"What should I do?"
"Don't do anything. Leave the film in the camera. I'm going to send Tracy Cavanaugh to pick it up. I'll want the camera, too."
"Couldn't you come?" Abbie asked.
"I can't tonight."
"Oh."
Matthew could hear the disappointment in her voice and could not help smiling.
"I'm sorry. I'm handling an appeal in Texas. The man is on death row.
The brief is due in two days."
"You don't have to explain, Matt. I know you have other people who depend on you. It's just that . . ."
"Yes."
"Oh, I was feeling sorry for myself. You cheer me up, that's all."
"Good. That's the part of my job I like the best."
Abbie laughed. "Will I see you soon? I'm getting a little stir crazy."
"I promise. As soon as this brief is done."
Tracy brought the transcripts and a takeout order of kung pao chicken to the office as soon as she left Bob Packard. Deems's trial had lasted several weeks, so the transcript was twenty-nine volumes long. She was reading Volume III when Matthew Reynolds said, "I'm glad you're still here."
Tracy looked up from the transcript and saw Reynolds and the time simultaneously. It was 8:15. How had that happened? She was certain she had started reading at 5:30. Where had the hours gone?
"Mrs. Griffen just phoned me. We could be in luck. She shot a roll of film at the coast the day she was attacked. In the excitement, she forgot about it. I want you to drive to her home and get the camera and the film. Bring the film to a commercial developer first thing in the morning. I want a receipt showing the date the film was delivered for processing. Then bring me the camera."
"I'll go right now."
Reynolds turned to leave.
"Mr. Reynolds."
Matthew paused.
"These are the transcripts from Deems's trial."
"Ah. Good. I want a synopsis of everything you think will be of use.
Make certain you give me cites to the pages in the transcript, so I can find the information quickly."
"I'm working on it now," Tracy said, holding up a yellow pad to show Reynolds her notes. "Oh, and there's something Bob Packard thought you should know."
Tracy told Reynolds about Charlie Deems's dark angel. As she talked, she watched Reynolds's face show surprise, disbelief and, finally, a look of amused satisfaction. She expected him to ask her questions about Packard or Deems when she was done, but all he said was "That's very interesting, Tracy. Excellent work."
When Reynolds was gone, Tracy shook her head. She could never tell what her boss was thinking and he rarely expressed his thoughts. He acted like an all-wise and all-knowing Buddha who silently weighed the worth of what he heard but never let on what he was thinking until it was absolutely necessary.
During the pretrial motion to suppress evidence in the Livingstone case in Atlanta, Tracy was unaware of the direction his cross-examination was taking until the moment before Reynolds sprang his trap. Tracy had been very impressed by Reynolds's technique, but she had also been a little upset that he had not confided to her what he was planning.
When Tracy clerked for Justice Sherzer there were never any secrets between them and she felt as if she was part of a team.
Reynolds worked alone and at times made her feel like a piece of office equipment. Still, the opportunity to work with a genius like Reynolds was adequate compensation for her bruised feelings.
As she drove along the dark highway toward the Griffen place, Tracy realized that her feelings about Abigail and Robert Griffen had changed since her talk with Justice Kelly. The judge had cheated on his wife and to Tracy that was indefensible. She was also upset with herself for being so quick to conclude that Abigail was lying about her husband simply because she liked the judge.
On the other hand, Tracy had been around Mrs. Griffen enough to concur in Mary Kelly's opinion that Griffen was a cold, calculating woman who could easily have been frigid enough to drive Justice Griffen into the arms of other women. And the fact that the judge had been cheating gave Abigail Griffen a powerful motive for murder.
The Griffens' driveway had been resurfaced as soon as the police removed the crime-scene tapes, but here and there, on the edges, Tracy's headlight beams picked out burn marks and scarred asphalt. When she parked, Tracy saw Abigail Griffen standing in the doorway. Abbie was smiling, but the smile looked forced. Tracy wondered how long Mrs.
Griffen had been waiting for her near the front door. "It's Tracy, right?"
Tracy nodded. "Mr. Reynolds sent me for the film and the camera."
Tracy expected Abbie to be holding them, but her hands were empty. She did not see the camera on the hall table.
"Come in," Abbie said. "They're upstairs. Would you like a cup of coffee?"
"No, thanks. It's a little late."
The smile left Abbie's lips for a moment. "Oh, come on. I was going to pour myself a cup when you drove up."
Tracy was going to decline again, but Mrs. Griffen sounded a little desperate.
"Okay. Sure."
There were two settings on the kitchen table. Tracy realized that Abbie had been counting on her to stay. Tracy sat down. She felt uncomfortable. Abbie carried over the coffeepot.
"Do you take milk or sugar?"
"Black is fine."
Abbie filled Tracy's cup. "How long have you worked for Matt?" she asked nervously, like a blind date fishing for a way to start a conversation. Tracy got the feeling that making small talk was not one of Abbie's strengths.
"Not long," Tracy answered tersely, unwilling to have their relationship be anything more than a professional one while she still harbored doubts about Abbie.
"You clerked for Alice Sherzer, didn't you?"
"Yes. How did you know?"
Abbie smiled. "You looked familiar. I visited Robert at the court occasionally. He may have pointed you out. Did you enjoy your clerkship?"
"Yes. Justice Sherzer is a remarkable woman."
Abbie sipped at her coffee. Tracy sipped at hers. The silence grew.
Tracy shifted in her seat.
"Are you working with Matt on my case?"
"I'm reviewing the evidence to see if we've got any good legal motions."
"And what have you concluded?"
Tracy hesitated. She wasn't sure that Reynolds would want her to answer the question, but Abigail Griffen was no ordinary client. She was also a brilliant attorney. And Tracy was relieved to be freed from making small talk.
"I haven't reached a final decision, but I don't think we're going to win this case on a legal technicality. Do you have any ideas for a pretrial motion?"
Abbie shook her head. "I've thought about it, but I don't see anything either. What's it like working for Matt?"
"I like it," Tracy answered guardedly, not willing to discuss her boss with Griffen.
"He seems like such a strange man," Abbie said. When Tracy didn't respond, she asked, "Is he as passionate about all his cases as he is about mine?"
"He's very dedicated to his clients," Tracy answered in a neutral tone.
Abbie's eyes lost focus for a moment. Tracy waited uncomfortably for the conversation to resume.
"He used to watch my trials. Did you know that?"
There was no rhythm to their discussion and the statement fell into the conversation like a heavy object. Tracy remembered seeing Reynolds at the Marie Harwood trial, but she wasn't certain where Mrs. Griffen was going, so she didn't respond. Abbie went on as if she had not expected a response.
"I saw him more than once in the back of the courtroom, watching me. He would sit for a while, then leave. I don't think he realized that I'd seen him."
Abbie looked directly at Tracy when she said this. Tracy felt compelled to say something.
"What do you think he was doing there?"
Abbie warmed her hands on her cup. Instead of answering Tracy's question, she changed the subject.
"Does Matt like me?"
"What?" , The question made Tracy very uncomfortable.
"Has he said anything . . . ?" She paused and looked across the table at Tracy. "Do you think he likes me?"
All of a sudden, Abigail Griffen seemed terribly vulnerable to Tracy.
"I think he believes you," she replied, warming to Abbie a little.
"Yes. He does," Abbie said, more to herself than to Tracy.
Tracy was surprised to find herself feeling sorry for Abbie. She had thought a lot about her as a defendant, but she suddenly saw her as a person and she wondered what it must be like to be confined, even if the prison was as luxurious as the Griffen house. Mary Kelly had portrayed Abbie as an ice princess, but she did not seem very tough now.
Tracy suddenly realized how sad it was that Mrs. Griffen had looked forward to her visit and she reevaluated her earlier opinion that Abbie was coming on to Reynolds to blind him to her possible guilt. Abbie was totally alone and Matthew was one of her few links to the outside world.
Tracy had read about hostages in the Middle East and kidnap victims, like Patty Hearst, who became dependent on their kidnappers and developed a bond with them.
The condition even had a name, the Stockholm syndrome. Maybe Abbie's enforced isolation was making her dependent on Reynolds and that was why she appeared to be playing up to him.
"Are you getting along okay?" Tracy asked.
"I'm lonely. I'm also bored to death. I tried to convince myself that this would be like a vacation, but it's not. I read a lot, but you can't read all day. I even tried daytime television." Abbie laughed.
"I'll know I'm completely desperate when I start following the soaps."
"The trial will start soon. Mr. Reynolds will win and your life will go back to normal."
"I'd like to think that, but I doubt my life will ever be normal again, even if Matt wins." Abbie stood up. "I'll get you the camera."
When Abbie went upstairs, Tracy waited in the entryway.
Abbie returned with a camera case. She handed it to Tracy.
"Thank you for having the cup of coffee. I know you didn't want to."
"No, I . . ."
"It's okay. I was hungry for company. Thanks for putting up with me."
They shook hands and Tracy took the camera. As she pulled out of the driveway, she glanced back at the house. Mrs. Griffen was watching her from the front door.
2313 Lee Terrace was a single-story brown ranch-style house with a well-tended yard in a pleasant middle-class neighborhood.
A nondescript light blue Chevy and an equally nondescript maroon Ford were parked in the driveway. As the officers assigned to raid the house drew closer to it, they could hear the muted sounds of music.
Inside the living room of the house, three young women sat in front of a low coffee table talking and laughing while they worked. In the center of the table was a large plate piled high with cocaine. The woman on the end of the couch closest to the front door picked up a small plastic bag from a pile and filled the bag with cocaine. The next woman folded over the Baggie, then used a Bic lighter to seal it. The third put the sealed Baggie in a cooking pot that was close to overflowing with packaged dreams.
Two men in sleeveless tee shirts lounged in chairs, smoking and watching MTV. One man cradled an Uzi. A MAC-10 submachine gun was lying next to the second man's chair within easy reach. Two other men with automatic weapons were in the kitchen playing cards and guarding the back of the house.
Bobby Cruz watched the women work. He was doing his job, which was to protect Raoul Otero's product. From his position he would see if one Of the women tried to slip a Baggie down her blouse or up her skirt. Cruz knew that the women were too frightened of him to steal, but he hoped they would anyway, because Raoul permitted him to personally punish the offender.
"Julio," Cruz said. One of the men watching TV turned around. "I'm going to pee."
Julio picked up the MAC-10 and took Cruz's post against the wall. Cruz knew that Julio would not be tempted to look the other way by a glimpse of breast or thigh and a promise of future delights. Once upon a time, Cruz had forced Julio to assist him while he interrogated a street dealer Raoul suspected of being a police informant. Ever since, Julio had been as frightened of Cruz as the women were.
As Cruz walked down the hall toward the bathroom, the front and back doors exploded.
"Police! Freeze!" echoed through the house. Cruz heard the women scream. One of them burst down the hall behind him as he ducked into the bedroom. There were more screams in the front room and shots from the kitchen. Someone was shrieking in Spanish. An Anglo was bellowing that he'd been hit. Cruz calmly ran through his possible courses of action.
"Put 'em down," someone yelled in the living room. Cruz opened the clothes closet and moved behind the clothes hangers.
The closet was crowded with dresses because two of the women who were packaging the cocaine lived here. Cruz pressed himself into a corner of the closet and waited. The odds were that someone would search the closet. If it was his fate to be arrested, he would go peacefully and let Raoul fix things later. But he would try to cheat fate if that was at all possible.
There were heavy footfalls in the bedroom. He heard the voices of two men. The closet door opened. Cruz could see a man in a baseball cap and a blue jacket through a break in the dresses.
He knew these jackets. They were worn on raids, and POLICE was stenciled on the back in bold yellow letters.
"Sanchez, get in here," someone called from the hall. "This asshole claims he doesn't habla inglds."
The man at the closet door turned his head to watch Sanchez leave. When he turned back, Bobby Cruz stepped through the curtain of dresses and calmly stuck his knife through the officer's voice box. The policeman's eyes widened in shock. His hands flew to his throat. He tried to speak, but he could only gurgle as blood and spittle dripped out of his mouth. Cruz pulled the policeman through the dresses and laid his body on the floor. He was still twitching when Cruz worked off his jacket, but he was dead by the time Cruz adjusted the baseball cap and slipped out of the bedroom into the hall.
A policeman rushed by Cruz without seeing him. Cruz followed the man into the kitchen. Two men lay on the floor, their hands cuffed behind them. They were surrounded by police. A wounded officer was moaning near the sink and several men huddled around him. A medic rushed through the back door into the kitchen. Cruz stepped aside to let him in, then drifted into the backyard and faded into the night.
Two houses down, Cruz cut through the backyard, dropping the police jacket and cap. Then he headed toward a bar that he knew had a phone.
In the three years Raoul had been using 2313 Lee Terrace they had never had any problems. The people at the house were all family or trusted employees and they were all extremely well paid. They might cop some cocaine, but they would never go to the police. But someone had, and whoever it was knew a lot about Raoul's operation if he knew about Lee Terrace.
Chapter TWENTY
Matthew Reynolds chose five o'clock on the Friday before the trial to review the questions he would ask during jury selection.
Tracy knew better than to complain. With the trial so close, all hours were working hours.
Reynolds was explaining his system for questioning jurors about their views on the death penalty when his secretary buzzed to tell him that Dennis Haggard was in the reception area. "Do you want me to leave?"
Tracy asked.
"No. I definitely want you to stay. This could be very interesting."
Dennis Haggard was balding, overweight and unintimidating.
He was also Jack Stamm's chief criminal deputy and an excellent trial attorney. Reynolds walked over to Haggard as soon as the secretary showed him in.
"Don't you ever quit?" Haggard asked as he looked at the files, charts and police reports strewn around Matthew's office.
Matthew smiled and pointed to his associate. "Do you know Tracy Cavanaugh?"
"I don't think
we've met."
"She just started with me. Before that, she clerked for Justice Sherzer."
As Haggard and Tracy shook hands, Haggard said, "The Department of Labor takes complaints. If he works you more than seventy-six hours straight, there's a grievance procedure."
Tracy laughed. "I'm afraid we're way past seventy-six hours, Mr.
Haggard."
Reynolds seated himself behind his desk. Tracy took a stack of files off the other client chair so Haggard could sit on it.
"What brings you here, Dennis?" Reynolds asked.
"I've come because Chuck Geddes wouldn't."
"Oh?"
"He's still mad about the bail decision and this put him through the roof."
"And 'this' is?"
"A plea offer, Matt. Geddes wouldn't consider it, but the AG insisted.
Then Geddes said he'd quit rather than make the offer, so everyone agreed I would carry it over."
"I see. And what is the offer?"
"We drop the aggravated-murder charge. There's no death penalty and no thirty-year minimum. Abbie pleads to regular murder with a ten-year minimum sentence. It's the best we can do, Matt. No one wants to see Abbie on death row or in prison for life. Christ, I can't even believe we're having this conversation.
But we wanted to give her the chance. If she's guilty, it's a very good offer."
Reynolds leaned back and clasped his hands under his chin.
"Yes, it is. If Mrs. Griffen is guilty. But she's not, Dennis."
"Can I take it that you're rejecting the offer?"
"You know I can't do that without talking to Mrs. Griffen."
Haggard handed Matthew a business card. "My home number is on the back.
Call me as soon as you talk to Abbie. The offer is only good for forty-eight hours. If we don't hear by Sunday, Geddes takes the case to trial."
Haggard let himself out. Reynolds turned back to his notes on jury selection. When he looked up, Tracy was staring at him.
"What's wrong?"
Tracy shook her head.
"If you're concerned about something, I want to know."
"You're going to advise Mrs. Griffen to reject the offer, aren't you?"
"Of course."
Tracy frowned.
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