Trial and Terror

by ADAM L PENENBERG

  “A pair of black St. Croix brand leather boots, size 7 1/2.”

  SK crossed her arms, clenched her elbows with her hands, and hunched her shoulders, as if this would help her figure things out. If she was acting, Summer had to admit she was very good. It took a few seconds before SK managed to say, “I haven’t worn those boots in weeks, months maybe.”

  Summer bit her lip. The first lie was key, a foundation for the rest. But whose lie? SK’s? The police’s? No matter what, Summer would have to construct SK’s case around it. But she didn’t have time now to explore now. “After Gundy let Brauer cop an insanity plea, you threatened to kill him the day Brauer walked.”

  SK got up to pace. Summer could see she was struggling against tears. “My late husband and I were very close. He was the reason I turned my life around. But after the funeral, I realized killing Gundy wouldn’t accomplish anything. I could do more by carrying on my husband’s work.”

  Spiv knocked on the glass and playfully gave Summer the finger.

  “Time’s up,” Summer said. “I’ll be back.”

  “Wait!” SK rushed toward her.

  Startled, Summer backpedalled.

  “Whoa.” SK stopped, palms up. “I… I didn’t do it.”

  “I heard you at the arraignment.”

  SK spat a swirl of denials. She hadn’t been at Gundy’s that night. She’d been as shocked as anyone when she heard the news. She would never take the law into her own hands. It was all a big mistake. Or she’d been framed. But she was innocent.

  All of Summer’s clients denied their crimes, even after plea bargaining; denied them to the cops, to their neighbors, to their cell mates, and especially to their lawyer. Deny, deny some more, until they began to believe it themselves.

  Summer heard Spiv unbolt the door. “Last question today: How did police photos of your late husband—with your fingerprints—end up in Gundy’s apartment?”

  SK swallowed hard. “I left them there.”

  Part II

  REASONABLE DOUBTS

  Chapter 8

  Summer squeezed into her office with Levi, sipping coffee. The walls were lead-chip white, bare except for a bulletin board tacked with layers of index cards with scribbled notes and a calendar of Ansel Adams landscapes. Summer, because she liked surprises, rarely flipped ahead.

  Levi had his feet up on her desk, the only place there was room for them. “Guess who I had dinner with last night? I’ll give you a hint: If you poured water into him, he’d leak.”

  Summer lifted Levi’s feet off her desk, slid over to the coffee maker, refilled her cup, lifted his feet again, and made her way back to her chair. “Jimi Cruz?”

  Levi couldn’t contain his smile.

  “You visited my favorite trustafarian at the jail?” Summer asked.

  “Better than that,” Levi said. “I got Raines to let him go, provided he leave town.”

  Just as Marsalis had predicted. Summer’s heart shimmied. “When I suggested Cruz clear out, Raines tried to get me disbarred.”

  “Oh, so now you admit telling him to scram.”

  Summer regretted that admission. She had to be more careful, had to keep her mind on her work. She bunched her hair up and fanned her neck with her hand. “Good thing I’m covered under lawyer-client confidentiality,” she joked.

  “Good thing,” Levi repeated, obviously annoyed. “Well, timing is everything. I picked Cruz up at the jail, threw him in my car, handed him a couple of burgers and a couple twenties, and drove him to the bus station. I made sure he got on the bus and waved bye-bye.” Levi checked his watch. “He ought to be panhandling in Vegas by now.”

  “Probably already making some Las Vegas P.D.’s life miserable,” Summer said. The hearing, Raines’s threats, Hightower’s letter of complaint to the Bar Association, all that stress, all for nothing. “What did you have to barter for Raines’s enlightened generosity?”

  “I had to promise to keep it real quiet so the press, especially Bragg, wouldn’t get wind.”

  When Summer sighed, she spilled coffee on her blouse. “O-o-oh,” she groaned.

  “Good thing you drink it black, so it won’t stain,” Levi said. “When you get home, boil some water and pour it over your blouse like it’s a coffee filter.”

  Summer dabbed at the stain with a napkin. “Sometimes I’m not sure whether you’re more like a mother or more like a father.”

  “Neither,” Levi said.

  Summer tossed the damp napkin in the trash. “We know Raines didn’t suddenly develop a conscience, so what made him change his mind?”

  “He probably figured the negative PR wasn’t worth it, especially with you on the SK case.”

  “He’s banking on the fact that SK’s case will do more damage to me than any charges he could raise with Cruz.” Summer took a long sip. “He’s probably right, too.”

  Levi snatched SK’s file off Summer’s desk. “Ready?”

  Summer tried not to look as Levi pulled Gundy’s death pics out of the folder and neatly ordered them on the floor, one by one, angle by angle, Gundy by Gundy, until neither of them could walk without stepping on them.

  Rosie walked with sulky steps by the open door, carrying an armful of legal books.

  “Hey!” Summer called.

  But Rosie didn’t stop. Summer heard her sigh loudly and drop the books in her office. She got to the door just as Rosie poked her head in.

  “What?” Rosie said.

  “You mad at me?” Summer asked, lowering her voice.

  “No.”

  “Then why have you been avoiding me?”

  She buzzed her lips. “I haven’t been avoiding you. I’ve just got, you know, work to do.”

  Rosie’s tone stung Summer. She stepped carefully between Gundy’s bloody pictures and sat on the edge of her desk. Was she being paranoid? Was their friendship fracturing? She needed Rosie’s easy camaraderie now more than ever. “We’re talking about SK,” she said.

  “I can see that,” Rosie said, taking in the photos.

  “I could really use your help.”

  “There’s no place to sit.” When Summer and Levi shot her vinegary glances, Rosie said, “OK, OK,” and dropped to her knees.

  They were quiet as they studied what the murderer had done to Harold Gundy. Summer felt a headache coming on; she had an irrational need for a cigarette, as if the nicotine would drive away the dizzies and the thickness clawing her stomach.

  Get a grip, she commanded herself. She started with the broken railing, the puzzles of glass spread around the floor, but it got ugly fast—Gundy lying in blood and mescal, shards of the bottle nearby, close-ups of his crushed skull, the eerie marks on his back. The marks. Summer couldn’t take her eyes off them: ancient symbols, or designs created in the brain of a madman—or woman.

  Levi spoke first. “We can assume, judging by the nature of his injuries, that Gundy was thrown from his second floor loft onto a glass coffee table. But the ME claims the fall didn’t kill him, although he suffered internal injuries consistent with a hard fall. It was the blow to the head.”

  “Like I always say, mescal is some nasty shit,” Rosie said. She picked up a photo. “Why are Gundy’s pants pulled down around his ankles?”

  “You think he could have been doing the deed alone, got startled, and accidently busted through the wooden railing?” Levi asked.

  “Oh, that’s a compelling defense,” Rosie said, smacking her forehead.

  Levi shrugged. “What’s the ME report say?”

  “Nega—” Summer hacked at a ball of phlegm in her throat. “Negative on any semen. If Gundy was seeking sexual gratification, he came up short.”

  “Prolly wouldn’t have been the first time,” Levis said. “Any possibility the pants came down after he was killed?”

  “Not according to the M.E.,” Summer said.

  Rosie picked up another photo and held it close. “His skull was caved in. Can we assume these are bottle fragments mixed in with the shar
ds of the table?”

  Summer was barely listening, her attention focused on a detail within the crime photo: pictures of Jonathan Sadbury, SK’s late husband. The word “shame” was scrawled on them.

  “It’s pretty grim.” Her voice cracked, so she cleared her throat. “Strong motive, no alibi, his, uh, blood found in SK’s home, her fingerprints on his front door and on the pictures Gundy was clutching when the police found him.”

  Levi blew on his coffee. “You know Raines will portray that as Gundy identifying his murderer before croaking. A deathbed clue always plays well with a jury.”

  “What we need is an eye witness.” Summer skimmed the file. “No witnesses yet, but the D.A. doesn’t have to give me any of that until a judge is assigned.”

  “Even then they’ll probably dick you around,” Rosie said. “You know how they like to play the delay game.”

  “Not this time,” Levi said. “It’s high-profile for Haze County, and they figure it’s a slam-dunk win for them. My hunch is they’ll bend over backwards to give you everything you ask for, so there’s no way you can cry foul.”

  “It’s sad that it takes Gundy’s murder to elicit cooperation from the D.A.,” Summer said. “So you think they’re going with a circumstantial case?”

  “Perhaps, perhaps not.” Levi squinted at a close-up of Gundy’s glass-riddled side; then, shuddering, turned it face-down on the carpet. “The cops are going to be extra cautious with the investigation. If they locate a witness, they’re going to check out his testimony before clueing you in. But I also think, given the circumstances, that Raines is going to feign graciousness.”

  Summer asked, “Do you think he’ll extend this graciousness by using his influence to get SK moved to a decent cell? She’s being held in Dante-like conditions. It’d sure help me wrangle more cooperation out of her.”

  “How’d your meeting go?” Levi asked.

  “I got her to talk a little bit, but she’s not exactly thrilled with me. She might even do a Marsden.”

  “If that happens, I’ll take her,” Rosie said.

  “If she’s successful, you can have her,” Summer said.

  Levi mulled. “Let me work on getting her moved. I’ve piled up a few chits with the warden over the years. Assuming this goes to trial, I want you to paper Judge Kelly if he’s assigned. You know how tight he and the court magistrate are.”

  “We’re still pushing him off cases?” Summer asked.

  Rosie twirled hair around her finger. “I had him a couple of weeks ago, when we thawed. The only good thing is my client will probably get another trial on appeal, since Kelly totally fucked him.”

  “He hasn’t done a trial in weeks,” Levi said, “so he’ll express interest in any case. I hear the other judges are mighty pissed with him. Hope this teaches him lesson, though I’m not counting on it.”

  “What’s with the lipstick marks on the back?” Rosie asked.

  “It’s maroon,” Levi teased. “Your shade.”

  “Every shade is Rosie’s shade,” Summer said. A memory fragment: Wib putting down the telephone, pulling down the shades, the only time she could remember him scared. Summer was eleven, twelve maybe. Wib being stalked, the family threatened, another time, another place, but the same marks.

  “Jon,” Summer said, “were you around for the Sean Strickland case?”

  Levi belched silently. “Not that it ever got to us, but yeah, I remember. About, what, more than a dozen years ago? A serial freak who had it in for law enforcement—a cop, D.A., his parole officer. Left some weird calling card.”

  “Strickland bashed his victims’ skulls in, then drew marks on their backs after they were dead. My father was the cop on that case.” What she didn’t tell him was that he had almost been a victim, too.

  “If Strickland weren’t already maggot food, he’d certainly be a suspect.”

  “They never positively identified his body because he blew up with his car. What if Strickland isn’t dead? What if he’s back?”

  Rosie laughed. “Why would he frame SK? Don’t forget the physical evidence. It’s pretty damning.”

  Levi idly fanned himself with one of the pictures. “Are you going to conduct an investigation? Because if you start poking around, looking for Strickland, then Raines will turn it around on you, claim SK mutilated Gundy’s body to divert suspicion from her. Plus, an investigation takes manpower; which, as you know, is in short supply around here. I would strongly advise you not to lift up this rock and see what’s crawling underneath. Your first murder case is no time to get fancy.”

  Summer dumped her coffee dregs. “If I don’t, then we both know SK doesn’t stand a chance.”

  Rosie stood up and readjusted her skirt. “Listen to Jon. He’s old, been around the block a few kajillion times.”

  “Thanks,” Levi said.

  “There’s more than enough work for you without you pretending to be some private dick,” Rosie continued.

  “Then I’d better get started,” Summer said.

  Rosie stood. “I can see I was a lot of help here. Summer, you are making one muy grande mistake if you start an investigation.”

  Summer turned off the coffee maker. “I’m trying to save this woman’s life.”

  “Whatever you say.” Rosie left. Summer could heard her through the sheetrock walls, rustling around her office.

  “What’s gotten into her?” Levi asked.

  “I don’t know.” Summer really didn’t.

  Levi shrugged. “Hormones.”

  “I heard that,” Rosie shouted through the wall.

  Summer laughed, the only light moment of the day. “Who’s the private detective on the case?” She picked up the photos and jammed them back into the file.

  Levi talked into his cup. “New guy. His name’s Tai Sanborn.”

  Rosie came flying out of her office as if she didn’t own footsteps. She filled Summer’s doorway again, breathing hard. “A cop?”

  “Ex-cop,” Levi said. “On disability.”

  Summer flipped the file on her desk. “You’re trying him out on a murder case?”

  “I’m trying you out on a murder case,” Levi retorted, “and nobody’s complained.”

  “What happened to Rothstein, Jon?”

  “On maternity leave.”

  “How about Sam Nell?”

  “He quit. Got tired of too many hours for too little pay.”

  “But why Tai Sanborn?”

  “He’s the only P.I. around not pulling thirty-five cases,” Levi said. “He’s ex-homicide. Could be helpful.”

  “And?”

  “I had no choice. The 1990 Americans With Disabilities Act mandates we hire him. If I don’t assign him a case now, Raines promised me federal prosecutors would come a-calling.”

  Summer chucked the coffee filter into the trash. “He’s probably a D.A. plant. Even if he isn’t, you know how fat and lazy ex-cops are. They leak information to their buddies on the force and don’t do what they’re told. I never met an ex-cop who even knew the expression ‘innocent until proven guilty.’ And the last thing I need on this case is some guy faking a back injury so—”

  A man in patched, faded jeans, paisley shirt hanging out, had come up behind Rosie. He had crescent-shaped eyes, and dimples highlighted his smirk. He was too good-looking, too at ease, to have business here.

  “I’m looking for Summer Neuwirth,” he said.

  “You found her. And you are?”

  He grinned. “Tai Sanborn. The fat, lazy ex-cop with the fake back injury.”

  Chapter 9

  Raines waited for Summer outside the calendar magistrate’s office. His suit was wrinkly—she was sure he had slept in it—and so was he. The undersides of his eyes were cupped by bruise-colored circles. The trial hadn’t started and already both of them were stressing.

  Raines spoke in hushed tones. “I have to inform you of a recent development in the Gundy case.”

  “Sidney,” Summer said louder than usu
al, “you sound positively defensive.”

  “Shhh.” Raines looked around in spy movie fashion. “I just want to make it clear that my office is prosecuting this case by the book. The police discovered some sophisticated surveillance equipment in Harold’s condo. Someone wired up the place real good, someone who knows his stuff, too, judging by the look of it. I’ll have the details messengered to your office.”

  Summer’s heart hopscotched a beat. Now she was whispering. “Are you saying there may be video of Gundy’s murder?”

  “All I know is the house was wired for sound and video, attached to a laptop computer concealed in the floor boards of the loft. We figure it was connected to a remote server, but there’s no way to find out where it’s located or who put it there. The police must have tripped an alarm because access was cut. No fingerprints on the equipment, no audio or video stored on the premises, no clues—”

  “You have no idea who put it there?”

  “I’ve checked with our department and the police.”

  “And?”

  “It’s not ours.”

  “Could it be FBI, CIA, DEA?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “I assume you have the cops chasing down every electronics dealer in town.”

  “You know I can’t comment on an investigation in progress.”

  Summer coughed to stop herself from slapping the smirk off his face. “Beautiful, Sidney.”

  “We’re as anxious to find out who did this as you are,” Raines retorted.

  “Until you do, drop the charges against SK.”

  “Dream on, Summer. It’ll bolster our case, no matter who put it there.”

  Summer wagged a finger. “Only if it’s admissible. Which it won’t be unless you can show where it came from.”

  Raines held the door open for Summer. “If we get access to video that shows SK murdered Gundy, no judge in the county would exclude it.”

  Summer knew he was right. She stepped into the calendar magistrate’s office.

  “But no matter what,” Raines continued, “we’re going murder one, death penalty all the way. We’ll throw in murder two and manslaughter just to round it out. But I guarantee your client’s going to fry.”