by Martin Clark
“Probably be ugly when you see Mr. Stone. Very ugly. If I were you, I’d simply go ahead and confess to him. That’s wise lawyerly advice, isn’t it? Accept responsibility and demonstrate remorse when you’re guilty? Hope for the best? Or maybe I’ll just keep our surprise in the vault and let you wonder exactly when the bad news might surface. See how much you enjoy living under duress.”
“Now you’re bluffing, Seth. Badly.” She laughed. “If you had the real goods, we’d already have seen them in some form or fashion. With all the cash on the line, I doubt you would’ve been sitting on that kind of leverage.” She caught M.J.’s eye. “I might have a problem,” she whispered, her hand over the phone.
“I received my information a bit late in the game, and it seems our case will end before I can use it in court. But I know that you and Brooks were together at the Ocean Club. I could tell you what you ate for lunch by the pool and how much champagne you had sent to your room. I have his signature on a credit card receipt from the restaurant. His checking account records showing a withdrawal he made from an ATM in Nassau. The rest I feel confident we can fill in. I hesitate to say ‘flesh out’ given the circumstances. The truth is the truth no matter how it’s delivered or packaged.”
“I don’t know what the hell you’re babbling about.”
“Last chance, Mrs. Stone.”
“As we say in court, Seth, what you think you know and what you can prove are two different things. I don’t believe you have squat, and if you do, well, send it on to Joe. Of course, it doesn’t matter how many receipts and dishonest wills and doctored tapes you cook up, you just lost millions. Millions, you little bitch. Let me speak to Officer Jackson. You and I are done.”
“Your choice,” Garrison said, seething. “I’ll find Mr. Jackson for you.”
“Please make sure you don’t let him slip something past you,” Lisa told Toliver a few moments later. “Stay put and stay on your toes, even if he leaves.”
“Ten-four. Don’t worry. You’re startin’ to sound like your old man.” Toliver hesitated. “I’d say you and me are scheduled for a real interestin’ conversation about a fire at the VanSandt property in the next little bit.”
Lisa ended the call and snapped her head back against the seat. “Ah, damn, M.J., I think Garrison knows about Brett and Nassau. I mean, for crying out loud, can’t I catch a break? I love my husband, and I’m remorseful as can be, and I’ve suffered over this for months, but I’ll never be able to move on. One stupid mistake, and I realize it’s my fault, I do, I’m to blame, no doubt, but my failing is…is immortal. Preachers or doctor dope or counseling or good-wife deeds or all the money from the Wound Velvet and this whole saga with Garrison—there’s no way to fucking put a stake through it. I’m no better off than I was months ago. I just want my husband and my law practice and my farm, and I’m going to lose them.”
“Like barnyard shit, my old regional manager, Rucker Lyons, was fond of saying. You can’t rub it all off in the grass—some always packs into your boot treads—and then you have to pick it out with a paper towel and finish the job with a nail or rock or a knife blade, and no matter what you get a smear on your hand—can’t help it.”
Lisa snapped her head back against the seat again. She mashed her temples with the heels of her hands. “It’s a very bad sign that Joe hasn’t called me. You may have to pull over; I feel ill.”
“Why’d you lie to me, Lisa?” Joe shouted. He glared at her. “With a fucking straight face?” He was in their conference room, sitting at the table, alone. He’d brought along the wooden bowl of nuts he kept in his office. Busted brown walnut shells littered the table, and a skinny, pointed pick was lying among the shells and helter-skelter fragments.
“I…Joe…” Lisa stammered. She flushed red, from her collarbone to her hairline. Betty had told her that Joe was happy after Lettie’s DNA test, celebrating with the other lawyers, but Lisa was on guard when she eased through the conference room door, worried about Seth Garrison’s threat, cautious and wary, ready with tentative fibs and rickety explanations she’d cobbled together during the last of the ride from the airport. When she saw Joe, she didn’t even bother. His snarl and ferocious yelling and the roped veins in his neck—as angry as she’d seen him in years—overwhelmed her and choked off any dishonest instincts. There was also a measure of relief, the junkie caught before she was compelled to rob another pharmacy, the jig finally up.
“Just flat lied.”
She noticed a large yellow envelope on the table, the flap opened, released from its bendable clasp, a small section of a photograph sticking out. “I’m…sorry.” She raised her hands, then let them slap against her hips. She cried, made no effort to hide the anguish.
“When were you planning on telling me?” he demanded.
“I’m so sorry.”
“Twenty years, and this is the thanks I get. I can trust you about as far as I can throw you.”
She didn’t speak. It was odd, though, his mood—he was angry, bad angry, but his fuming didn’t seem to quite square with what she’d done, wasn’t popping the needle completely off the scale. There was still some give and margin in him.
“So?” he asked.
“It was…one error…a single—”
Joe stomped his foot to interrupt her. “It might’ve been one time, Lisa, but it was a doozy, wasn’t it? How friggin’ long did you think a spiteful lunatic like Lettie VanSandt could keep her mouth shut?”
“Huh?” Lisa dabbed at her eyes, smeared foundation onto her blouse’s cuff. “Huh?” she repeated, stunned, confused.
“Brilliant answer, Lisa. ‘Huh.’ Lettie fucking called me, okay? She wanted to know why you were dressed to look like her, right down to the gold tooth. You didn’t think that would send her into orbit?”
“Lettie called you,” Lisa said deliberately. “Okay.”
“I’m waiting for an explanation. What the fuck were you thinking? You promised me you wouldn’t try this dumb-ass DNA masquerade. Promised. As my wife. As my law partner. Gave me your word sitting there on our porch.”
“Technically, I only promised I’d forget about it. And I did, for days at a time.”
“That’s just the worst kind of lawyer bullshit. Pathetic. That’s your excuse? Really?”
Lisa took a seat, leaving a chair between them. She raised her index finger. A speck of green polish was still on her cuticle. “Did Lettie also mention that she killed the Benecorp people? She shot Jane Rousch—or whatever her name is—and the man who was with her. Did she tell you that too?”
“Seriously?” Joe’s expression unknotted a bit. He sat deeper in his chair. “Damn. How do you know all this?”
“She told me,” Lisa said. “A few hours ago. During our drive to Falls Church.”
“She confided in you? Confessed to Della Street?”
“Yes,” Lisa answered, gaining composure. “She sees it as a hall-of-fame-caliber accomplishment.”
“So what happened?”
“For sure, she believed the Benecorp people were apocalyptic. Poor Rousch showed up for the first visit in purple and jewels, and she and the guy with her attempted to make nice and befriend Lettie, and it turns out the woman was born in, yep, Babylon, New York, and it’s Katy bar the door after that. Lettie tells them no sale, no way, no how. According to Lettie, they threatened her. Good cop didn’t work, so they tried bad cop. They gave her a deadline. The guy opened his coat and let her see his gun. So far, this all seems reasonable to me. Very plausible. Most likely true.” Lisa sniffed. She needed a tissue.
“Except the lady probably wasn’t from Revelation,” Joe said. His shoulders relaxed. He took the nutcracker from the spindle in the bowl’s center and squeezed the handles together.
“Here’s the ticklish part. Lettie claims that when the Benecorpers returned—the second trip from the Roanoke airport—she’d begun sleeping in her shed, armed and ready for doomsday. They snuck in at night, but even if you come through the Gregory tr
act that borders her land, you’ll set off the dogs. Lettie swears they broke into her house, both with guns drawn. She shot them, Joe. Killed them. Got the drop on them because she was hiding in the shed. Her den window was missing and the space covered with cardboard, remember? She shot them from outside.”
“Next…Benecorp manipulates the DNA to make it seem as if Lettie’s dead so they can bargain with moron Neal and cut a deal for the Wound Velvet.”
“Partially true, Joe. But think about that. It doesn’t mesh.”
Joe absently banged the nutcracker tongs together, the metal ends clicking rapidly against each other. “From what we’ve seen, they certainly have the capability to rig it, especially since none of this was a priority for anyone when she died.” He put down the nutcracker.
“Lettie fixed the DNA, not Garrison. She shot Rousch and burned her in the building to give herself a cover. As far as the world—and Garrison—was concerned, Lettie VanSandt was a fried meth-head, six feet under. She tossed in the meth equipment as part of the misdirection. I’ve said it a thousand times: DNA’s about the same as bird augury, just with better paperwork, if you plug it into a hidebound system.”
“Still doesn’t account for the match,” Joe said.
“Lettie assumed nobody would waste any effort and money on her given the physical evidence. But to her credit she didn’t take any chances. That night, she bought a new toothbrush and hairbrush. A razor. Remember the Walmart video and register tape? The toiletries? She dunked the toothbrush in the deceased Miss Rousch’s mouth and brushed her hair—yeah, gruesome as hell. She also scraped and nicked the corpse with the razor. Then she planted everything for us to find nice and easy, just in case. Made them superhandy for us to locate. A high school sophomore knows which items the lab takes for comparison—you can learn that from an episode of crime show TV. She spent several hours cleaning and sanitizing, even wiped her nail polish bottles with Clorox. The body’s DNA matched the samples the sheriff collected. Lettie was dead, but she wasn’t. She’d escaped Garrison. Egomaniac that she is, she loved reciting this for me, went on and on about every detail, proud as punch.”
“Okay,” Joe said. “She drove the rental car and ditched it in Charlotte.”
“Wore gloves and a shower cap—again, on the one-in-a-million chance the police happen to check the car. Garrison paid the charges and late fees because he damn sure didn’t want an ugly loose end with the car company or the cops. That’s why, on the boat, he kept pumping us about Rousch. He knew his goons were missing and something wasn’t quite kosher. The odd circumstances had to be nagging him. Where was Rousch? Why was the car abandoned miles away from Martinsville? How were we involved?”
“Yeah,” Joe said. “I remember.” He still sounded upset.
“Lettie left everything to you. She figured you’d be a safe place to park the Wound Velvet while she sussed out why Benecorp wanted it and tried to stay alive and beat the Devil. She knew she could trust you. And then, because it’s how you are—and I love how you are, I’m not complaining—Honest Abe Lincoln gave it away. Ironically, even though I was just being professionally cautious, I sort of waved a few red flags. As we both know now, Garrison substituted a clumsy forgery to frame us. I’m not sure if he did it before or after we sued him, but he had to realize there was a problem early on.”
“Why didn’t Lettie come to me with all this? I’m her lawyer and her only friend in the world.” He rested his elbows on the chair’s arms.
“She told me Lawyer Joe’s too honest. It’s fair to say you were a victim of your own blue-chip integrity and her not wanting to disappoint you. We both understand it’s technically not self-defense when she could’ve escaped or phoned the cops and instead elected to blast people through a window. We both also understand that a Henry County jury probably would find her not guilty—you don’t go snooping around a woman’s house at midnight and expect a pleasant result, not here, not in Southside, no matter the niceties of the criminal code.” Lisa tended to her nose with her bare wrist. “But she was afraid. She was afraid of how you’d handle it. How you’d react. What you’d do. She’s not a lawyer, and she’s paranoid and batty, so she was worried you might not help her or might even report her to the cops. She has such a low regard for me and my morals that it wasn’t an issue.”
“I’ll be damned,” Joe said. He scowled and shook his head. “How dumb can she be? I’d have fought tooth and nail for her.”
“These were wicked people. They deserved it. This Rousch lady and her accomplice, they were armed; Lettie claims she kept their weapons as proof. I’m convinced they didn’t return to Henry County to watch old movies and sip cocoa with her—at a minimum, they intended to hurt her and teach her a lesson. But she didn’t have any interest in resolving the shootings through a proper police investigation and a trial, which would’ve put her in the public view and teed her up for Garrison. And also put her at risk criminally—the wrong judge or jury, and she winds up in jail.”
“Where was she? Or where’s she been?”
“Hiding. She mentioned a welfare hotel and a shelter in Charlotte. I know she used a computer there at the library. She also camped in the woods for long stretches, which explains the Walmart sleeping bag. After a while, she realized she couldn’t manage this alone and jumped me that night in my car.” Lisa leaned closer to Joe. “She swears she never saw all the messages we sent before your bar hearing. She always had to use a public computer and didn’t want to risk being located through the Internet. She insists that she went weeks without any computer access. I do know she called you from the Charlotte bus station just as she was leaving for Salem. Used a college kid’s cell. Her occasional wheelman and confederate is some dude nicknamed Goose, who breeds miniature goats and draws a disability check. He was her driver when she came here dressed as a leprechaun, and he helped her after the DNA test. According to his bumper sticker, he’s a big Ted Nugent fan. She had a very inventive disappearance from Falls Church if you’re interested.”
“I’m interested in the man she killed. Where’s he?”
“Bottom of Philpott Lake,” Lisa said.
“Did you discover what happened to the strays?”
“Seth killed every damn animal after he had them hauled to Florida and then discovered they had no connection to Lettie’s formula. I know because we hacked his computers. We played by Benecorp’s rules, not lawyer rules.”
“No shit? You hacked Garrison’s computers?”
“Derek hacked Garrison’s computers. We have to big-time take care of him if Benecorp comes hunting him.”
“Ah. And you’ve learned what the Wound Velvet cures, I’m betting, the same way? We’re thieves now too?”
“I have a clear conscience where Benecorp’s concerned. Seth Garrison might as well have pulled the trigger on Downs, he absolutely screwed you at the bar hearing, and he killed those animals—think of Brownie getting shot thirty times over. Then there were his plans for Lettie. I didn’t tell you about Derek because I wanted this to be all on me if it fell to pieces. My responsibility. You were completely out of the loop. Besides, I knew you wouldn’t have any part of it, and it had to be done. No other choice.”
“So it was her there with Klein, right? The genuine Lettie?”
“Right. Yes. Absolutely.”
“So, okay, now the fucking million-dollar question: Why were you at the lab dressed like her?”
“If Lettie didn’t show, I wasn’t going down just sitting on my hands and whimpering. I was planning to walk to the front security entrance at the lab and hand them our hair and our spit on a swab. Simple and elegant. Fake Lettie and her tattoos would’ve been all over the security cameras, and there’d be witnesses who saw her. In a certain sense, it’s Garrison’s video trick turned against him. We’d have our own movie for the court. I used New-Skin on my fingers, the liquid bandage stuff, so I could hand over our hair and saliva baggies without leaving my own prints. Your old burglary client, Porter Owens, taugh
t us that little trick.”
“Pretty damn slick, I have to admit,” Joe said. “Fits what we told Klein too. Lettie’s scared, but she’s there at the right place, doing her bit.”
“Last night and this morning, I actually phoned you from Danville and was in a hotel there, so I had an alibi miles from the lab if push came to shove. M.J. flew me to Manassas after the tattoos were finished. Lettie’s five a.m. True Value schedule meant I had to be ready yesterday. I had to prepare. Maybe Lettie doesn’t show. Or maybe she and Harold get snagged on the way to the test. I was going to have a plan B, come hell or high water.” She shrugged. “It wasn’t ideal, wasn’t Operation Overlord, but it would’ve given us a chance. It might also have bought us more time to locate the real Lettie. If we’d lost this case, we were ruined. We’d be broke, and my license was next on the bar’s chopping block. If Lettie was a no-show, I just couldn’t make myself sit on my helpless butt and let them take all our money and our livelihood and our reputations.”
“So, if we’re totaling your wrongs, you straight-up lied to me, broke the law with Derek and were ready to defraud the court if Lettie had disappeared?” Even though Joe was still agitated, he seemed to be relenting. He sighed. He tugged at his tie. He peered at the floor.
“Joe, listen.” She changed seats, sat beside him, cautiously laid both hands on his thigh. “I need to…” She became emotional, stopped. She took her hands away from his leg. “To apologize. You’re right—I’ve lied to you, and that alone weakened our marriage and makes me a bad wife. I can’t take it back or change it. Any of it.” Her voice was raw, hoarse, plain, frank. “I wronged you. I hope and pray you’ll forgive me and at least be happy that we’re safe from Garrison and on the verge of some life-changing cash. Soon you’ll have your license reinstated and be a big lawyer hero. We won.”
“It’s not how dumb-ass your lie was, it’s that everything we own is in the balance, and I can’t trust you. It’s crunch time, the biggest crisis of our lives, and I can’t count on you to tell me the truth. That’s the problem. I mean, I can accept your conniving with Derek and some of the other cut corners, but you didn’t have to deceive me.”