Most Wanted

by Lisa Scottoline

Christine breathed easier. “Right, okay, so how does Homestead get a copy?”

  “I serve it on them.”

  “Does that mean you mail it?”

  “Yes. I mail it to their lawyer. He’s agreed to accept service.”

  “Do you send a copy to Zachary Jeffcoat?”

  “No. He’s not a party.”

  “Does Homestead send a copy to Zachary Jeffcoat?”

  “No, I doubt it. As I say, he’s not a party.”

  Christine breathed a relieved sigh. “So Zachary won’t necessarily know that a lawsuit is being filed that involves him?”

  “Correct, but let’s be precise. As a legal matter, our lawsuit doesn’t involve Zachary Jeffcoat. It involves only his donation. I doubt Homestead will notify him about the lawsuit.”

  “Why? They know, because of us, that Zachary is Donor 3319, and therefore they know he’s in Graterford. Why don’t they mail him papers?”

  “They have no reason to. If this were a case in which Jeffcoat’s donation was tainted or carried a disease, for example, if he carried Tay-Sachs or some other illness, then I could see them notifying him. But there’s no regs or laws that require that. That’s part of the problem we’re dealing with in our lawsuit, the absence of laws in this area.” Gary snorted. “They’re hoisted on their own petards.”

  “So they wouldn’t have any reason to notify him?”

  “No. Besides, the only other reason parties to litigation reach out is to join others as codefendants or to seek indemnification against them for damages. In other words, to get money out of them. Homestead doesn’t need to do that with Jeffcoat. It and its parent company have a deep pocket, and I’m sure Jeffcoat is judgment-proof.”

  “What does judgment-proof mean?”

  “Broke. So I doubt they’ll let him know. Why are you asking?”

  Christine decided to come clean. “I’m back in Pennsylvania, working as a paralegal on Zachary’s defense.”

  “For real?” Gary asked, surprised. “But you’re a teacher.”

  “Never underestimate the power of a teacher.”

  “I’m not, but you’re not trained in legal research.”

  “I’m not doing legal research, I’m doing factual research. It’s common sense. Your wife is a paralegal, isn’t she? Did she go to paralegal school?”

  “No, she didn’t. I trained her.”

  “Same here. The lawyer is training me.”

  “This Griff guy?” Gary chuckled softly. “Oh, man. But Griff doesn’t know why you’re really there. I get it, now.”

  “Yes, and I was wondering how much time I had before my cover was blown.”

  “You have time.” Gary chuckled softly again. “I’m going to be in trouble with your husband, aren’t I?”

  “I’m your client, too,” Christine shot back, firm. “Last question. This doesn’t hurt our lawsuit in any way, does it?”

  “No, it doesn’t.”

  “I’m just engaging in self-help, like you said.”

  “I created a monster.”

  “No, it’s not on you, it’s on me.” Christine felt the conviction in her words as she drove into town. “The more I learn about this case, the more I doubt that Zachary’s really a serial killer.”

  “What does Marcus say?”

  “He’s not happy.”

  “But he knows where you are, you told him?”

  “Yes, I asked him to come, and he said no. I know what I’m doing and I know why I’m doing it. I don’t have to justify it to anybody.”

  “Okay, relax, I understand.” Gary’s voice softened. “You and Marcus are in a tough position. I don’t want to get in the middle. My only word of caution is that Jeffcoat could be manipulating you. He’s desperate right now, desperate to get anybody to help him, listen to him, or champion his defense. Don’t be his sucker.”

  “I won’t,” Christine said, more confidently than she felt.

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  “I brought you some carbohydrates,” Christine said, leading with her pizza box as she entered the lawyer’s office, which was dark. Night had fallen outside the window, and his desk lamp had an old-fashioned green glass shade, which glowed in a homey, throwback way.

  “Trying to get on my good side?” Griff looked up from his cluttered desk, his eyes pinkish with strain and his eyelids heavy behind his tortoiseshell glasses, which needed cleaning again. The sleeves of his oxford shirt were ringed with wrinkles, and his bow tie angled on a slant, like a stopped airplane propeller.

  “Hoping for a raise.”

  “Good luck. Though we did get paid.”

  “Really, how?” Christine cleared a space on the desk for the brown bag containing sodas, napkins, and plates, and the pizza, which wreathed the air with delicious tomato-and-mozzarella smells.

  “The girlfriend dropped it off.”

  “Did you meet her?” Christine asked, intrigued.

  “No. It came in while I was out. She left it at the front desk. They take hand-deliveries for me.” Griff dug through the papers on his desk, which was messier than before, and produced a white envelope.

  “Can I see?”

  “Here.” Griff handed her the envelope, which read F.X. Griffith, Esq., on the front, in handwriting. She opened it up and looked inside to see a cashier’s check made out to F.X. Griffith, Esq., for $2,500.

  “A cashier’s check?” Christine said, surprised. “Did you ask her for this, as opposed to a personal check?”

  “No.” Griff slid off his glasses, set them aside, and rubbed his eyes, then tugged the pizza box toward him. He opened the box, raising an unruly white eyebrow. “You ate three pieces? Sheesh. You can really pack it in.”

  “Thanks.” Christine didn’t explain that she was eating for two, or that it was an excellent excuse. She set the check on the desk and sat down in one of the chairs.

  “My wife ate like a pig, too.”

  Christine ignored the “pig” part since he said it with affection. Kind of. “You didn’t mention a wife.”

  “She’s dead,” Griff said matter-of-factly. “Five years ago. Pancreatic cancer.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. She’s in a better place, if you can imagine a better place than living with me.” Griff took out a gooey slice of pizza, and before she could stop him, he turned over one of the legal pads and plopped the slice on its cardboard back, using the pad for a plate.

  “Griff, there’s a paper plate in the bag.”

  “This is fine.”

  “Napkins are in the bag, too, and a can of Coke.”

  “You got kids?” Griff took a bite, chewing noisily.

  “None, yet.” Christine felt her face flush, but Griff seemed not to notice, tearing into his pizza. Grease covered his lips almost immediately, but she didn’t remind him about the napkins. “You?”

  “Six. Three girls, three boys, twenty-one grandkids. You’re married, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.” Christine shifted forward in the seat, wanting to change the subject. “So I learned a lot tonight, and I want to fill you in. You can let me know if it helps the case.”

  “Good.” Griff finally wiped his mouth. “You talk, so I can eat.”

  Christine complied, telling him about the flip-flops and cigarette lighter, then that Linda Kent’s neighbor had seen Zachary at Robinbrecht’s on the Thursday before the murder. By the time she was finished, Griff was sipping his Coke, having gone through three slices of plain pizza and nine napkins, crumpled on top of his desk like greasy origami.

  Christine asked, “So what do you think?”

  “I think the pizza didn’t have enough cheese.” Griff sniffed. “Next time get double cheese.”

  “I mean about what I found out. On balance, I think it helps us because it suggests that there was another person who might have done it.” Christine’s thoughts were racing. “And the cigarette lighter and the flip-flops show that Mrs. Kent could have let somebody into her apartment, somebody who ki
lled her then carried her downstairs. What if that person was Gail’s killer? That’s very possible.”

  “True.” Griff set down his Coke can.

  “Is this where you say, ‘Good work’?”

  “No, I never say that,” Griff answered, deadpan.

  Christine chuckled. “You would be a bad teacher.”

  “Luckily, I’m an excellent lawyer.” Griff blinked, eyeing Christine. “And you’re ignoring the fact that Jeffcoat lied to you about when he met Gail for the first time. The police now have a neighbor, an eyewitness, who placed him there earlier.”

  “Maybe the neighbor was mistaken. They say eyewitness identifications aren’t as reliable as everybody used to think. I know I read that in an article, somewhere.”

  “True, those articles come from cases that hold eyewitness identification as being unreliable in situations that are stressful, such as when somebody robs a bank and people at the bank were asked to describe the perpetrator. Those cases support the proposition that people do not make reliable eyewitness identifications when they are emotional or stressed.” Griff wiped his mouth. “That’s not the situation with the neighbor. You’re describing to me a woman who goes to put out the trash in her backyard. She looks up because she sees a handsome man calling on her neighbor. In addition, it sounds like the lighting was good. Interior lighting is a factor, as opposed to exterior or outside lighting, like from a streetlamp or moonlight.”

  Christine swallowed hard. “Maybe Zachary didn’t lie, maybe he just misunderstood me. Or maybe he lied because he didn’t know me that well. I wasn’t working for his defense then. He’d just met me that day. Plus—”

  “You’re making excuses for him.” Griff’s aged gaze bored into Christine.

  “I’m keeping an open mind.”

  “No, you’re disregarding facts that inculpate Jeffcoat, that is, bad facts that point the finger of blame at him, and you’re emphasizing facts that exculpate him, in other words, good facts that get him off the hook.”

  “No I’m not,” Christine said, though she wondered if he was right.

  “You believe he’s innocent.”

  “Yes, I do,” Christine answered, meaning it. “I’m not absolutely sure, but I do think he’s innocent.”

  Griff lifted a furry white eyebrow. “I would fire you if you weren’t working for free.”

  “Why?” Christine asked, surprised. “We’re his legal team, we’re supposed to believe in his innocence.”

  “No, that’s only in movies and TV. Unrealistic ones, at that.” Griff leaned forward, placing his elbows on the desk. “Jeffcoat does not need our subjective belief, one way or the other, yea or nay. Our job is to get him acquitted. The only way to do that is to be completely objective about the facts as we learn them. That’s how we put ourselves in the shoes of the jury, and before that, the district attorney, the FBI, and the prosecutors in Virginia and Maryland.”

  Christine didn’t interrupt Griff because he was on a roll, his gray eyes flashing with a conviction that she sensed had been dormant for a long time.

  “If you understand the persuasive weight of the facts against your client, then you can think of an effective argument to meet them. If you don’t give the bad facts the weight they truly deserve, then you will never be able to convince the person who does.”

  “Okay.” Christine felt as if she’d just heard why Griff could be good in front of a jury. She rose, coming around the desk to see his notes, which were a mess. “You know, it wouldn’t take me very long to read these and organize them. Then we could share the information.”

  “My old paralegal used to say the same thing.”

  “Where is she now?” Christine started gathering up the pads.

  “She died.”

  “Sorry.” Christine let it go, pointing at the stack of accordions that weren’t there earlier. “What are those?”

  “Legal research. Relevant cases I pulled out from my files in the back.”

  “What back?”

  “There.” Griff gestured vaguely to a side door. “That’s where I keep my case files. In the old days I had this whole floor, but since I scaled back, I don’t need it.”

  “Let me see.”

  “Don’t go snooping back there.”

  “It’ll just take a minute.” Christine went to the side door, opening it onto a dark corridor, which ended in a back door. She flipped on the light, illuminating a wall of boxes on the left-hand side of the hallway, and on the right, she spotted something that gladdened her heart. “Is that a bulletin board?”

  “What did you say?” Griff called from his desk, but Christine was already tugging the bulletin board from behind some old foamcore trial exhibits. She dragged it out of the hallway and into the office. Nobody could set up a bulletin board like a teacher, and she was getting a second wind.

  Griff groaned. “What are you doing?”

  “Organizing us.” Christine rested the bulletin board on the side wall, which was bare. “What did you use this for?”

  “My secretary liked to keep track of me. My calendar was up there, and a calendar from my associate, back in the day.”

  “You had an associate?”

  “Yes. His name was Tom, I forget his last name. He was short. I called him Tom Thumb.”

  Christine let it go. “Do you have any paper towels?”

  “No, why?”

  Christine blew dust off the top of the bulletin board. “That’s why. Please hand me some napkins.”

  “Why are you doing this?” Griff handed over the napkins.

  “We need a bulletin board for the case. One place where all the facts can be collected, maybe a map so we can plot where the three murders occurred, as well as the date and time.” Christine wiped dust from the bulletin board. “We need a list of the facts, like you said, the good facts and the bad facts, so that we can analyze them objectively. We need a chronology of the case, so we can fill in the facts.”

  Griff rolled his eyes. “You want a war room. Maps with little flags, like on TV.”

  “Yes, but they exist in real life, don’t they? Didn’t you used to have a war room?”

  “War rooms are for lawyers who have an army. I only had me.”

  “What about Tom Thumb?”

  “He lasted six months.”

  “He quit?”

  “He died.”

  Christine wondered if it was suicide. “You don’t play well with others, Griff.”

  “Don’t try and change me. Women always try to change men. It never works.”

  “I’m not trying to change you. I’m trying to work with you.” Christine tossed the dirty napkins into the trash can. “I still don’t have most of the important facts of the case.”

  “But I do.”

  “Where?”

  “In my head.” Griff pointed to his fluffy gray temple.

  “But I need to know things, too. We need to communicate.” Christine shot him a look. “Can you get me another napkin? We’re a team.”

  “I’ll know more after tomorrow.” Griff leaned over the desk, got a napkin, and handed it over. “I’m meeting with the detectives from Maryland and Virginia.”

  “When did that happen?” Christine wiped down the sides of the bulletin board.

  “I set it up on the phone, while you were out. Must I account to you?”

  “You have to inform me, not account to me.”

  “A distinction without a difference.” Griff sniffed. “They’ll be here tomorrow. Maybe the FBI, too, but I’ll know better tomorrow morning.”

  “Should I meet them with you? It sounds interesting, but I’m not sure it’s the best use of my time.”

  “It isn’t. No sense in our duplicating effort. You should continue factual investigation. I can’t get around as easy as you, with my bunions.”

  “Okay.” Christine felt pleased that he seemed to be thinking about their working together. “I was thinking I’d go back to Zachary and talk to him about when he first met Robin
brecht, see why he lied. What do you think about that?”

  “Do it. See him after the crime scene. Ask him any questions you come up with. See if you can find out if he lied. But only tell me good things.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “When were you born? Yesterday?” Griff sighed theatrically. “If I know he lied, I can’t put him on the stand. Lawyers can’t lie, officially. Only Congress.”

  “Okay.” Christine understood what he was saying. He wanted deniability.

  “After that, pop over to his apartment in Exton. The landlord was expecting me at noon, but you go instead. Snoop around.”

  “Wow, okay.” Christine hadn’t thought she’d get to see inside Zachary’s apartment. She liked the idea, even if she didn’t learn anything about the case. The more she knew about him, the better. “Where does he live?”

  “I wrote down the address somewhere.” Griff gestured at his messy desk.

  “See? That’s why we need the bulletin board.” Christine bubbled over, only half-kidding. “Organization! Communication! Sharing! Cooperation!”

  “Go, team, go.” Griff scowled.

  “Ha!” Christine set the bulletin board against the wall. She’d need to buy tools to hang it up, plus office supplies, paper towels, Fantastic, and Windex. “Is there a Staples around here?”

  “God knows.”

  “Why don’t you look on the Internet? Oh, wait. You don’t believe in progress.” Christine smiled to herself.

  “You’re making me tired.” Griff rubbed his forehead, leaving pinkish marks.

  “So go home, let me take over. Where do you live anyway?”

  “None of your business. Go.”

  “But I’m not tired.” Christine would have been exhausted at home, but fatigue hadn’t hit, maybe because so much was at stake. She was curious, and her curiosity led her where it always did, to books. She crossed to the bookshelves and scanned the bound lawbooks, blue volumes with gold numbers, which read ATLANTIC REPORTER, SECOND SERIES.

  “What are you doing now?” Griff asked, wearily, leaning against the desk.

  “I wish I knew more about criminal law.”

  “Leave the law to me.”

  “It would help if I knew the basics, too.” Christine pulled a book off the shelf.