Chopping Spree

defense lawyer Steven Hulsey, of Hulsey, Jones, Macauley & Wilson. Recently, Hulsey had defended a drug dealer who’d murdered a rival in front of three witnesses, all of whom, apparently, had serious vision problems.

“That’s the one,” Marla said proudly. “Did you hear how he got Stafford Roosevelt off? It was in the papers last year. Big Bucks Roosevelt, serial rapist, supposedly. But we’ll never know, since Hulsey got him off on a technicality. And just last month, the associate who’s coming down to help Julian, Cleve Jackson, convinced a jury not to convict a fellow lawyer of bank fraud.”

“Yes,” I said weakly, “I heard about that one.” In the fraud case, Cleve Jackson had repeatedly asserted that the police had mishandled crucial evidence. For their part, Tom and the department despised any and all from Hulsey’s office.

“I’m paying the legal bills, don’t worry,” Marla yelled. “I am so pissed off. And I can’t believe what Julian…!” Her voice cracked, disappeared, came back. “He didn’t even call me until the cops had questioned him for an hour, and now he’s consented to a damn polygraph! Julian said he didn’t do anything! He wants to prove it with a lie detector test! Cleve Jackson should already be there. Julian should wait—”

“Listen,” I said desperately as the nurse signaled that the ER doc was ready to see me. “I need to go…”

Marla grumbled words unfit for Sunday school, declared that she’d bring Julian back to her place when the cops and Cleve Jackson had finished with him, and signed off.

I endured the next hour in as good a humor as possible. Detective Sawyer hovered doggedly at the edge of my vision. When the ER doc said it looked as if I had a mild concussion, I asked to see my husband. Detective Sawyer, looming, announced grimly that Tom had gone down to the department and would meet me there.

Sometime after midnight, the ambulance that had brought me to the hospital from Westside Mall arrived at the Furman County Sheriff’s Department. I had been up since dawn, I had escaped a truck accident, I had catered an event, I’d found my client dead, I’d been whacked on the head, I’d awakened in pain. And now, it seemed, I was in the thick of a criminal investigation. I was beyond exhausted, beyond wounded and bewildered. I was numb.

Mutely, I allowed myself to be escorted to one of the interrogation rooms. It was graced with a single table and four chairs, one of which held Detective Sawyer. The instant I entered the room, Sawyer flipped open his notebook.

A microphone stood like a wired totem in the middle of the table. The right-hand wall boasted a one-way mirror. Unlike what you see in movies, Tom had told me, there was no one actually behind the one-way glass, no sharp-eyed team gauging my reactions, no sharp-tongued cop asserting that I’d just told a basket of lies. According to Tom, an unmanned videocamera recorded the whole interview. I hugged myself. More than the cop’s notebook or the microphone, the image of that solitary camera rolling tape made me dizzy.

A tall, wide-bodied man swept in. I recognized Steve Hulsey from his TV interviews. The nightly talk shows loved having him on, as he put it, “to tell people the inside story of law enforcement.” Hulsey had a dark face featuring deeply grooved cheeks and thick dark eyebrows that sprouted like sails over shrewd, assessing eyes. He’d slicked his black hair into place with a glistening substance that made the strands resemble porcupine quills. His hastily donned power suit, a severe charcoal pinstriped silk, was only slightly rumpled. His voice rumbled like an approaching storm.

“I’d like this woman to step into the hall, please,” he announced to the two detectives. It was not a request. It was a command. The detectives nodded and I walked slowly into the hall.

The famous attorney introduced himself, then crushed my hand when he shook it. In somber tones, Hulsey advised me to wait after each question from the detectives. I was not to answer a single query until he gave me permission. If he didn’t like the way things were going, he would say so. Meanwhile, if he objected to anything, I was to keep my mouth shut. When I begged him for news of Julian, his face turned even more formidable. We would have to talk about that later, he concluded, and turned back to the interrogation room door.

“What about my husband?” I asked. “Have you talked to Tom?”

“Tom Schulz is off this case. His family members are involved.” Hulsey’s voice came out like a growl. “Your son is at your house. A friend is with him. Listen to me, Mrs. Schulz. If I’m going to help you, I need you not to worry about anybody but yourself. We need to focus on getting you out of this.”

“I just…OK, look,” I said with sudden clarity. “Our first problem is with the detective in there, a creep named Sawyer. He was obnoxious in the ambulance and didn’t Mirandize me—”

“A detective questioned you before you were examined by a doctor?” From down the hall, an authoritative-looking, red-haired man with a clipboard strode rapidly toward us. Seeing him, Hulsey lifted his chin and sucked in his breath, like the wolf about to blow down a little pig’s house. Then he turned back to me. His beetlelike eyes bored into mine. Forget lie detectors; this guy was the genuine article. “A policeman asked you questions before or after you were seen in the ER?”

“Uh, before. I told him I wouldn’t answer his questions.”

“Mrs. Schulz,” said Hulsey. His voice melted to chocolate, which scared me even more. “Do not fret about Sawyer. I am here. They are going to fret about us. Are we clear on this?”

Whether from fatigue, physical pain, or stress, I did not know, but I suddenly laughed and kept laughing. Were we clear? I said, “You bet. Ice-crystal clear. High-country spring-water clear.” I was grinning like a madwoman, but Hulsey ignored me. No doubt he’d seen his share of lunatics.

The clipboard-toter passed us and opened the door to the interrogation room. Hulsey and I followed.

“Gentlemen,” declared Hulsey, “my client is fatigued and injured. So let’s make this quick, OK? And,” he said with grim finality, “there will be no polygraph.”

Sawyer tapped his open notebook and gave us a blank look. The other fellow, whose few strands of red hair had been pulled across his balding head, did not acknowledge Hulsey’s request, but merely gave a brusque nod. He informed us he was Detective Collins and his associate was Detective Sawyer, and that this interview was being recorded.

I stated my name and address into the microphone, glanced nervously at the mirrored glass hiding the video-camera, and tucked my cold, trembling hands inside the big pocket of my apron.

Come to think of it, why was I still wearing the apron? I felt for my cell phone: still there. The note from Barry: also still there. But…what in the world was the small plastic jar my right hand suddenly closed over? I swallowed hard and cautiously moved the jar lower into my pocket, as deep as it would go. Unless I was very much mistaken, I was gripping a prescription bottle full of pills. Where had it come from?

Unobtrusively, I pulled out my hand and placed it in my lap. There was no way I was going to show these cops what I’d just discovered, thank you very much. Every now and then, it’s important to be smart. Which is what I wish I had been while hunting for Barry Dean in the Prince & Grogan shoe department… at least to the extent of jumping up and screaming for help when I’d first found Barry in the cabinet.

“Take us back,” droned Detective Collins. “Begin with the jewelry party. That was the last time you saw Mr. Dean alive, yes?”

“Yes.” Barry’d been quite visible at the party, I told them. There were security tapes, as well as a professional videotape, of the event. I told them the very last time I’d seen Barry alive had been toward the end of the event. No, I had not actually seen him leave. I told them about Barry’s uncharacteristic wine-guzzling. I started to describe the forcible expulsion of Teddy Fury, and Barry’s heated argument with Liz Fury and Julian, but I hadn’t even completed three sentences before Hulsey shook his head.

Had I received my check, the cops wanted to know. Barry had the final payment, I replied, which was our agreed-in-advance gratuity.

“Is that a set amount?” Collins asked.

“It’s usually twenty percent of the bill. If things go well and the client is feeling generous, sometimes we’ll receive up to thirty percent. But Barry left without giving us anything, which I was certain was an oversight—”

“We found a check to your firm in his pocket. Sorry, we need to keep it for a while. Why were you certain this was an oversight?”