says to them. At least in hiscase, it will be his choice.
TWO DAYS EARLIER…
There’s a guy, but you probably wouldn’t approve.” Jessica’sevasive comment to Allison, last December, over dinner.
“Tell me,” Allison prodded.
“You’ll just tell me no.”
Allison drew back. It was true, she had never failed to giveher opinion on her daughter’s choice of boyfriends. But she had never forbadeher daughter from acting on her own instincts, and certainly had no place doingso now, when Jessica was twenty and living at her college dorm.
She knew Jess, however distant they had grown. Jessica couldhave avoided the subject, or lied about it. She did neither. She had broachedthe topic and left it dangling. Jessica wanted her to inquire, Allison figured.
“Tell me,” Allison said again.
Paul Riley shows Allison in to his office. It has a gorgeousview, this corner office, and Paul has plenty of memorabilia to decorate thetwo walls without windows. Artists’ etchings of his trial work, photos of Paulwith prominent officials. Paul Riley, after all, is the lawyer who prosecutedTerry Burgos, the man who killed six girls on a college campus about twentyyears ago. Paul was the guy Allison wanted, when suspicion first gatheredaround her after Sam’s death. Since he begged off representing her, shepersuaded him to represent Jessica.
“How are you holding up?” he asks her, and he knows thequestion is loaded.
“I’m fine, Paul, thanks. You?”
Paul defers as he always does. “Twenty balls in the air,” hesays.
“I’m concerned with one particular ball.”
“Sure.” Paul plays with a cufflink on his starched shirt.His shirt is soft blue, matching his eyes.
“She needs to understand the importance of not straying fromher testimony, Paul.”
“She knows that, Allison. I know that. There’s only so muchI can share with you now, obviously.” He smiles. His loyalty, of course, is nowto his client, Jessica.
“She came to my house about eight-thirty that night, thenight Sam was killed,” Allison says. “She had been at school all day. I gothome close to two in the morning. Jess was asleep on the couch.”
Paul nods but doesn’t speak. He will not share hisconversations with Jessica to anyone, not even Jessica’s mother.
“My worry is that she’ll try to protect me,” Allisonexplains. “That she might say something crazy.”
Paul’s eyes narrow, divert from Allison. She knows he willnot elaborate. For all she knows, Jessica has spoken poorly of her mother toPaul. Paul might be thinking, Oh, Allison, I don’t think you have to worryabout Jessica trying to protect you.
But she cannot take the chance. Perjury, obstruction ofjustice, and perhaps worse could await her daughter. This case is all over thepress. If the prosecutors are embarrassed in so public a forum, they might lookwherever necessary, including at Jessica, to make things right.
“Was there something in particular you had in mind?” Paulasks. He has chosen this question carefully. Nothing from his end, but ifAllison has something to say, this is the way.
“What I have in mind,” Allison answers, “is that Jessicamight say she was at Sam’s house that night.”
Paul Riley’s unflappable expression shows the first sign ofa break.
“She might say that she killed Sam,” Allison predicts.
Allison remembers it well, that cocktail party two daysbefore Sam was murdered, Thursday, the fifth of February. The Look, she callsit. She remembers Sam, standing across the room, a cocktail in his hand, thelook of pure longing as his eyes passed over her, an utter lust thattemporarily took hold of him, captivated him as if there were no other personin the room but her.
“Tell me, Jess,” Allison had requested of her daughter, sixweeks before that time, last December over lunch. “Tell me about this guy I‘wouldn’t approve of.’ ”
Paul Riley stares intently at Allison. “And, if I may askhypothetically,” he tries, “what would be the reason for Jessica being at Sam’shouse on that Saturday night?”
“It’s someone at work, Mother, okay? And I’m not going todiscuss this.”
She remembers the primitive look in Sam’s eyes at the cocktailparty.
She remembers her own position by the bar, having justgotten a drink, seeing the expression on Sam’s face and stopping short,following Sam’s line of vision to a young intern at Dillon amp; Becker by thename of Jessica Pagone.
Allison takes Paul’s hand. “I’m counting on you to protecther, Paul,” she tells him.
MARCH
EIGHT DAYS EARLIER…
She left that cocktail party immediately, without a word toSam, without a word to Jessica. She went home and paced her house, did notsleep, as night blurred into early morning. There was no mistaking it. “Someoneat work,” her daughter had told her in mid-December, and now she had seen whothe “someone at work” was, firsthand. She had seen The Look on Sam’s face.
She showered early Friday morning, February sixth, and droveto his office in the city.
“Where is he?” she demanded. She bypassed the receptionistand hunted him through the halls, looking into each office, calling out hisname. But he wasn’t there, they explained. Mr. Dillon was downstate, flew downto the capital this morning for some meetings.
So she went to her Lexus SUV and drove to the capital. Hecould be at his office or he could be anywhere at the capital, any number ofrooms, most of which would be closed to her. No matter. She wouldn’t stop. Shewould wait, if necessary. She would find his car and sit on it. She would seehim today.
First, the office. After two wrong turns, her knuckleswhite, her eyes clouded by tears, she found the building.
“Where is he?” She ignored the young man who popped out ofan office to assist her.
The boy trailed after her, alarmed, no doubt, but she foundSam Dillon in his office and slammed the door behind her.
Sam was on the phone. He was disarmed by Allison’sappearance, the fact that she had traveled down here, the haggard, agitated,hurt expression that Allison knew she couldn’t hide.
Sam made quick work of the phone call and stood up. His lipsparted but he didn’t speak. Allison grabbed the first thing she could find-asmall pillow, embroidered with the crest of the state Senate, resting on asmall love seat in the corner-and hurled it at Sam.
“You prick,” she hissed. “You prick.”
“What are you talking-”
“My daughter?” Allison took a step closer. Her throatcaught. She tried to calm herself but she couldn’t control the wave ofadrenaline. “You’re the guy at work? The one I ‘wouldn’t approve of’?”
“Allison.” Sam came around the desk. “What the hell?”
“This is your ‘ethical dilemma,’ Sam? You can’t decidewhether you want to fuck me or my daughter?”
Sam’s face froze, but he quickly recovered. “Now calm down aminute-”
“How could you make me believe that what we had-”
