by Diane Capri
When Tremain rose for his cross, he covered truth, justice and the American way again. He questioned the expert about hypocrisy, lying and misleading others. He covered the social necessity to eradicate AIDS, which kills indiscriminately, and the courageous coming out of gay celebrities like Rock Hudson, Chastity Bono, Richard Chamberlain and Ellen DeGeneres.
Finally, in rapid succession, he asked, “Sir, are you married?”
“Yes, I am.”
“How long have you been married?”
“Twenty-five years.”
“Do you have children?”
“Yes. I’ve got three adult children, two girls and a boy.”
“Are you heterosexual?”
“Absolutely.”
“Did you mind telling us these things about yourself, sir?”
“Of course not.”
Tremain turned around and looked at the jury pointedly. “You don’t consider these facts about your life private?”
We couldn’t hear the answer over the laughter in the gallery and the jury box, but the court reporter got it down. He’d said, “I do consider my life to be none of your business.”
The rest of the trial day was spent on one witness after another who provided testimony I found impossible to follow. My attention wandered. I was grateful when we finally recessed at 1:30 and I could get to more important work: George’s defense.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Tampa, Florida
Thursday 1:45 p.m.
January 27, 2000
I FOUGHT MY WAY through the reporters posted at the entrance to the Plant Key bridge and reached Minaret after Olivia Holmes arrived. Was it unreasonable of me to think she’d be driving something a little less conspicuous than the bright red Ferrari parked in our driveway?
“Olivia,” I said, shaking her hand. She followed me around to the back stairs and up to our flat.
I hadn’t asked George for his permission to hire a lawyer, but I hoped I’d be able to talk him into it if Olivia would take the case.
Defense attorneys had called the house almost non-stop since George’s arrest, offering to work for the free publicity of the trial and the subsequent book and movie deal. After all, a Supreme Court nominee had never been murdered before.
This was the case of a defense lawyer’s lifetime. Those who wanted to be George’s lawyer knew they didn’t have to win. Just having their names in the paper was all that mattered.
But, by reputation I knew that Olivia was particular and she liked not only to be asked, but persuaded.
Olivia Holmes built her stellar career by defending high pro file defendants in political crime cases. When the senator’s mistress was killed, the congressman’s son was arrested for dealing drugs, the mayor’s wife was charged with vehicular manslaughter for driving under the influence, Olivia got them off. Sometimes with a plea bargain, sometimes with a little back room dealing, sometimes with a spectacular trial, but Olivia’s clients never went to prison.
Early in her career, she represented anyone who would hire her. These days, Olivia’s clients had to be innocent. At least that was the rumor.
I figured she’d want the case because defending George could add to her reputation and not spoil her record.
“Please join me in the den,” I told her.
Olivia accepted iced tea and we settled ourselves. “First, Willa, let me say right off the bat that if you’ve called me here to ask me to defend George, I accept. If you hadn’t called me, I’d have called you.”
I schooled my features not to reflect my surprise. “I don’t have to beg?” The tales of Olivia’s refusals to represent the accused were legendary.
She laughed. “I love those stories. They make it possible for me to charge my exorbitant fees. After the client begs long enough, if I say yes, he’s willing to offer me his first born child.”
“You’re joking, surely.”
“Actually, no, I’m not. You’d be surprised how many unwanted children there are in the world,” her tone was serious now. “But some of what you’ve heard is true. I do have plenty of work. More than I want. And I’m sad to say that there are always more criminals than good lawyers to defend them. So I do turn a lot of work down.”
She stopped for a quick sip. “I’m swamped right now, actually, and it will be hard for me to handle this case.” She settled into the chair, perched on the edge so that her feet would touch the ground. “Although I’m hoping there won’t be much work to do for very long, I’m sure you realize that the evidence against George looks damning. But I’m sure George didn’t kill General Andrews. We have someone else to thank for that.”
I felt a little better, for a second. Until she added, “As soon as I find out who did it, I’ll probably volunteer to defend him, too.”
Her last words startled me. She hadn’t meant them facetiously.
I leaned forward. “Olivia, this is very serious business to us.” I stopped a second for effect. I wanted her to understand me clearly. “Neither one of us has ever been in a situation like this and we want it over with as quickly as possible. In fact, I’m so angry with Ben Hathaway that I could personally strangle him without any hesitation. I can’t believe he’d accuse George!”
Either Hathaway or Drake could have made the decision to arrest George. If Drake was calling the shots, Hathaway would have had no choice but to comply. At the moment, I didn’t know which of them was driving this situation, but I intended to find out.
Olivia folded her tiny hands in her lap. She wore rings on three fingers of each hand, but not on either ring finger. “Of course it’s not a joke, Willa, and I’m not joking. I am more than willing to defend George.” She ticked her reasons off, one finger at a time. “First, because I feel sure he’s innocent. Which is not to say that he won’t be convicted, you know. In fact, unless things change dramatically, I’d say Drake is feeling pretty sure he has a winning case here.”
I must have looked as alarmed as I felt, because she softened her tone and continued, “Unlike a lot of criminal-defense attorneys, I’ve gotten to the stage in life that I don’t have to defend the guilty ones anymore. Everyone knows my clients are not guilty, and my reputation will help you with public opinion.”
“What’s the second thing?” I asked her, once I could find my voice again.
“I do believe that General Andrews was the worst possible candidate for the Supreme Court,” she said, as if Andrews’s death was an acceptable solution to that knotty problem. “So, yes, I’ll take the job if you and George want me. And I’m proud to do it.”
I digested this, taking her measure as she spoke. My gut told me she was sincere.
My gut had been wrong before.
I said, “Well, you should know that I certainly believe there’s no one who will do a better job than you. But there are a couple of problems.”
“No kidding,” she replied, dryly.
I hesitated a moment to show my displeasure at her levity and she noticed. “George doesn’t think he needs a lawyer, let alone the best we can get. Obviously, I disagree.”
“George has always struck me, at least by reputation, as someone who had more sense,” she said, while she reached into her pocket and pulled out a cookie. “But I’m not accustomed to forcing my services on someone who doesn’t want them,” she said as she ate the head off a piece of Mickey Mouse shortbread.
The sight of the cookie caught me off guard, reminded me of George’s teasing, calling me Mighty Mouse. I felt the emptiness in our flat, felt his absence. It took me a second to regain my composure.
I spoke more sternly than I intended, “I think I can persuade George that he needs not just a lawyer, but you in particular. I just wasn’t going to try to talk him into it until I found out whether you were interested. Please leave that part to me.”
Still munching on the cookie, she said, “Alright, I can live with that. What other problems do we have?”
She popped the last of the cookie in her mouth, brushing the cr
umbs off her fingers with a damp napkin.
I told her, straight up. “According to the news reports, there’s a lot of evidence against George, and he refuses to explain any of it. He seems to think that the truth will set him free and someone else will find out what the truth is.”
She grinned. “Although many Americans would feel the same way, that idea is absurdly naïve for a man with his political savvy.”
Unnerved again by her matter-of-fact acceptance of the trouble George and I were in, I cleared my throat before I said, “Yes. Well, I hope you’ll be able to convince him that it’s in his best interest to help himself.”
Husbands have a tendency to ignore their wives’ advice. Sometimes an independent expert can present the same arguments and be more persuasive. George had plainly rejected my opinion this morning. Maybe Olivia would have better luck.
Olivia considered the implications. It’s almost impossible to defend an uncooperative client. If she knew the case would never go to trial, it wouldn’t matter. But if she actually had to make an opening statement, cross examine witnesses and mount a successful defense, not having George’s cooperation would make the task daunting, if not downright impossible.
Finally, she said, “Well, you’re experienced. You know what the risks are. Why don’t we wait and see if we can persuade him. If we can’t, I’ll have a talk with Drake and see where they’re going with this. If it looks like it’s going to be the whole shebang, then George will have to decide whether he wants to trade his gourmet cuisine for prison slop. I’m a great lawyer, but I’m not a miracle worker.”
Modesty didn’t seem to be one of her faults. Nor could she be accused of being coy. Success does strange things to a tiny woman.
“What else?” she asked me, seeming to know that while I’d already delivered some seriously bad news, there was more to come.
I considered just telling her my plans. I’d practiced saying the words. I am personally investigating the murder. And I will control the defense. No arguments. I even looked in the mirror, to see if I could look her right in the eye and say such an outrageous thing.
When it came time to deliver the lines, I couldn’t do it.
Instead, I told her, “We just need to be aggressive. We’ve got to stop this freight train as soon as possible.”
She seemed to realize that I hadn’t told her everything but didn’t push.
She said nothing for what seemed like several minutes. I imagined I could see the wheels going around in her head, testing the pieces of the case and trying to figure out what I wasn’t saying.
If I told her I was going to investigate the murder on my own because I didn’t believe anyone else could possibly free George, it would be more than enough to cause her to turn down the case. The idea was, for any lawyer we might hire, unethical.
No lawyer would stand for it, wouldn’t even believe a judge would suggest such a course. Interference in the progress of the investigation, making the spouse a potential witness when her testimony could otherwise be protected by the marital privilege, second guessing by the client. Enough to make even a bad lawyer run, not walk, in the opposite direction.
I wouldn’t have allowed me to investigate the murder, even informally, if I had been in her shoes.
But I was in my shoes and I would leave nothing to chance. Making sure that George came home to me, safe and whole and as soon as possible, might have been the most important thing I’d ever done in my adult life.
I couldn’t trust anyone else to do it better.
Kate believes the Universe handles all the details; I know that it doesn’t.
Finally, Olivia drained the last of her tea and asked if we could take a walk down on the beach. To my mind, we hadn’t gotten all the issues resolved yet.
“I think we need to get to know each other a little bit before we make a commitment, don’t you? Let’s have a talk,” she said.
Like everything else she’d done, it was unconventional. But then, the situation was unconventional, too.
I led her down the back stairs and let Harry and Bess out ahead of us. We walked around the island, away from the house and, hopefully, any reporters who might be out there with telephoto lenses.
Olivia is as unusually short as I am unusually tall. Standing together, we must have looked like the female version of Mutt and Jeff. Her impeccably tailored suit reminded me of the fancy lawyer trying his case in my courtroom, but hers must have been custom-made. Nowhere could she buy such beautiful suits in size zero.
Finding shoes must have been even more impossible. Her feet were smaller than my hands. Standing next to her made me feel freakishly large and gawky. I moved away a few paces, hoping for perspective.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Tampa, Florida
Thursday 2:35 p.m.
January 27, 2000
OLIVIA KICKED OFF HER four-inch heels and left them on the beach, walking just out of the water line where her feet only got wet when a larger wave came up, which was rare. There’s no such thing as surf in Tampa, except during storms.
We walked quite a while in silence, occupied by our own thoughts.
Eventually, still looking straight ahead as she put one foot in front of the other, Olivia said, “My parents were so happy when my brother, Thomas, was born. They’d waited over ten years for a boy and they feared they’d never have him.”
The topic came out of the blue and I had no idea where she was going with it, so I just said “hmmm.”
Olivia continued, “Not that they weren’t happy with me, but my dad wanted a boy.”
Still puzzled, I said, “Not an unusual desire.”
“No, it wasn’t. We lived on a plantation in Louisiana at the time,” she said. “The old farm place. Been in the family for generations, but the taxes and maintenance were making it impossible to keep.”
Every time she paused, I felt like I needed to respond, but I didn’t know what to say. “That’s happened a lot, I understand,” was the best I could muster. It seemed lame, even to me.
“Dad was about to sell the old home place when Mom got pregnant. He was so sure there’d be a boy to inherit, he waited.” She stopped again, but I kept quiet this time. “The struggle to keep the place going nearly killed Dad, but he knew his son would want to live there.”
I wondered what the point of this story was, but this was a chance to practice learning to trust Olivia a little bit. I simply waited during the silence, as we continued to walk.
She continued after a time. “Thomas was a wonderful child. I loved him as if he’d been my very own present from God. To my parents, he was a miracle.”
“Was he?” I asked her. “A miracle?”
”Well, unlike some kids who get that kind of adulation early in life, Thomas wasn’t wild or spoiled really. He loved everyone and everything.” Her voice had taken on an almost dreamlike quality now. “He was a gentle soul who really could have been the model for Margaret Mitchell’s Ashley Wilkes, you know?” she said, referring to the rather spineless character in Gone With The Wind.
I laughed out loud at that. “Ashley Wilkes has captured the hearts of generations of women. I can’t imagine why, though. I always liked Rhett Butler better.”
She laughed, then, too. “Well, Rhett was a take-charge, get-it-done sort of fellow. I probably liked him the best, too.”
Then, she returned to seriousness. “The point is that Thomas never should have been in the army. But he joined because generations of Holmeses had served in the army and he was steeped in tradition, the family heritage and so on.”
I nodded again.
“So, he joined up. Actually, he got into West Point and he came out an officer. A second lieutenant.” She reached into her pocket and retrieved her car key.
When she handed it to me, I saw that she carried her brother’s dog tag. It was like so many army id tags I’d seen over the years, but it was worn and bent. She’d been carrying it around a long time.
I handed the key an
d the tag back to her.
She walked in silence for a while, then bent down and picked up a pretty good size conch shell that had washed up since this morning.
She took up her story again. “Anyway, Thomas was just starting his career. He served under General A. Randall Andrews.” Ah, I thought, beginning to see where this was going. Some personal reason made her willing to defend George. That was an unexpected blessing; a personal agenda might make her easier to control, later, when she figured out that I was investigating behind her back.
She stopped then, unexpectedly. “Thomas died. There aren’t many American casualties in peacetime, but Thomas was one of them.”
The information shocked me. I wasn’t expecting it. But then, this entire encounter had been completely out of the ordinary. “I’m sorry,” I told her. “How did it happen?”
Olivia threw the conch shell, then, so hard that it hit a live oak tree and shattered. “General Andrews killed him, that’s how it happened.” If you’ve ever tried to break a conch shell, you know how much force it takes. She had a lot of strength for a little woman. Something to keep in mind.
I tried to reason with her. “In the military, these things happen, Olivia. Tough decisions have to be made. You can’t just blame General Andrews for your brother’s death because he was the commanding officer at the time.” Maybe she was mentally unbalanced. Maybe I’d made the wrong choice.
She turned then, and looked at me steadily. “You misunderstand me. General Andrews literally shot Thomas. Andrews killed my brother.” Her tone was quiet and firm; her look challenging me to disagree with her. “The official version is much different, of course. But that’s what happened.”
I nodded and said nothing while I gathered my wits. What could I say? You’re crazy? There’s no way such a thing could happen? “How do you know all of this, Olivia?”
She watched me a bit longer, more intently. “Someday, when we have more time, I’ll tell you.”
I could have asked for more details, but I didn’t think she’d elaborate. Besides, I didn’t need to know her motives. All I wanted was for her to help George.
