Steere had been arrested for murder, he’d demanded only one phone call. To his stockbroker. “That’s what I said,” Steere answered after a moment. “I struggled in his grasp.”
“No, you said he struggled in your grasp. It was self-defense, not murder. You were struggling, not him.”
A faint smile flickered across Steere’s strong mouth. He had a finely boned nose, flat brown eyes, and suspiciously few crows’ feet for a real estate developer. In magazine photos he looked attractive, but the fluorescent lights of the interview room hollowed his cheeks and dulled his sandy hair. “What’s the point? The trial’s over. The jury’s out. It doesn’t matter anymore who was struggling with who. Whom.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Marta asked. She didn’t want to play word games, she wanted to revel in her brilliant defense. It was the case of her career and Steere’s acquittal was in the bag. “Of course it matters.”
“Why? What if it wasn’t self-defense? What if I murdered him like the D.A. said? So what?”
Marta blinked, irritated. “But that’s not the way it happened. He was trying to hijack your car. He attacked you with a knife. He threatened to kill you. You shot him in self-defense.”
“In the back of the head?”
“There was a struggle. You had your gun and you fired.” Without realizing it, she was repeating her closing argument. The jury had adjourned to deliberate only minutes ago. “You panicked, in fear of your life.”
“You really bought that?” Steere crossed one long leg over the other, and a triangle of tailored pant flopped over with a fine, pressed crease. “In fear of my life? I stole that line from a cop show, the one where everybody smokes. You know the show?”
Marta mouth went dry. She didn’t watch TV even when she was on, another television lawyer with wide-set blue eyes and chin-length hair highlighted blonde. A hardness around her eye and a softness under her chin told the viewers she wasn’t thirty anymore. Still Marta looked good on the tube and knew how to handle herself; explain the defense in a sound bite and bicker with a prosecutor. Wrap it up with some wit. Smile for the beauty shot. “What is this, a joke? What’s TV have to do with anything?”
“Everything. My story, my defense, ws fiction. Rich white guy carjacked by poor black guy. White guy has registered Glock for protection. Black guy has X-Acto knife. Not a good match.” Steere eased back into his chair. The jury bought it because it was what they expected, what they see on TV.”
Marta’s lips parted in disbelief. The news struck like an assault, stunning and violent. Her mind reeled. Her face felt hot. She braced her manicured fingers against the cold aluminum ledge and fought for her bearings. “What are you saying?”
“I’m guilty as sin, dear.” Steere’s gaze was point-blank and his voice tinny as it passed through a thin metal grate under the bulletproof window. The cinderblock walls of the interview room, lacquered calcium-white, seemed suddenly to be closing in on Marta.
“But he slashed your cheek with the knife,” she said, uncomprehending.
“He was dead at the time. I held his hand, with the knife in it.”
“They found fibers from your tux on his hands and clothes.”
“There was a struggle. He put up a fight. Mostly begging, though, boo-hooing like a little girl.”
Marta’s stomach turned over. “Tell me the whole story. The truth.”
“What’s to tell? A bum came at me when I stopped at red the light. He was waving a knife, drunk, screaming I should give up the car. Like I would. A new SL 600 convertible. Wet dream of a car.” Steere shook his head in momentary admiration. “So I grabbed my gun, got out of the car, and shot him in the head. I called the cops from the cell phone.”
Marta crossed her arms across her chest. You could call it a hug but that wasn’t how she thought of it. She’d heard confessions like this from other clients, and though Steere didn’t look like them, he sounded like them. They all had the urge to brag; to prove how smart they were and what they could get away with. Marta had known knew Steere was tough-minded; she hadn’t guessed he was inhuman. “You’re a murderer,” she said.
“No, I’m a problem-solver. I saw some garbage and took it out. The man was a derelict, worthless. He didn’t work, he didn’t produce. He didn’t own anything. Fuck, he didn’t even live anywhere. This time he picked the wrong guy. End of story.”
“Just like that.”
“Come on, Marta. The man was
Marta felt a twinge as she flashed on the jurors, their faces upturned like kindergartners. She’d hired the requisite raft of jury consultants but relied on her own instincts and experience to pick the panel, ending up with a solid reasonable-doubt jury. She’d stood in front of them every day of the trial, memorizing their features, their reactions, their quirks. Fifteen years as a top-tier criminal lawyer had taught Marta one thing: the jurors were the only real people in any courtroom. Even the ones with book deals.
“They’re suckers,” Steere said. “Twelve suckers. The biggest loser was your friend, the Marlboro Man. Better watch out, Marta. He had the look of love. He may be fixin’ to get hisself a filly.”
Marta winced. Steere meant Christopher Graham, a blacksmith from Old Bustleton in Northeast Philadelphia. Marta had learned that Graham had recently separated from his wife, so she worked him the whole trial, locking eyes with him during her cross of the medical examiner and letting her fingertips stray to her silk collar when she felt his lonely gaze on her. Still, manipulation was one thing, and prevarication quite another. “Everything you told me was a lie.”
“It worked, didn’t it? You shot the shit out of their case. The bailiff thinks the jury will be back by noon tomorrow. That’s only four, five hours of actual deliberation.” Steere smiled and recrossed his legs. “I hear the reporters have a pool going. The smart money’s on you, twenty to one. There’s even action that they acquit me before there’s three feet of snow on the ground.”
Marta’s mind reeled. The media, more lies. She’d told the reporters Steere was innocent and declined to speculate on how long the jury would be out.
“It’s almost three o’clock,” Steere said, checking a watch with a band like liquid gold. “You’ve never had a jury out longer than two days, if memory serves.”
Marta flipped back through her cases. She was undefeated in capital cases and she’d win this one, too. No tough questions of physical evidence to explain away, just a disagreement over the way it had gone down, with the Commonwealth claiming Steere had intended to kill the homeless man. It took balls to prosecute a case that thin, but it was an election year and the Mayor wanted to crucify the wealthiest slumlord in Philadelphia. Marta understood all that, but she didn’t understand the most important thing. “Why did you lie to me?”
“Since when are you so high and mighty? Did you ask if I was guilty?”
“I don’t ask my clients that question.”
“Then what’s the difference if they lie to you?”
Marta had no immediate response except to grit her teeth. “So you made up this cock-and-bull story.”
“You never doubted it? One of the best criminal lawyers in the country and you can’t smell shit?”
Not this time, because she had let her guard down. Because she’d been attracted to him, though she wouldn’t admit it, even to herself. “Your story made absolute sense. We went over it and over it. You told it the same way every time.”
“I lied from the door.”
“Even to the cops? The statement you gave them. It was recorded. It was all consistent.”
“I’m excellent at what I do.”
“Lie?”
“Sell.”
“You used me, you asshole.”
“Come off it, dear.” Steere’s smile twisted into a sneer. “You got paid, didn’t you? Almost two hundred grand this quarter, including your expenses. Hotel, phone, even dry cleaning. Every cent paid in full. Twenty-five grand left on the retainer.”
“That’s not the point. “
Steere’s laughter echoed off the cinderblock walls of the interview room. “Easy for you to say, you’re not
