“Jail rules. No scarves-the standard suicide concern. She begged for a towel, but the matrons wouldn’t give her one for the same reason. While she and I talked she tried to cover her face with toilet paper.”
Toilet paper. Jesus Christ.
“After I left her,” Dragovich said, “apparently some of the other prisoners made fun of her condition and she had what the matrons called a temporary breakdown. They were afraid she might harm herself-that’s why she was AdSeg’d.”
Runyon’s hands bunched into fists. As sensitive as Bryn was about her face, the humiliation she’d felt must’ve been acute. The thought of her being harassed by women without conscience or compassion was galling.
“Is she all right now?”
“Better, yes. Resigned. And very concerned about her son.”
“But still segregated. How long before I can see her?”
“I wasn’t given a time line.”
“Not until her arraignment?”
“It’s possible.”
“Is there anything you can do to get me in to see her?”
“You mean in my presence?”
“Alone, preferably.”
Dragovich gave him a long, shrewd look. “Is there a specific reason you want to see her alone? If there is, you’d be well advised to tell me what it is.”
What could he say? That he was afraid she was either lying or telling half-truths? That he was afraid she might actually be guilty of the unlawful killing of a human being with malice aforethought?
“Personal reasons,” he said. “You already know everything I know about Francine Whalen’s death.”
“I hope so.”
“Will you do what you can to get me permission?”
“Of course. But I’m not in a position of strength on this issue.”
Runyon changed the subject. “Concerned about her son, you said. Bobby’s welfare, what his father might say or do to him?”
“Yes.”
“She has good reason.”
“I don’t know Robert Darby, except by reputation.” The attorney’s mouth quirked wryly. “There seems to be some question as to whether he upholds the highest standards of our profession.”
“Have you talked to him yet?”
“I have a call in to him. Of course he’s under no obligation to speak to me at this time. He may decide to wait until Mrs. Darby is arraigned.”
“If he doesn’t return your call, can you find out how the boy’s doing some other way?”
“The inspectors in charge should know. I’ll check with them when they come on duty this afternoon.”
Runyon asked Dragovich what he thought Bryn’s chances were. Unlike some criminal defense attorneys, he was never overconfident; cautious optimism was the limit of his pretrial position on any case. It was likely that the judge at Bryn’s arraignment would uphold the homicide charge and the DA’s office would prosecute, in which case Dragovich would advise her to plead not guilty. The DA might or might not opt to proceed on the first-degree charge, depending on how convinced he was that willful premeditation could be proven. Dragovich’s best guess was that it would be knocked down to either second degree or manslaughter, both of which offered the DA a better chance of conviction.
In any event, and as Runyon had surmised, self-defense would be difficult to prove without a witness to Whalen’s death. But still it seemed the best option under the circumstances. Juries were notoriously unpredictable, but they tended to side with a defendant mother in a homicide case involving child abuse-if the abuse was proven to their satisfaction. Testimony by the victim was the best way to accomplish jury sympathy, but when Dragovich had broached the subject to Bryn this morning she’d been adamant against it. Didn’t want Bobby put through any more pain and suffering, she’d said. Even if she changed her mind, they’d have her ex-husband to contend with.
If Bobby didn’t take the stand, then it was up to Bryn and Runyon to do what they could to verify the scope and nature of the boy’s injuries. Whalen’s history of violent behavior would have to be established as well. Runyon named Gwen Whalen, Kevin Dinowski, and Charlene Kepler as witnesses who could be subpoenaed to testify. Tricky business, Dragovich said, if that was the way they had to proceed. How much those individuals would be willing to admit to under oath and how much of their testimony would be ruled admissible was problematic.
“Odds for acquittal at fifty-fifty, then,” Runyon said.
“Slightly better than that, I’d say. Based on the facts we have now and contingent on witness cooperation.”
Based on the facts they had now. All the facts? One way or another, he had to find out.
17
ALEX CHAVEZ
He liked dogs. Elena liked dogs. His kids and his in-laws liked dogs. Even Elmo, the wirehaired terrier, liked other dogs.
But Chavez didn’t like Thor, not one little bit.
Neither did Elmo.
As soon as the terrier spotted the big Rottweiler, the wiry hair on Elmo’s back rippled up and he whined and scooted around behind Chavez, wrapping the leash around his legs, and stood there quivering. Thor didn’t move, didn’t make a sound. But those yellow eyes of his… Dios, it was like looking into the eyes of a demon.
The woman-Jane Carson, from the boss’s description-didn’t seem any happier to see him and Elmo than the Rotweiller did. He was already halfway up the driveway when she came out of the house carrying a cardboard box; the gate stood open, an invitation to walk right in. The hatch on the Ford Explorer parked there was raised and she quickly slid the box inside as he approached. No welcoming smile, no expression at all in her bright blue eyes. She was wearing dark-colored sweats, a headband around her short blond hair.
He said through a wary smile, “You ought to put that pooch of yours on a chain. He looks pretty mean.”
“He’s not. He’s friendly and well trained.”
“Elmo doesn’t think so.”
“Elmo?”
“My terrier here. See the way he’s shaking? Scared to death.”
“If you want to board him-”
“That’s one reason I’m here,” Chavez said. “The other is, I’m looking for a place to live and the bartender down at The Dog Hole says you have a room to rent.”
“Well, he’s wrong; we don’t.”
“Already rented?”
“Yes, already rented.”
“You wouldn’t have another available, would you? I mean, I’m kind of desperate for a place and this neighborhood is real convenient to my job-”
“One is all we have.” She flicked a glance at Elmo. “And we’re not taking any new dogs right now.”
“No? How come?”
She was making an effort to hang on to her cool. Irritation leaked through anyway. She said as she wiped a thin beading of sweat off her forehead, “We’re full up.”
Chavez moved a little forward and to one side, dragging Elmo with him and keeping a watchful eye on the Rottweiler, so he could get a better look at the Explorer’s interior through the open hatch. Full of boxes, piles of clothing on hangers, odds and ends.
“Looks like you’re moving,” he said.
“What?” Sharp look. “No. Donations for Goodwill.”
He showed her the smile Elena had labeled Butter Wouldn’t Melt in Your Mouth. His wife had a name for all
