Angel's Advocate

by Stanton, Mary

  Bree considered this off-the-cuff diagnosis. Then she considered the source. “Can you back that up with any specifics, Hartley?”

  Hartley looked into her milk shake. “Not really. Not that I know about, anyways. What you should do is, you should talk to Madison.”

  “Boyfriends,” Bree said, a little helplessly. “Does Lindsey date anyone on a regular basis?”

  “Date.” Hartley frowned. “Well, there’s guys you hook up with, and guys you wouldn’t be seen dead with, but date? God. Lin’s had, like, nothing but bad luck with guys. You know what you should do? You should talk—”

  “—to Madison,” Bree said. “Right.” She picked up her briefcase and got to her feet. “Hartley, if you think of anything, anything at all that’s going to help me with Lindsey’s defense, will you call me at this number?” She held out one of her business cards. Hartley took it and squinted at it with absorbed attention.

  “Sure thing.” She looked up at Bree, her brown eyes sincere. “Anything to, like, help. You know? Because Lindsey’s one of my very best friends.”

  Six

  There’s small choice in rotten apples.

  —Romeo and Juliet, William Shakespeare

  “What in the world were you thinking? Do you really believe you can get away with spitting in the eye of the law like that? What’s all this baloney about Los Angeles? Modeling contracts? You were let out on your own recognizance. You’ve still got to face these charges. Good grief, girl.” Bree was kind, but firm.

  Lindsey looked out the car window and shrugged. They were on their way back to the Chandler home on Tybee Island. It’d been a long day, getting Lindsey out of jail and back into her mother’s custody, and Bree was getting pretty tired of The Shrug. Quick sound bites of the endless hours of negotiations cycled through Bree’s brain.

  His Honor Juvenile Court Judge Tyree Washington: “Is there any reason why this court should believe you intend to stay within the confines of your home, Miss Chandler?”

  Lindsey: (Shrug.)

  District Attorney Cordelia Lucille Eastburn, Esquire: “Your Honor, I demand this unrepentant prisoner be equipped with an ankle bracelet until trial!”

  Lindsey: (Shrug.)

  Carrie-Alice Chandler: “Lindsey, your father’s spinning in his grave at this!”

  Lindsey: (Shrug.)

  Shirley Chavez, mother of the victim: “Your Honor, my daughter and I forgive Miss Chandler with all our hearts. We have no objection to an at-home remand. We are dropping the charges, Your Honor. No one was hurt, and my Sophie has the money back.”

  Lindsey: “Screw you.”

  Motherhood, Bree decided, was something she was going to put off for a long, long time.

  “Does it chafe a little?” Bree asked, not without sympathy.

  Lindsey looked down at the bracelet circling one tanned, smooth-shaven ankle and shrugged.

  “If you shrug one more time,” Bree said, “I’m going to scream. And if you tell me to fuck off, I’ll stop the car, get my grooming kit out of my gym bag, and wash your mouth out with soap.” She took her eyes off the road for a moment and smiled at her. “Just a friendly little warning.”

  Lindsey rolled her eyes, which made a change from shrugging, but she said, “Whatever.”

  Bree drove on in silence. Carrie-Alice followed close behind them. Her daughter had refused to get in the Buick with her, and Bree, exasperated to the point of shouting, shoved the girl into her own car and told Carrie-Alice to follow them.

  Lindsey chewed gum and stared out the window. An exasperated social worker had confiscated her iPod, and Bree had turned the radio off, but Lindsey bobbed her head back and forth, swaying to some internal music.

  “We were lucky that Sophie Chavez’s mother didn’t want to press charges,” Bree said. “Doesn’t make a whole lot of difference as far as Cordelia Eastburn’s office is concerned, but it sure looks a lot better.”

  “That busy black bi—,” Lindsey began. Bree reached out and closed her hand firmly over Lindsey’s mouth. “Not in front of me,” Bree said. “Not ever. You got that?”

  Lindsey tightened her lips and Bree took her hand away.

  “As for Miss Priss Chavez,” Lindsey said, as if nothing had happened, “she’s not about to rat me out. Scared to, isn’t she?”

  “Sophie’s eight years old,” Bree said, astonished. “You’re thinking about intimidating an eight-year-old?” She smacked her own forehead lightly. “Silly me. Of course you aren’t going to balk at that. I mean, you’ve already threatened to run her over with a six-thousand-pound urban tank, pushed her to the ground, and stolen her money. Why stop there?”

  “Don’t be too much more of an idiot. Her mom works at one of our stores. She’s not about to lose her job over something like this.” She furrowed her brow. “What I don’t get is, if she’s not going to press charges, how come I still have to go through all this rock and roll? She got the money back, for God’s sake.”

  “You recognized the mother as a Marlowe’s employee and figured you could snatch that money and stay out of trouble?” Bree made a point of keeping her hands firmly on the wheel. “You’re joking.”

  Lindsey’s shoulders went up in the start of a shrug. She glanced at Bree and took a breath instead. Bree considered advising her client of the difference between civil and criminal law and decided not to waste her breath. Instead, she said, “You’re looking at jail time.”

  “I’m a minor.”

  “Twelve is a minor. Fourteen is a minor. Seventeen is close enough to legal age to put you in real danger of incarceration. There’ve been a number of precedents where the court has petitioned to allow seventeen-year-olds to be prosecuted as adults.”

  Lindsey’s eyes widened. “No shit?”

  “No shit.”

  “I think I need a better lawyer.”

  Bree bit her lip, but couldn’t keep the laugh back. “I told you that at the beginning, didn’t I?” She pulled up at the Chandler house.

  Carrie-Alice had taken her advice, and the place was alive with private security guards. Two of them sauntered toward the car as Bree put it into park; the taller, more apelike one peered into the driver’s window. Carrie-Alice pulled alongside Bree’s car and sat there, waiting.

  “Out,” Bree said to Lindsey.

  “You aren’t coming in?”

  “I’m going home.”

  Lindsey paused, one sandaled foot out the passenger door. “What happens now?”

  Had all the hoopla at the courthouse just now gone completely over the child’s head? “What happens now is that Cordelia Eastburn has absolutely refused any kind of plea bargain. Either we plead guilty and accept the sentence of the presiding judge, or we go to trial and let a jury decide what happens to you. I’ve told you this. Your mother’s told you this. The decision’s been made to go to trial, and I”—Bree took a deep breath—“I am going to put everything I have into coming up with a defense for you that makes some sense.”

  Lindsey grinned bleakly. “Good luck.” She stepped onto the pavement. The two guards stationed themselves one on each side and escorted her up the walkway to the house. Carrie-Alice pulled past Bree to the garages at the east end of the property.

  Bree backed into the road, turned around, and went home.

  “That poor, poor child,” Francesca Beaufort said.

  “I don’t know, Mamma.” Bree tucked her legs under each other and sat cross-legged on the couch. It’d been too much of an effort to stop at the deli to pick up something to eat, so she’d heated up a can of tomato-basil soup at home. She held the soup mug in one hand and her cell phone in the other. The couch faced the small brick fireplace that occupied the end wall of the town house. An ornate mirror that had belonged to her great-uncle Franklin hung over the mantel. It tipped forward slightly, since Bree had hung it on a nail instead of sinking mounts into the wall, and she could see her own reflection. She looked tired and washed out.

  Her mother’s voice sounded bright
and cheerful in her ear. “Only seventeen!”

  “She’s not an easy kid to like,” Bree admitted.

  “All the more reason for the pity,” her mother said. “Just imagine how awful for them all.”

  “It does sound as if you have your hands full,” her father, Royal, said.

  Bree figured he was most likely on the extension in his library. Goodness knew where her mother was calling from. She had stashed extensions all over the place, and Plessey was a big plantation. And her mother hated cell phones.

  Her father’s voice was full of affection. “If you need any backup, darlin’, I can be down there like a shot.”

  Bree winced. She loved her parents. But it was much easier to love them at the safe distance of the three hundred and fifty miles that separated Savannah from Raleigh-Durham. “I think I’ve got things under control, Daddy. But thank you all the same.”

  “It’s all over the news, you know,” Francesca said. “Cissy said Carrie-Alice’s not all that popular with the folks she knows, so everybody down there’s blamin’ the poor mother. Although, apparently the girl’s a true handful.” She sighed. “We’ve been so lucky with our two, Royal.”

  “Did Cissy say anything about any rumors of abuse?” Bree said.

  Her mother was too old a hand to be shocked at Bree’s question, but she paused for an appreciable moment before she said, “No. No, she didn’t. And that kind of thing stays underground, dear, as you probably know. But it doesn’t stay underground forever. If there’d been anything in the girl’s childhood, we’d probably hear about it eventually.” She added, reluctantly, “I take it you want me to put out a few little feelers?”

  “Physical, emotional, sexual,” Bree said. “Whatever you can pick up, Mamma. It’s not gossip as such, you know. Well, it is, but it’s justifiable gossip, if you see what I mean. I’m going to need all the help I can get. Cissy still thinks of me as a kid, or I’d put the pressure on her to do some digging and spare you. Plus, it’d be putting her in an awkward place to rat on her friends.”

  “I’ll do what I can. I might have something for you when you come on up for the party tomorrow.”

  “The party.” Bree made a face into the phone. Sasha, who’d been peacefully asleep on the other end of the couch, jerked awake and thumped his tail on the cushions.

  “Now, Bree, darlin’ . . .”

  Bree let her mother’s light, pretty voice wash over her while she thought seriously about the party. Antonia was tied up with the play. Lindsey should be safe at home over the weekend, guarded by the security detail her mother had hired. And if she left early in the morning, she could get into Plessey around noon. The six-hour drive back on Sunday would be a pain—but better than tackling weekday traffic.

  Suddenly, Bree longed for the broad, gentle acres of her old home. The big comfortable kitchen, the cheerful fire in the living room, her old bedroom with the white muslin curtains and the wide-planked pine floors. And no white-faced evil charging at her out of a cloud of dreadful smoke.

  “I’ll be there, Mamma,” she said suddenly.

  “And you know how nice it’d be to see—what? You’re comin’ up?”

  “Yes, Mamma. Just for the night, mind. I’ve got to be back here Sunday night.”

  “I don’t suppose that Tonia . . .”

  “Not a chance,” Bree said. “The play opened last night. Well, it was the dress rehearsal.”

  “How were the reviews? Did they mention her at all?”

  “The reviews!” Bree made another face into the phone. She’d completely forgotten her promise to see the play tonight. Sasha plodded heavily across the couch cushions and thudded his head into her lap, in sympathy. “I forgot all about reading the reviews! I’m an awful sister, Mamma. She was still in bed when I left for the office, and I haven’t had a chance to talk to her all day.” She looked at her watch. Seven thirty, and she was as whipped as a dog. “I’ve got to go. I promised her I’d look in opening night, and I’ve got, like, two minutes to get there.”

  “You give her our best.”

  Bree promised, clicked off the phone, and sprinted into the bathroom. She took the fastest shower of her life, flung on a little black jersey dress that was the most reliable thing she had in her closet, and shot out the door before she remembered Sasha. She skidded to a halt and went to the couch, where he was comfortably sprawled. He opened his golden eyes and looked at her.

  “Your dry food’s in the lower cabinet.”

  He blinked.

  “Just a bowlful, mind.”

  He grinned at her, tongue lolling.

  She was pretty sure she could trust him to nose open the door and stick to the promise of a single bowlful. There were distinct advantages to a dog with angelic antecedents.

  Nothing in Historic Savannah was more than a mile from anything else, which meant that she was in the foyer of the Savannah Rep by five minutes to eight. The remains of a largish crowd drifted into the auditorium. Bree wiggled her fingers at the two ushers standing at the head of the aisle and decided against heading around to the backstage door. Antonia would have her hands full. Beside the older usher was the same guy who’d scowled disapprovingly and muttered “Shame” at her the night before; not only would he discourage her from ducking backstage, he’d probably ignore the informal pass Antonia had scrawled for her and insist on a real ticket. Fortunately, there was nobody in line at the little box office, and Bree got one of the last tickets available. “Practically SRO,” the box office attendant said proudly. “Standing room only, you know.”

  “Seventy-five dollars?” Bree said in dismay. “Seventy-five?”

  “Sorry. It’s the dress circle. Only thing left.”

  Bree made it to the front of the house just as the lights dimmed for the first act. The seat was terrific; on the aisle, second row back. Bree sat down with a smile for the usher, and a second, more distantly polite smile for the person in the seat next to her, then did a classic double take. “You!” she said in disgust, as recognition set in.

  Payton McAllister gave her a pained look.

  Payton the Rat. Of all the people to attend the premiere of a Victorian mystery in which he had zero interest, it had to be the guy that dumped her several months ago when she was still practicing law at her father’s firm in Raleigh-Durham.

  The last time she’d seen Payton, she’d encouraged Sasha to pee on his shoes. The time before that, she’d tossed him over the restaurant table at Huey’s.

  He was still gorgeous, though.

  Bree scowled at him.

  “Yo, Bree. How’s it going?”

  “Nobody says ‘yo’ anymore, Payton.” Aware that this was the feeblest riposte possible, Bree settled herself into the velvet cushions and stared intently at the stage.

  “You’re looking great.”

  “Shh.”

  The overture began, a sprightly, ominous piece that fit perfectly with the Victorian theme of the play.

  “I didn’t know you liked Sherlock Holmes.”

  “Will you shut up? The play’s starting.” Bree glared at him. “What are you doing here, anyway? The last play you went to voluntarily was the third grade Christmas pageant, and that was only because you played a sheep.”

  He opened the program and pointed at the actress playing Irene Adler.

  “Lorie Stubblefield?” Bree’s eyebrows shot up and she giggled. “You’re dating Lorie Stubblefield?” The significance of the name hit her. “John Stubblefield’s daughter? You’re dating the boss’s daughter? Payton, you are . . .”

  The woman seated behind Bree leaned forward and hissed, “Shhh!”

  Bree was so annoyed she missed the opening scenes of the play. When she finally focused on the action, it was to admire the deftness of the staging, the really outstanding performance of the actor playing Sherlock Holmes, and the satisfying awfulness of the performance of Lorie Stubblefield. Lorie was pretty enough, but too young for the part and way too vapid to convey the sophistication and dep
th of “the woman,” as Sherlock Holmes always referred to the great Irene Adler. The light from the stage was sufficient to read the program; Bree thumbed through it and was happy to see her suspicions justified: Stubblefield, Marwick was a heavy contributor to the Savannah Rep.

  At the interval, she stood up to go find Antonia and at least wave at her, but Payton grabbed her elbow.

  “How’s about I buy you a glass of wine?”

  “No, thank you,” Bree said.

  “Seriously, I think there’s some things we need to talk about. I’ll buy you a glass of wine now, and later you can come with us to the cast party. John’s holding it at his house on Oglethorpe.”

  Bree cocked her head and looked at him coolly. “I can’t think of anything that we need to talk about, Payton. Except maybe why you don’t pack up and leave that sleazy law firm you’re working at and get a job with some integrity attached to it. Like maybe campaign manager to elect Attila the Hun to the Georgia legislature.”

  Payton smirked and gestured at someone over her shoulder. “You remember our senior partner, John Stubblefield.” Bree turned. Sure enough, there was the artfully styled white hair, the clean-shaven chin, and the beady blue eyes of John Stubblefield, Esquire, whose TV infomercials, soliciting class action plain-tiffs the world over, ran on the airways of late night TV in Savannah.

  “Miss Winston-Beaufort,” Stubblefield said, his eyes cold. He made a mock bow. “Sleazy at your service.”

  Bree nodded, unsmiling.

  “The thing is”—Payton took her arm and led her up the aisle to the foyer—“we may be seeing a lot of each other in the next couple of months, and John wanted me to sort of sit down with you and clear the air.”

  The penny dropped. Of course. “The Chandler case,” Bree said. “Stubblefield represents some of the store’s interests? Your firm isn’t large enough to handle anything of real corporate importance, Payton.”

  “The family, however,” Payton said smoothly, “is another story altogether. We represent George Chandler’s personal interests in Savannah.”