“Enjoy,” Joely said.
“Thanks, I will.”
He dug in like he had not eaten in days. The plate was empty in a matter of minutes. He was sipping coffee when he saw what was on the diner’s TV.
“Do you mind turning up the volume?” he asked Joely.
The TV was showing a police press conference. He recognized Detective Greg Holt, and behind him was Detective Dana Fisher. Microphones were shoved in front of Holt.
Must be another murder, Callaway thought.
Callaway lifted the coffee cup to his lips, but then he quickly set the cup down. He squinted. He then got up and went around the counter, his eyes still glued to the TV. The set was an older model, placed on a top shelf. Callaway closed in until he was inches away from the screen.
“Hey, you’re blocking the view!” a middle-aged man at the counter shouted.
But Callaway was transfixed. He was staring at the house in the background.
“You okay, Lee?” Joely asked.
Without answering her, he turned around and rushed out of the diner.
TWELVE
He was dressed in a two-thousand-dollar Italian suit. His shoes were the finest leather money could buy. He was clean-shaven, and his hair was slicked back. On his wrist was a gold watch with a dial encrusted in diamonds.
Evan Roth was a high-priced lawyer. His clientele were individuals with a net worth in the millions. He earned his B.A. magna cum laude from Cambridge University and his law degree from Yale University. His father, Ezra, was a well-known lawyer who kept the infamous mobster, Lou “Shotgun” Marconi, out of prison. Marconi got the nickname after he had mowed down a group of rival gang members outside a barbershop.
Ezra had suddenly died in the middle of his closing argument in a high-profile case. Some said he got exactly what he deserved for the way he kept murderers, rapists, and even citizens charged with treason from getting the death penalty.
Roth was in court the day his father fell to the floor in front of the jury. He was as shocked as everyone else. His father was a model of good health. He ate well. He exercised regularly. He even stayed away from tobacco and alcohol. What killed him, Roth found out later, was a heart defect.
His father worked seventy to eighty hours a week. He lived and breathed law. Every day he was not in court was a bad day for him. This led him to miss his regular health check-ups. Had he gone to the doctor even once, his heart condition would have been noticed, and perhaps he would still be alive.
Roth did not look back in regret. His father was a smart man, and he died doing what he loved. Roth, however, learned from his father’s mistakes. He chose not to represent individuals with violent histories, such as drug lords, serial killers, or terrorists. The exposure he could get from such cases would be great, but not the pay. Instead, he went after clients with legit money and who found themselves in difficult situations.
Paul Gardener was such a person. He sat across the table from Roth with his head bowed. Paul had the look Roth had seen too many times over his career: shocked, confused, and scared. Shocked because he never imagined he would be in this position. Confused because he did not know why it happened to him. Scared because he did not know what was going to happen next.
In Roth’s experience, it was the innocent that felt the severe effects of the various stages of emotions. Their shock, confusion, and fear was genuine. To them, this was a nightmare that they could not wait to wake up from.
Roth believed all his clients were innocent. If he did not, that would make his job more difficult. He never asked his clients if they had done what they were accused of. Even if they tried to confess to him, he simply told them he was the wrong man to confess to. If they wanted to admit their guilt, they should tell the police. Roth’s job was to defend his clients and prove them innocent.
The jury needed to see the conviction in Roth’s eyes. If he argued his client’s innocence, the jury needed to believe him, and to believe him, they needed to trust him. The only way for that to happen was for him to lay out the facts in such a way that the jury had no choice but to give a verdict of not guilty.
Roth unlocked his designer briefcase and pulled out a legal pad. From his suit pocket, he removed a gold-plated pen. “Tell me what happened last night,” he said.
THIRTEEN
The press conference had ended when Callaway showed up. To his surprise, the reporters had not dispersed. He realized why when he saw them huddled around Detective Holt.
Callaway had had a few run-ins with Holt, and if you asked him, they were not pleasant. To say Holt did not like private investigators would be an understatement.
Holt had said to Callaway there was no use for people like him. Crime was the police’s business. Callaway always replied that with the crime rate so high and the solve rate so low, there was definitely a need for people like him. The police had limited resources, and there was only so much they could do to solve a case. If a private investigator was working in tandem with them, there was no telling how fast a case could be solved. Callaway had even proposed during one of their brief encounters that the Milton PD hire him as a consultant. Holt had shot down the idea even before Callaway had finished his sentence. There was no way he would take such an absurd idea to his superiors. Callaway could not entirely blame him, though. Thanks to his time as a deputy sheriff, Callaway knew the rules and regulations a detective had to follow in order to solve a case. The arrest must be in accordance to procedures. The evidence must be attained within certain guidelines. A witness must not be coerced into providing a statement in favor of the prosecution. Without these policies, a case could be thrown out of court.
Callaway was not bound by any rules except his own. He knew right from wrong. His time in the sheriff’s office also gave him the ability to discern what was admissible in court and what was not, but he also was not afraid to bend the rules from time to time in order to solve a case.
When clients hired Callaway, they were fully aware they were hiring not a police officer but a person who was willing to go above and beyond to solve their problems. No police officer would sit in a cold vehicle for hours to catch an adulterer. Their time was better spent on a stakeout to catch a big-time drug dealer or a high-profile criminal.
Maybe that’s why Callaway was always struggling for money. People did not value the service he provided to them. He should have known better when he chose to go independent.
He was moving around the crowd when he spotted a familiar figure standing in the corner. Detective Fisher had her arms crossed over her chest and a frown on her face.
“Why so sad?” Callaway asked, walking up to her.
Her frown melted when she saw him. “Lee, what’re you doing here?”
“I figured I’d drop by and see what all the commotion is about,” he replied.
Callaway and Fisher had once dated—that was another reason Holt did not like him very much. He was new to the city, and she was single and available. She realized at that time that Callaway was not serious about a long-term relationship. She felt he was still dealing with unresolved issues stemming from his marriage.
“You caught the press conference on TV?” she asked.
“Live and in full color.”
Fisher shook her head. “I don’t think it’s a good idea, but Holt disagrees.”
“He’s relishing every minute in front of the cameras,” Callaway said, looking in Holt’s direction.
“It’s not his fault. The department has been under a lot of pressure from the public, the media, and the mayor. They keep cutting our budget, but they still expect us to meet our mandate.”
“Oh, the travesty,” Callaway quipped.
Fisher laughed, knowing Callaway was joking. Callaway had been through his share of cutbacks when he was in the sheriff’s department. In fact, police department cutbacks were the topic of the first conversation between them.
Fisher was at a party hosted by a friend of hers when Callaway approached her. He kn
ew someone at the party as well, and over a round of drinks, they hit on a topic that they were both passionate about. She was furious that the government was willing to give tax breaks to the wealthy but not invest more money in those who protected the general population. He did not disagree with her, but he also expressed his belief that people got the politicians they deserved. After all, it was they who elected them.
Fisher said, “Holt feels this case is a slam-dunk, so he wants the public to see the good job we are doing at the Milton PD.”
“So is it a slam-dunk?” Callaway asked with a raised eyebrow.
Her eyes narrowed. “Why’re you so interested, Lee?”
“Let’s say I may have a vested interest in what happens.”
She blinked. “Do you mind explaining what that means?”
“I wish I could, but I can’t,” he replied. “So what evidence do you have against Paul Gardener?”
“I wish I could tell you, but I can’t.”
He grinned. “Touché. Can you at least tell me where he is?”
“Milton PD.”
“He got a lawyer yet?”
“The moment we charged him. It’s Evan Roth.”
“He’s good and expensive.”
“It’s the guilty who hire the best lawyers money can buy.”
“I’m not gonna argue with that,” he said, moving away from her.
“Where’re you going?” she asked.
“I need to talk to Roth.”
FOURTEEN
Roth stood before the reporters who were assembled outside the Milton Police Department. He could have made a statement at some other location, but he knew the value of optics. He wanted the public—correction, potential jury—to see where they were keeping his client.
The building resembled a giant concrete block. The structure was gray, cold, and uninviting. No person would want to spend even a minute inside there, but his client, an upstanding citizen of Milton, was locked up inside.
The narrative was vital in cases of this nature. The police wanted to show there was overwhelming evidence against the accused. Roth’s job was to refute this so-called evidence.
The press conference held by the detectives outside the victim’s residence was nothing more than an attempt to make a statement. The victim lived and died in a place that she called home. She had also died at the hands of someone who was meant to protect her—her father.
Roth waited as the reporters rushed to prepare themselves. Batteries were checked on voice recorders. Camera lenses were double-checked for the perfect shot. Video equipment was adjusted and readjusted to capture the right angle.
Roth loved every minute. This was why he chose to follow his father’s footsteps and become a criminal defense lawyer. He relished the surge of adrenaline he felt at the start of a new case, and on top of that, there was the money. His fees were exorbitant, but most clients would pay just about anything to get out of the predicament they were in. Roth was what stood between their freedom and a life inside a concrete cell.
Roth started with a standard opening. “I have just spoken to my client. He is doing well under the circumstances. He is shocked and upset by the death of his daughter. He is a devoted father and a loving husband. Now I will take a few questions.”
Hands shot up in the air. Roth had already scanned the group for reporters who asked tough questions and those who did not. Who wrote favorable stories on the cases about his defendants and who did not. Who was biased and who was not.
He pointed to one reporter, who quickly asked, “What do you have to say regarding the evidence against your client?”
“The prosecution has not yet provided me with a list of the charges against my client. It is something I will be asking the DA’s office right after I leave here.”
Another hand shot up. “Is it true your client was caught red-handed?”
Roth made a dramatic face, but his expression was more for the cameras than a reaction to the question. Roth had prepared himself for every question imaginable. “I’m not sure where this rumor was started, and if I were you, I would check my sources. My client is an upstanding citizen who has donated thousands of dollars to the local community. He has a very successful business, and a majority of his employees are from this city.”
“Why would the Milton Police Department make an announcement so suddenly if they did not believe your client was guilty of the crime?” another reporter asked.
Roth almost chuckled, as if the question was beyond absurd. “This is something you will have to ask the fine officers at the Milton PD. I have no idea. My client has never been charged with any crime in his entire life—not even a speeding ticket. This entire ordeal has been nothing short of a nightmare for him. He has lost his only child, whom he deeply cares about. He would rather be with his wife, mourning this tragic loss, than be alone inside a cold prison cell.”
Another hand shot up. “When will you be requesting bail?”
“We are hoping to go before a judge later today so that my client can be home with his family.”
Roth answered a couple of questions that were in the same vein as the previous ones. He finished by saying, “We intend to fight vigorously any and all charges against my client.”
He walked away from the group of reporters with a smile on his face. His goal was to get the message across that his client was not the person the police had made him out to be, and he felt he had accomplished this and much more.
FIFTEEN
Callaway had watched the question-and-answer session with great interest. Lawyers were a particular breed. They revealed only what was necessary and what would win them the case.
Callaway’s clients were mostly wives who had hired him to dig up dirt on their rich husbands. That information was then used to extricate a divorce settlement that was in their favor. This gave Callaway a front row seat when it came to lawyers. He had more than his share of run-ins with them, and the experience was something he would rather avoid.
Provided with proof of their clients’ infidelities, the husbands’ lawyers often threatened to sue Callaway and his clients for absurd amounts of money. They tried to get the judge to dismiss the evidence in court, arguing that it violated their clients’ right to privacy. They even went so far as to try to have Callaway charged for voyeurism.
Callaway tried to take it all in stride. The lawyers were paid handsomely to defend their clients, and even with hard evidence—photographs of their clients caught in uncompromising positions—they did everything in their power to have that evidence ruled inadmissible in court.
When they attacked Callaway’s character, however, was when he took it personally. They would speak of his infidelities. They would mention his gambling habits. They would show his run-ins with the law—Callaway had been booked for disorderly conduct on a few occasions, and if you asked him, he blamed the booze for his behavior—anything to discredit him and his work.
Fortunately, the presiding judges would counter that it was their clients who were on trial, not Callaway. Also, Callaway was careful in the manner he went about his business. The photos were taken from outside the rendezvous point. He never tried to hide inside a closet to get the perfect shot. It was not his fault if some people did not pull the drapes before they began frolicking in bed.
He never planted hidden cameras or tapped telephones. He was smart enough to know anything procured illegally would not hold up as evidence. The last thing he wanted was to do anything that would leave his clients in a worse position than when they hired him.
He watched as Roth made his way to a shiny Bentley. He hurried to catch up with him.
“Mr. Roth,” Callaway said. “I need to speak to you.”
Roth was typing away on his cell phone when he turned. He eyed Callaway up and down and said, “You can make an appointment with my secretary.” He did not even bother offering his business card. Callaway’s rumpled attire did not give off the impression he could afford his services.
�
�It’s about Paul Gardener.”
Roth’s eyes narrowed. “What about him?”
“I need to speak to him,”
“Are you a lawyer?”
“No. I’m a private investigator.”
Roth frowned. “I already have a PI on my payroll, so I don’t need another.”
“I’m not looking for a job.”
“Then what are you looking for? Money?”
“More money would be nice, but your client already gave me some.”
Roth blinked. “What?”
“Your client is my client.”
“Okay, now I am even more confused.”
“Your client hired me for a job, and that’s why I need to speak to him.”
“What was the job?”
“I can’t say.”
“Then no, you can’t speak to my client.”
Roth moved toward his car.
“It’s about last night,” Callaway said.
Roth stopped. “What about it?”
Callaway was silent. He was not sure how much he could reveal just yet.
Roth asked, “Was my client with you last night? Are you his alibi?”
“No.”
“Then you can’t help him escape lethal injection, because that’s what the prosecution will ask for: murder in the first degree, which will automatically qualify him for the death penalty.”
“Call your client,” Callaway said. “Ask him if he is willing to speak to me.”
Roth stared at him, still unsure.
“I have something that is of great interest to your client, but first I need to show it to him. If he gives me his approval, then I’ll show it to you.”
Roth exhaled. “Fine. What’s your name?”
SIXTEEN
Roth made the call. He then took Callaway inside Milton PD, but only because they were already standing next to the station. Roth’s time was too valuable, and he did not like anyone wasting it.
The Lee Callaway Boxed Set Page 4
