by Ellen Hart
“I just don’t know what else to do. I feel so helpless. If he’d just come home…” The sentence drifted off.
“Does Mia know what’s going on?”
Sigrid sighed. “No. We’ve tried to keep it from her. She’s away right now, staying at a friend’s house in Bricket Wood.”
“Do you think Peter might have contacted her?”
“I doubt it. I didn’t ask when I talked to her last night. She never brought it up, so I decided not to worry her.”
It was Jane’s turn to hesitate. “Sigrid … you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, but, I mean—”
“Oh Jane, it’s such a mess. I wouldn’t know where to begin. I just can’t get into it right now. Will you call me if you hear from him?”
“Sure. You do the same, okay?”
“I just keep telling myself that he could walk back in the door any minute.”
“I’m sure he’ll come home soon.” Jane was trying to stay positive for Sigrid’s sake—and for her own.
“Love you, Jane. Bye.”
After they’d hung up, Jane quickly punched in Peter’s number. It rang five times before it went to voice mail. Instead of leaving a message, she texted him, telling him that he needed to get in touch with her right away. He might be angry with Sigrid, but his family was worried and needed to hear from him. She stared at her phone for a few seconds, hoping he’d text her back. When he didn’t, she rose from her chair and headed up to the kitchen.
3
Shortly after six, Jane pulled her truck up to the curb across from her father’s law office in Saint Paul. She was early, so instead of waiting in the truck, she got out and dashed across the street. It was after hours, which meant she had to use her key to get in. Finding the reception area and the desk-filled room behind it empty and dark, she headed for the stairs, taking the steps two at a time. She rounded the top of the stairs into the second-floor waiting room. Three of the office doors were closed. The only one open belonged to her father, who was at his desk. Two people, a man and a woman, sat in chairs on the other side.
Not wanting to intrude, Jane sat down and picked up a magazine, leafing through it absently, waiting for the meeting to end. Every time she saw her father these days, she was struck by how thin he’d become. He wasn’t frail exactly, though he wasn’t the robust man he used to be either. His hair, for so many years a shiny silver mane, had turned completely white. He was still as handsome as ever, at least in Jane’s opinion. That was something that would never change.
Raymond Lawless was in his midseventies. He’d been in semiretirement for a number of years—that is, until CNN contacted him, asking if he’d be interested in appearing on the network as a contributor. They wanted his take on criminal justice reform. It was the year before the election, when the Black Lives Matter movement had been gaining steam. The exposure he’d received caused his law practice to become even more sought after, both locally and nationally. Thus, as time went on, it became clear that he would either need to lean on his partners to handle the extra load, hire new associates, or return to work full time. Much to Jane’s dismay, he’d chosen the last.
Hearing the old wood floors creak, she looked over and saw that the meeting was breaking up. The man and woman, both African-American, were on their way out of the office.
“I’ll be in touch, Ray,” called the man, nodding to Jane as they passed her.
Motioning for Jane to come into his office, her dad returned to his chair. As Jane settled across from him, she couldn’t help but notice that he seemed a million miles away.
“You look tired,” she said.
“Do I?” It took a moment for him to focus. “No, I’m good.”
“Who were they?”
“You remember Rashad May? I represented him in a homicide trial a few years ago. He was accused of murdering his husband, Gideon Wise.”
“Oh, sure,” said Jane. “Rashad was a good friend of Cordelia’s.”
“That was Rashad’s brother, Sherwin, and his wife, Dessa. He called earlier and asked if they could stop by after he was done with work. The upshot is, he thinks he’s found evidence that could get his brother a new trial. He asked me to look into it.”
“Will you?”
Her dad appeared to mull it over. “Sherwin’s really pushing hard. He’s a program director for a radio station here in town. He knows a lot of the local news people. Apparently he gave a TV interview that hasn’t aired yet but will soon. He’s doing everything he can to get the word out that his brother is an innocent man.”
“Have you seen the evidence?”
“Some of it.” He tapped a finger against the arm of his chair. “You interested?”
Jane had signed a contract a couple years back to work as a part-time investigator for her father’s law firm. As odd as it sounded to those who didn’t know her, she had two careers going—restaurateur and private investigator, both longtime passions. Sometimes the needs of one collided with the other, though Jane made every effort to perform the balancing act necessary to make them both possible.
“Come around here and I’ll show you.” He waited until she’d pulled a chair up next to him and then plugged a thumb drive into his laptop. Clicking on an icon, he brought up a series of crime-scene photos.
“Before I look at them,” said Jane, “refresh my memory.” Unlike Cordelia, she didn’t know Rashad and only vaguely followed the trial in the newspapers, so even the basics were hazy.
“Gideon Wise and Rashad May had been married for half a dozen years when it happened. Shortly after eight on a hot July evening, Rashad came home to find Gideon submerged in the bathtub. He was fully clothed and the bathwater was stained red. Rashad was, of course, shocked—out of his mind with panic. He checked Gideon’s vitals, though he later said it seemed obvious to him that he was gone. The cut marks on Gideon’s wrists were clearly visible so it wasn’t unreasonable for him to conclude—incorrectly, as it turned out—that Gideon had taken his own life. That’s what he said to the 911 operator. When the first two officers arrived, both uniforms, they found Rashad on his knees in the middle of the bathroom floor, holding Gideon in his arms. His shirt, by then, was wet and covered in blood.”
“How did Gideon actually die?” asked Jane.
“Blunt force trauma to the back of his head, inconsistent with a fall. The investigator assigned to the case arrived a while later, assessed the scene, and jumped to the conclusion that Rashad had been trying to mislead them with the 911 call. He maintained that Rashad should have known it wasn’t a suicide because of the head injury. Rashad said he saw the head wound, but figured Gideon had tried to get out of the tub but was too weak and fell back. The fact that he’d pulled Gideon from the tub and was holding him was also deemed suspicious.”
“Because?”
“The investigator felt he was attempting to hide physical evidence resulting from the murder—evidence on his clothing. Everything Rashad did, from the moment the primary arrived on the scene, was seen through that filter. The investigator’s name was Louie Zandler. He testified later that his gut had led him straight to Rashad. You’ve probably heard me say this before, Jane: Picking a suspect in a murder investigation can be a little like falling in love. The object of the investigator’s affection takes over all of his or her waking thoughts. I’m sad to say that type of tunnel vision on the part of law enforcement professionals isn’t unusual. As far as I could tell, the investigation barely looked at anybody else. They had their man and they used all their resources to prove he was guilty.”
“What was Rashad’s motive?”
“Money. Freedom. Gideon was a wealthy lawyer in his midfifties. Rashad was a black man in his early forties. He was the senior vice president of sales at MRTL Worldwide. It paid well, but nothing like Gideon’s income. Oh, and believe me, Rashad’s race was underlined every chance they got—before and during trial. The prosecution put several of Rashad’s so-called friends on the stand to undermine his profes
sed love for Gideon. They all indicated, with almost the same words and phrases, that the only reason Rashad married Gideon was for his money.”
“They were coached.”
“That was my assessment. We, of course, put on our own witnesses, who testified that the two men were deeply committed and had been for fourteen years—eight of those years before they were legally married. But it didn’t matter. The prosecutor made every attempt to dog-whistle and character-assassinate Rashad into a guilty verdict.”
Jane remembered her father saying that the side with the best story, true or not, often won the day. While that might not seem like justice, it was the way the judicial system all too often worked. “What was your theory?”
“In talking to Rashad, it came out that Marlo Wise, Gideon’s daughter, and her fiancé, a guy named George Krochak, had potential motives. Marlo had started a greeting-card company in her late twenties. Apparently, she was constantly after Gideon to invest money in it. She wanted to expand but couldn’t do it without more capital investment. Rashad said that Gideon tried to be diplomatic with her, but eventually just got sick of the conversation and gave her a flat no. That was a couple of weeks before his death.”
“I’m not sure that rises to the level of a motive for murder.”
“Granted. But there’s more. Gideon was vehemently opposed to Marlo’s marriage to Krochak. The guy was almost the same age as Gideon. That was a huge sticking point. The other was that Krochak wasn’t employed. Gideon figured he was a parasite and said as much, loudly. He refused to pay for the wedding. As I understand it, Gideon and Marlo were both terribly stubborn, and in this instance, they both dug in hard. At one point, Rashad said Gideon threatened to disinherit her if she didn’t send Krochak packing. That, in my opinion, could be a motive for murder—not just for Marlo, but for George, too.”
“How did that go over when you presented it to the jury?”
“We never got the chance. I was hoping to bring it in when I put Sherwin May on the stand, but the prosecution objected to my initial question. That first objection was overruled, but as it became clear where I was going, the prosecution objected again, and the judge sustained. That effectively shut down our alternate theory of the case.”
Once again, Jane remembered why she never wanted to be a lawyer.
Her father leaned back in his chair. “When you think about it, their involvement makes a certain sense. Both Marlo and Krochak had the key code to get them past the security in the condo. Marlo likely knew her dad’s schedule. I’m not saying she did the deed herself. Or that Krochak did.”
“They hired someone.”
“It’s possible.”
“Any other suspects?”
“Well, I did get wind of some problems at Gideon’s law firm. Just rumors, you understand. My investigator was never able to nail anything down.”
“So?” said Jane. “What happens next? Will you take the case?”
He took a breath, held it, then let it out with a long sigh. “I don’t know, Janey. I’m just about to start another major trial. My time is limited. I did promise Sherwin and Dessa that I’d look back through our files. If the new evidence Sherwin’s investigator found turns out to be a Brady violation, which I think is possible, then yes, I could file a habeas petition claiming the prosecution withheld exculpatory evidence, thus materially undermining the result of the trial. At this point, after two failed appeals, it may be Rashad’s only real shot. And even then, even with what many might consider unassailable evidence, a new trial is rarely granted.”
Jane believed, as did her father, that truth existed and mattered. It was why she was drawn so powerfully to criminal investigation. Itching to see what Sherwin had brought for her dad to look at, she nodded to his laptop, leaning in as he scrolled through a series of photos.
“Let me preface this by saying,” continued her father, “the prosecution contended that the only person in the condo that night, other than Gideon, was Rashad. We had no way to disprove it. I should mention that a couple of hairs, one with the root still attached, were found in the bathroom. They were never tied to anyone. The prosecution maintained that, since Gideon and Rashad entertained fairly frequently, the hairs could belong to anyone. We saw to it that the hairs were preserved, so if we do find a suspect in the future, they might prove useful.”
“What about security cameras?”
“Gideon and Rashad bought the second condo to go on sale in the rehabbed upper stories of the Finnmark building.”
“The Finnmark? I’ve got a friend who opened a restaurant there.”
“The first-floor courtyard under the three-story atrium is surrounded by stores—a small inner-city grocery, a wine store, a Starbucks, a bank, various restaurants, etc. The fourth and fifth floors are office space. Gideon and Rashad moved into one of two penthouse suites early, as did the woman across the hall from them, before the rest of the condos had been finished, and before much of the upper-floor security system was in place. The only working cameras in the building that night were located in the courtyard and in the parking garage. Gideon got home around 5:20, if I recall correctly. He was visible on the parking garage video.”
“Was he alone?”
Her father nodded. “He generally worked until after seven but had gone to the dentist that afternoon. He did go back to work, but because he was in pain, he went home early. Rashad arrived home that night at around 8:15, again, visible on the video. He was alone. His 911 call came in twelve minutes later. The prosecutor painted a picture of a man quietly letting himself into the condo, grabbing for a preselected weapon, a small bronze sculpture as it turns out, luring Gideon into the downstairs bathroom and murdering him there, then attempting to cover up what he’d done by dumping the body in the tub, switching on the cold water, spending a few seconds cutting Gideon’s wrists so it would look like suicide, and finally washing the blood off the sculpture and putting it back in the living room.”
“Could Rashad have done all that in twelve minutes?”
“Unlikely if not impossible.”
“If there weren’t any working cameras on the top floor,” asked Jane, “couldn’t people have come and gone from the condo without being seen?”
“I would think that was obvious. But because I had no proof to back up our contention that someone else was in the apartment that night, no sign of a break-in or a burglary, it was a dead end. During discovery, we believed we’d received all the relevant information the police had assembled about the case. We made multiple discovery requests, which is normal. It’s never wise to assume that everything is being turned over in a timely way. I remember looking at the security video. Nothing stood out. My team also carefully combed through the photographs and video taken by the police that night, mostly of the interior of the condo. Again, nothing. Now,” he said, pulling up a shot of an open living room filled with mid-century modern furniture. “Look here,” he said, pointing at a chair that sat a few feet from a long, exposed-brick wall. “See anything on the floor next to that turquoise armchair?”
Jane squinted. “No.”
“Me neither. Now take a look at this shot.”
The second photo was taken from a similar angle—almost straight on—but this time there was a canvas tote resting on the carpet just inches from the chair. “Why wasn’t it there in the other picture?” asked Jane.
“Good question. I can tell you this much. The police never turned that last photo over to us. I know because, if we’d come into possession of it before trial, it might have helped us prove our contention that someone, other than Rashad, had been in the condo that night.”
Jane was confused. “Maybe it belonged to someone in the crime-scene unit.”
“Look at this.” Ray clicked out of the photo file and brought up a video. “This was taken in the parking garage at 6:25 by one of the security cameras. You see an individual from the back, walking up to the elevators. He’s careful to keep his face averted from the camera, which suggests t
o me that he knew it was there and he was hiding his identity. He’s wearing dark pants and a hoodie pulled up over his head, unusual clothing for a hot July night. Now look at what he’s holding.” He paused the video.
Jane leaned close. “My god,” she said. “It’s the same tote bag.” It was easily recognizable. The bottom part was black, the upper section white, with the letters JHC written across the front in big block letters. “Any idea what the initials stand for?”
“None. And I have no idea who the man in the hoodie is, but Sherwin May and I agree on one thing: We may be looking at Gideon Wise’s killer.”
She switched her gaze from the computer screen to her dad’s face. “Wow.”
“I know.”
“Why didn’t the prosecution hand over that photo with the tote?”
“You tell me.”
“An oversight?”
“Possible, but unlikely.”
“How did the guy get into the condo?”
“I assume Gideon let him in. There was no evidence of a break-in.”
“Did Sherwin have anything else to offer?”
“His investigator’s final report should’ve come in today, but because of the holidays, it was delayed. Sherwin thinks there might be something else in it. He said he’d call as soon as he knows anything.”
Jane shook her head and kept shaking it. “Doesn’t smell right. Any of it.”
“I agree.” Closing his laptop, her dad began to stuff papers into his briefcase. “I think we better get over to Cordelia’s.”
“Oh lord, I completely forgot about that.”
“We don’t want her to send out a search party.” After shrugging into his heavy topcoat, he picked up his briefcase. “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s go celebrate the new year.”
They linked arms and walked out of the office together.
4
The traffic on I-94 on the way back to Minneapolis was more congested than it had been on the way out. While her father sat quietly looking out the window, Jane had some time to reflect. Tonight would be a special night for her; the first time in many years she would be celebrating with a special woman. She’d reunited with Julia just over a month ago. Cordelia, as always, had warned against it, saying Jane could never trust a woman like Julia, a manipulative liar, a narcissistic user. Cordelia rarely minced words when discussing the good doctor. Jane, on the other hand, saw a more nuanced woman, a flawed though still admirable human being. Jane also saw that she was never going to win the argument with Cordelia, so she gave up trying.