The Advocate's Devil (33 page)

For a moment there was silence, as they contemplated the enormity of this suspicion.

Then Justin bolted out of Abe’s office in the direction of the computer room. Abe and Rendi followed, carefully skirting the
office party so as not to invite questions. “What are you looking up?” Abe demanded.

“Not
what
,” Justin replied as he pressed keys. “
Who
. I’m looking up Darlene Walters.”

Within minutes a case appeared on the screen, a Boston appellate case. Two years old, it involved a divorce, in which the
wife had accused her husband of sexually abusing their son. The judge had made a finding that the wife had made up the entire
story, and custody had been awarded to the husband. The wife had appealed, and the appellate court had affirmed the lower
court’s ruling. Three pairs of eyes looked intently at the name of the wife on the computer screen. It was Darlene Walters.

Here was the last piece of the puzzle, the final bit of evidence that would make it impossible for Abe to deny to himself
that Joe Campbell was guilty. Justin had been right: Abe had been sorely afflicted with defense lawyer’s blind spot. He now
realized that the truth had been there for him to see much earlier—if he had only wanted to see it. And the most disturbing
part was that he couldn’t be sure what he would have done if the Walters call had come before the trial or during the trial.
And now—after the trial—his hands were tied.

Abe turned slowly to Justin and Rendi as his face grew pale. “You were right all along. He was guilty. And Jennifer Dowling
may not have been Campbell’s first.”

Rendi completed Abe’s thought for him: “And Jennifer Dowling may not be Campbell’s last.”

As Abe contemplated the horrors of this prospect, Gayle handed him yet another list of new clients and media requests. He
tried to shake off the effects of Darlene Walters’s call. After all, there was nothing he could do, especially now—after the
acquittal.

He looked down at the list Gayle had given him. Most lawyers would sell their souls to have these kinds of calls. Yet his
thoughts kept returning to Joe Campbell. What would Campbell be doing tonight while he, Abe, answered Larry King’s questions?
A disturbing image jumped into Abe’s mind. It was of Campbell sitting at his computer, punching in another request for vulnerable
women like Jennifer Dowling and Darlene Walters. Maybe this time it would be Ms. Scuba Diver, Abe fantasized as he recalled
Joe’s promise to have a drink with her. No, he said to himself, there’s nothing in
her
background to suggest vulnerability.

The image of Joe at the computer left as quickly as it had come. It was time for Abe to leave his office for the first of
his many interviews. Abe Ringel would now be known forever as “the lawyer who won the Joe Campbell case.”

For better or for worse.

Better Ten Guilty
Go Free…?

N
EW
Y
ORK
—
S
ATURDAY,
A
UGUST
5

The blond woman and the tall man walked quickly past the hotels on Central Park South
—
Park Lane, Hampshire House, all of them elegant, as was the woman herself.

Finally they reached the circle before the grande dame of Central Park hotels, the Plaza
—
Trump’s pride and joy. What a wonderful place to have a brief encounter with the tall handsome stranger seated beside her.
She was pleased that her magazine had decided to put her up in such high style.

The woman walked confidently past the doorman up the stairs, through the lobby, and to the bank of elevators to the left of
the hotel’s dining room. The Oak Bar would be nice this time of night, but one look at the man’s nervous facial expression
—
even under his large hat
—
and she knew that he wouldn’t want to be hanging around in public places.

“Would you like to come up for a while?” She pretended innocence, standing beside the elevator bank.

The suite was blue with white furniture, and a basket of fruit had been delivered, compliments of the hotel. “My company does
a lot of work with the hotel.”

“Advertising, right?”

“No, that must have been some other girl. I’m in magazines.” She smiled to soften her gibe. “Can I get you something from
the bar?”

“No, actually, I don’t think I’ll stay. I just wanted to walk you upstairs. I have an appointment in the morning, and you,
my sweet, deserve more time than I could give you tonight.”

“And more concentration.” She smiled.

The man felt a quick stab of paranoia. Why was she talking about that? What had she heard about him? “What makes you say that?”

Midge was surprised to hear a note of harshness in his tone. “I was kidding, silly.”

As she walked past him, she stroked his cheek, so lightly he barely felt it. “Come on, one drink, then you’re on your way.
You won’t regret it.”

The man felt the numb feeling inside him grow a little denser as the woman walked toward him with passion in her eyes.

This woman was bolder than the others, and the action soon heated up, so he quickly hauled out the secret he had dug up from
her past and slammed against her as she lay exposed and vulnerable.

Instead of just pulling back, she took him on at his own game
—
threatening him about what might happen to a man who had already been accused of date rape. He hadn’t realized that his trial
—
even with the acquittal
—
would so fundamentally change his control over the game.

The evening suddenly spun out of control; the game got away from him. He closed his hands around her neck to block out her
harangue, and the familiar surge of power masquerading as desire forced him to hurt her.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered as he left the hotel room.

C
AMBRIDGE
—
M
ONDAY,
A
UGUST
7

The last two months—since the Campbell victory—had been the most productive of Abe Ringel’s life. He had experienced more
professional successes and kudos in that period than in the prior twenty years. He had gotten the Ice Puppy indictment dismissed
when the complaining witness withdrew her charges.

Even Senator Bergson had received merely a slap on the wrist from the Senate Ethics Committee after Abe threatened to put
the entire Senate on trial for tolerating sexual harassment over the years. A terrific new case, with high visibility written
all over it, had just come into the office. It involved a wealthy young man named Brian Bulger, who had killed his elderly
mother to spare her the agony of learning he was HIV positive and gay. Other well-paying clients were so plentiful that many
had to be turned away. A TV movie was being produced of the Campbell case, and Sam Waterston, an Emmy winner, had been signed
to play Abe.

“It’s just the beginning,” said Arthur Berg, the public relations consultant Abe had hired following the Campbell victory.
Life was good at work.

Even the Nancy Rosen case seemed to be moving in the right direction. The police had learned that Monty Williams had seduced
Rodney Owens’s sixteen-year-old niece and made her pregnant. Owens, they believed, had killed Williams in revenge. Without
Nancy’s testimony, however, they had only a circumstantial case. So Duncan had offered Nancy a deal: her freedom in exchange
for testifying against Owens. They did not ask her to testify as to what Owens had told her concerning the murder itself,
since that would constitute a lawyer-client-privileged communication, which would be inadmissible at a trial. Instead they
wanted her to testify about the allegedly criminal conversation that had led to his fugitivity. That conversation would be
admissible since it dealt with a future crime—becoming a fugitive. The prosecutor believed that this incriminating discussion,
which showed consciousness of guilt, coupled with the circumstantial evidence of his involvement in the Williams killing would
assure a conviction.

Not unexpectedly, Nancy had turned down the deal. So the prosecutor turned to Justin, offering him the same deal: if he testified
as to what Nancy had told him about the conversation, Nancy would be freed. Nancy, of course, urged Justin not to testify.

Despite her plea, Justin decided to help her. He owed nothing to Owens, and Nancy had not told him about the Owens conversation
in confidence. So he was free to do the right thing. Although Justin’s testimony would be double hearsay—he would testify
as to what Nancy told him Owens had told her—Abe and Justin believed that a judge would probably allow it to be introduced
into evidence. Hearsay was generally not allowed as evidence, but there was an exception for certain kinds of hearsay—if they
had special qualities of truthfulness. What Nancy had told Justin was an admission of wrongdoing on her part—encouraging her
client to become a fugitive—and the law presumed that people didn’t go around admitting crimes unless they were really guilty.
Therefore the law allowed this kind of hearsay to be used. The same was true of what Owens had said to Nancy before he flew
the coop. It was an admission of intended wrongdoing.

In any event, it didn’t look as if the case would actually come to a trial.

When Owens’s lawyer heard about the proposed deal, he decided to strike one of his own, whereby Owens would plead to manslaughter
and get ten years. It was not quite a done deal, but unless there were complications, Nancy could be out in a couple of days.
She would be angry at Justin and Abe, but that was okay. Better an angry and free Nancy than a friendly imprisoned Nancy.
For Abe, as well as for Justin, this was a liberating prospect.

Life was good, except for the bittersweet reality that Emma was leaving in a week for New York. “Can’t you stay until your
birthday?” Abe asked her. “We always spend September 1 together.”

“Not this year, Dad. I’ve got to be in New York on September 1. My roommate and I are going out to celebrate the beginning
of college.”

“Can I come?”

“Oh, Daddy. You’ve got to get used to the fact that I’m moving on. There’ll be plenty of time for us together. This is an
important time for me. New friends. Even new boyfriends. Jon’s not invited. I want to meet new people. We’ve agreed that we
should see other people. I don’t want to be a holiday dater who waits for her man to come east from Stanford on Thanksgiving
and Christmas.”

“I think that’s a good idea, Emma. I like Jon, but you seem to be outgrowing him. I don’t think you should go steady with
anyone. Play the field.”

“God, you are a dinosaur. ‘Go steady,’ ‘play the field.’ I didn’t think anyone talked like that since
The Brady Bunch
.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I love you, Daddy. Let’s go to a Red Sox game this week before I go to New York.”

“Sox are out of town.
You
know that. Stop patronizing me.” Abe hugged Emma and kissed her good-bye.

Abe took a cab downtown to see his investment adviser. He had hired the company that currently handled the Clintons’ finances.
Since the Campbell case his income had skyrocketed. Last year he had earned $250,000, which was pretty good by Boston small
law firm standards. This year, over the past three months alone he had earned $400,000, and it looked as though he would soon
break into seven figures for the first time in his career.

In the cab he began to leaf through the second section of
The New York Times
. Abe had always been fascinated by New York. After law school he had given some serious thought to moving there. But Boston
had a firm grip on his allegiance. Now that his daughter was moving to New York, he tortured himself by reading the crime
stories, especially those that took place on the Upper West Side, where Barnard was located.

Suddenly Abe’s eyes focused on a small headline: M
AGAZINE
E
DITOR
K
ILLED IN
M
IDTOWN
H
OTEL
. He began to read the all-too-typical story: “The body of Midge Lester was found in the Plaza Hotel room in which she had
registered the previous day. Ms. Lester, who was an editor at
Chicago
magazine, had died of asphyxiation. Detectives confirmed that she had been sexually abused. There was no sign of forced entry,
and hotel personnel said that the killer was probably an acquaintance of the dead woman. No one saw anyone with Ms. Lester
after she arrived at the hotel, and telephone records showed no phone calls. The police acknowledged that they had no suspects
or leads.”

Abe gasped out loud as he read the story. “What’s wrong?” asked the startled driver.

“Turn around and take me back to Harvard Square!”

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. I just need to get to my office.”

He took his cellular phone out of his briefcase and called the office. “I need Justin now!”

Justin was on the phone in an instant. “What’s up, Abe?”

“Do you have a copy of
The New York Times?
”

“Yeah.”

“Turn to page B-four, bottom right hand column.”

There was silence on the phone as Justin found and read the story. Then, suddenly, Abe heard him scream, “Oh, my God! It’s
Campbell. It’s his MO!”

“Let’s not jump to any conclusions. It sounds like dozens of run-of-the-mill rape-murders in New York. There’s nothing that
ties it directly to Campbell.”

“Then why did you call me so upset?”

“Because there’s only one way to find out whether it is Campbell.”

“I’m off to the computer room.”

“I’ll meet you there in ten minutes.”

Abe raced up the three flights of steps to his office, bolted past Gayle and into the computer room, locking the door behind
him to make certain no one else wandered in. Then, without saying a word, he walked over to the computer and looked directly
at the screen, hoping against hope it would show that he and Justin had reacted too hastily to the news story.