Since staying the night with Mitch, she'd seen little of him. He had spent the weekend going over the details of Linda Allen's murder with Paul while she watched the workmen install a security system in the apartment.
Mitch and Paul believed that there was something going on that they didn't understand. They were convinced that she could be in danger. Personally, she had her doubts, but they insisted she keep the alarm on even in the daytime. Walks, of course, were out of the question.
Paul and Mitch left her in the car with Wally, outside the courthouse. In the distance she saw the legions of reporters, the mobile news units, and even a helicopter circling overhead. Her mind was congested with doubts. She wished she were as confident about pulling this off as Mitch was.
"My friend was able to check into that Cayman account," Wally said interrupting her thoughts.
She smoothed the skirt of the suit Mitch's consultant insisted she wear, a conservative gray skirt with a long jacket and a demure white blouse. This was the first time she'd been alone with Wally since Mitch had arranged for the interview.
"Mitch's money is going to a private clinic in Alabama— a very expensive private clinic," Wally added.
Royce wondered if Wally heard her sigh of relief. "What kind of patients are there?"
"They treat everything from schizophrenia to mental retardation. It's a first class place."
She saw Mitch talking to the reporters. The breeze ruffled his hair, making him look slightly boyish despite his intense expression. "Obviously, it's someone in his family. Drop it. He has a right to his privacy."
"True. If I snoop around the clinic, someone's bound to report it to Mitch, but I'm going to the South to do an article on chicken ranching's negative impact on the environment. I'm going to try another angle and see what I can find out about him."
She put her hand on Wally's arm. "Please, don't."
"Oh, shit."
Royce flinched; Wally never cursed.
"What the hell are Ward and Brent doing here?"
Her gaze swung to the top of the courthouse steps, where Brent and Ward were talking and looking down at the crush of reporters. She stifled a gasp. Why were they here? Of course, they might have business, but now? Or was it merely Ward's perverse way of humiliating his son, showing him that he'd almost married a common criminal?
It took her a few seconds to realize she was staring at Brent. Handsome, charming Brent. And feeling nothing but disgust. A fine sheen of perspiration covered her—pure nerves generated by the thought of facing the media. Once she would have sworn Brent would have stood by her side throughout an ordeal like this. Now she knew better.
"You know," Wally said quietly, and she turned to meet his earnest green eyes, eyes that were so like her own, "I just had a wild thought. Could it be that this is a huge conspiracy involving Brent, his parents, and Caroline?"
Royce would have laughed if Wally hadn't looked so serious. "Like the Agatha Christie novel where everyone was guilty? I doubt it. I can understand the Farenholts and Caroline, but why Brent?"
Wally shrugged. "You're probably right. I'm just frustrated that I can't find anything. I hope Paul Talbott's having better luck."
Royce didn't answer. Her uncle was too savvy to honestly believe Paul had found anything. If he had, they wouldn't be asking for a continuance. Mitch had opted for the delay after the informant's murder. Without Linda Allen the defense had a weak case. No case, actually.
The car door swung open and Paul said, "They're ready for you." He gave Royce an encouraging smile.
Royce and Wally walked up to the bank of microphones just as Mitch had instructed. Think of Marie Antoinette stepping up to the guillotine, he'd said. Look noble, but tragic. She wasn't much of an actress, but she'd rehearsed, and watched herself on the video playback, enough to know just how to hold her head, how to keep her eyes open wide as if fighting back tears.
She looked over the reporters elbowing each other, jockeying for position, and the dozens of cameras, and froze, seeing Tobias Ingeblatt. Why did that man make her so nervous? she wondered, staring at him. His bald head glistened in the sun, the bristly tuft of red hair shot up from his crown and fluttered in the breeze. No question about it; he gave her the willies.
She was aware of the crowd's expectant glare. Could she do this? Mitch touched the small of her back, and beside her —the way he'd always been throughout her life—stood Wally. For some reason Royce thought of her father. He always told her: "You'll never walk alone." Papa was here with her—in spirit.
Royce looked into the cameras. "Please help me."
Before Royce could deliver the second, well-rehearsed line, she heard, "Royce is innocent. Royce is innocent. We want justice."
It took her a minute to locate the female voices that were shouting their support for her. Talia and Val stood off to the side with several other friends. Royce couldn't bank the tears that came to her eyes.
"I've been framed," she said, struggling to keep her voice level and blessing her friends for coming out to help her.
The reporters waited, expecting more than two quick sound bites, but she stepped back as planned and Wally took over.
"Great," Mitch whispered in her ear as he took one arm and Paul took the other, leading her into the court.
The plan was to let Wally, the veteran reporter, known and respected in the media, field questions. The evening news, if everything went as expected, would feature Royce's simple statement designed to be remembered in a world bombarded with media hype. Instead of being painted the conniving bimbo, she'd become the victim, the underdog.
Out of the corner of her eye Royce saw Brent and his father go into the building. She wondered if Mitch had seen them. Before she could ask, Val and Talia broke through the crowd. Tears again welled up, threatening her composure. How could she have suspected them?
"Mitch, I need to talk to my friends." For a moment she didn't think he was going to let her go, but he stepped aside.
Talia hugged Royce, openly crying. "I've been so worried."
Val was more subdued, but every bit as sincere. "We're with you, Royce, all the way."
"Thank you," Royce said. "I don't know what I'd do without you two. I love you both."
Mitch put his arm around her and guided Royce into the building. Behind them she heard Wally still answering questions. How could she have ever doubted those closest to her?
"Listen," Mitch whispered in her ear as they passed through the metal detector, "Judge Ramirez's name and the word delay are rarely mentioned in the same sentence. Don't be upset if she refuses the continuance."
Royce walked into the already packed courtroom and braced herself. What else could go wrong?
The courthouse had been built after the Depression and it had been that long since the room had been painted. For the walls, once a government-issue green, the nonsmoking ban had come too late. They'd become a wash of mustard green that did nothing to take the edge off the straight-backed oak benches, giving Royce the feeling that she was indeed in prison.
None of the courtrooms had windows, enhancing the trapped feeling that gripped her more each moment. How would she be able to get through a trial? What if she were convicted?
Royce took her seat at the counsel table in the defendant's chair and looked down at the table where gang members had etched their signs into the wood. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Abigail Carnivali—in a red suit the color of a fire hydrant—take her seat at the state's table. Abigail shot a smug smile at Mitch. This was a lost cause and she loved it.
A clerk rushed up to the bailiff to let him know the judge was ready. "All rise," he said, his voice coming from a barrel chest that became a loose slab of flesh that hung over his belt and partially hid his holster.
"Hear ye, hear ye! Department seven of the Superior Court of the city and county of San Francisco is now in session. The Honorable Judge Gloria Ramirez presiding."
Judge Gloria Ramirez had flown into the judicial nest on
the wings of affirmative action. Her appointment clobbered three birds with one stone. She was a woman with an Hispanic surname, and best of all—in San Francisco—a lesbian.
If anyone had bothered to check her background, they would have discovered she had nothing in common with the millions of Hispanics in the state. She was the product of an age of Aquarius marriage that lasted less than a year.
As for her sexual preference it was her private business. She wasn't active in the gay movement, but she liked the political clout it packed. After all, gays could be counted on to vote in a state where less than half the eligible voters ever made it to the polls in any election.
Gloria was proud of her reputation as a tough judge. Never let it be said that she tolerated senseless delays. No, sir. Her court didn't add to the legal logjam that threatened to bring down the whole system.
She had to admit, though, she was a little embarrassed about her decision to allow television cameras to cover Royce Winston's trial. She hated to see any trial become a media event, but pressure from her superiors colored her decision. She was positive they'd been influenced by the Farenholts' money. After all, judges had to run for election.
"Your Honor," Mitchell Durant began his motion for a delay of Royce Anne Winston's trial. "The defense requests a postponement of the defendant's trial. The death of an important witness has created a highly prejudicial situation for the defendant if she goes on trial as scheduled."
"Highly prejudicial." Ha! Gloria knew the tinkling of the appeals bell when she heard it. But Durant didn't have a leg to stand on.
Gloria leveled him with her this-is-bullshit look. She knew Mitch was stalling because he didn't have his defense strategy worked out.
She listened to his argument, which was weak, but brilliantly delivered, and made the proper notation in the trial notebook. What Durant didn't win, he appealed—with amazing success. Gloria would never make it up the next rung of the judicial ladder, the appeals court, if Durant tricked her and was granted an appeal on what promised to be a surefire conviction.
"Your Honor." Abigail Carnivali rose for the prosecution. "The State believes the defense's request is merely a delaying tactic. There's no valid reason this case shouldn't go to trial as scheduled."
Gloria couldn't have agreed more, but she despised Abigail. The nickname "Carnivorous" didn't convey the contempt Gloria had for the legal nymphomaniac.
Durant was another case entirely. He never tried to flirt with Gloria in the typical macho belief she wouldn't be a lesbian if she had slept with him. Mitch gave her what she wanted—respect. She gave him what he deserved—respect.
"What should I do?" Gloria asked herself as she made another note in her log. If the trial proceeded as scheduled, Royce would be convicted—not that Gloria cared.
She'd watched the interview outside the courthouse on the small television she kept in her chambers. Royce's plea would play well on the six o'clock news, but Gloria wasn't fooled.
Still, Wallace Winston's interview had been inspired. Now, here was a man that she liked. He'd covered several of her cases, being extremely complimentary, which, coming from a Pulitzer-winning reporter, never hurt a prospective appeals court judge.
"Where is Wallace Winston?" Gloria asked herself, looking across the standing room only courtroom. She spotted him directly behind Royce, his hand on the rail that separated the gallery from the court. Obviously, he loved his niece and he'd been close to his brother, the respected columnist, Terence Winston.
How lucky. Gloria experienced a pang of unadulterated envy. Gloria's family had disowned her as soon as she announced she was a lesbian.
Her family's attitude was typical of what all gays faced. Gloria had long since accepted it, but she had to admit she missed her family. Could she really deprive Wally of his family, when another senseless delay—in a parade of delays that plagued the court—could possibly save a family member he loved? And who, more importantly, loved him.
"The motion to postpone this trial is"—she looked out across the blur of faces, conscious only of one kindred spirit, Wallace Winston—"granted."
Gloria ignored the astonished rumble that swept the court, and she didn't really notice the shocked look on Mitchell Durant's face. Even Abigail Carnivali's angry scowl almost escaped her. Gloria focused on the tears of relief in Wally's eyes.
CHAPTER 16
Royce practically skipped up the steps to Mitch's back door. She should have been exhausted after a full day of being bullied by Mitch's crew in a mock trial, but she wasn't. They'd taken a break midafternoon to watch Mitch on a local cable station that had televised the Fish and Game Department hearing on the fate of the cougar who'd attacked a hunter. Seeing Mitch had given her a much-needed boost of confidence.
She opened the back door. Had she forgotten to set the alarm after feeding Jenny and Oliver this morning? Obviously. The alarm wasn't on. Setting the security system was so new to her that she sometimes forgot to do it. "Jenny, where are you?"
The retriever usually met Royce at the door. She called again and checked Oliver's litter box. For once there wasn't gravel all over the floor. When Mitch was out of town like this, Oliver tormented her by kicking kitty litter, and he was getting really good at it.
"Jenny," she called again, and the retriever came bounding into the kitchen, her tail whipping through the air. Royce sat on the floor and hugged Jenny.
"You should have seen Mitch defend that cougar." My God, was she actually talking to a dog—like a friend? Once she would have felt silly, but she spent so much time alone that talking to Jenny had become a habit.
"First, the Fish and Game warden showed these gruesome pictures of the turkey hunter's back where the cougar had mauled him. Believe me, it's a miracle the guy lived." Jenny wagged her tail as if she understood. "The warden kept referring to the hunter as 'the victim' and saying how 'vicious' the cougar was. Then it was Mitch's turn.
"You wouldn't believe how great Mitch looks on TV. Tall, handsome—really sexy." It was true; the females in his office steamed up the conference-room television set watching the hearing. "Incredibly sexy."
Jenny wagged her tail and Royce decided Jenny knew all about sex. Undoubtedly, she'd seen plenty of it in that huge bed or the adjacent bath with its sunken tub. Inside the night-stand drawer Royce had found enough condoms for an army. Yup, Jenny understood sex.
"Not only did Mitch look sexy, but he projects supreme confidence. He whips out these charts that show 'the hunter' —notice Mitch didn't call him 'the victim'—was smack in the middle of cougar terrain hunting wild turkeys.
"Then he calls a game warden to testify that the wind was blowing the other way so the cougar couldn't smell the hunter. Next Mitch produces an expert witness, a vet who claims the cougar is nearsighted."
Jenny nuzzled her. "Can't figure out what his plea will be, can you? Well, don't worry, neither could the hotshots Mitch has working for him. Obviously, Mitch isn't going for self-defense. Finally, he shows pictures of the hunter in camouflage gear and he demonstrates how the man was squatting in tall grass blowing a turkey whistle to lure a turkey close enough to shoot."
Royce leaned back against the cabinet. She could still feel the excitement of watching a stellar performance. Mitch was the best. If he couldn't get her off, no one could.
"His summation was brilliant. Mitch said: Put yourself in the cougar's place. You're wandering through your own land, looking for dinner. You spot something in the tall grass.
"Looks just like a turkey. Sounds like a turkey. You sniff the wind. Nothing. So, you figure here's din-din." Royce smiled, recalling Mitch's final comment. "This is clearly a case of mistaken identity. The cougar thought the guy was a turkey."
Royce slapped the floor and laughed the way everyone in the office had burst into astonished laughter earlier that afternoon. "It was so simple, so obvious, but no one thought of it. Mistaken identity."
Jenny cocked her head to one side and Royce caught a movement out of the
corner of her eye. She whipped around and saw Mitch. The contours of his bare chest, feathered with dark hair, dipped and curved, tapering to narrow hips clad in sweatpants faded from countless washings. Didn't he ever wear a shirt around the house? And look at him! Obviously he was naked beneath the snug-fitting sweats, his sex a full bulge.
"You creep, you're always sneaking up on me."
He smiled, a grin that would have convinced the toughest jury that he'd just received a supreme compliment. "I live here, remember?"
"How long have you been there?"
"I came in at the sexy part." He had the audacity to wink. "Mighty interesting."
That's what she'd been afraid of. Fine. He already knew she was attracted to him. They'd even spent the night in the same bed—although nothing had happened. "What are you doing back here so soon?"
"The Nature Nazis gave me a lift in their jet."
"You mean the Ecological Society? Jeeez, you're cynical."
"I'm realistic. They wield a lot of power, and because they've convinced everyone they have the moral high ground, they can stop development or cost people jobs to save an endangered gnat."
"But, Mitch, they do a lot of good. Remember—"
"I don't want to argue. Let's celebrate. Find the champagne glasses." He pointed to a cabinet.
He should celebrate, she thought. He'd done the impossible. Again.
While she found the glasses, he trotted upstairs and returned wearing a T-shirt. Thank God. The Big-Dog shirt had a huge dog on it and said: if you can't run with the big dogs, stay on the porch.
Outside in the small garden lingering shadows melded into each other, softening the angles of the building, signaling day was yielding to a cool summer evening. The light breeze stirred the leaves on the thick robe of ivy cloaking the high stone wall around the yard. Mitch dropped to the ground under the chestnut tree, Jenny at his side. Royce carefully positioned herself near him, but not too close, as he popped the cork.
Mitch filled the two flutes with champagne and handed her one. Royce touched her glass to Mitch's, edging just a little nearer to do it. At this range she could see each individual eyelash, thick and spiked. "To you—and the cougar."
Sawyer, Meryl Page 20
