“No, it’s not,” says Quinn. “You’ll convey the offer, Mr. Madriani, Mr. Hinds.”
“We’ll be happy to convey it,” I tell him. “But I can assure you she’ll turn it down.”
“How can you be so sure?” Templeton turns around and looks at me.
“Because I know my client, and if you pulled your head out of your ass, you’d be able to see the light of day.”
“Mr. Madriani!” says Quinn.
“Sorry, Your Honor, but two people have been murdered. Someone broke into Emerson Pike’s house that night. We know that because the police found pick marks on the lock at the back door. The only reason the killer didn’t get the photographs in question is because they belonged to the defendant’s mother. Katia Solaz convinced Emerson Pike to give the photographs back to her the night she left, the night he was killed. Katia Solaz got out of the house a heartbeat ahead of whoever killed him. Otherwise she would be dead and the photographs would be gone.”
“Yeah, and we have your word for this, is that it?” says Templeton. “Your Honor, we think she killed Emerson Pike with the help of an accomplice.” He turns back toward Quinn. “And together they cleaned out the house, took the coins and the defendant’s computer.”
“If robbery was the motive, why did they take only the computer and some of the coins?” I ask.
“Because they couldn’t carry anything more,” says Templeton. “It’s called physics, the law of gravity.”
“Wrong,” I tell him. “The computer was taken because it contained the original downloads of the digital form of the photographs. You didn’t know that, did you?”
Harry gives me a shot in the ribs with his elbow, as if to say shut up.
“Your Honor, it wasn’t a burglary in the conventional sense. Whoever came to kill came because of those pictures. That’s what they wanted. That’s why those photographs are at the heart of our case.”
“What’s in the pictures?” says Quinn.
“Ask them.” I point to Rhytag.
“Can you give us even a clue?” says Quinn.
“No, sir,” says Rhytag.
“I have an obligation to assure that the defendant gets a fair trial,” says Quinn.
“And I have an obligation to protect national security,” says Rhytag.
“Find Pike’s computer and you’ll find the killer,” I tell them. “And it’s not my client.”
“Then tell me where to start looking,” says Rhytag.
“Seems we’re back where we started,” says Harry. “I have one suggestion.”
Rhytag looks at him. “What’s that?”
“The federal government has regulatory powers over most banks, correct?”
“What’s that got to do with anything?” says Rhytag.
“We have a name-John Waters. According to information, Mr. Waters received a cash payment in the amount of a hundred thousand dollars for the sale of one of the gold coins belonging to the victim, Emerson Pike. It may be a long shot, but it’s possible this Mr. Waters may have deposited that sum in a bank account in this country. You could check your computers for the name John Waters and see what you find. I mean, he’d have to use a social security number or taxpayer ID number to open an account, right?”
Rhytag thinks about it for a moment, then makes a note. “I don’t suppose you have a date of birth?” he says.
“It’s an alias.” Templeton says it with scorn.
“So what?” says Harry. “If someone opened an account under that name, we should find out. In the interests of national security.” He looks at Rhytag.
“Mr. Madriani and I agree on one thing, Your Honor,” says Temple ton. “Find Emerson Pike’s computer and you’ll find one of the killers. Because the other one’s already locked up in the county jail. Convey the offer to your client.” He turns to look at me. “Tell her she has a chance to live. It’s the last one she’s going to get. Let’s see what she says.”
He gives me a sinister smile.
TWENTY-FOUR
Yesterday afternoon after she hung up the receiver in the telephone booth at the jail, Katia realized she had forgotten to thank Paul. It was clear that either he or Harry had talked to the authorities at the jail, because things had become much better.
Paul called to tell her about what had happened at the courthouse, the argument over the motion and the missing photographs. He told her they would meet at the courthouse in a few days. He had many important things to discuss with her, none of which could be talked about over the telephone. Katia was to be taken to the courthouse, where some of this was to be discussed in the presence of the judge, in the judge’s office, and with the prosecutor available outside in the courtroom. Katia asked him what was happening. Paul told her he could not talk about the details over the phone and the conversation ended. She would have to remember to thank him when they met at the courthouse.
It was amazing how quickly things had improved. For the last several days, ever since the fight in the shower, all of her problems at the jail had vanished. The Mexican Chicas who had been badgering Katia since the day she arrived, particularly the big one with the pockmarked face and the scar on her cheek, were now leaving her alone and licking their wounds.
Katia thought about this and smiled as she strode across the yard, back toward the unit where her cell was located.
The big Mexican still glanced at her occasionally with angry eyes. But the moment Katia looked back at her, the Mexican would look away. And her nose still did not look quite right. She and her friends now kept their distance. Even in the dayroom, which Katia had avoided for so long, she was now free to roam and watch television and no longer had to hide.
She knew that either Paul or Harry had made this possible. They had talked to someone at the jail, because one of Katia’s three cell mates, the Chica who ran with the big Mexican and was causing her problems, had suddenly been transferred to another cell. In her place a new Latina, Daniela Perez, was moved to the top bunk, above Katia.
Daniela was not Mexican. She was Colombiana, originally from Bogotá, and like Katia, she was alone, without friends in the jail. Ordinarily Ticas would be leery of Colombianas. People from Costa Rica have long feared the drug violence of Colombia. But somehow Daniela seemed different.
She was quiet. She kept to herself. But she would smile and say hello whenever they passed. This was not done in the jail. To smile or to say anything that might be seen as courteous was a sign of weakness. It would make you a victim, someone to push around.
She wondered how long Daniela would last if she was acting in this friendly way with others. Sooner or later she would smile and say hello to the big Mexican and the Chica gang would start in on her.
For two days Katia watched Daniela from a distance. The Colombiana was older and taller than Katia and seemed quite fit. She lifted weights every day in the exercise area. And while Daniela was pretty, Katia could tell she had lived a hard life. It was difficult to guess her age. Katia estimated maybe mid-thirties.
She had a large tattoo on her back that ran almost to the elbow on her left arm, a web like Spiderman’s that bulged and flexed whenever she lifted weights. Katia was amazed by how much Daniela could lift. She did not look that strong. It was in the technique, how she moved her body. Even some of the other women, the regulars who seemed to own the weights, were impressed. Katia saw two of them talking to Daniela, who said a few words, shook the hand of one of the other women, and then left to walk out to the yard.