‘I should have called him in the first place.'
Davis stared at the TV without focusing. There was another thing he didn't understand. Why would Newlin say even this much to the detectives? Or botch it so completely? He heard Newlin making demands in a cold, impersonal tone, and he knew the answer immediately. Newlin was a big-time estate lawyer with an ego and a brain to match. He was thumbing his nose at them. He thought he could get away with it. Outsmart the legal system, even if they had a head start.
‘I want my lawyer, and we'll take care of notifying Paige.'
Davis looked at the filmed image of the corporate lawyer on the screen and knew instinctively that he was dealing with evil in its most seductive form. A nice guy. A partner in a respected firm. The caring father. Davis wasn't fooled by the guise, even if Brinkley was.
'I'll handle the notification through my attorney.'
Davis predicted what Newlin's next step would be. He'd ask for a deal. He would have realized he'd said too much and the evidence would incriminate him. He wouldn't want a trial, with the ensuing embarrassment and trauma; he'd want his way greased, as it always had been. Newlin would try to plead down to a voluntary. Figure he'd get twenty and serve eight to ten. Come out a relatively young man with a shitload of his wife's dough. The murder rap would let him out of the insurance, but he'd have tons of bucks already socked away.
'But I am a lawyer.'
Davis scowled. A lawyer, killing for money. It brought shame on all of them. Davis had always been proud of his profession and hated Newlin for his crime. On his own behalf, on Honor Newlin's behalf, and on behalf of the people of the Commonwealth. There was only justice to protect all of us. It sounded corny, but anything worth believing in ultimately sounded corny. Davis believed in justice; Newlin believed in money.
'No thanks,' the videotaped Newlin answered, and Davis saw the snotty smile that crossed Newlin's face.
It fueled Davis 's decision. Suddenly he knew what to do in the case, but he'd need approval for it. It would be an extraordinary request, but this case was extraordinary. In fact, in all his years as a prosecutor, he had asked for such a thing only twice, and the Newlin case was worse than those. This would be the case of Davis 's life and Newlin's. There was only one way to go. On the pad in front of him, he wrote:
NO DEALS.
He underlined it in a strong hand. The Commonwealth of Pennsylvania would not offer a plea bargain to Jack Newlin. Newlin would be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law, like the common killer he was, even in his hundred-dollar tie. He would be tried, convicted, and sentenced to death for the murder of his wife, Davis would see to it.
He switched off the videotape, closed his pad, and stood up. He stretched, flexing every muscle; he'd been up for hours and hadn't run in two days, but he felt suddenly fit and strong. Alert and ready. Psyched. Davis was going to win.
Because he always did.
BOOK TWO
12
It was early the next morning when Mary returned to the interview room at the Roundhouse to meet with Newlin before his arraignment. She sat opposite him in the grim room, a bulletproof barrier between them. She wore a navy suit with a high-necked blouse to hide the blotches that would undoubtedly bloom like roses in court. That she felt them growing now, merely in Jack's presence, was difficult to explain. To herself. She didn't want to even think about explaining it to her client and was sure it breached several ethical canons, at least two disciplinary rules, and perhaps even a commandment.
Mary cleared her throat. 'I wanted to see you to touch base. I have a strategy for our defense and I need to prepare you for the arraignment hearing.'
'Sure, thanks.' Jack seemed tired, too, in his wrinkled jumpsuit, but his good looks shone through fatigue's veneer. His five o'clock shadow had grown to a rougher stubble, which only emphasized how careless he seemed about his good looks. He raked back his sandy hair with a restless hand. 'First tell me how everything's going.'
'Better than I expected. I'm very encouraged by my research. That's why I'm here.'
'No, I meant generally. The case is all over the news. How's Paige taking all of it?'
'Fine,' Mary said, noting that his first question was about his daughter. She decided to test the water. 'You know, I've been wondering about Paige. Where she was last night, when your wife was killed. Do you know?'
'Home I suppose. What's the difference?' Jack's expression was only mildly curious, and Mary, distracted, couldn't tell if it was an act. She both wanted and didn't want to believe him. She resolved to find uglier clients.
'Paige told me she was supposed to come to dinner with you and your wife, but she canceled. Is that right?'
'Yes, it is.'
'She's telling the truth?'
'Of course she is.' Jack's blue eyes hardened to ice.
'I ask because I thought teenagers made things up at times.'
'Not Paige.'
'I see.' Mary paused. Was he lying? 'You didn't mention that when we met.'
'I didn't think it mattered, and it doesn't.' Jack frowned. 'Who cares who else was supposed to come to dinner the night I murdered my wife?'
'I do, it's my job. I think Paige may have lied to me about something. She told me her boyfriend Trevor wasn't with her last night, and I think he was.'
'What? How do you know that?'
'I saw him leaving her apartment when I went to meet her.' She checked Jack for a reaction, but he managed to look calm, except for that jaw clenching again. 'And you said Paige doesn't lie.'
'She doesn't, except when it comes to Trevor. I don't like him, and Paige knows it. That's probably why she said what she did. She wouldn't want me to know he was over there. Paige edits her conversations, like all of us.' He appraised her. 'You're not a liar, Mary, but I bet you don't tell your father about the men you see, do you?'
Mary squirmed. He was right but she didn't find it persuasive. She considered confronting him about whether he was protecting Paige, but settled for planting a seed of doubt. 'Okay, let's move on. Paige isn't what I came to talk to you about. I've been doing my homework, and the primary evidence against you will be your confession. The videotape.'
They said there would be other evidence, too. Physical evidence. They told me that.'
'I know.' Mary checked her notes. 'But let me make my point. We can argue that you were drunk at the time you confessed.'
'Drunk?'
'Yes. You said you had some Scotch. Two drinks, you weren't sure.' She rummaged in her briefcase, pulled out her notes, and double-checked the law on point. 'You said you weren't used to drinking and that it caused you to throw up. That's legally significant, and throws doubt on the validity of your waiver. The case law is clear that you can't waive your right to counsel when you're drunk.'
'But I wasn't drunk.'
'You could have had three Scotches.'
Two, I think.'
'Isn't it possible you had three? You told me you had a few. A few is three.'
'You want me to say three, is that what this is about?' Jack smiled easily, his teeth straight and even. 'Are you coaching me, counselor?'
'Of course not.' Mary never coached clients, though she had been known to kick them under the table, collar them in the hallway, or tell them to shut up. None of these breached ethical rules, and was, on the contrary, looked upon with favor. 'But if you had two or three drinks, your blood alcohol had to be high. We'll get the tests when they turn them over, but frankly, I plan to argue you were impaired when you confessed.'
'But you saw me. I wasn't drunk.'
'By the time I saw you, maybe you weren't. Besides, I can't tell if someone's drunk in an interview, necessarily.'