“That brings me to my third point. The cold facts of this murder will lead the police to only one conclusion. To them, it’s not a matter of whether Jack Blair killed the girl, it’s determining motive so they can decide what charges to bring against him. As far as they’re concerned, he killed her. By his own admission no one else — no one alive, I should say — was present. Slam dunk for the prosecution. So now let’s get down to business. You’ve told me Mr. Blair’s indigent, right?”
“Yes. He’s been living on the street for three years.”
“There’s his bail to consider, and then my legal fees. Both will be expensive. My success rate is terrific, but let’s be realistic about this one. Unless someone finds a reasonable explanation for the girl’s death, he’s going to prison for a long, long time, no matter who his lawyer is. Don’t hire me expecting a miracle.” Pamela said she’d take the case with a fifty-thousand-dollar retainer, which she figured wouldn’t last long. Plan on at least a hundred more.
None of this surprised Landry, and he admitted he wasn’t sure if he could help Jack. He believed the man was innocent but proving it would be almost impossible. Then there was the money. The only deep pocket was Channel Nine, but he couldn’t ask Ted. Between attorney’s fees and bail — which might not happen — they were looking at several hundred thousand dollars. His employer wasn’t the answer. Maybe there was no answer this time. He left after telling the lawyer he’d be in touch once he figured out what to do.
As he walked back to the Quarter, he got a phone alert from WCCY’s website. The DA had charged Jack with manslaughter, and he’d be in court for a bail hearing at two o’clock. He had to help — he had to go to court for moral support if nothing else.
And he accepted that there could be nothing else. He couldn’t raise that kind of money in a year, much less two hours.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
When he ran out of ideas or schemes or hopes, Landry always turned to the one person he could rely upon to give him honest and unbiased advice — Cate. He told her about meeting with Pamela Sacriste and said he would go to Jack’s bail hearing. They talked about the money. Landry couldn’t help him, and that meant nobody could.
“As hard as it was to hear, the lawyer’s right. People consider my show as pure entertainment — fantasy. You and I know the terrifying things that exist in the world because we’ve seen them. But my viewers watch for fun. They like to be scared, but they don’t believe a word of it. I’m like the guy in the sideshow hawking people to come see the Two-Headed Baby. They’ll pay their money, but they know it’s not real.”
“Hang on. You’re turning this into something else. This isn’t about you or your show. Some people believe; some don’t. What difference does it make? This is about Jack, not you. If anyone’s going to help him, it’s us. We’re all he has, so let’s think positively. Can you use the paranormal events in the Toulouse Street building to prove he’s innocent? Even the biggest agnostic can’t deny what he sees for himself. Go to the bail hearing to show Jack you’re supporting him. You can’t post his bail, nor would he expect you to, so don’t beat yourself up because he has to stay in jail.”
Landry said, “There’s something else you should know. I was trying to set up another hypnosis session at the building. Jack had agreed to let Dr. Little do the past life regression thing. Maybe it would have helped and maybe not. I should have told you earlier.”
She smiled and took his hand. “I already know — Dad told me, because our family doesn’t keep secrets. I understood why you wanted another session. Now you have a job to do. Spend every ounce of brainpower proving Jack didn’t kill Tiffany.”
Easy to say, but considerably harder to do.
Landry sat at his desk with a blank yellow pad and a pen in front of him. Sick to his stomach, he skipped lunch, and at 1:45 he walked into the Orleans Justice Center on Loyola Avenue, found the right courtroom and took a seat. He saw Jack among other prisoners in orange jumpsuits sitting toward the front of the cavernous room. He had hoped to get Jack’s attention so the man would know he had moral support, but he was too far away.
As the bailiff ordered everyone to rise for the judge’s entrance, someone walked down the aisle next to him and touched his arm. Without a glance his way, Pamela Sacriste took a seat in an area designated for attorneys.
What the hell is she doing here? He wondered. It can’t be for Jack, unless suddenly she’s doing free legal work.
Landry’s heart jumped when the clerk called Jack’s case and Pamela stood. “Represented by counsel, Your Honor.” She asked for five minutes with her client, entered a plea of not guilty, and requested release on bail. He wasn’t a flight risk and had never been charged with a crime, she explained, and the judge set bail at five hundred thousand dollars.
Might as well be five million, Landry thought. Even paying a bail bondsman ten percent would mean somebody would shell out fifty grand. It was impossible.
The clerk called the next case, Pamela walked back up the aisle and said, “Come with me. We have work to do.”
He tried to ask a question as they walked into the hall, but she ignored him. She looked down the corridor, found the man she wanted, and called him over. Landry’s
