The Dead Daughter

by Thomas Fincham

  The accused was allowed access to legal counsel at any time, including anyone on his lawyer’s legal team. Roth introduced Callaway to the desk sergeant as a member from his firm.

  Before leaving, Roth warned him, “Don’t make me regret this.”

  Callaway had no intention of getting in the crosshairs of Evan Roth. He had his own share of problems to deal with and did not need another.

  Unlike regular visitors, Callaway did not have to go through a rigorous screening. The sergeant did, however, review the items Callaway had on him. He held up a camera and asked, “What’s this for?”

  “Well, I wish to take photos of the accused in case you rough him up,” Callaway quipped.

  The sergeant’s eyes hardened. Police brutality had always been an issue, and thanks to cell phone cameras, it was a hot topic. In this day and age, no police officer could so much as slap a suspect without some civilian bystander recording the act on a smartphone. But the officer had no reason to disallow Callaway’s camera, so he grunted and gave the camera back.

  Callaway was given a visitor’s pass and was made to sign a ledger. He was then escorted into a windowless room.

  When the door slammed shut behind him, Callaway immediately regretted coming here. The walls were painted dark gray, and over the years, grime had accumulated on them. The floor was rough and concrete. The table was metal, but it was covered in scratches.

  The room suddenly felt hot and stuffy. Perspiration broke out under Callaway’s collar, and he began to feel like he was suffocating.

  He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. It did not help that the space smelled of sweat and urine. He suddenly had the urge to run out of the room and never come back.

  He was relieved to hear the door open and see Paul Gardener come in. He was wearing an orange jumpsuit. His hands were shackled, and he had a day-old growth of beard on his cheeks. His eyes were raw. He must have been crying before they led him here, Callaway thought.

  Gardener sat down across from him, and the officer removed the cuffs around his wrists. The officer left the room before shutting the door behind him.

  Callaway stared at Gardener and suddenly felt overwhelming guilt. He could get up and leave at any time he wanted, while Paul had no choice. Whatever Callaway had felt coming to the Milton PD, Paul was feeling it ten times worse.

  “How are you, Paul?” Callaway finally asked.

  Paul rubbed his hands. “I’m good, I guess.”

  “You know why I’m here.”

  He nodded. “I forgot about it until I saw you just now. I’ve had an eventful day.”

  “I know.”

  They were silent a moment.

  Callaway said, “We don’t have to do this now. We can always do it later. But I figured I should show it to you. You did hire me for a job.”

  Paul sighed. “I’m not sure what use it has now. I’ve got bigger problems to deal with. Do you know they are charging me with murdering my own daughter?”

  “I heard,” Callaway replied.

  Paul lowered his head. “I would never hurt Kyla. She was my baby. I don’t even…”

  Callaway put his hand up to stop him. “I’m not your lawyer, Paul. Client-attorney privilege doesn’t come into play with me. If I am subpoenaed, I will have to disclose our discussion in court.”

  Paul nodded. “Okay, show me,” he said.

  Callaway pulled out the camera, turned it so Paul could see the LCD screen, and began to scroll through the photos.

  The pictures showed Sharon Gardener leaving the house and driving away in the middle of the night. They then showed her arriving at an apartment building. Two hours later, they showed her leaving the building with another man.

  Paul stared at the last image.

  “Do you know him?” Callaway asked.

  “No.”

  Callaway leaned forward. “I think it would be best if Evan Roth saw them.”

  “Why? What good would it do? I had a feeling my wife was being unfaithful, and I wanted to see proof of it. I thought it might help me in the divorce.” He shook his head. “That’s the least of my worries now.”

  “As a former deputy sheriff, I am familiar with how investigations go. The detectives will be getting statements from everyone who was at your house last night, which means you and your wife. And it might end up including me because I was also there. I don’t want to explain myself to them without you seeing what I found first.”

  Paul said nothing, but he still stared at the image. Callaway could not imagine what he must be going through. His daughter was dead, his wife was cheating on him, and he was stuck in a six-by-six cell. He looked like the loneliest person on the planet.

  “Just show it to your lawyer,” Callaway said. “It might mean nothing or it might mean everything.”

  SIXTEEN

  The District Attorney’s Office was located on the eighth floor of a government building, and like many government buildings, it was massive, imposing, and ugly. The office of the DA, however, was the polar opposite. It was spacious, colorfully decorated, and the windows did not have any drapes or shades, allowing natural light to flow in.

  District Attorney Judy Barrows was in her sixties. She had a wiry frame and deeply etched skin. Her teeth were stained yellow from many years of heavy smoking. Her eyes were small and narrow but were always focused and steady. During a cross-examination, if she had you in her gaze, you could not look away.

  Barrows had graduated with a Bachelor of Arts degree from Cornell University. She received her Juris Doctor from the University of Michigan Law School. When she moved to Milton, she took a job in the DA’s office, quickly moving up to become the Chief Deputy District Attorney until finally becoming the District Attorney a few years later. It was a position that was never held by a woman before her. She was currently serving her fifth term in office.

  During her years as a prosecutor, she worked on hundreds of cases, ranging from assault to sexual assault to child abuse to rape, and she was now focused on murder cases. She was a member of several boards, which included the Milton Rape Victims Advocates, the Milton Women’s Shelter, the Milton Bar Association, and she was the president of the State District Attorney’s Association.

  She was married for close to forty years. She had three adult children and five grandchildren.

  Holt and Fisher were seated across from her as she read the evidence against Paul Gardener. They did not utter a single word until she was finished. Barrows was cheerful when it came to her family, but she was brutal when it involved her work.

  She removed her reading glasses and leaned back in her ergonomic leather chair. She glared at Holt. “You should have spoken to me first before going in front of the cameras and giving a statement. I would have advised you against it.”

  Holt adjusted himself in his chair. He was not used to being scolded like a child, but those who dealt with Barrows had come to expect this.

  “The evidence was overwhelming…”

  “Was it?” she asked, cutting him off.

  “We found the suspect inside the house where the murder took place. We found blood on the suspect’s clothing. And we found a bloody knife in the suspect’s vehicle.”

  “Don’t you find it a little suspicious that the suspect left the victim’s body in her bedroom while he went to sleep in the guesthouse?”

  Holt opened his mouth but then shut it.

  “Don’t you find it even more suspicious that the suspect decided to leave the murder weapon in his vehicle rather than dispose of it someplace else?”

  Holt was quiet.

  “Now, as far as the blood on the clothing is concerned, the suspect may have not realized it was there.”

  After a brief moment of silence, Fisher spoke up. “Are you saying we don’t have a case?”

  “I’m not saying that, nor am I saying you shouldn’t have charged Mr. Gardener. The facts are what they are and you did your job. But I have to look at this case differently than you. I have to se
e if I can get a conviction. All the issues I just raised are ones the defense will raise as well.” She leaned on the desk. “We need to be prepared for this and for much more, especially now that Mr. Gardener has retained Evan Roth.”

  Holt now understood the prosecutor’s concerns. Roth was one of the most ruthless defense lawyers in the city. Barrows had had her share of battles with him, and she did not win them all.

  He could tell she did not want to lose this one either.

  She said, “If I know Roth, he will be seeking bail as soon as he gets in front of the judge.”

  “We can argue Gardener is a flight risk,” Holt said.

  “How?”

  “His family is worth millions. He’s got resources and connections. His father-in-law is a senator. Last year, he and his wife travelled to three countries.”

  “How do you know that?” Barrows asked.

  “During our search of the house, we found their passports, and from the entry and exit stamps, we discerned when and where they went.”

  “How does that assist us?”

  “We tell the judge that he has links to other countries.”

  Barrows thought a moment. “Where did they go last year?”

  Holt looked over at Fisher for assistance. Fisher squinted and said, “I think it was South Africa, the Cayman Islands, and Switzerland.”

  Barrows considered this. “If my memory serves me correct, all three of those countries have extradition treaties with the United States.”

  “But two of those countries are known for their lax banking policies.”

  Barrows shook her head. “It may not be enough to deny bail. Get me something I can take to the judge.”

  SEVENTEEN

  Callaway returned to the beach house feeling a little deflated. He had a duty to let his client know what he had found. What his client did with that information was up to him. Callaway always completed the job he was hired for. If he could not, or if he failed due to his own actions, he would refund the client’s money.

  That was the right thing to do.

  He never understood why he was always struggling for money, when over the years, he was fortunate enough to snag rich clients. But debts always followed him, and the debts were not all owed to financial institutions. Some of his loans had come from shady people, and they did not believe in installment payments, waiving interest, or loan forgiveness. What they wanted was the money, in cash and on time. Any deviation from those rules meant physical harm would come his way.

  Callaway always tried to pay off his debts. In some cases, he had no choice. But whenever he was clear of one debt, he somehow managed to take on another. Once, after completing a job for the wife of a politician, which resulted in a nice payday, Callaway was feeling good about himself. Instead of depositing the money in the bank like regular folks did, he decided to try his luck at the racetrack. He was only going to bet on one or two races. He did not, and he ended up wasting virtually all the money. Seeking to lick his wounds, he decided to get a drink at the racetrack bar. When he was in between shots of whiskey, he overheard a group of people at the next table talking about a guaranteed investment. They were bankers, and they knew a way to get a high rate of return in the stock market. Callaway, reeling from his latest self-inflicted financial loss, decided to invest with them. He wanted something that was secure and that would replenish his pockets. But there was a problem. Thanks to blowing his latest payday, he had no money to invest. So, he did what he always did whenever he needed a quick loan: went to individuals who had criminal records to borrow money.

  After he made his investment with the bankers, he felt he could pay these new debts back in no time. What he did not know at the time was that the FBI was already investigating the bankers for an alleged Ponzi scheme. A few days after Callaway handed the bankers the money, they were arrested. The money disappeared, probably to some numbered account in the islands, and with it, his hope of ever getting the money back and the return he was promised.

  He then spent the next several months taking on any job that came his way, no matter how menial. If someone wanted him to find their lost pet, he did it. Anything to pay back the loan he had taken.

  Paul Gardener was a good client. He said he had found him through an online search. Callaway believed him. Paul gave him the first installment of his pay without asking too many questions. All he wanted was evidence that his wife was cheating on him.

  Callaway was hoping he would spend a week or two trailing Paul’s wife. The billable hours would have racked up to some serious cash.

  Callaway had no opinion on Paul’s current predicament. Whether he was guilty or not was to be determined in court, not by him.

  Callaway just did not want to be caught in the middle. That was all he wanted.

  If any fingers pointed in his direction, he could always plead the Fifth. He did not hear anything, he did not know anything. He was just an innocent bystander somehow caught up in the mess.

  He sighed.

  With the Gardener job over, he would have to find more work.

  He checked his phone and realized there was a message for him. He frowned when he saw who it was from. On any other day, he would have ignored the message or deleted it, but today was not that day.

  He dialed the number.

  EIGHTEEN

  A court-appointed officer was standing by the Gardener residence’s front door when Holt and Fisher drove up. The officer’s duty was to make sure the detectives did not tamper with something that might turn out to be evidence. There had been cases of detectives returning to the scene of a crime and planting evidence favorable to the prosecution. The chance of this occurring on a regular basis was rare, almost never, but even one time could taint the entire legal system. A suspect was entitled to due process that should be fair and impartial.

  Holt and Fisher signed a piece of paper, and the officer held the front door open for them. They pulled on latex gloves and began the arduous task of combing through the house, looking for clues.

  They could not split up because there was only one officer at the scene. They had to work in tandem as they first went through the guesthouse and then the kitchen where the murder weapon was taken from. They then moved to the bedroom where Kyla Gardener’s body was discovered.

  The two detectives were not sure what they were looking for, but they would know it once they saw it.

  Half an hour later, they had come up empty. Anything that was of use had already been tagged, photographed, and taken as evidence. Even Paul Gardener’s Audi had been towed to a police facility in order to be stripped for further clues.

  Holt pulled off his gloves. “This was a waste of time,” he grumbled.

  Fisher said, “We still haven’t checked the office.”

  “And what do you expect to find in there?”

  “I don’t know, but we should take a look.”

  “You do that while I go sit down.”

  He saw the officer staring in his direction. There was no way Holt could be in the living room while Fisher was in the office. “Fine,” Holt huffed. “But make it quick.”

  Fisher went through the room. Holt looked on, his arms crossed over his chest, feeling a slow burn of impatience. The officer stood next to him, keeping his eyes on Fisher as she pulled open the drawers, ruffled through the documents inside, then moved on. She picked up a couple of envelopes, and after taking a quick look, she put them away. She opened a couple of Bankers Boxes, but all she saw were invoices and statements related to Gardener’s business.

  “You done? Can we go now?” Holt asked. He was normally very methodical on the job, but when he became disinterested, he was prone to childish exasperation.

  Fisher was about to leave when something caught her eye. She moved to the bookshelf in the corner. A yellow piece of paper was stuck between two hardcover books. She pulled the paper out and unfolded it.

  A smile crossed her face when she saw what it was. She turned and held the paper out for Holt to
see. He examined the printed words and said, “It might just do. Good job, Fisher.”

  She informed the officer of their intentions. The officer pulled out a Ziploc bag, placed the document inside, and made a note of the discovery for the record.

  NINETEEN

  Roth stared at Judy Barrows. He found her intimidating, but he kept his feelings hidden. Barrows’ courtroom exploits were well-known among the legal community, and even if you had not seen her in action, you had heard of her.

  Roth had won a few cases against her, but it still did not diminish the effect she had on him. She was relentless, determined, and tough as nails. If you did not bring your A game, she would eat you alive.

  There were too many lawyers whose careers were tarnished or destroyed by Barrows. They made the fatal mistake of underestimating her. They viewed this small woman as a pushover. What they got was an onslaught of legal expertise.

  Roth was determined never to make that mistake. In fact, if he could avoid going to battle with her, he would. So, when she called him to discuss the Gardener case, he rushed over.

  “Thank you for coming at such a short notice,” she said.

  They were seated across from one another on small sofas. They looked like two colleagues having a casual conversation. She had offered him coffee, and he had declined.

  “It’s no trouble,” he replied. “I’m more than happy to oblige.”

  She smiled, but it was not affectionate. “I thought it was better that we meet first before we get fully invested in the case.”

  “I agree.”

  “I am going to ask the judge to deny bail,” she said, quickly getting to the point.

  Roth was not the least bit surprised. This was a tactic used by most prosecutors in order to apply pressure on the accused. The longer they were locked up, the more they were willing to cut a deal, even if that deal sent them back to prison, albeit for a shorter period of time.

  “On what basis?” he asked.

  “Your client is a successful businessman.”

  “All the more reason for him not to be a flight risk,” Roth countered. “He wouldn’t leave behind everything he’s worked so hard for.”