Dani Hayward, P.I.: The Richard Clark Case
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Phillip Blakely sank to his desk chair as he emitted a heavy sigh. It had been eight months since he had taken Richard Clark's case. The Monday following the arrest, Professor Richard Clark had been arraigned and bound over for trial in the first degree murder of Professor Harold Thornton. His efforts to have bail set had been futile. The judge had taken the District Attorney's advice and denied bail. Phil had tried to reassure his client as best he could, but they both knew it did not look good. Since then, things had only seemed to get worse.
Phil had managed to find an ample amount of character witnesses who were willing to take the stand in Richard Clark's defense. But none of them could supply him with an alibi for the night of the murder. He recalled the evidence the District Attorney had presented over the past week, the first week of proceedings. The dagger that had been plunged into Professor Harold Thornton's back had Richard Clark's fingerprints on the handle. The glass door of the lockable cabinet the dagger had been kept in had Clark's prints on it, both inside and out. Even the clip that held the dagger showed a distinct thumbprint that the police had found belonged to Richard Clark. One of the two empty wine glasses the police had discovered on a study table had his client's fingerprints on it. And Jerry Alvarado had been right about the golf clubs. The graphite clubs that, according to the district attorney, Harold Thornton had purchased the morning of his death and that had been delivered at six that evening had Richard Clark's fingerprints on the handles and shafts of four of the clubs. When the clubs were introduced as evidence, Phil had turned to his client and asked him if they were, indeed, identical to his. Richard Clark had given a sullen confirming nod.
Phil looked out his office window at the late afternoon sky. Richard Clark deserved the best defense possible. So far, he had not given him that. What could he do to counter the case the District Attorney was presenting? According to Richard Clark, he had been home the night his friend and fellow Harrison College faculty member was murdered. But there were no witnesses to confirm that. And the fact that Richard Clark did not drink alcohol and thus would not have drank the wine the police had found traces of in the glass that had carried his client's fingerprints, would hold no basis with the jury. No, Phillip Blakely had absolutely no defense against the undeniable evidence that was being presented against his client. All in all, it was a perfect case of first degree murder. There had to be something he was missing. But, if there was, he didn't know what it was or where to look. He had been over everything a thousand times and, every time, it always stacked up the same; Richard Clark was guilty. Even the investigator he often hired for his cases had turned up nothing. There just did not seem to be anything he could do to prove his client's innocence.
Phillip Blakely leaned his head back against his high-backed desk chair and closed his eyes. He thought back more than six years to another case that had been just as hopeless. Jill Moran had been accused of killing her ex-husband after several witnesses had heard her threaten him in public after he had threatened to take their two children and leave the state if she did not allow him to see them. A vehicle resembling Jill’s late model sedan had been seen around the corner from her ex-husband’s house less than an hour before his body was discovered by the deceased’s girlfriend. After discovering traces of the deceased’s fresh blood on the outside driver’s handle of Jill’s car and a tire iron that proved to be the murder weapon in Jill’s trash can, she was arrested and taken to jail and her two children placed in foster care. The afternoon after her arrest a sealed white envelope had been slid under Phillip Blakely’s office door. It had contained twenty dollars and a type-written letter requesting he represent Jill Moran. Phil recalled thinking twenty dollars would barely buy a cup of coffee in downtown Dallas but curious about the small retainer and the letter he had went to see Jill Moran. After watching her face while she told her story Phillip Blakely had taken her case. She had told him she had been home all that day and night with a sick child and had gone nowhere. Every time Phil had a break in the case it had been a dead end. One day, after an especially grueling day in court Phil had been sitting in an out of the way corner of the cafeteria reviewing some notes he had taken during the day’s proceedings. His coffee cup was empty, his desperation was beginning to get the best of him and he was starting to think that perhaps his client was guilty. Phil recalled he was about to give up for the day and go home when a fresh cup of coffee appeared in front of him. He looked up to see a slender brunette standing beside his table. He recalled feeling very uneasy when he met that piercing brown gaze. He was about to ask her what she was doing when she laid a non-descript business card beside the cup.
“Use that when you get desperate enough,” she had said.
Phil had looked down at the card and, when he looked up again, the woman was gone. He had thought about tossing the card in the trash as he left thirty minutes later but, instead, dropped it into his coat pocket.
A week later, Phillip Blakely, a man who prided himself in being able to win even the most difficult of cases, had gotten to the point of desperation in the case and had dug the business card out of the bottom of his briefcase and had dialed the number on the card. When she had asked if Jill Moran was innocent Phil had used a statement he only used when he was positive about something... ‘I would stake my reputation on it.’ It was a statement he had regretted when the woman who called herself Dani Hayward had ferreted out information about him that he’d thought no one knew. It had been a tense situation but the woman had seemed to shelve the information when she turned her questions to the case. Phil was all too happy to do the same. Less than a week later the case was over and Jill Moran was free and the girlfriend’s brother was behind bars for the murder. He had only seen the brunette once during the entire week and that had been when she had come into the courtroom and had given him the information that would prove his client innocent. When he had left the courthouse that day he had come face to face with the brunette in the faded blue sweatshirt and denim jeans. He had thanked her for her help and asked how she had known he was to the point of desperation. She had told him that didn’t matter and, if he was ever to that point again, he’d know how to reach her. With that she had went down the sidewalk and disappeared into a black sedan that had been sitting at the curb. He had returned to his office and buried the information in a hidden file on his computer and did his best to forget about the brunette who had uncovered one of his darkest secrets.
Phil Blakely turned in his chair and stared at the blank monitor that stood on the corner of his desk. He recalled the brown eyes that seemed to have an imbedded fire in their depths and frowned. Was he to the point of desperation again? Phil mentally sorted through the evidence again then sighed. He had nothing to prove his client’s innocence. There was just nothing there. He needed help. He needed her help. Two minutes later Phil Blakely was staring at the telephone number he had buried in a secret file six years ago. He reached for the phone, dialed the number then listened as the phone on the other end of the line rang four times. He was about ready to hang up when....
"You have dialed 555-3264. You have obviously called this number by mistake. Hang up and dial the correct telephone number."
He recognized the recording and the voice. Neither had changed in six years.
Phil's eyebrows met above an apprehensive expression. The authority in the feminine voice seemed to have grown over the past six years. When a soft beep sounded Phil sat there for several seconds debating if he should take the recording's advice. Richard Clark's face faded onto the screen in his mind. "This is Phillip Blakely. I’m afraid I need your help again. My client's life hangs in the balance. My office phone number it is 214.555.4000. My cell number is 214.555.4752." He glanced at his watch. "It's ten minutes after five, Dallas time. I'll be in my office...." Phil frowned at the phone when he saw the blinking light that designated someone was calling on his fourth line. "I'll be in my office another hour then I'll be home the rest of the evening," he finished. "Please give me a call as soon as you can. Thank
you." Phil disconnected the call and looked at the flashing button. The fourth line was his private line. No one had that number, not even his best friends. Phil decided it must be a wrong number and pressed the flashing button, decided not to answer in his usual manner.
"Hello?"
"Hello Phil."
Phillip Blakely’s eyebrows shot heavenward sharply. "Dani. How’d you get this number?"
"Do you really need to ask?"
Six years ago Dani Hayward had proven she could learn things no one else could. That had bothered the barrister but he had gotten used to it as Jill Moran’s case had come to an abrupt halt. “No, I guess I don’t.”
"To the point of desperation again?"
"Yes. I've got a client who's been charged with first degree murder."
"Richard Clark."
"How'd you know?"
"Need you ask? The case seems pretty cut and dried."
"He's innocent."
"You willing to stake your reputation on that?"
Phillip Blakely sighed heavily as the statement from six years ago came back to haunt him. He had started used that statement a couple of times in the past six years, always stopping himself as he remembered his secret and how Dani Hayward had discovered it. Even though she was the only one who knew the whole truth about his past, that was one more than Phillip Blakely felt comfortable with. "Yes," he said hesitantly, fearful of what the next words out of her mouth would be.
There were long seconds of silence on the other end before, "What was in the wine glasses?"
Phil Blakely exhaled quietly when her questions focused on the case. "Wine."
"In both?"
"Yes."
"Any prints on them?"
"Yes."
"Clark's?"
"Yes."
"DNA?"
"Not enough to get a conclusive match," the attorney responded.
"And the dagger?"
"His prints were on the handle."
There was such a long silence on the other end of the line that Phil thought about asking if she was still there. But he knew better than to ask.
"What have you got to go on?"
"Other than the fact that he swears he's innocent the only thing I have is that Richard Clark has never touched a drop of alcohol and he hates weapons. And we both know that will never hold up in court."
Again there was dead silence from the other end of the line. Phil watched a passenger jet rise skyward from a local airport and disappear into a massive cloud bank that was hovering just above the horizon.
"I'll need to talk to your client."
She was coming. He breathed a sigh of relief and, at the same time, felt his stomach tense at the thought. "I can arrange that."
“Arrange it for seven o'clock tonight. And bring a copy of the police report."
Phil's frown was instant. "Can you be here that quick?"
"Oh I think so." There was an assurance in the reply that set Phil Blakely's nerves on edge. "I knew you'd call when you got to the point of desperation." Her voice filled with an odd lilt. "I've been in Dallas a week waiting for your call."