Dead Lawyers Tell No Tales

by Randy Singer

  “Why would you want to know?” the reply came back.

  “Ask him if he remembers how she died,” Sean told the interpreter.

  The Syrian stared at Sean from a few inches away, and everyone around the table tensed. The Syrians knew more English than they had been letting on. One of them put down his drink and surveyed the faces of the other men. But the element of surprise was with the Americans, and before the Syrians could respond, they had guns in their faces.

  Sean’s three American friends stood, circling behind the Syrians, pointing their guns at the bases of their targets’ skulls. They demanded that the Syrians put their hands on their heads so they could be disarmed. One Syrian foolishly reached for his weapon. A gunshot quickly followed, spraying the man’s brains on the table. The eyes of the others widened in shock as the Americans disarmed them.

  Sean’s counterpart had not moved. His hands were still on the table, and one of the Americans had a gun aimed at his forehead. Sean reached over, took the Syrian’s gun, and tossed it to a fellow American.

  “Do you remember how she died?” Sean asked the man, leaning toward him. He knew this man spoke enough English to comprehend.

  The Syrian scoffed, then spit in Sean’s face.

  Sean made no effort to wipe it away. “You cut out her tongue,” he said. “You watched as she bled to death.”

  The man smiled. “I could tell you more of what we did. Very fine lady, your girlfriend.”

  Sean grabbed the man’s beard with his left hand and pulled him closer. He could smell the cigarettes and garlic, and then, as he stared at the man’s leathery skin and the pores on his face, it seemed Sean could hear Fatinah’s voice in the distance. She was pleading again, her voice cracking, proclaiming her innocence, her bravery keeping Sean alive. But there was no remorse in this man’s eyes, no hint of fear, no attempt to negotiate for his own putrid life.

  “I have a message for you,” Sean said. “It’s from Fatinah.”

  He yanked the beard, and with his right hand Sean thrust a dagger into the man’s gut. He twisted and sliced until the Syrian’s eyes went blank. Gunshots followed, and the other Syrians slumped dead onto their plates.

  Sean rose and pulled out a worn index card, yellowed and frayed. He crossed the Syrian’s name off the list. There were only two names remaining, and each would require a far different approach. They would also take considerable time.

  So much time, in fact, that the list would double in size before another name could be eliminated. Vengeance had a way of multiplying.

  And sometimes, of turning violently back on its originator.

  19

  THE PRESENT

  FRANKLIN SHERMAN WAS a short fire hydrant of a man whose perpetual scowl had carved deep lines into his forehead and jowls. With a thick neck and trapezius muscles that sloped down from the base of his skull, he looked like a fifty-year-old weight lifter squeezed into a business suit.

  He served as the chief deputy prosecutor for the city of Chesapeake and had earned the nickname “the General” from the defense bar. It was an obvious play on his last name and a subtle reference to the scorched-earth tactics he used to put criminals behind bars. Nobody had ever caught the General doing anything explicitly unethical, but he certainly walked right up to the line. In Sherman’s black-and-white world, there were good guys and bad guys. His job, reduced to the nub, was to make sure as many punks as possible spent as much time as possible behind bars.

  Prior to law school, the General had spent ten years on the street as a beat cop. He had seen some things. And he was still a beat cop at heart. He had a great disdain for all defense lawyers, but especially for men like Elias King, men who had once served as prosecutors before selling their souls to the defense side of the street, one retainer at a time.

  On Landon’s second day at McNaughten and Clay, the General took center stage. He was holding a press conference on the Elias King case. Landon watched from his new firm’s large conference room on a big-screen TV, along with Harry McNaughten. Erica Jensen’s body had been found at the bottom of the Intracoastal Waterway, directly under the high-rise bridge on Route 168. They knew where to look, Sherman said, based on an anonymous caller who had reported someone dumping a body bag off the bridge.

  “Erica Jensen worked at the law firm of Kilgore and Strobel,” Sherman said. “The description of the vehicle from the source matched a vehicle driven by one of the firm’s attorneys, Mr. Elias King, who was also Erica’s boss. That car has now been impounded, and we are conducting a careful search of the trunk and interior. The victim’s body was stuffed in an L.L. Bean bag along with seventy pounds of metal weight-lifting plates designed to weigh down the bag. Final autopsy results should be available by the end of the week. Preliminary results show contusions on the victim’s neck, indicating she may have been choked to death. There does not appear to be evidence of a sexual assault.”

  When he finished his prepared remarks, Sherman fielded questions and gave away as little information as possible.

  “Is Elias King a suspect?”

  “He’s a person of interest,” Sherman said, his face betraying no emotion. “We know that Erica Jensen had a meeting scheduled for two days ago with federal prosecutors who are investigating insider trading charges against Mr. King. Ms. Jensen was killed Monday evening, the night before that meeting. Our investigation is ongoing, and we are pursuing several leads.”

  “Do you expect to make any arrests in the near future?”

  “I’m not prepared to say.”

  And so it went—thrust and counterthrust—Franklin Sherman controlling the flow of information while feeding the media vultures enough morsels to help them convict Elias King even before his arrest.

  Harry watched in silence, his eyes narrow with contempt. His color looked off to Landon, more jaundiced than normal under the bright lights of the conference room.

  “We’ve got work to do,” Harry said, turning off the TV. Landon followed him back up to the second floor and received a new set of marching orders on the King case.

  Harry was right about having work to do. And it wasn’t just on the King file. Landon had been shocked during his first day to see how many cases Harry was handling and the chaotic nature of the firm’s filing system. Harry seemed to keep everything straight in his head, but most of the files were either missing documents or were scattered all over the various rooms of the second floor. Landon didn’t know if he could ever get it organized.

  Landon had already learned that there was a big difference between the way things worked on the first and second floors at McNaughten and Clay. The first-floor lawyers, who specialized in appellate law, had neatly organized files and tidy offices. Most of their documents were stored electronically and easily accessed off-site. Parker Clausen, the lawyer who did most of the brief writing, spent a lot of time working from home.

  By contrast, the second floor looked like it had been hit by several tornadoes. Documents and files were spread everywhere. It was hard for Landon to even get an accurate list of the fifty-plus active files being handled by Harry. And Harry had apparently never heard of the green movement. He made hard copies of everything, real scraps of paper that he could hold in his hand and scribble on with his red pen.

  According to Rachel, the differences in style had apparently led to some heated discussions between Harry and Brent Benedict. Ultimately, they agreed that Harry would run the upstairs the way he wanted and the rest of the firm would function the way Benedict wanted.

  But Landon planned to change all that. Every night, he would take one file home and divide it into neat subfiles, separating out the pleadings from the correspondence and the legal research from the attorney notes. He would develop a reporting system to stay on top of each file and a computerized calendaring system so that Harry’s pocket calendar wasn’t the only place important dates were noted. Harry McNaughten might be a genius defense attorney, but he didn’t know the first thing about office management. Lando
n was new to the firm, but he understood a thing or two about working within systems and how to organize things.

  ///

  Franklin Sherman didn’t waste any time initiating the biggest arrest of his career, orchestrating events in spectacular fashion. On Friday afternoon, somebody tipped off the media, so the television cameras were rolling when Elias King, former federal prosecutor, was escorted from his office in a Norfolk high-rise, hands cuffed behind him. He was shoved into the backseat of a police car, and thirty minutes later, for the second time in two days, Sherman held a press conference on the case.

  After adjusting the microphones down to fit his height, Sherman announced that he would be charging Elias King with first-degree murder. He showed the press two large poster-board blowups of photos of the trunk of Elias King’s car. The first photo showed a faint impression on the carpet that matched the shape and size of the two thirty-five-pound plates that had been used to weigh down the L.L. Bean bag Erica Jensen had been found in. The second showed four small indentations. They matched up, the General said, in both size and location, with the impressions that would have been left by the two small wheels on the bottom of the L.L. Bean bag as well as the two small knobs at the other end of the bag. He had a replica of the bag there for the press to see. It was over four feet long and looked like a bright-yellow body bag. The General showed how, when the bag was laid flat on the floor, the only four points touching would be the wheels and the small plastic knobs. Not only that, but investigators had found a strand of Erica Jensen’s hair in the trunk. He hypothesized that it might have gotten caught on the handles or zipper of the bag when her body was stuffed into it at her apartment and then fallen off in the trunk.

  There were also a number of text messages and e-mails that Sherman said supported the charges, though he refused to go into any detail.

  “I’m going to the jail to meet with our client,” Harry said. “I need you to go talk to his wife and kid. Make sure they don’t make any statements to anybody about anything. See what you can find out about his alibi. And see if the Kings happen to be missing any L.L. Bean bags or weight-lifting plates.”

  20

  IT WAS A TWENTY-FIVE-MINUTE DRIVE to the Kings’ house in Chesapeake. On the way, Landon got a call from Harry with further instructions about his assignment.

  “I hate trying cases in the press, but I’m going to have to make some kind of statement. See if Julia King is going to support her husband. I need to know whether Elias parked his car outside or in the garage. And talk to his kid—what’s his name?”

  “Jacob.”

  “Right. Talk to him separate from his mom. Do whatever it takes to convince him that his dad is innocent. Make sure he doesn’t talk to the cops or his friends or post anything on Facebook, and no texting or tweeting anything about his dad’s arrest.”

  Landon heard the sound of a car horn through the cell phone and assumed Harry had cut someone off. Harry cursed at the other driver. In Harry’s world, the best defense was always a good offense.

  When they hung up, Landon started tackling another problem. Kerri was in D.C. to interview Sean Phoenix. Landon was supposed to get off work early to pick up Maddie and Simba at their respective day cares. But Landon couldn’t just call Harry and explain that he had to drop everything on this murder case because of day-care issues. Harry wasn’t the most enlightened boss.

  Landon called a few friends from church, but they were unavailable. He even tried the moms of the high school quarterbacks he had been coaching. Nobody was in a position to drop everything to pick up Maddie. And it was pushing five o’clock.

  As a last resort, he dialed Rachel Strach and asked if she could pick up Maddie and Simba.

  “I’d love to do it,” she said. “But won’t the day care require something in writing?”

  Landon hadn’t even thought of that. The day-care operators were strict. He doubted if a phone call would suffice.

  “You have my permission to forge my signature,” he said. He felt a catch in the pit of his stomach, but what else could he do?

  “I promise I’ll take good care of them,” Rachel said enthusiastically. “I’ll call you as soon as I pick up Maddie, and then we’ll have a girls’ night out.”

  “You’re a lifesaver,” Landon said.

  He had a few minutes before arriving at the Kings’ house to call or text Kerri. But he decided he would save that conversation for later.

  ///

  Julia King was expecting him. Jacob was still at school, working out in the weight room with some other athletes, and would get a ride home with a friend.

  “Believe it or not, he wants to be a quarterback,” Julia explained when they settled into the family room. “He’s five-eleven and barely weighs 150 pounds. All elbows and knees, and his coordination hasn’t caught up with his growth. But he’s got his dad’s competitiveness. . . .”

  Julia looked like she had been through the emotional wringer. Her eyes were red and watery, and if her hair had been brushed that day, it must have been first thing in the morning. She had gone soft in her middle age and had streaks of gray in her hair. According to Harry, Julia had taught at Tidewater Community College before Elias took his job with Kilgore and Strobel. The past few years she had been a devoted stay-at-home mother and wife. Elias had rewarded her by cheating with Erica, a thirty-four-year-old legal assistant with a sharp intellect and a triathlete’s body.

  Landon and Julia spent their first few minutes talking about the upcoming legal procedures. “You probably know how all this works from living with Elias,” Landon said.

  “Not really. We never talked much about his job.”

  Landon did his best to give her a preview of what lay ahead, though most of what he knew came from studying for the bar exam. There would be an arraignment the following morning. Bail would be set. Next would be a preliminary hearing. They were probably looking at a trial date in late summer or early fall.

  “You really think this is going to trial?” Julia asked.

  Landon didn’t have a clue. “We need to prepare like it will. But our first concern is posting bond for Elias. We need to discuss what assets might be available.”

  “How much are we talking about?”

  “Harry doesn’t know yet,” Landon said. Harry had given Landon some worst-case scenarios. He knew Julia would be stunned. “Could be several hundred thousand. Even a million. You would need collateral for 10 percent of that.”

  She stared into space. “I don’t know if we have that much,” she said. Her voice was tight; worry lines framed her eyes. “Elias handles the finances.”

  “I know Harry’s talking to him about this as well,” Landon said, trying to keep things hopeful. “We can circle back to that later. The main thing I wanted to address with you is your husband’s alibi.”

  Landon paused for a moment and watched as Julia looked down. This was a delicate area. How far was she willing to go to protect her husband?

  “We know the anonymous tip came in during the early morning hours of February 5, so that would have been late Monday night, early Tuesday morning. Was Elias with you that night?”

  Landon had asked the question exactly as Harry had instructed. They knew that Elias and Julia had been sleeping in separate rooms. But Harry wanted to ask an indirect question so he could see whether Julia was willing to defend her husband.

  She stared at her hands, playing with her wedding ring. When she looked up, her eyes were wet. Her shoulders sagged under the weight of a marriage falling apart in a very public way.

  “You want to know if I’m going to stand with my husband,” she said. “Play the good wife.” She spoke with a firmness of conviction that surprised Landon. “My husband sleeps with a younger woman that he’s now accused of murdering, and you want to know whether I’m going to back him up.”

  She looked past Landon and waited an uncomfortably long time before continuing.

  “Do I really have any choice? He’s my husband, Mr. Reed.
He’s Jacob’s father, and we once loved each other. I won’t lie for him. We were sleeping in separate rooms on Monday night. But I doubt he could have left the house without my knowing.”

  Landon nodded his head. He felt her pain but had no idea what to say.

  “He didn’t kill her,” Julia continued. She shifted in her seat, became more erect, and brushed a stray strand of hair behind her ear. She would make a good witness, Landon thought.

  “I’ve lived with the man long enough to know when he’s telling the truth. He slept with her—” Julia choked a little at the bluntness of her own words—“but he didn’t kill her.”

  “How would you describe Elias’s temper?” Landon asked. “Has he ever struck you?”

  Julia seemed taken aback by the thought. She waved it away. “We’ve both got tempers,” she said. “But did he ever hit me? I wouldn’t be here if he had.” Her lips curled into a meager attempt at a smile. “Don’t ask him whether I ever hit him,” she said. “Unless we’re not counting slaps.”

  “Sunday night?” Landon asked.

  She nodded. “I’ll never be able to trust him again,” she admitted. Her voice was softer now, almost a whisper. “Erica Jensen destroyed our lives. With a little help from my husband, obviously. But I’m not ready to raise Jacob on my own. . . .”

  She stopped there, and Landon jotted a few notes. There were other, less sensitive areas, and it was time to move on.

  He found out that Elias generally parked his car in the driveway. Landon had Julia take him upstairs so he could get the layout of where everybody was sleeping that night and how easy it would have been to hear the car start. Jake’s room was closest to that end of the house.

  They were back in the family room when Julia’s phone buzzed. “Excuse me,” she said. “This is Jacob.”

  After she said hello, she fell silent and Landon watched her face go dark as she started firing questions. “What happened? . . . What do you mean you’re okay? . . . Why did you do that?”