He’d known exactly what to hang onto on that ride. He never heard any complaints either. But this wasn’t Gord.
He clamped his hands over the vinyl-covered seat and grimaced when she opened the throttle and spun out of the drive onto Nea’s Alley. He was white-knuckled by the time they reached Hamilton. Imani found parking in a bike’s only area near the bus depot. It took him a minute to unclench his muscles and stand straight again.
Aidan’s office was less than half a block away, across from the Bermuda National Gallery. They climbed a set of plush carpeted stairs to the second story office. The receptionist, a cool-looking black woman, looked up at their entrance.
Chris gave his name and the receptionist nodded. “I’ll let Mr.
Pitt know you’re here.” She picked up the phone.
Chris looked around the reception area. It was tastefully decorated with Bermuda memorabilia, including prints from famous Bermudian artists of early settlements and sea-going sailing ships. There was a single photograph of an ornate stone edifice labeled Gates of Oxford. Aidan’s alma mater? Chris’s mental picture of an English country gentleman returned. He envisioned pipes and leather-patched jackets and snorting horses readied for the hunt.
Imani and Chris sat on an uncomfortable horsehair Victorian sofa, perched uneasily on the edge of their seat. The inner door opened and a tall, impeccably dressed black man stepped into the room. He held out his hand.
“Christopher Bellamere?”
Chris stood up. Aidan’s grip was strong. He smelled faintly of something citrusy. Chris was startled by his brilliant green BeRMudA heAt
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eyes and again he found himself mesmerized by the man’s subtle British accent.
Aidan indicated his office. “Please, come in Chris. Would you like coffee?”
“Yes, please.” Chris glanced back at Imani, who smiled and said, “I guess I’ll just wait here. But I’d love a coffee, too.”
Aidan returned to his office, emerging moments later with a delicate china cup. He indicated to his receptionist. “Mrs. Cooper will show you where we keep the cream and sugar.”
Chris followed him into the office. Aidan shut the door. The office was an extension of the reception area. More images of what he assumed were Oxford, plus several signed certificates from various law institutions filled the ecru walls. On Aidan’s desk there was a framed picture of a beautiful black woman and two young children, both in school uniforms. There was also an IBM laptop opened on a web page.
“Please sit,” Aidan said, gesturing toward a black leather chair facing his desk. “Now, perhaps you could start by filling me in on what’s going on.”
So Chris recounted everything David had told him, including what he had related to the police. Aidan frowned.
“David told the police that he had met Mr. Cameron just before the police claim he died?”
“Yes. Was that wrong?” Chris said even though he knew from his own experience that it was never smart to tell the police more than you absolutely had to.
“He would have been wiser to wait until he could get counsel with a lawyer. The police are too eager to use such information out of context. It is in their best interests to find a perpetrator quickly. It’s good for their bottom line, as you say in America.”
Chris knew all too well how overzealous cops could work hard to pin a murder on an innocent person. He’d nearly been railroaded into taking the fall for the notorious Carpet Killer; the case that had brought David into his life. It was only David’s
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dogged belief that the man he had fallen in love with couldn’t have been the killer that saved him. But it had been close.
“Will you take our case?”
Aidan seemed to consider the request. Finally his green eyes met Chris’s. “It would be prudent if you told me everything. Just exactly what is your relationship to Mr. Laine?”
The moment of truth. Chris raised his chin. “We’re married.”
“Ah,” said Aidan, not looking at all surprised. “And did Mr.
Cameron know this?”
“Yes, he did. Neither David nor I hide the fact. Though we have been ah, discreet since we arrived in Bermuda.”
“Probably a wise choice. Though Bermudians have never been noted for violence in that regard.”
“There’s always a first time,” Chris muttered.
Aidan tapped his desk. “I will take your case. My normal practice is to ask for a seventy-five thousand dollar retainer, billing at six-fifty an hour.”
Chris tried to swallow, his mouth suddenly dry. He hadn’t expected it to be so much. “I’ll have to make arrangements to have the money wired. Are US funds acceptable?”
“US dollars are accepted at par.”
He called his bank on his BlackBerry. It took some finagling, but within half an hour, the money was on its way. “I’m staying at Aunt Nea’s, a guest house in St. George’s. You can reach me there pretty well anytime.” He also gave Aidan his card, which listed his BlackBerry and email address. “I check it regularly.
What will you do first?”
“I need to secure a meeting with David if I can. But access to individuals in police detention is at the discretion of the officer investigating the alleged offense—lawyers cannot insist on seeing a client while he’s in custody. I have some friends in the department, I’ll involve them. It might also be in your best interest to contact the American Consulate. I’ll get you a name and number. They can advocate for David.”
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“If they let you see him what do you do then?”
“First I let the police know I am on the case and to see what, if anything, they have charged David with.”
“Will you be able to get him out on bail?” Chris had visions of the courts refusing to release David since he’d be a flight risk.
“I don’t know,” Aidan admitted. “It will be difficult. The Consulate may help sway them, which is why you need to involve them as early as possible. That may be a moot point,” Aidan said.
“I warn you it will not be cheap. The police will also wish to confiscate his passport.”
“We’re not going to run, if that’s what you think.”
“The courts will only be satisfied with the strongest possible deterrent. I suggest you extend your stay at this guest house, since you may be here a while. I’m afraid you’ll only be able to stay twenty-seven days. After that only a government intersession will allow you to stay longer.” Aidan scribbled some things in a yellow legal pad. He swiveled around to access his laptop. He typed in some commands and wrote something else on his pad. He tore it off and handed it to Chris. “This is the American consulate’s number. Talk to this man.” He tapped a name. “He can help you.”
Chris scanned the pad. “Randall Harding.”
“I’ll warn you now, if the case drags on you may need to return overseas, then return at the trial date.”
Chris felt lightheaded. “Do you really think it will come to a trial?”
“It may. I won’t try to sugarcoat it. It largely depends on what the police have in the way of evidence, or whether they find a more viable suspect.”
“I’ll find one for them.”
Aidan looked alarmed. “Please, Christopher, don’t interfere with this investigation. The police won’t take kindly to a foreigner butting in. You might only make it harder for David.”
“I’m not going to let them railroad David, either.”
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“Leave the legalities to me. I assure you I won’t let David be
‘railroaded’ either.”
As good as the man’s intentions were Chris had no desire to leave it entirely in his hands, but rather than get into an argument neither of them could win, he nodded.
Aidan seemed relieved. He stood up and extended his hand to Chris, who took it. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Bellamere.
I will keep you advised of my progress.”
“Do you think I’ll be allowed to visit David?”
“I’ll try to arrange it. Let me call you once I make the preliminary inquiries.”
Chris found Imani still sitting in the reception area. She stood when he emerged from the office. He took her arm and led her toward the door.
“How did it go?”
“He’s going to take the case,” Chris said. “I have to call the American consulate. After that, we wait.”
Imani made a face. “Let’s get you home then.”
“Thanks, Imani.” He wanted to kiss her for her show of support, especially after she had so much trouble believing him.
“I don’t know what I’d have done without you.”
“I don’t think you would have let David down no matter what.”
No, he wouldn’t have, but it was still nice to know there were others in his corner.
Wednesday, 6:50am Westgate Correctional Facility, Pender Road,
Ireland Island, Sandys Parish, Bermuda
David lay down, but sleep eluded him. The concrete slab was too small for his six-four frame and his feet dangled over the edge. The blanket smelled musty and started a tickle in his throat. Every sound was magnified; even his own heartbeat was like thunder in his head. His breathing was hoarse and his throat felt like sandpaper when he swallowed. He heard the guard’s footsteps echoing down the corridor as he made his rounds.
David turned on his side, averting his face.
Silence fell again, except for the snores and muffled grunts of nearby prisoners. David was surprised at how quiet the place was. In any American prison he’d ever been in, no one was silent.
Being silent meant you were a pussy, all they knew how to be was violent. This was almost eerie.
He lay on his back with his eyes closed. Even so he grew aware of the sky lightening beyond the cool walls.
He wondered if Chris had any luck finding a lawyer. Would anyone even want to take the case? He was a foreigner, an American cop in a land where the local police didn’t even wear guns. He never left the house without his. They were in the same profession, but they were miles apart in sharing common ground.
He slung his arm over his eyes, blocking out the dawn. After a while they slid a breakfast tray into his cell. He forced himself to eat the unpalatable food, knowing it was the best he was going to get for a while. Later, he must have dozed because he woke to new footsteps, which stopped in front of his cell.
“Mr. Laine,” said a guard he hadn’t seen before. He released the door lock and slid the cell door open. “You have a visitor.”
David sat up. “Chris?”
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“Who? It’s your lawyer.”
“My lawyer?”
“That’s what he said.”
Chris had worked fast. Relief flooded David. Maybe that really was a light at the end of a tunnel.
He was led into a small room that was only slightly better than his original interrogation room. An urbane looking black man stood at his entry.
“Mr. David Laine? I’m Aidan Pitt. Christopher has retained me as your lawyer.”
David sank into the chair opposite Aidan.
“How are they treating you?”
“Fine. As well as I’d expect.”
“I’m working on getting you out of here,” Aidan said, music to David’s ears. “It may take a few hours, possibly even a day. I’ll warn you they may very well request you surrender your passport before they will issue your bond.”
“Just get me out of here.”
“You’ll be out soon. But I must insist that any further conversations with the police be held in my presence. You have said far too much already.”
David didn’t really need a lawyer to tell him that, but it was the cop in him that made him talk. His honor demanded he had nothing to hide. Unfortunately, the local cops didn’t share his zeal and they clearly didn’t think he was innocent. Not when it was the choice between an easy case and one they’d have to work hard to solve.
“Agreed,” he said.
“Good,” Aidan said. He slid a briefcase up on the table between them. “Now I want you to tell me everything that has happened since you arrived in Bermuda.”
David went even further. He told Aiden about learning that his father wasn’t dead and about their visit with his family in BeRMudA heAt
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New Hampshire. He didn’t mince words, but laid out the entire fight and the stony silence that had followed. Then he talked of meeting his real father for the first time. “I’m not going to pretend it was all roses, hell, I resented him for disappearing like that, but I never hated him. He was my father. I thought for sure we’d work it out, but we never had the chance.”
“How did your mother talk about your father, besides telling you he was dead? She must have said something.”
David shook his head. “You don’t know my mother. She made it very clear she wouldn’t talk about him. I knew I’d been born in San Francisco, but I always had the impression he left before I was born. Turns out he stayed with us for over a year.
He wanted to be part of my life. She refused to allow him to get involved. She lied and told him I had died, just to get him out of her hair. Her and my grandmother.” David grimaced and shook his head. Heat flooded his face. “I’m afraid they didn’t like the fact he was black.”
Aidan looked thoughtful. “All this will be food for the prosecution’s fodder. They will contend you resented your father and his neglect and thus had motive to murder him. They might even argue you hated the fact that you were half black. That I’m afraid will let them play the race card. Bermuda has seen too much of that lately.” He held up his hand when David began to protest. “It’s not fair, but it is what they will argue.”
David knew it was true. In similar circumstances back home he would have thought the same thing. Most homicides were committed by family members. That was a cold, hard fact every cop knew.
“If your parents were asked to testify, would they?”
“For you or for the prosecution?”
“I suppose it would depend on what they might say.”
David grimaced. He could just imagine what his mother and grandmother would say. His stepfather was another story. He couldn’t imagine Graham bad-mouthing him.
“I think my stepfather would be pretty supportive. My
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