out.
My opinion of Mr. Griffin went up a notch. I'd always dated younger men. Perhaps I'd been missing out.
The local googleplex had a new Brad Pitt movie playing, and I plunked down ten bucks to spend ninety minutes with Brad.
Afterward, I called home. Thankfully, Mom picked up.
'Hi, Mom. Just calling to tell you I'll be home in about twenty minutes.'
'Hello, dear. Um, can I ask a tiny favor of you?'
'Sure, Mom.'
'My gentlemen friend from Florida, Mr. Griffin, is visiting. Would you mind giving us an hour or two to catch up?'
'An hour or two?'
'Yes. We haven't seen each other in a while and we've got some things to work out.'
My mother made a frank, gasping sound. I rubbed my eyes.
'Sure, Mom. I'll catch a movie. I'll be home around ten?'
'Ten is fine,' Mom said, an octave higher than normal.
I hung up.
Unbelievable.
I killed another two hours with Julia Roberts, and by then I was so tired I went straight home, my mother's sexual needs be damned. She just broke her hip, for heaven's sake. Shouldn't she be minding the injury?
Thankfully, Mom and Mr. Griffin were fully dressed when I returned. They were in the kitchen, sipping coffee. Mom's hair was a mess, and her cheeks were flushed.
'Nice to see you again, Jacqueline.' Mr. Griffin was a student of the old school, meaning he stood up when I came into the room and offered his hand.
I shook it, and he winced.
'Are you okay?'
'Yes. My back is acting up a little.'
I wonder why.
'We've got a pizza coming, if you're hungry.'
'No, I ate. I'm going to turn in. Did Alan call?'
'He told me earlier he was going out with some old buddies, wouldn't be back until late.'
I said my good nights, slipped in and out of a hot shower, and climbed into bed, determined not to take a sleeping pill.
After forty minutes of staring at the ceiling, I heard a deep moan come from the living room.
I took two pills, and fell asleep with the pillow over my head.
Chapter 36
Fuller lies awake in his cell. It's past midnight, and he needs to sleep. He has to look good for court. Appearance is everything.
He knows the jury watches him constantly. Looking for some trace of guilt or deceit. He'll only show them what he wants them to see.
The vomiting was a masterstroke. The piece of beef had been rotting in his mattress for days. Less than the size of a grape, the smell alone was enough to make him gag. Popping it in his mouth produced instant nausea. Disgusting, but effective.
The real show will begin when he takes the stand. He's hidden some red peppercorn flakes in his mattress -- much more effective for bringing on tears than onions.
He knows the case will wrap up soon. Garcia wants to finish it before Thanksgiving, betting on the fact that the jurors will want to get the verdict in before the holiday. That leaves two days for testimony, and one for closing statements.
So far, everything is progressing smoothly.
There had been a bad moment, when Garcia told him about the tape. Some guard at Cook County jail had contacted Fuller's attorneys, willing to sell them a recording of his conversation with Jack at the prison. Blackmail, is what it boiled down to. Pay me, or I'll give this to the prosecution.
Fuller paid. He had to give power of attorney to Garcia, and authorized him to liquidate several things around the house -- Holly's jewelry, a signed Dali litho she'd bought with her modeling money, the Lexus.
Fuller had been worried that Garcia might turn on him, once he found out about Fuller's deception. But the smarmy little bastard didn't bat an eyelash. In fact, he ingeniously used the tape to discredit Daniels.
Who says money can't buy a verdict?
The only problem at the moment is these damn headaches. They're getting worse. He hasn't explained to his doctors about how bad they've gotten, because he needs to give the impression that he's cured. If headaches made him kill, and he's still got headaches, they won't let him out.
So he makes do with Tylenol and sheer will.
