her! She is unconscious.” Archer threw up his hands, exasperation getting the best of him.

“God, Archer, I thought I could count on you. I thought you told me to go for it, to find out what I was made of. Guess we’re both finding out what we’re made of. You can give up, Archer, but I sure as hell won’t.”

“Time for us to get on with our lives, Jo.” He pulled on his shoes. He was ready to go. “That’s all I’m saying. I already lived with one woman who suffered; I don’t want to do it again. Cut your losses.”

“I’m not throwing Hannah away,” Josie insisted. “I’m not abandoning her, and I’m sure as hell not going to pass judgment when she hasn’t had her God damn day in court.”

“It’s going to be worse for her if she does have it.” Archer stood up, he towered over her. “You’ve proved you can get back in and fight, now prove you can do it right.”

“That’s what I’m doing. There are a million reasons to run. Maybe she was just scared. I’ll work my butt off to prove she’s innocent until she tells me different. I don’t care about Rudy’s circumstantial evidence or what somebody told you today. She’s hurt, and someone’s got to help . . .”

Josie’s voice was lost inside her somewhere. Sentences weren’t finished. Tears were lurking. She was a little girl again; fighting to stay strong while her world was falling apart for no reason. When Josie turned her back on him, curled up and left no room for him in her bed, in her life, in this case, Archer did the only thing he could do.

He left.

Chapter 34

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Josie woke with a start and sent a cascade of papers over the side of the bed as she did. It was less than two full days after Hannah’s accident, and less than seven hours until she was due in court to present defense arguments. She’d fallen asleep with her case files spread out over the blanket and the television on. Archer’s report was among them. Not that it mattered. What Hannah had done since the fire would not be raised by the defense, what happened before it would be. Archer didn’t agree with the strategy; Josie was going it alone. They’d work on what was between them when this was done. She didn’t think about missing Archer; she just did.

Josie’s neck was crooked on the stack of pillows and her glasses were still perched on her nose. Groaning, she shook her head to clear it and pressed on her neck to work out the knot. She felt the stirrings of a second wind, snapped off the television, and tossed the remote at the foot of the bed. TV may suck, but everything else was looking good. Hannah was stable. There was no permanent spinal damage; the swelling on the brain had been reduced significantly. Her arm would heal. The internal injuries were being monitored. Hannah wouldn’t walk out of the hospital tomorrow but she would walk out. In another day or two Josie would be able to talk to her.

Josie rolled off the bed and picked up the mess of papers on the floor, and put them in her briefcase. The bedside light cast a bright circle on the rumpled spread. The rest of the room was gray with middle-of-the-night light. Max slept.

In the bathroom she threw some water on her face, ran her hands through her short, short hair, and mentally checked off the witness list. Doctor Choi, an independent coroner would dispute the prosecution’s time of death. There would be exhibits to chart the progress of Hannah’s path as she checked her surroundings, mathematical calculations that would prove it impossible for her to light two fires and then hide the matches. Doctor McGrath would spend quality time going over the meticulous behavioral attributes of an obsessive/compulsive. Rosa’s testimony would make a big splash. A subpoena had been served on Lyn Chandler. Worried about being disbarred, Lyn would never commit perjury. Doctor Ritchland, an expert on child abuse, would testify that abuse victims seldom attacked, much less killed, their abuser.

Josie flipped off the bathroom light, picked up her briefcase, and shuffled through the bedroom to the hall. Dropping her briefcase by the front door Josie turned to go back to bed, but stopped. Every nerve tingled, sleep was forgotten as she narrowed her eyes and checked out the doors that led to her half finished patio. A butterfly fluttered up in her stomach. Someone was moving out there and they wanted in.

Josie slid into the corner.

Okay.

She was scared.

Okay.

But not that scared.

Slowly, keeping flat to the walls, Josie backed out of the living room just as she heard a muffled crack of glass and the click of the lock. In her bedroom, she eased the dresser drawer open and wrapped her hand around the heavy, cold metal of her father’s gun. Stepping away, her eyes toward the bedroom door, Josie released the safety. With both hands on the grip she pointed it out and away as she retraced her steps.

She paused in the shadows. She could feel him in the house. Pulling the gun into her chest, the barrel now pointed up and out, Josie stole a look around the corner. His back was to her as he bent over her dining room table. So casual. So sure of himself.

Josie pulled her head back, laid her body tight against the wall. She closed her eyes, slowed her breathing the way her father showed her – the way a soldier did – and ignored the pounding of her heart. Committing her first impressions to memory - the exact time, the mode of entry, the stance of her intruder - Josie moved out from her corner, planted her feet wide, raised the gun stiff-armed and took aim.

“Stand up slow and make like Christ unless you want your head blown off.”

Chapter 35

HE moved like a dancer, each vertebra rolling into place as he obliged her. His arms floated up and were held out to the side. He wiggled his fingers and rotated his hands to show his palms. Nothing up his sleeve. He shook out one foot and then the other. A real funny guy but Josie wasn’t laughing.

She took long measured steps toward him and short cautious ones to maneuver around the broken glass and the open door. She closed it with her foot. He was a good boy and didn’t move. Her back was to the wall, the hula girl plates were above her and beneath those plates was the dimmer switch for the lights. Josie turned it on high. The man at her table closed his eyes and turned his head against the sudden brilliance. Josie squinted but didn’t look away.

He was young, black, and well fed but skinnier than she first thought. From the back, all she had seen was his big jacket and baggy pants; the pant hems were frayed from dragging on the ground, the jacket was army surplus, not service issue. He wore a heavy sweater that was striped in dark colors. There was a diamond in his ear. His skin was smooth, his nose small, and his eyes glittered with amusement. He sported a small goatee and an impressive mass of dreadlocks that cascaded over his shoulders and dangled over his brow.

“Hold up, mama.” A gold tooth glinted as he smiled, trying to appease her. “I ain’t gonna hurt one hair on your head, and I sure as hell don’t want none of my hairs to be hurt neither.”

“No problem. Nobody will get hurt because we’re just going to wait right here until the police come.” Josie reached for the phone on the kitchen counter and lifted the receiver.

“Aw, you didn’t do that, baby.” He started to lower his arms but Josie notched the muzzle up an inch. “Come on, mama. I’m gonna drop ‘em right here. Right here, okay?” He lowered his arms inch by inch, testing her. The barrel of the gun kept pace.

“Keep them where I can see them,” Josie warned.

“Call the man and I don’ tell you what I got for you,” he warned, agitated now. Cautiously he picked up a spiral bound book that lay on the table and held it close. “You want to help Hannah, then you be smart about the cops.”

Josie’s heart skipped at Hannah’s name. The hand with the receiver quivered. She narrowed her eyes, trying to read this man, trying to find that edge in her gut that would give her a heads up to be cautious. It wasn’t there.

“One time offer, baby. For Hannah,” the man sing-songed.

Slowly Josie put the receiver back in its cradle, never taking her eyes off him. The gun was getting heavy. She held it with both hands and waved him toward the hall. Josie opened the door to the closet.

“Get in,” she said.

“What? You crazy? I won’ be going in there,” he cried backing up and waving his hands.

“Yes, you will. Now get in until I let you out.”

Complaining, muttering, the man walked past her and into the hall closet. He crossed his arms over his chest. Josie held the gun at the ready.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“Miggy,” he answered.

Josie nodded, shut the door and braced it with a chair. Miggy Estrada. How about that? Josie headed for the kitchen and the phone once more. She dialed fast. One ring and it was answered. Josie leaned on the counter and said:

“Archer. I need you.”

***

“’Bout time. You better be believin’ you’re gonna be sorry for treatin’ me so bad.”

“I’ve heard it before you little piece of shit.” Archer took him by the arm and sat him down at the dining room table. Josie settled herself at the other end, and Archer took the chair next to her.

“Oh, big man. Big old man,” Miggy shot back.

“Big enough,” Archer said smoothly. “Now, where’ve you been? What do you want? And why’d you have to break in here to get it?”

“I be at another club, man. I didn’ know you was lookin’ and I didn’ know Hannah was hurt ‘till this mornin’, man. And even if I knowed you was lookin’, you think I’m stupid enough to come straight to you? All that’d get me is time, man. I know ‘bout court. I know ‘bout lawyers.”

“Yeah? Like what do you know?” Josie asked.

“Like if I tol’ you I’ve been with Hannah, I tol’ you I been at the big house before the fire, you be pointin’ at me and sayin’ I done the crime. I like Hannah, I don’ like her ‘nough to go to the big house for. Unh-huh, mama.”

“I don’t work that way,” Josie answered knowing any number of lawyers would lay blame on someone like him just to get their client acquitted. “Look, I just want to know what you’ve got. I want to know why Hannah was willing to risk going to jail just to see you. Are you lovers?”

Miggy snorted and smiled, his gold tooth showing, “I don’ go with babies. She’s a beauty, but a baby. Hannah just need me to talk to. She don’ think about jail. She just scared. You was gone, her mama was gone. Her mama’s man come into the house and scare her, so she run to me.”

“Kip Rayburn was at the Malibu house with Hannah?” Josie asked.

Miggy’s head went up and down solemnly, his locks bouncing like springs.

“He tol’ her she was a lunatic, man. He kicked her. He made her afraid. So when she saw him drive away, and her mama go with her man, Hannah got scared and come to me. It’s always safe with me. I don’ want nothin' from her and she can talk.”

“Were you going to take her to Mexico?”

Miggy shook his head.

“Naw, that don’ work. Hannah and me tried before but she couldn’ do it. Couldn’ leave her mama. Hannah love her mama too much.” He looked from Josie to Archer, his long lashed eyes looked pained. “She hurt bad? I’d hate it if Hannah is hurt bad.”

“She’ll be okay,” Josie assured him and left it at that. The minutes were ticking by. “But it’s going to be bad for her if she has to go to jail, Miggy. If you’ve got something for her, if you can help, then I need to know right now.”

“Hannah brought this. She says anything happen to her, she wants the book safe.”

Miggy pulled the spiral bound book from inside his jacket. For a split second he held it and then, with a flick of his wrist, he sent it sliding toward Josie. Archer intercepted it. He put it between the two of them. Josie flipped open the cover. Here was Hannah’s soul, and the talent Linda had sold for five hundred dollars.

Sketches. Watercolors. Ink and pencil.

Her own burned hand. Red watercolor and ink. The fingers were elongated and the injury magnified. The work spared the viewer nothing.

Ruins of the house painted in pastel; Fritz Rayburn’s face exquisitely etched into the strokes that formed the remains. Archer saw it and traced the outline until Josie saw it too.

Josie turned the page. Here was the sucker punch. The dark haired woman was running away from the girl and the burning house was in the background. This was a picture of Linda turning her back in horror. Hannah was left behind.

“That girl’s got it goin’ on and she don’ know it,” Miggy said sadly.

Josie shut the sketchbook.

“She’s talented, Miggy, but this isn’t evidence. You didn’t need to break in to give me this. It won’t help Hannah.”

“Wasn’t the pictures I wanted to give you,” Miggy laughed. He got up again and took the book away from Archer. This time Miggy opened it to the back pages. “Was the writing. Here.”

He pointed to a garden of scribbles. Bubble printing that spelled her name. The word mom in all its incarnations. Bits and pieces of sentences. Broken hearts sketched and snakes wound ‘round columns of words. Josie held it away so she could read without her glasses. Poetry.

“Listen to this,” Josie murmured.

Cut off from help

In my heart, my head

Cut down to the quick

By the person I loved

Now dread

So loyal, loving

Deep in trust

Given away for lust and lust and lust

“She didn’t exactly feel like part of the family, did she?” Archer noted and pointed to another note. “It’s dated July 31. ‘Which Will He Choose’. She knew Fritz wanted Kip to divorce Linda.”

Josie lifted her eyes.

“Did Hannah know that Kip might divorce her mother, Miggy?”

“For sure. Thought it was all her fault. Hannah thought every bad thing ever happen was her fault.”

Josie crossed her arms, “Archer, that’s what she meant. The divorce, the problems between Kip and Fritz. She thought they were all her fault for just existing. The fire was just another bit of bad luck.”

“Rudy will say Hannah was trying to protect her mother by killing Rayburn,” Archer pointed out.

Josie buried her face in her hands. When she dropped them, she talked to the table.

“I need something real.”

“I got somethin’ more,” Miggy dug in his pocket and handed Josie a piece of paper. “I was gonna be leavin’ that. That’s what you need to know.”

Josie read the note then shook her head as she looked quizzically at Miggy.  “Ask who was in the bedroom? Do you mean Fritz’s bedroom?”

“Naw,” Miggy whispered dramatically. “Her mama’s bedroom. You know how Hannah’s always touchin’ and checkin’ everything in the whole wide world?”

“Yeah,” Archer said.

“So, man, she checks everythin’ important but nobody ask what’s most important of all?” Miggy leaned back in his chair and grinned, that gold tooth glinting. He held up a hand in a papal gesture. “Her mama’s most important. She look in on her mama every night. Las’ thing. Anybody ask what Hannah seen when she checked in that room the night the old judge died?

“Well, did you?”

Chapter 36

“HANNAH? Hannah? Was Kip in bed when you checked on your mother the night of the fire? Hannah? Can you wake up enough to tell me about Kip?” - Josie Baylor-Bates Long Beach Memorial Hospital, 6:15 AM

“Ask her. . .” - Hannah Sheraton, Long Beach Memorial Hospital, 6:16 AM

“Ms. Bates, you’ve kept this court waiting.”

“I’m sorry, Your Honor.” Josie pushed through the bar. The jury wasn’t seated but the press was ready. Judge Norris wasn’t peeved, just curious.

“Do you want to offer the court an excuse?” he asked.

“No, Your Honor, only an apology.”

Josie put her briefcase on the defense table then stood at ease behind it. Norris was bouncing slightly in his chair, thinking. He sat up slowly and put his elbows on top of the desk. A moment later he raised one hand and crooked his finger. Josie stepped around the table. Norris’s eyes flickered toward the prosecutor.

“You, too, Mr. Klein, if you like.”

Rudy joined Josie. Together they looked up and leaned forward. Norris covered the microphone.

“Your client, Ms. Bates, how is she?” Judge Norris asked.

“Still sedated, but healing. They expect to transfer her to the prison ward in another week, perhaps sooner.”

Norris nodded solemnly. “You understand that I can’t allow another delay?”

“Yes, Your Honor. I’m ready to move forward,” Josie answered.

“Mr. Klein?”

“The people are ready, Your Honor.”

Judge Norris motioned them back. Rudy glanced at Josie. She walked past him. Both stood while the jury filed into the box then took their chairs when Judge Norris called the court to order. For the record, he reminded them of the matter at hand and then he was ready.

“Ms. Bates.”

Josie stood. Her fingertips rested lightly on the table. There were pages of notes for each doctor she had meant to call, doctors whose testimony would seem almost inconsequential if her gamble paid off. She moved those notes to the side and looked instead at the ones she had frantically scribbled after seeing Hannah, ideas that she had relayed to Archer who, in turn, was searching for corroboration of the information Miggy had given them. In this minute, as the courtroom waited, Josie agonized about her choice: build the case, or go for the jugular. Finally she looked at Norris. It would be the jugular.

“The defense would like to call Linda Rayburn to the stand.”

Josie turned around and watched the old Linda walk down the aisle. If she was surprised to be called she didn’t show it. She was a woman above the fray, a lady who wore her money well. Her dark hair was pulled into a low chignon once again. On her ears were moons of Mabe pearls. Her make-up was exquisite, her suit worth more than the jurors made collectively in a month. Gone was the pretense that she was just a regular mom standing by her wronged daughter. From the set of her shoulders, to the look in her eye, Linda wanted everyone in that courtroom to know that she was a Rayburn. No one would compromise her or her family – especially Josie.

Linda took the oath. Josie waited. She could feel her heart in her chest. She could hear every beat. She was afraid that what she was about to do was motivated not by the quest for justice, but by her hatred of Linda who had committed a heinous crime against her daughter by leaving her. If that’s what she was about, then Josie knew this would be the last time she stood as an officer of the court. Taking a deep breath, she put the question of her personal intent out of her mind. She would look into her heart later; decide what her own truth was later. Now the yellow legal pad was in her hands. The notes were there to guide her, but they had been hastily written before dawn and they were inadequate in the face of Hannah’s directive.

Ask her.

Question: Was your husband in bed with you the night of the fire that killed Fritz Rayburn?

It was a good question but one that would do no good without a properly laid foundation. That was the way the law worked. A trial was a building. Josie had blocks, Rudy had blocks and the jury was watching each of them build their case like a house. Rudy’s foundation was built on opportunity, forensic evidence; Josie’s would be built on emotions, motives, and the consequences of personal failure. The stronger foundation would win the day.

Leaving her notes behind, Josie walked toward the jury, turned and presented herself to Linda. Before Josie could begin, the door in the back of the courtroom opened. Everyone looked; only Josie knew enough to be relieved. She asked the court’s indulgence.

“A minute, if it please the court.”

With a flutter of his fingertips Judge Norris gave his permission for her to talk to Archer. Archer looked Josie in the eye. His were as she expected: a level playing field. She could only imagine what he saw in hers. He handed her a manila envelope. Nothing more passed between them. Archer took a front row seat. Josie pulled out the contents. She read quickly, digesting the information, understanding instantly that Archer had brought her the concrete she needed to convince the jury her foundation was strong.

“Ms. Bates?”

“I’m sorry, Your Honor,” Josie mumbled and looked up.

It was Norris who had called but Linda who caught her attention. In that moment Josie was blessed with the gift of absolute clarity. She and Linda were not friends and never had been. They had lived together as girls, parting just on the verge of womanhood. What Josie had found amusing, exciting and exotic as a girl, she now recognized as nothing more than the underpinnings of Linda’s selfishness, arrogance and greed. Linda had burst into Josie’s life again, and pulled her into this rollercoaster of a ride. She had been stronger then Josie that night. Now Josie had stepped out of the car and onto the platform. She could see the trajectory of that rollercoaster and knew where it had to stop. With the information Archer had brought, it would roll right up to Kip Rayburn’s doorstep.

“Mrs. Rayburn,” Josie began. “What kind of relationship do you have with the defendant?”

“Hannah is my daughter,” Linda answered.

“Would you describe your relationship as close?”

“Extremely. Hannah and I have been through a lot together.”

“Mrs. Rayburn, were you married to Hannah’s father?” Josie asked.

“No, I was not. Last I heard that wasn’t a crime.”

Josie ignored the editorial.

“So you raised Hannah without family support? No grandmother? No siblings?”

“No. No one.”

“Do you believe you were successful as a single mother?”

“I think I did a good job. We never went hungry. We were always clothed. There was always a roof over our heads.”

“Did you and Hannah live alone?” Josie’s expression remained neutral but Linda caught wind of something. Perhaps it was just a slight flicker of Josie’s eyes narrowing, perhaps it was the way Josie rushed the question, eager to get to the answer that set her off. Whatever it was, Linda was on her guard.

“Sometimes we lived alone,” Linda answered cautiously.

“When you didn’t live alone, who were you living with?”

“I dated while I was single. Some relationships were more serious than others.”

“How many serious relationships resulted in new homes for you and your daughter? The daughter you were so devoted to.” Josie asked.

“Objection, Your Honor,” Rudy called. “Ms. Bates’ attitude is judgmental and she is trying to influence the jury.”

“Mrs. Rayburn may answer the question, but let’s not communicate personal views by word or tone, Ms. Bates.” Judge Norris nodded toward Linda directing her to answer.

“I don’t know exactly how many serious relationships I had,” Linda answered tightly.

“Two?” Josie suggested.

“More than two, I suppose. I was single quite a long time.”

“More than five?” Josie gave her another option.

“There were a few,” Linda snapped. “Some were personal relationships; others were just people who became roommates.”

“How many female roommates did you have?”

Linda hesitated. That lip was disappearing under her top teeth. It was a gesture that made her appear thoughtful. The spark in her eyes made her seem dangerous. To her credit, Linda kept herself in check when she answered.

“None were women. I found men more suitable roommates. They were more reliable. You could always count on them for - friendship. Men know the meaning of that word, unlike some women I know.” Linda leaned forward slightly. “But if you’re trying to imply that I slept around, I resent the implication. I would like to point out it has nothing to do with the matter at hand.”

Judge Norris listened. Rudy did not object. They were as curious as everyone else where Josie was headed.

“I’m trying to determine how often you and Hannah moved between the time Hannah was born, and your marriage to Kip Rayburn,” Josie assured her casually. “I’d like to know how many places you lived in those fourteen years.”

“I don’t remember. I moved for better jobs, for opportunities. I moved sometimes because I was seeing someone special. I was looking for a safe place for Hannah and me to live and a good man to settle down with. It took me awhile to find that.”

“How many times did you move, Mrs. Rayburn?” Josie pressed, unwilling to be led down another path.

“I don’t remember,” Linda barked.

“I just want to be clear,” Josie suggested, unfazed by Linda’s tone. “Each time you moved you were looking for the best situation for both yourself and your daughter, is that correct?”

“Yes, that’s right.” Linda relaxed.

“And no one was acceptable until you met Kip Rayburn, is that correct?”

“I wouldn’t say acceptable. I didn’t fall in love until I met Kip,” Linda explained. “That’s the point, isn’t it? Love.”

“Yes, Mrs. Rayburn. That is exactly the point,” Josie agreed quietly. A heartbeat later Josie was on track. “Did the fact that Kip Rayburn was very rich, that he lived in a very big house, that he had a prominent name influence your decision to fall in love?”

“I didn’t decide to fall in love. It happened and, yes, I was glad he was stable and financially secure.”

“So you married Kip Rayburn for love and because he could provide you and your daughter with a good home?” Josie asked.

“Yes, that’s right.”

“And concern for your daughter’s future was a large part of your decision, is that correct?” Josie prodded.

“Yes, of course,” Linda answered.

“So you chose a man who testified in this court that he took no interest in Hannah. Who, in fact, had washed his hands of her?”

“Objection, Your Honor,” Rudy called. “Mr. Rayburn’s testimony is part of the record, and I believe it is qualified by the fact that he regrets that he took little interest in the defendant.”

“Sustained. If you have a question, Ms. Bates, ask it or move on,” Judge Norris directed.

Josie walked a few steps toward Linda. Her chin was down; her eyes were on the ground. When she stopped, Josie raised her head and looked toward the jury box, but at no one in particular.

“Mrs. Rayburn, was there ever a time you considered yourself a bad mother?”

The only sounds heard in the courtroom were the staccato touch of the court reporter typing and the incredulous laugh that came from the witness stand.

Josie let her eyes slide past Linda toward Judge Norris.

“Your Honor, I would like this witness to be considered hostile to the defense. I do not believe she has my client’s best interests in mind despite the fact she is the defendant’s mother.”

“How dare you,” Linda breathed.

“So directed,” Norris responded.

With that Josie gave her full attention to Linda Rayburn. The gloves were off.

“Isn’t it true, Mrs. Rayburn, that you have not been the perfect mother?”

“At least I am a mother, Ms. Bates. I don’t have to steal someone else’s child to feel like a woman,” Linda answered coldly.

Josie’s jaw tightened, her chin jerked slightly as if she’d taken a well-landed blow. Not that it mattered. She was still standing and would be at the end of this.

“Your Honor, direct the witness -”

“All right.” Linda gave in quickly. “No, I’m not the perfect mother. I don’t think anyone is the perfect parent or the perfect person. We all do what we can to get by - including you.”

“Mrs. Rayburn, isn’t it true that you often based your selection of gentlemen friends on their ability to take care of you financially, as opposed to a decision based on their character?”

“No, that is not true. I was not kept.”

Josie opened the envelope and pulled out a sheet of paper.

“In the last sixteen years your IRS returns show ten different residences. Of those residences, you have lived with Kip Rayburn for two years. That leaves nine residences since your daughter was born. By tracking those addresses we find that, of those nine, your name only appeared on two leases. Do you remember whose names were on either the leases or mortgages of those remaining seven residences?”

“Not all of them, no,” Linda answered, touching those big, expensive earrings. Her neck muscles corded. She chanced a glance at the jury. Josie didn’t bother. She knew exactly how interested they were.

“Let me refresh your memory, Mrs. Rayburn. Dan Burdon of New York. An investment banker. Steve Witsick, New Jersey. A gentleman who seems to have a rather large income from a trust fund, as well as two convictions for assault on women. How about Dominic Cort -”

Linda interrupted. She lifted her chin.

“Yes, I remember them.”

“All of them, Mrs. Rayburn?”

“Yes,” she answered coldly, “all of them. Do you want me to list them? Do you want me to give you a list of all the men I slept with even if I didn’t live with them? If that is what it is going to take to help my daughter, then I will do that.”

“Your Honor.” Rudy raised his hand. “Counsel is badgering the witness.”

“Overruled,” Norris intoned. “The witness will confine her remarks to answering the question.”

Josie’s lips twitched. She was pleased that the judge saw it her way, but she took no pleasure in doing what she had to do.

“Then, when you took the important step of moving in with these men, you believed those relationships would lead to a stable home for your daughter, Hannah?”

“No. I mean, yes. I. . .”

Linda’s fingers went to her throat before trailing down the open neck of her blouse. To her credit, her voice was controlled and unapologetic when she spoke again. Linda was good under pressure and she had figured out where this was going.

“I am not a saint, Ms. Bates, and I’m not the best judge of character. I’ve often asked my daughter’s forgiveness for making choices that weren’t appropriate. I was young and stupid. That’s not a crime. None of that is a crime.”

Josie stepped forward crossed her arms on the wooden railing that separated her from Linda. She could smell Linda’s perfume, and see the outline of her lipstick, and the shine of her gloss. Josie studied her face then looked her in the eye. Linda had finally made the wrong move.

“How about abandonment, Mrs. Rayburn?” Josie asked clearly. “Would you consider abandonment a crime?”

“I imagine it would depend on whom one was abandoning,” Linda answered carefully.

Pushing away, Josie pulled another sheet of paper out of the envelope. She walked a half circle in front of the witness stand.

“Your daughter, Hannah, for instance.” Josie looked up from her papers. She inclined her head like a relative concerned for Linda’s health. “Would you consider it a crime to abandon a nine year old girl for, say, three days?”

Linda blanched. She turned her head toward the bench. There was no help from the judge. The jury strained to see, but could not. Linda offered her profile to Josie. Her expression was one of pure, controlled hatred. Josie let the question hang, and it was Rudy who broke the silence. His timing was off; his objection lacked the right level of passion to be effective.

“Assumes facts not in evidence.”

“Sustained,” Norris directed solemnly.

Josie held a sheet of paper toward the bench. The judge took it, looked at it and handed it to the clerk.

“Your Honor,” she said. “I would like to submit a report from the Chicago Police Department as defense exhibit twenty-two. Mrs. Rayburn, were you arrested in July of nineteen ninety-four for abandoning your daughter in a hotel room in downtown Chicago?”

Linda was still as a statue, pale as a ghost.

“Mrs. Rayburn,” Josie demanded, “did you pay a fine and did you serve four months in jail beginning in July of nineteen ninety-four because you were convicted of abandoning your daughter, Hannah Sheraton, and endangering her life by leaving her with no money, food or supervision?”

Slowly Linda swung her head back to Josie. The two women stared at one another.

“Yes,” Linda said evenly. “All that is true.”

“And where had you been, Mrs. Rayburn?”

“I was. . .” Linda hesitated. A lie was in the making. Josie could see it.

“What, Mrs. Rayburn?” Josie pressed, moving one step closer, daring Linda to tell it. “What could possibly have kept you from returning to your daughter? It must have been something dire. An emergency? A matter of life and death? What was it, Mrs. Rayburn, that kept you from this daughter you loved so much?”

“I had been with a friend and lost track . . .”

Linda hung her head. If it had been anyone else, if it had been any other circumstance, Josie would have backed off. But this was Hannah’s life that hung in the balance and the woman who held the key to exoneration had never once told the whole truth in her life.

“Lost track of what, Mrs. Rayburn? Time? You actually forgot about your nine year old daughter because you were. . .”

“I was partying,” Linda growled defiantly. Her shoulders were squared. She raised her voice and threw her head back. She would not be cowed by this proceeding or shamed by Josie. Josie, whom she hated for making Hannah believe in fairytales. “I partied a lot back then. I’m not proud of it. I was very young when I had Hannah, and it took me a long time to grow up. In some ways she grew up faster than I did. Are you satisfied?”

“I simply want to be clear, Mrs. Rayburn. You lived with a variety of men. At one time you abandoned your daughter and were arrested for endangering -”

“Your Honor, Mrs. Rayburn’s past is her past. She is not on trial here.”

“Ms. Bates, enough. Move on with this witness.”

Norris was peeved, Rudy confused, and Linda raging, but Josie was going to do this by the numbers because the only people that counted were in the jury box.

“Your Honor, Mrs. Rayburn’s past behavior goes to establishing a pattern regarding how Mrs. Rayburn’s parenting habits affected the defendant’s attempt to control her environment,” Josie argued.

“Then make it clear where you’re going, Ms. Bates, or drop this line of questioning.”

“Thank you, Judge.” Josie discarded the manila envelope and went back to Linda. “Let’s talk about Hannah growing up. Did she ever complain about your lifestyle? Moving often, changing schools?”

“No. She never did,” Linda replied.

“Did you ever ask her if she minded moving?”

“The subject never came up. Hannah was a good girl. She is still a good girl.”

“Did Hannah exhibit any displeasure or anxiety over the way you were living?”

“You mean like give me trouble? Run away? Things like that?”

“Yes, exactly,” Josie answered.

Linda shook her head, and the pearl earrings looked too heavy now.

“No. She never did anything to cause trouble. She always came right home from school. Always did things around the house. She was hardly ever gone.”

“Would you say she seemed obsessed with being home? Or at least obsessed with being in a place that was familiar because of your frequent moves?”

Linda hesitated, “She stayed very close to home. She sometimes became insistent that I stay close to home.”

“Was it about the time of your abandonment that Hannah started exhibiting the symptoms of her obsessive/compulsive disorder?”

“Yes,” Linda answered quietly. “She started counting then.”

“Did she do anything else?”

“She began to touch things, especially in the house. Doorways. Windows.”

”Hannah was particularly attentive to ways to get out of whatever place you were living in, is that correct?” Josie asked.

“Yes,” Linda answered.

“And was it about that time that Hannah started checking on other things.”

“Yes,” Linda answered, clearly relieved that the spotlight had turned to Hannah. “She would often check the locks on the doors before she went to sleep. Sometimes she would check on toys, or clothes in the closet.”

“Would she follow the same path every night?”

“Yes.”

“No matter where you were living?”

“It didn’t matter if we were in a hotel room.”

“Would it ever change?”

“Only in terms of how long it took her,” Linda said, cooperating, anxious to have this done. “It all depended on how big the house or apartment was.”

“And where was the last place Hannah checked every night before she could sleep?”

“I don’t know what you mean? I mean the last place she checked was the last place,” Linda said, exasperated.

“Isn’t it true, Mrs. Rayburn, that the last place Hannah checks every night is wherever you are sleeping? Isn’t it true that Hannah cannot go to sleep unless she is sure that you are in bed and asleep first?”

Josie walked slowly toward her. Linda’s worst nightmare was unfolding under the glaring lights of the court. Josie could feel people investing in it, understanding it, waiting for Josie to ask that final question that would change the course of this trial barely moments after the defense had begun its case.

“Isn’t it true, Mrs. Rayburn, that Hannah would look into your room four, five, sometimes six times a night to make sure you were there? To make sure that she hadn’t been abandoned once again?”

Josie was one step closer to Linda then two. With the third she stopped and Linda still remained quiet. Josie raised her voice.

“Isn’t it true, Mrs. Rayburn, that Hannah checked the room you shared with your husband, Kip, on the night of the fire that killed Justice Rayburn?”

Josie had Linda now. Norris stopped bouncing in his chair. Rudy had leaned forward and crossed his arms on the table.

“Mrs. Rayburn,” Josie demanded. “Did Fritz Rayburn threaten to ruin your husband professionally if he did not divorce you?”

“Oh, my God,” Linda breathed, her fingers shaking as they covered her mouth.

“Is it, or isn’t it true, Mrs. Rayburn?” Josie turned toward the bench. “Your Honor, direct the witness to answer the question.”

“Objection, Your Honor. Hearsay. Mrs. Rayburn could not have first hand knowledge of what was between her husband and his father.”

“That’s not true, Your Honor,” Josie said quickly. “Hannah knew about the ultimatum. I would like to mark her journal as exhibit twenty-three. You’ll see that it indicates that she knew there was every possibility her mother and Kip Rayburn might divorce. If my client knew of this arrangement, then it can be concluded that Mrs. Rayburn also knew.”

“I’ll allow this line of questioning.” The judge waved her on. Josie ran for the finish line.

“Did you know about that threat, Mrs. Rayburn?”

“Yes, I did,” Linda answered.

“And do you know what your husband’s decision was regarding this ultimatum?”

“He would never divorce me,” Linda whispered. “Never.”

“So Kip Rayburn was willing to lose his inheritance, willing to endure the public humiliation his father was going to visit on him, all for you?”

“Fritz never would have followed through. He loved Kip.”

“He loved him so much he locked him in closets and he almost cut his finger off. Fritz Rayburn loved his son so much that he enjoyed threatening him and controlling him even as an adult. Fritz cared so much about his son that he wanted him to destroy the only thing he held dear – his marriage?”

“Fritz played games. That was all. He never would have done it,” Linda insisted.

“And you were sure of that, Mrs. Rayburn?”

“Yes.”

“Was your husband sure of that, Mrs. Rayburn? Was Kip Rayburn positive that his father was going to back away from that threat, or was Kip Rayburn driven to find a way to stop his father, Fritz Rayburn, from destroying his life?”

Linda hesitated. She looked at the judge. Her eyes shifted to Rudy then darted frantically to the spectators, looking for someone who would save her from this. That hand was back at her throat only this time the gesture was not alluring. Her nails scratched a long red welt down her neck before she realized what she was doing.

“Objection, Your Honor. Calls for a conclusion. If Ms. Bates wants to know what Mr. Rayburn thought -”

“Withdrawn. Withdrawn.” Josie waved her hands as if she could erase that question. She closed the gap between her and Linda.

“Mrs. Rayburn, do you know if Hannah looked into your room the night of the fire? Less than 48 hours after your husband had words with his father regarding your marital status. After your husband violently attacked his father by throwing a heavy vase at Justice Rayburn. Did your daughter check your bedroom that night?”

“Yes, she did.” Linda’s voice quavered.

“And was your husband in bed with you, Mrs. Rayburn?”

The silence was full to bursting as the two women looked at one another.

“Mrs. Rayburn, your husband was angry with his father. Your husband testified that he had a heated argument with his father and had thrown a heavy object at him. Mrs. Rayburn, was your husband in bed with you when the fire started?”

Linda leaned forward. Her voice was low, her words for Josie only. Her eyes were full of fearful tears and her lips trembled.

“Don’t go there, Josie,” she begged.

“Answer the question, please. When Hannah did her nightly rounds and looked into your bedroom to make sure you had not abandoned her, did she see both you and your husband in bed?”

“I’m begging you,” Linda whispered, but her voice was harsh. There was no pleading only a warning. “Don’t do this.”

Josie put her hands on the wooden railing that surrounded Linda.

“Is your husband more important than your child, Mrs. Rayburn, the same way every man you’ve ever been with has been more important than your child?”

“Argumentative, Your Honor,” Rudy called.

“She is a hostile witness, Judge,” Josie shot back, her eyes never leaving Linda’s. “She is hostile to this court, and to her child, and to anyone who might stand in the way of Linda Rayburn getting – and keeping - exactly what she wants.”

“Ms. Bates, ask the question,” Norris snapped.

“I have, Your Honor and I will keep asking it until I get an answer.”

“Don’t bother. I’ll do it.” Judge Norris took the matter out of Josie’s hands.

“No,” Josie roared. “She is my witness.”

“Ms. Bates!” Norris was equally adamant. “Step back.”

Reluctantly, Josie did as she was told.

“Mrs. Rayburn, was your husband in bed with you the night the fire started? If you do not answer, or you do not answer truthfully, I will hold you in contempt of court and you will go to jail. Now, was he, or was he not, with you?”

The courtroom itself seemed alive. The collective breath of all those present was held so that it seemed the walls heaved in anticipation.

“No.” Linda choked on the word. Her head fell back, and her long and beautiful neck arched toward the ceiling as she gave up, gave in and told the court what it needed to know.

“Did he go to bed with you?” Josie took over the questioning once more.

“No,” Linda admitted.

“Did he ever come to bed that evening?”

“No.”

“How do you know that?”

“I know because I was awake. I was waiting. He was upset that night.”

“With his father?”

“Yes, with his father,” Linda shot back. “Because his father had treated me badly in front of our guests.”

“Mrs. Rayburn, were you worried that your husband would give in and save his inheritance by divorcing you?”

Linda shook her head, “Never. Never. If my husband was going to do that he would already have filed the papers.”

“So he was willing to give up his relationship with his father, his father’s partnership interest in the firm, and everything else to stay with you?”

“I didn’t say that,” Linda answered coldly. “He said he would work it out.”

“And exactly how was he going to work that out, Mrs. Rayburn?” Josie demanded. “How was he going to do that?”

“He wasn’t going to do it by killing his father, if that’s what you’re implying.”

Linda’s shoulders began to shake. It was just a small tremor at first but Josie was close enough to see it begin. This was not a manifestation of anger but of something else entirely: Linda Rayburn was breaking down. The pressure of having to choose between truth and a lie was bringing her to the breaking point. When she turned back to Josie, her shoulders had slumped in defeat, her face was pale, those green eyes that turned up so exotically were seeing the future, and it wasn’t pretty, or safe, or filled with promise.

“Then tell this court, do you know where he was when the fire started?”

“No, I do not.”

“Mrs. Rayburn,” Josie began.

“Josie, please. Don’t ask any more,” Linda begged. “Kip didn’t do anything. I swear he didn’t.”

Josie refused to listen. She was overwhelmed by outrage on behalf of Hannah, the girl who had always paid the price for Linda’s cowardice and greed, the daughter who protected her mother at every turn, only to take second place to the men in Linda’s life. Josie’s fist hit the railing, underscoring her next words.

“Do you know where your husband was, Mrs. Rayburn?”

“No, I don’t. I imagine he was sleeping in the guestroom. He did that when. . .”

Josie twirled away and took two strides toward the jury box. Every eye was on her, and every mind was following her lead.

“Maybe we should all imagine. Maybe we should imagine that your husband was at the west wing of your home fighting with his father. Maybe we should imagine that in his rage he pushed his father and the old man fell and hit his head.” Josie whirled back toward Linda but went no closer. “Maybe we could imagine that it was Kip Rayburn spilling turpentine on the floor and lighting a match so that he could protect his interest in Fritz Rayburn’s law firm and remain married to you. Maybe we should imagine that!”

Rudy was on his feet hollering. “Ms. Bates is making up a story. This is not evidence. This is fiction and conjecture.”

“This is a witness hostile to the defense, Judge.” Josie stormed toward the bench, putting her hands on top of it as if she could force Judge Norris to validate her questioning. “You designated her hostile and her refusal to . . .”

“No. No,” Linda cried. Nearly hysterical, she grasped the wooden railing, shaking it as if she might escape by tearing it down. “No. Don’t even say that. Kip didn’t set that fire. He didn’t hurt his father. He couldn’t - ”

“He couldn’t what, Linda?”

Josie whipped around. She could feel the fire in her cheeks, she was caught up in the fight for Hannah, and she would not lose. Josie was feverish with the infectious sense of victory. This time she would win. She would save the right person.

“Why not? Is it any more outrageous than imagining Hannah, that poor, confused girl could have set that fire? That girl who was so terrified of losing you, and her home, that she checked on you every night? Why is that any more reasonable?”

“Because it’s just not right. It’s not right.”

Linda’s bristled with anger, but behind her eyes there was true pain. If Josie had not been caught up, if the end of her quest had not seemed so near, she might have been touched by that pain and loosened the tension on the lasso that was her questions. But the momentum was too great. She walked. She pointed. She raised her voice, and with her height she swooped toward the witness stand and tightened the rope around Linda, choking the answer out of her.

“Why couldn’t he have done it? Why isn’t it right to ask that question? He wasn’t there with you in bed. He did not come to the scene of the fire until it was put down. He didn’t call for help, you did. You gave him time to get away. You were protecting him all this time weren’t you, Mrs. Rayburn? Protecting your husband over your own child. Isn’t that the case, Mrs. Rayburn?”

Josie’s voice rose to a sharp note that cut through the tension in the courtroom and divided the onlookers into those who couldn’t wait to hear the truth, and those who were afraid to. With gargantuan effort Josie pulled back. Her voice dropped. She was exhausted. Her hands fell to her sides and she pulled herself to her full height.

“He wasn’t in the bedroom when Hannah checked your room. He hadn’t come to bed that night. He was fighting with his father over matters that concerned his life, and yours. There is no reason your husband couldn’t have set that fire, is there, Mrs. Rayburn?” Josie took a few steps forward. “Is there, Linda?”

Linda was crying hard. Mascara seeped around the corners of her eyes. The small scar at the side of her mouth looked ugly and raw; Linda looked old and tired.

“Yes, yes there is,” Linda whispered.

“Then tell us,” Josie asked. “Give us one good reason not to imagine Kip Rayburn setting the fire that killed his father.”

Linda raised her head slowly. She no longer cared how she looked, or whom she spoke to. She had made her decision.

“He couldn’t have done it because I saw who did.”

Each word was hyphenated with a sobbing breath. Josie pulled away, as stunned as anyone in the courtroom. She turned to the bench but there was nothing to say, no objection she could make. Linda was confessing to the last thing Josie wanted to hear.

“I don’t know where Kip was. He wasn’t even in the house. It was Hannah. I saw Hannah do it.”

“What?” Josie gasped.

She looked for the lie in Linda’s face but couldn’t find it. All she saw was Linda’s struggle, her pain, her choice. Linda was choosing to give Hannah up.

“Mrs. Rayburn, do you know what you’re saying?” Judge Norris asked but Linda ignored him. She wanted to talk to Josie.

“If you’d just stopped when you should have,” Linda whispered miserably. “If only you had done what I asked you to do and sent Hannah away this wouldn’t be happening.”

“You saw her?” Josie choked on her own words.

“What kind of woman makes a mother do this to her own child, Josie? What kind of woman are you?”

With that, Linda buried her face in her hands and still everyone could hear her asking:

“How could you make me do that? How could you?”

Chapter 37

THERE were things missing in Hannah Sheraton’s hospital room. The contraption that held her head steady was gone. The IV that had fed her was gone. The pallor was almost gone. Linda was gone.

Josie was there.

The television on the wall opposite Hannah’s bed flickered. The sound was mute so Josie watched the closed captioning run across the programs as they changed. She had made the news. Cameras caught her leaving the courtroom pushing through reporters and family rights activists as Archer, huge and calm, cleared the way. It was a frantic mime on TV but Josie’s brain rang with the memories of the sound. The reporters: How do you feel, Josie? Are you giving up? Were you surprised? Enraged Family First activists: How could you push a mother that far? You accused Kip Rayburn. Destroyed a family.

The world was furious with Josie but no angrier, no more disappointed than she was with herself. She had broken the first rule of examining a witness: don’t ask the question if you don’t know the answer.

For two hours and fifteen minutes, as Hannah slept, Josie had sat in this room trying to figure out why she had done it. Was she simply caught up in the drama of it all? The late night meeting of Miggy, the tantalizing information he had given her. The possibility that Josie could not only exonerate Hannah, but also offer lady justice the real perpetrator in her place had proved to be a powerful draw. Had she craved the headlines that would declare her to be a heroine who stood by Hannah when no one – not even her own mother – would?

Josie put her head in her hands. Who knew what her motivation was for running headlong into such a disaster? And who could tell why she needed to hear from Hannah herself that what Linda said was true? But there it was. Josie would not leave until Hannah had admitted to this crime.

And even then. . .

Even then Josie was not ready to give up. Josie knew that she could still defend Hannah and let the girl walk free. She was sure of it.  Josie would call Ian Frank and May to the stand to corroborate Fritz’s threat against Kip. She would call Rosa and the subpoenaed Lyn Chandler. Josie would follow through with her plans to bring medical experts to testify. She would grill Linda Rayburn and find out the last detail of what she thought she saw. Josie would call Kip Rayburn and rip him to shreds in front of that jury.

Closing arguments would sound like a soap opera: Was it Kip? Was Linda protecting her husband by trading on her daughter? Was it Hannah who was lying and Linda who was telling the truth? Who knew? How could they find out? What evidence, she would ask, did the prosecution have that would convince them beyond a shadow of a doubt that Hannah was guilty? Certainly it wouldn’t be Linda’s testimony, not when Josie was finished with her. The jury would be exhausted, and Josie would offer them reasonable doubt like a soft bed. All they had to do was fall into it.

Unfortunately, Josie couldn’t exhaust her own mind. She planted her elbows on her knees and clasped her hands high enough that she could rest her chin on them. She looked at Hannah Sheraton.

Are you guilty? Could you be?

And if she was – and if Josie convinced the jury that Hannah was innocent – and if Hannah was freed -

Josie’s ghosts were raising their heads just as Hannah Sheraton woke up and asked for water.

Josie stumbled as she got up. She managed the water and Hannah managed a smile.

“Here. Oh, God. I’m sorry. I’m not very good at this,” Josie said quietly. She kept her fingers on the straw and guided it to Hannah’s lips. When she’d had enough, Josie stepped back. “Want me to sit you up a little higher?”

Hannah nodded. Josie pushed the button. The bed whirred. The guard outside the door looked in more from curiosity than concern.

“You look better,” Josie said.

Hannah blinked, still caught in the twilight sleep of her medication. She was getting better every day, but the process was slow and painful. Josie pulled at the sheet and the thin blanket that covered Hannah. The girl’s eyes fluttered closed. She sighed. Josie waited, looking around, noting the other things that weren’t in Hannah’s room. No flowers, no cards, no one to wish Hannah well, or offer hope that her troubles would end. No one except Josie and Hannah knew it. Josie felt Hannah’s fingertips touch the top of her hand. Startled, she almost drew back. Instead she took the girl’s hand in her own.

“I’m so tired all the time,” Hannah whispered.

“I know,” Josie said quietly. “You’re healing.”

“Where’s mom?” Hannah asked. “I need to tell her something. I need for her not to worry.”

Josie’s lashes fluttered, almost closing over her eyes. She wouldn’t tell Hannah the whole truth right away. Instead, she said:

“You mom went home. It was a hard day in court.”

Hannah moved. She winced. She resettled, still unsure of what her body could do without causing pain. Hannah lay back again, exhausted.

“I’m sorry about the accident. I wanted to tell you especially,” Hannah whispered.

“It doesn’t matter now, Hannah. Really, it doesn’t.” Josie’s thumb petted the soft skin on the back of the girl’s hand. Hannah’s fingers were tapping Josie’s palm and under her breath, Hannah was counting as if reciting a nursery rhyme. Josie couldn’t listen anymore.

“Miggy came to see me, Hannah.” The counting stopped. Hannah’s eyes closed but her chest rose and fell more quickly than it had when she was sleeping. She was listening. “He told me that you checked your mother’s room the night of the fire. I asked your mother about that night. I asked her if Kip was in the room with her. She told me he wasn’t. I thought he set the fire.”

Hannah’s closed her eyes tight; her hand went slack in Josie’s grip. She took a deep breath.

“Did she tell you what did happen?”

Did she tell on me?

Josie swung her head away. She couldn’t look at this child. She still wasn’t looking when Hannah opened her eyes. Hannah tapped Josie’s hand – but just once.

“She told you something else, didn’t she?” Hannah’s throat was dry again. Josie moved to get the water but Hannah clasped her hand. “Didn’t she?”

“She told me she followed you that night. She told me she saw you light the fire.” Josie looked into Hannah’s green eyes. They were Linda’s eyes. Truth teller or liar? How could Josie ever know?

“She told you that?” Hannah whispered, tears springing to those eyes, shock reflected in them. “My mom told you . . .”

“She told the court, Hannah. The jury heard it.”

Josie moved her chair closer to the bed and hesitated. The muscles in her jaw were tight to the point of pain. The next words she spoke would seal their fate and tie them together for eternity. If Josie were wrong, she would spend every night of her life waiting to hear that Hannah Sheraton had killed again. But if she were right, Hannah wouldn’t go to jail.

“Don’t worry. I’ve laid the groundwork. The court knows that your mother abandoned you. They know that she had more loyalty to Kip than to you. I have witnesses that will testify that Fritz was abusive. The jury will have no choice but to acquit. You were only defending yourself when no one – not even your mother – tried to help you. Do you hear me? I am going to win for you.”

Hannah convulsed. Her chest seemed suddenly concave with the intake of breath. Her hand tightened as she gripped Josie for one moment of grief and then she lay silent. Finally, Hannah’s head turned on the pillow. She looked right at Josie and in her eyes was the purest pain Josie had ever seen.

“I want to quit now, Josie,” Hannah said softly.

“No, no, Hannah.” Josie held the girl’s hand tighter. “I can discredit your mother’s testimony. I can . . .”

Hannah shook her head. Tears came out of the corners of her eyes. Her voice quivered but her message was clear.

“Just tell the judge I want to stop now. I know you wanted to believe. I did, too. But now let’s stop. I’m just tired, Josie, so let’s stop.” Hannah looked at the ceiling. “Tell him for me.”

Josie started to protest.

Hannah closed her eyes. She didn’t want to hear anymore. Deliberately Hannah took her hand away from Josie’s.

It was over.

Chapter 38

"WHAT do you want me to do with these?”

Archer held up the stack of exhibits that Josie had planned to use in her defense of Hannah Sheraton. She looked up from the files she was sorting. She held out her hands. Archer brought them over and stacked them against a chair so she could look.

“I don’t believe it, Archer. I don’t believe she did it. At least not the way Rudy made it sound. If Hannah set that fire it wasn’t cold blooded murder,” Josie muttered, looking at one exhibit and then another.

“You don’t want to believe it, Jo,” Archer answered. “I don’t either, but there was nothing else you could do after her mother testified.”

“I couldn’t be that wrong twice.” Josie went on as if she hadn’t heard him. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, she held up a piece of paper as if it would prove something. “Look, here’s the timetable of her walk every night. Hannah couldn’t have looked into that bedroom, made it to the west wing, set those fires, run back to her bedroom to stash the joint and matches under the mattress, and then go back and stick her hand in that fire. The walk to the bedroom would just add too much time.”

Archer stayed silent. He petted Max while he waited for Josie to run out of steam.

“And there’s something else. Think about it,” Josie dropped the photo to her lap and looked at Archer as if he were a member of the jury. “If you were Linda and you saw your child committing arson – whether or not you knew Fritz was upstairs – would you just stand there without screaming at her or trying to stop her? No,” Josie scoffed. “You would try to stop her. And if you did that, there would have been some physical evidence. Extra matches dropped at the scene, marks on the ground, and maybe scratches on Linda.  And even if she didn’t fight to get Hannah to stop lighting the fire, Linda wouldn’t have just stood around and watched her kid stick her hand in the fire.”

“Maybe Linda stuck it in for her. Maybe Linda was glad that Hannah was doing what she was doing,” Archer suggested.

“What? You mean she didn’t stop Hannah because the outcome suited her? Possible, but not probable.” Josie tossed the timetable back into the file, and the file onto the floor. “I don’t know. The more I think about this, the less sense it makes.”

“You’re making it too complicated, Jo,” Archer said. “You’re assuming that the matches under her mattress were the ones used to set the fire. You’re assuming Hannah ran back to the house. They didn’t search Hannah that night. She could have had a pack of those matches on her and tossed ‘em later. Everybody was too busy with her hand, putting out that fire and finding the old man, to think about that.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Josie leaned over and looked at another piece of paper. “But the doctors. What about them? They were positive that Hannah couldn’t have set that fire and destroyed her paintings. I’ll never buy. . .”

“Jo. Enough.” Archer pushed Max’s snout out of the way and half rose from his chair. He took the exhibits. “It’s over. It’s done. Hannah’s sentenced. And I’m storing this stuff so you can sleep at night.”

“No.” She grabbed them back, glaring at Archer. “It’s only been a week. Hannah may change her mind. She may want to appeal.”

“Don’t hold your breath.” He got up and went to the kitchen to grab a cup of coffee. The pot was empty. He talked to her from the doorway. “She isn’t saying boo to anyone, or anything. She’s done with it, Jo. You should be, too.”

“I have to do something. I’m going to try to get her a transfer to a psych ward. It will be better than being a ‘keep away’ or transitioning to the general population when she’s eighteen.”

Archer wandered back into the dining room. He picked up a box and packed some of the exhibits. Listening to her go on – again – as she got this out of her system.

“Did you see this?” Josie held a black and white picture toward him.

“I’ve seen everything six times, babe.” Archer pulled a length of tape and cut it with his teeth. He switched it away from his lips and looked over his shoulder to glance quickly at the picture.

“Well, what did you make of it? I mean look at those indentations under the ash.” Josie was peevish, like a single mother coming home after work to find the kids had trashed the place.

Archer hunkered down next to her, abandoning his chore. He put his hand on her shoulder and looked at the picture.

“Those are Hannah’s footprints. They matched ‘em to the shoes she was wearing. There’s no question on that one.”

“I know that. But her footprints are on top of the ash. I didn’t think about that before.”

“Meaning?” Archer asked.

“Meaning by the time Hannah got there the fire had burned long enough to create a thin coat of ash on the ground. Hannah stepped on top of it. That means she was there after the fire started, doesn’t it?”

“And she was probably there before the fire started. Then she changed her mind and came back to try to put it out. Hannah’s thought process isn’t exactly linear, Jo,” Archer said.

“But it’s just a thin coat of ash. Her footprints are on top but look underneath. Look.” Josie rummaged under a pile of papers and came up with a magnifier. “Look. See those evenly spaced indentations. Whatever those marks are, they were made before the fire started. The fire had been burning long enough to create that thin coat of ash and Hannah stepped on that. The lab tested her shoes. There was ash on them but very little dirt. If she had walked into that room to set the fire her footprints would be on top of those indentations. Right? Her footprints wouldn’t have been on top of the ash. Right? I don’t know why I didn’t see that before.”

Archer chuckled but never cracked a smile. Instead he squeezed her shoulder. “Maybe the fire was started by a crazed golfer.”

“No, the indentations are too wide and shallow for golf cleats,” Josie mused.

Archer slid the picture from her fingers, picked up the file, and put it inside the box he was about to seal. Josie watched him as he stacked three files together and put them in too. Finally he taped it up, walked over to Josie, took her face in his hands, and kissed her forehead.

“Salt in the wound, Jo. The gardeners probably made those marks. Hannah said she tried to put out the fire. That means the fire was burning. If the fire was burning there would have been ash on the ground outside the door. Come on. Ash, no ash, little holes in the ground. It doesn’t mean a thing. Hannah copped to the deed.”

“She told me to stop, that’s different than saying she did it,” Josie said evenly. Archer dropped his hands. Only time would make this better. He couldn’t kiss this and make it go away. If he could take a picture and steal her hurting soul he would.

“Put it aside, Jo. Go talk with Faye. Come with me to Baja but whatever you do forget about this one.”

Josie hit the table leg with one hand and pushed off the floor only to plop herself in a chair.

“I just don’t want to believe it. Everything was circumstantial about this case until we found out about the divorce thing. You saw Kip, he is one cold son of a bitch. He had every reason to . . .”

Archer put his hands on her shoulders and kneaded the tight muscles there. Josie rotated her neck but nothing helped. Archer bent down, kissed the back of her neck, the little naked part behind her ear where her hair had been razored. He put his fingertips on the same spot.

“I can’t listen anymore, and if I’m not here you’ll stop talking.” Archer picked up his jacket. He opened the door and poked his head out. “Least it’s stopped raining. You should go for a walk.”

“Sure,” Josie muttered, but she was the only one who heard it.

Archer was gone. Josie balanced on the back legs of the chair, still looking at the evidence photograph. It was dark and grainy, hardly the kind of thing that would make a photographer’s career. She counted the indentations across and down. Josie looked at it until she was cross-eyed. The photos of the fire scene, the photos of Fritz Rayburn, the photos of Hannah’s injuries, the photos of Linda standing next to Hannah by the fire truck, all those had been committed to memory. But this one had been set aside, ignored, and now it seemed so damn important – now when everything was over and she had failed.

Josie sighed and let the chair fall back to the ground. She tossed the picture on the table. It was just another one out of a hundred photographs taken that night. There were too many maybes, too much of a chance Hannah was guilty and a small chance she wasn’t. Either way, Hannah had pled guilty in front of Judge Norris. It was enough for the court. That should be enough for Josie. Hannah was gone, sentenced to life without the possibility of parole. There was nothing more definitive than that.

Josie put all the files, the loose papers, the photos and charts into the case boxes and lugged them to the spare room. She closed the door and hoped that in a week she’d forget all that stuff was in there. In the kitchen she rinsed out the coffee pot, she touched the message Archer had taken from Rudy Klein and thought about returning the call. Instead, she picked up Max’s old pink leash.

“Hey, big boy,” she whispered as she crouched down beside him. He raised his face as if he was going to kiss her. Josie took his ears in her hands and nuzzled her cheek against his fur. Max’s tongue flicked out and missed her. She pulled back. “It’s okay. I appreciate the effort.”

Josie turned his collar, clipped on his leash, and went out the front door. The night was moist and fresh, dark and deserted. Josie and Max were halfway down the walk when Max fell onto his haunches, pulling Josie back. He growled, his eyes glowing orange as a turn of his head caught the porch light just right. Attuned to his instincts, Josie stopped short and planted herself. She was ready for whatever, or whoever, was behind the overgrown bougainvillea bush. Josie relaxed. There was nothing to fear back there, only someone to loathe.

“What do you want?”

Josie pulled Max close to calm him even though she’d rather let him loose on Linda Rayburn. Not that it would do any good. The woman was like a cat with nine lives – always landed on her feet – and always seemed to land unexpectedly on Josie’s doorstep.

“I want to talk. I think we need to talk.”

“When you want to talk, call. This is my home. You’re not welcome here.”

Turning on her heel, Josie went toward the beach but Linda darted at an angle to intercept her. Josie sidestepped. Linda followed.

“I need to talk to you about Hannah,” Linda insisted.

“Maybe you should talk to Hannah. She’s been hoping for a little conversation from you all her life.”

“That’s what I want to do, but she won’t see me.” Josie pulled on Max’s leash. They went around Linda. It didn’t help. Linda followed, raising her voice, unwilling to give up. “You think you’re the only one that feels bad? Do you think you’ve got some lock on feelings, Josie? Josie? Come on. Hannah is in jail. I don’t want her to die in there without talking to me.”

“Then you should have thought about that before you did what you did.” Josie threw that suggestion over her shoulder.

“You mean tell the truth? You mean I should have committed perjury?” Linda yelled. “Is that what you mean Ms. Bates, attorney at law?”

Josie stopped again. She was on the bike path, almost at the beach. She could outrun Linda in a flash. She could leave her behind. The problem was that Josie knew she wasn’t ready to leave Hannah behind, and Linda was the link.

“I’m taking the dog for a walk,” she said tersely. “Come if you want.”

Josie set a brisk pace but Linda wasn’t deterred. She was shoulder to shoulder with Josie; the dog was between them. Josie slid a look toward Linda. She looked different, but still beautiful. Tonight she was in jeans, a turtleneck and a windbreaker. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail. Josie’s sense of déjà vu – of Linda as a co-ed - was unsettling. How often they had walked back to their horrid little apartment, tired from a workout, disappointed from a loss, or exulted by a win. They had been so young, so able to bounce back from bad news and run with the good. It was such a long time ago. Now it took longer to reconcile disappointments. Their losses weren’t measured in points, but lives and confidence and affection. Those feelings of camaraderie that Josie had once shared with Linda were gone for good.

They reached the pier. Josie and Max turned left. Linda might as well have been on a leash, too. All three walked to the end, passing under the high lights, their illumination ghostly and flattened by the sea mist. The last vestiges of rain hung in the air. Their shoes were soft. They were shadows gliding soundlessly over the weather worn wooden planks.

“I’ll have the files packed up by the end of the week. Let me know who is going to be handling the appeal and I’ll send them along,” Josie said just to hear herself talk. She was unable to walk with this woman in comfortable silence. Suddenly Josie stopped, unable to keep what she was thinking inside any longer. “I think you lied, Linda. Or at best, I think you weren’t sure what you saw that night, and I hope another lawyer can get you to tell the goddamn truth during an appeal.”

Linda’s head cocked to the side as she listened. She lowered her eyes then wandered to the railing that ran the length of the pier. Her shoulders rose and fell as she breathed in the salty ocean air. Josie looked at her back, knowing that there wasn’t much to see below but dark.

“And what’s that truth, Josie?” Linda asked.

Josie took a step forward and then another. Her voice was low, her words were sure.

“I think the truth is that you would have said anything to protect your husband. Or maybe you just wanted all this to be over and pointing the finger at Hannah was the way to make that happen.”

Linda raised her head. Josie could see the lovely curve of her cheek, her thick, dark hair, and those long lashes that shaded her exquisite green eyes.

“What you’re saying is that it never was, never could have been, Hannah.” Linda sighed. “Why is it you’re the only one who sees clearly, Josie? I’ve always wondered that? Why are you the final word?”

“I’m not. I only ask the questions until I’m convinced I have the final answer. In this case, I don’t think I’ve got that.”

Linda lifted her face to the ocean breeze. She inhaled. Josie could hear the breath come out of her mouth for a long time as she exhaled. Finally Linda turned around and rested her elbows on the railing. She crossed her feet at the ankles.

“It’s kind of moot, Josie. There won’t be an appeal if Hannah doesn’t want one, and how am I going to know if Hannah won’t talk to me? Hannah won’t talk, period.”

Just then a huge wave cracked against the pilings. Max skittered behind her at the sound. Josie pulled him close then stuck her hands in the pockets of her jacket. It was a nesting night, the kind of weather that inspired beach people to light wood in fireplaces long unused, the kind of night that made Californians think they were actually having a season, the kind of night that Josie treasured when she shared her bed with Archer. Josie’s soul was tired. Her mind was tired. She didn’t want to fight with Linda anymore.

“What do you really want, Linda? Do you want to be friends? If that’s it, then you can just turn around right now. We never really were friends, and we sure as hell aren’t going to be now.”

“No, I’m not here for me. It’s Hannah,” Linda admitted. “I was hoping you would try to convince her that she needs to see me. It shouldn’t end like this between a mother and daughter.”

“Shit happens between mothers and daughters, Linda. Get used to it. Leave it alone for awhile,” Josie said, offering the best advice she had.

“Easy for you to say, she’s not your daughter. But you tried to make her feel like she was. You tried to take her away from me with all that understanding crap you fed her,” Linda said peevishly. “Now I want Hannah back. I want you to go ask her to talk to me. You owe it to me to at least to try, Josie. I mean after everything you did.”

“You know what, Linda? I think we all screwed up big time. So if you want to talk about debt, if I owe anyone, it’s Hannah. And pay back isn’t getting you a face to face so you can get under that kid’s skin again. That’s about where I’m willing to leave things. I’m sick and tired of the both of us.”

“Don’t give me that. I did what I could,” Linda snapped.

“Yeah, you were real helpful when you testified. There’s nothing like an eyewitness account from the defendant’s mother.”

“What choice did I have?” Linda cried as Josie started to walk back down the pier. When Josie didn’t stop, Linda hurried after her. “Tell me, what choice?”

Josie laughed softly and shook her head. She stopped walking.

“You’re forgetting one thing, Linda. I didn’t ask you if you saw who set the fire, I asked where your husband was when the fire was set. If you’d answered the question I asked, Hannah wouldn’t be in prison right now.”

“Yeah,” Linda shot back, “and Kip would be there for something he didn’t do. That’s a choice?”

Josie started on again. This argument was accomplishing nothing.

“Give me a break. You put Hannah in prison, not me, and I’m not going to try to get you off the hook.”

“Jesus, don’t say that,” Linda breathed, “I swear, it just came out when you were pounding on me about Kip. It wasn’t fair. It just made me so mad that Hannah would tell you that Kip wasn’t in bed. After everything he did for her. I couldn’t believe she would be that ungrateful. She’s the one that made all this happen.”

Josie threw up her hands and wiggled Max’s leash. He started to walk a little faster. She went with him and Linda followed. Angrily, Josie kept talking.

“Hannah never said a word against you, or Kip. Not one. It was her friend from rehab who told me. Miggy Estrada came to my house and gave me Hannah’s sketchbook. He told me Hannah checked on you every night. He told me about Chicago.”

“That loser? He’s the one that did this?” Linda cried in disbelief.

“If Miggy’s such a loser, and he’s who Hannah went to for help, what does that make you?”

At the end of the pier Josie jumped the few feet to the still wet sand and helped Max. When Max hit the ground they both headed toward the water, the night air did nothing to cool Josie’s frustration.

Linda jumped down too and jogged to Josie’s side. The breeze kicked up. The fog had come in. Linda’s hair had frizzed around her face. She pushed the stray hairs back behind her ear and followed when Josie took a sharp left to dodge the wash of a wave. Linda grabbed Josie and twirled her around.

“Listen. I did what I could do ever since that kid was born. Maybe I didn’t ask Hannah all the right questions because I didn’t want to hear the answers, okay? I was afraid to hear them. You did what you could do to save her, but the fact of the matter is Hannah finished this whole thing by pleading guilty.”

“So leave me out of whatever else goes down now, Linda.”

Another wave was coming in. It broke a few feet away and skittered up the sand. Josie stepped back. Linda did the same but not fast enough. They both looked down just as the water pooled around Linda’s shoes.

“Damn.” Angrily Linda lifted her foot to shake off the seawater then stepped back when another wave followed close behind.

Josie stayed put. The water ran over the top of her shoes and Max’s paws and rushed back out to sea. It left the sand glistening with wet, smooth again as it waited for the next wave – or the next footstep that would leave an imprint.

Oh my God.

Josie’s psyche doubled over with the brutal blow that had just been delivered. There in the shimmering sand was a pattern Josie had seen before. They were shallow indentations at the heel and toe; the same pattern that had been left at the door of Hannah’s studio. It was a pattern that belonged to the person who walked into the west wing before the fire started, the person who left before Hannah’s paintings fueled the fire that killed Fritz Rayburn. Those marks were made by a murderer; those marks were made by Linda Rayburn.

“Josie. Jesus, you’re going to get soaked.”

Startled, Josie looked up. The water came again but Josie was rooted to the ground. She looked at Linda’s feet then back at the sand until finally she caught Linda’s curious gaze.

“Oh, Christ.”

Josie pulled Max close. He stumbled with her, away from the water. She stumbled in the sand, lurching backwards, knowing one thing and one thing only. She needed to get away from Linda Rayburn.

“Look, it’s late. I’ve got a lot to do, Linda. I can’t help you anymore. I can’t. I just can’t.”

Josie started toward home but Linda took her arm. Max’s tail went down and a growl came up. Josie looked at the hand that held her and then up into Linda Rayburn’s face. The breeze blew Linda’s ponytail over her shoulder and nipped at the back of Josie’s bare neck but it was the look in Linda’s eyes that raised the goose bumps on Josie’s skin.

“I want to go home, Linda,” Josie said quietly.

“Okay. I just want to make sure we understand each other.”  Linda put her free hand in her pocket. Josie tensed. Her eyes darted over the deserted beach. If Linda had a knife or a gun in that pocket Josie needed a plan but Linda had neither. She had an envelope. “I have your check.”

Josie looked at it and tried not to shrink away. She couldn’t touch this blood money; she couldn’t bear the touch of this woman who had given up her only child to save herself. Josie’s brain pounded with that knowledge. She had been so blind; ignoring Linda’s questions about eyewitnesses and Hannah’s survival.

“We’re square, Linda.”

Josie shook off Linda Rayburn’s hand and backed away. She kept her eye on Linda Rayburn a minute longer, then turned and trudged across the sand, careful to walk even though she wanted to run. Gulping air in an attempt to calm the beating of her heart and clear a mind that was racing with the implications of what she had just seen Josie tried not to arouse Linda’s interest. Her back burned where she was sure Linda was watching, her interest sharp and keen. At the bike path, Josie chanced a glance over her shoulder. Linda was standing where Josie had left her but she was looking out to sea, not at Josie after all.

Linda’s hands were in the pockets of her jacket. Her feet were wide apart and her head was up. She should have looked lonely standing there on that stretch of beach; instead Linda Rayburn looked as if she was an army of one and was stronger than the invading force.

Josie jogged the rest of the way home.

Chapter 39

"ARCHER. It’s Jo. Call me back ASAP. Sooner than that. Call me.” – Josie Baylor-Bates, 10:34 PM

“Hi there, Josie. What are you doing?”

Linda Rayburn’s voice was so sweet she could have been greeting a lover. That lilt might have called him back to her bed or teased him into a favor or put him on notice that she was on to his game, but Linda Rayburn wasn’t talking to a lover. She was calling to Josie who knelt on the floor of the spare room in a puddle of light from the lamp on the small table.

Josie stiffened when she heard that sultry, peppery voice. Her hands trembled and her stomach turned with a sudden sickness. Bad times were coming. The landlord was there, and the rent was due. Frozen in mid-air, Josie’s hands hovered over the array of photographs she had ripped out of their file jackets and spread on the floor. Slowly, she sank back on her heels as Linda Rayburn circled around, towering over her, confident as could be.

“Did I leave the door open?”

Josie’s eyes were steady as they met Linda’s. There was no flicker of surprise, no current of fear to betray her astonishment at finding Linda standing in her home - uninvited, unexpected, and unwanted.

Linda’s shoulders raised playfully, a coquette’s apology. Her smile was charming and edgy.

“Nope. Front door’s closed up tight,” she said.

“I didn’t know you could pick locks, Linda.”

“Didn’t have to, Josie. This isn’t the most secure place in the world. You should have had someone take care of that broken pane on the back door. Easy as pie to get in.”

Josie was lulled by the shadows in the room, Linda’s casualness. Her jacket was zipped up so that the collar framed her face. Her cheeks were rosy red from the cold. She was wearing gloves. Josie didn’t remember her wearing gloves while they walked. There was sand on the carpet. Linda’s shoes had tracked sand into the house. Her shoes. Josie was looking at them – staring at them - when Linda laughed.

“Your game face isn’t so good anymore, Josie,” Linda chided. “There’s something on your mind, and I have a feeling it just might have something to do with me.”

“Not everything revolves around you, Linda.” Josie tried to fake. Linda wasn’t fooled. She chuckled.

“Oh, I think you’re fibbing. I saw something change out there. You didn’t think I noticed that? It was like a friggin’ light bulb going on over your head.” Linda leaned forward and pantomimed. The smile faded, her eyes hardened. “Why don’t you just tell me what got your short hairs up? Does it have something to do with what you’re looking at, Josie? What’s that? There.” Linda nudged the photographs with her toe. “That one. What’s that one?”

Josie picked it up and held it out to Linda. It was self-explanatory but Josie said:

“You and Hannah by the fire truck.”  Linda took it. Her brow furrowed. “It was two o’clock in the morning when the fire broke out.”

“I didn’t exactly look my best.” Linda let the photo flutter to the floor.

“You were dressed,” Josie pointed out. “You were fully dressed, Linda.”

“I threw some clothes on when I saw the fire. It’s just a top and slacks, my shoes. It took a few seconds.”

“But you saw Hannah start the fire,” Josie reminded her. “That’s what you testified to. You saw her. If you saw her, then you had to be dressed before the fire started. Then you had to be outside when the fire started. Why were you outside?”

Linda checked out her nails. She looked around and found little to interest her.

“Hannah looked in my room. I knew she did it every night. I followed her when she left.”

“Did you stay dressed every night just so you could follow her?”

“No. Just that night. I did it that night,” Linda said, wary now but still in control. “She was having problems with Fritz, Josie. She wasn’t in her right mind. A good mother looks out for her child. I wanted to make sure she didn’t get into any trouble.”

“If you were following her, Linda, why didn’t you stop her before she set the fire?” Josie moved slowly as if her position was uncomfortable and she wanted to settle in while they talked. She put her hands on the ground, a runner’s stance. She tried to get up but Linda raised her foot, put it against Josie’s shoulder and eased her down.

“I like it this way. Why don’t you just stay there,” Linda suggested.

Josie sat down again. This time her legs were to her side, her hands on the floor next to her. Her eyes were sharp, trained on Linda’s face but also her hands. Above all, Josie wanted to keep Linda’s hands in sight. She knew how quick Linda could be.

“What was the question, Josie? I forgot. It’s so different when you’re sitting in front of everyone in a courtroom. Then you remember every question. You have to really be sharp in a courtroom. It’s different here. All cozy. I just forgot what you asked.”

“I want to know why you didn’t stop Hannah if you saw what she was doing. There were two flash points. You could have seen the first one in Fritz’s room through the window. Hannah would have had to take time to spill the turpentine, to light the match on the second. You’re strong. Even if you weren’t, you could have stopped her just by calling her name. Hannah would do anything for you. But I guess you know that.”

“No,” she sighed, “I don’t think I could have stopped her. I was too far behind. I wasn’t sure which route she took. It was a huge home. A perfect home, Josie. It was a perfect life.”

“Hannah took the same route every night, Linda. Mrs. Peterson testified to that.”

“Maybe she didn’t that night. Things can always change,” Linda said. “But, with all these questions, it seems you think something else happened.”

“Maybe you were there before Hannah. Maybe Kip wasn’t the only one missing when Hannah looked into your room. I mean, if you lied about Hannah setting the fire maybe you lied about you being in bed. In fact, I never asked you if you were there, did I?”

“Ooh.” Linda pursed her lips. “That’s a good one, Josie.”

“Maybe you weren’t so sure about Kip’s undying devotion after all. Could that be it?” Josie baited her.

“That’s a lot of maybes, Josie.”

“That’s my job, but sometimes I’m not so quick. But look. . .”

Josie reached for the box next to her. Linda’s foot shot out. She stepped hard on Josie’s hand. Josie crumbled and gasped, gritting her teeth against the pain as Linda brought the full force of her weight down on her.

“There’s nothing in there but pictures, Linda. I promise.” Linda eased up. Josie slid her hand from underneath Linda’s foot. “Look, I just want to show you Hannah’s sketchbook.”

Linda stayed close enough to control Josie if she had to. Cautiously, Josie reached inside the box. Carefully she opened the book.

“I thought this was a picture of you leaving Hannah behind. But this is Hannah watching you run from the fire you set. She was confused and scared, and her beautiful paintings were in that downstairs room.” Josie raised her eyes. “Hannah didn’t lie. She did try to put out the fire, and she didn’t even know Fritz was lying upstairs. She didn’t know because she lied about that, too, didn’t she?”

“Fritz was abusing her. She didn’t lie about that,” Linda said lazily. “I can’t believe that bastard did that to Hannah.”

“No, I mean the other thing. Hannah had been in his bedroom.  She didn’t hit Fritz, you did. That first night I saw you there was a scrape healing on your knuckles. It could have been a week old. Your DNA and Hannah’s would be virtually identical.”

Josie pushed the sketchbook toward Linda. She pushed it as far as she could so that she had to lean forward and balance on her knees. Josie raised her eyes, still talking, tensing her muscles and gauging Linda’s balance.

“Hannah was willing to take the rap for you, wasn’t she, Linda?”

Linda walked to the far corner of the room, moving as if choreographing a war dance. Six steps and then a turn. Her head was in profile and her neck was taut.  She was out of range. Josie relaxed and watched for the next opportunity.

“It wasn’t supposed to be like that. Everybody was supposed to bend over backwards to make this go away because Hannah was a minor, because she was Fritz Rayburn’s granddaughter. It was a great plan considering how fast I had to come up with it when they figured out the fire wasn’t an accident.” Linda threw her head back and raised her eyes heavenward as if to ask for answers not forgiveness. “Who would have thought they could make a case out of all those little, idiotic things: matches and hair in his bedroom and everything? I almost died when you asked Klein to name eyewitnesses during the bail hearing. Remember that? I figured I was dead right there.”

Linda turned again. She was staring at Josie with such intense hatred Josie felt it searing into her.

“And then you made it all so much worse. A plea, Josie. That was all I wanted.  Just plead her out, send her to a hospital. She was sick, anyway. A couple of years wouldn’t have made a difference. But no, you had to go for it. You had to win. Do you know how hard it was to face my kid everyday knowing that all the promises I’d made her were shit?”

Linda sniffed and turned up her nose.

“And she just stood there and took it. Hannah reeked with that damned sanctimonious silence, her unadulterated love, that whole mother/daughter thing. You don’t think there was a shit load of guilt there for me?” Linda touched the table, the wall.

“Then there was you and Hannah. She trusted you, not me. That really hurt, Josie. It truly pissed me off. More than that, it worried me. I thought she’d tell you the truth. I knew you’d come after me if she did that.”

“Then why didn’t you tell me the truth? I could have helped you.”

Linda took a deep breath and let it out. She splayed her legs. Josie’s eyes went to the shoes. Linda didn’t notice.

“That is a stupid question. Fritz wanted me gone. Hannah thought it was her fault that Fritz was making Kip divorce me, and all the time it was just another little fun activity for Fritz to enjoy. Kip had no patience with Hannah. He resented her. Do you think if I was indicted Kip would hang around? I explained all this to Hannah. She understood.”

“Oh my God. You blamed her for ruining your perfect gig?” Josie managed to sit back on her heels again, ready once more to sprint if she had to.

“No, dammit!” Linda struck the wall with her fist. “I was telling her the facts of life. The fact is there wouldn’t have been any problems in my life if I didn’t have her. It took me years to find someone suitable, someone who loved me enough to take me with that kid in tow. I did what I had to do to protect us. I got rid of that damn freak of an old man. I saved myself. I saved Kip. I saved her. I saved all of us. When she was arrested, it was her turn to do what she had to. That’s just the way things shook out.”

Linda twirled toward Josie. She fell to the ground, right onto her knees so that they were close enough to feel one another’s breath.

“Hannah was screwed without me and she knew it. If Kip divorced me we’d be back on the street, me sleeping with anything that had enough money to feed us. If Kip stayed with me, and Fritz cut him off, we’d still be back to square one. No money. No prestige. Nothing.”

“Linda, listen to what you’re saying,” Josie said quietly. “Kip is a lawyer. You wouldn’t have been destitute. It never would have come to that.”

Linda’s eyes blazed as her face came closer still. She tipped her head as if she might kiss Josie. Instead she pointed out Josie’s stupidity slowly, almost sensually.

“And we wouldn’t have been rich.” She pulled away. “Kip wouldn’t have lasted a minute in a two-bedroom track house with me and Hannah while he got himself situated.”

Josie shook her head, trying to understand what Linda was telling her.

“Did you ever once think about Hannah?”

“That’s all I did, you bitch,” Linda hissed. She threw herself away from Josie and curled up against the wall. “I didn’t mean to kill Fritz. I just wanted him to be reasonable. But he laughed at me. He called me names. He told me I was trash. I hit him. He fell. There was blood. After that, I knew it would be more than a divorce if Fritz had his way. He’d prosecute me, and he’d enjoy it. So I tried to cover it up.” Linda chuckled a little. She pulled her ponytail over her shoulder and brushed at it. “I guess it didn’t surprise me when the cops figured out Fritz hadn’t exactly died a natural death, but what did surprise me was Hannah. I thought after a few nights in jail she’d give me up. The stupid little piece of useless baggage loves me. Don’t get me wrong I love her, too. I’m not saying the choice was easy. But the closer you got to trying to put this off on Kip, the more I knew it was her or me. That’s what it really boiled down to. Just survival. It’s always been about that.”

Linda’s voice trailed off. She blinked as if she couldn’t see clearly any longer.

“You know, when Hannah was in the hospital I prayed that she would die. Not just for me, but for her, too. She wouldn’t have to worry anymore. She wouldn’t have to be afraid anymore. Hannah could go to heaven and count angels with God.”

“No, Linda. You wanted Hannah to die because it would be easier for you. She’s not the bitch, Linda, but then you’ve known that all along.”

Before she got the last word out Linda flew forward, hand raised, and slapped Josie, catching her behind the ear. Josie fell to the side, her head hitting a chest of drawers. There was a taste of blood but it was inside her mouth, somewhere she couldn’t quite locate. She righted herself. On all fours, Josie let her head hang as she tried to keep still until the room stopped spinning, praying Linda wouldn’t hit her again. Her prayers were answered. Linda stood up and walked circles around Josie.

“You're just as bad as she is. Always passing judgment. Oh, you never said anything when we were in college but that judgmental thing was always there. Just like Hannah. It was in your eyes. In the way you did just the opposite of what I would do. It was always there in the way you wouldn’t say things, Josie. Jesus, you two are like nuns. Like martyrs. I hate martyrs.”

Linda was breathing hard. It took a lot of energy to tell her version of the truth. Josie raised her head. The pain behind her eyes was excruciating, the ringing in her ears agonizing, the story fascinating. She closed her eyes and waited, opening them when she felt a touch. Linda had hunkered down and put her fingers under Josie’s chin. She was lifting it. Josie saw stars when she tried to yank her face away.

“Josie,” Linda said conversationally, “there just wasn’t any choice. What would happen to Hannah if I went to jail? Who would take care of a crazy, half-breed kid like her better than I did? Do you think Kip was going to step up to the plate?”

“There were other choices, Linda,” Josie said. “You could have left Kip.”

Linda barked a laugh. She poked at Josie’s shoulder.

“Oh right, like I was going to leave Kip? I’m forty years old. My looks aren’t going to last forever. I’m not a lawyer. How would I have supported Hannah? How would I have paid for all those doctors?”

“Maybe if you just made a living and loved your kid, she wouldn’t need all those doctors,” Josie answered back.

Linda shook her head; her hand was swift, moving in a knife-like, manic gesture, “Still telling me what’s best for me and mine. God, do you ever stop?”

She grew quiet and thoughtful as she fooled with the fingers of her glove. Her brow furrowed.

“The only thing I feel bad about is Fritz hurting Hannah.” She looked up; her gaze seemed sharper than usual. “The funny thing is, if I had known about it Fritz would still be alive. I could have threatened to tell about the abuse; he’d have to stop messing with Hannah and back off the divorce thing. It would have been a damn simple Mexican standoff.” Linda pushed Josie, clipping her shoulder. She was so angry. “What in the hell are you looking at? What have you been looking at all this time?”

Josie’s head lolled from side to side. She looked disoriented, confused. She slurred her speech.

“Your shoes,” she managed to say.

“What about them?”

Carefully Josie sat back, feigning confusion. Her head still hurt but the nausea caused by Linda’s blow was almost gone. Josie reached for the photos, finally finding the one she wanted. Sitting on her heels, Josie handed it to Linda.

“What is this?”

“Hannah’s footprints outside the door where the fire started,” Josie whispered.

“So?”

“Her footprints are on top of the ash,” Josie said.

“So?” Linda drew the word out until it sounded like an obscenity.

“Underneath the ash are indentations.” Josie took a deep breath trying to clear her head, disgusted at the simplicity of it all. “Just like the soles of those driving shoes you’re wearing. Tod’s. Shallow, rounded cleats.” Josie swung her head up. She felt a hell of a lot better now. “You walked into the west wing before the fire started and you walked out before there was ash on the ground. Hannah saw what you did. She walked through the ash into a burning house to save her paintings. You ran away. Hannah could have died in there. You. . . are. . .such. . . . a bitch.”

With that, Josie lunged for Linda’s leg and swiped it from beneath her, chopping to the back of her knee. Linda’s leg buckled and she let out a cry of surprise and grasped at the side table. The table toppled: the lamp fell. Caught up in it, Linda tried to throw it away but succeeded only in pulling the plug out of the socket.

In the dark Josie scrambled up, balancing herself on the tips of her fingers. She took the first step in a sprint for the door but the glossy photographs were like black ice. Her front foot slid out from beneath her. Josie landed in a split that sent her sprawling before she tucked into a roll, protecting her head as she hit the doorjamb. A second later she scrambled up, grabbed for the door and pulled herself forward. Behind her, Linda swallowed a bellow of rage.

Just as determined, Linda charged. A bigger woman, she hit the wall hard with her shoulder but Josie was faster. She threw herself into the living room, lost her balance then righted herself. The sense of triumph didn’t last long. Linda was on her, clutching at Josie’s leg, pulling hard enough to lay Josie face down and flat. In a second, Linda had Josie’s left arm in a lock behind her back. Straddling her, Linda Rayburn leaned over until she was lying on top of Josie, pushing the breath out of her. Linda’s cheek was against Josie’s hair, her lips near Josie’s ear.

“What are we going to do now, Josie?” Linda pulled harder, wrenching Josie’s arm until it felt like it was being pulled from its socket.

“Don’t be stupid, Linda.” Josie huffed, barely able to breathe much less speak. “You’ve left enough trace evidence in this place to make a case.”

“And so has that idiot, Miggy. He’ll be the first one they go after if I kill you. Your friend Archer will back me up, won’t he? Bet he knows Miggy was here. My fingerprints aren’t on anything but I’d bet a million that his are. I’d bet. . . “

Josie heard it before Linda did. Max’s growl. Josie strained to see him but her face was pressed hard into the floor. She caught a glimpse of him struggling to his feet. He barked loud and long.

“Shut up!” Linda screamed and yanked harder on Josie’s arm. “Shut him up!”

Josie cried out in pain. Max lunged but he was old and didn’t get very far. He growled and snapped as Linda fought him off, scuttling off Josie long enough to kick the animal in the chest. Max yelped, and then the yelp turned to a whimper. Josie looked back in time to see him stumble and Linda go after him in a blind fury. Linda screamed and kicked him again and again. She picked up a lamp and clubbed him. Max went down, his legs giving out as he backed away.

It was all the time Josie needed. She ran to the hall and into the dining room heading for the back door. Linda was on her in a second but Josie twisted away and reeled into the dining room wall. Above her, her mother’s plates shook loose. One hit Josie’s shoulder, and the other hit the floor with the crack of gunfire as it shattered.

Linda whirled toward the sound. Locked in on Josie, Linda hurtled across the room, tossing chairs out of her way. Her hip hit the table and threw it off center. Josie pushed back against the wall and sank to the floor, steeling herself for the assault. Linda would be on her before Josie knew it. She watched. She waited. Linda drove forward, thinking of nothing but keeping Josie from telling her secrets, thinking only of herself, and that was Linda Rayburn’s downfall.

No strategy.

No patience.

No game.

She lunged.

Terrified, Josie still held her ground, judged Linda’s trajectory and moved at the last possible moment. Gripping a shard of pottery Josie raised her hand and slashed. She felt the give as the sharp edge of the plate fragment hit skin and tore through veins; Josie prayed she could hold on long enough for it to work through an artery. Instantly, Josie’s hand was covered in blood. It spurted onto her face and into her hair.

Josie turned her face away but it was too late. The blood was in her mouth, her eyes, on Linda Rayburn as she fell into Josie Baylor-Bates’ arms. The impact sent them both skidding across the wooden floor, crashing into the corner of the room.

Josie’s hand was still on the shard of porcelain and that shard was still buried in Linda Rayburn’s throat when the outside door was kicked open. The last thing Josie saw was a gun, a man in blue and Linda Rayburn’s bloody neck as she was lifted off her.

Chapter 40

"IN a stunning turn of events, Linda Rayburn was indicted for the murder of California State Supreme Court Justice, Fritz Rayburn. She is being held without bail pending her trial. You may recall that her daughter, Hannah Sheraton, pled guilty to the crime but new evidence showed that . . .” ABC News

Josie turned off the ignition. She knew the story by heart. Newspapers, radio, television, there wasn’t a reporter in the country who hadn’t called her for a comment. She had declined them all.

The sun had come back with a vengeance and October was looking like a record setter. Taking off her baseball cap Josie tossed it in the back seat, slid her sunglasses down her nose and checked out her black eye in the rear-view mirror. It wasn’t looking too bad. More green than purple, the bruise should be gone in another week. Her left arm was in a sling but she cheated and opened the door with her left hand anyway. After all, her arm wasn’t broken, just a good old-fashioned dislocation.

She took a deep breath and stepped down from the Jeep. It seemed a lifetime ago since she’d been here to meet Hannah. Thanks to Archer she was alive to remember the first time. Surprised by Linda, Josie hadn’t hung up the phone just right. When Archer got back from Burt’s his answering machine was still recording the sounds of a struggle. He led the charge. He brought the cavalry. Archer wrapped Josie up in his arms and carried her to the ambulance. Not a word was said. What he felt was in his touch, and in his eyes. That was Archer’s way. He found Max and got him to the vet. Since then he had nursed them both with such tenderness, in such watchful silence, that Josie wept with gratitude when she was alone. No one had ever treated her as if they were afraid to lose her. But now she was well and Archer had kissed her goodbye, knowing what was being done today had to be done alone.

Josie crossed the parking lot, opened the door to Sybil Brand prison, checked with the officer in charge and waited for Hannah Sheraton to be released.

Ten minutes later, Hannah stood in the doorway and for the hundredth time Josie Baylor-Bates was struck by her beauty. That skin was still the color of milk chocolate; her green eyes were still as clear and bright as an emerald. The only thing that was different was Hannah Sheraton walked toward Josie Baylor-Bates and stopped only twice to step back and begin again.

Hannah smiled softly, sadly. She put out her hand. It was completely healed but still carried the scars of the fire. Josie nodded. She smiled. She touched Hannah’s hand and then her hair.

“I think you’re going to start a trend.”

Hannah’s hand went to the tight curls of the new hair that was growing in over her scar. Broken, mended, always a scar. Just like the hula girl plate. The tongue and nose studs were gone. The heavy bandages on her arm were gone. The make-up was gone. Everything about her was bare and fragile as if she was rice paper waiting for the gentle stroke of a brush to define her.

“Maybe,” Hannah said shyly. Awkwardly, she pointed to Josie’s eye. “You’re hurt, too.”

“So, I guess we’ve got something in common,” Josie said. She put her hand on Hannah’s shoulder. Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

Together they walked out the door. The prison was behind them, the Jeep in front. Josie rounded to the driver’s side. She took her time getting in and winced when she reached in the back for her hat. Hannah stopped her. She was the one who got the baseball cap and put it on Josie. Hannah leaned back and made sure it was straight.

“Okay?” Josie asked, touched by the gesture. Hannah nodded and both of them sat in silence, looking at the prison.

“Josie?”

“Yep.”

“I’m sorry for my mom. I’m sorry for everything. ”

“It’s all right.”

Josie took the keys from her pocket. But Hannah wouldn’t leave it at that.

“I just couldn’t tell you what really happened. You understand that, don’t you?”

“I don’t think I’ll ever understand it. I can’t imagine giving up my life for anyone, not even my mother,” Josie said. She fiddled with the keys, knowing they had to have this conversation but somehow wanting to just skip over it, leave it behind. “If you’re asking if I’m upset with you, I’m not. Everybody does what they have to do.”

“You’re not even mad about what she tried to do to you?” Hannah asked.

Josie twisted, sitting gingerly so she could look Hannah in the eye.

“I’m not exactly happy. In fact, I’m royally ticked off. I’ve never had anyone try to kill me before. But, Hannah, that’s what your mother did and you are not your mother. I’m not my mother. How can I be angry with you for something she did?”

Hannah lowered her lashes, “Because I am her. I lied like my mother lies. If I told you the truth, then you wouldn’t be hurt.”

“That doesn’t make you her, Hannah,” Josie assured her. “You stayed quiet because you loved her. Your mom wanted to protect her money and her security. She was willing to gamble with your life and all the while you were protecting hers. There’s a big difference.”

Hannah’s eyes were trained on the low-slung building where she could have possibly spent the rest of her life.

“I don’t think she thought of it as gambling. She had a plan, but it just didn’t work out the right way and she got scared. You know that snowball thing? First she figured she wouldn’t get caught. Then she figured you would get me off. When you wanted to go to trial you just painted her into a corner. You have to understand, my mom has been scared her whole life.”

“And you haven’t been scared?” Josie asked quietly.

“Not the way she is. I’ve never been scared like that.”

Josie touched the bill of her cap; she tipped her face toward the sun. It was so hot. It felt so good. She wanted to be on Archer’s balcony. Instead, she was back in school, rooming with Linda Rayburn. Josie spoke more to herself than to Hannah.

“Your mom used to act like she had the world on a string. I don’t know what happened.”

“Nothing happened,” Hannah answered. “She was always afraid of being alone, of having nothing. She used to curl up in a corner and cry when she didn’t have someone to take care of her. I took care of her. That was my job because she gave me life. I would have taken care of her forever.” Hannah sniffed. She put her elbow up on the window. “Who’ll take care of her in there? Who’ll take care of her when she’s scared?”

“I don’t know, honey,” Josie said truthfully.

“I don’t think she deserves to go to prison,” Hannah whispered. “Not really.”

Josie looked toward the prison. They didn’t speak. They looked at that place the same way they had watched the stars in Malibu the night Hannah counted only to two. The night Hannah had touched Josie’s hand and her heart and her mind. Finally Josie asked the question that seemed so obvious to her but had flown under Hannah’s radar.

“Did you deserve to be there?”

Hannah closed her eyes and pulled her bottom lip under her teeth. So like her mother but so much her own, brave woman. Josie didn’t wait for a response because it would be a long, long time before Hannah would be honest enough with herself to answer it.

Josie put the key in the ignition and started the car. Hannah opened her eyes. She put on her seat belt and looked straight ahead. Josie wondered if Hannah was well enough to see the future, or was just taking a last look at a place she never wanted to see again.

“Where are we going?” she asked as they turned toward the freeway.

“Haven’t got a clue,” Josie answered. “Let’s try to figure it out at my place.”

Thank you

I know your reading time is precious so I want to thank you for spending some of it with Hostile Witness. I hope you enjoyed meeting Josie, Hannah and Archer. If you did, I hope you'll take a moment to tell your family and friends.

Happy reading.

Rebecca

About the Author

Rebecca Forster is an Amazon and USA Today bestselling author with 28 novels to her name. She holds a BA from Loyola University, Chicago and an MBA from Loyola University, Los Angeles. Married to a superior court judge and the mother of two sons, she has taught at the acclaimed UCLA Writers Program, volunteers in classrooms and speaks in many venues around the country. When she's not writing, you'll find Rebecca traveling, sewing, working as a patient/family advisor for her local hospital and playing tennis.

Books by Rebecca Forster

The Witness Series

Hostile Witness (1)

Silent Witness (2)

Privileged Witness (3)

Expert Witness (4)

Eyewitness (5)

Forgotten Witness (6)

Other Thrillers

Before Her Eyes

Beyond Malice

Keeping Counsel

The Mentor

Character Witness (not series)

www.rebeccaforster.com

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Rebecca Forster started writing novels on a crazy dare.  Now she is a USA Today and Amazon bestselling author and her work is called “perfect. . .impossible to put down” by the legal correspondent for CBS Television Network.

Crediting a vivid imagination, a love of the printed word and a fascination with the justice system, Rebecca’s focus has been on legal thrillers with a twist. “It’s the human factor that fascinates me,” Rebecca says

Raised in Long Beach, California, Forster has taught at the acclaimed UCLA Writers Program as well as children’s conferences and school career days. A compelling speaker and featured guest on radio and television, Rebecca has entertained audiences at bar associations, writer’s conferences, women’s symposiums, professional conventions and book festivals that include repeat appearances at the Los Angeles Times Festival of Books.

She is married to a prominent Los Angeles Superior Court judge and is the mother of two sons.

Here’s a look at the next Josie Bates thriller!

SILENT WITNESS

Prologue

HE shot the naked woman at nine thirty in the morning; the naked man was in his sights at nine forty-five.

Three more shots: the front door and address, the woman’s car nestled in the shadows of an Acacia tree, the man’s car parked in front of the house - as subtle a statement as a dog pissing to mark its territory. The camera started to whir. Archer decided he had enough to satisfy his client that the missus wasn’t exactly waiting with bated breath for him to high tail it home.

Archer reloaded and stashed the exposed film in his pocket then let his head fall back against the Hummer’s seat. Cradling the camera in his lap, Archer felt his body go heavy as his eyes closed. He was tired to the bone and not because he had another couple of hours to wait before Don Juan decided to pack up his piece and take his leave. This tired was in Archer’s soul; this tired crept way deep into that heart muscle and made it hard to pump enough blood to keep him going.

He moved in the seat, put one leg up and tried to stretch it out. There wasn’t a comfortable place for a man his size even in this hunk of Hummer metal; there wasn’t a comfortable place in his mind for the thoughts that had been dogging him for days.

He hated this gig, spying on wayward wives. No self-respecting cop would be doing this kind of work even if the wronged husband was paying big bucks. But then Archer wasn’t a self-respecting cop anymore. He was a part-time photographer, a retired detective, a freelance investigator and a man who was running on empty when it came to making ends meet this month. And then there was the anniversary.

He didn’t want to think about that either, but it was impossible to clear his mind when California autumn had come again, a carbon copy of a day Archer would just as soon not remember. It had been sunny, like today. Bright sky-blue up high, navy in the deep sea. A nip in the day air. Cold at night. Lexi, his wife, was sick. And then there was Tim. God, he hated thinking about it. But on a day like this, with too much time on his hands, it couldn’t be helped.

Archer stirred and held the camera in the crook of one arm like a child. His other one was bent against the door so he could rest his head in his upturned hand. He moved his mind like he moved his body, adjusting, settling in with another thought until he found a good place where it could rest.

Josie.

Always Josie. The woman who saved him from insanity after Lexi died. They’d hit a little rough patch lately but even that didn’t keep the thought of her from putting his mind in a good place. Sleep was coming. What was happening in the house was just a job. The other was just a memory. Josie was real. Josie was . . .

Archer didn’t have the next second to put a word to what Josie meant to him. The door of the Hummer was ripped open, almost off its hinges. Archer fell out first, the camera right after. Off balance already, he was defenseless against the huge hands that grappled and grasped at his shoulders and the ferocity of the man who threw him onto the asphalt and knelt on his back.

“Jesus Christ-” Archer barked just before the breath was knocked out of him.

“Shut up, fuck face.” The man atop him growled and dug his knee into Archer’s back, taking hold of his hair.

Archer grunted. Shit, he was getting old. The guy in the house not only made him, he got the drop on him. Archer ran through what he knew: the guy was a suit, one seventy tops, didn’t work out. He should be able to flick this little shit off with a deep breath.

Hands flat on the ground, Archer tried to do just that but as he pushed himself off the pavement he had another surprise. It wasn’t the guy in the house at all. The man on his back was big, he was heavy and he wasn’t alone. There were two of them.

While the first ground Archer’s face into the blacktop, the second found a home for the toe of his boot in Archer’s midsection. Archer bellowed. He curled. He tried to roll but that opened him up and this time that boot clipped the side of his face, catching the corner of his eye. The blow sent him into the arms of the first man who embraced him with an arm around his throat. Archer’s eyes rolled back in his head. Jesus that hurt. His eyelids fluttered. One still worked right. He looked up and stopped struggling.

The guy who had him in a headlock knew what he was doing. If Archer moved another inch and the man adjusted his grip, Archer’s neck would snap. As it was, the guy was doing a fine job of making sure Archer was finding it damn hard to breathe.

His eyes rolled again as a pain shot straight through his temple and embedded itself behind his ear. He tried to focus, needing to see at least one of them if he was going to identify them when – if - he got out of this mess. They could have the car. No car was worth dying for. But he couldn’t tell them to take it if he couldn’t speak and he couldn’t identify them if he could barely see. There were just the vaguest impressions of blue eyes, a clean-shaven face, and a checked shirt. Archer’s thoughts undulated with each new wave of pain. Connections were made then broken and made again like a faulty wire. The one that stuck made sense: these guys didn’t want his car but they sure as hell wanted something. Just as the chokehold king tightened his grip, and his friend took another swipe at Archer’s ribs, one of them offered a clue.

“You asshole. Thought you got away with it, didn’t you?”

That was not a helpful hint.

To Speak For The Dead

TO SPEAK FOR THE DEAD

by

PAUL LEVINE

A Jake Lassiter Novel

Copyright © 1990 Paul J. Levine

Cover photograph by DAJ/Getty Images

Cover design by Aaron Kowan

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Nittany Valley Productions, Inc.

Grateful acknowledgment is made for permission to use an excerpt from “The Lawyers Know Too Much” from Smoke and Steel by Carl Sandburg, copyright © 1920 by Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, Inc., and renewed 1948 by Carl Sandburg, reprinted by permission of the publisher. “It’s Still Rock and Roll To Me” by Billy Joel, copyright © 1980 by Impulsive Music. All rights controlled and administered by EMI April Music Inc. All rights reserved. International copyright secured. Used by permission.

Prologue

TABLE DANCER

HE would remember the sounds—the wailing sirens, the moans of the injured—and the smells, a smoky ashen stench that clung to hair and clothing. Late the first night, he slipped into the parking lot for some air, and he tasted the sky as the smoke rose above Miami’s inner core. He heard the city scream, the popping of wood and plastic aflame, short bursts of gunfire followed by silence, then the crackle of police radios. Later he would remember slipping in a puddle of blood on the tile floor of the Emergency Room.

He would not leave the hospital for seventy-two hours, and by then, he had treated more gunshot wounds than most doctors see in a lifetime. African-Americans against cops, Hispanics against African-Americans, Whites running home to check their ammo supplies. Savage violence in a ghetto hopelessly misnamed Liberty City. By the time the shooting stopped and the fires were out, an eerie silence hung over the area, an inner-city battle zone where neither side surrendered, but each put away its weapons and withdrew.

***

“That’s a real poster ass, huh?”

Roger Stanton shot a sideways glance at the man next to him. A working guy, heavy boots and a plaid shirt open at the neck. Thick hands, one on a pack of cigarettes, the other on his drink, elbows resting on the scarred bar. “Like to frame that ass, hang it in the den next to Dan Marino.”

“Uh-huh,” Stanton mumbled. He didn’t come here to talk, didn’t know why he came. Maybe to lose himself in a place crammed with people and noise, to be alone amid clinking glasses, laughter, and the creaminess of women’s bodies. He strained his neck to see the curve of her butt above him on the stage.

“Not that one,” the man said, tapping the bar with a solid index finger. “Over there at the stairs, the on-deck circle. A real poster ass. Never saw a skinny girl with an ass like that. Eat my lunch offa that.”

She wore a black G-string, a red bikini top, and red high-heeled shoes. If not for the outfit and the setting, she could have been a cheerleader with a mom, dad, and grandmom in Kansas. Good bone structure, fair complexion with freckles across a button nose, short wavy reddish-brown hair, wholesome as a wheat field. The face belonged in a high school yearbook; the body launched a thousand fantasies. Her thin waist accentuated a round bottom that arched skyward out of both sides of the tiny G-string. Her breasts were round and full. She was warming up, fastening a prefab smile into place, taking a few practice swings, tapping a sequined shoe in time to Lady Gaga, who was turned up way too high.

The working guy was looking at Stanton now, probably sizing him up. Looking at a blow-dry haircut that was a little too precise for a place like this. Clean shaven, skin still glistening like he’d just spanked his face with Aqua Velva at two A.M., as if the girls in a beat-your-meat joint really care. The hair was starting to show some early gray, the features pleasant, if not matinee idol stuff.

Stanton knew the guy was looking at him, now at his hands, just as he had done. Funny how hands can tell you so much. Proud of his hands. Broad and strong. They could have swung a pick, except there were no calluses. He had washed off the blood, scrubbing as hard after surgery as he had before the endless night began. Seventy-two hours with only catnaps and stale sandwiches until the hospital cafeteria ran out. But he stood there the whole time, one of the leaders, the chief orthopedics resident, setting broken bones, picking glass and bullet fragments out of wounds, calming hysterical relatives.

After showering at the hospital, he had tossed the soiled lab coat into the trash and grabbed a blue blazer from his locker. Now he was nursing a beer and trying to forget the carnage. He could have gone home. Twenty-seventh Avenue was finally open after the three-day blockade. But too tired to sleep, he wound through unfamiliar streets and was finally lured out of the night by the neon sign of the Tangiers on West Dixie. He would think about it later, many times, why he stopped that night, what drew him to such a strange and threatening place. Pickup trucks and old Chevys jammed the parking lot. Music blared from outdoor loudspeakers, a rhythmic, pulsating beat intended to tempt men inside just as the singing of the Sirens drew Greek sailors onto the rocks. It might have been the flashing sign. The throbbing colors got right to the point—

NUDE GIRLS 24 HOURS… NUDE GIRLS 24 HOURS––blinking on, blinking off, proof of bare flesh moment after moment after moment.

The working guy was talking to him: “I say let ’em burn colored town down to the ground if they want to, no skin offa my nose. I mean, the cops was wrong, killing one of the coloreds, had his hands cuffed behind his back, no need for that. But some of ‘em just looking for excuses to behave like animals. They burned a poor Cuban alive in his car, heard it on the radio.”

“We tried to save him,” Stanton said quietly.

The guy gave him a look. “Sure! You’re a doctor. Should have known. Jesus, you musta seen it all. Wait a minute, Sweet Jesus, here comes Miss Poster Ass. She’s worth a twenty-dollar dance, or I’m the Prince of Wales.”

Roger Stanton watched her walk toward them, an inviting smile aimed his way. The other men around the small stage hooted and slapped their thighs. Roger Stanton lowered his eyes and studied his drink.

“Your first time?” the man asked. Silence. “Yeah, your first time. Loosen up. Here’s the poop. First the girls dance out here on the bar stage. No big deal, they take it all off, you stick a dollar bill in their garter and maybe one’ll kiss you. In the back, where it’s darker, you got your table dances, twenty bucks. That’s one-on-one and I may buy me an up-close-and-personal visit with Miss Poster Ass. Haven’t been able to get here all week what with the jungle bunnies staging their block parties.”

On stage now, grinding to the music, no longer the Kansas cheerleader. Ev-ry-bod-y’s talk-in’ ’bout the new sound. Funny, but it’s still rock and roll to me. In a few moments, the bikini top was off, firm breasts bounding free. The G-string came next, and then she arched her back, bent over, and propped her hands on her knees looking away from the men. The poster ass wiggled clockwise as if on coasters, then stopped and wiggled counterclockwise. Stanton stared as if hypnotized. The ass quivered once, fluttered twice with contractions that Roger Stanton felt deep in his own loins, then stopped six inches from his face. His fatigue gone, the swirl of blood and bodies a dreamy fog, Roger Stanton fantasized that the perfect ass wiggled only for him. He didn’t see the other men, some laughing, some bantering, others conjuring up their own steamy visions. None of the others, though, seemed spellbound by an act as old as the species.

The dance done, the girl smiled at Roger Stanton, an open interested smile, he thought. And though she smiled at each man, again he thought it was only for him. She sashayed from one end of the small stage to the other, collecting dollar bills in a black garter while propping a red, high-heeled shoe on the rim between the stage and the bar. Other than the garter and the shoes, she was naked, but her face showed neither shame nor seduction. She could have been passing the collection plate at the First Lutheran Church of Topeka. Roger Stanton slipped a five-dollar bill into her garter, removing it from his wallet with two fingers, never taking his eyes off the girl. A neat trick, but he could also tie knots in thread with a thumb and one finger inside a matchbox. Great hands. The strong, steady hands of a surgeon.

Her smile widened as she leaned close to him, her voice a moist whisper on his ear. “I’d like to dance for you. Just you.” And he believed it.

Roger Stanton believed everything she said that night. That she was a model down on her luck, that her name was Autumn Rain, that all she wanted was a good man and a family. They talked in the smoky shadows of a corner table and she danced for him alone. Thirty dollars and another twenty as a tip. He didn’t lay a hand on her. At nearby tables men grasped tumbling breasts, and the girls stepped gingerly from their perches in four-inch spikes to sit on customers’ laps, writhing on top of them, grinding down with bare asses onto the fully clothed groins of middle-aged men.

“Didja come?” the heavy girl at the next table whispered to her customer, already reaching for a tip.

“I’ve never seen anything like this,” Roger Stanton said, shaking his head. “It’s half prostitution and half masturbation.” He gestured toward the overweight girl who was gathering her meager outfit and sneaking a peek at the president’s face on the bill she had glommed from a guy in faded jeans.

“You don’t do that, do you?” Stanton asked.

She smiled. Of course not, the look said.

He asked her out.

Against the rules, she said. Some guys, they think if you’re an exotic dancer, it means for fifty bucks you give head or whatever.

But I’m different, Roger Stanton said.

***

She cocked her head to one side and studied him. They all thought they were different, but she knew there were only two kinds of men, jerks and jerk-offs. Oh, some made more money and didn’t get their fingernails dirty. She’d seen them, white shirts and yellow ties, slumming it, yukking it up. But either way, grease monkeys or stockbrokers, once those gates opened and the blood rushed in, turning their worms into stick shifts, they were either jerks or jerk-offs. The jerk-offs were mostly young, wise guys spending all their bread on wheels and women, figuring everything in a skirt—or G-string—was a pushover. Jerks were saps, always falling in love and wanting to change you, make an honest woman out of you. Okay, put me in chains, if the price is right. This guy, jerk all the way.

I’m a doctor, he said.

Oh, she said, sounding impressed.

He told her how he had patched and mended those caught in the city’s crossfire, how he wanted to help people and be a great doctor. She listened with wide eyes and nodded as if she knew what he felt deep inside and she smiled with practiced sincerity. A doctor, she figured, made lots of money, not realizing that a resident took home far less than an exotic dancer and got his hands just as dirty.

She looked directly into Roger Stanton’s eyes and softened her own. He looked into her eyes and thought he saw warmth and beauty of spirit.

Roger Stanton, it turned out, was better at reading X-rays than the looks in women’s eyes.

EIGHT YEARS LATER

1

THE RONGEUR

WHEN the witness hesitated, I drummed my pen impatiently against my legal pad. Made a show of it. Not that I was in a hurry. I had all day, all week. The Doctors’ Medical Insurance Trust pays by the hour and not minimum wage. Take your sweet time. The drum roll was only for effect, to remind the jury that the witness didn’t seem too sure of himself. And to make him squirm a bit, to rattle him.

First the pen clop-clop-clopping against the legal pad. Then the slow, purposeful walk toward the witness stand, let him feel me there as he fans through his papers looking for a lost report. Then the stare, the high-voltage Jake Lassiter laser beam stare. Melt him down.

I unbuttoned my dark suit coat and hooked a thumb into my belt. Then I stood there, 220 pounds of ex-football player, ex-public defender, ex-a-lot-of-things, leaning against the faded walnut rail of the witness stand, home to a million sweaty palms.

Only forty seconds since the question was asked, but I wanted it to seem like hours. Make the jury soak up the silence. The only sounds were the whine of the air conditioning and the paper shuffling of the witness. Young lawyers sometimes make the mistake of filling that black hole, of clarifying the question or rephrasing it, inadvertently breathing life into the dead air that hangs like a shroud over a hostile witness. What folly. The witness is zipped up because he’s worried. He’s thinking, not about his answer, but of the reason for the question, trying to outthink you, trying to anticipate the next question. Let him stew in his own juice.

Another twenty seconds of silence. One juror yawned. Another sighed.

Judge Raymond Leonard looked up from the Daily Racing Form, a startled expression as if he just discovered he was lost. I nodded silently, assuring him there was no objection awaiting the wisdom that got him through night classes at Stetson Law School. The judge was a large man in his fifties, bald and moon-faced and partial to maroon robes instead of traditional black. History would never link him with Justices Marshall or Cardozo, but he was honest and let lawyers try their cases with little interference from the bench.

Earlier, at a sidebar conference, the judge suggested we recess at two-thirty each day. He could study the written motions in the afternoon, he said with a straight face, practically dusting off his binoculars for the last three races at Calder. A note on the bench said, “Hot Enough, Rivera up, 5-1, ninth race.” In truth, the judge excelled at handicapping but stank at recognizing hearsay.

Another thirty seconds. Then a cleared throat, the sound of a train rumbling through a tunnel, and the white-haired witness spoke. “That depends,” Dr. Harvey Watkins said with a gravity usually reserved for State of the Union messages.

The jurors turned toward me, expectant looks. I widened my eyes, all but shouting, “Bullshit.” Then I worked up a small spider-to-the-fly smile and tried to figure out what the hell to ask next. What I wanted to say was, Three hundred bucks an hour, and the best you can do is “that depends.” One man is dead, my client is charged with malpractice, and you’re giving us the old soft-shoe, “that depends.”

What I said was, “Let’s try it this way.” An exasperated tone, like a teacher trying to explain algebra to a chimpanzee. “When a surgeon is performing a laminectomy on the L3-L4 vertebrae, can he see what he’s doing with the rongeur, or does he go by feel?”

“As I said before, that depends,” Dr. Watkins said with excessive dignity. Like most hired guns, he could make a belch sound like a sonnet. White hair swept back, late sixties, retired chief of orthopedics at Orlando Presbyterian, he had been a good bone carpenter in his own right until he lost his nerves to an ice-filled river of Grey Goose. Lately he talked for pay on the traveling malpractice circuit. Consultants, they call themselves. Whores, other doctors peg them. When I defended criminal cases, I thought my clients could win any lying contest at the county fair. Now I figure doctors run a dead heat with forgers and confidence men.

No use fighting it. Just suck it up and ask, “Depends on what?” Waiting for the worst now, asking an open-ended question on cross-examination.

“Depends on what point you’re talking about. Before you enter the disc space, you can see quite clearly. Then, once you lower the rongeur into it to remove the nucleus pulposus, the view changes. The disc space is very small, so of course, the rongeur is blocking your view.”

“Of course,” I said impatiently, as if I’d been waiting for that answer since Ponce de León landed on the coast. “So at that point you’re working blind?”

I wanted a yes. He knew that I wanted a yes. He’d rather face a hip replacement with a case of the shakes than give me a yes.

“I don’t know if I’d characterize it exactly that way…”

“But the surgeon can’t see what he’s doing at that point, can he?” Booming now, trying to force a good old-fashioned one-word answer. Come on, Dr. Harvey Wallbanger, the sooner you get off the stand, the sooner you’ll be in the air-conditioned shadows of Due Process Lounge across the street, cool clear liquid sliding down the throat to cleanse your godforsaken soul.

“You’re talking about a space maybe half a centimeter,” the doctor responded, letting his basso profundo fill the courtroom, not backing down a bit. “Of course you don’t have a clear view, but you keep your eye on the rongeur, to be aware of how far you insert it into the space. You feel for resistance at the back of the space and, of course, go no farther.”

“My point exactly, doctor. You’re watching the rongeur, you’re feeling inside the disc space for resistance. You’re operating blind, aren’t you? You and Dr. Stanton and every orthopedic surgeon who’s ever removed a disc…”

“Objection! Argumentative and repetitious.” Dan Cefalo, the plaintiff’s lawyer, was on his feet now, hitching up his pants even as his shirttail flopped out. He fastened his third suit coat button into the second hole. “Judge, Mr. Lassiter is making speeches again.”

Judge Leonard looked up again, unhappy to have his handicapping interrupted. Three to one he didn’t hear the objection, but a virtual lock that it would be sustained. The last objection was overruled, and Judge Leonard believed in the basic fairness of splitting the baby down the middle. It was easier to keep track if you just alternated your rulings, like a kid guessing on a true-false exam.

“Sustained,” the judge said, nodding toward me and cocking his head with curiosity when he looked at Cefalo, now thoroughly misbuttoned and hunched over the plaintiff’s table, a Quasimodo in plaid polyester. Then the judge handed a note to the court clerk, a young woman who sat poker-faced through tales of multiple homicides, scandalous divorces, and train wrecks. The clerk slipped the note to the bailiff, who left through the rear door that led to the judge’s chambers. There, enveloped in the musty smell of old law books never read much less understood, he would give the note to the judge’s secretary, who would call Blinky Blitstein and lay fifty across the board on Hot Enough.

“Your Honor, I’ll rephrase the question,” I said, as if I had a choice. “Doctor, I think you would agree that the rongeur blocks your view of the disc space, correct?”

“Substantially.”

A twenty-five-cent word. What does it take to get a yes out of this guy? Dr. Watkins let his tongue dart over his lips. Getting a little dry, are we? Eyes just a bit cloudy and bloodshot. Cefalo put you up at the Sonesta Beach, I bet. Room service probably brought up a bottle of Russia’s best. Maybe one of Finland’s too. A Winter War in a tenth-floor suite overlooking the Atlantic.

I walked to the rear of the courtroom so that the jury was between the witness stand and me. I wanted all eyes on Dr. Watkins as I broke him like a rotten mast in a gale.

“Doctor, isn’t it true that, because of the narrow disc space, any time a surgeon performs this kind of surgery, a known risk is that the rongeur will go too far, will pierce the aorta?”

“A risk? Of course, it’s a risk, but…”

“And that’s what happened here, the occurrence of that risk, that statistically will occur…”

“Objection! Your Honor, Mr. Lassiter refuses to permit the doctor to finish his answer. He’s interrupting.” This time Cefalo banged his knee on the plaintiff’s table as he stood up and his tie flopped out of his misbuttoned coat like the tongue of a thirsty dog. Most days Cefalo dressed as well as the next guy, but in trial he figured he gained sympathy by looking like a vagrant. He’d drop trou to win one juror’s vote. This day his suit was old and wrinkled and smelled like an overheated horse. But Dan Cefalo knew his stuff. Best to remember that or get blindsided when he transformed from Buddy Hackett to George Clooney in closing argument.

“Overruled,” the judge said without looking up.

Thank you, Jimmy the Greek.

I took a few giant steps toward the witness stand, feeling my oats. I wanted to finish with a flourish. Dr. Watkins had nailed us hard on direct examination. Now just trying to get even, or close to it. I walked to the clerk’s table and picked up the stainless steel instrument that resembled a small, delicate pair of pliers. The clerk never looked up, leaving me staring into the top of her Afro. She was reading a paperback with a castle and a dark-eyed woman on the cover.

“Now, this rongeur, Plaintiff’s Exhibit Five, is the perfect instrument for removing the herniated disc material, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know if it’s perfect, but that’s what’s used.”

They’ll be examining his liver under a microscope before he’ll give a defense lawyer a yes. I walked to the rear of the courtroom, the doctor’s eyes tracking me, suspicion wrinkling his brow. He wouldn’t trust me with the petty cash.

“But perfect as it is for one job, it poses a real and known danger to the aorta, doesn’t it?”

Dr. Watkins smiled. The eyes seemed to clear. His chin thrust out and he shot a look at the jury, just to make sure they were paying attention.

“The rongeur poses no danger,” he said in deep, senatorial tones. “The surgeon who is too hasty or too rough or loses track of where he is, that’s the danger. A rongeur does not do the damage except in a most elementary way, the same way a gun kills, but it is the man pulling the trigger who is brought to justice. A surgeon who is negligent, that is the danger. It is professional negligence, or as you lawyers like to call it, malpractice, to damage the aorta while doing a laminectomy—”

“Your Honor!” I am much too loud, a wounded boar. “The witness is not being responsive. He is the one who is speech-making for the benefit of the party that pays him royally.” Anything to distract the jury from my blood spilling across the floor. One question too many, the classic bozo move on cross.

Judge Leonard swiveled in his cushioned chair. “Is that an objection?”

I toted up the judge’s prior rulings like a blackjack player counting face cards. “Yes, Your Honor, I ask that the jury be instructed to disregard the witness’s self-serving soliloquy.”

“Sustained. The jury will disregard the last statement of the witness.”

Fat chance, the jurors figuring that anything they’re supposed to forget must be worth remembering. How to rescue the moment? I caught sight of Cefalo. If his smile were any wider, his uppers would fall out.

“No further questions are necessary, Your Honor,” I said with more than a touch of bravado. Then I swaggered to my seat, as if I had just vanquished the witness. I doubted the jury bought even a slice of it. Lassiter, why didn’t you shut up when you had the chance?

Ramrod straight, white hair in place, Dr. Watkins strode from the witness stand, pausing to nod graciously at the jury, a general admiring his troops. Then he walked by the plaintiff’s table, bowed toward Dan Cefalo and tenderly patted Mrs. Melanie Corrigan, the young widow, on the arm. As he passed me, he shook his head, ever so slightly, a compassionate look, as if this poor wretch of a mouthpiece couldn’t help it if he was on the wrong side and an incompetent boob to boot. What a pro. The jurors never took their eyes off him.

My eyes closed and behind them were visions of green hills and cool streams, where the courthouses were only for marriage licenses and real estate deeds. Then I wondered if it was too late to coach powder-puff football at a prep school in Vermont.

2

THE GOOD GUYS

I watched Roger Stanton pour black bean soup over his rice, then carefully layer a row of chopped onions on top, building a little mound. Not a drop of the dark soup spilled. The Cuban crackers, which in my hands crumble into dust, he split down the middle with a thumb and index finger, a clean break like marble under a sculptor’s chisel. Steady hands, the hands of a surgeon. Not hands that would have slipped, letting the rongeur puncture the aorta, leaving Philip Corrigan to die of internal bleeding and Melanie Corrigan to live as a young, beautiful, and very rich widow. Which is why Roger Stanton was questioning my strategy in cross-examining the white-haired baron of bombast who nearly blew me out of the courtroom this very day.

“If our defense is that I didn’t nick the aorta, why were you trying to get Watkins to admit that a surgeon can’t see what he’s doing in a laminectomy? It sounded like you were trying to excuse me for something I didn’t do.”

When a client thinks that you are letting him sink into the treacherous waters of the justice system, it is best to appear calm and knowledgeable, even when you are floundering about, looking for the nearest lifeboat yourself. This is easier to do when not distracted by two young women who are appraising you with large, luminous, and inviting eyes.

“It’s called alternative pleading,” I said with authority and a polite smile toward our observers, perched on barstools at the counter. When confronted with large, luminous, and inviting eyes, I am polite without fail. “We say to the jury, first, the good doctor didn’t come within a country mile of the damn blood vessel. Second, even if he might have sideswiped it, that’s not negligence. It’s an accepted risk of this kind of surgery because of the small disc space and the proximity of the aorta.”

“I get the feeling you don’t believe me,” Roger Stanton said. He ladled more soup onto the rice with those sturdy hands, and I watched the steam rise, a pungent aroma enveloping us. One of the women was smiling now. At me, I thought. Or was it at Roger? He was handsome in a nondescript way. Medium height, medium build, medium features. The kind of guy who gives police artists fits. Nothing to work with; no missing teeth, bent nose, or jagged scars; nothing protruding, nothing receding.

I dug into my palomilla, a tough piece of flank steak marinated in oils and spices and likely left on the hood of a ‘79 Chevy in the Miami sun. I was talking with my hands, or rather my fork, which had speared a sweet fried plantain.

“It’s a historic legal strategy. In olden times, a plaintiff might sue his neighbor and say, ‘I lent him my kettle, and when he returned it, it was cracked.’ The neighbor answers the lawsuit and says, ‘I never borrowed the kettle, but if I did, it was cracked when he gave it to me.’”

Roger Stanton shook his head. “Your profession is so uncertain, so full of contradictions. I’ll never understand the law.”

“Nor I, women.” Their eyes were lighting up with magical, come-hither glints. I stayed put and Roger kept talking.

“Jake, I have a lot of faith in you, you know that.”

Oh boy, I got fired once by a client who started off just like that. “Sure, and you should have,” I said, showing the old confidence.

“But I can’t say I’m happy with the way the trial’s going.”

“Listen, Roger. There’s a psychological phenomenon every defendant goes through during the plaintiff’s case. Try to remember it’s still the top of the first inning. We haven’t even been to bat yet. Wait’ll old Charlie Riggs testifies for us. He’s honest and savvy, and he’ll make Wallbanger Watkins look like the whoring sawbones he is.”

“Sure.”

“You don’t sound convinced.”

“Riggs is on the verge of senile dementia, if not over it. He speaks Latin half the time. He’s the friggin’ coroner—or was until they retired him—not an orthopedic surgeon.”

“Roger, trust me. We need a canoemaker, not a carpenter. Charlie Riggs is going to tell the jury why Philip Corrigan died. It’s a hole in their case, and I’m going to ride the U.S. Cavalry through it.”

Finally the two women set sail for our table. One looked straight at me from under a pile of auburn hair that reached her shoulders and kept going toward Mexico. She had caramel skin and lustrous ebony eyes. The other had thick, jet black hair that only made her porcelain complexion seem even more delicate. She wore one earring shaped like a golden spermatozoan and another of ivory that could have been a miniature elephant tusk. Both women wore tourniquet-tight slacks, high-heeled open-toed shoes, and oversized cotton sweatshirts, with spangles and shoulders from here to the Orange Bowl.

“May we join you for a moment?” Miss Caramel Skin asked. The you was a chew.

Roger Stanton looked up and grinned. Even the punitive damage claim hadn’t sent his hormones into hibernation. I could have used the distraction. My social life was as empty as a Miami Beach hotel in July. But I took inventory quickly, knowing I had several hours of work ahead. There is a time for dallying, but the middle of a trial is not such a time. I wanted to finish the postmortem on the day’s events and prepare for tomorrow and the widow’s testimony. Still, an old reflex, maybe eons old, had the mental computer figuring a sort of cost-benefit analysis—how long it would take—the flirting time, make-nice time, bone-jumping time, and call-you-again time. Too long.

They already were sitting down and Caramel Skin was chattering about her ex-boyfriend, a Colombian, and what a scumbag he was. Skoombag. She was Costa Rican, Miss Earrings Honduran.

I shouldn’t have brought Roger to Bayside, a yuppie hangout with shops, restaurants, and bars strung along Biscayne Bay downtown. It was a pickup place, and these two probably assumed we were in the hunt—two decent-looking guys under forty in suits—when all we wanted was solitude and an early dinner. Outside the windows, the young male lawyers, accountants, and bankers headed for the nearby singles bars, suit coats slung over shoulders, red suspenders holding up Brooks Brothers suit pants. They slouched against open-air bars waiting for their frozen margaritas to ooze out of chrome-plated machines that belong in Dairy Queens, not taverns. Nearby the young women—mirror images in business suits or no-nonsense below-the-knee dresses—their mouths fixed in go-to-hell looks, struggled with the degree of toughness and cool necessary to beat the men at their own game. Altogether, a smug clique of well-dressed boys and girls.

“Carlos had a Cigarette,” Caramel Skin was saying. “Used to go like a son-of-a-bitch.” Sunavabeach. “Liked the Cigarette more than he liked me. Now he’s at FCI.”

Stanton wore a blank look. I said, “Federal Correctional Institution. Probably used the boat to bring in bags of the white stuff.”

“Sí. Hizo el tonto. He played the fool for others. And, como sí esto fuera poco, he used to beat me. Tie me up and spank me with a hairbrush. It was fun at first, but then…”

Roger Stanton was into it now, asking Caramel Skin whether Carlos the Con used leather or plain old rope. Scientific study or kinky curiosity, I wondered. Miss Earrings was telling me that they were fashion models—aren’t they all?—who really didn’t have work permits. Came here on tourist visas. Which meant they also were following the scent for the Holy Grail, green cards. Bagging American husbands would do the trick.

The earrings dangled near my face. Our knees touched and her voice dropped to a whisper, a ploy to get me to lean closer. Do they teach this stuff or is it in their genes? A long fingernail traced the outline of my right ear. In the right time and place, it could have been erotic. In a brightly lit restaurant with my mind on business, it itched.

“Thick hair, Mister Broad Shoulders,” she said. “Thick like cáñamo. And rubianco.”

“Like hemp and almost blond,” Caramel Skin said, helpfully. Her friend gave a tug on my theek rubianco cáñamo, which did not help me get a fried plantain into my mouth. “And ojos azules,” she said, giggling, looking into my eyes.

The women excused themselves to go to the restroom, probably to divide up the spoils. Caramel Skin would get the smaller guy with neat, salt-and-pepper hair who was practically smacking his lips over images of sweet bondage. Earrings was stuck with Meester Broad Shoulders.

Stanton lit a cigarette, dragged deeply, and sent a swirl of smoke into the overhead fan. Doctors who smoke puzzle me. You know they know better. Maybe lack of discipline and self-control. I couldn’t imagine a personal injury lawyer riding a motorcycle, not after seeing those eight-by-ten glossies taken by the Highway Patrol. Need a shovel to scrape up body parts.

I wanted to draw Roger away from his Latin American fantasy and talk about tomorrow’s testimony. But he was saying something about a doubleheader that had nothing to do with Yankee Stadium. I shook my head no, and he gave me that puzzled look. I’d seen the same expression the first time he walked into my office eighteen months earlier.

***

“You must like representing doctors,” he said that day, after we exchanged hellos.

“Yeah, it’s a great honor.”

He gave me that look and dropped the malpractice complaint on my desk as if it carried the plague. While I read it, he walked around my office, ostensibly admiring the view of the bay, but surreptitiously looking for merit badges on the walls. He couldn’t find any. No diplomas, no awards from the Kiwanis. I hung my Supreme Court admission ticket above the toilet at home. Covers a crack in the plaster. He stopped in front of a photo of my college football team, one of those posed shots with a hundred-twenty guys filling the bleachers.

“You played football,” he said, impressed. He couldn’t be sure I ever graduated from law school, but he was happy I could hit a blocking sled.

“A lead-footed linebacker,” I said. “Better at lawyering than covering the tight end over the middle.”

“Been defending doctors long?”

“Not as long as I played games in the PD’s office, keeping some very bad actors on the street.”

“Why’d you leave?”

“It made me puke.”

“Huh?”

“Realizing every client I ever had was guilty. Not always with what they’re charged, but guilty of some crime, sometimes worse than the charge.”

I told him how it felt to see some slimeball go free after a warrantless search, then pimp-roll back into the courtroom for pistol-whipping a sixty-year-old liquor store clerk. Ja-cob, my man, they got no probable cause.

Told him I quit and did plaintiff’s PI. Half my clients were phonies. Phony injuries and phony doctors or real injuries and no insurance.

“So representing doctors is a step up,” Roger Stanton had said brightly.

“From the gutter to the curb.”

That look again.

“I sold out, joined the high-rise set at rich old Harman & Fox,” I told him. “Ordinarily, the dark-wood-and-deep-carpet types wouldn’t give a guy like me a second look. Afraid I’d spill the soup on my vest, if I owned one. But they woke up one day and figured they didn’t have anybody who could try a case. They could shuffle papers and write memos, but they didn’t know how to tap dance in front of a jury. So I won some cases, a few for very dangerous doctors.”

Now his puzzled look changed to one of concern.

“Bottom line,” I said, using a favorite expression of the corporate gazoonies who ruled the firm. “I’ve spent my entire career looking for the good guys and have yet to find them.”

He was quiet a moment, probably wondering if I was incompetent. Good, we were even. I always assume the worst. Fewer surprises later.

Things improved after that. I checked up on him. His rep was okay. Board certified and no prior lawsuits. He probably checked me out, too. Found out I’ve never been disbarred, committed, or convicted of moral turpitude. And the only time I was arrested it was a case of mistaken identity—I didn’t know the guy I hit was a cop.

***

So here we were, waiting for dos chicas to powder their noses or inhale something into them, and my mind was stuck on the mundane subject of the pending trial.

“Roger, let’s talk about tomorrow. Cefalo will put the widow on first thing. Today I was watching you out of the corner of my eye and you were staring at her. I know she looks like a million bucks, but if I saw it while I was getting blindsided by Wallbanger Watkins, I’m sure the jurors did, too. It could be mistaken for a look of guilt, like you feel sorry you croaked her old man. That’s worse than having the hots for her.”

“Okay, didn’t know I was doing it. Probably just staring into space.”

“Yeah, sure. The point is, she’s likely to be a very good witness. The men in the jury all want in her pants, the women want to mother her.”

“Okay already, I get the point.”

“Good. I don’t want to concern you, but the lovely widow is a real problem for us. She can make the jury forget all our medical mumbo jumbo. That gray silk dress today with the strand of white pearls. Classy but not too flashy.”

Stanton laughed. “You ought to see her in a strapless cocktail dress.”

Uh-huh is what I say when I don’t know what to say. I would have liked Stanton to fill me in here, but he didn’t give me any help. After a moment I asked, “Since when are you Mrs. Corrigan’s fashion consultant?”

“Oh that. I probably never told you. When Philip started seeing me for the back and leg pain, we became friendly. I wasn’t dating anybody. They were just married. He started asking me over to their house in Gables Estates. Cocktail parties, dinners, sometimes just the three of us.”

“So you know Mrs. Corrigan?”

“Melanie. Sure.”

“Melanie, is it?”

He looked at me with a what’s-the-big-deal look and I didn’t have an answer so I polished off the palomilla and thought it over. No big deal. I just would have liked to have known about it sometime before trial.

In a moment our new friends cruised back, eyes a thousand watts brighter, ready to roll. I mumbled my apologies to Miss Earrings, who, with no apparent regret, shifted her electrified look to the blandly handsome doctor. I left them there, two women with a buzz on, and the man who had entrusted his career to me, the man who hadn’t told me everything. What else, I wondered, had he left out?

I paused at the door to look back. The restaurant was filled now.

Some of the yuppies were crowding the bar, making too much noise, pushing limes into their Mexican beer, a trendy brand aged about as long as their attention spans. If you have to put lime in your beer, you might as well drink diet cola.

Back at the table, one woman sat on each side of Roger Stanton. They all laughed. I left the three of them there, the mathematical possibilities of their union crowding Melanie Corrigan’s testimony into a dusty recess of my mind.

3

THE WIDOW

“MRS. Corrigan, do you love your husband?”

“I do.” A pause, a catch in the throat, a quiver, the beginning of a tear, then like a lake swollen by a summer storm, an overflow cascading down sculpted cheekbones. “That is, I did. I loved him very much.”

Blessed timing. They don’t teach that in finishing school. Dan Cefalo continued his questioning. “Do you miss him?”

Another leading question, but only a dunce would incur the jury’s wrath by interrupting the soap opera with a news bulletin.

“Very much. Every day. We shared so much. Sometimes, when a car pulls into the driveway, I forget, and I think, well, maybe it’s Phil.”

And maybe it’s the paperboy. God, could she lay it on thick. She looked toward the jury and then away as if the memory was too much to bear. A lace handkerchief appeared out of a navy leather clutch and the big, brown, wet eyes were dabbed dry. The pain radiated from her, but I was the one who was dying. Every question launched an arrow, and every answer pierced my heart. The widow was majestic, thick russet hair swept straight back to lay bare those chiseled lines, to expose her suffering. All for the glory of justice and a seven-figure award for mental anguish, loss of society, comfort, and consortium.

“Tell us about your husband, your late husband, Mrs. Corrigan. And I know it’s a painful subject, so if you need a recess to gather yourself, please just say so.” Cefalo extended his arms toward the widow and bowed from the waist, as if she were royalty. And she did look regal, white gloves setting off a navy and white double-breasted cardigan that covered a matching skirt. Maybe the gloves hid Racy Red nail polish, already slathered on for a night of romping through Coconut Grove clubs. Maybe on cross-examination I should order her to take off the gloves and bare her claws. Sure, or maybe I should just grab a sword and mutter a hara-kiri chant.

“I don’t know where to begin, there’s so much to say,” she said, obviously knowing exactly where she would begin. I wanted her to say: He was boffing half the stewardesses in town while his first wife lay dying; he made millions bribing county commissioners to grant zoning variances; and if it weren’t for high-placed friends in Washington, he would have been indicted for tax evasion.

What she said was: “Phil was the most giving man I’ve ever known. The way he cared for his first wife when she was terminally ill, if you could have seen that, if you all could have seen it.” Then she turned to the jury, an actress facing her adoring audience. “He never thought he could love again, but I brought something to his life. And to me, he was everything—a lover, a friend, even the father I never had. Then for him to die like this, in his prime.”

Clever. Very clever. So well rehearsed it didn’t look rehearsed. Explaining how a twenty-six-year-old woman marries a fifty-five-year-old man. A father, for crying out loud. No mention that the champagne corks were popping only six weeks after he buried his beloved first wife. And if I bring it out on cross, I’m a cad. It was a virtuoso performance. Even Judge Leonard was listening, practically a first. He had been in a fine mood at motion calendar in the morning, as well he should after Hot Touch paid $10.40, $5.40, and $4.80.

When Dan Cefalo turned to me and said, “Your witness,” he was smiling so broadly I almost didn’t notice that his fly was half undone and he had buttoned his shirt into his suit coat.

The occasion called for brilliance. Roger Stanton looked at me as if I were his last friend in the world. I approached the witness stand with a solicitous smile. I still hadn’t made up my mind. Behind those tears I saw a flinty toughness that I would love to bring out. But make a mistake, reduce her to tears or hysterics, and the jury would lynch me and nail enough zeroes on the verdict to buy an aircraft carrier. She looked straight back at me. The full lips lost a bit of their poutiness and set in a firm line. It’s there somewhere, I knew. But my investigators couldn’t find it in six months and my pretrial deposition came up empty. I couldn’t risk it now.

I turned to the judge. “Your Honor,” I said, as if seeking his approval, “I believe it would be unfair for us to keep Mrs. Corrigan on the stand to discuss this painful subject. We have no questions.” Roger Stanton sank into his chair looking hopeless and abandoned. Men on Death Row have brighter futures.

“Very well,” Judge Leonard said, aiming a small smile in my direction. “Mr. Cefalo, call your next witness.”

“The plaintiff rests,” Dan Cefalo said, a note of triumph in his voice.

“Any motions?” the judge asked. We approached the bench and the judge sent the jurors out to lunch.

“At this time, the defense moves for a directed verdict,” I said without a great deal of conviction.

“On what ground, Mr. Lassiter?” the judge asked.

“On the ground that there’s insufficient evidence of proximate cause, first that the surgery caused the aneurysm, and second that the aneurysm caused the death.”

“Denied,” the judge said before Cefalo even opened his mouth. “The plaintiff’s expert testified to that. C’mon, Jake, it’s a jury question at least.”

I knew that. Somewhere between his Bloody Marys and his White Russians, Dr. Watkins had stuck us on proximate cause, at least sufficiently to beat a directed verdict, but I was giving the judge a little preview of our defense. Oh, Dr. Charles W. Riggs, I need you now.

The judge looked over the courtroom, which was emptying, and waved us closer to the bench. With a hand, he signaled the court stenographer to take a hike. “You boys talk settlement?”

A practical enough question. If he could clear us out of the courtroom, he could spend the rest of the week at the track.

“Judge, we offered the policy,” I said apologetically. “A million dollars, all we’ve got. They oughta take it and spare the court all this time and effort.”

Cefalo shook his head. “Our liquidated damages alone, lost net accumulations for the estate, are over nine million. To say nothing of the widow’s mental anguish and consortium claims.”

The judge laughed. “Danny, your widow lady don’t look like she’ll be without consortium for long.”

Good. I liked hearing that. Maybe the jurors will feel the same. Then we only get hit with nine million, enough to wipe out the good doctor several times over.

The judge straightened. “All right, boys. Let’s cut through the bullshit. Danny, how much will you take, bottom line?”

“Four-point-five. Today. No structured settlement. All cash.”

The judge raised his eyebrows and ran a hand over his bald head. “Attaboy. I always figured you to bet the favorites to show, but you’re no ribbon clerk, hey? Jake, whadaya got?”

I turned my pockets inside out and shook my head. “A million, judge, just the policy. Client’s only been in private practice five, six years. Just finished paying off his debts. He’s pulling down big income, but no assets yet. We can’t pay it if we don’t have it. Besides, he’s simply not liable.”

“Okay, Jake, but it’s halftime, and you’re getting your ass kicked from here to Sopchoppy. You see what’s coming, don’t you?”

“You haven’t heard my halftime speech.”

“Fine, we start with your first witness at one o’clock. Court’s in recess.” With that, he banged the gavel, and the hollow explosion echoed off the high, beamed ceiling. Roger Stanton slumped onto the defense table as if felled by a rifle shot.

I headed into the corridor, nearly smashing into the lovely widow. She didn’t notice. She was toe-to-toe with another young woman. Each was jawing at the other, faces inflamed, just a few inches apart like Lou Piniella and an umpire. I didn’t recognize the other woman. No makeup, short-cropped jet black hair, a turned-up nose and a deep tan, blue jeans and running shoes, maybe the last pretty woman in Miami with thick glasses. Tortoiseshell round frames, giving her a professorial look. Her language, though, was not destined to win tenure. “You’re a conniving slut and a little whore, and when I get to the bottom of this, we’ll see who’s out in the cold!”

The widow’s eyes had narrowed into slits. No tears now. Just sparks and flames. “Get away from me you ingrate, and clear your junk out of the house by six tonight or your ratty clothes will be floating in the bay.”

Dan Cefalo stepped in and separated the two. “Miss Corrigan, I think you best leave.”

Oh, Miss Corrigan. The one with the colorful vocabulary must be Philip Corrigan’s daughter by his first marriage. I followed her down the corridor.

“May I be of assistance?” I asked politely. Trying not to be your typical lawyer scavenging on the perimeter of misfortune.

She lowered the thick glasses and studied me with steaming eyes the color of a strong cup of coffee. The eyes had decided not to make any friends today. She looked me up and down, ending at my black wingtips. I could check for wounds later. Her nostrils flared as if I emitted noxious fumes.

“You’re that doctor’s lawyer, aren’t you?” She made it sound like a capital crime.

“Guilty as charged. I saw you discussing a matter with Mrs. Corrigan and I just wondered if I might help…”

“Why? Are you fucking her or do you just want to?” She slid her glasses back up the slope of the ski-jump nose and headed toward the elevators.

“No and yes,” I called after her.

4

THE SPORTSWRITER

MY desk was covered with little white telephone messages. Office confetti. You think the universe comes to a halt when you are locked into your own little world, but it doesn’t. It goes on whether you’re in trial or at war or under the surgeon’s knife. Or dead. Dead rich like Philip Corrigan laid out on smooth satin in a mahogany box, or dead poor, a wino face-down in the bay.

Greeting me in my bayfront office was the clutter of messages that would not be answered—lawyers who wouldn’t be called, clients who wouldn’t be seen, motions that wouldn’t be heard while my world was circumscribed by the four walls of Courtroom 6-1 in the Dade County Courthouse. Next to the phone messages were stacks of pleadings, letters and memos, carefully arranged in order of importance with numbers written on those little yellow squares of paper that have their own stickum on back. What did we do before those sticky doodads were invented? Or before the photocopier? Or the computer, the telecopier, and the cell phone? It must have been a slower world. Before lawyers had offices fifty-two stories above Biscayne Bay with white-coated waiters serving afternoon tea, and before surgeons cleared four hundred thousand a year, easy, scraping out gristle from knees and squeezing bad discs out of spines.

Lawyers had become businessmen, leveraging their hourly rates by stacking offices with high-billing associates, forming “teams” for well-heeled clients, and raking in profits on the difference between associates’ salaries and their billing rates. Doctors had become little industries themselves, creating huge pension plans, buying buildings and leasing them back, investing in labs and million-dollar scanning machines, getting depreciation and investment income that far outpaced patient fees.

Maybe doctors were too busy following the stock market to be much good at surgery anymore. Maybe the greed of lawyers and doctors equally contributed to the malpractice crisis. But maybe an occasional slip of the scalpel or a missed melanoma just couldn’t be helped. What was it old Charlie Riggs said the first day he reviewed the charts in Stanton’s case? Errare humanum est. To err is human. Sure, but a jury seldom forgives.

I grabbed the first message on stack one. Granny Lassiter called. I hoped she hadn’t been arrested again. Granny lived in Islamorada in the Florida Keys and taught me everything I know about fishing and most of what I know about decency and principle. She was one of the first to speak against unrestrained construction in the environmentally fragile Keys. When speaking didn’t work, she got a Key West conch named Virgil Thigpen drunk as an Everglades skunk and commandeered his tank truck. The truck, not coincidentally, had just sucked up the contents of Granny’s septic tank and that of half a dozen neighbors. Granny drove it smack into the champagne and caviar crowd at the grand opening of Pelican Point, a plug-ugly pink condo on salt-eaten concrete stilts that would soon sink into the dredged muck off Key Largo. While the bankers, lawyers, developers, and lobbyists stood gaping, and TV cameras whirred, Granny shouted, “Shit on all of you,” then sloshed twelve hundred gallons of crud onto the canapé table.

The judge gave her probation plus a hundred hours of community service, which she fulfilled by donating a good-sized portion of her homemade brew to the Naval Retirement Home in Marathon.

I returned the call. Granny just wanted to pass the time of day and give me a high-tide report. Next message, the unmistakably misshapen handwriting of Cindy, my secretary:

Across the River,

A Voice to Shine,

Tempus Fugit, Doc Speaks at Nine.

What the hell? A headful of tight, burnt orange-brown curls popped through my door. To my eye, Cindy’s hair seemed to clash with the fuchsia eye shadow but clearly matched her lipstick. If the lipstick were any brighter, you could use it for fluorescent highway markers.

“Cindy, what’s this?”

“Haiku, el jefe.”

“Who?”

“I do.”

“What you do?”

“I do haiku,” she said, laughing. “Haiku is three-line Japanese poetry, no breaking hearts, just recording the author’s observations of nature and the human experience.”

“What’s it mean?”

“C’mon boss. Get with it. Crazy old Charlie Riggs is set to testify at nine tomorrow morning. He’ll tell one and all what killed filthy rich Philip Corrigan.”

“Good, he’s our best witness.”

“I don’t know,” Cindy said, twirling a finger through a stiff curl. If a mosquito flew into her hair, it would be knocked cold. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this case. Your Dr. Stanton has a weird look in his eye.”

“All men look at you that way, Cindy. Try wearing a bra. Now c’mon and help me out. We have anything on Corrigan’s daughter by his first marriage?”

“Sure, a little.” Cindy was not as ditsy as she looked. She could turn heads with her hyped-up looks, bouncy walk, and easy smile, but underneath were brains and street smarts, an unusual combination.

“Susan Corrigan,” Cindy said, without consulting the file. “About thirty, undergrad work at UF, then a master’s in journalism at Northwestern. Sportswriter at the Herald.”

“You’re amazing,” I said, meaning it.

“In many splendored ways unbeknownst to you.”

I chose not to wade in those crowded waters.

“Wait a second,” I said. “Of course. Susan Corrigan. I know the by-line, the first woman inside the Dolphins’ locker room.” I picked up yesterday’s paper, which had been gathering dust in a wicker basket next to my desk. I found the story stripped across the top of the sports section under the headline, “Dolphin Hex? Injuries Vex Offensive Line.”

BY SUSAN CORRIGAN

Herald Sports Writer

On a team where the quarterback is king, something wicked keeps happening to the palace guard.

And the palace tackles. And the palace center.

“It’s scary the things that happened to our offensive line in the last three weeks,” Dolphin Coach Don Shula said yesterday.

“When injuries hit us, they come in bunches.”

Sure, Susan Corrigan. Made a name for herself playing tennis against Martina, sprinting against Flo-Jo, then writing first-person pieces. I’d read her stuff. Tough and funny. Today I’d seen half of that.

“What’s she have to do with Stanton’s case?” Cindy asked.

“Don’t know. But there’s more to the second Mrs. Corrigan than tears and white gloves, and Susan knows something.”

“What’s she look like, an Amazon warrior?”

“Hardly. Cute, not beautiful. Long legs, short dark hair, wears glasses, wholesome as the Great Outdoors. No hint of scandal.”

Cindy laughed. “Doesn’t sound like your type.”

“Did I mention foulmouthed?”

“We’re getting warmer.”

“Cindy, this is all business.”

“Isn’t it always?”

***

Practice was almost over and only a few players were still on the field. Natural grass warmed by the sun, a clean earthy smell in the late afternoon Florida air. It had been one of those days when it’s a crime to be shackled to an office or courtroom. Winter in the tropics. Clear sky, mid-seventies, a light breeze from the northeast. On the small college campus where the Dolphins practice, the clean air and open spaces were a world away from Miami’s guttersnipes and bottom feeders.

I spotted Susan Corrigan along the sideline. She wore gray cotton sweats and running shoes and seemed to be counting heads, seeing what linemen were still able to walk as they straggled back to the locker room. A reporter’s notepad was jammed into the back of her sweatpants and a ballpoint pen jutted like a torpedo out of her black hair. All business. On the field in front of her only the quarterbacks and wide receivers were still going through their paces, a few more passes before the sun set. On an adjacent practice field, a ballboy shagged kick after kick from a solitary punter.

“Susan,” I called from a few yards away.

She turned with an expectant smile. The sight of me washed it away. I asked if we could talk. She turned back to the field. I asked if she was waiting for somebody. She studied the yard markers. I asked who she liked in the AFC East. She didn’t give me any tips. I just stood there, looking at her profile. It wasn’t hard to take.

She turned toward me again, a studious yet annoyed look through thick glasses, as if an interesting insect had landed in her soup. “Why should I help you?”

“Because you’re not real interested in helping Melanie Corrigan. Because you know things about her that could help an innocent doctor save his career. Because you like the way I comb my hair.”

“You’re dumber than you look,” she hissed.

“Is there a compliment buried in that one?”

“You’re hopeless.”

I can take being put down. Judges do it all the time. So do important people like a maitre d’ in a Bal Harbour restaurant who insists that diners wear socks. But this was different. I looked at her, a fresh-faced young woman in cotton sweats that could not hide her athletic yet very womanly body. I gave her a hangdog look that sought mercy. She turned back to the field. A backup Dolphins QB was firing short outs to Brandon Marshall and Marion Moore. Though each pass arrived with ferocious speed, there was no slap of leather onto skin at the receiving end.

“Soft hands,” Susan Corrigan said, mostly to herself.

“These guys are good but Paul Warfield will always be my favorite,” I said. “Had moves like Baryshnikov. Stopping him was like tackling the wind.”

“Sounds like you know more about football than about your own client.”

I gave her my blank look and she kept going. “You still don’t get it. You still don’t know the truth.”

“Get what? Look, I’m defending a man accused of professional malpractice. I don’t know what the truth is. I never know. I just take the facts—or as much of them as I can get from people biased on all sides—and throw them at the jurors. You never know what jurors hear or remember or care about. You never know why they rule the way they do. They can right terrible wrongs or do terrible wrongs. They can shatter lives and destroy careers, and that’s what I’m worried about with Roger Stanton.”

“Bring out the violins.”

Suddenly a shout from behind us: “Heads up!” I looked up in time to see a brown blur dropping from the sky. Susan Corrigan’s hands shot out and she caught the ball with her fingertips. A cheer went up from the wide receivers, anonymous behind their face masks.

“Soft hands,” I said, “and a lot of quick.” I gave her my best smile. It had been good enough for several generations of University of Miami coeds, their brains fried from working on their tans. It had lowered the minimal resistance of stewardesses from half a dozen failing airlines. It did not dent the armor of Susan Corrigan.

“Sit on this,” she said, lateraling the ball toward my gut.

I felt like popping her one. Instead I took my frustrations out on the funny-shaped ball. Fingertips across the laces, I heaved a hard, tight spiral to the punter half the field away. He took it chest high and nodded with approval. The toss surprised even me.

Susan Corrigan whistled. “You’ve played some ball.”

Her tone had subtly changed. Good, maybe if I boxed a few rounds with the Klitschko brothers, she’d give me the time of day.

“A little,” I said. I decided not to tell her my right arm just lost all its feeling except for a prickly sensation where the wires had been frayed.

“Quarterback?”

“No, I decided early I’d rather be the hitter than the hittee. Linebacker with lousy lateral movement. Occasionally I’d hit people returning kickoffs if they came my way. Sometimes filled in when games were already won or lost and I’d smack fullbacks who trudged up the middle. Mostly I polished the pine, which is actually aluminum and can freeze your butt in places like South Bend and Ann Arbor in November. Gave me time to philosophize about cheerleaders’ thighs.”

“You look like you stay in shape.”

“Used to windsurf a lot. Now I just hit the heavy bag a couple times a week and never miss a Wednesday night poker game.”

“I can beat almost any man at almost any sport,” she said. She didn’t sound boastful. If you kin do it, it ain’t braggin’.

“We should play ball sometime,” I suggested.

She showed me the first hint of a smile. Her face didn’t break. “Are you being a smartass now?” she asked, almost pleasantly.

“No. I just want to talk to you.”

“I’ll talk if you can beat me in a race.”

“What?”

“The goal line,” she said, pointing across the empty practice field. “Let’s see who can score.”

Only the punter was still on the field. He took his two-step approach and kicked the ball with a solid thwack. The same motion, time after time, a machine following the path designed for it on the drawing board. Like a surgeon clearing out the disc, the same motion, time after time. But the punter had shanked one off the side of his foot, and even Roger Stanton could have booted one. There I go again, mind slipping out of gear.

“Yes or no?” she demanded. “I’ve got to interview Shula, and that’s no day at the beach the way the Bills dropped buffalo shit all over them last Sunday.”

“Okay,” I said, taking off my Scotch brogue wing tips. “I suppose you want a head start.” She laughed a wily laugh.

The sun was just dropping over the Everglades to the west and a pink glow spread across the sky, casting Susan Corrigan into soft focus. I stretched my hamstrings and concocted a plan. I’d run stride for stride with her without breathing hard, maybe make a crack or two, then shoot by her, and run backwards the last ten yards. I’d let her jump into my arms at the goal line if she were so inclined. Then, I’d be a gracious winner and take her out for some fresh pompano and a good white wine.

She dropped into sprinter’s stance, shouted “Go,” and flew across the field. I bolted after her, my tie flapping over my shoulder like a pennant at the big game. She was five yards ahead after the first two seconds. Her stride was effortless, her movements smooth. My eyes fixed on her firm, round bottom, now rolling rhythmically with each stride. Halfway there I was still in second place, the greyhound chasing the mechanical rabbit. So I picked it up, still three yards back with only thirty to go. So much for the plan. Chasing pride now. Longer strides, lifting the knees too high, some wasted motion, but letting the energy of each step power the next one. Two steps behind and she shot a quick glance over her shoulder. A mistake, but only ten yards to go, no way to catch her, so I lunged, grabbing at her waist, hand slipping down over a hip, tumbling her into the grass with me rolling on top and her glasses, notepad, and pen whirling this way and that.

We ended up near the goal line, her on the bottom looking up, moist warm breath tickling my nose. A lot of my body was touching a lot of her body, and she wasn’t complaining.

“First and goal from the one,” I whispered.

I looked straight into her eyes from a distance any quarterback could sneak. Was it my imagination or was the glacial ice melting? I was ready for her to get all dewy and there would be some serious sighing going on. But I had come up a yard short. She flipped me off her like a professional wrestler who doesn’t want to be pinned, one of her knees slamming into my groin as she bounced up. She stood there squinting in the dusk, looking for her glasses while I sucked in some oxygen.

“You really don’t know, do you?” she said, standing over me.

“Not only that, but I don’t know what I don’t know.” My voice was pinched.

“Then listen, because you’re only going to hear it once. Your client isn’t guilty of medical malpractice.”

“He’s not?”

“No. He’s guilty of murder. He killed my father. He planned it along with that slut who ought to get an Academy Award from what I saw in court today. I can’t prove it, but I know it’s true.”

“I don’t believe this.”

“Believe it. Your client’s a murderer. He should be fried or whatever they do these days. So pardon me if I don’t get all choked up over his career problems or insurance rates. He was planking the slut—something that doesn’t exactly put him in an exclusive club—and they planned it together. The malpractice suit is just a cover.”

“I still don’t get it.” I was starting to feel like a sap, something Susan Corrigan seemed to know the moment she met me.

“The lawsuit makes it look like the doctor and the widow are enemies. That’s their cover. And the way I figure it, Lassiter, you’re supposed to lose. Or at least it doesn’t matter. If you lose, the insurance company will pay her, and she’ll probably split the money with him. Or maybe he gets it all. She’ll get more than she needs from the estate. And if she wins more than his insurance coverage, he doesn’t have to worry because she won’t try to collect.”

I sat there with a look as intelligent as a vacant lot. “Murder and insurance fraud. You have no proof of that. And I just can’t believe it.”

“I can see that now,” she said. “You’re not a bad guy, Lassiter. You’re just not fast enough to be a linebacker, and you don’t know shit from second base.”

5

THE CORONER

CHARLIE Riggs took the stand with a smile on his face and a plastic model of the spine in his back pocket. I felt better just looking at him. Bushy gray moustache and beard, a brown tweedy jacket more at home in Ivy League libraries than art deco Miami, twinkling eyes full of experience. A trustworthy man. Like having the late Walter Cronkite on my side.

Doc Riggs had testified hundreds of times for the state and was comfortable on the witness stand. He crossed his legs, revealing drooping socks and pale calves. He breathed on his eyeglasses and wiped them on his tie. He slipped the glasses onto his small nose that was almost buried by his beard. Then Charlie Riggs nodded. He was ready.

“Please state your name and profession for the jury,” I instructed him.

“Charles W. Riggs, M.D., pathologist by training, medical examiner of Dade County for twenty-eight years, now happily retired.”

“Tell us, Dr. Riggs, what are the duties of a medical examiner?”

“Objection!” Dan Cefalo was on his feet. “Dr. Riggs is retired. He is incompetent to testify as to the current medical examiner’s duties.”

In the realm of petty objections, that one ranked pretty high, but it was the first one of the day, and you could flip a coin on it.

“Sustained,” Judge Leonard said, unfolding the sports section, looking for the racetrack charts.

I had another idea. “Let’s start this way, Dr. Riggs. What is a medical examiner?”

“Well, in merry old England, they were called coroners. You can trace coroners back to at least the year 1194. They were part of the justice system, part judge, part tax collector. The coroner was the custos placitorum coronae, the guardian of the pleas of the Crown. If a man was convicted of a crime, the coroner saw to it that his goods were forfeited to the Crown.”

Cefalo looked bored, the judge was not listening as usual, but the jurors seemed fascinated by the bearded old doctor. It works that way. What’s mundane to lawyers and judges enchants jurors.

“Later the coroner’s duties included determining the cause of death with the help of an inquest. The sheriff would empanel a jury, much as you have here.” He smiled toward the jury box, and in unison, six faces smiled back. They liked him. That was half the battle.

“The jury had to determine whether death was ex visitatione divina, by the visitation of God, or whether man had a hand in it. Even if death was accidental, there was still a sort of criminal penalty. For example, if a cart ran over someone and killed him, the owner had to pay the Crown the equivalent value of the cart. That got to be quite a problem when steamships and trains began doing the killing.”

The jurors nodded, flattered that this wise old man would take the time to give them a history lesson. “Still later, coroners began recording how many deaths were caused by particular diseases. Sometimes I spend my evenings with a glass of brandy and a collection of the Coroner’s Rolls from the 1200s. You’d be surprised how much we can learn. At any rate, Counselor, the job of the coroner, or medical examiner, is to determine cause of death. Our credo is ‘to speak for the dead, to protect the living.’”

“And how does a coroner determine cause of death?” I asked.

Charlie Riggs pushed his glasses back up his nose with a chubby thumb. “By physical and medical examination; various testing devices; gas chromatography; electron microscopes; the study of toxicology, pharmacology, radiology, pathology. Much is learned in the autopsy, of course.”

“May we assume you have determined the cause of death in a number of cases?”

“Thousands. For over twenty years, I performed five hundred or more autopsies a year and supervised many more.”

“Can you tell us about some of your methods, some of your memorable cases?”

A hand smacked the plaintiff’s table and Dan Cefalo was on his feet, one pant leg sticking into the top of his right sock, the other pant leg dragging below the heel of the left shoe where the threads had unraveled from the cuff. “Objection,” he said wearily. “This retired gentleman’s life story is irrelevant here.”

Taking a shot at Riggs’s age. I hoped the two older jurors were listening. “Your Honor, I’m entitled to qualify Dr. Riggs as an expert.”

Cefalo was ready for that. He didn’t want to hear any more than he had to from Charlie Riggs. “We’ll stipulate that Dr. Riggs was the medical examiner for a long time, that he’s done plenty of autopsies, and that he’s qualified to express an opinion on cause of death.”

That should have been enough, but I still wanted Riggs to tell his stories. When you have a great witness, keep him up there. Let the jury absorb his presence.

“Objection overruled,” Judge Leonard said. Good, my turn to win one.

“Dr. Riggs, you were about to tell us of your cases and methods of medical examination of the cause of death.”

So Charlie Riggs unfolded his memories. There was the aging playboy who lived at Turnberry Isle, found dead of a single bullet wound to the forehead. Or so it seemed. The autopsy showed no bullet in the skull, no exit wound, just a round hole right between the eyes, as if from a small caliber shell.

“The police were stumped for a murder weapon,” Charlie Riggs said. “Sometimes it’s best to consider everyday items. I searched the grounds and, in a dumpster near the marina, I found a woman’s red shoe with blood on the metal spiked heel. The blood type matched the playboy’s, the heel matched the wound, and the owner of a French shoe shop at Mayfair identified the woman who bought the six-hundred-dollar shoes two weeks earlier. The woman confessed to doing him in. A lover’s spat, she didn’t want to kill him, just brain him.”

Then there was the mystery of the burned woman. She was sitting there, fully clothed, on her sofa, burned to death. Her clothes were not even singed. There was no smoke or evidence of fire in the apartment. The woman’s boyfriend had found the body. He said she came home drunk, took a shower, and next thing he knew, she was sitting on the sofa dead.

“I took a pair of tweezers and probed the bathtub drain,” Charlie Riggs told the jury. He paused. Several jurors exhaled in unison.

“It was just a hunch. Up came pieces of skin, and I knew the answer.”

Charlie Riggs smiled a knowing smile and stroked his beard, everybody’s favorite professor.

“Both had come home drunk, and she passed out. The boyfriend tried to revive her in the bathtub, but sailing three sheets to the wind, he turned on the hot water and left her there. The scalding water burned her to death. When the boyfriend sobered up, he panicked, so he dried her off, dressed her, put her on the sofa, and called the police.”

The jury sat entranced. Everyone loves tales of death, well told. Riggs testified about matching tire treads to the marks on a hit-and-run victim’s back, of fitting a defendant’s teeth to bite marks on a rape-murder victim, of finding teeth in a drain under a house, the only proof of the corpus delicti, the body of a man dissolved in sulfuric acid by his roommate.

The litany of crime had its purpose, to shock the jury with deeds of true miscreants, to deliver a subtle message that the justice system should prosecute murderers, not decent surgeons, even if they might make mistakes. Errare humanum est. If that’s what it was, an honest error.

I hadn’t told Charlie Riggs about the conversation with Susan Corrigan. What would I tell him, that a dead man’s daughter, poisoned with grief and hate, thinks my client is a murderer? She had no physical evidence, no proof, no nothing, except the allegation that Roger Stanton and Melanie Corrigan were getting it on. I would talk to Stanton about it, but not now.

While Charlie Riggs testified, I watched Roger. He kept shooting sideways glances at Melanie Corrigan’s perfect profile. She watched the witness, oblivious to the attention. She was wearing a simple cotton dress that, to me, looked about two sizes too large, but I supposed was in style. A wide belt gathered it at the waist and it ended demurely below the knee. It was one of those deceiving things women wear, so simple it disguises the name of an Italian designer and a megabucks price tag.

I tried to read the look in Roger Stanton’s eyes but could not. Was there a chance that it was true? Not just that he might have been diddling his patient’s wife. I didn’t care about that. But that he might have killed Corrigan. That it was all a plot, that the malpractice trial was just a cover, or better yet, a way to pick up another million. If that’s what it was, there’d be plenty of chances for Stanton to tank it. He was scheduled to testify after Riggs.

I continued my direct examination: “Now Dr. Riggs, have you had an opportunity to examine the medical records compiled by the physicians and the hospital?”

“Yes.”

“And based on the records, and your years of experience, do you have an opinion to a reasonable degree of medical probability what caused the death of Philip Corrigan?”

“I do.”

The courtroom was silent except for the omnipresent hum of the air conditioning. Everyone knew the next question.

“And what was the cause of death?”

“A ruptured aorta. Internal bleeding, which in turn caused a lowering of blood pressure. In layman’s terms, the heart, which is the pump in a closed circulatory system, didn’t have enough fluid to pump, so it stopped.”

“And what, sir, caused the aorta to rupture?”

“There is no way to answer that with absolute certainty. We can only exclude certain things.”

“Such as?” Keep the questions short, let the doctor carry the ball.

“Well, Dr. Stanton here certainly didn’t do it with the rongeur. If he had, the rupture would be on the posterior side of the aorta. But as reported by the surgeon who tried the emergency repair of the aorta, the rupture is on the anterior side, the front. Naturally a surgeon making an incision in a man’s back, working around the spine, is not going to puncture the front of the aorta, the part that faces the abdomen.”

Dan Cefalo turned ashen. There aren’t many surprises in trials anymore. Pretrial discovery eliminates most of that. But Charlie Riggs gave his deposition before studying the report of the second surgery, the chaotic attempt to close the bursting aorta a dozen hours after the laminectomy. When he read the report, bells went off. Nobody else had paid any attention to where the rupture was, only that it existed.

For the next fifteen minutes, it went on like that, Charles W. Riggs, M.D., witness emeritus, showing the jury his plastic model of the spine with the blood vessels attached like strings of licorice. The report of the thoracic surgeon who tried unsuccessfully to save Corrigan’s life came into evidence, and the jurors kept looking at Dr. Riggs and nodding.

It was time to slam the door. “If Dr. Stanton did not puncture the aorta with the rongeur, could not have, as you have testified, what might have caused it to rupture?”

“We call it spontaneous aortic aneurysm. Of course, that’s the effect, not the cause. The causes are many. Various illnesses or severe trauma to the abdomen can cause the aorta to burst. Arteriosclerosis can weaken the aorta and make it susceptible to aneurysm. So can high blood pressure. It could be a breakdown that medicine simply can’t explain, as they said in the Middle Ages, ex visitatione divina.”

I smiled at Dr. Riggs. He smiled back at me. The jury smiled at both of us. One big happy family.

I was nearly through but had one more little surprise for Dan Cefalo. A nail in the coffin. I handed Riggs Plaintiff’s Exhibit Three, a composite of Philip Corrigan’s medical history. “Dr. Riggs, did Philip Corrigan have any prior medical abnormalities?”

Charlie Riggs scanned the document but already knew the answer from our preparation sessions. “Yes, he was previously diagnosed by a cardiologist as having some degree of arteriosclerosis.”

“And the effect of such a disease?”

“Weakening of the arteries, susceptibility to aneurysm. Men in their fifties or beyond commonly show signs of arterial disease. Blame the typical American diet of saturated fats, too much beef and butter. In that condition, Mr. Corrigan could have had an artery blow out at any time.”

“At any time,” I repeated, just in case they missed it.

“Yes, without a trauma, just watching TV, eating dinner, any time.”

“Thank you, Doctor.” I nodded toward the witness stand in deference to the wisdom that had filled the courtroom. Then I turned toward Dan Cefalo, and with the placid assurance of a man who has seen the future and owns a fine chunk of it, I gently advised him, “Your witness, Counselor.”

Cefalo stood up and his suit coat fell open, revealing a dark stain of red ink under his shirt pocket, the trail of an uncapped marking pen. Or a self-inflicted wound.

His cross-examination fell flat. He scored a meaningless point getting Riggs to admit that he was not an orthopedic surgeon and had never performed a laminectomy. “But I’ve done thousands of autopsies, and that’s how you determine cause of death,” Riggs quickly added.

“You testified that trauma could cause the rupture, did you not?” Cefalo asked.

“Yes, I can’t tell you how many drivers I saw in the morgue in the days before seat belts. In a collision, the steering wheel can hit the chest and abdomen with such force as to rupture the aorta. That, of course, is trauma from the front.”

“But a misguided rongeur could produce the kind of trauma to rupture the aorta?”

Hit me again, Cefalo seemed to plead.

“It could, but not in the front of the blood vessel when the surgeon is coming in from the back,” Riggs said.

Cefalo wouldn’t call it quits. “The thoracic surgeon was working under conditions of extreme emergency trying to do the repair, was he not?”

“I assume so,” Riggs said.

“And in such conditions, he could have made a mistake as to the location of the rupture, could he not?”

Riggs smiled a gentle, fatherly smile. “Every piece of evidence ever adduced in a courtroom could be the product of a mistake. Your witnesses could all be wrong. Mr. Lassiter’s witnesses could all be wrong. But it’s all we’ve got, and there’s nothing to indicate the rupture was anywhere but where the chest buster—excuse me, the thoracic surgeon—said, the anterior of the aorta.”

Fine. Outstanding. I couldn’t have said it better myself. Cefalo sat down without laying a glove on him. It was after one o’clock and we had not yet recessed for lunch. Judge Leonard was fidgeting.

“Noting the lateness of the hour, perhaps this is an opportune time to adjourn for the day,” the judge said. Translation: There’s a stakes race at Hialeah and I’ve got a tip from a jockey who hasn’t paid alimony since his divorce fell into my division last year. “Hearing no objection, court stands adjourned until nine-thirty tomorrow morning.”

Roger Stanton was beaming. He didn’t look like a man who wanted to lose. It had been a fine morning of lawyering, and I was feeling pretty full of myself. In the back of the courtroom I caught a glimpse of Susan Corrigan wearing a Super Bowl nylon jacket over a T-shirt. She eyed me as if I’d just spit in church.

I told Roger Stanton I’d treat him to stone crabs, home fries, and cold beer for lunch. Time for a mini-celebration. Time, too, for some questions I needed to ask.

6

THE VOYEUR

WE walked from the dim light and dank air of the old courtroom into the sunshine of December in Miami. A glorious day: Not even the buzzards endlessly circling the wedding cake tiers of the courthouse could darken my mood. Souls of lawyers doing penance, a Cuban spiritualist told me. The huge black birds were as much a part of wintertime Miami as sunburned tourists, drug deals, and crooked cops. The buzzards congregated around the courthouse and on the upper ledges of the Tuttle Financial Center, where for eighty dollars a square foot, the lawyers, accountants, and bankers expected a better view than bird shit two feet deep. Building management installed sonar devices that supposedly made unfriendly bird sounds. Instead of being frightened, the buzzards were turned on; they tried mating with the sonar boxes.

The doctor gave me a second look when he got into my canary yellow Olds 442 convertible, vintage 1968. At home was my old Jeep, but it was rusted out from windsurfing gear, and my clients deserve the best. Having already passed through my respectable sedan phase when I temporarily decided to grow up, I had regressed to a simpler time of big engines and Beach Boys’ songs.

We drove to a seafood restaurant in a new shopping arcade that the developer spent a bundle making look like an Italian villa, circa the Renaissance. It’s full of boutiques instead of stores, places with two names that always start with Le, and women who’ll spend a fortune for clothes so they’ll look good shopping for more clothes. Notwithstanding the glitz of the surroundings, there’s a decent fish house tucked away in back.

“The tide turned today, didn’t it?” Stanton asked.

“Right. We pulled even, which means we’re actually ahead. The plaintiff has the burden of proof. Riggs negated Watkins’s testimony about the rongeur. Back to square one. They’ll have to call Watkins again on rebuttal and attack Riggs. They’re stuck. They can’t bring in a new expert now. Our strategy is to lay low. We don’t want to get fancy, just hold our position.”

“What about my testimony?”

“You’ll do fine. What you say isn’t as important as how you look, how the jury perceives you. If you’re a nice guy and it’s a close battle of the experts, they’ll cut you a break. If you’re arrogant and a prick, they’ll cut off your nuts and hand them to the widow.”

He thought that over and I looked around for some service. We’d been there ten minutes before the waiter shuffled over to take our order. The kid needed a shave and was missing one earring, or is that the way they wear them?

“Whatcha want?” he asked, displaying the personality of a mollusk and half the energy. Service in restaurants now rivals that at gas stations for indifference and sloth.

I ordered for both of us. “Two portions of jumbo stoners, two Caesar salads, and two beers.” Best to keep it simple.

“Kinda beers?” the waiter said. I figured him for a speech communications major at the UM.

“Grolsch. Sixteen-ouncers if you have them.”

“Dunno. Got Bud, Miller, Coors Light, maybe.”

“Any beer’s okay with me,” Stanton said. Not hard to please. A lot of doctors are that way. They get used to hospital cafeteria food and pretty soon everything tastes alike. Not me. I’ll start drinking American beer when it gets as good as its TV commercials.

The waiter shrugged and disappeared, probably to replenish his chemical stimulants. I was about to extol the glories of the Dutch brewmasters when Roger Stanton asked, “Do you think I killed him, committed malpractice I mean?”

He wanted me to respect him. With most clients, winning is enough.

“Hey Roger, I checked around town. The med school has nice things to say about you. You’ve never been sued before, which in this town is an upset. Don’t let my general cynicism get you down.”

“Just so you believe me.”

He had thrown me off stride. I wanted to ask questions, not answer them. “Roger, you know how important it is to tell your lawyer everything?”

“Sure thing. Soul mates.”

“Right. Before you testify tomorrow, is there anything you want to tell me? Anything you left out?”

He cradled his chin in his hand. Something flickered behind his eyes but he blinked it away. “No, don’t think so. I told you all about the surgery. No signs of an aneurysm, no drop in blood pressure. I didn’t slip with the rongeur. I didn’t do it.”

“I know. Besides that. Anything personal with you and the Corrigans?”

“Like what?”

Oh shit. He wasn’t going to help me out. Sometimes the best way to get through the chop is to trim the sail tight and just go. “Like were you screwing Melanie Corrigan?” At the next table, a couple of spiffed-up fiftyish women with fancy shopping bags exchanged disapproving whispers.

“At what point in time?” Roger asked.

My client, and he talks like Richard Nixon.

“Hey Roger, this is your lawyer here, not a grand jury.” The waiter skulked by, his thumbs buried deep in the Caesar salad bowls. He wiped one hand on his apron, sucked some salad dressing off a thumb and brought us the beer, an anonymous American brand, devoid of calories, color, and taste. At least it was cold.

Roger took a small sip, a thinking-time sip, and said, “We were involved, sure.”

“So why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because it has nothing to do with the case.”

My voice cranked up a few decibels. “How about letting me decide that? If it comes out, Cefalo would claim you had a motive for being a little careless, or worse, having criminal intent.”

“I thought of that,” he said casually, “but Melanie could never use that. It would hurt her case, wouldn’t it, the unfaithful wife trying to profit from her husband’s death.”

“That’s not the way it would play. You’d be the smooth seducer, or a madman obsessed with her, chopping up the husband so she’d be all yours.”

Stanton’s fork stopped in mid-air. A look of concern crossed his face, but when he caught me studying him, he chased it away with a laugh. “A madman maybe,” he said, smiling, “but when it comes to seduction, she’s in a league by herself. Besides, I knew her before Corrigan did, and well… there’s stuff you lawyers would call extenuating circumstances.”

“I’m waiting.”

“I’m not sure it’s any of your business.”

I drained my homogenized beer and tried to signal the brain-dead waiter to bring another. He looked right through me.

“Right now, my business is you, everything about you and the Corrigans,” I said, waiting for him to fill me in.

Nothing.

The stone crabs arrived. Fresh, no black mottled spots, the meat tearing cleanly out of the shell, the mustard sauce tangy. I yelled for the second beer, and the waiter brought iced tea. It tasted like the beer.

I dug into the crabs two at a time, but Stanton must have lost his appetite. He fidgeted in his chair and his eyes darted from side to side. Finally, he looked me straight on, took a breath and let it go. “Okay, here it is. I met Melanie eight or nine years ago. I was just finishing my residency, hadn’t spent much time with women. You know how it is, premed in college, you bust your balls, then med school, internship, residency. Never any money or time. She was just a kid, mixed up, kind of an exotic dancer, but just for a while.”

“Yeah, after that she probably was Deb of the Year.”

“She wasn’t bad or anything. Called herself Autumn Rain. Just used her body to make a buck. So I sort of fell for her. I started my practice, bought her a car, gave her things. It didn’t last long. I found out other guys were doing the same. One guy paid for her apartment, another guy her clothes, another her trips.”

“Sold shares in herself like Google.”

“Some guys can handle that. I couldn’t. So I took off.” He looked away. This wasn’t a story he broadcast around town.

“Roger, it’s nothing to be embarrassed about. It’s an old story. You meet a pretty young thing who can suck a golf ball through a garden hose. You overlook the fact that she’s collected enough hoses to water Sun Life Stadium. You’d be shocked how many guys fall for young hookers. Want to change them. Old male fantasy. Some guys lose their marriages over it. Not many doctors, though. Most are too scientific to get involved.”

“She wasn’t a hooker,” he said indignantly and louder than necessary.

Now the two women were doing their best not to show that our conversation was more interesting than their own. I smiled in their direction. One recoiled as if I had exposed myself.

Roger Stanton poked the ice in his tea. “Anyway, I hadn’t seen her for probably five years when Philip Corrigan asked me over for dinner. He was seeing me for a cartilage problem in the knee. I scoped it. Then the disc started flaring up. We became friends. I had no idea he was married to Autumn… Melanie.”

“So you started slipping out of the hospital a little early. Sneaking in nooners while old man Corrigan was littering the Keys with ugly condos on stilts.”

He laughed a short, bitter laugh. “Hardly.”

Then he clammed up again. I gave him a c’mon Roger look.

Finally he spoke in a whisper. “This is where it gets a little sticky.”

“I’ll bet.”

They didn’t have to sneak around, he told me over the watery tea.

Why not? I asked.

Philip wanted to watch, Roger said. Sometimes to take part, sometimes to videotape. On their boat, a custom Hatteras furnished like a Bal Harbour penthouse, in their mansion on a giant waterbed, in their swimming pool.

So Philip Corrigan was a peeper and an old letch. Probably got to an age where the money bored him, and his engine wouldn’t start without some kinky provocation.

“Then, after doing a few lines of coke, we’d mix it up, ménage à trois,” Roger said. He paused and gave me a sheepish look.

If the two women at the next table craned their necks any farther our way, they’d need a chiropractor.

Are you disappointed in me? he asked.

I don’t make moral judgments about clients, I told him, because it interferes with my ability to give good advice.

Just the same I tallied a moral scorecard on the yellow pad of my mind. We all do that. We try to live and let live, but underneath it, we’re left with a smug sense of superiority about ourselves and vague disgust for others who don’t measure up. Roger Stanton didn’t measure up. He was doing drugs and a group grope like some kind of sleaze. But he was my sleaze, my client, and his bedroom—or swimming pool—activities didn’t make him an incompetent doctor, much less a murderer.

After his mea culpa, I thought his morale could use a boost.

“Here’s how I see it,” I told him. “You got stuck in a little game with a tramp who slithered her way to Gables Estates and a guy who couldn’t get his rocks off in the missionary position. That doesn’t put you in a class with Charles Manson, but if it ever came out in court or the newspapers, that’s all anybody would know about you. You might be donating half your time to charity cases and feeding homeless cats, but the world would know you only as a sex-crazed doctor who aced his girlfriend’s husband. Makes good reading. Now do you see why I have to know about this? If I make an uninformed decision at some point, it could hurt you. Badly. Understand?”

“Understood.”

“Is that all there is to it?”

“I guess so. Except that I’m still sort of under her spell.”

Oh brother.

“In all these years,” he said, “nobody’s been able to turn me on like her. She knows things, does things. She’s totally uninhibited and free with herself. She’s a pleasure giver. Do you know how hard it is for me to give that up?”

Dr. Ruth, I’m not, but I took a stab at it anyway. “Roger, it sounds to me like Melanie Corrigan is a taker, not a giver, and you better stay the hell out of her hot tub.”

“There is a certain side to her, a kind of danger,” he said. “Maybe that’s part of the appeal, I don’t know.” He just let it hang there, his mind working something over, not letting me in on it.

“Okay then, I’ve got it all, right? You played hide the weenie with the missus while the old man watched, videotaped, and once in a while jumped on the pile.”

“That’s it.” He paused, looked side to side and added, “There is one more thing.”

“There always is.”

“She asked me to kill her husband,” he said.

7

SQUOOSHY

WAITING. Like making a movie or going to war, there is more waiting than working in a trial. First the judge hears motions starting at eight-thirty. Twenty different cases, forty lawyers, crowding chambers, spilling into the corridor, milling around like chickens waiting to be fed.

Waiting, an army of minutes slogging through the mud. The judge makes several phone calls from his chambers. His bookie, his mistress, his campaign contributors, who knows? Then a clerk is late bringing up the evidence, or a juror’s child is sick, or an expert witness, usually a doctor, has an emergency.

That’s how it was the morning Roger Stanton was to testify. The seconds ticked off slowly, dulling my edge. I studied the filthy acoustical tile that covered the walls. At shoulder level, countless pencils and fingernails left signatures there. The heavy, straight-backed pews in the gallery tested the mettle and the cushioning of the spectators, a few vagrants lured by the air-conditioning. The courtroom ceiling was thirty feet high. Together with the dark pews and the raised bench, it gave the courtroom the air of a cathedral. But where was His Holiness?

Just then the gleaming head of Judge Leonard poked through the door behind the bench that led directly to his chambers. He scowled and ducked back in. I unpacked my briefcase and found a note signed by Cindy:

Sportswriting Lady Buzzing Like Bee

Can’t Get Number out of Me,

Maybe Has Pollen for You to See.

Apparently Susan Corrigan had been calling, maybe wanted to tell me what a schmuck I am, just in case I forgot. A few more minutes passed, and finally all the courtroom players were there, the judge, the clerk, the jurors, the lawyers, and the witnesses, all ready at the same time. Sometimes at this point, the electricity goes off or there’s a bomb threat, but today, we started working.

Roger Stanton came off well, just as I thought he would. I had told him not to overdress, and he was just right in gray slacks, a blue sport coat, and tie. I had him wear a beeper on his belt to remind the jury that here was a man who responded to emergencies, who could be called at any moment to mend the injured. His salt-and-pepper hair was neatly trimmed and his face reflected confidence without being cocky. He looked like a skilled, compassionate surgeon who took the greatest care when working inside a man’s spine. He spoke quietly, evenly, with no trace of the condescension that marks so many doctors in court.

I took him through the story. Philip Corrigan’s office visits, fixing the bad knee, then complaints of back and leg pain. Even hurt when he coughed. All the usual tests, ankle jerk, knee jerk, straight leg raising. Stanton found sensory deficits, a myelogram confirmed it. Finally the diagnosis, acute herniated disc at the L3-L4 vertebrae.

“Was there anything unusual about the surgery?” I asked.

“No, it was routine,” Stanton said.

I liked that. Here’s a man who cuts into living flesh, fixes the problems inside, then puts it all back together again. And it’s routine. No wonder we’re in awe of doctors.

“I cut from approximately L1 to just above the sacrum,” he said. “Nothing out of the ordinary. Down through subcutaneous tissue and adipose tissue. Bleeders were clamped and cauterized. I identified the L3-L4 interspace. I removed the ligamentum flavum and superior portion of L4 and inferior portion of L3 without incident.”

I walked him through every step of it, sending the jurors messages that this doctor knew what he was doing. He was there, dammit. Dan Cefalo wasn’t. Wallbanger Watkins wasn’t. Now Stanton was a teacher and the jurors, his students, listened to every word. Some might not have followed every move of the scalpel, but it didn’t matter. Roger Stanton knew his stuff, knew more than the jurors—a travel agent, two housewives, a student, two retired businessmen—ever would. The impression I wanted to create was simple: Who are we to judge this man?

“I removed the disc material, the nucleus pulposus.” Roger Stanton pointed to a chart we blew up to poster size. “In a herniated disc, it’s like toothpaste that’s been squeezed out of the tube. It’s pushed out of the disc space and there’s no putting it back.”

Good imagery. It should have been. We practiced it for months.

“Then what did you do?” I asked.

“I removed the degenerative disc material with the rongeur.”

“Was there anything unusual up to this point?”

“Nothing up to then or later,” he said evenly. “The procedure was without incident.”

“What were the patient’s vital signs?”

“All normal. Blood pressure, pulse rate, breathing.”

The anesthesiologist would confirm this when we read his deposition to the jury.

“You heard Dr. Watkins’s testimony about the rongeur?”

“I did.”

“Did anything unusual happen with the rongeur?”

“No, it never went through the disc space, certainly not around to the front of the aorta. In all respects the patient tolerated the surgery normally.”

“When was the last time you saw Philip Corrigan?”

“I checked him in the recovery room and once later in his private room.”

“And his condition?”

“Normal. No evidence of a mass in his abdomen, normal blood pressure, hemoglobin, and hematocrit. No sign of hemorrhage or aortic aneurysm.”

I kept him up there a few minutes longer to say how surprised he was the next morning when he learned that Corrigan’s aorta ruptured during the night. And, sounding sincere, he expressed regret at the death of his patient. I nodded gravely with my own look of sincerity, a look that took three years of law school, a dozen years of practice, and a couple Jimmy Stewart movies to perfect. Then I sat down, and Dan Cefalo stood up.

Cefalo was in a box. He had deposed everyone in the OR, and they all corroborated Stanton’s testimony concerning Corrigan’s vital signs. The aneurysm had not happened simultaneously with the surgery. Cefalo needed to convince the jury that Stanton nicked the front of the aorta, causing it to rupture ten hours later. No use asking Stanton whether that happened. He’d get a big fat no. He needed Watkins back for rebuttal testimony. But that would come later. Now, the jurors watched Cefalo, waiting to see if he could counter-punch.

Cefalo looked even worse than usual today. All the courthouse regulars knew that his trial wardrobe was a hoax, the result of a case he tried upstate years ago. In the wilds of Okeechobee County he had worn a sharkskin suit when defending a man accused of stealing fruit from an orange grove, a felony akin to cattle rustling in the Old West. The prosecutor was a good old boy and in closing argument told the jury that they could listen to him or they could listen to that Mia-muh lawyer in the shiny suit. They listened to the good old boy.

Dan Cefalo learned his lesson. He stripped off the Rolex and the pinky ring and left the silk ties at home. He wore a selection of suits that the Salvation Army couldn’t give away. As he won bigger verdicts, his clothes became more decrepit.

Today, though, it wasn’t the clothing. Cefalo was pale and nervous. He came to court with a jagged square of toilet paper sticking to his chin. A spot of blood shone through. Hands shaky this morning, my man? He kept huddling with a young lawyer and two paralegals from his office. I picked up only three words of their conversation. “He here yet?” Cefalo asked. The young lawyer shook his head.

Cefalo started his cross-examination by asking whether it might be possible to pierce the aorta and not be aware of it.

“Not likely,” Stanton replied. “You watch how far you insert the rongeur and when you meet resistance, you stop.”

I sneaked a look at Melanie Corrigan, who sat with legs demurely crossed at the ankles. She wore a simple black linen dress, probably to signify her continuing grief. I wanted to see, close up, what kind of woman plots to kill her husband. An actress, I thought. A fooler of men ripe to be fooled.

I turned her down, Roger had assured me last night. Philip was my friend. I would never kill him.

Did she take no for an answer?

Roger shrugged. Said she knew some guys who’d kill Philip and never blink.

I’ll bet she did. A woman can’t tiptoe through the gutter and keep her feet clean. If she’d been grinding in one of those jerk-off joints, she’d have run into pimps, dopers, dirty cops, confidence men, porno kings, and the other flotsam of the city. Plus, more than a few triggermen. Roger Stanton was in over his head with that crowd. Of course, Philip Corrigan didn’t die from a bullet or knife or garrote. He died from an aneurysm twelve hours after my client operated on him.

Dan Cefalo kept after Stanton for another twenty minutes but couldn’t shake him. Then, tripping on his untied shoelaces, Cefalo called it quits and dropped into his chair. We tidied up some of the trial’s loose ends, reading depositions into the record, admitting certain medical reports into evidence. I had no other ammo so I announced that the defense rested. We renewed our motions for a directed verdict, and Judge Leonard denied them, saying we had issues for the jury. Actually what he said was, “You boys got yourself a real horse race here.”

Dan Cefalo said he had one rebuttal witness, and the judge figured we could breeze through that after lunch and he’d still have time to make it to Hialeah. The Widener Cup was Saturday, and, like football fans who go to practice, he visited the stalls and watched the horses eat their oats and crap in the paddock.

***

Another down time, waiting for the judge after lunch recess. While Cefalo paced, I made notes for tomorrow’s closing argument, Roger Stanton flipped the pages of a medical journal, and my secretary Cindy waltzed into the courtroom as inconspicuous as a shark in the wading pool. She wore a white miniskirt, black fishnet stockings, leather earrings with chrome studs, all topped by a new hairdo that was spiked, punked, and Day-Glo pinked. Her hair shot in various directions like hundreds of porcupine quills. It looked like she stuck her finger in an electrical outlet.

“Que pasa, el jefe?”

“Do I know you?” I said.

“Not as well as some men I could name.”

“Not enough time for that.”

“You don’t look so busy to me.”

“We’re waiting for the judge. At least I’m waiting for the judge. The grieving widow is waiting for Probate Court to release the estate funds. And Cefalo’s waiting for Wallbanger Watkins, his rebuttal witness.”

“He’s got a long wait,” Cindy said.

“Huh?” That’s my probing question technique.

Cindy sat down and propped her feet on the counsel table. “Got a long wait for the good doctor,” she said matter-of-factly.

“What do you know that I don’t, but should?”

“So many things. But I’m willing to teach.”

“Cindy, this is serious. We’re in trial.”

She frowned. “Lighten up. I just have a sneaking suspicion that Watkins is AWOL, and Dan Cefalo is so shit out of luck he oughta buy a new suit.”

“You didn’t kidnap him, did you?” With Cindy you never could tell. Once in a sex discrimination case, a department store executive denied that he ever hit on my client, his young female assistant. Said he’d never been unfaithful to his wife, never even made a pass at another woman. Cindy tracked the guy to his favorite watering hole, ran an inviting toe inside his pant leg, and took him home. Luis (Long Lens) Morales, a convicted counterfeiter and part-time divorce photographer, leapt from her closet in time to shoot some grainy black-and-whites of the executive slipping out of his boxers.

“Kidnap him?” she asked, feigning indignation and arching her eyebrows, striped brown and orange like a Bengal tiger. “Do you think that’s the only way I could get a man to buy me a drink?”

“You bagged Watkins in some bar?”

“How crude,” she protested. “Last night, by utter coincidence, me and Margarita—the girl, not the drink—cruise into the lounge at the Sonesta Beach. And who do we run into but this nice older man with white hair and a silly seersucker suit. He’s drinking vodka gimlets but leaving out the lime juice and telling us what a great doctor he is, and Margarita says she’s got this back problem, and he says, come up to the room and he’ll do a quick exam, so off we go, and meanwhile Harv orders three bottles of Finlandia from room service.”

“Harv?”

“That’s what he asked us to call him.”

“Not very professional,” I said.

“Neither was his treatment of Margarita. Unless all orthopods do pelvic exams. Not that Margarita cared. I’m not saying she’s dumb, but she thinks the Silicon Valley is the space between her tits.”

I closed my eyes and massaged my forehead. “Cindy, I can’t wait to get a summons from the Florida Bar. It’s just like stashing a witness.”

“What? To have a drink with a nice man?”

We were interrupted by the banging of the courtroom door. In lurched Dr. Harvey Watkins, collar turned up on a seersucker suit coat that looked like it had just cleaned all the windshields in the Baja road race. His tie was at half mast, his shirt unbuttoned nearly to the waist. He leaned back against the door as if the courthouse were plowing through rough seas. His hair was plastered against his scalp. Bluish veins popped through his pink skin. Dan Cefalo was a step behind, trying to steady his witness. Watkins angrily shook the hand off his elbow. As bad as the doctor looked, he was doing better than Cefalo, who had turned an unhealthy gray.

At that moment the bailiff burst through the rear door, shouting, “All rise! Court of the Eleventh Judicial Circuit in and for Dade County Florida is now in session!” Everyone in the courtroom obeyed, except Dr. Harvey Watkins, who sagged heavily into one of the church pews, his legs jammed at odd angles into the aisle, his ankles bare of socks.

“Bailiff, bring in the jury, and Mr. Cefalo, call your witness.” Judge Leonard wasn’t going to waste any time. He might miss someone brushing the mane of Crème Fraiche or taking Personal Flag’s rectal temperature.

Cefalo was about to hyperventilate. “Your Honor, may we have one moment?”

“A moment! You’ve just had ninety minutes for lunch. Now, do you have rebuttal testimony or not? If not, we’ll recess and you can both close in the morning.”

In a trial you must make immediate decisions. Object or not, ask a question when you don’t know the answer or not, move for mistrial or let it go. Dan Cefalo had to decide whether to put on Wallbanger Watkins without even a chance to shave the white stubble from his chin or determine if the good—and drunk—doctor remembered his name. If he didn’t call him, Cefalo would close the book on the case without rebutting Charlie Riggs’s testimony that Stanton couldn’t have nicked the front of the aorta. Either way, a roll of the dice.

Cefalo took a deep breath and said, “At this time, the plaintiff re-calls Dr. Harvey Watkins.”

Watkins tugged his necktie toward his Adam’s apple, jutted his patrician chin forward, and, with the excessive dignity that the intoxicated muster in time of great need, walked almost steadily to the witness stand. He would have made it, too, had he noticed the six-inch step. He toppled forward into the walnut railing, which bounced him sideways until he fell, facedown, into the lap of the court reporter, a young Black woman who didn’t know if she should record the event on her stenograph.

“Beggar pardon,” Watkins mumbled, and Cefalo leapt forward to help him.

A moment later the doctor was safely seated, gripping the rail of the witness stand and staring blankly out to sea. His shirttail hung over his belt and his tie was askew. He made Dan Cefalo look like the cover of GQ.

“Dr. Watkins, you are still under oath,” Cefalo began.

“Oath?” Watkins ran a tongue over dry lips. Finally a light came on. “Of course. Years ago, I took the hick-ocratic oath. That is, of course, the hick…” A case of the hiccups was now distracting him and the clerk brought a glass of water. Watkins nodded a formal thank you.

Cefalo plunged ahead. “Dr. Watkins, you testified that, based on the medical records in this case, you could determine to a reasonable degree of medical certainty that Dr. Stanton punctured the aorta with the rongeur, is that correct?”

“Objection! Leading and an inaccurate summary of the testimony.” I didn’t need to win that one, just to figure out what the next ruling would be.

“Overruled,” Judge Leonard said. He started packing, dropping a cap and sunglasses into a briefcase.

“Is that correct?” Cefalo repeated.

Watkins nodded. Either he was saying yes, or he was falling asleep.

“Doctor, you must speak audibly for the court reporter to record your answer.”

Watkins again nodded silently.

Cefalo pushed forward. “Now, to speed this up, let me tell you that another witness has testified that the rupture in the aorta was on its anterior side, in the front, and that a surgeon entering from the back could not have made the rupture there.”

“Zat so?” Watkins asked, eyebrows arched in surprise.

“My question, Doctor, is whether it is possible for a surgeon performing a laminectomy to perforate the front of the aorta?”

Watkins stared into space.

Sweat broke out on Cefalo’s forehead. “You may remember our discussing this yesterday morning…”

I was on my feet. “Objection! Leading. Your Honor, really, there is certain latitude, but this is too much.”

“Sustained. Move it along, Mr. Cefalo.”

Cefalo tried again. “The fact that the perforation was in front, what, if anything, does that tell you?”

Watkins mumbled something, his eyes half closed. The jurors were shooting each other sideways glances. Get a load of this. Somewhere a trillion miles away, some intergalactic god of luck was shining on Roger Stanton.

“Doctor?”

“Squooshy,” Dr. Watkins said.

“Squooshy?” Cefalo asked, his eyes widening.

A momentary brightness came to Dr. Watkins’s face. “It’s all squooshy in there. You might think it’s like all these pretty pictures in the books, the vascular system here, the muscles there, the bones over there. Hah! Phooey!” The phooey shot a wad of expectorant toward the court reporter.

“It’s all squooshed up. And it moves. The son-of-a-bitch keeps breathing while you’re cutting him up. It’s all squooshing around and moving. Front, back, in between. Who the fuck can tell the difference?”

Even Judge Leonard heard that. He aimed a murderous look at Dan Cefalo, who hastily advised that Dr. Watkins was now my witness. I didn’t want him. The judge banged his gavel louder than usual and crisply ordered us adjourned. Then he shot off the bench, his maroon robes flying behind him.

Roger Stanton was pumping my hand as if we’d already won. I told him to wait until tomorrow. You can never tell with juries. He said he felt like celebrating, maybe carousing, how about our finding a couple chicas. I didn’t ask if they were both for him, just declined, saying I had to gather my thoughts for tomorrow. Then I asked him a question.

“What about it? If you go in from the back, could you tear the aorta in front?”

He smiled. “Our witness said no.”

“Right. And Watkins said everything’s squooshy. What do you say?”

He smiled again. “I say they’re both right. Riggs is right in what he does. When a body is dead, it’s inert. If you did a laminectomy on a corpse, you probably couldn’t hit the front of the aorta with the rongeur. But Watkins was right that with a living, breathing body, there’s movement. It’s a mess in there, things can happen. If you pushed the rongeur too far, it’s possible that on the way back, it could nick the front of the aorta. It’s possible.”

“But unlikely,” I suggested.

“Unless you were trying,” Roger Stanton said.

8

THE LATE SHOW

THIS is how I prepare my closing argument. I toss the files into the trunk of the 442 convertible and head home. Home is in the old part of Coconut Grove between Kumquat Avenue and Poinciana. You can’t see the house from the street thanks to the jacaranda, live oak, and chinaberry trees that crowd the small lot. So little sun reaches the front yard that the lawn wouldn’t support a hungry billy goat. The trees also shade the house, a 1920s coral rock pillbox that would be the last building standing after a direct hit by Alice, Bruce, Celia, or David. Granny Lassiter lived in the house when the Grove was full of artists and barnacled types, when there were saloons instead of boutiques. After the area became chic, Granny grabbed her fishing gear and headed for the Keys.

I leave the files in the trunk and head into the kitchen. There is a refrigerator, a microwave, some cabinetry, and enough room for two very good friends to stand. The house is two stories but barely more than a cottage. It will never grace the pages of Architectural Digest but is perfect for someone who does not want to entertain or rub shoulders with society.

I turn on all the ceiling fans. I don’t like air-conditioning. It dries out the air and shuts you off from the natural sounds of birds, crickets, and neighborhood burglars.

My porch looks into a jungle of overgrown shrubs and weeds that, like the battlement of a castle, shelters my tiny backyard. Because the neighborhood is secluded, drug dealers have been moving in. They are good neighbors for the most part, never noisy, never nosy. The ones who process the cocaine, however, are a problem. On Loquat Street last year, a house blew up when a barrel of ether ignited. Nothing left of the house or three Colombians. Charred pieces of greenbacks wafted over Coconut Grove, tiny embers blinking like fireflies in the nighttime sky. A portrait of U. S. Grant, his beard scorched, landed in my hammock.

I put on the eight-ounce gloves and hit the heavy bag that hangs on the porch. It doesn’t hit back. It doesn’t say ouch. I go four rounds and win them all. I think about the case, the high points, what to emphasize, what to shrug off. It all comes back, witness by witness. I don’t need the files or my notes. Each jab is a scrap of testimony to push, each hook a point to drive home.

I lie on my back and do stomach crunches. When a man gets to a certain age, he has to work the stomach hard. If not, it starts to merge with the chest. The whole torso becomes one amorphous mass. I work my stomach hard.

I finish with push-ups. First regular push-ups, then elevated, with feet propped up on the porch, hands on the ground, lowering myself into the overgrowth of the yard until the weeds tickle my nose.

Then I check the refrigerator. Everything I need, starting with smoked amberjack. I find some mayo that hasn’t quite turned green, some Muenster that has, a jar of Pommery mustard, half a lemon. There are fresh tomatoes on the counter, part of the Florida winter crop, pale and tough, the hide of tennis balls. I’ve brought home a fresh loaf of French bread. I stack some of the amberjack on the bread, slather on the mayo, layer three leathery tomato slices on top, and cover it with the cheese and mustard. Dinner is served. Life in the fast lane.

Back at the refrigerator, I buy myself a beer. The choice, a sixteen-ounce Grolsch with the porcelain stopper or Anchor Steam, my one exception to the American beer boycott. I study them both. My biggest decision of the day, other than deciding whether to get sucked into a discussion of damages or throw all my weight into shouting, “no liability.” Cefalo will have to argue both, first that Stanton is liable for professional negligence, second that the damages should be roughly equal to Brazil’s foreign debt. I have to argue there is no liability. Sometimes, if you think you’re going to lose that one, you slip into the alternative argument, but if you find the defendant liable, damages should not exceed the cost of a Dolphins’ season ticket. Problem is, that weakens your liability case.

Now about that beer, the mind still cranking away. Anchor Steam has a deep amber color. Knew a girl with eyes like that once. Every time I looked at her, I got thirsty. I go for the Grolsch.

***

The files were still in the trunk, an emptied four-pack of Grolsch was in the trash, and I was in the hammock, letting the mind run through it all, visualizing tomorrow. I didn’t hear the phone until the third ring. Realized I wasn’t visualizing at all. Dozing.

“I need to see you,” a woman’s voice said. “Are you busy?”

It took a moment, then I placed it. Susan Corrigan. “I’m hard at work trying to find justice in an imperfect world.”

“Do you know where Lagoon Road is?” she asked.

“Sure, Gables Estates.”

“That’s where I live, nine-ten Lagoon Road.”

“The newspaper must be paying handsomely these days.”

“It’s Dad’s house. Please come over. Now. It’s important.”

Of course, Dad’s house. Which means, it’s now stepmommy’s house.

“I don’t know if that’s such a good idea. Ethically, I’m not permitted to speak to Mrs. Corrigan without her lawyer present.”

Not that I toe the line somebody else draws. Guys from big law firms in three-piece suits sit around hotel ballrooms at ABA conventions thinking up lots of rules. Their idea of ethics is to give the side with the most money the upper hand. My ethical standards are simple. I never lie to the court or knowingly let a client do it. Other than that I like to shoot the opposition in the kneecaps.

“She’s not here,” Susan Corrigan said. “Just come around back to the cabana by the pool. This involves your client.”

Oh. A little bit of me knew that’s what it was about. Another little bit of me hoped it was something else again. I stored a few megabytes of closing argument somewhere between my ears. Then I showered. I put on faded blue jeans that worked hard to get that way, a blue and orange rugby shirt, and a pair of well-worn running shoes in case I had to chase her again. I never got the 442 out of third gear going down Old Cutler, a two-lane, winding road heading south out of Coconut Grove. Huge banyan trees stood on each side of the road, their tangled trunks like giant snakes erupting from the ground. The thick branches met overhead, forming a dark umbrella that blocked out the moonlight. Briny smells of saltwater hammocks oozed from the bay side of the road. I turned left onto Arvida and headed down Millionaire’s Row, lushly landscaped homes backed up onto canals with clear access to Biscayne Bay and the Atlantic beyond.

The Corrigan house sat on a cul-de-sac lined with royal palms a hundred feet high. You could get a crick in your neck looking up at the trees. The house, too. The first thing you notice is its height. You look up to see the ground floor. Though Lagoon Road is only five feet above sea level, if you add forty feet of fill and top it with a heap of landscaping, you have a Florida mountain. Then the sound, a waterfall tumbling through huge coral boulders.

You could look at the Corrigan house and be overwhelmed with its size or its styling, rough-hewn cedar flanking stone walls, sun decks overlooking the water. But I thought of only one word, electricity. How much juice did it take to run four separate central air-conditioning systems, to power the pump that ran the waterfall that cascaded down the man-made mountain, to illuminate with colored spotlights the palm trees and blooming poinsettias and impatiens? How much more electricity for the hot tub and the front gate and TV cameras? The Corrigan house was a one-family oil shortage.

The front gate was open and I pulled into the brick driveway and sat there a moment. No other cars, no signs of life, the four-car garage buttoned up tight. A flagstone walk ran around the house. It was bordered with three-foot-high pine posts, each topped by a tiny lamp. Heavy hemp lines were strung post to post to form a path, like queues in a theater.

Behind the house, a wooden deck led to a swimming pool. Fifty yards long but only twelve feet wide, a serious pool for laps. It smelled of salt water, not chlorine, probably a pipe right to the bay. Beyond the pool was a concrete dock, a boathouse, and a private lagoon that opened onto Biscayne Bay. Tied to the dock was a yacht that in time of war would be impounded for transporting troops.

The cabana was an architect’s idea of Tahiti. Whatever the building was made of was disguised by a bamboo front and topped, chickee style, with a palm-frond roof. Half a dozen coconuts sat in primitive bowls on the front porch. A machete was wedged into one of the husks. I could hear the swish of a paddle fan through the open front door. I knocked on the bamboo.

“Lassiter, come in and make yourself a drink. There’s some Gatorade in the fridge.”

My potassium level seemed okay so I demurred on the Gatorade. I nosed around. Her voice was coming from what had to be the bedroom. The rest of the place was one room, a galley kitchen that opened into a small living room with TV, stereo, and VCR. A bookshelf with some sports reference books, some poetry anthologies—maybe a woman’s heart lurked beneath the sweats—and a survival manual for Miami, a Spanish/English dictionary.

Rustling noises women make when dressing were coming from the bedroom. She could have been changing into something sheer and flimsy and dabbing sweet essence behind her ears. But she emerged with a freshly scrubbed face, sans makeup, the faint aroma of Ivory soap in the air. Cut-off jeans revealed strong legs, calves that flexed with each step. Her short black hair was even shorter in a ponytail tied with a rubber band. She wore a Miami Dolphins’ jersey that still had room for me inside.

“You like my place?” Susan asked.

“Sure. When you called, I didn’t realize you lived in the cabana. Thought you were inviting me to a pool party. Have you been banished from the castle by the wicked stepmother?”

She shook her head. “I lived in the house until Dad married that… woman. Then I decided to give them some privacy. I do my mile in the pool every night. This is all I need.”

“I like it. It’s one of the few houses in Miami smaller than mine.”

“Until yesterday I kept some things in the main house. My skis, scuba equipment, some clothes. She tossed everything out on the patio after we exchanged words in the courthouse.”

“I heard some of those words. You can exchange them with the best. Mind telling me what you were arguing about?”

She was silent. I was sitting on a rattan loveseat and she sat facing me, legs crossed, enveloped in a peacock chair. She smiled. That made two smiles if you counted one on the football field.

She was doing something with her hands, buying a little time to get into whatever it was that prompted her to call me. She started slowly. “You finish the case tomorrow, don’t you?”

“That’s right.”

“You think you’re going to win.”

That might have been a question. “I have my hopes.”

“Would you feel badly if you get off a guilty man?”

“Guilty is a criminal law word. In civil practice, there’s no such thing. I’m hoping for a no-liability verdict. But civil liability is a gray area. So I can’t respond to the question as phrased.”

“A real lawyer’s answer,” she said contemptuously.

“You don’t care much for my profession, or is it just me?”

“Either way, you’re defending a murderer.”

“Allegations without proof are meaningless.”

“Maybe you should look at something.” She hopped up and pushed a button on the VCR and another on the small Sony TV. She sat down again and turned away. The set blinked on, a typical home movie, jerky camera, panning too quickly through a lushly appointed room. It looked like a Beverly Hills hotel suite, piano bar, Lucite furniture, starlight ceiling. No people visible, just modern, expensive furniture, some lighted artwork, and a nighttime sky indoors.

“That’s the main salon of the Cory,” Susan Corrigan said.

“The Cory?”

“Didn’t you see the boat outside?”

“Oh that. I thought it was the Nimitz, four thousand sailors on shore leave.”

“Wouldn’t that make her happy?” she asked, icily, gesturing toward the house. “The Cory is a custom-made Hatteras, about eighty-two feet. One of Dad’s toys.”

The picture broke up, some snow, then Melanie Corrigan in a bikini on the screen, cocking a hip at the camera, pouting a come-hither look to stage left. The screen went to black for a second as a shoulder blocked the camera, a man walking into view. He was medium size, wearing swim trunks and a T-shirt, and he turned self-consciously to the camera. Roger Stanton. If it was supposed to surprise me, it didn’t.

“The main stateroom,” Susan said.

A king-size waterbed sat on a floor of black and white tile and was illuminated from below with neon tubes. The headboard was the skyline of Miami, etched into black glass. Rock music played in the background. Roger Stanton stood awkwardly at the foot of the bed and Melanie Corrigan began doing a striptease, if that’s what you call it when you’re starting out with only a black bikini that must have been made during a spandex shortage. The top was a strap slightly wider than dental floss, the bottom no bigger than your average Band-Aid. She was grinding to the music, rather expertly, some very fluid hip movements. She motioned for Roger to sit on the bed and he did, obedient little puppy.

She unhooked the halter top and squeezed her high firm breasts together, taking a deep breath as if the tiny scrap of fabric had been crushing her poor lungs to death. Acting right out of a high school play or a porno flick made on the cheap in Lauderdale. She tossed the halter at Roger. It landed on his head and slid over his nose and mouth. He could have robbed a bank in a B-Western.

Next the bottom came off, and she wiggled her can in Roger’s face in time with the music. She wiggled left and wiggled right, wiggled fast and wiggled slow. I had a feeling this was not her maiden cruise.

It took a minute more and then they were at it. A moment later the photographer discovered the electric zoom. First the long shot of two bodies writhing beneath the etched glass Miami skyline. Then the bodies got larger until only one body part, or two parts joined, filled the screen. Finally the camera zoomed back to show us the writhing bodies.

Susan Corrigan looked at me, her back to the screen. I was half embarrassed for her, half bored for me. Like an ex-jock in the bleachers, I’d rather play than watch. It went on for a while, then a cut and roll ’em again. The scene might have been shot another day or later the same day. If there was any dialogue, it was lost in the music laid over the action. Now Roger Stanton was wearing a stethoscope and nothing else. Compared to Melanie Corrigan, however, he was overdressed.

Roger looked down her throat.

She said something. Ahhh.

Playing doctor. A little pantomime.

Open wide.

She did.

He took her pulse. Then she inhaled and jutted her breasts out, and he tapped her chest and listened to her lungs through the stethoscope. They seemed to pass the test.

She turned over and gave Stanton a view of a perfectly rounded bottom. He laid his right hand on her ass and tapped it slowly with his thumb. A medical procedure I’d never seen, more like checking a melon’s ripeness. Whatever its purpose, Melanie thought it hilarious. Laughing, she turned over and the camera jiggled, some jollies from the photographer, too. Then Roger felt her forehead as if the poor child was fevered, and just to be sure, he took her temperature. With something too big to have been a thermometer.

The picture broke up, came back on and went to black as someone walked by the lens. I figured it was Philip Corrigan, dealing himself in, having put the camera on a tripod. But it wasn’t Corrigan. It was Hercules, albeit a short one. He reminded me of the bulldog on the hood of a Mack truck, only not as cute. One of those sides of beef you see in the gym, a body builder, slabs on top of slabs of muscle, a thick neck and sloping shoulders, a tattoo of a lightning bolt on one arm. Dark complexion, a flat, broad, mean face, drooping black moustache. His arms hung out from his sides, pushed there by his overdeveloped lats. And he was naked, revealing one part of his body not pumped up to Schwarzeneggerian proportions. So now I was watching two naked men and one naked woman. There were arms and legs entwined, a couple of glances toward the camera, and much thrusting of loins.

A quick cut and the camera angle was different. I was trying to figure out how the photographer got over the bed, looking down at the goings-on like a dance number in an old Busby Berkeley musical. Then I saw the photographer on the screen, a neat trick. He was at the foot of the bed, aiming the camera up, a man in his fifties, thinning hair and pot belly, lying on his side, stark naked, shooting a trick shot at a mirror on the ceiling over the bed. Philip Corrigan. I consulted my scorecard: three men and a woman. Again, the zoom, and Philip Corrigan disappeared from view. The screen filled with the body builder’s shoulders. Covered with pimples, the telltale sign of an anabolic steroid user.

It went on for a few more minutes, then the screen faded to black and then to snow. It stayed that way.

“Well, what do you think now?” Susan Corrigan asked softly.

“I think the hand-held camera technique is more suitable to documentaries. The lighting is too harsh, the plot a mite thin. The bit with the mirror is cute, but frankly, I prefer The Lady from Shanghai.”

“Is everything a joke to you?”

“Not everything, not even this. Susan, let it go. Every family has its dirty little secrets that are best left in the closet.”

“My father wasn’t like that. Not before her and Roger Stanton.”

“Okay. So she corrupted him. Maybe Roger’s no angel either. But what can be gained now?”

Her eyes blazed at me. “What about catching his killers?”

That again. “I still haven’t seen any proof he was killed, much less that Roger Stanton did it. What about Mr. Universe there? What about a dozen other guys you don’t even know about?”

“More lawyer’s games. Your beloved client is the only one who cut Dad open the day before he died. And as far as I know, he’s the only one who carried poison around in his little leather case.”

“What are you talking about?”

“This.” She reached into a drawer, came up with something and tossed it at me. A small leather valise, a man’s pocketbook if you’re the kind of guy who carries that sort of thing. A gold monogram, “R.A.S.” Roger Allen Stanton. I unzipped it. Two hypodermic needles, a clear small vial of colorless liquid, half empty. No labels, no instructions.

A nasty little package. I felt a chill. “What is it?”

“Succinylcholine, a drug used in anesthesia. It paralyzes the limbs, the lungs, too. In anesthesia, a respirator breathes for you. Without a respirator, you would just lie there and watch yourself die.”

“How do you know all this? Where did this come from?”

“One question at a time, Counselor. First, I found it in Melanie’s room. Hidden in a drawer with thirty pairs of black panties, which is an awful lot for someone who seldom wears any. I think she knows it’s missing. Probably suspects me. That’s why she changed the locks and tossed my things out. Second, I’ve done some research on it, had a lab test it. I’m a reporter, and I know a lot more than just box scores and yards-per-carry.”

“Has this been in your possession continuously since discovering it?” Ever the lawyer, Lassiter, already thinking about chain of custody.

“The lab at Jackson Memorial took about five cc’s out of the bottle. Otherwise, it’s intact.”

“What’s this have to do with Stanton, assuming the stuff is his?”

“Of course it’s his! Melanie was screwing him, must have gotten the drug from him. She hated my father, just used him. She couldn’t divorce him. She’d get nothing because of an antenuptial agreement. But if he died while married to her, she got the house, the boat, plus thirty percent of the estate.”

I nodded. “Items in joint name plus the marital share.”

“Right.”

“So she had the motive. But that’s all you can prove. For a criminal case built on circumstantial evidence, you need a lot more. Your case against Melanie is weak and you don’t have anything on Stanton. For one thing, your father didn’t die of poisoning. He died of an aneurysm.”

She turned her head away and blinked back a tear. “That’s why I need your help.”

“For what?”

“To figure out how they did it.”

“Did what?”

“Oh Jake, think about it.”

It was the first time she called me by my given name. I liked the sound of it.

“How they killed Dad with succinylcholine and made it look like an aneurysm,” she said softly, her armor turning to tin.

I didn’t buy it. “A hospital’s a pretty risky place to kill somebody, doctors and nurses all around.”

“That’s what made it work. Who would object if Dr. Stanton came into Dad’s room after the surgery? He could have given the injection then. And who would be looking for poison when the patient dies of an aneurysm? It’s a classic misdirection play. Like the old Oklahoma fumblerooski, where the center and quarterback drop the ball. Everybody goes one way and the guard grabs the ball and walks in for the touchdown.”

It was crazy. No evidence. Just an angry young woman searching for villains. Blaming others for her father’s descent. The old fumblerooski, for crying out loud! I looked at her. A tear came to those dark eyes and then another. I looked at the hypodermics and the tiny bottle. And back at those wet, dark eyes.

“Where do we start?” I asked.

9

PROXIMATE CAUSE

I was cruising on autopilot. On a very rough flight. I hadn’t slept or thought about closing argument since Susan Corrigan handed me the vial and told me it was a murder weapon. I still felt it in the palm of my hand, the glass cool and smooth to the touch. Succinylcholine, a laboratory name. Like the clear liquid itself, impersonal as death.

The vial added a new dimension to Susan’s bald allegation that Roger Stanton killed her father. She had an exhibit. How juries love exhibits. The murder weapon, something to take back into the jury room and fondle.

My mind bounced it back and forth. I looked at Roger Stanton sitting next to me. Salt-and-pepper hair, well groomed, an oval face that was nearly delicate, intelligent eyes. Almost a scholarly appearance, an overall impression of competence. He looked like what he was, a physician. A healer, not a killer. But I had seen him stripped bare—literally—and wondered if his taste in after-dark activities could lead him to murder.

That’s what Susan Corrigan wanted me to think. Maybe I was playing the fool for an elaborate scheme, Susan Corrigan throwing me a curve. She could have had the monogrammed leather valise made up in any shopping center. The liquid could have been water. She could be in cahoots with Melanie Corrigan to get me to tank the case. Or at least to distract me enough that I boot it. Hauling me over the night before closing argument. And me leaping for the bait, a wholesome dark-haired young woman, maybe underneath the Ivory soap just as mendacious as Melanie Corrigan. But I didn’t have time to think about it. Dan Cefalo was clearing his throat and approaching the lectern. He looked remarkably normal in a dark blue suit and a white shirt that stayed inside his pants. He turned to Melanie Corrigan, gave her a fatherly smile, then bowed in the direction of the judge.

“May it please the court,” he began, “and ladies and gentlemen of the jury. First I want to thank you all for coming down here and spending a week listening to a bunch of lawyers and doctors. I know it hasn’t been easy, but without the aid of responsible citizens such as yourselves, we wouldn’t have a justice system.”

This is the thank you folks part of closing argument. It’s a way to butter up the jurors, then get down to the nitty gritty: asking them to spend several million dollars of someone else’s money.

“So on behalf of Mrs. Corrigan here,” Cefalo continued, nodding and drawing their eyes to the plaintiff’s table, “and on behalf of all of us whose privilege it is to serve, we thank you. You had to leave your jobs and families but that’s what makes our system great. I love it, the American system of justice. It’s what separates us from the barbarians and Communists.”

I was starting to feel very patriotic and wondering when he would get into it.

“Now the first thing to remember when I’m up here and when Mr. Lassiter gets up here, is that what we say is not evidence. This is just lawyer’s talk, and you know the old expression, talk’s cheap. They call this closing argument, but I’m not going to argue with Mr. Lassiter. Think of me as a guide. I’m going to guide you through the evidence so that when you go back into that jury room, you can decide the case on the evidence you heard from that witness stand and the law as Judge Leonard instructs you.”

Two of the jurors nodded. Cefalo was starting with the low-key approach. I’m your pal; let’s think this through together. It’s the right tone. Don’t lecture. Schmooze with them, gain their confidence, then rev up the heavy equipment and steamroller them. I knew what was coming even if they didn’t.

“You folks might remember back in opening statement I told you that we had the burden of proof, to prove that Philip Corrigan died because of the negligence, the malpractice, of the defendant. Now, when the lawyers get through talkin’ at you, the judge will tell you that all we need do is prove our case by a preponderance of the evidence. What does that mean? Well, if you put two boys on a teeter-totter and one weighs fifty-one pounds and the other forty-nine, the boy who weighs more tilts the scales. We just need to tilt the scale.”

With that, Cefalo moved from behind the lectern and held his arms out, pretending to be a scale. He lowered his right arm one way, just a bit, to illustrate his point. “A wee little tilt and you must find for the plaintiff on liability,” he reminded them. He would make the case as easy as first-grade recess.

“I also told you back in opening statement that a trial is like a book, and every witness is a chapter. Every book has a story and this one is a tragedy. It’s about a vigorous, healthy man in the prime of his life, a family man, a businessman, a husband, a philanthropist…”

Again Cefalo turned to Melanie Corrigan. Six heads swiveled the same way. She gnawed her lower lip and fought back a tear. Her long hair was lassoed into a knot on top of her head and again she wore black. It emphasized her fair complexion, made her seem wan and helpless.

Cefalo got back into it, building momentum. “Philip Corrigan went into the hospital to have routine disc surgery. He put his trust in Roger Stanton, who held himself out to be an expert orthopedic surgeon. Now his widow wakes up each morning, and there’s always that moment, that split second, when she hopes he’s still beside her.”

It went on this way for a while, Cefalo painting with a broad brush. His strategy was to dance around the evidence and avoid the expert testimony until he had heated up their emotions.

“Now you folks heard from a lot of witnesses. But the two you probably remember best are Dr. Harvey Watkins, the former chief of orthopedics at a great hospital, and the defense witness, Charles Riggs, the elderly fellow who used to be the coroner. I think you should ask yourselves one question about these two. Who’s done more laminectomies? Why, Dr. Watkins has done more disc jobs than a dog’s got fleas. Old Charlie Riggs, he’s never had a patient that lived.”

A big smile; the jurors tittered. Roger Stanton shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

“Matter of fact, Charlie Riggs never had a live patient in his entire career. His testimony was all hypothetical.”

Cefalo dragged hypo-thetical across his tongue, the same way a Florida politician once accused an opposing candidate’s wife of being a prac-ticing thes-pian.

“They might as well have brought Gino, my butcher, in here to describe back surgery. You know what they call coroners in the medical profession? Canoemakers. They just chop, chop, chop it up like hollowing out a log.”

“Objection, Your Honor! That’s not a legitimate comment on the evidence.” I don’t like to object during closing argument. It sometimes angers the jurors who like hearing lawyers beat their breasts, but I wanted Cefalo to know I hadn’t fallen asleep.

“Overruled,” Judge Leonard said.

“Canoemakers,” Cefalo repeated, needling me. “Riggs has never done one laminectomy. Not one! Mr. Lassiter should be ashamed.”

With that Cefalo turned and looked toward me. So did the jurors, looking peeved, wondering if I tried to bamboozle them. Good strategy, avoiding what Riggs had said, just attacking his credentials. Sooner or later, though, he’d have to address the testimony or risk giving that ball to me on an open field. Roger Stanton was squirming so much his chair squeaked on the old tile floor. I patted his arm, a coach telling a player to calm down.

“You heard the real expert, Dr. Harvey Watkins, on the first day of trial. It was only a few days ago, but it seems like a lifetime, so let me go over it. He said that it’s malpractice to pierce the aorta with the rongeur. And it was Philip Corrigan’s aorta that burst later that night. No one disagrees about that. All Mr. Riggs––excuse me, Dr. Riggs—all he said was he didn’t know how the aorta got torn in front. But did he tell you what caused the aneurysm? No! He had no answer. The way I figure it, Dr. Stanton here was poking around so much, it’s lucky the rongeur didn’t come out the belly button.”

Roger Stanton groaned. I had nearly forgotten how Dan Cefalo could make hokum sound like the gospel. I also had forgotten to tell Roger Stanton not to have a stroke during the plaintiff’s closing. I still had a few things to say if the jury didn’t draw and quarter my client first.

“I do regret one thing,” Cefalo said, lowering his voice. “Unfortunately, Dr. Watkins was taken ill shortly before his rebuttal testimony. He was not as articulate as he might have been. But I’m sure you got the drift. It was Dr. Stanton’s negligence and that alone which caused the death of Philip Corrigan and left this young woman a grief-stricken widow.”

On cue Melanie Corrigan dabbed her eyes. Cefalo was gearing for the transition into the damages phase of his argument. He moved closer to the jury box and looked each juror directly in the eyes, moving slowly from one to the other.

“So, in summary, there is no question about liability. No, ladies and gentlemen, this is not a case of ‘who wins.’ This is a case of ‘how much.’ And this is a very substantial case because Philip Corrigan was a very substantial man. He was a builder, a developer, a man who employed hundreds and brought commerce to thousands with the first chain of shopping centers ever built in the Florida Keys. Before Philip Corrigan, there was no Zippy Mart south of Homestead. Before Philip Corrigan, there were no condos built in the flood plain. They said it couldn’t be done, but Philip Corrigan did it.”

Two jurors nodded, impressed.

“In a few minutes, the judge will instruct you as to the elements of damages, and they are all very substantial. You heard the accountants testify as to the loss of net accumulations of the estate of Philip Corrigan because of his untimely and tragic death. You will take their written report into the jury room. You heard the widow, Mrs. Corrigan, testify as to her grief. God willing, you will carry that grief with you into your deliberations and relieve some of it with your verdict.”

God on the plaintiff’s side. I didn’t like that one bit. The widow’s tears were coming now. Melanie Corrigan turned away, leaving the jury with her sculpted profile.

“The judge will instruct you that Mrs. Corrigan is entitled to be compensated for her mental anguish and the lost companionship and protection of her husband. Mental anguish is something she will carry with her every day for the rest of her life. Every wedding anniversary and holiday, every time she sees something in the house that reminds her of him, every morning when she awakens and every night when she goes to sleep, she will think of him, struck down. Negligently, mercilessly, senselessly. And for that reason we ask you for a total verdict of nine million dollars for Mrs. Corrigan and fifteen million dollars for the estate, a total, ladies and gentlemen, of twenty-four million dollars.”

He let it sink in a moment, then continued, “And I don’t apologize for asking for one dollar of it. You know, folks, they auctioned off a racehorse the other day for twenty-five million dollars.”

Judge Leonard’s bald head popped up. He wouldn’t mind five points of that investment.

“No apologies,” Cefalo repeated. “I’m told some Japanese fellows paid forty million dollars for a picture by… what’s the name of that painter fellow, Van Gogh? And our very own United States Air Force pays millions and millions of dollars for each jet fighter. But you know, they build an ejection seat into each plane, ’cause if there’s any trouble, they want to save the pilot’s life, let the plane go down in flames. A life is worth more than a thirty-million-dollar airplane. So, no sir, I’m not going to apologize for asking you folks for twenty-four million dollars.”

Dan Cefalo was just about done not apologizing. He seemed to be gathering his thoughts for a final assault. He walked toward the defense table, where Roger Stanton had broken a sweat. Cefalo took a deep breath and said, “Philip Corrigan went into that hospital and said, ‘Take good care of me, Doctor. Use all your training and expertise. Don’t cut me open and let me bleed to death.’ They put him to sleep and there he was, innocent as a baby, at this man’s mercy, and this man chopped him up.”

With that Cefalo turned and stabbed a finger at Roger Stanton. J’accuse. Then he walked to the rail of the jury box and leaned on it, a close friend of all six honest folks.

“You know, some fancy writer, I don’t know his name, once wrote, ‘For of all sad words of tongue or pen, the saddest are these, it might have been.’ The saddest are these, it might have been. What might have been for Philip and Melanie Corrigan, we will never know. Perhaps children, other lives to share with their own total love. But Philip Corrigan, who trusted this man with his life, left this world all too soon. And now Melanie Corrigan trusts you with her life. She has only one chance. If she is unhappy with the result, she can’t come back and try again. Next week this courtroom might have some fender-bender case or a dispute over a parking space at a condo. This case is here and now and it is a tragic one and a substantial one. Don’t let Melanie Corrigan walk out of here and say, ‘It might have been.’ Thank you and God bless you.”

God again. We now knew that Cefalo was for God and against communism. He sat down and Melanie Corrigan opened the faucets. She buried her head into Cefalo’s shoulder. He patted her between the shoulder blades. None of the jurors even saw me stand up and approach the lectern. I felt my throat tighten. Roger Stanton’s face was frozen with panic. It was important to show him that Cefalo’s stellar performance did not bother me. I did this by not tossing my breakfast into the jury box.

It was a very lonely walk, those half dozen steps to center stage. I paused and finally the jurors turned toward me, their eyes challenging. I thanked them for their attention without waving the flag in their faces. I told them I only had one chance to speak to them, and then Mr. Cefalo would get up for his rebuttal. They seemed to like that. I told them that he had a second chance because the plaintiff had the burden of proof. As the defendant, we didn’t have to prove anything. And then I said, let’s see what they had proved.

“A man has died, and Mr. Cefalo is right about one thing. That is a tragedy. It always is when a person is taken before his three score and ten. But the world is full of tragedies. They happen every day. And not everyone, not this one, has someone to blame. Mr. Cefalo is right about something else. This is a substantial case, but not because a lot of money is involved. It is substantial because it involves the reputation and good name of a very fine surgeon, a man who has treated the poor and underprivileged in our public hospital, a man who spent years training and preparing himself in every way for life-and-death decisions.”

I caught a glimpse of Dan Cefalo rolling his eyes. Give me a break, Dan. You’re way ahead in the laying-it-on-thick department. What did he expect me to say, that my client spent years planning his pension fund, that orthopods are out of their league whenever they move north of ankles and knees?

I continued, “Philip Corrigan died of a ruptured aorta. We all know that. No one disputes it. Aortic aneurysms happen every day. You heard the testimony. They can occur from high blood pressure, trauma, arteriosclerosis, a host of things. It can be, as Dr. Riggs said, ‘ex visitatione divina,’ a visitation from God.”

I was not going to be outdone in the God department. I studied the six faces. Nothing. Not a hint. At least they seemed to be listening.

“Let me now tell you of the crucial flaw in the plaintiff’s case, the weak link, the stumbling block where this house of cards comes tumbling down.” No one will ever accuse me of leaving a cliché unturned.

“The weak link is proximate cause. Let me repeat that. It’s not ap-proximate cause. It’s proximate cause. When we sit down, Judge Leonard will read you the law of proximate cause.”

I needed to make a point based on Riggs’s testimony. I could have said, here’s what Riggs said, but that might not work after Cefalo’s hatchet job. The trick now was to put Riggs’s testimony in the context of what the judge would tell them.

I picked up the book of standard jury instructions. I wanted to look official, the judge’s helper. Then in deep tones, trying to make the causation instruction sound like the Magna Charta, I said, “Here is what the judge will instruct you: ‘Negligence is the legal cause of death if it directly and in natural continuous sequences produces or contributes substantially to producing such death, so that it can reasonably be said that, but for the negligence, the death would not have occurred.’ Remember, that is not Jake Lassiter talking, that is the judge, and that is the law.”

The risk in discussing jury instructions is that the jurors won’t have the foggiest idea what you’re talking about. The instructions are complicated, and juries are noticeably light on Rhodes scholars. I needed to explain the gobbledygook. “But for the negligence, the death would not have occurred. That is what you must determine if Roger Stanton is to be found liable for professional negligence, for violating his oath, for that is what they have charged him with. When Roger Stanton became a physician, he promised to adhere to the Hippocratic oath. He promised to do no harm. And they have charged him under Florida law with negligently causing the death of Philip Corrigan. First, you must ask yourselves, what is the evidence that Dr. Stanton contributed substantially to the death and that, but for the negligence, the death would not have occurred.”

I couldn’t tell if it was getting across, but I plowed ahead.

“That is the ultimate question of proximate cause, and on that question, the evidence is undisputed.”

I paused again, this time for effect. “Ladies and gentlemen, think back over the testimony of Dr. Harvey Watkins. You can think from now until the Orange Bowl Parade, and you won’t find Dr. Watkins saying that the aneurysm resulted from anything Dr. Stanton did. You see, I agree with everything Dr. Watkins said. He said it would be negligence to allow the rongeur to pierce the aorta. Fine, but there’s no evidence that happened here. That’s the missing link. The surgery occurred in the morning. The aneurysm happened late that night back in the private room. No loss of blood pressure during surgery, no indication of internal bleeding. Mr. Cefalo wants you to pile inference on inference, that the rongeur struck the aorta despite no evidence of an aneurysm for another twelve hours. And what did Dr. Riggs tell us?”

I spread my feet wide and stood two feet from the rail of the jury box. There I stood motionless, a rock. I wanted them to see nothing but me, to hear nothing but my words.

“Dr. Riggs told us two things, first, that the blowout in the aorta was in front where the rongeur couldn’t touch it, and second, that Philip Corrigan had arteriosclerosis, hardening of the arteries. Now, unlike the name, hardening of the arteries actually weakens the arteries. Philip Corrigan was fifty-seven years old. A lot of blood had gone through those veins, a lot of miles on his odometer. And I submit to you, ladies and gentlemen, that his time had come, ex visitatione divina.”

I tried to see how it was going. If they bought this, we win. If not, we get hammered. I had a decision to make. This was the point where I should move to the damages issue, register shock at the ten-million-dollar figure. Hit them with the bit about cashing in on death. But I decided to risk it.

“Ladies and gentlemen, now is when a defense lawyer ordinarily discusses damages. But I am so convinced that the evidence does not support a plaintiff’s verdict on liability that I find that unnecessary. They simply haven’t proved their case.”

I needed a way to wrap it up. Take a risky swipe at the sympathy factor.

“Finally, one word about Mrs. Corrigan. She is a young woman and her grief will heal. Surely she knew when she married a man twice her age that at some point she would be a widow.”

This was thin ice. Go too far here and risk offending the jury into a retaliatory verdict.

“Mr. Cefalo quoted you an old saw about what might have been. Another writer once said that grief is the most intense of all emotions and therefore the shortest lived. Time heals. Grief ends. Life goes on. It is natural for you to feel sympathy for Mrs. Corrigan, as I do, but it is not to enter into your deliberations. Judge Leonard will instruct you that you are not to be swayed by sympathy. Sentiment has no place here. Only the facts and the law, and they will convince you that there is no liability in this case. Thank you.”

Melanie Corrigan’s eyes burned a hole in my back as I walked to the defense table. Roger Stanton’s face was a mixture of hope and fear. Dan Cefalo didn’t waste any time. He had the last shot.

“Ladies and gentlemen! I rise now to speak one last time for Philip Corrigan, who cannot speak for himself.”

Talk about non sequiturs. If Philip Corrigan could speak for himself, we wouldn’t be here.

Cefalo raised his voice in lawyerly indignation. “They’ve put this woman through the death of her husband, a funeral, a trial, a world of loneliness, and now they say, it’ll pass. Go home, Mrs. Corrigan, it’ll pass. Let me tell you folks something. When we’re done here today, I’ll go home to my family. You folks will go home to yours. Mr. Lassiter will see his friends and there will be cheery talk and hors d’oeuvres and the tinkling of glasses.”

That was news to me. I was planning to open a can of tuna.

“But the Corrigan house will be dark and empty when she turns the key in the lock tonight. It’ll be that way tonight and tomorrow and the next night. So Mr. Lassiter would have you split hairs over this and that, but the fact is that a man went into the hospital for simple surgery and he didn’t come out, and they have a bushel basket full of reasons why, but you and I know the truth. So as you prepare to go into the jury room, I leave you and ask that you remember you are this woman’s last and only hope. God speed.”

A dangerous combination, I thought, as the jurors filed into their windowless room. The intellect of man, the speed of God.

10

WE HAVE, YOUR HONOR

WAITING again, this time for a verdict. Waiting is not my strong suit. I never did the bit outside a hospital delivery room, but I know all the clichés, the pacing, the endless cigarettes, the furrowed brows. At least there, when it’s over, you’ve got something to take home. I leave it all behind. Win, lose, or mistrial, I bury it. Winning is less joy than relief, removing the knife from the wound. Losing is not agony, just the fulfillment of promised pain.

Defending a case is particularly frustrating. If you win, you have broken even, restored the status quo. Your client wants to take you to dinner. He shows you his new bumper sticker, My Lawyer Can Beat Your Lawyer. If you lose, he questions what you should have done to win. And always finds something.

Roger Stanton paced in the corridor. I sat with Cindy in the courtroom. While I read the latest Windrider magazine, she propped her bare feet on the defense table and painted her toenails a metallic silver that reminded me of a ’71 Corvette. The bailiff came by and gave her a dirty look. She wiggled a burnished big toe at him.

Still waiting, two hundred minutes creeping along, life ticking away. Somewhere off the Canary Islands, tanned young men and women from France are sailing windsurfers at more than thirty knots. On a hundred slopes in the Rockies, skiers are whooping it up on fresh powder. Only a hundred miles away, bass fishermen are lazing across Lake Okeechobee. So why am I waiting, just waiting, in an old relic of a courthouse for six strangers to tell me if I’m worth a hot damn in my chosen field.

“Is it a good sign they’re taking so long?” Roger Stanton asked, coming in from the corridor.

“It could be,” I said. Very insightful. In truth, it’s meaningless. If the jury comes back with a verdict after twenty minutes, you can be sure it’s for the defense. They haven’t had time to order steaks at taxpayer expense, much less determine both liability and damages. After that, anything goes. They could have determined liability in the plaintiff’s favor hours ago and only now be deciding how many zeroes to tack onto the verdict form.

I picked up a newspaper and turned to the sports pages. There was Susan Corrigan’s by-line above a story on the Dolphins game, a loss at Cleveland. The Dolphins never did play well in cold weather, losing 24 to 10 to the Browns and their defense known as the Dawgs:

CLEVELAND—When the game was still dicey and the field was turning icy, the Browns showed the Miami Dolphins what a Dawg Day afternoon is like on the shores of frozen Lake Erie.

Cute. I wanted to see her. Maybe after the verdict, if she calms down about this murder business. My daydreaming was interrupted by The Knock. It’s the knock that sets the adrenaline pumping, the knock from inside the jury room. It could mean anything, including the fact that the jurors are hungry. The bailiff hurried over, as best he could. He was a retired motorcycle cop with snow-white hair, a bow-legged walk, and a hacking cough. When he came out, he headed straight for the judge’s chambers, a poker face all the way. Must have forgotten about the bottle of Jack Daniel’s I schmear him with every Christmas.

In a moment the judge flew through the rear door of the courtroom, still hooking his robe in front, its tail aflutter like a mainsail tacking. Things would happen fast now if there was a verdict. But the jury might have a question, not an answer. Usually baffling questions. Could the court reporter read back the nurse’s testimony about the patient’s postsurgery constipation? You can never tell what goes through their minds.

But no questions this time. The foreman was holding a piece of legal-size paper neatly folded at the middle. He was a retired accountant. No trace of a sense of humor or spontaneity when I questioned him on voir dire. I had asked him the last book he read. “The Price Waterhouse Guide to the New Tax Law,” he responded. Not the kind of a guy to have a beer with, but perfect for the defense in a personal injury or medical malpractice case. I tried to catch the foreman’s eye. No soap. Looked at the rest of them. Still no luck. Legal folklore has it that they avoid your eyes when they’ve voted against you.

One of the women, a housewife, looked toward Melanie Corrigan and teared up. Now what the hell did that mean? The widow was through with her tears. She had dusted on some blush during the long break. A nice mixture of healthy and sultry, shedding her mourning widow image a mite early. Her lips were freshly painted in a pink liquid gloss, a wet look. Her hair now cascaded over her shoulders. She ran a hand through the reddish brown waves and tossed her head back, showing me a fine line of neck. A splendid pose for a shampoo ad.

Roger Stanton could have been in an ad, too. For Plummer Funeral Home. When news of The Knock reached the corridor, he quit pacing and hastily joined me at the defense table, the color draining from his face. Now his complexion was the gray of a California seal. I wondered if he was too young for a coronary.

“Has the jury reached a verdict?" Judge Leonard asked in a grave tone suitable for an execution.

“We have, Your Honor,” said the foreman, with no wasted breaths. He stood and handed the verdict form to the bailiff, who used it to shield a cough, then handed it to the judge. Judge Leonard took a thousand years to read it, and I strained with X-ray eyes to read it from fifty feet away. Not a trace of emotion crossed Judge Leonard’s face as he handed the form to the clerk. Annoyed at having been interrupted, she reluctantly put down her new paperback, this one a survey of women’s sexual fantasies.

“The clerk will publish the verdict,” Judge Leonard said in the same stern voice.

The clerk stood up, lodged her chewing gum in the roof of her mouth, jammed a pencil into her Afro, and in a bored monotone, started reading:

“In the Eleventh Judicial Circuit, in and for Dade County, Florida, Case Number eight-seven, one-eight-three-seven-six, Melanie Corrigan, as Personal Representative of the Estate of Philip M. Corrigan, deceased, versus Roger A. Stanton, M.D.” She paused, cleared her throat, ah-chem. Oh get to it, already. “We, the jury, find for the defendant.”

Boom. That was it. She sat down. Roger Stanton slapped me on the back. Dan Cefalo winced once, recovered like the pro he was, and asked the judge to poll the jury. He did. Each one affirmed the verdict. Melanie Corrigan looked over at Roger Stanton and gave him a small, bittersweet smile. Like it didn’t matter. Like that’s one for you. If that wasn’t the damnedest thing.

Judge Leonard was doing his thank-yous to the jurors while his bailiff handed them certificates bearing a sketch of the judge that made his round face look like Abe Lincoln on Mount Rushmore. Good for a few votes in the next election.

Then it was over. The jurors picked up their things, the few spectators ambled down the corridor looking for more action. Roger Stanton began babbling about how brilliant I was, how great Charlie Riggs was, how beautiful Cindy was. He wanted to treat me to dinner, champagne, wenching.

I was spent. I told him I would be poor company. In truth I was tired of his company. I had given him a piece of myself. The camaraderie that comes from the shared experience evaporates when the experience ends. Like war buddies, you drift apart when the conflict is over. Quickly.

So why did I feel that the case of Corrigan versus Stanton was only just beginning?

11

THE WASP AND THE CATERPILLAR

CINDY headed back to the office and I aimed the 442 convertible west on Tamiami Trail toward the Everglades. No way I was going to return phone calls and compile expense account forms after coming out of trial. I wanted some open air. Tamiami Trail is Calle Ocho in Little Havana. I passed city parks where old Cuban men played dominoes, drinking espresso, cigars clenched in brown teeth, vowing to return to a Cuba Libre. They do not consider themselves immigrantes, a term that implies a voluntary move to a new home. They are exilados, refugees in exile. When their homeland is liberated from the Communist butcher, they will return.

The young Cubans, the teenagers born in Miami, look at matters differently. With their 280Zs, late nights in Coconut Grove discos, and weekends on Key Biscayne beaches, they have no desire to take up arms or swing machetes in the sugarcane fields. If they don battle fatigues, it is only because the look is fashionable this season at the Banana Republic boutique.

When hundreds of thousands of Cuban refugees flooded Miami in the 1960s, there were few directions to go. East was the small downtown and Biscayne Bay. South was pricey Coral Gables, and it would be years before most exiles could move there. North was Liberty City, officially the Central Negro District on old police reports, a place the Great Society passed by, the scorching pavement without the palm trees of the Gables or the pines of South Dade.

The only direction was west, and those who fled Castro pushed Miami that way, blowing the city out at the seams, bringing new food and music and clothing, and in a generation, they owned the gas stations and restaurants and auto dealerships and furniture stores and even banks. From the bay westward for one hundred forty blocks, onto the fringes of the Everglades, on both sides of Tamiami Trail, they lived and worked and prospered. In the middle of what was a sleepy Southern town another country grew, strange and forbidding—Fantasias Ropas, Vistas Funeraria, Clínicas Quiroprácticas—its premises off-limits to English speakers.

The Anglo immigrants of a generation before came from Georgia and Alabama. They lived in small concrete block stucco houses with no garages, and in their front yards pickup trucks were hitched to airboats, ready for midnight frogging in the Glades. These Whites—airline mechanics, truck drivers, power company linemen—already feared the mean street Blacks and resented the Miami Beach Jews. Culture shock for these Southern Baptists was a Florida town turned upside down, where native-born Whites got the hell out, bumper stickers pleading sarcastically, WILL THE LAST ANGLO TO LEAVE MIAMI PLEASE TURN OFF THE LIGHTS.

***

Traffic thinned after I passed the sprawling campus of Florida International University. Now it was a straight shot across the Trail, all the way to Naples if I wanted to air it out. At first I pretended not to know where I was headed. But I knew. I knew the little dirt road that came out of the Everglades near Shark Valley just this side of the phony Miccosukee village where a bored Indian wrestles a stoned gator, tourists clicking their Nikons.

I slid into the turn, sending up a swirl of dust and startling a dozen snowy egrets in the sawgrass. A great white heron with matchstick legs eyed me from the shallow water, then stutter-stepped away like a man on crutches. The high ground—barely two feet above the swamp—was a mile off the Trail, just a patch of dirt behind a stand of scraggly trees. The house was an old fishing cabin, weatherbeaten boards topped by a corrugated aluminum roof that caught the late afternoon sun. An old fishing cabin is what you’re left with when your wife’s lawyer is a B-52 bomber with a mouth like a nuclear warhead. A Spanish-style house with an orange barrel-tile roof on a shady Coral Gables street is what your wife gets when the mushroom cloud has lifted.

In a dilapidated lawn chair, bare feet propped on a milk carton, sat Charles W. Riggs, M.D., retired medical examiner of Dade County, Florida. He put down a dusty book and motioned me toward another plastic chair with frayed straps for a seat. I looked at the book. Select Coroners’ Rolls, 1265-1413, A.D. Must have missed it on the bestseller list. Riggs wore khaki bush shorts that stopped just above his knobby knees. His legs were short and pale, the legs of a man with enough sense to stay out of the Florida sun. His faded T-shirt advertised an oyster bar in Key West and bulged at the middle. His graying beard needed trimming or at least combing. His half-glasses had tossed a screw and were mended with a bent fishhook. The glasses sat cockeyed on his small nose. Behind the lenses, his eyes—the color of sawgrass during a drought—took it all in and let only some of it out.

“You make a wrong turn heading for the beach?” he asked.

“No, just thought I’d be neighborly, drop by. Que pasa, Doc?”

“Mosquitoes biting, fish ain’t. What’re you doing this far west?”

“Lately haven’t known east from west, up from down.”

“Sounds like one of those country ballads. You’re not in love are you, Jake?”

I fiddled with the old book. “Not in love, though there’s a woman. But this isn’t about her, not exactly. It’s Stanton. We finished today, defense verdict.”

“Congratulations. When I saw your face, I thought the jury might have stuck it to you. Would have been a shame. That rongeur never got close to the aorta.”

My white shirt, angelic for verdict day, was beginning to patch with sweat. No breeze cut through the great river of grass today. “I believed you about the rongeur,” I said. “The jury believed you. There’s a young woman, Corrigan’s daughter, who says the malpractice case was just a cover, that Stanton and the widow poisoned her father with a drug, succinylcholine.”

Charlie Riggs didn’t bat an eye. “What’s the motive?”

“Money. Melanie wanted her husband’s. Stanton wanted Melanie, the money, too, I suppose.”

“Radix omnium malorum est cupiditas.”

“Easy for you to say.”

“The love of money,” Charlie Riggs explained, “is the root of all evil. Not money itself. There’s nothing inherently evil about money, but the love of it, that’s what does them in. Money never meant beans to me. Martha, my ex, was always yammering about money. Wanted me to go into private practice, form my own P. A., start a chain of labs, pay kickbacks to the internists, the whole lousy deal. Imagine me a businessman, or even worse, looking at slides all day, a bookkeeper in a white coat with a microscope.”

I kept my mouth shut and let him think about it, a brilliant career of public service, a wrecked family life. He smiled sadly and said, “Loved the scent of money, she did, and hated the smell of formaldehyde.”

I navigated the conversation back on course. “I’m having trouble believing it, murder I mean. But Susan Corrigan came up with a vial that supposedly has the drug, a couple of hypodermics, all in a leather valise belonging to Stanton.”

Charlie Riggs shook his head. “Succinylcholine, a lousy way to die. You’d be conscious, fully aware, but paralyzed until your lungs and heart gave out. Ugly. Somebody must have a lot of hunger for money to do that.”

“That doesn’t surprise you, does it, Charlie? Man is the cruelest animal.”

He waggled a finger at me. “A common misconception. There are animals in nature capable of the cruelest torture. Take the ichneumons, a variety of wasp. The ichneumon injects its eggs right into a caterpillar’s body after shooting it with a paralyzing toxin. Sort of a succinylcholine in nature. When the eggs hatch, the wasp larvae begin eating the caterpillar, slowly and painfully. They keep that poor caterpillar alive so the innards don’t spoil, first eating the fat and the digestive organs, saving the heart for last. Finally nothing is left but the shell. Nature is just as cruel as man.”

This was standard fare for Doc Riggs, a mix of Biology 101 and Basic Philosophy. I said, “Sure Charlie, but the icky-whatchamacallit does it for food, for survival.”

“Is that really an important distinction?”

Pulling the old Socratic method on me. “Sure it is,” I said. “Killing for food is justifiable homicide in the animal kingdom. I’ve watched enough Marlin Perkins to know that. Man kills for money or out of anger or passion. I’ve tried enough criminal cases to know that.”

He looked at me over the repaired glasses that hung lopsided on his nose. “Either way, the victim is just as innocent, the pain just as real, is it not?”

I didn’t answer, just sat there and listened to the sound of the swamp, the water stirred by unseen animals. Overhead I heard the short, mellow whistle of an osprey, the Florida fish hawk, and imagined its sharp eyes on full alert for catfish, talons at the ready.

Two mosquitoes buzzed around my left ear, debating who would dine first.

Finally Charlie Riggs said, mostly to himself, “Succinylcholine. Be hard to trace. Breaks down into succinic acid and choline and both substances are normally present in the body. A physician would know that. We could check for needle tracks, though.”

“Isn’t it a little late for that?”

He sprang from the chair and bounded into the cabin, banging the screen door behind him. “Read the book,” he called out. “Right where the mark is. I’ll fix us some limeade. Key limes, sour as my ex-wife’s disposition.”

I blew some dust off the book and it fell open to the year 1267. A crummy time to be alive unless you were handy with a sword. The book was in Latin on the left-hand pages and English on the right. Riggs had been reading the left side, making little notes. Never having gotten past amo, amas, amat, I opted for the English:

It happened in the village of Goldington after vespers the eve of the feast of St. Dunstan that strife arose on the Green between William Read and John Barford concerning sheep. William received a wound on the head from which he seemed to recover. Then he died of ague and his wife raised the hue. The coroner found that William Read had already been buried and instructed that he be dug up. When he be dug up, the coroner said that William Read died of the wound, not the illness, and ordered John Barford attached.

Charlie Riggs toddled out of the cabin carrying two mason jars of limeade with no ice. I put down the book and asked, “You want to exhume Corrigan’s body?”

He handed me one of the jars, dropped into his rickety chair, and studied the swamp. “You’d be surprised how well embalming preserves tissues. Might be hard to find needle tracks, though. The skin will be moldy, and if he’s buried in damp ground, it’s probably turned to adipocere, sort of a waxy gunk. And he isn’t going to smell like Chanel No. 5.”

He let that hang in the still air, then said, “If you’re getting hungry, I’m about to put supper on. Fresh possum.”

I passed on the invitation, thoughts of parasitic wasps and moldy corpses failing to whet the appetite. I took a swig of the warm limeade. It puckered me up; he had left out the sugar.

“Well how about it, Jake? You ready to rob graves?”

“I’ve done worse, but Stanton is my client. I can’t do anything against his interests.”

Riggs scowled. “The case is over, Counselor.”

“Not in the eyes of the Florida Bar. I can’t use something I learned in the course of representing Stanton in a way that may harm him. I try not to break more than two or three of the canons each week.”

I must not have sounded convincing. I hadn’t convinced Riggs, and I hadn’t convinced myself.

Charlie Riggs downed his limeade in one gulp, gave me his teacher-to-student look, and said, “It’s not as if you’re going to the authorities. Just a little private investigation to answer some questions, settle your conscience. Besides, it’ll give me something to do. And maybe your young lady friend will appreciate you searching for the truth, kind of set you apart from most members of your profession.”

He knew how to push all the right buttons. “C’mon, Jake. To hell with your canons.”

“Come to think of it,” I said, “they’re not mine.”

“Good boy. Let’s get to it. The grave is silent, magis mutus quam piscis, but you and I, Jake, we can speak for the dead.”

12

KNIGHT ERRANT

THE city swallowed up the Stanton verdict just as it did everything else. A tiny morsel for the carnivorous media machines. Two paragraphs in the “Courthouse Roundup” section of the newspaper, no television or radio coverage at all. 60 Minutes did not call me for an interview; young lawyers did not stop me on Flagler Street and ask for words of wisdom; my partners did not toast me with champagne or vote me a bonus.

If the jury had hit Stanton with a ten-million-dollar verdict, headlines would have screamed the news from here to Tallahassee. But a defense verdict sinks into the muck of the day’s events, a fallen twig barely stirring a ripple in the malevolent swamp.

I did receive a memo from Morris McGonigal, the senior partner, a guy with a gray flannel personality in a seersucker town. Or rather my secretary Cindy received a memo from his secretary. It said, “Please advise Mr. Lassiter that Mr. McGonigal congratulates him on his recent verdict.”

The personal touch.

I wasn’t complaining about the lack of notoriety. It probably was better for Stanton. A doctor gets hit with a big verdict, the public thinks he’s a butcher. The doctor gets off, the public thinks the jury fouled up. Besides, it was a heavy news day, even by Miami standards. Federal agents arrested two Nicaraguans who had a dozen TOW missiles and an antitank rocket in their truck, the Miami version of a firearms violation. The Nicaraguans were planning to fight the Sandinistas, a holy mission hereabouts, and would probably get probation, if not a key to the city.

A few hours later, most Miami police were busy pumping bullets into the van of a 63-year-old Cuban plumber. They had good reason. He had fired five shots at an undercover cop. But then the plumber had good reason. The cop, dressed like a thug, was stuck in a monstrous traffic jam on Calle Ocho. The cop waved his gun at the plumber to get him to move his van. His motherfucking Cuban van, witnesses would later recall the officer screaming. There was a convenience store robbery coming down a block away, and the cop, his Firebird socked in by the van, was hollering in English, a language as foreign to the plumber as Sanskrit.

The plumber figured he was being robbed and opened fire. That drew seven police cars, a number of shotguns, and forty-seven holes in the van, three in the plumber, and one in his colostomy bag. The plumber survived, and the convenience store robbers got away with seventy-three dollars and a box of Dove Bars.

I was mired in my typical psychological letdown after a trial, just puttering around the office, shuffling stacks of mail, trying to figure out where to go from here. I tried calling Susan Corrigan, but a bored voice on the copy desk said she was on the West Coast, headed out early for pregame stories on the Dolphins’ next opponent, their old nemesis, the Raiders. I wanted to see her, and not just to talk about digging up dear old Dad. I had a little buzz about Ms. Susan Corrigan. That happens sometimes when I get stiff-armed. Don’t know why, maybe my ego needs bruising. Maybe too much easy flesh in the early years. Or maybe I had matured a notch or two until I finally appreciated a strong, savvy lady more than a lusty, dim one. Whatever the reason, the image of the suntanned and sharp-tongued sports writer was hovering just below the surface of my consciousness.

I had just hung up with the newspaper when Cindy slipped me a note:

Widow Not Merry,

Do Not Tarry;

Commotion, Line Two.

I punched the flashing button and heard shouting in the background, a man’s voice and a woman’s voice. I couldn’t make out the words. I said hello a bunch of times. The phone must have been put down. Some women need two hands to argue. The voices came closer. “You owe me,” the man’s voice said, booming over the wire. Then the sound of a woman laughing. More yelling, then a woman’s loud voice telling the man to get out. I thought I heard a door slam. Then silence.

“Hello.” The woman’s voice, under perfect control. “Mr. Lassiter?”

I told her it was.

She told me it was Mrs. Corrigan calling. I knew that.

She said there was trouble. I knew that, too.

Could you come over?

“If you have trouble, why not call the police?” I suggested.

“You wouldn’t like that,” she said, evenly. “Neither would your client.”

It was coming into focus. “Is Roger there?”

“He is, and he’s making quite a scene.”

“Put him on.”

“At the moment, he’s pacing on the patio by the Jacuzzi. If it’s just the same to you, I’d rather not have him in the house. He hit me. And I don’t think he’ll leave my property unless you come talk to him. Or should I just call the police and charge him with trespassing and assault?”

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

She didn’t ask if I knew the address and I didn’t tell her I did. I just headed to the parking garage, and like a knight errant, saddled my steed and galloped south on Miami Avenue toward Coconut Grove and Gables Estates beyond. At the same time I wondered what Roger Stanton was doing, screwing everything up. Why wasn’t he sawing bones and scraping kneecaps? What was it he’d said? That he was still under her spell. Didn’t he know she was poison?

***

The water still tumbled through its manmade waterfall and the house still sat, silent as a tomb, atop its manmade hill. But no cars in the driveway, no voices to break the gentle roar of the waterfall, and no Roger Stanton. The winter sun, low in the afternoon sky, slanted narrow shadows from the royal palms, like jailhouse bars, across the Corrigan house. A chill was in the air, a cold front from the Midwest rustling the palm fronds with a crisp northwest breeze. I parked by the waterfall, patted the 442 on the rump and told it to stay put. Then, I walked up the front steps and rang the bell.

“He threatened to kill me,” Melanie Corrigan said.

She had thrown open the double doors, a good trick in itself. Fifteen feet high, six inches thick, cross-hatched by thick beams, a circus elephant could slip in sideways.

“Where is he?”

“He threatened to kill me,” she repeated. There was a red splotch just below her left eye. A right-handed guy who doesn’t know how to punch might have glanced one off there. “He left. Drove away like a madman. Cursing at me.”

She led me into the foyer and closed the door. An electric bolt clicked into place like a bullet shoved into the chamber. The foyer had a marble floor and a cathedral ceiling. Not as big as Madison Square Garden, but you still could play basketball there. Full court. Between the foyer and the living room was a pond stocked with fat orange fish. A fountain poured water over an island where bronze flamingoes and alligators eyed each other between rocks and ferns. We walked past the pond and around a glass-enclosed elevator, crossing no more than two county lines. We tiptoed down three marble steps without disturbing an eight-foot Zulu warrior carved from teak, and we landed in an octagonal, sunken living room.

The living room was black and white, black furniture that looked plastic to me but must have cost a bundle when selected by a trendy designer, white tile that wouldn’t stay clean a minute if I lived there, white walls covered with paintings of women’s heads floating away from their bodies, an ebony grand piano that was probably for show. All in all, a starter home for the nouveau riche who want to make a personal statement: We have more money than we know what to do with.

Melanie Corrigan fit right in—she wore black. I knew it was silk, but I didn’t know if it was a slip or a dress. I did know there was nothing between the silk and her satin skin. The silk thing was held up by two thin straps, was cut low at the breasts and high on the thighs and was sheer as a shadow. If it was a dress you wouldn’t wear it to church. If it was a slip, where was her dress?

“Thank you for coming, Mr. Lassiter. May I call you Jake?”

“Of course, Melanie.” I nodded in the direction of her décolletage. “Are you auditioning for Cat on a Hot Tin Roof?”

It only took her a second. “Do you think I’d be a good Maggie?”

“From what I hear, you’d get an Oscar, a Tony, and a Super Bowl ring.”

“Your client talks too much.” She narrowed her eyes. “He also made the mistake of underestimating me.”

“And I’ll bet he wasn’t the first.”

She looked at me straight on, sizing me up. Then a little smile like we shared some secret. “Would you like a drink?” she asked.

I said yes but she didn’t ask what I wanted. She slid behind a bar, and I took a seat on a Lucite barstool that would throw your back into spasms if you stayed for more than two drinks. The designer obviously had not been in many bars where men sit and talk and drink. Melanie Corrigan bent down to get a bottle and let me see the tops of very white, very firm breasts.

I would have liked a beer. She reached for tequila and orange juice and poured some of each in a glass you could have used to put out a three-alarm fire. She dropped in some ice cubes and shook a dash of bitters on top. I don’t care for a drink that needs ice and fruit juice.

“Tijuana Sunrise,” she said.

“Buenos días,” I said.

She poured herself one, and we each took a sip. She didn’t seem to be in a hurry. Her russet hair was tumbling free today, lightly brushing her shoulders where the tiny silk straps did their best to slide downhill.

“Roger is getting to be a problem,” she said finally, touching her cheekbone where the bruise was already beginning to darken. She had long, graceful fingers, nails expensively done with lots of color. “He can’t accept the fact that it’s over.”

She tugged at one of the slippery straps. I kept quiet.

“He apparently told you about us,” she continued, fishing to find out what I knew.

“Every dirty little detail, the twosomes, the threesomes.”

She didn’t blink, just gave a little shrug that sent the strap slithering off one shoulder. The black silk fell open, exposing a cinnamon nipple that acted like it enjoyed being watched.

“He thinks he still owns me, thinks I’m still a kid. You’ve got to keep him away from me or he’s going to get hurt.”

“That sounds like a threat.”

“I could say things that wouldn’t be good for his health.”

“Such as?”

She studied me a moment, deciding how much to say. “He wanted to kill Philip, wanted me to do it. That’s all he talked about for months. I refused, of course.”

“Of course,” I said with just a dash of sarcasm like the bitters in the silly drink.

“Screw you, Lassiter,” she said. What happened to Jake?

She gave me a look with a below-zero wind chill and said, “I might not have been the world’s greatest wife by your standards, but I did a lot for Philip. Whatever he asked. We had an arrangement. He got what he wanted from me, and I got what I wanted from him.”

“His bank accounts and stock portfolio.”

She wouldn’t let me rile her. “The freedom that came with those things. Philip didn’t care if I saw other men, maybe even liked it. For me things were great. I didn’t depend on men’s handouts anymore. Why would I kill him? There was no reason to.”

“So why did you keep your mouth shut when your darling husband planned to go under the knife of the doctor who wanted him dead?”

“I was scared to death when Philip went in the hospital, but I thought, with all the nurses and other doctors around, Roger just couldn’t…”

She let it hang there.

“He didn’t,” I said. “The jury found that Roger wasn’t even negligent, much less a killer. Your husband died of a spontaneous aneurysm.”

“He was poisoned,” she said without a trace of emotion. “In his hospital room.”

I took a long hit on the drink to think that one over. This conversation sounded familiar.

She kept going. “Roger had this liquid in a bottle, an anesthetic. He wanted me to use it on Philip. Get him drunk or stoned, then inject him in the buttocks. Said it couldn’t be traced.”

“He gave you the bottle?”

“No. I wouldn’t take it then. After Philip died, I was at Roger’s house. I was still seeing him until I filed the lawsuit. I knew he kept the bottle in a small refrigerator, so I took it. I wanted to turn it over to the authorities.”

“Did you?”

She looked away. “No. I know I should have, but then everything would have come out in the newspapers. I’ve worked hard to earn respectability, and it would all be gone.”

“But you sued him for malpractice.”

“I didn’t want to. I didn’t want the attention. But I was afraid if I didn’t sue Roger, it would raise suspicions. Philip’s daughter, that tomboy bitch, would have thought Roger and I killed him.”

Lights were flashing like a pinball machine. Susan Corrigan may have been right about Roger Stanton but wrong about Melanie Corrigan. Melanie had to be telling the truth, I thought. She couldn’t risk telling me about the drug if she had been in on it.

“What was Roger doing here today?”

“I never really told him it was over. I didn’t want to hurt him. When I filed the suit, I told him we’d get back together after the trial. Today I told him to stay away and he freaked.”

“Show me the drug,” I said, already knowing the response.

She gave me a helpless look that I hadn’t seen on her before. “I can’t,” she said. “It’s gone, stolen.”

I decided there was nothing to be gained in telling Melanie Corrigan that her beloved stepdaughter had been poking around in her underwear drawer. “What do you want me to do?” I asked.

She half smiled and half sighed. Her eyes seemed to widen, to change from business to bedroom, a neat trick. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the sun was setting, and inside, the room was bathed in pink. Melanie Corrigan’s skin took on a soft glow, and it hadn’t looked bad in the light. She glided around the bar to where I was planted on the hard-as-granite barstool. She pulled up the silky strap one more time and now her perky nipples poked at the flimsy fabric. Maybe they were standing at attention because of the cool evening air or maybe it had something to do with the full moon coming up over the bay. Or maybe it was the proximity of me. Or maybe, just maybe, I should have my head examined. Ready to drink that pretty poison, as big a fool as Roger Stanton.

At that moment what I wanted most was knowledge of self. I would have liked to figure out that urge that started halfway between my knees and chest and threatened to spread northward until it flooded whatever brain cells still worked without a jump start. I would have liked to, but I didn’t have time because she looked me right in the eyes, smiled, and then slapped me.

There are slaps that ring your ears and slaps that bring tears to your eyes. This one could do neither. Less sting than my aftershave. I smiled at her and stood up. She had on a funny look, watching me with pouting lips. She had a good pout.

Then she slapped me again. Harder. Not enough to take an eight-count, but probably enough to bring some color to my cheeks, as well as to hers. Especially hers. She was enjoying this, warming up around the eyes. A hot little smile now. And crack, another slap. I was getting used to it.

She threw her arms around my neck, pressed herself up against me, then rocked up and down on her tiptoes as if stretching her calves. What she was doing was rubbing parts of her against parts of me like a very friendly, very slinky cat. My hands slid down her back to her round, tight bottom. She was firm where a woman ought to be firm and soft where a woman ought to be soft.

I looked at her close up. She had tiny golden freckles across the bridge of her nose, and little smile lines creased the corners of her mouth. A look of innocence and mirth. But the eyes were something else, wet and wild. And her neck was fragrant with the sweetness of the tropical night. A provocative blend of the pure and the wanton.

“When your face gets red, your eyes are even bluer,” she said.

“Wait’ll I start bleeding. I’ll be another Paul Newman.”

“You like being slapped,” she said. Telling me, not asking me.

“Not as much as some other things,” I said.

“You could learn.” She pulled me toward her, looking into my eyes from under long lashes, still standing on her toes, straining against me. “You’re a big man,” she said, running her hands across my back. “More man than Roger or Philip.”

Then she decided to see if I could swallow her tongue.

I could.

Just then an ugly noise from outside filled the room. A shout in Japanese split the air like a police siren. It could have awakened the dead at Guadalcanal, and it nearly cost Melanie Corrigan the tip of her slippery tongue. I let her go, and she straightened her sliding strap and brushed a hand through her hair.

“Must be Sergio,” she said, as if there was nothing unusual in a banzai yell interrupting a perfectly fine kiss. We retraced the path to the foyer without pausing for food or water. Then another bellow from outside, and the front door shuddered as if hit by a wrecking ball. “He probably saw your car outside. He’s insanely jealous.”

Yet another Oriental war whoop and again the door groaned in pain.

“Sergio?” I asked.

“Sergio Machado-Alvarez,” she said, serenely. “My chauffeur, boat captain, and… friend. We’d better open the door or he’ll just break it down.”

She punched the code into the digital alarm and unleashed the deadbolt. The huge door swung open to reveal a swarthy, moustachioed block of concrete. Sneakers, sweat pants, and a sleeveless muscle shirt, a tattoo of a lightning bolt on his tricep. He had plenty of beef to show, huge shoulders and chest, a fireplug of muscle and malice. Recently, I’d seen even more of him on videotape.

Sergio Machado-Alvarez stepped into the foyer and shot me a sideways smile, a mean little smile under the drooping moustache. He had big gray teeth like a double row of gravestones. He needed a shave and always would.

There was only one thing that detracted from his overall appearance as a menace to society. He was short. Like a lot of little guys he probably was working hard on the compensation factor. Building huge muscles, getting tough with karate, having something to show off. Stand at any gas station and study men and their cars in relation to their size. Check out how many short guys drive Sedan de Villes and Lincoln Town Cars. They need pillows to see over the steering wheel. Then come the big guys. They have to unfold a section at a time to get out of their Alfa Romeos and Corvettes.

“Do you know who I am?” he asked. A voice of practiced toughness, a faint Cuban accent.

“Something that escaped from the zoo.”

“Hijo de puta,” he snarled, “I’ll dig you another asshole.”

“Why not spare yourself the trouble and just lend me one of yours?” Even I didn’t know what that meant, the mouth being quicker than the mind.

He took a few seconds to think it over, then dropped into the half-moon stance with legs spread, left foot forward, hands on hips. I needed this like I needed to be in traction, which I might be if either of us found it necessary to show off for the lady of the house. I had been hitting the heavy bag at home. But the heavy bag doesn’t know karate. And this guy looked like he intended to scatter my teeth.

“Hombre, you think you’re tough?”

“No, I’m a pansy. You’re tough.”

He was trying to figure out if I was pulling his chain. He was the kind of guy who needed to take a thought and spread it on the kitchen table with the comics page. “I got cojones grandes, balls the size of grapefruit,” he said slowly, as if he had memorized the phrase.

“You can take penicillin for that,” I suggested.

His throat released a growl that a Doberman would be proud to own. Melanie shook a long fingernail and said, “Sergio, Mr. Lassiter is my guest. Please mind your manners. And don’t you have a class to teach?”

The sinister little hulk looked at his watch, his lips moving slowly.

“Little hand on the six, big hand on the eleven,” I said, helpfully. “You can figure it out.”

His eyes flicked toward Melanie. “I got to train housewives to kick their husbands in the balls.” Then he looked at me and made his face even uglier. He seemed to be all forehead and whiskers. “I’ll see you another time, cagado carbón asshole,” he said.

“How’s Wednesday for lunch? Have your girl call my girl.”

This time the growl became a shriek. He bolted through the open doorway and bounded down the steps as fast as his chunky legs could move. “Ushiro-keomi!” His yell nearly drowned out the sound of the electric-powered waterfall tumbling over the landscaping. Then, in the driveway, he spun sideways and put out the left headlight on my 442 with a back-thrust kick. Glass scattered on the cobblestones. What kind of a man hurts an innocent old car?

“Shuto!” He brought his hand down like a sword across the hood, the sickening sound of metal giving way, caving in. Next, I figured, he would bite the tires and give me four flats. Instead, he jumped on his motorcycle, a loud Kawasaki, did a wheelie, and screamed off into the night, shouting unheard insults over his shoulder.

I surveyed the damage to the 442, then sat down on the front steps.

“Do you want to come back in?” Melanie Corrigan said with a promise as large as a king-size waterbed. But the moment had passed. My brains had taken over. I didn’t want her tequila and orange juice and didn’t want any part of her. She was too available, too free with herself, but too expensive for her men. Look at the price Philip Corrigan paid, and Roger Stanton, tangled up with lust and maybe murder. And Sergio, the muscle-bound half-wit, martial arts fueled by jealousy.

I wanted to see Susan Corrigan, wanted to tell her about Melanie’s charges against Roger. I wanted some help in figuring it all out. But first, I wanted to go home and pound out the vicious dent in my wounded chariot.

13

GRAVEYARD SHIFT

A great piece of luck, Charlie Riggs was saying. Philip Corrigan entombed in a crypt aboveground, an ornate mausoleum with the design of Palmland, his largest shopping center, molded into the concrete.

“A great piece of luck,” he said again, “especially with Corrigan dead two years. In Florida the ground is so damp, the tissues break down fast. I hate to tell you what corpses look like when you dig them up, mold on the outside, parasites and larvae on the inside. Mausoleum tombs are so rare these days, so expensive. But I guess he could afford it.”

“Judging from his house, the tomb will have a wine cellar, an elevator, and a butler,” I said.

“Just so it’s airtight, that’s the ticket.”

Riggs was nearly smacking his lips at the prospect of popping the top on Philip Corrigan’s last resting place. I had pulled the funeral bills from the case file. In a wrongful death case the estate recovers funeral expenses, and I remembered a fifty-thousand-dollar number. Sure enough, there it was, a bill from Eternal Memories Mortuary and Mausoleum. When the first Mrs. Corrigan had died, her husband bought the choicest acre plot and ordered a mausoleum built for two, and not the compact efficiency model either. The perfect touch from the loving husband, a promise that his bones would one day rest beside hers. Just not so soon, Philip Corrigan would have hoped.

Eighty-five thousand for construction and services related to Mrs. Corrigan. Another fifty grand two years later for finishing Philip Corrigan’s crypt put the whole shebang into six figures for the condo-like mausoleum. According to the specifications on the bill, it had a sitting room with a concrete bench so mourners could be shielded from the midday sun, a main room with matching concrete crypts on raised platforms of coral rock, and a foyer with the inscription, “Death Pays All Debts,” a fitting eulogy for a guy who leveraged construction loans into his fortune.

Charlie Riggs and I were in my Olds 442, which sported a new headlight and pounded-out hood, and responded with a happy roar coming east on Tamiami Trail. I had told Riggs about the conversation with Melanie Corrigan, leaving out the details of the slinky body and lingering kiss. Her allegations against Stanton fascinated him.

“Fits a little too nicely,” he said, chewing on a cold pipe. His forehead was furrowed in thought, and the lights were on behind his straw-colored eyes.

“How’s that?”

“First the daughter tells you the doctor used the drug to kill Corrigan. Then the widow tells you the doctor wanted her to do it with the drug. You don’t even know if the liquid the daughter showed you is succinylcholine.”

“What are you saying?”

“That the two women could be framing the good doctor.”

“I can’t buy it. Every crime needs a motive, as you constantly remind me. Melanie Corrigan might have one, just to get rid of Stanton. He’s a pest to her. But Susan Corrigan, what could she have against Stanton?”

Riggs tried to light his pipe, no easy task with the top down and the 442 howling at seventy-five. “Maybe nothing, except they needed a fall guy for the murder of Philip Corrigan.”

“What?” I nearly lost control, swerving to avoid a dead armadillo.

“How was the estate split?”

“Melanie got the house, the yacht, and thirty percent of the gross assets. Susan got the rest after estate taxes. Neither one’s going hungry.”

“So they each had a motive, hypothetically at least, for wanting Philip Corrigan dead.”

“Hey Doc, we’re talking about a girl and her father.”

“As Plautus said, lupus est homo homini. Man is a wolf to man. It applies to women, too. Inhumanity is often at its worst inside the family. Men beat their wives or commit incest. Wives kill their husbands, sometimes in the most bizarre manner. And daughters sometimes kill their fathers.”

“That’s sick, Charlie.”

"So it is,” he said, giving up on the pipe and blinking into the wind.

***

We followed the stone path around the house and found Susan Corrigan just getting out of the saltwater pool. She wore a dark blue, no-nonsense Lycra competition suit. It clung to every curve and crevice of her athletic body. She put on her tortoiseshell glasses, which immediately steamed up.

“Finished with two hundred yards of butterfly,” she said, puffing a little. “Gets the blood flowing.”

I introduced her to Charlie Riggs, and she gave him a respectful hello and asked why the distinguished former coroner would hang around with a second-string ex-jock turned shyster. On the off chance that was a joke, I laughed like a good sport. Then I handed her a towel, but she neglected to ask me to dry her back so I didn’t. Plowing common ground, I said I had read her game story from LA. The Dolphin receivers dropped everything but their paychecks Sunday.

“Eight dropped passes,” she said, “two in the end zone, they lose by three points. And the defense played great. Did you see Tyrone Washington? Four sacks.”

Charlie Riggs cleared his throat. Small talk was not his forte. “Miss Corrigan, you know what we want to do.”

“Yes,” she said. “Jake told me on the phone. Did you bring the papers?”

“I prepared an affidavit,” I said, “but it’s not going to be much good. I asked Melanie to sign it, too, to get permission from both of you, but she refused.”

Susan flung the towel onto the wet pool deck. Her eyes blazed. “You did what! She killed Dad or at least helped Stanton do it. Why would you ask her?”

“As the surviving wife and the personal representative of the estate, she technically has the right to say yes or no,” I said. “And you might be wrong about her.” I recounted my meeting with the widow, again leaving out the snuggling stuff.

“So,” I said, “both of you accuse Roger Stanton of poisoning your father. But she won’t give permission to exhume the body. Says to let it go, she doesn’t want to be involved.”

“And don’t you find that suspicious?” Susan asked as if I were a simpleton.

“Maybe if she hadn’t tipped me to Roger in the first place, it would be suspicious. But now, I don’t know.”

She fastened me with an angry look I was coming to know too well. “I tipped you to Roger Stanton. And now I authorize you to do the autopsy. If you won’t do it, I’ll go to the state attorney. He can get a warrant or something, right?”

“Right,” I said. “A court order. But then you lose control of the investigation. The coroner will do it. You and Charlie and I will be out in the cold. In fact, if you tell them that you’ve got the succinylcholine and traces are found in the body, you’ll be suspect number one.”

Her eyes were flaming behind the tortoiseshell glasses. “Then what do you propose we do?”

I looked at Charlie Riggs and he looked at me. We both were thinking the same thing. We looked at Susan Corrigan, whose short black hair was dripping little puddles onto the patio. We didn’t say a word but she caught on.

Great minds think alike. But maybe slightly addled ones, too.

“There are some things we’ll need,” I said.

“I have everything back in the Glades,” Charlie Riggs said.

“Tonight?” Susan Corrigan asked.

Charlie and I both nodded.

I went home to change. A charcoal suit with burgundy pinstripes is fine for lawyering, but it wouldn’t do at all for my new avocation.

***

The saw made a frightful noise. Powered by a small gas motor, it was biting through the concrete seam of the crypt, tossing dust everywhere and making a racket that jack-hammered off the marble walls. Susan Corrigan stood guard outside the mausoleum, keeping an eye out for the night watchman.

I had second thoughts about bringing Susan on such a grisly assignment, but she was the only one who could bring us right where we needed to be. Charlie and I shouldn’t be stumbling over gravestones after midnight looking for the right tomb. That was Susan’s argument, anyway. Now that we were here, I saw it would have been hard to miss. Built on the top of a small knoll, the Corrigan mausoleum commanded an impressive view of a lake and the Palmetto Expressway in the sprawling southwest suburbs. I should have figured it. Even in death, Philip Corrigan adhered to the three rules of real estate: location, location, location.

I was muscling the power saw through the concrete. Charlie Riggs held a portable lamp that threw our shadows across the marble floor and up a decorative wall into which were inscribed the names of all the Corrigan shopping centers and condo projects, even the ones that resulted in class action consumer lawsuits.

I put the saw down for a rest. “This place raises ostentatiousness to new levels.”

“De gustibus non est disputandum,” Charlie said.

“Gesundheit,” I said.

Charlie shook his head and grimaced. “There’s no accounting for taste. Or your abysmal lack of training in Latin. Didn’t you learn anything in law school?”

“Only not to draw to an inside straight,” I admitted.

We went back to work. Twenty minutes later we were still watching our shadows dance up the wall when Charlie said, “Help me with this. The top’s ready to move.”

I got my hands into the seam and tried to lift the top. No dice. It must have weighed five hundred pounds. I put my shoulder against it and tried sliding it off. It moved two inches and sent a grinding noise up my spine.

Suddenly I heard padded footsteps on the marble floor of the foyer. A whisper from behind me, “How’s it going?”

“Okay, okay,” I said. “Next time, Susan, call before you drop in.”

“Ignore him,” Charlie said. “He’s a little spooked.”

I kept pushing the top of the crypt, but no traction, my sneakers slipping on the marble floor. It was like trying to move a blocking sled on a rain-slicked field with John Matuszak and Hulk Hogan sitting on top. Another inch. Nothing more. Just that damn grinding sound that maybe wouldn’t bother someone used to opening tombs after midnight with the wind whistling through the gravestones.

Charlie lent me a shoulder. Another two inches. Susan pitched in and we got it going and then couldn’t stop it. The concrete lid crashed to the marble floor and broke into a thousand pieces. The explosion echoed in my ears. Clouds of dust covered us and rose toward the ceiling. Someone sneezed. I hoped it was Charlie or Susan. I shined the light inside the crypt. Charlie leaned over as far as he could and patted a wooden casket.

“Good, very good indeed,” he said. “Dry as toast.”

I looked at Susan. “Why don’t you wait for us by Charlie’s truck?” Why ask her to watch as you dig out her father’s body, two years in the grave. She gave me a look that said she was just as tough as me and probably a good deal more so, but she left anyway. Charlie and I went back to work. Both of us leaned on a crowbar to open the casket, a task we did in the dark because the portable light was now on the floor. The body was three feet below the top of the crypt, and since I was taller and stronger than Charlie, I was appointed as the retriever.

I leaned over, the concrete crypt folding me at the waist. I reached for what I thought would be shoulders and came up with a handful of mush.

“Yuck.”

“What’s the matter?” Charlie asked.

“Feels like I just stuck my hands in a barrel of apple butter.”

“Mold,” Charlie said. “That’d be his face. Even in a dry tomb, that’d happen.”

I wiped off my hands, reached lower, found some shoulders and lifted. Lighter than I thought. Charlie put the flashlight down and held open a zippered body bag, and in a minute we were traipsing across the dew-laden grass, Charlie Riggs toting his tools in a burlap sack, and me with a body bag slung over my shoulder. Transylvania’s favorite couple.

“That LA detective was wrong,” I said, as we neared the truck.

“How’s that?” Charlie Riggs asked.

“Marlowe, Philip Marlowe. In one of the books, he said dead men are heavier than broken hearts.”

“So?”

“The former Philip Corrigan is a bantamweight.”

“Bodies lose weight after death,” Charlie said, as if everybody knew that.

“The ultimate diet,” I concluded.

Charlie mumbled something to himself and kept walking, his scientific mind still on duty after our all-nighter. We were ten yards from the truck when Charlie stopped in his tracks. Susan Corrigan was crouched on her haunches at the rear of the pickup waiting for us, alone with her thoughts.

“Let’s ID the subject,” Charlie said, sounding like a homicide detective.

He unzipped the bag and popped the light into it.

“Uh-oh,” I said.

“What’s wrong?” Susan asked, joining us, a tremble in her voice.

“Was your father buried in a yellow chiffon dress?”

“Oh God,” she said. “That’s Mom and the dress is pink, or at least, it was.”

“How the hell!” I shouted, nearly dropping the bag.

“I’m sorry,” Susan said, her voice tight. “It’s my fault. I told you the crypt on the left, but that’s looking out, not in. I got turned around.”

We sat down on the wet grass, as much to rest as to figure out what to do next. We used a flattened headstone for a conference table, and like a good lawyer, I called a meeting. Moonbeams were bouncing off the pale tombstones, casting a gauzy, soft focus over Susan’s features. Mood lighting. I looked at her, wondering. How could she make that mistake? Did she really want us to dig up Dad? I was thinking about what Charlie had said, homicide in the family. But I looked at Susan Corrigan in that misty moonlight and thought I saw tears in her eyes.

Crazy. A night without sleep hauling ass through a graveyard and the mind starts playing tricks. Susan Corrigan could no more kill her father than, than…

“Not much time,” Charlie Riggs said, gesturing toward the east, where pink slivers of sky were beginning to show.

“Right,” I said. “Let’s put Mom in the truck and get Dad.”

Like most things in life, grave robbery is easier the second time around. If we kept up our two-a-day practices like the Dolphins in August, we’d be able to purloin a body in forty-five minutes flat. This time the corpse wore a dark suit and was heavier to tote. I had it over my shoulder and was just leaving the mausoleum when I heard something, a soft singing.

Esta tarde ví llover,

Vi gente correr,

y no estabas tu.

Leather soles were scraping the marble in the foyer. Charlie and I backtracked into the mausoleum just as a flashlight poked around the corner. The night security guard.

Charlie Riggs flattened himself against a back wall. I heard his rasping breaths and hoped he wasn’t going into cardiac arrest. I ducked into a shadow behind the smashed crypt, but there wasn’t room for my dead buddy. Crouching like a catcher behind the plate, I gripped the seat of Philip Corrigan’s pants. He stood, shakily, leaning against me like a friendly drunk. The flashlight illuminated the floor, clouds of pulverized concrete still-rising from it. The dust tickled my nose, and I fought off a sneeze.

The beam bounced off the walls, and I caught sight of the guard. Private security, over sixty and overweight, probably working for minimum wage on a twelve-hour shift. The graveyard shift. In a footrace he couldn’t beat Philip Corrigan.

The flashlight beam struck Corrigan’s black shoes and inched up his body, finally coming to rest on a waxy, moldy face, a nose that melted into soggy cheeks.

“Madre de Dios,” the guard murmured.

I was holding my breath, then had to inhale. More dust, then without warning, “AH-CHOO!”

The sound came from me, but all the guard could see was Philip Corrigan, his head flopping forward as my grip loosened.

“Don’t worry,” I whispered from the darkness. “Dead men don’t sneeze.”

The guard took a step backward. “Jesus Cristo!”

I raised one of Corrigan’s arms, stiffly pointed a rotting hand at the waxy face and said, “No way José. Yo soy el anti-Cristo.”

The flashlight clattered to the floor and the guard took off. A moment later, so did we, Philip Corrigan draped over my shoulder, Charlie Riggs hustling behind me, chuckling. Whistling past the graveyard.

***

The black night had turned to silvery morning and the early commuters were heading north on the Palmetto, tiny shafts of headlights cutting through the mist. We loaded the truck and joined in but headed south. The expressway dumped us onto South Dixie Highway, U.S. 1, the road that starts in Maine and ends at Key West. We aimed that way, past a hundred gas stations and fast-food joints, chintzy strip shopping centers with pet stores and scuba shops, boarded-up small businesses, a thousand broken dreams. Down through Kendall and Perrine, past mango groves, strawberry fields, and packing houses, through Homestead by the Air Force base, over the Card Sound Bridge, through Key Largo and south some more.

None of us said a word, not the three of us jammed into the cab up front, and certainly not the two reunited in a zippered bag in the back. The Corrigans probably hadn’t been this close since their honeymoon.

I handled the driving. Susan sat next to me, the closest she’d been since I tackled her on the practice field. Charlie Riggs was slumped against the passenger door, snoring peacefully. Near Tavernier, Susan’s head dropped onto my shoulder, and I put my arm around her. This time, she didn’t give me the boot. I thought she was sleeping, but a moment later she whispered, “Thank you, Jake.”

I looked down at her, not knowing where she was headed.

“I was wrong to be so petulant when we first met,” she said. “I was hurting so much. Losing Mom, then Dad marrying that woman, and Dad dying that way…”

“I understand,” I said, feeling her soften under my arm.

“You’ve taken a big risk. I know you want to learn the truth about what happened, but I know you did it for me, too. And every time you try to get through to me, I put you off. I won’t do that anymore.”

I started to say something, but she put a finger to my lips. So I kissed the finger, steered with my left hand and tried not to put the truck into the Atlantic on the east side of the road or the Gulf on the west. Then I felt her face against my neck, and she nuzzled me with her upturned nose, looped her right arm around my chest and gave me a good squeeze. A fine and dandy squeeze.

The sun was well up in the eastern sky by the time we pulled into the dusty road on the Gulf of Mexico side of Islamorada. The shutters were open in the small wooden house and the aroma of strong coffee and sizzling bacon greeted us. We parked in the sand under a jacaranda tree that had lost its flowers for the winter. A royal tern sat in the tree, staring at us from under its black and white cap.

“Look what the cat drug in,” Granny Lassiter said from the front porch. “Jake, you look like the loser in a mud rasslin’ match.” Granny sat in a pine rocking chair drinking coffee from an oversized mug. She wore khaki pants and a colorful Mexican serape. A high-crowned sombrero rested on her upper back, the drawstring tied under her chin. Her features were still strong, high cheekbones and a pugnacious chin. The hair that had been jet black when I was a boy was streaked down the middle with a bright white stripe like the center line on the highway locals call Useless 1. Granny’s buddies called her “Skunky,” but only after downing a good portion of her home brew.

I introduced Doc Riggs to Granny. He bowed formally, complimented her south-of-the-border outfit, and recounted one of his visits to the pyramids of the Yucatan with a graphic description of Mayan hieroglyphics and burial practices.

“It’s a pleasure to have a man of learning and culture in my abode,” she said, swiping at some loose strands of her hair. “Perhaps you could be a good influence on that wastrel mouthpiece kin of mine.”

“Granny, please,” I pleaded.

She ignored me and turned her attention to Susan Corrigan, whose dark eyes were puffy from a sleepless night but still fetching. “And you must be the gal Jacob’s been telling me about. Uh-huh, I see why. You’re a keeper.”

“Granny!” I bellowed, warning her.

“Pay him no mind,” she said. “Like most men, he don’t know which end is up. After some breakfast, they’ll do their work, and we’ll drop a line in the Gulf and do some talking. Tell me, girl, you see anything in Jacob worth losing sleep over?”

“He’s got potential,” Susan allowed.

Granny laughed. “That boy’s gonna grow old having potential.”

I had heard enough. “Maybe we should get to work,” I suggested.

“Sure ’nuff,” Granny said. “The beer cellar’s chilled down all the way, just like you said. Plus I got this filled with ice.”

She pointed at a fish box that came from her old Bertram. It could easily hold both bodies.

Charlie Riggs eyed the box. “Forty-seven degrees would be perfect. That’s what we keep the coolers in the morgue. Too cold is no good. Can’t let the tissues freeze.”

“So let’s get started,” I suggested again.

“No hurry, Jake,” Charlie Riggs said, beaming at Granny. “No hurry at all.”

Granny straightened up the front porch, swiping leaves off the wicker chairs with a palm frond. Then she poured everyone coffee, starting with Charlie Riggs. “Say Doc, I recognized you right off from the TV. The case of the capsized dory. Off Saddlebunch Key. You haven’t changed a bit.”

“Twenty years ago,” Charlie said, shaking his head.

“Tempus fugit,” Granny said, and Charlie’s eyes lit up as if he’d found a long lost friend.

We all sat on the porch and Granny made a fuss over Charlie, who sat there reminiscing with his feet propped on the fish box that now held the Corrigans. Told us about the man whose wife drowned when their dory overturned, striking her head. The water had been calm, and the husband was a strong swimmer.

“So why didn’t he save her?” Susan asked, snatching the bait like a hungry grouper.

A sly smile and Charlie continued. “Maybe his lifeguard’s carry was weighted down by the million-dollar double indemnity policy he just bought on the lady’s life.”

Aha, we all said.

“He let her drown,” Susan offered.

Charlie shook his head. “Worse than that.”

“How’d you prove it?”

Another smile. “I put one of those department store mannequins in the dory facing front, just where the wife had been sitting. Sat in the back where the husband had been, stood up and smacked the mannequin with the oar. Left a mark the exact size and location of the bruise on top the dead wife’s head.”

The man got ninety-nine years, Charlie a TV interview.

Granny put her arm around Susan and steered her into the house. I hauled the body bag into the darkened room Granny called her beer cellar. The room was actually on the first floor, it being hard to dig a cellar when your house is built three feet above sea level. Inside were vats and bottles and the odds and ends used to make the home brew Granny gave away to neighboring fishermen. Two old air-conditioning units were turned on full blast and water dripped down the walls.

I suggested we cut first, eat breakfast later. I couldn’t imagine doing the job on a full stomach. Charlie said he understood, then grabbed an old brown satchel from the cab of the truck. He unbuckled the worn leather straps and looked lovingly at half a dozen scalpels glinting in the light of the midday sun.

14

DEAD MEN DON’T BLEED

“THE skin is macerated and there’s mold on the face, but all things considered, not bad, not bad at all,” Charlie Riggs said. He was washing off the body with a hose. The remains of Philip Corrigan were spread out on an old work table in Granny’s beer cellar. Before we do any cutting, let’s examine the body.”

He slipped on surgical gloves and started poking and pinching various parts of the corpse, squinting hard through his half-glasses. In formal tones he continued, “The subject is a well-developed white male, age indeterminate due to deterioration of the face. The head and neck appear to be symmetrical and exhibit no masses. The chest is symmetrical and the abdomen flat. The body is in an excellent state of preservation due to the embalming and a nearly dry tomb. There is evidence of two surgical procedures in close proximity to death, unhealed wounds from both back and abdominal surgery.”

He went on that way for a while, as if the tape recorder with the microphone swinging from the ceiling was still there, as if he was still the medical examiner and as if homicide detectives still waited outside for his findings. A little sad, a man retired before his time, maybe a different kind of death.

Charlie brought a lamp closer to the body, illuminating a small area of skin at a time. “Now for a closer look.” He started with the arms and worked down. I helped him flip the body onto its stomach. “Hullo! What’s this, Jake? Right buttock, upper quadrant.”

“Looks like a freckle.”

“Come closer, my boy. Mortui non mordent, dead men don’t bite.”

“No, they smell.” I moved close but it still looked like a freckle.

“A puncture wound,” Charlie said triumphantly. “Pretty large gauge hypodermic, too.”

“You sure?”

He didn’t say yes and he didn’t say no. He picked up a scalpel and swiftly dissected a piece of meat that used to be Philip Corrigan’s flabby ass. In a moment Charlie held a cross section of the buttock, down through the fat, all the way into the muscle.

“There it is,” he announced. I looked at a red streak, maybe three inches long. “That’s the needle track, just as fresh as when it was made. Had to be done in articulo mortis, or there’d be evidence of healing.”

I wasn’t convinced. “It could have been a routine injection in connection with the laminectomy or the emergency abdominal surgery.”

“Could have been,” Charlie said, “but it’s not on the charts. No doctor or nurse recorded it.”

“Maybe the puncture was made after death. Something the undertaker did, I don’t know.”

“No way. See the little trail alongside the track, that’s the hemorrhage. He had to be alive when the needle was injected.”

“Dead men don’t bleed,” I said.

“You’re catching on, Jake.”

“Okay, so somebody injected something into Philip Corrigan. Hard to make a case of that. What next?”

He wrinkled his forehead. “The tissues will have to be checked for succinic acid and choline. Your granny doesn’t have a GCMS on the premises, I suppose.”

“Not unless it’s used for bonefishing or bootlegging.”

Charlie held the slice of Corrigan’s flesh up to the light. “Gas chromatographic spectrometer. Test for toxic substances. We’ll need some brain and liver tissue, but first I’m going to do the work-up in the usual way.”

The usual way. Like it was something he did every day. Which it was. Every working day for over thirty years. Thousands of bodies. So he did it without pausing, opening the neck just below the ear, making a long, smooth incision to the top of the chest and then to the other ear. He pulled up the flap of skin and exposed the inside of the neck. He deftly carved a slice straight down the chest over the sternum, avoiding the navel. He showed me where the embalming fluid had gone in, the spot being hard to miss, a thumb screw in the chest where the mortician inserted the trocar.

He peeled the skin flaps down over the chest, like pulling on an undersized sweater, exposing bright yellow fatty tissue and purple organs. He snapped the sternum in two with rib shears that looked like hedge clippers, probed into the abdomen, and made a dissection of the aorta. The punctured aneurysm was in the front, right where he had testified it was. He hummed under his breath as he worked. It sounded like “Born Free.”

“Let’s open the aorta and look for chalky deposits,” he said brightly. “Give me some light over here, Jake.”

I did what I was told and Charlie went about his business. Happy to be in control, to be taking things apart and figuring them out. Alive again. “Some evidence of sclerosis, but nothing unusual in a man of his age. Not enough to block the blood flow. Probably not enough to cause the aneurysm.”

“So you hoodwinked the jury with that arteriosclerosis stuff.”

“Didn’t mean to. I figured the sclerosis was worse.”

“So what killed him?” I asked.

“Something that caused the aneurysm, and if Roger Stanton didn’t do it and the sclerotic changes didn’t do it, there’s got to be something else.”

I was confused. “What about the drug?”

He smiled, and his eyes crinkled, and behind them his computer was whirring, a lifetime of experience filtering the information. “It doesn’t add up, not yet. Even if the tests are positive for the succinylcholine, the fact remains that he died of the aneurysm.”

“I don’t get it. If we find traces of the drug, that means Roger injected Corrigan—or somebody did—trying to kill him. If Corrigan was still alive when he was injected, which you say he had to be, it would have killed him. But you’re saying he had the aneurysm after the injection. So what killed him and who killed him?”

Charlie caught himself before he stroked his beard with a gunked-up hand. “It’s a puzzle, Jake, and we don’t have enough pieces yet. But if we find the what, it’ll lead us to the who. So if you’ll stop talking and stand back, I’ll finish the autopsy in the usual way.”

The usual way again. He unpacked a portable scale, removed the heart, weighed it—four hundred fifty grams—poked around in more blood vessels, snipped here and clipped there, examining organs I didn’t know existed. I was okay so far. I was okay when he cracked the ribs to get underneath. I was okay when he sliced off a piece of the liver and slipped it into a plastic lunch bag. I was okay when the band saw bit into the skull. But when he pulled the brain out, tut-tutting because it was shrunken and dehydrated, I wasn’t okay. Things went a little gray, the beer cellar listed like a dinghy in rough chop, and the next thing I knew, Granny Lassiter was saying something and squeezing an ammonia-soaked rag under my nose.

I coughed and sputtered and got to my feet with Susan Corrigan’s help and found I was on the front porch. Granny laughed and handed me a mason jar filled with home brew. “Drink this, Jacob. It’ll put hair on your chest.”

“I’m okay, I’m okay.” I dusted myself off. Nothing like having two women fussing over your fallen body.

Susan Corrigan had on a funny half-smile and was holding on to my arm, propping me up. “I kind of like you this way. None of your macho bullshit.”

“Great, I’ll faint every chance I get. Promise you won’t take advantage of me when I’m out?”

“No promises. Now just hush up. You need something to eat. Granny’s making conch omelets with salsa.”

In a few minutes Charlie joined us in the kitchen. He washed up and wrapped both hands around a mug of coffee, letting the steam rise through a steeple of fingers. After a while he briefed us. I watched Susan’s face as Charlie talked about the puncture in the buttocks. It seemed to be what she wanted to hear, but she frowned when Charlie said there was nothing conclusive. Had to test the tissues and still figure out where the aneurysm fit in.

“The doctor and that bitch did it,” Susan declared abruptly. “I just know it.”

“We’ll find out,” Charlie promised. “I still have a couple friends on the toxicology staff at the ME’s office. I can sneak in after-hours and use the equipment.”

“Why not just bring Dr. MacKenzie in on it?” I suggested.

Charlie snorted. “That prick, excuse my English, wouldn’t piss on me if I was on fire. I didn’t recommend him for the ME’s job when I retired, and now that he’s got it, the Ivy League twit won’t forgive me. Loves his computers and statistics and that damn new building with its creature comforts. Hell, they got air fresheners in the morgue now, you can’t use your nose anymore to smell stomach contents. You know one time I opened a John Doe, smelled a familiar barbecue sauce. Full of vinegar, a touch of beer. Knew right away it was that ribs place on South Dixie. Homicide went down there, a waiter remembered the decedent and the guy he was with. Got a confession when they tracked the guy down.”

Charlie went on like that for a while, unhappy with Dr. Hilton MacKenzie, the new ME who didn’t like getting his hands dirty. “They built him a new building, state-of-the-art morgue, full of offices, as many administrators as the Department of Public Works, a lobby looks like a Hyatt. I remember our first morgue, just an abandoned garage. Hell, we did twenty-five-hundred autopsies a year in the little building on Northwest Nineteenth Street. Then, after the boatlift, between the Marielitos knifing everybody and the Colombian cowboys machine-gunning each other, we ran out of cooler space. No place to put the stiffs.”

“What’d you do?” Susan asked, always the inquisitive journalist.

“Rented a Burger King refrigerated truck,” Charlie said. “Talk about a meat wagon. We stacked the bodies inside, put the truck in a parking lot by Jackson Memorial. Next thing you know, somebody hijacks it. Probably thought there was forty grand worth of burgers inside. Would have loved to see their faces when they busted open the trailer.”

Charlie Riggs was into his storytelling. Finally, as the day wore on, the activities of last night caught up with all of us. Charlie took a nap, dozing on the front porch, mouth open, wheezing like an old Chevy. I curled up on a couch in the Florida room. A cool breeze from the Gulf whispered through open shutters. Granny tucked me in with a homemade quilt, just like the old days. Maybe later she’d drive me to Little League practice. I was halfway to dreamland when a second body joined me under the quilt.

“I’m too tired to race you to the goal line,” I murmured.

“No hurry,” Susan Corrigan said. “Take your time.”

She kissed me very gently and then rubbed my chin with her fingertips. “You need a shave,” she said. She stroked the stubble against the grain and kissed my neck. She pulled up my polo shirt and started kissing my chest. Wait a second. When I grew up, it was the guy who did the tussling with the clothes, the discovering of body parts. But I was not about to object. It would have been overruled. And I was enjoying the attention. When I tried to take the offensive, she gently pushed me down, gave me a just relax order with her eyes, and went about her business.

I was on my back, my clothes on the floor when she slipped out of her things, her small breasts tracing circles on my chest. From nowhere she produced a condom, as indispensable as lipstick to the modern woman. She slipped it on me without either snapping it like a slingshot or gouging me with a fingernail. Then, strong legs astride me, she eased downward, taking me in, tightening onto me. She exhaled deep surging breaths, all the time raising and lowering herself like a lifter doing squats.

I was liking it, liking her. But all the time watching her, and not just the curve of her hips. Watching her face, thinking about her and Roger Stanton and Melanie Corrigan. And very rich, very dead Philip Corrigan. And who did what to whom.

Always thinking, damn it! Instead of just feeling. Thinking about the hacked up body a few feet away. Why not just enjoy the thrusting and the swampy heat rising from amidships? Damn it to hell, Lassiter.

***

I slept some more and when I awoke it was dark in the little house. Susan Corrigan purred next to me, stretched a leg until the calf muscle peaked, then curled up again. I thought about her. Smart and sassy. Part of the new breed. Toughing it out in a man’s world. Elbowing past male reporters to get the best quotes in a locker room. Ignoring the wiseguys—what happened to sportswriters who pissed standing up?—dishing it out as well as taking it. This was the Susan Corrigan I knew. Which only made me realize I didn’t know her very well at all.

I got up without disturbing her and poked around in the dark. No sign of Charlie or Granny. I found some smoked mackerel in the refrigerator and, still disoriented, tried to remember if this was dinner or a late snack. The house was quiet, the only sounds the palm fronds outside, slapping against each other in the breeze from the Gulf. I padded around to Granny’s bedroom. The door was open a crack, a hurricane lamp burning by the night table. I should check on her. As she checked on me a thousand nights. She was there, under her own tufted quilt, sleeping peacefully, breathing steadily, her arms wrapped around the happy, slumbering hulk of Charles W. Riggs, M.D.

15

THE CONCH BRIGADE

NO cops waited to arrest me at my little house off Kumquat Avenue; no reporters paced in the waiting room of my office. For a while, I thought The Great Graveyard Robbery might have been a dream. I was sitting at my desk Monday morning, sipping black coffee, peaceful as a monk, when I found the story on page 7 of the Local section:

Vandals destroyed a double gravesite and removed two bodies from the Eternal Memories Mortuary and Mausoleum over the weekend, Metro police reported yesterday.

The bodies of Philip R. Corrigan and Sylvia Corrigan, his wife, were taken from a private crypt at the southwest Dade cemetery, according to police spokesmen. Mr. Corrigan, who died in 1986, was a well-known builder whose projects often were opposed by environmental groups. His wife died two years earlier.

“This looks like the work of the Conch Brigade,” said Metro Sgt. Joaquin Castillo, referring to the radical Keys group that advocates violence to stop construction in environmentally sensitive areas.

Because the Conch Brigade refuses to identify its members, no one with that organization could be reached for comment. Police estimate the damage to the crypt at $50,000.

Wacky. So far off that, weirdly, it was not far wrong. The Conch Brigade consisted of vicious terrorist Granny Lassiter, part-time septic tank cleaner Virgil Thigpen, and two unemployed shrimpers who could be found fishing for snook in Hell’s Bay when not in jail for public drunkenness.

The newspaper made no mention of the recent malpractice trial and said nothing about the security guard seeing anything suspicious. I figured the cops made no connection with Stanton, and the guard wasn’t about to describe his close encounter with a moldy ghost. No suspects except a phantom group.

There wouldn’t be much of an investigation. A penny-ante crime in Dade County, particularly on the weekend a DEA agent got hit in the head with two hundred pounds of twenty-dollar bills. Sent him to the hospital with a concussion and he couldn’t even keep the money. It was evidence against a North Miami drug dealer named Guillermo Montalvo. When federal agents surrounded his house, Montalvo tossed the money—trussed up like a bale of hay—out a second story window. It glanced off the head of the agent, who wore a bulletproof vest but no hockey helmet. How much money is there in two hundred pounds of twenties? Exactly one million, eight hundred thousand, one hundred eighty dollars, according to the feds, who often weigh the take because counting it takes so much time.

The same day another federal agent got shot in the gun. Not the gut, the gun. After selling a kilo of cocaine in a sting operation, the agent drew his nine-millimeter SIG-Sauer semiautomatic handgun. The stingee, one Angel Morales, did the same thing. Morales shot his weapon first, and his bullet lodged in the agent’s gun barrel. Morales had little time to enjoy his marksmanship. Four Hialeah cops who had been lurking in the bushes emptied twenty-two rounds into Morales, then kicked him in the groin for good measure.

So with everything going on, the police couldn’t be expected to worry about a little old-fashioned grave robbing. I did wonder, though, if Roger had heard about it. And Melanie Corrigan. Surely the police would call her. Maybe we should put a tail on her, see if she and Roger have a tête-à-tête to talk it over. My musings were interrupted by Cindy, buzzing me.

“Some bimbo for you on two, su majestad.”

“She have a name?”

“Sure, and a voice like melted butter.”

“Please, Cindy, I’m not in the mood for Twenty Questions. Been a hard weekend and a crummy day.”

“Mis-sus Philip Corrigan, and she asked for Jacob Lassiter.”

Uh-oh.

I decided not to be expecting the call, but not to be surprised either.

“Jake,” she said when I gave her a flat-toned hello, “I’m afraid there’s been some trouble.”

She waited a moment. I let her wait some more, then said, “I saw the story in the paper. What’s going on?”

“I don’t know but it’s tearing me apart. You can’t imagine the pain. I just keep thinking about him desecrating Philip’s tomb, stealing the body, it’s so terrible.”

“Him?”

"Roger, of course. Who else would do it, unless that little bitch daughter was involved.”

Whoops. A tiny shiver went through me, an icicle dripping down my back. Let’s find out what she knows.

“Why would Susan be involved? Why Roger? Why anybody?”

“I don’t know, maybe they killed him together. Now they’re disposing of the evidence.”

“What about Sylvia Corrigan, why her body?”

Silence. Then, “Why don’t you ask the good doctor?”

So many questions, so few answers. “Why are you calling me?”

“I thought I could hire you, retain you, as my lawyer.”

Suddenly I’m in demand. The doctor, the daughter, the widow. “I don’t think so. I’m not sure you need a lawyer, and anyway, my representation of Roger Stanton disqualifies me.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” she said, sounding very sorry indeed. “We could have worked well together.”

There was a hint there, an unmistakably seductive hint, the striking of a tiny spark that could be fanned into a flame with a few more whispers or the friction of that firm, sleek body against mine. It was her petition for rehearing. I decided to let the ruling stand.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Corrigan,” I said, as proper as a councilman declining a bribe. “It just wouldn’t work.”

“Then I guess I’ll just do what I have to without your advice or assistance.”

I let it hang there and we said our goodbyes. I gave my conscience a pat on the back, the vision of Melanie Corrigan’s unsheathed body a shooting star across the black sky of my mind.

***

The appointment was for two o’clock but Roger Stanton was ten minutes early. Unusual for a doctor. He wore a coat and tie. Unusual, too. Physicians hereabouts usually sport the open-collar look—white smock or lab coat—and scruffy sneakers. Not Roger. Blue blazer, gray slacks, penny loafers. A frat man look. He gave Cindy a big hello, peeked out the window at one of the cruise ships chugging out Government Cut, then settled in a cushioned chair next to a thirsty rubber plant.

Charlie Riggs trundled in twenty minutes later, apologizing for being late. Just came from his semiannual haircut and beard trim, a Miccosukee barber in the Everglades. You could hardly tell he used a sawtooth fishing knife, I told Charlie, and he thanked me. Then Charlie cleared his throat, stroked his newly pruned beard, and slid his warped glasses back up the bridge of his tiny nose. Which was a signal for me to start.

“Roger, this is awkward for Charlie and me.”

Expressionless, Roger Stanton looked at Charlie, then back at me, and I continued, “I have a confession to make—”

Roger laughed. “That’s what clients usually do to their lawyers, right?”

“Right, but this case is different in a lot of ways. You know somebody broke into Philip Corrigan’s crypt, stole the body?”

“Saw the story in the paper. Pretty bizarre. Antidevelopment nuts in the Keys, maybe.”

Doc Riggs cleared his throat again. I swallowed and said, “A couple of nuts, all right. Charlie and I did it.”

He raised his eyebrows. “No. Why?”

“Susan Corrigan wanted the body tested, Melanie Corrigan didn’t. We chose sides. But I wanted to tell you before we deliver tissue samples to the lab. And I wanted to ask you, is there anything you want to tell us?”

Roger shrugged. “What would I want to say?”

If he was faking it, he must have taken some acting courses along with biology and chemistry. “Okay, Roger, here it is. Melanie told me you tried to get her to inject her husband with succinylcholine, and when she wouldn’t do it, you did, murdered Corrigan in his hospital room.”

A cloud crossed his face. A look more of bewilderment than anger. “Do you believe her?”

I paused long enough for Charlie Riggs to light his pipe. It took three matches. “No. I don’t believe her. Since that day you brought the malpractice complaint to me, I’ve gotten to know you, and I don’t believe you could kill.”

Roger Stanton beamed. I continued, “But what’s been gnawing at me is that nothing about Corrigan’s death makes sense. You didn’t cause the aneurysm and, apparently, the sclerosis didn’t either. The hospital charts show no injections in the buttocks but Charlie found one. Then there’s the succinylcholine…”

Stanton turned to Charlie Riggs. “Succinylcholine wouldn’t be traceable, would it? Doesn’t it break down into succinic acid and choline?”

I studied Roger while Charlie tamped his pipe and answered. “Yes, but those substances are detectable in various tissues. If there’s too great a quantity, a reasonable inference would be that succinylcholine was injected shortly prior to death.”

No reaction. Absolute calm. “You’re the expert,” Stanton said in a neutral voice. “And if you want to test the tissues, I don’t have a problem.”

I was feeling good about Roger Stanton. Confident in his innocence. Then he said, “Melanie knows the truth, and if you really want to know, I mean if it matters to you, Jake, just get her to tell you.”

“And how do I do that?”

“I could inject her with thiopental sodium.”

“Huh?”

Charlie chimed in. “Sodium five-ethyl-five-one-methylbutyl-two-thiobarbiturate. More commonly known by its trade name, Pentothal.”

“Truth serum?” I asked, louder than necessary.

“A misnomer,” Charlie said, “but you get the idea. A central nervous system depressant. In the right quantities, it induces hypnosis and, yes, the patient will tell the truth about past events.”

“I could stick her, and we could snatch her,” Roger said blithely, as if assault and abduction were standard topics of discussion. “Bring her someplace safe, and you could cross-examine her. You’re so good at that, Jake. Then you’d learn the truth. I want you to believe me.”

I looked at Charlie Riggs. He looked at me. In ninety seconds, my client had gone from innocent physician to lunatic kidnapper.

“Roger, I don’t think we could do that,” I said, gently.

He shrugged and said okay, then offered to take me bonefishing in the Keys sometimes. I made a bad joke about an orthopod bonefishing, and he headed for Mercy Hospital to do a knee replacement.

I put my feet up on my cluttered desk, and Charlie Riggs stoked his pipe. He didn’t look at me, and I didn’t look at him. I wanted him to say something, but he wouldn’t. So I did. “Is it my imagination, or is my client sailing without a rudder?”

Charlie stood up and walked to the window. He squinted into the brightness and looked due east over the ocean toward Bimini. “Fantasies. I think Roger Stanton has difficulty distinguishing fantasy from reality. He wanted Melanie for himself and might have wished Philip dead. Maybe told Melanie so. But judging from his reaction today, I would say he didn’t kill Philip Corrigan. And he wants you to know that. He respects you, Jake. He wants you to like him—”

“So we can be fishing buddies.”

“Something like that. So he fantasizes about injecting her with Pentothal.”

“All of which means he’s a dreamer, not a killer.”

Charlie Riggs sent me a swirl of cherry-flavored smoke. “Unless the fantasies take over. Unless they become reality. Then, Deus misereatur, may God have mercy…”

***

I read my mail, returned some calls, skipped a partners’ meeting called to debate new artwork for the reception area—Andy Wyeth was a five-to-one favorite over Andy Warhol—and headed for The Miami Herald. Susan Corrigan was waiting for me on the bayfront walkway behind the building. She stood silently watching a barge unload huge rolls of newsprint onto the dock. The drawbridge on the MacArthur Causeway was up, two hundred motorists waiting for one rich guy in a gussied up Hinckley to putt-putt underneath at three knots. A stiff, warm breeze from the east crackled an American flag flying above the walkway, and the Miami sun beat hard against the concrete.

Susan wore her reporter’s uniform, running shoes, faded jeans with a notepad sticking out the back pocket. Her glasses were propped on top of her short black hair. On the barge a forklift kept picking up the newsprint and rolling it down a ramp onto the dock.

“They killed a lot of trees just so you could write about some overgrown boys in plastic hats and knickers chasing a funny-shaped ball.”

She jumped a half step. “Oh, you startled me. I was thinking.”

“And not about me.”

“About you a little,” she said, honest to a fault. “More about Dad and everything that’s happened. Have you heard from Charlie?”

“Not yet. Expect something tomorrow.”

“What do we do then? I mean, if the report says the drug is in the brain and the liver.”

“I don’t know. I’m taking this one step at a time. Today, Charlie and I told Roger that we had the body and were having it tested. He didn’t seem to care. So far nothing makes sense.”

She thought about it a moment. “You could get in trouble for this, couldn’t you?”

“What, for trespassing, destruction of property, grave robbing, and turning in my own client? Nothing worse than disbarment plus a short stay at Avon Park as a first offender.”

“So why do it?”

The Hinckley chugged by, a pot-bellied middle-aged guy and three smug teenagers waving at us. The drawbridge clanked into place, the groan of metal on metal as its fittings meshed. Finally I said, “I guess I’m still looking for the good guys.”

“Good guys?”

“Something I told Roger Stanton. That I keep looking for the good guys and never find them.”

She leaned close and kissed me on the lips. “Am I a good guy?”

Funny, I’d been wondering the same thing myself. “I hope so, because I’ve joined your side, abandoned Roger. I’ve stopped caring about the rules of the game, just want to do what’s right.”

“Sounds noble.”

“Stupid, maybe. Maybe I’m swayed by those deep, dark eyes and the way you snuggle under a quilt.”

She stiffened. “If you believe that, maybe you should quit the game altogether. Hit the showers.”

I didn’t believe it. I smiled at her and she knew I didn’t believe it. She had me pretty good, and she knew that, too. She popped me a playful punch in the shoulder. Her playful punch could leave a dent.

“Take me home,” she said. “Let’s see how much room there is in my shower stall. Afterwards, I may even put on a skirt and let you buy me dinner.”

***

The Olds 442 found the Corrigan home just as before. Buttoned up tight. Dark and quiet. Either the rich don’t make any noise or Melanie Corrigan was entertaining under the sheets. No motorcycle out front either, so little chance of running into Hercules.

We walked around back to the cabana. Dark inside, but the front door was wide open, hanging loose on a hinge. There was the moment of disbelief, that if you blink once, the scene will change, but it didn’t. I flicked on the lights. The place was torn up, and a pretty good job of it, drawers pulled out, books spilled onto the floor, clothing strewn about. Susan made a small noise, deep in her throat, then ran into the tiny bedroom and hauled a golf bag out of the closet. The clubs were scattered across the floor, a three-wood jammed angrily into a planter. She reached into the bag, fingers clawing at the leather, not finding what she wanted.

“Damn, damn,” she cried, tears forming. “It’s gone. They’ve got it. They’ve got the evidence.”

I knew what was gone. A little leather bag with a vial of liquid and two hypodermics. I just didn’t know who they were.

16

OH NO, SOCOLOW

WHEN you live outside the law, you forfeit certain privileges. Like calling the police when you need them. In these parts, drug dealers are frequently robbed. Sometimes by other drug dealers, sometimes by cops. It’s a fact of life that dopers won’t blow the whistle. Their cars get blown up, their houses riddled with automatic weapons, their drugs and cash stolen. They write off the losses as part of overhead.

So here we were, a couple of upstanding, taxpaying citizens, a journalist and a lawyer, unable to call the cops. A smart cop would ask too many questions. You say this drug might have killed Philip Corrigan. Say, wasn’t his body stolen over the weekend? A dumb cop wouldn’t do us any good.

We cleaned up the mess. Nothing else was missing. Even the X-rated tape was still on the shelf, tucked away in a stack of exercise videos and feature films.

I tried to put two and two together. I kept getting Melanie Corrigan. The drug came from Melanie’s bedroom, but Susan found it more than a year after Philip Corrigan died. Why keep a murder weapon around?

To use it again.

Maybe, I told myself. But Charlie Riggs says succinylcholine will lose its potency unless it’s kept cold. Maybe Melanie doesn’t know that. Or maybe she doesn’t care. Maybe Roger Stanton had already used it to kill her husband.

Roger a killer? No way. Not even concerned that we’ve got the body. A trifle weird, maybe. Walking a little close to the border of Fantasy Land, as Charlie Riggs suggested. But not a killer.

Okay, I try something else. When Melanie finally gets around to putting on some underwear, she notices the drug’s gone. It must incriminate her, or she wouldn’t care about it. She suspects Susan, her nemesis. She has to get back the evidence to get rid of it, so she has Sergio bust up the front door of the cabana to make it look like a two-bit B&E. Or what was it the Nixon White House called Watergate? A third-rate burglary.

But what if I’m wrong about Roger? Maybe he and Melanie snuffed the old man. She keeps the drug as insurance against him fingering her. When it’s gone, she tells him to get it back or they’re both looking at a Murder One.

I didn’t buy it. Maybe there was no burglary. Maybe Susan Corrigan ruffled her own sheets, got rid of the drug for her own reasons. But looking at the tears in her eyes as she cradled the empty golf bag, that made no sense to me, none at all.

***

I didn’t want Susan staying in the little cabana, not with the door split open, so we headed to Coconut Grove and my coral rock fortress. I told her to wait outside under a jacaranda tree. Then I opened the front door slowly, stepping into the stale air, seeing shapes in the darkness. Looking for a karate freak crouched behind the sofa, waiting for the hardwood floor to creak. But the shadows held only dust and the only sounds came from a dripping faucet.

I turned on the lights and Susan stepped in boldly, and with a look of amusement examined the spare furnishings. Her eyes sized up my little house like a broker on commission. She might wear sweats and sneakers, but underneath, she was still a rich girl who knew Chippendale from flea market.

“What’s a guy like you doing in a place like this?” she asked, a lilt to her voice.

“What’s a girl like you doing with a guy like me?”

She just smiled and stripped off her jeans. The adrenaline rush had ebbed, but I had enough energy left to carry her up the narrow staircase.

This time she let me take the lead, maybe content that she had already established her strength and independence. Once, she whispered, “Never stop,” and at the end, she gave a yelp usually reserved for overtime victories in playoff games, and I let go with a little whoopee-ti-ti-yo myself. She fell asleep in my arms, her face innocent as a Norman Rockwell bride. But I was wide awake. I tucked her in and went downstairs to think.

Sometimes the best tactic is to wade right into it, pour gasoline on the flames, and see what’s left after the explosion. First though, I poured myself a Grolsch. Then I dialed Roger Stanton’s number. It was nearly midnight.

“Jake, old boy, great to hear your voice. Just talking about you.” Old boy. That was a new one, maybe into a polo-playing phase. Wonder if he’ll be as chipper after I accuse him of icing Philip Corrigan. But I never got the chance. He said, “There’s somebody here who’d like to say hello.”

There was a short pause, a woman’s soft laugh, then a silken voice. “Jacob Lassiter, how nice of you to call. We’re having some champagne and caviar and other edible things. You can join us if you like. Two’s company, three’s a party.”

Another laugh and Roger Stanton was back on the line. “Jake, I’m so damn happy. Just like the old days. And I’ll be forever grateful to you. You’re a real friend.”

“Sure Roger. Sure.”

A little giggling, two sweethearts pressed up to the phone, ear to ear. Roger breathed a long whoosh into the phone and said, “Melanie, that can wait, whoa! Hey Jake, I got a hard-on that could plant the flag on Iwo Jima.”

“Semper Fi,” I said, thinking these two are made for each other. She accuses him of murder; he wants to stick her with a needle. One day, he’s punching her out; next day, she’s running it up his flagpole.

I wished him well, hung up, and tried to sort it out. Now I believed more than ever in Roger’s innocence. If Roger was in it with Melanie Corrigan, he wouldn’t let me know she was there. The two of them would go through the ruse of hating each other, particularly if they sensed an investigation would start up after the body disappeared. Unless it was a double twist, the old trick from “The Purloined Letter,” making the fruit of the crime so obvious that it’s hard to see. Too complicated. I rejoined Susan and fell asleep thinking about it, hearing a woman’s laughter—mocking me—in my dreams.

***

At mid-morning Susan and I drove back to her cabana to look around in the light of day. I heard a motor cranking up as we walked around the house, and we caught sight of a Boston Whaler Temptation, a twenty-two-foot outboard, pulling away from the dock. Handling the wheel was a chunk of muscle who looked familiar, and stretched out on a cooler in front of the console was the bikini-clad body of Melanie Corrigan. The widow had covered a lot of territory in the last twenty-four hours.

We ducked behind a poinciana tree and watched them slowly cross the lagoon into open water.

“Gone fishin’,” I said.

“Doubt it,” Susan said. “I don’t think that woman’s ever been on the Whaler. It’s really a tender for the yacht. The man is Sergio Machado-Alvarez.”

“We’ve met. Where do you suppose they’re going?”

Susan shaded her eyes against the sun and shrugged. The Whaler headed into the bay between the channel markers, lazing at low speed. Still within sight, it dropped anchor.

“Great. We may have enough time if they stay put,” I said.

The ancient Olds resisted, but I peeled rubber like a teenage punk and we slid around curves on the winding road to the marina at Matheson Hammock barely two miles away. The dockmaster there was an old client, but not exactly blue chip.

Bluegill Ovelman was shirtless and barefoot. He had a belly like a rain barrel and hands like grappling hooks. He was an old salt, an ex-commercial fisherman who earned his ex the third time he was arrested by the Marine Patrol. I kept him out of jail each time the patrol found a mess of undersize Florida lobsters in his cooler. The last time I persuaded the jury that Bluegill measured his catch in centimeters instead of inches, and being a mite poor at algebra, got confused on the conversion tables. Tired of using his drinking money to post bond, he retired and now tended rich men’s yachts at the marina.

“Ey Counselor!” Bluegill Ovelman grinned. His cheeks were redder than a broiled lobster, and the lines under his eyes could map the trails to the Jack Daniel’s distillery. “Wanna take the little lady fishing?” He eyed Susan Corrigan, who gave him a smile that he wasn’t likely to see on his best day.

“I hate fishing and you know it,” I lied. “I like my seafood caught, cleaned, and cooked by someone else.”

This was a necessary routine, a dance we’d done before. He called me a leather-shoed, high-rise, pickpocket shyster and I called him a no-count, whiskey-riddled, lobster-poaching bottom feeder. Then he gave me a hug and asked what I wanted. I wanted a boat and a sailboard and he gave me both, an old Chris Craft inboard he used as a tow boat and a banged-up Mistral windsurfing rig he tossed onto the deck. I borrowed an old pair of his swim trunks that had to be a size forty-four and kept hitching them up as we motored into the bay.

“I wouldn’t do any swimming today,” Bluegill Ovelman shouted as I leaned on the throttle. “Water’s full of men-of-war. Big ones, too. Enough poison for a week’s room and board at Jackson Memorial.”

In fifteen minutes we were half a mile from the Whaler, trying to be inconspicuous. I dropped anchor and peered through binoculars. Melanie Corrigan was still soaking up rays. Sergio was bent over the starboard side, away from us. He had a gaff or a fishing rod or a net in his hand. Too far to be sure.

There was only one way to get closer without attracting attention. It was awkward, but I rigged a six-square-meter sail onto a sixteen-foot mast, nearly falling over the rub rail. I dropped the board over the side, jumped in, and jammed the mast into the universal joint while treading water. The water was warm and clear. Susan stayed in the boat and looked at me skeptically. “Do you know what you’re doing?”

“Trust me. I’ve sailed from Key Biscayne to Bimini on one of these.”

I uphauled the sail in a measly ten knots of wind, and tugging at my oversize drawers, I sailed closer to the Whaler. Out of my customary charcoal gray suit, standing in the shadow of the sail, I figured they wouldn’t recognize me. Just another bozo sailing standing up.

I sailed cautiously, eyeing dozens of floating purple-blue sacs with poison-packed tails trailing underneath. Our waters are filled with biters, shockers, and stingers. Sharks, of course, are biters. You see them sometimes near Virginia Key on Key Biscayne, feeding a mile or so offshore. They seldom bother anyone. There are Atlantic rays, some weighing as much as a good-sized running back, and their tails pack over two hundred volts of electricity. They can explode out of the water and scare the bejesus out of sailors and windsurfers alike. Then, each winter, we get the Portuguese men-of-war, prehistoric animals of unearthly beauty with their iridescent bluish-purple sacs and crests of orangish red. For those lured to the luminous sac, there is only betrayal. Underneath the water, hidden from view, are dozens of tentacles, undulating with the currents, straining to inject their poison into those seduced by the beauty.

I tipped the mast forward to head downwind and sailed off the stern of the Whaler. Sergio was still bent over the side, a net now visible in his hand. I saw a fishing rod jammed into a rod holder. Okay, maybe after some grouper. I wanted to get closer, so I jibed and came back the other way. About a hundred yards away, I trimmed the sail and tried to pick up a little speed. I wanted to pass by without taking too long to do it, not give them a good look at me. It would have worked, too, if I hadn’t dropped my drawers. Trying not to draw attention to yourself is hard to do when your bare ass is staring at the people you would just as soon avoid.

Not wanting to make a further spectacle of myself, I headed back to our boat where Susan Corrigan was shaking her head. “Showing off for the widow?” she asked as I climbed aboard.

“Just distracting her,” I replied. “A diversion from my adorable face.”

“Maybe she recognizes both ends of you,” Susan said without the hint of a smile.

“If that’s a question, the answer is no.”

She measured that one, believed me, and we took the Chris Craft back to the marina. Mission bungled. I still had no idea why Melanie was at Roger’s house last night or on the bay with Sergio today. But I was starting to get the idea that the lady had a plan for everything and everybody. Inviting me to her house had to be part of the plan. I wished I knew what part.

***

Susan and I headed to Coconut Grove, the Olds 442 purring in third gear. I pulled into the shade of a gumbo-limbo tree in front of my house, and she turned to me.

“Jake, we have to talk.”

“Uh-huh.”

“About the other night.”

“The other night?”

“Don’t be dense! At your Granny’s. And last night, in your shoebox there behind the weeds. Have you forgotten?”

I put the stick into neutral and turned off the ignition. The engine groaned and died. “I haven’t forgotten. I remember every parry and thrust.”

“That’s not what I mean. Don’t you think we should talk about how we feel about each other?”

Uh-oh. I should have known. Somehow I assumed that Susan Corrigan was different from other women. Which she was, of course, in certain respects. She cared less about clothes than whether to pass or run on third-and-four. But she was still a woman… and women want to talk about relationships. I went into my big, dumb guy routine. It comes naturally.

“I’m not too good at postcoital conversation,” I said.

“I know,” she said compassionately. “Like most men, you have trouble expressing your emotions.”

“Not all of them. Anger I’m good at.”

She scowled and waited. I had one hand on the door handle, but she wasn’t stirring. Trapped.

“Jake, if it helps, I’m not too good at this either. But here goes. I want you to know I wouldn’t have crawled into your bed unless I felt something for you. Something more than a physical attraction. I don’t know how much or where it’s going. But it’s real, and I wanted you to know.”

She waited some more.

I was silent. Overhead, a snowy egret headed toward the Everglades. Free to roam. I fidgeted, and the old leather upholstery squeaked underneath me.

“The ball is in your court, Counselor,” Susan Corrigan said.

“I appreciate what you said. Thank you.”

“Thank you? You big lummox! Are there any feelings inside that block of granite that sits on your shoulders? I am so tired of commitment-phobic men who panic when things get too good. Are you afraid of love, Jake? Is that it, are you one of those guys who sabotages a relationship when it gets too close?”

I looked down and noticed I was stomping on the brake pedal. My right hand had the gearshift in a death grip. The car seemed to shrink around me, caught in one of those machines that pulverizes a two-ton sedan into a block of scrap metal the size of a sofa. “Don’t you think you’re overreacting to my limited ability to express myself?” I asked.

“Is that code for inaccessibility and lack of emotional depth?”

“No. You’re important to me, Susan. There’s so much going on right now that I haven’t had a chance to figure it all out. But you’ve gotten to me, right through the granite. You challenge me. You make me think about the way I live, my work, everything. You turn me on, and you light me up. But it’s not even halftime. Let’s go into the locker room, then see what happens in the second half.”

She smiled. “Not a bad speech. Not a great speech, but it’ll do…”

Then I leaned down and kissed her, and she grabbed a handful of my hair and yanked my head back. “… For now,” she said, pushing me toward the door.

***

A ringing phone greeted us in the little house. Charlie Riggs was on the line, breathing hard. “Thank God you’re there. There’s trouble, Jake, and his name’s Abe Socolow.”

Oh no, Socolow.

“They must have followed me here,” Charlie said. “Two investigators from the State Attorney’s Office plus Socolow. It’s his case.”

“What, a lousy grave theft?”

“No Jake, the murder of Philip Corrigan.”

That took the air out of me. “Where are you, Charlie?”

“At Jane’s house.”

“Jane?”

“Jane! Jane Lassiter, your granny, for Pete’s sake.”

“Oh.” The last time Granny was called Jane, the Wright Brothers were still tuning pianos.

“Don’t worry, Jake. I’m buying her out and I won’t give you up.”

“Slow down, Charlie. What happened? Who’s there?”

“Socolow and two of his investigators are on the front porch. This is my one phone call, just like in the movies. Best I can figure, MacKenzie heard I was in the lab after hours. Lord knows how, he never works past five. Anyway, he busted balls on the toxicology staff. They gave him the liver and brain samples, all tested positive for succinic acid and choline. So Socolow put a tail on me. They figured I had the body. I’m giving it to them. We would have done it sooner or later anyway, and they promise no charges for the grave robbery.”

“Does Socolow know you’re calling me?”

“Yeah, but just as a lawyer. He doesn’t know you were in the cemetery. Like I said, I won’t give you up. He can’t flip me.”

“Relax, Charlie. You sound like Jimmy Cagney.”

“I’m so sorry, Jake. This couldn’t have happened ten years ago. Fugaces labuntur anni. You wake up one morning and you’re old.”

I thought Charlie was about to cry, then through the phone, I heard the unmistakable sound of Granny’s screen door slamming shut. Then a voice, raspy and disagreeable, a voice from the past.

“You’re one rockin’ rollin’ mouthpiece, Jake, but you got your dick on the chopping block this time.”

“Hello, Abe,” I said. “Long time.”

I pictured him on the other end of the line, smirking malevolently. Abraham Socolow was lean and balding, sallow of face and unpleasant of disposition. He was born mad at the world, and nothing had happened in the next forty-four years to change his mind. He believed that his fellow man was a miscreant until proven innocent. As chief of major crimes in the State Attorney’s Office, he also believed it was his mission in life to personally convict and send away the worst of the low-life slimeballs who committed felonies in the twenty-seven municipalities of Dade County, Florida.

Every prosecutor’s office has one Abe Socolow but could use ten. He viewed the job as a calling, not as a stepping stone to a cushy life defending drug dealers. Abe Socolow was smart, tough, mean, and unforgiving. And messianic. He considered plea-bargaining a sacrilege, probation unthinkable, and second chances were for basketball players at the free throw line.

As much as Socolow detested robbers, rapists, and druggies, he had a special contempt for murderers. On a chart above his green metal desk in a tiny office that smelled of stale coffee and cigarettes was a poster with mug shots of fifty-eight men and three women. Sixty-one buckets of slime, Socolow liked to say. A diagonal slash cut across five of the faces and a caricature of Socolow’s beakish face peeked over the top of each slash. “Slimebusters,” the poster said in red ink, drawn to look like drops of blood.

The greatest anguish in Socolow’s life was that he had convicted sixty-one slimeballs of first degree murder but only thirty-eight had been sentenced to death, and of those, only five had been executed. The rest were tied up in endless appeals. When I was a public defender, Socolow confided to me that he sometimes dreamed he would die before his murderers, a vision that left him frightened and alone. It was the only time I knew him to confess weakness of any kind.

“You gonna defend him, Jake?”

“Defend who?”

“Hey, don’t jerk me off. Roger Stanton. Dr. X, the great white defendant, purveyor of poison, seducer of women…”

“You writing headlines now, Abe?”

“No, just getting indictments and convictions.”

“What’s the charge?”

He laughed. “I’d say Murder One after the grand jury meets tomorrow.”

“You got a corpus delicti?”

Another laugh, like a horse’s whinny. “Right here on ice, along with some hog snapper.”

“And a weapon?” I asked. Might as well do some pretrial discovery if he was in a talkative mood.

“Implements of the crime. About an hour ago, we served a warrant on Stanton’s house. Found a real interesting vial with two hypodermics. Lab will have it back tonight. Wanna bet on the contents?”

So that’s what happened. A lot of things about my late-night phone call to Roger’s house were coming into focus.

“Sure I’ll bet. I’ll bet you got the search warrant based on an affidavit from a charming widow. I’ll bet she swore she saw the stuff in Stanton’s house within the last twenty-four hours.”

“What of it?”

“She planted it there!” I thundered. “Last night. I know she was there. She wanted me to know she was there. It corroborates her affidavit. But I also know where she got the vial and the hypodermics and it wasn’t from Roger.”

“I’m listening,” Socolow said.

But I wasn’t talking. Melanie Corrigan must have known I wouldn’t drag Susan into it. Susan would swear the drug came from Melanie’s bedroom but could not prove it. That left Susan holding the drug. Roger was trapped, but I was too. Nowhere to turn. Finally I said, “Roger Stanton isn’t a murderer. He may look at life through a zipper, but last time I checked, that wasn’t a capital crime.”

“Fine, Lassiter, argue that to the jury. And this is what I’ll argue. Roger Stanton is banging his patient’s wife. He asks her to kill her husband. She refuses. He has access to a dangerous anesthetic. The husband dies after routine surgery. The anesthetic is found in the doctor’s home and traces are present in the corpse. That’s our case, a simple, straightforward path to Murder One.”

“Anything else?”

“Only this. It’s premeditated. It’s a cold-blooded, calculated murder for lust and money. It’s a heinous, atrocious crime without any pretense of moral or legal justification. You know where I’m heading, doncha Jake, old buddy?”

I wasn’t his old buddy but I knew where he was heading. He was reciting Section 921.141. Like the Pledge of Allegiance, he knew the death penalty statute by heart.

“I know. You want twelve men, good and true, not just six.”

“You got it. Warming up the hot seat at Raiford.”

Abe Socolow wanted me to sweat. And I was sweating. But thinking, too. His case all wrapped up like that. Something was missing. The same thing Charlie Riggs and I couldn’t figure out: How could Roger have killed Philip Corrigan—how could anyone?—if the cause of death was a spontaneous rupture of the aorta?

But if I was right, if nobody killed Philip Corrigan, why would Melanie frame Roger? It made no sense. She only needed Roger out of the way to cover her own tracks. If her husband had died of natural causes, there would be nothing to hide, nothing to gain.

So I was back at square one. I didn’t know what caused Philip Corrigan’s death, or who. And I didn’t know the answer to Abe Socolow’s first question. I didn’t know if Roger wanted me to defend him. After all, if I hadn’t dug up the body, there probably wouldn’t be a murder charge. If I were Roger, I wouldn’t hire me; I’d sue me.

17

TELLING LIES

IN THE NAME AND BY THE AUTHORITY OF THE STATE OF FLORIDA:

The Grand Jurors of the State of Florida, duly called, empanelled and sworn to inquire and true presentment make in and for the body of the County of Dade, upon their oaths, present that on the 14th day of October, 1986, within the County of Dade, State of Florida, ROGER A. STANTON did, unlawfully and feloniously, from a premeditated design to effect the death of PHILIP CORRIGAN, a human being, kill PHILIP CORRIGAN, by injecting him with a dangerous drug, in violation of Florida Statute Section 782.04(1)(a), to the evil example of all others in like cases offending and against the peace and dignity of the State of Florida.

THE indictment was signed by the foreman of the grand jury and delivered to my house by a messenger from Abe Socolow’s office. I telephoned Roger, regretful and apologetic.

“I’ll understand if you file a complaint with the Bar,” I said.

“Then who’d defend me? The phony malpractice case was bad enough. But a murder charge? It’s crazy, and you’re the only one I trust to beat it.”

He made it sound easy, as if I could pull a few strings, get him a bye. I halfheartedly tried to talk him out of it. “I’m a little rusty in Criminal Court. There are some big gun criminal lawyers you could get.”

“But you believe I’m innocent. None of them will.” He had me there. I believed he was innocent, but I wanted to know. He was surprised when I asked him to take a polygraph test. When he agreed, I believed him a little more.

***

“This machine is so primitive,” Roger Stanton said. “I don’t trust it, not a bit.”

He was squirming in a hard wooden chair, a blood pressure cuff wrapped around his right arm, pneumograph tubes circling his chest and abdomen, electrodes attached to two fingers of his left hand. He sat on an inflatable rubber bladder and leaned back against another one, trying to balance his weight.

He was right; the equipment was primitive. The polygraph hasn’t changed much since a psychologist named William Marston started fooling around with blood pressure deception tests seventy years ago. Dr. Roger Stanton would have been more comfortable lashed to a shiny chrome device with microchips and digital readouts, not this Rube Goldberg contraption.

“Just try to relax,” I said. “They used to throw people into wells to see if they were demons. The ones who drowned were found innocent. The ones who floated were obviously children of Satan deserving of death. We’ve progressed a bit.”

The technician had spent an hour with Roger getting him prepared, gaining his confidence. And setting him up. That’s what polygraph examiners do. Some small talk, convince the subject he has to tell the truth, then try to solicit a lie to an irrelevant question to measure the response against the relevant one: Did you steal the petty cash, do you smoke dope on the job, then… did you murder Philip Corrigan?

Roger Stanton wouldn’t know this. And he wouldn’t know what every con learns while still in reform school—how to screw up the test with a nail in the shoe, a hard bite into the tongue, or other ways of jacking up blood pressure. Good. That’s the way I wanted it. I wanted the truth about the death of Philip Corrigan. Not to determine whether to defend Roger. I could do that either way, guilty or innocent. Even if Roger told me he planned the murder for months and carried it out, I could still give him a defense, force the state to meet its burden of proof. That’s our system. But I couldn’t let him take the stand and lie. So I needed the knowledge for strategy purposes and for another reason, too. I just wanted to know. I had gotten too close to this one, nearly seduced by the widow, sleeping with the daughter, and now defending Roger Stanton a second time.

Regardless of the test result, it would not be admissible in the murder trial. Although juries frequently hear witnesses whose powers of observation are impaired by booze, drugs, or lack of intellect, polygraph tests are barred as not meeting scientific standards of proof. The courts constantly struggle to determine who lies and who tells the truth. Some judges claim to be experts on body language. A witness who raises one heel from the floor, bites a lip, or shifts his eyes is considered untrustworthy. I tell my witnesses to ogle the lawyer asking the question and not to keep time to show tunes with their feet. And I carry ChapStick for the biters.

“Do you understand that you must answer every question truthfully?” The polygraph examiner, a retired cop named Tony Cuevas, twisted the dial on the galvanic skin monitor and waited for Roger’s response. Before he went on pension, Cuevas had a more direct way of eliciting the truth. A nightstick smashed against an ankle. But that was Cuevas the cop. Cuevas the security consultant was a laid-back, soft-spoken forty-seven-year-old guy of average build and pleasant demeanor. He could have been an assistant vice president at a small town bank. Today Cuevas was relaxed and informal, wearing a short-sleeved white shirt and nondescript tie, fiddling with the balance on the cardio amplifier.

“Yes sir,” Roger Stanton answered. The five pens on the charts made their little hills.

“Do you live in Florida?” Cuevas asked. That is a neutral question. The blood pressure, respiration, and perspiration are recorded, setting the lower borders for the test.

“Yes.”

“Did you ever take anything that didn’t belong to you?” A control question.

Stanton paused, then a soft “Yes.”

That one didn’t work. The idea of a control question is to get a false answer. Nearly everybody has stolen something, if only a candy bar. If Stanton had falsely denied it, his physiological response to this irrelevant question would have been compared to the response to the biggie: Did you kill Philip Corrigan? If the reaction is greater to the irrelevant control question than to the relevant question about the killing, chances are he’s telling the truth. If the reaction is greater to the relevant question, chances are he’s more concerned about that answer, and it’s a lie.

Tony Cuevas may have wanted to stomp on Roger Stanton’s instep to get a better answer, but he simply smiled and asked, “Did you ever cheat in school, even once?”

Another short pause, then a soft “No.” I couldn’t see the charts, but that was the answer Cuevas wanted. An almost sure lie to an irrelevant question.

A pause for about thirty seconds to let the reactions die.

“Did you kill Philip Corrigan?”

A hasty, firm “No, sir.”

“Is your name Roger?” Back to the neutral question to start the sequence again.

“Yes.”

“Did you ever wish anyone harm?" Again, a control question, eliciting the lie.

“No.” It’s amazing how many people refuse to admit the truth to questions they believe are irrelevant. They’re afraid that if they admit to skullduggery or viciousness in the past, it’s an admission of guilt on the subject of the polygraph test, and figuring the question isn’t the one that’s being tested, they lie about it.

The required pause, and then: “Did you inject succinylcholine or any other substance into Philip Corrigan in an attempt to kill him?”

“No.”

“Were you born in May?”

“Yes.”

“Have you ever told a lie to get out of trouble?”

Silence, then “Yes.” Roger Stanton was more honest than most, but he still denied two of the control questions, enough for Cuevas to evaluate the charts.

“One more question, Dr. Stanton. Do you know who killed Philip Corrigan?”

“No sir,” Roger Stanton said.

Cuevas went through the same questions two more times. The answers stayed the same. The pens never stopped gliding up and down the moving paper. Tony Cuevas never changed his expression. When it was over, Roger Stanton ran a hand through his neat, salt-and-pepper hair and gave me a wary look. His shirt was soaked and he seemed worn out. I told him that honest men sweat, too, and sent him home.

I used to think I was a good judge of character. Then I got burned a few times. Now I watched Roger Stanton heading out the door. Good looking in that bland, undefined way. A mild, passive demeanor. Troubled now. He was either an honest man worried about the reliability of the strange contraption or a killer fearful that his mask was about to be peeled back.

Very perceptive, Lassiter. And you are either a brilliant lawyer riding the crest of a dazzling career or a has-been ex-jock who should be selling hurricane shutters.

Cuevas kicked open a mini-refrigerator and offered me a beer. I was thirsty and he was sociable, so we polished off a six-pack while going over the charts. Cuevas measured the little lines, some forming the Appalachians, others the Rockies. He made notes, used a calculator, scratched his head with a pencil, and said, “I got a plus eight or better on two of the three relevant questions.”

“Meaning?”

“Truthful. He didn’t kill Philip Corrigan. Or more properly stated, his physiological responses lead me to conclude that he doesn’t believe that he did.”

“So what did he lie about?”

“Nothing for sure. The machine gives us three categories. Truthful, deceptive, and inconclusive. He got a minus four when I asked him if he knew who killed the guy. Minus six would be clearly deceptive. Minus four is close but still inconclusive. Here, look at this.”

He pointed at some squiggly lines. They trailed off, becoming shorter, then taller, then shorter again.

“Looks like the Dow Jones,” I said.

“That’s called a staircase suppression. See, it’s like a series of steps. It shows suppression of respiration just after I asked if he knows who killed Corrigan. That’s one of the indications of deception.”

“So does he know who did the killing?”

“A definite maybe. Sorry, best I can do is he didn’t kill Corrigan but may know who did. If he clearly lied about not knowing, I’d be even more convinced he was innocent of the murder itself.”

I must have looked puzzled because Cuevas continued, “It’s this way, Lassiter. If the test shows clearly truthful to the denial of having committed the crime and clearly deceptive as to the denial of knowing who did, he’s absolutely innocent. Money back, guaran-fucking-teed clean as a whistle. A killer will never show a stronger response to the question of who did it than whether he did it.”

I fooled around with the blood pressure cuff, then turned to Cuevas: “He told me he doesn’t know who killed Corrigan. I don’t like it if he’s lying to me.”

“He might have had an itchy foot or a chest pain when he answered. Or he might know the killer and be protecting him.”

“Or her,” I said.

Cuevas nodded. “Or them. But your guy looks clean on the big questions, so you got what you want, an innocent lamb being led to the slaughter.”

Which means someone is telling lies about Roger Stanton. I remembered the line from Kafka: “Someone must have been telling lies about Joseph K. for without having done anything wrong he was arrested one fine morning.” Which also meant we needed to prepare for The Trial.

***

The next morning I was at my desk at eight o’clock when the call came on my private line. “You gonna surrender that pervert murderer or should a couple boys from major crimes cuff him and bring him in the front door with all the TV assholes outside?”

Abe Socolow had such a folksy way of saying hello. He was delivering a message, just in case I missed it the day before. There would be no breaks, no special treatment because we used to break bread together. Now I was just another problem for him. After he brushed me aside, he could sweep up the scum he saw in front of him.

“You shouldn’t skip breakfast, Abe. Affects your disposition.”

He snorted at me. “I chew nails for breakfast.”

“And spit out tacks,” I said. “Roger will be there whenever you want. We aim to cooperate. But we’d like some cooperation from the state, too.”

“Like what?” he asked, suspicion rising in him like steam in a kettle.

“Bond, reasonable bond for someone never before arrested, much less convicted of a crime.”

“Hey, Jake, don’t pee on my leg, okay. We’re talking a capital crime here. No bond. You remember your criminal procedure, don’t you, or is the money too good handling divorces and corporate mergers?”

Socolow was going to make my life miserable, and if I couldn’t figure that out, he was telling me about it. He wanted me to grovel a little, so I did. It wouldn’t help my client to insult the guy trying to fry him. “Abe, the court will grant him bond if the state stipulates to it. He’s not going anywhere. He’s got his medical practice here. He’ll show up for arraignment, the preliminary, the trial, the whole works. C’mon Abe… Who’d notice the difference?” I said, without thinking. I pictured Socolow scowling at me at the other end of the line.

“Fuck him and the horse he rode in on. Let him sit in the can with all the other shitheads.”

Stay in the prosecutor’s office long enough, you get warped. You start thinking like a cop and talking like a cop. Cops are everywhere—homicide, vice, narcs—telling macho stories, hanging together in the paranoid world of Us against Them. Then in the corridors of the Justice Building, you rub up against the silk-suited shoulders of criminal lawyers and their depraved clients. No way you can stay sane. Not after eighteen years.

He always thought I was too flippant. Become a judge if you want to be a wise guy, Socolow once told me. They get away with that shit.

“So what’s it gonna be?” Socolow said finally.

“I’ll bring him in, but I want an immediate bond hearing. You and I both know he shouldn’t have to cool his heels in that hellhole across the street.”

Socolow laughed. “Good enough for spicks and spades, but not for the saintly doctor. Bring him in, and I’ll get you a bond hearing this afternoon. But you know your burden under Arthur v. State.”

I knew, I knew. Unlike a trial, where the state has the burden of proving guilt beyond a reasonable doubt, at a bond hearing in a capital case, the defendant must show that the state lacks sufficient evidence of guilt. But there was something in that for us, too. I could cross-examine Socolow’s witnesses. One more time to put them under oath, a great advantage, because the best trick in the defense lawyer’s trial bag is to elicit conflicting statements from prosecution witnesses. Jurors love that, even if the testimony is as innocuous as the color of the tie someone was wearing on the day of a murder. So the state’s case would be unfolded in front of me, and the state’s star witness, Mrs. Melanie Corrigan, would have to testify much sooner than she could have expected.

***

“I can’t believe Melanie set me up,” Roger Stanton said as we looked for a parking space in front of the Justice Building. He squirmed in the bucket seat.

“Believe it,” I said. “Hey, she sued you for malpractice, planted the drug in your house, and gave the State Attorney’s Office an affidavit for the search warrant. What more does it take?”

He slammed a hand against the dashboard. “I’ll believe it when I see her take the stand against me, not before.”

“Fine,” I said, pulling the old convertible into the meager shade of a thatch palm. “That should be right after lunch.”

18

CIRCUS MAXIMUS

THE Justice Building hadn’t changed, except to become more crowded, dirtier, and more forbidding. When I started practicing law, six Criminal Court judges handled all felony cases in Dade County. But that was before Miami became the major port of entry for various grasses, powders, and pills from south of the border, and before Miami earned its civic bones as murder capital of the U. S. of A. Now Miami has the highest crime rate in the country. That’s important. Americans have a passion for being number one. Like having the highest humidity, the murder rate is the source of a bizarre sense of pride among locals. It takes a tough hombre to battle Miami’s mosquitoes each summer and the criminals all year round.

The city padres can’t do much about the weather, but they keep adding personnel to the justice system. Now, eighteen state judges churn through calendars stocked with up to sixty felonies each day, hurrying through arraignments, motions, bond hearings, reports, soundings, trials, and sentencings. A constant flow of humanity crowds the corridors—Liberty City blacks, Hispanics from a dozen countries, dirt-poor whites—calling out for their public defenders in a Babel of tongues, inner-city jive, machine-gun Spanish, back-country Southern drawl.

I was pacing the fourth floor, getting the feel of the place again, waiting for the bond hearing. The tile floors were filthy, the corridors dim with dead fluorescent bulbs. Acoustic tiles were missing from the ceiling, leaving gaps like missing teeth. Every thirty feet or so, huge twists of electrical wires dropped from overhead conduits, waiting for county electricians to install some new device, maybe TV cameras, escape alarms, or other technological marvels. The wires could have been there a week or a year. In the Justice Building, time is another dimension.

An ancient bailiff in a baggy blue uniform came out of a courtroom shouting, “Judge Snyder’s calendar is now being called!" All aboard.

A young assistant state attorney with too much hair and an unkempt moustache sang out, “Teddy Figuero-a! Teddy Figuero-a!” A prosecutor’s missing witness, a case about to go down the tubes.

A huge Black woman slammed into me. She held her even larger son by the scruff of his T-shirt and horse collared him down the corridor. The son was about twenty, with shoulders like a water buffalo but a choreographer’s hips.

“What day they say your trial be?” the mom demanded.

“February four, Momma.”

“No. No. The arrangement be February four. The trial be when, March something…”

They trundled toward the escalators, still debating.

Shackled defendants crossed the corridor in twos, shuffling from one holding cell to another, eyes darting left and right, looking for girlfriends, mothers, lawyers, or bondsmen.

A sunburned redhead in her forties removed one high-heeled shoe and wiggled the toes of her right foot. Four toes, the little one missing. Maybe the evidence in a criminal case. Who knows? The performers are crazed at Circus Maximus.

I threaded my way to Judge Randolph Crane’s courtroom, a spacious arena with thirty-foot ceilings, paneled walls on two sides, and a stained glass ornamental wall behind the bench into which was cut a door and through which the judge miraculously appeared from chambers. Under his raised bench of simulated walnut was a red panic button that summoned corrections officers in the event a deranged defendant (or lawyer) attacked him, and on a hidden shelf sat a loaded .357 Magnum in case the officers were all squeezing up against the young women clerks in the police liaison office.

I was waiting for the officers to bring Roger into the courtroom from the county jail next door where he had been booked two hours earlier. The prisoners came through an overpass that crossed the street and led directly into holding cells attached to the courtrooms. I had stayed with Roger as long as they let me in jail processing, and when they took him back through the huge steel door that clanged shut with a sound of malice and finality, he shot me a helpless look.

It hit me then, the load I carried, Roger Stanton’s life weighing a ton on my shoulders. The first rule of criminal cases and here I was emoting, instead of thinking, feeling anguish for him instead of masterminding a brilliant strategy to set him free. If any there be.

A dozen defendants sat in the jury box waiting for their cases to be called. Lawyers milled about in front of the bar, whispering to each other, pouring through files, making deals, swapping stories. The courtroom resembled a basketball court before the game, players at both ends warming up, taking shots from all over the court, slapping each other on the back, a kind of camaraderie before the battle. At the same time, the judge kept calling his calendar, sometimes banging his gavel to bring the uproar to a manageable din.

Judge Randolph Crane was serving his fourth six-year term on the bench. He was tall and spare with a long, gloomy, gray face. His pale blue eyes had seen it all and not liked any of it. He spoke quickly as if he wanted to get it over with, sometimes thumbing through his calendar, shaking his head at the number of cases still to be heard.

“Rodolfo Milan,” the judge called out. A pot-bellied man in a stained guayabera dragged himself out of the jury box. A public defender whispered in his ear. In a singsong voice, the judge began his mournful chant, “You’re charged with aggravated assault, grand theft, breaking and entering, possession of a weapon in the commission of a felony. Rodolfo Milan, how do you plead?”

The defendant looked for his public defender, who now was huddled with a young woman prosecutor in a black miniskirt and fishnet stockings.

“Have I got a plea for you?” She winked at the defense lawyer.

It went on like this for a while, arraignments and some guilty pleas, a few cases nolle prossed because the state had misplaced files or lost evidence or forgotten to subpoena witnesses or violated the speedy trial rule. With all the traps, with the rules of criminal procedure a minefield for the prosecution, it’s a miracle anybody ever gets convicted. Except when they really want you. When they pay attention to you, throw their resources into it, when an Abe Socolow gets a burr under his saddle, makes it personal, then it’s different. Then it’s all turned around.

The judge kept calling cases, and every few minutes, corrections officers brought a new load of defendants from the holding cell to the jury box. Still no Roger Stanton.

“Ivory Holloman,” the judge sang out. “You’re charged with grand theft auto…”

Marvin Pollack, a skinny sixty-year-old defense lawyer with a matted toupee, pushed a young Black man in a muscle shirt up against one wall of the courtroom. “Ivory, you got the money?” Pollack asked, patting the man’s back pocket and not finding a wallet.

“Tomorrow, Mister Po-lock,” Ivory Holloman said, terror in his eyes. If he wanted to, Ivory could pick up Marvin Pollack and use him for a walking stick. Ivory didn’t want to. He wanted Marvin Pollack to keep him out of jail.

“Let’s see what you got there,” Pollack said, jamming his hand inside the man’s tight jeans, fishing out some wrinkled currency. “Shit! A fin, nine singles, and a Lotto ticket." Pollack smoothed the bills, pocketed them, straightened his tie, and prepared to negotiate a fourteen-dollar plea.

“Lazaro Arango, first degree arson…”

Abe Socolow strutted into the courtroom followed by his entourage. A couple of detectives from Metro, a young woman assistant state attorney, the medical examiner, a paralegal, and two clerks from the prosecutor’s office. The state can always outnumber you. The detectives flanked Melanie Corrigan, who looked a trifle uneasy, but in a virgin-white cotton dress, her arrival still cut the decibel level in half as she walked to the first row of the gallery.

Socolow stood motionless and surveyed the courtroom as if counting the heifers on his ranch and coming up one short. Finally he spotted me and nodded formally. His assistant stood a half-step behind. She was a good choice for the trial, a fragile blonde, small and pale with translucent skin. Give her a good squeeze and you’d leave bruises, but just what Abe Socolow needed. Sometimes, he comes on too strong. A little righteous indignation is okay for a prosecutor up to the point the jury senses he’s mean-spirited and unfair. Then, for reasons psychologists can explain, jurors begin to feel sympathy for the defendant, no matter how heinous the charge. Abe sometimes treads dangerously close to the mark, his motor cranking at the red line.

A moment later, the guards led Stanton through the holding cell door. His eyes desperately sought me, and I moved next to him.

“We have a couple minutes,” I said. “Now, no matter what Melanie or any other witness says, you’re not going to testify. This is our chance to find out what they’ve got, not reveal our case.”

Judge Crane saw Socolow in the rear of the courtroom and pulled the freshly minted file of State v. Stanton off the floor. He would call us out of turn, a courtesy to the chief of major crimes, not to me. Still, Socolow had kept his promise. An immediate bond hearing, and he hadn’t called the papers or TV stations. Most prosecutors would salivate over the prospect of seeing their faces in the first block of the six o’clock news. Not Honest Abe. He didn’t care about publicity, and instead of sucking up to the reporters the way most prosecutors did, he avoided them. We had a one-day reprieve on publicity.

“Roger Stanton, murder in the first degree, defendant’s motion to set bond,” Judge Crane called out. He seemed a little more animated. Murder One beats the dickens out of auto theft for the adrenaline rush. “Is the defendant present and represented by counsel?”

I stepped forward, nodded, and said, “Jacob Lassiter for the defense. Let the record reflect that Dr. Stanton is present in the courtroom, just as he will be at every hearing and the trial if reasonable bond is granted and he is released pending trial.”

“Hold on Mr. Lassiter,” the judge said, “let’s get the introductions done before you start arguing. Say, haven’t seen you around here lately. Getting bored with the bankers and big shots downtown?”

The players in the criminal justice system always give it to you when you’ve been manipulating money instead of lives.

“I wouldn’t be here at all if the state had indicted the guilty party, instead of a respected physician, a lifelong resident of this county, and a man with no prior criminal record.” Might as well score a few points before the other side gets the ball.

“Still relentless,” Judge Crane muttered, shaking his head. “Perhaps the state should announce its appearance before you make your closing argument.”

Socolow strode to the podium, his angular body splitting the mass of young lawyers like a sword. Some color had crept into his sallow cheeks. He stood there silently a moment, his hawkish face a mask. “Abraham D. Socolow for the people of the state of Florida,” he announced. He bowed to the judge and continued, “Also for the state, Jennifer Logan.” He nodded toward the small blonde who was invisible next to Melanie Corrigan.

I took a good look at the widow. Not as confident as in the civil trial. A different society over here. Less civilized. Maybe once she would have fit in with the grifters, hard guys, and con men. But maybe the comforts of Gables Estates had taken the edge off, dulled the street smarts that had served her so well until now. And maybe, too, she was just smart enough to know it.

The judge began the preliminaries. “Mr. Lassiter. This is a capital case. You know, of course, the burden you face in securing bond pending trial.”

“I know, Your Honor. However, by examining the state’s main witness, we intend to show that the proof is not great, and the presumption of guilt is not evident. I believe we will meet the standards of Arthur v. State. This is a case in which the state’s entire case, including the evidence on which a search warrant was based, depends on the credibility of one witness. We are prepared to demonstrate the total lack of credibility of that witness.”

I was prepared for no such thing. I was ready to wing it, to go with the flow, to get her to admit the old affair with Roger and ask if she didn’t want him out of her life now, and didn’t this seem like a swell way to do it. Time to go fishing. You never know what you’ll catch until you drop a line into the water.

Again I looked at Melanie Corrigan. Edgy, tension showing around the mouth. Good. Finally getting to her. Socolow looked at her, too. Then he whispered something to Jennifer Logan, who shook her head, no, thin blonde strands swaying. Socolow turned to the judge. “Your Honor. Of course we vigorously disagree with the representations made by Mr. Lassiter concerning the state’s case and its chief witness. However, we agree that this defendant is not likely to flee. We will stipulate to reasonable bond, perhaps two hundred fifty thousand dollars.”

Just like that. Throwing in the towel.

Of course he had good reason. He hadn’t had time to adequately prepare his witnesses, and his instincts told him that Melanie Corrigan wasn’t ready. While Abe Socolow might take some perverse pleasure in keeping Roger Stanton in jail for a few months prior to trial, he wouldn’t risk blowing the case by having his star witness crack at a bond hearing. We took the offer, Roger putting up his pension funds as collateral for the bond.

So we left the Justice Building together. Just like the old days during the civil trial, Roger Stanton telling me what a great lawyer I am. Then he asked what my strategy would be during the trial.

I didn’t know.

Who are our witnesses?

I didn’t know that.

He gave me a funny look. I told him not to worry. The state had to show us its evidence and its witness list. And the state’s case was circumstantial. Nobody saw Roger Stanton inject the drug into Philip Corrigan. And nobody except Melanie Corrigan could place the black valise in Roger’s possession. I liked that—Melanie’s testimony against Roger’s—one-on-one. I just wondered how Abe Socolow planned to change the odds.

19

THE NURSE

LIKE fine wine, a criminal prosecution needs to age. First, a flurry of activity during the fermentation of the case, hearings, depositions, and an exchange of papers. Then, a quiet time, waiting for a trial date, files stored away in darkened cabinets, a time for brooding, waking at dawn with brilliant strategies, tossing them on the scrap heap of half-baked ideas by midday.

Judge Crane had set the trial for June, the beginning of Miami’s unremitting summer. Those who can afford it are already getting away, escaping the blazing sun, ferocious humidity, and afternoon gully washers. By June the winds have shifted to the southeast—a wet, warm breath from the Caribbean—a time when each day begins with the same notion: no relief for six months. The calendar still says Spring, but in the tropics, it is not a time of renewal. It is the season of decay, streets steaming in afternoon storms that soak but do not cool, businessmen ducking from refrigerated cars to refrigerated offices while the poor, like desert dwellers, seek shade during the day, then roam free after dark, a time of short tempers and midnight shootings. And it would be our time of trial.

Six weeks after the indictment, we knew the state’s case inside out. Abe Socolow detailed it for us in a bill of particulars, a witness list, and a carton of physical evidence. We knew who would testify and what they would say. No more trial by surprise, no last-minute witnesses popping from the gallery.

We knew there was no wiretap evidence, no statements made by Stanton to be used against him, and that the confidential informant, one Melanie Corrigan, would be the star witness. We learned the test results from the Medical Examiner’s Office: evidence of succinic acid and choline in Corrigan’s liver and brain, but strangely, none around the needle tracks in the buttocks. I would talk to Charlie Riggs about that.

On a warm, overcast day in April, I deposed Melanie Corrigan in Abe Socolow’s office, staring hard at her when she took the oath. She stared right back and promised to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Once upon a time, she held a rich man’s hand and promised to love and to cherish, to honor and obey.

Today she had no surprises. After her marriage, Roger Stanton kept pursuing her. Yes, she had dated him years ago, but that was ancient history, she was just a kid. No, she was not having an affair with him. Kept spurning his advances. He said he loved her, that Philip didn’t appreciate her, didn’t spend enough time with her. Roger showed her a little black valise with hypodermics and a glass vial, clear liquid inside, like a miniature vodka bottle they give you on a plane.

He told her to get rid of Philip by injecting him with the drug. She was shocked, then laughed it off, thinking it was all talk. Roger always talked crazy. But when Philip died after surgery, she suspected Roger. She wanted proof. She thought something would come out in the civil trial, but nothing did.

So after the verdict, when Roger invited her over to his place, she went, and while he was fixing drinks, she looked through a desk in the study. Voila, the black valise and two hypodermics. Nearby in a small refrigerator was the vial, this time with some of the fluid missing. She slipped everything into her purse and the next day called the State Attorney’s Office. At about the same time, Dr. MacKenzie tipped Socolow to the brain and liver samples that came from Charlie Riggs. When both the tissue samples and the liquid tested positive for succinylcholine, the grand jury indicted Roger Stanton for Murder One.

She told her story well. Socolow had several weeks to prepare her for deposition after almost botching it at the bond hearing. I couldn’t shake her. She denied that the valise was ever in her possession, denied planting the drug at Roger’s house. Nothing there for us, but at least we knew the state’s case and knew we could not win unless we discredited Melanie Corrigan.

What about the valise and the drug, I had asked Roger. I wanted him to tell me that he had never seen the succinylcholine, that Melanie must have come up with it and then stolen his valise to frame him. If we could trace the drug to her, bull’s-eye!

“It didn’t happen that way,” he said.

“No?”

“I borrowed the sucks—that’s what we call it—from an anesthesiologist. Had an old Lab Retriever, must have been close to twenty, comatose, but still breathing. Put him to sleep by paralyzing his lungs with the sucks. Kept the bottle in a refrigerator. Don’t remember what happened to it.”

“The valise?”

He shrugged. “Noticed it missing shortly after Philip died. Didn’t think anything of it.”

I checked it out. The anesthesiologist confirmed the story, the pet burial place, too. An unexpected bonus, it all happened two years before Corrigan died. Ladies and gentlemen, you don’t get your murder weapon and wait two years to do the job.

***

One name on the state’s witness list meant nothing to us. Rebecca Ingram, R.N., Mercy Hospital. I took her deposition with Abe Socolow sitting grimly at her side. Nurse Ingram was in her thirties, no makeup, close-cropped dishwater brown hair. Next to her name on the witness list was the innocuous description: Responded to decedent’s cardiac monitor alarm.

“Did you see Dr. Stanton the night of Mr. Corrigan’s death?” I asked.

“Yes. I saw him leaving Room five-twelve, Mr. Corrigan’s room, hurrying down the hall.”

Okay, the state can place Roger in the hospital that night. No problem. Seeing patients, stopped in to check on Corrigan after surgery.

“And what time did this occur?”

She did not hesitate. “Ten o’clock. Almost exactly. I remember because I was checking Mr. Corrigan every half hour on the half hour.”

Still no harm done. The aneurysm occurred at eleven fifteen.

“Is that all?” That’s not much of a question, sort of asking the witness what the heck you’re doing on the state’s witness list.

“He was carrying a little leather valise. Black. With three gold initials on it, about yea-big.” She held her hands about one foot apart, and I felt a knife, the same size, lodge in my gut. Nurse Rebecca Ingram shrugged and smiled a tiny, innocent smile. “That’s all,” she said.

Oh. That’s all. I asked Socolow if he would be kind enough to find Exhibit C in his cardboard box.

“Similar to this valise?” I asked the nurse. “Well, it looks like it. Yes. Either that one or one just like it.”

I put my hand over the gold lettering. “What initials were on the valise you saw?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know.”

“And of course you couldn’t see what was in the valise, correct?”

“No. I mean yes. I mean, correct, I couldn’t see what was in there.” Questions phrased in the negative always confuse.

“Did you ask Dr. Stanton what was in the valise?”

“No. I said nothing to him, and as far as I know, he didn’t even see me.”

“And in your experience, is it unusual for a doctor to carry such a valise?”

“Oh no. Many physicians carry small instruments in them or keep their patient notes there.”

“Was there anything unusual about seeing Dr. Stanton on the floor in the evening?”

“No. He frequently checks on patients after surgery.”

“So in summary, you saw Dr. Stanton on his regular nighttime rounds more than an hour before Philip Corrigan suffered an aneurysm from unknown causes, and the doctor was carrying a rather ordinary valise that may or may not be the one I am holding, and you don’t know what, if anything, was in it?”

“Yes, yes, that’s right,” she said, clearly relieved not to have buried the doctor any deeper.

I paused a moment and tried to get smarter in a hurry. At trial you worry about asking one question too many; in discovery, one too few. I couldn’t seem to pump any extra voltage into my brain. Abe Socolow cracked the knuckles of his bony hands and said, “Any more questions, Counselor?”

We were sitting in his tiny office in the Justice Building, files and cardboard boxes everywhere, a flood of paper, the daily bread of lawyers. The three of us plus a court reporter taking everything down on her silent machine. Socolow seemed a little too anxious to end this one. I pretended to study the chart of his convicted and condemned killers. Buying time, I stood up and walked to the small window that overlooked the trestles of the nearby expressway. I looked for a signpost on the foggy road that runs through my mind.

“One more question,” I said.

Abe Socolow sighed and shook his head in disgust. That trick might work with kids just out of law school. Pretending exasperation: Why the fuck you wasting everybody’s time here?

I smiled at Nurse Rebecca Ingram, who sat quietly with her hands primly folded in her lap. “Did you see anybody else on the floor that night prior to eleven-fifteen?”

“Yes, as I told Mr. Socolow, sometime between ten-thirty and eleven, I can’t remember exactly when, I was at the station by the elevators, and Mrs. Corrigan came up with a gentleman.”

“Oh,” I breathed, trying to keep still, inviting her to continue.

“Well, they must have come up the fire stairs because I didn’t see them get off the elevator. But I looked down the hall and there they were.”

“Did you speak to them?”

“Yes, I told Mrs. Corrigan they really shouldn’t be up there then, but she said they’d just be a minute. Then they went into Mr. Corrigan’s room.”

“Alone, the two of them?”

“Yes, I returned to my station.”

“Did you recognize the gentleman with Mrs. Corrigan?”

“No. He was very… very muscular looking. I could see that even though he was wearing one of those khaki jackets with all the pockets, like he was going on a safari…”

“A bush jacket,” I helped out.

“Yes. Heavily muscled men have a distinctive way of walking, kind of rolling side-to-side. And he was not too tall. Short, actually.”

“Would you recognize him again?”

“I believe so. I believe he was Cuban, kind of swarthy, you know… but I don’t know. He could have been Italian or something." She blushed.

What a splendid break, what a wonderful witness you have handed me, Abe Socolow. A buck would get you ten the muscular, not-too-tall guy was Sergio Machado-Alvarez, the karate instructor, boat captain, and steroid freak who made a cameo appearance on the group-grope videotape and who bruised my ancient Oldsmobile with brutal efficiency. I made a note to have Cindy subpoena Sergio for the trial.

I continued, “How long were they in the room?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t see them leave. They must have gone back down the stairs.”

“You were on the fifth floor, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Do many visitors walk up from the lobby?”

Abe Socolow was fidgeting. “Counselor, I must object to that question. It’s speculative and irrelevant.”

“Save it for trial,” I barked. “This is discovery, and it’s my deposition, and if you’re sorry you listed this honest lady as a witness, tough.”

Socolow banged a fist on his green metal desk, sending a Styrofoam coffee cup flying. “Damn it, Jake, you know better than that! I never try to hide anything. Let the chips fall where they may. I’m only interested in the truth, and you can create all the red herrings you want, but I don’t care who was in that room, only one person poisoned Corrigan.”

I ignored him and turned to Nurse Ingram.

“Just one more question,” I promised.

Socolow hissed at me, “You said that fifteen minutes ago.”

I proceeded as if Socolow weren’t there. “Nurse Ingram, did you check on Philip Corrigan between the time you saw Mrs. Corrigan and the gentleman enter Room five-twelve and the time of the patient’s distress due to the aneurysm?”

“No sir.”

Whoa. I had expected a yes. Another pleasant surprise. She continued, “I’m sorry, but I missed the eleven o’clock check. I was filling out reports. Next thing I know, at eleven-fifteen, the cardiac monitor is going crazy. He’d had the aneurysm. I called in the Code Blue, and he was taken to surgery. But as you know…”

“So,” I began, disregarding my one-question promise, “as far as you know, Mrs. Corrigan and the gentleman could have been in Mr. Corrigan’s room from ten-thirty to eleven o’clock or even eleven-fourteen.”

“I don’t know. I suppose. But I don’t know why they would be. Mr. Corrigan was sleeping all evening. He was sedated, of course, after surgery.”

“And the last time you saw him was ten-thirty, and he was sleeping peacefully?”

“Yes.”

“After Dr. Stanton left?”

“Yes.”

“Then, you saw Mrs. Corrigan and the gentleman?"

“Yes.”

“And the next time you saw Mr. Corrigan, he had suffered the aneurysm?”

“Yes, I said that.”

“No further questions,” I said, regretting only that a judge, a jury, and a gallery of spectators were not there. “Your witness, Abe.”

If Abe Socolow’s skin were any more sallow, he’d be quarantined for hepatitis. He started in without pleasantries.

“Nurse Ingram, as far as you know, Mrs. Corrigan and her guest could have left the room at ten-thirty-one?”

“Yes, I suppose.”

“And Roger Stanton could have come back in at ten-thirty-two?”

I let out a well-planned laugh. “Sure, and maybe Santa Claus came down the chimney at eleven-ten.”

Socolow ignored me.

“Answer the question,” he ordered the nurse. “Well, I would have seen Dr. Stanton if he came up the elevator. But he could have come through the stairwell, yes.”

“Nothing further,” Socolow said.

Abe Socolow had gambled, had rolled the dice. He wanted to place Stanton in Philip Corrigan’s room, black valise in hand. He risked our finding out that the widow and her friend were there, too. He lost. But now, how to use that knowledge. I knew where we wanted to go with it, if not exactly how to get there.

If the state intends to prove a homicide with circumstantial evidence, it had better show that the defendant had the motive, opportunity, and means to commit the crime. With Roger Stanton the state had all three; his motive was to get Corrigan’s money and wife; the opportunity was being alone in the hospital room with Corrigan; and the means were dangerous drugs and the ability to use them.

If you are defending an accused murderer who has the motive, opportunity, and means to commit the crime, you’d better have another suspect to toss to the jury. He can’t be a phantom. Shadowy figures, unknown assailants without the motive to kill, get you twenty-five years to life. Or worse. To beat the charge, you need a suspect with a name, face, and social security number.

I had my suspect: Sergio Machado-Alvarez. Now all I needed was some proof.

20

THE CONTRACT

THE phone call came three days after we filed our discovery with the state. We listed our witnesses and physical evidence, including a certain “videotape portraying a prosecution witness, the decedent, the defendant, and an additional party.” I wanted to see if it got a rise out of Socolow. I don’t know if it did. But the widow surely noticed.

“Mr. Lassiter,” she purred on the phone.

“Mrs. Corrigan,” I said.

“You have something I would like very much.”

“You want my 1954 Willie Mays baseball card?”

“Don’t toy with me, Jake,” she said, impatiently.

“So sorry, that’s what I thought you wanted me to do.”

“And don’t flatter yourself.”

“Okay, a business call, you want an appointment?”

“I want to tell you things that you will want to hear.”

“Let me guess. My eyes remind you of the Mediterranean at sunset.” My witty repartee will never get me a table at the Algonquin or a guest shot on Johnny Carson.

She was quiet a moment, probably deciding whether to tell me to screw off. But she was after something, so she kept going. “If you’d stop being such a smartass and listen, you’d know I’m trying to help your client.”

“Like you helped him by planting the drug in his house.”

“Maybe I was just returning it to the place I found it. I’ll tell you everything. Just bring me the videotape.”

“What if I’ve made copies? A year from now I could blackmail you.”

She laughed softly. “You’re not the type. Besides, we’ll sign a contract. You draw it up, that you’ve turned over the only copy. If you’re lying, you could be disbarred, right?”

Right. She’d thought of everything.

“Tell me,” I said, giving it my best Cary Grant, “how does a girl like you get to be a girl like you?”

“Practice,” she said.

And all this time I thought that’s how you got to Carnegie Hall. “Okay,” I said, “I’ll bring the cassette. There’s only one. You’ll make a statement exonerating Stanton. I’ll call Socolow. We’ll need him and a court reporter to take your statement.”

“No! Just you. Bring a tape recorder if you want.”

I thought about it. Socolow might muck it up, talk her out of it, delay until morning. She was giving me the case on a silver platter. Either that or handing me my head. “Okay, I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

“Not here. I don’t want you in the house. Sergio might come by. Someplace else. You know where Shark Valley is?”

“What, the Everglades? I’m not in the mood for mosquitoes. Besides, it’ll be nearly dark by the time we get there.”

“You’re not afraid of me in the dark, are you?”

I didn’t trust her at dawn, dusk, midnight, or any time in between. And she might bring friends. “It’s just a strange place to execute a contract, that’s all,” I said.

“There’ll be tourists around, just no one we’ll know. Meet me there in two hours. You’ll have to prepare the contract and get going. I’ll be on top of the observation tower.”

I said okay, but I didn’t mean okay. It made no sense, a meeting at Shark Valley. And by the time we got there, the tourists would be back at their hotels sipping six-dollar piña coladas. But if she gave me a statement, admitted planting the evidence, Roger’s case was over.

I was dusting off a briefcase when Cindy buzzed. “Hey boss, now the other Corrigan babe wants you.”

“Say what?”

“Mizz Corrigan,” Cindy said, dragging out the name.

“What line?”

“No line. Here. The waiting room. Just dropping by, in a sweatsuit and black Reeboks, so says our sharp-eyed receptionist.”

“Bring her back,” I commanded.

“Black Reeboks,” Cindy repeated. “Bet they’re high-tops, too.”

When the oak door closed behind her, Susan gave me a peck on the cheek. I grabbed her by both shoulders and brought her close. The kiss was straight on, slow and soft, and Susan half gasped and half sighed at the end of it.

“You charge by the hour for that?” she whispered.

“For you, a straight contingency fee.”

She feigned anger. “You only want a third of my kisses?”

“No, I only want to spend a third of our time kissing.”

“The rest talking?”

“That, too. It’s good to see you, but I’m on my way out.” I told her about the call from Melanie Corrigan, and she leaned against the windowsill frowning. Then she paced back and forth, her sneakers silent on the thick carpeting. Cindy was right. High-tops.

Finally she turned. “Don’t go, Jake. It’s a set-up.”

“Maybe. And maybe I’ll get a statement that will exonerate my client. I really don’t have a choice.”

“Then at least take the police along.”

“The police work for Socolow.”

“You’re not going to give her the videotape.” It was both a question and a plea.

“Tell me more about the tape.”

“You’ve seen it,” she said. “Nothing more to tell.”

“When was it shot?”

“I don’t know exactly. About two years before Dad died.”

“Two years! What was it, a honeymoon cruise?”

“Actually it was right before Dad married her. Mom had just died. Dad took the Cory to the islands with Sergio as the captain, Roger and Melanie the guests.”

“So much for a decent interval of mourning.”

She turned away, an old memory dragging up the pain. “It’s hard for me to be objective about Dad. He always cheated on Mom, and that last year or so, when she was sick and he took up with Melanie, it was very hard for her… how cruel he was at the end. I can never forgive him for that. Never.”

I didn’t expect that tone, the bitterness toward her father. But something else interrupted the thought, something that wasn’t making sense. “Roger told me he first met your father after he married Melanie.”

“No. Stanton treated both Mom and Dad. He definitely knew Dad before he married that slut.”

“Strange he would lie about that.” I stored the knowledge for later use. My mind is a warehouse of information like that, bushels of scrap paper filled with notes.

I told Susan it was time to grab the mosquito spray and head for the Glades. She drifted toward the door, blocking my path like a linebacker filling the hole. “What about the tape?” she asked.

I looked around on my shelves and grabbed a small cardboard box. “Maybe Melanie would like to watch Cross-Examining the Expert in a Product Liability Case.”

“And you think that when she discovers what you’ve given her she’ll consider it a big joke? She’s dangerous, totally amoral, and capable of anything. She could seduce you or kill you. To her, it wouldn’t make the slightest difference.”

“Melanie? She wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

“Maybe not one that’s zipped up. Jake, don’t be foolish. You could get hurt, or worse.”

“Would a hearse horse snicker hauling this lawyer away?”

“Tell me you won’t go,” she pleaded.

I didn’t want to go. But I couldn’t not go. I put some cowboy in my voice. “A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.”

“Don’t be a jerk. And that self-mockery doesn’t sell with me. You really believe that tough-guy stuff.”

“Just locker room bravado. Inside I’m quaking.”

“There you go again. What do I have to say to you?”

“You could tell me how much you’d miss me if I end up sleeping with the alligators.”

“I would miss you. I… I care for you.”

“Care for me?”

Still blocking my path, she moved closer and gave me a wistful up-from-under look. I had to fight the urge to grab her. “I think I love you,” she whispered. “Satisfied?”

“You bet.”

She took a half step backwards. “Somehow I expected a more eloquent response.”

“Haven’t we had this conversation before? Haven’t I already professed my… my you know.”

“Jake Lassiter, how can a man be so articulate in a crowded courtroom and such a bungler one-on-one? Is it so hard to say you love me?”

“Well, I do.”

“Do what?”

“Do what you said.”

“Jake!”

I threw up my arms. “Do love you, okay already?”

“Not okay. I forced you into it. You still can’t express your feelings, and you treat me like some bimbo whose opinions aren’t worth listening to.”

Now it was my turn. I moved back a yard. “Did I say something wrong? I thought we were engaging in sweet talk, and all of a sudden, I’m not listening. What is it you want me to do?”

“It’s what I don’t want. I don’t want you to prove how tough you are. And I don’t want you to walk into a trap.”

“Sorry. I have a duty to Roger.”

“Why don’t you respect me on this?”

“Hey Susan, I appreciate your opinion, but I can take care of myself. I’ve been around this town a long time before I ever met you, and nobody’s stolen my marbles yet.”

Some color had crept into her dark complexion. “Maybe you ought to keep traveling solo, you’re so good at it.” She turned away, looked out the window over the Atlantic. The S. S. Norway was lugging its way out Government Cut, a thousand tourists headed to the Virgin Islands. “You don’t take me seriously, Jake. You’re a big, dumb jock like all the rest of them. I don’t know what I ever saw in you.”

With that, she pivoted on her black high-tops and stormed out of the office, muttering “macho jerk” two or three times. Through my open door, I saw loyal Cindy shrug, as if to say, “What else is new?”

21

SHARK VALLEY

THERE are no sharks in Shark Valley. No valley either. Just miles of sawgrass and countless animals living in their natural habitat. Bull alligators rule the Everglades, eating turtles, white-tailed deer, and any birds that venture too close to the reptiles’ muddy homes. There are wood storks and egrets and great white herons that would now be extinct if women still wore feathery hats.

But no sharks and no valley. Misnamed though it is, Shark Valley is nature unrestrained. It is a vast flat slough, a slow-moving river of shallow water that has not changed in appearance for centuries. If Philip Corrigan had ever seen the place, he would have licked his chops and dreamed of draining and filling, building on stilts, and calling it “Heron Creek.” Of course, then there would be no more herons and no more creek.

***

Black thunderheads were forming over the Glades, mountainous clouds picking up the moisture from the fifty-mile-wide river. Nearly dusk and the world was gray. It was seven miles down a narrow asphalt road to the observation tower. No cars allowed. I rented a bicycle from the chickee hut run by the Park Service and got a second look from the ranger who warned me about the weather and the closing time. He probably doesn’t get many bird watchers wearing blue suits and burgundy ties. I put my suit coat in the car, peeled off my tie, and felt only half as stupid. I went into the restroom, tossed some cold water on my face, and stared at the mirror. I hadn’t gotten any better looking. I practiced my cocky look, worked up a crooked grin, and said to the mirror, “Sure I have the tape, but first I’ll take your statement.” Behind me, a toilet flushed, the stall door opened, and a middle-aged tourist wearing a Mickey Mouse T-shirt gave me a sideways look, then backed away, never stopping to wash his hands. I checked my gear—the videotape, the contract, and a portable tape recorder—all safe in a thin briefcase. Then I headed into the open air, hunched over the saddle of my government-issue, dollar-fifty-an-hour bicycle that was the right size for Pee Wee Herman.

The dark clouds were growing nearer and the wind was kicking hard from the west as I pedaled south into the Glades, my knees under my chin. Some serious bird watchers were hurrying back on the path, their binoculars swinging, tripods in hand. One white-haired man with knobby knees sticking out of safari shorts was carrying on about having spotted “two crested caracaras, not one, but two…”

Blackish-green alligators slid into the water from the side of the road. Some were babies, two feet in length, looking like rubberized gags from a hotel gift shop. The bulls, ten or twelve feet, launched themselves into the water with powerful haunches. Some dug into the mud, forming gator holes to trap the water and keep cool. Stop to look, they hiss at you, blowing air out their nostrils. Keep going, they watch until you’re gone.

One of the big bulls grabbed a tourist last year. A stockbroker from Cleveland had wandered into shallow water to get video footage of a blue heron feeding. Just like an Abbott and Costello movie, the log he stepped on opened its mouth. The alligator dragged him into deeper water, then with powerful jaws, crushed the man’s chest and pierced his lungs. Official cause of death: drowning. Like saying the victims of Hiroshima died of sunburn.

It took only twenty minutes to pedal to the observation tower, a sleek concrete structure with a long, elevated ramp leading to a circular deck sixty feet above the sawgrass. Deserted except for the animals. Birds fed along the banks of a pond below, keeping a watch for the gators that dozed nearby. I leaned the bike against a strangler fig, grabbed the briefcase, and slowly walked up the ramp, listening for human sounds.

Bird chirps and little splashes came from the pond below. Nothing more.

At the top, I caught the glint of the sun, hidden by the clouds, preparing to drop into the Gulf of Mexico off the coast of Naples. A hawk kite flew by, carrying an apple snail. A small unseen animal rustled the sawgrass below. Then a scraping sound from above. A dozen white terns bolted from a Caribbean pine and veered away from the tower.

Another scraping sound.

I was standing on a round concrete slab, maybe thirty feet across. Above me, the roof of the tower was another slab, the same size. I looked up into solid concrete.

A voice, just a whisper, then another.

He swung down from the slab above, landing six feet in front of me, blocking the path down the ramp. Behind me, another one dropped onto the concrete. The one behind me was short, muscular, moustachioed, and mean. Sergio Machado-Alvarez. The one by the ramp was bigger, not as many ripples, but maybe six-two, two-twenty, a gut beginning to give way. He wanted to play baseball. At least he was holding a baseball bat. One of the aluminum models. They make a funny clonk when they hit the ball. I don’t know the sound when they crush a skull.

Oh shit. You were right, Susan. I didn’t need this. I didn’t need to prove how tough I was. Coming here already proved how smart I was.

“Hola, asshole,” Sergio hissed. He showed me his large, gray teeth. A psychopath’s smile. “You’ve got something for me, damelo, gimme.”

“Say please.” I never learn.

Sergio curled a lip at me. “Hijo de puta, you’re going to hurt real good. Orlando…”

Orlando was smacking his palm with the fat end of the Louisville Slugger. If they were trying to scare me, it was working. But I was thinking, too. Orlando looked slow. That was a plus. But strong. That was a minus. Sergio was unarmed. Another plus. But I knew he was no stranger to the dojang, and from what I saw with my dear old car, he wasn’t faking it. Another minus. So far I was breaking even but still didn’t have a way of getting off the tower with all my parts working.

A humorless smirk twisted Sergio’s moustache. He was going to enjoy this. Orlando kept plopping the bat into a bare hand the size of an anvil. I took two steps backward until I was leaning against the railing. Floating below me were five-hundred-pound wallets with teeth.

I held my briefcase in front of me. “Where’s Mrs. Corrigan? This is for her.”

“Home finger-fucking herself,” Sergio leered, taking a step toward me.

“Whoa there,” I warned, holding the briefcase over the railing. “One more step and it’s in the drink." Now that was some threat. After all, they wanted the tape to destroy it. That fact escaped Sergio, who kept inching toward me.

“Throw it over, you’re gator bait, mamalón .” He bunched his forehead into little wrinkles and dropped into the straddle-leg stance, feet wide apart facing front, knees slightly bent, hands on hips, an attack position.

My move, but what to do? If your life is circumscribed by the four walls of the courthouse, your conduct is regulated by a myriad of rules. You become, in a word, civilized. You are not accustomed to dealing with those whose only rules are their own. In the swamp there is no court of appeal, no petition for rehearing. You depend either on the mercy of the one wielding the biggest stick, or on your own wits and strength. Of course, if I had any brains, I’d have a gun, not a product liability video, stashed in the briefcase.

The briefcase.

“Take it,” I offered, extending the thin case across my body. Sergio relaxed, reached for the handle, and I brought it around, a tight backhand swing with a full follow-through. Three hundred dollars of Schlesinger Brothers leather caught him flush on the nose. He yelped, and a torrent of red spurted over both of us.

Sergio fell back against the railing, stunned, blood streaming over his sleeveless muscle shirt, looking far worse than he probably was. I watched Orlando, waiting for his move. The big guy still blocked the ramp. A concrete pillar came through the center of the deck, supporting the slab above. If he rushed me, he would have to choose one side or the other. I would go around the pillar the other way and down the ramp. But he just stood there, not moving, holding his ground like a defensive end unwilling to be faked out on a misdirection play.

And here was Sergio, swiping at his nose, his eyes teary but just as mean. “Orlando. Fuck up his knees.”

My knees were already fucked up. Two cartilage scrapings through the scope, one major-league scar thanks to a ligament tear.

Sergio leaned his head back, trying to stop the flow of blood. His voice was thick. “Fuck him up good, Orlando, then throw his ass to the gators.”

Sometimes it is best to turn an apparent weakness into your strength. Here was Br’er Wolf threatening to throw me into the briar patch. I leaned over the railing, stretched high and let go with a hook shot, sliding the briefcase onto the deck above me. Then I hopped over the railing, took a breath, and dropped toward the malevolent swamp.

I don’t know how long it takes to plummet sixty feet. Ask Newton or Galileo or one of those guys. But it’s long enough to do a lot of thinking. If an alligator wants to have you for dinner, do you smack him in the snout? Or is that a shark? I thought of Susan Corrigan, the lovely tough-talking Susan Corrigan who cared for me and worried about me and now would be left without me. And then I felt the splash.

And went under.

Deep.

Never touched bottom, and a long way up.

Warm and mucky. Brown algae clung to my legs. Leaves stuck in my hair.

I was treading water, kicking off my wing tips, swiveling my head, picking up a thousand sounds, birds fluttering away, a splash on a far bank. Something bumped my leg and I jumped. Jumping is hard to do while treading water, but I popped up like a jack-in-the-box, then fell back against the branch that had impersonated an alligator.

I heard something. A hiss like the air brakes of a bus. Behind me, not six feet away, were two nostrils exhaling spray and two eyes exuding menace above a flat, broad snout. All that was visible. The flat eyes locked on mine. The hissing grew louder. He didn’t like me in his territory. That made two of us.

I started doing the backstroke. Slow, smooth strokes with my head up so I could watch him. More like Esther Williams than Mark Spitz. When I was twenty yards away, I turned over, and did a wild Australian crawl until I got to the bank. Shouts in Spanish, the sounds of leather on concrete clomping down the ramp.

The bank was muddy and I lost my balance, slipping back into the water, trying to remember to breathe again. As I reached for the stalk of a leather fern, a large, strong hand swallowed mine and dragged me out. Now what?

Wheezing, I looked up into the face of a huge Black man who now had me by the arm.

“You the lawyer?” he asked.

“Why, you need one?”

“You must be. She said you make lousy jokes.”

She. Another of the widow’s henchmen.

Then I recognized him. Two hundred sixty-five pounds of coal jammed into blue jeans, narrow waist rising to shoulders the width of a two-car garage. Stand leeward of him, you’d stay dry in a hurricane. Unlike some football linemen, there was no trace of fat. Six thousand calories a day burned off on the practice field and the weight room. Huge, yet Tyrone Hambone Washington moved with the grace of a dancer. He could bull rush an offensive tackle onto his backside, or with that high arm motion, swim by him. Strength and speed.

The big man wiped his hands on his jeans. “The little lady sportswriter said you might need some help. So here I am. All her good pub got me AFC first team, so I owe her one.”

“Susan? Susan Corrigan sent you!”

“She say, you play some defense out here, only you don’t know whether they run or they pass. Hambone’s good at reading defenses. You just watch.”

Sergio was down the ramp first. He stood there with front leg bent, back leg straight, left arm extended with fist up, right arm curled alongside his jaw, a little slab of evil. His nose had stopped bleeding, but his muscle shirt was splattered with red.

Washington looked at him and said, “Shee-it, every little fucker in this town thinks he’s Chuck-frigging-Norris. But you, shitface, you look like chuck meat to me.”

“Negro hijo de puta—”

Washington’s forehead seemed to drop over his eyes like a knight securing his visor before the joust. “Wha’ did the little Cube say?”

“Something uncomplimentary about your mother,” I interpreted helpfully. “Don’t think he wants you to marry his sister, either.”

“Shee-it. His seester pull the train for every brother in Liberty City. She crazy about USDA government inspected, prime cut, Grade-A African beef.”

Sergio had forgotten all about the videotape and about me. Now it was personal. Orlando watched from his perch on the ramp. He was good at watching.

“Singao, I keel you now,” Sergio spat at Tyrone, “with my bare hands.”

“Anytime, you Cuboid fag, body-building steroid-sucking cornholing midget. And stop pickin’ your nose with your elbow, it won’t bleed so much.”

“Filthy Negro mamalón.”

“You gotta choice, José. Either git the fuck outta here now, or I’ll drop kick your ass back to Havana.”

I wanted to tell Sergio not to get excited, that Tyrone Hambone Washington probably says worse things to offensive linemen every week. In some quarters, his banter would be considered good-natured locker room joshing. Apparently Sergio was not well versed in this form of humor. Though his mouth was closed, a guttural noise came gurgling up from deep within him, a garbage disposal trying to digest a kitchen fork.

Seconds ticked by. Behind us, I heard a gator slip back into the water. The sun had dropped beneath the horizon, and a faint orange glow provided our only light. In minutes, we would be enveloped by the blackness of the prehistoric slough.

Sergio tensed his arms, flexed his shoulders. Hambone Washington stood with feet spread, arms loosely at his sides. Finally, the eruption. With a banzai charge, Sergio launched himself into the air, a jumping side kick. As he did so, he yelled, “Tobi yoko-geri!” His right foot was five feet off the ground, aimed at Washington’s Adam’s apple. A chunky Baryshnikov sailing through the air.

Tyrone Hambone Washington was on the balls of his feet. At the last second, he stepped deftly to one side, a small step, and moved his head to the left, like a young Muhammad Ali dodging .a punch. “Tofu Yoko Ono,” he said.

Sergio flew by him with perfect form and landed in the muddy sawgrass. I didn’t have time to watch the rest. As Sergio drew an eight-inch stiletto from the waistband of his pants, Orlando came at me with the baseball bat. I stood there, sopping wet and barefoot, watching the pinch hitter, and not possessed of any particularly bright ideas. When Orlando was thirty feet away, I stooped at the base of a coconut palm and grabbed a yellow coconut, still in its husk, big as a volleyball and lots harder.

I heaved the coconut at Orlando. He swung and caught a piece of it. Foul ball. Strike one.

He kept advancing, triceps flexing with each warm-up swing, belly jiggling. Unlike Sergio, he was expressionless. Cold, black eyes that were all business. The mud smacked under his leather boots as he advanced. I backed up slowly, letting him close a little of the distance. Twenty feet away I flung a high, hard one with another coconut. He ducked. High and away. Count even at one and one.

This time he stayed put and I had time to scoop up a smooth round one that fit nicely in my hand. Made a motion as if to throw, held up, then came at him with a submarine pitch, an upward trajectory that caught him right in the shin. A satisfying crack, but he didn’t drop the bat. He leaned on it like a crutch, and I came at him. Four giant steps, then, out of a crouch, shoulders square, legs driving, I made the tackle. Picture perfect. Head up, arms wrapping him, running through him, my shoulder catching the point of his chin. He went down and lost three yards.

I turned around in time to see Tyrone tossing Sergio’s knife into the pond. I hadn’t seen how Tyrone had disarmed him, but Sergio’s right arm was hanging at an unusual angle. Then Tyrone scooped up the smaller man by the seat of his pants and dragged him across the path.

Sergio was moaning, but Tyrone was short on sympathy. “Shee-it, just a little shoulder separation. When it happens to me, they jam it back into place, tape me up, and I don’t miss but one series.”

Sergio did not seem to be NFL material. As he hobbled away, he turned to me and said weakly, “I owe you one, hombre.”

“And I know you’re good for it.” I started up the ramp to retrieve my briefcase.

“Now git!” Tyrone ordered, and the two men took off, wobbling, limping, and cursing until they disappeared into the darkness.

***

Charlie Riggs was tending a fire and scalding peanut oil in an iron skillet when I pulled up at his fishing cabin just off Tamiami Trail a few miles east of Shark Valley. The old upholstery in the 442 was smeared with mud, and I made squishing sounds as I eased out and walked barefoot into the campsite.

“Jacob, where you been?” Charlie Riggs didn’t sound alarmed. “Either I’m seeing things or you’ve got a water lily in your ear.”

“Been up to my ass in alligators, Charlie.”

“I do believe there’s a story in this. You’ll find a bucket, a towel, and some shorts on the porch. Then tell me.”

I cleaned up and told him. As I did, Charlie fixed dinner. He bent over a slab of pine with a nail stuck through it. He jammed a Glades bullfrog onto the nail, piercing its belly, then made a quick incision with a knife, and with a pair of pliers, he pulled off the pants of the frog.

“You like frog legs?”

“Like eating them better than watching them prepared.”

Charlie shrugged. “Thirty years in the ME’s office, I don’t get queasy about much.”

He heated some fresh tomatoes in the skillet, poured milk over the frogs’ legs, dragged them through seasoned flour, then sautéed the whole mess in a sauce fragrant with butter and garlic.

“Love that country cooking,” I said.

“Country nothin’. This is cuisse de grenouilles provençale.”

We ate and I talked, Charlie listening silently. Finally I asked him what to do.

“I suggest we visit Susan at once,” he said. “This has taken on a whole new dimension. Those two thugs might have killed you. They were certainly going to hurt you.”

“What’s this have to do with Susan?”

“They must know she gave you the tape. For whatever reason, they seem to place great importance on getting it. Frankly, I don’t know why.”

“That’s easy, Charlie. First, it’s embarrassing to the widow, prancing around with three men. Second, it contradicts her sworn deposition. She denied having an affair with Roger.”

Charlie licked his fingers, sticky with garlic butter. “You may be right, but I get the feeling there’s something more to the videotape than that. Regardless, the widow apparently will do anything to get it. Maybe harm anyone who’s seen it. Shall we leave?”

We shall, I said. Not really believing Susan was in danger. But making a mental note to watch the videotape again, to look for something. Something Melanie Corrigan didn’t want us to see, something other than her swiveling bottom.

22

FOR WANT OF A NAIL

WE tried calling Susan Corrigan from a gas station on Tamiami Trail. No answer at the cabana. We roared toward town, an evening thunderstorm slanting gray torrents across the two-lane road. For a while we listened to the machine gun rhythm of the rain on our canvas top. Cement trucks lumbered along, tossing filthy spray over our windshield. Charlie was thinking so I kept quiet. Then we argued.

“Your strategy won’t work,” Charlie Riggs said. “You want the jury to believe that Melanie Corrigan and this martial arts thug killed Philip Corrigan, then framed Roger to cover it up, right?”

“Sure, if you can tell me how they did it, how whatever they did ended up looking like succinylcholine poisoning.”

Charlie Riggs stroked his beard. “Who says it looks like succinylcholine?”

“The ME says, choline and succinic acid found in the brain and liver.”

“But none around the needle track in the buttocks?”

“Right.”

“Hmmm,” Charlie Riggs said, tamping tobacco into a corncob pipe.

“Well?”

“Regardless whether the succinylcholine played a role in Philip Corrigan’s death, your strategy is flawed. The timing is way off. What motive would they have for framing Stanton now? It would only draw attention to themselves.”

“Plenty of motive once we dug up the body. They knew something was going on, needed to plant the drug and get Roger charged.”

Charlie concentrated on lighting his pipe. “Foolish. They’d be better off sitting it out.”

I laughed. “You’re too logical. You’re smarter than they are, Charlie, but you’re forgetting one thing. The malpractice suit was intended to blame Roger or at least focus attention on the aneurysm. It’s what Susan called the old fumblerooski.”

“The what?”

“A misdirection play. A plaintiff’s verdict would establish the aneurysm as the cause of death and close the case. Even the defense verdict was no problem for them because the evidence still showed an aneurysm killed Corrigan. The jury just didn’t blame Roger Stanton for it. But then we grab Corrigan’s body, and all of a sudden, they need a fall guy in case the tests are positive for poisoning. They break into Susan’s cabana to get the drug, then plant it and get the murder indictment against Roger. Everything’s coming up roses until they learn a nurse can place both of them in the hospital room after Roger left. Plus they know we have the videotape.”

Charlie’s face was shadowed in the lights of oncoming traffic. “No good. The video establishes Roger’s motive for the murder, his lust for Melanie.”

“But it also shows Sergio was just as bewitched, bothered, and bewildered and therefore would have the same motive to kill Corrigan. The tape furnishes reasonable doubt as to which of Melanie’s admirers did him in. It also shoots some sizable holes in Melanie’s grieving widow routine.”

Charlie shot me a new look, one within an inch or two of respect. “If you’re right, Jake, they’re panicking. They know you still have the videotape. And that you must have gotten it from Susan.” He thought about it a moment. “You might step on it a bit.”

I was already doing seventy-five, but we were still half an hour from Susan’s place. The rain came in gusts, sweeping out of the Glades, washing across the blacktop. Airboats were tied up in canals along Tamiami Trail, the operators sitting on the bank under thatched roofs, waiting for a break in the weather to head out for nighttime frogging. The Olds 442 roared eastward, the wet pavement hissing under its tires. I took my eyes off the road long enough to turn toward Charlie. “What’s their next step? What will they try? Put the data into that computer on top your shoulders and give me a printout.”

Riggs shrugged and sucked on his pipe. “I haven’t the foggiest.”

“Not a clue?”

“Nothing besides mere guesses. What I do is figure out things that already have happened, the hows, whos, wheres, and whens of death. Not even the whys. And you want ‘What happens next.’ No can do. Look at this sudden storm. Science can’t even accurately predict the weather past seventy-two hours. How can we predict what men and women, perhaps psychotic men and women, will do when we have so little information compared to the data we have about pressure systems, winds, moisture, temperatures?”

I was quiet again, and Charlie blew some cherry-flavored smoke at me. “If I had to guess,” he said, “it’s that you’re in some danger. You’re the one unraveling the web they’ve spun. But then again, if you lose the trial, they’re home free. Why should they risk it all by going after you?”

“But I know they’ll try something. Melanie won’t let it rest. I can predict that with virtual certainty.”

“Your intuition tells you that, but your data is woefully insufficient. There is no way you can know thousands of incidents in her life that make her what she is so as to predict what she’ll do.”

“Whatever they are, they’ve made her evil.”

Riggs smiled. “Correct. Nemo repente fuit turpissimus. No one becomes wicked suddenly. But knowing the woman is evil adds little to the equation insofar as predicting her behavior. Take my analogy to the weather. You would think that with our satellites and computers and sensitive equipment, we could gather enough data to predict the weather. Well we can’t because our instruments don’t collect enough information. We’ll leave something out, millions of somethings out, and our predictions will be catastrophically wrong even if we leave out only a minuscule bit of data. The scientific name for that is sensitive dependence on initial conditions.”

“But theoretically,” I mused, “if you had enough wind gauges and satellite pictures and electronic doodads, you’d know all there is to know about the weather, and if you knew it enough times, you could see what it did the last time conditions were just the same, and you could predict weather for all eternity. So if you knew enough background about a person, you could predict his future acts.”

Charlie Riggs paused to relight his pipe, an academic’s trick of buying time. “For a human being, there are far too many events and no way to record them objectively. Even with the weather, Jake, you would need to know everything, the size and location of every cloud, the measurement of every bird’s flight, the beat of every butterfly’s wings.”

“Butterflies, too?”

“The flap of a butterfly’s wings in Brazil can set off a tornado in Texas.”

“Metaphorically speaking,” I said.

“No. Literally. It’s part of the basis for the new science called chaos.”

“Butterflies and chaos?” I said doubtfully. “An infinitesimal action radically affects mammoth events.”

Charlie Riggs smiled, the teacher happy when a slow student catches on. “That’s right. Just like the poem:

For want of a nail, the shoe was lost;

For want of a shoe, the horse was lost;

For want of a horse, the rider was lost;

And so on.”

“I remember,” I told him. “The battle and then the kingdom. All lost.”

“Indeed.”

I looked out at the rainswept street. “Then I’d better find the damn nail.”

***

Except for the spotlights and the gentle roar of the waterfall, the Corrigan house was dark and silent on its hill. The rain had stopped just east of the Turnpike. In Gables Estates, not a drop had fallen. We jogged around the lighted path to the cabana. The screen door was unlocked, lights on inside, but no Susan. I walked into the small bedroom. Pale blue shorts and a faded Northwestern T-shirt had been flung onto an unmade bed, running shoes and socks tossed into a corner. In the galley kitchen, the oven was on four-fifty, a frozen vegetable platter was defrosting on the counter. An open can of Diet Pepsi sat on the counter too. Half-empty and still cool to the touch.

We hurried onto the patio. The Cory was tied to the dock, lines tight, cabins dark. The pool lights were on, blue water shimmering in the night air.

The pool.

I don’t know why I ran. I don’t know what I felt. I don’t know how I knew, but I knew.

Susan Corrigan was floating near the far end, facedown, wearing a black racing suit. I ran along the side and dived in. The taste of salt water filled my mouth. In three strokes I was beside her. With one hand, I grabbed a shoulder and turned her over. In the eerie light reflected from the water, her face was an unearthly blue, her features plastic. Her eyes were open but lifeless.

I carried her up the steps, her head slumped limply on my shoulder. A thin layer of white foam covered her lips. I gently set her down on the pool deck, Charlie helping with his hands under her back. I tore off the goggles, and my left hand lifted her neck to clear the air passage. My right hand pinched her nostrils to keep the air from escaping. Then I took a deep breath and sealed my mouth over hers. I blew hard, emptying my lungs, filling hers. Several short bursts, then one breath every five seconds. I looked for signs of life and saw none. Her breathing might have been stopped for two minutes or two hours. I couldn’t tell.

Charlie knelt alongside me, letting me know with his silence that I was doing the right thing. My movements were automatic. Acting without thinking, doing what could be done. A volcanic mixture of anger and desperation fueled me. “Don’t die!” I shouted at her. “Don’t you die on me.”

I covered her cold lips again with my mouth. I blew into her mouth again and again, trying to infuse her with oxygen, to give her some of my life. I leaned my ear to her lips.

Nothing.

I tried to find a pulse.

Nothing.

I sat on my haunches, placed one hand on her chest, just above the sternum, and pushed down hard with the other hand, trying to kick-start the heart. I kept pushing, up-down, up-down.

Nothing.

My heart was hammering. Hers was still. I paused long enough to choke back the helplessness that rose inside me. Charlie had run inside the cabana to call Fire-Rescue. I prayed for any sign of life, for a spark I could light. Still nothing. I went back to the mouth-to-mouth but it didn’t work, so again I worked on the chest. I pushed harder and two ribs cracked under my hands. It didn’t matter. Dead women feel no pain.

When we both knew it was over, Charlie Riggs put an arm around me and guided me to a chaise lounge. He brought two blankets from the cabana, covered Susan with one and me with the other. A numbness hit me, nailing me to the spot.

My body unable to move, the mind took over, rocketing past a hundred scenes, a thousand regrets. I had never told her what she meant to me. Why hadn’t I just said that I’d never met anyone like her, a woman who was smart and sassy and strong and who thought she loved me. And died thinking I was a macho jerk. Thinking right. Dying because of me.

The numbness turned to pain.

She had been right about everything and died without knowing it. She had fretted for me, big dumb lucky stiff me who goes into the swamp and comes out wet but whole. I could have told her how much I cared, could have looked into those dark eyes and said, “Susan Corrigan, I love you and cherish you and want to be with you, now and always.” But I’d held it back. And now she would never know. A step too slow, Jake Lassiter, then and now.

Charlie Riggs found a switch and turned on a set of mercury vapor lamps. The patio was doused with a ghastly green light. He called Fire-Rescue again, this time canceling the ambulance, and asking for the police. While we waited, Charlie scoured the pool deck. He found her thick-lensed glasses on a table, neatly folded, waiting for her return. Those silly glasses. I turned them over in my hands, fondled them. Charlie started to say something about fingerprints, then backed away.

“I’ll look around for evidence,” he said. “You stay put.”

Charlie examined a pink beach towel draped over a chair. He looked in the shrubs; he crawled on hands and knees around a fifty-yard perimeter; he reached into the skimmer of the pool and came up with a handful of dead leaves; and he sniffed and tasted the water from the pool.

I watched him, letting the sorrow build inside me. When two uniformed Coral Gables policemen arrived, Charlie Riggs gave them a step-by-step description, the time we arrived, our efforts to revive her, his inspection of the scene. I sat, still wet, still holding the glasses. Beginning to shiver.

“Is the ME sending someone?” Charlie asked.

The sergeant shook his head. “No sign of foul play. We try not to drag ’em out to the scene unless it’s an apparent homicide.”

“She didn’t drown!” I heard myself shout across the patio. “She could swim the English Channel. I want an autopsy done, but only by Doc Riggs.”

The sergeant looked at me, then asked his partner to check out the house. The younger cop shrugged and walked slowly toward the darkened fortress. No hurry, just a routine job, a drowning in a pool.

The sergeant sat down on the end of my chaise lounge. It creaked under his weight. He had a sunken chest, a beer belly, and was close to retirement. Coral Gables cops aren’t the hard guys you find downtown. In the Gables, cops fish too many cats out of trees to get that cold-eyed look. Expensive cats and expensive trees.

The sergeant patted my leg through the blanket. “We take the body to the morgue. We gotta do that under section four-oh-six-point-one-one.”

Charlie Riggs nodded. “Subsection one-ay-one. Then the ME determines whether to do the autopsy.”

The sergeant looked back at me. “I’ve known Doc Riggs for twenty years, and we won’t write it up, but if you want, why don’t we let him have a quick look right here?”

My eyes pleaded with Charlie, and he said okay. The sergeant held a three-foot Kel-Lite and Charlie examined the body. He cupped his hands on her head, felt her skull and neck. He checked underneath her fingernails. He looked at her legs and arms.

The younger cop headed back to the patrol car to call in. The sergeant lit a cigarette and walked toward the dock to admire the Cory, maybe comparing it to a seventeen-foot Whaler he’d like to share with three other cops.

“Jake, I’m going to have to take off her swimsuit,” Charlie Riggs said. I nodded and walked away.

After a few minutes, I heard him say, “No stab wounds, no bullet holes, no apparent loss of blood. No contusions or marks of any kind. No injection punctures. Not even an indication of a struggle.”

The sergeant had come back from the dock. “A drowning, Doc. Just a drowning.”

I turned around. “Charlie, please keep looking.”

The other cop returned from the patrol car and told the sergeant they had to check out a ringing burglar alarm on Old Cutler Road.

“If it’s the old Spanish house at seventy-three hundred, there’s no hurry,” the sergeant said. “Goes off every time the humidity’s up, which is every week.” In a few minutes, they would be roaming the suburbs, pulling over cars with missing taillights. Susan Corrigan would be just another statistic. Accidental death by drowning. Happens all the time.

The minutes dragged by. I watched the big house and concocted a vicious fantasy to vent my rage. Breaking down a door. Looking for them, the widow and the karate thug. Hurting them, killing them. Nice and slow.

Charlie motioned to me. “Jake, come here a second. My old eyes are failing.”

The flashlight was shining on Susan’s left shoulder. “Do you see any discoloration there?” he asked.

I shook my head wearily. “Maybe a faint pink. Maybe just skin color under the tan. Hard to tell.”

“Hmmm,” Charlie Riggs mumbled. He went into the cabana and came out with a plastic sandwich bag. Then, with a pocket knife, he cut a little square of skin from the shoulder and put it in the bag. Deep inside me, I felt every tiny slash.

“Jake, how about here on the leg?”

Same thing. A little pinkness, nothing more. I shrugged helplessly, and Charlie did some more slicing.

At the edge of the pool, the water rippled and slid under the lights. I remembered the breeze from the Gulf slapping palm fronds against Granny’s little house, the sweetness of Susan under the quilt. I wanted a second chance, to tell her what had stayed locked inside me. I stood and stared into the pool, motionless.

Charlie Riggs came over and gave me a fatherly hug. Then he looked down at the pool. “Salt water. You don’t see many saltwater pools these days.”

23

VOIR DIRE

“MRS. Goldfarb, do you believe that old expression, where there’s smoke, there’s fire?”

Reba Goldfarb eyed me suspiciously from her perch in the front row of the jury box. She hadn’t gotten settled yet, was still patting her ice-blue hair, locking it into a 1950s pompadour. She looked toward the judge for help, shrugged, and said, “Maybe there’s fire, maybe just a teapot blowing its lid.”

“Exactly,” I said. “Things are not always as they seem. And just because Dr. Roger Stanton is charged by the state with a crime doesn’t mean he’s guilty, does it?”

“Goodness no,” she agreed, smiling, picking up the rhythm.

“And this indictment,” I said, holding the blue-bordered document at arm’s length as if it smelled of rotten eggs, “this piece of paper, this scrap, is not proof of guilt, has no more dignity than a grocery list—”

“Objection!” Abe Socolow was on his feet.

“Sustained,” Judge Crane declared without emotion. “This is voir dire, not argument, Mr. Lassiter.”

During trial I will argue over Good morning.

“Your Honor, I’ll rephrase the question. Mrs. Goldfarb, do you recognize that Roger Stanton, as he sits here today, is as innocent as a newborn child?”

Ignoring the concept of original sin.

She nodded.

“That he is cloaked with a presumption of innocence, that he does not have to prove anything, that the burden of proving his guilt is on the government?”

“I heard that before,” she conceded, nodding again. She had seen enough television to know this stuff. My kind of juror, willing to believe that intrigue and incompetence frequently nail the wrong guy.

I liked her. Roger Stanton liked her. She visited doctors regularly, an internist, a podiatrist, a chiropractor, and a dentist. She was Jewish, and defense lawyers from Clarence Darrow on down liked that. An old saw. Put Mediterranean types on your jury if you’re defending. Jews and Italians are more sympathetic. Minorities, too. Blacks are suspicious of the police and will cut you a break in a close case. Hispanics used to fall into that group, but in these parts, they’re the majority and may have lost the feel for the underdog. Keep Germans, Poles, and Swedes off the panel. Too harsh and rigid.

Anyway, that’s what the book says. But nearly every defense lawyer shakes his head over a Black social worker or schoolteacher who ended up leading the posse for the state. And nearly every prosecutor remembers a Teutonic male who probably once wore a Luger but carried the banner for the defense in the jury room. Go figure.

I needed Reba Goldfarb. I had lost Deborah Grossman, Dominick Russo, and Philip Freidin. All three had said that they wouldn’t vote for the death penalty under any circumstances. Socolow challenged them for cause, saving his precious peremptory challenges while I spent seven of mine getting rid of guys who had blood in their eyes.

It isn’t fair. Talking about the penalty phase of the case before the trial begins. Mocking the presumption of innocence. But it’s legal.

“Are you in favor of capital punishment?” Abe Socolow now asked Earl Pottenger, an airline mechanic.

“Yes sir!”

Hoo boy. This guy’s ready to pull the switch. Ayatollah Pottenger. Socolow smiled and moved on to a heavyset Black woman.

“Mrs. Dickson, if you find the defendant guilty of murder in the first degree, and if the state convinces you that the crime is sufficiently heinous, could you recommend to Judge Crane that he impose the death penalty?"

“Ah don’t rightly know,” Clara Dickson said, squinting up at him.

“Do you have moral or religious objections to the death penalty?”

“It’s against the preachin’ ah believe in.”

“Challenge for cause,” Socolow said.

“Granted,” Judge Crane ruled.

I stood. “Objection, Your Honor. Dr. Stanton is being deprived of a jury of his peers. We won’t have a cross section of the populace if the state systematically excludes those with moral or religious objections to the death penalty.”

“Denied. The Supreme Court ruled on this in the Witt case. The state is entitled to a death-qualified jury.”

I shot back. “What’s Roger Stanton entitled to, just death?”

Oh, that was dumb. Judge Crane’s long, sad face sharpened and he motioned me to the bench with a tiny wave of his gavel. Socolow slid silently behind me, his invisible smile a knife in my back.

“Mr. Lassiter, I don’t make the rules, I just apply them,” the judge said. “Now, one more remark like that in the jury’s presence and I’ll hold you in contempt. Verste?”

“Understood, Your Honor.”

We would have a bloodthirsty, gung-ho, hang-em-high jury because the law allowed it. But I wasn’t doing Roger Stanton any good whining about it. I would just try to keep some people on the panel who neither belonged to the National Rifle Association nor folded their bodies into tight balls when I asked my questions.

So here I was, bobbing and weaving, trying to seat twelve honest men and women without itchy trigger fingers. Not that I wanted to be picking a jury. I didn’t want to be doing anything except feeling sorry for myself. The three weeks since her death had been a blur. Preparing for trial, arguing with Socolow, waiting for some word about Susan from Charlie Riggs. At night, when sleep came, it was filled with dreams. An expanse of water, iridescent blue, a calm seductive lagoon. But when I dived in, the water thickened into a gelatinous muck and I sank to the bottom, gasping for air. Anonymous hands rescued me and dragged me to the beach where a laughing Roger Stanton bent over me, giant syringe in hand.

Waking at dawn, I drifted uneasily toward consciousness, vaguely aware of an undefined pain. As my eyes focused on the light, the pain took shape, a vision of Susan Corrigan. Pretty and smart and tough. And dead.

***

Charlie Riggs had pulled some strings, and the ME’s office performed an autopsy. Salt water in the lungs. A pinkish foam in the airway. Absolute proof, Charlie said, that Susan was alive when she stepped into the pool. If she’d been killed and dumped there, the lungs wouldn’t produce the foam. Death by drowning on the certificate. Nothing to dispute it.

It was murder, I told Abe Socolow. He didn’t buy it, asked for proof. I told him about the cabana break-in, the theft of the drug, the widow clamoring for the videotape. Proof, he reminded me, consisted of witnesses and physical evidence. Then I told him of my run-in with Sergio and his pal with the baseball bat.

He laughed. “Ambush at Shark Valley. Sell it to Hollywood.”

“Your star witness set me up.”

“Not the way I heard it,” Socolow said, poking a finger at me. “She says you tried to extort her. If she testifies, you play the tape. She doesn’t testify, you give her the tape. Gonna get your balls whacked, Jake, you don’t watch out. Could bust you for obstruction right now.”

But he wouldn’t. Because I was his buddy, he said. He wanted a copy of the tape. Fine with me, I told him, because it’s defense exhibit number one.

He laughed again. “What’s its relevance, that Melanie Corrigan is a sword swallower?”

“Pure impeachment. Lying under oath. On deposition, she denied the affair with Roger.”

He wasn’t impressed. “Nice try. She denied banging the doc after her marriage to Corrigan. The videotape was premarriage, so no lie on deposition, no impeachment. I’m filing a motion in limine to keep it out.”

Judge Crane reserved ruling on the motion. Said he wanted to see the videotape. A couple of times. So did the cleric, the bailiffs, the probation officers, and everybody else within ten blocks of the Justice Building.

Without the tape, what would I have? Charlie Riggs saying that Corrigan died of an aneurysm, not succinylcholine. But no suspect to feed to the jury in place of Roger Stanton. It would come down to a swearing match, beautiful widow versus spurned lover. Who said what to whom? Where did the drug come from? Who did what in Philip Corrigan’s hospital room? Would the jurors even listen to Charlie Riggs’s technical explanation of a bursting aorta? Probably not. Not with a black valise, two hypodermics, and a deadly drug staring them in the face.

***

Socolow had a tight little smile on his hawkish face as Judge Crane gave the newly empaneled jurors their preliminary instructions. Don’t discuss the case among yourselves or with family members and friends. Don’t speak to the witnesses or lawyers. Don’t read the newspapers or watch television reports about the case.

Do jurors have the willpower not to follow their cases in the press? In a bribery trial a few years ago, a local columnist complained in print that the male jurors looked like they were headed for a ball game, all polo shirts and guayaberas. Next day, they all wore coats and ties.

My mind was wandering as the judge did his stuff. We would be back in the morning for opening statements. Tonight I would see Charlie Riggs. Beside me sat Roger Stanton. Worried, a little grayer around the temples than at the first trial. His future a black hole.

"It is your solemn responsibility to determine if the state has proved its accusation beyond a reasonable doubt against this defendant,” the judge gravely intoned. “Your verdict must be based solely on evidence, or lack of evidence, and the law.”

***

I walked out of the courthouse into the blast furnace of a Miami afternoon. The blinding sun bounced ferociously off the marble steps. Thick fumes from the buses fought to rise through the soggy air.

There is no industrial smog in Miami. No steel mills, no oil refineries. Heavy industry is cocaine processing; high technology is money laundering. But a million cars in the shimmering heat add their own color to the horizon. Most days a fine red haze sprouts from the expressways and hovers over the city, hugging the ribbons of I-95 from downtown Miami northward to Fort Lauderdale. Not a thick smog, just enough airborne particles to add a counterfeit glitter to the sky, a reddish breast on the feathery clouds drifting over backlit beaches. One good blow, a cold front from the northwest, and the muck would be shoved out to sea.

But no more cold fronts. Not for six months. Until then, just broiling days and steaming nights. Purgatory for those who inhabit the swamp. My own fire burned deep inside. A score to settle. A woman had died. A woman I loved. I made a vow. When I knew for sure the how and the who of it, someone else would die, too.

24

VENOM

IT had taken Charlie Riggs two weeks, but he had figured it out. Just as I knew he would. He kept it from me another week, not wanting to disturb me during trial preparations. But I badgered him and finally he told me to meet him at the morgue.

By the time I finished preparing my opening statement for the morning, it was nearly midnight. Charlie was waiting for me in the parking lot outside the new brick and glass building that looked less like a morgue than a modern office complex for a computer software company.

He puffed his pipe and scratched at his beard. I recognized the look. Acute discomfort. He took off his patched-up glasses, wiped them on his short-sleeve white shirt, and put them back on where they rode askew like a sailboat heeling in a strong wind.

“This won’t be easy for you.”

“Let’s get it over with,” I said.

The morgue was quiet. Two sheriff’s deputies were hanging around the waiting area, drinking coffee, filling out forms after bringing in two bodies, a middle-aged man and his wife. The man had carved her up with a kitchen knife, then jammed a shotgun under his own chin and pulled the trigger with his big toe.

“Least he done the right thing,” one cop said to the other.

“Yeah, saved us a lot of crap, blowing himself away.”

A skinny kid with long, greasy hair in a ponytail sat at the reception desk, working the overnight shift. He leaned back in a swivel chair with his feet on a modern oak desk flipping the pages on a porno magazine and giggling. He kept sticking his hand in a huge bag of French fries, rooting around and popping them into his mouth, three at a time. He wore a green hospital smock and the shit-eating grin of the yahoo young. His nametag read Curly.

Charlie Riggs cleared his throat. Curly didn’t look up. Making sure the county got no bargains on his minimum wage.

I rapped my knuckles on the kid’s desk.

“Yeah?” A tone of mild annoyance, a face that needed a prescription for Retin-A.

I would have said, Whatever happened to may I help you? Charlie is more circumspect. He said, “We’re here to see some tissue samples Dr. Kalian left for us.”

Curly scowled. “Gotta name?”

I figured him for about twenty-one. If they’re still sullen and whiny when they pass nineteen, they probably always will be. Another half century of bitching and moaning about bosses and girlfriends and how the other guys got all the luck.

“Riggs. Charlie Riggs.”

Curly dropped the skin magazine and looked at a clipboard. “No stiff name of Riggs. Got a Rawlings.”

Charlie smiled. “No, I’m Riggs. Dr. Charles W. Riggs.”

The name meant nothing to him. Probably never read a newspaper, didn’t know the building had a plaque honoring his nighttime guest. The kid likely was one of the astounding number of young people who can’t name the century in which the Civil War was fought, much less the battlefields. On geography tests, they list Montana as an island in the Pacific.

“The deceased is Susan Corrigan,” Charlie Riggs said, far more politely than the kid deserved. “Dr. Kalian was kind enough to make some slides of skin tissue.”

Curly looked back at the clipboard. The month’s guest list.

“Corrigan,” he said. “Sure, Number eight-nine-dash-two-fourteen. Third cooler, first row.”

His vacant eyes brightened. “Hey. Black-haired bitch. Love a dark bush, myself. Best looking piece of meat we’ve had…”

Charlie had a lot of quick left in him. Stepped wordlessly between us. I brushed him aside with a gentle forearm. Then my left hand found its way to the kid’s neck, covered his Adam’s apple, and squeezed, lifting him out of the chair. I didn’t tell the hand what to do. It just squeezed and lifted. At the same time, the right hand balled itself into a good-sized fist and started coming over the top toward his pointy chin. From a deep tunnel, I heard the faraway voice of Charlie Riggs, “No, Jake!”

The right fist stopped short, uncoiled itself and slapped the kid hard. Once, twice, three times, red splotches shooting across his face. Eyes wide and white now, a scared rabbit. His feet were six inches off the floor when the left hand let him go. His knees buckled, and he crumpled to the desk, clipboard clattering at my feet. Charlie helped him up, mumbling apologies.

I walked away, head down.

Big hero.

Big tough guy.

Slapping around a pimply punk with a noodle neck and a garbage mouth. Wrapped a little too tight, are we now?

The two cops had watched it all without moving. Where they come from, an assault doesn’t mean much unless automatic weapons are involved. I paced in the reception area, trying to close the spigot on the adrenaline flow. One cop looked at me and shrugged. Midnight in Miami, the crazies out. Anyway, what harm could a guy do in the morgue? Wake the dead?

The cops resumed talking, bellyaching about arresting hookers with AIDS.

“Ain’t gonna wear gloves,” one said. “Don’t help, they bite you in the ankle.”

“I hear you can’t get it from somebody giving you a blowjob.”

The first cop laughed. “What cocksucker told you that?”

The kid hadn’t moved, but his eyes followed me across the reception area. Charlie finished apologizing and led me through the doors into a huge, brightly lit, cool room with a faintly antiseptic smell. The walls were covered with blue tile. Steel dissecting tables on wheels were rolled up to sinks. Hoses were coiled at regular intervals along the walls, and the tile floor was marked with drains.

Charlie was poking around in a refrigerator loaded with body parts and various tissues and liquids. Along one wall were five huge coolers loaded with corpses.

“What now?” I asked.

“I saw something on the skin sample I made at the scene. But my microscope isn’t powerful enough, so I couldn’t be sure. Dr. Kalian was my assistant for fifteen years. He took some other samples from the shoulder area, and… here they are.”

He pulled out half a dozen slides and walked me through the procedure. If he could make a positive ID through the scope, we wouldn’t have to enter Cooler Three, Row One. If he couldn’t find whatever it was, we’d have to bring Susan’s body out and make new dissections. My mind conjured up her body, already butchered in the autopsy, the parts tucked back inside. I told myself it wasn’t Susan in the cooler, just the package that had held her spirit.

Charlie led me to an adjoining lab, where he climbed on a high laboratory stool, took off his cockeyed glasses, and peered through the lens of a high-powered microscope. Seconds later, he shook his head. He tried another slide. Nothing.

“What did you see in the samples you made?” I asked.

“I don’t know, Jake. Something microscopic that disintegrated in the heat on my slide. It could be something that proves it was just a drowning. I just hope I’m not creating something from nothing—ex nihilo nihil fit—maybe trying too hard to prove it was an accident, to give you some peace.”

He loaded another slide, took a long look, then exhaled a deep breath until it was nearly a sigh. “I thought so. Take a look, Jake.”

I did. But I didn’t see much, a tiny hair particle or nearly invisible twig magnified thousands of times.

“So?” I asked.

“It killed Susan,” he said softly.

I looked again. “The hell is it?”

“Physalia physalis, one of your coelenterates, or all that’s left of the one that killed Susan.”

“I still don’t get it.”

“What you’re looking at is a nematocyst, a tiny dart. Plus the remains of the sac that held the toxin. Each dart is invisible to the naked eye. She would have been stung by thousands of them, hundreds of thousands, really. The toxin is similar to cobra venom. Just about as powerful. A bad enough sting, the person goes into shock and drowns. Lots of drownings off the coast are the result of these stings. If you look at the body, nothing. No marks. So it’s listed as accidental drowning. Which it is, of course. But the cause is the venom of the Physalia physalis.”

I looked back through the barrel of the microscope. A tiny speck, that’s all. But if Charlie Riggs says it’s an animal’s deadly dart, it is. All these years in Florida, snorkeling, scuba diving, windsurfing, and I’d never heard of a filsailya…

Charlie was still lecturing. “I don’t think anybody ever got stung in a swimming pool before. Best I can figure, the Corrigans keep the water circulating from the bay. We can check it, but I’ll bet there’s no screen on the intake pipe. The pipe sucked water in, brought a couple of these creatures along. Susan goes for a nighttime swim. Can’t see worth a darn without her glasses and swims right into one. Happens in the ocean all the time. Why not a saltwater pool? Pool bottom is painted blue. Wouldn’t see the Physalia’s big blue sac.”

Something was scratching around in the back of my mind. “What blue sac?”

“The floating sac. It stays above water. The tentacles trail underneath. They contain the darts, and when they uncoil, they shoot the toxin into the victim. The pain is intense. Horrible, really. Paralyzing. It can cripple the respiratory system and throw the victim into shock.”

“A blue sac. Charlie, that sounds like a Portuguese man-of-war.”

“Same thing. Forgive me for using the Latin, but it’s such a beautiful language. To my ear, Physalia physalis sounds so much better than man-of-war or blue bottle, as we sometimes call them. Close relative of the hydroids, jellyfish, stinging corals, sea anemones.

“Man-of-war,” I repeated, digging up a memory.

Charlie patted my arm and said, “I hope it’s better, knowing it wasn’t a murder. As Virgil wrote, felix qui potuit rerum cognoscere causas. Happy is he who learns the causes of things. Even if it can’t bring you happiness, Jake, maybe peace.”

Charlie Riggs was right. And wrong.

The man-of-war may have killed her. But it was murder just the same. Now I knew the how and the who.

Charlie was still prattling on. I interrupted him. “Melanie and Sergio killed Susan,” I said, evenly and calmly. Keeping the burning rock inside.

Charlie looked puzzled. “Jake, I just said a Physalia—”

“I know, I know. Listen. After the malpractice trial, the two of them took a Whaler into the bay. Susan and I followed. I got as close as I could on a sailboard. It looked like they were fishing. At least they had fishing rods and Sergio was bringing something aboard with a net. But I remember this. It was one of those days the bay was covered with men-of-war. We could look up the date, I’ll bet the county closed the beaches. Melanie and Sergio must have brought back some of them, kept them alive, probably in a tank on the Cory, then when Susan went for a swim, they dumped two or three in the pool. At night without her glasses on, goggles steamed up, she never would have seen them. Even if she managed to get to the side of the pool, Sergio could have pushed her back into the water. Before we got there, he netted the damn things and tossed them into the bay.”

Still sitting on the high laboratory stool, Charlie was silent a long moment. Sifting through it. Finally he said, “It’s possible. No reason it couldn’t have happened. But you can never prove it. Not beyond a reasonable doubt.”

“I wasn’t thinking of legal niceties.”

Charlie stiffened. His glasses were still on the counter next to the microscope, and he looked up at me through tired eyes. “Don’t do anything foolish, Jake.”

Why not? I thought. I’ve done lots of foolish things. Just never one that leaves you face-to-face with a death-qualified jury.

25

THE ROAD MAP

THREE A.M. and wide awake. Mind buzzing, a dozen different departments tying up the lines, busy signals all round. Up front some brain cells readying for trial, still rehearsing, doing what ought to be done. Some neurons in the back running through it all, the experiences of a lifetime, roads not taken, and for now and forever, mourning the loss of Susan. Shrouding it all, a poisonous gray mist choking me with rage. Hot to inflict pain. The pain of a thousand sea creatures a thousandfold.

It was stifling in my little coral rock house in Coconut Grove. The ceiling fans were on but I was soaked. Sitting in the living room on an old sofa of Haitian cotton, more brown than its original off-white, watching rivulets of sweat track down my chest and into the top of my Jockeys. Three Grolschs didn’t cool me off.

I pushed the videotape into the VCR. Same interior shots of the Cory. Same striptease by Melanie Corrigan, same ass-rolling act in Roger Stanton’s face. A cut, then Roger playing doctor, listening to Melanie’s lungs. When she turns over, he slowly taps her ass with his thumb. Laughter all around. Then Sergio joins the party, and finally, the trick shot with Philip Corrigan shooting the scene in the overhead mirror.

Nothing there I hadn’t seen before. If there was something Melanie didn’t want me to see, she had little to worry about. I’d seen it all and couldn’t put a handle on it. I watched it again. Nothing changed. I put my feet up on the sofa and slept for an hour. Maybe two. Then I showered, and headed to the Justice Building. Putting everything else aside, concentrating on the mission, saving a man from the electric chair.

***

“What I say this morning is not evidence,” Abe Socolow was saying as if it were indeed evidence of momentous weight. “It is a road map, a guide as to where the evidence will go.”

He was wearing a black suit. All black. No chalk stripes, no patterns. You don’t see many black suits these days. Or all black ties. A white shirt. And of course, shiny black shoes. With his beakish look and sunken cheeks, Abe Socolow could have been a small-town undertaker. Or an executioner.

I wore light brown. I almost never wear it, kind of blends me into the woodwork, sandy hair and sandy suit against oak paneling. Trial lawyers always used to wear dark blues and grays, power colors. Afraid brown made them look like salesmen. Then psychologists told us we were salesmen, and brown is friendly. Ronald Reagan wore it when greeting heads of state—big cordial brown plaid or checks. For this trial, friendly brown it would be. Jake Lassiter, the jurors’ pal.

Hangman or not, Abe Socolow began his opening statement in restrained and understated tones, slowly building the tempo. First he matter-of-factly described the testimony to come. He turned it up a notch when he talked about the relationship between Melanie and Roger. With motive crucial to his case, he needed the jury to believe that Roger was obsessed with Melanie and would do anything to have her.

“You will hear Mrs. Corrigan describe her long-ago relationship with the defendant,” Abe Socolow said. “Yes, they had a physical relationship when she was barely out of her teens, and he already a practicing physician.” Socolow shook his head knowingly. How loathsome this defendant must be. Cradle robber.

Several jurors leaned forward. Eating it up. Socolow continued, “The affair ended, and as frequently happens, their paths crossed again. The defendant tried to talk Mrs. Corrigan into leaving her husband, tried to rekindle the flame that still burned within him, but not her. She would have none of it. But his obsession, his lust, his depravity, overcame his reason…”

Judge Crane looked toward me expectantly. I could object here but I didn’t. Socolow was arguing his case, not presenting a sterile preview of the expected evidence. The judge shrugged. If I wanted to behave like a potted plant, no problem for the court. But I had a reason. If the judge let me get the tape into evidence, Socolow had just dug himself into a hole.

She would have none of it?

Depravity?

It takes two. Or three in Melanie Corrigan’s case. I would use Socolow’s own words against him in closing argument.

“First, he worked his way into Mrs. Corrigan’s confidence,” Socolow continued. “As occurs in marriages, the Corrigans had problems. We all do. Mr. Corrigan was often away on business. She was lonely. She confided in the defendant, sought his guidance as a professional and a friend, not knowing the evil within him.”

A bit melodramatic for my tastes. But no one was dozing. I could hear the gentle whir of the television camera placed at an angle behind the bar. The still camera from the newspaper clicked incessantly, despite the muffler designed to quiet it. The newsboys were scratching their notepads, soaking up the sexy stuff.

“And what did the defendant do? Suggest to Philip Corrigan that he spend more time with his wife? No! Recommend counseling? No! This defendant, who pretended to be a family friend, who pretended to mend and to cure, this Great Pretender, whispered to Melanie Corrigan time and again that she should kill her husband. Murder him!”

He let it hang there, knowing the silence burned his words into them. No one even coughed. It was as if jurors, spectators, and clerks all held their breaths, afraid to exhale.

“Murder him,” Socolow repeated, softer this time. Juror number three, a middle-aged secretary, gasped. If Socolow had paused two more beats, she might have suffocated.

“He showed her how to do it. With a dangerous drug. An anesthetic that paralyzes the muscles and leads to a horrible, painful death as the lungs stop working. Naturally, she was shocked. So shocked that she couldn’t believe he was serious. When he finally dropped the subject, she thought it was just a sick joke, a game. But then her husband died after routine surgery performed by this defendant.”

For the first time, Socolow acknowledged Roger Stanton’s presence, pointing at him. The jurors’ eyes followed Socolow’s bony finger.

“Died after routine back surgery,” Socolow said again, drawing the jurors into a cadence of repeated phrases. “Mrs. Corrigan was grief stricken. And suspicious. She sued the defendant for malpractice. The civil jury did not have the facts you will have, and he was exonerated. Still, she persisted. The defendant made advances toward her. She pretended to be interested, went to his home, and discovered the drug and the implements, the hypodermics, which you will see in evidence. You will hear testimony that a puncture on Mr. Corrigan’s buttocks matches perfectly the twenty-gauge hypodermic found in the defendant’s possession. You will hear evidence that this defendant surreptitiously entered Philip Corrigan’s hospital room barely an hour before he died. You will hear from expert witnesses that tissue samples from Mr. Corrigan’s brain and liver contain concentrations of the drug’s components…”

It was a fine performance. Except for reading the indictment, Abe Socolow never mentioned Roger Stanton by name, never called him doctor. The state’s trick is to dehumanize. My job is to breathe life into the man who sits next to me, an innocent caught in a web of incompetence and deceit.

When Abe sat down, I walked to a comfortable spot six feet in front of the jury box. I put on a friendly smile and told them about the state’s burden of proof, the burden to demonstrate beyond a reasonable doubt that Dr. Roger Stanton intentionally killed Philip Corrigan. I mentioned Charles W. Riggs, M.D., and two jurors nodded, recognizing the name. How he would testify that Philip Corrigan died of natural causes. And I characterized the entire state’s case as circumstantial evidence, spitting out the words as if describing a particularly odious disease.

I talked about Roger Stanton, the doctor, the man. I talked about the long years of education and training, of good service to the community. Told them they’d hear character witnesses say they could believe Roger Stanton under oath. Other doctors, community leaders. I promised they’d hear from Dr. Stanton himself.

“You will hear a different story than Mr. Socolow tells,” I said. “Not of a man spurned by a beautiful young woman. But of an ambitious, restless woman bored with her husband, a woman seeking excitement elsewhere. A woman who stood to inherit a fortune if her husband died, but would receive nothing if they divorced. You will see Mr. Corrigan’s will and his antenuptial contract with this woman.”

The reporters kept scribbling; the jurors kept listening. But that was about as far as I could go to toss another suspect at them. Until the judge ruled on the videotape, I was hamstrung. Still, I could put Melanie Corrigan’s integrity at issue.

“You heard Mr. Socolow describe his case. He spent most of his time talking about the testimony of Melanie Corrigan. Why? She is the state’s case. It is your job to evaluate the credibility of the state’s witnesses. If you don’t believe Melanie Corrigan, the state’s case crumbles.”

“Objection! Argumentative.” Socolow stood and leaned forward toward the bench, his lean frame a javelin stuck in the ground.

Judge Crane paused and tapped a pencil against his forehead. In heavily publicized trials, he relied on signals from the press gallery to determine objections. Helen Buchman, a veteran Herald reporter, was the dean of the courthouse crew. But she kept a poker face this time, and the judge fended for himself. “You had considerable latitude in your opening, Mr. Socolow. Denied.”

Socolow pouted and sat down. Emboldened by the ruling, I decided to finish with a flourish. “Yes, Mr. Socolow told you all about Melanie Corrigan and what she will say. But what evidence doesn’t he have? Eyewitnesses to this alleged crime? None. Fingerprints? None. Confession? None. Just one woman’s story and a prosecutor’s case built on supposition, conjecture, fantasy, and whim…”

“Your Honor!” Socolow was halfway across the courtroom.

“Is that an objection?” Judge Crane asked.

“Yes. Improper opening.”

“Granted. The jury will disregard the last statement of the defense. Mr. Lassiter, you are familiar, are you not, with the bounds of opening—”

A shout from the gallery interrupted the judge. Then a banging door. Then a woman’s voice, loud: “Your grimy hands off me! I ain’t walking through no gamma rays. You wanna, strip-search me, fuzz-nuts, see if you’re man enough. I’m with Jacob Lassiter.”

Judge Crane banged his gavel and said, “Mr. Lassiter, is that lady associated with your office?”

The bailiff had her by the arm. I approached the bench. “That’s no lady,” I whispered to the judge. “That’s my granny.”

The judge looked skeptical. “Madam, are you related to Mr. Lassiter?”

“Is a frog’s ass waterproof?” Granny replied, loud enough to call the hogs home.

The judge called a five-minute recess. They always last twenty. Granny Lassiter shook loose from the bailiff and smoothed her ruffled feathers. She wore a yellow print sundress, deck shoes, and a heavy Navy peacoat, a gift from a grateful sailor who once tended Harry Truman’s place in Key West.

“I brought you a thermos of hot conch chowder,” she told me. “Know how damned cold they keep these government buildings and don’t want you getting the grippe. Hope I didn’t interrupt anything important.”

“Your timing was impeccable,” I said. “The judge was chastising me. Why the big fuss?”

Granny balled a fist at the bailiff. “They wanted me to walk through some damn machine, see if I was carrying hand grenades. Told ’em to shove off. Might affect my unborn children, deplete the ozone layer, and curdle your chowder. You still like a dash of sherry in it?”

I allowed as how I did.

She pulled out a flask and shook in three drops that wouldn’t wet the whistle of a priest receiving communion. Then she tipped the flask to her lips, drained it, glared at Roger Stanton, and asked, “You kill that rich son-of-a-bitch who built condos in estuaries?”

“No, ma’am,” Roger Stanton said.

“Why not?” she demanded. “No balls?”

26

THE TEST

THE state called its first witness, and Abe Socolow stayed in his chair. Jennifer Logan, pale and frail, stood to ask Deputy Sheriff Jack Roundtree what he found in the home of Roger Stanton. Clever strategy. Letting the young assistant handle the preliminary witnesses. Keep Socolow from exhausting the jury with his hundred-kilowatt intensity.

The courtroom was packed. Granny Lassiter sat in the front row, doing her best not to hiss Socolow and cheer me when we emerged from the judge’s chambers. I could use the moral support. Judge Crane had granted Socolow’s motion in limine: the videotape would not be admitted into evidence. In his usual laconic fashion, the judge had merely said, “Mrs. Corrigan is not on trial here. Her escapades are not relevant to the issue of the defendant’s guilt.”

I had paced in his small chambers, musty with stacks of casebooks. I tossed my arms, argued, and made my objections for the record. The judge was unmoved. Socolow’s face flickered with a vulture’s smile.

Now Jennifer Logan peered at Deputy Roundtree from behind horn-rimmed glasses and asked about the black valise, the two hypodermics, and the vial of clear liquid. All were found in Roger Stanton’s study. In a desk drawer just where the affidavit of Melanie Corrigan said they would be.

My cross-examination was short.

“Deputy Roundtree, did Dr. Stanton offer any resistance to your serving the warrant?”

“No.”

“Was he polite?”

“Yes.”

“When you pulled the valise from the drawer, what did he say?”

“Something like, ‘What the hell?’”

“Anything else?”

“Best I remember, ‘I can’t believe she’d do this.’ Something like that.”

“Did he say who the she was?”

“Not that I recall.”

***

Jennifer Logan called the lab technician who had tested the liquid in the vial. She asked for his findings. “Sucks,” he said.

She reddened. “Beg your pardon?”

“Sucks. Succinylcholine, a muscle relaxant used in surgery. Sodium pentothal puts the patient to sleep, succinylcholine relaxes the muscles and helps the anesthesiologist intubate the patient, get the tube down the trachea. The lungs stop working, the patient breathes on a respirator.”

“And if there’s no respirator?”

“The patient dies.”

“A strong drug?”

“Very strong. Sort of synthetic curare. You know, the poison the Indians in South America make from plants. They dip their arrows in it. Ugly way to die.”

“Your witness,” Jennifer Logan said.

“No questions,” I said, visions of poison-tipped arrows sailing across my mind.

***

“The state calls Dr. Hilton MacKenzie,” Abe Socolow announced. The jurors straightened, Abe’s appearance signifying an important witness.

Dr. MacKenzie was tall and ramrod straight with fine features and a forelock of straight black hair that fell into his eyes. He was not yet forty and gave the impression that he grew up with all the advantages of money, family, and education. He had a habit of jutting his fine patrician chin toward the heavens, looking down over his reading glasses, and speaking in a tone most of us reserve for pets not yet housebroken. He lacked nothing except humility.

Socolow ran through his credentials. Penn undergraduate, Harvard Medical School, internship at New York Hospital, residency at Mass General, fellowships in pathology, the whole bit. Into public service as an assistant ME in Miami, then chief canoemaker. My terminology, not his. I would ask him on cross who trained him. Charles W. Riggs, of course. Let their witness polish my witness’s silverware.

“Dr. MacKenzie,” Abe Socolow said, his voice heavy with respect, “let me show you what has been marked Plaintiff’s Exhibit C for identification and ask you to identify it.”

MacKenzie removed his reading glasses from a breast pocket, ceremoniously put them on, and studied the document. “It’s our toxicology report on certain brain and liver samples from Philip Corrigan’s body.”

“Objection,” I said, popping up, reminding the jury of my presence. “Improper predicate. No showing of chain of custody of the alleged samples.”

Socolow looked perplexed. He asked if we could approach the bench. Judge Crane leaned to one side, away from the jury, and we huddled there, exchanging whispers.

“Judge,” Socolow said, “I’d assumed Jake would stipulate to chain of custody to save one of his witnesses some embarrassment. These samples were in the possession of Dr. Charles Riggs, and my sense of propriety does not allow me to say on the record where he got them.”

Judge Crane looked my way. I looked back. “This is a capital case, Judge, and I’m not going to stipulate to the kind of sandwiches you serve the jury. Doc Riggs will understand.”

The judge shrugged. “Abe, you gotta call Riggs. I’ll let you get this in now, subject to tying it up with Riggs’s testimony.”

That was okay with me. I wanted Charlie on the stand as much as possible. Make him their witness for purpose of chain of custody. Let the state vouch for his credibility before I call him.

Socolow went through it with MacKenzie, the finding of succinic acid and choline—two of the components of succinylcholine—in Corrigan’s liver and brain. The buttock dissection showed a needle track. His expert opinion on cause of death, cardiac arrest following the injection of succinylcholine. The aneurysm? In the throes of death, quite possibly the stress on the system caused the aorta to rupture. But the instigating cause, succinylcholine, no doubt about it. The whole dance took ten minutes. Socolow moved to admit the toxicological report into evidence, and the judge accepted it, subject to Charlie Riggs tying up chain of custody. Then it was my turn.

I grabbed the report and pretended to read it, furrowing my brow.

“Now, Dr. Blumberg—”

“Dr. MacKenzie,” he corrected me.

“Oh,” I said, feigning surprise, “there must be some mistake. A Dr. Blumberg signed this report.”

Hilton MacKenzie smeared me with his exasperated look. “Milton Blumberg is the toxicologist who analyzed the tissue samples.”

“Oh,” I said again, looking around the courtroom for the toxicologist.

“Blumberg works under my supervision and I am responsible for his actions,” MacKenzie piped up, getting the drift.

I turned toward the judge. “Your Honor, I move to strike all of Dr. MacKenzie’s direct testimony as hearsay. Further, he’s not capable of responding to my cross-examination of the report, so it too must be stricken.”

Before Socolow could rise and offer me Blumberg, a guy I didn’t want, MacKenzie chimed in, “Your Honor, I am intimately familiar with toxicology methods and the preparation of this report based on the chromatography tests.”

Ah, vanity.

“Very well,” I said, “as long as we have the expert here, objection withdrawn.”

He settled back into his chair. Before he could get too comfortable, I asked, “How much succinic acid was found in the brain?”

“How much?” he repeated.

“Yes, your report—Milton Blumberg’s report—says there was succinic acid in the brain. How much?”

He seemed startled. “I don’t know,” he said.

“In the liver?”

“I don’t know. It doesn’t matter—”

“And how much choline?”

“Objection!” Socolow stomped toward the bench. “Judge, he’s not letting the witness finish his answer.”

The judge looked toward the press gallery. Helen Buchman from the Herald was nodding. Or maybe just chewing her gum. No matter. “Sustained. Doctor, you were saying…”

MacKenzie was silent. Gathering his thoughts. He shook his head, confused. “We didn’t measure the amount.”

My face registered shock. I spun on my heel in front of the jury box and waved the toxicology report at the witness, a toreador taunting the bull. “So it could have been ten milligrams, twenty milligrams, a quart, a gallon?”

“You don’t understand,” Dr. MacKenzie said, scowling. Exasperated.

“I’m sure I don’t. That’s why I ask questions. Now, how much choline was found in the brain tissue?”

“I don’t know. Again, we didn’t test for amount, only presence. It was a qualitative test, not a quantitative one.”

Fancy doctor words.

“Then how did you differentiate the substances you allegedly found from the choline and succinic acid already there?”

The doctor stared at me.

I moved closer to the witness stand. “Those two substances are normally present in the body, correct?”

“Yes, of course.”

“So your test may have picked up the succinic acid and choline normally found in the body, correct?”

He was silent a moment. He looked toward Socolow for help. None came. He stole a sideways glance at the jury, brushed the forelock of hair out of his eyes and said, somewhat testily, “There is insufficient choline and succinic acid normally in the body to show up in these tests.”

“How much is there, normally?”

“A trace. Nothing more.”

“And it doesn’t show up on your tests?”

“No sir.”

“Then how do you know it’s there?”

“Because I know! That’s all.”

“Now, in your training as a chemist—”

“I never said I was a chemist,” he whined. Defensive now, hunching his long, well-bred body into a corner of the witness stand.

“But you know how to do the gas chromatograph tests?”

“No.” Then he added quickly, “I supervise.”

“Ah,” I said. I liked that. Jurors know all about supervisors, leaning against the side of the truck, drinking coffee while other guys dig the ditches.

“And of course you found succinic acid and choline near the needle track in the buttock?”

“No, I never said that. You know we didn’t.”

“What do you make of that?”

“I would have expected to find it, if that’s what you mean.”

I nodded with approval and paused to emphasize the point. “You expected to find succinic acid and choline near the needle track because the concentration of the drug should be greatest near the injection, correct?”

Again he looked toward Socolow. “Ordinarily.”

“Then how do you explain the lack of the two substances near the track where the drug was supposedly injected?”

He paused. One beat, another beat. Then, very softly, a murmur barely above the whir of the air-conditioning, “Sometimes, in science, we don’t have an explanation for everything.”

“Quite so,” I said, and sat down.

Abe Socolow had been around long enough to know how to rehabilitate a witness.

“Just a few questions on redirect,” he said with perfect calm. Never let the jury sense your fear. “Now, Dr. MacKenzie. Besides looking for the presence of succinic acid and choline, what else did your tests do, and I direct your attention to page seven of the report.”

MacKenzie warmed to the friendly face and followed the coaching. He flipped through Blumberg’s report, got to page seven, and smiled. “We scanned for other toxins. Those tests were negative. The tests were positive only for the components of succinylcholine.”

Socolow nodded. “To exclude the remote possibility of picking up traces of succinic acid and choline occurring naturally in the body, what did you do?”

Dr. MacKenzie read some more, his eyes brightening. “We tested three other bodies that recently arrived in the morgue. We performed the same chromatographic tests on brain and liver samples. None showed any evidence of succinic acid or choline.”

Abe Socolow smiled too. His jury smile. To carry the message, no harm done, just clearing the confusion caused by that wily defense lawyer.

“No further questions,” Socolow said, easing himself into his chair.

The judge was ready to bang his gavel and call it a day. But I had one or two more questions. Recross.

“Dr. MacKenzie, these three other bodies you tested. How many had died during or just after surgery?”

He didn’t know where I was heading. But Abe Socolow did. He stood up. Tried to think of an objection but couldn’t. The question was relevant and within the scope of his redirect.

“None,” the doctor said, looking at the report. “Two were gunshot victims, one died in an auto accident. All DOA.”

“So none had received succinylcholine within the last twelve hours before death?”

There was an inaudible mumble from the witness stand. He shook his head from side to side. Now he knew.

“You must speak up for the court reporter,” I advised him.

“No, none received succinylcholine.”

“You’re familiar with the records of Philip Corrigan’s back surgery on the day of his death?”

A quiet “Yes.”

“And the anesthetics included, did they not, succinylcholine?”

“Fifty milligrams, IV drip,” he said, softer than the rumble of voices from the gallery.

27

IKKEN HISSATSU

I told Roger not to start celebrating but he was slapping me on the back. Brilliant again.

“You destroyed MacKenzie.” He was jubilant. “Maybe,” I told him. “But they still have time to test someone who dies during surgery and Charlie Riggs doesn’t know what it’ll show. Nobody seems to know.”

“Still,” Roger insisted, “we won the day.”

“Sure,” I said, “but tomorrow is Melanie Corrigan. And the jury will convict if they believe her, acquit if they don’t. Expert witnesses are just icing on the cake.”

That was hard for his scientific mind to accept. “Then the trial is just showmanship,” he complained, “if whoever has the best looking, most likable witness wins.”

“It sometimes works like that,” I said. “My job is to get the jury to dislike her or Sergio or both.”

“How do you do that?”

I winked at him. Like it was a great secret. Which it was. Especially from me.

***

I slept well. I had prepared. I lowered my pace a bit. Tried to forget just who she was and what she had done to Susan. My first responsibility was to Roger Stanton. Time for the rest later.

She still turned heads walking into a courtroom. Unlike the civil trial, she could not sit at counsel table. The witness rule was in effect. No witnesses present except when testifying. So the jurors hadn’t seen Melanie Corrigan yet. It made her appearance more dramatic. She didn’t let them down. Poised, confident, a beautiful walk to the witness stand.

Still in his black suit, the Grim Reaper asked when she first met Roger Stanton.

She was well prepared. “I was just a kid, really. I looked up to him. He was a doctor, and I was training to be a professional dancer. We became involved. He pursued me. He was, in a way, obsessed with me. He wanted to possess me, and I gave in to him.”

Then she blushed. Really blushed. It came out well, set off nicely by a navy blue, dress-for-success skirt-suit. She had the whole shtick, white silk blouse and frilly bow, hair tied back in a ponytail. Little Bo Peep. Where was the slinky temptress of the videotape? I shouldn’t have been surprised. Usually, it’s the defendants who do the changeovers. Street hoods shave their beards, shower, and cover their tattoos with discount store suits. A crack dealer shows up for trial looking like an investment banker. And here was Melanie Corrigan, ex-stripper, semi-pro hooker, up from the streets, blushing on cue, Abe Socolow leading off Day Two with his strength.

He took her through it all, just as he had promised in opening statement. Roger Stanton chased her long after the relationship was over, showed her the drug, wanted her to kill her husband. She thought he was joking or half crazy, would never do it. Then Philip died, darling Philip. The beginning of a tear, tastefully done. No gushers that would interrupt the timing of the questions. After the malpractice trial, Roger asked her over, and she found the drug and the black valise in his house.

It took less time than I had anticipated. Socolow got her up there, fulfilled his prophecy, then sat down. I stood up. And the worst thing that could happen to my cross-examination happened.

Nothing.

It was uneventful.

Flat, dull.

I had worked so hard to stay in control, to bury the hatred inside of me that I buried everything else. No spark, no inspiration, no edge. Flabby questions, brief denials, no follow-up.

“Were you intimate with Roger Stanton after your marriage?”

“No, of course not.”

I had no way of disproving it. The tape was shot before the marriage, and Judge Crane wouldn’t let it into evidence anyway. Roger would contradict her statement, of course, but there is something unchivalrous about that. The jury will not like him.

“Were you intimate with your employee, a Mr. Sergio Machado-Alvarez?”

“Objection,” Socolow yelled out. “Irrelevant.”

The judge’s eyes darted across the gallery. Helen Buchman had gone to the restroom. He took a stab at it. “Granted. Same ruling as on Mr. Socolow’s motion in limine. Mr. Lassiter, I remind you that Mrs. Corrigan is not on trial.”

“Thank you, Your Honor,” I said, to confuse the jury. “Mrs. Corrigan, the black valise you testified about, was it ever in your possession?”

“No.”

Again, nothing to disprove her. If Susan were alive, she could ID the valise in Melanie’s underwear drawer. Destroy her testimony. I needed Susan for this and a thousand other reasons. I blinked and saw her face, nuzzling me on the way to Granny’s house. I blinked again, and she was facedown in the pool. I was reeling, losing control.

“What do you know about the break-in at Susan Corrigan’s cabana?”

An inane question. A preordained answer. Floundering.

“Nothing. Poor thing, to die so young.”

I choked on my own incompetence, unable to muster anger or rage. I caught sight of Roger at the defense table. Catatonic. He knew I was blowing it. I improvised.

“You thought Dr. Stanton cold-bloodedly murdered your husband and yet you went to his house after the civil trial?”

“Yes.”

“You weren’t afraid of him?”

“No, but… maybe I should have been.”

I am not a mind reader. I have trouble enough understanding what people mean when they speak their thoughts. If I had known where she was going, I would have shut up. Instead I chomped at the bait.

“And why should you have been?”

An open-ended why on cross, invitation to disaster.

“He attacked me earlier at my home. He struck me right here because I would not… I refused to make love with him.”

She was pointing to a spot below her left eye. Two female jurors looked upset. The cad. Killing a guy may be okay. But hitting a woman?

I was quiet so she kept going. “I’m sure you remember, Mr. Lassiter. You were kind enough to come over when I called you. After Philip’s death, I had no one to turn to. I thanked you then, and I thank you now.”

Ouch. So gracious. So ladylike. Socolow beamed. Palpable plea sure. Roger moaned. It was true, of course. Like so many big lies, this one was constructed of little truths. Roger had hit her. I had come over to keep him out of trouble. She had thanked me with a slippery tongue and a promise of more. Now she was making fun of me. Humbling men was sport to her. I decided to shut up before the quicksand rose above my neck. She glided out of the courtroom, elegant in her grief.

There was no time to regroup.

“The state calls Dr. Charles W. Riggs,” Abe Socolow proclaimed.

The bailiff opened the door to the corridor, and Charlie bounded into the courtroom with rapid, short steps. His beard was still bushy, and his glasses still askew on his tiny nose. The bowl of a pipe jutted from the pocket of the old gray suit coat he still kept for court appearances. He didn’t need to be shown the way to the witness stand. He raised his right hand and promised to tell the truth even before the clerk asked him. He smiled at the jury and waited.

I figured Charlie wouldn’t give Socolow any problems. All the state needed was chain of custody, a formality having nothing to do with Roger’s guilt or innocence. Abe Socolow approached the witness stand warily. He was politic enough to skip the night in the cemetery. Just asked if Charlie had made dissections of Philip Corrigan’s liver, brain, and buttock material and passed them on to the Medical Examiner’s Office.

Charlie gave him the right answers and was ready to step down. Something passed behind Socolow’s dark eyes. I saw the shadow of his thought. When the defense stepped to the plate, Socolow knew, Charlie would testify that Corrigan died of natural causes. Socolow wanted an extra turn at bat.

“Dr. Riggs, not to steal your thunder, but you’re prepared to testify for the defense that Philip Corrigan died of a spontaneous aortic aneurysm, isn’t that right?”

“Correct.”

Socolow had Riggs tell the jury what that meant and Charlie took him through it, an encore of his testimony in the malpractice trial. Great. I didn’t know where Socolow was headed, but if he wanted to hear my best testimony twice, fine. “Lots of things can cause an aneurysm, correct?”

“Sure. Hypertension, arteriosclerosis, syphilis, trauma.”

“Trauma. How about a huge injection of succinylcholine, not the steady drip of an IV tube as in surgery. Wouldn’t that cause trauma to the heart, the kind of trauma that could cause an aneurysm?”

So that’s where he was going. Worried about my cross of MacKenzie, trying to tie the injection to the aneurysm. Give the guy a boost of the drug, it blows out an artery. A long shot.

“You’d have to ask a cardiologist,” Riggs said. “But I had a different kind of trauma in mind.” He smiled at Socolow, a witness at ease with himself and his surroundings. He had testified for the state hundreds of times. If Socolow wanted to debate medicine, Charlie Riggs was happy to oblige.

“Right. You previously testified that a driver can suffer an aortic aneurysm if he hits the steering wheel following a crash, isn’t that right?”

Abe had done his homework, had read the transcript of the malpractice trial.

“Yes. I’ve seen several of those.”

“In such an accident, there’s quite a shock to the system, isn’t there?”

“Surely,” Charlie Riggs agreed.

“And can you say conclusively that the aneurysm is caused by the impact of the steering wheel or could it be the shock to the system, to the heart?”

He was winging it now, trying to find a parallel between an injection of succinylcholine and an auto accident. It wasn’t going anywhere. Not helping or hurting his case. Just one of those tangents lawyers sometimes take.

Charlie Riggs wouldn’t bite. He shook his head, and several jurors did likewise. “My impression has been that it’s the trauma, the impact that causes the blowout of the aorta. It takes a serious blow, but a steering wheel, or a very well-thrown punch by a trained boxer could do it.”

“Even a punch,” Socolow repeated, apparently happy that so many things could cause an aneurysm.

“A punch, a kick, even a karate chop.”

Socolow went on, detailing every cause of aneurysm known to man, monkeys, and little white rats. But my mind stayed right there.

A punch, a kick, even a karate chop.

I hadn’t thought of it before. But I did now. Nurse Rebecca Ingram said Roger left the room at ten o’clock. Sometime between ten-thirty and eleven, Melanie Corrigan waltzed in with the little hunk of martial arts skills.

A karate chop.

I didn’t know whether to risk it now or wait until I had Charlie on my part of the case.

Your witness, Abe Socolow said.

I plunged ahead. “Dr. Riggs, are you telling the jury that one karate punch to the abdomen could puncture the aorta?”

Charlie Riggs looked toward the jury and stroked his beard. Say yes, I prayed. Say yes, you hairy wizard.

“Yes. The concept is ikken hissatsu, to kill with one blow. Some of it is exaggerated to the point of myth, but it does happen. Martial arts assassins are quite capable of it. The essence of karate is kime, an explosive attack using maximum power over a short distance. Of course, it would be difficult to rupture the aorta of a well-trained athlete with strong abdominal muscles, particularly if he expected the blow.”

I let out a breath, awed at the range of Charlie’s knowledge. Time to set the scene. “After a laminectomy, how would a patient be lying in bed?”

“After back surgery, you put a patient on his back. The pressure helps prevent further bleeding.”

“With stomach exposed?”

“Yes.”

“Muscles relaxed.”

“Quite. The patient would be sedated.”

“And, assuming a man in his fifties not in the best of physical condition was lying on his back, sedated, stomach muscles slack, could a karate expert rupture his aorta with one blow?”

Socolow leapt up. “Objection! Assumes facts not in evidence, irrelevant, beyond scope of direct, beyond witness’s expertise.”

“Anything else?” the judge asked.

Socolow shook his head. Already he had protested too much.

“Denied,” the judge said.

“Yes. A well-placed blow, a shuto uchi, the sword handstrike, could burst the pipe, the aorta, that is. Perhaps even the stoshi hiji-ate, the downward elbow strike.”

Charlie demonstrated the movement of each blow, smiling shyly toward the jury box. “I learned a little of this on Okinawa after the war,” he added.

Oh bless you, Charlie Riggs, master of a thousand subjects, encyclopedia of the esoteric, bestower of life on the condemned.

“Nothing further,” I said, easing into my heavy wooden chair as if it were a throne.

28

THE KARATE KING

THE five of us sat on my tiny back porch swatting mosquitoes, drinking Granny Lassiter’s home brew, and arguing how to use the gift imparted by Abe Socolow.

“Show a video of Sergio winning the Karate King title,” said Cindy. Ever efficient, she already had fished around town and found the tape. “Let him split your head open with a shoe-toe oochi-koochi,” Granny said. “Show his mean streak.”

“Drop it now while we’re ahead on the point,” Roger Stanton argued. His face was drawn, and he looked like he hadn’t been getting much sleep. Being a defendant in a first-degree murder trial can do that. “Socolow will be ready for anything more about the karate.”

Charlie Riggs drained the dark, headless beer from a mug that was once a peanut butter jar. “Not a bad idea. That was all off the cuff today. No matter what, we can’t prove Sergio struck the decedent.”

I shook my head, both at Charlie and at Granny, who was offering me a refill. Too heavy with hops, like an English bitter. “You’re forgetting something, Charlie. We don’t have to prove anything. All we need is to create a reasonable doubt that Roger aced him.”

Charlie nodded and helped Granny into the hammock where she had decided to spend the night. I didn’t think there was room for two.

“But it must be a reasonable doubt,” Charlie Riggs declared. “Not a possible doubt, a speculative, imaginary, or forced doubt.”

I laughed. “Whoa, Charlie, when did you start memorizing jury instructions?”

“I been in trials before you got out of knickers.”

“Used to wet his knickers till he was four,” Granny called out from the hammock.

Roger Stanton leapt to his feet from an aging lawn chair. “I didn’t kill Philip Corrigan!” Silently, three heads turned toward him. His normally placid face was twisted with pain. “When you talk about strategy, you seem to be trying to hide something, to get off a guilty man. You all forget I didn’t kill Philip! He’s the one person I could never kill. He was my friend.”

Stanton sagged back into the chair and turned toward the sprawling hibiscus that threatened to overrun the porch. Everyone quieted down for a while. I thought about Roger’s little speech. Something vague and fuzzy bothered me, but I let it go. We weren’t getting anywhere except mosquito-bitten and drunk.

***

I was nearly dozing when the phone hollered. Everybody I wanted to talk to was within spitting distance. By the sixth ring, I stirred just to stifle the noise. Usually at this time of night, it’s a boiler room call, somebody selling frozen beef from Colorado or solar water heaters made in Taiwan. Usually it’s not Abe Socolow.

Breakfast before court? Sure. Bay Club? Sure.

“What does he want?” Roger asked, a tremble in his voice.

“Don’t know. Maybe just wants to do a Power Breakfast.”

“Granny Lassiter snorted. “Then why call you?”

***

The Bay Club sits on the thirty-fifth floor of a new office building overlooking Biscayne Bay and the Atlantic Ocean. The dining room is chrome and glass, white tile, and a blinding brightness. All the charm of an astronaut’s space capsule. The club was designed by a young architect adept at stealing ideas about modern design and making them worse.

Socolow was late. I looked around. There was Fat Benny Richards, all three hundred pounds of him, wolfing French toast with county commissioner Bradley Shriver. Fat Benny wore a six-hundred-dollar silk suit but looked like a ton of shit in a gunny sack. His clients called Fat Benny a lobbyist, which was a more polite term than bagman. Politicians courted him because he collected campaign contributions the way a sewage plant draws flies.

Fat Benny had the beady red eyes of an overfed rat, and his eyes were his best feature. His breath could kill a manatee and his toupee threatened to slide into his Bloody Mary. I picked up pieces of the conversation between the commissioner and the fat man. Arguing for a builder client, Benny wanted a variance from the ordinance requiring a parking space for every four hundred square feet of office space. A customary request by rapacious builders since parking garages cost a bundle and the cash return is diddly-squat compared to office space.

Fewer parking spaces, larger buildings, less green space, billboards the size of cruise ships—zoning was a scandal. But why not? In a town where William Jennings Bryan once hawked vacant lots from a floating barge, the hustle was still king.

Abe Socolow slid silently into his chair, folding his body like a scythe. He looked haggard. Black circles under his eyes, sunken cheeks, skin the color of a newspaper left in the sun. A waiter in a white vest and gloves took our order. Gloves at seven-thirty in the morning.

“Just coffee,” Socolow said. “Black.”

Naturally.

I ordered a large orange juice, a basket of sweet rolls, and shredded wheat with whatever fruit didn’t come in a can. Let Abe suffer, I was hungry.

“That was some happy horseshit yesterday about a karate chop busting the aorta,” he began irritably.

“Glad you liked it.”

“Liked the bit about MacKenzie not testing stiffs who died after surgery, too.”

“You ask me to breakfast to compliment my trial skills. How kind.”

“Whadaya doing, Jake, just throwing shit on the barn door, seeing what’ll stick?”

“Your breakfast conversation is most appetizing.”

I didn’t know where he was heading. He drained the coffee, and the waiter materialized silently with more from a silver pot. At the next table Fat Benny was offering the commissioner preferred stock in a cable television franchise.

“Just thought you should know,” Socolow said, “I been at the morgue all night with MacKenzie…”

“The way you look, you’re lucky they let you out.”

He ignored me. “We got two stiffs out of surgery yesterday. Both had succinylcholine IVs as part of the anesthesia, and guess what?”

I didn’t have to guess. No traces of succinic acid or choline. I figured Socolow would bust his balls to recoup after MacKenzie’s debacle. Just didn’t think he could do it so fast. Now I pictured him dashing from hospital to hospital, praying for patients to die in the OR, maybe pulling the plug in the ICU.

“As a personal favor, in a spirit of fairness,” he went on, “I’ll tell you about my rebuttal witness, an internal medicine guy. Feingold, head of the department at Jackson. He says a karate chop can’t bust the aorta. No way. Too much padding in the abdomen, what with the fat and the stomach and all those organs.”

“Kind of you to share your strategy with me, Abe. But we both know you can get Irv Feingold to say anything. I been around the rosy with him in two malpractice cases. Now, you didn’t bring me here to talk about how strong your case is. What’s up?”

He squinted at me through tired eyes. I smeared a large glob of butter on a heated cinnamon roll. Nearby, Fat Benny was extolling the virtues of a garbage compacting plant located upstream of a drinking well field.

“Jake, you know I’m fair. Tough, sure. But fair.”

“Uh-huh,” I mumbled. No use insulting him. If he had an offer, I would listen. Then I could insult him.

“We may have overcharged Stanton,” he said softly.

“Go on,” I said.

“You know how juries are. Anything can happen. Hell, they can come back with Murder One and recommend death. Puts Crane in a tough spot.”

“To say nothing of my client.”

“Or they could compromise and recommend life.”

“Yeah, and they could come back with a big fat NG.”

He shook his head. “I’m not going to argue with you, Jake. Here it is. He pleads now to Murder Two, we agree to ten years. He’ll be out in thirty-nine months.”

It didn’t take long to think about it. “No deal. A felony conviction, he loses his ticket to practice. Besides, he’s not guilty. I won’t plead him to jaywalking.”

Socolow’s jaw muscles tightened. “Jake, you’re between the dog and the fire hydrant. If it’s Murder One, even if no-go on death, it’s twenty-five years minimum mandatory, you know that.”

I knew that. And I knew that Abe Socolow was right about juries. You can never tell. I would tell Roger about the plea offer and let him decide. But I knew his answer. I didn’t kill Philip Corrigan! It was still ringing in my ears.

“Sorry, Abe. Just dismiss the case and go away. If not, we’ll take a verdict from the jury box.”

“I’ll see you in court,” he hissed.

“In about thirty minutes,” I said.

***

“The state calls Mr. Sergio Machado-Alvarez.”

Now there was a surprise, Socolow trying to catch me off guard. Bringing the Karate King in now, figuring we hadn’t had much time to work on the karate chop angle. Figuring right.

Socolow’s direct examination was brief, first describing Sergio’s job as the family’s driver and boat captain. Brought Mrs. Corrigan to the hospital the night of October 14 to check on her husband. Clever. Blunt the jury’s surprise when I show he was there shortly before the fatal aneurysm.

Sergio went through it matter-of-factly. Mr. Corrigan was fine when they saw him, sleeping peacefully. No, he never saw the doctor in the room, must have come by later. Such a shame, qué lástima, the boss dead, a good man. Then he corroborated Melanie’s testimony about being attacked by Roger after the malpractice trial. Pulling up on his chopper in front of the Corrigan home, he saw the defendant, tires screaming, tearing out of Gables Estates. The senora showed him the beginning of a bruise under the eye. She was wailing that the doc struck her.

“Objection, hearsay,” I sang out. “Move to strike.”

“Denied,” the judge declared firmly, pleased he could handle that one solo. “Excited utterance exception to the hearsay rule.”

Socolow went on. “Did you ever speak to the defendant about this assault?”

“Nunca. I wouldn’t say nothing to him. I told the senora, I mess him up she want. She says, no. She too kind.”

“Did the defendant ever say anything to you about Mr. Corrigan when he was still alive?”

“Sí. He tell me Mr. Corrigan not pay enough attention to his wife, he lose her, one way or another.”

“Your witness,” Abe Socolow said.

I stood up and moved close to the witness stand. I kept my back to the jury and gave Sergio my best mean-and-nasty look. If we were playing poker, he saw my mean-and-nasty and raised it to cruel-and-vicious. Good. Let the jury see a hard guy up close. Too bad he was wearing a suit, covering up those slabs of muscle and malice. His shirt collar was buttoned too tight, and he kept craning his neck toward the ceiling and pulling at the collar as if to let out the steam.

“Mr. Machado, have you ever been convicted of a crime?”

He shrugged his rhinoceros torso. “No big deal.”

“May we assume that’s a yes?”

“Sure. A crime, if you want to call it that.”

“What do you call possession of illegal drugs?”

He snorted a little laugh. “Steroids, man. Solamente steroids. Possession without a prescription. Everybody I know does steroids.”

“I’m sure they do. But you were convicted, were you not?”

“Yeah, sure. But I got no joo-dification.”

“How’s that?”

“My first offense. They didn’t joo-dify me.”

“The court withheld adjudication?”

“Sí, what I say, I got probation. I got the half-a-david with me.”

He had lost me. He drew a crumpled legal-size paper from his back pocket, and sure enough, there was an affidavit from the clerk of the criminal court attesting that one Sergio Machado-Alvarez had been placed on probation, adjudication withheld.

Socolow was reading it over my shoulder. “Objection! This is not proper impeachment. That’s not a conviction under Section ninety point six-ten. Move to strike.”

The son-of-a-gun knew his statute numbers. And he was right. You can attack the credibility of a witness by showing a prior criminal conviction, but without an adjudication of guilt, it doesn’t count.

I treaded water. “Your Honor, this is not, strictly speaking, impeachment of credibility. Mr. Machado’s familiarity with the implements of steroid abuse has a direct bearing on the guilt or innocence of Dr. Stanton.”

“Tie it up quickly, Mr. Lassiter,” Judge Crane ordered, turning his profile to the television camera.

I moved even closer to the witness stand. “You freely acknowledge being a user of anabolic steroids, do you not?”

“Sure, makes me big.”

“And smart, too,” I cracked, trying to rile him.

Abe Socolow was having none of it. “Your Honor, please admonish Mr. Lassiter not to be argumentative.”

“All right, both of you. Let’s get on with it.”

I walked to the rear of the jury box. Let them focus on Sergio, forget about me. “How long have you used steroids?”

“No sé. Five, six years.”

“So, at the time Mr. Corrigan died, you were a regular user.”

“Sure, I guess.”

“You’re familiar with the studies linking aggressive, irrational behavior with steroid abuse?”

“Says who?”

“An expert witness, but we’ll save that for another day. Mr. Machado-Alvarez, how do you administer the steroids?”

“Huh?”

He didn’t know where I was going. Abe Socolow would have prepared him for cross-examination about his karate skills. That would come. But first…

“How do you take the steroids? Pills, liquids? Do they come in little doggy biscuits?”

“You inject them, man.”

He took his right hand and made a little plunging motion with his thumb. He did it twice, and somewhere deep inside me, a man was hitting a gong with a sledgehammer, trying to force some rundown brain cells to match distant thoughts with nearby ones. It would have to wait.

“So you use a hypodermic needle?”

“Sure.”

I walked to the clerk’s table and picked up State’s Exhibit Six.

“Like this one?” I asked, holding that little devil three feet in front of the jury box.

He didn’t answer. He was slow but not that slow.

“Like this one?” I repeated.

“I didn’t kill no old man,” he said. “He’s the one did that. He’s the needle man.” Pointing now toward Roger Stanton. But the jury was looking at Sergio Machado-Alvarez.

Good.

Very good.

So good I was ready to stop for a while. So was the judge. He knew the evening paper had an eleven-thirty A.M. deadline. Gentlemen, this may be a propitious time to recess for lunch. Fine with me. Let the jurors chew over Sergio Machado-Alvarez with their roast beef sandwiches.

***

I returned to court early. Lugging a trial bag filled with ceramic tiles. A clerk from the law firm pushed a dolly loaded with concrete blocks. I built four stacks of blocks, leaving them far enough apart to place twenty tiles on top, the edge of each block holding a corner of the bottom tile. The top of the pile was about waist high.

Abe Socolow walked in, took one look, and began barking orders that stampeded a herd of law clerks toward the library. Socolow raced for Judge Crane’s chambers, a vein throbbing in his neck. I moseyed along behind him.

It was either indigestion or our presence, but the judge looked pained. In a corner of the room, by the bookcases, Jennifer Logan scratched through the cases searching for precedent on in-court demonstrations. Meanwhile Judge Crane belched and listened to Socolow’s bleating.

“Show biz,” Socolow said. “Histrionics for TV. Irrelevant blather designed to distract from the issues of the guilt of the accused.”

“We’ve laid the predicate,” I told the judge. “Dr. Riggs testified that a karate blow could have caused death. This witness is a karate expert. He was in the victim’s hospital room shortly before the aneurysm. Let’s see how hard the Karate King can hit.”

“If the witness refuses to hit these things, I can’t make him,” the judge said wearily. “Even if he’s willing to do it, I’m inclined to keep it out. Ruling deferred for now. Let’s see where the testimony goes, but Mr. Lassiter, I admonish you, no circus tricks.”

Abe Socolow huddled in the corridor with his witness, instructing him, no doubt, to downplay his karate skills and to stay away from the stack of tiles. Jennifer Logan neatly refiled her research in color-coded folders. The bailiff brought the jury in, and I started earning my retainer.

I asked Sergio about his training and his trophies, his black belt and his favorite dojang.

“First place in Florida sports karate, we don’t hurt nobody,” he said, obviously adhering to Socolow’s advice. “Second in Atlanta, regional competition. Training for fifteen years.”

I had him tell the jury about his weightlifting, Chinese boxing, judo, and aikido.

“You’re a pretty physical guy?” I asked.

“I’m okay.”

Ever so humble.

“Pretty good at karate?”

“If you say so.”

Evasive.

“See this stack of tiles, think you can break them all with one blow?”

“Who knows?”

“Well, on this videotape from the Florida championships, you break a stack of boards like they were toothpicks, should we take a look?”

Socolow leapt up, objecting again.

Judge Crane, more dolorous than usual, peered down at us, unhappy we needed his intervention. He looked toward the press gallery, but no one told him how to rule, so he took a stab at it himself. “Mr. Socolow, this is a capital case, and I will not unduly limit the defense. But Mr. Lassiter, get to the point. Objection overruled.”

I raised my voice. “The fact is, you’re not good enough to break twenty tiles with one blow, are you?”

“Huh?” Sergio looked puzzled. It did not seem to be an expression entirely foreign to him.

“Maybe Shigeru Funakoshi could do it,” I suggested. “Didn’t he beat you in Atlanta?”

“Home cooking. Two Japs and a Korean for judges.”

“But you really couldn’t break all twenty of these, could you?”

“You kidding? With my hand, my foot, or my head. Kid’s stuff.”

Adieu, humility. Socolow was grimacing, sitting on the edge of his chair, itching to pop up.

I said, “Let’s see you do it. Mess them up. Isn’t that what you said you could do to Dr. Stanton, mess him up?”

Socolow was up again. “Your Honor. He’s badgering the witness. As Your Honor said, an unwilling witness cannot be forced to take part in a demonstration. Miss Logan has handed me several cases on courtroom demonstrations that I wish to present on this issue. If the court please, in Mills v. State…”

Socolow approached the bench but I stayed close to the witness stand. The judge was going to set me down. I took a risk. It might get me another broken nose, maybe straighten out the one I had. It might get me some harsh words from the judge, nothing novel there. Or it might get me an acquittal.

I leaned over and murmured in Sergio’s ear, “Stick around, Shorty. I’m gonna play a videotape of you and your friends. No wonder that bitch needs three guys. You not only have the brains of a flea, you’ve got the pinga of one, too.”

Socolow was still at it, quoting the Florida Supreme Court. He couldn’t hear the guttural growl that stirred in Sergio’s throat. The Karate King rocked in the chair, his hands gripping the rail, his knuckles bleaching out. But he didn’t get up. I leaned even closer, my mouth inches from his ear. Improvisation.

“Big pecs,” I whispered, “pero pinga chiquita, no pinga grande.” It’s important to be bilingual in Miami.

Sergio’s cruel little eyes opened as wide as his brain would let them. Incredulous that I would mock him, enraged that I could do it from a vantage point half a foot higher than he’d be in elevator heels. But I needed more, something that would cut deep into the tender meat of his machismo, something to inflame a guy who spends hours posing his bicep curls in front of a gym mirror.

“What surprises me,” I breathed into his ear, “is that you’re a switch hitter. A fruit. Roger tells me he could never bend over with you behind him.”

He erupted. A primeval roar. Socolow turned, eyes wide, frozen. Sergio stood in the box and tore off his coat, throwing it to the floor. Short sleeves underneath, arms exploding against the fabric. He bounded out of the box toward me. I backpedaled like a cornerback on third and long. I wanted the stack of tiles between the two of us.

He looked at me. He looked at the tiles. He would have it all.

“Shuto!” He brought the sword handstrike down on the tiles. A thunderbolt, a thousand broken pieces, dust rising from the floor, an echo bouncing off the walls. A six on the Richter scale.

He barely paused. Two more steps and we were face-to-face. Blood streamed from his right hand, impaled by a ceramic sliver. I backed up until I was at the bar. He kept coming. Too fast. If he was ever to get good at hand-to-hand combat, he’d have to learn to control his emotions.

It would be better for Roger Stanton if I let Sergio hit me. Just as Granny had said, let him show his mean streak. And I will do a lot for a client. I will stay up three nights in a row preparing witnesses or writing a brief. I will cajole and flatter judges with two-digit IQs. I will even cry in closing argument to win sympathy from the jury. But I will not let my head be split like a cantaloupe by a tattooed, muscle-bound, hopped-up steroid freak.

He telegraphed a roundhouse kick, and as I ducked to the right, a whirling foot breezed by my ear, a rush of air like a train through the station. He tried hitting me in the chest with a flurry of fast punches with the left fist. Later, Charlie Riggs would tell me this was the Dan-zuki. I deflected some of them but caught a good one in the ribs. I would feel it for a week. He liked going for the body and used a lunge punch to get one into my gut. I felt it and dropped my guard. Somebody in the gallery screamed.

He tried to come high with a looping roundhouse right. Mawashizuki, Charlie would explain. He had plenty of hip behind it, but I had figured he’d go for the head. I leaned to my right and the punch glanced off my ear, burning it, but not connecting.

Then I ducked inside and brought my forearm up under his chin, hard. There was a lot of shoulder in it and a good explosion from the legs. The forearm caught some neck and some jaw and lifted him off the floor. It would have been good for fifteen yards, unnecessary roughness, clotheslining a guy. The shot straightened Sergio up, made him gasp for breath that wouldn’t come. Then I brought the left hook around, aiming for the chin. It took a while to get there, my timing was rusty, but that was okay. He wasn’t going anywhere. The punch landed and tossed him backward onto the clerk’s table, which crumbled into splinters, trial exhibits flying. State-issued furniture.

The judge was banging his gavel. I hadn’t heard it during the ruckus. But there he was, banging away. And in his other hand was the .357 Magnum from under the bench. Then dead quiet. The judge looked at the gavel and then at the gun. Sheepishly. Then his eyes darted from Channel 10’s video camera to the Herald’s still camera, whirring and clicking away. Preserving the sight for eternity, or at least until the next election.

Straining to appear judicial, he turned toward the jury box. “The jurors shall disregard the last… uh… colloquy between the witness and defense counsel.”

Might as well ask the residents of Pompeii to ignore the volcano.

Then, eyeballing me, Judge Randolph Crane did a slow burn. “The Court, sua sponte, grants a mistrial. The jury is excused. Mr. Socolow, I assume the state wishes to retry this defendant. If so, a new trial date will be set upon subsequent motion and notice of hearing. Mr. Lassiter…”

He paused. He thought. His perpetual glumness was replaced with anger. It seemed real, not just a pose for the editorial boards.

“Mr. Lassiter, I have never seen such a display in a courtroom. I don’t know what you did to provoke that witness, but I do know you committed battery upon his person.”

Again he paused, and the courtroom waited. He was running out of steam. He shot a surreptitious glance at the press. No help. He banged his gavel three times. When no one moved, he banged it again, then looked at me sternly and in his deepest tones announced, “You have fomented anarchy in a court of law.” A good quote, and from the front row, Helen Buchman nodded approvingly, her gray bouffant bobbing. Encouraged, the judge worked some righteous indignation into his voice. “In sum, Mr. Lassiter, you have flaunted… that is flouted… and in other words, you have affronted and offended the authority of this court. You are hereby ordered and adjudged in contempt of court. Report tomorrow morning at nine for sentencing. I suggest you bring counsel. And your toothbrush.”

The judge bolted through the rear door into his chambers and away from the madness. A corrections officer helped Sergio to his feet. Reporters swarmed over me. From the corridor, the cameramen and grips stormed in, knocking spectators aside. A mini-cam examined my right ear. A microphone poked at my eye. I’d be the lead story at six o’clock. Good story, too. Defendant goes free, at least for a while; his lawyer heads for the stockade.

My ribs ached and my left hand was beginning to swell. Roger Stanton hadn’t moved. He sat at the defense table, probably trying to figure out if I was a great lawyer or just a guy with an adequate left hook.

Abe Socolow looked at me and said, “You went too far this time, Jake, old buddy.”

“In a pig’s ass!” Granny Lassiter had hurdled the bar separating the lions from the Christians, exposing gray wool socks beneath her sundress. She hugged me and narrowed her eyes at Abe Socolow. “My Jacob can whup any man in the house, and a couple weeks of county victuals never did no harm.”

29

TWO OUT OF THREE

I was playing a wicked first base, stretching this way and that, digging low throws out of the dirt, trying to avoid pulling a hamstring. The shortstop was a check bouncer with a weak wing. The third baseman was a bunco artist who threw hard but wild. The second baseman was a veteran, three falls for DUI, but I didn’t know much about his arm. Every grounder trickled through his legs and into right field.

Seven days in the Dade County Stockade. Like a vacation. No phones, no partners’ meetings, no hearings with cantankerous judges and disagreeable clients. Almost as good as a week-long cruise to St. Thomas, although chipped beef on toast is seldom served on the S. S. Norway. The stockade is different from the county jail, that dungeon attached to the Justice Building. The jail is for your hard guys—robbers, killers, rapists, and multikilo dopers. Here, just a bunch of misdemeanants, including my own contemptuous self.

I had just done my best imitation of a Nureyev split, scooping up a shin buster in time to nab a three-hundred-pound grocer doing ninety days for selling pork loins as kosher lamb chops. The applause from my teammates did not break my eardrums. “Good grab, shyster,” the second baseman declared for the group.

Then, a familiar voice behind me: “Did I hear something crack or you just fart?”

I turned around. Now coaching first base for the Stockade Short Timers, Abraham Socolow.

“Hey, Abe. What’d they get you for? Purloining state-owned paper clips?”

He didn’t laugh. “Looks like you been working on your tan.”

“Yeah, lifting, too,” I said. “Gonna get strong again. Maybe even take up karate like your favorite witness.”

“Funny you mention him,” he said, as if it weren’t funny at all. “Machado-Alvarez is in Mount Sinai, got some weird sickness.”

“I’ll send flowers.”

“You’ll do better than that. You’ll go there with me while I take a statement.”

“You deputizing me?” I asked, keeping an eye on the runner at second, a shoplifter who would steal anything, including third base, if given the chance.

“He was busting up some boards at a karate exhibition over at Convention Hall, suddenly gets a fever, the shits, then he’s paralyzed. One of the Beach cops working security ID’ed Stanton hanging around the stage just before macho man did his stuff. I’ll need to talk to Stanton. Thought you’d want to be present. As usual, old buddy, I’m going out of my way to do you a favor.”

Next time he does me a favor, I’ll probably do a month in solitary. The pitcher, a pickpocket, called a conference on the mound. He slipped the ball to the shortstop, a pickpocket, who hid it in his glove then tagged the runner leading off second. Time was called, the runner whimpered, and there ensued some plea bargaining with the umpire, a trustee.

“I can’t leave,” I told Socolow. “Got another three days to satisfy the judge.”

“Let’s go. I sprung you.”

I put on my best Edward G. Robinson. “You sprung me? You dirty screw. I was going over the wall tonight with the boys. What’ll they think?”

He didn’t smile; he didn’t scowl, just the same straight-faced look. Ten years and he has yet to laugh at one of my jokes.

With Socolow running interference, we sailed through the paperwork for my return to society. We headed east in his government Chrysler—four doors, blackwalls—toward Miami Beach. Abe wore a dark three-piece suit with his Phi Beta Kappa pin slung from a vest pocket. I wore a blue chambray shirt with a nine-digit number. If we went to a Coconut Grove club, I’d be considered highly trendy and he’d be stashed next to the kitchen with a busload of retirees from Century Village. We took the Julia Tuttle Causeway, which connects the mainland with Arthur Godfrey Road on Miami Beach. It’s a great drive, high above Biscayne Bay, sailboats swooping beneath the pillars of the bridge, a fine view of the white and pink buildings of Miami Beach. From the top of the causeway you appreciate the fragility of that long, skinny sandbar with the bay on one side, the vast ocean on the other.

On the way Socolow told me he’d asked Charlie Riggs to meet us there. I thought that over a second. “Why not the ME? He’s the guy on your side.”

Socolow was silent. Like a good soldier, he wouldn’t squawk about intramural warfare. Then he surprised me. “Maybe too much on my side.”

I let it go. But he didn’t. “MacKenzie’s a turd,” he said stiffly.

I had noticed a certain scatological bent to Abe’s patter lately, but this was not the time to question whether he had been toilet trained at the appropriate age.

“A turd?” I delicately inquired.

“I can’t prove it, but I think he cooked those chromatographic tests that night in the morgue, the guys who died in surgery. He wouldn’t let me near Blumberg all night.”

Why was he telling me this?

“You’re probably surprised I’m telling you this,” he said.

Mind reader.

“There won’t be a new trial,” Socolow continued. “The widow refuses to testify.”

“You could lean on her,” I suggested, hoping he’d already tried and failed. “You’ve done it before with reluctant witnesses.”

“Not in a case like this,” he said. “What’s it mean, Jake, if a woman won’t testify against a man she swore killed her husband?”

I thought about it. “Different possibilities. That she knows the defendant didn’t do it. Or the defendant did it and she helped him. Or she knows who did it and she’s afraid a trial would bring that out.”

Abe Socolow didn’t say a word, just nodded to himself, watched the causeway straight ahead, and kept both hands on the wheel, at ten o’clock and two o’clock, just the way they teach you. Some guys play it strictly by the book.

***

Charlie Riggs was standing inside the double doors of the ICU talking to a young doctor in a white lab coat. The doctor was short and pale with a bushy, unkempt beard. Charlie stroked his own beard; the young doctor stroked his. Charlie barely noticed our arrival. No introductions, we just picked up listening.

“He went fast,” the doctor said with a shrug. “Ambulance brought him in, eyes bulging, stomach pain, vomiting, diarrhea, stiff joints, then paralysis. We tried to stabilize him. Barely got the IV in. Bang! Liver and kidneys fail, goes into respiratory arrest.”

“Classic indicia of food poisoning,” Charlie said dispassionately.

“We used to see two or three deaths a year, green beans at church picnics. Botulism.”

The two doctors kept talking, ignoring us. There wasn’t much two lawyers could add anyway.

“That’s what we thought,” the doctor said. “But we checked it out. Last two meals were banquet style for the karate convention. Three hundred people, no one else even burped.”

Charlie scratched his beard. The young doctor did the same. I didn’t have a beard, so I ran a hand through my shaggy hair. Socolow didn’t have much hair, so he lit a cigarette, then ground it into the tile after a nurse wagged a finger at him.

“Have you checked the body for punctures, fresh injections?” Charlie asked.

“Sure did, after Mr. Socolow told us his suspicions. Nothing.”

Charlie Riggs turned to Abe Socolow. They had worked together in the past, shared a mutual respect, even if Charlie thought Abe was a little sharp around the edges. “What was he doing just before he was stricken?”

“Best we can figure,” Socolow said, “he just finished chopping up a stack of boards with his bare hands.” Socolow looked at me. “Except nobody slugged him afterwards.”

"I see,” Charlie said. He was the only one who did. “I think I’ll take a drive to Convention Hall.”

***

I was sleeping in my own bed with two pillows for company when four headlights glared malevolently through my front windows and two horns blared. I rolled over and looked at the clock. The green digital numbers flashed from 2:57 to 2:58 as my feet hit the floor. Downstairs, a flashing of high beams. Maybe the cops picking me up. Maybe I really did go over the wall.

I wrapped a towel around my waist and opened the front door. Granny Lassiter and Charlie Riggs.

“Sorry to disturb you, Jake,” Charlie said, sounding not a bit sorry.

“Let me guess,” I said groggily, “you want my permission to marry this woman. Forget it. Elope if you like.”

“I’m game,” Granny said. “Only fellow my age I know still got lead in his pencil.”

“C’mon Jake,” Charlie commanded, his face serious, no twinkle in his eye. “Let’s take a ride and talk.”

If Charlie wanted to talk, I wanted to listen. I slipped on an old pair of gym shorts, running shoes, and a gray T-shirt, stepped into the humid night, and slid into the front passenger seat of Granny’s mammoth 1969 Cadillac. Over the bay, lightning flashed and distant thunder followed, a thunderstorm brewing in the southeast, headed our way. Granny had the engine running and Charlie was already in the back. Before I had dented the velour upholstery, the smell rolled over me.

“Granny, you leave a mess of last week’s grouper under the seat?”

She didn’t even look at me, just jerked a thumb toward the backseat and flicked on the overhead light. My gaze followed the thumb and left me staring into the waxy, dissolving face of the late Sylvia Corrigan.

“What the hell!”

“Relax, Jake,” Charlie said. “Jane did us a great favor by bringing the body here tonight.”

Everybody was doing me favors today. As for “Jane,” the name still struck me funny, like calling Charlemagne, “Chuck.”

“Weren’t nothing,” Granny said. “That old gal been taking up room in my cooler anyhow.”

“What’s going on?” I demanded.

“I found the boards Sergio had broken at Convention Hall,” Charlie explained. “Easy enough. He did the noon demonstration. Slabs of pine were in the trash, stacked in nearly the same order that he broke them. I thought it quite natural to assume that the one with the cleanest break would have been the top board.”

“Quite natural,” I agreed.

Granny pulled onto Douglas Road, then turned right at Dixie Highway heading downtown. You expect traffic to be light after three A.M., but it never is. You wonder who these people are, looking for a party or heading for their night shifts.

“On close inspection I could see the top board had been coated with something. I took it to Dr. Kalian at the lab, and he confirmed my suspicions. Clostridium botulinum, and quite a liberal dose of it.”

“The stuff that causes food poisoning,” I said.

“The very stuff,” Charlie said.

“What’d Sergio do, eat the boards for breakfast?”

“No, he just hit one with a hand that he had cut on the tile in the courtroom. Even without the cut, the abrasion from the board probably would be sufficient to allow the toxin to enter the blood. With the wound still healing and Sergio not wanting to show weakness by wearing a bandage—I asked around—it was an open invitation to the toxin.”

“And you think Roger Stanton cooked this up?” I asked.

“Chemical companies sell the toxin to universities and laboratories for research. A doctor would have no trouble ordering some.”

I shook my head. “I don’t know, Charlie, a little smear on a board killing a guy.”

“It’s perhaps the most toxic substance we know. A thousand molecules of botulinum toxin can kill an ox. Do you know how small a molecule is?”

About the size of all the gray matter in my brain, I thought. I’m the guy who trusted Roger Stanton. But I wasn’t ready to throw him over, not yet.

“Maybe Roger’s got an explanation,” I suggested, sounding hollow even to myself.

“That’s what we’ll find out,” Charlie said.

We were at the intersection of Dixie and Miami Avenue. Granny swung the aircraft carrier across three westbound lanes of Dixie and we headed north on Miami, passing under the overpass to Key Biscayne. Roger lived halfway up a long block on the right, his house surrounded by finely aged royal poinciana trees.

“What’s your friend in back have to do with it?”

Charlie sighed. “If I showed you her right buttock, upper quadrant, you’d know.”

“An injection?”

“Twenty-gauge needle, I’d say.”

“Wait a second, Charlie. Slow down. She died in the hospital. That could have been a routine sedative, a painkiller, anything.”

“Could have been. We don’t have the records.”

“And you’ve done no test for succinylcholine or any other drugs?”

“Correct.”

“So you have no proof?”

“Correct again, Counselor. Your cross-examination was always your strong point.”

“With no evidence, where do you get off accusing Roger of killing Sylvia Corrigan?”

“Calm down, Jake. I’m not ready to accuse. But I’ve been at this a long time. I have a hunch, that’s all.”

“A hunch! Charlie. You’re a scientist. I’m a lawyer. You deal with medical probabilities, I deal with evidence. And you have us hauling a corpse around on a hunch. I don’t believe it.”

When I don’t get my prescribed six hours of shut-eye, I can be ornery, even to friends.

“What we believe and what is true,” Charlie said, “are often quite different. Deceptio visus. It’s probably healthy up to a point to believe in your client’s cause. Beyond that point, it will blind you.”

I turned around to face him, and Sylvia Corrigan toppled forward, brushing my arm with a forehead the consistency of sponge cake left in the rain. The rotten fish smell washed over me. “What do you expect me to do?” I demanded. “Even if he confessed to me, I couldn’t go to Socolow. The attorney-client privilege prevents that.”

“It prevents your telling the authorities about past crimes, sure. But if you had probable cause to believe he’s about to kill again, there is a different obligation.”

“Who’s left to kill?”

“The person who first made him a killer, of course.”

A flash of lightning lit the sky and a thunderclap followed almost instantly, the storm closing in. I laughed but there was no pleasure behind it. “You think Roger will kill Melanie Corrigan. If you’re right, why should I lift a finger to stop him? Maybe I’ll help him.”

“No, you won’t. I know you, Jake. I know your code. It isn’t written anywhere except all over your face. You’re one of the last decent men. You’re a guy who looks for broken wings to mend.”

“Yeah, I’m an overgrown Boy Scout.”

“You won’t admit it. You’ve created this image of the indifferent, detached loner, but I know you better than you do.”

I forced the same hollow laugh. “You’re a great canoemaker, Charlie, but a lousy judge of character.”

“All right. We’re not here to protect Melanie Corrigan or anybody else, just to learn the truth. Will you help?”

Fat raindrops splattered the windshield, prelude to a downpour. Granny slowed, then hit the brakes hard, and the old Cadillac’s bald tires slid to a stop in front of Roger’s house. “Tell me what to do,” I said with resignation.

“Be tough with him,” Charlie ordered. “He’s cracking. The murder of Sergio was an irrational, bizarre act. He’s crying out, perhaps over guilt, shame, who knows? He wants to be caught. But his first reaction will be denial. He trusts and respects you. You’re the one who has to do it.”

The house was one of those modern jobs, six concrete cubes at odd angles, a wall of glass bricks shielding an interior courtyard and a roof full of skylights. I rang the doorbell and waited. Three-thirty A.M. In Miami an unexpected visitor late at night is an excuse to set loose the guard dogs or open up with automatic weapons.

It took a while, then the intercom crackled with a sleepy, cranky, “Yeah?”

“Roger, it’s Jake. Sorry to wake you. But there’s news. Socolow won’t refile. It’s over.”

Silence. Then, “Great. Call me in the morning.”

“Can’t. There’s more. Got to see you.”

“Minute,” he said.

It was more like five. A hot, dank night. In the yard a row of crimson tobacco jasmine flooded us with a steamy perfume, even as the rain splashed under the portico.

Finally Roger eyeballed me through the peephole. I ducked to one side. I didn’t have to move fast. By the time he turned the locks, slid the bolts, unhooked the chains, and punched the code into the digital alarm, I could have been appointed to the bench. Roger Stanton opened the heavy beamed door to find a visitor sitting in a wicker chair on his front stoop, her head slumped to a shoulder, eyeless face melting under the ghoulish glow of the yellow bug light. Overhead, lightning crackled.

I heard Roger gag, a choking sound. I watched him slump to the Mexican tile floor of his foyer. My own stomach tossed as he clutched his throat, gagged again, and vomited. He stayed there a while, emptying himself while the three of us stepped around him and into the house. Sylvia Corrigan stayed put.

“Why do this to me, Jake?” he whimpered, getting to his feet. Charlie steered him to a rust-colored leather sofa. Granny found a kitchen towel and helped clean his face. He sat there in a black silk bathrobe, bare feet on the floor, looking at me with vacant eyes. That bland, handsome face was gray now. “Jake, you’re my lawyer and my friend. Why?”

“I’m resigning from both positions.”

“Jake…”

“Why did you kill Sylvia Corrigan?”

His head shrunk back into his shoulders. “Why would I kill her?”

“Easy. Because Melanie asked you to. She very nearly told me you did it. When I asked her why anyone would steal Sylvia Corrigan’s body, she said to ask you. It didn’t make sense then, but it does now.”

He cackled. Half a laugh, half a cry, a barely human sound. “I’m not a killer. You said so yourself in the malpractice trial. God you were good. I’m a healer. I took an oath. To give no deadly drug, to do no harm.”

“You violated the oath, Roger. You gave it up. For flesh. You killed Sylvia and Philip and Sergio.”

“I didn’t kill Philip,” he said softly.

Where I come from, that’s an admission. Two out of three. I remembered what he said the other night on my porch. I didn’t kill Philip. He’s the one person I could never kill.

He started rocking back and forth, his head between his knees, his forearms resting on his knees. When he looked up, his eyes darted back and forth and his mouth hung slack. He cocked his head to one side and looked at me or through me, his mind somewhere on the far side of Betelgeuse. The look chilled the room. It could have frightened Sylvia Corrigan.

Then his eyes cleared. A calm voice, the old Roger Stanton, “Jake, you remember what you said to me that first day in your office?”

I remembered fine but I didn’t feel like reminiscing. “Probably that I was a lousy linebacker.”

“No, that you kept looking for the good guys and couldn’t find them. I admired you, wanted you to like me, to be my friend. I wanted to be one of the good guys.”

He said it with sadness, finality. Knowing it was over.

“I didn’t kill Philip,” he repeated. “You can’t believe that pig Sergio.” Then he slipped into his best Cuban handyman accent: "E’s the needle man.” And he pushed his thumb against an imaginary plunger of an imaginary hypodermic just as Sergio had done on the witness stand, and there it was, the missing piece. Where it had been all along, on the videotape. That puncture in Sylvia Corrigan’s backside could have been a routine injection in the hospital just before she died, but it wasn’t.

Oh Susan Corrigan, you were right the first time. I am dumber than I look.

I put my hands on my knees and leaned over, my face close to Roger’s. Our own little huddle. I wanted to look him in the eye. The sour smell of sweat mixed with vomit clung to him.

“Roger, I know it all now. You lied to me about when you met Philip Corrigan. You said it was after his wife had died. You were blocking it out, her death, staying a mile away from any talk about her. But you told me the truth about the succinylcholine. You did have it for two years before Philip died. And you did put an old dog to sleep with it. Plus an old lady you forgot to mention. You killed Sylvia Corrigan, and before the flowers wilted, the four of you were living it up on the Cory. You, Philip, Melanie, and the karate kid. A celebration cruise. Philip played cameraman. You played doctor with Melanie. After the examination, you gave her a little pat on the ass. That’s what it looked like on the tape because you weren’t holding anything. But what you were doing was giving her a pretend injection in the ass. She thought it was hysterical. Philip Corrigan laughed so hard he almost dropped the camera. You were showing off, letting them know how you killed her.”

He stared off into space, his face devoid of emotion, without joy or pain. Charlie nodded, a signal I was playing the cards right. Granny had discovered a crystal decanter of port and a huge goblet. She drowned a look of sorrow with a healthy chug.

“One thing I can’t figure,” I continued, “is whether you and Melanie had it all planned. Kill Sylvia, Melanie marries Philip. After a decent interval, you snuff him, too.”

“I would never kill Philip,” he whispered. “Philip was my friend. I never had many friends. Philip taught me to share Melanie, something I never thought I could do. But she wanted him…”

“Dead,” I helped out, as he drifted away again. “She wanted Philip dead. You were torn. The woman you never refused, the friend you longed for. She told you to kill him. You said you would. Just like before. But you didn’t want to do it.”

“I couldn’t do it,” he muttered, his voice thick, as if his tongue had swollen from thirst. “Philip shared his most prized possession with me. I watched him lying there in the hospital, my friend, knowing what that woman wanted me to do, but I couldn’t…”

He floated off again, riding some inner current. I filled in the gaps. “So you duck out of the room carrying the valise. Nurse Ingram sees you. You run down the stairs to the lobby. Your pals Sergio and Melanie are waiting for the good news. But you don’t have any. Melanie is furious. Sergio probably calls you a chicken-shit cobarde. He loves it—you’re in pain—he can be the hero. You hand him the valise, and he tucks it into his bush jacket. Melanie goes with him, gives him a cover story for being there if he’s seen. But he’s nervous. This isn’t like injecting himself with steroids. This is murder and there’s a nurse right down the hall. So he hurries and doesn’t get the hypodermic filled. Or he fills it and squirts it everywhere but inside Philip Corrigan. He makes a puncture, but it’s a dry hole. Lucky for him and unlucky for Philip Corrigan, there’s more than one way to kill a guy flat on his back. Ikken hissatsu. He kills him with one punch, probably the sword handstrike. Melanie keeps the valise with the drug and the hypodermics. You don’t want to see it again, and you don’t until she plants it in your house.”

He was silent. What is it Charlie would say? Cum tacent clamant. Silence is an admission of guilt. Not in a courtroom, of course, but in human experience. A tremor went through Roger’s body, and he wrapped his arms around himself and hugged as if to keep from splitting in two. His eyes kept clouding over, then clearing, slipping in and out of a haze like a foggy shoreline viewed from the sea.

“You knew Sergio did it,” I said. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

His lips moved but nothing came out. He tried again. “Because they threatened to tell Socolow about Sylvia. After the mistrial, they thought I must have told you about the karate punch. How else could you have figured it out?”

Charlie smiled, but only a little.

“Why did you kill Sergio?” I asked.

“He kept threatening me. I’ll tell the cops this, I’ll tell them that, I’ll bust your head.”

He was sing-songing it, sounding like a child. Coming and going, different people now.

I grabbed him by both shoulders. “Who killed Susan?”

“Sergio. With a poison fish or something. Melanie had him do it. She told me, laughed about it.”

He said it so matter-of-factly, one woman dead, another woman laughing. Watching Roger self-destruct, I had buried it, the burning rage. The how and the who. My vow to Susan. Sergio was already dead. Only Melanie’s laugh to stifle now. Melanie Corrigan, the source of the evil. Three murders, two by Sergio with Melanie’s encouragement. One by Roger, same provocateur.

I let Roger go and talked to Charlie. He would take Granny back to my place. I’d babysit, spend the night on Roger’s sofa.

Roger turned to me, his eyes bottomless holes. “Will you help me, Jake? Like you did before. I’m always being falsely accused, you know.”

I didn’t know what to say. Charlie did. “We can get you help,” he said. “A very good doctor I know. In the morning, I’ll make the call.”

Charlie and Granny left, hoisted Sylvia Corrigan into the trunk of the Cadillac, and drove off.

Roger looked at me. Barely comprehending. I told him I would put him to bed. He didn’t agree or disagree, just stood when I helped him up and moved where I guided him. He looked shrunken. So feeble and spent. His bare feet shuffled across the tile. I sat in a chair at the foot of his bed and watched him until he fell asleep. I figured the poison was drained from him now. Just the shell of a man, without the will or the weapons. Able to do no harm.

30

GREAT HANDS

I awoke at five forty-five, same as always. Tired but alert. Aware of the strangeness of the room. There is a sixth sense that tells us something has changed. Someone has passed through our space, coming or going. Our sensors—keen as orbiting satellites—track the unseen movement.

I unfolded myself from the sofa and checked the master bedroom.

No Roger.

The sheets still warm. The rest of the house, empty. I checked the garage. No Porsche.

I called my house, woke Charlie, who must have been sharing the cubbyhole bedroom with Granny. Calmly, he said, “I’ll drive to the Corrigan house. You stay put in case he comes back.”

I didn’t think he’d be coming back. Didn’t picture him running to the 7-Eleven to buy juice and eggs. Charlie called in twenty minutes from a pay phone. Nobody at the Corrigan house.

I called a cab. In Miami that’s like playing the lottery. Cab drivers hail from various Caribbean islands with one coast road and one mountain road. They can never find residential addresses. I called Roger’s office and got the answering service. I didn’t expect to hear back, and I was right. No cab, no phone call. After twenty-five minutes, I took off.

Jogging down Miami Avenue toward the causeway to Key Biscayne, then a right turn to pick up Coral Way, the pavement still slick from last night’s rain. Roger’s office was on Giralda in the Gables. Five miles tops. I needed the exercise but didn’t know if I had the time.

I looked for friendly drivers. Most swerved to avoid me, one or two to hit me. No takers for a big lug with a grim look and a sweaty gray T-shirt. I should have slowed that last two hundred yards, but I tried to pick it up. Sprinting. Not much left in the legs, heart going wild. Too old to run gassers, coach’s delight.

Roger’s black Porsche Turbo gleamed in his reserved spot in back, Melanie Corrigan’s green Jaguar in the next space. Good. Melanie must have come voluntarily, Roger calling her from the house. Running here, the mind pounding with each footfall, I had pictured her in the trunk of his car. But maybe Charlie Riggs was wrong. Maybe Roger had no intention of killing Melanie, maybe he just wanted to play some more doctor games. Except Charlie had been right about everything else.

I put my hands on my hips and bent over, sucking for oxygen. It was like breathing through a wet beach towel. One of those soggy Miami mornings without air, no wind from the ocean until the sun heats up the land.

The office was a tiny one-story stucco house with an orange, barrel-tile roof. From the thirties. A lot of doctors and lawyers have gone that route, getting out of the skyscrapers downtown, building equity and taking depreciation. No other cars in the eight-space lot. And there wouldn’t be, no office hours Saturday.

The back door was locked. Front door, too. On the side of the house, a brown air conditioner poked out of a blackened window. House too old for central air. I tried yanking it through the window. No go. I gave it a shoulder, braced with legs made of spaghetti, and pushed it inside where it landed on a work table with a thud. I waited a moment. No other sounds. I crawled through. The X-ray room. Dark.

I opened the interior door into a corridor that led to the examination rooms. Then I padded around to the other side of the building past Roger’s office, a file room, the bookkeeper’s cubicle, and finally, the casting room, where a light shone under the door. I moved close, listening to my own breathing, still heavy. An air conditioner whirred from inside, muffling voices. A man and a woman. Normal tones, no screams, no threats.

I silently let myself in. Roger wore a green gown that was splattered white. His arms were bare and splotched with plaster. He kept dipping a roll of gauze into a bowl of water. Immediately the gauze became gooey, the water mixing with the impregnated plaster. Carefully he wrapped the soggy gauze around the cotton cast padding that circled Melanie Corrigan’s left arm. He smoothed out the gauze with those strong, steady hands, tucking it into place, erasing any folds or creases. Then he dipped another piece of gauze into the water and kept building.

She lay spread-eagle on an examining table, both legs already casted from ankle to hip, the right arm a heavy circle of plaster from wrist to shoulder. She was naked except for a tiny white bikini bottom. Her breasts rose and fell with each breath.

“Hello Jake,” Roger said, barely looking up. “I didn’t want to wake you. Melanie looks lovely in white, don’t you think?”

She smiled at me luridly. Her russet hair was loose and fell over the front of one shoulder. The hair hadn’t been brushed, Roger probably waking her for the early morning visit. Tiny freckles dotted her chest. She wore no makeup and looked, I imagined, much as she did a decade earlier when Roger first met her in the jerk-off joint.

“Wanna party?” Melanie said. She ran her tongue over her upper lip. “I love a sweaty man.”

“Isn’t she something?” Roger asked, a tone of pride. “I used to be jealous, you know. But Philip changed that. He taught me. What she gives to someone else doesn’t take away from me. That’s what he said. He was a great man.”

Melanie Corrigan laughed, her chest rising from the table but her arms and legs staying put, weighted down by the casts. “Rog is the sentimental type,” she said, derisively.

Roger kept scooping and dipping and molding the plaster. Patting it dry.

“Look at these casts,” he instructed. “Smooth, eh?”

“Good workmanship,” I agreed.

“Great hands,” Melanie said. “He wants you to say, ‘Great hands.’”

“You have great hands, Roger,” I said.

“Thank you, Jake. You always had confidence in me. You knew I didn’t let the rongeur slip. Not in a million years.”

He leaned over a work table and picked up a small tool, stainless steel gleaming. The rongeur. He twirled it around in one hand, tossed it to the other, back and forth without looking. Great hands.

He replaced the rongeur in a tray with half a dozen others, all different sizes, from the tiny pituitary model to the bone rongeur that looked like a pair of household pliers. He patted the last of the plaster into place, pausing to wipe his hands.

“Hurry up,” Melanie ordered. “Colder than a witch’s tit here. Hey Lassiter, wanna go first?”

Roger dried his hands and said, “You can if you want, Jake.” His eyes were focused on Mars.

“Rog, I swear I’m going to pee all over your table, you don’t hurry up,” Melanie said. “Are you hard or you need me to talk dirty? Bring that worm over here.”

Roger untied her bikini bottom and folded it over a chair.

“That’s better,” she laughed. “Hurry the fuck up before my tits freeze solid. Hey Lassiter, that’s a joke isn’t it? Hurry the fuck up.”

Roger looked at me. “Jake, you’re my friend, just like Philip. You can have her if you want.”

“Maybe another time, Roger.”

“There won’t be another time,” he said flatly.

A chill went through me. Maybe it was the blast of the air conditioner on my overheated body. But maybe it was because I knew. My face must have shown it. Melanie smiled seductively. “Don’t worry, Lassiter. He always talks like that. We haven’t fucked once the last two years, he doesn’t threaten to off me.”

“Only this time, it’s real,” Roger said.

She laughed. I didn’t.

Melanie leered at me. “What’s the matter, Lassiter? You afraid he’ll kill me? He only kills little old ladies.”

“Who do you kill?” I asked her.

“No one, smart guy. I got men friends always wanting to please me, do me favors.”

“You’re wrong about Roger,” I told her. She looked puzzled. He hadn’t told her. No wonder she was so calm. Thinking he was the same old Roger, her favorite lapdog. “Roger kills more than old ladies, and he’s pretty good at dreaming up ways to do it. Painful ways.”

She still didn’t get it.

“Where’s your pal, Sergio?” I asked, wanting her to know, wanting her to taste fear.

“Miami Beach, busting up some boards,” she said, doubt creeping into her voice.

“Wrong. Dead wrong. The morgue’s on this side of the bay.”

Her eyes darted to Roger, who worked silently with the plaster. She looked back at me, seeking help. I hadn’t moved. I could stop him any time. I was bigger and stronger than Roger, and his mind was diced into an asteroid belt of colliding rocks. He turned his back to me, oblivious. One shot to the kidneys and it would be over.

I could, but why should I? You are wrong about me, dear old Charlie Riggs. I want her dead. Stop Roger?

Why should I?

Roger stood there studying her, ignoring me, that glazed look fading in and out. He unrolled another length of gauze, dipped it into the water bowl, then slapped it into Melanie Corrigan’s crotch.

“Hey, I don’t need a chastity belt,” she said, the voice a notch higher.

He slowly stretched out more gauze, soaked it, lifted her a few inches and wrapped it around the top of the left hip and through the crotch. He caressed it into place.

“She looks just like a little doll, doesn’t she, Jake?” Another strip and then another and the two leg casts were joined. Melanie tried moving but could not, the weight was too much.

Then he pulled a white Dacron stocking out of a metal drawer, walked to the head of the table, brushed her hair back, and slipped the stocking over her head.

“Makes the plaster set more smoothly,” he explained.

“Stop fuckin’ around, Rog,” she cried, each breath sucking the stocking into her mouth. “This ain’t funny.” Her voice rising, the beginning of fear.

He placed some padding over her mouth, but she shook her head and it dropped to the floor. He didn’t seem to notice. He dipped another length of gauze into the water, waited a moment, and then began wrapping it around her mouth. Even through the stocking, her eyes reflected it.

The realization. The fear.

I studied that look, snapped it into place. I wanted to remember it. Susan was dead because of her, and now here she was, knowing what was about to happen, the horror of knowing probably worse than the pain itself.

She spit and coughed. The sticky mess stayed put, covering half her mouth. She breathed greedily through her nose and yelled something, muffled through the gauze. “Laschta, hughme.” Lassiter, help me.

This time, Roger fashioned a longer piece and swaddled it twice around her head, covering both mouth and nose. She bucked up and down, involuntary thrusts from the diaphragm lifting her, the lungs searching for air. In another minute she would lose consciousness. Three minutes after that, irreversible brain damage. Then…

She looked toward me, eyes pleading, mouth working, the words unintelligible, her fear filling the room.

Why should I?

I didn’t know. I just reacted the way I do to most things. Moved without thinking it through, doing what seemed right at the time, listening to some voice inside, a smarter guy than me, someone who didn’t want me to scream myself awake, seeing Melanie Corrigan turn blue under all that white.

I came up behind Roger, grabbed him by the left arm, and spun him around. From the way his right shoulder pivoted, I saw the punch coming but not the rongeur, the large one, in his right hand. His arm came hard and fast. I was going to take his punch and give back one that would sit him down. What I took was a fistful of stainless steel. It caught me on the left temple. Solid.

In the movies, guys get hit on the head all the time. Usually with a gun. Their knees buckle, they say oooh, and they gently fall and go to sleep. It doesn’t work that way. There’s a thunderclap, a blaze of lights behind the eyes, and a shooting pain, a loss of equilibrium. Then a gray fog settling.

I didn’t fall down. I stumbled across the room on shaky pins, a wounded buffalo, bouncing off cabinets. Roger was standing to my left, my right, and straight in front. I took a drunk’s swing at the guy in front but it wasn’t him. He pushed me to the floor. I hooked an arm behind his knee and brought him down on top of me. On a good day, I could bench press him twenty times, then throw him from short to first. This wasn’t a good day. He was back up and I was on one knee like a fighter trying to make the ten-count.

Then I felt the jab in my upper arm. Déjà vu, his thumb pushing the plunger on a hypodermic. I swatted at it and missed. He emptied it into me and I tore away from him, the needle still stuck in me, the world’s largest voodoo doll.

I came at him again and took a swing in slow motion, my arms bulky girders. I didn’t hit him and he didn’t hit me. I just sat down at the end of the punch, then rolled onto my side, my face resting on the cool, clean tile. Then, just like in the movies, I said, oooh, and went to sleep.

***

My mouth was dry and my head was filled with barking dogs. I was cold. My face was still on the tile. It could have been hours or days. It must have been hours. Roger was sitting in a swivel chair next to me, splotches of plaster in his hair, on his face, on his gown. From the floor, I could see only the bottoms of Melanie Corrigan’s bare feet sticking out of the casts. Nice feet, finely arched, clean dainty lady feet.

The feet weren’t moving. I didn’t need to see the rest.

“I’ll help you up,” Roger said hoarsely. “Don’t worry about the Pentothal. You’ll just be groggy for a while.”

I tried to stand but he had to boost me. If he wanted to, he could finish me right there. I finally looked toward the table. The face gone, wrapped from forehead to chin, a mummy. Only the ends of her hair stuck out from beneath the plaster.

I sagged against a metal cabinet. Roger said, “You didn’t mean it last night, did you, Jake?”

“Mean what?” My voice was thick; my head weighed a ton.

“That you’re no longer my lawyer or my friend.”

“What difference does it make?”

He swiveled in the chair to face me, his eyes dancing to a silent tune.

“Because I need you, Jake.”

“Now? You need me now. What for?”

“To prove it, Jake. That I’m one of the good guys.”

###

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

The author of 16 novels, Paul Levine won the John D. MacDonald fiction award and was nominated for the Edgar, Macavity, International Thriller, and James Thurber prizes. A former trial lawyer, he also wrote more than 20 episodes of the CBS military drama “JAG” and co-created the Supreme Court drama “First Monday” starring James Garner and Joe Mantegna. The critically acclaimed international bestseller “To Speak for the Dead” was his first novel. He is also the author of the “Solomon vs. Lord” series and the thrillers “Illegal,” “Impact,” “Ballistic,” and “Paydirt.” You can sign up for the author’s free newsletter and be eligible for signed books, DVDs and more at www.paul-levine.com.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

For inspiration, I acknowledge the hellish paradise of Miami, a tropical Casablanca of sultry days and pastel sunsets, where buzzards endlessly circle the courthouse, some on wings and some in Porsches.

An Innocent Client

AN INNOCENT CLIENT

by

Scott Pratt

This book, along with every book I’ve written and every book I’ll write, is dedicated to my darling Kristy, to her unconquerable spirit and her inspirational courage. I loved her before I was born and I’ll love her after I’m long gone.

PART I

Chapter 1

April 12

7:00 a.m

IT was my fortieth birthday, and the first thing I had to do was deal with Johnny Wayne Neal. The forensic psychiatrist I’d hired to examine him said Johnny Wayne was a narcissist, a pathological liar, and a sociopath, and those were his good qualities. He called Johnny Wayne an “irredeemable monster.” I’d asked the shrink not to write any of that down. I didn’t want the district attorney to see it. Monster or not, Johnny Wayne was still my client.

Johnny Wayne Neal had hired two of his thug buddies to murder his beautiful, heavily insured young wife. She woke up at 3:00 a.m. on a Wednesday morning about a year ago to find two strangers standing over her bed. The men clumsily and brutally stabbed her to death while Johnny Wayne’s three-year-old son, who’d been sleeping with his mother that night, crawled beneath the bed and listened to the sounds of his mother dying.

It took the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation and the Johnson City Police Department less than a week to figure out who was responsible for the murder. Johnny Wayne was arrested and charged with both first-degree murder and conspiracy to commit first-degree murder, and because of the heinous nature of the crime, the state of Tennessee was seeking the death penalty. A heartless judge appointed me to defend him. The hourly rate was a hundred bucks, about the same as a small-time prostitute’s.

The prosecutor had offered to take the death penalty off the table if Johnny Wayne would plead guilty to first-degree murder and agree to go to prison for the rest of his life. When I told Johnny Wayne about the offer a week ago, he’d reluctantly agreed. We were supposed to be in court at 9:00 a.m. so Johnny Wayne could enter his plea. I was at the jail early in the morning to make sure he hadn’t changed his mind.

Fifteen minutes after I sat down in the attorney’s room, Johnny Wayne, in a sharply creased, unwrinkled orange jumpsuit, was escorted in. He was handcuffed, waist-chained, and shackled around the ankles.

“I wanted to make sure you’re still willing to take this deal before we go to court,” I said as soon as the uniformed escort stepped out and Johnny Wayne awkwardly made his way into the chair. “Once you enter the plea, there’s no turning back.”

Johnny Wayne stared at the tabletop. His short hair was the color of baled straw, wispy and perfectly combed. He was much smaller than me, well under six feet, thin and pale. His face and arms were covered with tiny pinkish freckles. He started tapping his fingers on the table, and I noticed that his nails looked recently manicured. He smelled of shampoo.

“How do you manage to stay so well groomed in this place?” I said. “Every time I see you, you look like you just came out of a salon.”

He rolled his eyes. They were a pale green, sometimes flecked with red, depending on angle and light. They were closely set and the left eye had a tendency to wander. It made looking him in the eye uncomfortable. I never quite knew where to focus.

“The fact that I’m incarcerated doesn’t require me to live like an animal,” he said. “I’m able to procure certain services.”

“You mean a barber?”

“I have a barber, one of the inmates, who comes to my cell once a week. He trims my beard and shampoos and cuts my hair.”

“Does he give you a manicure, too?” I glanced at his fingernails.

“I do that myself.”

“Who does your laundry? All my other clients look like they sleep in their jail uniforms.” I could tell the questions were irritating him, which encouraged me to keep asking.

“My laundry is done along with everyone else’s,” he said. “I simply purchase commissary products for an individual who treats my laundry with special care.” His speech was a tinny, nasal tenor, his diction perfect. I imagined shoving a handful of horse manure into his mouth, just so he’d mispronounce a word.

“Why are you so interested in my personal hygiene?” Johnny Wayne said. “Does it offend you?”

“Nah,” I said, “I was just curious.”

His disdain for me was palpable. With each visit I could sense it growing like metastasizing cancer, but I didn’t care. I disliked him as intensely as he disliked me. He’d lied to me dozens of times. He’d run me and my investigator all over east Tennessee following false leads and locating bogus witnesses. He whined constantly.

“So now that we have those incredibly important matters out of the way,” Johnny Wayne said, “explain this deal, as you so eloquently put it, one more time.”

“It’s simple,” I said. “A moron could understand it.”

“Are you insinuating that I’m a moron?”

Answering the question truthfully would have served no useful purpose, so I ignored it.

“The deal is you plead guilty to first-degree murder. You agree to a sentence of life without the possibility of parole. You give up your right to appeal. In exchange, you get to live. No needle for Johnny Wayne. That’s it, simple and sweet.”

He snorted. “Doesn’t sound like much of a deal to me.”

“Depends on your point of view.”

“Meaning?”

“It depends on whether you want to spend the rest of your life in the general prison population where you can at least have some semblance of a life or spend the next fifteen years in isolation on death row, then die by lethal injection.”

“But I’m innocent.”

“Of course you are. Unfortunately, the evidence says otherwise.”

“All circumstantial. Or lies.”

I’d heard that line dozens of times. Like nearly every other criminal I’d represented, he’d proclaimed his innocence so times he was beginning to believe it.

“What about the cell phone records that match exactly with the statements Clive and Derek gave the police?” I said. “The calls they say you made to check on them while they were on their way up here to kill Laura, and while they were on their way back.”

The muscles in his jaw tightened. Johnny Wayne didn’t like discussing facts.

“What about the four separate life insurance policies you took out on Laura over the past eighteen months? Three hundred and fifty grand, Johnny Wayne.”

“Lots of people over-insure their spouses.”

“Explain why Derek and Clive would say you hired them to kill Laura and promised to give them ten percent of the insurance money.”

“They’re trying to save themselves.”

“If you didn’t hire them, why’d they do it? They didn’t even know her.”

“Why? Why? Why are you asking me all these stupid questions? You’re supposed to be my lawyer.”

I should have brought up the audio tape, but I didn’t really feel like arguing with him. Clive and Derek, the thugs he hired, had both caved immediately during the interrogation. They confessed and told the police Johnny Wayne had hired them. The police outfitted them with tape recorders and sent them to see Johnny Wayne, who talked freely about the murder and the money. The first time I played the tape for him his face turned an odd shade.

“Listen to me,” I said. “Part of a lawyer’s job is to give his client good advice. And my advice is that the prosecution could bring in a trained monkey and convict you of this murder. The evidence is overwhelming, the murder was especially cruel, and your little boy witnessed it. My advice is that your chances of getting the death penalty are better than excellent.”

“I didn’t kill anyone,” he said.

“Maybe not, but she’d be alive if it weren’t for you. The jury will hold you accountable.”

“So I’m supposed to spend the rest of my life in prison for something I didn’t do.”

“You can either accept the state’s offer and plead, or you can go to trial.”

“With a lawyer who thinks I’m guilty.”

“Don’t put this on me. I’m just giving you an honest opinion as to what I think the outcome will be. You should be thankful. Your mother- and father-in-law don’t believe in the death penalty. They think if you’re convicted and sentenced to death, your blood will somehow be on their hands. They’re the ones who talked the district attorney into making this offer.”

“They’re hypocritical fools,” Johnny Wayne said.

I wanted to backhand him. James and Rita Miller, the parents of his murdered, beautiful, innocent young wife, were two of the nicest people I’d ever met. I interviewed them as I was preparing for trial. One of the questions I asked was how a nice young lady like Laura had ever become involved with Johnny Wayne. James Miller told me Laura met Johnny Wayne while she was attending college at Carson-Newman, a small school in Jefferson City, only sixty miles away. Johnny Wayne, who lived in Jefferson City and was a part-time student, had made himself a fixture at the Baptist Student Union, a gathering place for students of the Baptist faith. It was there that he ran his con on Laura, convincing her that he held deep convictions about Christianity. James and Rita said they had concerns, but they trusted Laura’s judgment. Johnny Wayne seemed intelligent and acted as though he loved Laura. They never imagined a monster lurked beneath the careful grooming and easy smile. But the marriage began to show serious cracks soon after the wedding and steadily broke down. Not long after their third anniversary, Johnny Wayne left Laura for another woman and moved to North Carolina. He was in Charlotte at a bar with his newly-pregnant girlfriend the night Laura was murdered. I looked at Johnny Wayne and envisioned my knuckles cracking into his teeth. It was an image I found soothing.

“What’s it going to be?” I said. “I need an answer. We’re supposed to be in court in two hours.”

“I need more time to consider it.”

“No, you don’t. It’s a gift. Take it or leave it.”

His hands went to his nose and he began his obnoxious habit of squeezing his nostrils together with his thumb and index finger. Squeeze and hold. Release. Squeeze and hold. Release.

After three squeeze-and-holds, he said, “I’ll do it. Go ahead and throw me to the wolves.”

“Good decision,” I said. “First one you’ve made in a while.”

“Are we done here?”

“I suppose. You in a hurry?”

“I have to take a crap. It’s the bologna they serve in this dump.” His voice, like his face, was devoid of emotion. Once again, he hadn’t bothered to ask about his son. He hadn’t mentioned the boy in months.

I got up and pushed the button on the wall to summon the guards. Johnny Wayne remained seated while I leaned against the wall and stared at the ceiling. I didn’t want to sit back down. I wanted to be as far away from him as possible. After three or four minutes, I could hear the thump of heavy boots as the guards made their way down the hallway toward the door.

“Hey, Dillard,” Johnny Wayne said suddenly.

“What?”

“Everybody thinks she was such a saint. She was stupid. All she had to do was give me a divorce on my terms, which weren’t that complicated. She brought this on herself.”

“Don’t say another word,” I said.

The door clanged and the guards pushed their way through and gathered him up. One of them, a skin-headed, thick-necked youngster, looked me up and down.

“You only do criminal defense, ain’t that right?” he said.

“That’s right.”

“Then I reckon you’ll be glad to know that an old lady called into dispatch a little while ago and reported that her cat found a human pecker out near the lake. A body’ll probably turn up soon.”

“A pecker? Do you mean a penis?”

“Penis to you. Pecker to me.”

“So?”

“Thought you’d like to know. A dead body means business for you, don’t it? Sort of like an undertaker.”

He winked at his partner and they shared a laugh. Even Johnny Wayne smiled. After they left, I stayed on the wall for a few minutes, their laughter and Johnny Wayne’s vulgar confession replaying in my head. The rattle of the chains faded as they led him away.

My head started to pound and my stomach tightened as I made my way back through the labyrinth of steel and concrete. I was sick of defending the Johnny Wayne Neals of this world, and I was sick of being mocked and laughed at by jerks like the two guards. I reminded myself that I was getting out of the legal profession. In less than a year, I’d be free of it. No more Johnny Waynes. No more jerks.

As I made my way towards the entrance, I tried to tell myself to take it easy. Don’t let it get to you. You’re just doing a job. An important job.  I forced myself to think about something more pleasant. My birthday. Celebrating with my wife Caroline and our kids, the most important and beautiful people in my life. Chocolate cake. What would I wish for this year?

It came to me as I stepped out the front door into the rain, and the thought made me smile. The chances of the wish coming true were about a million to one, but what the heck? Why not?

This year, I’d make my birthday wish simple and selfish. This year, before I gave up the practice of law, I’d wish for one – just one – innocent client.

Chapter 2

April 12

8:45 a.m.

AN hour later, I was sitting in my truck in the parking lot at the Washington County Courthouse in downtown Jonesborough. It’s a postcard-pretty little town, the oldest in Tennessee, nestled in the rolling hills ninety miles northeast of Knoxville. I looked across the street at the National Storytelling Center, which was built a few years ago and brings Jonesborough a limited amount of national acclaim. Every October, thousands of people gather for a huge storytelling festival. I smiled as I thought about the irony of having a storytelling center so near the courthouse. There were whoppers being told in both places.

As the raindrops patted against the windshield, I opened the console, took out a bottle of mouthwash, and gargled. I’d gotten in the habit of carrying the mouthwash with me because my mouth seemed to stay dry and bitter during the day, especially when I had to go in front of a judge or jury. The dryness was accompanied by a hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach and a nagging sense of impending doom. It would disappear sometimes when I was with my family, but it was never far away. At night, I kept having a dream where I was on a makeshift raft without a paddle, floating down the middle of a wide, raging river that was rushing me towards a deadly waterfall. I couldn’t get to the side of the river, and I couldn’t go back upstream. I’d wake up just as I went over the falls.

I put the cap back on the bottle and took a deep breath. Show time. I climbed out of the truck and walked up the courthouse steps, through the foyer, and up to the security station.

The security officer was John Allen “Sarge” Hurley, a gruff but good-natured old coot with whom I traded friendly insults every chance I got.  Sarge was legendary around the sheriff’s department for his bravery and machismo. My favorite story about him was the time Sarge single-handedly apprehended a notorious armed robber named Dewey Davis after Davis held up a grocery store on the outskirts of Jonesborough. A much younger Sarge, responding to a robbery-in-progress call, showed up just as Dewey was walking out the front door of the Winn-Dixie carrying a shotgun. As the story goes, Sarge jumped out of his cruiser oblivious to the shotgun, ran Dewey down in the parking lot, and knocked him unconscious with one punch before he hauled him off to jail.

Sarge had to be in his early seventies now. He was still tall and lean, but Mother Nature was beginning to bend him like an old poplar in a stiff wind. There were dark liver spots on his huge hands, and his upper lip had retreated until it was tight across his dentures, giving him a permanent snarl. The buckle on his gun belt was notched two inches above his navel, but he had no holster and no gun. He carried only a nightstick and small can of pepper spray.

“What’s up, Sarge?” I said as I walked through the metal detector.

“The rent,” he growled. “I hear your boy Johnny Wayne is throwin’ in the towel today.” The sheriff’s department was a more efficient gossip pipeline than a sewing circle. Sarge always knew what was happening, sometimes before it happened.

“Good news travels fast,” I said.

“Can’t believe they ain’t gonna give him the needle.”

“C’mon, Sarge, you know he’s innocent. He’s just being railroaded by the system.”

“Innocent. If he’s innocent, the Pope ain’t Catholic. Nobody you represent is innocent.”

As I started to walk past Sarge towards the elevator, he grabbed me by the arm. His gnarled fingers dug deep into my bicep.

“You know what I’d like to see?” he said. “I’d like to see that sorry son of a biscuit eater hanged on a flatbed truck right out here in front of the courthouse, that’s what I’d like to see. I’d buy a ticket.”

It was a sentiment prevalent in the community. Laura Neal, Johnny Wayne’s wife and victim, was guilty of nothing more picking a bad husband. She was a third-grade teacher with a wonderful reputation, her parents were solid and hardworking, and her brother was a college professor. People wanted to see Johnny Wayne burned at the stake, and I had the feeling most of them wouldn’t have minded seeing his lawyer go up in flames with him.

I pulled away from Sarge and headed up the side stairwell to the second floor. There were about a dozen people milling around in the hallway outside the courtroom, speaking in hushed tones. The hallway was dimly lit and narrow. I never noticed any color in the corridor outside the courtroom. Everything always seemed black and white, like I was walking onto the set of “Twelve Angry Men.”

I stepped into Judge Ivan Glass’s courtroom and looked around. No judge. No bailiff. No clerk.

“Where’s His Holiness?” I asked Lisa Mayes, the assistant district attorney who had been assigned to prosecute Johnny Wayne. She was sitting at the prosecution table contemplating her fingernails.

“Back in chambers. He’s not in a good mood.”

Glass had been a notorious drinker and womanizer for more than three decades. He’d been divorced twice, primarily because of his affinity for younger women, but the good people of the First Judicial District didn’t seem to mind. They elected him every eight years. Glass’s father had been a judge, and his father before him. To hear Glass tell it, the bench was his birthright. He was known among the defense bar as Ivan the Terrible because of his complete lack of compassion for criminal defendants and because he treated defense attorneys almost as badly as he treated their clients. I got off on the wrong foot with him right out of law school. The first day I was in his courtroom he put an old man in jail because the man couldn’t afford to pay his court costs. I knew what the judge was doing was illegal – debtor’s prisons were outlawed a long time ago – but he seemed to do whatever he wanted regardless of the law. I did some research and found Glass had been doing it for years. I wrote him a letter and asked him to stop. He wrote back and told me young lawyers ought to mind their own business. So I sued the county for allowing one of their employees, the judge, to commit constitutional violations during the course of his employment. By the time I was done, the county had to pay out nearly a million dollars to people Glass had jailed illegally, and Glass was seriously embarrassed in the process. He hated me for it, and one of the ways he exacted vengeance was by appointing me to cases like Johnny Wayne Neal’s.

The courtroom was tense and somber. The media vultures had already filled the jury box. James and Rita Miller, Johnny Wayne’s in-laws, were sitting on the front row. Rita was crying. James looked away when I tried to catch his eye.

I walked over to the defense table to wait for the judge, who finally teetered through the door in his black robe a half-hour later. His hair was snow white, medium length and chaotic. He wore tinted reading glasses that made it difficult to see his eyes. His clerk helped him up the steps and into his chair.

The clerk called the case, and the bailiffs brought Johnny Wayne in through a door to my right and led him to the podium ten feet in front of the judge. I stood at the podium next to my client while the judge went through a lengthy question and answer session to ensure that Johnny Wayne was competent to enter a guilty plea, that he understood what was going on, and that he wasn’t under the influence of alcohol or drugs. Lisa Mayes, the prosecutor, then stood and read the litany of evidence that would have been presented had Johnny Wayne gone to trial. I could hear Rita Miller sobbing uncontrollably behind me as she was forced, one last time, to listen to a detailed description of her daughter’s brutal murder while her grandson hid beneath the bed. I felt ashamed to be representing the man who had caused her such misery.

When Lisa was finished, Judge Glass stiffened. “Johnny Wayne Neal,” he said in a voice made gravelly from booze and tobacco, “how do you plead to the charge of first-degree murder?”

The moment of truth. The point of no return.

“Guilty,” came the answer, barely audible. I breathed a sigh of relief.

“On your plea of guilty the court finds you guilty and sentences you to life in prison without the possibility of parole.”

Glass then lowered his glasses to the end of his nose and leaned forward. His eyes bored into Johnny Wayne.

“Just for the record,” the judge said, “I want to tell you something before they trot you off to the penitentiary for the rest of your miserable existence. In all my years on the bench, you are, without question, the most disgusting, the most cowardly, the most pitiful excuse for a human being that has ever set foot in my court. There isn’t an ounce of remorse in you, and I want you to know that it would have been my distinct pleasure to sentence you to death if you’d had the courage to go to trial.”

Johnny Wayne’s head rose slowly, and he met the judge’s gaze.

“Go to hell,” he said quietly.

Glass’s eyes widened. “What did you say?”

“I said you can go to hell. You, and the district attorney, and the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation, and this pathetic excuse for a lawyer you dumped on me, and everybody else who had a hand in framing me.” The words spilled out in a crescendo. By the time he finished, his voice was echoing off the walls.

There was a stunned silence. The judge surprised me by smiling. He turned his head to me.

“Not only is your client a coward, Mr. Dillard, he’s a stupid coward.”

“Go to hell!” Johnny Wayne yelled.

“Bailiffs!” Judge Glass roared. He half-rose from his seat, like a jockey on a thoroughbred, and pointed his gavel at Johnny Wayne.

“Take him out and gag him!”

They were on him in a second. Two of them took him down and another two jumped into the fray. I could hear the cameras clicking and people gasping as I moved out of the way. Johnny Wayne was screaming obscenities as they punched and kicked at him. The bailiffs finally got enough control so they could drag Johnny Wayne across the floor by his feet and out the door. I sat down at the defense table and wondered briefly whether I should be offended that Johnny Wayne had called me a pathetic excuse for a lawyer. I was a pathetic excuse for a human being, maybe, but I was a pretty darned good lawyer.

Everybody sat around stupidly for a few minutes until finally the bailiffs, now in a tight phalanx, dragged Johnny Wayne back into the room. They’d stuffed something into his mouth and covered it with duct tape. I wondered how it was going to feel when they ripped the tape off his neatly trimmed beard. They pulled him upright at the podium in front of the judge.

“Mr. Neal,” Judge Glass said, “your little outburst caused me to briefly consider rescinding your plea agreement and forcing you to go to trial. But I think this punishment is more appropriate for a man like you. You’re going to die in jail, but before you die, I think you have plenty to look forward to. A handsome young man like you, with a pretty potty mouth like yours, will undoubtedly enjoy tremendous popularity in the general population at the penitentiary. I’m sure you’ll be a favorite among the sodomites. The sentence stands. Life without parole. Get him out of here.”

My last image of Johnny Wayne was of his being dragged backwards across the floor, refusing to walk, tears streaming down his face and onto the silver tape stretched across his mouth. The worst part of it for him, though, had to be the fact that his jumpsuit had become terribly wrinkled during the fight with the guards.

I ducked out through a side door to avoid the media, went down the stairs, and headed back through the security station. Sarge was going through a woman’s purse. As I walked by, he handed her the purse and headed straight for me.

“Hey, Dillard, you hear about the murder?”

“What murder?”

“They found some guy in a room up at the Budget Inn stabbed to death. Somebody cut his man parts off. A cat found it this morning out by the lake.”

“I didn’t do it, Sarge,” I said. “I’m innocent.” I kept on walking, but I could hear him laughing.

“Maybe you’ll get to defend the killer,” I heard him say. “Yeah, maybe the killer’ll be just like ol’ Johnny Wayne. Railroaded by the system.”

Chapter 3

April 12

10:00 a.m.

SPECIAL Agent Phillip Landers’s cell phone rang a little before 10:00 a.m., just as he was wrapping his mouth around a breakfast burrito at Sonic. Bill Wright, the Special Agent in Charge of the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation office in Johnson City, was calling. Bill was Landers’s boss. Not that the brown-nosing jerk should have been the boss. Landers should have been the boss. By his own account, he was, by far, the smartest, hardest-working, best-looking TBI agent in the office. He knew he’d get his chance soon, though. Wright was about to retire.

“There’s a body at the Budget Inn,” Wright said as Landers chewed slowly and stared at a teenage waitress on a pair of roller skates. “Male. Stabbed to death. That’s about all I know. I already called forensics. They’re on the way.”

The Johnson City police didn’t have any forensics people on the payroll, so murders were often passed along to the TBI. Landers took his time finishing his burrito. No big rush. The guy was already dead.

There were six city cruisers in the Budget Inn parking lot when Landers pulled in a half-hour after he got the call. All of the cruisers had their emergency lights on, as though the cops who drove them were actually doing something. The patrol guys never ceased to amaze Landers. They’d stand around for hours at a crime scene, trading gossip and hoping for some little tidbit of information they could share with each other. If they were really lucky, maybe they’d get a glimpse of the body and could go home and tell their wives or girlfriends the gory details.

Landers opened the trunk, lifted out a couple pairs of latex gloves, and walked up the stairs to Room 201. It was overcast and drizzling outside, but it still took his eyes a second to adjust to the dim light in the room. As soon as he cleared the door, he could smell blood. His eyes moved to the left. Jimmy Brown, a big, dim cracker with a butch haircut who had worked his way up through patrol and was finally, after twenty years, an investigator with the Johnson City police, was leaning over the bed. Beneath him was the body of what appeared to be a male whale. A very pale male whale. He was buck naked, lying flat on his back. His legs were splayed and his arms went straight out from his shoulders. Spread-eagled. He was covered in dark, dried blood.

“So much for death with dignity, huh?” Landers said.

Brown looked at him deadpan. He didn’t even smile. How could he not smile? That was funny. Landers chalked it up to petty jealousy.

“Where’s the forensics team?” Brown said.

“On the way. Should be here in an hour or so.” The TBI’s East Tennessee forensics guys and girls scrambled out of Knoxville, ninety miles to the west. They were responsible for covering the entire eastern half of the state. Landers knew they’d show up in their fancy modern mobile crime scene van dressed in their cute little white uniforms. Thanks to the CSI  television shows, they all thought they were stars.

“Who’s the pretty boy?” Landers said.

Brown stepped back away from the body and pulled out his notepad.

“Signed in as John Paul Tester and gave a Newport address, confirmed by registration in the glove compartment of his car. His wallet’s gone, if he had one. Manager says he checked in late yesterday afternoon, said he was here to preach at a revival, and asked where he could get a good hamburger. The manager told him to go to the Purple Pig. We’re getting a driver’s license photo from the Department of Safety so we can take it down there and ask around.”

Landers wondered why Brown needed the notepad to impart such a brief summary. The guy was really thick. Landers began to walk around the bed, looking at the dead whale. There were dozens of stab wounds, most of them concentrated around the neck and chest.

“Preacher, huh? Looks like somebody didn’t like the sermon,”

“That’s the least of it,” Brown said. “His dick’s gone.”

“Really?” Landers hadn’t noticed with all the blood. He looked between the whale’s legs and there was nothing but a mess of dark red goo. Whoever cut it off had to work for it. Landers figured it had been quite a while since the whale had seen his own dick.

“And get this,” Brown said. “Some woman called the sheriff’s department this morning. She lives out by Pickens Bridge, and her cat brought her a little gift. Turned out to be a human penis. Probably belongs to this guy.”

His logic was astounding. “Any idea how long he’s been dead?” Landers said.

“He’s cold and stiff. I’d say more than eight hours.”

“Security cameras?”

“Just at the front desk. Nothing in the parking lot or anywhere else.”

A patrol officer knocked and walked in. He was carrying an eight-by-ten photo of the dead guy. He handed it to Brown, who handed it to Landers.

“Are you here to help or are you just sightseeing?” Brown said.

“Your wish is my command, at least until the case officially gets dropped in my lap.”

Brown gave him a dour look. “Why don’t you take this down to the Purple Pig and ask around?”

“Done,” Landers said. “Anything else?”

“I don’t think so. I’ve got people running down the woman who was on duty last night, canvassing the rooms, and working the Newport angle. You say forensics is on the way. I think we’ve got it under control for now.”

“Cool. I’m off to the Pig.”

Landers walked down the steps, past the patrol guys, and got into his car. He recognized a reporter from the Johnson City paper loitering outside the entrance. Her name was Sylvia something. She wasn’t gorgeous, but she wasn’t hideous, so Landers got back out of the car and went over to chat with her for a couple of minutes. He leaked her a little tidbit about the missing penis, thinking it might be worth a roll in the hay somewhere down the line.

As he made his way south down Roan Street, Landers kept glancing at the photo of the dead preacher. He had reddish hair, semi-decent features, and wide sideburns that ran to the bottom of his ear lobes, a la Elvis Presley. Not a bad-looking dude, but certainly not in the same league as Landers.

“What’d you do to get yourself killed, Rev?” Landers said to the photo as he turned into the parking lot at the Purple Pig. “Dip the old wick in a vat of bad wax?”

Chapter 4

April 12

10:20 a.m.

CAROLINE Dillard, wearing a sharp, dark blue Calvin Klein knock-off suit, took a deep breath, straightened her back, and strode up to the reception desk. Behind the bullet-proof window sat a dour, pudgy, middle-aged man with a dark widow’s peak crew cut and a jaw full of tobacco. He was seated, wearing a black pullover shirt with a stitched badge on the chest. Beneath the badge, also stitched, were the words “Washington County Corrections.” As Caroline approached, he spit brown tobacco juice into a Styrofoam cup.

Caroline picked up the sign-in sheet and smiled. “I need to see inmate number 7740,” she said. No one at the Washington County Detention Center seemed to have a name. Everything was tracked by number.

The officer leered. “Got an ID, pretty lady?”

“My name is Caroline Dillard,” she said. It was only Caroline’s third visit to the detention center, and she hadn’t encountered this particular officer on either of the other two occasions. She reached into her purse, pulled out a driver’s license, and slid it into the metal tray at the bottom of the window.

“You a lawyer?” he said.

“I’m a paralegal for Joe Dillard.”

“You his wife?”

“I am.”

“You’re too pretty to be married to him.”

Caroline sighed. “If you’ll check the approved list, you’ll find my name.”

The officer opened a spiral notebook next to him and took his time searching the pages.

“I can smell you through the window,” he said. “You smell good.”

“I’ll be sure to tell your boss you like the way I smell.” Caroline looked at the name stitched opposite his badge. “Officer Cagle? The sheriff comes to our house every year for a Christmas party. He and I have gotten to be pretty good friends.” It was a lie. The sheriff had never set foot in Caroline’s home, but it seemed to have the desired effect.

Officer Cagle looked down and slid the ID back through the window.

“You know the way to the attorney’s room, ma’am?”

Caroline nodded and smiled.

“I’ll buzz you through.”

Caroline quickly made her way through the maze of gates and steel doors. She was a little anxious about the visit, because she never knew what kind of mood the inmate she was about to see would be in. The woman had been in jail for nine months, by far the longest stretch she’d ever done. She’d stolen her own mother’s checkbook, forged a check, and used the money to buy cocaine. Caroline’s husband, Joe, had represented her. He’d talked the prosecutor into reducing the charge from a felony to a misdemeanor, but because of the woman’s long history of problems with the law, in exchange for the reduction the prosecutor had insisted that she forego probation and agree to serve her sentence in the county jail.

Five minutes after Caroline sat down in the attorney’s room, a female guard opened the door and stepped back to let the inmate inside. There no were handcuffs, waist chains, or shackles. The inmate wasn’t dangerous. There was no risk of escape, because she was getting out in a few hours. She smiled slightly and nodded when she saw Caroline.

Caroline rose from her seat and opened her arms. “How are you?” she said.

“I’m fine,” the woman said, guardedly returning the hug.

“You look great.”

“You look pretty great yourself.”

They both sat down and Caroline smiled at her sister-in-law, Sarah Dillard.

Caroline was always struck by the features her husband and his older sister shared. Both of them had thick dark hair, green eyes, pristine white teeth, and lean, sturdy bodies. Sarah’s only visible flaw was a tiny pink scar that cut like a lightning bolt through her left eyebrow, the result of a punch from a drug dealer the last time she was on the street. She had high cheekbones, a strong jaw, and a cleft chin. Joe had told Caroline that he and Sarah were often mistaken for twins when they were kids. The comparisons stopped when Joe began to grow to six-foot-three and approached two hundred muscular pounds. Caroline also marveled at the resilience of Sarah’s appearance. She had a fresh beauty that made it hard to believe she’d been abusing herself with drugs and alcohol for years.

“I was wondering if you’d made a decision on what we talked about last week,” Caroline said.

Sarah looked down at the table. “I’m not too hot on it if you want to know the truth.”

“Why not?”

“I’m too old to live with my brother, Caroline. I’m too old to be living with you. I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but I think I’d be better off making my own way.”

Caroline looked hard into the green eyes for a long moment.

“So you’re going to make your own way. Like you have for the past twenty years?”

“Oh, now, that hurt. Please tell me you didn’t come all the way down here just to insult me.”

“I came all the way down here to try to talk some sense into that thick head of yours. If you don’t come stay with us, where are you going to go? What are you going to do?”

“I have friends.”

“What kind of friends?  Dealers and users? You need to stay away from those people.”

“Yeah?” The green eyes flashed, but Caroline held her gaze. “What I don’t need is a lecture from my brother’s wife. Why are you doing this, anyway? Why isn’t Joe here?”

Caroline leaned forward on her elbows. “I’m doing this because I care about you. We both care about you. We just want to try to help. And Joe isn’t here because he can’t stand to see you in this place again. It tears him up.”

“Seeing me in here tears him up? He ought to try living in here for a while. It’d give him some compassion for his clients.”

“He has plenty of compassion for his clients, especially you. He’s done everything he could possibly do for you, including sending you money every month.”

“I’ll be sure to send him a thank-you note when I get out.”

“Why do you have to be so cynical, Sarah? Why can’t you believe that somebody could care enough about you to want to help? That’s all it is. There aren’t any strings attached.”

“No strings? What if I feel like getting high tomorrow night?”

“I said there weren’t any strings. But there will be rules. If any of us sees one sign of drugs or booze, you’re out the door.”

Sarah smiled. “And there it is. We’ll love you Sarah unless you do what you’ve always done. If you do that, we won’t love you any more.”

“We’ll still love you. We just won’t help you destroy yourself.”

“No thanks.” Sarah rose from the chair and moved to the wall to push the button that summoned the guard.

“So that’s it? No thanks?”

“That’s it.”

“Fine.” Caroline got up from her chair and moved to the opposite door. Both women stood in uncomfortable silence, facing away from each other, until the guard appeared.

“The offer stays open,” Caroline said as Sarah walked out of the room. “All you have to do is show up.”

Chapter 5

April 12

11:15 a.m.

AGENT Landers knew there’d be some added pressure to make an arrest because the dead guy was a preacher. Not that there wouldn’t have been pressure to find out who killed him if he’d been a plumber or a bartender. But preachers still had a special place in the hearts and minds of most Northeast Tennesseans. Killing a man of God was an insult to the Almighty Himself.

The Purple Pig was a small, popular burger and beer joint about a mile from East Tennessee State University. It was like one of those English pubs – same people, sitting in the same places, telling the same old jokes, drinking the same kind of beer. Landers ate lunch there two or three times a month. Every now and then he’d stop in and have a beer after work. He went to high school with the owners, and he knew several of the regulars and the waitresses. Especially the waitresses. Landers had phone numbers for all of them, even the ones who were married. “Skilled with the ladies,” was how he referred to himself.

He parked his Ford in the lot, picked up the photo of Tester, and jogged up to the door. He could smell the grease as soon as he got out of the car. The Pig wasn’t open for breakfast, but there were cars in the lot. He knew the employees were prepping for the lunch rush, so he knocked on the locked front door. Patti Gillespie opened it. Patti was a cute little brunette, barely over five feet tall. She and her brother Sonny owned the place. Landers had made out with a drunken Patti once in the girl’s bathroom during a basketball game back in high school. He’d tried to seduce her because he wanted to know what a small girl felt like, but she’d managed to fend him off.

“I need to talk to you,” Landers said, and she led him inside. He plunked down on the first bar stool he came to. The place was dark and smelled of stale cigarette smoke and animal fat. A mirror ran the length of a long wall opposite the bar. Landers checked himself out as Patti walked around the bar and back toward him. He liked what he saw.

“What’s the difference between a sperm cell and a TBI agent?” she said. Patti loved to bust his chops.

“Go ahead, slay me,” Landers said. “What’s the difference between a sperm cell and a TBI agent?”

“A sperm cell has a one in a million chance of becoming a human being. Can I get you something to drink?”

“A Pepsi, and I have a photograph I want you to look at. Do you mind?”

“Are you doing real police work?”

“I am.”

“Hey, Lottie,” Patti called towards the kitchen. “Special Agent Phillip Landers here is doing real police work in my little old bar. He wants me to help him. What should I do?”

“Deny everything,” a voice called back. “Ask for a lawyer.”

“She doesn’t like you,” Patti said.

“I hurt her,” Landers said. “I rejected her sexual advances.” He slid the photo of Tester onto the bar. “Any chance this guy was in here yesterday evening?”

Patti nodded. “Came in about six, sat right over there in that booth.” She pointed behind Landers. “I waited on him. Ordered a cheeseburger and fries. Drank two Blue Ribbons. Nobody drinks Blue Ribbon any more. I remember thinking he wouldn’t have looked too bad if he lost some weight and shaved those goofy sideburns.”

“I don’t think he’ll be shaving any time soon. He’s dead.”

Patti gasped. “You kidding me?”

“Dead as dirt. Got himself killed last night. Any chance he hooked up with somebody in here? Did you see him leave?”

“Sonny was working the register when he left. He didn’t leave with anybody, but he asked Sonny about the Mouse’s Tail.”

“Really? Tell me more.”

“He was a little creepy, you know? A little too cocky for his own good with that big belly and that cheap suit. When he paid his bill he asked Sonny where he could find some adult entertainment, a place where they showed it all. Sonny told me about it after he left. He thought it was funny. He said the only way that dude would get laid would be if he paid for it.”

“Mouse’s Tail, huh? Thanks, Patti. After all these years, I’m finally gonna put you on my Christmas card list.”

“Whoa, now, wait just one minute,” Patti said. “I need details. Tell me something juicy.”

“Sorry, can’t do it right now. I’m sure you’ll hear all about it on the news.”

“Just like a man. Always wanting something for nothing.”

Landers turned to leave without offering to pay. “Thanks for the Pepsi,” he said, “and thanks for the information. I’ll come back and tell you about it later.”

“I’m holding you to that,” she said. Landers looked in the mirror as he started out the door and saw Patti blow him a kiss.

It was good to be pretty.

Chapter 6

April 12

11:45 a.m.

A horny preacher. A man after Landers’s own heart.

Landers called Jimmy Brown, told him about the lead and that he was going out to the Mouse’s Tail. Brown said they’d found one witness, the night clerk at the motel, who said she thought she saw a woman go up toward Tester’s room around midnight. The forensics van had showed up. Maybe they’d find something.

Brown said Tester was an evangelist, a traveling preacher from Newport, which was located in Cocke County about sixty miles southwest of Johnson City.  Newport was infamous in the law enforcement community for three things: chop shops, marijuana production, and especially cock fighting. Landers had also heard some of the preachers down there were snake-handlers, religious extremists who proved their faith by waving copperheads and rattlesnakes around while they delivered their sermons. He wondered whether the dead rev liked to play with slimy serpents.

He pulled into the parking lot at the Mouse’s Tail just before noon and circled the building. There was only one vehicle in the back, a black, BMW convertible. A red-haired woman was just getting out. She was wearing black, leather pants and a tight, cheetah-print top and was having a hard time walking through the gravel in her three-inch, spiked heels. The outfit was definitely on the outrageous side, but her body was good enough to pull it off.

Landers pulled up beside the BMW, got out, introduced himself, and showed the woman his identification. She shook his hand and said her name was Erlene Barlowe. She owned the place. Said her husband passed away a while back and she took over after he died. She had a pretty face and was wearing a push-up bra that pushed up plenty. But she had to be at least fifty, so Landers figured the bright, red hair was bottle-fed.

“What can I do for you, honey?” she said after a little small talk.

“What time do you open?” Landers was disappointed that the place was closed, since he wanted to talk to some of the employees. Actually, he was hoping to get to see some of her employees in action. He’d heard the Mouse’s Tail was a pretty steamy place, but he’d never been in there. When Landers wanted to go to a strip club, he went to Myrtle Beach or Atlanta. As much as he liked to look at live, naked women, he knew the TBI would probably fire him if they heard he was hanging out at the local titty bar. Those kinds of places were notorious for drugs.

“Five,” the woman said. “We’re open five to two, six days a week. Closed on Sundays.” Her voice was kind of southern belleish –not exactly what he expected to hear from a woman who looked like her – with a syrupy Tennessee drawl. Landers thought it was quaint that the titty bar observed the Sabbath.

“So you were open last night?”

“Wednesday’s usually a pretty good night for us. It’s hump day, you know.”

She had a little smile on her face when she said “hump day.” Landers wondered exactly how much humping went on in there on hump day.

“Was it crowded last night?”

“Wasn’t anything special, sugar. Do you mind if I ask why you’re asking?”

As she talked, Landers noticed her mouth. Nice teeth, and candy apple red liptstick. Looked like a color you’d paint a ’56 Chevy.

“Just doing my job, Ms. Barlowe,” he said. “Obviously, I wouldn’t be here unless I was working some kind of an investigation.”

“I understand completely,” she said, “but I’m sure you can understand that I’m concerned when a police officer, even one as handsome as yourself, shows up at my place of business asking questions. Maybe I could help you a little more if you’d let me in on what you’re investigating.”

Landers stepped back over to his car, reached in, and picked the photograph of Tester up off the front seat.

“Were you here last night?” he said.

“I’m here every night, sweetie.”

“Recognize this guy?” Landers handed the photo to her. She looked at it for a few seconds, then shook her head and handed it back.

“I don’t believe I do.”

“I think he was here last night.”

“Really? What would make you think that?”

“Just some information I picked up. He was killed last night.”

She gasped and covered her mouth. “Oh, my goodness. That’s terrible!”

Landers held the photo up in front of her face again. “You’re absolutely certain you didn’t see him in your club last night?”

“Well, now, I don’t believe I could say for certain. Lots and lots of men come and go. I don’t notice all of them.”

“I’m going to need to interview the employees who were working last night and as many of your customers as I can.”

“Well, I swan,” she said, “you’ll scare my girls to death. And the customers? Honey, they’d run from you like scared rabbits. Most of them don’t even want their wives to know they’ve been here, let alone the police. If you were to come in here and start asking them about a murder, why, I just don’t know what would happen to my business.”

“I didn’t say anything about a murder.”

The phony smile she was wearing stayed frozen on her face, but her eyes tightened the slightest bit. At that moment, Landers knew she realized she’d fallen face first into a pile of dung. It didn’t surprise Landers. Any woman who dressed like that had to be stupid.

“I thought you said the man was killed,” she said.

“I did, but I didn’t say he was murdered. I didn’t say anything about how he was killed. He might have been run over by a train or gotten killed in a car wreck. He could have jumped off a building or blown his brains out. What makes you think he was murdered?”

“I don’t claim to know a whole lot, honey, but I didn’t think the TBI got involved with car wrecks. I thought they only sent you boys in for the bad stuff.”

Nice try. She knew something, and now that she’d screwed up, she was trying to back-pedal. Landers decided to try to get her out of her element and into his, get her to a place where she’d be less comfortable.

“Ms. Barlowe, let’s you and I go down to my office where we can sit down, have a cup of coffee, and talk. You can give me a list of your employees and the names of as many customers from last night as you can remember, and I’ll have you back here in a couple of hours.”

The smile vanished.

“Honey, did I mention to you that my late husband, God rest his soul, used to be the sheriff of McNairy County? I was his personal secretary for almost a year before he resigned, and then we got married about a year after that. It was a long time ago, but I remember a few things about the law. Now I don’t mean to be rude to you in the least, but one of the things I remember is that unless you have some kind of warrant or unless you arrest me, I don’t believe I even have to talk to you. I’ve tried to be nice up to this point, but you’ve made it clear that you think I’ve done something wrong. So you know what? I think I’m just going to go on inside and get to work now, okay? You have yourself a wonderful day.”

She turned around and sashayed off. It was the only word to describe the way her hips swayed as she headed into the Mouse’s Tail on her spike heels. Landers stood there watching her for a minute, then turned and got back into his car.

Most people cringe when they talk to TBI agents, and almost all of them cooperate unless they have something to hide. This woman had something to hide. Landers decided to stick a flashlight up her skirt until he found out what it was.

Chapter 7

April 12

12:10 p.m.

I went up to see my mother after Johnny Wayne was carted off. It was lunchtime, and walking down the hall in the long-term-care wing at the nursing home was like running a wheelchair gauntlet. I knocked gently on the door and walked in. She was awake. It seemed she was always awake. The doctors told me that Alzheimer’s, as it progresses, interferes with sleep patterns. She was sitting up in bed, watching Sportscenter. Baseball season had started, which meant her beloved Atlanta Braves were back on the field.

“Hi, Ma. How’re you feeling today?”

“Like I’ve been hit by a train.”

“Good. At least you’re with us.”

The disease was steadily running its course. One day I’d walk in and she’d say “Hi, Joe,” and we’d talk for a little while, and the next day she wouldn’t even know my name. It was painful to watch. She was only sixty years old, and she’d always been strong and vital. But her skin had lost its elasticity and was the color of bleached bone. Her weight had dropped to ninety pounds, and she seemed to have shrunk by at least two inches.  Her cheeks were hollow, her hazel eyes dull, and her hair gray and stringy. Her teeth were in a jar on the bedside table. As I sat down in the chair next to her bed, I knew it wouldn’t be long before she wouldn’t be able to talk at all.

Ma was born in 1947 in a small town called Erwin, Tennessee, which is in the Appalachians not far from the North Carolina border and is surrounded by the Cherokee National Forest. She fell in love with a football star from nearby Johnson City and married him in 1964, a month after they graduated from high school. She had Sarah in 1966 and me in 1967, after my father was drafted and went off to Vietnam. I never laid eyes on my father; he was shipped home in a body bag by the time I was born.

Ma provided for my sister and me as best she could by working as a bookkeeper for a small roofing company and taking in other people’s laundry. She didn’t talk much, and when she did, it was usually a bitter tirade against Lyndon Johnson or Richard Nixon. She never dated another man and outside of going to work, rarely left the house. Her only real requirement of me was, “Get an education, Joey.”

“Sarah’s getting out of jail today,” I said. “I hope she’s going to stay at my house for a while. Caroline was supposed to go down and talk to her sometime this morning.”

Her eyes dropped at the mention of Sarah and she began to shake her head.

“My own flesh and blood in jail,” she said. “Tell me where I went wrong.”

“No sense in beating yourself up over it. She is what she is. It isn’t your fault.”

“You better lock up your valuables, Joey. She’ll haul the whole house off if you give her the chance.”

“Sarah wouldn’t steal from me, Ma.” In fact, Sarah had stolen from me in the past, but I’d never told Ma about it.

“Well, she stole from me, plenty of times.”

“Maybe she’s changed. You looked sad when I came in. What’s the matter?”

“I was thinking about Raymond.” She reached for a tissue beside the bed and dabbed at her eyes. Raymond was Ma’s younger brother. He drowned at the age of seventeen. “Such a waste.”

“No, it wasn’t,” I said before I realized what was coming out of my mouth.

”Don’t spend any tears on him, Ma. That’s a waste.”

“Joey, you’ve never had a kind word to say about your uncle. What did Raymond ever do to you?”

I shook my head, not wanting to get into it. She hadn’t mentioned him in years. “He wasn’t a good person.”

“He just needed—”

“Ma, could we please not talk about Raymond? You’re entitled to your opinion, I’m entitled to mine.”

I wanted to tell her what my opinion was based on but I didn’t see the point. It had happened so long ago, and Ma was dying. I didn’t see the sense in sullying whatever pleasant memories she had of her only brother.

I managed to get her mind off of Raymond and onto my son Jack’s baseball prospects for a little while, but then, like a sudden change in the weather, she looked at me as though she’d never seen me before.

“What are you doing here?” she said. “Who are you?” It was a fast transformation, even for her, like some inner switch had been flipped. Even the pitch in her voice changed.

“It’s me, Ma. I’m Joe. Your son.”

“Why are you wearing that tie? You some kind of big cheese or something?”

“No, Ma. I’m not a big cheese.”

“Where’s Raymond?”

“Raymond’s dead.”

She let out a long sigh and stared at the ceiling.

“Ma? Can you hear me?”

She didn’t respond. She lay motionless, almost catatonic. I looked over at the bedside dresser. On top of it were several photos of our fractured family. There was one of my grandfather, wearing bib overalls and following a plow pulled by a mule through a cornfield. There was a framed photograph of me walking across the stage at my law school graduation ceremony. Next to it, in a smaller frame, was a black-and-white of Sarah and me when I was seven years old. We were standing on a plank raft in the middle of a half-acre pond out back of my grandparents’ home. Both of us were grinning from ear to ear. Two of my front teeth were missing.

Just to the right of that photo was a slightly larger one of Uncle Raymond, taken about six months before he died. He was seventeen years old, standing next to a doe that had been shot, hung from a tree limb, and gutted. He held a rifle in his left hand and a cigarette in his right. I walked over and picked up the photo. I looked at it for a minute, then turned back toward the bed. Ma was still staring at the ceiling.

“Can you hear me?” I said.

Nothing.

I sat back down on the chair next to the bed and began to dismantle the picture frame. I pried the small staples loose on the back of the frame, pulled the photo out, and tore it into little pieces.

“Hope you don’t mind too much, Ma, but I’m going to put Raymond where he belongs.” I walked to the bathroom, dropped the pieces in the toilet, flushed it, and watched them swirl around the bowl and disappear.

I went to her bedside and sat down again. I leaned back, closed my eyes, and tried to compose myself, the mention of Raymond’s name still ringing in my ears. Finally, I sat up straight.

“Since you can’t hear me anyway, I’m going to tell you what he did,” I said. “At least I’ll finally get it off my chest.”

I leaned forward, rested my elbows on my knees, and clasped my hands.

“I was eight years old. Sarah was nine. You and Grandma and Grandpa had gone out — it was a Friday evening -- and you left Sarah and me at Grandma’s house with Raymond. He was sixteen, I think.

“I remember watching a baseball game on TV. I must have dozed off, because when I woke up, it was dark. The only light in the house was from the television screen. I remember sitting up and rubbing my eyes, and then I heard this noise. It scared me, because it sounded like a cry for help, but I got up off of the couch and started tiptoeing toward the noise, more scared every step I took.

“As I got closer, I could make out some words, something like ‘No! Stop it!’ I knew it was Sarah’s voice, coming from Uncle Raymond’s bedroom. I pushed the door open just a little and I could make out Uncle Raymond in the lamplight. He was naked on his knees in the bed with his back to me. Sarah’s voice was coming from underneath him.”

I stopped and took a deep breath, the image of my naked uncle looming over my sister burning in my mind’s eye. “Can you hear me, Ma?” I said. “Are you getting this?” I noticed my voice was shaky. Ma was still staring at the ceiling.

“Sarah kept saying, ‘It hurts. Stop it!’ I didn’t know what was going on. I didn’t know anything about sex. But there was so much pain, so much fear in Sarah’s voice that I knew it was bad. I finally managed to say, ‘What’s going on?’ I remember being surprised that my voice worked.

“Raymond’s head snapped around and he looked at me like he was going to kill me. He said, ‘Get out of here, you little twerp.’ I asked him what he was doing to Sarah. And then, Ma, right then, Sarah said something that haunts me to this day. I’ll never forget that little voice. She said, ‘Get him off of me, Joey. He’s hurting me.’”

I had to stop for a minute. The rape of my sister had haunted me, and her, for more than three decades. When I started talking to Ma, I thought it might somehow help to finally describe to another human being – even a human being who couldn’t take it in – what had happened to Sarah. But talking about it was transporting me back to that tiny bedroom. I could feel my heart pounding inside my chest and my hands had become cold and clammy.

“I stood there like an idiot for a second trying to figure out what to do, but Raymond didn’t give me a chance. He jumped off the bed and grabbed me by the throat. He slammed my head against the wall so hard it made me dizzy. Then he picked me up by the collar and threw me out the door. I remember skidding along down the hallway on my stomach. He slammed the door, and I froze. I thought about going out to the garage to get a baseball bat or a shovel or an axe, anything. I could hear Sarah crying on the other side of the door, but it was like one of those nightmares where your arms and legs won’t work. I was too scared to move.

“Finally, after what seemed like forever, they came out of the room. I remember Sarah sniffling and wiping her nose with the back of her hand.  Raymond grabbed both of us by the back of the neck, dragged us into the living room, and pushed us onto the couch. He bent down close to us and pointed his finger within an inch of my nose. And then your brother, the one you loved so much, said to me, ‘If you say one word about this to anybody, I’ll kill your sister.’ Then he turns to Sarah and says, ‘And if you say anything, I’ll kill your brother. Got it?’

“Neither one of us ever said a word to anyone, including each other. When that sorry piece of garbage drowned a year later, it was one of the best days of my life. I tried to get him out of my mind after that, but I couldn’t do it. Obviously, neither could Sarah.”

I sat back in the chair and let out a deep sigh. “So now you know.”

She hadn’t moved since I started talking. She lay there, barely breathing, staring at nothing, blinking occasionally.

“I can’t believe you didn’t notice the changes after that day. I can’t believe you never even bothered to ask what was wrong. I might have told you about it, and maybe you could have done something to help Sarah. But you were too busy feeling sorry for yourself. You’ve spent your whole life being miserable, and now it’s over.”

I looked for some telltale sign that she understood. Nothing.

“Did you hear a word I just said? Did you hear? Ma?”

There was a knock and the door opened. A nurse’s aide stepped tentatively into the room.

“Is everything all right?” she said. “I thought I heard someone shouting.”

It took a few seconds before I understood what she was saying. I suddenly realized where I was, like I’d just been awakened from a deep sleep.

“Everything’s fine,” I said. “Please close the door.”

She turned and left. I got up from the chair and looked down at Ma.

“I guess I better go now,” I said. “I’m glad we had this little talk.”

Chapter 8

April 12

4:00 p.m.

ERLENE Barlowe missed Gus more than ever. He’d have been better than her at handling the TBI agent. As soon as she got away from him in the parking lot, she sat down at the bar and asked herself what Gus would do. She was worried. The TBI man didn’t strike her as the type she could hold off for long. She knew he’d be back, and she knew it would probably be soon.

Like she told the agent, Gus had been elected high sheriff of McNairy County when he was only twenty-six years old. It was nearly thirty years ago. Erlene wasn’t much more than a baby, only twenty-two and didn’t know the first thing about the world. Her uncle on the McNairy County Commission helped her get a job as a dispatcher at the sheriff’s department. She and Gus were sweet on each other right from the get-go.

What she hadn’t told the agent was that Gus was married to another woman at the time, and his wife Bashie caught Erlene and Gus in a motel room in Gatlinburg on a Friday night. Bashie divorced Gus a few months later and he resigned from the sheriff’s department. There was also some talk that Gus was selling protection to gamblers and marijuana smugglers, but Erlene didn’t believe a word of it.

Gus met some people while he was sheriff who helped him get into the adult entertainment business in Hamilton County after he resigned. He asked Erlene to go with him, and she did. She was love-struck, and it went deep down. Gus was big and strong and handsome, a real man’s man. He treated her like a princess. They weren’t able to have children – a botched abortion at the age of sixteen had left Erlene barren – but they had a wonderful life together for almost thirty years. She and Gus owned four clubs in four different counties during their marriage. They’d either buy a club that wasn’t making a profit or build one on the cheap and start up. Gus ran the business and dealt with the customers, and Erlene handled the girls. They’d make the club profitable, ride it for a while, then sell it. They took in tons of money. Along they way, they helped a lot of young girls who were in bad situations.

Erlene and Gus were planning to run the Mouse’s Tail for another five years and then move to the South Carolina coast and retire. But late last September, he mowed the yard on a Sunday afternoon, keeled over, and was already dead of a coronary when Erlene found him. Her heart broke into a million tiny pieces. Her sweet Gus. He was there one minute, smiling and waving on the riding mower when she looked out the kitchen window, and then… poof! Just like that. Gone. The only thing that kept her going was the knowledge that the two of them would be together again someday. Her Gus would be waiting on the other side.

After the TBI agent left and she thought for a while, she called the bartender and all of the girls who worked the night before and told them to meet her at the bar at four o’clock, an hour before the place opened. Ronnie was the bartender. Mitzi, Elizabeth, Julie, Trisha, Heather, and Debbie were dancers. The other two were waitresses, April and Alexandra. They were all beautiful, with wonderful bodies. The older Erlene got, the more she loved being around them. She tried to teach them to respect themselves and to stay away from bad men and drugs. It was a challenge, but she did the best she could.

Angel had also waited tables the night the man was killed, but Erlene didn’t want Angel to be at the meeting. The man who was killed had behaved shamefully toward Angel, and Erlene was afraid that if the TBI man found out about it, he might suspect Angel of something. Besides, Erlene felt guilty for even having Angel working at the club. She didn’t have any way of knowing it when they first met, but Angel wasn’t the type of girl who could handle herself in a place like the Mouse’s Tail. She was just too tender.

Erlene knew some of the girls thought it was a little strange that Erlene took such a shine to Angel right from the beginning, but they didn’t understand. A lot of it was because of Gus. He had a daughter from his first marriage, a beautiful brunette named Alyse. After Gus and Erlene ran off together, Gus’s ex-wife Bashie hated him so much that he never got to see Alyse again, but he talked about wanting to see her all the time and he sent money for her every month. He’d always tell Erlene, “She’ll come some day. You wait and see.”

Sure enough, about a week after Alyse’s seventeenth birthday, Gus got a framed photograph of his daughter in the mail. There was a little note with it that said, “I miss you, daddy. I’ll see you next year after I turn eighteen.” Gus hung the photograph up right next to the kitchen door, and every time he left the house, he blew a kiss at it.

Then the most terrible thing happened. Alyse and two other teenagers were killed in a car accident on New Year’s Eve, just a few months after Gus got the picture in the mail. Gus went to her funeral, but Erlene stayed home. She didn’t think it would be proper for her to go. Gus was the saddest man Erlene had ever seen for the next few months, though he eventually came out of it and got back to being his old self again. But he never took the picture down, and he never stopped blowing kisses to Alyse. After he died, Erlene left the photograph hanging right where it was. She even started blowing kisses herself.

When Angel showed up on the bus with Julie Hayes, Erlene’s teeth near fell out of her mouth. Angel looked so much like Alyse that Erlene swore they could’ve been sisters, maybe even twins. When she first laid eyes on Angel, she heard Gus’s voice: “She’ll come some day. You wait and see.” Erlene knew she had to take Angel home with her. It was like having a piece of Gus back in the house all over again, like Gus himself had sent Angel to comfort her. And doing things for Angel, helping her, did comfort Erlene. It was healing, that’s what it was. It helped heal some of the pain of losing Gus and a lot of what she’d carried around ever since the doctor told her she’d never be a mother.

After Angel had been with Erlene only a little while, during some of those moments when they’d curl up on the couch in front of the fireplace and watch a movie, Angel started to open up a little and told Erlene some of the terrible things that had happened to her. That’s when Erlene knew she was right. She knew Gus – or God – had sent Angel to her. She didn’t really care which. Angel was the daughter Erlene never had. She was meant to take care of her.

The girls and Ronnie showed up between four and four-fifteen. Erlene told them to sit at the bar. As soon as Julie dragged in – late, as usual – Erlene stood on the other side of the bar and gave them a little speech.

“There was a detective from the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation here around noon,” she said. “He was asking about a murder. He had a picture of the man who was killed, and he thinks the man was here last night. He may even think one of us had something to do with it.”

Erlene paused for a skinny minute and looked at their faces. She set such high standards for her girls. They had to dress a certain way when they came into the club and Erlene was real particular about their makeup and the way they wore their hair. When Erlene mentioned murder, the girls’ mouths dropped open and they started looking at one another.

“Is that the murder they’ve been talking about on the radio?” Heather said. “They’re saying the man was a preacher. It made me think of that guy last night who was spouting—”

Erlene held up her hand.

“I haven’t heard anything on the radio,” she said, “but I want all of you to forget about that man last night. He wasn’t here. I want every one of you to look at me, right now, and listen real careful to what I’m saying. He wasn’t here. When the TBI man comes back here or if he comes to your place and starts asking you questions, he’s going to show you a picture. And you’re going to tell him that the man in the picture was not here. Do all of you understand that?”

Everybody but Julie nodded. Julie looked at Erlene and said, “So you’re telling us to lie to a cop about a murder? Isn’t that illegal or something?”

Julie had become a problem again.  A gorgeous, green-eyed redhead with a perfect body was great for business, but she was back on the cocaine and she was getting worse by the day. She was always late, always distracted, and she did outrageous, vulgar things sometimes when she danced.

Julie had also had a huge crush on Gus, even though he was old enough to be her granddaddy, and she was jealous of Erlene. Erlene finally had to fire her last year after she caught her snorting cocaine in one of the storage rooms. Julie made a huge, ugly scene and was hollering at the top of her lungs when she stormed out of the club. Erlene didn’t hear a word from her for eight months, and then maybe two months ago she called Erlene up, all sweet and apologetic. Julie told Erlene how sorry she was about Gus and said she was clean as a whistle and wanted to come back to work. She was in Texas at the time, and Erlene’s head told her to let Julie stay in Texas, but her heart said Julie was just a lost young girl who needed a job. The fact that she was good for business didn’t hurt, either.

“Nothing will happen if we stick together,” Erlene said, continuing her speech. “Do you girls have any idea what getting caught up in a big murder would do to this business? People would stay away from this place in droves. We’d all wind up on the street, including you, Miss Julie. All that money you’ve been making? Gone. Besides, I’m sure nobody in this room killed that gentleman, and I doubt very seriously if any of you has any information that would help the police. The man was a drunken fool. Every one of you saw the way he acted. He probably went somewhere else after he left here and ran into somebody who wasn’t as tolerant of his behavior as we were. So why do we need to get involved in it? If the detective asks you, just tell him the man wasn’t here and let him move on to people who might be able to help.”

“Where’s Angel?” Julie said. “She’s the one who waited on him.”

“Angel’s at home. She and I have decided that she’s not really cut out for this business. Don’t worry about Angel. She won’t say a word.” Erlene paused for a minute and looked at all of them again. “Girls, are we all on the same page?” She knew Ronnie was on the same page. She didn’t even look at him.

They all sat quietly, but they were nodding. Erlene knew mentioning the money they were making would get their attention, and besides, she treated them good. She expected a little loyalty in return.

“Julie?”

Julie popped her gum and shrugged her shoulders.

“All right, then, let’s get ready to go to work.”

Chapter 9

April 12

6:00 p.m.

AFTER I left the nursing home, I spent the next hour driving to Mountain City to stand next to a client who was entering a guilty plea to a reduced charge of negligent homicide in what had originally been a second-degree murder case. My client, a thirty-year-old man named Lester Hancock, had come home unexpectedly one evening to discover his best friend in bed with his wife. Lester had initially handled the dispute admirably. He simply told his buddy to get the hell out of his house and never come back. His friend left, but returned fifteen minutes later and began yelling insults at Lester from the road in front of Lester’s house. Lester yelled back. His friend grabbed a baseball bat from the bed of his pickup truck and started toward the house. Lester stepped out on the front porch and blew a hole in him with a black powder rifle. He wouldn’t have been charged had he not dragged the man inside his house and then lied to the police about the way things really happened.

The drive was spectacular in April. The angle of the sun caused the mountain peaks to reflect off of the shimmering water of Watauga Lake, and the mountains themselves were coming to life. Redbud and Bradford pear blossoms dotted the slopes with pink and white. As I wound slowly through the beautiful countryside, I thought about the question Ma had asked me earlier: “What did Raymond ever do to you?”

Almost immediately following the rape, I started overreacting to anyone who I perceived was trying to bully me. Over the next year, I got myself thrown out of school three times for fighting, and I was only in the third grade. I was afraid of being left alone and had nightmares regularly. The nightmares eased after a while, but then, when I was in the eighth grade and just starting to hit puberty, I threw my helmet at a football coach who grabbed my face mask and screamed at me when I made a mistake on a play during practice. The helmet hit him in the head. They threw me off the team and out of school for a month.

My freshman year in high school, during the time when the hormones were flowing and I felt like I wasn’t in control of anything, including my own body, I went days without sleep and fell into deep depressions. It was the first time I remember having the dream of floating down the turbulent river toward the waterfall.

And then, during my sophomore year, I met Caroline. She was beautiful, smart, funny and optimistic, and at first, I had a lot of trouble believing she wanted to have anything to do with me. But she did. She saw something in me that I didn’t see, and while I didn’t understand, I was grateful. She’d flash a smile at me or give me a sideways glance and wink and my heart would melt. Gradually, the nightmares stopped and over the next few years, I learned what it was like to enjoy life.

Caroline and I were inseparable all through high school. We both worked hard. I was an athlete, she was a dancer, and we were both good students. We both had part-time jobs. I worked on the weekends stocking groceries at a supermarket and she taught dance to kids at the studio where she took lessons. Caroline’s father was a long-haul truck driver who was hardly ever home and her mother was almost as emotionless as mine, but she never complained about either one of them. We had each other, and that was enough.

The only serious problem we had was around graduation time. Caroline wanted to get married – and so did I – but I had something else I wanted to do first. I had trouble explaining it to her, but I wanted to join the army and become a Ranger. Caroline said I was crazy, that I was somehow trying to forge a bond with my dead father. She was probably right, but it didn’t matter. I’d made up my mind. I enlisted a month after I graduated from high school and left for boot camp the same week Caroline entered college at the University of Tennessee in Knoxville. She said she’d wait for me, and she did. I wrote to her almost every day and I came home to see her every time I went on leave, but it was the longest three years of my life.

By the time I got out of the army, Caroline had earned an undergraduate degree in liberal arts. We were married at the Methodist church her mother attended in Johnson City the same weekend I got back, and I enrolled in school at the University of Tennessee in the fall. Caroline went to work at a dance studio owned by a former Dallas Cowboy cheerleader. She taught jazz and tap and acrobatics and choreographed routines for the dance recitals. I majored in political science and knew what I wanted to be. I was going to law school and I was going to become a prosecutor. I wanted to put people like my Uncle Raymond in jail.

Marrying Caroline was the best decision I ever made. She was so beautiful, so full of life, and she taught me the most important lesson I’d ever learned – how to love. Over the next two years we had two beautiful, healthy children, and Caroline helped me learn how to raise them. She nudged me when I needed nudging, held me back when I needed holding back, and did her best to try to ease the intensity that burned in me.

Unfortunately, however, I brought more than my duffel bag home with me from the army. The Rangers are gung-ho, small-unit specialists who pride themselves on being able to fight in any environment on a moment’s notice. I trained all over the world for three years, but didn’t see any combat until two months before my enlistment expired when my unit was sent to Grenada. Terrible images from the short but bloody battles I fought there haunted me through college and law school. I’d wake up in the middle of the night screaming, covered in sweat, with my wife talking softly to me, trying to calm me down.

As with Sarah’s rape, I eventually managed to suppress the memories, at least most of the time. I even managed to make excellent grades and graduate from both college and law school, despite the fact that I always held a part-time job and was doing my best to be a good husband and father along the way. I kept myself so busy I didn’t have time to think about the past. I didn’t sleep much during that seven-year stretch.

By the time I graduated from law school, my son Jack was just entering the first grade. When I interviewed for a job at the district attorney’s office back in Washington County, I was disappointed to find that the starting salary for rookie prosecutors was less than twenty-five thousand dollars a year and that it would take me at least ten years to get to fifty thousand dollars. It seemed like such a waste to have spent all that time and effort for such a paltry salary. Caroline was starting up her own dance studio and we knew it would take some time before she started earning a decent salary. I figured I could make at least twice what the district attorney’s office was offering by practicing on my own, even as a rookie, so I set up shop in Johnson City. I told myself that after I’d made some serious money and gained some experience, I’d close down the office and go to work as a prosecutor.

I immediately started taking criminal defense cases, reasoning that the experience would help me later when I went to the D.A.’s office. I put the same amount of sweat and effort into my law practice as I’d put into being an athlete, a soldier and a student, and I soon became very good at it. I found that the law offered a great deal of leeway to an astute and enterprising mind, and I learned to take even the most damning evidence and spin it to suit my arguments. Within a couple of years, I started to win jury trials. The trial victories translated into publicity, and I soon became the busiest criminal defense lawyer around. The money started rolling in.

I defended murderers, thieves, drug dealers, prostitutes, white collar embezzlers, wife beaters and drunk drivers. The only cases I refused to take were sex crimes. I convinced myself that I was some kind of white knight, a trial lawyer who defended the rights of the accused against an oppressive government. And along the way, I made an unfortunate discovery. I learned that many of the police officers and prosecutors who were on the other side weren’t much different than the criminals I was defending. They didn’t care about the truth – all they cared about was winning. Still, the thought of moving to the prosecutor’s office was always on my mind. But the money kept me from it. I was taking good care of my wife and my kids. I took pride in being a provider. I took pride in being able to give my children material goods and opportunities I never had. Before I knew it, ten years had passed.

And then, along came Billy Dockery.

Billy was a thirty-year-old mama’s boy charged with killing an elderly woman after he broke into her house in the middle of the night. He was long-haired, skinny, stupid, and arrogant, and I was repelled by him from the moment we met. But he swore he was innocent, the case against him was weak, and his mother was willing to pony up a big fee. I took his case. A year later, a jury found him not guilty after a three-day trial.

Billy showed up at my office – drunk – the day after he was acquitted. He tossed an envelope onto my desk. When I asked him what was in it, he said it was a cash bonus, five thousand dollars. I told him his mother had already paid my fee. He was giddy and insistent. I knew he didn’t have a job, so I asked him where he got the money.

“Off’n that woman,” he said.

“What woman?”

“That woman I killed. I got a bunch more’n this. I figger you earned a piece of it.”

I threw him and his money out onto the street. There wasn’t any use in telling the police about it. Double jeopardy prevented Billy from being tried again, and the rules about client confidentiality meant I couldn’t divulge his dirty little secret.

Prior to Billy, I did what all criminal defense lawyers do – I avoided discussions with my clients about what really happened. I concerned myself only with evidence and procedure. But when Billy slapped me in the face with the truth, I realized I’d been fooling myself for years. I realized that my profession, my reputation, my entire perception of myself, was nothing more than a facade. I was a whore, selling my services to the highest bidder. I wasn’t interested in the truth. I was interested in winning, because winning led to money. I’d completely lost my sense of honor. I’d almost lost my sense of self.

When that realization hit me, I wanted to quit practicing law altogether. But my children were in high school and would soon be going off to college. Caroline had managed our money well, but we didn’t have enough stashed away to allow me to quit outright. So Caroline and I talked it over, and we decided I’d keep going until the kids had graduated and gone on to college. After that, we’d figure out what I was going to do with the rest of my life.

I immediately began to cut back on the number of cases I took. The death penalty cases I was doing were all appointed, payback from judges for the days when I was spinning facts and helping people like Billy Dockery walk out the door. My son was in college and my daughter was a senior in high school. In less than a year, I hoped to finish up the cases I had and walk away from the profession that Uncle Raymond, at least indirectly, had led me to.

By the time I got back from Mountain City, it was almost dark. So far, my birthday had been a bust. Johnny Wayne had been gagged, I’d practically fallen apart in Ma’s room, and the flashback of Sarah’s rape had been playing over and over in my head. I couldn’t reach Caroline or either of the kids on my cell phone. I’d called ten times on the way back down the mountain.

I finally pulled into the driveway and pushed the button on the garage door opener. There wasn’t another car in sight. Rio, my ten-month-old German shepherd, came bounding out of the garage and started his ritual of running around the truck. I’d rescued Rio from a bad situation when he was only two months old. I was his hero. When he saw me pull into the driveway every day, the excitement was too much for his young bladder. As soon as I got out of the truck, he peed on my shoe.

Where could they be? I didn’t see my son’s car. When I’d talked to Jack on the phone last week, he promised to come to dinner with us on my birthday. I thought seriously about backing out and going somewhere to drown my sorrows, but I decided I’d go in and see if they left me a note. Surely they wouldn’t forget my birthday. These were the people I loved more than anything else in the world. They’d never forgotten my birthday. They always made a big deal out of it.

Caroline hadn’t said anything that morning, but I’d left at 5:30 a.m. and showered at the gym after I worked out. She and Lilly were still asleep when I walked out the door. Maybe they did forget.

Or maybe something was wrong. Something had to be wrong. I rubbed Rio’s ears for a minute and walked up and opened the door that led to the kitchen. It was dark inside. I let the dog go in ahead of me. It was quiet.

“Hello! Anybody home?” I flipped on the light in the kitchen.

A huge poster had been hung from the kitchen ceiling. It stretched all the way to the floor and was at least six feet wide. It looked like something a high school football team would run through when they took the field for a game. The poster, in bright blue letters, said:

Happy Birthday Dad!

WE LOVE YOU!

I laughed as the three of them came around the corner from the den into the kitchen singing “Happy Birthday.” All three were wearing striped pajamas and grinning like Cheshire cats. They’d tied their wrists together. The Dillard family chain gang. My self-pity vanished and I opened my arms for a group hug.

Caroline announced that they were taking me to dinner, and they quickly changed out of the goofy pajamas. I chose Café Pacific, a quiet little place on the outskirts of Johnson City that served the best seafood in town. As I sat in the restaurant eating prawns and scallops in an incredible Thai sauce, I looked at their faces, settling finally on Caroline’s. I’d fallen in love with the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen all those years ago, and she was even more beautiful now. Her wavy auburn hair shimmered in the candlelight. Her smooth, fair skin and deep brown eyes glowed, and when she caught me looking at her I got a coy smile that brought out the dimple in her left cheek. Caroline has the firm, lithe body of a dancer, but it’s soft and curvy where it matters. She’s studied dance all her life and still operates a small dance studio. Lilly is Caroline’s clone, with the exception that her hair runs to a lighter shade and her eyes are hazel. Lilly is seventeen and in her senior year of high school. She wants to be a dancer, or a photographer, or an artist, or a Broadway actress.

Jack looks a lot like me. He just turned nineteen and is tall and muscular, with dark hair and brooding eyes that are nearly black. Jack is a top student and a highly competitive athlete whose goal is to play professional baseball, and he works at it with the intensity of a fanatic. He and I have spent countless hours together practicing on a baseball field. He’ll hit until his hands blister, throw until his arm aches, lift weights until his muscles burn, and run until his legs give out. The work paid off in the form of a scholarship to Vanderbilt.

When the waiter brought me a piece of chocolate cake, Caroline reached into her purse and produced a candle. She stuck it in the cake and lit it.

“Make a wish,” she said.

“And don’t tell us what it is,” Lilly said. She says that every year.

I made a silent wish for an innocent client. And the sooner the better.

Jack reached under the table and pulled out a small, flat, gift-wrapped box.

“This is from all of us,” he said.

I opened the card. There was a message, in Caroline’s handwriting: “Follow your heart. Follow your dreams. We’ll all be there, wherever it leads. We love you.” She was as eager as I to get me out of the legal profession. She thought my work kept me at war with myself – she’d told me more than once that she’d never seen anybody so conflicted. She’d been encouraging me to go to night school and get certified as a high school teacher and a coach.

Inside the package were box seat tickets to an Atlanta Braves game in July.

“I cleared your calendar,” Caroline said. “We’re all going. Don’t you dare schedule anything for that weekend.”

“Not a chance,” I said. It was perfect.

We finished dessert and drove back home around nine. As I pulled into the driveway, the headlights swept over the front porch about thirty feet to the left of the garage. I saw something move. We lived on ten isolated acres on a bluff overlooking Boone Lake about five miles out of the city. We’d left Rio in the house when we went to the restaurant. I stopped just outside the garage and got out of the car. I could hear Rio raising hell inside.

“Go in and turn on the porch light,” I said to Caroline. “You guys stay in the car.”

“No way,” Jack said as he got out of the back seat.

I walked around the corner toward the front with Jack right beside me. Someone got out of the porch swing and stood.

“Who’s there?” I said.

Silence. And then the porch light came on. Standing next to the swing in a pair of ratty khaki shorts and a green T-shirt that said, “Do Me, I’m Irish,” was my sister, Sarah.

Chapter 10

April 12

11:00 p.m.

BY the time Landers returned to his office, the Johnson City detectives had managed to gather more information on the murder victim. John Paul Tester was a widower with one grown kid, a son who was a deputy sheriff and a chaplain at the Cocke County sheriff’s department. Tester had come up to Johnson City to preach at a revival at a little church near Boones Creek. He delivered the sermon, collected almost three hundred dollars from the offering plate for his trouble, left the church around nine, and nobody had seen him since. His bank records showed that he withdrew two hundred dollars in cash from an automatic teller machine at 11:45 p.m. The machine was located inside the Mouse’s Tail. If Tester ran through three hundred dollars there and needed more money around midnight, the Barlowe woman had to have noticed him.

She lied.

Landers spent the afternoon drafting an affidavit for a search warrant and running down a judge. All he had to do was tell the judge that the owner of the club where the murder victim was last seen lied and was refusing to cooperate. The warrant the judge signed authorized the TBI to search the Mouse’s Tail for any evidence relevant to the murder of John Paul Tester. And since it was a strip club, the judge didn’t have any qualms about Landers executing the warrant during business hours.

Landers planned the raid himself. About an hour before the SWAT guys were supposed to hit the front door, he’d go in to check things out, then at the appointed time he’d signal the start of the raid. Landers was looking forward to it, especially the part about checking things out.

A little after nine, he stopped by his place to shower and change. He put on a pair of jeans, a collared black pullover and a jacket, stuck his .38 in an ankle holster, and drove out to the Mouse’s Tail around 10:15. It was a tacky joint, built of concrete block and painted powder blue. The front entrance was covered by a bright blue awning trimmed in black. A big, gray mouse, grinning from ear to ear and with a tail that curled up into what looked like an erect phallus, had been air-brushed on the side of the building that faced the road.

There were twenty or thirty cars in the parking lot out front. Landers had to pay a ten-dollar cover to get past the blonde in the foyer. She looked like a high-end hooker, elaborate make-up and black spandex. Huge breasts. The ATM machine the murder victim withdrew the money from was sitting right beside the counter in front.

Blondie buzzed Landers through into the main part of the club. It was a large, open room, about a hundred feet long and forty feet wide. On each side of the main room were what appeared to be small anterooms, the entrances covered by black curtains. There were three stages, each about the size of a boxing ring, set in a triangle and complete with brass poles. Each stage was framed by mirrors and occupied by a naked, gyrating lady. Cigarette smoke hung in a cloud about ten feet off the floor, and a mirror ball was throwing light around the room. The music was loud. Landers had heard the bass buzzing off the walls from the parking lot. He didn’t recognize the song that was playing, but it was one of those lame rappers.

Landers did a quick head count. There were six people, all men, at the bar to his right and another thirty or so sitting at counters and tables around the stages. Besides the dancers and two waitresses, who were wearing extremely attractive, tight, white nurse’s outfits, there wasn’t a woman in the place. Landers didn’t see Erlene Barlowe anywhere.

He took a seat at a table near the back. The redhead on stage was magnificent. She had a gorgeous face and she kept throwing her head around and making her hair fly. Her legs were long, her butt was tight, her breasts were small and firm, and she could move. Landers was sitting there fantasizing about taking her into the bathroom and showing her a good time when one of the nurses stopped by the table. Her little top was a zip-up that hadn’t been zipped up very far. Parts of her were falling out all over the place.

“What can I get you, honey?” she said.

“Club soda. Twist of lime.” The nurse gave Landers a look of annoyance when he ordered the club soda. He would much rather have had a whiskey, but he never knew what might happen in a raid. He needed to stay sharp.

Nurse Betty brought his club soda a couple of minutes later. Cost him five-fifty. At that outrageous price, there was no way he was going to give the nurse a tip. Landers called Jimmy Brown at 10:45. The raid was supposed to start at eleven straight up. Landers could barely hear Brown over the music. Brown said they were just pulling off the interstate. They’d be in position in five minutes.

That’s when Landers saw Erlene Barlowe, still wearing the leather pants and cheetah top she’d been wearing earlier in the day. She was standing by the bar. Nurse Betty was talking in her ear and pointing in Landers’s direction. The music had stopped and the disc jockey was telling the customers that touching the girls wasn’t allowed. Erlene spotted Landers and headed straight for him.

“Are you here to arrest me, handsome?” she said when she got to the table. “Or are you just a bad boy looking for a good time?”

“You remember the guy I was asking you about? The dead guy who wasn’t here? He withdrew some money out of the ATM machine out there in your lobby last night.”

“Well I swan, honey, I must have just missed him somehow.”

“My name isn’t honey. It’s Landers. Special Agent Landers. And you’re about to find out how much I hate it when sluts lie to me.” Landers took out his phone and dialed Jimmy Brown. “You guys ready?”

“All set. Standing outside the front door.”

“Go.”

There was a scream from the lobby, and the door banged open. SWAT officers in black combat gear and helmets came rushing in. They looked like Navy SEALs. They had their weapons up and were yelling, “Police! Get on the floor! Get on the floor!”

Landers stood up and pointed his .38 at Erlene Barlowe’s face.

“This is a raid,” he said. “Get your hands up against that wall and don’t move until I tell you to.”

The look on her face was priceless.

Chapter 11

April 26

11:00 a.m.

TWO weeks after my birthday, I finished up a hearing on a drug case in federal court in Greeneville and had just gotten in my truck to drive back to Johnson City when I looked at my cell phone and saw a text message from Caroline: “Call me. Urgent.”

Caroline had taken on the job as my secretary/paralegal two years earlier, after we made the decision that I was getting out. Since I was taking fewer cases, I needed to cut down on my overhead. The classes Caroline taught at her dance studio were held in the evenings, so she volunteered. When the lease was up on my office downtown, I helped my secretary find a job at another law firm and moved the essentials out to my house. The move saved me almost sixty thousand dollars a year, and Caroline took an on-line course and got herself certified as a paralegal. She turned out to be a quick study. I still had a small conference room downtown where I met clients, but it only cost me two hundred a month.

“What’s up?” I said when Caroline answered the phone.

“Could be good, could be bad,” she said. “A woman named Erlene Barlowe called early this morning. She was frantic. She said the police barged into her house and arrested a young friend of hers for murder and that she needed to hire a lawyer. She kept saying the girl couldn’t have done it.”

Right.

“She wants to meet with you. It’s been a long time since you’ve been hired privately on a murder case.”

“Billy Dockery’s mother hired me.” I’d never told anyone about Billy’s confession. Not even Caroline.

“You made a lot of money on that case, didn’t you?”

“Fifty thousand.”

“We could use it.”

“I thought we were in good shape.”

“We are, but a murder case? And this one could be big money, babe. It’s the case where the preacher was murdered. The one who was found in the motel room.”

“I don’t want to take on a murder case, Caroline, high profile or low profile. It could go on for years.”

“That’s why I didn’t make her an appointment.” She sounded disappointed.

I thought about it for a minute, weighing the pros and the cons. Curiosity finally got the best of me.

“Ah, what the heck, it won’t hurt to talk to her. Call her back and have her meet me downtown at one.”

It took me an hour to drive back to Johnson City. I ate a quick lunch at a café about two blocks from my conference room and walked in the door about ten minutes before one. There was a woman sitting at the table waiting for me. She stood when I came in. It was all I could do to keep my jaw from dropping. She was dressed in tight, black, spandex pants and an orange and black, tiger-striped top that nearly exposed the nipples on her very substantial breasts. Her hair was a shade of red I’d never seen before, on or off a woman’s head.

“Joe Dillard,” I said as I shook her hand. Her fingernails were at least an inch long and painted the same design as her shirt.

“Erlene Barlowe. You’re even better-looking in person than you are on television.” She smiled, and when I looked her in the eye, I saw that despite the shocking outfit, she was an attractive woman. I motioned toward the chair.

“What can I do for you, Ms. Barlowe?”

“Oh, honey, I have the most terrible problem. It’s just awful. A very close young lady friend of mine has been arrested for a crime she didn’t commit.”

“Close friend?”

“More like a daughter. I sort of took her in about a month ago.”

“Start from the beginning, Ms. Barlowe. Tell me everything you want me to know.”

“Please, sugar, call me Erlene. I suppose I should start by telling you that I own the Mouse’s Tail Gentlemen’s Club. My husband and I owned it together, but he passed away last year and now I’m running it. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you out there.”

I laughed. “Haven’t had the pleasure. I’ve heard a lot about it, though.”

“Doesn’t surprise me. We’ve had several lawyers come and go over the years. A couple of judges, too.”

Which judges? I considered asking her, but then I decided I didn’t want to know. I didn’t care what they did. Before long, I’d be moving on.

“Tell me about your friend.”

“Have you heard they made an arrest in the murder of that pastor from Newport? The one who was stabbed?”

“I think everybody’s heard.”

“She didn’t do it, Mr. Dillard. I’d swear it on a stack of bibles. I want to hire you to represent her.”

“How do you know she didn’t do it?”

“Because I was with her all night. I drove her home from the club after her shift ended. She lives at my place and she never went out. She couldn’t have done it. And besides that, she’s the sweetest, kindest little thing you’ll ever meet. She wouldn’t so much as step on a bug, let alone kill a human being.”

Erlene Barlowe had an almost mesmerizing southern drawl and a sweet kind of charm about her. The fact that she was easy to look at, even in those wild clothes, made the conversation even more pleasant. I got the sense a few times that there might be more to Erlene than she wanted me to see, and there was something about her – maybe an aura of danger – that genuinely intrigued me.

After a half-hour, I glanced back over my notes. She said she’d taken Angel Christian, the girl who was arrested, into her home after Angel showed up here on a bus with another girl, a dancer named Julie Hayes, a little over a month ago. She said Angel reminded her of her dead husband’s beautiful young daughter, who’d been killed in a car accident. I got the distinct impression she’d convinced herself that Angel was the reincarnation of the daughter. She said Angel had suffered some serious abuse at home and was a runaway. She mentioned something about Angel’s hands.

I was more than a little concerned about a few things. Erlene told me that she’d initially lied to a TBI agent named Phil Landers. I knew Landers, and I didn’t care for him at all. She said Angel Christian wasn’t the girl’s real name. She said the police had obtained a warrant to take a hair sample from Angel, or whatever her name was, and one from Erlene. That meant DNA evidence would probably be involved, and DNA almost always proved to be devastating to defendants. The police obviously had witnesses or some other evidence or they wouldn’t have been able to get the warrants. And she said something about the police searching for a missing Corvette.

But Erlene was adamant about the girl’s innocence, and if she was telling the truth, it certainly didn’t sound like Angel had either the motive or the opportunity to commit a murder. I was tempted, but not so tempted that I was willing to take on a murder case that would probably wind up going to trial. I didn’t want to waste any more of her time, and I didn’t want to just flat out refuse her, so I decided to set the bar so high she’d either be unable or unwilling to jump it.

“Erlene, do you have any idea how much it would cost you to hire me on a case like this? A first-degree murder. I heard something about the death penalty on the radio, you know. And it’ll most likely go to trial.”

“Mr. Dillard, my husband provided well for me, both while he was alive and after he passed. Money isn’t something I’m concerned about.”

She shouldn’t have said that. The price I had in mind immediately doubled.

“I’m going to be honest with you, ma’am,” I said. “I’m planning to get out of this business sometime in the next year. If I took on this case, it would mean I might have to stay a lot longer than I want to.”

“Please, Mr. Dillard. I’ll pay you whatever you want. You’re the best lawyer around here. I’ve been hearing about you and reading about you for years. You’ve even represented some of my girls – just piddly stuff years ago – but they all spoke so highly of you. I wouldn’t want anyone else to defend my sweet little Angel. Why don’t you think of it as your last hurrah? You can go out with a great big bang.”

I took a deep breath. “You’ve only known this girl a month. Are you telling me you’d be willing to put up a quarter-of-a-million dollars for her defense?”

She didn’t bat an eye. “Angel didn’t kill anybody, Mr. Dillard. I swear it. I’ll do whatever I have to do.”

“That’s the only way I’ll do it. Two-hundred-fifty thousand, cash, up front, non-refundable. And that’s just for me. You’ll also have to pay the expenses. We’ll need an investigator, and we may need experts. They’re not cheap.”

“Tell you what, sweetie,” she said, “why don’t you go down to the jail and meet Angel.  When you get finished, you give me a call and I’ll have your money.”

Chapter 12

April 26

3:00 p.m.

ON the way to the jail, I seriously considered not taking the case. I’d made up my mind to get out, and the time had come. Lilly would be graduating in a month, and I only had a couple cases left. But the money… wow! A quarter of a million? Would she really pay it? That kind of money would go a long way toward giving Caroline and me some peace of mind. I decided to wait and make up my mind after I talked to the girl.

As soon as the door to the attorney’s room opened, I realized Erlene Barlowe had been telling the truth about at least one thing. The girl was beautiful. I stood up while two guards held her elbow as she shuffled into the room, shackled at the ankles. They helped her into the chair as though they were seating her for a gourmet dinner, then backed out the door. For a second, I thought they might bow. The door closed, and I sat back down.

“I’ve never seen that before,” I said.

She smiled absently.

“Guards aren’t polite to inmates, male or female. I’ve never seen a guard help an inmate with a chair.”

Her hair was the color of polished mahogany and flowed like a mountain waterfall from her head to just beneath her shoulders. Her nose was small and thin and turned up slightly. She had almond-shaped eyes that were a rich brown. Her left eyebrow was slightly higher than her right, giving the impression that she was perpetually interested, or maybe perpetually perplexed. Her lips were full and protruded ever so slightly, and even in the standard-issue orange jumpsuit, I could see that her body was magnificent.

“My name is Joe Dillard,” I said. “I’m a lawyer. Erlene Barlowe asked me to come and talk to you.”

“I’m Angel,” she said, “Angel Christian.” Her voice was a gentle soprano.

“Do you understand why you’re here, Miss Christian?”

“Yes.” There was a slight pause. “Murder.”

She put her elbows on the table and began to cry softly. I’d seen hundreds of clients cry, male and female. I’d grown hardened to tears and the accompanying sounds, but the crying of this beautiful, young girl touched me. I stood up and knocked on the door. A guard opened it immediately.

“Do you guys have any tissue around here?” I said.

The guard glanced over my shoulder at Angel, then scowled at me. “What’d you do to her?”

“Nothing. Do you have tissue or not?”

“Hang on, I’ll find something.”

He disappeared briefly, returned with a roll of toilet paper, and gave it to me with another scowl. I closed the door and handed the roll to Angel.

“Best we can do, I’m afraid.”

“Thank you,” she said. “I’m sorry I’m crying.”

“Don’t worry about it. I see it a lot.”

“I can’t believe this,” she said through a sob. “Do I have to stay here? Can’t I go home to Miss Erlene’s house?”

“I’m sorry, I’m afraid you’re going to be here for a while. Do you want to talk about what happened?”

“Nothing happened.” She sniffled and blew her nose.

“Are you telling me you didn’t have anything to do with Reverend Tester’s murder?”

“I didn’t kill him. I didn’t do a thing to him.”

“Did you know him?”

“I never saw him before he came into the club that night. I was waiting tables. I waited on him.”

“Tell me about it.”

She bit her lower lip and gathered herself. “He ordered a double scotch on the rocks. He started flirting with me right away. A couple of times he yelled all the way across the bar at me, you know, making a scene. Then, as he got drunker, he started quoting the bible and acting really strange. Every time I got near him, he would try to rub up against me. He finally tried to kiss me and asked me to leave with him. That’s when Miss Erlene and Ronnie came over and asked him to leave.”

“So that’s it? You didn’t see him again after he left, and he was alive and well when he walked out the door?”

“That’s it, I swear. They told him to leave. I didn’t see him again. Then a couple of days later, a bunch of policemen came to Miss Erlene’s house. She told me not to talk to any of them, so I didn’t, but one of them had a piece of paper that said I had to give him some of my hair. They tore Miss Erlene’s house all to pieces. Then they came back this morning and put me in the car and brought me down here.”

As she spoke, something kept nagging at me. It took me a few minutes to realize what it was, and when I did, I could only wonder. Sitting in front of me was one of the most beautiful young women I’d ever encountered, with a body so sexy that under normal circumstances I’d have either been aroused or, at the very least, distracted. But despite the incredible packaging, Angel didn’t emit even a whiff of sexuality. Talking to her was very much like talking to a child.

“Did the police officer ask you any questions when he arrested you?” I said.

“He tried after we got here. He took me into a room like this.  But Miss Erlene told me not to say a word to him, so I didn’t. I think he’s pretty mad at me.”

Either Angel and Erlene were two of the best liars I’d ever met, or the police had made a monumental blunder. I had no love for Agent Landers – he was a dishonest, womanizing sleaze with an ego the size of a skyscraper – but the TBI was known as a top-flight investigative agency. I found it hard to believe they’d arrest someone for first-degree murder unless they had a solid case.

“Have you ever been in any kind of trouble with the law, Miss Christian? Ever been arrested for anything?”

“No.”

“Not even a traffic ticket?”

“I don’t even know how to drive.”

She started sobbing again. She seemed so helpless, so utterly incapable of violence. My heart went out to her, and I kept asking myself why. Why would she murder some stranger? What could possibly have happened that would have turned this young girl into a killer?

As I sat there wondering, she looked over the tissue at me, her eyes shining with tears, and she said, “Help me, Mr. Dillard. Please, help me.”

Suddenly, the voice I was hearing wasn’t hers. It was a voice from the past, the voice of a defenseless little girl… “Get him off of me, Joey. He’s hurting me.”

I looked at her and nodded my head.

“Okay, Miss Christian,” I said. “I’ll help you. You’ve got yourself a lawyer.”

PART II

Chapter 13

April 26

5:05 p.m.

WHEN I called Erlene Barlowe and told her I was in, she asked me to meet her in the parking lot behind her club. I’d never been in the place, but I’d driven by it dozens of times. I got there a little after five and backed into a spot next to a black BMW. It had been a beautiful afternoon, clear and in the low seventies. The sun was starting to drop in the western sky, but as I looked to the northeast, I could see a massive dark thundercloud rolling across the tops of the mountains. I put the window down and could smell rain.

About five minutes later, I saw Erlene come out of the back door of the club carrying a gym bag. She had changed into a zebra-striped jumpsuit that was so tight I could see every crevice in her body. She walked carefully in her heels across the gravel lot, glancing from left to right, and stopped at the window. She leaned over and dropped the gym bag in my lap.

“Everything all right?” I said. “You look a little nervous.”

“Those TBI men have been following me around for a week. Makes me kind of jumpy. Your money’s in the bag, sugar. How’s Angel?”

“Scared.”

“Poor thing. I hate the thought of her being locked up in that terrible place. You have to promise me you’ll get her out of this.”

“I’ll do everything I can.”

“It would probably be best if you leave now. You need to get that money someplace safe. We’ll talk more later.”

She blew me a kiss and I pulled out. As I drove down the road, I started thinking about what I was carrying. I’d taken some big cash fees from people accused of dealing drugs in the past, but never anything near a quarter of a million. I kept looking in the rear-view mirror to make sure nobody was following me. If Landers had any idea what was going on, it would be just like him to make up a reason to stop me, search my truck, and seize the money.

About a mile from my house, I pulled into the parking lot of a small shopping strip, locked up the truck, and went into a liquor store to buy a bottle of good champagne. I didn’t take my eyes off of the truck the entire time I was in the store. After I bought the champagne, I drove toward home and pulled onto a dirt road that led into the woods just across the street from my house. I wanted to count the money, and I knew if I pulled in the driveway Rio would make such a racket that Caroline was likely to come out. With the sun dropping toward the horizon to my left, I started to count – fifty bundles of hundred-dollar bills, fifty in each bundle. It took me almost an hour, and it was all there. I couldn’t believe it. I stuffed the cash in my own gym bag and headed for the house.

I found Caroline in the kitchen emptying the dishwasher. I walked up behind her and kissed her on the ear.

“Hi, baby,” she said. “Did Rio pee on your shoe?”

“I was too quick for him today.”

“I haven’t heard from you all afternoon. How did it go with Ms. Barlowe?”

Caroline had called, but I hadn’t returned the call. At first I wasn’t sure I was going to take Angel’s case, and later I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to resist spilling the beans. I set the bottle of champagne down on the counter.

“Where’s Lilly?” I said.

Caroline looked at me slyly. “At rehearsal. Mother’s going to pick her up and take her out to eat. She won’t be back for a couple of hours.”

“Sarah?”

“A friend of hers took her to a Narcotics Anonymous meeting.”

“Good. At least she’s trying.”

Caroline looked over at the champagne. “What’s the occasion?”

“Let’s go out to the deck. We need to talk.”

“Be there in a second.”

I took a couple of champagne glasses out of the cabinet, opened the bottle, and walked out onto the deck. I put the bottle and glasses on the table and stuck the gym bag underneath. The storm was moving closer and the wind had freshened, but we still had some time. It was just getting dark. The Big Dipper was barely visible to the south, and the approaching clouds had covered the rising moon. The reflection of running lights twinkled off the lake like fireflies as pontoon and bass boats made their way up and down the channel.

I lit the two oil lamps that flanked the deck and sat down just as Caroline came out. She sat across from me. I poured the champagne and looked intently at her.

“What?” she said.

“I was just lusting,” I said. “Can’t help it.”

“I‘m sure you can’t.” The dimple high in her left cheek only showed when she smiled a certain way. She was smiling that way now.

“So it went okay,” I said, “with Ms. Barlowe.”

“I saw the girl’s picture on television. She sure is pretty.”

“She’s also very nice. And there’s a very strong possibility that she’s innocent. I talked to her today.”

Caroline gasped. “You talked to her? Is that where you’ve been all day? Are you going to represent her?”

“I don’t think I have much choice.”

Caroline’s eyes lit up. I knew exactly what she was thinking.

“How much?” she said.

“What do you think a first-degree murder, maybe a death penalty case, probably my last case, is worth?”

“I don’t know.” She took a sip of champagne and leaned forward. “How much is it worth?”

“Guess.”

“Fifty?”

“Higher.”

“Eeeeeh,” she said. “Sixty?”

“You’re way low. Jack it on up.”

“Stop it, Joe. Seventy-five? No, you look smug. I don’t even know if I can say it. A hundred?”

“You’re almost halfway.”

Her jaw dropped. “You’re not serious,” she said. I don’t think she knew it, but she was bouncing in her chair like a schoolgirl.

“Dead serious. Half way.”

“T-t-two twenty?”

“Almost there. Add thirty more.”

“Two fifty?” She said the words as though she were dreaming.

“Bingo! And what do we have for the lady who guessed a quarter-million dollars, Don Pardo?” I reached down, grabbed the bag, and slammed it on the table. Champagne spewed from Caroline’s mouth.

“Is that what I think it…? No, it couldn’t possibly…” She reached out and opened the bag. “Joe! Is this real?”

“Scout’s honor,” I said, holding my hand across my heart.

She began jumping around the deck like a cheerleader. She ran around the table and grabbed me by the neck. She hugged me so hard I almost choked.

“Ease up a little, Caroline. I’d like to live to spend it.”

She stopped in her tracks, walked back to her seat, and took a deep breath.

“I’m going to hyperventilate. I’m going to pee my pants. Tell me how this happened.”

“There isn’t that much to tell. The woman came in and I talked to her for a while, then I went down to the jail and talked to the girl for a while. I actually said the words, Caroline. I actually said, ‘A quarter-of-a-million dollars, cash, up front,’ and she didn’t flinch. I called her after I went to the jail and she paid me.”

“I want to kiss your whole face right now,” Caroline said. “I want to gobble you up. I want to have your babies.”

“We have enough babies.”

“Oh, Joe, this is unbelievable. This takes so much pressure off of us.”

“It’s a double-edged sword. You know that.”

She was on me before I got the last syllable out of my mouth. She kissed my forehead, my lips, my eyebrows, my ears.

“I have to tell someone,” she said when she stopped kissing my whole face. “Where’s my phone? I have to tell my mother.”

“Don’t do that, you’ll be on the phone for an hour. Drink your champagne and let’s just enjoy it for a minute. I have a feeling I’m going to earn every dime of it.”

I watched her as she sat grinning in the flickering light of the lamps. She peeked into the bag again.

“Can I touch it?”

“Knock yourself out. It’s your money now.”

She was as pleased as I’d ever seen her, and nothing could have given me more satisfaction.

“Joe, what a relief. Now… what are we going to buy?”

“What are you talking about? You’re supposed to be the miser. We’re not buying anything. We have everything we need.”

“Let’s splurge just a little. We have to buy something.”

“No, we don’t.”

“Yes, we do.” Her eyes were bright with mischief. “If we don’t buy anything, then we have to go somewhere.”

“No.”

“We have to go to the Caymans or something when the trial’s over. You’ve always wanted to go there. Stop being such a killjoy.”

“Why don’t we worry about what we’re going to do with it tonight?”

“I know exactly what we’re going to do with it. We’re sleeping with it. It doesn’t leave my sight until I get it in the safety deposit box tomorrow morning. Then I’ll figure out what to do from there. Tell me about the girl. What’s she like?”

“She’s. . . sweet,” I said. “She seems like a really sweet kid.”

“Is she as pretty as me?”

“Not even close.”

“Good answer.”

She held out her empty champagne glass, and I refilled it. She raised the glass.

“Here’s to pretty girls with rich friends.”

“Cheers.” I took a big swallow of the champagne.

“When’s the arraignment?”

“Monday. Nine o’clock in Jonesborough. Let’s talk about something else. It’s a beautiful evening. I’m sitting on a candlelit deck overlooking the water with a beautiful, slightly intoxicated woman. I’ve just made more money in one day than most people make in five years. Law and disorder and murder do not seem to be appropriate topics of conversation.”

“You’re right.” Caroline rose from the table and reached for my hand. “Come with me.”

She led me inside to the bedroom.

“This is heavy,” she said, nodding towards the bag in her hand. “Delightfully heavy.”

She tossed the bag of money into a corner, pushed me onto the bed and began to slowly unbutton her blouse. Caroline is the only woman I’ve ever slept with.  We’ve been together for so long that when it comes to making love, she knows exactly which buttons to push.

And for the next hour, she pushed every one of them.

Chapter 14

April 27

6:00 p.m.

AGENT Landers ran three miles a day, at least five days a week. It kept his body tight and helped with the hangovers. The day after he arrested the girl, he was running along Watauga Avenue in Johnson City thinking he would’ve much rather had sex with that kid than arrested her. Man, she was hot.

She was also smart enough not to talk. Landers spent an hour in the interrogation room with her after he arrested her. All she’d say was that she wanted to talk to a lawyer.

Deacon Baker, the district attorney, had called Landers down to his office a couple of days before the arrest. Baker was nothing but a fat, stupid little prude, but he’d somehow managed to get himself elected, so he was calling the shots. Deacon told Landers he was getting a lot of pressure to make an arrest. The victim’s son was a chaplain and deputy sheriff in another county and he’d been calling three times a day. The victim also had a cousin who lived in Carter County and was active in the Republican Women’s group over there, and she’d been calling. Big deal, Landers told Deacon, let them call.

Landers didn’t have much evidence. The night they raided the Mouse’s Tail, they’d interviewed forty people. Nine of them were employees, the rest were customers. Only one person said she recognized Tester, a stripper named Julie Hayes. She said Tester came in around nine, stayed until almost midnight, and got hammered in between. She said he was quoting scripture one minute and getting lap dances the next, and that he took a special interest in a waitress named Angel Christian. Hayes said the preacher and Erlene Barlowe had about a five-minute conversation around eleven-thirty. As soon as they were done talking, she said the preacher went out the front door and Barlowe and Angel went out the back. Neither Barlowe nor Angel came back to the club that night. She also said that up until the day the preacher was murdered, Barlowe drove a red Corvette. The next day, she was driving the black BMW.

Nobody else in the place gave them anything they could use, which made Landers wonder whether Julie Hayes was telling the truth. Maybe she had some kind of grudge against Barlowe, or the girl, or both. But Landers wrote out her statement and she signed it. She said she was willing to testify.

The forensics team found some hair on Tester’s shirt, so Landers took the Hayes girl’s statement and parlayed it into a search warrant for Erlene Barlowe’s house the next day. He also persuaded the judge to sign an order saying that both Erlene Barlowe and Angel Christian had to give him hair samples. They hadn’t found a thing in Barlowe’s house, not even so much as a porn video. Landers took a photograph of the girl, though. She had a nasty bruise on her face.

There was no sign of a red Corvette. Landers ran Erlene Barlowe’s name through every database the TBI had. No Corvette registered to her anywhere.

He got a call from the lab a few days later. Two hairs that were found on Tester’s shirt matched the girl. That was the best evidence they had, and as far as Landers was concerned, it wasn’t much. The lab also said the preacher had a date rape drug in his system – GHB, otherwise known as Georgia Home Boy. Whoever killed him drugged him. Everybody knows you can get drugs at a strip bar, but Landers couldn’t prove the drug in the preacher’s body came from the Mouse’s Tail.

So when he went down to the D.A.’s office, Landers laid the case out for Deacon Baker. Two witnesses, the stripper who might have a grudge, and a clerk from the motel who saw a Corvette pull in behind Tester around midnight and thought she saw a woman go up the stairs toward Tester’s room. All the other employees at the club denied Tester was there, or at least said they didn’t notice him, but he’d definitely withdrawn money from an ATM machine at the bar just after eleven-thirty. Erlene Barlowe had lied – Landers was sure about that – and the others were probably lying. He had a DNA match from the Christian girl, a nasty bruise on her face, a shriveled penis that belonged to Tester (the medical examiner said it had been removed post-mortem), no murder weapon, and a missing car. That was it. Oh yeah, they also had a gem of a victim. A preacher at a strip club. An East Tennessee jury would love that.

“Let me keep up the surveillance on Erlene Barlowe for a while longer, see if she makes a mistake,” Landers said.

“Here’s the real deal, Phil,” Deacon had said, “just between you and me, all right? I don’t give a rat’s patooty about the victim’s son calling and I don’t care about that old hag over in Carter County. My secretary deals with the calls anyway. It’s no skin off my butt. But eight years ago, when I was running for D.A. for the first time against a powerful incumbent and I needed money the way a fat kid needs cake, that sorry sack of sewage that owned the Mouse’s Tail gave my opponent five thousand in cash as a campaign contribution. Didn’t give me the first dime.”

“So?”

“I’ve been after him ever since. There have always been rumors that Gus Barlowe was running drugs out of the club, but we haven’t been able to catch them.”

“He’s dead, Deacon.”

“I know that, but his wife isn’t dead, is she?”

“We don’t have any evidence against her.”

Deacon waved his hand dismissively. “You know how these things go, Phil. You’ve got a pretty strong circumstantial case. We’ll take it in front of the grand jury, get an indictment, and go arrest the girl. She’ll most likely confess or roll on the Barlowe woman. If she doesn’t, I’ll file a death penalty notice and up the pressure on her. Don’t worry about it. Let’s go ahead and shake this tree and see what falls out. This is an election year. It’d be a real feather in my cap to put that Barlowe woman out of business before August.”

Before August. Election year. Put that Barlowe woman out of business. None of this has anything to do with getting a murder conviction. What Deacon was really saying was that he needed Landers to make an arrest. Didn’t matter whether the girl was guilty, as long as somebody got locked up for the murder. No way it would go to trial before the election, and if it turned out she didn’t do it, so what? At least Deacon would be assured of eating at the taxpayer’s trough for another eight years. Moron. Him and his tree.

Landers finished his run and headed inside for a shower.

He had a date at eight.

Chapter 15

April 30

8:45 a.m.

I smiled at Tammy Lewis, a pretty, green-eyed blonde with a sharp sense of humor and a sharper tongue. She’d worked for the circuit court clerk for twelve years. Her primary responsibility was to sit at Judge Leonard Green’s side during proceedings and make sure that his court ran smoothly. There were two criminal court judges that presided over the four-county circuit where I did most of my work. Ivan the Terrible and Leonard Green the dancing machine. I called Green that because he’d gotten drunk at a Christmas party a few years back and started dancing on a table. Cases were assigned by number. Odd numbers went to Glass, even numbers went to Green. Angel’s case was an even number.

“Good morning, Tammy,” I said. “Ready for the circus?”

“Meaning?”

“I’m representing Angel Christian.”

Tammy rolled her eyes. “No kidding? Well, ain’t you just the lucky victim? I guess the question is, are you ready? His royal highness wants to deal with your client first thing. They brought her over from the jail about an hour ago, she’s in the holding cell. There are already three television cameras in the courtroom and at least five newspaper photographers. Reporters all over the place. At least you’ll get some free pub out of this.”

I cringed at the thought of the media in the courtroom. Judge Green was always at his most belligerent in front of the television cameras. He’d often declared his belief that the voting public wanted judges who were tough on criminals, and when the media came to court, he made sure he didn’t disappoint his constituency.

I walked through the clerk’s office and into the hallway that ran parallel to the courtroom. When I reached the door, I stopped and stuck my head inside. Judge Green was not yet on the bench. Green and I had a long history of bickering that sometimes turned downright nasty. I thought he was pompous, small-minded and not very bright. He thought I was a belligerent Neanderthal. Both of us were probably a little bit right.

The jury box was filled with television cameras, newspaper photographers, and reporters. I noticed they started huddling as soon as they saw me walk through the door and sit down at the defense table.  Six uniformed Washington County sheriff’s deputies flanked the courtroom. Six was a number reserved for the most dangerous defendants, and I certainly didn’t think Angel qualified. The gallery on the civilian side of the bar was nearly full; there were close to a hundred people in the audience, most of them criminal defendants and their families. They would wait their turn without complaint, hoping to appear before the court in anonymity after the press had packed up and left.

District Attorney Deacon Baker was talking to a television reporter from Bristol near the jury box. Baker rarely made court appearances and hardly ever participated in trials, but he never missed an opportunity to preach the virtues of justice and law enforcement in front of the media. Baker’s newest lead assistant, Frankie Martin, a bright but unseasoned youngster, sat at the prosecution table rummaging through a file.

At precisely 9:00 a.m., Wilkie Baines, one of the criminal court bailiffs, strode to the front of Judge Green’s bench and faced the crowd. The door to Green’s chambers opened and the judge seemed to glide through the door, his perfectly groomed silver hair freshly cut, his black robe flowing behind him.

“All rise,” Baines called in his best town-crier voice. “The criminal court for Washington County is now in session, the Honorable Leonard P. Green presiding. Please come to order.”

Judge Green climbed the steps to the bench and took his seat in the high-backed, black, leather chair, directly beneath a massive portrait of Judge Green’s dead grandfather.

“Thank you, Deputy Baines,” he said. “Please be seated.”

I, along with everyone else in the courtroom, dutifully sat down.

“Good morning,” Judge Green said.

“Good morning.” Nearly everyone in the courtroom responded, as though they feared the consequences of remaining silent.

“The first case we’re going to address this morning is an arraignment in the State of Tennessee versus Angel Christian.” He turned to the prosecution. “And I see that the district attorney himself has chosen to grace us with his presence today. To what do we owe this rare pleasure?”

Baker’s face flushed the slightest bit. He stood up.

“This is a serious case, your honor. I’m merely here to ensure that all goes well.”

“And to get yourself a little free publicity in an election year, I trust.” Baker thought Judge Green was soft on sentencing sex offenders and wasn’t shy about saying it to the local media. Baker had also openly and actively supported the judge’s opponent in the last election. He was fond of telling people he wouldn’t piss on Judge Green if the judge were on fire. Green, on the other hand, took obvious pleasure in harassing and humiliating Baker every chance he got. I’d seen them nearly come to blows on several occasions. They truly hated each other.

“I didn’t invite the press,” Baker said. “I believe their presence here has something to do with the first amendment.”

“You may not have invited them, but you’ve certainly had plenty to say about this case over the past week. You’ve been on television more than Law & Order reruns.”

Baker plunked back down into his chair, either unwilling or unable to spar with the judge, and Judge Green turned to me.

“What are you doing at the defense table, Mr. Dillard?”

“Representing the defendant, judge.” I knew he preferred “your honor.”

“Has she hired you?”

It was a stupid question, but I resisted the urge to say something pithy.

“She has.”

Judge Green raised his eyebrows at me as if to say, “How much did she pay you?” He turned toward the deputy nearest the door that led to the holding cell and barked, “Bring in the defendant.”

The deputy disappeared into the hallway. He returned in less than a minute with Angel beside him. The shackles on her ankles forced her to shuffle. Every camera was suddenly pointed in her direction. The courtroom went dead silent. Just behind the deputy and Angel were two more deputies and K.D. Downs, the sheriff of Washington County. Everybody was getting in on the show.

The bailiff gingerly escorted Angel to the podium in front of the jury box, directly to the judge’s right. I noticed that he patted her on the shoulder before he stepped back. Angel looked tired, scared, confused, and gorgeous. I walked over and stood by her at the podium.

Green turned to Tammy Lewis. “Let me see the indictment.”

She handed the document to the judge. He studied it for a few seconds, then offered it to Wilkie Baines.

“Give this to Mr. Dillard, and let the record show that the defendant’s counsel has been provided a copy of the indictment. Mr. Dillard, your client has been charged with one count of first-degree murder and one count of abuse of a corpse. Do you waive the formal reading of the indictment?”

“We do.”

“How does your client plead?”

“Not guilty.”

“Very well.” The judge looked at Deacon Baker. “I assume you’ve filed your death notice, Mr. Baker?”

“Yes. I filed it this morning, your Honor.”

With the number of stab wounds, the case was probably second-degree murder at best. It certainly appeared to be a crime of passion. But Baker handed out death notices like grocery stores hand out coupons. It seemed that every murder defendant got one. He did it because it gave him an effective bargaining chip – Baker was notorious for offering to take the death penalty off of the table in exchange for a guilty plea just before trial, no matter how heinous the murder.

“What about scheduling?” the judge said.

“We’d like a speedy trial,” I said. “Miss Christian is incarcerated without bond. Since she’s charged with a capital offense and since she’s not from this community and really has no ties here, I’d be wasting my breath to ask you to set a bond. But she maintains her innocence and wants a trial as soon as possible. I think I can be ready to go in three months.”

Baker stood up. “There is no way the state could be ready in less than nine months, your honor. This is a death—”

I cut him off. “I didn’t want to get into this, judge, but since Mr. Baker is going to resist a speedy trial there are some things I think you should know about. As you know, I’ve been doing this for a long time, and I’ve never had a case quite like this one. The police and the district attorney have let everyone know that the victim in this case is a preacher. What they haven’t told anyone is that he spent his last night on earth getting drunk at a strip club. Nobody knows where he went between the time he left the club and the time he was killed. This isn’t one of those cases where the police have the killer dead to rights. My client swears she didn’t see the victim after he left the club. She swears she didn’t kill him, and she shouldn’t have to wait almost a year before a jury hears this case.”

“I object to this!” Baker yelled. “Mr. Dillard is taking this opportunity to sensationalize this case and poison the potential jury pool.”

That’s exactly what I was doing, but I wasn’t about to admit it.

“All I’m doing,” I said, “is asking you to set this case for trial as quickly as possible so an innocent young girl doesn’t have to sit in jail any longer than necessary.”

Judge Green ruminated for a few minutes, then looked down at Baker.

“God created heaven and earth in six days, Mr. Baker. Surely you can be ready for trial in ninety. If you weren’t ready to prosecute her, you shouldn’t have indicted her. How long is it going to take to try the case?”

“A week, maybe less,” I said.

“I have an opening on July twenty-fourth. That’s just under three months from now. Mr. Dillard, since you’re the one who asked for a speedy trial, I won’t expect to see you back in here asking for a continuance. I’ll send you a scheduling order that will deal with pre-trial conferences, expert disclosures and deadlines, motion deadlines and plea deadlines. Anything else?”

“No, judge, not from us,” I said. It was the same week that we were planning to go to the Braves game, but I didn’t say anything. It wouldn’t have made any difference. It was also only ten days before the August 3rd election. It had to be Judge Green’s not-so-subtle method of applying pressure to Deacon.

“Miss Christian,” the judge said, “they’ll bring you over from the jail on July twenty-fourth and you’ll get a fair trial. It will be your responsibility to see to it that you have civilian clothing, and I won’t allow the jury to see that you’re restrained in any fashion. I’ll see you then unless there are motions or unless you decide to change your plea.”

The bailiff took Angel by the arm and led her toward the door. I followed. Just before we reached the door, I noticed a man walking quickly toward the bar that separated the attorneys from the gallery. He was about six feet tall, wearing a blue polyester suit. I’d seen pictures of John Paul Tester in the newspaper. This guy looked like a younger version. The hair was shorter and darker, but he was working on the pot belly and he had the same mutton-chop sideburns. He was pointing at Angel.

“A fire is kindled in mine anger, and shall burn unto the lowest hell!” he yelled. Everyone froze at the power of his deep voice. I stepped between him and Angel, more fascinated than frightened. “And shall consume the earth with her increase, and set on fire the foundations of the mountains! They shall be burnt with hunger, and devoured with burning heat, and with bitter destruction. I will send the teeth of beasts upon them, with the poison of serpents of the dust. You have taken my father’s life, Jezebel, and I swear revenge upon you!”

I took a couple of steps backward as the bailiffs began to converge. They were tentative, apparently frightened. Tester’s eyes were as blue as robin’s eggs and fiercely intense.

“And you, scribe!” he continued, turning his attention to me. He voice boomed off the walls, and I could see veins popping out of his neck. He stepped through the bar toward me and bumped me with his pot belly. He was so close I could smell his breath. “How dare you blaspheme my father! I swear you’ll pay for it!”

I shoved him hard in the chest. He stumbled backwards as I heard Judge Green’s voice cut through the chaos: “Bailiffs! Arrest that man!”

“She killed my father!” he screamed as he struggled against the bailiffs. “Jezebel killed my father!”

Angel, crying hysterically, was quickly ushered into a jury room just down the hall from the courtroom. I caught up with her and gently took hold of her shoulders.

“I didn’t kill him.” Her shoulders were heaving. “Please tell that man I didn’t kill his father.”

“I’ll tell him,” I said, knowing I wouldn’t be going anywhere near him. “Don’t worry about this. It happens. People get upset. Just try to calm down. I’ll come to the jail to see you in a couple of days.”

The bailiffs took her away, and I walked back into the courtroom. The man was now in handcuffs, standing at the podium in front of Judge Green, looking down at his shoes. The judge had apparently just finished reading him the riot act.

“I understand the emotional turmoil you’re going through,” Green said, “but you, being a chaplain and a deputy sheriff, should know we cannot tolerate that kind of behavior in court. Now go, but sin no more in my courtroom. Court’s in recess.”

Tester’s son a chaplain and a deputy? Any hopes I had of the district attorney’s office acting reasonably were out the window.

As Green disappeared into his chambers, I scanned the courtroom. Erlene Barlowe was on the back row. I motioned for her to meet me in the hallway. She was wearing a black pantsuit and had toned down the makeup for court. If I didn’t know better, I might have mistaken her for a lawyer.

“Now that we’ve done the arraignment, I can get some discovery,” I said. “Why don’t you come down to the office around four and we’ll take a look at what they’ve got.”

“I’ll be there, sugar.”

As we stood together, I looked down the hall and saw Tester’s son leaning against the wall, staring in my direction. There was no mistaking the look in his eyes. It was pure hatred.

Chapter 16

April 30

4:00 p.m.

ERLENE Barlowe’s granny trained her to be punctual way before everyone in Erlene’s family disowned her because she ran off with Gus. Granny said tardiness was nothing but bad manners, and that people with bad manners lacked character. Erlene didn’t want Mr. Dillard to think she lacked character, so she arrived at his office ten minutes early.

Joe Dillard was a big, strong, good-looking man, just like Erlene’s Gus. If Erlene had been a younger woman and hadn’t been so devoted to Gus, she might have thought seriously about trying to seduce Mr. Dillard. He dressed in dark suits and colored shirts, solid-colored ties, nice shoes. His hair was jet black and wavy, just flecked here and there with gray, and he had green eyes and the cutest dimples Erlene had ever seen. He was well-spoken, too, obviously an intelligent man. Erlene thought he was a little high on the fee he charged to represent Angel, but if he got her off, it’d be worth every dime. Besides, it wasn’t like the fee was going to put Erlene in the poor house. If Mr. Dillard had known what she was worth, he’d have asked for twice as much. Gus made a lot of money buying and selling different things on top of what they made at the strip clubs, and he had a fortune in life insurance. When he passed, the lawyer told Erlene she was worth more than Jed Clampett.

Mr. Dillard showed her to a seat. He had papers spread out all over the table.

“Have you talked to Angel?” he said.

“She called me a little while ago. Poor baby is scared to death. That little outburst at the courthouse didn’t help any.”

“Junior Tester’s a scary guy. Did you see him staring at me in the hallway? He looked like he wanted to cut my throat. That’s why we took the back stairs.”

He may have been scary to Mr. Dillard, but he didn’t scare Erlene. She wasn’t afraid of any man. If she’d learned anything in the adult entertainment business over the past thirty years, it was how to deal with men. She knew how to make them feel good, and she knew how to make them miserable.

Erlene knew how to deal with preachers, too. When she and Gus first came to Northeast Tennessee, the preachers had all ganged up and wouldn’t let them go into business. They put pressure on county commissioners, organized rallies, talked on the news. They did whatever they could to make Erlene and Gus look bad, but the couple had been through it before. They hired good lawyers. It cost them nearly thirty thousand dollars in legal fees plus another twenty in bribes and took over a year, but they finally got their business license and all their permits. Then danged if somebody didn’t burn down their building as soon as they got it up. Erlene and Gus built another one, only to see it go up in flames, too. The second time, though, Gus had hidden video surveillance cameras all around the building. Turned out the man who was burning the buildings was a preacher named Hastings. He went to jail. They left Erlene and Gus alone after that, but it didn’t change her opinion of preachers. Bunch of danged hypocrites was all they were.

“Erlene,” Mr. Dillard said, “I’ve spent the afternoon going through this discovery material. I know pretty much everything they have now, and there are a couple of things I need to talk to you about. Do you own a red Corvette?”

Dang it! Why did he have to be so direct?

“I beg your pardon?”

“Do you own a red Corvette?”

“Why no, honey, I sure don’t.”

“Let me rephrase the question. On the day Tester was killed, did you own a red Corvette?”

Erlene had a feeling that before this was over, she and Mr. Dillard were going to get along like two peas in a pod, but right then she thought it best to keep a few things to herself.

“Why?” she said.

“Because the police have a witness who told them you owned a red Corvette and that it disappeared the day after Tester was murdered. That same witness also told them you and Angel left the club right after Tester left that night and neither of you came back. And they have another witness who saw a woman get out of a Corvette around midnight at Tester’s motel.”

“Well, I swan, honey pie. Who would say a thing like that?” She knew exactly who it had to be. Little Miss Julie.

“Is there any truth to it?”

“Is this conversation just between the two of us?”

“You’re not my client, Erlene. The privilege doesn’t apply, so be careful what you say.”

Erlene sat back and took a deep breath, like she was nervous. “Can you tell me who the witnesses are?” she said.

“One is a night clerk at the motel named Sheila Hunt. She says she saw a Corvette pull in behind Tester around midnight and saw a woman get out of the passenger side and go up the steps with him. It was raining pretty hard and the woman was apparently wearing some kind of hooded poncho or cape, so she didn’t get a good look at her. And she didn’t see her leave. She didn’t get a tag number and couldn’t tell the cops anything about the driver.”

“That doesn’t sound like much to me.”

“It isn’t, unless the Corvette shows up somewhere down the road. Will it?”

“Who told them I owned a Corvette?” Erlene said.

“One of your employees. The night they raided your place. She said you’d been driving a red Corvette prior to Tester’s murder and that it disappeared the day after he was killed.”

“It was Julie Hayes, wasn’t it?”

Mr. Dillard nodded.

“Did anybody else at the club tell the police anything like that?” Erlene said.

“No ma’am. She was the only one.”

“What does that tell you, sugar?”

“It tells me that either she’s lying or everyone else is lying.”

“And what do you think?”

“I think I want to hear you tell me she’s lying.”

Erlene smiled. Mr. Dillard was so handsome and she could just feel goodness oozing out of him.

“She’s the one who’s lying, baby doll.”

Erlene told him about Julie and her drug problem and her crush on Gus. She told him how Julie came back on a bus from Texas with Angel after they’d met in the bus station down there. Julie had noticed that Angel didn’t have any luggage, not even a purse, so Julie knew right off that Angel was probably a runaway. Since Angel was so pretty, Julie asked her if she’d like to tag along and maybe work in the club. When Erlene picked Julie up at the bus station in Johnson City, Angel was with her.

“So you think Julie’s setting you and Angel up for a murder because she’s jealous?” Mr. Dillard said.

“I wouldn’t put anything past her. She’s a troubled girl. I’ve heard her talk about her arrest record. She bragged about it. She used to tell Gus she had a record as long as his terwilliger.”

“As long as his what?”

“Terwilliger. It’s what I call a man’s thingy. You know...” Erlene pointed between her legs, and Mr. Dillard’s face turned red as her lipstick.

“What else do you know about Julie?”

“Just what she’s told me. She said her mother’s boyfriend tried to rape her when she was sixteen. When she told her mother about it, her mother accused her of lying and beat her up pretty bad. She took off and has been on the road ever since. I think her life has been pretty much nothing but drugs and prostitution. That’s one of the reasons she likes to work here. The money’s good enough that the girls don’t have to sell themselves. But Julie just can’t seem to stay away from the drugs. She has to know I’m about to fire her again.”

“Okay,” Mr. Dillard said. “That helps. It looks like we can impeach Julie if she testifies. But you still haven’t answered my question.”

“What question is that?”

“Is a red Corvette going to jump up and bite us on the backside sometime between now and the trial?”

“I just don’t see how it could, sugar.”

“Good. I’ll put an investigator on Julie Hayes and gather all the background information we can on her. From what you’ve told me, we shouldn’t have much trouble helping her make herself look bad in front of a jury.”

Mr. Dillard didn’t know it and Erlene wasn’t about to tell him, but Julie Hayes wouldn’t be going in front of any jury.

“We have another problem,” he said. “Two hairs they found on Tester’s shirt match Angel’s DNA.”

“Is that bad, sugar?”

“It’s a problem, but I don’t think it’s insurmountable. I’m going to suggest a couple of Angel’s hairs could have passed to Tester while he was at the club.”

“He was all over her,” Erlene said.

“That’s not what you told the TBI.”

Dang it again! “That TBI man scared me to death, honey. I didn’t know what to say to him.”

“From now on, Erlene, I’d suggest you just stick to the truth. In this case, it looks like the truth may set Angel free.”

He was so cute and noble. Erlene just wanted to pinch his cheeks.

Chapter 17

June 6

5:45 a.m.

I liked to watch the sun rise on Sunday mornings. The Sunday after they arraigned Angel Christian, I got up around five-thirty, made a pot of coffee, and wandered up the driveway in the darkness in my bare feet and boxers to get the newspaper. As I got to the end of the driveway, I noticed a silver pick-up truck, one of those macho Dodges with tinted windows, illuminated by our security light, backed into the dirt road that led into the woods across the street from the mailbox. It was the same place where I’d counted Erlene’s money. The headlights weren’t on and I couldn’t hear the engine running. The property where the truck was sitting belonged to me. It wasn’t hunting season, and no one had asked me about camping, so I decided to check it out.

I got the paper out of the box and started walking toward the truck. Just as I got to within ten feet, the engine roared to life and the lights came on. I thought it was probably one of Jack’s friends, so I started to wave and say hello, but the thing started coming right for me. I jumped out of the way before it hit me, but it couldn’t have missed by more than a couple of feet. When I landed, my foot caught on a small bush and I ended up flat on my back. The truck came off of the dirt road and squealed off down the asphalt. I didn’t get a look at the driver over the headlights, and my clumsy leap kept me from seeing the license plate.

I cursed and picked myself up off the ground and walked back down the driveway toward the house, wondering who could have been in the truck. I thought about the look Tester’s son had given me and made a mental note to call Diane Frye, a retired state trooper who was now a private investigator. I’d already talked to her about working the Angel Christian case for me, but now I needed to know whether Tester’s son had a silver Dodge truck registered in his name, and if he did, I needed to know anything and everything she could find out about him.

That’s when I noticed Lilly’s car was gone. We had room for only two cars in the garage, so Lilly’s was always parked just outside, off to the side of the driveway. I knew it had been there the night before, because Lilly had driven it to Knoxville and hadn’t gotten home until midnight. I’d waited up for her.

I went back into the house and upstairs to Lilly’s room. She wasn’t the kind of kid to sneak out, but I was hoping against hope that she had. I found her sleeping the dead-zone sleep of a teenager.

As I walked to Sarah’s room, I was hoping the car had been stolen by some stranger, knowing it hadn’t. Sarah’s bed was unmade and empty.

She’d been doing relatively well under the circumstances. Caroline and Lilly had taken her to town to buy her some clothes a couple of days after she showed up, and I’d brought her a catalogue from Northeast State Community College. She’d talked about enrolling in the fall and studying computer graphics. She spent a lot of time wandering through the woods down by the lake and watching television, and she’d been attending Narcotics Anonymous meetings four days a week.

But then I made a mistake. I took her up to see Ma on Saturday. Ma didn’t recognize either one of us and was unusually belligerent. She told us to get out of her room and never come back. She made such a fuss that one of the nurses suggested we leave and come back another time. The visit obviously upset Sarah, who was hoping to make some kind of peace before Ma died. Sarah hadn’t given any indication on Saturday night that she was about to do something stupid, but she was more quiet than usual and had gone to bed early.

I walked back through the house to our bedroom and touched Caroline on the shoulder. She came out of sleep slowly.

“Mmm…what? Is something wrong?”

“Sarah’s gone,” I said. “In Lilly’s car.”

She didn’t seem to understand for a moment. Then she sat straight up. “Oh no,” she said. “I dreamed last night that she ran away.”

“We better take a look around and make sure nothing’s missing.”

“What do you think she took besides the car?”

“I don’t know, but you better make sure she didn’t steal anything out of your purse, and you should check your jewelry. Lilly’s, too. I’ll check the electronics and the guns.”

It was hard to think of my sister as a thief, but that’s exactly what she’d been in the past. She’d stolen money from me, and Ma had been a favorite target. I wandered around the house for the next fifteen minutes, checking to make sure she hadn’t hauled off a computer or a television or a stereo system. When I was finished, I walked back into the kitchen. Caroline was sitting at the table drinking a bottled water. She looked at me, and I knew the news was going to be bad.

“My diamond necklace is gone.” I’d given Caroline the necklace for Christmas five years ago. She’d never owned anything expensive, and seeing the look on her face when she opened the box had given me great pleasure. She kept it in a jewelry box in a drawer in the bedroom. If it was gone, Sarah must have snuck in there and stolen it during the night.

“Dammit,” I said. “Dammit! How could she do this?”

“I guess we were expecting too much,” Caroline said.

“I thought she might be ready to change. I thought I might be able to help her.”

“When she’s ready to change, if she’s ever ready to change, she’ll do it on her own. We can’t force it on her. What do you think we should do?”

“She’s taken a ten-thousand- dollar car and a five-thousand-dollar necklace. What do you think I should do?”

Caroline sighed. “I don’t know, babe. Maybe you should go out and try to find her.”

“I’ve been down that road before. You know she’s high by now. I guarantee she’s already sold the necklace for peanuts or traded it for coke. If I found her at some dealer’s house I’d end up defending myself in court after I killed somebody. I guess I’ll just call Johnson City’s finest and see if they can pick her up before she sells the car to some chop-shopper.”

The phone rang. Maybe it was Sarah, ready to turn back before she crossed the line.

“Mr. Dillard?” a male voice said when I answered.

“Yes.”

“Hi, this is Matthew Miller with the Johnson City Police Department. Haven’t seen you in a while. You okay these days?”

I knew Matthew Miller. I knew most of the cops in Johnson City. Matthew was a good guy.

“I’m fine, Officer Miller. Tell me you found my daughter’s car.”

“A Chrysler Sebring, maroon in color, Washington County plate number QRS-433?”

“It was stolen last night.”

“Well, sir, I’m afraid I have some more bad news. We found it wrecked this morning off of Knob Creek Road. Went down an embankment and rolled across a creek. Ended up against a tree. I’d say it’s totaled, and-”

“What about the driver?”

“No driver,” Miller said. “No trace. Any idea who was behind the wheel?”

“It was probably my sister. She disappeared sometime last night.”

“I thought she was locked up.” Sarah was infamous. Everybody knew her.

“She got out a couple of weeks ago. She’s been staying here.”

“I guess no good deed goes unpunished,” Miller said. “We’re pretty much finished up here. I’m going to have the car towed down to Brown’s Mill Chevron, you can take it from there. The air bags inflated and there’s no blood, so if it was your sister, she probably made it out okay.”

“Thanks. Can you send somebody out here to take a report? She took some jewelry, too.”

“Probably be best if you just call nine-one-one,” he said. “They’ll send the right people.”

I thanked Miller and hung up.

“She wrecked it,” I said to Caroline. “She wrecked Lilly’s car. I’m calling the cops. I’m through with her.”

“I’ve heard that before.”

“I’m serious. She committed two felonies under my roof. She stole and wrecked my daughter’s car and stole your necklace. With her record, they’ll ship her off to the penitentiary where she belongs. She won’t see the light of day again for at least four years, maybe longer.”

“Are you sure that’s what you want to do?” Caroline said. “I don’t want you beating yourself up about it later.”

I picked up my cell phone and started punching in numbers.

Chapter 18

June 9

10 a.m.

TWO days later I got a call from a drug enforcement agent I’d known for ten years. He said they’d picked Sarah up in a crack house on Wilson Avenue around midnight on Monday. He thought I might like to know.

I drove straight to the jail. On the way, my cell phone rang. It was Diane Frye.

“The answer is yes,” she said when I picked up the phone. “John Paul Tester Junior owns a silver, Dodge Ram pick-up.” It was the same color, make, and model of the truck that had almost run over me.

“So what else did you find out about him?”

“Born December 1, 1972, to John Paul and Debra Jean Tester in Newport. His mother died of ovarian cancer when the boy was only two. Raised by his father, who was a journeyman welder when he wasn’t preaching the gospel.  When he was on the road, which was often, Junior stayed with an aunt. Talked to the aunt, nice lady named Wanda Smithers who has since moved to Ocala, Florida. She said Junior idolized his daddy. She said the boy’s favorite thing to do when he was a boy was to go to church and listen to his daddy preach. Said he’d sit on the front row and hang on every word.

“By the time Junior was ten years old, he was already studying the bible and testifying for his father. Started preaching when he was a teenager. When he wasn’t preaching, he spent almost all of his time in his room. Never had a girlfriend, didn’t show any interest in any school activities or sports. The gospel was his whole life. The aunt says that after he got out of high school, Junior and his father started traveling together. They preached all over the southeast. She says they’re somewhat of a legend among the fundamentalists.”

“You’re amazing, Diane. You learned all that in two days?”

“It’s my charm and personality. That and the fact that the aunt talked my ear off.”

“Anything else?”

“The aunt said she visited last year for a weekend. Said Junior stayed in his room and studied, just like when he was a boy. She also said Daddy Tester wasn’t as committed to the faith as Junior. She said he tended to drink heavily every so often and that he liked the ladies.”

“I wonder if the son knew about that,” I said.

“Probably. Be kind of hard to hide for an entire lifetime. I also talked to a couple of people down at the Cocke County sheriff’s department. Daddy Tester apparently had some political clout and got Junior his job. He’s been there for more than ten years as a chaplain. He counsels the officers, works with inmates at the jail, that sort of stuff. The people I talked to said everybody down there thinks Junior’s a nut job. He apparently won’t talk about anything but the gospel, and since his daddy was killed, he hardly talks at all.”

“Anything violent?”

“No criminal record. The aunt said he’s gentle. Doesn’t remember him ever even getting into a fist fight. But she said he’s changed since his father’s death. She came up for the funeral and said he acted awfully strange.”

“Thanks. Send me a bill.”

“It’s already in the mail.”

A half-hour after I got off the phone with Diane, a guard brought Sarah into the interview room. She looked like she’d aged fifteen years. When she saw I was there, she didn’t bother to sit at the table, she just put her hands over her face and slid down the wall onto the floor. The sight of her no longer made me sad. All I felt was anger.

“Have a good time?” I said.

“Go to hell.”

“Go to hell? That’s great. You did a nice job on Lilly’s car. I really appreciate that.”

“Yeah, well, tell her I’m sorry. I haven’t driven in a while.”

“Where’s Caroline’s necklace?”

“Gone.”

“Gone where? Who’d you sell it to?”

“Like I’d tell you.”

“Did you sell it or trade it?”

“What difference does it make?”

“I’d like to get it back.”

“Not a chance.”

“Are you really that far gone, Sarah? Do you really not care at all about anything? That necklace may mean nothing but a quick fix to you, but it meant a lot to Caroline, and I’d like to have it back.”

She uncovered her face and glared at me.

“The only person that necklace meant anything to was you. It was just you showing everyone what a successful big shot you were, buying an expensive trinket. Do you really think it meant anything to her? You tried the same crap with me. Oh, come live with us, Sarah. Come stay with my perfect little family. We’ll buy you stuff if you don’t get high. We’ll take care of you. What a crock. You can’t buy people, Joey. You’re so pathetic.”

I’d gotten up and was leaning against the block wall, contemplating my fingernails. Sarah had long ago perfected the art of the addict’s vitriolic tirade. The words floated past me like tiny ghosts. I didn’t allow them to linger.

“I came up here for a couple of reasons,” I said. “The first is to tell you what you’ve done, in case you don’t fully understand the situation. Stealing the car was a C felony, minimum three years, maximum six in your range. Stealing the necklace was another C felony, same sentence. With your priors and my connections at the district attorney’s office, I think I can convince them to push for consecutive sentences at the top of the range. No more six months in the county jail and you’re out to do it again, Sarah. You’re going to the penitentiary for twelve years. You’ll be at least fifty when you get out, if you live that long. I’m going to see to it personally.”

I’d represented her five times in the past, each time telling myself I’d never do it again. I’d always managed to get her sentences reduced, to get them to go as easy on her as possible. But this time was different. I felt genuinely betrayed, and although I wasn’t proud of it, I wanted a little retribution. The words I’d spoken seemed to sink slowly into her addled brain. She pulled her knees up to her chest and rocked against the wall. Then she began to whimper.

“You can’t do that to me, Joey. You can’t. I won’t survive.”

“Sure you will. You always have.”

“I’m sick, Joey. You know I’m sick. Tell Lilly and Caroline I’m sorry. I’ll get a job and pay you back.”

“Too late. Last straw, Sarah. I’m through with you.”

“You’ve said that before. You don’t mean it. You’re the one person who’s never given up on me. You can’t give up on me, Joey.”

“My name is Joe,” I said. “I stopped being Joey a long time ago, when I grew up. You should give it a try.”

The crying turned into a mournful wailing. Tears were streaming down her face and she was banging her head against the wall. The guard came to the doorway.

“Everything all right in here?”

“Yeah, I was just leaving. Mind letting me out?”

He unlocked the steel door and I stepped through. Sarah’s sobs were almost unbearable. I quickened my pace as I walked down the hall to the stairwell and pushed the door open. Just before it closed, I heard her yell.

“Joey! You’re supposed to protect me!”

Chapter 19

June 12

2:15 p.m.

NEWS travels fast in the law enforcement community, both good and bad. The word was that Joe Dillard’s sister had been popped again, only this time Dillard and his family were the victims.

Agent Landers regarded Dillard as a self-righteous jerkoff who spent his life defending the scumbags Landers was trying to put away. As far as Landers was concerned, Dillard was as bad as the people he represented. When Landers heard Dillard had been hired to represent Angel Christian, he almost puked. He hated the thought of having to deal with Dillard through discovery and through a trial. But when Landers heard Dillard’s sister had been arrested, it cheered him up. He immediately called the jail and found out she hadn’t made bond. Then he called the jail administrator and asked her to move Dillard’s sister into the same cell block as Angel Christian. The administrator said it would be no problem, so Landers waited a couple of days and then went down to pay Miss Dillard a visit.

He had the guards bring her to an interrogation room. Her shoulders were rounded and slumped and her eyes were blank. Still, she was definitely good-looking. Maybe, if everything went right, he might seduce her when this was over. And wouldn’t that be sweet? Laying the wood to Dillard’s sister.

She sat there like a stone, not looking at Landers. He thought he’d wait her out and let her talk first, but after a few minutes it was obvious she wasn’t going to say a word.

“You’re Joe Dillard’s sister,” Landers finally said.

“What about it?” she said without looking up.

“I hear he had you locked up.”

She didn’t respond. Landers watched her closely, trying to see whether she was silently agreeing with him.

“You haven’t asked who I am, Miss Dillard.”

“I don’t care who you are.”

“You should. I’m the man who could get you out of here.”

She looked up for the first time. “And why would you do that?”

“I need some help. You need some help. You help me, I’ll help you. Simple as that. I can offer you two things: a ticket out of jail and a chance to get back at your brother. Should I keep talking?”

Her eyes narrowed. “I don’t trust lawyers.”

“I’m not a lawyer. I’m an agent with the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation.”

“I trust cops even less than I trust lawyers.”

“Suit yourself. I’m sure I can find somebody else up there in the cell block who wants to get out of here. I just thought you might like a shot at your brother.” Landers got up from the chair, walked to the door, and acted like he was about to push the button to call the guard.

“Wait,” she said. “What do you want from me?”

“Like I said, I need a little help.”

“What kind of help?”

Landers sat back down at the table. “Information. I need information. Your brother is defending a murderer named Angel Christian. She’s in your cell block. Have you met her?”

“I keep to myself.”

“Here’s my problem. I don’t know anything about her. I need to be able to check her out, you know what I mean? For starters, Angel Christian isn’t her real name. I need to know what her name is. I need to know where she’s from. I need to know where she went to school, whether she’s ever had a driver’s license in another name, whether she’s ever been in trouble before, who her parents are, that kind of thing, and if she happens to bring up the murder, I wouldn’t mind hearing about it. Do you think you might be willing to help me out with that?”

It was as though the Christian girl didn’t exist. The only person who knew anything about her was Julie Hayes, and all Hayes knew was that she’d picked her up at the Greyhound bus terminal in Dallas back in February. Hayes said the girl wouldn’t tell her what her name was, so she gave her the name Angel Christian on the bus. She thought the name was funny and ironic since Angel would be working in a strip club. Landers desperately needed to come up with something. For all he knew, Angel might be a serial killer. But she wouldn’t talk to him, the Barlowe woman wouldn’t talk to him, and the people they’d interviewed at the strip club hadn’t helped at all.

“So you want me to snitch for you?” Dillard’s sister said.

“You can call it whatever you want. What I call it is providing substantial assistance to a law enforcement officer in a murder investigation.”

“And what do I get in return?”

“People who provide substantial assistance in murder investigations often receive substantial reductions in their sentences. Like time served.”

“What’s your name?” she said. Landers didn’t like the tone of her voice or the look on her face.

“My name is Landers. Special Agent Phillip Landers.”

She started laughing.

“What’s so funny?” Landers said.

“I heard my brother talking to his wife about you after he got hired on his big murder case. He said you’re the biggest liar on the planet. He said you’ll lie on the witness stand, plant evidence, frame people. He said you’re one of those cops who’ll do anything to win a case.”

“You’re brother’s an ass.”

“My brother may be an ass, but he’s an honest ass,” she said. “I don’t think I care to get involved with someone like you. Besides, I’m not a snitch.”

Stupid little slut. Landers was offering her a way out, and she had to go all sanctimonious. He wanted to ask her if being a drug-addicted, thieving whore was better than being a snitch, but he didn’t want to kill the possibility that she might be willing to help him later. He swallowed his pride and smiled.

“Fine,” he said. “It was nice to meet you. If you change your mind, just give me a call.”

Landers handed her a card and walked out the door. He’d wait and come back in a few weeks, maybe a month. If he was lucky she’d be sentenced by then, looking at a trip to the women’s penitentiary in Nashville. Landers had been down there a couple of times. It was a miserable place. Maybe when the prospect of going to the penitentiary turned into a reality, Dillard’s sister would change her mind.

Chapter 20

June 13

1:00 p.m.

ERLENE Barlowe hated to do it to Virgil because he was such a sweetie. But Erlene had made an uncharacteristic mistake the night the preacher was killed – she’d let her emotions overcome her good sense and she’d put her beloved Angel in an impossible position. Erlene’s mistake had ultimately resulted in Angel’s arrest, and now she was determined to do something that might begin to set things right.

Erlene had called Virgil and asked him to come out and meet her at the club at one o’clock in the afternoon. She could tell by his voice that he was a little apprehensive, but she assured him she just needed a teeny little favor.

He showed up right on time. Virgil Watterson was a homely sort of man, kind of short and the hair in his gray wig stuck up in different directions. Erlene had never asked him why, but he always wore a bow tie and suspenders when he came to the club, at least until one of the girls took them off. Erlene had a collection of the bow ties Virgil had left behind.

Virgil was real well off – Gus told Erlene that Virgil owned six McDonald’s restaurants and a whole bunch of real estate. He’d been coming to the club for years, but since he was married and a deacon in his church and a high-class businessman and all, Erlene and Gus had always made the VIP room available for him and let him come and go through the back door. Sometimes he brought a friend or business associate with him, but usually he just came by himself. He always wanted at least two girls to keep him company and he always paid in cash. He was a good customer and a sweet little old man. Wouldn’t hurt a flea, though he did have some sexual tendencies that ran a little to the strange side.

The VIP lounge was a fairly large room with its own bar and dance floor. Off to one side were three small rooms Erlene called bullpens. If a gentleman wanted even more privacy, he was welcome to take a lady, or two or three, off into one of the bullpens and conduct whatever business he needed to conduct.

Gus always called the video recording system he installed in the VIP bullpens his insurance policy. He didn’t tape everything that went on in there, but he taped enough to be able do a little trading if the need ever arose. He had tapes of judges and lawyers and doctors and police chiefs and preachers and businessmen and politicians. All the tapes were arranged in alphabetical order and kept in a fireproof safe in a mini-warehouse on the outskirts of the city. Virgil just happened to be one of the people Gus had taped several times, and Virgil was such a meek little man that Erlene thought he was perfect for what she needed done.

It was just the two of them in the club, and Erlene led Virgil down the hallway in the back to the girl’s dressing room. There was a small lounge for the girls with a television back there, one of those televisions that had a video cassette player built into it. The tape Erlene wanted to show Virgil was already in the machine. She pulled a chair up for him in front of the television.

“Now you just sit your cute self down right here,” Erlene said. “I’ve got something special I want to show you.”

Virgil sat down and Erlene sat down next to him. She put one hand on his knee and pointed the remote at the television with the other.

The screen lit up and there was Virgil, naked, sucking his thumb and talking dirty to a couple of the girls. Erlene kept patting Virgil’s knee as they watched him do some things he probably found a tad embarrassing. After a couple of minutes, he asked her to turn it off. Then he turned to her with the most pitiful look on his face Erlene had ever seen.

“I can’t believe you’d do this to me, Erlene,” Virgil said. “After all these years and all the money I’ve put in your pocket, I just can’t believe it.”

“Do what, honey?” Erlene said. “I’m not doing a thing to you.”

“Then what was the purpose of showing that to me?”

“I just need a little favor, sweetie. That’s all. And if you’ll do me just this one teeny favor, I swear on Gus’s grave I’ll give you every tape Gus ever made of you.”

Erlene watched Virgil carefully as she laid out the proposal. He was reluctant at first, but the more Erlene talked, and the more she rubbed the inside of Virgil’s thigh, the more he seemed to relax. Finally, he agreed to do what Erlene needed done.

He was such a sweetie.

Chapter 21

June 15

6:00 a.m.

ON the morning my daughter’s last dance recital was scheduled, I was sitting at the breakfast table reading the paper when Caroline wandered into the kitchen rubbing her eyes.

“I need to tell you about something,” she said. I put the paper down.

“Sounds bad.”

“I’m not sure. I saw a silver truck yesterday afternoon, like the one you said almost ran over you. It drove by the house twice. Then when I went to the grocery store later, I came outside and it was parked right beside me, but I couldn’t see the driver through the tint.”

“Why didn’t you tell me yesterday?”

“I was getting ready for the recital, remember? I was busy all day, and then last night when I came in you were already asleep. I thought about waking you up, but I didn’t think it would hurt to wait until this morning.”

“Tester’s son – the one I was telling you about who made that scene at Angel’s arraignment – owns a silver Dodge truck. It has to be him.”

“But why, Joe? Why would he want to bother us? You’re just a lawyer doing your job.”

“You didn’t hear him in court. Something very strange is going on in that man’s head.”

“What should we do?”

“There isn’t much we can do. If you see him again, call the cops and tell them what’s going on. Maybe they’ll check him out. And make sure you tell Lilly to be watching for him. Show her a picture of a Dodge truck or something so she’ll know what to look for.”

After I finished the paper, I drove to the gym in Johnson City and worked out for an hour. Then I drove over to Unicoi County to represent Randall Finch, one of my two remaining appointed death penalty cases. Randall was a twenty-five-year-old, uneducated redneck who’d killed his girlfriend’s thirteen-month-old son in a drug-induced haze. Randall and his girlfriend had been binging on crystal meth and hydrocodone for two days and had finally run out of drugs, so the girlfriend went out to find some more, leaving the child with Randall. While she was gone, the little boy apparently started to cry. Randall first dealt with him by using him for an ashtray, putting cigarettes out on the bottoms of his feet. Then, for some reason only Randall could understand, he laid the child on the metal protective rack of a hot kerosene heater, producing a sun-shaped burn that covered his back. Finally, when the baby still wouldn’t stop crying, Randall shook him so violently his brain hemorrhaged.

Randall’s girlfriend returned to find the carnage and called the police. They arrested her, too.

Randall didn’t deny killing the baby. He just said he didn’t remember killing the baby. The only defense I could attempt was reduced mental capacity based on intoxication so severe that Randall didn’t realize what he was doing, but I knew it wouldn’t work. Once the jury saw the photographs of the cigarette burns and the burn on the tiny boy’s back, Randall would be lucky to get out of the courtroom without being lynched. When I looked at the photos the first time I wanted to lynch Randall myself. All I’d have needed was a rope and some privacy.

The preliminary hearing had been held two months earlier in a lower court in Erwin, and the evidence was gruesome. Since then, Deacon Baker had spent a great deal of time and energy proclaiming to the local media the fate he had in mind for Randall Finch. It was to be the death penalty, swift and certain.

Deacon, however, hadn’t bothered to file his death notice, an absolute requirement in any death penalty case, so I decided to try something sneaky. I told Randall that since the case against him was so strong and since Deacon hadn’t filed the notice, Randall should plead guilty at arraignment, his first appearance in the higher criminal court. Nobody had ever tried to pull a stunt like that to my knowledge, and I had no idea what the judge would say. But I knew it would, at the very least, set up an extremely interesting appellate issue. Randall agreed.

The judge was Ivan Glass. I wasn’t expecting any warm greetings. Glass had recently developed some kind of infection in his leg and was spending a lot of his time on the bench high on the same kind of painkillers Randall had been taking when he murdered the baby. If Glass was high during the Finch arraignment, I knew I’d probably be in for trouble.

The judge called our case around ten o’clock. The bailiffs brought Randall to the podium, and Glass glared down at him from the bench.

“So this is the man accused of killing the baby?” He wasn’t slurring his words, and his eyes appeared to be clear.

“Yes, your honor,” Deacon Baker said. He’d made yet another appearance for the cameras.

“Let the record show that I’ve appointed Mr. Dillard to represent him and that Mr. Dillard is present with his client today.” I’d told Glass after he appointed me that I was planning on retiring and would appreciate it if he wouldn’t appoint me to any more cases. He’d snorted and said he looked forward to not having me around. The feeling was mutual.

“I’m handing Mr. Dillard a copy of the indictment,” Glass said. “Do you waive the formal reading?”

“Yes,” I said.

“How does your client plead?”

“He pleads guilty.”

“Very well, as far as scheduling…wait a minute. What did you say, Mr. Dillard?”

“I said Mr. Finch wants to enter a plea of guilty this morning. He doesn’t want to contest the charges.”

“I’ve never heard of such a thing,” Judge Glass said. “A guilty plea at arraignment in a death penalty case?”

“This isn’t a death penalty case, judge,” I said. “No notice has been filed.”

I saw the light bulb come on as Judge Glass realized what I was trying to do. To my relief, he seemed amused rather than angry. He turned to the prosecution.

“What do you think about that, Mr. Baker?”

Baker stood, red-faced.

“This is unprecedented, your honor. He can’t do it.”

“There’s nothing in the Rules of Criminal Procedure that prohibits it,” I said. “The rules say a criminal defendant can enter a plea of guilty or not guilty at arraignment. We want to enter a plea of guilty. Mr. Baker hasn’t filed his death notice. He’s had plenty of time; he’s certainly let everyone in the media know his intentions.”

“I was going to file it today,” Deacon said, his voice even whinier than usual.

Glass snickered and looked at Randall. “Mr. Finch, do you understand what your attorney is attempting to do here today?”

“Yes.”

“Have you and your attorney discussed this thoroughly?”

“Yes.”

“Do you understand that if I decide to accept this plea, you’ll be giving up your constitutional right to a trial by jury?”

“Yes.”

Judge Glass sat back in his chair and ran his fingers through his snow-white hair. I could see the rusty wheels in his brain grinding. After a couple of minutes, he leaned forward.

“Mr. Dillard, if I refuse to accept this plea, I assume you’re going to file an appeal immediately?”

“That’s right, judge.”

“And if I accept the plea, I assume you’ll do the same, Mr. Baker?”

“Absolutely.”

“Well, if I’m going to make a mistake, I prefer to err on the side of caution. I’m going to refuse to accept Mr. Finch’s guilty plea. Go ahead and file your appeal, Mr. Dillard. We’ll deal with scheduling after we find out what the wise men at the Supreme Court have to say about this.”

“Thank you,” I said. There wasn’t any point in arguing with him. I didn’t really expect Judge Glass to let a baby killer escape the possibility of a death sentence, but it was worth doing just to see the look on Deacon Baker’s face. I told Randall I’d file the appeal immediately and watched the bailiffs lead him back toward his isolation cell. The other inmates in the jail had let the sheriff know that if Randall got into the general population, he wouldn’t last an hour.

Since Lilly would be graduating soon and moving out, I knew her recital that night might be my last opportunity to watch her dance. Caroline told me she’d choreographed a solo for Lilly that was set to a song about sexual abuse. How ironic, I thought, given my situation with Sarah and some of the things Erlene had told me about Angel.

The dance was a lyrical, the song “I’m OK” by Christina Aguilera.  Lilly had been dancing since she could walk. She was strong in acrobatics, tap, ballet, and jazz, but the lyrical dance was my favorite. I loved the smooth movements, the athletic jumps, the graceful turns.

My daughter was costumed in a long-sleeved, high-necked, solid white dress. There were puffs at each shoulder, and the chiffon skirt gave the illusion of a full circle when she turned. Rhinestones that had been glued onto the costume sparkled under the blue and gold spotlights. Her long auburn hair had been pulled back from her face, and she floated back and forth across the stage as if she were riding on her very own cloud. I was amazed at the changes in both her body and her skill level in the six months since I’d last experienced the pleasure of watching her dance. She was no longer a girl; she’d turned into a young woman, a beautiful and talented young woman.

I felt my heart soar as I watched Lilly turn her body into a powerful form of expression. Her long arms and slender hands caught the subtle accents of the music perfectly, and the flexibility and strength in her legs reflected the hard work and dedication required of a dancer. As the music built, a smile took over my face. She was so lovely, so pure. My day-to-day world was filled with cruelty and evil and ugliness. I experienced this kind of thing so rarely that at one point I realized I was lightheaded, apparently too moved to breathe. As I listened to the lyrics, I understood what Caroline had meant. The song was about a young woman who carried the guilt and shame of sexual abuse at the hands of her father

When the dance was over, I quickly made my way around to the back of the stage and asked another dancer to retrieve Lilly from the dressing room. When she emerged, I kissed her on the cheek.

“Thanks, honey,” I said, “that was incredibly beautiful.”

“Are you all right, Daddy?”

“I’m great,” I said. “I’m absolutely fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. Why?”

She stood on her tiptoes, kissed me on the cheek, and pulled me toward her so she could whisper in my ear.

“This is the first time I’ve ever seen you cry.”

Chapter 22

June 16

6:00 p.m.

I would’ve preferred concentrating on Angel’s case, but I had to deal with Maynard Bush. Besides Angel and possibly Randall Finch, he was my last death penalty client.

I’d been appointed to represent Maynard by the criminal court judge in Sullivan County, and the trial was quickly approaching. The judge had also appointed a young lawyer from Carter County named Timothy Walker II to help me, but Walker had quickly learned he didn’t have the stomach for dealing with Maynard up close and personal. I couldn’t blame him, but that left the jail visits to me.

Maynard was one of the most intimidating, dangerous men I’d ever had the displeasure of defending. He had a long, violent criminal history and had spent most of his adult life in prison. He was pure predator, always looking for a weakness, always trying to gain an advantage. Dealing with him was a constant game of cat and mouse. The problem was that both Maynard and I wanted to be the cat. As a result, we weren’t getting along.

During a change-of-venue hearing three weeks earlier, Maynard had suddenly told the judge I wasn’t doing my job. He said he wanted a new lawyer. The judge knew better – Maynard was just trying to delay his trial – so he told Maynard he was stuck with me. The judge also granted our motion to change venue. The trial was to be held in Mountain City in July. I had only four weeks to finish preparing, and Maynard wasn’t cooperating. I’d arranged for a forensic psychiatrist to evaluate him. Maynard wouldn’t speak to the doctor. I’d hired an investigator to interview witnesses and check facts. When I sent him to the jail, Maynard profanely told the investigator to get lost. He did the same thing with the mitigation expert.

I’d stayed away from Maynard for three weeks, in part because I was busy, in part to make him think the stunt he pulled in court had genuinely offended me, but primarily because being around him made my skin crawl. Three guards brought him into the interview room at the Sullivan County jail a little after eight in the evening. It had been a long day, but I didn’t want to put off talking with Maynard any longer.

Maynard was a couple of inches shy of six feet tall, and years of methamphetamine and cocaine abuse had left him as thin as an anorexic. He had shoulder-length black hair he parted in the middle and a dark, smooth complexion. His eyes were almost as dark as his hair. I’d never asked him, but I assumed some Native American heritage, most likely Cherokee or Chickasaw. Both of his arms and his upper torso were covered with tattoos. Their intricate design announced to those who knew about such things that he was a member of a prison gang. Most of the inmates belonged to gangs. It helped them stay alive. The tattoos on Maynard’s chest and back were religious symbols. There was a large dove on his chest and an even larger cross on his back. I’d seen them when a guard brought him in shirtless one day.

Maynard was wearing a standard-issue jumpsuit that was much too large for him. He sat down and folded his long, thin fingers across his stomach. It looked as though he could easily slide his wrists through the handcuffs, which were attached to a chain around his waist. The guards had secured the shackles around his ankles to the legs of his chair, which was bolted into the concrete floor. He didn’t look at me.

“Hello, Maynard,” I said. “How have you been since you tried to ambush me in court?”

Silence.

“There are a couple of things we need to discuss today if you’re feeling up to it. Are you feeling up to it?”

Nothing.

“I’ll take that as a yes. First of all, I need to know why you won’t submit to a psychological evaluation. I’m not insinuating that you have mental problems, Maynard. I just need to have you evaluated to see whether the doctor can find something that might help us.”

Maynard sat there like a stone. I wasn’t even sure he was breathing.

“I’d also like to know why you won’t talk to the investigator or the mitigation expert. They’re trying to help you. Don’t you get that?”

Silence.

“I’ve been through all of the evidence, including your background, Maynard. How about you and I get real with each other? You’ve spent most of your life in prison. Killed your first wife and got the charge reduced, murdered some dude who was screwing around with your girlfriend and got convicted, served fifteen years. Killed at least two men in prison and got away with both of those murders. As soon as you got out, you started hauling cocaine and meth. While you were at it, you sold and smoked and snorted practically anything you could get your hands on. Now you’ve killed and cut up a couple of teenagers. They can prove you tied the girl up and had sex with her before you shot her. They’ve got semen from her vagina; the DNA matches yours. They’ve got both victims’ blood all over that little house you rented. Got your signature on the lease at the storage place where you stashed the bodies. That was bright. Didn’t you think they’d start to smell after a few days? They’ve got the kids’ blood and your fingerprints on the chain saw you used to cut them up. And they’ve got a lot more.”

“I don’t care.”

“Really? Why not?”

“Cause I know I done wrong and I deserve to die.”

I nearly fell out of the chair. I’d defended people who had decided to accept their fate and their punishment, but in a death penalty case, it wasn’t so easy to do. There was no way the prosecution was going to offer Maynard anything. He had raped, shot and dismembered a young girl and shot and dismembered her boyfriend, and he was a career criminal. The only thing they’d accept would be Maynard’s pleading guilty to two murders and agreeing to the death penalty, and there was simply no way I was going to let him do that. If the state was going to kill him, it was my duty to make sure they could prove their case. I couldn’t just walk him into court and say, “Okay, we quit. Go ahead and kill my client.” We were going to trial whether Maynard wanted to or not.

“I can appreciate that,” I said, “but you have to understand that we’re going to trial anyway. Maynard, we just got a change of venue. At least you’ll get a fair trial in Mountain City.”

“I don’t want you to put on no witnesses for me,” Maynard said. “You put me up there, I’m gonna tell them I did it.”

“So what am I supposed to do?” I said. “Sit there like a deaf mute?”

“You just do the best you can. God will take care of the rest.”

“Don’t do that to me, Maynard. Don’t tell me you’ve found God in here. I know he’s here, because everybody in here finds him, but if I’m going to try to defend you, you have to help me a little. Don’t leave it in God’s hands. God helps those who help themselves.”

“There’s only one thing I want you to do,” Maynard said, “and it ain’t got nothing to do with the trial.”

“What’s that?”

“I’d like a little privacy is all.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I been writing to this woman on the outside. Her name’s Bonnie Tate. Me and her have got real close, you know? She’s the one that’s made me realize I don’t have to lie no more, God will forgive me and accept me into heaven. I think maybe I’m in love, Dillard. Can you believe it? Ol’ Maynard falling flat out in love with a woman I ain’t never even met. I even tried to write her a little poetry. But that’s the problem. It’s these guards. They look at my mail. They brought the poetry in and gave it to some of the other dudes in here. Them boys been messing with me ever since.”

It wasn’t the first time I’d heard about guards trying to embarrass and humiliate inmates with the contents of their outgoing mail. He was probably telling the truth.

“What do you want me to do?” I said.

“You don’t have to do much. They can’t read letters if I put ‘legal mail’ on the envelope, can they?”

“They’re not supposed to. Communication between client and lawyer is privileged, even if the client is an inmate.”

“All I want to do is put Bonnie’s letters in an envelope and address them to your office. So I’ll write ‘legal mail’ on the envelope, and underneath that I’ll write her initials. When you see it come into the office, all you have to do is either call her up and tell her to come get her letter or forward it on to her. I’ll give you her phone number and address.”

I thought about it for a minute. All he was asking was to be able to write love letters without being humiliated. But then I thought again about who I was dealing with.

“Sorry, Maynard, can’t do it.”

“Why not?”

“It’s probably illegal, and I like life on the outside just fine. If the wrong people found out what I was doing, they’d lock me up.”

“Well can you at least fix it so she can visit me?”

I’d set up jail visits for plenty of clients. It seemed like a reasonable request.

“Now, that I can do. Put her on your visitor’s list.”

“You know something, Dillard?” he said. “I didn’t like you much when I first met you. Thought you was like all them other mush-mouthed lawyers. But at least you try to do the right thing. You been coming up here to see me pretty regular and you been straight with me. I ain’t saying I want to marry you or nothing, but you’re a pretty decent dude.”

I didn’t know what to say. A vicious, cruel, remorseless, murdering sociopath was doing his best to convince me he liked me, and I wondered why.

“Can I ask you a question?” he finally said.

“Sure.”

“How come you do this kind of stuff, Dillard? Ain’t no way you could like it much. How come you defend men like me?”

The question took me by surprise, and I leaned back in the chair for a second. I didn’t want to get into talking about my motivations, and I didn’t want to tell him I was getting out.

“Why do you care?” I said.

“C’mon, Dillard, humor old Maynard. How come you take these death penalty cases?”

“Most of them are appointed. But if you have to know, Maynard, I guess I have this sort of simple philosophy about it. I just don’t think it’s right for a government to pass laws telling its citizens they can’t kill each other and then turn around and kill its citizens. It just seems hypocritical to me.”

Maynard grinned. “You’re a do-gooder, Dillard. That’s what you are.”

“Maybe. Something like that.”

“You’ll take care of the visits, then?” he asked when I didn’t say anything else.

“Yeah, Maynard. I’ll set it up.”

I thought it was the least I could do for a man who was soon to be condemned to die.

Chapter 23

June 16

9:15 p.m.

IT was after nine o’clock when I finally finished with Maynard. It was almost dark, but it was clear and warm and I could see the stars twinkling above the lights in the jail parking lot. I was tired and wanted to get home quickly, so I took a short cut along a back road that bordered Boone Lake. As I drove along with the windows rolled down, I started thinking about how Angel was getting along at the jail. She was locked up with murderers, child abusers, drug addicts, thieves, hookers, and cons. So was Sarah, but Sarah was tough as nails. It had to be incredibly difficult for a young girl. I imagined what it would be like to be caged most of the day and herded like sheep the rest of the time, to be taunted and bullied by guards and inmates, to be subjected to all kinds of physical indignities, to have absolutely no privacy. And if she really was innocent? The thought made me cringe.

I was about halfway home when I noticed headlights in my rear-view mirror. They were approaching fast. I thought about pulling over and letting whoever was in such a hurry pass, but I was on a narrow, curvy stretch of road with steep slopes on both sides. To my right were rocky cliffs, and to my left, thirty feet below, was the lake.

The vehicle behind me turned its headlights on bright when it got to within fifty feet or so. I had to turn the rear view mirror down to keep from being blinded. I slowed and looked in the side-view mirror. The vehicle was right on my tail.

I started tapping the brakes to try to get whoever it was to back off. They didn’t. I sped up around a sharp curve but almost lost control in a patch of gravel. When I got the truck straightened back out, the vehicle bumped me.

“Why, you sorry son of a…”  I slammed on the brakes, and the truck skidded to a halt in the middle of a short straightaway. I kept an old aluminum baseball bat under the seat, and I fully intended to use it to on the person behind me. I reached down and felt for the bat, hoping whoever it was didn’t have a gun.

With a sudden loud crash, my truck lurched forward. I twisted around and looked out the rear windshield over the bed. I could tell that the vehicle silhouetted behind me was a pick-up, bigger than mine, but between the surrounding darkness and the glare of the headlights, I couldn’t make out the color. It was pushing me along the road.

I turned back and grabbed the wheel, trying to hold the truck straight and pushing on the brakes with all my strength. The tires screamed, but the truck began slowly to turn toward the lake. I tried to turn hard to the right, but the truck behind me had gotten its bumper into my left-rear fender and was turning me. I was moving faster by the second, and I had absolutely no control.

A moment later, I felt the right front tire drop off the embankment. I’d been turned almost a hundred and eighty degrees. I looked and at last caught a flash of the truck that was pushing me. It was a silver Dodge. Then the right rear dropped, and my truck was rolling. My head slammed into the steering wheel and I saw a flash of bright light. I felt a brief sense of dizziness as images flashed. I thought I heard a splash, then an explosion, then I thought I was being smothered.

And then it was silent and still. I felt fingers gently rubbing across my forehead.

“Joe,” a voice said. “Joe, honey, it’s time to wake up. C’mon, baby, you have to wake up.” It was Caroline’s voice.

I awoke to the sound of a rushing waterfall. It was dark, and my wife was nowhere to be found. I looked around. I was leaning hard to my right and being restrained by something. I reached down and realized it was a seat belt. Something was pushing against my face. An air bag. My eyes adjusted to the darkness and I remembered that the Dodge had pushed me over the embankment. I was in the lake, and the sound I heard wasn’t a waterfall, it was the lake rushing in through the open passenger window. As I struggled with the seat belt, the truck began to level off and more water started pouring in through the driver’s side.

“I am not going to drown!” I said out loud. “I am not going to drown in this lake tonight!”

I got the belt off, scooted out from beneath the air bag, and crouched in the middle of the seat. Water was pouring in so fast on either side of me that there was no way I could get out. I knew I’d have to wait until the truck was submerged. I looked around frantically. The headlights were still on. I could see bubbles rising as the truck sank in the water. I pulled my shoes off. The water continued to pour and roar.

And then it was black. The water began to cover me. It was so cold I could barely breathe at first. My face was nearly against the roof as the cab finally filled. I took a deep breath and pushed myself through the passenger side window. The truck had started to roll in the water, and for a second, I had no idea which direction to swim.

I thought about the bubbles in the headlights. Bubbles rise, Joe. Follow the bubbles. I let out some air and felt the bubbles rise across my face. I kicked for my life, and a few seconds later, I broke the surface. It was eerily quiet, but the moon gave off enough light that I could make out the features of the landscape around me. I was only about twenty feet from the steep, rocky bank where I’d gone over. I looked up to see whether whoever tried to kill me – and I knew it had to be Junior Tester – was still there. I couldn’t see or hear anyone.

Boone is a mountain lake, and the water was bone-chilling. My teeth started chattering and my hands and feet were already beginning to tingle. I knew I had to get out fast. I swam for the bank, got hold of some overhanging brush, and pulled myself up onto the rocks. I sat there for a couple of minutes, caught my breath, and tried to compose myself.

I took inventory of my body first. I didn’t seem to be hurt too badly. My ribs and chest were sore, but I didn’t think I had any broken bones. All of my joints seemed to be in working order and I didn’t have any trouble making a fist with either hand. I noticed something warm running down my face and touched it. I was bleeding from a cut above my left eye. It was tender and beginning to swell, but I didn’t think it was too serious. I looked up the bank and realized how far the truck had fallen. I was lucky to be alive.

It took me at least ten minutes to crawl up the rocky slope to the road. I crouched in some brush for several minutes. A couple of cars went by, but I was afraid to stand up and wave for fear that Junior might come back. I finally mustered the courage to get up and start walking down the asphalt road. I knew there were houses about a mile away. After about a quarter-mile, I found myself wishing I hadn’t shed my shoes.

As I walked down the road with my socks squishing and the warm blood running down the side of my face, I wondered if Junior thought he’d succeeded in killing me. What about Caroline and Lilly? Would he be crazy enough to go after one of them? I felt my heart quicken, and I began to jog.

A short time later, I made my way to a farmhouse set about a hundred yards off the road. Nearly every light in the house was on. As I climbed the steps, I looked down and noticed the front of my shirt was soaked with blood. I wondered what kind of reception I’d get when the person who answered the door saw a blood-soaked stranger wearing a tie and no shoes standing on the porch.

I knocked. A small dog immediately started yapping, and a woman who looked to be around seventy appeared at the door. She pulled the curtain aside and peered up at me through oval-shaped glasses. Her gray hair was pulled into a tight bun. A look of horror immediately came over her face – I must have looked even worse than I felt.

“What do ye want?” she yelled through the door.

“I’ve been in an accident,” I said. “I need to use your phone.”

“Air ye drunk?”

“No ma’am.”

She looked me up and down. “Soaking wet and ye ain’t got no shoes. Where’s yer shoes?”

“In the lake,” I said. “My car went into the lake. I had to swim out.”

“Ye drove yer car into the lake? What’d ye do a fool thing like that fer?”

“I didn’t mean to, ma’am. It was an accident. Please, if you could just hand the phone out the door, I’d really appreciate it.”

“Yer bleeding like a stuck hog.”

“I know. I hit my head.”

“Got a name?”

“Dillard. My name is Joe Dillard.”

“Dillard? Any kin to Hobie and Rena Dillard out Sulphur Springs?”

“I don’t think so. Please, ma’am, do you have a phone I can use?”

“Well, I reckon,” she said after a thoughtful moment. “You don’t look like a hoodlum.”

She opened the door and I stumbled in. It must have been the tie.

Chapter 24

June 16

11:00 p.m.

I’D called Caroline from the mountain woman’s house, and she and Lilly had come to pick me up. Lilly started crying when she saw me. After I got into the car and things settled down a little, I told Caroline what happened and who I thought had pushed me into the lake.

“What are you going to do?” she said.

“I’m not sure. Guess I’ll start by calling the police.”

I used Caroline’s cell phone to call nine-one-one from the car. Mine was at the bottom of Boone Lake in the console of my truck. I told the dispatcher what had happened and that I was headed to the emergency room. She said they’d send someone up.

Since the attack had occurred in the county, jurisdiction for my attempted murder fell to the Washington County Sheriff’s Department. An investigator showed up and stood beside the gurney while a doctor stitched up my eye.

The damage amounted to a bruised sternum, a few bruised ribs, and a two-inch gash above the orbital bone that surrounded my left eye. The doctor covered the eye while he stitched, so I could only see the investigator who’d been dispatched to talk to me out of my right eye. His name was Sam Wiseman. Sam was almost seven feet tall and had to weigh in the neighborhood of four hundred pounds. He was a surly man, and he had no compunction about letting me know that he didn’t like me. His feelings stemmed from a case I’d defended a couple of years earlier. A group of teenagers had vandalized a Baptist church in the county. They broke every pane of glass in the place and threw paint and mustard and anything else they could find all over the sanctuary. By the time they were finished, they’d done more than fifty thousand dollars’ worth of damage. Sam caught the case, and unfortunately for my client, a fifteen-year-old girl named Delores McKinney, the church they vandalized happened to be the church that Sam attended every Sunday with his mother.

Sam insisted that every one of the juveniles go off to detention for at least a year, a demand I considered unreasonable since my client was a good student, had no record whatsoever, admitted what she’d done after she sobered up, and her parents were more than willing to reimburse the church for her share of the damages. She pleaded guilty to vandalism, and I hired a psychologist for the sentencing hearing. When the juvenile court judge heard how much the kids had to drink, heard that they stole the booze and the pills they took from their own parents, and heard the shrink testify about peer pressure and gang mentality, she put them all on probation. Sam blamed it on me.

As I lay on the gurney, I ran back through the night’s events for Sam and told him about Tester’s son and what had happened in the courtroom at Angel’s arraignment. The problem was that I hadn’t actually seen the person driving the truck either time. I didn’t even have a tag number.

“I can’t get a warrant based on what you’ve told me,” Sam said.

“I know.”

“I can find out where he lives and see if the sheriff will let me go down and talk to him tomorrow.”

“I doubt he’ll admit to anything.”

“There might be some damage on his truck, but you have to understand it’ll be hard to prove. If you’re going to accuse a sheriff’s deputy of doing something this crazy, you’re going to need more than suspicion.”

“I understand.”

Sam finished taking his notes and gruffly told me he’d make sure my insurance company got a copy of his report. The doctor finished stitching me up, and Caroline, Lilly, and I walked out the door. We started home in silence.

“What are you going to do?” Caroline asked again about ten minutes later.

“I’m not sure, but you and Lilly have to be extra careful now, do you understand? Maybe you should go away for a couple of weeks.”

“I’m not about to let some lunatic run me out of my home,” Caroline said.

“He’s a dangerous lunatic, Caroline. Aren’t you just a little afraid?”

“A little, but if he comes anywhere near the house Rio will tear his leg off, and if he gets past Rio, I have a big, strong Ranger to take care of me.”

“He almost got the best of your big, strong Ranger tonight.”

“But he didn’t, did he? My Ranger lives to fight another day.”

It was past midnight when we got home, and I was sore and tired. Lilly was still upset, so I told her to sleep in our bed. After we were sure she was asleep, I double-checked to make sure all the doors and windows were locked. Caroline had taken a seat on the couch in the den, and I went in and lay down with my head in her lap.

“You saved my life tonight,” I said as she stroked my forehead.

“Really? How?”

“When I went over the bank, I hit my head on the steering wheel. It knocked me out, but this voice kept telling me to wake up. It was your voice. You woke me up before I drowned.”

She leaned over and kissed me softly.

“I’ll always be there when you need me, babe,” she said. “Always.”

I closed my eyes with the taste of her mouth lingering, and somehow managed to drift off to sleep.

Chapter 25

June 17

Midnight

I was so sore the next morning I could barely get off the couch, so I spent the day at home, looking out the window, worrying and wondering. I called Jack a little before noon, but I didn’t tell him anything about Junior Tester. He’d been invited to play baseball for Martinsville in the Coastal Plains League over the summer and was having the time of his life. He said he was still hitting the ball great and had talked to several big league scouts. I promised him I’d make it up there to see him play sometime soon.

Sam Wiseman called at two-thirty in the afternoon and told me he’d called the Cocke County Sheriff’s Department and learned that Tester had taken a week’s vacation.

“I called his house, but nobody answered,” Sam said.

“Are you planning to go down there?”

“I ran it by my supervisor. He said since you didn’t see the driver and don’t have a tag number, it’d be a waste of time.”

“What if the front end of his truck is banged up like you said at the hospital? What if it has paint on it the same color as my truck?”

“You know how it is around here. We’ve only got five investigators to cover three shifts. There’s been a string of burglaries we’re working, and the boss wants me to keep concentrating on that. He said he can’t let me go chasing around Cocke County on a case I don’t have much chance of making.”

“That’s great, Sam. What about my family?”

“What about them?”

“Can’t you spare anyone to look out for them? At least for a few days?”

“We barely have enough road deputies to cover patrols. Besides, you haven’t exactly…” His voice trailed off without finishing the sentence, but the tone alarmed me.

“I haven’t exactly what, Sam?”

“You haven’t exactly made a bunch of friends around here over the years, you know. Not many people here are willing to go out of their way to help you.”

“So you’re telling me that the sheriff’s department won’t help me because I’m a defense lawyer?”

“I’m telling you we only have five investigators to cover three shifts, we don’t have enough patrol deputies to provide security for one family, we have a lot of other cases, and you’re accusing a law enforcement officer of a serious crime with no real evidence to back it up. I’m afraid there isn’t much I can do.”

“So what am I supposed to do? Wait for him to come back?”

“Maybe you ought to buy a gun.”

“I already have guns. I was hoping you guys would do something so I wouldn’t have to use them.”

“Sorry. Like I said, we’re not going to be able to do anything right now.”

“Thanks, Sam. Thanks for nothing.”

I hung up the phone, walked into the den, and sat down at the computer, as angry as I’d ever been in my life. It didn’t take me long to find Junior Tester’s address and phone number on the internet. Mapquest even gave me directions to his house. I printed the directions and memorized the phone number, something that had always come easy for me. Once the numbers were in my brain, they stayed there for years. I spent the rest of the day trying to think of the various situations I might run into if I actually did what I was thinking of doing.

At 11:30 p.m., after the evening routines were all finished and Lilly had gone to bed – in our room again – I asked Caroline to sit down at the kitchen table. I told her about my conversation with Sam Wiseman and that the police weren’t going to help. Finally, I took a deep breath.

“I’m going down there,” I said.

“Where?” Caroline said.

“To Newport. To find Junior.”

“When?”

“Tonight. Now.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I am.”

“No, you’re not. No way.”

“I’m going, Caroline. You can’t stop me.”

“And just what do you propose to do when you find him?” Her voice took on some intensity, and she stood up. Neither was a good sign.

“I’m not sure, but I can’t just sit around here. The police aren’t going to do anything, so I have to take care of this myself. Sit back down and talk to me. Try to be rational.”

“Rational? Did I just hear you say rational? You’re talking about going out in the middle of the night to an insane man’s house to do God knows what and you’re telling me to be rational? You’re as crazy as he is!”

I stood up and started toward the bedroom with Caroline right on my heels.

“He’s a police officer, Joe,” she said. “He’s going to have a gun, you know.” The words were staccato and her voice was a tone I’d only heard a couple of times during all the years we’d been together.

“Keep your voice down. Lilly’s sleeping.”

“Don’t tell me to keep my voice down. Wake up, Lilly! Your dad’s about to do something insane! You better kiss him goodbye, because you might never see him again!”

Lilly stirred and groaned, but she could sleep through a hurricane.

“Leave her out of this,” I said. I walked into my closet and grabbed up a pair of black jeans, a navy blue hooded sweatshirt, a pair of old combat boots, and a black stocking cap.  Then I hurried back out to the kitchen and started to change clothes. Caroline was hovering like an attack helicopter.

“I have to do something to this guy,” I said as I pulled off my shirt. “If I don’t, we’re all going to spend our lives looking over our shoulders. Think, Caroline, think about what he did. He staked us out. He stalked you. He followed me and ran my truck into the lake. He tried to kill me. What do you want me to do? Sit back and give him another chance, because I guarantee you he’ll try again as soon as he finds out I’m still breathing. Or maybe he’ll try to kill you next time. Or Lilly. Or maybe he’ll wait until he gets a shot at all of us at the same time. Three for the price of one.”

“I don’t care, Joe. I-”

“Yes, you do. You care. You care about me and you care about Lilly and you care about living. And as much as you want to think we should be civilized right now, as much as you want to deal with this rationally, there comes a time, Caroline. There comes a time when meeting violence with violence is the best way, the only way.”

“So you’re going to hurt him?”

“I’m not planning to kill him, but I’m not going to give him a hug, either. I have to let him know if he comes after any of us, there’ll be consequences. I have to show him that I’m willing to cross the same line he crossed.”

“I’m going with you.”

“No. You have to stay here with Lilly. We can’t leave her here alone. I promise I’ll stay in touch. I’ll—”

“No, Joe. This is too weird.”

I looked her in the eye. “You know I love you, you know I respect you, but—”

“Don’t patronize me.”

“I’m not patronizing you, but I’m telling you I’m going. You can yell and scream all you want. You can call the cops for all I care. I’ve made up my mind, Caroline. I’m going.”

She took a long, slow breath. “Have you thought this through?”

“Of course I’ve thought it through.” I sat down in one of the chairs at the table and started lacing my boots. “I’ve thought about it all day, and to be honest, I have no clue what’s going to happen when I get down there. Maybe nothing will happen.”

“I’m too young to be a widow.”

“And I’m too young to make you one.”

I got up and grabbed a lighter out of a drawer in the kitchen and a bottle of water from the refrigerator. I opened the bottle, poured the water into the sink, screwed the cap back on, and headed for the garage. Leaning against the wall was an old hickory walking stick I’d bought during a trip to Grandfather Mountain, North Carolina, a few years ago. It was four feet long and hard as steel. I picked it up and looked at it. Caroline was standing in the doorway, eyeing me.

“I need your cell phone,” I said.

“Why?”

“Because mine’s at the bottom of Boone Lake. Just get it. Please?”

She disappeared for a second, came back to the doorway and tossed me her phone.

“You’re taking a walking stick to a gunfight?” she said.

“If things go right, he won’t get a chance to shoot at me.”

“Sometimes things don’t go the way you plan them. And speaking of plans, do you have one?”

“Sort of.”

“What is it?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“Yes I do.”

“Trust me, you don’t.”

I walked over to the five-gallon container that held gasoline for the lawn mowers and filled the water bottle with gas.

“Are you going to throw a Molotov cocktail at him?” Caroline said.

“Not exactly.”

“Then what’s the bottle of gas for?”

“Diversion, if I need it. Or maybe bait.”

The last thing I picked up was a small flashlight off the shelf in the garage. Rio was following me every step of the way, whimpering. He knew I was going somewhere and didn’t want to miss out on the fun. I tossed the stick, the plastic bottle of gas, and the flashlight into the passenger side of Caroline’s Honda and shut the door.

“Keep Rio close while I’m gone,” I said. Caroline was still standing in the doorway with her arms folded. “The shotgun’s locked and loaded behind the door in the bedroom. You know how to use it.”

She started chewing on her fist. I could see tears welling in her eyes. “I want to go,” she said. “I can’t stand the thought of sitting here waiting. By the time you get back, I’ll be insane.”

“I’ll be fine,” I said. “Try not to worry.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“I have to do this.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I can handle myself, Caroline.” I walked up to the door and took her in my arms. “I’ll call you on the house phone when it’s done. Don’t call me, please. I don’t want to worry about the cell phone ringing.”

“You be back here by four,” she said, “and you better be in one piece.”

“You sound like my mother.”

I kissed her and got in the car. Junior’s place was almost seventy miles away. As I drove down Interstate 81 toward Newport, I ran through the possibilities. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that Caroline was right. I was doing something crazy and dangerous. I had a vague plan in mind, but I wasn’t sure how I was going to get close to him, if he was home. It was after midnight, so I couldn’t just waltz up to the front door and knock. Junior would have to be paranoid after what he’d done to me. If I went to the door after midnight, he’d be sure to answer it with a gun in his hand. And to make matters worse, I didn’t know anything about his house, his neighborhood, whether he had a dog… I didn’t know a thing. When I was a Ranger, I went on several recon missions. During the missions, my job was to make accurate assessments of enemy strengths and positions so the commanders would know what they were up against. It would have been nice to have had the same luxury before I went to Junior’s, but I was going in blind.

The miles passed quickly, but not quietly. A debate was raging inside my head, as though a tiny Caroline was perched on one shoulder and a tiny Joe was perched on the other.

Turn around and go home. You might get yourself killed.

He tried to kill you. He was stalking your wife. Your kids might be next. The police won’t do a thing.

I kept driving.

I made it to Newport in just over an hour. It’s a small town, so it took me only a few minutes to find Junior’s place, which was about a half-mile outside the city limits. I was relieved to see that it was relatively isolated, the nearest neighbor more than a hundred yards away. I drove by slowly the first time. There was a black mailbox on a post at the end of the driveway with “Tester” stenciled on it in slightly crooked white letters. The house was a small, brick ranch that sat on a rectangular lot bordered by scruffy pines. There were no security lights, and I didn’t see any lights on in the house. One of two small outbuildings looked like a garage. After I made the first pass, I drove about a mile down the road, turned around, and made another pass. I thought about Junior driving by my house and stalking Caroline. Now it was my turn.

I found an apartment complex about a quarter-mile from his house, parked the car in a corner of the lot, grabbed the hickory stick, the bottle of gas, and the flashlight, and started walking. The streets were deserted. It was around fifty degrees, and the moon was low in the west. Some cloud cover would have been nice, but the Rangers had trained me to use the shadows. They’d trained me to make myself invisible in all kinds of terrain and conditions. They’d also taught me the value of surprise in an ambush and they’d taught me plenty about hand-to-hand combat. If I could surprise him and get my hands on him, I knew I could handle Junior Tester.

When I got back to his place, I cut in and moved along the pine trees to the back of the lot. I crept around the entire lot, staying in the shadows of the pines, looking for a light in the house or signs of movement. Nothing. From what Diane Frye had told me, I knew Junior didn’t have a wife or kids, but I wasn’t sure about a dog. I was relieved when nothing moved or barked. Once I was sure nobody was stirring, I walked out of the trees and up to the garage. It was only big enough for one vehicle, and it was empty. The other outbuilding was a storage shed that contained a few tools and a pile of junk, but there was plenty of fuel for a small fire. I crept to the back of the house and stood there listening for several minutes. It was silent.

I moved slowly around the entire house, trying unsuccessfully to see something inside through the windows. No television, no radio, no bathroom light or night light, nothing. When I’d circled the house and was again near the back door, I moved quietly up the concrete steps and turned the doorknob. It was unlocked. I stood there for a second, debating whether I should step inside and add breaking and entering to what could soon be a long list of crimes I’d committed. I decided against it. If he was there, I needed to get him outside. It was time to put my “plan” into action.

I jogged back out to the shed and stepped inside. I turned on the flashlight, grabbed up some rags and several pieces of wood, turned the flashlight off, and walked back outside. I piled the wood and rags up about ten feet from the shed, where Junior could see it if he looked out the back door. Then I took Caroline’s cell phone out of my pocket, turned it on, set the block function, and dialed the number I’d memorized earlier in the day. In less than ten seconds, I heard a phone ringing in the house. Once. Twice. Three times. Four.

A light came on at the back corner of the house. I quickly doused the pile of rags and wood with the gasoline from the bottle, trailed some gasoline to a safe distance, and lit it with the lighter. The pile ignited with a whoosh. Eight rings. Nine.

I ran back toward the house and crouched down by the back stoop. Answer the phone! Answer the phone! Ten rings.

The cell phone clicked in my ear.

“Hello?”

“Junior,” I said. “It looks like your shed’s on fire.”

“What? Who is this?”

“It looks like your shed’s on fire. I’m calling the fire department.”

I hung up, stuffed the phone back into my pocket, and waited. I could hear quick, heavy steps coming toward the back door. I stood and flattened my back against the side of the house.

Come outside. Please, come outside.

I heard the doorknob turn, and the door opened. A form appeared on the stoop within three feet of me. It was him.

“What the…?” I heard him say.

He started down the steps. Just as he got to the bottom, I gripped the walking stick with both hands and came off the wall. I dropped to one knee and swung the stick with everything I had. There was a loud crack as the stick caught him across the shin. He howled and fell to his knees.

I dropped the stick and threw myself at him. I managed to get my forearm beneath his chin and climbed onto his back. I got him into a strong chokehold and squeezed as hard as I could. I felt him kicking as I wrapped my legs around his torso and pulled him backward on top of me.

He tried to reach back to claw my face, but the more he struggled, the tighter I squeezed. After fifteen seconds or so, his strength began to wane.

“Good thing I can swim,” I said quietly into his ear.

At the sound of my voice, he stiffened.

“You see how easy this was?” I said, letting up just a little. “If you ever come near me or anyone in my family again, I swear I’ll kill you. They’ll never find your body.”

I tightened my grip on him again, and he passed out in less than thirty seconds. As soon as I felt him go limp, I let go and started patting him down. The front of his pajamas was soaked, and I smelled urine. To my relief and surprise, my little ruse had worked better than I’d hoped. He didn’t even have a gun. I moved over to where I’d dropped my stick, picked it up, then crawled back on top of him.

He opened his eyes about a minute later to find me straddling him. I’d pinned his shoulders to the ground with my knees and had the hickory stick pressed firmly against his throat. He stared at me with the same intense hatred I’d seen at the courthouse.

“Consider me your living, breathing restraining order,” I said. “Don’t ever come near me or my family again. Do you understand?”

He began to breathe heavily and his blue eyes looked as if they were about to pop out of his head. He was like a volcano, about to explode with fury.

“You took my daddy from me!” he yelled.

What? Took your daddy? The strange comment surprised me.

“I didn’t do anything to your daddy.”

“You told people he went to that terrible place! You told people he was drowning in sin! I heard you in the courtroom.”

“I told people the truth. Your father took money from a revival and spent it at a strip club.”

“Liar! Blasphemer!” He tried to raise up but I shoved down hard on the stick, cutting off his breath. He froze again, and a sudden realization came to me. The look on his face, the outlandish comment, the pain in his voice, told me I’d shattered a powerful image, the image of a father held by a son. What was it Diane had said? “He idolized his daddy.” The words I’d spoken in court had apparently opened a gaping wound in his soul, and the wound was festering.

I kept the pressure on with the stick and leaned closer to him.

“Your daddy wasn’t the man you thought he was,” I said. “That’s not my fault. I didn’t take him away from you – he did that all by himself. You remember what I said. If you come anywhere near me again, you’ll be joining your daddy. I’ll shoot you on sight.”

His eyes narrowed and bored into me. “Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,” he said, “I shall fear no evil-”

“Shut your mouth!” The words came out of me with such force that I sprayed him with spit. I grabbed his chin with my left hand, rolled his head to the side, and pressed the stick down hard on his carotid artery. Fifteen seconds later, he was unconscious again. For a moment, I envisioned myself smashing his head to a pulp with the stick. If you kill him, you won’t have to worry about him any more. But I couldn’t do it. I stood up, turned around, and took off running.

A half-hour later, driving along in the dark silence, the anger and bravado I’d felt earlier, along with the adrenaline, started to subside. In my mind, I envisioned Junior’s head exploding as I beat him with the stick and re-lived the fleeting feeling of satisfaction the fantasy had given me. I smelled the urine and felt his labored breath on my face. I began to shake, and before long I was trembling so badly I had to pull to the side of the road.

What had I just done? I’d gone to a man’s home in the middle of the night, attacked him, threatened him, and even fantasized about killing him.

But he tried to kill you.

That doesn’t matter and you know it. You’re not a vigilante. How many people have you defended who did something stupid and violent because they thought it was right? You’re rationalizing.

I thought about the look in his eyes while I was straddling him. My intention had been to scare him so badly that he’d leave me and my family alone, but that look – that angry, pained, insane look – told me I’d failed. He wasn’t afraid of me. He either hated me too much to be afraid or he was just too crazy to care. As I tried to control the trembling, I looked at myself in the rear-view mirror.

“Caroline was right,” I said aloud. “You’re as crazy as he is.”

Chapter 26

June 23

9:20 a.m.

AGENT Landers’s head was pounding, his back and shoulders aching. The little college cheerleader he’d laid hold of last night must have been more athletic than he thought. Not that he remembered much about her. He drank almost a fifth of Jim Beam.

Landers was sitting at his desk going through a box of physical evidence from the Angel Christian case. He had to meet with Joe Dillard later. Dillard had a right to inspect the physical evidence. Landers wouldn’t go to Dillard’s office and Dillard wouldn’t come to his, so they were going to meet in a conference room at the courthouse in the afternoon.

Landers was worried about the case. Deacon Baker had indicted the Christian girl without much evidence hoping she’d either confess or roll on Erlene Barlowe. She hadn’t done either, and now Dillard was representing her. Dillard was scum, but he knew how to try a case. Landers knew there was a good possibility that they might lose, and to make things even worse, Judge Green had scheduled the trial a couple of weeks before the August election. If Deacon lost this case, he could very well find his fat butt on the outside looking in the day after the election.

Landers didn’t care about Deacon, but he’d been around long enough to know that sewage flows downhill. If the case was lost, Deacon would immediately start looking around for someone to blame. Since Landers was the case agent, Deacon would look in his direction first. Deacon would tell anyone who’d listen that it was Landers’s fault, that Landers had been sloppy or that Landers had talked Deacon into indicting Angel without enough evidence for a conviction. If that happened, Landers knew he could kiss his chances at a promotion goodbye when his boss finally retired.

Landers had just picked up the photograph of Angel with the bruise on her face when the secretary buzzed.

“There’s a man on the phone says he has information about the Tester murder,” she said.

Landers punched the flashing button.

“Who is this?”

“My name is Virgil Watterson. I have some information you may be able to use.”

“What information is that?”

“My understanding is that a body part was found out near Picken’s Bridge?”

A crank call. Some pervert wanting to talk about the dead preacher’s genitalia.

“That’s right. What about it?”

“I crossed the bridge the night of the murder, around one in the morning. When I got onto the bridge, I noticed there was a car stopped right in the middle. As I got closer, I saw a woman standing outside the car near the railing. She could have thrown something in the water.”

What was this? A witness? Where had this guy been?

“Did you get a look at her?”

“Sure did. Her car was facing me in the other lane and she was walking back toward it. Caught her full in my headlights. Middle-aged woman, wearing some kind of animal print jacket and the tightest pants I ever saw. Bright red hair.”

Erlene Barlowe. It had to be her. Landers started scratching notes on a pad. “Would you recognize her if you saw her again?”

“Probably.”

“What about the car? You get a look at it?”

“Yes, sir. The bridge is narrow so I had to slow way down to get past her. It was a Corvette. A nice one.”

“Get a plate number?”

“No. Sorry.”

“What about the color?”

“It was dark out there, but I’m pretty sure it was red.”

“Was anyone else with her on the bridge?”

“I didn’t see a soul.”

“Anyone else in the car?”

“Not that I saw.”

“Why’d you wait so long to call and tell us about this, Mr… did you say your name is Watterson?”

“Yes. Virgil Watterson. I’m afraid it’s a little embarrassing.”

“Embarrassing?”

“I wouldn’t want this to get out.”

“Wouldn’t want what to get out?”

The man’s voice got quieter, as though he was trying to keep someone nearby from hearing what he was saying.

“It’s my wife, you see. I’m a married man.”

“So?”

“I’d been on a business trip and came back a little early. I was on my way to someone’s house.”

“Who is this someone?”

“I’d rather not say.”

The light came on in Landers’s mind.

“So you came back early from your trip and we’re going to visit someone besides your wife?”

“That’s possible.”

“And you didn’t go home until the next day?”

“That’s right.”

“And then you heard about the murder and put two and two together?”

“Exactly.”

“I understand,” Landers said. “So why have you suddenly changed your mind? Why are you coming forward now?”

“I can’t stop thinking about it. I dream about that woman on the bridge every night. I’m afraid you may have arrested the wrong person. My conscience just can’t bear it.”

Landers sat back and rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand. A steady pressure was beginning to build just beneath his temples.

“Is there anything else you want to tell me, Mr. Watterson?”

“Not that I can think of.”

“Would you be willing to give me a written statement if I need one?”

“I guess I could if I have to.”

“Would you be willing to testify in court?”

“I’d rather not.”

Landers wrote down Watterson’s address and phone number and told him he’d be back in touch. If Watterson was telling the truth, Erlene Barlowe could well have tossed Reverend Tester’s private part into the lake. Maybe even the murder weapon. Landers wrote himself a note to have the sheriff’s department drag the lake under the bridge again. They’d already done it once, but they hadn’t come up with anything.

Since Watterson said the woman on the bridge was alone, Angel Christian was either still at the club or Erlene had taken her home. Either way, it probably took Angel out of the picture so far as the murder was concerned. Deacon Baker – that imbecile. Landers told him he was pulling the trigger too early. He told him the case was thin. Now it looked like Watterson might be right – they arrested the wrong person.

Landers sat there trying to decide what to do. He could go out and take a written statement from Watterson and add it to the district attorney’s file, but if he did that, Dillard would be entitled to a copy of the statement and Deacon would accuse Landers of sabotaging the case. Payback would be hell. Landers figured the better option would be to tell Deacon about Watterson’s call and force him to decide what to do. Landers had a pretty good idea what Deacon would say. He wasn’t one to openly admit a mistake.

Landers called Deacon’s office, and for once, he was in. Landers told him about Watterson and the woman on the bridge.

“Doesn’t sound like a very reliable witness to me,” Deacon said. Landers knew it. He knew Deacon would say something like that.

“You know what this means, don’t you?” Landers said. “If Erlene Barlowe was standing in the middle of the bridge that night and she was alone, we probably arrested the wrong person.”

“I don’t recall any of the Barlowe woman’s DNA being found on the victim,” Deacon said, “and it had to be dark out there. No way this guy could make a positive ID.”

“You didn’t hear his description. It was her.”

“So? What do you want me to do, Phil? You want me to publicly announce that we charged the wrong person with first-degree murder? What do I say? Oops? Gee, we’re sorry? Six weeks before an election? You’re out of your mind.”

“So you’re asking me to ignore a material witness in a murder investigation.”

“I’m asking you to ignore an unreliable and irrelevant witness who will do nothing but muddy the water and give Dillard more ammunition when we go to trial. As far as I’m concerned, we’ve got the right person. Her DNA was found on the body, she had contact with the victim earlier that evening, we have a witness who says she left the club at the same time as the victim, and she’s refused to talk to us. And what if we did dismiss on the girl and arrest Barlowe? What evidence do we have that she committed the murder?”

“She lied to me from the start, and I can’t quit thinking about that car. Watterson said he saw a red Corvette on the bridge.”

“Then find it! But until you do, I’d appreciate it if you’d stop trying to help the other side!”

With that, Deacon hung up. Landers wadded up his notes and tossed them in the trash.

Chapter 27

June 23

3:30 p.m.

ON Monday, I called Phil Landers’s office to set up a time when I could take a look at the physical evidence they intended to present at Angel Christian’s trial. It was my right as a defense attorney and I was always diligent about doing it, but the meeting loomed like a dentist’s appointment for a root canal.

The bad blood between us went back more than ten years. Landers had been sleeping with a woman who’d just gone through an acrimonious divorce. The woman told Landers her ex-husband was a small-time pot dealer and asked Landers to arrest the guy as a favor to her. She gave Landers the make and model of her ex’s car and told him which bar her ex was likely to be hanging out in. She said if Landers would just wait in the parking lot outside the bar for her ex-husband to leave, he’d be sure to make an arrest for driving under the influence and probably find more than a little marijuana.

So Landers did what she asked. He waited in the parking lot until the ex left and then, when the guy didn’t give him a legitimate reason to stop his vehicle, Landers made one up. He arrested the man for DUI, searched the car, and found an ounce of marijuana.

The ex-husband, a man named Shane Boyd, hired me to represent him. He had no idea he’d been set up until his ex-wife grounded their teenage daughter for staying out too late on a Saturday night two weeks after he was arrested. The girl was angry, so she called Shane and told him that both she and her boyfriend had heard her mother and Landers talk about the set-up. The teenagers came into my office and signed sworn affidavits. I filed a motion to suppress all of the evidence based on Landers having had no legitimate reason to stop the vehicle.

When it came time for the hearing, Landers got on the witness stand and lied. He denied he even knew Shane Boyd’s ex-wife. He said he stopped my client’s vehicle “because he failed to activate his turn signal before making a left turn.” I knew TBI agents didn’t routinely make traffic stops, and so did the judge. I called the daughter and boyfriend to the stand and subpoenaed Shane’s ex-wife. She was afraid of getting charged with perjury, so she admitted the affair with Landers, admitted she’d asked him to arrest her ex, but swore she never dreamed he’d do it.

The judge was so outraged that Landers had committed perjury in his courtroom that he dismissed the case and wrote a letter to Landers’s supervisor at the TBI, but nothing happened. It was my first reality check when it came to cops committing perjury. Since then, I’d questioned everything Landers did in every case I had that involved him. I didn’t trust him, and I didn’t have any problem letting him know it.

We set our evidence meeting for three-fifteen, but knowing Landers would enjoy making me wait, I didn’t show up until three-thirty. He wasn’t there, so I sat down at the table and fumed for a little while. I was about to leave when he finally walked through the door in his expensive, gray suit, carrying a cardboard box under his arm. Landers is around my age, a couple of inches shorter than me, in pretty good shape, and has blue eyes and short brown hair. I suppose he’s handsome – he certainly thinks he is – but there were dark circles under his eyes and I could smell booze on him. It was the kind of smell you can’t shower off, the kind that comes from your pores.

“You’re a half-hour late,” I said as I stood up.

“Yeah?” he said with a smirk, “sue me.”

He started taking things out of his cardboard box, the last item being a photograph of Angel. She was sitting at a table looking up at the camera, and she had what appeared to be a bruise on her left cheek. The photograph was dated two days after Tester’s murder. Angel hadn’t mentioned anything to me about the police taking her picture, and the photograph wasn’t in the initial packet of discovery material I’d picked up from the D.A.’s office. As soon as I saw the photo, I knew I’d need to file a motion to keep them from being able to use it at trial. Unless they had some concrete proof of how Angel got the bruise, the photo could unfairly prejudice a jury.

“So I hear Bill Wright’s about to retire,” I said, trying to keep things civil. “Who’s next in line?”

“No such thing as next in line,” Landers said. “The job will go to whoever the suits think is best.”

“Who do you think it will be?”

“What do you care?” He looked at me as if I were a fly on his wrist, nothing more than a nuisance.

“Just trying to make a little friendly small talk. No point in us being at each other’s throats all the time.”

He raised his nose in the air like he was sniffing me. It wrinkled, as though he found the scent repugnant.

“Hate to disappoint you,” he said, “but I don’t think me and you will ever be friends. I don’t like lawyers, especially defense lawyers who do everything they can to get criminals off on technicalities.”

“You misunderstand my role,” I said. “I just try to make sure you guys follow your own rules. If you were in the same boat as my clients, you’d want everybody to play fair, wouldn’t you?”

“If I were in the same boat as your clients, I’d sink it and swim away. Now are you going to look at this stuff, or did you get me down here to chit-chat? Because to be honest with you, I’m not in a real chatty mood today.”

I slid the items across the table and looked them over.

“Why’d you take this picture?” I said, holding up the photo of Angel. “And what’s it doing in your evidence file?”

“Why do you think I took it? Look at her. Somebody cracked her in the face. We’re gonna show it to the jury.”

“Any proof of how she got the bruise? What if she slipped on a banana peel?”

“She can explain it on the witness stand.”

“If the judge lets it in.” I tossed the photo back onto the table. “I’m going to file a motion to keep it out.”

“You see?” Landers said. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about. This photograph was taken two days after the murder. Her hair was found on the dead guy, and she just happens to have a nasty bruise on her face. The logical conclusion is that she got the bruise during a struggle with the victim. But then you come along and want to keep the jury from finding out about it.”

“Is this all you’ve got?” I said. “I see some photos of Tester, a photo of what looks like a shriveled penis, a photo of Angel, a couple of hairs, a couple of lab reports, and some bank records showing that Tester withdrew money from the strip club’s ATM. Is that it?”

“It’ll be enough to convict that little tramp of murder.”

“It’s not enough to convict her of simple assault.”

“That’s what I like to hear,” Landers said. “You just keep thinking that way.”

“The evidence in this case is as weak as any I’ve ever seen.”

“Since when is DNA evidence weak?’

“Her hair probably got on him while he was groping her at the club,” I said.

“Maybe. You can go ahead and try to sell that to the jury, but the fact is that her hair was found on his corpse in his room.”

“It’s not enough.”

“Our witness says your girl and Barlowe followed the victim out of the club that night. They were the last people to see him alive.”

“Your witness is a lying prostitute with a drug problem.”

“And your client is a mystery woman who was working in a strip club. A stranger. Not from around here. Jury won’t exactly love her, especially when they see that bruise on her face.”

“You don’t have a murder weapon or a motive.”

“Don’t need either one. We’ve got enough circumstantial evidence to get a conviction. And you know what? I think something else will come up before this is over.”

“Something else already has come up. You’ve heard of Virgil Watterson, haven’t you? I think you talked to him this morning.”

There was a long, tense silence.

“How would you know that?”

“He called me first. He described what he saw on the bridge that night. He said he thinks you guys arrested the wrong person. Just trying to do the right thing, you know? I told him he should call you and tell you what he saw and maybe you’d try to make it right. He called me back after he talked to you. Said you didn’t sound all that interested in his information. I should’ve known better.”

“He’s not reliable. He waited two months before he even bothered to call.”

“He’s worried about his marriage.”

“It was dark out there, after midnight. No way he could have made an identification.”

“He saw Erlene. She was alone. He saw the Corvette. It’s consistent with what Julie Hayes is saying. What’s the matter with you? You guys should be taking a closer look at Erlene Barlowe.”

“And you should mind your own shop. I don’t need your advice.”

“So you’re going to ignore him.”

“Ignore who? Far as I’m concerned, he never called.”

Someone banged on the door, and it opened. A police officer named Harold “Bull” Deakins walked in. He and Landers were drinking buddies, legendary carousers. Deakins’s nickname was well deserved. His shoulders barely fit through the door.

“They told me I’d find you down here,” he said to Landers. Landers’s eyes didn’t move, and neither did mine. Deakins stopped short. “Everything all right with you boys? Are we playing nice?” His voice did nothing to break the tension.

“Your buddy and I were just talking about arresting innocent people,” I said, still locked onto Landers. He stared back, saying nothing.

“Watterson saw Erlene Barlowe on the bridge that night,” I said. “She was alone. My client wasn’t around. You know what that means, don’t you?”

“It doesn’t mean anything,” Landers said. “For all I know, you put the guy up to it. For all I know, you paid him to say he saw the Corvette.”

“Sorry,” I said, “that’s more along the lines of something you’d do.”

“You know something, Dillard? You’re wasting your breath talking to me. My job was to investigate this case and make an arrest, and that’s what I did. Now my job is to go to trial, testify, and make sure your client gets what she deserves – a needle in her arm.”

He started packing up his little box as Deakins loomed over my shoulder.  I

turned to leave. As I was walking out the door, I stopped and faced Landers. He finished putting items in the box, picked it up off the table, and looked at me.

“She’s innocent,” I said. “She didn’t kill anybody.”

His shoulders lifted the slightest bit. What was that? A shrug?

“Are you listening to me? She didn’t kill anybody.”

He knew it. He looked back down at the table, and I walked out the door.

Chapter 28

June 25

1:00 p.m.

I’D been going down to the jail to see Angel once a week, but the conversations I’d had with her were more personal than professional. I’d already heard her version of what happened the night Tester was killed, so I spent the time trying to get some background information out of her. She was reluctant, but during the second visit she decided she trusted me enough to tell me her real name and where she was from.

I gave the information to Diane Frye. She’d been working for weeks, and I’d also sent Tom Short, a forensic psychiatrist I used on occasion, down to the jail to interview Angel three times. I set up meetings with both of them on the same afternoon.

Diane had traveled to Oklahoma and Ohio, running down witnesses and documents. I was anxious to hear what she had to say. When I walked in, the conference room table was covered in papers.

“Your chickie is a ghost,” Diane said in her Tennessee drawl. She’s nearly sixty, but she styles her light brown hair short and spiked. She was wearing her perpetual smile and her favorite casual outfit, a bright orange Tennessee Volunteer T-shirt – she’s a rabid fan – khaki shorts that exposed knobby knees and varicose veins, and orange, high-top, Converse basketball shoes.

“No social security number, no driver’s license, no school records, no credit history, no nothing. She doesn’t exist, at least not on paper. But I’ve talked to everybody I could find and I think I’ve got everything pretty well organized. At least you’ll know a little more about what you’re dealing with.”

Diane said Angel was born in Columbus, Ohio, to a young woman named Grace Rodriguez. Her biological mother gave her up for adoption the same day to the Columbus Freewill Baptist Home for Children. Angel was adopted five months later by Airman First Class Thomas Rhodes and his wife, Betty. They named her Mary Ann Rhodes.

Diane had flown out to Oklahoma City to talk to Angel’s adopted parents. They told Diane that when they adopted Mary, they thought they were unable to have children of their own, but Ms. Rhodes became pregnant a year later. She subsequently had three more children.

“They said they treated her like a princess,” Diane said. “The mother called her a thieving, ungrateful little wench. She said her husband kept a stash of cash in a box in the ceiling, and Angel apparently cleaned it out before she left. But I always leave a card and tell people if they have any other information to give me a call. A couple hours after I left, I got a call on my cell phone. It was one of their daughters, a seventeen-year-old named Rebecca. She was scared to death and I didn’t get to talk to her for long, but she said her parents didn’t tell me the whole story.”

Diane paused and stared up at the ceiling. She loved drama.

“What?” I said. “C’mon. Out with it.”

“She said her daddy did bad things to Angel.”

“What kind of bad things?”

“Sexual abuse. She said it went on for years, and she thinks Angel finally just had enough. She also said her mother used to beat Angel pretty badly.”

“I wonder why Angel never told anyone.”

“The mother is a religious fanatic. Their living room looked like a sanctuary. She said she home-schooled the kids and was particular about what they were allowed to watch and read. I got the impression she didn’t even allow them to have friends. Angel probably didn’t have much of an opportunity to tell. Either that or she was just scared. Her sister told me Angel tried to run away a couple of times and the police had to bring her back, so I went down to the Oklahoma City police department and got copies of the reports. The first time, she only made it ten blocks. She locked herself in the bathroom of a convenience store. The police came and took her straight home. She took off again a couple of years later. They found her walking along the highway about seven miles from her house. The police took her home again. If she told them about the abuse, they didn’t believe her.”

Diane then turned her attention to Erlene Barlowe. I’d asked her to quietly check into a few things, and I’d paid her out of my own pocket.

“No criminal record. Her husband was the sheriff of McNairy County from 1970 to 1973. He resigned under some pretty suspicious circumstances and went into the strip club business. She was with him every step of the way until he died of a heart attack last year. She doesn’t seem to have any enemies, at least none I could find. I talked to a couple of her employees. They’re flat-out loyal.”

“Corvette?”

“No Corvette. Or I guess I should say no record of a Corvette.”

“And what about Julie Hayes?”

“Very naughty girl. Three drug possessions, two misdemeanor thefts, three prostitution convictions. Most of the arrests are in the Dallas-Fort Worth area. Nobody had anything good to say about her. She’s a mess.”

“You talk to her?”

“I tried. The first time I went out to her place she was so stoned she could barely speak. The second time she told me to piss off, so I pissed off.”

An hour later, I drove over to meet with the forensic psychiatrist I’d hired to examine Angel. Tom Short was head of the psychiatry department at East Tennessee State University, a wiry academic who seemed to spend a lot of time in a world no one else understood. I’d met him at a death penalty seminar in Nashville five years earlier where he taught a class on the role of psychiatric evaluation in mitigation. I’d used him in seven cases since then, and we’d become friends. I’d never placed a lot of faith in psychiatry before I met Tom, but his uncanny ability to diagnose personality disorders and psychotic illnesses made a believer of me. I trusted him completely.

“PTSD,” he said as soon as I walked into his office. He was sitting behind his desk, chewing on the end of the pipe he kept in his mouth like a pacifier. I’d never seen him without the pipe, and I’d never seen it lit.

“Post Traumatic Stress Disorder?”

“Chronic and severe. But she’s being evasive about the stressor. I suspect she was raped by her adopted father.”

“Why?”

“Because if the stressor was a car accident or something she witnessed, she’d tell me about it. She became agitated and evasive when I asked her about her father.”

“Is she a candidate for murder?”

“Everybody’s a candidate under the right circumstances. Unfortunately, I don’t have a crystal ball.”

“I don’t see how she could possibly have killed Tester,” I said. “For one thing, he was a 260-pound man. What does she weigh? 110? I just don’t see her being able to overpower a guy like that.”

“His blood alcohol level was .27, and he was drugged. A ten-year-old could have killed him.”

“I know, but she just doesn’t feel like a murderer when I talk to her,” I said.

“I look at her clinically,” Short said. “You look at her emotionally. Her beauty and vulnerability cloud your perspective.”

“So you think she killed him?”

“I didn’t say that, I’m just saying it’s possible. Some PTSD victims go into a dissociative state if the stressor is severe enough, and if it’s repeated. Let’s say her adopted father sexually abused her for years, which I suspect he did. She runs away. Then she finds herself being sexually abused by this Tester man. It’s possible she could have had sort of an out-of-body experience and killed him. It would also explain the extraordinary number of stab wounds and the mutilation.”

“Would she remember it?”

“It’d be like a dream, but she’d remember it.”

“Would she be responsible for her conduct, legally, if that’s what happened?”

“Probably not. I think I’d be able to testify that under those circumstances she would not be responsible for her conduct. At that point, she wouldn’t have been able to discern the difference between right and wrong.”

“The problem is that in order for us to assert that defense, she’d have to admit she killed him.”

“That’s right.”

“She says she didn’t kill him.”

“I know.”

“So where does that leave us?”

“She didn’t tell me she did it, so as far as I’m concerned, she didn’t do it. Everything I’ve told you is purely theoretical.”

“Have you made notes on all of this?”

“Of course.”

“Shred them.”

Since I had Tom’s attention, which was sometimes hard to get, I decided to ask him about Junior Tester. I described to him in detail everything that had happened between us, including the look of torment and hatred on Junior’s face the night I went to his house.

“Was it a mistake?” I said.

“Actually,” Tom said, “going down there wasn’t as bad an idea as you might think. You may have showed him there could be serious consequences to his actions. Maybe you shocked him back into reality, at least for a little while. Have you seen him since?”

“No.”

“You must have frightened him.”

“He didn’t look scared. Do you think I’ll see him again?”

“Can’t say for sure.”

“Is it likely?”

“I’d say it depends.”

“On what?”

“On how you portray his father in the courtroom if you go to trial. You might want to give that some serious consideration.”

Chapter 29

June 25

4:00 p.m.

AFTER the meetings with Diane and Tom, I was both confused and concerned. I decided it was time to go have a serious conversation with my client. I wanted to discuss some of the more incriminating evidence with her, but more important, I needed to see how well Angel would hold up under cross-examination. If I could catch her in a lie, so could the district attorney.

She wasn’t shackled or handcuffed when the guards escorted her into the interview room – apparently she was no longer considered a security risk. I’d asked her what she wanted me to call her after I found out her real name. She said she wanted to be called Angel. Mary Ann, she said, was gone.

“How are you holding up?” I said.

“I’m okay. The guards are nice to me.”

Each time I went to visit, I was struck by something different: the smoothness of her skin, the contours of her face, the fullness of her lips. She was an extraordinarily beautiful girl, a fact that made what I was about to do even more difficult.

“There are a couple of things I need to ask you about, some things that are bothering me. I want you to tell me the truth.”

A puzzled look came over her face, but she nodded.

“First off, I need to know about your relationship with Julie Hayes.”

“What about it?”

“Do you have any idea why she would tell the police that you and Erlene left the club right after Reverend Tester the night he was killed?”

“What? Julie said that?”

I reached into my briefcase, pulled out a copy of Julie’s statement, and set it down in front of Angel.

“This is a copy of the statement she gave to the TBI. Read it for yourself.”

Angel looked down at the statement for a few minutes, then back at me.

“Why would she say something like that?” she said.

“Good question. Why would she?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did you and Erlene leave the club right after Reverend Tester?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Well, Julie says you did, and since she signed this statement, I’m sure she’ll testify at the trial. Is she mad at you about something?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Is she mad at Erlene about something?”

“I don’t know.”

“Was she jealous of the relationship between you and Erlene?”

“She never said anything to me about it.”

“Did you ever see Julie and Erlene argue or fight about anything?”

“No.”

“Did Erlene take you home that night?”

“Yes.”

“What kind of car was she driving?”

She hesitated. “What?”

“What kind of car was Erlene driving that night?”

“I don’t know anything about cars.”

“Do you know what a Corvette looks like?”

“No.”

“Come on, Angel, it’s a sports car. Shiny and fast. It would have been red.”

“I really don’t know anything about cars.”

“Was Erlene driving the same car the next day?”

She hesitated again and asked me to repeat the question.

“Erlene took you home with her the night Reverend Tester was killed, right?”

“Yes.”

“She gave you a ride home in her car, right?”

“Yes.”

“Did she have the same car the next day or a different car?”

“I don’t know. The same car, I guess.” She looked upward when she answered. I thought she might be lying, so I stayed with the subject of the car.

“Julie told the police Erlene was driving a red Corvette the night Tester was killed. She said Erlene got rid of it and was driving a different car the next day. Is that true?”

“I don’t think so.”

I sighed. I wanted to believe her, but the vagueness of her answers wasn’t helping. I decided to press harder, so I raised my voice a notch and slammed my palm down on the table.

“Is that what you’re going to tell the prosecutor when he asks you the same question on the witness stand? Are you going to say ‘I don’t think so?’ If that’s what you’re going to say, he’ll tear you apart. Now give me a straight answer! Was Erlene driving a different car the next day or not?”

The sound of my hand on the table startled her, and I could tell the tone of my voice was beginning to unnerve her.

“No. I think she was driving the same car.”

“You think? You think she was driving the same car? That’s not good enough, Angel. That’s an evasive answer. Juries don’t like evasive answers.”

“What should I say?”

“How about the truth? This is just between you and me. If you tell me Erlene was driving a different car the next day, I’m not going to run out and tell the police, and I’m not going to tell Erlene that you told me.”

She folded her arms across her chest and crossed her legs – the classic defensive position – and started rocking back and forth in her seat. She was obviously struggling with herself, trying to make some kind of decision.

“Miss Erlene didn’t kill anybody,” she said finally.

“I didn’t say she did.”

“That’s what you’re thinking. I can tell.” She was right. I was beginning to believe that Angel was protecting Erlene. If she was, it was a mistake that could cost her her life.

“Julie says Erlene switched cars the day after Tester was murdered. Julie says you and Erlene left the club right after Tester left. Now either Julie’s lying, or you and Erlene are lying. If Julie’s lying, I need to know why. If you’re lying, I need to know why. Now, who’s lying?”

“Julie’s lying.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then tell me about Erlene’s car. Did she switch cars the day after Tester was killed or not?”

“No.”

I was back to square one. Julie was lying and the only explanation I could offer a jury was that she was a drug addict, perhaps bitter, or perhaps jealous of the relationship between Erlene and Angel. I didn’t know whether a jury would buy it.

“You can uncross your arms now.”

“What?”

“People cross their arms when they feel like they’re being threatened or attacked, Angel. It’s a sign of defensiveness, and I don’t want you to do it if you ever get up on a witness stand. Now tell me about the bruise on your face. The one the police took a picture of.”

She hesitated again and unconsciously raised her fingers to her cheek. Her eyes began to blink quickly.

“I got hit by a door,” she said.

“When?”

“The day after, I think.”

“Where?”

“At the club. I was about to walk through the door and someone opened it from the other side. It hit me in the face.”

“Erlene told me you didn’t go back to the club after Tester was killed.”

“Oh, right, well, it must have been the day before, then.”

“The same day Tester was killed?”

She nodded.

“You’re sure?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Who was on the other side of the door?”

“I’m not sure.”

“You don’t remember who hit you with a door so hard it put a bruise on your face?”

“It was Heather. I remember now.”

Small beads of perspiration were forming on her forehead, and I decided to ease off. I wondered whether Heather would confirm that Angel had run into a door, and I made a note to have Diane Frye speak with her. Angel had self-consciously unfolded her arms and placed her hands on the table. I noticed they were discolored – not severely, but they were both slightly pale to about an inch above her wrist. I remembered Erlene telling me to ask Angel about her hands. Very gently, I touched one of them.

“Did something happen here?” I said.

“I burned them when I was little.” The words were flat, monotone, and the expression on her face went completely blank.

“How?”

“I was making oatmeal for my brothers and sisters.” She paused for a long moment. “And I…I dropped the spoon into the pot…by accident.”  She paused again.

“And?” I said.

“Mother Betty. She pushed my hands down into the oatmeal and made me get the spoon out.”

“And your hands look like that from the burns?”

She nodded.

“How old were you?”

“I’m not sure. Maybe five. Or six.”

I shuddered. She’d described the event as if she were describing a walk down an empty hall in a burned out building. She’d become distant, disconnected, as though she’d suddenly been unplugged.

“What about your adopted father? Did he do bad things to you too?”

Another nod.

“Do you want to tell me about it?”

Tears were forming in her eyes. She didn’t answer the question. She didn’t have to.

“Did it happen a lot?”

She nodded again as a tear slid down her cheek.

“Angel, is there something you’re not telling me?”

She started to speak but stopped herself. I suddenly realized I was in a tug of war, and Angel was the rope. Someone else was pulling on the other end, and I suspected it was Erlene. She broke into tears and stood up, leaning against the table. Her shoulders began to shudder and her lips were quivering. The intensity of the sobs increased with each passing second, and before I knew it, she was hysterical.

“Please,” I said when she paused for breath after a high-pitched wail, “try to stay calm, Angel. All I want is the truth.”

She gave me a look that told me I’d gone too far and gathered her breath.

“Why won’t you believe me?” she shrieked. “I told you I didn’t kill him! Why are you asking me all these questions? I thought you were on my side! I thought you were my friend!”

She turned and started to pound on the door with her fist.

“Wait, please. Please calm down, Angel. I am on your side.” I got up from the table and reached out to touch her arm.

“Don’t touch me! Stay away from me!”

The door opened and she nearly fell into one of the two guards’ arms. I started out the door toward her, but the second guard stuck his finger in my chest.

“Step back,” he said. He meant it, he was armed, and I had a feeling he would do anything to protect this particular prisoner.

I raised my hands and stepped backward into the interview room as he slammed the door in my face.

Chapter 30

June 28

1:30 p.m.

RONNIE came into the back office on Saturday afternoon while Erlene was catching up on her paperwork. She could see right away that something was bothering him. Ronnie had this cute little cleft in his chin, and when he was upset he set his mouth a certain way and the sides of the cleft swelled up like little knots on a birch branch. The cleft reminded Erlene of Gus, which was only natural since Ronnie was Gus’s nephew. He wasn’t as handsome as Gus, but he was still a looker, tall and well built, with dark blond hair and sky blue eyes. Erlene just wished he didn’t have those icky tattoos all over him. They came out of his shirt up his neck and ran clear down his arms to his hands. They made him look like a thug.

“What’s the matter, sugar?” Erlene said. “You look like somebody just shot your dog.”

“They shorted us again.”

Erlene cursed under her breath. She hated that he was bringing up such unpleasantness, especially after the visit she’d had with her sweet Angel down at the jail. Angel was as torn up as Erlene had ever seen her, poor thing. She said Mr. Dillard had come down and asked her all sorts of embarrassing questions. She even asked Erlene if she thought they needed a different lawyer, but Erlene set her straight real quick on that. Mr. Dillard was exactly what they needed. Erlene talked to Angel for as long as they let her stay, and by the time she left, she could tell Angel was feeling a whole lot better. Erlene even managed to make her smile a couple of times. But she still felt so bad for Angel. She’d already been through so much. It hurt Erlene’s heart to see her suffer more.

“How much did they short us?” Erlene said to Ronnie.

“A little over two ounces.”

Erlene didn’t much like fooling with the candy trade, but Gus had made so much money doing it over the years, she’d have been a fool not to pick up right where he left off. It was an all-cash business, and since Ronnie handled the pick-ups and the deliveries and the inside sales, it wasn’t too much of a bother for Erlene. The problem she was having was that some of the people she bought the candy from were greedy and mean. They were always trying to pull one over on her, as if they thought she wouldn’t notice or wouldn’t do anything about it even if she did. She reckoned because Gus was gone, they thought they could get away with most anything. Confound it, why couldn’t they just play fair?

“Do we have other folks we can use?” Erlene said.

“Four besides these guys. One in Atlanta--”

“Don’t tell me, baby doll. I don’t want to know where they are. I don’t want to know much of anything about them.”

“Sorry,” Ronnie said. He was such a considerate boy.

“I tell you what let’s do, then,” Erlene said. “First off, you go ahead and deal with your people in Atlanta or wherever you said. Can they give us the same price?”

“The price will be the same and the quality will be better,” Ronnie said. “The only reason I was dealing with these fools was because they were so much closer and they were willing to meet me halfway. Saved me a lot of road time.”

“I think it’s worth the inconvenience, don’t you?” Erlene looked up toward the ceiling and pursed her lips. “Now,” she said, “what to do about those others?”

Erlene knew Ronnie had a mean streak in him as wide as the Tennessee River, but underneath all that meanness, he was really a good boy. He’d just hit a few bumps in the road was all, although Erlene had to admit that Ronnie hit the bumps a little harder than most boys. He’d spent several years down at the state penitentiary in Morgan County after he got into some trouble with the law. When he got out, he didn’t have a place to go and couldn’t get a job, so he called his Uncle Gus. Gus had always felt close to the boy and invited him to come up to work in the club. When Ronnie got there, Gus sat him down and told him that if he’d pay attention and be honest, Gus would see to it that his brother’s oldest son made a good living.

Erlene had to give Ronnie credit, he took right to it. The first thing Gus told him was that people who sell candy have to stay out of the candy. One of Ronnie’s biggest problems when he was younger was that he snorted and smoked so much candy he couldn’t think straight, so Gus told him if he got so much as an inkling that Ronnie was using, he’d be gone. The second thing Gus told him was that he who steals pays the price. Ronnie had gone to prison for stealing, among other things, and Gus told him he wouldn’t tolerate his stealing a single dime.

Ronnie went to work in the club, tending bar and selling candy. Gus kept a close eye on him the first year, and he did a wonderful job. Before long, he was pretty much running Gus’s whole candy business. Gus got to where he trusted Ronnie so much that if something went wrong, Gus just stepped back and let Ronnie take care of it. And from what Gus told Erlene, Ronnie was excellent at taking care of problems, especially if it involved Ronnie getting to hurt somebody.

The best part, though, was that Ronnie never stole the first penny. Erlene was proud as punch of the boy, although she suspected his honesty was at least partly due to the fact that he was afraid his Uncle Gus would kill him if he took anything. Gus wasn’t a man to trifle with, especially when it came to money.

After Gus died, Ronnie asked her whether he could keep doing what he’d been doing. Erlene thought about all the money Gus had made and said, “Sure, sugar. I’d be a fool to make you stop.” Ronnie paid Erlene every night, cash, like clockwork. Ronnie had turned out to be a real good boy, and Erlene kind of felt like she was at least partly responsible.

“Tell you what,” Erlene said. “How about you just go ahead and do whatever you think Gus would have told you to do. I don’t even have to know about it.”

“Sounds good to me.”

“That’s wonderful,” Erlene said, “and speaking of dealing with bad people, I have another little problem I’m going to need you to help me with.”

There was a certain girl named Julie needed tending to, and Ronnie was the right man for the job.

Chapter 31

July 1

10:10 a.m.

THE Tate woman wrote to Maynard Bush out of the blue. Maynard figured killers must get her hot. He didn’t have nothing better to do, so Maynard wrote back. He wasn’t real good at writing, but so what? He knew enough to get by. She wrote again and he wrote again and before Maynard knew it, they were writing to each other every few days.

Maynard laid it on thick as jelly on a biscuit. Played her like an old banjo. At first he was just screwing around, but then he got a bright idea. He didn’t know if it would work, but it was sure worth the try.

First thing Maynard did was talk his lawyer, Joe Dillard, into fixing it so the Tate woman could visit him. Then he started working on her. He shoveled so much manure on her she should have turned brown. He told her he was lonesome and that he needed a friend. It was a lie. Maynard didn’t have friends and didn’t want none. They always just ended up pissing him off, and then they ended up dead. To Maynard, killing a human being wasn’t any different than killing a dog or a rabbit.

When he told Bonnie Tate he needed a friend, Maynard could see it almost broke her heart, so he just kept pouring it on. He told Bonnie how when he was a boy his mama was a drug addict and his daddy got hauled off to prison. It was about the only thing Maynard told Bonnie that was true. He told her he went to bed hungry every night, which was a flat-out lie. He told her he didn’t have no shoes that fit. Another lie, good enough to make her cry. When she cried, it made Maynard think of how he used to make his baby cousin cry. When the girl’s mother turned her back, Maynard would pinch the doughy little pain-in-the-butt up under her arm as hard as he could and she’d wail like an ambulance passing in the night. Maynard never did get caught. He was too smart and too quick.

Four days before Maynard’s trial was supposed to start, he made sure Bonnie came to visit. It was time to take his shot.

“You’re my only visitor, you know,” Maynard said as he gazed across the table at the plump, homely brunette. “You’re the only person I trust.” He watched her close. She was eating it up.

“I want to thank you for everything you’ve done for me, Bonnie,” Maynard said. “You gave me hope when there wasn’t none left.” Maynard had to concentrate as hard as he could to keep from gagging. He’d told a couple of his buddies at the jail that Bonnie Tate was ugly enough to puke a buzzard off a gut wagon.

“I think about you all the time, Bonnie. I dream about you every night. I think maybe I love you.”

She looked at him and he could see tears forming in her eyes. It was working.

“Do you think maybe you love me too, Bonnie?”

She nodded. “I think maybe I do, Maynard.”

“If I was to ever get out of this place, would you stay with me, Bonnie? Please say you’d stay with me. It’d mean so much to me.”

“I reckon I’d stay with you.”

“I need to ask you something. It’s real important, and you can’t breathe a word of it. Can I trust you?”

“You know you can trust me, Maynard.”

“If I was to tell you I know a way out of here, would you help me? Would you, Bonnie? It’s the only chance I’ve got. They’ll kill me if you don’t help me.”

It didn’t take long for her to say yes.

“Okay then,” Maynard said. “You listen real close now. You gotta do exactly what I say.”

Chapter 32

July 2

9:05 a.m.

I walked into Judge Glass’s courtroom a little after nine and took a seat in the back behind a column where the judge couldn’t see me. Sarah and her appointed attorney had worked out an agreement with the assistant district attorney, and she was about to enter a plea. To my relief, there were no reporters in the jury box.

I’d lost a lot of sleep thinking – and worrying – about Sarah. As time passed, I’d gotten over the anger. I still thought Sarah needed to pay for what she’d done, but I knew prison time wouldn’t do her any good. I’d never seen prison time do anyone any good.

She’d agreed to plead guilty to two counts of felony theft, to accept the minimum sentence of three years on each count, and to forego a probation hearing. The two three-year sentences were to run concurrently. Under Tennessee law, she’d be eligible for parole after serving ten months, and I had every intention of speaking on her behalf at her first parole hearing. Because of the overcrowding in the state penitentiary system, inmates who were sentenced to less than three years served their time in the county jails. That meant Sarah wouldn’t be shipped off to the woman’s prison in Nashville but would stay in the Washington County Detention Center. I’d be able to visit and try again to patch things up. I should have already gone down to see her, but I was afraid we’d just end up in the same old place.

Judge Glass was his usual cantankerous self, barking at defense attorneys and sniping at defendants. A woman in the audience had forgotten to turn her cell phone off, and when it rang, Glass ordered her to the front and castigated her so fiercely that she was reduced to tears.

He called Sarah’s case twenty minutes after I sat down, and a bailiff brought her in. She looked small and frail in the baggy jumpsuit, and I thought the handcuffs and shackles were totally unnecessary. She shuffled to the podium and stood looking at the floor.

“State of Tennessee versus Sarah Dillard,” Judge Glass said. He looked at Lisa Mayes, the assistant district attorney. “Is this Mr. Dillard’s sister?”

“She is, your Honor.”

I hoped Glass wouldn’t use his dislike for me as a reason to reject the plea agreement and give Sarah a harsher sentence. I scooted down in my seat.

“What did she do this time?” Glass said.

“She stole Mr. Dillard’s daughter’s car and a necklace that belonged to Mr. Dillard’s wife,” Mayes said. “She traded the necklace for cocaine and wrecked the car.”

“So she’s an indiscriminate thief,” Glass said. “She steals from everybody in the family. How’d she get the keys to the car? She break in?”

“No, your Honor. As I understand it, she had recently been released from jail and Mr. Dillard had taken her in. He was trying to help her. This is how she repaid him.”

I was hoping Glass would just go through the motions and not ask any questions. It was a run-of-the-mill plea. He took hundreds of them every year.

“This judgment form says she was charged with two Class C felonies,” Glass said. “I read her pre-sentence report last night. She’s been stealing and drugging for almost twenty years. Why are you agreeing to concurrent sentences?”

“We agreed at the victim’s request, judge,” Lisa said. “We do it all the time.”

“You mean to tell me Mr. Dillard requested that she only serve three years for this? After everything else she’s done?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where is he?”

“He’s probably in court somewhere.”

“Well, get him down here. I want to talk to him.”

I stood, my face hot, and walked toward the front.

“I’m here, judge.”

“Well, well, Mr. Dillard, glad you could join us, especially since you’ve been so successful at manipulating the system.”

“I haven’t manipulated anything,” I said. Lisa Mayes seemed surprised to see me. Sarah looked at me hopefully. I stopped just to the right of the defense table. “I’m just not asking for blood, judge. This is her first felony.”

“It’s her first felony conviction,” Judge Glass said. “She’s been charged with felonies three times in the past, but they’ve all been reduced to misdemeanors. I suppose you didn’t have anything to do with that, either – did you, Mr. Dillard?”

“Are you accusing me of something?”

“Of course I am. You’ve manipulated the legal system to gain favorable treatment for a member of your family.”

“And you wouldn’t do the same?”

“Watch your mouth, sir. I’m not in any mood to put up with any disrespect from you.”

“The assistant district attorney, the public defender, and my sister have apparently come to an agreement they think is fair,” I said. “I didn’t have anything to do with it. The only thing I told Miss Mayes was that I wasn’t going to insist on the maximum punishment. She’ll serve almost a year as it is.”

“Let me ask you a question, Mr. Dillard,” Judge Glass said. “If this young lady was a complete stranger to you and she’d stolen your daughter’s car and an expensive piece of jewelry that belonged to your wife, would you be in here asking me to accept a minimum sentence? Especially with her list of priors? Tell the truth for a change.”

“She isn’t a complete stranger. She’s my sister, so the question is meaningless,” I said. “And I always tell the truth in this courtroom. You just don’t like to hear it sometimes.”

“Watch your tone, Mr. Dillard. You’re on the verge of a contempt citation.” His voice was beginning to tremble, a sure sign that his anger was about to overcome his reason.

“My tone is no different than yours,” I said. “Is this hearing about accepting a plea from my sister? Or is it about something else? Because if it’s about some personal animosity you hold for me, perhaps you should consider recusing yourself from this case and let her enter her plea in front of an impartial judge.”

Glass was a bully, and like all bullies, he became angry and confused when people stood up to him. He certainly had the power to put me in jail, but I knew I hadn’t done anything to deserve it. If he ordered them to arrest me, I’d just embarrass him in front of the Tennessee Court of Appeals.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he said. “I save my personal animosity for important people. You’re certainly not in that category.”

“Good. Then let’s get on with it,” I said.

“I’m not accepting this plea as is,” Glass said. “She can plead to two consecutive three-year sentences, or she can plead to concurrent six-year sentences, or she can go to trial. She’s not walking out of my courtroom with less than six years.”

“Why?” I said. That simple, three-letter word was the one I knew judges hated the most. Most of them didn’t feel like they had to explain themselves. They were judges, after all. They wore a robe, and the robe gave them the power to do pretty much whatever they pleased.

“Why, Mr. Dillard? Why? Because I say so. Because your sister is the scum of the earth. She won’t work, she doesn’t pay taxes, she sucks up drugs like a vacuum cleaner, and she’s a thief. She’s a drain on society, and she belongs in jail. If you didn’t want her to go to jail, you shouldn’t have reported her crimes to the police. You did call the police, didn’t you?”

As much as I hated to admit it, he was right. When I picked up the phone, I knew I was putting Sarah at risk of a long jail term. I’d wanted her to go to jail at the time. But my anger had subsided, and I’d convinced myself that what she’d agreed to was more than enough.

“What’s the matter, Mr. Dillard?” Glass said. “Cat got your tongue?”

“This is between you and the district attorney and her lawyer,” I said. “I’m leaving.”

“Have a nice day,” Glass said.

I turned and walked out the door, angry and embarrassed. I called Lisa Mayes an hour later. She said the public defender had taken Sarah into the back and explained that if she went to trial and was convicted, Judge Glass could, and probably would, sentence her to twelve years in prison.

“She agreed to the six,” Mayes said. “But the judge went into his routine again about you calling the police. She’s angry at him, but she’s really pissed off at you.”

Chapter 33

July 5

8:20 a.m.

I was sitting with Thomas Walker II, an assistant district attorney named Fred Julian, and a couple of bailiffs in the judge’s office in Mountain City, getting ready to go to trial with Maynard Bush. The bailiffs were Darren and David Bowers, a pair of cheerful, inseparable identical twins in their late fifties. Every time I saw them, they were laughing. After graduating from high school in Mountain City in the late sixties and thinking they’d be drafted, Darren and David enlisted in the army so they could stay together. Darren, in his brown deputy’s uniform, was telling a war story. David, also in uniform, was sitting across the room red-faced.

“We’re in this little bitty brothel in Saigon,” Darren was saying. His accent made Jeff Foxworthy sound like a city slicker. “Been out in the bush almost a month. Hornier than three-peckered billy goats, both of us. Davie’s drunker’n Cooter Brown, and he staggers up to this ol’ Vietnamese madame and puts his hands on his hips like John Wayne and says, ‘How much fer a roll in the hay thar, Miss Slanty Eyes?’

“Now, I reckon that ol’ girl she knew a little more English than Davie figgered she did, ‘cause she give him a look that’d peel chrome off a bumper. Then she smiles at him all nice and says, ‘You beaucoup big boy?’ Davie didn’t know what she’s a-talkin’ about at first, but then she points down at his crotch and she says, ‘Show me. You big boy?’”

Darren was giggling. He started to talk and then stopped and giggled some more. The memory was almost too much for him to take.

“So Davie, he goes, ‘Ahh, so you want to take a gander at old G.I. Johnson, huh? You reckon it might be too big for your girls?’ So Davie, he… he…” Darren broke down again. He was laughing so hard tears were streaming down his cheeks.

“Davie, he just drops his fly and pulls it out right there for everybody to see. And that madame, she looks down at it and then she looks back up at Davie’s face all serious, and I swear on my mama’s grave, this is what she says to him. She says, ‘Normal price ten dollah. But for little guy like you, I take five.’”

Darren slapped his leg and roared. Laughter was bouncing off the walls as Judge Rollins walked in. Rollins was a no-nonsense guy who traveled the Second Judicial Circuit. He didn’t bother to ask what all the commotion was about.

“Go get him,” he said to the Bowers twins. “Let’s get started.”

Darren and David got up to go fetch Maynard Bush. He was being held in the old Johnson County Jail, which was about a hundred feet behind the courthouse, across a small lawn.

The judge sat down behind his desk and we started talking about some of the issues that would come up in the trial. After about ten minutes, I heard what had to be gunshots.

Pop! Pop!

There was a short pause:

Pop!

The second-floor window behind the judge’s desk looked out over the lawn behind the building toward the jail. I got to the window just in time to see Maynard Bush climbing into the passenger side of a green Toyota sedan. A woman was helping him get into the car. She slammed the door, ran around to the driver’s side, jumped in, and the car drove away.

Darren and David Bowers were sprawled in the courtyard. Darren was face down, David was lying on his back. The first thought that hit me when I realized what had happened was that they both had grandchildren.

It took me less than a minute to run down the steps, out the back door, and across the courtyard. David was gasping for breath, blood gurgling from a hole in his throat. Darren wasn’t moving. I pressed my finger against his carotid. No pulse. Two officers from the jail were only seconds behind me. One of them took a look at the two fallen men and raced back inside.

I rolled up my jacket and placed it underneath David’s feet. I took off my tie, folded it, and laid it across the wound in his throat. I put my left hand behind his head and held the tie over the wound with my right, trying to keep pressure on it to reduce the bleeding.

“Stay with me, David,” I said. “You’re going to be okay. Just stay with me until the ambulance gets here.” He didn’t respond. “David! Please, hang in there. You want to see those grandbabies again, don’t you?” His eyes flickered slightly at the mention of his grandchildren, but blood was pouring from the wound and his breath was labored. I didn’t think he was going to make it.

Beside me, a young Johnson County deputy rolled Darren onto his back and started C.P.R. The deputy who’d gone back inside returned with a first-aid kit and three more officers. They helped me replace my tie with a bandage.

“What happened?” one of them said.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I heard the shots, looked out the window, and they were down.”

I held the bandage for what seemed like forever, when suddenly, finally, I became aware of sirens; the air seemed to explode with noise and activity. Two ambulances and a crash truck arrived from the EMS station, which was only three blocks away. All of them jumped the curb and pulled to within a few feet of me. Uniformed men and women began to surround me, and I stood and backed off. There was nothing more I could do.

They patched David up as best they could, strapped him onto a gurney, and loaded him into the ambulance. They did the same for Darren, but everybody knew he was already dead.

As they drove away, I stood there in a daze. A thought began to form in my mind, and I instantly felt nauseous. Had Maynard used me to plan his escape? It was routine for attorneys to help their clients set up jail visits – but I was certain the woman I’d seen helping Maynard get into the car had to be Bonnie Tate. I hadn’t actually seen her before, but it had to be her.

I thought about what Maynard said to me that day: “I ain’t saying I want to marry you or nothing, but you’re a pretty decent dude.”

Decent dude. I dropped my head and began to trudge back to the courthouse. My legs felt as heavy as tree trunks. I noticed my hands and shirt were covered with blood, David Bowers’s blood. Decent dude. As I walked slowly through the courtyard in the bright sunshine on a beautiful July morning in the Tennessee mountains, I felt anything but decent. I felt dirty, and I just wanted it all to end.

Chapter 34

July 7

11:45 p.m.

BEING a single man with a rather large supply of discretionary income, and having had the opportunity to provide certain legal services to Mr. and Mrs. Gus Barlowe in the past, Charles B. Dunwoody III, Esq. saw no harm in occasionally availing himself of the pleasures of the Mouse’s Tail Gentlemen’s Club. To his closest associates, he privately referred to his adventures at the club as slumming with the naked hillbilly girls. He wasn’t always particularly proud of the things he did there, but as he told his country club buddies, “Pardon the pun, but sometimes a gentleman just has to let it all hang out.”

Gus Barlowe had sought Dunwoody’s advice on a wide range of topics, most of which Dunwoody was not at liberty to discuss. Dunwoody had quickly learned that Mr. Barlowe was an enterprising gentleman who generated large streams of revenue and who required an attorney with a creative mind and a deft touch in order to dissuade curious institutional minds from examining his affairs too closely. Since Dunwoody’s academic and legal backgrounds were steeped in corporate law and international banking and finance, he’d been able to satisfactorily accommodate Gus Barlowe’s needs. The fact that Barlowe paid handsomely, and paid in cash, only made the relationship more palatable for Dunwoody.

Mrs. Barlowe, who had very capably taken over her husband’s affairs since his untimely death, had made the VIP lounge available to him on a Thursday evening in July, and he’d spent two delightful hours with three of the finest-looking floosies he’d ever laid eyes on. Dunwoody had to hand it to Mrs. Barlowe – she had excellent taste when it came to hiring whores. It was getting rather late and Dunwoody was beginning to wind down. He’d ingested a little more cognac than usual and had made three separate trips to the bullpen. God bless Viagra.

Dunwoody was sitting at the bar in the private room, conversing with a topless bartender named Tina, when Mrs. Barlowe suddenly appeared at his shoulder. They exchanged the usual pleasantries and she asked him whether they could talk privately for a few moments. Anything for her, Dunwoody said, and they retired to a small booth in the corner. Mrs. Barlowe shooed the girls away, and lawyer and strip club owner were left alone in the room.

Because Dunwoody had done so much work for her husband, he knew he was sitting across the table from a very wealthy woman, especially if one measured by local standards. He’d never been so crass as to directly ask her late husband how he managed to accumulate such large amounts of cash, but it didn’t take a Rhodes scholar to deduce that Barlowe must have been doing something at least marginally illegal. Dunwoody suspected Barlowe was most likely selling narcotics, but so long as he paid Dunwoody’s hefty fees and maintained a certain amount of decorum in Dunwoody’s presence, the lawyer had no qualms about camouflaging the cash.

“What can I do for you, madame?” Dunwoody said. He thought Mrs. Barlowe a handsome woman. She dressed like a tart and spoke like a farm girl, but she had a sort of crude charm about her, not to mention a delicious body, especially for a woman her age.

“I need some legal advice, sugar.”

“Charles B. Dunwoody the third, at your service.”

“I’m going to pick up your tab tonight, sweetie pie, so I can retain you for the next little while. I wouldn’t want you to think I was trying to take advantage of your good nature.”

“You can take advantage of me anytime you like,” Dunwoody said. The generous offer came as a pleasant surprise, since he was certain his tab would be in the neighborhood of two thousand dollars. Privacy does have its price sometimes.

Dunwoody must have taken too much Viagra, because in spite of the fact that he’d performed brilliantly earlier in the evening during the bullpen sessions, he suddenly found himself strongly attracted to Mrs. Barlowe. She was wearing a low cut, zebra-striped top that revealed a significant portion of her magnificent breasts. Dunwoody had to force himself not to stare, and he suddenly felt a chubby coming on. He hoped he wouldn’t have to rise quickly from the table.

“I know you don’t do criminal work,” she said, “but I have a difficult situation on my hands and I need a sugar plum like you to help me figure out how to handle it.”

Sweetie pie and sugar plum. No one had ever referred to Charles Dunwoody in such a manner, and he was not a young man. Mrs. Barlowe was correct in her assertion that Dunwoody did not indulge in the vulgar practice of criminal defense. He believed the arena of criminal defense was reserved for con artists and grand-standers. Nonetheless, any attorney worth his salt who paid attention in law school was well-versed in the basics of constitutional law, and as any fool knows, constitutional law is the cornerstone of criminal defense.

“Tell me your predicament,” Dunwoody said, “and let’s see what we can come up with.”

She leaned forward and lowered her voice. Her breasts were resting on the table top, which made it a bit difficult for Dunwoody to concentrate.

“I need to know the best way to lead a horse to water and then not let him drink,” she said.

Dunwoody began to question her, and before long was able to ascertain that Mrs. Barlowe was involved in something dicey and was attempting to manipulate a situation that could very well blow up in her face. Nonetheless, the odd couple spent a very pleasant hour together, and by the time Dunwoody left, he was convinced that he’d provided Mrs. Barlowe with some sound legal advice and had given her at least an idea of what she would have to do in order to accomplish her ends.

It wasn’t until later that Dunwoody learned Mrs. Barlowe had followed his advice to the letter. He told his closest friends at the country club that he was proud to have been a part of it.

Chapter 35

July 9

10:50 a.m.

FOUR sleepless days after Maynard’s escape, I attended the funeral of the Bowers twins in Mountain City. I sat outside the church in my truck – the used one I’d bought to replace the truck that had been pushed into the lake – gargling mouthwash and waiting for everyone to get inside. Once they were all in, I slipped in the back. There were at least a hundred police officers there and I felt like they were all looking at me. As soon as it was over, I left without speaking to anyone.

An hour later, I went through the complicated process of visiting a maximum security inmate at Northeast Correctional Center just outside Mountain City. Northeast is a bone tossed by the Tennessee legislature to a rural county that found itself on the brink of economic ruin. The planners of Johnson County had missed an important prerequisite to modern economic survival. They failed to recognize that in order for people to trade in your county or your towns, they need to be able to drive there in less than a half-day. The roads leading to Mountain City are narrow and slow. You can’t get there from anywhere. As a result, nobody goes there. As a result of that, Johnson County couldn’t generate any tax revenue and therefore couldn’t hire enough police or fund their schools.

But in 1991, the great state of Tennessee was about to embark on a vast expansion of its prison system, and it was looking for victims. They lobbied economically depressed counties, and economically depressed counties lobbied them. With the political stars in perfect alignment, Johnson County, in the heart of the Appalachian Mountains and one of the most scenic places in the whole country, was rewarded with its very own two-thousand-bed, medium-security, concrete prison. Their plans, they said, were to put the inmates to work in a public/private enterprise, a slick mixture of capitalism and socialism. It hadn’t worked out that way.

As I passed through the front door of Northeast Correctional Facility, a grand total of eighty of the two thousand inmates were participating in the prison’s employment programs. I walked into the reception area and waited for a guard. He asked for my identification, frisked me, and took my photograph. I signed the log book and he led me across a yard fenced in by twelve-foot chain link topped with concertina. The sky was a vivid blue, and the beauty of the surrounding mountains provided an ironic contrast to the razor wire and concrete.

Once in the communication center, a robotic guard in a black uniform spoke to me through bulletproof glass and demanded my identification. I slipped it into a stainless steel tray. It disappeared, and the guard ordered me to move on. I followed my guide back into the sunlight and down yet another fence-framed sidewalk to the maximum security unit, which primarily housed inmates who had attacked guards or other inmates.

Many of the hundred men inside the maximum security ward had killed after being imprisoned. They were treated the way you’d treat a dangerous animal – with extreme caution. They were kept locked alone in their cells 24/7 except when they were escorted to the shower twice a week. If for any reason they went out, they were cuffed and shackled and trussed. The only way they had of communicating was to yell through the slots in the cell door that allowed food to be passed through.

And yell they did.

When I walked through the fourth security checkpoint and into the cell block, the cacophony began. A man in a suit could only mean a few things to a maximum security inmate. Cop, lawyer, or prison administrator. They hated them all. By the time I made the thirty-foot walk into the office where I was to conduct my interview, I’d heard every momma, sister, wife, daughter and homosexual insult known to man.

The cell block was two-story, open, and oval-shaped. The guard who sat at the desk had a view of all twenty cells on the block, and they all had a view of him through the tiny windows in the cell doors. The guard, a sturdy young man who looked to be about twenty-five, led me into the office.

“I’ll go get him,” he said. “Won’t take but a minute.”

He started to leave, then hesitated and turned back towards me.

“I feel sorry for you,” he said.

“Thanks,” I said. “So do I.”

Maynard Bush had been recaptured four hours after his daring daylight escape from the Johnson County jail. Bonnie Tate’s body was found in her car in the parking lot at a nearby golf club. Maynard had apparently gotten what he wanted from her and then shot her to death as soon as she stopped the car and unlocked his cuffs.

After he killed Bonnie, Maynard headed straight for his mother, who’d kicked him out of her home when Maynard was fourteen years old. Momma Bush saw Maynard approaching the house, called the cops, and the cops came running, guns drawn. When they got there, they heard a series of gunshots inside. Maynard wouldn’t respond to them. The Tennessee Highway Patrol’s SWAT team lobbed tear gas and rushed in an hour later. They found Maynard sitting at the kitchen table, clutching his burned eyes, a half-eaten sandwich sitting on a plate in front of him. His mother’s bullet-riddled body was lying less than five feet away. When they asked Maynard why he didn’t fight, he said he used up all of his bullets on his momma.

I’d spoken to Bernice Bush – Maynard’s mother – while preparing for Maynard’s trial back in May. She’d been left to raise Maynard alone after his father was carted off to prison for shooting his neighbor during a property border dispute. The strange thing about it was that Maynard’s father was a tenant – he didn’t even own the property.

Bernice was a slight, feeble woman of fifty-five who lived in a four-room shack about two miles off Highway 67 in Carter County, not far from the Johnson County line. Her place was as run down as she was. It smelled of dog urine and cigarette smoke. There were plastic bags filled with Keystone beer cans all over the house and the tiny front yard.

Bernice existed on Social Security disability benefits, food stamps, and the prescription drugs provided to her by TennCare, the state’s noble but misguided effort at providing health care to indigents. She told me that by the age of fourteen, Maynard had become a drug addict. He kept stealing her nerve pills, she said, and had started experimenting with a street drug called ice. He stopped going to school and was running with what she described as a very rough crowd. Sitting there looking at her, I couldn’t imagine a rougher crowd than the one she belonged to.

Bernice said she had an old mutt she called Giggles because of its peculiar bark. When she mentioned the dog, ten years dropped off her face, and her harsh voice softened. One evening, fourteen-year-old Maynard came home late and high and sat down on the couch. She went into the room to try to talk to him, but he was rambling and agitated, so she started to go back to bed. Giggles, she said, jumped onto the couch and licked Maynard on the face. Maynard picked the dog up by the scruff of the neck. He carried it, squealing, into the yard at the side of the house, pulled a pistol from his belt, and shot it in the head.

The next morning, after Maynard had sobered up, she gave him a choice: leave or go to jail. He’d been in trouble before and was on probation. They both knew that if she called the law, he’d be shipped off to a juvenile home somewhere. Maynard chose the road. She was glad, she said, because she was afraid if they locked him up she might lose some of her social security benefits. He packed up a few things in an old duffel bag and got into a car with some of his friends around three that afternoon. She hadn’t seen him since. She hated him, she said. He killed her dog.

About six hours after Maynard was arrested and hauled back in, Judge Glass had called my office.

“I want to go ahead and reschedule the first trial as soon as possible,” he said, “and you might as well represent him on the new charges. He’s got an escape, four counts of first-degree murder, two counts of conspiracy to commit first-degree murder, and four counts of felony murder. You don’t mind, do you?”

Did I mind? It may have been the dumbest question ever uttered. Angel’s trial was bearing down on me, I was constantly on the lookout for Junior Tester, my mother was dying, my sister was in jail, and I felt at least partially responsible for David and Darren’s deaths. And to top things off, I knew if I represented Maynard after he’d killed two well-liked deputy sheriffs, I’d make a bunch of brand new enemies in Johnson County and probably wind up practicing law for another two years. Did I mind?

“Judge, I told you I don’t want any more appointed cases. I’m getting out of this business.”

“We’ve all got problems, Mr. Dillard,” he said. “And right now my biggest problem is dealing with this piece of garbage. You’re already appointed on the first two, a few more won’t hurt you. Make a package deal. Get it over with.”

“You’re not hearing me, judge.”

“The case law says I can appoint you to a case if I so choose. If you refuse, I can hold you in contempt. Now you’ll either deal with this like a professional or I’ll cite you for contempt and throw you in jail.”

“Where are they holding him?” I said through clenched teeth.

“My understanding is they’ve moved him up to Northeast, to the max block. We need to get him arraigned as soon as possible, unless you can get him to waive the rule. Do you think you can do that?”

“I have no idea. I’ll have to ask him.”

“Get up there by Friday.”

“I’ll go after the funerals.”

The sturdy young guard, along with two of his sturdy young buddies, returned with Maynard Bush in tow. He was smirking. There were bruises on his face and arms, I assumed from the police. The guards sat him in a chair across the room from me. There was no way to secure him to the floor, so the guards ran chains through his shackles and around the legs of the chair. That way, if he decided to make a run at me, he’d have to drag the chair with him.

“Do you want us to stay in the room?” one of the guards said.

“No, thanks. I’ve talked to Mr. Bush many times before.”

“If you have any problems at all, just holler,” he said. “We’ll be right outside the door.”

I looked over at Maynard sitting there in his striped jumpsuit with MAXIMUM SECURITY emblazoned on the front and the back. He was staring at nothing in particular with that disgusting smirk on his face.

“You’ve been a busy boy,” I said.

“Appreciate the help,” he said.

“You son of a bitch. You used me.”

“You’re right about both things, counselor. My mama was a bitch, and I played you. Don’t worry about it, though. I played everybody. Why do you think I wanted that change of venue so bad? I knew them crackers in Mountain City wouldn’t have good security.”

“Why, Maynard?” I said. “Why did you have to go and do something so stupid?”

“Been wanting to plug that worthless old hag for twenty years. I shoulda done it when I was a kid. The only thing I regret is that I didn’t have more time with her. I was looking forward to seeing her suffer.”

“Is that the only reason you broke out? So you could kill your mother?”

He smiled.

“And the Tate woman? Why?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “She got the drop on them deputies, handed me the gun, and then drove me out of there, just like I told her. She was as responsible as me for them getting killed. I didn’t figure she’d like it in jail, so I did her a favor. Besides, I didn’t need her no more.”

“So now you’ve got four more counts of murder,” I said. “The two deputies, Bonnie Tate, and your mother.”

“I know how many was killed. I can count.”

“The judge wants to try you for the teenagers first, then the police officers, then Bonnie, and then your mother, but they have a little problem. The law says they have to arraign you on these charges as soon as possible. Normally they do it within seventy-two hours of your arrest, but with your security situation, they have some leeway. I have a waiver here I need you to sign. It gives them up to thirty days to arraign you on the new charges, but they’ll probably do it in the next week or two. You don’t have to sign it, but you might as well. You’re eventually going to end up on death row anyway.”

I pulled the document from my briefcase and stood to approach him. He was trussed up like a chicken, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t apprehensive. I set my briefcase on his thighs and put the pen in his right hand. He scrawled his signature on the line.

“They can’t kill me but once, you know,” he said.

“Are you finished now, Maynard? You’ve killed your mother. Is that enough? Or are you going to kill anybody you can kill between now and the time they stick a needle in your arm?”

“You ain’t gonna have to worry about me much longer.”

“Why? You contemplating suicide?”

“Nah, I like myself too much for that. But they’ll get me in here, Dillard. You mark my words.”

“Who?”

“I killed two cops in this county. You think they’re gonna to let me live?”

“You’re in a max block, in case you haven’t noticed. Nobody can get to you in here.”

“The guards can. I won’t make it another week. But that’s all right. I’ve lived my life, and now I got my revenge.”

I walked to the door and opened it, and the three sturdy young guards stepped in. They took Maynard back and I ran the gauntlet of catcalls again on my way out. Once I was clear of the max unit, I thought about what Maynard had said. The chances that Darren and David Bowers had friends and relatives working at the prison were good. For a moment, I thought I should do something, maybe file a motion and have Maynard transferred out of Johnson County for his own protection. Then I thought about the argument I’d have to assert – that it was likely the guards at Northeast would conspire to murder him. I imagined myself making that argument in front of Judge Glass. He’d throw me under the jail.

Maynard, I decided, was on his own.

Chapter 36

July 10

9:45 a.m.

AGENT Landers looked down at his ringing cell phone, then over at the naked blonde lying next to him. His head was throbbing again. The woman wasn’t nearly as young as she looked last night. Must have been the bad lighting in the bar. Or the whiskey.

He was supposed to have rest of the week off. He and Bull Deakins were planning to drive down to Hotlanta for a couple of days. They were going to catch a Braves game and visit the Golden Pony, maybe round up a couple of fillies and ride them for a night or two.

The phone number on the caller ID was the district attorney’s. Wonderful. Landers pulled a sheet up over the woman’s head so he didn’t have to look at her and answered the call.

“Landers.”

“Phil, it’s Frankie Martin. We have a serious problem. Our only witness against Angel Christian is dead.”

Deacon Baker had assigned the Angel Christian case to Martin, who was only four years out of law school and had never tried a murder case. Martin didn’t know it, but Deacon was setting him up to be a scapegoat. If the case went south, Martin might as well pack the suntan lotion, because he’d end up going south with it.

“Julie Hayes?” Landers said. “How?”

“They found her at her place yesterday afternoon. She didn’t show up for work, so Erlene Barlowe sent one of her gofers over to check on her. She was dead on the kitchen floor. The Washington County investigator who worked the scene said it looked like she might have been poisoned, so I asked the medical examiner to rush the preliminary autopsy. M.E. says she was full of cocaine and strychnine.”

Landers had heard of lacing cocaine with strychnine at a DEA seminar. It was a relatively simple process that produced an agonizing death.

“Any ideas on who might have done it?” Landers said.

“I certainly have a candidate in mind.”

“You think it was Erlene Barlowe?”

“Who else would kill her?”

“You think she killed her to keep her from testifying against Angel? I think you’re reaching, Frankie. Why would she risk murdering somebody to help Angel out? The kid had only been around a couple of months when we arrested her. Barlowe barely knows her.”

“At this point, I think Barlowe probably murdered the preacher, too.”

“Then why would she kill a witness who was about to help us convict someone else? Doesn’t make any sense. And in case you haven’t looked close, we have less on Barlowe than we do on Angel.” Landers hated working with kid lawyers. They were too dumb to live.

“Deacon told me this morning about the witness who saw Barlowe on the bridge,” Martin said.

“Do you know what Deacon told me about that witness? He said the guy was unreliable. He said there was no way he could have made an ID like that in the dark. He said for me to ignore him.”

“What are we going to do, Phil? This case was weak enough with Hayes. Without her, I might as well dismiss it.”

“I wasn’t hot to take it to the grand jury in the first place. You can thank your boss for that. He said he wanted to shake the tree.”

“Him and his tree.  Dillard’s going to kick my butt in court. I’m going to be a laughingstock. Every newspaper and television station within fifty miles is covering this case, and everybody around is going to be watching while I go down. There’s an election coming up, and in case you guys over there at the TBI don’t pay attention to stuff like that, losing a high-profile murder case a week before an election is not good politics. Deacon will fire me over this.”

“It’s not going to help my career either, Frankie.”

“Why didn’t we have her tucked away as a material witness?”

“Because she never gave me any indication she was going anywhere.”

“Did you know she was a coke head?”

“I had my suspicions.” Landers felt a hand running up his leg and pushed it away. It returned, and he pushed it away again. He was thinking about how much he hated lawyers, prosecutors included. Every time something went wrong with a case, they blamed it on the police. He also hated aging bleached blondes like the one next to him. He wished she would just get up and leave.

“We need to try to make the best of this,” Frankie said. “I talked to Deacon a little while ago, and we’ve come up with a plan. We’re going to make Dillard an offer he can’t refuse on the Christian case, but if it doesn’t work, we’re going to need your help.”

“I have the rest of the week off, Frankie. Call me on Monday.”

Landers hung up and turned to the woman, who was peeking out over the sheet. Her left eyelash was twice as long as her right one, which must have come off during the sexcapades last night. No doubt he’d find it in the bed later. Ugh. The roots of her blonde hair were dark, and so was the mole just above her left nostril. Landers had absolutely no clue what her name might be.

“Get up,” he said. “Time to go.”

“Don’t you want to play some more?”

“Get up and get out.”

The woman began to collect her clothing, which was spread out across the floor between the bed and the door. She was naked, and as Landers watched her, he wished she’d cover herself. The backs of her thighs were layered with cellulite, and her butt sagged and jiggled. When she straightened to look at Landers, he decided she had to be well into her forties. Landers liked younger women, much younger women. How much did he drink? He pulled the sheet over his head and leaned back.

“You can dress downstairs, on your way out,” Landers said. He was beginning to feel sick.

He heard her walking toward the bedroom door and pulled the sheet back down so he could take one last look at her and remind himself why he shouldn’t drink so much. As she opened the door, she turned to face him.

“You’re a lousy lay,” she said, and then she was gone.

“Like you even remember it,” Landers said.

He needed to take a shower. He threw back the sheet, and there it was. The false eyelash, about an inch from his thigh. It looked like a dead centipede. Landers felt his stomach heave. He made it to the bathroom just in time.

Chapter 37

July 11

7:00 a.m.

WE’D brought furniture up from Ma’s house when we moved her into the nursing home: a dresser, a couple of small tables, a lamp and a chair, thinking it might help ease the transition and make her more comfortable. I spent an entire afternoon hanging and arranging photographs. One of my dad in his high school football uniform was hanging just to the right of the television. She’d asked me to place it there so she could look at it from the bed. Now she didn’t even know who he was.

I arrived at 7:00 a.m. to find her lying on her back staring at nothing. She hadn’t spoken in weeks, and she’d wet herself and was drooling. The saliva had run out the corner of her mouth and soaked her pillow case. I dug a fresh one out of the closet, then went and found a nurse’s aide. I waited in the hallway while she changed Ma’s diaper. I couldn’t bear to do it myself.

When she was finished, I walked back into the room and sat down. Ever since the day I told her about Raymond, I’d gotten into the habit of talking to her, even though she was oblivious to everything I said. I’d turned my visits into mini-therapy sessions without the shrink. Mostly, I talked about my cases and the constant state of conflict in which I found myself.

“Just my luck, huh Ma?” I said. “I get a case with a client who’s innocent, and the victim’s son turns out to be a psychopath. Everybody in the family is scared to death. We check to make sure the doors and windows are locked every night, I’ve got guns spread out all over the house, we all spend half our time looking in rear-view mirrors and over our shoulders. It’s crazy.

“But you know what? The whole system is crazy. For over ten years, I’ve been traveling every day to this bizarre world of lies and deceit. There’s no honor in it anywhere. It’s all just a sick game, and the people who win the most are the ones who lie the best. They call it the criminal justice system. What a crock. Defendants lie and cheat, police officers lie and cheat, prosecutors lie and cheat, defense lawyers lie and cheat, and judges – don’t even get me started. The American legal system would do itself a great service if it could somehow execute half the sitting judges in this country and start all over again-”

My cell phone rang. It was Caroline.

“Deacon Baker just called. They found Julie Hayes dead at her house yesterday. He wants you to come down there. He wants to talk about a deal.”

I leaned over and kissed my mother on the forehead, something I never did when she was conscious.

“Love you, Ma. I have to go, but I’m glad we had this little talk. Next time, remind me to tell you about Maynard Bush.”

Chapter 38

July 11

9:00 a.m.

DEACON Baker and Frankie Martin were waiting for me in the conference room. There were a couple of plastic plants sitting on small tables in two of the corners, and the walls were lined with bookshelves stuffed with outdated law books and police magazines. The ceilings were low, and I noticed that mildew had formed in the corners. The lighting was almost as bad as the lighting at the jail.

“Mr. Dillard,” Baker said as I walked in, “I trust you know my assistant, Frankie Martin?”

“I do.” I shook hands with each of them and took a seat at the long table with my back to the wall. Baker and Martin sat across from me. Baker looked like an oompa-loompa from Willie Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. He was short, plump and bald, and he always wore suspenders. He was also smoking a fat cigar, despite the fact that smoking wasn’t allowed in the building. The smell and the smoke were sickening.

“Ready for trial?” I said. “Sorry about your witness.” I couldn’t resist.

“Of course we are,” Baker said. “We have plenty of evidence without her.”

“I understand you gentlemen would like to talk about a plea bargain.”

“That’s right,” Baker said. “Let’s try to be honest with each other. Perhaps we can put the posturing aside.”

Plea bargaining was entirely about posturing. There was no way anyone was going to “put it aside.”

“We have a strong case,” Baker said, “but I’ve given this a great deal of thought and I don’t think the case is appropriate for the death penalty. We might be willing to take it off the table in exchange for a plea.”

So much for honesty. Their case was anything but strong, especially now that Julie Hayes was dead.

“What do you have in mind?” I said.

“Twenty years, second degree murder.”

“Not a chance. Not on the evidence I’ve seen. Surely you didn’t bring me all the way down here for that.”

“Make a counter-offer,” Baker said.

“I’ve given it some thought too,” I said. “The way I see it, you had a weak circumstantial case before your most important witness died, and you’ve got an unappealing victim. You’re going to have to spend a great deal of time at trial proving that your preacher went to a strip club. Then I assume you’re going to try to prove he solicited a prostitute, since you’re going to introduce evidence about the money he withdrew from his bank account right before he left. I don’t think the jury will have much sympathy for him, and I’ll do everything I can make sure they don’t.”

“Let’s assume he was, as you say, there to solicit a prostitute,” Martin said. “That doesn’t mean he deserved to be brutally murdered and mutilated. The jury is going to want to see someone pay for that.”

“I’m sure they will,” I said. “But not Angel. I don’t think she did it, and you can’t prove she did. Barlowe could have killed him, any of the other girls at the club could have killed him, he could have gone somewhere else and picked up someone else, or someone could have been waiting for him when he got back to the room. It could have been anybody, and you know it.”

“Nobody else’s hair was found in that room,” Baker said. “Only your client’s.”

“If they’d found the hair in the bathroom or on the headboard or even on the floor it would be different. But they found it on his clothing. It’s entirely possible that her hair passed to him when she was serving him booze at the club and he was rubbing up against her. And the only way you could possibly make the jury even suspect Angel was at the motel was through Julie Hayes, and she’s gone.”

“We have plenty of other evidence,” Baker said.

“I know what other evidence you have, Deacon. And I know what I have. I was planning to surprise you with this, but since we’re not posturing, I have a witness who says he saw a woman fitting Erlene Barlowe’s description on Picken’s Bridge around midnight the night of the murder. His name is Virgil Watterson. I believe you’ve heard of him.”

Baker flushed. It apparently hadn’t entered his feeble mind that Watterson might take his testimony to the defense attorney, and Landers obviously hadn’t said anything about our conversation at the courthouse.

“That testimony has no credibility,” he said. “All the witness saw was a woman on a bridge in the middle of the night. He can’t make a positive ID and he wasn’t even sure about the color of the vehicle.”

“You know as well as I do that if anyone from that club killed Tester, it was most likely Erlene Barlowe.” I felt a twinge of guilt as I said it. After all, Erlene had paid me a handsome sum of cash, but my job was to represent Angel. I couldn’t concern myself with Erlene.

“I can’t prove that,” Baker said.

“You can’t prove Angel killed him either.”

“So where does that leave us?” Baker looked like he was ready to say “uncle.”

“We’re willing to roll the dice at trial.”

“What would it take to resolve this case without a trial? Make some kind of reasonable counter-offer.”

This was the tricky part. If Angel was innocent, I wanted her to walk away without any strings, but the only way to do that was to win in front of a jury, and winning murder cases in front of juries was easier said than done. I also knew Deacon. Like most prosecutors, he wasn’t going to admit that he’d made a mistake and dismiss the case outright. I knew I’d have to give him something in order to make a deal and remove the risk that Angel might be found guilty and sentenced to life in prison or death.

“She might be willing to enter a no contest plea to some offense so long as you agree to probation,” I said. “She’s already served more jail time than she should have.”

“You don’t really think she’s innocent, do you?” Frankie said.

“As a matter of fact, I do. She has no history of criminal behavior, no drug or alcohol use, no history of psychological problems” – a white lie – “and she seems very gentle. I don’t think she did it. And I’ll tell you something else. She’s going to be a strong witness. You know how pretty she is, and she comes across as sincere.”

“Probation is impossible,” Baker said. “I can’t reduce a death penalty case to a probatable offense. I’d look like a fool.”

“You can sell it, Deacon,” I said. “Think about it. You announce to the court that an important witness has passed away and that the investigation has revealed some things you can’t divulge, but those things convince you that the plea agreement best serves the interests of justice. You tell the press your job as district attorney is to see that justice is done, not just to try to win at all costs. Then you build a case on Erlene Barlowe and get it right. You could come out of it looking like a hero, and believe me, you won’t hear a bit of criticism out of me. I’ll tell the press the district attorney has done the right thing and that you acted in good faith throughout the entire course of this tragic situation. I’ll publicly sing your praises a couple of weeks before the election.”

Baker sat back and removed the cigar from his lips. He looked at Martin, then at me. A crooked smile began to form on his lips.

“You’re devious,” he said.

“I’m just trying to grease the wheel,” I said. “Win-win. My girl goes home, and you look like a good guy. We’ll take three years of probation on aggravated assault. You’ll have her under your thumb for three years. If she screws up, she serves the sentence.”

“I have to think about it,” Baker said.

“What are you going to do about Tester’s son?” I said.

“I’m not going to do anything. From what I hear, he got fired from his job at the sheriff’s department. Besides, he’s not a registered voter in this county. I’m not even going to tell him about this.”

I stood to leave. “I don’t want to sound arrogant, Deacon, but if you take this to trial, you’re going to lose. She didn’t kill him.”

Baker was silent, apparently lost in thought.

“We’ll see about that,” Martin said.

“Call me and let me know what you decide,” I said. “I’ll be getting ready for trial.”

The call came two hours later.

“She can plead to aggravated assault as Range I and take the minimum, three years,” Frankie Martin said.

“It will have to be a no contest plea, and you’ll have to agree to probation,” I said.

“Fine.”

“Deacon is going to sell it?”

“He’s already working the phones,” Martin said. “He’ll hold a press conference after the plea and explain why we agreed to this.”

I hung up the phone and went down to talk to my client.

Chapter 39

July 14

9:00 a.m.

AS Judge Green made his entrance and sat down beneath the portrait of the dead judge, I glanced around the courtroom. The jury box was once again filled with members of the media who’d been called by Deacon Baker. I was edgy and tired. I’d spent most of Sunday night troubled by Angel’s willingness to take this deal. I told myself that the plea took nearly all of the risk off the table, guaranteed her release from custody, and spared her the ordeal of a trial. But I also knew that if I’d been accused of a crime I hadn’t committed, nothing would persuade me to stand up and accept a three-year sentence, probation or no probation. Angel hadn’t needed much persuasion.

“I understand we have a plea in case number 35666, State of Tennessee versus Angel Christian,” Judge Green said. “Bring the defendant in.”

Angel appeared through the doorway to my right, and I smiled at her as I walked to the podium. She looked away. I thought she’d forgiven me for being so hard on her the day I questioned her about Erlene, but maybe not.

“Let me see the forms,” Judge Green said.

I’d taken plea-agreement forms along with me when I explained the deal to Angel and she’d signed them. I now handed them to the bailiff, who in turn handed them to Judge Green. The judge didn’t allow lawyers to approach the bench to hand him forms or other evidence. He insisted that everything be passed forward through the bailiff, as though he was repulsed by the idea of having to deal directly with a lowly lawyer.

Judge Green studied the documents for a few minutes. His brow furrowed.  When he was finished, he looked over at Frankie Martin and Deacon Baker, both of whom were staring straight ahead.

“Would you care to explain this to me, Mr. Baker?”

“Explain what, your honor?”

“The state is reducing a first-degree murder charge to an aggravated assault. You’re agreeing to probation. Did your victim somehow miraculously come back to life?”

“No, your honor. He’s still dead.” The reporters laughed. I thought about Junior Tester, and for a moment, I actually felt sorry for him.

“Then why are you allowing this woman to plead as though the victim is still alive?” Green said.

“I think it’s clear we have some problems with the case, your honor. This is a compromise plea agreement. An important witness has passed away. There are also some things that have come up in the investigation, things I’m not at liberty to discuss at this time, that convince me that this plea agreement is in everyone’s best interests.”

“Why don’t you just dismiss the case?” Judge Green said. “You can always re-file it if another witness pops up or if your other problems are resolved. There’s no statute of limitations on murder.”

“We think this is a better way to resolve it. Mr. Dillard’s client is willing to enter a no contest plea to aggravated assault.”

“No, I’m not.” The soft voice came directly from my right.

Judge Green turned his attention to me.

“Did your client say something, Mr. Dillard?”

“I think so.” I looked at Angel. “What did you say?”

“I don’t want to do this. I changed my mind.”

Baker stood. “But we had a deal-”

“Be quiet,” Judge Green said. “Mr. Dillard, what’s going on?”

“I’d be happy to explain it if I knew,” I said. “When I spoke to Ms. Christian on Friday afternoon, she seemed pleased. She’s apparently changed her mind.”

“You’re wasting my time,” the judge said. “I don’t like it when people waste my time.”

“This is a complete surprise,” I said. “If you’ll give me a few minutes to talk to her, maybe we can straighten this out.”

“Don’t bother,” Judge Green said.

“Your honor,” Baker said, “Mr. Dillard and I reached a compromise agreement that brings what I believe to be a fair and satisfactory end to this very difficult case.”

“It sounds like Mr. Dillard’s client has other ideas.”

“But she signed the forms,” Deacon said. “She– ”

“It’s not a contract, Mr. Baker. She can change her mind if she wants to. Her plea has to be willing and voluntary, and she obviously is no longer willing. I might have rejected it anyway, but it appears she’s saved me the trouble. Looks like we’re going to trial after all, gentlemen. Court’s in recess.”

Green was almost jaunty as he stepped off the bench. He had to know that Deacon wouldn’t have made such a lousy deal if his case was strong, and if Deacon’s case wasn’t strong, that meant he might lose just before the election. If he lost the case, he’d probably lose the election, and Judge Green would be rid of him.

I went back to the jury room and asked the bailiff to give Angel and me some privacy. She sat down at the table and wouldn’t look at me.

“What’s going on?” I said. “I thought you were happy with this.”

“I changed my mind,” she said.

“Have you talked to Erlene?” She didn’t answer. “I’ll take that as a yes. So Erlene told you not to take this plea?”

“She thinks you’re going to win.”

“I appreciate the confidence, but you’re taking a big risk.”

“You will win, won’t you? I’m innocent. Promise me you’ll win.”

I didn’t say anything. I wished I could promise, but I’d been through enough trials to know that I could never predict the outcome.

“We go to trial two weeks from today,” I said. “I’ll be ready. I’ll come to the jail and we’ll go over everything again. Are you sure about this?”

“Not really,” she said.

I had to admire her courage, even though I thought it might be a bit on the reckless side. But what was more important was that I’d heard the magic words again: “I’m innocent.” Once again, I believed her.

Chapter 40

July 14

11:45 a.m.

LANDERS quickly found out what Frankie Martin had meant when he said he and Deacon would need Landers’s help if Dillard didn’t accept the “offer he can’t refuse.” Less than an hour after the plea bargain fell apart, Deacon had called Landers and asked him to come down to the D.A.’s office. When Landers walked into Deacon’s office and sat down, they told him they’d decided to go to Plan B, which was to try to get Dillard’s sister to help them by snitching on Angel.

“I thought of that a month ago,” Landers said. “I already took a run at her. She turned me down, but I was planning to go back. Her attitude might be different now that Judge Glass threw the book at her.”

“Great minds think alike,” Baker said. He’d thought of approaching Dillard’s sister as soon as he heard about the six-year sentence. “Have they shipped her off to the penitentiary yet?”

“Nah. It’s so crowded they don’t have a bed for her yet. She’s on a waiting list. The jail administrator told me she’d probably be around another month or so.”

“I don’t like using jailhouse snitches, but in this case, it looks like we don’t have much choice,” Baker said. “All the polls my people have taken say the election is going to be close. I can’t afford to lose this trial.”

“What if she won’t go for it?”

“She’ll go for it. We’ll offer to let her out as soon as the trial’s over.”

“What about Judge Green? He’ll never agree.”

“I’ll go around him. I’ll get Judge Glass to sign the agreement. He’s the one who put her in jail, he hates Dillard, and he despises Judge Green. He’d love the idea of Dillard’s sister getting on the stand and frying one of Dillard’s clients. He’ll probably come to court and watch.”

Landers smiled. “Not bad,” he said.

“I didn’t get elected to this position by being stupid.”

Landers thought of a couple of sarcastic responses to the comment, but chose to keep his mouth shut. He rose to leave.

“Wait just a second, Phil,” Baker said. “There’s one more thing we need to discuss.”

Baker didn’t come right out and say it, but over the next few minutes, he made it clear to Landers that he didn’t care whether Dillard’s sister told the truth in court or not. He said he needed “direct testimony that Angel Christian confessed to Sarah Dillard that Angel killed John Paul Tester.” Landers was authorized to offer Sarah a get-out-of-jail free card in return for her “truthful” testimony.

The more Landers thought about the idea of Dillard’s sister as the star witness against Dillard’s client, the more he liked it. He couldn’t wait to see the look on Dillard’s face when his sister stepped up on the witness stand and helped the state convict Angel Christian of murder. And Dillard would have to go after her hard on cross-examination. What a show that would be.

Since Baker gave Landers the impression he wasn’t going to be too particular about the truth, Landers figured he’d make the process a little easier. Before they brought Dillard’s sister into the interview room at the jail, he sat down and wrote out a statement, wording it the way Landers thought would help the most. If Sarah Dillard signed the statement, Landers would leave her a copy and she could use her time in the cell to memorize it. Then, when she took the witness stand at the trial, all she’d have to do was repeat what she’d memorized. It would be perfect.

Landers looked up and smiled when the guard brought Sarah in. She nodded in return, a good sign. She looked pretty hot.

“I thought it might be you,” she said.

“I hear you’re about to be shipped off to the pen. Bet you’re looking forward to that.”

“About as much as I’m looking forward to my next mammogram.”

“I heard what your brother did to you. It’s a shame, a pity. I don’t see how anybody could send their own flesh and blood to a place like the women’s prison in Nashville. Doesn’t he know how bad it is down there?”

“He doesn’t seem to care.”

“And how does that make you feel?”

“Angry.”

“Angry enough to help us?”

“What’s in it for me?”

“In exchange for your testimony, your sentence will be reduced to time served, plus you get to make your brother look bad.”

She sat back and thought about it, but it didn’t take her long. She took a deep breath and looked Landers in the eye.

“Tell me what you want me to do,” she said.

Landers slid the statement across the table, and she started to read.

Chapter 41

July 16

9:20 a.m.

MAYNARD Bush’s arraignment on the new charges of killing Bonnie Tate and the Bowers twins in Mountain City had taken only fifteen minutes, but it was fifteen of the most intense minutes of my life. The courtroom was packed with relatives and friends of Darren and David Bowers. Judge Glass was at his most belligerent, Maynard at his most flippant. He wouldn’t stop smiling. I wanted to crawl under the defense table and hide until it was over.

The people of Johnson County didn’t understand that I’d been appointed to represent Maynard Bush by a heartless judge who dumped terrible cases on me for his private amusement. What they understood was that I was dressed in a suit, standing beside and speaking on behalf of a psychopath who’d killed two of their own. If they’d known that Maynard had manipulated me into helping him, they’d have strung me up right then and there.

I’d parked my truck a block from the courthouse in an alley. As soon as the arraignment was over, I grabbed my briefcase and headed straight for the back stairs. Once I got to the bottom, I jogged across the spot where David Bowers was shot, got to my truck as quickly as I could, and sped out of Johnson County.

Judge Glass’s plan was to arraign Maynard in Mountain City in the morning and in Elizabethton – for the murder of his mother in Carter County – in the afternoon. The two towns were forty-five minutes apart. Under normal circumstances, I would’ve enjoyed the drive. The road wound through the Cherokee National Forest and along Watauga Lake, which acted as a gigantic mirror for the surrounding mountains. The views were breathtaking. There were times in the past when I might have stopped along the way to take in the scenery, but I didn’t even notice.

I drove all the way back home and went through the mail. There was an opinion from the Supreme Court on Randall Finch’s case. The opinion said Randall had a right to plead guilty at arraignment, and if the state hadn’t bothered to file their death notice in a timely manner, too bad. I couldn’t believe it. I’d won. For once, they put the sophistry aside and used a little common sense. I was pleased until I thought about what I’d really done – helped a baby killer escape a penalty he deserved.

I returned a few phone calls and drove over to Elizabethton. I tried to eat lunch at at a coffee shop on Main Street, but I only picked at the food. Ever since Maynard had killed the Bowers twins, I’d lost my appetite. Food made me nauseous. And I was having trouble making myself work out. Exercise had always been an important part of my daily life. Exercise produced endorphins, and endorphins made me feel good. But I didn’t seem to care about feeling good. I was having more trouble sleeping than ever, and when I looked at myself in the mirror in the mornings, I noticed circles under my eyes that seemed to be getting darker with each passing day.

After I paid the check at the coffee shop, I headed for the Carter County Courthouse, a truly unique structure. I don’t know who the architect was, but the taxpayers should have taken him out and shot him the day he decided it would be a good idea to build the jail directly above the courthouse. It may have seemed like a grand idea at the time, but the reality soon set in. The inmates quickly realized that they could flood the jail by stuffing rolls of toilet paper into the commodes. They also realized that the raw sewage overflowing and spilling onto the floors soon seeped into the courtrooms and clerks’ offices below. I could imagine some inmate having just been sentenced to ten years heading back to his cell and dropping a little dung of his own onto the judge below. It happened often enough that the place smelled like an outhouse.

When I pulled into the parking lot, I saw an ambulance with its lights flashing near the sally port at the jail. There were also several patrol cars, all with their lights flashing. Somehow, I knew what had happened. Instead of heading inside to the smelly courtroom, I parked and walked directly toward the ambulance.

They were bringing someone out on a gurney just as I turned up the sidewalk toward the sally port. Several police officers were milling around the door that led to the jail. A short, burly female paramedic with bright orange, spiked hair was pushing the gurney. It was obvious that whoever was on the gurney was dead. A blood-soaked sheet had been pulled over the head.

“Step back, sir,” the paramedic said as I approached.

“Is that Maynard Bush?”

“You need to step away and mind your own—”

I reached down and snatched the sheet back from the head. Maynard’s eyes were wide open, frozen in what must have been a last moment of terror. His tongue was black and swollen and sticking out of his mouth at a macabre angle. There was a dark bruise across his throat. I’d seen enough ligature marks to know what it meant. Maynard had hanged himself, or, more likely, someone had hanged him.

The orange-headed paramedic was glaring at me. I flipped the sheet back up over Maynard’s head and glared back.

“He was right,” was all I could think of to say. “He was right.”

I walked into the courthouse to tell Judge Glass I was leaving. He didn’t bother to thank me for representing Maynard or say anything about Maynard’s death. He just nodded his head and grunted. When I got back out to the parking lot, I noticed Caroline’s car backed in next to my truck. The door opened and she stepped out. Her eyes were red and puffy.

“I’m so sorry to have to tell you this, baby,” she said. “The nursing home called right after you left. Your mother died a little while ago.”

Chapter 42

July 17

10:20 a.m.

WE went up to the nursing home to clear out Ma’s room the day after she died. Jack had flown in on a red-eye the night before and he helped me carry the furniture out to the truck. Then Caroline and I went to the funeral home while Jack and Lilly took the furniture back over to Ma’s house. A tall, slim, bespectacled man who spoke in a quiet voice with a slight lisp showed us into the room where the caskets were kept.

About twenty caskets were spread around the room, mahogany and teak and oak and stainless steel. The man led us first to a round table in the corner.

“Please, have a seat,” he said. “Can I offer you something to drink? Some cookies, perhaps?”

Cookies. I didn’t want any cookies. I gave him a look that would have silenced most people, but he just smiled. He set a pad of paper down on the table and produced a pen.

“I’ve read a lot about you Mr. Dillard,” he said, “but I didn’t know your mother. Tell me about her.”

“Why?” I knew he didn’t care about her or me. He just wanted to get as much money out of me as he could.

“We take the responsibility of contacting the newspaper on your behalf for the obituary,” the man said. “I just need some basic information. Try to think of all the good things you remember about your mother.”

“She was a tough woman. She raised my sister and me all by herself after my father was killed in Vietnam. She worked as a bookkeeper for a roofing company and did other people’s laundry for extra money. She wouldn’t accept help from anyone. She didn’t say much and thought the world was a terrible place. How’s that?”

“Where did she go to church?”

“She didn’t believe in God. She thought the Christian religion was a global scam set up to control people and extract money from them by making them feel guilty. Do you think they’ll print that?”

“Did she have brothers and sisters?”

“One brother. A jerk who drowned in the Nolichucky River when he was seventeen.”

“And her parents?”

“Both dead.”

“Would you excuse us for a minute?” Caroline said. She reached over and took my hand and led me out the door into the lobby.

“Why don’t you let me handle this?” she said.

“I hate these jerks. Preying on other people’s misery.”

“You look tired. Why don’t you go out to the car and nap while I finish up here?”

“I can’t sleep in a bed. What makes you think I’ll be able to sleep in the car?”

“Please? Just try to relax. You’ll feel better. I’ll be out as soon as I can.”

I was beginning to think I was going insane. I’d been half-jokingly telling myself I was nuts for years, but with everything that had happened over the late spring and summer, beginning with Sarah’s release from jail and subsequent return, I’d found myself falling deeper and deeper into a mental abyss. No sleep. No appetite. No exercise. Nothing seemed to give me pleasure any more, not even music. My attitude was becoming more and more fatalistic and hopeless. I had no enthusiasm, and no particular interest in anything, including sex. It was as though I’d become a passionless robot, simply existing from day to day without feeling.

I went back out to the car and sat in the passenger seat for a while. I closed my eyes a few times, but I couldn’t doze. I finally wrote Caroline a note, got out of the car, and started walking home. It was at least seven miles and my legs felt like lead, but I thought the exercise might help and it would give me some time to try to sort things out. At first, I tried to force myself to think pleasant thoughts. I envisioned Jack hitting home runs, Lilly dancing across the stage, Caroline’s jubilation when I brought her a quarter of a million dollars in a gym bag…

But after only a few minutes of walking, my mind began to flash images that were much more sinister, the same images I was seeing when I tried to go to sleep night after night. Johnny Wayne Neal being gagged and dragged out of the courtroom. The bubbles rising in the headlights of my truck the night Junior Tester pushed me into the lake. The look in Tester’s eyes when he said I’d taken his daddy from him. The fantasy of clubbing him to death. The bruise on Angel Christian’s face in the photograph. David Bowers’s blood on my shirt. Maynard’s smirk, and the terrible image of his tongue sticking out of his mouth. My mother, wearing a diaper and lying helpless in a hospital bed with spittle running down her chin. And finally, Sarah. Always Sarah, when she was young and innocent. “Get him off of me, Joey. He’s hurting me.”

By the time Caroline rolled up next to me and pushed the passenger door open about two miles from home, I’d reached an entirely new level of self-loathing. I hated myself for putting Sarah in jail and for not being able to break through with Ma. I hated myself for helping monsters like Maynard Bush and Randall Finch and Billy Dockery and a long list of others. I was a whore, a pathetic excuse for a human being.

“I love you, Joe,” Caroline said as soon as I got into the car. Caroline is intuitive, especially when it comes to dealing with me. I knew what she was trying to do, but the words bounced off of me like a rubber ball off concrete. I didn’t feel a thing.

“Did you hear me? I said I love you.”

“I know.”

“Do you know how much your children love you? Jack worships the ground you walk on. Lilly thinks you’re the greatest man who ever lived.”

“Please, Caroline, don’t. Not right now. I’m in no mood to be patronized.”

“What are you thinking? What’s wrong with you?”

“You don’t want to know what I’m thinking.”

“You’re mother just died, baby. You’re grieving.”

“My mother and I weren’t even close. All those years, all that time together. I grew up in her house. She raised me, Caroline, and I can’t remember a single meaningful conversation between us. Do you know what I was thinking a little while ago? In four years of high school, I played in over forty football games, over a hundred basketball games and over a hundred baseball games, and she never came to a single one. She never saw me play. Not once.”

“You’ve been through a lot in the past few months,” she said. “We’ve all been through a lot.”

We rode the rest of the way home in silence. Jack distracted me for a couple of hours by taking me out to his old high school baseball field. I didn’t hear her say anything, but I felt sure it was at Caroline’s suggestion. I’d bought a pitching machine a couple of years earlier, and I fed balls into the machine while Jack pounded them over the fence. Watching him hit a baseball was a truly beautiful thing to me. He was so quick, so powerful, so fluid. He was so much better than I ever was, and watching him gave me more pleasure than I’d had in months. The sun and the exercise felt good, and by the time we got back to the house, I was feeling a little better.

But then the night came, and with it, another bout of sleepless self-flagellation. We drove to the cemetery at eleven the next morning. I felt like a dead man walking when we climbed the hill to the gravesite. It was overcast and drizzling rain. There was a crowd of people there. I sensed their presence, but I couldn’t really see them. It was as though they were all standing in a bank of thick fog.

And then I caught a glimpse of Sarah. Caroline had called the sheriff’s department and made arrangements for them to bring her to the funeral. She arrived in the back of a cruiser, wearing an orange jail jumpsuit and handcuffs and shackles. The deputy who brought her up wouldn’t let her under the tent with Caroline, Lilly, Jack, and me, so she ended up having to stand outside with the others in the rain.

Caroline had contacted Ma’s best friend, a woman named Katie Lowe, to give the eulogy. I sat there, not really listening, until she began to talk about Elizabeth’s children. I heard some things about my mother that I hadn’t known before, things that Ma had told Katie about Sarah and me. One of them was that Ma had been so proud of me when I graduated from law school that she cried. I’d never seen my mother cry, and I’d never heard her say a word about being proud of me.

When the service was over, the deputy took Sarah by the arm and led her straight back down the hill. I watched as she climbed awkwardly into the back seat of the cruiser. I felt tears forming in my eyes as the cruiser pulled away and I turned to Ma’s casket. I put my palms on it and stood there, not knowing what to say or do, embarrassed to be showing weakness in front of my children. I stood there until the crowd had dispersed and then, for some reason I didn’t understand, I felt the impulse to bend down and kiss her casket. I’d kissed her at the nursing home, but not until she was too far gone to feel it. When I kissed her casket, I realized that I hadn’t ever given her a meaningful kiss. The thought made it almost impossible to keep from breaking down.

I leaned against the casket with my shoulders shaking and tried to compose myself. She’s gone and you’re still here, I said to myself. She’s gone and you’re still here. You’re alive. You have people who love you. Stop feeling sorry for yourself…

Stop feeling sorry for yourself. It was a phrase I’d heard many times, straight from my mother’s mouth, and as I stood there leaning against her casket, I knew I had try. The same people who loved me also depended on me for strength and support. I couldn’t let them down.

“Goodbye, Ma,” I whispered. “I’m sorry.”

I took a deep breath, straightened up, wiped the tears from my face with the back of my hand, and lifted my chin. I put one arm around Caroline and the other around Lilly, and nodded to Jack.

Together, the four of us walked back down the hill towards the car in the drizzling rain, and went back to our lives.

PART III

Chapter 43

July 24

6:15 a.m.

AGENT Landers woke up in a foul mood, knowing he had to spend the next few days in a courtroom on a case he might lose, even with Dillard’s sister’s testimony. Just as he was starting to get in the shower, his cell phone rang. Who calls at six-fifteen in the morning? The caller ID said the number was blocked. What was the point in a caller ID if the person on the other end could block it? Cell phone company morons.

“Landers.”

“I have some information for you.” It was a female. Landers could barely hear her.

“Who is this?”

“I used to work for Erlene Barlowe.”

“How’d you get my cell phone number?”

“Julie Hayes gave it to me. I was going to call you sooner, but when she got killed, it scared me.”

“So why aren’t you scared now?”

“Because I’m gone.”

“Tell me your name.”

“Can’t do it. You’re making a mistake. Angel didn’t kill anybody.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because I was there that night. I know what happened.”

“Are you saying Erlene killed him?”

“I don’t think you even have to ask me that question.”

“If you know something, we can protect you. You need to come back and sign a statement and testify.”

“You didn’t protect Julie.”

“You’re not helping me if you won’t come in.”

“I can help you find something you’ve been looking for.”

“I’m listening.”

“I’ll give you a hint. It’s red and has four wheels.”

“The Corvette?”

“I knew you were smart.”

“Where is it?”

“In a barn.”

“Stop playing games with me. Where’s the car?”

“Do you have a pen and a piece of paper? You’re going to need to write this down.”

Landers called Frankie Martin and told him he wouldn’t be around for jury selection in the morning, but he didn’t tell him why. Landers could tell from the tone of Martin’s voice that he was angry, but Landers wasn’t about to tell Frankie or anyone else where he was going. He’d been jerked around enough on the Angel Christian case. If the girl on the phone was sending him on a wild goose chase, he was going to be the only one who knew about it.

Landers made the drive down I-181 from Johnson City to Unicoi County in thirty minutes. It was already 78 degrees and there was a thick mist hanging over everything. It was going to be hot and humid. He took the Temple Hill exit and turned onto Spivey Mountain Road.

Two miles up the mountain, Landers came to an unmarked gravel road, right where the anonymous caller said it would be. He followed the gravel road through a gulley and along a tree-covered ridge. After a mile, he came to a cattle gate that was secured by a padlock. He climbed the gate and followed the trail on foot through a stand of white pine for another quarter-mile. As he broke into a clearing, Landers spotted the barn a hundred yards to his right. So far, it looked like the caller was telling the truth.

Landers pulled his gun and walked slowly up to the barn. He saw something move in the woods to his left and froze. Must have been a deer. He peeked through the wooden slats until his eyes adjusted to the semi-darkness inside. Sure enough, there it was. A vehicle covered by a tarp. The barn door was padlocked, so Landers crawled in through an open window, walked over to the car, and lifted the tarp. A Corvette. A beautiful, red Corvette. And he could make out dark stains on the passenger seat. The mother lode. Finally.

Landers pulled a notepad from his pocket and wrote down the vehicle identification number, climbed back through the window, and jogged all the way back to his car. Sweat was pouring off of him. As soon as he got to a spot where he had a cell phone signal, he called his boss and told him what he’d found. Bill Wright said he’d arrange for two agents to secure the property. No one would go in or out until Landers did what needed to be done. Wright also said he’d call the forensics team. They’d be on the way soon.

Landers drove back down the mountain and straight to the tax assessor’s office at the Unicoi County courthouse. They’d just opened and there was no one there besides Landers. The woman who worked there helped him find the property he’d just left on one of the tax maps. From that, learned that the taxes on the property were paid by a corporation called Busty Gals, Inc.

Landers got back into his car and drove to the TBI office in Johnson City. On the way, he called the Tennessee secretary of state’s office in Nashville and asked them to fax him a copy of Busty Gals, Inc.’s corporate charter. The incorporator was HighRide, Inc., a Delaware corporation not registered to do business in Tennessee. A phone call to the Delaware secretary of state’s office confirmed what Landers suspected. Erlene Barlowe owned HighRide, Inc., which meant she also owned Busty Gals, Inc. Landers faxed the Corvette’s VIN number to the National Auto Theft Bureau, an arm of the insurance industry that tracked nearly every car in the country. The Corvette was also registered to HighRide, Inc. That explained why Landers hadn’t been able to get a hit from the Tennessee Department of Motor Vehicles.

Landers used all of the information he’d gathered to draft an affidavit for a search warrant for the barn. He didn’t mention the fact that he’d trespassed onto the property on Spivey Mountain. The way he drafted the warrant made it look as though he’d done some excellent police work, which he figured he had. He found Judge Glass in his office at eleven-thirty, and the judge signed the warrant

Landers was scheduled to testify in the Angel Christian case in the afternoon, but depending on what forensics found in the barn, he knew his testimony might have to change. He kept up with the radio traffic, so he knew the forensics team hit the barn a little before 1:00 p.m.  He headed down to Jonesborough to talk to Deacon Baker.

Chapter 44

July 24

9:00 a.m.

I found out Sarah was going to testify against Angel less than a week before the trial, when the district attorney faxed me an amended witness list and a copy of my sister’s statement. I didn’t believe a word of what I read. The statement had been taken by Phil Landers.

I was confident as I sat in the courtroom on the second floor in Jonesborough, but as always, I was a little nervous. The bailiff announced the entrance of Judge Leonard Green. The case of the State of Tennessee versus Angel Christian was about to go to trial.

Seventy-seven citizens from Washington County had been summoned. From that group, we’d choose the jury that would determine Angel’s fate. I’d spend a great deal of time talking to them about being open-minded and neutral and the importance of a fair trial, but I knew the goal of jury selection was to try to make sure the trial was anything but fair. I needed to select people who were more likely to be sympathetic to Angel than to the state. The key was to talk to them as much as I could, accurately gauge their answers and reactions, and then make sound decisions.

I’d never before represented a woman accused of murder, let alone a woman who looked like Angel. Her beauty was both a blessing and a curse, and presented me with a fascinating dilemma when it came to picking a jury. I knew Angel would be attractive to the prospective male jurors, especially if I chose them carefully, and I hoped the attraction would cause them to be sympathetic toward her and want to help her. At the same time, there would be evidence presented during the trial of the kind of mutilation any man would fear. If the male jurors perceived at any time during the trial that Angel might be capable of such an act, she’d be doomed.

The image Angel presented to the prospective female jurors was an even trickier issue. The average female in Washington County, Tennessee, was a God-fearing conservative. From the mouth of Agent Landers, those conservative women would hear testimony that Angel was a runaway and that she had worked, if only for a short time, in a strip club. They’d hear that Angel Christian probably wasn’t her real name, and that Landers had been unable to find background information on her. That alone could be enough to cause many women to vote to convict her, but my bigger concern was jealousy. If the female jurors perceived that Angel regarded herself as beautiful, or that she was somehow attempting to take advantage of her beauty to gain favor with the men, we wouldn’t have a chance.

Caroline had chosen Angel’s wardrobe and makeup, and when I saw my client walk into the courtroom early that morning, I was grateful for my wife’s skill. The black pantsuit and cream-colored blouse were conservative but classy, loose enough to hide the curves but not frumpy. Angel’s shoes were black with low heels, and her hair had been neatly tied back. Just a touch of eyeliner set off her fantastic brown eyes. There was no lip gloss, no shading around the eyes, no blush, and no jewelry. She looked like a scared, beautiful college student. It was perfect.

I nodded and smiled at the group of prospective jurors when Judge Green introduced me. I immediately scanned the room for Junior Tester, but he wasn’t there. I introduced Angel and placed my hand on her shoulder. I wanted the jury to know I wasn’t ashamed to touch her, that I felt close to her, and that I believed in her. Angel nodded her head and smiled, just as I’d told her to do.

I sat back down as Judge Green began the jury selection process. He reached into a stack of slips and randomly pulled out a name.

“Lucille Benton,” he said.

A lady wearing a denim pantsuit rose from the middle of the crowded audience.

“Here,” she said, raising her hand.

“Come on down.” Judge Green sounded like a game show host. “Where are you from?”

“Limestone,” the woman said, walking to the jury box.

“Ah, Limestone, wonderful little community. And how are things in Limestone this morning, Ms. Benton?”

I cringed. I was sitting next to a woman who was on trial for murder, and Judge Green was politicking as usual, pandering shamelessly to the jurors. I scribbled notes while he instructed the first thirteen to sit in the jury box and the next seven to sit on the front row of the audience, just behind the bar. Finally, after a half-hour of worthless banter from the judge, I heard the words I’d been waiting for.

“Mr. Martin, you may voir dire the jury.”

Frankie Martin rose, straightened his tie, and moved to the podium. He was about to address a jury in a murder case for the first time in his life, having spent the past four years handling misdemeanor cases in general sessions court. But he was a handsome, articulate young man and carried himself with confidence. He was also fighting for his very survival in the prosecutor’s office. The fact that Deacon Baker was not in the courtroom could mean only one thing: he thought the case was a loser. Martin was Baker’s sacrificial lamb. If Martin lost this trial, he’d be hustling divorce cases next week.

I whispered into Angel’s ear: “I need you to watch the jurors very carefully. If anyone on the jury makes you uncomfortable for any reason, I want to know about it.”

She nodded. Caroline had obviously given her some perfume. She smelled like a lilac bush.

Martin spent an hour on his initial voir dire. He was smooth and courteous, and he failed to make some of the mistakes that rookie lawyers tend to make at their first big trial. Judge Green didn’t get a single opportunity to embarrass him.

When Martin finally sat down, I got into character. While he was speaking, I’d used the time to memorize the jurors’ names. I smiled and was meticulously polite to each of them. I thanked them for performing such a valuable public service and told them if I asked a question that made them the least bit uncomfortable, they could ask the judge to allow them to answer the question in private. I encouraged them to speak openly and honestly regarding their feelings on a wide range of topics, and as they spoke, I watched them closely, looking for any sign of discontent.

Despite Tom Short’s warning, a large part of my trial strategy was to deflect attention away from Angel and to put Reverend Tester on trial. If it was to succeed I needed jurors, preferably female jurors, who held sincere religious beliefs and would be deeply offended by the fact that the pastor had used donations from a church to fund a night at a strip club. It was known in legal circles as the “sumbitch-deserved-it” strategy, and under the right circumstances, it was highly effective.

I also wanted at least four males on the jury, preferably fathers. Angel had a way of engendering sympathy in men. I wanted them to feel an instinct to protect her. I wanted them to hope, perhaps to believe, that they could seek her out after the trial was over and let her know it was their vote, or their influence, that had set her free.

After three hours of questions and answers, challenges and arguments, Judge Green announced that a jury had been chosen. There were five men and seven women. I hadn’t been able to get every person I wanted on the jury, because Frankie kept using his challenges to kick them off, but I felt good about the group sitting in the box. The jurors were given buttons with their names on them, and the judge swore them in. He instructed them on how they should conduct themselves during the case, then looked up at the clock on the back wall.

“It’s noon. I’m hungry. We’ll adjourn until one-thirty for lunch.”

After the jury was out of sight, the bailiffs escorted Angel back to the holding cell. Caroline had packed me a sandwich and some chips, and I spent the lunch hour going over my opening statement. At precisely 1:30, Judge Green walked back into the courtroom and ordered the bailiffs to bring the jury in.

I stood as the jury filed in and took their seats. I smiled and tried to catch the eye of each person passing the defense table.

“I trust you had a good lunch,” the judge said. “Is the state ready?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Is the defense ready?”

“Yes, judge.”

“Read the indictment, Mr. Martin.”

Martin stood and read the indictment that charged Angel Christian with knowingly, intentionally, and with premeditation taking the life of John Paul Tester. Count Two charged her with abusing the corpse by mutilation.

“Opening statements,” the judge said.

Frankie Martin stood up.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the evidence in this case will show you that the defendant, Angel Christian, brutally stabbed and mutilated John Paul Tester in the early morning on April twelve of this year. Mr. Tester visited a club where the defendant worked on that same evening. The defendant flirted with Mr. Tester, she served him many drinks, and at approximately 11:30 p.m., Mr. Tester withdrew two hundred dollars from an ATM machine in the club lobby. The defendant left the establishment shortly after Mr. Tester left. A witness will testify that she saw a woman accompany Mr. Tester to his room around midnight. Mr. Tester was found at approximately 1:00 p.m. that afternoon in his hotel room. He had been drugged and stabbed nearly thirty times. His penis had been sliced off and removed from the room. His wallet was gone. His severed penis was found near Picken’s Bridge that same morning.”

Martin was calling Tester “Mister” instead of “Reverend.” I’d take care of that soon enough.

“Among the evidence gathered during a forensic examination of Mr. Tester’s hotel room were two hairs that were found on his clothing. Both hairs were tested for DNA. A hair sample was later obtained from the defendant. The DNA profile of the hairs found on Mr. Tester’s body matches exactly the DNA profile of the hair sample obtained from the defendant. The chances of those hairs belonging to someone else are more than one hundred billion to one. You’ll also see a photograph of the defendant taken by the police two days after the murder. The photo shows a bruise on the defendant’s face, and our contention is that she received the bruise during some kind of altercation with Mr. Tester.

“But more importantly, we have a witness who will testify that the defendant confessed to this brutal crime. Our witness is an inmate at the Washington County Detention Center. Her name is Sarah Dillard. Ironically, she’s Mr. Dillard’s sister. She will testify that the defendant confessed during a conversation they had at the jail. The defendant told Miss Dillard that on the night of the murder, the defendant followed Mr. Tester back to his motel room with the intention of robbing him. She’ll testify that the defendant told her that she drugged Mr. Tester and killed him after he passed out on the bed.

“I wish I had a videotape to show you, or an eyewitness, but unfortunately, I don’t. What I do have is a web of circumstantial evidence so tightly woven that the defendant cannot possibly escape. Everything points to her. She was at the club. She spoke to Mr. Tester. She served him drinks. She flirted with him. She invited him to leave with her. She followed him to his room, and then she drugged him, murdered him, and robbed him.”

Martin turned and pointed at Angel.

“Don’t let yourselves be fooled by that young woman’s beauty or her youth. Don’t let yourselves be taken in by her attorney’s tricks or the smoke and mirrors that will no doubt be used to confuse you during the course of this trial. That young woman sitting over there committed a vicious murder, and we have the evidence to prove it. It will be your duty to render a verdict of guilty in this case, and to impose on her the only sentence that will give justice to John Paul Tester and his family, a sentence of death. This woman committed first-degree murder. My job is to prove it. Yours is to make her pay the price. I fully intend to hold up my end, and I hope that once you’ve heard all the evidence, you’ll do the same. Thank you.”

Martin sat down at the prosecutor’s table, and I stood. Martin’s argument had been passionate and persuasive, but parts of it were dishonest, and I intended to point that out immediately. I walked to the wooden lectern, picked it up, and set it down three feet to my right. I didn’t want any barriers between the jurors and me. I glanced at the jurors and then out over the courtroom. Junior Tester had come in and was sitting on the front row, directly to my left. I noticed that he’d put on at least twenty pounds since I’d visited him a couple of months ago. He hadn’t shaved in days and looked tired and haggard. He was also staring directly at me. It unnerved me, but only for a few seconds.

“Not much point in having a trial,” I said, “if you believe everything Mr. Martin just said.” I smiled at the jury. “If everything he said were true, I suppose we could just go ahead and ship Miss Christian off to death row right now and save everybody all of this trouble.”

I sought out eyes, looking for signs that Martin’s argument had closed their minds. They weren’t avoiding me. They were still receptive to what I had to say.

“But what Mr. Martin just told you isn’t the truth. It was his interpretation of the evidence, and as every one of you knows, there are two sides to every story. Now, first things first. This young lady’s name is not ‘the defendant.’”

I walked over to the defense table and stood directly behind Angel. I put my hands on her shoulders.

“Her name is Angel Christian, and she’s going to testify in this case. What she will tell you is this:

“On the night of April the eleventh of this year, Reverend John Paul Tester came into the club where she’d been a waitress for only a month. It’s a strip club, a gentleman’s club, whatever you want to call it. It’s a place where men go to watch young ladies dance and take their clothes off. It’s not the kind of place where you’d expect to find a man of God, especially if he’s paying for his night out with money given to him by worshippers at the Church of the Light of Jesus, where he’d preached a sermon on the evils of fornication less than an hour before he arrived at the club.”

Diane Frye had managed to get hold of a tape recording of the sermon Tester gave that night. I’d tried to get it introduced as evidence, but the judge shot me down. I wasn’t even supposed to mention it, but if Frankie didn’t object, I knew the judge wouldn’t say a word. If he did object, he’d simply be calling more attention to it. Mentioning the tape probably bordered on being unethical, but Angel was on trial for her life. Frankie kept his mouth shut.

“Miss Christian wasn’t a dancer, not a stripper, and she certainly wasn’t a prostitute. She was a waitress. She arrived here in February after leaving a viciously abusive situation back home in Oklahoma. She originally intended to go to Florida, but she met a young lady on a bus in Dallas who told her she’d help Miss Christian find work here.

“Miss Christian will tell you that on the night of April the eleventh, she served Reverend Tester the drinks he ordered -- six doubles, straight scotch, the equivalent of twelve drinks, in two hours. She’ll tell you Reverend Tester became intoxicated and that he was aggressive, even a little abusive, toward her. She’ll tell you Reverend Tester used inappropriate language and that Reverend Tester touched her inappropriately. She reported Reverend Tester’s behavior to her employer, Ms. Erlene Barlowe, who will also testify in this case.

“Ms. Barlowe spoke to Reverend Tester, and eventually asked the reverend to leave. Miss Christian had never seen or heard of Reverend Tester prior to his coming to the club that night, and she never saw him again after he walked out the door.”

I moved back to the jury box and stood directly in front of them.

“Now, despite what Mr. Martin said earlier, you won’t hear a single witness tell you they saw Miss Christian anywhere near Reverend Tester’s room that night. You won’t hear a single witness tell you they saw Miss Christian leave the club at the same time Reverend Tester left. As a matter of fact, Miss Christian’s employer, Erlene Barlowe, will testify that Miss Christian finished out her shift and Ms. Barlowe drove her home.

“You’ll hear evidence that two hairs found on the victim’s body contained DNA that matches Miss Christian’s DNA. That is, by far, the most compelling piece of evidence the state will present in this case. I believe it’s safe to say that were it not for those two hairs, we wouldn’t be here today. But what I’ll be asking you to pay particular attention to is where those hairs were found. Both of them were lifted off of Reverend Tester’s shirt. Since there will be testimony that Miss Christian had contact with Mr. Tester at the club, that she leaned over and served him drinks and that he deliberately and obnoxiously rubbed himself against her, it’s not only possible but probable that the hairs were transferred from Miss Christian to Reverend Tester at the club.

“That, ladies and gentlemen, is all they have, with the exception of a last-minute statement from a drug addict and thief they recruited at the jail. She’s my sister, yes, and she’s furious with me because I had her arrested when she stole from my family. It wasn’t the first time she’d done it.”

Martin stood to object. Judge Green waved him back down.

“Tone it down, Mr. Dillard,” the judge said.

“They have no murder weapon. They have no eyewitnesses. They have no fingerprints, no blood evidence, and no way to place Miss Christian at the scene of the crime. They say the motive is robbery, but they didn’t find any of Reverend Tester’s money on Miss Christian. They have no evidence to prove motive.

“In this case, the government must prove beyond a reasonable doubt that Miss Christian, acting with premeditation, stabbed the victim to death and then mutilated his body. In order for you to convict Miss Christian, you must have virtually no doubt that she committed this terrible crime. And beyond that, the judge will instruct you that in a case based on circumstantial evidence such as this one, you can only find Miss Christian guilty if there is no other reasonable theory of guilt. There are dozens of other reasonable theories as to how Reverend Tester was killed.

“When all the evidence is in, you folks will have more than a reasonable doubt. As a matter of fact, you’ll probably be wondering why this young lady was arrested in the first place. Angel Christian has been living a nightmare since the day the state wrongfully accused her of murder. It’s a nightmare only you can end. She is not guilty. She did not do this terrible thing.”

I paused and looked at each of the jurors. I wanted the message to sink in.

“Everyone associated with this trial is doing their duty,” I said. “The judge, the lawyers, the witnesses, everyone. Your duty is to determine the truth, and after you’ve done that, to vote your conscience. In this case, the only verdict you’ll be able to return is not guilty. This is a death penalty case. A man has been killed, and someone should pay for killing him. But none of us wants an innocent person to pay, and that beautiful young woman sitting over there is innocent.”

Chapter 45

July 24

2:15 p.m.

“CALL your first witness,” Judge Green said.

Martin called Dennis Hall, the manager of the Budget Inn, to the witness stand. Hall told the jury that Reverend Tester had checked in late in the afternoon, said he was in town to preach at a revival at a friend’s church, and asked him where he could get a good burger. An hour after checkout time the next day, one of his maids told him Tester’s “Do Not Disturb” sign was still on the door. Hall went to the room, opened the door, saw all of the blood, and called the police.

When Martin was finished with his direct examination, I stood and straightened my tie.

“Mr. Hall, did you see Reverend Tester return to the motel at any time after he left for the restaurant you recommended—the Purple Pig, I believe it was?”

“No, sir. I got off work at seven and went home.”

I touched Angel’s shoulder. “Have you ever seen this young lady before?”

“No. I would have remembered her.”

“Thank you.”

“You can step down,” Judge Green said. “Next witness.”

Martin called Sheila Hunt, the clerk who was working at the Budget Inn the night of the murder. She said she saw Tester’s truck pull into the parking lot around midnight, followed by a red Corvette. She said a woman got out of the Corvette and followed Tester up the stairs. Martin didn’t bother to ask her whether she could identify the woman.

“Ms. Hunt,” I said when it was my turn, “it was raining when you saw Reverend Tester return to the motel, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, it was.”

“Raining pretty hard?”

“Yes.”

“And that made it difficult for you to see, didn’t it?”

“Yes. The rain, and I wasn’t paying that much attention, I was watching Jay Leno.”

“And didn’t you tell the police that the person you saw was wearing some kind of coat or cape?”

“It had a little hood. I remember thinking she looked like Little Red Riding Hood, except I don’t think it was red.”

“So you can’t identify the person, can you?”

“No, I’m sorry.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry about, ma’am. You can’t tell us whether this person was old or young, can you?”

“No.”

“Tall or short? Heavy or slim?”

“No.”

“Can’t tell us whether this person was black or white or brown or yellow or red?”

“I don’t think she was black,” she said. “But that’s about all I can say.”

“You can’t really even say with certainty that it was a woman, can you?”

“I think it was.”

“But you’re not certain, are you?”

“I don’t know. I think it was a woman.”

“You think it was a woman. A young lady is on trial for her life here, ma’am. You need to be certain. You’re not, are you?”

“It was dark and raining.”

“Thank you. Let’s talk about the car for a second. You weren’t able to get a tag number, were you?”

“I didn’t try.”

“Because there wasn’t anything that alarmed you, right?”

“That’s right. I wasn’t alarmed.”

“People come and go at the motel all the time, yes?”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t see the driver, did you?”

“No.”

“Don’t know if it was a man or a woman?”

“I didn’t see the driver at all.”

“Didn’t see where the car went after the passenger got out?”

“I just glanced over there for a second. Then I went back to watching my show.”

“Didn’t see the car leave or return?”

“I told you, I went back to my show.”

“Thank you.”

Martin looked as confident as ever, but he had to be at least a little worried. His  case wasn’t exactly off to a flying start. His first witness had found a body and called the police. His second witness testified that she didn’t really see a thing.

I glanced over to my left and saw Deacon Baker and Phil Landers walking toward the prosecution table.

“Call your next witness,” Judge Green said.

“May I have a moment to confer with Mr. Martin?” Baker said.

“Make it snappy,” the judge said.

Baker leaned over and whispered something in Martin’s ear. Martin nodded and whispered back. The two of them turned toward the judge.

“May we approach, your honor?” Baker said.

Green motioned them forward, and I got up and joined them.

“We need to speak to you in chambers,” Baker said.

“We’re in the middle of a murder trial, in case you haven’t noticed,” Judge Green said.

“I apologize,” Baker said, “but something extremely important has come up. It has a direct bearing on this case.”

Judge Green agreed to a fifteen-minute recess, and the judge, Baker, Landers, Martin, and I walked into his chambers. He shut the door, hung his robe on a coat tree near the window, and sat down behind his desk.

“What’s going on?” he said.

“There’s been an important development in this case,” Baker said. “The TBI found a red Corvette in a barn up on Spivey Mountain this morning. The car belongs to Erlene Barlowe. Their forensics people are examining it now.”

“I fail to see what that has to do with this trial.”

“It may exculpate Mr. Dillard’s client,” Baker said. “Back when we made the arrest, we had a young lady who worked for Barlowe at the strip club who told us that Barlowe and Angel left the club at the same time as the victim in this case. She told us they left in Barlowe’s red Corvette, and they didn’t come back to the club that night.”

“I remember that,” the judge said. “That and the fact that Ms. Barlowe had been untruthful were the primary reasons I signed the search warrants to search her home and her club and to allow you to get hair samples from Barlowe and the girl.”

“That’s right,” Baker said. “We’ve also had another witness contact us since who said he saw a woman fitting Ms. Barlowe’s description standing beside a Corvette on Picken’s Bridge a little after midnight on the night of the murder. He said she was alone. We think Ms. Barlowe was dumping the murder weapon and the reverend’s penis. The problem we ran into was that the car disappeared. We couldn’t find it anywhere, and because we couldn’t find it, we believed it probably contained evidence regarding the murder. Now we’ve found it, and from what I understand, there are what appear to be bloodstains on the seat.”

“So now you think the Barlowe woman killed Reverend Tester?” Judge Green said.

“It makes sense, especially if we can eventually prove she killed the Hayes girl, which is what we suspect.”

“You people have made a mess of this entire case,” the judge said.

“Please, judge,” Baker said. “Not now.”

“So what do you want?” Green said.

“I want a little time. All we’re asking is that you recess the trial for a week. We should get our lab results back from Knoxville by then. If Tester’s blood is in Barlowe’s car or if we find a murder weapon, we’re going to dismiss the charges against Mr. Dillard’s client, provided she’ll cooperate with us, and arrest Barlowe for Tester’s murder.”

Fat chance of Angel cooperating. They didn’t have enough evidence to convict her in the first place, and I couldn’t think of a single reason why she’d want to help them.

The judge looked at me. “Any objection, Mr. Dillard?”

“Absolutely no objection. If there’s a chance they’ll dismiss against my client, I’m not opposed to giving them a week.”

“All right.” Judge Green pointed his finger at Baker. “I’ll give you some time. But if there’s still a charge pending next Monday, we’re finishing this trial.”

Chapter 46

July 24

3:00 p.m.

THE judge didn’t tell the jury or anyone in the courtroom why he was granting a week’s recess, he just told them to come back next Monday.

Angel wanted to know what had happened. I told her I’d be over to the jail to explain it to her as soon as I could. The jurors filed out and as the courtroom began to clear, Erlene Barlowe walked up to me. She’d been sitting outside in the hallway with the rest of the witnesses. Junior Tester hadn’t moved from his seat.

“What’s going on, sugar?” Erlene said.

“The police say they have some new information in Angel’s case. The district attorney asked the judge for a continuance so they could develop some evidence. He gave them until next Monday.”

Landers was walking out of the judge’s office, where he’d apparently been holding court with Baker. When he saw Erlene he made a beeline for us.

“Don’t leave town,” he said, pointing his finger at Erlene. “You’re mine now.” He turned and walked out the door.

“What was that all about?” Erlene said.

“They don’t tell me anything,” I said as I started to walk away. I wasn’t about to tell her she was more than likely going to be in custody sometime in the next week. With my luck, she’d disappear and I’d wind up with an obstruction charge.  “I have to go over to the jail to see Angel and let her know what’s going on. I’ll talk to you later.”

Before I left the courthouse, I took the elevator upstairs to Deacon Baker’s office.

“Interesting dilemma,” he said when I walked in.

“For you,” I said. “I’m still in the same boat. Innocent client.”

“Let’s stop beating around the bush,” Baker said. “Bottom line, if there’s anything in that car that links it to Tester’s murder, we’re going to charge the redhead. I’ll dismiss against your client if she’ll agree to help us.”

“Erlene is her only friend in this world. I doubt she’ll be eager to rat her out.”

“She was with her, Dillard. She knows what went on in that room.”

“You can’t prove that.”

“Will she want to take that chance? Barlowe may have something to say about her when she finds herself facing a first-degree murder charge.”

“All Erlene has ever said about Angel is that she’s innocent.”

“And if her lips are moving, she’s lying.”

“You’re stuck, Deacon. The jury’s been sworn in Angel’s case. If you dismiss, you can’t try her again. Double jeopardy. If you come back and resume the trial, you’re going to lose, even with my sister’s testimony. Do you know what I’m going to do to her on the witness stand?”

“I was planning to make it a point to be in the courtroom for her cross-examination,” Baker said with a smirk. “Wouldn’t want to miss it. At least run my proposal by your client. Go over there and tell her I’m offering to dismiss a first-degree murder.”

“I’ll talk to her, but don’t get your hopes up.”

When Angel came into the attorney’s room at the jail, I was surprised to see her still wearing her clothes from court.

“The guards are searching my cell block,” she said. “I’m still in holding. I guess they weren’t expecting me back so soon.”

“Strange day, huh?” I said.

“What’s going on?”

“It’s good and it’s bad. The TBI found a red Corvette in a barn out in Unicoi County this morning. The barn belongs to Erlene, and apparently so does the car.”

Angel gasped, and I watched her closely. Her face turned pink and her bottom lip was trembling. She sat there, shaking and saying nothing. I reached into my briefcase and brought out some tissue. I’d been carrying it ever since that first visit at the jail. I handed some to her just in case, reached across the table, and put my hand over hers.

“Angel,” I said, “the district attorney now thinks Erlene killed Reverend Tester. He wants to dismiss the case against you, but there’s a catch. He wants you to tell him what you know about Tester’s murder.”

A faraway look came into her eyes, as though she wasn’t really taking in what I was saying.

“Angel? Did you understand me? He wants to dismiss the case against you. They’re probably going to arrest Erlene for Reverend Tester’s murder.”

“They can’t do that!” she burst out, then laid her head on the table and started crying. I moved to the chair next to her and put my hand across her shoulders.

“Take it easy,” I said. The door was two inches of steel and the walls were concrete block, but her sobs were loud. I didn’t want the guards coming in and asking questions. “Talk to me,” I said. “It’s all right. Talk to me. Whatever it is that’s bothering you, you can tell me. I’m on your side no matter what.”

She suddenly sat up, wiped her eyes, and became very still. She looked at me pitifully.

“Can I trust you?” she said in a small voice.

“Of course you can. You know you can.”

“Can I really trust you?”

“I’ve been here for you all along. Whatever you tell me, I promise I won’t tell a soul. I’ve already explained attorney-client privilege to you.”

I could see her make the decision. And having made it, she sat up straight and squared her shoulders, as if a great burden had been lifted.

“I did it, Mr. Dillard. I killed him. I can’t let them blame Miss Erlene.”

I’d mildly suspected it since the day I talked to Tom Short, but I hadn’t wanted to believe it. Even now, even though the words had passed her lips, I didn’t want to believe it. I took her hand, knowing that if I continued, if I asked her about the details, everything about our relationship, and my entire strategy if the trial continued, would change.

“Think about what you’re saying,” I said. “We’re winning this trial. If you tell me you killed him, it changes a lot of things.”

“You want to know the truth, don’t you?”

“I’m not sure.”

I looked at her smooth young face and my heart went out to her. Something told me that if she’d killed Tester, the circumstances might justify it.

“I’m sorry, Angel. Yes, I want to know the truth. What happened?”

She bit her lip and shuddered.

“Can you tell me about it?

She nodded slowly.

“Okay, but I don’t want you to get hysterical. I don’t want anyone else to hear, so you have to keep control of yourself. Can you do that?”

“I think so.”

“Go ahead.”

She took a deep breath and squeezed my hand so hard that her fingernails dug into my skin.

“Everything I told you before was the truth except for the last part. Miss Erlene didn’t just ask him to leave when he got so drunk and was bothering me and making a fool of himself. She asked me if I’d help her with something. She said she wanted to teach the preacher a lesson. She said all I’d have to do is ride with her to the man’s hotel room and she’d take care of the rest. I told her I’d do it.”

“What happened next?”

“Miss Erlene went over to talk to him, and he went out into the lobby. When he came back, she told me to get my coat. Miss Erlene went back into her office for a couple of minutes, and then we went out and got in her car. We followed him out of the parking lot to the hotel. Along the way, she told me the man thought I was coming to his room to have sex with him. Then she handed me a small bottle of scotch. She told me when we got to the motel, I was supposed to go into his room and offer him a drink first thing. Miss Erlene said she put something in the scotch so when he drank it, it would knock him out. As soon as he was passed out, I was supposed to run back to the car and get her. I think she was planning to take his money.”

“Something obviously went wrong,” I said.

She put a fist to her mouth and whispered, “Yes.” Her eyes looked distant. It was the same expression I’d seen when she told me about the oatmeal incident.

“We got to the motel and I got out of the car and went up the steps with him. Miss Erlene waited in the parking lot. I walked into the room and he closed the door behind me. I took the bottle of scotch out of my purse and asked him if he’d like a drink. He took the bottle out of my hand, set it on a table, and when he turned back around he said he didn’t bring me there to drink. He had this awful look on his face, like he was possessed or something. Then, before I knew what was happening, he hit me in the face. He hit me so hard it knocked me onto the bed. It almost knocked me out.

“I remember him taking off all his clothes, then he pulled off my panties…” She paused and took a deep breath. “He rolled me over on my stomach and he put his thing in my, in my…” She pointed to her bottom.

“He sodomized you?” I said.

“What?” She didn’t know what the word meant.

“Never mind. Can you keep going?”

“It was like it was happening to someone else,” she said. “Like I floated to the ceiling, and I watched him do it from there. It was the same thing that used to happen when Father Thomas did things to me. I remember he was cursing and preaching at the same time, calling me names, and then he took his thing out of me and went over and grabbed the bottle of scotch and took a long drink. He started to stagger and he sat down on the bed. It was like he didn’t even know I was there any more.

“There was a knife on the table. I guess it was his. I remember watching myself walk over and pick it up. It was one of those folding knives. He was already snoring. I opened the knife and walked back to the bed and I just started stabbing him. I stabbed him until I couldn’t stab him any more, until I couldn’t lift the knife. And then I think I just walked out the door. I didn’t even put my panties on.”

“Do you remember what Erlene did?”

“I think so,” she said. “I remember she came running up to me on the stairs and she put her coat around me and took the knife out of my hand. She put me in the car and asked me what happened, and I tried to tell her. I saw her go back up to the room, but I don’t know what she did in there. She took me home and took me into the back yard and washed all of the blood off of me with a hose. She said she didn’t want any blood in her shower. Then she took me inside and said she had to leave for a little while. She was gone for a long time.”

“Did you and Erlene talk about it afterward?”

“Not much,” she said. “She just told me she was sorry about everything but at least he wouldn’t ever hurt another girl, and she told me never to mention what happened – any of it – to anybody. Then when the police started coming around, she told me not to talk to them. She told everyone that worked at the club not to talk to them. When they came to arrest me, she told me to tell them I wanted a lawyer.”

“You didn’t mention cutting off his penis, Angel. Do you remember doing that?”

“I didn’t do it,” she said.

“Are you sure?”

“I didn’t do it. I’d tell you if I did.”

I believed her.

“Telling me what happened was the right thing to do,” I said.

“Am I going to have to stay in jail for the rest of my life?”

“I doubt it. This changes a few things, but it doesn’t change the fact that they don’t have much of a case against you.”

“What about your sister? I never even talked to her.”

“That’s what I thought,” I said. “You have to trust me. I’ll figure something out. I just need a little time to think.”

After the guards took her away, I sat at the table alone, unable to get up and walk out. The door buzzed twice, but I just sat there. I couldn’t move.

In my mind, I kept seeing a beautiful, fragile young girl, naively walking up the steps in the rain to a motel room. She’s accompanied by a man more than twice her size, twice her age. She closes the door and offers the man a drink from a bottle. He takes the bottle from her hand, sets it down, and punches her viciously in the side of the face. She sees a bright light and falls backwards onto the bed, dazed by the blow.  The giant hovers over her, his drunken breathing foul and labored. He grabs the girl and rolls her like a rag doll. He’s muttering, alternately calling her a slut and praising God for the opportunity to exact some righteous vengeance on a lowly whore. He rips off her panties. He’s excited, but too drunk to maintain an erection. He tries to force himself inside her rectum, but she’s small. She’s struggling but he’s much too strong. He slaps the back of her head and tells her to hold still. He gets inside her and grunts with satisfaction. The girl goes limp. Beads of sweat drop from the giant’s nose onto the girl’s back. He isn’t performing the way he wants, and he notices the bottle of scotch she offered him earlier. He shoves the girl down flat against the mattress and steps over to the bottle. He takes a long drink while the girl whimpers on the bed.

I hear Sarah’s voice... “Get him off of me, Joey. He’s hurting me…”

When I was finally able to move, I pushed the button, waited for the door to buzz, and made my way slowly down the maze of hallways and steel gates. What Angel had described to me was a voluntary manslaughter, at worst. A Class C felony, maximum sentence of six years. But I couldn’t bring myself to recommend to her that we go to the district attorney and tell him what had happened. I couldn’t see her spending time in prison for retaliating against a man who had violated her in the most shameful of ways.

As far as I was concerned, the hypocrite got what he deserved.

Chapter 47

July 24

6:05 p.m.

I drove straight home from the jail with Sarah’s voice and Angel’s confession alternately ringing in my ears. As soon as I got out of my truck Rio peed on me, and instead of laughing or gently pushing him away like always, I drew my foot back to kick him. I caught myself, but barely. For some reason, the thought of the dog pissing on me right then made me mad enough to want to hurt him. I swore at him and stepped over him as he cowered in the driveway.

I walked into the kitchen. Caroline was standing over the stove. I could smell broccoli. I hate broccoli.

“Hi, honey,” she said. “I heard they continued the trial. What’s going on?”

“I’m going to wring that dog’s neck.”

“I guess it isn’t good.”

“I’m sick of him pissing all over me. I’m sick of everybody pissing all over me.”

“What’s going on, Joe?”

“Nothing.” I marched through the kitchen and into the bedroom to change my clothes. I could feel pressure, a lot of pressure, at each of my temples, and my field of vision was narrowing. I felt a hand on my shoulder, a touch that usually comforted me. It didn’t.

“What’s wrong, Joe? Talk to me.”

“It would probably be best if you’d just leave me alone right now.”

“Leave you alone? Why? What have I done?”

“Nothing,” I said. “That’s part of the problem.”

I’d spent part of the drive home working up a healthy anger toward Caroline. I had to provide for her, which meant I had to keep working. But I was sick of busting my butt for people who neither deserved it nor appreciated it, sick of people using me and lying to me, sick of worrying about whether what I was doing was right or wrong. I was sick of everything.

“I’m not the bad guy, baby. I love you, remember?” she said

“A lot of good it does.”

“You’ve been under a lot of strain. How about a hot bath?”

“I don’t want to take a bath. Now why don’t you do what I asked you to do and leave me alone?”

“How dare you talk to me like that!” Caroline said. “I know you hate your job. I know you hate yourself sometimes, but that doesn’t mean you get to take it out on me. I haven’t done a thing other than love you and try to help you through a difficult time, and I’m not going to stand here and listen to you degrade me. I’m not your whipping girl, Joe!”

All I could feel was the pressure in my head. I was losing it. I pushed past her and walked back into the kitchen.

“What are you doing?” She was right behind me. I headed for the door. “Where are you going?”

“Out,” I said. “I’m going out.”

And that’s what I did. I drove to a bar in Johnson City called Fritter’s. I sat alone at the bar and drank vodka for a while. Then I asked for a shot of Jagermeister. Then another. I was there for hours.

It was raining when I left the bar, but I didn’t care. I’d convinced myself that I had somewhere I needed to go. I drove across town, holding a hand over my right eye to keep from seeing double. I pulled through the gate at the Veterans Administration complex. I turned into the cemetery toward the long rows of white grave markers and made my way slowly, drunkenly, to the section where my father was buried. I got out of the car and stumbled through the rain until I found him.

Then I lay down on his grave and passed out.

I dreamed I was lying in a thicket, above a path in the Grenada jungle. I had somehow become separated from my squad. My face was covered in camouflage paint, and I was aiming a machine gun at the path. A group of six Cuban soldiers was moving toward me. I’d set out claymore mines in a ditch beside the path and concealed the detonation cords carefully.

The point man moved into the kill zone. All that remained was for the rest of the group to get within range of the claymores. Once they were there, I’d open fire. When they hid in the ditch, I’d hit the clackers and detonate the mines. It would be a perfect massacre.

The last man moved in, and I started blasting away with the M-60. I sprayed them with short bursts. The Cubans melted into the ditch line. I detonated the mines, and the earth shuddered. The Cuban guns went silent, and I moved in to mop up.

I heard the sucking sound of a chest wound coming from the point man. He was lying on his stomach in the ditch; his left arm lay severed two feet away. I stuck my boot in his ribs and rolled him. He flopped onto his back, and I found myself staring into the bloodied face of a kid. He couldn’t have been more than sixteen years old, and he looked just like me.

I began to scream.

Chapter 48

July 25

1:00 a.m.

JERRY Byrd found me out there in the rain. Jerry was a V.A. cop and army veteran I’d known for fifteen years. His wife had gone to my high school and his son had played ball with Jack. We had a good deal in common and we’d had some good times together over the years.

When Jerry woke me up, I had absolutely no idea where I was or how I got there. It was pouring rain and my teeth were chattering. He helped me to my feet and took me by the arm.

“Joe, what are you doing out here?”

“No clue.”

Jerry used his cell phone to call Caroline. He told her where I was and said we could pick up my truck the next day. Then he drove me home.

“What’s going on?” Caroline said after Jerry had left. I’d managed to down two cups of black coffee strong enough to make my tongue curl. I could tell she’d been crying, but I hoped she wouldn’t start up again. I felt bad enough as it was. “I’ve been worried sick about you.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I had a little meltdown.”

I’d always kept Caroline at least a stone’s throw from the worst of my work and my past. It was ugly and frightening, and Caroline was beautiful and gentle and kind. I was afraid I’d somehow contaminate her if I told her the truth, but more than that, I was afraid she might begin to think of me as weak or flawed.

“Talk to me,” she said. “Please.”

“You don’t want me to. Believe me, you’re better off if I keep it to myself.”

“Joe, do you really think anything you tell me would make me love you any less?”

There was a long silence. She poured more coffee. I sat there sipping it slowly, trying to decide whether I wanted to tell my wife that for all these years, despite all the macho bravado, she’d really been married to a scared little boy trying to prove to himself he wasn’t a coward.

“I don’t think I can tell you,” I said.

“Does it have anything to do with this case?”

“That’s part of it. It looks like they’re going to arrest Erlene Barlowe for Tester’s murder.” I was grateful for the opportunity to move the topic of conversation away from me.

“Do you think she killed Tester?”

“I know she didn’t kill Tester.”

“How do you know?”

“I just know.”

“How?”

I looked at her, dead pan. I couldn’t tell her, but Caroline was an intelligent woman. I saw the look come over her face. She got it.

“Angel told you she killed him?”

I nodded.

“And now you’re trying to decide what to do?”

“I’m just trying to survive right now. You know I’m going to have to go after Sarah on the witness stand if the trial starts back up. I can’t tell you how much I dread it.”

“Why is she doing this, Joe? What’s wrong with her?”

“Do you really want to know? It’s not something you’re going to enjoy hearing about.”

“Of course I want to know. I think I’ve earned the right.”

She had. She’d earned the right to hear about all of it. I looked at her and thought about Ma, about the regret I’d felt because she wouldn’t let me into her heart and about the emptiness I felt because I’d never let her into mine. I thought about the nightmares, the anxiety, the depression, the nagging feeling that I was pathetic coward. I looked at Caroline, saw the longing in her eyes and knew I couldn’t shut my wife out any longer. I couldn’t be like my mother. It was time. It was time to open up.

I told Caroline about what Tester had done to Angel and what Uncle Raymond had done to Sarah. When she heard what had happened to Sarah, Caroline scooted next to me and held me in her arms. As I felt her breath against my skin and smelled her familiar smell, I suddenly didn’t care whether she thought I was weak, because at that moment, I was. I needed to lean on the only person I’d ever really trusted. For the first time in my life, I gave myself completely. There were moments I cried so hard I couldn’t breathe. I was ashamed and reluctant at first, but once I started, I couldn’t stop. After twenty years, I finally let Caroline all the way in.

I talked about the frustration of being raised without a father. I told her about the brutal things I’d done and seen in Grenada. I told her about Billy Dockery. I told her about Maynard Bush and Bonnie Tate and how I felt the day the Bowers twins died in the sunshine. I told her how I felt about my mother.  I talked deep into the morning. I’d never experienced anything like it, but when it was over, I understood the power of confession.

“Do you know something?” Caroline said when I was finally too exhausted to talk any more. She put her hands on my shoulders and looked me in the eye. “If I was on trial, if I was in the same situation as Angel, there’s nobody in this world I’d rather have on my side than you. Do you know why?”

“I’m sorry for the things I said when I came home earlier. I feel like a jackass and I’m sorry—”

“Hush. Do you know why there’s nobody in this world I’d rather have on my side than you?”

“No. Why?”

“Because you’re a good man, Joe. It’s as simple as that. That’s why I married you and why I’ve loved you for all these years. That’s why your children adore you. It’s why you’ve stuck by Sarah all this time and why you went up there and sat with your mother. It’s why you’ve spent your life trying to help people. I hope you’re always just like you are now.”

Her words humbled me. I didn’t know what to say.

“When did Angel tell you what really happened?” she said.

“Not long before I came home.”

“That’s what I thought. That’s what set this off. It put you back in that house with your sister. When you add it to everything else that’s been going on with you lately, it isn’t surprising. I’m just glad you didn’t hurt yourself.”

So was I.

“You’re going to get through this,” Caroline said. “You’re a survivor. You’re the strongest man I’ve ever met.”

Caroline got up and walked over to the door that led to the garage. She opened it.

“And here’s someone else that loves you,” she said.

Rio trotted into the room, saw me, and stopped dead in his tracks.

“Come here, big boy,” I said. His ears perked and his tail began to wag. “Come over here and take a leak on my shoe.”

Chapter 49

July 25

11:00 a.m.

FOR the first time in what seemed like forever, I slept well. There were no ambushes to haunt me, no rapes or murders or flashes of dead children in the jungle, no raging rivers or deadly waterfalls.

I woke to the smell of coffee brewing and the sound of rain tapping steadily on the roof. I walked into the kitchen and looked outside. The sky was low and slate gray. A thin mist hung above the lake, and I knew it would be a long day of summer rain, the kind of rain that seems to cleanse the whole world.

Caroline was in the kitchen, wearing only a sports bra and a pair of biker shorts. When she hugged me, I lifted her off the floor and carried her to the bedroom. A half-hour later, we were lying in bed, pleasantly exhausted.

“What are you going to do today?” she said.

“Think,” I said. “I have to figure out what to do about Angel.”

“What are your options?”

“The first one would be to go to Deacon and tell him we’ve reconsidered and we want to make a deal. But as soon as I do that he’ll know she killed Tester and he’ll go hard-line on me. He’ll offer twenty years. The second option is to go back to trial on Monday and put Angel on the witness stand. If she tells the truth, I can argue self-defense or voluntary manslaughter because he sodomized her.”

“What’s the worst case if you go that way?”

“Worst case is they don’t believe her and find her guilty of first-degree murder. That means life. I don’t think there’s any way she gets the death penalty under these circumstances. They could find her guilty of second-degree murder. That would mean a minimum of fifteen years. If they go with voluntary manslaughter she’d be eligible for probation, but I doubt if Judge Green would grant it.

“The problem I have with putting her on the stand now is that I can’t get any medical testimony in. Tom Short would have helped us out if she’d told me about this on the front end, but there’s no way Judge Green will let me use medical testimony this late. The prosecution has the right to have her examined by their own shrink, and they’re entitled to all of Tom Short’s reports. I didn’t give them anything because I didn’t intend to use him.”

“What are the other options?”

“She might get on the stand and tell them she didn’t do it. If she does that, I have to decide whether to tank her. The rules say that if she gets on a witness stand and lies, and I know she’s lying, I can’t question her and can’t present a closing argument on her behalf. The jury will figure that out pretty quickly. If she lies and I don’t tank her, then I’m suborning perjury and I could wind up in jail.”

“You can’t do that,” Caroline said.

“I can’t and I won’t. But I swear I think I’d do it if I knew I’d get away with it. The guy sodomized her. Punched her in the head, almost knocked her out, then rolled her over and sodomized her. A man of God.  I don’t feel the least bit of sympathy for him. None. She should walk on this, Caroline. She should walk right out the door.”

“I guess we both know where that comes from. Finally.”

“I should have told you about Sarah a long time ago,” I said. “I’m sorry. I was ashamed.”

“It’s out in the open now, and I don’t think any less of you.”

I kissed her on the forehead.

“This is so unfair,” I said. “The right thing would be for her to go home. Erlene set up the whole situation. She apparently intended to rob the preacher. It wasn’t Angel’s fault. She didn’t even have a weapon with her. She killed him with his own knife.”

“She didn’t have to kill him,” Caroline said.

“Yeah? What would you have done if a drunken redneck punched you and sodomized you?”

“I’d have killed him and cut his dick off.”

“Exactly. There’s really only one other thing I can do. I can try to fix things with Sarah. If I can get her to talk to me, I think I can make this turn out all right.”

“What would you say to her?”

“I’m not sure. Do you know that she and I never talked about it after it happened? I guess we were both so scared and humiliated we didn’t want to go near it. I really think it’s the reason she’s struggled all of her life.”

I sat up on the side of the bed and took a deep breath.

“I’m going,” I said. “I’m going down to the jail. They can’t keep me from talking to her. The worst thing that can happen is that things will stay the same.”

“Are you going to try to talk to her about the rape?”

“I have to. I have to tell her I’m sorry.”

“It wasn’t your fault, Joe.”

“I know that now, but I still feel like I should apologize to her. I’ve handled this almost as badly as she has, and I wasn’t the one who was raped.”

“Don’t expect too much,” Caroline said.

I got dressed and gulped down a cup of coffee.

“Joe?” Caroline said as I was about to walk out.

“Yeah.”

“Make sure you tell her you love her.”

Chapter 50

July 25

Noon

JAIL inmates hate a lot of things. They hate the guards, they hate the food, they hate the tedium. But there are two things they hate most of all. One is a child molester, and the other is a snitch.

The administration had moved Sarah to the jail’s protective custody unit in case the word got out that she was snitching on Angel. Protective custody is just like maximum security. The inmates held there are completely isolated. It’s an unrelenting, punitive, miserable existence.

Lawyers who want to see inmates being held in protective custody have to go to them. The guards won’t bring the protective custody inmates out to the attorneys’ interview room, because it would mean exposing them to other inmates along the way. It took me almost an hour of wrangling to get in to see Sarah. The guards knew she was a witness against my client, and they didn’t want me talking to her. But as an attorney, I had as much right to interview witnesses as the police, even star witnesses, and I wasn’t going to let them keep me out. They tried to get Deacon Baker on the phone but were told he was “unavailable.” Frankie Martin had taken the day off and was fishing somewhere. Finally, after I threatened to haul every one of them in front of the nearest judge, they relented.

The guard who unlocked the door to Sarah’s cell walked in and announced that she didn’t have to speak to me if she didn’t want to. True to form, she told him to go screw himself. He closed the door, and I heard him walk down the hall. The cell was tiny, only eight feet square, and solid gray. It contained a stainless steel platform covered by a thin mattress, a stainless steel sink, and a stainless steel toilet. That was it. There was no television, no radio, no writing or reading materials, absolutely nothing to distract or otherwise occupy the mind. Sarah, barefoot and clad in her wrinkled orange jumpsuit, was sitting on the floor in the corner beyond the sink with her knees drawn up to her chin.

“So this is the way they treat the most important witness in a murder case,” I said. “I wonder where they’d put you if they didn’t like you.”

She buried her face in her hands, and I moved toward her. I got down on my knees and put my hands on her forearms. To my surprise, she didn’t flinch or draw back.

“You don’t have to say a word if you don’t want to,” I said softly, “but I realized something last night and I want to talk to you. I want to tell you I’m sorry.”

I felt tears gathering in my eyes and fought for control. I didn’t know why, but even in my efforts to peel back the curtains and take an honest look at what had happened between us, I felt the need to maintain my stoic image.

“I’m sorry I let you down, Sarah. I’m sorry I didn’t stop him. I’m sorry I didn’t protect you. I should have killed him.”

As with Caroline the night before, getting it out brought down my defenses and tears began to run down my cheeks.

“Please, Sarah. I was so young. I didn’t know what to do. Please forgive me.”

She too began to cry, and I scooted closer to her and put my hands on her shoulders.

“If I could, I’d take you back there right now and get you out of that room, but we both know I can’t. All I can do is tell you I’m sorry and I love you. I’ve always loved you, Sarah. I always will.”

“You were too little, Joey,” she said in a choked voice. “We were both too little.”

She lifted her head and wrapped her arms around my neck. It was a surreal moment, a moment of desperation and honesty and, ultimately, what I hoped was love. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d hugged Sarah, and I found myself content to kneel on that concrete floor and feel her breathing against my neck. We said nothing for several minutes, both embarrassed by the rare show of affection.

Finally, she spoke again.

“You’re breaking my neck, Joey.”

“I’m sorry.” I sometimes forget about my size. I let go of her and scooted back. “I have to get up. This concrete is killing my knees.”

I sat on the edge of her bunk and she sat with me. We talked for an hour. The conversation was slow and stilted at first, but before long she was telling me how tormented she’d been, how the drugs seemed to be the only thing that gave her any relief, if only for a short time. We talked about growing up fatherless, and about Ma and how deeply troubled she was. We eventually got around to the future, the immediate future, and what it held for Sarah.

“So what’s your agreement with the district attorney’s office?” I said.

She looked at me warily. “Is that why you really came down here?”

“Please don’t say that. You know why I came down here. But it’s something we’re going to have to deal with.”

“I’ve agreed to testify truthfully in exchange for immediate release and probation on my sentence.”

“Do you have it in writing?”

“Of course I do.” She reached under the mattress and pulled out an envelope. Inside was an agreement signed by Sarah, Deacon Baker, and Judge Glass. Sarah was obligated to provide “truthful testimony” in court in Angel’s case, and upon her having provided that testimony, she was to be released immediately.

“What’s your truthful testimony going to be?” I said.

She gave me a mischievous grin I hadn’t seen in thirty years. “Will you make sure I get my deal?” she said.

I grinned back. “You can count on it.”

Chapter 51

July 31

2:00 p.m.

THE test results on the forensic evidence found in Erlene Barlowe’s car hadn’t been received from the TBI lab by 9:00 a.m. the following Monday, so Judge Green reconvened the trial. I’d spent a great deal of time explaining everything in detail to Angel during the week. She understood she couldn’t get up on the stand and lie. She understood I couldn’t use the doctor as a defense witness. She understood the risks. After listening intently to everything I had to say and no doubt with some input from Erlene, she decided to go for it.

Frankie Martin did his best, but ultimately he had no murder weapon, no clear motive, and no eyewitnesses. He put Landers on the stand to describe the crime scene and explain the investigation, but on cross-examination I was able to paint a picture of Tester first drinking beer at the Purple Pig, then spending the money he’d received from a church at a strip club. To top it off, I pointed out the fact that Tester was so out of control that he’d spent all the church’s money and had to withdraw even more from the ATM at midnight.

The medical examiner testified that Tester died from blood loss as a result of multiple stab wounds, but on cross she also had to admit that his blood-alcohol level was off the charts. She tried to help the prosecution by pointing out that he’d ingested a date rape drug, but she could offer no testimony as to how the drug entered his body.

An expert from the TBI lab told the jury about the hairs found on Tester’s shirt and explained the DNA identification process to them. On cross he had to admit it was possible that the hairs could have passed from Angel to Tester at the club.

An elderly woman named Ina Mae described for the jury how her cat found Tester’s penis and delivered it to her the morning after the murder. Her testimony provided a brief moment of levity in an otherwise deadly serious trial.

Frankie saved Sarah for last. He would have been better off hanging himself.

“Would you state your name for the record, ma’am?” Frankie began.

“My name is Sarah Dillard.” She was wearing the orange jumpsuit and was cuffed and shackled. She seemed nervous but determined.

“And where do you reside, Ms. Dillard?”

“At the Washington County Detention Center.”

“So you’re in jail?”

“Yes. I was convicted of theft.”

“Are you familiar with the defendant, Miss Dillard?”

Sarah looked at Angel and nodded. “She was in my cell block until they moved me recently.”

“And as a matter of fact, you’re her lawyer’s sister, are you not?”

“I am.”

“And did you contact the district attorney’s office and tell someone that you had information regarding the defendant that might be relevant to this case?”

“No.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I said no. I didn’t contact the district attorney’s office. They came to me.”

“Oh, I see. And who was it that came to see you?”

“That man over there.” She pointed to Landers, who was sitting at the prosecutor’s table. “Agent Phil Landers.”

“And as a result of your visit with Agent Landers, what did you do?”

“Nothing.”  Uh-oh. Here we go.

“Nothing? You had a conversation with the defendant, didn’t you?”

“No.”

“This defendant confessed to you that she murdered Reverend Tester, didn’t she?”

“Objection,” I said. “He’s leading the witness, Judge.”

“Sustained. Move on, Mr. Martin. She answered your question.”

“Can I have a short recess, your honor?” Martin said.

“Why?” the judge said.

“I need some time to sort this out. This is a complete surprise to me.”

“That’s quite obvious, Mr. Martin, but I’m not accustomed to stopping murder trials because prosecuting attorneys are surprised. Do you have any more questions for the witness?”

“Permission to treat the witness as hostile, your honor.”

“She’s your witness, Mr. Martin.”

“I realize that, but her testimony is not what I was told it would be.”

“You mean you haven’t even interviewed her?”

“Agent Landers interviewed her. He told me what her testimony would be. She signed a statement. He showed it to me.”

“Use the statement, then,” the judge said.

“Permission to treat her as hostile, your honor,” Martin said.

Judge Green waved the back of his hand at Frankie, as though he was shooing him away. “Go ahead,” he said, “but I don’t think it’s going to make any difference.”

Martin straightened himself and turned back to Sarah. “Isn’t it true, Miss Dillard, that you entered into an agreement with the district attorney’s office to provide truthful testimony in this case?”

“Yes,” Sarah said, “and that’s exactly what I’m doing.”

“Isn’t it true that you told Agent Landers that Angel Christian, the defendant in this case, confessed that she killed Reverend Tester during a conversation you had with her at the jail?”

“No, that isn’t true.”

“Did you not sign a statement to that effect?” Landers held up a piece of paper I assumed was Sarah’s statement.

“I signed a statement Agent Landers wrote. He’d already written it before he came to see me. It was a lie. I’m sorry I signed it.”

“So you’re now saying you signed a false statement?”

“That’s right.”

“You’re accusing a police officer of drafting a completely false statement which you willingly signed?”

“He drafted the statement. I signed it. He never even asked me any questions. He told me if I signed the statement and testified in court he’d see to it that I got out of jail. I’ve never spoken to the defendant.”

Martin turned and glared at Landers. “May I have a moment, your honor?”

“Make it quick.”

Martin moved to the prosecutor’s table and began to whisper in Landers’s ear. Landers shook his head emphatically and whispered back. The exchange very quickly turned into a heated argument, with both men whispering forcefully back and forth. At one point I heard Landers curse. I hoped the jury heard it too.

Martin went back to the lectern.

“You’re lying, aren’t you, Ms. Dillard? You’re trying to help your brother.”

“No,” Sarah said. “You guys were the ones who were trying to get me to lie. The agent said he would give me a chance to get back at my brother.”

“Do you expect this jury to believe you, Ms. Dillard?” Martin said. “You’re a convicted thief and a drug addict, aren’t you?”

“I was a convicted thief and a drug addict when Agent Landers came to the jail. That didn’t seem to bother him when he was trying to get me to lie.”

“This is ridiculous,” Martin said. “I move to strike her testimony, your honor.”

“On what grounds, Mr. Martin? On the grounds that she didn’t testify the way you wanted her to? Your motion is denied. Do you have any more questions for her?”

“It wouldn’t do any good,” Martin said as he turned away from the lectern. He seemed to deflate like a torn balloon. “She’d just lie.”

He sat down. I debated for a minute whether I should ask Sarah anything. She’d already done plenty of damage, but I couldn’t resist twisting the knife a little, so I stepped to the lectern.

“The truth is that you and I haven’t always gotten along well, have we?” I began.

“Not always.”

“As a matter of fact, your most recent conviction was a direct result of my reporting you to the police, wasn’t it?”

“It was.”

“And you were angry with me for doing that, weren’t you?”

“Very angry.”

“How long is your sentence?”

“Six years.”

“And how much of that sentence would you have had to serve if you’d testified the way Mr. Martin expected you to testify?”

“I would have been released immediately.”

“Do you have a copy of the agreement?”

She produced her copy, and I asked the judge to enter it as an exhibit. Martin objected on the grounds of relevance, but the judge overruled him.

“Miss Dillard,” I said, “would you explain to the jury exactly how this agreement came about?”

“Agent Landers came to see me several weeks ago and asked me if I’d help them by getting to know Miss Christian. He said he wanted me to talk to her and find out everything I could about her and then tell him everything she said. I told him I wasn’t interested, and he left. Then, a couple of weeks ago, after I’d been sentenced to six years, he came back. He said he could offer me two things: a sentence reduced to time served and a chance to get back at you. I asked him what he wanted me to do. He said he needed me to sign a statement saying that Angel Christian confessed to the murder of Reverend Tester. He already had the statement written up when he came to the jail. It said during a conversation in the cell block, Miss Christian told me she left the Mouse’s Tail strip club with Mr. Tester after she agreed to have sex with him. She went with him back to his hotel room. It said she went into his room and drugged him, then she killed him and took all of his money. It said she felt no remorse because the man she killed was a pig.”

“A pig? That’s a nice touch. Did Miss Christian say any of those things to you?”

“No. I’ve never even talked to her.” She pointed at Landers. “He made it all up.”

“Why did you sign it?”

“Because I hated being in jail. Because I was furious at you for having me arrested. I blamed you for everything. But I realize now I was wrong. It wasn’t your fault I was in jail. It was my fault.” She looked directly at the jury. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “I’m sorry for a lot of things.”

“Thank you, Miss Dillard.”

I thought Judge Green might grant us a judgment of acquittal at the close of the state’s proof. He should have, but ultimately he didn’t have the courage to let a first-degree murder defendant walk out the door without sending the case to the jury.

He looked at me and said, “Call your first witness.”

I stood up. I had witnesses waiting in the hallway, including Virgil Watterson and Erlene Barlowe, but I didn’t think I needed them.

“The defense rests, your honor.”

Martin and I delivered our closing arguments, both of which were brief. The jury retired to deliberate. It took them less than an hour to come back with a verdict.

I knew Angel was guilty, but the jury didn’t. They set her free.

Chapter 52

July 31

4:15 p.m.

AS soon as the not-guilty verdict was announced, Frankie Martin and Landers got up and walked out without saying a word. Amid the hugs and the tears and the congratulations, I watched Junior Tester walk stiffly out of the courtroom. I was sure he hated me more than ever. I’d portrayed his dead father as a drunken hypocrite who might have been killed by anyone, and the jury’s verdict had given the portrayal at least some validation. As he disappeared through the doorway, I wondered how he’d feel, or what he might do, if he knew the truth about what happened in the motel room that night. I also wondered how long I’d have to keep looking over my shoulder. He hadn’t made a peep during the trial.

Erlene Barlowe was flitting around the courtroom like a socialite, hugging anyone who’d stand still long enough for her to get her arms around them. She even hugged one of the bailiffs. When she came up to me, she kissed me on the cheek and whispered a sincere thank you in my ear. I wanted to tell her what I knew about the Corvette and the blood, but at the time, it just didn’t seem like the thing to do.

Angel hugged me for at least a half a minute, then turned and walked out the door hand-in-hand with Erlene. My last image of her was of her smiling radiantly, but I knew the smile couldn’t last long. Life had already been unfair, even cruel, to her. I felt sure the events of the night Tester raped her, plus the knowledge that she’d gotten away with murder, would haunt her. I wondered where she’d go, and what would become of her.

Caroline had decided to come down to watch the trial after I told her what was going to happen with Sarah. She stood just beyond the bar while I slowly packed my files into my briefcase. Besides the two bailiffs, she and I were the only people in the courtroom. I took my time. I wanted to stay there long enough to allow everyone else to leave. The last thing I needed was a confrontation with Junior Tester or Landers.

When I was ready, I closed the briefcase and turned and winked at Caroline. She stepped through the bar and kissed me without saying a word, hooked her elbow around mine, and we walked out together through a side door. We took the back steps down to the ground floor.

“Man, it’s hot,” I said as we crossed a one-way street that ran parallel to the courthouse. It was almost a hundred degrees. As we walked toward the parking lot, I saw a figure step out from behind a small hedge at the corner of the building about thirty yards to my right. It was Junior Tester. He was holding his right arm tight against his side. There was something in his hand.

Tester was between us and the building. There was no way to go back inside where there were police officers and bailiffs with guns. I dropped my briefcase, grabbed Caroline’s hand and began to run.

“What are you doing?” she said.

“Run, Caroline! Tester’s coming. I think he has a gun.”

I looked back over my shoulder and saw him. He was jogging and lifting his right arm.

The parking lot behind the courthouse was about an acre of asphalt. There was room for close to a hundred cars and it was always full. As Caroline and I approached the first line of cars, a gunshot shattered the peacefulness of the summer afternoon in Tennessee’s oldest town. I heard the bullet whiz past in front of me. It ricocheted off the fender of an old Buick and whistled away. Caroline screamed.

“He’s going to kill us, Joe!”

I grabbed her by the arm and pulled her between two rows of cars.

“Get down!” I yelled. “Stay low.” We ran another fifty feet and I looked back. Junior had stopped. His feet were spread and he was aiming the pistol with both hands. Another shot smashed into the passenger window of the car we were running past. I stopped and crouched beside the front fender. I had to figure out a way to get Caroline out of the line of fire.

“We can’t stay together,” I said. I was already sweating and breathing heavily. Caroline’s eyes were wild with fear. I took her face in my hands.

“Listen to me. I’m going to start running. He’ll follow me – I’m the one he’s after. When he does, you go in the opposite direction. They can probably hear the shots in the courthouse, but just in case, get on your phone and call the cavalry. Get me some help!”

“Joe! No…”

I didn’t wait for her to finish. I came up from behind the car and started sprinting toward the west end of the courthouse. I sprinted for maybe five seconds and looked back. Junior was jogging again, but he was lagging behind me. He raised the gun and fired. High. At least Caroline was safe. I kept running.

When I came to the end of the parking lot, I stopped and crouched beside a pick-up. I knew I couldn’t stay still for long, but I was trapped. The parking lot ended at a concrete retaining wall at least ten feet high. I would either have to run across an open space toward Main Street or go back in the direction from which I’d come. If I went back, I could try to stay behind the cars, but Tester would have a much closer shot at me and might be able to cut me off. And I wasn’t sure whether Caroline had made it out of the parking lot. If I went forward, I’d be exposed, but if I could make it to the corner of Main and get around the pharmacy…

I took off for the street.

I saw him in my peripheral vision as I cleared the truck. He was back in his shooting stance. The fourth shot buzzed past my ear and I started to zig-zag. A group of tourists was standing on the corner outside the courthouse, pointing and shouting. I thought I saw a flash of khaki. A deputy? Please be a deputy. Four shots. How many bullets did he have?

I was nearing the small pharmacy on the corner of Main and Cherokee. I thought about ducking inside, but I didn’t want to trap myself and I didn’t want to put anyone else in danger. If I could get around the building, put it between Junior and me, I might be able to find cover or duck into an alley and hide long enough for the police to show up. Just as I was starting to round the corner, the fifth shot ricocheted off of the brick beside me and tore into my left thigh. I didn’t feel any pain, but the impact of the bullet knocked me off balance and I went sprawling face first onto the brick sidewalk. I lay there dazed for a second and tried to get up. My left leg wouldn’t work. I started to crawl. The bricks were hot beneath my hands.

People were screaming and yelling across the street, and I knew he was getting close. I heard sirens. Please, God, make them hurry. There was a loose brick in the sidewalk. I pried it out with my fingers. I rolled onto my back just as Junior came around the corner, less than ten feet away. He was holding the gun at arm’s length. He saw me lying on the ground and slowed. Beads of sweat were glistening on his forehead. The corners of his lips curled slightly.

I threw the brick, but it missed him by inches. He took two more steps and was standing over me, just as I’d stood over him the night I went to his house. I looked at the gun. It was a revolver, six shots. I’d counted five. He had one left.

“Therefore the fathers shall eat the sons in the midst of thee, and the sons shall eat their fathers,” he said. “And I will execute judgment upon thee and the whole remnant of thee shall I scatter to the winds…”

I started crawling backward on my elbows, dragging my bleeding and useless left leg. I stared at Junior, waiting for the shot and the darkness. His eyes were wild and he was still talking, but the words had become nothing more than incoherent babble. He pulled the hammer back with his thumb. His hand was trembling.  I froze.

The next few seconds seemed to run in slow motion. Junior jerked forward as though something had struck him from behind. A puzzled look came over his face, and the gun roared. The bullet screamed past my left ear so close I could feel the shock wave from the velocity. The gun clattered to the bricks by my feet. Suddenly a huge, liver-spotted hand come over the top of Junior’s head and covered his face. The fingers locked onto his chin and pulled straight up.

Junior went over onto his back. A man mounted him and started spraying something into his eyes, a gray-haired man in a uniform…

It was Sarge Hurley, the ancient courthouse security officer. I saw Sarge raise a massive fist and bring it downward toward Tester’s face and heard a loud thud as fist met face. More uniforms, some khaki, some blue. They descended on Junior like locusts.

And then, as quickly as it began, it was over. Sarge straightened and turned toward me. He stepped over and knelt beside me.

“You all right, Dillard?”

I looked into his eyes and for the first time, I noticed they were green, just like mine. I laid my head back on the bricks and smiled. Good old Sarge, my very own geriatric guardian angel. He wasn’t even sweating.

“What took you so long?” I said. “You let him shoot me.”

Sarge grunted. He leaned over and picked up Junior’s revolver and looked it over closely.

“I save your miserable life and all you can say is ‘what took you so long?’ I swear if he had another bullet, I might just finish the job.”

Chapter 53

August 2

11:00 a.m.

THE Tennessee Bureau of Investigation arrested Erlene Barlowe at 7:00 a.m. on Wednesday morning, the day before Deacon Baker went up against a former prosecutor named Lee Mooney in the election. The lab results had apparently confirmed that the blood in her Corvette was Reverend Tester’s. She called as soon as they finished booking her. She wanted me to come down to the jail.

The bullet that hit me had gone into my left thigh, grazed my femur, and exited through my groin muscle. The wound was what they called a through-and-through. It missed my femoral artery by only a few centimeters. Had it severed the artery, I’d have bled to death on the sidewalk. Instead, they cleaned out the wound at the hospital, wrapped it, and let me go home the next day. It throbbed continuously, but considering the alternative, I wasn’t complaining. I took plenty of aspirin, used crutches to walk, and Caroline helped me keep the wound clean.

Junior Tester was arrested and charged with two counts of attempted first-degree murder. He’d already been shipped down to Lakeshore Mental Health Institute in Knoxville. I had mixed feelings about Junior. While it was true that he’d tried twice to kill me and had very nearly succeeded both times, I couldn’t help thinking that he’d been a victim himself, a victim of a volatile mixture of fundamentalist extremism and parental hypocrisy. When he learned the circumstances of his father’s murder, something deep inside him had obviously snapped. And then having to sit through the trial and listen to it all again… I doubted very seriously that he would be held criminally liable for his actions. Like Angel, he’d been so traumatized that he probably no longer recognized the line between right and wrong.

I hobbled through the maze on my crutches to the attorneys’ room at the jail. Erlene Barlowe was already seated at the table. She was getting the Maynard Bush treatment – handcuffs, shackles, a chain around her waist. She made the orange jumpsuit look pretty good despite the color clash with her hair.

When I walked in, she was sitting in the same chair Angel sat in during our many talks. To my surprise, she was her usual upbeat self. It didn’t look like I’d need any tissue.

“Mr. Dillard,” she said as I sat down, “I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you, sugar. How are you feeling?”

“Like I’ve been shot.”

“I’m so sorry, baby doll. It must have been just awful. That man was even crazier than his daddy.”

“I’m sorry to see you here, Erlene.”

“You’ve got to get me out of this, sugar. I didn’t kill anybody.”

How many times had I heard that? This time, though, it was different.

“I know you didn’t.”

“Well, I swan. Did my sweet little Angel tell you?”

“I’m sorry. I can’t discuss that with you.”

She clutched her hands to her heart. “Well, bust my shiny buttons, honey. Angel told you and you got her out of it anyway. That’s why I hired you, you know. I knew you were the best.”

The best. Helping a guilty woman walk away from a murder made me the best at my profession. I wondered what I’d have to do to be the worst.

“Tell me something,” I said. “Angel had an opportunity to make an excellent deal a couple of weeks before the trial. She rejected it. You wouldn’t have had anything to do with that, would you?”

Her smile turned from genuine to coy.

“They gave her another chance after the trial started,” I said. “The district attorney was willing to dismiss the murder charge against her. All she would have had to do was tell them you committed the murder. But she wouldn’t.”

“That’s my sweet girl.”

“Convenient for us that Julie Hayes died when she did, huh?”

“It was a terrible tragedy. I can’t tell you how many times I begged that child to stay away from drugs. Turned out to be her undoing.”

“You wouldn’t have had anything to do with her death?”

“Why, sugar, I can’t believe you’d even ask me such a thing. But I will tell you this one teeny little secret. I may have suggested to someone that Julie was a problem, and that someone may have misinterpreted what I meant. I certainly didn’t mean for anyone to get killed.”

I decided to leave it at that. I didn’t want to take a chance on ending up as a witness against Erlene. “How do you think the cops found out about your car?”

“You know, I gave that a lot of thought myself,” she said. “And I came to the conclusion that one of my girls must have called that nasty TBI agent. As a matter of fact, I’m certain of it. I believe I told her exactly what to say. I might even have been standing right next to her when she called him.”

“You what?”

She put her hands on the table, laced her fingers, and leaned forward.

“I probably should explain something to you, baby doll. When you run a business like mine, you meet all different kinds of people. I try to be good to every one of them, so when I need something, I usually get it. Well, this time, what I needed was some real good legal advice, but it wasn’t the kind of legal advice I could get from you. So I talked to this wonderful man. He’s a lawyer, but not exactly the kind of lawyer you are. He used to help my husband out with his finances. He helped me understand some things about the law. Let’s see, what all were they? Things like double jeopardy, I believe is what he called it, and what was that other thing? Oh, yes, the fourth amendment.”

“Who was it?”

“I couldn’t betray his confidence, sugar pie. Let’s just say he’s a sweet, sweet man who likes to indulge in a little harmless sin on occasion. He and my Gus were real close.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I suspected Erlene had somehow been involved in Julie’s death, but I didn’t have any proof of it and doubted anybody on the planet would ever come up with any. But this was something else, something fascinating.

“Why would you want Landers to find the car?” I said.

“I couldn’t let Angel spend the rest of her life in prison or get the death penalty, sugar. The whole thing with that preacher man was my fault. When he came out to the club acting a fool and pawing Angel the way he did, it just flew all over me. Do you know what he said when I asked him nicely to leave? He said, ‘I want to rent your whore for the night. Who do I talk to about that?’ Why, that made me mad as fire, and I just figured right then and there that I’d teach him a little lesson. All Angel was supposed to do was go into the room and give him a drink. I was going to take care of the rest all by myself.”

“Didn’t quite work out the way you planned, did it?”

“It was awful. I should’ve known better than to send that child up to the motel room alone. I’ve been around the block a few times, and I knew the preacher was rotten to the core, but I swan, I was so mad I just wasn’t thinking straight. I never dreamed he’d do what he did. And I never dreamed Angel would react the way she did. When she came down those steps I thought I was going to have a stroke. I went back into the room and there was all that blood. I nearly passed out. But I told myself to calm down, and I set about trying to make things right for Angel. I picked up the bottle of scotch and her purse and the knife and his wallet and then I went-”

“Hold on a minute, Erlene. Why’d you cut his, his…what did you call it? His twigger or something like that?”

“His terwilliger?”

“Yeah, that. Why’d you cut it off? Angel told me she didn’t do it. It must have been you.”

“I saw this TV show where a man got convicted of rape because he had the girl’s DNA on his terwilliger. I got to thinking that Angel’s DNA might be on his terwilliger, and – well, you know, if the police did come around and start asking questions – I didn’t want her to have to explain something like that. Besides, he didn’t need it any more.”

I knew when I met Erlene that there was more to her than big boobs and batting eyes, but I never expected anything like this.

“What else did you do?” I said.

“Well, let’s see. Not a whole lot. I just got sweet little Virgil to do me a favor.”

“You mean he didn’t see you on the bridge?”

“Nobody saw me on the bridge, honey. I can promise you that. And I thought there was no way anyone would find the terwilliger. That was just a stroke of bad luck.”

It was almost brilliant. She’d managed to dupe the police into thinking she’d committed the murder to get Angel off, but she’d done such a masterful job of it, she might well be convicted.

“You’ve got some serious problems, Erlene. For starters, what’s Virgil going to do when the state subpoenas him to testify against you? If he gets up on the stand and

lies, they’ll charge him with perjury.”

“Don’t you worry your handsome face about that. I won’t be going to trial.”

“You won’t? Why not?”

“It’s that other legal thing I was telling you about. That fourth amendment. You see, this lawyer, the one that likes to sin every now and then, he came out to the club one night and I asked him how I could lead a police officer to a piece of evidence and then make sure he couldn’t use the evidence later. So he told me all about searches, and he made a wonderful suggestion. He said if I’d wait until the very, very last minute and then have someone make an anonymous call to that nasty old TBI agent and tell him where my car was, he’d bet anything the policeman would go tearing up there without a search warrant or anything. And you know what? He was right as rain. That TBI man climbed over a locked gate and ignored a locked door on my barn and crawled right in through a window. The car was under a tarp in the barn, sweetie. It’s private property.”

She’d graduated from almost brilliant to brilliant. Still, she didn’t know who she was dealing with.

“Landers will lie,” I said. “He’ll say the gate wasn’t locked, the barn door was open, he was acting on a reliable tip, and the car was in plain view.”

She smiled and hunched her shoulders. “Oh, this is the best part. I’ve got everything he did on video. The lawyer told me to send somebody up there in the woods with a camera. Ronnie filmed the whole thing. I’ll bet I’ve watched it ten times.”

I stared at her for a second, not quite believing what I’d just heard. I felt a chuckle making its way up through my chest. I tried to suppress it, but the more I tried, the harder it pushed. The first one made its way out of my mouth, and then another. Within a few seconds, I was laughing so hard I could barely breathe. I looked over at Erlene. She’d lost it too. It was one of the most visceral moments of my life, Erlene and I locked onto each other, laughing uncontrollably. It was almost as good as sex.

After a couple of minutes, I managed to get at least a little control of myself.

“You know what this means?” I said through a chuckle, “it means they won’t be able to use the car or anything they found in it!”

Erlene looked like a bobblehead. “That was just what I was trying to do, sweetie. Isn’t it wonderful?”

We started cracking up again.

“They’ll have less on you… than they had on Angel.”

“I know.”

Finally we calmed down and Erlene turned serious.

“You’ll represent me, won’t you? You’ll handle it for me?”

I wiped a tear from my eye with the back of my hand. “I can’t, Erlene. It’s a conflict of interest.”

“I don’t see why. They found Angel not guilty. Her case is over, isn’t it? They can’t try her again no matter what. She won’t be a witness against me. All you have to do is show them the videotape, and that should be the end of it. Don’t you think?”

“I don’t know. It won’t be that simple. Nothing’s ever that simple.”

“C’mon, Mr. Dillard. Be a sweetheart. This’ll be a piece of cake for you. You’re the best there is. Oh, and speaking of that, I meant to tell you the way you set them up with your sister was brilliant. When Angel told me about it, I thought I was going to wet my pants.”

“I didn’t exactly plan that. I’m not as smart as you are.”

“Don’t kid yourself. Now what do you say? Will you do the same for me as you did for Angel?”

I was thinking about the conflict. She was right about Angel. They couldn’t try her again, no matter what, and since the rules prohibited me from uttering a word about Angel’s confession, it wouldn’t be an issue. On top of that, if Erlene really had a videotape of Landers conducting an illegal search, the car and everything in it would be out, there’d be no trial, and no risk that I’d ever have to question Angel on a witness stand. And because Angel had told me what really happened, I knew Erlene hadn’t killed Tester.

If I agreed, Erlene would be my innocent client. Finally. It was almost unbelievable.

“You’re going to be locked up in here for a while,” I said. “You up to it?”

“I could post a million in cash for bond if I wanted to, but I’m afraid the nosy old IRS people would wonder where I got all that money. Don’t you worry about me, baby doll. I’ll be fine.”

“You’re in for a bad run of publicity.”

“Doesn’t matter. The Junior League isn’t ever going to ask me to join anyway.”

“They’ll try to paint you as an immoral madame who uses young girls and preys on horny men.”

“You can clean me up. You’re a sugar pie.”

The woman had an almost irresistible charm about her, not to mention a fat bank account. I shook my head and grinned.

“Okay,” I said. “You’ve got yourself a lawyer. But it’s going to cost you.”

Thank you for reading, and I sincerely hope you enjoyed An Innocent Client. As an independently published author, I rely on you, the reader, to spread the word. So if you enjoyed the book, please tell your friends and family, and if it isn’t too much trouble, I would appreciate a brief review on Amazon. Thanks again. My best to you and yours.

Scott

About the Author

Scott Pratt was born in South Haven, Michigan, and moved to Tennessee when he was thirteen years old. He is a veteran of the United States Air Force and holds a Bachelor of Arts degree in English from East Tennessee State University and a Doctor of Jurisprudence from the University of Tennessee College of Law. He lives in Northeast Tennessee with his wife, their dogs, and a parrot named JoJo.

Visit the website at: www.scottprattfiction.com

Also by Scott Pratt

In Good Faith (Joe Dillard #2)

Injustice for All (Joe Dillard #3)

Reasonable Fear (Joe Dillard #4)

Conflict of Interest (Joe Dillard #5)

Blood Money (Joe Dillard #6)

River on Fire

Special Circumstances

SPECIAL CIRCUMSTANCES

by

Sheldon Siegel

Books by Sheldon Siegel

Mike Daley/Rosie Fernandez Novels

Special Circumstances

Incriminating Evidence

Criminal Intent

Final Verdict

The Confession

Judgment Day

Perfect Alibi

David Gold/A.C. Battle Novels

The Terrorist Next Door

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

Sheldon M. Siegel, Inc.

Copyright © 2000 Sheldon M. Siegel, Inc.

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

ISBN:  978-0-9913912-0-2

Original ISBN: 0-553-80141-4

eBook ISBN: 978-0-9913912-1-9

1. Daley, Mike (Fictitious Character) – Fiction.

2. Fernandez, Rosie (Fictitious character) – Fiction.

3. San Francisco (California.) – Fiction. 4. Attorney and

Client- Fiction. 5. Trials (Murder) – Fiction.

For Linda, Alan, Stephen and Charlotte.

Chapter 1

A LICENSE TO PRINT MONEY

“Founded in 1929 and headquartered in San Francisco, Simpson and Gates is the largest full-service law firm based west of the Mississippi. With over nineteen hundred attorneys in eighteen offices on four continents, Simpson and Gates is recognized as an international leader in the legal profession.”

— Simpson and Gates Attorney Recruiting Brochure.

“For seven hundred and fifty dollars an hour, I’d bite the heads off live chickens.”

— J. Robert Holmes, Jr., Chairman, Simpson and Gates Corporate Department. Welcoming remarks to new attorneys.

For the last twenty years, being a partner in a big corporate law firm has been like having a license to print money. At my firm, Simpson and Gates, we’ve had a license to print a lot of money.

At six-fifteen in the evening of Tuesday, December 30, the printing press is running at full speed forty-eight floors above California Street in downtown San Francisco in what our executive committee modestly likes to call our world headquarters. Our 420 attorneys are housed in opulent offices on eight floors at the top of the Bank of America Building, a fifty-two-story bronze edifice that takes up almost an entire city block and is the tallest and ugliest testimonial to unimaginative architecture in the city skyline.

Our two-story rosewood-paneled reception area is about the size of a basketball court. A reception desk that is longer than a Muni bus sits at the south end of the forty-eighth floor, and I can see the Golden Gate Bridge, Alcatraz Island and Sausalito through the glass-enclosed conference room on the north wall. The gray carpet, overstuffed leather chairs and antique coffee tables create the ambiance of a classic men’s club, which is entirely appropriate since most of our attorneys and clients are white, male and Republican.

Even in the evening of the customarily quiet week between Christmas and New Year’s, our reception area is buzzing with a higher level of activity than most businesses see in the middle of the day. Then again, most businesses aren’t the largest and most profitable law firm on the West Coast.

Tomorrow is my last day with the firm and I am trying to shove my way through three hundred attorneys, clients, politicians and other hangers-on who have gathered for one of our insufferable cocktail parties. I hate this stuff. I guess it’s appropriate that I have to walk the gauntlet one last time.

In the spirit of the holiday season, everybody is dressed in festive dark gray business suits, starched monogrammed white shirts and red power ties. A string quartet plays classical music in front of the blinking lights of our twenty-foot Christmas tree. The suits have gathered to drink chardonnay, eat hors d’oeuvres and pay tribute to my soon-to-be ex-partner, Prentice Marshall Gates III, the son of our late founding partner, Prentice Marshall Gates II. Prentice III, one of many lawyers in our firm with Roman numerals behind his name, is known as Skipper. He is also sailing out of the firm tomorrow. The circumstances of our respective departures are, shall I say, somewhat different.

After my five years as an underproductive partner in our white-collar criminal defense department, our executive committee asked me to leave. I was, in short, fired. Although the request was polite, I was told that if I didn’t leave voluntarily, they would invoke Article Seven of our partnership agreement, which states, and I quote, that “a Partner of the Firm may be terminated by the Firm upon the affirmative vote of two-thirds (2/3) of the Partners of the Firm, at a duly called and held meeting of the Partners of the Firm.” In the last three years, fourteen of my partners have been Article Sevened. I have graciously agreed to resign. On Monday, I’ll open the law offices of Michael J. Daley, criminal defense attorney, in a subleased office in a walk-up building in the not-so-trendy part of San Francisco’s South of Market area. Welcome to the modern practice of law.

Skipper’s story is a little different. After thirty years as an underproductive partner in our real estate department, he spent three million dollars of the money he inherited from his father to win a mean-spirited race for district attorney of San Francisco, even though he hasn’t set foot in a courtroom in over twenty years. My partners are thrilled. They have never complained about his arrogance, sloppy work and condescending attitude. Hell, the same could be said about most of my partners. What they can’t live with is his six-hundred-thousand-dollar draw. He has been living off his father’s reputation for years. That’s why all the power partners are here. They want to give him a big send-off. More important, they want to be sure he doesn’t change his mind.

The temperature is about ninety degrees, and it smells more like a locker room than a law firm. I nod to the mayor, shake hands with two of my former colleagues from the San Francisco Public Defender’s Office, and carefully avoid eye contact with Skipper, who is working the room. I overhear him say the DA’s office is his first step toward becoming attorney general and, ultimately, governor.

In your dreams, Skipper.

I’m trying to get to our reception desk to pick up a settlement agreement. Ordinarily, such a document would be delivered by one of our many in-house messengers. Tonight, I’m on my own because the kids who work in our mailroom aren’t allowed to come to the front desk when the VIPs are around. I sample skewered shrimp provided by a tuxedoed waiter and elbow my way to the desk, where four evening-shift receptionists operate telephone consoles with more buttons than a 747. I lean over the polished counter and politely ask Cindi Harris if she has an envelope for me.

“Let me look, Mr. Daley,” she says. She’s a twenty-two year-old part-time art student from Modesto with long black hair, a prim nose and a radiant smile. She has confided to me that she would like to become an artist, a stock-car driver or the wife of a rich attorney. I have it on good authority that a couple of my partners have already taken her out for a test drive.

A few years ago, our executive committee hired a consultant to spruce up our image. It’s hard to believe, but many people seem to perceive our firm as stuffy. For two hundred thousand dollars, our consultant expressed concern that our middle-aged receptionists didn’t look “perky” enough to convey the appropriate image of a law firm of our stature. In addition, he was mortified that we had two receptionists who were members of the male gender.

At a meeting that everyone adamantly denies ever took place, our executive committee concluded that our clients—the white, middle-aged men who run the banks, insurance companies, defense contractors and conglomerates that we represent—would be more comfortable if our receptionists were younger, female, attractive, and, above all, perkier. As a result, our middle-aged female and male receptionists were reassigned to less-visible duties. We hired Cindi because she fit the profile recommended by our consultant. Although she’s incapable of taking a phone message, she looks like a Victoria’s Secret model. S&G isn’t a hotbed of progressive thinking.

Don’t get me wrong. As a divorced forty-five-year-old, I have nothing against attractive young women. I do have a problem when a firm adopts a policy of reassigning older women and men to less-visible positions just because they aren’t attractive enough. For one thing, it’s illegal. For another, it’s wrong. That’s another reason I got fired. Getting a reputation as the “house liberal” at S&G isn’t great for your career.

Cindi’s search turns up empty. “I’m sorry, Mr. Daley,” she says, batting her eyes. She flashes an uncomfortable smile and looks like she’s afraid I may yell at her. While such wariness is generally advisable at S&G, it shows she doesn’t know me very well. Jimmy Carter was in the White House the last time I yelled at anybody. “Let me look again.”

I spy a manila envelope with my name on it sitting in front of her. “I think that may be it.”

Big smile. “Oh, good.”

Success. I take the envelope. “By the way, have you seen my secretary?”

Deer in the headlights. “What’s her name again?”

“Doris.”

“Ah, yes.” Long pause. “Dooooris.” Longer pause. “What does she look like?”

I opt for the path of least resistance. “I’ll find her, Cindi.” I start to walk away, but she stops me.

“Mr. Daley, are you really leaving? I mean, well, you’re one of the nice guys. I mean, for a lawyer. I thought partners never leave.”

Cindi, I’m leaving because I have more in common with the kids who push the mail carts than I do with my partners. I was fired because my piddly book of business isn’t big enough.

I summon my best sincere face, look her right in her puppy eyes and pretend that I’m pouring out my heart. “I’ve been here for five years. I’m getting too old for a big firm. I’ve decided to try it on my own. Besides, I want more time for Grace.”

My ex-wife has custody of our six-year-old daughter, but we get along pretty well, and Grace stays with me every other weekend.

Her eyes get larger. “Somebody said you might go back to the public defender’s office.”

I worked as a San Francisco PD for seven years before I joined S&G. The State Bar Journal once proclaimed I was the best PD in Northern California. Before I went to law school, I was a priest for three years. “Actually, I’m going to share office space with another attorney.” Without an ounce of conviction, I add, “It’ll be fun.” I leave out the fact I’m subleasing from my ex-wife.

“Good luck, Mr. Daley.”

“Thanks, Cindi.” It’s a little scary when you talk to people at work in the same tone you use with your first-grade daughter. It’s even scarier to think that I’ll probably miss Cindi more than I’ll miss any of my partners. Then again, she didn’t fire me.

I know one thing for certain. I’ll sure miss the regular paychecks.

* * *

I push my way toward the conference room in search of Doris when I’m confronted by the six-foot-six-inch frame of Skipper Gates, who flashes the plastic three-million-dollar smile that graces fading campaign posters nailed to power poles across the city. He is inhaling a glass of wine. “Michael,” he slurs, “so good to see you.”

I don’t want to deal with this right now.

At fifty-eight, his tanned face is chiseled granite, with a Roman nose, high forehead and graceful mane of silver hair. His charcoal-gray double-breasted Brioni suit, Egyptian cotton white shirt and striped tie add dignity to his rugged features. He looks like he is ready to assume his rightful place on Mount Rushmore next to George Washington.

As an attorney, he’s careless, lazy and unimaginative. As a human being, he’s greedy, condescending and an unapologetic philanderer. As a politician, however, he’s the real deal. Even when he’s half tanked and there’s a piece of shrimp hanging from his chin, he exudes charisma, wealth and, above all, style. It’s some sort of birthright of those born into privilege. As one of four children of a San Francisco cop, privilege is something I know little about.

He squeezes my hand and pulls me uncomfortably close. “I can’t believe you’re leaving,” he says. His baritone has the affected quality of a man who spent his youth in boarding schools and his adulthood in country clubs. As he shouts into my ear, his breath confirms he could launch his forty-foot sailboat with the chardonnay he’s consumed tonight.

His speech is touching. It’s also complete crap. Instinctively, I begin evasive maneuvers. I pound him a little too hard on his back and dislodge the shrimp from his chin. “Who knows, Skipper? Maybe we’ll get to work on a case together.”

He tilts his head back and laughs too loudly. “You bet.”

I can’t resist a quick tweak. “Skipper, you are going to try cases, right?”

District attorneys in big cities are political, ceremonial and administrative lawyers. They don’t go to court. The assistant DAs try cases. If the ADA wins, the DA takes credit. If the ADA loses, the DA deflects blame. The San Francisco DA has tried only a handful of cases since the fifties.

He turns up the voltage. Like many politicians, he can speak and grin simultaneously. He hides behind the cocoon of his favorite sound bite. “Skipper Gates’s administration is going to be different. The DA is a law enforcement officer, not a social worker. Skipper Gates is going to try cases. Skipper Gates is going to put the bad guys away.”

And Mike Daley thinks you sound like a pompous ass.

He sees the mayor and staggers away. I wish you smooth sailing, Skipper. The political waters in the city tend to be choppy, even for well-connected operators like you. Things may be different when your daddy’s name isn’t on the door.

* * *

A moment later, I find my secretary, Doris Fontaine, standing outside our power conference room, or “PCR.” Doris is a dignified fifty six-year-old with serious blue eyes, carefully coiffed gray hair and the quiet confidence of a consummate professional. If she had been born twenty years later, she would have gone to law school and become a partner here.

“Thanks for everything, Doris,” I say. “I’ll miss you.”

“I’ll never get another one like you, Mikey.”

I hate it when she calls me Mikey. She absentmindedly fingers the reading glasses hanging from a gold chain. She reminds me of Sister Eunice, my kindergarten teacher at St. Peter’s. She looks at the chaos in the PCR through the glass door and shakes her head.

The PCR houses an eighty-foot rosewood table with a marble top, matching credenza and fifty chairs, a closed-circuit TV system connecting our eighteen offices and a museum-quality collection of Currier and Ives lithographs. Six presidents, eight governors and countless local politicians have solicited campaign funds in this very room. Thirty expandable aluminum racks holding hundreds of carefully labeled manila folders containing legal documents cover the table. The room is littered with paper, coffee cups, half-eaten sandwiches, legal pads, laptops and cell phones. It looks like mission control before a space shuttle launch. The grim faces of the fifty people in the PCR are in contrast to the forced smiles at Skipper’s party outside. Nobody is admiring the lithographs.

“How is Bob’s deal going?” I ask.

“Not so well,” Doris says.

Ever the diplomat. She’s worked for Bob Holmes, the head of our corporate department, for about twenty years. In every law firm, there’s one individual with a huge book of business and an even bigger ego whose sole purpose is to make everyone miserable. Bob is our nine-hundred-pound gorilla. His eight-million-dollar book of business lets him do whatever he wants. For the most part, he’s content to sit on our executive committee, torture his associates, and whine. Last year he took home two million three hundred thousand. Not bad for a short kid from the wrong side of the tracks in Wilkes-Barre. Although my partners find it difficult to agree on anything, they’re willing to acknowledge that Bob is a flaming asshole.

Whenever a big deal is coming down at S&G, the PCR is the stage, and Bob plays the lead. At the moment, he’s screaming into a cell phone. He hasn’t slept in three days, and it shows. He’s in his late forties, but with his five-seven frame holding 230 pounds, his puffy red face and jowls make him look at least sixty. Although some of us remember when his hair was gray, it’s now dyed an unnatural shade of orange-brown that he combs over an expanding bald spot. On his best days, he storms through our office with a pained expression suggesting a perpetual case of hemorrhoids. Tonight the grimace is even more pronounced.

I share Doris with Bob and a first-year associate named Donna Andrews, who spends her waking hours preparing memoranda on esoteric legal issues. It may seem odd that a heavy hitter like Bob has to share a secretary. However, by executive committee fiat, every attorney (including immortals) must share a secretary with two others. This means Bob gets ninety-nine percent of Doris’s time, I get one percent and Donna gets nothing. From the firm’s perspective, this allocation is entirely appropriate. Bob runs the firm, I’m on my way out the door and Donna is irrelevant.

I ask Doris if she can take the day off tomorrow.

“Doesn’t look good. I was hoping for some time with Jenny.” She’s a single mom. Never been married. Her daughter is a senior at Stanford.

“I saw her earlier today. Sounded like she had a cold.”

“You know how it is. Spend your whole life worrying about your kids.”

I know. “Any chance you got my bills out?” Ordinarily, I don’t sweat administrative details like bills and timesheets. However, if my bills are late, the firm will withhold my paycheck. It’s our only absolute rule. No bills—no paycheck—no exceptions. Doris has long been convinced that my lackadaisical attitude would do irreparable harm to S&G’s finely tuned money machine.

“I got them into the last mail run,” she says.

Relief. “You’re still the best. Are you sure you won’t come work for me?”

“You can’t afford me, Mikey.”

The door to the PCR opens and a blast of stale air hits me. Joel Friedman, a harried corporate associate, steps outside. His collar is unbuttoned and the bags under his eyes extend halfway down his cheeks. “Doris, are you going to be here for a while?”

“Just for a few more minutes.”

Joel is sort of a Jewish Ward Cleaver. He’s an excellent attorney with a terrific wife and twin six-year-old boys. He’s thirty-eight, a trim five-nine. His father is the rabbi at Temple Beth Sholom in the Richmond District. Joel left the yeshiva after two years and went to my alma mater, UC-Berkeley’s Boalt Law School. He graduated second in his class and joined S&G seven years ago. His brown hair is graying, the bald spot he tries to hide is getting larger and his tortoiseshell glasses give him a rabbinical look which, in the circumstances, is entirely appropriate. In Yiddish, he would be described as a mensch, which means an honorable man. He’s also my best friend.

“Is your deal going to close?” I ask.

He’s up for partner this year. If his deal closes, he’s a shoo-in. He modestly describes his job as thanklessly walking behind Bob Holmes and sweeping up the debris. In reality, he does all the work and Bob takes the credit. Frankly, he’s the last line of defense between Bob and our malpractice carrier.

“It’s fucked up,” he says. Like many attorneys, he holds the misguided belief that he’s more convincing if he peppers his speech with four-letter words. Very unbecoming for the rabbi’s son. He nods at our client, Vince Russo, an oily man about Joel’s age who has jammed his Jabba-the-Hutt torso into a chair next to Holmes. “The closing depends on Vince. He’s selling his father’s business, but he’s having second thoughts. He thinks he can get a higher price if he can find another buyer.”

I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting Russo. From what I’ve read, he’s run his father’s real estate conglomerate into the ground. “Why doesn’t he pull out?”

“His creditors will force him into bankruptcy. They aren’t going to wait another year or two.”

I gaze at the frenzy in the PCR. “Looks like you could use some help.”

“As usual, I’m not getting much.” He glances at Diana Kennedy, a glamorous twenty-nine-year-old associate with deep blue eyes, stylish blond hair and a figure that reflects a lot of time at the gym. She’s a rising star. “Things might go a little faster if Diana would focus a little more on work.”

Doris looks away. If you believe the firm’s gossip mongers, Bob Holmes and Diana Kennedy have been sleeping together for the last year or so. I don’t know for sure.

Joel shakes his head. “To top everything off, Beth showed up an hour ago and served Bob with divorce papers.”

I can’t help myself and I grin. Beth is Bob’s soon-to-be-fourth ex-wife. It’s twisted, but I silently rejoice at his latest marital failure. I’m sorry I won’t be around to witness the fallout. His last divorce was spectacular.

Instinctively, Doris comes to Bob’s defense. “She could have waited.”

It’s funny. Bob has been treating Doris like dirt for twenty years. They fight like cats and dogs all day, yet she’s always the first to defend him. I change the subject. “Why doesn’t Bob get Russo to take his chances in bankruptcy?”

Joel’s eyes twinkle. “Because we won’t get paid. Do you know how much Russo owes us?”

“A million bucks?”

“Try fifteen million.”

I’m stunned.

His grin widens. “If you’re going to start your own firm, you should learn a little about this financial stuff. We’re doing this deal for a contingency fee. We get paid only if it closes. It’s in the escrow instructions. We get twelve million at the closing.”

“I thought you said he owes us fifteen.”

“He does.”

“But you said we’re getting only twelve.”

“We are.”

“Who gets the other three?”

“Guess.”

“I don’t know.”

Doris answers for him. “Bob does.”

What the hell? “No way. He can’t siphon off a three-million-dollar personal gratuity. It’s against firm policy. The fees belong to the firm. Some of that money belongs to me.”

Joel chuckles. “It’s been approved by the executive committee. That’s why Bob will pull every string to get this deal to close.”

As he says the word “close,” I see Russo’s face turning bright crimson.

“Stand back,” Joel says. “Mount Russo is about to erupt.”

Russo clumsily squeezes out of his chair and storms toward us. He slams his three-hundred-pound frame against the glass door. When he’s halfway out, he turns around and faces the roomful of apprehensive eyes. “Another forty million? How am I supposed to afford another forty million? Why do I pay you lawyers?”

The party outside goes silent. Skipper looks mortified. Russo waddles down the hall.

I look at Doris. “What was that all about?”

She shrugs and says she has to go back to work.

Joel winks. “It seems there’s been a modest reduction in the purchase price. It’s such a pleasure working with our highly sophisticated, state-of-the-art corporate clients.” He arches an eyebrow. “I think we could use a glass of wine.”

Chapter 2

“WE MAY HAVE A LITTLE PROBLEM WITH THE CLOSING”

“People think being administrative partner is a boring, thankless job. I disagree. The administrative partner is the glue that holds the firm together as an institution.”

— Simpson and Gates administrative partner Charles Stern. Welcoming remarks to new attorneys.

A few minutes later, I’m sitting in a sterile conference room on the forty-fifth floor, where my partner, Charles Stern, has called a meeting of our associates. For the last ten years, Charles has held the boring, thankless job of serving as our administrative partner, a position for which he is uniquely suited. A terminally morose tax attorney, his unnaturally pasty complexion, pronounced widow’s peak and emaciated physique make him look considerably older than fifty-five. He views the Internal Revenue Code as akin to the Bible. He always refers to it as the Good Book. Likewise, he calls the 1986 Tax Act the Satanic Verses, because it took away many of his favorite tax-avoidance schemes. At S&G, we call what he does creative tax planning. Out there in the real world, most people would say he helps his clients engage in varying degrees of tax fraud.

In addition to his modest tax practice, he devotes most of his time to serving on virtually every firm committee, thereby bringing order to the chaos that would ensue without his steady hand. He has also appointed himself the financial conscience of the firm, and reviews each and every expense report before any of our hard-earned cash goes out the door. He handles personnel matters and insists on being present when anyone is fired. He seems to take particular pleasure in this aspect of his job. He’s known as the Grim Reaper.

Except for light reading of the Daily Tax Report, the only joy in his life seems to be the production of an endless stream of e-mails on every imaginable administrative subject, and some that are unimaginable. My life would be a hollow, empty shell without at least one missive every day about procedures, timesheets and expense reimbursements.

He insists that everyone call him Charles. Not Charlie. Not Chuck. Charles. An unseemly hazing ritual takes place every year when Bob Holmes sends an unsuspecting new associate to visit “Charlie.” Last year, I had to intervene to prevent Stern from firing an associate on her third day.

A couple of years ago, in a meeting with the associates, my mouth shifted into gear while my brain was still idling, and I sarcastically dubbed him Chuckles. Naturally, everyone now refers to him by that name.

I have been invited because I have served as the liaison partner for five years, and Chuckles wants to make a presentation to our associates. As liaison partner, I have had the joyous task of addressing the concerns of our associates. It’s the second-most-thankless job at the firm, behind administrative partner. The title of liaison partner goes to the most junior partner who doesn’t have the practice or the balls to say no. If there’s a shoe with dog crap on it, I always seem to be wearing it.

Everybody hates the liaison partner. The associates hate me because they think I’m a toady for the partners. They’re right. The partners hate me because starting salaries are more than a hundred and sixty thousand dollars. Nice piece of change for a kid right out of law school. It isn’t their fault that they’re being overpaid. In fairness to yours truly, I didn’t create this problem. Our salaries are exactly the same as every other big firm in town. The managing partners get together every year to decide how much money the new attorneys will make. In other industries, this would be called price-fixing. It isn’t fair to blame me because the managing partners have had a collective brain cramp for the last ten years and decided to grossly overpay baby lawyers. Nobody said life is fair.

Our offices are hooked up by conference telephone call, so this meeting is a bad sign. Good news is communicated by closed-circuit TV. The lack of refreshments is even more ominous. We’re incapable of holding a meeting without sodas, bottled water, cheese, crackers and fruit. On extraordinarily festive occasions, we get cookies.

Of the hundred associates, only five are women and just one is black. Although Chuckles doesn’t know it, the African-American associate has accepted a job at another firm, and will give notice after he gets his bonus tomorrow. The seating is always the same. Chuckles sits at one end of the table and everybody else (including me) sits as far away from him as possible. He looks sad and lonely at the other end of the table. Joel slides into the seat to my immediate right.

Chuckles clears his throat. “May I have your attention, please?” He’s wearing his gray Men’s Wearhouse suit, and his blue polka dot tie has a stranglehold around his neck. The room becomes silent. He glances uncomfortably over the top of his reading glasses. He looks my way and his thin lips contort to form a pained expression that suggests he’s trying to smile. He takes off his reading glasses with uncharacteristic animation. “Before we start, I want to thank Mike Daley for his hard work on associate issues.”

Relief, followed by acute embarrassment.

Chuckles is looking at me. “As you know, Mike’s last day is tomorrow. On behalf of everybody in this room, I want to wish him the very best.”

My face is red and my neck is burning. I nod as the associates dutifully pat their hands together in quiet applause.

Chuckles puts his reading glasses back on. His eyes never leave his legal pad. “The partners asked me to update you on certain issues considered by the executive committee. After discussion with our consultant, we have made some important decisions. I want to assure you we have reviewed these issues very carefully, and acted fairly and in the best interests of the firm as an institution.”

I love it when he refers to the firm as an institution. I’ve placed a legal pad between Joel and me. I jot a note that says, “Hold on to your wallet.”

Stern’s eyes are glued to his notes. “Effective immediately, associates will be considered for election to the partnership after eight and a half years at the firm, instead of seven years, as is current policy.” He looks up for a fraction of a second to see if an insurrection is brewing.

Joel writes “BS” on the pad and interrupts him. “Excuse me, Charles. May we assume that those of us who are up for partner this year will be grandfathered in under the old rules?”

Chuckles closes the small lizard-like slits he uses for eyes. He takes off his glasses. “Did Bob talk to you?”

“No.”

Chuckles twirls the glasses. The telltale “oh shit” expression. “Joel, let’s talk about this after the meeting.”

It’s fun to watch Chuckles tap-dance.

Joel’s eyes light up. “Let’s talk about it now. Am I up for partner or not?”

Chuckles sighs. “You’re not. And Bob was supposed to talk to you.”

Chuckles usually doesn’t have to face the music from the associates.

Joel isn’t backing off. “Well, he didn’t. This stinks. We will talk after the meeting. Before we do, maybe you should explain why the associates shouldn’t have their resumes out on the street tomorrow morning.”

We’ve always had great finesse with these touchy-feely human-relations issues.

On go the glasses. Chuckles finds his place and continues reading. “In addition, the firm will not be in a position to pay associate bonuses this year.”

There’s an audible gasp. The more-senior associates are expecting bonuses in excess of thirty thousand dollars.

Chuckles is astute enough to realize he’s in trouble. He makes the correct move and returns to the script. “I want to assure you these decisions were made after careful deliberation and represent the unanimous view of the executive committee as to what is fair and what constitutes the best interests of the firm as an institution.”

At times like this, I’ve tried to defuse the tension with a wisecrack. Tonight, Chuckles is working without a net. I write another note to Joel. “Now, the explanation.”

“By way of explanation,” Chuckles continues, “the partners wanted me to make it clear that these decisions were not made for economic reasons. The financial health of the firm is excellent.”

Bad move. If we’re doing so great, it means the partners have decided to keep more money for themselves. I don’t necessarily have a problem with this because it means my last draw check will be a little bigger. On the other hand, if we aren’t doing great, he’s lying. Either way, the associates are getting screwed. And they know it.

Chuckles drones on. “With respect to the partnership track, we have decided it would be beneficial to give each associate additional time to work with as many partners as possible.”

It’s not like we’re just pulling up the ladder.

“With respect to bonuses, we have expended substantial sums to upgrade our computers, a decision made in response to concerns expressed by our younger attorneys. We believe it is in the firm’s long-term financial interests to pay for our new equipment as soon as possible. We realize this may not be the most popular decision, but we believe the computer enhancement is in the best interests of the firm as an institution.”

Especially if the associates pay for it.

The associates turn toward Joel, who has been their spokesman for the last few years. He glares at Chuckles and keeps his tone even. “You realize, Charles, that what you just said is complete and utter bullshit?” Without waiting for a response, he pushes his chair back and calmly walks out of the room.

Chuckles senses that the mood isn’t good. He gathers his notes and practically sprints from the room. The meeting lasted less than five minutes.

* * *

When I return to my office, the gruff voice of Arthur Patton, our managing partner and chairman of the three-man star chamber we call our executive committee, summons me from my voicemail. “Michael, Arthur Patton. Come to the executive conference room ASAP.”

It would never occur to him that I may not be available. I walk downstairs to our “executive” conference room on the forty-sixth floor in an office that once belonged to Skipper’s father. When he died, Skipper laid claim to the office by birthright. Bob Holmes said he was entitled to it because he had the biggest book of business. Arthur Patton said he should get it just because he’s Patton. After three weeks of backbiting, Chuckles Stern implemented what is now known as the “Great Compromise,” and the office was converted into a conference room. My suggestion of a “one-potato, two-potato” marathon was dismissed.

The room has a marble conference table, ten black leather chairs and a view of the Golden Gate Bridge. Portraits of our founding partners hang on the west wall, and portraits of our current X-Com—Patton, Chuckles and Holmes—hang on the east wall. Patton and Chuckles are glum as they sit beneath the smiling pictures of themselves. Mercifully, Holmes is nowhere to be found. The usual assortment of cheese and fruit is on a silver platter.

On December 30th of each year, X-Com meets to give themselves a collective pat on the back and to determine “the Estimate,” which is their best guess of firm profits for the year. More important, they allocate each partner’s percentage interest in the profits of the firm, or “points,” for the upcoming year. The Estimate will be announced with great ceremony at a partners’ meeting at eight o’clock tomorrow morning. I’ve always thought we could streamline the process by putting a tote board in our reception area. This suggestion has not been well received over the years. At the meeting, each partner will receive a check and a memo indicating his points. Theoretically, everybody will begin the new year in a good mood. Unless you’re like me, and your points have been reduced in each of the last four years.

I’m not sure why I’ve been summoned on the night of all nights. I’m pretty sure they can’t fire me again. I take a seat beneath the portraits of Leland Simpson and Skipper’s dad. I feel like I’m surrounded.

“We wanted to discuss your departure,” Patton says.

Uh-oh.

Patton’s bald head, Nixon-like jowls and Brezhnev-like eyebrows overwhelm the rest of his tiny face. His red suspenders strain to hold his ample gut. At sixty-two, his gravel baritone is commanding, but its forcefulness has been tempered by forty years of cigars and single-malt scotch. At times, he’s capable of playing the role of the genial grandfather. Last year, he was Santa at our Christmas party. The next day, he fired his secretary because there was one typo in an eighty page brief. That’s part of his charm. You never know if you’ll get the puppy or the pit bull.

In law-firm-lingo, he handles complex civil litigation. I’ve never met a lawyer who admits he handles litigation that’s anything less than “complex.” In reality, he represents defense contractors who get sued when their bombers don’t fly. To Art, every case is a holy war of attrition where he showers the other side with paper. Fortunately, his clients have the resources to wear down their opponents. He responds to every letter with his own version that rearranges the facts in his favor. He follows up every phone call with a letter that bears only passing resemblance to the matters that were discussed. Around the firm, he’s known as the Smiling Assassin.

He stares over my right shoulder and begins with the grandfatherly tone. “I know we have had our disagreements, but I would like to think we can work things out and remain friends.”

As if. I look right through him and remain silent. Let him talk. Don’t react.

His condescending smirk makes its first appearance. “Here is our proposal. If anyone asks, we will portray your departure as voluntary. You will agree not to say anything bad about us. We will return your capital contribution tomorrow.”

When you’re elected to the partnership, you have to make a capital contribution. The amount is based upon the number of your points. Baby partners like me contribute ninety grand. Power partners like Patton pony up a half a million bucks.

“That’s it?” I ask.

“That’s it. Except for one thing. As a matter of good practice, we need you to sign a full release of the firm. We ask all departing partners. Just housekeeping.”

Keep the tone measured. “Let me see if I have this straight. I won’t piss on you, and you won’t piss on me. That’s fair. And that’s the way it will work because we’re smart enough not to say nasty things about each other. San Francisco is a small town. And you will pay me back my capital.”

“Yes.”

“Good. Because our partnership agreement says you have to pay me back whether or not I agree to say nice things about you, and even if I don’t sign your release. I have no intention of suing you, but if I change my mind, I don’t want you waving a release in my face.”

Gotcha. If I were in his shoes, I’d ask for the release. If he were in mine, he’d say no. I’m glad Joel showed me the section in our partnership agreement that says they have to return my capital.

He shifts to the half grin. “We figured you might say that. We are therefore prepared to make a one-time offer of twenty thousand dollars for your cooperation. Take it or leave it.”

Visions of paying off my Visa bill and a year of rent dance in my head. “Not enough. Make it a hundred and we may have something to talk about.”

Chuckles shakes his head. “Too much, Mike. No can do.”

Patton trots out his “mad dog” persona for a preemptive strike. His act loses some of its impact when you’ve seen it as many times as I have. “If it had been up to me, I would have thrown your sorry ass out of here at least two years ago.”

For an instant, I think Leland Simpson’s picture is going to spring to life. “Yeah,” he’d say, “I would have thrown your sorry ass out of here at least three years ago. Hell, I never would have hired you in the first place.”

Patton isn’t finished. “Use your head for once and take the money.”

I place my fingertips together in my best Mother Teresa imitation. “Arthur, if you’re going to lose your temper, you’re going to have to go to your office and take a time-out.” I’ve been waiting five years to say that to him. I head toward the door. As I’m about to leave the room, I turn and face them. “Gentlemen, I’ll see you in the morning. I wouldn’t want to miss the reading of the Estimate.”

* * *

When I arrive at the office at seven the next morning, I have voicemail messages from five associates who are furious about the decision on bonuses. Three ask me to be a reference. As always, the first person I see is Anna Sharansky, a Soviet refugee who begins every day by brewing enough Peet’s coffee to fill the sixty coffeepots placed around the firm. S&G spends over a quarter of a million bucks a year on coffee. We exchange pleasantries. She never complains. I’ll miss her.

At seven-forty-five, I walk to a utilitarian conference room on the forty-sixth floor to get a seat for the reading of the Estimate. The ceremony usually takes place in the PCR. We’re downstairs because Bob Holmes won’t move the documents for Russo’s deal. It smells like a French pastry shop. Croissants, muffins, scones and fruit are lined up in neat rows on silver platters. Anna has filled the coffeepots and set out the bone china bearing the S&G logo. In the center of the table sit ninety envelopes, each bearing a partner’s name. They look like seating assignments at a wedding.

By 7:55, the room is full. I pour myself a cup of coffee and take a croissant with the sterling-silver tongs. The blue sky frames the Golden Gate Bridge. Let the exercises begin.

Patton always wears his tuxedo to the reading of the Estimate. He seems to think this lends a festive mood to the occasion. I think he looks like a maître d’. At precisely eight o’clock, he makes his grand entrance, his face glowing. For fifteen minutes a year, we’re everything described in our recruiting brochure: a big, collegial family of highly trained professionals who admire, respect and trust one another.

He beams at the head of the table. “Thank you for coming at this early hour. I know how hard it is for some of you to get here when you’ve been out partying all night.” Forced laughter. “I want to get Bob Holmes down here to report on Vince Russo’s deal. We will start in a few minutes.”

He asks Chuckles to find Bob. Chuckles seems pleased he won’t have a speaking role today, and he darts out. The sound of clinking china resumes. Several partners take calls on their cell phones. I focus on the envelope in the middle of the table with my name.

Ten minutes pass. Chuckles and Joel appear outside the glass door. Chuckles looks more gaunt than usual. Joel looks distraught.

Chuckles opens the door and speaks in a barely audible voice. “Art, can I see you outside for a minute?”

The room goes silent. Patton motions Chuckles in. Chuckles tries to convince him to step outside. After a moment’s hesitation, Chuckles comes in and whispers into Patton’s ear. Patton’s eyes get larger. I hear him mutter, “Geez.”

Patton turns, strokes his jowls, and addresses nobody in particular. “It is my unhappy responsibility to make a sad announcement. Bob Holmes and Diana Kennedy were found dead in Bob’s office a few minutes ago. I have no other information. The police have been called.”

We sit in stunned silence.

“Obviously, we may have a little problem with the closing of the Russo deal. Any discussion of the firm’s results for this year would be premature. I will provide further information later today. Meeting adjourned.”

More silence.

After a moment, I hear Patton whisper to Chuckles, “He couldn’t have killed himself. We’re completely screwed. He had a fiduciary duty to us to close the deal”

Leave it to Art Patton to try to explain a man’s death by citing a legal doctrine.

As always, Chuckles is more practical. He says to Patton, “I suspect Bob wasn’t thinking about his fiduciary duties last night.”

Without another word, we file out, pausing to pick up our envelopes.

Chapter 3

"HE KEPT A LOADED GUN AT HIS DESK"

“The managing partner of Simpson and Gates has issued a statement reassuring the firm’s clients that the situation is completely under control.”

– KCBS NEWS RADIO. 8:40 A.M. Wednesday, December 31.

By eight-thirty, the firm is in chaos. Every thirty seconds or so, a voice on the emergency intercom announces that there has been an incident and we shouldn’t use the elevators. Word spreads quickly, and people gather in the corridors.

My office is on the forty-seventh floor, between Joel’s small office and Bob’s palatial northwest corner. Joel is talking on the phone as I walk past his doorway. He’s trying to find Vince Russo. A policeman is unrolling yellow tape outside Bob’s office.

I walk into my office and sit down. The room is empty except for a few last boxes and my coffee cup with Grace’s picture on it. I listen to the sirens forty-seven floors below. It sounds as though every police car in the city is heading toward our building.

Doris comes in a moment later. “Is it true?”

“Yes. Patton said Bob and Diana are dead. Chuckles and Joel broke up the partners’ meeting. I don’t know any details.”

Tears well up in her eyes. “I can’t believe it.”

I give her a hug. She starts sobbing into my shoulder. “It’ll be all right,” I say feebly.

“It finally got to him. The divorce, the deal, the money. And Diana, too. Why Diana?”

“These things happen for a reason.” I realize this line from my religious training never rang very true. It was one of the reasons I left the priesthood. I had trouble saying the party line toward the end.

She wipes her eyes and sits down. I absentmindedly turn on my computer. It’s funny how you revert to habit. I have two e-mails. The second is from Patton, advising that there will be an emergency meeting at nine o’clock. The other is from Bob Holmes. It was sent at 1:20 this morning. I get chills.

“Look at this,” I say to Doris.

She comes around behind my desk and reads over my shoulder. Bob’s final words are concise. “To everyone. I am sorry for the pain I have inflicted. I hope you will find it in your hearts to forgive me. I cannot go on. I wish you the best. Bob.”

I read it again. “An e-mail suicide note. This is weird, even for Bob.” I get a sour feeling in my stomach. His body is still in the office next door.

My phone rings and I pick up. My mother is calling from home. “Mickey, I’m watching TV. They said somebody at your office got shot. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, Mama.”

“Thank God. Did you know them?”

“Yeah, I knew them.”

“Mickey, be careful.”

“I will. I’ll call you back later, okay?”

I open the Channel 4 website and turn on the live feed. A reporter is standing in the plaza outside the California Street entrance to our building. She’s in front of the huge black polished-granite sculpture designed by Masayuki Nagare that the late Herb Caen, the immortal San Francisco Chronicle columnist, dubbed the Banker’s Heart.

“This is Rita Roberts. We are live in San Francisco, where police are reporting an incident at Simpson and Gates, the city’s largest law firm. Details are sketchy, but it appears that two Simpson and Gates attorneys have been killed by gunshots. Newly elected San Francisco District Attorney Prentice Gates III was a partner at the firm. Mr. Gates and the mayor were in the firm’s office last night. Moments ago, a spokesman told us that the mayor left the Simpson and Gates suite about nine o’clock last night and arrived at his office this morning at his usual time. We haven’t been able to confirm the whereabouts of Mr. Gates. Rita Roberts for NewsCenter 4.”

I’m turning down the sound when a young policeman knocks on my open door. “I’m Officer Chinn. We’re asking everyone to return to their desk.”

“We understand, Officer.” He walks down the hall.

Doris is offended.

“He’s just following procedure,” I tell her. “He’s supposed to secure the scene and wait for help.” In reality he’s also supposed to separate us so we can’t compare stories. She heads out the door.

* * *

My phone keeps ringing. My younger brother, Pete, a former San Francisco cop who works as a private investigator, gets through on the first try. “You okay, Mick? I heard it on the box.”

“I’m fine.”

“You talk to Ma?”

“Yeah. Told her I’m okay. Mind giving her a call? She’ll feel better if she hears from you.”

“No problem, Mick. Gotta go. I’m working.”

I pity the unfaithful husband he’s tailing. What he lacks in finesse he makes up for in tenacity.

* * *

“Que pasa, Miguel? You all right?” My ex-wife, Rosita Carmela Fernandez, doesn’t speak Spanish, except to me.

“I’m fine, Rosie.”

Rosie grew up in the Hispanic enclave in the Mission District. Her dad was a carpenter. Her mom babysits Grace when Rosie’s in trial. Rosie was the first member of her family to go to college. She worked her way through San Francisco State and Hastings Law School. We used to work together at the PD’s office. We were married for about three years. We were a lot better at trying cases than we were at being married.

Her tone is businesslike. “I was worried my new tenant wasn’t going to move in.”

That was part of the problem when we were married. Among other things, Rosie is good at keeping track of money, I’m not. She’s organized. I’m flexible. It used to drive her nuts. We got along great until we got married. Then all of my faults came to light. After a couple of years of ceaseless sniping, we finally split up after Grace turned one. Once the divorce messiness was over, we started to get along a lot better.

“I’m moving in just the way we planned,” I say.

“Good man. I’ll call you later. Adios.”

Rosie, you’re the best ex-wife a man could have. Damn shame we couldn’t stand living together.

* * *

Joel pokes his head in while I’m on the phone with my baby sister, Mary, a first-grade teacher in L.A. His hair is disheveled. His eyes are puffy. I motion for him to sit down. I say good-bye to Mary.

His voice is a hoarse whisper. “Long night, Mike.”

“I’ll bet. What can I say?”

“I’ve never seen a dead body before. Jews don’t do open caskets.” He tries to compose himself. “He practically blew the side of his head off.”

“Do you have any idea what happened?”

He holds up his hands. “We finished negotiations about nine. We gave the documents to the word processors. Diana and I went to Harrington’s for a quick bite. She went home. I got back around eleven-fifteen. We finished signing papers by twelve-thirty. Everybody left. I went down to the lunchroom for a Coke. I read documents for two or three hours and I took a nap down there. I got up around six and went back to my office. I thought Bob had gone home. Next thing I knew, it was eight o’clock and Chuckles asked me for the keys to Bob’s office. That’s when we found them.”

“Did Russo kill the deal?” I realize that my choice of words could have been more discreet.

“I don’t know. I can’t find him. Last time I saw him was when he signed the papers. He said he was going back to the Ritz. He stays there so he doesn’t have to drive all the way down to his house in Hillsborough. He wasn’t sure if he’d authorize the wire transfers to close the deal. He said he was going to sleep on it. He said he might have to go to his backup plan.”

“What’s that?”

“A flying leap off the Golden Gate Bridge. I called the hotel. They said he didn’t sleep in his bed last night.” He sighs. “I can’t believe Bob killed himself, even if Vince decided to pull out. Bob’s seen deals go south before.”

“The police are going to want to talk to you. I’ll drive you home when you’re done.”

“Thanks, Mike.”

This is going to be tough on Joel.

* * *

At five after nine, Arthur Patton is still wearing his tuxedo when he convenes an all-hands meeting in the reception area. Thankfully, somebody had the good judgment to turn off the lights on the Christmas tree. Patton speaks in an even tone. “As many of you are aware, Bob Holmes and Diana Kennedy were found dead in Bob’s office this morning. The police have indicated they died of gunshot wounds. Bob’s wounds may have been self-inflicted.

“This is Inspector Roosevelt Johnson of the SFPD, who is in charge of the investigation. I would ask each of you to assist the police. Our office is closed until Monday, and you are free to go home as soon as the police say you may do so.”

Roosevelt Johnson was my father’s first partner. Every time I see him, I think of my dad. I’ve known Roosevelt since I was a kid. He worked his way up the ranks and made homicide inspector. Dad stayed on the street. Although Roosevelt is in his early sixties, at six-four and 235 pounds, he still looks like he can play linebacker at Cal. His ebony skin, gray mustache, bald dome and gold wire-rimmed glasses command the attention of everyone in the room.

He speaks in an eloquent baritone. “Ladies and gentlemen, I promise to get you home as soon as possible. We need to obtain a statement from each of you. If you didn’t see or hear anything, I would ask you to write a note to that effect and give it to one of our officers. I would appreciate it if you would return to your office or workstation. I must ask you not to discuss this matter with each other. Please stay away from Mr. Holmes’s office while we gather evidence. I apologize for the inconvenience, and I thank you for your cooperation.”

Doris raises her hand. “Inspector, can you give us any information about the circumstances surrounding Bob’s and Diana’s deaths?”

“It appears they were victims of gunshot wounds.”

“Were they self-inflicted?”

“We don’t know yet. A handgun was found at the scene. We will provide additional information as soon as possible.”

* * *

At ten o’clock, I’m on the phone when a subdued Chuckles walks into my office. I hold my thumb and forefinger a quarter of an inch apart, signaling I’ll only be a minute. He sits down. I reassure my mother for the third time today and hang up.

Chuckles pushes out a sigh. “I haven’t seen so much blood since I was in the service.”

To Chuckles, the service usually means the IRS. I realize he’s talking about the military. “You were in the army, Charles?”

“Marines. Vietnam. I’ve got a bum shoulder to show for it.”

I never would have figured. Although it’s entirely inappropriate, I imagine Chuckles and his platoon lobbing copies of the Internal Revenue Code toward the Vietcong. “I lost a brother over there near the end of the war.”

“I didn’t know. I’m sorry, Mike.

“Thank you.” Tommy’s death was one of the reasons I became a priest. My family was seriously Catholic. I was better at it than either of my brothers. Although the church had a lot of rules, it was a truly spiritual place for me when I was growing up. The spirituality disappeared when I became a priest. I decide it isn’t a great time to mention my participation in the antiwar protests in Berkeley.

Chuckles is more somber than usual. “I know we have other things on our minds, but I wanted to let you know we decided to give you your capital back. We aren’t going to insist that you sign a release.” He pulls a check out of his jacket pocket and hands it to me.

“Thanks, Charles. That’s very decent of you.”

“Sometimes you make decisions because it’s the right thing to do.”

And sometimes you fire your partners because they don’t have enough business. I expect him to leave, but he doesn’t. “You knew Bob for a long time. Do you have any idea what this is all about?”

“I don’t know. We weren’t close. I’m not sure he had any close friends.”

The same could be said about you, Chuckles.

He keeps talking. “Art knew him the best. They used to talk about stocks. They invested in a restaurant together. That fancy place in Palo Alto. Bob called it his private black hole for money. Bob and I just used to talk about firm business. He was having his biggest year ever. I can’t believe he’d kill himself the night before the deal was going to close. Confidentially, he was going to get a big bonus today.”

I feign surprise. “I didn’t realize that, Charles.”

“That’s why it doesn’t make sense. You know Bob. Or knew him, I guess. He’d never turn down a check. Maybe it was the divorce.” He pauses. “You heard he used his own gun.”

“He brought a gun to the office?”

“He kept it at the office, Mike. At his desk. I thought everyone knew.”

Not everyone. “Loaded?”

“Yep.”

“What for?”

“You were here when that lunatic killed all those people at 101 California.”

In July of 1993, a crazed former client walked into the offices of a prominent San Francisco law firm and opened fire with an arsenal of semiautomatic weapons. He killed eight people and wounded a dozen others before he killed himself. The firm closed its doors two years later. “I knew some people over there,” I tell him. “Good lawyers. Nice people.”

“Yup. Every firm has a security system. We spent a quarter of a million on ours. Each receptionist has a panic button. If they see trouble, they punch it. The doors lock and a light goes on in personnel and at the security desk. Thank goodness we’ve never had to use it.”

“Brave new world.”

“No kidding. After the incident at 101 Cal, Bob said he wasn’t going to let the same thing happen to him. He kept a loaded gun at his desk. He didn’t make a big deal about it. We’d like to try to keep it out of the papers if we can.”

“Not a bad idea.” What’s next? Metal detectors? I can see the headlines. “Prominent San Francisco Attorney Kills Himself with Loaded Piece He Kept at His Desk.”

Chuckles shakes his head. “Now we have a big problem. We were counting on the fees from the Russo deal to make our year-end numbers. Art’s beside himself. I think he may retire and move to Napa fulltime. I’m thinking about getting out, too. I don’t know if the firm can survive.”

There’s the Chuckles I know and love. Two hours after he finds his partner’s body, he’s already worried about his draw.

* * *

Doris is back in my office at ten-fifteen. “Those police inspectors are really pushy. They treated me like a criminal.”

“I did my five minutes with Officer Chinn. He was okay.”

“Maybe to you. The cop I talked to acted like I was a murder suspect.”

“I know this is tough. They’re just doing their job.”

“They were rude. And they asked a lot of questions about Diana’s personal life.”

“Like what?”

“Like whether she was sleeping with Bob.”

“Was she?” I’ve always wondered.

“It’s none of your business. And it sure as hell is none of theirs.”

“Doris, this is tough on all of us. Give yourself a little space.”

She starts to cry. I get up and put my arm around her. “It’s such a waste,” she says.

Chapter 4

THE LEGEND

“When I started working Homicide, there was no such thing as affirmative action. I’m not saying it was right. It’s just the way it was.”

– Inspector Roosevelt Johnson. San Francisco Chronicle.

At ten-thirty I’m at my desk watching Skipper being interviewed on TV. He mentions the shootings briefly, then he moves straight into his campaign speech.

Roosevelt Johnson’s commanding presence fills my doorway, and the familiar baritone resonates off the walls. “Hello, Michael. This is a far cry from the PD’s office.”

“It’s been a long time, Roosevelt.”

He’s a legend. He and his partner, Marcus Banks, are SFPD’s most senior homicide team. They handle all the high-profile cases.

He closes my door. “How’s your mama?”

“On good days she’s ornery. On bad days, she doesn’t say much. She’s in the early stages of Alzheimer’s. It isn’t going to get better, but we’re hoping it won’t worse too soon. She’s still at home. Pete’s living with her. He never moved out.”

“Your mom and dad were never the same after Tommy died.”

My older brother was one of the last MIAs in Vietnam. They never found his body. He was an all-city quarterback at St. Ignatius and all-conference at Cal. Tommy had another year of eligibility. He could have gotten deferred. He volunteered for the Marines. I tried to talk him out of it, but Dad told him it was the right thing to do. He never forgave me for trying to talk Tommy out of going, and he never forgave himself when Tommy died. Then he got sick. My dad worked his ass off for thirty years for his city pension. He died five years ago, about a year after Grace was born. At least he got to see his first grandchild.

Roosevelt takes a seat. “It’s hard to bury your children, Mike.” He knows. His son was nineteen when he was killed in a drive-by shooting near Candlestick Park. “Did you decide to become a priest after Tommy died?”

“In part.” Unlike most of my friends, I loved going to church when I was a kid. It gave me time with my mom and dad. It gave my life structure. And it had lots of rules. I was always good at rules. It wasn’t until I was in college that I started questioning them. I’ll never forget the look of pride on my dad’s face when I told him I was going to the seminary, or the look of disdain when I told him I was leaving the priesthood to become a lawyer. He hated lawyers. “When Tommy died, I went to the church to try to find some answers.”

“What happened?”

“I guess it didn’t have the answers I was looking for.” He looks uncomfortable. “I didn’t do anything terrible, Roosevelt. It just didn’t work out.” The rules that seemed so meaningful when I was a kid seemed prehistoric by the time I was a priest.

“Why did you end up in law school?” he asks.

“The church doesn’t have an outplacement service for downsized priests. I figured I might be able to make a living helping people who got screwed. Lawyers can do a lot of things nobody else can do. Besides, I didn’t have any better ideas.” This is clearly more than he’d bargained for, so I change the subject. “How’s your family?”

“Janet has good days and bad days, too. Arthritis. My daughter is an OB-GYN at San Francisco General. My granddaughter is at UCLA Law School. With my luck, she’ll end up a public defender like you did.”

“She’ll probably end up at some Wall Street firm making two hundred thou a year.”

He chuckles. “How are Rosie and the baby?”

“Complicated subject. Rosie and I split up about a year after Grace was born. We couldn’t figure out a way to work out the little stuff. And if you can’t deal with the little stuff, you can’t deal with the big stuff. Things are better mow. Grace is in first grade. She lives with Rosie, but I’m a couple of blocks away. She stays with me every other weekend.”

“How did you end up in a place like this?”

“I needed the money when we got divorced. This firm was starting a white-collar criminal defense practice. I was the best guy at the PD’s office, so they hired me. Made me a partner. Doubled my salary.”

He glances around my stripped office. “I take it you’re leaving?”

“It didn’t work out. The big-time white-collar practice didn’t happen. The guy with the big book of business left after a year. I started bringing in DUI and robbery cases. Firms like S&G don’t like to have real criminals roaming around the office. It scares the corporate clients. I’m going out on my own. I’m renting space on Mission.”

“Sounds good.”

“I hope so. Rosie’s my landlord.”

“You’ve always had a flair.” He turns serious. “I know we didn’t always see eye to eye when you were at the PD’s office, but I’d like to think it was because we were on opposite sides of a few cases.”

“It was never personal, Roosevelt.”

“I’d like your help in sorting out this case. Off the record, if you’d like. Professional courtesy.”

“I’ll do anything I can to help you.”

“I’d appreciate it if you’d keep our discussion confidential for the time being.”

“Of course.”

He skims his notes. “So far, we know that Holmes and Kennedy died of gunshot wounds. His to the head, hers to the chest. His wound looks self-inflicted. Your colleagues Charles Stern and Joel Friedman found the bodies and a Smith and Wesson thirty-eight-caliber revolver on the floor. Friedman said he last saw Holmes about twelve-thirty this morning. He had dinner with Kennedy about ten last night. He said she went home from the restaurant. We don’t know when she came back. Our people are dusting the office and the gun. If I had to guess, it looks like he killed her and then killed himself. We’ve seen the e-mail message sent from his computer. But it’s too soon to tell. You know me. I do it by the numbers.”

“I know. Have you been able to impart your way of thinking upon your partner?”

“Marcus is a good cop. He doesn’t always handle things the way I would. He’s kept his nose clean the last few years. What can you tell me about Holmes? Was anything bothering him? Was anybody angry at him?”

“A lot was bothering him. And everybody in the city was angry at him.” I tell him what I know about Bob. How my partners hated his guts. About his acrimonious divorces. About the divorce papers his wife served on him last night.

“Anybody else mad at him?”

“He was working on a big deal. Everybody was unhappy. There was quite a scene last night. His client, Vince Russo, was screaming at him. I presume it isn’t going to close now.” I ponder how much I can and should tell Roosevelt about Joel’s description of the deal.

“Russo seems to have dropped off the face of the earth. What’s his story?”

I describe how Russo inherited his father’s business and ran it into the ground. I explain that Russo’s creditors were forcing him to sell. “I hear he’s a tough guy to like.”

“Where does Ms. Kennedy fit in?”

He knows more than he’s letting on. “She was Bob’s star associate and a real go-getter. She was on the fast track.”

“What about their personal relationship? Anything out of the ordinary? Any hanky-panky?”

“Purely professional, as far as I know. But some people think there was more to it.”

“Were they sleeping together?”

“Don’t know.” He gives me a skeptical look. “Honest, Roosevelt. If there were something I’d promised to keep quiet, I’d tell you that much. The fact is, I just don’t know.”

He bores in. “Was she sleeping with anybody else?”

“I don’t know. She didn’t have a boyfriend. She always had a date for the Christmas party. I’m not tuned in to firm gossip.”

“Fair enough. Who is tuned in?”

Before I can catch myself, I blurt out, “Joel.”

He chuckles. “I figured that out already. There are still a few instincts left in this old carcass.”

“Did you ask him?” I’m as curious as the next guy.

“Yeah. He said he wasn’t sure. He’s heard the rumors. Who else should I talk to?”

“Charles Stern knows about the firm’s finances. Arthur Patton is the managing partner.”

“I’ve talked to them. They think Holmes wouldn’t have killed himself. Patton said Holmes was up for a big bonus.”

“I’ve heard that.”

“What about his secretary?”

“Doris? She’s a gem. She can give you the skinny on Bob’s divorces. She’s very discreet, though. And very protective of him. By the way, if you get any dirt on his divorces, I’ll buy you a steak at any restaurant in town to hear about it.”

“Deal. What about Mr. Gates?”

“Our district attorney wore out his welcome years ago. Between us, they couldn’t wait to get him out the door.”

“Doesn’t surprise me.” He wipes his glasses. “Mike, do you think Holmes was the kind of guy who would have killed himself?”

I answer him honestly. “I don’t know. A few days ago, I would have said no way. On the other hand, his deal may have been cratering. His wife served him with divorce papers. Now, I’m not sure.”

“I’ll call you when I have a better handle on things. In the meantime, say hi to your mama for me.”

* * *

Joel is standing in my doorway at twelve-thirty. “You ready to get out of here?”

“Yes.” I pick up my coffee mug. As we walk out my door I see a police officer standing outside Bob’s office. A team from the medical examiner’s office is inside. As we’re heading into the elevator lobby, I ask Joel if he found Russo.

“Nope. Never showed up. Never called. Won’t respond to texts or e-mails. We had a ten o’clock deadline for the wire transfers. We didn’t make it. The buyer’s attorney said he’d call me Monday. As far as he’s concerned, the deal is off. I guess we’ll deal with bankruptcy if and when Vince surfaces.”

We reach the lobby and head down the escalators toward the underground garage. We stop on the intermediate level so I can drop off announcements for my new office in our mailroom, which is in a windowless suite next to the health club. In a cost-saving exercise a few years ago, we moved our mailroom, copy center and accounting department to this subterranean vault everyone calls the Catacomb. I feel sorry for these poor people who never see the daylight.

I bang on the heavy steel door. Virginia Wallace, the manager of our accounting department, opens the door. A ghoulish, gray-haired woman of indeterminate age, she started as a file clerk about thirty years ago. I’ve always been terrified of her. True to form, she’s waiting to see if any of our clients send us any money before the stroke of midnight and our fiscal year turns into a pumpkin.

“Hi, Virginia. You holding up okay?”

“As well as can be expected.”

“Good. Could you do me a favor and leave these envelopes for the guys in the mailroom? I was hoping they might be able to get these out to the post office in the last run.”

Big sigh. “Just this once because it’s your last day.”

“Thanks, Virginia.” I’ll never impose upon you again. I look over her shoulder and see Mark Jenkins, our head delivery person, getting out of the freight elevator that connects the Catacomb with our offices upstairs. I’ve always liked Mark, an articulate African-American man from Hunters Point who’s worked his way out of the projects and spends his days riding up and down the freight elevator and putting up with Virginia. He’s finishing up at San Francisco State this year. I’m hopeful he’ll find something better suited to his talents after he graduates. Mark agrees to send out my announcements, and I wish him well. Virginia glares.

The steel door slams, and Joel and I head to the garage. With a little coaxing, my nine-year-old Corolla turns over. I pay the kid with monster headphones in the booth, and we head west on Pine. The street is littered with paper. I remind myself that it’s New Year’s Eve. In San Francisco, the people who don’t work in hermetically sealed high-rises traditionally toss their obsolete calendar pages out their windows. The city pays a fortune in overtime to clean up the mess.

Traffic is light as we drive past the Ritz and the back of the Stanford Court toward Joel’s house in the Richmond District. When we reach Van Ness, he says, “I can’t believe it. Yesterday, I was getting ready to close a huge deal and to celebrate my election as a partner. Today, two people are dead, the deal is off and my career is in limbo.”

“You’ll be okay They need you to service Bob’s clients.”

“I guess. I still can’t figure it out. He waits another day and he gets three million bucks.”

“There’s more to it.”

“The cops sure think so.”

“They’re just doing their jobs.”

“Spoken like the son of a cop. The head guy, Johnson, thinks there’s more to it than suicide.”

“He was my father’s partner. He’s a good man.”

We drive in silence across Fillmore through a neighborhood that once was known as the Western Addition, but with gentrification was rechristened Lower Pacific Heights. As we’re passing the dim sum restaurants on Clement Street. Joel says, “I know Bob was going through another divorce and this deal was all messed up. But I don’t see him killing himself. And I don’t see him taking Diana with him.”

“Johnson asked me if Bob and Diana were sleeping together. You know anything?”

“I’ve heard the same stuff everybody’s heard.”

“Just between us. You think they were getting it on?”

“Wouldn’t surprise me.”

“While we’re speculating, let’s suppose they were sleeping together. And she broke up with him. And Vince told Bob the deal’s off. And Bob was really mad about the divorce. Maybe you’ve got a scenario where he decided to end it.”

Joel isn’t buying it. “I just can’t see it. Bob’s been divorced three times. He’s seen deals go down.”

“You think somebody killed him?”

He shrugs. “Russo really wanted out of the deal. For that matter, so did the buyer.”

“Why?”

“Continental Capital Corporation is the fourth-largest public company in the world. Their mergers and acquisitions stud, Jack Frazier, convinced them to buy Vince’s business. Frazier’s one of those young MBAs who figured this deal was the next step up the ladder. He convinced the suits at CCC to pay nine hundred million for a company that’s worth a lot less. By the time Golden Boy Frazier figured out he was buying a pig in a poke, it was too late. The boys at headquarters in Stamford won’t be happy.”

“Why didn’t they pull out?”

“Do you know what a breakup fee is?”

I shake my head.

“It’s a payment a buyer has to make if it backs out of a deal for no reason. It’s supposed to keep the buyer serious and cover the seller’s legal fees if the deal craters.”

“Why didn’t CCC pay the fee and walk?”

“Because the fee is fifty million dollars. It’s a lot of money for nothing, even for CCC. If they paid it, Frazier would be working on one of their oil rigs off the coast of Siberia by the end of the week. There was no breakup fee if Vince killed the deal. Frazier’s been trying to get Vince to pull the plug for two weeks.”

“What about the guy from the mayor’s office, Dan Morris? What was he doing there?”

“You’ll never believe this. When it looked like Vince’s business was going down in flames, the mayor appointed one of those blue-ribbon task forces because he didn’t want three thousand jobs moving to CCC’s western headquarters in Dallas. Bad optics. It’s one thing for the Niners to lose a game to the Cowboys. It’s another thing for three thousand jobs to go to the land of George W. Bush. So the mayor got CCC to agree to keep Russo International’s headquarters here by providing a hundred million in financing. Pretty slick, eh? If the deal closes, the mayor can take credit for saving a bunch of jobs.”

“So the city wanted the deal to close?”

“Actually, no. Turns out the city didn’t have the money to make the loan. Cash-flow problems. The city was going to have to borrow the money at loan-shark rates. The mayor figured it out last night. He decided he’d rather lose the jobs. He figures the voters will forget about the jobs, but they’ll never forgive a budget deficit. He sent his political fixer over here to kill the deal, but make it look like somebody else’s fault. The city was going to use tax dollars to finance a deal that was so screwed up, nobody, including our own client, wanted it to close.”

“Looks like everybody is going to get their wish.”

“Looks that way.”

As always, the weather in the Richmond is cooler and foggier than downtown. We pass Park Presidio Boulevard and drive past Temple Beth Sholom, where Joel’s father holds court. I turn right onto Sixteenth Avenue and drive halfway up the block of tightly packed bungalows. I stop in front of Joel’s modest gray house, around the corner from his father’s.

“Happy New Year,” he says as he gets out.

“I’ll talk to you next week.”

I hope you still have a career.

Chapter 5

THE LAW OFFICES OF MICHAEL J. DALEY, ESQ.

“Michael J. Daley, formerly of the San Francisco Public Defender’s Office and formerly a partner at Simpson and Gates, announces the opening of the Law Offices of Michael J. Daley, Esq,. at 553 Mission Street, San Francisco, California. Mr. Daley will continue to specialize in criminal defense practice in state and federal court.”

– San Francisco Legal Journal. Monday, January 5.

“Now,” I say to Rosie, “all I need are a couple of paying clients, a secretary and a functional telephone, and I’m on my way back to the big time.”

“At least your computer is working.” She chuckles as I unpack boxes at nine-fifteen in the morning on Monday, January 5. “Looks like the grand opening of the Law Offices of Michael J. Daley, Esq.” is going to be somewhat less than auspicious,” she says.

True. My new office is in the basement of the two-story 1920s building on Mission Street, down the block from the Transbay bus terminal. I’m renting space from the Law Offices of Rosita C. Fernandez in a neighborhood that was fashionable seventy years ago. After decades of neglect, the sprawl of downtown has given the area new life. Nevertheless, by six o’clock every evening, a group of homeless people gather in front of the building. I look up at the side of a Chinese restaurant called Lucky Corner No. 2 through the metal bars that protect my small window. The name is misleading. The restaurant isn’t located on a corner. We’ll see whether it will be lucky for me.

“Give it time,” Rosie says. “We had to move a lot of files to set this up.”

“This was your file room?”

“Yeah. It looks much nicer now. Rolanda can help you get settled.”

“Thanks.” I look at the metal desk, mismatched chairs and stained file cabinet. “I didn’t bring much. Just my computer, some books and a few files.”

“Good. Rent is due the first of the month.”

“You won’t need to remind me.” I’m already beginning to feel like we’re married again. It was much more fun when we were first dating and we didn’t have to worry about rent, car payments and, later, diapers. We started going out when we worked at the PD’s office. Rosie was spinning out of a bad marriage. I was coming off a long-term relationship with a law school classmate. We found each other on the rebound. She liked me because I was funny. I liked her because she was direct. And Lord knows, we knew each other’s work schedules. “By the way, my highly generous former partners gave me a substantial check for my capital on my way out the door.”

“Excellent. Any more on the incident at S&G?”

Interesting choice of words. I guess “incident” sounds better than “suicide,” “shooting” or the more generic “tragedy.” “Not much. I haven’t talked to Roosevelt since Wednesday.”

“I saw your pal Skipper Gates on the tube. He seems to think there’s more to it.”

“He’s trying to keep his name in the papers. He’s called a press conference at nine-thirty. Want to watch?”

“Sure.”

I pull up the Channel 4 website. I can make out the faces of Skipper and Roosevelt standing in a briefing room.

“This is Rita Roberts of NewsCenter 4 reporting from San Francisco police headquarters. District Attorney Prentice Gates and Homicide Inspector Roosevelt Johnson are about to begin a press briefing concerning the incident at the Simpson and Gates law firm last week. Mr. Gates will speak first.”

“Incident” seems to be the word of choice. Skipper and Roosevelt are standing behind a table on which the obligatory assortment of evidence is laid out in clear plastic bags: bullet casings, a computer keyboard, a telephone answering machine and several printouts. Skipper steps to the microphone. Cue the lights. He works without notes.

“Thank you for coming this morning. First day on the job and already I have a major case. As you know, sometime between the hours of eleven-thirty p.m. on Tuesday, December thirtieth, and eight a.m. on Wednesday, December thirty-first, my friend and former partner, Bob Holmes, and my former associate, Diana Kennedy, were killed by gunshots. We are investigating this tragedy, and we will have further details for you as they become available. I will now call upon Inspector Roosevelt Johnson, who is in charge of the investigation.”

Roosevelt steps to the microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen, we are continuing our investigation. We will have more for you as the situation develops.”

Skipper returns to the microphone. He doesn’t realize he’s smiling. “We have time for just a few questions.”

The silver-haired anchor of Channel 5 Eyewitness News is first. “Mr. Gates, is it true the gun belonged to Mr. Holmes?”

“Yes. It was registered to Mr. Holmes.”

“How did the gun get to the S&G office?”

Skipper doesn’t want to admit his partner kept a loaded piece at his desk. “Somebody brought it to the office.”

Not a bad response. I’m convinced.

“One of the lawyers at the firm said Holmes kept a loaded gun at his desk.”

“You have good sources. I would like to talk to that person.” Laughter. “The answer, by the way, is I don’t know. But we are looking into it.”

Roosevelt moves to the microphone. “We are checking everything out.”

Skipper is annoyed. “Obviously, we wouldn’t want to encourage people to keep concealed weapons at their desks.”

A reporter from Channel 7 shouts, “We understand there was a suicide note.”

Roosevelt shakes his head. “No comment.”

“Are you treating this case as a homicide or a suicide?”

Roosevelt answers again. “Ms. Kennedy’s death appears to be a homicide. The investigation is ongoing.”

The blonde from Channel 2 who used to work at NBC pushes her way to the front. “Mr. Gates, what’s your gut feeling? Was it a suicide?”

Roosevelt tries to intercept Skipper, but Skipper elbows his way to the mike. “Young lady, Bob Holmes was my partner and my friend. I must rely on the SFPD and experienced homicide investigators like Inspector Johnson. They will gather the evidence and I will ultimately decide whether there is any basis to prosecute anyone. That’s all I have for today.”

“Well, what do you think?” Rosie asks.

“Not a bad performance for his first press conference.”

“Not Skipper. The killings. What do you think?”

“They’re holding stuff back. Vince Russo disappeared. Skipper didn’t even mention his name. There was nothing about the deal or the divorce.”

* * *

At twelve-fifteen the same day, Doris is getting her first look at my new office. “Geez, Mikey, this isn’t an office, it’s a closet.” She gives me a hug. “What’s that smell?”

“Moo shu pork.” Seems my office starts to smell like the Chinese place next door by mid-morning.

“You’ll get used to it, Mikey. How’s Grace?”

“Fine. And Jenny?”

“So-so. Boyfriend trouble. You know how it is.”

We exchange small talk. She tells me things are starting to calm down at S&G. She’s been reassigned to another attorney. She says she’s going to take a few weeks off for a trip to the Bahamas.

She opens a shopping bag and takes out a small plant. “I thought you might like something to brighten up your office.”

“Thanks. It could use a little help.”

She glances at Grace’s picture. “I was hoping you’d do me a favor.” She takes a manila envelope out of her purse and hands it to me. “Open it.”

Inside I find a check made out to me for a hundred dollars. The memo says “retainer.” There is a form letter saying that she’s engaging the law office of Michael J. Daley to represent her on all legal matters. There is a copy of her will.

“Doris—,”

“How many clients do you have, Mikey?”

I look down.

“Well, now you have one.”

“Look, Doris, I can’t .  .  .”

“Yes, you can. This isn’t charity. I need you to review my will.”

“There are people at S&G who could help you.”

“If I wanted somebody at the firm to represent me, I wouldn’t be here. How many arguments did we have during the five years we worked together?”

“A few.”

“And how many did I win?”

“All of them.”

“And I’m going to win this one, too.” She smiles. “You don’t have to cash the check.”

“I think I’ll frame it.”

“That’s fine. The Law Offices of Michael J. Daley are now officially open for business.”

“Can I buy you lunch?”

“Absolutely. The moo shu pork smells pretty good.”

Chapter 6

"A GREAT HUMANITARIAN"

“HOLMES, John Robert, Jr.” died suddenly on December 31, at age 48. Beloved husband of Elizabeth, father of seven. A respected partner at the international law firm of Simpson and Gates. Services will be held at Grace Cathedral, San Francisco, on Tuesday, January 6, at 10:00 a.m. Donations in his memory may be made to the Legal Community Against Violence.”

– Obituary Notice, San Francisco Chronicle, Tuesday, January 6.

Rosie and I are standing on the front steps of Grace Cathedral when Art Patton approaches us.

“Did you read Bob’s obit, Mike?” he says. “You’d have thought he was fucking Mother Teresa.”

I keep my voice measured. “Well, Art, I guess it depends on how you’re using the word ‘fucking’ in this context.”

Rosie stifles a chuckle. Patton’s second trophy wife, Shari, a former S&G receptionist, smiles politely. Art and Shari head inside. You’d never guess they’re going through a nasty divorce.

“They never knew what hit them,” Rosie says.

Bob had told me a few months ago he wanted a funeral just like Princess Di’s, except Bruce Springsteen would sing “Born to Run” instead of Elton John singing “Candle in the Wind.” As it turns out, the funeral Beth Holmes has arranged isn’t far from Bob’s wish.

The front steps of Grace Cathedral look like the Academy Awards. The TV cameras, news vans and A-team reporters are here. The service is going to be streamed live. Two news choppers hover overhead. A thousand people are expected.

Rosie is a good sport. Funerals are difficult in the best of circumstances. Funerals for assholes in your ex-husband’s former law firm are really tough. Even during the darkest times of our marriage and divorce, we always went to funerals together. It’s our unspoken pact.

I’ve never been very good about funerals. It goes back to my days as a priest. When you’re the low priest on the totem pole, you get a lot of funeral duty. I remember doing four in one day for people I’d never met. I felt bad for the families. I did my standard spiel, said a few words to the families and left. Tough gig.

The paparazzi remain at a respectful distance, and I have hopes that this will not turn into a circus. Then Skipper’s black Lincoln arrives and the frenzy begins. The cameramen jockey for position as the reporters shove microphones into his face. His longsuffering wife, Natalie, a society matron, looks embarrassed. Skipper mouths appropriate sentiments about attending his partner’s funeral. He says the DA’s office is working day and night to solve the case. To his credit, he resists the urge to turn Bob’s funeral into a press conference.

My former partners file past without saying much. Chuckles tries to ignore me, but his wife stops to chat. I’ve always liked Ellen. For the life of me, I can’t figure out how an outgoing interior decorator who serves on the symphony and opera boards has managed to stay married to Chuckles for thirty-two years. Maybe she’s a closet tax-code junkie.

Doris arrives with her daughter, Jenny. I hug them and they shake hands with Rosie. Jenny’s pretty face is pale, and she looks sad in her dark dress. She’s taking this harder than I would have thought. Doris never warmed up to Rosie. It goes back to the bad old days after we got divorced. Things were pretty acrimonious between us when I first started working at S&G. We had a big fight over custody. If I had a chance to do anything over again, I would have let Rosie have custody from the beginning. It’s amazing how otherwise rational people can turn into jerks when emotions run amok. We finally called a truce when Rosie’s mom and my mom got together and told us we were going to screw up Grace’s life if we didn’t stop acting like idiots. I’m glad we finally listened to them.

“Pretty rough time, Doris,” I say. I turn to Jenny. “How are things at Stanford?”

“One more semester.”

“Are you still thinking about law school?”

“I’m not sure. I applied to UCLA, Hastings and Boalt. We’ll see. I have a lot on my mind.”

I’d like to be twenty-two again.

Joel and Naomi Friedman arrive by cab and join us. Joel has been asked to speak, and he looks nervous. Naomi is a petite brunette with curly hair who teaches nursery school at the JCC. She’s a ball of fire. Perfect for Joel.

We head inside and pay our brief respects to Bob’s widow, Beth, and her three children, ages two to five, all of whom are sitting in the front row. The second row is reserved for Bob’s three ex-wives and their current spouses and significant others and Bob’s four children from his previous marriages.

The S&G contingent occupies about twenty rows on the left side of the cathedral. We find seats across the aisle. I’m in no mood to sit with my former colleagues. The back of the house is packed. The legal community has turned out. So have the politicians and the upper crust of Pacific Heights. Somber organ music emanates from the front of the cathedral. I never had a chance to work such a big crowd when I was a priest.

At ten-fifteen, the organist plays a chord, signaling the service is about to begin. A young minister welcomes us and says a few perfunctory words about Bob’s life and career. He clearly never met him. He introduces Art Patton, who tries to appear respectful, but looks like David Letterman preparing to deliver a monologue as he saunters to the front. Rosie is thinking the same thing and she whispers to me, “He thinks it’s the firm Christmas party.”

Art tries for a somber expression. “Thank you for coming. Bob would have been pleased to see such a large turnout. It’s sad that it takes a great tragedy to bring us together. I hope we will have a chance to meet on a happier occasion.” He takes a deep breath. It’s hard to look serious with a smirk plastered on your face. “Bob Holmes was a great lawyer and my best friend.”

Murmurs from the S&G section. Art’s taking some license. He and Bob hated each other’s guts.

“He was also a great humanitarian.”

Someone in the S&G section laughs out loud.

“It’s appropriate that we gather to celebrate his life and pay our respects to his memory.” He describes Bob’s humble beginnings in Wilkes-Barre, his education at Penn and Harvard Law School, his admission to the partnership at thirty-two. He says Bob was a loving father, but doesn’t linger on his four marriages. Bob’s eldest son once told me that the children from his first three marriages stopped speaking to him years ago.

After a description of Bob’s achievements, he introduces Joel, who walks slowly to the lectern, a faraway look in his eyes.

“My name is Joel Friedman. Bob Holmes was my colleague, my mentor and my friend. This is the most difficult thing I’ve ever had to do.”

Easy, Joel.

“Bob taught me how to be a lawyer. And, despite what some people may think, he taught me how important it is to treat everyone with respect. He was a fine man whose legacy is in this room. He leaves his family, colleagues and friends with memories of a man who worked hard, loved his family and loved his job. I will miss him.”

Well done. He steps away from the podium to compose himself. The minister comforts him.

Skipper’s up next. Rosie whispers, “This should be a beaut.”

Skipper faces the TV camera and tries to look serious. “I knew Bob for twenty-two years. He was one of the finest lawyers I’ve ever met. Bob built Simpson and Gates into a powerhouse. More important, I want to say a few words about Bob, the man. He was sometimes difficult to get along with. That’s the price you pay for dealing with genius. He never demanded more from his colleagues than he expected from himself. Yes, he was a perfectionist. Yes, he was driven. Yes, he screamed at times. It was never out of malice. He simply wanted to be the best he could be, and he expected the same from his colleagues.”

More coughing from the S&G section. Rosie whispers, “This is really getting thick.”

“It is tragic that Bob won’t have an opportunity to see his children grow up. It is sad that he won’t have a chance to fulfill his dreams. A great life. Cut short.” He stops to wipe away a tear that isn’t there. “His legacy is great. In his honor, I promise each of you, and Bob, that I will not rest until I find out the circumstances surrounding his death. It is my solemn pledge.”

Doris nudges me and whispers, “For God’s sake, he’s making a campaign speech at a funeral.”

Skipper finishes his remarks with a tribute to Bob’s distinguished record as a husband and as a father, which brings audible laughter from several members of the firm. Two of Bob’s college friends say a few words about his achievements. A neighbor reads a poem. The minister reads two psalms and a small choir sings “Amazing Grace.” Finally, the organist plays “Born to Run.” At eleven-thirty, we file out.

The TV cameras jockey for the standard shot of the pallbearers bringing the casket down the steps. Bob would have loved the fact that the pallbearers include Skipper, the two surviving members of X-Com and three of his partners. I gaze around and my eyes meet those of Roosevelt Johnson, who is standing on the sidewalk, a respectful distance away. He is looking discreetly through the crowd. It is common practice for a homicide inspector to attend the funeral of the subject of his investigation, but somehow, I didn’t expect to see him today.

Joel and Naomi find us, and we watch the pallbearers load the casket into the hearse. I say good-bye to Doris and Jenny. Skipper’s Lincoln pulls up behind the hearse and the reporters surround him.

“Mr. Gates,” a reporter calls out, “any new information on the case?”

He takes the high road. “This is an inappropriate time to discuss the investigation. I will talk to you at the office.”

The hearse pulls away and begins the long drive to the town of Colma, just south of the city, where San Franciscans bury their dead.

* * *

You won’t find Bill’s Place in Gourmet magazine. Housed in a single story building at Twenty-fifth and Clement, it was a diner before it became fashionable, and it served comfort food four decades before food critics coined the term. The long counter, huge chandeliers and Formica tables are a throwback to simpler times. The waitresses have hair in varying shades of blue and orange and call their customers “honey.” It’s still the best place in the city to take screaming children for hamburgers and milk shakes. It may never be the subject of an American Express commercial, but it’s been one of my favorite places since my dad took me here when I was a kid.

Naomi Friedman is eating a French fry. “Mike, I’m worried about Joel,” she says.

“What’s up?” I ask.

“He was at police headquarters all day Sunday. They asked him a lot of questions.”

Rosie, Joel, Naomi and I are eating a quick lunch before we head south on the 280 freeway to Colma for our second funeral of the day. Diana’s funeral is going to be a graveside affair for immediate family and friends. I’ve been asked to say a few words. At the moment, Joel is in the restroom.

I take a bite of my cheeseburger. “I’m sure they’re just trying to be thorough. This is a high-profile case.”

Joel returns and there’s an uncomfortable silence. “What?” he asks.

“Nothing,” Naomi says.

“Come on.”

“I was just telling them about your glorious Sunday.”

“I already told you. It’s nothing to worry about.”

She gives him a sharp look. “It’s a lot to worry about. Why did they talk to you for so long?”

I sense that they’ve been through this already, and Joel doesn’t want to replay it in front of Rosie and me.

He picks up his burger and turns to me. “I don’t know how you eat this stuff. It’ll kill you.”

“My grandfather ate this stuff every day for eighty-seven years.”

“Imagine how long he would have lived if he had taken better care of himself.”

Naomi is annoyed. “Can you guys stop it? This is serious. Mike, why do you think they’re giving Joel the third degree?”

Joel answers her. “They’re just trying to figure out what happened. That’s it. It’s not like I’m a suspect. Two people are dead, and the cops are just doing their job. They said they’d probably declare it a suicide in the next couple of days.”

“What about Russo?”

“No word.”

I ask if the police had told him anything more about what had happened.

“Not much. The bullets came from Bob’s gun.”

Naomi loses interest in her French fries. “Do we have to talk about this at lunch?”

“Sorry.” I turn to Joel. “Which cops did you talk to?”

“Your buddy, Roosevelt Johnson, and his partner, Marcus Banks.”

“Johnson’s a good man.”

“He’s a suspicious man. And his partner isn’t a nice guy.”

“Marcus is a little heavy-handed. He beat a confession out of a man for the murder of a prostitute. Turns out the guy really did it, but they had to turn him loose because of the coerced confession. A week later, the guy woke up dead.”

“Not good.”

“Nope. Don’t underestimate them, Joel.”

Rosie has heard enough. “Can we change the subject now?”

Naomi looks relieved.

Joel finishes his burger. “My dad is doing Diana’s service.”

“I didn’t know she was Jewish.”

“Yeah. Well, sort of. She grew up in our neighborhood and went to our temple. Except back then, her name was Debbie Fink, her hair was dark brown, her nose was longer than mine and she weighed about two hundred and fifty pounds.”

“What happened to Debbie Fink?”

“Between her senior year in college and her first year in law school, she spent a summer at a fat farm, had her hair dyed and got her nose fixed. Lord knows what else she had taken in. Her personal trainer was a guy named Billy Kennedy. The marriage lasted about six months, but the remake stuck. Debbie Fink became Diana Kennedy.”

“Sounds like quite a transformation. “Who else knows about this?”

“Everybody at the firm except you, of course.”

Rosie tosses her head back and laughs. “I just figured out the inscription on your tombstone. ‘Michael Daley. Priest. Lawyer. He was always the last to know.’ ”

We pay the bill and drive south through Golden Gate Park to Nineteenth Avenue. It’s about twenty minutes to Colma.

* * *

It’s drizzling when we reach the old Jewish cemetery at three o’clock. The crowd numbers only about thirty, and we stand under umbrellas on an artificial turf mat next to the gravesite. Joel’s father is standing under a black umbrella. Next to him is a woman I assume is Diana’s mother.

I’ve known Rabbi Neil Friedman for years. He’s an older, huskier version of Joel, with an eloquent, stained-glass voice with the hint of a New York accent. “Michael, I haven’t seen you in a while,” he says. He introduces us to Diana’s mother, Ruth Fink. She’s polite, but brief.

Doris and Jenny Fontaine join us. Skipper, Art Patton and Charles Stern arrive as the service is beginning. A TV cameraman stands about a hundred yards away near the gate. No reporters or news vans this afternoon.

As Rabbi Friedman begins the service, I see Roosevelt standing near the gate. He nods. The rain becomes heavier, and Mrs. Fink loses her composure. The rabbi intones the Kaddish, the Jewish prayer of mourning.

It’s been a helluva week.

Chapter 7

“I HAVE TO GO BE A LAWYER FOR A COUPLE OF HOURS”

“We are looking forward to the new year with great optimism.”

— Simpson and Gates managing partner Arthur Patton. San Francisco Legal Journal. Friday, January 9.

“The firm is starting to implode,” Joel tells me. “Twenty labor lawyers announced they’re leaving. They’re talking about staff layoffs and big cutbacks.”

He’s describing the state of the firm three days later, at six o’clock on Friday evening. We’re having a beer on his back porch as mist covers the bungalows in the Richmond. He’s throwing me a modest going-away party from S&G. Rosie, Grace and my mom are here. So are Doris and Jenny Fontaine, along with Wendy Hogan, a part-time tax attorney at S&G, and her six-year-old son, Danny. Joel’s parents are supposed to stop by on their way to temple for Friday-night services.

“Sounds like I got out just in time,” I say.

“The firm must be in worse shape financially than anybody let on. I guess we really needed the cash from Russo’s deal. I’ve heard First Bank may foreclose on our equipment loans. They may hit up the partners. It may turn out to be a good thing I didn’t make partner.”

“Joint and several liability is a nasty thing.” Although most states now permit law firms to be organized as “professional corporations” or “limited liability partnerships,” many firms, S&G among them, are still set up as general partnerships, which means each partner is fully responsible for firm debts even if the partner didn’t incur the debt on behalf of the firm. Professional service firms are the only large businesses still organized as partnerships. General Motors wouldn’t be structured in a similar way. “I heard they found Russo’s car.”

“Along with his keys and wallet in the parking lot at the north end of the Golden Gate Bridge. They think he may have jumped. Nobody saw him.”

“Any chance he’s still alive?”

“Don’t know. He could have planted the car and driven away in another one. He could have taken a cab. Hell, somebody could have driven him to the airport. It wouldn’t surprise me if he’s sipping a fruity drink by a beach.”

“Did he stash any cash?”

“He probably had some money in a foreign bank account.”

My mom comes in from the kitchen. She’s having a good night. “Have things settled down at the office, Joel?”

“We’re hoping things will get back to normal soon.”

Joel’s son Alan marches outside with the bravado of a six-year-old and gives my mom a hug. Little kids can spot a grandmother a hundred yards away. He is holding a piece of challah in his right hand. “Uncle Mike, Mommy says it’s time for you and Daddy to come inside for dinner.”

“Okay. Tell Mommy we’ll be right there. Can I sit next to you?”

“Sorry, Uncle Mike. I always sit next to Daddy.”

* * *

An oak table overwhelms the cramped dining room. Alan and his twin brother, Stephen, are impressively well-behaved as they sit on opposite sides of the table, at right angles to their father. Joel sits at the head. Grace sits between Rosie and me. My mom is next to me. Doris and Jenny are across from us. Naomi sits at the foot of the table.

Wendy Hogan is next to Doris. Her son, Danny, sits next to her. Wendy and her husband split up a couple of years ago. She went through the mother of all custody battles. I can relate. She keeps her sad brown eyes hidden behind wire-rimmed glasses. Her frizzy hair and mousy demeanor belie the fact that she’s a terror in negotiations with the IRS. I like her. We divorced, recovering Catholics have a lot in common. And S&G treats her like dirt. Someday, I’m going to summon the courage to ask her out. She’s a little gun-shy around men.

Wendy’s expression is serious. “I think I may get laid off.”

“No way,” I say. “They need you.”

“Every department is making a hit list. They won’t keep any of us part-timers. My billables aren’t good enough.”

She may be right. She works four days a week, but she’s paid only about 60 percent of what a fulltime associate makes. According to the firm, if a lawyer works four days a week, you still have to pay rent and a secretary five days a week. As a result, it’s unfair to pay the attorney a straight prorated salary. Most people think it’s just another way to screw the part-timers.

Rosie pipes up. “Don’t worry, Wendy. You’ll find something.”

“It doesn’t make things easier. Whenever my finances change, Andy tries to break up our custody and child-support deal.”

Danny frowns. He’s a good kid. He’s watched his parents fight over custody his entire life. I don’t say it out loud, but I’m betting he’s on his way to years of therapy.

* * *

The kids finish first and they wander to the den in the back of the house to do what children do these days—watch videos and play games on their tablets. As we’re clearing the table, there’s a knock at the door. Joel looks up. “Mom and Dad are here early.”

Alan comes bouncing down the hall. “Grandma and Grandpa!” he shrieks with six-year-old glee. He runs through the dining room and down the stairs to open the door. His brother is a step behind him. Naomi smiles.

A moment later, Stephen comes back upstairs, a troubled look on his face. “Daddy, there’s a policeman downstairs. He wants to talk to you.”

Joel freezes. Naomi looks alarmed.

Joel holds up a hand. “Okay, Steve. Daddy will go down and see what this is all about. Don’t worry.”

Stephen goes over to his mother and grabs her hand. Joel walks downstairs.

A moment later, we hear agitated voices at the bottom of the stairs. Rosie and I go to the living room and look out the windows. She turns to me and says, “This doesn’t look good.”

I see two police cars in the driveway. My stomach tightens. There are four policemen. One is having a heated discussion with Joel.

Grace comes up to us. “Is something wrong. Daddy?”

I keep my tone calm. “No, sweetie. It looks like the policemen want to talk to Uncle Joel. I’ll find out what’s going on.” She moves closer to Rosie.

I reach the bottom of the stairs and open the door. I’m stunned to see a middle-aged policeman, whose face I remember, but whose name escapes me, putting handcuffs on Joel.

“You have the right to remain silent.”

I try to keep my tone non-confrontational. “Excuse me, Officer. May I ask what’s going on?”

“You have the right to an attorney.”

The cop looks at me. “Please step back, sir. This matter does not concern you.”

“Anything you say can be used against you in a court of law.”

“Officer, Mr. Friedman’s wife asked me to find out what’s going on.”

“If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you.”

Naomi is coming out the door as the policeman says, “Mr. Friedman is being arrested for the murders of Robert Holmes and Diana Kennedy. We have a warrant for his arrest, and we’re taking him into custody. Please step aside.”

Skipper’s pulling a publicity stunt.

Naomi screams. Joel tries to calm her down. “It’s okay. We’ll get this straightened out.”

Although Naomi doesn’t realize it, her kids have followed her. They start to cry.

My tone is perfectly even. “Naomi, let me handle this. Take the kids back upstairs.”

She nods and takes them upstairs. She returns without them a moment later.

Joel is trying to reason with the policeman when a black Lincoln drives up and Skipper steps out. The pieces are starting to fit together.

Skipper looks triumphant as he speaks to Joel. “Well, young man, I knew you had a temper, but I didn’t think you’d kill two people.”

A white Channel 4 news van pulls up behind Skipper’s car. Rita Roberts and her cameraman leap out.

Joel is furious. “Are you out of your mind, Skipper? You think I’d kill two people because I didn’t make partner?”

“There’s a lot more to it. You’ll have your day in court.”

I try to interject before things deteriorate further. I point at the handcuffs. “Officer, you don’t need those. Mr. Friedman is a respected attorney. He’s not a threat.”

“Standard procedure, sir.”

I turn to Skipper. “What kind of stunt is this?”

“Look who’s here. My favorite ex-partner. The one who just got fired. Always spend your free time with murderers?”

“For God’s sake, Skipper, if you wanted to arrest him, you could have called. He would have surrendered without all the theatrics. He isn’t a flight risk.”

“Stay out of this, Mike.”

“And I suppose it’s just a coincidence that the TV stations arrived now?”

“They must have heard it on the police band.”

“Bullshit, Skipper.”

“Fuck you, Mike. This doesn’t have anything to do with you, so stay out of it.”

I don’t retort. Joel is in enough trouble without my getting into hand-to-hand combat with Skipper on the front steps of Joel’s house.

Joel’s mother and father arrive. They look startled. Joel’s mother, Mollie, is a heavyset woman with a knack for saying the right thing. She elects to remain silent.

Joel’s father speaks in an even voice. “Is there a problem, Officer?”

Skipper answers him. “Rabbi, I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but your son is under arrest for the murder of two people.”

“There’s been a mistake.”

“I’m afraid there’s no mistake, Rabbi. Now, if you’ll excuse us.”

Rabbi and Mrs. Friedman huddle with Naomi, who is standing behind me. I turn around to face them. “I’ll figure out what’s going on. You guys stay put.”

The uniforms push Joel toward one of the squad cars. “For God’s sake,” I say, “take off the handcuffs.”

Skipper can’t resist. “Bob and Diana would have wished he’d been in handcuffs the night he killed them.”

Asshole.

One of the uniforms says they’re taking Joel to the Hall of Justice. Before they put him in the car, I say to him, “Joel, I’ll be right behind you. Be cooperative and above all, don’t talk to anyone. These people are not your friends. Got it?”

He nods, but I see him biting back panic. “You’ve got to take care of this, Mike.”

“I will. Right now, you have to do what I say.”

The uniform shoves me out of the way. “Who the hell are you, anyway?”

Joel answers. “He’s my lawyer. I’m not saying a word to you unless he’s present.”

I look directly into Rita Roberts’s camera and summon an authoritative tone. “May I have your attention, please? My name is Michael Daley. I am Mr. Friedman’s attorney. I have instructed Mr. Friedman not to talk to any of you outside of my presence. Rabbi and Mrs. Friedman are witnesses.” I turn to Skipper. “If you talk to my client, I’ll have you brought up before the state bar.”

He turns away. My little speech was just beamed live to households all over the Bay Area. A media star is born.

The two police cars pull away and head down Sixteenth. The Lincoln follows them. I turn to Rabbi and Mrs. Friedman. “We need to talk.”

* * *

Upstairs, Naomi has sent the children to watch TV under my mother’s watchful eye. Naomi, Rosie, Wendy, Doris, Jenny and I gather in the living room with Rabbi and Mrs. Friedman.

“What happens now?” Naomi asks me.

“I’ll go down to the Hall of Justice and ask for bail. He may have to spend the night. They arrested him late on a Friday because it’s tough to find a judge right before the weekend.”

“He didn’t do it, Mike.”

“I know. I’ll call you as soon as I can.” I ask Rosie to call Pete to take my mother home. She agrees.

I walk to the back of the house where the kids are gathered with my mother. I give Grace a hug. “I have to go out for a while,” I tell her. “You’re going to have to stay with Mommy tonight.”

“Is Uncle Joel in trouble?”

“Yeah, sweetie. But it’s a big mistake. I’m going downtown to straighten it out. You look after Mommy and Grandma, okay?”

“I will, Daddy. I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

I turn to my mother. For the first time in five years, her eyes are truly clear. Before I can say anything, she says, “They arrested him.”

“Yeah.”

I see the look that I saw so many times when my dad got a call at home from his sergeant. For a moment, she’s thirty years younger, and her blue eyes are steel. “Do what you have to do to help him, Michael.”

“I have to go be a lawyer for a couple of hours.”

“I know. You take good care of him.”

“I will. Pete’s going to come over and take you home.”

“I’ll be up late, Michael. Call me when you know what’s going on.”

“I will.”

After all these years, Margaret Murphy Daley is still the wife of a cop.

Chapter 8

THE HALL OF JUSTICE

“The Hall of Justice is an expensive homeless shelter, detox center and drug treatment facility, and an utterly inept way to handle social problems.”

– Director of Inmate Release Program. San Francisco Examiner.

In San Francisco, the DA’s office, criminal courts and city jail are located in a Stalinesque seven-story structure at Seventh and Bryant known as the Hall of Justice. Although a fifty-million-dollar jail wing was added in the early nineties, the Hall hasn’t lost any of its charm. The new jail was built to ease overcrowding in the system, which has been under a federal court consent decree since the eighties because of poor conditions. The north wall of the new jail almost touches the 101 freeway, and prisoners sleep less than fifty feet from the slow lane.

At seven-thirty, the traffic on Van Ness is heavy as I weave southbound through a driving rain. Surprisingly, I find a parking place on Seventh between two squad cars. I grab my briefcase and try to look lawyerly in my jeans and polo shirt.

I’m soaked as I run up the front steps of the Hall and explain to the guard at the metal detector that I’m here to see my client, Mr. Friedman. He motions me through, and I detour around the tortoise-slow Depression-era elevators and head for the stairs.

In 1996, a new intake center was opened in the new wing of the Hall. County Jail 9 is a far cry from the chaos that reigned at the raucous booking hub on the sixth floor of the old Hall, which resembled an overcrowded zoo on a busy night. The old jail is now used primarily for high-security housing.

In contrast to traditional “linear” jails where the cells line a central corridor, the holding cells in the antiseptic-clean new booking hub are in a circle around a deputies’ workstation. The prisoners are housed in well-lighted cells behind glass doors. There are no clanking iron doors or shouts of inmates. As usual, the parade of humanity is awaiting processing.

Whenever I’m in the Hall, I think of my dad. I always expect to see him walking down the corridors, bearing erect, chest out, a cigarette hanging from his lips. He was so proud to be a cop. He put the bad guys away.

Although the Hall serves as the city jail, for bureaucratic reasons, it’s run by the County Sheriff’s Department. I survey the deputies working behind the desk, and I recognize the pockmarked face of Sergeant Philip Ramos.

I hand him my driver’s license, my state bar card and one of my new business cards. “Good evening, Sergeant Ramos.”

He glances at my card, then surveys me up and down. Ten years ago, Phil Ramos found himself on the wrong side of a gang fight. A bullet wound in his left thigh moved him behind a desk. He’s never been happy about it. “Mike Daley. I thought you moved downtown. May I assume your visit this evening is not entirely social?”

“That would be correct.”

“And may I ask which one of our guests will have the pleasure of your company?”

“Joel Friedman. They just brought him in.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Big Time. A murder rap. He’s being processed. Gonna be a few minutes.” He picks up his phone and asks someone to bring Joel to the interview room adjacent to his desk. “Do me a favor and keep it short. They haven’t finished booking him.” He looks at his computer screen. “What’s this about?”

“You heard about the shootings at Simpson and Gates?”

“Yeah.”

“I worked there. Friedman still works there. Skipper’s trying to pin the shootings on him.”

“I thought it was a suicide.”

“Something’s going on. Skipper’s calling the shots. There’s no way this guy did it.”

He gives me the “I’ve heard it a million times” look. “I just process them. Roosevelt wouldn’t have charged him if he didn’t have a solid case.”

“Do me a favor, Phil. If he has to stay the night, put him in his own cell, okay? If you put him in with everybody, he’ll get eaten alive.”

“I’ll see what I can do. We have a full house. Fridays are always busy.”

“Thanks, Phil.”

Two deputies lead Joel into the consultation room behind the intake desk. I used to meet with my clients in similar rooms when I was a PD. The lucky ones got five minutes of my time. I’d try to come up with a workable deal and move to the next case.

Joel keeps his head down. Intake isn’t fun. First you get fingerprinted. Then you have a medical interview. In some cases, you get strip-searched. Finally, you’re issued an orange jumpsuit and assigned to a cell.

Ramos presses a button and the door opens. The deputies have taken off Joel’s handcuffs. He slumps into a chair. I ask the deputies to wait outside.

There’s desperation in Joel’s voice. “You’ve got to get me out of here.”

“We need to talk fast. First, I’ll try to find a judge to set bail. It may be hard at this hour.”

“You can’t let them keep me here.”

“The desk sergeant is going to get you your own cell.” I don’t know this for sure, but I’m hoping Ramos will keep his word. “Don’t talk to anybody. Everybody will lie about you. They’ll say you confessed to something. Even the ones you don’t talk to will lie. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“They’re going to finish your paperwork and they’ll take you to a holding cell.”

“What am I going to tell Naomi and the kids?”

“I’ll take care of that. We’ll take this one step at a time. Rosie’s at your house. So are your mom and dad. We’ll get through this. For now, I need you to stay calm and be smart.”

The deputy opens the door. “Time to go.”

“Just one more minute,” I say. He steps back outside. “Joel, one other thing. I’ll do everything I can to help you if you want me to represent you. But I don’t want you to feel obligated to hire me. You don’t have to tell me tonight. But you’re going to have to decide soon.”

“I wouldn’t trust anybody else.”

“Good. Now do what the deputies say. I’ll take care of everything else.”

He looks back at me as they lead him out the door. He mouths the word “Thanks.”

* * *

At ten-fifteen, I’m in the lobby of the Hall. I punch in Joel and Naomi’s number on my cell. Rosie answers.

“No bail,” she says.

“How did you know?”

“We saw it on the news. Skipper said he’s charging Joel with first-degree murder. I didn’t think they’d let him out tonight. Here’s Naomi.”

Her voice cracks. “Hi, Mike.”

“I just talked to Joel. He’s doing okay.” A small lie. “I know the desk sergeant. He’s going to put Joel in his own cell. He’ll be all right for the night.”

“What am I supposed to tell the boys?”

What is she supposed to tell the boys? “The legal system works slowly, so we have to stay calm.” Easy for me to say. “I’ll be right over. Have Rosie screen any calls. And don’t talk to the press.”

* * *

The kids are asleep at eleven-thirty when Rosie, Naomi and I meet in the dining room where we’d eaten Naomi’s chicken a few hours earlier. The news vans are gone. Rabbi and Mrs. Friedman have gone home. Pete picked up my mom an hour ago.

Naomi’s eyes are puffy. “What do we do now?”

I take her hand. “I’ll talk to another judge. It would help if you have access to some money.”

“We’ll find it. They said on the news they may not grant bail.”

I look at Rosie. If Skipper goes for special circumstances (that is, the death penalty), there will be no bail. Not even for a pillar of the legal community. Not even for the rabbi’s son.

“Naomi,” Rosie says, “sometimes they don’t set bail. It depends on the charge.”

Naomi is holding back tears. “You guys are the lawyers. What happens next?”

I squeeze her hand. “He’ll probably be arraigned on Monday.” We lawyers often forget how Byzantine the legal system appears to civilians. “We go to court and formal charges are read. Joel pleads not guilty. It takes five minutes. Then I’ll go have a big fight with the DA.”

“And if they don’t drop the charges?”

“We’ll get ready to go to trial, if we have to.”

“I see.” It’s sinking in. “When will that be?”

“Technically, we can demand a trial within sixty days, but almost everybody agrees to a delay to have more time to prepare.” She’s starting to lose it. “One other thing. You and Joel may decide to let somebody else handle the case. If you do, I’ll understand.”

Rosie looks at me as if I’ve lost my mind.

Naomi exhales heavily. “I’ll talk it over with Joel. I’m sure he’ll want you. I do.”

“Thanks, Naomi. We’ll call you in the morning.”

* * *

I carry Grace to Rosie’s car. She’s getting heavy. “Rosie,” I say, “mind if I stop by for a few minutes on my way home?”

“Just business tonight, Mike.”

“Understood. Seems I might have to prepare for a murder case.”

“We’ll do crisis sex another time.”

“Thanks.” I give her a thoughtful look. “One of these days, you’re going to find a guy you really like, and we’re going to have to shut this down.”

“We’ll see. In the meantime, this works for me.”

“Me too. I’ll see you at home.”

Chapter 9

LARKSPUR

“You’re moving to Larkspur? Marin County? You’re a city boy, Mike. The fresh air will kill you.”

– Joel Friedman.

Rosie and I live about three blocks from each other in Marin County in Larkspur, which is about ten miles north of the Golden Gate Bridge. Larkspur’s eleven thousand residents live in well-tended houses on the flatlands between the 101 freeway and Mount Tamalpais. In Marin, the single folks live in Sausalito, the artists and writers live in Mill Valley, the nouveau riche live in Tiburon and the old money lives in Ross. The few working stiffs tend to congregate in Larkspur and its sister city, Corte Madera, although housing prices are getting so high that only the truly affluent will be living there soon.

Moving to Marin was one of many compromises. We never would have made the move if Grace hadn’t been born. If it had been up to me, we’d have moved back to Berkeley. If Rosie had had her way, we wouldn’t have left the city. Kids change things, and I like where we are. Maybe you don’t have to make a political statement with every aspect of your life.

It’s a few minutes after midnight now, and I’ve just crossed the Golden Gate Bridge. My Corolla strains up the Waldo Grade above Sausalito. If it weren’t raining so hard, I’d have a great view of the city.

As usual, I’m listening to KCBS, the all-news station. Joel is a hot topic. “In tonight’s headlines, Joel Mark Friedman was arrested for the murder of two attorneys at the Simpson and Gates law firm.”

Randy Short, my mentor at the PD’s office, used to say that you know your client is in big trouble when they use all three of his names on the news.

“District Attorney Prentice Gates will hold a press conference Saturday morning. KCBS will cover it live. KCBS news time is twelve-ten.” I switch to jazz.

I take Paradise Drive west past the upscale Corte Madera mall. I head north on Magnolia, Larkspur’s main street. A mile later, I turn right onto Alexander Avenue, and pull into the narrow driveway of Number 8, across from the Twin Cities Little League field. Because of its proximity to the ballpark, it’s known as the hey-batter-batter house. Rosie has been renting the white bungalow since Grace started school last year. Many homes in Larkspur were built as temporary housing after the 1906 earthquake. Rosie’s was built in 1925 for a local schoolteacher, who paid twenty-five hundred dollars for it. Today, the seven-hundred-square-foot house would set you back a million bucks.

Rosie is watching the rebroadcast of the news. I knock on the door and let myself in. It’s a good sign when your ex-wife lets you have your own key. She holds a finger to her lips and motions me into the living room. Grace is asleep.

“Joel’s the lead story. They got your speech in front of his house on camera. They got another shot of you walking out of the Hall.”

“Nike will be calling tomorrow to offer me a sneaker contract. The ‘Air Daley’ line.”

She’s heard this one before. “They said you had no comment.”

“That would be correct.”

“You could have said he was innocent.”

“I’m saving my best lines for Anderson Cooper.”

We stare at the TV. NewsCenter 4 loves to send its news vans all over the Bay Area to do live “team coverage.” TV news directors seem to think we want to see their reporters catching pneumonia. Rita Roberts is standing in the rain on the empty street in front of Joel’s house. As she gets soaked, they show videos of the arrest. They cut to a second reporter who is getting drenched on the empty street in front of the Hall. They show videotape of Joel being escorted into the building.

Rosie turns off the TV. “Joel has a big problem.”

“What else did they say on the news?”

“The usual blather about incontrovertible evidence placing Joel at the scene. Inconsistencies in his story. They claim he’s been uncooperative and tried to flee.” She pauses. “Oh, one more thing. One station quoted ‘reliable sources’ saying Joel was having an affair with Diana.”

“It had to be Skipper.”

“It’s a DA’s wet dream. First week on the job and he’s got a high-profile murder case.”

Rosie has such a delicate way with words. “Did they interview Roosevelt?”

“Briefly. He said they have solid evidence.”

I look at the fire in her fireplace. “Joel has a big problem.”

The dancing light reflects off her eyes. “My little rainmaker. First week on the job and you land a high-profile murder case for a paying client. Not bad.”

“It’s a standard marketing technique. You go to dinner at your best friend’s house and hope he gets arrested for murder between the salad and the entree. All those marketing seminars at S&G finally paid off.”

She turns serious. “First things first. You’re going to do this by the book. I have a standard retainer letter on my laptop. We’re going to put one together right now. Joel has to sign a retainer letter. And you have to talk to him about what this is going to cost.”

I nod.

She takes my hand. “I know you hate this stuff, but you’re running a business now. You’re going to take this case to the finish line, Mike. I don’t want you to suggest to Joel or Naomi that they hire another lawyer. This is your case. Period. And if you’re the attorney of record, you need a retainer letter.”

“Understood.” She’s right, of course. Rosie used to lecture me a lot when we were married. More often than not, she had good reason.

“I think you should spend tomorrow with your new client.”

“I will. Unless I can pull a rabbit out of my hat, he isn’t going anywhere any time soon.”

* * *

At one-fifteen A.M, I arrive at my one-bedroom apartment in a walk-up building behind the Larkspur fire station. I climb up the short flight of steps and fumble for my keys in the dark. The building is vintage fifties, and it’s showing its age. My apartment consists of a small living room, a tiny bedroom, a dining area barely big enough for a dinette set and a kitchen big enough for one. It’s cramped when Grace stays here. The furniture is Scandinavian teak, with a few bookcases built of bricks and boards. The only modern technology is a laptop on the kitchen table. Forty-five years old and I’m still living like a college student. It’s the price you pay when you have alimony, child support and an ex-wife who wants nice stuff for our daughter. Rosie probably doesn’t need the money from me, but she’s right to demand it. Given my propensity for frittering it away, it’s better that I have a legal obligation to pay it to her. It doesn’t help that I have a sixty-eight-year-old mother who isn’t in the greatest of health.

I grab a Diet Dr Pepper from the fridge and I look at my reflection in the mirror. My thick light brown hair is matted to my head. There are a few flecks of gray in the sideburns. The crow’s-feet around my eyes remind me that I’m no longer in my thirties. My face is a little rounder than it used to be. I still have the lean legs from my days as a back-up running back at St. Ignatius. Rosie says I look like a middle-aged Irishman: a combination of boiled potatoes and beer. I realize that I’m beginning to look more and more like my dad.

There are two messages when I plug in my cell and start recharging the battery. The first one surprises me. “Mike, this is Roosevelt Johnson. I’d appreciate it if you would call me as soon as you can.”

The second is from Rabbi Friedman. “Michael, please call me on Saturday afternoon after services. There are a few things I’d like to discuss with you.”

I close my eyes and wonder if Rabbi Friedman is calling to ask why Joel is still in jail.

Let the second-guessing begin.

Chapter 10

“FIRST, YOU HAVE TO TELL ME EVERYTHING”

“In our top story this morning, District Attorney Prentice Gates said attorney Joel Mark Friedman will be charged with first-degree murder in the shootings of two colleagues.”

– NewsCenter 4 Daybreak. Saturday, January 10.

At eight-thirty the next morning, Joel’s unshaven face has a look of desperation as we meet in an airless consultation room. “Did you find a judge yet, Mike? When the hell am I getting out of here?”

“Rosie’s calling in some favors. The duty judge said we’d have to wait till Monday.”

“Dammit.”

“It’s an old trick. They haul you in on Friday night so you have to spend the weekend. They think it’ll soften you up.”

“For what? They think I’m gonna confess to something?”

“I assume you have nothing to confess to.”

“You got that right.”

“Good. How did you make it through the night?”

“Like a night at a fine hotel.”

“Joel. Did they give you your own cell?”

“For a couple of hours. Then they put me in with a guy who was arrested for beating up a hooker. The cops said he wasn’t dangerous. He scared the hell out of me.”

Thanks a lot, Sergeant Ramos.

His tone turns somber. “What happens next?”

“First, you have to tell me everything. Then you have to tell me what you told the police. Then I’ll try to find a judge who’s willing to set bail. And I’ll have a little talk with Inspector Johnson. And with Skipper.”

“I don’t trust either of them.”

“The only person you should trust is me.”

He gives me a weak smile. “Do I get to talk to the judge anytime soon?”

Corporate attorneys haven’t a clue about criminal procedure. “You don’t talk to the judge. I do. On Monday, we’ll go to court for an arraignment. They’ll charge you. You’ll plead not guilty. The judge will schedule a preliminary hearing. It’ll be over in five minutes. It’s as exciting as watching grass grow.”

“Can you get me out of here on Monday?”

“Maybe. If we can’t get a judge to set bail over the weekend, we’ll ask at the arraignment.”

“What are the chances?”

“Depends on the charge. If they go murder one, bail may be tough.” If they ask for the death penalty, there’s no way.

He’s crushed. It’s a shock when somebody first says aloud you’re being charged with murder.

“I need to know all the details from you so I can do my job. I need the story straight. Don’t embellish. Don’t sugarcoat. Just tell me everything that happened.” This is standard defense attorney jargon. I don’t want to ask him flat out if he did it. If he lies to me, I’ll have perjury issues. I’m not supposed to let him lie. It happens all the time, of course, but I try to avoid it. If he didn’t do it, which I assume, and, coincidentally, I believe, I need his story to put together his defense.

He figures out where this is heading. “I want to get this right out on the table. I didn’t do it. And it is absolutely imperative not only that I be found not guilty, but also that I am fully exonerated. Are we clear?”

“Joel, I need you to understand a few things. First, I believe you. I don’t think you’re capable of killing two people. I’ve known you for a long time, and I’m a very good judge of people.”

I get the hint of a smile.

“But I don’t do absolutions anymore. I’ll give you the best defense I can, twenty-four/seven. My job is to try to get you off. I’ll do everything I can to do that. If you need more, you’ll need to go to your rabbi or another lawyer.”

He looks away.

“You can still find another lawyer,” I say.

“You’re my lawyer. One more thing. How much do you think this is going to cost?”

“If we go to trial, at least a hundred and fifty thousand—probably more. If we need a lot of experts, double it. If you want jury consultants and mock trials, figure a half a million.”

“I thought corporate lawyers were expensive.”

“Trials have a life of their own. And Grace has to eat.”

“What’s your billing rate?”

I stop cold. The fact is, I haven’t decided. “Two-ninety an hour plus expenses.”

“Weren’t you four-ninety at S&G?”

“Yeah. You’re getting the deal of the century.”

“You need a retainer?”

“Let’s say forty thousand.”

He doesn’t blink. “All right. And if you get the charges dropped on Monday?”

“Your money will be cheerfully refunded, and you can buy me lunch at Bill’s.”

“Naomi will get you a check. We may need to borrow some money.”

“Your credit is good.”

“All right, Counselor, where do we start?”

“From the beginning. Tell me everything that happened, minute by minute, on the evening of December thirtieth.”

* * *

Joel is working on his second cup of coffee. “Right after the meeting with Chuckles, I went back to the PCR and reviewed the final documents.”

“That was around seven-fifteen?”

“Right. We were waiting for a call from CCC’s board in Stamford. They were meeting to approve the deal. We got the go-ahead at eight-thirty. The deal was still on track, except, of course, for Vince. He said he wasn’t sure he’d close.”

“Who else was working on the deal?”

“Bob, Diana and the usual army of secretaries and paralegals. Jack Frazier from CCC. His lawyer, Martin Glass. Dan Morris, the political fixer. Ed Ehrlich from the city attorney’s office.”

“Who else was around?”

“The word processors and a couple of file clerks. And some of the people from Skipper’s party.”

“Like who?”

“The mayor stopped by and talked to Morris. Neither of them looked happy.”

“Was Doris around?”

“No. She went home around eight. A few of the partners were still there, too. Patton stopped by. Chuckles was around. I talked to him after the meeting with the associates. Gave him a little more grief. You have to keep them honest.”

“Were you really surprised by the decision to extend the partner track?”

“Not entirely. Still, they didn’t handle it right. Bob should have told me.”

He’s right. On the other hand, it’s hard to tell whether his speech to Chuckles at the associates’ meeting was genuine or an act. I asked him what happened next.

“We gave some documents to the word processors around nine-thirty. Everybody went out to eat. Diana and I went to Harrington’s. We finished around ten-fifteen. She went home. I came back upstairs. She lives over in Golden Gateway.”

The Golden Gateway apartments are a high-rise complex a couple of blocks north of the Embarcadero Center towers. It’s a five-minute walk from downtown.

Joel is still talking. “Bob took Vince to Tadich’s, and Frazier and Morris went to Michael Mina. I think the mayor went with them.”

Tadich Grill opened in 1849 and serves traditional fish in a paneled dining room on California Street. On a good night, you can get a private booth and a great piece of petrale sole. Michael Mina is two doors down and a hundred and fifty years removed from Tadich’s. Its namesake celebrity chef appears regularly in food magazines. I’ve eaten there only once. The crab cakes are out of this world. So are the prices.

Joel stands to stretch his legs. “I got back first. Everybody else got back by eleven. We signed the papers by twelve-fifteen. I had a few cleanup things to go through, so I went back to my office. We agreed to meet at eight-thirty the next morning for the closing. I worked on the escrow instructions and gave the mark-up to word processing. I walked by Bob’s office around twelve-thirty. He was arguing with Vince, so I poked my head in and told him we were ready. We barely said three words.”

“So by twelve-thirty, the deal was set to close?”

“Right. Except everything depended on Vince. He had to give the final go-ahead in the morning to authorize the wire transfers.”

“And at twelve-thirty, he still wasn’t prepared to close?”

“He said he had to sleep on it. I went to my office, got my closing checklist and went down to the lunchroom for a soda.”

“You were ready to close?”

“Yeah. In big deals like this, you sign all the documents the day before. The closing is usually a nonevent. Everybody drinks coffee until you get confirmation of the wire transfers.”

“What did you do in the lunchroom?”

“I went through the checklist. I pushed three chairs together and took a nap. I woke up around six and went back to my office. I knocked on Bob’s door, but it was locked. I figured he’d gone home. I went back to my office. I was there until a little after eight, when Chuckles came by and asked me if I had the keys to Bob’s office.”

“Did you?”

“No. But I know where Doris keeps an extra set. We let ourselves in.”

I take a drink of water from a Styrofoam cup. “What happened when you found them?”

Joel hesitates.

“It’s okay. You can tell me.”

“I got sick. I . . . well . . .threw up.”

“Right there?”

“No. I made it to the bathroom. When I got back, Chuckles was calling nine-one-one. Bob was on the floor. It looked like he shot himself in the temple. Diana was sitting on the floor next to the door. Her clothes were full of blood, and there was blood on the wall behind her. Her eyes were open. It looked like she was calling for help.”

This isn’t getting easier. “Where was the gun?”

“On the floor next to Bob’s chair. It must have fallen out of his hand. It looked like he fell out of his chair.”

I’ll be able to confirm this from the police reports and the photos. “What did you do?”

“Something stupid, in retrospect. I picked up the gun and took out the bullets.”

My first impulse is to scream, “YOU DID WHAT?” I’ve learned to keep my tone even. “Why did you pick up the gun?”

“I’ve shot Bob’s gun at the range. He was real proud of it. Made everybody do it once or twice. Sort of a rite of passage.”

“But why did you pick it up?”

“I wanted to make sure it didn’t go off. It’s a fussy revolver, Mike. The trigger was sensitive. Once it went off in my hand before it was supposed to. The bullet landed about halfway down the range.”

I’m trying not to show it, but this part of Joel’s story is sounding a little forced. “So you unloaded the gun?”

“Yes. I wanted to be sure it didn’t go off.” It’s the second time he’s mentioned it. “I put the gun on the desk. I put the bullets and the shells next to it.”

Swell. “I trust you told the police Bob kept a loaded gun at his desk.”

“Yep. They were amazed.”

“It’s pretty surprising.”

“Not if you knew Bob.”

“Then what?”

“That’s it. We came downstairs to the meeting and we told Art.” A look of recognition appears on his face. “I bet they found my fingerprints on the gun.”

“Sounds like a good bet.” My mind is racing. There has to be more. He has an explanation for his fingerprints on the gun. I need to probe a little more. “What haven’t you told me?”

“Nothing. They know I was there. They probably have my fingerprints on the gun. And they seem to think I was really pissed off at Bob about the partner-election stuff.”

“What did the police tell you?”

“Nothing. You told me not to talk to them.”

“Good boy.”

“What do we do now?”

“I’ll go see Roosevelt and Skipper. If this is all they’ve got, we’re in good shape.” I stand up. As I’m reaching for the handle, I hear Joel’s voice from behind me.

“Promise me you’ll come back later and tell me what you find out.”

“I will.”

* * *

At eleven-thirty, my cell phone is pressed tightly against my right ear as I’m standing in the lobby of the Hall. “If Joel is telling the truth, they’ve got nothing, Rosie. He admitted that he was there all night. He confirmed that he and Chuckles found Bob and Diana. That much we knew. He also told me that he picked up the gun. So now I know how they may have found his fingerprints on it.”

Rosie’s tone is skeptical. “That’s it?”

“Yes.”

“Skipper said a lot more at his press conference. They have a witness from Harrington’s who says Joel and Diana had a big fight at dinner. A custodian at the B of A Building says he heard Joel and Bob arguing around one o’clock.”

“Did he hear gunshots?”

“They’re not saying.”

“Anything else?”

“They looked at the telephone records. A call was placed from Joel’s office phone to Diana’s apartment at about ten to one in the morning. They think he lured her back to the office.”

I ask her if Skipper said anything else.

“He said he’s going to charge Joel with first-degree murder, and he may ask for special circumstances.”

Swell. “I’ll talk to you later.” I head for my car. I want to get to Roosevelt Johnson to get the full story on the evidence And I want to talk to the medical examiner and the evidence techs right away. I begin to outline our requests for access to the evidence in my head. Either Joel neglected to tell me a few important details, or his story has some gaping holes.

Or maybe he’s flat-out lying.

Chapter 11

“YOUR FRIEND IS IN VERY SERIOUS TROUBLE”

“We’re going to charge him with first-degree murder. As long as I’m the DA, we’re going to be very aggressive prosecuting violent crimes.”

– Skipper Gates. Press conference. Saturday, January 10.

At twelve-thirty on Saturday afternoon, Roosevelt Johnson and I are sitting in a booth at the Tennessee Grill at Twenty-first and Taraval, a couple of blocks from his house in the Sunset. The cop hangout is across McCoppin Square from Taraval Station and around the corner from Lincoln High. He’s eating scrambled eggs and toast. I’m nursing a cup of decidedly un-gourmet coffee.

“I tried to reach you yesterday,” he says.

“I didn’t get the message till I got home late last night. My cell battery ran out. Thanks for trying.”

“I didn’t like the way it was handled. I know he’s your friend. And I didn’t realize you’d be representing him.”

Neither did I. I watch as he uses his toast to push his eggs onto his fork. He’s doing me a favor. I’ll have to let him make the first move.

He leans forward so nobody can hear us. His gravel voice sounds tired. “We’re off the record. Your friend is in very serious trouble. Holmes and Kennedy were killed by shots fired from Holmes’s gun. She died from two shots to the chest. He died from one shot to the head. Your guy’s fingerprints were on the gun. There were three spent shells and three unused bullets. His fingerprints were on those too.”

“It shows that he picked up the gun. It doesn’t prove he killed anyone.”

“There’s more.” He clears his throat. “Seems he and Holmes had a big fight. We aren’t sure what it was about. The night janitor said they were yelling at each other.”

“They could have been talking about business.”

“I know. I understand Holmes was a screamer, and Friedman doesn’t like being pushed around. They may have been engaged in lawyerly discourse. One of your partners said Friedman was mad about not making partner.”

“Who told you that?”

“In due time. Was he mad about not making partner?”

He’s going to find out. “Off the record, Roosevelt, you’ll find that he was, in fact, angry about not making partner.”

“You aren’t violating any confidences. He told me so.”

He’s testing me. “You think he killed Holmes because he didn’t make partner?”

Another cold stare. “You know a guy named Rick Cinelli?”

“Yeah. The bartender at Harrington’s. He knows more about the firm than most of the partners.”

“Friedman and Kennedy had dinner there. Cinelli says they got into a big fight and she left.”

I’m beginning to see where this is going. “They were probably talking about business. She wasn’t a great legal technician. She probably screwed something up and he laid into her.”

He gives me the “nice try” look. “All I know is what Cinelli told me. I don’t try the cases. I don’t even decide whether to prosecute. I just gather the evidence.”

“Anything else?” I half expect him to say he has another janitor who found Joel standing over Bob’s body.

“Just one other thing. We’re trying to figure out why she came back to the office.”

I’m wondering the same thing.

“We checked the S&G phone records. A two-minute phone call was placed from Friedman’s private office line at twelve-fifty-one a.m.”

“Let me guess. Somebody called Diana’s apartment from Joel’s phone.”

“Correct. You might want to ask him about it.”

“I will.” None of this is news to me. I don’t want to invite speculation about whether Joel may have tried to lure her to the office. “Do you have the medical examiner’s report yet?”

“Not final.”

I can’t push him. “Thanks for your help. I know you’re sticking your neck out.”

“You’re family. Even if you’re a defense lawyer. Besides, you’ll get all of this stuff anyway.”

He’s right. In a few weeks, Skipper will have to present enough evidence at a preliminary hearing to show cause for holding Joel over for trial. He’ll undoubtedly use everything Roosevelt just described. This isn’t looking good for a quick dismissal.

* * *

Joel is incredulous. “Now they’re saying I threatened her at Harrington’s, and I lured her back to the office to kill her? What’ll they dream up next? That I was sleeping with her?”

At two o’clock on Saturday afternoon, I’m giving Joel a report on my meeting with Roosevelt. “I don’t want any surprises,” I tell him. “I’m meeting with Skipper in twenty-five minutes. I don’t want to hear about any more arguments at restaurants or fights in the office. Am I clear?”

“Yes.” He rubs his eyes. “What do you need to know?”

“Everything that happened that night. Good, bad or otherwise. For starters, did you and Diana have an argument at Harrington’s?”

“I’d call it a discussion.”

I don’t have time to play games. “Did you have a fight?”

“All right. Yes. She didn’t finish our escrow instructions. I gave her a couple of simple things to do, and she didn’t do them. She wasn’t a very careful lawyer.”

“That’s all you were fighting about?”

“Of course.”

“Good.” I realize I’ve just congratulated him for making an ass of himself in a public place—for a perfectly legitimate reason. “I need to ask you something else. Was there ever any hanky-panky between you and Diana?”

“Are you asking me if I ever slept with her?”

“In a word, yes.”

“The answer, in a word, is no.”

“Good.” If you’re lying to me, I’ll rip your lungs out. “Did you call her that night?”

“Yes. Bob told me to tell her to come back to the office. He wanted to talk to her about her closing documents.” He pauses. “And I think he just wanted to talk to her.”

“Why?”

“They talked a lot.”

“Did they talk in bed?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did you think so?”

He looks away. “Maybe . . . probably. At least I think so.”

“Did you and Bob have a fight that night?”

“I wouldn’t call it a fight.”

“Dammit, Joel. What were you and Bob arguing about?”

“He didn’t have the guts to tell me the firm was going to defer all the people up for partner. I told him what I thought.”

“One of the custodians heard you.”

He closes his eyes. “They’re saying I threatened him?”

“That seems to be the jump in their logic.”

“And I threatened Diana at Harrington’s and lured her back, just so I could kill her?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s bullshit. You think I’d kill Bob and ruin my life because I didn’t make partner? You think I’d kill Diana because she didn’t finish a set of escrow instructions? This is preposterous.”

“I’m going to meet with Skipper.”

“I expect you to get this dismissed by the end of the day.”

Not a chance.

Chapter 12

“NICE OFFICE, SKIPPER”

“We are going to upgrade our facilities and computers. The San Francisco District Attorney’s Office will be state-of-the-art.”

– Skipper Gates. Acceptance speech.

The only thing state-of-the-art about the San Francisco District Attorney’s Office is the remodeled suite occupied by Skipper Gates. The ADAs still sit in cramped offices behind metal desks with dented olive-green file cabinets. The lucky ones get their own offices. The really lucky ones get windows looking out at the bail bond shops across Bryant Street.

As soon as the election results were in, Skipper began tearing up the third floor of the Hall to make some major capital improvements—for himself. His office has been expanded, and he’s built a new area for press conferences. The remodeling hasn’t elicited much enthusiasm among the rank and file.

On Saturday afternoon, Skipper’s office is a sea of splendor. He’s dressed in khaki pants and a light blue polo shirt. His feet are propped up on his desk. I decline a Perrier from his new wet bar.

“Nice office, Skipper,” I say. “I don’t recall the hardwood floors and paneling when your predecessor occupied this space.”

“Thanks. We’re trying to upgrade the image of the office.”

He’s a master at accepting compliments, even when they’re given facetiously. Hardwood floors, oak paneling, overstuffed chairs and an antique desk are more than an upgrade. I must admit the large photo of himself with the mayor and the governing hanging being his desk is very flattering.

“Skipper, if you don’t mind my asking, don’t you think this might be a little bit much?”

“It’s okay. The remodeling’s being done on my nickel. It’s very important to me to work where I’m comfortable.”

“Do you think the new press room is a little overdone?”

“Nonsense. I’m the DA. That makes me the chief law-enforcement officer in the city. If you’re going to act the part, you’ve got to look the part.”

I feel like quoting the old Billy Crystal “Fernando” routine on Saturday Night Live: “You look mahvalous, Skipper, simply mahvalous.”

Sitting quietly and observing this banal exchange is a trim, middle-aged man with short gray hair and thick glasses. Bill McNulty, the ADA in charge of homicide cases, is a native San Franciscan and a career prosecutor. He thought his number had come up last year for the DA job, but there were two problems. First, there isn’t an ounce of charisma anywhere in Bill’s body. Put him in front of a TV camera and he makes Richard Nixon look photogenic. Second, Skipper tossed his hat into the ring and outspent Bill by about ten to one. Skipper annihilated him in the election in a vicious negative campaign. For twenty-six years, McNulty has been on a mission from God to put the bad guys away. He’s good at it. What he lacks in charm, he makes up for by being careful, hard-nosed and meticulous. He has a reputation as a fighter and his nickname around the Hall is Bill McNasty.

Skipper waives a hand at McNulty. “I presume you and Bill have met.”

“We’ve worked on several cases over the years.” I turn to McNulty. “Nice to see you again.”

He grimaces. A man of few words.

“Are you the ADA assigned to this case?”

He nods.

“Good.” Bad, actually. McNasty’s good. He’s tenacious, and he’s prosecuted at least fifty murder cases. He’s won most of them. Skipper has made an astute choice for help on his first big case.

McNulty glares at me. “The arraignment is at ten o’clock on Monday. We’ll see you there.” He stands up.

“Wait a minute, Bill. I thought we might take a few minutes to talk about this.”

“There’s nothing to talk about. The next step is the arraignment. I assume your guy will plead not guilty, and we’ll be on our way.”

Skipper holds up a hand. “I’ve just put Bill on this case. He’s understandably reluctant to talk to you before he’s been through the file. Isn’t that right, Bill?”

McNasty scowls. I can’t tell if he’s irritated about being here, being put on this case or having to suck up to Skipper. Probably all of the above.

Skipper flashes a phony smile. “Maybe I can answer a few questions. And by the way, I’m sorry about all the hoopla last night. We didn’t know you were going to be there. We sure as hell didn’t know his kids and parents would be there, too.”

Where did you think his kids would be at seven o’clock on a Friday night? “What do you have in mind, Skipper? You can’t be serious about charging Joel based upon the skimpy evidence.”

“You bet your ass I am.”

“Enlighten me. What evidence?” I want to find out everything that I can. And I don’t want to give them anything.”

Skipper responds with a coy grin. “You can’t expect us to tip our hand.”

McNulty shakes his head. “You’re going to have to tell him sooner or later. Tell him what we’ve got, or I will.”

This is sounding a little rehearsed. “Well, Skipper?”

“We know he was there at the time of the murders.”

“Alleged murders.”

Eye roll. “Alleged murders. Your client was the only one there. He knew where the gun was. He’d used it at the range. So we’ve got opportunity.”

“Fine. We know he was there. He told you so. And we know about the gun. So what?” I’m tempted to ask Skipper where he was, but I let it go.

“There’s physical evidence. His fingerprints were on the gun, the spent shells and the unused bullets. We have direct contact with the murder weapon.”

“Not good enough. It shows he disarmed the gun. He told you that. He did it for the safety of the others in the firm. You aren’t close to probable cause, let alone a conviction.” Actually, he zoomed past probable cause a few minutes ago, and he’s about a quarter of the way to a conviction, but he doesn’t have to hear that from me.

Skipper takes a drink of Perrier. “Then, of course, we have the question of motive.”

I lean back and lock my fingers behind my head. “What motive have you concocted, Skipper?”

“Actually he has motive in both cases. Let’s talk about Diana first. He was angry with her. They got into a screaming match at Harrington’s The bartender heard it. She tossed a drink at him and stormed out.”

“They were fighting about work. She didn’t finish some documents. It doesn’t mean he killed her.”

“That’s what your guy is telling you. She went home, had a drink and went to bed. Then around twelve-fifty, after he had a chance to stew about it, he called her and lured her back to the office. He waited for her, then he blasted her. Right there in Bob’s office.”

“You’re dreaming, Skipper. What makes you think he called her?” I know what’s coming.

“We have the phone records. A call was placed from his private office line to the land line in her apartment at twelve-fifty-one. It lasted two minutes. She showed up at the office fifteen minutes later at about one-ten. We got the time of her arrival from the building security cameras.”

At least the timing of things is becoming clear. We’ll subpoena the security videos. “Assuming your records are right, I’ll grant you that a call may have been placed from Joel’s phone. But it doesn’t prove he made the call. Even if he did, he was undoubtedly calling to ask her to come to the office to help with the closing.” I’m kind of enjoying the cat-and-mouse aspect of this. It’s been a while.

Skipper smiles confidently. “That’s where you’re wrong. We know exactly what he said to her in that telephone conversation. And it wasn’t anything close to the way you described it.”

“How’s that, Skipper? Are you listening in on Joel’s calls? Or did you bug his phone?”

“The conversation was taped on Diana’s answering machine.”

Uh-oh.

The condescending smirk. “We got this yesterday. She must have been asleep and didn’t pick up her phone until the answering machine started taping. She didn’t erase the message when she left.”

I’m getting a bad feeling about this.

McNulty stands. “While we’re being so open about our evidence, let me play something for you.” He punches a button on his laptop and turns up the sound.

Beep. “Wednesday. December thirty-first. Twelve-fifty-one a.m.” Beep. “Pick up, Diana. God dammit.”

“Hello?”

“Diana, it’s Joel. I was talking to Bob. We need you to come down here right away. We’ve got a bunch of things to do  for the closing.”

“Joel? What time is it?”

“About ten to one.”

“I’m exhausted. Can’t it wait until morning?”

“No. It can’t wait. I’ve got to see you now.”

“I don’t want to deal with this now.”

“You have to. I need to see you right now. Bob wants to resolve this stuff right now. ASAP. So get your tight little ass over here right away.”

“You’re a piece of shit.”

“So are you. Now get over here or I’ll come over there and get you myself.”

“All right, asshole. I’ll be right there. But this is the last time. We’re finished. You understand? You can find somebody else to push around.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Beep.

Skipper is triumphant. “Sounds like they were talking about more than business.”

“That’s what this is all about? A late-night telephone call where he tells her to come back to work? From that you get murder? You’re dreaming. This isn’t an old episode of Law & Order, you know.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I think I see McNulty nod, but I’m not sure.

Skipper’s tone becomes more strident. “Let me play something else for you.” He nods to McNulty, who turns on the audio player on his computer. I recognize the sound of our voicemail prompts.

“Bob, Joel. I just found out about the new policy on partner elections. I came by your office, but you were with Vince. I want to tell you something. This stinks. You should have told me, but, as usual, you didn’t have the balls. I’ll get you for this. I’m not gonna take this lying down. Call me right away.”

I look skeptical. “You’re saying this represents a threat?”

“Damn right,” Skipper snaps.

I turn to McNulty. “Bill, you know there’s no way this will ever add up to a conviction.”

McNulty gives Skipper an inquisitive look. Skipper nods.

“What?” I ask.

McNulty turns to me. “It seems that your boy was having an affair with Diana Kennedy. A witness saw the two of them in the same room at your last firm retreat. Let’s just say that she wasn’t fully clothed.”

“No way.”

“Yes way,” Skipper says. “And that’s what ties it all together. Kennedy was sleeping with Friedman. She pulled the plug on him and told him she was sleeping with Holmes. That led to the fight at Harrington’s. He came back and confronted Holmes. That led to the phone call to her apartment.”

“You’re dreaming. Joel wasn’t sleeping with her. You can’t prove it.”

McNulty speaks up. “We’ve got a witness. There’s only one other living person who can rebut his testimony.”

“And that would be Joel.”

“And that would be correct.”

“And who is this honest soul who will step forward and swear my client is an adulterer?”

McNulty stops. “I can’t tell you.”

“You mean you won’t tell me.”

“Not until I have to.”

I turn to Skipper. “Are you prepared to tell me?”

“No. We’re only obligated to give you evidence that would exculpate your client. All the evidence we’ve given you so far points directly toward a conviction.”

The key witness has to be an attorney at S&G. “Skipper, you have some shaky circumstantial stuff here, but nothing close to a case.”

McNulty looks at me. “There’s one more thing.”

I’m wondering how many more things. “What is it?”

“She was pregnant.”

Hell.

“Before you ask, we don’t know who the father is, but we’ll find out.”

This is going to get messy. “There’s a lot of hard evidence this was a suicide. He shot himself with his own gun. He left a suicide note. Before you embarrass yourself on Monday, you ought to wait for the medical examiner’s report.”

Skipper is enjoying himself. “We got a preview. The cause of Bob’s death will be a gunshot wound. But there is evidence that somebody hit him on the head before the shots were fired.”

“You’re saying somebody tried to make it look like a suicide?”

“Right.”

“What about the suicide note, the e-mail?”

“Joel’s fingerprints are on Bob’s keyboard.”

What? How did Joel’s fingerprints get on Bob’s keyboard? “He could have used Bob’s keyboard anytime. It still doesn’t show he typed the e-mail.”

Skipper finishes his Perrier. “Look, Mike, it’s against my better judgment, and Bill is going to kill me for saying it, but I’m prepared to discuss a plea bargain. I’ll go down to second-degree murder and recommend a lenient sentence.”

Second-degree means at least fifteen years in jail. “No way. You’ve got no case.”

“Yes, we do. I’m going to try it myself.”

“You’re crazy.”

Skipper’s eyes gleam. “Tell him we’re going to charge him with first-degree murder. We’re considering special circumstances. If he’s willing to save the taxpayers the cost of a trial, we’ll agree to a plea of second-degree with a recommendation of fifteen years. We’ll take the death penalty off the table. Our offer is open until the arraignment on Monday. You have an ethical obligation to convey it to your client.”

“I won’t recommend it. Not in a million years.”

“I know you’re a little rusty. Bill is my right hand on this case. He hasn’t had a chance to study the file in detail, but he’s sure we’ve got a strong case. A very strong case. Right, Bill?”

“Right.”

I can’t tell if McNulty is sincere or just trying to appease his new boss. “Bill, are you really thinking about going for the death penalty in a circumstantial case in San Francisco? Have you lost your mind?”

He doesn’t respond.

Chapter 13

“I HAVE TO CONSIDER WHAT'S BEST FOR MY SON”

“Joel Mark Friedman will be arraigned on Monday for double murder. District Attorney Prentice Gates says he may seek the death penalty. In an unusual twist, Gates says he will try the case himself.”

– KCBS News Radio. Saturday, January 10.

At three-thirty the same day, I’m in the lobby of the Hall. I’m talking to Rabbi Friedman on my cell.

“How are things going with Joel’s case?” he asks.

“As well as can be expected.” I describe my meetings with Joel and Skipper, judiciously leaving out any references to Joel’s alleged infidelities or Skipper’s plea bargain proposal. “It looks like they’re going to charge Joel with murder on Monday.”

Silence.

“We’re doing everything we can. It’s going to take some time.”

He clears his throat. “That’s why I called. I was talking to a couple of my congregants last night. Several lawyers are members of the temple.”

“I know.” Probably half your board of directors.

“This is difficult, so forgive me for being blunt. A couple of members of our board of directors whose judgment I respect suggested you may not be the right person to handle my son’s case.”

It feels like a piece of sharp glass going through my stomach. “Why did they say that?”

“One of my congregants said you haven’t spent a lot of time in court for a few years. He said you may be a little rusty.”

“I defended over a hundred murder trials when I was a PD. I’ve been defending white-collar criminals at the Simpson firm for the last five years. I’m completely current on the law.”

“Another attorney suggested that you may have been something of a renegade at the public defender’s office.”

It’s true. My bosses thought I took too many cases to trial. That’s bad for business in the PD’s office. The supervisors are paid for disposing of cases quickly, not necessarily winning them. “I took a lot of cases to trial when I was at the PD’s office. That’s what PDs get paid for. I won some cases others would have lost. I won some cases others would have pled out.” And, in fairness, I probably lost a few that I could have pled out. “That’s what you want from a defense lawyer. You want somebody who will go to bat for your client.”

“I have to consider what’s best for my son.”

“I understand your concerns. This is a very important decision. It’s up to Joel. If he wants to hire another lawyer, I’ll be disappointed, but I’ll understand.” And Rosie will kill me.

He pauses. “Maybe there’s an alternative. How would you feel about having another lawyer assist you?”

I don’t like it. “What do you have in mind?”

“I thought that maybe one of the lawyers from my congregation could help you. I know you don’t have a lot of lawyers in your new firm.”

This is delicate. “I’m always happy to have help. I figured Rosie would sit second chair. We were a great team at the PD’s office.”

“I see.”

“We criminal defense lawyers are a little protective of our territory. I’d be happy to consider having someone else involved, but only with the understanding that I’d make the final decisions.”

He clears his throat. “Michael, let me discuss it with Joel.”

* * *

Joel is less than enthusiastic about the possibility of a plea bargain. “Plead guilty to second-degree murder? You’ve got to be kidding. No way.”

“I didn’t say you should take it. I just said that they offered it, and I have an obligation to tell you about it. I’m not recommending it.”

“Fine. I’m instructing you to reject the plea bargain.”

“Good.”

“What did you find out from Skipper?”

I tell him about the phone calls, the bartender at Harrington’s and the phone messages to Diana and Bob.

“Doesn’t mean anything,” he insists. “We were working on a deal. Everybody was under a lot of pressure.”

Not as much pressure as you’re under now. “There’s something else. Diana was pregnant.”

He responds in a subdued tone. “I know.”

“Come again?”

“I knew she was pregnant.”

“How did you know?”

“She told me about three weeks ago.”

“Did you tell anyone?”

“No. She asked me not to.” He looks me in eye. “When people tell me something in confidence, I don’t repeat it. I didn’t ask to be the father confessor for the firm. It just worked out that way.”

I lower my voice to confession-level. “I have to ask.”

“I’m not the father. Unless, of course, there was some sort of immaculate conception. You Catholics are more into that stuff than we are.”

“There’s more.”

“What else? Yesterday, I was just a garden-variety killer. Today I’m also an adulterer. Tomorrow, I’ll be a sex offender and a child molester, too.”

“They have a witness who saw you and Diana together in your room at Silverado at the firm retreat last year. He says she didn’t have any clothes on.”

“It’s Patton. There was a party in his room. Art was drunk. He tried to put the moves on Diana. She blew him off. She went back to her room. He followed her. Depending on who’s telling the story, either he asked her nicely to sleep with him, or he attacked her. At two in the morning, she banged on my door. She said Patton tried to rape her. Guess who showed up a minute later? He said he heard some noise. He saw Diana.”

“He set you up.”

“Yeah. If Diana pursued it, Art could say she was in my room with me. He was protecting himself and the firm from a sexual-harassment suit.”

“Can anybody else corroborate any of this?”

“Probably not.”

“Diana never pursued it?”

“There was an investigation. As far as I know, she didn’t push it. She didn’t want to torpedo her career.”

“You think Patton is the father?”

“I don’t know. It could’ve been Patton. It could’ve been Bob. Hell, it could’ve been anybody.”

This is serious. The only person who can contradict Patton’s account of the events of that night is Joel. And he isn’t going on the stand unless we’re desperate. “Does Naomi know about this?”

“No. And she doesn’t need to know.”

“It’s going to come up. I’d rather she heard it from you.”

“I’ll talk to her.”

I hope so.

“What else did you find out from Skipper?” he asks.

“They think Bob was sleeping with Diana.”

“I’ve heard that one many times.”

“And they seem to think you were, too.”

“Great. Only two people know the truth—Diana and me. Diana is dead. That leaves me. And I presume you don’t want me to testify.”

“Correct.”

“So I’m screwed.”

Reality is at hand. “It doesn’t look like we’ll be able to get the charges dropped on Monday.”

He pushes out a heavy sigh. “What’s the prognosis on bail?”

“Not great. If Skipper charges you with first-degree, bail will be tough. If he goes for special circumstances, bail’s probably out.”

He turns white. “The death penalty?”

“We have to be prepared for it. Skipper was talking about it. He may not decide until after the arraignment.”

“Dammit.”

“One other thing. I talked to your father. Seems he’s gotten a few suggestions that I may need a little help on this case.”

“Do you?”

“I was planning to have Rosie sit second chair. We were a good team at the PD’s office.” I explain that murder trials in California are divided into two phases. The first involves a determination of guilt or innocence. If there’s a guilty verdict, the trial moves to the so-called penalty phase, where the jury decides whether to impose the death penalty. It’s customary for a different attorney to handle the penalty phase so the jury gets to see a new face. In addition, the penalty-phase attorney can argue that the trial attorney was incompetent. The penalty-phase attorney is known as Keenan counsel. I tell him I’ll handle the trial phase and Rosie will be Keenan counsel.

He ponders his options for a moment. “I want to think about it. You and Rosie are good, but I want to be sure you have enough firepower. My dad’s pretty well-connected. I’ll let you know in the next day or so.”

* * *

“Rabbi Friedman wants to hire another lawyer as co-counsel?” Rosie asks. She’s slicing pizza in her kitchen later the same evening. Grace is watching TV in the living room.

I take a sip of Diet Dr Pepper. “I’m beginning to see why Joel needed some space from his dad.”

“He’s worried, Mike. You’re going to need some help.”

“I know. “I figured I’d take the lead and use Pete as the primary investigator.”

“Keep it in the family. I like that. What about Keenan counsel?”

“Joel deserves the best, so I took the liberty of recommending you.”

She smiles. “I thought you’d never ask. Do I have to marry you again?”

“No mixing business and pleasure.”

“Deal.”

“Great. I’ll check with Joel.” I pause. “And his father, I suppose. One other thing, I get to make all the final decisions in the trial phase.”

“Of course.”

Joel just hired the best defense team from the PD’s office in the last twenty years. Of course, he’s also hired two people who reenacted the War of the Roses only five short years ago.

And his arraignment is in two days.

Chapter 14

“NOTHING EVER HAPPENS AT AN ARRAIGNMENT”

“Plea bargaining isn’t a part of the criminal-justice system—it IS the system.”

– Criminal Defense Attorney and Adjunct Professor of Law Morton R. Goldberg. Continuing legal education seminar.

Two days later. Monday, January 12. The TV coverage for every arraignment is always the same. First, there’s footage of an unshaven, handcuffed, jumpsuit-clad defendant being led into court looking guilty as hell. Next they show a grim prosecutor (usually a middle-aged white male) marching into court with his minions, uttering platitudes about the strength of his case and his faith in the justice system. Finally, the scene shifts to the steps of the courthouse, where a smarmy defense attorney boldly proclaims his client’s innocence and castigates the DA for bringing trumped-up charges against a pillar of the community.

At nine-thirty on Monday morning, the smarmy defense attorney standing in the drizzle in front of the Hall of Justice is me.

I don’t particularly care for this sideshow. I’d just as soon avoid becoming a media star. On the other hand, in our media-frenzied culture, you try to make points whenever you can with what we attorneys like to call the potential-juror pool.

An army of reporters and cameramen fight for space. It’s a great day for the hair-spray industry. With Naomi standing to my left and Rosie to my right, I speak directly to the cameras. “Ladies and gentlemen, we are shocked and dismayed that Mr. Gates has chosen to proceed with these unsubstantiated charges. We are certain Mr. Friedman will be exonerated.”

We push our way through the throng of shouting reporters.

“Mr. Daley, is it true your client has been offered a plea bargain?”

“Mr. Daley, is it true your client is going to plead guilty?”

“Mr. Daley, is it true your client tried to commit suicide?”

“Mr. Daley, is it true your client was having an affair with Diana Kennedy?”

“Mr. Daley? Mr. Daley? Mr. Daley?”

I run interference for Naomi, and Rosie elbows Rita Roberts and her Channel 4 microphone.

“Is it always going to be like this?” Naomi asks.

“Probably for a while,” I say. “Rosie will take you to the courtroom. I’m going to see Joel.”

* * *

Joel’s demeanor is subdued. “Can I talk to you about something for a minute, Mike?”

“Of course.”

We’re sitting in the holding area behind the courtroom. The arraignment starts in five minutes. I don’t want any surprises.

He pushes out a sigh. “I was talking to my dad. He thinks it might be a good idea if we get you some help.”

I suspected this was coming. “As I told you on Saturday, I figured I would take the lead and Rosie would sit second chair. Pete will be our investigator.” I add halfheartedly, “Of course, we’ll do it however you’d like.”

“You know Mort Goldberg? He’s the president of the temple.”

“I’ve met him.” Everyone in town knows Mort Goldberg. Mort the Sport. Smart. Shrewd. Well-connected in the Jewish community. He taught criminal procedure at Hastings. In his day, he was one of the more successful defense lawyers in town. Unfortunately, his day ended about twenty years ago. Now he spends most of his time cutting deals on drunk-driving cases. “He’s been at it for years. Solid reputation.”

“Dad and I thought Mort might be able to help. Do some research. Maybe take a few witnesses.”

Look over my shoulder. Second-guess every decision. Sounds great. “Let me be honest. He’s what we defense lawyers call a pleader. He’s not a trial guy. He’s a plea-bargain guy.”

“Is he good at strategy?”

“Yes, but he’s not a strong trial lawyer.”

“That’s why we have you, right?” He leans back. “I’ve given this a lot of thought. I want him involved. I thought he could help at the arraignment. He’s waiting outside.”

“He’s here?”

“Yeah. And he’s available today.”

“Joel, nothing ever happens at an arraignment. You plead not guilty and sit down.”

“I need to get bail. You have to get me out of here.”

“The arraignment starts in five minutes. We can’t talk strategy now.”

“I understand. Let me bring him in. I’ll tell him he’s just going to be an observer today.”

“Fine.” It’s a done deal; what else can I say?

He motions to the deputies, and they bring in Mort and Joel’s father. Mort is a stocky sixty-three-year-old with a bald head and thick aviator-style glasses. A natural back-slapper, he shakes hands with Joel and greets me like we’ve been pals for years. Give him credit. He’s an operator.

“Joel,” he says, “don’t worry about a thing. Mike and I will have you out of here by noon.”

Rabbi Friedman beams. Temple board meetings must be a riot.

Mort turns to me. “Glad we’ll finally have a chance to work together. I always admired your work at the PD’s office. If I knew you were going to leave, I’d have hired you myself.”

Smooth. Always start with flattery.

“We’re due in court in about thirty seconds,” I say.

* * *

In California, criminal arraignments used to be handled in municipal court. In a court reorganization a few years ago, the muni courts were consolidated with the superior courts. As a result, arraignments are now conducted in superior court. Judge Stanley Miller is a dour bureaucrat in his late fifties. In his twenty-one years on the bench, he’s worked his way from traffic court down the hall to superior court. He spent the early part of his career defending insurance companies, which gave him tremendous skill in the art of expedience. He’s not really a judge. He’s more like a legal-system traffic cop. Now semiretired, he found a home hearing motions and setting bail. He keeps the wheels of justice turning. We won’t see him again after today. It’s probably just as well.

The courtroom is packed. Reporters fill the jury box. Lawyers and police mill around. We aren’t the only arraignment on the calendar this morning, but we’re the biggest media event. We rise as Judge Miller enters. The case is called. Skipper and I state our appearances.

The judge wastes no time. “Mr. Daley, does your client understand the charges?”

“Yes, Your Honor. We can dispense with a formal reading.”

“Good.” He turns to Joel. “On the charge of murder in the first degree, how do you plead?”

I nod to Joel, who stands and says in a clear voice, “Not guilty, Your Honor.”

“Good.” Judge Miller points at me. “By statute, I am required to set a preliminary hearing within sixty days.”

The prelim is also held in superior court. The prosecution must show that there is “probable cause” to believe Joel committed a crime. Joel can accelerate the process by demanding a prelim in ten days. Most defendants choose to “waive time,” which means they forfeit their right to require the prelim within the ten-day window. Ordinarily, the defense loses little by waiving time, because it gives them additional time to prepare or, in many cases, cut a deal with the DA.

My tone is respectful. “Mr. Friedman chooses not to waive time.”

Miller looks at me over the top of his reading glasses. “May I ask why you believe it would be in your client’s best interest to proceed so quickly?”

“My client’s life has been severely interrupted by these outrageous charges. We are prepared to proceed with his defense as soon as possible to clear his name.”

He feigns annoyance as he looks at his calendar and consults with his clerk. They have a brief and testy discussion. “The preliminary hearing will be one week from tomorrow in Judge Kenneth Brown’s courtroom.”

Not a great draw for us. Brown is a former prosecutor.

Miller turns to Skipper. “Mr. Gates, I trust you’re prepared to move forward next week?”

“Let me check my calendar. Your Honor.”

“You’re supposed to check your calendar before you enter my courtroom, Mr. Gates. I will assume you’ll be there.” He turns to me. “Mr. Daley, are you prepared to proceed?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“See you next week.” He raises his gavel.

“Your Honor,” I say, “we would like to discuss bail.”

“Do I understand, Mr. Daley, that no bail has been set?”

“Correct, Your Honor. We request that bail be set. Mr. Friedman is a respected member of the community, and he isn’t a flight risk.”

Skipper is up like a shot. “Your Honor, the people oppose bail. The defendant is charged with first-degree murder. We may ask for special circumstances. He is dangerous, and bail should not be granted.”

“Your Honor,” I say, “Mr. Friedman is an attorney with a respected law firm. He has lived here his entire life and has significant community and family ties. He is clearly entitled to bail.”

Skipper tries again. “Your Honor, we are considering special circumstances. It would be highly unusual for bail to be set in a capital case. Highly unusual.”

My turn again. “With all due respect, Your Honor, the state has not added special circumstances, so this is not a capital case. The judge has discretion to set bail.”

Judge Miller flips through the penal code. Without looking up, he says, “Mr. Daley, I realize that you haven’t been in my courtroom for a while, so let me give you some advice. When I hear the words ‘With all due respect, Your Honor,’ I interpret them to mean, ‘You doddering old fool, Your Honor.’ Let’s come up with some authority on this subject.”

Touchy, aren’t we?

Skipper has prepared a speech and his going to make it. “Your Honor, the defendant is a flight risk. The weekend before he was arrested, he and his wife left town.”

“One moment, Your Honor.” I ask Joel about it. He whispers that he and Naomi did, in fact, drive up to Mendocino. He says they needed time to talk. I turn back to the judge. “Your Honor, Mr. Friedman and his wife took a drive up the coast for a day. That hardly constitutes flight. He wasn’t a suspect at the time.”

Judge Miller isn’t listening to me. “Mr. Gates, isn’t there some statutory authority?”

Skipper shrugs and turns to McNulty, who stands and speaks in a crisp voice. “Your Honor, Section twelve-seventy-five point five of the penal code says, ‘A defendant charged with a capital offense punishable by death cannot be admitted to bail when the proof of his guilt is evident or the presumption of guilt is great.’ ”

Judge Miller is pleased. “That’s it. I knew there was something on this.”

“But, Your Honor,” I say, “this is not a capital offense.” At least not yet. “The proof of guilt is not evident, and the presumption is not great in this case.” I can recite penal code sections, too.

“Mr. Daley, we can argue all day about whether the proof is evident and the presumption is great. I’m not going to take the court’s time for that.”

“Your Honor—,”

“The law is clear. The proof is evident enough for me.”

And you have an early tee-off time. He’s about to rule when I hear a distinctive nasal voice from behind me.

“Your Honor, may it please the court.”

Mort Goldberg is walking through the gate into the well of the courtroom.

Miller smiles. “Why, Mor—Mr. Goldberg, we haven’t seen you in this court in some time.”

“Thank you, Your Honor. It’s nice to see you.”

I’m waiting for Mort to ask Miller about his grandchildren. “Your Honor,” I say, “may I have a moment with Mr. Goldberg?”

“You have one minute, Mr. Daley.”

I pull Mort aside. “What the hell are you doing? He was just about to rule.”

“He was about to rule against you. I can help.”

“Bad idea.”

“I know this guy. We go to the same temple. Besides, you got any better ideas?”

At the moment, no. “You think you can pull a rabbit out?”

“Watch me.” He turns back to the judge. “Your Honor, I have just been retained as special counsel to Mr. Friedman. I must confess I haven’t read the entire file yet.”

And I’m reasonably sure you never will.

“Rather than ask you for a continuance, I have a suggestion as to how the bail issue might be resolved.”

Miller is interested. “Go on, Mor—I mean, Mr. Goldberg.”

“I understand your concern about bail. The charges are serious.”

Skipper is speechless.

“Nevertheless,” Mort continues, “I have a creative solution that will ease your concern. I know Your Honor is acquainted with Mr. Friedman’s father, Rabbi Neil Friedman, of Temple Beth Sholom.”

“Yes, I am.”

“I would therefore propose that bail be set for Mr. Friedman, subject to his agreement to remain at all times in the house of Rabbi Friedman, except when he has to be in court. We would, of course, expect Your Honor to require a fairly substantial bail, and we’re prepared to agree to an electronic monitoring device.”

Miller looks at Rabbi Friedman. “Is this acceptable to you, Rabbi?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

Skipper leaps up. “The people have utmost respect for Rabbi Friedman, but it’s highly unusual for a defendant to be placed in the custody of his own father. Highly unusual.”

You’re right, Skipper. It’s highly unusual.

The judge turns to me. “Is this arrangement acceptable to you, Mr. Daley?”

No. I’d rather let Joel stay in a cell with a pimp. “It’s acceptable to us, Your Honor.”

“Well, it’s highly unusual. On the other hand, this court greatly respects Rabbi Friedman. Bail is set at a million dollars. The defendant will be released to the custody of Rabbi Friedman. He will wear an electronic ankle bracelet and be monitored by the sheriff’s department. He is to remain at Rabbi Friedman’s house except to appear in court. He may have visits from his attorneys and immediate family only. That’s it. We’re adjourned.”

Joel turns to me. “Am I out?”

“Yeah. We need to post bail. And you have to stay at your dad’s house.”

“It’s better than the place I’ve stayed the last few nights.”

Mort taps me on the shoulder. “So, what did you think of that one?”

“Pretty smooth, Mort.”

“It helps when the judge is on the board of directors at the temple.” Mort walks over to Rabbi Friedman. I hear him say he’s willing to have the temple building pledged as collateral for Joel’s bond.

I glance at Rosie. She’s pleased. As we walk out, she whispers, “Do you think we can find a trial judge who’s on the temple board, too?”

Chapter 15

THE DREAM TEAM

“Hiring Mort Goldberg was brilliant. They should put him in charge.”

– NewsCenter 4 Legal Analyst Morgan Henderson. Tuesday, January 13.

“The TV stations have rehired their legal analysts from the O.J. trial,” I observe. “I guess they have nothing better to do.”

I’m eating a bagel and talking to Joel as we sit in the heavy wooden chairs in his father’s dining room at nine o’clock the next morning. Mort nibbles on a sweet roll. Rosie sips a Diet Coke. Pete stands next to Mort. He hates meetings.

I look around the table. Mort is a world-class prima donna. Rosie runs her own cases. Pete works solo. Rabbi Friedman is used to having everybody listen to him. Joel makes all the calls on his deals. Not exactly a roomful of team players.

Showtime. “Let’s get started,” I say. “We have only a week until the preliminary hearing.”

Rabbi Friedman clears his throat. “I’d like to thank Mort for his contribution at the arraignment yesterday.”

Mort smiles and waves his unlit cigar. “It was nothing.”

I hand out copies of the first police reports. “We should have the medical examiner’s report later today.” I summarize the evidence. The fingerprints on the gun and the computer keyboard. The phone messages. The fight at Harrington’s. The argument in Bob’s office. The allegations of an affair. Diana’s pregnancy. “They have a week to show they have enough evidence to hold Joel over for trial. We have a week to show they don’t. I want to find out as much as we can about Bob and Diana. We need to talk to their friends and relatives. We need to interview the people at S&G. We have to get a copy of Bob’s will and look at his investments. He probably had life insurance.”

I turn to Mort. “I’d like your help with legal issues, motions and strategy. We should try to get our hands on every piece of evidence before the prelim.”

He’s pleased.

Pete looks at me. It’s like looking in a mirror. He’s a little stockier than I am, and he has a neatly trimmed mustache. His hair is darker. “Where do you want me to start?”

“With the physical evidence and the forensics. I want you to look for holes in the police report and the medical examiner’s report.” It’s nice to have an ex-cop on the team. “And I want you to figure out what happened to Vince Russo. And I have something special for you. I need you to figure out who was sleeping with whom—and when.”

His mouth turns up slightly. “Right up my alley.”

“I want you to look into Bob’s personal life. I want you to see what Bob’s widow is up to. And there are some other people I’d like you to watch. They’re pretty high up in San Francisco society, so you’ll have to be discreet. I want you to tail Arthur Patton.”

“What am I looking for?”

“The usual. He’s in the middle of an ugly divorce. Evidently, he’s had some problems keeping his pants on. And he may have sexually harassed Diana Kennedy.”

Mort interrupts. “If you need some help, I can give you the names of a couple of PIs that I’ve used over the years. They’re very good.”

Pete stares him down and says, “I’ll let you know.”

Mort shrugs.

Joel asks, “What can I do?”

“I want you to make a list of everything you saw and everyone who was there.”

“I’ll put it together right away.”

“One other thing. I want you to get on your laptop and look at the corporate filings in every state where Vince Russo had business. Maybe we can find him, if he’s still alive. Or maybe we can figure out what happened to him.”

“Do we need to worry about the attorney-client privilege?”

It’s a legitimate legal question. The correct legal answer is yes. The practical answer is no. “I don’t want you to do anything illegal. On the other hand, try to get everything you can. Russo isn’t doing you any favors.”

Mort holds up his unlit cigar. “The prelim is before Judge Brown. We were law school classmates. Kenny and I play cards at the Concordia Club. It might make sense for me to take a leading role.”

Rabbi Friedman nods.

I keep my tone even. “I appreciated your efforts at the arraignment yesterday. But I’m most familiar with the evidence. I’ll take the lead in the prelim.”

Rabbi Friedman frowns.

Mort looks at his cigar. “It was just a suggestion.”

“Let’s get one thing straight here, Mort. I’ll make the final calls on strategy. Do you understand?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Good. It may make sense for you to argue some of the pre-hearing motions. Think you’re up to it?”

“Sure, Mike. You’re the boss.”

“Let’s get to work.”

* * *

I’m driving Mort toward downtown in the pouring rain later the same morning. “Think we can get this knocked out at the prelim?” he asks.

“It’s going to be tough.”

He looks out the window. “So the girl was pregnant.”

“Yeah.”

“You know who the father is?”

For all his idiosyncrasies, at least he doesn’t pull punches. “Not yet.”

“You thinking what I’m thinking?”

“If Joel is the father, we’re screwed. The jury will nail him.”

Mort nods. “Just between us, what do you think the chances are that he did it? You know—jealous rage. You’ve seen it a thousand times.”

“Not likely, Mort.”

“How well do you know him?”

“Very well.”

“Hypothetically, let’s suppose he’s not quite the Boy Scout you think he is. You suppose it might be a good idea to see what our new DA has up his sleeve?”

His true colors are coming out. “You can’t seriously be thinking about a plea. It’s way too early. We’ve had the case for just a few days.”

“I know how these guys think. New DA. First big case. Doesn’t know what he’s doing. Doesn’t want to screw up. That’s why McNasty’s holding his hand. If he can get a guilty plea, he’s golden. It’s instant political capital. He can say he caught the bad guy and saved the city a ton of money in trial costs.”

“I respect your instincts, Mort, but you’re way off the mark. I know this guy. He didn’t do it. We’re going to get this knocked out. Or we’re going to beat them at trial.”

He gives me a knowing grin. “I’m just saying we should look at our options. I’ve been doing this for a long time. There are good times and bad times to talk to the DA. For what it’s worth, I think now is a good time.”

I can’t tell if he’s exercising cautious judgment, or if he’s a tired old man who’s lost his nerve. “It’s too soon to talk about a plea, Mort,” I repeat.

“Would it change your thinking if I told you things haven’t always been so great between Joel and Naomi?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You know I’m tight with Joel’s dad. Joel and Naomi have had some problems.”

“What kind?”

“She had postpartum depression after the twins were born. She’s still going through it.”

“They’re six years old. Nobody has postpartum that long.”

“Well, she did. They spent about thirty grand last year on shrinks. That’s one of the reasons Joel wanted to make partner—he needs the money.”

“Rabbi Friedman told you this?”

“Yeah. In fact, a few years ago, he asked me to recommend a doctor for her.”

I watch my windshield wipers swish back and forth as I stop at the corner of Bush and Montgomery to let him out. “What are you saying?”

“I wouldn’t rule out the possibility that Joel may have had some extramarital relations. Sometimes, a guy’s just got to have it. And I’ll bet you anything for the last six years she hasn’t been giving it to him very often.”

The gospel according to Mort Goldberg. “What would you suggest?”

“I think we ought to feel out the DA.”

“We aren’t going to consider a plea until we investigate.”

He reaches for his umbrella. “You’re the boss. But, if we don’t get somebody else to confess by Tuesday, they’ve got enough to bump this case over for trial.”

* * *

I have a visitor when I return to my office at eleven o’clock. Naomi looks embarrassed. She’s wearing jeans and a plain white cotton blouse, no makeup. “Hi, Mike. I know I should have made an appointment.”

“You can come see me anytime.”

She declines my offer of water and smiles uncomfortably. “I wanted to talk to you for a few minutes.”

“Sure.” I don’t know why she’s here. “How are the kids?”

“They’re okay, all things considered. It was difficult at school yesterday, but they’re more resilient than we think.”

“That’s for sure. How are you holding up?”

“Fair.”

“Understandable. Naomi, why did you come to see me?”

She looks at her fingernails. “I wanted to see if there’s anything I can do to help.”

“I need you to take care of the kids and yourself. And I need you to support Joel.”

“I figured that much already. I’m not sure I’m up to it.”

“Sure you are.” I look into the eyes of this decent young woman whose life has been turned upside down. “Why did you really come here, Naomi?”

Her lips form a tight line across her face. “There are a few things I think you should know.” She pauses. “Joel doesn’t know I’m here. Do you have to tell him I came to see you?”

“Not if you don’t want me to.” Actually, if she tells me something that will impact the case, I probably have a legal duty to tell Joel. We’ll see. “What is it?”

“This isn’t easy to talk about.”

“Take your time.”

“We’ve had some problems the last few years. Things haven’t always been so good between us. When you’re the rabbi’s son, you don’t talk about your problems. You figure everybody at the temple will find out.”

“I can relate. My dad was a cop. When other kids got in trouble, it wasn’t a big deal. When I got sent home from school, word always got out that Officer Daley’s son got in trouble.”

“I’ve had some problems since the kids were born.”

“It’s tough with little kids. And real tough with twins.”

“I’ve been taking medication for depression, Mike. It started right after the boys were born. And it won’t go away.”

“A lot of people go through the same thing.”

“I know. But I think it bothers Joel.” She looks down. “I feel like I’ve pushed him away.”

“The important thing is that you’re getting better.”

She sighs. “There’s been a lot of talk about Joel and Diana. Joel and I don’t have any secrets.” She’s starting to cry. I hand her a tissue. “Joel told me about the incident with Art Patton at Silverado. I don’t care what they say. I believe my husband. I came here to tell you that no matter what they say in the papers, my husband wasn’t having an affair. I’m sure of it.”

I give her a hug. “I believe you.” I’m relieved he told her. I wasn’t sure he would have.

She buries her head in my shoulder and sobs. A moment later, she lifts her tear-stained face and looks at me. She blurts out emphatically, “My husband isn’t a killer, Mike.”

* * *

Later the same afternoon, Rosie’s secretary and niece, Rolanda, brings in a large manila envelope. It contains police reports, photos and the medical examiner’s report.

I always start with the pictures. They put things into perspective. When you put aside the news reports and the lawyerly posturing, the pictures tell the essential story. Two people are dead.

The photos are about what I’d expect. Bob’s partially destroyed head. Diana sitting near the door, eyes open, chest covered with blood. A .38-caliber revolver on Bob’s desk.

The medical examiner’s report is succinct. The time of death was somewhere between one and four a.m. Medical examiners always give themselves a little wiggle room. Diana was killed by gunshots to her lung and heart. Bob died of a single bullet to the head. The wound had the outward appearance of being self-inflicted. Traces of gunpowder were found on his right hand. Powder marks and burns were found on his head at the entrance wound. There was an apparent concussive injury to his head above the exit wound.

Based on what I’ve seen so far, Mort’s probably right. Unless we get a confession from somebody other than Joel by Tuesday, this case is going to trial.

I flip through the police reports. It’s all there. The fingerprints. The arguments. The phone messages. The alleged threats. I’m about to pick up the phone when the last police report catches my eye. It’s signed by Roosevelt’s partner, Inspector Marcus Banks. It describes an interview with Joel at the Hall of Justice on January 8. It contains no new information, except for the last paragraph, which describes some questions Banks asked Joel. It then says, in capital letters, “SUSPECT CONFESSED TO THE MURDERS OF HOLMES AND KENNEDY.”

Chapter 16

“HOW STUPID DO YOU THINK I AM?”

“It’s an open-and-shut case. We will reveal evidence at the preliminary hearing that will cause Mr. Friedman to change his plea to guilty.”

– Skipper Gates. CNN. Wednesday, January 14.

“Of course I didn’t confess,” Joel insists. “For the love of God, Mike, how stupid do you think I am?”

I’m sitting in Rabbi Friedman’s living room the following morning, getting Joel’s version of the Marcus Banks interview. “Tell me about your interview with Banks.”

“I spent about four hours with Banks and Johnson at the Hall. I told them everything. They asked about Diana’s sex life. I told them I didn’t know who she was sleeping with. They seemed to think she was sleeping with me.”

“Where did Banks get the idea you confessed?”

“He made it up.”

“You sure?”

“We went over the same stuff about ten times. They said I wasn’t a suspect. If I thought I was a suspect, I would have called you. It was about eight at night. I thought we were finished. Johnson left the room for a few minutes. While he was gone, Banks asked me if I did it. I said no. He asked me again. I said no again. He asked me if I was absolutely sure. Finally, I asked him what he wanted me to say. He said he wanted me to say I did it. And I remember exactly what I said. I said the word ‘right.’ ”

“You agreed with him?”

“Of course not. I was being sarcastic. And he knows it.”

Joel’s his own worst enemy. “He seems to have taken the word ‘right’ a step farther than you intended.”

“Then he’s full of shit.”

“It’s still a problem.”

“There’s no way they can use it at trial, is there?”

“We’ll get it thrown out. Did they read you your Miranda rights?”

“Nobody read me my rights until I was arrested.”

“Good. We’ll say you weren’t properly Mirandized.”

“That’s not the point. He’s lying. I didn’t confess.”

“I understand. But it’s his word against yours. He’s going to testify that you did.”

“I’m completely screwed.”

* * *

I’m in my office at eleven o’clock the same morning, My phone is pressed to my ear as I start with my best source. “Roosevelt, I got the police reports. Your partner seems to think my client confessed.”

He clears his throat. “I just got a copy of his report. I didn’t know.”

“You were there.”

“Not when he confessed.”

“Allegedly confessed, Roosevelt. We’re going to get it knocked out. He didn’t confess and Marcus knows it. He wasn’t Mirandized. If you guys were going to question him, you should have read him his rights. Judge Brown will never let it in.”

“I’ll see what I can find out.”

“I expected better from you. I don’t like being sandbagged.”

“I’ll see what I can find out,” he repeats.

* * *

“Skipper, it’s Mike Daley.” I could leap through my phone.

“What’s up?”

“I just got the police reports.”

“So?”

“It seems Marcus Banks claims my client confessed.”

“Imagine that.”

“Don’t play games with me.”

“You want me to say that Marcus lied?”

“Yeah.”

“He didn’t.”

“Yes, he did. We’re going to the judge. We’re going to get this alleged confession kicked out. He’ll never let you use it.”

“See you at the prelim.”

* * *

“Mort,” I say, “I’m e-mailing the police report I told you about. I need you to prepare a motion to get this thing tossed. I don’t want it to see the light of day. I want it out before the prelim Tuesday.”

I can hear the chuckle in his voice. “I’ll take care of it. I talked to the judge’s clerk. I told him we want to see the judge. He’s available right before the prelim.”

Mort may be useful after all.

* * *

The phone rings in my office again. “Mr. Daley,” the familiar voice sings, “Rita Roberts, NewsCenter 4.”

I swear the name on her birth certificate is “Rita Roberts, NewsCenter 4.” “I’m a great admirer, Rita.”

“Thank you. As you know, I’m covering the Friedman murder case.”

I hadn’t noticed. “I noticed, Rita.”

“We’ve received a tip from a reliable source that Mr. Friedman confessed. Can you confirm this information?”

“Will you tell me who gave you the tip?”

“You know I can’t.”

“Sure you can. And if you want anything from me, you’ll have to tell me who tipped you.”

“I can’t do that, Mr. Daley.”

I stop to think. If I say there was no confession, I’ll sound defensive. If I say no comment, it probably sounds worse. As Mort would say, either way I’m screwed. “For the record, Mr. Friedman did not confess. And if you run a story that suggests that he did, you will be embarrassed, and I will bring legal action against your station.”

“You don’t really plan to sue us, do you, Mr. Daley?”

No, I don’t. “I know you’ll do the right thing so it doesn’t come to that.”

* * *

Late that night, I run my fingers through Rosie’s hair as she nuzzles my chest. Sex was always the best part of our marriage. We’ve come a long way since our first date when she said she wouldn’t sleep with me until they took off my training wheels. Rosie taught me everything I know about sex. She was a good teacher. Before we started going out, I had dated only younger women. I had one long-term relationship with a woman in my law-school class. She dumped me as soon as she got a job offer from a Wall Street firm. By the time I started seeing Rosie, I had a lot of catching up to do. Nowadays, we have a workable arrangement. We have recreational sex every few weeks. It isn’t ideal, but it’s easier than looking online or in bars. Grace is staying at Rosie’s mom’s house tonight.

She purrs and I kiss the back of her neck. She opens her eyes and looks at me. “So,” she says, “do you think Joel really confessed?”

“It’s just like when we were married. Can’t we forget about business for just a few minutes and focus on high-quality sex? We’re consenting adults, after all.”

She laughs. “Sorry, Mike. It’s just the way I’m drawn.”

I kiss her forehead. “That’s why I’ll always love you, Rosita. Even if you drive me nuts.”

“Are you going to answer my question?”

“Yes, Counselor. I don’t think he confessed. Marcus lied or rearranged the facts.”

“Good answer. Here’s your reward.” She kisses me softly on the mouth. “Let me ask you another question. After your little talk with Naomi yesterday, how solid do you think their marriage is?”

Interesting question. “Very solid. At least I think so.” I smile. “Maybe our marriage wasn’t as screwed up as we thought.” At least we never cheated on each other.

She kisses me again. “Now for the tough one. Do you think he was sleeping with Diana?”

In this game, the prizes tend to get better as the questions get harder. “I don’t think so. He would have told her.”

She gives me a cynical look and bites my left ear.

“Then again,” I say, “I don’t know for sure.”

Chapter 17

THE MEDICAL EXAMINER AND THE CRIMINALIST

“You have to be curious to be a medical examiner. Your patients can’t talk to you.”

– Chief Medical Examiner Roderick Beckert. San Francisco Chronicle. Thursday, January 15.

“Thank you for seeing me, Dr. Beckert,” I say. “I know you’re busy.”

“Nice to see you again, Mr. Daley,” he lies politely.

At eleven o’clock the next morning, I’m meeting with Dr. Roderick Beckert, the chief medical examiner of the city and county of San Francisco, in his modest office on the first floor of the Hall. A stout sixty-two-year-old with a salt-and-pepper goatee and black-framed glasses, he is the dean of big-city coroners. And he knows it. And he’ll tell you so. I wouldn’t dream of addressing him other than as Dr. Beckert, and he’d never call me Mike. He has been chief medical examiner for almost thirty years. His textbook on autopsy procedures for victims of violent crimes is a seminal work. He is very good at his job.

His neat office smells antiseptic. His bookshelves hold meticulously arranged texts on anatomy and pathology. There are framed pictures of his wife, two grown children and three grandchildren. A model of a skeleton smiles at me from the corner. I’ve always wondered what medical examiners talk about at the dinner table.

His glasses are perched on his furrowed brow. His thick lips frown. He wears a paisley tie under his white lab coat. A tweed sports jacket hangs on a wooden coatrack in the corner.

“How may I help you, Mr. Daley?” he asks. His voice is the perfect combination of authority and empathy, with a singsong lilt and hint of a New York accent that’s particularly effective at trial. I’ll bet his anatomy class at UCSF is terrific.

“Dr. Beckert, you know I’m representing Joel Friedman.”

“Of course, Mr. Daley.”

“I was hoping we might go through your autopsy reports on Robert Holmes and Diana Kennedy. Maybe you can help us figure out what happened.”

He juts out his lower lip in a mock pout. “Mr. Daley, I already know exactly what happened. It’s in my report.” He knows I’m here to find holes in his work. I have a better chance at winning the lottery. “Where would you like to start?”

“Maybe you can explain how you figured out the time of death.”

He flips through his report. It’s an act. He can recite verbatim the contents of his reports from twenty years ago. “In both cases, I put the time of death between one and four in the morning.”

“I’ve wondered how you figured that out.” Actually, I already know. He knows I know. I still want to hear it from him. It’s a free preview of his testimony.

“We look at a number of factors. First, we look at body temperature, which drops by about one and a half degrees per hour after death. Second, we look at lividity. When you die, your blood pressure goes down to zero, and your body begins to discolor. We can calculate the time of death based upon the amount of discoloration. We look at food in the victim’s stomach. We see how far the digestive process has gone. We know Mr. Holmes and Ms. Kennedy ate dinner around ten o’clock. There was undigested food in their stomachs. Mr. Holmes had crab cakes. Ms. Kennedy ate a cheeseburger. We do a number of other tests.”

I try to sound like an earnest high-school student. “And from this evidence, you concluded the time of death was between one and four in the morning?”

“We always give ourselves a three-hour window.”

“Did you find any alcohol in their systems?”

“Mr. Holmes had a couple of glasses of wine with dinner. Ms. Kennedy had consumed a small amount of liquor late in the evening.”

I’ll bet he knows the type of salad dressing each of them had with dinner. “Perhaps we could look at the pictures.”

“Very well.”

We start with Diana. He shows me photos of her naked body lying on the stainless-steel autopsy table. I’ve seen hundreds of similar pictures, but I’m glad I didn’t eat a big breakfast.

“Ms. Kennedy died within seconds,” he says. “The first bullet pierced her right pulmonary artery and the lung parenchyma, causing a hemopneumothorax. In layman’s terms, it went through her right lung, causing a collection of blood and air in the space between the lung and the chest wall. The second bullet penetrated the left ventricle of her heart.”

He opens a manila envelope and pulls out three enlarged pictures of what I presume is Bob’s head. He clips them to his bulletin board. He uses a gold Cross as a pointer. “Entry was in the right parietal, just above the temple. Exit in the left parietal, above his left ear. Slight upward trajectory.”

This may help our suicide argument. Bob was right-handed. His analysis is consistent with a right-handed shooter. “How far was the barrel of the gun from his head when he was shot?”

He’s still gesturing toward the photos. “The starburst splitting of the skin indicates it was a contact wound. I found powder marks and burns on his head. In other words, the barrel was placed against the head.” His delivery is calm and clinical. He could be reciting baseball scores. He points at the picture on the right. “This is the left side of his head, or, if you’ll forgive me, what was left of it. The exit wound was quite dramatic.”

I’ll say. Everything above the ear line is unrecognizable. “Did you find evidence of gunpowder on his hands?”

“We found gunpowder on his right hand and forearm.”

This supports our suicide argument. “Your report suggests the possibility of a concussive wound on his head.”

“There was a concussive wound, Mr. Daley.” He points to the area above Bob’s left ear. “Do you see this right here?”

“I’m not sure.” It reminds me of the first sonogram of Grace when Rosie was pregnant. The OB could make out a head, a backbone and various organs. It looked like test pattern to me. “I’m sorry. I’m not sure what you’re pointing at.”

“Right here.” He gestures again toward a spot near the edge of the exit wound. “It’s as clear as night and day to a trained medical examiner.”

I’m not a trained medical examiner.

“It may have been larger,” he continues, “but part of it may have been obliterated by the exit wound. What’s left is about a quarter of an inch in diameter. There’s a small hematoma.”

People think lawyers talk in code. Hematoma is doctor-speak for a swelling containing blood. It’s hard to see in a flat picture. “How can you tell it wasn’t just part of the exit wound?”

“Because the exit wound stops here. The concussive wound is a separate injury.”

“How was this wound generated?”

“He must have been struck by a hard object.”

I look at the pictures again. “Can you figure out the size or the shape of the object, Doctor?”

“I’m afraid not. It was heavy enough to do some damage, but there were no traces of paint or wood or metal in the skull.”

“Is it possible it may have been an old wound? Maybe he bumped his head a few weeks ago.”

“No. It was fresh. It’s tough to see it in the picture, but if you had the body in front of you, you’d see the bump was just beginning to form. The swelling would have stopped as soon as his heart stopped beating. And if he had been hit after he was shot, there would have been no hematoma because there would have been no blood pumped to the wound.”

Too bad. “Doctor, can you tell if he was unconscious when he was shot?”

“Probably.”

This isn’t helping. On the other hand, a big part of their case may turn on his ability to convince the jury that somebody hit Bob on the head. The gunpowder on Bob’s hand is evidence he was holding the gun when it was fired.

“One last question, Doctor. Are you sure somebody hit him on the head?”

“In my best medical judgment, yes.”

* * *

Sandra Wilson is the best field-evidence technician, or “FET,” in the SFPD. Now in her late thirties, this articulate African-American woman may be the ideal prosecution witness—the voice of authority combined with a tone of reason.

I’ve left Dr. Beckert and climbed the stairs to Sandra’s claustrophobic office on the second floor of the Hall, which she shares with another criminalist. Her pens and paper clips are lined up in front of a photo of her husband. There’s a picture of a toddler on the top other computer. Her UCLA diploma hangs on the wall. Her black hair is short, her eyes intense. Her sensible clothing isn’t accessorized. Her husband is a cop. They aren’t rolling in extra cash.

She smiles. “If my boss finds out I’m fraternizing with the enemy, I’ll catch hell.”

I like her. “I’ll never tell.”

“Good. I’m busy. What do you need to know?”

“The usual. Got any nice evidence that will exonerate my client?”

She chuckles. “Of course. We’ve been sandbagging you.” She pulls out a manila folder containing crime-scene photos. Her tone is matter-of-fact. “As you can see, Holmes was on the floor beneath his desk, Kennedy by the door. They were both pronounced dead at the scene at eight-twenty-two. Gun was on the desk. Your client said he found it on the floor and unloaded it.” She studies her notes. “Friedman’s fingerprints were on the gun, the spent shells and the unused bullets. Also on the computer keyboard, the door handle and the desk.”

“He admitted he was at the scene. Got anything to help me prove he didn’t fire the gun?”

She hands me a photocopy of a diagram showing exactly where Joel’s fingerprints were found on the gun—something she doesn’t really have to do. “See for yourself.”

I study the drawing. “Did you find Bob’s fingerprints on the gun?”

“Several. Just the handle, however.”

“What about the trigger?”

“Just an unidentifiable smudged print.”

I put the diagram in my pocket. I want Pete’s input. “Did you test Joel’s hands or clothing for gunpowder residue?”

“No, I didn’t. He wasn’t a suspect at the scene. By the time he was a suspect, he’d showered and his clothes had been laundered. It would have been too late to get anything.”

I appreciate her honesty. “I’ll probably have to use that at the prelim.”

“I know. I know. You’re just doing your job.”

“What can you tell me about the gun?”

“It’s a Smith and Wesson thirty-eight revolver. Forensics matched the bullets. The blood-spatter analysis indicates that Holmes was sitting in his chair when he was shot.”

“What about the keyboard? Skipper thinks Joel typed the suicide e-mail.”

“I hope you aren’t going to try to come up with some hokey chain-of-custody argument.”

“I’m not.” Well, I might try. Defense attorneys frequently argue the cops mishandled or even planted evidence. “I know better than to try to nail you on chain of custody. I’m curious, though. Did you find Joel’s fingerprints on all the alphabetic keys?”

She glances at her notes. “Yes.”

I make a mental note to see if Bob’s e-mail used all twenty-six letters in the alphabet. “What about the numeric keys and the function keys?”

“We found your client’s fingerprints on all of the numeric keys and three of the function keys.”

That’s odd. Lawyers use the keyboard to send e-mails and type documents. They rarely touch the function keys. “Did you find Bob’s fingerprints on the keyboard?”

“No.”

That’s really odd. “Let me ask you about the voice messages.”

“The message from Friedman to Holmes was recorded at twelve-thirty. We tested the system. We’re sure about the time. We’ll call an expert if we have to.”

It’s probably not worth fighting over the time of the call. “What about the call to Diana?”

“Phone company records indicate the call was initiated at twelve-fifty-one a.m. It lasted one minute and thirty-four seconds. We found the message on Diana’s home answering machine.”

“You’re sure of the timing?”

“Yes. We tested the timing mechanism on the answering machine. And don’t even think about arguing the tapes were tampered with, Mike.”

“You guys aren’t doing me any favors.”

“This is a high-profile case. Word came from above—no screw-ups. They put the first team on this case. That’s why I’m involved. That’s why Rod Beckert did the autopsy. That’s why Roosevelt is in charge of the investigation. If Skipper loses this case, it won’t be because we screwed up.”

Swell. “Sandra, do you have anything else that might be useful?”

“I’ll send you copies of the security tapes.”

“Thanks. Any other fingerprints in Bob’s office?”

“We found prints from everybody you’d expect—from his partners to his secretary. We found Vince Russo’s fingerprints on his desk. We even found one of your fingerprints on his desk, Mike.” She grins. “We’ll be keeping an eye on you.”

“Rod Beckert seems to think that somebody hit Bob on the side of the head with a heavy object. Did you find any blood or hair on anything in his office that could have been used to knock him out? Maybe a book or a stapler or something?”

“No.”

That helps our suicide argument. I thank her for her time. She’s going to kill us at the trial.

Chapter 18

“NOBODY’S TALKING”

“Simpson and Gates has no comment concerning Mr. Friedman’s case. We are confident justice will be served.”

– Arthur Patton. San Francisco Legal Journal. Friday, January 16

The pretty young woman flashes an uncomfortable smile. “Mr. Patton will see you now, Mr. Daley.”

At nine o’clock the next morning, I’m back in familiar territory—the reception area at Simpson and Gates.

Art Patton’s secretary ushers me to his museum-like corner office. Like most high-powered civil litigators, there are no files cluttering his office. His slaves handle the grunt work. The Louis-the-something furniture contrasts with the heavy oriental rugs. Several modern sculptures adorn his credenza. The walls are covered with photos of Patton with local politicians. He stands to greet me. Chuckles is sitting in one of Patton’s overstuffed chairs. He doesn’t get up.

Patton’s all smiles. “Good to see you,” he lies. He doesn’t sit down. If he has his way, this will be a short visit.

“I didn’t realize you were going to convene an executive committee meeting.”

Not surprisingly, Patton is going to act as spokesman. “When you called, we thought it would be better to do this together. We’re extremely busy.” His eyes dart toward Chuckles. “I know you want to talk about Joel’s case. It’s a very serious subject. A great tragedy.” He nods solemnly. “We’ve given our statements to the police. We’ve put Joel on administrative leave, and we’re going to let the justice system take its course. It’s all we can do.”

Smooth. And carefully rehearsed. “The police reports said you were in the office that night. I was wondering what time you left.”

“If you’re suggesting somebody in this room was involved, you’re mistaken.”

“I’m just trying to piece together what happened.”

He knows I’m lying, but he’ll appear evasive if he doesn’t answer. “I left at one-thirty. Charles left a little later. Neither of us saw or heard anything.”

It’s certainly convenient they can alibi each other. “Thanks. I’m sure your story will be borne out by the security videos.” They glance at each other. Let them sweat a little. “Somebody from the firm told the investigating officers that Joel was having an affair with Diana.”

“I don’t know anything about that. If I did, I’d tell the cops—not you.”

“I was hoping you’d confirm that you made that accusation.”

“We’ve given our statements to the police.”

“I know you told the cops you thought Joel and Diana were having an affair.”

“We have given our statements to the police.”

He’s going to stick to the talking points. “Is it true the firm defaulted on its equipment loans to First Bank?”

“That’s absurd. The financial health of the firm is excellent. If I were in your shoes, I would be preparing a defense for my client, not harassing us.”

“I can subpoena the firm’s financial records.”

“This meeting is over, Mike.”

* * *

First Bank’s general counsel, Jeff Tucker, is a tight-assed little man in his mid-thirties who started his career at S&G. He went to First Bank two years ago when Bob Holmes stabbed him squarely in the back and he didn’t make partner. He’s still bitter. He works in a ten-by-ten office with a dirt-caked window on the third floor of a boxy seventies office building overlooking an alley on the south side of Market Street. In a cost-cutting move earlier this year, the bank moved from palatial space on the fortieth floor of the Four Embarcadero Center tower to offices formerly occupied by a now-defunct insurance company.

It’s a quarter to twelve, and Jeff wants to go to lunch. He squints at me through uncomfortable contact lenses. “I don’t know anything that would help you,” he says.

When in doubt, try to deflect. “I understand S&G is having some financial troubles.”

“You know I can’t talk about the bank’s customers.”

“I’m your customer. I’m a former S&G partner. If the firm goes belly-up, I may have to cough up money to help cover its debts. I can come back with a subpoena, but I’d rather not.” A little overbearing, but the tough-guy act usually works with people like Jeff.

“What do you really need to know?”

“Is the firm is in financial trouble.”

“Yes.”

“Has the firm defaulted on its equipment loans?”

His lips get tighter. “Yes.”

“How much were the loans?”

“About twenty million.”

“Have you foreclosed?”

“Not yet. My superiors said it would be bad PR to foreclose on the firm right after the tragedy, so we gave them an extension.”

Very un-bank-like behavior. “How long?”

“Sixty days. If they don’t raise the twenty million by the end of February, we’ll foreclose. It’ll probably throw the firm into bankruptcy.” He stands. “I’ve told you more than I should have. I’m late for lunch.”

* * *

At noon, I’m eating a quarter pounder at the McDonald’s on Pine and talking to Rosie on my cell. I ask her if she was able to reach Beth Holmes.

“Yeah. She isn’t saying much. She claims she doesn’t know anything about Bob’s will, life insurance or investments.”

“How is that possible?”

“People aren’t always as forthcoming with their spouses as we were, Mike. Guess who’s the executor of the estate?”

Easy question. “Everybody at the firm uses Chuckles. Dead people feel comfortable around him.”

She laughs. “How did your meetings go with your former partners?”

“Lousy. Nobody’s talking. Total stonewall.”

“No surprise. I gotta run.”

* * *

At one o’clock, I’m admiring the view of the Golden Gate Bridge from the thirty-eighth floor of the Transamerica Pyramid. Jack Frazier, Continental Capital Corporation’s mergers-and-acquisitions stud, has a corner office that’s far too big for a thirty-two-year-old. He’s a tall blond with a vacant expression who looks out of place behind his mahogany desk. It’s hard to believe this guy persuaded his corporate masters in Connecticut to pay nine hundred million bucks for Vince Russo’s company. From what I gather from Joel, he’s one of those young MBAs who got out of school at the right time. At the next downturn in the economy, he’ll be driving a cab.

Before I can sit down, Frazier announces, “Continental Capital Corporation has no comment with respect to the deaths of Mr. Holmes and Ms. Kennedy.”

And that’s that.

His ever-present attorney, a dour fiftyish drone named Martin Glass, nods with approval. “Mr. Daley, we have given our statements to the police. We have nothing further to add at this time.” He takes off his frameless glasses and puts them on Frazier’s desk. It’s amazing how everybody clams up when a defense attorney shows up.

Time to play bull in the china shop. “I don’t need a lot of your time. I’m just trying to figure out what happened that night. What time did you guys leave?”

Glass responds. “I left a few minutes before ten. Jack left around one-forty-five. We went home.”

They’ve compared notes. “Where do you guys live?”

Again, Glass does the talking. “I live in Seacliff. Jack is on Russian Hill.”

I can confirm their departure times from the security videos. “How was the deal going?”

They look at each other. “Fine,” says Glass.

Good answer. Says nothing. “Was it going to close?”

“Yes,” says Glass, nodding. “All the papers were signed.”

“What happened the next morning?”

“I got a call from your client. He told me what happened.”

“I understand there was a big breakup fee.”

Before Glass can respond, Frazier says, “Yes there was.”

I make a mental note that Frazier can be jumpy. If he’s as smart as everyone at CCC seems to think he is, he’d shut his mouth. “How much?”

Glass answers again. “That’s confidential. Obviously, our client didn’t want to pay it. I don’t see what this has to do with your client.”

“I’m just trying to figure out what was going on.” And to see if your client had motive.

“Mr. Daley,” says Glass, “we’ve told you everything we know. I feel badly. I like Joel Friedman. I hope he didn’t do it. Of course, if he did, I’m sure he’ll get what he deserves.”

* * *

At two o’clock, I walk into Assistant City Attorney Ed Ehrlich’s windowless office on the fourth floor of a mid-rise fifties office building near Moscone Center. The city can’t be criticized for wasting taxpayer funds on opulent offices. The owl-eyed Ehrlich looks at home behind his metal desk. There’s no artwork on the walls.

“I’m due at the redevelopment agency,” he says as I walk in. “Can we talk later?”

“Sure. Can I ask you a few quick questions before you go?”

“Make it fast.”

“How late were you at the S&G offices that night?”

“I went home around ten.”

“Was the deal going to close?”

“As far as I knew. It was approved by CCC’s board. Everything depended on Russo.”

“Was the city happy with the deal?”

“For the most part. Some people were worried about funding for our loan.”

“When did Dan Morris leave?”

I see distaste in his eyes. Seems Ed and the mayor’s political fixer may not be the best of friends. “I don’t know.”

“Why did he stay?”

“To work the room. He wanted to suck up to the CCC people. Guys like that are always playing the angles.”

“See anything suspicious that night?”

“Nope.”

* * *

At two-thirty, I’m walking up Montgomery Street, talking to Pete on my cell. “Find anything we can use? I ask.

“I did a little checking on Russo. He never went back to the Ritz. The cop who found his car at the Golden Gate Bridge didn’t see anyone. The car was registered to a limited liability company called Camelot Investments, LLC, which is owned by two trusts in the Bahamas. One is called the International Charitable Trust. The other is the Charitable Trust for Humanity. I’m checking them out.”

* * *

My afternoon isn’t getting any better. At three o’clock, I’m sitting in Dan Morris’s office. The political consultant’s office is a monument to his favorite person—himself. Two walls are lined with pictures of Dan grinning with local dignitaries whose political fortunes he’s orchestrated. Another wall is adorned with framed political posters for his candidates.

A paunchy redhead, Morris is known as the Chameleon in San Francisco political circles because he’ll represent candidates of every political denomination as long as they can come up with the four hundred grand he charges to run a campaign. His candidates win. Lately, he has been running a Senate campaign for Edward Cross, a Republican, and a congressional campaign for Leslie Sherman, a Democrat.

He’s been on the phone since I arrived. In the last fifteen minutes, he’s raised about a hundred thousand grand for Cross and another fifty for Sherman.

When he finally hangs up, there isn’t a hint of remorse in his tone. “Raising money is the shits,” he says.

“I understand.” Don’t feel any obligation to apologize for keeping me waiting.

“I hate to do this to you, but I’ve got to run. I’m due at the mayor’s office in ten minutes.”

“Can we reschedule for tomorrow?”

“I’ll have to call you. I’m flying to L.A.”

“Can’t we talk for just a minute?”

“Can’t keep the mayor waiting. I’ll call you.”

* * *

At four-thirty, I walk into Harrington’s, a dark wood-paneled pub that’s been a workingman’s bar on Front Street since in 1935—long before it was surrounded by high-rise office buildings.

Rick Cinelli is an olive-skinned man with a raspy voice and a reserved manner. He’s been tending bar at Harrington’s for twenty years. He could run for mayor. I take a seat at the bar, and he pours me an Anchor Steam.

“Haven’t seen you in a while, Mike.”

“Been busy, Rick.” I sip my beer. “You know I left S&G.”

“I heard. Helluva thing about Bob and Diana. I hear you’re representing Joel.”

“Yeah. Actually, that’s why I’m here. I understand Joel and Diana were here that night. Mind if I ask you a few questions?”

“Ask away. I got nothing to hide.”

“I heard Joel and Diana had a fight that night.”

“They did. One minute they were ordering dinner. The next minute they were arguing. Next thing I know, she storms out. It lasted a minute.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

Now, the important part. “Do you happen to know what they were arguing about?”

“Nope. They were sitting in the corner. As long as they pay for their drinks, I leave them alone. That’s why I’ve been here for so long.”

It’s what I expected him to say. “Could you tell if they were fighting about work?”

“I couldn’t tell.”

“Did you hear anything in particular?”

“He said he was going to get her for something. I remember that distinctly. He said it a couple times. “I’ll get you for this.”

* * *

“Mr. Kim, may I speak to you for a moment?” I approach Homer Kim, a young custodian, at the employees’ entrance to the Bank of America Building. The evening shift is about to start. I introduce myself and hand him a business card. “I wonder if I can ask you a few questions.”

“Late for work,” he says in broken English.

“It’ll take just a minute. I’m Joel Friedman’s lawyer. I understand you spoke to the police.”

“Yes.”

“Did you tell the police Mr. Friedman and Mr. Holmes had a fight that night?”

“Yes. Mr. Friedman was angry at Mr. Holmes.” He starts to move away.

“Do you know why?”

“No.”

“What did Mr. Friedman say to Mr. Holmes?”

“Don’t know. I walked by the office. Mr. Friedman was yelling at Mr. Holmes.”

“Mr. Kim, do you know what they were arguing about?”

“Don’t know. Late for work.”

“Did you hear any shots?”

“No. Late for work.”

* * *

At six o’clock, I’m in my office with Rosie when Pete calls in. I put him on the speaker.

“You guys get anything?” he asks.

“Nothing useful,” I say. “What about you?”

“I had someone watching Art Patton last night.” I can hear the grin in his voice. “You were right about his divorce. He and his wife separated a couple months ago. He’s living in an apartment on Russian Hill. Around eight last night, he went over to pay a condolence call to the Widow Holmes. He didn’t leave until seven this morning.”

If I ever get married again, I’ll never cheat as long as Pete is still breathing.

* * *

At seven o’clock in the evening on the following Monday, Rosie, Mort and I meet with Joel and his father in Rabbi Friedman’s dining room. The preliminary hearing is set for ten o’clock tomorrow, with motions at nine.

Rabbi Friedman isn’t happy. “You’re saying you won’t be able to get the charges dropped tomorrow?”

“It looks that way, Rabbi. They’ve probably got enough to take the case to trial.”

Mort tries to sound reassuring. “It doesn’t prove they have a strong case, Rabbi. It means they have enough to get to trial.”

Rabbi Friedman isn’t mollified.

Joel is edgy. “So what do you plan to do tomorrow? Roll over?”

“No,” I say. “We’ll challenge their witnesses, but we won’t tip our hand. We don’t want to give them anything they can use at the trial.”

“You’re going to get that so-called confession knocked out, right?”

“That’s the first item on the agenda. We’re going to talk to the judge in chambers before the hearing. If he lets the confession in, we’ll go straight to the appellate court for a writ. I don’t want it to see the light of day.”

Rabbi Friedman shakes his head.

Joel addresses his father. “They’re doing everything they can, Dad. The legal system doesn’t work so well sometimes. And it never works very fast.”

It’s nice when your client defends you. Things usually work better when it’s the other way around.

Rosie breaks the silence. “Do you think we should ask for a change in venue? There’s been a lot of press coverage. It may be tough to get an unbiased jury.”

Mort chimes in first. “I still think we should stay here. San Francisco is a liberal town. I’d rather try a murder case here than almost anywhere else in California.”

I agree with him. “You wouldn’t want to try this case in Bakersfield or Orange County. I’d take my chances with a San Francisco jury.”

Rosie says, “Assuming this moves forward, we need to think about trial dates. We’ll need to prepare witnesses, get experts, talk to jury consultants. It could take some time.” She turns to Joel. “You’ll want to waive the rule that says they have to start the trial within sixty days.”

Mort agrees. “I’ve never had a case where the defendant didn’t waive time.”

Joel sets his chin. “I’m not going to waive time.”

“Can we talk about this, Joel?” I say.

“We can talk all you want. Bottom line, I’m not waiving time. My life has been turned upside down for something I didn’t do. My reputation has been destroyed. My wife and kids are going through hell. I don’t want to live at my parents’ house for a year. This case isn’t complicated. I didn’t do it. I’m not going to give Skipper more time to practice. Tell the judge tomorrow that I’m not waiving time.”

“Joel—,” I say.

He stops me. “I’m the client. What I say goes. I’m not waiving time.”

Chapter 19

THE PRELIMINARY HEARING

NewsCenter 4 has learned from reliable sources that Joel Mark Friedman has confessed to the murders of two colleagues. Judge Kenneth Brown will preside at the preliminary hearing at ten o’clock today.”

– Rita Roberts. NewsCenter 4 Daybreak. Tuesday, January 20.

“Your Honor,” Mort begins, “we have three very serious issues.”

At nine a.m. on Tuesday, January 20, Rosie, Mort and I sit in Judge Kenneth Brown’s cramped chambers. Skipper and McNulty are with us. Brown’s desk is littered with files and law books. There’s a picture of him shaking hands with the governor.

Judge Brown is late fifties, with a lanky frame and narrow eyes. He’s a former prosecutor and political ally of the mayor who is bucking for an appointment to the federal bench. At the moment, he’s stuck listening to motions and conducting preliminary hearings. Unlike Judge Miller, Brown actually reads the California statutes from time to time. The scouting report suggests he’s never met a prosecutor he didn’t like.

He’s all business. “What’s the problem, Mr. Goldberg?”

This morning’s motions will be Mort’s show. If he can’t convince his poker buddy to exclude the confession, we’re in trouble. Mort’s actually very good on evidentiary issues.

Mort invokes an even tone. “First, Inspector Marcus Banks has alleged that Mr. Friedman confessed. He didn’t. Second, Mr. Friedman wasn’t Mirandized when he was questioned. Even if we assume he did, in fact, confess—which he didn’t—the confession is inadmissible. Third, somebody from Mr. Gates’s office leaked the alleged confession to the press. The potential juror pool has already been irreparably tainted. We have no choice but to move for dismissal.”

He’ll never dismiss the case. Not a chance.

Skipper clears his throat. “Your Honor—,”

The judge cuts him off. “Mr. Gates, I’ll tell you when it’s your turn to talk.” He turns back to Mort. “Let’s take this one step at a time. I’ve read your motion. I’m not in a position to determine what was said. For purposes of this hearing, I have to let Inspector Banks testify about what he heard—unless I’m pretty sure he’s committing perjury.”

“But, Your Honor—,”

Brown stops him with an upraised hand. “On the other hand, Mr. Goldberg, your other charges are considerably more serious.” He points a pencil at Skipper. “Mr. Gates, was the defendant Mirandized before the interview took place?”

“No, Your Honor. He wasn’t Mirandized because he wasn’t a suspect at the time.”

Brown frowns. “How long was Mr. Friedman questioned?”

“A couple of hours.”

I interrupt. “Actually, the interview took four hours. This issue came up at the very end.”

“I see.” Brown turns back to Skipper. “Did the defendant volunteer the information, or did Inspector Banks ask him if he committed double murder?”

Skipper glances at McNulty before he answers. “I believe he responded to a question.”

“Mr. Gates, perhaps we should invite Inspector Banks in so he can tell us exactly what happened.”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

Judge Brown asks his bailiff to summon Banks, who strolls in confidently. He’s sporting a stylish double-breasted gray suit. His French cuffs are accessorized with gold cuff links. He takes a seat in the last empty chair.

Judge Brown is going to ask the questions. “Inspector Banks, we understand you interviewed Mr. Friedman.”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“And toward the end of the interview, you claim he confessed to committing the murders of Robert Holmes and Diana Kennedy?”

“Yes, Your Honor. That’s correct.”

“Was the interview taped?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“Was this alleged confession taped?”

“Well, no, Your Honor.”

Brown opens his eyes wide. “Why not?”

“My partner, Inspector Johnson, and I had concluded the formal part of the interview. We had turned off the recorder.”

“And as soon as you turned off the recorder, Mr. Friedman confessed?”

“Yes.”

The judge taps his pencil on the desk. “Interesting coincidence. Where was Inspector Johnson when Mr. Friedman allegedly confessed?”

“He went to get Mr. Friedman some water.”

“So Inspector Johnson didn’t hear this alleged confession?”

“No, he didn’t.”

“And nobody else heard it?”

“No.”

“Your Honor—,” I say.

“It will be your turn in a minute, Mr. Daley. Inspector Banks, how long have you been with the department?”

“Thirty years.”

“How many murder suspects have you interviewed?”

He thinks about it for a moment. “Hundreds. Maybe thousands.”

“You’ve heard of the Miranda rules?”

He swallows. “Yes, Your Honor.”

“Here’s my problem. We understand you didn’t give Mr. Friedman his Miranda warnings when you questioned him. Correct?”

“Yes.”

I’m impressed with his truthfulness. He could have lied and said he read Joel his rights. It would have been his word against Joel’s.

“May I ask why not?”

“He wasn’t a suspect at the time of questioning.”

“I see. Did Mr. Friedman volunteer this information, or did he respond to a question?”

“I believe I asked him a question.”

“Which was?”

Banks looks directly at the judge. “I asked him if he did it.”

“But he wasn’t a suspect.”

“No, Your Honor.”

“How did he respond?”

“He responded affirmatively.”

“In other words,” Judge Brown says, “he said yes.”

“That’s correct.”

Mort interrupts. “Your Honor, in point of fact, Mr. Friedman did not say ‘yes.’ He said the word ‘right’ in a sarcastic tone. He was being facetious.”

Brown is glaring at Banks. “Is that your recollection of the conversation, Inspector?”

“No, Your Honor. I distinctly asked Mr. Friedman if he did it, and he responded affirmatively.”

Nice dance, Marcus. But not good enough. “Your Honor, Mr. Banks did not answer your question.” I turn to Banks. “Isn’t it true, Inspector Banks, that in response to your question, Mr. Friedman responded by sarcastically saying the word ‘right’?”

“That’s not the way I remember it.”

McNulty leaps in. “Your Honor, even if Inspector Banks asked the defendant if he committed the acts in question, he didn’t need to be Mirandized because he wasn’t a suspect.”

Brown is unhappy. “Mr. McNulty, it seems to me that it’s a long stretch to suggest Mr. Friedman wasn’t a suspect if Mr. Banks was asking if he committed these crimes.” He turns to Banks. “If he wasn’t a suspect, Inspector, why did you ask him if he did it?”

I’m trying to find an opportunity to continue my argument that Joel didn’t really confess at all. I glance at Rosie, who gives me the signal to keep my mouth shut.

Banks shrugs. “I’m not sure, Your Honor. I guess I just wanted to know.”

Judge Brown looks at Skipper. “Mr. Gates, may I assume you have enough evidence to present today without this ‘alleged’ confession?”

The correct answer is yes.

Skipper hesitates. “Yes, Your Honor,” he finally decides. “But it really would help me to get this confession in.”

“Then Inspector Banks should have followed the law and read Mr. Friedman his Miranda rights.” Judge Brown looks at Banks. “The defense motion is granted. The alleged confession is out.”

Round 1 goes to the good guys.

Mort’s expression doesn’t change. “Your Honor, we have another problem. This bogus confession was leaked to the media. I’ve already received inquiries from several TV reporters. In fact, I heard about it on the news this morning. The potential juror pool has been irreparably tainted. I have no choice but to ask that the charges be dropped.”

It never hurts to ask. The judge will never go for it.

Brown responds with an almost imperceptible grin. “Nice try, Mr. Goldberg. Denied.”

Skipper looks pleased.

Judge Brown isn’t finished. “I am ordering Mr. Gates to issue a statement saying there was no confession. I will approve its contents. I expect it on my desk by two o’clock.”

Skipper is no longer pleased. “I resent the implication that this information was leaked from my office.”

“Mr. Gates, I expect the statement on my desk by two o’clock. If it isn’t, I’ll hold you in contempt.”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

Mort goes for a gratuitous tweak. “Your Honor, I think Mr. Gates should be sanctioned for this irresponsible leak.”

The bull is sprinting at full speed through the china shop. I glance at Rosie. The corners of her mouth turn up slightly.

“Your Honor,” Skipper implores, “we didn’t leak anything to the press.”

Mort turns to him. “Oh, and I suppose you think we did?”

Judge Brown taps his pencil. “Children, please. In the spirit of cooperation, I’m not going to sanction anybody right now.”

“Your Honor,” I say, “I would ask you to issue an order that would prohibit any such leaks in the future.”

“I’ll do better than that, Mr. Daley. As of this moment, I am issuing a total gag order. I don’t want any of you talking to the press. Do you understand?”

We nod in unison.

“Good. Because if anybody violates the order, I’ll put them in jail for contempt. I mean it. Fines don’t mean anything to you. I’ll put you in jail for a long time. Understood?”

We nod again. It’s like kindergarten. When the bell rings, we get to go to recess.

“I’ll see you in court,” Brown says.

* * *

“Nice work, Mort,” I say.

Joel, Rosie, Mort and I are sitting in a consultation room behind Judge Brown’s courtroom.

Mort shrugs. “We didn’t get everything, but we got the confession out.”

Joel’s eyes light up. “Can you get the charges dropped?”

Rosie, Mort and I exchange a glance. “It doesn’t look good,” I say. “They don’t have to show very much. They’ve put you at the scene. Your prints are on the gun and the keyboard. There’s the phone messages. That’s probably enough to push this to trial.”

“But we can explain all that stuff.”

“I know. But we don’t want to telegraph our defense too soon.”

He looks up at the ceiling and says nothing.

* * *

“All rise.”

Judge Brown enters his packed courtroom and takes his place on the bench between the Stars and Stripes and the California state flag. Reporters fill the jury box. There’s barely enough room for a few courthouse groupies.

Joel sits at the defense table between Rosie and me. Mort is at the end of the table. Rabbi Friedman and Naomi sit behind us in the first row of the gallery. Joel’s mother is home watching the children.

The case is called. Skipper and I state our appearances for the record. Judge Brown reads the charges and says the defendant has entered a plea of not guilty. He reminds us that this is a preliminary hearing for the purpose of determining whether there is sufficient evidence to hold the defendant over for trial. Skipper gives a brief opening statement. I give an even shorter one saying, in effect, there are too many holes in the state’s case to hold Joel over for trial. Then Judge Brown instructs Skipper to call his first witness.

* * *

Skipper is standing at the lectern. “Please state your name and occupation for the record.”

“Dr. Roderick Beckert. Chief Medical Examiner for the City and County of San Francisco.”

“How long have you held that position?”

“Thirty years.”

Skipper starts to run Beckert through his credentials. Undergrad at Harvard. Medical degree from Stanford. I interrupt and stipulate to his expertise. Skipper is disappointed. He was just getting to the part where Beckert delivered the tablets at Mount Sinai.

Skipper hands Beckert a copy of his autopsy report. Beckert glances at it briefly. He quickly confirms that Bob and Diana died from gunshot wounds. Skipper sits down. He’s played just enough cards for a prelim. McNulty has coached him well.

I move to the lectern. “Dr. Beckert, your report says that the wounds to Mr. Holmes may have been self-inflicted.”

“Yes, but—,”

“Thank you, Doctor. You’ve answered my question. I have no further questions.”

* * *

Sandra Wilson is next. Skipper quickly walks her through her resume. Undergraduate and master’s degrees from UCLA. A nine-year veteran of the SFPD. I’ll look like a jerk if I interrupt her.

She calmly walks through the physical evidence. As the sportscasters like to say, we can’t stop her—we can only hope to contain her. Skipper takes her through chain-of-custody issues. She leaves no doubt the gun and the other evidence were handled and catalogued appropriately. She says the prints on the gun and the keyboard are a perfect match for Joel’s. She introduces the tape from Diana’s answering machine and a recording of Joel’s voicemail to Bob. Joel leans over and asks whether there’s anything we can do. I shake my head. Skipper sits down. He may not need to call any other witnesses.

“Ms. Wilson,” I say, “did you test the defendant’s hands or clothing for gunpowder residue?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“He wasn’t a suspect at the scene. By the time he became a suspect several days later, his hands and clothing would have been cleaned, and the tests wouldn’t have shown anything.”

“So you can’t prove he fired the gun?”

“His fingerprints were on the gun, Mr. Daley.”

“I understand. But you can’t show that he fired it.”

“That’s correct.”

“Just one more question. Did you find Joel Friedman’s fingerprints on the trigger?”

I’m sure she expected the question. “There were smudged fingerprints on the trigger, Mr. Daley. We were unable to positively identify them.”

“So, you can’t affirmatively demonstrate that Mr. Friedman pulled the trigger?”

“We could not identify the fingerprints on the trigger.”

I argue with the judge that she’s being unresponsive. He finally gets her to admit that the physical evidence does not conclusively show that Joel pulled the trigger.

“No further questions,” I say.

* * *

Roosevelt takes the stand. He confirms that Joel admitted that he was in the S&G offices the night of the incident. He describes the scene in Bob’s office. He provides copies of the phone records showing the call from Joel’s office to Diana. His testimony is all factual—and true. I see McNulty’s influence. He figures he doesn’t need to show very much to get this case to trial. I can’t punch a hole in anything Roosevelt says. I’ll save it for the trial. I decide not to cross-examine him.

* * *

Skipper trots out Rick Cinelli to provide straightforward testimony about the fight at Harrington’s. Then he calls Homer Kim to describe the argument in Bob’s office. On cross, I get each of them to admit they didn’t know what the arguments were about. I get Cinelli to say that Joel and Diana may have been talking about business. I get nothing out of Kim.

* * *

I figure Skipper is about to wrap up when he calls Art Patton. The courtroom is silent as the Enormous One walks forcefully to the front of the courtroom.

“Mr. Patton,” Skipper says, “were you at the Simpson and Gates firm retreat last October?”

“Yes.”

“Did you see the defendant and Ms. Kennedy?”

“Several times.”

“I would like to ask you about one particular time. Did you see the defendant and Ms. Kennedy at approximately three a.m. on Saturday, October twenty-fifth?”

“Yes.”

“Could you describe the circumstances?”

“Objection, Your Honor. Relevance.” I’m trying to break up their rhythm.

“I’ll allow it,” says Judge Brown.

Patton tries to look sincere. “I heard noises from Mr. Friedman’s condo. I was concerned, so I knocked on his door. Mr. Friedman answered. I asked him if everything was all right, and he said yes. Then I saw Ms. Kennedy in Mr. Friedman’s bed. She didn’t appear to have any clothes on.”

Murmurs in the gallery. I steal a glance at Naomi, who is looking down.

Skipper is smirking. “What did this lead you to conclude, Mr. Patton?”

“Objection,” I say. “Speculative.”

“Sustained.”

“I’ll rephrase,” Skipper says. “Did you observe Mr. Friedman and Ms. Kennedy having a physical relationship in his room that night?”

“Objection, relevance.”

“Overruled.”

Patton tries to look embarrassed. He turns to the judge. “I’m uncomfortable discussing the personal lives of members of the firm.”

Bullshit.

Brown says, “Please answer the question, Mr. Patton.”

“It appeared that they had been in his bed together.”

“No further questions.”

It’ll be tough to un-ring that bell. I glance at the rabbi, who is frowning. I move right in front of Patton. “Did Mr. Friedman let you into his room?”

“No.”

“Did he open the door all the way?”

“No.”

“How far did he open the door?”

He glares at me through his tiny glasses. “Maybe halfway.”

“Halfway is about a foot, right, Mr. Patton?”

“I guess so.”

“I’ll bet you couldn’t see much of Mr. Friedman’s room through that twelve inches.”

“I could see most of it.”

“How long was the door open?”

“About a minute.”

“What was Mr. Friedman wearing?”

“I think it was a sweatshirt and sweatpants.”

“Was the light on?”

“No.”

“Did you see Mr. Friedman touch Ms. Kennedy?”

“No.”

“Was Ms. Kennedy under the covers?”

“I believe so.”

“Yet you also testified that Ms. Kennedy appeared to be naked.”

“She was.”

“But you just said she was under the covers.”

“I could still see her.”

Sure you could. “You could see through the covers? Do you have X-ray vision?”

“Objection.”

“Withdrawn. Mr. Patton, is it possible that Ms. Kennedy may have been wearing clothes or pajamas or a sweat suit, right?”

“I suppose that’s possible.”

“So it’s possible that she wasn’t naked as you previously testified.”

“It’s possible.”

“And you saw all of this while you were looking into a dark room through a twelve-inch gap?”

“Yes.”

Now, the kill. “Mr. Patton, did you actually see Mr. Friedman and Ms. Kennedy in bed together that night?”

“No.”

“Did you see them have any physical contact that night?”

Skipper’s up. “Asked and answered, Your Honor.”

“Overruled.”

“No,” Patton says, “I cannot confirm that they had any physical contact that night.”

So far, so good. “Mr. Patton, isn’t it true there was a social gathering at your room that same night?”

“I don’t recall.”

Wake up, Skipper. You should start objecting now. “Mr. Patton, I was there that night. I can provide a copy of the invitation for the party.” It’s nice of Skipper to let me testify. He should be up on his feet screaming. I glance over and McNulty’s whispering frantically into his ear.

Patton nods. “Yes, Mr. Daley. There was a party in my room that night.”

“Was Ms. Kennedy there?”

“Yes.”

“Ms. Kennedy left the party because she was upset, right?”

“I don’t recall.”

“Let me refresh your memory. She left the party because she was upset when you demanded that she sleep with you, right?”

The courtroom roars. Judge Brown pounds his gavel.

“Objection,” Skipper shouts. “There’s no foundation.”

Look who woke up.

“Overruled.”

Patton’s tone is condescending. “I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about.”

“Isn’t it true, Mr. Patton, that you followed Ms. Kennedy to her room after she rejected your advances?”

Skipper’s up again. “Objection, Your Honor. The witness has indicated that he doesn’t know anything about this alleged incident if, in fact, it took place.”

“Overruled.”

I’ve moved within two feet of the witness box. “Isn’t it true, Mr. Patton, that you attacked Ms. Kennedy in her room, and she went to Mr. Friedman’s room for protection? And isn’t it true that you went down to Mr. Friedman’s room so you could tell everyone you saw Ms. Kennedy and Mr. Friedman in bed together if Ms. Kennedy ever accused you of sexual harassment?”

Skipper’s face is red as he screams his objection.

Before the judge can rule, Patton stands up and shouts, “That’s a lie!”

Judge Brown slams his gavel on the wooden base. I look at Naomi, who gives me an approving nod. Patton regains his composure and sits down.

Judge Brown looks at me. “The objection is sustained.”

“No further questions, Your Honor.” If Joel is going on trial, Simpson and Gates is going on trial with him.

* * *

After brief closing arguments, Skipper makes his motion to bind Joel over for trial, and I move for dismissal. Skipper’s motion is granted, and mine is denied.

The judge turns to housekeeping. “Mr. Daley, do you wish to move for a change of venue?”

“No, Your Honor. We’re happy to stay here in San Francisco.”

“May I assume your client will waive time?”

“No, Your Honor. We have a right to a trial within sixty days. We want to go sooner, if possible.”

I don’t know who looks more dumbfounded—Skipper or the judge. Skipper stands and says, “Your Honor, we have a very tight schedule at the DA’s office. It is highly unusual for a suspect not to waive time in a trial of this complexity. Highly unusual.”

“Your Honor,” I say, “my client has a statutory right to a trial in sixty days. If Mr. Gates insists on proceeding with this unsubstantiated case, we want to clear Mr. Friedman’s name right away. Mr. Gates just started at the DA’s office. He couldn’t have filled his schedule yet.” I get a smattering of chuckles from the gallery.

Judge Brown gives me a skeptical look. “Mr. Daley, are you sure about this?”

No, I think my client is out of his mind. “Yes, Your Honor.”

“Very well.” He looks at his calendar and confers with his clerk. “I’m setting trial for March sixteenth in superior court before Judge Shirley Chen.”

Another lousy draw. Judge Chen was recently appointed. She’s another former prosecutor who will be presiding over her first murder trial.

Judge Brown turns off his computer. “Pretrial motions on March ninth. We’re done.”

Chapter 20

MOVIE NIGHT

“We have no intention of discussing a plea bargain.”

– Skipper Gates. NewsCenter 4 Daybreak. Wednesday, January 21.

Lights! Camera! Movie night!

We have gathered in Rabbi Friedman’s living room the following evening to view the security videos from the night of the “incident,” as we have taken to calling it. True to her word, Sandra Wilson provided six hours of grainy footage. Hopefully, we’ll be able to use the fast-forward button liberally. All things considered, I’d rather be over at Joel’s house watching The Lion King with his kids.

Joel inserts a disc into the DVD player. His father sits in a tall chair in front of the TV, drinking a Sprite. Rosie and I sit on the sofa, notepads poised. Mort is in a side chair near the TV. He won’t be taking notes. Joel’s mother is watching the kids again, so Naomi has joined us. She sits on the floor in front of the TV, legs crossed. I haven’t talked to her since the hearing yesterday. In a modest concession to whimsy, she’s made popcorn.

Pete stands behind the sofa, clutching a clipboard with a printout listing all the people who ran their security cards through the scanner to check in or out of the Bank of America Building on the night of December 30. He has a separate list of those who signed in or out by hand. We’re trying to confirm what time everybody came and went. And we’re looking for inconsistencies between the videos and the lists.

During the evening hours at the Bank of America Building, pedestrian traffic is funneled toward a single exit in the lobby and toward the escalator down to the garage. There are two video cameras in the lobby, one on each side of the guard desk. There’s a camera by each of the six elevator banks. A service elevator stops at every floor, but you need a key to use it. There are stairs, of course, but the access doors on the office floors are locked. There are cameras by the entrance and exit to the garage. It would be pretty tough to leave the building undetected. So they say.

Pete’s interviews with the security guards revealed there are no cameras in the elevators or stairs. Too expensive. Except for a few acts of vandalism, there isn’t much crime in elevators. Nobody uses the stairs.

Joel hits the play button. The quality of the black-and-white video is similar to the videos of convenience store robberies on shows like America’s Most Wanted. The time stamp is in the lower-left corner. The cameras don’t move. It feels like we’re eavesdropping.

Pete acts as the master of ceremonies. “The tape starts at eight o’clock. At eight-eleven, Doris Fontaine leaves the building.”

We see Doris insert her security card into the scanner at the guard desk at 8:11 and fourteen seconds.

Pete’s eyes are glued to the TV. “At eight-thirty-seven, Mike leaves.”

I see myself leaving the building at 8:37 and eighteen seconds. Everyone in a security video looks like a criminal.

Mort chirps, “I presume this means we can rule out Mike as a suspect?”

Rabbi Friedman glares at him.

There are no surprises in the first two hours. Most of the people attending Skipper’s reception leave by 8:30. The evening word processors show up at 9:00. Skipper and the mayor and their respective entourages leave at 9:15. Everything is just as I’d expect—so far.

At 9:30, the people working on Russo’s deal begin to filter out for dinner. I continue to take notes. I want to confirm Joel’s time line. Jack Frazier and Dan Morris leave at 9:32, followed almost immediately by Bob Holmes and Vince Russo. At 9:48, Joel and Diana leave. Frazier’s lawyer, Martin Glass, and Ed Ehrlich, from the city attorney’s office, leave at 10:00.

Pete reminds us Frazier and Morris went to Michael Mina, Holmes and Russo went to Tadich’s, and Joel and Diana went to Harrington’s. Glass and Ehrlich went home. Pete says he’s talked to eyewitnesses and confirmed everybody went where they said they did.

We continue to watch the video. Not much between 10:00 and 11:15, except for Joel’s return at 10:25. At 11:15, the rest of the dinner crowd begins to return. Holmes and Russo check in at 11:16. It’s hard to tell, but I think Vince is staggering. At 11:18, Frazier and Morris sign in. Nobody looks refreshed after dinner. The video is consistent with the list provided by the security guards.

It’s after nine o’clock when we start watching the video showing everything from midnight to two a.m.—the key times.

Our first surprise is at 12:20. Pete looks at his list in disbelief. “He isn’t on the list,” he mutters, as we stare at the shadowy figure of Skipper Gates passing the guard desk and walking toward the elevators.

I ask Joel to rewind. The NFL isn’t the only place where slow-motion instant replays help.

I point at the screen. “Skipper walks past the guard desk, but he doesn’t run his card through the scanner. He isn’t on the list because the guard let him in.”

Pete is irritated by the breach of protocol. “That isn’t supposed to happen.”

“Happens all the time,” I say. “You get to know the guards. They let you in.”

“What was Skipper doing there?” Rosie asks.

“We’ll find out.” I ask Pete if he has a checkout time for Skipper.

“Nope. As far as the guards were concerned, he was never there.”

“Either he left without running his card through the scanner, or he didn’t leave that night.”

Nobody else comes or goes before one o’clock. The rabbi’s living room is silent as we concentrate on the black-and-white images. Nobody is eating Naomi’s popcorn.

At 1:10, we see the slender figure of Diana Kennedy hurrying toward the guard desk. She’s dressed in a sweat suit. At 1:10 and fifteen seconds, she waves to the guard, who lets her in without running her card through the scanner. The building managers will have a fit if they see this tape.

One-fifteen. Skipper saunters past the guard desk. We replay it twice. My heart races. Silently, I hope he’ll be spattered with blood. He waves to the guard, but doesn’t run his card through the scanner. It confirms that Skipper was in the building after Diana returned. I make a note to figure out how long it takes the elevators to get down from the forty-seventh floor to the lobby. Skipper may have been there when Diana died. I’m not ready to accuse him of anything—yet. On the other hand, I want to keep my options open. At the very least, he has some explaining to do.

At one-thirty, Art Patton lugs his stomach, chins and eyebrows past the guard desk and runs his card through the scanner. Though there’s no sound, it’s clear that Patton harrumphs at the guard. Even in the middle of the night, Art can find a way to be angry at somebody he barely knows.

Five minutes later, Dan Morris and Jack Frazier walk out together. They’re an odd couple—the political fixer and the investment banker. I make a note to check it out.

A morose Vince Russo waddles out on the heels of Morris and Frazier. He scowls at the guard and heads toward the escalator to the garage.

Finally, Charles Stern brings up the rear at five minutes after two, looking, as always, as though he has the weight of the world on his narrow shoulders. He looks even worse in black and white than he does in living color, although there’s very little difference.

We quickly fast-forward through the next two hours of video. Except for the departures of the S&G night-shift word processors, nobody comes or goes. It’s eleven-fifteen when Pete turns up the lights. Naomi brings in sodas.

Mort excuses himself to use the bathroom for the seventh time. He’s gone out to the back porch twice for cigar breaks.

“Michael,” Rabbi Friedman says, “is there anything from these videos that may help us?”

“First, we can place everybody at the scene, and we know what time everybody left. Everybody was in the S&G offices after Diana returned from her apartment. Even Skipper was there.”

“It doesn’t prove any of them did anything. And it doesn’t exonerate Joel.”

Mort has returned. “Rabbi, it’s always good to be in a position to argue that there were other people around. It gives us options. It helps to give the jury an opportunity to blame it on somebody else. Especially if somebody else isn’t particularly likable.”

Joel is unhappy. “I thought our defense was going to be suicide,” he says.

“It is,” I say, “but Rod Beckert is going to testify that Bob was knocked unconscious before he was shot. We’ll put on our own expert to rebut his testimony. But we also want to keep our options open—and that means we want to identify as many potential suspects as we can. Tonight, we identified a bunch of people who were in the building at the right time—Vince Russo, Jack Frazier, Dan Morris, Arthur Patton and Charles Stern, by my count.”

“Don’t forget Skipper,” Rosie adds. “He was still there when Diana came back.”

“I’m meeting with him first thing tomorrow. I’ll ask him what he was doing there at one in the morning. The distinguished district attorney of the city and county of San Francisco will be the first name on our witness list.”

Under the California rules of criminal procedure, you’re required to provide a list of potential witnesses. You can get in trouble if you try to call someone who isn’t on the list. You can’t get in too much trouble, however, if you put someone on the list and you don’t call him or her at trial. Prosecutors and defense attorneys play all sorts of games. If I thought I could get away with it, I would include every name in the San Francisco phone book on ours.

Mort grins. “I like it.”

Rosie is more realistic. “They’ll never let him testify.”

“It’ll give them something to think about.”

We’re gathering our belongings when Joel looks in the Macy’s bag in which I brought the discs containing he security videos . “There’s one more disc,” he says.

Rabbi Friedman wipes his glasses. “It’s late. Can’t this wait?”

I look at Joel. “Your call. We can come back in the morning.”

“You’re meeting with Skipper in the morning. We’d better look at this now.”

We return to our seats as Joel pops the disc into his laptop. Pete’s puzzled. “The inventory says we’ve seen all the security videos,” he says.

We leave the lights on. It’s close to midnight.

The video starts. It quickly becomes clear that this isn’t a security tape. First we see a black screen. Then we hear a badly dubbed sound track of the theme from Law & Order. After about ten seconds, some homemade credits appear. SIMPSON & GATES FIRM RETREAT. The music continues as the scene shifts to the lobby of the S&G offices. The picture is grainy. Somebody did a real hatchet job with a hand-held camera. S&G lawyers are taped as they walk into the reception area. Bob Holmes mugs. Diana Kennedy smiles. Art Patton scowls. Charles Stern says something that I can’t make out.

The scene shifts to the Silverado Country Club in Napa. The same S&G lawyers who were shown in their business suits now appear in golf shirts and khaki pants. Some are heading toward the golf course. Others are playing tennis. One big, happy family.

“What’s the point of all this?” asks Rabbi Friedman.

Joel answers him. “This was taken at the firm retreat last fall. Why is it here?”

“I can’t believe Sandra included this by mistake,” I say.

Pete looks intently at his lists. He finds a note from Sandra indicating the package includes one miscellaneous evidence disc in addition to the security videos.

After a few more minutes of well-dressed yuppies butchering the tennis courts, the scene shifts to a swimming pool. I recognize Arthur Patton sitting in a lounge chair.

“The white whale,” Rosie says.

The theme from Law & Order continues to play as the tape cuts to a dinner party in the Silverado dining room. It looks like a convention for blue blazers. There’s a shot of a crowded dance floor. I catch a glimpse of Diana dancing with Patton.

The video cuts to the bar overlooking the golf course. The camera pans across the crowded room. I see myself sitting next to Wendy Hogan at a table in the corner. Bob Holmes and Skipper are sitting near the door. They’re surrounded by some of the best wineries in the world, and they’re drinking martinis.

Patton is sitting next to Diana at the bar. He’s drinking a Manhattan. Two empty glasses sit in front of him. The cameraman circles to his left and focuses on Diana, who winks at the camera. She staggers toward the door. Patton follows her. She gives him a condescending look and says something to him. They continue toward the door. As she passes the table where Joel is sitting, she arches her eyebrows at the camera, leaps into Joel’s lap, cups his face in her hands and forcefully kisses him on the mouth. She turns and waves to the camera and struts out of the room.

Patton follows her. The camera pans back to Joel, who smiles sheepishly. The video ends abruptly.

Rabbi Friedman’s living room is stone-cold silent. Joel’s eyes are closed. The rabbi sits quietly, hands folded. Rosie stares at the screen. Pete looks at his clipboard. Mort looks at his watch. Naomi doesn’t take her eyes off Joel.

“Well,” I say, “maybe this would be a good time for us to break for tonight.”

* * *

“How do you think the scene in the bar will play?” Rosie asks.

We’re standing in her kitchen a short time later. “Pretty bad,” I say.

“The security videos looked pretty good. At least there were a lot of people there when everything happened.”

“Yeah.”

“You don’t seem convinced.”

“The thing at the bar is inflammatory. What are you supposed to think if you’re on the jury? We had a decent defense that Joel’s an old-fashioned family guy who’s been wrongly accused. Now, they’ll trot out this cheesy video showing a pretty young woman throwing herself at him. Juries don’t like liars. And they really don’t like people who cheat on their wives.”

She takes a bite of a tuna sandwich. “Do you think you may be overreacting a little bit?”

“Maybe. I just don’t like it.”

“Maybe we can get it knocked out. You know, that video was edited a lot.”

“We’ll try.”

“You think he was sleeping with Diana?”

“Two weeks ago, I would have said no. Now, I’m not so sure.” I look into her dark brown eyes. Rosie and I never cheated on each other. Our breakup was the result of fundamental incompatibility, which we took out on each other. “What do you think, Rosita? You’ve always had good instincts.”

“I wouldn’t bet Grace’s college fund, if we had one. Do you think Skipper was involved?”

“Hard to say. I can’t imagine what motive he had. But he’s slippery. I just can’t tell.”

She kisses me on the cheek. “I guess you’ll just have to ask him in the morning.”

Chapter 21

“WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU DOING THERE, SKIPPER?”

“District Attorney Prentice Gates says he’s uncovered new and compelling evidence in the upcoming double-murder trial of accused killer Joel Mark Friedman.”

—KCBS NEWS RADIO. Thursday, January 22.

It’s ten-fifteen the next morning, a Thursday. After making me cool my heels in his redecorated reception area for fifteen minutes, Skipper grants me an audience. He’s brought his faithful companion, Bill McNulty. To even the odds, I’ve brought Mort, who will play the “bad cop.” To his credit, he left his cigars in the car.

Skipper fondles his thousand-dollar MontBlanc pen. He looks great today. He has a press conference at eleven. Turn on the lights.

McNasty left his jacket in his office. He’s wearing a light blue shirt with a blue polka-dot tie. Two Bic pens are in his shirt pocket. I can see why Skipper creamed him in the election.

“What the hell were you doing there, Skipper?” I ask. My methods lack a certain degree of finesse.

Skipper’s blue eyes sparkle as he smiles broadly. He tilts his head back and laughs loudly. “I take it you’ve seen the video we asked Sandra to send over?”

“What were you were doing in the office that night?”

“I had to get some papers for a meeting the next morning.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

I take a deep breath. “I don’t suppose you considered the possibility that you should have reported your presence at the firm at one in the morning to the police?”

“I did.”

“Why didn’t it find its way into any of the police reports?”

“Ask the cops.”

Gimme a break. “You charged a man with double murder. You decide who gets prosecuted.”

McNulty makes his presence felt. “He gave his statement to the police. He didn’t see anything. He went to his office on forty-six, picked up his briefcase and left.”

Mort invokes a condescending tone. “The security tapes show that he was there for almost an hour. What the hell was he doing? And do you plan to testify on his behalf?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” McNulty says.

Mort points a stubby finger at Skipper. “You’d better be ready to testify because you’re number one on our witness list. You were there, and you’re going to have to tell your story. In open court. In front of the jury. For the whole world to hear.” He practically spits out the last words.

In the right setting, Mort can still be effective. For ten or fifteen minutes a week, he can still trot out some pretty impressive theatrics.

Skipper’s tone is dismissive. “Go ahead and put me on your witness list. Judge Chen will never let me testify. If she does, I’ll say exactly what I just told you. I picked up my briefcase. I didn’t see anything. End of story.”

“You’d better rehearse your lines,” I say, “because you’re going to have to explain to Judge Chen why you shouldn’t be called.” I turn to McNulty. “I’m surprised at you. Bill. I thought you knew better.”

He does know better. He’s playing along with his boss.

Skipper’s tone turns smug. “Did you like the video from the retreat? Pretty cute when Diana gave Joel that big kiss.”

“It was nothing,” I say. “She was drunk.”

“Whatever you say.”

“Where did you get that video, anyway?”

“One of your former partners shot it.”

“Who?”

“Hutch.”

I should have guessed. My former partner, Brent “Hutch” Hutchinson, is a remarkable package of blond hair, gleaming teeth and a spectacular line of bullshit. His emotional development came to a screeching halt at a frat party during his sophomore year at USC. After nine years as Art Patton’s personal lapdog, he finally sucked his way into the partnership last year. He isn’t much of a lawyer, but he’d make a terrific TV game-show host. We’re hopeful advances in medical science will someday permit his doctors to surgically remove his lips from their permanent position affixed to Art’s bottom. Among his other attributes, Hutch thinks he’s Cecil B. DeMille. He’s always sticking his video camera in everybody’s face.

“They should have confiscated his camera,” I say.

Skipper is pleased. “I thought the overdubbing of the theme from Law & Order was a nice touch.”

Mort growls, “Judge Chen will never let that tape in. It’s been edited a million times. It doesn’t prove anything.”

McNulty’s jaw tightens. “We’ll get it in.”

“The hell you will.”

McNulty turns to me. “By the way, we got more video footage last night. We haven’t had time to get it copied. If we can get Skipper’s TV to work, we’ll show it to you.”

Skipper pushes a button behind his desk and the opposite wall opens, revealing a sixty-inch flat-screen. I’ll bet there aren’t any other DAs in California with a moveable wall.

“Impressive,” I say. “What’s playing today? Twelve Angry Men?”

“More footage from the firm retreat. This one’s even better.”

More highlights from Brent Hutchinson’s video library.

Skipper dims the lights. I bet there aren’t many DAs with a dimmer switch, either.

The annoying music from Law & Order starts again. The footage opens with a shot of a swimming pool near the tennis courts. Nobody’s swimming. The chairs are empty.

The camera pans to the hot tub. There are two people in the water—a man and a woman. The theme from Law & Order continues to play. The video is shot from a distance. The camera zooms in on the hot tub. From the rear, I recognize Diana’s stylish haircut. She’s wearing a string bikini. As the camera focuses in on her, I see the top of her bikini is unfastened.

“I didn’t realize Hutch was a Peeping Tom,” I say.

Skipper doesn’t take his eyes off the screen. McNulty turns my way. I think he’s trying to smile—an unnatural act for him.

The cameraman moves to his left, staying focused on Diana. As he circles, the camera catches the side of her face. Then he pans back. I realize she’s in the hot tub with a man, and she’s embracing him. The photographer moves farther to his left. He focuses on Diana. Then he focuses on the man she’s kissing.

It’s Joel.

Skipper turns up the lights. “You still convinced there was no hanky-panky between Diana and Joel?”

I don’t answer.

“There’s one other thing, Mike. We’ve decided to ask for special circumstances. We’re going to make this a death-penalty case.”

* * *

Mort’s in an expansive mood as we drive toward downtown. He’s also happy to get his cigars back. “In every case,” he says, “there comes a time when you know whether it’s a winner or a loser. Today, I think we came to an important point.”

I’m not in the mood. “And what point is that, Mort?”

“The point where I’m pretty sure we’re completely and totally screwed.”

* * *

“He has a video of you and Diana kissing in the hot tub at Silverado,” I say to Joel. We’re at Rabbi Friedman’s house the same afternoon. It’s time to explain the facts of life. Thankfully, his father is officiating at a funeral, and his mother is at the grocery store. I add, as calmly as I can, that they’ve decided to ask for the death penalty.

“Shit,” he says.

“We can’t have any more surprises, Joel. They’re going to blow a hole through our defense if you don’t start telling me the truth.”

“It was nothing. She got playful. We got a little carried away.”

It rings hollow. “If you want to get something off your chest, now’s the time. It won’t get easier. They’re going to use the video at trial. Tell me the truth. I need to know what was going on.”

“We got carried away. That’s it. I admit it. Okay? Diana and I were kissing in the hot tub. Are you happy now?”

“Does Naomi know about this?”

“No.”

“You’d better tell her. It’s going to come out. And it’s better if she hears it from you.”

“I know.”

Something’s going on. “What is it, Joel?”

“Naomi said she wants to take the kids down to her mother’s in L.A. until the trial is over.”

I don’t blame her. “We need her. It can’t look like she’s abandoning you.” I know how it feels to have a marriage shatter. When Rosie and I split up, the pain in my stomach was unbearable. I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t sleep. I blamed myself. She blamed herself. We were both a mess. And we didn’t help each other through it. And I wasn’t on trial for murder when it happened to me. “Can you talk to her?”

“I’ll try.”

“Good. Now tell me what was really going on between you and Diana.”

“Nothing, Mike. I swear to God.”

He’s on the verge of tears. He’s begging me to believe him. My gut tells me he’s telling the truth. My brain tells me he may be one helluva liar.

Chapter 22

“I NEED YOUR HELP, DORIS”

“We’re very confident.”

– Skipper Gates. NewsCenter 4. Monday, February 16.

Doris smiles. “You haven’t had much to time to fix up this place up, have you?”

Three weeks later, on Monday, February 16, at ten in the morning, Doris is getting another look at my office. Nothing much has changed since her last visit, except for the boxes of files and evidence for Joel’s case.

“I always water your plant,” I say.

“Good thing.” She gives me a hug. She’s tan and more relaxed than I’ve seen her in a long time. She scrunches her face. “The daily special next door must be kung pao chicken.”

She’s probably right. “How was your trip?”

“Great. I love the Bahamas. I’ve met a lot of people down there over the years. Bob had business with a couple of the bankers. They showed me a good time.”

“How’s Jenny?”

“Okay. Last semester. A lot of stress.” She shows me photos from her trip. After a few minutes, she turns serious. “Mikey, why did you ask me to come down here today?”

“I need your help, Doris.”

* * *

Doris takes a sip of bitter coffee. “If you want to understand Bob, you have to go back to his early years at the firm. Things were different. The firm was smaller. The legal profession was a lot less complicated.”

Ah, the good old days.

She adjusts her collar. “They hired Bob right out of Harvard to work with Leland Simpson. I was Leland’s secretary.”

“What was he like?”

“A gentleman, although some people thought he was a greedy old son of a you-know-what.”

I never met him. According to my sources, he was an elegant man from one of the wealthiest families in the city. Depending on who’s telling the story, he may also have been racist, sexist and anti-Semitic.

She continues. “Leland tried to take Bob under his wing, but Bob thought he knew everything. He told me on his first day he was going to be running the place within five years. Leland had him pegged. He said we’d have to take him down a rung or two.”

“Was Bob married?”

“Yes. His first, to his high-school sweetheart, Sue, who was pregnant with his first son, Robert III. The marriage lasted only a year or two. By the time the baby was born, they were already separated. She left him and went back to Wilkes-Barre. There was a rumor that she ended up in an institution.”

If working with Bob was hard, I can’t imagine what it was like living with him. “Did the divorce have any effect on him?”

“Not really. He used to say he was going to sleep with every unmarried woman in the Bay Area. There was no such thing as AIDS back then.”

He was developing habits for the rest of his life.

“Things weren’t going so well for him at the firm,” she says. “To be honest, he was lazy. His career limped along for a few years. At one point, they were going to ask him to leave. Then he married Elizabeth Sutro, whose father was the presiding judge of the San Francisco Superior Court. He started getting introductions into some of the city’s tonier circles. Leland decided it might be a good idea to keep him around.”

“You don’t want to offend the presiding judge.”

“Something like that, Mike.”

I find it difficult to picture Bob Holmes in black tie at social functions in Pacific Heights.

“Then Bob got involved with Leland’s biggest client, Vincent Russo Sr. He was a doctor from Hillsborough who made a lot of money and invested it in real estate. Eventually, he gave up his medical practice to manage his investments. According to Leland, Vince senior predicted every trend in the real-estate business for twenty years. He practically invented the real-estate syndication business. He made a fortune.”

“Which his son pissed away,” I say. She knows more about Russo’s business than I thought. “How did Bob get involved with Vince senior?”

“Right place at the right time. Vince senior had two in-house lawyers. Ron Dawson was a decent attorney, but not the brightest star in the galaxy. Joan Russell was really smart. When she got pregnant, she took six months off. Dawson was overwhelmed, so Vince senior asked Leland if he could borrow an attorney until she returned.”

“So Leland lent him Bob?”

“Yes. Leland was happy to get Bob out of his hair. Instead of staying for six months, he stayed for three years. He spent his time sucking up to Russo and Dawson. They loved him.”

She explains that shortly after Bob returned to the firm, Leland had a heart attack and died. Bob was the only attorney at the firm who had extensive contact with Russo and Dawson.

“Sounds like he had pretty good leverage,” I observe.

She fingers the gold chain that holds her glasses. “I’ll never forget Leland’s funeral. Bob pulled me aside and said he had the firm by the ‘short hairs.’ ” She makes little quotation marks in the air with her hands. “He told me he’d take care of me if I stuck with him. I thought it was disgusting. He got a couple of offers from other firms. He told Art if they didn’t make him a partner, he’d take Russo’s business with him to Pettit and Martin. So they rolled over. Made him a partner two years early. Gave him a big office and his own secretary—me. And pretty much everything else he asked for.”

“The monster was born.”

“Something like that.”

* * *

Doris and I have adjourned to the Chinese restaurant. I munch a spring roll. Doris chews a pot sticker.

“What happened with Bob and the former Elizabeth Sutro?” I ask.

“Their marriage lasted almost five years. He seemed happy. She was pretty and rich. They had three kids and bought a big house on Broadway. Servants and everything. The firm was paying him a fortune. They put him on X-Com.”

“He was running the firm by the time he was thirty-five.”

“Yes. But in the early years, he was much more businesslike. He instituted financial controls. We opened the overseas offices. Then he started to get on everybody’s nerves. The old-timers resented him because he kept insisting they bring in more business. The younger partners resented him, too, because they thought he manipulated the compensation system. Every year, he demanded more money. Every year, they gave in to him. He targeted partners he didn’t like. Cut their points. Some got fired.”

I’m familiar with that scenario.

She sips her tea. “Things got nasty during his second divorce. He swore off sex for a short period. It was supposed to be a year, but it only lasted about a week.”

“Then he found another girlfriend.”

Wife number three was Elizabeth Jorgensen, the weekend anchor on Channel 4. Around the firm, she was known as Elizabeth II. A year later, she dumped Bob and ran off with the weekend weatherman.

* * *

It’s almost one. The waiter brings us fortune cookies. We’re up to wife number four, Elizabeth Ryan, or Elizabeth III, a litigator with Sheppard Mullin. She’s always been polite to me, but I wouldn’t mess with her.

Doris opens her fortune cookie. “You know Beth used to be married to Art Patton.”

“I wasn’t aware of that.”

“Art wasn’t happy when she married Bob.”

I’ll bet. “Is that when Art began his search for the perfect trophy wife?”

She doesn’t answer. “Bob and Beth were married five years ago. They had three kids. Of course, he was sleeping around the entire time.”

Give him points for being consistent. Sort of like a dog in perpetual heat, without the charm.

“About two years ago,” she says, “Beth told him she’d had enough. She said she’d divorce him and take every penny. He was good for about six months.”

A new record.

“Then he met Diana. He was infatuated with her.”

I could understand why. After almost three hours, we’ve finally made it to the good stuff.

“Mike,” she says quietly, “am I going to have to testify at the trial?”

Damn right you will. “I hope not. If it helps Joel, we may have no other choice. I’ll try to keep you out of it if I can.”

“I figured you’d say that.”

“I know you and Bob were close, but I’m running out of time and leads. I need you to tell me what you know.”

She takes a deep breath. “Bob and Diana had a torrid affair. He sent her flowers. They met at hotels during the day. They used to sneak off on business trips.”

“How long was this going on?”

“From the time she started until the beginning of December. They were at it for a little over a year. That’s when Beth found out. It’s a miracle she didn’t figure it out sooner. Everyone at the firm knew about it.”

Everyone but me.

“She hired a private eye. He caught Bob and Diana in bed. Beth told him she was going to file for divorce. I was there the night she confronted him. He begged her for one last chance. He broke it off with Diana.”

“And?”

“Obviously, the reconciliation was unsuccessful.”

Duh, Mike. She did, in fact, serve him with divorce papers. I ask the waiter for the check. “Doris, did you know Diana was pregnant?”

Her eyes dart away. “Yes, I knew.”

“Do you have any idea who the father might be?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you think it could have been Joel?”

“Come on, Mike. You know Joel. Not a chance.”

* * *

At two o’clock, we’re back in my office. “What was young Vince Russo like?” I ask.

“A pig. A sexist. A self-centered jerk.”

“Don’t sugarcoat it, Doris.”

She doesn’t smile. “He was a wild animal. He treated everyone like dirt. He cheated on his wives. He cheated his business partners. He’s lucky he didn’t end up in jail.”

“Were he and Bob friends?”

“In a manner of speaking. Bob pretended to be friends with any client who paid him a lot of money. Bob hated his guts, but Vince didn’t know it.”

“Did they socialize?”

“They went on business trips together to the Far East. If chasing thirteen-year-old virgin barmaids in Thailand falls within your definition of socializing, the answer is yes.”

“Do you think he may still be alive?”

“Wouldn’t surprise me.”

I move on to another subject. “Do you know anything about Bob’s will?”

She nods uneasily. “I typed it. I’d rather not talk about it.”

“I understand. But it’s going to become a matter of public record. It will save me a lot of time if you can tell me the names of the beneficiaries.”

She pauses. After more than twenty years of guarding Bob’s secrets, she’s uncomfortable revealing the terms of his most personal document. “A third to Beth, a third to the kids and a third to charity.”

Sounds pretty straightforward. “Do you know if Bob was going to change his will?”

“Maybe. He asked me to print out a copy of his will the day before he died. He didn’t ask me to make any changes.”

“Did he have a lot of money?”

“I would think so. He kept his finances private.”

No big surprise. “Do you know which charities were named in the will?”

“Actually, it’s a charity down in the Bahamas called the International Charitable Trust. He donated a lot of money to it over the years.”

That name keeps popping up. “Do you know what the International Charitable Trust does?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Do you know how we can get in touch with them?”

“There’s a banker in the Bahamas named Trevor Smith who handles everything. I’ll get you his phone number.”

It’s time to play a hunch. Finding out the story behind the International Charitable Trust is going to the top of Pete’s priority list.

Chapter 23

THE GRIEVING WIDOW

“My husband would have been touched by the great outpouring of love when he died.”

– Elizabeth Holmes. Interview on NewsCenter 4. Tuesday, February 17.

I summon my best priest-voice as I address Bob’s widow. “I’m terribly sorry about what happened, Beth. I know there isn’t anything I can say to change things.”

The next morning, I’m sitting in the Versailles-like living room of the Presidio Terrace mansion Beth Holmes shared with Bob. Although six and a half million bucks doesn’t buy as much as it used to in San Francisco, Presidio Terrace is about as tony as it gets. The turn-of-the-century homes are occupied by a U.S. senator and her investment banker husband, several Fortune 500 CEOs, a few tech entrepreneurs who hit it big, and a smattering of San Francisco aristocracy.

She lights a cigarette. “Thanks. You don’t have to lay it on too thick. Everybody knows I served him with divorce papers.”

As far as I can tell, she isn’t overwrought with grief.

She’s early forties, with unnaturally bleached-blond hair, leathery skin from the tanning machine, a slightly altered nose, several minor enhancements to her hips and, if I’m guessing right, breasts. If all of her bodily adjustments slip at the same time, she’ll look like a rubber band shooting across the room. She’s also one helluva commercial litigator. She reminds me of her ex-husband, Arthur Patton, minus the charm or the chins.

“I know this is difficult, but I was hoping you might be able to help us sort out what happened that night.”

She smiles knowingly. “I find Skipper’s version of the story a lot more convincing than yours.”

At least we’re starting on an even keel. “I understand you were at Bob’s office that night.”

“I wanted to see the look on his face when I served him with divorce papers.”

“Couldn’t you have waited until after the closing?”

“I wanted to deliver the papers in the middle of his stupid closing, while all his buddies were around. Especially that pimp, Vince Russo, and the little tramp, Diana. Sweet little Princess Diana.” She mutters something under her breath that rhymes with the word “runt.”

I take a sip of the iced tea from the crystal glass provided by her maid. “I realize it’s none of my business, but you know I’ve got to ask. What happened between you and Bob?”

She takes a long drag on her cigarette. “The same thing that happened with you and Rosie.”

I think she may have intended that as a cheap shot. “Was he seeing another woman?”

“For God’s sake, Mike. Everybody knew he was shtupping Diana. When I found out about it at the beginning of December, I threw him out. He promised he’d make it up to me. Then he hopped right back in the sack again.”

“With Diana?”

“Yeah. And with anybody else without a penis. He was like a rabbit.”

“Why didn’t you file divorce papers sooner?”

“I gave him one last chance. He behaved for a week. Then my PI caught him with another woman. I threw his ass out for good.” She stubs out her cigarette in the crystal ashtray.

“Do you know if he was still seeing Diana at the end of December?”

“I don’t know for sure.”

“Do you know if he was seeing any other women?”

“I don’t know that, either. My PI definitely saw him with little Diana in the beginning of December. And my PI saw him with somebody else after that. We couldn’t ID her. It may have a hooker, if my guess is right. He saw them at the Fairmont.”

“Would you mind if I talked to your PI?”

“No problem.” She turns to a servant who is standing by the door and speaks to her in Spanish. The servant leaves the room for a moment, then reappears and hands me a business card. It says Nick Hanson, Private Investigator. I recognize the name. I put the card in my pocket.

I change the subject. “We got a copy of Bob’s will.” A small lie. Actually, all I know about the will is what Doris told me. “It seems you may inherit quite a bit of money from him.”

“It doesn’t make up for all the crap, but it’s not a bad consolation prize.”

Interesting choice of words.

She plays nervously with her hair. “Charles Stern is handling everything. He’s as dull as a parking meter, but he’s good. A third of the estate goes to me, a third goes to the kids and the rest goes to some charity in the Bahamas.”

“Do you happen to know the name of the charity?”

“It’s called the International Charitable Trust.”

Hello again. “Do you know anything about it?”

“Nope. Charles might be able to tell you something. Bob gave them a lot of money.”

“Did it occur to you that if you split up, he might write you out of his will?”

“Yes.”

“And you realize, of course, that his untimely death means your claim to one-third of the estate remains in place.”

She pushes the phony blond bangs from her eyes. “I don’t like the implication. I don’t need the money. We can live perfectly well on my draw.”

It’s true, I’m sure. She must pull down at least a million bucks a year. Nice piece of change for a woman who’s been described from time to time as trailer park trash from Texas. She may lack a certain amount of finesse, but she’s made it on her own in the big boys’ world.

I decide to try something else. “Was there any life insurance?”

“It’s none of your business. But the answer is yes. There’s a million-dollar policy for each of his kids and a five-million-dollar policy for me.”

At least I know where the money’s going. Of course, I’d assume the beneficiary on the five-million-dollar policy would have been changed after the divorce. And she may get nothing if Bob committed suicide. Life insurance policies contain a clause that says the beneficiary won’t be paid if the named insured commits suicide within a couple of years after the policy is issued.

I ask her what she knows about Russo.

“He’s an asshole. And a crook.”

“I think we can all agree on that. We’re still trying to find him. Some people think he and Bob may have had some investments together.”

“Whatever Bob did with Russo was between the two of them. Bob never talked about it with me. And frankly, I didn’t want to know. As far as I’m concerned, they were just two horny bastards chasing underage girls in Southeast Asia.”

Not much left for discussion there. “Do you still see some people from the firm?”

“Charles Stern has been helpful. Art’s been very supportive. It’s nice when your ex still cares.”

In many ways. “Do you think Bob was so distraught about the divorce that he decided to kill himself?”

She cackles. “Don’t be ridiculous, Mike. He was a few hours from a three-million-dollar bonus. That’s all he ever cared about. He changed wives more often than most people change socks. The only thing he was upset about was the fact that his little floozy, Diana, wasn’t sleeping with him anymore. But he wouldn’t have killed himself for it. Not a chance. Not with a three-million-dollar check waiting for him.”

I’m sorry I asked.

She blows a smoke ring toward me. “You don’t have to take my word for it. You can talk to his shrink. She’s that nutcase up in Marin County with her own radio show. Dr. Kathy Chandler. Give her a call. If you can’t get her office, try her on the radio.”

* * *

“Mrs. Fink,” I say, “I know this is difficult, and I appreciate your taking the time to see me.”

Diana’s mother, Ruth Fink, lives by herself in a cheerful bungalow at Twenty-second and Clement, about a mile from Joel’s house. She’s a heavyset woman in her late fifties with gray hair and lifeless eyes. Her kitchen cabinets are at least sixty years old and look as though they haven’t seen a paintbrush in the last forty. There are two pictures of Diana in the living room. Unless someone told you it was the same person, you’d never know. The woman in the first photo weighs at least 250 pounds and has brown hair and a long, crooked nose. The second photo shows the trim, blond, sexy Diana that I knew. Joel was right. It was a rebirth.

“It’s been very difficult,” she says. “My husband died when Debbie was in her teens.”

I’d forgotten that Diana was Debbie until her first year of law school.

“We managed to get by on my salary at the JCC and a few odd jobs that I picked up. We were lucky. We had enough life insurance to take care of most of the basics.”

“Were you and Debbie close?”

“Yes, until she went to law school at UCLA. She got in with a different crowd. She changed.” She glances at Diana’s picture. “She became less attentive to her studies. She stopped coming home at the holidays. She became fixated on herself. And making money.” She takes a sip of water. “Then she got married to that boy Billy. He was her instructor at the health club. I knew it wouldn’t work out. She barely knew him. I tried to stop her. I’m sure it only pushed her toward him. The marriage lasted less than a year.”

I think about Grace and wonder how I’ll react when she brings home her first boyfriend. The kid better have an impressive resume.

“Mr. Daley, I just wanted what was best for my daughter. I wanted her to go to good schools and to get a good education. Is that so terrible?”

“Of course not, Mrs. Fink. That’s what we all want for our kids.”

“Toward the end, I hardly knew her. She started dating married men.”

I keep my tone gentle. “Things don’t always work out the way we hope. Did she ever mention Joel Friedman?”

She closes her eyes. “Yes, Mr. Daley. Diana was very fond of Joel. He was popular. I’ve known Joel and his father for years. I always thought Joel was a good boy. Now, I’m not so sure.”

“Did Debbie have many friends?”

“Not really. She kept in contact with some of her friends from law school. The only people she ever mentioned from the office were Bob Holmes and Joel.” She gives me a thoughtful look. “Did you know that she had resigned from the firm?”

“No.”

“She had accepted a job in San Diego.”

I wasn’t aware of this. “Why was she leaving?”

“She wanted a fresh start. You knew that she was pregnant.”

“I did. Why San Diego?”

“My sister lives there. I was planning to move down there, too. I thought it might be a good time for a fresh start for all of us. This house has a lot of memories.”

“I see.” Joel didn’t mention that Diana was moving. “Mrs. Fink, I know this question is going to sound indiscreet.”

She stops me. “I know what you’re going to ask, Mr. Daley. The answer, I’m afraid, is I don’t know who the father is.”

“Thank you very much. You’ve been extraordinarily helpful.”

Chapter 24

“I WOULD NEVER ASK YOU TO VIOLATE ANY CONFIDENCES”

“The only things in life that are certain are death, taxes and the need for tax lawyers.”

– Charles Stern. Continuing legal education seminar.

The next morning I’m at the S&G office on a fishing expedition. Charles Stern has promised to give me copies of the firm’s key-man life insurance policies. He’s trying to appear cooperative. I could subpoena the firm’s records. He knows it. I know S&G carried a life insurance policy on Bob. I’m trying to confirm how big the policy is. More important, it’s a pretext to see if I can find out anything else about his will and finances.

I’m surprised he’s agreed to see me. And I’m really surprised he’s agreed to see me alone. Seems every time I show up at S&G, I’m greeted by the entire executive committee.

I accept his offer of coffee. He buzzes his secretary, and a cappuccino magically appears. There’s something to be said for big-firm amenities.

His functional office has S&G’s standard-issue executive furniture: industrial-strength rosewood desk, matching credenza, two guest chairs and a bookcase. Most of the power partners have custom-built furniture that they pay for themselves. Not Charles. He’s too cheap for anything other than basic inventory. There’s a gray sofa next to the door, which he pilfered when one of my partners was fired. The only picture on the wall is a New Yorker cartoon of an accountant hovering over a tax return. An antique adding machine sits on a small table beneath the cartoon. He once told me his father is the oldest living person still licensed to practice accounting in the state of New York. The bookcase holds a dozen black loose-leaf volumes. The gold lettering on the spine proclaims they’re called the CCH Standard Federal Tax Reporter. Most people read the electronic versions of these reports. Not Chuckles.

His desk is immaculate. Not a scrap of paper or a speck of dust. I’ve always admired people who have a clean office. A state-of-the-art laptop sits on a small table next to his desk. It isn’t turned on. It shows that he got the firm to buy him the computer. He isn’t expected to use it.

He drinks coffee from a mug that bears the S&G logo. He’s wearing his gray suit jacket. He straightens his tie and looks at me uncomfortably. “What can I do for you?”

“I was hoping you had a chance to put together the copies of the firm’s insurance policies.”

“I did.” He buzzes his secretary and asks her to bring in a file marked “Insurance Policies.” Charlotte Rogers is a middle-aged African-American woman who’s been with Charles for about fifteen years. She’s the lucky soul who gets to type his memos on billing procedures. She’s reasonably pleasant about it. She appears with a large file folder almost as soon as he hangs up.

“Our malpractice policy is in there,” he says. “I haven’t the slightest idea why you’d want to look at it. I put in a summary of our medical policy. I can get you a copy.”

I couldn’t care less about the malpractice and medical policies. “Were you able to track down any life insurance policies?”

“There’s a key-man policy on every partner. I’ve enclosed a summary of the terms. If you’d like the details, you can talk to our insurance agent.”

“Hopefully, that won’t be necessary.” I’ll see what I can get from the agent later. “How much life insurance do you carry on the partners?” This is, of course, something I should already know. I’m sure it was in a memo Charles sent out to the partners sometime in the last decade or so.

“It depends,” he says.

“On what?”

“On how valuable the partner’s practice is to the firm.”

“I see.” This means they probably had a ten-million-dollar policy on Bob and a five-thousand-dollar policy on me. “How big a policy did you carry on me?”

I get the hint of a grin. “The minimum. Fifty thousand.”

More than I thought. “And the policy on Bob?”

“I think it was five million.”

Not bad. Bob was worth only a hundred times more than I was. Bob would have said he was worth more. “Do you have any other policies on the partners?”

“No. We’re starting the process of changing carriers. Brent Hutchinson is in charge of insurance issues.”

Perfect. S&G’s best bullshitter gets to spend his free time schmoozing with insurance salesmen. I wonder if some sort of harmonic convergence occurs when that much bullshit is jammed into one room. “Maybe I should talk to Hutch.”

“I doubt he’ll be able to tell you much. He was just getting started.”

Hutch probably hasn’t started at all. “I was hoping you might be able to help us figure out Bob’s will.”

He looks at his watch. “I’ll do what I can.” He hits the do-not-disturb button on his phone. He probably wishes he’d had a similar button installed on his brain. “I can’t say much. Attorney-client privilege, you know. And I’ve got a meeting.”

So many meetings. So little time. I glance at the picture of the accountant. The resemblance is striking. “I would never ask you to violate any confidences, Charles.” The game begins. “I understand you’re the executor of Bob’s will.”

“I am. It’ll become a matter of public record as soon as it’s submitted to the probate court. We’ve notified the beneficiaries.”

He’s being a little too forthcoming. This probably means there’s nothing of consequence in the will. “I appreciate your honesty, Charles. It’s easier to do this informally. I was afraid Art was going to make me get a subpoena just to talk to you.”

“He was just being careful. I’d rather tell you what I can. There’s no point in turning this into something contentious.”

Now I’m sure there’s nothing important in the will. “Thank you, Charles.”

“Besides, I like to help out my partners whenever I can.”

I hadn’t noticed this generous side of his personality when he and the other partners voted to fire me. “I understand his estate’s divided into three parts. A third goes to Beth, a third goes to the kids and a third goes to some charity in Bermuda.” I’m trying to set him up. I know the International Charitable Trust is set up in the Bahamas. I want to see if he’ll correct me. And if he’ll talk about it.

“Actually,” he says, “the charity is in the Bahamas.”

I pretend to make a note on my legal pad. “The Bahamas. What’s the name of the charity?”

“What difference does it make?”

“Probably none,” I lie. “I’m just trying to complete my file.”

“It’s called the International Charitable Trust.”

“Does it benefit underprivileged kids or something?”

“Something like that.”

You’re a lousy liar. “Is it managed in the Bahamas?”

“Oh yes.”

“You wouldn’t happen to know who manages it, would you? I’m sure we could look it up, but it’ll save me some time if you know. I’ll bet there’s a registry of charitable trusts.”

“I really don’t know very much about it.”

I take it back. He’s not just a profoundly lousy liar. “Actually, it’s probably not important. I’m sure the money goes to widows and orphans.” I shuffle my papers. “My investigator got a little information. Says here the trustee is First Bank Bahamas. A guy named Trevor Smith. I’ll give him a call.”

“I know Trevor. I’ve worked with him on some cases. I’d be happy to give him a call. I’ll see what I can find out.”

“I don’t want to impose on you. I know you’re busy. I’ll call him.”

“It’s no problem—really. Let me save you the trouble.”

How magnanimous.

“Bob checked it out,” he says. “I’m sure everything is completely legal and aboveboard.”

I’m convinced. “Does First Bank get a fee for acting as the trustee?”

“What difference does it make?”

“Just curious.”

“I think they get a fee.”

I’m sure they get a fee. “A large one?”

“I don’t know. It’s probably based on the amount of assets in the trust.”

“I see. And do you know how much that fee might have been last year?”

His eyes dart toward the adding machine. “I really wouldn’t be able to venture a guess.”

Sure you would. “Are you involved in the administration of the trust?”

He squirms. “Technically, I hold the title of trust protector. It means I’m the administrative agent. It’s just a formality. All the management is in the Bahamas. Bob asked me to act as trust protector in case they needed a signature in a hurry.”

“Does S&G get a fee for the time you spend administering the trust?”

He tugs at his tie. “No, it doesn’t.”

S&G doesn’t do much pro bono work. “If you’re the administrative agent, how come S&G doesn’t get a fee?”

He shifts in his chair. “I’m paid a modest fee for my efforts.”

“I don’t understand. If you’re doing this trust administration on behalf of the firm, why doesn’t the firm get the fee?”

“I do trust administration on my own time, and not on behalf of the firm. It’s a liability issue.”

“A liability issue?”

“Yes. This is a law firm. The services I provide to the trust fall into the category of fiduciary activities, which our malpractice policy doesn’t cover. We notified our malpractice carrier when I was first asked to serve as trust protector. They wouldn’t let me do it unless I agreed to do so in my individual capacity, and not in my capacity as an attorney in the firm.”

Sounds like our malpractice carrier wants to insure just the right side of his brain. “So you did this at the insistence of our malpractice carrier?”

“I had no choice. I had to sign an agreement stating that I would indemnify the firm for any losses it incurs in connection with the activities of the trust.” He gives me a “so there” look.

“You must collect a fairly hefty fee for this work—especially if you have to carry your own insurance and bear the risk of indemnifying the firm for any losses.”

“My fee is modest. I did it as a favor to Bob.”

And out of the goodness of your heart. “If you don’t mind my asking, Charles, about how much was your fee last year?”

He tenses. “That’s none of your business, Mike.”

It’s the answer I expect. “I understand. What happens to the trust now? Where does the money go now that Bob’s dead?”

“I believe it’s distributed among various charities in the Bahamas.”

Of course. “Charles, do you happen to know what those charities are?”

“I don’t recall, Mike.”

Very persuasive, Chuckles. You’re the administrator of a trust in which you don’t know the beneficiaries. The fog is getting really thick. “Think you could find out for me?”

“Probably. It may take some time.”

I’ll hear from him the Tuesday after hell freezes over. “Maybe Trevor Smith can get me a list.”

“I’ll call him for you.”

“That won’t be necessary.” I love to watch him squirm. “Charles, you know that Beth served Bob with divorce papers right before everything happened. Was he going to change his will?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Did you do the estate planning work for Vince Russo?”

“I did.”

“Do you know the names of the beneficiaries of his estate?”

“I’m afraid that’s confidential, Mike. I realize some people think Vince may have committed suicide. However, until a court declares him legally dead, his estate does not become a matter of public record. As a result, I’m not at liberty to discuss his situation with you.”

“You haven’t heard from Vince, have you?”

“No.”

“Well, if you do, I’d appreciate it if you’d let me know.”

“I promise.”

I glance out the window. “Let me ask you one other thing, Charles. How’s the firm doing?”

“Fine.”

He’d never make it as a trial lawyer. “I’m sure the tragedy has taken its toll.”

“It has.” He tries to look solemn. “We’ve had some difficult times. But nothing insurmountable.”

I look at the adding machine. “I saw in the paper you decided to let some people go.”

“We did. It wasn’t easy.”

“Layoffs never are, Charles.”

“They weren’t layoffs. We do reviews this time of year.”

I’m convinced. “By the way, could you ask your secretary to give me the phone number for Trevor Smith?”

* * *

“He’s full of it, Mike,” Rosie says.

Later the same evening, Rosie, Grace and I are eating at Spanky’s, a burger joint in Fairfax, not far from my apartment. It’s been Grace’s favorite restaurant since she won a free sundae in a coloring contest a couple of years ago.

Rosie’s reaction to my report on my discussion with Charles Stern is succinct. “I’ll bet he knows everything there is to know about the International Charitable Trust. He’s yanking your you-know-what.”

Rosie’s vocabulary switches from R to PG when Grace is around.

Grace’s eyes open wide as she takes a long drink of her milkshake. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and says, “What’s your ‘you-know-what,’ Daddy?”

I smile. “Ask your mother.”

Rosie nods. “I’ll explain it later, honey.”

I turn back to Rosie. “I called Trevor Smith. He has a beautiful British accent. And he wouldn’t tell me anything.”

“Anything else?”

“He’s going to be off the island, as they say, for at least the next four weeks. Meetings in Kuwait.”

“Does he have an assistant who can help us?”

“She’s going to Kuwait, too.”

“What a surprise.”

“I’m going to have Pete check it out. He’s been looking a little tired lately. I think he may need a vacation.”

“Any place in particular you have in mind?”

“I understand the Bahamas are very nice this time of year.”

“When might he be going?”

“I think he might be able to clear his calendar about four weeks from now.”

Chapter 25

“TERMINATED IN THE ORDINARY COURSE

OF THE REVIEW PROCESS”

“We deeply regret that the media has chosen to characterize our personnel moves as ‘layoffs.’ While it is contrary to firm policy to discuss individual situations, the attorneys who were asked to leave were terminated in the ordinary course of the review process for performance reasons.”

– Arthur Patton. San Francisco Legal Journal. Thursday, February 19.

Wendy Hogan calls me the next morning. “I suppose you’ve heard?”

“Heard what?”

“There were layoffs at S&G. I got fired.”

“Hell.”

“They told the papers we were canned for performance reasons. It’s chickenshit. We were laid off because there wasn’t enough work and the firm is in financial trouble.”

“Everybody knows what’s going on at S&G.”

“How am I supposed to find another job? We’re the lepers of the legal community. Andy called last night. He said he’s going to challenge our custody deal.”

“He’s an asshole. Your attorney will take care of it.”

“He’s on vacation.”

I don’t say anything.

“Mike, can you help me with this?”

I learned everything I know about divorce law when Rosie and I split up. “I’ll see what I can do. Why don’t you come down to my office and we’ll talk.”

What the hell. It isn’t as if I’m busy preparing for a murder trial. Besides, I like her.

* * *

Wendy and I are eating Chinese takeout in my office.

“Pretty tight space,” she says.

“You get used to it.” I nibble on a pork bun. “Sounds like I need to find you a good divorce lawyer.”

“I need a job.”

Yes, she does. It helps to be employed when you’re in a custody fight. Believe me, I know. When Rosie and I split up, I got the bright idea that I was better suited to have custody of Grace. Bad idea. It led to the nastiest fight in my life. Ultimately, at the suggestion of Rosie’s mom and mine, I came to my senses. Then things started to get better. Wendy’s ex-husband is a horse’s ass. At the moment, however, he’s an employed horse’s ass.

“You’re good at what you do,” I say. “You’ll find something.”

“It’s not that easy. The economy stinks. I don’t have my own clients. Firms aren’t hiring tax lawyers.” She takes a deep breath. “Could you use some help? Maybe I could work on Joel’s case.”

How do I say this diplomatically? “We handle criminal cases around here. You know—we represent crooks.”

“I represent people in the real estate business. They’re crooks, too. Except for the fact that what they do is technically legal.”

Touché. “I’d like to help you. But what I really need is another experienced defense attorney. Preferably one without Mort Goldberg’s ego. It isn’t that you aren’t good at what you do. It’s just that what you do isn’t what we do. You wouldn’t hire me to do an IPO.”

“I can do research. I can interview witnesses.”

This isn’t a good idea.

“I’m in a tight spot,” she says. “Maybe there’s something else I can bring to the table. I’ve done tax planning for Bob and Vince. Maybe I can help you with the investigation.”

This is intriguing. “How much tax planning?”

“A lot.”

“Slow down. The judge won’t let you testify if you work for me. It confuses the jury.”

“I know. I used to work for a superior court judge.”

“I remember. There’s something else. The stuff you know is probably privileged.”

“Most of what I know is already a matter of public record. Besides, Bob is dead. In all likelihood, so is Vince.” She takes off her glasses. “The privilege died with them. Who’s going to complain? Their ghosts?”

Technically, that may not be entirely correct. Just because you die doesn’t mean your lawyers can tell the world all your deep, dark secrets. “What about the beneficiaries under their wills?”

“What about them? The beneficiaries under Bob’s will have been contacted. Nobody is going to complain. They’ll notify the beneficiaries under Vince’s will as soon as he’s declared legally dead.”

Without getting into the finer points of the potential claims of their respective heirs, I have to admit she may have a point.

“I won’t tell you anything you couldn’t find out yourself from public records. And you wouldn’t have to hire me directly. I could start my own firm, and you could retain me as special counsel. My name wouldn’t appear on the pleadings. I won’t appear in court unless I’m called as a witness. What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing, I suppose.”

She smiles. “We’re making progress. As Bob Holmes used to say, good lawyers provide practical solutions to real-world problems.”

Right. I’ve been in practice for a month and a half and I have a real-world problem—another mouth to feed, even if her name doesn’t appear on my letterhead. “I can’t afford to pay you much.”

“I understand. At least I can tell a judge with a straight face I’m building my practice.”

“All right. The Law Offices of Wendy Hogan are hereby hired as special counsel. You can help Pete with the investigation. Don’t even think about asking for a retainer.”

She’s pleased. “Anything you say, Mike.”

I finish my moo shu pork. “Do you know anything about an entity in the Bahamas called the International Charitable Trust?”

“What would you like to know? I did the legal work to set it up.”

* * *

Wendy opens a fortune cookie. “The International Charitable Trust is something of a misnomer,” she says. “It isn’t really international. It was formed in the Bahamas by one guy—Bob Holmes. And it isn’t the least bit charitable. Unless, of course, your favorite charity happens to be Bob Holmes. It’s a tax dodge. I set up a similar trust in the Bahamas for Vince Russo called the Charitable Trust for Humanity.”

My fortune reads, “You are about to embark on a great romance.” Even the fortune cookies know I’m hard up. “You aren’t violating anybody’s attorney-client privilege here, are you?”

“What if I was?”

“Nothing. Just asking.”

Her eyes sparkle. “Everything I’m about to tell you is a matter of public record. Of course, the public records in the Bahamas are a little trickier to track down.”

I grin back. “So what were these two trusts all about?”

“We set them up so Bob and Vince would each have a place to park some of their hard-earned cash outside the U.S. in a hard-to-find, safe, tax-free place. Bob and Vince hated two things more than anything else: taxes and alimony. When you made as much money as they did, and when you got divorced as many times as they did, you paid a lot of taxes and alimony.”

I can picture Bob and Vince swapping stories about who paid more to their respective ex-wives. Wendy explains that they wanted to find a place to stash their cash in a tax-free jurisdiction where it would be hard for their ex-wives to find. The Bahamas had everything they needed. Perfect weather. Established financial system. Excellent bank-secrecy laws. So Bob and Vince each formed a trust. First Bank Bahamas was the trustee. Trevor Smith handled all the arrangements. It’s a standard tax scam. She says Smith is very smooth.

I take a gulp of water. “I spoke with him yesterday. He’s very polished.”

“And very slippery. Trying to get a straight answer from him is like trying to hold a gallon of water in your bare hands. They did all their investing through the trusts.”

She’s telling me a little more than I would have found out from the public records in the Bahamas. “Did you dream this up?”

“I had a little help from Chuckles.”

It fits. “So Chuckles came up with this elaborate charade?”

“It’s all perfectly legal, Mike.”

“So it is.” In this case, the word “legal” is spelled SLEAZY.

She confirms that Chuckles holds the title of trust protector, and First Bank is the trustee. “First Bank won’t do anything without instructions from Chuckles. He gets a fee for his trouble. He got permission from X-Com to manage the offshore trusts on his own time. The firm decided it didn’t want the fiduciary liability for managing somebody else’s money.”

“How big is his fee?”

“I bet he gets at least half a million bucks a year just from Bob’s trust.”

Nice work if you can get it. “What does he have to do?”

“Not much.”

“What does it take to get money out of one of the trusts?”

“A signature from Chuckles, or, in the case of Bob’s trust, a signature from Bob. Or, in the case of Vince’s trust, a signature from Vince.”

“So Vince could take money out on his own?”

“Sure. All he needs is an e-mail. He moved money in and out of the trust all the time. He could do it right now. Except, of course, for the fact that he seems to be quite dead.”

Unless he’s still alive. “Who gets the income from the trusts while Bob and Vince are alive?”

“It’s distributed among a group of people who are called income beneficiaries.”

“Do you know who they are?”

“Nope. It’s a secret. The names of the income beneficiaries are listed in separate, confidential documents. Chuckles never let me see them.”

“What happens to the trusts when Vince and Bob die?”

“The assets are sold, and the proceeds are distributed to a different group of people called the remaindermen. I don’t know their names, either. It was the best kept secret in the Western Hemisphere.”

Figures. “What happens to the fees paid to Chuckles when they die?”

“They stop. He can’t prevent the trusts from liquidating. But he can probably slow down the process. If he does, he can collect his fees for a few more years.”

Chuckles wouldn’t have had any incentive to kill Bob if his death triggered the liquidation of his trust. “Do you know if Bob was planning any changes in his trust?”

“I think so. A few weeks before he died, he asked me to prepare a list of the steps to amend his trust. He didn’t tell me what he had in mind, but I suspect he was thinking about changing the income beneficiaries and the remaindermen.

“That would make sense if Beth was an income beneficiary or a remainderman.”

“Could be. He was also talking about changing the deal with Chuckles. He always complained that Chuckles made too much money in admin fees.”

Interesting. “What about his will? Was Bob making any changes there?”

“He talked to Chuckles about it.”

This is showing some promise. “Did he ever get around to amending his will or his trust?”

“Not that I know of. My guess is he died before anything could happen.”

So close. Still, if we can figure out who gets the money from Bob’s trust, we may be able to figure out who had motive to kill Bob. Unless, of course, he killed himself.

* * *

Later the same afternoon, Joel, Mort, Rosie, Pete and I meet in Rabbi Friedman’s dining room. I’ve brought Wendy.

“I’d like to introduce you to the final member of our team. Wendy Hogan is taking a permanent leave of absence from S&G.”

Wendy smiles uncomfortably. “That’s Mike’s way of saying I’ve been downsized, and I need something to help me pay the bills.”

Mort smiles broadly. “Welcome to the Dream Team, young lady. I’m Mort Goldberg.”

“I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“It’s all true.”

I explain that she isn’t a member of our firm. “For now, she’ll be a consultant. Just like you, Mort.”

He gives me a sideways look.

“Wendy is familiar with Bob’s will and his investments. I’ve asked her to work with Pete to figure out how Bob’s money gets divided up.”

She smiles at Pete. “I think I may be able to enlighten you about the International Charitable Trust.”

“Sounds good to me.” Pete is uncomfortable. He likes to work alone.

“Wendy,” I say, “I have another special task for you. You’re a tax lawyer. You’re good at money. I want you to figure out everything about the firm’s finances. Moreover, you’ll get to see why you’d never want to be a partner at a firm like S&G.”

“I’ll get right on it.” She turns to Mort. “Could you help me subpoena some of the firm’s financial records?”

Mort beams. “I’d love to, honey.”

I’ll have to remind him not to call her “honey.”

* * *

“You know what you’re doing with Wendy?” Rosie asks. We’re standing on her back porch the same evening.

“Yeah. She’s smart.” I pause. “I’d like to help her. She’s a good lawyer.”

“She’s a tax lawyer, Mike.” She says it in the condescending tone that trial lawyers reserve for transactional attorneys.

“I know. But she’s tenacious. I think she’ll help.”

“You like her, don’t you?”

She could always read me. “Is it that obvious?” I’ve had a crush on Wendy for five years.

“Yes. And she’s pretty.”

“That, too.” I drink my beer. “You aren’t jealous, are you?”

“Don’t let it color your judgment. Keep it professional. You’re running a law practice, not a counseling center.”

She’s right. “I wouldn’t have brought her in if I didn’t think she could help us.”

Her eyes glow in the moonlight. “I’m going to remember you said that. And she’d better keep her hands off my sex slave.”

Chapter 26

HUTCH

“Syc-o-phant n. One who attempts to win favor or advance himself by flattering persons of influence; a servile self-seeker; a toady.”

– World Dictionary of the English Language.

The next morning, I’m back at S&G. Anyone who believes substance will ultimately triumph over style hasn’t met Brent Hutchinson. His career is an ongoing charade of teeth, blond hair and good looks. His office overlooking Alcatraz Island and the Marin Headlands is furnished with an antique roll-top desk and matching chairs. An oriental rug graces the middle of his floor. A picture of his cheerleader wife, Barbi, smiles at him from his spotless desk. Life is good in Hutchworld.

“So, big guy,” he says, “how’s the new firm working out?”

To Hutch, everyone is a “big guy.” “So far, so good. I seem to have stumbled onto a big murder case.”

“Cool.”

Someday, a team of graduate students will do a dissertation on Hutch called “The Mind of the Sycophant.” It will take up many volumes. “Hutch, I came to ask you for your help.”

“Anything. I always try to help out my friends.”

I wasn’t aware that we were friends. “Charles Stern told me that you’re the firm’s new insurance czar.”

He throws his head back and forces a phony laugh. “Insurance czar. I like that. I’m the chairman of our risk-management committee.” He winks. “It’s real exciting, Mike.”

I wink back. “I’ll bet.”

The potential exposure for malpractice claims at a firm like S&G is hundreds of millions of dollars. Why they’ve put a moron like Hutch at the head of the professional liability team is beyond my comprehension.

I keep my tone matter-of-fact. “I’m trying to sort out the life insurance policies on Bob. Does the firm carry key-man insurance on the partners?” It’s the first rule of cross-exam—never ask a question unless you know the answer.

“We do. Charles sent a memo to the partners about it.”

“I must have missed it.” Or tossed it.

“We carry life insurance on all the partners. On guys like us, we don’t carry much. I think the minimum’s about fifty thou. We carry a lot more on the heavy hitters like Bob and Art.” He gives me the Cheshire cat grin.

“How much?”

“In a couple of cases, over a million bucks.”

“Do you know how much you’re carrying on Bob?”

The grin disappears. “You know, Mike, now that you don’t work here anymore, I’m really not supposed to talk about this stuff with you.”

“But I’m still on the line for firm debts incurred while I was a partner. If you’re going to collect a big piece of change on the key man insurance, I have the right to know about it.” I’m amiable when I add, “If you’d prefer, I can come back with a subpoena.” You pretentious little jerk.

His phony smile returns. “Let’s not get excited. We’re carrying five million on Bob.”

It confirms what Chuckles told me. “Thanks, Hutch.” That wasn’t so hard, was it? “Charles said you’re looking into changing the firm’s carrier.”

“That’s true. We got some of the new policies in place right before the end of the year.”

Really? I got the impression from Charles that Hutch was just starting the process. “Did the firm take out any additional life insurance on the partners?”

“Yes. We were trying to increase the policy levels for some of the more junior people. I got bumped up from fifty thousand to a half a million.”

That’s because you’re worth so much. “Was the policy on Bob increased?”

“I don’t recall. I can find out.”

“Actually, Hutch, if you’d give me the name of the insurance agent, I can give him a call.”

“It’s no problem, Mike. I can find out.” Affability reigns.

“I don’t want to take any more of your valuable time, Hutch. Really, it’s no big deal.”

“His name is Perry Guilford. I’ll have my secretary get you the number.”

“Thanks.” I move to another topic. “Skipper was kind enough to show me some of your cinematography from last year’s retreat.”

He’s pleased with himself. “I thought it turned out pretty well.”

Right. “There was some pretty inflammatory stuff in there.”

“You know how it gets at the retreat.”

“Yes, I do.” It doesn’t mean you should stick your camera into everybody’s face. “Hutch, the judge asked me whether there’s an unedited version of the tape. You know—without all the music from Law & Order. Any chance you saved the original?”

He scowls. He probably thinks I’m trying to compromise his artistic integrity. “I don’t have the original. We used it to make the over dubbed version. Our methods are pretty rudimentary.”

I’ll say. The special-effects wizards at Industrial Light and Magic won’t be worried. “Did you give Skipper everything?”

“Yeah.”

“What else was on the tape?”

“Not much. I really don’t remember.”

He’s lying. “Who else saw the tapes?”

“Chuckles and Art.”

What a surprise. “Did they tell you to destroy part of the tape?”

“No.”

He’s still lying. “We can do this the easy way or the hard way. Now, tell me what was on the tape.”

“I don’t remember, big guy”

Sure.

Chapter 27

DR. KATHY CHANDLER

“To speak to Dr. Kathy Chandler, call 1-800-GET-HELP.”

—KTLK TALK RADIO. Friday, February 20.

Dr. Kathy Chandler fancies herself the Bay Area’s Dr. Frasier Crane. Of course, Dr. Crane has an imaginary degree from Harvard. Dr. Chandler, on the other hand, has an honorary doctorate in family counseling from Southwestern Texas City College and an honorary degree from the Great Pacific School of Broadcasting. More important, Dr. Frasier Crane only talks to imaginary patients. Dr. Kathy Chandler, unfortunately, talks to real people. Every weeknight from seven until ten, she dispenses bubblegum psychology on the live one, KTLK Talk Radio.

I must confess that her show is mildly entertaining. I listen to her sometimes on my way home from work. I think I’ll appreciate it more if and when I get the lobotomy I keep promising myself.

Like many radio talk show hosts, she’s always known as Dr. Kathy Chandler. She’s never simply Dr. Chandler—or, God forbid. Dr. Kathy. And she always refers to herself in the third person, like ballplayers and politicians. “Dr. Kathy Chandler says to break up with your boyfriend,” or “Dr. Kathy Chandler says your husband’s no good,” or “Dr. Kathy Chandler says your sex life could be a lot better.” Makes you want to puke.

At three-thirty the same afternoon, I make the pilgrimage across the Golden Gate Bridge to the picture-postcard town of Mill Valley, where Dr. Kathy Chandler maintains her office in a turn-of-the-century building across from the old train depot, which is now an upscale bookstore and cafe. When I called to make an appointment, Dr. Kathy Chandler’s receptionist told me she wasn’t taking new patients. When I explained I was representing Joel Friedman, I was put on hold for only a moment before the sickly-sweet voice of Dr. Kathy Chandler found its way onto the phone and promised me an appointment. Ah, the smell of free publicity.

Dr. Kathy Chandler’s second-floor office is decorated in earth tones, with gray-beige furniture, light wood end tables and two large ferns. Her receptionist looks as if she’s been through at least a dozen twelve-step programs. There are self-help magazines on the tables and a life-size poster of Dr. Kathy Chandler on the wall, along with the KTLK logo. The same poster appears on Muni buses in the city.

Dr. Kathy Chandler’s luxurious setup is different from the office of the shrink Rosie and I saw in our abortive attempts at marriage counseling. Chuck was a terrific guy, but I lost faith in him when I found out he was a fifty-five-year-old bachelor. He kept trying to get us to see the big picture. He never realized he was dealing with little-picture people.

The receptionist gives me a warm smile, and I take a seat between a suntanned woman hiding behind a pair of dark sunglasses, and a man I recognize as a local television personality. Dr. Kathy Chandler’s clientele is pretty well-heeled.

At exactly four o’clock, the door opens, and I’m granted entry into the inner sanctum. Her office is furnished with more muted tones and ferns. Quiet music surrounds me. One of those tacky artificial waterfalls cascades behind Dr. Kathy Chandler’s desk. In fairness, the whole thing is very soothing.

I feel like Dorothy waiting for the grand entrance of the Wizard. The door opens. I expect to hear trumpets. The posters on the buses don’t do her justice. Dr. Kathy Chandler is about six feet tall and Cindy Crawford beautiful. I’m beginning to see why Bob Holmes paid a fortune to spend forty-five minutes a week with her.

She pushes her long blond hair away from her striking blue eyes. “I’m Dr. Kathy Chandler,” she purrs.

“Michael Daley. I represent Joel Friedman.”

“I know.” The voice is pure caviar. She sounds better in person than she does on the radio.

“I understand Bob Holmes was a patient of yours.”

“Yes, he was, Mr. Daley.” She licks her lips. “It’s a terrible tragedy.”

“Yes, it is.” Composure. “Dr. Chandler, how long had you been treating Mr. Holmes?”

“About three months.”

“And how was his treatment going?”

She pouts. “Mr. Daley, you’re a lawyer. You know I’m not permitted to talk about my patients. It’s privileged.” She blinks her big blue eyes and gives me a look that says she’d love to help me, but the big bad lawyers won’t let her.

“I understand your concern, but the privilege ends when a patient dies.” This isn’t exactly true, but she isn’t exactly a lawyer. “And it would be very helpful to understand the nature and extent of your treatment of Mr. Holmes.”

The kitten-like facade disappears, and the claws come out. Her voice drops a half-octave. “Mr. Daley, it has always been my policy not to discuss the treatment of my patients with other people.”

This is an interesting argument from a woman who gives free advice on the radio. “Dr. Chandler, I’d like to ask you a few questions. If you can’t answer them, I can come back with a subpoena.” And then you’ll really have a lot to talk about from seven to ten tonight.

“Ask your questions. If I don’t want to answer, I’ll tell you so. And if I need to get my lawyer involved, believe me, I will.”

I believe you, Dr. Kathy Chandler. “What were you treating Mr. Holmes for?”

“He had relationship issues.”

No kidding. “And he was about to get divorced again.”

“So I understand. I was working with Mr. Holmes on creating a foundation for solid relationships—and to temper his enthusiasm for extramarital activities.”

“Were you aware that he was having an affair with Diana Kennedy?”

“Oh, yes. That’s where his treatment started. He and Ms. Kennedy had been seeing each other for about a year. When Mrs. Holmes found out at the beginning of December, she asked Mr. Holmes to leave. About the same time, Ms. Kennedy broke up with Mr. Holmes. He was quite upset.”

“Did he try to reconcile with his wife?”

“Yes. The reconciliation was unsuccessful. He began seeing someone in late December. I assumed he had rekindled his relationship with Ms. Kennedy, but it may have been somebody new. He was terribly conflicted about it. He missed his last couple of appointments.”

“Was he depressed?”

“In the clinical sense, no.”

“Was he upset about the breakup with his wife?”

“Yes. But not terribly upset. He seemed to have expected it.”

“Was he upset about the breakup with Ms. Kennedy?”

“Oh, yes, Mr. Daley. He was terribly upset about it.”

“Are you aware of any attempts to reconcile with Ms. Kennedy?”

“No, Mr. Daley.”

“Do you think it’s possible Mr. Holmes attempted to reconcile with Ms. Kennedy and she rejected him?”

She pauses. “If you were my lawyer, you’d instruct me not to answer a hypothetical question.”

“That’s true. On the other hand, we have reason to believe that he did, in fact, attempt to reconcile with Ms. Kennedy. And we know that she was not agreeable to such a reconciliation because she had decided to leave the firm.”

I wasn’t aware of that.”

It’s put-up time. “Do you think Bob Holmes was so distraught about his pending divorce and his breakup with Diana Kennedy that he may have committed suicide?”

She laughs. “Mr. Daley, I’d been seeing Mr. Holmes for only about three months. He was an unhappy man with some serious relationship issues. But, in answer to your question, it is inconceivable to me that he was suicidal. He didn’t display any of the signs. And if I’m called upon in court to testify, I’ll say just that.”

Then you’re of no help to us. I’ll see you on the radio, Dr. Kathy Chandler.

Chapter 28

“DID YOU COME TO GLOAT?”

“We are confident that we will be able to work out a deal with our creditors to continue our practice without interruption through the bankruptcy process. We will continue to provide the highest quality legal services to our clients during this difficult period.”

– Arthur Patton. San Francisco Chronicle. Monday, March 2.

“Jeff Tucker, please,” I tell the person at First Bank who answers my call on the morning of Monday, March 2. I’m studying the article in the Chronicle detailing the bankruptcy filing of my former law firm. I figure it might be a good time to get reacquainted with the bank’s general counsel. As Jeff promised me a few weeks ago, the bank has foreclosed on S&G’s equipment loans right on schedule.

“Who’s calling, please?”

“Michael Daley.”

My first reaction could be summed up by the words “Nyahh nyahh nyahh—you went bankrupt, and I got my capital back!” I realize this may not be the most mature reaction to the impending meltdown of my professional home for the better part of the last five years. Then again . . .

“Jeff Tucker speaking.”

“It’s Mike Daley.”

“You heard about the S&G bankruptcy filing?”

“Indeed I did.”

“I don’t take any pleasure in any of this, Mike.”

Sure you do. “Me neither.” Heh heh heh. I’d give everything I own to see the look on Art Patton’s face. “Jeff, do you happen to know if the loans were recourse or nonrecourse?”

If the loans were “recourse,” the bank can try to collect from the partners and perhaps even the former partners. If the loans were “nonrecourse,” the bank can seek repayment only from the assets of the firm. I learned this from Joel. It’s all I know about commercial law: recourse—bad; nonrecourse—good.

“They’re all recourse loans. Fully guaranteed by each of the partners.”

Crap.

I can hear the smirk in his voice when he adds, “Since you were a partner at the time the loans were made and at the time of the default, you’re still on the hook.”

“Wait a minute. I left on December thirty-first. How do you figure I was still a partner at the time of default?”

“That’s when the loans were due. You were still a partner. Ipso facto, you’re still on the hook.”

I hate lawyers who talk Latin. “But you extended the loan. I wasn’t a partner when the extended due date came up.”

“It wasn’t an extension. We simply decided not to foreclose until the sixty-day grace period ended yesterday. All the S&G partners who were at the firm on December thirty-first are still on the hook. That includes you.”

And you’re an asshole. I’m sorry we didn’t fire you sooner.

His tone is condescending. “The bank doesn’t want to spend a lot of time and money suing the partners individually. If you’re like most of your partners, all your money is going for alimony and fancy cars.”

He’s right—except in my case, there’s no fancy car.

“I’m sure we’ll end up cutting a deal with the firm. We’ll probably take the firm’s receivables and sell off some assets. We’ll sue the partners individually as a last resort.”

Maybe I’ll ask Wendy to set up one of those sleazy tax shelters in the Bahamas to hide some of my assets.

* * *

At eleven o’clock the same morning, the reception area of Simpson and Gates looks considerably different. Only one receptionist is working the phone console. The double doors are closed. There are no fresh flowers. The Currier and Ives lithographs are gone. I’m guessing the artwork at First Bank headquarters has improved dramatically since yesterday.

Art Patron’s secretary escorts me to his office. The long hallways look barren without the high-priced art. The plants are gone, too. She knocks and opens Patton’s door. I’m surprised he’s agreed to see me. Then again, it gives him a golden opportunity to yell at me. I suspect he’d rather do it in the privacy of his own office than in open court.

Art is standing behind his desk, bellowing into his phone. Something about the repossession of the computers. He motions toward a leather chair. I admire the view of the Golden Gate Bridge as he castigates some poor collection attorney.

He slams the phone down. He looks like a bulldog shaking himself after he’s had a bath. “So,” he snaps, “what the hell do you want? Did you come to gloat?”

As a matter of fact, I did. “Art, I take no pleasure in this. I think it’s unfortunate.” I look solemn and lay it on thick. “Some good people are going to lose their jobs.”

It seems to disarm him slightly. His chins jiggle. “The bankruptcy filing was just a precaution. We’ll still be here when the dust settles.”

I’m not sure if he’s trying to convince me or himself. “I hope you’re right. I’m on the line for the equipment loans along with the rest of you.”

He isn’t mollified. “Besides your touching little speech about firm finances, why did you come to see me?”

“I wanted to talk to you about Joel’s case.”

“We’ve been through this. We’ve told the police everything we know. If we find out anything new, I’ll call you.” He picks up his phone.

“There are some things I’d like to talk to you about informally. If you insist on doing this the hard way, I can come back with a subpoena.”

He hangs up. “What things?”

“It’s a little ticklish.”

He looks right at me. “You aren’t going to start up again about that nonsense about a sexual-harassment claim, are you? It’s bullshit. I have a good mind to file a lawsuit for slander against you for the stuff you brought up at the prelim.”

The best defense is a good offense. “Two people are prepared to testify that you propositioned Diana at the retreat, and she rejected your advances.” I watch him closely. He doesn’t flinch. “One person said you touched Diana in the bar. Another said you asked her to go to bed with you at your party. When she refused, you followed her back to her room.”

The pit bull appears. “That’s bullshit. Who the hell do you think you are coming here and making these wild accusations? What’s wrong with you?”

“I take it you’re denying those accusations?”

“Damn right, I am.”

“And you’re prepared to testify to that effect in court?”

“Of course.”

“Good. I’m glad we’ve eliminated any misunderstanding. Is it true that you and Beth Holmes have a social relationship?”

“I should throw you out of my office right now.” He picks up the phone.

“Art, let me show you something.” I hand him a photo of him entering Beth’s house.

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

“Here’s a picture of you leaving Beth’s house the next morning. My investigator is prepared to testify that you spent the night.”

The beady little eyes flare. “You little shit. You had me followed? Are you trying to blackmail me?” He grits his teeth. “Beth and I have had a social relationship for some time. It’s one of the reasons for my divorce. My wife knows all about it.”

“Did you know Bob was going to write Beth out of his will just before he died?”

“Wouldn’t surprise me. She doesn’t need the money. If you want to get up in open court and tell the jury that Beth and I were sleeping together, so be it. It shows is that we were having an affair. She’s my ex-wife. We still have feelings for each other. It doesn’t have anything to do with your client’s case.”

Unfortunately, he may be right. “Didn’t you and Bob invest in a restaurant together?”

“Yes, we did. Le Bon Vivant in Palo Alto.”

“How was the business doing?”

“Great. Except in the restaurant business, you can be doing great, but it doesn’t mean you’re making any money.”

I’m surprised he admitted it.

“We were thinking about closing it. I’ve lost all the money I intend to lose on that damn thing.”

“I don’t suppose you had a key-man policy on Bob for the restaurant?”

“No, we didn’t.”

* * *

When I return to the office that night, Wendy is sitting at a table in the hallway, studying copies of life insurance policies.

“You can sit in my office,” I say.

“I like it better here. Your office smells like chow mein.”

It does. “Find anything we can use?”

“Nothing yet. Bob’s life insurance policies named Beth and the kids as beneficiaries.”

“Keep looking.”

“I will.” She takes off her glasses. She’s very pretty.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

“I guess so.”

“Andy?”

“Yeah. We have a custody hearing a week from Tuesday. Will you come with me?”

I put my arm on her shoulder. “Sure.”

She pulls back. “Thanks, Mike.”

* * *

A moment later, I sit down in my office and dial a familiar number.

Pete answers on the first ring. “What do you need, Mick?” he rasps.

“Do you have any plans for the weekend?”

“You got Warriors tickets? The Lakers are in town.”

“I’ve got something better. I need your help. How would you feel about doing a little pro bono work?”

“For whom?”

“Wendy.”

A pause. “Sure, Mick.”

“Thanks.”

Chapter 29

“WE'RE MISSING SOMETHING”

“Pretrial motions are set for Monday, March 9. Except for Mort Goldberg, it seems the entire defense team is sound asleep.”

— NewsCenter 4 Legal Analyst Morgan Henderson. Tuesday, March 3.

We’re having an all-hands meeting in Rosie’s office the next morning. We have a pretrial hearing on Monday, and it’s time to add things up. We sit around the small conference table. Rosie drinks a Diet Coke and looks at our preliminary witness list. Wendy nurses a cup of coffee and studies her notes. Pete is going through an inventory of the evidence. Mort plays with an unlit cigar.

“Mort,” I begin, “did you finish our motions to keep the Silverado videos out?”

“Yeah. We filed our papers on Thursday.” He drums his fingers on the table. “It’s going to be a close call. The videos have been heavily edited. We have a decent argument the potential inflammatory effect outweighs the probative value. I wouldn’t bet a box of cigars we’ll win.”

Rosie agrees. “Even if she doesn’t let them use the videos, they can always call Hutch to testify that he saw Diana and Joel kissing in the hot tub.”

“There’s nothing we can do about that,” Mort says.

I turn to Wendy. “Did you find out anything more about Bob’s finances?”

“Not much. He and Art Patton owned a restaurant in Palo Alto. There are no financial records available to the public.”

“Art told me it’s losing money.”

“We haven’t found any suspicious liens.”

“Keep looking.” I turn to Rosie. “Any surprises on their witness list?”

“Not really. They’re loading up their list just the way we are. They’ve included you and Wendy to tweak us.”

“We’ll get around that. We included Skipper and McNulty on ours, right?”

“Turnabout is fair play. Judge Chen will never let them testify.”

“I know. But it’ll give us an opportunity to show the judge that Skipper was there that night.”

Mort is pleased. “That discussion should be fun.”

“Who else is on their list?” I ask.

Rosie flips though her notes. “People you’d expect. Roosevelt. Marcus Banks. Rod Beckert. Sandra Wilson. Art Patton. Charles Stern. Brent Hutchinson. Beth Holmes.”

“Not surprising,” I say. “A little testimony from the grieving widow to soften up the jury. Who else?”

“Dan Morris, Jack Frazier, Rick Cinelli and Homer Kim.”

“Any surprises?”

“Your good friend Dr. Kathy Chandler is on their list, too.”

“She was Bob’s therapist. She’ll testify that Bob wasn’t suicidal.”

“Is she a real doctor?”

“Depends on your definition of the word ‘real.’ She has an honorary doctorate from a mail-order college in Texas. Did you include all the S&G partners on our witness list?”

“Yeah. Just like you said.”

“Good. And did you send out subpoenas to each of them?”

“Oh, yes,” she says, smiling. “We served them yesterday.”

“Let me guess. They were not particularly well received by some of my former partners?”

Her eyes gleam. “You could say that, Mike. I let Wendy have the pleasure of serving Art Patton, Charles Stern and Brent Hutchinson.”

Wendy is triumphant. “Makes you want to become a litigator.”

I’m not heartbroken about tweaking my former partners. “I bet Skipper is getting a few phone calls this morning.” Lawyers hate to get subpoenas. And we really hate to testify.

“Mike,” Wendy says, “I took the liberty of asking Rita Roberts and the NewsCenter 4 team to come with me to the S&G office when I served the subpoenas.” She bats her eyes innocently. “I hope that was okay.”

“Absolutely. The public has a right to know. By the way, did you find out anything more about the International Charitable Trust?”

“Trevor Smith is still in Kuwait.” She grins. “I know his secretary. Her name is Felicity Smoot.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No, I’m not. I told her I was following up on the trust so we could close the file. Evidently, Chuckles asked them to prepare a final inventory of trust assets so they can begin liquidation. For now, the trust is frozen.”

“Were you able to confirm the amount of his fee?”

“Not yet. His deal isn’t stated in the trust instrument. He has a separate administration contract that I haven’t seen. I asked Felicity to send me a copy. We’ll see if she does.”

Not bad. “Did you have any luck identifying the income beneficiaries and the remaindermen?”

“Nope. Felicity didn’t know. I didn’t want to push her too hard. I thought it might make her nervous.”

“You never want to make a banker nervous.” I tap my pencil on my legal pad. “I’m surprised she talked to you. I’ll bet Chuckles told her not to talk to anybody who doesn’t work for S&G.”

She gives me a conspiratorial grin. “Maybe I didn’t tell her I’d left the firm.”

Wendy has the makings of a fine criminal defense attorney. “When do you expect to hear from her?”

“Probably not until Smith gets back.”

Swell. We’ll be halfway through the trial. “See if you can find out when he’s coming back. I want you and Pete to be there.”

“An all-expenses-paid trip to the Bahamas? Cool.”

“Think of it as a working vacation.” I turn to Pete. “What have you found, Mr. Gumshoe?” Pete doesn’t like being called Mr. Gumshoe. He doesn’t joke around when it comes to business. Actually, he doesn’t joke about anything.

“I ran an asset search on the custodian, Homer Kim. Seems his bank account recently became twenty thousand dollars fatter. Nice chunk of change for a guy who makes thirty-six grand a year.”

“You think somebody paid him to testify?”

“I can’t tell for sure. He doesn’t look like the kind of guy who gets twenty thousand dollar bonuses. When we ran the search on his bank accounts, we saw one big deposit. It went out the next day. We don’t know where the money came from or where it went. He’s had some gambling problems.”

“Stay with him,” I say.

“There’s something else. You remember Beth Holmes said her PI caught Bob with another woman at the Fairmont in December? Well, I talked to her private eye. She hired Nick Hanson.”

Mort and Rosie  burst into laughter. “Nick the Dick!” Mort shouts. “She hired Nick the Dick?”

Wendy’s bewildered. “Who the hell is ‘Nick the Dick’?”

Mort grins at Wendy. “Honey, Nick Hanson is a legend. He was the lead investigator for a defense lawyer named Nunzio Della Ventura. Nunz had a storefront office on Columbus Avenue in North Beach for fifty years. The prosecutors hated him. Nunz was quite a character. So’s Nick.”

“You have to see him to believe him,” Pete says.

“That’s right,” says Mort. “He may be all of five feet tall. Quite the man about town. Always has a fresh flower in his lapel. You’d look at him and you’d be inclined to underestimate him. He’s the most tenacious private eye I’ve ever met. He’s in his eighties. Still a pistol. Still lives in North Beach. Still working every day.”

“He’s written several mystery novels based on cases he’s worked on,” I say. “One was made into a movie. I think Danny DeVito played him.”

“I’ll look for him next time I’m at the bookstore,” Wendy says. “So, what did Nick the Dick find out about Bob?”

Pete clears his throat. “Nick saw Bob with a woman in a room at the Fairmont in late December. He couldn’t ID her. He was in the building across the street. The drapes were partially closed, and the lights were dim. By the time Nick got to the hotel, she was gone. He took some pictures. He promised to let me see them.”

“Will he testify?” I ask.

“Of course. This is a high-profile case.”

Rosie looks puzzled. “How does that help us?”

“If it wasn’t Diana, it undercuts Skipper’s argument that Joel acted in a jealous rage.”

“On the other hand,” she says, “if it wasn’t Diana, it may undercut our suicide argument. If Bob already had another girlfriend, he couldn’t have been too distraught about his breakup with Diana. In that case, it doesn’t seem logical that he would have killed himself.”

As always, Rosie sees things with great clarity. “Unless,” I say, “the mystery woman was just a rebound for Bob and she blew him off, too. Who knows? Maybe she was a hooker.”

Rosie is skeptical. “Seems like a stretch to me.”

It begs the obvious question. “Pete, can you talk to the staff at the Fairmont to see if you can get an ID on the woman?”

“I’m already working on it.”

“Good.” I look at my notes. “We’re missing something. Any leads on Russo?”

“Maybe. You remember his car was found at the Golden Gate Bridge? His overcoat washed up at Fort Baker yesterday. He wasn’t wearing it.”

“Do you think he might still be alive?”

“It’s possible. I talked to the cab companies in Sausalito. Marin Taxi had a pickup at the Vista Point at about three a.m. on December thirty-first. The dispatcher and the driver both confirmed the fare was taken to the international terminal at SFO. The driver said the passenger was a heavyset male in his thirties or forties, who paid cash. The driver couldn’t identify Russo from a photo.”

“You think it was Vince?”

“You bet your ass I do.”

“Sounds like we may have to bring him back from the dead.”

Chapter 30

“YOU CAN’T CROSS-EXAMINE A VIDEOTAPE”

“Judge Shirley Chen will hold a pretrial conference at ten o’clock to discuss scheduling and evidentiary issues. The trial starts in one week.”

— NewsCenter 4 Daybreak. Monday, March 9.

March 9 is a day for the lawyers to argue about evidentiary issues, legal motions and scheduling. We’ll also get our first taste of Judge Shirley Chen. The tenor of the trial will be set by the decisions she makes today.

Rosie, Mort and I park in the pay lot next to the Hall and lug our trial briefcases through the downpour. Skipper’s Lincoln is parked illegally in front of the main entrance.

The news vans are out in force. Rita Roberts stands under an umbrella with the NewsCenter 4 logo. The wind is howling, but her hair doesn’t move. I shrug when she asks for a comment. We push our way into the building, shake our umbrellas and walk through the metal detectors. It would be bad form to be late.

Judge Shirley Chen is in her mid-forties, although she looks younger. She began her career at S&G twenty years ago. It seems as if every judge in California started at S&G. She moved to the San Francisco DA’s Office three years later. I tried two cases against her when I was a PD. I won one and I lost one. She was an ambitious prosecutor. She brings the same tenacity to the bench.

Her chambers are sterile. Her law-school diploma hangs on the wall, but her books and files are still in boxes. I’m reminded she’s single as I notice there are no pictures of a spouse or children. There’s a plaque from the San Francisco Women’s Bar Association. There’s a gavel from her alma mater, Hastings College of Law, which indicates that she was named distinguished alumna three years ago. There’s a photo of her with the California attorney general.

Skipper and McNulty arrive a few minutes after we do. Everybody is decked out in their Sunday best. Skipper’s navy blue pinstripe looks as if it was delivered earlier this morning from Wilkes Bashford. McNulty is wearing charcoal gray. We can’t compete on clothing. Besides, the rain has taken the starch out of our best going-to-court clothes. Skipper plays with his MontBlanc pen. McNulty sits quietly.

“Let’s get started,” Judge Chen says.

We nod in unison.

Judge Chen looks at me. “First, let’s talk about scheduling. May I assume, Mr. Daley, that your client hasn’t reconsidered his position concerning the timing of his trial?”

“That’s correct, Your Honor. My client does not intend to waive time.” We’re as ready as we’re going to be.

She isn’t happy. “Very well. We’re scheduled to start one week from today.” She looks at Skipper. “Mr. Gates, how many trial days would you estimate for the prosecution’s case?”

“One moment. Your Honor.” He and McNulty whisper to each other. Skipper turns back to the judge. “I don’t think it will take us very long. If Mr. Daley is reasonable, we won’t need a lot of time qualifying our witnesses as experts.”

“How many trial days, Mr. Gates?”

“No more than ten. And perhaps substantially fewer. We think jury selection may take longer than our case.”

She turns to me. “What about the defense, Mr. Daley?

With a little luck, we won’t have to present a lengthy defense. On the other hand, we may be here for weeks if they trot out a slew of experts. “No more than a week. Maybe less.”

She seems pleased. “Very well, then. We’ll begin jury selection one week from today.”

“Your Honor,” I say, “we presented several motions on evidentiary issues.”

“I was just getting to that, Mr. Daley.” She glances at Mort’s papers. She says she’ll give us some leeway in the jury selection process, called voir dire. She asks us for draft questionnaires to be given to the potential jurors. McNulty and Rosie have agreed on most of the major points. She reiterates Judge Brown’s gag order with respect to the media.

“Your Honor,” I say, “there are some matters regarding the prosecution’s witness list.”

“Let’s keep this simple. Nobody in this room is going to be a witness at this trial. Period.”

“Your Honor, we have a significant issue here.”

“Let’s not waste time, Mr. Daley. You know I’m not going to let any of you testify.”

Skipper smiles.

Time to move on. “Your Honor, have you seen the security videos?”

Skipper’s smile disappears. “Your Honor—,”

She stops him. “I’ll tell you when it’s your turn to talk, Mr. Gates.”

“But, Your Honor—,”

“Mr. Gates, the rules here are simple. I get to interrupt you. You don’t get to interrupt me. Are we clear?”

I like it. An early show of control.

Skipper nods submissively. “Yes, Your Honor.”

“Good.” She turns back to me. “I haven’t seen the security videos, Mr. Daley.”

“Mr. Gates was in the building that night. We can put the tapes on right now, if you’d like.”

“I know he was there. The police reports said there was a reception for him at the office.”

“He came back. He was in the building at one o’clock when Diana returned. He was there when Bob and Diana died.”

Skipper shakes his head contemptuously. “Mr. Daley was there too, Your Honor. I’ll withdraw his name from our list in the interests of justice.”

I glare at him. “For God’s sake, Skipper. You know I left at eight-thirty. I didn’t come back at one in the morning at exactly the time you claim Bob and Diana died.”

He turns to Judge Chen. “Your Honor, I resent Mr. Daley’s implication.”

I fire right back. “Your Honor, he’s brought charges against my client for the murder of two people. I can prove he entered the building around the same time Diana Kennedy did. He has to be a witness. Frankly, I don’t understand why he wasn’t considered a suspect at the time.”

A little over the top, but so be it. At least she’s interested.

The judge is troubled. “Is this true, Mr. Gates?”

“Yes, Your Honor. I was in the office for a few minutes around one o’clock to pick up my briefcase. I didn’t see or hear anything. My office wasn’t even on the same floor as Bob’s.”

“He was there for almost an hour,” I say. “It was a lot longer than just a few minutes.”

Judge Chen’s jaws are clenched. “This isn’t good. The district attorney could be a witness.” She looks at Skipper. “And you actually plan to try this case yourself?”

“Absolutely, Your Honor.”

“If this doesn’t beat everything.” She turns to me. “Do you really need his testimony?”

“Absolutely, Your Honor.”

She turns back to Skipper. “And I don’t suppose you’d agree to let Mr. McNulty handle this case?”

“No, Your Honor. It’s too close to the trial.”

“And I don’t suppose you’d be willing to testify about what you saw that night?”

“For obvious reasons, I would prefer not to. It confuses the jury if a lawyer is both an advocate and a witness.”

“And what, if anything, did you see that night, Mr. Gates?”

“Nothing.” He pauses. “And if you want me to testify to that effect, I guess I’m prepared to do so.”

“I’m going to take this under advisement. I’ll give you my decision by the end of the week. We also need to address the motion to quash the presentation of two video recordings of certain activities at the Simpson and Gates firm retreat in October of last year.”

“Your Honor,” I say, “I’d like to let my colleague, Professor Goldberg, make our presentation on this matter.”

We’ve rehearsed this. I want Mort to play the part of the gray-haired sage on legal and evidentiary issues. Although I’d never say it out loud, the truth is that I trust him to speak for only a few minutes a day.

She gives me a knowing look. “I’m familiar with Mr. Goldberg’s credentials. I was a student of his. It’s my turn to see if he’s prepared for class.” She turns to Mort. “What do you have to say, Professor?”

He smiles. “Your Honor, may it please the court.” His diction is a little slurred. The words “Your Honor” come out as a single word, which sounds like “yawner.” “We have a potentially serious evidentiary matter concerning two videos from the Simpson and Gates firm retreat last fall.”

“Mr. Goldberg, I’ve read your motion. Let’s cut to the chase. If you don’t have anything new to tell me, I’ll rule based on your papers.”

Mort acts as if he was expecting this. Give him credit. He doesn’t fluster. “The prosecution would like to introduce into evidence a highly edited video of activities at the Simpson and Gates retreat. In addition, all of the original sound was edited out and replaced by the theme music from a popular television show. The events in the videos will be taken out of context. And it’s all but certain that it will have an inflammatory and highly prejudicial effect on the jury.”

Nice work, Mort. Concise. Direct. And you didn’t use the words “kissing,” “hot tub,” “sex” or “affair.”

The judge is skeptical. “Mr. Goldberg, isn’t it true that the videos speak for themselves?”

Like all good lawyers, Mort pretends he’s agreeing with her, while he’s actually disagreeing. It’s patronizing, but it works. “In general, Your Honor, that’s true. On the other hand, when a video has been tampered with as this one has, or there is a substantial likelihood that it could be taken out of context, it could be unfairly damaging evidence.”

“Mr. Goldberg, these videos show a man and a woman kissing. Coincidentally, the man is the defendant and the woman is the victim. Doesn’t that speak for itself? A jury can figure out what was happening.”

Mort uses his glasses to gesture. “Jurors are human. They see news stories about politicians having affairs. They think it’s the truth if they see it on TV. It isn’t a news flash that Mr. Gates is going to claim our client was having an affair with Ms. Kennedy. He has no evidence except for these videos. If he shows these heavily edited videos out of context, it will have an enormously prejudicial effect on the jury.”

She looks at Skipper. “What do you have to say, Mr. Gates?”

“Your Honor, Mr. Goldberg is blowing this issue out of proportion. We believe the videos do, in fact, speak for themselves. The jurors will be free to draw whatever inferences they choose. That’s what juries are supposed to do—figure out what happened. The defendant and Ms. Kennedy were caught on video kissing. It would be irresponsible to ignore it. We acknowledge that a part of our case will be to demonstrate that Mr. Friedman and Ms. Kennedy were having an affair. We believe the breakup led Mr. Friedman to murder two people. The video speaks for itself. It is what it is.”

It is what it is. It’s an effective legal argument.

It’s Mort’s turn. “Your Honor, you can’t cross-examine a videotape. If Mr. Gates thinks he can demonstrate that Mr. Friedman and Ms. Kennedy were having an affair, let him bring forth witnesses at trial. Let us have an opportunity to cross- examine them.”

Skipper and Mort volley back and forth for another ten minutes. Finally, Judge Chen says she’s heard enough. “Gentlemen, I find Mr. Goldberg’s argument slightly more persuasive.” She turns to Skipper. “Mr. Gates, if you want to introduce evidence of these tawdry events at the trial, you’ll have to do so through witnesses who can be cross-examined by the defense.” She’s ruling in our favor, but sending a message. He can’t use the videos, but he can call witnesses to testify about their contents. “For example, I see no reason why Mr. Gates couldn’t call the individual who was operating the camera.”

There’s nothing we can do to prevent Skipper from calling Brent Hutchinson to testify that he saw Joel and Diana kissing—even if it was through the lens of his video camera. Of course, there’s nothing to prevent us from going after him on cross.

Skipper isn’t satisfied. “But Your Honor—,”

“I’ve ruled, Mr. Gates.”

“Your Honor,” I say, “there’s one more issue. Mr. Gates has requested that this trial be televised. For obvious reasons, we’re against it.”

Skipper is mortified. “Your Honor, the public has a right to observe the criminal justice system.”

And crown thy good with brotherhood, from sea to shining sea. “Your Honor,” I say, “I’m only thinking of the interests of my client and the interests of justice. I don’t want my client tried in the media. Mr. Gates’s leaks have already contributed to a potentially irreversible tainting of the juror pool.”

If you don’t have a better argument, always invoke the interests of justice.

Judge Chen frowns. “I have mixed feelings. In my judgment, it is possible to televise a trial without turning it into a circus. Nevertheless, I’m inclined to agree with Mr. Daley.”

Skipper strains to keep his tone even. “But Your Honor—,”

“I’ve ruled, Mr. Gates. I’ll see you next week to begin jury selection. We’re done.”

This round goes to the good guys, but not by much.

* * *

Skipper and McNulty stop us outside the courtroom. “Nice work on your motions, Mort,” Skipper says.

He waves an unlit cigar. “It’s all part of the process.”

“We’ll get all the stuff from the videos into evidence at the trial. We were planning to call Brent Hutchinson anyway.”

“At least we’ll be able to cross-examine him,” I say. “Hutch can be jumpy. He hasn’t spent a lot of time in court lately.”

Skipper laughs. “All the more reason for us to spend a little extra time in preparation.”

Mort turns to McNulty. “You guys have any more evidence you’d like to share with us? I’m sure you aren’t planning any surprises at trial.”

“You’ve seen everything we have.”

I ask if the results of the paternity test had come in.

“Not yet,” Skipper says. “You aren’t nervous, are you, Mike?”

“Nope.”

“Good. I’m sure your guy is telling you the truth.”

* * *

“It’s a good result,” Mort says to me as we’re pulling out of the parking lot. “At least we got the videos out.”

“Nice work,” I say. “Let’s go back to the office and call Joel with the good news.” I pause. “What do you think that was all about in the hallway? You think they know something?”

He takes out a cigar. “Probably.”

Chapter 31

“WHAT ELSE CAN YOU TELL ME, ROOSEVELT?”

“We have been asked to prepare papers to have Mr. Russo declared legally dead.”

— Charles Stern. San Francisco Legal Journal. Tuesday, March 10.

Tuesday, March 10. We take a break from our trial preparation to attend to an equally depressing matter: Wendy’s custody hearing. Her ex-husband, Andy, has filed papers to revise their custody agreement. Wendy and I wait outside divorce court at ten a.m. We’re joined by her attorney, Jerry Mills, a quiet, rational man in his mid-fifties. Wendy is nervous. I don’t blame her. I haven’t been in this hallway in five years. It brings back unpleasant memories. It was in this very corridor that I gave up on my lame-brained idea that I was better suited to have custody of Grace. I’ll never forget the look of relief on Rosie’s face. It was the only time during our divorce that she allowed herself to cry.

We’re joined by Wendy’s ex, Andy Schneider, a high-strung advertising executive in his late thirties with slicked-back hair. He’s dressed in a flashy double-breasted suit and a designer tie. He’s accompanied by his attorney, a fiftyish asshole named Craig Sherman, who bears an uncanny resemblance to a rattlesnake.

In my experience, divorce attorneys come in two species. Most are rational people like Jerry, who act more as counselors than adversaries. Some have a knack for defusing tense situations. The really good ones steer their clients toward counseling and sometimes salvage marriages. Then there are people like Sherman, who relish the role of barracuda. He represents only men. He has a picture of a shark on his business cards. If you’re going to war with your ex-wife, he’s your guy.

Sherman says, “You guys don’t think the judge is actually going to believe this crap that Wendy has her own law firm, do you? We’re going to call in child custody services to review this case.”

Nice guy.

Mills looks at him. “We have an agreement, Craig. It’s been approved by the court. It isn’t going to change.”

Sherman cracks his knuckles. “Sure, Jerry. I’ve had this judge modify custody orders for a lot less than this.”

And you wonder why people hate lawyers. In reality, he’s probably bluffing. In California, custody orders can be modified only if there is a significant change in circumstance. A change in one spouse’s economic situation generally isn’t enough.

Wendy glares at Andy. “You’re an asshole. You aren’t fit to take care of a hamster, let alone a six-year-old.”

He tugs at his tie. “At least I’ve got a job.”

I get between them. “It’s time for court,” I say calmly.

Andy winks. Wendy moves closer to Mills.

We turn toward the heavy double doors to the courtroom when Pete walks up, soaking wet. “Sorry I’m late.”

Sherman looks at him. “I didn’t realize we were going to have a family reunion.”

“Craig,” Pete says, “can I see you and Andy in private for a moment?”

“What the hell is this all about?”

“Thirty seconds,” Pete says.

“Humor him,” Andy says confidently.

Pete, Andy and Sherman walk down the hall out of earshot. Pete takes out a manila envelope and hands it to Andy. They huddle. They argue. Sherman gesticulates. Pete remains stone-faced. A moment later, the arrogance leaves Andy’s face.

Wendy turns to me. “What’s this all about?”

“I don’t know.”

A moment later, Pete, Andy and Sherman return. Sherman looks at Wendy, then he turns to Mills. “Jerry,” he says, “we’ve decided not to pursue any changes in the custody deal. We’re going to drop our motion.” He turns to me. “You and your brother are assholes.” He and Andy walk down the hall toward the elevators.

I turn to Pete, who arches an eyebrow. Wendy walks over and gives him a hug. He hugs her back uncomfortably. “I don’t know what you gave them,” she says, “but it worked.”

Pete gives us a wicked grin and pulls out a stack of snapshots. “I took these last night.” He starts flipping through the pictures, the way little kids flip through baseball cards. He provides a running commentary. “Here’s Andy’s executive assistant, Karen.” It’s a picture of an attractive woman going into a house in Pacific Heights. “Here’s Andy going inside. Here’s Andy taking off his clothes. Here’s Karen taking off her clothes. The next few pictures are a little tough to see.” He shuffles through them quickly. “Here they are rolling around on the floor.”

Wendy is smiling. “We get the idea, Pete.”

“It seems Karen is married to Andy’s boss.”

“I was not aware of that,” I say.

“I’d say we’re holding Andy’s career right here in the palm of my hand.”

Jerry Mills asks Pete for a business card. “You guys play in a different league.”

* * *

Thursday, March 12. Four days before the start of jury selection. We’ve spent the last week interviewing witnesses, rehearsing my opening and working on jury selection strategy. The clock is ticking.

The process of preparing for trial is far more of an art than a science. You spend a lot of time honing your presentation. While the law professors and commentators like to talk about the pursuit of justice, when you cut to the chase, it’s all theater. In a world of social media and 140-character messages, you can’t just inform the jury; you have to entertain them and, if possible, dazzle them with special effects.

Unlike real theater, a trial attorney has to perform all the important roles: producer, director, lead actor, costume designer, special effects supervisor, production accountant and, perhaps most important, food provider. We have created an impromptu “war room” in the hallway just outside my office. Exhibit binders, easels, enlarged pictures, diagrams and charts are everywhere. My biggest worry is that our stuff will get soaked as we lug it from the parking lot to the courtroom.

Rosie, Mort and I spend the day with our jury consultant, Barbara Childs, who is an up-and-comer in a growing field. I’ve worked with her on a couple of cases. She’s a little full of herself, but you have to be in her line of work. I take her suggestions with a grain of salt. We don’t have the time or the resources to do a full mock trial.

At three in the afternoon, I walk past Wendy, who is poring over some S&G financial records at a table just outside Rosie’s office. “Find anything we can use?”

“Nothing yet.” She looks at me. “Where are you going? I would think you might have a few things to do today.”

“I thought I’d take the afternoon off. You know—conserve my strength for trial.”

“Really, Mike. Where are you off to?”

“I’m going to take one more run at Roosevelt.”

* * *

I meet Roosevelt in the back of a cop bar not far from the Hall. The cops and detectives respect each other’s private space here. The place is run by a heavyset man named Phil Agnos. It’s sort of a cross between a saloon and a halfway house for Greek immigrants. Phil is the only person permitted to handle the money. Every three weeks or so, there’s a new young man with a toothpick in his mouth standing at the grill. Since the only English words he ever knows are “cheeseburger” and “double,” your culinary options are limited. I opt for a single cheeseburger today.

Roosevelt is sitting in the back room, nursing a cup of coffee and reading the paper. A picture of Joe DiMaggio hangs on the wall behind him. He stands to greet me. “I was just reading about you in the paper.”

“What are they saying now?”

“The usual. You’re spending all your time on a hopeless disinformation campaign in a feeble attempt to find some technicality to get your client off. Typical stuff for a defense attorney.”

“I knew they’d get my number sooner or later.” I take a bite of my cheeseburger. “Have you guys found anything else?”

He sips his coffee. “Nothing I haven’t told you already. Skipper has poor Bill McNulty living with two jury consultants. One of them told me Skipper has practiced his opening in front of two different mock juries.”

“How are the test audiences playing?”

“Pretty well. For all his faults, the man has charisma.”

Indeed. “What else can you tell me, Roosevelt? Anything else I can use?”

“Not a thing, Mike. You’re doing everything you’re supposed to be doing. Once you got the confession knocked out, it turned into a circumstantial case. It isn’t an easy one.”

For either side.

He wipes his glasses. “Why don’t you ask for more time? Your client isn’t rotting in jail. Why the rush?”

“He won’t listen to reason. Anything new on Vince Russo?”

“Nope. His story went cold at the Golden Gate Bridge.”

“Pete thinks a cab driver may have picked him up and driven him to the airport.”

“That’s more than we’ve found.”

Great. Just great.

* * *

Mort calls me at the office at five o’clock the same afternoon. “I got an e-mail from the judge,” he says. “She ruled we can’t call Skipper as a witness at the trial.”

“No big surprise there, Mort.”

“Nope. I was surprised she didn’t rule against us on the spot.”

Four days until trial. On Monday, we start playing for keeps.

Chapter 32

OPENING CEREMONIES

“We are extremely confident.”

— Michael Daley. NewsCenter 4. Monday, March 16.

“I’m scared to death, Rosie,” I say. “I haven’t been this nervous in a long time.”

We’re driving to Rabbi Friedman’s house in a light rain on the morning of Monday, March 16. El Niño’s giving us a small respite today, but the gray skies further dampen my mood.

She touches my hand. “First-day jitters. You’re like a baseball pitcher. After you make it through the first inning, you’ll be fine.” We pull into Rabbi Friedman’s driveway. She gives me a peck on the cheek. “Go get ‘em. Once the trial starts, there’s no looking back.”

* * *

The rabbi meets us at the door. His expression is grim. Per my instructions, Joel and his dad are dressed in dark business suits, white shirts and subdued ties. Joel’s mom and Naomi are wearing conservative clothes, no jewelry and minimal makeup.

I gather everyone in the dining room. “I know we’ve gone over this, but I want to remind you once more that trials are theater. It sounds paranoid, but you have to assume everything you say and do will be scrutinized by the jury. I want you to act normal, but be careful. An inappropriate gesture could have greater impact than you’d think.”

The rabbi raises a hand. “Are we allowed to show any emotion?”

Generally, histrionics don’t play well in the courtroom. “It won’t hurt to shake your head every once in a while. I don’t want you to draw unnecessary attention to yourselves. I want to keep the jury focused. And I don’t want the judge to think we’re trying to disrupt her courtroom. She’s very businesslike.”

Rosie looks at her watch. “Time to go.”

* * *

Joel and Naomi hold hands in the back of Rosie’s car as we drive to the Hall. He’s stoic, almost serene. She’s tugging her hair.

“It’s going to be all right,” I tell them.

Naomi whispers, “I know.”

We pull into the pay lot next to McDonald’s. Joel’s parents take the spot next to us. They huddle under an umbrella while Rosie and I pull our trial cases out of the trunk.

Even though it’s now raining steadily, reporters from the local stations are waiting for us on the steps of the Hall. The nerdy guy from CNN is here. The arrogant woman from Court TV who’s been calling me an idiot for the last six weeks has left the comfort of her studio to insult me in person. A dozen police officers form a human barricade for us. The cameras and reporters follow us. It starts to rain harder. We’re pelted with questions and rain as we push our way to the doors.

“Mr. Daley, is it true you’re discussing a plea bargain?”

“Mr. Daley, is your client going to take the stand?”

“Mr. Daley, is it true you’re going, to have a surprise witness?”

“Mr. Daley? Mr. Daley? Mr. Daley?”

As we reach the door, I turn back and face the nearest camera. Channel 7 will get the best footage tonight. Two dozen microphones are held up to my face.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we are extremely confident that Mr. Friedman will be fully exonerated of these outrageous charges.” I turn and walk into the building. Reporters continue shouting questions to my back.

* * *

Mort meets us inside. We make our way through the metal detectors and up the elevators. Police mill around. Security is tight. As I turn to open the wooden doors to Judge Chen’s courtroom, I see Skipper’s smiling countenance as he strides toward us, reporters nipping at his heels. If he’s nervous, he isn’t showing it. It’s sound-bite time. I can’t hear what he’s saying, but I’m sure he’s extolling the strength of his case and his faith in the justice system. I catch his eye. It’s opening day. Let’s play the National Anthem and start the game.

* * *

The windowless courtroom is packed. The hot, heavy air smells of mildew. Umbrellas and raincoats are strewn about. McNulty and two law clerks lug in four trial bags. Skipper and McNulty take their places at the prosecution table near the jury box.

Joel sits between Rosie and me at the defense table. Mort sits at the end. Mort has his game face on. He looks forward intently, eyes moving constantly. He’s looking for any nuance or advantage.

The gallery is full. Naomi and her in-laws are in the first row, directly behind us. Diana’s mother sits behind Skipper. The courtroom artists have their sketch pads poised. Reporters and onlookers crowd into the remaining seats.

* * *

Judge Chen’s bailiff is an African-American woman named Harriet Hill. At precisely ten o’clock, she instructs us to stand. The judge hurries to her tall leather chair and nods to Skipper, and then to me. Her hair is pulled back tightly. She calls for order. The courtroom becomes silent. “Any last-minute issues?” she asks.

“No, Your Honor,” Skipper and I say almost in unison.

“Good.” She’s trying to set a businesslike tone. “Let’s get started.”

* * *

To the great chagrin of the media, we will spend the next few days, and perhaps weeks, picking a jury. Like most trial lawyers, I believe cases are won or lost during jury selection.

Unfortunately, picking a jury is the most important and least scientific part of this enterprise. Jury consultants get paid hundreds of thousands of dollars to identify personality traits and biases gleaned from juror questionnaires that may not have been answered honestly. Some jury consultants claim they can help you pick a sympathetic jury simply by watching the body language of the potential jurors. At the end of the day, you go with hunches and gut instincts as much as demographics.

Picking a jury is more difficult than it used to be. In 1991, California voters passed Proposition 115, which gave judges, rather than the prosecutors and defense attorneys, the authority to question prospective jurors during the voir dire. Before Prop. 115, jury selection in a capital case could take months. With the judges asking the questions, the process goes much more quickly. Lawyers can still give the judge a list of questions we want asked—which the judge is free to ignore. Although Judge Chen has promised to give us some leeway, she reminds us that she’ll be asking the questions.

Skipper has hired one of the jury consultants from the Simpson trial, who’s appeared on CNN from time to time. My jury consultant, Barbara Childs, is a regular on Court TV. I suspect the battle of the consultants will end up about even.

The best thing about jury selection is that it tends to bore the media to tears. The judge asks the same questions of a large group of people for days on end. Occasionally, the lawyers get to stand up and make a speech to try to have a juror excused. After a few preliminaries, Judge Chen tells Harriet Hill to bring in the first panel of potential jurors.

* * *

Thursday, March 19. Three days later, we’re still at it. The first-day media blitz has died down. Although the local TV stations are still sending reporters to monitor the proceedings, we’ve been relegated to the third page of the Chronicle and the fourth story in the local news broadcasts. We get a little more play on CNN every night. Everybody will be back once we’ve picked the jury.

We must select twelve jurors and six alternates. So far, we’ve managed to select nine jurors. I’m having a tougher time than Skipper. He’s looking for people who hate lawyers. That includes about 99 percent of the population.

Skipper wants people who have had a bad experience with the legal system, who might take out their hostility on Joel. I’m trying to avoid anybody who’s ever been arrested, divorced or sued. That doesn’t leave much. I like his odds better.

According to my consultant, I should try to fill the jury with women, because they’re more open-minded. On the other hand, they tend to turn quickly in cases where a woman is a victim, especially if the accused is a man. So much for statistics.

By three o’clock on Thursday, we’ve picked our twelve jurors and six alternates. Judge Chen has kept the process moving. We’ve finished sooner than I would have predicted.

The jury is a mixed bag. Eight women and four men. Two of the women are Asian, one African-American. One man is Asian, another Hispanic. Seven are married, and three have been divorced. Two are lawyers. The African-American woman is a supervisor for the phone company. I have a hunch she’ll be one of the leaders. I tried to get her excused because she was divorced. Judge Chen ruled against me. There are two homemakers, a retired Muni bus driver, a data-entry clerk, a hotel worker and a CPA. I have no idea how they’ll react.

After the last juror is seated, Judge Chen glances at her watch and turns to Skipper. “I trust you’ll be ready to begin your opening statement tomorrow?”

“Absolutely, Your Honor.”

* * *

Back at the office the same evening, Barbara Childs congratulates me for picking a terrific jury. Her words ring hollow. What else would she say? After she leaves, I get a more realistic view from Rosie and Mort.

“Could be worse,” Mort says.

Rosie agrees. “We’ve done the best we could. It’s a crap shoot

She’s right. All the studies and empirical research go out the window when you’re in a courtroom picking a jury. You never get used to it. Your client’s life is in the hands of twelve strangers. You never know if you’ve picked twelve Mother Teresas or twelve Jack the Rippers.

“Which ones did you like the best?” I ask.

Mort clutches his cigar. “You should get a pretty good shake from the two lawyers. I think the accountant will be okay. Tough to tell with the rest of them.”

Rosie adds, “I think the Asian women and the Hispanic man will be conscientious.”

“Anybody you didn’t like?”

“I wasn’t happy with the phone company supervisor. She looks like she has a chip on her shoulder.”

“I wasn’t crazy about her, either,” Mort says.

* * *

At eleven-thirty that night, I’m at home watching the legal analysts on CNN dissect our jury. The panel of eight “experts” sits in two rows of bleacher seats on one side of the studio, fielding questions from the strident woman with the bad hair and the wormy guy with the bad glasses. It looks like a pregame show for a football game. You know you’ve made the big time when your trial has its own graphics and theme song. The voice of James Earl Jones intones that we’re watching coverage of “Special Circumstances: The Law Firm Murder Trial.”

After voting 6-2 in favor of Skipper’s jury selection acumen, the people in the bleachers turn to the TV monitor in the middle of the studio and begin a heated discussion with a jury consultant from the Menendez case, who seems to have a television studio in her home. It looks odd to watch the two hosts and the eight panelists talking to the woman’s head.

“Mr. Gates clearly got the better of the jury selection process,” says the disembodied head. “Asians are good prosecution jurors. They like order. On the other hand, the Hispanic man has probably had trouble with the law. I’m sure he’ll be sympathetic to the defense.”

It’s disturbing to listen to these blatant stereotypes. She should know better. It was revealed in the voir dire that the Hispanic man is a senior vice president at Chevron who lives in the most expensive corner of the ritzy Seacliff neighborhood. He’s a big contributor to the Republican party.

“The black woman,” she continues, “will almost certainly favor the defense. I’m sure she’s had friends or relatives hassled by the cops. She’ll give the defendant a fair shake.”

I’m not so sure. The woman’s husband is a cop. If the disembodied head had been paying attention during the voir dire, she would have known this.

The host interrupts her. “Do you think the jurors will be predisposed against Mr. Friedman because he’s a lawyer?”

The consultant smiles. “Absolutely. That’s the wild card. Most people think lawyers get away with murder every day.” Raucous laughter. They take another vote before they go to commercial. This time it’s unanimous. The jury is clearly going to be on Skipper’s side.

I flip to CNBC. Marcia Cark is lecturing on the strength of Skipper’s case. I turn off the TV and run through my opening statement one more time.

* * *

Friday morning arrives with another driving rainstorm. The news vans are lined up on Bryant, and umbrellas blanket the steps of the Hall. We push our way through the crowd and march up to the courtroom. Reporters surround Skipper outside the door. We have barely enough time to take off our raincoats when Harriet Hill instructs us to rise. Judge Chen walks to her chair. She asks Harriet Hill to bring in the jury. She greets them warmly, and says they’ll have the privilege of hearing opening statements today. Then she turns to Skipper. “You may begin your opening statement, Mr. Gates.”

He stands and buttons the jacket of his navy suit. He walks to the lectern and places a stack of note cards below the reading light. He doesn’t look at them. The courtroom is silent. It’s like the moment at the symphony when the conductor raises his baton. He nods to the judge and turns to the jury. He scans their faces for an instant. Then he turns back and addresses the judge.

“May it please the court, my name is Prentice Gates. I am the district attorney for the city and county of San Francisco. We are here today to address a serious matter. A matter of life and death.”

The jurors shift uncomfortably. The phone company supervisor’s eyes meet Skipper’s. Judge Chen watches intently. I focus on the jury. Joel swallows.

Skipper leaves the lectern and walks slowly toward the jury. They size each other up. He takes his gold pen from his breast pocket and points toward enlarged color photos of Bob and Diana sitting on an easel in front of the jury box. “We are here today because of these two people. Robert Holmes and Diana Kennedy. I knew both of them. They were colleagues of mine. They were my friends.”

I could stand up and object because he’s supposed to stick to the facts in his opening. On the other hand, it’s considered bad form to interrupt.

“We are in court because of that man sitting over there.” He points at Joel. “We will show you evidence that the defendant knowingly and willfully, with malice aforethought, killed Diana Kennedy and Robert Holmes.”

McNulty has coached him well. Skipper will always refer to Joel as “the defendant.” It’s easier for the jury to convict a nameless “defendant.” I remind myself to refer to Joel by name.

Skipper spends twenty minutes expressing his outrage and disappointment that a member of the legal profession and his former colleague took the lives of two respected attorneys. Skipper holds up his right index finger melodramatically. “I want you to remember these two pictures. Bob Holmes and Diana Kennedy can’t speak for themselves. We can’t undo the pain suffered by their families. But we can bring their killer to justice. We have to speak for them.”

I stand and invoke a respectful tone. “Excuse me, Your Honor. Would you please remind Mr. Gates that opening statements should stick to the evidence? There will be time at the end for closing arguments.”

“Please stick to the facts, Mr. Gates.”

“Yes, Your Honor.” He turns back to the jury. “Ladies and gentlemen, we are going to show you incontrovertible evidence placing the defendant at the scene of the crime.” He spends twenty minutes describing the physical evidence. The jurors sit quietly. He’s finding his rhythm. “In addition, we will present evidence that the defendant was having an affair with Diana Kennedy.” Murmuring in the gallery. I glance at Naomi. Our eyes meet. “When the relationship soured and the defendant found out that Ms. Kennedy was romantically involved with Mr. Holmes, he became enraged. The defendant was also angry at Mr. Holmes because the defendant was passed up for election to the partnership at the Simpson and Gates law firm.” He clears his throat. “Imagine. He killed another human being because he didn’t make partner.”

Rabbi Friedman looks down. Joel remains stoic.

“Finally,” Skipper says, “I realize there are many people who aren’t particularly enamored of members of the legal profession.” A couple of jurors nod. “I want to make something clear. The legal profession is not on trial here. The defendant is. It’s my job to show you enough evidence to give you the tools that you need to convict. I will give you those tools.

“You’ll be hearing today from Mr. Daley, who is the defendant’s attorney. It’s his job to try to confuse you and put doubts in your mind. I’m saying this not as an indictment or criticism of Mr. Daley. It’s just the way our system works.”

That’s not entirely true. He is, in fact, saying it as an indictment and a criticism of me.

“I ask you to use your common sense.” He points to the photos again. “Above all, I want you to keep these pictures in mind. I need your help to find justice for Bob and Diana.”

He makes eye contact with each of them. He walks past the easel and looks at the pictures of Bob and Diana. He unbuttons his jacket and sits down.

Judge Chen turns to me. “Mr. Daley, will you be making an opening statement today?”

We have the option of deferring our opening statement until after the prosecution has completed its case. If I wait, I can tailor my opening to address issues raised in Skipper’s case. On the other hand, it may be several weeks before the jury hears me say anything of substance. We’ve agreed that if Skipper opens strong, I’ll make our opening today. I glance at Rosie and Mort. They both nod.

“Your Honor, we’ll be giving our opening statement today.”

I stand up and button my jacket. I walk toward the jurors and look each of them in the eye. I move to the edge of the jury box. I like to start close to them.

I always start in a quiet, conversational tone. “My name is Michael Daley. I represent Joel Friedman, who has been unjustly accused of a terrible crime he didn’t commit.”

Skipper could leap up right now and demand that I stick to the evidence. Fortunately, McNulty’s told him to stay in his chair. I’m going to take advantage of it while I can.

“Joel Friedman is an honest, hardworking man with a wonderful wife and two young children. His life has been turned upside down because he happened to be at the office doing his job on the night two people died. Imagine what it must be like when the police come to your house and arrest you in front of your wife, your parents and your children for two murders you didn’t commit. What do you tell your wife? What do you tell your parents? What do you tell your kids?

“That’s why we’re here. Mr. Gates is absolutely right that this is a very serious matter. It is a matter of life and death. I need your help. I need you to sort out what happened. I need you to sift through the evidence so we can figure out the truth—together. In our system, Mr. Gates is required to prove his case beyond a reasonable doubt. That’s a tough standard.” I pause. “After you hear the evidence you’re going to come to a simple conclusion. Joel can’t do it.”

I get the hint of agreement from the accountant.

“You’ll hear Joel was in the office that night. You’ll find out he phoned Diana Kennedy and asked her to return to the office. You’ll hear he left an angry voicemail message for Bob Holmes. All of these things are true.” I describe the fingerprints on the gun. I argue that they got there when Joel unloaded it. I claim they can’t prove he pulled the trigger.

“Mr. Gates is going to introduce circumstantial evidence to show that Joel Friedman and Diana Kennedy were having an affair. He’s going to claim that she broke up with him and initiated a romantic relationship with Mr. Holmes. There was, in fact, no such affair between Joel Friedman and Diana Kennedy. It didn’t happen.”

I spend fifteen minutes trying to cast doubt on every piece of evidence, liberally using the words “shaky,” “contrived” and “convoluted.” I think the jury is with me. At the very least, they seem to be listening. I glance at Rosie, who blinks twice. It’s my signal to wrap up.

“Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Gates has suggested to you that my job is to obfuscate and confuse you. Let’s be realistic. We all know that there are lawyers who will do just about anything to get their client off. I’m not that kind of lawyer. I will not lie to you. I will not attempt to confuse you. And I will not, under any circumstances, try to mislead you.”

Actually, I’d try to obfuscate and confuse them in a New York minute if I thought it would help get Joel off. “I need you to keep an open mind and review the evidence. I know there’s a lot of animosity directed toward lawyers. I ask you not to take out your feelings toward the legal profession against Joel Friedman. You don’t have to look very far to find cases where justice wasn’t served. I would ask you to help me try to make the system work. When we’re done, I know you will agree that Joel Friedman is not guilty of these terrible crimes.”

I sit down. The judge says we’ll break for the weekend.

* * *

At nine o’clock the same evening, Rosie and I are watching CNN. The experts in the bleachers have proclaimed Skipper the hands-down winner of opening statements. “Daley should have waited until after the prosecution’s case to give his opening,” says the woman with the bad hair.

“Nah,” says the disembodied head on the TV screen. “Gates has too much charisma. At least Daley got to the jury before the horse was out of the barn.”

The prosecutor from Texas who always wears a Stetson in a hot TV studio also sides with Skipper. “They should have tried for a plea bargain,” he drawls.

We flip to CNBC, where Marcia Clark is holding court. “If I were in Daley’s shoes, I’d be begging the prosecution for a deal.”

Thanks, Marcia. Rosie shuts the TV off.

“Was it that bad?” I ask her.

“You held your own. The prosecution gets to play its good cards first.”

I hope she’s right. It doesn’t make me feel any better.

Chapter 33

LAYING THE FOUNDATION

“Keep your case short and sweet.”

— NewsCenter 4 Legal Analyst Morgan Henderson. Monday, March 23.

The sun makes a brief cameo appearance on Monday morning. By the time we reach the Hall, it’s raining again. We push our way past the ever-present TV cameras.

We take our seats at the defense table. Joel asks, “Who do you think they’ll call first?”

The conventional wisdom is that prosecutors build their case one piece at a time. They have to prove the defendant was there. They have to show he had opportunity. They have to demonstrate he had contact with the murder weapon. And they have to prove motive. Piece by piece. Block by block. If the blocks don’t fit, the defendant walks. It’s that simple.

“They’ll probably start with the first officer at the scene and work their way through the physical evidence,” I say. “It lays the foundation for their case.”

Harriet Hill calls for order. Judge Chen takes her seat and looks at Skipper. “Are you ready to call your first witness?”

“Yes, Your Honor. The people call Officer Paul Chinn.”

Not a bad place to start. Chinn was the first officer at the scene.

The young officer’s uniform is freshly pressed. He walks to the front of the courtroom and is sworn in. Cops are trained to stay calm. Some are better at it than others. My dad used to hate going to court.

“Officer Chinn,” Skipper begins, “were you the first officer to arrive at Simpson and Gates on the morning of December thirty-first?”

“Yes, sir. I arrived at eight-twelve a.m. I responded to a nine-one-one dispatch.” His delivery is a little wooden, but the tone is straightforward. Juries pay close attention to the early witnesses. Then they start to get bored. Chinn says Chuckles met him in the lobby. Chuckles said nobody was in danger. Then he escorted Chinn to Bob’s office, where Joel was waiting outside.

Skipper nods to McNulty, who places a drawing of Bob’s office on the easel in front of the jury. Skipper has Chinn identify it as a diagram of the crime scene. Skipper turns to Judge Chen and requests that it be introduced as an exhibit.

“No objection, Your Honor,” I say. I’m glad they’ve decided to use a diagram instead of the crime-scene photos. I’m sure those will come later.

“Officer Chinn,” Skipper continues, “would you mind showing us where the bodies were found?”

Chinn walks over to the diagram. He uses a Bic pen to point to the places on the floor where the bodies were found.

Skipper walks him through a brief tour of the scene. Then he picks up a revolver wrapped in clear plastic from the evidence cart. “Officer Chinn, do you recognize this?”

“Yes. It’s the weapon I found on the desk of Mr. Holmes.”

At least he didn’t call it the murder weapon.

Skipper has him identify three spent shell casings and the three unused bullets. “Where did you find the casings and the bullets?”

“On the desk.”

“Do you know how the bullets got there?”

I’m up. “Objection, Your Honor. Calls for speculation. Officer Chinn has no personal knowledge of how the bullets made their way to the desk.” It’s good to get your first objection out of the way.

“Sustained.”

Skipper rephrases. “Did the defendant explain how the casings and the bullets found their way to the desk?”

Chinn’s tone is measured. “The defendant said he unloaded the gun. He directed me to the casings and the bullets.”

“Did you see the defendant unload the gun?”

“No.”

“Was the defendant acting suspiciously?”

“Objection. The question goes to the defendant’s state of mind.” Well, not exactly, but I’m going to try to break up Skipper’s rhythm.

“Your Honor,” Skipper says, “I’m not asking Officer Chinn to read the defendant’s mind. I’m simply asking for his observations of the defendant’s behavior.”

“Overruled.”

Chinn looks at Joel. “The defendant was agitated and extremely upset.”

Skipper is pleased. “And did you have any basis to conclude that the defendant may have had any involvement in the deaths of Mr. Holmes and Ms. Kennedy?”

“Objection. Speculative.”

“Sustained.”

I’m going to take my shots while I can. Skipper is going to get the hang of this sooner or later.

Skipper strokes his chin. “Officer, after you found the bodies, the murder weapon, the bullets and shells, what did you do?”

“Objection. There’s no foundation for the characterization of the gun as the ‘murder’ weapon.”

“Sustained.” Judge Chen turns to the jury. “Please disregard the characterization of the revolver as the ‘murder’ weapon.”

Sure they will. Skipper rephrases the question, leaving out the word “murder.”

Chinn says he followed standard procedure; he secured the scene and called for reinforcements. He describes the arrival of the police and the paramedics, followed by the technicians from the medical examiner’s office, the police photographers and the homicide inspectors.

“No further questions, Your Honor.”

Not a bad direct exam for a guy who’s never done it before. And not a bad performance by a young cop who’s batting leadoff in his first big case.

* * *

“Officer Chinn,” I say calmly, as I stand, “you said you found the revolver, the spent shells and the unused bullets on the desk of Mr. Holmes.”

“Correct.”

“And you testified that Mr. Friedman told you he unloaded the gun.”

“Yes.”

“Did he tell you why he unloaded the gun?”

“To protect the safety of the other members of the firm.”

“That’s an admirable goal, isn’t it?”

“Objection. Speculative.”

“Sustained.”

I’ve made my point. “Officer, did you have any reason to disbelieve Mr. Friedman?”

Chinn looks helplessly at Skipper. “No.”

“Did you see any evidence on his hands or clothing suggesting he had fired the gun?”

“It would have been very difficult to see any such evidence with the naked eye, Mr. Daley.”

“I understand. But did you see any such evidence?”

“No, sir.”

It’s always a good sign when the witness starts calling you “sir.” “Did you collect samples of tissue or clothing from Mr. Friedman to obtain evidence that he had, in fact, fired the gun?”

“No, sir.”

“So you have no personal knowledge as to whether he fired the gun?”

Skipper stands. “Asked and answered, Your Honor.”

“Sustained. Move along, Mr. Daley.”

I was wondering how long she’d let me go. “Officer, you testified that you secured the scene.”

“That’s right.”

“So nobody could have left the Simpson and Gates suite once you arrived, correct?”

“That’s true.”

“You secured the elevators?”

“Yes.”

“And the stairs?”

“Yes.”

I give him an inquisitive look. “You were the only officer at the scene when you arrived, right?”

His eyes dart toward Skipper. “Yes.”

“Yet you were able to secure six elevators and two internal stairways all by yourself?”

“Other officers arrived right away. We secured the scene as soon as possible.”

“What about the freight elevator?”

“We secured it.”

“When?”

“When the other officers arrived.”

“So, Officer, it is possible that any number of people could have fled the scene on the elevators or the stairs or the freight elevator before additional officers arrived, isn’t it?”

“Objection. Speculative.”

“Overruled.”

Chinn looks troubled. “I suppose that’s possible.”

So far, so good. “Officer, you testified that Mr. Friedman was agitated and upset when you arrived.”

“Correct.”

“How long have you been on the force?”

“Three and a half years.”

“How many times have you been the first officer at the scene of an alleged homicide?”

“This was the second time.”

“How many dead bodies have you seen?”

“Objection,” Skipper says. “I fail to see any relevance.”

Judge Chen’s tone has the first hint of impatience. “Overruled.”

“I’ve seen three dead bodies,” Chinn says.

I move closer to him. “Officer Chinn, in your experience, when you’ve arrived at the scene of the homicide, isn’t it usually the case that the people are upset?”

“Yes.”

“And the people who were most upset were the people who found the body, right?”

His tone is grudging. “Yes, sir.”

“Wouldn’t it be fair to say that Mr. Friedman’s reaction was not unusual in the circumstances?”

Skipper should object. I’m asking him to speculate.

“That’s fair,” Chinn says.

Gotcha. “One last thing. When you arrived, you were met by Mr. Stern, who told you nobody was in danger.”

“Correct.”

“You arrived within minutes after Mr. Stern discovered the bodies. How did he know there wasn’t a killer on the loose in the Simpson and Gates office?”

Chinn looks at Skipper and then at McNulty. “I guess he assumed nobody was in danger because he found the murder weapon on the desk of Mr. Holmes.”

“Move to strike the word ‘murder’ from Officer Chinn’s testimony.”

“Sustained. The jury will disregard the characterization of the revolver as the ‘murder’ weapon.”

I’m not quite finished. “Officer Chinn, isn’t it possible that Mr. Stern knew that nobody was in danger because he knew Mr. Holmes had committed suicide?”

“Objection. Speculative.”

“Sustained.”

“Isn’t it possible Mr. Stern knew that nobody was in danger because he knew who the real killer was? And the real killer may have even been him?”

“Objection. Speculative.”

“Sustained.” Judge Chen taps her gavel to silence murmurs in the gallery. “If there are any other disruptions, I will clear this courtroom.”

“No further questions,” I say.

* * *

“You took him apart,” Joel says.

We’re taking a short recess after Chinn’s testimony. We’re in the consultation room behind Judge Chen’s courtroom.

“He’s a kid, Joel. He’s just a table-setter.”

“You made him contradict his story. That’s good.”

I get a more realistic view from Mort. “Nice cross. The jury seems to like you.”

Rosie is always a voice of reality. “Still a long way to go.”

* * *

After the recess, Skipper calls Sandra Wilson. She spends the next hour describing how she meticulously gathered every shred of evidence in Bob’s office and Diana’s apartment. Skipper is doing it by the book. He’s confirming to the jury that there are no chain-of-custody issues. He’s introducing the evidence he’ll need later in the trial. He gets Sandra to describe how she handled and catalogued the revolver, the spent shells and the unused bullets. She confirms that the revolver was registered to Bob. She identifies the keyboard. I interrupt periodically. Realistically, I’m not going to win any battles with Sandra on the stand. There’s no point in making an ass of myself while she’s testifying. It will only annoy the phone company supervisor.

I ask a few perfunctory questions on cross. I want to get her off the stand as fast as I can.

* * *

After lunch, Skipper raises the stakes. Marcus Banks looks ready for battle as he strides to the front of the courtroom. After he’s sworn in, Skipper picks up a meticulously labeled cassette tape from the evidence cart.

“Inspector,” he says, “do you recognize this?”

“It’s a recording of a message left on Diana Kennedy’s home answering machine at approximately twelve-fifty-one a.m. on December thirty-first.”

“And could you describe the contents of the message?”

“Objection, Your Honor. Hearsay.”

“Overruled.”

I’m not surprised. I know she’s going to let them introduce the tapes into evidence. We’ve fought this battle and lost.

Banks keeps his tone measured. “The message was from the defendant. He asked Ms. Kennedy to return to the office.”

Nice response. Straightforward. Non-inflammatory. I can see McNulty’s influence. They’re going to build their case carefully. They don’t need theatrics—yet.

“Inspector, did the defendant sound agitated or upset in the message?”

“Objection. Asks for Mr. Friedman’s state of mind.”

“Sustained.”

Skipper introduces the tape into evidence. He asks the judge for permission to play it to the jury. Judge Chen gives me an inquisitive glance.

“Your Honor,” I say, “the defense renews its objection to having this tape entered into evidence.” I’m stating it for the record so we can challenge her decision on appeal.

“We’ve been over this, Mr. Daley. Your motion is denied.”

“The defense therefore requests that Your Honor instruct the jury to consider the fact that this tape is being played in the absence of context.”

Skipper says, “Your Honor, we believe the tape speaks for itself.”

Judge Chen looks at the jurors. “Ladies and gentlemen,  you are about to hear a recording of a conversation between Mr. Friedman and Ms. Kennedy. You should consider the fact that you have not been given information concerning the context in which this recording was made.”

Skipper hands the cassette to McNulty, who puts it into a tape player. The jurors focus on the tape player. The heated voices of Joel and Diana resonate in the courtroom. Joel closes his eyes. Naomi’s lips form a tight line across her face.

The tape ends. Skipper turns back to Banks. “Were you able to identify the voices?”

“Objection. Inspector Banks has not been qualified as a voice-recognition expert.”

“Overruled.”

“The male voice was that of the defendant,” Banks says. “The female voice was that of the victim, Ms. Kennedy.”

They go through a similar exercise for the voicemail message from Joel to Bob. “Inspector Banks,” Skipper says, “do you believe Mr. Friedman was angry enough at the time these tapes were made to kill two people?”

I’m up like a shot. “Objection, Your Honor. Speculative. State of mind.”

“Sustained.”

Skipper smiles. “No further questions.”

I stand up immediately. “Inspector Banks, you weren’t present when these telephone conversations were recorded, were you?”

“Of course not.”

“So you don’t really know why Mr. Friedman called Ms. Kennedy, do you?”

“It’s obvious. He was angry at her.”

“Inspector, are you aware that Ms. Kennedy and Mr. Friedman were working on a very large transaction?”

“Yes.”

“And they were under a lot of pressure to close that deal the next morning?”

“Yes.”

“And millions of dollars were riding on the successful closing?”

“Objection. Leading.”

“Overruled.”

It’s okay to lead on cross. I’m now standing right in front of Banks. “Isn’t it possible that Mr. Friedman called Ms. Kennedy because he needed help on the deal?”

“I don’t think so.”

“But it’s possible, right?”

“I don’t think so.”

He isn’t going to budge. “Inspector, let’s talk about Mr. Friedman’s voicemail message to Mr. Holmes. Are you aware that Mr. Friedman was told that he wasn’t going to make partner that night?”

“Yes.”

“Do you believe Mr. Friedman was upset about that?”

“Yes.”

“If you’d worked for eight years to try to make partner, you’d probably have been upset, too.”

He shrugs.

“Inspector Banks, you seem to have chosen to interpret Mr. Friedman’s voicemail message to Mr. Holmes as a threat.”

“It was. I think it’s obvious.”

“Have you ever worked in a law firm?”

“No.”

“But you’ve spent a lot of time around lawyers, right?”

He smiles sardonically. “More than I’d care to.”

“And you know a little bit about how lawyers think, right?”

“Objection, Your Honor. Can we get to the point?”

“Sustained.” Judge Chen rotates her hands like a basketball referee making a traveling call. “Speed it up, Mr. Daley.”

“Inspector, lawyers sometimes say things for effect, right?”

“Kind of like right now, right, Mr. Daley?”

Touché. “As a matter of fact, yes. Lawyers sometimes take exaggerated positions as a negotiating tactic, don’t they?”

“That’s true.”

“Isn’t it possible, Inspector, that Mr. Friedman’s voicemail to Mr. Holmes was, in fact, lawyerly posturing?”

“Not the way I heard it.”

“Come on, Inspector.”

Skipper stand and objects. “Your Honor, Inspector Banks has answered Mr. Daley’s question.”

The hell he has.

“Sustained.”

I’ve gone as far as I can. “No further questions.”

* * *

Joel is agitated in the consultation room during the break. “Couldn’t you have nailed Banks?”

Mort sticks up for me. “Banks wasn’t going to move an inch. Mike got him to look like a stubborn jerk. It’s the best we could do.”

Joel scowls. “Maybe Mort should take a few witnesses.”

Mort looks pleased.

I hold up a hand. “The prosecutor always looks good at the beginning. We have to chip away a little at a time.”

He tosses a crumpled paper cup into the trash and doesn’t respond.

Chapter 34

“I AM THE CHIEF MEDICAL EXAMINER FOR THE CITY

AND COUNTY OF SAN FRANCISCO”

“Dr. Beckert has testified at hundreds of trials.”

—NewsCenter 4 Legal Analyst Morgan Henderson. Monday, March 23.

At three o’clock, Skipper says in a clear voice, “The people call Dr. Roderick Beckert.”

Beckert nods to the judge as he walks confidently to the front of the courtroom. The college professor tweed jacket hanging on the coatrack in his office has been replaced with a charcoal-gray business suit and a burgundy tie. He’s the embodiment of authority.

Skipper stands at the lectern. He doesn’t want to crowd Beckert. “Would you please state your name and occupation for the record?”

“Dr. Roderick Beckert.” The hint of a smile. “I am the chief medical examiner for the city and county of San Francisco. I’ve held the position for twenty-seven years.”

Skipper begins to run Beckert through his credentials. I stop him almost immediately and stipulate to his expertise. There’s no point in giving Skipper twenty minutes of free time to wave Beckert’s diplomas in front of the jury.

“Dr. Beckert,” Skipper says, “did you perform autopsies on the bodies of Robert Holmes and Diana Kennedy on January first of this year?”

“Yes.”

“And would you be kind enough to describe the results of those autopsies?”

He turns slightly toward the jury. “Of course, Mr. Gates.” He says Bob and Diana died of gunshot wounds, his to the head, hers to the chest. Time of death between one and four a.m. He explains that Diana was two months pregnant, and that the unborn fetus also died. His tone is conversational, yet forceful. I let him drone on for a few minutes about body temperature, lividity and discoloration before I stipulate to his determination on the range for the time of death. The jury believes him. It isn’t to our advantage to let him build empathy.

On cue, McNulty trots out a poster-size version of a photo Beckert showed me in his office. We tried to keep it out.

“Doctor Beckert,” Skipper says, “what is this a picture of?”

“The left side of the head of the victim, Robert Holmes.”

“Would you please describe the gunshot wound that killed Mr. Holmes?”

“Of course. Entry through the right parietal, just above the right temple. It severed the cerebral cortex and pierced the mesencephalon, or midbrain, before exiting through the left parietal lobe and the left parietal bone of the skull, just above the left ear. In other words, the gun was placed against the right temple and shot laterally through the head, causing instantaneous death as the bullet passed through the midbrain.”

The courtroom is silent.

“Doctor, would you mind showing the jury the exit wound?”

“Of course.” Beckert walks to the easel and points at the area just behind Bob’s left ear.

“Dr. Beckert,” Skipper continues, “was there another wound to the head?”

“Yes, Mr. Gates.” Beckert points at Bob’s left ear, just above the edge of the exit wound. “Right here, on the parietal bone, there’s a small hematoma, or concussive injury.”

“Objection,” I say. “I can’t tell what Dr. Beckert is pointing at.”

Judge Chen says, “I’m afraid that I can’t either. Doctor, I’m going to have to ask you to mark the wound more precisely.”

“Of course.” Beckert pulls a felt-tip marker from his pocket and he draws a circle on the picture. “Right here.”

Judge Chen nods. “Thank you.”

Skipper studies the picture. “Doctor, would you please describe the concussive wound in greater detail?”

“Certainly. Mr. Holmes suffered a blow to the head, which caused a hematoma, or bump, to the parietal bone of his skull. Based upon the swelling and the freshness of the wound, I believe he was knocked unconscious shortly before he died. It’s similar to a blow suffered by a football player in a helmet-to-helmet collision.”

“Is it possible he was killed by the concussive blow?”

“Unlikely. There was trauma to the skull, but not enough to kill a healthy male.”

“Why would somebody have knocked him out before they shot him?”

“Objection. Speculative.”

“Sustained.”

“I’ll rephrase. Doctor, do you have a theory as to why someone would have knocked Mr. Holmes unconscious and then shot him moments later?”

“Objection. Still speculative.”

“Sustained.”

“Doctor, does it appear to you that the killer was attempting to make this look like a suicide?”

“Objection. Speculative.”

“Sustained.” Judge Chen glares as Skipper. “Enough, Mr. Gates.

“No further questions, Your Honor.”

* * *

I’m on my feet right away. “Dr. Beckert, can you show me this alleged concussive wound one more time?”

He points at the circle he drew a moment ago. “Right here.”

“And you’re one hundred percent sure that mark was caused by someone taking a heavy object and hitting Mr. Holmes?”

“Yes. One hundred percent sure.”

“And it is not possible the wound was caused by the bullet that obliterated much of his head?”

“In my best medical judgment, no.”

“Doctor, did you find any evidence of the object that you claim was used to strike Mr. Holmes?”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“If Mr. Holmes was hit with a piece of wood or metal, you may have found fragments of wood or metal or perhaps paint in the wound, right? Did you find any such evidence?”

“No.”

“How is it possible that somebody hit Mr. Holmes hard enough to knock him unconscious, yet you found no evidence of the object?”

“Objection. Speculative.”

“Overruled.”

Beckert shakes his head. “He must have been hit with an object that didn’t leave any traces.”

“Doctor, you recall that the body was found on the floor.”

“Correct.”

“Is it possible the concussive wound was caused by Mr. Holmes hitting his head on his desk as he slumped to the floor?”

“No, Mr. Daley.”

“Why not?” I’m taking a bit of a chance.

“Mr. Holmes died instantly from the gunshot wound. The hematoma was fairly well developed. If he’d hit his head on his desk after he’d been shot, there would have been no bump.” He explains that bumps are formed by blood rushing to the injured area. When you die, your heart stops beating and your body is therefore incapable of pumping enough blood to create a bump. “Mr. Daley, you can hit a cadaver as many times as you’d like, but you can’t generate a bump on its head. As a result, I concluded that Mr. Holmes was very much alive when he was struck on the head.”

I’m sorry I asked. I pick up a copy of his autopsy report. “Doctor, do you recognize this document?”

“It’s my autopsy report on Mr. Holmes.”

I hand it to him. “You dictated this report as you conducted your autopsy, right?”

“Yes.”

“Could you please turn to page fourteen.”

He puts on his reading glasses and flips through the report. “I’ve found it, Mr. Daley.”

“Does page fourteen describe the concussive wound?”

He studies it quickly. “Yes.”

“Would you be kind enough to read the portion of the report that I highlighted?”

“Of course. ‘Approximately three centimeters from the top of the exit wound, there appears to be a small concussive wound on the parietal bone of the skull. The wound appears relatively fresh.’ ”

“Those were your exact words, Doctor?”

“Of course.”

“At the time you dictated your notes, were you looking at Mr. Holmes’s head?”

Skipper stands, then sits down. He can’t figure out a reason to object.

Beckert replies with a hint of irritation. “Of course I was looking at his head.”

“When you were looking at Mr. Holmes’s head, you described what ‘appears’ to be a ‘small concussive wound’ that is ‘relatively fresh.’ Yet, a moment ago, you testified that you were one hundred percent sure that it was, in fact, a concussive wound, and it was absolutely fresh. How did your tentative observation turn into such an absolute conclusion?”

“Mr. Daley, I’ve been a medical examiner for many years. You read my preliminary observations. I examined the wound more closely during my more detailed autopsy procedures. The size and depth of the concussive wound led me to conclude, unequivocally, that Mr. Holmes was struck on the head.”

I glance at the jury. “How much time elapsed between the day you performed the autopsy and the day you issued your report?”

“About a week.”

“And how many times did you look at the body again?”

“I didn’t.”

“You didn’t? Yet, a week later, your view on the concussive wound seems to have changed.”

“After reviewing the evidence, I became certain that there was, in fact, a concussive wound.”

“And it certainly helps the prosecution’s case if there’s such a wound, right?”

Skipper and McNulty both stand. “Objection,” Skipper shouts. “Move to strike.”

“Sustained.”

I turn back to Beckert. “Could you please read the portion of your report that I’ve highlighted on page nineteen?”

“ ‘Chemical residue was found on victim’s right hand.’ ”

“What sort of chemical residue?”

“Gunpowder.”

Judge Chen’s eyes open wide.

I try to look perplexed. “There was gunpowder residue on his right hand?”

“Yes.”

“How did it get there?”

Skipper pops up. “Objection. Speculative.”

“Sustained.”

“I’ll rephrase.” I turn back to Beckert. “Isn’t it true that when a gun is fired, it emits chemicals, including gunpowder, traces of which can be found on the hands of the party who fired the gun?”

“Objection. Dr. Beckert isn’t an expert on firearms or chemical substances.”

“Your Honor, Dr. Beckert wrote the seminal textbook on forensic science. Surely he’s capable of answering such a basic question.”

“Overruled.”

Beckert pushes his glasses to the top of his head. “Yes, Mr. Daley. When someone fires a gun, it is possible to find traces of gunpowder and other chemicals on his hand.”

“Gunpowder traces are one of the first things the police test for on the hands of a person charged with a shooting, right?”

“Yes.”

“So the gunpowder traces on the right hand of Mr. Holmes suggest it’s possible that Mr. Holmes fired the gun that killed him.”

“Objection. Speculative.”

“Overruled.”

Beckert answers in a grudging tone. “Yes, it’s possible. However—I,”

“No further questions, Your Honor.”

Skipper leaps up for redirect. “Doctor, in your best medical judgment, was Mr. Holmes unconscious when he was killed?”

“Yes.”

“What about the gunpowder traces on his right hand?”

“Objection. Speculative.”

“Overruled.”

Beckert remains calm. “I believe Mr. Holmes was knocked unconscious by a blow to the head. I believe someone placed the gun in his right hand and caused Mr. Holmes to pull the trigger. It was a clumsy attempt to fake a suicide.”

“Thank you, Doctor. No further questions.”

I jump up once more and try for a tone of incredulity. “So, Doctor, it’s your testimony that you think somebody sneaked up behind Bob Holmes, whacked him on the head, and, while he was unconscious, put a revolver in his hand and caused him to use the same hand to shoot himself. Is that about it?”

His tone is even. “Yes, Mr. Daley.”

“You realize that nobody in their right mind would believe such a preposterous scenario.”

“Objection,” Skipper shouts.

“Sustained.” Judge Chen gives me an icy glare. “Mr. Daley, I don’t want any more grandstanding in my courtroom.”

“No further questions.”

Chapter 35

BUILDING BLOCKS

“Prosecutors build their cases one block at a time.”

— CNN. Tuesday, March 24.

“Please state your name and occupation for the record,” Skipper says.

“Edward O’Malley. Ballistics technician, SFPD.”

Ed O’Malley takes the stand at nine o’clock the next morning. He’s a forty-seven-year-old civilian scientist who is the department’s ballistics guru. He works in a hermetically sealed area in the basement of the Hall. The cops refer to guys like Ed as white coats. He can determine with statistical precision whether a bullet was discharged from a particular weapon. His demeanor is studious. His tiny, rimless glasses perch on a large nose above a tidy gray mustache. His role in this play will be relatively short.

Skipper runs him through his resume, then picks up the plastic-wrapped revolver from the evidence cart and holds it up as if it’s the Super Bowl trophy. “Mr. O’Malley, do you recognize this revolver?”

“Yes. That’s the murder weapon.”

I’m up immediately. “Objection. There’s no foundation for Mr. O’Malley’s characterization of this revolver as the ‘murder’ weapon.”

“Sustained.” Judge Chen sighs. “We’re starting early today. The jury will disregard the characterization of the weapon.” She turns to Skipper. “Try it again, Mr. Gates.”

Skipper leads O’Malley through a detailed description of the revolver. He concludes that it was the weapon that fired the fatal shots. Skipper sits down.

There isn’t an iota of doubt in my mind that the bullets were fired from this gun. Of course, this doesn’t stop me from trying to plant a few seeds of doubt in the mind of the phone company supervisor. “Mr. O’Malley,” I say, “how long have you been with the department?”

“Fourteen years.”

“Ever been suspended?”

“Objection,” Skipper says. “Relevance.”

“Your Honor, Mr. Gates called this witness as an expert. His record is highly relevant.”

“Overruled.”

O’Malley glances at the clock. “I was suspended for a week eleven years ago.”

“No further questions.” The jury doesn’t have to know he was suspended when he pled no contest to a DUI—which was, of course, unrelated to his credentials as a ballistics expert. Skipper doesn’t seem to know about it. If he did, he might try to rehabilitate O’Malley on redirect. O’Malley glares at Mort, who has brought his integrity into question for the second time. Mort found out about O’Malley’s suspension in a case five years ago. In that case, his client walked. I hope we get the same result.

* * *

“My name is Sergeant Kathleen Jacobsen. I’m an evidence technician with the SFPD. I’ve been with the force for twenty-two years.”

Skipper stands at the lectern. “Do you have a particular area of expertise?”

“Fingerprints and other chemical and physical evidence.”

Kathleen Jacobsen is a tall, gray-haired woman in her late fifties with a professional demeanor and a commanding aura. One of the first lesbians to work her way up the ranks, she’s become a nationally known figure on evidentiary matters.

Skipper begins to walk her through her impressive resume: undergrad at USC, master’s from UC-Berkeley. I stipulate to her expertise. She confirms she was the lead evidence technician in the investigation.

Skipper strolls to the evidence cart, picks up the revolver and parades it in front of the jury. “Are you familiar with this weapon?”

“Yes. It fired the shots that killed Mr. Holmes and Ms. Kennedy.” Her authoritative tone is a prosecutor’s dream.

Skipper is pleased. “Did you find any fingerprints on this weapon?”

“Yes. The defendant’s.” Her delivery is precise.

They go through the same exercise for the computer keyboard. She confirms that Joel’s fingerprints were found on it, too. Skipper signals to McNulty, who turns on a projector. The suicide e-mail appears on the screen.

“Sergeant, could you please describe the message displayed on the screen?”

“It’s an e-mail message generated from Mr. Holmes’s computer at one-twenty a.m. on December thirty-first.”

“Does that appear to be a suicide message to you, Sergeant?”

“Objection. Sergeant Jacobsen is an expert on evidence, not suicide.”

“Overruled.”

Jacobsen looks at the message. “I believe it was intended to look like a suicide message. However, it was obvious the message was a fake. We found the defendant’s fingerprints on the computer keyboard. We believe the defendant typed the message.”

“And why would he do that?”

“Objection. Speculative.”

“Sustained.”

“Wouldn’t he have done so to make it appear that Mr. Holmes had committed suicide?”

“Objection. Leading.”

“Sustained.”

“No further questions, Your Honor.”

He’s made his point. McNulty turns off the projector.

I address Jacobsen in a respectful tone. “Sergeant, who was the registered owner of this gun?”

“The victim, Robert Holmes.”

“He kept a loaded gun in his office?”

“So it seems.”

“Sergeant,” I say, “did you find any fingerprints on the weapon besides Mr. Friedman’s?”

“Yes. We found smudged fingerprints belonging to the victim, Robert Holmes.”

“On what part of the weapon did you find his fingerprints?”

“On the handle.”

“And could you please show us where you found the fingerprints of Mr. Friedman?”

She says she found Joel’s right thumb and right middle finger, ring finger and pinky on the handle. His right index finger was on the cylinder.

I hand her the plastic-wrapped revolver. “Sergeant, you didn’t find Mr. Friedman’s fingerprints on the trigger, did you?”

She glances at Skipper. Then she looks back at me. “We found smudged fingerprints on the trigger, Mr. Daley.”

“I understand. But, you could not positively identify any of Mr. Friedman’s fingerprints on the trigger, right?”

“Correct.”

This helps. “And isn’t it possible that Mr. Friedman’s prints found on this weapon were generated while Mr. Friedman was unloading it, just the way he described it to Officer Chinn?”

Skipper could object, but it would undercut her credibility.

“It’s possible,” she says.

I pause to let her answer sink in. “And isn’t it true that while you may have fingerprint evidence that Mr. Friedman touched this revolver, you have no evidence that he actually fired it?”

“Objection, Your Honor.” Skipper’s trying to stop the bleeding. “Argumentative.”

“Overruled.”

Jacobsen looks right at me. “That’s true. I can say to an absolute certainty that Mr. Friedman held this revolver. I can’t say to an absolute certainty that he pulled the trigger.”

I take the computer keyboard from the evidence cart. “Would you please tell us which keys had Mr. Friedman’s fingerprints?”

“All of the alphabetic keys.”

“What about the numeric keys and the function keys?”

“We found his fingerprints on all of the numeric keys and three of the function keys.”

I signal to Rosie. The suicide e-mail appears on the screen in front of the jury. “Sergeant, you and Mr. Gates contend this message was typed by Mr. Friedman.”

“Correct. The defendant’s fingerprints were found on the keyboard.”

“Did you find the fingerprints of Mr. Holmes on this keyboard?”

“No, we didn’t.”

“Isn’t it odd that you didn’t find Mr. Holmes’s fingerprints on his own keyboard?”

“Objection, Your Honor. Speculative.”

“Sustained.”

“I’ll rephrase. Sergeant, based on your experience as a fingerprint expert, wouldn’t you expect to find Mr. Holmes’s fingerprints on his own keyboard?”

She frowns. “Probably, although we think he may not have been a secretor. In other words, Mr. Holmes didn’t sweat profusely enough to give off a lot of fingerprints.”

Sure. “But you’ve said you didn’t find any at all.”

“Objection. Asked and answered.”

“Sustained.”

I’ve made my point. “You said you found Mr. Friedman’s fingerprints on all of the alphabetic keys. Did you stop to determine whether the e-mail used all of the letters of the alphabet?”

“No.”

“May I ask why not?”

She looks straight ahead for a moment. “We were looking for his fingerprints. We didn’t attempt to analyze the contents of the e-mail message.”

“Would it surprise you to find out that the e-mail didn’t use all of the letters of the alphabet?”

“It wouldn’t surprise me.”

“In fact, Sergeant, if you read the e-mail carefully, you’ll find that it does not contain the letters J, K, Q, X or Z, or any punctuation marks other than periods, and no numbers at all. Yet you found Mr. Friedman’s fingerprints on all of the alphabetic keys.”

“Perhaps he typed the message several times, or made corrections or erased.”

I move closer. “The fact is, you don’t know. The fact is, you can’t explain it. Isn’t that right?”

“Objection. Argumentative.”

“Overruled.”

“Yes, Mr. Daley. We can’t explain why his fingerprints were found on all the alphabetic keys.”

Now we’ll see if Skipper’s awake. “Isn’t it possible, Sergeant, that the reason his fingerprints were found on all the alphabetic keys is that somebody switched his keyboard with that of Mr. Holmes?”

“Objection. Speculative.”

Judge Chen looks at me. “Unless you’re prepared to bring evidence concerning this allegation, the objection is sustained.”

“Withdrawn.” We’ll get back to this subject when it’s our turn. “No further questions.”

Judge Chen looks at Skipper. “Redirect?”

“Yes, Your Honor.” Skipper picks up the wrapped revolver and hands it to Jacobsen. “Sergeant, could you please show us once again where you found Mr. Friedman’s fingerprints?”

She points to various spots where fingerprints were found.

“Would you please grip the gun in the manner that would have generated these fingerprints?”

“Objection, Your Honor. There’s no foundation.”

“Your Honor,” Skipper says, “Mr. Daley asked Sergeant Jacobsen to describe the locations of the defendant’s fingerprints. I’m just asking her to amplify her answer.”

“Overruled.”

Crap.

Jacobsen picks up the revolver in her right hand. She grips it in her palm with her right thumb, middle finger, ring finger and pinky. Her right index finger rests on the cylinder.

“Sergeant,” Skipper says, “without moving your thumb or other fingers, would you please move your index finger down to the trigger?”

She holds up the gun so that the jury can see it. She easily moves her index finger from the cylinder to the trigger.

“What would you conclude from this demonstration?” Skipper asks.

“Objection. Speculative.”

“Overruled.”

Jacobsen nods at the jury. “I would conclude that the defendant could have created the fingerprints I’ve described while pulling the trigger of this weapon.”

“No further questions.”

I’m back in her face. “It’s still your testimony that you could not find identifiable fingerprints of Mr. Friedman on the trigger, right?”

“Yes. The fingerprints on the trigger were smudged and unidentifiable.”

“So, you can’t prove he pulled the trigger.”

“Objection. Asked and answered.”

“Sustained.”

“No further questions.”

* * *

“The people call Richard Cinelli.”

The bartender is sworn in and takes his seat on the stand. He pulls the microphone toward him. He likes talking to people. Before he’s said a word, he’s already connected with the jury.

Skipper walks him through the preliminaries. He was at work at Harrington’s on the night of the thirtieth. He confirms that Joel and Diana came in about nine-forty-five. It was crowded. They ordered drinks and dinner.

“Around ten o’clock, Mr. Friedman and Ms. Kennedy had a disagreement,” Cinelli says.

“Would it be more accurate to call it an argument?” Skipper asks.

Cinelli shrugs. “I’d call it a disagreement.”

“But it could have been described as an argument.”

“Maybe. She threw a glass of water in his face and she left.”

“Was she upset?”

“Obviously.”

“Did you hear anything they said?”

“Not much. I’m a bartender. I get paid to be discreet.”

“But you did hear something, right?”

“Yes. Mr. Friedman told Ms. Kennedy that he’d get her for something. Those were his exact words. ‘I’ll get you for this.’ ”

“So he threatened her?”

“Objection, Your Honor. Speculative.”

“Sustained.”

“No further questions.”

I walk over to Cinelli. “Do you know what they were arguing about?”

“No.”

“You knew they were attorneys, right?”

“Yes.”

“And you knew they were working on a big deal?”

“Objection. Foundation.”

“Overruled.”

“That’s what I understand.”

“Is it possible Mr. Friedman and Ms. Kennedy were arguing about work?”

Skipper stands. “Objection. Speculative.”

“Overruled.”

Judge Chen is treating us equally.

Cinelli nods. “Yes, Mr. Daley. That’s entirely possible.”

“No further questions.”

* * *

“My name is Homer Kim. I’m a custodian at the Bank of America Building.”

A nervous Kim is sitting in the witness chair late in the afternoon. He’s uncomfortable in a new, ill-fitting suit.

“Mr. Kim,” Skipper says, “you were at work at the Bank of America Building on the night of December thirtieth of last year, right?”

“Yes.” His pronunciation is pretty good, but his tone is tentative. Kim says that he walked by Bob Holmes’s office at approximately twelve-thirty in the morning.

“Was there someone in the office with Mr. Holmes?” Skipper asks.

Kim points at Joel. “Yes. Mr. Friedman.” It’s a wooden gesture that’s been rehearsed. “Mr. Holmes and Mr. Friedman were having an argument. Mr. Friedman was angry at Mr. Holmes. Very angry.” His eyes dart.

“Did you hear Mr. Friedman say anything to Mr. Holmes?”

“Objection. Hearsay.”

Skipper explains he isn’t trying to prove the truth of what was said.

“Overruled.”

Kim gulps water from a paper cup. “Mr. Friedman said to Mr. Holmes, ‘I’ll get you for this.’ ” He gestures with his right index finger for emphasis.

“Did it sound like Mr. Friedman was threatening Mr. Holmes?”

“Objection. Calls for Mr. Kim to make a determination of Mr. Friedman’s state of mind.”

“Sustained.”

“No further questions.”

I move right in front of Kim. “How long have you known Mr. Friedman?”

He looks perplexed. “A couple years.”

“Do you know him well?”

“No.”

“And have you ever heard him raise his voice?”

He glances at Skipper, who shakes his head. “No.”

“Mr. Kim, do you know what they were arguing about?”

“No.” He sounds tentative.

“Is it possible they may have been arguing about work?”

“Objection. Speculative.”

“Overruled.”

“I don’t know,” Kim says. He glances at Skipper for help. Skipper closes his eyes.

“It’s possible, right?”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Skipper nod.

“Yes, it’s possible.”

“Mr. Kim, you’ve had some problems over the years with your finances, haven’t you?”

Skipper’s up immediately. “Objection. Mr. Kim’s financial situation is irrelevant.”

“Your Honor,” I say, “Mr. Kim’s financial situation is very relevant.”

“I’ll give you a little leeway, Mr. Daley.”

“Mr. Kim,” I continue, “isn’t it true you’ve had some significant debts over the last few years?”

He looks desperately at Skipper. “Yes.”

“You filed for personal bankruptcy last year, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“You’ve lost substantial amounts of money gambling, right?”

His shoulders slump. “I don’t recall.”

“You’re under oath, Mr. Kim. I’d be happy to introduce the bankruptcy court filings into evidence.” I turn to the judge. “Your Honor, would you please instruct the witness to answer.”

“Mr. Kim, I’m going to have to ask you to answer Mr. Daley’s question.”

“Yes. I have lost some money gambling.”

“Mr. Kim, isn’t it a fact that you received a check in the amount of twenty thousand dollars shortly before you agreed to testify in this case?”

“No.”

“Isn’t it true that twenty thousand dollars was deposited into your account at Bank of America on February twentieth of this year?”

“No.”

“You’re under oath. We can subpoena your bank records.”

He looks at Skipper. “Yes. I received a bonus.”

“And would you mind telling us who promised you the bonus?”

He looks around the room wildly. “Mr. Patton.”

“Arthur Patton? The managing partner of the Simpson and Gates firm?”

“Yes.”

“And why did Mr. Patton promise you a bonus?”

“He wanted to be sure I was available to testify at this trial. He said he wanted to bring Mr. Holmes’s killer to justice.”

His hesitant English is suddenly more fluent. “Mr. Kim, there was no argument between Mr. Holmes and Mr. Friedman, was there? You were paid to say there was, but there really wasn’t.”

“No. I mean, yes. There really was an argument. Mr. Friedman was very angry.”

“No further questions, Your Honor.”

Chapter 36

MY FORMER PARTNERS

“It is unfortunate we must testify in the murder trial of one of our colleagues.”

— Arthur Patton. NewsCenter 4. Wednesday, March 25.

At six-thirty the following morning, I’m watching the news on Channel 4. Every day at this time, Morgan Henderson, a self-absorbed former federal prosecutor who now works for a big downtown firm, reports on the trial and gives a preview of today’s attractions.

“Today should be very interesting,” he drones. “District Attorney Gates is going to call several of his former partners to testify against Mr. Friedman.”

I’m surprised he isn’t giving odds.

* * *

“My name is Charles Stern. I have been a partner at Simpson and Gates for twenty-seven years.” Chuckles looks stiff as he takes the stand at ten-fifteen.

Skipper’s primed. No more idiot cops who couldn’t get a legitimate confession. No more arrogant medical examiners and uppity lesbian evidence technicians who won’t give him the answers he wants. He gets to put on his guys now. The Skipper Network is on the air.

He walks Chuckles through his resume. Chuckles gives clipped answers directly to Skipper. He never turns his eyes even slightly toward the jury. He confirms that he was at the office the night of the incident. He says he was preparing for a partners’ meeting the next morning. He doesn’t go into detail on the ceremonial reading of the Estimate.

“Mr. Stern,” Skipper says, “did you attend a meeting with the firm’s associates that evening?”

“Yes.” The crow’s-feet around his narrow eyes become more pronounced. “We had convened a meeting to discuss certain issues involving associate compensation and the partnership track.”

The “royal we” doesn’t fit Chuckles.

“Was the defendant there?”

He glances at Joel. “Yes.”

“Could you tell us what happened?”

“We announced that we were extending the track to partnership by one year. The vote on Mr. Friedman was going to be postponed. Mr. Friedman became upset that my partner, Mr. Holmes, had not told him about our decision. He expressed his displeasure and stormed out.”

“Did you see the defendant later that night?”

“Yes. He came to my office. He said he was going to read Mr. Holmes the riot act.”

“Did his tone sound threatening?”

“Objection. State of mind.”

“Sustained.”

“Did the defendant appear very upset to you?”

“Objection. State of mind.”

“Overruled.”

Chuckles fingers his reading glasses. “Yes. He appeared very upset to me.”

“Upset enough to kill two people?”

“Objection, Your Honor. Speculative.”

“Sustained.” The judge glares at Skipper. “The jury will disregard the last question.”

Skipper turns back to Chuckles. “Mr. Stern, you and the defendant found the bodies of Mr. Holmes and Ms. Kennedy the following morning, did you not?”

“Yes.” He says that he called 911 and went back to the partners’ meeting.

Skipper picks up the revolver from the evidence cart. “Mr. Stem, do you recognize this weapon?”

“Yes. It belonged to Bob. We found it on the floor.”

“Did you touch this revolver?”

“No.”

“Did you see the defendant touch this revolver?”

“No.”

Joel leans over and whispers, “He’s lying.”

Skipper asks Chuckles if he saw Joel unload the gun.

“No.”

“Mr. Stem, is it possible that the defendant unloaded the gun while you weren’t watching?”

“It’s highly unlikely. We went to the partners’ meeting together. We returned to Bob’s office together. We were both there until the first officer arrived. If he unloaded the gun, I didn’t see it.”

“No further questions.”

I’m up right away. “Mr. Stern, you said you were with Mr. Friedman the entire time before the police arrived.”

“Yes.”

“Officer Chinn testified that you met him in the lobby.”

He shifts in his chair. “That’s true.”

“Mr. Friedman wasn’t with you when you met Officer Chinn, was he?”

He takes a drink of water. “No.”

“So you weren’t with Mr. Friedman the entire time before the police arrived, were you?”

“I guess not.”

“It’s possible that Mr. Friedman may have unloaded the weapon while you were meeting with Officer Chinn, isn’t it?”

“Objection. Speculative.”

“Overruled.”

Chuckles shakes his head. “I was with Officer Chinn in the lobby for only a few moments. I don’t see how Mr. Friedman could have unloaded the gun so quickly.”

I hold up the revolver. “Mr. Stern, you were in the military, weren’t you?”

“Objection. Relevance.”

“Your Honor, Mr. Stern has expressed an opinion as to how fast this particular weapon could have been unloaded. His background and experience with weapons is relevant.”

“Overruled.”

Chuckles clutches reading glasses more tightly. “I was in the Marines.”

“And you’re familiar with firearms, aren’t you? In fact, you’ve shot this weapon, haven’t you?”

He adjusts the microphone. “Yes. Mr. Holmes and I went to the range from time to time.”

“You’ve unloaded this weapon at the range, haven’t you?”

“Yes.”

“How long did it take you to unload it?”

“A few seconds.”

“A few seconds. And it took you more than a few seconds to meet with Officer Chinn, didn’t it?”

“Yes,” he says grudgingly.

Good. “Mr. Stern, you knew Mr. Holmes kept this revolver at his desk, didn’t you?”

“For self-protection.”

“Of course. And he kept it loaded, didn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“No further questions.”

* * *

During the recess, I ask Joel when he unloaded the gun.

“Right after we walked in. He saw me do it. He’s lying.”

“Did anybody else see you?”

“No. We were the only people there.”

* * *

“The people call Arthur Patton,” Skipper announces.

Patton lugs his chins through the courtroom. He smirks at the jury as he’s sworn in. He says he’s the managing partner at S&G. He confirms he was there on the fatal night.

Skipper starts with an easy one. “Did you have occasion to see the defendant late that evening?”

“Yes.” The avuncular Art has joined us today. His tone is sincere, meant to charm. “I saw him in the hall around twelve-thirty in the morning. He was walking into Bob’s office.”

“Could you describe his demeanor?”

“He was very upset.” He describes his brief conversation with Joel. He looks toward the jury and scowls. “That’s when he started shouting at Bob.”

“Do you know what he was shouting about?”

“I believe he was expressing his unhappiness about the fact that Bob hadn’t told him that the vote for his election to the partnership had been deferred.” He pauses. “And I believe they were arguing about Ms. Kennedy. I heard her name mentioned several times.”

“Mr. Patton, were you at the firm retreat at the Silverado Country Club last October?”

“Yes.”

“Did you have an opportunity to see Mr. Friedman at about three a.m. on Saturday, October twenty-fifth?”

“Yes. He was in his condominium.”

“Why did you have occasion to see him in the middle of the night?”

“There were loud noises coming from his room. I wanted to make sure he was all right.”

“Was he alone?”

“No. There was somebody else in his room.”

“Who was in his room at three o’clock in the morning?”

“Diana Kennedy.”

“No further questions.”

* * *

“Mr. Patton,” I begin, “what time did you go home on the morning of December thirty-first?”

“Objection. Relevance.”

“Overruled.”

Patton answers in a forceful tone. “Around one-thirty in the morning.”

“And you heard a discussion between Mr. Holmes and Mr. Friedman?”

“It was an argument.”

“Was the door to Mr. Holmes’s office open or closed?”

“Closed.”

“You stood outside the door and eavesdropped on their conversation?”

“I wanted to help my partner. Mr. Friedman was upset.”

“For all you know, they could have been arguing about work.”

His voice fills with disdain. “I don’t think so.”

“But you aren’t sure.”

“I’m sure.”

“Let’s talk about the incident at Silverado. There was a party in your room earlier that evening, wasn’t there?”

“Yes.”

“And Ms. Kennedy was at that party, wasn’t she?”

“Yes.”

“Isn’t it true, Mr. Patton, that you accosted Ms. Kennedy at the party?”

“Absolutely not.”

“And you followed her to her room and attacked her?”

“I did not.”

He sounds just like my daughter. “Isn’t it true she went to Mr. Friedman for protection?”

“That’s a lie.”

“We’ll see about that, Mr. Patton. No further questions.”

* * *

A few minutes later, Skipper calls another old friend. Brent Hutchinson slithers to the front of the courtroom, a smarmy grin plastered on his pretty face. Whenever I see him, I want to punch his lights out.

“Mr. Hutchinson,” Skipper begins, “we’ve known each other for some time, haven’t we?”

“We were partners at Simpson and Gates. I still work there.”

He looks like a cocker spaniel who wants to be petted.

Skipper smiles. “Mr. Hutchinson, you have a nickname around the firm, don’t you?”

“Most people call me Hutch.”

He sounds like Forrest Gump. Makes me sick.

“Would you mind if I call you Hutch today?”

“Sure.” His grin widens. All this male bonding turns my stomach.

“Now, Hutch, you attended the firm retreat at Silverado in October of last year, didn’t you?”

“Yes. We have our retreat there every year. It’s a great time.”

“Could you tell us about what happens at these retreats?”

“Objection. Relevance.” This love-fest has to stop. Hutch is likable on the stand—if you’re into handsome airheads.

“Overruled.”

“We have attorney meetings and social events. We play golf and tennis.”

“Did you attend a social gathering in the cocktail lounge at Silverado at approximately nine o’clock in the evening of Friday, October twenty-fourth?”

“Yes.”

“Were Diana Kennedy and the defendant also there?”

“Yes.”

“Would you mind describing what happened as Ms. Kennedy was leaving the party?”

He turns toward the jury and flashes his most sincere smile. “Joel was sitting at a table near the door. Diana was at the bar. She walked toward the door. As she passed Joel, she stopped, leaned over and kissed him.” His grin broadens.

Skipper smiles back. Good Hutch.

I look at Naomi. She stares at the floor. Joel doesn’t move.

Skipper move closer to Hutch. “Did she kiss the defendant on the mouth?”

“Yes.”

“Did she kiss him hard?”

“Objection. The witness has no personal knowledge of the intensity of the kiss.”

“Overruled.”

“Looked pretty hard to me,” Hutch says.

A few snickers from the gallery.

“Hutch,” Skipper says, “did the kiss appear to you to be a romantic one?”

“Objection, Your Honor. Speculative.”

“Sustained.”

Skipper gives the jury a conspiratorial wink. “Did it appear to you that the defendant enjoyed being kissed?”

“Objection. State of mind.”

“Your Honor,” Skipper says, “I’m not asking Mr. Hutchinson to make a determination as to whether he thought Mr. Friedman enjoyed the kiss. I’m simply asking him to describe what he saw.”

“Nice try, Mr. Gates. The objection is sustained. Move on.”

“Hutch, did you also see the defendant and Ms. Kennedy in a hot tub the next day?”

“Yes.”

“Would you mind telling us what they were doing?”

“They were kissing again.”

“They were kissing again? Could you describe how Ms. Kennedy was dressed?”

“She was wearing a bikini, but the top was unfastened.”

Murmurs in the gallery. Judge Chen taps her gavel.

“Hutch,” Skipper says, “was it a hard kiss?”

“Yes.”

“And did it appear to you that the defendant was, for lack of a better term, kissing her back?”

“Absolutely.”

“And how long did this go on?”

“About a minute. Then I thought it would be best if I moved on.”

How sensitive.

Skipper flashes a knowing look at the jury, then he turns back to Hutch. “Did you see Ms. Kennedy and the defendant together at any other time during the retreat?”

“Later that evening, I saw them sitting in the same hot tub. I’m pretty sure they were both naked. However, it was dark and I was on my way to my room. This time, I didn’t stop.”

“No further questions.”

* * *

“Mr. Hutchinson,” I begin, “we’ve known each other for a long time, too, haven’t we?”

“Yes.” His teeth gleam. “We used to be partners, too.”

“In addition to being called Hutch, you have another nickname around the firm, don’t you?”

The smile disappears. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about, Mr. Daley.”

“Your other nickname is the Party Guy, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

I grin. “Could you please tell us why they call you the Party Guy?”

He smiles sheepishly. “I guess it’s because I like to party, Mr. Daley.”

“Were you partying the night you saw Ms. Kennedy kiss Mr. Friedman at the bar?”

“I guess you could say that.”

“And you’d probably had a glass of wine or two that night?”

“Probably.”

“How many glasses of wine?”

“Several.”

“More than two?”

“Probably.”

“More than three?”

“Maybe.”

“Enough so that you wouldn’t have gotten behind the wheel of a car that night?”

“Definitely.”

“So, when you saw Ms. Kennedy kiss Mr. Friedman, you may have been intoxicated.”

“I don’t think so.”

“You just said you’d had at least four glasses of wine. Your memory of that night may be a little cloudy.”

“Maybe.”

“Now, let’s talk about the incident on Saturday afternoon where you saw Ms. Kennedy and Mr. Friedman in the hot tub. Could you tell us where the hot tub was located?”

“Near one of the pools at Silverado.”

“And you just happened to walk by the hot tub and you saw Ms. Kennedy kissing Mr. Friedman?”

“Not exactly. I was walking down a path that leads to the golf course.”

“How far was the path from the pool?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Ballpark figure, Mr. Hutchinson. Fifty feet? A hundred feet? The length of a football field?”

He darts a glance at Skipper. “Maybe the length of a football field.”

“Really? From a hundred yards, you were able to see Mr. Friedman and Ms. Kennedy kissing?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re sure the top of Ms. Kennedy’s bikini had been unfastened?”

“Yes. I’m sure.”

“You must have really good eyes, Mr. Hutchinson.”

“Objection. Move to strike.”

“The jury will ignore Mr. Daley’s remark.”

I leave it there. “I don’t suppose you were standing in the same place when you saw them in the hot tub later that night.”

“As a matter of fact, I was.”

“So, late at night, from a hundred yards away, you were able to identify Mr. Friedman and Ms. Kennedy in the hot tub. You were also able to determine that they were kissing. And you were able to determine that they were naked. Is that about it?”

“Yes.”

“Did they get out of the hot tub?”

“No.”

“Were the jets on?”

“I think so.”

“Weren’t there bubbles in the hot tub?”

He’s starting to look a little older now. “Probably.”

I shoot a knowing glance at the jury. “If it was night and they didn’t get out and the jets were on and there were bubbles in the hot tub, how in the world were you able to determine that they were both naked?”

He takes a deep breath. “I saw them. I could tell.”

“It’s your story, and you’re sticking to it.”

“Objection.”

“Withdrawn. Mr. Hutchinson, you realize that what you’ve just told us is utterly preposterous, don’t you?”

“Objection.”

“Withdrawn. Next he’ll say he saw them in a hot tub while he was flying over Silverado in a hot-air balloon.”

“Objection.”

“Sustained. The jury will disregard Mr. Daley’s last remark.”

“No further questions.”

* * *

At eight o’clock the same night, I’m at my mom’s house meeting with Pete. Mom’s having one of her not-so-good nights. We sit at the dining room table. She clears Pete’s plate and says to me, “You didn’t finish all your carrots. Tommy. No dessert until you do.”

“I will, Mama. Right away.”

She walks into the kitchen.

Pete shrugs. “Sometimes she spends a little while in the sixties. Then she comes back.”

“It’s getting worse, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

“Look, Pete, if we need to get you some help . . .”

“Not yet, Mick. I’ll let you know.” He takes a drink of water. “How did things go at court today?”

“Not great. Have you found anything else on Russo?”

“The trail goes cold at the international terminal at SFO. One person said she thought he might have gone to Hong Kong, but nobody on the flight crew recognized his picture. If he’s flying on a fake passport, he’s  going to be tough to find.”

“Crap.”

“We may not be the only people looking for him. He had some co-investors from Saudi. They’re looking for him, too.”

“What about the banker in the Bahamas?”

“Still in Kuwait. Longer than expected—he won’t be back for another couple of weeks. Wendy and I are going to pay him a visit as soon as he is.”

“Has Wendy been helpful?”

“Yeah. She’s great.” He looks at the picture of my older brother Tommy in his Cal football uniform, frozen in time at the age of twenty. Pete and Tommy look almost identical, except Tommy was taller and Pete has a mustache. “Mike, is she, well, seeing anybody?”

Unlike Rosie, who is all too familiar with my crush on Wendy, Pete doesn’t have a clue. I’d like to tell him he’s out of luck and that I have dibs. Instead, I say, “I don’t think so.”

“Do you think she’d have any interest?”

“I’m not sure. She’s been divorced a couple of times. You’ll never know if you don’t ask.” I decide to change the subject. “Did you get anything from Nick Hanson on the mystery woman at the Fairmont?”

“He hasn’t been able to ID her. The people at the Fairmont couldn’t, either.”

We keep coming up empty. “Did Nick think it was Diana?”

“He’s pretty sure it wasn’t. The woman had longer hair. Nick’s real good on details like that. He thinks it might have been a hooker.”

“Does he have any other ideas?”

“Just one. But he said it was just a wag.”

“A wag?”

“Yeah. W-A-G. Wild-ass guess. Guess who was making an appearance at the Fairmont that night?”

“The mayor?”

“Somebody more famous: Dr. Kathy Chandler.”

“You think? No. It couldn’t.”

He smiles. “We shouldn’t jump to any conclusions. I did some checking on Dr. Kathy. She’s very single. She’s had a little trouble with long-term relationships. She fits the description.”

“Is there any hard evidence she was with Bob that night?”

“Nope. Like I said. It’s just Nick’s wild-ass guess.”

At the moment, Nick the Dick’s wild-ass guess is the only lead we have.

Chapter 37

“WAS YOUR MARRIAGE A HAPPY ONE?”

“In what promises to be an emotional moment, the widow of Robert Holmes will take the stand today.”

— NewsCenter 4 Legal Analyst Morgan Henderson. Thursday, March 26.

The next morning is a Thursday. Skipper calls Beth Holmes to the stand. In lieu of her customary business suit, she’s wearing a light blue dress with a gold chain and a small brooch. Today, she’ll be playing the role of grieving widow instead of legal barracuda.

Her tone is subdued. “My name is Elizabeth Barnes Holmes. Robert Holmes was my husband.”

Skipper has set up the photos of Bob and Diana in front of the jury. “How long were you and Bob married?”

“Five and a half years.” She describes how she and Bob met, the children, the vacations to the Italian Riviera and the mansion in Presidio Terrace. The idyllic power marriage between power partners at power law firms. She doesn’t mention her divorce from Art Patton.

Skipper tries to sound empathetic. “Was your marriage a happy one, Mrs. Holmes?”

“Yes. At least until recently.”

“Then what happened, Mrs. Holmes?”

“He became distant. I began to suspect he was seeing another woman.”

“Was he?”

“Yes. He was having an affair with Diana Kennedy.”

Murmurs in the gallery.

Skipper remains a respectful distance from her. “How did you find out about the affair, Mrs. Holmes?”

“I hired a private investigator.” She holds her head high. “I confronted Bob in early December. I told him he had to break off the affair, or I’d leave him.”

“What happened?”

“He broke up with her. A few weeks later, my investigator found them together again. I decided to end our marriage. I was there when he was served on December thirtieth.”

“Mrs. Holmes, was your husband upset when he was served with the divorce papers?”

“Objection. State of mind.”

“Overruled.”

“He took it pretty well.”

“Do you think he was so upset that he may have been driven to suicide?”

“Objection. Speculative.”

“Overruled.”

“I think he was relieved when I filed the papers.”

I glance at Diana’s mother. She closes her eyes.

“No further questions,” Skipper says.

* * *

“Mrs. Holmes,” I begin, “what time was your husband served with divorce papers?”

“About five-thirty in the evening.”

“Who was there?”

“A bunch of people in the main conference room.”

“What was your husband doing when he was served?”

“I believe he was on the telephone.”

“Wasn’t he with his client and several attorneys? And weren’t they in negotiations on a significant business transaction?”

“Yes.”

“Isn’t it a fact that he barely looked up when you and your process server walked in?”

“It took a few minutes to get his attention.”

“So, it’s not really surprising that he didn’t react when he saw you, is it?”

“He knew what was going on.”

“Did he look at the papers your process server handed him?”

“Briefly.”

“Mrs. Holmes, isn’t it true that your husband had very little reaction to the papers because he was concentrating on his deal and he expected you to file the papers?”

Skipper’s up. “Objection. Argumentative.”

“Sustained.”

“Mrs. Holmes, did your husband carry any life insurance?”

“Objection. Relevance.”

“Overruled.”

She says Bob carried a five-million-dollar policy naming herself as beneficiary, and a million-dollar policy for each of the kids.

“Have you received the proceeds from the policies yet?”

“No. The insurance company is working on the claim.”

I’m sure they’re hoping it’s ruled a suicide. “Did it occur to you that your husband might change the beneficiaries if you were divorced?”

“Objection. Speculative.”

“Overruled.”

“Of course, Mr. Daley.” She gives me her best “big-firm evil litigator” look. “If you’re suggesting I had some incentive to see my husband dead, you’re out of your mind.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see the phone company supervisor nod. I’ve gone a little too far. I have to remember that she’s the grieving widow. “Mrs. Holmes, do you know the names of the beneficiaries of your husband’s will?”

“I get a third, the children get a third and the balance goes to a charity in the Bahamas.”

“Did it occur to you that he may have decided to change his will after you got divorced?”

“Of course. I don’t need the money.”

“You said your investigator found your husband and Ms. Kennedy together in late December.”

“That’s correct.”

“Where did that incident occur?”

“At the Fairmont Hotel.”

“How did your investigator find them?”

“He was viewing their room from across the street.”

“Did your investigator positively identify Diana Kennedy in the room with your husband?”

“He said the woman looked like Diana.”

“But he wasn’t able to positively identify the woman in the room with Mr. Holmes that night, right?”

“That’s true.”

“And it’s possible that it wasn’t Ms. Kennedy.”

“It’s possible. What difference does it make, Mr. Daley?”

I have what I need. “I’m sorry to make you relive these difficult times, Mrs. Holmes. No further questions.”

Chapter 38

“HOW LONG HAVE YOU BEEN A PRACTICING THERAPIST?”

“KTLK’s very own Dr. Kathy Chandler will be testifying today at the murder trial of Joel Mark Friedman. Dr. Kathy Chandler will be able to tell you about it during her regular time slot at seven tonight.”

— KTLK Talk Radio. Thursday, March 26.

We’re standing outside the courtroom at one o’clock when Dr. Kathy Chandler and her entourage arrive. She just finished an impromptu press conference in the corridor. She’s surrounded by cameras as she and her handlers inch down the hall. She towers over most of the reporters. She flashes the smile that graces Muni buses all over town.

“Dr. Chandler, what are you going to talk about today?”

“Dr. Chandler, do you think Robert Holmes killed himself?”

“Dr. Chandler, was Mr. Holmes having an affair with Diana Kennedy?”

“Dr. Chandler? Dr. Chandler? Dr. Chandler?”

“I’m sorry, fellows,” she purrs. “I don’t want to be late for court. I’ll talk to you after I’m done.”

* * *

Skipper walks Dr. Kathy Chandler through her credentials, such as they are. I interrupt frequently. After the ordeal is concluded, Skipper says, “How long did you know Robert Holmes?”

She smiles. “I began treating him in September. I was his therapist for about three months.”

“What were you treating him for?”

“I usually don’t talk about my patients’ problems.” She bats her eyes.

“Your testimony is very important. If you’re uncomfortable answering a question, let me know, and we’ll talk it over with Judge Chen.”

Who will be more than happy to lock you up for contempt. Then you’ll have the honor of being the first person to initiate a radio broadcast from the new jail at the Hall.

Judge Chen addresses Dr. Kathy in a stern voice. “Doctor Chandler, let me simplify this for you. If there’s a question I think you shouldn’t have to answer, I’ll tell you so. For now, unless I instruct you otherwise, I expect you to answer Mr. Gates’s questions. Are we clear?”

The kitten disappears. “Yes, Your Honor.”

“Good.” Judge Chen nods to Skipper. “Please continue, Mr. Gates.”

“Dr. Chandler, why did Mr. Holmes come to see you?”

“He was having relationship problems with his wife.”

“What kind?”

I’d give everything I own to hear her say, “He was having trouble keeping his zipper zipped.”

“Mr. Holmes was seeing another woman.”

Skipper feigns empathy. “Oh, dear. Do you know who the woman was?”

“Diana Kennedy.”

“Was Mr. Holmes still seeing Ms. Kennedy at the time they were murdered?”

“Objection. Move to strike the term ‘murdered.’ ”

“Sustained. The jury will disregard the term ‘murdered.’ Try it again, Mr. Gates.”

“Do you know if Mr. Holmes was seeing Ms. Kennedy on December thirtieth of last year?”

“I don’t think so. He was pretty sure Mrs. Holmes was going to serve him with divorce papers. He had broken up with Ms. Kennedy. He said he was seeing somebody new. He was very uncomfortable talking about it.”

“Did he mention the name of the woman?”

“No. It may have been Ms. Kennedy. It may have been somebody else. To be honest, he may have been making it up. Sometimes, you couldn’t tell with Mr. Holmes.”

Skipper nods understandingly. “Doctor, based upon your observations of Mr. Holmes in the final weeks of his life, did he appear distraught to you?”

“Objection. State of mind.”

“She was his therapist,” Skipper says. “I’m asking for her professional observations.”

Judge Chen scowls. “I’ll allow the witness to answer.”

“No,” Dr. Kathy says. “He didn’t appear distraught. In fact, he was relaxed. I think he was relieved that he’d resolved his issues with Mrs. Holmes.”

Oh, bullshit.

Skipper moves to the front of the witness box. “Did he appear emotionally disturbed?”

“Good heavens, no.”

“Depressed?”

“No.”

“Unhappy?”

“No.”

Enough. “Objection. We can spend all afternoon trying to identify every range of emotion not exhibited by Mr. Holmes.”

“Sustained. Move on, Mr. Gates.”

“One final question. Did he appear at any time to you to be suicidal?”

“Absolutely not.” Dr. Kathy smiles demurely at the jury.

“No further questions.”

* * *

“Dr. Chandler,” I begin, “I’d like to ask you a few more questions about your credentials. You got your degree from Southwestern Texas City College, right?”

“Yes.”

“Is that an accredited school?”

“It depends on what you mean by the term ‘accredited.’ ”

“I mean it in the conventional sense. You know—schools like Stanford, Cal, UCLA—they’re accredited. Was Southwestern Texas City College accredited?”

“Not exactly.”

“And your doctorate in family counseling is from the same institution, right?”

“That’s correct.”

“Did you actually attend classes there?”

She pauses. “Yes.”

“But most of the courses were offered over the Internet, weren’t they?”

“Yes.”

She probably could have gotten any title she wanted if she paid them enough money. “And you got a master’s from the Great Pacific School of Broadcasting?”

“Yes.”

“Was that program also offered primarily over the Internet?”

“Yes.”

“Not exactly Harvard and Yale, are they, Doctor?”

“Objection. Argumentative.”

“Sustained.”

“Dr. Chandler, how long have you been a practicing therapist?”

“Seventeen years.”

“And how many years have you been doing your radio show?”

“Fourteen.”

“You have one of the top-rated programs in your time slot, don’t you?”

Her voice fills with pride. “Yes, I do.”

“I’ll bet your radio show takes up a lot of your time, doesn’t it?”

“It’s a very demanding job.”

“How many hours are you on the air every day?”

“Three. From seven o’clock until ten.”

“You must have a very busy schedule.”

Skipper stands. “Your Honor, I fail to see the relevance.”

“Mr. Daley,” says Judge Chen, “get to the point.”

“I will, Your Honor.” I turn back to the good doctor. “Do you handle a full caseload?”

“Yes. I wouldn’t be comfortable giving advice over the radio if I didn’t maintain a private practice.”

“How many patients do you see in a typical day?”

“Two or three.”

“That’s what you consider a full practice? That’s ten or fifteen patients a week. If each of them gets an hour of your time, that’s only one or two days’ work.”

“As I said, Mr. Daley, my radio show takes a lot of time.”

“And you also write self-help books, don’t you, Doctor?”

“Yes.”

“Does that take much time?”

“Well, my publisher gives me a lot of help with those.”

“Somebody helps you write your self-help books?”

“Yes.”

She fails to see the irony. “Is it fair to say that you spend a lot less time seeing patients than most of your colleagues?”

“Most of them don’t have a radio show.”

No doubt. I look at Rosie. She shakes her head almost imperceptibly. I’m having fun tweaking Dr. Kathy Chandler. Unfortunately, the jury doesn’t seem to care. “Doctor, have you ever had a personal relationship with one of your patients?”

The facade disappears and she turns serious. “No. That would be unethical.”

“Isn’t it a fact that your license was suspended several years ago because you had a sexual relationship with one of your patients?”

The claws come out. “It is true that my license was suspended. It is not true, however, that I had a relationship with one of my patients. A very sad and lonely man made some wild accusations. They were never proven.”

“You arrived at a settlement, didn’t you?”

“That’s confidential.”

I turn to Judge Chen. “Your Honor, I must ask you to instruct the witness to answer.”

“Answer the question, Dr. Chandler.”

She strokes her bangs. “We settled out of court.” She glares at me. “Any other questions, Mr. Daley?”

“Yes. Isn’t it true that your ex-husband was one of your patients?”

Her tiny nose twitches. “Yes.”

“So it wasn’t exactly true when you said you’ve never had a personal relationship with a patient.”

“He was no longer a patient when we began our personal relationship.”

I glance at the jury, then I turn back to her. “Just one more question. Were you having an affair with Robert Holmes, Dr. Chandler?”

Skipper screams his objection. “Your Honor, this is irrelevant and insulting to Dr. Chandler.”

“Your Honor,” I say, “we believe Dr. Chandler was having a sexual relationship with Mr. Holmes. It would clearly color her credibility. I would ask you to instruct her to answer.”

Judge Chen bites her lower lip. “Dr. Chandler, I have to have to ask you to respond.”

“The answer is no. I was not having an affair with Mr. Holmes.”

I decide to go for broke. “Dr. Chandler, we have evidence that you and Mr. Holmes were having a sexual relationship in a room at the Fairmont in December of last year. Do you deny it?”

“Objection. There’s no foundation for any of this.”

“Your Honor, we are prepared to bring forth the private investigator hired by Mrs. Holmes. It would save us an extraordinary amount of time if Dr. Chandler simply answers my question.”

Judge Chen turns to Dr. Kathy. “Answer the question, Dr. Chandler.”

Her eyes are on fire. “No, Mr. Daley. I wasn’t with Mr. Holmes.”

“No further questions.”

* * *

Joel’s father is incredulous as we sit in the consultation room during the afternoon recess. “How does it help to attack Bob’s widow? How does it help to attack his therapist? What were you thinking?”

“Rabbi,” I say, “they called those two witnesses to demonstrate that Bob was a happy guy who didn’t kill himself. They’re undercutting our suicide argument. And it’s working. We have to show that Beth Holmes is lying to protect her husband’s reputation. And we have to show that Dr. Kathy Chandler is a bubblegum-spewing radio jockey. If you don’t like the way I’m trying the case, you can get Joel another lawyer.”

Mort speaks up. “We don’t have time for this. Maybe it wasn’t the greatest cross in the history of the legal profession. But we have to keep at it. They put on witnesses for a purpose—to get a conviction. We can’t stop now because we’re afraid we’re going to hurt somebody’s feelings.”

Rosie holds up her hand. “Could you please be quiet for a moment. We aren’t going to be able to deliver a knockout punch on every witness. We have to stay focused.”

Joel stands up. “May I say something here? Seeing as how my ass is on the line, I’d appreciate it if you’d keep your petty squabbles to yourselves. If you guys screw up, I’m going to jail. So I don’t want to hear anything else about who’s doing a good job or a bad job. I don’t want to hear you argue about strategy. I’m not interested in blaming anybody. We’re wasting time. I don’t want to see this again. Get your heads screwed back on and do your jobs.”

I hate it when the client is right.

Chapter 39

“WE WERE WORKING ON A VERY BIG DEAL”

“Everybody wanted the Russo deal to close. It was good for the city.”

— The Mayor of San Francisco. Thursday, March 26.

Jack Frazier, the pride of Continental Capital Corporation, looks like he’s ready for a board meeting when he takes the stand at three o’clock. He’s wearing the standard investment banker uniform. His shirt is so heavily starched, it could walk across the courtroom.

Skipper is wearing a subdued gray pinstripe today, with huge gold cuff links. “Would you mind telling us why you were at the Simpson and Gates office on the night of December thirtieth?”

Frazier gazes past Skipper’s left shoulder. “We were working on a very big deal. My company was going to purchase a conglomerate called Russo International.” He outlines the terms of the deal. “The closing was scheduled for the following morning.”

“Was the deal going to close on schedule?”

“As far as I knew, yes. All the papers had been signed.”

“Why didn’t it close?”

“With the tragic deaths of Mr. Holmes and Ms. Kennedy, we couldn’t proceed.”

“Did you see Mr. Holmes that night?”

“Yes.”

“Did he appear to be in a good mood?”

“Yes. He was looking forward to the closing.”

“Did you see any signs that he may have been distraught?”

“Objection. State of mind.”

“Sustained.”

“I’ll rephrase. Did Mr. Holmes appear distraught that evening?”

“No. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

“No further questions, Your Honor.”

* * *

I walk slowly toward Frazier. “There were problems with the deal, weren’t there, Mr. Frazier?”

“There are always problems with big transactions.”

“But this deal had more than its share, didn’t it?”

“Not really.”

“Isn’t it true there was substantial doubt about whether your company would approve this deal?”

Frazier glances at his lawyer, Martin Glass, who’s in the gallery. “No. The deal was approved.”

“Isn’t it true your board of directors had an emergency meeting that night to discuss pulling the plug?”

“They met that night. I don’t know what they discussed.”

Right. “Isn’t it true your board would have voted against the deal if you hadn’t been able to negotiate a forty-million-dollar reduction in the purchase price at the last minute?”

“It’s true that I was able to negotiate a reduction in the purchase price. I have no idea whether the board would have approved the deal without the reduction.”

I don’t know why he’s resisting. I’m just trying to show that Bob may have been stressed out. Frazier seems to be trying to justify the deal to his superiors. “Isn’t it true that the seller, Vince Russo, was undecided about whether he would close the deal? And isn’t it true that even though all the papers were signed, Mr. Russo told everyone he wouldn’t make up his mind until morning?”

Skipper’s up. “Objection, Your Honor. Argumentative.”

They want to avoid mentioning Russo. “Your Honor, Mr. Russo was a key player in this transaction. Mr. Frazier has testified that the deal was proceeding according to plan. However, the evidence will suggest that Mr. Russo didn’t want to close.”

“I’ll allow it.”

I glance at McNulty, who is frowning. He realizes this is a significant ruling. It opens the door for me to blame everything on Russo.

I turn back to Frazier. “Isn’t it true that Mr. Russo was waffling?”

Frazier looks toward Glass again. “I firmly believe he intended to close the deal.”

“What time did Mr. Russo leave that night?”

“I don’t know.”

“Could you tell us what time Mr. Russo showed up the next morning for the closing?”

“He didn’t show up. He seems to have disappeared.”

“Did he call you?”

“No.”

“Leave a message?”

“No.”

“Try to get in touch with you?”

“Objection,” says Skipper. “We get the idea.”

“Sustained. Move along, Mr. Daley.”

“What time did you leave the building that night, Mr. Frazier?”

“About one thirty-five.”

“Was Mr. Russo still in the building when you left?”

“As far as I know.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“Around one o’clock. He was talking to Mr. Holmes.”

“About what?”

“Objection, Your Honor. Hearsay.”

“Your Honor, I’m not trying to establish precisely what was said or the truth of what was said. I’m simply asking Mr. Frazier to report on the subject being discussed.”

“Overruled.”

“They were talking about the deal.”

“Is it possible Mr. Russo told Mr. Holmes that he did not intend to close the deal?”

“Objection. Speculative.”

“Overruled.”

Frazier holds up his hands. “It’s possible. I don’t know.”

“Was that the last time you saw Mr. Russo?”

“Yes.”

“Isn’t it possible, Mr. Frazier, that Mr. Holmes may have become distraught and killed himself after Mr. Russo told him that he didn’t want to close the deal?”

Judge Chen looks at Skipper, who should object. I’ve just asked a highly speculative question.

Frazier pushes out a heavy sigh. “It was just a business deal. It wasn’t worth committing suicide for.”

Good point. “Isn’t it possible that Mr. Russo’s disappearance can be explained by the fact that he killed Mr. Holmes and Ms. Kennedy, and that he fled?”

“Objection. Speculative.”

Look who woke up.

“Sustained.”

I haven’t taken my eyes off Frazier. “Isn’t it true that you really didn’t want the deal to close?”

“Of course not.”

“Isn’t it true you figured out that you couldn’t make the profit margins on the deal that you had originally anticipated?”

He’s indignant. “No.”

“Isn’t it true that if you killed the deal, you would have had to pay Mr. Russo a fifty-million-dollar breakup fee?”

“Objection. Relevance.”

“Overruled.”

Frazier is squirming. “Your Honor, the terms of the deal are confidential.”

The judge isn’t buying it. “Mr. Frazier, a moment ago you were trying to impress us with the enormous size of this deal. You can’t have it both ways. Answer the question.”

Another promising corporate career is heading for the Dumpster.

“The breakup fee was fifty million dollars,” he says.

The suits in Stamford just got a severe case of indigestion. I try not to appear smug. “Just so everybody understands this, Mr. Frazier, if you pulled the plug on the deal, your company would have had to pay Mr. Russo fifty million dollars. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“And if Mr. Russo pulled the plug, you wouldn’t have owed him a penny, right?”

“Right.”

“And you wouldn’t have had to buy a company you really didn’t want.”

“We wanted the company, Mr. Daley.”

“Right. You could have saved your company a fifty-million-dollar breakup fee and you could have avoided buying a company you really didn’t want if you could have found a way to get Vince Russo to kill the deal. Isn’t that about it, Mr. Frazier?”

“Objection. I don’t believe there was a question there.”

There wasn’t.

“Sustained.”

“No further questions.”

* * *

Ed Ehrlich from the city attorney’s office is next. “Mr. Ehrlich,” Skipper says, “you were representing the city of San Francisco in connection with the Russo deal, weren’t you?”

“Yes.” He looks nervously through his thick glasses. A member of the board of supervisors is here to make sure he doesn’t screw up.

“The city had agreed to provide financing?”

“Yes.”

Good answer. Keep it short. Stick to the facts.

“When did you leave the Simpson offices that night?”

“Around ten o’clock.”

“And did you expect the deal to close?”

“Yes.” Skipper gets Ehrlich to say that Bob was in a good mood and was looking forward to the closing.

“No further questions.”

I get in front of him right away. “Mr. Ehrlich, the mayor had some serious issues with this deal, didn’t he?”

“There were some concerns about our ability to obtain sufficient funds to finance the deal.”

“How serious?”

“Not serious.

“Yet you were prepared to move forward.”

“Yes.”

“And you believe Mr. Russo and Mr. Holmes were prepared to move forward?”

“Yes.”

“You were aware that Mr. Russo had serious reservations about proceeding with the deal, right?”

A grudging nod. “I knew he had some issues.”

“Isn’t it true, Mr. Ehrlich, that the mayor had instructed you to do everything in your power to terminate the deal?”

He glances at the mayor’s henchman. “No.”

“Isn’t it true that the mayor determined that the city didn’t have sufficient funds to conclude the deal on the original terms?”

“There were cash-flow issues. But we wanted to close the deal and keep the jobs in the city.”

I may have him cornered. “Mr. Ehrlich, where was the city going to get the money to finance the deal?”

“Sources in the San Francisco banking community.”

“What was the interest rate?”

“Prime plus four.”

“And what rate were you charging the buyer?”

“Prime plus one.”

“So the spread was three percent?”

“Right.”

“And how big was the loan?”

“A hundred million dollars.”

“I see. The spread at three percent is three million dollars a year, right?”

“That’s right.”

“And how many jobs would you have saved for the city?”

“About three thousand.”

“By my math, that’s about a thousand dollars a job.”

“I guess you could look at it that way.”

“And it’s your testimony that Bob Holmes was in a great mood?”

Ehrlich takes off his glasses. “He did not appear upset to me.”

Add the city to the list of parties that look like idiots. “No further questions.”

* * *

Dan Morris smiles confidently as he takes the stand. “I was present that evening,” he replies to Skipper’s first question. “The mayor asked me to assist with the closing. He wanted to be sure it got done.”

“What time did you leave the office, Mr. Morris?”

“Around one-thirty-five.” He says that Russo and Holmes were ready to close the deal. According to the political fixer, everybody was in a great mood.

“Did you have any indications from Mr. Holmes or Mr. Russo that they would not proceed with the closing?”

“None.”

“No further questions.”

I address Morris from my chair. “Isn’t it true that the city couldn’t afford the deal?”

“I’m not sure I understand the question.”

“Isn’t it true that the city didn’t have enough money to fund the deal? And isn’t it true that the mayor sent you and Mr. Ehrlich to the Simpson and Gates offices to try to torpedo it?”

“That’s ridiculous. It was a good deal for both parties.”

“If it was such a good deal for Vince Russo, why did he disappear?”

“Objection. Argumentative. Speculative. Foundation.”

“Sustained.”

“Did Mr. Russo appear agitated to you that night, Mr. Morris?”

He’s smug. “He always appeared agitated.”

“Do you have any idea why Bob Holmes committed suicide?”

“Objection. Move to strike the suggestion that Mr. Holmes committed suicide.”

“Sustained.”

“I’ll rephrase.” I look him right in the eye. “Come on, Mr. Morris. Level with us. Two people are dead, and another person has disappeared. Why did it happen? Why were so many people unhappy about this deal?”

“Objection. Speculative.”

“Sustained.”

“Certainly, you must have a theory, Mr. Morris?”

“Objection. Speculative.”

“Sustained.”

There’s nothing else I can do. I’ve planted the seed with the jury. “No further questions.”

Chapter 40

“I’VE BEEN A HOMICIDE INSPECTOR

FOR THIRTY SEVEN YEARS”

“Gates is going to bring in his cleanup hitter, Inspector Roosevelt Johnson.”

— NewsCenter 4 Legal Analyst Morgan Henderson. Friday, March 27.

The next morning is Friday, and Skipper goes to his strength. “My name is Roosevelt Johnson. I’ve been a homicide inspector for thirty-seven years.”

Joel tenses. Rosie eyes Roosevelt. Mort studies the jury.

“Inspector Johnson,” Skipper says, “could you tell us what time you arrived at the Simpson and Gates offices on the morning of December thirty-first of last year?”

“Eight-thirty-seven.” His tone is authoritative. The courtroom is silent.

“Would you please describe what you found?”

Skipper’s approach is textbook. You lob open-ended questions to strong witnesses. This will allow Roosevelt to tell his story the way he’s rehearsed it. I’m going to have to try to break up his flow.

Roosevelt clears his throat. He turns slightly toward the jury. He’s going to tell his story to them. “The office was in a state of chaos and shock. Word had spread throughout the firm of the homicides.”

I stand and try to sound respectful. “Your Honor, there’s no foundation for Mr. Johnson’s characterization of the events that day as ‘homicides.’ We must move to strike.”

She turns to Roosevelt. “Inspector, please limit your testimony to factual matters. We’ll determine whether the deaths of Mr. Holmes and Ms. Kennedy should be characterized as homicides.”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

She tells the jury to disregard his characterization of the deaths as homicides. She looks at me with a pained expression, as if to say, “Are you happy now?”

“Inspector,” Skipper continues, “you were telling us what happened when you arrived.”

Roosevelt describes his interviews with the police at the scene and his discussions with the paramedics and the technicians from the medical examiner’s office. He confirms that Bob and Diana were pronounced dead at 8:22. “We knew this was an important case. We wanted to make sure we got everything right.”

“Inspector Johnson,” Skipper says, “what happened next in your investigation?”

“We interviewed witnesses and gathered evidence.” He says the police obtained statements from everyone who was present that night. They talked to building security and impounded the security videos.

“Did you interview the defendant?”

“Yes. He confirmed he was at the office that night.”

“Was he a suspect on December thirty-first?”

“No. Originally, we thought this case was a murder-suicide. It wasn’t until later that we began to focus more closely on the defendant.” He never mentions Joel by name.

“Inspector, when did you first begin to suspect the defendant may have been involved?”

Roosevelt says they became suspicious of Joel when they received the medical examiner’s report and began to examine the physical evidence.

Skipper picks up the cue. “This would probably be a good time to turn to the physical evidence.”

Rosie whispers in my ear, “We’re going to take a pounding for a while.”

Skipper picks up the gun and hands it to Roosevelt. “Do you recognize this weapon?”

“Yes. It’s the weapon that fired the bullets that killed the victims, Robert Holmes and Diana Kennedy.”

Time moves slowly for the next two hours. Skipper has Roosevelt describe every piece of physical evidence in detail. Ten minutes on ballistics. Fifteen minutes on fingerprints. Fifteen minutes on the message on Diana’s answering machine. Ten minutes on the voicemail message to Bob. Ten minutes on the fingerprints on the computer keyboard. I object frequently, ferociously and, for the most part, futilely. We have a fundamental problem with the physical evidence. It all points toward Joel.

At eleven o’clock, they’re still going strong. Skipper’s on today. Roosevelt and the jury seem like old friends. Rita Roberts takes notes. Rabbi Friedman stares straight ahead. Naomi is stoic. At eleven-forty-five, Skipper asks Roosevelt to summarize his views on the physical evidence.

“We concluded the defendant fired the shots that killed the victims. In a clumsy attempt to cover up his crime, he typed a bogus suicide message on Mr. Holmes’s computer.”

Judge Chen looks at her watch. “This is a good time to break for lunch.”

* * *

Joel ignores his sandwich in the cramped consultation room behind Judge Chen’s courtroom. “We’re getting killed, Mike.”

Mort takes a bite of his corned beef sandwich. “You take some lumps when the prosecution presents its case.”

I add, “We haven’t had a chance to cross-examine Roosevelt yet.”

Joel is unconvinced. Without a word, he puts his uneaten sandwich into the white paper bag and drops it into the trash.

* * *

The afternoon session doesn’t start any better. “Inspector Johnson,” Skipper begins, “this morning, we discussed how Robert Holmes and Diana Kennedy were killed. We talked about the murder weapon. We listened to incriminating tapes. The defendant’s fingerprints were found on a computer keyboard that was used to type a bogus suicide message.”

Enough. “Objection. Mr. Gates is making his closing argument a little early.”

“Sustained. Mr. Gates, do you think you can find a question to ask Inspector Johnson?”

“Yes, Your Honor.” He continues to lecture. “This afternoon, we need to discuss why the defendant killed Mr. Holmes and Ms. Kennedy.”

I interrupt again. “Your Honor, is there a question in there somewhere?”

“Let’s get to it, Mr. Gates.”

“Yes, Your Honor.” He turns back to Roosevelt. “Inspector Johnson, do you have any reason to believe the defendant was angry at Mr. Holmes and Ms. Kennedy?”

“Yes.”

“Angry enough to kill them?”

“Objection. Inspector Johnson isn’t a mind reader.”

“Sustained. Please, Mr. Gates.”

He’s undaunted. “Could you please explain why you believe the defendant was angry at Mr. Holmes?”

“Mr. Holmes was his mentor. Mr. Holmes had been assigned the task of telling the defendant he wasn’t going to make partner. Apparently, he did not do so.”

“That led to the agitated voicemail message?”

“Objection. Speculative.”

“Sustained.”

“I’ll rephrase. Do you believe the defendant’s voicemail message to Mr. Holmes related to the fact that Mr. Holmes failed to inform the defendant that he wasn’t going to make partner?”

“Objection. Speculative.”

“Overruled.”

Roosevelt nods. “Yes. I believe the defendant’s voicemail message related to the fact that Mr. Holmes failed to tell him he wasn’t going to make partner.”

Joel leans over and whispers, “Can’t you object? You think I’d kill somebody because I didn’t make partner?”

I signal him to be quiet. I whisper, “The jury’s watching us.”

“Inspector,” Skipper continues, “are you aware of any reason why the defendant may have been angry with Ms. Kennedy?”

“The defendant told us Ms. Kennedy did not complete a set of escrow instructions for the Russo deal. He was upset because he had to complete the task himself.”

“Isn’t it odd that the defendant would kill Mr. Holmes because he didn’t make partner, and Ms. Kennedy because she failed to complete a legal document?”

“Objection. Speculative.”

“Sustained.”

“Inspector, are you aware of any other reasons why the defendant may have been upset with Mr. Holmes and Ms. Kennedy?”

“We believe the defendant was having a romantic relationship with Ms. Kennedy, which she terminated to rekindle an earlier romance with Mr. Holmes.”

“Move to strike. Foundation.”

“Overruled.”

Joel looks straight ahead. Rabbi Friedman is rocking back and forth in his seat. Naomi is staring into the back of Joel’s head. Ruth Fink rubs her forehead.

Skipper can barely contain himself. After a week of forensics, guns, fingerprints, autopsy reports, computer keyboards and tape recordings, we’ve finally got some really juicy stuff for the jury. “Inspector,” he says, “I want to be sure I’m clear on this. Are you saying that Ms. Kennedy, for lack of a better term, dumped the defendant in order to resume a romantic relationship with Mr. Holmes?”

“Objection. Foundation.”

“Overruled.”

“Yes.”

“Is it your belief that he killed Mr. Holmes in a jealous rage after Ms. Kennedy dumped him?”

“Objection. Speculative. State of mind. Foundation.” The kitchen sink.

“Sustained.” Judge Chen gives Skipper a sharp look. “Let’s stick to the facts, Mr. Gates.”

He doesn’t seem to care. He’s getting to all the sordid goodies now. “Inspector, let’s take this one step at a time. What evidence do you have that Mr. Holmes and Ms. Kennedy were romantically involved?”

“Mrs. Holmes’s private investigator discovered that Mr. Holmes and Ms. Kennedy were having a romantic relationship.” He testifies that Beth stated she had found out about the affair in early December and told Bob she would file divorce papers if he didn’t break it off. He terminated his relationship with Diana at that time.

“Yet on December thirtieth, Mrs. Holmes served divorce papers on her husband.”

“The private investigator observed Mr. Holmes having a rendezvous at the Fairmont with a woman other than Mrs. Holmes.”

“Was the private investigator able to identify the woman?”

“He wasn’t absolutely sure. He said the woman may have been Diana Kennedy.”

Skipper glances at the clock. “You also determined that the defendant was having a romantic relationship with Ms. Kennedy, did you not?”

“Objection. Foundation.”

“Overruled.”

“Yes. We interviewed several partners at Simpson and Gates who attended the firm retreat at Silverado last fall.” He confirms Hutch’s accounts of the hot tub incidents. He reiterates Patton’s story about finding Diana in Joel’s room at three in the morning.

Naomi looks at the floor. This is going to be the bloodiest cross-examination I’ve ever done.

Skipper asks, “Inspector, if the defendant and Ms. Kennedy were romantically involved, why would the defendant kill her?”

“Objection. Speculative.”

“Sustained.”

“Inspector, do you have a theory as to why the defendant killed Ms. Kennedy?”

“Objection. Speculative.”

“Overruled.”

Roosevelt takes off his glasses. “We believe Ms. Kennedy was the woman in the hotel room with Mr. Holmes. We believe she told the defendant that she had resumed her relationship with Mr. Holmes. And we believe she told the defendant that she no longer wanted to see him.”

“Objection. Move to strike. There’s no foundation for any of this.”

“Overruled.”

“So, Inspector, you believe that the defendant was so upset about the end of his relationship with Ms. Kennedy that he killed Ms. Kennedy and Mr. Holmes in a jealous rage?”

“Yes.”

Joel starts to stand up. I grab his arm and pull him back into his seat. “Stay calm,” I whisper.

Skipper spends the rest of the afternoon lobbing softball questions to Roosevelt, who keeps pounding out winners. He describes his interviews with Rick Cinelli and Homer Kim. I object frequently and, for the most part, inconsequentially. Skipper stretches out Roosevelt’s testimony until four-thirty.

Judge Chen looks at her watch and says, “I think we should break here until Monday.”

It’s a bonanza for Skipper. The jury has all weekend to mull over Roosevelt’s testimony.

Chapter 41

THE CROSS-EXAM OF A LIFETIME

“After Inspector Johnson’s devastating testimony, Michael Daley had better be at the top of his game.”

— NewsCenter 4 Legal Analyst Morgan Henderson. Monday, March 30.

We spend the weekend preparing for my cross-exam of Roosevelt. Mort keeps pounding on the idea that we have to give the jury a reason to think somebody else did it. Our best bet is Russo. As Mort leaves on Sunday night, he summarizes our defense succinctly. “When all else fails, blame it on the dead guy.”

* * *

Monday morning arrives too soon. I’m watching Morgan Henderson give his daily sermon on Channel 4 at six-forty-five. “It might be a good idea to let Mort Goldberg handle Johnson’s cross. Goldberg’s an old warhorse. He has more capacity for all-out war than Daley does.”

Thanks, Morgan.

The former talk-show host who now fancies himself a serious newsman furrows his brow under his blow-dried hair. “Who do you think’s winning, Morgan?”

“The prosecution has scored a lot of points, but they haven’t delivered a knockout blow.”

“Any predictions?”

“It’s looking pretty good for the prosecution. I wouldn’t want to be wearing Michael Daley’s shoes today.”

Frankly, neither would I.

* * *

The reporters swarm around me today when we get to the Hall because they know I’ll have a major speaking role. I utter the usual platitudes about my faith in the justice system. I can’t ignore them, but I don’t want to say anything that may get me in trouble. The judge watches the news, too.

* * *

The routine in court has become familiar. Joel takes his seat between Rosie and me. Mort sits at the end of the table. Harriet Hill asks us to rise. The judge takes her seat. The jury is brought in. Roosevelt is called back to the stand. The judge reminds him he’s under oath. Then she turns to me and says, “It’s your turn for cross-examination, Mr. Daley.”

I walk to the lectern. “Good morning, Inspector.” I turn to the judge. “May I approach the witness?” I want to appear respectful. She nods. I walk toward Roosevelt. As of this moment, the battle is now fully engaged.

“Inspector, I’d like to go over a few of the items you discussed on Friday in a little more detail.”

Our eyes lock. “Of course, Mr. Daley.”

I pick up the revolver from the evidence cart. I go over to the jury box and show it to them. Then I walk back to Roosevelt. “Inspector, you identified this revolver as the weapon that fired the bullets that killed Mr. Holmes and Ms. Kennedy, did you not?”

“Yes.”

I hand it to him. “And you’ve testified that Joel Friedman’s fingerprints were found on the revolver, right?” I’m trying to elicit one-word answers.

“Yes.”

“When you arrived, Officer Chinn told you that Mr. Friedman had informed him that he had picked up the revolver and disarmed it, right?”

“That’s true.”

“So it’s possible that Mr. Friedman may have gotten his fingerprints on the revolver when he picked it up and disarmed it, isn’t it?”

“Objection. Speculative.”

“Overruled.”

Roosevelt nods. “Yes, it’s possible.”

One small victory for the good guys. “Inspector, you’ve studied the lab reports on this gun, haven’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Would you mind showing us exactly where Mr. Friedman’s fingerprints were found on this revolver?”

He asks to see the lab report. Rosie hands it to me, and I turn it over to him. She’s marked Sandra Wilson’s diagram of the of the fingerprints on the revolver. I direct him to the correct page. He puts his glasses on the top of his head. I turn to Rosie, who turns on her computer. The diagram appears on a screen in the front of the courtroom.

“Inspector, is this the diagram that you’re looking at?”

“Yes.”

“Would you please show us where Mr. Friedman’s fingerprints were found on the revolver?”

He holds up the revolver and goes through the same exercise that Kathleen Jacobsen, the evidence technician, went through last week. He explains that fingerprints from Joel’s thumb, middle finger, ring finger and pinky were found on the handle. He says the fingerprint from Joel’s index finger was on the cylinder. He shows the jury how Joel was holding the gun.

“Inspector, could you please show us how Mr. Friedman would have fired the revolver with his hand in that position?”

“He couldn’t, Mr. Daley. His finger wasn’t on the trigger.”

“Thank you, Inspector.”

“But, Mr. Daley . . .”

“You’ve answered my question.” I nod to the jury. “So you have no evidence that Mr. Friedman pulled the trigger.”

“We have no identifiable fingerprints of Mr. Friedman on the trigger. That’s all.”

I’m not going to wage a war of semantics. Juries hate it. “Isn’t it a fact, Inspector, that the locations of Mr. Friedman’s fingerprints were consistent with the act of unloading the revolver?”

“Objection. Foundation.”

“Overruled.”

Roosevelt folds his arms. “Mr. Daley, I believe that Mr. Friedman left a smudged fingerprint on the trigger of this revolver when he fired it. On the other hand, his fingerprints were in a position that might have been consistent with the act of unloading it.”

Good answer. “Thank you, Inspector. You’re also aware that when a gun is fired, it emits a cloud of gas and particles of gunpowder fly into the air.”

“That’s correct.”

I ask him whether any such traces were found on Joel’s hands or clothing.

“No.” He confirms Kathleen Jacobsen’s testimony that they didn’t test Joel’s hands or clothing. “By the time he became a suspect, he had showered several times and his clothes had been cleaned. As a result, we would not have found traces of gunpowder or other chemical substances.”

“So you decided not to do the tests because you thought you wouldn’t find anything.”

“Objection. Asked and answered.”

“Sustained.”

I’ve made my point. We hammer at each other for the rest of the morning and into the afternoon. I challenge the handling of the evidence and the phone messages. We argue about the fingerprints on the keyboard. At three o’clock I glance at Rosie, who tugs on her left ear. We have one more subject.

“Inspector, did you ever seriously consider any other suspects?”

“Yes. We ruled them out. Not enough evidence.”

“For example, did you ever consider Vince Russo as a potential suspect?”

“For a brief time, yes. But we ruled him out.”

“You knew that Mr. Russo had been at the Simpson and Gates offices that night, and that he was very upset about the deal that he was supposed to close the next day.”

“Yes.”

“He was so upset that he drove to the Golden Gate Bridge and has not been seen since.”

“We’re aware of the circumstances, Mr. Daley.”

“He may even have jumped off the bridge.”

“We don’t know that.”

“Yet you didn’t consider him a serious suspect?”

“Objection. Argumentative.”

“Sustained.”

I’m blowing smoke. “Is it possible he fled because he killed two people?”

“Objection. Speculative.”

“Sustained.”

“You would at least acknowledge Mr. Russo had a substantial motive to commit this terrible crime, wouldn’t you?”

“No.”

“Come on. Inspector. Mr. Russo was very unhappy about this deal. By killing Mr. Holmes and Ms. Kennedy, he had an opportunity to disrupt the deal and flee the country.”

“We have no evidence to that effect.”

“You haven’t found his body, have you, Inspector?”

“No.”

“And it’s possible, isn’t it, that he may have faked his suicide and fled the country?”

Skipper’s up. “Objection. This is all hopelessly speculative.”

It certainly is.

“Sustained.”

I’m just starting to speculate. “Inspector, there was evidence confirming that Mr. Russo was in Mr. Holmes’s office that night, wasn’t there?”

“Yes, Mr. Daley. We found his fingerprints on the desk of Mr. Holmes. However, we have no way of knowing what time he was in Mr. Holmes’s office, and we did not find a shred of evidence suggesting he was involved. His fingerprints were not on the weapon or anywhere near the bodies of Mr. Holmes or Ms. Kennedy. As a result, we ruled him out as a suspect.”

“Inspector, you were able to determine who was present in the building that night by reviewing the security tapes, right?”

“Yes.”

“And you were able to rule out several individuals as suspects because the security tapes indicated that they left the building, right?”

“Correct.”

Now, for some smoke and mirrors. “Inspector, are you aware that it is possible to get into the building without passing by the security desk in the lobby? In fact, it is possible to enter the building by the stairs or the freight elevator, isn’t it?”

“The stairways and the freight elevators are kept locked.”

“But it is theoretically possible for someone to have entered and exited the building via the stairways or the freight elevator without passing the security desk, isn’t it?”

“Objection. Relevance.”

“Overruled.”

Roosevelt shrugs. “Yes, it’s theoretically possible, but you would need a key to access those areas.”

“But if somebody had a key, or a stairway door was propped open, it is possible somebody could have gotten upstairs and entered and exited the Simpson suite without passing by the guard desk, right?”

“I suppose that’s true.”

“And there are no security cameras on the stairways or the freight elevator, right?”

“Correct.”

“So somebody could have entered the building, gone up the stairs or the freight elevator, killed Mr. Holmes and Ms. Kennedy, and left the same way, without ever being detected, right, Inspector?”

“Objection. Speculative.”

“Overruled.”

Roosevelt sighs. “Yes, Mr. Daley. That’s theoretically possible.”

I glance at Rosie, who nods. We have a final item on today’s agenda. “Inspector, we’ve heard a lot of talk about the personal lives of Joel Friedman and Diana Kennedy.”

“We certainly have.”

“You’ve testified that you believe Joel and Diana were having an affair, which she terminated.”

“That’s correct.”

“And you base your conclusion on the testimony of Mr. Patton and Mr. Hutchinson?”

“Yes.”

“You realize Mr. Patton did not say he actually saw Joel and Diana in bed together.”

“That’s true.”

“And you realize Mr. Patton saw Joel and Diana in the same room together immediately after he attempted to attack her?” A bit of a stretch, but I decide to go for it.

“Objection.”

“Overruled.”

Roosevelt looks right into my eyes. “We questioned Mr. Patton at length. We have no reason to doubt the veracity of his testimony.”

“Mr. Hutchinson claims he saw them in a bar and in a hot tub. Yet Mr. Hutchinson admitted that he was intoxicated at the time. Surely, you must have doubted Mr. Hutchinson’s testimony.”

“We had no reason to question the truthfulness of Mr. Hutchinson’s testimony, either.”

Great. “Inspector, Mr. Hutchinson said he thought he saw them in a hot tub from a distance of about a hundred yards. He could have been mistaken. It was dark. He’d had a lot to drink. Other than the highly tentative testimony of Messrs. Patton and Hutchinson, you really don’t have any evidence that Joel Friedman and Diana Kennedy were having an affair, do you?”

Skipper’s up. “Objection, Your Honor. Speculative. Leading. Asked and answered.”

All of the above.

“Sustained.”

“No further questions.”

* * *

Joel, Rosie, Mort and I sit in the consultation room behind the courtroom. I’m beyond exhausted.

“Nice work on cross today,” Mort says.

“Thanks. Coming from a pro like you, it means a lot to me.” A small lie.

Rosie’s always a step ahead. “We’ll move for dismissal tomorrow.”

Joel perks up. “You think they’ll really dismiss the case?”

Mort gestures with his cigar. “Maybe. Mike got Johnson to admit they have no hard proof that you fired the gun. He made a lot of points on motive. That’s always been the weakest part of their case. They’ve never been able to prove conclusively that you and Diana were having an affair.”

“That’s because we weren’t.”

“We’ll see tomorrow,” I say.

* * *

Roosevelt is waiting for me by my car. “Nice work today.”

I toss my trial bag into the trunk. “Thanks, Roosevelt. I’m sorry if I beat you up. Nothing personal.”

He glances at the cars roaring by on the 101 freeway. “I hear they’ve found something. I don’t know what it is. You’re going to find out tonight, and it’s going to come down tomorrow.”

I pause. “You think he’s innocent, don’t you, Roosevelt?”

“I don’t know.” He motions toward the Hall. “It isn’t up to me. The guy on the third floor is making the decisions.”

I watch a police car drive by on Bryant. He’s silent as a uniformed cop walks by us.

“I’ve got to run,” he says. “It’ll be my ass if anybody sees me talking to you.” He turns and walks away.

“Thanks, Roosevelt,” I call out to his back.

Chapter 42

THE FACTS OF LIFE

“District Attorney Prentice Gates says he’ll call only one more witness tomorrow. Court watchers expect Friedman’s defense attorneys to move for dismissal.”

— KCBS News Radio. Monday, March 30. 6:00 P.M.

Rosie’s secretary, Rolanda, hands me a manila envelope when I return to the office at six o’clock the same evening. Theoretically, she’s supposed to be working just for Rosie. During the trial, she’s been helping me, too.

“Thanks for sticking around,” I tell her.

“You did a nice job on cross, today. Even the bitchy woman on CNN said so.”

Small consolation. I tear open the envelope and pull out a stack of paper. “Skipper didn’t call, did he?”

“No. But McNulty did. Said it was important. He left his cell number.”

“Thanks.” I rifle through the pages.

“What is it, Mike?”

I give her page 5 of the report. “Read this.”

Her eyes get bigger. “The blood and DNA tests conclusively prove that Joel Friedman was the father of Diana Kennedy’s unborn child. Oh crap.”

“Yeah.” I think Rolanda is going to go to law school after she finishes at State. “I’ll call McNulty. See if you can get Mort and Pete to come down here. Rosie’s on her way.”

“I’ll be here as long as you need me. You okay, Mike?”

Just great. We’ve built our defense on the proposition that my client wasn’t sleeping with the victim and therefore had no motive to kill her. I’ve probably created enough doubts in the minds of the jurors to get an acquittal. And now I know he was lying all along. “I’ll be okay. It’s going to be a long night.”

* * *

“Bill McNulty speaking.” Even on a cell phone, his delivery is crisp.

“It’s Mike Daley.” My voice is hoarse as I cradle the phone in my shoulder.

“You get the lab results?”

“Yeah.”

“We’re going to introduce it into evidence tomorrow.”

“I’m going to ask the judge for some time to study it and have our own experts look at it.”

“She won’t go for it. You pushed for the early trial date. You’re going to have to live with it.”

“If she doesn’t give us some extra time, we’ll appeal.”

“We’ll take our chances.”

I’d do the same if I were in your shoes. “It doesn’t change anything, Bill, You guys still can’t prove your case beyond a reasonable doubt. You still can’t show he pulled the trigger.”

“We’ll take our chances.”

* * *

Pete arrives first. He glances at the report. “We  got a problem,” he understates.

“You know any good DNA guys?”

“A couple.”

“I’ll ask Mort, too.” I rub my eyes. “We had them. We were going to move for a dismissal.”

“They said on the radio your cross on Johnson was really good.”

It was. “Anything new on the search for Russo?”

“Nothing. We’ve drilled a bunch of dry wells. They’re supposed to be looking for him at border crossings. Fat chance.”

* * *

Rosie is already here when Mort walks in. “So,” he says, “turns out our client was the father after all.”

I show him a copy of the paternity test. “Seems that way, Mort.”

“You realize that we’re completely and totally screwed.”

Rosie snaps, “That’s helpful. Got any other suggestions, Mort?”

“Easy, Rosie. I’m not throwing in the towel just yet. We’ve still got some cards to play.”

“He’s right,” I say. “When in doubt, go back to the evidence. Point one. If we can put on a good enough expert to rebut Rod Beckert, we can argue it was a suicide. We could win the case right there.”

Mort smiles. “Now you’re thinking like a lawyer again.”

“Your expert better be good in court.”

“He’s the best. Full professor at UCSF. And he’s my brother-in-law, for God’s sake. If he messes up, he’s going to have to listen to me remind him at the Passover Seder for the next twenty years.” He turns serious. “Wait till you see him in court. He’s beaten Beckert. He can do it again.”

Rosie’s quiet. She’s thinking.

“Point two,” I say. “Even if the jury decides it wasn’t suicide, they still can’t show Joel fired the gun. Maybe he handled it, but they can’t prove he fired it. Reasonable doubt right there.”

Mort agrees. “Another perfectly legitimate argument.”

Rosie still isn’t biting.

“Point three. They’ve got a problem with the keyboard. Joel’s fingerprints are all over it. But Bob’s aren’t. It doesn’t make sense. If Joel was going to try to fake a suicide, why would he get his fingerprints all over Bob’s keyboard?

“Point four. The paternity test will prove Joel and Diana had an affair. They’re going to argue he killed her because she broke it off to get back together with Bob. If we can show that Bob and Diana weren’t together at the end of the year, it blows a big hole through their motive.”

Rosie shrugs. “It’s tough to prove a negative, Mike.”

“I know. But we’ve got to try.” I look at Pete. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“The mystery woman at the Fairmont?”

“Exactly. If we can prove she wasn’t Diana, we’ve got a pretty good argument that Bob and Diana never got back together. It’s time to talk to Nick the Dick again.”

“He’ll testify,” Pete says. “He has another book coming out this fall. It’s free publicity.”

I stop to think. “The one thing we haven’t considered is the possibility that Joel isn’t the father. We could argue the test results were flawed. How reliable are these tests, anyway?”

Rosie answers. “Ninety-nine percent.”

Mort adds, “I know a guy at UC who’s good. I can get him to confirm the test results. It’ll take a little time, though.”

“You guys got any better ideas?” I ask.

Mort says, “You forgot point five.”

“Point five?”

“Yeah. If everything else fails, we’ll use the S-O-D-D-I defense.”

“SODDI?” Pete asks.

“Some Other Dude Did It. We need to give the jury a choice.”

It may be our best shot. “Russo’s perfect,” I say. “He can’t defend himself. If he didn’t do it, why did he jump off the Golden Gate Bridge? Patton’s a great candidate, too. He’s a first-rate asshole, and he’s been sleeping with the Widow Holmes. And he put the moves on Diana. We don’t have to prove anything. We just have to suggest it to the jury to give them something to let them reach reasonable doubt. Hell, we should try to find a way to work in the fact that Skipper was there that night.”

“You’re stretching,” Rosie says.

Mort tells her, “You’ll see, Rosie. It’ll work.” Mort rubs his fingers around a cigar. “What should we do first?”

“Rosie, I need you to prepare papers to get things delayed until we can find our own expert and do our own tests. Mort, I want you to call your guy at UC. Pete, I want you and Wendy to go to the Bahamas right away and see what you can dig up before Trevor Smith gets back. Before you leave, I want you to set up a meeting for me with Nick Hanson. And I need you to pound on a few more witnesses to see if we can nail Art Patton. And anything you can get on the whereabouts of Vince Russo would be greatly appreciated.”

“What are you going to do tonight?” Rosie asks.

“I need to talk to our client about the facts of life.”

* * *

“We need to talk,” I say to Joel.

He’s standing in the doorway of his father’s house at nine-thirty that night. He seems to be in a pretty good mood. Then I remember that the last time we spoke, we were suggesting that we may be able to get the case dismissed tomorrow.

He smiles. “Whatever you need, Mike. Great job on cross today.”

“Thanks.” My eyes dart. “Your mom or dad around?”

“No. They’re at an Israel Bond dinner.”

“Good.” We walk into the living room and sit down. The TV is tuned to CNN. “Something’s come up. It’s serious.”

His smile vanishes. His eyes bore in on mine. I look right back into his. He turns off the TV.

I thought things went pretty well today,” he says.

“They got the results back on Diana’s baby.”

The color leaves his face. “And?”

“I think you know.”

He rubs his eyes. “It’s me, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

He folds his hands and looks out the window. In my family, such news would have been met with twenty minutes of histrionics, followed by another half hour of assignment of blame. When you’re the rabbi’s son, you aren’t allowed such luxuries.

“Are they sure?” he asks.

“Ninety-nine percent.”

He nods. “I was afraid of that.”

“Did you know?”

“Diana said it was possible.”

“I see.” But I really don’t.

“What am I going to tell Naomi?”

“You might start with the truth.” I realize my tone is harsh.

He swallows. “You don’t understand.” He walks into the kitchen. I follow him. He pulls a glass from a cabinet and fills it with water. He leans against the refrigerator, and I lean against the counter. We’re barely five feet apart. There’s a look of desperation in his eyes.

“Explain it to me,” I say. “If you want me to defend you, I have to understand.”

“You can’t.”

“Maybe not. But I can try.”

He blinks back tears. “You don’t know what it’s like being the rabbi’s son. You live in a fishbowl. Everything gets blown out of proportion. If you get sent home from school, you aren’t just another little kid getting in trouble. You’re the rabbi’s son getting in trouble. If you aren’t dressed perfectly for services, it’s viewed as a poor reflection on the rabbi and on the entire Jewish community. People notice.”

He looks away. It’s hard to believe he’s the same guy who was working on a billion-dollar deal a few weeks ago.

“Naomi is more fragile than she lets on,” he says. “She’s been on antidepressants. I didn’t mean to sleep with Diana, Mike. It just happened. And it only happened once. It was stupid. And I have to live with it.”

“You’re a defendant in a murder trial. You can’t dwell on the fact that the Jewish community may find out about your relationship with Diana. You have to tell Naomi and your parents tonight. They’re going to introduce the lab report in open court tomorrow. I can’t stop them.”

“I’m completely screwed.” The stress overwhelms him. He dissolves into tears. He knocks his glass of water off the counter. I put my arm around his shoulder. The sobs are long and loud. “What am I going to tell her?” he repeats several times.

For a guy who thinks he has all the answers, I’m speechless.

I hear the front door open. Rabbi Friedman says, “Joel, are you still up?”

Joel has miraculously regained his composure. His parents find us in the kitchen. We stand in silence for a moment.

“What is it?” Joel’s mother asks.

Joel looks at me. Then he turns to them. “Something’s come up. We need to talk.”

* * *

“How did he react?” Rosie asks later that night. We’re watching the news in her living room.

“Not well,” I say. “He broke down. He’s humiliated. His marriage is falling apart.”

She closes her eyes. “Did he tell Naomi?”

“They were talking when I left. They were both crying. She wasn’t as angry as I thought she’d be. I don’t think she has the energy. She looked so sad.”

“And his parents?”

“He told them, too.”

“How did they take it?”

“Stoic. It’s the way they are. Do you think I should have stayed there, Rosie?”

“Probably not. You have to deal with some things in private.”

“Would you stop by Naomi’s on your way in tomorrow? She’s going to need support. It might be better if it comes from you.”

“Sure.” She turns off the TV. “What are you going to do in court tomorrow?”

Beats me. “We have two choices. We can ask for a continuance and get Mort’s expert to challenge the validity of the paternity test.”

“Medical science isn’t perfect.”

“Paternity testing is pretty close. I’m sure he’s the father.”

“What’s the other choice?”

“We stipulate that Joel is the father. We get to the truth quickly without a lot of hysterics.”

“Why would we do that?”

“To avoid pissing off the jury with three weeks of expert testimony on the unreliability of paternity tests that we know are accurate.”

“Tough choice. What does Joel want to do?”

“He wants to stipulate. He’s ready to come clean.”

“You think he’s lied about anything else?”

“I don’t know what to think anymore.”

* * *

I’m lying awake at one o’clock in the morning when my phone rings.

“Mike, it’s Naomi.” Her voice cracks. She’s been crying.

“Hi.”

“I just don’t know what to do.”

“You don’t have to decide tonight.”

“I can’t believe he lied to me.”

I have no answers for her. “Maybe we should talk about it in the morning, Naomi.”

She tries to catch her breath. “I can’t go to court tomorrow. It will be too humiliating.”

“I understand.”

“No, you really don’t.”

“I know things will be tough for you. But it would help us if the jury sees you there.”

“I don’t know if I can.”

“Let’s talk about it in the morning. We’ll stop by on our way in.”

Five minutes later, the phone rings again. “It’s Rabbi Friedman.” He clears his throat. “This isn’t good news.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“How reliable are these tests, Michael?”

“Very.”

“What would you suggest?”

“We’re going to ask for more time to let our expert review the evidence. The judge may not give it to us. At the very least, we’ll find another expert and blow some smoke at the jury.” I regret saying it as soon as I’ve said it.

“You mean you think we should lie?”

“No. It’s my job to get the jury to reasonable doubt. If I have to trot out an expert for three weeks of testimony, that’s what I’ll do.”

He clears his throat. “This is very difficult.”

“Maybe we should talk about it in the morning.”

Chapter 43

“THE PROSECUTION RESTS”

“District Attorney Prentice Gates is expected to call his final witness today.”

— KCBS News Radio. Tuesday, March 31. 7:40 A.M.

It’s pouring when I reach Rabbi Friedman’s house at seven-thirty the next morning. Joel and his parents are ready to go. Nobody says a word about last night.

“Michael,” the rabbi says, “we don’t want to be late for court.”

“May I have a word with Joel in private?”

“Of course.”

I pull Joel into the kitchen. “You okay?”

“As okay as I’m going to be.”

“What about your parents?”

“They’re pissed off, but they’re still my parents. They’re embarrassed and they’ll probably kill me after the trial is over. Until then, they’re going to play out their roles.”

This helps. “What about Naomi?”

“That’s tougher. She doesn’t want to go to court this morning. She may take the kids down to her mother’s in Southern California until the trial’s over.”

“One step at a time.”

We gather our umbrellas and raincoats. As Rabbi Friedman opens the door, I see Naomi and Rosie walking up the steps under an umbrella. Even though it’s raining, Naomi is wearing sunglasses.

“What are you all looking at?” she snaps. “It’s time to go to court.”

Joel tries to give her a hug, but she pulls away. “We have a lot to talk about when the trial’s over,” she says to him.

Rosie takes her arm and says, “It’s time to go to court.”

I give her hand a quick squeeze as we walk down the steps toward our cars.

* * *

“Your Honor,” I begin, “the prosecution just provided some new and potentially inflammatory evidence. We need some time to review it.”

We’re sitting in Judge Chen’s chambers. I asked for a meeting before the jury was brought in.

Judge Chen isn’t in a particularly gregarious mood. She turns to Skipper. “What’s this all about, Mr. Gates? It’s a little late to bring in new evidence.”

He smiles confidently and hands her a copy of the lab report. “Your Honor, we just got this.” He clears his throat, but he’s still grinning. “The defendant was the father of Diana Kennedy’s unborn baby.”

Judge Chen puts on her reading glasses and studies the report.

“Your Honor—I,” I say.

She holds up her hand. “Let me look at this, Mr. Daley.”

Rosie remains silent. Mort studies the judge. Skipper and McNulty exchange satisfied looks.

After what seems like an eternity, Judge Chen puts down the report. “This is serious. These tests are very reliable.”

Skipper agrees vigorously. “Very reliable, Your Honor. Close to one hundred percent.”

“Thank you, Mr. Gates.”

“Your Honor,” I say, “we received this information just last night. We haven’t had an opportunity to review it with our expert. And we certainly haven’t had an opportunity to conduct an independent test.”

“That could take weeks,” Skipper says. “They pushed for the early trial date. We’re ready to conclude our case. We can’t wait six weeks while their experts redo the paternity test. We’ll lose the jury. They’re going to come back with the same results, anyway.”

The judge looks at me. “Mr. Daley, you knew this was a possibility when you asked for an early trial date.”

She’s right. I’ve made a significant blunder. I believed my client when he told me he didn’t have an affair with Diana Kennedy. “In the interests of fundamental fairness, we request that you give us a few weeks to examine the report and consult with our expert.” When all else fails, I try fundamental fairness.

“I’m not putting this jury on ice for a month.”

“Judge Chen, you have to give us a couple of days.”

“I don’t have to give you anything.”

“I know. But all I’m asking for is just a few days.”

She turns to Skipper, who’s whispering to McNulty. “Mr. Gates, it’s Tuesday. I was planning on a couple of short trial days this week so I can attend to some other business. Would you object if we recess until Monday?”

“I see no purpose for this delay.”

“Mr. Gates, it looks like the rain may stop for a while this afternoon. Why don’t you and Mr. McNulty go out and hit some golf balls?”

Skipper gets the message. “I guess we might be in a position to adjourn until Monday.”

“Thank you. We’re done.”

Skipper and McNulty dart out the door.

As I’m packing my trial case, the judge gives me a knowing look. “He lied to you about Diana, didn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“There isn’t much I can do about it, you know.”

“I know.”

“Mike, I know you’ll be tempted to try to get me to declare a mistrial so you can start over and retool your case. I won’t let it happen. Understood?”

“Yes.”

“See you Monday.”

* * *

We spend the rest of the week trying to fill some of the holes in our case. On Thursday, Mort’s DNA expert from UCSF confirms what we expected. The paternity tests were conducted by a reputable lab. Unless we can demonstrate that there were some shenanigans, it’s virtually certain that Joel was the father. Pete and Wendy leave for the Bahamas on Friday.

I have one bright spot on Friday. I take Nick Hanson out for lunch at Caffe Sport in North Beach. At eighty-something, he’s still a character. He assures me that he’d be delighted to testify, as long as we agree to pay him for his time at his standard hourly rate.

* * *

I spend all day Saturday and most of Sunday working with our medical expert, Dr. Robert Goldstein, on his testimony to rebut Rod Beckert. At seven o’clock Sunday night, Rosie, Mort and I regroup in our office. Joel has agreed to stipulate that he’s the father. I phone Skipper with the news. He’s pleased.

Within fifteen minutes, McNulty e-mails a draft stipulation. We quickly agree on the language.

Mort inspects a fine Cuban cigar. “It’s the best we can do. We’ll get the issue off the table as quickly as we can.”

I’m not so sure.

* * *

Rosie and I are driving home on Sunday night. As we head northbound on the Golden Gate Bridge, I turn to her and say, “How did you get Naomi to come to court?”

“She’s tougher than you think. I told her she and Joel have big issues, but that it would help Joel if she waited until after the trial.”

“You think they’ll be able to hold it together after this is over?”

“Tough to predict. They’re going to have to make some changes.” She looks out the window.

I’ve learned there are times when I shouldn’t ask too many questions. We drive in silence.

* * *

On Monday morning, Judge Chen is pleased when we inform her in chambers that we’ve agreed to stipulate about the paternity test. We’ve just saved a couple of weeks of trial time. She has Skipper read our stipulation to the jury as soon as they’re brought in. Although there are a few raised eyebrows among the jurors, there isn’t much reaction. They’re getting tired.

“Mr. Gates,” the judge says, “do you have anything further at this time?”

“No, Your Honor.” He turns toward the jury. “The prosecution rests.”

“Very well.” She speaks to the jury. “The prosecution has completed its presentation. We’re going to take a short break while the attorneys discuss some legal issues.” She nods to Harriet Hill, who leads the jury out. As soon as they’re gone, she turns to me. “Mr. Daley, I presume you’d like to make a motion?”

“Yes, Your Honor. The defense moves that all charges be dropped as a matter of law.”

This is routine. The defense always moves for dismissal at the end of the prosecution’s case.

“On what grounds?”

“The prosecution has failed to prove its case beyond a reasonable doubt.”

Skipper stands. “Objection.”

“Sit down, Mr. Gates.” She turns to me. “Mr. Daley, your motion is denied. The defense should be prepared to call its first witness tomorrow morning.”

Chapter 44

THE BRAIN TRUST

“After two weeks of damaging testimony from the prosecution’s witnesses, Friedman’s attorneys will begin their defense. I hope they have a few rabbits in their hats.”

— NewsCenter 4 Legal Analyst Morgan Henderson. Monday, April 6.

“Have you heard anything from Pete and Wendy?” Joel asks me.

“The banker isn’t back in town yet, but Wendy was able to sweet-talk his secretary into giving her copies of the correspondence in the file. She’s e-mailing it to us tonight.”

We’re meeting in Rabbi Friedman’s dining room at two o’clock the same afternoon. Joel is tense. Rabbi Friedman is in a contemplative mood. Mort fingers a cigar. Rosie is drinking iced tea.

“Who goes first?” Joel asks.

“We’ll start with our medical expert, Dr. Goldstein.”

Rabbi Friedman glances at Mort.

“He’s good,” Mort says.

I agree. “I worked with him on his testimony. If he can persuade the jury it was a suicide, we can go home.”

“And if he can’t?” Joel says.

“We’ll attack the physical evidence. If we have to, we’ll show the jury that Russo and Patton had more motive and opportunity than you did. If things get tight, we’ll put some of my former partners on the stand and deflect the blame over to them.”

“What about me?” Joel asks.

“What about you?”

“When do I go on?”

“We’ll see how it goes. If things are going well, you don’t.”

“I want to testify, Mike. “I need to testify.”

Over my dead body. “We’ll decide later.”

Mort clears his throat. “There’s something I’d like to bring up.” He looks at Rabbi Friedman and then he turns to Joel. “I wanted to discuss this privately with Joel, but it doesn’t appear that I’ll have a chance. Let me explain the situation.”

Rosie scowls. “What situation, Mort?”

“After we got the results of the paternity test, I decided to talk to the DA.”

What? I lean across the table. “You didn’t have the authority, Mort.”

“Hear me out. In light of the test results, I thought it would be in Joel’s best interests to feel out the DA about a possible deal.” He looks at Joel. “I think we should explore all options.”

Rosie’s eyes are on fire. My heart races, and I struggle to keep my tone measured. “Why didn’t you tell me you were going to the DA?”

“Because I knew you wouldn’t agree to it.”

“We would have discussed it. We would have consulted with Joel. Then we would have made a decision.”

“I doubt it.”

“Bullshit. You should have told us.”

“I talked man-to-man with Skipper. He thinks his case is shaky enough that he’s willing to let Joel plead to voluntary manslaughter. It takes the death penalty off the table. And he’s willing to recommend a fairly lenient sentence.”

Joel glares at Mort, then his father, then he turns to me. “Seeing as how I’m on trial, maybe you guys would be interested in my opinion.”

Mort interrupts him. “I was doing it for your own good.”

“You think I’m guilty.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“How could you possibly think I might agree to a plea bargain?”

“Look at their case. You’re an admitted adulterer. You’re an admitted liar. How big a leap is it for the jury?”

Joel’s tone fills with anger. “You’re right. I am an adulterer. I’m not proud of it. I lied about it. I’m not proud of that either. But I am not a murderer. If the jury wants to convict me for something I didn’t do, so be it. But I’ll be damned if I’m going to admit to something I didn’t do. Period.”

“Give it some thought,” Mort says.

“I’ve given it all the thought that it deserves. No deal.”

“Okay.” Mort reaches for his briefcase.

“There’s one other thing, Mort. Your assistance on this case is no longer required. You’re fired.”

* * *

Rosie and I are sitting in her office later the same evening to talk about strategy. The hallway is lined with binders, charts and exhibits. It looks like the backstage area of a theater.

“Well, Rosita,” I say, “just you and me again.”

“Just like old times at the PD’s office.”

“We’ve got them right where we want them.”

She grins. “You’ve never been at a loss for self-confidence.”

“I just hope we don’t have any more surprises. And I sure wish Pete would find Vince Russo.”

Chapter 45

OUR TURN

“Friedman Defense Begins Today.”

— San Francisco Legal Journal. Tuesday, April 7.

I knock on Rosie’s door at seven the next morning.

“Come in,” she says. “You won’t believe this.”

Grace is eating a bowl of Froot Loops at the kitchen table. She’s happy to see me. I say hi to Rosie’s mom, who has been logging overtime with Grace during the trial. We’ll have to do something nice for Sylvia.

Rosie leads me into the living room where the TV is tuned to Channel 4. Morgan Henderson is delivering his daily analysis. “The defense will begin its case today,” he intones.

“So what?” I say.

Rosie turns up the volume.

Henderson looks solemnly into the camera. “As we reported earlier this morning, Professor Mort Goldberg resigned from the defense team last night. His office said his departure was the result of ‘philosophical differences.’ ”

“Philosophical differences my ass,” I say.

“Just wait,” Rosie says.

Henderson smiles at the morning anchorwoman, who bats her eyelashes. “Susan, I am pleased to introduce the newest member of our legal team here at NewsCenter 4.” His grin widens. “We are joined by Professor Morton Goldberg, who will be providing commentary on the trial for the duration.”

“For the love of God,” I say.

“Unbelievable,” Rosie says.

The camera shifts to a beaming Mort, who is in a separate studio, fiddling with an earpiece. “Is that you, Morgan?”

Henderson looks at his monitor. “Uh, Professor Goldberg will join us in a moment.”

The picture stays on Henderson, but Mort’s voice is heard. “I’m ready, Morgan.”

They’re going to have to decide who’s going to play Laurel and who’s going to play Hardy.

“Mort,” Henderson says, “what are your thoughts on the beginning of the defense’s case?”

The camera shifts to Mort. The lights reflect off his glasses. “You know, Morgan, I want to remind our viewers that I’ve just terminated my association with the defense team for philosophical reasons. I have to be careful not to divulge any client confidences.”

“Can you believe this?” Rosie says.

I rub my temples. “At this point, I’ll believe anything.”

Henderson turns serious. “Without divulging any confidences, how do you feel about the defense’s case, Mort?”

“The defense has a lot of ground to cover, Morgan. Michael Daley is a very good lawyer. I’m sure justice will prevail.”

How insightful. “Turn it off,” I say.

Grace looks at me. “Are you okay, Daddy?”

“Yeah, sweetie. Everything’s fine.” Daddy has a slight case of indigestion.

* * *

It’s overcast, but not raining, when we reach the wall of reporters at the Hall.

“Mr. Daley, are you going to consider a plea bargain?”

“Mr. Daley, is it true Mr. Goldberg was fired?”

“Mr. Daley, does Mr. Friedman’s affair change your defense?”

“Mr. Daley? Mr. Daley? Mr. Daley?”

I feel like screaming, “Shut up!” I try to look composed as Rosie and I push our way inside to meet Joel and his parents.

“Naomi is in the bathroom,” Joel says. “She’ll meet us upstairs.”

Rabbi Friedman glances at me. “It’s up to you, Michael.”

“We’ll just keep going. Rabbi.”

Skipper comes over as soon as we take our seats. “I understand we have a change in the lineup.”

“Yeah.”

He grins.

Joel leans over and whispers, “You ready?”

“You bet.” I don’t have time to think of all the things I would have done differently. With hindsight, I might have deferred our opening statement until now. “Now we get to tell our side of the story.”

* * *

Before the jury is called in, Judge Chen turns to me. “I understand there’s been a change at the defense table.”

“Yes, Your Honor. Mr. Goldberg won’t be with us.”

“Very well. Let’s proceed.” She instructs Harriet Hill to bring in the jury. I didn’t expect her to stop the trial just because Mort’s gone. He hasn’t said a word to the jury, anyway.

* * *

“Please call your first witness, Mr. Daley.”

“The defense calls Dr. Robert Goldstein.”

Mort’s brother-in-law, Bob Goldstein, is a professor at UCSF Medical Center. His appearance might be described as the anti-Mort. He’s in his late sixties, with a full head of gleaming silver hair and dazzling blue eyes. He glides his six-foot-four-inch frame across the courtroom with the grace of a senior squash champion. His double-breasted gray suit matches his hair. A tasteful white kerchief sits in his breast pocket. He looks like he’d be right at home in a boardroom or a country club. The Rolex and gold cuff links suggest he’s very successful and probably very rich. Pound for pound, he can hold his own with Skipper in the charisma derby.

He’s sworn in and takes his place on the stand. He casually adjusts the microphone. He knows his way around a courtroom, and he knows how to work an audience. Mort says he isn’t the kind of doctor you’d call if you’re sick. He’s the kind you’d call if you need him to testify.

He states his name for the record. He smiles at the jury. “I’m a full professor of Pathology and Trauma Surgery at UCSF Medical School.”

I begin taking him through his credentials. We get through his undergraduate degree at Stanford and his medical degree from Johns Hopkins when Skipper interrupts us. “We’ll stipulate to Dr. Goldstein’s expertise.”

Goldstein smiles. The two lawyers on the jury nod.

I hand him copies of Beckert’s autopsy reports. “Dr. Goldstein, are you familiar with the autopsy reports prepared by Dr. Roderick Beckert with respect to Mr. Robert Holmes and Ms. Diana Kennedy?”

“Yes. I have reviewed both reports.”

Skipper starts to stand, then he sits down. He’s jumpy today.

“Would you be kind enough to tell us whether you agree with Dr. Beckert’s conclusions?”

“Objection. There’s no foundation for this.”

“Your Honor,” I say, “Mr. Gates just stipulated that Dr. Goldstein is, in fact, a medical expert. He did not object when I asked Dr. Goldstein whether he had reviewed the reports. Certainly, he can’t object when I ask Dr. Goldstein for his opinion as to the conclusions in those reports. Why else would I call him to the stand?”

Judge Chen isn’t buying into this completely. “I’ll overrule the objection for now. But Dr. Goldstein better be prepared to explain his conclusions.”

“He will.” I turn back to Goldstein. “You were going to tell us your views on the autopsy reports.”

“I have known Rod Beckert for many years. We are colleagues on the UCSF faculty. I respect him.”

You also have more titles than he does, Bob, but don’t lay it on too thick.

“In the case of the autopsy of Ms. Kennedy,” he continues, “I think Rod got it absolutely right.” He explains in medical and layman’s terms that she died of gunshot wounds to her lung and heart.

“And the autopsy report on Mr. Holmes?”

He grimaces. “That’s where I have a problem with Dr. Beckert’s conclusions. There’s no doubt Mr. Holmes died from massive trauma from a gunshot wound to his head. However, I have very serious doubts about Rod’s conclusion that Mr. Holmes was knocked unconscious prior to the shootings. In fact, I believe Rod was wrong.”

I glance at the jury. They seem to like him. “Would you mind explaining your conclusions. Doctor?” I’m taking a chance. It may be better to lead him with short, precise questions. On the other hand, at our rehearsal—I mean our trial preparation—he explained complicated concepts in terms that I could understand.

“Of course. I wonder if we could look at the autopsy photos.”

Rosie sets up the easel and puts an enlarged picture of the left side of Bob’s head in front of the jury. Dr. Goldstein turns to the judge and asks whether he can stand by the picture so he can point out certain items. He speaks to her in a tone that suggests they’re old friends. She agrees.

He buttons his suit jacket as he walks to the easel. He takes a gold pen out of his pocket. He speaks directly to the jury. “Ladies and gentlemen, we’re looking at an autopsy photo of the left side of Mr. Holmes’s head. For reference, here’s the edge of the skull.” He makes a circular motion with the pen.

Goldstein nods to the jurors. As I instructed him, he speaks to the phone company supervisor. “Madam, can you see the photo?”

“Yes.”

“Can everybody hear me? I hate using microphones.”

They nod. Mort was right. This guy is smoother than fine scotch.

He turns to the photo and draws an imaginary circle above Bob’s left ear. “This is called the parietal bone. Here’s where the bullet came out. We call it the exit wound. Although we don’t have a picture of it here, the entrance wound was, as you know, in the right parietal bone, just above the right temple.”

He’s striking a nice balance between knowledgeable and folksy. The accountant is looking receptive.

“Everybody with me so far?” he asks.

The jurors nod.

Skipper stands. “Your Honor, would you please instruct Dr. Goldstein not to ask questions of the jury? This isn’t his anatomy class at UC.”

Judge Chen is annoyed. “If that was an objection, I’ll sustain it.” She turns to Goldstein. “Please limit yourself to answering Mr. Daley’s questions without questioning the jury.”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

I say, “Dr. Goldstein, you were describing the exit wound.”

“Yes.” He describes the wound in detailed medical-ese. Then he interprets in language Grace could understand. “As you can plainly see, the trauma to the head was massive.”

“Were you able to make a determination about the accuracy of Dr. Beckert’s conclusion that the wound may not have been self-inflicted?”

“Objection, Your Honor. He’s leading the witness.”

No, I’m not. “Your Honor, that wasn’t a leading question.” Skipper is trying to break Goldstein’s rhythm.

“You’re right, Mr. Daley. Overruled.”

Goldstein says, “In my judgment. Rod was wrong. I believe the wound was self-inflicted.”

Murmurs in the gallery. This shouldn’t be a news flash. Did they think my medical expert was going to agree with Beckert? I ask Goldstein to explain his conclusion.

“I am certain Mr. Holmes fired the gun.” He says that gunpowder residue was found on Bob’s right hand. “There’s no other way he could have gotten gunpowder on his hand, unless, of course, he happened to fire another gun the same day.”

“Isn’t it possible that someone may have placed the gun in his hand while he was unconscious and caused him to fire it? Wouldn’t that generate the same chemical residue on his hand?” I’m trying to mitigate Skipper’s argument that somebody knocked Bob unconscious, placed the gun in his hand and caused him to pull the trigger, making it look like a suicide.

“Yes, but that assumes Mr. Holmes was unconscious at the time the gun was fired.”

“Was there any evidence that Mr. Holmes was unconscious?”

“No.” He pauses. “I have all the respect in the world for Rod Beckert. But this time around, I think he’s flat wrong.”

I pretend to study the picture of Bob’s head. I’m actually glancing at the jury. I was hoping I’d get a little more than halfhearted reactions. “Could you please explain why you believe Dr. Beckert’s conclusion was wrong?”

“Certainly, Mr. Daley.” He says that Holmes wasn’t under the influence of drugs, and the amount of alcohol in his system was so small he couldn’t have been prosecuted for a DUI. As a result, he ruled out the possibility that he was rendered unconscious by the use of any chemical substance.

He turns back to the photo. “Consequently, it seems the only way Mr. Holmes could have been rendered unconscious would have been through a blow to his head.” He points to a spot above the exit wound. “This is the area where Dr. Beckert claims there was a concussive wound. In fact, the blow to the skull, if there was such a blow, wasn’t nearly as traumatic as Dr. Beckert says. It certainly wasn’t enough to render him unconscious.”

I look skeptical. “How can you be sure, Dr. Goldstein?”

“It’s less than a quarter of an inch in diameter. There was no significant contusion. More important, Dr. Beckert took X-rays of Mr. Holmes’s head. There was no skull fracture or concussion. It was probably caused when the head hit the desk after he shot himself.” He pauses. “Let me put it this way. If he was a football player and he sustained such an injury, he wouldn’t have left the game. Based on my best medical judgment, it is my opinion that he fired the gun and that he took his own life.”

Perfect. “Dr. Goldstein, you understand that Dr. Beckert concluded that the injury could not have been sustained after the shooting because the hematoma, or bump, could not have formed after the shooting.”

“In general, that’s true. A hematoma cannot form once the heart stops beating because it cannot pump blood to the injured area. However, in circumstances such as this where there is a wound to the head, the heart may continue to beat for seconds or even minutes after the shooting. As a result, it is likely that the hematoma was caused when Mr. Holmes bumped his head on the desk after he’d shot himself.”

“No further questions, Your Honor.”

* * *

Skipper is up like a shot. “Dr. Goldstein, you didn’t examine the body, did you?”

“No.”

“And you didn’t have an opportunity to question Dr. Beckert, did you?”

“No.”

“And isn’t it likely that Dr. Beckert’s exam was more comprehensive than yours?”

I’ve warned Goldstein to deflect hypothetical questions.

He smiles. “Of course, Mr. Gates. Dr. Beckert had the body in front of him when he performed the autopsy. I’ve been working off photos and X rays.”

“Wouldn’t it make more sense in this context to rely on Dr. Beckert’s description of the wounds than yours?”

“Objection. Speculative.”

“Sustained.”

Skipper doesn’t fluster. “I’ll rephrase. Don’t you think Dr. Beckert’s descriptions of the wounds would be more reliable than yours given the fact that he was observing the body as he performed the autopsy?”

“Objection. Still speculative.”

“Sustained.”

Surely he’s going to do more than just ask Goldstein to agree with Beckert. On the other hand, if he gets into hand-to-hand combat, Goldstein will probably hold his ground. If I were in Skipper’s shoes, I wouldn’t push too hard. The jury understands Goldstein is our hired gun.

They joust for twenty minutes. They argue about the blow to the head. Goldstein doesn’t give an inch.

“Dr. Goldstein,” Skipper finally says, “are you being paid to testify today?”

“Yes I am.”

“And how much are you being paid?”

Goldstein looks at me. This is a standard question. If Skipper can’t shake him, at least he can try to show that we’ve bought his medical opinion, which, of course, we have.

Goldstein’s tone is matter-of-fact. “Seven hundred fifty dollars an hour.” He adds, sarcastically, “Plus two dollars to ride the streetcar each way.”

A smattering of laughter breaks out in the gallery.

“How many hours have you spent on this case?”

“Counting today, about fifty.”

Skipper nods melodramatically. “So, they were able to buy your medical opinion for about forty thousand dollars?”

“Objection. Argumentative.”

“Sustained.”

“No further questions, Your Honor.”

As Goldstein steps down, Joel whispers, “That went pretty well, didn’t it?”

I nod. Thanks, Mort. I hope you get good ratings tonight.

* * *

Our next witness is Dr. Greta Hudson, a dignified African-American woman who is a professor at USC. She used to be one of the top evidence techs in the FBI crime lab. We decided to go out of town for our expert on guns and fingerprints to make it tougher on Skipper’s team to learn much about her.

I start by asking her if she’s a medical doctor.

“No. I’m a Ph.D. in criminology. My area of expertise is forensics and, in particular, the gathering and analysis of physical evidence. I’ve written extensively on the subject of fingerprints. I’m also an expert on certain types of firearms, including revolvers.”

Just the way we rehearsed it. We spend a few minutes going over her credentials before Skipper stipulates to her expertise.

In response to my question concerning Bob’s position when he was shot, she explains that the trajectory of the bullet and the blood-spatter patterns on Bob’s desk indicate that he was sitting at a ninety-degree angle to his desk. He slumped to the floor, possibly banging the left side of his head against his desk.

“Dr. Hudson, were you able to determine whether Mr. Holmes or Ms. Kennedy was shot first?” If Bob died first, it doesn’t look like a suicide.

“Yes.” She explains that the tattooing at the entrance wound indicates that the barrel of the gun was placed against Bob’s head. In such circumstances, a vacuum is created when the gun is fired, which sucks a minute amount of blood into the barrel. “If the last shot fired from the gun killed Mr. Holmes, there would be traces of his blood in the barrel. If the gun was fired again to kill Ms. Kennedy, the traces of blood would have been cleared out,  and no traces of his blood would have been found.”

Here goes. “Were any traces of Mr. Holmes’s blood found in the barrel?”

“Yes. As a result, I concluded that the last shot fired from this weapon was the shot that killed Mr. Holmes.”

Good answer. I hand her the revolver. “Dr. Hudson, have you reviewed the police and lab reports concerning this weapon?”

“Yes.”

“In particular, did you review the fingerprint analysis prepared by the crime lab?”

“Yes.”

Rosie puts a diagram showing all sides of the revolver on the easel in front of the jury. I ask Dr. Hudson to give the jury a summary of the fingerprint report.

Skipper objects. “Your Honor, the report on this weapon has already been entered into evidence. Surely we don’t need Dr. Hudson to restate the entire report.”

Actually, I want her to do just that—and to put our spin on it. “Your Honor, if Mr. Gates has a problem with Dr. Hudson’s analysis, he can take it up on cross-exam.”

“Overruled.”

Dr. Hudson asks Judge Chen for permission to leave the stand. Then she uses her pointer to show Joel’s fingerprints, noting that only unidentifiable, smudged fingerprints were found on the trigger.

I hand her the gun. “Dr. Hudson, would you show us how you believe Mr. Friedman gripped this weapon?”

“Objection. Speculative.”

“Overruled.”

She holds the handle with her thumb, middle, ring and pinky, carefully avoiding contact with her index finger. She holds it up for the jury to see. “This is as close as I can get.”

“What about your index finger?”

She places her right index finger on the cylinder. “The index finger was on the cylinder.”

“Could you explain why Mr. Friedman’s index finger may have been on the cylinder?”

“Objection. Speculative.”

“Sustained.”

“I’ll rephrase. Dr. Hudson, how do you open this revolver?”

“You press against the cylinder with your finger.”

“And Mr. Friedman’s right index fingerprint was found on the cylinder, was it not?”

“Yes.”

“If he was unloading the weapon, he would have gotten his fingerprint on the cylinder, right?”

“Objection. He’s leading the witness.”

Yes, I am.

“Overruled.”

“Yes, Mr. Daley. Mr. Friedman’s fingerprint was in a place that is consistent with the act of unloading this weapon.”

Good. “One final question, Dr. Hudson. Were any identifiable fingerprints found on the trigger of the gun?”

“No.”

“So, in your opinion, is there any conclusive evidence that Mr. Friedman fired this weapon?”

“No.”

“No further questions.”

* * *

Skipper tries in vain for the next hour to trip her up. He’s in a tough spot. He can’t simply ask her if she thinks it’s possible that Joel fired the gun. She’ll say there’s no evidence that he did, or she can say that anything’s possible. Neither will help him. He tries to get her to admit that Joel could have left smudged fingerprints on the trigger when he shot the gun. She says there’s no evidence to prove it. She holds her ground.

Finally, he asks her how much she’s being paid for her testimony. This time, the bill is only twenty grand. Skipper sits down in frustration.

Chapter 46

“YOU’RE THE HEAD COMPUTER GUY, RIGHT?”

“Daley’s presentation has been a little wooden.”

— NewsCenter 4 Legal Analyst Morton Goldberg. Noon. Tuesday, April 7.

“How many more witnesses, Mr. Daley?” Judge Chen asks.

We’ve just started. “Two for sure, maybe three or four. The defense calls Eric Ross.”

Whispering in the gallery. “Who’s he?”

Skipper looks at McNulty. They pore over our witness list. Ross has been head of information systems at S&G for five years. Skipper never spoke to him. He probably never knew how to turn on his computer.

Ross is sworn in. He’s in his early thirties and uncommunicative. His eyes dart through thick wire-rimmed glasses. He’s wearing his only suit. Somebody should inform him that wide lapels are out. His mustache twitches. He doesn’t make eye contact.

“Mr. Ross, we’ve known each other for a while, right?”

“Objection. Relevance.” Skipper is buying time.

“Overruled.”

Ross nods. “We knew each other when you were at our firm.”

“Right. And what’s your job?”

“I’m the head of information systems.” His delivery is stiff.

“In layman’s terms, what does that mean?”

“I’m in charge of firm-wide information and technology systems.”

“Firm-wide information and technology systems,” I repeat. “For those of us who are technologically challenged, that means you’re the head computer guy, right?”

He’s annoyed. I’m treating him like he’s the cable guy. “I guess you could say that.”

“So you’re in charge of keeping track of all the firm’s computer stuff, right?”

“Computer stuff?”

“Yeah, you know—hardware, software—computer stuff.”

“Yeah.” His irritation is showing. Just the reaction I want. “Actually, I’m most concerned about the hardware. You know—the machines.”

He has no idea where I’m going. “Mr. Ross, as the head computer guy, you’re in charge of keeping track of the equipment, right?”

“That’s right.”

“And Simpson and Gates is a big firm, so you’ve got a big job, right?”

“Objection.” Skipper’s voice fills with sarcasm. “Your Honor, we’re happy to stipulate that S&G is a large firm and Mr. Ross has a lot of computers to keep track of. What’s the point?”

“Overruled. I presume this is leading somewhere, Mr. Daley?”

“Yes, Your Honor. Mr. Ross, how many computers do you keep track of at S&G?”

“Firm-wide?”

“Firm-wide.”

“You want an exact number?”

“Ballpark’s fine.”

He sits up a little taller. “I’d say about three thousand.”

“That’s a lot of computers, isn’t it?”

Skipper stands again. “Your Honor, please?”

She glares at me. “Mr. Daley.”

“Yes, Your Honor.” I want to play with him for another question or two. “Now, of the three thousand computers, how many have keyboards?”

He looks at me like I’m out of my mind. “Keyboards?”

“Yes, Mr. Ross. Keyboards.”

“All of them, of course.” He may as well have added “you moron.” “You can’t use them without keyboards.”

“That’s what I figured. Do you keep a list of all the keyboards?”

“Basically, they’re all the same. Some are a little newer.”

“I understand. But do you make a list of all the people who have keyboards?”

“As a matter of fact, I do. When a new person comes to the firm, they’re issued a computer and a keyboard.” He pauses. “But . . .” He stops.

“Mr. Ross? Did you want to add something?”

“Well, sometimes people switch keyboards without telling me. The action is better on the new keyboards.”

Imagine. People taking each other’s keyboards. “Is it a problem when people switch keyboards?” It’s probably a felony in his mind.

“Not really. It just makes it more difficult to keep track of everything.”

“I see. How often do you update the list?”

“Whenever a new keyboard is issued.”

“Do you take an inventory of all the keyboards from time to time?”

“Once a year, but we don’t always get around to it. Sometimes we’re too busy.”

Too busy to count keyboards? “When did you take the last inventory?”

“Right before the end of the last year.”

“That’s great, Mr. Ross.” Rosie hands me a thirty-page printout. I give copies to Skipper and Judge Chen. “Your Honor, the defense would like to have this keyboard inventory entered into evidence. This list was provided to Mr. Gates before the beginning of the trial.” Along with three dozen boxes of Simpson and Gates records that we subpoenaed, but never had any intention of using.

Skipper and McNulty look at it. It’s a list of names and serial numbers.

Judge Chen turns to Skipper. “Any objection?”

Skipper looks at McNulty and shrugs. “I don’t think so.”

I hand the list to Ross. “Can you please tell us what this printout is?”

“It’s the inventory we took in December. How did you get a copy?”

“We’re very resourceful.” It’s nice to know all the time Wendy spent poring over mountains of S&G records was not in vain. “Can you tell us what’s described in this list?”

“The first column has the serial number. The second column shows the first initial and last name of the employee to whom each keyboard is issued.”

“Including attorneys?”

“Yes.”

“Can you please look at the serial number of the keyboard opposite the name JFRIEDMAN?”

“Sure.”

“And would you please confirm that JFRIEDMAN refers to the defendant, Joel Friedman?”

“Yes. He’s the only Friedman in the firm.”

“Would you please read the serial number opposite his name?”

He studies it. “7-1-4-5-8-1-1-2-6-3.”

I walk over to a large flip chart I’ve set up just for this  exercise. “Would you mind reading that number again?”

“Sure.”

He repeats it, and I write it in big block numbers on the chart. I walk over to the evidence cart and pick up the keyboard found in Bob’s office. It’s wrapped in clear plastic. I walk back to Ross and hand it to him. “Mr. Ross, can you see through the plastic?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” I walk back to my chart. “Can you read the serial number on the back again?”

“7-1-4-5-8-1-1-2-6-3.”

I write the numbers on the flip chart directly below the identical numbers that are already there. The jury seems interested. My little grandstand play seems to be working. I pause to look at the two rows of identical numbers. “Mr. Ross, are you aware that the keyboard you are holding was taken from the office of Robert Holmes on December thirty-first?”

Skipper’s up. “Objection. The witness has no basis to answer that question.”

“Mr. Daley,” Judge Chen says, “could you rephrase?”

“Yes, Your Honor.” I turn back to Ross. “Would it surprise you to find out that the keyboard you’re holding was found in the office of Mr. Holmes on December thirty-first?”

He looks helplessly at Skipper. “Uh, no, I didn’t know that. I mean, yes, it would surprise me.”

“Yet the keyboard you’re holding is inventoried as belonging to Joel Friedman.”

“Uh. Yes it is.” His mustache twitches furiously.

“Why was Mr. Friedman’s keyboard in Mr. Holmes’s office on the morning of December thirty-first?”

“Objection. Speculative.”

“Sustained.”

“I’ll rephrase. Do you have any idea how Mr. Friedman’s keyboard got into Mr. Holmes’s office, Mr. Ross?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Did you move it?”

“No, sir. I didn’t.”

“Well it didn’t get up and walk next door, did it, Mr. Ross?”

“Objection.”

“Withdrawn. No further questions.”

* * *

Skipper confers with McNulty before he approaches Ross. He hands Ross the inventory list. “Mr. Ross, what is the date in the upper right-hand corner of the printout?”

“December first of last year.”

“Was this inventory updated after December first?”

“No, sir. We have too many other important things to keep us busy.”

I’ll bet you do. I see where Skipper’s going.

“So, Mr. Ross, this inventory means that on December first, the keyboard in your hands was sitting on Mr. Friedman’s desk, right?”

“Right.”

“And it could have been moved from Mr. Friedman’s desk to Mr. Holmes’s desk at any time after December first, right?”

I decide to slow down the train. “Objection. Speculative.”

“Sustained.”

“I’ll rephrase. Do you have any way to account for the whereabouts of this keyboard after December first?”

“No, sir.”

“No further questions.”

I ask for a brief recess.

* * *

Joel, Rosie and I caucus in the consultation room.

“We may have a problem,” I say to Joel. “There’s a thirty-day window when the keyboard could have been moved from your office to Bob’s.”

Rosie says, “I say we go with what we’ve got. The jury already knows the keyboard was moved.”

I agree with her. When we return to court, I tell Judge Chen that we will have no more questions for Ross.

“I’m inclined to adjourn for the day,” she says. “How many more witnesses do you have?”

“Two or three. We should have the case in the hands of the jury by the end of the week.”

I glance at Skipper. I’m hoping he’ll spend all night preparing to cross-examine Joel.

* * *

Pete calls from the Bahamas that night. “They’re expecting a storm in the morning,” he says.

“Any luck tracking down Trevor Smith?”

“He’s back the day after tomorrow. See if you can stall until then.”

“We will. Time’s getting short.”

Chapter 47

NICK THE DICK

“A good dick has to wear out a little shoe leather.”

— Private investigator Nicholas Hanson. San Francisco Chronicle. Wednesday, April 8.

The next morning, at precisely nine-fifteen, I stand and say in a clear voice, “Your Honor, the defense calls Nicholas Hanson.”

The doors in the back of the courtroom open. Nick the Dick—all four feet ten of him—comes strutting down the center aisle. He’s wearing a charcoal Wilkes Bashford pinstripe with a burgundy tie. A matching kerchief sits in his breast pocket. A small red rose adorns his lapel. His three-thousand-dollar toupee has been carefully groomed. He nods to the press. He looks like the president walking down the center aisle in the House of Representatives before the State of the Union.

The secret weapon just arrived.

The courtroom breaks out in a combination of laughter and chaos. Judge Chen bangs her gavel. I hear McNulty mutter, “For the love of God.”

Joel leans over and whispers, “Is this for real?”

“The fun’s about to start.”

Nick stops in front of the bench and acknowledges Judge Chen, like they’re old friends. “Hello, Your Honor. It’s been a long time.”

A very long time, indeed. They’ve never met.

She can’t help herself and she smiles. “Hello, Mr. Hanson. I believe you’re familiar with our procedures.”

“Indeed I am.” When Harriet Hill asks him if he swears to tell the truth, he replies, “Indeed I do.” He climbs into the witness box and casually adjusts the microphone. He pours himself a glass of water and beams at the jury.

I’ve been waiting for this moment for weeks. I stand at the lectern and let him bask in the spotlight. “Good morning, Mr. Hanson.”

“Good morning, Mr. Daley,” he chirps.

He’ll be eighty-three next month. I should look so good. “Would you please state your occupation for the record?”

“I’m a private eye.”

“How long have you been a private investigator?”

He closes one eye and looks up, as if he’s running an imaginary calculator in his head. “I’ve been doing this since I was seventeen. I guess that means almost sixty-six years.”

“You’ve worked in San Francisco the entire time?”

“Indeed I have. Born and raised in North Beach. I played a little ball with the DiMaggio boys when we were kids.”

The accountant looks impressed. If Joe DiMaggio was the Yankee Clipper, maybe Nick was the San Francisco Dinghy.

“Mr. Hanson, did Elizabeth Holmes retain your services in the fall of last year?”

“Indeed she did.” He talks out of the corner of his mouth, like Sean Connery. “She wanted me to put a tail on her husband. She thought he was sleeping around.”

Just the tone I was hoping for. Polished. Professional. Dignified. “Were you able to determine whether Mr. Holmes was in fact having an extramarital affair?”

He turns to the jury. “Indeed he was.”

“And how were you able to make this determination?”

“How do you think? I followed him all over town.”

The jurors are eating this up. “And you found him with another woman?”

“Indeed I did.”

“Where was that?”

“In the woman’s apartment at the Golden Gateway.”

“When was that?”

“On December first of last year.”

Skipper has seen enough. “Your Honor, I must object to this line of questioning. I fail to see the relevance.”

I hold up a hand. “Your Honor, Mr. Hanson was retained to investigate the possibility that Mr. Holmes was having an affair. The prosecution has suggested that Mr. Friedman acted in a jealous rage because Mr. Holmes had rekindled his relationship with Ms. Kennedy. We’re about to show you that Mr. Holmes had terminated his relationship with Ms. Kennedy in early December. By the end of December, there was nothing for Mr. Friedman to be jealous about.”

“Overruled.”

“Mr. Hanson,” I continue, “are you sure he was having a sexual relationship with this woman?”

“I can show you some pictures, if you’d like.”

Skipper leaps up. “Your Honor!”

Judge Chen turns to Nick. “That won’t be necessary.”

“I understand, Your Honor.”

I’m standing a respectful distance from the stand. “Mr. Hanson, were you able to identify the woman?”

He nods to the jury. “Oh, yes. It was Diana Kennedy.”

“So, on December first, you saw Mr. Holmes and Ms. Kennedy engaging in sex at Ms. Kennedy’s apartment?”

“Indeed I did.”

“And you reported this to Mrs. Holmes?”

“Yes.”

“And what did she do?”

“She paid me.”

Judge Chen beats back a smile.

“Didn’t she also confront her husband with the pictures you provided?”

“Yeah. I think she laid it on him pretty thick.”

I’ll bet. “Did Mrs. Holmes ask you to do anything else?”

“Yeah. She wanted to be sure he stayed on the wagon, if you know what I mean.”

“I take it she wanted you to keep Mr. Holmes under surveillance to be sure that he didn’t continue his relationship with Ms. Kennedy?”

“Or anybody else.” He grins. “Except for Mrs. Holmes, of course.”

“Of course. Mr. Hanson, did you continue to observe Mr. Holmes?”

“Yeah.”

“Did he ‘stay on the wagon,’ as you’ve put it?”

“Your Honor,” Skipper says.

“Sit down, Mr. Gates.”

Nick shakes his head. “No, Mr. Daley. Sadly, Mr. Holmes fell off the wagon.”

More grins in the gallery. I can see how this guy writes mysteries. “Oh, dear,” I deadpan. “When exactly did he fall off the wagon, Mr. Hanson?”

“On December twenty-eighth.”

“Would you mind telling us what happened?”

“Sure.” He clears his throat. “Mrs. Holmes told me that Mr. Holmes was going to attend a dinner at the Fairmont. On a couple of occasions, he’d met Ms. Kennedy there. He had a room in the tower where they used to go for, uh, recreation. When I heard he was going to be at the Fairmont, I got a room across the street at the Mark Hopkins. It had a direct view into the room where Mr. Holmes liked to hang out. I ordered room service, set up my telephoto camera, and waited. At eleven-forty-five, he came back with a woman.”

“You’re sure Mr. Holmes was in the room with a woman?”

“Oh yeah.”

“And you’re sure the woman was not Mrs. Holmes?”

“I’m sure about that. I was talking to Mrs. Holmes on my cell the entire time. She wasn’t happy.”

“What were Mr. Holmes and the woman doing?”

“The hokey pokey.”

“I beg your pardon?”

He looks at the judge. “Am I allowed to say this in court, Your Honor?”

“Please be discreet.”

“Of course.” He shrugs. “For lack of a better term, Mr. Daley, Mr. Holmes and the woman were engaging in oral sex.”

I try not to move a muscle until the roar dies down. Judge Chen pounds her gavel. Skipper shouts his objections. The jurors are smiling.

Judge Chen points her gavel at me. “Mr. Daley, you’ve made your point. Move along, please.”

“Yes, Your Honor.” I turn back to Nick. “Were you able to identify the woman in the room with Mr. Holmes?”

“No. It was dark. She left quickly. I ran across the street to try to identify her, but by the time I got up the elevators, she had already left.”

I have trouble imagining Nick running anywhere. “Can you describe the woman?”

“Yes. Young. Slender. Long hair.”

“Mr. Hanson, you’re aware that Diana Kennedy had short hair, aren’t you?”

“Yes. As a result, I concluded that the woman in the hotel room was not Diana Kennedy.”

“Mr. Hanson, did Mrs. Holmes ask you to follow Mr. Holmes during the entire month of December last year?”

“Yeah. I was on him like a glove.”

“And from December first through December twenty-eighth, did you ever see Mr. Holmes and Ms. Kennedy together again, other than at work?”

“No.”

“Did you take any nights off during that period?”

“No. For what Mrs. Holmes was paying me, I would have stayed up for six months straight.”

“No further questions.”

* * *

Skipper’s cross ends quickly. First, he questions Nick’s eyesight. It’s twenty-fifteen. Then he questions how Nick determined that Bob and the woman were having oral sex in a dark room. Nick says he has a powerful telephoto lens and offers to describe their every move in intimate detail. Skipper decides not to pursue it. He suggests that an eighty-two-year-old man might not be able to stay up all night watching Bob Holmes for an entire month. This irritates the retired bus driver on the jury. Nick explains that he and his three sons and four grandsons work in shifts. Unbeknownst to Bob Holmes, there was a set of Hanson eyes on him virtually every waking moment in the month of December. Another set of Hanson eyes chased Diana Kennedy. Skipper finally sits down in frustration. The jury is entranced with this diminutive PI.

Nick marches triumphantly down the aisle and out of the courtroom.

* * *

Rosie and Joel are all smiles in the consultation room during the break.

“Cherish the moment,” Rosie says. “You may never get a chance to examine him again.”

Joel shakes his head. “I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes.”

“We’ve got some good momentum now,” I say. “We need to keep pushing.”

Chapter 48

TOEING THE PARTY LINE

“Michael Daley is expected to call witnesses who were at Simpson and Gates on the night two attorneys died.”

— NewsCenter 4 Legal Analyst Morton Goldberg. Wednesday, April 8.

Jeff Tucker slithers to the stand after lunch. I stand in front of him. “You used to work at Simpson and Gates, didn’t you?”

“Yes. Currently, I am general counsel of First Bank.”

“Was your bank involved in the sale of Russo International?”

“Yes. We were one of Mr. Russo’s lenders.”

“Were you going to have a continuing relationship with Mr. Russo’s company after the closing?”

“No. Our loans were being paid off. We were delighted with the result.”

I’ll bet. “Mr. Tucker, you met with Mr. Russo at Simpson and Gates on the evening of December thirtieth, didn’t you?”

“Yes. My superiors asked me to check on the deal. I had no reason to believe it wasn’t going to close.”

“Did Mr. Russo appear upset?”

“Mr. Russo always appeared upset. He was particularly nervous that night.”

“Was he unhappy about the deal?”

“Yes. He wanted to keep his company. He thought he could manage it back to profitability.”

“So Mr. Russo didn’t want the deal to close.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Let’s not argue about semantics. Is it fair to say that Mr. Russo was unhappy about selling his father’s company, and that you had doubts as to whether the deal would close?”

“That’s fair.”

That covers it. “Mr. Tucker, did you talk to Mr. Holmes that night?”

“Briefly. He was agitated. He said he couldn’t predict what Vince would do.”

“It’s possible that Russo pulled the plug before he disappeared, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“And it’s possible that Russo killed Bob Holmes and Diana Kennedy, isn’t it?”

“Objection. Speculative. No foundation.”

“Sustained.”

“No further questions.” I’ve made my point.

* * *

The parade continues throughout the afternoon. Ed Ehrlich swears that the deal was going to close. He assures us the city was 110 percent in favor of the closing.

Dan Morris is even more reassuring. And far more polished. Morris tells us he was certain that the deal was going to close. “The only way it wouldn’t have closed was if Vince Russo changed his mind.”

“Is it possible that he did so?”

“Anything’s possible, Mr. Daley.”

The afternoon concludes with testimony from Jack Frazier, who agrees with everyone who preceded him that Russo was going to close the deal.

“Mr. Frazier,” I say, “you testified earlier that you negotiated a forty-million-dollar reduction in the purchase price at the last minute.”

“I did.”

“Wasn’t Mr. Russo quite upset about it?”

“He was quite upset. At one point, he stormed out of the conference room. He interrupted a cocktail party for Mr. Gates.”

“So it’s possible Mr. Russo may have been so upset he decided to terminate the deal?”

“I’m not sure. I mean, I guess so. But the fact is, I really don’t know. He seemed ready to close the last time I saw him.”

“What time was that?”

“Around one o’clock.”

“And what time did you leave?”

“Mr. Morris and I left together at one-thirty-five.”

“No further questions, Your Honor.”

* * *

Joel is beside himself in the consultation room at the end of the day. The trial is nearing its conclusion, and he is wearing down. “I thought the idea was to make them believe it was a suicide,” he says. “If that doesn’t work, I thought we were going to blame Russo.”

I’m exhausted. My patience is short. “We have to do everything indirectly. We can ask these witnesses to speculate about what happened. The other side has the right to object. We can’t just ask them if they think Bob committed suicide. We have to give them a bunch of reasons why Bob would have been suicidal. We’ve shown the jury that Bob had a lot on his mind: a divorce, a deal that was imploding, a girlfriend who was leaving him and a bonus that he wasn’t going to get. That’s as far as we can go.”

Rosie interjects in a calmer tone, “We have the same problem with Russo. Nobody saw him do anything. His fingerprints weren’t on the gun. There’s no evidence connecting him to the scene. All we can do is show he had opportunity and perhaps a lot of motive. That may be enough to get us to reasonable doubt and get an acquittal.”

Joel stares at the gray steel table. “That’s all we’re trying to do at this point, isn’t it? We’re trying to punch holes in their case to generate enough doubt in enough members of the jury to get me off.”

“Yes.”

“I want to testify. I want to set the record straight.”

“Let’s see how things go in the next few days. We don’t have to make a decision until we’ve finished with the other witnesses.”

* * *

Rosie and I sit in her office at eight o’clock that night. She’s finishing her cashew chicken. I’m drinking a Diet Dr Pepper. I haven’t been hungry for days.

“You think Joel is starting to crack?” she asks.

“Maybe. Yeah. Probably.” Time for a reality check. “You think we’ve got enough for reasonable doubt?”

“Hard to say. If you’re on the jury, you’re looking at an adulterer who lied about his relationship with one of the victims. They’ve heard enough to conclude that she dumped him. They know he was angry at Bob. They may even decide that Bob stole his girlfriend. His fingerprints were on the murder weapon and the keyboard. He left a threatening voicemail for Bob, and he made a threatening phone call to Diana. He had a fight with her at Harrington’s. He may have even lured her back to the firm. All we’ve shown so far is that they couldn’t positively identify his fingerprint on the trigger. And that his keyboard somehow walked from his office to Bob’s.”

“Our experts were good. They made a decent case for the suicide theory.”

“True, but they were also expensive hired guns who we paid to say what we wanted them to say. The jury will discount their testimony.”

She’s right, of course.

The phone rings. Rosie puts Wendy on the speaker.

“It’s pouring in Nassau,” she says.

“Have you been able to talk to Trevor Smith?”

“Delayed again. He won’t be back until Sunday. We’ll be waiting for him.” She pauses. “Have you put Chuckles on the stand yet?”

“Not yet. Why?”

“I was looking through the correspondence I got from Smith’s secretary. And I went down to the office of public records. I’m going to e-mail you some stuff.”

A few minutes later, I’m putting on my jacket.

“You going home?” Rosie asks.

“Not yet. I’m going to play a hunch.”

Chapter 49

“IT JUST SHOWS WHAT A LITTLE PLANNING CAN DO”

“The Guilford Insurance Agency. Life. Health. Peace of Mind.”

—Brochure for the Guilford Insurance Agency.

At nine o’clock the same evening, I’m meeting with Perry Guilford, S&G’s insurance agent. His office is in a high-rise on Market near Van Ness, a few blocks from City Hall. My walk through the homeless encampment on the Civic Center Plaza was treacherous. The streets are mean in this part of town, especially after dark.

Guilford’s reception area has piles of brochures on variable annuities. They promise life, health and peace of mind.

“Mr. Guilford, I’m Mike Daley.”

“Perry,” he rasps. His age and waistline are right around fifty-five years and inches, respectively. His jowls measure right up there with Art Patton’s, who is, coincidentally, his ex-brother-in-law from Guilford’s first marriage. His toupee is flattering in a pathetic sort of way.

“Fair enough, Perry. It’s Mike. And I appreciate your taking the time to see me.”

His jowls jiggle as he laughs. “I’m sorry I’ve been hard to get hold of. Brent Hutchinson said you’d be calling. Anything I can do to help a member of the firm. Anything.” He pats his ample gut and takes a gulp of Coke Classic. My arteries are hardening just looking at this guy.

“Actually, Perry, I left the firm at the end of last year and started my own shop. I was hoping you could help me get my insurance situation squared away.”

He’s pleased. Fresh meat. “Great, Mike. Anything I can do to help you. You know I handle all the insurance for S&G. It’s my biggest account. I handle a couple of the other big law firms in town, too. I’m sure I can take care of you.”

“Let me tell you what I have in mind.” I explain that I’ve purchased malpractice insurance through the state bar. He says he might be able to get me a better deal. I tell him about Grace. He describes various whole life policies. I haven’t a clue what he’s talking about. I figure if I let him talk, he may wear himself out.

At the one-hour mark, he isn’t slowing down. We’re on our third diagram. Insurance agents can’t sell anything without drawing pictures. The last one looks like a basketball court, with a half-court line and two free-throw lines. I’m lost when we start on variable annuities.

An hour and fifteen minutes into this torture, I ask him to prepare a written estimate of everything we’ve talked about. After he reminds me for the sixth time that he isn’t in insurance just for the money, I decide it’s time to see if I can get any useful information.

“Helluva thing over at the Simpson firm, eh, Perry?” I say.

“Unbelievable, Mike. Helluva thing. Were you there that night?”

“Yeah. Helluva thing.”

“You know, they’d really be in the soup if they hadn’t planned ahead.” He shuffles his papers. “It’s a good thing they had life insurance on Bob Holmes.”

“It just shows what a little planning can do, right, Perry?”

“Right. That’s why you need to plan now, Mike. You want to take care of little Mary if anything ever happens to you.”

“Grace.”

“Right. Grace. Five years old.”

Close enough. “Did you handle Bob’s life insurance?”

“Yeah. And between us girls, it’s a damn good thing. I talked him into buying some extra coverage. Didn’t cost much. Got his wife a five-million term policy, and each of the kids got a million.” He frowns. “I was talking to Art about it. Helluva thing.”

“Yeah. And it was a damn good thing you got the firm to take down those key-man life insurance policies. Hell, without those, they’d really be in the soup.”

“No kidding. Art was telling me you guys were going to get a fat fee for Vince Russo’s deal. Now, he says you guys may not get anything. Helluva thing.”

“Looks that way, Perry. Maybe I should take down some more life insurance. How much was the firm carrying on Bob?”

“They were carrying five million until December. Lucky for them, I talked them into taking down bigger term policies on some of the heavy hitters right before all the excitement. The policy on Bob went effective only a couple weeks before the end of the year. Hutch is going to look like a hero.”

Hello? “Yeah, Perry. Sure is a good thing they got that big policy in place when they did. Do you recall how much the policy was for?”

He laughs. “Hell, you should know. The damn thing’s worth twenty fucking million, Mike. Biggest policy I’ve ever sold. Art says it’s going to save his ass.”

Twenty million? “Perry, another client of mine was asking about key-man insurance. Do you have a copy of the key man policy on Bob?”

“If my secretary were here, I’d be able to pull it up for you. I’m lost without her.”

“Maybe you can messenger it to me in the morning? The client’s in sort of a hurry.”

Big smile. “Sure, Mike. First thing.”

I give him my business card. “Perry, how soon can you get those quotes to me?”

“End of the week sound all right?”

“Perfect.”

* * *

“There was a twenty-million-dollar life insurance policy on Bob?” Rosie says.

There’s something wildly erotic about talking life insurance with a naked woman. I’ve stopped by her house on my way home. Grace is asleep. Dave Brubeck’s on the stereo. She rubs my back with her thin hands.

“Yeah. Twenty million. It all goes to the firm.” I turn over and kiss her ear. “Does any of this strike you as a little odd?”

“How’s that?”

“I’m not sure. Something just doesn’t feel right.”

She runs her fingers through my hair. “Maybe this will feel better.”

Chapter 50

“EXACTLY WHAT DOES THE

ADMINISTRATIVE PARTNER DO?”

“Friedman Defense Grasping at Straws.”

— San Francisco Legal Journal. Thursday, April 9.

The following morning, a subdued Chuckles sits uncomfortably on the witness stand, gulping water.

“Exactly what does the administrative partner do at a large law firm?” I ask him.

He responds with a sour look. “The administrative partner handles all aspects of day-to-day operations.” He gestures with his reading glasses. “Finances. Personnel. Facilities. Computers.”

“Sort of the glue that holds the firm together as an institution?”

He almost smiles. “Why, yes.”

“How many years have you been administrative partner?”

His voice fills with pride. “Eleven. I sit on the executive committee, too.”

I glance at the accountant, who nods with admiration. “Could you please tell us about the current financial situation at the firm?”

“Objection,” Skipper sings out. “Relevance.”

“Overruled.”

“Your Honor,” Chuckles pleads, “this information is highly confidential.”

“I don’t expect you to reveal how much money each of your partners makes. Answer the question, Mr. Stern.”

“We have filed for bankruptcy protection. We are in the process of reorganizing our finances and negotiating with our creditors.”

“Thank you, Mr. Stern,” I say. I leave out, “You condescending ass.” “Mr. Stern, you were at the Simpson and Gates offices on the night of December thirtieth, weren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“What time did you go home?”

“Two a.m.”

“When was the last time you saw Mr. Holmes?”

“About twelve-thirty.”

“Did you see Mr. Friedman together with Mr. Holmes or Ms. Kennedy after that time?”

“No.”

I bore in. “Did you see anyone else there that night?” Let’s see who he’s willing to implicate.

He looks at the clock. Then he rattles off the names of Vince Russo, Art Patton, Ed Ehrlich, Dan Morris, Jack Frazier and Martin Glass. “Of course, I don’t believe any of them had anything to do with the tragedy.”

Of course not. “Mr. Stern, did you see Mr. Gates at the office that night?”

His eyes dart toward Skipper. “Why, yes. It was his last day at the firm. We had a reception for him.”

“But did you see him later that evening?”

He looks helplessly at Skipper. “I saw Mr. Gates at about one in the morning. He was in our suite for a few minutes.”

I walk over to the evidence cart and pick up a copy of Bob’s will, which I hand to Chuckles. “Do you recognize this document?”

“Yes. It’s the will of Mr. Holmes. I prepared it. It is a matter of public record.”

“Would you mind turning to page thirty-four?”

He puts on the reading glasses. He flips to the correct page.

“Would you please tell us the names of the beneficiaries?”

He glares at me over the top of the reading glasses. “I’ll have to refresh my memory.”

He could recite all eighty-nine pages by heart. “Take your time.”

He pores over the will, pausing briefly to lick his index finger to turn the pages. Finally, he says a third goes to Beth, a third to the kids and a third to the International Charitable Trust. He takes off his glasses.

“Mr. Stern, you’re aware that Mr. Holmes was served with divorce papers on December thirtieth.”

“Yes.”

“Did Mr. Holmes ever ask you to prepare an amendment to this will to change the beneficiaries?”

“No.”

Rosie hands me three copies of a document. I hand one to Skipper, one to the judge and one to Stern. “Your Honor, we’d like to introduce this document into evidence.”

“Any objections, Mr. Gates?”

He’s speed-reading. “I don’t think so, Your Honor.”

I turn back to Stern. “Do you recognize this document, Mr. Stem?”

“Yes.” He takes a drink of water. “It’s a draft of an amendment to the will.”

“Really? Did you prepare this amendment?”

“No. One of my associates prepared it.”

“At your instruction?”

“Yes.”

“Which associate prepared this document?”

“I believe it was Ms. Wendy Hogan.”

“I see.” You never know what may turn up in somebody’s files after they leave the firm. “Could you please tell us what this amendment purports to change?”

“The beneficiaries.”

“Really? When was this amendment prepared, Mr. Stern?”

“In December of last year, I believe.”

“Why did Mr. Holmes asked you to prepare this amendment?”

“Presumably because he intended to change the beneficiaries.”

“Did he identify the new beneficiaries?”

“No.”

“Any hints?”

“Objection. Asked and answered.”

“Sustained.”

“Did he tell you which of the beneficiaries were going to be replaced?”

“Yes. His wife.”

“If he proceeded in the manner that you’ve just suggested, Mrs. Holmes stood to lose a substantial sum of money on the death of Mr. Holmes.”

“Yes, she did.”

I shift focus. “Could you please tell us what you know about the International Charitable Trust, Mr. Stem?”

“It’s a charity organized in the Bahamas by Mr. Holmes.”

“It does good things for mankind?”

“Yes.”

“What sorts of good things?”

“The annual income of the trust is donated to various charitable causes. Schools, day-care centers, community centers, that sort of thing.”

Hookers, drug dealers, that sort of thing, too. “And the charities that receive funding every year are called the income beneficiaries, right?”

“Yes.”

“Will the income beneficiaries also divide the trust assets now that Mr. Holmes has died?”

“No. The remaining assets, or corpus, of the trust are divided among various designated individuals called the remaindermen.”

“Could you tell us which charities received the most money last year?”

“I don’t recall.”

“Schools? Day-care centers? Community centers?”

“I’m not sure. I don’t recall the names of the income beneficiaries. The trustee would know.”

“Could you tell us the names of the remaindermen?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know. That information was confidential. The trustee in the Bahamas was the only person who knew their names.”

Sure. “Mr. Stern, did you assist in setting up the trust?”

“Yes.”

“Yet you don’t know the names of the income beneficiaries or the remaindermen?”

“That’s true.”

That’s bullshit. “Why did you choose to set up the trust in the Bahamas?”

“Mr. Holmes enjoyed vacationing there. He became involved in various causes. Ultimately, he wanted to retire there. And, to be perfectly honest, the tax laws were favorable.”

The accountant perks up. “When you set up the trust, you investigated the income beneficiaries very carefully, right?”

“Actually, the trust administrator in the Bahamas handled it. I’m not involved in the day-to-day management.”

“I see.” He’s tap-dancing around my questions. Rosie hands me another document with a fancy seal of the Commonwealth of the Bahamas. I hand copies to Skipper, the judge and Stern. I ask that it be introduced into evidence. Skipper doesn’t object. “Mr. Stern, do you recognize this document?”

“It’s the charter for the trust. It sets forth the rules of governance. It names First Bank Bahamas as the sole trustee.”

“It also names the income beneficiaries and the remaindermen doesn’t it?” I’m setting him up. I know the names of the income beneficiaries and the remaindermen are set forth in a confidential addendum which I’ve not yet seen.

“Well, no. That information is in a separate document. It’s confidential.”

“And do you now recall the names of the income beneficiaries and the remaindermen?”

“As I said before, I don’t know.”

Sure. “There are two individuals who serve as the so-called trust protectors, aren’t there?”

“Yes. They have the authority to take action on behalf of the trust and change the trustee. The trust protectors are Mr. Holmes and myself.”

Now, we’re getting somewhere. “As trust protector, I presume you would know the names of the income beneficiaries and the remaindermen of the trust?”

“I’m afraid not, Mr. Daley. As I said, that information is in a separate document. Under the laws of the Bahamas, it’s confidential.”

You’re also lying. “You mean to tell us the trust protector doesn’t know who gets the money when Mr. Holmes dies?”

“That’s true. It’s all handled in the Bahamas.”

“So even though you are the attorney who set this thing up, you don’t know who gets the money?”

“Objection. Asked and answered.”

“Sustained.”

I glare at Stern. “Do you get a fee for acting as trust protector, Mr. Stern?”

“Yes.”

“How much?”

“Objection. Relevance.”

I turn to the judge. “It is relevant, Your Honor. Unless Mr. Stern wants to tell us that he doesn’t know how big his fee is, either.”

“That’s enough, Mr. Daley. The objection is overruled. Answer the question, Mr. Stern.”

“It depends on the value of the assets in the trust at any given time.”

I arch an eyebrow. “You get a percentage of the value of the assets?”

“Yes.”

“What percent?”

“Your Honor,” he implores. “This is highly confidential.”

“Answer the question, Mr. Stern, or I’ll hold you in contempt.”

“Five percent,” he mutters.

“Mr. Stern, how much was your fee last year?”

He looks at the judge. She stares him down. “About four hundred fifty thousand dollars.”

“Four hundred fifty thousand,” I repeat. “If my high school arithmetic is correct, this means the trust had about ten million dollars’ worth of assets. Is that about right, Mr. Stern?”

“That’s about right.”

“Your Honor,” Skipper says, “I fail to see the relevance.”

“Mr. Daley, are we going to see a point anytime soon?”

“Yes.” Here goes. “Mr. Stern, isn’t it a fact Mr. Holmes was unhappy about your fee?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr. Daley.”

“Mr. Holmes thought your fee was excessive.”

“No, he didn’t.”

I turn to Rosie, who hands me three copies of a letter. I hand one copy to the judge, one to Skipper and the other to Stern. I introduce it into evidence. “Do you recognize this document, Mr. Stern?”

“I don’t recall.”

“Let me refresh your memory. It’s a letter dated September third of last year addressed to a Mr. Trevor Smith at First Bank in the Bahamas. You were copied.”

He shrugs.

“Would you please read the sentence I’ve highlighted, Mr. Stern?”

On go the reading glasses. “ ‘I believe that the fees paid to the trust protector are extravagantly high. I would like to terminate the services of Mr. Stern at the end of this year.’ ”

“Who signed the letter?”

He takes off the glasses. “Mr. Holmes.”

“Mr. Holmes wanted to fire you.”

He clears his throat. “From time to time, he expressed some reservations about the amount of my fee. I don’t believe he intended to implement the terms of this letter.”

“What happens to your fee now?”

“It is paid until the trust is liquidated.”

“When will that happen?”

“It will probably take two or three years.”

“So, the death of Mr. Holmes will result in your receiving an additional million or million and a half dollars. Isn’t that right, Mr. Stern?”

“I have no choice, Mr. Daley. I have a contractual obligation to act as trust protector. When the trust was put in place, my fees were tiny. Over the years, the assets have grown substantially. It’s not my fault that it turned into a very favorable contract for me.”

“And if Mr. Holmes had lived, he would have terminated your deal, and you would have lost a million and a half dollars.”

“As I said, Mr. Daley, I don’t believe he intended to terminate my services.”

“That’s terribly convenient, isn’t it, Mr. Stern?”

“Objection.”

“Sustained.”

Rosie hands me a legal-size document. I hand it to Chuckles. “Mr. Stern, you’re familiar with this life insurance policy, aren’t you?”

He puts on his reading glasses. “Yes.”

“It’s called a key-man life insurance policy, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“It was taken out by Simpson and Gates, wasn’t it? And the firm paid the premiums.”

“Yes. That’s how key-man insurance works. A business buys life insurance on important members of the management. In our case, we took down this policy on the life of Bob Holmes. We had similar policies for all of our partners.”

“And would you mind telling us how much this policy was worth to the firm?” I’ve set the trap. At least I hope so.

He looks at Skipper. “Two and a half million dollars.”

I pause. “Mr. Stern,” I say, “I believe you’ve misread the policy value. Would you mind looking at the policy again?”

He flips open the policy. He adjusts his reading glasses. He stops cold. He takes off the reading glasses and looks at me.

“Mr. Stern? Would you mind telling us how much the policy was worth?”

“Twenty million,” he whispers.

“Twenty million,” I repeat. “That’s even more money than Bob Holmes had in that hokey trust you set up for him in the Bahamas.”

“Objection.”

“Sustained. Let’s stop the editorial comments, Mr. Daley.”

I don’t stop. “Mr. Stern, if the firm had a twenty-million-dollar policy on Mr. Holmes, how come it filed for bankruptcy?”

“The insurance company hasn’t paid us yet. These things take time, Mr. Daley.”

“Then the firm’s financial difficulties will be resolved?”

“We think so, Mr. Daley.”

“When was this policy issued?”

He puts on his reading glasses and glances at the cover page. “December fifteenth of last year.”

“Mr. Stern, you’ve read this policy carefully, haven’t you? You were a partner in a big law firm, after all.”

There’s only one possible answer. “Yes, Mr. Daley.”

“Would you please turn to page six?”

He shuffles through the pages. “Yes, Mr. Daley.”

“Would you please read the heading on page six?”

“ ‘General Provisions.’ ”

I face the jury. Without looking at Stern, I say, “Would you please read the title of the fifth paragraph in the right column?”

“ ‘Ownership and Control.’ ”

“No, Mr. Stern. The following paragraph. It’s entitled ‘Suicide Exclusion.’ ”

His voice is barely a whisper. “ ‘If the Insured, whether sane or insane, dies by suicide within two years from the issue date, we will pay no more under this contract than the sum of the premiums paid, minus any contract debt and minus any partial withdrawals.’ ”

Well-done. I finally turn to face Chuckles. “Mr. Stern, that section is what is customarily known as a suicide clause, isn’t it?”

“Objection. Foundation. Mr. Stern isn’t qualified as an expert on insurance.”

“Overruled.”

“It’s a suicide clause,” Stern says.

“In layman’s terms, what does it mean?”

“If the insured commits suicide within the first two years, the insurer doesn’t have to pay.”

“And, if it was determined that Mr. Holmes committed suicide, what would it mean for the firm?”

“We wouldn’t get the twenty million dollars.”

“Just so we’re all perfectly clear on this, Mr. Stern, if the death of Mr. Holmes is determined to be a suicide, you guys will lose the twenty-million-dollar insurance payment.”

“That’s right.” His lips barely move.

“You might say the firm has twenty million reasons to hope the death of Mr. Holmes is not declared a suicide.”

“Objection.”

“Sustained.”

“No further questions.” Thanks, Perry. I’ll buy a million bucks of life insurance from you.

* * *

Skipper is up immediately. “Mr. Stern, we saw each other briefly at the Simpson and Gates office at one o’clock in the morning on December thirty-first, didn’t we?”

“Yes.”

“And we had a brief conversation, didn’t we?”

“Yes.”

“And I told you that I had returned to the office to pick up my briefcase, right?”

I go for the quick tweak. “Objection, Your Honor. Hearsay. Mr. Stern cannot testify as to what Mr. Gates said. If Mr. Gates wants to testify about what he said, we’re perfectly happy to permit him to do so.”

The judge can’t resist a grin. “Sustained.”

Skipper gathers himself. “Mr. Stern, did you see me leaving the office with my briefcase?”

“Yes.”

“Did I say anything to you?”

“Objection, Your Honor. Hearsay.”

“Sustained.”

Skipper frowns. “Mr. Stern, do you have any reason to believe that I was in the office for any purpose other than to collect my briefcase?”

“Objection. Speculative.”

“Sustained.”

Skipper spends five minutes asking Chuckles perfunctory questions about the insurance policy and the firm’s financial condition. Chuckles swears that the firm is in solid financial shape, and doesn’t need the proceeds from the policy to survive. He’s unconvincing. The damage is already done.

* * *

We’re back in my office at eight o’clock the same night. “You don’t think it was Stern, do you?” Rosie asks.

“He had about a million of his own reasons to do it. And the firm had twenty million reasons. He sounded like a lying ass to the jury.”

The phone rings. It’s Pete. “I have somebody who wants to talk to you,” he says.

I punch the speaker button so Rosie can hear. A nasal male voice shrieks, “Who the hell is this?”

“Who the hell is this?”

“Vince Russo.”

Chapter 51

“HE CAME TO VISIT HIS MONEY”

“The bank secrecy laws of the Bahamas are among the finest in the world.”

— First Bank brochure.

Wendy’s voice is triumphant. “You’ll never guess who we ran into at the bank today.”

I play along. “Elvis Presley?”

“Close. We found Vince at Trevor Smith’s office. He came to visit his money. Pete and I followed him back to his hotel. He’s got a little cottage at the Graycliff. It’s very nice.”

Indeed. The finest hotel in Nassau.

“Anyway,” she continues, “it’s a little tough finding a room down here, so Pete and I are bunking with Vince. He was just telling us about his trip.”

Dear God. “Wendy, listen to me. Don’t hurt him. What you’re doing may be somewhat illegal.”

“Don’t worry. We ordered room service. The foie gras is delightful. Pete takes off the handcuffs when he has to eat or pee. We offered to call the cops. Seems Vince is a little nervous about that. It kind of fouls up the part of his story where he wanted everyone to think he committed suicide.”

Either we’ve just got a huge break or we’re all going to jail. “You guys going to be there for a while?”

“Of course. We just ordered champagne.” I hear a cork pop. “Mike, are you doing anything this weekend?”

“I think I may need to take a little trip. The stress is getting to me.”

“Anyplace in particular?”

“I understand the Bahamas are nice this time of year.”

“Our cottage is called Yellow Bird. Tell the concierge you’re with Mr. Kramer’s party.”

I hang up. I look at Rosie. “I need you to go to Judge Chen tomorrow and tell her I was called out of town on an emergency. See if you can get her to put things off until Monday.”

“What if she asks for details?”

“Tell her we found Russo.”

* * *

At nine o’clock that night I’m on the phone. “Roosevelt, I need your help.”

“I’m not supposed to be talking to you, Mike.”

“Duly noted.”

He chuckles. “What do you need?”

“Got any plans for the weekend?”

“The usual.”

“How would you feel about an all-expense-paid trip to the Bahamas?”

“Sounds pretty good to me.”

Chapter 52

“TECHNICALLY, YOU'RE DEAD”

“With long beaches, friendly people and perfect weather, the Bahamas have been a tourist mecca for over two hundred years.”

— Bahamas travel brochure.

Fourteen hours later, at two in the afternoon Bahamas time, Roosevelt and I get out of a cab in front of the Graycliff, the dignified three-story Georgian mansion across the street from the Government House in Nassau. No matter where I go, it seems to be raining. Our connecting flights through Chicago and Miami were late, and we flew through a hailstorm to Nassau. I’m exhausted, but Roosevelt’s stamina is remarkable.

The Graycliff was built as a private residence about two hundred years ago. With only nine guest rooms in the main house and four suites by the pool, it’s a slice of nirvana in the middle of town. Although it’s been a long time since the Beatles stayed here, it’s still very popular among rock stars, businessmen and politicians.

When we walk into the lobby, our disheveled appearance attracts the attention of the concierge. “May I help you, gentlemen?” He sounds like Sir John Gielgud and bears a striking resemblance to John Cleese.

I nod. “Yes, please. We’re here for an important meeting with Mr. Rus—Mr. Kramer. I believe he’s in Yellow Bird.”

He eyes us suspiciously. “We’ve been instructed not to disturb Mr. Kramer and his colleagues.”

“They’re expecting us. If you’ll explain to his assistant that Mr. Daley and Mr. Johnson from the San Francisco office have arrived, I’m sure they’ll have you show us to his suite.”

“One moment, please.” He picks up the antique phone. He nods several times. I hope he’s talking to Wendy or Pete and not to the local police. “Right this way, please.”

As we walk through the garden, I decide to speak the local language—money. “I trust you have access to a local banker. It may be necessary to set up an account here so we can wire some money to various locations around the world.”

Roosevelt gives me the eye. I’m laying it on pretty thick.

The concierge looks straight ahead. “It can be arranged, sir.” He pronounces the word “sir” as “suh.”

“I trust you have Internet access?”

“Of course, sir.”

“Excellent. What’s your name?”

“Burton, sir. Duncan Burton.”

Perfect. “Thank you for your assistance, Duncan.”

“Of course, sir.”

* * *

The Yellow Bird cottage is next to the pool where Winston Churchill once swam. The drapes are drawn as Duncan leads us to the door.

Duncan asks, “Will you be staying with us tonight, sir?”

“I’m afraid not. We’ll be taking the red-eye.”

“Very good, sir.”

I love this guy. “Duncan, we’ll be in negotiations all day. Would you please tell the hotel staff that we’re not to be disturbed?”

“Of course, sir.”

“Thank you.” I slip him three crisp hundred-dollar bills. “Remember, Duncan. We mustn’t be disturbed.”

He almost smiles. “Please let me know if there is anything we can do to assist you, sir.”

I glance around the garden and knock on the door. Pete opens it immediately.

“Come in,” he whispers. He darts a quick look around the pool area before he shuts the door and fastens the bolt. “Anybody follow you?”

Roosevelt shakes his head. “No, Pete. This isn’t a James Bond movie.”

He grins sheepishly. “I’m out of my element.”

You could have fooled me.

The sitting room in the Yellow Bird is furnished with period pieces from the Georgian era. A light blue sofa sits next to a tall chair with a paisley pattern. A ceiling fan circulates warm air. The window air conditioner detracts only slightly from the ambiance. A TV and an Internet connection are the only signs of the contemporary world. Trays containing the remains of dinner and breakfast sit by the door. An empty champagne bottle rests on the antique side table.

Wendy walks in from bedroom and smiles. “What took you so long?”

“We ran into a small hurricane. Where’s our guest of honor?”

“Watching TV. He didn’t want to miss his cartoons.”

“Is he pissed off?”

“You could say that.”

“How did you find him?”

“We got lucky. We saw him coming out of First Bank. We followed him here.”

“How did you get in?”

Pete grins. “You don’t want to know.”

“Has he said much?”

“Nothing you would repeat to Grace. He said he’s going to sue us for everything we’re worth. Fortunately, that isn’t a lot.”

Roosevelt turns serious. “You guys could be arrested for kidnapping.”

Pete holds up a palm. “I don’t think he’s going to complain. We offered to let him use the phone. He refused. He’s gone to a lot of trouble to convince everybody that he’s dead. He’d have to call the cops to bring charges.” Pete lowers his voice. “Seems a couple of his investors from the Middle East are unhappy about some money they lost on one of his deals. He thinks his life may be in danger.”

“You didn’t hurt him, did you?” I say.

“No,” Pete says. “We had a little shoving match. I pushed him. Wendy kneed him in the balls. Lifted him off the floor. He was doubled over for a couple of minutes.”

“He tried to grab me,” Wendy says, “so I drilled him.”

Fair enough. “Let’s go see our little friend.”

We walk into the bedroom. The TV is tuned to CNN. The unshaven Russo is dressed in khaki pants and a maroon polo shirt. He’s sitting at a table eating a muffin and drinking coffee. I notice he’s using only his right hand. Then I see his left hand is handcuffed to the table.

“Mr. Russo, my name is Michael Daley. I’m Joel Friedman’s attorney.”

“I know.”

“This is Inspector Roosevelt Johnson of the San Francisco Police Department. He’s the lead investigator in the case involving the deaths of Robert Holmes and Diana Kennedy.”

“Are you the one who sent this goon to kidnap me?”

“He’s a licensed private investigator. He’s also my brother. You’re lucky that he found you before somebody else did. A bunch of bankers are looking for you. So are your investors and a couple of bounty hunters.” Probably a few ex-wives, too.

He pushes the muffin away. “I have nothing to say to you.” He strains to fold his arms before he realizes that he can’t.

I hand him a legal document. “This is a subpoena that requires you to appear at Mr. Friedman’s trial.” Roosevelt and I got Judge Chen to issue it on our way to the airport. It’s also a bluff. A California subpoena isn’t binding in the Bahamas. “I may have to get some dispensation from the judge to permit you to testify.”

“Why is that?”

“Technically, you’re dead. But I think I can persuade the judge to the contrary.”

“And if I don’t cooperate?”

Pete hands him a card with English writing on one side and Arabic writing on the other. “This gentleman is looking for you. He’s asked us to call if we find you.”

“Read my lips. Fuck you.”

“Mr. Russo,” Roosevelt says, “I’ve come to ask you to voluntarily return to San Francisco so we can sort this out.”

“Why the hell would I do that?”

“If you have nothing to hide, you shouldn’t have any problem returning with us.” He eyes him closely. “We’d be happy to buy you a ticket. You don’t have anything to hide, do you, Mr. Russo?”

“Of course not.”

“Good. Now, we can do this the easy way or the hard way. The easy way means you’ll get on a plane with us and we’ll go back to San Francisco together.”

“And the hard way?”

“I’ll call the local police. They’ll want to know why a dead man checked into this lovely hotel under an assumed name. I’ll ask them to detain you. I’ll swear out a complaint that you’re a flight risk. We’ll begin extradition proceedings. You’ll be spending a fairly long time in jail here in Nassau.”

“Are you charging me with something?”

“Not yet. But you’re a suspect. Which reminds me,” he adds, “this would be a good time to read you your rights.” He clears his throat and recites the Miranda warnings “Mr. Russo, we’re prepared to call your lawyer right now. He can meet us at the airport.”

Russo glares at Roosevelt. “I didn’t do anything. It isn’t a crime to go on a vacation.”

“All the more reason for you to cooperate.”

“I want to talk to my lawyer.”

Wendy takes out her cell. “Who do you want me to call?”

“Arthur Patton.”

* * *

Patton bellows at me through Wendy’s cell phone. “Who the hell do you think you are? You can’t detain him. It’s kidnapping.”

“He’s here voluntarily,” I say. “I can call the local cops.”

“Let me talk to Johnson.”

I hand the phone to Roosevelt. He listens for a moment. He says “Uh-huh” a few times. Then he says, emphatically, “No deal. Look, if you’re going to be an ass, we’ll call the local cops. I’m sure they’d be delighted to make up a bed for Mr. Russo for the next six months while you argue about his extradition.” He winks at me. “By the way, we’ve made sure all his assets down here are frozen. I think all his assets up your way are already frozen, so you may be doing his legal work pro bono.” He listens for a minute. “Uh-huh. Okay.” He has Pete unshackle Russo. He hands the phone to Russo and turns to me. “I think reason is about to prevail.”

I call the concierge. “Duncan, it’s Mr. Daley. I need you to make some travel arrangements for us.

“Very well, sir.”

* * *

Our plane leaves Nassau at six o’clock Friday night. We connect through Chicago. When we get off the plane at O’Hare, we’re met by three cops. At first, I think they’re going to arrest Russo. Or me.

Then I realize Roosevelt has called in a favor from a friend in Chicago PD. He doesn’t want Russo to make a break through the mobs at O’Hare. With the help of Chicago’s finest, we negotiate the United terminal. Our flight to San Francisco is delayed two hours.

* * *

Art Patton and three San Francisco police officers meet us at the gate at SFO. Art isn’t taking any chances. He’s brought Rita Roberts with him. As soon as we’re off the plane, he turns to Rita’s camera and demands that we release Russo.

Roosevelt glares at him. “Mr. Russo accompanied us voluntarily from the Bahamas.”

“Then he’s free to go?”

“After he’s answered some questions at headquarters.”

“I’m instructing him not to answer any questions.”

“Fine. You can talk to him down at the Hall.”

* * *

I haven’t ridden in a paddy wagon in years. My head is throbbing as Roosevelt, Russo, Patton and I sit in silence in the back of a van, with two other officers.

Patton talks to Roosevelt. “Vince doesn’t have to talk to you.”

Roosevelt yawns. “I know. But I’m sure he has nothing to hide.”

“You got that right,” Russo snaps.

Patton holds up his hands. “Vince, we’ll talk about this downtown. I don’t want you to say anything right now.”

Russo pouts. “Understood.”

* * *

“Are you going to charge Russo?” I ask Skipper.

“With what? It isn’t a crime to park at the Golden Gate Bridge. Last time I looked, it’s legal to travel to the Bahamas.”

We’re sitting in a consultation room down the corridor from where Patton has been meeting with Russo for the last hour. Roosevelt drinks coffee. McNulty studies the sports section in the Chronicle.

“How about murder?” I say.

Roosevelt looks up. “How about murder, Skipper?” he repeats.

“There’s no evidence pointing toward Russo.”

“Yes, there is,” I say. “He was at the scene. He faked his own suicide. He fled the country. He was traveling under an alias. What else do you want?”

“What’s the motive?”

“He didn’t want the deal to close. He had to create a diversion to get out of the country.”

Skipper is skeptical. “If he didn’t want to close, he could have just said so. He didn’t have to kill two people. Besides, there isn’t a single shred of evidence he pulled the trigger. We can put him at the scene, but we can’t tie him to the murder weapon.”

That much is true. There isn’t any physical evidence to convict Russo. I turn to Roosevelt. “I need him to testify. You can’t let him leave the country again. I’ll put him on the stand on Monday.”

“He isn’t going anywhere.”

There’s a knock on the door. A uniformed deputy reports that Patton and Russo want to talk to Roosevelt.

“Mike,” Roosevelt says, “I have to ask you to wait here.”

“I understand.”

* * *

I sit in the cramped consultation room by myself in the middle of the night. The Hall has an eerie, deafening quiet at this hour. My body is overwhelmed by fatigue and jet lag. I sit in never-never land—not quite asleep, but certainly not awake.

My mind starts playing tricks on me. I see Grace’s face. I’m at the Hall of Justice in the middle of the night. I should be home taking care of her.

I hear footsteps in the hallway, and I see a uniformed policeman walk by. I think of my dad. So proud of his uniform. So proud he put the bad guys away. A good cop. He did what he thought was right. Hard to imagine he’s been gone for five years. So little time to know his first grandchild, Grace. He was so proud of her. And she won’t remember him. Sometimes, I think I never really knew him. Sometimes I think I knew him too well. He was a good dad, but somewhat distant. I think of my older brother Tommy, who went to war to please him. And my younger brother Pete, who became a cop to show him. And for a brief moment, I think of myself. I became a defense attorney to spite him. I think of my sister, Mary, who pleaded with him to take early retirement, just so she could stop worrying about him.

I think of my mom, who raised four kids on a cop’s salary. How she stayed up every night, waiting for him to come home. How she wouldn’t sleep until she heard his car door slam. How she counted the days until his retirement. And how she nursed him when they discovered the cancer only a few weeks later. Five years of caring for him through all that pain. She worried about all of us. Now she lives in a world of confusion that she doesn’t understand and I can’t imagine.

I think about Rosie, the only woman I’ve ever truly loved. And our mutual realization that we’re incapable of living together. I feel the pain of our separation all over again. I wonder whether I’ll ever find the same kind of love again. I hope I’ll never feel the pain again.

I worry about Grace. I wonder where she’ll be in another ten years. Or another twenty, for that matter.

I think about my friend and client Joel. His less-than-perfect marriage. His relationship with his father, which isn’t that different from my relationship with mine. I wonder whether he’ll have a chance to repair the damage to his life that’s been inflicted on him—and that he’s inflicted upon himself.

I think about our special circumstances. It may be the fatigue or the stress—or both. I realize I’m crying. And I wonder if it’s all worth it.

“Mike?” Roosevelt is standing in the doorway of the consultation room, his hands in his pockets.

“Huh? Sorry, Roosevelt. I must have dozed off.”

“Patton and Russo want to talk to you.”

“Are you going to arrest him?”

“No.”

“Will he testify?”

“I think so.”

“Keep it under your hat, Roosevelt.”

“I will. I can’t make the same promise for the DA.”

“Understood.” I look at him. “Roosevelt?”

“Yes?”

“Thanks.”

Chapter 53

“DID YOU HAVE A NICE TRIP?”

“In an unexpected twist, local financier Vincent Russo, Jr., has been located in the Bahamas. He will testify at the murder trial of Joel Mark Friedman later today.”

— KCBS NEWS RADIO. Monday, April 13. 6:30 A.M.

The traffic on Bryant is terrible on Monday morning. The news vans are lined up two-deep. Word got out about Vince Russo’s resurrection. The gallery is packed.

I stand at the lectern and say, “The defense calls Vincent Russo, Jr.”

Judge Chen watches Russo slither into the courtroom in his dark blue suit. He’s sworn in. He takes the stand. He’s sweating. He gulps water from a Styrofoam cup. I can smell his aftershave. His diamond ring gleams. His cuff links look like gold golf balls.

Judge Chen says, “We weren’t sure we were going to see you, Mr. Russo.”

“I’ve been out of town.”

“Please proceed, Mr. Daley.”

“May we approach the witness, Your Honor?” I want to get right in his face.

“Yes, Mr. Daley.”

I button my jacket as I position myself directly in front of Russo. I turn slightly so the jury can see his facial expressions and mine. “Mr. Russo, you were in the Simpson and Gates offices on December thirtieth, were you not?”

His slitty eyes wander. “Yes.”

“You were working on a deal involving the sale of your company, right?”

“Yes.”

“The sale was supposed to close on the morning of December thirty-first, right?”

“Objection, Your Honor. He’s leading the witness.”

Yes, I am. “Request permission to treat this witness as hostile.”

“All right, Mr. Daley.”

“Thank you.” It’s okay to lead hostile witnesses. I turn back to Russo. “The deal didn’t close, did it, Mr. Russo?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I said so. I didn’t want Continental Capital Corporation to take over my father’s company. It would have been disrespectful to his memory.” So there.

“Instead of showing up for the closing, what did you do?”

“I decided to take a little vacation. Most recently, I was in the Bahamas.”

I flash a sarcastic grin. “Did you have a nice trip?”

Skipper stands up, but doesn’t say anything.

“As a matter of fact, I did,” Russo says. “Right up until this weekend when you insisted that I return to San Francisco.”

“Mr. Russo, let’s talk about the night of December thirtieth.”

He feigns indignation. “Whatever you’d like, Mr. Daley.”

“You finished negotiations by about nine o’clock?”

“Yes.” He tries to sound nonchalant.

“Then you went out for dinner with Mr. Holmes, didn’t you?”

“Yes. We went to Tadich Grill. I’d recommend it.”

“And you returned to the office around eleven-fifteen?”

“Yes.”

“And everything was ready to go by about twelve-thirty?”

“Yep. Everything.” He takes a swallow of water.

“You had a meeting with Mr. Holmes around twelve-thirty, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“What did you discuss?”

“A lot of things. Our plans for New Year’s. Our kids. His latest divorce.”

“Did you talk about the deal?”

“Yes. I told him I wasn’t going to proceed with the closing. I decided I would keep my company or take my chances in bankruptcy.”

“Or go to the Bahamas. How did Mr. Holmes react?”

“He was unhappy. He said I should sell the company. And he told me if the deal didn’t close, Simpson and Gates was going to go bankrupt.” He smirks. “You can’t run a successful business worrying about whether your lawyers are going to be able to pay their bills.”

Or an unsuccessful business like yours, Vince. “Mr. Russo, were you aware Mr. Holmes was going to receive a bonus in connection with the closing?”

“Yep. Three million bucks.”

“And you realize that by pulling the plug, Mr. Holmes was going to lose his bonus.”

“Like I said, you can’t spend your life worrying about how much money your lawyers make.”

Legitimate point. “Did Mr. Holmes appear upset when you told him you weren’t going to close?”

“Objection. State of mind.”

“Your Honor, I’m just asking for an observation of Mr. Holmes’s demeanor.”

“Overruled.”

“Yes, he was very upset. Really honked off, if you know what I mean.”

I do. “Was he upset about his divorce?”

“Not really.”

I should have left well enough alone.

“Actually,” he continues, “he was far more upset about the fact that his girlfriend dumped him.”

“That would have been Diana Kennedy?”

“No, Mr. Daley. His relationship with Ms. Kennedy was long over. Old and cold. Dead as a doorknob.”

We get the idea.

He looks at the jury. “He was upset because his new girlfriend dumped him.”

I look frantically at Rosie. I’m going to have to break the cardinal rule of cross-examination and ask a question for which I don’t know the answer. “Mr. Russo, do you know the name of this new girlfriend?”

“No. It was his little secret. It was somebody we knew. He said he’d tell me when the time was right. He never did.”

“Mr. Russo, did Mr. Holmes give any other indications that he may have been upset that night?”

“Objection. State of mind.”

“Overruled.”

“Are you asking me if he was suicidal, Mr. Daley?”

“In a word, yes.”

“The answer, in a word, is maybe. He was very upset about the deal. He was angry about losing the bonus. And he was particularly upset about his girlfriend. But not that upset.”

“Mr. Russo, what time did you leave Mr. Holmes’s office?”

“Around one o’clock.”

“Did you see Diana Kennedy before you left?”

“No.”

“And Mr. Holmes was still alive when you left?”

“Very much so.”

“So, Mr. Russo, just so we’re straight, you didn’t happen to kill Bob Holmes and Diana Kennedy that night, did you?”

“Of course not. Bob was still alive when I left him. I didn’t see Diana.”

“And you didn’t see anybody else kill them, did you?”

“Nope.”

“Did you hear any gunshots?”

“Nope.”

“What time did you leave the building?”

“Around one-forty-five.”

“After you left the Simpson and Gates office, you abandoned your car at the Vista Point at the Golden Gate Bridge, right?”

“I intended to retrieve it the next day.” He looks up. “I was too tired to drive.”

Right. “And you left your wallet in the car, didn’t you?”

“I forgot it.”

“And your keys.”

“I forgot them, too.”

“And you decided to leave the country.”

“It isn’t a crime to go on vacation, Mr. Daley.”

“No, it isn’t, Mr. Russo. Where did you go?”

“First, to New Zealand. Then Thailand and Greece. Then the Bahamas.”

“Where you were checked into a fancy hotel under an assumed name.”

“I always travel under an assumed name. I don’t like to draw attention to myself. Americans are often targets in other parts of the world.”

“Mr. Russo, you realize that reasonable people might interpret your actions as an attempt by a desperate man to flee the scene of a crime?”

“Objection.”

“Sustained.”

“Come on, Mr. Russo. Let’s tell the truth today. You killed Bob Holmes and Diana Kennedy, didn’t you?”

“No.”

“And you fled the country.”

“No.”

“And you went to the Bahamas to collect a bunch of money that you kept hidden there.”

“No.”

“Your Honor,” Skipper interrupts. “Is this harassment of Mr. Russo really necessary?”

“Your Honor,” I say, “this man is lying. It’s evident to everyone in this room that Mr. Russo killed Mr. Holmes and Ms. Kennedy and fled the country.”

“Objection. Move to strike. Mr. Daley is out of order.”

“Sustained. The jury will disregard Mr. Daley’s last remarks.” Judge Chen motions to me. “Sidebar.”

We approach the bench. She puts her hand over her microphone. “Mr. Daley, if you’re trying to get a mistrial, you’ll be disappointed.

“Out of the corner of my eye, I see Rosie close her eyes. “No further questions, Your Honor.”

* * *

Joel is disappointed with my direct exam of Russo. “I thought you were going to nail him,” he says.

“Did you think he was going to confess?”

“Maybe.”

“This isn’t Perry Mason. He was better coached than I thought. And he held up better than I thought he would.”

“I want to take the stand.”

“We’ll talk about it after Patton testifies.”

Chapter 54

“WHAT DOES THE MANAGING PARTNER DO?”

“The managing partner of a major law firm is like the chairman of the board of a Fortune 500 company. Every big business needs leadership. And you have to have a vision.”

— Arthur Patton. San Francisco Legal Journal. Monday, April 13.

“You are the managing partner of the Simpson and Gates firm, aren’t you, Mr. Patton?”

“Yes, I am.”

Art Patton has squeezed himself into the uncomfortable wooden chair in the witness box. He’s dressed carefully today. The red suspenders are at home. His chins jiggle. His eyebrows form a line right above the tiny wire-rim glasses that sit against the bulbous nose and mask the tiny eyes.

I feed him an easy one. “What does the managing partner do, Mr. Patton?”

“The managing partner of a major law firm is like the chairman of the board of a Fortune 500 company. Every big business needs leadership. And you have to have a vision.”

“Your vision seems to have led the firm into bankruptcy.”

“It was a protective filing. The firm continues to operate. We will remain fully functional while we are sorting out our obligations to our creditors.”

The accountant doesn’t seem convinced. It’s time to talk about something Art understands: money. “Mr. Patton, the firm maintained a key-man life insurance policy on Mr. Holmes, right?”

“Yes.”

“And you knew the firm had a twenty-million-dollar policy on the life of Mr. Holmes?”

“Of course.”

I face the jury. “And you knew, of course, that the policy has a so-called suicide clause, right?”

This is ticklish. If he admits he knew about the suicide clause, he would have to acknowledge that the firm stands to gain twenty million dollars if he can show Joel killed Bob and Diana. If he says he didn’t know, I’ll have the pleasure of chastising him in open court for not having read the policy carefully—very unlawyerlike for an attorney of his stature.

“Mr. Daley, it’s a standard clause in every life insurance policy. I never gave any particular thought to the suicide clause. I am much more concerned with the loss of Mr. Holmes. We’ll certainly miss his contributions, but we’re a large firm with many productive partners.”

It’s a good response. Now for some fun. “Mr. Patton, you have an ongoing social relationship with Elizabeth Holmes, don’t you?”

“We’re friends.”

“Would it be fair to say you’re more than just friends?”

“Objection. Mr. Patton’s social life is not at issue here.”

“On the contrary, Your Honor, his social life very much is at issue here.”

“Overruled.”

“Mr. Patton, would it be fair to say that you and Mrs. Holmes are now ‘an item’?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You and Mrs. Holmes have a romantic relationship.”

“We’re just good friends.” He’s starting to turn red.

I keep my tone measured. “I’m prepared to introduce evidence that you and Mrs. Holmes have spent more than a few nights together in the last few months. And I’m prepared to introduce pictures of you and Mrs. Holmes together on a beach in Mexico. I’ll ask you again, Mr. Patton. Do you and Mrs. Holmes have a romantic relationship?”

“All right. Yes. We have a romantic relationship. What’s the big deal? We used to be married.”

“How long has this romantic relationship been going on?”

He looks away. “A couple of months.”

I was hoping he’d say a couple of years. “Mr. Patton, are you aware that there was a five-million-dollar life insurance policy on Mr. Holmes naming Mrs. Holmes as the beneficiary?”

“Yes.”

“And your former brother-in-law, Perry Guilford, is the firm’s insurance agent, right?”

“Yes.”

“And he was also the insurance agent for Mr. Holmes, right?”

“Yes.”

“Mr. Patton, isn’t it true that your former brother-in-law told you that Mr. Holmes was going to change his life insurance policy after he and Mrs. Holmes separated? And isn’t it true that your girlfriend, Mrs. Holmes, was going to be removed as a beneficiary of that policy?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about, Mr. Daley.”

I’m convinced. “You’re friends with your partner, Charles Stern, right?”

“Yes.”

“Are you aware that Mr. Holmes had asked Mr. Stern to draft an amendment of Mr. Holmes’s will when his marriage was on the ropes?”

“Yes.”

“Were you aware that as soon as Mrs. Holmes filed for divorce, she was going to be written out of the will?”

He takes off his glasses. “Once again, Mr. Daley, your jump in logic is nothing short of remarkable. I had no idea what the will said before Mr. Holmes died. It was none of my business. If you’re suggesting that I had some financial motivation to kill Mr. Holmes, you’re crazy.”

“That is exactly what I’m suggesting, Mr. Patton. If Mr. Holmes committed suicide, the firm was going to lose twenty million dollars. And you will be forever known in the legal community as the managing partner who presided over the dissolution of what was once the largest and most profitable law firm on the West Coast.”

“Objection. Mr. Daley has started his closing argument a little early.”

“Sustained.”

“Mr. Patton, how much money will the firm get from the life insurance policy if they can pin this crime on Mr. Friedman?”

“Objection. Argumentative.”

“Sustained.”

“Mr. Patton, how much money will the firm receive from the life insurance policy on Bob Holmes if it is determined that it was not a suicide?”

“Twenty million dollars.”

“And how much money was your girlfriend, Mrs. Holmes, supposed to get under the terms of the will that Bob Holmes was about to change just prior to his death?”

“Objection.”

“Overruled.”

“Five million dollars.”

“And how much money was Mrs. Holmes supposed to get from the life insurance policy that he was about to change just prior to his death?”

“Five million dollars.”

“So, Mr. Patton, isn’t it fair to say that you had about thirty million reasons to hope Mr. Holmes died of murder, and not suicide?”

“Objection. Argumentative.”

“Sustained.”

“Come on, Mr. Patton. You had a chance to save the firm. You had a chance to help your girlfriend. You’d look like a hero. What more could you want?”

“Your Honor,” Skipper wails. “Move to strike.”

“Sustained.”

Patton is starting to foam. “Look, you little jerk. I’m going to haul you into court and sue you for slander. These preposterous, unsubstantiated charges . . . ”

“Your Honor,” I say calmly, “would you please instruct the witness to answer questions and not make speeches.”

“Please, Mr. Patton.”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

I’m not quite finished. “Mr. Patton, what was your relationship with Diana Kennedy?”

“She was an associate at our firm.”

“Was she a good lawyer?”

“Yes. She got very good reviews for her legal work.”

“And did she get good reviews in bed?”

“Objection.”

“Sustained. Mr. Daley, please.”

“I’ll rephrase. Mr. Patton, isn’t it true that you thought Ms. Kennedy was very attractive?”

“Everyone thought Ms. Kennedy was attractive.”

“Isn’t it a fact that you asked her out on several occasions?”

“No. That would have been inappropriate.”

“Really, Mr. Patton? Your colleague Mr. Holmes apparently came out the other way on that particular moral dilemma.”

“I wasn’t privy to Bob’s private life.”

“But you were attracted to her, weren’t you?”

“She was a professional colleague. Nothing more.”

Sure. “Mr. Patton, isn’t it true that you asked her to sleep with you at the firm retreat last year?”

Skipper leaps up. “Your Honor, for God’s sake.”

“Your Honor,” I say, “it’s a relevant question.”

“Overruled. The witness will answer.”

“I did no such thing,” Patton says.

“Isn’t it true she left your party at the retreat because you wouldn’t leave her alone?”

“Absolutely not.”

“And you followed her back to her room and attacked her.”

“No.”

“Mr. Patton, isn’t it true the firm has had to pay four multimillion-dollar settlements to female associates who have accused you of sexual harassment?”

He glares at me. Then he looks helplessly at Skipper.

“Isn’t it true, Mr. Patton?”

He mutters through clenched teeth, “The firm has settled various cases involving unsubstantiated charges. We decided that we didn’t want the publicity or the trial costs.”

Right. I glance at the phone company supervisor. Then I get right back into Patron’s face. “Isn’t it true that Ms. Kennedy made a claim against you for sexual harassment? And that you were negotiating a substantial settlement with her?”

“No.”

“Isn’t it true she threatened to go to the newspapers if the firm didn’t agree to her demands?”

“No.”

“Mr. Patton, if you don’t start telling the truth, I’ll call witnesses who will.”

“These accusations are entirely without merit.”

“Mr. Patton, isn’t it true that you killed Diana Kennedy because she threatened to expose your pattern of sexual harassment to the media? And isn’t it true you killed Bob Holmes because he threatened you with expulsion from the firm because you are a sexual predator? And so that the firm and your girlfriend could collect the insurance money?”

Patton eyes the jury. “No, Mr. Daley. That is not true.”

I look at Rosie. She closes her eyes. I look at the ceiling and exhale melodramatically. “No further questions.”

Chapter 55

I NEED HER TO CALMLY ASSASSINATE

ALL OF THE PROSECUTION’S KEY WITNESSES

“The defense is battling uphill. Daley has done a decent job so far.”

— NewsCenter 4 Legal Analyst Morton Goldberg. Tuesday, April 14.

“My name is Doris Charlotte Fontaine.”

“What was your relationship to Robert Holmes?” I ask.

“I was his secretary.”

At ten-thirty the next morning, Doris is dressed in her finest schoolmarm attire: a navy blue dress, a decorative pin and a minimal amount of makeup. Her glasses hang from a gold chain around her neck. I want her to project the embodiment of the voice of reason. In the simplest terms, I need her to calmly assassinate all of the prosecution’s key witnesses. And I want Skipper to look like an arrogant ass if he interrupts her.

“Ms. Fontaine, could you please tell us how long you worked for Mr. Holmes?”

She smiles politely. Nice touch, Doris. “Twenty-two years. From the day he started.”

“You must have been very close.”

Skipper starts to stand, then stops. Good idea. It’s too soon to be combative.

“We were. We’d been through a lot together.”

“It’s unusual to see such loyalty.” I remind myself not to let things get too thick. “Ms. Fontaine, could you please tell us where you were on the evening of December thirtieth?”

“I was in the Simpson and Gates office assisting Mr. Holmes on a closing.”

“How many people were working on the deal?”

“About fifty.”

“When did you go home?”

“Around eight o’clock. We were having a going-away party for Mr. Gates that evening.” She looks at Skipper. “I stopped by for a few minutes. I live out in the Avenues. I got home around nine.”

She’s hitting the right notes. The jury seems to like her. “Ms. Fontaine, could you please describe Mr. Holmes’s mood that night?”

“Objection,” Skipper says. “State of mind.”

“Your Honor, I’m not asking for a medical determination. I’m asking her to describe her observation of his mood, based upon her many years of working with him.”

Judge Chen gives Doris a smile. “Overruled.”

Doris says Bob appeared extremely upset that night. “The deal wasn’t going well. We weren’t sure Mr. Russo would authorize us to proceed with the closing. Bob was worried about his bonus.”

“Ms. Fontaine, is there any other reason why Mr. Holmes may have been upset?”

“Yes. Mrs. Holmes served him with divorce papers.” She says he was surprised and repeats that he was very upset.

“Do you know what caused the breakup of their marriage?”

“Mr. Holmes was seeing another woman.”

“Do you know the name of the other woman?”

“Diana Kennedy.”

So far, so good. “You’ve testified that Mr. Holmes was surprised and distraught when the papers were served. Didn’t he expect it?”

“He tried to reconcile with his wife because Ms. Kennedy had broken off their relationship.”

“So, after Ms. Kennedy dumped him, he tried to reconcile with his wife?”

“Yes. It didn’t work out. In late December, Mrs. Holmes’s investigator caught him with another woman.”

“Was it Ms. Kennedy?”

“No. It was a different woman. That’s when she decided to file the divorce papers.”

* * *

A half hour later, we are still discussing Bob’s love life. “Ms. Fontaine, are you sure Mr. Holmes and Ms. Kennedy were no longer seeing each other on December thirtieth?”

“Yes, Mr. Daley. I was always aware of the women in his life. From time to time, Mr. Holmes asked me to cover for him.”

“You mean he asked you to make up stories so Mrs. Holmes didn’t find out about his affairs?”

“Yes.”

“Can you identify the woman he was seeing in late December?”

“He never mentioned her name.”

“Could it have been Diana Kennedy?”

“No.”

“Was it Dr. Kathy Chandler?”

“I don’t know.”

“Were you aware that Joel Friedman and Diana Kennedy had been romantically involved in the fall of last year?”

“No.”

“It’s been suggested Mr. Friedman and Ms. Kennedy were still involved in late December.”

“I don’t know.”

“It’s also been suggested that Ms. Kennedy informed Mr. Friedman on December thirtieth that she was seeing Bob Holmes. Do you have any knowledge of that?”

“I don’t.”

“Ms. Fontaine, would it surprise you to find out that several witnesses in this courtroom have suggested Mr. Friedman killed Mr. Holmes because Ms. Kennedy dumped Mr. Friedman in favor of Mr. Holmes, and he was jealous?”

“Objection. Speculative.”

“Overruled.”

Doris tugs at her hair. “Yes, Mr. Daley, that would surprise me. Ms. Kennedy’s relationship with Mr. Holmes was over. There was nothing for Joel to be jealous about. Diana broke up with Bob in the beginning of December.”

* * *

“Ms. Fontaine,” I say a little later, “let’s talk a little bit about Vince Russo’s deal.”

She explains that Russo wasn’t happy about selling his father’s business. “There was great doubt as to whether it would close. Ultimately, it didn’t and Mr. Russo disappeared.”

“Was Mr. Russo distraught on the evening of December thirtieth?”

“Objection. State of mind.”

“Sustained.”

“Ms. Fontaine, how long have you known Mr. Russo?”

“About ten years.”

“Did he spend a lot of time at the S&G offices?”

“Yes. He was in the office at least twice a week.”

“Based upon your knowledge as an acquaintance of Mr. Russo, did it appear to you that he was distraught on the evening of December thirtieth?”

Skipper starts to stand, but McNulty stops him.

Doris nods. “Yes. He appeared very unhappy about selling his company.”

“Could you please describe Mr. Russo’s behavior that night?”

“Erratic. At one point, Mr. Russo stormed out of our main conference room while he was screaming at Mr. Holmes. He was angry because he had been told that the purchase price for his company was going to be reduced by forty million dollars.”

“Is it fair to say Mr. Russo was extremely upset?”

“Yes.”

* * *

Rosie, Doris, Joel and I are eating sandwiches in the consultation room.

“You’re doing great,” Rosie says to Doris. “You’ve created a plausible argument for suicide. You’ve cast doubt on the jealous-rage theory. And you’ve established motive for Russo.”

Doris shrugs. “It’s easy with Mike asking the questions.”

She’s right. “We’ve got about another hour, Doris. I need you to slay one more dragon for me this afternoon. Just follow my lead and keep the answers short.

“Did you hear anything from Pete?” Rosie asks.

“He said the banker in the Bahamas won’t reveal the names of the income beneficiaries or the remaindermen of the International Charitable Trust. Wendy is looking for a judge.”

Joel changes the subject. “When do I get to testify?”

“We’ll talk about it later. If everything goes well today, we won’t need you.”

“But I want to.”

“We’ll talk about it later.”

* * *

We begin the afternoon session at one o’clock. “Ms. Fontaine,” I begin, “are you acquainted with a man named Arthur Patton?”

“Yes. He is the managing partner of Simpson and Gates. I’ve known him for many years.”

“Are you familiar with an incident involving Mr. Patton and Ms. Kennedy at the Silverado Country Club in October of last year?”

“Yes.”

“How did you become aware of this incident?”

“The firm conducted an internal investigation.”

“How did you become aware of the internal investigation?”

“My boss, Mr. Holmes, was in charge of the investigation. He told me about it. Mr. Friedman was interviewed in the course of the investigation. He told me about it, too.”

“Why didn’t you come forward with this information when the police first questioned you?”

“They didn’t ask me. And it was a confidential, internal investigation. The matter was closed.”

“Can you tell us about the nature of the investigation?”

Skipper stands. “Your Honor, I must object. Any testimony that Ms. Fontaine is about to give on this investigation is inadmissible hearsay.”

It’s a legitimate objection. I glance at the jury. The phone company supervisor seems perturbed. “Your Honor, rather than argue the merits of this objection, we would like to handle this issue in a different manner. We would like to introduce into evidence a memorandum prepared by Mr. Holmes which was dated December fifteenth of last year and was addressed to the Simpson and Gates executive committee.” Rosie hands copies of a memo to Skipper and to the judge. “This memorandum sets forth the official findings of a special investigative committee appointed by the Simpson and Gates executive committee with respect to the so-called Silverado Incident.”

Skipper is on his feet. “Objection. Irrelevant. This is highly inflammatory. It is an internal memorandum that is privileged communication. Furthermore, we have no basis to verify its authenticity. Finally, this information has not been provided to us by the defense.”

I hold up my hand. “We produced this memorandum several weeks ago, Your Honor.” I don’t mention that it was included with the boxes of S&G financial records that we never planned to introduce into evidence.

Skipper glares at McNulty. Somebody on their side missed it.

I’m still talking. “In addition, if Mr. Gates is concerned about the authenticity of this memorandum, I am prepared to call Mr. Stern and the head of the firm’s labor law department to verify that they got a copy of it. If Mr. Gates were permitted to testify, he would acknowledge that he has seen a copy of it.”

Judge Chen is irritated. “The bailiff will take the jury out. I want to see all the attorneys in my chambers. Now.”

* * *

We meet in chambers. Skipper tries to sound incredulous. “What kind of stunt are you trying to pull?”

This isn’t the right tone in chambers. Judge Chen interrupts him. “Be quiet, Mr. Gates. Let me see that memorandum.” She puts on her reading glasses. Skipper, McNulty, Rosie and I sit in silence. She scans it quickly and then studies it carefully. “Mr. Daley, where did you get this?”

“From Ms. Fontaine.”

“How do you know it’s authentic?”

“She typed it. She’ll swear to it under oath.”

“Your Honor—,” Skipper says.

She cuts him off. “It will be your turn in a minute.” She looks at the memo again. She turns to Skipper. “Mr. Gates, I happen to find Mr. Daley’s argument persuasive on this point. Do you have anything to say?”

He glances at McNulty, then turns to the judge. “There is no foundation proving its authenticity. It could have been cooked up on Doris Fontaine’s word processor. It isn’t signed. We don’t have an original. Before you destroy Art Patton’s career, you should consider the ramifications.”

I place my palms on the desk. “Your Honor, if he’s accusing us of manufacturing evidence, he’s crazy. Doris will swear under oath the document is authentic. I’ll swear under oath we obtained it through legitimate means. If I’m lying, you can have my ticket to practice law right now. Our request is legitimate and our evidence is good. And if Skipper thinks it’s tainted, he can argue it to the jury. Let them decide whether we made this whole thing up. We’ll take our chances.”

“Your Honor, with all due respect to Mr. Daley and his ticket to practice—,”

The judge holds up her hand. “Mr. Gates, have you ever seen this memo?”

“I don’t recall,” he stammers.

“I’ve heard enough. The objection is overruled. The memo comes in. Now all of you get out of here.”

* * *

Skipper sits on his hands and seethes while Doris and I go through every detail in the memo in front of the jury. By the end of the afternoon, Art Patton’s reputation is destroyed. There is a lesson somewhere in this. The memo reveals Diana had, in fact, reported Patton’s advances to the head of the firm’s human resources department, and had threatened to sue the firm for sexual harassment. According to witnesses, Patton had propositioned her at the party in his room. She rejected him and returned to her room. He followed her. Diana said Patton then grabbed her from behind and pinned her to her bed.

He tried to muffle her calls for help. She managed to free one of her legs and kicked him in the groin. She ran to Joel’s room. About five minutes later, Patton knocked on Joel’s door and found Diana there.

Patton claimed it was all a misunderstanding.

The report says Patton had been sued for sexual harassment on four occasions, and that the firm settled all four lawsuits. The firm also received a dozen other claims that did not lead to formal legal action. In each case, Patton claimed he was misunderstood. In his mind, it was all a problem of perception.

The other members of X-Com ordered him to have counseling and fined him two hundred thousand dollars. His points were reduced. He was told he would be expelled from the firm if another incident ever took place.

“Ms. Fontaine,” I say, “were there any other developments after this memorandum was issued?”

“The day before Christmas, Ms. Kennedy gave her resignation to Mr. Holmes. She had accepted a job in San Diego.”

“What does this have to do with Mr. Patton?”

“When she tendered her resignation, she told Mr. Holmes and Mr. Patton that she had retained a lawyer. She was going to sue the firm and Mr. Patton for sexual harassment. Mr. Holmes told me he was going to begin procedures to have Mr. Patton expelled from the firm.”

“Did Ms. Kennedy ever initiate legal action against Mr. Patton?”

“No, Mr. Daley. She died before she had time to do anything.”

“Ms. Fontaine, would it surprise you to know that Mr. Patton has testified that he had never propositioned Ms. Kennedy?”

“Yes.”

“Was Mr. Patton telling the truth, Ms. Fontaine?”

“No. Mr. Patton is a liar.”

“No further questions.”

* * *

That night, we spend two hours at Rabbi Friedman’s house arguing with Joel about whether he should take the stand. The conventional wisdom says you never let your client testify unless you absolutely must. A good prosecutor will turn a defendant’s story around in a nanosecond. In a circumstantial case such as ours, the entire trial could turn on Joel’s demeanor.

“Mike,” he pleads, “I don’t want to hide behind my lawyer.”

“It’s too risky. Skipper could tie you in knots.”

“I’m not going to spend the rest of my life wondering if my testimony could have made the difference. I want to tell my story to the jury.”

And maybe piss your life away. We spend an hour going over his testimony, just in case. As I’m leaving, he begs again for a chance to take the stand.

“Let me sleep on it, Joel. We’ll make a final decision in the morning.”

* * *

I spend the night consulting my most trusted consigliere. I’m inclined to put Joel on the stand for just a few questions. Rosie is dead set against it. Her instincts are usually better than mine. Randy Short, my mentor from the PD’s office, says I should follow the conventional wisdom.

I make a final phone call at eleven-thirty. “Mort, it’s Mike.”

“Long time no talk.”

“How’s life as a TV star?”

“Not all that it’s cracked up to be. I have to be up in a few hours for the morning news.”

“The price of fame.”

“Beats working for a living.” He chuckles. “What’s up?”

“I wanted a gut reaction from you.”

“My gut is listening.”

“You think I should put Joel up on the stand tomorrow?”

Silence. I picture him sitting in his bathrobe, fingering a cigar. “That’s a two-cigar question.”

“I know.”

I hear his asthmatic breathing. “The conventional wisdom says no.”

“I know.”

“The conventional wisdom isn’t always right.”

“I know that, too.”

He pauses. “I’d put him on. But I’d get him off in a hurry. Just a few questions. Get a good, forceful denial and get him the hell off.”

“Thanks, Mort. I’ll be watching you in the morning.”

Chapter 56

“JUST KEEP EVERYTHING SHORT AND SWEET”

“In what court observers are describing as a reckless gamble, Joel Mark Friedman will take the stand in his own defense today in what might be described as the legal profession’s equivalent of the ‘Hail Mary’ pass. Michael Daley should be sued for malpractice.”

— NewsCenter 4 Legal Analyst Morgan Henderson. Wednesday, April 15.

“You ready?” I ask Joel the next morning.

He’s pacing in the consultation room. “Yeah.”

“You don’t have to do this, you know.”

“I know.”

“And you understand my reservations?” A standard lawyerly CYA question.

“We’ve been through it. I’m going to testify. It’s my life.”

It’s your funeral. “I’ll be with you all the way.”

“What would you do if you were in my shoes?”

“I’d listen to my attorney.”

“I knew you were going to say that.”

“Just keep everything short and sweet. I want you off the stand in no more than five minutes. Skipper can cross-examine you only on stuff that we’ve talked about. I don’t want to open the whole case. I want you to tell everyone you’re innocent, and sit down. Got it?”

“Got it.”

* * *

The courtroom buzzes. The gallery is packed. Naomi sits between Rabbi and Mrs. Friedman in the first row.

Skipper has given V.I.P passes to three big campaign contributors. The gossip columnist from the Chronicle is here. It’s the biggest local news event since the Niners were eliminated from the playoffs in January. We rise as Judge Chen enters the courtroom. Harriet Hill brings in the jury.

“Mr. Daley,” Judge Chen says, “will this be your last witness?”

“Yes, Your Honor. The defense calls Joel Friedman.”

Joel looks lawyerly. His hair has more gray than it did four months ago. His features are drawn, if not gaunt. Yet his eyes are clear. I’ve told him not to drink any water unless he has to. It makes you look nervous.

“Mr. Friedman, you were assisting Robert Holmes on a deal for Vince Russo on December thirtieth of last year, weren’t you?” I like to start with an easy, leading question.

“Yes, Mr. Daley.”

I ask Joel to provide a brief summary of the deal. We talk about his dinner with Diana at Harrington’s. He says she left because they got into an argument about the deal. He says he returned to the office and Diana went home.

“Mr. Friedman, what did you do when you got back to the office?”

“I assembled the final documents for the closing. The papers were signed by twelve-thirty. I went to see Mr. Holmes. I explained to him that the escrow instructions that Ms. Kennedy was working on had not been completed and that I was going to finish them. Mr. Holmes was in the middle of a heated discussion with Mr. Russo. Mr. Holmes instructed me to call Ms. Kennedy and tell her to come back to the office.”

“And it was that telephone call from you to Ms. Kennedy that was recorded on Ms. Kennedy’s answering machine?”

“Yes.”

“Did you see Ms. Kennedy after she returned to the office?”

“No.”

“Mr. Kim, the custodian, testified that he heard you and Mr. Holmes having an intense conversation about twelve-thirty on the morning of the thirty-first. Do you recall that discussion?”

“Yes. We were talking about the closing and certain issues involving my career.”

“What career issues?”

“I was told that I was not going to make partner.”

“And were you upset about that?”

“Yes.”

“And did you convey your feelings to Mr. Holmes?”

“Yes, I did.”

“And what was his response?”

“Objection. Hearsay.”

“Sustained.”

“Let’s try this another way, Mr. Friedman. On the evening of the thirtieth, were you given an indication that you would be put up for partner the following year?”

Skipper stands. He’s trying to figure out which objection applies.

Before he can speak, Joel says, “Yes, I was promised that I would be put up for partner the following year.”

“And did Mr. Holmes promise to support your election to the partnership the following year?”

“Objection. Hearsay.”

Judge Chen looks perplexed. “I’ll allow it this time, Mr. Daley. Then I want you to move on.”

“He promised to support me,” Joel says.

“Mr. Friedman, could you please tell us what happened the following morning?”

Joel describes how he and Chuckles got the keys to Bob’s office from Doris’s desk. After they found the bodies, he went to the bathroom and threw up. When he returned, he opened the gun and took the three remaining bullets out. “I had shot the gun at the range. It was sensitive and unreliable. I disarmed it so that nobody would be injured. I thought it was the right thing to do.”

“Could you describe your relationship with Diana Kennedy?”

“Yes. We were colleagues. And we were friends.” He pauses. “And, for a very brief period of time, we were lovers. It’s not something I’m proud of.”

“How long did your affair with Ms. Kennedy last?”

“One night during October of last year.” He looks at Naomi. “I’m embarrassed. I’ve let my family down. I’ve let myself down.” He looks appropriately contrite. “I’m sorry, Naomi.”

“Did you know she was pregnant?”

“Yes, I did. She told me in early December.”

“Were you aware that you were the father of her baby?”

“No. She told me that I wasn’t the father. I guess she was wrong.”

“Were you aware that Diana had decided to move to San Diego?”

“Not until the night of the thirtieth. She told me when we were having dinner at Harrington’s.”

I need to be careful. “Joel, some people might think that your argument with Diana at Harrington’s may have had something to do with the fact that you were the father of her baby and she was leaving town. Some might suggest that she dumped you and demanded support for the baby. Is that what really happened that night at Harrington’s, Joel?”

“No, Mr. Daley. Diana and I were arguing about work. Our relationship was over long before the evening of December thirtieth.”

“One final question. Let’s put all of our cards right on the table. Did you kill Robert Holmes and Diana Kennedy?”

“No, Mr. Daley. I did not.”

I glance at the phone company supervisor. No discernible reaction. “No further questions.”

* * *

Skipper can’t wait. “Mr. Friedman, do you recall having a conversation with Inspector Roosevelt Johnson on January eighth?”

“Objection, Your Honor. Mr. Gates is attempting to introduce into evidence matters that were not addressed in direct exam.”

“I’ll tie it together,” Skipper pleads.

Judge Chen grimaces. “Overruled. But I want to see some direct relevance right away.”

“Thank you.” Skipper turns back to Joel. “Do you remember the conversation with Inspector Johnson?”

“I had lots of conversations with Inspector Johnson.”

Don’t get cute, Joel. Just answer the questions.

“Mr. Friedman, let me refresh your memory. According to Inspector Johnson’s police report, you had an interview with him at the Hall of Justice. Do you recall the meeting?”

“Yes, I do.”

“And do you recall that Inspector Johnson asked you whether you had ever had a sexual relationship with Ms. Kennedy?”

“Yes, I recall that he asked.”

“And how did you respond?”

“I told him we had never had a sexual relationship.”

Skipper is pleased. “We later found out that you were the father other unborn child, didn’t we?”

“Yes.”

“So, Mr. Friedman, when Inspector Johnson asked you about your relationship with Ms. Kennedy, you lied, right?”

It’s pointless to object.

Joel casts his eyes downward. “Yes.”

“What other things have you lied about, Mr. Friedman?”

“Objection. Argumentative.”

“Sustained.”

I twist in the wind for the next forty-five minutes as Skipper cross-examines Joel. Joel admits that the fight at Harrington’s was a big one. Joel acknowledges that his voicemail message to Bob sounded ominous. Joel admits that he didn’t tell the cops about his phone call to Diana until he was confronted with the tape. I object every three or four questions to break up Skipper’s rhythm. The jury is riveted. Naomi stares at the floor. Rabbi Friedman sits with his hands folded. I second- and third- and fourth-guess my decision to put him on the stand.

Joel acknowledges his affair with Diana. His explanation is credible. When you’re the father of two kids and the rabbi’s son, you don’t necessarily want to admit adultery. He explains his love-hate relationship with Bob.

After a seemingly endless string of questions, Skipper gets right in Joel’s face. “Mr. Friedman, as Mr. Daley so eloquently said, let’s put our cards on the table. Let’s admit what really happened that night. We’ll all feel better about it.”

Here we go. Stay the course, Joel.

“Mr. Friedman, what really happened that night is that Diana Kennedy dumped you at Harrington’s. She told you she didn’t want to see you again. And she told you she was going to resume her relationship with Bob Holmes. Isn’t that the truth?”

Joel looks Skipper right in the eye and his tone is even. “That’s not true.”

“And you went back to the office that night and got into a big fight with Bob Holmes. Oh, it may have started out as a fight about business, but eventually it turned to a fight about Ms. Kennedy. Turns out she was two-timing you. She was sleeping with Mr. Holmes.”

“That’s not true, either.”

“Come on, Mr. Friedman. We’ve seen you lie when things get tough. You lured her back to the office and you killed both of them with Mr. Holmes’s gun. And you tried to make it look like a suicide. Except you got sloppy. You left your fingerprints on the keyboard. And you didn’t realize your message to Ms. Kennedy had been recorded. Isn’t that the truth, Mr. Friedman?”

“No, Mr. Gates, that is not the truth.”

“You did it, Mr. Friedman, didn’t you? You’ll feel better if you get it off your chest.”

Joel takes a deep breath. “It is not true. I did not kill Bob Holmes and Diana Kennedy.”

“You’re lying again, aren’t you, Mr. Friedman?”

I leap up. “Objection, Your Honor.”

“Sustained.”

“No further questions.”

* * *

My redirect is brief. I want to leave the jury with a final impression of a calm, collected Joel. I ask him to reiterate once more that he did not kill Bob and Diana. Then I sit the hell down.

At eleven-thirty Judge Chen looks at me. “Any more witnesses, Mr. Daley?”

“No, Your Honor. The defense rests.”

“We’ll hear motions right after lunch, and we’ll begin closing arguments first thing in the morning. We’re adjourned.”

* * *

Late that night, Rosie and I are watching CNBC in her living room.

“I can’t understand why Daley put him on the stand,” intones Marcia Clark.

“It was a terrible mistake,” says Morgan Henderson, who has left the comfort of the NewsCenter 4 studio for an appearance on CNBC.

“I should have left well enough alone,” I say to Rosie. “I never should have put him on the stand. It was too risky.”

“He did okay. At least he got it all off his chest. That’s good.”

“I don’t think the jury bought it.”

“They’re tough to read. I just can’t tell.”

“Want to hear my closing one more time?”

“Sure.”

* * *

The following day, Skipper and I spend the morning engaging in the legal profession’s version of hand-to-hand combat. We line up toe-to-toe and deliver our closing arguments. The commentators will describe it as a classic matchup: the charismatic DA against the eloquent defense attorney. Skipper rants for the better part of two hours. He pounds the lectern. He prances like a gazelle. He points at Joel as he describes each piece of evidence. The theatrics are effective. The jury follows his every move.

I speak for less than an hour. I keep my tone measured. I can’t compete with histrionics, so I have to try for empathy. The courtroom is a blur of jurors’ faces. I attack each piece of evidence. I plead with them to believe Bob killed Diana and then committed suicide. I remind them that somebody could have entered and exited the S&G suite by the stairs or the freight elevator without being filmed by the security cameras. Finally, I tell them that if they insist on concluding that somebody killed Bob, they have far better choices than Joel. With glib self-assurance, I try to deflect the blame toward Vince Russo, Chuckles Stern and, above all, Art Patton. I remind them Art had at least thirty million reasons to kill Bob.

At a quarter to twelve, I thank them and tell them that Joel’s life is in their hands.

* * *

When all is said and done, I’m not a big believer that you win cases in closing arguments. If the jury isn’t already predisposed to vote your way, your goose is probably cooked. We take a brief lunch break and Judge Chen charges the jury. At two o’clock, she pounds her gavel and sends them to the jury room.

After four long weeks of trial, it’s out of my hands.

Chapter 57

“I OVERREACHED. I JUST KNOW IT”

“We have great faith in this jury and we are confident Mr. Friedman will be acquitted.”

— Live interview on Channel 4 with defense attorney Michael Daley. Thursday, April 16.

I’m jumpy as we’re driving back to the office. “I overreached, Rosie. I just know it.”

“You’re overreacting. You did fine.”

I’m looking for any wisp of comfort. Some lawyers walk out after closing arguments firmly convinced they were so good they could have persuaded the pope to convert to Judaism. I remember all the things I should have said differently, or didn’t say at all. “You’ve got to admit I overreached a little.”

“You did fine,” she repeats. “They were listening, and they were with you. I could see it.”

“You never can tell with juries.”

We park in the pay lot across the street from the office. News vans are lined up on Mission Street. I know most of the reporters by name. Rosie and I push through them. I mouth appropriate platitudes about the strength of our case.

Rolanda hands me a stack of phone messages as soon as we get inside. I sift through them quickly. One catches my eye, and I head for my office.

* * *

I dial 1, 809, and the seven-digit number. You don’t need to dial 0, the international access code, to call the Bahamas. The person answers in an elegant British accent. I recognize the voice of Duncan Burton, the concierge at the Graycliff.

“Ms. Hogan has left for the airport,” he says. “You can reach her at the following number.” It’s Wendy’s cell.

I can barely hear her when she answers.

“It’s Mike. Where are you?”

“O’Hare. We just got in from the Bahamas. Our plane for San Francisco leaves in a few minutes. How are things?”

“It’s up to the jury.”

“You ought to go back to the Bahamas when you can spend more time.”

“Maybe when I have a lot of money to hide. Did you find anything?”

“The good news is we finally got Trevor Smith to talk. We found out who gets the money from the International Charitable Trust. The bad news, I’m afraid, is the information won’t help you much. If you were looking for a magic bullet, I don’t think it’s here.”

“Try me. Who gets the money?”

“Bob’s kids.”

“That’s it?”

“Yeah. And one other person. Jenny Fontaine. Kind of a thank you to Doris, I guess.”

“Bob always had a soft spot for Jenny. Is it divided up evenly?”

“Not exactly. Jenny gets a third of the money. The other kids share the rest equally.”

“Interesting.”

“Yeah, I guess. Any of this going to help you, Mike?”

“I doubt it. It’s too late to introduce any of it into evidence. I can’t imagine Bob’s kids or Jenny were involved.”

“Yeah.” Silent disappointment at the other end of the line.

“Look, Wendy, I didn’t expect you to break the case. You really helped a lot, okay?”

“I guess.”

“When will you be home?”

“Tonight.”

“Good.” I look through the bars on my window. I hang up the phone as Rosie walks in.

“Find out anything good from Wendy?” she asks.

“How did you know it was Wendy?”

“You have that ‘I wish Wendy would realize how big a crush I have on her’ look.”

“It’s that obvious?”

“Uh-huh.”

“You’re not jealous, are you?”

“Nope.” She smiles. “I’m not giving up my boy toy without a fight.”

* * *

A few minutes later, Rosie and I are sitting in my office. My TV is tuned to NewsCenter 4. Morgan Henderson and Mort Goldberg are arguing about whether I should have put Joel on the stand. They’ve already declared Skipper the hands-down winner of closing arguments.

Henderson is explaining how I botched Joel’s defense and what a horse’s bottom I am. “He never should have let his client get up on the stand. Friedman should have hired a real lawyer.”

“Forget it,” Rosie says. “The only people whose vote counts right now are locked up in a closed room. And they aren’t talking to anybody but each other.”

* * *

At four o’clock Rolanda walks into my office. “They just called. The jury’s in.

Chapter 58

“WHAT SAY YOU?”

“It’s a complicated case. The jury will be out for several days, or maybe even a week.”

— NewsCenter 4 Legal Analyst Morgan Henderson. Thursday, April 16.

“That’s quick,” Rosie says.

The jury was out for less than two hours.

“I don’t like it,” I say, more out of superstition than conviction. I know attorneys who never change their shoes while a jury is out. I never predict a positive outcome. Then again, I never predict a negative one, either. I turn to Rolanda. “What time?”

“Five o’clock.”

“I’ll call Joel.”

* * *

I can’t leave it. “What do you think, Rosita?”

“Too hard to predict.”

We’re in Rosie’s car, driving toward the Hall. The announcer on KCBS solemnly intones that the verdict will be read at five.

We turn onto Bryant. I look at the auto-body shops and bail bondsmen. “I know I’ll regret saying it out loud, but I just can’t see how they can vote to convict.” Even superstitious people have moments of weakness. And moments of wishful thinking, perhaps.

Rosie nods. “Juries are funny. They make decisions for different reasons. I had one jury vote to acquit because they didn’t like the way the prosecutor dressed. In this case, they might vote to convict just because Joel is a lawyer. Or they may not like guys who cheat on their wives. You just never know.”

* * *

A dozen news vans are parked bumper-to-bumper on the north side of Bryant in front of the Hall. At least two dozen reporters from the local and national media have staked out spots on the front steps and are broadcasting live. Satellite trucks line the south side of Bryant. One enterprising bail bondsman is renting his driveway to a cable station for a thousand bucks a day.

The horde surrounds Rosie and me as we walk through the police line toward the front entrance to the Hall.

“Mr. Daley, how do you think the jury’s going to decide?”

“Mr. Daley, doesn’t it seem like the jury was out for a very short time?”

“Mr. Daley, do you plan to appeal?”

“Mr. Daley, do you think your client got a fair shake?”

“Mr. Daley? Mr. Daley? Mr. Daley?”

We push our way inside. Joel and Naomi are waiting with Rabbi and Mrs. Friedman by the metal detectors. Naomi gives me a hug. “This is it,” she says.

“Everything’s going to be all right.”

Rabbi Friedman and I shake hands, but we don’t speak. We take the elevators. They seem even slower than usual.

We huddle outside the courtroom. “Listen,” I say, “no matter what happens in there, we’ll have no comment today. There’ll be plenty of time to talk to the reporters.”

As we’re about to walk into the courtroom, Rosie touches my arm and motions down the hall with her eyes. “Check this out, Mike.”

I see Skipper and his entourage. McNasty is at his side. A few reporters follow them. For some reason, Art Patton and Charles Stern are with him. Moral support from his old partners, I suppose. They look grim. I get an uneasy feeling in my stomach.

“What do you make of that?” she whispers.

“Beats me.”

Skipper sees me and nods. Chuckles’s face is unreadable. Patton looks daggers at me.

We walk into the courtroom. The bailiff escorts us to the defense table. Naomi and the Friedmans sit in the front row of the gallery.

“Mike,” Joel says, “I guess this is it. What do you think?”

“They haven’t been out very long. That’s usually a good sign.”

“What’s your gut?”

I look him in the eye. “Innocent.” There’s no point in telling him the truth. I just don’t know.

* * *

We take our places. The court reporter is already seated. We rise for the judge. She recites we’re on the record. She asks Harriet Hill to bring in the jury. Time slows down.

Joel looks at the jury as they walk in. They aren’t looking at him. Not a good sign. Naomi is wearing her sunglasses. Rabbi and Mrs. Friedman hold hands.

Rosie sits perfectly still. I’m glad she’s here. My stomach churns.

Judge Chen turns to the jury. “Have you reached a verdict, Madam Foreperson?”

The phone company supervisor stands. “Yes, we have, Your Honor.”

We watch the ceremonial passing of the paper from the phone company supervisor to Harriet Hill to the judge. She looks at the verdict impassively. No discernible sign either way.

“Will the defendant please rise.”

Joel, Rosie and I stand. So does Skipper. McNulty stays seated. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Naomi and the Friedmans. Their eyes are closed.

Here we go.

Judge Chen turns to the jury. “What say you?”

I can hear myself breathing.

The phone company supervisor takes a deep breath. “Not guilty on all counts, Your Honor.”

Pandemonium in back of me. Reporters sprint to the door. Joel falls back into his chair.

Judge Chen pounds her gavel. “The jury is excused with the court’s thanks. The bailiff is instructed to release Mr. Friedman at once. We’re adjourned.”

Joel turns to me with a bewildered look. “Does that mean what I think it means?”

“Yeah. It’s time to go home, Joel.”

* * *

When a client is acquitted, the defense lawyer becomes an extraneous observer in a matter of seconds. Joel, Rosie, Naomi and I get together in the front of the courtroom for a group hug. Naomi is sobbing. Then Joel climbs over the rail and hugs his parents.

The reporters have already left the courtroom. I give Rosie a big hug of her own. “Thanks,” I manage to say. I barely notice the tears in her eyes. I feel the tears in mine. I pause for a moment before I gather my papers. “What the hell just happened?”

“You won, Mike.”

Skipper strides toward me, the three-million-dollar smile plastered on his face. He shakes my hand forcefully. “Nice job, counselor.”

“Yeah. Thanks, Skipper.” Let’s go out for a beer sometime.

He turns and addresses the gallery. “Obviously, we’re disappointed with the result. However, we believe in the system, and we must accept the jury’s verdict. I’ll be holding a press conference in my office in twenty minutes.” I tune it out.

I turn and see Bill McNulty sitting at the prosecution table in stone-cold silence. He’s looking straight ahead. His hands are folded. He’s shaking his head.

Chapter 59

MY LAST CONFESSION

“We still have faith in the criminal justice system.”

— Skipper Gates. Anderson Cooper 360. Thursday, April 16.

There are no victory laps or trips to Disneyland for victorious defense attorneys. A few get interviewed by Anderson Cooper. Some get book contracts. Most are held up to universal scorn and are cited as the reason for the collapse of the justice system and, by extension, the moral fabric of our society.

I seem to be one of them. As Rosie and I drive from the Hall to Joel’s house for an early-evening celebration, the Monday-morning quarterbacks on the radio are already proclaiming I’m a social pariah. “In local news, in a stunning conclusion to the trial of the decade, accused double murderer Joel Mark Friedman was found not guilty. District Attorney Prentice Gates expressed his disappointment with the verdict, but said he would abide by the result. Friedman’s attorney, Michael Daley, said he was pleased and had no further comment. KCBS news time is six-ten.”

Rosie turns off the radio. “Enough. This case will be held up as a textbook example of what’s wrong with the justice system.”

“And the American way of life. Actually, Rosie, I doubt anybody will be thinking about it in a couple of days.”

“You’re probably right. Did the judge have anything to say?”

“Skipper and I talked to her for a few minutes. She said it was the most disgusting display she had ever seen in a courtroom. It seems she isn’t real fond of lawyers who hide evidence and bring witnesses back from the dead. It violates her sense of fair play.” I smile. “She said she hopes she’ll never see any of us again.”

“You’re running out of judges, Mike.”

“I know. Well, you know the old saying. ‘So many judges, so little time.’ ”

Rosie grins. “Actually, I thought she did a good job.”

“She did. She’s going to be a good trial judge.”

“Did you interview the jurors?”

After a trial is over, the lawyers are permitted to ask the jury about the case and how they reached their decision.

“Briefly. They thought it was a suicide. They didn’t buy Beckert’s theory that Bob was knocked unconscious.”

“What did they think about you and Skipper?”

“They said Skipper was arrogant. And they thought I was whiny.”

“Sounds about right. What about Joel?”

I give her a thoughtful look. “They were impressed that he had the guts to get up on the stand.” I look out at City Hall. “And they didn’t really believe a word he said.”

“Why?”

I grin. “He’s a lawyer.”

She chuckles. “Did you get anything out of Skipper or McNasty?”

“Not much. Skipper was extolling the beauty and wisdom of the criminal justice system. McNasty kept saying he couldn’t believe it.”

“He’s such a jolly guy.”

“He may be a sourpuss, but at least he’s an honest one.”

“You’re not going soft on prosecutors, are you?”

“I’d take a hundred Bill McNastys ahead of Skipper Gates anytime.”

We drive in silence north on Van Ness and turn west onto Geary and head toward Joel’s house. We’re reversing the route I took in January when I made my mad dash to the Hall the night Joel was arrested. It was only four months ago, but it seems like years.

We find a parking space in front of Joel’s house. You know the stars are lining up right when you find a place to park on the street on a weeknight. It’s warm and the sun is still out. Winter may be ending.

The news vans are parked in every driveway on Joel’s block. The neighbors will be furious.

Rosie pushes me toward Rita Roberts. “Say something nice to Rita about Joel and your renewed faith in the criminal justice system.”

Rita sticks the microphone in my face and asks me how it feels. I utter banalities about how pleased I am that justice has been served, that a good and innocent man was set free and how the criminal justice system worked. I also prattle on about how proud I am to be a lawyer.

I take the obligatory gratuitous swipe at the press for attempting to try the case in the media. I ask them to respect Joel and Naomi’s privacy, and give them an opportunity to put their lives back together. Rita nods solemnly. To me, it sounds like “blah blah blah justice, blah blah blah legal system, blah blah blah media, blah blah blah privacy.” Rosie grabs my arm and we push our way toward the door.

The party is already in full swing when we enter. Joel gives me a hug and puts a beer in my hand. Naomi kisses me. Alan and Stephen come running down the hallway. Alan leaps up and gives me a bear hug. Doris has a glass of champagne in her hand, and we toast each other. High fives and more hugs. The owners of David’s Deli on Geary are members of Rabbi Friedman’s temple. They have sent over huge trays of corned beef, pastrami, roast beef and turkey. Naomi gives me a sandwich and I devour it. I’m hungry for the first time in weeks.

I see my mother in the living room. Her eyes sparkle. “I’m proud of you, Michael.”

I’m glad she’s having a good day. “Thanks, Mama. It means a lot to me.”

About thirty people jam into Joel and Naomi’s living room to watch the early news. There’s wild applause when the announcer gives the verdict. I get an odd feeling when I see myself on TV. Rosie screams, “Mike, you look like shit.” Roars of laughter.

I see myself talking to Rita Roberts. Then I’m talking to the serious reporter from Channel 5. The anchors on Channel 7 joke that I must be having a great day. I watch myself on three different channels. Then I catch Mort interviewing Skipper on Channel 4.

“So, Mr. Gates,” Mort says, “do you feel like Marcia Clark?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr. Goldberg. We’re disappointed with the result, but we respect the process and the jury system.”

Mort rolls his eyes. I watch him spar with Skipper for five more minutes before I leave the throng in the living room and make my way to the back porch, where I find Joel sipping a beer.

“Getting some air?” I say.

“Yeah.” He pauses. “By the way, thanks for everything. I don’t know if I would have made it without you.”

“You’re welcome. You would have been okay, one way or another.”

He isn’t persuaded.

I look out at the small patio. The garden has fallen into a state of disrepair. “Joel, if you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to ask you something. Man to man, attorney-client, just you and me.”

“Sure.”

“Was justice served today?”

He takes a long draw from his Anchor Steam. He looks me in the eye and doesn’t blink. “Yeah, justice was served today.”

“I thought so. I just wanted to be sure. How are you and Naomi doing?”

“One day at a time, Mike.”

“Maybe you could get some counseling.”

“That’s probably a good idea.”

“I know some people who might be able to help you.”

“I thought I’d call Dr. Kathy Chandler.” A pause. “Just kidding. Give me a few days, I’ll call you.”

I wonder if he will. I take a deep breath of the unseasonably mild air. “Thought about what you’d like to do next?”

“I haven’t given it much thought. I’ve had a lot on my mind. I think maybe I’d like to try teaching.”

“You’d be good at it.”

“Maybe. Naomi thinks I should write a book.”

“Really? A law book?”

“Nah. I’ve always wanted to write a novel. Legal thriller. You know. John Grisham.”

I laugh. “Forget it. It’s harder than it looks. And every lawyer I know is writing a novel. It’s been done to death.”

He grins. “You’re probably right. What about you and Rosie? You guys are so good together. You’re more married than most married people. Why don’t you try it again?”

Tough question. No good answer. “We talk about it every once in a while. I think we finally figured it out. We work great together. We love each other very much. We have a great time when we’re together.” And, Lord knows, the sex is terrific.

“There’s a big ‘but’ coming, isn’t there?”

“Yes. Do you know people who are really nice, but when they get together with somebody in particular, they become obnoxious jerks?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, the same concept sort of applies to Rosie and me. We’re nice people and we get along great. But when we try to live together, we lose it. I can’t explain it. We’re fundamentally incompatible. And we take it out on each other. She’s careful about money. I don’t have a clue. I’m neat. She’s not. She likes everything to be scheduled. I don’t. We drive each other crazy.”

“Maybe the status quo isn’t so bad after all, Mike.”

“I guess. One of these days, she’s going to find a guy and I’m going to get really jealous.”

“Maybe not for a while. You never know. People change.”

Rabbi and Mrs. Friedman walk onto the back porch. They each give Joel a hug. Then, to my surprise, they each give me a hug.

“Michael,” says Rabbi Friedman, “thank you for all that you’ve done.” He clears his throat. “I’m sorry I may have underestimated you. You’re a fine attorney.”

“I’m glad everything worked out, Rabbi.”

* * *

At seven-thirty, Wendy and Pete walk up the steps and enter to another round of wild cheers. They’re exhausted. Wendy comes right over to me and gives me a big hug. “You did it Mike!” she shouts.

“We did it, Wendy. And we couldn’t have done it without you.”

Pete’s beaming. “You son of a bitch. We heard it on the radio in our cab.”

“How did you get the banker to talk?”

Wendy says, “Pete’s very persuasive. He held him by his ankles from the window of his office. It’s on the tenth floor.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Yes, I’m kidding.”

“You didn’t hurt him, did you?”

“No.”

I don’t want to know the details.

Wendy beams. “And Mike, there’s one other thing. Guess what? Pete and I have spent a lot of time together the last couple of months. We’ve decided to get married.”

Wow. Crap. Great. I think. How do you tell a woman her taste in men still leaves a lot to be desired? How do I tell my brother I had dibs on Wendy? I know these people too well. I feel too close to them. I know all their flaws. There’s no purpose pointing them out now.

Wendy shows me the engagement ring they bought in Nassau. “That’s great, you guys,” I say. “I’m very happy for you.” I raise my hand and shout at the top of my lungs that Pete and Wendy have an announcement to make. Wendy holds up her ring finger, and the room bursts into cheers. I see my mother in the corner of the room, her face glowing.

* * *

At eight-fifteen, I’m on the back porch. The sun has gone down and a cool breeze is beginning to blow. After two beers and a glass of champagne, I’m getting lightheaded.

Doris smiles. “You did a helluva job, Mikey. I knew you’d find a way.”

“I couldn’t have done it without you, Doris. Like always.”

“You’re a helluva lawyer.”

“Thanks. Now will you come work for me? I might be able to afford you now.”

“I’ll let you know.”

We look out into the evening sky. “So, Doris, let me ask you something.”

“Anything, Mikey. It’s your night.”

“You won’t get mad at me, will you?”

“Of course not.”

“Good. Well, there are a couple of things I’ve been wondering about for a while now. Maybe you can help me piece them together.”

She drinks her champagne. “Sure.”

“Well, for one thing, could you explain how you managed to get back upstairs after you ran your security card through the scanner and made sure the security camera showed you leaving? That was the key, right? To be certain that you had witnesses who saw you leave.”

She sets her champagne flute on the railing. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I don’t say anything. I feel my jaws tighten. I wait.

The silence finally gets to be too much for her. She fingers her glasses. “I could lie to everybody but you, Mikey. You figured it all out, didn’t you?”

“I think so.”

“When?”

“Just this afternoon. When I found out Jenny was going to get the money from the International Charitable Trust. Bob was trying to amend the trust. That’s when I realized there was a big financial stake for Jenny in all of this. It gave you a motive.”

“Are you going to turn me in?”

I take a deep breath. I think of the day she came by and gave me the hundred-dollar retainer check that’s hanging in a frame in my office. “No, Doris. I can’t. I’m your lawyer, and you’re my client. Everything we say is privileged.” I look directly into her eyes. “It doesn’t mean I’m happy about it.”

She’s trying to hold back tears. “Good,” she whispers.

There’s a lump in my throat. “You killed two people, Doris.”

“I know.” Tears roll down her cheeks.

We stand in silence for a few minutes, staring at the trees in Joel’s backyard. I think of Doris’s daughter, Jenny. I think of Diana Kennedy and her mother. I realize I’m standing next to a woman who has murdered two people, and there isn’t a damn thing I can do about it. The pain at the bottom of my stomach is excruciating.

I can’t stop thinking about Diana’s mother. And Joel. And Naomi and the kids. Lives forever changed. Finally, I manage to say, “You framed Joel. How could you do that to an innocent man?”

She grimaces. “I didn’t mean to. I didn’t know I had. That’s not what was supposed to happen.”

I wait.

“It was such a perfect plan, Mike. I’d read up on investigative techniques, planned it all out carefully. I thought of everything to make it look like suicide. Bob’s fingerprints on the gun. A close shot, so there’d be residue from the gunpowder on his hands and shirt and tattooing around the entrance wound. Typing the suicide e-mail on his computer. I didn’t miss a thing. And it would have worked, except for Joel. I couldn’t have predicted all the things that pointed toward him.”

True enough. “You were willing to ruin his life for something he didn’t do.”

“I know. I’m truly sorry about that—believe me. But I was trapped. Hell, if he hadn’t made such an ass of himself when he called Diana that night, they probably wouldn’t even have brought charges. And then he went and picked up that damned gun—how could I have guessed anyone would do something that stupid?”

She’s right about that. I even think she means it when she says she’s sorry. But it doesn’t change anything, and I still can’t put it together. She’s watching me uneasily.

“It was always supposed to be a suicide,” she says. “That’s the way I planned it. And even with Diana turning up, it would have worked if it hadn’t been for Joel. It was such a standard script. She and Bob were sleeping together, and he was a jilted lover. Plenty of reason for him to kill her and then himself.”

“Were they sleeping together?”

“For a while. But she’d dumped him.”

I need to backtrack. I’ve got the how—some of it, at least—but the why is missing. It doesn’t make sense. No matter how much of a bastard Bob was, Doris had endured him for twenty-two years. What could have brought her to decide on murder—cold-blooded murder? And it isn’t as if she did it on impulse. She’d organized it like a military campaign: reading up on it, getting all her ducks in a row. Nothing can alter the atrociousness of two deliberate killings, but I think somehow it will help if I can only understand why.

That’s going to take a while. I know Jenny’s got to be at the heart of it but I’ll wait on that. Best to begin with the timing.

I say, “How long did you plan all this?”

“Several months. I didn’t pin down the time when I began, but I knew I had to do it.”

“And that night Beth served Bob with the divorce papers, the time had come? You figured he might change his will? Maybe write Jenny out of the trust?”

“Yes.” She’s crying now.

Okay, I have the when. I decide to fill in the rest of the how. “How did you get back upstairs?”

“I took the freight elevator. There’s no security camera there. After I made sure everyone saw me leave at eight. I went downstairs to the Catacomb and took the freight elevator up to the new construction area on forty-nine. I waited there until one in the morning. I figured everyone else had probably left by then.”

“How did you know Bob would still be there?”

“I didn’t—I just took a chance he might still be finishing up on Russo’s deal. If there was anyone else around, I wasn’t going to do anything. I’d have just gone home.”

“And after you went to Bob’s office, then what?”

“I told him I came back to work on his bills. I started giving him a back rub, like I always do—did. Then I hit him on the side of the head with one of those heavy Plexiglas bookends on the shelf behind his desk. You know: the ones with the scales of justice on them that say, ‘Justice, Equality and Mercy.’ I’d put on gloves so there’d be no fingerprints. He just sat slumped over in his chair after I hit him, quiet as a baby.

Then I put the gun in his hand and brought it up to his right temple, and I was set to make him pull the trigger . . .”

“And Diana walked in.”

Her shoulders sag. “And Diana walked in and fouled everything up.” She swallows. “She was in the wrong place at the wrong time. It happened in a flash—1 didn’t even stop to think, I just aimed at her and shot. And then I went back and made Bob shoot himself.”

The bloody photos of the bodies flash before my eyes. I shake my head trying to get rid of them. I can’t.

She’s keyed up too, remembering. “I was shaking all over. I couldn’t keep my hand under control. The gun was jiggling when I pressed his finger against the trigger. I wanted to get a clean fingerprint on it, but I didn’t. I was too upset about Diana. I meant to press his finger on it again but I had to finish everything up—type the e-mail with my gloves on, wash the bookend to get rid of any traces of blood—and I forgot about it.”

The smudged fingerprint—I have all the how now, except for all the keyboard evidence that pointed toward Joel.

“What about the keyboard?” I ask. “Was it Bob’s?”

“How do I know? I assumed it was. It must have been.”

“Then how did it get switched?”

She says she doesn’t know for sure. “Art and Charles were certainly eager to pin it on Joel. Maybe one of them switched them or got someone else to do it.”

“You didn’t move it?”

“Swear to God, Mike.”

“Well, you almost pulled it off. If it hadn’t been for Joel.”

“Yes. If Joel hadn’t screwed it up, it would have gone down as a murder and a suicide. And that’s what I wanted: the suicide verdict on Bob.” Then she says “suicide” again, so emphatically that I’m startled. “That’s what mattered most.”

Well, sure, I think—that would have ended it then and there, unlike a charge of murder, which never closes until it’s solved. But so what? Doris was never under suspicion. It was Joel who was the unwitting victim of that foul-up, but she was clean. Why is she so fixated on suicide? I’m at a loss.

“Doris, what difference does it make now? Sure, the official cause of death is murder, and that means they can reopen the investigation at any time, but I don’t think you’re in any danger. I’ve told you everything we’ve said here is privileged.”

“I know that.” She sounds impatient. “You don’t understand. That’s not the reason the suicide verdict was so important.” Her eyes are on fire. “Don’t you get it, Mike?”

“Get what?”

“It’s the key-man policy. The suicide clause. I wanted Bob dead—Christ did I ever!—but I wanted the whole damn firm wiped out too. Just as dead as he was. Stone-cold dead.”

I’m stunned. The venom in her voice is palpable. I don’t understand it. Sure, Bob treated her terribly for years. And there’s Jenny to protect. But killing two people because she hated him? Bringing down the firm because she hated him? It doesn’t make sense. All I can manage is a barely audible, “Why, Doris?”

“Because I hate them all—every last one of them. They’re all scum. I knew they were in trouble. I wanted to be sure there was nothing to save them. I didn’t want them to get the twenty million from the key-man policy. I hope they all go to the poorhouse and rot in hell.”

I keep trying to bring some semblance of reason to all of this. I can’t. I tell her she may get her wish about the firm. After the verdict, Skipper said Art told him they were going to shut down because they’d lost too many partners—but there’s still a chance of their getting the insurance money.

“The official cause of death is still murder,” I remind her.

“It isn’t a perfect world, Mike. They’ll be fighting with the insurance company until hell freezes over, anyway.”

“I still don’t get it. Why do you hate them so? Even Bob—you put up with him for more than twenty years. I know he treated you like dirt, but murder? Even to protect Jenny’s share of the trust, how could that justify killing him in cold blood?”

“It wasn’t the money, Mike. I couldn’t kill for money. You should know that. It’s Jenny.”

“Jenny?”

“Bob was sleeping with her, Mike.”

Dear God. A married man more than twice her age preying on the daughter of his secretary. Bob was an even fouler bastard than I thought. But I still find myself thinking why the leap to murder?

She’s crying now. “I begged him to stop. I begged him over and over, and he refused.” I can hardly hear her for the sobs. “Oh, Mike, I had to, don’t you see? He was Jenny’s father.”

What the hell? “Did he know?”

“Of course he knew. From the very beginning. That’s why he left all that money in the trust for her.”

“And Jenny?”

“I never told her. I didn’t think she had to know.” She’s trying to pull herself together. She takes a deep breath. “I asked him to stop, and he wouldn’t. He was infatuated. He wouldn’t even acknowledge he was doing anything wrong. My God, I even went to Art Patton. He wouldn’t believe me. He said I was making it all up. I got so furious I threatened him. I said I’d reveal things that would bring down the whole damn firm—and he . . . he sneered at me, Mike, as if I was a piece of dirt. He said he’d crush me.”

She looks at me imploringly. “What was I supposed to do? What else could I do? What would you have done if it were Grace? I did what I had to do, and I’d do it again. Twenty-two years ago I made a mistake when I slept with Bob. He controlled my life. I wasn’t going to let him control Jenny’s. Destroy it. No way. So I did it.”

I realize Jenny was the new girlfriend that Bob talked about, the woman Beth’s investigator had seen at the Fairmont. I know why now, and I feel sick. We stare into the backyard and hear the joyous voices of the party behind us.

“You going to turn me in?” Doris asks.

I’m prepared to shred my state bar card right now and lose my license. But I won’t. “Nope. You’re a client. I can’t do it.”

“Thanks, Mikey.”

* * *

“What are you thinking about?” Rosie asks.

At eleven o’clock the same night, Rosie and I are sipping champagne on her back porch in Larkspur. Naomi gave us a bottle as we were leaving. I glance at the full moon.

“Nothing, Rosie.”

“You’re a lousy liar.”

“Sometimes the legal system just sucks everything out of you. And sometimes, it just sucks.”

She smiles at me. “Don’t beat yourself up on this one. Your client is free. He didn’t do it, and now he’s back home with his kids. What’s so bad about that?”

“Nothing, I guess. I’ll probably get to fulfill my lifelong dream of being the first lawyer to grace the cover of a Wheaties box.”

I get a chuckle. “You’re upset, though.”

“It’s the way I’m drawn.”

“Why do you always do this to yourself? The system got the right result this time. That’s not so bad. Half the time it puts away the good guys or sets the bad guys free. This isn’t figure skating. You don’t get style points. Your client ended up in the right place. So for once in your life, take what you can and enjoy it.”

“Okay, Rosie. But just for tonight. Tomorrow I get to go back and be my usual guilt-ridden, tortured self.”

“It’s a deal.” She drinks her champagne. “There’s more to all of this than you’re telling me, isn’t there?”

I remain silent.

“He didn’t do it, did he?”

“He didn’t do it. That’s all there is to it.”

“It wasn’t a suicide, was it?”

“I’m not talking.”

“What’s it going to take to get it out of you?”

“I’m not talking.”

“I can be very persuasive.”

“I know.”

“Let’s try this. I’d like you to become a full partner in the firm.”

“Sounds pretty good so far. I’ll have my people talk to your people and we can set up a meeting to discuss terms.” We can use the settlement agreement from our divorce as the model form for our partnership agreement.

“Good. Oh, by the way, matrimony is out of the question in these negotiations.”

“Absolutely.”

“Now that we’re partners, everything you say to me is completely confidential within the confines of our firm.”

“I like the sound of that. Our firm.”

“I thought you would. It’s what we should have done from the start.”

“I know.”

“Now, about your little secret.”

Well, you see, Rosie, my former secretary—the one I’ve been trying to get to come to work for me—murdered two people in cold blood, and is going to get away with it—scot-free. She probably had a good reason to kill Bob, but she killed Diana just because she was in the wrong place at the wrong time. But, hey, don’t worry—she hasn’t killed anybody else in the last four months, and she promised me—pinky swear—that she’d never do it again.

“It’s going to take more than a partnership to get it out of me.”

“What did you have in mind?” She pours the rest of her champagne into my empty glass.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re trying to get me drunk and take advantage of me.”

“You could say that.”

Her dark brown eyes reflect the moonlight. I remove the elastic band that holds her hair in a tight ponytail. I pull her close. “Where’s Grace?”

She kisses me softly on the mouth. Her warm breath smells of champagne. “Staying with her grandmother.”

I smile. “Well, a second ago you said that for tonight, I should just take what I can and enjoy the moment.”

“After all, you won your big case, but you didn’t get your trip to Disneyland.” She begins to unfasten the buttons on my shirt. “I’ve got another trip in mind.”

“Is there a technical legal term for this?”

“Yes. Victory sex.”

“Victory sex. It has a nice ring to it.”

THE END

Thank you

Note to Readers from Sheldon Siegel.

Dear Reader:

Thanks very much for reading this story. I hope you enjoyed it and will check out my other books featuring Mike Daley and Rosie Fernandez. I’ve grown quite fond of them. They may seem like fictional characters to you, but they’re real to me (although I try not to talk to my imaginary friends when I’m at the office). I also have a standalone book, The Terrorist Next Door, set in my hometown of Chicago (had to write at least one for my mom!)

If you have questions or thoughts about my books, please let me know. I would love to hear from you. In addition, I would appreciate it if you would let others know. In particular, I would be very grateful if you would tell your friends and help us spread the word by e-mail, Amazon, Facebook, Goodreads, Twitter, Linkedin, etc. In addition, if you are inclined (and I hope you are), please consider posting an honest review on Amazon.

Finally, if you have a chance and would like to chat, please feel free to e-mail me at www.sheldonsiegel.com. As a lawyer, I don’t get a lot of fan mail, so it’s always nice to hear from my readers. Please bear with me if I don’t respond immediately. I answer all of my e-mail myself, so sometimes it takes a little extra time.

Thanks and regards,

Sheldon

About the Author

Sheldon Siegel is the New York Times best-selling author of seven critically acclaimed legal thrillers featuring San Francisco criminal defense attorneys Mike Daley and Rosie Fernandez, two of the most beloved characters in contemporary crime fiction. He is also the author of the thriller novel The Terrorist Next Door featuring Chicago homicide detectives David Gold and A.C. Battle. His books have been translated into a dozen languages and sold millions of copies worldwide. A native of Chicago, Sheldon earned his undergraduate degree from the University of Illinois in Champaign in 1980, and his law degree from the Boalt Hall School of Law at the University of California-Berkeley in 1983. He specializes in corporate and securities law with the San Francisco office of the international law firm of Sheppard, Mullin, Richter & Hampton LLP.

Sheldon began writing his first book, Special Circumstances, on a laptop computer during his daily commute on the ferry from Marin County to San Francisco. A frequent speaker and sought-after teacher, Sheldon is a San Francisco Library Literary Laureate, a member of the national Board of Directors and the President of the Northern California chapter of the Mystery Writers of America, and an active member of the International Thriller Writers and Sisters in Crime. His work has been displayed at the Doe Library at the University of California at Berkeley, and he has been recognized as a Distinguished Alumnus of the University of Illinois and a Northern California Super Lawyer.

Sheldon lives in the San Francisco area with his wife, Linda, and their twin sons, Alan and Stephen. He is a lifelong fan of the Chicago Bears, White Sox, Bulls and Blackhawks. He is currently working on his ninth novel.

Sheldon welcomes your comments and feedback. Please email him at sheldon@sheldonsiegel.com. For more information on Sheldon, book signings, the “making of” his books, and more, please visit his website at www.sheldonsiegel.com.

Acknowledgments

During the day, I’m a corporate and securities lawyer. When I began to write a book about a murder trial, I realized that I needed a lot of help. I’m very lucky that I know many wonderful and generous people. I have to say a lot of thank-you’s, so you’ll have to bear with me.

To my extraordinary editor, Ann Harris. Your thoughtful work and dedication helped make this book a lot better than the draft that found its way to your in-box. Thanks very much.

To Margret McBride, the finest literary agent in the business, and the gang at the Margret McBride Literary Agency: Kris Sauer, Donna DeGutis, Sangeeta Mehta, Rachel Petrella and Faye Atchison. Thanks for all your hard work. You’ve made my life a lot easier. Special thanks to my colleague, Chris Neils, who introduced me to Margret.

To my generous and talented writing instructors, Katherine V. Forrest and Michael Nava. This book simply would not have happened without you.

To the Every Other Thursday Night Writers’ Group: Bonnie DeClark, Priscilla Royal, Gerry Klor, Meg Stiefvater, Kris Brandenburger, Anne Maczulak, Liz Hartka and Janet Wallace. I’ll look forward to seeing your work in bookstores in the very near future.

To criminal defense attorney David Nickerson, who helped me figure out the ins and outs of criminal procedure. If you ever get in trouble, David’s your man.

To Inspector Sergeant Thomas Eisenmann and Officer Jeff Roth of the San Francisco Police Department, who helped me with police procedural issues. If Tom or Jeff arrests you, not even David will be able to get you off.

To Dr. Gary Goldstein and Dr. Dan Scodary, who taught me about the anatomy of the human brain. If you ever get sick, they’re your guys.

To my friends and colleagues at Sheppard, Mullin, Richter & Hampton LLP, who have been wonderfully supportive of my literary efforts, and who have relaxed the firm’s stringent billable-hour requirements from time to time so that I could meet my publishing deadlines. I am proud to work with you, and I’m glad you’re my friends. Unlike some of the lawyers portrayed in this book, you embody all of the ideals that are honorable about our profession. In particular, my heartfelt thanks to Randy Short, Bob Thompson, Joan Story, Lori Wider, Becky Hlebasko, Donna Andrews, Phil Atkins-Pattenson, Julie Ebert, Geri Freeman, Kristen Jensen, Tom Counts, Ted Lindquist, Bill Manierre, Betsy McDaniel, John Murphy, Tom Nevins, John Pernick, Joe Petrillo, Maria Pracher, Ted Russell, Rick Runkel, Ron Ryland, John Sears, Mark Slater, Bill Wyatt, Bob Zuber, Aline Pearl, Terry Meeker, Kathleen Shugar, Sue Lenzi, Nancy Posadas and Donna Luksan. Special thanks to my secretary, Cheryl Holmes, who read every word of this book, helped me scout locations in San Francisco, and has put up with me every day for more years than either of us cares to admit. Thanks also to Jane Gorsi for her incomparable editing skills.

To my friends who read early versions of this manuscript, who (as we lawyers are fond of saying) include, without limitation, Rex Beach, Jerry and Dena Wald, Gary and Marla Goldstein, Ron and Betsy Rooth, Alvin and Charlene Saper, Angele Nagy, Polly Dinkel and David Baer, Jean Ryan, Sally Rau, Bill Mandel, Dave and Evie Duncan, Jill Hutchinson and Chuck Odenthal, Tom Bearrows and Holly Hirst, David and Petrita Lipkin, Pamela Swartz, Cori Stockman, Allan Zackler, Ted George, Nevins McBride, and Al and Marcia Shainsky. Special thanks to Maurice Ash, who quietly sat next to me on the Larkspur ferry for the better part of two years while I composed on my laptop.

Thanks to Charlotte, Ben, Michelle, Margie and Andy Siegel, Ilene Garber, Joe, Jan and Julia Garber, Terry Garber, Jan Harris Sandler and Matz Sandler, Scott, Michelle, Stephanie, Kimmie and Sophie Harris, Cathy, Richard and Matt Falco, and Julie Harris and Matthew, Aiden and Ari Stewart. Family matters.

Finally, thanks to my wonderful, beautiful, supportive wife, Linda, the love of my life, my soul mate and best friend, who reminds me every day that extraordinary things can happen when you believe in yourself. I’ll love you forever and ever. And thanks for buying me the computer.

Last, thanks to the joys of our lives, our twin sons, Alan and Stephen, who were very understanding when Daddy had to stay up late or miss a few days of vacation to edit his book. You make every day a celebration. And thanks for letting me use the computer.

Books by Sheldon Siegel

Mike Daley and Rosie Fernandez Mysteries:

Special Circumstances

Incriminating Evidence

Criminal Intent

Final Verdict

The Confession

Judgment Day

Perfect Alibi

David Gold Mysteries:

The Terrorist Next Door

Connect with Sheldon Siegel

Email:  sheldon@sheldonsiegel.com

Website: www.sheldonsiegel.com

Amazon: Author Page

Facebook: Facebook Fan Page

Twitter: @SheldonSiegel

Goodreads:  Author Profile

Buying Time

BUYING TIME

By

Pamela Samuels Young

Books by Pamela Samuels Young

___________________________

Vernetta Henderson Mysteries

Every Reasonable Doubt (1st in series)

In Firm Pursuit (2nd in series)

Murder on the Down Low (3rd in series)

Attorney-Client Privilege (4th in series)

Angela Evans Mysteries

Buying Time (1st in series)

Anybody’s Daughter (2nd in series)

Short Stories

The Setup

Easy Money

Non-Fiction

Kinky Coily: A Natural Hair Resource Guide

Buying Time

Goldman House Publishing

ISBN 9780981562711

© 2009 by Pamela Samuels Young

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted or used in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means now known or hereafter invented, including, but not limited to, xerography, photocopying and recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the express written permission of Goldman House Publishing.

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, dialogue, incidents and places, except for incidental references to public figures, products or services, are the product of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. No character in this book is based on an actual person. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental and unintentional. The author and publisher have made every effort to ensure the accuracy and completeness of the information contained in this book and assume no responsibility for any errors, inaccuracies, omissions, or inconsistencies contained herein.

For information about special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact the author or Goldman House Publishing.

Goldman House Publishing

P.O. Box 6029-117

Artesia, CA 90702

www.goldmanhousepublishing.com

www.pamelasamuelsyoung.com

Cover design by Marion Designs

Printed in U.S.A.

For Ellen Farrell,

Thanks for being such a great

colleague, supporter and friend.

Prologue

VERONIKA Myers tried to convince them, but no one would listen. Her suspicions, they said, were simply a byproduct of her grief.

Each time she broached the subject with her brother, Jason, he walked out of the room. Darlene, her best friend, suggested a girls’ night out with some heavy drinking. Aunt Flo urged her to spend more time in prayer.

Veronika knew she was wasting her time with this woman, too, but couldn’t help herself.

“My mother was murdered,” Veronika told the funeral home attendant. “But nobody believes it.”

The plump redhead with too much eye shadow glanced down at the papers on her desk, then looked up. “It says here that your mother died in the hospital. From brain cancer.”

“That’s not true,” Veronika snapped, her response a little too sharp and a tad too loud.

Yes, her mother had brain cancer, but she wasn’t on her deathbed. Not yet. They had just spent a long afternoon together, laughing and talking and watching All My Children. Veronika could not, and would not accept that the most important person in her life had suddenly died. She knew what everyone else refused to believe. Her mother had been murdered.

“Did they conduct an autopsy?” the woman asked.

Veronika sighed and looked away. There had been no autopsy because everyone dismissed her as a grief-stricken lunatic. When she reported the murder to the police, a disinterested cop dutifully took her statement, but she could tell that nothing would come of it. Without any solid evidence, she was wasting everyone’s time, including her own.

“No,” Veronika said. “There wasn’t an autopsy.”

The funeral home attendant smiled sympathetically.

Veronika let out a long, slow breath, overwhelmed by the futility of what she was trying to prove. “Never mind,” she said. “What else do you need me to sign?”

Later that night, Veronika lay in bed, drained from another marathon crying session. She rummaged through the nightstand, retrieved a bottle of sleeping pills and popped two into her mouth. She tried to swallow them dry, but her throat was too sore from all the crying.

Tears pooled in her eyes as she headed to the kitchen for a glass of water. “Don’t worry, Mama,” Veronika sniffed. “I won’t let them get away with it.”

Just as she reached the end of the hallway, a heavy gloved hand clamped down hard across her mouth as her arms were pinned behind her back. Fear instantly hurled her into action. Veronika tried to scream, but the big hand reduced her shriek to a muffle. She frantically kicked and wrestled and twisted her body, trying to break free. Her attacker’s grip, however, would not yield.

When she felt her body being lifted off the ground and carried back down the hallway, she realized there were two of them and her terror level intensified. But so did her survival instinct. She continued to wildly swing her legs backward and forward, up and down, right and left, eventually striking what felt like a leg, then a stomach.

As they crossed the threshold of her bedroom, she heard a loud, painful moan that told her she had likely connected with the groin of one of her assailants.

“Cut it out!” said a husky, male voice. “Hurry up!” he ordered his partner. “Grab her legs!”

The men dumped her face down onto the bed, her arms still restrained behind her back. The big hand slipped from her mouth and Veronika’s first cry escaped, but was quickly muted when a much heavier hand gripped the back of her neck and pressed her face into the comforter.

Fearing her attackers were going to rape, then kill her, Veronika defiantly arched her back and tried to roll her body into a tight ball. At only 130 pounds, she was no physical match for her assailants. They easily overpowered her, forcing her back into a prone position. As one man sat on her upper legs, strapping her left arm to her side, the other man bent her right arm at the elbow and guided her hand up toward her forehead.

During the deepest period of her grief, Veronika had longed to join her mother. But now that she was face-to-face with the possibility of death, she fought valiantly for life.

That changed, however, the second Veronika felt something cold and hard connect with her right temple. She stiffened as one of the men grabbed her fingers and wrapped them around the butt of a gun. At that precise instant, Veronika knew with certainty that her suspicions were indeed fact. Her mother had been murdered and now the same killers had come to silence her before she could expose the truth. And just like her mother’s death, her own murder would go undetected, dismissed as the suicide of a grieving daughter. A conclusion no one would question.

As the man placed his hand on top of hers and prepared to pull the trigger, a miraculous, power-infused sensation snuffed out what was left of Veronika’s fear, causing her body to go limp. The heavy pounding of her heart slowed to a barely detectable level and she felt light enough to float away.

Completely relaxed now, Veronika closed her eyes, said a short prayer, and waited for a glorious reunion with her mother.

Part One

When All You Have Is Hope

Chapter 1

LAWYERS get a bad rap. Strip away the arrogance, the greed and the half-truths, and you’ll find a decent human being underneath. That’s exactly how Waverly Sloan saw himself. A decent guy who’d screwed up.

Waverly pulled his battered BMW into the parking stall outside his Culver City townhouse and turned off the engine. He dreaded going inside. All the way home, he imagined his wife’s face contorting in horror in reaction to the news he was about to deliver.

He closed his eyes and rehearsed the spiel in his head. I’m about to be disbarred, he would tell her. So, you’ll have to stop teaching Pilates three days a week and get a real job.

Waverly exited the car and climbed the short flight of stairs to their unit. He was a large, solidly built man with skin the color of honey. Borderline handsome, his lopsided smile was the primary source of his appeal. It compelled people to like him.

“You’re home early,” Deidra called out the second he opened the front door.

Waverly found her in the kitchen, poised over a cutting board chopping carrots and bell peppers. He dumped his keys on the counter, walked up behind her and swallowed her up in a bear hug. “I’m home early because I couldn’t stand being away from you for another second.”

Deidra reared back to peck him on the lips, then returned to her chopping.

Resting against the center island, Waverly folded his arms and stared at his wife. At thirty-seven—five years his junior—Deidra had the tight, voluptuous body of a highly compensated stripper. She had creamy brown skin and long, auburn hair that fell past her shoulders. After two years of marriage, Waverly still had no idea what her real hair looked like underneath the five-hundred dollar weave.

“Is everything okay?” Deidra glanced back at him over her shoulder.

His wife had good instincts, at least about him. Waverly eyed the knife in her hand. He had a mental image of Deidra accidentally chopping off a finger when she heard what he had to say.

“I love you,” Waverly said, not in an effort to sidestep her question, but because it was what he truly felt.

“Ditto.” She smiled, then waited.

Waverly had wanted Deidra from the moment he spotted her walking out of a store on Rodeo Drive loaded with shopping bags. Instinct told him there was little chance that a woman like her would give a guy like him a second glance. He was only in Beverly Hills for a meeting with an opposing counsel. Risk-taker that he was, Waverly turned on his charm and it worked. Too bad that same skill couldn’t get him out of his current fix.

He took a bottle of Chardonnay from the refrigerator and poured a glass for each of them. “What if I decided not to practice law anymore?” he began.

The pace of Deidra’s chopping slowed. “I thought you liked being a lawyer.” She placed the knife on the counter and turned to face him. “What would you do instead?”

He shrugged and cleared his throat. “I’ve been thinking about insurance investments.”

Deidra put a hand on her hip. “Insurance? Can you make any real money from that?”

Waverly shrugged again. “I hope to find out.”

According to a guy he’d met at a legal conference, he could make a bundle in the viatical business. Waverly had no idea what a viatical was, only that it had something to do with insurance. He had an appointment to talk with the guy in a couple of days.

He could tell that his wife wasn’t happy about his possible change of professions. The men in Deidra’s life before him had given her whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted it. Now, Waverly worked hard to do the same, often placating her with promises of better things to come. Deidra enjoyed the prestige of being a lawyer’s wife and was banking on Waverly eventually landing a case that propelled them to the big leagues.

“This doesn’t mean we’ll have to put off moving, does it?” Deidra asked.

Waverly had promised that she could start house shopping as soon as his next case settled. But even if he saved every dime he made for the next forty years, he still wouldn’t be able to afford the gated communities where Deidra wanted to relocate.

“Maybe,” he said.

She was about to complain, but apparently noticed the angst on his face and retreated.

Waverly took a sip of wine and debated delaying his planned conversation with Deidra until he was absolutely certain about his situation. The written decision from the State Bar Court could arrive any day now. There was a slim chance that he might be hit with a suspension rather than disbarment. He’d hired Kitty Mancuso, a sixty-plus powerhouse mouthpiece whose client base consisted exclusively of rich, white-collar criminals and lawyers who’d screwed up. If anybody could save the day, it was Kitty.

“I’m going to put on my sweats,” Waverly said, wimping out. “How long before dinner’s ready?”

“Not sweats,” Deidra replied. “Find some nice slacks. They’ll be here at six.”

“They who?”

Deidra looked away, sheepishly. “Mom, Dad and Rachel. Didn’t I tell you?”

No, she had not. If she had, he would have faked a migraine. “Uh, I just remembered a motion I forgot to file.”

Deidra narrowed her eyes and playfully pointed the knife inches from his nose. “Don’t even think about it.”

By the time their dinner guests arrived, Waverly was seated in the den, insufficiently buzzed and ready for the show. Watching his wife’s dysfunctional family was better than reality TV.

Leon Barrett, Deidra’s pint-size father, strutted in and gave her a kiss on the cheek. He waited about three beats, then started boasting about his new sixty-inch flat screen. Rachel, Deidra’s older sister, showed off a diamond bracelet a new boyfriend supposedly gave her. Waverly suspected she’d bought it herself.

Leon spotted Waverly sitting in the den and made a beeline in his direction.

“How’s the law business these days, counselor?” Leon’s thumbs hung from his belt loops like a cowboy and he rocked back and forth from heel to toe.

Waverly didn’t bother to stand. “I’m making it.”

Leon walked over to the sliding glass door and surveyed their small patio. Waverly wondered what he would criticize first.

“So, when are you two going to give up this place for a real home?” Leon joked.

Instead of answering, Waverly reached for his wineglass and took another sip. The thought of Leon Barrett finding out that he’d been disbarred made him want to puke.

“They’re building some new homes in The Estates,” Leon continued. He always referred to Palos Verdes Estates as The Estates. Waverly figured he’d moved there just so people would think he lived on an estate.

“If you’d bought over there when I told you to, you’d have nothing but money in the bank.” Leon owned a small construction firm that had done well, in part, because he was a major tightwad.

The wine was doing nothing to reduce Waverly’s irritation level. Too bad his own father was dead and gone. Henry Sloan wouldn’t have just thought about telling Leon Barrett to kiss his ass, he would have done it.

The evening plodded painfully along as it always did. Deidra’s father and sister talked about themselves nonstop while Deidra’s mother, Myrtle, smiled and nodded like a big bobble head.

“I have to go to Paris at the end of the week to interview a bunch of obnoxious designers,” Rachel said, feigning annoyance. She was a fashion editor for Vogue. Like her sister, Rachel was a good-looking woman, but she lacked Deidra’s talent for capitalizing on her beauty.

“I hate you,” Deidra exclaimed. “I’ve been dying to go back to Paris.”

“Why don’t you come with me?” Rachel prodded. “I’ll be there three weeks. It’ll be fun.”

Deidra gave Waverly a hopeful look.

Having Deidra out of town for a few weeks would give him time to get a backup plan in place. But the funds for a ticket to Paris didn’t exist. His face must’ve conveyed that.

“If you can’t afford it,” Leon said, facetiously. “I’d be glad to pick up the tab.”

Waverly smiled across the table at his father-in-law. “That’s a very generous offer.” He paused to take a sip of wine. “And we’d love to take you up on it.”

A razor-sharp silence whipped around the table. No one was more dazed than his blowhard father-in-law. Leon Barrett frequently offered to share his money, but never actually parted with any. Waverly thought the man might swallow his toothpick. Deidra shot Waverly a look hot enough to scorch his eyeballs, but he pretended not to notice.

Pleased with what he had just pulled off, Waverly got up and retrieved another bottle of wine from the wine rack.

The minute her family walked out of the door, Deidra went off.

“What in the hell was that about?” she shouted. “How dare you let Daddy pay for my trip?”

Waverly headed back to the den with Deidra on his heels. “Well, he did offer.”

“He’s offered to pay for a lot of things, and you’ve always refused. Are we having money problems? Because if we are, I need to know.”

“Cases have been a little slow coming in, that’s all.”

“So slow that you can’t come up with four or five grand for a trip to Paris?”

Four or five grand? He wanted to laugh. “Look, I’m working everything out. Just give me some time.”

“Well, you better figure something out fast because this is not what I signed up for. We were only supposed to be living here for a few months and it’s been two years. I’ve never lived in a place this small before, but I did it for you.”

Small? Their townhouse was more than two thousand square feet.

“And now you’re telling me that we’re basically bankrupt.”

“We’re not bankrupt.” Not yet.

“If we can’t blow a few grand on a vacation, that’s bankruptcy as far as I’m concerned,” Deidra barked. “And please don’t embarrass me in front of my family like that ever again. If we’re having money problems, I should know about it before they do.” Deidra stalked out of the kitchen.

Waverly opened the cabinet over the bar, grabbed a fifth of brandy and took a swig straight from the bottle. His wife’s little tantrum was really uncalled for. But what the hell? He had never expected to keep a woman like Deidra happy forever.

Too bad he hadn’t listened to his father. After divorcing his third wife, Henry Sloan swore off pretty women. Way too much work, he’d told his son. Find yourself a basic broad and she’ll ride with you until the wheels fall off.

Waverly chuckled to himself. Right now, he could use a woman who could hang, because the ride was about to get rocky.

Chapter 2

ASSISTANT U.S. Attorney Angela Evans entered a conference room on the eleventh floor of the federal courthouse on Spring Street and slapped a thick stack of papers on the table. The rest of the newly formed task force was already assembled.

“Hey, Angela, what are you trying to do, blind us?” Zack Hargrove, another AUSA, pretended to shield his eyes with his forearm. “How about turning down the wattage on your ring finger.”

The entire team—Zack, a paralegal, two case agents, and a junior attorney—erupted in laughter.

“Alright everybody, that’s enough.” Angela pretended to laugh along with them. “This is really getting old.” Her five-carat, princess-cut diamond was still the butt of jokes, even though she’d been wearing it for almost six months. Would it ever stop?

She actually considered the ring embarrassingly pretentious, but her fiancé, Judge Cornell L. Waters, III, was all about the show. So, she quietly concealed her disdain and responded to his proposal with a soft yes, when she was actually thinking, I’m not so sure.

“So, where’s my wedding invitation?” Zack asked, refusing to lay off.

A pretty boy with blue-green eyes and well-moussed blonde hair, Zack enjoyed being the center of attention. As usual, his Ralph Lauren suit and Italian shoes made him look more like a big firm partner than a government lawyer.

Angela winked at him. “It’s in the mail.”

She took a seat at the head of the table with a confidence gained from nearly a decade of putting criminals behind bars. First as a deputy district attorney and now with the U.S. Attorney’s office. Tough, smart and passionate in her professional life, her personal life was another story.

“Let’s get started.” Angela’s hair was a crinkly mass of natural curls that resembled a limp afro from a distance. Her narrow face and wide brown eyes were striking enough to grace the cover of a fashion magazine.

She eyed the box of Krispy Kreme donuts in the center of the table. It wasn’t even two o’clock yet and she only had nine Weight Watcher points left for the day. One donut would wipe out seven of them. Maybe stuffing her face with donuts was the easiest way out. Sorry, couldn’t shed the twenty pounds. Have to call off the wedding since I can’t find a dress that fits.

Angela directed her attention to Tyler Chen, who’d just joined the U.S. Attorney’s office after three years at Gibson, Dunn & Crutcher. “Tell us what you found out.”

“The U.S. Attorney’s offices in Nevada, New York and Florida are close to returning indictments against a company called The Tustin Group,” Tyler began. “The company is pressuring terminally ill people to sell their insurance policies.”

“Sell them?” asked Salina Melendez, a paralegal who was attending Southwestern Law School at night. “Who would buy somebody’s insurance policy?”

“An investor,” Tyler said. “It’s called a viatical settlement and it’s sort of like a reverse mortgage. Except these companies trade in people, not property.”

Angela nodded. “Say, for example, you’re dying and you’ve got a policy worth a hundred grand,” she explained. “A viatical broker will go out and find somebody willing to pay you a portion of the face value. All you have to do is name the investor as your beneficiary. After you die, the investor collects the full value.”

“Six months ago,” Tyler continued, “one of The Tustin Group’s principals began operating in California under the name Live Now, Inc. It stands to reason that if they’re pressuring people in the other states, they’re probably doing the same thing here. Main Justice wants to make this a four-state indictment.”

“Sounds like a sad way to make a buck,” said Jon Rossi, a case agent with the U.S. Postal Inspection Service. He was a forty-plus, rail thin, vintage car enthusiast. The AUSAs always worked their cases with agents from one of the federal law enforcement agencies, such as the FBI or DEA. “But then again, if the people are dying and need the money, maybe it’s a good thing.”

“It would be if Live Now was playing it by the book,” Angela replied. “But they’re targeting people too sick to know what they’re signing and convincing them to take peanuts for their insurance policies. Once we catch them in the act, it won’t be hard to get an indictment.”

Criminals didn’t realize that no matter what the offense, the feds could usually nail them on mail, wire and internet fraud charges since they routinely used these methods of communication to further their fraudulent operations.

“I wish this case had more pizzazz,” Zack sulked.

Angela ignored the comment. Zack was still put out that she had been selected to head up the task force even though he had a few more years of practice.

“Any complaints filed yet against Live Now?” asked Jon.

“So far, just one.” Angela pulled a document from the stack of papers in front of her. “It’s actually a little strange. The daughter of a woman who sold her policy through Live Now claims her mother was murdered and thinks the viatical broker or the investor are responsible. Says they killed her to get a faster return on their investment.”

Zack had been staring off into space, but immediately perked up. “How did the woman die?”

Angela perused the complaint. “She had brain cancer. The hospital where she died found no evidence of foul play.”

“It wouldn’t be in the hospital’s interest to find any,” Salina said.

Zack’s face blazed with interest. “That would certainly be a clever racket,” he mused. “Invest in the policy, then kill the policyholder. The police wouldn’t waste much time looking into the death of somebody who was already dying. So, are we investigating that angle, too?”

Zack the Hack, as everyone called him behind his back, was always on the hunt for a high-profile case that might evolve into a highly paid talking-head job. He actually told people he was going to be the next Anderson Cooper.

“Murder is the D.A.’s jurisdiction, not ours,” Angela said. “Besides, the police don’t buy the daughter’s theory and there’s been no evidence of anything like that going on in the other states.”

“It might not hurt to talk to the woman,” Zack pushed. “We may find some information that could strengthen our case.”

Angela pursed her lips in frustration. Maybe appeasing Zack on this would make him more cooperative down the line.

“Salina, why don’t you talk to the woman over the phone? See if you think there’s anything to her allegations. If there is, I’d like you and Jon to interview her in person.” Angela slid a folder across the table. “Her name is Veronika Myers. Here’s a copy of her complaint.”

“I’m on it,” Salina said.

Angela handed out a three-page document to the team. “We have a lot of work to do over the next few weeks. This memo lays out everyone’s role. We received the go-ahead to stage a sting operation.”

“So, how’s the sting going to work?” Salina asked. “Is somebody going to go undercover as a terminally ill patient and see if they get the screws put to ‘em?”

“That’s exactly how it’s going to work,” Angela said.

Jon smiled. “Sounds like fun.”

“Glad you feel that way because I think you’d be the perfect undercover patient.”

“Hold on.” Zack turned to Rob, the case agent sitting to his left. “I think Rob could also do a pretty good job.”

A smile masked Angela’s true feelings. She hadn’t selected Rob for the job because he was way too passive. He hadn’t even opened his mouth during the entire meeting. On top of that, he was basically Zack’s puppet. If he were the undercover plant, Zack would effectively control the investigation.

“Jon has more experience doing undercover work than anybody else in this room,” Angela said. “He just helped snag two big-time drug dealers.”

“Rob’s had his share of undercover cases, too.” Zack gave him a fatherly pat on the back.

Rob, in turn, looked admiringly at Jon. “Not nearly as many as Jon.”

Zack’s face reddened and he glared at Rob.

“Then it’s settled,” Angela replied with glee. “Jon’s our guy. Now, we need a name for our task force. Any ideas?”

“I’m way ahead of you.” Jon paused for dramatic effect. “Operation Death Scam.”

They all groaned in unison.

“Too depressing,” Angela said.

“It should be depressing,” Jon protested. “It’s a depressing business.”

“How about Operation Buying Time? Tyler offered. “That’s really what these people are trying to do. Many of them use the money for experimental medical treatments in hopes of extending their lives.”

They all paused to mull over the suggestion.

“Too bland,” Zack said. “We need something with some real punch to it.”

“I like it,” Angela said, overruling him. “Operation Buying Time it is.”

Zack muttered something under his breath as Angela dismissed the team.

“Who wants to join my pool?” Zack asked, as everyone headed out. “I’m taking bets on who the President’s going to name as our new boss.”

Six weeks ago, U.S. Attorney General Stanley Harrison was caught leaving a penthouse suite on the Vegas strip with a high-priced call girl. If he hadn’t paid for the room with his government credit card, he might still have a job.

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear you propose illegal betting in the workplace,” Angela chided him.

“Aw, lighten up,” Zack replied. “You can be such a killjoy sometimes.”

Angela gathered the rest of her papers and headed back to her office. While Zack’s bravado often got on her nerves, she otherwise liked working with him. He was smart, tenacious and had good instincts. But as the lead attorney, she’d probably have to spend as much time containing Zack’s ego as she did managing the case.

Considering the fragile state of her personal life, she didn’t need the added hassle of any headaches from Zack Hargrove.

Chapter 3

“YES, Mr. President. Of course, Mr. President. Thank you, Mr. President.”

Lawrence Erickson squeezed the telephone receiver and struggled to keep his emotions in check. A tall, athletic man in his late fifties, Erickson’s light blue eyes accented sandy hair badly thinning near the crown.

As he stood behind his desk, talking to the President—the President of the friggin’ United States of America—he grinned down at his law partner, Roland Becker, seated in front of him. President Richard Bancroft had just informed Erickson that he was among the final candidates being considered to fill the recently vacated job of U.S. Attorney General. Was he interested?

Hell, yes, Erickson had wanted to say. After a few more thank yous, he hung up the phone.

“You knew I was getting that call!” Erickson sputtered, grinning down at his friend. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“And miss that shit-eating grin on your face. No way.” Becker stood and gave his friend and mentor a hug. “Anyway, I was sworn to secrecy. If I told you, I would’ve had to kill you.”

Shortly after the debacle that led to Stanley Harrison’s resignation, a White House staffer notified Erickson that he was being considered for the job. Erickson had assumed, however, that he was a long shot.

A former assistant U.S. attorney in the Southern District of New York, Erickson had gained a name for himself by prosecuting high-stakes corporate fraud cases. After joining Jankowski, Parkins, Gregorio & Hall, one of the most powerful law firms in the country, Erickson narrowed his practice to complex antitrust cases. His multimillion-dollar verdicts were a testament to his excellent courtroom skills. Few knew, however, that this hugely successful attorney harbored deep personal insecurities.

“According to the President, I’m on the short list.” Erickson was literally beaming.

“Screw the short list,” Becker said. “I know for a fact that you’re their number one candidate. The job is yours.” Becker and President Bancroft’s Chief of Staff had shared an apartment in law school. That meant Becker’s information was highly reliable.

“We have to start thinking ahead,” Becker said, returning to his seat. He excelled when it came to expecting the unexpected and preparing accordingly, a skill he perfected as a Navy SEAL. Though he had only twenty years of legal practice under his belt compared to Erickson’s thirty, Becker was clearly the more strategic of the two.

“What about your situation?” Becker said. “Once the vetting process gets underway, they’ll be digging deep. Has anything changed?”

Becker’s question cast a somber cloud over their celebration. Erickson slumped into the leather chair behind his desk and studied the ceiling for several seconds. His situation was his wife, Claire Erickson. His confidante turned enemy who was dying of pancreatic cancer.

A fiercely private man, Erickson had shared only limited details of his failing marriage with his best friend. Claire had been threatening to file for divorce and to make the split as public as possible. But there was more, a lot more, that neither Becker nor anyone else needed to know. That’s how people screwed up. They talked too much to too many.

Erickson rocked back in his chair. “Claire’s pretty unpredictable these days. I’m just trying to play the dutiful husband in hopes of keeping things under wraps.”

“Is it the cancer?” Becker asked. His hard looks—pockmarked skin, sunken cheeks, and dark wavy hair—matched his aggressive litigator’s demeanor. “Is that what turned her into such a bitch?”

Erickson flinched. While the description fit, he did not like hearing his wife disparaged by somebody else. Even someone as close as Becker.

Erickson massaged the back of his neck. He wished he could blame everything on the cancer, but Claire’s actions could not be attributed to her physical condition. Though she was not of sound body, her mind was another matter.

“Our marriage was strained long before her diagnosis,” Erickson said wearily.

Becker shrugged. “These days, divorce isn’t the end of the world.”

“True,” Erickson said. “But like I said, this won’t be a quiet split. If Claire decided to call the L.A. Times and spread the lies she’s been threatening me with, Stanley Harrison and his hooker girlfriend would be reduced to a one-inch story on page twenty by comparison.”

Becker’s eyes expanded in surprise.

“Hey, hold on a minute.” Erickson raised his hand, palm out. “The only mistress I have is my career and that’s the one Claire wants to destroy.”

“As we’ve discussed before, there are ways to keep her quiet.” Becker fired a sinister look across the desk. “Permanently.”

The room fell strangely silent.

After one too many drinks, Erickson had recently spoke in jest of wanting to dispose of his wife. Was Becker really serious? “What do you mean?” he asked.

“You know exactly what I mean.” Becker’s face showed no emotion as the silence in the room rose to flood level.

Erickson swiveled his chair and gazed out of his office window. His friend’s words did not shock him. Becker had never liked Claire. Disloyalty among wives, Becker had said more than once, constituted grounds for the death penalty. Becker still bore battle scars from a bitter divorce in his late twenties.

Erickson tried to laugh off what his law partner seemed to be suggesting. “You know all about my fantasies, but—”

Becker’s phone vibrated. He eased it from the inside pocket of his jacket, glanced down and smiled. “Katy’s getting pretty good at text messaging. She just sent me a riddle.”

Erickson watched as Becker’s large fingers awkwardly maneuvered over the tiny buttons. It confounded Erickson that a hardcore litigator like Becker could turn so spineless when it came to his family. Who in the world had five kids under the age of ten in this day and age? Becker needed a vasectomy and his wife needed her tubes tied, then ripped out as an added safety precaution.

“Sorry about that.” Becker slipped the phone back into his pocket. “I get such a kick out of my kids.”

Too bad I don’t, Erickson thought. Becker had named him godfather of his oldest daughter, a title Erickson despised as much as the demands of the job.

“Look,” Becker continued, “we just can’t sit back and let Claire destroy this once in a lifetime opportunity.”

We. Erickson liked Becker’s word choice. The man was fiercely loyal. But Erickson needed time to fully evaluate Becker’s proposition.

“If I get the nomination,” Erickson said, changing the subject, “I guess you know what that means for you?”

Becker gripped the arms of his chair and a big grin splashed across his face. “Wow. You don’t think it’s too soon.”

Erickson looked perplexed. “Too soon? Too soon for what?”

“I assumed you were talking about my replacing you as chairman of the firm.”

Erickson laughed off the idea. “Yes, it’s way too soon for that,” he said dismissively. “I want you to be my Deputy Attorney General.”

Becker’s face flat-lined and it took a few seconds for him to respond. “I’m flattered,” he said, finally. “But, honestly, I’m not sure I could afford the pay cut. Do you know what it costs to send five kids to private school?”

“It’s only a short-term job. Think about all the national exposure.”

Becker hunched his shoulders. “For you, maybe. Name me five Deputy AGs.”

“C’mon,” Erickson pushed. “We can both take a leave of absence. Your chances of succeeding me once we return will be a lot better after all the connections you’ll make in Washington.”

Becker ran his fingers through his hair. “I’ll give it some thought. When the time is right, I’ll need to discuss it with Staci. She may not want to uproot the kids.”

“I understand,” Erickson said, though he didn’t.

In Erickson’s world, a wife’s sole responsibility was to serve in whatever capacity requested by the breadwinner. Children had no role, which was why he’d never fathered any. Claire’s disaster of a daughter had proven that decision to be a sound one. If they hadn’t shipped her off to boarding school at the age of twelve, their marriage never would have survived as long as it had.

As Becker left his office, Erickson’s thoughts drifted back to his marital problems. He didn’t just want this job, he deserved it. There was no way he was going to let some vindictive little bitch stand in his way.

Even if she happened to be his dying wife.s

Chapter 4

WAVERLY lumbered into the State Bar Court on Hill Street, his heart thudding with apprehension.

He’d received a call from Kitty Mancuso’s assistant an hour earlier. Mancuso was handling a suspension hearing and wanted to meet with him during a break. Waverly figured the court’s decision had arrived and Mancuso preferred to deliver the bad news in person. Or maybe, he prayed, the news was good and Mancuso wanted to see the ecstatic smile on his face when she told him he’d received the luckiest break of his life.

His BlackBerry vibrated as he waited for an elevator. Waverly winced when he saw his brother’s number. He only picked up to prevent Quincy from leaving yet another rambling message on his voicemail.

“What up, bruh?” Quincy said.

“Nothing much.” Waverly hoped his brother could sense that he wasn’t in the mood for pleasantries. “I’m on my way to court so we have to make this quick.”

Quincy responded with a long, practiced sigh that Waverly had heard hundreds of times before. “I’m in a jam, bruh.”

Waverly waited.

“I need a small loan.”

This was usually when Waverly complained and asked how much. This time he didn’t.

“Just five hundred. I swear I’ll pay you back. I need it to—”

“I don’t have it,” Waverly said, cutting off his brother’s plea. And if I did, you’d only use it to gamble away or score some crack.

“C’mon, bruh, I—”

“I said I don’t have it.”

Waverly thought about telling Quincy that he was about to be disbarred, but couldn’t face letting him down. Quincy didn’t have the same concern. “I’m having my own financial problems at the moment,” Waverly said.

He could almost see his brother’s stunned expression.

“It’s Deidra, ain’t it?” Quincy charged. “C’mon, bruh, don’t let your wife get between us. We’re blood.”

“I love you, man, but I’m broke.”

Waverly turned off his BlackBerry and slid it back into its case.

He stepped onto a waiting elevator and exited on the fifth floor. As he proceeded through the security checkpoint, he examined the forlorn-looking faces all around him. A thin woman in a pastel suit walked by and Waverly detected the faint scent of alcohol. At least he’d been smart enough not to show up to court buzzed.

Waverly spotted Kitty Mancuso strutting toward him. She was a short, feisty dishwater blonde who favored pink. Pink lipstick, pink nail polish, even pink pearls around her neck.

“Well,” he said as she walked up, “what’s the verdict?” He tried to sound upbeat though anxiety threatened to explode from his chest.

Mancuso’s solemn tone told Waverly everything he needed to know. “Let’s go in here.” She pointed in the direction of a small conference room.

As they both took seats, Mancuso pulled a document from her satchel and handed it to him. “The court ruled as we expected.”

Though Waverly had anticipated as much, the news still hit him like a jolt from a stun gun. He scanned the judge’s ruling.

The evidence shows that Mr. Sloan improperly retained thirty thousand dollars in settlement funds from two clients and put them to his own personal use. His conduct breached the oath he took to act ethically toward his clients at all times.

Waverly briefly glanced up at Mancuso, who gave him a look that said she wished there was something she could do. His eyes went back to the ruling.

Mr. Sloan has twice been disciplined for failing to meet obligations to his clients. In the first instance, he failed to pay a fine after the court sanctioned him in a discovery dispute. Six months later, he neglected to file a complaint after accepting a nine-thousand-dollar retainer from a client. He also allowed his malpractice insurance to lapse.

Maybe the result would have been different had he begged for the mercy of the court. I only borrowed the money, Your Honor. To pay my mortgage, the note on my wife’s Lexus and a few other household bills. I always intended to pay it back.

He turned the document face down on the table. There was no need to read more. “So what’s next?”

“That’s only the court’s tentative ruling. It has to be formally approved by the state Supreme Court before you’re actually disbarred. But that could take several weeks. So you’ll have some time to transfer your existing cases to other counsel.”

Waverly needed minutes, not weeks to wrap up his personal injury practice. He only had two active cases: a man injured in a bad motorcycle accident and a slip-and-fall in a grocery store that was about to be dismissed because his client lied during her deposition.

Waverly stood up.

“I’m sorry,” Mancuso said, sounding as if she really meant it.

Waverly thought about thanking her for her help, but changed his mind since he hadn’t really gotten any.

After leaving court, Waverly spent the next hour sulking at Nick’s, a dive with decent food and strong drinks not far from the courthouse.

It was over. After all the effort he had put into getting into Hastings Law School and staying there, he was no longer a lawyer.

Waverly pulled a folded piece of paper from his inside breast pocket and looked at the figures he had jotted down earlier that morning. He had tried to calculate how long he could pay the bills with his dwindling savings. They could survive two, maybe three months if they drastically cut back. He’d already drained all the equity out of the townhouse. Short of pawning Deidra’s jewelry, he knew of no other quick fixes.

Deidra would be leaving for Paris at the end of the week. Having her out of the way would be a big help. He’d been down before and had managed to climb out of whatever hellhole he had dug himself into. He would just climb out again.

Waverly glanced at his watch. Vincent Rivera, the guy who’d been trying to sell him on the viatical business, had called to say he was running late. Seconds after Waverly asked the waitress to bring him his third brandy, Vincent slid into the booth across from him.

“Get rid of that long face,” Vincent ordered, “because I’m about to change your life. Your days of chasing ambulances are over.” Vincent’s dark suit was practically molded to his muscular frame. He had just a hint of an accent, but Waverly wasn’t sure whether he was Italian or Hispanic.

Waverly made a loud slurping noise as he sucked on a piece of ice. “Okay, let’s hear it. What’s the scam?”

“No scam at all.” Vincent popped open his briefcase. “A company called Live Now is going to make you very, very rich, very, very fast. Did you read that brochure I sent you?”

Waverly had only perused it minutes ago while waiting for the buzz from his first drink to kick in. “Yep. You want me to go out and find dying people with hefty life insurance policies and convince them to name somebody else as their sole beneficiary in exchange for some upfront cash.”

Vincent looked as if he was offended. “Don’t make it sound so cold. Live Now is running a humanitarian business. Viatical brokers are like real estate brokers. Except they don’t sell homes, they sell hope.”

Waverly chuckled. “Now hope is something I could definitely use.” He was anxious to hear the get rich part. “So, how does the broker make money?”

“The policies are purchased through a trust. As soon as the parties sign on the dotted line, the broker gets ten percent of the face value of the policy, paid by the investor,” Victor explained. “The investor has to wait until the insured dies to get paid, but not the broker.”

Waverly took a sip of his drink. “And this is actually legit?”

“One hundred percent. Viatical settlements are actually considered securities just like stock. I’m telling you, man, this is a goldmine. If you come up with just five clients with two-hundred-thousand-dollar insurance policies, your ten percent cut is a clean one hundred grand. Most of our brokers are pulling in seven figures a year in commissions.” Vincent slid a book and a folder to Waverly’s side of the table.

Waverly picked up the book, Viatical Settlements, An Investor’s Guide, and thumbed through it. He opened the folder to find articles from the Wall Street Journal, Newsweek, The American Cancer Society, and AARP, plus a copy of Out magazine.

“Wait a minute.” Waverly glanced up. “To make any money, I’d have to find a boatload of dying folks and a bunch of rich investors. That doesn’t sound all that easy.”

“Wrong again. Live Now has investors who are itching to part with their cash and lots of leads to help you find terminally ill people.” Vincent handed him a sheet of paper.

The left side listed churches, AIDS organizations, cancer support groups, hospice facilities and senior citizen groups. Waverly pointed to a column on the right. “Who’re these people?”

“Doctors, ministers, financial planners, hospice operators and human resources managers. People who might know someone who’s terminally ill. The ten doctors listed there are cancer specialists. They’ll be your best source of referrals.”

“And why would they be willing to do that?”

Vincent winked. “A small under-the-table finder’s fee. A thousand bucks a head. We can’t solicit people directly, but there’s no problem with someone referring a client to us.”

Waverly sat more erect in his seat. This stuff was actually starting to make sense to him. The feeling of despair that he hadn’t been able to shake for started to slowly dissipate. “What are the requirements for becoming a broker?”

“You have to be licensed by the California Department of Insurance. They’re looking for ethical people. You won’t have a problem. You’ve already passed the State Bar’s ethics requirements.”

Waverly inhaled and looked away. “There’s something you should know.” He paused and took a sip of his drink. “I was disbarred today.”

Vincent slumped back in the booth. “Aw, man, that could be a real problem. They don’t want to see even a blemish of unethical conduct in your background. What happened?”

“A little misunderstanding with a client over some funds.” Waverly could tell that Vincent didn’t buy his simple explanation.

After brooding for a minute, Vincent leaned in over the table and lowered his voice. “I’m going to share something with you. As a recruiter for Live Now, I get three percent of every deal, so I’m looking for guys who’re hungry. It’s been my experience that the hungriest people have the toughest past. A guy I recruited with a fraud conviction in Nevada is my top broker in the state.”

“How did he get licensed?” Waverly asked.

“In the Vegas area, if you know people who know people, you can get practically anything done.”

“If it helps, it could be weeks before my disbarment shows up in the system. Couldn’t we just rush my application through?”

Vincent rubbed his chin. “We do have an inside contact at the Department of Insurance who might be able to help us out.” He seemed far less enthusiastic than he’d been just a few minutes ago. “It’s worth a try, but I can’t guarantee anything.”

Waverly opened the Out magazine to a page flagged with a Post-it Note. The Live Now ad showed a brawny, bare-chested generation Xer walking along the beach, a grave look on his face. Bright yellow text read: HIV doesn’t have to be a death sentence. Get thousands for your life insurance policy. Quick and strictly confidential.

Waverly wished he hadn’t drank so much. The wheels of possibility were turning so fast he felt woozy.

“You know what investors call viatical settlements?” Vincent asked.

Waverly waited without responding.

“Death Futures.”

Waverly cringed as a surge of excitement shot through him. If he could get past the licensing process, he could easily transition into this business.

“I want to make a toast.” Waverly smiled and raised his empty glass in the air. “Thanks for giving me hope.”

Chapter 5

ANGELA studied Cornell’s face as he slept. Her husband-to-be snored lightly, his mouth agape, a sliver of the whites of his eyes fully visible.

In the beginning, it bothered her that Cornell slept with his eyes open. But later on, it made complete sense. Cornell thrived on order and control. Closing his eyes, even in sleep, might cause him to miss out on something.

The orange glow from the clock radio on the nightstand read 6:29. In less than a minute, Cornell would climb from bed, exercise, shower, shave, peruse the L.A. Times online, then watch a snippet of CNN. Only then would he acknowledge her presence in his world. Cornell demanded total silence for the first forty minutes of the day. Every day.

The alarm jangled and Cornell’s hand reached out like a claw to quiet it. On autopilot now, he hurled his legs over the side of the bed and lowered himself to the floor. His fifty push-ups would be followed by three hundred sit-ups.

She watched as Cornell lowered and raised his body in perfect push-up formation, grunting with each repetition. If he could grunt, she should at least be able to say good morning.

Angela repositioned her head on the pillow and glanced down at her ring. She wished she could quiet the persistent voice in her head. Stop procrastinating. Call off the wedding.

Each time she was finally ready to back out, indecision resurfaced. An African-American woman of thirty-four didn’t have a multitude of marital options, particularly in L.A. To be honest, she liked the idea of being married to a judge. Especially one who was smart, handsome, and wanted children. For Angela, motherhood was a must. She had watched too many of her friends wait and hope until it was too late, then run off to adoption agencies or sperm banks and struggle as a single parent. Angela wanted nothing less than the traditional family unit. Two parents, two kids, a minivan and a vacation home.

She ambled out of bed and made her way to her private bathroom as Cornell trudged into his on the opposite side of the room. For Cornell, the twin master bathrooms had been the top selling point of his loft condo in Playa Vista. Angela hated the forced separation.

Staring at her reflection in the mirror, Angela ran her fingers through her hair. Cornell’s suggestion that she straighten it was a concession she had refused to make. With her schedule, she needed a no-fuss do.

Her relationship with Cornell had began three years earlier, following a painful breakup with an ambitious MBA who expected her career to take a backseat to his. When Angela refused to yield, he dumped her for a younger, thinner woman who couldn’t do long division without a calculator. Months later, fearing she might never find Mr. Right, Cornell had stormed into her life and taken charge. So what if he was more than ten years her senior, slightly self-centered, and not much of a morning person. No one was perfect.

When she heard Cornell reenter the bedroom, she calculated that their adult time-out was almost over. She stepped into the shower and was dressed in minutes.

She found Cornell in the kitchen, engaged in another morning ritual. He laid out a multiple vitamin, along with one vitamin E, two Cs and a B-12. He repeated the same lineup for her, adding a calcium tablet and a birth control pill. Cornell wanted children, but only when he was ready for them.

“Morning,” he said, brushing his lips against hers.

He smelled fresh and clean and looked striking and fit in his black suit and burgundy tie. His lean frame, closely cropped hair and wire-rimmed glasses gave him a professorial look. He tossed the pills into his mouth all at once, followed by a swig of orange juice.

Angela took a cinnamon raisin bagel from the breadbox on the counter, sliced it down the middle and dropped it into the toaster.

“So, how many points is that?” Cornell asked, placing his glass on the counter.

Angela tensed. During the first year of their relationship, Cornell had been fun, charming and attentive. Over time, however, he’d become inflexible and condescending. Before she even realized it, his subtle, but stinging critiques had begun to slowly chip away at her self esteem.

“I’m using fat-free cream cheese,” she said curtly.

Cornell did not accept non-responsive answers. Not in his courtroom and not at home. “But how many points is it?” he pressed.

Angela slapped the eject button on the toaster and the bagel sprang up.

“I was just trying to help,” he said.

Cornell’s own success had been fueled by a childhood of constant criticism, so he knew no other way to motivate anyone else. Ignoring her silent tantrum, he bent to kiss her on the cheek, then headed for the door.

As soon as he was gone, Angela pressed the toaster button again, then peered into the refrigerator. She was about to reach for the fat-free cream cheese, but grabbed the raspberry jam instead.

Zack and Jon convened in Angela’s office to discuss Jon’s new identity as a terminally ill businessman.

Angela handed him a thick manila envelope. “That file contains your life story, so memorize it. Your name is Jerry Billington and you have lung cancer. We’re working on finding an actual doctor who can pose as your personal physician just in case they ever want to talk to someone.”

Jon pulled a medical file from the envelope. “Looks like you’re pretty screwed up,” Zack said, peering over his shoulder.

“That’s the point,” Angela said. “You’re selling your policy to fulfill your lifelong dream of sailing around the world before you die.”

“Sounds like fun,” Zack said.

Just then, Salina burst into the room, her face brimming with excitement.

“You know that woman you wanted me to interview who filed the report with the Department of Insurance claiming her mother was murdered?”

Angela nodded.

“Well, she’s dead,” Salina said. “The police think she may’ve been murdered and so do I.”

All three of them gave Salina their full attention.

“Whoever did it,” she continued, “set it up to look like she committed suicide, but the police aren’t buying it.”

Salina went on to explain that Veronika Myers supposedly shot herself with her right hand, but was actually left-handed. “Someone broke a window latch to get in. It looks like they tried to fix it on the way out.”

“That’s not exactly proof of murder,” Jon replied.

“There was also evidence of a struggle,” Salina said. “A table was knocked over in the hallway and the comforter on her bed was all twisted up, which could mean she’d been trying to fight off an attacker.”

“Looks like this could be a really big case after all,” Zack said, practically salivating. “Sounds like something we should definitely check out.”

Angela gave him a dismissive look, then turned to Salina. “Is the D.A.’s office looking into her death?”

“They’re all over it,” Salina said.

Zack looked crushed. “It won’t hurt if we just—”

“No,” Angela said, raising her hand. “We don’t have the resources. Let’s wait and see what the D.A.’s office finds out. If the police conclude that the woman and her mother really were homicide victims and find a connection to Live Now, then we can take a closer look.”

Angela left the office just before seven, stopped off for a quick weigh-in at Weight Watchers, then headed for the Spectrum Club in Westchester.

She had been wanting to try out the cycling class and decided that tonight would be the night. After changing into her workout gear, she made her way upstairs and awkwardly climbed aboard a bike on the second row, only because the bikes in the back of the room were all taken. Within five minutes of the start of the blaring hip-hop music, Angela was ready to bail. She repeatedly had to stop to catch her breath and mop the sweat from her eyes.

During her fifth rest break, she locked eyes with a man riding a bike at the end of her row. This wasn’t the first time she had noticed him. There was something about his shaved head, neatly trimmed goatee and hazel eyes that she found both sexy and intriguing.

He leaned forward and smiled, revealing deep-set dimples. Angela couldn’t help but smile back.

By the time the music stopped, Angela was huffing and puffing so hard she was sure she had sweated off at least ten pounds. When she climbed off the bike, every muscle in her body shrieked in unison. As she reached out to open the door, someone on the other side opened it for her.

“Your first time?” It was the man on the bike. He was even more handsome up close.

“Yep. Was it that obvious?”

“Naw. You rode like a pro.”

“Yeah, right.”

“No, really, you did. Most people quit after ten or fifteen minutes.” He extended his hand. “I’m Andre. People call me Dre.”

“Angela,” she said, still winded.

As they headed downstairs, Angela quietly moaned with each step.

“You okay?” Dre gently took her upper arm and guided her down the last few steps.

To her surprise, his touch sent a flutter of arousal through her body.

“They should tell you how much this hurts before you go through the first class.”

Dre laughed. “No pain, no gain.”

They had reached the bottom of the stairs, where they had to depart to their respective locker rooms.

Dre slung his towel across his left shoulder. “So, you coming back for more?”

“Ask me that when I wake up in the morning.”

Dre cocked his head and narrowed his eyes. “I wish I could.”

Angela blushed. I wish you could, too, she thought, then caught herself. What was she thinking? She was an almost-married woman. She slipped the workout glove from her left hand so Dre would see her engagement ring. If he noticed, he didn’t let on.

“Thanks for helping me down the stairs,” Angela said.

“Anytime,” Dre said.

As she walked away, she could feel his eyes on her backside.

“You should come back tomorrow night,” Dre called after her. “I’ll save a bike for you.”

Angela glanced back at him. “You do that.”

Chapter 6

THE pretending was what Erickson hated most. If his wife were healthy, he would’ve packed up a long time ago. But no decent man ups and leaves a dying woman.

Erickson and Claire sat in the waiting room of her doctor’s office. He thought about putting his arm around her shoulders or trying to make conversation, but every time he tried to be a loving, responsive husband, she rebuffed him.

“How about lunch in the Marina when we’re done?” he asked, hoping she said no.

“Let’s see how I’m feeling later.”

Great. That was as good as no.

Erickson studied her as she flipped through a magazine. Her naturally blonde hair was covered by a pricey wig that actually resembled her own golden locks. Her skin was pale and paper-thin. The yellowish tint to her brown eyes bothered him the most. They had already died.

A nurse showed them into the office of Claire’s oncologist, Dr. Lisa Cranston. The doctor was warm and funny and not bad looking if you liked women in the fifty-plus range. Erickson didn’t. He wondered why she chose such a depressing specialty.

“I have your most recent test results,” Dr. Cranston said, once they were seated. “There’s been no change.”

You’re still going to die is how Erickson interpreted her words.

Erickson reached over and caressed Claire’s forearm. She stiffened, but he pretended not to notice. His display of affection was more for the doctor than for Claire. Erickson mentally checked out as the conversation went from blood counts to medication to chemotherapy.

“How much time does she have?” Erickson suddenly blurted out. He realized too late that his tone was all wrong.

Dr. Cranston’s nervous glance in Claire’s direction seemed to convey some private message that only the two of them could interpret. “I don’t like giving time estimates,” she said. “I’ve seen some of my patients with stage four cancer live for a few weeks or months, and others miraculously last another two or three years.”

Erickson nodded solemnly, then looked away. It had already been a year since her diagnosis. He needed this problem resolved in days or weeks, not months or years.

He gripped his wife’s hand. “Well, whatever time we have left, we’re going to make the most of it.”

They were both seated in his Mercedes before Claire spoke again. “That was quite some performance you put on for Dr. Cranston.” Her eyes sizzled with suspicion.

Erickson turned on the ignition and released the parking brake. “I don’t know what you mean.”

A dubious smile spread across Claire’s thin, dark lips. “You’re hoping I change my mind about going public. Is that it?”

“No matter what you think, Claire, I still love you.”

For a moment, her eyes softened, but just as quickly, they turned callous again.

“You’re not fooling anyone,” Claire snarled. “You’re only doing all this because you want me to give you that DVD.”

You’re absolutely right. That’s exactly what I want. “And you said you would,” he reminded her.

“Well, I’ve changed my mind. I’m still thinking about it.”

Erickson put the car in reverse and backed out of the parking stall. He marveled at the once beautiful, but not particularly bright, single mother he’d rescued at the age of twenty-nine. In the beginning, Claire had a feisty, independent nature, which had taken tremendous effort on Erickson’s part to corral.

Her life following their marriage had basically been his life. At Erickson’s insistence, she’d given up her career aspirations and devoted all of her time to planning his parties, entertaining his guests, shopping for his clothes. Her needs were dictated by his needs. After thirteen years of marriage, he now despised the reemergence of her rebellious spirit.

Erickson was determined to recreate the dependent little flower he had so carefully planted, pruned and nourished.

At least until he got his hands on that DVD.

“So how’d Claire’s doctor visit go?”

Becker had just walked into Erickson’s office at Jankowski, Parkins and closed the door behind him.

“Pretty much the same,” Erickson said. “She’s doped up on pain medication most of the time.”

Becker remained standing and rested his arm on the middle shelf of the bookcase behind him. “As we discussed before, you can’t have this thing hanging over your head.”

Becker had just stated the obvious. That his problem must disappear was something he already knew.

“I don’t mean to sound crass,” Becker said. “But how much time does Claire actually have?”

“I wish I knew. According to her doctor, it could be three weeks or three years.”

Becker glanced over his shoulder as if to confirm that the door was still shut. “If I could make the problem go away, would you be amenable?”

Erickson let a long beat pass. “Very.”

Becker often talked about his days as a Navy SEAL, admitting with pride that he’d done his share of killing for his country. Over the years, Erickson had watched his law partner ruthlessly defend his corporate clients, sometimes crossing ethical lines Erickson wouldn’t dare to. But this was different. They were talking about murdering his wife.

“The prisons are full of people who thought they could commit the perfect crime,” Erickson said.

“And none of them have our level of intellect,” Becker said, with unapologetic arrogance. “And frankly, I don’t view what I have in mind as murder. Claire’s going to die. We’re just going to speed the process along. Anyway, you haven’t heard my plan yet.”

Plan? Erickson was happy to know that he’d given it that much thought. “I’m listening.”

“What if you convinced Claire to undergo an experimental surgery and what if it didn’t work?”

Erickson’s forehead creased. “You want me to pay some doctor to botch a surgery?”

“No, I—”

Becker pulled his ringing phone from his breast pocket and glanced down. “Kaylee had a big game today. I gotta take this.” He pressed a button and walked over to the spacious window. “Hey, sweetie, how’d it go?”

Erickson sat there for three full minutes listening to Becker tell his daughter how proud he was of her performance on the soccer field. How ridiculous. They were plotting a murder for Christ’s sake. The kid could wait.

“I’m sitting here with your godfather.” Becker turned and winked at Erickson. “He wants to tell you how proud he is, too.”

Becker stalked back across the room and shoved his phone into Erickson’s face. Erickson grudgingly took it.

“Congratulations, Kaylee,” he said. “Sounds like you had a great game.”

Erickson was relieved that the child did not attempt to prolong the conversation. He handed the phone back as if he feared it might blow up in his face.

“Sorry about that,” Becker said, stuffing it into his pocket. “I really hate missing her games. So, where were we?”

“You tell me,” Erickson said, not hiding his annoyance.

“The surgery I’m talking about is completely above board,” Becker continued. “UCLA Medical Center is one of only two hospitals in the country performing the procedure.”

“So how would Claire be—” Erickson could not bring himself to say it. “How would her demise occur?”

“After the procedure, there would be unexpected complications.” Becker took a seat and expanded upon his plan. When he finished, there was a glint in Erickson’s eye. The plan, like Becker, was brilliant.

“It won’t be cheap,” Becker continued. “As a matter of fact, much of it won’t be covered by insurance. You’ll have to shell out at least a quarter of a million dollars of your own money.”

That number was daunting. Erickson had invested well, but blowing two-fifty on an operation he really didn’t want to work wasn’t a sound financial move.

Becker must’ve read his mind. “Don’t worry, it won’t cost you a dime. You told me years ago that you insured Claire for five hundred thousand. You still have the policy?”

Erickson nodded.

“You’re going to sell it.”

“Sell it? To who?”

“I’m amazed that people don’t know about this.” He quickly explained how viatical settlements worked.

The more Erickson listened, the more he liked what he was hearing.

“The fact that you encouraged her to sell the policy removes financial gain as a motive,” Becker said. “Not only are you taking extreme measures to save your wife’s life, you’re giving up hundreds of thousands of dollars in insurance proceeds in the hope of keeping her alive. No one would ever suspect you of killing her.”

“Becker,” Erickson said, grinning, “you’re amazing.”

“Thank you, Mr. Attorney General.” He stood up. “And before you ask, I’ll take care of everything.”

Erickson’s eyes held his friend’s. He quickly interpreted that everything meant everything. His law partner was a gift from God.

“You ever consider putting Claire in a hospice?” Becker asked. “Those places have way too many people to really keep a close eye on anyone. There would be easier access that way.”

“That might not be a bad idea,” Erickson said, mulling over the suggestion. “I’d have to sell Sophia, Claire’s sister, on it first. Caring for Claire around the clock is really wearing her down. I can’t guarantee she’ll agree to it, though.”

“If you can make that happen, great, but even if you can’t, things will still be taken care of. I promise you that.”

Becker stood up and pulled an envelope from his breast pocket and slapped it on Erickson’s desk.

“What’s that?”

“Information about the surgery. Give me some time to check around for a referral to a viatical company. It’ll be several weeks before the White House announces their selection for AG, so we have plenty of time to plan everything to prevent any screw ups.”

Erickson smiled. Becker was a detail man. Nothing would be left to chance.

“Now go home,” Becker ordered, “and convince your wife how much you want to save her life.”

Chapter 7

JOANNA Richardson sat at the Formica table in the kitchen of her Leimert Park home. Early afternoon was her favorite time of the day. She enjoyed sipping herbal tea and soaking up the glorious sunrays that seeped through her kitchen window.

She was feeling particularly strong today. No nausea and her appetite was back. When you were fifty-nine and dying of kidney disease, a day like today was a reason for celebration.

A copy of Our Weekly newspaper lay open on the table in front of her. She had circled three events on the calendar page. There was a flower show at Exposition Park, a Walter Mosley signing at Eso Won Books, and a Farmer’s Market on King Boulevard. Too bad she couldn’t make all three. But it wouldn’t make sense to tire herself out.

Though her doctor was constantly sugarcoating her prognosis, Joanna knew the end was near. She had researched acute renal failure on the Internet.

At least she could take comfort in the money sitting in her bank account. Thank God for the nice man from Live Now who had helped her sell her insurance policy. After paying off some bills and buying a new bedroom set, a nice burgundy casket, and a spacious plot with a large headstone, Joanna still had thirty-four thousand dollars left.

The phone rang and she let the answering machine pick up.

“Hey, Mama, I’m just checking on you. Hit me back.”

Her son, Damien, called from time to time, but rarely dropped by to see her. Young people today didn’t have time for anybody but themselves. Joanna blamed herself, not Damien, for the way he’d turned out. She raised him wrong. Gave him too much.

Other than her son, she was pretty much alone in the world. The Sick and Shut-in volunteers from Faithful Central checked on her from time to time, but friends could never replace family.

Joanna thought about the will she’d just revised and chuckled to herself. Damien would be shocked to learn that she’d only left him five thousand dollars. The boy just wasn’t responsible enough to handle any more than that. The money probably wouldn’t last him a month as it was. He’d also be upset to find out she’d gotten a reverse mortgage on the house. Damien could barely pay the rent on his studio apartment in Gardena. Why leave him the house and let it end up in foreclosure? Joanna’s will left the rest of her money to the church.

After finishing her tea, she walked into the bedroom. She planned to take a short walk before commencing her day. She slipped into a pair of yellow sweat pants and a T-shirt, then went looking for her iPod. She selected the playlist with her favorite gospel songs, plugged in the earphones and headed out of the house.

Joanna hummed along with Kirk Franklin as she headed down Roxton Avenue toward 39th Street, thankful to be able to put one foot in front of the other. Some people her age didn’t like all that finger-snapping gospel music, but Joanna would rather see young people praising God than singing that rap mess.

A blue truck crossed her path just as she turned left onto 39th Street. She’d finally made up her mind to check out the flower show. After a nap, she might have the energy to attend the book signing, too.

As she strolled along toward Arlington, she spotted the blue truck again. There were two men inside. The driver sidled alongside her and rolled down the window.

“Ma’am, can you tell us where Mountain Street is?”

Joanna stopped, always willing to help a stranger. “I don’t think there’s any Mountain Street in this neighborhood.”

The man looked down at a piece of paper in his hand. “They told us it was south of Rodeo.”

“I don’t think so. I’ve lived in this neighborhood for fifteen years. Somebody steered you wrong.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” The man frowned and rolled up the window.

Joanna continued her walk, finally reaching Arlington, where she turned around and marched back toward her house. She was surprised to see the blue truck again. It had slowed to ten or fifteen miles an hour now and seemed to be trailing her.

Joanna pulled the earphones from her ears. Were the men out to harm her? She picked up her pace, but quickly became winded.

She passed the intersection at 2nd Avenue and 39th Street and started speed walking back home. Her heart thudded in fear and she could feel herself begin to wheeze. For the first time, she took note of her quiet surroundings. Should she run up and bang on somebody’s door? Or at least scream to alert someone? It was just after two o’clock on a Thursday. Most people were probably at work. Where were all the nosey neighbors when you needed them? She couldn’t believe that not even one retiree was outside tending to a garden or sweeping a porch.

She glanced back at the truck, which was still meandering along. Maybe she was overreacting. Nobody would try to snatch her off the street in a nice neighborhood like this. Anyway, that only happened to kids. Who would mess with a sickly, middle-aged woman like her?

Still, her heart would not stop pounding. She looked over her shoulder a second time and saw that the men were half a block behind her now. At the next intersection, Joanna stepped off the curb anxious to reach the safety of her home. She was halfway across the street when she heard the gunning of the truck’s engine. It picked up speed and seemed to be heading straight for her.

Instead of running, Joanna froze. She tried to move, but fear molded her feet to the asphalt right there in the middle of the street.

She watched in horror as the truck barreled toward her at full speed. The impact of the bumper against her left hip hurled her high into the air. The pain was so intense it seemed that every bone in her body had shattered all at once. For a moment, Joanna felt like an injured bird, flailing in midair. Then, the pavement began careening toward her.

Good God! This was not how she wanted to die!

Chapter 8

IT was almost nine on Saturday morning and Waverly was sitting in his home office in a pair of silk pajamas, punching numbers into a calculator. He purposely set his sights low. If he sold just three policies a month with a face value of one hundred thousand dollars, his ten percent cut would mean thirty grand in commissions. Finding a few dying people in need of cash couldn’t be that hard.

He leaned back in his chair as a feeling of hope washed over him. Getting disbarred might actually turn out to be a good thing.

Deidra appeared in the doorway, carrying two cups of coffee. “What’s that big smile all about?” She handed him a cup and took a seat across from him on a small couch.

Since she was leaving for Paris later that evening, they planned to spend the day together. Their tiff earlier in the week had been forgotten after Waverly brought home roses and a new Coach bag.

“Remember that career switch I mentioned a few days ago?” he said, taking a sip of coffee. “Well, I’ve been looking into some things.”

Waverly watched her hands tighten around the coffee cup.

He was about to repeat the same spiel Vincent had given him, but stopped. Selling the insurance policies of dying people sounded too morbid.

“It looks like this insurance investment business might be pretty lucrative, which means we should be able to buy our dream house sooner rather than later.”

Deidra bounced off the couch and jumped into his lap. “You’re amazing and that’s why I love you!” She planted a wet kiss on his lips. “So, when can we start looking?”

“Hold on a minute,” Waverly said. “Let me get my feet wet first.” He immediately regretted his exuberance. What if he couldn’t get licensed?

“Okay, okay,” she said. “But you better keep your promise.”

Waverly didn’t recall making a promise. Rather than point that out, he kissed her.

He knew Deidra wouldn’t demand any specifics about his new business venture. In that respect, Deidra was her mother’s daughter. As long as the bills were paid and she had an American Express card with no spending limit, Deidra wasn’t concerned about the particulars of how he earned his living. He just prayed everything worked out.

“You going to miss me while I’m strolling the streets of Paris for three weeks?” she asked.

Waverly buried his face in the crook of her neck and kissed her. Her skin was always soft and warm to the touch. “You have no idea.”

He had wanted to make love to her last night, but Deidra was already asleep when he climbed into bed. He felt the urge coming on now and kissed her again, more deeply this time.

Deidra slipped off his lap, crouched next to the chair and eased her hand past the elastic of his pajamas. Waverly immediately swelled in anticipation of what was to come. She gently took him in her paraffin-softened hand and slowly moved up and down.

Lately, Deidra had resorted to jacking him off. Her body, she said, could only occasionally tolerate the heavy pounding of sexual intercourse. Blowjobs were reserved for special occasions, like Christmas or his birthday. If he could swing that new house, he’d probably get head every night for a week.

Waverly rocked back in his chair, closed his eyes and smiled. He’d take it any way he could get it.

Hours later, when Waverly pulled their BMW to a stop in front of the International Terminal at LAX, he spotted Deidra’s father two cars away hoisting Rachel’s luggage from the trunk of his Lincoln.

“Perfect timing,” Leon said, walking over to them. “I don’t know why you didn’t let us pick you up.”

Waverly wrapped a protective arm around Deidra. “I wanted my wife all to myself for these last few hours. We’ve never been apart for more than a couple of days. This is going to be rough.”

They said their good-byes and Leon and Waverly watched as the two sisters disappeared inside the airport.

“You’re welcome to join us for dinner tonight,” Leon offered.

“Can’t,” Waverly said. “Got a business meeting.”

“On a Saturday evening?” Leon sounded skeptical.

Actually, he was scheduled to meet two executives from Live Now for drinks. Instead of explaining, Waverly jumped into his car and drove off.

Waverly sat at the bar near the lobby of the Luxe Hotel on Sunset Boulevard nursing a beer.

Vincent was late. He had promised to make some calls to gauge Waverly’s chances of getting through the licensing process. Waverly wanted to know the results of his efforts before the executives arrived. If he couldn’t get licensed, why waste everyone’s time?

Finally, he spotted Vincent walking into the hotel.

“So?” Waverly said, as soon as Vincent reached him. “Am I in?”

Vincent smiled, but didn’t answer. He climbed on the stool next to Waverly, flagged the bartender and ordered a beer. “I can get your license,” he said finally. “But it’s going to cost you five grand.”

Waverly’s shoulders sagged. “I don’t have—”

“Don’t worry about it,” Vincent interrupted. “I’ll front the money and we can take it out of your first commission payment. I have faith in you.”

“So, are you paying somebody off?” Waverly asked.

“That’s exactly what I’m doing and the guys we’re about to meet know nothing about it. So, keep it to yourself. Are you in?”

Yet again, Waverly found himself faced with the option of doing the wrong thing for the right reasons. He had bills to pay and a wife to support. The decision was a no brainer. “I’m in.”

Seconds later, two men, both casually dressed, approached from the rear. Vincent stood and introduced them. “This is Tom Bellamy, the CEO of Live Now,” he said, pointing to the taller man. “And this is his business partner and Vice President of the company, Jonathan Cartwright.”

Cartwright was toned and tanned and looked affluent even in khakis and a golf shirt. Bellamy, older and not nearly as fit, had bushy black hair and a thick paunch around his midsection. He wore a bland, beige leisure suit.

They moved to a comfy seating area on the patio nearby.

“I hope Vincent’s done a good job of selling you on our business,” Cartwright said after a waiter delivered two more beers.

“He has indeed,” Waverly replied.

“We just lost our L.A. broker. He made so much money that he retired to Jamaica. We’d like to replace him right away. You’d be covering all of the L.A. area. Since you’re a lawyer, you won’t need office space.”

Waverly tried to swallow, but his throat was suddenly dry. “Where else does Live Now operate?” he asked.

“Through our parent company, The Tustin Group, we’re in three other states right now, New York, Nevada and Florida. If things go well here, we’ll be expanding to Texas by the end of the year.”

“How did you decide where to set up your operation?”

“Our business model is based on states which have the largest elderly populations. New York, Florida, California and Texas are all in the top ten. More and more people are choosing to retire in the Las Vegas area, so we expect the elderly population there to have a big growth spurt.”

During the next twenty minutes, Cartwright confirmed everything Vincent had told him about the business, but Waverly still had more questions. “How do you prevent somebody from taking a payout and disappearing? You might never know they died.”

“They’re required to send us a postcard with their signature by the fifth of every month,” Cartwright explained. “In almost twenty years, only one person tried to skip. It took just six days for our investigator to track him down.”

“What if the policy lapses?” Waverly asked.

Cartwright smiled. “You must be a damn good lawyer because you’re asking all the right questions. It’s the investor’s obligation to continue paying the premiums.”

“But how do you even know the person is really terminally ill?”

“We have a team of doctors who review their medical records,” Cartwright said. “We’re looking for people with a life expectancy of six months to a year max. So far, our doctors’ estimates have been right on the money.”

This was actually sounding too good to be true. “Are most of your investors individuals?”

Bellamy finally entered the conversation. “About seventy percent. More doctors than anything else. They’re used to dealing with death and don’t have any ethical concerns with this type of investment. The remaining investors are small companies, even some insurance companies. They’re all looking for a safe investment with a solid return.” Bellamy took a sip of his drink and grinned. “Nothing is guaranteed but death, taxes and a big ‘ole return on your viatical investment.”

They all laughed.

“Can I get started before I get my license?” Waverly asked. He needed money yesterday.

Vincent grinned and slapped him on the back. “See what I told you. This guy’s a real go-getter.”

“I like your enthusiasm,” Cartwright agreed. “You can begin making presentations now, but you’ll need to have your license before you can actually ink a deal.”

“Sounds like you’re sold,” Bellamy said.

Waverly took a big swig of his beer. “Bought and sold.”

Chapter 9

ANGELA speed walked into the lobby of the Biltmore Hotel. She spotted Cornell seated at the bar. She could tell before she reached him that he was fuming.

“Sorry, I’m late,” she said, panting. “We were discussing this case and—”

“I don’t understand why you can never be on time, Angela,” Cornell scolded. “You were supposed to be here twenty-six minutes ago. This is unacceptable. And I specifically asked you to wear the red St. John suit that I bought you. Why aren’t you wearing it?”

Because I didn’t feel like dressing like my mother.

“It’s in the cleaners,” she lied. “What’s wrong with the suit I have on?”

Cornell looked her up and down, then pursed his lips. “I guess it’s fine.” He drained his glass and hopped off the barstool. “Can you believe the Court of Appeal reversed my summary judgment decision in the Banker case today? Just wait until one of those arrogant assholes from Latham & Watkins comes into my courtroom again. I’ll show them who’s in charge.”

Angela put a hand on Cornell’s arm. “So, what are you saying? You’re going to retaliate against the whole firm because you got reversed?” He still hadn’t gotten over being rejected by the firm for a summer associate position more than twenty years ago.

“C’mon, you know I was just mouthing off.” His lips angled into a diabolical smile. “I’d never do anything like that. That would be unethical.”

Cornell took off down a hotel corridor wider than most city streets. Angela had to practically jog to catch up with him.

“So, tell me again,” she said, “what’s going on tonight?”

“Bar Association fundraiser. Paul Streeter, who’s on the Federal Judicial Nomination Advisory Committee, is supposed to be here tonight. This’ll be a good opportunity for me to meet him.”

After ten years as a Superior Court judge, Cornell now aspired to a seat on the more prestigious federal court bench. He was already lobbying his political contacts in hopes of being considered for the next district court appointment. Meeting Streeter, he assumed, could only help.

They picked up their dinner tickets at the registration table and entered a ballroom filled with business types. Cornell scanned the room. “I think I see him over there.” He grabbed her hand and they began winding their way through the crowd.

Cornell stopped just short of a small circle of men who seemed to be in the midst of a serious debate. “That’s Streeter right there,” Cornell whispered, indicating a lanky, bearded guy with salt and pepper hair.

Angela hoped Cornell wouldn’t be bold enough to interrupt. She was about to caution him not to, when she felt a tap on her shoulder.

When she looked back, Rick McCarthy was standing behind her.

“Saw your closing in the Pell case last month. Nice job.” McCarthy was a well-connected assistant U.S. attorney who still enjoyed trying cases after nearly thirty years on the job.

“Thanks,” Angela beamed. She linked her arm through Cornell’s. “This is my fiancé, Judge Cornell Waters. He’s on the superior court bench downtown.”

They shook hands, then Cornell rudely turned back to the group surrounding Streeter.

“You ever think about the bench, Angela?” McCarthy asked.

Cornell abruptly spun around.

“No way,” Angela laughed. “I don’t think I’m judge material.”

“I disagree. We need sharp young lawyers like you on the bench. And needless to say, the federal courts could certainly use some diversity. Let me introduce you to a friend of mine.” McCarthy tapped Paul Streeter on the shoulder. “Hey, Paul, I have a future judicial candidate I’d like you to meet.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Angela could see Cornell’s jaw expand into a pout. McCarthy spent the next few minutes bombarding Angela with accolades. She wished he would stop talking so she could introduce Cornell.

Streeter removed a card from his inside breast pocket. “Can’t beat a recommendation like that,” he said with a warm smile. “Let’s stay in touch.”

“I’d like to introduce my fiancé,” Angela began, “Judge Cornell Waters. He’s—”

The lights began to flicker, signaling that everyone should proceed to their tables. Streeter acknowledged Cornell with a curt nod, then walked off.

Angela glanced down at her ticket to check their table number. When she looked up, Cornell had walked off.

When she finally caught up with him, he was already seated. “What are you doing here?” he snickered. “I figured there’d be a seat for you at Streeter’s table.”

Cornell could be such a baby, Angela thought. She pulled out the chair next to him and was about to sit down, but changed her mind. “I’m going to the ladies’ room.”

Angela walked out of the ballroom and into the restroom, where she touched up her lipstick and fluffed her hair. She tried to ignore her nagging doubts. Did she really want to be a mother bad enough to endure a life sentence with Cornell? Maybe.

A feeling of dread consumed her as she trudged back toward the ballroom. Halfway there, she pulled her BlackBerry from her purse and fired off a short text to Cornell: Not feeling well. Going home.

As she headed for the valet stand, the tension she’d felt only seconds ago had magically disappeared.

Chapter 10

ERICKSON had not expected his first visit to the White House to affect him this way. As he sat waiting in a reception area outside the Oval Office, he was practically giddy.

Hold it together, buddy. It’s show time.

He looked up to see the President’s executive assistant, a petite, stylishly dressed woman with a practiced smile, approaching from a long hallway. She stopped just in front of him, appropriately respectful of his personal space. “Mr. Erickson, the President will see you now.”

Gripping both sides of the chair, he easily hoisted himself upward.

Erickson felt a sense of power like nothing he’d ever experienced before. Being chairman of a preeminent law firm was one thing, but he was about to meet the freakin’ President.

He followed the President’s assistant, easily matching her steady stride. She slowed, opened a tall door, then stepped aside so that he could enter.

President Richard Bancroft and his Chief of Staff, Mark Wrigley, both stood up.

“Good to see you, Lawrence.” The President greeted him with a strong, two-handed grip.

“Good to meet you, Mr. President,” Erickson replied.

He shook Wrigley’s hand next and tried to get a handle on his excitement.

The majesty of the room overwhelmed him. It suddenly hit him that the place was called the Oval Office because it actually was. He stared at the Presidential seal on the rug in front of President Bancroft’s desk.

“Let’s have a seat over here.” Bancroft pointed to a seating area in the middle of the room. “First things, first. How’s your wife?”

Erickson lowered his eyes in what he hoped was an appropriate display of distress. “As well as can be expected. But she’s a trooper.”

The President responded with an appropriately grave look of concern.

Erickson seriously doubted that President Bancroft had any genuine interest in the state of his wife’s health. At dinner the night before, one of Wrigley’s assistants, relaxed from too much vodka, let it slip that his wife’s illness might help him edge out the other candidates. At least two of the President’s advisors felt the press might cut Erickson some slack since he was about to become a widower.

As the President made small talk, Erickson struggled to stay focused. Here he was, Lawrence Adolphus Erickson, son of a steelworker, grandson of a corn farmer, sitting in the Oval Office. He wished his whack job of a father, who constantly told him he’d never be worth a damn, could see him shooting the breeze with the President of the United States. This would’ve killed him. Not cirrhosis of the liver.

“Mark would like a few minutes alone with you,” the President said. He stood and exited through a side door that Erickson hadn’t noticed before.

“You ready to roll?” Wrigley asked, as soon as the President was gone.

“All set,” Erickson said.

“It’s extremely important that the media doesn’t get wind of our slate of candidates,” Wrigley said. “So other than Becker, you should not share this with anyone. You can tell your wife, but only if you can guarantee confidentiality. A leak could threaten your candidacy.”

Erickson had no intention of sharing his great news with Claire. “That won’t be a problem.”

Wrigley leaned back, crossed his legs, and extended his arm along the back of the couch. “As you know, we have a pretty thorough vetting process, but things can still slip through the cracks. You easily cleared the first round of vetting. Some other good candidates didn’t. Now, we go a whole lot deeper.”

Erickson was dying to know who else was on the list, but such an inquiry would be out of line.

Wrigley fixed Erickson with a steely gaze. “There’s a question I need to ask, and you’re probably going to hear it a few more times before this is all said and done. Is there anything we don’t know about you, your family or your background that might cause embarrassment for the President?”

Erickson chuckled as if the question was absurd. “Absolutely not.” The lie rolled so effortlessly off his lips that he almost believed it himself.

Wrigley held Erickson’s gaze for a few more beats, as if giving him time to retract his answer. “That’s exactly what I wanted to hear.” Wrigley rubbed his hands together, then bounced off the couch. “Then, let’s get to it.”

The Chief of Staff led the way out. Walking two abreast in soldier-like formation, they made their way to a conference room, not far from the Oval Office. Already seated around a circular table were two men and a woman. All three looked to be in their late thirties. Too young, Erickson thought, to have Presidential ties.

“This is your team,” Wrigley said. “They will be your primary contact throughout this process. And if you are indeed the nominee, they’ll be preparing you for your Senate confirmation hearing.”

Erickson walked around the table and greeted each person, only half-listening as Wrigley made the introductions.

His mind had wandered back to Wrigley’s pointed question in the Oval Office. Is there anything we don’t know about you, your family or your background that might cause embarrassment for the President?

Yes there is, he should have replied. But don’t worry. I’m about to take care of it.

Chapter 11

THERE could only be one explanation for the incredible turn of events in Waverly Sloan’s life. God loved him.

In three short weeks, Waverly had successfully completed the registration process and had a nice, new viatical broker’s license, complete with the official seal of the state of California. To top that off, the State Bar website still had him listed as an attorney in good standing. Thank goodness the wheels of justice turned at a snail’s pace.

Waverly spent the bulk of his days glued to the telephone, scouring his personal contacts and making presentations to the contacts supplied by Vincent. Only two days after getting his license, he was having lunch with an old friend who mentioned that his sister was in the latter stages of breast cancer. By seven that night, Waverly was at her house signing her up. Her policy was only worth ninety thousand, but his nine grand off the top wasn’t a bad take for a few hours’ work. After paying Vincent back, he still pocketed four grand.

A few days after that, a bigger payoff literally fell into his lap. A big shot partner from Jankowski, Parkins contacted

him about selling his wife’s policy. He’d gotten Waverly’s name from a prominent probate lawyer. The lawyer had handled the estate of one of Waverly’s clients who died days after her

case settled. Waverly had mailed the attorney a slick Live Now brochure, but never dreamed the guy would actually refer someone so quickly.

Lawrence Erickson’s wife was dying of pancreatic cancer and the couple wanted to sell her five hundred thousand dollar insurance policy to fund an experimental operation. Erickson was deeply concerned about keeping the transaction confidential. Waverly assured him that wouldn’t be a problem. Not with a fifty grand commission coming his way.

Waverly actually whistled as he walked up the driveway to Erickson’s stately Hancock Park home. Erickson greeted him at the door and led him inside.

Claire Erickson appeared to be minutes, not months away from death. She sat quietly in a pink dress, her hands clasped in her lap, her eyes downcast. Waverly gathered that something more than her illness lay behind her defeated demeanor. She reminded him of Deidra’s mother. A woman who obediently complied with her husband’s every command.

“Why don’t you explain to Claire how this all works,” Erickson began.

They were seated in the family room around a massive oak table that looked out on a lush lawn and garden.

“It’s actually pretty simple,” Waverly said. “We find an investor who’s willing to pay you a portion of the face value of your policy. The investor then becomes the beneficiary.”

Claire turned to face her husband. “Sounds like a strange way to make money. But, of course, you know all about making money.”

Waverly wasn’t exactly sure what was going on between the pair and didn’t know how to respond. As an uncomfortable hush fell over the room, Waverly hurriedly proceeded with his presentation. He explained more about the process, starting with the medical records review.

When Erickson reached over and stroked his wife’s forearm, Waverly was certain he saw Claire recoil.

“We’ve completed the paperwork you sent over,” Erickson said, handing him a folder.

Erickson seemed far too businesslike, considering the circumstances. Waverly got the sense that the man wasn’t the least bit broken up over his wife’s impending death.

Waverly browsed through the papers Erickson had given him. “Are there any questions I can answer for you?” He directed his question to Mrs. Erickson.

She wrung her hands, then shook her head.

Erickson took both of Claire’s hands in his. “This is your decision, honey. Are you sure there’s nothing you want to ask?”

“No,” Claire said, her tone both softer and kinder now. “Everything sounds fine.”

“What’s the next step?” Erickson was really rushing things along. He had explained on the phone that Claire’s sister and daughter hadn’t been told about the surgery yet. It was imperative that Waverly be gone by the time they returned from dinner and a movie.

“I have a few more documents for you to sign,” Waverly said. “Some of them need to be notarized.”

“We’ll get them back to you right away. Here’s the name of my wife’s oncologist just in case you need it.” He handed Waverly a business card. “I’ve already put in a request for Claire’s medical records. How long will it take before we get the payout? We’d like to move forward with the surgery as soon as possible.”

“Six to eight weeks is typical, but I’ve cleared the way to expedite processing since I understand time is of the essence. If there’s no delay in getting your wife’s medical files, I think we may be able to complete the process in three to four weeks, maybe less.”

Erickson smiled as if Waverly had just told him he’d won SuperLotto. Mrs. Erickson stared off toward the garden.

Something wasn’t right here, Waverly thought. Whatever it was, he hoped it didn’t derail his forthcoming commission.

“Thank you,” Erickson said, reaching out to shake his hand.

No, Waverly thought, as he envisioned his fifty grand commission check, thank you.

Chapter 12

ANGELA eased off the exercise bike, wiped her forehead with a towel and tried to pretend she wasn’t aching all over.

“Good job,” Dre said, walking up to her. “You kept up for almost the whole class.”

Angela was so winded she could barely speak. “Let’s just hope I’ve lost a pound or two.”

“Exactly how much you tryin’ to lose?”

“Twenty pounds would about do it.”

“That’s way too much. I like women with—” Dre stopped, then smiled. “A woman needs to have a little meat on her bones.”

Dre’s slip of the tongue intrigued her. Maybe he was feeling the same attraction she was trying to deny. When she’d pulled into the parking structure earlier, she’d found herself excited about the prospect of seeing him.

Angela chuckled and slapped the side of her thigh. “I assure you, there will still be plenty of meat left to spare.”

They both headed into the workout room next door and grabbed floor mats to stretch. As she crouched next to him, Angela noticed a horseshoe symbol branded on his upper right arm.

“So you’re a Q-dog?” she asked, referring to the black fraternity, Omega Psi Phi.

Dre glanced down at his arm. “Yep.”

“Where’d you pledge?”

“Long Beach State,” Dre replied. “What about you? Delta or AKA?”

“Neither. Too busy studying. I regret not pledging, though.”

Dre leaned forward, grabbed his toes and held the pose for way longer than Angela could have. “Where’d you go to college?” he asked.

“Stanford.”

Dre arched a brow like he was impressed.

“So, what do you do for fun?” Angela asked.

“I read a lot, work out, hang out with my son. He’s seven. That’s about it. My regular gig is fixin’ up foreclosures and flippin’ ‘em.

He had a son. Angela wondered if that also meant he had a wife. A lot of men didn’t wear wedding rings.

“And what’s your gig?” Dre asked.

“I’m a government lawyer,” she said, trying to sound matter of fact. Many men wilted with intimidation the minute they heard the word lawyer. She saw no need to add that she was a federal prosecutor .

“That’s tight,” he said.

“What do you like to read?” Angela asked.

“Mostly business books, biographies and political stuff. If I read any fiction, it’s usually street lit. Lately, I’ve been reading some interesting psychology books.”

“Yeah, right,” Angela said teasingly. “Name the last psychology book you read.”

Dre cocked his head and stroked his goatee. “I can’t believe you’re dissin’ me. I just finished Blink: The Power of Thinking Without Thinking by Malcolm Gladwell. You read it?”

Angela shook her head.

“You should check it out. He talks about how people make decisions and judgments in the blink of an eye. It’s pretty heavy.”

“How long have you been married?” The question was out before Angela could assess the propriety of asking it.

“Who said I was married?” Dre stroked his goatee again.

He had the cutest dimples. “Well, are you?”

“You must be pretty good in court ‘cuz you sure know how to jam a brother up. No, I’m not married.” Dre grabbed his feet for a final stretch, then stood.

He extended his hand and helped Angela to her feet. They walked downstairs and just as they were about to part, Dre slowed. “Since you’ve been all up in my Kool-Aid, can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” Angela said.

“Where’s the dude who gave you that big ass rock? Why doesn’t he ever work out with you?”

Angela made an exaggerated show of glancing at the clock on the wall behind them. “Let’s see, eight-thirty on a weeknight? Unfortunately, my fiancé is probably still at work. And he doesn’t like gyms. Too many germs.”

“Tell him I said he needs to keep closer tabs on his woman.” Dre treated her to his killer smile. “Somebody might move in on him.”

Angela smiled back. “I’ll be sure to give him the message.”

The next morning, Dre stood shirtless in front of his bathroom mirror, his head lathered with foam, carefully shaving his scalp with a razor. The daily task was a hassle, but the look worked for him.

After leaving the gym the night before, Dre found himself thinking about Angela. He really liked her vibe. It was strange how you could tell so much about a woman from the way she carried herself. Not only was she fine as hell, the sistah had class. Normally, a ring on a woman’s finger would have detoured him, especially the kind of bling Angela was rockin’. This time, it didn’t.

Dre threw on some jeans and a T-shirt and made a call to make sure the contractors rehabbing a duplex he’d just bought off Western Avenue were on the job. He’d drive by later to check things out.

For his primary source of income, Dre had the luxury of working from home, a one-bedroom apartment behind the Arco station on the corner of La Brea and Slauson. As he made his way to the kitchen, he had to step over stacks of books scattered about the living room floor.

In the last month, he’d read The Covenant with Black America by Tavis Smiley, True to the Game by Teri Woods, and The Essays of Warren Buffet.

Dre’s body tensed in anticipation of the long, tedious day ahead of him. He filled a six-quart pot with water, set it on the stove and turned the burner up high. Once the water came to a boil, he retrieved a kilo of cocaine from a duffel bag stashed in a hidden compartment underneath the sink. He carefully measured two ounces of the powder and dumped it into a glass beaker. To that, he added boiling water and baking soda. Using a butter knife, he rapidly stirred the concoction until the liquid began to crystallize, ultimately crumbling and separating into rocks.

For most people in his profession, this was the end of the process. But Dre always took the time to re-rock his product. He placed the beaker inside the microwave and let it cook for one minute, which transformed the rocks into a liquid the consistency of vegetable oil. Next, he held the base of the beaker underneath a stream of cold water, swirling it around, allowing a few drops of water to get inside.

Dre watched with pride as the concoction hardened into a flat, solid cookie. He removed the cookie from the bottom of the beaker, set it aside and started the process all over again.

At eleven, Dre took a break to make himself a turkey sandwich and watch The Young and the Restless, which he TiVo’d every day. Dre identified with Victor, the Newman family patriarch. Victor didn’t take shit from nobody.

Like Victor, Dre prided himself on always taking care of business. He didn’t indulge in drugs—not even weed—rarely drank anything other than wine and didn’t see a need to floss. His ride was a beat-up Volkswagen Jetta and he didn’t have or need an entourage. He owned a .38 revolver, but had never fired it.

He’d done prison time, but only once. His two-year sentence for possession with intent to sell was reduced to eight months of actual time, thanks to prison overcrowding. For Dre, doing time was a cost of doing business. Losing a kilo and thirty grand in cash had pissed him off way more than being on lockdown.

After finishing his sandwich, Dre returned to work. His next break wasn’t until four, when he stopped to watch Dr. Phil, one of the few cats on TV with something to say. Dre had a whole list of Dr. Phil-isms. His favorite: You can either wallow in your history or you can walk out of it. Dre was just months away from walking out of his.

Once the entire kilo had been converted into cookies, Dre cut them into pieces with a razorblade and put them into plastic bags after weighing them on a digital scale. A rock weighing 0.1 grams would sell for five dollars, 0.3 grams for ten dollars. He’d collect twenty bucks for a rock weighing 0.6 grams, while an eight ball—3.5 grams—went for a hundred and twenty-five dollars. A kilo cost him twenty-three grand and he made a profit of just over five thousand dollars on each one.

Dre pulled out his cell and called his son’s mother. When Little Dre picked up, his jaw tightened. “Why aren’t you at school?”

“Uh . . .” Dre could always tell when his son was about to tell a lie. “Mama didn’t feel good today.”

“Put her on the phone.”

“Uh, she’s next door at Ray-Ray’s house,” his son said timidly.

“Go get her,” Dre demanded.

The minute he heard Sheila’s voice, he exploded. “You too goddamn lazy to drive him two fuckin’ miles to school?”

“Don’t be hollerin’ at me,” Sheila said. “I wasn’t feeling good.”

“Why? You don’t do shit all day,” Dre shouted. “And you can’t be feeling too bad if you hanging out next door. The next time you can’t take him to school, you call me. Put Little Dre back on the phone.”

“I’ll be over there in a couple of hours,” Dre said, when his son came back on the line. “You and me gonna have school today.”

“Aw, Dad.”

“Just get your books out and be ready.”

Dre hung up and massaged his temples. Only six more months and he’d be out of the game for good. Then Little Dre was coming to live with him. By then, he’d have one million dollars. From the start, that had been his only goal. To stash away one million dollars.

As soon as he went legit, he was going to find himself a classy lady and have a couple more kids. A white picket fence, too.

He thought about Angela again. Other than being nosey as hell, he wondered what the sistah was really about. Maybe he would invest the time to find out.

Chapter 13

ERICKSON enjoyed spending time in his garden. He was busy pruning his rose bushes when the sound of his stepdaughter’s shrill voice shattered what had been a pleasant afternoon.

“Aunt Sophia?” Ashley called out as she stepped onto the patio.

Erickson instinctively braced for the confrontation that was about to follow. He turned to see Ashley scowling at him from across the yard. Corky, their Yorkshire Terrier, was tucked underneath her right arm.

“Sophia left to check on her place,” Erickson said. “She should be back in an hour or so.”

“Wow, the great leader of Jankowski, Parkins, Gregorio & Hall actually found time to come home before sundown on a weekday. Why aren’t you sitting with Mommy?”

Erickson survived their volatile relationship by never taking Ashley’s bait. He removed several dead petals from his white English roses. “Your mother’s sleeping,” he said without turning to face her.

“She’s dying. I’d think you’d want to spend all the time you could with her.”

“I don’t want to do this right now. Frankly, I’m tired of it.”

“Oh, yes, it is all about you.” She set Corky free to run about the yard.

Erickson reached behind him for the beer bottle he’d set inches away on the grass. He took a swig and tried to put himself in Ashley’s shoes. She was twenty-four years old, not particularly bright, not particularly attractive. She’d never had a relationship with her father and her mother was on her deathbed. She had no siblings, no cousins, no grandparents and no close friends. After Claire’s death, she’d have no one except her Aunt Sophia. She had a right to be an angry young woman. He would let her be.

“I guess I shouldn’t ask how Mommy’s doing. You probably wouldn’t know.”

When Corky barked and ran off toward the kitchen door, Erickson flushed with relief. Sophia was back to referee. Ashley usually behaved more civilly toward him in the presence of her aunt. He continued to ignore her and she finally went back inside.

Erickson took longer than necessary to finish his gardening, dreading going into his own house. Just as he was done, Sophia called out to him. “We need your help getting Claire to the bathroom.”

Tossing his gardening gloves to the ground, he reluctantly headed for the bedroom he no longer slept in. The place smelled and looked like a hospital room.

Claire was sitting on the edge of the bed when he entered.

“I told you, I can make it,” Claire insisted.

Lately, Claire was showing more independence. Erickson hoped that didn’t mean she was getting better. He took a step toward her, but she waved him away. She easily walked the short distance to their master bathroom. Erickson followed close behind, just in case.

He stepped aside as Sophia assisted her behind closed doors. When he turned around, he found himself face-to-face with Ashley. Her scornful eyes burned into his. She seemed to get off on staring him down. Erickson looked away. He was relieved when the bathroom door finally reopened.

After helping Claire get resettled, Erickson asked Ashley and Sophia to join him in the den.

“We need to talk about Claire’s care,” he said once they were seated before him. “I think we need to consider putting her in a hospice.”

“No way!” Ashley bellowed. “You’re not going to stash her away to die alone with a bunch of strangers!”

“Well, we can’t continue to take care of her here,” Erickson said. “It’s—”

“We? You don’t do a damn thing,” Ashley fired back. “We take care of her. Is it getting to be too much trouble for you to escort her to the bathroom on the rare occasion you’re even here? I bet you can’t wait for her to die.”

“Stop it!” Sophia scolded in a hushed voice. “Claire’s going to hear you.” She turned to Erickson. “Have you discussed this with Claire?”

“I wanted to talk to the two of you first.” Erickson had figured there was only a slim chance that they would agree, but had decided to give it a shot anyway.

“I agree with Ashley,” Sophia said. “I can’t see putting Claire in a hospice. We’ll manage.”

“It’s going to get worse,” Erickson said.

“And we’ll handle it,” Sophia replied. “If we have to, we can hire a nurse to help out. I owe it to my sister.”

Erickson heard Sophia’s unspoken words. And you owe it to her, too.

He did not like having someone else make decisions for his wife and run things in his home. He just wanted it to all be over.

Very soon, it would be.

Chapter 14

AT three in the afternoon, Dre dumped his duffel bag in the trunk of his Volkswagen Jetta and climbed into the driver’s seat. The car had 107,000 miles on it and had never once let him down.

As he backed out of the parking stall, headed for the city of Hawthorne, Dre smiled in anticipation of the ten grand he was about to collect.

Twenty-five minutes later, he pulled up in front of a well-kept house in a working-class neighborhood near 120th and Crenshaw. As he prepared to exit the car, his heart raced. You never knew when things could go awry, so he always braced for the unexpected. He scanned the street ahead, then checked the rearview mirror.

Most of Dre’s clients were small-time dope dealers who didn’t want to hassle with the manufacturing part of the crack business, even though it would mean a bigger profit. Most dope dealers, Dre quickly learned, were not business oriented.

The marketing classes he’d taken at Long Beach State taught Dre the principles of supply and demand: make the best product, never run low and treat people fairly. That would keep them coming back for more. Dre also never stretched his product by adding B-12 or other crap. Everybody knew his product was pure.

Dre purchased his coke exclusively from the Mexicans. His black brothers were way too scandalous. They would sell you three kilos, then have one of their boys jack you on the way home. But the Mexicans were all about business. They operated by a code, probably because they had somebody above them calling the shots.

He pulled the duffel bag from a floorboard underneath the backseat and trotted up the driveway. Dre stared with disapproval as he walked past Lonnie’s Benz sitting on twenty-twos. Flossin’ in a ride with flashy rims like that was just begging the cops to fuck with you.

“S’up, Biznessman?” Lonnie said, as he opened the door.

Dre’s nickname on the street was actually a source of pride. He returned the greeting and stepped inside. Dre wasn’t big on chitchat, preferring to get in and out without wasting time. The terms of their deal had already been worked out earlier in the day via phone. Eight pizzas and nine hot links. Their private code for eight balls and ounces.

He pulled a large paper bag from his duffel bag and handed it to Lonnie. In exchange, Lonnie passed him four neatly stacked wads of cash wrapped in rubber bands. Dre could hear kids laughing in a back room.

Dre quickly counted the cash, then looked up at Lonnie. “Dude, I think you miscounted.”

Lonnie’s chest swelled with indignation. “It’s all there, man. I counted it twice.”

“Well, you counted wrong.” Dre extended his hand. “You gave me a hundred dollars too much.”

Lonnie froze for a second before reaching for the bill. “Man, you’re alright.”

Dre stuffed the money in the inside pocket of his jacket and headed back to his car, smiling all the way. Lonnie would be telling that story for weeks. Dre’s rep on the street would go up tenfold. Dre was a good businessman and good businessmen treated people right.

Not until he crossed Manchester did Dre finally relax. Since he wasn’t driving an expensive car, there was only a slim chance that a cop would stop him. He was always careful to drive the speed limit and never even rolled through a stop sign. If he got stopped, it would be very hard to explain why he was carrying thousands of dollars in cash.

Dre had been having a hard time keeping Angela off his mind. He couldn’t remember the last time a female affected him that way. They had gotten into the habit of hanging around to talk after their cycling class. The more time he spent with her, the more he dug her.

Though she claimed to be a few months away from getting married, something definitely wasn’t right in paradise. But Dre wasn’t one to ask a lot of questions. If homeboy wasn’t handling his business, that was on him.

Dre pulled into a parking stall in back of an apartment building off Florence. Little Dre waved from the balcony of the second floor and dashed down the stairs.

“Hey, Dad!” His son jumped into his arms before he was barely out of the car.

“Hey, dude. Ready to go?”

“Yep. Gotta go get my stuff.”

Sheila stepped out of her apartment, leaned over the railing and smiled seductively. “Hey, Dre.”

He winced as soon as he saw her.

Sheila’s hair was freshly done and she was wearing enough makeup to scrape off and paint the side of a barn. Her shiny satin top was all cleavage and nipples. Dre had made the mistake of screwing her a few weeks ago, simply to blow off some steam. He’d left as soon as he busted a nut.

Since then, he could tell that Sheila assumed the encounter meant they might start kickin’ it again. But that wasn’t going to happen. Dre was convinced that Sheila was bipolar and hoped she hadn’t passed that shit on to his son.

Dre stepped inside the apartment. Crap was everywhere. Crap was always everywhere.

“You ever think about cleaning up this place?”

Sheila planted both hands on her broad hips. “You wanna hire me a maid?”

“Why you need a maid? You don’t work.”

The nice Sheila who had greeted him seconds ago had disappeared, replaced by her psycho twin. “Don’t come up in here startin’ nothin’, Dre.”

Why do I even waste time trying to talk to this crazy bitch?

“Little Dre, hurry up,” he called into the back room.

Sheila leaned against the wall and folded her arms, hoisting up her thirty-eight double Ds. “Want me to hang out with y’all this weekend?” she asked with a purr. The nice Sheila was back.

“Naw.”

Sheila puckered her lips and glared at him. “Well, don’t be bringing him back late.”

“After I pick him up from school tomorrow, we’re going out to eat. I’ll have him back by six. If we’re running late, I’ll call you.”

“Ain’t no need to call,” Sheila snarled. “Just don’t be late.”

Dre started to respond, but knew that would only escalate the drama. He turned and pushed open the screen door. “Tell Little Dre I’m waiting for him in the car.”

Chapter 15

ANGELA scanned the faces around the conference room table. Two members of the task force were missing. “Are Salina and Zack coming?” she asked, taking a seat.

“Salina’s on her way,” Jon replied. “Said she has something big to report. As for Zack, let’s just enjoy the fact that he’s missing in action.”

“Well, let’s get started,” Angela said. “I’d like everyone to report out on their individual assignments. You go first, Tyler. What did you find out about Live Now?”

Tyler opened a yellow folder. “Live Now is one of twenty DBAs operated by The Tustin Group. In the early ‘90s, The Tustin Group made a ton of money selling the policies of AIDS patients. When the new AIDS drugs came onto the scene and increased the life expectancy of people with HIV, they switched their focus to cancer victims. The founder and CEO of the Company, Tom Bellamy, used to be a commercial real estate broker. He started out in his twenties and was filthy rich by his thirties. He told one interviewer that he entered the viatical business because he got bored selling office buildings. The company posted a gross profit of fifty million dollars last year.”

Jon whistled.

“You were also going to research some additional legal theories we should consider,” Angela said.

“In addition to mail and wire fraud, we should also consider—”

Zack walked in and took a seat at the far end of the table, although the rest of the team was gathered at the opposite end. “Sorry, I’m late.”

Angela refused to react to what she assumed was an attention grabbing move. “Go ahead, Tyler.”

When Tyler finished his presentation, Zack started pelting him with questions. “Did you read U.S. v. Jasons?” he asked in a tone meant to intimidate.

Tyler looked embarrassed. “Uh, no.”

“Why not? It’s—”

“Hold up, Zack,” Angela said, cutting him off. “I’m not concerned about nailing down specific legal authority right now.” She turned to Tyler. “Good job.”

Zack smiled tightly just as Salina hurried into the conference room. “You absolutely won’t believe this.”

“Don’t tell me,” Zack said facetiously, “there’s been another viatical murder.”

“Nope,” Salina said. “There’ve been two murders.”

Angela gasped. “You’re kidding.

“I wish.” Salina took the open seat next to Angela. “And both of the victims just happen to be clients of Live Now who sold their policies a few weeks before they died.”

Salina passed out copies of a memo to everyone at the table. “The first woman, Joanna Richardson, suffered from kidney disease. She was killed in a hit-and-run while taking a stroll in her Leimert Park neighborhood. Four days before that, Mildred Mason died in a suspicious fire at her home in Compton. If you count Veronika Myers and her mother, that makes four deaths tied to Live Now. I’m sorry, but I don’t think they were accidents. These Live Now guys may be pressuring dying people in other states, but in California they’re killing ‘em.”

“I knew it, I knew it!” Zack said, pumping his fist in the air. “This is the case I’ve been praying for.”

“Don’t get too excited,” Angela said. “If we look into this, we’ll have to team up with the D.A.’s office.”

Zack huffed. “Well, we just have to be careful about how much information we share. We don’t want them to get all the credit when we crack this operation.”

“At the moment, I’m more concerned about making sure no one else is killed.” Angela turned to Jon. “When you go undercover, I really want you to be careful.”

“I’ll be fine. I’m a federal agent packing heat, remember?”

Angela smiled to herself. The Postal Inspection Service wasn’t exactly the FBI.

“Salina, this is great work,” Angela said. “Did you find out anything about the brokers who work for Live Now.”

Salina’s face lit up. “If you love me now, you’re really, really, really going to love me after you hear this.”

“Spill it,” Zack said anxiously.

“The broker who sold the policies of the people I just mentioned recently left the company. The guy who replaced him just got his license. If this company is as unscrupulous as it appears to be, they hired the right man for the job.” Salina smiled. “When we bust their operation, his involvement is going to attract some big headlines.”

“Just tell us what you found out,” Zack said, sounding annoyed.

“First, he’s a lawyer,” Salina said smiling. “His name is Waverly Sloan.”

“Yes!” Zack exclaimed. “It’s always nice when we can put one of our own behind bars.”

“That’s not the best part,” Salina continued. “I did some digging. He’s not just a lawyer, he’s a recently disbarred lawyer.”

Zack and Jon responded at the same time. “Jackpot!”

Part Two

It's All Good

Chapter 16

WAVERLY stood on the front porch of his magnificent new home in Palos Verdes Estates, watching the moving van back out of the driveway. His face glistened with pride.

In just over two months as a viatical broker, he’d earned enough money to render his financial problems a distant memory. His aggressive marketing efforts were so effective, terminally ill patients in need of cash began ringing his phone off the hook.

Two clients who had life expectancies of less than six months had died within days. The investors who purchased their policies, thrilled with the fast return on their investment, were clamoring to hand over even more money. An oncologist he’d given a finder’s fee for referring a patient, even came on board as an investor. Waverly now had his own source of ready cash and didn’t need to rely on investors from Live Now.

Deidra walked up behind him and circled her arms around his waist. “Admiring your kingdom?”

Waverly smiled. “You might say that.”

Just a few weeks ago, he wasn’t sure how long he’d be able to pay the mortgage on his townhouse and now, he was living in a six-thousand-square-foot mansion. The doctor who had owned the house dropped dead of a heart attack, both underinsured and heavily in debt. His elderly wife was close to losing the place and just wanted out. Waverly gave her a few thousand dollars and worked out a deal to lease the house with an option to buy. Their townhouse in Culver City was now on the market.

Waverly followed Deidra back inside. The living room, an impressive circular expanse with a twenty-foot ceiling, was crowded with boxes and new furniture still encased in plastic. They had just returned from five days in Cabo, where they did nothing but lay on the beach, make love and shop.

Deidra headed for the kitchen to confer with the interior decorator, who was busy directing her team of helpers. Waverly opened the French doors and stepped out onto the veranda, which overlooked the crystal blue waters of the Palos Verdes coastline. He liked the sound of the ocean waves crashing against the rocks below. He still couldn’t believe the turn his life had taken. Not only had he earned over a hundred grand in commissions from the sale of six policies, but there were another five set to be inked in the next day or so. On top of that, he’d actually been helping people. For once, all was right with his life.

“Knock, knock. May we come in?”

Waverly glanced back toward the living room just as his in-laws knocked on the open front door. He had sworn Deidra to secrecy about the house until today. Waverly wanted to see Leon’s reaction for himself.

“Welcome,” he said, returning to the living room and waving them inside.

Leon whistled and did a slow three-sixty turn. “This is quite a place. Business must be pretty darn good.”

Waverly smiled. “I’m doing okay.” He enjoyed moving just a couple of miles from his pompous father-in-law and buying a house that dwarfed his.

Leon walked over to the French doors and gazed out at the ocean. Leon didn’t have an ocean view.

Deidra came bouncing into the room and rushed to hug her mother. “Don’t you just love it?”

“It’s beautiful!” her mother cooed, appearing genuinely happy for her daughter.

Leon stepped out onto the veranda. “This is really something.” His tone was not nearly as exuberant as his wife’s. “This place had to cost you over two million.”

“Close,” Waverly said, not bothering to explain that he was essentially a renter.

The housekeeper appeared and asked Deidra what room she should start next.

“You have a housekeeper now?” Leon asked. “A few weeks ago, you couldn’t afford a trip to Paris and now you’ve got a multimillion dollar house and a housekeeper? Did you hit the lottery and forget to tell us?”

“Leon, stop it,” his wife, Myrtle, scolded.

Waverly marveled at how a man with so much could envy him for attaining the same, all to the benefit of his daughter. But in Leon’s eyes, Waverly’s increase in stature somehow lowered his. As usual, Deidra stepped in as peacemaker.

“C’mon, Daddy.” She took her father by the arm. “Let me show you the rest of the house.”

After dinner delivered by a nearby Italian restaurant, Leon cornered Waverly alone on the veranda.

“So tell me about the big case?”

Waverly folded his arms and grinned. “No big case, Leon. In fact, I’m no longer practicing law.”

His father-in-law’s face flushed in astonishment. “Really. Exactly what business are you in?”

“Insurance investments,” he said.

“Really? Tell me more.”

“I find people interested in investing in certain insurance products. As the broker, I earn a commission on every sale. The bulk of my clients are wealthy doctors with too much money on their hands.”

“Interesting,” Leon said eagerly. “Maybe I’d like to get in on it.”

That was not a request Waverly was willing to entertain. He didn’t want his father-in-law anywhere near his new cash cow. “Sorry, Leon, but I don’t think it’s a good idea to mix family and business. And anyway, you already have more money than you can spend.”

“You can never have too much money,” Leon said with a chuckle, shoving both hands into his pockets. “I’m serious, I’d like to—”

“Sorry, Leon. Can’t help you.” Waverly gave him a condescending pat on the back, then pulled open the French doors. “Let’s head back inside. I think we’re having tiramisu for dessert.”

Chapter 17

ANGELA browsed a rack of wedding gowns at the Dare to be a Diva bridal shop on Melrose, while waiting for her mother and sister to arrive. She looked up just as her sister entered the store.

“Dang, girl!” Jada grabbed both of Angela’s hands and lifted them in the air so she could get a better view. “How much weight did you lose?”

Angela beamed with pride. “Seventeen pounds.”

“Tyra Banks ain’t got nothing on you!” She gave her sister a hug. “Finally, Mama can stop bugging you about losing weight for the wedding. Has she seen you yet?”

“Today’ll be the first time.”

Jada turned up her nose. “Knowing her, she’ll still have something snotty to say. Just ignore her, okay?”

“I will,” Angela promised. “As long as you do the same.”

Jada laughed. “That’s asking way too much.”

Jada and their mother, Lola, bickered constantly. Their already strained relationship worsened after Jada flunked out of Yale, in large part, because she spent more time playing dorm hairstylist than studying English Lit. That was several years ago, but Lola Evans still hadn’t forgiven her firstborn for selecting the Vidal Sassoon Academy over the Ivy League.

They took seats in a waiting area. “So, you really going through with this?” Jada asked.

Angela picked up a Brides magazine from the table. “Please don’t start.”

Despite her growing attraction to Dre, Angela had finally decided to honor her commitment to Cornell. They’d just spent a long weekend in Santa Barbara and actually had a wonderful time.

“You’re not even excited about the wedding,” Jada said.

“Yes, I am,” Angela said, sounding more defensive than she meant to.

Jada smacked her lips. “I’ll never understand how you can be such a barracuda in the courtroom and such a wuss when it comes to your personal life. You’re only marrying Cornell because your clock is ticking. It’s not like you need a husband to have a baby.”

“I know that.” But that’s not the way I want to do it.

“The wedding is less than three months away,” Jada continued, “and you’re just getting around to ordering your dress. You don’t want to marry Cornell, but you know Mama would have a heart attack if you backed out. You need to stop letting her run your life.”

Angela shifted in her seat. “She’s not running my life.”

Jada made an exasperated sound with her lips. “I couldn’t believe you let Mama pick wedding colors. Burgundy and grey? Ugh. You hate burgundy and I’ve never seen you in grey.”

Before Angela could come up with a retort, Lola Evans floated into the shop in a cloud of rose-scented perfume. “How are my girls?” She bent to give each of them a big air kiss.

After hitting sixty, their mother lost her attraction to solid colors. Today she was wearing a silk blouse that was a neon mix of orange, brown and yellow. Her shoulder length hair was gathered on top of her head in a long ponytail.

Lola was barely seated before she pulled several bridal magazines from a big, orange purse. “I’ve found some beautiful gowns I want you to see.” She opened a magazine to a page flagged with a Post-it Note. “What do you think?”

Every dress pictured on the two-page spread had a high neckline and way too much lace for Angela. Now, that she was almost back into a size eight, she was looking forward to wearing something a little sexier.

“Well?” her mother said in anxious anticipation.

Angela hesitated.

“Look at her face, Mama,” Jada interceded. “She hates them.”

“Your sister does not need you to talk for her,” Lola said, her tone snippy.

Angela silently gritted her teeth. Yes, I do. “They’re beautiful, but I had my heart set on a strapless dress.”

“Oh, no, no, no, no, no.” Lola pressed her hand to her chest. “Not for an afternoon wedding. And honey, you don’t have the arms for that style of dress.”

“Don’t have the arms?” Jada said, scrunching up her face. “Mama, have you even looked at her? Angela, stand up.”

When Angela didn’t move, Jada took her by the wrist and pulled her to her feet.

Lola leaned back to take in her daughter’s dramatic weight loss. “Oh, you lost some weight. You look nice, baby.”

“Nice?” Jada said. “Is that all you have to say? She looks amazing. And I’m not aware of any book that says afternoon weddings and strapless gowns don’t mix.”

“I wasn’t aware you had picked up a book since you dropped out of Yale.” Lola huffed.

Before Jada could snipe back, Angela flagged one of the bridal consultants. “We’re ready to get started now.”

“How is Cornell, honey?” her mother asked as they walked back to the fitting room.

“Fine.” Angela wasn’t in the mood to hear her mother go on and on about how lucky she was to be marrying a man like Cornell.

“I guess he’s certainly glad you finally lost weight.” Her mother’s words stung, but she didn’t need to respond because Jada charged to her defense.

“Mama!” Jada nearly screamed. “I can’t believe you said that to her.”

As her mother and sister commenced another round, Angela checked out of the conversation. Jada was right. She wasn’t excited about the wedding or about marrying Cornell. Would she feel differently if she were marrying Dre?

Her sister nudged her. “What in the world are you smiling at?”

“Nothing.” Angela didn’t realize she’d been smiling.

A few feet away, her mother meandered along an aisle of hideous debutante dresses. “Come take a look at these, baby,” Lola called out.

Jada shot Angela a look that challenged her to speak her mind.

Instead, Angela grunted and trudged over.

Chapter 18

THE driver eased the black Crown Victoria into the driveway of Erickson’s stately Hancock Park home. Relaxing in the backseat, he tossed back the last of his scotch, grimaced, and braced himself for another show.

Erickson climbed out, tipped the driver and grabbed his carry-on bag. He had just returned from Washington where he’d undergone a grueling round of meetings and interviews. The job was his. He could feel it. Without that knowledge, he would not have had the strength to carry on with this charade.

Dropping his bag just inside the entryway, he found Corky waiting to greet him. “Hey there, boy!” Erickson reached down and massaged the dog’s back. “I bet you missed me.”

He started for the bedroom, but heard the sound of the television wafting from the family room and headed there first. As expected, his sister-in-law, Sophia, sat in front of the television set, glued to an episode of Forensic Files. She was addicted to true crime shows. Tales of murder and mayhem actually seemed to delight her.

“Welcome home.” She managed to face him without taking her eyes off the television screen. Physically, his wife bore little resemblance to her older sister. Sophia’s dark brown hair hung heavily down her back. She never wore makeup and her long bangs nearly covered her green eyes, which made her resemble some shaggy animal. It was completely understandable why she had never married.

“How’s Claire feeling today?” Erickson asked.

This time, Sophia glanced away from the television, but not for more than a couple of seconds. “Fine.”

Erickson wanted to scream that Claire was not fine. Nothing around his house was fine.

He often wondered how much Claire had confided in Sophia. Did she know about the DVD? He was fairly certain that she did not. Appearances were important to Claire. She would not have shared his transgressions even with her only sister. And if Sophia had known, he would have sensed it. He’d never met anyone more transparent.

He made his way to the bedroom, locking the door behind him. Except for a small lamp on the nightstand, the room was almost movie-theater dark and reeked of despair. Claire was watching Desperate Housewives. Her viewing habits were as atrocious as her sister’s.

Claire’s mood swings had been growing more and more severe. Erickson wondered what temperament he would face today.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, reluctant to test the waters.

“I’m fine,” Claire replied, just above a whisper. He was thankful that the darkness prevented a clear view of her face.

Taking a seat on the edge of the bed, Erickson took her hand. She did not pull away, which he interpreted as a positive sign. He was increasingly at a loss for words in Claire’s presence. It would have been nice to share his excitement about his trip to Washington. But he would not give his wife more ammunition to assassinate him with.

Everything was in place for the surgery. The payout from the policy—two hundred and fifty thousand dollars—had already been deposited into their bank account. Claire had been examined by a surgeon, who confirmed that she was a suitable candidate for the procedure. Scheduling the date was the only loose end.

Over the last few days, however, Claire had become noncommittal whenever he brought up the subject.

Erickson awkwardly caressed her hand. He knew he should proceed slowly, but he did not have time for delays. He needed Claire’s agreement to proceed.

“Have you given any more thought to when you’d like to schedule the surgery?” He despised the timidity in his voice.

Claire laughed softly. “Couldn’t you wait an hour or so before you begin badgering me again?”

Badgering you, he wanted to scream, I’m trying to save your goddamn life.

“I don’t understand the change of heart.” He stroked the back of her hand. Maybe she was just nervous. “The surgery is your best hope. It’s our best hope.”

“I’ve changed my mind,” Claire announced, easing her hand from his. “It’s a waste of money. We should just face reality. I’m going to die.”

Yes, Erickson thought, you are. But he did not have the time to wait for some unknown date. The surgery was part of the plan and they had to stick to the plan.

“But the surgery was the whole reason we sold the insurance policy,” he said.

“I said I don’t want to do it!” Claire snapped. “And please don’t mention it to Sophia or Ashley. I don’t want them getting their hopes up. I’ve been reading about the surgery on the Internet. The odds of success are very low.”

Erickson eyed the laptop sitting on the nightstand to her right.

“We spend all that money. I suffer for another few months, then I die. It’s not worth it.”

“But don’t you think—”

“I said I don’t want to do it!” Claire practically shouted. “So forget it.”

Erickson had not anticipated this. He had no idea how it would impact Becker’s plan.

“It’s time for me to get my final wishes in order,” Claire said. “I’ll put everything in writing. I’d like to be cremated.”

That surprised him, but he didn’t care one way or the other. In fact, it made things easier. If something went wrong, there’d be no body to examine.

With Claire’s change of heart, getting his hands on that DVD was more important than ever. Though he’d never seen it, he did not doubt its existence. He had searched the house, numerous times, to no avail. It had to be here. Claire would not have trusted it in the hands of anyone else.

“What about the DVD?” he asked. “You said you were going to give it to me.”

Claire had turned back to the television screen and did not appear to be listening to him. “No, I didn’t. I said I would think about giving it to you. I’ve changed my mind about that, too.”

Erickson wasn’t sure he could control his temper. “I understand that you want to ruin me, but what if somebody found it? Is that what you want?”

Claire laughed. “I think the world should know who the chairman of Jankowski, Parkins really is.”

Erickson wanted to snatch her by the neck and squeeze the life out of her right that very moment. “I’m tired of your games,” he said, finally lashing out. “You probably made the whole thing up just to hold over my head.” He got up to leave.

His words seemed to energize her. “You don’t believe me? You think I made it up?”

She fumbled beneath the covers, retrieved the remote control and aimed it toward the DVD player underneath the television. “Take a look at this.”

The television screen filled with Erickson’s image. He was sitting at the desk in his study, staring at his computer monitor. Only his head and shoulders were visible above the back of his leather chair. He was wearing the bathrobe Claire had given him as an anniversary present three years ago.

A sick feeling churned in his gut and he felt blindingly dizzy. He had looked everywhere for the DVD except in the one most obvious place. Had it been there all along?

Panic ripped through him as he focused on the pornographic video he had been viewing in the privacy of his office. A hidden camera, which he quickly estimated had been posted on the bookshelf near the door, had caught him enjoying what he considered nothing more than a harmless pastime.

On the television screen, he looked calm and relaxed as he backed away from the desk and turned sideways, providing a clear profile of his face. He opened his robe and began to stroke himself, his eyes glued to the computer monitor on his desk.

A low moan filled the room as Erickson pleasured himself while three, sun-starved girls lay on a thin cot on the floor in a room barren of other furniture. An accented voice someplace off camera instructed the girls in a foreign language. They slowly responded, awkwardly touching themselves in private places. Each of the girls were Asian, likely Filipino, and no older than ten or twelve.

Erickson charged across the room and slammed his fist against the panel of the DVD player. It seemed to take forever for the disk to slide out of the machine. When it did, he grabbed it and cracked it in half. “Is this the only copy?” His voice was surprisingly calm.

“Perhaps,” Claire said with a shrewd smile.

The thought of anyone else seeing the DVD caused a blast of terror to slice through him. The video painted him as some pervert, which he was not. He had never touched a child. Any child. Ever. His private fantasies were just that.

Erickson was not sure he could wait for Becker to carry out his plan. He needed to complete the process himself. Right this moment.

Instead, he stormed out of the room, grabbed his keys from a table in the hallway and headed for the front door. He needed to take a drive. A nice long one.

Chapter 19

“HEY, little bruh, what’s hap’nin’?”

Waverly frowned at the sound of his brother’s voice. There were so many calls coming in from terminally ill people, he had developed a bad habit of not checking his caller ID before picking up.

“Hey, Quincy,” Waverly said dryly.

“Don’t worry, I’m not calling to borrow any money, bruh. Just wanted to say hey.”

That would be a first.

Having just signed up two new clients, it was turning out to be a good day. He was also enjoying his first week in his plush new office on Wilshire Boulevard. So, he wasn’t up for dealing with any nonsense from his brother.

Quincy rambled on about nothing in particular, taking way too long to get to the point. That told Waverly that whatever he wanted was major.

“Hey, man,” Waverly said finally, “good talking to you, but I’m a working stiff. Gotta get back to work.”

“What you doin’ ain’t work. You’re livin’ the high life.”

Waverly hadn’t told his brother much about his new business. Just that he was now helping wealthy people invest their money. But once Quincy heard about the move to Palos Verdes Estates, he only saw dollar signs.

“Since you brought it up,” Quincy said tentatively, “I was talking to a friend about your business.”

Waverly closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and index finger. This was not going to be good.

Quincy seemed to be waiting for him to say something. When he realized that Waverly didn’t plan to, he continued.

“Uh, one of my buddies knows a guy, who knows a guy who’d like you to do some investing for him.”

“I’m not looking for any new investors, Quincy. Tell your friend thanks, but no thanks.”

“C’mon, man. Just do me this favor. I already told ‘em all about you.”

“I’m curious, Quincy, just what does your friend do for a living?”

“He’s in business.”

“What kind of business?”

“I’m not really sure. Import, export, I think.”

“And what’s his product?” Waverly asked. “Marijuana, crack, meth or all three?”

“Li’l bruh, I wouldn’t get you hooked up with the wrong kind of people. I swear this guy is on the up-and-up.”

“Sure he is. He’s probably looking for somebody to launder his drug money. I’m not interested.”

“C’mon, at least meet the dude,” Quincy begged. “Then you can judge for yourself.”

A meeting wasn’t necessary. If the guy was even remotely associated with his brother, he was bad news. “I gotta get back to work. Good—”

“Wait, don’t hang up.” The desperation level in Quincy’s voice rose ten notches.

“You gotta help me out on this. They’re kinda expecting to talk to you. If they don’t, they’re going to take it out on me.”

Waverly lowered his head and exhaled. He should just hang up the phone. He was not about to risk his very lucrative career dealing with some criminal.

“I can’t help you this time, Quincy.”

“Can’t you just talk to the guy? I can’t go back and tell ‘em you won’t even speak to him. You can’t dis’ him like that. This dude is pretty high up.”

“High up in what? Some drug cartel?”

“C’mon, bruh, just do me this one favor.”

“Can’t,” Waverly said, then hung up.

He flipped open the calendar on his desk and saw that he only had one appointment left for the day. Waverly usually went to his clients’ homes, but Jerry Billington had insisted on meeting Waverly at his office. Waverly wondered if that meant Billington hadn’t told his family he planned to sell his insurance policy.

Pulling Billington’s intake folder from his desk drawer, Waverly reviewed the information he’d taken down during a lengthy telephone conversation with the man. Divorced business executive with lung cancer and heart disease. Forty-three years old, father of two college-age kids. Six-month life expectancy. The next part made him smile. He had a policy worth three hundred thousand dollars, which meant thirty grand for Waverly.

When Billington finally walked into his office, Waverly gave him a quick once-over. He lacked the dull gray pallor that Waverly had come to associate with terminal cancer. But the man had probably lost a great deal of weight. He was skinny enough to be blown away by a strong gust of wind.

Waverly extended his hand and asked if he wanted coffee.

Billington declined.

“We’ve gone over most of your information on the telephone and I have your application here. All we need to do now is—”

“I’m not sure I understand how this all works,” Billington interrupted. “Can you explain it to me again?” He spoke in a low, halting voice.

Most of his clients wanted money, not repeat explanations. But Waverly took the time to review the process again, step by step. When he was done, Billington scratched the crown of his head.

“I’m not sure I should really do this. My kids and grandkids could probably use the insurance money.”

Waverly winced inside. He was already counting on the commission. But he had never been one to apply pressure tactics.

“This is an important decision, Mr. Billington. If you’re not sure, we shouldn’t proceed. Have you discussed this with your family?”

“No, I can’t seem to find the right time to bring it up.”

Waverly closed the folder. “I think you may want to do that.”

A surprised look crossed Billington’s face.

“Why don’t I give you a few days to give it some thought?” Waverly continued. “You can call me back to reschedule our appointment after you’ve spoken with your family.”

Billington seemed hesitant and started biting his nails. “What do you think I should do?”

“I’m sorry,” Waverly said. “I really can’t make that decision for you. If you’re not sure you want to sell your policy, we shouldn’t proceed.”

Billington just stared back at him and didn’t say anything for a long while. “If I go through with it, how soon will I get the check?”

“It all depends on how fast we can get your medical records from your doctor.”

Billington pulled out his wallet and handed Waverly a business card. “My doctor’s a golfing buddy. He promised me he would get my records to you right away.”

“I don’t think we should proceed if you’re not certain,” Waverly said.

Billington waved his hand in front of his face. “Never mind. I’ll tell them. What’s next?”

This time, Waverly hesitated. He didn’t want any hassles after the guy died. It was always better if the family knew the deal up-front.

“Our in-house doctors have to review your medical history,” Waverly explained. “I’ll see if I can give your case priority. If there aren’t any glitches, I might be able to get a check to you a couple of weeks after the medical review is finished.”

“So how much will I get?” Billington asked, suddenly excited.

“As we discussed over the telephone, fifty percent of the face value of your policy. That’s one hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”

Billington grinned. “Who gets the rest?”

“There are some administrative fees that go to Live Now and the doctors who evaluate your medical records. My commission also has to be paid. The rest goes to the investor.”

“And who’s that?”

“I can’t disclose that information. These policies are generally purchased through a trust.”

“Sounds like somebody’s going to hit it big when I kick the bucket. What’s your take?”

“Ten percent,” Waverly said slowly. He’d never had such an inquisitive client. Most were just happy to have money coming their way.

“Why do you get so much?”

“That’s the standard commission, Mr. Billington.”

The man was asking way too many questions. “Like I said before, if you aren’t certain about proceeding, we can wait.”

Billington scratched his head. “No, no, I’m ready.”

Waverly tried not to reveal how happy he was with Billington’s decision. “Okay, then. I’ll request your medical records, then call you in a few days with an update.”

Chapter 20

JUST after ten, Dre drove into the darkened streets of L.A.’s skid row and parked his Volkswagen near 5th and Crocker Streets. He looked around, then got out to stretch his legs.

As he waited for his client to show up, he watched a bum peer out of a cardboard tent as two drunks stumbled by. He rarely made runs downtown anymore. Too risky. But Junior, a long-time client, was in a fix and Dre agreed to do him the favor.

He mentally calculated his take for the day. He had nine thousand in the pocket of his lightweight trench coat and was about to collect another six grand. The thought of the money empowered him. He was close, real close, to getting out.

Dre was also more than ready to take things further with Angela. He looked forward to hanging out with her after their cycling class, but just talking to a babe wasn’t hittin’ on nothing. Dre figured coming on too strong with a sistah like Angela would be a mistake. He had put it out there. She would have to make the next move.

Besides, Dre knew that if he wanted to pursue her as his woman, he would have to come correct. He hadn’t exactly lied when she asked what he did for a living. He did buy and sell foreclosures. But could he keep her from learning about his other sideline? Even if he got out of the game, could she accept his past? Dre told himself she could. Angela was real people. He just hoped Mr. Fiancé kept doing whatever it was he was doing. Or not doing.

He heard movement from the rear and spun around. Junior was strutting toward him. Dre chuckled. Junior was a slightly built, dark-skinned man who walked with the exaggerated swagger of a heavyweight boxer. He probably weighed a buck twenty, if that.

They acknowledged each other with only a curt nod. Junior handed him a paper bag filled with cash and Dre passed him a larger paper bag containing product. There was no need for either of them to check the contents. They had it like that.

Dre jumped back into his Jetta and headed home. As he drove west on 5th Street, he rolled down the window and rested his elbow across the door. At the last minute he slowed, deciding not to speed through the yellow light at Los Angeles Street.

As he sang along with Seal’s rendition of It’s a Man’s World, Dre imagined taking Angela out dancing and wondered if she could step. He tried to think of where they would go on their first date. He would search the Internet and find someplace special. Damn, how he wanted to get with her.

“Don’t move, muthafucka!”

Dre felt the barrel of a gun pressed against his left temple and froze. “What the hell?”

Before he could react, a brick shattered the front passenger window, stinging his face with chards of glass. “Pull over. Now!” A man with tattered clothes, rotting teeth and a skeletal body shouted through the window.

Too afraid to move, Dre quickly assessed that he was dealing with a couple of crackheads. These dudes wanted money and drugs, not a murder rap. But mistakes happen.

“Pull over, muthafucka!” The man with the gun yelled.

Dre’s pulse quickened. “Look, dude—”

“I said pull the fuck over, now!” The man jammed the gun into his temple.

Dre thought about flooring it, but didn’t want his head blown off. Too bad his .38 was out of reach in his stash box in the back. Trying to reason with his attackers would be a waste of time. He gently pressed the gas, jerking the car into the intersection. Both men jogged along with the car as a minivan darted around them, horns blaring.

“Pull over to the curb!” The gunman smashed the butt of the gun against the side of Dre’s head. “Hurry up!”

His head throbbed with pain, Dre did as instructed, steering the car through the intersection in a herky-jerky motion. When the Volkswagen eased over to the curb, the man on his right leaned in, grabbed the keys from the ignition and threw them to the ground.

Blood trailed down the side of Dre’s face and his eyes blurred. While the gunman kept his weapon aimed at Dre’s head, the other man opened the driver’s door, yanked him from the car and slammed him against the hood. The man frantically patted him down, eventually finding the wallet in his back pocket which contained close to two hundred bucks.

“What else you got?” he demanded. “You got any rocks?”

Dre didn’t answer. He felt equal amounts of rage and fear.

“I bet he’s got some rocks, too,” the gunman said to his accomplice. “Find ‘em! Hurry up!” The gunman was a foot taller than his partner.

The smaller man quickly ransacked the car, but found nothing. As he moved in to search Dre a second time, Dre kneed him in the groin and grabbed his partner’s gun. While the smaller man bent in pain, Dre wrestled for control of the weapon.

Dre almost had it when he felt a punch to his face. The other man had composed himself and started pummeling him with what felt like a steel pole. Dre let go of the gun as he fell back onto the hood of the car.

He felt his trench coat being ripped open as three wads of cash wrapped in rubber bands, fell to the ground.

Just as he was about to fade into unconsciousness, Dre heard a police siren and saw a flash of blue and red lights, two, maybe three blocks up the street. The men instantly darted off in opposite directions as a police cruiser pulled up behind Dre’s Volkswagen. The cruiser’s headlights lit up the area like a movie set.

Two officers stepped out with their guns drawn. “Put your hands up!” one of the officers yelled.

Dre quickly complied. Both cops looked nervous, which made Dre uneasy. He raised his hands even higher.

The officers gingerly walked closer.

“What’s going on here?”

Dre struggled to catch his breath. “I was . . . I was just robbed.”

“Do you have a weapon?”

“No,” Dre said, still holding his hands over his head. “I just told you somebody robbed me.”

One of the officers, a big, burly black man, told Dre to turn around and face the car, then roughly patted him down. Satisfied that he had no weapon, the officer directed him to sit on the curb, then began searching Dre’s Volkswagen.

“What’re you doing down here?” asked the white officer, who kept his hand on his weapon.

“I stopped at the light and two dudes broke my window and stole my wallet. When they heard your siren . . .” he paused, his breathing still labored, “they ran off. You . . . you saved my life.”

“Well, we weren’t trying to save your life,” the black officer yelled over his shoulder.

Dre watched from his sitting position as the officer continued rummaging through his car, moving the seats backwards and forwards, then leaning down to look underneath them. He tossed Dre’s empty duffel bag and then his floor mats to the ground. “You got any drugs in here?”

“I was just robbed,” Dre said. “Why you treatin’ me like a criminal?”

“Because you probably are,” the black officer shot back.

It took about twenty minutes before he gave up the search. By that time, the removable contents of Dre’s car were sprawled along the sidewalk.

“Ain’t nothing here,” the black cop said to his partner. He looked at Dre with contempt. “You wanna file a police report?”

“Naw,” Dre said.

The black officer ordered Dre to his feet, lifted his chin and examined his bruised face. “Just a few minor cuts. You don’t need an ambulance, right?”

Dre pulled away. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“Good.” The cops walked back to their cruiser. “Don’t let us see you around here again,” the white cop shouted from the window as they drove off.

Dre thought about responding, but wasn’t stupid enough to give them an excuse to cart him off to jail. “Thanks for everything, officers,” he muttered.

He walked over to the sidewalk and starting searching for his keys. This was a sign, Dre thought, as he picked up a floor mat. It was time for him to close up shop. Time to get out.

Now.

The next day, Dre was about to take the stairs to the cycling room when he saw Angela heading in his direction. He stopped and waited for her to catch up with him.

She was only inches away when his battered face stopped her mid-stride. He had a long gash near his left temple and his right cheek was dotted with tiny red marks from the shards of glass.

“What happened to you?” Angela reached out and cupped his face in both of her hands.

Her reflexive gesture of concern apparently surprised Angela as much as it did him. She self-consciously dropped her hands to her side.

Dre smiled and tried to play down his injuries. “Car accident. And it wasn’t half as bad as it looks.”

“When? You should’ve called me!”

Dre cocked his head. “I would’ve, but I don’t have your number.”

Angela’s lips curled into a smile. “Well, I guess we’ll have to fix that.”

They’d been friends for more than three months now and he knew little more about her than her name, profession and that she was about to marry some guy she didn’t seem the least bit into. Dre wished he could feel her hands on his face again.

“I’m fine,” he said. He took her hand and she let him. “Let’s go work out.”

When their cycling class ended, Dre walked over to her, wiping the sweat from his face with a towel. “I need to talk to you about something. You have time to grab some coffee?”

“Sure,” Angela said. “You have a legal problem?”

“Yeah.” He folded his arms across his chest. “I do. You. I’ll be waiting out front.” He walked off without waiting for a response.

They took a short walk to the Starbucks in the Howard Hughes Promenade up the street. As they stood in line to order, Angela kept glancing back over her shoulder.

“What’s the matter?” Dre teased as they took a seat near the window. “You worried about dude catching us together?”

Angela smiled, then sheepishly hunched her shoulders, which told Dre that was exactly what was on her mind. The clerk called his name and Dre retrieved their iced drinks. He set them on the table, then wasted no time getting to the point.

“Sometimes I find it easier to just put my shi—excuse me—put my stuff on the table,” Dre said. “So here goes. I definitely have feelings for you and I’m pretty sure you have feelings for me.”

Angela blinked then used that precise moment to take a noisy sip of her drink.

“Am I right?”

“Maybe,” she said coyly.

“What’s up then? If you’ve got the hots for me, why you marrying dude?”

Angela laughed heartily. “How did we get from my possibly having feelings for you to the hots?”

Dre leaned back in his seat and stroked his goatee. “I know what I know. And what I know is your personal situation ain’t what it’s supposed to be. Is there really a fiancé or do you just wear that big ass rock to keep brothas like me offa you?”

A smile touched her lips, but didn’t linger. “No,” she said, suddenly solemn. “There’s really a fiancé.”

“So what’s the deal?” Dre challenged. “You don’t seem all that excited about getting married. Is it some old guy? You marrying dude ‘cuz he got bank or somethin’?”

Angela rolled her eyes. “No, I’m not marrying for money. He is older than me, though. A little more than ten years.”

“Isn’t the wedding coming?”

Angela responded with a labored sigh. “Yep. Ten weeks and four days to be exact. My mother just put the invitations in the mail.”

Dre spread his hands. “So what’s the deal? Talk to me.”

Angela averted her eyes. “I guess I don’t know the deal myself. I’m not exactly sure Cornell is the man I want to spend the rest of my life with.” She fidgeted with the straw in her drink. “And getting to know you has certainly complicated things. But, unfortunately, the train has already left the station.”

Lines of confusion filled Dre’s forehead. “Sounds like you’re about to marry some dude you’re not sure you wanna be with ‘cuz you’re too embarrassed to call off the wedding. That’s crazy.”

“I agree,” Angela said.

Dre was dying to lean across the table and kiss her. Instead, he took her right hand in his and squeezed it. When Angela squeezed back, Dre knew. He knew he would eventually have her.

“So what you plan to do about it?” he asked.

There was a long pause before Angela responded. “I don’t know,” she said weakly. “I really don’t know.”

Chapter 21

“WHAT do you mean Claire’s not having the surgery?”

Becker appeared to be as stunned as Erickson had been when Claire sprang the news on him.

“You heard me,” Erickson said, flopping down into an upholstered chair in front of Becker’s desk.

“But why?”

“I think she’s given up,” Erickson said.

“Has she given up on destroying you, too?” Becker asked.

“I doubt it.”

Erickson still could not shake the images on the DVD that Claire had secretly recorded. An activity that had once brought him pleasure, now threatened him with not just embarrassment and financial ruin, but prison time. Simply being in possession of child pornography was a federal offense. He had taken tremendous precautions before downloading the video from the Internet, using an email address, computer and credit card that could not be linked to him. Ensuring the privacy of his study had been the one precaution he had stupidly failed to take.

Becker slowly rocked back and forth in his chair. “What about her sister, Sophia? Maybe she could convince her?”

“I doubt it. Once Claire makes up her mind about something, she can be pretty stubborn.”

Becker tapped his pen on the desk. “This isn’t good.”

Erickson didn’t exactly see it that way. “We don’t really need her to have the surgery, do we?” He still had no idea how Becker planned to carry things out. Did he want Claire to have the surgery because he planned to sneak into her hospital room and inject her with some lethal drug?

“It would just be preferable if her death followed the surgery,” Becker explained. “Like I said, no one would think you had a motive to kill her after trying to save her life.”

Erickson wanted to laugh. Yeah, I have a motive alright. He just prayed no one ever found out what it was.

“Well, I can’t convince her. So, where do we go from here?”

Becker stood up and started pacing the short distance between the window and his desk.

“Let’s proceed,” he said. “If something were to go wrong, there’s always the evidence that you wanted her to have the surgery. I can testify to that and so can her doctors and that viatical broker. You told him why you wanted the money, right?”

Erickson nodded.

Becker leaned his head from side to side and cracked his neck as he continued pacing. “Actually, I guess it’s really not that big of a problem. Just means a minor change in plans on my end.”

“There’s something else you should know.”

Becker stopped pacing.

“Unbeknownst to me,” Erickson continued. “Claire made Ashley her sole beneficiary about six months ago.”

“And you’re just telling me this now!” Becker looked incredulous. “Someone could argue that you convinced Claire to sell the policy to get access to half of the insurance money when you really weren’t entitled to any of it. I thought Ashley’s grandparents left her a trust fund. I’m really surprised Claire did that.”

That’s because you have no idea what’s going on in my household.

“Ashley only gets three grand a month from that trust,” Erickson explained. “It won’t be a problem. I’ll just give her the two-fifty. That will completely erase financial motive on my part.”

Becker let that alternative settle in for a few seconds. “Good idea. Sophia and Ashley knew you were trying to convince Claire to have the surgery, right?”

“Unfortunately, no. Claire didn’t want to get their hopes up, so she never told them she was even considering it. Anyway, I thought you said your plan was failsafe. Sounds like you’re planning on someone pointing the finger at us.” Erickson purposely used the plural pronoun.

“That’s not going to happen, but I always plan for the possibility that something could go wrong. That’s why my clients pay me seven hundred dollars an hour,” he boasted. His hourly rate was higher than some senior partners. “I never let anything slip through the cracks.”

Erickson smiled. He could not have a wiser co-conspirator. “How does this change our timeline?” In other words, how fast can you get rid of her?

“I think we can speed things up now. Quite a bit.”

“May I ask how you—”

Becker held up a hand. “I really don’t want you to have any of the details. Just let me protect you, okay? Once this is done, I don’t want to discuss it again. Ever.”

“That’s fine, I just—”

“No, I mean it. When Claire’s gone, she’s gone. I’m not going to share any of the details. Before or after. Ever.”

“I’m fine with that and I don’t need specifics,” Erickson pushed. “But can you give me some idea of how soon you plan to move forward?”

“Soon,” Becker said. “Very soon.”

“Her sister Sophia is usually around the house.”

Becker paused. “That could be a problem, but I’ll come up with something.” He returned to his seat.

“One more thing,” Becker said, cracking his neck again. “Claire hasn’t contacted a lawyer or talked to anyone about filing for divorce, right?” Becker asked.

“No,” Erickson replied. “Not that I’m aware of.”

“Good. Keep it that way. Have you heard anything more from the White House?”

“Nothing definite. But based on the increasing frequency of the calls I’m getting, I’m definitely still in contention.”

“Of course you are.” Becker snapped his fingers. “I almost forgot. I have something for you.” He opened a drawer to his left and pulled out a silver, framed photo. He handed it across the desk to Erickson.

The eight-by-ten portrait showed Becker, his wife, son and four daughters, dressed in blue jeans and white shirts, standing on the beach. There was a larger version of the same photograph on the credenza behind Becker’s desk.

“You have a beautiful family,” Erickson said, reciting the response he knew Becker both wanted and needed. “It’s amazing. The twins are the spitting image of Staci.”

Becker took a seat on the corner of his desk. “And Garrett is turning out to be quite a handsome kid, if I do say so myself,” Becker added, glowing with pride.

“How’s he surviving with four sisters?” Erickson asked.

“Him?” Becker chuckled. “How about me?” He folded his arms. “Make sure you keep me aware of your travel plans. Ideally, I’d like this to go down when you’re out of town. Preferably, far away from the scene of the crime.”

Chapter 22

WAVERLY backed into a stall in the underground garage of his office complex and climbed out of his brand new Lexus.

Business was going so well, he had traded in his eight-year-old BMW. Deidra begged for a Lexus of her own, but Waverly firmly vetoed the request. Only because he planned to surprise her with a new Mercedes S Class for her birthday in three months. He couldn’t wait to see Leon’s face when she pulled up in that.

Waverly opened the back passenger door and was about to grab his briefcase when he felt the presence of someone or something nearby. He peered across the hood of the car, but saw nothing. He glanced back over his shoulder and gasped.

In an empty stall just a few feet away, Waverly saw a human heap lying on the ground. He took a few steps forward, stopped, then ran over. “Christ, Quincy! What happened to you?”

Quincy tried to answer, but blood not words, spewed from his brother’s bruised lips.

Waverly crouched down and placed two fingers in the crook of his brother’s neck. He felt a strong pulse. Quincy’s left eye was swollen shut and his face was a mass of black, red and purple bruises. Waverly lifted his shirt and was relieved to see no stab wounds or bullet holes. His face had taken the brunt of the beating.

“Quincy, what happened?”

Quincy moaned something indecipherable in response.

Waverly pulled his BlackBerry from his pocket to call for an ambulance, then suddenly tossed it onto the passenger seat. He would take Quincy to a hospital himself. He slid his arm underneath Quincy’s neck and tried to help him up.

Quincy winced in pain.

“You have to help me,” Waverly said. “C’mon, get up.”

It took some effort, but Waverly managed to get Quincy to his feet. They stumbled the few steps to his car and Quincy fell across the backseat, splattering blood all over the immaculate cream interior. Waverly climbed into the driver’s seat and started the car.

What had Quincy done now?

As they reached the garage exit, Waverly eyed the attendant sitting in a small glass booth. She was reading a magazine and didn’t even glance his way. He stuck his card key into a slot and waited for the gate to lift. Waverly didn’t know whether to go left or right and tried to compose himself long enough to figure out where the closest hospital was.

He looked back at Quincy. “I’m taking you to the hospital, okay?”

“No,” Quincy moaned. “I’m fine. No hospital.”

“You need to see a doctor,” Waverly insisted.

Quincy tried to sit up. “No!” he cried out. “They’re going to start asking a lot of questions that I can’t answer. Take me to your place. Please!”

Waverly was torn. Quincy needed medical attention, but his fear of going to the hospital meant he was probably involved in something illegal. Waverly needed to know what was going on first. At the next light, he cut off a UPS truck and headed down La Cienega toward the freeway.

By the time they pulled into his three-car garage, Quincy was able to exit the car with Waverly’s help, but every step elicited a painful whimper. They were almost at the door that led from the garage to the kitchen when Waverly realized he had left the garage door up. He hit a button near the door. This scene was not something he wanted to explain to his new neighbors.

When they stumbled inside, Deidra covered her mouth with both hands. “Oh, my God! What happened?”

“I wish I knew.” Waverly deposited his brother into a chair at the kitchen table. “Go get some towels.”

Deidra dashed down the hallway and returned in seconds.

She handed Waverly the towels, but did nothing else to help. “He can’t stay here,” Diedra said.

Waverly ignored her. He wiped the blood from his brother’s face as best he could.

“Wet this for me, will you?” He hurled one of the towels at her.

Diedrea did as asked, but the disapproval on her face only deepened.

Waverly examined his brother more closely. He’d taken an ugly beating, but his bruises didn’t appear to be life threatening. Waverly helped him wash up, gave him a change of clothes and put him in one of their three guest bedrooms.

It was almost four hours before Quincy was finally awake, though one eye remained swollen shut.

Waverly gingerly sat down on the side of the bed. “Tell me what happened.”

His brother started to whine. “I told you, man, you need to call that guy. Next time they’re going to kill me!”

Waverly took in a big gulp of air. “How much do you owe them?”

“Not a dime. I swear. They just want you to call them.”

“How much?” Waverly demanded.

Quincy tried to turn away, but even the slightest shift in position seemed to cause him extensive pain.

Waverly raised both the volume and intensity of his voice. “How much, Quincy?”

“I don’t owe anybody anything. They just wanna talk to you.”

“About what?”

“I don’t know. Your business, I guess.”

Waverly pounded the wall above the headboard with his fist. “How in the hell do they know about my business?”

He could imagine his brother sitting in some sleazy bar, bragging to some lowlife about his rich brother the insurance investor.

“I’m sorry,” Quincy cried. “I didn’t mean to get you into any trouble. I swear I didn’t.”

“You haven’t gotten me into any trouble. You need to worry about what you’ve gotten yourself into.”

“Please, just talk to the dude,” Quincy begged. “Don’t let them hurt me. Whatever it is, just tell him you can’t do it. Maybe he’ll accept it from you.”

They both knew that wasn’t going to happen.

“He’s going to call you tonight.” Quincy looked away. “At nine o’clock on your cell.”

Waverly pounded the wall again. “What? Who’s going to call me?”

“I don’t know. I’m just telling you what they said before they messed me up.”

“You gave them my number?”

“I had to!” Quincy started to cry. “You gotta at least talk to ‘em. If you don’t, they said they’re comin’ back to kill me and you.”

Chapter 23

THE day after Angela and Dre admitted their feelings for each other, Cornell asked Angela to meet him for lunch. Cornell usually ate lunch in his chambers, so the invitation surprised her. Maybe he sensed that her feelings for him were slipping away.

Angela stepped inside the Water Grill and walked up to the maitre d’s stand. As the hostess led Angela to Cornell’s table, she saw him glance down at his watch. Angela’s chest tightened in anticipation of a reprimand.

Cornell rose and pulled out a chair for her. “You’re late,” he complained, as soon as the hostess was out of earshot.

Cornell was the ultimate time freak. But being eight minutes late wasn’t enough to raise a stink over. He had already spoiled what Angela had hoped would be a pleasant lunch at one of her favorite restaurants.

“You have a cell phone. You could’ve called. You know I have to be back at court by one.”

She started to tell him about the fender bender that tied up traffic on Grand, but decided to let it go. No excuse would be sufficient for Cornell. “Sorry,” she mumbled.

“You look nice,” he said gruffly, then reached over and squeezed her hand.

She thought about how much gentler Dre’s touch felt. In many ways, Cornell had filled the void left by her father’s passing. Like her father, Cornell was strong, responsible, and intelligent. But in other ways, he was nothing like Samuel Evans. Her father had been an easygoing, affable man who’d always placed family first. No one other than Cornell would ever be first in Cornell’s life.

The waiter appeared with a Diet Coke, which Cornell had apparently taken the liberty to order for her. Actually, she’d wanted a Sprite.

Angela wondered when they had lost their connection or whether there had ever really been one.

Still holding her hand, Cornell took a sip of his iced tea. “You really do look great,” he said. “Do you think you’ll be able to keep the weight off this time?”

Angela slid her hand away and picked up her menu. “We’ll see,” she said through clenched teeth.

She stared at the menu, but her mounting anger made the words an unreadable blur. The saddest thing about Cornell was that he had no idea he was being offensive. Character traits she despised. Maybe having children would mellow him out?

“How’s everything at work?” he asked.

“Busy,” Angela said, glad that the conversation had turned to something she wanted to talk about. She wished she could tell Cornell about the task force and their sting, but it was a confidential operation. At the moment, she was worried that the operation might be a bust. When Jon purchased his policy from Waverly Sloan, the man hadn’t pressured him at all. Angela was now considering having someone else pose as a terminally ill patient to see if Sloan treated them the same way.

Angela was about to tell Cornell about a new case she might be handling when he launched into a complaint about an attorney who spent ten minutes discussing the facts of a lower court decision that had been overruled. At least half of the attorneys who appeared in his courtroom, Cornell claimed, were lazy and incompetent.

“I wonder how the fools even passed the bar.”

Angela tuned him out, her thoughts drifting to Dre.

“Angela? Did you hear me?” Cornell tapped her hand. “What did you decide?”

“Oh, excuse me.” She picked up the menu. “I’ll have the crab cakes.”

“Where has your mind been lately? I asked if you decided on a dress yet. Since you were late, I ordered the white fish for you. I substituted spinach for the garlic mashed potatoes. It’s the lowest calorie meal on the menu.”

She wanted crab cakes, not white fish. She now planned to wolf down her food so she could get back to work.

“Tell me about your dress,” Cornell prodded.

“I let my mother convince me to wear one of those lacy, long sleeve mermaid getups. You’d think she was the one getting married. But she never had a wedding, so I gave in. I really wanted to wear a strapless gown.”

A waiter poured more tea into Cornell’s glass and he added two packets of Splenda. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to go strapless. Your arms aren’t toned enough.”

A burst of heat inched up Angela’s neck. What in the world had she been thinking? She couldn’t spend the rest of her life with this arrogant, self-centered man. She slowly removed the napkin from her lap, balled it up and tossed it onto the table. “I’m not hungry anymore.”

“Oh, c’mon, Angela. Since when did you become so sensitive? I was just trying to—”

She pushed back her chair and stood up.

“Angela,” Cornell said through clench teeth. “Don’t make a scene. Sit back down. Right now!”

The simple act of remaining on her feet in direct disregard of an order from the Honorable Cornell L. Waters, III, gave her the same sense of power she felt when she nailed a liar on the witness stand. As she stared down into his rage-contorted face, she knew there was no way she could or would marry him. She grabbed her purse from the table and calmly strolled out of the restaurant.

Angela picked up a Caesar salad from a sandwich shop near her office and ate at her desk. Hours later, stuck in traffic on the Harbor Freeway, she realized that she did not want to go home. Breaking off the engagement would not be easy.

She tried to reach her sister, but the call went to voicemail. She then thought about dropping in on one of her girlfriends or even her mother, but they’d take one look at her long face and sense that something was wrong. She couldn’t handle being interrogated right now.

Before she knew it, Angela was pulling her Saab into the parking structure next to the Spectrum Club.

She scanned the rows of cars looking for Dre’s white Volkswagen. There was no cycling class tonight, so she wasn’t sure he’d be there. She was about to give up when she spotted his car wedged between two SUVs on the third level. She pulled into an empty space nearby and headed inside.

Dre was walking toward the exit just as Angela stepped inside. He smiled big when he saw her.

“Glad to see you,” he said, his expression echoing his words. He leaned back and gave her an admiring once over. “Nice suit. You had to be the baddest looking attorney in court today.”

She tried to laugh.

“You okay?”

Angela nodded.

“No, you’re not.” Dre squinted at her. “Bad day at the office?”

She nodded again.

“Where’s your gym bag?”

Angela pretended as if she had forgotten it. “I guess I must’ve left it in the car.”

“Damn, girl, it must’ve been a really bad day.”

Angela faked another laugh. “I don’t even know why I’m here.”

“Wanna talk about it?” Dre asked. “Let’s go get some coffee. My treat.”

She smiled in response to his invitation. What she really wanted was to feel his arms around her.

“C’mon. I won’t tell old dude if you don’t. Follow me to my car so I can dump my bag.”

Dre held the door open and they walked toward the parking structure. Angela kept the elevator door from closing while Dre jogged over to his car and tossed his duffel bag into the trunk. He made it back to the elevator, looked at Angela’s long face and frowned.

“Damn, girl, why you lookin’ so sad?” He waited for the elevator door to close, then flipped a red switch stopping it. “Tell me what’s wrong,” he said, pulling her into his arms.

Angela could not believe how wonderful it felt to finally be this close to him. She tried to keep it together, but could not prevent tears from welling in her eyes.

Dre reared back so that he could see her face. “You gotta tell me what’s going on.”

“I don’t think I’m getting married,” she finally sputtered through her tears.

Dre’s face brightened. “I probably shouldn’t say this, but I’m damn happy to hear that.”

He cradled her close for several minutes. Angela finally wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and tried to compose herself. “Sorry for the meltdown.”

Dre stared down at her for a moment, then gently pressed his lips to hers. Angela welcomed his kiss and eagerly returned it.

“You have no idea how long I’ve been wanting to do this,” Dre whispered between kisses.

Angela looked up at him, circling her arms tight around his waist. “Probably not half as long as I’ve been wishing you would.”

Chapter 24

“WHEN were you going to tell me about your trip to Washington?”

Erickson was in the bathroom washing up for the evening when Claire posed the question. He felt his heart leap to his throat. Did she know he was being considered for Attorney General?

He glanced over his shoulder, surprised that he had not heard her come in. Since he’d moved into one of the guest bedrooms, he almost felt as if he were in a separate house. He should’ve locked the door.

Erickson reached for a button on the built-in CD/DVD player and turned down the volume of the Les Misérables soundtrack. “What’s to tell? Just a bunch of boring meetings.”

“Really?” Claire’s arms were folded, her right shoulder angled against one side of the doorframe.

There was something ominous in the way she uttered that single word. An internal alarm put him on high alert.

Erickson glanced at Claire’s reflection in the mirror. Except for the weight loss and her awful coloring, she almost looked like the old Claire. Her hair was swept back off her face by a headband and her simple outfit, black Capri pants and a white shirt, exhibited an innate elegance.

Erickson reached for a tube of toothpaste from the medicine cabinet and squeezed the green gel onto his toothbrush.

“What could be boring about a meeting at the White House?”

Erickson inadvertently missed his mouth and stabbed his chin with the toothbrush. He set the toothbrush down, wiped toothpaste from his chin with a towel and turned to face her. Claire’s smile conveyed that her knowledge definitely meant trouble.

“I’m upset that you didn’t tell me.” Her soft voice feigned injury.

Erickson wondered exactly how much she knew, but didn’t want to assume. He’d learned that as a young lawyer. Never assume. Always confirm. He turned back to the mirror and resumed brushing his teeth. “Tell you what?” he said shakily.

“That you’re being considered for a job in government.”

Erickson tried to appear nonchalant. “I was asked to keep it confidential.” He could not let her know how much the nomination meant to him. That would only embolden Claire to use it against him. “Anyway, I’m just one of several candidates. I doubt it’s going to happen.”

“Exactly what job is it?”

So she didn’t know. “I just said I was asked to keep it confidential.” He doused his face with warm water, then reached for a towel. “How’d you find out?”

“I have my sources.” This time she smiled shrewdly.

“If there’s a leak, it could be problematic. I’d like to know how you found out.”

“If you must know, I saw a reference on your Day-Timer.”

Erickson felt outraged. “So you’re going through my personal belongings now?”

Claire ignored the question. “If you’re relocating to Washington, when did you plan to ask me how I felt about the move?”

Never. You’ll be dead by the time I move. He didn’t answer.

This time she chuckled. “Oh, I see. You figure I’ll be dead by then.”

Erickson shivered. Could she actually read his mind?

“I’m sorry, but I can’t handle this woe is me thing today. I didn’t share anything with you because there’s nothing to tell. Like I told you, nothing’s definite yet.”

He motioned to leave, but Claire remained in place, blocking the doorway, her eyes casting aspersions he tried to ignore.

“I don’t know what job you’re being considered for, but I wonder how they’d feel knowing they were about to hire a pedophile.”

“That’s absolutely absurd! Don’t you ever say such a thing to me again!” Erickson pointed his finger inches from her nose. He’d never had the urge to strike a woman before and had to dig deep to restrain himself. “I’ve never touched a child and I never would.”

Claire laughed. “You’re amazing, but I guess that’s why you’re such an excellent lawyer. You see the truth as you want it to be, not as it is.”

“No,” he said, sneering at her. “I see the truth as the truth.”

Erickson roughly brushed past her. His forehead pulsated with rage as he entered the humongous walk-in closet, most of it stocked with Claire’s winter clothes. Too bad he couldn’t just set a match to her side of the room.

Every evening, Erickson carefully selected his attire for the next day. He browsed the extensive lineup of suits, then reached for a grey Versace. He turned to the tie rack and selected a burgundy tie with tiny white polka dots.

What did Claire’s knowledge mean for his chances of winning the nomination? Would she go public with the DVD when his appointment was announced?

Erickson walked back into the bathroom and hung the suit and tie in the dressing area next to the shower. He could feel Claire watching him, but intentionally ignored her.

Time was up. If Becker wasn’t going to move and move immediately, he would take care of the problem himself.

Chapter 25

WAVERLY locked himself in his study and stared at his BlackBerry. He wanted it to ring, but at the same time, he prayed that it would not.

Quincy had really screwed up this time.

He checked the BlackBerry’s charge level for the third time, then glanced at the time display. Two more minutes.

Waverly’s life had been going too perfectly to allow Quincy to screw it up. Maybe he could buy Quincy out of his trouble. His temples throbbed with apprehension. He was thinking too much. He would not know what this was all about until the guy called.

At exactly nine o’clock, the familiar chirp signaling a call filled the room. Waverly did not realize how stressed out he was until he noticed his hand trembling as he reached for the BlackBerry. He pressed a green button and placed it to his ear.

“You there, Mr. Sloan?”

“Just tell me what you want.”

“We have a business proposition for you,” said a voice with a slight Spanish accent.

“Exactly who is we?”

“We is me,” the man said. “That’s all you need to know for now.”

“What’s your name?”

“My friends call me Rico.”

“What’s your last name?”

“Don’t have one. I’d like to become one of your investors. And I’d like to get started right away. I have some cash I want you to invest for me. I understand you get your clients a pretty nice rate of return.”

Waverly struggled to sound undaunted. “How do you even know what I do?”

“You invest in dying people.”

“And just how do you know that?”

“I’m a very knowledgeable guy,” Rico said. “Anyway, like I said, I’d like to become one of your investors.”

Waverly was baffled as to how the guy could know about his viatical business when Quincy didn’t. “If you’re really interested in investing, we could’ve done this at my office. Without having my brother nearly beaten to death. And I don’t take cash payments.”

Rico’s voice lost its playfulness. “You do now.”

“Is this dirty money you want me to invest? Drug money?”

“My money is just as clean as the dough you earn ripping off dying people.”

“I don’t rip off anybody and I’m not going to risk my business by laundering what is probably drug money. And anyway, I can’t deposit the kind of cash it takes to buy these policies without flagging the IRS. You should know that.”

“Your brother tells me you’re a pretty wealthy guy. Big house in Palos Verdes Estates. New Lexus.”

Waverly’s face grew hot.

“Here’s how we’re going to do it,” Rico said. “I’m going to have money, cash money, delivered to your office at regular intervals. I want you to purchase my policies in the name of Goldman Investments, Inc. You’re going to front the payments from your own bank account. You can then deposit my cash into your account a little at a time so it stays under the radar. Just have Deidra use cash when she shops.”

His use of Deidra’s name stunned him. “How do you—I can’t do that. I won’t do it.”

“Yes, you will because you’re a smart guy.”

Waverly tried to speak, but his lips refused to part.

“I just want you to do the same thing for me that you do for all your rich doctor friends. Find me some dying folks, preferably ones who’re real close to kicking the bucket. Buy their policies and send me a check when they’re dead.”

“And if I refuse and go to the police?”

“You won’t,” Rico said. “You care about your screwed-up brother too much, and I suspect you love your wife even more. I’d hate to have to pay her a visit while she’s all alone in that big old house in Palos Verdes Estates preparing dinner for you. Or maybe I could drop by that Pilates class she teaches. Give her a little taste of what your brother got.”

The muscles along his neck and shoulders tightened into tiny knots. How did he . . . “Don’t threaten me and don’t threaten my family.”

“You’ll receive a package tomorrow with my first investment of fifty grand. More will follow. I’ll need you to send me all the pertinent information on the dying folks. I need to personally approve every policy you buy.”

“It doesn’t work that way. We don’t disclose the identity of the insured, just the particulars of their situation.”

“I’m sure you won’t have a problem bending the rules for me in light of what’s at stake. You’ll find more specific instructions with the first package, including a power of attorney giving you the right to sign any necessary documents on behalf of Goldman Investments. Once these folks croak, I’ll let you know where you can wire my money.”

Waverly felt trapped. How long had this guy been working on this plan?

“I look forward to doing business with you, Mr. Sloan,” Rico said, then hung up.

Waverly pressed his palm to his chest and tried to fight off a surge of panic. He wanted a drink, but needed his head on straight so that he could assess his options. But did he really have any? If he went to the police, they would look closely at him and eventually discover that he wasn’t even supposed to have a viatical license. It was also unlikely that the police could protect him or his family from a guy like Rico. They could’ve easily killed Quincy, and next time, it could be him or, God forbid, Deidra.

Waverly couldn’t believe it. He had no choice.

Chapter 26

IT was close to eleven by the time Angela returned home.

She and Dre had driven to Venice Beach and walked along the boardwalk, holding hands, not saying much. Angela made it clear that their relationship could not commence until she had officially broken off her engagement with Cornell. Dre said he understood and would be waiting for her whenever she was ready.

When she opened the front door of the condo, she spotted a box of long stemmed roses propped against the wall. Calla lilies, not roses, were her favorite flower. Cornell, however, preferred roses.

Angela grimaced as she stepped over the box.

Cornell was sitting in the living room in the dark, the trumpet of Wynton Marsalis playing low in the background. She headed straight for the bedroom without acknowledging him.

Angela had just kicked off her pumps and was about to unbutton her blouse when Cornell entered the room. She suddenly felt uncomfortable undressing in front of him.

“Where have you been?” His voice was infused with accusation.

“Out.”

“Where?”

“No place in particular.”

Cornell took a step toward her. “What’s going on with you, Angela? You weren’t always this sensitive.”

She spun around to face him. “And you weren’t always this insensitive.” She took off her earrings and placed them in a dish on the nightstand.

“Okay. I’m sorry. Did you see the flowers in the entryway?”

Angela reached up to take off her necklace. “Yeah, thanks.”

“If you want to wear a strapless wedding dress, that’s fine. I’m sure you’ll look nice.”

“Never mind, I don’t want a strapless dress. As a matter of fact, I don’t want to wear any kind of dress because I don’t want to get married anymore.” There. It was out. She stepped around him and walked into the bathroom. She tried to close the door, but Cornell held it open with his foot.

“I said I’m sorry.” His taut jaw line told her he was struggling to keep his anger in check. “You’re overreacting.”

Angela opened the medicine cabinet and reached for her toothbrush. Cornell watched, arms folded, as she brushed her teeth, washed her face and applied toner and moisturizer.

When she tried to walk past him, Cornell reached out and embraced her. She did not reciprocate, her body rigid, her arms dangling at her sides.

“We need to talk,” Angela said, finally pulling away from him.

Cornell grinned. “Now, we finally agree on something.”

Angela led the way to the living room and turned on the floor lamp near the window, flooding the room with light. Cornell sat down on the couch, crossed his legs and extended his arm along the back. Angela took the loveseat across from him.

“Tell me why you’re acting like this,” Cornell said. “Is this some PMS thing or something?”

“I don’t think we should get married.”

He chuckled. “You’re just having pre-wedding jitters. You’ve been working too hard. Why don’t we both take some time off and drive up to Santa Barbara again?”

“That’s not going to change anything.”

“Look, I’m going to do you a favor. I’m not going to take what you’re saying seriously because you’ll probably feel differently in the morning.”

“I won’t,” she said. “And this has nothing to do with what you said to me in the restaurant. I’ve been feeling this way for awhile. I’ve just been too much of a coward to tell you.”

She could see from the dazed look on his face that her admission both surprised and alarmed him.

He chuckled again, but this time, with a hard edge. “We’ve sent out two hundred invitations. It would be very embarrassing to call off the wedding. Embarrassing for both of us.”

His response only confirmed that she was making the right decision. He cared more about what people would think than about losing her.

“I don’t care,” she said, her voice softening. “I’m sorry, but I can’t go through with it.”

Cornell stood up and for a minute, she thought she saw his lower lip quiver. “Don’t do this. I love you and I want to marry you.”

He sat down next to her, taking both of her hands in his. It had been a long time since he’d been this gentle with her.

“I’m sorry if I haven’t been very attentive lately. It’s my caseload at work. I’ve been under a lot of pressure. It’ll get better. I promise.”

He waited for her to say something and when she didn’t, he put his arms around her.

“We have something special. Let’s not ruin it. Don’t make a final decision yet. Please.”

Please was not a word Cornell used very often. “Okay,” she finally said, resenting her inability to stand her ground with him. She was only delaying the inevitable.

Cornell kissed her softly on the lips, then left the room.

If she’d had more time to think things through, she would have come up with some kind of ruse to force him into calling off the wedding. Actually, she could use a few days to get things in order. First, she needed to find an apartment. She’d start searching in the morning. And the sooner she got the wedding cancellation notices in the mail the better.

She turned out the lamp on the end table and stared into the darkness. Cornell was not going to easily accept her decision, which meant the next few days were going to be rough. But she could handle it.

Especially since she knew Dre would be waiting for her.

Chapter 27

AFTER another stressful week of waiting for a call from the White House, Erickson decided to let off some steam by futzing around in his garden.

He spent a couple of hours pulling weeds, fertilizing the soil and removing dead leaves. His work complete, he was now stretched out on a lawn chair, enjoying a beer.

The screen door opened and Sophia stepped onto the patio. “I have some errands to run,” she said. “Anything you need me to pick up while I’m out?”

Yeah, a little privacy. “No,” he said curtly.

“Claire’s a little down today,” Sophia said. “She asked me to pick up some movies. You should spend some time with her. Maybe bring her out onto the patio. She always loved your garden.”

“I’ll do that,” Erickson said, knowing that he would not.

Sophia walked over to a patch of white roses and leaned down to take a whiff. “How are you doing?” she asked, her back to him.

“I’m fine.”

She turned to face him. “No, how are you really?”

“I’m fine, Sophia.” His tone demanded privacy.

“This isn’t easy for any of us,” she said.

“I never said it was.”

Sophia seemed to be searching for more to say. Instead, she picked up his gardening gloves and headed into the house. “I’ll drop these off in the laundry room.”

Erickson thought about going to the country club for a game of tennis, but didn’t have the energy. He desperately wanted to know when Becker would be moving forward with their plan. Becker had said he wanted Erickson out of town when he acted. Erickson would be leaving for a business meeting in Chicago in the morning. Maybe once he was gone . . .

Erickson was still obsessing over his wife’s unforgivable betrayal. He could not let Claire destroy his life over what was really nothing more than an innocent hobby. His biggest fear was that Claire had another copy of the DVD. What if Sophia or Ashley found it?

A nagging fear prompted him to give the house one more search. First, he looked in on Claire and found her sleeping. This time, he started with more obvious places. He looked through the kitchen drawers and cabinets, the pantry, even the washroom on the back porch.

Thirty minutes later, exhausted from the intensity of the effort, he gave up. He was just returning to the patio when the doorbell rang.

He opened the front door to find Becker with three of his four girls in tow.

“Kaylee had a soccer game not far from here,” he said. “So I figured we’d drop by to say hello. I wanted you to see how big they’re getting.”

Each of the girls reached up to hug him. Inside, Erickson quietly shuddered, anxious to make the contact as short as possible. He had never explored his sexual fantasies beyond the computer screen. And he never would. Most men were not strong enough to control their sexual urges. He was not like most men. He was not some pervert.

“C’mon back,” Erickson said, leading them out to the backyard. “I was just relaxing outside.”

“How’s Claire?” Becker glanced over his shoulder toward the bedroom.

“No one’s here,” he said, assuming Becker’s inquiry might be for the benefit of Sophia.

They talked about work while the girls bounced around the yard like fleas. Erickson watched in frustration as they came close to stepping on his azaleas.

“I need to make a pit stop,” Becker announced. “Then we’ll be taking off.”

Erickson watched in frustration as the girls scurried around the yard. Finally, he couldn’t take it anymore. “Hey, girls. Come over and tell me about the game.”

It felt like a lifetime before Becker returned to rescue him from the childish chatter. Once they’d left, he went into the family room and began pouring over a pile of documents he’d already begun studying about the inner workings of the Justice Department.

Erickson heard the front door open and looked up, expecting to see Sophia. His eyes met Ashley’s instead. She scowled at him, then stomped off down the hallway to her mother’s bedroom.

Sometime later, after he had just grabbed another beer from the refrigerator, he heard Ashley scream and tear out of the room. “Call nine-one-one. Mommy’s not breathing!”

Erickson didn’t move, too stunned to react.

“I said Mommy’s not breathing!” she screamed again.

For some reason, he still couldn’t move. Had Becker. . .

Ashley stepped around him and snatched the phone from the kitchen counter and quickly dialed 911. “I need an ambulance! My mother’s not breathing!”

Erickson remained motionless as Ashley repeated the address. She slammed the phone down and rushed back to her mother’s bedside.

When he heard the rattle of keys that signaled Sophia’s return, he finally seemed to snap out of his fog. He charged down the hallway to meet her.

He snatched the door open before Sophia could retrieve her key from the lock. “Claire’s not breathing.”

Sophia darted past him into the bedroom where Ashley stood over her mother, holding her hand. Tears rolled down her cheeks. Sophia moved her aside, felt for Claire’s pulse, then hung her head.

“I don’t understand,” Sophia cried. “Except for feeling a little sad this morning, she was okay. How can she be dead?” She reached out to comfort Ashley, who pushed her away and lashed out at Erickson.

“He did it!” she charged. “He killed her!”

Erickson stumbled backwards. “What? Are you crazy?”

“You wanted us to dump her in a hospice. And since we wouldn’t, you killed her!”

Sophia tried to embrace her niece. “Calm down, Ashley. Please calm down.”

Ashley pulled away and swung a clenched fist toward Erickson, just missing his face as Sophia restrained her.

“You’re not going to get away with this!” Ashley shrieked. “I swear to God, you’re not getting away with it!”

Part Three

Nothing But the Truth

Chapter 28

WAVERLY parked his Lexus across two stalls at an Episcopal church on Slauson. He was there to speak to a support group for terminally ill patients and their families.

His presentations had dropped off after his business started to blossom, but with the recent influx of cash coming in from Rico, he needed to find more dying people than ever. Vincent had recently supplied him with a list of groups where he’d have a good shot at picking up some new clients. The church was on that list.

Luckily, Waverly had established a solid network of oncologists, probate lawyers and ministers who regularly referred terminally ill people in need of financial help. Since his forced business arrangement with Rico, he had upped his finder’s fee to thirteen hundred dollars for patients with a life expectancy of six months or less. The finder’s fee was a pittance compared to all the money he was raking in.

After a few days, Waverly resigned himself to his situation with Rico. He had purchased three policies in the name of Goldman Investments and, so far, no glitches.

The meeting was just about to commence when Waverly walked in. There were about thirty people in the room, mostly female, evenly divided between blacks and whites. He gave the group leader brochures to pass around, took a seat and waited to be introduced.

Waverly looked across a narrow aisle to his left and saw an attractive young woman with sandy brown hair styled in a short, spiky cut. Her eyes were a vivid blue, but conveyed a heavy sadness. She smiled at him and Waverly acknowledged the greeting with a nod and return smile.

The group leader asked everyone to stand so that they could begin the meeting with a prayer. When she instructed them to hold hands, the woman reached across the aisle and took Waverly’s hand. As the group leader prayed, Waverly glanced down at his hand entwined with the woman’s, then at the profile of her face. Her eyes were closed and she seemed to be mouthing her own private prayer. She did not look ill and Waverly hoped she was at the meeting for a family member, not herself. She couldn’t be a day over twenty-five.

Following the prayer and a short introduction, Waverly was invited up to the podium. He began with a basic explanation of a viatical settlement and how it could help those in financial need. He did not anticipate any tough questions. The working-class groups always seemed to take him at his word. When he finished his presentation, he urged anyone who was interested to contact him at the number on the brochure.

Waverly had just stepped outside the room when he spotted the young woman who had taken his hand standing at the end of the hallway. She appeared to be waiting for him.

“Thanks for your presentation,” she said.

“You’re welcome.”

“I’m Britney. Britney Hillard. I’d like to talk to you about a viati—” she looked down at the brochure as she struggled to pronounce the word.

“Viatical settlement,” Waverly said, finishing for her.

Britney smiled shyly. “Yes, that. I have colon cancer. I just finished up my second round of radiation. I still have an insurance policy through my job. I brought a copy with me.” She pulled an envelope from her purse and handed it to him.

Waverly knew right away that he probably couldn’t help her. These days, colon cancer patients lived for years. If she was undergoing radiation rather than chemo, that meant she had a good chance for survival. He always found it difficult to tell people that he couldn’t help them because they weren’t dying fast enough. He could not bring himself to say those words to Britney.

He took the envelope. “Why don’t we schedule an appointment.” He pulled his BlackBerry from his inside jacket pocket. “I’m fairly open this week.”

“I never know how I’m going to feel from day to day,” Britney said. “It’s a miracle I had the energy to come to this meeting. Would you have a few minutes to talk with me right now?”

Waverly hesitated. He didn’t want to waste the woman’s time, or his own.

Britney gave him a pleading look. “There’s a Sizzler on Sepulveda across from the mall. We can go there. My treat.”

“Uh, okay. Sure.”

He reluctantly followed her out of the building. As he started up his car, a gloomy feeling engulfed him. He talked to sick and dying people on a regular basis and always managed to detach himself emotionally.

Something told him he was going to have a hard time doing that with Britney.

Chapter 29

TWO things prompted a change in Dre’s million-dollar plan. Getting ripped off and a call from Angela inviting him to dinner. That had to mean she had finally called off her engagement.

Dre was a little more than one hundred grand short of reaching his million-dollar goal, but he had grudgingly come to the conclusion that he had to find a safer way to get there. Most dudes were too stupid or too greedy to know when to quit. Dre knew it was time.

To move his plan forward, Dre set up a meeting with a buddy from his old neighborhood who owned a real estate investment firm. Willie Ross and Dre had been homeboys since fifth grade. Willie knew Dre’s vocation and had been trying to convince him to get out of the game for years. Willie was the real estate broker Dre used to buy his foreclosures.

As Dre sat in the reception area of Willie’s office near Crenshaw and Vernon, he wondered how his life would have turned out if he had taken the straight and narrow. It wasn’t like he didn’t have the smarts. But sometimes circumstances took you in a different direction.

Willie walked into the reception area and embraced him warmly. He was a stocky, muscular guy with a friendly face.

“Nice suit,” Dre said, a bit of wistfulness in his voice.

“Thanks, man. You know I love me some Armani. C’mon back.”

Willie attended Southern University and spent a few years playing minor league baseball. When he realized that he wasn’t going to make it to the pros, he married a real estate agent and started buying and selling fixer uppers. He eventually began soliciting investors to buy commercial property and was doing quite well for himself.

Dre followed him down a narrow hallway to a small office that looked out over a strip mall.

“It’s time,” Dre said, before he was even seated. “I’m ready to go one hundred percent legit.”

Willie grinned good-naturedly. “I’m glad to hear that. I’ve been worried about you, bruh. That’s a crazy life you livin’. Few guys are smart enough to get out in time. Does that gash on the side of your head have anything to do with your decision?”

Dre absently touched his face. “Yeah, man. I got robbed the other night. The dudes got me for fifteen big ones. Cash money.”

“Ouch,” Willie said, making a face.

“Exactly.” Dre hesitated. He felt like a lovesick schoolboy. “And I also met this female.”

“Okay, okay,” Willie said nodding and smiling. “I can see from the expression on your face that she must be something special.”

“Definitely.” Dre’s smile stretched from ear to ear. “And if I’m going to step to her, my situation has to be straight.”

“So, she doesn’t know anything about your line of work?”

“Naw, man, and trip this. She’s a lawyer.”

Willie’s eyebrows arched in surprise. “Dawg, you definitely need to tell her your situation. That’s not something she should find out in the streets.”

“I plan to. But when I tell her I’m out, I want to be completely out. That’s why I’m here.”

“You interested in picking up some more property?”

“Yeah, but instead of fixer uppers, let’s look into some apartment buildings. I’m ready to be a landlord. Something small. Five, maybe ten units.”

“Okay, I’ll get to work on it. I assume you’re still mostly in cash.”

“Yeah. That a problem?”

“Naw. I’ll work it out.” Willie was legit. For the most part. “Where’d you meet this lady?”

“I was at the gym just minding my own business. She just couldn’t resist my charm.” Dre grinned and stroked his goatee. “And don’t laugh when I tell you this, but I ain’t even got with her yet and I still can’t stop thinking about her.”

“Damn, dawg, she’s got your nose this wide open and you ain’t even hit it yet? What you waiting for, bruh?”

“It’s all about timing, man. I really want my situation to be right before I make my move.”

“Is she special enough to put a ring on her finger?”

Dre cocked his head. “That’s a possibility,” he said smiling.

Willie’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “I never thought I’d see you go down for the count. But I’m happy for you, bruh. I hope everything works out for you.”

“It will,” Dre said. “It will.”

When Dre walked into Baja Cantina on Washington, he found Angela seated at the bar.

“Ain’t this a little close to home?” he asked. Dre didn’t know exactly where Angela lived, but Playa Vista wasn’t that far away. “Ain’t you worried about running into dude?”

“Cornell hates Mexican food.”

Dre was encouraged by her lack of concern. Had she already kicked dude to the curb?

They settled in at a table near the fire pit. After the waitress took their orders, they munched on chips and salsa and made small talk. On the drive over, Dre told himself he would be patient and wait for Angela to broach the subject of her wedding. Ten minutes in, he realized he couldn’t do it.

Dre pointed to her left hand. “Does that mean you made your decision?”

Angela was still wearing her engagement ring.

She smiled. “Yes and no. I’m still wearing the ring because I don’t want people at work asking me a bunch of questions that I don’t want to answer. But, yes, I made my decision.”

Dre held his breath and waited.

“I told Cornell that I wanted to break off the engagement,” she continued. “He basically told me I was being emotional and asked me to reconsider until we could talk about it.”

“And what did you tell him?”

“I told him I would. But since then, he’s been pretending like I never brought it up.”

Dre tried to keep the disappointment off his face. “You’re going through with it then?”

Angela shook her head. “Nope. I just needed some time to get my ducks in a row. I couldn’t just up and leave without a plan.”

Dre scratched his chin. “I see.”

“Sounds like you don’t believe me,” Angela said.

Dre hung his arm over the back of his chair. “When people want out of a relationship, they get out. When they don’t, they find excuses to stay.”

Angela started to say something, then reached for her purse instead. “I have something to show you.” She removed an envelope and handed it to him.

“What’s this?”

“Just open it.”

Dre pulled out several legal-size sheets of paper stapled together. It took him a few seconds, but when he finally realized that he was holding the lease papers for her new apartment, a big grin spread across his face.

“Okay, so you are serious.”

“Yep, I think I am.”

Angela’s apartment was in Ladera Heights on Springpark Avenue. That was practically jogging distance from Dre’s place.

Dre could not stop smiling. He refolded the papers and slid them into the envelope. He had just handed the envelope back, when he stopped her.

“Hold up. Let me see that again.” He unfolded the papers and scanned the second page. “You don’t move in until the first of the month. You gotta hang with dude until then? Is that gonna be cool? He might get crazy on you.”

“I’m telling him this weekend, then I’m moving in with my sister until the first.”

“Why you even gotta wait that long? Tell him tonight.”

“I need to get some things in order first. It’s only a few days and I’ll be working late every night this week. I also want to start packing up some of my stuff. I’m sure Cornell won’t even notice.”

“You want me to be there when you tell him?”

Angela laughed. “Oh, that would go over real well.”

“Well, I can at least help you move.”

“No, thanks. My sister’s going to help me. I don’t have that much stuff anyway. Mostly clothes and odds and ends. All of the furniture is Cornell’s. He made me sell most of my stuff when we decided to live together.”

“You can crash with me if you want,” Dre offered.

“Thanks, but I really don’t want Cornell to think I’m breaking off our engagement because of another man.”

“What about the wedding?” Dre asked. “Have you cancelled it yet?”

“Nope, but the cancellation announcements are all addressed and sitting in the trunk of my car.”

“When you talk to dude, if he gets crazy, I want you to call me,” Dre said. “I mean it.”

“Oh, that’s so sweet. What’re you going to do? Come over and beat him up?”

“If I have to, yeah.”

“How do you know he wouldn’t beat you up?”

Dre laughed. “‘Cuz everything you’ve said about the dude tells me he’s a punk.”

Angela laughed, then turned serious. “Don’t worry. Cornell would never do anything that might soil his stellar reputation. He just can’t face letting me go.”

“I can understand that. I wouldn’t wanna let you go either.” Dre reached across the table and took her hand. “It’s been a while since you’ve lived alone. I think I should probably spend the first few nights with you. In case you get scared.”

Angela laughed again. “You’re something else.” She picked up her menu. “So, what do you want to eat?”

Dre narrowed his eyes and cocked his head. “You.”

Angela peered at him from atop the menu. “Just a few more days,” she said, her voice full of mischief, “and I’m all yours.”

Chapter 30

ERICKSON had not seen Sophia or Ashley in the five days since the coroner’s van pulled out of the driveway. Now that Claire was gone, they were no longer a family. Not that they ever really had been.

Sitting on the patio, enjoying his garden, he took a sip of scotch and pondered his situation. Things could not have worked out more beautifully. Claire’s cause of death had been listed as pancreatic cancer. He didn’t know how Becker had pulled it off, but the man was a master.

Erickson’s only problem now was Ashley. She was running around telling anyone willing to listen that Erickson had murdered Claire. There didn’t seem to be any way to stop her character assassination. What was he going to do? Call up all their friends and explain that his stepdaughter was a spiteful little bitch just like her mother?

No matter what, Erickson refused to hide or cower. He just prayed that the White House never got wind of Ashley’s lies. Such allegations against the chairman of one of the nation’s most well-regarded law firms would be a big news story. The same allegations against the next U.S. Attorney General would set off a media firestorm. He had considered eliciting Sophia’s help in silencing Ashley, but wasn’t sure he’d get it.

Erickson walked back inside to refresh his drink, reveling in the silence that engulfed the house. He was alone in the world again and that suited him. Erickson had not been in contact with what remained of his own family for years. He had a sister in Michigan, cousins he’d never been close to in Ohio. His escape to New York by way of NYU Law School had been his way out of the harsh Chicago winters and he had never looked back.

Without thinking it through, he picked up the telephone from the kitchen counter and called Sophia’s cell.

The minute she picked up, he had second thoughts, but proceeded anyway. “It’s Larry. How are you?”

“I’ve been better,” Sophia said. “And you?”

“As well as can be expected under the circumstances.” He cleared his throat and decided to skip the phony chitchat. “I’d like you to speak to Ashley and ask her to stop her preposterous allegations. If she weren’t family, I would have already stepped in to stop her.”

“Ashley’s taking her mother’s death very hard.”

“We all are. But her allegations are ridiculous.”

Sophia did not reply.

When Erickson took in the meaning of her silence, he almost dropped his scotch. “You can’t possibly believe what Ashley’s been saying.”

“Claire was doing fine when I left that morning,” Sophia said, coldly. “On top of that, I was as shocked as Ashley was to learn that Claire had sold her insurance policy. It seems strange that she hadn’t mentioned it to either of us.”

Erickson’s grip on the phone tightened. “Claire sold that policy to pay for an experimental surgery. She didn’t tell you about it because she didn’t want to raise your hopes unnecessarily. But later on, she changed her mind about going through with the procedure.”

“If you say so.”

Anger bubbled in Erickson’s chest. “Exactly what are you insinuating?”

“I’m not insinuating anything,” Sophia replied curtly. “I’m saying that I don’t think there ever was a surgery. Ashley was Claire’s sole beneficiary. I think you convinced Claire to sell that insurance policy so you’d be able to keep the money.”

“Are you nuts? I offered to give it to Ashley, but she refused to take it. And anyway, I’m not exactly hurting for cash.”

“As I understand it, some people can never have enough money. I think you knew Ashley wouldn’t accept a dime from you.”

“I’m telling you the truth,” Erickson said.

“I’m sorry, but I find it hard to believe that Claire would have wanted her only child to end up with nothing.”

Erickson closed his eyes and pressed the phone closer to his face. “Nothing? Ashley gets three grand a month from her grandparents’ estate. Claire knew she’d be taken care of. Just do me a favor and talk to her. I can’t afford to have her lies picked up by the media.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” The bitterness in her voice told him she would do absolutely nothing to help him.

“I’ve relayed Claire’s wishes regarding her services to the funeral home.” Erickson was now anxious to end the call. “If you and Ashley would like to keep the ashes, I don’t have a problem with that.”

Sophia gasped. “Ashes? What ashes?”

“Claire wanted to be cremated. She didn’t tell you?”

“No, she didn’t. I—I can’t believe she would’ve wanted to be cremated. She never shared that with me.”

“She told me she planned to talk to you.”

“Well, she didn’t.”

Erickson’s hand tightened around the glass of scotch. “Claire said she would write everything down, but she never got around to it.”

Sophia paused for a long beat. “I just find it so hard to believe. She always—”

“Well, that’s what she wanted,” Erickson said flustered. “I have to go now.”

“I don’t think Ashley’s going to be happy about this.”

“Why should I be concerned about whether Ashley’s happy or not. She isn’t concerned about destroying my reputation.” Erickson hung up without saying good-bye. He refilled his glass with scotch, then made his way to his study. With Claire out of the way, he could enjoy his personal pleasures without fear of discovery. He turned on his computer, took a seat and waited as it booted up. He now wisely restricted his viewing habits to websites featuring women who were of age, but looked much younger. Erickson had also scanned the room to ensure that there were no recording devices Claire had neglected to remove.

He was fairly confident now that there were no copies of the DVD. Like the things Claire had failed to share with Sophia and Ashley, his indiscretions were something she had wisely kept to herself.

Before he could get settled in, his cell phone rang. It was the director of the funeral home. “Mr. Erickson, I’ve just received a call halting your wife’s cremation.”

He sat forward in his chair. “What? From who?”

“From your wife’s daughter. Ashley Morgan.”

“She doesn’t have the authority to—”

“I’m sorry, but when these types of family disputes arise, we don’t proceed until they’ve been resolved. She told us she’s asking the authorities to perform an autopsy. In light of that, legally we can’t proceed. I’m sure you understand.”

No, he did not understand.

“I wish Ashley had talked to me,” he said. “She’s been under tremendous stress. But do what you have to do. I have no problem with postponing the cremation until we get this all straightened out.”

Erickson hung up the telephone and hurled his drink across the room. The glass shattered, leaving a splatter of brown liquid on the white wall.

For months, it had been Claire he feared. But now Ashley had taken the baton and run with it. He could not let the White House get even a whiff of his family drama. Even a request for an autopsy could wreck his chances of getting the nomination.

Erickson still had no idea of Claire’s true cause of death. He had honored his agreement with Becker to never broach the subject again. But he was racked with curiosity. Instead of heading for the bathroom during his visit, Becker had obviously slipped into Claire’s room. Had he drugged her? If so, what would an autopsy reveal?

He snatched his cell phone to call Becker, then almost as quickly set it back on the desk. He did not want phone records to show that immediately after speaking to the funeral director, he had called his law partner. That could unnecessarily implicate Becker.

Erickson walked back into the kitchen to fix himself another drink. He chastised himself for sounding so alarmed when the funeral director called. A man who had nothing to hide wouldn’t fear an autopsy. He would not make the same mistake again.

But he had to get Ashley under control. No matter what it took to make that happen.

Chapter 31

NOBODY knew the down side of procrastination better than Waverly Sloan. Ignoring a problem, he knew, never helped. So, why didn’t he just pick up the telephone and tell Britney that he couldn’t sell her policy?

He stared down at the documents spread across his desk. Britney had an eighty-thousand-dollar policy and the medical records her doctor provided showed that she had Stage 2 colon cancer, which meant her prognosis for a complete recovery was good. No one would want to buy her policy under those conditions. Making it even harder, she had a group policy from her company. If she got fired from her job, the premiums to maintain the policy would be expensive. The investor would have to take on that cost, too.

Waverly’s BlackBerry chirped and when he saw Britney’s number, he grimaced. He decided not to answer it, but on the fourth ring, he picked up anyway.

“How are you doing?” Britney asked.

Waverly could tell she was trying to sound upbeat. “I’m fine. What about you?”

“Not too good.” She sounded weaker than she had when they last talked. “But I’ll feel a lot better if you tell me you’ll be able to sell my policy. Have you had a chance to go over my medical records? I missed work again today. I think my boss is about to fire me and I don’t have much money saved up.”

Waverly sighed. “Most of the investors I spoke to weren’t interested in buying your policy,” he lied. “You—”

“Why? Because I’m not dying tomorrow?” Her voice broke into a sob. “If I lose my job, I don’t know what I’m going to do. Disability isn’t even enough to cover my rent. My only option is to go back to St. Paul and move in with my sister.”

“You didn’t let me finish,” Waverly said. “I found an investor.” He rubbed his forehead in consternation. He would just buy the damn policy himself. “But I could only get you thirty thousand.”

Britney’s sobs grew louder, but he could tell that she was crying tears of appreciation, not sadness.

“Thank you so much! I didn’t know what I was going to do. Thank you so much!”

Waverly felt like her white knight . . . until he hung up. He’d let his emotions cause him to do something stupid again. His viatical license expressly prevented him from investing in the policy of a client. He could end up having his license revoked, which was a stupid risk to take. But probably no more stupid than laundering Rico’s dirty money.

He reached into the bottom drawer of his desk, pulled out his flask and poured a shot of brandy into his coffee cup. A thought came to him. He did have another option. He could use Rico’s money to purchase Britney’s policy. He’d been funneling so many policies through Goldman Investments that there was a good chance Rico wouldn’t examine it too closely.

Rico’s calls inquiring about whether any of his policyholders had died yet had reached an annoying level. Of the deals he’d brokered for Goldman Investments, Inc., two of the clients died within days, netting Rico more than thirty percent on both investments. He’d even decided to use Rico’s money to purchase Jerry Billington’s three-hundred-thousand-dollar policy.

Waverly pulled up Britney’s file on his computer and did something he prayed did not come back to haunt him. He changed her doctor’s diagnosis of stage 2 colon cancer to stage 4. On the line for life expectancy, he deleted the words unpredictable at this time and replaced them with five months.

A knock on his open door startled him.

“Hey, son-in-law.” Leon Barrett was standing in the doorway of his office. Waverly was so surprised he could barely speak. He wondered how Leon had gotten past the receptionist.

His father-in-law marched up to his desk and stuck out his hand. “I was in the neighborhood and decided to look you up.”

Yeah, sure. Waverly shook his extended hand without getting up.

Leon’s critical eyes scanned the office. “Pretty nice digs.” He peered over Waverly’s shoulder at the L.A. skyline. “This place is twice as large as your other office. How much does the lease on a place like this run?”

None of your damn business. Waverly chuckled. “Money and politics are two things I never talk about, especially with family. What brought you to this side of town?”

It took a second for Leon to come up with a response. “Just meeting a friend.”

“Really?” Waverly’s brow knitted together. “Who?”

The two most important men in Deidra’s life eyed each other, their years of dislike and mistrust suddenly out in the open.

Leon sat down though Waverly hadn’t invited him to. “An old business associate. Robinson. Guy Robinson. You probably don’t know him.”

Waverly made a show of checking his watch. “I was in the process of preparing for a client meeting which starts in a few minutes. I’m sorry, but I can’t shoot the breeze with you right now.”

Leon refused to take the hint. “You know, I was asking Deidra about your new business, and to my surprise, she couldn’t even tell me what it is that you actually do.”

“You know Deidra,” Waverly replied. “As long as the bills are paid and she can shop all day long, she’s happy.”

“The way I see it, if you have to hide what you do from your wife, it can’t be too above board.” Leon got to his feet and pointed a finger in Waverly’s direction. “But mark my words, son. The fast money always runs out.”

Waverly wanted to tell Leon Barrett to kiss his ass. Instead, his eyes narrowed to slits and he smiled. “Like I was saying, I have a meeting.”

“Deidra told us about you coming home with your brother all battered and bloody. I understand he still has that drug problem and a gambling habit too. It would be a shame if you got all mixed up with that stuff, too. I certainly wouldn’t want my daughter exposed to something like that.”

“Neither would I.” Waverly stood up, towering over his father-in-law. “I hate to be rude, Leon, but like I said, I have a meeting to prepare for.”

Chapter 32

IN less than three weeks after his first visit with Waverly Sloan, Jon drove back to Sloan’s office and picked up the biggest check he had ever had the pleasure of holding in his nimble little fingers. One hundred and fifty thousand big ones.

Angela had instructed Jon to take photographs of the check, then head straight to the bank to deposit it into a special account set up by the Postal Inspection Service. He ambled out of Waverly’s office like the dying man he was supposed to be. He wasn’t sure he believed Salina’s theory that Live Now was murdering its policyholders, but just in case someone was watching him, he didn’t want to blow his cover.

He took his time driving to the bank, wanting to savor the feeling of having such a big check with his name on it. After making the deposit, Jon called Angela from the parking lot outside the bank.

“Just made the deposit.”

“Great. Did you take pictures?”

“Yep. I’ll email ‘em to you when I get home.”

“How did it feel to be loaded for a few hours?”

Jon chuckled. “I gave some serious thought to skipping town.”

“Yeah, right. Any new information? Did he pressure you in any way?”

“Unfortunately, no,” Jon said. “You still thinking about sending someone else in to see if they get the same treatment?”

“Definitely. Otherwise this whole operation has been a waste of time. Well, go home and play sick. “

“Yes, ma’am. Right away.”

Jon pulled into the driveway of his two-bedroom home in San Pedro just as a light rain started to come down. By late evening, as he was watching his favorite sitcom, Two and a Half Men, he suddenly craved a beer. He peered out of his living room window. The rain was coming down pretty hard now. A quick beer run wasn’t going to hurt anything.

He picked up his keys from the coffee table, slid his gun into the holster at his waist, and headed outside to his Camaro.

Jon roared along 25th Street until he reached a 7-Eleven about two miles away. He parked in front of the store and hopped out. He grabbed a six-pack from the coolers, handed his ATM card to the clerk and was in and out in less than five minutes.

He placed the beer on the floor behind the driver’s seat and was about to close the door, when someone stuck what felt like a gun into his lower back.

He instinctively turned, but a gruff voice stopped him.

“Don’t turn around,” the voice ordered. The man quickly patted him down, then snatched his revolver from his waist.

“Get in the driver’s seat and do exactly what I tell you to do. If you don’t, you’re dead.”

Jon didn’t move as the rain dampened his clothes. He had hoped it was just some kid trying to rob him, but the voice belonged to a mature man. Probably older than him. “Hey, man, if you want my car or my wallet, just take it.”

“What I want is you behind the wheel.”

Jon still didn’t move. He looked into the store where the clerk was stocking a shelf on the back wall. Not a single customer was inside. Jon caught a glimpse of the man’s reflection in the store window. He was shorter than Jon, white and clean shaven.

“I said, get in!” the man seethed, jamming the gun deeper into his back.

Jon finally complied, slowly opening the door and climbing in. Fear pounded his chest with the force of a gong. Then it hit him. Live Now was killing its clients and he was about to be the next victim.

“Just tell me what you want?” Jon could feel his heart beating at double its normal pace.

“We’re going for a ride,” the man said, opening the back door and positioning himself behind the driver’s seat. “Make a right out of the lot and just keep driving.”

As soon as he started up the car, Jon detected the scent of some chemical he couldn’t pinpoint. His mind was frantically trying to figure out how he was going to get himself out of this situation.

A few miles up the road, at Palos Verdes Drive East, the man directed him to make a U-turn.

“Pull over,” he said a few yards later, when they got to a turnout area past the Trump Golf Course. “And turn off the engine.”

As Jon followed his captor’s instruction, he looked off to his right. He could see very little, but knew it was at least a fifty-foot drop to the bottom of the embankment. Was the guy going to throw him off of it?

“Look, let’s talk about this. What do you want? I can—”

Without warning, the man looped a towel across his face, snapping his head back against the headrest. Jon snatched at the towel, struggling to free himself. But the man held it firmly in place. Now, Jon recognized the smell he had detected earlier. It was chloroform. He continued to fight to free himself, but realized he was about to lose consciousness.

The man loosened his grip and Jon slumped forward against the steering wheel.

He exited Jon’s car as a second man, who had been following in a small truck, joined him.

“You got it?” the first man asked as the rain pelted his face.

“Yeah,” his accomplice said. “Hurry up, so we can get the hell out of here.”

The accomplice, a small, bearded man, pulled something from his back pocket and handed it to the gunman, who bent down to attach it underneath the Camaro, near the gas tank. He then opened the car door, reached across Jon’s limp body and turned on the engine. After looking around to ensure there were no witnesses, he called out to his partner. “Let’s do this.”

He turned the steering wheel to the right, and with his accomplice pushing from the rear, they steered the Camaro toward a section of the guardrail which they had removed earlier in the day. Together, they shoved the car off the cliff, then watched as it tumbled down the hill, landing nose first before bursting into a vibrant ball of orange, yellow and purple flames.

Job done, they walked calmly to the truck, hopped in and sped off.

Chapter 33

ERICKSON and Becker were enjoying dinner at Ruth’s Chris Steakhouse in Beverly Hills, celebrating the flawless execution of their plan. But now, they needed a strategy to deal with the collateral damage.

“We have to get Ashley under control,” Erickson said, his face and voice heavy with worry.

Becker waved a hand in the air. “I’m not worried about Ashley. She was bluffing when she called the funeral home. I made some calls. There isn’t going to be any autopsy. The coroner’s office is busy enough with all the real crime in L.A. They’re not looking for any extra work.”

“God, I hope so.”

“You don’t have to hope,” Becker said. “That was a nice memorial service you held for Claire on Saturday. Once this autopsy nonsense is behind us, you can proceed with the cremation and the rest of your life.”

Erickson took a sip of his drink. “Ashley claims she contacted the D.A.’s office, too.”

Becker hunched his shoulders as if that threat was no big deal either. “Are you forgetting who you are? You’re chairman of one of the most influential law firms in the world. You think somebody at the D.A.’s office would be stupid enough to touch this? Unless Ashley can produce some hard evidence—and she can’t—no deputy D.A. with half a brain would risk his career going after you based on the ravings of an obviously emotionally distressed young woman.”

What Becker had just said made sense. Erickson was worrying for nothing. “I guess I’ve just been having second thoughts about—”

Becker raised a stern hand. “I told you before, we’re not going to talk about this.” He aimed a finger across the table. “You had a problem and now the problem is gone. That’s what you wanted, right?”

Erickson stabbed at his steak with his fork, then nodded.

“If you’re having regrets, that’s only natural. You were married to the woman for thirteen years. You just need to complete the grieving process, then move forward.” Becker took a sip of ginger ale.

“You’re right,” he said. But he really wasn’t grieving at all and certainly had no regrets about disposing of his problem. He was pleased, however, that even Becker was buying his sad widower act. Actually, he already had his eye on Mandy Mankowski, a new temp in the real estate department.

“I had some great news I wanted to share with you,” Becker said. “But I’m not sure you’re in the mood for it.”

Erickson glanced up, but didn’t speak.

“Remember that list you’re on?” Becker said with a wink. “I know for a fact that it’s down to just two candidates and you’re still the favorite.”

That news did indeed perk him up. “Who’s my competition?”

“I wish I knew. I asked, but Wrigley wouldn’t tell me. You don’t get to be Chief of Staff with a pair of loose lips.”

Erickson hoped the announcement came soon. Moving off to Washington and taking on the challenges of the Justice Department would help kick start his engine. Since getting the call from the President, his litigation practice almost seemed mundane.

Until his selection was announced, maybe he would use the time to focus on his personal life. As Attorney General, there would be receptions and parties and fundraisers to attend and he did not like flying solo. He needed a replacement for Claire and this time, he would make a much wiser choice. Children, or even the desire for them, would be the first disqualifier.

Since Claire’s death, the single secretaries at the firm, and a few of the married ones, were suddenly much more friendly and flirtatious. But aggressiveness in a woman disgusted him.

Mandy, the temp, was quiet and shy, traits Erickson favored. She practically blushed when he greeted her as he walked past her cubicle on the way to his office every morning. He pegged her to be in her late twenties, maybe early thirties. She was just a smidge above plain-looking, primarily because she never wore makeup and dressed on the conservative side. He was glad that she hadn’t ruined her body by gluing a pair of cantaloupes to her chest. She was probably an A-cup, if that.

Erickson emptied his glass. “How much time is appropriate before a widower starts dating again?”

Becker grinned. “You got a prospect lined up already?”

“No, not really,” he lied. “Just wondering about protocol.”

“I say give it four or five months. And keep looking sad like you’ve been doing around the firm. People really feel sorry for you. When it’s time, you’ll have your pick of attractive, intelligent women from L.A. to D.C.”

Erickson smiled and took a bite of his steak. He didn’t want another attractive woman. Beautiful women had options. His new wife would have no alternatives beyond him. Erickson definitely didn’t want a woman with above-average intellect.

The next Mrs. Erickson would be one thing: completely controllable.

Chapter 34

WITHOUT question, delivering checks to his clients was the best part of Waverly’s new gig. It gave him a chance to play Santa Claus year round.

Only hours after brightening Jerry Billington’s day, Waverly met Britney at a coffee shop not far from the Sizzler where they’d talked the night after his presentation. When he handed over the check, she thanked him profusely, explaining that his timing couldn’t have been better. She had just been fired from her job for missing too much work.

Her firing was not good news for another reason. The insurance premiums Rico would have to pay to maintain her policy would more than double. Waverly decided that he would worry about that when the time came.

The business part of their discussion had lasted less than twenty minutes, yet they had now been chatting for over an hour. Waverly sipped black coffee while Britney drank some strange concoction of caramel and soy milk.

Conversation came easily to them.

“You have a great job,” Britney said. “You get to help people.”

“I do like it,” Waverly said. “I actually got a call this morning from an L.A. Times reporter who’s doing a feature on the viatical industry. She wants to interview me. I haven’t decided whether I’m going to do it.”

“Why not? It should be good for business.”

Actually, he would love the publicity. But he couldn’t risk the reporter digging into his background and finding not only that he’d been disbarred, but that he’d gotten his viatical license illegally and was laundering drug money. “We’ll see.”

A little voice in Waverly’s head kept telling him to end the chitchat and go home to his wife. But something else kept him glued to the chair. It was ego-boosting to be in the presence of an attractive young woman, especially one who showered him with gratitude. He wanted to know more about her and she seemed willing and open to sharing.

“How’d your last radiation session go?” he asked.

Britney took a sip of her drink. “They think I’m remission now.”

“That’s great news,” he said.

Her face grew melancholy and Waverly got the feeling that she wanted more than words of comfort. He repositioned himself in the small wooden chair and tried to plan his exit.

“I don’t expect to be in remission forever,” Britney said. “I know the cancer’s probably going to kill me before I’m forty. My father died of colon cancer and he was only thirty-five.”

“You’re not going to die,” Waverly said, trying to sound lighthearted. This time, he leaned forward and gave her hand a quick squeeze. When he tried to pull away, Britney placed her other hand on top of his and held it there.

“It’s my fault,” she said, finally releasing him. “I never went in for checkups despite my family history.”

Waverly had more questions, but held back. There was something in him that wanted to do more to help Britney than just hand her a check. She was a beautiful, young woman who deserved to live a long, happy life. He dismissed her doom and gloom and figured she was just feeling sorry for herself.

“I guess the good part of all this is that I don’t have any kids,” she said. “It was pretty rough when my dad died.”

“No special guy in your life?” Waverly asked.

She smiled. “Nope. I just started dating this one guy when I found out about the cancer. It must’ve freaked him out. Haven’t heard from him since.”

“Well, if there’s anything I can do to help, just ask.”

“Thanks. You’ve already done more than enough.”

“Any reason you don’t want to go back to St. Paul?”

“I’d just be a burden to my sister. My mother and I haven’t spoken in a couple of years.”

“Do they even know about the cancer?”

“Nope. If they find out, they’ll start pressuring me to move back home. I’ll tell them, but only when I have to.” She stared him directly in the eye. “Can I ask you something?”

Waverly was about to give his consent, but Britney didn’t wait for it.

“How long have you been married?”

He really didn’t want the conversation to go in that direction. “Almost two and a half years.”

“So you’re a newlywed,” Britney said. “Still happily married?”

Waverly smiled. “Yes. Very.”

“Your wife is really lucky to have a man like you.”

In her own not-so-subtle way, Britney was coming on to him. A woman with her looks and body knew how to entice a man. But Waverly had never been much of a ladies’ man. He had a good thing with Deidra and wasn’t going to jeopardize it for a fling with a kid.

“Is it okay if I call you sometime?” Britney asked. “Just to talk.”

Waverly hesitated, then responded with an uncertain smile. “Sure.”

He stood up. “I have to get home.”

Waverly walked Britney to her car. She thanked him for the umpteenth time and gave him a hug that was much too tight and lasted far too long.

As he climbed into his Lexus, Waverly scolded himself for staying as long as he had. He was giving the girl mixed signals. He hoped she didn’t call him again.

If she did, he would befriend her from a distance, and that was it.

Chapter 35

ANGELA took a vacation day and spent hours browsing furniture stores in Pasadena and West L.A. It was almost seven when she finally returned home to do what she had to do. Cornell was in the den watching C-Span.

“Glad you’re home,” he said, when she walked in. “You didn’t answer your cell. You feel like going out for dinner? I made reservations at Roy’s for eight.”

A wineglass and open bottle of Merlot sat on the coffee table in front of him. It was just like Cornell to make dinner plans without inquiring where she might like to eat.

“I already ate,” Angela said. It annoyed her that Cornell was pretending as if their conversation about calling off the wedding had never happened.

“Cornell, we need to talk.” She set her purse on the coffee table, turned off the television and took a seat next to him on the couch.

“You wouldn’t believe my day yesterday,” Cornell began, as if he hadn’t heard her. “The appellate court remanded another one of my cases. The idiots must be letting their interns write the decisions. And then this guy blows the date for filing his opposition brief and had the audacity to get nasty with me when I refused to grant him an extension. Can you believe that? I’m the goddamn judge. I have the power to hold him in contempt and he comes into my courtroom acting like an arrogant son of a bitch. It took every ounce of energy I could muster not to climb off the bench and kick his ass.”

Angela almost laughed. Cornell probably never had a fight in his life.

“Did you hear me? I said we need to talk about the wedding.”

“Yeah, I heard you. I figured I’d just leave the subject alone and wait for you to bring it up again. Are you done going through whatever hormonal stuff you were dealing with?”

Cornell’s condescending attitude only strengthened her resolve. “You asked me to give my decision to call off the wedding some thought and I have. But nothing’s changed. I can’t marry you. I put the cancellation announcements in the mail a few minutes ago. I’m sorry.”

His face hardened and he didn’t say anything for a long while. “What’s his name?” he asked coolly.

“This has nothing to do with anybody else.” Anxiety quickened her heart rate. “I just don’t think we should get married. It’s just not working for me.”

“Not working for you?” His body stiffened. “What the hell does that mean?”

“I don’t want to argue about it. I made my decision.” Angela stood up.

Cornell charged off the couch and grabbed her arm. “Come back here,” he spat. “Do you realize what you’re doing? Do you know how many women would love to be in your shoes? After all I’ve done for you, this is the thanks I get?”

Angela felt a brief wave of panic, but knew showing fear would only embolden him. She snatched her arm away. “I’m sorry. I’ll be packing up my stuff tomorrow.” She had anticipated that Cornell would not simply accept her decision. She had packed an overnight bag, which was already in the trunk of her car. “I’m moving in with my sister. Tonight.”

As she attempted to leave, Cornell grabbed her by the arm again.

“Don’t you walk away from me!”

Angela calmly matched his irate gaze with one of her own. “Let go of my arm. You’re hurting me.”

His grip tightened. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”

“Somebody who doesn’t want to be married to you and this is precisely the reason why. You’re not a man, you’re a bully. Now, let go of my arm!”

It took another couple of seconds before Cornell roughly pushed her away. Angela stumbled backwards, lost her footing and fell to the floor.

He stared down at her with such hostility that, for a moment, she feared that he might kick her.

Angela crab-walked away from him, then awkwardly rose to her feet. “I was hoping we didn’t have to go through any drama, but I should have expected this kind of childish behavior from you.”

“I don’t need you,” Cornell spat. “If you want to go, then go.” He plopped back down on the couch and picked up the remote.

Her heart beating wildly, Angela went to the bedroom to retrieve her purse, then realized she’d left it on the coffee table in the den. When she walked back into the room, she found Cornell riffling through her purse.

“You had the nerve to rent an apartment?” He was holding her lease papers. “Where the hell is it?” He scanned the pages, searching for the address.

“None of your business,” Angela shouted, snatching the papers and stuffing them into her purse.

She had almost made it to the front door when she felt Cornell’s fingers grip the back of her neck. He jerked her body toward him, almost lifting her off her feet, then spun her around and slammed her against the wall. An explosion of pain shot down her back.

“I want to know who you’re fucking!” he yelled, gripping her forearms and pinning her to the wall. She could feel his fiery breath on her face.

Angela’s brave façade evaporated. She did not recognize this man.

“Cornell, what are you doing?” she said, her voice trembling. “You’re scaring me. Please let me go.”

He leaned in and roughly kissed her. Angela tried to wrestle away from him when the ringing of her BlackBerry halted his assault.

Cornell snatched Angela’s purse from her shoulder and fished around until he found her BlackBerry. “Maybe it’s your boyfriend calling,” he scoffed. “Who is this?”

Angela closed her eyes and prayed that it wasn’t Dre. She had promised to call him as soon as she finished breaking off things with Cornell. He’d probably become worried when she hadn’t called.

Her chest heaved up and down as Cornell listened in silence for way too long. “Here,” he said finally, pressing the BlackBerry to her chest.

Angela hurriedly placed it to her ear. It was Jon’s sister, Debbie. She lived in the Chicago area. “Jon’s been in a car accident.”

“What? I just talked to him a few hours ago.”

“His car went off an embankment in Palos Verdes.”

Angela closed her eyes and shuttered. “My God! Is he okay?”

“I don’t know,” Debbie said, clearly shaken. “They couldn’t tell me much over the phone. I just booked a red-eye. I won’t get there until morning. Before he passed out, Jon told the paramedics he needed to talk to you.”

Angela immediately knew why. Jon’s accident was no accident. Live Now really was murdering its clients. “I’ll head over now. Which hospital?”

When she finished the call, Cornell was standing in front of the door, blocking her path. “Why do you have to go?” he snorted. “He’s not your family.”

“He’s my friend. Now move!”

“We need to finish our conversation.” Cornell, looking flustered now, wiped his palm down his face. “Look, I’m sorry I—”

“I don’t want to hear anything you have to say,” Angela shouted. “Just get the hell out of my way.”

She reached around him, opened the door and rushed out.

Chapter 36

ERICKSON knew it was nonsense, but he felt like a failure.

“Just cool out,” Becker urged his friend. They were having lunch at the Jonathan Club. “It’s not the end of the world.”

Earlier that morning, Erickson had received a call from the White House, but not the one he had been expecting. President Bancroft had made his pick and it wasn’t him. Marianna Segobia, a prominent Latina lawyer from L.A. with strong political ties, would be the next U.S. Attorney General. The formal announcement would be made Monday morning.

“It’s not like you’re not still chairman of one of the most powerful law firms in the world,” Becker reminded him.

“Maybe it’s for the best,” Erickson said dejectedly, sipping his second scotch, even though it was barely noon. “With the nonsense Ashley’s been spouting, it would have been quite an embarrassment to win the appointment and have the media jump on that story.”

Becker picked up a piece of his fried cod fish with his fingers. “Nobody’s giving any credence to what Ashley’s saying.”

It puzzled Erickson that Becker was not more concerned about Ashley’s slanderous rants. Becker was the one with everything on the line.

“Do you really think anybody would believe you murdered your wife when she was already dying?” Becker said. “If we’re lucky, somebody’ll do us a favor and have Ashley committed.”

“I don’t think we can just ignore her. She’s starting to make noise about the insurance money, claiming I stole it from her.”

Becker stopped chewing. “I thought you were going to give it to her?”

“I tried. She wouldn’t accept it.”

Becker broke off another piece of fish. “Well, there’s nothing we can do about it now.”

Erickson stared down at his grilled salmon but he only had an appetite for scotch. “Were you able to find out anything more about an autopsy supposedly being done?”

“It’s not happening,” Becker said. “Claire had cancer and that’s the official cause of death.”

Becker leaned forward and slapped him on the arm. “Cheer up. Maybe you should take some time off.”

“Yeah? And do what? I’d be better off pouring myself into a good case.”

“You’ve been practicing law for more than thirty years. When the hell do you plan to retire?”

“Probably never.” Erickson chuckled. “I’ll be one of those lawyers who dies keeled over a brief.”

Becker’s face turned serious. “I think it’s time for you to start thinking about a suitable successor. And when you do, can I assume that my name is at the top of your list?”

Erickson hesitated. “There are more than a few partners at the firm who want my job.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” Becker replied pointedly.

“Of course, I’ll be nominating you. But the decision isn’t mine alone to make.”

“True. But your recommendation would carry a lot of weight.”

“Like I said, I’m not going anywhere for the time being.”

Erickson could see the disappointment on Becker’s face and that surprised him.

“It doesn’t sound like you think I deserve the job.” There was a defensiveness in Becker’s tone.

Erickson smiled. “I think you’ll be a great chairman.”

Actually, he didn’t believe Becker possessed the leadership traits required to run a law firm of the caliber of Jankowski, Parkins. He was a super-talented lawyer in terms of intellect, but he lacked people skills. He’d lorded over his staff like an army general and was far too inflexible. Even more troubling, his ethics, at times, were questionable. Becker also insisted on putting his family first. No true leader did that.

“Well, when you do decide to retire,” Becker said, “I expect you to lobby hard for me as your replacement.”

Erickson looked away, unable to meet his friend’s demanding gaze. Was this the quid pro quo? I kill your wife, you give me your job?

“I’ve been extremely loyal to you,” Becker continued, “and I expect the same loyalty in return.”

Chapter 37

WAVERLY had gone back and forth trying to make up his mind about doing the interview with the L.A. Times reporter. He finally decided it wasn’t worth the risk. He left the reporter a voicemail message with his decision, but the woman was persistent as hell and continued to call.

Waverly didn’t realize just how persistent until he was sitting at the counter at the Pantry, his favorite place to order breakfast for lunch.

A thin redhead slid onto the stool next to him just as he was about to dig into a plate of scrambled eggs and fried ham. “How’s it going, Mr. Sloan? I’m Jill Kerr.” She waited for her name to register. “From The Times.”

Waverly’s mouth fell open. “So, you’re stalking me now?”

“Nope. I think this is what you call fate. The Pantry is a popular hangout for Times reporters. Running into you is a complete coincidence.”

Waverly didn’t buy her story. “We’ve never met before. How’d you even know what I look like?”

“The Internet. There’re quite a few pictures of you from your lawyer days. You haven’t aged a bit.”

“Thanks.” Waverly picked up his knife, cut off a piece of ham and stuck it into his mouth. “But I still don’t want to be interviewed.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t trust reporters,” he said, still chewing.

“Well, you can trust me. This is a feature story, for God’s sake. What are you afraid of?”

Jill Kerr’s demeanor was too easygoing, which made Waverly wonder if she already knew things about him that he didn’t want her to know. She had probably spent most of her life using her pen as a sword. Waverly didn’t want to be the next interview subject she sliced into pieces.

“You’re in a pretty interesting business,” Kerr began, after ordering coffee.

“I told you I don’t want to be interviewed.”

“How about this?” she said. “The minute I ask a question you don’t like, the interview’s over.”

A tiny voice in Waverly’s head told him to climb off the stool and walk out of the restaurant. He started down at his plate. Unfortunately, the food was too good to waste.

Jill took his silence as acquiescence and pulled a pen and notepad from her purse. “How’d you first learn about this business?”

Waverly reluctantly told her about meeting Vincent at a conference. “When he explained the viatical business to me, I knew it was something I wanted to get involved in. The humanitarian nature of the business appealed to me.”

“How do you find your clients?”

“I do presentations for cancer support groups, churches, hospices, places like that.” Waverly said. “But a lot of my business comes through word-of-mouth referrals. Most of my clients find me.”

“So, is it a big business? How many policies do you sell a month?”

“I think that’s one of those questions I don’t like,” Waverly said, then smiled. “We’re done talking, right?”

Jill hurled a smile back at him. “Don’t you miss the practice of law?”

Waverly grunted. “You’re not a person of your word. That certainly tells me I shouldn’t trust you.” He took a sip of coffee.

“I only have a few more questions,” she said in a pleading tone. “I just need a couple of good quotes to round out my story. Do you miss the practice of law?”

Waverly took his time chewing his ham. So far, she’d asked nothing that could cause him any real harm. “Don’t miss it at all,” he said, between bites. “It’s not nearly as time consuming and you don’t have to deal with contentious lawyers. In this business, everybody I work with is on the same team.”

“Who buys these policies?”

“Insurance companies and individual investors, including a large number of doctors, mostly oncologists. They deal with death every day and don’t see the business as gruesome. They understand that they’re helping people.”

“And making a killing in the process,” Kerr added.

A red flag went up, but Waverly felt a strong need to defend his profession. “I wouldn’t call it a killing,” Waverly corrected her. “There are administrative costs involved. The broker only gets ten percent. We have to pay doctors to review the medical records, the viatical company takes a commission, and there are documents that have to be copied, notarized and mailed. All of that costs money as well.”

Jill didn’t seem convinced. “To some people, that might sound a little shady.”

“I thought you said this was going to be a feature.”

“It is,” Kerr said.

“You sound more like an investigative journalist than a features writer.”

Kerr smiled. “Thanks for the compliment. I used to be. I don’t mean to ask tough questions. I just want to make sure I get the entire picture.”

“When someone comes to me to sell their policy,” Waverly said, “they usually have no other options, no other place to obtain funds.”

Jill nodded as if she understood.

“We’re able to hand them thousands of dollars in a few weeks,” Waverly continued. “We’re talking about people who don’t have much time left. They can’t wait months to take that trip around the world or to get the medical treatment they need. I even had one client who was days away from being evicted from the home she’d owned for nearly thirty years. All because she was too ill to work because of her cancer. She had no other option. She’s still alive six months later and still in her home.”

“I guess your investor isn’t too happy about this.”

Another red flag shot up. “Actually, he’s just fine about it. She has a life expectancy of a year.”

“Do you ever get complaints from family members who were expecting a big insurance payout after their loved one died, but found out someone else was the beneficiary?”

“Most people tell their families what they are about to do,” Waverly explained. “I actually encourage my clients to do that. Many of them sell their polices with the blessing of those closest to them.”

Kerr looked down at her notes. “Do you make more as a lawyer or a viatical broker?”

Waverly paused. “If you define the currency as caring, I make tons more in this career.”

“And if the currency is money?”

He didn’t like the question. He took a few seconds to carefully craft his response. When he finally spoke, he intentionally slowed down so Kerr could get every word.

“I don’t define my career in terms of money,” Waverly said. “I define it in terms of hope. I’m giving hope to people who wouldn’t otherwise have any.”

Chapter 38

IT took Angela longer than it should have to reach the emergency room at Torrance Memorial Medical Center.

She was so shaken from Cornell’s assault and the stress of not knowing whether Jon was dead or alive, that she went the wrong way on Lomita Boulevard. She was blocks away from the hospital before she realized it.

Angela backtracked and finally made it to the emergency room and was quick enough to say she was Jon’s sister in the hope that they would allow her to see him. The nurse raised an eyebrow, but didn’t argue the point.

She was only allowed to spend a few minutes with him in the emergency room. She found Jon’s bed at the end of a long aisle. He was heavily sedated and half his face was covered in bandages. The other half was so bruised and swollen she barely recognized him. The nurse told her that Jon had been thrown from his car seconds before it blew up. It was a miracle that he survived the accident.

Jon liked to drive fast, but he’d never been reckless. Even though it had been raining earlier, she found it hard to believe that he would carelessly drive his cherished Camaro off the road. His injuries were not the result of an accident. Live Now really was killing its clients.

Jon’s sister arrived later that morning, not long after Jon had been moved into a private room. Debbie had just left to call other family members with an update on her brother’s condition when he finally regained consciousness.

Jon’s right eye fluttered open. When he saw Angela standing next to his bed, he smiled, or at least tried to.

“Can’t say you look too great,” Angela joked, “but it looks like you’re going to make it.” She reached out and gave his right hand, the only body part that didn’t appear bruised, a gentle pat.

“By the way,” she said, “I’m your sister, in case anyone asks.”

Jon tried to smile again, but only one corner of his mouth angled upward.

“I need to know how your car went off that cliff,” Angela said gently. “Did your accident have anything to do with Live Now?”

Speaking in a low, raspy voice, Jon mumbled something indecipherable. Angela leaned closer, but still couldn’t make out what he was trying to say. She pulled a pen from her purse, then looked around for a piece of paper. She saw a napkin on the nightstand.

“Can you write?” she asked, placing the pen in his right hand. “Tell me what happened.”

Jon gripped the pen and tried to scribble. The words were just as indecipherable as his speech. She would have to try another approach.

“I’m going to ask you some questions, and I want you to blink once for yes, and twice for no. Can you do that?”

Jon again mumbled something Angela couldn’t understand but hoped was his consent. She wondered if she should ask him to blink his one visible, but badly swollen eye to indicate yes or no.

Angela felt her BlackBerry vibrate, having turned off the ringer earlier when she entered the emergency room. Assuming the call was from Jon’s sister, she pulled it from the pocket of her jeans, anxious to give Debbie the news that her brother was awake.

When Angela saw Cornell’s number show up in the caller ID display, she felt nothing but fury. She stepped away from the bed.

“What do you want?” she seethed.

“I’m sorry about how I reacted,” Cornell said. “Are you okay? How’s Jon?”

“Do you even care?”

“Look, I said I’m sorry. Do you want me to come down there?”

Angela huffed. “No, you don’t need to come down here. If you were concerned about me or about Jon, you would’ve driven me down here last night.”

“You never gave me a chance to offer.”

“That’s the problem. There are some things—no, there are a lot of things—that I shouldn’t have to ask. I have to go now.”

“We need to finish our conversation.”

“No, we don’t. You and I are done. I said everything I needed to you last night, except this. If you ever put your hands on me again, you’re going to jail.”

“Look, you’re being—”

Angela turned off the BlackBerry and stuffed it back into her pocket.

She turned back to Jon and saw an unmistakable smile grace his purple lips. He’d always joked that Cornell was too uptight for her.

“Oh, so now you can smile, huh? And, yes, you heard right. My engagement is off.”

It was liberating just saying the words. Angela couldn’t wait to introduce Jon to Dre. She knew the two of them would click.

Jon darted upward and clutched his throat. He seemed to be having a hard time breathing.

“What’s the matter? Are you okay?”

Jon coughed up a spurt of blood.

Angela snatched open the door and ran into the hallway. “Somebody help! He can’t breathe.”

A Filipino nurse who was tending to a patient in the next room stopped what she was doing and rushed in. Jon was clutching his chest now, trying to sit up and gasping for air.

“Code blue,” the nurse yelled, as she pressed a button on the wall next to Jon’s bed.

In seconds, Angela was pushed out of the way and it seemed as if every nurse and doctor on the floor had converged around Jon’s bed. She heard metal clicking and words flying and machines beeping.

Angela had no idea how long she watched the scene. But she would never forget the moment—the precise moment—when all the activity stopped, seemingly at once. The Filipino nurse, her head barely visible above the crowd of medical personnel, turned back and looked at her with apologetic eyes.

“Call the code,” said a male voice from somewhere in the midst of the huddle.

A woman in a white coat raised her left arm and checked her watch. “Time of death: two-forty-one p.m.”

Chapter 39

ERICKSON leaned against the kitchen counter, enjoying a Chopin piano concérto, watching Mandy scurry about. It was nice being with a woman who was so eager to please. She was exactly what he needed to soothe his bruised ego.

Mandy eyed his empty wineglass. “Oh, I see you need more Chardonnay.” She set aside the salad she was preparing, wiped her hands on her apron and refilled his glass.

The firm’s non-fraternization policy prevented liaisons between partners and secretaries—or partners and any other employee for that matter. For now, their affair was a closely guarded secret. Becker was right. It would not look good for him to be dating so soon after his wife’s death. But Erickson figured it would be months before his relationship with Mandy became public knowledge. By that time she would have traded her temporary workstation at Jankowski, Parkins for permanent residence in his Hancock Park home.

When she handed the glass back to him, he kissed her on the cheek. Any act of intimacy between them was always at his initiation. That was the first test that Mandy had passed with flying colors. She was never the aggressor and he liked that. He attributed the trait to her rural Midwestern upbringing. They didn’t raise women like her in California.

Mandy had performed well on his other tests, too. She was a good conversationalist, but not a chatterbox. She was poised enough to host a dinner party and had a decent knowledge of literature and classical music. Most importantly, Mandy knew how to follow his lead. That was the mark of a good secretary and a great wife. She could use some help selecting more flattering attire, but that could be easily fixed with an appointment with a personal shopper at Bloomingdales.

Erickson reached for the dishtowel next to the stove and dropped it to the limestone floor just in front of his feet. Mandy glanced over at him, confused by the move.

“Get on your knees,” he quietly, but firmly ordered.

Without hesitation, Mandy knelt before him, cushioning her knees on the dishtowel. Without further instruction, she unlatched his belt, unzipped his trousers and took him into her mouth.

Erickson leaned against the cabinet and splayed his left hand on the countertop to balance himself as he drank in the pleasure of being inside her mouth. Within seconds of their first intimate encounter, he could tell that she was a novice at the task and that pleased him. It further pleased him that she was a fast study.

Yes, he thought, he had chosen well.

Erickson stroked her head, trying to contain his excitement as she expertly serviced him. He liked watching her mop of dark hair bobbing over his crotch. At work, Mandy kept her hair wrapped in a neat bun. On their first date, he’d been surprised to see that it cascaded down her back, almost to her buttocks.

He gripped a patch of her hair and twirled it around his fist, pulling tighter as he struggled to delay the coming eruption. Mandy eked out a whimper of pain, which aroused him even more.

As she tried to pull away, Erickson held her head in place, forcing himself further down her throat, ignoring her gagging cries. He came in a final, forceful heave.

Mandy coughed for several seconds, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and looked up at him with the eyes of a child.

Erickson brushed her hair away from her face. “Thank you,” he said, helping her up. “You gave me exactly what I needed.”

She smiled sweetly as Erickson buckled his pants. Mandy washed her face and hands at the kitchen sink, then resumed her dinner preparations.

Erickson left to take a leak, strutting down the hallway with a self-satisfied smile.

When he finished in the bathroom and stepped back into the hallway, he heard voices and wondered why Mandy had turned off Chopin and turned on the television.

As he got closer, the sound of a familiar voice filled him with angst. He rushed into the kitchen where Ashley was hurling questions at a bewildered Mandy.

“You couldn’t even wait for her body to get cold,” Ashley wailed when Erickson stepped back into the kitchen.

“You just can’t come into my house uninvited!” Erickson yelled. “What are you doing here?”

“I came by to pick up my grandmother’s belongings that mother kept in the backhouse. I called your office earlier this week and your secretary said you’d be out of town.” She gave Mandy an accusatory glare. “Are you his secretary?”

“I should let you two handle this in private,” Mandy said timidly. She took off her apron and scampered down the hallway.

“Does your little slut know you’re a murderer?” Ashley asked in a voice loud enough for the entire neighborhood to hear.

“Get out of my house!” Erickson yelled.

“You are such a scumbag. You couldn’t wait for my mother to die so you could bring some tramp in here. She’s half your age.”

“I’m not putting up with your nonsense anymore. You don’t live here. Get the hell out and don’t come back. I’ll have your mother’s things sent to you. Now, give me my gaddamn key.” He held out his hand.

Ashley threw the key on the counter and it slid to the floor. “I know you’ve been blocking my attempts to get an autopsy done, but it’s going to happen. You’re a murderer and you’re going to get what you deserve. You just wait.”

She ran down the hallway toward the front door and Erickson followed.

Ashley opened the door, stepped onto the porch and turned back to say something, but Erickson slammed the door in her face. He immediately turned the deadbolt and hooked the chain.

As he returned to the kitchen, hoping to salvage his evening, he made a mental note to call Sophia in the morning to ask for her key as well.

Better yet, he would call a locksmith.

Chapter 40

WAVERLY was relaxing in his home theater, enjoying a movie with Deidra and her parents, when his BlackBerry chirped, signaling a call. He waited until it went to voicemail, then slipped it from his shirt pocket.

The caller ID read private caller.

“No message. Guess it wasn’t that important.” Waverly rocked back in his red velvet chair. The room had six rows of comfy, theater-style seats and could accommodate twenty-four. Deidra sat to Waverly’s left. His in-laws, next to Deidra.

A minute later, it chirped again. Again Waverly ignored it.

“Looks like somebody’s kind of anxious to get in touch with you,” Leon said.

The third time it rang, which was about thirty seconds later, Waverly wished he had turned it off. This time he answered it. “Waverly Sloan,” he said, annoyed.

“Just calling to check on that big payout I’ve got coming.”

Waverly stiffened at the sound of Rico’s voice. Deidra turned to stare at him. The darkness hid her face but he could tell she was upset by the interruption. Waverly stood, stepped into the hallway and leaned against the wall.

Waverly didn’t appreciate Rico interrupting his family time. “What big payout?”

“You owe me some money, amigo. Some big money.”

“What are you talking about?”

“That Billington dude is dead, so I have three hundred grand coming to me. When can I expect my money?”

“Dead? How do you know—” Waverly did not want to follow through on the thought that flickered across his mind. “I haven’t been notified that Billington died. How would you know that?”

“You think I’m going to let you give that guy one hundred and fifty grand of my money and not keep track of him?” Waverly noticed that Rico’s accent had completely disappeared. “Trust me, he’s dead. I read it in the papers. So, when do I get my money?”

“I’ll check into it. This doesn’t happen overnight.”

“I don’t expect it to happen overnight, but I do expect it to happen soon. I’ll call you tomorrow to find out when you’ll be wiring my money.”

Waverly hated not having Rico’s number. He knew nothing about the man and if he needed to track him down, he wouldn’t know where to begin. He had already tried to trace where he was wiring the money, but only found out that it was an offshore account.

“I’ll look into it and give you a call. Give me a number where I can reach you.”

Rico chuckled. “You know the deal. I’ll call you.”

Waverly hung up. When he turned around, Leon was standing a few feet down the hallway, his arms folded across his chest.

“Is everything okay?” Leon asked.

“Yeah, no problem. Just an issue with an investor.”

“You look pretty upset. What was that all about?”

None of your damn business. “The guy’s pretty demanding, that’s all.” When Waverly decided to move into his in-law’s neighborhood, he hadn’t anticipated that they would spend more time at his house than their own.

Waverly walked past him and took his seat next to Deidra. He tried to focus on the movie, but his mind kept wandering back to Rico’s call. How did Rico know Billington was dead? A weird feeling told him something was wrong.

“Don’t kill me,” Waverly said to Deidra. “But there’s some work I need to do.”

Rico claimed he read about Billington’s death in the newspapers. Waverly wanted to find out if that was actually the truth.

Deidra huffed. “The movie just started. Can’t it wait?”

“I won’t be long.” He rose from the chair. “There’s something I need to look up on the Internet.”

“Anything I can do to help?” Leon asked.

No, you nosey bastard. “No, thanks,” Waverly said, heading for the door. “I won’t be long. Just enjoy the movie.”

Chapter 41

DRE stepped off the elevator onto the second floor of Angela’s building carrying a bottle of red wine and a bouquet of calla lilies wrapped in cellophane. He glanced down at his groin and cringed. There was no way he could show up at Angela’s door in his excited state.

Checking the numbers on the apartment doors, he scoped out Angela’s place, then made a U-turn and walked in the opposite direction. He spotted an exit sign, opened a door leading to a stairwell and stepped inside. He kept the door open just a crack so he wouldn’t lock himself out.

Dre rested his back against the wall to think of something—anything—except the fact that in a very short while he would be getting buck wild with a woman he’d been fantasizing about for months. He was so excited that he’d probably blow the second he saw her naked.

Five minutes later with no change in his condition, Dre gave in to the fact that his Johnson had a mind of its own. As he made the short walk back down the hallway, he hoped Angela was in a better mood. Since the death of her coworker, nothing seemed to cheer her up. She’d basically kept him at bay for the past few days, not even showing up at the gym. Then, out of the blue, she had called, inviting him over for dinner.

Dre positioned the flowers at waist level, then rang the doorbell.

The door slowly swung open and there she was, standing in front of him in a short, frilly chiffon skirt, which showed off her long, beautiful legs. Her red stiletto heels were a serious turn on. Her T-strap top was low cut and barely able to contain her voluptuous breasts. Nice.

“Welcome,” she said with a smile. “You’re my first official houseguest.”

“Don’t move,” Dre said, stepping across the threshold, closing the door behind him. “Just stand there and let me look at you.”

Angela angled her head, put both hands on her hips and crossed one leg in front of the other.

Dre was smiling so hard, his cheeks hurt. The good girls were always the freaks.

“Dang, you look good, girl.”

“Thank you, sir. And you’re looking pretty nice yourself. Is that a new shirt?”

Actually, it was, but she wasn’t supposed to know that. “Uh, naw. Just haven’t worn it that much.”

Dre sensed that Angela was just as nervous as he was. They stood there smiling at each other like two middle school students about to have their first slow dance. He wanted to bum rush her, but knew he couldn’t treat her like a tramp. Playing it cool, however, would be hard.

“Are those for me?” Angela finally asked.

“Oh . . . uh . . . yeah.” He handed her the flowers, but held onto the wine bottle.

Angela smiled and took a whiff of the flowers. “How’d you know I liked calla lilies?”

“I know a whole bunch of stuff about you,” Dre said, grinning. “But I got that info from your assistant.”

Angela’s smile widened. “You definitely get some extra points for that. I’ll go get a vase.”

He watched her turn and walk toward the kitchen, seemingly adding a little swish to her step. The back view was just as magnificent as the front. The girl’s definitely got body! Cornell is a fuckin’ idiot.

Dre followed her, no longer embarrassed about his very noticeable boner. When she bent down to open a cabinet beneath the sink, positioning her gorgeous ass high in the air, Dre lost it.

When Angela stood up, he was right there, almost on top of her. Dre placed the wine on the countertop, then took the flowers and vase and set them aside. He gripped both sides of her waist, and softly kissed her as he backed her into the narrow wall space between the stove and refrigerator. When his tongue traced Angela’s lips, he felt her whole body shiver.

“You have no idea how happy I am to finally be with you,” Dre mumbled.

“Is that right?” Angela moaned softly into his ear. “If we don’t stop, our dinner’s going to get cold.”

“I’m sure you got a microwave.”

Dre’s hands slid underneath her soft skirt and he gripped her ass, pulling her to him. She gasped with pleasure when he slid his hand between her wet thighs.

While his lips roamed everywhere, her lips, her cheeks, her neck, her breasts, Angela unbuttoned his shirt and explored his body with her hands. Dre unbuckled his pants and let them fall to the floor as Angela’s hands traveled down his body. Her fingers slipped into his boxers and grazed the tip of him, so lightly, so sensually that he almost screamed. They continued to squirm and thrash against each other, their kisses and moans and pants totally unrestrained.

Without warning, Angela’s moans abruptly stopped. Dre felt her hand flat on his chest, pushing him away.

What the—

Angela was saying something, but Dre’s head was all fogged up and she was panting so hard he couldn’t understand what she was saying.

“What’s the matter?” Dre felt like he’d just been doused with ice water.

“Condom.” Angela still found it hard to speak. “Did you . . . did you bring condoms?”

Dre pressed his hand flat against the wall behind her, then dumped his forehead on her shoulder. “Uh . . . yeah,” he said, “but I left ‘em in the car.”

She started to laugh and so did he. They stood there cracking up for several long minutes.

“Okay,” Angela said finally. “Let’s eat dinner first, then we can pick up where we left off. I made chicken lasagna. And it’s really good if I do say so myself.”

Dre stepped back, awkwardly pulled up his pants and rebuckled his belt. He didn’t bother to button his shirt. What he really wanted to do was run down to the car so they could finish what they had started. But he didn’t want to appear desperate. If she could wait, so could he.

“Here.” She thrust the wine bottle into his hand. “The corkscrew’s in the drawer next to the dishwasher.”

He opened the bottle as she took wineglasses from the cabinet. They finally sat down at a small table near the kitchen, facing each other.

Dre had not eaten since lunch, but he had no appetite. He put a forkful of lasagna into his mouth. “This is really good,” he said, barely tasting it.

“Thanks,” Angela said. “How was your day?”

“Fine. How was yours?”

“Not bad. I didn’t have any court appearances today, but tomorrow I—”

“Hold up,” Dre said, his frustration obvious. “I can’t do this. I can’t sit here and make small talk with you like this.” He put down his fork and stood up. “I’ve waited way too long to be with you and if I have to wait another minute, my balls are going to explode. I’m going to my car. And when I get back, be ready.”

Angela smiled and watched as Dre pulled his keys from his pocket. He was inches from the door when she stopped him.

“Hey,” she said, “do me a favor.”

What now? “Yeah?”

“Hurry up because I can hardly wait myself. Promise me you’ll run all the way to the car and all the way back.”

Dre grinned and grabbed the doorknob. “Baby, if I could fly there and back, I’d do it.”

Chapter 42

JON'S funeral, like most, was both sad and uplifting. Several attorneys recounted funny stories about him, most involving his love of cars. Angela shared how he ribbed her about being on Weight Watchers and praised him as one of her favorite case agents.

Jon’s death reenergized the Operation Buying Time task force. They had no solid evidence that Jon was the victim of foul play, but everyone on the team believed he was. They reported their suspicions to the D.A.’s office, but didn’t plan to sit on the sidelines. They would find Jon’s killer.

A few days after Jon’s funeral, Salina gave the team a report which contained a list of 53 clients whose insurance policies Waverly Sloan had brokered. It surprised Angela that half of the individuals were already dead and more than a third of those died only weeks after selling their policies. Ten of his clients suffered accidental deaths: six from car accidents, two in fires at their homes, one in a boating accident and one after being shot during a robbery.

Angela was glad that her other cases and the work on the task force kept her too busy to dwell on the state of her personal life. Her mother still wasn’t speaking to her after learning that she’d called off the wedding. Her sister, Jada, on the other hand, wanted to throw her a party. The first few days after she moved out, Cornell had called her almost every day insisting that they meet for dinner to talk. She finally stopped answering his calls and, to her relief, they abruptly stopped. At the moment, her relationship with Dre was the only thing in her life that felt right

Zack barged into her office without knocking. “Take a look at this.” He slapped a piece of paper on her desk.

Angela picked it up. “What’s this?”

“The second complaint filed with the Department of Insurance against Live Now. This woman claims her stepfather pressured her dying mother to sell her insurance policy, then killed her. And guess who brokered the deal?”

Angela grew excited. “Waverly Sloan?”

Zack nodded with glee.

Angela scanned the complaint. “Is she alleging that Waverly Sloan was in cahoots with the stepfather?”

“Nope. Sloan’s name is nowhere in there. According to the daughter, she was the sole beneficiary on the policy. Her stepfather got half the money she was supposed to get. If her mother hadn’t sold the policy, he wouldn’t have gotten a dime.”

“How much?”

“Two-fifty. The face value of the policy was half a million.”

“No wonder the daughter’s so pissed.”

Zack had an exuberant look on his face. “That’s not the most interesting part. Guess who the stepfather is?”

“Zack, how would I know that?”

“True. You’d never guess in a million years. Okay, it’s Lawrence Erickson.”

Angela’s forehead crinkled. “Who’s he?”

“The chairman of Jankowski, Parkins.”

Angela whistled. “The stepdaughter is accusing him of murder?”

“You got it.”

“Is there anything to it?”

“I’m not sure. My L.A.P.D. contact says the daughter’s a little whacko.”

“How’d the wife die?”

“She had pancreatic cancer. The daughter’s been demanding an autopsy. But, so far, there’s no indication there’s going to be one since she was under a doctor’s care and presumably died from cancer.” Zack’s eyes gleamed. “Do you know what going after a rich, powerful guy like Erickson could mean for our careers?”

“Why don’t we just focus on nailing Jon’s killer rather than a headline, okay?”

“We can do both,” Zack said. “By the way, I came up with the perfect name for my TV show. The Zack Attack. You like it?”

“Never mind that. Tell me more about Erickson’s stepdaughter.”

“Don’t know much yet. Except that she apparently despises the guy.”

“If that’s the case,” Angela said, “then I might question her motives more than his. What’s Erickson’s side of the story?”

“According to the daughter, Erickson claimed they sold the policy to pay for an experimental cancer treatment, but the wife decided not to do it. Neither the wife’s sister nor the daughter knew anything about it.”

Angela scanned the complaint again, then picked up the telephone.

“Who are you calling?” Zack asked.

“I think we should interview the daughter,” Angela said. “Since Waverly Sloan brokered her mother’s policy as well as Jon’s, she could be the key to helping us find out who killed him.”

Three hours later, Angela and Zack were sitting at a sandwich shop a few blocks from their office waiting for Lawrence Erickson’s stepdaughter to arrive.

A petite blonde with a fidgety look on her face entered the café and glanced around. Angela headed toward her. “Ashley?”

The woman acknowledged the greeting by walking over, but didn’t speak. She was dressed like a college student: faded blue jeans, white ducktail shirt, large red shoulder bag. She looked much younger than twenty-four.

“I’m Angela Evans and this is Zack Hargrove.” Angela led the way to their table. Ashley sat down across from them.

“Thanks for meeting us,” Angela began. “We—”

“Is somebody going to charge that asshole with murder?”

Angela gave Zack a quizzical look. “Any investigation into your mother’s death would be handled by the D.A.’s office. We’re with the U.S. Attorney’s Office. We’re looking into an insurance fraud scheme.”

Ashley scowled across the table. “Insurance fraud? But you said you wanted to talk to me about my mother’s death.”

“And we do,” Angela said hurriedly. “We have some questions about your mother’s decision to sell her insurance policy.”

“She didn’t make any decision. The asshole pressured her to do it so he could keep me from getting the insurance money.”

“Uh, are you referring to Lawrence Erickson?” Zack asked.

“Yes. The asshole. That’s what I call him because that’s what he is.”

Angela wasn’t sure what to think of the young woman. “We understand that your mother sold her policy to undergo an experimental cancer treatment.”

“Really? Then why didn’t she have it? And why didn’t she tell me or my aunt about it? You want to know why? Because the asshole made it up, that’s why. Selling the policy was the only way for him to get his hands on that insurance money.”

It crossed Angela’s mind that Ashley might be falsely accusing Erickson of murder to get back at him for cheating her out of the insurance.

“Do you know anything about Waverly Sloan, the broker who sold your mother’s policy?”

“I told you we knew nothing about her selling the policy until after she died. The asshole handled everything.”

“Your mother would’ve had to sign paperwork authorizing the sale.”

“And she probably did. The asshole could convince her to do anything.”

Zack rested an elbow on the small table. “May I ask why you seem to have such animosity for your stepfather?”

“Because he’s an asshole.”

“Can you be a little more specific?”

“I hated the way he controlled my mother. She did whatever he wanted. She sent me away to boarding school because that was what he thought was best.” Ashley slumped back in her chair. “I only got to come home for two weeks in the summer and a week at Christmas.”

Angela understood now why the D.A. had not followed up on her allegations. This girl had issues.

“Do you know if your stepfather knew Waverly Sloan before he sold your mother’s policy?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised. Maybe they had a deal to kill her and split the money. The asshole knows lots of people. I wouldn’t put something like that past him. You should look into that. My mother hasn’t even been dead a month and he’s already dating a woman half his age.” Ashley paused as if she had suddenly remembered something important. “I need to tell you about something he did right after my mother died.”

Both Zack and Angela leaned forward in anticipation. “He had the audacity to call me and ask me if I wanted the two-fifty. Can you believe that?”

There were two ways to look at that, Angela thought to herself. It was either the action of a guilty man or an innocent one.

“That’s how I know he did it. He’s trying to shut me up. But I told him to keep the money because he’s going to need it to buy stuff at the prison commissary.”

Angela and Zack asked a few more questions, then headed back to the office.

“So, what do you think?” Angela said to Zack, as they strolled up Spring Street. “Ashley didn’t have a shred of evidence to support her allegations against Erickson.”

Zack shrugged. “That doesn’t mean he didn’t kill his wife.”

“True,” Angela said. “There’s somebody else I think we should talk to.”

Zack turned to face her. “Who?”

“Waverly Sloan.”

Chapter 43

“YOU won’t believe this!” Erickson barreled into Becker’s office.

“Believe what?” Becker looked up from his computer screen.

“I just got a call from the White House. Segobia is out and I’m in!”

Becker sprang out of his chair. “What? I thought Segobia’s Senate confirmation hearing was supposed to start tomorrow.”

“It seems there was a legal matter she neglected to disclose. She pulled some strings to help her nephew beat a drunk driving charge several years ago. I’m taking a red-eye to Washington tonight. They’re announcing me as the new nominee tomorrow morning.”

Becker rounded his desk and hugged his friend. “This is terrific!”

“You still coming with me?” Erickson asked.

He paused. “Of course,” he said slowly. “But there’s something you need to know. You better have a seat.”

Becker walked over to close the door, then fell into the chair behind his desk.

Erickson was still on his feet. “What’s going on?”

“Live Now and Waverly Sloan are under investigation for fraud.”

Erickson drew a blank.

“That’s the company and the broker who sold Claire’s insurance policy.”

“Okay,” Erickson said, finally lowering himself into one of the upholstered chairs in front of Becker’s desk. “And why is that a problem for me?”

“There’s a task force out of the U.S. Attorney’s Office here in L.A. Two prosecutors—two pretty sharp prosecutors from what I understand—have been looking into the company, Waverly Sloan in particular. Live Now is linked to another company that’s under investigation in three other states for fraud.”

“You didn’t check the guy out before you referred him?” There was incredulity in Erickson’s voice.

Becker raised his hands in defense. “He was recommended by an excellent probate lawyer I’ve known for years. There was absolutely no reason to think he wasn’t legit.”

Erickson rubbed his forehead. “Is there anything else?”

“They think he’s involved in a scam to buy policies and kill off the clients before their time.”

“What!” Erickson exploded. “I’ll never be confirmed if I’m linked to a scandal like that. That buys right into Ashley’s allegations. Is it true?”

“My contact hasn’t confirmed it one way or the other. A case agent working with the two assistant U.S. attorneys was posing undercover as a terminally ill policyholder. Waverly Sloan brokered his policy. He died the same day he picked up his check in a suspicious car accident. The prosecutors think he was murdered.”

“Is Sloan murdering his clients or not?” Erickson demanded.

“I don’t know for sure yet.”

“Well, you damn well better find out! I figured the only problem I’d have would be putting a lid on Ashley. But now this!”

“Just calm down. I’m doing everything in my power to keep this under wraps.” He opened a side drawer and pulled out a folder. He took passport-size pictures from a folder. One showed a young white man, the other an attractive black woman.

“I was planning to share this with you later today. Zack Hargrove and Angela Evans are running the task force. It’s called Operation Buying Time.”

“Do they know Sloan brokered Claire’s policy?”

“I’m not sure yet.”

“If they don’t already know, we need to find a way to keep them from making the connection.”

“I’m way ahead of you. The sooner you get confirmed, the sooner we’ll have the authority to shut down their task force,” Becker said.

“Oh, that’s certainly a bright idea,” Erickson scoffed. “I don’t want another Alberto Gonzales scandal the day after I take office. If we shut down their task force, they’ll run straight to the media.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll come up with something. Frankly, I think Sloan’s involvement might actually work to our advantage.”

“How in the hell can you say that?”

Becker’s phone rang. He pulled it out and smiled. “It’s Kaylee, she—”

“That can wait,” Erickson said sharply.

“Oh, of course.” Becker set the phone on his desk. “Think about it. If Sloan is running the kind of scam they think he is, regardless of what the autopsy shows, we might be able to pin Claire’s death on him.”

Regardless of what the autopsy shows? “Exactly what is the autopsy going to show? Exactly how did you—”

“We agreed never to talk about it again, remember?” Becker said sternly. “We got lucky. Let’s just leave it at that.”

Becker’s words didn’t make sense. Got lucky? What in the hell did that mean? “So, the autopsy’s not going to turn up anything?”

Becker’s face now displayed more confusion than Erickson’s. “Not unless you know something that I don’t know.”

The two men bounced blank looks at each other.

Erickson wondered if he was missing something. It was almost as if Becker was using some secret language that Erickson hadn’t quite mastered.

“The White House plans to move quickly with my confirmation,” Erickson said. “It’s imperative that we keep a wrap on all of this.”

“I think we can,” Becker said. “In the meantime, I’m going to personally talk to Ashley.”

“That’s a good idea,” Erickson said, standing. “We both have a lot to lose if you can’t convince her to shut her trap.”

A baffled look returned to Becker’s face. “Trust me,” he said, his voice full of assurance. “I’ll take care of everything.”

Chapter 44

WAVERLY was at his desk reviewing a new application when the receptionist called to tell him he had two visitors who refused to give their names.

He thumbed through his desk calendar and saw nothing scheduled. He had no idea what was up, but headed to the reception area to find out.

“I think it’s best if we speak in private,” the woman said, pulling him off to the side, away from the receptionist’s desk. “I’m Angela Evans and this is Zack Hargrove. We’re with the U.S. Attorney’s Office.” She flashed her credentials and extended her hand. “We’d like to talk with you.”

“About what?”

“Like I said, I think it would be best if we spoke in private. Why don’t we go to your office?”

Waverly hesitated, then led the way back to his office.

“What can I do for you?” he asked, the second they were seated. He did not like the way the fair-haired prick in the fancy suit was boldly inspecting his office.

“We’re conducting an investigation into a complaint about a viatical settlement agreement you brokered,” Angela began. “The client was Claire Erickson.”

Waverly began to fidget with a paper clip, but dropped it when Zack seemed to take notice.

“A complaint? About what?” Waverly wanted a drink, but now was not the time to pull a flask from his desk drawer.

“We think Ms. Erickson’s death may have been premature,” she continued.

Waverly chuckled. “I don’t mean to sound crass, but all of my clients’ deaths are premature. Claire Erickson had pancreatic cancer and a life expectancy of less than six months. That’s the only reason I was able to sell her policy.”

“You’ve brokered fifty-three policies in just a few months. More than half of those clients are already dead.”

That number surprised him. He didn’t keep a running count of his clients who died. “You seem to be missing the point,” Waverly said. “That’s pretty much the way it’s supposed to work.”

“But they died much sooner than their estimated life expectancy and way too many died as a result of accidents,” Angela said.

Waverly tried not to squirm in his chair. “No one can predict life expectancy with any certainty,” he replied. “And you could walk out of my office right now and get hit by a bus. Accidents happen.”

“Is that something you and your investors can arrange?” Zack asked.

The hard-charging woman prosecutor was bad enough, but Waverly definitely didn’t like her little sidekick. “Hold on a minute.” He rocked back in his chair. “Sounds like you’re accusing me of knocking off my clients. Do I need an attorney?”

“You tell us,” Zack said.

“No,” Waverly snapped, “you tell me. Are you here because you think I had something to do with Mrs. Erickson’s death?”

Zack made a teepee with his fingers. “That’s one possibility we’re looking into.”

Waverly felt his armpits dampen. At least they weren’t asking about Jerry Billington. After Rico’s call demanding his money, he had searched the Internet for word of Billington’s death. When he found none, he feared Rico may have been responsible for killing him. How else would he have known about the accident? But Rico had no connection to Claire Erickson. Waverly had brokered her policy before Rico came on the scene.

Waverly calmly stood up. “This meeting is over. You apparently haven’t done your homework. I’d have absolutely no motive for killing my clients. My fee comes off the top. It doesn’t matter to me if they die tomorrow or a year from now. I don’t make a dime more or a dime less.”

Zack and Angela remained seated. “Maybe it enhances your clout with your investors when you can produce a faster return on their investment,” Zack charged.

“This is crazy. You can’t come in here and accuse me of something like this. Like I said, this meeting is over.”

Angela finally rose. “Would you be willing to turn over your records to assist in our investigation?”

“There’s nothing in my records that would either prove or disprove your ludicrous allegations. But no, you can’t go through my records. Not without a search warrant. My files contain confidential medical information and my clients value their privacy.”

“Can you tell us who purchased Mrs. Erickson’s policy?” Angela asked.

“No, I can’t.” Waverly wanted them out of his office. “Am I officially under investigation?”

“No,” Zack said. He’d still made no move to get up. “Not officially. We have one other client to ask you about. Jerry Billington.”

Waverly audibly gulped.

“We understand that he died the same day he picked up his check from your office,” Zack continued.

“Mr. Billington died in a car accident when his car went off a rain slicked street,” Waverly replied. “Like I said, accidents happen every day.”

“Just seems a little strange, if you ask me. He picks up his check, and a few hours later, he’s dead.” Zack finally stood up. “I wonder how that will play to a jury?”

Angela placed a hand on the doorknob. “We’ve instructed his insurance company to freeze the payout on the policy until we’ve completed our investigation.”

“And that could be some time,” Zack added.

Waverly felt his lungs expand. “Exactly how much time is some time?”

“Several months,” said Angela.

“Maybe even years.” Zack pulled an envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket and placed it on Waverly’s desk. “Oh, and by the way, here’s an order freezing your bank accounts.”

“My accounts! Why?”

“We suspect that they contain funds which are the proceeds of an illegal operation,” Zack explained.

“Apparently, you two came here for the sole purpose of trying to intimidate me,” Waverly charged. “Well, it’s not going to work.”

“No, Mr. Sloan, we just wanted to make you aware of our investigation.”

“What you’re doing isn’t fair to me or my investor,” Waverly said. “If there’s going to be a problem with Mr. Billington’s policy, we can just cancel the viatical settlement and have his estate return the money.”

“Sorry, but it doesn’t work like that,” Angela replied.

Rico would kill him for sure. Waverly had promised him a payment in two weeks, simply to stop his increasing threats. “I gave Billington one hundred and fifty grand.”

“If our investigation determines that your business is on the up and up, your investor will get what he’s owed.”

Waverly could not hide his alarm. “This is blackmail. You can’t keep the money and block the payout!”

Angela finally pulled the door open. “I’m afraid we can.”

Part Four

A Done Deal

Chapter 45

IF nothing else, Waverly was certainly a creature of habit. When a problem cropped up that he couldn’t resolve, he resorted to his typical M.O. He ignored it.

Two days after the visit from the two assistant U.S. attorneys, Waverly surprised Deidra with a trip to Maui. While Deidra shopped, he snorkeled and overdosed on shrimp, lobster and booze. During the eight days they were there, Waverly pretended as if his problems didn’t exist. He even turned off his BlackBerry and didn’t check his messages the entire trip.

It was just after six on Monday morning and Waverly sat on the veranda of his fabulous home, gazing out at the ocean, sipping coffee brewed by an expensive contraption set on a timer. It was finally time for Waverly to face his reality. Their last night in Maui, he dreamed that the two federal prosecutors showed up at LAX and carted him off to jail, while Deidra screamed expletives at him.

Waverly tried to apply logic to his situation. If his clients really were being murdered, there was no way he could be linked to their deaths because he hadn’t killed anyone. In just a matter of months in the viatical business, he’d made over five hundred thousand dollars in commissions. Was the gravy train about to end?

Although the U.S. Attorney’s Office had frozen his bank accounts, Waverly had a large amount of cash at his disposal. He had close to fifty thousand dollars hidden around the house, and almost as much stashed in safe-deposit boxes at three different banks under a different name. He could survive for several months, but only if they significantly downsized.

Waverly walked back inside and watched a few minutes of the local news on the small flat screen in the kitchen. He was relieved when he didn’t see a story about the deaths of Claire Erickson or Jerry Billington. What did surprise him was the announcement that Lawrence Erickson had been confirmed as Attorney General of the United States. What the hell? The White House obviously didn’t know those two prosecutors were looking into Claire Erickson’s death.

Once the news finally registered, he began to view Erickson’s appointment as a positive. The new Justice Department chief could not afford to be linked to a scandal like this. He was now one of the most powerful lawyers in the country and the boss of those two arrogant AUSAs. Erickson would squelch their investigation the second he got wind of it. He would have to if he wanted to keep his job.

Feeling hopeful for the first time in days, he headed for the front door to retrieve the morning paper. The minute he bent down to pick it up, the L.A. Times’ headline blared out at him.

Disbarred Attorney Gets Rich Off The Dying.

Waverly stood there on the porch in his half-open, cashmere robe gazing at the newspaper in disbelief, his own smiling face staring back at him. That bitch! Jill Kerr had screwed him royally.

The article wasn’t about the viatical business or about Live Now. The story was all about him. It went into extensive detail about the facts that led to his disbarment. The reporter basically painted him as a greedy, unethical crook. Why was everybody persecuting him for a legitimate business that actually helped people?

The paragraph stating that a number of his clients had died accidentally, shortly after selling their policies, disturbed him the most. While the reporter didn’t say so, she insinuated that there may have been something suspicious about the circumstances of their deaths. She might as well have said he had murdered them.

Waverly walked back inside, trembling with rage. He marched over to the telephone to call The Times. This was defamation and he was going to sue. Then he froze. Deidra would see this story. She would know he’d been disbarred.

Deidra sauntered up behind him. Waverly flinched.

“You okay?” she asked. “You look like you just saw a ghost.”

He quickly tucked the newspaper underneath his arm. He leaned down to kiss her, glad to have a wife who never bothered with things like current affairs, politics or newspapers.

“I think I’d like some breakfast this morning. How about pancakes?” He needed to keep her busy.

“You got it,” Deidra said. Until the excitement from their trip wore off, she’d do anything he asked. He’d let her spend so much money in Maui that she even treated him to a blowjob the night before they left. Maybe he should send her off shopping right now.

His in-laws! Leon Barrett would see the newspaper and would be calling any minute. He rushed into the bedroom and took the phone off the hook. He found Deidra’s cell phone on the nightstand, turned it off and slid it underneath the bed.

Walking back into the kitchen, Waverly snapped his fingers as he pretended to read a message on his BlackBerry. “I forgot about a meeting I have this morning. Never mind about the pancakes.”

Deidra started to protest, but he walked past her into the bedroom and started to dress.

He had to get out of the house before Deidra found out about the article. He didn’t have much time. If Leon Barrett couldn’t reach his daughter by phone to deliver the news, he’d drive over.

Waverly knew he was taking the cowardly way out, but he couldn’t face her. Not now.

Chapter 46

ANGELA was reading The Times article about Waverly Sloan when Zack walked into her office.

“Why do you look like the unhappiest guy on earth?” Angela asked.

“Because I am,” Zack replied. “Guess you haven’t heard?”

“Heard what?”

“You should read your email more often. Operation Buying Time is about to be no more.”

Angela was about to turn to her computer screen, when Zack placed a piece of paper on her desk.

“I printed out a copy for you. Read it and weep.” The email was from Roland Becker, the new Deputy Attorney General.

Angela quickly read the email.

“He’s shutting down several task forces nationwide,” Zack said. “And ours is one of them.”

“What? Erickson just got confirmed and this is his first priority? Why is he doing this?”

“Supposedly due to lack of funding.”

Angela’s eyes met Zack’s. “This is crap. Today’s L.A. Times article about Waverly Sloan proves that we’re on the right track, but somebody wants us off the trail. Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“I’m way ahead of you,” Zack replied. “I did some checking. Becker and Erickson were both partners at Jankowski, Parkins. Some people say they’re closer than brothers. I think they know we’re about to link Erickson to his wife’s death and they can’t let that happen. It would have looked strange if they’d only shut down our investigation. Becker is pulling the plug on several others to make it look legit.”

Angela read the email again. “Maybe we’re reading too much into this. According to this email, it’s only a temporary shutdown until Becker can conduct a review.”

“I don’t buy it,” Zack said. “You’ll note that the three other viatical investigations aren’t on the list. What do you want to bet ours will be the only one shut down?”

The phone on Angela’s desk rang. Zack waited as Angela took the call.

“Barnes wants to see both of us. Right now.” Todd Barnes was the Chief of the Major Frauds Section. Angela stood up and slipped into her jacket.

“What does he want?” Zack asked.

“He didn’t say. But it sounds urgent.”

Angela followed Zack out of her office and down the hall to Barnes’ office.

“Close the door,” Barnes ordered when they stepped inside, “and have a seat.”

Barnes was heavyset and wore wire-rimmed glasses and plaid shirts. He always seemed as if his mind was someplace else. “I need you to prepare a memo summarizing the status of Operation Buying Time. I’m sure you saw that email from our new deputy AG. He’s in town and wants to meet the two of you.”

Angela and Zack traded glances. They’d never met with Justice Department brass at Becker’s level before.

“When?” Angela asked. “And why?”

“Three o’clock in the twelfth floor conference room,” Barnes said. “Make sure your memo really pumps up your case. He’ll probably use it as a basis for deciding whether to shut it down permanently.”

“Is Becker meeting with anyone else while he’s here?” Zack asked.

Barnes nodded. “He’s also talking to three other teams.”

“I really hope we don’t get shut down,” Angela said. “I think we could be close to figuring out who killed Jon.”

“I’m afraid your task force is probably at the top of his list. The viatical investigations in the other states already have enough evidence for indictments. The charges against The Tustin Group in those cases will still reach the people involved with Live Now. Anything you get would be icing on the cake.”

Angela and Zack had advised Barnes that they thought Waverly Sloan might be killing his clients, including Jon, but they had decided not to disclose Lawrence Erickson’s tie to Sloan or their suspicions that Erickson may’ve had something to do with wife’s death. They had feared that an attorney with Erickson’s kind of connections could easily find a way to squelch their investigation. Apparently, that was about to happen.

“Were you invited to the meeting?” Zack asked.

“Nope. I offered to tag along,” Barnes said, “but I was politely told that wasn’t necessary.”

Zack and Angela left Barnes’ office and finished the memo with time to spare. They waited in the conference room for nearly twenty minutes before Becker arrived.

“Sorry I’m late.” Becker gave each of them a firm handshake. “It’s been a busy few days. I’ve been meeting with AUSAs all over the country. Tomorrow I leave for Chicago.” He took a seat on one side of the conference table with Zack and Angela facing him.

“Here’s the summary you wanted.” Zack slid the document across the table.

“Great.” Becker took several minutes to read it. “First, let me apologize. I know how much work you’ve put into this investigation and I hate to kibosh it. But funds are tight. Why don’t you tell me a little more about it.”

Normally, Zack would have jumped at an opportunity like this. He looked over at Angela and waited. Neither wanted to start. Something told Angela they were on target about Erickson. Becker was simply fishing around to find out how much they knew. Well, he wasn’t going to reel in a big one today.

Angela finally responded. “As you probably know, indictments are forthcoming against Live Now’s parent company in Nevada, New York and Florida. We suspect that the same fraudulent activities going on in the other states—pressuring dying policyholders to sell—is happening here.”

Becker glanced down at their report again. “Have you found any evidence that the company is doing the same thing here?” The memo failed to mention that Jon hadn’t been pressured by Waverly Sloan.

“Our investigation is just beginning,” Zack said. “We lost our lead case agent. He died in a car accident, but we think he may’ve been murdered as a direct result of his undercover work on this task force.”

“Really? Is the D.A.’s office looking into it?”

“Yes,” Zack said, leaving it at that.

Angela could tell from Becker’s expression that they weren’t scoring any points.

“What can you tell me about—” Becker paused to peruse the memo. “What’s the company’s name again?”

“Live Now,” Zack offered.

“Yes. Have you found any evidence that anyone connected with the company is actually knocking off their policyholders?”

“Not yet,” Angela said. “We’ve been looking at one of their brokers.”

Becker tilted his head to the left and cracked his neck. “What’s his name?”

“Waverly Sloan.”

“Got anything on him yet?”

Angela crossed and uncrossed her legs. “No, not yet.” She didn’t want to have to explain that Jon hadn’t even been pressured to sell his policy.

“Have you identified any other clients besides your case agent and the four people listed in your memo who you think died under suspicious circumstances?”

They had intentionally excluded Claire Erickson’s name from the memo. When Angela didn’t respond, Zack expertly avoided answering the question like the skilled politician he might one day become.

“The D.A.’s office may have some additional victims. A high number of Waverly Sloan’s clients died in accidents, rather than from their illnesses. Too many to dismiss as a coincidence.”

“I agree,” Becker said. “But is there any hard evidence pointing to foul play?”

“We’re still looking into it,” Angela said again.

Becker folded his arms. “As you know, we’re under serious budget constraints. It sounds like the other states already have enough to nail these guys. And if these deaths do turn out to be murders, that’s not our jurisdiction.”

“Does that mean our investigation is history?” Zack asked.

Becker smiled. “I haven’t made any final decisions yet. Give me a chance to speak with all the teams.”

“How long will that take?” Angela asked.

Becker shrugged noncommittally. “A few weeks at the most.” He leaned forward and planted his forearms on the table. “For the time being, your operation is on hold. That means no further investigation. Thanks for meeting with me on such short notice.”

Zack and Angela silently made their way out of the room and down a long hallway. They didn’t speak until they were behind closed doors in Angela’s office.

“Did you think Becker was selling us as much bull as I thought he was?” Zack asked.

“Yep,” Angela said. “I would have to agree with you.”

“Then I guess our task force is probably a done deal.”

“No way,” Angela replied. “I want to nail Jon’s killer. If it means I have to do it on my own time, so be it.”

Chapter 47

“I'M in trouble. Big trouble.”

Waverly peered across the table at Vincent, who bounced a blank look back at him.

“I’m listening, man. I’m here. What’s going on?”

After ducking out on Deidra and spending a couple of frantic hours at his office, Waverly asked Vincent to meet him for a drink.

Waverly decided to just put everything on the table. “I’ve been selling a few policies using dirty money.”

Vincent looked utterly confused. “And why in the hell would you do that?”

“I had no choice.”

“We always have choices, man. You might not like them, but you definitely have them.”

Vincent took a sip of his Coke. “Tell me exactly what’s going on. You’ve been raking in mountains of dough. Why would you risk your license by doing something like that?”

Waverly stared down at his drink so he wouldn’t have to meet Vincent’s disapproving gaze. He started with the day he found his brother in his office garage, lying on the ground like a bloody rag doll. When he recounted his first call from Rico, he had hoped to see compassion in Vincent’s eyes. But he only detected shock.

“Why didn’t you call me then?” Vincent asked.

“For what? They threatened my wife. There was nothing you could do about it.”

“And exactly what do you think I can do for you now?”

Waverly did not like the condemnation in Vincent’s tone. But he was right. He wasn’t sure why he’d called him. Probably because there was no one else to call.

He hesitated, afraid that if he spoke what was in his head, it just might make it true. But he needed a sounding board.

“I think this guy Rico may have murdered one or more of the clients he bought policies on.”

Vincent’s body lurched backwards and he gripped the edge of the table. “Man, that’s a hell of an accusation. And if it’s true, it puts you in a very bad place. It also puts me and Live Now in a very bad place.”

Waverly didn’t respond.

“What makes you think this guy is killing your clients?”

“He called me right after Jon Billington died, asking for his money. How would he even know the guy was dead if he didn’t have anything to do with it?”

“You gave the guy the name of the policyholder?”

Waverly looked down at his hands. “I had to.”

Vincent shook his head in disbelief. “But you have no real proof that the guy killed him, do you?”

“Sometimes you just know,” Waverly said. “And a few days ago—” He paused, wondering if he should just keep this to himself. “Two prosecutors with the U.S. Attorney’s Office dropped in on me.”

“For what?”

“They asked me a bunch of questions about the policies I brokered. They insinuated that my clients were dying prematurely and that maybe I had something to do with it. Today’s story in the L.A. Times certainly doesn’t help.”

“L.A. Times? What story?”

Waverly opened his briefcase, pulled out the newspaper and slapped it on the table in front of him. He waited while Vincent read it. The only good thing about it was that Jill Kerr did not mention Jerry Billington or Claire Erickson by name. If she’d had any information about his link to Erickson, Waverly figured she would have used it.

Twice, Vincent stopped reading and glanced up at him with astonishment in his eyes. He finally put the newspaper down and pushed his Coke aside. “I need a real drink.” He hailed down the waitress and ordered a vodka twist.

“Live Now is mentioned all through this article. We need to contact Bellamy and Cartwright and let them know what’s going on,” Vincent said. “The fallout could seriously hurt the company. I’m surprised they haven’t already called you. And when you do talk to them, just make sure you tell them I had nothing to do with this.”

Waverly didn’t know why he had expected any help from Vincent. “What should I do?” he asked, simply to kill the silence.

“I would’ve advised you to go to the police, but in light of this whole money laundering scam you’re tied up in, you’d be asking for some guaranteed jail time. And by the way, if your bribe to the Department of Insurance comes to light, leave me out of it.”

Waverly chuckled. Vincent fronted the money and paid the bribe, but now it was his bribe.

Vincent looked at him and Waverly read the lack of sympathy in his eyes. His expression communicated that greedy people got what they deserved.

But this wasn’t about greed. He wouldn’t be in this predicament if it hadn’t been for the threat to his family. His actions were dictated by fear, not greed. There had been no other option.

But now, he had to find one.

Chapter 48

ANGELA eyed the clock on the dashboard of her Saab. She was meeting Dre for drinks at The Dynasty Restaurant & Lounge in Inglewood and she was fifteen minutes late. She had to circle the block three times before finally spotting an open parking meter around the corner on Hillcrest.

When she stepped inside the club, she spotted Dre sitting at a table behind the dance floor. He leaned over the railing and waved her over.

“You look mighty good all suited up,” Dre said when she reached his table.

“Sorry, I’m late,” Angela said, breathless.

“Calm down, baby. You ain’t late. Why you stressin’?” He stood up, kissed her on the lips, then pulled out the chair next to him.

Angela immediately relaxed. Cornell would’ve been lecturing her about the importance of timeliness by now. Dre just looked happy to see her.

“What do you want to drink?” he asked.

“Apple martini.”

“They make a bomb caramel apple martini here. Wanna try it?”

“Sure.” Angela gazed around the club. “This is where you hang out, huh?”

“Yep. The music is slammin’ and the fried chicken is better than my Mama’s. But don’t tell her.”

Angela laughed and took the paper napkin underneath Dre’s wineglass to wipe the lipstick mark she had left on his lips. A worried expression suddenly distorted Dre’s face.

“Shit!” he whispered.

Angela looked over her shoulder in the direction of Dre’s gaze, but couldn’t see what or who he was staring at. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing. Just somebody I really don’t wanna see.”

She could feel Dre’s body grow taut and wondered what was going on. Before she could ask again, Angela saw what had attracted his attention.

A shapely, dark-skinned woman of medium height was prancing toward their table. The look on Dre’s face had now changed from frustration to embarrassment.

The woman boldly pulled out a chair and took a seat across from them. “Hey, Dre, how you doin’?”

“Nobody invited you to sit down,” Dre said.

“Don’t worry,” the woman said, “I ain’t stayin’. I just came to say hey.”

She had a long, reddish-brown weave streaked with blonde. Her hoop earrings were the size of lunch meat and her sheer lace top left nothing to the imagination. Her gold, spandex skirt barely covered her gargantuan ass.

“Aren’t you going to introduce me?” The woman looked Angela up and down.

Dre’s jaw hardened. “It’s a weeknight. Why aren’t you home with Little Dre?”

The woman put a hand on her hip and tossed a handful of hair over her shoulder. “Oh, so you can hang out during the week, but I can’t?”

“I asked you who’s taking care of my son?” Dre demanded.

“He’s at my sister’s, okay? Stop being rude and introduce me to your little friend.”

Dre’s eyes narrowed. “Angela, this is Sheila. My son’s mother. Good-bye, Sheila.”

“If I hadn’t seen y’all lockin’ lips a second ago, I woulda thought you were his lawyer or something. Is that how y’all hooked up?”

Dre stood up. “I need to talk to you outside.”

Sheila ignored him and directed the conversation to Angela.

“If y’all gon’ be an item, you’ll probably be hanging out with my son. So, we need to get to know each other.”

“Oh, hell naw!” Dre gripped Sheila’s upper arm and pulled her to her feet. “We need to step outside and talk.”

“Why we can’t talk in front of your little friend?”

“Don’t make me cause a scene up in here,” Dre threatened.

With Dre’s help, Sheila grudgingly rose from the chair.

“Do Ms. Prim and Proper know what you do?” Sheila asked, as Dre dragged her way.

Angela watched them weave their way through the packed club and out of the door. She pretended not to notice the curious gazes from other people in the club who had watched Dre leave with Sheila. It was another ten minutes before they walked back through the door and headed in opposite directions.

“Sorry about that,” Dre said, returning to his seat. His face still had a stern expression. “Now, where were we?” He tried to take Angela’s hand, but she folded her arms across her chest.

“What was that all about?” Angela asked.

“Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”

“Excuse me? I think you owe me more of an explanation than that.”

Dre exhaled. “Hey, I’m sorry. I just got a little baby mama drama going on.” He leaned over and kissed her, but Angela did not reciprocate. “She’s just trying to cause me problems, which she’s pretty damn good at. I swear she’s crazy.”

“She’s the mother of your son. She must not be too crazy.”

“Sheila was never my woman, okay? You have nothing to be jealous about.”

“Who said I was jealous?” Angela replied. “I’m not even sure I can compete. I see you like your women a little rough around the edges.”

Dre appeared genuinely embarrassed. “Let’s just call it a lapse of judgment on my part. I just got caught up.”

“What’d you do, take her outside and scold her?”

“Basically. I kick her down with way more child support than she needs to take care of my son and I’ve also agreed to pay her rent until Dre either graduates from high school or comes to live with me. She knows I ain’t about to stand for no ghetto girl crap.”

The pout still hadn’t left Angela’s face.

“C’mon, babe, forget about her.” He kissed her on the neck.

Angela still wasn’t satisfied. “What did she mean when she asked if I know what you do?” Angela asked, mimicking Sheila’s voice.

Dre stiffened. “Uh, let’s just say I wasn’t always the goodie two shoes that I am today.”

“Oh, so you used to be a bad boy?” she asked, her tone finally playful.

“You might say that.” He kissed her again and this time, she kissed him back.

Just when she was beginning to relax, Angela followed Dre’s gaze across the room. Sheila was sitting at the bar shooting him a nasty look.

“Sheila definitely doesn’t look too happy. Are you two really done?”

“Completely. Ignore her ass. She’s crazy.”

“That’s fine,” Angela said, turning back to him. “As long as she don’t get crazy with me.”

Chapter 49

IT was after nine o’clock at night and Waverly had just circled the block—his own block—for the third time.

He finally pulled over to the curb several houses away. While he’d been running away from his problems all of his life, there was one person he had to face. His wife deserved better. She’d left three voicemail messages on his BlackBerry that he’d been too much of a coward to even open.

Waverly wished he’d kept a change of clothes at the office as he had in the old days when he never knew when a last minute court appearance might be necessary. His shirt was wrinkled and he reeked of sweat and brandy. This wasn’t how he wanted to make his plea. Maybe he could slip in and clean himself up before facing Deidra.

He had no idea what he was going to say. He turned the key in the ignition and drove slowly toward the home that had brought him so much joy. When he was two houses away, he pounded the steering wheel in frustration.

“Damn!”

Leon Barrett’s Lincoln was now parked out front. He drove into the driveway and turned off the engine, but did not get out.

Waverly wanted to have a private conversation with his wife. Her father’s presence would ruin things. He hoped her mother and sister weren’t there, too.

Just as he climbed out of the car, the front door opened and Leon marched down the walkway as if this were his domain.

“I didn’t think you’d show up this soon,” Leon said, his hands gripping his waist. “You really surprised me.”

Waverly walked past him as if he had not been standing there. Deidra’s mother stood in the living room. She didn’t say a word, but the disappointment in her eyes didn’t require words.

“Where’s Deidra?”

He followed Myrtle Barrett’s eyes down the hallway.

He saw Deidra standing halfway out of the bedroom. She looked almost as frazzled as he was. Her hair was a mess, her eyes were red and she had a tattered tissue in her hand. He half hoped she would run into his arms, but she didn’t move.

Leon marched in and blocked his view of Deidra. “Let’s hear it. I can’t imagine what you could say to account for all the lies. But let’s hear it anyway.”

Even at a distance, Waverly could see the hope in Deidra’s eyes. She wanted him to say something to make this all disappear. But there were no words that would accomplish that.

“I want to talk to my wife,” Waverly said. “Alone.”

“We’re not going anywhere. Whatever you have to say to Deidra, you can say to us, too. Though I doubt your lies will be worth listening to. You were disbarred and you never even told your wife? You’re really a piece of work.”

Waverly wanted to slam him out of the way, something he could accomplish with a single sweep of his hand. “Leon, this is between me and my wife.”

“Oh, the hell it is. I—”

Deidra crept further into the hallway. “Daddy, can you please give us a minute. Just go in the family room, okay?”

Leon stood his ground, fixing Waverly with a hateful stare. Then he turned and stalked off. Deidra’s mother dutifully followed.

Waverly hurried toward Deidra. He now regretted the long length of the hallways. Two people didn’t need a house this big. As he reached out for her, she shrank away.

“You need to explain,” she said, her lips quivering with either anger or sorrow, maybe both.

She turned and led the way into the bedroom.

Deidra sat down on the edge of the bed and stared up at him looking very much like a small child. “Is it true? Were you disbarred?”

Waverly wished there was some lawyerly explanation he could offer. Something that was the truth, but not quite the truth. “Yes,” he said.

“And you couldn’t tell me?”

“I wanted to. But I didn’t want to disappoint you.”

“So, you never planned to tell me?”

No, not if I could help it. “I couldn’t face letting you down.”

She wiped a tear with the shredded tissue. Waverly had never seen her in such a distraught state.

“And your new business,” she nearly spat out the words. “You’re making money off of dying people?”

“It’s not the way that reporter made it sound. I’m really helping people. People who need money in their dying days.” His words sounded too much like a pitch to an investor.

She stared up at him with disgust, and for the first time, he saw her father’s daughter.

He was about to speak, when Deidra stood up, her eyes boring into his. “Are you killing people? Is that how we’re able to live in this house? Because you’re killing people?”

“Hell, no!” Waverly nearly shouted as if a louder response might be more convincing. “That’s a complete lie!”

“The L.A. Times isn’t the National Enquirer. Why would the reporter say that then?”

“She didn’t say it. She implied it.”

“And it’s not true?”

“No.”

He tried to reach for her again, but she pushed him away. “We aren’t going to lose this house are we?” She was suddenly dry-eyed and angry. “Do you have any idea how embarrassing this is for me? I’m never going to be able to face my friends again.”

Now, Waverly grew pissed. “Yes, Deidra, it is always about you, isn’t it?”

“Don’t you dare put this on me!” she said angrily. “I want you out of here. You have thirty minutes to pack your bags.”

Waverly chuckled. “You watch too many Lifetime movies. You’re not kicking me out of my own house. I pay the bills here, remember? You want to leave, fine. Just make sure you take your parents with you.”

Waverly walked past her into the bathroom and turned on the shower.

Ten minutes later, feeling clean and refreshed, Waverly lay back in bed, his fingers hooked behind his head as Deidra stormed around the bedroom, throwing clothes into a suitcase. He thought about asking her not to leave, but actually wanted to be alone.

Longing for a drink, he jumped up from the bed and walked into the family room. He ignored his in-laws sitting on the couch and grabbed a fifth of brandy from the shelf behind the bar and poured himself two shots.

Leon stalked up to him. “You’re a disgrace. How dare you—”

“Deidra’s packing,” Waverly said, taking a swallow. “I’ll tell her you’re waiting for her in the car. Now, get the fuck out of my house.”

Leon’s face darkened. The body language of both men signaled the approach of a physical altercation.

Myrtle grabbed her husband’s forearm. “Leon, let’s go wait in the car. They can work this out without our help.”

Leon, his fists balled at his sides, continued to sneer at Waverly for several seconds.

“C’mon, Myrtle,” he said to his wife. “Didn’t I tell you this guy was up to no good? I knew it the minute I laid eyes on him. But nobody ever listens to me.” He led the way out of the room, slamming the front door on his way out.

Waverly drained the rest of his drink and refilled the glass. He heard Deidra coming out of the bedroom and rushed back to meet her. She was pulling a large suitcase on rollers with one hand, while struggling to hold onto an overstuffed duffel bag with the other.

“You need help with that?” he asked, reaching for the duffel bag.

Deidra sneered at him. “I can manage.”

Waverly threw up his hands. “Okay, fine then.”

He stepped aside and Deidra walked out of the front door without another word.

Peering out of the bay window, he watched as Deidra climbed into the backseat of her father’s Lincoln. He felt a pang of regret for the pain and turmoil he had caused her and wondered if he’d be able to fix things between them.

As he headed back to the bar for another refill, he focused on the bright side. At least he hadn’t wasted his money buying her that S Class.

Chapter 50

ANGELA lay in bed watching Dre sleep. She turned on her side, her head propped up by her hand and began gently twirling Dre’s chest hairs between two fingers.

He opened his eyes, then smiled. “What time is it?”

“Almost seven.”

Dre yawned. “How would you like it if you woke up and found me playing with your chest?”

Angela laughed. “I might actually like it.” She continued her exploration, fingering a tattoo near his left shoulder. “Does getting a tattoo hurt?”

“Naw,” Dre said. “Not if you’re a real man.” He flexed his arms and his pecs hardened then moved up and down.

She laughed. “Show off.” She fingered a faded symbol on his bicep. “What’s this supposed to be?”

“An owl, but the guy screwed it up.”

“Why an owl?”

“It symbolizes wisdom.”

Angela ran her finger to the left side of his chest. “This one’s an anchor, right?”

“Yeah,” Dre said.

“And the symbolism?”

“It’s important to keep your feet on the ground. No matter how good life gets or how screwed up things are, you have to stay anchored.”

“Wow, you are so deep,” she said facetiously.

“Thank you.” Dre smiled. “I try to be.”

“So who’s L.D.?” She pointed to the letters stenciled on his upper right shoulder.

“Little Dre, my son.” He turned on his side and faced her. “How many tattoos you got?” He lifted the blanket and started running his hands over her naked body.

“Stop,” Angela said, laughing. “I’m really ticklish.” She squirmed away and climbed on top of him, sitting up.

“I don’t have any tattoos, but I was thinking about putting your name right here.” Angela pointed to her left breast.

“You always got jokes this early in the morning?”

“Yep.”

Dre pulled her to him and kissed her. “I really like kickin’ it with you.”

“Ditto,” Angela replied. “I feel like playing hooky today. Let’s go to a movie.”

“No way,” Dre said. “You’re not gonna blame me when you get fired.”

“I have loads of vacation time. Let’s just hang out today. What do you have planned?”

“I’m rehabbing a property on Western. They’re almost done with the kitchen. I want you to come over and check it out when it’s finished. I’m hoping I can put it on the market in another month.” He gave her a pensive look.

“Got something on your mind?” Angela asked.

Dre’s eyes held hers. “Yeah, I do.”

“Okay,” she said, surprised at his sudden seriousness. “I’m listening.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

“Really? So, tell me.”

“I will,” Dre said. “When the time is right.”

“How come you can’t just tell me—”

A loud knock boomed from the living room.

Angela’s face clouded. “Somebody obviously has the wrong apartment. The only person who knows I live here is my sister. And she never gets up this early.”

The knock suddenly turned into pounding and whoever it was started leaning on the doorbell. “Angela, open the door! We need to talk!”

Angela jumped out of bed and scrambled into her robe. “I don’t believe this!”

“Is that the judge dude?” Dre asked, sitting up.

Angela huffed. “I’m afraid so.”

Dre snatched his jeans from the chair next to the bed and stepped into them.

“No, Dre, just stay here. I don’t want a scene. I’m not even going to open the door. Maybe he’ll just go away.”

They waited, but the pounding only grew louder.

“Angela, please open the door!” Cornell sobbed. “I need to talk to you. I love you.” He was obviously drunk.

Dre zipped up his jeans. “You need to let me deal with dude.”

“No!” Angela said. “I’ll handle it.” She stepped into her house shoes and tied her robe. “Please stay here. I don’t want him to know I’m seeing anybody.”

Dre started to protest, but Angela held up both hands. “Let me handle this my way, okay?”

Closing the bedroom door behind her, Angela marched into the living room. She had never told Dre that Cornell attacked her the night she broke off the engagement. Her sister had wanted to go back and confront him. Maybe if she had, Cornell would’ve gotten the message.

“What are you doing here, Cornell?” Angela said through the closed door.

“I need to talk to you,” he cried. “Please open the door, Angela. I just want to talk to you.”

“I’m not opening the door. Please leave.”

“Open the goddamn door!” Cornell kicked it hard, causing Angela to jump back in alarm.

“If you don’t leave, I’m calling the police!” she yelled.

“You have to talk to me. You have to give me another chance. Please, I love you.”

“I’ll talk to you,” Angela said. “But not here. Not now. Leave or I’m calling the police.”

She peered through the peephole and could see that Cornell was red-eyed and unshaven, wearing a rumpled suit that looked as if he’d slept in it. He had the same crazed look in his eyes that she’d seen the night of Jon’s death. Even with Dre in the next room and a heavy wooden door between them, she did not feel safe.

Cornell kicked the door again and Angela thought she heard one of the hinges crack.

She took a step back and bumped into a bare-chested Dre. Before she could stop him, he reached over her shoulder and snatched open the door.

Shock, followed by rage, spread across Cornell’s sullen face.

“Dude, you need to back off,” Dre said. “She told you it’s over. You need to step.”

Cornell stood frozen for several seconds, apparently shocked into speechlessness. He lost his footing and stumbled back against the wall.

Dre waited a few seconds, them slammed the door in his face.

Angela covered her mouth with both hands. “You shouldn’t have done that. You just made everything worse. No telling what he’s going to do now!”

“He ain’t doing shit ‘cuz he’s a punk.”

“You don’t know Cornell. He doesn’t like to lose.”

“Well, he’s definitely lost you, so he just needs to get used to it.”

“I really wish you hadn’t done that,” Angela cried. “This just creates a whole new set of problems.”

Dre pulled her to him. “Babe, you don’t have a thing to worry about. Just trust me. I got this.”

Chapter 51

BECKER took a few seconds to rehearse everything in his head before picking up the telephone. He hoped his call to Waverly Sloan turned out better than his attempt to talk some sense into Ashley. Becker couldn’t believe it when the little brat hung up in his face.

When Sloan came on the line, Becker thought the man’s voice might have been slurred. He did not want to converse with a drunk. He wanted Sloan fully cognizant of everything he was about to say.

“I’m calling on behalf of U.S. Attorney General Lawrence Erickson,” he began. He did not plan to give his name as they might have to later deny that the call ever took place.

“What? You got a complaint, too?” Waverly slurred.

Becker paused. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Join the crowd. It’s Jump on Waverly Sloan Day.”

Becker was disappointed. The guy was obviously bombed. The conversation would not go according to plan.

“I’m calling because Mr. Erickson is very disturbed that your activities could create some unwelcome fallout for him. When he hired you to broker his wife’s policy, he had no idea about your criminal activities. I understand that you’re under investigation for fraud and, possibly, murder. The things we’ve been reading about you are quite troubling.”

“Whatever.”

“Mr. Sloan, you need to listen to me and listen to me very carefully. If you had anything to do with the death of Mr. Erickson’s wife, you’re going to pay.”

Becker’s words seemed to rally Waverly out of his drunken stupor.

“What did you say?” Waverly’s voice sounded much clearer now.

“I’m sure you heard me correctly.”

There was a long patch of silence.

“You think I killed Mrs. Erickson, too? Is everybody crazy?”

Too? “And who else thinks you murdered her?”

“Two prosecutors from the U.S. Attorney’s Office came to my office without even making an appointment. They implied that since I brokered Mrs. Erickson’s policy, I had something to do with her death.”

Damn! So, Hargrove and Evans had made the link to Erickson. The fact that they’d withheld that information was quite problematic.

“And exactly how do they think you killed her?”

“Hell if I know.”

“Sounds like you’re in quite a bit of trouble,” Becker said. “I suggest you go out and hire a good lawyer.”

“What’s wrong with everybody? That woman was dying. All of my clients were dying. I had no motive for killing her or anybody else.”

“That L.A. Times article certainly implied otherwise. And I’ve heard other disturbing information about you.”

“Like what?”

“I didn’t call to answer your questions, Mr. Sloan. I called to deliver a message. You will not get away with this.”

Becker hung up the telephone. His sole intent in making the call was to put the fear of God into the man. But Becker wasn’t sure he’d accomplished his goal. His initial research on Waverly Sloan made him an unlikely murderer. He was a small-time ambulance chaser who’d never made much of a splash in the legal profession. Early in his career, he had achieved a few victories at trial, but in recent years, Sloan had settled half of his cases and lost the rest.

Though Becker was presenting a calm front for Erickson’s sake, Ashley’s accusations were slowly gaining traction. The fact that they could not be proven did not matter. If the media picked up the story—true or false—Erickson would be ruined. So far, nothing but luck had kept the story out of the media.

Becker was trying to do everything in his power to keep a lid on the situation, but frankly, he no longer believed that he could.

Chapter 52

ANGELA was now paying for lounging in bed with Dre for two mornings in a row. It was after ten by the time she had made it to work that morning.  Now, eight hours later, she had little to show for her time.

Rocking back in her chair, she closed her eyes as a big smile lit up her face. Lately, she was spending way too much time daydreaming about Dre. It was nice being with someone who liked to laugh and didn’t take life so seriously. He called her during the day just because and they made love morning and night.

Cornell had not called since his confrontation with Dre earlier in the week. Angela felt guilty for calling off the wedding and blamed herself for not ending it sooner. She really wished that Cornell hadn’t found out that she was already seeing someone else. But there was nothing she could do about that now.

Angela turned off her computer and started packing up to go home. She leaned down and retrieved her purse from the bottom drawer of her desk. When she sat back up, the blood drained from her face.

Cornell was standing just inside the doorway, one hand behind his back.

Oh, my God! Her first thought was that Cornell was holding a gun behind his back. Then she remembered the metal detectors at the entrance of the building. He wouldn’t have been able to sneak a gun inside the courthouse. But he could still have some other kind of weapon.

He stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

“I don’t want to talk to you.” Angela was scared out of her mind, but tried not to show it. “You need to leave. Now.”

Cornell’s eyes were red and he looked tired, but he didn’t appear to be drunk.

“What are you trying to do to me?” Cornell asked.

Angela had a question of her own that required an answer. “Why are you holding your hands behind your back?”

He took several wide steps toward her.

“Remember this?” He held a colorful wooden carving high in the air. “I bought it for you on our trip to Kenya. You left a lot of stuff behind, like that ring that cost me twenty grand. I figured you’d at least want this.” He slammed down the carving on the corner of her desk.

The fact that he no longer had a weapon did not reduce the level of her fear. “Thanks, but I don’t think you should be here. I was just about to leave.”

“Good. I’ll walk you to your car.”

“No!” She caught herself. She had to play it cool. “You don’t need to do that. Just leave, Cornell. Please.”

“After more than three years together, we can’t even have a civil conversation?”

“We can talk later.” She had to get him out of her office. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Oh, now you’ll call me? I’ve been calling you since you walked out on me, but you’ve refused to answer my calls. Guess you’ve been too busy screwing that thug with all the tattoos.”

Angela took a step closer to the phone. “If you don’t leave, I’m calling security.”

Cornell picked up the carving and slammed it down again. “What kind of head games are you trying to play with me? You embarrass me like this and expect me to sit back and take it?”

Angela now saw the same crazed look in Cornell’s eyes that she’d seen the night he attacked her after she called off the wedding. If she could just make it to the hallway, she could alert someone.

“I’m not trying to embarrass you. Nobody knows why we cancelled the wedding. Just tell people whatever you want and I’ll go along with it.”

Cornell stepped around the desk, blocking her path. “You will not embarrass me.”

Angela boldly stood her ground. “This is the last time I’m saying this. If you don’t leave, I’m calling security.”

Cornell chuckled. “You probably couldn’t even find a security guard around this place. If I wanted to, I could strangle you before they got their lazy asses up here. Why are you so anxious to leave anyway? You have to run home and fuck that thug? Why are you lowering yourself with a guy like that?”

“I’m leaving.”

When she attempted to walk around him, he made a fist and punched her in the jaw.

Angela screamed out in pain and made a dash for the telephone receiver, but Cornell snatched it from her hand and grabbed her by the neck with both hands.

“You bitch!” he yelled as his fingers tightened around her neck. “You will not disrespect me!”

Angela tugged at his wrists and tried to scream, but no words came out. The harder she tried to pry his hands loose, the tighter he squeezed. She spotted the wood carving on the corner of the desk and scooped it up. She swung wildly, aiming for Cornell’s head, but the sculpture slipped from her hand.

Fearing that she was about to die, she reached down, grabbed a handful of Cornell’s crotch and squeezed as hard as she could.

Cornell yelped in pain and immediately released her neck, but Angela only squeezed harder. He doubled over and tried to speak, but the hold she had on his groin had effectively severed his vocal chords.

Angela finally released him and dashed for the door.

“You bitch!” Cornell finally sputtered.

Angela reached the door just as it opened.

“What’s going on in here?” It was one of the maintenance men. “Ma’am, are you okay?”

Angela rubbed her throat, her body still trembling.

“Ma’am, did he hurt you? Is everything okay?”

Cornell quickly composed himself and smiled at the man, an older African-American. “Everything is just fine,” Cornell said. “We just had a little lovers’ quarrel. I’m Judge Cornell Waters. This is my fiancé.” He pointed across the room. “There’s a picture of us right there on her desk.”

The man glanced at the photograph, then turned to Angela for confirmation. He gently gripped Angela’s shoulder. “Are you okay, ma’am? Did he hurt you?”

Angela could not stop shaking. She stared into Cornell’s frighteningly hateful eyes. “No,” she said. “I’m . . . I’m fine.”

“I guess I’ll be leaving, then,” Cornell said, smiling at her. “I’ll call you later tonight.”

He walked out and the maintenance man started to leave as well.

“No, please wait!” Angela called after him. “Can you walk me to my car?”

Chapter 53

THE report that Becker had received about Angela Evans and Zack Hargrove pissed him off. Contrary to his directive, Operation Buying Time was still up and running—just off the clock. That news required an immediate return trip to the U.S. Attorney’s Office in L.A.

That the two AUSAs were continuing to investigate Waverly Sloan was no real surprise. They were convinced that the death of their friend and case agent was no accident and they wanted someone to pay. Normally, Becker respected people who had principles and stood by them. These days, he didn’t come across many people who were willing to risk their careers for something they believed in. If this had been a different case, their actions would have been admirable.

So far, it did not appear that they had discovered anything earth-shattering, but the fact that they were still prying around and asking about Erickson was reason for concern. His contact at the D.A.’s office reported that Angela Evans had been calling around trying to find out if an autopsy would be performed on Claire Erickson. Zack Hargrove had even tried to interview Claire’s sister, Sophia, but thankfully, she refused to speak to him. The most disturbing information was that Ashley had met with both of them.

He glanced at his watch. Zack Hargrove was set to join him in the conference room at the Spring Street courthouse in another ten minutes. Becker was about to put a well-orchestrated plan into action. Divide and conquer was one of the most important rules of war. If you kept your enemies busy fighting each other, they wouldn’t have the time or energy to focus on fighting you.

When Zack walked in, he displayed the outward appearance of a cool, collected young man. But Becker detected a jittery edge underneath his designer suit.

“This may come as a surprise to you, but I’ve been making some calls,” Becker began. “Some calls about you.” In situations like this, it was a mistake to waste time beating around the bush. It was best to go straight for the jugular. Neutralize your attacker on the first stroke. He’d learned that as a Navy SEAL.

Zack shifted in his seat.

“And the reports I got back contained words like relentless, bright, tenacious. Those are all the kinds of things you want in a prosecutor.” He paused, noticing that Zack had immediately warmed to the praise. “But you also want someone who knows how to follow orders.”

Becker watched as Zack laced his fingers. Probably to keep them from shaking.

“From what I can tell, you fit all of those qualifications as well. That’s why Erickson and I want you to join us in Washington. We want you on our team at the Justice Department.”

It seemed to take a few seconds for his words to register.

“The job we have in mind is media liaison,” Becker continued. “You’d be the Attorney General’s primary contact with the media. The current person in that position isn’t an attorney. I think that’s a mistake. The Bancroft administration plans to take a strong stance on several controversial matters. I want someone who understands the law acting as our spokesperson. The job is going to take you out of the courtroom, but someone with your talent can hop back in whenever you choose with no problem. So, what do you think?”

Becker already knew the guy’s answer. He’d heard that Zack was dying to be a talking head. This job was the perfect stepping stone.

“I’m really flattered,” Zack finally uttered.

“Does that mean you want the job?” He wanted to keep the pressure on. “You’re my top candidate. As you know, the Department is still trying to regroup from the Harris scandal. I can’t give you any time to mull it over. If you want the job, I need to know right now. And by the way, there’s a significant increase in pay.”

Zack flashed a camera-ready smile. “Of course, I want it.”

Becker stood up, walked around the conference table and extended his hand. “Welcome to the team.”

He placed an arm across Zack’s shoulders and escorted him to the elevators. “You’re going to love it in Washington. It’s an exciting city. Much more intellectual than L.A. Is there somebody special in your life?”

“No,” Zack said, still tongue-tied.

“Well, you’ll have your pick of nice young women in Washington.

As he watched the elevator doors close, a smile crept across Becker’s face. “One down, one to go.”

Zack Hargrove was an easy fix. Angela Evans would be a much harder case. Based on the reports he’d received, she was hardworking, ethical and damn sharp. She wouldn’t be so quick to sell out.

If Becker couldn’t get her off Erickson’s trail the easy way, he’d just have to play hardball.

Chapter 54

TWO days after the threatening call from Lawrence Erickson’s henchman, Waverly decided that he couldn’t just sit back and wait for his situation to resolve itself. He needed a plan.

Appealing to Vincent certainly hadn’t done him any good. Vincent had seemed more concerned about making sure he wasn’t dragged into Waverly’s mess than offering any solutions.

Following the release of the L.A. Times story, Waverly had been ignoring the calls from Live Now. He finally decided that it was time to face them.

“Have a seat,” Cartwright said, when Waverly walked into the spacious suite at the downtown Hilton Hotel. Since they didn’t maintain an office in L.A., their meetings were always held in hotels.

“Coffee?” Cartwright asked tightly.

Waverly eyed the mini-bar. Actually, he wanted a drink. “Sure,” he said, then walked over to a counter and poured himself a cup. “Is Bellamy joining us?”

Just then, Bellamy, the CEO, entered the room toting two files under his right arm. His expression was even more grim than Cartwright’s.

“We got a call from a federal prosecutor by the name of Angela Evans,” Cartwright began, once they were seated. “It seems the Attorney General’s Office is investigating you, which means they’re investigating us. And that’s not something we’re happy about.  You need to tell us exactly what’s going on.”

“They seem to think that some of my clients,” Waverly paused, “our clients, expired sooner than they should have. Which is crazy. Those folks were terminally ill. They were supposed to die.”

“Are you saying this is some kind of witch hunt on the part of the Attorney General’s office and there’s nothing to it?”

“Precisely,” Waverly replied. He wondered how much they knew. Vincent had agreed not to share any information with them about Rico, but Waverly didn’t expect him to keep his word.

Bellamy slid a folder with Billington’s name on it across the table. “This is one of the insureds that prosecutor asked us about. What’s his story?”

“He died in a car accident.”‘

“Then why do they think you’re responsible?” Bellamy asked.

“I have no idea.”

Cartwright seemed anxious to resume control of the interrogation. “I understand you also put this company at risk by laundering drug money,” he charged.

Damn that Vincent. “You’ve apparently talked to Vincent, so you know why I did what I did. I was placed in a situation where I had no other choice.”

“Just how do you plan to fix this?” Bellamy asked.

“I need a little time to work some things out.”

“We’re not going to let your greed take this company down,” Cartwright shouted. “We had nothing to do with any of this and that’s exactly what we told the authorities.”

“Calm down,” Bellamy said to his partner. He turned back to Waverly. “I don’t know what’s going on and I don’t really care, but you better fix it. And fast. If you need to cut yourself a deal, then do that. Just make sure this company doesn’t get snared in your trap.”

Waverly stood up. “I’ll come up with something,” he said, more to himself.

“There’s probably no need to even say this,” Cartwright said as Waverly reached the door, “but you no longer work for this company.”

Waverly headed back to his car and had just put the key in the ignition when his BlackBerry chirped. He pulled it from his pocket, glanced at the display and saw that it was a blocked call. Rico.

He was about to ignore it, but was suddenly feeling bold, so he answered the call. “Hey, amigo.”

“Where you been?” Rico’s hostility seeped through the phone lines.

“Last minute vacation.”

“That was a nice article in The Times.”

“Glad you liked it.”

“Looks like you’re in quite a bit of trouble.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

“Well, I’m calling to find out about my money,” Rico said. “When do I get my three hundred grand?”

“It’s going to take a little longer than I thought.”

There was a long gap of silence. “And why is that?”

“The feds have instructed the insurance company not to pay out on the policy until the investigation into Billington’s death is finished.”

“And exactly what are the feds investigating?”

“I don’t know. I was hoping you could tell me.”

“Okay, then give me back the money I gave that guy, including the cut you got.”

Waverly hung his head. “Billington cashed that check before he died. There’s no way to get the money back.”

“Then it looks like you’re going to have to give me my money out of your own pocket.”

“I wish I could,” Waverly said, actually meaning it. If he could give Rico back every dime, he would. “They tied up all my accounts. I don’t have three hundred grand at my disposal.”

“That’s not my problem,” Rico said. “I’m not in the business of charity work.”

“Like I said, until this investigation—”

“No,” Rico shouted. “It ain’t like you said. It’s like I say. You get me my money. I’m giving you one week. Otherwise, you or your brother or your wife, or maybe all three of you, will pay the price. And that’s a promise.”

Waverly held the BlackBerry to his ear for several more seconds before finally hanging up.

For some reason, he didn’t feel the fear that Rico’s threat was intended to generate. He was in so deep that he almost welcomed a threat against his life to put him out of his misery.

He pulled out of the parking stall and headed for the closest bar.

When life got rough, getting blasted always seemed like the right thing to do.

Chapter 55

ANGELA zoomed down the Harbor Freeway, intermittently sucking in long, deep gulps of air in an effort to calm herself. Her hands clutched the steering wheel so tightly, she finally had to let go so blood could start circulating again.

Her anxiety level receded when she finally spotted her apartment building. As she drove into the underground garage, the angst returned. What if Cornell had followed her home? She pulled her Saab into her parking stall, but could not bring herself to turn off the engine. She double-checked the door locks, then surveyed the area. She didn’t see anything suspicious, but was still too afraid to leave the car.

She put the car in reverse and drove to her sister’s apartment in nearby Fox Hills.

When Jada opened the door, Angela crumpled into her arms.

“Oh, my God!” Jada screamed. “Why is your face swollen? What happened?”

“Cornell came to my office. He punched me in the face and tried to strangle me, but this maintenance guy—”

Before Angela could say more, the doorbell rang.

“That’s probably Dre,” Angela sniffed. “I asked him to meet me here.”

Jada led Angela over to the couch, then went to the door. “You must be Dre,” she said, giving him a once over. “I’ve been dying to meet the brother bad enough to steal my sister away from Cornell, but not under these circumstances.”

Dre stepped inside. “Is Angela okay?”

Jada glanced over her shoulder in Angela’s direction. “No, she’s not.”

Dre hurried over, but froze when he was only inches away. He stared down at her bruised and bloated face, then pulled her into his arms.

“Dude put his hands on you?” There was bewilderment in his voice.

Angela nodded and gripped him tighter.

“You need to call the police on his ass,” Jada said. “Don’t let him get away with it this time.”

“This time?” Dre glanced at Jada, then turned back to Angela. “Dude put his hands on you before?”

“Yep.” Jada handed Angela an ice pack. “The night she told him she was calling off the engagement.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Anger flooded Dre’s face.

“Because this is my problem and I want to handle it my way.”

“You call this handling it?” Dre was practically shouting.

Angela pulled away from him, sat back down on the couch and pressed the ice pack to her face. “Cornell is a judge. If I report him, his career will be over.”

Jada threw up her hands. “That asshole tried to strangle you and you’re concerned about his career? I’m calling the police right now.”

“Screw the police,” Dre said. “I’ll handle it.”

“No!” Angela said insistently. “I know you’re both concerned about me, but let me try it my way first. I’m going to call Cornell’s best friend. He’ll talk to him. If that doesn’t work, then I’ll go to the police.”

“Come here.” Jada grabbed Angela’s hand, pulled her up from the couch and led her down the hallway to the bathroom. She flipped on the light and positioned Angela in front of the mirror. “Take a look at your face.”

Angela gasped. The severity of her bruises shocked her. The left side of her face was twice its normal size. A purple patch had already formed underneath her eye. She had several red welts on her neck. Dre stood in the doorway. Her eyes met his in the mirror. He was obviously upset that she hadn’t confided in him.

Jada spun her around and hugged her. “Have you forgotten about all those domestic abuse cases you handled when you were a D.A.? If a man hits you once, he’ll hit you again. How many times did you tell me that?”

Angela brushed past both of them and returned to the couch.

“I have something I want to give you,” Jada said. “I’ll be right back.” She dashed out of the apartment.

When Jada returned minutes later, she placed a small black pouch on the coffee table in front of Angela.

Angela stared at it in confusion. “What’s that?”

“A Smith & Wesson thirty-eight,” Jada said rather calmly. “If you’re not going to report Cornell or even get a restraining order, you at least have to protect yourself.”

“A gun! Are you nuts? When did you even get a gun?”

“I’ve had it for years. I keep it under the seat in my car. I take it with me into the shop every morning and I put it back every evening. Too many beauty shops in L.A. have gotten robbed. I’m not about to be a victim. And before you ask, yes it’s registered and I also took classes at the shooting range so I know how to use it. And I didn’t tell you or Mama because I didn’t want to hear any flack.”

“Get that thing away from me,” Angela cried. “If Cornell bothers me again, I promise I’ll get a restraining order.”

“Screw that,” Dre said. “You need a gun and a restraining order.”

Jada sat down next to Angela and took her hand. “Dre is right. How many women have you seen on the news who died holding restraining orders in their hands? A piece of paper won’t stop a crazy man.”

“No! I’m not going to—”

“You’re a prosecutor,” Jada said, cutting her off. “You could probably get permission to carry a concealed weapon.”

“Not without explaining why I wanted it.”

Dre reached down and squeezed Angela’s shoulder. “I really think you should take the gun. Dude came at you twice already. No telling what he’s going to do next.”

Angela stared up at Dre, then turned to her sister. “It’s not that simple. You just don’t walk into court and walk out with a restraining order. If I report him, it’s not just a matter of Cornell being kicked off the bench. This whole thing will go public because it involves a judge and a prosecutor. He’ll definitely fight it, which means he’ll make counter accusations and create a whole lot of drama. I don’t want to escalate it to that level if I can help it. I know him. He’s not himself right now. He just needs some time for the breakup to sink in.”

“Well, it better sink in fast,” Jada said. “Because if he brings his behind over here, he’s gonna get a bullet in his ass.”

“I want you to stay with me until this blows over,” Dre said.

“No, I’m going to stay here. If Cornell thought I was living with you, that would really set him off.”

This time Dre erupted. “I don’t give a shit about setting him off! You can’t let that dude run your life!”

Angela leaned forward and pressed both hands to her cheeks. “You guys have to let me handle this my way. If Cornell’s friend can’t get him to back off, I promise I’ll go to the police. But I’m not taking that gun.”

Chapter 56

BECKER raised his champagne glass high in the air. “Let me be the first to officially congratulate our esteemed chairman, Lawrence Adolphus Erickson, and wish him well. Give ‘em hell in Washington, big guy!”

The conference room on the twenty-fifth floor of Jankowski, Parkins broke into loud applause. The belated going away party had been Becker’s idea. The place was packed with lawyers, law firm clients and a few local politicians. Everybody in the room was now anxious to rub shoulders with a man who was on a first-name basis with the President of the United States.

Becker stepped aside so Erickson could have center stage. “Alright, alright,” he said, taking the microphone. “This is not a permanent good-bye. President Bancroft has just over three years left in his second term. So, I’m only taking a short leave of absence. And mark my words, if I don’t get my office back, I’m suing everybody in here.”

The room vibrated with laughter.

“What my colleague neglected to mention is that I corralled him to come along with me,” Erickson continued. “I’m really a novice in the world of politics so, thank God, I’ll have Roland Becker watching my back. This is the most loyal guy I know.”

Erickson threw an arm around Becker’s shoulders, which started another round of applause.

After Erickson thanked practically everyone in the firm, Becker found his way to the back of the room. He still had misgivings about the move to D.C. He wanted to run the firm, not be second-in-command at the Justice Department in a lame duck administration. But Erickson was right. When he returned from D.C., he’d be in an even better position to take over the firm because of his political connections.

Becker watched the long line of people waiting to personally congratulate Erickson. Since their arrival in Washington, it was much the same. All the attention was focused on Erickson. Being Deputy AG was almost like being a first-year associate. He was too old to be holding someone else’s briefcase. But he had already accepted the job, so there was no backing out now.

“Why the sad face?” Tom Franklin, one of his law partners, sidled up beside him and slapped him on the back. “You having regrets about leaving us?”

Becker grinned. “Not at all. I’m pretty excited about the venture,” he said, always willing to put on the right face.

“Man, who are you kidding?” Franklin raised his wineglass to his lips. “You aren’t going to see any real action. Erickson’s going to be front and center and you’re going to be stuck in the background doing paperwork. I couldn’t believe you took the job. I heard you’ll barely be making two hundred grand. I wish I had friends as loyal as you.”

Becker didn’t respond because he wasn’t quite sure what to say. He mustered up a stiff smile and walked out of the room. He had just opened the door to the men’s room when he heard words that stopped him in his tracks.

“Becker has no idea that Erickson is royally screwing him over.” Becker recognized the speaker’s voice. It was Max Ito, a senior associate who regularly worked on Becker’s cases. “Wilson told me that when the Management Committee met to discuss Erickson’s successor, they wanted Becker, but Erickson told ‘em he needed him in Washington.”

“That’s really messed up,” the other man said. Becker did not recognize the other man’s voice. “Erickson acts like he can’t take a piss without having Becker around to unzip his pants.”

“Erickson actually told ‘em to take Becker’s name off the list,” Ito continued. “Said he didn’t have what it takes. Becker’s spent the last twenty years kissing Erickson’s ass. You’d think he’d support him. Can you believe that shit?”

The other man chuckled. “I can believe it. The moral of that story is, don’t trust anybody around here with your career because everybody is out for themselves.”

Becker took a step back, allowing the door to quietly close. He practically stumbled down the corridor, blinded by rage. He couldn’t believe Erickson would betray him. Not after everything he’d risked for him.

He looked up to see the slightly intoxicated Attorney General approach from the other end of the floor.

“Ready for a fun ride, old buddy?” Erickson asked, throwing an arm around Becker’s shoulders. “We’re going to make a great team in Washington.”

Anger swirled deep in Becker’s gut, but somehow he managed to summon up a phony smile. Erickson hugged him so close that Becker could almost taste the scotch on his breath.

“Yeah,” Becker said, finally pulling away, “we’re definitely going to be quite a team.”

Chapter 57

WAVERLY finally made the decision to call his former attorney. Maybe Mancuso could use her contacts to find out exactly what might be in store for him. Did the two prosecutors have any real evidence that his clients had been murdered or were they just trying to scare him?

Waverly arrived at Mancuso’s swank office an hour after making the call. She sat there, statue-like in her pink sweater as Waverly recounted the details of what had led him into the viatical business. He even disclosed his forced business arrangement with Rico and Goldman Investments and the money laundering that followed. He left out the part about the bribe that got him his viatical license.

Mancuso actually whistled when he was done. “This sounds like something out of a movie.”

“Well, maybe when this is all over you can negotiate the movie deal for me. Right now, I need more than just legal advice. You have a reputation for having behind-the-scenes connections. I need you to use your resources to find out what’s going on.”

Mancuso was a rich lawyer precisely because she was a smart lawyer. Her first question was the most obvious one. “You were disbarred. How’d you get a viatical license?”

Waverly looked down at his hands and fingered his wedding ring. “We paid a bribe to somebody at the Department of Insurance.”

Mancuso rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. He thought she was about to start lecturing him and, if she did, he planned to get up and walk out.

“I’ll see what I can find out,” she said after a long silence. “But I’m not sure I can be of much help. You don’t have anything to bargain with. Any deal I might be able to make would require you to lead the police to this Rico person, but you’ve never even met the guy.”

Waverly began to wonder if reaching out to her had been a mistake. He didn’t need someone to tell him he was screwed. He already knew that. At least this conversation, unlike the ones with Vincent and the Live Now executives, was protected by the attorney-client privilege.

“If I were you,” Mancuso said, “I’d put a kibosh on brokering any more deals. The feds are probably watching you.”

Tell me something I don’t know.

“I’ll make some calls,” Mancuso said halfheartedly. “See what I can find out.”

“Thanks.” Waverly stood up.

“I’ll need a retainer,” she said.

Waverly sighed. “How much?”

“I’ll cut you some slack since you’re in a pinch. Thirty thousand should cover things for the time being.”

That’s what you call slack? Waverly pulled out his checkbook, wrote in the amount and handed it to her. Too bad it was going to bounce.

He drove home to his big empty house and headed straight for the liquor cabinet. Out of brandy, he turned to scotch. In no time, he’d fallen asleep on the couch in the family room.

When he woke up early the next morning, he realized that the five-thousand dollar couch their interior designer had picked out was not intended for sleeping. His back felt like he’d been lugging around a slab of cement.

He sat up and tried to check the time on his watch. It took several seconds for his eyes to focus. It was much earlier than he’d expected, just after four in the morning. He turned on a lamp and looked around for the scotch bottle. He found it underneath the couch. Empty.

After laying around for another hour or so, some internal force kicked in that told him this situation could not be handled like the rest his life. This time, he would have to be the one to make things right.

Despite what many people thought, for the most part, the legal system worked. Sure, there were those occasional 60 Minutes stories about some innocent guy who served half his life in prison for a crime he didn’t commit. But those cases were the exception. Prisons were packed with people because they were guilty and that’s exactly where they needed to be.

Waverly wasn’t guilty of anything except wanting to protect his family. He certainly had nothing to do with the deaths of Claire Erickson or Jerry Billington or anybody else. He would go to the police and tell them that. Justice would prevail. Why was he even worrying? So what if he laundered a little money. He did it under duress. He would tell the police everything he knew about Rico and cut a deal that would keep him out of prison.

Waverly hobbled over to his kitchen drawer, found a notepad and pen, then stumbled back to the couch. He would analyze his situation like the real lawyer that he used to be. Screw Mancuso and her thirty-thousand-dollar retainer.

He drew a line down the middle of the page and wrote pro at the top of one column and con at the top of the other.

He considered the prosecution angle first. It was always best to know where your opponent was coming from. In the worst case scenario, what were his crimes? Okay, money laundering was probably the one crime he couldn’t deny.

He would have duress as a defense which might buy him

some sympathy with a jury. No, there would be no jury. He could not, would not, put his life in the hands of twelve incompetent strangers with their own agendas and motivations. If he couldn’t cut a deal, he’d waive his right to a jury and take his chances with a judge.

Maybe he could keep himself out of prison by turning state’s evidence against Rico and whoever else was involved. The most serious crime he might face would be accessory to murder if Rico had indeed killed Jerry Billington or anyone else. Another investor had purchased Claire Erickson’s policy, so those prosecutors would have a hard time connecting Rico or Waverly to her murder. If she even was murdered. A competent prosecutor, however, could easily use circumstantial evidence to make it appear that Rico and Waverly had been working together.

Waverly stared at the notepad, then tossed it onto the coffee table. This was a useless exercise. He wished he had something to drink. He would wait to hear what Mancuso found out, provided she wasn’t too pissed off about his check bouncing. He just hoped she could help him cut a deal. They always wanted the big fish, not the little guy.

But Waverly also knew that prosecutors liked making examples out of lawyers. A lawyer gone bad deserved what he got. The L.A. Times article proved that. They would make him the poster child for corrupt lawyers.

Waverly closed his eyes and tried to think. The ringing of his BlackBerry startled him. He pressed ignore and it stopped ringing. He did not want to hear another threat from Rico. Whether he produced the money or not, he was probably next on Rico’s hit list.

In the meantime, he had to protect his family. He would call Quincy and tell him to disappear until all of this was over. First, he needed to let Deidra know that her life was also in danger.

When Waverly dialed her cell phone, she picked up in a half-slumber.

“Deidra?” The timidity in his voice sounded foreign even to him. He should just demand that she come home. She had taken an oath to stick with him for better or worse, richer or poorer. She owed him loyalty more than anything else. He’d done all of this, mistakes and all, for her.

“Deidra, are you there?”

“What do you want?”

Waverly did not sense the same hostility he’d felt when she walked out, which gave him hope. “You okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“Deidra, I—”

“I don’t want to talk to you, and I’m not coming home. So, don’t ask.”

“I’m not asking you to come home,” Waverly said. “I’m calling to tell you that you’re not safe. Your parents either.”

Deidra started to whimper. “I’m not going into hiding because of something you did.”

“Listen to me. This is serious. Whoever is killing my clients might come after you and your parents to get back at me. Do you understand me? You can’t stay in town.”

Waverly heard a soft cry of alarm.

“I want all of you, Rachel too, to take a long vacation. Just for a few weeks until I can figure something out.”

Chapter 58

ANGELA took three days off after Cornell attacked her in her office. It took that long for her bruises to fade enough to conceal with foundation.

Her second day back at work, Cornell sent three dozen long-stemmed roses to her office. When Angela read his note, it only enraged her.

There’s no excuse for my behavior. I guess I just lost it. Sorry. If you’ll forgive me, I’ll forgive you. Let’s put all this behind us. Call me.

Yours, Cornell.

All day long, her coworkers kept coming into her office, admiring the flowers and asking if she and Cornell were getting back together. Tired of the inquiries, Angela finally dumped them in a trash bin outside the cafeteria. When her assistant asked about them, she lied and said she put them in her car.

On her way home, Angela stopped off at the Starbucks in the Ladera Center. She was walking out with a Caramel Frappuccino when she spotted Cornell standing outside on the patio.

She froze, causing a woman to her rear to slam into her back, almost spilling her drink.

“Sorry,” Angela said. The woman angrily stepped around her.

Cornell smiled, then waved.

The sight of him angered her as much as it frightened her, but she was not going to live in fear. She continued out of the store, carefully surveying the area as she walked. Several people were seated on the patio outdoors. Two security guards stood in front of the TGI Friday’s across the driveway.

Angela planned to march right past Cornell to her car. When he started walking toward her, her stomach knotted up so fast she thought she might throw up.

“How’re you doing, Angela?” Cornell began walking alongside her. “You have a couple of minutes to talk?”

Angela kept moving and didn’t respond. She glanced around, comforted by the crowded environment. She could tell that Cornell was completely sober, but that knowledge did nothing to increase her comfort level.

“Did you get my flowers?”

“Yes,” she replied, “and I threw ‘em in the trash.”

“If that’s the way you feel, fine. I just wanted to apologize to you in person about the other night at your office.”

Angela regretted having parked so far away. “Fine. Now leave me alone.”

“Why are you in such a hurry? You have to go meet that—”

Angela finally turned to face him. This time, the spark of anger in her eyes matched his. “Get away from me.” She picked up her pace, but Cornell continued to trail a few steps behind her.

“Angela, what are you doing? Why would you choose to be with a guy like that?”

Now he was really pissing her off. She wanted to throw her drink in his face. She spun around and pointed a finger in his face. “I’m done putting up with your craziness. Our relationship is over. Who I see is none of your damn business. And if you ever put your hands on me again, you’ll never see a seat on the federal bench because your ass will be in jail.”

Cornell laughed. “I always liked it when you got feisty. It always took awhile for you to get revved up, but when you did, watch out.” He smiled. “Just answer one question for me. Why would you risk your career over that thug? Why would you choose to be with a convicted felon?”

His words were a blow almost as powerful as the punch he’d delivered to her face. “What? What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about your new boyfriend, Andre Lynell Thomas. The drug dealer.”

A burst of heat stung her cheeks. “You’re a liar!”

“Wait a minute.” Cornell smiled and took a step backward as his face lit up. “You don’t know? You don’t know that your new boyfriend is a drug dealer?”

Angela wanted to keep walking, but her feet wouldn’t cooperate.

“When you get to work tomorrow, go look up his court file. Possession of a kilo of cocaine with intent to distribute. He was sentenced to two years, but managed to walk out in eight months thanks to prison overcrowding. Your ghetto boyfriend is in the drug trade.”

What are you talking about? How did Cornell even know Dre’s name. He had to be making this up. She didn’t know what to say, so she just continued on toward her car, fighting the urge to run.

“I ran his plates,” he called after her. “I’m surprised you didn’t. Guess he didn’t bother to tell you, huh?”

Angela finally reached her car and snatched open the door. “And how did you even know what kind of car he drives? You’ve been following me?”

“No, not really. I happened to drive by your place one day and saw the two of you getting out of his car. A Volkswagen? C’mon, Angela. If you don’t want to be with me, fine. But you can really do a lot better than a guy like that.”

Cornell was still talking, but Angela had stopped listening. She climbed into her Saab and started it up. It took every ounce of willpower she could muster not to run his ass down.

When he was out of sight, she rolled down the window, desperate for air. You don’t know that your new boyfriend is a drug dealer? Cornell was lying. He had to be.

Her BlackBerry rang. It was Dre. “I’m running late,” he said. “I’ll be over at seven-thirty instead of seven.”

Angela willed her voice to sound normal. “Okay,” was all she could manage. When she confronted Dre with Cornell’s allegation, she wanted to be able to look him in the eye.

She was pulling into the underground garage of her building when something came to her that seemed to confirm Cornell’s claims.

The night they had met for drinks at The Dynasty, Dre seemed panic-stricken when his son’s mother walked up to their table. Sheila’s words came back to her. Do Ms. Prim and Proper know what you do?

A burning sensation swelled in her chest. Have I really been that stupid?

When Dre arrived an hour later, he stepped inside and pulled her into his arms. She immediately pulled away.

“I ran into Cornell today at Starbucks and—”

“If he messed with you again, I swear I’ll kick his ass.”

“No,” Angela said. “He had some things to tell me. About you. Things I’ve been praying aren’t true.”

Dre did not flinch or otherwise alter the blank expression on his face. He also didn’t utter a sound.

An innocent person, a person with nothing to hide would immediately have questions of his own. What are you talking about? What did he say? But there were no words or questions from Dre. Just silence. She knew from personal experience that only the best criminals were that cool under fire.

“He said that you’re a drug dealer. A convicted drug dealer.”

Again, Dre did not open his mouth.

“Is that true?”

“If you’re asking me if I’m currently a drug dealer, the answer is no.”

Angela folded her arms across her chest. “Currently? So, if I asked if you were previously a drug dealer, the answer would be different?”

He made direct eye contact and held the gaze before answering. “Yeah. It would.”

Angela covered her mouth. “Oh, my God!”

He reached out for her, but she jerked away.

“I’m not proud of what I used to do,” Dre said. “But it’s not something I do anymore.”

Angela did not want to hear his explanation. She wanted him to get out. But she could not find the words to tell him that through the shock.

“I’m sorry you had to find out from him,” Dre said apologetically. “I should have told you myself.”

Angela had a million questions, but they were all jumbled up inside her head. “So the real estate stuff was a lie?”

“No. I do flip foreclosures.”

“How? You can’t get a real estate license if you’re a convicted felon.”

“I never said I had one. You just assumed that. I have a buddy who does my deals for me.”

“What about the college stuff, was that a lie, too?”

“No, I really do have a degree from Long Beach State. I never lied to you. About anything.”

“In my line of work, an omission can be just as misleading as a straight-out lie.”

Dre looked away.

“Do you understand what I do for a living? I’m not just a lawyer, I’m a federal prosecutor. I can’t be dating a drug dealer.”

“I just told you. I don’t deal anymore.”

“You’re a bright guy, Dre. Why? Why would you choose to do that?”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Well, make it simple!” she screamed. “Tell me why somebody as smart as you would choose to sell drugs. Did you sell drugs to kids, too?”

Dre shoved his hands into his pockets. “Maybe we should talk about this another time. When you’re a little calmer. Why don’t I just leave?”

Angela glared at him. “Yeah, why don’t you.”

Chapter 59

BECKER had just returned home after two days of nonstop meetings in Washington. He was in the family room helping the twins with their math homework when his cell phone rang.

He glanced at the display. It was a call he’d been anxiously awaiting.

“Lia, how are you?”

Lia Green was Roland Becker’s most reliable source for confidential information coming out of the Los Angeles District Attorney’s office. Becker had never practiced criminal law, but his corporate clients often needed his assistance with criminal matters. A teenage son picked up for drunk driving. A wife with an unexplainable penchant for shoplifting. A domestic violence allegation that needed to be quietly erased from the books. Often the best deals were cut long before the charges were filed.

Thanks to Lia, Becker was always able to place the right calls and make the right connections.

“You wanted a heads up on any significant developments regarding Claire Erickson’s death,” she said. “Well, here goes.”

“I’m listening,” Becker said.

“Cancer didn’t kill her.”

Natalie had just written down a wrong answer and Natasha was trying to tell her she’d made a mistake. Becker wasn’t sure he’d heard Lia correctly over the twins’ bickering. “What did you say?”

“You heard me right,” Lia said.

“Okay,” Becker said slowly. “But if she didn’t die from cancer, then what killed her?”

“She was drugged. The autopsy stated that she died of acute morphine intoxication.”

Becker could not get his arms around this news. “Are you sure?”

“I saw the autopsy report with my own eyes. It was injected through a vein in her arm.”

Becker didn’t know what to say. He had assumed Ashley’s allegations against Erickson were false. But now . . .

“This isn’t going to be good news for your boss,” Lia said. “Not with all the noise his stepdaughter’s been making. This actually gives her claims some credibility.”

“So, you’ve heard about Ashley’s allegations?”

“Sure. Everybody around here has been hands off, thinking she was a little loopy. But now, a lot of folks are salivating to get their hands on the case. It’s not going to be pretty.”

“Dad, can you tell Natasha that’s wrong?” Natalie was tugging on his shirt.

“Not now,” Becker said.

“But, Dad, I told her—”

“I said not now!”

Natalie’s blue eyes expanded and Becker instantly regretted his outburst. He held the phone to his chest and gently caressed his daughter’s shoulder. “Daddy has a problem at work. Just give me a minute.”

Becker walked out to the patio, which overlooked the hills of South Pasadena, to continue the call. “I have to tell you, I’m in shock.”

“I can tell that through the phone,” Lia said.

“I know Lawrence Erickson better than anybody. He did not murder his wife.”

“Well, somebody did because the amount of morphine in Claire Erickson’s system was no accident.”

Becker gathered a few more facts, then hung up. He sat quietly on the patio, his elbows on his knees, his chin resting on his fists. There was a light breeze that made it a perfect Southern California night. He could hear the rustling of some animal in the distance.

He did not plan to relay this information to Erickson right away. That Claire had been drugged did not make sense. Maybe the two AUSAs were on to something and Waverly Sloan was killing his clients. But from everything Becker had learned about the guy, he didn’t seem bright enough or shrewd enough to be part of such a scheme.

From the beginning, Erickson had been overly worried about the slow progress of their plan. Had he grown impatient and killed Claire himself? No, Becker thought, Erickson would not have done so without consulting with him first. Not with everything he had put on the line for him. But then again . . .

During their meeting in Becker’s office after Erickson learned that his nomination was a go, Erickson had made some pretty confusing statements. It was almost as if Erickson had been under the impression that Becker had killed Claire. But she had died before he could act. Becker had assumed, from natural causes. That’s why he’d told Erickson that they’d gotten lucky.

Becker wouldn’t have been stupid enough to kill Claire with a traceable drug like morphine. As a Navy SEAL, he’d learned multiple techniques for cutting off the air supply with little chance of the true cause of death being picked up during an autopsy.

After dropping by Erickson’s home with the girls that day, Becker had peeked in on Claire to say hello, but found her sleeping. Or was she already dead then? Erickson had been home alone with Claire that afternoon, which meant he’d had sufficient time to drug her. He had both opportunity and motive.

Becker tried to erase the thought from his mind. The conversation he’d overheard in the men’s room flooded back to him. After learning that Erickson had not supported him for chairmanship of the firm, Becker was carefully and patiently plotting his revenge.

His friend and mentor had already double-crossed him once.

Had he actually done it twice?

Chapter 60

“I'M going to tell you like it is,” Mancuso said. “You’re in quite a bit of trouble.”

Waverly had scheduled another meeting to hear what Mancuso had learned from her inside connections. They were seated in a private room at the City Club where Mancuso was a member.

“The police think you’re killing your clients,” she said.

“I already know that,” Waverly said irritably. “Do they have any evidence to support their claim?”

Mancuso squinted suspiciously. “I thought you said there wasn’t any?”

“There isn’t. But don’t act like you haven’t seen innocent people get railroaded. What do they have?”

“Nothing solid,” Mancuso replied. “But the large number of your clients who kicked the bucket accidentally won’t look like a coincidence to a jury.”

“I want to make a deal,” Waverly said.

“What do you have to deal with?”

“I could turn over the guy I think may be responsible.”

Mancuso folded her arms. “You told me you didn’t know how to reach him.”

“I don’t. I’ll just have to figure something out. Maybe we can set up some kind of undercover operation or something. I can wear a wire.”

“It’s not that simple,” Mancuso said, toying with her pink bracelet.

“What do you mean?”

“The D.A.’s office won’t put money into that kind of effort until you spill your guts. And that’s not something I’d recommend that you do.”

“Why not?”

“Because there are too many uncertainties. You could be left holding the bag.”

“You’re the dealmaker. Get me a deal.”

“It doesn’t happen with a snap of the fingers. And it definitely doesn’t happen when my clients write me bad checks.”

He looked away. “I’ll make good on it. I didn’t know that the U.S. Attorney’s Office had frozen my accounts when I was in your office the other day,” he lied.

The skeptical look on Mancuso’s face said she didn’t believe him. “I want you to write down everything you can remember. Then we’ll go over it and figure out our next steps.”

“You have to get me a deal,” Waverly pleaded. “I can’t do time.”

Mancuso tapped her pink pen on the desk. “I’ll see what I can do. In the interim, you need to figure out what you’re going to use for collateral.”

“Excuse me?”

“I don’t work for free. The pink slip to your Lexus or the deed to your house would be a start.”

Waverly wanted to laugh. “Okay,” he said standing, “we’ll figure it out at our next meeting.” Waverly never intended to come back.

He was a few miles from home when a frightening thought hit him. Britney! If somebody was actually killing his clients, then Britney was in danger. He pulled over and started fumbling through the papers in his briefcase until he found her telephone number. He had to warn her.

Waverly dialed her number, but her voicemail came on.

“This is Waverly. Waverly Sloan, I need to talk to you right away. Call me back as soon as you can. Please.”

Waverly sounded much too panicked. If she had read that L.A. Times article, she’d be too afraid to call him back. He would never be able to forgive himself if something happened to her. He should at least go by her place to check on her.

He tried Britney’s number again and this time, she picked up.

“I was calling to check on you,” Waverly said, relieved to hear her voice.

“I read that newspaper story about you killing your clients!” she shouted into the telephone. “Stay away from me. If you come anywhere near me, I’m calling the police!”

Chapter 61

DRE had not heard from Angela for two days. He was so concerned about Cornell coming after her again, that he had begun following her to make sure that he didn’t.

He borrowed a buddy’s 4Runner so she wouldn’t spot him. He trailed her to work and back, and even followed Cornell on a couple of occasions. Maybe the dude had gotten the message.

Dre had tried to reach out to her, but his phone call and text message both went unanswered. Hell, he’d faced tougher situations than this before. Angela just needed some time to think things through. To realize that he was no longer the man he used to be. He had decided to change his life, in large part, because of her. He was not about to give up on being with her.

But Dre could not make that happen if Angela refused to even talk to him. He purchased a throwaway cell phone figuring that she might pick up if she didn’t recognize the number.

He dialed her office, and when she answered, he didn’t waste any time. “Hey, it’s me.”

She remained silent.

“We need to talk. You asked me why I did what I did and I owe you an explanation. How about if I drop by your place tonight?”

Angela still didn’t say anything and he waited. He construed it as a positive sign that she hadn’t hung up in his face.

“Not my apartment,” Angela said finally. “I’ll meet you at Baja Cantina. I’m working late. It’ll be close to eight before I can get there.”

“Okay,” Dre said, then hung up.

It was now 8:21 and he figured she wasn’t coming. He took another swig of beer and was about to leave when he saw Angela enter the restaurant. She looked pretty jazzy in a black, double-breasted pantsuit. He couldn’t help smiling. No woman had ever taken hold of his heart like this before.

She walked up to him at the bar. “Thought I wasn’t coming, huh?”

He decided not to respond. At least she was in a playful mood.

“Let’s go get a table.” Angela turned and walked off.

Dre chuckled to himself as he followed after her. Women were such a trip when they knew they had you by the balls.

Angela avoided making eye contact until they had placed their food orders.

“Okay,” she said, her head tilted, her arms folded against her chest, “let’s hear it. Why does a smart, articulate, college-educated guy like yourself decide to become a drug dealer?” She tightened her lips into a pout.

“It’s a long story,” Dre said.

“I have the time if you do.”

“Is this how you do your thing in court? Just pin ‘em against the wall and fire questions at ‘em.”

“Pretty much.”

He wasn’t sure where to begin. But he knew he couldn’t feed her any bullshit. The truth was, he didn’t really have a satisfactory explanation. At least not one that would be acceptable to her.

“You probably can’t tell,” Dre said, “but I’ve always been a little hardcore.”

“Oh, so your life of crime was genetic. Is that what you’re telling me?”

“Stop giving me attitude and hear me out.” He picked up his beer and took a sip. “For most of my life, I was pretty average. Average in sports, average in school. Except I did okay with the ladies.”

Dre smiled. Angela didn’t.

“I made it through Long Beach State, but just barely. I only had a C average, but I got my degree and I’m proud of that. When I finished up and started looking for work, it was a joke. I’d interview with all these stuffed shirts. Didn’t matter whether they were black or white. I was way too hood for their environment. I didn’t even know how to dress. Definitely didn’t speak the language. So, I ended up getting the only job a brother could get, working security.”

Angela seemed to be listening and that encouraged him.

“I spent most of my days sitting in a guard booth reading. One day, this dude from my old neighborhood came up to me. I knew he was cracked out. He asked to borrow ten dollars. Said if I loaned it to him, he’d pay me back twenty bucks on the first when he got his disability check. I didn’t think he would, but I loaned him the money anyway. But he paid me back right on time. I ended up loaning him money three more times and he paid me back every time. I made one hundred percent profit on every dollar I loaned out.”

“Oh, I see,” Angela said, a sarcastic edge to her voice. “So, you were a loan shark before you became a drug dealer?”

“Yeah, basically I was.” He could tell that his admission surprised her. “He told other people and everybody started coming to me for loans. Ninety-nine percent of the time, ninety-nine percent of the people paid me back. One hundred percent on the dollar.”

“Okay, so you loaned money to a bunch of crackheads so they could get high until their government checks came in. Great.”

“If I didn’t loan them the money, they probably would’ve done something illegal to get it.”

“You’re good with your hands. Getting a job at Home Depot never crossed your mind?”

“When I applied for jobs like that they told me I was overqualified. Looking back, I probably had too much attitude. I was too angry. Nobody was going to hire me.”

The waitress set their food on the table, but Angela pushed hers aside. “Go ahead. I’m curious about how you went from loan shark to drug dealer.”

Dre decided to ignore the sarcasm. “One of my regular customers came to me one day, said he knew a guy he could buy drugs from. Said since I had dough, if I fronted the cash, he would sell it for me and take a small cut. That’s basically how I got started. And it just blossomed from there.”

Dre could not read the expression on her face. He suspected she wanted a more inventive story. Alcoholic parents, foster care, juvenile hall. But he had none of that. His sister was a social worker and his brother, a pretty successful electrician. His father had been in and out of the picture during his younger days, but his mother worked as a legal secretary and provided a stable home life. His family was under the impression that following his stint behind bars, he’d traded the drug business for flipping houses full-time.

Angela picked up her fork and stabbed at her enchilada. “You said you don’t do it anymore. Was that the truth?”

“Yep.”

“When did you stop?”

“A while ago.”

“What’s a while ago?”

“A few weeks.”

“A few weeks?” Angela laughed sarcastically. “Why’d you quit?”

“‘Cuz I met you.” Once again, his response caught her off guard. He just hoped it earned him some points. “It was never a life I planned to be in for the long haul. And now I’m out. Completely.”

The waitress returned and refilled their water glasses. “Anything else you wanna know?”

“No,” Angela said softly. “Not at the moment.”

Dre was glad that she had finally run out of questions. He picked up his beef taco and took a bite. “Cornell hasn’t been hassling you anymore, has he?”

Angela chuckled dryly. “No, but he’s been telling everybody that he broke off the engagement. He told one of my friends that I cheated on him so he had to put me out.”

“What a punk move. The brother definitely has some issues.”

“That’s certainly what my sister thinks.”

“And you don’t?”

“Yeah, Cornell has his issues,” she said, looking him dead in the eye, “but don’t we all.”

Dre stared back at her, wishing he could reach across the table and kiss her. “Yeah,” he said, “I guess we do.”

Chapter 62

ERICKSON stared at the huge seal on the wall across from his desk. He still couldn’t believe it. He was the Attorney General of the United States of America.

His office wasn’t nearly as plush as his corner suite at Jankowski, Parkins and his salary, not even half of what he earned as chairman of the firm. But the degree of influence he wielded and the pride he felt sitting at the helm of the U.S. Justice Department could not be equaled by anything he’d ever achieved in either his personal or professional life to date.

He had just returned to his office following a meeting with five Democratic congressmen when his assistant rushed in with an urgent message from Wrigley, the President’s Chief of Staff. Erickson was needed at the White House. Immediately. A driver had already been called and was waiting downstairs.

Erickson’s heart raced with excitement as the sedan zoomed along Pennsylvania Avenue. During the short drive to the White House, Erickson presumed that the President needed his sage legal advice on some confidential, high-security issue. That thought heightened the sense of power he felt.

Once he reached the White House, instead of going to the Oval Office, Erickson was escorted into Wrigley’s office. The Chief of Staff was speaking into a headset. He pointed Erickson to a seating area near the window. Wrigley paced back and forth as he conducted his call. Erickson picked up snatches of the conversation. It did not appear to be anything urgent.

Erickson was disappointed that he hadn’t been summoned for a meeting with the President. He had only spoken with Bancroft twice since taking the job, and just for a matter of minutes. It was Mark Wrigley who really ran the show at the White House.

Wrigley finally took off his headset. He walked over and sat down on a couch across from Erickson.

“I’ve received three calls today about you from various sources of mine in Los Angeles. What in the hell is going on with your stepdaughter?”

Wrigley’s words landed like a punch Erickson hadn’t seen coming. “What do you mean?”

“Don’t fucking play me!” Wrigley yelled. “Your stepdaughter is running all over town accusing you of murdering your wife. Don’t sit there and act like you don’t know anything about it.”

Erickson was not used to people talking to him in such a manner. Other than his father, no one spoke to him that way. Ever.

“My stepdaughter is an emotionally troubled young woman,” Erickson tried to explain. “She—”

“I don’t care about her mental state or yours. I only care about the impact of her allegations on this administration. Do you know how incompetent we’re going to look if we have to go out and find yet another Attorney General?”

“You won’t have to do that,” Erickson assured him. “And there won’t be any fallout for the President because I had nothing to do with my wife’s death. Claire died of cancer and Ashley is just having trouble dealing with the loss.”

“Then lock her up in a loony bin until she can deal with it. At the moment, her conduct has the potential to create problems for this administration. I’m not going to let that happen. Do you understand?”

“I do,” Erickson said.

“And the next time I have to hear something this serious about you from somebody else, I’m not going to be very happy about it. If there’s something going on in your personal life that could cause embarrassment for the President, I need to know about before anybody else. You got that?”

“I understand,” Erickson said.

Wrigley stood up. “Then fix this. Now!” Wrigley stalked back over to his desk.

Erickson waited until he was in the security of his office before calling Becker.

“We have a problem,” he said. “The White House has gotten wind of Ashley’s allegations. I just got chewed out by Wrigley.”

Becker groaned in exasperation. “I’ll try to talk to her, but you know how volatile she can be.”

“I’m not going to lose this job because of her defamatory rantings!” Erickson said. “I want her silenced.”

“And exactly how am I supposed to do that?” Becker asked.

“I don’t care how you do it, just get it done,” he shouted. “I told you weeks ago that Ashley’s allegations were going to be a problem, but you said they were no big deal because no one would listen to her. Well, you were wrong. They’re certainly a big deal now. My career and my reputation are on the line.”

“I’ll handle it.”

“Make sure you do,” Erickson said, and slammed down the phone.

Chapter 63

WAVERLY pounded the steering wheel in frustration.

He had to find a way to convince Britney that her life could be in danger. He thought about proceeding to her place anyway, but that would only freak her out. He drove toward home, racking his mind for a solution.

He pressed the remote on his sun visor and pulled his Lexus into the garage. He felt like going for a long drive, but was too mentally exhausted for such an excursion. He wouldn’t have such an option much longer. With money tight, his Lexus would be the first thing to go.

As he closed the garage door and entered the house through the kitchen, something stopped him the moment he stepped inside. Someone else was there. He could sense their presence. Smell their scent. Had Rico or one of his henchmen come after him?

Waverly stepped back into the garage, his legs shaky with anxiety. What should he do? Call the police? And say what? The guy I was laundering money for came to my house to kill me.

He looked around, scanning the garage shelves in search of a weapon. He spotted a hammer hanging on a hook and grabbed it.

Waverly cautiously stuck his head back into the kitchen. “Get the hell out of my house!” he yelled. “I have a gun.” Until now, he thought guns were dangerous weapons that could do more harm than good. Now, he wished he had one.

He waited, listening for movement. He finally took several more steps inside, each one filled with trepidation. He looked to his left into the family room and his mouth fell open.

Someone had left a message for him in red spray paint on the wall above the couch.

Get me my money. Deidra is next.

Furious, Waverly tore through the rest of the house, hammer in hand, peeking into rooms, opening doors, checking around corners. When he was certain that the intruder had gone, he pulled out his BlackBerry and dialed Deidra’s cell phone.

“You have to call me back right away,” he said. “I need to know that you’re alright.”

He wondered if Deidra had heeded his warning to leave town. He would not be able to relax until he knew she was okay. He waited thirty long, nerve-racking minutes. As much as he hated having to face Leon Barrett, he couldn’t rest not knowing whether his wife was safe. He went back to the garage and started up his car.

It was only a two-mile drive to his in-laws’ home. He screeched into the driveway and jumped out.

Leon Barrett opened the front door before he could ring the bell. “You’re not wanted here,” he said.

“I don’t plan to stay. Where’s Deidra? Is she okay?”

“Son, you’re a disgrace. You know that? People like you give the law profession a bad name. You—”

“I didn’t come here for a lecture, Leon,” Waverly said, trying to keep his cool. “Where’s Deidra?”

“She’s not here.”

“Is she okay?”

“You should’ve been thinking about that when you decided to start ripping off dying people. You—”

“I just need to make sure Deidra’s okay,” Waverly said. “Where is she?”

“I don’t think she wants you to know that.”

“Did she go away like I asked?”

Leon’s eyebrows knitted together. “You asked her to go away? What kind of stuff are you mixed up in, boy?”

Waverly was glad that Deidra hadn’t shared his warning with her father and he wished he hadn’t either. He stepped forward until his chest almost touched Leon’s nose. “Just tell me whether she went away, damn it!”

Leon took a step back. “She’s at Martha’s Vineyard with her mother. Went there a few days ago.”

Waverly’s heart rate finally slowed a few beats. He turned and headed back to his car.

“I don’t want to see you around here again,” Leon shouted after him.

Waverly tuned out the rest of Leon’s words, climbed back into his Lexus and backed out of the driveway.

He was still worried about Britney’s safety. For all he knew, Rico could be someplace right now plotting to kill her or any one of his clients. Thankfully, he had not made a personal connection with anyone else. Did that mean he didn’t have an ethical obligation to let his other clients know that their lives might be in danger? No. He needed to call every single one of them, not just Britney, and tell them they might be a target for murder. But how would that look to a jury of his peers?

“Shit!” He pounded the steering wheel.

Waverly knew he could not sit back and let something happen to Britney. He would just have to convince her that she was in danger and help her find a safe place to hide. He would figure out what to do about his other clients later.

He pulled over to the curb and popped open his briefcase again. He looked up Britney’s address and punched it into his navigation system.

Waverly was determined to make sure she was safe. Whether she wanted his protection or not.

Chapter 64

ANGELA found it next to impossible to concentrate at work. She had just walked out of a meeting, but couldn’t recall half of what had been discussed.

She plopped down behind her desk and massaged the back of her neck. Her life had gone from bliss to anguish in a matter of days. At least Cornell had finally stopped calling. She assumed the conversation she’d had with his best friend, Rupert Byrdsong, had worked.

“I need you to talk to Cornell,” Angela had begun. “He’s basically been stalking me.”

Rupert didn’t say anything for a while. “Is it true?” he finally asked. “Are you dating a convicted drug dealer?” A partner at Byrdsong, Ivy, McNeil and Wyatt, Rupert was a major mover and shaker in L.A. Just the kind of guy Cornell liked to rub shoulders with. Angela and Cornell had frequently doubled-dated with Rupert and his wife.

“Whoever I’m dating is nobody’s business,” Angela snapped. “I just need you to convey a message to him because he doesn’t seem to hear it when I tell him. The only reason I haven’t reported him to the police is because I don’t want to destroy his career. But if he ever comes near me again, I will.”

“Cornell is pretty broken up,” Rupert said. “He’s not himself. Apparently you aren’t either.”

“I’m just fine. If you care about your friend, you’ll deliver my message.”

Angela’s assistant walked in and handed her a package. Angela knew what was inside without even opening it. She waited until the door closed before pulling out Dre’s file from his state court case.

She rifled through it until she found his rap sheet. There was only one arrest and one conviction. California Health and Safety Code 11351.5, possession or purchase for sale of cocaine base. At least he wasn’t a career criminal, she thought.

So far, everything Dre had told her was the truth. There was even mention of his degree from Long Beach State. Angela closed her eyes and pressed two fingers to both of her temples. She couldn’t believe she was actually trying to justify what Dre did, or used to do, for a living. But she couldn’t deny how much she missed him and wanted him in her life.

She rested her head on her desk, cushioning it in the crook of her arm. When she looked up, Zack was standing over her desk.

“You okay?”

Zack’s eyes surveyed her desk. Angela quickly closed Dre’s file and slipped it back into the envelope.

“I’m fine,” she said, trying to sound cheerful. “What’s up?”

Zack looked uncomfortable and she knew why. She’d heard that he was moving to D.C. and taking a job on Erickson’s staff. He was selling out and she was going to tell him as much.

“I’ll just blurt it out,” Zack finally said. “You need to know that there are a lot of rumors floating around the office.”

“Rumors about what?”

“About you and Cornell.”

Angela held up her ringless left hand and waved it back and forth. “Yes, my engagement is off. If that’s all people have to talk about, so be it.”

“It’s not just that. A maintenance guy told one of the secretaries that Cornell attacked you in your office last week.”

Angela stiffened. When he walked her to her car, the guy promised that he wouldn’t mention the incident to anyone.

“That’s not true,” she lied. “We had a disagreement and we both got a little loud. That was it.” Why was she covering for him?

“I just thought you should know. And there’s something else—”

“Zack, I don’t want to discuss Cornell with you or anybody else. Okay?” The people in her office were nothing but gossips. The lawyers were worse than the secretaries.

He ran his fingers through his hair. “Okay, but I just wanted to tell you that—”

“I said I don’t want to know, Zack.” Angela stood up and picked up her purse from the desk. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I was just about to leave.”

Shortly after seven, Angela pulled into the underground garage of her building, turned off the engine and removed the key. Her car was in the shop for a tune-up so she was driving her sister’s Mazda.

Angela was always careful now to survey her surroundings before exiting the car. She noticed a young woman headed for the stairwell carrying grocery bags. Angela had just opened the door and planted her left foot on the ground when Cornell seemed to appear from nowhere.

She gasped and tried to close the door, but Cornell lunged forward, snatching it open.

“I just want to talk.” Cornell gripped the door with his right hand, and extended the palm of his left toward Angela. “Just relax. I’m not going to hurt you. I promise.”

As she stared up at him, she felt like a fool for ever feeling sorry for him. Jada was right. She should have called the police the first time he put his hands on her. She had prosecuted enough domestic violence cases to know better. Men who battered women were fueled by jealousy and insecurity. They lacked the ability to think or act rationally. To hell with Cornell’s career. As soon as she made it to her apartment, she planned to call the cops. Tomorrow morning, she would get a restraining order.

“We don’t have anything to talk about. Please, just leave.” She tried to close the door, but Cornell had a firm grip.

“I took care of you for three years. Don’t you at least owe me a few minutes of your time?”

“You didn’t take of care me. I took care of myself.” Angela immediately regretted her retort. She saw the veins in his neck enlarge. It wasn’t smart to risk angering him further.

Angela leaned sideways and felt around on the floor. She did not recall her sister retrieving the gun when Angela had dropped her off at the beauty shop that morning. She prayed it was there. When she felt the soft velvet pouch and the hard lump inside, a torrent of relief followed. She slipped the .38 out of its pouch and into the pocket of her jacket.

“If you don’t leave, I’m calling the police.” She grabbed her BlackBerry from the console.

“The police? Really? Maybe you should call your drug dealer boyfriend instead.”

Angela did not know what to do next. Should she brandish the gun? Maybe it was better to just keep him talking until another car entered the garage. She looked past him to where the woman had been, but saw no one. Where in the hell is the security guard?

“C’mon,” Cornell said. “Let’s go up to your place so we can talk.”

He was definitely delusional if he thought he was getting anywhere near her apartment.

“I don’t want to talk to you. Now, leave me alone.” She knew she would have a better chance of making him leave if she showed no sign of fear. She was just about to lean on the horn when Cornell’s demeanor abruptly changed.

“Okay, okay, don’t overreact. If you want me to leave, I will.” He let go of the door and took a step back. “Go on up to your apartment. I won’t bother you.”

Angela wasn’t buying it. She put her left foot back inside the car, but when she tried to close the door, Cornell charged forward, reached over the window, grabbed her arm and snatched her from the car.

He shut the car door, slammed her against the hood, then backhanded her across the face. Blood splattered from her nose, spotting Cornell’s grey suit.

“You bitch! Who do you think you are?”

He held her arms at her side and leaned in and tried to kiss her. He reeked of alcohol. She moved her head from side to side and tried to pull away. When she screamed, Cornell clamped a hand around her neck. He squeezed hard for several seconds, then let go.

“I could kill you right now if I wanted to,” he said. “And if you scream again, I will.”

As hard as she tried, the fearless facade she so desperately wanted to maintain shattered. Tears welled in her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. She tried to retrieve the gun from her pocket, but Cornell had her right arm locked at her side.

“Oh, so now you want to cry. I bet you weren’t crying when you were out cheating on me.” He let go of her arm and backhanded her across the face again. Another gush of blood spewed from her nose.

“Does that thug fuck you better than me?”

She turned away as the right side of her face went numb. Cornell pulled her toward him, then slammed her back against the car.

Excruciating pain radiated down her back, but the crazed look in his eyes frightened her far more than the blows to her body. The look told her that she would not leave the garage alive.

“Answer me, bitch! Who fucks you the best?”

“You,” Angela finally sputtered.

When Cornell reared back to slap her again, Angela slid her right hand into her pocket and pulled out the gun. In one quick move, she jammed it into his stomach.

“Get your hands off me or I’ll blow your goddamn guts out!”

Cornell stumbled backwards, stunned. It took him only seconds, however, to gather his composure. “I thought you were afraid of guns.” He was laughing now. “Is that a present from that ex-con you’re fucking?”

Angela took baby steps to her left, trying to make it back inside the car. Her hand was shaking so violently she feared she might drop the gun. She reached behind her back with her left hand to open the door. She was about to climb inside when Cornell charged at her. He grabbed her wrist, forced the gun downward, and pulled her away from the car.

“You, bitch! How dare you pull a gun on me. I’ll kill you!”

They were both wrestling for the gun when Angela felt a heavy weight on her back. A long arm reached over her shoulder and between her and Cornell.

“I got it, Angela!” Dre yelled. “Let go!”

She heard Dre’s voice, but was too paralyzed with fear to do anything except hold on tighter to the gun.

“Angela,” Dre yelled, “let go!”

She tried to comply, but terror immobilized her.

A gunshot echoed through the garage like a dozen firecrackers going off in a tunnel and everything switched to slow motion. Cornell’s eyes expanded and his hands flew out to his sides like the wings of a bird. He fell backwards and landed, head first against the pavement as blood gushed from his stomach.

Angela looked down at the gun in her hand and began wailing. “Oh, my God! Oh, my God!”

Dre eased the weapon from her hand and set it on the ground. He pulled her to him, encircling her with both arms.

A security guard rushed over. He stared down at Cornell laying in an expanding pool of blood.

“What happened?” the man yelled, pulling out his useless baton.

“He was attacking her,” Dre said calmly. “I shot him. The gun’s over there.”

Angela stiffened. “What? No, I—”

Dre pressed her mouth to his chest, cutting her off. “Call an ambulance,” he told the rent-a-cop, “and the police.”

The man fumbled for the cell phone in his back pocket.

“Just let me handle this,” Dre whispered into Angela’s ear. “When the police get here, just listen to everything I say and repeat it. Okay?”

“But you didn’t shoot him. I—”

“No,” Dre said firmly. “You got way more to lose than I do. This is straight up self-defense. Cornell was attacking you. You’ve got the bruises to prove it. We all struggled for the gun. I had my hand on top of yours and I pulled the trigger, not you. That’s the way this is going down.”

Angela grew even more hysterical and almost slipped from Dre’s grasp.

“Baby, you have to calm down.” Dre buried his face in her hair and struggled to keep her from sliding to the ground. “I told you, I got this.”

Part Five

To The Rescue

Chapter 65

WAVERLY stood a few feet away, behind a large post, watching Britney enter her apartment.

She was struggling to hold onto three plastic grocery bags and seemed to be having trouble finding the right key. On the third try, she let out a long sigh and turned the doorknob. The second she opened the door, Waverly ran in behind her, slamming the door shut.

“Please don’t kill me!” Britney shrieked, dropping her bags to the floor. She tried to dash down a hallway, but Waverly caught the end of her T-shirt, pulling her back toward him.

“Just calm down!” Waverly said, throwing an arm around her waist. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Let me go!” Britney struggled violently to escape, wildly swinging her arms and legs. Surprised by her strength, Waverly had to work hard to hold on to her.

When he tried to cover her mouth with his hand, she bit him.

“Ow!” Waverly yelled. “Please stop and listen to me. I promise I’m not going to hurt you.”

Britney continued to fling her arms like a windmill. Waverly finally lifted her into the air. “I’ll let you go, but only if you stop fighting me.”

“I read that newspaper article about you murdering your clients!” Britney cried. “Please don’t kill me!”

“That article never said I was murdering my clients,” Waverly shouted, “because I’m not. But somebody else is. I’m only here to keep you from becoming the next victim.”

The intensity of her movements slowed and she finally stopped struggling. Waverly could feel her chest heave up and down from the workout.

“If I let you go, are you going to cooperate?”

Britney nodded.

Waverly put her back on the ground, but kept a firm grip around her waist.

“I just want to talk to you, okay?”

She nodded again and he finally released her. She turned to face him and he saw nothing but sheer fright in her eyes.

“We need to sit down and talk,” Waverly said.

“In here,” Britney said, pointing toward a tiny living room. Just as Waverly took a step in that direction, Britney dashed down the hallway and Waverly took off after her. She reached the bathroom seconds ahead of him. She darted inside and tried to close the door, but Waverly managed to get an arm inside.

“Ow!” Waverly yelled, as Britney pressed against the door, trapping his arm. “You’re going to break my arm!”

“Then get the hell away from me!”

“Just listen to me,” Waverly pleaded, his arm throbbing in pain. “Let me take my arm out of the door, then I’ll step back and you can close the door. But I really need you to listen to me.”

Waverly waited and Britney finally released her pressure on the bathroom door and he pulled his arm free. She quickly closed and locked the door.

“If you want the money back, I’ll give it to you,” she yelled through the door. “But please don’t kill me!”

Now, Waverly had reason to be fearful. The neighbors were likely to call the police any minute if he didn’t quiet her down. “I told you I’m not here to hurt you. I need you to listen to my story. I’m going to tell you everything. Things my wife doesn’t even know. And when I’m done, you’re going to have to trust me.”

“No, wait!” Britney whimpered. “I have to tell you something first. Somebody just—”

“No,” Waverly interrupted. “You can tell me later.”

Waverly pressed his head against the door and began telling Britney his story. All of it. He started with being disbarred, then explained how he’d stumbled into the viatical business. When he got to the part about his brother being beaten up and Rico threatening Deidra, he heard a gasp that he hoped meant she believed him.

“I didn’t know somebody was killing my clients,” he said through the door. “I swear I didn’t. I’m only here because I was concerned that you might be next. You can’t stay here. It’s not safe. Do you understand? Do you believe me?”

After a long pause, he heard the click of the lock and Britney opened the door. “Thank you for caring about me.” She threw her arms around him and pressed her face to his chest.

Waverly hoped she wasn’t just humoring him until she had another opportunity to escape. “I have to tell you something,” she said.

“You can tell me later. We have to get out of here because—”

“No, I have to tell you now!” Britney insisted. “Somebody just got shot downstairs!”

Waverly could feel her body quivering. “What? When?”

“Just now. In my garage.”

“Please don’t let them get me too!”

“Tell me what happened.”

“I had just left the garage and stepped into the stairwell with my groceries when I heard this couple arguing. I put down my groceries and cracked open the door to watch. The woman kept telling the guy to leave her alone, but he wouldn’t. Then he grabbed her and hit her and started choking her. When she pulled out a gun and told him she was going to shoot him, he backed away. I got scared and picked up my groceries. The next thing I heard was a gunshot.”

Waverly rushed back down the hallway to the front of the apartment. He peered through a small slit in the curtains to the street below. Cop cars were everywhere. It didn’t seem likely that the shooting had a connection to Rico, but Waverly wasn’t taking any chances.

He turned back to Britney. “The police will probably be going door-to-door interviewing tenants and looking for witnesses. We need to leave. Is there a back way out?”

Chapter 66

DRE sat in the back of a police cruiser, cradling Angela as she sobbed hysterically into his chest.

He felt like everything around him was spinning out of control and he couldn’t make it stop. Within minutes of the shooting, cops with guns drawn flooded the garage. At first, they had talked in harsh, angry tones, ordering them both to put their hands up. They were roughly frisked and had questions thrown at them way too fast to answer.

But when Angela told them she was an assistant U.S. attorney, which an officer confirmed by pulling her credentials from her purse, everything changed. She actually knew one of the female cops from her stint as a deputy D.A. They went from accusing and condescending to deferential and concerned.

He would not have believed it if he had not seen it for himself. A judge lay on the ground with a bullet in his gut and Dre had confessed to shooting him. Yet, he was sitting in the back of a police cruiser, uncuffed, holding his woman and being treated like a victim, not a suspect. Was this how the other half lived?

The car door opened and a female officer stuck her head inside. “I’m Officer Dickson. How’s she doing?”

“Not good,” Dre said.

He had already explained that Cornell had been stalking Angela and had assaulted her twice. He told them that Angela and Cornell had been wrestling over the gun when he arrived on the scene and rushed to her aid. As the three of them struggled for control of the gun, it went off. Dre said he was pretty sure that he was the one who pulled the trigger.

Another cop approached and pulled Officer Dickson aside.

Dre desperately needed Angela to stop crying so he could talk to her. They had to get their stories straight. “You okay?”

She could only manage to shake her head between sobs.

“Angela, we need to—”

A male officer opened the driver’s door and got behind the wheel, while Officer Dickson rode shotgun. She looked back at them through a screen that stretched the width of the car. “We need you two to go down to the station so we can go over what happened, okay?”

Were they actually asking his permission? He had never run across cops who acted like this. This shit was too weird. Dre nodded. “Sure.”

As the cruiser drove away, Dre saw a coroner’s van pull up, giving him the answer to the question he’d been too afraid to ask. This was now a murder case, which meant that he and Angela were murder suspects.

Dre tugged Angela closer. Her sobs had turned into dry hiccups and his T-shirt was soaking wet from her tears. He needed to hear her version of events. If their stories didn’t match, that would present a major problem.

He grazed his cheek along the top of her head. When he looked up, his eyes met the driver’s. The cop’s gaze held animosity and distrust. This was the kind of cop he was used to dealing with. Dre finally looked away and stared out of the window.

A half an hour later, they pulled into a police substation. The female officer pried Angela from Dre’s arms and led her away. Dre was taken down a separate hallway and placed in an interrogation room that smelled badly of body odor. Now this was more like it.

Dre had been sitting alone in the room for about forty minutes when he started to get antsy. He figured they were questioning Angela first, which made him even more uptight.

When two detectives finally entered the room, one black, one Asian, Dre immediately sensed that his special treatment was over. He could see the distrust in their body language. The black cop was carrying a thin folder. They’d probably run his sheet.

Neither cop bothered to introduce himself. “Looks like you’re picking in some pretty high cotton, my brother.”

Dre wasn’t sure what the guy was getting at, so he said nothing. When a cop—black or white—began an interrogation by addressing you as brother you were probably in trouble.

“Are you and that prosecutor an item?” the Asian cop asked.

“I didn’t get your names,” Dre said.

“Forgive us for being rude,” the black cop replied. “I’m Detective Dwayne Davis and this is my buddy, Detective Martin Tao. So, what’s up with you and that prosecutor?”

Dre formed a teepee with his fingertips and rested his elbows on the table. “We’re friends,” he finally said.

“Close friends?” Detective Davis asked, taking a seat across from him.

“Yeah.”

“How close?”

“Close,” Dre said.

Detective Davis looked at the other cop. “You know, we were just wondering. Do you think she’s seen this?” He opened the folder and pulled out a stapled document. He held it between two fingers, waving it back and forth. “Does she know her close friend is a convicted drug dealer who should still be locked up, but caught a break because the state doesn’t have enough prison space to hold all of its scum?”

Dre flexed his fingers. These clowns were straight out of some bad sitcom. “She knows.”

The detectives bounced glances at each other. They had apparently assumed she didn’t.

Detective Davis moved his chair closer to the table. “This really has nothing to do with the case, but I was just wondering.” He paused and smiled up at his partner. “I’ve never had any prosecutor pussy. What’s it like?”

Detective Tao burst out laughing, pressing his fist to his mouth.

Dre grew even more heated, but knew there was no place to safely channel his rage. The smart part of him wanted to try to reason with these bozos. Tell them there was no need for the disrespect. But instead, he decided to give back what he got.

“Actually, it’s pretty nice.” He smiled and stroked his goatee. “You outta try it some time. But I suspect you couldn’t even pay a hooker to screw your fat ass. Don’t cops have a weight requirement?”

Detective Davis charged across the table, stopping when his nose was only inches from Dre’s.

Dre never moved a muscle.

Detective Tao grabbed his partner by the shoulder and pulled him back into the chair.

“I read the account you gave at the scene,” Officer Tao said, his tone more professional now. “Tell us what happened. How’d that judge end up dead?”

Dre knew he should ask for an attorney, but if he did, that would only make them think he had something to hide. That innocent until proven guilty bullshit was just that. He directed his attention solely to Detective Tao, leaving Detective Davis to seethe.

“She’d broken up with him and he couldn’t handle it. He attacked her in her office and—”

“When?”

“A week ago.”

“Did she report it?”

“No?”

“Why not?”

He spread his hands, palms up. “He’s a judge. She was concerned about messin’ up his career.”

“They break up because of you?”

“No.”

“How’d you happen to come to her rescue?”

“After I found out he put his hands on her, I thought he might try something again, so I started following her. Watchin’ out for her.”

“Sounds like a pretty convenient plan to get the guy out of the way, if you ask me,” said Detective Tao.

Dre wanted to pound the table, as well as the two detectives. “Why don’t you stop wastin’ my time and yours?”

“Was that your gun?” Detective Davis asked.

They were definitely messin’ with him now. They’d probably already run the serial number. “I’m a felon. I’m not allowed to carry a gun.”

“Whose was it?”

Dre assumed it belonged to Angela’s sister, but he wasn’t giving up any info. “Don’t know.”

They peppered him with a few more questions, then abruptly walked out. They came back twenty minutes later and told him he could leave. For now. Dre concluded that his story must have matched Angela’s.

He stood up. “Where can I find Angela?”

“She left,” Detective Tao informed him. “Her sister picked her up thirty minutes ago.”

A look of surprise blanketed Dre’s face. He had just saved her life and took a rap for her and she left him hangin’ without even a thank you?

“Guess you weren’t as close as you thought, huh?” Detective Davis taunted. “You need bus fare?”

Chapter 67

BECKER was not used to having people disrespect him, but Erickson’s stepdaughter was a piece of work. Thank God he didn’t have a kid like her. This was all Claire’s fault. Loyalty was the first trait you taught your kids. Ashley had zilch.

The first time he had contacted Ashley by phone to ask if she might have some time to talk, she’d called him Erickson’s lackey and hung up in his face. Did she know who he was?

The second time, she’d hung up as soon as she’d heard his voice. Now, he had to get ugly, which was always tricky with a woman. They were emotional by nature, so you could never predict how they might respond.

Becker parked his Range Rover across the street from Ashley’s apartment and waited for her to arrive home. He didn’t have time for this crap, but this wasn’t a job he could trust to anybody else. He finally saw Ashley pull up in her Hyundai and start looking for a parking space. Ashley circled the block, then parked at the far end of the street, several cars behind him.

As she climbed out of her car carrying two grocery bags, Becker gazed at her in his rear view mirror. She definitely wasn’t much to look at. He couldn’t remember ever seeing her crack a smile. He didn’t understand why Claire had never gotten the girl braces. That would have helped tremendously. According to Erickson, she’d never even dated. Becker shook his head. Still a virgin at twenty-four. That alone probably accounted for most of her hostility.

Becker actually understood why Ashley despised her stepfather so much. He never would have shipped off one of his kids to some boarding school to be raised by strangers. Becker existed for his wife and kids. Sometimes, he just enjoyed watching his children at play, quietly reveling over the young miracles that he had produced in his own image.

Some of his law partners thought he was insane for having so many kids, but Becker prided himself on his reproductive skills. He had wisely chosen a wife who not only felt the same way, but had the genes to match. He couldn’t have put up with all that fertility testing crap some of his colleagues had to endure. He could look at Staci and she would end up pregnant. Real men could do that.

Just as Ashley walked past his SUV, Becker quietly opened the door. He had to be careful about how he approached her. Their conversation would be short and to the point. She was about fifty feet from her apartment building when he called out to her.

“Hello, Ashley,” Becker said pleasantly. “I need a few minutes of your time.”

She jerked around, seemingly startled. He walked up to her, stopping with only a couple yards between them.

“Get away from me or I’ll scream.” She took two steps backward, as Becker moved forward.

Becker spread his hands. “Go for it. I’m not doing anything to you and anybody who hears you scream will be able to testify to that. Everybody thinks you’re nuts anyway. That will confirm it.”

She looked around as if to gauge how safe she was. The street was lined with cars, but there was no one else in sight.

“There’s something I need you to know,” Becker said. “You’re not going to get away with defaming Larry. I want you to stop spreading your lies.”

Her eyes spewed hatred, and Becker actually felt the loathing Erickson had been forced to endure.

“Get away from me. You’re nothing but Larry’s gofer. Did he send you over here to threaten me?”

“He has no idea I’m here. This is all my doing. I’m not about to let my friend go down for a murder he didn’t commit. If you weren’t family, he would’ve already sued you for defamation.”

“He’s not my family,” she hissed.

“Just back off, okay?”

Ashley laughed. “He murders my mother and then sends you over here to threaten me. Both of you are incredible. You’re wasting your time. You don’t scare me.”

Becker could see that he didn’t. She was a pretty calm cookie.

“Did you know that the police think that broker who sold your mother’s insurance policy may have had something to do with her death?”

“Larry killed my mother. You know it and I know it. That broker is just a convenient diversion.”

After the news about Claire’s autopsy, Becker now believed that Ashley might be right.

“And just so you know,” Ashley continued, “my next call is going to be to the Washington Post.” She repositioned her grocery bags and stood toe-to-toe with him, as if daring him to touch her. He admired her moxie.

The standoff lasted a few more seconds, then Ashley turned on her heels and proceed to her apartment.

Becker was suddenly consumed with a deep sense of satisfaction. The trip had gone extremely well. He knew that Ashley would do exactly what he asked her not to do and that was precisely the result he wanted. He hoped she did call the Washington Post. Her wild allegations on the front page of a national newspaper would prompt the White House to ask for Erickson’s immediate resignation.

Erickson had screwed him out of the chairmanship of the firm and apparently double-crossed him in their plot to dispose of Claire. Now, Becker was determined to ruin him professionally. The best part of it all was that he didn’t have to do a thing except sit back and let Ashley run amuck.

Becker was halfway to his car when a thought hit him, stopping him cold. He stood motionless, letting the idea percolate.

Ashley despised her stepfather and wanted to destroy him. Ashley discovered her mother’s dead body. Ashley canceled the cremation and demanded an autopsy. Ashley had motive, means and opportunity. It made complete sense. Erickson had not killed Claire. Ashley killed her mother and was setting up Erickson to take the fall.

Becker actually smiled. The clever little cunt!

Chapter 68

WAVERLY and Britney managed to sneak down an alley in the back of her apartment without being spotted by the growing crowd of cops out front on Springpark Avenue. Waverly had parked a block away on Fairview, only because he couldn’t find a closer spot. Now, he was glad.

“We going to your house?” Britney asked, once they were seated inside his Lexus.

“No. It’s not safe there.” Waverly turned right onto La Cienega, not exactly sure where they were going.

“I guess we’re on the run, huh?” Britney said.

Waverly turned and gave her a look. “This isn’t some game.”

Britney shrugged. “I’m just trying to keep the mood light, okay?”

Waverly didn’t respond.

“You have any decent music?” She leaned forward, popped open the glove compartment, rifled through it, then slammed it shut. “Where do you keep your CDs? You do have some, don’t you?”

Waverly needed silence to think clearly. He wanted to tell her to shut up, but didn’t want to hurt her feelings.

She spotted a compartment between the seats and pulled it open. She grabbed a stack of CDs and started flipping through them. “Yep, should’ve guessed it. Nothing but old school R&B. You’re very predictable.”

“Do you remember what I told you back at your place?” Waverly asked.

Britney nodded.

“Then what do you have to be so happy about? Someone is definitely trying to kill me, and maybe you, too.”

“Actually, I’m trying not to think about it.” He noticed her knee bouncing up and down, which told him that maybe she really was rattled by everything that had happened.

Britney slipped in The Best of Al Green into the CD player and pulled a pack of gum from her purse. “Want some?”

“No, thanks.”

“Have you figured out where we’re going yet?”

“Yeah. You got a credit card?”

“I have several,” Britney said with pride.

“We’re going to the Marriott near the airport on Century. I need you to check in. For all I know, the police are looking for me. I can’t risk using my card. I’ll make sure you get your money back. We just need a place to hide out until I can figure something out.”

She lifted her eyebrows seductively and puckered her lips. “The Marriott, huh? One room or two?”

“One,” Waverly said. “With double beds.”

She feigned disappointment. “Does your wife know we’re spending the night together?”

“I never said anything about spending the night together. I just need a place to chill for a minute. As soon as I put a plan together, we’re splitting up. Is there someplace I can take you where you’ll be safe?”

“The safest place for me to be is with you.” She reached over and placed a hand on his thigh. “I think you could use my company. You seem a little tense.”

This was a distraction he definitely didn’t need. “Cut it out.”

Britney smiled at him. “Say that like you mean it.”

Waverly grabbed her hand and tossed it back into her lap.

She smiled, then winked. “Okay, maybe we can finish up later. When you’re not busy driving.”

Less than twenty minutes later, they pulled into the driveway of the Marriott and valet parked. As Britney registered, Waverly lingered in the lobby, scanning the place to ensure they weren’t being watched. Once Britney had checked in, he met her at the elevators.

“We’re on four,” she said, pushing the elevator button. “Unfortunately, they were out of rooms with double beds, so we’re stuck with a king. Something about a big convention in town.” She gave him another wink as the elevator doors opened. They exited on the fourth floor and Waverly followed her down the hallway and into their room. He immediately bolted, then chained the door. He fell back onto the bed, exhausted.

Britney surveyed the room and started opening the drawers near the TV. “I can’t believe they don’t even have a minibar. I’m calling room service. I need a drink.”

“No alcohol,” Waverly said. “We both need a clear head.”

“Party pooper.” She grabbed the TV remote and started channel surfing.

“Wait!” Waverly shot off the bed. “Go back to that last station.”

“What?”

“That newscaster just said the name of that prosecutor who’s after me. Go back. Hurry up!”

Britney switched back and they both zeroed in on the television screen.

“That’s my apartment building!” Britney said pointing.

A reporter live at the scene was recapping the shooting of Superior Court Judge Cornell Waters, III. A picture of Angela Evans and a mug shot of a man identified as Andre Thomas, filled the screen. When the report ended, Britney turned to Waverly, wide-eyed.

“That’s the shooting I was telling you about! But that’s not how it went down.”

“What do you mean?”

“That prosecutor was the woman I saw pointing the gun at that judge. That other guy wasn’t even there.”

“Are you sure?”

“Hell, yeah.”

Waverly was trying to make sense of what Britney was saying.

“I’m telling you,” Britney insisted, “that reporter got it wrong. That guy didn’t shoot that judge. That lady attorney shot him.”

Chapter 69

STILL woozy from the sleeping pills her sister had forced her to take, Angela sat up in bed, startled by the unfamiliar surroundings. Anxiety set in and it took several seconds for her to realize that she was in her sister’s apartment, in her sister’s bed.

“You okay?”

Jada stood at the foot of the bed, her face heavy with worry.

Angela rubbed her forehead. The events of the previous night slowly flooded back to her. “What time is it?”

“Close to two.”

“In the afternoon?”

Jada nodded.

“Please tell me I just had a very bad dream and that Cornell isn’t dead.”

Jada sat down next to her on the bed. “No,” she said, “you weren’t dreaming.”

Angela started trembling and Jada wrapped her arms around her. “It’s okay, Angela. It’s going to be okay.”

“No, it’s not,” she cried. “I can’t believe it. I killed Cornell.”

Jada pulled away. “What? You didn’t kill Cornell. Dre shot Cornell. And, anyway, it was self-defense.”

“That’s not how it happened. I did it.”

“According to the news reports, Dre told the police that he fired the gun.”

Angela was sobbing uncontrollably now. “He’s just trying to protect me. I can’t let him do that.”

“Do you understand what you’re saying?” Jada asked in alarm.

“I’m telling you, Dre didn’t shoot Cornell. I did.”

Angela stood up, but felt lightheaded. She tried to take a step and stumbled. Jada rushed to catch her.

“You can’t go anywhere right now,” Jada said, helping her back to bed. “Anyway, Mama is on her way over. She’s in hysterics. The news reports are saying Dre was your boyfriend. Cornell is dead, but all she wants to know is why her daughter is dating a drug dealer.”

Angela held up a hand. “I can’t deal with her right now. Call her and tell her I left.”

“Gladly,” Jada said. “And I know I shouldn’t say this, but I’m glad that asshole is dead. If you hadn’t been driving my car last night, you wouldn’t have had my gun to protect yourself, and you’d probably be the one dead, not Cornell.”

“Please, Jada, don’t. I can’t handle—”

“And I’ll tell you another thing, I know you’re still trippin’ because Dre used to deal, but in my book, he’s way more of a man than Cornell ever was. Do you think Cornell would’ve taken the rap for you the way Dre did? Hell, no. I’d much rather see you with Dre than Cornell.”

At the moment, Angela didn’t want to be with anybody. “I need to call my boss. I probably don’t even have a job any more.” She spotted her purse on the nightstand and retrieved her BlackBerry. She was about to call the office, but suddenly remembered that she hadn’t even bothered to thank Dre for saving her life.

“I need to talk to Dre first.” When she looked at the call display, she saw four missed calls from him. She hit redial and waited as the phone rang.

“I’m so sorry,” she cried, as soon as she heard his voice.

“You don’t have anything to be sorry about.”

“I shot Cornell, but everybody thinks you did.”

“Everybody thinks I did it because I did do it,” he insisted.

“You don’t have to do this. And I won’t let you.”

“You’re not letting me do anything. I already told the police that I killed him. Please tell me you told them the same thing.”

Angela tried to think. “I’m not sure what I told them. I was so out of it I can’t even remember.”

“Didn’t they question you?”

“Yeah, but not very long. I was crying so much I could barely get any words out. I knew one of the detectives. I think he cut me some slack. But I’m going to have to tell my story eventually.”

“Well, you’re going to tell them that I pulled the trigger.”

Angela was dizzy with confusion. She thought back to the first murder case she had tried. A domestic abuse case where the wife had shot her husband. The woman had insisted she couldn’t remember firing the gun. Angela had destroyed her on the witness stand, ripping her unlikely story to shreds. Now, she realized that the woman may have been telling the truth because her own recollection of what had happened the night before was nothing but a big haze.

“I need to see you,” Dre said. “Can I come over?”

Angela wanted to see him, too, but she had to get her head on straight first. There was still the fact that he was a drug dealer and she did not want to be in love with a drug dealer. Even one who had saved her life.

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea. My mother’s on her way over. And I need to talk to a lawyer.”

“What for? You are a lawyer.”

“There’s a reason they say a lawyer who represents himself has a fool for a client. I need to get some legal advice and so do you.”

There was only silence on both ends of the phone.

“Are you still there?” Angela asked.

“Yeah, I’m here.” Dre’s tone was suddenly distant.

“I want to thank you again,” Angela said. “How did you end up in the garage?”

“I didn’t believe Cornell was going to back off,” Dre said. “I’d been keeping an eye on you.”

“Well, I’m glad you did.”

“But not glad enough to let me come over?”

“We’re both in a lot of trouble.”

“What trouble?” Dre said. “Dude got what he deserved.”

Angela could not bring herself to share Dre or Jada’s view. At one time, she had loved Cornell and had planned to be his wife, to have his children. The image of his hands around her throat couldn’t completely erase those memories. Angela closed her eyes and wished she could make this all go away.

“I really want to see you,” Dre prodded.

I want to see you, too. “Just give me some time,” Angela said. “I promise. I’ll call you.”

Chapter 70

ERICKSON sat on the balcony of his magnificent townhouse overlooking the Potomac, sipping an expensive scotch and enjoying the tranquility.

So far, Becker’s predictions had been right. The media had not picked up on Ashley’s unfounded accusations and it appeared that they would not. He’d placed his faith in Becker and, as promised, his trusted friend had taken care of everything.

Since Becker didn’t appear to be worried about the results of Claire’s autopsy, Erickson saw no reason to be. Once the autopsy was released, everyone would know Ashley was a lunatic and this whole ordeal would be put to rest. Erickson planned to return home next week, pack up and never look back. The following weekend, Mandy was flying in for a visit.

His cell phone rang and he glanced at the caller ID. It was a Los Angeles area code. He picked up.

“Hi, it’s Bill Randolph.” Randolph was a reporter for the L.A. Times he’d known for years. Randolph often called him for quotes on controversial Supreme Court decisions. He was one of only a handful of reporters who had his personal cell phone number. “Congrats on the new job.”

“Thanks. What can I do for you?” Erickson was always leery about talking to reporters, even the ones he liked.

“Can’t say you’re going to be happy to get this call. But I wanted to give you a chance to respond.”

Erickson sat forward, put down his scotch and switched the phone from his left ear to his right.

“Respond to what?”

“There are rumors floating around about the results of your wife’s autopsy.”

Trepidation hit him like a brick to his skull. If Randolph was following up on a rumor, it was as good as fact. He was that kind of reporter. “And. . .?”

“And it indicates foul play.”

“Excuse me?”

“The autopsy report shows your wife died from an overdose of morphine.”

Erickson was glad he was sitting down. “How could that be?”

“I suspect that’s what the authorities are going to be asking you.”

He trusted Randolph, but he knew he could not say another word. “I think I need to cut this conversation short.”

“Can we talk off the record?” Randolph asked.

There was no such thing as off the record. Reporters should only be provided with information you wanted them to disseminate. Even the best ones would sell you out in the hope of writing a story that might win them a Pulitzer.

“Tell me what else you know,” Erickson said.

“The amount of morphine your wife had in her body could’ve killed a horse. Far in excess of what her doctor had prescribed.”

Christ! Why in hell was he hearing this from a reporter and not Becker? “This is very disturbing news,” Erickson said. “I need to go.”

“The drug was administered intravenously. The coroner is classifying her death as a homicide.”

Erickson shakily reached for the scotch bottle and refilled his glass. He was the husband of a murdered woman. The husband was always the most logical suspect. With Ashley spreading her vicious lies, no one would believe his proclamations of innocence.

Randolph seemed to be giving him time for the news to sink in and he appreciated that.

“Any idea how the drug got into her system?” Randolph finally asked.

“No, and like I said, we need to cut this conversation short.”

“Sounds like this is all a big surprise to you.”

“Of course it is,” Erickson said, his irritation obvious. “When are you planning to run this story?”

“I’m not sure yet.”

“I’d appreciate a heads up before you do.”

He hung up and cursed. How incredibly stupid he’d been to trust Roland Becker. There was no way he was going down for murder.

Especially one he didn’t commit.

Chapter 71

IT took some doing, but Waverly finally convinced Angela Evans’ assistant to call her at home and pass on his urgent message. He was now staring at his BlackBerry, willing it to ring.

“She’ll call,” Britney said, encouragingly. She was lying on her back, her flat stomach exposed, obnoxiously smacking her gum.

“I wish I could see that prosecutor’s face when you tell her she’s cold busted,” Britney said.

Waverly wished he could, too. He stood up and headed for the bathroom. Angela Evans was the only card he had left to play. He hoped it was a winner.

He walked back into the room just as Britney was putting away her cell phone.

“I said no phone calls. Who were you talking to?”

“Just my friend, Shana. She checks in on me every day. If she tried to call me and couldn’t reach me, she’d flip out. I left her a message letting her know I’d met a new guy who was taking me away for the weekend.” She winked.

“I told you I didn’t want you calling anybody. So, don’t make another call. Somebody could be tracking you.” As he said the words, he realized how much of a risk he was taking by using his own phone. But if Angela called, he’d have to answer.

“Okay, okay. You think that prosecutor’s really going to call you back?” she asked.

“I’m hoping and praying she does.”

“Do I get to tag along?”

“Nope. You’re staying right here.”

“I can be your lookout.

“No, thanks.”

“Okay, whatever,” Britney said. “I’m going to take a shower.” She pranced over to the closet near the door and pulled out one of the terrycloth bathrobes. “I love these hotel robes.” She rubbed it against her face. “One day, I’m going to buy myself one.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Waverly could see her pull her T-shirt over her head and unsnap her bra.

“Hey,” she called over to him.

“What?” Waverly kept his eyes on the television screen.

“I’m talking to you.”

Waverly yawned. “And I’m listening.”

She hurled her bra across the room and it landed in his lap. Waverly finally turned to face her. Britney was still in her jeans, but was naked from the waist up. The girl just didn’t get it. Halle Berry couldn’t get a rise out of him right now.

She pranced across the room, her breasts bobbing with each step. “Sorry about that. I was aiming for the bed.” She bent toward him, though she didn’t need to, and retrieved her bra from his lap. Her breasts nearly brushed his lips.

“You don’t quit, do you?”

She smiled, slowly unzipped her jeans, stepped out of them and stood before him in nothing but a bright pink thong.

“Last chance,” she said, her shoulders erect, her belly button inches from his nose.

“Why don’t you go take that shower,” Waverly said.

When she didn’t move, he grabbed her arm and tugged her aside. “You’re blocking the TV.”

The flash of anger in Britney’s was so intense, that for a moment, it unnerved him. She did an overly dramatic turn and stomped toward the bathroom, slamming the door behind her.

Thirty-two minutes later, Waverly got the call he’d been praying for.

“This is Angela Evans. I’m returning your call.” The woman had the same lofty tone as when she barged into his office with the arrogant blonde prick.

“Thanks a lot,” Waverly replied. “I wasn’t sure you would actually call me back.”

“Well, I’m calling. What can I do for you?”

“It’s not what you can do for me,” Waverly said. “It’s what I can do for you.”

“Excuse me?”

“I realize you’ve been through quite an ordeal in the last few hours, so I won’t waste your time. I have someone who says that shooting in the garage of your apartment building didn’t go down the way you and your boyfriend claim it did.”

When Angela responded with a soft intake of breath, he knew Britney had it right.

“What’s she saying?” Britney asked. She was seated next to him on the bed, bouncing up and down.

Waverly put a finger to his lips. “Are you there, Ms. Evans?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Angela said finally.

“Well, let me explain. I have a friend who lives in your apartment building. She was there when you pulled out that gun.”

“And exactly what did she see?”

“I’ll share more details when we get together.”

“Who said we’re getting together?”

“I did.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea. If you have information about the case, then you should take it to the police.”

“Do you really want me to do that?” Waverly taunted. Prosecutors were natural born bluffers. She was probably stressing out on the other end of the phone.

“What is this? Some kind of extortion attempt?”

“Not at all, but I do want something from you,” Waverly said.

“And why doesn’t that surprise me?”

“All I want is for you to make sure I get a fair shot. I didn’t murder anybody. I need you to help me prove that.”

“You need to call the D.A.’s office.”

Waverly ignored the advice. “We need to talk. Face-to-face,” he said. “Then I’ll reveal the information I have about your fiancé’s murder.”

When Angela didn’t respond, Waverly kept talking. “You need to trust me. I think it could be worth your while. You really don’t want me and my witness to go to the police.”

“How do I know this isn’t some kind of scam?” Angela asked.

Waverly laughed. “You know my situation. I’m in no position to scam you or anybody else. I just want to convince you that I haven’t done anything wrong.”

“You could’ve done that when we came to your office the other day.”

“Things are different now. I swear, I’ll explain everything to you, but we have to talk in person. I want you to meet me at the Marriott Hotel. The one on Century near the airport. There’s a sports bar there called Champions. Eight o’clock. I’ll be waiting for you. And make sure you come alone.”

The phone fell quiet. At least she was considering his proposal.

“Why there?” Angela finally asked.

“I’d just feel safer in a crowded, public place.”

Again, Waverly gave her as much time as she needed to contemplate his request.

“Please come,” he said, trying not to sound desperate. You’re my only hope.

Chapter 72

WHEN Dre saw Angela’s number pop up on his cell phone, his spirits immediately lifted. He figured she was having second thoughts and wanted him to come over.

“Somebody was in the garage! They know that I shot Cornell, not you!”

“What?”

“Somebody saw the whole thing.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know,” Angela said. “He wouldn’t tell me the person’s name.”

“Who’s he?”

“Waverly Sloan. An attorney we were investigating in an insurance scam.”

“I don’t understand,” Dre said. “How did he get mixed up in this?”

“I don’t know. He claims he has a friend who lives in my apartment building. Says the friend saw everything.”

“That’s way too much of a coincidence. I don’t buy it. What does he want? Did he ask you for money?”

“He wants me to meet him at the Marriott near the airport. He thinks I can help him with his case, but I can’t.”

“I don’t think you should go,” Dre said. “He may be settin’ you up. For what, I don’t know.”

“I can’t afford to take that chance. What if he really does have a witness?”

“This is bullshit. We were all struggling for the gun. There was no way for anybody to tell who pulled the trigger.”

“But what if—”

“But nothin’,” Dre insisted. “This don’t sound like it’s on the up and up.”

“I’m going,” Angela said. “He told me to come alone.”

“You damn sho’ ain’t going alone. I’m comin’ with you.”

“I can’t keep dragging you into my craziness.”

“Too late. I’m already up in it.”

Dre heard another phone ring.

“Hold on,” Angela said anxiously. “This might be him calling back. I made the mistake of calling him from my sister’s line so he has this number. Let me call you back.”

Angela grabbed the telephone received from the nightstand. “Hello.”

“I was just calling to check on you.” It was Zack.

“Oh, hi.” Her voice fell flat. “I thought it was someone else.”

“Sorry to disappoint you.”

“No, I didn’t mean it like that. Thanks for calling.”

“Sounds like you might have the makings of a real legal thriller,” Zack teased. “If I were you, I’d be taking lots of notes.”

Angela laughed. “Zack, you’re one in a million. Don’t you ever forget that.”

“Thanks,” he said proudly. “Did the papers get it right? Are you really dating that guy?”

“I don’t want to talk about this right now.”

“Hey, I’ve been telling everybody around here that it’s nonsense. I figured if I got it from the horse’s mouth, I could help squash the rumor mill.”

“I have far more important things than the rumor mill to worry about right now.”

“I bet you do. Anything I can do to help?”

Angela was about to say no and rush him off the phone, but reconsidered. “Can you email me a copy of that background memo Salina prepared on Waverly Sloan?”

Zack paused. “Why do you need that?”

Angela scrambled for a plausible explanation. “I’m still convinced he’s responsible for Jon’s death. I’m not abandoning our investigation. Can you do it?”

A couple of beats passed. “Okay, sure.”

She could tell that Zack didn’t buy her story, but he took down her personal email address anyway.

“Just make sure you keep me in the loop,” Zack said. “You’ve got the story of the year. I bet you’re going to end up getting a book contract and a movie deal.”

Dre called back and finally convinced Angela that it wasn’t safe for her to meet Waverly Sloan alone. A few reporters were milling around her apartment, so she arranged to pick him up in the parking lot of the Ladera Center.

Dre spotted Angela’s Saab as she drove down the aisle in front of the CVS store. He climbed out of his Volkswagen and waved her over.

“How you doing?” Dre asked, as he settled into the passenger seat and hooked his seat belt.

“Pretty awful. What about you?”

“Not too bad considering I could be in jail for murder.”

“That’s my guy,” Angela said, “always looking at the silver lining.”

My guy. Dre almost smiled. He liked hearing her call him her guy, even though the statement dripped with sarcasm.

The events of the past few days had obviously taken a lot out of her. She wore black slacks and a simple white blouse, with her hair pulled back in a loose bun. Her face was bare of makeup and dark circles surrounded her puffy eyes.

Dre sensed that Angela did not want to talk, so he didn’t push it. He was just happy that she had called him. That meant she needed him. When she appeared to be heading in the direction of the 405 Freeway, he broke the silence.

“It’s probably faster if you just stay on La Cienega, then make a right on Century,” Dre offered.

No,” she barked back at him. “It’s faster to take the freeway.”

What was up with the attitude? “Okay, you’re the driver.”

“Yes, I am, and that’s the way I’m going.”

He cocked his head and stared at her. All broads were crazy, Dre thought. Every last one of ‘em.

The silence made him antsy, so he reached out to turn on the radio.

“Don’t do that,” she said, practically yelling. “I can’t think with music on.”

Dre looked out of the window and stroked his goatee. He was only along for the ride to help her ass. He wasn’t going to sit there and deal with her bitchiness.

“Can I ask you something?” He turned to face her. “Why you givin’ me attitude?”

It took Angela a long time to respond and when she finally did, the edge in her voice was gone.

“Didn’t realize I was doing that. Sorry.” A tear rolled down her cheek. “I got a call from Cornell’s mother right before I left. She said some pretty nasty things to me. Of course, Cornell told her that he called off the wedding because I was screwing around with a drug dealer. The news reports played right into that.”

Dre tried to think of something to say that would make her feel better, but came up empty. He wished he could say what he really felt. The muthafucka got what he deserved.

They were exiting the freeway on Century Boulevard now. “The hotel is going to be up there on the right, before you get to Airport Boulevard.” Dre pointed up ahead. “You need to slow up or you’ll miss the driveway.”

This time, Angela didn’t bark at him. She slowed and made a right turn, which took them up a short incline to the entrance of the hotel.

Angela drove toward the valet area. When the attendant approached, Dre hopped out and walked around to talk to him. Angela was puzzled when Dre pulled two twenty dollar bills from his wallet and handed them to the man.

“What was that for?” Angela asked, when he returned to the car.

“He’s going to keep the car parked out here and leave the keys underneath the floor mat.”

“Why?”

“We have no idea what’s about to go down. We may need to get out of here in a hurry and I don’t wanna have to wait while somebody goes lookin’ for your car.”

“If you’re trying to scare me, it’s working.”

“I’m trying to prepare you, not scare you. If this guy is actually killing his clients, you could be in danger. You ready?”

“I guess so.”

“We probably shouldn’t walk in together since he told you to come alone. If you don’t see him when you first walk in, just take a seat. He’s probably someplace watching you.”

Dre heard a low moan and saw fear on Angela’s face. He wished he could kiss it away.

“You know what he looks like, right?” Dre asked.

Angela nodded.

“The Lakers are playing tonight, so the bar is likely to be packed. That’s a good thing.”

Angela rubbed her hands together. “Where are you going to be?”

“Close,” he said, fighting the urge to embrace her. “Don’t worry. I’m not letting you out of my sight. Nothing’s going to happen to you. I promise.”

Chapter 73

“I have some good news and some bad news,” Becker said, when he reached Erickson in Washington. “First, the bad news. I need you to get back home. Tonight.”

“What’s going on?” Erickson said, his voice shaky. He explained that he had just left a reception at the French Embassy and was standing outside waiting for his driver.

“I just got word that the L.A.P.D. plans to serve a search warrant on your house early tomorrow morning.”

Becker heard Erickson groan on the other end of the phone. “So, it’s about to be over.”

“Not necessarily,” Becker replied, though he knew that it was.

“I don’t need your platitudes,” Erickson snapped. “I’m only in this situation because of you!”

Becker remained silent. Just as he had anticipated, Erickson was behaving like a cornered rat. No one as weak as Lawrence Erickson deserved to be Attorney General of the United States, much less chairman of a firm like Jankowski, Parkins.

“Just calm down,” he said to his friend.

“Don’t tell me to calm down!” Erickson sputtered in a hushed voice. “I didn’t kill Claire, but if they’re serving a search warrant on my home, that means somebody thinks I did.”

Becker ignored his rant. “They aren’t going to find anything when they search your house, are they?” Becker asked.

“How can you ask me that? You know Claire died from a drug overdose!”

Now, Becker was silent. Erickson knew about the morphine? But how? Unless . . .

“And don’t pretend as if you didn’t know,” Erickson said.

“Yes, I knew,” Becker finally replied. “But how did you know?”

“A reporter from The Times called me a few hours ago.”

“Why didn’t you tell me about the call?” Becker asked suspiciously.

“Why didn’t you tell me that you were stupid enough to kill Claire with a traceable drug?” Erickson shot back.

Becker’s brain froze. “I didn’t kill Claire.”

“What? What are you—you were at my house with your daughters,” Erickson sputtered. “You left to use the bathroom and minutes later, Claire was dead.”

“I said I didn’t kill Claire,” Becker repeated sternly. “I told you I was only going to do it when you were out of town. And I wouldn’t be stupid enough to inject her with a drug like morphine. That’s what you’ve been thinking all this time? That I killed her?”

Becker began to sweat. Was this all an act on Erickson’s part? The tale about The Times reporter sounded awful convenient. Maybe Erickson knew about the morphine because he administered it. Had Becker been wrong about Ashley? Had Erickson killed Claire with the intent to set him up to take the fall?

“If you didn’t do it, then who did?” Erickson asked, his tone bursting with impatience.

“Until I learned about the autopsy report, I thought she died from the cancer,” Becker said. “Like I told you, I figured we just got lucky.”

“That autopsy report certainly says otherwise. Are you telling me you have no idea who killed her?”

Becker boldly decided to test the waters. “Perhaps you did.”

“What? That’s ridiculous,” Erickson snarled. “How could you even utter those words!”

“Hold on a minute.” Becker yelled to his wife, then returned to the phone. “I don’t have much time,” he said hurriedly. “Kaylee has a soccer game.”

“I think this discussion is a little more important than Kaylee’s soccer game,” he snarled. “Who did it, goddamn it? Was it Waverly Sloan?”

“No, it wasn’t Sloan.” Becker intentionally paused. “I think Ashley did it. Ashley killed her mother and she’s framing you for the murder.”

Becker could hear movement on the other end of the line and imagined Erickson stumbling off the curb. “What? Are you insane. She wouldn’t—”

“Think about it,” Becker said. “Ashley despised you for sending her away. I would suspect that she also harbored similar feelings for her mother for letting it happen. Ashley discovered her mother’s body. Ashley cancelled the cremation. Ashley demanded an autopsy. And now, she’s waging a campaign to pin the murder on you. What better way to get her revenge?”

Becker gave his boss several seconds to absorb the news.

“Do you know for sure?” Erickson finally asked.

“As sure as I can be,” Becker said. In reality, he believed there was an equal chance that he was talking to Claire’s killer.

“You said you had some good news and some bad news,” Erickson said weakly. “What’s the good news?”

“That AUSA who’s been investigating Waverly Sloan and Live Now may be facing a murder charge herself.”

“What?”

“Turn on the news when you get home,” Becker said. “Believe it or not, Angela Evans was dating some drug dealer. One or both of them shot a judge she was planning to marry in a few weeks. I suspect she won’t have much time now to work on linking you to Waverly Sloan.”

Chapter 74

ANGELA stepped inside the Airport Marriott Hotel and scanned the crowded lobby. Her eyes bounced from the registration desk, to the concierge and bellman stations, to the comfortable sitting areas. She saw no sign of Waverly Sloan.

A large neon sign to the right marked the entrance to the Champions Sports Bar. She walked inside, but loitered near the doorway. She didn’t see Sloan there either.

It was a typical sports bar. Flat screen TVs hung from the ceiling. Colorful sports memorabilia papered the walls. Barstools and comfy booths dotted the room. Servers in black and white striped referee uniforms maneuvered through the semidarkness carrying trays of drinks and appetizers.

As Angela passed the bartender, a rotund Latino with a Fu Manchu mustache, he winked, which made her smile and helped lessen some of her anxiety. She selected a booth at the south end of the room because it gave her the best vantage point of the rest of the bar.

Angela slid into the booth and waited. Every few seconds, her eyes scanned the room for any sign of Waverly Sloan. She began to question whether he would actually show up. The man was suspected of killing his clients. Maybe this was some kind of trick. She tried hard to block out her unconstructive thoughts, but couldn’t think of anything else to concentrate on.

When her nerves seemed ready to shatter, she saw Dre sitting at the far end of the bar nursing a drink. His presence instantly calmed her.

Angela pulled out her BlackBerry to look up Waverly’s number just as he walked up to the table.

He sat down across from her. “Thanks for coming.”

Angela wasted no time. “Okay, I’m here. What do you want?”

“Like I told you on the phone, I want you to hear my story. I didn’t murder any of my clients. I just want a fair investigation.”

“And like I told you, you should be talking to the police or the D.A., not me.”

“I need you to talk to them for me,” Waverly said. “They’ll believe you.”

“I doubt there’s much I can do to help you. I have my own troubles, remember? I’m only here because I’m curious about this witness you claim to have.”

“I don’t claim to have a witness. I actually have one.”

“Where is he? Or is it a she?”

“Around,” Waverly said.

Angela was much too exhausted for any antics. “I’ve been through hell in the last twenty-four hours. I don’t have time for games.”

“I’m not playing games,” Waverly said. “My life and my career are on the line. Just like yours.”

Angela stared directly into his eyes and Waverly stared right back. “If you really didn’t kill your clients,” she said, “that will come out in the end.”

Waverly chuckled. “Oh, so you’re telling me I should just believe in truth and justice for all? That innocent people don’t get convicted? I’m a lawyer, remember?”

“For the most part, the system works.”

“Well, I can’t take a chance on it possibly not working for me. Someone’s trying to set me up and they would probably prefer to have me dead.”

Angela made a face. Guilty people always claimed they were set up. But she was here, so she might as well hear his story. “And exactly who would want to set you up?”

Waverly’s eyes flicked around the room. “One of my investors.”

“What’s his name?”

Waverly cracked his knuckles. “Unfortunately, I don’t have much information on him. All I know is that his name is Rico.”

“You don’t know his full name?” she asked, incredulous. “How could he be an investor if you don’t even know his name?”

“I’ve never met him. He had me investing in the name of his corporation.”

“Why?”

“Our deals were under the table, so to speak.”

“Under the table? Does that mean you were laundering dirty money?”

“Basically.”

“Drug money?”

Waverly was slow to answer. “I don’t really know for sure. But probably.”

“And you think this guy is killing your clients and setting you up to take the fall?”

“Yeah, I do.”

Angela gave him a look that said she did not believe a word of his story. She leaned over the table. “Let me get this straight. Some bad guy”—she paused and made imaginary quotation marks in the air with her fingers—”is killing your terminally ill clients and blaming it on you. You don’t know this bad guy’s name or address or even what he looks like, even though you’ve been investing thousands of dollars for him. That’s what you want me to tell the police? Why would anyone, not to mention the police, believe that story?”

Waverly’s face hardened. “I think my story is just as believable as the tale you’ve been spinning. Let’s see what I can piece together from the news reports. A smart, successful assistant U.S. attorney who graduated from Stanford Law School, dumps her judge-slash-fiancé weeks before their wedding because she’d rather be with a convicted drug dealer. The judge isn’t happy about the breakup and drops by her place to talk to her about it. The assistant U.S. attorney takes out a thirty-eight to shoot him, but her ex-con boyfriend comes running from out of nowhere and pulls the trigger for her. The attorney and the drug dealer claim it was self-defense. The judge can’t tell his side of the story because he’s dead.” Waverly paused. “Why would anyone believe that story?”

Now Angela was fuming and Waverly seemed to sense that and used the opportunity to continue pushing her buttons.

“My witness says your boyfriend was nowhere around when you pointed that gun at the judge. My witness also says the judge backed away the second you took it out. When you shoot someone who’s retreating, that’s not self-defense. That’s murder.”

Angela’s recollection was still hazy regarding exactly what had happened in the garage. But she wasn’t about to admit that to Waverly. “I don’t believe you even have a witness. If you did, they’d be here.”

“Get your hands off of me or I’ll blow your goddamn guts out.” Do those words ring a bell?”

The room suddenly felt swelteringly hot. Those words—Angela’s words—took her right back to the garage. She could almost feel Cornell’s hand around her neck.

“Oh, I have a witness alright,” Waverly continued. “And I can see from the expression on your face that my friend must have quoted you correctly. You help me cut a deal and I guarantee you my witness will never surface.”

Angela did not know how to respond. She needed to know everything his witness knew. “I want to talk to your witness,” she said. “Is it a man or a woman?”

Waverly hesitated as if he was uncertain about giving up that information. “It’s a woman.”

“What’s her name?”

“You don’t need to know that right now.”

“I’ll need to talk to her before I agree to go any further. And I’m not saying I can actually help you.” She paused. “But I’ll try.”

Waverly’s entire body exhaled. “I’m not ready to produce her yet. But to prove to you that she really exists, I’ll let you speak to her on the phone.” He rose from the booth. “I need to make a run to the men’s room first.”

Angela watched Waverly walk away. She was so nervous she’d kept her trembling hands hidden underneath the table during their entire conversation. She glanced toward the bar. Dre wasn’t there. She scanned the rest of the room. Where is he?

She flinched when her BlackBerry vibrated. She grabbed it from the table. Dre had sent her a text.

Get car hav 2 go now!

Angela stared at the message, perplexed. She typed a quick reply.

Why

Dre fired back.

Cant xplain jus do it!

Chapter 75

ERICKSON seethed with anger as he stood in his family room surveying the destruction caused by the L.A.P.D.’s rampage through his home. The entire house was in complete shambles and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.

He had arrived home only minutes earlier, having decided that it was best that he not be present when the L.A.P.D. served the search warrant. It would not look good for the Attorney General of the United States to be pictured on the six o’clock news standing idly by while his home was ransacked by police.

His family room looked as if a herd of buffalo had thundered through it. The coffee tables and couches were turned on their sides. Lamps, pillows, magazines and books were scattered about the floor. In the adjacent kitchen, there was a broken dish on the countertop and an overturned trashcan on the floor. All of the cabinet doors were open and two were off their hinges.

The doorbell rang and Erickson hurried toward the entryway. He almost slipped in a pile of dirt spilled onto the floor from a potted plant that lay on its side.

He opened the door and Becker stepped inside.

“How are you?” Becker asked.

Erickson led the way inside. “I could be better.”

A palpable level of distrust now existed between them.

When they got to the family room, Becker stopped and whistled. “Look at this place. This is obscene.”

“I would have to agree.” Erickson walked over to the bar in search of something to drink. He found a bottle of two hundred dollar scotch broken into several pieces, its contents having seeped into the carpet. He picked up an undamaged fifth of vodka on the floor near the television and poured himself a drink.

“I would offer you a place to sit,” Erickson said, “but things are a bit in disarray at the moment.”

Becker set his briefcase on the center island in the kitchen which looked out into the family room. “Have you been watching the news?”

“Nope,” Erickson said. “Figured it would be too painful. Did they find anything?” Please tell me Claire didn’t have a second copy of that DVD.

“What’s to find?” Becker asked.

“Nothing,” Erickson said, resenting the question. “Absolutely nothing. But if Ashley’s trying to set me up as you claim, there’s no telling what she could have planted.”

“It’s too soon for me to know anything. My contacts need a few days to nose around. Anyway, no one’s saying you’re a suspect. Just a person of interest.”

Erickson tried to laugh. “Isn’t that just a nicer way of saying the same thing?”

Becker spread his hands in a gesture of acquiescence. “Have you talked to the White House yet?”

“No.” Erickson took a sip of vodka. “But I assume they’ve been calling.”

“You assume?”

“I turned off my phone. I would suspect Wrigley’s been trying to reach me.”

“Yes, he has,” Becker confirmed. “When he couldn’t reach you, he called me. He’s pretty hot. You need to call him right away.”

“I will.”

“Where do we go from here?” Becker asked.

“That’s certainly a strange question coming from you,” Erickson said, his voice tight. “You’ve been the one calling all the shots. Now that everything’s a disaster, you want me to take over?”

“This wasn’t how I planned it.”

“Is that so?” Erickson drained his glass. He now suspected that this was exactly how Becker had planned it. How stupid he had been. “If Ashley killed Claire, I want her behind bars.” And you along with her.

“I have a copy of today’s L.A. Times if you’d like to see it.” Becker removed the newspaper from his briefcase and handed it to him.

The bold headline splashed across the front page stunned him: Foul Play Suspected in Death of AG’s Wife.

His face slowly darkened as he read the story. “All this innuendo is completely slanderous!” Erickson shouted. “They might as well say I killed her. How can they do this?”

At this point, Erickson knew there was nothing he could say or do to salvage his reputation. Even if he was cleared, the media speculation would do almost as much damage as a conviction. He hurled the newspaper across the room.

“It is what it is,” Becker said.

“It is what it is. Is that all you have to say? This was your idea and your plan, yet I’m the one holding the bag.”

“You didn’t kill Claire,” Becker said. “So, you have nothing to worry about.”

“Don’t you dare humor me! You read that story! Some prosecutor with a bug up his ass would love to further his career by putting me behind bars. Just tell me what evidence you have against Ashley so I can get this thing over with.”

Becker averted his eyes. “I wish I had some, but I don’t.”

Erickson felt like he’d just been slapped. “But you said she killed Claire.”

“And I think she did.”

“You think? You fucking think? That isn’t good enough. If I go down, you’re going down with me!”

Becker closed his briefcase. “Like I said, I’ll take care of everything. I’ll give you a call after I talk to my contact.”

Chapter 76

ANGELA grabbed her purse from the table and walked briskly toward the entrance of the bar. It took every ounce of willpower she could muster not to break into a sprint. The bartender winked at her again, but she didn’t take the time to acknowledge him.

Trying not to draw attention to herself, Angela zigzagged through the crowded lobby. What did Dre see? She charged through the glass doors and trotted to her car. Dre’s decision to keep the car parked out front had been a smart move.

She snatched open the door and retrieved the keys from underneath the floor mat. As she started up her Saab, she looked around, praying Dre was on his way out.

Her heart beat wildly as she waited. Where was he?

Angela heard the rapid fire of gunshots, and seconds later, a rush of people poured out of the hotel. More gunshots followed as a large wall of glass came crashing down, spraying debris in every direction. Hotel guests scattered about like ants, wedging Angela’s Saab between frantic, screaming people. She couldn’t move the car an inch even if she wanted to.

A pounding on the passenger window made her jump.

“Open the door!” Dre yelled.

She fumbled with the electronic door locks until they finally clicked open. Dre swung the door open and jumped inside. “Let’s get out of here!”

“I can’t! Not without running over somebody.” Just then, a man climbed across the hood.

Keeping her foot on the brake, Angela gripped the steering wheel with both hands, terrified that she was going to run over someone.

Dre reached over and pressed the horn, causing people to scatter, giving them room to slowly move forward. They made it through most of the crowd and were headed down the ramp toward the street when the back door opened and Waverly Sloan tumbled in, falling across the seat.

“Somebody’s trying to kill me!”

“Man, we ain’t tryin’ to get caught up in your bullshit,” Dre shouted.

“Just drive,” Waverly exclaimed. “We have to get out of here!”

Angela finally made it to the street and turned right onto Century Boulevard.

“We can’t go this way,” Dre said, as Angela passed the intersection at Airport Boulevard. “This leads straight into the airport. Make a U-turn.”

Angela glanced to her left. Huge plants and palm trees lined the median dividing east and west traffic. “I can’t. There’s no place to turn!”

“Just drive across the median.”

Angela was so rattled, she could barely keep her hands on the steering wheel. “I can’t do that!”

“Yes, you can,” Dre insisted. “Just do it.”

Waverly raised his head from the backseat. “No! Just keep straight. There’s no way they’re going to start anything inside the airport. Airport security would have this place shut down in seconds. We’ll be safer in there.”

“Hell, naw!” Dre yelled. “If anything goes down on airport property, the police are going to shoot first and ask questions later. We have to turn around.”

Angela was trying to decide what to do when a bullet pierced the back window, spraying glass throughout the car. She instantly swerved the car to the left, crossed over the median and headed back in the opposite direction, eastbound on Century Boulevard. Car horns blared at her from every direction.

Another bullet struck the left side of the car.

“Oh, my God! They’re going to kill us! I can’t do this.”

“Yes, you can!” Dre said. “Just keep your damn foot on the gas and drive like your life depended on it because right now, it does.”

Dre turned to look through what was left of the back window. “The shots came from that black Escalade.”

Angela cut around a Honda and almost slammed into a delivery truck as she raced through the intersection at Aviation against a red light.

“They’re getting close,” Dre said. “Floor it!”

Angela screamed when another bullet took out the mirror on the driver’s side.

“You’re doin’ good, baby. Just stay calm and keeping driving.”

The Saab charged through the intersection at La Cienega just as a big rig ambled in front of her.

“Oh, my God! We’re going to crash. I can’t stop!” Angela jerked the steering wheel to the right and somehow managed to whip the car clear of the truck.

A second later, a thunderous boom rocked the entire street.

Angela glanced at the rearview mirror. The Escalade had slammed into the cab of the big rig, setting off a chain reaction of crashes.

Dre pointed ahead. “Make a left on Inglewood, then another left four blocks up on Ninety-Sixth.”

“Where are we—”

“I don’t have time to explain,” Dre said, cutting her off. “Just do it.”

Angela did as instructed and eventually brought the car to a stop in the driveway of a small, pink house with a neat yard. “Park in the back on the grass,” Dre ordered, “and don’t ask me why.”

Once they were parked. Dre opened the door and jumped out. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

He returned seconds later with a set of car keys in hand. “Let’s go. I got us another ride.”

Dre opened the garage and drove a white van several yards down the driveway. Angela and Waverly climbed inside, while Dre hid Angela’s battered Saab in the garage and locked it.

This time Dre got behind the wheel. “Put your heads down,” Dre said. “The police are probably already looking for us.”

Though she kept her head down as instructed, Angela could tell that Dre was taking a series of side streets. The ride ended about twenty minutes later at an apartment building on La Brea.

Angela and Waverly quickly followed Dre up two flights of stairs. He opened the door and turned on the lights.

“Is this your apartment?” Angela asked.

“Yeah.”

Angela took in the neat interior. She had to step over several stacks of books to get to the couch.

“This doesn’t seem like a smart place for us to hide out,” Waverly said. “The police are probably on their way here to arrest us right now.”

“This place isn’t rented in my name. No one’s coming here because no one knows I live here.”

Angela gave Dre a judgmental look, that he ignored.

Waverly sat down on one end of the couch, Angela on the other. Dre remained standing, his arms folded.

“Dude, you need to tell us exactly what the deal is,” Dre said. “I don’t appreciate you getting us mixed up in this bullshit.”

Waverly dumped his head in his hands. “I really wish I knew what was going on.”

“Why’d you send me that text telling me to get the car?” Angela said to Dre.

He pointed at Waverly. “When he got up to go to the bathroom, I saw two dudes trailing him. I just had a bad vibe and figured we should leave.”

Waverly looked at Angela as if for sympathy. But like Dre, all she wanted was an explanation.

“I swear,” Waverly said, his voice cracking, “I have no idea what’s going on or who was shooting at us.”

Chapter 77

ZACK knew the deal. Becker only offered him the media liaison job to get him off Erickson’s trail. That was exactly how life was supposed to work. You scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours.

He rambled around his apartment, packing up for his move to Washington. Most of his furniture was already on its way there. The last few items he was now loading into boxes would be placed in storage.

Zack figured that he and Angela must have been close, real close, to discovering something that could bring down the Attorney General. The question was, was he willing to look the other way in exchange for a job that would give him the kind of exposure and media contacts that could surely hoist him to talking-head stardom? Based on the packing boxes stacked around his apartment, apparently so.

The way Zack saw it, it was a win-win for him. If Erickson survived, he’d have a pretty cool job. If Erickson floundered and ended up facing murder charges, Zack would be smack dab in the middle of the action. His insider’s account would be golden. If George Stephanopoulos could snag a book deal and his own TV show, so could he.

Zack had spent two days in Washington where he’d been treated like royalty. He had an impressive office in the Justice Department building on Pennsylvania Avenue, a staff of five and his own budget. Becker had even arranged a private tour of the White House.

Sure, he was selling out, but didn’t everybody? Eventually.

Instead of emailing that background memo on Waverly Sloan, Zack had decided to personally deliver it. Angela’s new boyfriend had just shot her fiancé and she was worried about bringing down Waverly Sloan? That did not compute. She wanted that memo for another reason and Zack was itching to find out what it was.

When Angela had opened the door at her sister’s apartment, she looked haggard and distracted. But after all she’d been through, that was totally understandable. They had chatted for a while about his move to Washington.

“Don’t you see what they’re doing?” Angela said. “They’re trying to get you out of the way.”

“I’m aware of that,” Zack said. He wasn’t an idiot.

“And you’re going along with it?”

“If I’m part of the inner circle. I’ll be in a better position to discover what’s really going on.”

“Yeah, right. Even if you find out anything, you’re not going to act on it.”

She was absolutely right. He was not going to bite the hand that was feeding him.

Zack had tried to hang around to talk to her, but sensed that Angela wanted him to leave.

“You sure you don’t want to talk about what happened?” Zack pried.

“I’m sure,” Angela said. “Actually, I’m pretty tired.”

Not too tired to read that memo. Zack ignored her hint. If she wanted him to leave, she would have to come out and say so.

“When do you leave for Washington?” she asked.

“In four days. I’m pretty psyched. I have an apartment in Georgetown and it’s costing me a bundle. I thought L.A. rents were sky high.”

“Well, good luck.”

It was almost as if she had said, Well, good luck, you sellout.

“I hate to be rude,” Angela said, “but I’d really like to get some rest.”

“Okay,” Zack replied, still not making a move. “When do you plan to get started reviewing that memo on Sloan?”

“I don’t know. Maybe tomorrow.”

“Well, if you come up with anything, give me a call.”

“I’ll be sure to do that.” Angela gave him a pathetic hug good-bye, then escorted him to the door.

So far, Zack had received three calls from colleagues who were speculating that maybe Angela—and not her drug dealer boyfriend—had really killed her fiancé. Zack couldn’t believe that a woman as smart as Angela would get mixed up with a guy like Andre Thomas. Even if she was cleared in the judge’s shooting, her career as a federal prosecutor was probably over. An assistant U.S. attorney dating an ex-con drug dealer would raise judgment issues and a taint she wouldn’t be able to shake.

Tipping off Becker that Angela was still investigating the case would probably earn him some loyalty points. But could he really betray Angela like that? He wanted to know who had killed Jon as much as she did.

After packing his last box, Zack rewarded himself with a beer. Before he could pop it open, his cell phone rang. He glanced at the clock. It was almost nine.

“Can you believe this?” It was Randy Dennison, another AUSA. “First, she’s involved in shooting that judge and now this! Is she trying to destroy her career or what?”

“Are you talking about Angela? What’s going on?”

“What rock have you been hiding under?” Randy said. “Turn on CNN. Angela was involved in a shootout near the airport.”

Zack dashed into his bedroom, stumbling over a box on the way. His flat screen TV still hung on the wall. The woman who was subletting his apartment had paid him a grand to leave it up. Where in the hell is the remote?

He spotted it atop a box in the corner, grabbed it and hit power. The TV was already on CNN. He watched Anderson Cooper day and night. If you wanted to stomp the competition, you had to study the competition.

Zack was mesmerized by the sequence of events captured by the hotel’s surveillance cameras. Angela was caught on tape, smack dab in the middle of shootout, complete with a hail of bullets, fleeing hotel guests, and her ex-con boyfriend.

“Holy smokes!” Was that Waverly Sloan jumping into the backseat? Zack hit pause, then rewind. TiVo was a godsend.

Zack couldn’t believe it. It was Waverly Sloan.

“You watching?” Randy asked excitedly.

“I’m watching, but I can’t believe it.”

“This is better than a James Bond movie!”

“Yeah, and knowing Angela,” Zack said with jealousy, “she’ll end up selling the movie rights for millions.”

Zack had to find out exactly what Angela was up to. He had to find out because he wanted a piece of the action, too.

Chapter 78

THE United Airlines plane had just touched down at Reagan National Airport when Erickson received Becker’s call.

“Where are you?” Becker asked.

“Just landed. I’m getting off the plane now.” He stepped around a groggy teenager to retrieve his bag from the overhead compartment.

Against Becker’s advice, Erickson had insisted on returning to Washington to discuss his situation in person with President Bancroft’s Chief of Staff. If Wrigley understood that Ashley was a spiteful young woman who was out to destroy him, he might see things differently. Becker disagreed with his decision and urged him to just hand in his resignation. But Erickson decided to do things his way for once. He would no longer put his trust in anything Roland Becker had to say.

“The police plan to pick Ashley up for questioning,” Becker said.

The news made him feel hopeful. The sooner Ashley was charged, the sooner his reputation would be salvaged. “How do you know that?” Erickson asked.

“One of my contacts,” Becker said.

As he thought about this possibility, Erickson realized that Ashley’s possible arrest was a double-edged sword. If Ashley had indeed killed her mother and ultimately confessed, she would likely tell police about his indiscretions. But it would be his word against hers. Who would believe a murderer?

“Did you find out anything more about the search?” He was still worried about the possibility that Claire had left another copy of that DVD somewhere around the house. Having the police discover it would destroy him.

“My sources haven’t heard anything yet.”

Erickson’s phone clicked, signaling another call. He looked at the caller ID. “It’s Wrigley. I need to take it.”

Erickson braced himself for a verbal onslaught, then clicked over.

“Is there a reason that you haven’t returned any of my fucking calls?” the Chief of Staff shouted into the telephone.

Erickson was off the plane now, strolling down the jet way, surrounded by other departing passengers. He glanced around to confirm that no one could overhear the conversation.

“You lied to me,” Wrigley roared. “You said your wife died of cancer. Have you seen the papers? We don’t need this crap!”

Erickson let him vent. “I just landed at Reagan. I was hoping to meet with you today.”

“Save the cab fare and use it for your return trip home,” Wrigley shouted. “You’re out.”

“I understand your concerns,” Erickson said, taking a seat in a deserted area near one of the departure gates. “But I’d at least like to give you my side of the story. My stepdaughter framed me. She killed her mother, not me.”

“Jesus Christ! Is that your fucking defense? My stepdaughter did it. Do you know how ridiculous that sounds?”

“Ridiculous or not, it’s the truth.”

“Well, we don’t need this shit. The President wants your resignation. Immediately.”

Erickson did not want to resign. That would only make him look guilty. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. I’m going to be cleared.”

“We don’t have time for you to be cleared. We can’t have our Attorney General facing murder charges. The President will look like a laughing stock.”

“I still think you need to hear my story. You’re going to be getting lots of media inquiries. You’ll need to know exactly what—”

“I don’t want to hear your goddamn story. I’ll have one of my aides contact you later. In the meantime, you can either resign or we’ll fire you. You have until seven o’clock tomorrow morning. If I don’t have your resignation by then, the Press Secretary will make the announcement at her morning briefing that you’ve been fired.”

Erickson stood there with the phone to his ear as Wrigley hung up. Ashley had finally done him in. Or had she?

The more he thought about it, this whole chain of events appeared to bear the markings of a well-crafted Roland Becker plot. His law partner had aspirations to run Jankowski, Parkins. Had he arranged this whole chain of events to get Erickson out of the way?

On more than a few occasions, he’d seen Becker lay a trap for an opposing counsel, carefully leading him down one path, all the while tiptoeing down a different one. By the time his opponent finally figured out he’d been played, it was too late to do anything about it.

Erickson was not about to go down for a murder he did not commit.

If Ashley killed Claire, he would make her pay. And if Becker did it, Erickson would make him pay double.

Chapter 79

“I really don’t mean to be rude,” Dre said, “but we need to figure somethin’ out ‘cuz I ain’t lookin’ for no permanent roommates.”

Dre, Waverly and Angela were sitting in the living room of Dre’s apartment, still shell-shocked from their ordeal.

“Don’t think we’re glad to be here either,” Waverly said. “So, what do we do?”

“Why you askin’ me?” Dre shot back. “This is your mess. You need to come up with a solution to your problem.”

Angela was curled up on the couch. She hadn’t spoken more than two words since they arrived. Cornell’s shooting was just over twenty-four hours ago and now this. Dre feared Angela was close to an emotional breakdown.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, Dre,” Angela said stoically, “but you’re probably in the best position to help us figure out what’s going on.”

“And how’s that?” he asked. “You two are the attorneys, not me.”

“Let’s just say that because of your background and experience in the”—she paused—”real world, you probably have a better understanding of the mindset of the guys who’re after Waverly than we do.”

Dre chuckled. “Oh, I get it. You’re saying because I’m a criminal—correction— former criminal, I’m more likely to understand how another criminal thinks. Is that it?”

“Exactly,” Angela said without apology.

Dre took a second to consider her statement. “I should be offended, but I’m not.” He sat down across from them. “I’ve only heard bits and pieces of your story,” he said to Waverly. “Why don’t you tell me the whole deal. Starting from day one.”

Waverly brushed his palm across his face and slumped further down on the couch. He began by explaining why he was disbarred, admitting how he had improperly borrowed client funds. He then recounted how Vincent had introduced him to the viatical business.

“Hold up,” Dre said, interrupting him. “Did you already know this guy?”

“Not really,” Waverly said. “I met him at a conference.”

“Somebody you don’t know offers you some get rich quick scheme and it didn’t raise any red flags?”

Waverly’s jaws tightened. “Do you want me to continue or not?”

“Sorry, dude,” Dre said with a shrug. “Go ahead.”

Waverly explained how he researched the viatical industry on the Internet, then met with the executives of Live Now to further confirm that it was a legitimate business.

“And you didn’t think it was strange that this company hired you as a broker? Even though you were disbarred?”

“Only Vincent knew I’d been disbarred and he told me he didn’t plan to tell them.”

Dre turned to Angela. “Dude’s pullin’ my leg, right?”

Angela looked sympathetically at Waverly. “No, I think he’s for real.”

“You need to check your paperwork, dude. You probably don’t even have a real license.”

“No,” Angela said. “We checked. His license is legit.”

Dre wasn’t taking Angela’s word for it. He turned to Waverly. “Is it?”

“Technically, no. I couldn’t get a viatical license after being disbarred. We paid off somebody at the Department of Insurance.”

Dre slowly swung his head from side to side. “I don’t know much about the vi—whatever the hell you call it, but I suspect they set you up from day one. That’s the reason we were dodging bullets tonight. You should’ve known you were dealing with crooks when they agreed to get you a phony license.”

Waverly seemed genuinely confused. “And exactly why would they set me up?”

“‘Cuz they’re doing somethin’ illegal, like killing people to get their insurance money. If something goes wrong, they’ll have somebody to take the fall. That somebody, my brother, is you.” Dre shook his head again. “Dude, you got hoodwinked big time. Where you from? Iowa? You need to spend more time in the hood.”

“Tell him about the stuff involving your brother,” Angela urged Waverly.

Waverly took a second to rub his eyes. When he finished recounting how he’d found his brother beaten to a pulp in the garage of his office building and how Rico had threatened to harm his wife, Dre stopped him.

“I would suspect that your brother didn’t know all that much about your new business. Am I right?”

Waverly’s lungs filled with air. “Uh . . . well, yeah. I never told him exactly what I did.”

“Didn’t you think it was strange that Rico knew what you did for a living when he supposedly found out about you through your brother, who didn’t know?”

“I wondered about it, but he was threatening my family. I guess I wasn’t thinking straight.”

“Like I said, somebody most definitely set you up. We just need to find out who.” Dre paused. There’s something else that troubles me.”

“And what’s that?” Waverly asked, not sure he could handle anymore of Dre’s analysis.

“You owe Rico three hundred grand. He might waste you after he gets his money back, but not before. That tells me that maybe somebody else was trying to take you out.”

“Like who?” Angela asked.

“Like Vincent maybe. Or the cats at Live Now. They certainly have a lot to lose if this insurance scam is traced back to them. If you’re dead and gone, they can just claim it was all your doing and they knew nothing about it. I really doubt you could’ve gotten your license under the table without the company knowing about it. If they were on the up and up, they would’ve checked you out. Maybe they wanted a disbarred lawyer precisely because you’d be the most likely suspect if something went wrong.”

Waverly stared up at the ceiling. “I’m an idiot.”

Angela folded her arms. “Does that mean you think Rico might be connected to the folks at Live Now?”

“Maybe,” Dre said. “I’d need a crystal ball to know that for sure.”

Dre turned back to Waverly. “Let me ask you something. If you were making ten percent off of all those deals, you must’ve made a mint. Why didn’t you just pay the dude back with your own money?”

“I couldn’t.” He pointed at Angela. “Because of her.”

Before Dre could ask for an explanation, Angela volunteered one. “We froze his bank accounts. We think that whoever is killing his clients, may have had something to do with the death of one of our case agents. He was working undercover as a dying patient as part of our sting operation. His car went off a cliff in rainy weather. But we don’t think it was an accident.”

Waverly moved to the edge of the couch. “Sting operation? Billington was part of an undercover operation? He wasn’t dying?”

“Nope. He was also a good friend of mine, so I’m determined to find out how he died. Thanks for that analysis, Dre. Actually, I’m quite impressed. I think it all makes sense. Now, can you come up with a plan to get us out of this mess?”

“Probably,” Dre said. “Let me give it some thought. In the meantime,” he looked at Waverly, “here’s some free advice, my brother: If it sounds too good to be true, it probably is.”

Waverly closed his eyes and rested his head on the back of the couch.

“Do you have any bottled water?” Angela asked.

“Yeah,” Dre said. “There’s a case of water on the floor next to the cabinet. You’ll need to use some ice if you want it cold.”

Angela made her way to the kitchen and retrieved a bottle of water. “Where do you keep your glasses?” She reached up to open one of the cabinet doors.

Dre made a mad dash toward her. By the time he reached her, however, it was too late.

Angela stared up at the contents of the cabinet, then glared at him. “So you lied,” she said angrily. “You said you quit.”

“I did quit.”

“Then what’s that?” She pointed up at the cabinet. “I’m not stupid. I know what it’s for.”

Waverly stepped into the kitchen to see what Angela was so upset about. The cabinet was stocked with at least three dozen bright, yellow boxes of Arm & Hammer baking soda.

“Exactly what is it for?” Waverly asked.

Both Dre and Angela gave him a look that said they both thought he was a moron.

“I bought that stuff months ago,” Dre said. “I just haven’t had time to get rid of it yet.”

“There’s enough baking soda up there to flood half of L.A. with crack.”

“Look,” Dre said, “if I said I quit, then I quit.”

Angela just stared at him, looking more hurt than angry.

He reached over her head and closed the cabinet shut. “What I told you was the truth.”

“I don’t believe you. You’re just—”

Dre raised his hand, palm out, trying to calm her down. “Angela, just let it go before . . .” His voice trailed off.

“Before what?” She placed a hand on her hip. “Are you going to hit me, too?”

Dre’s face went slack. “Why would you even say some shit like that to me?”

“You didn’t answer the question,” Angela challenged.

“I don’t need to answer your question because it’s bullshit. I don’t hit women and I don’t owe you an explanation for what I’ve chosen to do with my life. So, don’t keep harping about what I used to do. You can either accept my explanation or not accept it. I don’t give a fuck anymore.”

Angela opened her mouth to speak, but instead pierced him with a look that told him his words had wounded her as much as her mistrust had wounded him. She calmly turned and walked out of the room. Seconds later, Dre heard the bedroom door open and slam shut.

Waverly scrunched up his face. “This is one messed up situation.”

Dre pulled a chair from the kitchen table and fell into it. “You ain’t never lied.”

Waverly’s BlackBerry chirped and he pulled it from his pocket.

“Damn!” he said, glancing down at the caller ID display. “I forgot about Britney!”

Chapter 80

“WHO the hell is Britney?” Dre asked.

“One of my clients,” Waverly said, as he pushed a green button on his BlackBerry. “She’s the one who was in the garage and witnessed the shooting.”

As soon as he clicked over, all he heard was yelling. “I can’t believe you just left me here!” Britney screamed.

Waverly massaged his left temple. “Just calm down. I was going to call you. Are you okay?”

“I just woke up. You’re all over the news. I saw everything on CNN. You have to come get me! What if they come after me, too?”

“Nobody’s coming after you because nobody knows where you are.”

“You don’t know that!”

“Just calm down. I’m coming to get you.”

Dre shot him a befuddled look. “Man, are you crazy? You can’t go nowhere. Until you figure out who’s after you, walking out of here is suicide.”

Waverly pressed the BlackBerry to his chest so Britney couldn’t hear them. “I can’t just leave her there. Her life is in danger, too. And, now that you’ve explained how I’ve been duped, it’s definitely my fault. I have to do something.”

“Is this some chick you’re screwin’ on the side? If it is, we don’t need the additional drama.”

“No, of course not. She’s practically a kid. I hid her away because I didn’t want her to be my next client they took out.”

“How come you’re not worried about any of your other clients?”

“Look, she has no family in L.A. She has colon cancer. I got a little attached to her, okay?”

Dre huffed out loud. “Tell her you need some time to work something out.”

“What?”

“Just tell her,” Dre ordered. “I’ll take care of it.”

That answer wasn’t good enough for Britney, who continued to rant. Waverly finally hung up after warning her not to leave the room and promising to call back in ten minutes.”

Dre was already on his cell telling someone he had a job for them to do. “What does she look like?” he asked Waverly.

“Five-three, a hundred and ten pounds, late twenties with short sandy brown hair.” He paused. “And she’s white.”

Dre gave him a look.

“Nothing’s going on between us,” he said. “I swear.”

Dre asked for Britney’s cell phone number, repeated the information into the telephone, then hung up. “My buddy’s going to pick her up, but I don’t want you to call her back until he gets there and checks everything out. She could be part of a setup to get to you.”

Waverly waved away that possibility. “She’s just a scared kid, man.”

Just over an hour later, a burly, muscle-bound guy delivered a red-eyed Britney to Dre’s doorstep.

She ran over and threw her arms around Waverly’s neck and hugged him. “I’m so glad to see you. I was so worried about you after seeing that shootout on TV.”

By the way Dre was shaking his head, Waverly knew exactly what he was thinking.

“This is Dre,” Waverly said, taking Britney by the wrists and placing her arms at her sides. “This is his place.”

“Hi, Dre.” Britney’s body language was way too flirty.

“What’s going on in here?” Angela was standing in the doorway that separated the living room and the hallway. She looked Britney up and down. “Who’s she?”

“Angela, this is Britney,” Waverly said. “She’s one of my clients. She’s also the witness who saw the shooting.”

“Hi, Angela,” Britney said cheerfully.

Angela clearly wasn’t pleased. “How’d she get here?”

“Dre sent a friend to pick her up,” Waverly said. “I couldn’t just leave her at the hotel.”

Angela didn’t acknowledge Dre’s presence in the room and directed her question to Waverly. “Why in the world would you bring her here?”

“Because there was no place else for her to go. Her life’s in danger, too.”

“Well, she’s in even more danger now.” Angela studied Britney’s face.

“It’s okay,” Britney said. “I wanted to come.”

Angela pointed a finger at Britney. “I recognize you. You were in the garage when I first drove in. You were carrying grocery bags out of the garage.”

“Yep,” Britney said. “That would be me.”

“I’m actually glad you’re here. Have a seat. I want to know everything you saw and heard in that garage.”

Suddenly, Britney’s cheerful demeanor vanished. They all sat down and focused their attention on her.

“It’s okay.” Waverly gave her shoulder a squeeze. “You can talk to them. They’re going to help us.”

Angela switched to prosecutor mode. “You told Waverly that I shot Cornell, not Dre. Is that right?”

Britney nodded, no longer talkative.

“How could you see who shot Cornell when all three of us were wrestling for the gun?” Angela asked.

“Uh . . . well, I didn’t actually see that part.” Britney ran her fingers through her hair. “I only saw when the guy slammed you against the car and you pulled out a gun and told him you were going to blow his guts out. That’s when I got scared and closed the garage door. I grabbed my groceries and ran upstairs.” Britney pointed at Dre. “I didn’t see him there at all. I never said I saw the shooting. I only heard the gun go off as I was running up the stairs.”

Angela looked at Waverly with ice in her eyes. “It sounds like you don’t have any information that disputes our version of the shooting. Was this some kind of scam you were trying to pull?”

Waverly couldn’t believe this was happening. He shot Britney a dirty look. “I didn’t realize that she didn’t actually see the shooting.”

Dre whistled. “Man, you’re a piece of work. Did you even ask her if she saw the whole thing?”

“Not really,” Waverly said, obviously embarrassed. “I guess I just assumed she did.”

Britney clasped her hands behind her back. “Sorry.”

No one spoke for several seconds.

“Did you guys see yourself on the news?” Britney asked, her face full of excitement.

“Yeah,” Angela said. “And we aren’t happy about it. My mother and sister are probably someplace freakin’ out. I just sent my sister a text message letting her know I’m okay.”

Dre stood up. “We ain’t going to solve anything tonight. Let’s just get some sleep and put our heads together in the morning.”

He disappeared down the hallway and returned with blankets. “Angela, you can have the bedroom. Britney, you take the love seat, and Waverly, you can use the couch. I’ll make myself a pallet on the floor.”

He handed a blanket to Britney, another one to Waverly, and dumped the others near the door. “Towels are in the hallway closet. I’m going to wash up.”

Chapter 81

BECKER pulled up in front of Sophia’s house in West L.A. and turned off the engine. He hoped this meeting was more successful than his earlier visit with Erickson.

When Becker dropped by to check on him, Erickson was a drunken mess. It looked as if he’d been wearing the same clothes for a week. He badly needed both a shower and a shave.

Becker had banged on the front door for a full five minutes before walking around to the back of the house and finding Erickson sitting on the patio, staring into space. Becker could smell the stench of alcohol five feet away.

“Didn’t you hear me knocking?” he asked, as he walked up and took a seat opposite him at the patio table. Becker glanced over Erickson’s shoulder through the French doors and into the family room. The place was still almost as much of a wreck as it had been after the police search.

“I don’t think you need anything else to drink.” He eyed the scotch bottle on the table and spotted an empty one on the grass. “And you probably need to eat something.”

Erickson didn’t respond. He just stared off into space.

“I’m going to help you out of this,” Becker vowed. “I promise.”

“Sure you are.”

Becker hated weakness. Especially in a man. If he were in Erickson’s shoes, he wouldn’t turn into a pissy-ass drunk. He’d fight to prove his innocence. This was his role model? After learning of Erickson’s betrayal, he simply wanted enough devastation to befall him to boot him from his coveted position as Attorney General and, hopefully, from the chairmanship of the firm as well. By the time it was all over, though, Erickson would be both professionally and mentally destroyed.

“I’m on my way over to Sophia’s place to discuss my suspicions about Ashley,” he said. “I want to find out exactly what Sophia knows before I go the police.”

A string of saliva dripped from Erickson’s chin. “Be careful,” he slurred. “You go over there accusing Ashley and Sophia will probably call the police on you.”

Now, as he climbed out of his Range Rover, Becker thought about the news he had to deliver. Sophia would have a hard time accepting that her niece was guilty of murder. But Becker was convinced that she was. There was simply no other possible suspect. He no longer believed that Erickson could have killed his wife. The man didn’t have the guts. Neither did Waverly Sloan. He may have been killing his other clients, but Ashley, not Sloan, murdered Claire.

Becker glanced at his watch. He was right on time. At least Sophia had been civil when he called to suggest the meeting.

She opened the door only seconds after he knocked. Becker stepped inside the small comfortable home off Olympic Boulevard in a primarily Jewish neighborhood.

“I made coffee. Would you like some?” Sophia asked.

“Sure. I take it black.”

Becker took a seat in the living room. She returned shortly with two steaming mugs and a tray of homemade cookies just out of the oven.

“Thanks for taking the time to meet with me.” He reached for the mug and took a sip.

“I guess you’re here to talk about Larry.”

Becker clasped his hands. “In part.”

“I understand that you don’t think he murdered Claire.”

“No, I don’t,” Becker replied. “Actually I know who killed her and I suspect you do, too.”

Sophia settled back on the couch. “Ashley told me about your visit.”

“Then you know that I think she drugged her mother.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Sophia replied. “Did Larry put that nonsense in your head?”

“Ashley discovered her mother’s body, so she had opportunity. And she definitely had motive. She despised Larry so much, I don’t think it’s too farfetched to assume that she’d like to send him to prison for the rest of his life. She set him up.”

“That’s supposition, not evidence,” Sophia said. “Ashley loved her mother. She wouldn’t have killed her.”

“Her mother was dying. Frankly, I think she despised Claire as much as Larry. Her mother chose to be with Larry rather than her. I think a jury could easily be convinced that she framed him, knowing her mother was going to die anyway.”

“From what I’ve seen of you lawyers, I’m sure you could convince anyone of anything.”

She was absolutely right about that. Becker took another sip of coffee.

“So why are you here?” Sophia asked. “Hopefully not to convince me to turn on my niece. Because that’s not going to happen. I know for a fact that she didn’t kill her mother.”

For a second, Becker’s eyes met hers and he saw something evil in them. Was he wrong about Ashley? If Ashley didn’t kill her mother, then Sophia was the only other person who would have had access to Claire. As the possibility settled in, he grew uncomfortable looking into the woman’s menacing green eyes.

“If Ashley didn’t kill Claire, then who did?” Becker asked uneasily.

“Larry killed Claire. He killed them both.”

“Both?”

“Claire and Ashley.” Sophia raised the coffee mug to her lips. “He was an awful stepfather and a domineering husband. Neither of them had much of a life after he entered the picture. He killed their spirit.”

Becker’s heart began to race. Was he looking at Claire’s murderer? Did the jealous spinster sister take Claire’s life?

“There are many things about the Erickson family that you don’t know,” Sophia said. “Things about Larry that you could never fathom. Awful things. Things Larry would never share with you, his closest friend, or anybody else.”

Sophia sounded so mysterious that he almost didn’t want to know.

Becker gripped his mug with both hands. “Perhaps you should share them with me.”

A sarcastic smile graced her lips. “You idolize the man so much, I’m not sure you could handle it.”

“I assure you that won’t be a problem.” He set the mug down on the antique coffee table that separated them. His mind was whirling with possibilities.

“Go ahead,” Becker urged. “Tell me everything.”

Chapter 82

SHORTLY after five the next morning, Dre opened his eyes to the sound of a low foghorn. It took a second before he realized the sound was Waverly’s snoring.

He tried to sit up, but a sharp pain shot down his back. He did not intend to spend another night sleeping on the floor. He would just have to come up with some brilliant solution to get his uninvited guests the hell out of his crib.

A rustling sound made him jump. In the near darkness, he could see Britney sitting on the love seat, digging around in her purse.

Just as she turned in his direction, Dre pretended to be asleep. He watched through slitted eyes as she tiptoed past him down the hallway and into the bathroom.

Dre gingerly got to his feet and walked toward the bathroom. Britney was talking to someone on the phone, but Dre could not make out what she was saying.

When Dre heard her stop speaking, he rushed back to his pallet on the floor. Britney walked back into the living room as Dre pretended he was just waking up.

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” Britney said cheerfully.

“Hey,” Dre said gruffly. This woman is too damn happy to be a cancer patient.

He stood up and walked into the kitchen. He opened a protein shake and took a sip. Dre pretended to look away as Britney slipped her cell phone back into her purse.

“Want me to cook us some breakfast?” Britney asked.

Dre looked at her like she was crazy. “This ain’t no pajama party.”

“I didn’t say it was.”

“But you actin’ like it is.”

“You’re such a party pooper.” Britney flopped down on the love seat.

Dre returned to the floor, but sat up with his back against the wall, facing her. “Who were you talking to in there?”

“In where?”

“In the bathroom. Just a minute ago.”

“I wasn’t talking to anybody.” Britney locked her arms across her chest.

“I definitely heard you on the phone,” Dre said.

Britney blinked in rapid succession, then looked away. “Yeah, you heard me on the phone, but I wasn’t talking to anybody. I was just listening to my voicemail messages.”

“That’s not what it sounded like to me. So, who were you talkin’ to?” he asked again.

“You need to get your ears checked. I had my cell on speakerphone. Maybe that’s why you thought you heard me talking. I went in the bathroom so I wouldn’t wake anybody up.”

The girl is straight up lying.

“Who you expectin’ a call from?”

“Nobody in particular.” Britney pranced barefoot into the kitchen. “Dang, you’re nosey. I’m hungry. Mind if I check out the fridge?”

“Yeah, help yourself.”

“There’s not much in here,” Britney said, opening the refrigerator door and peering inside. “Want me to go get some groceries?”

“Nobody’s leaving here,” Dre said firmly.

“Okay, fine.” She took an apple from the vegetable bin.

Dre got up and went to the bathroom to take a piss. As he washed his hands, he stared at his reflection in the mirror. He was thirty-six years old, lived in the hood all his life and slung drugs for the last eight years and had never once had a reason to shoot anybody or get shot at. Lo and behold, he hooks up with a lawyer and in a period of forty-eight hours, he’d not only taken the rap for shooting a judge, but almost had his own lights put out in a high-speed chase. Only in L.A.

He could hear Britney banging around pots and pans in the kitchen. He had a bad vibe about the girl. And when the vibe was this strong, it was usually right.

Dre picked up his toothbrush, then suddenly set it on the sink and marched down the hallway to his bedroom. He knocked on the door and waited for Angela to give him the go-ahead before entering.

When he stepped inside, Angela was sitting up against the headboard, Yoga style, watching the television on the opposite wall. She was wearing one of his tank tops and she looked sexy as hell. He could see the outline of her nipples through the thin cotton fabric. Dre tried, but couldn’t take his eyes off of her exposed thighs.

She obviously noticed him staring, but made no move to cover up.

“I took the liberty of borrowing a T-shirt from your drawer. Hope you don’t mind.”

“No problem.”

“You wouldn’t believe the things they’re saying about us on the news,” she said. “Someone supposedly saw the three of us trying to cross the border into Tijuana.”

“You shouldn’t stress yourself out watching that bullshit.”

“You’re probably right.” Angela folded her arms as if to block his view of her chest. “So, what can I do for you?”

Dre hated it when she gave him attitude, but decided to let it slide. He rested his back against the door. “I ain’t feelin’ the white girl.”

“And exactly what does that mean?”

“It means I got a bad vibe about her.”

“What do you want me to do about it? You brought her here.”

Dre almost smiled. Black women were so good at being bitchy. Angela was probably a killer in the courtroom. But she wasn’t in court at the moment. She was in his crib. And he wasn’t about to let her disrespect him.

“I thought we discussed this yesterday, but let’s try it one more time. I don’t appreciate you giving me attitude when all I’m trying to do is help you. I came in here to hip you to the fact that homegirl ain’t who she says she is. And if that’s true, that could be a problem. For you, me and Bozo in there.”

Angela’s face softened. “And what exactly is your vibe based on?”

“She was just in the bathroom talking to somebody on her cell. When I asked her about it, she lied and said she was listening to her voicemail messages. And I ain’t no doctor, but the girl don’t look like a cancer patient to me.”

“Waverly said she was in remission.”

“Remission, my ass. She has to be the happiest, healthiest-looking cancer patient I’ve ever seen.”

He could tell Angela was considering what he was saying. “What do you think is going on?”

Dre was glad that he finally had her interest. “I don’t know. But since somebody apparently wants your friend in there dead, we can’t afford to assume they wouldn’t go as far as planting somebody like Britney to make sure it gets done.”

“You watch too much TV,” Angela said.

“Actually, I don’t. It’s like you said, I know criminals.”

“Okay, then, we need to talk to Waverly.”

“That’s exactly what we shouldn’t do. The dude ain’t the sharpest knife in the drawer. He’ll just fuck everything up.”

Angela uncrossed her legs and tucked them underneath her. “If you’re right, she could’ve called somebody and told them where we are.”

“Nope,” Dre said. “She has no idea where she is. When my boy Mossy brought her over last night, he blindfolded her.”

“You’re kidding.”

“My boy don’t play. He picked her up around the corner from the hotel so he could make sure they weren’t being following. The girl definitely wants to know where we are, though. She just asked me about going out for groceries, and last night, right before I turned out the lights, she asked me if I subscribed to any magazines.”

Angela’s face went blank. “You lost me.”

“If you wanted a magazine to read, you’d ask me if I had any magazines. You wouldn’t ask me if I subscribed to any magazines. She wants a magazine with my address on it so she can give it to whoever she’s working with.”

Once again, Angela seemed to be impressed with Dre’s assessment of their situation.

“There’s nothing around here that has the address on it, not even my driver’s license,” Dre said. “I have a plan to set her up. If she bites, then we’ll know we’ve got a problem.”

“What kind of plan?”

“Hey, Dre,” Britney called from the front room, “your phone is ringing.”

Dre left to retrieve his phone, then headed back to the bedroom, still holding the phone to his ear. He finished the call with a big smile on his face. “I’m sooooo good,” Dre gloated.

“What’s going on?” Angela asked.

“That was my boy, Mossy. The one who picked up Britney last night. He said he’s been racking his brain all night trying to figure out where he knows her from. And this morning it finally clicked.”

“So, what did he say?”

“The girl’s a stripper,” Dre said. “In Vegas.”

Angela’s face clouded.

“That means she’s probably hooked up with some pretty shady people. And it also means that happy Valley Girl act she’s playing is total bullshit.”

Chapter 83

WAVERLY had a bad feeling the minute he woke up. Not that things could actually get any worse than they already were.

It started with the increasingly violent threats Rico left on his voicemail. Waverly knew he would have to talk to the guy eventually, but for the time being, he would continue to ignore the calls. Then there was his throbbing headache from alcohol withdrawal. It was just his luck to be hiding out with a real-life drug dealer who didn’t have a drop of alcohol in his place.

Everybody else in the apartment was already up and about. Dre and Angela were sitting at the kitchen table. Britney was watching MTV and singing along with Madonna.

“I made scrambled eggs and toast,” she said, turning back to face Waverly. “There wasn’t any meat. Want me to fix you a plate?”

Waverly yawned. “Yeah, sure. That would be great.”

“We’re out of orange juice.” Britney peered into the refrigerator. “Should I run out and stock up on groceries?” she asked Dre. “It’s not like anybody’s looking for me.”

Dre threw Angela a furtive look that Waverly wasn’t able to decipher.

“I’ll have one of my buddies drop off some food for us later on,” Dre said. “In the meantime, nobody’s leaving here until it’s safe for all of us to go. Waverly won’t die if he doesn’t have orange juice for breakfast.”

Waverly went to the bathroom to wash up, changing into a pair of sweats and a T-shirt Dre had loaned him. When he exited, Dre and Angela were standing at the end of the hallway speaking in hushed voices. They abruptly stopped talking when they noticed him watching.

“Is something going on that I don’t know about?” he asked.

“What makes you think that?” Dre replied.

“I don’t know, just a feeling.”

“We’re just putting our heads together trying to figure out our next step,” Angela said. “We can’t stay here forever.”

The three of them walked back into the living room.

“What are they saying about us on the news?” Angela asked.

“You don’t even wanna know,” Britney said. “You’re all either dead, injured or on the run.”

Angela’s face grew distraught. “I can certainly kiss my career good-bye. We haven’t exactly been cleared in Cornell’s death. It doesn’t look good that we’re in hiding.”

Britney got up to turn on the dishwasher, then picked up her purse from the kitchen table. “Mind if I use the bedroom to lay down for a while?” she asked Dre. “That couch killed my back.”

“Go right ahead,” Dre said.

Unless Waverly was imagining things, once again, Dre and Angela bounced wary glances back and forth. “You two need to tell me what’s going on,” Waverly said.

“We will soon enough,” Angela replied hesitantly. “For the time being, just trust us.”

Britney came out of the bedroom less than ten minutes later.

“That was a quick nap,” Dre said.

“I couldn’t sleep.” She stretched her arms wide. “I’d rather stay in here and hang out with you guys anyway.”

They watched news coverage of the shootout and their escape until it depressed them. Britney made the wise move to turn on a sitcom Waverly had never seen before.

Both Dre and Angela kept fidgeting and looking at each other. An hour later, when Dre’s phone rang, both of them jumped at the same time. Dre grabbed the phone and walked into the bedroom to take the call.

There was an angry look on Dre’s face when he returned. He nodded to Angela, then marched straight over to Britney’s purse and dumped its contents on the floor.

“What are you doing?” she yelled, scrambling to grab her stuff. She reached for her metallic pink Nokia, but Dre kicked it across the room and Angela grabbed it.

“Give it back!” Britney shouted, then charged toward Angela.

Angela tossed the phone to Dre.

Waverly watched the whole scene, not sure what to do or say.

“Waverly, help me!” Britney yelled to him.

Waverly was too confused to react.

Britney tried to snatch the phone from Dre, but he held it high above his head, out of her reach.

“What do you need a phone for?” Dre asked. “Who do you have to call?”

“None of your business!”

“You’re not getting it back,” Dre said. “I need to see who you’ve been calling. We know you set up my boy over here. So, if I were you I would back up.”

Dre’s words stopped her cold.

She planted her hands on her hips and pouted. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, yes, you do.” He turned to Waverly. “I left a utility bill on the kitchen counter because I had a feeling your girl was working with somebody who’s trying to get to you. Except they don’t know where we are.”

He stared angrily at Britney.

“The bill had my name on it, so she assumed it was for this place. She called somebody and gave ‘em the address. But it was actually the bill for a foreclosure I’m fixin’ up.” He turned back to Britney. “A couple of your friends showed up there. They broke in, apparently looking for Waverly. But nobody was there because I knew what you were up to.”

Britney’s face colored and she took a step back.

Waverly felt nothing but rage. He walked up to Britney. “Is that true?”

“Of course not.” She brushed her bangs from her forehead and refused to make eye contact. “I don’t know what he’s talking about.”

“I risked my life to try to save yours and you’re trying to get me killed?”

Britney frowned and rolled her eyes. “Whatever.”

Waverly snatched her by the arm, but before he could sling her across the room like he wanted to, Dre pried her arm free and pulled him away.

“Hold up, man. Just cool out. I got everything under control. Now that you know the deal, we can school you.”

Waverly sat down, angry and embarrassed.

“Your cancer patient is a stripper. I suspect somebody put her up to this. I also suspect she doesn’t have cancer. Is that right?”

“Screw you!” Britney shouted.

“That’s more like it. Now, you’re acting like the little hoochie that you are.”

Dre dragged her into the kitchen and forced her into one of the chairs. Britney kicked and screamed, but Waverly held her down while Dre wrapped an extension cord around her upper body, tying her to the chair. Waverly and Dre then picked up the chair and carried Britney to the middle of the living room.

“We’re tired of playing games with you,” Dre said. “You need to tell us exactly what’s going on.”

“This is kidnapping!” she yelled.

Dre was about to stuff a dishtowel into her mouth, when Angela stopped him.

“She’s right,” Angela said. “So far, we haven’t done anything wrong except break the speed limit and run for our lives. If we hold her here against her will, that would be kidnapping. I can’t be a part of that.”

Dre stared at her in obvious disbelief. “If you’re telling me you want me to let her go, then fine. But that will put all of our lives at risk. The way I see it, we don’t have much of a choice. We need to know what’s going down and she’s the only one who can tell us.”

Angela closed her eyes and hung her head, obviously torn.

“I’m with Dre,” Waverly said. “We need to make her talk.”

“Go ahead,” Angela said, slumping onto the couch. “I’ve probably already been fired anyway. When all of this is over, maybe they’ll let all four of us share the same jail cell.”

Chapter 84

JUST as Erickson had not expected the man he trusted most in the world to betray him, he also had not expected to lose two careers.

After being forced to resign as Attorney General, his law firm partners dealt him another blow. Instead of allowing him to return to his post as chairman of Jankowski, Parkins, an emergency vote of the Management Committee stripped him of the job. The Committee also requested that he take a leave of absence until the situation surrounding his wife’s death had been resolved. Overnight, he had gone from one of the most powerful lawyers in the country to a pariah.

He should have known that Becker had his own motives when he so eagerly suggested murdering Claire. Erickson had been too preoccupied with his own rise to success to realize that Becker wanted the chairmanship of the firm and would do anything to get it.

He glanced at his watch. Nolan Flanagan would be arriving soon. Flanagan was a long-time friend and noted criminal defense attorney. Fearing that he could ultimately be charged with Claire’s murder, Erickson had asked him to come over to discuss representing him.

When Flanagan arrived, Erickson showed him to the backyard where they sat out on the patio to talk.

“I’ve been reading quite a bit about your wife’s death in the press,” Flanagan said. “It’s not pretty.” He had dark unruly hair and a thick mustache. When he wasn’t standing before a jury, he was usually dressed in corduroys and a sports coat.

“First things, first,” Erickson said. “What’s your hourly rate?”

Flanagan waved him off. “I’m here as a friend, Larry. We can talk about money later.”

Erickson no longer believed in friendship. He would never again trust another living soul.

“No,” Erickson insisted, “I want to make sure our communications are protected by the attorney-client privilege. So, let’s do this by the book. What’s your rate?”

“Five hundred,” Flanagan said reluctantly.

Erickson picked up his checkbook and scribbled out a check for fifteen hundred dollars. He tore it out and slid it across the table. “I suspect three hours should do it for today. We can work out a more formal arrangement later.”

Leaning back in his lawn chair, Erickson looked past his friend out into his garden. “What I’m about to disclose is definitely going to shock you. But I’m going to tell you everything because you need to have the full picture if you’re going to properly represent me.”

Erickson planned to reveal all, with one exception. He would never tell anyone about his affinity for kiddie porn.

Flanagan held up a hand. “If you killed your wife, I don’t want to know.”

Erickson understood. An attorney could not intentionally put on evidence that he knew was false. But if he didn’t know for sure, he had free reign.

“I did not kill my wife,” Erickson said quietly. “And that’s the honest truth.”

He began by explaining Becker’s suggestion that they kill Claire to keep her from ruining his chances to become Attorney General.

“You were willing to kill your wife to get that job?” Flanagan asked, not hiding his amazement.

“She was already dying,” Erickson said, his tone matter-of-fact. “It was Becker’s idea. He even agreed to commit the murder himself.”

Flanagan gripped both arms of his chair. “And why would he do that for you?”

Erickson wished he’d taken the time to ask himself the same question weeks ago. “At the time, I assumed he did it out of loyalty.”

“That’s an awful lot of loyalty. I don’t know anyone loyal enough to commit murder for me.”

“He had another reason,” Erickson said. “I just didn’t realize it at the time, but Becker wanted the chairmanship of the firm. He wanted me to get the AG job simply to clear the way for him to step into my shoes. He was always reluctant about becoming my deputy. After I got the job, I think he set out to personally destroy me.”

“So Becker killed your wife?”

“No, my stepdaughter, Ashley, killed Claire.”

“Forgive me,” Flanagan said, leaning forward, “but I think I need a drink.”

Erickson returned from the kitchen with two bottles of beer. “Unfortunately,” he said with a wry smile, “I’ve consumed all the hard liquor in the house.”

He continued with his story and when he was done, Flanagan spent thirty minutes peppering him with questions.

“Tell me something,” Flanagan said. “Why does Ashley hate you so much?”

Erickson mindlessly tapped the beer bottle with his index finger. “She was quite a handful when Claire and I got married. She resented my being in their lives. Claire couldn’t deal with her so we agreed to send her off to boarding school. Ashley, however, blames me for that decision.”

“What hard evidence do you have that Ashley killed her mother?”

“None, really.”

“Then it’s possible Becker actually did it?”

Erickson shrugged. “Anything’s possible.”

He could almost see the wheels turning in Flanagan’s head. True criminal attorneys didn’t care about guilt or innocence. For them, the intellectual challenge came from winning an unwinnable case.

“From a defense perspective,” Flanagan said, “it’s easier to prove reasonable doubt when there’s another plausible suspect to point the finger at.”

“Well, we have at least two. Both Becker and Ashley have strong motives.”

“If we point a finger at Becker as the murderer,” Flanagan continued, “the plot to kill Claire will no doubt come to light. That would make you an accessory.”

Flanagan stopped and took a long pull on his beer. “So, for your sake, let’s hope Ashley did kill her mother. If she didn’t and Becker goes down for murder, you could, too.”

Chapter 85

DRE knew that it wouldn’t take long for Britney to fold. Depriving her of food and water for three hours and twenty-two minutes was all it took.

Dre, Angela and Waverly were sitting in front of the TV eating a pepperoni pizza delivered by Domino’s when Britney started pleading. “You can’t just let me starve.”

Dre looked over at her. “Yeah, we can.”

“I need to go to the bathroom!”

“Guess you’ll have to hold it until you tell us what we want to know.”

“I already told you, I don’t know anything!”

Both Angela and Waverly had begun to think that maybe she didn’t, but Dre wasn’t buying her denials. “I think you do,” he repeatedly challenged her.

It went back and forth like that until the pizza was almost gone. Britney finally started talking once they untied her and gave a slice of pizza and a bathroom break.

“How did you end up at that church meeting where you met me?” Waverly asked.

“My boyfriend told me to go.”

“Who’s your boyfriend?”

“His name’s Ricardo. Ricardo Montoya.”

“Why’d he want you to go?”

“He runs this scam, okay? I don’t have cancer. The medical records I gave you were fakes. But even if they had been real, I wasn’t sick enough to qualify for one of those policies. Ricardo figured you would buy my sob story and sell my policy anyway. And you did.”

“I helped you because I felt sorry for you,” Waverly said. “You’re the only client I ever did that for.”

She smiled. “Guess that makes me a pretty good actress, huh?”

“How can we get in contact with Ricardo?” Dre asked.

“His number’s in my phone. He’s the one I gave the address to.”

“Where does he live?” Dre asked.

She huffed. “He lives in Vegas. When he comes to L.A., he usually stays at my place.”

“What’s Ricardo’s line of work?”

“Same as yours. He’s a dealer. Except his drug of choice is meth. Can I have something to drink?”

“Not until we’re done,” Dre said. “So was Ricardo killing Waverly’s clients after he bought their policies?”

“I don’t know anything about killing anybody. I swear.” For the first time, there was something earnest about her denial. “I’ve never known Ricardo to do anything violent. When I told him about that L.A. Times article, he said he couldn’t believe you were killing your clients.”

“You’re lyin’,” Dre said, growing frustrated.

“I’m telling you all I know is that he helped a lot of people get insurance. Then he hired some doctor to fake their medical records and sent them to Waverly to sell their policies. Whatever money they got from selling the policy, Ricardo took half. You should probably let me call him. He’s going to think something’s up if I don’t.”

“So let him,” Waverly said bitterly. He paced back and forth across the living room.

“What do you know about this guy named Rico?” Dre asked.

“You’re so gullible,” Britney said. “There ain’t no Rico.”

Waverly stopped pacing. “What do you mean?”

“Ricardo made all those calls.”

Waverly’s face cracked with embarrassment. “What does Ricardo look like?” he asked.

“Dark hair, kinda cute. I only date cute guys.”

“What else?” Angela asked.

“Give me some soda and I’ll show you a picture of him.”

“Now, we’re getting somewhere,” Waverly said. “You have a picture of him? Where is it? Is it in your phone?”

“Nope, and I’m not telling you where it is until you give me something to drink.”

“Let’s check.” Angela grabbed Britney’s cell phone and started pushing buttons.

“It’s not in my phone,” she said calmly. “It’s on the Internet. But I’m not showing it to you until you give me some soda.”

Angela handed her a can of Coke and they all waited as Britney took several sips.

“Okay,” Dre said, “now show us the picture.”

“It’s on my Facebook page,” she said.

Dre’s laptop was sitting on the coffee table. He brought up the Facebook home page. “What’s your screen name and password?”

“Bootylicious Britney. My password is Too Hot.”

“I’m not going to say a word.” Dre pulled up the page and turned the computer around so she could see the screen. Britney had over 500 Facebook friends. “Which one is he?”

“It’s the third picture down. The one of the two of us together on the beach. He’s in the orange swim trunks.”

Dre handed the laptop to Waverly. “Do you recognize him?”

“Son of a bitch!” Waverly exclaimed.

“So, you know him?” Dre asked.

“Hell, yeah, I know him,” Waverly said, leaning back and rubbing his forehead. “That’s the guy who got me into the viatical business. That’s Vincent.”

Chapter 86

ZACK had been sitting in his office sulking for most of the morning. He’d only come into work to clean out his desk and say his good-byes. Literally seconds after he got everything all packed up, he received a curt call from the Justice Department Personnel Office in D.C. His media liaison job was over before it started. Erickson was out and so was he.

When he started ranting about who was going to refund his deposit on the Georgetown apartment and pay to ship his furniture back to L.A., the guy hung up on him. The same thing happened when he tried to back out of the deal with the woman who was subletting his apartment. At least Barnes let him rescind his resignation.

His cell phone rang and he grudgingly answered.

“Zack, this is Angela. I need your help.”

He sprang forward in his chair. “Have you lost your mind? Where the hell are you? You know your career is shot, right?”

He opened one of the boxes he had just taped shut and pulled out a legal pad. He wished he had a tape recorder so he could record the conversation. The story of a federal prosecutor on the run with her drug dealer-lover following the murder of a judge was the perfect plot for a blockbuster. Maybe he would get his big story after all.

“At the moment,” Angela said, “I’m more worried about staying alive than where I’ll be working next week. I really thought long and hard before calling you, Zack. But I need somebody I can trust. I hope I don’t regret making this call.”

Was Angela about to confess to something?

“Of course, you can trust me,” he said, trying to contain his excitement. “What’s going on?”

“I’m close to closing in on Jon’s killer. I think his death is definitely linked to Live Now.”

Zack jotted down Angela’s words as fast as she was speaking them. He was about to be part of the takedown of a murder ring that preyed on the dying. This might not get him his own TV show, but it could mean a six-figure book deal. He was almost hyperventilating, but managed to keep writing.

“I have some extremely confidential information that I need you to check out,” Angela said, “but Salina’s the only person I want you to discuss this with. She’s a whiz on the Internet. But with everything going on with me, I figured she’d be too afraid of losing her job if I asked her to do the research for me. Can you ask her to do it without saying it’s for me?”

Maybe. “Tell me what’s going on first.”

“I need you to run a sheet on a Vincent Rivera and a Ricardo Montoya. Also try Ricardo Rivera and Vincent Montoya. Try the first name Rico, too. Then I need to find out if a company called Goldman Investments, Inc., has any connection to Live Now, The Tustin Group or any of its affiliated companies.”

“What’s Goldman Investments?”

“A company Waverly Sloan was laundering drug money through.”

“Whoaaa! How’d you find that out?”

“He’s here with me right now, spilling his guts. If I can find out who those guys are and confirm a link between the companies, then I think we can prove that Live Now and its executives may be responsible for killing Waverly’s clients.”

“Holy cow!” Zack said.

“What about Lawrence Erickson’s wife. Did they kill her too?”

“We’re still trying to find out. So, can you get the research done for me?”

Zack sidestepped the question. “Where are you?”

“I’m in hiding. I can’t tell you any more than that. You saw the news. Somebody is trying to kill Waverly, and maybe me, too. Will you help me?”

“Sure,” he said.

“And, remember, this is just between us. Don’t tell Salina the information is for me and don’t bring anybody else in on this.”

He wasn’t stupid. “Of course.”

“I also have some telephone numbers I need you to look up.” She gave him four numbers retrieved from Britney’s cell. “I need to know as much as possible about the people connected to the numbers.”

“Whose numbers are these?” Zack asked.

“That’s what I want you to tell me.”

“It may not be easy to keep all of this under the radar.”

“I’m sure you can do it, Zack.”

Angela’s next words absolutely made his day. “When this is all said and done, it’s going to be a huge story. I might not have a job, but I will definitely have a book deal and maybe even a screenplay to sell. If you want to be part of it, I really need your help.”

Zack could almost see the hotel shootout scene on the big screen. Tom Cruise could play him and Will Smith could play Waverly Sloan. Maybe Beyoncé or Jennifer Hudson could portray Angela.

“I’m with you,” Zack said excitedly. “Give me a couple of hours and I’ll let you know what I find out.”

Chapter 87

ERICKSON had just finished showering and slipped into his gardening clothes when he heard a knock at the door. As he approached, the pounding grew louder.

“I’m coming!” he yelled. He wondered who it could be.

Mandy had just left to get a change of clothes. At the moment, she was the only good thing in his life. Later tonight, he planned to ask her to move in.

Erickson reached for the doorknob, but something made him peer through the peephole first. He saw two police officers and at least three men with TV cameras propped on their shoulders. A police cruiser was parked in the driveway and two more were double parked in front of the house.

Erickson’s fists reflexively clenched. This can’t be happening. Are they actually going to arrest me? This was such a travesty. He could only imagine what the neighbors were thinking.

He jerked the door open. “What do you want?”

“Mr. Erickson, we have a warrant for your arrest for the murder of Claire Erickson.”

Before he could react, a uniformed officer stepped forward, pulled him outside, hurled him around and cuffed him.

“This is outrageous!” Erickson screamed. “What are you doing? I didn’t kill my wife. I’m going to sue every last one of you!”

The officer pressed Erickson’s face against the hard brick wall of his porch.

“Do you know who I am?” Erickson yelled. “You can’t treat me like this!”

The officer swung him back around. The photographers rushed forward, zeroing in on him with their cameras.

A blast of fear raced down his spine. He needed to call Becker. No! What was he thinking? Becker had probably set up this disgraceful scene. Erickson needed his attorney, Nolan Flanagan.

He tried to calm himself. Resisting arrest would not do him any good. “Who’s in charge here?” Erickson asked.

“I am.” Detective Davis stepped forward and introduced himself.

“You don’t have to do this,” he appealed to the detective. “I would’ve come down to the station voluntarily. Why don’t you let me call my lawyer?”

“So, it’s special treatment you want. Is that it?” the detective replied.

Actually, yes. I do want special treatment. I was the Attorney General of the United States, for Christ’s sake. “I just need someone to call my lawyer, Nolan Flanagan. Can one of you guys please do that for me?”

Detective Davis gave him an incredulous look. “Sorry, but you’ll have to wait until you get down to the station.”

Erickson looked over his shoulder and saw Becker approaching. Had he come to help or cause more harm? Maybe Becker could at least talk them into taking the handcuffs off. “That’s my law partner coming up the driveway,” he said to the detective. “Please let him through.”

As Becker weaved his way toward him, Erickson could see his neighbors rubbernecking in clumps along the street.

“Becker,” Erickson called out in desperation. “Please make them stop this madness. Tell them I didn’t kill Claire! Tell them how Ashley set me up!”

Becker had almost reached him when an officer tried to block his path. Detective Davis ordered the officer to step aside and let him through.

“Could you give me a few minutes alone with him?” Becker asked. “I’m his law partner. I need to talk to him away from the cameras.”

Detective Davis hesitated, then instructed two officers to escort Becker and Erickson inside the house.

“The cuffs stay on and we’re going to be just a few feet away,” the detective said, stepping inside the spacious foyer and closing the door behind him. “You have five minutes.”

“That’s fine,” Becker said. “I won’t need that long.”

The officers stepped a few feet away to give them privacy.

Becker walked up to Erickson, his face less than an inch away. “You deserve to rot in prison,” he whispered angrily. “I can’t believe that I made you Kaylee’s godfather. You goddamn pervert!”

Oh no! He knows! “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Erickson sputtered.

“I just had a long conversation with Sophia,” Becker continued. “I finally understand why Ashley hates you so much.”

Erickson started to sob. “You can’t believe Ashley’s lies. She’s trying to destroy me.”

“You’re the liar.” Becker nailed Erickson with a solid punch to his left cheek that sent him crashing into the wall. The two officers rushed over and pulled Becker away.

“You sick fuck!” Becker yelled.

Erickson hung his head. His horrible secret was out. But that did not mean he had killed his wife. Nolan Flanagan would get him off.

“Becker,” Erickson screamed, “you must tell them the truth. Please!”

“I’d be glad to.” Becker turned to Detective Davis. “Our ex-Attorney General killed his wife because she threatened to expose his penchant for child porn.” Becker attempted to reach into the pocket of his jacket, but the officers restrained him.

“Don’t worry,” Becker said. “I don’t have a weapon, but I do have evidence that proves he’s a pedophile. I was about to hand you a DVD I have in my pocket.”

Erickson’s eyes widened. “How can you do this? You know I didn’t kill Claire! He’s framing me! He wanted me out of the way so he could run the law firm.”

“I thought you said your stepdaughter framed you,” Detective Davis replied. He removed the DVD from Becker’s pocket. “Now, this guy is the one who set you up? You need to get your story straight.”

“Please don’t do this to me!” Erickson cried out to Becker. “I won’t survive in prison.”

“We found traces of morphine on your gardening gloves that we picked up during the search of your house,” Detective Davis said. “I suppose somebody planted the gloves, too?”

“What? That’s impossible? Ashley’s framing me!” Erickson screamed. “I didn’t kill my wife! I swear!”

“I hope you never see daylight again,” Becker hissed. “Get him out of here.”

An officer took the sobbing Erickson by the arm and led him back outside and through the crowd of police, media and spectators.

“You’re going to make a lot of new friends in lockup,” the cop said as he stuffed Erickson into the back of the police cruiser. “They love perverts like you.”

Chapter 88

THEIR interrogation of Britney lasted three hours and led Waverly to only one conclusion. He had no chance of the police believing his story unless he could turn over Vincent or Ricardo or Rico or whoever the hell he was.

Waverly, Dre and Angela were huddled in Dre’s bedroom, trying to plan their next move. Britney remained tied to a chair in the living room. Dre stepped into the hallway every few minutes or so to make sure she stayed put.

Angela’s call to her colleague, Zack, paid off in minutes, rather than hours. There was indeed a link between Live Now and Goldman Investments, Inc., the company Rico had instructed Waverly to purchase the policies for. After checking Ricardo’s aliases, they found four criminal convictions. Two for check fraud, one for larceny and one for assault with a deadly weapon.

“We have to smoke Rico out,” Dre said. “And the only way I know to do that is to convince him that he has a shot at you and his money.”

“Oh, that’s a wonderful idea,” Waverly said. “Using me as bait will probably mean I’ll get a bullet to the head.”

“That won’t happen,” Dre said. “I have some guys who can provide protection.”

Angela sat down on the edge of the bed. “Exactly what are you suggesting, Dre?”

“Based on what Britney told us, this whole thing is a scam run by Ricardo-slash-Vincent, probably with the knowledge of Live Now.”

Angela looked up at him. “What you do mean?”

“At first, I was thinking that this Rico dude just wanted his money back. But if there is no Rico, just Ricardo, he’d have a reason to want you dead. All of this stuff leads straight back to him and he can’t afford to let that happen. But if you’re dead, it would be easy to pin everything on you.”

“So, you’re saying he doesn’t care about getting his money back?” Angela asked.

“No, but I am saying he might let the money ride if it means he doesn’t have to take a rap for murdering a bunch of dying people.”

“That makes sense,” Waverly said. “It’s not really about the money. With all the policies Rico bought, he’s a long way from being in the hole.”

“Yep,” Dre said nodding. “The dude definitely wants you out of the way. I guess we’re going to have to use Britney to lead him to us.”

“How?” Angela asked.

Dre paused to think. “By making Rico think he’s going to get to Waverly and his money.”

“I’m not following you,” Waverly said.

“So far, Rico doesn’t know that we know that he’s Vincent. The next time he calls you, answer the phone and propose some kind of exchange. Tell him you have somebody, namely Britney, who’s going to deliver the money.”

“He’s not going to buy that,” Angela said. “He’s going to assume Britney talked to us.”

“You’re probably right,” Dre said. “That’s why we’re going to let him demand that Waverly show up. But you’re bringing Britney with you.”

“Show up and do what?” Waverly asked. “Get my head shot off?”

“I got your back,” Dre said. “I’ll call in my boys.”

“No,” Angela said, standing up. “This has gotten way out of hand. If we’re going to do something like this, we need to have the police involved. Ricardo or Vincent or whoever he is probably won’t be coming alone and neither should we.”

“The L.A.P.D. will just screw everything up,” Dre said. “I know some guys we can trust.”

“No,” Angela said. “Everything is already a mess. We need to call in the police. First, let’s figure out what we’re doing with Britney.” She turned to Waverly. “We need to convince her to play along. The next time Rico calls, you’re going to tell him you have his money. Then we’ll have Britney call him. She has to act like she’s secretly making the call. She can tell him she wasn’t able to call earlier because we’ve been watching her too closely. She has to convince him that we don’t know anything.”

“I’m sure he’s pretty pissed about not finding you at that apartment,” Dre said to Waverly.

“Britney can just tell him she made a mistake,” Angela continued. “That she didn’t notice that Dre’s name wasn’t on that utility bill.”

Waverly pressed his palm to his forehead. “Don’t you think he’ll sense a setup?”

“Not if we can convince Britney that it’s not,” Angela said. “I get the feeling that she’s really afraid of the guy. There’s no way she wants him to find out that she folded and told us everything. I think she’ll play along if she thinks this is all going to come to one big happy ending.”

“Wait a minute,” Waverly said. “We’ll have to make her think we actually have some money to turn over.”

“I can help with that part,” Dre said quietly.

“We’re not talking about small change,” Waverly said. “Rico’s expecting me to hand over three hundred thousand dollars. In cash.”

Dre hesitated, then opened his closet and removed a section of the wall which hid a large safe. He opened it to reveal stacks upon stacks of bills wrapped in rubber bands.

Angela rubbed the back of her neck and looked away.

“So, you’re willing to give up three hundred grand for me?” Waverly asked, flabbergasted.

“Hell, naw,” Dre said, as he relocked the safe. “I’m willing to pretend to give it away. We’re going to stuff a bunch of bills into a duffel bag and show it to Britney so she can tell Ricardo or whoever that she actually saw the money. And when she’s not looking we’re switching bags. No way that money is walking out of this apartment.”

“Sounds like we have a plan then,” Waverly said.

Angela pulled out her BlackBerry.

“Who are you calling?” Dre asked.

“My friend, Zack,” she replied. “We’re going to need his help.”

Chapter 89

BRITNEY was not at all excited about her role in the money exchange.

“Why did I have to come?” she protested. “Why couldn’t you just do it by yourself?”

She was sitting in the passenger seat of Dre’s borrowed van, as they neared Kenneth Hahn State Park. Waverly was behind the wheel. Dre’s friend Mossy had picked Angela and Dre up earlier. They were already stationed someplace in the park out of sight.

“What are you afraid of?” Waverly asked, as he turned off La Cienega and into the park. “Rico’s your boyfriend. You think he’s going to shoot you?”

“Of course not.” Britney locked her arms across her chest and pouted. “Ricardo wouldn’t hurt me. But if something crazy goes down, I don’t wanna get hit by any stray bullets.”

“There’s not going to be any shooting,” Waverly assured her, though he wasn’t exactly sure about that. “You’re going to hand over the money and we’re getting the hell out of here. Unless, of course, you want to stay with your boyfriend.”

“Uh . . . no,” Britney said. “I . . . I’d rather go back with you.”

“Really? What are you afraid of? I thought you said Rico never hurt anybody.”

Britney huffed and looked out of the window.

When Waverly had finally spoken by phone with Rico, he told him he had the money and would give it to him in exchange for his life. Rico agreed and suggested that they make the exchange after dark in the parking lot of the Baldwin Hills Crenshaw Plaza. Waverly vetoed that setting, insisting on a daylight exchange in an area that was far less congested. Waverly didn’t want to run the risk of innocent people getting hurt just in case a shooting did break out.

Dre was the one who suggested Kenneth Hahn State Park. Located in Baldwin Hills, it was one of the most scenic parks in L.A., equipped with a Japanese garden, fishing lake, four playgrounds and more than one hundred picnic tables. The walking trails provided a view of the Pacific Ocean to the west and the Hollywood sign to the north.

It was early afternoon on a Monday and the park was nearly deserted. Waverly stopped at the entrance to pay the five-dollar parking fee. He glanced around, hoping to spot a uniformed officer. Angela had turned to her colleague, Zack, who called in law enforcement to set a trap for Rico.

As it turned out, Baldwin Hills was an unincorporated area manned by the L.A. County Sheriff’s Department, not the L.A.P.D. Waverly prayed that dozens of gun-totting deputies were scattered around the park, their trigger fingers ready to fire. He looked around for a sign of Rico and was happy that he couldn’t find one.

As he slowly drove the van down into the park, and then up a steep incline, Waverly felt increasingly skittish. Even though Angela assured him that they would be under close watch, he didn’t actually believe this delivery would take place without any glitches. He simply didn’t have that kind of luck.

When he got to the top of the hill, he spotted Mossy sitting in his car at the end of a dirt path. He wondered if Angela and Dre had gotten out of the car.

Rico had instructed him to park at the top of the hill near the covered picnic tables. When he finally reached the area, Waverly marveled at the scenery. He never even knew this park existed. He could actually see the downtown L.A. skyline.

His BlackBerry chirped and Waverly jumped high enough to hit the ceiling. He knew who was calling.

“Glad you’re on time,” Rico said, when Waverly answered.

“Where are you?” Waverly anxiously glanced around. He still had not cut off the engine.

“Around,” Rico said.

Waverly tried to keep his voice from quivering. “How do you want to do this?”

“Get out of the van with the money,” Rico ordered.

“No way. Your”—Waverly caught himself. He couldn’t let Rico know that Britney had exposed him. “Like I told you on the phone, my friend Britney’s bringing you the money.”

Rico chuckled. “Why would you use a woman to do a man’s job?”

“If you want the money, she’s bringing it to you. Otherwise, we’re out of here.” Waverly was still looking around trying to figure out where Rico was hiding. And where in the hell are the deputies? He saw a few people milling around. He prayed they were plainclothes cops.

“Fine. Let’s do this,” Rico said. “Tell her to drop the money in the doorway of the men’s restroom. Then go back to the car.”

Waverly shuddered with relief. Britney would be back in the van before Rico realized that the duffel bag only held a few dollars piled on top of shredded newspaper. Even though Britney had put his life on the line, he was still worried about hers.

“Where are you?” Waverly asked again.

“Around, like I said the first time,” Rico repeated. “I have a clear view of every move you make. So, don’t try anything stupid.”

Waverly hung up and gave Britney her instructions.

Britney just sat there hugging herself. “I’m scared.”

“This guy is your boyfriend. What do you have to be scared of?”

“When I was watching the news reports, I recognized that black Escalade that was chasing you out of the hotel. It belonged to one of Rico’s friends. He never goes anywhere without him. He’s probably here, too.”

“And you’re just now telling me this?”

Britney looked genuinely sorry.

Waverly was too scared and too exhausted to be angry at her. “Look, I’m sure he’s not going to hurt you. We have to get this over with. Here’s the money.” He pulled a duffel bag from the backseat and dropped it into her lap.

After sitting there for a few more seconds, Britney stuffed the bag under her left arm and threw open the van door.

As she climbed out, Waverly finally spotted someone whom he prayed was an undercover sheriff’s deputy hiding in a thick patch of bushes about twenty feet away. He hoped the guy was a sharpshooter.

Waverly watched as Britney timidly inched toward the men’s restroom several yards away. When she got within a few feet of the open doorway, she tossed the bag inside and began running back toward the van.

“Watch out!” He heard Angela yell from some unknown position to his rear. “He’s going to shoot her!”

Britney was just a few feet from the van when Waverly saw the man he knew as Vincent step out from behind a bush and take aim at Britney. Before he knew it, Waverly had thrown open the van door and dashed toward her.

Suddenly, he heard gunfire and bullets seemed to be flying in all directions. Vincent, his friend, and the deputies were shooting it out. Waverly hooked his arm around Britney’s waist and tried to run back to the van. But Britney was screaming and clinging to his body, making it hard for him to make any progress.

Waverly had just reached out to open the car door when the first bullet hit him in the leg. Half a second later, he felt the sting of a second bullet pierce his chest.

Before he could figure out exactly where he’d been hit, everything went black.

Chapter 90

BECKER was so repulsed by the revelations about his long-time friend and mentor, that he was not sure he could bring himself to face the man. But in the end, he agreed to Erickson’s request for a meeting.

Sitting in the attorney-client meeting room at the county jail, Becker’s face hardened in disgust as he waited for Erickson to be brought in.

When the door finally opened and Erickson stepped inside, the image before him left Becker stunned. After only forty-eight hours behind bars, Erickson had transformed into a haggard old man. His eyes were ringed with dark circles, his face was pale and unshaven and he stank of body odor.

The prosecutor had successfully fought Erickson’s request for bail, knowing that he had the financial resources to disappear and never be seen again. Becker did not think Erickson would survive this ordeal.

Erickson shuffled forward and took a seat at a small metal table across from Becker.

Becker waited for the guard to leave the room before speaking. “You asked me to come and I’m here,” he said. “I don’t have a lot of time so let’s get this over with.”

“I need your help,” Erickson pleaded. “You know I’m innocent. You have to tell the police. I’ve tried to tell them about Ashley, but they won’t listen. They’ll listen to you. I won’t make it in here.”

“You’re not getting out of here because this is where you deserve to be,” Becker spat. “You’re going away for a long, long time.”

“But I’m innocent! You know that I didn’t kill Claire!”

“You need to pay for what you did to Ashley.”

“Ashley’s a liar! I never touched her!”

Becker leaned across the table, enraged. “Just because you never touched her, you think that makes what you did okay?”

Erickson shrank away from him.

“Answer my question,” Becker demanded. “Making a twelve-year-old child pose for pornographic pictures is okay? What did you do? Sell them on the Internet to other perverts? Every time I think about the fact that I made you Kaylee’s godfather, it makes me sick to my stomach.” Becker reached across the table and backhanded him.

Erickson’s whole body whipped sideways from the force of the blow. He hung his head and sobbed. “I’m sorry for what I did, but please don’t let Ashley get away with this. You have to tell the police she set me up.”

“I’m not telling the police anything,” Becker said calmly. “And anyway, it turns out that I was wrong. Ashley didn’t kill Claire.”

Erickson abruptly looked up. “What? How do you know that?”

“I know.”

“But . . . if it wasn’t Ashley, then who?”

Becker smiled stiffly.

“Wait a minute.” Shock darkened Erickson’s face. “So, it was you?”

“You deserve exactly what you’re going to get for stealing Ashley’s innocence”—he paused—“and for betraying me.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about you standing in the way of my becoming chairman of the firm. I heard all about that Management Committee meeting.”

Erickson’s mouth gaped open, but no words followed. “I needed you in Washington. I—”

“Save the lies,” Becker said. “I don’t want to hear it.”

Erickson wiped his face on the sleeve of his prison jumpsuit. “So it was you. You set me up!”

“No,” Becker said. “I already told you. I didn’t do it. But I wish I had.”

Erickson sat frozen in confusion. Suddenly, his eyes filled with a knowing light. “How stupid of me! It was Sophia. She had run of the house. She could have easily killed Claire.”

Becker smiled. “No, it wasn’t Sophia either.”

“But you already said it wasn’t Waverly Sloan. Who else could have done it?”

“You were set up, but it wasn’t Ashley, it wasn’t Sophia and it wasn’t me or Waverly Sloan.” He paused in anticipation of the coming reaction to the shocker he was about to reveal. “Your wife framed you.”

“What? What are you talking about? How could . . .” Deep lines of bewilderment creased Erickson’s forehead.

“Claire set it all up,” Becker said, leering across the table.

“But I don’t understand. Why would she—”

“The day before she died, Claire mailed that DVD to Sophia, along with a letter explaining her entire plan. When Claire planted that camera in your office and found out about your sick little hobby, she realized that what Ashley had told her about you years ago was true. She was consumed with guilt for sending her daughter away at your urging, rather than believe that you were forcing her to pose naked.

“Over a series of months, she began hoarding the morphine she got from her doctor. After planting traces of it on your gardening gloves, she injected herself with a disposable syringe. She was quite meticulous. She calculated exactly how much time she would have to flush everything down the toilet and return to bed before slipping into unconsciousness. What you did to Ashley was despicable. Claire was determined to make you pay, and apparently, that’s about to happen.”

“You have to tell the police what you know!” Erickson sobbed. “Sophia has to give that letter to the police!”

“Claire requested that Sophia burn it and that’s exactly what she did. And don’t look for me to help you. As far as I’m concerned, we never had this conversation. Anyway, no one would believe this story coming from you. They have you on camera, remember? You have no defense to the child pornography charges and you’d sound like a lunatic claiming Claire injected herself.”

Becker leaned back in his chair and chuckled.

“You’re actually lucky. Claire didn’t want Ashley to be the center of an embarrassing child porn case. She asked Sophia not to ever reveal what you did to Ashley. Sophia was actually torn about turning over the DVD, but I convinced her to give it to me. That DVD and the morphine found on your gardening gloves are more than enough to send you away for life.”

Becker enjoyed the look of horror on Erickson’s face. He stood up as Erickson’s sobs grew louder.

“Wait, please don’t leave!” he wailed. “You have to tell the police the truth!”

“No, I don’t. You deserve everything you’re about to get.” Becker started walking toward the door.

“I never thought your wife was all that bright, but she definitely pulled one over on you. She planned everything out months in advance and waited until her doctor told her she only had a few weeks to live.”

“Claire knew she was close to dying?”

“Yes. And that’s when she moved forward with her plan. Her decision to go along with selling the insurance policy and backing out of the surgery were all part of the setup. So was telling you she wanted to be cremated, but neglecting to share her wishes with Ashley or Sophia. She even consulted with a divorce attorney and told him she feared you might try to kill her. That testimony alone would probably nail you.” Becker paused and smiled.

“Claire crafted a perfect plan and understood exactly how it would play out after her death.” Becker smiled. “We underestimated her. She was a brilliant woman. Ruthlessly brilliant.”

Becker opened the door and called for the guard. “You destroyed Ashley’s life and now you’re going to pay with yours. I hope you get the needle.”

When the guard reappeared, Becker stepped out of the room and completely tuned out the cries of his broken mentor.

Epilogue

DRE had just stepped off an elevator at Cedars-Sinai Medical Center when Angela called his name from the other end of the corridor. His face broke into a smile as he waited for her to reach him.

They had not spoken in the week that had passed since the shootout in the park. Angela had kept her distance and Dre reluctantly let her.

Angela was carrying a large bouquet in a white vase. Dre was toting a bottle in a brown paper bag.

Angela chuckled and pointed. “You can’t bring wine in here.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s a hospital.”

“If I was stuck up in here, this is exactly what I’d want.” Dre pulled the bottle from the bag to reveal not wine, but sparkling apple cider.

They both laughed.

“How’ve you been?” Dre asked.

“Okay,” Angela replied. “And you?”

“I’m making it. You need help with that?” Dre asked, referring to the vase. “How about if we trade?” He took the flowers and gave Angela the bottle of cider.

“I think I’ll put this in here.” Angela stuffed the bottle into her oversized purse. “Wouldn’t want somebody to think I was bringing banned substances into a hospital. I am still a lawyer, you know.”

“So, everything’s cool with your job?”

“Not exactly. I’m currently on a leave of absence trying to work out the terms of my resignation. It looks like I’ll get to keep my license and won’t have to face any charges before the State Bar.”

“Why would you? We were both cleared in Cornell’s shooting,” Dre said.

“Let’s just say there were some judgment issues involved.”

“‘Cuz of me?” Dre asked.

“Yes and no, but don’t worry about it. I’ll manage. Believe it or not, I’m thinking about opening up my own practice and doing some criminal defense work.”

“Cool. With just the people I know, I could keep you supplied with clients for years to come.”

Angela laughed softly. “What’ve you been up to?”

“Not much. Working out, scoping out some new property. Other than that, just trying to play life by the rules.”

“That’s good to hear.”

Dre hesitated. “Good enough for us to start kicking it again?”

He could see from her face that Angela had not expected the question. Or maybe she had, but didn’t welcome it.

“I’ve missed you, Angela,” Dre said, plunging ahead. “A lot. I’d really dig it if we could hang out sometime. Completely on your terms. Doesn’t have to be anything heavy. We could just catch a movie or something.”

Dre waited for her to respond, and when she didn’t, he wanted to kick himself. No sweat. At least I put it out there. He wasn’t about to start crying and slobbering all over himself like that weak ass Cornell. He made the effort and now he would walk away with both of his balls securely intact.

“Let’s go make this special delivery. I’m not exactly sure where the room is.”

Angela pointed down the hallway. “It’s down there. Third room on the right.”

They silently walked down the corridor, a journey that seemed to take forever from Dre’s perspective. Just as they were about to enter Waverly’s room, Angela placed a hand on Dre’s forearm.

“So much has happened to me in the last few weeks that sometimes I feel like I don’t know up from down,” Angela said. “But in answer to your question, yeah, I would definitely like to catch a movie sometime.”

Dre nodded, then smiled, struggling to play it cool. He so wanted to hold her. Instead, he held the door open so Angela could enter first.

“You two look awful darn happy,” Waverly said, when they stepped inside.

Dre and Angela eyed each other, then seemed to simultaneously blush.

“You must be Deidra.” Angela extended her hand to a woman sitting in a chair next to Waverly’s bed. Dre walked across the room and set the flowers on the window ledge.

“And you two must be my husband’s partners in crime,” Deidra replied. “I read the whole scary story in the newspaper. Thanks for delivering my husband back to me in one piece.”

“No problem,” Dre said.

The media reports gave Waverly most of the credit for helping to crack a dangerous murder ring that preyed on the terminally ill. Waverly actually came off looking like a hero. Dre figured that was the only reason Deidra was at his bedside.

“How you feelin’, my man?” Dre asked, walking over to the bed.

“Just lucky to be alive,” Waverly said.

He escaped with a shattered knee and a bullet wound to the chest. There were serious internal injuries, but his prognosis for a full recovery was great. Britney survived without a scratch and her boyfriend Ricardo was sitting behind bars. Thanks to the deal Britney cut for herself, he was going away for a long, long time.

Video cameras posted outside the 7-Eleven where Jon was kidnapped led police to one of his killers. The man later confessed to attaching a homemade bomb to Jon’s car before sending it off the cliff. He also told police that he was paid by Ricardo to beat up Waverly’s brother Quincy, and murder several other people, among them, Veronika Myers, her mother, and Joanna Richardson.

Information supplied by the hit man also linked the two Live Now executives to the murder scheme. The U.S. Attorney’s Offices in Nevada, New York and Florida were now reexamining their cases to determine if there had also been a high number of accidental deaths among the viatical patients in their states. The hit man’s accomplice in the murders was still on the run.

Waverly had his own legal challenges to face. Fortunately for him, a murder charge would not be one of them. In exchange for his testimony, the prosecution agreed to cut him a deal that would keep him out of jail for money laundering, bribery and falsification of his viatical license.

Lawrence Erickson’s indictment for his wife’s murder made national headlines. A sanitized version of the video showing the former U.S. Attorney General watching child porn had somehow made its way to YouTube. The divorce attorney Claire had consulted before she died told Dateline NBC that she was terrified that her husband was going to kill her before the cancer did. Prosecutors were convinced that they had a strong case for conviction.

Whenever Waverly moved an inch, Deidra bounced out of her chair and rushed to comfort him. “You okay, honey?”

In just the few minutes that Dre had spent in the woman’s presence, he felt a bad vibe. If half of what Waverly had told him about his wife was true, he should definitely send her ass packing. He glanced over at Angela and smiled. But then again, once a woman got under your skin, there was really very little you could do about it.

Waverly pointed up at the television screen. “Hey, Angela, isn’t that your coworker?”

They all turned their attention to the television screen. “Yep,” Angela said, “that’s Zack the Hack in all his glory.”

Zack was sitting across from Bill O’Reilly. His navy suit looked fabulous against the royal blue of the Fox news set. Zack described with great emotion how he was instrumental in bringing down a deadly ring that victimized the dying. If he hadn’t called in law enforcement, Zack explained, many more lives would have been lost.

“Homeboy is really trippin’,” Dre said, when the interview was over. “You’d think he orchestrated the whole operation and rescued everybody single-handedly. He wasn’t even there.”

Angela chuckled. “You have to know Zack to truly appreciate him. He was on the Today Show this morning and is doing Larry King Live later tonight.”

“Doesn’t it piss you off that he’s claiming all the glory?” Waverly asked.

“No, not really. I owe him a big favor for coming forward with that information about Cornell. If he hadn’t, Dre and I still might be facing a long, drawn out investigation.”

The D.A.’s office officially ruled that Dre acted in self-defense in Cornell’s shooting and quickly closed the case, in large part because of information provided by Zack.

Unbeknownst to Angela, there had been two prior cases of sexual misconduct alleged against her ex-fiancé. The first victim was a court reporter who claimed Cornell became belligerent and refused to let her out of his chambers when she rejected his advances. The other incident, which occurred only three months before Cornell began dating Angela, was far more serious. A summer clerk from Loyola Law School claimed that Cornell forced himself on her in his chambers.

Both women reported the incidents to their superiors, but no investigation followed. The Chief Judge, who should have initiated an internal investigation, covered up the reports. Cornell’s only punishment was being assigned to a less prestigious courtroom.

There were rumors of other victims who were too afraid to make charges against a sitting Superior Court judge. Neither the Superior Court nor the D.A.’s office wanted the public to know how the old boy’s network had protected one of its own. Rather than risk having the information come out during a highly publicized trial, the investigation into Cornell’s death was quickly closed.

Waverly pointed up at the television screen again. “Turn it up. There’s some breaking news about Lawrence Erickson.”

Angela and Dre simultaneously turned around as Deidra grabbed the remote. They all listened as CNN anchor Don Lemon reported that former U.S. Attorney General Lawrence Erickson had hung himself in his jail cell.

“Oh, no!” Angela cupped her hand over her mouth. “I thought he was under suicide watch?”

Dre shook his head. “Unfortunately, he’s not the first guy to off himself on suicide watch. He was a pedophile. The cops probably wanted him to.”

A heavy cloud of sadness seemed to descend upon the room. They continued to listen until the CNN anchor began to rehash Erickson’s ties to Waverly through his wife’s viatical settlement. Dre picked up the remote and turned off the television.

“So, when are you getting out of here?” he asked, hoping to lighten the mood.

“In a couple of days, I hope.”

“I want you both to come over to the house for dinner,” Deidra said cheerfully.

Waverly gave her an anxious look. “I’m not too sure how much longer we’re going to even be in that house.”

Deidra toyed with her diamond bracelet. She obviously wasn’t pleased at that news. “Well, maybe we can all go out to a nice restaurant.”

“Sure thing,” Dre said. He figured Deidra would soon be long gone if Waverly couldn’t come up with a suitable replacement gig.

After visiting for close to an hour, Dre and Angela left the room together. When they reached the elevators, Angela pointed down the hallway.

“Hold on a minute. I’m thirsty. There’s a vending machine near the stairwell.”

Instead of waiting, Dre followed behind her. He thought it was a good sign that she asked him to wait. Dre felt like he should say or do something, but he wasn’t sure what signals, if any, Angela was sending him. Sometimes she was so damn hard to read. He’d wait for her to make the next move.

Angela stopped in front of the vending machine and started fishing around in her purse. “I don’t believe this,” she said, throwing up her hands. “I must’ve left my wallet at home.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Dre flashed a dimpled smile and pulled a handful of change from his pocket. “I got this.”

Thank you

Thank you for purchasing Buying Time! I sincerely hope you enjoyed it, and if you did, it would mean a lot to me if you would take a few minutes to rate the book on Amazon. Even better, write a short blurb. Good reviews are crucial to the success of any book, so you'd be doing me a big favor by posting a review.

Writing is a pretty solitary life, so when I have the time, I enjoy meeting readers. If you have a book club and select one of my books to read, I would love to "attend" your meeting via Skype and discuss the book with you and your book club members.

I would also be hugely honored if you would visit my website at www.pamelasamuelsyoung.com and join my mailing list. You can also friend me on Facebook and follow me on Twitter.

As an independently published author, word of mouth buzz is crucial. So please tell your friends and family (and even a stranger or two) about Buying Time and be sure to check out my other books, especially Anybody's Daughter, the next book in my Angela Evans series.

Thanks again for your support.

Happy reading!

Pamela

Author's Note

UNTIL just a few years ago, I had never heard of the viatical industry. I happened to be at a party chatting with a guy who mentioned that he was a viatical broker. When he explained more, my writer-brain immediately kicked into overdrive. I asked lots of questions and, almost immediately, the idea for this book began to take shape. By the time all my questions were answered, I knew the viatical industry would one day make a great backdrop for a mystery novel.

My research for this book included devouring dozens of articles and books and scouring a multitude of websites dealing with the viatical industry. Along the way, I came across many tales of fraud and abuse. I also learned, however, that viatical settlements serve a legitimate need, as they can be a tremendous source of hope for terminally ill patients in desperate need of financial help.

For those folks in the viatical industry who are reading this book, I confess to intentionally taking a few liberties with the real-life process purely for entertainment value. Please don’t hold that against me.

For more information about viatical settlements, you can find a wealth of information on the Internet. You can also contact your state insurance regulator for specific rules governing viatical settlements in your state.

Acknowledgements

WHEW! Four down and many, many more to go. As always, I have a tremendous number of people to thank.

First, my husband Rick, who never gives me grief when I get the urge to roll out of bed at 4 a.m. and write in a corner of our bedroom. I couldn’t do this without you constantly pumping me up. Mama Pearl and Daddy John, big props to both of you. Your excitement each time I publish a new book, gets me equally excited. To my newest writer friend, New York Times best-selling author Sheldon Siegel. Thanks for that wonderful blurb.

To my many friends and colleagues who critiqued the early drafts of this book, as always, your feedback was invaluable. A big thanks to Diana Glasgow, Yolanda Oliver, Jerry Samuels, Donny Wilson, James White (you were right about that chapter!), Jerome Norris, Marsha Silady, Ellen Farrell, Debbie Diffendal, Ann Adam, Jewelle Johnson (a busy law firm partner I can always count on), Cynthia Hebron, Olivia Smith, Kenneth Stokes, Diane Mackin (thanks for the book club questions), Karey Keenan (thanks for your sharp eye), Virginia Gonzales, Geneva O’Keith, Cheryl Mason, Kelly-Ann Henry, Pamela Goree Dancy, Paul Ullom (my seventh grade math teacher and self-appointed publicist), Waverly Crenshaw, Bill Covington, and Book-a-licious Book Club members Arlene L. Walker, Raunda Jones, Judi Johnson, Terri Doyle, Denise Walker, Saba McKinley, Nitta Richard, Kamillah Clayton, Claudette Knight, Helen Jingles, and Makeda Covington. Thanks also to my critique group, the Write Sisters, who saw this book in its early stages and helped me put the pieces together, Adrienne Byers, Nefertiti Austin and Jane Howard-Martin.

Thanks also to those experts who shared their knowledge and expertise, pharmacist Colleen Carraway Higgs, R.N. Selma Seale, State Bar attorney Margaret Warren, defense attorney Colin Bowen, a caring, upstanding viatical broker who shall remain nameless, and former assistant U.S. attorneys turned big-time law firm partners, Carolyn Kubota of O’Melveny & Myers, LLP, and Duane Lyons of Quinn Emanuel Urquhart Oliver & Hedges, LLP. Thanks for answering my many questions.

To those friends whose encouragement and support keep me fired up, Karen Copeland (thanks for being my road dog); Shirley Henderson (my biggest cheerleader), my hometown homies Merverllyn Vaughn, Sharlene Moore, Stephanie Winlock, Marcia Drake, Cecelia Dickerson (thanks for running me all over Atlanta!), Molly Byock, Donna Lowry, Roosevelt Womble (who sold enough of my books to open his own bookstore), fellow writers Barbara Wright Sykes, Linda Beed, Tina McKinney Brooks and Angela Henry (who understand the trials and tribulations of a writer’s life) and three new friends who happen to share my name, Pam Nelson (thanks for your encouragement), Pamela J. Broussard (thanks for the great publicity), and Pamela Goree Dancy (thanks for sending me that incredibly uplifting email when I needed it most).

Without a doubt, my book clubs sisters have kept me going. I have so enjoyed my afternoons discussing my books with you and stuffing myself with great food. Thanks to each and every one of you: Atlanta, GA: Imani Literary Group, Literary Diversions Book Club, Georgia Association of Black Women Attorneys Book Club, Circle of Friends Book Club, RAWSISTAZ Literary Group, Mothers with Open Minds Book Club, Diamond Sisters Circle Book Club; Houston, TX: Cush City Book Club, Just An Opinion Book Club, Go On Girl! Book Club, Cover 2 Cover Book Club, Kismet Book Club; Jackson, MS: Conversations Book Club; Kansas City, MO: Mahogany Sisters Book Club; Las Vegas, NV: Las Vegas African-American Authors Book Club; Nashville, TN: No Stress Book Club; New York, NY: Sugar and Spice Book Club; Seattle, WA: In the Company of My Sisters Book Club; St. Louis, MO: Just Us Book Club; Southern California: Book-a-licious Book Club, Women with Vision Book Club, Nubian Sisters Literary Book Club, Blessed Brown Girls Book Club, Something to Talk About Book Club, Nubian Queens Literary Book Club, Barnes & Noble Mystery Book Club, It’s Our Time Book Club, Essence of Books Book Club, Kindred Spirits Book Club, African Violet Book Club, The Desert Readers of Color Book Club, Chapters Book Club, So Raw Book Club, Jazzy Lady’s Book Club, Wise Women of the Word Book Club, Sisterfriends Book Club, Sisters Untitled Book Club, Real Ladies Book Club, Hooked on Books Book Club, Ladies of Color Turning Pages, Sisterhood Literary Book Club, Sistahood Book Club, Tabahani Book Club, Tri-State Books and More Book Club, Nia Book Club, Phenomenal Women Book Club, My Friends Book Club, Bright and Breezy Book Club; Northern California: And We Do Too Read Book Club, Turning Pages Book Club, Underground Bookstore Book Club, Sistahs on the Reading Edge Book Club; Washington, D.C. area: Umoja Book Club, The Divas Book Club, The Reading Circle of Friends, The Fannie Robinson Black Authors Discussion Group, Literate Ladies Book Club, Turning Pages Book Club, Divas Book Club, Sisters Book Club of Richmond, Virginia and Circle of Friends in Upper Marlboro. Please forgive me if I missed anyone!

A special thank you to the book club of book clubs, Black Expressions Book Club. Thank you Carol Mackey for selecting my third novel, Murder on the Down Low, as an Editor’s Pick. Finally to Ruth Bridges of Literary Sisters, I love your wonderful retreats. Can’t wait to come back!

A super special thanks to my talented team: publicist extraordinaire Ella Curry, President of EDC Creations Media, book cover designer Keith Saunders of Marion Designs, web master Milton Ellis of Onegistics Systems Solutions, book layout designer Kimberly Martin of Self-Pub.net, my talented graphic designer Lisa Zachery of Papered Wonders, Bill Ralph and Anita Mosier at Malloy, Inc., and Susan Sewall, Cynthia Murphy and the rest of the team at the Independent Publishers Group. Thanks for the great job you all do.

To my fans, thanks for reading my books and sending me all those encouraging email messages. Stay tuned . . . there’s much more to come!

Discussion Questions

for

Buying Time

- Do you think viatical settlements are appropriate investments?

- Why do you think Claire chose to craft such a devious plan, rather than go to the police?

- Do you think Angela’s family dynamics had anything to do with her poor choices in men?

- Is the drive to attain power at any cost a product of nurture or nature?

- Do you think men who marry gold-digging women like Deidra are sucked in solely by physical attraction or something more?

- Do you believe that professional women are less likely to become victims of domestic violence than other women?

- What did you think of Jada’s advice that Angela should have a baby without a husband?

- If you were writing a sequel to Buying Time, what would happen with the relationship between Angela and Dre?

- Which character in Buying Time did you like the most?

- What did you like/dislike about Buying Time?

Table of Contents

Welcome

Hostile Witness

Cover

Title

Dedication

Copyright

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Thank you

About the Author

Silent Witness

To Speak For The Dead

Cover

Title

Copyright

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

About the Author

Acknowledgments

An Innocent Client

AIC Cover

Title

Dedication

Part I

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Part II

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Part III

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Thank You

About the Author

Special Circumstances

Cover

Title

Books

ISBN

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Thank you

About the Author

Acknowledgments

Books:Connect

Buying Time

Cover

Title

Books

ISBN

Dedication

Prologue

Part 1

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Part 2

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Part 3

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Part 4

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Part 5

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Chapter 80

Chapter 81

Chapter 82

Chapter 83

Chapter 84

Chapter 85

Chapter 86

Chapter 87

Chapter 88

Chapter 89

Chapter 90

Epilogue

Thank you

Author's Note

Acknowledgements

Questions