A Deadly Business (A Mia Quinn Mystery)

by Lis Wiehl

  “Thank you for telling me how you feel.” Mia’s words were even. “That’s exactly why we came to see you. I also went to see your wife a few hours ago.”

  Wade jumped to his feet and grabbed his keys from his pocket. “What? She’s conscious? Why didn’t they call me!”

  CHAPTER 20

  Silently, Charlie swore to himself. Wade Merritt thought his wife was awake.

  “No, no,” Mia said hastily. “Your wife is still in the medically induced coma. I just wanted to get a better understanding of what happened. That’s why I visited her in the hospital, that’s why we’re talking to you, and that’s why we’ll also be talking to those boys’ teachers and counselors. Maybe the kids themselves, if their lawyers will let us.”

  Merritt sat back down heavily. “When I first saw her, I didn’t even recognize her, and we’ve been married for seventeen years. Her face is so swollen, and they shaved off half her hair.” He raised his hand to touch his own dark hair, threaded with silver.

  “It must have been a terrible shock,” Mia said softly.

  “She was actually dead. Did they tell you that?”

  They both nodded.

  “If it weren’t for that doctor, the one who was shopping in the store, she might have stayed dead. As it is, she is never going to be the same. They can’t even tell me if she’ll ever be able to walk or talk. She could be lying in a bed like that for the rest of her life.”

  It was Charlie’s worst nightmare. To be neither dead nor alive, but something in between. The legs drawing up to the chin as the muscles stiffened and contracted, the hands curling into claws, the skin breaking down from bedsores.

  “Our son, Luke, was standing right next to her.” Merritt’s mouth folded in on itself. “It’s only sheer chance that he wasn’t hit. As it was, he’s traumatized.”

  “We’d like to talk to him too,” Charlie said. “Just for a few minutes.”

  “No.” Merritt’s jaw clenched as he shook his head.

  “Trust me, your son is already thinking about what happened whether anyone talks to him or not,” Charlie said.

  “He’s also a witness,” Mia said. “He’ll be called to testify. I need to know what he will say, and it’s better if I talk to him now.”

  Merritt was silent for a long moment. Finally he nodded and got to his feet. They followed him down miles of hallway. Most of the doors were closed, although Charlie did catch an envious glimpse of a home gym that looked better than the one he paid a monthly membership for and kept swearing he’d visit.

  Merritt stopped in front of a door with a poster of a wolf taped to it. Some kind of rap music was playing, but it stopped abruptly after he knocked.

  The kid who answered the door was in that awkward stage, lanky and slumped, cheeks stippled with red acne. “What?” He stood so that his body blocked their view of his room.

  “This is Detective Carlson from the police department and Ms. Quinn from the prosecutor’s office. They’re here to talk to us about what happened to Mom.”

  “Actually, we’d rather talk to him alone,” Charlie said. “It won’t take more than five or ten minutes.”

  Wade looked at his son and back at them. “I guess that’s okay. I’ll be just down the hall if you need me.”

  Or, Charlie guessed, right outside the door trying to listen.

  Luke stepped back to let them in.

  “Luke!” Wade said as he caught a glimpse. “Your room is a pigsty. You have to clean it up.”

  “I will.” He said it with just enough conviction that everyone could pretend they believed he was telling the truth.

  It was true that his room was far more lived-in looking than the rest of the house. The bed was unmade. Cast-off clothes lay in a pile next to a hamper. His desk held an open laptop, a skateboarding magazine, a copy of The Catcher in the Rye, a half-eaten slice of pizza, three open cans of Monster energy drink, and a crumpled bag that had once held Doritos. The room smelled like feet.

  The kid sat down at his desk, but there were no other chairs in the room. Rather than perching on the edge of his unmade bed, Charlie and Mia remained standing.

  “We wanted to talk to you a little bit about what happened,” Mia said. “We believe the boys who did it are about your age, maybe a year or two older. It’s my job as the prosecutor in charge of this case to decide whether to try them as adults or juveniles.”

  His nod was almost imperceptible. His eyes—and even his fingers—were on his computer, which was open to Facebook. He was scrolling through status updates.

  “Can you tell us more about that day?” Mia said in a soft voice.

  “Me and my mom went to the store.” His fingers stilled, but he kept his face angled toward his computer. “They were having a special on T-shirts. Three for the price of two, plus she had a store coupon.”

  Charlie couldn’t help but think of the beautiful house that surrounded them, the Lexus and the Audi in the driveway. He was willing to bet that Tamsin had grown up poor.

  “And then what happened?” he prompted.

  “We were walking across this, like, little road. I heard some kids shouting above us, but I didn’t pay any attention.” He pressed his lips together until they turned white. “I didn’t even look up. And then one of them like yelled something, and I heard a scraping noise and all of a sudden this big metal thing came crashing down out of nowhere. I didn’t even know it was a shopping cart at first. And Mom got hit by the bar in front—you know, on the bottom? She got pushed to the ground and there was, like, like a dent on her forehead.” He was choking back tears now, his face as red as his zits. “And she wasn’t moving. I was afraid to touch her. Afraid it would make things worse.”

  Mia stepped forward and cupped her hand over Luke’s shoulder. He looked down at it, but he didn’t move away.

  “And then this dude in a dark hoodie ran up. He was crying so hard there was snot running down his face. He just kept saying how sorry he was. He was going to touch my mom, but I shoved him and made him get away from her. Some lady kept yelling that she had called 911. And then there was a guy who said he was a doctor, and he started helping my mom. And when I looked around for the kid in the dark hoodie, I didn’t see him anymore.” His voice broke. “Is she going to live? Do you know? Dad won’t tell me. He took me to see her yesterday, but she looks like she’s dead.”

  Mia and Charlie looked at each other. Her eyes looked panicked. Was she picturing Gabe in a similar situation? He leaned in. “She’s made it this far, buddy. I think that’s a pretty good sign.”

  The boy’s shoulders loosened a little.

  “Could you identify either of the boys who dropped the cart?” Mia asked.

  Luke bit his lip. “I don’t think so. Not even the one who ran up. I maybe saw one of them look over the edge after it happened, but it just happened so fast it’s like a blur. I was mostly just wanting to help my mom.”

  Charlie had been afraid of this. Between the kid’s testimony and the fuzzy videotape, they just had to hope that Manny’s testimony would put both boys firmly on the scene.

  “The thing is, what I heard before the shout? I think it was the sound of them laughing.” Luke blinked and tears ran out of his eyes. “Laughing.”

  CHAPTER 21

  For the past few weeks, Eli Hall had been looking forward to watching Mia go after a witness. Not just because she was by far the most attractive woman he had met since moving to Seattle. But he had also heard that Mia Quinn was an excellent litigator, smart, fast on her feet, and good at coining turns of phrase that stuck in a juror’s head like advertising jingles.

  Eli and Mia were both adjunct professors at the University of Washington’s law school. This evening they would be modeling cross-examination for the law students, using “facts” provided by Titus Brown, the program’s director, for a fictitious case about the murder of a clerk at a grocery store. First Eli would do a direct examination of his witness, a memory expert (really a student playing the part). Th
en it would be Mia’s turn. Using the same set of imaginary facts Eli had been given, Mia would try to take the witness apart.

  But when he saw her in the staff break room before class began, Mia seemed less than present. He touched her arm. “Are you sure you’re okay to be teaching today? After what happened?”

  “I’m fine.” The blue shadows under her eyes put the lie to her words. “They got that guy off me right away and he didn’t hurt me.” After a moment’s hesitation, she added, “There’re some other things going on, though.”

  “What’s wrong? Is it Brooke or Gabe?” His Rachel was sixteen. Eli knew what it took to raise a teenager on your own.

  “No. It’s not the kids. It’s my, my”—she stumbled over the words—“my husband. There’s a possibility his death wasn’t an accident.”

  “What do you mean?” As soon as he said the words, Eli wished he could call them back. Of course she meant suicide.

  “It’s possible he was murdered.”

  He blinked. “I thought he died in a car accident.”

  “Supposedly the injuries don’t add up. It looks like he was beaten after the accident.”

  “Do you think it’s really possible he was murdered?”

  “I don’t know.” She sighed. Her eyes looked wet, and Eli had to resist the sudden urge to put his arm around her shoulder. “I honestly don’t know.” She looked at her watch. “I guess we should go in.” She turned toward him. “Don’t say anything to anyone, okay?”

  Eli nodded, but that didn’t stop him from wondering. In the classroom, he half listened as Titus began to lecture about cross-examination.

  “The purpose of cross is to corroborate your case.” Titus had a preacher’s cadence. “If you’ve watched too many movies, you might think your goal is to have the witness dramatically break down on the stand and admit his own guilt.” He wagged a finger. “No. Because that will never happen. Instead, you use the cross to tell your story to the jury. You highlight inconsistent statements, suspect motivation, and lack of truthfulness. On the direct, the witness is the star. But on cross-examination, it’s the lawyer.

  “Remember that you control the witness.” He pointed at the students. “You must maintain the upper hand. Keep the cross brisk. Don’t give him time to think. Lead the witness by getting him to agree with you. Then build one fact on top of another, like bricks. And remember to ask short leading questions. Now, I know it’s not easy for a lawyer to ask a short question, but you must.

  “Learn to use your head. No, not by thinking, but by simply moving it up and down.” He demonstrated. “Humans are hardwired to mirror each other, so if you nod, the witness will too. And never get into an argument with the witness. There’s an old saying: ‘Don’t argue with a fool, because the jury may not be able to tell the difference.’ ” Laughter rippled through the students. “Whether you like it or not, the truth is that many times the jury is looking for form, not substance. If you can make a witness backtrack, babble, or even just look confused while you look calm, you’ll have the upper hand.”

  He stepped back. “And now, without further ado, may I present you the case of Bill Jones. Mr. Jones has been charged with attempted murder in the shooting of a grocery store clerk. Both the clerk, John Doe, and a customer, Mary Smith, have positively identified Mr. Jones as the shooter. Mirroring real life, Mr. Hall will play the part of defense counsel, and Ms. Quinn will play the part of prosecutor. The witness they are interviewing will be played by your fellow classmate, Jocelyn Daugherty. And I will be the judge.”

  To a smattering of applause, Titus took the judge’s chair while Eli and Mia sat at their respective tables. The room was designed like a miniature courtroom. Jocelyn took her seat in the witness box. Eli got to his feet. “So, Dr. Daugherty, we met for the first time yesterday?”

  This was actually true, aside from the “Dr.” part. Jocelyn was in Mia’s class, and she and Eli had met to review her testimony.

  “Yes.”

  “And we’ve talked on the phone, of course?”

  “A few times.”

  If he were Mia, he would bring up how much the witness would be paid for testifying. The best defense was a good offense, so he raised the issue himself. “And, of course, Dr. Daugherty, you expect to receive compensation for the research that I’ve asked you to do and for your time appearing here?”

  She nodded. “I hope so, yes.”

  “But your compensation is not based upon whether we win or lose, is it?”

  “No, absolutely not,” she said firmly.

  Eli took her through a series of questions about how a witness’s testimony could be affected by the way questions were asked, by how lineups were conducted, or even by something as small as a cop’s facial expression or tone of voice. Jocelyn answered confidently.

  It was a line of questioning Eli had taken dozens of times in real life. He was trying to negate the eyewitnesses’ testimonies, not by impugning their character, but by showing that memory was far from a video camera that accurately recorded events for later review. That memory was, instead, malleable and suggestible.

  He went on for another ten minutes before turning the witness over to Mia.

  Mia strolled over to the other woman, but her first question was anything but casual. “A lot of people in your field—psychologists and psychiatrists—would say it’s just kind of a commonsense thing that you come in and testify about, right?”

  Jocelyn tried not to fall into the trap. “I think it’s misleading to say a ‘lot of people.’ ”

  Mia cocked her head. “Reputable people in your field say that, though, don’t they?”

  Jocelyn hesitated. “A few reputable people might express that opinion. A few.”

  “But basically what you testify about is not really hard science, is it? It’s more soft science, right?” Mia nodded her head as she spoke.

  Jocelyn caught herself before she was halfway through her first reciprocal nod. “I don’t think people in my field would call it that, no.”

  “You don’t?” After her rhetorical question, Mia didn’t pause. “Okay. In your vita, I see a list of the many articles and books that you’ve written. You’ve also testified in 171 trials. All of these have to do with all sorts of things around memory and perception, right?”

  Jocelyn was back on more comfortable ground. “Yes.”

  Mia took another swipe. “Is there anything at all about memory or perception that you don’t make money off of?”

  Indignation straightened Jocelyn’s shoulders. She was fully invested in her role. “There’s plenty that I don’t make money off of, like freeing innocent people from prison pro bono.”

  Mia cocked her head. “I’m sorry. What was that answer again?”

  “Some of my pro bono work is freeing the innocent.”

  “Are you here today pro bono?”

  A pause. “No.”

  Mia said, “When did you arrive in Seattle for this case?”

  “About four o’clock yesterday.”

  “And who paid for your plane ticket?”

  “The defense.”

  Mia leaned in. “Who paid for your hotel room?”

  “I did,” Jocelyn answered.

  Mia feigned surprise. “They’re not going to reimburse you?”

  “Well, I hope they will, but I paid for it when I checked out this morning.”

  “And where did you stay last night?”

  “At the Hilton.”

  Mia echoed her words. “At the Hilton.” She raised her eyebrows and looked at the students who were playing the part of the jury, inviting them to think about how nice a stay at the Hilton might be. After a moment she added, “And all of your meals, while you’re here in town, you’re going to be reimbursed for?”

  “Yes.”

  “And all the time you spent on the phone with the defense counsel—you get reimbursed for that?”

  Jocelyn was struggling not to fall into the trap of answering yes, yes, yes. “I hope to be co
mpensated for my time, yes.”

  “And any research you did for this case, no matter how unimportant it was, you hope to be reimbursed for?”

  “I hope so, yes.”

  “What is your typical charge by the hour?”

  “Well, it depends. If I’m doing it pro bono, it’s nothing. I sometimes charge five hundred dollars an hour for my time.” Even the make-believe jury murmured a bit at the number.

  “Does that include while you’re on an airplane?”

  “Well, generally I charge for up to a maximum of twelve-hour days when I’m out of town.” Jocelyn shot Eli a desperate glance before trying to blunt the force of Mia’s charges. “Even if I spend sixteen hours on a given day, I would only charge for twelve.”

  Mia would not be deterred. “So that could possibly include time spent going to the bathroom in this courthouse?”

  “I hadn’t looked at it that way.”

  “It could?”

  “It could,” Jocelyn finally conceded. On direct examination, she had calmly answered questions. But now she was flustered, and it wasn’t just that she was a law student playing an expert. Even a real expert would probably be reacting the same way.

  Mia summed it up. “So when you add all that up, plane ticket here, hotel room, meals, plane ticket home, telephone calls, any research, going to the bathroom, putting on your makeup this morning, sitting up there in that chair, the grand total that you’re going to submit to defense counsel when you’re all done with this is going to be how much?”

  If this had been a real case, Eli would have been sweating bullets by now. As it was, he made mental notes. And was oddly thankful that a public defender’s budget rarely ran to that kind of money.

  Jocelyn answered, “On the order of ten thousand dollars. Approximately.”

  The jury would now be considering the amount of work done and asking themselves if she was worth $10,000. And if she wasn’t, then why was the defense willing to pay for it? They would wonder if Eli was, in effect, buying her testimony.

  Mia was dismantling the witness, and there was little he could do to stop it.