by Randy Singer
And he hoped, for everyone’s sake, that he and Harry could prove it.
23
LANDON WAS STILL THINKING about the case when he pulled into the driveway of his condo. When he entered, he heard Rachel announce, “Daddy’s home!” Maddie came running and Simba went into a barking fit. Landon dropped to one knee so he could give his daughter and dog the attention they both craved.
He looked up at Rachel in the midst of the chaos and thanked her for taking care of his little girl.
“We had a great time,” Rachel said.
Maddie quickly agreed. She started listing all the things that she and her new friend Rachel had done. It had been girls’ night in. They had played games—Chutes and Ladders, Candy Land, hide-and-seek, and tug-of-war with Simba. They did dinner and a movie. And there were still three slices of pizza left for Landon.
Rachel hung around for a while as Landon ate and talked to her about the case. Simba curled at her feet and she rubbed his belly with her toes. As she got ready to leave, Landon thanked her profusely and tried to pay her.
“What kind of a girl do you think I am?” Rachel teased.
“Seriously,” Landon said, “I owe you. If I can do anything for you, just let me know.”
“Maybe you can buy lunch sometime,” Rachel said.
“That’s the least I could do.”
He stood on the front stoop and watched Rachel get into her car. She beeped as she drove away.
“Let’s finish the movie!” Maddie exclaimed. The two of them snuggled on the couch while Simba tried to jump up and join them.
“No, sir!” Landon said, pushing the little puppy back to the floor.
Maddie opened her mouth to protest but then apparently thought better of it. Landon was pretty sure he knew why—she didn’t want to rat out a coconspirator. Landon had noticed a few strands of fine yellow fur on the couch. No wonder the little guy seemed to like Rachel so much.
///
When Kerri finally arrived home after a bad night of traffic on I-95, it was nearly midnight. But she was still wide awake and wired for a good fight. Landon had no right to leave Maddie with a woman Kerri had never even met. What if something had happened? If Landon wasn’t going to be able to take care of Maddie, why hadn’t he said so when Kerri first called? She was already starting to hate his new job and the way it had squeezed her own responsibilities, making her feel even more guilty when she couldn’t be home with her daughter.
She slipped into the condo, trying to be as quiet as possible so she wouldn’t wake Simba. The lights were still on, largely because she was the only one in the house who ever bothered to turn them off. At least the TV was off. Everyone was apparently asleep. She took off her shoes and headed back to the bedroom. If she and Landon were going to have a fight, they might as well get it over with.
Landon wasn’t there.
For a brief moment of panic, she wondered if something had happened. She quickly walked down the hall to Maddie’s room, and her answer was sprawled out before her.
Landon was lying on Maddie’s bed, mouth open, snoring softly. He had Maddie’s favorite book, The Velveteen Rabbit, open on his chest. One of his legs hung off the bed, his foot resting on the floor. Maddie was curled up next to him, her hair spread across the pillow, covering her face. Simba had curled into his own little ball at the foot of the bed and looked up at Kerri, knowing he’d been busted.
Kerri stood there for a moment and felt the frustration seep from her body. She carefully lifted the book from Landon’s chest and placed it on the shelf. She leaned down, moved the hair out of Maddie’s face, and gave her a kiss on her curly little head.
She snapped her fingers at Simba and whispered, “Down.” But the little guy just stared back. Who, me?
She shook her head at her incorrigible dog and her equally incorrigible husband. But she had lost the will to fight. She turned off the light and headed back to her own bedroom. She had waited two years for Landon to get out of prison. She could surely wait eight hours to talk to him about Rachel.
24
ELIAS KING’S BOND HEARING took place on Monday morning, after the former prosecutor spent a weekend in an isolation cell in the Chesapeake city jail. Franklin Sherman argued that the very nature of the crime—killing a possible witness in a federal investigation—should prevent King from getting bonded out. Harry countered that Elias had deep roots in the community and didn’t pose any flight risk.
Both lawyers did their share of grandstanding, and the judge ultimately granted bail in the amount of $1 million. If Elias posted bond, he would be required to wear an ankle monitoring bracelet and would be confined to his home except for meetings with his lawyers. He had already been suspended from his firm without pay.
It must have been a good decision, because neither side was happy with it.
Harry and Landon met with Elias at his home later that afternoon, after he had posted bond. Elias looked like a beaten man, sobered by his weekend in jail. It seemed to Landon as if the man were on some kind of antidepressant medication—his mood was flat and without affect, very different from prior meetings. Landon remembered how despondent he had felt when it became obvious that he would spend two years in prison. And that was nothing compared to what Elias was facing.
The press had already tried and convicted him. Tantalizing details about the commonwealth’s investigation had been leaked, and hints of an affair between Elias and Erica were in the air. Harry had imposed a gag order on the entire defense team until they could get their bearings. For two days, the news media had camped out in the cul-de-sac in front of Elias’s home and shouted questions at anybody who came or went. For two days all they heard was, “No comment.”
Harry outlined the big questions in the case at Monday’s meeting, but they were coming up empty on the answers. How could somebody have stolen Elias King’s car and planted the evidence? Who would want Erica dead? Why would somebody want to frame Elias?
And for Landon, the biggest question of all was the one that went unasked: Did Elias really do it?
Progress was made in one important area. After using most of his savings to post bond, Elias promised to borrow from his retirement account and through a line of credit secured by his house in order to pay Harry’s $100,000 retainer. Harry would send monthly bills based on his rate of $400 per hour (and $195 for Landon). Each month, Elias would be required to pay the bill without touching the $100,000 retainer.
The reason for this arrangement was understood by everyone but was also left unsaid. Criminal-defense lawyers wanted a retainer at the end of the case if they lost. Clients were not happy forking over large amounts of money for attorneys’ fees expended in a losing battle. It was far easier to simply deduct the amounts billed at the end of a long trial from a big retainer.
As the meeting was breaking up, Elias turned to Landon and asked for a favor. “As you can imagine, Jake is really struggling. He’s mad at me and has withdrawn into a shell. But Julia says that his eyes lit up when he learned that you were a former SEC quarterback and would be working on the case. Would you mind saying a word to him on the way out?”
A former SEC quarterback. Landon knew what that really meant. If Jake hadn’t already known about Landon’s history when they first met, he would have googled Landon and found out about the point-shaving scandal. Six years later, and it still made Landon’s stomach clench every time the subject came up. “Sure. I’d be glad to.”
The two quarterbacks ended up in the backyard throwing the football. The cut over Jake’s left eye was healing nicely, though he still had a pretty good shiner. He threw the ball with a sidearm motion and an awkward windup that exacerbated a slow release. But for a skinny kid, he had a surprisingly strong arm. And when Landon suggested some changes in his throwing motion, Jake proved highly coachable, soaking it all in, trying hard to mimic what Landon showed him.
“Your release point is too low,” Landon said. “Bring your arm up straight over your head; keep your
elbow right next to your ear.”
Jake tried, but he had years of bad form to overcome.
“It’s okay,” Landon said. “It doesn’t happen overnight.”
The next thing Landon wanted to see was the kid’s footwork. He had Jake do a few five-step drops and a few seven-step drops. Landon saw a younger version of himself in this awkward kid with the skinny frame and lots of potential. Because nobody had ever worked with Jake on his footwork, he was slow and ungainly. Jake needed to watch himself on film. Even then, it would take lots of reps before the new footwork became natural.
“You’ve got to put some meat on that body,” Landon said.
“I know.”
“And you’ve got some footwork issues. I work out with a couple of high school quarterbacks on Tuesday and Thursday nights. You want to join us?”
Jake’s face lit up as if he had just been drafted into the NFL. “Are you serious?”
“I’m not sure how long I can keep doing this with my new job, but you’re welcome to come for as long as I stay at it.”
It was the first time Landon had seen Jake smile, a grin full of braces and a row of top front teeth that seemed a little too big for his mouth.
“Tuesday night at seven thirty at the Norfolk Christian gym,” Landon said.
“I’ll be there.”
///
On Friday, Landon was in his office making phone calls to people who had known Erica Jensen. He asked everyone the same questions. Did she have any enemies? What do you know about her background? Did she ever talk to you about people who had threatened her?
Everybody gave the same answers. Erica had no enemies. Everyone loved her. Nobody would want Erica dead other than Landon’s client.
“Landon!”
It was Harry shouting from two offices down the hall. He never used the firm intercom system but just barked Landon’s name with his trademark rasp.
“Yes, sir!”
“You got a second?”
Landon walked down to Harry’s office, moved some papers from the chair in front of Harry’s desk, and took a seat.
“You think you can pull fingerprints from an object that’s been underwater?” Harry asked.
Landon thought about this for a moment. He didn’t have the foggiest idea. “Seems like it would be pretty hard. Especially if it were brackish water like the Intracoastal Waterway.”
“You might be surprised,” Harry said. “If something’s been in the water for a few days, you can almost always pull a print. The water acts as a preservative. The main thing is to use chemicals to pull the print.”
“Mmm,” Landon muttered, because it seemed like Harry wanted him to say something.
“You’d expect a prosecutor to know that, wouldn’t you?” Harry asked.
“Yeah, probably. Especially one who lives around here.”
Harry nodded. “My point exactly.”
He stared at Landon for a second, and Landon knew some kind of punch line was coming.
“So would it surprise you to know that they pulled two prints off one of the thirty-five-pound plates in the L.L. Bean bag?”
Landon felt like he was being cross-examined. Like maybe Harry was practicing for the trial. If Elias King, an experienced prosecutor, was going to submerge a body using weights, don’t you think he’d use some that didn’t have his fingerprints on them?
“Did the prints belong to Elias?” Landon asked. He had learned the best way to answer one of Harry’s questions was with a question of his own.
“One of the prints belongs to Elias. But not the second one.”
“Did they find a match for that one?”
Harry shrugged. “They didn’t find a match. But that’s where you come in. You’ve got a good relationship with his kid, right?”
“With Jacob. Yes.”
“Next time you’re lifting weights or training him up or whatever you do, grab something he touched. Use a paper towel and don’t touch it yourself. We need to get one of the kid’s fingerprints.”
Landon balked at the idea. He wasn’t going to abuse his relationship with Jacob to gather evidence. What was Harry thinking? “Is that even ethical?” Landon asked.
“What do you mean?”
“I can’t develop a relationship with Elias’s son just to collect incriminating evidence.”
Harry leaned forward. “First of all, I’m not asking you to collect incriminating evidence. I’d be shocked if Jacob’s prints weren’t on those plates. He told you they didn’t have that size plate in his weight room, but my guess is they did. If his print is a match, it means he’s a liar, not a murderer. But if that’s not his print—then we’ve really got something. We find out whose it is, and that person becomes prime suspect number one.”
Landon could see where this was headed. Elias would know that fingerprints would be preserved underwater. But his wife wouldn’t. And if her fingerprints were on those plates, they might have something.
“And let me make sure you understand one other thing,” Harry said, as if he were reading Landon’s thoughts. “We have one client in this case. We haven’t been hired to protect Jacob King or Julia King or the family dog. It’s our job to do everything possible, within the bounds of the law, to defend Elias. And if that means collecting incriminating evidence against his son or his wife, then that’s what we do. That’s why we get paid the big bucks.”
Landon just stared at Harry. He was right, of course. But there had to be a better way to practice law. Landon wanted to learn from Harry, but he didn’t want to wind up so cutthroat, so jaded. Couldn’t you be a criminal-defense attorney and still have a conscience?
“Any questions?” Harry asked.
“I think I get it,” Landon said.
25
TEN DAYS AFTER ELIAS KING’S ARREST, Franklin Sherman released the final autopsy. He sent a copy by PDF to Harry McNaughten and within an hour released it to the press. In a slight departure from character, Sherman passed on a press conference. The autopsy itself was bombshell enough.
Landon found out about it when Harry yelled down the hall and called Landon into his office. The older lawyer rubbed his face and leaned back in his chair as if weary of life. His eyes drooped more than normal, and his spotted skin showed the residual damage of too many Virginia Beach summers. His wavy gray hair—what was left of it—was slicked back behind his ears. But even with all the pressure he was under, he still had a look of smug determination, as if he knew he would ultimately prevail.
“Just got off the phone with Elias,” Harry said. The weariness of arguing with his client was evident in his voice. “He’s been prosecuting too long. Wants to start making our case in the press. He doesn’t understand that the more he protests, the guiltier he looks.” Harry shuffled some papers and then stopped, locking on Landon. “You want to be a criminal-defense lawyer?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Really?”
“Yes, sir,” Landon said.
“A lot of young lawyers say that’s what they want to be. Sounds glamorous when you’re in law school and you’re listening to professors who have never tried a case waxing eloquent about our wonderful system. But it gets dirty down in the trenches.”
Landon didn’t respond. He knew Harry didn’t expect him to. The man liked to think out loud, using Landon as a sounding board.
“But you’re different from most young lawyers I’ve encountered. You’ve been on the receiving end of our system. You know what it feels like when everybody runs away from a defendant like they’ve got the plague. Somebody’s got to stand up for the accused.”
Landon knew exactly what Harry meant. Most of Landon’s friends had deserted him. Even his own defense lawyer had done a halfhearted job. “Yes, sir.”
“And you can cut out the ‘yes, sir’ stuff. Good criminal-defense lawyers respect nobody. They challenge everybody.”
Landon was a Southern boy. He almost did another yes, sir but caught himself. “Okay.”
Harr
y tossed a document on top of a disorganized pile of paper in front of Landon. “Before you pick that up, let me tell you one thing,” Harry continued. He was in teacher mode now, a role he relished. “At the beginning of every high-profile case, there will be an avalanche of negative publicity. It will seem like your client is getting crucified in the press, and you’ll want to respond. But at that stage, when everybody wants blood, you can only make things worse.
“Your job is to hunker down and absorb every blow. Think Muhammad Ali and his rope-a-dope. After a while—and in some cases it takes longer than others—the public gets tired of beating up on the defendant, and then they want to hear the other side. But you’ve got to let the anger play out first. That’s why I wait to make my cases in court.”
“Makes sense,” Landon said, because he couldn’t think of what else to say.
Harry pointed at the document. “Okay, now you’re ready to read that.”
Landon picked up the autopsy report and absorbed the details. As expected, the cause of death was strangulation, not drowning. That part of the autopsy, along with the existence of contusions around Erica’s neck, had already been touted by Sherman. But the toxicology results were new. According to the certificate of analysis received from the state lab on Friday, Erica’s hair had tested positive for a substance known as gamma-hydroxybutyric acid.
“What do the hair results mean?” Landon asked.
“That’s GHB. A date rape drug. It metabolizes quickly, so it’s not always present in the blood or urine, but it can be detected in the hair for up to six months.”
Landon nodded, and Harry tacked on an afterthought. “Most people don’t know that,” he murmured.
It was, Landon knew, another reference to Harry’s favorite defense. A prosecutor would have known that information. But a prosecutor’s wife or someone trying to frame a prosecutor might not.
Landon also knew what the prosecution’s response would be. Elias King didn’t expect the body to be found. He wasn’t worried about the hair-testing results or fingerprints on metal plates or any other such thing. No body, no prints, no hair—no crime.
