and the single platinum earring to Allison andthe blood on her sweatshirt to Sam. The judge will hear about Allison storminginto Sam’s office in the capital the day before his death.
The state’s second search of Allison’s home, which tookplace over this past weekend, was directed at looking for what the prosecutorsbelieve to be the murder weapon, a small gold statuette with a marble base,presented to Sam Dillon by the Midwest Manufacturers’ Association only twoyears ago. An award, authorities have finally figured out, that has beenmissing from Sam Dillon’s mantel since the night of the murder.
It was a sufficiently small item that it could have beenhidden anywhere, which meant that the prosecutors had leave to literally takeher house apart looking for it.
“They find that trophy,” she tells Paul, “and I’m finished.”
“Well, then, let’s hope they don’t.” Paul is not looking ather as he says this. It must be difficult to hear a client acknowledge suchthings. Even someone who has spent his entire adult life in criminal law mustfind some revulsion in representing people who have done wrong. It is harder tofocus on your important role in the system of criminal justice when your clientall but tells you that she bludgeoned a man to death.
“Paul,” she says, “I’ve been in your shoes. I want you toknow, I don’t expect the impossible. At the end of the day, I did what I did.If I can’t beat this, it won’t be for lack of having a good lawyer.”
“I appreciate that, Allison. But obviously, it won’t stop meone beat from doing everything I can.”
“Oh, I know that. I have no doubt. But doing everything youcan is different from being able to sleep at night. I killed him, Paul. I wishI could take it back but I can’t. The truth is, I loved him, and I’d doanything to bring him back. But without him”-she takes a breath-“this may soundlike an odd thing to say, but life just isn’t the same without him. I’ve hadalmost a month to think about this. I am more or less resigned to whateverhappens. I want to fight this with everything I have, and I will. I don’t wantto go to prison. It’s just-if things go badly, I don’t want you losing sleepover this. I don’t want you thinking an innocent person is rotting in jail.Because that wouldn’t be the case.”
“You are something else, Allison Pagone.” He closes up hisbriefcase. “I appreciate you trying to put me at ease, but believe me, I’m aprofessional. I’ll tell you what would keep me from sleeping at night,” headds.
“Not doing the best you can.”
“Exactly.”
She gets up to see him out. “The judge is going to findprobable cause, isn’t she?”
Paul nods. “Yes, she is,” he says.
ONE DAY EARLIER…
Allison sits in her living room, stirring a cup of teaaimlessly, as the workers go through each of her rooms. There are actuallycompanies that specialize in cleanups of crime scenes. This doesn’t qualify,exactly; there is no blood or guts here, but the place has been tossed to thestate of being almost unrecognizable since the county sheriff’s deputiessearched her house Saturday.
Men and women in blue uniforms are restoring everything towhere it was, leaving the obvious question of how they would know whereeverything was. She imagines that when they are finished, she will have toimprove on their work. But it’s still preferable to give them the first shot,picking up everything off the floor and putting things back in drawers.
Okay, to be fair: The cops tried not to obliterate the placewhen they came through. The sheriff’s deputies didn’t whip clothes out ofdrawers but just felt around. A marble statuette hidden in a lingerie drawercould be detected without having to pull out all of her bras. But they pulledthe drawers out, moved furniture, pulled up the edges of some of the carpeting,even took a loose floorboard in her hallway and yanked it out. Plus, they didn’twipe their shoes very well when they came in. The place was a mess. At the endof it all, they walked away empty- handed.
What, she’s dumb enough to hide that trophy in her house?
She hears two vacuum cleaners shut off, almost in sync,upstairs. There must be ten of them, which makes their work go quickly. It’snot yet noon, and the leader-foreman? — approaches her with an invoice. Hedoesn’t look her directly in the face. He knows who she is. It’s hard to livein this city right now and not recognize the name Allison Pagone.
“All done, ma’am,” the man says.
“Please don’t call me ‘ma’am.’ It makes me feel old.”
“You don’t look old-Ms. Pagone.” He smiles at her as hehands her the invoice on a clipboard. “Five hundred even.”
“Can I pay with a credit card?”
“Oh-yeah, okay. We prefer checks.”
“I prefer credit.”
“It’s out in my truck.”
“I’ll go with you. Anything to be out of the house for twominutes.”
She goes without a coat and instantly regrets it. She walksup to the white van, with the name
“Door’s unlocked,” he says. She gets into the passengerseat, he takes the driver’s side.
Once inside, the man leans in to her. “It’s what’s called anInfinity transmitter,” he says to her. “Very, very high-tech stuff. There’s onein your bedroom and one in your living room. Right where you were sitting justnow, on that purple couch.”
Allison’s mother, God rest her soul, would hate to hear thatcouch described as purple. “What does that mean?” Allison asks, gathering herarms around herself. “What’s an Infinity transmitter?”
“Well, for your purposes-think of it two ways. First,anything you say on your phone will be overheard. But it’s a dual-purpose-thinkof it as a microphone, too. They can hear anything you say in the house, prettymuch. It can probably cover about three, four hundred feet. So I’d say”-the manraises his chin, purses his lips-“the living room and the kitchen. Anything yousay in either of those rooms, and obviously anything you say on the phone inthere, will be heard and probably recorded. Then, your bedroom. Anything yousay in the bedroom or the master bath, they can hear. I can’t give you aguarantee beyond that. The hallways, the foyer, I don’t know. But they’ve gotboth phones covered. And they’ve got the main places in your house where they’dexpect you to have conversations. You really want to talk in private, gooutside, and even then, keep your voice down.” The man nods. “These guys knowwhat they’re doing.”
“So let me make sure I understand this.” Allison stares ather house as if it’s a prison. “If I talk on either phone, or talk in my livingroom, or kitchen, or master bedroom-they will hear everything I say.”
“Yes. And record it, no doubt. They can listen to itcontemporaneously or later, at their convenience.”
“Okay,” Allison says, a chill coursing through her. “They can’tsee me, though, right?”
“Correct. It’s only audio.”
“Super.”
“The bad news is, you have a serious loss of privacy here.But the good news is, you know about it. You can work it to your advantage.They’re wearing a blindfold, Ms. Pagone. And they can only hear what you letthem hear.”
“Okay.” Allison sighs, braces herself for the cold outside.“Only what I let them hear,” she repeats.
FEBRUARY
TWO DAYS EARLIER…
