“True. And you want another bright side? Terry Fisk is out of our hair.”
I turned back to Bailey as the realization sank in. “Man, that is good news.”
“We’ve got another week and a half before Ian’s prelim, right?”
“Yeah, and all I have left to do is see what I can pull out of the coroner,” I said. “If it’s really juicy, I might save it for trial.”
Bailey stood. “Look, I want to get into it with the unis who were supposed to be watching Averly, so-”
“Go. See you later.” I didn’t envy those patrol officers. Bailey can really blast when she’s angry. And triple homicide or no, someone really should’ve stayed behind to keep an eye on that jerk.
With Averly out of the picture for now, I had time to work on my other cases. But first I searched my phone for the ringer control and turned it off. Better. But I could still see the blinking lights for my two lines. I covered the buttons with a file folder. Perfect. No more sound, no more fury. I put my head down and worked until almost seven o’clock. I packed up to leave and had just reached for my cell when it vibrated. I looked at the screen. The number was vaguely familiar, so, thinking it was one of my witnesses, I answered.
“Hello?”
“Rachel Knight, how are you this lovely evening?”
The now-familiar British accent told me it was my buddy from the National Inquisitor, Andrew Chatham. I cursed myself for not realizing why the number looked familiar. “I’m fine, Andrew. But you know I’m not going to tell you anything, so why waste your time?”
“Because you may change your mind and I’m the sort who’s ever hopeful. I can be useful, you know.”
My silence told him what I thought about the likelihood of that statement. Now listening only for a chance to end the call with a graceful exit line, I juggled my purse onto my shoulder and snapped my briefcase closed.
He resumed. “Proof of my worthiness: You have not seen the last of Terry Fisk.”
I stopped and clutched the phone. “What do you mean?”
“She’s joining Ian’s team.”
56
I called Bailey and told her what I’d just heard.
“Damn,” Bailey said. “Well, so much for our good news.”
To put it mildly. My shoulder sagged under the weight of my purse, which now felt like it was loaded with bricks, and I could barely pick up my briefcase. I decided to leave it in the office for tonight. I was exhausted; there was no point in pretending I’d get any more work done. But tired as I was, a nervous ball of energy burned in my gut. Prosecuting someone who was not only a major Hollywood player but also one who’d been like an uncle to the victim-and one with a history of “giving back” to the mean streets where he’d been born-was a daunting task in itself. Adding a pit bull like Terry Fisk to the mix would make it an unending bloody battle to keep the evidence from getting buried under a morass of defense red herrings and a barrage of laurels for Ian Powers the Wonderful.
I was grateful to find the elevator empty and slumped back against the wall, eyes closed, as it hurtled down to the lobby. At this late hour the evening crowds were long gone, and I was nearly alone as I headed for the glass doors at the back of the building. I fished out my cell phone and turned on the ringer as I made my way out of the building.
I’d just turned onto Broadway when I heard pounding footsteps coming up behind me. Before I could turn to see what was going on, a batch of reporters closed in and shoved microphones in my face. Over their shoulders, the black lenses of video cameras glared at me.
“Ms. Knight, pundits are saying you had enough to go after Averly for murder-that you shouldn’t have dropped the charges to accessory-so why did you really dismiss his murder charges?” And “Former city councilman Mel Berman says it’s your fault Averly bailed out and ran! What do you have to say to that?”
A number of pungent responses crossed my mind-among them “Who cares what a former city councilman, and especially that idiot, thinks?” but I was just too damn beat. So fatigue alone was responsible for my giving the safest answer.
“As a prosecutor I’m ethically bound to proceed only with charges I believe a jury would find to be true beyond a reasonable doubt. That’s all I have to say.”
It was such a politically correct, neutral statement, I couldn’t believe it’d come out of my mouth. This damn case might actually be altering my DNA. I pushed through the crowd and moved as fast as I could without breaking into a run. A few reporters chased me for a minute or so, yelling for my response to the pundits, but when they saw I wasn’t going to give any more answers, they gave up and fell back. But I couldn’t stop myself from looking over my shoulder the whole way home, wary of yet another ambush. I reluctantly admitted that from now on I’d better drive to work. I made a mental note to ask Eric to get me a parking space close to the building.
Winded and depressed, I dragged myself back to my room. It’d been a long, hard day…again. I treated myself to a glass of pinot gris with dinner and by the time I got into bed, I was so drained my eyes closed before my head even hit the pillow. But when I fell asleep, I dreamed that my legs were chained together and I was being chased by a pack of pit bulls. Zombie pit bulls. Go figure.
I didn’t need to rush into the office the next day. I had no court appearances, and there were no witness interviews scheduled. I called Eric to tell him what had happened with the reporters when I’d left yesterday evening, and he got me secure parking under the courthouse. No one would be able to get to me now-at least not outside the courtroom. I’d given Declan the day off. He had to take care of a root canal. I told him that would ensure he’d still feel as though he’d spent the day in court. I got to work early, just because I needed to get busy, doing…something. It was good that I did, because at eight forty-five, I got a call from Judge Daglian’s clerk.
“We just got notice that Wagmeister wants to come in and advance the case,” she said.
Meaning he wanted the case moved up to an earlier date. “Did he say why?”
“No. But he said he’d be here at ten o’clock. Can you make it?”
I wanted to say no, but I’d only be delaying the inevitable. “Yeah.”
I called Bailey and asked if we could push the coroner meeting.
“I’ll check. So you think this is it, Terry’s joining in today?”
“I do.”
“Okay. We still have over a week before Powers’s prelim, right?”
“Right. We’ve got time.”
Wrong. We didn’t.
This time a phalanx of waiting reporters surged toward me as I stepped off the elevator, and cameras clicked and flashed in wave after wave as I “No commented” my way down the hallway. Obviously, Judge Daglian’s distaste for the media had been short-lived.
As expected, Terry was standing next to Don Wagmeister at the defense table. Ian Powers was dressed in one of his many multi-thousand-dollar suits. He looked a little tired-no doubt because the sheriff’s deputies got him up before five a.m., standard wake-up time so they could get prisoners on the bus to court. But otherwise, Powers was impeccably groomed and looking very calm. A young law clerk was dispatched to hand me the written motion giving notice that Terry Fisk would be joining the defense team for Ian Powers. Usually, adding an attorney is not a big deal, and no formal motion is either required or given. The lead counsel stands up in court and says so-and-so is joining the defense team. This formal, written motion was an obvious grandstand play. Until now, Don hadn’t made a lot of noise in the press. And as long as he didn’t engage, I didn’t have to push back to counter his spin. But I had a nasty feeling those relatively genteel days were over.