“He made a deal,” Celina said. “The case got dismissed.”
“It was dismissed,” Donovan explained, “without prejudice as a condition of Nick Warden’s cooperation agreement to testify against Jake Myers. But with evidence that Warden was a part of a conspiracy to pay your father to undermine our case against Myers, I can get a judge to set aside the agreement. That means I can go after Rodriguez.”
He turned to Ellie, and she took it as her cue to jump in. “And once your father, Jaime, and Nick Warden are codefendants for conspiracy to obstruct justice, who do you think’s going to get the plea deal then, Celina? The convicted sex offender and janitor who stabbed a cop, the brown guy with a rap sheet and two prior drug pops, or the rich white hedge fund manager?”
Celina sniffled and wiped away a tear, and Ellie knew that one more push should do it.
“That leaves you and your baby alone,” she continued. “No father for either of you.”
Celina stared at her with wide eyes. Ellie saw her upper lip quiver. One more push.
“And that’s assuming the DA’s office doesn’t come after you, too. If you were an active participant in this, your kid might be born into the foster care system.”
Celina placed her face in her hands and began crying. The words were hard to decipher between the sobs, but Ellie got the gist of it. Her father. Her baby’s father. Her fiancé. Poor them. Poor Celina.
Donovan cut in, and Ellie realized that Knight had made the right call in sending him. Pressure from a cop was one thing, but when it came time for cooperation, nothing worked better than a chat about the power of a prosecutor to determine who went to prison and for how long.
“I’ll be in a better position to help everyone involved if we know exactly what happened. At the end of the day, what we really care about is catching Chelsea Hart’s killer. All the rest of this is a distraction. The longer the distraction, the heavier the sentence my office is going to be looking for.”
This time when Celina spoke, her words were clear.
“What do you need to know?”
SUSAN PARKER LOOKED BROKEN. As if a bulb had burned out. The batteries had gone dead. A processor had failed.
Ellie and Rogan were used to hitting defendants with the news that, despite their cagiest plans, they’d been busted. Sitting in Parker’s office, however, Max Donovan was the one doing the talking.
Ellie was almost positive that what Donovan was asking of Susan Parker was wildly unethical. She represented Nick Warden, not Jake Myers. Pressuring her to convince her client to approach Jake Myers on their behalf was definitely not kosher. But Donovan had worded his request in a cagey way, so Ellie assumed he knew what he was doing. More importantly, if the DA’s office didn’t have a problem with it, she certainly wasn’t going to object.
“We don’t have all day here. Are you going to talk to your client or not?”
Parker’s blank stare unfroze with a blink. The parts were turning back on. “You know you’ve created a conflict of interest for me now. I should withdraw from my representation of Nick Warden so he can retain separate counsel.”
“You weren’t so worried about conflicts of interest when you helped broker a deal for Myers to pay off Leon Symanski to give us a false confession.”
Celina had walked them through each step in the sequence of events. After the drug bust at Pulse, Rodriguez had phoned his girlfriend from the jail with the bad news. Distribution of an eight-ball of meth. With his record, he wouldn’t be out until their kid was in first grade. She spent the night crying on her father’s sofa.
By dawn, Leon had conjured up a way to solve his daughter’s problems. He called Nick Warden’s lawyer and proposed a deal. Nick could give the government what they wanted. He could flip on his friend with no remorse, because the so-called real killer would be caught within days. In return, Symanski needed a hundred grand and a walk for the father of his grandchild.
Ellie still didn’t understand how a daughter could allow her father to make that kind of a sacrifice, but she’d long ago ceased trying to understand the inner workings of other families.
“I didn’t broker anything,” Parker said. “I have an obligation to my client to convey communications made to me in the scope of my representation of him.”
“Not when those communications make you a coconspirator,” Donovan said.
“I had no knowledge of the agreement between my client and Rodriguez. You offered my client a cooperation deal, and he was willing to take it. It is not a lawyer’s responsibility to probe a client’s motivations.”
“Give me a break,” Donovan said. “The handover went down in this very office.”
According to Celina, the plan had been her father’s idea, but Parker had overseen the details of its execution. Once the charges against Rodriguez were dismissed and he was freed from custody, he had gone directly from the jail to Parker’s office. Jake Myers had been waiting for him with a hundred thousand dollars in casino chips and a red chandelier earring for Symanski to plant in his house.
“I am not aware of that,” she said, shaking her head. “As you already said, I went to college with Jake. He came here to tell me he wasn’t involved in that girl’s death. Jaime Rodriguez showed up—uninvited, without an appointment—to thank me for getting the deal that he benefited from. If they passed something between them when I stepped out of the office—”
Donovan didn’t bother masking his ridicule. “Are you really ready to sell that story to the partners around here?” He glanced around Parker’s office. “Because I’m picturing you on the street within an hour, juggling all of your personal belongings in a cardboard box, with an ethics complaint brought by this firm against you with the bar. Pushing the boundaries for your white-collar clients is one thing in a place like this, but it won’t seem so hunky-dory when it’s a murder case at stake. The only way to distance yourself from the dirty laundry is to throw it out yourself. They’ll make sure you’re disbarred.”
Parker held Donovan’s stare. She broke first.
“What do you want?”
“I want Jake Myers to take a polygraph.”
“And how am I supposed to get in touch with Jake?”
Once Parker had agreed to represent Warden, no court in America would have allowed her to simultaneously represent Jake Myers. Any attempt by Parker to contact Myers directly would show up in the jail’s records, and she’d then have to explain to Willie Wells why she was contacting his client without his consent.
“You talk to Nick Warden,” Donovan explained. “He visits Jake in custody. Tells him there’s a problem. Convinces him to take the polygraph.”
“As long as you understand he can’t make Jake do anything. And I can’t make Nick do anything.”
“I understand.”
“Fine,” she said. “I’ll call him now. This all stays in this room? The firm doesn’t hear about any of it?”
“You have my word,” Donovan said.
Ellie and Rogan nodded in silent agreement.
For the second time in a week in this same office, a conspiracy had been struck. The first had been to concoct a lie. Now they were conspiring to get the truth.
CHAPTER 41
FIVE MINUTES AFTER Nick Warden visited Jake Myers in custody, Myers called Willie Wells and fired him as his attorney. His next call was to Susan Parker, seeking her representation for the purpose of contacting Simon Knight and offering to take a polygraph examination to clear his name. By the time that call came in, Knight had already lined up the polygrapher.
They all knew, of course, that the so-called lie detecting machine was far less reliable than its name might suggest. The machines were only as good as their operators and, even at their best, were not entirely accurate. But the intangible value of a polygraph transcended the questionable science.
A defendant’s willingness to sit for one said something in itself, especially if he managed to make it through an entire examination without breaking into a spontane
ous confession. And a good polygrapher’s opinion, while no guarantee, would do a lot to confirm the feeling in Ellie’s gut that Jake Myers—although guilty of other wrongs—was no murderer.
The process was painstaking, with the most important components transpiring before Myers was even hooked up to the machine. It started with an open-ended debriefing in which Myers was free to state his version of the facts—at his pace, in his own words. Then he was subjected to detailed questioning from Ellie, Rogan, and Donovan, until all three were satisfied they had asked every possible question that might trip Myers up.
Only after the conversation had been exhausted did the polygrapher hook Myers up to the instruments that would measure his physiological responses during innocuous inquiries such as “Is your name Jake Myers?” and money questions like “Did you cause the death of Chelsea Hart?” By the time the polygrapher announced that he had detected no signs of deception, Ellie could already replay the scene between Chelsea Hart and Jake Myers in her head.
“Holy shit. What the fuck did you give me?”
When Chelsea had snorted the line of whatever Jake had passed her in the VIP lounge, she had assumed it was cocaine. She’d tried it twice before and thought she could handle it, but tonight something was different. Whatever the powder had been, Jake and his friend had done a lot more of it than she had.
“Just a little speed. It’s great for a second wind.” It was meth, actually, but he knew a lot of girls freaked out about the name.
Jake placed his arms around Chelsea’s waist and pulled her closer on the dance floor. She treated him to a little grind and didn’t object when he slipped his hands beneath the back of her shirt. His palms felt good against her bare skin, but she knew it was time for her to wrap things up before they went too far. She had promised Stefanie she’d be just behind them, and she knew what a worrywart her friend could be.
Chelsea pulled playfully on Jake’s skinny black tie and leaned in so he could hear her over the music. “I hate to be a tease, but it’s time for me to go.”
He tried to persuade her to stay, just as they both knew that he would. She looked at her watch. Just past three a.m. “Look at it this way,” she said. “You let me leave now, and you’ve got an entire hour to line up one of these little sluts to go home with you. Waste all your time on me and, well, you and your friend there are on your own—”
She pushed up against him again.
“Damn, you’re hot,” he said, kissing her neck and fingering the top button of her blouse.
“Occasionally. Want me to pick out a girl for you, or are you going to be fine on your own?”
Jake smirked and shook his head. “Let me at least walk you out.” He took her hand and led her from the club. “Do you have a car?”
Town cars and limos were parked and double-parked outside. “Yeah, right. I used my entire student loan check to pay for a car service while we were in New York this week.”
“My car’s in a lot in SoHo,” Jake said. “Nick’s driver’s waiting out here somewhere. Let me just run in and check—”
They both knew a ride in his friend’s car would start something they’d finish en route to her hotel. She was tempted but decided against it. She’d been faithful to Mark the entire trip and didn’t want to mess that up now.
“Really, I’m fine with a cab.”
Jake walked to the curb and tried to hail a taxi, but four yellow cabs passed them by, already taken, their rooftop medallion numbers unlit.
“I’ll be fine,” Chelsea finally said.
He ignored her and remained in the street, one arm raised above his head.
“Tick tock, Jake Gyllenhaal. You’re wasting that final hour. The other players are locking down all the pretty girls at Pulse as we speak.”
He touched her hair and leaned in for a kiss before thanking her for the fun and turning away. As Chelsea watched him return to the club, she still felt his lips against hers and wondered if it was a feeling of regret about turning down the invitation to go further.
Five more taxis passed her by before one finally stopped. She crawled into the back seat and shut the door. “The Hilton at Rockefeller Center, please. Fifty-third Street at Sixth Avenue.”
The cab rolled a few feet and then stopped. “You have cash?”
“Excuse me?”
“You have cash, right?”
“No. I’ll pay by Visa.” Chelsea had spent her final bills on that last Angel’s Tip at the bar. She was so messed up she’d forgotten about the free liquor in the VIP lounge.
“No credit cards.”
Chelsea knocked on the machine installed on the partition in front of her. “What’s this thing for if you can’t take a credit card?”
“It’s broken. Only cash tonight.”
“I’ll pay you when I get there—my friends have money, I promise.”
“I do not run a loan company, miss. I will not drive you if you do not have the money.”
“Well, I’m not getting out of the cab. What do you think about that?”
“The meter is still running, miss, and you don’t have any money. You need to find another taxi.”
Chelsea was startled by a knock against the window. It was Jake.
“My savior,” she said, rolling down the window. “I don’t have any cash, and this asshole won’t take my fucking credit card.”
“He wouldn’t do that to you, now, would you, kind sir?”
“Tell him, kind sir,” Chelsea said. “Tell him how you want to strand a girl here on the streets of New York City all by herself.”
“You need to get your drunk friend out of my car,” the driver said.
Jake touched the tip of his chin, as if pondering the situation. “This is quite a predicament, isn’t it?”
Chelsea knew Stefanie hadn’t seen the appeal, but this guy really was incredible. The hair and clothes were too much, but the smile—those lazy eyes and the softness around his mouth—were irresistible.
“Can I borrow twenty bucks?” she asked. “I mean, I know you’re hurting for money and all, so I’ll be sure to mail it to you from Indiana.”
“I tell you what. Get out of that cab and stay with me a little longer. I’ll make sure you get home.”
“I told you I have to go. My flight’s in, like, three hours.”
“Fine, here’s your money.” He removed a hundred-dollar bill from the money clip in his pocket. Chelsea reached through the window to take it, but Jake snatched his hand back. “As my father always says, there’s no such thing as a handout. You’ve got to earn this money, young lady.”
Chelsea tilted her head to one side. “And what would your father propose I do to earn it?”
“That is it,” the driver said. “Get out of my cab.” He opened his door, and Chelsea knew it was only a matter of seconds before he was going to pull her physically from the car.
She and Jake were still laughing by the time they made their way to the entry stairwell of a basement apartment around the corner.
Chelsea felt the cold concrete against her exposed toes as she dropped to her knees and tried not to think about Mark. This was just a onetime thing. Spring break. New York. Jake Gyllenhaal. It was all a fantasy, and tomorrow, it would be as if nothing happened.
Jake was touching her hair softly at first, but by the time he got close, he was gripping her head firmly with his fingers, guiding her movements. He felt the wire hook in her right earlobe come loose. He did not want it to fall to the ground. Not now. Not at this moment. She might stop what she was doing. He slipped the earring into his pocket and replaced his hand on the back of her head.
When she had finished, he helped her to her feet and gave her a quick peck on the mouth. He loved girls who swallowed, but that didn’t mean he needed to put his tongue in there afterward. She laughed when he brushed the dust from the knees of her pants.
“Where’s my hundred bucks?” she said.
“Don’t be ridiculous. We’ll take Nick’s car.”
&
nbsp; “Don’t you be ridiculous. Give me my money, or my pimp’s coming after you.”
He slipped a hundred-dollar bill into her purse. “Let’s get you a cab before your pimp says I’m monopolizing you.”
“If I can turn tricks in doorways, I’m perfectly capable of hailing my own cab. And now I even have money to pay. You better get back.”
“You sure?”
“Go on. I mean it.”
He kissed her one more time before walking away. He was nearly back to Pulse when he placed his hands in his coat pockets to warm them. He felt the tiny glass beads of her earring. He thought of turning back to find her, but didn’t want to spoil the perfect ending.
CHAPTER 42
ROGAN LOOKED LIKE he’d just seen William Shatner walk through 100 Centre Street in a hula skirt.
“You figured you were innocent, so it was your God-given right to offer up another innocent man to take your place in prison?” Rogan was still coming to terms with Myers’s newfound experimentation with honesty—and he wasn’t happy about it.
Jake Myers stared at his hands. He was seated in the same District Attorney’s conference room, at the same table, where, just yesterday, Jaime Rodriguez had told them about a club janitor who might be of interest.
Susan Parker was a sleazebag of a lawyer, but she was at least trying to protect her new client from Rogan’s outrage. “Give the guy a break. You had him on a murder he knew he didn’t commit, and he freaked out.”
Donovan rose from the table and paced their side of the room. “You could have told him to come clean, Susan. Instead, you orchestrated this.”
Jake looked up from his hands. “You were going to send me to fucking prison for the rest of my life. What was I supposed to do?”
“You could have told us the truth that first night we talked to you at Pulse,” Ellie said.
“Fine. So kill me. I made a mistake. A bunch of cops barged into the club and started asking questions about some girl I got a little crazy with. I’d had a couple drinks—and more, as you now know—and I flipped, okay? I didn’t see how anything I had to say could even matter. But then all I kept hearing about was the evidence you had against me. The cabdriver. My DNA. The time of death. I had nothing. For once, I did a decent thing—I went straight home that night so I wouldn’t have to put up with Nick begging me for the details. I had no one to vouch for me.”
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