"Get more cameras in here tomorrow," Brian said. "We need more angles."
"What for?" Royce asked. "I can see perfectly well what I'm doing wrong."
Brian averted his eyes and the associate busied herself shuffling papers. Something was up.
"One of you tell me what's happening." Why was she shouting? Because she had lost control of her life and was being bounced around like a tennis ball. She hated it. Any second she was going to... to what? There was nothing she could do, and that was doubly frustrating.
"A local TV station has petitioned the court to allow cameras to cover your trial," Brian told her. "Mitch will fight it, of course."
But she wondered if that was true. Part of his payoff for taking her case without a fee was publicity. She'd been with him all weekend and he hadn't mentioned the petition. He hadn't told her Abigail Carnivali was going to ask for a higher bail than she could possibly raise either. What was wrong with him? She had every right to know these things.
By the time the phone rang late that night, she was more than ready for Mitch. She rushed across his office, faithful Jenny dogging every step. Royce yanked the receiver out of its cradle.
"You know, you're a real bastard, Mitch. You never told me there's a petition to televise my trial. I don't want to be on TV, you understand? This is not some media circus. This is my life."
There was dead silence at his end but that didn't stop her. "Mitch, listen to me. No television."
"You don't have any choice. It's up to the judge." There was a weariness, a note of resignation, in his voice that brought her up short. "I'm totally against cameras in courtrooms, but it's the judge's decision."
"Why didn't you tell me about the petition?" she asked, backing down a little. He sounded exhausted.
"I got the fax this morning. I was in court all day."
"Oh," was all she could say, but she felt bitchy for losing her temper. A silent scream of frustration ripped through her.
"Judge Ramirez is aiming for the appeals court bench. No matter what I say, she's going to allow cameras."
She remembered Superior Court Judge Gloria Ramirez from the preliminary hearing when it had taken the judge less than three minutes to decide the state had enough evidence to try her. Uncle Wally had covered numerous trials and assured Royce that Judge Ramirez was one of the best— but ambitious. "It's not fair to televise my trial."
"The judicial system tries to be fair, but it doesn't always succeed. Cameras make everyone nervous. The whole proceeding will be stilted, but what can we do about it? Prepare for it. And thank God the state's nearly bankrupt. They don't have the money to prep their witnesses the way we do."
The fight went out of her as surely as if she'd been knocked to the mat—out cold. What could she say? The judge had the final decision. For a moment she wished Mitch were beside her so she could look into his eyes. Oh, go on, Royce, be honest with yourself. You want Mitch to hold you.
Mitch had a kiss that could make her forget anything— even the fact that Brent had called Caroline every day when he was supposed to be in love with her. And Mitch could make her think and question her deepest feelings. After he'd so passionately kissed her, then left, she'd spent a sleepless night. Thinking.
But no answer came to the question of how to explain her reaction to Mitch except an upsurge of guilt when she thought about her father. Where had Mitch's compassion been then? Still, she couldn't help admitting how hard Mitch was trying to help her when no one else could. She felt confused, torn between past and present, between loyalty and desire.
She realized Mitch had kissed her to make a point. He'd agreed to behave professionally, and so far he had. Just talking with him each night gave her a sense of confidence and optimism she desperately needed. She wanted to keep their relationship at this level, friendly yet professional.
"How's your trial going?" she asked.
"It went to the jury this morning. This is the roughest time. Waiting. Trying to guess the verdict."
She took a deep breath and held it, knowing Mitch was preparing her for her own ordeal. "I'm going to ask for a postponement of your trial."
"Why?" A jolt of panic rocketed through her. "What's wrong?"
"Things aren't going the way I expected. Paul hasn't found any evidence—no matter how flimsy—that anyone framed you. I can't sidetrack a jury without something, anything." He paused and she heard him sip a drink. "Don't worry. Defense attorneys have three rules: delay, fight, appeal. This is stage one of the game plan—delay.
"A postponement will help you. People have already forgotten the details of the crime. Our latest survey shows only sixty-seven percent of those polled think you're guilty. As time goes on the percentage will drop. You'll get a better jury."
"You're saying justice has been sacrificed on the altar of strategy and tactics. I suppose that's the system and I have to live with it, like it or not."
Mitch didn't respond to her outburst. There was a moment of silence before he spoke again. "Royce"—Mitch's voice had that low, intimate pitch that never failed to send an electric charge through her body. But this was no sexy come-on. She braced herself for more bad news—"Paul's taking a closer look at your friends and Wally."
Once she would have angrily denied any of them could be guilty, but now, after hours of lying awake at night, mulling over the situation, she wasn't sure. Could she trust anyone? Not when her future—her hopes, her dreams—were at stake. She had to know the truth. Who hated her enough to destroy her? .
"Mitch," she said, thinking he'd soon be home. Obviously she had no self-control where he was concerned. The only solution was to put space between them—"I want to go home."
There was a long, awkward silence before Mitch said, "Okay. Wait until Friday when your new mattress has been delivered."
"Let's keep our relationship quiet until after the trial," Paul told Val as they sat on the sofa in his house. He didn't add Mitch had cautioned him several times about employing a suspect. He knew Mitch was right, but he couldn't help himself.
"Okay." Val snuggled closer, smiling seductively.
Not again? They'd made love twice tonight. He'd like to spend time here in front of the fire, sipping wine and talking. He needed to find out what was behind Val's insatiable appetite for sex. Undoubtedly, it was rooted in her troubled marriage. He'd waited for Val to talk about it, but now he could see he was going to have to force the issue.
"I was married for ten years," he began. Perhaps if he told her more about himself, she'd be more comfortable sharing her problems with him.
"What happened?" Her dark eyes examined him intently.
"Our marriage had been dead for several years. Even if I hadn't been brought up before Internal Affairs, it wouldn't have lasted. And it was my fault. My job was my life back then—until I found out how easily I could lose everything." He gave her a blow-by-blow account of the drug bust that had gotten him into trouble.
"Who took the missing money?" she asked.
"One of the other officers took it. He had a kid with leukemia and was strapped for cash. You have no idea how tempting it is seeing bundles of bills bound for the evidence locker when you make diddly-squat. You think: Who'll miss one bundle?"
"Didn't you tell anyone?"
"Nah. I felt sorry for the guy. If my kid was dying and my insurance ran out, I might have taken the money. Anyway, I couldn't prove anything, so why drag a guy before IA when he already had enough troubles?" He gazed at her, encouraged by her compassionate expression. She really cared about him. It wasn't just sex.
"Darling, I'm so sorry," she said, genuine emotion in her eyes.
"Tell me what happened to you, Val," he said, but she hesitated and he could see the pain was still great. "Don't you know I love you? I can't make you happy unless I know what you need." He hadn't meant to blurt it out like that, but it worked.
She smiled fondly at him. "My father was a cold, domineering man, and my mother never wanted children, but I was always
close to my brother, David. Very, very close. I was stunned when I found out my parents—and Davids—had kept Trevor's affair a secret... for years."
"You didn't suspect your husband had a lover?"
"No. I was pretty naive when I got married. The only marriages I could use to compare were my parents', which was a cold relationship, and then Royce's parents—just the opposite. No one could miss how much they loved each other. I used to hang around because they all were so happy. My marriage was somewhere in between my parents' and Royce's.
"You see, I was so happy having my own home that I didn't question our relationship. I confess I lorded my marriage over Royce and Talia. They were so competitive. Always searching for Mr. Right, but I'd found him."
Mmmm, Paul thought, not the first time someone's mentioned how competitive Talia and Royce were. He'd checked out Talia and found nothing. Maybe he should take another look.
"Then Royce moved to Italy, and Talia began dating some questionable characters. I spent my time with Trevor, and my brother was around constantly, which was great because we'd always been close.
"It didn't dawn on me that there was someone else until the last year we were married and I realized how seldom we were making love." She studied the wine glass in her hand, running her fingertip along the rim in endless circles. She gave him a shy smile. "Sex with Trevor was never like it is with you. You want to hear something funny? I knew it the moment I met you."
He recalled the first night they'd made love. More than once she'd said: "I knew it."
"The next time Trevor claimed he was working late, I followed him." Her words came slowly, almost against her will. "I caught him in the act."
Paul put his arm around her and drew her close. "It happens. Put it behind you."
She gazed at him as if she had more to say but couldn't bear to say it. Her lashes were dewed with unshed tears, and Paul was astonished at the rush of jealousy that hit him. Did she still love her husband, or was it just the lingering hurt?
"Trevor's lover was my brother David."
In the uneasy silence that followed the bombshell, they couldn't meet each other's eyes. Jesus Christ, what a mess! Did he have what it would take to bring her out of this? He loved her, but would that be enough?
"I can't forgive David. I haven't seen my brother since the night I caught him with Trevor. And I'll never speak to David again."
Wally escorted Royce up to Mitch's back door. Jenny had sprinted ahead and stood, leash in her mouth, on the steps. These late-night walks had been comforting to Royce, a break in the lonely hours when she saw no one except Jenny. But now Wally was leaving on a special assignment and she'd be alone.
"I found out more about Mitch," Wally said quietly. "Every year he puts a lot of his income into a bank in the Cayman Islands."
"Really? Why would he do that?"
"I'm not sure. He's been doing it since he began working."
"There must be a fortune in there by now."
"That's the interesting part. I had a buddy at Bay Area Savings make a call to check funds."
"You didn't. If the bank calls Mitch, he'll go ballistic."
"Don't worry. I had my friend cover by saying he'd made a mistake with the account number. The Caymans are like Switzerland—no names, just numbers. Anyway, I found out there's less than a hundred dollars in Mitch's account."
"Where did the money go?" she asked.
"Somewhere Mitch doesn't want anyone to know about. It's going to be hard to find out, but I have a contact who'll help me."
"Don't bother. What could this possibly have to do with me?"
"It took thousands of dollars to buy the coke they found in your apartment. All the other suspects' money is accounted for—with the exception of Mitch's."
"He wouldn't stoop this low," she protested. Mitch was direct, honest, and often cruelly sarcastic, but he'd never lied to her. Even at her father's funeral when Mitch had apologized, he'd admitted he was the sole reason the DA's office had gone ahead. He could have blamed someone else, but he hadn't.
"Remember, he's using a phony birth certificate," Wally reminded her.
"Something happened when he was young. He's a runaway... or something." She didn't add that she'd tried to question Mitch about his past over the weekend. But he'd cut her off.
With mixed emotions she said good-night and went into Mitch's house to work on the computer. Her purse was sitting on the kitchen table and the portable telephone inside it was ringing. She dashed to answer it; the phone was her only connection to her friends.
"How's tricks?" It was Talia.
"The same." What could she say? She couldn't talk about the trial. She never saw anyone. Then she remembered some good news. "I talked to my editor-in-chief today. He's had lots of mail protesting because I'd stopped writing my column."
"Are you going to be writing again?"
"No. I don't feel the least bit funny these days." When had she last laughed? The night of the auction. The night her whole life had changed. "So, what's new with you?"
"Nothing, really," Talia said, and Royce could almost see her: midnight-brown hair as sleek as mink and the withdrawn expression in her dark eyes. This wasn't going to be good news. "I have to learn to confront things, to tell the truth—no matter how painful."
Royce eased herself into a chair. What now?
"I'm going out with Brent tomorrow night." Talia's words came out in a breathless rush. "He called and said he's lonely."
That jerk doesn't know thing one about lonely. How well she remembered sitting in jail—waiting. Afraid. Hoping to hear from Brent. What had she ever seen in him? She thought about Mitch and wondered if he'd called while she was out. He always called around midnight when she was loneliest.
"Royce, are you there?" Talia asked. "Don't be angry with me. I'm going out with him only to convince him not to testify against you."
"I'm not angry." Surprisingly, she wasn't, but she did wonder about Talia's motives. Did she love Brent? Had she loved him all along?
"I've got to do what I can to help you, Royce. I can't live with myself if I don't do something," Talia said, but Royce couldn't help wonder if she was sincere.
After Royce hung up, she heard a knock at the back door and answered it, expecting Paul or Gerte. Instead she saw a teenage boy dressed in clothes so baggy that a dozen of his friends could have gotten into them with him. His Giants cap was on backward, revealing dusty-brown hair and a smattering of pimples on his forehead.
"Where's Mitch at?" the kid asked, his tone insolent.
He obviously knew Mitch, so she motioned for him to come in. If Oliver got out again, she'd spend half the night hunting for the blasted cat. "He's away on a case. I'm house-sitting for a few days."
She didn't quite know how to explain her presence, but a warning bell cautioned her. Mitch didn't want anyone to know where she was. "Are you Jason?" She remembered his voice from the calls on the answering machine.
"Yeah." His eyes narrowed. "You stole those diamonds."
"I was framed." Why was she defending herself?
"That's ba-a-ad, man."
They stood staring at each other until she realized how late it was. "It's late. Don't you have school tomorrow?"
"Nah. It's some conference day. I was jus' in the hood and saw the light. I thought Mitch came home."
In the neighborhood? She didn't challenge him. This wasn't a neighborhood you cruised. And he couldn't have seen the light unless he'd come up the back alley, which was the closest route to the corner bus stop. She motioned for him to follow her into the kitchen.
"I wanted to talk to Mitch. He's my big brother, ya' know."
She was familiar with the Catholic Big Brothers. Underprivileged kids. Perhaps Jason was in trouble. "Can I help?" She forced a joking note into her voice. "I know a lot about trouble."
He shrugged, seeming ill at ease.
"Want a Coke?" she asked, anxious to make friends. All she needed was for Jason to tell someone she
was staying at Mitch's. She could just imagine what Tobias Ingeblatt would make of that tidbit.
He nodded and she opened the refrigerator, thinking, not for the first time, how odd of Mitch to keep little else inside except Cokes and jars of hot salsa. The freezer was even more of a mystery—bags of frozen spinach and two pizzas.
They sat at the table and she got him to talk, sort of. His mother was expecting a baby. "The man," who turned out to be his stepfather, was happy. And so was Jason, even though he wouldn't admit it. He hated school but was "zoning out" there every day so he could go to Big Brothers' camp.
"I'm gonna ride a horse and learn to water-ski," Jason informed her. "Mitch can't ski, and he's never been on a horse. Hell, he can't even ride a bike."
"Really?" It suddenly occurred to her this kid with a chip on his shoulder the size of Alcatraz knew Mitch better than most people.
"He don't even skate." Jason drained the can. "That's what happens when you're a runaway, you miss out on the good stuff."
Well, well. Her intuition had been correct. That's why Mitch had a phony birth certificate. She tried to imagine his parents. They must have abused him. Otherwise he would have asked them for his real birth certificate. What about the scars and his deaf ear? What had happened to Mitch?
She fished for more information. "It couldn't have been too much fun wandering around Arkansas."
"Alabama."
"That's right. I get all those states mixed up." So he'd grown up in Alabama, not Arkansas. And he'd joined the Navy in some small town in Tennessee. Had he run away and wandered through the South until he was old enough to join the Navy? Did his commitment to the homeless have something to do with his past? She pumped Jason, but didn't find out anything else.
"You know about girls, don't you?" Jason flushed and she suspected this was what he'd come to talk to Mitch about.
Sawyer, Meryl Page 18
