Chapter 25
"I'll see Berman this week," Barbara said Sunday. "Get this codicil business settled."
Frank scowled.
"Dad, if I can't link the two deaths, Connie's and Jay's, do you have any other suggestions?"
He had none. He had not voiced any doubt about the outcome of the trial, but doubt persisted and grew, then grew again. Denial was not enough. He also knew that if he was prosecuting this case, Wally would go to prison. Opportunity and motive, and both easily proved, would be more than enough. Strangely then, it wasn't Wally's face that he was seeing in his mind's eye, but Meg's. She had aged during the past few months, almost as if stricken with a deadly disease that was ravaging her system.
He shook his head to get rid of the image.
"Next week I want to talk to Wally and Meg," Barbara was saying. "I'll take a run out to their place. Want to go?"
"Yes. I'd like to see how much they've done to that place." Even as he said this, he realized that he really wanted to see how Meg was doing.
Randolf Berman's attitude was glacial when Barbara sat across his desk from him.
"Of course, we'll contest it," he said. "Those brief notes can't be accepted as a valid will."
He was tall and thin, with a comb-over that she hated on sight. She regarded him levelly, and said, "If you do, Connie's family is prepared to press a murder charge against Jay Wilkins. I gave them my assurance that I would represent them in such an event. Are you certain Mr. Wilkins's distant cousin will be prepared to use whatever inheritance he derives from the estate to defend such a charge? It seems more likely that he'll be delighted to receive whatever he can, since he couldn't have expected anything at all. Would the corporate coowners of the dealership go along with another very long delay in freeing the assets of the estate? I understand that they are anxious to reorganize at this time."
"That's preposterous! On what grounds could anyone bring a murder charge? She was all but declared a suicide."
"No, Mr. Berman. It appears that the investigators have been purposely vague on that score. They are still calling it an ongoing investigation, but it was murder, and they know that. Connie had no enemies. Jay had a great financial gain at stake. I'm very much afraid there is no other suspect to turn to."
Berman looked ready to erupt in anger, and she said, "I believe one of the interesting questions that might come to light publicly is how it came about that a reputable local attorney allowed a woman obviously under the influence of prescription drugs to so alter a will that her natural family was excluded along with a dozen charitable organizations she had previously supported both in works and with generous donations, and to which she had previously made substantial bequests."
A deep flush suffused his face and scalp. "I could have you brought before the bar for making such an implication. I'm a member of the board and we deal harshly with those who over-step.
She shrugged. "I imply nothing whatsoever. I merely state a fact. That the will you prepared for her does make those exclusions is a fact. That she was rendered temporarily incompetent through the overuse of prescriptions drugs is also a fact. As it is that her condition was clearly visible to any observer." She stood up. "I believe we have concluded our business, Mr. Berman."
At the door she paused and turned to look at him. He had not moved. "I was taught in law school that the most valuable asset any attorney has is his or her personal reputation. That we should always guard it zealously. Good day, sir."
On Thursday that week Barbara and Frank drove to Wally and Meg's house. It had been painted a pale yellow with white pillars, and it looked handsome, with no sign of its previous disrepair. Inside, it was just as beautifully redecorated. The living room was creamy white, and a luxurious rug with a dark red floral pattern was on the floor. Barbara had never seen a rug like that outside a museum. The fireplace insert was ornate black cast iron, finished with a dull glow.
"It's lovely," Barbara said. "You've done a beautiful job."
Wally looked like a man without a care in the world, happily welcoming them with a broad smile. Meg looked tired and almost haggard. Her smile was as welcoming as his, however.
"Gradually we'll replace every stick of furniture that's too modern," Wally said, gesturing toward a glass-topped coffee table. Two books were on it, the top one was
Woodworking Projects for the Home Craftsman
. "Everything should be a period piece. It will take time, but we'll have time."
Then, seated in the living room, Barbara said, "We have to start thinking of the trial.
Six weeks and counting. I want to fill you in on how it will go, what to expect and so on."
"You don't have anything new, do you?" Meg asked. She was both hopeful and anxious.
"I'm afraid not. Nothing's come to light. Have you thought of anything you can add?
Anything about the van or car you saw that night?"
Meg shook her head.
"Okay. First, I'll want you in the office for a few hours immediately before the trial.
I'll want to go over your testimony step by step, Wally, minute by minute practically.
It's laborious and tiresome, but it has to be done. After I'm finished, Dad will tear into you from a prosecutor's angle. Just to give you an idea of how the cross-examination is likely to go, prepare you for tough questions."
Meg paled a little as she heard this.
Barbara gave her a sympathetic look and continued, "And for the trial itself, I think we should plan on Bailey picking you up every day, just to make certain you arrive on time. And we'll stay together for lunch and other breaks." She had a few more details.
"What I think we should do is hang out at a hotel from Monday night through Thursday," Wally said. "Long drive out here and back every day. The Hilton, walking distance to the courthouse. Okay?" he asked Meg.
She nodded. "It will remind us of the life we're missing these days." She gazed around the room. "Weekends will be like parties after a few days in a hotel again."
She looked as if she were already missing their new home.
"Meg," Barbara said then, "no one is going to ask you a single question, and if any reporters approach, your only answer is no comment. We're going to keep you all the way out of this. I won't call you and neither will the prosecution."
Wally looked satisfied, and Meg looked miserable.
"So I won't have to lie under oath," she said faintly. "You're not going to tell them I was there, what I saw?"
"If we had been able to find that car or van, it would be different, but Bailey's good, and if he hasn't found it, no one else will, either. It can't be verified, and can only add to the prosecution's case."
When Barbara finished what she had to say, Frank leaned forward. "Wally, there's one more thing that has to be considered. There's always the possibility of a plea bargain, right up until the trial starts. This is a case that's purely circumstantial, but you have to recognize that a verdict can go either way. A plea bargain always results in a lighter sentence than a trial that ends up in a conviction."
"You know, the pen is full of guys who didn't do it," Wally said. "They'll tell you so, you and anyone else who will listen. Funny thing is, some of them really didn't. But there they are. A plea bargain would get me ten to fifteen, guilty probably fifteen to twenty-five, since there was no intent to do murder. I'd hate to be one of those whiners who tells everyone who comes along how innocent he really is. Nope, I'm in it all the way." He flashed his big smile. "Besides, I'm counting on Barbara to clear me."
He stood up. "You want to see the woodworking stuff I've got already? Not done by a long shot, but a good start."
Frank looked at Barbara, and she spread her hands. "We're done. I'll chat with Meg while you admire the newest in saws or something."
"Lathe," Wally said indignantly. "My newest tool is a lathe. Come on, Frank. I think my first real project will be a desk for Meg. I'll start with something smaller, just to get the feel..." They walked out as he talked.
"I don't think I can bear it," Meg said in a low voice when they were gone. "We've been fighting. Something we never did before. He swears that if I say a word, he'll simply write out a confession and be done with it. And he means it."
"Don't fight with him, Meg. You can't help by talking, and you could do him harm.
You have to believe that."
"I'm the only person on earth who knows, absolutely knows, he's innocent. You can know only what we tell you, but I know, and I know whose fault it is, and I can't speak."
"Are you sleeping? Writing?"
She shook her head. "I can't write a thing, and I wake up in a cold sweat again and again. I'm so afraid."
"Do you have a contract yet?"
"Yes. It always takes so long to work out the details, back and forth, back and forth.
But it's done."
"So they'll be back in print. Congratulations."
Meg nodded in a distracted way, then said, "If I told them and took a lie detector test or something wouldn't they have to believe me?"
"No. They might use a lie detector to corroborate their own suspicions, but never to refute them. Give it up, Meg. Accept it."
"You don't understand," Meg cried in anguish. "It would kill him to go back. I know him. I know what it would mean to him."
They heard the men returning, Frank's deep chuckle, Wally's running chatter.
Barbara put her hand on Meg's arm. "Don't fight with him, Meg," she said softly "He needs your support, not anger or tears or regrets. And not your fear."
Startled, Meg studied Barbara for a moment, then nodded. "I know," she said.
In the car heading back to town, Frank said, "He told me that if he loses, he wants her to rent out the house, or even to sell it, and move to town where there will be people around. Make friends, have a life. He asked me to represent her, take care of the details. That's one reason he's been working his tail off, to get it ready if the need arises." His head was turned as if he were gazing out the side window, fascinated by the landscape of an industrial complex.
Her hands tightened on the steering wheel. How many times over the years had he cautioned her not to let herself become involved emotionally with her clients, how it could result in heartbreak? They both knew that if Barbara lost the case, more than one life would be destroyed.
Chapter 26
"Five weeks and counting," Barbara said on Monday. "And nothing new. So you're on your own, guys." She scowled at Bailey's coffee cup balanced on the arm of his chair. He hastily picked it up and put it on the table. Just as well, she thought darkly.
She was in a mood to start throwing things.
"I'll have a couple or three pretrial hearings and that's that," she concluded.
On Friday, in Shelley's doorway, Barbara said, "When you wrap it up at Martin's, you might as well just go on home. Nothing for you here. I'll go over the notes for Monday's pretrial hearing, and I'll take off."
Shelley looked as disconsolate as Barbara felt. The hearing was to decide her motion for dismissal of the charges against Wally It was doomed from the start, but she had to go through the motions, give it a try. She spent the afternoon reviewing her notes, and at four-thirty, she told Maria to close shop. "I'll be leaving in a few minutes. Go get a head start on the weekend."
At ten minutes before five Bailey called. "I have something," he said on the phone.
"Ten minutes."
It was a long ten minutes.
When Bailey arrived he headed straight for the bar and poured himself a generous bourbon, touched the water, as if duty required it, and sat down at the ornate round table.
"Give," she said.
"Right. I got to worrying that you weren't even sniping at me and decided to do something about it. I miss it when you just glare at me without a word."
"For God's sake, it's not a theatrical production. What do you have?"
"I'm getting to it," he said, evidently enjoying himself. "I kept thinking about that van or car. Double checked every lead I had, same as before, no dice. Then I wondered, hey, what if it was rented? For a week, a weekend, a month, something. Hadn't thought of that before, since no one involved needed to rent anything, but what's to lose? I began checking." He grinned and drank all his bourbon, held up his glass the way he always did, and ambled to the bar for a refill when she nodded, with impatience that was choking her.
"And what do you know? I found it," Bailey said. "Three rental places have black vans for hire. I had a look at the records, and there it was."
"I'm going to kill you as you sit there, if you don't stop this and get on with it," she said.
He grinned. "That's the Barbara I know," he said. "So there it was. Seems that a van went wonky back in February, threw a cylinder, cost more to repair than to replace, something like that. Old model, time to upgrade anyway, and the owner put in an order for a new van just like the old one, bought, registered, the works by March 5.
It was a custom job, interior to order, racks, shelves, things like that, and it takes time to get it delivered. Old van out of commission, they rented a temporary fix.
Black unmarked van would do okay until the new model was delivered, on April 27."
She was advancing toward him with her hands clenched and he held up his own hands in mock surrender. "I give. Gormandi and Breaux. Registered in the name of Diane Gormandi. She has a better credit record than Stephanie Breaux. They both have keys. They keep the van parked at the shop and use their own cars for daily use. By the time I got on the trail, they were using the new one for business, trips to San Francisco, Seattle, L.A. I saw that it was new and I checked it out, but since it was bought and registered on March 5, and was exactly like the old one, white with blue lettering, I never gave it another thought. My fault."
Barbara sank into a chair, feeling as if she had been sandbagged. Stephanie Breaux!
There was a long silence. Bailey finished his drink and set his glass down. Finally he cleared his throat and she pulled her gaze back from space to look at him almost blankly, as if she had forgotten he was there.
"I'll be heading out. Anything else for me? How about on Monday?"
"No. I'll give you a call." She could hear her own voice as distant, remote, and shook herself. "That was a good piece of work, Bailey."
He heaved himself upright, ambled to the door, and paused. "Yeah. Why do I have the idea it's a piece of work you wish I hadn't got around to? I'll be home if you decide to call." He saluted and left, closing the door quietly behind him.
After a moment she rose, went to the outer office to make certain the door was locked, then returned to her own office to put things away. When done, she left and drove to her apartment, where she carried her things upstairs, then walked out again, this time heading for the river and the bike path.
It had rained in August, an almost unheard of event in Eugene, and then again at the beginning of September. The world had turned darkly green. With dormancy broken unexpectedly, surging life showed in every bush, every tree, every blade of grass.
Almost like a second spring, she thought, walking. Then she forgot the greenery.
Repeatedly she told herself to rethink her case. Think.
Her head remained empty. She kept walking until the park lights were coming on, the trail lights flicked on, and approaching bicycles glowed like Cyclops, one after another. She had accomplished nothing, she realized in disgust. Just exhaustion. Her legs were throbbing when she entered the rose garden on her way home again. The fragrance was stronger in the evening air than it was in daylight, intoxicating, nearly overwhelming. She almost dared anyone to accost her, to give her the opportunity to release her frustration and her fury.
In her apartment, she went to her desk and sat in the dark with her eyes closed for a long time, and she began playing again and again in the private theater of her mind, the murder of Jay Wilkins. She changed details the way a film editor might, adding some, removing some, changing the order. Over and over she started and ran through it until, finally satisfied, she opened her eyes and turned on the light. It was ten-thirty.
Her stomach felt hollow and a headache had started to pound behind her eyes.
Belatedly she remembered that she had meant to go to the little get-away apartment, have dinner with Darren... "I told him not to wait, not to expect me if I didn't show, and for God's sake not to bring me something to eat," she muttered. She forgot him and checked the clock again.
It was too late to call Stephanie Breaux. Let her get at least one more night's sleep.