“We would need to be discreet,” she interrupted. “For thetime being.”
Sam’s glass was suspended at his lips. She saw a flicker inhis eyes, a slight reaction at his mouth, before he shook the ice and took adrink, eyes fully focused on her.
They are back. There was a time, after the arrest and thearraignment, when the press left Allison largely to herself. It was big news,sensational stuff; then it was nothing until the trial approached-until then,on to the next salacious scandal. But since the trial began last week, theyhave returned with a flourish, the news trucks lining her street, the reportersstanding on the curb, hovering over the property line of her house. Camerasfilming her whenever she leaves the house, which is hardly ever.
It is, in a way, a very public place to meet, but in truthit’s preferable to most spots. Since February, when this started, they havefollowed her almost everywhere; if she wandered into a coffee shop or cafedowntown, the pack would be close behind, staring through windows. But for somereason, they have never followed her into a grocery store. Who knows-maybe thestore manager would have expelled them. For whatever reason, the media probablyfound it odd to follow a woman through the aisles of a grocery store as shefilled her cart. Allison, why the scented fabric softener? Have you always usedTide? Why Folgers over Maxwell House? The breaking news on cable television: “
PAGONE SPLURGES ON FRESH FRUIT. MURDER SUSPECT: “I CAN’TBELIEVE IT’S NOT BUTTER!”
She carries a hand cart with her to the small coffee shopinside the store. She finds him there, as she has every Sunday.
“Hey there,” Larry Evans says to her. He is dressed casuallyas always, a button-down shirt and jeans, baseball cap.
“Hey yourself.” There is a cup of coffee, black, awaitingher. She takes a sip and receives a jolt.
Larry Evans gives her the thumbs-up. She isn’t sure of themeaning but she can guess.
“Don’t tell me the trial’s going well,” she says to him.
“I think it is.” Larry moves in his seat with excitement. “Ithink you have them right where you want them.”
“Like Butch Cassidy had ’em right where he wanted ’em.”
“Allison.” Larry throws his hands up. “They say you weredumped by Sam and so you killed him? Come on. That’s all they can say? That’sweak.”
“The judge seems persuaded.”
“Well, sure-I mean, without any response, it might seemconvincing. But you have plenty to say in response.” There is a hint ofchallenge in what he is saying. He has come to learn how stubborn Allison canbe. “You start your defense tomorrow, right?”
“Larry.” Allison sighs. “They have so much evidence againstme. Physical evidence. A motive. An alibi that blew up in my face. I have ananswer for all of that? I have smoke and mirrors. My defense is one giantdiversion tactic.”
The prosecution’s case rested on Friday, after three days ofdamning evidence. It gave the news outlets the weekend to play over all of theproof implicating Allison in Sam Dillon’s murder.
Larry doesn’t have an answer, of course. He doesn’t know howthis all played out. Even Larry, the optimist, the one who has rallied to hercause, cannot explain away the evidence placing Allison at the scene of themurder, or her argument with Sam beforehand, to say nothing of the alibifiasco.
“Testify, Allison,” he says. “Tell them what reallyhappened.”
She smiles at him. “Larry, I want to win this case as muchas you want me to win. I’m just trying to be pragmatic. Their case is solid.And I’m not going to testify, because that could just make things worse.”
“How so?”
“I can’t-I really can’t get into that. Suffice it to say, Ican’t testify.”
“You’re protecting someone,” he gathers.
“I really-” Allison sighs. “I really can’t go there.”
“You still haven’t shown your lawyer what I wrote up foryou, have you?” Larry shakes his head in frustration. “These-the prosecutorsdon’t have a clue, Allison. Either they haven’t figured out what I have or theydon’t want to talk about it because it hurts their case. I’m guessing theformer is true. They don’t know. Which means you can hammer them.”
“You know that what I tell my lawyer is off limits, Larry.That was the deal-”
“Okay, okay. I don’t want to know what you tell him.” Helets out an exaggerated sigh. “I don’t get you, though. You’ve got a ticket andyou won’t punch it.”
Allison drinks her coffee and looks around at the shoppers,their happy-go-lucky lives and their silly, frivolous concerns.
“So all you’re going to say in your defense,” he asks, “isthat some unnamed, unknown person connected to the bribery scandal killed SamDillon because they were afraid he might squeal on them? That’s it?”
“I think it could be convincing,” she says.
“No, you don’t.” The heat comes to Larry’s face. “No, youdon’t. You have names and you won’t give them.” He drills a finger on thetable. “I think you know, Allison. I think you know and you won’t say. And Idon’t get that. I have no idea what’s going on.”
Allison smiles at him weakly.
You certainly don’t, she thinks to herself. And she willnever tell him.
ONE DAY EARLIER…
Jane McCoy looks over the expansive office of the FBI’sspecial agent-in-charge for the city’s field office. The desk is oak, large andpolished like a military spit-shine, reflecting the ceiling lights. The carpetis blood-red. The bookshelves along the wall are immaculate, adorned withmanuals and a few well-placed photographs. The guy wants to impress, hesucceeded.
Irving Shiels has been the SAC for eleven years here in thecity, having served overseas before that. She has always gotten along well withShiels. There is a mystique about him in the office, something unapproachable,the strut in his stride, the cold stare of those dark eyes, but she has beenable to reach him on a personal level. A lot of people get tongue-tied around aboss. McCoy, for reasons she cannot explain, is just the opposite. She imaginesit’s a rather solitary existence, running an office like this, and anyone inIrving Shiels’s position would appreciate the occasional joke or informality,provided it doesn’t cross the line. A witty comment or personal anecdote canbreak the ice, and that is her forte. She remembers babbling to him on aninternal elevator one day about one of her cases, an international childkidnapping case when she was new to the bureau, and realizing in retrospectthat she had been doing all the talking. Shiels probably takes it forconfidence, that someone like Jane McCoy could be so freewheeling around him.The truth is, McCoy is just a talker.
“The prosecution’s case ended yesterday,” McCoy says. “It’severything we expected.”
“Right. Read it in the Watch. Looks bad for her.” Shielsleans back in his chair, a scowl playing on his face. He rarely lightens up,never seems to err on that side. He’s the classic straight shooter. Doesn’tdrink, doesn’t smoke. Doesn’t smile, either. “So what’s up next?” he asks.
McCoy shifts in her chair. “Walter Benjamin is up next. TheFlanagan-Maxx government guy.”
“Right. Benjamin.”
“I’ll be in the courtroom, sir. I’m sure it will be fine.”
“I saw where the daughter testified.”
“Yes, sir. Jessica was the prosecution’s best witness.”
Shiels runs a hand over his mouth. “I’ll bet she was. Okay.”He looks at the ceiling. “Tell me about the
