With all that hovering at the back of my mind, I got Freckles into her crate with the lure of a treat, grabbed my purse, and headed out the door.
Chapter 11
The law offices of Sanchez and Bean are only a block west of our own and one street over. I should have walked, but I made the excuse that you never know when you’ll need quick transportation in this business. I got in my Jeep and arrived approximately two minutes later.
John Sanchez is a lawyer who probably began practicing about the time my dad worked at Sandia Labs—he’s been in the circle of our family acquaintance that long. Ron and I joke that he’ll surely retire one day, either that or they’ll just prop his cold, stiff body in his chair and let him stay on forever. His walk may have slowed but his mind hasn’t, and as long as he’s sharp on the subjects we need him for, we’ll keep going there. Fortunately, he’s kept a string of younger associates and paralegals to do the heavy lifting.
His secretary was the one I remembered from our visit last year and who I spotted in the photo from Rory McNab’s case. Her dark hair had grown longer, falling in graceful curls below her shoulders. Model-perfect makeup, an expensive suit in brick red, and matching pumps—she made me feel like a street urchin in my jeans and hoodie. She greeted me with a quizzical look.
“I know, I don’t have an appointment …” I confessed. “I was hoping to pop in and get another copy of my will?”
She’d been friendlier when we came according to protocol and spent our billable hour with her boss. I noticed her purse had been on the credenza behind her and she reluctantly slipped it into a drawer. I’d interrupted her attempt at an early lunch, but she put on her professional smile.
“Certainly. If I recall, it’s Parker … Charlotte.”
“Wow, excellent memory.” I sent a high-beam smile her way, being a complete toady.
She indicated the chair in front of her desk and excused herself. She disappeared into a room down the hall and I heard a metal file drawer open. In precisely two minutes, she was back with a manila folder in hand. Meanwhile, I’d removed my hoodie to reveal a decent angora sweater and wiped a smudge of dust from one of my boots. I wondered if my morning swipe of lip gloss had worn off already (probably), but this was about the best I could do to make myself appear more businesslike in quick order.
“I’ll run a copy of it for you,” she said. “Let’s just make sure this is the document you need.” She handed some stapled pages over to me.
I glanced over the first page, then flipped to the end where I had signed and dated it. “This is the one.”
Away she went and I heard a copier whirring, one that apparently ran a lot more efficiently than ours. The pages were done, collated, and stapled before I had the chance to do more than notice the nameplate on her desk. Kate Letterman.
“Thanks, Kate, I really appreciate this.” I pretended to study her face a moment. “You used to work for Helen Bannerly, didn’t you?”
“Um, yes. That’s been a while back.” She gave a glance toward Sanchez’s closed door.
“I’m working an old case from about ten years ago …” I handed her one of my RJP Investigations business cards.
Another nervous glance.
“Oh, I’m sorry. You were on your way out and I interrupted. Could I buy you lunch and chat a bit? Or we could set an appointment later this afternoon?”
She searched for a reasonably polite way to refuse. “I was just going to grab a sandwich and bring it back—”
“Perfect. Munchies? I was heading there myself.” It was a good guess that she would choose the most popular sandwich shop within two miles. “We can ride over together and have plenty of time for what I need.”
Yes, I know. I was being pushy and obnoxious. If she’d been a bit older and more confident that she wouldn’t piss off a valued client of the firm, she would have told me to buzz off, but she wasn’t and she didn’t, and I bulldozed my way into her car for the ten-minute ride.
“We’re looking into the old case against Rory McNab,” I said, realizing small talk wouldn’t work well at this point. “Helen Bannerly defended him and you worked for her during that time, right?”
She nodded, concentrating on the oncoming traffic at the intersection where we’d stopped. “You could talk to Helen—she’s now with Wickman and Harding—but you do realize anything she and Mr. McNab talked about at the time falls under attorney-client privilege.”
I mentally filed the name of the new firm. I’d been under the impression that, back in the day, Ms. Bannerly was on the fast track for senior partner at the old firm. Maybe that went away when she lost the McNab case.
“A lot of people seemed to think Rory was innocent,” I said. “And Helen Bannerly was a good lawyer. What went wrong?”
We’d arrived at the popular restaurant and Kate stalled by parking and locking the car. “A lot of people?—meaning his father?”
We walked inside, precluded from saying much while we studied the menu and placed orders at the counter. I shoved my credit card forth to cover the food. Kate added a dessert at the last moment. No dummy, she might as well get something for the effort of putting up with me. We stepped aside to wait until our number was called.
“Okay, yes, his father,” I admitted. “Fergus is elderly now and terminally ill. He’d like to see his son exonerated.”
A flicker of sympathy crossed her face. “Any parent would. Especially when the golden son had such great plans. Rory would have run for state Senate the following year. It’s a big dream to give up.” She said Rory’s name with a softness that told me there had been some feelings, at least on her part.
Our order came up, packed into two white bags, as we’d requested. Kate still wasn’t going to give me her full lunch hour. We carried them to the car and I got right to the questions again as she started her engine.
“So, what do you think? Was Rory really guilty, as Herman Quinto tried to make it seem?”
“I sat through the trial,” Kate said. “Helen wanted her secretary handy in case we needed some last-minute documents or something. Plus, I was able to act as a buffer between the lawyer and the family. Fergus McNab became quite angry at what he perceived were Helen’s deficiencies in the defense.”
“Was he right?”
She bristled a little. “I didn’t think so.”
“Back to my original question … Was Rory guilty?” We were nearing her office, and I didn’t have much time for more details.
Her eyes grew soft and she shook her head slightly. “I don’t know. At the time, I thought the verdict was pretty harsh.”
“And his sentence? That seemed extreme, didn’t it?”
She’d parked next to my Jeep, a clear sign it was time for me to get out. “I really can’t comment on the case, Ms. Parker. Sorry.”
“Can I get a copy of the trial transcript?”
“Normally, the attorney would keep one, but since Helen Bannerly is no longer with the same firm, it’s unlikely she would have it. It’s better to request a copy in writing from the court.”
I could see that dragging on a while, but I would do it when I got back to my computer.
“Depending on the case, some courts seal the records and others only keep them seven years.”
“Kate—I get the feeling you cared for Rory McNab. Can you tell me anything that would lead me in the right direction to get him off?”
“Again, I’m sorry but I can’t comment on it.” She picked up her lunch sack, locked the car with a beep of the key fob, and strode toward the building, heels clicking on the sidewalk.
Can’t, or won’t? I muttered a few impatient phrases as I got into my own vehicle. I’ve seen lawyers remain close-mouthed about old cases, but I could usually work my way into a secretary’s confidence. I must be losing my touch.
Kate disappeared into the building. I had a perfectly good sandwich for lunch, and it was a lovely autumn day. I buzzed back over to the office, where I got Freckles and her leash, and we
walked the few blocks to a tiny neighborhood park.
No one was around so I let her off the leash for a good run, but she’d already sniffed out the chicken salad from my enticing white bag and wasn’t going anywhere more than five feet away from me. I planted myself on the ground at the base of a sycamore that hadn’t begun to shed its leaves yet, sitting cross-legged in the shade and delving into the lunch bag. Freckles got a potato chip and immediately wanted another. I savored my chicken salad on whole wheat and pondered what to do next for the McNabs.
A visit to Helen Bannerly was a must, although I held little hope that she would simply open up and tell me much about Rory McNab and why she lost his case ten years ago. Would she even remember him, considering the time gap? But then there had been the hoopla about his disappearance. Surely she had been questioned about that. Yeah, she would remember.
I tossed a stick a couple of times for the dog but she was far more interested in snagging the final crust from my sandwich. It’s a bad habit to start with a dog, creating a routine that involves a treat every time I put something into my own mouth—don’t do it.
Great advice, but I did it anyway. We were soon back in the car and I was driving up Menaul Boulevard to the offices of Wickman and Harding. I lucked into a shady parking spot when a big white Suburban backed out.
It occurred to me that Helen could easily be in court today or on vacation to Barbados or something, so I pulled one of my tried-and-true tricks by calling the office and asking to speak with her. The receptionist put me through to Helen’s secretary, who asked if I had an appointment but, although I admitted I didn’t, agreed to put me through when I kind of made it sound as if I worked in the governor’s office.
Of course, my real motive in calling ahead was to be sure Ms. Bannerly was in the office and was not in the middle of an appointment with someone else. I left windows open for Freckles, reviewed my face in the mirror and added a touch of lip gloss, picked up my purse and headed toward the building’s elevator. I walked into Suite 302 in time to spot Helen Bannerly at the desk of a secretary, so I breezed past the receptionist (as gatekeeper, she was not a very good one since she barely protested) and walked directly up to my quarry.
“What was this person’s name?” Bannerly was quizzing her secretary and the poor woman seemed a bit flustered.
“She said it so fast I didn’t catch—”
I inserted myself. “That would be me.” Before either of them could question how I’d appeared so quickly, and that I was dressed nothing like a high-echelon government employee would be, I tilted my head toward the door with Helen Bannerly’s name on it. “Could we …?”
Whether she had the innate politeness that tends to make us non-confrontational or simple curiosity, the lawyer led the way and I tagged along, closing the door behind us. Now I had to decide how to play this—stick with the illusion that I was connected to the governor’s office or ’fess up about my real reasons.
Chapter 12
As I took a chair, I compared the Helen Bannerly sitting behind the desk with the images from ten years ago in the newspapers. Same blonde page hairstyle, although a few silver threads had woven their way into the gold. She’d arrived at a comfortable weight for someone in her fifties, although the thought flitted that perhaps she’d been under a great deal of stress during Rory’s trial, accounting for her rail-thinness back then. Blue was still the color of choice for her business suit and I saw the reason why—it complimented her eyes beautifully.
“All right,” she said, focusing those eyes on me. “What’s this about? I don’t believe I’ve ever received a personal visit from someone in the governor’s office.”
I let the moment for confession slide right on by. “We’re looking into the Rory McNab case.” Hey, that much was the truth. “You were his defense attorney.”
She sat back in her chair, her mind clearly looking for some clue as to why this was coming back now. All she gave me was a vague nod of agreement to my statement.
“You weren’t assigned as a public defender; your firm took the case because you believed Rory was innocent of the charges?”
“The head of the firm wanted us to take it,” she said. “The story was getting a lot of press and he thought it would make a name for us. I was on track for senior partner and pushed to be assigned the case. If it made a name for the firm, it would make me golden.”
I noticed she hadn’t exactly answered my question about Rory’s innocence. “You must have had good reason to believe you could win—witnesses to rebut the charges or at least to stand up for his reputation and character?”
“To tell you the truth, Ms. …”
“Parker.”
“Ms. Parker, I really have little memory of the specifics of the case now. It’s been years. I moved on.”
She didn’t say as much, but I wondered if the ‘move’ was because her previous position went away after losing such a public case.
“I handle an average of twenty clients at a time now, complex corporate mergers, real estate deals … I deal with each as it comes up; once finalized, I move on. I can’t bring up details of a case from last summer, much less from ten years ago.”
Including the most public trial, and its aftermath, that you’ve ever been involved in? My skepticism rose a good twelve notches.
“Surely you remember going up against Herman Quinto. The man spends a lot of time in the spotlight, especially now that he’s running for national office.”
Some emotion flashed across her face, gone in an instant. The blue eyes blinked and she looked down at her impeccably neat desk top. She sighed. “Look, I’m tired of being asked about that old case. It was only one of hundreds. It meant very little then and it means nothing now.”
“Do you have the files? I’m sure we would like to review those.”
“Nothing. Anything I might have had at the time was left behind when I left the firm, and they have a policy of destroying case files after five years. You have to understand; it would require a warehouse to keep everything, especially on closed cases.”
That much was probably very true. I’d seen lawyers arrive at court with three or four cartons of files. Simple math would tell me they must have thousands of such boxes in their offices.
A ping came from the cell phone she’d laid beside her desk blotter.
“You’ll have to excuse me. My next appointment is here.” She stood, making it clear she meant now.
I didn’t see anyone in the waiting area and suspected the well-timed reminder message was standard office procedure to get rid of anyone who overstayed her welcome—in this case, me. Which was fine; I’d gotten all I would from her—precisely nothing.
Out in the car, I did a quick online search for Rory’s former partner, Christopher Brown, and came up with a complete resume, including the fact that he now headed a twenty-person firm in Santa Fe. I called the handy number on their website, but the gatekeeper told me Mr. Brown was not taking any new clients.
“This is a personal matter and I only need fifteen minutes of his time,” I pleaded.
“He has a short opening at one-thirty.”
I would have to break every existing land speed record to make it, so that was out.
“He’s in court the rest of the week.” The tone of voice implied something weighty.
I made an appointment for Monday morning, knowing full well I wouldn’t wait around for that one. There had to be a better way. I ended the call with my devious little mind full of all kinds of ideas.
My poor little doggie was tired of guarding the vehicle and waiting for me to run all these silly errands, so my first priority was to take her home. It would give me the chance to pick up a few things Gram had requested. She was feeling feisty enough to want her own pajamas, robe, and toiletries. With careful planning and precision timing, my afternoon might unfold the way I wanted.
Freckles raced around the back yard with complete abandon. While she sniffed the chrysanthemums that were still in f
ull bloom, I popped next door to gather Elsa’s wish list. Packing everything into a small tote bag, I locked up and went back home to give the dog an early supper and see her settled comfortably in her crate. While Freckles munched, I checked in with Drake. He’d finished the oil change on the helicopter and was polishing the windows in anticipation of tomorrow’s job for the Fish and Game Department.
One more stop, checking on Gram at the hospital. She was napping, so I set the tote bag where she would see it and stepped out to speak with the nurses.
“Looks like Friday,” the nurse said, consulting Elsa’s chart. “She’ll go to Sunrise Rehab where they’ll work with her and assess her independence level. If she passes the tests for dressing, feeding, bathing and toileting on her own, she can go home.” She gave me a bright smile. “Of course, you realize a lot of patients her age still require some help with those things. It would be best if she can go home with someone else, stay with a family member, have someone stay at her home with her …”
All the things Ron and I had talked about. Unfortunately, we still hadn’t reached any conclusions. I thanked the nurse and told myself I would get back with my brother on this question soon. Meanwhile, I had come up with an almost-surefire way to chat with Rory’s former partner.
I had the hour-long drive to Santa Fe to ponder it all, but my mind kept skipping ahead to Fergus and Rory McNab, hoping I wasn’t too late to get some answers before Fergus was no longer around to welcome his son home. Fortunately, the afternoon traffic was in my favor—southbound was insane; my northbound direction, only partially crazy. I’d determined my best bet was to exit I-25 at St. Francis. Christopher Brown’s office was on St. Michael’s Drive, roughly in the area where the hospital and a lot of medical offices are. I wondered if that spoke to the types of cases the firm handled.
The sun was low in the west now, and most of the various office parking lots held only a few cars. It seemed the time of day when patient and client appointments were finished; a few staff remained and most of those were headed for the exits, going to cozy homes, warm dinners, and helping kids with homework. Or so I imagined.
Escapes Can Be Murder Page 6