by Joel Goldman
His conversation with Amy had convinced him that Cullan’s files did exist. He couldn’t decide whether the files were the motive for Cullan’s murder or the reason for the determined effort to railroad Blues—or both.
The words he’d written on the board didn’t suddenly come to life and rearrange themselves into the answers to his questions. It was, he reminded himself, a dry-erase board and not a Ouija board.
He found an envelope buried in the stack of mail from the Jackson County prosecutor’s office marked Hand Delivery. It contained a motion filed by Patrick Ortiz asking the court to set a preliminary hearing in Blues’s case and an order signed by Judge Pistone setting the hearing on January 2. The judge’s order was not a surprise, but Ortiz’s motion made as much sense as folding with a full house when no else had placed a bet.
There were a number of steps in the life of a criminal case once a suspect was arrested. The first was the arraignment, which was to officially inform the defendant of the charges against him and to set bail.
The next step was for the prosecutor to establish that there was probable cause to believe that a crime had been committed and that the defendant had committed it. The prosecutor could meet that burden by presenting the case to the grand jury and asking for an indictment. Or the prosecutor could ask the associate circuit court judge to hold a preliminary hearing, at which the state would present its evidence and ask the judge to bind the defendant over for trial. If the judge found the state’s evidence sufficient, the case would be assigned to a circuit court judge for trial.
The grand jury met in secret. Witnesses could be subpoenaed to testify and forced to appear without a lawyer to represent them. Taking the Fifth Amendment was the criminal equivalent of a scarlet letter. Hearing only the state’s side of the case ensured that the grand jury would issue whatever indictments the prosecutor requested.
A preliminary hearing was public. The defendant had the right to attend and listen to the case against him, and his lawyer had the right to cross-examine the state’s witnesses and present evidence of his client’s innocence. Prosecutors hated preliminary hearings because they were forced to show too many of their cards to the defendant. Secret justice was more certain.
Patrick Ortiz would rather rip out a chamber of his heart than give up the grand jury. He didn’t care about politics or appearances. He fought the battles and let his boss take the credit. Leonard Campbell was a politician first and a lawyer last. He must have made the decision to give up the grand jury, and Mason knew why.
Rachel Firestone’s article, and the media frenzy it had launched, had forced Campbell’s hand. He needed to use the preliminary hearing to defuse Rachel’s accusation that Blues was a victim of political expediency.
The date of the hearing meant that Mason would be working on New Year’s Eve instead of celebrating, though he didn’t mind. He didn’t have anyone to kiss at midnight, and now he had an excuse to skip the sloppy embraces of people he didn’t know at parties that he didn’t want to attend alone.
New Year’s Eve was an annual take-stock moment for Mason, demanding an honest appraisal of where he’d been and where he was going. The best New Year’s he’d ever celebrated had been the first one with Kate. They’d been married a month and were still giddy. She’d surprised him with tickets to Grand Cayman, a second honeymoon before they’d finished paying for the first one. They danced as if they were possessed, shouted and laughed with strangers, and marveled at the magic in their lives. Minutes before midnight, Kate led him onto an empty beach glowing with the reflection of the moon and stars, where they had made love as the New Year dawned.
Three years later, she left him, telling him she had run out of love for him. It was a concept he couldn’t understand. Love wasn’t like oil, he told her. You don’t wait for the well to run dry and start digging someplace else. Unless you were Kate.
Since then, Mason had done his share of digging, though his relationships had proved too shallow or fragile to last. He was glad to use work as an excuse to skip New Year’s Eve and the annual audit of his personal account.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Mason capped his evening with another ten-thousand-meter row across his dining room, his strokes rough, his timing off. Blues’s case had the same effect, both making him sweat.
His punctuated his ragged breathing with deep grunts each time he hauled the rowing handle deep into his belly. Tuffy, not liking what she saw, paced back and forth, ears up and tail down. He finished as the doorbell rang, mopping his face and neck with a towel as he staggered to his feet.
His house was fifty years old. The front door was a massive arched slab of dark mahogany set into an entry vestibule with a limestone floor. When he opened it, a woman was standing on the stoop, head down and her arms bundled around her. He didn’t recognize her until she raised her chin. It was Beth Harrell.
He’d last seen her at a bar association lunch or law school alumni dinner—he couldn’t remember which, only that it was a couple of years ago. Sophisticated, beautiful, and playful, she was also the smartest person in the room, a combination that drew people to her. In law school, everyone wanted to take her class, the guys so they could drool and the girls so they could learn how to be more like her, traits that made her and Billy Sunshine soul mates.
As she stood in his doorway, bowed by the winter wind, something was missing. The certainty that the world was hers had vanished. Her eyes flickered and her lips were pressed in a tight half smile.
“Beth?” She nodded. “Come on in before we both freeze to death.”
Mason closed the door as she pulled off her gloves, rubbing her hands along her arms and then pressing them against her face to warm her frozen cheeks. Her body shook with a final shiver.
“Thanks. I don’t remember when it’s been so cold.”
She unzipped her coat. Tuffy trotted to her side, sniffed her, and planted her front paws on Beth’s stomach. Beth stroked the back of her head. Satisfied, Tuffy dropped her paws, circled behind Mason and lay down.
“My dog is shameless and will give herself to anyone who scratches her behind her ears.”
“Love and loyalty should be so easy to come by.”
Mason knew that the only reason Beth Harrell would come knocking at nine o’clock on a Friday night cold enough to freeze her face off was to talk about Jack Cullan and Blues. Figuring that she chose the time and place so that no one would know, he decided to let her get around to Cullan’s murder in her own time.
“Can I get you something to drink?”
“That would be great. Something hot would do the trick.”
Mason led her to the kitchen. Tuffy figured out where they were going and raced there ahead of them.
“I’ve got tea. Never developed a taste for coffee, so I don’t keep it in the house.”
“Tea would be good, perfect.”
Mason boiled a cup of water in the microwave, and a few minutes later they were seated at his kitchen table. Beth stirred her tea, pressing the tea bag against the side of the cup. Mason drank from a long-necked bottle of beer and pressed the cool glass against his neck.
“I read about you in the paper last year. That thing with Sullivan & Christenson,” she began. “We didn’t teach you that in law school.”
“We’ve both been in the papers. All things considered, I prefer the comics.”
“Amen to that.”
A faint patchwork of crow’s-feet and laugh lines had crept onto her face since he was her student, changes she wore well. She was five years older than him, a gap that mattered then but was now a distinction without a difference.
“Was it difficult?” she asked him.
“Was what difficult?”
“Killing that man. The article in the newspaper said that he would have killed you if you hadn’t. I suppose that made it easier, but it still had to be a hard thing to do.”
Mason had come to understand the reluctance of men who’d gone to war to discuss their battle
s. Heroes were for bystanders. Soldiers killed so that they could live. That’s what he’d done, and he’d found no glory in it.
“That’s all old news. I left you a message yesterday. You could have just called back. I would have come to your office.”
“I was out of town. When I got home this evening, I read the paper and saw you and the mayor on the news. I decided a house call would be more private. I live at the Alameda Towers and the press has practically camped out in the parking lot.”
“How did you get past them?”
“Our building is connected to the Intercontinental Hotel. I parked in the hotel garage and walked through the hotel. The press can’t get past my doorman and they haven’t figured out my secret entrance.”
“Gee, that’s a better setup than having Alfred and the Batcave.”
Beth laughed. “You were always good at that in law school. I used to watch you with your friends. You were always the one who made everyone laugh.”
Mason grinned. “If you were watching me, you know I was watching you. If only I’d have known.”
Beth shrugged. “I was your teacher, but I wasn’t dead.”
“Is it too late for extra credit?”
“It’s too late for that, but I hope it’s not too late for you to help me.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Mason drained his beer and carried it to the sink. He leaned back against the counter and studied her.
She had drawn him in with a mix of vulnerability and flirtation that he found engaging, flattering, and, under other circumstances, irresistible.
“The governor appointed you because you were an expert on ethics, on right and wrong. You know who my client is and why I called you. When this case is over, I could represent you. But not now.”
“I’m not asking you to be my lawyer. I know better than that.”
“Then what do you want?”
“Protection.”
“From who?”
She crossed the room to him, stopping within arm’s reach, trembling, begging to be held without saying a word. Mason clamped his hands on the counter’s edge.
“Protect you from what?” he repeated.
She dipped her head, looked away, and then turned her back to him.
“You’re right. I shouldn’t have come here. My office would have been better.”
“Maybe not. If you tell me who or what you’re afraid of, I may be able to help you. But you realize the position we’re both in here.”
She stiffened and took a deep breath and went back to her chair. “Let’s stick to your business. I’ll take care of mine. Why did you call?”
Mason didn’t press. He wasn’t looking for more complications.
“Good enough. Tell me about last Friday night. Why were you out with Jack Cullan?”
Beth straightened, her posture saying she was ready to get down to business. “He asked me out. We’re both single. He was a very interesting man, well read and charming when he wanted to be.”
Mason heard the words but didn’t believe them. “You’re telling me that in the middle of a scandal over whether Cullan had you in his back pocket, he asked you out on a date and you said yes? Are you nuts?”
Beth clasped her hands, setting them on the kitchen table. “I’m forty-three years old. I’ve been married and divorced twice and I have no children. I don’t even have a damn dog! Men call me the Ice Queen behind my back, and that’s the nicest thing they say. So when Jack Cullan asked, I said yes. There’s no crime in that.”
“There’s no sense in it either.”
“All the official investigations went nowhere. Rachel Firestone is the only one beating the scandal drum, and no one was paying any attention. We would have had a pleasant evening and no one would have written or said anything about it. We didn’t even talk about the Dream Casino or any other gaming commission business.”
“If it was all so pleasant, why did you throw a drink in his face?”
She took a breath. “I said that Jack could be charming. He could also be crude, especially when he asked me to spend the night with him. I told him I wasn’t interested and he called me a cock teaser, among other things.”
“That’s it? He called you names?”
She reddened. “No. He threatened me. He threatened to ruin me.”
“How? I’ve heard that Cullan collected dirt on a lot of people. Did he have a file on you?”
“He didn’t say and I don’t know. I haven’t led a perfect life, but I never took a bribe. He just said he would do it, that I wouldn’t see it coming, and that no one but the two of us would know that it had been him. That was too much. I’ve had two husbands who tried that crap on me, and I wasn’t going to put up with it from him.”
“So why didn’t you press charges?”
“Having dinner with Jack and going to that bar afterward was a nonevent. Filing criminal charges against him for assault would have been a media circus. No, thanks. It was better to chalk it up to one more bad judgment about the men whose company I keep.”
Mason took the chair next to hers. “The owner of the bar is my client and my friend. He goes by Blues. He saved my life and I’m trying to save his.”
“I’m not sure I can help you.”
“Let me decide that. You threw your drink in Cullan’s face and he came after you.”
“He grabbed me, yes.”
“And Blues pulled him off of you, right?”
“Yes. Yes, he did.”
“And that’s when Cullan scratched the back of Blues’s hands. Am I right?”
Beth thought for a moment and shook her head. “I’m sorry. I was pretty upset. I just don’t remember. All I do remember is Jack telling your client that he was going to put him out of business.”
Mason gave her time to say more, but she didn’t. “Okay. What happened after you left the bar?”
“Jack took me home. He dropped me off. He didn’t apologize and I didn’t invite him upstairs.”
“Did you stay home the rest of the night?”
She stood and circled the table. “My God, Lou! You’re asking me if I killed him?”
“I’m doing my job. I’m sure the police asked you the same question.”
Beth glared at him. “I expected that from them but not from you.”
She headed for the door, picked up her coat, and jammed her arms into the sleeves, twisting a scarf around her neck. “I didn’t kill him. I’m sorry I went out with the son of a bitch, but I didn’t kill him. And, I’m sorry I came here tonight.”
“I’m not sorry. I don’t want it to be you.”
“Neither do I,” she said and left.
Tuffy went into the living room, climbed into her dog bed, turned around three times, and lay down. Mason joined her on the floor, scratched behind her ears, and thought about the last two days.
His working theory was that Cullan’s murder was linked to the Dream Casino deal, a theory that led to three suspects—Ed Fiora, Billy Sunshine, and Beth Harrell. Fiora refused to talk to him but sent Tony Manzerio to deliver a message. The mayor played politics and sent Amy White to plead his case. Beth Harrell made a house call, asking for his help without offering anything in return.
Though she was long on motive and short on alibi, Mason meant it when he told her that he hoped it wasn’t her. He slipped his hand under Tuffy’s face and aimed her head at his.
“What do you think? Can I save Blues and still get the girl?”
Tuffy raised her paw and pushed his hand away, then pawed him again until he resumed scratching behind her ears.
“It’s all about you, isn’t it? Well, at least you’re honest about it.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Patrick Ortiz called Mason on Monday morning, asking Mason to meet him and Leonard Campbell at eleven.
“What’s the occasion? You guys ready to surrender, or what?”
“Eleven o’clock,” Ortiz answered, and hung up.
Mason didn’t think they were ready
to surrender. He did think they were ready to negotiate, or at least make the offer that Tony Manzerio had encouraged him to take during their slow dance in the parking lot.
He wasn’t looking forward to getting an offer Blues wouldn’t take. Telling Blues about the offer was the easy part. Telling him that Manzerio had threatened both their lives if Blues didn’t take the offer was the hard part. Blues wouldn’t take the deal to save his own life, but he might do it to save Mason’s, and that was a debt Mason didn’t want on his books.
Mason liked representing defendants. He just hated being on the defensive. He slapped his hand on his desk, taking his frustration out on an inanimate object that stung his hand in return. That’s solo practice, he thought to himself. Even his desk gave him a hard time.
Mason signed in at the receptionist’s desk when he arrived at the prosecutor’s office, printing his name, address, and telephone number and the name of the person he’d come to see. Four other people were already waiting. Two of them were dressed in lawyer’s uniforms, thumb-typing on their BlackBerrys. The other two were an elderly man and woman, the man clutching a brochure on how to avoid home-remodeling scams. From their ruined looks, Mason concluded that they had waited too long to take the advice.
The receptionist was a young woman with big hair and long fingernails painted bright yellow. She kept her back to him while playing solitaire on her computer and talking on her headset, saying “Get out!” and “You go, girl!” as if that was the limit of her vocabulary. Had her name been Margaret, he wouldn’t have stayed. Fortunately, according to the nameplate on her desk, her name was Tina, so he stuck it out.
“Damn this piece of shit! Not you, girl,” she said into her headset. “This damn computer. Beats me every damn time. I give up. Someone’s waitin’ on me anyway.”
