saying “Pass the soap, Bubba” in the shower because of feelings Pete has had.
“Where's Edward now?” I ask.
“He works for his daddy. Big job.”
I nod. “He must interview really well.”
I thank Pete and leave, stopping off at the newsstand on the way back to the office. I tell Cal that Wanda is to be in court three days from now, and if she behaves everything will be fine. For now. Cal is so grateful I think he's going to cry or, even worse, hug me. But since deep emotion is not really a part of our relationship, I'm glad when he doesn't.
I get to the office early, and Laurie hasn't yet arrived. I get a message from Richard Wallace, a Deputy District Attorney. Wallace is the best lawyer the department has to offer; if he is the one handling the Miller trial, an impossible job just got tougher.
Wallace is friendly when I call him; he and I have established a good working relationship over the years. Of course, he can afford to be nice; he's beaten me two of the three trials in which we've gone against each other. And I don't get the feeling he's too worried about this one.
The other factor that leads to us having a good rapport is that he used to work for my father, who was the District Attorney and head of the department. My father was a mentor to Wallace, and they shared a mutual respect. Some of that has transferred to me.
Basically the call is to discuss discovery, that process during which both sides turn over their evidence in advance, so that the other side is not ambushed and has time to prepare. It's not as big a deal in this case for two reasons. We already have everything that came out at the first trial, so there's not much for them to give us. And we've got nothing whatsoever to give them.
Richard informs me that additional DNA tests are being taken from the skin under Denise's fingernails, so as to more closely link Willie to the crime than the technology at the time of the murder was able to accomplish. Our response will be to attack the evidence as unreliable and incompetently gathered, but the problem is it isn't and it wasn't. I make a note to think about getting our own expert to refute what they are going to say.
“When will you have the results?” I ask.
“Just in time for opening statements.”
“Why is Hatchet rushing this?”
I can hear him shrug over the phone. “You know Hatchet. He's not a big fan of technicality appeals. This is probably his way of showing it. I asked for more time myself; it's screwing up my vacation.”
Near the end of the conversation, Richard brings up the possibility of discussing a plea bargain. He does this with a minimum of subtlety.
“You want to talk about a plea bargain?”
“Sure. We'll take a dismissal and an apology from the state. Something humble, but not cloying.”
He laughs the laugh of the gracious winner. We agree to talk at his office tomorrow, though I can't imagine it going anywhere. There will be too much public pressure on Richard to right the wrong that the technicality appeal represents. Besides, Willie has said he absolutely won't cop to anything he didn't do, or as is the case here, something he can't imagine he could ever have done.
Laurie arrives, and her manner is cold but professional. It feels like I need to do something to resolve the situation, but I'm at a loss to know what. Her attitude is completely appropriate, which makes it all the more frustrating.
We set out going through all the files on the case, though we've both already been over them at least three times. I start letting my mind roam, not tempering my thoughts with logic. I often find it leads me to places I want to go, though just as often it leads me nowhere.
“What if Denise wasn't just a random victim? What if the killer had a motive?”
“Like …” she prompts.
“I don't know … she was a reporter … maybe she was going to write a story which would hurt the killer. He got rid of her to prevent the story.”
“Why would she write a story about a loser like Willie Miller?”
I challenge her. “Who said the killer is Willie Miller?”
“A jury.”
I'm starting to get frustrated by her pessimism. “Don't you get suspicious when there's all this evidence? Don't you think the prosecution's case might be a little too strong?”
“Actually, no,” she says. “I tend to find evidence convincing. More evidence is more convincing.”
I am about to challenge this logic when there is a knock on the door; it is the Chinese food Laurie has ordered for us. She hadn't asked me what I wanted, but I let it go because I figured she was lashing out at me, culinarily speaking. She also lashes out financially speaking, by signing for a big tip and telling the delivery guy to charge the whole thing to my account.
She starts to unpack the food, so I ask her what she's ordered.
“Steamed broccoli, stir-fried asparagus tips, and broiled seaweed with tofu.”
This is not exactly making my mouth water. “Are you catering a rabbit convention?”
“It's good for you, unlike that greasy poison you always order.” She takes two bites, then looks at her watch. “Are we almost finished here? Because I've got plans.”
Uh, oh. The dreaded plans. I get a pit in my stomach the size of Argentina.
“Plans?”
“Yes, plans,” she says. “Like in, I have a life so I make plans.”
“Okay. I deserve that.”
“No. If I gave you what you deserve, I'd be in the same situation as Willie Miller.”
I'm getting annoyed, and my level of annoyance has always been directly proportional to my level of courage. Actually, it's a theory of mine as well. I believe that all real heroes demonstrated their bravery only when they got angry. You think Nathan Hale liked the guys who put the rope around his neck? You think Davy Crockett considered the Mexicans coming over the Alamo walls his good buddies? I'm no different. Piss me off enough and before you know it they'll be writing songs about me.
Here goes. “Look, we started to get involved. It was nice … really nice … but we never took an oath.”
She's ready for this. “Right. You and Nicole are the ones that took an oath.”
“As a matter of fact, we did. And one of us may wind up breaking that oath, but we won't know that for a while.”
She stands up. “I'm happy for you, but I've got plans. Now what is it you want me to do next?”
I guess she's not going to eat the Chinese food next, leaving it all for me. Yummm. I'll have enough left over to make broiled seaweed sandwiches tomorrow.
“Check out the eyewitness … Cathy Pearl. Maybe we can shake her. Maybe she did it, for Christ's sake.”
“Great idea!” she enthuses. “I'll also ask people I meet at the supermarket if by any chance
“Aside from our personal situation, what is your problem with this case?”
She looks me straight in the eye, though that is what she always does. She's an inveterate eye looker; I on the other hand look at people's mouths when they talk.
“My problem is that we're defending a brutal murderer, Andy. If we're successful, which we won't be, he goes back on the street.”
“And if he didn't do it, then the guy who did is
She sighs with resignation, as well as the fact that down deep she knows I'm right. We've been over this ground before. We have a role to play, and if we don't play it to the hilt the system doesn't function.
“Okay. It's a job and we do it. Where are
“With Denise McGregor.”
VINCE SANDERSIS A GRUFF, UNKEMPT, VERY overweight man who has spent one hundred twelve of his fifty-one years working on newspapers up and down the East Coast. He's the type that you think must still be pounding stories out on his old Smith-Corona while all his colleagues are using high-tech computers. When I show up at his office, he is doing research at warp speed on the Internet. Oh, well.
Vince was Denise's boss on the
