by Jeanne Winer
Mark bowed back. He was six feet four, broad-shouldered, with steel gray eyes. Even when he was sitting down, he was imposing. They both then turned to Bobby, who seemed uncharacteristically quiet, his face blank, his thoughts obviously elsewhere.
“You okay?” Lee asked.
“What?” Bobby looked at her. “Oh, I’m fine. I was just thinking about your new murder case, all the publicity and everything. It’s more complicated now that I know you represent one of the defendants. Before, I was just really horrified by what they did to the victim, but now it’s not as easy to hate them, especially a kid.”
“Hey,” Lee said, gently punching his arm, “I’m not necessarily vouching for his character. I’m just representing him.”
“Oh, I know. But gosh, there’s been so much publicity. Every day, at least two or three articles. And there’s the vigil tomorrow night. People might not understand why you’d be willing to represent someone like him.”
“The story of my life.”
Mark sat forward in his rocking chair, looking serious.
“Bobby’s right, though. You’ll probably get your share of hate mail on this one.”
“Oh well. Death threats, hate mail—all in a day’s work.”
“That’s not funny,” Bobby said.
Lee stared at him and then glanced over at Mark. Neither of them was amused. Rats, she thought. I shouldn’t have told them. But of course she had to. Inevitably, her name would appear in the papers.
“Come on, guys. You aren’t actually worrying about me, are you? Because you can’t. It’s not allowed.”
“Why not?” Bobby asked.
“Well, because there’s no point. Throughout our relationship, Paul never worried about me and I never worried about him. He always said, ‘You gotta do what you gotta do.’ And then the three of you would head off on another adventure. I never even told him to be careful. Everyone was happy. Nobody felt guilty.”
“Right, but then he died.”
“True, but worrying wouldn’t have prevented it.”
The men looked unconvinced.
“Okay, so here’s the scoop,” she said, taking Bobby’s hand. “The victim in my case, Sam Donnelly, isn’t nearly as sympathetic as Matthew Shepard. He was a skinhead with an extensive criminal history, including at least one felony. These things shouldn’t matter, but they do. The crazies won’t care about him.”
“Huh. So then it’s better for you. And your client.”
“Well, the facts are still atrocious, but you’re right. It’s helpful.” She waited a few seconds before changing the subject. “So, are either of you going to show me the pictures you sold to National Geographic?”
“I thought you’d never ask,” Mark said. “They’re right here.” He pointed to a leather briefcase leaning against his rocking chair.
They cleared the living room table and then Mark laid out six black and white photographs. They were exquisite. Paul had taken similar ones, but his were different. Mark and Bobby’s images were more personal, moodier. Paul’s were always calm, vast, and silent—no hint of the artist who disappeared before the shot was taken.
“Congratulations,” Lee said. “They’re so beautiful they take my breath away.” After a moment, she pointed to a distant peak almost completely obscured by clouds. “Do you miss it?” She meant climbing above 24,000 feet. In the death zone.
“No,” Bobby said quickly.
“Not anymore,” Mark amended.
Lee stayed bent over the pictures, admiring the angles and the light in each of them. She always thought, but never said out loud, that Mark and Bobby made the wrong decision, that they should have kept on climbing. Persevered until they reached their goal. They’d climbed for twenty years, pushing their limits, enduring inconceivable physical hardships. They’d ascended ten of the fourteen highest mountains in the world. Only four peaks left. But now, for the first time, she considered the possibility that they’d exited at exactly the right moment, that they’d interpreted Paul’s death as a true warning: leave while you still can.
She thought about her new murder case, the misgivings she’d had before taking it on. Had she made a mistake? Had she misread her last huge loss a year ago as an aberration instead of a true warning? Taking on a serious, high-profile murder case was a lot like climbing in the death zone. You needed skill, strength, perseverance, great instincts, and a burning desire to reach the top—to win.
When Mark and Bobby quit, they left with their heads held high, their reputations still intact. Lee was almost sixty, her body ached, and her new client was “cool” with spending the rest of his life in prison. What if she couldn’t settle the case, and actually had to try it? Her last murder client was flawed, but at least he’d wanted to fight. The new kid just wanted to sleep. Which meant she’d be dragging him along behind her like a tired, cranky two-year old. She blew out a worried breath. How did you know when the party was almost over, the optimum time to thank your host, grab your coat and leave?
“Hey, Lee,” Mark called. “Are you falling asleep over there?”
God, she hoped not.
CHAPTER THREE
“So, am I going to be Mutt or Jeff?” Carla asked.
“Mutt,” Lee said.
Carla patted her hair, a vivid shade of red this month, and smiled.
“Oh goody. I almost never get to be the bad guy.”
Lee glanced at her watch. They were standing in the parking lot behind the Justice Center. It was Monday afternoon, later than Lee anticipated. Close to one-thirty. It had taken them more than three hours to discuss Jeremy’s case and then review the massive investigation request Lee had prepared. In a minute, they would press the buzzer to be let in to the juvenile detention facility.
Lee started up the stairs, taking them two at a time.
“I’m starving,” Carla called from the ground. Neither of them had eaten.
“I’ll buy lunch afterward,” Lee offered.
“And not just salad!”
They had worked together for nine years, sometimes for days on end. During their last murder trial, Carla complained that she spent way more time with Lee than her husband, who left her a few months later for his personal trainer. Although Carla’s relationships with men were abysmal, on the job she was another person, a smart savvy woman with great instincts and a huge—sometimes too huge—ability to empathize with the person she was interviewing.
Lee pressed the buzzer and waited. Carla’s high heels clanked as she plodded up the metal stairs. The smell of her perfume and hairspray preceded her.
“So what’s our objective?” Carla asked, slightly breathless from the climb.
Lee stared straight ahead, her heavy briefcase hanging from her right hand. Her left was still out of commission.
“To get him to talk. I’d like to know how he feels about the murder, whether he was an enthusiastic or reluctant participant. Did he know it was going to happen beforehand? That kind of thing.”
“And how come we’re doing Mutt and Jeff?”
The door clicked open and they headed down the hallway.
“Because our client is almost pathologically detached. I’m hoping he’ll start to bond with me a little, if only to get away from you.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Carla said, stopping to check her face in a stainless steel security mirror mounted on the wall.
While they waited for the next door to open, Lee remained silent. A few seconds later, she watched Carla pull a Kleenex out of her sleeve and begin dabbing at the corners of her mouth.
“You’re staring at me,” Carla murmured. “Is my lipstick too dark?”
Too dark for what? Lee wondered. They were about to spend the next few hours in a small windowless room with a monosyllabic teenager accused of murder.
“It’s fine.”
“It never hurts, you know.”
“What?” Lee asked, feigning ignorance.
“To put your best foot forward. You never know who you’ll ru
n into.”
“In a juvenile detention facility?”
“There are guards.”
“Ah.”
“You’re mocking me,” Carla said.
The door opened, sparing Lee a response. A few minutes later, they were led into the room with the sad purple couch, the dying plant, and the two metal chairs.
“Oh well, it could be worse,” Carla said, looking around and then settling into one of the chairs. “It’s been a while since we represented a juvie.”
And there’s a reason, Lee thought. Juveniles were much more susceptible to pressure than adults and almost always confessed. As Phil said, it was simply no fun; the DA had all the cards.
Carla had pulled out her compact and was reapplying her purple eyeliner.
“You know, when I hadn’t heard from you in a while, I thought maybe you were done. I would have really missed working with you.” She snapped the compact shut. “Do you ever think about Lenny Hall?”
“Not anymore,” Lee said, wishing it were true.
In Spanish, the word for “outdoors” was aire libre. Free air. The kind of air Lenny would never breathe again.
“I’m not sure I believe you.”
“Then why did you ask?”
“I think about him too,” Carla said, bending down to straighten her skirt. “He writes me, you know.”
Lee hadn’t known but wasn’t surprised. Lenny was charming but needy. A bit of a con man as well. A sudden thought occurred to her.
“You haven’t sent him any money, have you?”
Carla kept her head down.
“Of course not.”
“Goddamn it, Carla! He’s been conning you.”
Carla sat up again, her face as red as her hair.
“But he needs it for his appeal. His family’s all tapped out. His wife has given up on him.”
“I wish you’d asked me. He has a free public defender for his appeal, which is meritless by the way. He’s never getting out.”
“That little rat,” Carla said, frowning. It took her all of five seconds to brighten up. “Oh well, live and learn.”
Live and learn? The people who usually said that didn’t. Suddenly, Lee felt grumpy. Her chair was incredibly uncomfortable. Her left hand throbbed and she wondered if it needed to be X-rayed. Where the hell was her client? How many hours in thirty-four years had she spent waiting in dingy rooms like this one? Hundreds, she thought, maybe thousands. She rubbed her eyes, which ached much more than they used to. Maybe she needed glasses? Another cheery thought. Finally, she heard footsteps in the hallway.
When the guard brought Jeremy into the room, the kid looked dazed, as if he’d been sleeping since she’d last seen him. If he’d had any hair, it would have been sticking up in all directions. He was wearing the same faded T-shirt, which was rumpled and stained with something yellow, possibly mustard. Like most teen-age males, his jeans were at least two sizes too big for him.
“Good morning,” Lee said. “Have a seat.” She pointed to the couch.
Jeremy froze when he saw Carla, who’d replaced her usual warm smile with a brisk, efficient one.
“Who’s she?”
Carla signaled Lee not to answer.
“Jeremy Matthews? My name’s Carla Romano.” She leaned forward and extended a hand for him to shake. He remained motionless, shoulders hunched, his fingers curled into fists.
“Kind of rude not to shake someone’s hand,” Carla said, then sat back and pretended to study him. “But maybe you have some kind of phobia.”
“I-I don’t have a phobia. I just don’t know you.” After a couple of seconds, he moved to the far end of the couch, perching on the edge, his knees almost touching his chest.
“Carla is a private investigator,” Lee told him. “The best in the business. I’ve hired her to work on your case.”
“I don’t need a private investigator.” He glanced warily around the room, finally settling on the door. His way back to bed.
“Of course you do,” Carla said. “There’s close to a thousand pages of discovery, but there’ll be more. This is a high-profile case. The cops are going to talk to everyone and their grandmother. So far, the DA has listed more than sixty witnesses. I have a lot of people to interview.”
“You’re wasting your time. This is stupid.” His knees were beginning to bounce up and down. “Rab says we just have to wait. Eventually, they’ll start offering us deals. When they get good enough, we’ll take them.”
Carla turned to Lee and asked, “Who’s Rab?”
“It’s a nickname. Remember the pictures of the co-defendants I showed you? He’s the one with the leopard tattooed on his neck.”
“It’s-it’s actually a jaguar,” Jeremy said.
“Rab’s your leader, right?” Lee asked.
Jeremy nodded and yawned.
“Excuse me,” Carla said, waving her hands in front of him, “but why does Rab, who is stupid enough to get a tattoo on his neck, think they’ll eventually offer you a plea bargain?”
“Because trials cost time and money.”
The way he said it, a little sing-songy, reminded Lee of a nursery rhyme, the kind that ended badly. Jeremy and Jill went up the hill because trials cost time and money. Jeremy fell down and broke his crown, then later became everyone’s honey.
“That’s your leverage?” Carla asked derisively. “Your big bargaining chip? That it’ll take the DA a couple of weeks and a few thousand dollars to send you all to prison for the rest of your lives? Lee, is he for real?”
Lee moved her chair a few inches closer toward Jeremy.
“Carla, he’s never been in trouble before. He doesn’t know anything about the system.” She smiled at Jeremy. “Listen, I’m sure Rab means well, but we really need to work this case, even if we end up settling it.”
“Okay, fine. Whatever. But I’m not testifying against my brothers.” He looked resolute. “I won’t.”
“I don’t want you to.”
“You’re lying. Rab said you’d try and make me.”
“Well, I wouldn’t. The case against your co-defendants is pretty solid. Your testimony isn’t worth that much. Maybe twenty-five years in exchange for testifying. It isn’t worth it. You’d have a serious snitch jacket. You’d spend a few years in protective custody and then they’d push you out. You’d be dead within a year.” She leaned down and began doodling on her pad of paper.
After a while, he said, “Okay, fine.”
Time for Mutt again.
“So,” Carla said, “why do you hate gay people so much?” She stood up and began to pace in front of him.
“What difference does it make?”
“What the hell kind of answer is that?”
“Hey, take it easy,” Lee admonished, and then turned to Jeremy. “Is that what your father taught you?”
“My father?” He looked confused. “My father’s a complete asshole who hates everyone, but he’s got nothing to do with this. He has no power over me. Not anymore.”
“It must have been pretty scary when he threw you out.”
“Not really. I found my way.” He smiled bitterly. “And now I’m here.” He shrugged. “At least I don’t have to go to church anymore.”
He was finally talking, but Lee needed to move fast.
“Tell me about the night of the murder.”
“I-I was wasted. I don’t remember anything.”
“Bullshit,” Carla said, still pacing.
He glared up at her, his knees bouncing double time.
“You know what a blackout is?” he asked.
“Yeah,” she said. “Do you?”
“It’s like when you’re so drunk, you don’t remember what happened.”
“But you do remember,” Lee said. “You told the police you were the lookout. You said you kicked Sam a few times.”
“Right, but the rest is a blur.” He began picking at a scab on his elbow. “Can I go now?”
Lee glanced at Carla again. Do some
thing.
“So what’s with the swastika on your arm?” Carla asked, standing directly in front of him. He refused to look up at her.
“I didn’t put it there. Rab did. I got drunk and woke up with it. He said it was for my protection.”
“Against what? Jews?”
“Of course not. Against…everyone.” He was staring at the door again, ready to spring for it.
They had less than a minute.
“Jeremy, please,” Lee said. “I need to know more about the murder. Did you plan it beforehand?”
“Um, I don’t know.”
“So you obviously weren’t in on the planning,” Carla said.
“I’m not sure it was planned. I kind of don’t think it was. We were drunk. Someone just started kicking him. I have to go now. I’m tired.”
“Okay,” Lee said quickly, “one more question and then you can leave.”
“And that’s it?”
“Yes, and it’s a simple one. If you’d known ahead of time what they were planning to do, would you have gone?” She acted as if it were the most casual question in the world. Are you good at math? Have you ever seen the ocean? What kind of music do you like? Come on, Jeremy, she thought, give me something to work with.
But he wouldn’t.
“What-what difference does it make?” he asked, slamming his fist into the cushions. “It’s bullshit. It doesn’t matter. I did go.” He shook his head at her, as if she’d disappointed him. “Rab said you’d try to befriend me, try to make me feel like I was different than the others. But I’m not. We’re all brothers.” He stood up. “I’m leaving now. By the way, in case you were thinking of contacting my parents, they won’t talk to you. The public defender already tried.” He pounded on the door. “Guard!” he yelled, and then turned back to Lee and Carla. “Good luck finding witnesses. No one’s going to help.”
Within seconds, he was gone.
“Wow,” Carla said, sinking back into her chair. “So I assume you want us to go see his parents?”
“How about Friday night? We’ll show up around dinner time.”
“Sounds like a plan.” Carla shouldered her purse and sighed. “I know he did something terrible, but I feel kind of sorry for him.”
