“Guy…”
“So who would I call when I found her dead? Who could understand even some of what I was feeling? Who could I trust? Only you. And in my panic I knew where to find your number with just the touch of a button.”
“Guy…”
“So that’s why I used her phone.”
“I’m sorry…”
“No you’re not.”
He was right, I wasn’t.
“And neither am I,” he said.
“Then why did you keep me on as your lawyer?”
“First you were just there and I was desperate. Then I thought it through. There’s nothing to do in here except think. I analyzed the case, the evidence, I put on my most dispassionate lawyer mind-set and came up with a strategy. The strategy I came up with, the one that made the most sense, was to blame the other lover. That’s why I kept suggesting it. But I couldn’t have that other lover just walk into the courtroom and take himself out of the case by providing an alibi, like being at home when I called. I needed to make sure that never happened, and as far as I could see, there was only one way.”
“Keeping me on as your lawyer.”
“That’s right.”
“You’re a son of a bitch, aren’t you?”
“I’d say we both are, Victor.”
And what could I say to that? He was right, absolutely, we were both sons of bitches, and we had both been played for fools. We had each been made part of whatever strange journey was mapped out by Hailey Prouix and, truth be told, each of us was thrilled to our bones to be taken along on her ride.
“So what should I do?” I asked.
“About the uncle?”
“Yes.”
“Maybe this Booboo guy will turn on him.”
“Bobo. Maybe.”
“But it won’t be that easy, will it?”
“No.”
“What’s he like, the uncle? Have you met him?”
“Yes, I have. He’s a hard man.”
“And he killed Hailey.”
“I think he did.”
“But we don’t want them looking at your records, do we?”
“No, we don’t.”
“It could ruin us both.”
“That’s right.”
“It makes a lot of sense to play it out just like it is and let him get away with it.”
“Yes, it does.”
“He’s old, dying, only a few pathetic years left in some nursing home. We should just let him be.”
“All right.”
“But we won’t, will we?”
“It’s your choice.”
“We need to do something about him, if he killed her.”
“It’s your choice.”
“She used us, she used us both. When I first saw her on the mattress, bloodied and gone, when I first saw her, I was devastated at my loss. My loss. But I’ve been thinking about her, what she lost. We just can’t leave it like that. Whatever she did, she didn’t deserve to die. Whoever was responsible for killing her should pay. That’s what I think.”
“All right.”
“Do you think you can pull this off?”
“I’ll try.”
“You better do more than try, Victor. If all you do is try, I’ll be here longer than I could bear. Don’t just try it, Victor. Do it.”
“You’re sure?”
“Do it. And when that murderous bastard gets close, rip out his heart.”
Part Six. The Gentle Dance
45
SO FAR it had been an ordinary sort of trial. Troy Jefferson was trying to make it seem a simple case of murder. I was complicating things, flogging my theory that the unnamed, undiscovered, unscrupulous lover had done it on the sly. Jefferson and I were in pitched battle, but we kept our interchanges formal, using the polite vernacular of the courtroom. The judge was refereeing with dyspeptic fairness. The jury was relatively attentive. There had been a few bold moments, a few comic interludes. The prosecution felt confident, the defense felt hopeful. All expectations were that it would play out as it had begun, one theory battling the other, decided by the jury as it mostly ignored the instructions of the judge and reached its verdict. So far it had been an ordinary sort of trial, but things were about to change.
Leila Forrest was in the courtroom that day, she was in the courtroom every day, standing by the man who had fled from her at first opportunity. I would have liked to have seen a little spite out of her, a little anger, but instead she sat behind Guy with concern etched on her face. Yes, it is always useful to have the loyal wife sitting behind the defendant, and in other situations I would have designed it just so, but not this time. I hadn’t asked that she sit there, like an ornament for the defense. I wasn’t even sure it was helpful. But there she sat, and in the breaks she and Guy talked quietly to themselves, maybe about the children, maybe about the past, maybe, God help her, about the future.
She had sat still with a stone face as her father testified, trying to bury the man who had married his only child and then deserted her. It was strong testimony, hard testimony, it made Guy look very bad, until I asked the question “How much did you make last year?” Such a rude question, and objected to, of course, but it was allowed, and the number was staggering, and the point was made: Guy was in line for a huge amount if he had stuck it out with his wife. Enough to make Guy look the fool for leaving, yes, a fool for love. But a man who killed for money?
The judge had not yet entered the courtroom on this day, so it wasn’t only Leila who was waiting. Behind the prosecution table sat the stolid figure of Detective Breger, along with his partner, Stone. Stone sneered at me with her smile. I caught Breger’s eye and signaled him I wanted to meet. He stood and left the courtroom. I followed.
“Any word on Bobo?” I asked when we had found a private nook in the hallway.
“He has disappeared. Flown. My coming out there was apparently enough to spook him.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“Have you spoken to your client?”
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
“He says you’re being a hard-ass.”
Breger didn’t answer, he simply smiled.
“But he agreed. We’ll let you look at the logs, but only after.”
“After?”
“That’s right.”
“After what?”
“After it all plays out.”
“You mean after the trial? What good is that for me?”
“No, before the end of the trial, but after what happens today plays out. When I tell you what I want, you’ll understand.”
“And if it doesn’t play out like you expect?”
“We still have a deal.”
Breger closed his eyes. “I can live with that. What’s the word?”
“All you have to do is whisper it.”
“So you said.”
“In his ear, after the explosion.”
“The explosion is coming?”
“Oh, yes it is.”
“What’s the word?”
“‘Uncle,’” I said. “The word of the day is ‘uncle.’”
“ARE WE ready to proceed?” said Judge Tifaro from the bench. She was an efficient jurist, keeping the trial moving, witness after witness, brooking no delays as she pushed toward a verdict. No long, drawn-out, chatty proceedings for her, no months and months of keeping the jury in virtual lockup. She had set up a timetable and kept us to it. I liked that about her.