“That’s common enough. What is it, a third of the population?”
“Forty-two percent, according the report. But we don’t care about the general population, we’re not representing the general population, we’re representing Guy. And that’s where it all starts looking hinky. Guy is type B.”
I bathed my face in false surprise.
“She was cheating on him, Victor. There was another man.”
I stared at her, fighting to remain impassive. “Did he know it?”
“I don’t know.”
“I suppose we’ll have to find out.”
“I suppose we will. But, Victor, Hailey was cheating on him, that is a fact. He can deny knowing it all he wants, but no one has to believe him. Hailey was cheating on him and there, Victor, on a fine silver salver, is your motive.”
I stared at her, stared at her as the case against my client strengthened immeasurably right before my very eyes, based ironically on my own blood antigens, stared at her as Guy Forrest took three giant steps toward a life sentence, and the whole time I was fighting the urge to smile.
12
“WHO DO you think killed her, Guy?” asked Beth.
“I don’t know.”
“You have to have some idea. Hailey’s dead and you’re on trial for her murder. You knew her life better than anyone. You have to have some theory.”
We were in one of the lawyer-client rooms at the Montgomery County Correctional Facility, a squat, sprawling building of orange brick, with a green ribbed roof and shiny loops of barbed wire, set out more for their aesthetic appeal than for security, a prison built for five hundred inmates but holding more than twice that amount. The room itself was slate gray, with a metal table, walls of cinder block, a solid steel door, and it had that lovely prison smell of ammonia and sweat and fear, with the faintest undertone of urine, which may have come from the surrounding halls or may have come from Guy himself, who was certainly distraught enough. In the week or so since his arrest he had grown gaunt. His hands shook slightly even as he held them on the tabletop. His eyes were like a bleary red smear. There was a welt beneath his left eye, blue-black against his gray pallor, fitting, since Hailey’s corpse held the same kind of welt, and the tic that jerked his upper lip to the right at arraignment was developing nicely.
I crossed my arms over my chest and leaned against a wall in the corner of the room and let Beth handle the questioning. This was all pro forma, something we had to do, keeping Guy fully apprised of what was happening to him as we asked him for as much information as possible. There were no surprises here. He continued to maintain his innocence as I leaned against the wall and watched the lies spill out.
“The only answer,” said Guy, “is that someone came in while I was in the Jacuzzi. I didn’t hear him because of the headphones. That had to be what happened.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. They were mad at me, not at her.”
“Who was mad at you, Guy?”
“Leila was upset when I left, and so was her father.”
“Jonah Peale?”
“Yes. Do you know him?”
“Only by reputation,” said Beth.
“A hard son of a bitch. Scary. He told me to stay away from Leila and stay away from him or he’d shove a pitching wedge down my throat and take a swing at my spleen.”
“Can you blame him?” I said.
Guy shot me a look of annoyance. “There was also an investigator who did some work for the firm, an ugly little lizard named Skink. Phil Skink. He had a rough reputation, and I never understood why the firm used him. There was a time, before I met Hailey, when he tried to buddy up with me for some reason. I blew him off. Frankly, he creeped me out. And then, after I left everything for Hailey, I started running into Skink in strange places.”
“Where?”
“Outside my new office, in a bar. Once I was pissing at a urinal in a restaurant bathroom. The son of a bitch came out of nowhere, sidled up next to me, and gave me that gap-toothed smile of his.”
“Phil Skink?”
“Yeah.”
“Did he threaten you?”
“Not directly, he was too sly for that. But he did mention some files I had taken with me when I left Dawson, Cricket. I told him to stay the hell away from me, and he laughed. Once, when I was walking up to Hailey on the street, from afar I saw her talking to some man. As I got closer, I realized it was Skink. It sent a shiver through me. When he spotted me, he simply walked away. Hailey would never tell me what he said.”
“You think he threatened her?”
“That’s what I assumed. Maybe he was the one making the calls and then hanging up. Maybe he was the one who killed her.”
“Phil Skink?” I said.
“Yeah, maybe it was him.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Maybe.” Or maybe O.J. was in town, I thought.
“Did you lock the front door of the house before you went upstairs?” said Beth.
“I usually did, bolted the door and locked the windows. We’re still pretty close to the city where we live. Lived.”
“And that night?”
“I think so.”
“The windows were locked when the police came, but the door was open. Did you unlock the door when you went outside?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Was it locked or was it open? After you climbed out of the Jacuzzi, you saw her on the mattress, you picked up the gun, you searched the house. Then you called Victor and went outside to wait for him. Is that all correct?”
“Yes. Yes.”
“When you went outside, did you have to unlock the door?”
“I don’t know.”
“Think about it, Guy.”
“I don’t remember unlocking it. I just opened it. It must have been unlocked. It must have been unlocked.” He opened his eyes wide, as if he had just discovered a wonderful, liberating secret. “The killer somehow unlocked it and left it unlocked. That’s it. That’s the proof.”
I stared at him from my corner, Beth stared from across the table. We didn’t say a word, didn’t a move a muscle.
“Why don’t you tell them? That’s the answer. The door was unlocked. That proves everything I said is true.”
“And the evidence for that is?” said Beth, softly.
His gaze shifted crazily around the room, and then, as if her question had been a pin inserted into his abdomen, his body deflated.
I pushed myself off the wall and walked to the desk until I stood over him, my arms still crossed. “Tell me again about your relationship with Hailey,” I said.
He looked up at me. “We were in love.”
“Still?”
“What do you mean, still? Yes, of course.”
“Did you have sex the night she died?”
“No.”
“The night before?”
“I don’t know, I don’t remember.”
“The night before that?”
“I don’t know specifically. We had an active sex life.”
“Is that why the Viagra?”
“Yes.” Pause. “But I didn’t need it.”
“Has any company ever made more money selling a drug that nobody claims to need?”
“Its just that…that…Hailey liked to keep going. The pill helped. She made me get it.”
“She made you? When was the last time you used the Viagra?”
“I don’t remember. Is it important? Why is this important?”
“Were you and Hailey fighting? Did you have any fights?”
“Some, sure. Everyone does. We did, too. About the usual things. She was fiery when we were fighting and then again when we made up.”
“Did you ever hit her?”
“No.”
“Did you hit her the night of her death?”
“No. Stop it. What are you saying?”
“There was a bruise on her cheek.”
“Maybe the killer—”
“Did you fight the night of her death? Did you hit her the night of her death?”
“No. Hit her? No. Never. Why would I do something like that?”
“Out of raw anger.”
“No.”
“Because she was sleeping with someone else. Because she was fucking someone else, Guy, and she wasn’t fucking you.”
He stared up at me, horrified and pained. “You’re wrong.”
“Am I?” I said.
Beth’s calm voice broke through the fierce flow of testosterone coursing through the room. “The coroner found semen traces in her vagina,” she said. “Such traces don’t last more than a day and half, two days maximum. The coroner swabbed out a sample and took a preliminary test. It doesn’t match your blood type, Guy. They’ll perform other tests, but that will only prove it more convincingly. Hailey Prouix was cheating on you.”
Guy didn’t say anything for a long time, nothing, and then he lied. “I didn’t know,” he said.
I stood over him for a moment longer before, ignoring Beth’s questing gaze, I turned and strolled back to the corner.
Guy’s head shook as if it were struggling to take in a new bolt of information. It was a treat, actually, to watch him work. He was dramatically sliding through the appropriate emotions like a ski racer sliding through the gates, first one, then the other. He was giving us an approximation of the emotional reaction of a man learning for the first time that his dead fiancée had been cheating on him, and a rather awkward one at that, except for the verisimilitude of the setting and situation. And then he glanced up at Beth, he glanced up as if to make sure that his emotional slalom run had been duly noted and admired, before saying:
“He did it.”
“Who?” asked Beth.
“The bastard who was doing her. You asked me who did it. I’m telling you right now. It was him. I have no doubt about it. She was staying with me, and he didn’t like it. He knew how to get in. Maybe she had even given him a key to the house. Maybe she had even shown him the gun. He did it. He did it, damn it. We have to find him. He’s a murderer. He killed Hailey.”
I stared at him with disgust, even as I thought the theory through. It wasn’t bad, it had promise. Guy had never been a legal scholar, but he was a trial lawyer himself and had always been a clever strategist. And now he had come up with a damn clever strategy. Just what I did not need.
“It’s a theory,” I said, “but there’s no evidence to support it.”
“Find the evidence. Find the bastard. He did it, I know it. Find him, and if you can’t find him, that doesn’t change a thing. He did it. That’s what I want you to argue, Victor. That’s what I want you to prove. That’s our theory.”
“Without proof it’s a loser,” I said.
“I don’t know,” said Beth. “It sounds pretty good to me.”
“If you make the lover the issue,” I said slowly, as if instructing a first-year Criminal Law class, “you just throw Guy’s motive in the jury’s face over and over and over. Every time you mention the lover, Guy’s reason to kill her becomes more evident. And of course, if we make the lover the issue, then Jefferson will put every resource into finding him. And if he does find him, and there’s an alibi, then you might as well check the guilty box on the verdict form yourself.”
“Guy, have you thought any more about the deal?” asked Beth.
“Some. Maybe I’ve been thinking about it a lot.”
“Don’t lose your nerve here, Guy,” I said.
“I can’t spend my life in here. It’s been only a week, and already I’m a wreck.”
“Don’t lose your nerve,” I repeated, ignoring Beth’s gaze.
“Okay.”
“Everything still looks solid,” I said.
“Okay, okay. I’m sticking with you, Victor. So when can I get out of here? When can I get a bail set?”
“That’s also what we came to talk about,” said Beth. “You remember, at arraignment, when the judge set no bail, she indicated that she might reconsider if we could come up with a complete financial profile so she could set a figure high enough to be sure to deter flight. To that end we began to examine your economic resources, using the authority you gave us when you signed those documents.”
“Then let’s get moving. If I have to spend another night in here, I don’t know if…” He stopped speaking. He clasped his hands tighter to stop the shaking.
“We found your account at Schwab.” Beth reached into her briefcase and took out a statement. “It was registered in your and Hailey’s names, as joint tenants, as you told us, and we wanted you to have a look at it and maybe explain some things to us.”
“Fine,” he said, holding his hand out for the statement.
“Before you look,” I said, “can we go over again why you and Hailey had a joint account?”
“We were committed to each other, Victor. That’s the way you do it when you’re going to spend the rest of your lives together. She had some money from a case, I had some money for me to live on after I left Leila, we put it together.”
“What case did she get the payment from?”
“I don’t know, some big medical malpractice case.”
“When did it settle?”
“Last year or something.”
“You don’t know the name?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Who was the defense attorney? He’ll know the name.”
“I don’t know who it was.”
“Didn’t you discuss it with her at all?”
“Sure. War stories, you know.”
“And you don’t know the name of the opposing counsel? Because when I tell my war stories to other lawyers, I always mention who was on the other side. It makes the tale of victory so much sweeter.”
“I don’t remember.”
“How much was in the account?”
“Maybe half a million.”
“Who had access to the money?”
“Hailey mainly. I let her deal with it. Didn’t we already go over this? Can I see the statements?”
“You said you fought with Hailey now and then about the usual things,” said Beth. “The most usual thing for couples to fight about is money. Did you ever fight with Hailey about the money in the account?”
“No. Maybe. I don’t remember. Maybe.”
There was a pause, which neither Beth nor I deigned to fill.
“Yes. Once. Or maybe more than once. There was some money missing. I called up the brokerage. I wanted to make a payment to Leila for the house without Hailey knowing. It was silly, but she had been complaining about having to sign checks for my wife, so I thought I’d wire some money right to the mortgage company to take care of a few months and everything would be fine. But I was surprised at the amount they said was available. It was less than I thought it should be, about half, actually. I asked Hailey about it. She told me it was none of my business, that she was taking care of it, that some of her investments hadn’t worked out.”
“Did anyone hear you fight?” asked Beth.
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Was it at home or in a public place?”
“Maybe a restaurant, I don’t know. I decided after to take some cash out of the account, just to be safe.”
“The cash you had in the suitcase?”
“That’s right. Can I see the statement?”
“Do you know a man named Juan Gonzalez?” I asked.
He stopped, made a show of searching through his memory. “The ballplayer?”
“No. Not the ballplayer. Someone else.”
“I don’t think so.”
“What about Hailey? Did she ever mention someone by that name?”
“No. Never heard of him. I would have remembered. The name rings no bell.” Pause. “Where did you hear it?”
“From your wife. She’s actually willing to put up the house for your bail. She still loves you.”
Guy didn�
��t respond, he merely shrugged, as if it were expected.
“She also said she had sued Hailey Prouix.”
“Yes,” said Guy. “Alienation of affection.”
“She said she thought that Hailey had all this money that made her worth suing, and as she said it the name Juan Gonzalez slipped out.”
“Well, as usual, when it comes to Leila, I have no idea what she’s talking about. Don’t take anything she says too seriously. Can I see my financial statement now?”
I stood there for a moment and then nodded. Beth handed it over. I watched carefully as he examined the document, watched him screw his face into puzzlement and scratch his head, watched his eyes shift from uncertainty to fear.
“What happened to the money? There’s nothing here.” His voice dropped from his normal swift confidence to something scared, to something desperate and caught, like a furry animal trapped in a corner discovering that its escape hole has been cemented shut. There was nothing of the deliberate sliding through the expected here, this was real and desolate and terrifying, and his whole body shook as his voice whined like a siren, “Where is my money? Where is it? Where?”
After the guard led him away, Beth and I sat quietly together in the conference room for a moment.
“Things grew a little heated there,” said Beth.
“It’s going to get more heated if he takes the stand. It was time for him to get a taste of what it will be like.”
“I had a dog once,” she said. “A bichon frisé, a pretty little white thing we called Pom Pom. I had begged so shamelessly for a dog for so long that my mother finally gave in. But she insisted Pom Pom stay in his little crate in the mud room whenever he wasn’t being walked on his leash. Pom Pom hated his crate, cried incessantly, whined and yipped and snapped at all of us whenever he was let out for brief reprieves. You could hear his moans all through the house. He had an eye condition common to the breed, so his eyes were surrounded with a red crust that only made his whining all the more pitiable. Then one day after school my mother picked me up in the car and held me tight and told me Pom Pom had been killed by a car.”
“Now, that’s hard.”
“No, it was a relief. I grew to hate that dog and his desperate whining. It made me feel guilty every time I looked at his red runny eyes behind the barred door of his crate.”
Fatal Flaw Page 10
