“Oops, that’s me, big guy. When you coming to see me?”
“See you?” he asked as I jumped up to follow the officer toward the visitors’ room. “How can I
When I turned back, he was gone. I really liked that man.
I sat down at booth seven as a gangly man in his forties sat across from me. He had sandy blond hair and kind blue eyes and looked like a cross between a beach bum and a college professor. A plate glass window separated us, one with thin wire latticed throughout to make it even more inescapable. Sure, I wondered how they got that wire in there, the rows so evenly spaced, but now was not the time for such musings. I had a job to do, dammit. I would not be sidetracked by latticework.
Mr. Weir studied me from the other side — not
“Hello, Mr. Weir. My name is Charlotte Davidson.” His face remained blank. Clearly my name did not impress him.
Another inmate strolled in to sit at the next booth, and he cast a wary glance over his shoulder, already eyeing others as if they were the enemy, already on constant guard, ready to defend himself at a moment’s notice. This man didn’t deserve to be in jail. He hadn’t killed anyone. I could sense his clear conscience as easily as I could sense the guilty one of the guy next to him.
“I’m here with some pretty bad news.” I waited as he turned his attention back to me. “Your lawyers were killed last night.”
“My lawyers?” he asked, speaking at last. Then he realized what I was saying, and his eyes widened in surprise. “What, all three of them?”
“Yes, sir. I’m terribly sorry.”
He stared at me as if I’d reached through the glass and bitch-slapped him. Clearly he hadn’t noticed the impossibility of such a feat, considering the latticework and all. After a long moment, he asked, “What happened?”
“They were shot. We believe their deaths are somehow related to your case.”
That stunned him even more. “They were killed because of me?”
I shook my head. “This is not your fault, Mr. Weir. You know that, right?” When he didn’t answer, I continued. “Have you received any threats?”
He gave a dubious snort and gestured around him, indicating his current environment. “You mean, other than the ones I get daily?”
He had a good point. Jail was nothing if not stressful. “To be totally honest,” I said honestly, “I don’t think these people would waste their time making threats. Based on the last twenty-four hours, they seem more proactive than that.”
“No kidding. Who kills three lawyers?”
“Just keep a weather eye, Mr. Weir. We’re working it from this end.”
“I’ll try. I’m real sorry to hear about those lawyers,” he said, scraping his fingers over scraggly stubble then up over his eyes.
He was tired, exhausted from the stress of being convicted for something he didn’t do. My heart ached for him more than I’d wanted it to.
“I really liked them,” he said. “Especially that Ellery girl.” He put his hand down and tried to shake off his emotions. “She was sure something to look at.”
“Yes, she was very beautiful.”
“You were friends?”
“No, no, but I’ve seen pictures.” I never quite knew how to explain my connection to the departed. One slip could haunt me for years to come. Literally.
“And you came here to tell me to watch my back?”
“I’m a private investigator working with APD on this case.” He seemed to bristle at the mention of APD. I could hardly blame him. Though I couldn’t blame APD either. All the evidence did point straight toward him. “Did you know about the informant? The one who’d asked to speak with Barber the same day they were all killed?”
“Informant?” he asked, shaking his head. “What did he want?”
I breathed in and watched Mr. Weir closely before answering, trying to discern how much I should tell him. This was his case. If anyone deserved to know the truth, it was him. Still, a sign that read PROCEED WITH CAUTION kept flashing in my head. Either I needed to proceed with caution or that fifth cup of coffee was just now kicking in.
“Mr. Weir, the last thing I want to do is to give you unfounded hope. Odds are this is nothing. And even if it is something, odds are we can’t prove it. Do you understand?”
He nodded, but just barely.
“In a nutshell, this man told Barber you were innocent.”
His lids widened a fraction of an inch before he caught himself.
“He said the courts had put the wrong man behind bars and that he had proof.”
Despite my warning, a spark of hope shimmered in Mr. Weir’s eyes. I could see it. I could also tell he didn’t want it to be there any more than I did. He’d probably been disappointed countless times. I couldn’t imagine the heartbreak of going to prison for something I hadn’t done. He had every right to be disillusioned with the system.
“Then what are you waiting for? Bring him in.”
I rubbed my forehead. “He’s dead, too. They killed him yesterday as well.”
After a full minute of tense silence, he let out a long hiss of air and slumped back in his seat, stretching the phone cord to its limit. I could see the disappointment wash over him. “So what does this mean?” he asked, his tone embittered.
“I don’t know exactly. We’re just finding all this out ourselves. But I’ll do everything I can to help you. How beneficial my efforts will be is the question. It’s damned hard to get a conviction overturned, no matter the evidence.”
He seemed to slip away, to lose himself in his thoughts.
“Mr. Weir? Can you tell me about the case?”
It took him a while to find his way back to me. When he did, he asked, “What do you want to know?”
“Well, I’ve got the court transcripts on the way, but I wanted to ask you about this woman, your neighbor who testified that she saw you hide the kid’s body.”
“I’d never seen that kid in my life. And the only time I’d ever seen that woman was when she was in her backyard yelling at her sunflowers. Crazy as a june bug on crack. But they listened to her. The jury listened to her. They lapped up everything she said like it was being served to them on a silver platter.”
“Sometimes people hear what they want to hear.”
“Sometimes?” he asked as if I’d grossly understated the fact. I had, but I was trying hard to stay positive.
“Any idea how the kid’s blood got on your shoes?” This one stumped me. The man was clearly innocent, yet forensics confirmed he had the kid’s blood on his shoes. That one piece of evidence alone was enough to turn a jury of twelve against him.
“It had to have been planted. I mean, how else would it get there?” he asked, just as stumped as I was.
“Okay, can you give me a quick rundown of what happened?”
Luckily, I’d stopped at Staples along the way. I pulled out my new notepad, the exact same kind Garrett and Uncle Bob used. Plain. Nondescript. Unassuming. I jotted down anything I thought could be pertinent.
“Wait a minute,” I said, stopping him at one point. “The lady testified that the kid had been staying with you?”
“Yes, but she’d seen my nephew. He stayed with me for about a month before all of this happened. Now the cops think I killed him, too.”
I blinked in surprise. “He’s dead?”
“Not that I know of. But he
