I explain, “It’s about the Sara Barton case.”
I let the words breathe to assess any reaction. Nothing. The hint of concern is gone. Unlike Sam, Liesa’s poker face doesn’t betray her in the moment of truth. But the lack of a reaction is itself a tell. Something is amiss. I switch gears. Playing coy won’t work with Liesa.
“I’ll cut to the chase. We know Sam found Sara Barton’s body at the murder scene around 10 p.m. and that he drove his Volkswagen to the Barton house. The police also did a traffic cam search of all the cars in the area at the time. Your Chrysler minivan went through a nearby traffic light at 9:51 p.m. Since Sam found the body, we have to check this out and tie it up as a loose end. Because you’re a friend, I volunteered to ask you directly. Were you driving the minivan that night in the Virginia Highlands area?”
She ushers me to a seat—the veneer of hospitality giving her more time to think. She then answers my question with a question, “You said that this meeting was off the record. What does that mean exactly?”
Here’s the thing about Liesa. She’s really smart. She seizes on the squishiness of approaching her this way. I’m not a journalist, and talking with her “off the record” has no legal significance whatsoever. Her quick insight is no surprise. A running joke among our friends centered on the clear intellectual gap between Sam and his wife-to-be. We pegged Liesa for greatness as a lawyer until she quit the law to be a stay-at-home mom. Sam begged her to reconsider, but Liesa walked away. But I still recognize the score. She is smarter than me, and we both know it.
“To tell you the truth, I don’t know. Look, we’ve been friends a long time now. I don’t want police officers to have to come interview you in your home if it is not necessary. I’m here as a courtesy.”
“I’m still confused. Are you here as a friend or a prosecutor?”
Being a lawyer is part performance art. Words are my stock in trade, but words alone only tell half of the story that I am trying to sell. Body language tells the other half. I droop my shoulders and make myself smaller to convey the message that I am not a threat.
“Liesa, you’re overthinking this. Sam discovered the body. Your car was in the area. We need to ask you why. That’s all. It’s a box that needs to be checked off. There’s nothing more to it than that. If we thought it was a big deal, someone other than me would be doing the asking.”
Once more, she follows up with a question, “Where exactly was the car?”
I name the intersection, which is about a mile away from the Barton residence.
“Which direction was the car going?”
She should be the one answering me. I play along anyway, trying to keep a non-aggressive tone, and tell her the vehicle was coming from the direction of the Barton home toward her house.
Liesa stays neutral but is not as clever as she imagines. I could have been out of here in five minutes. Now, I’m latched on to her scent. A mystery connected to my murder exists here. Her next words only add to my growing unease.
“Do you think Sam killed her?”
I contemplate her with genuine puzzlement. Murder is my life. I bear its weight each day, wrestling with the cynicism that flows from constant exposure to violent death. The toll grows. I make more mistakes than I used to—sometimes read the wrong angles. To compensate, I work harder and sleep less. Trial victories keep piling up, but the infection spreads in steady drips.
Sitting in the living room of my law school friends, the rising concern that I have misread the murder of Sara Barton triggers the wrong response. I get mad. Angry at myself, angry at Liesa, angry at the world—I don’t know. Whatever the origin, composure gives way to irritation.
“Why on earth would he do that, Liesa? Was he having an affair with her?”
The words are regrettable, but the outburst manages to finally pry some information out of Liesa’s iron grasp. Her reaction says it all—hurt, not surprise. She already knows. Did Sam lie about that, too? Bastard.
Liesa’s eyes water. She fights with her whole being the urge to cry. She hisses at me through clenched teeth, “Why are you really here?”
Weary of the entire scene, I quietly answer, “The car. I’m here because of the car.”
“I don’t have anything to say.”
That position won’t get her far. Now the police—probably Scott—will be back to ask the who, what, when, where, and why of this second car business. I make one last attempt to reach her: “The police are going to have to come and talk to you now.”
“I don’t have anything to say to them or to you.”
Driving away, I reflect that while she told me nothing, I educated her plenty. She now knows the police can pin her exact whereabouts at 9:51 p.m. on the night of the murder. That’s valuable information. I kick myself. Liesa played me the same way I played Sam on the night of the murder. Acting like a friend instead of a lawyer led me to do most of the talking.
But while Liesa admitted nothing usable as evidence in court, her behavior exposed her all the same. Defensiveness of the sort she exhibited means she’s hiding something. Her certain knowledge of Sam’s affair is important.
