Authors: Lisa Scottoline
But Walsh still looked grim. “You know, Ms. Newlin, it’s not unusual for a family member to come to us and try to cover for one of their own, especially in a homicide case.”
Mary nodded. “We know that. That’s why her father did it.”
Walsh raised a palm like a traffic cop. “I’m talking to Ms. Newlin, Ms. DiNunzio.”
“I understand that.”
“So let me talk to her without interfering. If there’s anything you don’t want her to answer, you can tell her. But don’t answer for her, understand? I muzzled my boy Donovan here, and if you think that was easy, you’re nuts.”
“It’s not the same thing, Captain.” Mary remained un-intimidated, an act of will. “Detective Donovan isn’t exposed to criminal liability. Paige is, and I’m her lawyer.”
“And you were also Mr. Newlin’s. Now, I don’t know a lot about legal ethics, but I don’t get how you can be his lawyer and her lawyer when their interests are in conflict.”
“I’m no longer Mr. Newlin’s lawyer and I know from my investigation on this case that what Paige is saying is true.” Mary glanced at Kovich, against the credenza. “And before you question my ethics, look to the department’s. It’s all over the newspapers that you’ve broken ranks over this case. Yet your only response has been to punish Brinkley, not to release an innocent man.”
“We haven’t established that Newlin’s innocent, Ms. DiNunzio. Maybe if you let me talk to his daughter, we can make some progress.”
“Go right ahead,” Mary said. She found herself respecting Captain Walsh, even as they fought.
“I’m so glad.” Walsh hunched over his desk, closer to Paige. “Ms. Newlin, as you know, your father confessed to this crime and that’s why we charged him. He confessed to nine-one-one, he confessed to the detectives, and we have it all on videotape. Nobody beat it out of him or made him say anything. He came in and told us what happened. You understand that?”
Paige nodded. “But he was lying, to protect me.”
“You may not know that there was a substantial amount of physical evidence against your father. He had your mother’s blood on his hands and clothes. We just received the coroner’s report and he says it took a substantial amount of force to make those knife wounds. I wonder if a skinny girl like you could have done it.”
“I did do it. I stabbed her,” Paige protested, but Mary was getting a sinking feeling.
“There were a number of stab wounds, too. Do you know how many?”
“I think maybe two or three. I remember … two or three.”
Captain Walsh shook his head. “There were five.”
“Okay, whatever, there were five,” Paige said, testy in a teenage way. “I don’t know how many I did. I was high, I told you.”
“I understand that.” Walsh paused. “But five stab wounds into a chest takes time and effort. It’s work. You wouldn’t forget something like that.”
“I was high, I told you.” Paige was getting frustrated, and, standing behind Walsh, Donovan folded his arms.
“What about the cut on the hand, Cap?” he asked.
Walsh glanced back in annoyance, then returned to Paige. “You know, typically when a knife is used in a murder, the person doing the stabbing gets a cut or two on their hand, because the knife is so slippery. It almost always happens that way. Your father had a cut on his hand. Do you have any cuts on your hands?”
Paige looked down at her hands, spreading her fingers. They were pink and lovely, with not a scratch on them, and Mary felt stricken. She knew where this was heading. They weren’t going to believe Paige. She wondered briefly if she should take Paige to confront Jack, but he would just deny it.
“But I did it, I’m telling you,” Paige protested. The softness had vanished from her voice in her determination to be believed. “Do you honestly think I would make this up? Pretend I killed my own mother when I didn’t?”
“Yes, of course.” Captain Walsh nodded, his expression somber. “That’s what you’re telling us your father did.”
Kovich shifted uneasily against the credenza. “I’m wondering about something, Captain. May I?”
“Can I stop you?” Walsh asked, with a stern smile, but Kovich wasn’t taking no for an answer.
“Paige said her mother was kicking her stomach, hard. You saw the coroner’s report, Cap. The mother’s toe was broken, on the right foot. She could have done that kicking someone. We thought it was a defensive wound, but maybe it wasn’t.” Kovich’s eyes sharpened behind his gold-rimmed glasses. “If Paige is telling the truth, she should have bruises on her stomach.”
“Yes, she should,” Mary said, eagerly. Kovich was helping them, obviously at some professional cost, and she nodded to him gratefully.
Walsh turned to face Paige. “Ms. Newlin, do you have any bruises on you?”
“I guess so, sure. My stomach hurt the next day. I was worried about the baby and I called Planned Parenthood. They said it should be fine, since it was so early.”
“You understand, we can’t take your word for it,” Walsh said, his tone still heavy with doubt. “We’ll have to see the bruises. Photograph them, too.”
“Fine,” Mary said. She wished she’d thought of it in her office, but she hadn’t known about the broken toe. The prosecution hadn’t had to disclose the coroner’s report yet. “If you gentlemen will clear out of the room, maybe I can take a look at Paige’s stomach.”
The captain and the detectives rose and left. Kovich shot them a backward glance as he went out the door, which Mary read as encouragement. He must have realized that Brinkley had been right. With his information and Mary’s, Jack would be exonerated. Mary jumped to her feet as soon as the police had closed the door behind them. “Paige, let me see your bruises.”
“Sure.” Paige began to unbutton her blouse, her long red hair tumbling forward. “I do have them. I mean, I didn’t think to look, but I know I do. My stomach was killing me.” Her fingers fumbled to open the middle button, then the next and finally the third and fourth. She parted her blouse. A lacy white bra peeked out and below it lay one of the flattest, prettiest stomachs Mary had ever seen. There wasn’t a bruise or a blotch on her.
Mary’s mouth went dry. “There’s nothing,” she said, stricken, and Paige looked down in confusion.
“I don’t get it. Where are the bruises? She was kicking me and kicking me. I know it. I
remember
it.”
“Then how could they not be there? How could you not know?” Mary tried not to sound accusatory, but it dashed her hopes for Jack’s release. “Don’t you look at your own body?”
“Not since that night, I guess. I’ve barely had time to shower. But she kicked me, I remember. I was worried she was going to kill the baby. She
said
she was going to kill the baby!”
Mary didn’t know what to say or do. What was going on here? The captain would never believe Paige now, but she had been telling the truth. Her account was exactly the way she’d told it in Mary’s office and all of it made sense. But Kovich, who had been trying to help them, had also been right. If Paige had been kicked with enough force to break a toe, she would have bruises to show for it. So the only logical conclusion was that she hadn’t been kicked.
There was a soft rapping at the closed door. “Can we come in, Ms. DiNunzio?” asked Captain Walsh, and Mary felt panicky.
“In a minute,” she answered, and Paige buttoned her shirt hastily.
Captain Walsh entered with Detective Donovan, and Kovich followed on their heels, holding a Polaroid camera. After him came a woman and he seemed excited as he introduced her to Mary and Paige. “This is Detective Andersson and she’ll take photos of the bruises,” he said, but Mary thought fast.
“We’ll take the photos after we talk with her boyfriend. He can substantiate everything she says.”
“What? What about the bruises?” Kovich asked, his shoulders slumping visibly, as Captain Walsh scowled.
“Are there bruises or not, Ms. DiNunzio?”
“No,” Mary admitted, and she ignored the knowing look that spread over Donovan’s face. “But maybe they haven’t appeared yet, or something. The boyfriend was there, I know it. When we find him, he can corroborate what she says.”
“I doubt it.” Donovan folded his arms. “Paige is obviously trying to protect her father. She’s lost one parent and she doesn’t want to lose the other.” He looked at Paige with sympathy. “I’m very sorry for your losses, Paige. But you are the victim of this crime, the same as your mother. Your father has to answer for her murder, not you.”
“I’ll handle this, Donovan,” Walsh said. He returned to his chair and sat down heavily, looking up at all of them. “Tell you what, Ms. DiNunzio. You take Ms. Newlin out of here immediately and I won’t press charges against her for filing a false police report and attempting to obstruct justice. Nor will I mention to the bar association that you’re playing fast and loose with the truth. And mark my words, if either of you go to the press with this, I’ll have
her
head.” Walsh pointed at Paige. “
Capisce?
”
“Captain, as soon as we find the boyfriend, we’ll come back.” Mary couldn’t give up. “Then he can tell you exactly what happened.”
“I know where the boyfriend is, and he can’t help you.”
“What? Where?” Mary asked, in surprise.
“He’s in federal custody,” Captain Walsh answered, and Paige gasped.
Jack left prison in a cab, feeling strange in the gray sweatshirt and jeans they’d issued him for departure. His face hurt from the beating he’d gotten and his eye was tender when he squinted against the sun, but his thoughts were filled with Paige. Now that he was free, he would protect her from Trevor and find out what the hell had happened.
The cab sped down the elevated strip of I-95, above abandoned rowhouses and graffitied warehouses, and he ignored the driver’s cold eye in the rearview mirror. The driver had to know who Jack was, because he picked him up at the prison. Jack took his hostility in stride. He understood that people outside the prison wouldn’t be quite so eager to shake his hand. Life as a confessed murderer wouldn’t be easy, nor should it be.
The cab reached the city in an hour, and Jack directed the driver to his town house. He didn’t know why but he was drawn to it. He didn’t open the car door when the cab paused at the curb, as if he had just left a funeral service and was driving past the home of the deceased. It was apropos. Jack felt dead in a way; at least that part of his life was dead. Honor was dead, and he hadn’t even gone to her memorial service. Ashamed of himself, he bent his head in a moment of silence.
The cab engine thrummed in the background as he thought about her. He mourned her, but he didn’t mourn the life they had. He could only mourn the life they pretended they had, but there was no point to that. He looked out the cab window at the house, its front door crisscrossed with yellow crime-scene tape. He didn’t have to be told he couldn’t go inside, much less live there anymore. Everything he owned was there, but he owned none of it anymore. He had never wanted any of it in the first place. Sun bathed the colonial house in a million-dollar glow and though it shone like a sales brochure, Jack didn’t want to see it ever again.
He asked the driver to take him to the hotel. He’d chosen a medium-priced one frequented by tourists because he knew no press would be there. The cabbie steered in its direction without responding and they arrived in fifteen minutes. He left the cab, entered the hotel, and pushed his American Express card across the wood counter, but again, the young woman at the reception desk didn’t have to read Jack’s credit card to know who he was. The newspapers stacked next to her bore a blowup of his photo, his face divided by the fold, his nose repeated twenty-five times. The young woman couldn’t help but look horrified at the wounds on his face, not yet captured in news photos. He ignored it; he had to get going. Paige.
He quickly accepted his room key and card, hurried to the elevator, and punched the button, experiencing the same odd sensation his house had evoked. He felt disconnected from everything, as if he’d been unplugged from his own life. His home, his family. Mary. He tried to forget seeing her in court at his preliminary hearing. She had been there for him, to remind him to tell the truth, but there was no way he could ever do that, death penalty or no. He tried not to think about it.
Jack rode up in the elevator, spacious compared with ad seg. How could it be that in the same day he could be confined to solitary and later check into a tourist hotel? How could he so easily exchange prison blues for a sweatshirt? The disconnect Jack experienced extended even to himself, as if his body had become a hanger and he could change identities as easily as clothes. Father. Lawyer. Murderer. The elevator doors slid open and he stepped out.
He didn’t know who he was any longer, but it was high time he found out.