Mason pulled his shirt down, facing her. 'Sam? What's going on? I mean I know how it looks, but it's me, Lou. You don't really think I killed Sandra?'
She motioned to a cop standing outside the car who handed her an evidence bag. She held the bag by the edge, a gun snug against the bottom. 'Do you recognize this?' she asked him.
'It's the gun,' he said.
'We ran the registration. It's yours.'
More than once, Mason had told a client there were worse things than spending a night in jail. Lying on his bunk, prisoners snoring in the cells around his, he didn't bother making a list. The county followed the mayor's heat warnings to a fault. The air in the cell block was warm and ripe. Each time he shut his eyes, he saw Sandra's face in the last instant before the bullet struck her. He heard her say that she trusted him, then watched as her face split open, her head knocked back, her life evaporated.
He felt his hand squeezing the trigger for the second bullet, rubbing his hands together, kneading the skin, unable to shake the sensation. It was like an amputee's phantom pain. He was certain that the first shot had killed Sandra, knew that he'd been made to fire the second shot, but couldn't escape the fear that he had killed her. What if the first shot wasn't fatal? What if he'd fought harder or just enough to alter the aim?
He forced himself to concentrate on what had happened, to resurrect each detail, no matter how trivial, knowing that his freedom and his life could depend on it. He'd had no answer for Samantha when she told him his gun was the murder weapon. She'd handcuffed him and left him in the patrol car, her eyes red and wet. Replaying each second in his mind, making a mental list of each sound and sensation, he knew what trouble he was in because even he doubted the story.
A mysterious assailant appeared out of the woods, incapacitated him with a stun gun, shot Sandra with Mason's gun, and then made him shoot her a second time, escaping when Blues showed up. It was an explanation that threatened Ryan Kowalczyk's story on the
The only way he could explain the use of his gun was that someone had stolen it from his office. The last time he'd seen it was when Sandra first came to his office to tell him about Nick Byrnes's e-mails to Whitney King. That was almost a week ago.
Security wasn't tight at Blues on Broadway. A thief didn't have to break in. He could just get lost in the crowd, then wander to the back and up the stairs. The lock on Mason's office door wasn't issued by the Department of Homeland Security. He'd jimmied it open a few times himself when he'd misplaced his key.
The thief would have had to know that Mason kept a gun in his desk. Blues, Mickey, and Sandra were the only ones who knew that he did. Blues knew because Mason had told him. Mickey had also seen the gun, but he was a lifetime away with Abby. Sandra knew because she'd seen the gun and seen him put it away. Sandra might have told Whitney and Whitney may have stolen the gun, but Whitney's mother was his alibi.
If the shooter wasn't Whitney, who could it have been? Someone Whitney trusted enough or paid enough to do the job. Mason clinched his eyes tightly, the jolt of the stun gun leaving him with gaps in his memory. There was something familiar about the shooter, something lurking on the edges of his recollection, playing keep-away with his mind.
He breathed deeply and sat up, the paper slippers they'd given him scraping like sand paper against the cement floor of his cell. He stood and stretched, pacing the eight steps from the bars to the back wall, six steps side-to-side, his fingertips stroking the ceiling as he reached overhead. Pressing his face against the bars, he could barely see a clock at the end of the corridor that ran between the two rows of cells. It was just past four in the morning. He lay back on the bunk, his arm over his eyes, and went through it again.
Chapter 29
Two guards ushered Mason into a conference room at eight o'clock Tuesday morning, each of them squeezing his arms hard enough to leave tattoos. Handcuffs chafed against his wrists, while a pair of ankle bracelets slowed his walk to an old man's shuffle. The windowless room one floor beneath his cell was equipped with a midsize table, seating for six, the surface scarred, legs on the chairs uneven. The county didn't have money for new furniture, but the air-conditioning worked fine, cooling the room. The contrast with the cell block punctuated the difference between life on the inside and life on the outside.
Claire Mason stood as he entered, taking a short sharp breath. She was wearing one of the severe gray suits over a white blouse with a high collar that she wore year-round when doing battle, indifferent to weather and fashion. His aunt was broad-backed and pushing six feet; her outfit reminded him of body armor. Today, he liked her style.
'You look like hell,' she told him.
His hair was ratty, his face unshaven, and his jail jumpsuit didn't cover the smell of sweat, blood, and guts. 'Tuesday is casual day at the county jail,' he said.
Patrick Ortiz, the prosecuting attorney, came in through the same door. 'Take off his cuffs and ankle bracelets and wait outside,' he told the guards. 'Sit down,' he told Mason when the guards left.
Mason remained standing and rubbed his wrists as he and Ortiz studied one another, Ortiz tossing a hand in the air saying have it your way. They had battled in the courtroom more than a few times, Mason always careful not to underestimate him. The prosecutor was an Everyman, unassuming, with a thrown together, soft-bellied look that deceived inexperienced lawyers. He talked to jurors like they were on the same bowling team, putting them at ease, making them like him, knowing that a verdict was often a popularity contest between the lawyers. He left nothing to chance and had filled a lot of vacancies on death row.
Ortiz had gone after Mason in the past, trying to link him to an arson, not making it stick. They respected each other as adversaries, but they weren't friends.
'Patrick,' Claire began. 'You're not going to question my client. I haven't even had a chance to talk to him yet. I want to see a judge about bail. What time is the arraignment?'
Mason was weary, off-balance, but not enough to make the mistake of representing himself again, mindful of Abraham Lincoln's admonition that a lawyer who did so had a fool for a client. He also wasn't ready to be cross- examined by Ortiz and he was glad Claire was there to keep Ortiz off his back, though he knew she couldn't represent him past this meeting. She wasn't a criminal defense lawyer and, even if she was, she lacked the objectivity he needed. Still, seeing her square off against Ortiz, her spine straight, her attitude unmovable, he felt well protected and well represented, his doubts and suspicions about his parents' deaths shoved aside.
Ortiz smiled. 'Lou, you better not stiff Claire on her bill. She was on me last night and first thing this morning and worked over the investigating officers in between.'
'What time, Patrick?' Claire asked again.
Ortiz looked at his watch. 'One o'clock. Judge Pistone.'
'I want to see the detective's reports before then,' Claire said. 'And I want to know your position on bail. Lou is obviously not a flight risk or a threat. Make it reasonable and I won't fight you on it. We'll be ready to post bail by this afternoon.'
'Claire,' Ortiz said, 'you'll get the reports before the preliminary hearing, just like everyone else. Your client is charged with first-degree murder with aggravating circumstances. Bail is tough to come by in a death penalty case. Judges don't like it when lawyers kill people, even if the victim is another lawyer. Neither do I. Take your time. We'll get him cleaned up before he sees the judge,' he said, leaving them alone.
Mason embraced his aunt as she worked her fingers against the back of his neck. They held each other tightly, Mason carried back for an instant to days when such a hug meant everything would be all right, knowing that this time it might not be so.
'Blues called me,' she said, letting go of him, taking a seat at the table.
'I'm glad he did,' Mason said, pulling out a chair next to hers. 'He must have followed Sandra and me when we left the bar, but I don't know why.'
'He told me that from the look on both of your faces, you weren't going dancing. Harry says Blues has a cop's instinct for trouble.'
'If he hadn't shown up when he did, I'd be dead,' Mason said, telling Claire what had happened.
'That's not much to go on,' she said when he finished. 'Don't you remember anything else?'
