by Marta Perry
When she didn’t move, a glint of anger showed in his face. “I’ll have to ask you to leave now, Ms. Langdon.”
Fight back? Or roll quietly away and say goodbye to what was left of her career? Not much of a choice.
“I was retained by Geneva Morgan. If she no longer requires my services, I’ll have to hear it from her.”
His jaw hardened until it resembled one of the rocks in the stone fireplace that dominated one wall of the living room. “Thomas Esch is accused of a brutal murder. I don’t want my mother involved, even in the background, in such a thing.”
“Are you saying you speak for her?”
“Yes.” He bit off the word.
“Do you have a power of attorney to do so?”
His teeth seemed to grind together, and he leaned toward her. She’d scored, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear what he’d say next.
Quick, light footsteps crossed the hall behind them. “Trey, my dear, there you are. You must have gotten the message wrong, dear, and that’s so unlike you.”
Jessica watched, fascinated, as the woman trotted across to Blake and patted his cheek. She had to reach up, very far up. If this was his mother, he clearly didn’t take after her.
“You must write things down,” the woman scolded gently, as if he were about six.
She spun, swooping toward Jessica and holding out both hands. Bright green eyes sparkled, and the full sleeves of the filmy tunic she wore fluttered. Silvery curls bouncing, she moved with the quick light step of a girl, although she had to be in her sixties.
“You’re Jessica Langdon, of course.” The woman caught Jessica’s hands in a warm, surprisingly strong grasp. “My dear, I can’t tell you how delighted I am to see you. You’re the person I’ve been praying for.” Tears glistened suddenly in the green eyes. “You are just the person to defend Thomas in this terrible matter.”
That answered the question of whether Blake Morgan had really spoken for his mother. Jessica glanced at him over Mrs. Morgan’s shoulder. He had made one effort to get rid of the attorney his mother had hired, and Jessica suspected it wouldn’t be the last. At the moment, his glare seared.
She stared back, unmoved. She had more to lose in this situation than he did, and she was in this to stay.
CHAPTER TWO
TREY WAS FLOODED BY his usual mixture of frustration, affection and bemusement at his mother’s return. He’d been confident he’d deflected her attention long enough so he could send this Philadelphia lawyer packing. If he’d been able to get the woman’s name and cell number, he’d have headed her off before she’d ever reached here.
But Geneva Morgan, despite acting as if she had the attention span of a butterfly, inevitably disconcerted him by fixing on the one thing he wanted her to ignore. She’d been doing that since his first attempt to deceive her, having to do with a homemade slingshot and a broken window when he was six, and he shouldn’t have been surprised that she’d done it again today.
But today’s problem was considerably more serious than a broken window, and he didn’t want his mother to get hurt trying to defend someone the whole county thought was guilty of an ugly crime.
The Langdon woman stared at him, suspicion darkening blue eyes that had so much green in them they were almost turquoise. “I thought your name was Blake.”
His mother’s irrepressible laugh gurgled. “Blake Winston Morgan the Third, to be exact. Isn’t that a pompous name to hang on a helpless little baby?”
“Mom…” Business, Mom. This is business, remember?
“So I took one look at the pink cheeks and that fuzz of blond hair, and I decided to call him Trey. For three, you know.”
“I’m sure Ms. Langdon figured that out,” he said drily.
“It’s not my concern.” To his surprise, Jessica Langdon looked faintly embarrassed. “I just…” She paused, evading his gaze. “Perhaps we could clarify whether Mrs. Morgan wants me to continue with the case or not.”
“Of course I do.” His mother shot him a reproachful look. “Trey, we’ve been through this already. That poor boy couldn’t possibly have done what they say, and if no one else will stand up for him, I will. I spoke with his mother, and she agreed to let me handle getting a lawyer.”
“If I’m going to represent the young man, it would be helpful to know a bit more about the circumstances.” Ms. Langdon looked at his mother, probably figuring she wasn’t going to get anything out of him.
“Yes, of course. Do come and sit down. I don’t know why we’re standing here.” His mother led her to a seat on the Queen Anne chair and then perched on the arm of the sofa opposite, head tipped to one side, as if waiting for questions.
The Langdon woman opened her briefcase, took out a yellow legal pad and prepared to take notes. Trey couldn’t help it—his lips twitched at the image of the two of them, despite the seriousness of the situation. Mom, still seemingly caught in the ’60s of her youth, wore her usual filmy Indian-inspired tunic over a pair of jeans that were frayed at the knees. Her face was bare of makeup, and a favorite pair of turquoise-and-silver earrings dangled from her ears.
His gaze lingered on Jessica Langdon. The carefully tailored, lightweight gray suit, cream silk shirt and ridiculously high heels might be suitable for the woman’s usual round of clients, but not for an excursion deep into the country, where a pair of khakis and a button-down shirt were practically considered formal wear. She had auburn hair, worn in a shining, chin-length style, a heart-shaped face, skin so fair she probably didn’t dare go out in the sun and deep blue eyes. Not quite beautiful, but striking enough that any man would notice—any man who liked the cool, sophisticated type, anyway.
“…so you see, he couldn’t possibly do anything like that,” Mom was saying, leaning toward Jessica with the look of an earnest child. “Why, Thomas helped me plant all those roses along the back fence, and he even brought a load of chicken manure to use on the rhubarb bed. Besides, he’s Amish, and the Amish simply don’t commit violent acts. A more law-abiding people you’d never want to meet, and—”
“But about the crime.” The lawyer sounded a little desperate, and he noticed that she hadn’t written anything on her yellow pad. “I need to know—”
“Thomas Esch is accused of the beating death of a young woman named Cherry Wilson,” he said bluntly. He might consider that Thomas was guilty as sin, but the boy deserved a defense attorney whose mind wasn’t muddled by roses and rhubarb. “Thomas was found near her body, unconscious, in a remote barn where they’d apparently been partying. The hammer that was used to kill her was in his hand.”
“Trey, dear, you don’t need to be so graphic.” His mother’s face crinkled in distress. “I’m sure Thomas didn’t—”
Impelled by the probably futile need to protect her, he crossed the room, bending over to take his mother’s hands. “I know you don’t want to believe it, Mom. But you have to face the truth. He’s guilty, and if you become involved in trying to get him off, your friends and neighbors won’t thank you. Please, just drop this.”
His fingers tightened on hers, and he felt the wedding ring she’d never removed since the day his father put it on her finger forty years ago. A spasm of pain shot through him. Dad ought to be here now. He’d always protected her.
It had been over a year, and Trey still hadn’t stopped wanting to talk things over with his father. Maybe he never would.
“I can’t forget about doing what’s right just because the neighbors might disapprove,” his mother said, with that odd little dignity that could crop up now and then when she felt strongly about something.
“This isn’t a matter of belief,” he said, sure it was useless and hating that they were having this conversation under Jessica Langdon’s cool, critical eyes. “It’s a matter of facts. Evidence.”
Mom freed her hand so that she could pat his cheek. “Dear Trey. You’re just like your father. Always acting on reason, never on instinct.”
He stiffened. “Dad had
very good judgment.” And acting on reason wasn’t a fault.
“I’m not criticizing him, Trey. I’m just saying that sometimes you have to listen to your heart, not your head.”
He straightened, trying not to give an exasperated sigh. Arguing with his mother was like…like boxing with a bumblebee, and about as effective.
The Langdon woman slid the cap back on her pen, apparently giving up on getting any useful information out of them. Three small lines appeared between her eyebrows.
“I really need to talk to the client before I make any recommendations. But if the physical evidence is very strong, we may need to think about a plea bargain. Will the district attorney…”
“Oh, no,” his mother said. “You mustn’t do that. Why, that’s what Bobby wanted to do right away when I talked to him, and I just won’t hear of any such thing.”
“Bobby?” Jessica’s frown deepened.
“Robert Stephens. He’s our financial manager,” Trey explained, his gaze fixed on his mother. “Are you telling me you talked to Bobby about this and not to me?”
“Well, I knew you wouldn’t approve.” His mother looked as guileless as a kitten. “So I just thought I’d talk to Bobby first. He’s always so accommodating, but this time I had to practically force him to do as I asked. I finally threatened to call Eva Henderson myself if he didn’t take care of it, so he did.”
Did that mean that she had gone to Bobby Stephens on other occasions, instead of turning to him? Trey’s temples began to throb. His father had expected him to take care of his mother—that was a given. But maybe it would have been helpful if he’d left behind some written instructions.
“Anyway, Bobby finally did what I wanted and hired a topflight Philadelphia lawyer to look after poor Thomas,” his mother said. She clasped Jessica’s hand suddenly, looking at her with that melting, elusive charm which had all sorts of people lining up to do as Geneva wanted. “You will handle this for us, won’t you, Jessica? I just know you’ll be brilliant.”
The woman was succumbing. He could see it in her face. Then she sat up a little straighter, clutching her legal pad as if it were a shield.
“I’d better speak to the young man before doing anything else.” She rose. “If you’ll just give me directions—”
“Of course, of course.” His mother glanced at him. “But there’s no need for directions. Trey will be delighted to take you.”
JESSICA SUCKED IN a breath, trying to think of a polite way to say she’d rather walk. But she wouldn’t need to say anything, surely. Trey Morgan had made his feelings only too clear. He wouldn’t touch this situation with a ten-foot pole.
“Mom,” he began, looking harassed.
Geneva swung on him. “Blake Winston Morgan, don’t you dare argue.”
He lifted both hands. “I’m not.” He turned to her. “If you’re ready now, we’d better get into Lancaster before the traffic gets bad.”
She doubted Lancaster traffic would bother her. “There’s no need for you to accompany me. I’m sure I can find the county jail without help.”
He took her elbow and piloted her toward the door. “Trust me, if you want to see Thomas and get back to the city today, don’t start an argument with my mother.”
She waited until they were out on the porch and presumably out of earshot before she spoke. “I know you don’t want to be involved in this—”
“If my mother’s involved, I am.” His tone was curt. He nodded toward a dark green pickup. “I’ll drive you. It’ll be easier than giving directions. You can pick up your car afterward and head back. It’s not out of your way.”
Obviously the sooner she left Lancaster County, the happier he was going to be. Still, what he said made a certain amount of sense, and maybe she could get some information about the case from him on the way. She hated going into a situation blind.
She climbed into the high seat, trying to pull her skirt down at the same time. This suit was definitely not made for riding in pickup trucks. Come to think of it, she’d never been in a pickup before in her life.
She eyed Blake as he swung easily into the seat and started the vehicle. “So, do you prefer that I call you Mr. Morgan, or Blake or Trey?”
His jaw tightened. “Trey.” He bit off the word.
“I take it you don’t agree with your mother that Thomas Esch is innocent.” She knew the answer to that, but she wanted to hear him articulate his reasons.
“I think he’s guilty as sin.”
“Why?”
The tight jaw was very much in evidence. “Do you know anything about the Amish?”
She scoured her memory. “I think I saw that movie with Harrison Ford once.”
“Great.” It was almost a snarl. “Well, to condense a lot of culture into a brief summation, Counselor, the Amish believe in living apart from the world. That means no electricity, no television, no movies or video games or all the other things kids take for granted. They don’t believe in going to the law. They settle problems with the help of the church, not the courts. They even have their own language, a Low German dialect, although the kids learn English in school.”
She thought briefly of the accented English of the young couple in the buggy. “Fascinating, but what does it have to do with the case?”
“Everything. You can’t possibly defend Thomas if you don’t understand what he comes from. Amish kids live a sheltered life, but in their late teens, they’re allowed more freedom. They’re supposed to be socializing with each other with a view to finding a mate, but plenty of them want a taste of the outside world before making the decision to be baptized into the Amish church and give it up forever. That period of running around is called rumspringa. That’s what Thomas was doing when he got involved with Cherry Wilson.”
She pondered that explanation, trying to fit it into a possible defense. “How old is Thomas?”
“Nineteen. But a young nineteen in the ways of the world.”
“And the woman—Cherry Wilson, you said?”
His lips moved in an expression of distaste. “Cherry was in her mid-twenties. Had a reputation of liking to party. She worked as a waitress at the inn in Springville. You probably passed it on your way to the house.”
She hadn’t, since she’d gotten lost instead. “What was she doing alone in a barn with a nineteen-year-old? She sounds a bit old for teen parties.”
“Rumor has it she got a kick out of partying with younger kids. I don’t know how she hooked up with Thomas.” He frowned a little, as if getting past his initial distaste to actually think about the case. “That is odd. The Esch family has a farm not far from our place. A close family, I’d say. Thomas always seemed a bit shy, but maybe that made his reaction all the worse.”
“What do you mean?” She didn’t like the idea that he was taking it for granted that her client was guilty. He seemed a reasonably intelligent man, behind the slightly tyrannical attitude of his. If he thought the boy guilty…
Well, her job was to provide the best defense she could, regardless. Since she’d taken the position with Henderson, Dawes and Henderson, she’d certainly defended clients who’d have been the better for a guilty plea. Things had been a lot clearer, in a way, when she’d been a prosecutor.
Trey’s forehead knotted, and his hands moved restlessly on the steering wheel. “Take a kid like that—inexperienced, shy—and put him in a situation where he’d been drinking with a woman who led him on. He might, I guess, get carried away, not knowing what he was doing.”
“Carried away enough to batter her with a hammer? It still seems out of character for the person your mother described.”
His frown lingered. “Maybe. It’s hard to say what happened. All we have are the facts, and they don’t look good for Thomas.”
No, they didn’t. If she ended up trying to plea-bargain the case, Geneva would be disappointed in her. She’d be disappointed in herself, for that matter, but she’d do what was best for the client.
“When did thi
s happen?”
“They were found in the early hours of Sunday morning in a barn outside of town.” Trey negotiated the narrow streets of Lancaster with ease. “Thomas was passed out, drunk. Cherry had apparently been dead for several hours, if the rumors are true, and they usually are.”
“He’s been in custody over twenty-four hours?” Her voice rose. “Without an attorney?”
“Relax, Counselor,” he said. “A local attorney has been handling the situation, basically advising the boy to say nothing. The local man doesn’t want to continue with the case, though.”
Trey sounded as if he didn’t blame the man.
In fact, if Trey was right, the entire community was convinced of the boy’s guilt. Everyone, apparently, except Geneva Morgan.
A random thought popped into her mind. The newspaper piece she’d read—
“Your mother tried to speak with Thomas when he was being taken into the police station, didn’t she?”
She could almost hear his teeth grinding.
“Yes. She did. Except that it was when he was being taken to the county jail. The newspaper got that wrong. Fortunately they didn’t get her name, either.” He clamped his lips shut on the words.
It didn’t take a genius to figure out that Trey was worried about his mother. She’d give him credit for that, although she wasn’t convinced Geneva needed all that protection.
Jessica subsided, staring out the window at the fields on both sides of the road, lush and green. White farmhouses sat well back from the road, as if to protect their privacy. Here and there she spotted people working in the fields, looking like figures in a landscape painting.
“Amish,” Trey said, nodding at one farmhouse. “You can tell because no power lines go to the house.”
“No electricity.” She tried to imagine it. “What about phones?”
Trey’s shoulders moved in a shrug. “Not in the house. Often there’s a phone shanty at the edge of the field, so they can use a phone for business or in an emergency.”
