by M. K. York
When he finally pulled back, Mark stretched after him for a second, before his eyes snapped open and he grinned lopsidedly.
“I better be lucky tomorrow,” Mark muttered, making no move to leave the alley.
“Better to be lucky than good.”
“Is that a saying? It sounds like a saying.”
“I heard it around. Shouldn’t you get moving?”
“Should I? I probably should.” Mark sighed, squared his shoulders and turned back to the main street. “Walk me to the door. You’re a lot bigger than me, and I don’t want to get mugged for my coffee.”
“It would be for your watch.”
“This thing? It’s not one of the fancy ones!”
“You say it’s not fancy. It looks fancy to me.”
“I mean, it’s like, low-grade fancy. I am not impressing any of the other attorneys with this thing.”
Lukas let his fingers drift over the watch, brushing Mark’s wrist under it, and Mark took a deep breath.
“You know I need to be focused tomorrow,” Mark said quietly.
“Why do you think I’m playing nice?”
Mark choked on a laugh. “This is you playing nice? Jesus Christ, you’re going to kill me.”
“I hope not. I don’t want to be back in a courtroom like that anytime soon.”
“What’s going on?”
“Look, I was out in the hall with Katie all morning.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. And I talked to her. I think—come over tomorrow night, we’ll talk about it, okay?”
“Yeah. Okay. I will.” Mark was grinning at him, dodging the other pedestrians neatly on the slick sidewalk.
When he dropped Mark off at the building, he couldn’t stop smiling. The whole ride back from the grungy little parking lot where he’d stashed his car, at an exorbitant rate, he just kept humming to himself. He’d talked to Katie; he’d said, this is all purely hypothetical, and she’d winked and said, sure, and he’d asked about what the procedure was if one of the PIs in the pool wanted to ask out one of the attorneys.
“I mean,” he’d said, “does that disqualify you from the pool?”
“Oh, honey, no.” Katie raised her eyebrows in surprise. “Not at all. We just don’t call you in for that attorney’s cases. Not anymore,” she added, a smile twitching at the corner of her mouth. He rolled his eyes and tried very hard to pretend that he couldn’t feel his face getting hot.
So he was in a great mood when he got home—the best fucking kind of mood he could imagine. No more tiptoeing around rules, no more of Mark’s crisis of faith or whatever it was that had him envisioning licentious cross-examinations. The case would be wrapped up pretty well by Friday night, and if not that, Monday. He could wait a couple more days. The rain was picking up, a brisk wind carrying it.
He walked into his apartment and started peeling out of his suit (thank God for layers; he’d sweated like crazy but his suit was fine). He was down to his T-shirt and boxers when there was a knock.
It couldn’t be—Mark would have had to leave immediately after they’d talked, and Mark had to be with Lena, making sure they were set for Friday. It couldn’t be, but he felt his heart in his throat when he checked the peephole.
“Frank?” He slid back the bolt and opened the door in confusion. “What’s up, man?”
“Dude, it is wet out there. Fucking springtime, am I right? Can I come in?”
“Yeah, man, come in.” It wasn’t until Lukas had stepped back and Frank had come in, wiping muddy boots on the carpet, that Lukas remembered with abrupt clarity that Frank was implicated. But Frank couldn’t know that Lukas knew; they’d never talked about it, there was no reason for Frank to know anything about Lukas’s investigation.
Unless—Lukas’s blood ran cold. Unless someone in the courtroom had passed information along.
“What’s up?” Lukas asked again. “You okay? Tiff kick you out?”
“What? No, me and Tiff are on the outs again. She’s staying with her mom.”
“So what’s going on?”
Frank rubbed the back of his neck, staring blankly around the apartment. There was only the one light on—the shitty one next to the couch—and it gave the whole thing an eerie, dark cast.
“Can’t a guy just come by to shoot the shit?”
“Yeah, sure,” said Lukas slowly. “You want a beer? I got some in the fridge.”
“Yeah, that’d be great.”
Lukas went into the kitchen and, as he was pulling out the beers, texted Mark: Frank here.
It wasn’t much, but if he got murdered, well, that would be a hell of a breadcrumb. Even though it would open up Mark’s entire text message history as evidence, which—he tried frantically to remember if he’d ever texted anything inappropriate and then gave up. If Frank killed him, Mark could damn well deal with a little inconvenience to nail the bastard.
And the thing was, it was Frank. Frank was a jackass, but he’d never been the kind of guy to get into a fight. He’d never hit Tiff—he wasn’t great to her, sure, but she was a piece of work too. Lukas just couldn’t imagine Frank, of all people, getting violent. Not standing in his living room, drinking a beer, a place they’d been dozens of times to watch games or eat pizza or put furniture together.
God, no wonder his friendships weren’t as rewarding as he’d realized they could be. Talking to Mark was better in so many ways. Mark didn’t give a shit about what the guys would think about something, unless it was for Lukas’s sake.
His mind was buzzing, a million miles a second, as he came back out with the beers. Frank was still standing, and he took it and drank, looking around, fidgety.
“Big day, right, man?”
“Yeah, I was in court today.”
“How you holding up?”
“Okay. It was weird.”
“You been in court before, though, right?”
“Yeah, but smaller things. Not so many people.”
“Man, here’s the thing.” Frank was inspecting the bottle like it held the secrets of the universe. “I’m starting to get a little worried about you.”
“What, worried about me? How?”
“I hear you were talking some shit.” He lifted his head and his gaze met Lukas’s, square on. For the first time, Lukas felt like he was really seeing Frank. And what he saw was chilling. “Heard you were calling some guy a drug dealer.”
“Huh.” Lukas’s mouth had gone bone-dry. He put his tongue into the front of his mouth, slowly running it across the front of his upper teeth, with his lips closed.
“You still got your dad’s gun?” Frank’s eyes were glittering.
“Yeah,” said Lukas slowly. “I do.”
“Better keep it handy, man. I’m not here to tell you shit, you understand? But I’m here because I’m your friend, and I care about you. You need to get your shit together.”
“Thanks.” Lukas was vividly aware that he was in his damn boxers. No pockets. No weapons. Nothing, if Frank decided to do something stupid.
And then Frank—didn’t. He just downed the rest of the beer in one go and set it on the rickety table next to the couch. Lukas stared at the amber glass.
“I better get going. Just wanted to make sure you heard me.” Frank raised his eyebrows. “Really heard me, man, you know?”
“Yeah. I hear you.”
“Okay. Take care, buddy.” Frank threw a half-assed salute over his shoulder as he pushed out the door.
Lukas made himself stand in the middle of the floor to the count of ten before he lunged for the door and did up all the locks.
Mark had texted back half a dozen times, increasingly frantic. What the fuck? What’s he doing there? Are you OK? oh my god did he murder you. Call me. I’m telling Lena.
He texted back, I’m ok. he just left. said he heard about court today, warned me I’m not safe.
And he texted for a reason: he wanted that shit on the record, forever.
The phone rang immediately. �
�What the fuck do you mean he said you’re not safe? Was that a threat? You should call the cops. This is bullshit.”
“I don’t want to call the cops. He might just—he might have heard something that got garbled and wanted to warn me. He might not know what he’s even trying to warn me about.”
“That is scary as shit! You should call the fucking cops!”
“And report, what?” Lukas sighed heavily, leaning against the half wall between the front door and the kitchen. “What, exactly, happened? I don’t think I could file a report without sounding like a freak.”
“Yeah, and then when they find you dead they know exactly who to prosecute!”
“They already know,” Lukas pointed out. “I texted you, there’s a record now.”
“Oh, you texted me. Great. Great! Love it. Foolproof fucking plan! Because I’m definitely the cops, with a shit ton of resources at my disposal to ensure the safety of the citizenry—oh, wait, I’m not, I’m just some fuckass public defender.” Mark’s voice got distant. “Lena! Can you tell our investigator he’s being a fucking moron jackass?”
Lena’s response was unintelligible, but whatever it was, Mark’s voice came back to the phone. “Fine. She’s copping out. No, that’s exactly what you’re doing! Anyway, if you don’t want to call the police, you should stay somewhere else.”
“I don’t think it’s that big a deal. I think it’s fine,” Lukas argued, around the uncomfortable sensation in his stomach, the burning aftermath of real fear.
“Look. Goddamn it. Come in to court tomorrow, okay? Just...just so I know where you are.”
So he’d know Lukas was safe. Lukas felt himself starting to smile. “You know, funny thing, I cleared my schedule for it anyway. I wanted to see you crush them.”
“Oh.” Mark paused, clearing his throat. “Okay. That works. I’ll—I’ll see you then.”
“You betcha.”
“I’m going to text again tonight to ask if Frank came back to murder you.”
“That’s fine.”
They hung up, and Lukas grinned into the shadows of his apartment, obscurely comforted.
He was in bed when Mark texted, Dead yet?
no, I’m fine
Small favors. No dying
I’ll try not to
Good
But, for the first time in a long time—the first time ever, actually—he had his father’s gun tucked under his pillow, loaded, and his hand near it.
Chapter Twenty-Four
If the courtroom had been full the day before, it felt like it was packed to the rafters when Lukas managed to get a seat that morning.
He’d seen Beatrice in the hallway on his way in—had thrown her a little wave and a smile. She’d grinned back, waving big, and then the tide of people had carried him past her.
Now that he wasn’t a witness anymore (probably), he could really appreciate how amazingly tacky the entire courtroom was. The whole thing had the air of a room designed to feel grand without actually being grand. The judge’s high seat, the robes, it all felt like theater. The ugly fluorescent lights overhead threw a pitiless, brilliant light over everyone below. There was Gina, next to Mark at their table, the pearl of irritation that this whole trial revolved around—not a hypothetical cipher but a real, living person, face shining with sweat. She was pale as a ghost.
He craned his neck, peering around, and realized with a shock that Ron Williams was there in the gallery too. Well—he was technically on the witness list still, but did he think they were done with him? Was that why he was back? Was it to see Bea, figure out how fucked he was?
They went through the “All rise” rigmarole of starting the day. It turned out their first fucking witness was Bea, which—okay, great, way to start off with a bang.
She ambled up to the witness stand. She didn’t look around, didn’t make eye contact with Williams. Just smiled big as they swore her in.
Lena interviewed Bea, and she didn’t waste much time. She established the facts of how long they’d been married, Bea had known a little about the business but not much. “Mrs. Williams,” she said, in that pleasant, calm voice she’d been savagely torpedoing the prosecution with at every opportunity, “can you please tell the court whether your former husband ever threatened you?”
So Bea told the story. Simple, plain terms, no histrionics. Just the facts, ma’am. And all hell broke loose.
From the way the jury reacted, Lukas had no doubt they were cruising for an acquittal now, easy. Dauer would have to say she was lying—of course he would say that—but Bea’s story hit too close to home.
“Were you aware of the circumstances of Mr. Kupfer’s death at the time you initially described these threats to our investigator?”
“No, I thought he died in the fire.”
“Are you certain that your ex-husband still has your pills?”
“Well, not anymore, if he’s smart,” Bea said flatly. There was a rush of suppressed shocked chuckles. “But he did when I moved out. That’s all I can speak to.”
Lena dug into more of the gory details. Eventually she said, “Do you think that your statement is credible, considering that you admit to a less than amicable divorce from your former husband?”
“I should hope so. I don’t have so much as a speeding ticket on my record. I was with Ron for long enough to know him pretty well. And I’m telling the truth, which I hope helps.” Again there was a little stir among the gallery and the jury.
Trying to sabotage Dauer by acknowledging the tack he’d have to take. They’d see if it worked.
By the time that was all settled—and my God, if he’d thought Lena was savage, how much worse was Dauer? He had Bea in tears after a thorough reckoning for every alcoholic drink she’d ever consumed and every cold word she’d ever said—it was lunchtime, and Lukas felt his back twinge as he stood up. He’d been leaning forward, forgetting to move or stretch.
Mark and Lena were talking in hushed voices down at the front. Lukas was hungry. He could grab some food.
*
“Lena,” said Mark urgently, “I’m telling you, I don’t know what I’m going to get, if they come by with an offer—”
“And I’m telling you, there isn’t going to be an offer.”
Gina was almost in tears. “I can’t believe it! I can’t believe he did it!”
“I know. I’m sorry, that was a shock.” Lena patted Gina’s shoulder gently. They hadn’t told her much about what to expect; her face when Bea told the story had been a piece of propaganda, campaign art. She’d crumpled into herself, staring in shock at Bea, and then turning in unfeigned horror to stare right at Ron Williams. They’d warned Williams that he might be recalled, and he could have picked between sitting in the hall and sitting in the gallery. And that cocky son of a bitch had picked the gallery, where he could glare at his ex-wife. He’d paid for it, when the jury all turned in unison with Gina to see his face, white with rage.
Gina’s innocence would have been charming naïveté in someone half her age. As it was, it came across as kind of pathetic. Mark didn’t have any grandiose ideas about what her life was going to be like if they got her off—she was going to go right back to making the same shitty decisions that she’d made before, that had made her so desperately unhappy. But she’d be free, rightfully free.
“I can’t believe it,” she whispered, mumbling to the tabletop.
Mark and Lena went back to talking.
Chapter Twenty-Five
When Lukas came back in from lunch—a little early, so he could make sure he got his seat on the uncomfortable wooden benches—Ron Williams was already back, furiously tapping away on his phone. He was sitting halfway across the gallery, too far to talk, which was a good thing.
Once court resumed for the afternoon, the first witness the defense called was Ron Williams.
His head went up. Maybe he really hadn’t been expecting them to recall him. Which seemed stupid as hell, if that was true, because Lukas had seen the pla
y laid out right in front of him from the minute Bea started talking. You had to make Ron own up to it or deny it. Either way, he’d get purple, the veins would start bulging. This nice-guy act would only go so far. After what Bea had described, and the look on Ron’s face earlier, Lukas would have bet money that Ron wouldn’t handle being examined by the defense well at all.
He stood up—the people around him all but flinching away—and marched to the witness stand.
Mark stood up to question Williams. Lukas leaned forward again, watching him with fascination. Mark looked so cool, totally unruffled, when Lukas knew for a fact (because Mark had texted him about it, with sad emojis) that he’d been in the bathroom before the morning session, thinking real hard about throwing up.
“Mr. Williams,” said Mark. Serious, thoughtful. “You’ve heard what your former wife had to say about the threats you made against her. Are you familiar with the evidence entered by the prosecution from the medical examiner that pertains to the cause of Mr. Kupfer’s death?”
A good sentence to get tangled in, and Ron Williams already looked pissed. “No, I am not familiar.” Which was probably a lie. Fine. Get him good and riled.
Mark flipped open the folder he was carrying. “Would you please read the highlighted portion?”
It was the section about acute liver failure. Valium. Grain alcohol. Suffocation. Ron Williams’s face got progressively more pinched as he read, and he read faster and faster, mumbling by the end. Mark made him stop and repeat himself. That clearly pissed him off even worse.
“Mr. Williams,” Mark said, “can you tell me what your opinion is of the similarities between the mode of Mr. Kupfer’s death and threats described by your former wife as being made by you?”
“They sound pretty similar.”
“Do you deny that you made those threats to your former wife?”
“I deny it.” Williams definitely wanted to say more, but he was restraining himself with Herculean effort. The prosecution had done a decent job of preparing him, then.
