Adam took a step back, hands on my shoulders. “Remember, don’t answer anything Elliott advises you not to.” His tone was gravely serious. “Understood?”
I bit my lower lip and nodded. “Yes.”
Elliott Hoffman and Detective Mitchell stepped back into the room, and Adam trailed a finger down my cheek, wiping away the last of my tears.
As I sat back down, I overheard Mitchell telling Adam there was a waiting room down the hall where he could wait until we were finished with the interrogation. After Adam left, Hoffman sat down next to me, and the detective returned to his seat on the other side of the table.
The formal questioning was much like it had been at the bar—just variations of the same questions—but with the same gist. Hoffman took copious notes, nodding after each of Mitchell’s questions, thus indicating it was permissible for me to answer each one. I sensed Detective Mitchell suspected there was more to my visit to Billy’s, but he didn’t press. Not with my new attorney present. But I was sure he’d do some digging, and when armed with more information, he’d confront me, attorney or not.
Just as Mitchell was wrapping up, the interrogation room door burst open. Another detective I recognized from earlier at the bar entered the room, and Mitchell rose to greet him. As they stood speaking in voices too low for me to hear, I tried to assess this new development.
Hoffman appeared to be unaffected, glancing up with a bored expression and then returning to his notes. But the detective having a heated discussion with Mitchell was definitely unhappy about something. This new detective was a tall man with gray-streaked dark hair. I estimated his age to be about mid-forties. And as his cold, dark eyes flashed to me, I started to get the feeling this man’s displeasure had something to do with me.
Hoffman suddenly cleared his throat, startling me and interrupting the detectives. “Pardon me, but if we are finished here, I’m sure my client would like to get home after her very trying day.”
Mitchell held up his hand. “Not quite yet, Counsel, we’re going to need a few more minutes. My partner here, Detective Crowley, has a few more questions for Miss Fitch.”
“Five minutes,” Hoffman snapped, his tone firm. “My client has already proven to be more than cooperative.”
Detective Mitchell appeared apologetic but not Detective Crowley. No, not at all.
Instead he approached the table, glowering at me. “Ms. Fitch,” he began, pacing the floor with his fingers steepled in front of him. “Is it true your official statement is that you and the victim, James Kingston, had no more of an involved relationship than that of customer and bartender?”
Hoffman nodded to me, so I answered, “Yes, that’s correct.”
Crowley stopped and turned to face me. “If that is indeed the case, then tell us please, Ms. Fitch, why did the victim call your cell phone yesterday afternoon?”
Oh no! I looked to Hoffman, unsure of how to respond. He shook his head and answered for me, “My client has no comment.”
Detective Mitchell—who had been relegated to a corner of the room—caught my eye. Disappointment was written all over his face. Yeah, Mayor Fitch’s daughter had lied to the police. Sorry.
Detective Crowley addressed my attorney, smugness in his tone. “Clearly, the record speaks for itself, Mr. Hoffman.”
“There’s no proof the cell phone you are referring to was even in my client’s possession yesterday,” Hoffman countered smoothly.
Oooh, he is good, I thought.
Crowley smirked at my attorney and said slowly, “There’s also no proof that it wasn’t in her possession.” The detective paused momentarily and then redirected all of his anger back on me. “Ms. Fitch, are you familiar with terms like ‘obstruction of justice’ and ‘tampering with evidence’?”
Hoffman stiffened but nodded for me to proceed. “Yes.” My voice was no more than a whisper.
And then, to my absolute horror, Detective Crowley produced the crumpled, white envelope—tainted with Jimmy’s blood—and threw it on the table. It was now sealed in a plastic “evidence” bag, but the printed “M” on the front was facing up, mocking my sad attempt at deception. I kept my eyes glued to the envelope, afraid to meet any of the questioning eyes I felt upon me.
“Would you care to explain why this”—Crowley tapped the incriminating evidence—“was found in a trash bin under the bar at Billy’s?” When I didn’t answer, he put his hands on the table and leaned toward me. “Your prints, Ms. Fitch, are all over it!” he hissed.
“I didn’t kill Jimmy,” I suddenly cried out, standing.
I felt Hoffman’s hand on my shaking arm, silencing me, urging me to sit back down. “My client is invoking her fifth amendment rights,” he said sharply, with a light squeeze to my arm to remind me to keep quiet.
Crowley laughed darkly. “Fine, but let me tell you this…” I glanced up, and his eyes locked with mine. “If Bill Fitch wasn’t your father and a man I respect, I’d arrest you right now.”
Detective Mitchell moved in to calm his colleague, while Hoffman interjected, voice raised, “You’re out of line, Detective. I will not allow you to speak to my client in that manner. You have nothing here but circumstantial evidence at best.”
“Bullshit!” Detective Crowley fumed, shucking Mitchell’s hand off his arm. “We have a body and a suspect who is lying. I can name you hundreds of cases where the defendant was convicted on far less!”
Mitchell grabbed Crowley again and this time pulled him back, all the while apologizing for his colleague’s outburst. Hoffman’s only response was to remind both detectives that the five minutes had elapsed, and that we were done here.
Detective Mitchell refused to meet my gaze as my attorney steered me to the door. But Detective Crowley threw me a parting glance that
