“I know,” he agreed quietly as he sat up and leaned against the headboard.
“If it’s the same murderer, why didn’t he simply shoot Isabella?”
Gabe’s eyes darkened as he reached out and lightly stroked my bandaged shoulder. “Because explosions are a trademark of the Castillo family.”
My jaw could have scraped the bed. “I know financially they may have been involved with my ex’s construction company, but what’s the connection to Grace’s murder?”
He shrugged. “A blackmailer normally doesn’t stop with one victim.”
“True, but everything points to the fact that Grace was digging around my grandfather’s disappearance. So far we have nothing to indicate she had any connection to the sabotage of the courthouse restoration. Since the Castillos are behind the financing, you’d think they’d want the construction to finish as soon as possible.”
“What if the Castillos are linked to your grandfather?”
For a moment time stood still as pieces shifted like a kaleidoscope and fell into a pattern of clarity. I scrambled off the bed and raced out into the hall where I had tossed my tote bag. I dug around its depths and came up with the paper I had taken from Isabella.
“What’s going on?” Rubbing his chest, Gabe stood in the doorway of the bedroom, apparently without a care in the world that he was totally nude.
Wait a minute. I didn’t have anything on either. Score one for another step for the new, improved Kate Rochelle. I unfolded the faded sheet of paper.
“This is a page torn from my grandfather’s docket calendar. I didn’t get a chance to read it earlier.” I ran my finger down the neat entries of case names. Given the time allotments, I gathered this day had been booked for evidentiary motion hearings.
My finger halted at the last motion scheduled that day. Excitement coursed through me. My throat tightened so much I could barely speak. “The purgatory case.”
Gabe walked down the hallway and knelt beside me. “You mean the case Judge Winewski called his downfall?”
I smiled. Sometimes I forgot Gabe had a cop’s attention to detail.
“Yes.”
“Why was this case on your grandfather’s calendar when Winewski presided at trial?”
Several scenarios whipped through my mind, none of them pleasant. “I don’t know, but I’m going to find out. I need you to dig into the Castillo connection.”
“With pleasure.”
At Gabe’s grim tone, I glanced over and placed my hand over his. “I’m fine. Really.”
The phone rang and I rose to answer it.
“Kate, it’s Carling. How are you?”
I could tell immediately her question wasn’t an “I’m concerned about you,” but rather “are you well enough” query.
“I’m fine, Carling. What do you need?”
After she told me, I shook my head. “You have to be kidding.”
“Can you handle it?”
“I wouldn’t miss this one for anything,” I assured her. I hung up and looked at Gabe. “I’ve got to shower and get dressed. Carling needs me to cover a new client’s first appearance in an hour.”
A smile tugged at the corner of Gabe’s mouth. “That’s enough time…” He walked toward me but, laughing, I circled around him.
“No, it’s not. I need time to prepare.”
“What’s there to prepare for? First appearance should be a piece of cake for a savvy criminal defense attorney like you.”
I reached the bedroom and made a mad dash for the bathroom, with Gabe close behind me. “Not this one. Assault with a deadly weapon.”
“So what?” Gabe leered at me, motioning toward the bed with his head. “That should be a no-brainer.”
“Our client tried to beat his wife with a live alligator.” I grinned at his blank look and shut the door.
Chapter 14
“Counselor, you can’t be serious.” The first-appearance judge glowered at me. Behind me, I could hear the buzz of people in the crowded courtroom. Out of the corner of my eye I saw one and then another TV reporter slide onto the front bench seat.
Great. News at five o’clock. The alligator wife-beater.
Beside me stood my client, swaying in an orange jumpsuit, his head bowed. Probably a good thing as the man’s eyes were still bloodshot. In my brief meeting with him before court, I had learned Joey Gore was a native Floridian who lived out in Okeechobee. Short and stocky, he ran a car-repair shop during the day and drank himself stupid every night. During these binges he liked to take potshots at his wife.
So it was no small wonder that yesterday Joey, after a beer pit stop at his favorite bar, had come home and found another man in a pickup pulling out of his driveway. Since they didn’t have a pool and nothing was broken, he had concluded the man wasn’t there for business, especially when he found his wife in the kitchen clad only in her thong panties.
Instead of doing the reasonable thing, such as yelling or calling a divorce attorney, he had run into his bathroom and grabbed the four-foot-long gator he kept in the tub.
Fortunately for the wife, the bathroom was closer at hand than the bedroom. According to Joey’s police record, he kept a shotgun under the bed, which he liked to shoot off into the air every Fourth of July—and Labor Day, Christmas and New Year’s Eve.
The arrest report stated that Joey had grabbed the alligator by the tail and chased after his wife, hitting her twice with the gator, before she had managed to flee from the house and run to the neighbor’s for help. When the first officers had arrived on the scene, they had found Joey sitting on the kitchen floor, crying and crooning baby talk to the gator cradled in his arms.
The gator was fine, but his owner wasn’t.
With my court face on, I calmly answered the presiding judge. “Yes, Your Honor. I’m serious. This is an ore tenus motion to dismiss the charge of assault with a deadly weapon. The basis is that an alligator is not a weapon by statutory definition.” I ticked off my fingers. “The statute lists guns, knives, shotguns, even knuckles, but not animals.”
The judge glared at me. “Response from the State?”
Although the prosecutor was another wet-behind-the-ears law school graduate, he turned out to be quick on his feet. “Your Honor, the intent of the statute is to cover those items that can harm a person. Certainly, given the number of deaths caused by alligators every year in Florida, the use of an alligator by Mr. Gore to attack his wife can be viewed as use of deadly force.”
I countered. “The alligator was a family pet. The arrest report states the officers found my client holding his gator.”
“I read the report, Ms. Rochelle.” The judge narrowed his eyes. “It also states your client’s shirt was ripped and bloody and he had several puncture marks on his shoulder.”
There was that slight damning detail, I had to admit silently. But one had to argue every possible nuance.
The judge shuffled papers. “I’m reserving for now on the issue and will set this for an evidentiary hearing. I suggest counsel be prepared to brief the issue thoroughly. I would note that the lesser offense of assault is encompassed within the charge of assault with a deadly weapon, which the jury could consider. I also would note, Ms. Rochelle, that you tread a dangerous path with your argument as the other charge is reckless endangerment of an animal.”
True, but that charge could lead to a much lesser penalty, such as a fine, while assault could mean jail time. I simply nodded. “Understood, Your Honor.”
“In the meantime, on your request for bail, the bond is set at twenty thousand dollars.” He banged the gavel. “Next case.”
After the sheriff led my client out, I left the room and went out into the hallway.
“Hey, Alligator Lady!”
I sighed and turned to face the reporter. “Good afternoon, Jim.”
Jim Grabkowski was a lesson to any fledgling reporter: be careful of how far you reach for a story. Years ago, in his bid for a national broadcasting spot, Jim had m
anufactured a report on a drug gang and been caught in the lie. Fired, he had faded into obscurity and, if rumors were true, onto skid row, until a new local station had given him the grunge duty of first-appearance reporting. His air of dissolution actually made a great fit with these surroundings, and he was now a fixture at the Gun Club facility.
With his wiry white hair in disarray and shirt rumpled, the reporter halted, his long, thin notepad poised and ready. “How about a statement about your plans for defending Joey Gore?”
“Not now, Jim. This is actually my partner Carling Dent’s case. I’ll let her field any questions from the press.”
The gleam of avarice in the reporter’s eyes only intensified. “What about Lloyd Silber? After all, trial is next week.”
As if I needed the reminder.
“Word is the prosecution has an open-and-shut case against Silber.”
“That’s the State’s viewpoint based on flimsy circumstantial evidence. I’m confident the jury will acquit my client.”
He snorted. “Good luck.”
I studied him. Jim had spent years in the underbelly of life of West Palm Beach, first as a newspaper reporter and then on TV. Maybe…
“Off the record, Jim?” I couldn’t trust him to honor the request, but if I was careful, I might get lucky and get a few quick answers. It was a risk I was willing to take since I was running out of time.
He ran the tip of his tongue over his lips. I checked to see if his fingers were crossed, but they merely tightened on his pad. “Sure, Kate. Got a scoop on the prosecution?”
“This isn’t about the Silber case.” Well, not directly anyway, I told myself.
The reporter’s intense expression switched to irritation. “Then what? I need to get back inside.”
I couldn’t pussyfoot around with a graceful way to ask the question. “Did you cover the courthouse thirty-five years ago?”
He flushed. “There are days I feel like I’ve spent my entire life on this beat.” His gaze sharpened. “This about your grandfather?”
Jim may have fallen from grace, but one should never underestimate him. Once a reporter, always a reporter.
“Yes. I was curious—”
“About damn time that someone from your family cared enough to investigate his death.”
“But I’m not—”
“That rumor Jonathan Rochelle was on the take was pure bull.”
Finally. I stepped away further from the courtroom. Couldn’t risk anyone overhearing our conversation. “Why do you say that?”
“Your grandfather was a straight shooter.” He rubbed the back of his hand across his nose. “Then there was your grandmother, whom everyone overlooked in the scandal. If a crime family wanted to send a message, why not a car bomb or a public shooting of your grandfather? The traditional Mob element doesn’t like complications so why did she disappear?”
“She was in the wrong place at the wrong time,” I said.
“Exactly.” Jim looked pleased, like a teacher with a pet student. “You’ve got some brains. Maybe Silber’s trial isn’t so cut-and-dry.”
I fought a rush of pleasure at the unexpected compliment. “I think I can guarantee that.”
“Hmm.” He slapped his notepad against his thigh. “Maybe I can pull in a favor to cover the trial.” He shrugged. “Anyway, I did check into your grandfather’s disappearance.”
“What did you come up with?”
Jim grinned. “A reporter never reveals his sources. I still may get a story after all these years.”
“What did you suspect?”
“Your grandfather was investigating a dirty judge.”
“Winewski?”
The reporter whistled softly. “Now I’m definitely reopening that file. Yes, according to my sources, Rochelle was checking into an allegation Winewski fixed a trial.”
“Did you interview my grandfather’s staff?”
“Sure.”
“Could you pull your file and tell me their names?”
He tapped a gnarled finger against his forehead. “Don’t need to. I have the information right here. The bailiff, Stewart McKee, died several years ago.”
Damn. “And his judicial assistant? Is she dead, too?”
“Called them secretaries back then. Shirley Cameron’s still alive.”
My pulse quickened. At last I had the name.
“If you call where she’s at living. Personally, I’d call it hell.”
“Why’s that?”
“She became a drunk after your grandfather’s death.”
Shock flashed through me.
Giving me a shrewd look, he said, “Jonathan Rochelle has to be dead, you know.” His voice held a trace of kindness.
“Yes, but it’s the first time I’ve ever heard it expressed out loud.” Of course, my grandparents were dead. This wasn’t some novel where they had been spirited off to some exotic Caribbean island to spend the rest of their lives.
I shook off the wave of grief that crested through me. “Has Shirley been institutionalized?”
“No, she’s on the streets. Actually, she haunts the alleys around the old courthouse and Clematis.” He rubbed his chin. “Got a fax?”
“Yes.” I gave him the number.
“I’ll fax you a picture of her if you agree to give me the story.”
“It’s a deal.”
“I’ve got the rest of the hearings and then I’ll dig up the photo for you.” He turned.
“Thanks, Jim.”
Pausing, he glanced over his shoulder. “No, thank you. I’d almost forgotten what it was like to be on the hunt for real news.”
As I walked along the hall, I turned on my cell phone and listened to the one terse voice mail message from Carling. My euphoria trickled away. I jammed the phone into my tote and stalked toward the stairs as opposed to the elevator. Maybe by the time I reached the jail cells, my anger would burn off. Otherwise, tomorrow’s headlines would read, Lawyer Kills Client!
“You lied to me, Lloyd.” I braced my hands on the table. “You were paying Grace Roberts off.”
My soon-to-be-fired client flinched but didn’t say a word.
“My office just received exhibits from the State. Do you want to know what they contain?” I didn’t wait for his answer.
“Grace’s bank records showing deposits on the same day and in the same amount you made cash withdrawals from your account.” I paused, fighting to keep my voice level. “The account you kept separately from you and your wife’s joint checking account.”
I leaned closer to him. “Do you know what this means? The State has more than a circumstantial link between you and the victim. Before it merely had gossip and innuendos. Now it has a solid motive. Blackmail.”
Lloyd rubbed his face.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I was afraid you wouldn’t believe me,” he said in a low voice.
“Me? I think the issue is what a jury believes.” I straightened. I was so going to be out of there in the next minute.
Lloyd shook his head. “You don’t know your own power yet, do you?”
I almost rocked back on my heels. Me, power? “I don’t know what you mean.”
“I’ve watched you. When you believe in something or someone, you glow with intensity. You make a person want to believe. That’s why I wanted, no, needed you to represent me. I knew you would care if you had faith in me, while to any other attorney, I’d only be a dollar sign.”
I folded my arms. “So what am I to think?”
“That I’m foolish, desperate, but not a murderer.”
Lloyd’s quiet resignation tugged but didn’t convince me. “So what did Grace have on you?”
“She discovered I was receiving kickbacks.”
“Wait a minute.” I held up my hand. “As projects go, the courthouse restoration isn’t a Taj Mahal development, not in the grand scheme of Palm Beach County.”
Lloyd shrugged. “I know. But someone was willing to
pay me to look the other way for the construction delays. I was in a financial crunch. I had an investment opportunity, but I needed cash up front.”
“Who paid you?”
“I don’t know.”
I was incredulous. “How can you not know?”
“I got a call from a man who said a good-faith gesture would be forthcoming if I didn’t raise a fuss about problems concerning any restoration delay. The next day I had a large deposit in my account. The money was a boon from heaven. I thought, what was the harm? We’d been ahead of schedule, so what did a few months’ delay mean?”
He sighed. “So I took the money. I looked the other way. When I got messages about my benefactor needing night access to the premises, I left the security code and keys in an envelope near the construction trailer and continued to look the other way. I even mentioned hearing strange noises to the staff. It seemed so simple, and I had a second chance to recoup my stock market losses. To start my life again.”
He leaned forward. “Katherine, I was stupid, but I’m not a murderer. You have to believe me.”
God help me, I didn’t know.
Lloyd’s skin turned a chalky tone. “How can you represent me if you’re not convinced I’m telling you the truth?”
“Because apparently your versions of the truth contain shades of omission.” I grabbed my tote. “Lloyd, I need to think on this. I’ll let you know by tomorrow. If I withdraw, the judge will have to grant you a continuance.”
Lloyd closed his eyes briefly. “I guess I’m hardly in a position to ask for more.”
Outside the client conference room, I leaned against the wall and fumbled in my suit pocket for my antacid tablets. How in the hell could I represent a client with a crystal-clear motive for murder?
I was still agonizing over the question that surely must plague every criminal defense attorney as I gunned the Jag along Okeechobee Boulevard.
How could I represent someone who was guilty of murder? whispered my morality.
But hadn’t I taken an oath? Wasn’t our judicial system based on the premise that everyone was presumed innocent until proven guilty? My job was to defend, wasn’t it? Not to sit as judge and jury?
Courting Danger Page 18
