“Yeah. That’s their job, and I bet they’re aces at it. They probably log everything the instant it happens. Probably set their watches by Greenwich mean time every morning. Totally infallible, I’m sure.”
Dirkson waved his hand impatiently. “I don’t want to quibble. You save your arguments for the jury. I’m just telling you I don’t think they’re going to pull very much weight.”
“I don’t want to argue either. I told you, I didn’t come here to discuss the case.”
“You could have fooled me. I happen to be rather busy, Winslow. You got a point, make it. Otherwise, I got work to do.”
“All right, I’ll make it. If Marilyn’s found guilty on any count of the Bradshaw murder you’re going to turn around and try her for the murder of her father.”
“You keep saying me. Phillip Harding was killed in Nassau County. That’s outside my jurisdiction.”
“Yeah, sure,” Steve said. “But you know damn well you’ve got your hand in. If they haven’t indicted her for it, it’s ’cause they’re just waiting for your say so.”
Dirkson frowned. Said nothing.
“But that’s neither here nor there. The point I’m making is this. If she’s convicted of this crime, she’ll be charged with that one. You know it and I know it. But consider this. If she’s acquitted of this crime-the Bradshaw murder-then someone better take a long hard look before they charge her with the murder of Phillip Harding. ’Cause then you got no prior conviction to throw in her face. And when you think about it, that was really going to be the key evidence against her. Sure, you can show she had an opportunity to tamper with the sugar bowl. But so did her stepsister. And if Marilyn had poisoned her father, do you really think she’d be stupid enough to leave the sugar bowl full of arsenic around for a whole month until the cops thought to look for it? I’d like to see you try to argue that one. And
Dirkson met Steve’s eyes steadily. A good poker player, giving nothing away. “Is that it?” he asked.
Steve sighed. “Yeah, that’s it.” He got up, smiled. “See you in court.”
40
Fitzpatrick was animated.
“I like it,” he said. “I really like it. Oh sure, I’ve known Phyllis Kemper for years, I’m upset about all that. But damn it, she’s not my client. I really like it.”
“Well, don’t get too excited,” Steve said. “It may sound good, but it happens to be a bunch of bullshit. It’s one thing to try to sell a D.A. a bill of goods, but you don’t have to start swallowing it yourself.”
“But damn it,” Fitzpatrick said, “it all makes sense.”
“That Phyllis hired the detectives, yes. I think that’s a good bet. That she killed Bradshaw happens to be a hell of a stretch.”
“Maybe not. The way you spelled it out for Dirkson sounds logical.”
“A lawyer’s job is to make things sound logical. It doesn’t mean they are. It’s just a theory, Fitzpatrick. Let’s not go off the deep end over it. Remember this. We have the benefit of Douglas Kemper’s story. The police don’t. Of course, I didn’t bring that up with Dirkson. But if Douglas Kemper’s story is true-or rather, if my interpretation of how Douglas Kemper lied to me is true-he was in the apartment right on the heels of Marilyn Harding. Of course, if he’s not lying, he was in there right before Marilyn Harding. That means he either found Bradshaw dead or killed him. And the same goes for Marilyn.
“The problem is, we got two clients here, and despite whatever finespun theories I might try to lay on Dirkson, the fact is one of them probably killed him. The best I can see with this Phyllis Kemper thing is, we got a red herring to play with.”
Fitzpatrick frowned. “Well, at least that’s something.”
Steve stood up, stretched, yawned. “Well, just wanted to fill you in.”
Steve glanced around the sumptuously furnished Wall Street office of the law firm of Fitzpatrick, Blackburn, and Weed. “Nice place you got here, Fitzpatrick. Suppose you’ll miss it if I get you disbarred.”
Fitzpatrick’s grin was somewhat forced.
Steve took a cab back to his office. On the ride uptown he got to thinking about what he’d just said, about what he’d told Fitzpatrick. “One of the two of them probably did it.” Yeah, that was true. And now they were both his clients. He was charged with getting both of them off. Regardless of who did it. Regardless of who actually committed the crime.
That bothered him. That bothered him a lot. Shit. What had he come to? When he’d defended Sheila Benton, she’d asked him point blank if he’d defend her if he thought she was guilty. And he’d told her no. And he’d believed it. Just as he’d believed what he’d told her about the case he’d handled for Wilson and Doyle, the case that had got him fired, the case where he’d tricked the hit-and-run accident victim into identifying someone other than his client, and then it had turned out his client was actually guilty. Sheila had asked him if he’d have done it if he’d known, and he’d said no. And he’d believed that too.
So what the hell was he doing? Here he was defending two clients, one of whom was almost certainly guilty. How could he justify that? Why was he doing it?
Well, he knew why. He was doing it because some idiotic, romantic fool had sent him an anonymous retainer from some plot ripped off from a storybook, and he’d been placed in a position where he had to either defend him or risk being disbarred. That was why.
Or was it?
He’d risked disbarment before. He wasn’t a squeamish guy. If he thought he was right, he’d wade right in and let the chips fall where they may. So he wasn’t in this just to cover his ass. That was too easy an explanation. Too easy a way out. Too pat an answer to a moral dilemma. If he was in this, he was in it by choice. He’d chosen to defend these two people. To try to get them off.
Well, why not? Everyone’s entitled to representation. A lawyer isn’t a judge and jury. It isn’t a lawyer’s place to try to decide if a client’s innocent or guilty. Legally, ethically, morally, Steve had every right to do what he was doing.
So why did he feel like shit?
Steve paid off the cab and took the elevator up to his office. Tracy Garvin would be manning the desk. Steve felt a twinge of resentment. She’d want to pump him for information, and he just didn’t feel like dragging through the whole story again.
Steve realized he was being unkind. Tracy Garvin might be a young, silly, twit of a girl, but why
Steve Winslow pushed open the office door and knew at once that he’d been reprieved. Tracy Garvin’s face was animated.
“I tried to reach you at Fitzpatrick’s. Mark Taylor called. Said it was urgent.”
“Get him,” Steve said.
Steve walked into his office, flopped down at his desk. One light on the phone was on, so Steve picked it up and pushed that button. He heard Tracy Garvin’s voice asking for Mark Taylor, and seconds later Taylor came on the line.
“Taylor.”
“It’s Tracy. Hold on for Steve.”
“I’m on,” Steve said. “What is it, Mark?”
“I got something hot I’d rather not talk about on the phone. You in your office?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll be right down.”
Steve Winslow hung up the phone. Thank god, he thought. Let it be a break. Something. Anything. Get me off the hook.
Minutes later, Tracy Garvin opened the door.
“Mark Taylor’s here.”
