The Attorney

by Steve Martini

  “They already knew,” he says.

  “We had her under surveillance a month ago, right after Jessica disappeared,” says Bob. “Which begs the question: Why didn’t you tell us about her?”

  “Client confidence,” I tell him.

  Bob reaches over on the chair next to him, picks up a newspaper, and flops it on the table in front of me. The headline blaring across the top two columns:

  ADVOCATE FOR BATTERED WOMEN MURDERED

  “I guess you could say that source has dried up,” he says. “So you figure Suade helped Jessica and the child disappear?”

  “That’s the theory,” I tell him. “What led you to Suade?” I ask.

  “We knew Jessica had made contact.”

  “Letters from prison,” says Bob. “Their mail is censored. When she got out, Suade was already on the list of her contacts.”

  “Who else?” I ask him.

  “Now you’re getting personal.” He smiles as if this is out of bounds. “You don’t have any idea where she is?”

  “I was hoping you could tell me.”

  “If we knew that, we’d go pick her up,” says Bob.

  “While there’s still something to pick up,” says Jack.

  “What do you mean?”

  “We’re not the only ones looking for her.”

  “Ontaveroz?”

  Bob hesitates just a beat. “It’d be wise if we cooperated,” he says. “Kept in touch.”

  “Why is that?”

  “We have a mutual interest. You want the little girl. We want her mother. Ontaveroz doesn’t like the idea of Jessica walking the streets knowing what she knows.”

  “Even though she hasn’t given him up? If what you’re saying is true, she did two years and never mentioned his name.”

  “That was then. This is now,” says Jack. “There’s a certain sense of insecurity that runs through these people. Comes with the turf,” he says. “We also have information that before she went down she stashed some cash. Probably what she’s living on now—purchase money belonging to the man and his friends for stuff she’d transported across the border a few weeks before her arrest. They want it back.

  “But mostly, they just want her dead,” says Jack.

  “Which, according to my calculations, could be a serious complication for the little girl.”

  ELEVEN

  * * *

  This morning we are headed downtown, away from the substation at Imperial Beach. This to avoid the media, which have now grown to the usual circus. Suade’s murder is taking on a dangerous dynamic.

  She may have had a checkered past in life, but in death she is beginning to take on the proportions of a mythic figure. There has already been one piece on national news, not the cables, but the networks, featuring her murder. It was billed as the latest high-profile crime against women.

  Feminist groups are on the tube beating their drums. They are calling it a gender crime, and trying to fit it into a hate category.

  It seems lately that every crime of any note is a national crime. Welcome to the electronic village. If your death garners enough pixel images on the million or so cable channels that now bless the airwaves, your demise runs a chance of entering the lottery to become the “crime of the century.”

  The assumption is that Suade’s death is the work of a demented spouse, some middle-aged angry white male, a husband of one of the women being shielded by her organization.

  But unfortunately for us, the cops are about to shatter this theory. The call every lawyer dreads came this morning. “Are you prepared to surrender your client?”

  It was a courtesy from Floyd Avery, lieutenant at homicide. The alternative was that they would arrest Jonah at his home in front of all his neighbors with video vans parked out front.

  Jonah has been under close surveillance for more than a week. The obvious unmarked cars parked in front of his home, a rolling sheriff’s escort every time he went near his boat, which has been lashed to the dock by court order under a search warrant since the morning after the murder.

  If he had set foot on another boat, set sail with one of his now-diminishing group of buds, I am certain that the Coast Guard would have stopped them before they cleared the harbor.

  Mary is in the backseat with Jonah. Harry is driving. We are using Jonah’s Cadillac for the occasion since neither Harry’s car nor mine fits the bill. His sport utility, a dark green Explorer, Eddie Bauer package, has been seized by the cops and hauled to the city’s impound for analysis. They’ll be vacuuming the seats looking for the other cartridge case, the one they didn’t find at the scene.

  “Maybe if I talked to the police they wouldn’t do this,” says Jonah.

  “Don’t believe it,” I tell him.

  “Why are they arresting me? Because I made statements I didn’t mean?”

  “I don’t know. But talking to investigators isn’t going to help. Making further statements is not the thing to do. Not until we know what the evidence is.”

  “And we may not know that until trial,” says Harry.

  “What evidence could they have? He didn’t do it,” says Mary.

  The stony silence that follows this endorsement causes Jonah’s gaze to fall on me. “I’m not sure Paul believes us, hon. I didn’t kill her.” He leans forward and says it with conviction, then settles back against the cushioned leather. “She deserved to die, but I didn’t do it.”

  “Oh, that’s great,” says Harry. “Tell that to the cops.”

  “What? I didn’t do it?”

  “No. The ‘deserved to die’ part,” he says. “Take the DA about two seconds flat; he’d turn that into an admission.”

  “I would never say it to the DA,” says Jonah.

  “That’s comforting,” says Harry.

  “Will they let him out on bail?” asks Mary.

  “I don’t know. We’ll ask for a hearing.” But I tell her that it’s up to the judge. I am guessing that because of the proximity to the border, Jonah’s considerable financial resources, and the fact that it is a capital crime, the answer may be no. I don’t burden her with this at the moment.

  “There must have been somebody you saw that night,” she asks him. “Think. Try to remember.”

  “We’ve gone over and over it,” says Jonah. He is weary, growing lines of stress etched on his face, looking every inch his age, and then some.

  “I didn’t see anybody. I didn’t stop for gasoline. I didn’t get anything to eat.”

  “Not even coffee?” she asks.

  “Nothing. I just drove.”

  “But if you had an alibi?”

  “If,” he says, “but I don’t.”

  Mary is no shrinking violet, a good ten years younger than Jonah, blond hair that I am sure has been colored, and makeup to cover the aging creases. She is a strong woman, about five-eight, a hefty build.

  “I could say he was with me at the time of the murder.” She shifts forward so that her hands are gripping the back of my chair, slender white knuckles. The expression on her face says it all—desperation.

  “That’s not a good idea,” I tell her.

  “They haven’t asked me that question, you know. That I wasn’t with him.”

  “They did ask him how long he’d been on the beach.”

  “Maybe he got it wrong. Maybe he was confused,” she says.

  “They may wonder why you waited so long to volunteer this alibi,” says Harry.

  “I was in shock. I wasn’t able to think clearly,” she says.

  “Right,” says Harry. “That’ll work.” He looks at me out of the corner of one eye.

  “If he was with you, what time did he leave to go for his ride, the one that took him to the beach?” I turn to look at her. Arched eyebrows over the
back of my seat.

  “I don’t know. I can’t remember.”

  “And what were the two of you doing at the house just before he left?”

  No answer.

  “Where did he tell you he was going when he left? Why did he go?”

  She’s beginning to look at me now with eyes that are mean little slits. No fair asking questions she can’t answer.

  “Was he with you?”

  She hesitates.

  “This is me asking you. Was he with you?”

  “No.”

  I turn back around and settle in my seat. The police and the jury would see it for what it was: a desperate attempt by a woman to save her husband. The fact that Mary felt it necessary to perjure herself would allow prosecutors to float the inference that a woman doesn’t lie unless she thinks her husband is guilty.

  “Besides,” I tell her, “we don’t know precisely when Suade died. That’s a problem with any alibi.”

  “Good point,” says Harry. “You may have been her last visitor before the bullet festival.” He’s looking at me, one eye on the road.

  The thought has crossed my mind more than once that the sheriff’s techs may have found my fingerprints in Suade’s shop. I have been practicing my own answer if they ask. I am prepared to tell them that I met with Suade and talked to her that morning. I am not so sure I am prepared to discuss the subject matter, as this may get into motive—Jonah’s—and I would argue it is covered by attorney-client privilege.

  “We don’t have a lot of time to talk,” I tell them.

  “There is one thing. Some information. Did either of you ever hear Jessica mention a man named Esteban Ontaveroz?”

  Mary looks at Jonah. I can see her in the mirror on the back of the sun visor that I have flipped down.

  He offers up a face of puzzlement and shakes his head. “One of her boyfriends?” says Jonah.

  “Could be.”

  “I didn’t know any of the men she ran with,” he says. “God knows there were enough of them.”

  “This is not someone she is likely to have brought to your house,” I tell them.

  “Who is he?” asks Mary.

  “It’s nothing you need to concern yourself with right now. But you’re sure you never heard his name?”

  Both of them shake their heads.

  The trip becomes more somber as we approach the center of the city, like a ride in a tumbrel with the shadow of the guillotine looming ever closer. Harry turns onto Front Street, a block from the courthouse, and stops in front of the new county jail. He lets us out at the curb and goes to park the car.

  Jonah takes a deep breath as he looks at the steel door framing thick glass that is the entrance.

  “Are you all right?” I ask.

  He looks withered and beaten, shoulders drooping, back hunched, thinning wisps of hair dancing in the stiffening breeze.

  He nods. “I’m okay.” Then he leans closer and whispers in my ear, “Get her home.” For a moment I think he’s talking about his granddaughter, Amanda. Then I realize he’s talking about Mary.

  “Get her out of this as quickly as you can.”

  I nod.

  “There’s a woman next door who’ll look after her,” he says.

  “I don’t need any looking after,” says Mary. She’s overheard him. “I can take care of myself.”

  “I know you can,” he says. He turns from her, his gaze fixed on the stainless-steel door. I can read in his eyes the dread of the unknown inside.

  I lead the way, open the door, and step inside, offering myself first as a kind of psychic shield. Mary follows me, Jonah taking up the rear.

  When I turn, I notice Jonah has hesitated just inside the door. For an instant I think he’s going to stumble, or bolt. I step back and take his elbow to stiffen his resolve.

  “It’s okay,” he says. “I’m fine.”

  The public lobby is antiseptic, bathed in bright lights, one wall a thick bulletproof partition, behind which the sheriff’s minions scurry about on their mission of confinement.

  Avery is waiting for us. He sees us through the glass, and the jail guards buzz him through a kind of airlock, a small chamber not much larger than a phone booth with steel doors on each side. One is closed and locked before the other is opened.

  When Avery emerges on our side, his expression is serious.

  “Mr. Madriani.”

  I nod.

  “Mr. Hale, we can step in here.” He motions that Mary and I can follow.

  By now Harry has caught up with us, and we pass through the lock two at a time, Avery and Jonah, Mary and I, with Harry the odd man out. He sets off a buzzer and ends up trapped in the airlock.

  “What have you got in your pockets?” A guard’s voice on the PA.

  Harry reaches deep in his pockets, and pulls out a set of keys and a small pocketknife.

  “Put ’em in the tray,” says the PA.

  A stainless-steel tray slides out and Harry deposits them inside. The tray closes just as quickly. He tries the door again, and this time he’s buzzed through.

  Like the death-house walk, we stroll down the corridor under the gaze of guards behind glass with Avery leading the way, around a corner to the booking area. Here we are met by a burly man, middle-aged and bald, in sheriff’s overalls and boots with the pant legs tucked in, keys jangling from a web belt around his waist. He moves on Jonah.

  “Just lean forward, hands against the wall.”

  Jonah looks at me. I am powerless to stop it.

  “I’ll read him his rights in a minute,” says Avery.

  The guard eases Jonah into the position. Separates his feet, going through his pockets. Everything he finds is dropped into an envelope.

  “That’s his blood pressure medicine,” says Mary. “He needs that.”

  “We’ll see that he gets it,” says Avery.

  The guard eases Jonah back onto his feet and cuffs his hands behind his back.

  “Is that necessary?” I ask.

  “Jail policy,” says the guard.

  They will strip him and search him, probably the full cavity number when we leave, put him in the shower whether he needs it or not, and give him a jail jumpsuit.

  “Can we talk for a moment before you take him in?”

  The guard looks to Avery for the answer.

  “You can go in here.” Avery points to one of the holding cells, a concrete room with a thick plate-glass window and a steel door.

  “Harry, why don’t you take Mary to the car.”

  “No, I want to stay.”

  “I think it’s best if you go,” I tell her.

  She starts to argue. Jonah cuts her off. “We agreed,” he says. “Remember? You weren’t going to make a scene.”

  She starts to cry, steps forward, arms around him. He cannot hug her back, but he kisses her on the cheek, nuzzles her with his chin on the neck. Her grip is like a death lock around him. She nearly pulls him off his feet, so that the guard has to take an elbow to steady him. Harry steps in and takes her by the arm. Jonah whispers in her ear, but the words carry. “I’ll be all right,” he says. Tears now running down his face. I can’t tell if they are his or hers.

  Harry gently peels her arm off him and finally gains separation. The words “I love you” come from her tear-stained mouth as he tugs her toward the door. Her body moving in one direction, her head turned in the other, she waves the one free hand in her wake, as if motioning for Jonah to follow as he stands there in shackles.

  A guard behind the glass in the control booth hits the buzzer, and when I look back, she and Harry are gone.

  Avery motions the guard to open the door to the small lockup, and Jonah and I step inside. The door closes behind us.

  �
��Are you sure you’re okay?”

  He nods.

  I’m worried. Jonah has high blood pressure. He’s had at least two episodes of hospitalization to get it under control. It’s one of the arguments I will make to the court, that his health is better preserved at home than here.

  “Just one final word,” I tell him. I look closely at his face. He is dazed. I’m not sure he’s listening.

  “Sit down.” I help him down onto the hard stainless-steel bench that is bolted to the floor.

  “Don’t talk to anybody, or answer any questions. The sheriff. The DA. They have no right to question you. Do you understand?”

  He nods.

  “More important than the DA or the sheriff,” I tell him, “don’t say anything to any of the other inmates. They may put you in a cell with somebody else. Keep your distance. Don’t get too friendly. An offhand remark can be misinterpreted, misconstrued, used against you at trial. Don’t say anything except hello and goodbye. Pass the time of day,” I tell him, “but don’t discuss your case or any of the details with anyone but me or Harry. Am I clear?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. I’ll try to set a hearing for bail as soon as possible.”

  “Do you think there’s a chance?”

  “I don’t know. Is there anything you need?”

  “My medicine,” he says. “Something to read, maybe.”

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  “Thanks,” he says. “I guess that’s it. Will you be back?”

  “I’ll come back tomorrow. Check and see how you are.”

  Thirty seconds later the guard has him at the booking counter, and Avery leads me out.

  “A tragic situation,” he says. “I’m sorry it had to come to this.” Standing in the lobby, car keys in his hand, Avery looks at me with the cop’s businesslike expression. All in a day’s work. Still I suspect that on the scale of perps, one to ten, bad guys being high, Jonah hardly registers.

  “Nice old man,” he says. “Too bad he did it.”

  “You seem pretty sure.”

  “We don’t make an arrest unless we are.”