8
The offices of Weaver, Weaver, and Bergman were located in a newly refurbished, Federal-era house at the end of the downtown business area of St. Vincent’s Harbor. Lucas had chosen shrewdly when selecting this space. From the street, it was a dignified, perfectly proportioned townhouse that exuded an aura of history, discretion, and taste. Inside, there were views of Chesapeake Bay from most of the windows, and anyone who knew anything about the town of St. Vincent’s Harbor knew that harborview property was the most expensive property in town. One had only to step through the door onto the blue-and-gold-patterned Stark carpet to know that this was the firm where people of means found their legal representation.
Keely pulled her SUV into a space that was being vacated in front of the building and looked up at the formal redbrick façade with a feeling of dread. She had wanted to postpone coming here as long as possible, but it simply couldn’t be avoided. Detective Stratton’s suggestion that she bring Dylan and an attorney to the prosecutor’s office had her panicked. She needed Lucas’s advice, face to face. She looked down ruefully at the tailored glen-plaid pantsuit that she had hurriedly put on. Since Abby’s birth she rarely wore her “work” clothes, but today the suit made her feel more professional, more in control of this hostile situation. She had left Abby with Ingrid, who had seemed more than willing to take the baby if it meant helping Dylan.
Keely climbed the white steps to the gleaming door, glancing at the gold plaque with the name of the firm engraved on it. She knew better than to ring the bell, although she felt like an intruder as she opened the door and walked in. She had not come here often. Mark was a man who became intensely absorbed in his work, and he made it clear, just fromhis body language, that impromptu visits, even from his wife, were not welcome.
Keely stepped inside, crossed over to the desk of Sylvia Jeffries, the longtime receptionist, and cleared her throat. Sylvia looked up from her computer monitor and her eyes widened.
“Mrs. Weaver,” she said, extending her hand. “So good to see you.”
Keely shook the older woman’s hand and didn’t bother to urge her to use her first name. Sylvia was from the old school and had no intention of changing her ways. “It’s good to see you, Sylvia.”
“How are you and the children doing?” Sylvia asked sympathetically.
“We’re managing,” said Keely.
Sylvia, a widow herself, nodded. “It’s not easy,” she said. “You just have to take it one day at a time.”
“Right,” said Keely. “I’m sorry to bother you . . .”
“Oh, I suppose you’d like to get into Mr. Weaver’s office. I keep it locked,” Sylvia said.
“Actually, no,” said Keely. “I was hoping to see Lucas.”
“Well, that could be a problem,” Sylvia said grimly, a little frown creasing her forehead. “He has someone with him right now.”
“I’ll wait,” said Keely. “It’s important.”
“I’ll let him know you’re here.” Sylvia picked up the phone.
“Thanks,” said Keely. She walked over to the gold-and-blue striped Queen Anne–style chair and sat down. She looked at the headlines of the magazines on the coffee table, but nothing was interesting enough to distract her from her current worries. She sat back, gripped the curved arms of the chair, and tried to calm her breathing by inhaling deeply.
The walls of the office were decorated with groupings of the sepiatoned photographs from Lucas’s collection. Keely stared at them as she waited. The cowboys in the photos had been brought to heel by the time-consuming demands of primitive photography. They glared out at the camera, forced to sit still for posterity.
“Mrs. Weaver,” Sylvia called out in a soft voice. “Your father-in-law wanted me to tell you he’ll be right with you.”
“Thanks,” said Keely.
Just then the door to Lucas’s office opened, and Lucas came out into the hall, followed by an exotically handsome young man with African features, a mocha-colored complexion, and frizzy bronze dreadlocks. His eyes were a startling sea green. He was wearing a black leather coat and engineer’s boots with their buckles flapping. “I’m sorry, Mr. Graham,” Lucas said. “I wish I could help you. I don’t know what else to tell you.”
“Right, mate,” said the man sarcastically in a British accent. “I rather expected you wouldn’t be much help to me. My being black and all . . .”
“You couldn’t be more wrong, Mr. Graham,” said Lucas stiffly.
The young man shook his head as if in disbelief and slammed the door to the anteroom back as he left.
Lucas came over to her. “Keely,” said Lucas, “I’m sorry about that.”
“That’s all right,” she murmured.
“Come into my office. Sylvia, hold my calls.”
Keely followed him as he walked haltingly down the corridor, leaning on his silver-headed ebony cane. She sat down in one of the comfortable chairs in front of his desk. A Frederick Remington statue of a broncobuster stood on one corner of the large desk. Lucas frowned as he slowly walked around and pulled out his chair.
“What an amazing-looking young man,” Keely observed.
Lucas sighed as he sat down. “Yes,” he said.
Keely wanted to ask if he was in some kind of trouble, but she knew enough about client privilege not to bother. Lucas wouldn’t be able to tell her even if he wanted to. But he sat in his chair staring into the distance with a frown on his face.
“Lucas?” she asked. “Are you all right?”
Lucas did not reply.
“Lucas?”
He shook his head, as if to shake off some heaviness in his heart caused by the young man’s visit. “I can tell you I don’t like being called a bigot,” he said.
“It’s not you, Lucas,” Keely said reassuringly.
“I’ve got my faults. God knows, I’ve done my share of things . . .”
“If he knew you, he wouldn’t have said that,” Keely insisted, leaning forward.
Lucas nodded and tapped a pen on his blotter thoughtfully.
“Was he a client?” Keely asked. She didn’t know what else to say to fill the silence. The attorney seemed so preoccupied.
Lucas turned his head and looked at her quizzically. “Who?” he asked.
Keely sat back in her chair, taken aback a little by this apparent memory lapse. “Your visitor,” she said. “The young British guy who just left.”
“Oh, no. He was just . . .” His voice trailed off. Then Lucas said abruptly, “It was nothing,” but Keely saw the pain that flashed in his eyes. “Enough about my problems,” said Lucas firmly. “To what do I owe the pleasure . . . ?”
Keely shook her head, as the full weight of her worries came back to her. “Lucas, I need your help.”
“Something about the house?”
“No. Something about the police. Remember I told you that Detective Stratton came by . . .”
“Yes.”
“Yes, well, he came back today with some men, and they were taking pictures and measurements in back of the house. They want me to bring Dylan into the prosecutor’s office this afternoon for questioning.”
“Questioning? About what?”
Keely shook her head. “Mark’s accident. Lucas, I don’t know what’s going on.” She could hear the unsteadiness in her own voice. “I’m supposed to pick him up after school and take him down there. The detective suggested I bring an attorney.”
“Standard procedure when questioning a juvenile,” he said. “Don’t let that concern you.”
“Oh, great,” she said with a trace of sarcasm. “I feel a lot better.”
Lucas was silent for a moment. “What time?” he asked abruptly.
Keely glanced at her watch. “I’ll pick Dylan up in fifteen minutes.”
“Okay.” He tapped his intercom button and spoke to Sylvia. “Cancel my appointments for this afternoon.” Lucas stood up and came around the desk. “Now, don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll make a few calls and
get to the bottom of this. I’ll meet you at the courthouse in half an hour, all right?”
Keely sighed. “Okay. Thank you, Lucas.”
“Don’t worry, Keely. There’s nothing to worry about,” he said.
Keely started for the door but turned back in time to see his frown. Her heart, which had lightened for a moment, suddenly grew leaden again.He isn’t sure of anything,she thought.Oh Lord,she thought,what is it they want from us?She walked down the hall passing the closed door of Mark’s office on her left.Not today,she thought. That was more than she could face today.
AS TEENAGERS POUREDout of every doorway of the school, Keely squinted to locate her son. He was fairly easy to spot with his shaved head and his leather jacket, which hung off his narrow frame. His gold earring glinted in the afternoon sun. He was by himself, frowning as he came down the steps. She got out of the car and started toward him. She didn’t want to embarrass him by calling out to him in front of all these other kids. He was at the age when almost any kind of attention embarrassed him.
She came up beside him, and at first, he speeded up his steps, without even looking to see who was next to him. “Dylan, wait,” she said in a low voice.
Dylan turned and looked at her in surprise. He took note of her formal clothes, and a look of concern crossed his face. “What’s the matter? Where’s Abby?”
“Abby’s with your grandmother,” Keely said. “Dylan, I have to . . . we have to go down to see . . . Detective Stratton this afternoon.”
Dylan stopped short, and teenagers fanned out around them. “Why? When?”
“Right now,” she said apologetically. “They . . . they want to talk tous.”
“To me, you mean. They want to talk to me.”
“Lucas is going to meet us there, so there’s nothing—absolutely nothing—to worry about.”
“Oh, sure, Mom,” he said.
“Honey, I don’t know what this is all about, but we’ll just go down there and answer their questions and get it over with.”
Dylan’s shoulders slumped, and his gaze looked haunted. “This is never going to end,” he said.
Keely tried to put an arm around his shoulders, but he shook it off. Soon, she realized, she would have to reach up to embrace him. “Hey, now stop that talk,” she said. “This is not a big deal.”
He trudged along beside her to the Bronco, lost in thought. He opened the door and climbed in. She went around and got in beside him. She didn’t want him to see that she was anxious, too. He didn’t need that. Besides, she thought, trying to put a positive spin on it, it might do Dylan good to tell them what had happened and get it off his chest.
When she pulled the SUV up and parked it across the street from the courthouse, she saw Lucas, getting out of his car down the block. She called out to him, and they waited as Lucas, leaning on his cane, made his way to them. Lucas greeted Dylan heartily, and Dylan responded to his extended hand with a lifeless handshake. “Let’s get in there and get this over with, shall we?” Lucas said.
They followed him into the stately old courthouse. Lucas walked across the marble floor of the lobby to the receptionist and asked for Detective Stratton. In a few minutes, there was a buzzing sound at the creamy double doors, which were guarded by a police officer. Phil Stratton emerged, looked around, and spotted them.
“Counselor,” he said, extending a hand to Lucas. “I figured I might see you here. Come on back. Mrs. Weaver, Dylan, will you follow me?”
Keely could feel her heart beating fast, but she told herself there was nothing to be anxious about. She and Dylan followed Lucas and Detective Stratton, who were conferring in low voices, down a quiet corridor lined with portraits to a conference room that contained a dining-room–size table surrounded by comfortably upholstered chairs. Phil indicated that they should sit and then disappeared for a moment.
“Lucas,” Keely whispered. “What is going on? What were you talking about.”
Lucas opened his briefcase on the shining tabletop and then leaned back in the chair. “I simply asked him if the district attorney was going to show her face at this meeting. My inquiries confirmed that this investigation is at her behest.”
Keely frowned. “The district attorney . . . ?”
“Maureen Chase,” said Lucas calmly. “You look surprised.”
“Of course,” said Keely. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of it . . .”
“Why would you?” Lucas said indignantly. “It’s highly unprofessional of her.”
The door to the conference room opened, and Keely started, expecting to see the red-headed Maureen Chase entering the room. Instead, she saw the detective and another man in a suit come in and take seats at the other side of the table. “This is Lieutenant Nolte,” Phil said. “Mrs. Weaver, Dylan, and you probably know Lucas Weaver. Does a lot ofpro bonowork for the PD’s office.” The two men shook hands. Keely saw that she was jiggling her ankle, so she concentrated on stopping that nervous tic.
“Now,” said Stratton. “We’re here today to talk about the death of Mark Weaver. I think we are all clear on the cause of Mr. Weaver’s death. He drowned. That was the cause of death, plain and simple. But we still have some questions about this accident.”
“Excuse me,” said Lucas. “If you are planning to ask this minor child any questions, there are procedures—”
“Way ahead of you, Counselor,” said the detective smoothly. “Dylan Weaver, it’s my duty to inform you that you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be held against you in a court of law. Do you understand?”
Dylan looked at his mother with wide eyes.
“Oh my God!” Keely cried.
Lucas squeezed her hand as Stratton continued. “It’s a formality,” Lucas assured her. “They have to do this.”
Phil finished the Miranda warning and then pushed a document toward Keely. “If you could sign this, Mrs. Weaver . . .”
Keely looked at Lucas in alarm, but he nodded. “It’s all right, dear.It’s a waiver. It simply states that they have your permission to question Dylan. And that he has been read his rights. It’s all right. Trust me.” He pointed to a line on the form, and Keely signed it, pushing the paper back across the table.
“Now, Detective, we’re trying to be cooperative, but let’s not waste everybody’s time. You have no evidence to suggest this death was in any way suspicious,” Lucas stated flatly.
“It’s true that we have no evidence as far as the cause of death. But even in an accidental death, we have to consider the possibility of reckless endangerment. Also, there is such a thing as a homicide with what we call a nonvisible cause.”
“A nonvisible cause,” Keely repeated. “What is that?”
“The hardest kind of case to prove. But it can be done. Ask your lawyer here. Remember Frederick Yates?”
“Who is Frederick Yates?” Keely asked, her voice rising.
“This is absurd,” said Lucas. “The baby wandered out to the pool and fell in. She was soaking wet. You found her yourself. Mark couldn’t swim. The only recklessness here was that a man who couldn’t swim bought a house with a swimming pool.”
Keely lowered her eyes, blushing furiously. It was true. There was no denying it. But it was painful to hear it said so baldly. Her own responsibility for all that had happened hung in the air.
“I’ll be honest with you, Detective. I warned my son not to do that when he first told me about the house,” Lucas continued. “His wife warned him. She didn’t think it was a good idea, either. But Mark wouldn’t listen. There was no dissuading him. He was a man with a false sense of his own invincibility. And the temerity to think that his foolish decision would never catch up with him.”
Keely looked up at Lucas ruefully, hurt by his harsh characterization of her husband, and Lucas, without changing expression, cast her a brief wink. All at once, she understood. He was blaming it on Mark, who obviously could not object. And in her heart, Keely knew that Mark would approve.
&n
bsp; “Now what else is there to discuss?” Lucas gazed at them defiantly.
Stratton sat back in his chair and folded his arms over his chest. Hiswell-muscled frame seemed constricted by the sports jacket and tie he was wearing. His hazel-eyed gaze remained mild, but he spoke in a reproving tone. “He was your son, Lucas. I’m only trying to be certain that justice is being done for him.”
“I knew my own son, Detective. He wouldn’t have wanted you to victimize his family on his behalf. He put himself into a perilous situation, and he made his own destiny,” Lucas snapped.
Phil shrugged. “Seems a little heartless. And I know you’re not a heartless man, Lucas. Is there something you’re trying to hide by vilifying your son?”
Lucas glared at him. “Don’t play that game, Detective. I’m not here to play games.”
Stratton turned to Dylan, who avoided his gaze. “How’d your father like that haircut, Dylan? And that earring?”
“You mean my stepfather?”
“Yes. The victim. Mark Weaver.”
“The victim,” Keely protested.
“The drowning victim,” said Phil.
“He didn’t like it,” said Dylan.
“Did you argue about it?”
Dylan shrugged. “Sometimes. Not too much.”
“A man and his teenage stepson arguing over a haircut,” interrupted Lucas sarcastically. “If that were a motive for murder, there wouldn’t be an adolescent’s father left alive today.”
“What about that jacket?” asked Phil. “It doesn’t exactly fit you.”
“His jacket!” Keely yelped. “What has that got to do with anything?”
“Did you wear it just to annoy him?”
“I like this jacket,” said Dylan indignantly.
“But it did annoy him, didn’t it? I mean, knowing where you got it.”
Keely looked at the detective in amazement. “How do you—”
Not Guilty Page 8