She wasn't responsible for him. He had volunteered his help, had been willing to pay his own expenses in exchange for the opportunity to work with and learn from her. If the cost became more than he could afford, he could back out, and she would finish alone. At the very least, he would get a break on his taxes, once he deducted his contribution to Carrie's defense.
"I have to get back to the office," she said as she slid out of the booth and reached for her coat. "I have an appointment with the DA's office at eight tomorrow, so why don't we meet at my office at ten? We'll go out and start talking to some of Carrie's neighbors." She looked at him, waiting for him to agree. His expression was solemn, with just a hint of disappointment in his eyes, just a bit of resignation in the set of his mouth. Had he wanted to spend more time together this evening, maybe even have dinner with her? If so, she wished he would ask … even though she would have to turn him down. Even though she would have to explain to him that she didn't, forgive the cliché, mix business with pleasure.
But he didn't ask. He simply smiled, a friendly but impersonal sort of smile, the kind he might give a stranger on the street, and nodded. "Tomorrow at ten. I'll see you then."
* * *
"How did the meeting go?"
Beth stepped off the elevator into the top level of the parking garage and gestured toward the space marked with her name. She had been late returning from her meeting this morning and had hustled Zachary out of the office after little more than hellos had been exchanged. But they would have time to talk now on the way to Carrie's house. "About as well as I expected. The DA's office wants to make an example of Carrie. He sees this as a chance to boost his tough-on-crime image."
"Yeah, let's lock up this woman who's been someone's victim half her life while the repeat offenders are going free." Zachary looked and sounded disgusted, and even though more than a few of her own clients were repeat offenders, Beth shared his disgust.
"Remind me when we get back, and I'll have my secretary get you a parking pass. It will allow you to use any of those spaces on the end there," she said as she unlocked her car door. It was a German import, typical of the kind of car her associates drove: a status symbol, suitably expensive but not obscenely so, impressive but not flashy. She had bought it because it was expected of her, even though secretly she had longed for a fast little fire-engine-red Corvette.
"Spending so much time in the city, how are you going to manage your own clients?" she asked as she headed for the neighborhood where the Lewises had lived.
"In an average week I spend fifteen, maybe twenty, hours in the office. It won't be any problem fitting them in with this."
"What do you do with the rest of your time?"
"I go fishing every Tuesday morning with the sheriff and the mayor. In the spring and summer I coach the church Little League baseball team, and in the fall it's soccer." He grinned disparagingly. "A real thrilling life, isn't it?"
She wasn't surprised to find a bit of envy in her sigh. "I haven't had a Tuesday morning off in longer than I can remember. The last time I set foot in church, besides Sarah and Daniel's wedding, was for my own christening. I haven't seen a baseball game since college, and I've never had time to learn anything about soccer."
"And you haven't missed any of it," he retorted, confident that he was right. "You thrive on your schedule. Who needs Tuesday mornings off, or baseball or soccer?"
Would he be disappointed if she told him that he was only partially right? she wondered. That she had thrived on her schedule until recently, but now she was looking for something more? Not Tuesday mornings fishing, of course, or baseball or soccer, but something.
Refusing to even think about the dissatisfaction that was plaguing her all too often these days, she turned the conversation back to him. "That takes care of spring, summer and fall. What do you do in the winter?"
"Most of my time right now is taken up with the house. My grandfather left me a piece of land up on Laurel Mountain, and I'm building a house there."
"By yourself?"
"More or less. Daniel helps out with some of the more complicated stuff, and a few people I've done work for have paid their bills with electrical and plumbing services, but the majority of the work is my own. It should be finished by spring."
The conversation faltered then as they reached Carrie's neighborhood. Beth automatically slowed down to scan the house numbers. When Zachary spotted the correct address, she parked across the street and shut off the engine, then for a moment simply looked around.
Zachary didn't need to look; he knew what he would see. He knew how poor people lived. So instead he watched Beth, seeing the stunned disbelief slip into her eyes. Logically, of course, she'd known that Nashville had its share of low-income families, but he would bet she'd never been in a neighborhood like this. She had never seen such poverty.
Finally he released his seat belt and got out of the car, glancing around as he circled to open Beth's door. The neighborhood was what he'd expected. The houses were set uncomfortably close together, often no more than the width of a driveway separating them. Every house on the block needed painting, repairs and a general cleaning. Trash drifted unimpeded by fences from one grassless yard to the next, and toys, broken and worn, were scattered everywhere. He counted a half-dozen cars in varying stages of disrepair and spotted a pile of rusting junk beside one house that reached almost to the roof.
What a depressing place to live, especially compared to the farm where Carrie had grown up. The Morrises had had no more money than these people, but their place had been clean and cheerful, surrounded by fields, meadows and mountain forests. No wonder Carrie had grown so hopeless here. There was a sense of decay in the air, of despair and failure and giving in. Giving up.
"Welcome to the poor side of town," he murmured as Beth stepped out.
"Why don't we try over there first?"
He glanced at the house she was pointing to and nodded, crossing the street at her side. It was narrow and in need of repair, and it had no gutters, no curbs, no sidewalks. He supposed it was a miracle that the city had even bothered to pave it. The neighborhood obviously didn't rank high on their list of priorities—on anyone's list of priorities.
A mangy, scrawny dog tied to a tree in the yard raised his head and gave them a long, disinterested look before settling down again. He didn't make a sound, but he didn't need to. His owner was already standing in the doorway, watching their approach.
The screen door was latched, but there were torn places big enough for him to slip his hand inside and free the latch, Zachary observed. It provided minimal security for the stout, scowling woman on the other side.
Beth smiled at the woman but received no response. It didn't stop her. "Hello. I'm Beth Gibson, and this is Zachary Adams. We're representing Carrie Lewis." She drew a business card from her pocket and offered it to the woman, who accepted it through a tear in the screen. "We'd like to talk to you about Carrie and her husband."
"I already talked to the police." The woman handed the card back after studying it for a moment, but Beth shook her head.
"Keep it, please. I understand that the police questioned you about the night Mr. Lewis died. I'd like to talk to you about other things—what kind of neighbors they were, how often you saw Carrie, if you ever heard them fighting. Could we come in?"
She gave them each a long, critical look; then she said to Zachary, "You don't look like an attorney."
"No, ma'am," he agreed with a grin. "I try not to."
That brought the beginnings of a smile to her face. She unlatched the screen door and stepped back so they could enter. She showed them into a small kitchen, where a tiny square table filled the center, asked them to sit down and offered them coffee. Beth accepted the chair but refused the coffee, while Zachary took both.
"I'm Marva Janssen," the woman said, setting a mug of fragrant, steaming coffee in front of him, then sitting in the third chair at the table. "I've lived here with my family since before the L
ewises moved in. It used to be a nice-enough place to live, but lately folks around here have been having some hard times."
That was an understatement, Beth thought, her first view of the neighborhood flashing into her mind once again. "Do you know Carrie, Mrs. Janssen?" she asked before the woman could say anything more.
"Only to say hello to. I don't think she ever spoke to anyone. She was kind of the shy type, you know?"
"Were you aware that her husband was beating her?"
"I live right next door to her. How could I not be aware of it? All the screaming and the shouting and the crying." Mrs. Janssen shook her head. "Those poor kids never knew a moment's peace. They never knew when their daddy was going to start in on their mama again—never knew when one day he was going to go too far and kill the poor woman right in front of them. Odd that she killed him instead."
Beth had flinched at the mention of the children, but her feelings didn't show in her voice. "Did anyone ever call the police when this was going on?"
"I did a few times, and I know that Alice Mitchell, on the other side of them, did, too. But Carrie never would do anything. She claimed she got all those bruises and black eyes and broken bones because she was clumsy, because she was always slipping and falling." She snorted. "Nobody could be that clumsy."
"So when she refused to take any action against her husband, you quit reporting it."
"Del Lewis didn't take kindly to us calling the law on him. It made things hard around here for a while. We have to live here, you know? And if she wasn't willing to help herself, why should we stick our necks out for her?"
The woman sounded defensive, and Beth hastened to reassure her. "I understand completely, Mrs. Janssen. You did what you could. Now … you mentioned broken bones earlier."
"He broke her arm twice. And she had to have stitches in her face once. Heavens, I can hardly remember a time when she didn't have one injury or another. Everybody on the whole block used to talk about it."
Broken bones and stitches. Why hadn't Carrie mentioned that during yesterday's interview? Beth wondered grimly. Before the arraignment this afternoon, they would have to find out why Carrie had withheld the information, get the names of the doctors who'd treated her and get her signature on a release for her medical records. Then Zachary could pick them up while she and Carrie were in court.
After a few minutes more, they left the Janssen home and walked down the block to Alice Mitchell's house. She told them virtually the same story: about fights, threats and Carrie's tearful pleas not to be hurt again. "My son went over there once a few months back," the gray-haired woman recalled, "and told him to knock it off before someone called the cops. I thought Lewis was going to come after him, and he was a big man—more than twice my boy's size. We all expected him to kill his wife in one of his rages. It sure would have been easy for him to do."
"Were you surprised to hear that she had killed him?" Zachary asked.
Mrs. Mitchell considered the question thoughtfully. "Surprised that she found the gumption to do anything at all," she replied. "But nobody's sorry he's dead. If ever any man deserved to die, it was him. Why, do you know those kids didn't cry or make a sound when the coroner's people took their daddy's body away, but they sure let loose when the police took their mama. Except for the boy," she added thoughtfully. "That Tyler … he's one angry boy."
"One last question, Mrs. Mitchell," Beth said as she got to her feet. "Did you or anyone you know actually see Del Lewis hit his wife?"
She shook her head. "But it doesn't take much to figure out what's happening when she's screaming, 'Please don't hurt me again,' does it?"
"No. It doesn't. Thank you, Mrs. Mitchell." She followed Zachary outside and back into the street, stopping in front of the Lewis house. It didn't stand out from its neighbors. It was small, square, a little shabbier than the other houses, but nothing special, nothing out of the ordinary. There was nothing that gave any indication of the violence that had been played out inside this house for the past fourteen years. Nothing that said a man had been murdered here. Nothing that hinted at the seven lives that had been destroyed here.
Zachary stepped in front of her, deliberately blocking her view. She blinked, then focused on him. "Now what?" he asked. "More neighbors? Lunch? The jail?"
She gave it a moment's thought. "Lunch, then the jail."
They walked back to the car and settled in, loosening coats, fastening seat belts. They were out of Carrie's neighborhood and back on the interstate when Beth spoke again. "Tell me again why you're doing this. Why are you spending your time and your own money on a case that isn't going to benefit you?"
"It will benefit me," he replied. "With any luck, it will make me into a better lawyer. Don't be modest, Beth. You know what kind of reputation you have."
"Yes, bitchy, pushy, abrasive—"
"And tough, talented, smart and shrewd," he interrupted her. "Do you know how often a chance like this comes along for a country lawyer like me?"
Of course, he thought privately, the opportunity to learn from one of the best in the business hadn't been his only motivation for volunteering to help. There was the chance to spend time with Beth, not only to see her in action, but out of action, too. One on one. Up close and personal.
And there was the opportunity to get to know her better, to get inside her head and find out what Beth Gibson the woman was like. And there was the possibility—or so he hoped—of developing a relationship with her. Nothing permanent—he wouldn't kid himself about that. Nothing lasting. But something worth having.
Her voice, soft and elegant, interrupted his thoughts. "What made you decide to be a lawyer?"
"My grandfather was one."
"The same grandfather who left you the mountain?"
"Yes. He practiced in Sweetwater, too, in the same office I'm in. He was a very bright, very gentle and very just man. I always wanted to be exactly like him when I grew up."
"Sounds as if he had quite an influence on you."
He caught a hint of—was it envy? wistfulness?—in her voice, and he wondered what kind of relationship she'd had with her own grandfather, with any member of the rich and powerful Gibson-Townsend clan. Was she close to her mother? Spoiled by her father? "Granddad and I were going to be partners," he replied with a regretful smile, "but he died just a few weeks after I graduated from law school. He was sixty-nine years old, and he died at home with my grandmother at his side." Briefly he remembered his sadness at losing his grandfather, and his gratefulness that the old man had gone the way he wanted: peacefully, quietly, holding hands with his wife of forty-nine years.
Then he shook off the memories and looked at Beth. "What about you? Who led you into law as a career?"
"My father."
"Is he a lawyer?"
"No," she replied dryly. "He runs the family empire, and he fully intended for me to follow in his footsteps. I became a lawyer to spite him."
Uncomfortable, Zachary looked away. Just as he'd always been extraordinarily close to his grandfather, he couldn't imagine having a less-than-loving relationship with his father. Josiah had never put any pressure on him to do anything but his best, and he'd always been proud of whatever Zachary had accomplished. They had shared a mutual love and respect even when their interests were at odds.
At least that answered one of his questions. She wasn't spoiled by her father, not if she'd planned her entire career around what he didn't want her to do. Why? he wondered. What caused a daughter's natural love for her father to turn sour?
And it made him wonder more about her mother. Did Beth get along with her, or had she also planned certain aspects of her life—such as being single and childless at the age of thirty-six—to spite her?
But he didn't ask his questions, didn't probe or pry. Maybe someday—someday soon—he would feel comfortable enough to delve into her personal life. But not now.
Not yet.
* * *
After a hurried lunch and a brief meeting with C
arrie, Zachary spent the rest of the afternoon on his own. He'd gotten the names of the hospital emergency rooms where Carrie's more serious injuries had been treated—a different one each time—and he'd gone to the closest two, each time identifying himself, presenting the release form Carrie had signed and, after much delay and verification, receiving copies of her records. Tomorrow morning he would repeat the process at the third hospital on his list.
Now it was after five o'clock, and he was miles away from Beth's downtown office and not far at all from his motel. He could get out of the heavy rush-hour traffic, stretch out on the bed, read the hospital reports, think about dinner and see Beth in the morning.
Or he could fight traffic and catch Beth in her office—he had no doubt she would be working late—and… Ask her to dinner? Maybe, but he didn't think she would go. She would probably give him some excuse about how she didn't go out with the people she worked with.
He could turn over the reports and find out how the arraignment had gone, if there had been any surprises. Those were both valid reasons for going so far out of his way in this traffic.
But the real reason was simpler and just as valid. He wanted to see her again. Even for just a few moments. Even just as one lawyer to another.
He drove past the exit for his motel and continued downtown. Construction on the interstate slowed the already-congested traffic even more. It took him another half hour to reach Beth's building. He inserted the card her secretary had given him at the gate to the parking garage, and it lifted, allowing him access to the nearly empty garage.
He parked on the fifth level and started toward the elevator. Besides his Jeep Cherokee and Beth's Mercedes, there were only four other cars on this level. Like Beth's, they were all imports, all expensive, all impressive. Apparently all of the lawyers here were well paid—people whose education and training were little different from his own—but he wasn't even slightly envious. He might appreciate the sleek lines of the Jaguar parked beside Beth's car or the flashiness of the BMW convertible next to the elevator, but he would never want such a car for himself. The winter snow and mountain roads around Sweetwater made anything but a sturdy, four-wheel-drive vehicle impractical for him.
Somebody's Lady Page 5