Knock 'em Dead (9 page)

Though I was battling tears, I did a brief catalog of Jane’s attire. I’d never seen her look so…so…subdued. “She looks fine,” I said, hoping Liv would feel better.

“It wasn’t like I had a lot of choices. It was either my stuff or hers and Becky said it would be better if Jane didn’t walk in here looking like a pale version of Beyoncé.”

Okay, that remark lifted my spirits slightly. Liv was right; Jane’s personal style was pretty sexy, not exactly the best impression when you’re facing a judge and charged with a crime that includes cutting off the sex organ of the victim.

Clark Taggert, Esq., took his place next to Jane. He was tall, white-haired, and unkempt. Kinda like an elderly, chubby version of Matlock minus the seersucker suit. In his heyday, which I think was before I was born, he’d been a fierce advocate. He’d successfully defended lots of high-profile defendants and did a bunch of pro bono work as well. But that was then. Now, if the rumors were true, he was almost seventy and in the early stages of senile dementia. Hardly confidence-inspiring. Especially when I watched him fumble to open the latches of his own briefcase.

Leaning across Liv, I poked Becky’s leg and asked, “Are you sure you can’t do this?”

She shrugged her shoulders. “Maybe I should.”

“No,” Liv insisted. “You already said Jane needs a trial lawyer and you’re not one.”

“When I said that, I meant one who could remember his own name,” Becky snapped.

Liv ignored the dig. “Okay, so maybe he’s not the best choice but he’s all we’ve got for now. Once Jane’s released, we can find someone else to handle the case from here on out.”

A stiff, no-nonsense-looking bailiff came out and ordered us all to stand. Good thing too, since the sound of shuffling feet drowned out my cell phone that was supposed to be off as it started to chime an incoming text. I forgot to switch that feature to vibrate. Liv, Becky, and a few other people around me heard it and hurled chastising glances at me. Discreetly, I fished the thing out of my tote, saw I had a new text message, then powered it off. Probably Patrick checking in during connecting flights or something.

A second later, Judge Faulkner, one of the most highly regarded jurists in the county, entered, his black robe billowing as he strode quickly to his perch. Even though he was well past my acceptable dating age range—he’s in his fifties—he was pretty hot, in a judicial kinda way. He had dark hair and light eyes, and for a second, I felt as if I was seeing and admiring an age-progression version of Liam.

The bailiff announced the case name and number, then handed a small folder to the judge. Faulkner was all business, settling the room before turning his attention to Assistant State Attorney Brent. “Proceed.”

Brent spent several minutes describing the crime, including her assertion that Jane was the perpetrator of said crime. “I’ll be presenting to the grand jury shortly. Until then, the state asks that the defendant be held without bond.”

I stopped breathing for a second, then gulped air. “What?” I asked, loudly enough to earn me a stern glare from the judge.

Taggert lumbered to his feet. “If I may, Your Honor?”

Faulkner nodded.

“Miss Spencer is a model citizen and an active, productive member of the community.” He spoke slowly with a North Florida drawl. “She hasn’t so much as had a parking ticket.”

Brent leapt to her feet. “That’s a serious misstatement of facts,” she said as she pulled some papers from her folder and waved them around. “Miss Spencer has a criminal record.”

I gasped. Hell, everyone gasped except for Jane, Steadman, and Graves.

Jane?
My
Jane had a criminal record? Bullshit.

The bailiff retrieved the papers from Brent and delivered them to the judge. His eyes narrowed and he glared over at Taggert. “Show this to Mr. Taggert,” he instructed the bailiff. Several seconds passed; then he prompted, “Well?”

“Your Honor, I was unaware of this,” Taggert said slowly. “And since the charges were dropped, it shouldn’t be relevant to these proceedings.”

“Not relevant?” Faulkner’s voice thundered loudly around the room.

Every reporter in the place had pen, pencil, or laptop at the ready. Me? I just had a boulder-sized lump in the pit of my stomach.

“No, sir,” Taggert said after consulting the document he’d been given by the prosecutor. “The charge was filed more than a decade ago and dismissed by the court in South Carolina.”

Brent shook her head. “Dismissal or not, those charges clearly demonstrate a predisposition to violence on the part of the defendant.”

The judge stroked his cleanly shaven chin, then nodded. “I have to agree, Mr. Taggert. Based on the heinous nature of this crime and the fact that your client was previously charged with a similar crime, bail is denied.”

Similar crime? What was similar to stabbing and maiming besides, well, besides more stabbing and maiming?

His gavel fell along with any hopes I had that this whole thing would be over soon.

I
mmediately after the adjournment, Becky jumped up, flashed her Bar Association card, and then followed Taggert and Jane into the restricted section of the courthouse.

Brent and the detectives left next. Steadman paused in the aisle next to my bench long enough to acknowledge me. Maybe it wasn’t an acknowledgment so much as it was to make sure I knew they’d won the first round. I had to give her that one even though I was still shell-shocked by the bomb dropped so effectively by the prosecutor.

The press corps swarmed out of the room like Africanized killer bees preparing to mount an attack. I winced just imagining the headlines the revelation about Jane’s past could generate.

Then Liv and I were alone. I didn’t know about Liv, but I was feeling a little numb. Here I’d thought the biggest hurdles facing the Free Jane Team were securing representation and raising sufficient funds to post bail.
Was I ever wrong!
I cared enough about my friend not to care about that past, only in how it impacted her present situation. Things were going from bad to worse.

“So what now?” Liv asked, a slight tremor in her voice.

I shrugged, then tucked my hair behind my ears as I reached for my phone. It wasn’t that I was dying to read the text message, I just needed something to do besides sit on a hard bench trying to process the fact that Jane had a secret past. Correction,
criminal
secret past.

“I don’t know,” I answered, powering on my phone and pulling up the text.

Talk about a classic too-little, too-late heads-up. But I could hardly blame him. I’d known Jane for years and never once had she so much as dropped a hint that there’d been trouble in her past.

Trouble? That was the mother of all understatements. But I knew from experience that a charge didn’t necessarily mean guilt. Hell, I’d been charged with a B&E. Technically, I was guilty of breaking and entering at the time, but it wasn’t as if it was step one in a life of crime. It had been a necessary and integral part of the Hall investigation. The charges against me were dropped. The charges against Jane had been dismissed, so it was highly probable that Brent had used damning information just to prevail on the bail motion. Smart move. Annoying. Terrifying, but
really smart
.

It was hard to know if Liam’s text message required a reply. There hasn’t been an update from Emily Post on texting etiquette.

“Patrick?” Liv asked.

“Liam.”

“Maybe he can find out what Jane did,” she said, her spirits clearly lifted.

“Apparently he’s already aware there’s a…problem.”

“Call him back!”

“Okay.” I stood up. For some reason I needed to pace as I mustered the will to dial his number. I told myself it was because I was afraid of the possibility he’d already uncovered the mysterious “fact” and I wasn’t sure I could handle any more bad news. I’d already had my allotment for the day.

As I waited for him to pick up, I saw that Liv had pulled her cell from her purse and was also making a call. Probably to her office. None of us had seen this coming. The plan had been for Liv and Becky to leave right after the arraignment, so she was probably making scheduling adjustments with Jean-Claude.

“McGarrity.”

“I got your message.”
And now I have a tingle in the pit of my stomach just hearing the sound of your voice.

“Still working on getting the details,” Liam said. “They’re being pretty tight-lipped around here. Anything on your end?”

“Something happened about a decade ago.”

“Something? Can you be more specific?”

“Maybe after Jane talks to Becky and Taggert.” I gave him a quick recap of what Brent had said to convince Judge Faulkner that Jane was a menace to society.

“Taggert?” Liam repeated.

The way he said the name told me everything I needed to know about his opinion of the once brilliant attorney.

“What happened to Quinn? I thought he was going to represent Jane.”

I remembered the summons back at my apartment and suffered a surge of renewed indignation. Not wanting to share the awkward outcome of my meeting, I simply said, “It didn’t work out. But whatever happened with Jane happened when she was in college.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because I can do simple math. Ten years ago, Jane was working on her undergrad degree.”

“Where’d she go to school?”

“College of Charleston. I need you to go to South Carolina ASAP. Do…whatever it is you do and get as much as information as possible so—”

“Can’t,” he interrupted.

“If this is about your job to babysit me so I don’t go off and do my own investigation, this certainly qualifies.”

“I understand that. I’ll consider going in the morning.”

“Sooner is better. Once we have the facts, Taggert can file a Motion to Reconsider on the remand.”

“First, you’d better wrap your brain around the possibility that the facts might not work in your favor.”

“Won’t happen. The charges were dismissed, so they must have been baseless.”

I could almost see him smirking at my flawed logic. Charges were dismissed for a lot of reasons, including the pitiful reality that a victim could decide not to cooperate with the prosecution. No victim, no case.

“Look,” he began, his deep voice calm, bordering on soothing. “I know Jane is your friend, but you need a little perspective and objectivity.”

So much for soothing. “And you need to get your fanny on the next plane to Charleston.”

“Can’t. I’ve got a…”

Don’t say it!

“Thing.”

“I hope your
thing
has something to do with the fingerprints on the champagne bottle and the glasses from the limo service.”

“Nope. Won’t get those results for at least a day or two. You seem to be forgetting, Lieberman is paying me, so she’s the one calling the shots. She didn’t hire me to fly up to Charleston.”

“Yeah?” I shot back, so furious I was seeing red. “Well, neither am I.” The problem with a cell phone is you just don’t get the same feeling of satisfaction pushing the picture of a little red phone that you get slamming a receiver onto a cradle.

After taking a few deep breaths to restore equanimity, I turned to Liv, who was just finishing her own call.

“Zack and Shaylyn want to meet at noon at Concierge Plus.”

“Fine. You go on ahead. I’m gonna wait for Becky. We need to know what they’ve got on Jane.”

Becky’s throat and cheeks were flushed red when she finally emerged. I knew that look. Becky was seriously pissed.

“Well?” I prompted as I fell into step with her and exited the courtroom.

Becky was silent until we reached the elevators. “She lied.”

My stomach sank faster than the elevator compartment. “She killed Paolo?”

“No, she lied to Taggert. He specifically asked her if there was anything in her past that he should know about before the arraignment.”

“So he wasn’t being inept?”

“Far from it. He’s so mad he’s threatening to get himself excused from the case.”

“Isn’t that what we wanted?”

Becky sighed audibly. “I’m not so sure anymore. Taggert is older than dirt and maybe he is a little slow on the uptake, but he’s forgotten more criminal law than most people ever bother to learn.”

“Then we keep him?”

“For now. But just to be on the safe side, Taggert and I agreed to officially add me as cocouncil.”

“Thank God.”

“Well, don’t toss all your eggs in that basket. I’m not going to be much help on trial strategy, but at least it puts you and me under the umbrella of attorney-client privilege.”

“How?”

“Jane is now my client, even if I’m only peripherally involved. You’re a paralegal who, starting tomorrow, will be working under my direct supervision. So that makes her your client as well.”

“Good thinking.”

“Not my idea. Taggert’s. From what I saw today, the guy is competent. He spent almost two hours with Jane before the hearing and hit all the high notes. Jane screwed herself.”

I had to ask again. “But she didn’t kill Paolo, right?”

“Of course not. She was stupid for lying but she isn’t a killer.”

There was something calming in her quick and fervent reply. I told her about the meeting with Zack and Shaylyn. “We should head over there.”

“I can’t. Ellen and I have a conference call at eleven thirty,” Becky said, clearly torn. “You’ll have to be my eyes and ears.” She stopped suddenly, retrieving three xeroxed pages from her purse. “Here’s the copy of DD5 from when Jane was arrested and a copy of the Order of Dismissal. Not much to go on, but it’s a start.”

“Wait, didn’t Jane give you details once Brent outed her?”

“No. She’s hiding something and I sure as hell don’t know what it is.”

“Should I talk to her?”

Becky shook her head. “We need Liam to go interview the victim, the roommate, the public defender who handled her case. Anyone he can find. Fast. The sooner we have proof that Brent was just posturing and there’s nothing to the South Carolina thing, Taggert thinks he can get Jane released on bond. God, I wish I could blow Ellen off, but she’s being great covering for me. For us.”

I didn’t want to add to Becky’s worries by telling her Liam wasn’t available. Nor did I want to risk sending my blood pressure sky high knowing he was doing another “thing.” Especially since I had a decent hunch that these recurring “things” were with not-really-the-former Mrs. Liam McGarrity. Friends with benefits was an almost acceptable thing; boffing your ex-spouse was just creepy.

Patrick called from Arizona as I prepared to drive over the bridge. Over the bridge isn’t just a way to cross the stretch of the intracoastal separating West Palm Beach from Palm Beach proper. It’s also a euphemism for the dividing line between the Have-a-Lots and the Have-Everythings.

“Fin, honey, I’m so sorry. What can I do?”

“Nothing. It’ll get straightened out.”

“What did Jane do when she was in college?”

I breathed in the scent of briny air laced with diesel fuel from the marina at the west end of the bridge as I waited for the light to change. “She stabbed someone.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I wish,” I admitted. “All we’ve got is a partial police report and the dismissal. Actually, I only have the first page of the DD5. It doesn’t even list the victim’s name.”

“DD5?”

“The report police officers type when they make an arrest.”

“So, what does Jane have to say?”

“I wasn’t in the room, but apparently Jane is claiming it was all some sort of misunderstanding. She wouldn’t really talk about it.”

“Wow,” he said.

His comment was drowned out by an airport announcement that baggage from the inbound flight from Palm Beach International, connecting through Pittsburgh, was now on carousel number four.

“Not a very direct flight,” I remarked. Probably even more frustrating to a pilot accustomed to pointing his plane toward a destination and going direct. “I never can understand why a commercial airline would fly you so far north when your ultimate destination is so far west.”

“It wasn’t a problem,” he said. “Is there anything I can do for you? Anything?”

That was the problem with our relationship. Patrick was perfect. He always did and said exactly the right thing. Unfortunately—small of me, I know—I was starting to find his perfection annoyingly…predictable. Just once I’d like him
not
to be so blasted…
nice
. Not that I wanted him to be mean or argumentative, just that I wanted him to be more
dimensional
.

He was like being on a steady diet of chocolate. I love chocolate, but once in a while I’d like a baked potato.

He’s so great I always feel as though I have to be on my best behavior, that any doubts I have about our relationship are viewed through my own insecurities.

Hell, basically I don’t know
what
I want.

“No, I’m fine. Just go enjoy the Grand Canyon.”

“I’ll try to stay in touch, but cell service will probably be spotty once we get into the backcountry.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll be fine. You be careful.”

“I always am.”

The jerk behind me blasted his horn at me because it took me more than a millisecond to move when the light turned green. I hit the gas pedal and my car lurched forward, reaching the speed limit of thirty-five miles an hour in no time.

While most of my attention was on Jane, a small part of my brain registered the fact that Patrick and I no longer ended our conversation—or our dates for that matter—with declarations of affection. I’m not the mushy “I love you, baby” type and he knows it. Maybe Becky was right. Maybe I stayed with Patrick not because he was theoretically perfect for me, sweet and kind, but because change is complicated and scary. Not to mention the fact that my taste in men generally sucks. Big time. Did I really want to reenter the dating scene? Could I? God, dating is so hard.

Step one is just finding a guy and that isn’t always easy. Step two is the whole getting-to-know-you ritual, which is total bullshit since everyone is always on their best behavior in the beginning. Step three is finding the flaws. That’s the stage when the shield drops and you start to discover the little things that have the potential to make or break the relationship. Step four is accepting the flaws. Then you have to weigh the flaws against the benefits. It’s not an art or some other intangible thing. It’s simply weighing his pros and cons. Asking yourself if the positives cancel out the negatives. Step five is commitment.

I’ve never gotten beyond step four. In fact, Patrick is the first guy who’s made it to step four. It took me a long time to find his flaw. It isn’t a biggie. Maybe it isn’t even a flaw. I’m just bored with the sex. Oh God! Maybe I’m my mother. Maybe I’m incapable of loving someone.