by Linda Palmer
“Yes. Hello. Sorry.” He yanked a jacket that matched his pants from the back of a chair and struggled into it. “Are you Morgan Tyler? I didn’t expect you until two.”
Glancing at my watch, I saw that I was five minutes early. “I’m sorry. Shall I wait in the reception room?”
“No, of course not,” he said. “Come in and sit down.”
I glanced around his office. Every sitable surface was covered with law books, telephone books, file folders, or stacks of newspapers. In that one respect it resembled Bobby Novello’s office. I couldn’t suppress a smile as I asked, “Where should I sit?”
Without any trace of embarrassment, he cleared off a chair on the client’s side of his desk. “I have my own special system of organization,” he said. “Drives my secretary crazy, but I pay her well enough to get therapy.”
As we took our respective seats, he said, “You did something that very few people have managed.”
“What was that?”
“Persuade my answering service to find me on a weekend. Tell me, Morgan—may I call you Morgan?” I nodded. “Just how much trouble are you in?”
“Not me—it’s my closest friend. She’s been arrested for murder.”
His eyes narrowed and his brow furrowed. He looked as though he was searching through a file in his brain. Apparently, he found what he wanted, because he said, “Only two non-drug deal murders occurred in the city during the last forty-eight hours. You don’t look as though you’d know the Pakistani cab driver somebody shot and threw off the George Washington Bridge, so I’m presuming it must be the other one. Has your friend been accused of killing Arnold Rose’s wife?”
“Yes. Do you know Arnold?”
A slight grimace crossed his face. “We’ve met.” It seemed clear that he didn’t like his fellow criminal lawyer. B. Kent Wayne said, “Tell me why you’re here.”
“My friend is Nancy Cummings. She practices corporate law in Arnold’s firm, Newton, Donovan, Lipton, and Klein. She and Arnold are … going together. Nancy’s been accused of killing his ex-wife, but she’s innocent.”
Wayne waved one hand in a gesture of dismissal. “That’s immaterial.”
“It isn’t immaterial to me!”
“Let’s not quibble over semantics,” he said. “The details haven’t been made public yet. Why was she arrested?”
I related everything that Matt had told me. When I finished, he said, “She doesn’t have an attorney?”
“Nancy called someone from her firm, but I don’t know anything about that person. Arnold was the top criminal lawyer at Newton, but he can’t represent Nancy in this. I phoned you because I heard you were one of the best in the country.”
“Only one of?” He smiled wryly. “Who recommended me?”
I opted for honesty. “A homicide detective who despises you.”
He laughed. “A defense attorney can’t get a better endorsement than that.” Picking up a pen from the narrow tray on his cluttered desk, he twirled it in his hands for a few seconds. Finally he put the pen down and said, “Two items before we take this discussion any further. One: I’m expensive. Can Ms. Cummings afford a first-rate defense?”
“She’s well-off,” I said. “I mean, I think she is. I don’t know if she has investments, or savings accounts, but she owns her apartment at the Bradbury, on West Eighty-first Street. Even if she doesn’t have enough money available right away—or at all—I do. I’ll write you a check this afternoon.”
“Okay, so, one way or another, she can afford my services. Now part two: Did Ms. Cummings ask you to hire me?”
“Actually, no … She doesn’t know I’m here because she’s in jail and I haven’t seen her yet.”
“That’s a problem. You said she called the Newton office—that means she already has a lawyer. I can’t just walk in and take over somebody else’s case.”
“She will want to hire you, as soon as I talk to her.”
“Assuming she does, she’ll have to say so. Then I’ll contact the other attorney and make arrangements to take over.”
“Thank you, Mr. Wayne.”
“Call me Kent.”
For the first time since Penny phoned me in Florida to tell me that Nancy had been arrested, I began to relax a little. As B. Kent Wayne, attorney-at-law, made notes on a white legal pad—the same kind of pad, I noticed, that I use to plot out the storylines for Love of My Life—I began to take in details of his office decor. On the wall directly behind him was a large glass case that held a fascinating display of armaments. Gesturing toward the daggers, several varieties of pistols, an ancient Japanese ceremonial sword, and a medieval spiked mace, I asked, “Is collecting weapons your hobby?”
“I think of them as merit badges. Those pieces were used in some of the cases I’ve tried—and won.”
I couldn’t suppress my shock. “One of your clients used a spiked mace?”
In a firm tone, he corrected me. “Was alleged to have used it. There were so many inconsistencies and missteps in the prosecution’s case that I was able to establish enough reasonable doubt for an acquittal. Situations are seldom black and white. My battlefield is gray.”
I was only interested in one thing. “When can you get Nancy out of jail?”
“She was arrested late Friday. That means Ms. Cummings will probably have a bail hearing on Monday. It’s likely the D.A.’s office will ask for remand—”
“Remand—that’s incarceration without bail.” He looked surprised that I knew the term. “Every time I write a mystery plot for Love of My Life I have a character arrested,” I said. “I had to learn the language.”
He smiled. “I must start watching your show. Now, assuming Ms. Cummings wants me as her attorney, I’ll ask for release on her own recognizance—citing her ties to the community, and so on. How much family does she have here?”
“None. Her parents are both dead. No siblings. No children.”
“Too bad. O.R. is a lot tougher when the accused has no family ties to New York, and can afford to leave the country. I’ll fight for bail, but it’ll be high.”
I waved my hand, signaling that I didn’t care. “A bail bondsman will charge ten percent of whatever it is. I’ll write a check on the spot. You have to get her released.”
“I’ll do everything possible,” he said.
That wasn’t a satisfying answer, but I had to keep pushing for action. “All right,” I said. “What do you need first?”
“Find out the name of the lawyer Ms. Cummings called.”
I fished around in my handbag for my small personal phone book. Months ago, Nancy gave me a cell number to use in case I had an emergency and couldn’t reach her on her own phones. Quickly flipping through it, I found what I was looking for and dialed. As I waited for the call to be answered, I glanced again at Wayne’s collection of weapons, and wondered how he was going to fit a five-gallon can of paint into that display case.
Chapter 15
ARNOLD ROSE ANSWERED quickly. “Yes?” His tone was brusque.
“Arnold? It’s Morgan. I’m so sorry about—”
“Thank you. I appreciate your sympathy.” He certainly didn’t sound as though he appreciated it.
“How is Didi?” I asked.
“Devastated.”
“She’s a lovely girl—”
“Yes,” he said coldly. Then silence.
“I’m sorry to bother you at this—”
“There is a great deal to do.” His manner was impatient. I pictured him on the other end of the line: tapping his foot, or drumming his fingers on a handy surface.
I decided it was useless to make polite conversation, so I skipped right to the point of the call. “What lawyer is representing Nancy?”
“Cynthia Ruddy.”
“Cynthia Ruddy?” I repeated her name for Kent Wayne’s benefit. Immediately, he swiveled halfway around in his chair to an extension on his desk and tapped keys on his laptop computer.
“Cynthia’s first-rate,”
Arnold said. “She’s the person I’d call, if I were in trouble.”
“You’ve worked with her?”
“I trained her. She’s excellent. The best.”
It seemed to me that Arnold was doing a sales job. I didn’t want to hear any more of it, so I said, “Will you let me know if there’s anything I can do for Didi?”
“Certainly.” With that, he hung up.
I must have been staring at the suddenly dead phone in my hand, because Wayne leaned toward me on his elbows. “I’ll bet he behaved like a prick.”
In a flash of anger that should have been directed at Arnold Rose, I snapped at Wayne. “It astonishes me when a man uses that word to insult another man!”
He jerked up straight and blinked at me in surprise. Then, with a hint of embarrassment, he said, “Frankly, I never thought of it that way.” He cleared his throat—to put a vocal period on that subject, I guessed—and indicated the screen on his laptop.
“Cynthia Ruddy: Harvard Law, top grades, graduated five years ago, passed the New York bar on the first try, spent eighteen months as a public defender in Suffolk County. Invited to join the Newton firm three years ago when Lipton, the senior partner, decided to expand their criminal division. She’s second-chaired four successful felony trials. Two of them with Arnold Rose.”
“But she’s never been the lead defense attorney in a case?”
“Not yet. Apparently she’s a comer, though.”
That assessment wasn’t satisfying. “I don’t want a lawyer representing Nancy who’ll be getting experience in something that involves my best friend’s life.”
“Has she been Nancy’s attorney before—represented her in any matter prior to this situation?”
“Nancy’s never been arrested—or been in any kind of trouble at all. Why?”
“Substitution of attorney is much simpler if there’s been no ongoing professional relationship. Is Nancy’s connection to Arnold Rose strictly … social?”
I nodded, not wanting to say anything more specific. Nancy’s feelings were hers to disclose. “What’s our next step?” I asked.
He shot me a hard, quizzical look. “Our next step?”
If the expression on his face was meant to intimidate me, it didn’t work. “I’m going to help Nancy. Just tell me what to do.”
“All right. Call Cynthia Ruddy and get her to arrange for you to visit Nancy Cummings in jail.”
“NO.” CYNTHIA RUDDY was adamant. “I can’t let you see her. If Nancy tells you anything self-incriminating, it won’t be covered by attorney-client privilege.”
I felt my heart lurch against my ribs. “You think Nancy’s guilty, don’t you?”
She hesitated, then answered evasively. “Her situation is serious.”
While Kent Wayne had said Nancy’s guilt or innocence was immaterial to him, at least he hadn’t made up his mind in the negative about her. Now I was even more convinced that Cynthia Ruddy was not the best lawyer to defend Nancy.
“We won’t discuss any details of the case,” I said. “She’s my best friend. I want her to know that I’m here for her.”
“If I can get her out on bail, you can see her then.”
The word “if ” was like a stab in my chest. I hardened my tone in order to persuade Cynthia Ruddy that I wasn’t going to take no for an answer. It still took a few more minutes of insisting, but at last she gave in.
“All right.” I heard annoyance in her voice. “Be at the Twentieth Precinct at three-thirty. You’ll have five minutes with her,” Cynthia Ruddy said. “Interview rooms are bugged. There’s no expectation of privacy, so the cops will probably be listening in. The microphone’s only turned off when a lawyer and client are conferring.”
NEW YORK CITY’S Twentieth Precinct is a stubby gray building at 120 West Eighty-second Street, between Columbus and Amsterdam Avenues. When I was here last, it had been a cold day in March, and the trees that edged the street were almost bare of leaves. Today they were bursting with vivid shades of summer green.
During the past year I’d come to this fortress of temporary incarceration several times. All but the first visit had been of my own volition. Quite a few of the officers stationed there had become familiar faces. One of them, Officer Kirk—a young former marine with a shaved head—smiled pleasantly. As he escorted me up a flight of stairs, he asked, “How’s it goin’?”
“Fine,” I lied, but I smiled, too.
To reach the interview (a.k.a. interrogation) rooms, we had to pass through the detectives’ squad room on the second floor. I half expected to see Matt and G. G. at their pair of facing desks, but their chairs were unoccupied. Not seeing Matt was partly a disappointment, and partly a relief.
Interview Room One, a discordant symphony in gray and olive green, looked as though it had last been painted several years before I was born. It was neat in that there was no trash littering the floor, but it smelled strongly of disinfectant. I wondered briefly what substance had been spilled that required such a powerful sanitizer, but I realized it was a question I shouldn’t pursue.
Seconds after Officer Kirk closed the door behind me, a policewoman escorted Nancy into the room. She was wearing a gray jail jumpsuit, but at least she wasn’t in handcuffs. The policewoman told her to sit on the opposite side of the table from me.
With the stern admonition, “No touching!” she left us alone. Or as alone as we could be in a room where I knew the mirror on the wall was two-way glass, behind which other people were probably watching us, and listening.
Suddenly all I could think of was to ask the idiotic question, “Are you okay?”
Nancy’s responding smile was wan, but there was no defeat in her eyes. “I’m all right—considering that this wasn’t how I’d planned to spend the weekend. Incidentally, you’re too loyal to ask, but I didn’t kill Veronica.”
“You don’t have to tell me that,” I said. I wanted to grasp her hands in solidarity and support, but I remembered the rule against touching. “I knew you couldn’t have done it.” Nodding toward the two-way glass, I added, “Maybe we shouldn’t discuss the case.”
Nancy waved defiantly at whoever was behind the mirror. “I don’t care who hears us—my story’s not going to change because it’s the truth.” She grimaced, shaking her head in frustration. “I was such an idiot. For Arnold’s sake, and Didi’s, I decided to try to make peace with Veronica. I phoned her and asked if we could talk privately. She told me she was going down to her apartment to check on what the workmen had been doing, and said I could meet her there. When I arrived, she was dead. I can’t believe how stupidly I behaved then, but I’m not the person who killed her!” Suddenly, she looked near to exhaustion. I realized how much effort it must be taking for her to act strong. “Oh, Lord,” she sighed, “I’m so glad to see you!” Her eyes filled with tears.
Hoping to lift her spirits, I gestured at her jumpsuit. “It’s disgusting, how you manage to look so good—even in that thing. If I gave you a designer scarf to twist and tie in one of those mysterious ways you have, you’d be ready for lunch at the Four Seasons.”
She used her index fingers to wipe the tears from her eyes. In a wry tone, she said, “Not quite. They confiscated my makeup. Do you suppose they think I’m going to stab somebody with a mascara wand?”
“Where are the clothes you were wearing when they brought you here?”
“I hope they’re hanging up somewhere. Cynthia said they’d give them back to me just before my bail hearing.”
Lowering my voice, I said, “They’ve only given me a few minutes, and there’s something important we have to talk about.”
“What?”
“Cynthia Ruddy doesn’t have enough experience for this situation. I want you to hire Kent Wayne.”
“B. Kent Wayne?” Nancy was aghast. “Did you know his first name is Bruce? Can you believe it—his parents named him after Batman! Arnold had some tussles with him. He calls Wayne ‘The Prince of Darkness.’”
�
�Of course Arnold would be hostile—they’re competitors. If you don’t want Wayne, I’ll find you somebody else with a great track record, but please don’t put your future in the hands of someone at the beginning of her career.” I didn’t add: and someone who believes you’re guilty.
Nancy frowned. “But Arnold thinks very highly—”
I interrupted with a joke. “Let’s hire her a few years from now—next time you’re arrested for murder,”
Nancy did her best to smile, but I knew it was hard for her to find anything about the situation amusing. “Do you really feel strongly that I should have a different lawyer?”
“With all of my heart! Let me tell Wayne that you’ve hired him.”
The door to the visiting room opened. The policewoman was back, and Matt Phoenix was with her.
“Time’s up,” the policewoman said.
Nancy stood and looked at Matt. In her most imperious tone, she said, “We meet again, Detective. I’m sorry I can’t offer you coffee.”
Matt’s face reddened, but he didn’t reply. Instead, he glared at me.
Nancy leaned down and whispered, “Get Kent Wayne. I’ll tell Cynthia that to spare the firm embarrassment I’m going to use outside counsel.” Then, with perfect posture and head held high, she swept out of the room. The policewoman trailed behind her, liked the lady-in-waiting to a princess.
As soon as they were gone, Matt growled, “Out, before I think of a reason to lock you up, too!”
Chapter 16
ONE LARGE HAND gripping my upper arm, Matt escorted me out into the street. Rushed me out, was more like it. He didn’t stop this forced march until we were nearly a block away, in front of a seedy old brownstone that had been converted into apartments. Below a sign in the window that said VACANCY, the ledge was encrusted with pigeon droppings.
His mouth set in grim determination, Matt steered me down several steps below the street until we were almost at the building’s closed basement door, and far enough away from the stream of pedestrian traffic above us to have some privacy. Positioning me with my back against the steps’ wrought iron guardrail, he released me, but immediately clasped his left hand around the railing on my “escape route” side. His grip was so hard his knuckles turned white. To get away from him, I would have had to pry that big hand loose, or push through his firmly planted body. Neither option seemed promising.