Eye of the Beholder

And I won’t say differently. Not now, anyway. And maybe never.

I nod toward the window, toward Natalia Lake. “What’s gonna happen to her?”

Natalia might be in some trouble. She covered up her daughter’s involvement in the murder of Ellie Danzinger. And she might have abused the truth a little this week. But, in the end, from their perspective, she covered up the culpability of someone who became one of Burgos’s victims, too. And they will have a hard time proving any of the things they suspect. They will have to prove that she knew Cassie committed Ellie’s murder and that she played an active involvement in covering it up. How could they prove any of that?

“All we know is that her daughter killed someone sixteen years ago. She doesn’t have to report it. Maybe she had Koslenko break into that building for the paternity tests, but we can’t prove that. Koslenko and Ciancio are dead, and she’s smart enough to know we have nothing.”

“Right,” I agree.

“She was protecting her daughter,” he adds without prompting. “She may have colored outside the lines a little, but she was protecting her daughter. If it were up to me-”

He stops on that. Takes a long breath.

“She didn’t hurt anybody,” he says. “Her daughter did something, and she made the best of the situation. Is that so wrong?”

He turns to me, challenging me, emotion coloring his face.

“You telling me you wouldn’t do the same thing if it were your daughter?”

I raise my hands in surrender, and I haven’t even said a word. He’s fighting with himself.

“Yes,” I say, “I would protect my daughter, too.”

He turns back to the observation window. “Sorry. Jesus.”

“Been a long week,” I say.

He stares at me for a long moment. Sleep deprivation and stress do wonders to a person. McDermott strikes me as a solid-as-rock sort of guy, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he burst into tears right now.

“I meant what I said before, Riley. About Burgos. You had him dead to rights. And, look, he did kill four girls, maybe five.” He hits my arm. “Hell, even his own lawyer took one look at the whole thing and pleaded insanity. He didn’t fight you on the facts. It’s not your job-”

“It is my job. I had discretion.” I look at him. “Burgos was insane, Mike. He was the dictionary definition of insane. He thought God was speaking to him through a song.”

“Yeah,” McDermott counters, “but he knew what he was doing was a crime, right? He fabricated an alibi. He hid the girls in a basement. Would you change a single thing about your argument to the jury if you could do it over again?”

“One thing,” I say. “I wouldn’t make the argument at all.”

I walk away from him. Yes, Terry Burgos was aware that a law in this state prohibited murder. And, yes, he took steps to avoid getting caught. He manufactured an alibi. He hid the bodies so no one would find them until his spree was finished. He picked victims from different parts of the city so he wouldn’t have to go back to the scene of an abduction. And all of that means, he didn’t fit the definition of insanity, as that definition was written up by a bunch of politicians who don’t want to appear soft on crime.

“Leo Koslenko knew he was breaking the law,” I say. “Oh, and he also ‘knew’ that he was a superspy, protecting the world from undercover enemies posing as prostitutes. He also ‘knew’ that I was a spy working with him for that secret world organization.” I flap my arms. “So you’re telling me Koslenko wasn’t insane?”

McDermott shrugs. “You know better than anyone if you appreciate you’re breaking the law-”

“Oh, come on, Mike. I’m not talking about the legal definition of insanity,” I say. “I’m saying Burgos’s head was in another galaxy. He thought he was doing God’s bidding, and, if that’s what you really think, why would you care about some silly state law?”

McDermott doesn’t answer.

“He should have been incarcerated the rest of his life,” I say. “And treated. But he shouldn’t have been executed.”

McDermott’s in no mood to argue. He’ll let me beat myself up if that’s what I want. He walks over to me and shakes my hand. There was a time-really, only a couple of days ago-when I’d have never thought it possible that we’d be parting on cordial terms.

“None of my business,” he says. “But out of curiosity.”

“Shoot,” I say.

“You gonna stick with your million-dollar client, Mr. Bentley?”

A fine question. Harland’s conduct back then was disgusting. But he didn’t kill his daughter and didn’t have anything to do with the cover-up, either. Still, it seems hard to imagine we can just go back to business like nothing has changed.

“Hard to say if I even want to be a lawyer anymore,” I say.

He stares at me a moment, like he’s waiting for the punch line. “Yeah, right.” He waves me off. “Get lost, Riley. Take care of Shelly.”

I look back at the interview room, where Natalia Lake sits motionless. They might prosecute her, depending on media pressure. Maybe I would be a witness, too, because I have learned a good deal of information from her, Koslenko, and others. That would be hearsay, of course, but you could argue for an exception, statement of a coconspirator’s the best bet, if you could establish an overt act-

I catch myself. Listen to me, turning everything into an eviden tiary question. McDermott’s reaction was right. It’s in my blood, the law. It’s all I know. It’s all I want to do.

I leave the police station and, this time, say nothing to the reporters.

Not now, anyway. Maybe never.

Wednesday

July 6, 2005

54

SHELLY AND I are spending a week in the presidential suite at the Grand Hotel, ordering room service and walking on the beach and seeing the sights and eating delicious, rich food. We’ve managed some time for intimacy, too, but we’ve put a modern twist on the phrase sleeping together. We have done just that. We have averaged ten hours of shut-eye a day.

Shelly is doing better now. You don’t just bounce back from being attacked in your home and abducted, even if your memory of it is foggy at best. She has had to adjust, more than anything, to the concept of fear itself. We’ve walked into the town and strolled the beaches, but only during daylight hours. Without either of us acknowledging it, I’ve led her back to the fourteen-acre estate of the Grand Hotel every night. This, I’ve come to realize, is not about seeing the sights. It’s about getting away.

On our fourth day here, I awake around nine. Shelly has just come out of the Jacuzzi and is wrapped in towels. I open my eyes and catch her looking at me, watching, and I see it in her eyes, a sense of reserve, apprehension. I say “Good morning” and she reciprocates, but with her eyes diverted.