by David Ellis
“Their guts.”
“Exactly. With our case upstate, their gut was that there was no harm, no foul. And that, Ms. Trotter”—he poked his fork at her again—“is why I won.”
Shelly shook her head.
“There are cases with a lot of factual disputes,” Paul continued, “and cases where the hard facts are basically agreed upon, and you argue inferences. With our case, you didn’t have any direct evidence that the school knew about the affair. You had to argue that they should have known. With cases like that, juries go with their guts.”
Shelly considered her case, Alex’s murder trial. She felt like she could not pin down even the most basic of factual points at this moment. But his point was valid nonetheless.
“My case sucks, Riley.” She pushed away her food. “I have a client whom I don’t trust. He might have been the dead cop’s confidential informant, like Sanchez says, or he might have been forced to deal drugs for the dead cop, like my client says.”
“Or both.”
“Yes, or both. And I’m pleading self-defense, and I don’t even know if my client is the one who shot the cop. He says he is but I don’t know.”
“Personally, I thought that was a good move,” he said. “The self-defense plea. You’re not wedded to it.”
“I wish I could take credit. The F.B.I. gave me the idea.”
“But it was your idea to use it as misdirection.”
She groaned and ran her hand over her face. That was one of the reasons. The other was to keep Alex, and herself, safe from unscrupulous members of the city’s law enforcement. God, how tangled this case had become.
She peeked through her fingers and saw that Paul was watching her. His look was free of any social restraint or subtlety, something faintly primitive and longing. He was checking her out. Men stared so much and always seemed to think that they were doing so covertly. Most of them had the subtlety of a chainsaw. Paul, in fairness, at least had thought he had a free shot.
“Get men on the jury,” he said. “They’ll fall all over themselves trying to please you.”
She looked at him differently than before, a slight narrowing of her eyes, an adjusted set to her mouth. If she could hold up a mirror, she might use the word flirtatious.
Paul, unable to hold the stare, chopped his hand on the table. “Alex is caught in the middle. He’s got the federal government pulling him one way, a dirty cop pulling him the other. He’s an—” he looked up at Shelly and froze. This respected trial lawyer, who had stared down ruthless killers and cross-examined mobsters who could have someone killed with a wink and a nod, could not continue with Shelly looking at him so intently.
“—an innocent victim,” he continued. “I think that would—You could—you could sell that, I think.”
She nodded slowly. She appreciated his assistance and the stroking of her ego. Paul returned to eating his entrée and Shelly watched him. He was a tad abrasive, but he had real substance, and he took pride in his work. He wasn’t looking for gratitude or praise. He genuinely enjoyed talking trial strategy, imparting some wisdom. Maybe she had completely underestimated him. Yes, that’s what she had done. Paul had stereotyped her, but she had done the same thing to him. Maybe, in varying degrees, she had stereotyped every man, found or assumed the existence of a flaw and highlighted it to the exclusion of all else.
Her heartbeat was racing. But for once, it was not born of confusion or anxiety. The word was clarity.
“This kung pao is good,” he said, without looking at her.
“I think we’re ready for the check,” she said.
Paul looked up, with a quarter of his plate still covered, a mouthful of rice. “You want to go home?”
“I want to go to your home,” she said.
Shelly had seen many feats of athleticism in her time. Karate teachers with lightning-quick reflexes. Athletes who could jump higher or run faster than anyone on the planet. Men who could throw a football sixty yards in the air and hit a receiver in stride. But in her three-plus decades on this earth, she was relatively sure that she had never seen a human being move so quickly as Paul Riley raised his hand and called for the check.
36
Hide and Seek
HE WAS NERVOUS. The great trial lawyer, Paul Riley, who had stood with confidence before scores of tribunals, dozens of juries, under the gravest of circumstances, could hardly get his keys into his door. He lived in a high-rise overlooking the lake, an expansive split-level condo with floor-to-ceiling windows, beautiful white furniture, expensive artwork, Persian rugs.
“This is beautiful,” she whispered.
“Had a decorator,” said Paul. “If it were up to me, I’d have college banners all over the walls and one of those old recliners.”
“A sports fan?” Shelly spun around, looking at the furnishings.
“College basketball,” said Paul. “Only pure sport left.” He smiled, shrugged, then looked around, nervously clapped his hands together. “Pro ball’s too controlled.”
Shelly turned to him. Paul blushed and looked away.
“Shot clock’s the problem,” Paul continued.
Shelly walked toward him slowly, watching his eyes as they diverted to the window.
“They don’t call traveling, either.”
“No?” Shelly walked up to Paul, looking up at him.
“Never liked the three-point shot.”
She touched his suit jacket, ran her hand down to the button.
“Course, college ball has the three-pointer, too. But in the pros, they just feed it into the center. There’s no, um—no strategy left.”
She unbuttoned his coat, opened it until it fell off his shoulders.
“Do you, uh, want a drink?”
Shelly looked back up at him. His face had turned a light shade of red. A trickle of sweat ran from his hairline.
“No,” she said. She reached for his tie.
“I”—Paul hiccupped a laugh—“Shelly, I have to confess that I’m a little, uh, out of practice.”
She reached up and kissed him, gently, ran her tongue along his lip, then his teeth, then their mouths locked. She tasted the spice of his food, the oaky cabernet. His cologne, strongest on his neck by his ears. She pulled off his tie without missing a beat, hurling it wherever. He brought his hands to the small of her back, then one cupped her head, massaged her hair. A small humming noise, a quiet groan, left his throat, echoed in her mouth. They moved awkwardly, their faces smashed together, as she removed his clothes, knocked away his hands as he tried to remove hers. There was the magnificent Paul Riley, pants at his ankles, his erection slicing through the opening in his boxers, struggling to keep his balance as he kicked off his shoes, lifted one foot after the other out of his pants.
“I have to warn you,” he said, as their mouths attacked one another. “I’m half Italian, but I’m a hundred percent Irish between my legs.”
She laughed. The things that concerned men. Everything was about measurements, the size of her tits or ass, or his penis. For good measure, not literally speaking, she put her hand on him. She made eye contact with him, though his eyes were hardly open, smiling at him while she gripped his penis like the handle of a slot machine.
“Jesus,” he mumbled. “You do that much longer and we’ll be done.”
She pulled him to the floor and climbed on top, first removing her panties. She ran her fingers over his chest, flattened by gravity, but she could see he took care of himself, a couple of fairly defined pecs between a patch of curly gray hair. His stomach was somewhat rounded but hard, a middle-aged man’s successful fight against time.
She reached for her purse, near the couch, and removed a condom.
“Good idea,” he mumbled, reaching for her.
“I’ll do it.” She removed the condom and unrolled it onto his erection, which stood at an angle in salute. “Irish, my ass,” she said. He smiled, though he was facing the ceiling for the moment. She hiked up her skirt and positioned herself, t
hen fell down on top of him.
He let out a measurable noise, his head lifting off the carpet. “You’re not”—he spoke through a halting breath—“not gonna take off your clothes.” He reached for her sweater, ran his hands over her breasts.
“You have a problem with this, Riley? You have some kind of objection?”
“Hey, whatever”—he thrust upward, held himself in that position—“whatever you kids are doing these days.”
She closed her eyes, arched her back. His hands cupped the small of her back again, pawed at her sweater, as she bobbed on top of him.
“Shelly—I’m warning—you—it’s been awhile.”
Something she could do better than Paul? That would be something. Oh, was she being ridiculous? She hadn’t been with a man for over a year. No, it was more than two years. Why now? With everything swirling around her—why now? She moved slowly on Paul, and the answer came to her in the form of a question.
Why not now?
“You’re gonna give me a heart attack,” he said.
She smiled to herself as she quickened the pace again. Sex was just not the same for men and women—or at least, this particular woman. She’d never had an orgasm and was resigned to the fact that she didn’t know what she was missing. It was something else, not intimacy but some connection between two people, however brief, however casual, a reminder that she was a woman. And there was something with Paul. Something plaintive in his affection, something entirely unaffected about his corny chivalry.
His body shuddered into a spasm. His eyes shut, his mouth opened. He omitted a slow, tortured noise. He held his breath as his body moved uncontrollably. She rested on him and waited for him to open his eyes.
He went still, then smiled, peeked at her. “Sex in the twenty-first century,” he managed.
“Welcome,” she said, climbing off him. He sat up, removed the condom and didn’t seem to know what to do. They sat there a moment, admiring each other, then he motioned to the contents of his hand and went to the garbage. She watched his pale, freckly frame, his bare ass, move out of the room.
She found her panties and put them back on. When Paul returned to the room, he was still naked as a jaybird, but carrying a bottle of wine and two glasses. “We drink,” he said.
She waved a hand. “None for me.”
“You mind if I have one?” he said. He placed the bottle and glasses on a side table and threw on his boxers. “I think I need to lower my blood pressure.”
“Really, Riley. You make it sound like you’re a virgin.”
He took a quick sip of wine. “No, far from it. But never—can I be blunt?”
“Have you ever been anything but?”
He smiled. He was at ease now. The pressure, she imagined, had probably been substantial. In her experience, men took their sexual performance very seriously. At least the good ones did.
“Never with anyone like you, Shelly.”
“Oh, God.” She rolled her eyes. “You were supposed to use that line before you had me, Riley, not after.”
He looked at her as if he had missed the joke. Because, she came to see, he had been entirely serious. He laughed it off, anyway, playing the good sport. After all, this had not turned out so badly from his perspective.
“I should go.” She was already dressed, and needed only to throw her purse over her shoulder.
She had caught Paul in midsip of the Merlot. “You’re going?”
“No rest for the criminal defense lawyer.”
“Shelly—” He moved in front of her. “Was it that terrible?”
She patted his chest. “No, Counselor. It was really wonderful. I just have to go. I’d really like to do this again. I really would.”
“Well—” Paul appraised the situation. He was standing in only boxers, holding a glass of wine, his clothes dangled over the couch or strewn across the carpet, while his date for the evening was on her way out. He seemed momentarily at a loss for words, and somewhat confounded by that fact alone. “I would, too?”
“Good answer.” She put her hand on his cheek. “I really, truly enjoyed it. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
She went to the door and looked back. Paul was searching for his shirt. “And then she left,” he said, loud enough for her to hear but, in Shelly’s mind, more to himself.
37
Hindsight
“MATERIAL WITNESSES,” SAID Shelly to the guard. She signed in at the desk and moved over so that Joel Lightner could do the same.
“Joseph Slattery,” said the man behind the desk. He scanned a sheet of paper that was kept in a plastic sleeve, looking for the location of the prisoner.
Twenty-five minutes later, Shelly and Joel Lightner sat in a room with Joseph Slattery. The report Shelly held told her that Mr. Slattery was age thirty-six and homeless. He had a sheet but little of significance. Criminal trespass was the primary violation in the last ten years. Before that, there had been an aggravated battery pleaded down to simple assault.
The man didn’t look like a homeless man, because, of course, he was not homeless for the time being. Joseph Slattery was being held as a material witness by the county attorney. This was an option that the prosecutors reserved for people whom they suspected would be unwilling to appear at trial. Often, the unreliability of the witness was due to the fact that they were criminals. Here, the prosecutors were probably afraid that Joseph Slattery might simply disappear off the face of the earth.
He was clean-shaven and fair-complected. His hair was clean and combed. His clothes—standard prison garb—were undoubtedly an upgrade on his normal attire. Shelly detected an occasional alertness in his eyes. He was clearly a troubled man, like most homeless. Very few people rationally chose to live on the streets, which was the true tragedy. Walk along the city’s streets and check out the vagrants and beggars, and nine out of the ten—if not all ten—are either mentally disturbed or addicted to something, be it alcohol or drugs. People crying out for help who don’t know how to cry out. Or who cried out but no one listened.
Joel took the lead, as he did with the other witness to the shooting. He had probably spoken to people like this hundreds of times, and he had fixed on the proper angle and tone. Besides, he was the “prover”—that, after all, was the reason he was here, to corroborate what was said, in case any of the interviewees decided to change their testimony when it came to trial. Shelly would call Joel, if need be, and show that the witness had spoken inconsistently on an earlier occasion.
Joseph Slattery spoke with a soft, hoarse voice. He did not immediately appear to lack credibility, which could cut either way for Shelly, depending on what he said. She could not suppress pity for this man, who had had some major complications in his life to turn out this way. Worse still, she realized that she might be required at trial to destroy his credibility, depending on how things turned out. She would have to put aside her emotions and, as the ruthless defense attorney, equate this man with a sideshow freak in a traveling carnival.
“Highland Woods,” he said when Joel asked him where he grew up. Shelly, who was practiced enough not to jump from her seat, noted that this particular suburb was among the most affluent in the city, and possibly the country.
“I’m a two-time loser,” he told the room. “I’m bipolar and an alcoholic.”
This much Shelly already knew. The prosecution was required to disclose such things when they proffered their witnesses to Shelly. Technically, the witness lists had not been exchanged yet in this case, but there was no reason for Dan Morphew to hide these facts from Shelly, and he had not done so. Alcoholism had overtaken this man five years ago, sending him from a decent job as an office manager to the city’s streets.
“Are you medicating in here?” Joel asked, though he already knew the answer.
“Lithium. And I’m drying out.”
The problem with bipolar disorder, from Shelly’s perspective, was that it did not necessarily attack the witness’s perception. It caused enveloping mood swings
—from a heightened state of euphoria to, more often, acute depression. But it didn’t mean that Slattery didn’t see what he claimed to see.
Alcoholism was another story, obviously. If this guy was loaded when the events went down, Shelly could rip his testimony to shreds.
“What about when you’re on the street?” Joel asked.
“Pretty much nothing.” He looked at each of them. “I don’t get violent. I don’t do that. It’s more, just—I’m uneven.”
Shelly smiled warmly at the man.
“I hang out on Gentry Street a lot,” he said without solicitation. “Near the train station. I was over there when this stuff happened.”
“Why don’t you tell us what happened, Joe,” Lightner suggested.
“See, I see this cop car. That didn’t mean much, ’cause I see them a lot. Usually they leave me alone. I’m not one of these guys they gotta worry about. Me, I don’t get violent.”
“Right,” said Joel, “you don’t get violent. We get that.” Shelly could see that Joel had dealt with these kinds of witnesses before, and she realized that this could be a liability. He sounded like a cop playing the heavy. She had to assume Joel knew what he was doing, but she felt that this man was intelligent enough not to be subjected to condescension, something about which a woman working in the legal system knew plenty.
“This kid’s running from the cops and they were chasing him. The kid went into the alley. The cop ran after him and the kid shot him.” The man lit a cigarette and chewed on his lip. He seemed uncomfortable, but not because of the presence of Shelly and Joel.
“Where were you?” asked Joel.
“I was on Gentry. I was on the other side of the street.”
“To the north or south?”
Mr. Slattery thought a moment. “South. Yeah, south.”
