by D. L. Wood
“Well, regardless, it’s really, really good of you to do this.” He paused, twirling a fork in his noodles. “I could’ve taken responsibility for them, but having you here is just better. And,” he shrugged, “now you’ll get to know them even better than you would have otherwise. Maybe that’s the silver lining in all this.”
“Maybe,” she conceded.
They talked about the logistics of the kids’ schedules, school and after school activities, including the babysitter, Mrs. Brinkley, and Emma’s after school job at Philanthropy, a boutique on Main Street. The plan was for Chloe to get the kids off to school, spend the day working on her research and article, and then pick Tyler up. Emma, of course, could drive herself. Mrs. Brinkley had also offered to help, and could pick up or sit with Tyler whenever she was needed, though she wasn’t able to stay overnight.
“She said she would pick him up every day if I wanted, but I think I’d rather do it. It’s not like I have somewhere to be. And Emma can pick him up, too, if I need her to, as long as she isn’t working.”
Holt squinted doubtfully. “On the days Emma doesn’t work, she’ll probably want to stay out with friends, so I wouldn’t count on her.” He shifted, balancing his plate in his lap. “So, I have a request.”
“Shoot,” Chloe said, setting her fork down.
“Until Reese comes home and until we figure out who’s behind all the threats, I want to stay here. I’ll feel better—and I know Reese would too—if I’m here at night, just in case anything happens.”
She shook her head. “I can’t ask you to do that.”
“You’re not. It’s my idea. I’ll just camp out on the couch, that way I’m already downstairs if anything happens. You’ll sleep better.”
“But you won’t.”
“I’ll sleep better than I would at home worrying about the three of you.”
Chloe knew she ought to fight him on this, that she ought to protest and tell him that she could take care of herself. But the thing was, she wasn’t just taking care of herself. There were two children depending on her. And having that responsibility lying solely on her shoulders made her nervous.
“Okay. All right. If you’re sure. I think I would feel better. At least for now.”
“Great,” he said and gulped down some half-and-half tea. “Now,” he continued, depositing his glass on the little table. “I have an offer for you. If you’re interested.”
“Okay.”
“I couldn’t get in to see Sims today. So I’ve decided to temporarily continue representing him, at least through his arraignment tomorrow, so I can get another chance to flesh things out with him. If you’re up for it, I thought you could come with me. It isn’t every day that you get to go behind the scenes in a murder case, and even though it’s not something that would make it into your article—”
She laughed, interrupting him. “No, it’s not.”
“—it’s pretty interesting stuff. And,” he added, “it would be a chance for you to get a feel for what Reese does every day. Not that he handles murder trials every day—they’re actually really rare—but criminal cases in general.” He paused, refocusing. “Anyway, if you have a few hours to spare, it’s not something most people get the chance to do.”
“You’re sure I won’t be in the way?”
“No. And it’ll help me to have another pair of eyes and ears when I talk to Sims.”
She considered the offer. No, it wasn’t going to help with the article. But he was right—it was a rare opportunity. And it was more than an interesting murder case. Not only was Emma’s friend’s father the accused, but the whole thing might be connected to the bloody box on Reese’s doorstep and the attack on Reese. Maybe Sims could shed some light on what it was all about, and they could get some answers.
“Just tell me when to be there,” she replied.
TWENTY-TWO
The Santa Monica pier was noisy, full of tourists venturing out after an uncharacteristic and quick early morning rain. Jack navigated the crowd, accompanied by a lanky young man with umber hued skin dressed in a Habitat for Humanity T-shirt and bright white Nike tennis shoes. About halfway down the wooden boardwalk he spotted Lila, leaning against the railing in a white sundress, her red hair piled up in a messy bun. She stared over the crashing water through the large round sunglasses that hid her eyes.
“Lila,” he said impassively, moving to stand behind her.
She turned slowly, as if for effect. “Hey you,” she answered coyly. Then noticing Jack was with someone, she straightened uncomfortably. “Um, hi,” she said uncertainly.
“Lila, this is Evan. Evan, this is Lila.”
Evan extended his hand and a warm smile. “Nice to meet you, Lila,” he said. Lila shook his hand, her forehead wrinkling in confusion.
“So, why the early meeting Jack? I thought we were getting together after your shoot later.”
He sighed. “You’ve put me in a bad position, Lila.” He searched her face for a reaction, but the sunglasses were good emotional camouflage. “I talked to Chloe. Why did you answer my phone the other night? And why did you tell her I was in the bathroom?”
“What—I just, I don’t know, heard a phone ringing and answered it—”
“You told her you were my wife.”
“No, no, I—”
“Don’t, Lila. Don’t lie. She told me.”
“Well she misunderstood. I said ex-wife—”
“You didn’t and we both know it.” For several moments neither said anything as they stared each other down. Lila bit her lip and shifted her weight to her other hip, but offered no further explanation.
“This is over. Done,” Jack insisted.
“Wait, you can’t—”
“I’m not sure what your goal is here, but your little stunt the other night makes it clear that this,” he waggled a finger between the two of them, “does not work. On any level.”
“Okay,” she flipped her sunglasses on top of her head, revealing pleading brown eyes, “I shouldn’t have done that. I know. I just…I don’t know. Lost my head for a minute. I was just messing around. But I’m serious about this, about learning something here. I’m floundering. You can’t just abandon me.”
“You’re right,” Jack said and gestured towards Evan. “Evan helps out at the church I attend when I’m out here. If you really are looking for answers, he can answer any question you have, and probably do it a whole lot better than I could.”
“But,” she protested, dropping her voice as if Evan couldn’t hear her, “I don’t want him to help me. I want you.”
“Honestly, Lila, I don’t know what you want. But if you are searching for answers, and I hope you are, he can help you find them.” Jack took a few steps back. “You don’t need me for that. Either way, don’t call me. Don’t text. Don’t anything,” he said, then turned sharply, walking back the way he had come.
For a few moments, Lila simply bowed up, her entire body tensing. Her hands curled into fists as she charged several strides after Jack, then planted herself, stomping her feet.
“Jack don’t. Don’t! I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry. I just…I was jealous, all right?”
Ignoring her, Jack continued walking, his back turned.
Apparently sensing her failure, Lila changed tactics, brash annoyance eclipsing the desperation that had previously dominated her tone. “Look, I need your help. Alex took everything. He cleaned me out. I have no one else to turn to. What am I supposed to do?” She stomped an espadrille on the boardwalk again. “Jack!”
At her shout, Jack halted, still facing away from them. After a few moments of contemplation, he looked back over his shoulder once more. “That’s a great question,” he admitted, then turned and resumed walking away, calling out as he went. “You should ask Evan what the answer is.”
TWENTY-THREE
The General Sessions courtroom was abuzz as the bailiff called the next case on the Monday morning docket. The room was packed, and from the snippets
of conversation Chloe had caught, the crowd was due to Sims’s scheduled bond hearing on the charge against him for the murder of Phillip Donner. Many in the gallery appeared affiliated with various local media outlets, while others seemed to be curious citizens hoping for a front row seat to the latest scandal.
The courtroom was a fair size, painted a nondescript beige with honey-stained oak benches providing seating in the gallery. The judge’s bench was at one end opposite the double-door entryway, with the seal of Tennessee hanging on the wall behind him. The traditional wooden railing separated the court from the gallery where Chloe now waited along with everyone else.
It was 9:48 and Judge Seton R. Bricker had dispensed with several cases already. Sims sat in the jury box to the right of Judge Bricker with the other defendants who had been transported to court from jail. Like them, Sims wore an orange jumpsuit with the words “Tri-County Jail” inscribed in black on the back. He was even more disheveled than he had been when she had seen him at Five Points on the night of the explosion. His shoulder-length brown hair clearly had not had a brush through it in days, and his scraggly beard was desperately in need of a trim. He sat hunched over, shoulders sagging as he reached up with one hand to push his square-rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose. She doubted he had looked in a mirror before coming to court, which seemed like an obvious misstep for someone trying to convince a judge he was a safe bet for a reasonable bond.
“I’ll talk to him about cleaning up next time,” Holt whispered, leaning in on her right, apparently thinking the same thing she was. “He looks terrible.”
Chloe nodded just as Sims’s name was called.
The entire hearing took less than five minutes, likely to the great disappointment of the media hounds hoping for more. In that time, Sims was escorted from the jury box to the defendant’s table, where he was met by Holt, whose impeccable dress made Sims look even worse by comparison. After a quick reading of the charge of murder in the first degree, Holt made a well-presented argument that due to his familial obligations, namely his son, Jacob, and ongoing litigation, Sims was not the type of flight risk that justified an excessively high bond. Unfortunately, Judge Bricker did not agree, and set Sims’s bond at half a million. He set Sims’s preliminary hearing for later that week, after which Sims was ushered back to the holding area looking even more defeated than before.
Holt pushed his way through the swinging gate at the dividing railing into the gallery where Chloe sat. “Come on, let’s go see him,” he said, tugging on her sleeve as he passed her. She rose to join him as he strode from the courtroom.
Holt led her through several melamine-tiled hallways to an area where they kept the transfers from the jail before and after their court appearances. After Holt spoke briefly with a sheriff’s deputy, they were taken to a small room containing a metal table and two utility chairs upholstered in charcoal pleather on opposite sides of it.
“Here,” Holt said, motioning towards one chair as he sat in the other. “Sit for a minute before he comes in. We need to take care of something.”
Chloe sat and Holt pulled a document from his briefcase and slid it in front of her.
“The attorney-client privilege that protects my communications with Sims ceases to apply if a third party—that would be you—is present. Technically, you could be called to testify about anything he says or anything that you and I discuss, unless you’re part of his legal team, which,” he slapped the paper, “you are if you’re an intern for the firm.”
“An intern?”
Holt grinned. “Unpaid, of course.”
She eyed him skeptically. “Is this legal?”
His face contorted distastefully. “Of course, it’s legal. I can bring in anyone I want to work for me. Technically I don’t even need to have you sign anything, but this sets it out clear as day in advance, should anyone question the arrangement. But, it does mean you’ll have to help me on the case at least a little. Maybe sort through some discovery, maybe make some notes about interviews, that sort of thing. You up for that?”
She had the time. And it was pretty interesting. Something she wouldn’t normally get to experience. She could get back to taking photos later.
He pointed to the signature line. “Sign and date it below and we’ll have Karen—our office assistant,” he explained, when Chloe looked bemused, “—notarize it when we get back to the office.”
He handed her a pen and Chloe scratched her signature out. Five minutes later, the door squeaked on its hinges as Sims walked through, escorted by a sheriff’s deputy. Chloe half-expected Holt to offer his chair to Sims, but when he raised his eyebrows at her, she realized she was the one expected to stand. She was just an intern after all.
Chloe moved to stand behind Holt as Sims deposited his gangly frame in the chair she had vacated, looking like someone who had just had the wind knocked out of them. “Just bang on the door when you’re done,” said the deputy, before closing and locking the door behind him.
“How you doing, Kurt?” Holt asked, leaning forward on his elbows. “You’re looking a bit rough.”
“Don’t even man,” Sims started, shaking his head. “I haven’t slept in two days.”
“You’ve got to do better next time. I probably could’ve gotten the bail knocked down lower if you didn’t look like you’d just been pulled from the drunk tank. Next time wash your face. Comb your hair. Something.”
“Okay, yeah, I got it,” he groused. “How’s Jacob?”
Something about Sims’s air made his question seem less like the inquiry of a worried father and more like a truant officer confirming his ward was where he needed to be.
“Fine,” Holt assured him. “Emma says he’s fine. He’s staying with his aunt. That’s your wife’s sister, right?” Sims nodded and Holt continued. “He’s at school today as far as I know.”
“Good. He doesn’t need to go screwing up his attendance over this. Doesn’t need to damage his scholarship prospects. Make sure he gets to practice, okay? I don’t want him taking it easy just because I’m stuck in here. He gets lazy if I don’t stay on him.” The words sounded worn to Chloe, as if they had been said to and about Jacob many, many times. So far she wasn’t liking Kurt Sims very much.
“I’ll check on Jacob later, but right now we need to talk about you. You heard the judge. Bail’s set at half a million. Can you swing the bondsman fee?”
“I don’t have fifty grand, man,” he said, then changed gears, appraising Chloe and looking between her and Holt. “Who’s this?” he asked.
“This is Chloe McConnaughey. She’s Reese’s daughter. She’s helping me out.”
His eyes lit up. “So you’re taking the case? Hey, that’s…look, I know I can’t pay you now, everything I had is sunk into that project and the lawsuit but—”
Holt held up a hand. “Don’t thank me yet. I still don’t know if we can take this on, especially with Reese out of commission for a while, but I wanted to at least be here for you this morning.”
“Was Cecilia here?”
Holt shook his head. “No reason for her to be. She doesn’t handle criminal anyway. I’ll bring her up to speed later.”
“Wait…what do you mean Reese is out of commission? What’s wrong with Reese?”
“Reese stopped off at his house before coming to meet you and someone attacked him. That’s why he never showed at your house on Saturday. He’s in pretty bad shape at the moment.”
“Is he gonna be okay?”
“They think so. Eventually. But right now he’s still unconscious.”
“And you think that had something to do with me?”
“We aren’t sure what to think yet.”
“Well, I’m really sorry about Reese,” Sims said, his eyes flicking to Chloe before returning to Holt. “I like him. And he’s been good to me. And I’m not just saying that because I need him—need y’all—right now. But I do need your help. What can I say to convince you? I’m telling you I didn’t do it. I did not
kill Phillip Donner. I’m not sad the man’s gone and I definitely imagined putting a bullet in him a couple times, but I wasn’t serious.”
“The gun, Kurt. The Smith and Wesson semi-automatic you couldn’t find. What’s the story with that?”
“I don’t know. Honest. It was there last time I looked.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Maybe…a week ago. Two? I just keep it around in case, you know? Sometimes you get crazies in my line of work.”
“And so it’s just gone? You’ve no idea how? Who has access to it?”
“Just me. I keep it in a shoebox on a shelf in my closet.”
“Ever fired it?”
“Yeah, sure, target practice in the backyard. And I go to the range once or twice a year.”
Holt made a few notes on his legal pad, then looked up. “Okay, I’m going to want to get in the house.”
“Why?” Sims blurted defensively.
“Because I need to look around. See what I can see. Check if they missed anything.”
“Like the gun?”
“Maybe.”
“Is that possible?” Sims asked, his voice more hopeful.
“Unlikely. But you never know. So how can I get in?”
“There’s a key. Behind the third bush down the garage side of the house.”
Holt nodded. “Okay. And you really need to start thinking about what might have happened to that gun. Given the ammo they walked out of your house with, I’m guessing that gun has a lot to do with your arrest.”
“What else did they take?”
“According to the receipt there were shoes, wire, duct tape—”
“Wire and duct tape? Why? What wire and duct tape?”
Holt shrugged. “They didn’t show me. I had to stand outside the house with you while they searched, remember?”
“They didn’t have to make us wait out there.”
“Yes, they did, Kurt. Because you were throwing a holy fit by the time I got there.”
“Well, they had no business—”
“It is exactly their business. And you need to get control of yourself, clean up your act and start playing the role of reasonable, believable, concerned citizen, instead of hot-headed, loose-cannon zealot with a grudge, or you’ll have no chance of a not-guilty verdict if this thing goes all the way. You hear me? The wires and duct tape? Think about it. They’re looking at you for the explosion too. And guess what? There’s another body attached to that situation. Start behaving, or you’re going to find yourself slapped with two murder charges and an arson charge, along with who knows what else.”