Trial and Terror (8 page)

SK’s expression betrayed nothing.

Summer kept pressing. “If you’re as innocent as you claim, let’s get to work so we can get you out of here.”

She followed SK’s eyes as they took in the cell. Summer had seen this look before in clients:
Am I going to spend the rest of my life here?

She seized the moment. “Where were you the night Gundy died?”

SK relented. “In bed. With a cold.”

Summer didn’t give her time to stonewall. Keep the questions coming. Don’t let her hedge. “Did anyone see you there?”

“No.”

“Did you make or receive any telephone calls that night?”

“No.”

“No one can confirm where you were at that time?”

SK shook her head.

“Did you seek medical attention, or can anyone verify you were ill?”

“It was just a bug, a 24-hour kind of thing.”

“Blood matching Gundy’s was found on a glass fragment embedded in one of your boots. How do you think it got there?”

SK raised an eyebrow. It was the first time she had displayed interest in anything Summer said. “What boots?”

“A pair of black St. Croix brand leather boots, size 7 1/2.”

SK crossed her arms, clenched her elbows with her hands, and hunched her shoulders, as if this would help her figure things out. If she was acting, Summer had to admit she was very good. It took a few seconds before SK managed to say, “I haven’t worn those boots in weeks, months maybe.”

Summer bit her lip. The first lie was key, a foundation for the rest. But whose lie? SK’s? The police’s? No matter what, Summer would have to construct SK’s case around it. But she didn’t have time now to explore now. “After Gundy let Brauer cop an insanity plea, you threatened to kill him the day Brauer walked.”

SK got up to pace. Summer could see she was struggling against tears. “My late husband and I were very close. He was the reason I turned my life around. But after the funeral, I realized killing Gundy wouldn’t accomplish anything. I could do more by carrying on my husband’s work.”

Spiv knocked on the glass and playfully gave Summer the finger.

“Time’s up,” Summer said. “I’ll be back.”

“Wait!” SK rushed toward her.

Startled, Summer backpedalled.

“Whoa.” SK stopped, palms up. “I… I didn’t do it.”

“I heard you at the arraignment.”

SK spat a swirl of denials. She hadn’t been at Gundy’s that night. She’d been as shocked as anyone when she heard the news. She would never take the law into her own hands. It was all a big mistake. Or she’d been framed. But she was innocent.

All of Summer’s clients denied their crimes, even after plea bargaining; denied them to the cops, to their neighbors, to their cell mates, and especially to their lawyer. Deny, deny some more, until they began to believe it themselves.

Summer heard Spiv unbolt the door. “Last question today: How did police photos of your late husband—with your fingerprints—end up in Gundy’s apartment?”

SK swallowed hard. “I left them there.”

Part II

REASONABLE DOUBTS

Chapter 8

Summer squeezed into
her office
with Levi, sipping coffee. The walls were lead-chip white, bare except for a bulletin board tacked with layers of index cards with scribbled notes and a calendar of Ansel Adams landscapes. Summer, because she liked surprises, rarely flipped ahead.

Levi had his feet up on her desk, the only place there was room for them. “Guess who I had dinner with last night? I’ll give you a hint: If you poured water into him, he’d leak.”

Summer lifted Levi’s feet off her desk, slid over to the coffee maker, refilled her cup, lifted his feet again, and made her way back to her chair. “Jimi Cruz?”

Levi couldn’t contain his smile.

“You visited my favorite trustafarian at the jail?” Summer asked.

“Better than that,” Levi said. “I got Raines to let him go, provided he leave town.”

Just as Marsalis had predicted. Summer’s heart shimmied. “When
I
suggested Cruz clear out, Raines tried to get me disbarred.”

“Oh, so now you admit telling him to scram.”

Summer regretted that admission. She had to be more careful, had to keep her mind on her work. She bunched her hair up and fanned her neck with her hand. “Good thing I’m covered under lawyer-client confidentiality,” she joked.

“Good thing,” Levi repeated, obviously annoyed. “Well, timing is everything. I picked Cruz up at the jail, threw him in my car, handed him a couple of burgers and a couple twenties, and drove him to the bus station. I made sure he got on the bus and waved bye-bye.” Levi checked his watch. “He ought to be panhandling in Vegas by now.”

“Probably already making some Las Vegas P.D.’s life miserable,” Summer said. The hearing, Raines’s threats, Hightower’s letter of complaint to the Bar Association, all that stress, all for nothing. “What did you have to barter for Raines’s enlightened generosity?”

“I had to promise to keep it real quiet so the press, especially Bragg, wouldn’t get wind.”

When Summer sighed, she spilled coffee on her blouse. “O-o-oh,” she groaned.

“Good thing you drink it black, so it won’t stain,” Levi said. “When you get home, boil some water and pour it over your blouse like it’s a coffee filter.”

Summer dabbed at the stain with a napkin. “Sometimes I’m not sure whether you’re more like a mother or more like a father.”

“Neither,” Levi said.

Summer tossed the damp napkin in the trash. “We know Raines didn’t suddenly develop a conscience, so what made him change his mind?”

“He probably figured the negative PR wasn’t worth it, especially with you on the SK case.”

“He’s banking on the fact that SK’s case will do more damage to me than any charges he could raise with Cruz.” Summer took a long sip. “He’s probably right, too.”

Levi snatched SK’s file off Summer’s desk. “Ready?”

Summer tried not to look as Levi pulled Gundy’s death pics out of the folder and neatly ordered them on the floor, one by one, angle by angle, Gundy by Gundy, until neither of them could walk without stepping on them.

Rosie walked with sulky steps by the open door, carrying an armful of legal books.

“Hey!” Summer called.

But Rosie didn’t stop. Summer heard her sigh loudly and drop the books in her office. She got to the door just as Rosie poked her head in.

“What?” Rosie said.

“You mad at me?” Summer asked, lowering her voice.

“No.”

“Then why have you been avoiding me?”

She buzzed her lips. “I haven’t been avoiding you. I’ve just got, you know, work to do.”

Rosie’s tone stung Summer. She stepped carefully between Gundy’s bloody pictures and sat on the edge of her desk. Was she being paranoid? Was their friendship fracturing? She needed Rosie’s easy camaraderie now more than ever. “We’re talking about SK,” she said.

“I can see that,” Rosie said, taking in the photos.

“I could really use your help.”

“There’s no place to sit.” When Summer and Levi shot her vinegary glances, Rosie said, “OK, OK,” and dropped to her knees.

They were quiet as they studied what the murderer had done to Harold Gundy. Summer felt a headache coming on; she had an irrational need for a cigarette, as if the nicotine would drive away the dizzies and the thickness clawing her stomach.

Get a grip
, she commanded herself. She started with the broken railing, the puzzles of glass spread around the floor, but it got ugly fast—Gundy lying in blood and mescal, shards of the bottle nearby, close-ups of his crushed skull, the eerie marks on his back. The marks. Summer couldn’t take her eyes off them: ancient symbols, or designs created in the brain of a madman—or woman.

Levi spoke first. “We can assume, judging by the nature of his injuries, that Gundy was thrown from his second floor loft onto a glass coffee table. But the ME claims the fall didn’t kill him, although he suffered internal injuries consistent with a hard fall. It was the blow to the head.”

“Like I always say, mescal is some nasty shit,” Rosie said. She picked up a photo. “Why are Gundy’s pants pulled down around his ankles?”

“You think he could have been doing the deed alone, got startled, and accidently busted through the wooden railing?” Levi asked.

“Oh, that’s a compelling defense,” Rosie said, smacking her forehead.

Levi shrugged. “What’s the ME report say?”

“Nega—” Summer hacked at a ball of phlegm in her throat. “Negative on any semen. If Gundy was seeking sexual gratification, he came up short.”

“Prolly wouldn’t have been the first time,” Levis said. “Any possibility the pants came down after he was killed?”

“Not according to the M.E.,” Summer said.

Rosie picked up another photo and held it close. “His skull was caved in. Can we assume these are bottle fragments mixed in with the shards of the table?”

Summer was barely listening, her attention focused on a detail within the crime photo: pictures of Jonathan Sadbury, SK’s late husband. The word “shame” was scrawled on them.

“It’s pretty grim.” Her voice cracked, so she cleared her throat. “Strong motive, no alibi, his, uh, blood found in SK’s home, her fingerprints on his front door
and
on the pictures Gundy was clutching when the police found him.”

Levi blew on his coffee. “You know Raines will portray that as Gundy identifying his murderer before croaking. A deathbed clue always plays well with a jury.”

“What we need is an eye witness.” Summer skimmed the file. “No witnesses yet, but the D.A. doesn’t have to give me any of that until a judge is assigned.”

“Even then they’ll probably dick you around,” Rosie said. “You know how they like to play the delay game.”

“Not this time,” Levi said. “It’s high-profile for Haze County, and they figure it’s a slam-dunk win for them. My hunch is they’ll bend over backwards to give you everything you ask for, so there’s no way you can cry foul.”

“It’s sad that it takes Gundy’s murder to elicit cooperation from the D.A.,” Summer said. “So you think they’re going with a circumstantial case?”

“Perhaps, perhaps not.” Levi squinted at a close-up of Gundy’s glass-riddled side; then, shuddering, turned it face-down on the carpet. “The cops are going to be extra cautious with the investigation. If they locate a witness, they’re going to check out his testimony before clueing you in. But I also think, given the circumstances, that Raines is going to feign graciousness.”

Summer asked, “Do you think he’ll extend this graciousness by using his influence to get SK moved to a decent cell? She’s being held in Dante-like conditions. It’d sure help me wrangle more cooperation out of her.”

“How’d your meeting go?” Levi asked.

“I got her to talk a little bit, but she’s not exactly thrilled with me. She might even do a Marsden.”

“If that happens, I’ll take her,” Rosie said.

“If she’s successful, you can have her,” Summer said.

Levi mulled. “Let me work on getting her moved. I’ve piled up a few chits with the warden over the years. Assuming this goes to trial, I want you to paper Judge Kelly if he’s assigned. You know how tight he and the court magistrate are.”

“We’re still pushing him off cases?” Summer asked.

Rosie twirled hair around her finger. “I had him a couple of weeks ago, when we thawed. The only good thing is my client will probably get another trial on appeal, since Kelly totally fucked him.”

“He hasn’t done a trial in weeks,” Levi said, “so he’ll express interest in any case. I hear the other judges are mighty pissed with him. Hope this teaches him lesson, though I’m not counting on it.”

“What’s with the lipstick marks on the back?” Rosie asked.

“It’s maroon,” Levi teased. “Your shade.”

“Every shade is Rosie’s shade,” Summer said. A memory fragment: Wib putting down the telephone, pulling down the shades, the only time she could remember him scared. Summer was eleven, twelve maybe. Wib being stalked, the family threatened, another time, another place, but the same marks.

“Jon,” Summer said, “were you around for the Sean Strickland case?”

Levi belched silently. “Not that it ever got to us, but yeah, I remember. About, what, more than a dozen years ago? A serial freak who had it in for law enforcement—a cop, D.A., his parole officer. Left some weird calling card.”

“Strickland bashed his victims’ skulls in, then drew marks on their backs after they were dead. My father was the cop on that case.” What she didn’t tell him was that he had almost been a victim, too.

“If Strickland weren’t already maggot food, he’d certainly be a suspect.”

“They never positively identified his body because he blew up with his car. What if Strickland isn’t dead? What if he’s back?”