Gideon - 03 - Religious Conviction (35 page)

“You just said you talked with the defendant about the case just last night,” George says, his voice a sarcastic whine that can’t be communicated on a transcript.

“She didn’t even speak to Mr. Bracken. It is quite clear to this court that you were actively involved in preparing for the trial.”

I suppress a sigh.

“I’m not asking for a long continuance just a week or so. This isn’t a case of whether my client shoplifted a Hershey bar. She could go to prison for life.”

Shifting around on a padded throne that looks comfortable enough to sleep on, Grider asks impatiently, “Why a week? You’re not telling me you haven’t been working on this case, are you, Mr. Page?”

What is it with this guy? Suddenly, I realize that Chet’s death has released him to be the bully he is. Chet intimidated lawyers and judges alike.

“I haven’t pre pared to be the lead counsel. Your Honor.”

Grider casually pokes at a cuticle with the letter opener.

“How long have you been working on this case with Mr. Bracken?”

As frustrating as it has been, it seems like a lifetime.

“About three weeks,” I say.

Cross-examining me as if I were a witness who could be pushed from one end of the courtroom to the other, he sneers, “You’re not telling me you don’t know the theory of the defense’s case after all this time, are you?”

I study Bill Clinton’s face. Judging by his expression, he knew what price he was paying to run for public office. Were this not a murder case, I’d risk a snide comment What theory? So far as I know, there wasn’t one.

“I’m not saying that. Your Honor.” I blurt, “Mr.

Bracken was dying of cancer. He was in a great deal of pain and was on medication to control it. He wasn’t able to prepare properly for this trial.”

Grider nods as if I have conceded the matter.

“If Mr.

Bracken was too ill to try this case, I assume he would have informed the court. Unless you’re prepared to tell me as an officer of the court that you weren’t hired to assist Mr. Bracken on this case, I’m denying your motion for a continuance and we’re beginning this trial to morrow morning, is that clear?”

“Yes, sir,” I say, feeling a knot begin to form in my stomach.

“I take it the court won’t be in recess for Mr.

Bracken’s funeral tomorrow afternoon?” I ask, my voice high with disbelief.

“Lawyers die every day, Mr. Page,” Grider snaps.

“There are far too many delays in the system already.”

Jill, in a berry-and-white-striped blouse and blue skirt, is more casually dressed than she would have been if we had gone to trial. She says, “Your Honor, my office, as you know, had many cases with Mr. Bracken.

I would appreciate it if the court would recess for the funeral. Some of the witnesses are from Christian Life and may want to attend as well.”

As soon as the words are out of Jill’s mouth, I realize that Shane will conduct Chet’s funeral. How am I going to accuse him of murder on the same day he prays over the body of the man whom he hired to defend his daughter? The last thing I want is Shane Norman pontificating that day, but it is too late. Changing his mind (he knows he would be criticized), Grider says gruffly, “It’s the taxpayers’ money, but if that’s what you want, I’ll recess the trial tomorrow afternoon. I am announcing to the press, however, that the Prosecutor’s Office asked for this recess so it could make sure that the man who had beaten it so often was really dead.”

Grider’s delivery of this zinger is so deadpan that Jill doesn’t know whether he is serious or not When I smile (there is a lot of truth in his statement) and Jill does not, Grider says to her, “Jesus Christ, I’m kidding, okay?”

In the hall next to Grider’s office, Jill, speaking in a slightly lower tone, says, “By the way, I’m not renewing the offer of a plea bargain.”

I wait until a couple of lawyers pass. Somehow the media has not gotten wind of this meeting or they would be standing on top of us. My hopes of some major flaw in her case disappear completely. She was purely and simply scared of Chet. Obviously, she isn’t afraid of me.

“You could have kept it open till Christmas,” I say, with more confidence than I feel.

“She didn’t shoot him.”

Jill looks unusually attractive. Her mane of thick dark hair in the last few months has developed a streak of white that is particularly striking. She says, with a tolerant smile, “Who did?”

Despite a natural antipathy for prosecutors, I can’t dislike this woman. She doesn’t have a killer instinct like some of her predecessors.

“I don’t know,” I reply innocently.

“I thought that’s why we had police.”

She shrugs, tossing her hair, and revealing more of the streak of white.

“I didn’t expect you,” she says dryly, “to tell me your case.”

I draw an imaginary line across my lips as if I had something to conceal. What case? I think, as I head down the hall.

During the afternoon, as I am struggling feverishly to get ready for the trial, Dan wanders into my office. He is wearing the first bow tie I’ve ever seen him in, which he undoes, as he stares out my window.

“Have you heard the gossip?” he asks, his voice far off and distracted.

I look up from my desk from the draft of the opening statement I’ve been working on. People who have necks the size of Dan’s shouldn’t wear bow ties. It looks like a stave about to pop off a beer barrel.

“That I’ve subpoenaed Elvis to testify?”

Dan whips off the tie and wipes his face with it.

“There’s crap going around,” he says wearily, “that you killed Chet.”

I stare at him in disbelief.

“The cops didn’t even take me down this morning.”

“Of course not,” he says.

“It’s not coming from Jill’s office. She and the cops have already issued a statement that their investigation has concluded Chet killed himself.”

My surprise is quickly turning to anger.

“So who’s putting that shit out?” I demanded.

“I don’t know,” my friend says, absently rubbing his tie on my window ledge.

“A bailiff told me it was going around. You think it could be your friend Shane?”

I look hard at Dan to see if he is serious. He shrugs, as if to say. Who else could it be? This makes no sense.

Even if Shane is implicated, surely he wants his daughter free. I will run this by Leigh when I go by to see her at Rainey’s in a few minutes to talk about her case.

“Maybe it’s my old firm of Mays & Burton,” I say, thinking of the client I stole from them after I was fired.

“They never sued me for taking Andy Chapman from them, but they always wanted to get even.”

Dan nods, “Hell, you know lawyers. It could be somebody who’s jealous of you getting tapped by Chet to work with him. It could be our old boss Greta. She wasn’t a big fan of yours either after the Hart Anderson murder.”

Enemies, I think, wearily, supporting my face with both hands on my desk. Every decent lawyer has a million.

And I haven’t even begun to count disgruntled clients.

“It could be my old rat-muffin divorce client.

She’ll go to her grave convinced I should have given her money back.”

Dan pats his stomach, thinking of my client who served her husband a rat in a pan of blueberry muffins.

“You should have brought in those muffins she fixed you and Sarah,” Dan says, still unable to forgive me for throwing out an entire pan she brought over to my house one morning.

Who else could it be? For all I know, Jason von Jason is putting up flyers all over Blackwell County warning people to keep their dogs penned up while I am still loose on the streets. I shove my papers into my briefcase and stand up to leave.

“How’s this for the beginning of an opening statement?” I say and in a parody of Richard Nixon, intone, “I am not a murderer. And neither is my client.”

Dan laughs, a pained expression on his face.

“A real confidence builder, all right.”

Shooing Dan out in front of me, I hurry from my office, wondering what Chet Bracken would make of this latest twist. From almost the beginning of his illustrious career, he was dogged by rumors that he meted out retribution to those who wronged him. Unfortunately, they were true. I rack my brain, trying to think if I offended him in any way. As paranoid as I’m becoming, I wonder if this rumor, too, is some kind of a payback by Shane Norman.

As I knock on Rainey’s door, I hear the panel of a van being slammed shut. I turn and see a cameraman and Kim Keogh, a reporter for Channel 11, hurrying up the walk. I have carelessly allowed myself to be followed.

This morning, when I had come out of my house after talking to the cops, I had faced cameras from two of the three local stations and a half dozen reporters, and had refused all comment, letting the police handle the questions Had I known someone was trying to smear me, I would have talked.

“Gideon!” Kim shouts, practically breaking into a run.

“Wait!”

I shudder at my thoughtlessness. I briefly became involved with Kim during my last big ease. She is a lovely blonde, whose main asset as a reporter has been her sheer doggedness. Each of us knows things about the other that won’t make the ten o’clock news. At this moment, Leigh opens the door and I mumble, “TV camera,” and rush by her and shut the door.

Leigh, who has been in touch with me by telephone throughout the day, understands instantly and leans against the wall and sighs, “I was afraid they’d find out I was here.”

“If you think today is bad,” I say, wondering how to handle Kim, “wait until tomorrow. We’ll need a battering ram to get you through them.” Kim knocks hard on Rainey’s front door. Knowing her, she will want some kind of exclusive interview. I make a snap decision.

“Let me talk to her. She knows you’re here.”

Leigh nods, panic setting in as it begins to hit her what the next few days will be like. Aware that Chet Bracken wouldn’t have talked to the press, I open the door and step outside.

Kim is wearing a blue jade cotton knit dress with enough jewelry to open her own pawnshop. With the cameraman standing coyly off to the side, she begs, “Let me just talk to her for a minute. If you don’t, every media person within ten square miles will find out she’s here.” The neighbors are going to love this.

“Is it true she’s been hiding in the Delta Inn, too drunk to get out of bed?”

How could she possibly know that? I wonder, my mind racing.

“Kim, I’ll promise not to talk to any reporter except you about Chet’s suicide if you’ll leave and keep your mouth shut,” I say, “but I can’t comment on the case.”

Giving me a wintry smile, she turns to her camera man and nods.

“Okay, Roger.” He moves in almost on top of me as Kim asks, “Mr. Page, we’ve heard reports throughout the day that Chet Bracken’s death was not a suicide and that you were involved. Would you care to comment on that?”

I feel as if I’m being interviewed by a female Geraldo. Kim knows the police and the prosecutor do not consider me a suspect.

“That’s ridiculous!” I say, my voice trembling.

“It’s an outrage for you to even suggest that. The police have already issued a statement that Mr. Bracken’s wound was self-inflicted.”

“Tell us what happened, then,” she says, her voice cool and professional. But her right hand, holding the microphone a few inches from my face, shakes slightly, betraying her excitement.

Damn her. It was hard enough to tell the cops. Looking into the sun, I feel my throat become scratchy and I fight to stay in control. I shouldn’t have to describe how a man shot himself.

“I saw the lights of Mr. Bracken’s car turn into my driveway, and as I opened my front door I saw him point a pistol at his head and fire.”

“Did you go help him?” Kim asks, before I can even clear my throat.

“I ran to call an ambulance,” I say, hating all reporters at this instant. I can’t admit that I was too sick to my stomach to go see about him. It is all too much.

Tears come to my eyes, and before they can slide down my cheeks, I turn and hurry back into the house. I wish Rainey were here. She would understand what I am feeling.

Before I slam the door, I hear Kim call, “Great stuff, Gideon!”

Inside, Leigh, her eyes wide with astonishment, asks, “What did you say?”

I rummage through my pockets and come up with a wadded-up tissue to wipe my eyes. I feel terrible. The memory of Chet holding the gun against his head un winds like a tape that can’t be stopped. Why did he do it? I don’t even know why I’m crying. My cowardice?

For Chet? Trey and Wynona? There is no good way to exit this life. No matter how much or how little we’ve had, most of us want more. “To get her to agree to leave, I spoke on camera about seeing Chet shoot him self,” I say, sinking down on Rainey’s sofa.

“I guess I’m just feeling it.”

Leigh, wearing a pair of Rainey’s sweats that come to just below her knees, sits opposite me on a chair that has recently been recovered.

“They’re just vultures!” she says indignantly.

I think of Kim Keogh, who lives only a few blocks from here, or did, a few months ago. The night we made love, her apartment walls were covered with pictures of movie stars. She was vulnerable and insecure about her ability as a reporter, and her naked ambition had an innocent quality to it. Yet, she has become hard.

Great stuff, Gideon. She wouldn’t have said that a few months ago. Maybe I’ve played a part in the process.

“Competition and ethics aren’t in the same food group,” I say, trying to joke my way onto another subject. I open my briefcase and take out a legal pad.

“We’ve got to talk about your testimony tomorrow some more, okay?”

Even as Leigh says, “Sure,” her guard goes up.

“I called my father and told him I was okay, as you suggested. I didn’t tell him where I am. He wants me to meet him tonight to talk.”

“Not a good idea,” I reply quickly. I’ve got to persuade Leigh to let me argue that her father could have killed her husband. If she meets with him, that may not be possible.

“You left home for a reason remember?”

Leigh brushes her hair back from her face, raising her right breast beneath Rainey’s too-tight warmup top.