another one.
“Now back to business,” he said. “Where were you on Saturday night?”
“You mean where was I when my husband was shot? Wait. Are you asking me if I’m the one who shot him?”
“Where were you?” Lattimore insisted.
“I was at home with my kids—these kids, Carinda and Lucy.”
“Can they verify that for us?”
“Are you kidding?” she demanded. “Look at them. They’re preschoolers. The younger one can barely talk. Neither of them can tell time. But I wouldn’t go off and leave them alone, and if I were capable of doing what you suggested, I certainly wouldn’t take the girls with me. What kind of a person do you think I am?”
“Perhaps someone called you at home that night,” Lattimore suggested. “If you used your landline phone or your cell, we can use presence technology to verify exactly where you were at the time your husband was shot.”
“I didn’t talk to anyone on the phone. When the girls go to bed, I usually unplug the phone so it doesn’t wake them.”
“What about your cell phone?”
“Same thing. I turn it on silent or vibrate when they go to bed, but nobody called me on Saturday night. I went to bed as soon as
“You watch that?”
“Every week.”
“Why?’
“Because we live in a place where we might see some of those people.”
“I see,” Lattimore said, sounding as though he didn’t. “Back to the phone situation. In your husband’s line of work, isn’t turning off the phone when he’s on duty a bit unusual? What if there was an emergency? What if his department needed to reach you?”
“There was an emergency,” Teresa reminded him, feeling a flood of anger surge through her body. “Sheriff Renteria didn’t call me on the telephone. He came to the house to let me know what had happened. In person.”
Lattimore moved closer to her and lowered his voice. “Are you involved in the drug trade, Mrs. Reyes? Is it possible that both you and your husband are in this together?”
“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. I’m a mother with two kids. I’m expecting another one. Of course I not involved in the drug trade.”
“Tell me about the money we found in your underwear drawer.”
“What money?” she asked.
“Five thousand dollars in a plastic Ziploc container—all of it in hundred-dollar bills.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. There’s no money in my underwear drawer.”
“You’re right about that,” Lattimore said with a knowing chuckle. “Because it isn’t there anymore. It’s in an evidence bag and on its way to the crime lab.”
“That’s enough,” a woman’s voice said. “Leave her alone.”
Teresa and Lattimore looked up in surprise as the blond woman Donnatelle had introduced as Ali Reynolds came striding across the room, cell phone on hand.
“And who might you be?” Lattimore asked. “The lady’s attorney, possibly?”
“I’m a friend of the family. My name is Alison Reynolds. I’m not an attorney, but I have one on the phone right now.” Ali handed her iPhone over to Teresa. “Her name is Juanita Cisco,” Ali went on. “She’s a criminal defense attorney here in town. I called her while you and this nice police officer were having your not so pleasant conversation, and she’s been listening in on the speakerphone. You might ask if she’s interested in representing you. If you can’t afford her, I’m sure you can have an attorney appointed by the court, but given the circumstances, it seems to me that you need someone to represent you right now.”
Teresa held the phone and looked at it warily, as though it might be an incendiary device set to explode. The same was true of Agent Lattimore’s face. It, too, appeared close to exploding.
“I don’t know who you think you are …” he began, shaking an outraged finger in Ali’s direction. “You’re interfering with an officer of the law.”
That outburst was enough to move Teresa to action. She held the phone up to her ear, even though, with the thing set to speaker, holding it up to her ear wasn’t necessary.
“Mrs. Reyes?” The voice over the phone bristled with urgency. “Did you hear what your friend said? My name is Juanita Cisco. I’m willing to serve as your attorney. All you have to do is say yes.”
“Yes,” Teresa whispered. “Yes, please.”
“All right, then, hand the phone over to the officer.”
Teresa did as she was told. She gave the phone to Lattimore. He took it reluctantly, scowling as he did so.
“Did you hear that?” Juanita asked. “Mrs. Reyes wants me to serve as her attorney in this matter.”
“Yes,” Lattimore muttered. “I heard.”
“Would you like me to represent your husband as well, Mrs. Reyes?” Juanita asked, her voice booming through the cell phone speaker.
At first Teresa only nodded. Then, glancing at Ali’s face, she realized her mistake. “Yes, please,” Teresa said. “I want you to represent us both.”
“And what’s your name, Officer …”
“Lattimore,” he replied. “Lieutenant Duane Lattimore. I’m an investigator with the Arizona Department of Public Safety. And there’s no need to involve an attorney at this time. I’m merely asking Mrs. Reyes a few questions. After all, she’s not a suspect.”
“It sounded very much like you were treating her as a suspect, Mr. Lattimore,” Juanita said. “So for right now, you’re done. The conversation is over. Neither she nor her husband will be speaking to you again without my being present in the room. Understood?”
Lattimore knew he’d been outmaneuvered. “Understood,” he said.
Without another word, he ended the call and thrust the phone back in Ali’s direction. Turning, he strode out through the doors of the waiting room and disappeared down the hall.
To Teresa’s surprise, the waiting room seemed to have filled with people without her noticing—nurses, orderlies, other visitors. They had all heard what was being said, and they understood instantly that this was a case where, against all odds, the little guy had beaten the big guy. Quietly, one person began to applaud. Soon other people joined in, and in a moment they were all clapping.
Teresa Reyes sat there, looking from one face to the other. Then her eyes rolled back in her head. Seconds later, as she slumped forward in her chair, the large purse that had been perched in her minimal lap fell to the floor, scattering possessions in every direction.
“I think she fainted.” Teresa heard the words, but they seemed to be coming from very far away.
“Help me lower her to the floor,” Sister Anselm said. “And somebody call a doctor.”
That last remark was unnecessary, because the ICU charge nurse was already sounding the alarm.
22
12:00 P.M., Sunday, April 11
Tucson, Arizona
Ali watched as orderlies and nurses sprang into action. While one of them pushed an unoccupied bed out of one of the ICU rooms, a nurse slapped a blood pressure cuff on Teresa’s arm and pumped it up. By the time the nurse finished taking the reading and listening to a stethoscope held to Teresa’s chest, the expression on the woman’s face was grave.
“We’ve got to get her to maternity,” the nurse ordered. “Now!”
