Blood Flag: A Paul Madriani Novel (3 page)

“What does that mean?” she asks.

“Means you’re eligible for bail,” says Harry. “Do you have a passport?” he asks her.

“No. Never needed one.”

“Then we won’t have to surrender it,” says Harry. “There’s also a search warrant for her house.” He looks at me. “Apparently they’re searching as we speak. That’s how they found her with us. One of the neighbors must have told them where she was.”

“What are they looking for?” I ask. A search warrant has to be supported by probable cause, an affidavit sworn to by a law enforcement officer setting forth in sufficiently specific terms the nature of the evidence being sought and the reason to believe it’s to be found at that location. Police cannot simply come in and ransack a residence looking for whatever they can find, though at times it happens.

Harry scans the document quickly. “Medications, any toxic substances or materials, medical implements, any and all medical prescriptions, electronics including any computers, data disks and drives, telephone recordings and records, any and all documents relating to the estate of the decedent, and any and all financial records belonging to the decedent and/or to Emma Louise Brauer.”

“They’re leaving the door open,” I say.

“What do you mean?” asks Brauer.

“They may amend the charges later, depending on what they find,” I tell her.

“You mean murder?”

I nod. “It’s possible. We’ll have to wait and see. In the meantime we’ll work on bail.”

I’m guessing that the cops are also looking for evidence in two areas. First, medications that might have been stored at the house and allegedly used by Emma to kill her father. This would establish the necessary evidence of planning, the element of malice aforethought and premeditation for a charge of first-degree murder. Second, they’re looking for evidence that money may have been the motive. If so, they can jettison the theory of a mercy killing, ratchet up the charges to first-degree murder, and top it off with the special circumstance, under California law, that personal financial gain was what prompted her to act. This would open the way to a death penalty or, at the very least, a life term without possibility of parole.

“And, of course, the two dicks outside brought the media sharks to document the arrest,” says Harry.

It’s election time and the D.A. is running for a third term. Even if it’s not a capital crime, allegations of a mercy killing at a local hospital are likely to catch a premium spot on the local nightly news. This is free face time, worth a million dollars in campaign ads.

“Do you have any cash in the bank?” Harry asks her.

“Yeah,” she says. “I don’t know how much of it I can get at. Most of it is in Dad’s account and could be tied up in probate for a while.”

Of course. Dad died intestate, no will.

“It could be tied up for months,” says Harry.

In perpetuity if they convict her.

“And the title to the house?” asks Harry.

“In Dad’s name. If you’re worried about your bill, I can pay,” she says.

What Harry is thinking about is bail, the 10 percent cash payment for the surety bond to get her out of the bucket.

“Why worry about it?” I wink at Harry.

Harry looks at me, thinks about this for a second, then smiles. “Of course, we can front it.”

It’s difficult to break the habits of a lifetime, a criminal defense practice run on the edge of a dime. At the moment, Harry and I have enough cash on hand to buy a casino in Vegas. And it’s not as if Emma Brauer is going to jump a jet to Brazil. For a number of years Harry and I maintained a small criminal defense practice in Capital City. We moved south to Coronado and have made this our home for almost two decades now. Until the whistle-blower’s windfall we maintained a small practice. Most of our clients had few resources, like Emma, and oftentimes couldn’t pay. Now the world is a wild and woolly new frontier with opportunities, and no doubt our share of pitfalls. We are treading on unfamiliar ground.

“It’s time to go,” says Harry.

“Maybe she’d like to freshen up before she leaves,” says Sofia. “Would you like to go to the ladies’ room?”

“That would be nice. You’re so sweet.” Emma turns and looks at her. “Don’t know what I would do without all of you. Will they wait?” She’s talking about the detectives in the lobby.

“I doubt if they’ll leave without you,” says Harry.

“If they don’t mind,” says Emma.

“And even if they do,” says Harry.

“I must look a wreck.” She reaches for her purse.

“Let me take that.” Sofia is up off the couch, takes the purse, and opens it up on the top of my desk. She fishes inside. I am wondering what she’s looking for. “You did drive here, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

Sofia comes up with a set of keys and asks Emma, “Where’s your car?”

The little details.

“Oh my God. I forgot all about it,” says Emma. “It’s down the street at one of the parking meters on this side.” She gestures. “A blue Prius. Do you know how to start it?”

“Electronic key,” says Sofia. “Just push the button, right?”

“You’ve driven one before?”

“My mom has one.”

“Oh, that’s great.”

“We’ll park it here in the lot behind the office. It’ll be fine until you get out,” I tell her.

“Is there anything else in your purse you want to leave with us?” Harry is not as diplomatic as Sofia. The way he puts the question makes it sound as if he’s offering to stash any spare hypodermic needles Emma might be carrying.

“Not that I can think of. Unless you think I should leave my wallet and checkbook?”

“Keep them,” says Harry. “They’ll prepare a receipt for everything. It’s better to have ID and the usual sundries. Otherwise they’ll wonder where they are and come looking.”

Sofia takes the smart key for the Prius off the ring and drops the rest of the keys back in Emma’s purse.

“And if they ask you about your car or how you got to our office, don’t answer, just refer them to us. We’ll answer any questions,” I tell her. They’ll probably want to vacuum her car as well, looking for any evidence. But that can wait.

Harry and Sofia ease Emma out of the chair and toward the door. I get up to follow them.

“As soon as we can get a judge to set bail we’ll file for a bond and move to get you out,” says Harry.

“How long will that take?” she asks.

“A day, maybe two,” I tell her. “One of us will see you at the jail in the morning to check on you. We should know more by then.”

She turns as if to thank me and then suddenly stops in her tracks and says, “What about Dingus? I forgot all about Dingus!”

“Who’s Dingus?” I ask.

“Dad’s dog. He’s a miniature schnauzer. Tiny little thing. He’s not been the same since Dad died. Who’s gonna feed him, watch him while I’m gone? He’ll die.”

“I’ll take care of him,” says Sofia. “Don’t worry. But I’ll need your house key to get in.”

Emma says, “No, you won’t. I have one of those push-button locks on the front door.” She gives her the four-digit combination and Sofia taps them into the notes app on her phone.

“I can go to the house and get him this afternoon. Will he be OK until then?”

“He’ll be fine. I don’t know how to thank you.” She gives Sofia a big hug. “You’re so sweet. Wish I had a granddaughter like you.”

“I’ll take care of him until you get out, or I’ll find somebody who can.”

“He barks a lot, but he doesn’t bite. Don’t let him scare you.”

“Not to worry.” Sofia smiles. They’re out the door.

Harry runs interference as the two women head for the ladies’ room.

“Hold on. Where’re you going?” One of the detectives tries to step around Harry to stop them.

“She’s going to take a pee. You want to watch?” says Harry.

“You said you were gonna surrender her. That was five minutes ago. We’re not gonna wait forever!” The detective starts jacking his jaw in Harry’s face, up close like he wants to chest-butt him.

“You want to have a mess all over the backseat of your car, go ahead, pull her off the commode,” says Harry. “I’ll catch the video on my cell phone. We can put it on YouTube and take odds on how many million hits we get.”

Outside the entrance to our office I can see the camera crews. Harry has apparently forced them out of the office onto the path out in front, where they’re setting up to film the capture of Public Enemy No. 1.

The other cop steps toward me and whispers up close: “I take it there’s no other way out of there.” He tilts his head toward the bathroom. He’s getting nervous, wondering whether maybe Emma might shimmy up an air vent in the bathroom and disappear. With the cameras all primed outside that wouldn’t make a happy sound bite or a winning picture.

“Only one door,” I tell him.

“What about windows?” The detective thinks I’m giving him a lawyer’s answer.

“One little six-incher, high on the wall,” says Harry. “So unless she’s gone on a crash diet and learned how to fly in the last minute or so . . .”

“You must spend a lot of time in the ladies’ room. You know so much about it.” The antsy detective is in Harry’s face again.

“Relax, Dick. Give it a break.” His partner nudges him away before it bubbles over.

“Dick, is it?” says Harry.

“What’s it to you?” says the angry cop.

“Just wondering,” says Harry.

“Wondering about what?”

“How parents can be so prophetic when naming an infant.”

“You wanna talk about that outside?” says the cop.

“Why not?” says Harry. “We can bring the secretaries. They can bring their cell phones. And you can get airtime.” Harry starts to take off his jacket as if he’s about to go ten rounds with the guy.

“Harry!” I look at him.

“I was only kidding.” He smiles. “Dick knows I respect him. We were just having some fun.”

“I wasn’t,” says the cop.

“Jeez!” says Harry. “And here I was thinking you had such a great sense of humor.”

FOUR

O
ne of the things garnered by our windfall whistle-blower award is that Harry and I are now the proud owners of an online political news tabloid in D.C. called the “Washington Gravesite.” I am busy going over a spreadsheet showing monthly overhead costs and revenue, a business enterprise that appears to have been largely a labor of love for its prior owner.

It’s a long story, but the short version is that a young reporter, a friend of my daughter, Sarah, a kid named Alex Ives, who worked for the site and whose down-in-the-heels drunk-driving case resulted in our financial bounty, needed a job when the case ended. His boss, Tory Graves, who owned the site, had been murdered. So Harry and I bought the thing and installed Ives as the managing editor. It was probably a mistake, but we did it. It’s the problem with money. You spend it. Sometimes in foolish ways. But it didn’t feel right putting Alex out on the street when we had benefited to such a great extent from his case.

Neither Harry nor I know squat about publishing. We would give the thing to Ives for a dollar, but he lacks the capital to keep it running. So for the time being, Harry and I are owner and publisher. The blind leading the stupid. We have laid down one rule: Ives is to send us any story that offers up even the vestige of a whiff of defamation. This much we know. Libel is that red line you don’t want to cross. If Harry and I can’t tell exactly where it is, we can find another lawyer in town with a plumb bob who can.

We have made a lot of enemies in and around Capitol Hill: members of Congress and their staff, powerful people. Some of their friends were outed to the Treasury and the Internal Revenue Service, found holding offshore bank accounts that were undisclosed for purposes of US taxes. They have been busy answering questions; some of them have been closeted before federal grand juries, trying to explain where the money came from and for what purpose it was paid. The back taxes and penalties that are still being tabulated are the source of our client’s whistle-blower award and our windfall legal fees, that and a mammoth fine that was leveled against the Swiss bank that was involved.

The money is good. The ill will from high places is not. It has us periodically looking over our shoulders wondering when the knife is coming and from which direction. Having wealth makes you a target for hired legal guns, get-rich courthouse sharks looking to fatten their wallets and perhaps cozy up to powerful political players. This is something we never had to worry about when we were impecunious, which is lawyer jargon for “broke.” People wanted to kill us. But that was different. This is personal.

There is a comfort factor in being judgment-proof, a certain peace of mind that comes from knowing that you lack the value of a meatless sun-bleached bone, something that two junkyard dogs might want to fight over in a civil courtroom where the only issue is money. You have it and they want it.

Most criminal defense lawyers aren’t worth the time or trouble of a civil suit. In a malpractice case it’s tough finding a sympathetic jury where the plaintiff seeking money damages and crying that you blew his defense is a career felon with a record longer than a laser beam. Odds are that if he didn’t do the last three crimes, he did the six before that.

Besides, the most pressing remedy for malpractice in a criminal case is a petition by way of appeal for a new trial. Anything to get out of the joint. Sue your defense lawyer for damages and he will probably sanitize your trial file. Doctors bury their mistakes. Lawyers shred them. I can’t remember the last time a criminal defense attorney was sued for malpractice. I suspect it happens, but with the regularity of an ice age.

But now that we have money, we worry about this, along with everything else. Harry tells me he’s not sleeping as well at night. He is already starting to hate other lawyers, and not just criminal prosecutors.

There is a gentle rap on my door. It opens. Sofia smiles her way into my office and closes the door behind her. “Joselyn just pulled into the lot. She’ll be here in a minute.”

I check my watch. We have a date, my significant other and me. We have talked about getting married but we’re afraid it might ruin the deal. Formalities like familiarity breeding contempt.