A policeman rushed by Cruz without seeing him. Cruz followed the man into the kitchen. Two men lay on the floor, their hands cuffed behind them. They were surrounded by police. A wounded officer was moaning near the sink and several men huddled around him. A medic rushed through the back door into the kitchen. Cruz stepped aside to let him in, then drifted into the backyard and faded into the night.
Two houses down, Cruz cut through the backyard, dropping the police jacket and cap. Then he headed toward a bar that he knew had a phone.
In the three years Raoul had been using 2313 Lee Terrace they had never had any problems. The people at the house were all family or trusted employees and they were all extremely well paid. They might cop some cocaine, but they would never go to the police. But someone had, and whoever it was knew a lot about Raoul's operation if he knew about Lee Terrace.
Chapter TWENTY
Matthew Reynolds chose five o'clock on the Friday before the trial to review the questions he would ask during jury selection.
Tracy knew better than to complain. With the trial so close, all hours were working hours.
Reynolds was explaining his system for questioning jurors about their views on the death penalty when his secretary buzzed to tell him that Dennis Haggard was in the reception area. "Do you want me to leave?"
Tracy asked.
"No. I definitely want you to stay. This could be very interesting."
Dennis Haggard was balding, overweight and unintimidating.
He was also Jack Stamm's chief criminal deputy and an excellent trial attorney. Reynolds walked over to Haggard as soon as the secretary showed him in.
"Don't you ever quit?" Haggard asked as he looked at the files, charts and police reports strewn around Matthew's office.
Matthew smiled and pointed to his associate. "Do you know Tracy Cavanaugh?"
"I don't think we've met."
"She just started with me. Before that, she clerked for Justice Sherzer."
As Haggard and Tracy shook hands, Haggard said, "The Department of Labor takes complaints. If he works you more than seventy-six hours straight, there's a grievance procedure."
Tracy laughed. "I'm afraid we're way past seventy-six hours, Mr.
Haggard."
Reynolds seated himself behind his desk. Tracy took a stack of files off the other client chair so Haggard could sit on it.
"What brings you here, Dennis?" Reynolds asked.
"I've come because Chuck Geddes wouldn't."
"Oh?"
"He's still mad about the bail decision and this put him through the roof."
"And 'this' is?"
"A plea offer, Matt. Geddes wouldn't consider it, but the AG insisted.
Then Geddes said he'd quit rather than make the offer, so everyone agreed I would carry it over."
"I see. And what is the offer?"
"We drop the aggravated-murder charge. There's no death penalty and no thirty-year minimum. Abbie pleads to regular murder with a ten-year minimum sentence. It's the best we can do, Matt. No one wants to see Abbie on death row or in prison for life. Christ, I can't even believe we're having this conversation.
But we wanted to give her the chance. If she's guilty, it's a very good offer."
Reynolds leaned back and clasped his hands under his chin.
"Yes, it is. If Mrs. Griffen is guilty. But she's not, Dennis."
"Can I take it that you're rejecting the offer?"
"You know I can't do that without talking to Mrs. Griffen."
Haggard handed Matthew a business card. "My home number is on the back.
Call me as soon as you talk to Abbie. The offer is only good for forty-eight hours. If we don't hear by Sunday, Geddes takes the case to trial."
Haggard let himself out. Reynolds turned back to his notes on jury selection. When he looked up, Tracy was staring at him.
"What's wrong?"
Tracy shook her head.
"If you're concerned about something, I want to know."
"You're going to advise Mrs. Griffen to reject the offer, aren't you?"
"Of course."
Tracy frowned.
"Say what's on your mind, Tracy."
"I'm just . . . That was a good offer."
Reynolds cocked his head to one side and studied his associate like a professor conducting an oral examination.
"You think I should advise Mrs. Griffen to accept it?"
"I don't think you should reject it out of hand. I can't help remembering what you told me in Atlanta."
"And what was that?"
"When I asked you why you accepted the plea bargain for Joel Livingstone, you said that the objective in every death penalty case was to save our client's life, not to get a not-guilty verdict."
Reynolds smiled. "I'm pleased to see you've learned that lesson."
"Then why won't you advise Mrs. Griffen to take this offer?"
"That's simple. Joel Livingstone murdered Mary Harding.
There was no question of his guilt. Abigail Griffen is innocent of the murder of Robert Griffen. I have never advised an innocent person to plead guilty."
"How can you know she's innocent?"
"She's told me she's innocent and until she tells me otherwise, I will continue to believe in her innocence."
Tracy took a deep breath. She was afraid to ask the next question and afraid not to.
"Mr. Reynolds, please don't take offense at what I'm going to say. I respect your opinion and I respect you very much, but I'm concerned that we're making a mistake in not recommending this plea."
Tracy paused. Reynolds watched her with icy detachment.
"Go ahead," Reynolds said, and Tracy noticed all the warmth was gone from his voice.
"I can't think of another way to put this. Do you think it's possible that you're being influenced by your personal feelings toward Mrs.
Griffen?"
Reynolds colored angrily. Tracy wondered if she had overstepped her bounds. Then Reynolds regained his composure and looked down at the jury selection questions.
"No, Tracy," he said, his calm restored. "I am not being influenced by personal feelings. And while I appreciate your concern, I think we've spent too much time on this matter. Let's get back to work."
The days and nights were endless. Minutes seemed like hours.
Abbie never expected it to be this way. She prided herself on being able to live alone. When she lost her parents, she built a shell around herself to keep out the horror of loneliness. Then she survived the death of her lover, Larry Ross. When her aunt passed on, she pulled inside the shell once more and she had been able to walk out on Robert Griffen without a backward glance, because she needed no one but herself. But now, trapped in the house, virtually helpless and almost totally deprived of human contact, her shell was cracking.
Even the weather was conspiring against her. The sunny days of summer had given way to the chill of fall and it was often too cool to sit outdoors. She would have given anything to take a walk, but the bracelet on her wrist was a constant reminder that even such simple pleasures were forbidden to her.
On Friday night, the weather was balmy. A last-gasp attempt by nature to fight off the cruel and depressing rains that were sure to come.
Abbie sat on the patio, close to her invisible electronic wall, and watched the sunset. A large glass of scotch rested on the table at her elbow. She was drinking more than she wanted to, but liquor helped her sleep without dreams.
A flock of birds broke free from the trees at the edge of her property and soared into the dying light in a black and noisy cloud. Abbie envied them. Her spirit was weighted down by the gravity of her situation and confined to a narrow, airless place in her breast. Even Matthew's boundless confidence could not give it wings.