“That looks nice,” Kerney said.
Sara gave it a wistful glance. “It’s probably way out of the range of what I can afford.”
“If it’s sound, not overpriced, and meets with your approval, I think we should buy it.”
Sara looked at the house with heightened interest and then back at Kerney.
“We can afford it, you know,” Kerney said over his shoulder as he went to inspect the backyard. It had a thick carpet of grass, several large shade trees, and one long, raised flowerbed. “It’s fenced. Perfect for Patrick.”
“I’ll only be assigned to the Pentagon for three years at the most,” Sara said, not yet willing to get enthusiastic. “What if the house needs repair or renovation? That could be expensive.”
“Think of it as an investment,” Kerney said when he returned. “We’ll put a chunk of money down, pay the mortgage out of my inheritance income, and you can use your military housing allowance to gussie up the place if need be.”
Sara’s eyes danced. “Are you serious?”
“It would make me happy. Patrick would have a backyard to play in, you’d have a place with some peace and quiet, and I wouldn’t feel trapped inside a glass and steel high-rise when I come to visit.”
Sara laughed.
“What?”
“So it is really all about you,” she said.
Kerney grinned. “Only partially.”
The next day, they toured the house with the Realtor, who told them it had just come on the market and would sell quickly. They found it charming, in good condition, and because of its small size reasonably priced for the neighborhood. A similar property in the south capital district of Santa Fe would cost about the same.
Kerney made an offer to the owners through the Realtor, who saw no reason for it to be refused. He gave the man an earnest money check, and together with Sara signed a binder requiring the owners to accept their offer by 5 P.M.
Outside of the house, Sara stood with Patrick on her hip, cradled at her side in a protective arm. She smiled up at Kerney. “Amazing.”
Her time in New Mexico had deepened the small line of freckles across her nose, lightened her strawberry blond hair, and given her a bit of a high-desert tan. Her green eyes never looked more lovely.
“What’s amazing?” Kerney asked.
Sara laughed. “You are. I’m a very lucky woman.”
Kerney pulled her close and kissed her. “No, I’m the lucky one,” he said seriously.
Nothing pleased Jefferson Warren more than representing clients who were tough-minded, clear-headed, and readily understood that the application of law was institutionalized warfare between citizens and the state, bound by legal rules, court opinions, precedent, and statutes.
Warren liked fighters, and Claudia Spalding was scrappy, focused, and unruffled. He’d had such clients before upon occasion, but never one like Claudia, who seemed to possess an icy inner core coated by a refined but readily apparent sexuality. She aroused him in a strange, exciting way.
As always, Warren’s first questions had been the most important ones. Had she made any statements to the police? Confessed to the crime? Talked about her case to inmates, jail staff, prosecutors-anybody?
“Of course not,” Spalding answered, as though the questions were absurd. “I’ve only spoken to the attorney who represented me at the arraignment.”
Warren waited for more; in fact, he expected it. Some clients rushed to proclaim their innocence, while others, stung by the reality of jail, feverishly questioned him about what could be done to gain their freedom. Some clients even wanted to confess to him, and were shocked when he stopped them quickly and told them he was a lawyer, not a priest.
Claudia Spalding fit none of those profiles. She sat with her back straight, clear-eyed and poised, her slender, elegant hands folded on the table, and looked at him comfortably during the long silence.
“You have no questions for me?” Warren finally asked, amazed at her composure.
“Do you have a plan?” she asked, without a hint of dismay.
“I believe so,” Warren said, pushing aside the thought of what she might be like in bed. “Let me tell you what we can do in the short term.”
It took only a few minutes for Warren to lay out his strategy and explain the rationale behind it. Claudia asked several questions about the points of law he’d raised, then she stood and offered Warren her hand. Her palm was cool to the touch, her nails perfectly manicured, and her grip sure and firm.
“I’ll expect to hear from you directly,” she said with a brief, fleeting smile.
“Of course,” Warren replied, waiting for an out-pouring of relief. None came.
He watched as the guard took her away. Something about the woman was dark, unfathomable, and fascinating, like the ancient maps that marked uncharted waters with the warning HERE BE MONSTERS.
The image of Claudia Spalding, cool and aloof in her jail jumpsuit, stayed with Jefferson Warren as he climbed the courthouse steps in San Luis Obispo on a Friday afternoon and walked through the stylized pediment entrance into the dark hallway.
Outside the judge’s chambers, the DA, a pompous man with a wide, horseshoe bald spot that covered most of his freckled skull, intercepted him at the door.
“You’re wasting my time if you’re planning to ask the judge to reconsider granting bail,” he said smugly.
Warren smiled down at the portly DA, smoothed his silk tie against his cream-colored shirt, buttoned his jacket, and opened the door. “I’m sure you know the judge’s mind far better than I ever will.”
They found the presiding judge, Truett Frye, in his chambers watching the early evening news on a small portable color television. Frye clicked off the televison and stood, unwinding his lanky six-five frame as the two men approached his desk.
“This better be worth my time, Mr. Warren,” he said. “I should have been home an hour ago.”
“It’s really quite simple, your honor,” Warren said. “The alleged murder of Clifford Spalding did not occur within your jurisdiction.”
“He died here,” the DA interjected.
“Granted,” Warren replied. “But the legal definition of homicide requires a willful, deliberate, and premeditated act. According to the arrest affidavit and supporting documents, no such act occurred within San Luis Obispo County in the state of California.”
The DA snorted in disbelief. “For a two-month period, Clifford Spalding took medication that was prepared and deliberately given to him by his wife and her lover expressly to cause his death. It doesn’t matter where it all started; they were killing him slowly, here, in New Mexico, and wherever else he might have been during that time.”
Frye looked at Warren. “Your rebuttal, counselor?”
“There is nothing in the statute that speaks to how long it takes a victim to die, or where he dies, Your Honor. Suppose a man is shot but survives long enough to drive himself to a hospital across the county line, or even into a neighboring state. In what jurisdiction should the killer be held accountable for the act?”
“Where the act took place,” Frye said, swinging his attention to the DA.
“Think of the altered medication Clifford Spalding was given as a poison, Judge,” the DA said. “He took it every day, as prescribed by his doctor, which means he was poisoned in California.”
“Can you prove that?” Warren asked.
“The autopsy blood work confirms it,” the DA said.
Warren shook his head. “It only confirms that Spalding ingested the substance, not where he took it. Therefore, arguably, the murder occurred in New Mexico, where my client allegedly acted with specific intent to cause the death of her husband, time and place notwithstanding.”