'It's going to be a few minutes,' Abbie said, as if she had not noticed.
'Do you want some coffee?'
'Thank you.'
Abbie left, giving Matthew a chance to compose himself. He stood up and looked around her office. He had expected to see pictures of Abbie and her husband and was surprised to find the office devoid of personal items. Abbie's desk was covered with police reports and case files. One wall was decorated by her diplomas and several civic awards. Framed newspaper clippings of some of her cases hung on another. They were a testimonial to Abbie's trial skills and her tenacity. Death sentences in almost every case where she had asked for one. Lengthy sentences for Oregon's most wanted criminals. Abigail Griffen never gave the opposition an inch or a break.
Matthew noticed a blank spot on the wall. The framed article that had been hanging there lay facedown on top of a filing cabinet. Matthew turned it over. The headline read: BOMBER CONVICTED. There was a picture of Charlie Deems in handcuffs being led out of the courthouse by three burly guards.
'I forgot to ask if you take cream or sugar,' Abbie said as she reentered the office with two mugs of coffee.
Reynolds had not heard her come in. 'Black is fine,' he answered nervously, sounding like a small boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Abbie held out his coffee, then noticed what Reynolds was looking at.
'I'm sorry about Deems,' Reynolds told her.
'I never thought I'd hear Matthew Reynolds bemoaning the reversal of a death sentence.'
'I see nothing inconsistent in opposing the death penalty and being sorry that a man like Deems is not in prison.'
'You know him?'
'He tried to hire me, but I declined the case.'
'Why?'
'There was something about Deems I didn't like. Will you retry him?'
'I can't. The court suppressed statements Deems made to a police informant. Without the confession we don't have a case.
He's already out of prison.'
'Are you concerned for your safety?'
'Why do you ask?'
'Deems struck me as someone who would hold a grudge.'
Abbie hesitated. She had forgotten about the man who tried to invade her home, assuming he was simply a burglar. Reynolds's question raised another possibility.
'Deems is probably so happy to be off death row that he's forgotten all about me,' Abbie answered, forcing a smile.
The trial assistant entered with a manila envelope. Abbie checked the contents, then handed it to Matthew.
'I'd like to set a trial date,' she said. 'After your forensic people are through, you should have an idea of what you want to do. Get in touch with me.'
'Thank you for your cooperation,' Reynolds said, as if he was ending a business letter. 'I'll have the photos returned when my people are done.'
What a peculiar man, Griffen thought, after Reynolds was gone. So serious, so stiff. Not someone you'd go out with for a beer. And he was so awkward around her, blushing all the time, like one of those stiff-necked South Seas missionaries who didn't know how to deal with the naked Tahitian women. If she didn't know better, she'd guess he had a crush on her.
Abbie thought about that for a moment. It wouldn't hurt if Beynolds was a little bit in love with her. It might make him sloppy in trial. She could use any edge she Could get. Reynolds might be an odd duck, but he was the best damn lawyer she'd ever gone up against.
Chapter EIGHT
Joel Livingstone was a handsome, broad-shouldered eighteenyear-old with soft blue eyes and wavy blond hair. On the most important day of his life, Joel wore a white shirt, a navy-blue blazer, gray slacks with a knife- sharp crease and his Wheatley Academy tie. This outfit was similar to the one he was wearing when he raped Mary Harding in the woods behind the elite private school before beating her to death with a jagged log.
Outside the office of Matthew Reynolds's Atlanta co-counsel, a torrid sun was shining down on Peachtree Street, but inside the office the mood was dark. Joel sprawled in a chair and regarded Reynolds with a smirk.
An observer might have concluded that Joel was contemptuous of anything Matthew had to say, but the rapid tapping of Joel's right foot betrayed his fear. Reynolds imagined the tapping foot was asking the same question the boy had asked him over and over during the year they had spent as lawyer and client: 'Will I die? Will I die? Will I die?' It was a question Reynolds was uniquely qualified to answer. 'Are we going to the courthouse?'
'Not yet, Joel. There's been a development.'
'What kind of development?' the boy asked nervously.
'Last night, when I returned to my hotel, there was a message from the prosecutor, Mr. Folger.'
'What did he want?'
'He wanted to resolve your case without going to trial. We conferred in my hotel room until midnight.'
Matthew looked directly at his client. Joel fidgeted.
'Mary Harding was very popular, Joel. Her murder has outraged many people in Atlanta. On the other hand, your parents are prominent people in this community. They are well liked and respected. Many people are sympathetic to them. Some of these people are in positions of power.
They don't want your mother and father to suffer the loss of their only son.'
Joel looked at Reynolds expectantly.
'Mr. Folger has made a plea offer. It must be accepted before the judge makes his ruling on our motions.'
'What's the offer?'
'A guilty plea to murder in exchange for his promise to not ask for a death sentence.'
'What . . . what would happen then?'
'You would be sentenced to life in prison with a ten-year minimum sentence.'
'Oh no. I'm not doing that. I'm not going to jail for life.'
'It's the best I can do for you.'
'My father paid you a quarter of a million dollars. You're supposed to get me off.'
Matthew shook his head wearily. 'I was hired to save your life, Joel.
No one can get you off. You killed Mary and you confessed to the police. The evidence is overwhelming. It was never a question of getting you off. We talked about that a lot, remember?'
'But if we went to trial . . .'
'You would be convicted and you might very well die.'
Matthew held up a photograph of Mary Harding at her junior prom next to a full-face autopsy photograph of the girl.
'That's what the jury will see every minute of their deliberations. What do you think your sentence will be?'
Joel's lip quivered. His teenage bravado had disappeared.
'I'm only eighteen,' he pleaded. A tear trickled down his cheek. 'I don't want to spend my life in prison.' Joel slumped in his chair and buried his face in his hands.
Matthew leaned forward and placed a hand on Joel's shoulder. 'What, Joel?'
'I'm scared,' the boy sobbed.
'I know, Joel. Everyone I've ever represented has been scared when it was time to decide. Even the tough guys.'
Joel raised his tear-stained face toward Matthew. He was just a baby now and it was impossible to imagine what he must have looked like when he straddled Mary Harding's naked body and slammed the log down over and over until he had smashed the life out of her.
