“I’d prefer you not to touch her when she comes in,” Washburn cautioned me after the lieutenant had left. “This is not a family visit, and we don’t want to alarm the guard with behavior they’re not used to seeing in a lawyer. They might suspect you were passing something to her.”
“I’ll remember,” I said.
Several minutes later, the door opened and Cyndi and her guard entered. Janet’s eldest daughter wore navy blue pants and shirt, and matching tennis shoes. Her hands were manacled, her eyes without expression. An angry pimple on her forehead, and red blotches on her chin, testified to the stress she was under. Her formerly straight hair was a stringy mass of curls, thanks to the ministrations of Alicia, her downstairs neighbor at Mrs. Granger’s, and looked as if it needed washing. She carried with her a file folder that she dropped on the table.
“Does she need to sign anything?” the guard asked.
“Yes,” Washburn said.
The officer who’d escorted her unlocked the handcuffs and waited until Washburn and I took chairs at the table; Cyndi was directed to sit on the inside of the square, across from us. “Standard procedure,” Washburn told me. The officer moved to a seat on the other side of the room to give us some privacy, but she never took her gaze off Cyndi.
“Officers can’t be within hearing distance during attorney-client visits,” Washburn said softly, “but she’ll keep an eye on us.”
Cyndi perched awkwardly on her chair. She didn’t look up, but sat glumly with her arms tightly folded across her chest, eyes fixed on the tabletop.
“Hey, champ,” Washburn said, “you’ve got a visitor.”
“Hello, Cyndi,” I said.
Slowly she raised her eyes, blinked back tears, and wrapped her arms even tighter around herself as though that would squeeze away the pain.
I resisted gently patting her arm. “It’ll be all right,” I said. “Everything will work out.” It seemed the right thing to say under the circumstances, although I had no idea whether things would, in fact, work out.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered.
I pulled a tissue from a packet and placed it on the table. She picked it up and dabbed at her eyes, then dropped her head, staring at her fists tightly clenched around the tissue. “Thanks for coming, Mrs. Fletcher,” she managed in a soft voice.
“You’re welcome. How are you feeling?”
“I’m okay. How’s my mother?” she asked, looking up again. “They told me that she’s in the hospital.” She hesitated. “Is that because of me?”
“You didn’t cause your mother’s heart condition, if that’s what you’re asking,” I said. “That’s something that takes a long time to develop. But stress of any kind isn’t good for someone with health problems.”
“That’s why I didn’t call her. I was afraid she’d have a heart attack right on the phone and I couldn’t do anything to help.”
“There was no way your news wouldn’t be stressful for her,” I said, “but I think she’d much rather hear from you than not. She’s more worried about you than she is about herself.”
“Is Mama gonna be all right? I mean, is she very sick?”
“Dr. Hazlitt says she’ll be fine. He’s the best. He’s taking care of her, brought in specialists to run some tests. She should be going home soon. Don’t you think you ought to call her at some point?”
“I can’t,” she said, a hiccup in her voice. “I’m so ashamed.”
“If you killed Mr. Marker, you should be ashamed.”
Cyndi gasped. Her eyes flew to mine, their expression panicked. “I never. I swear. I never touched him. I didn’t kill him. I saw him on the floor. I thought he was dead. There was blood all over his head. I didn’t know what to do, so I just ran. But I swear, Mrs. Fletcher, I didn’t kill him. I could never do anything like that. Never! Please believe me. Please.”
“I believe you.”
“You do?”
“You’re telling me the truth, aren’t you?”
“Absolutely.” She raised her hands, palms facing me. “I didn’t kill him. I swear it. Please get them to give me a lie detector test. I told them I would take it. I’m telling the truth.”
“That’s something for you to discuss with Mr. Washburn,” I said, looking over at him. He nodded, and seemed to be content to have the conversation involve only Cyndi and me.
“Why were your fingerprints on the trophy that was used to kill him?” I asked.
Cyndi took a deep breath. Her gaze roamed the ceiling, picturing the scene. “I was waiting in his secretary’s office. He’d told me to wait there.”
“Wait! You saw him that night?”
“No, not actually,” she said, her eyes meeting mine. “Not until—” She stopped, then started again. “He’d told me that over the phone.”
“Okay,” I said. “Start from the beginning. Who called who to arrange this meeting?”
“He called me, but it was because I’d dropped off the C&D letter with his secretary, you know, the one you advised me to give him. I wasn’t sure if I should do it, but he wasn’t returning my calls. And I was getting desperate.”
“So you got his attention once he had your letter in hand.”
“Yes. He called and said we had to talk. He said to come at five fifteen and wait outside his office. He was very busy that day, but he would get to me when he was ready.”
“And he never did?”
“No. I waited as long as I could. I was supposed to try out for a gig downtown, and I was afraid if I was late they wouldn’t let me audition.”
“So what happened while you were waiting?”
“Nothing. I just sat there, looking at my watch. After about forty minutes I decided I couldn’t wait any longer, so I knocked on his door.”
“How did you know he was even in the office?”
“I didn’t at first, but then I heard his voice. Not real well. I couldn’t hear what he was saying, but I could tell it was him. It sounded like he was arguing with somebody on the phone. I waited, and when I didn’t hear him again for a long time, I knocked again.”
“And then?”
“He didn’t answer, but I thought maybe he didn’t hear me so I turned the knob.”
“Did you see him right away?”
“No. I saw the award lying on the floor, and I said, ‘Oh, Mr. Marker, your CMA award fell down.’ I picked it up—it’s really heavy—and put it back on the corner of the desk. That’s when I saw blood on my hand, and I wiped it on my jeans. And when I looked up I saw him lying on the floor on the other side of his chair.”
“Did you know he was still alive?”
“No! I didn’t. I was sure he was dead. He wasn’t moving. And his blood was on my hand and on my pants. I got so scared, I started to scream and ran out the door, but the guard was there. He yelled at me, grabbed my arms, and pushed me into a seat in the waiting area. He told me to stay there until he came back.” She had been speaking quickly, then stopped. She took a shaky breath, and a sob escaped. “But I didn’t.”
“You didn’t what?” I said, providing another tissue.
“I didn’t wait,” she said in a long moan. Her shoulders heaved up and down and she put her head in her hands, sobbing, curled over, her whole body convulsed in grief. It was as if the misery she’d been holding in so long finally had a chance to escape and she could no longer stop it.
I watched her cry, sad that I couldn’t hug or comfort her in any way. Her attorney had warned me not to touch her, and I needed to follow his directions if I hoped to be of any help in the future.
Her sobs slowly subsided, and her breath came out in hiccups. She used the wadded tissues in her fist to dab at her red eyes and nose. After several deep breaths, she was able to contain herself.
“Why, Cyndi?” I asked softly. “Why didn’t you do what the guard told you to?”
“I was . . . I was sure he thought I’d killed Mr. Marker. He’d said to me, ‘What did you do? What did you do?’ And I had b
lood on me. I didn’t even think about the award when I saw it lying there. I just picked it up. I didn’t see it had blood on it until it was too late. I thought they’d never believe me. Who am I? A nothing from a little town in Maine. And he’s an important publisher, with a Country Music Award, lots of them. So I ran.”
I sighed. “You know that in doing that you’ve made it more difficult for yourself.”
“Yes.” She swallowed visibly. “I realize that now.”
“Where did you go?”
“I don’t even know. I just wandered around the city. I was upset. I was too afraid to go back home, I mean to Mrs. Granger’s. I thought that would be the first place the police would look, so I stayed away and just wandered around.”
“You were gone for three nights? Where did you sleep?”
She bit her bottom lip and shrugged, eyes falling to her hands again.
“Cyndi?”
Washburn interjected, “I’ve been asking that same question.”
“I don’t remember. Really. It’s all a blur until the police found me.”
“You don’t remember?” I said, incredulous.
“No,” she said, picking at a cuticle on her thumb.
There was something she was holding back, a lot she was holding back. I didn’t want to tell myself she was lying—I believed her when she said she hadn’t killed Marker—but there was definitely a hole in this story big enough for a steamship to sail through, and a prosecutor would have a field day cross-examining her. I decided to change the topic.
“I stayed at Mrs. Granger’s house last night, and spent some time in your room,” I said.
That got her eyes up again. “You did? Why?”
“I wanted to get a sense of your surroundings since coming to Nashville.”
“Pretty tacky, huh?”
“I didn’t think it was so bad.”
“Oh! I didn’t mean to be ungrateful, Mrs. Fletcher. I know Mrs. Shevlin did the best she could. And, of course, it isn’t a lot of money, the rent at Mrs. Granger’s, that is, and that’s important. It’ll let me stay in the city longer and use my funds for lessons or whatever else I need. And I’m learning how to live on my own with a budget.”
I could hear her mother’s words coming from Cyndi’s mouth. Obviously, she hadn’t been pleased with her Nashville quarters, and Janet had chided her to be grateful for what she had received.
I interrupted her little speech. “I saw the copy of the cease-and-desist letter you wrote to Mr. Marker,” I said. “When you gave it to him, did he—?”
“I never gave it to him in person,” she said, sitting up straight.
“Did you mail it? The detective says they found it on his desk.”
“I was too nervous to give it to him directly, but I was afraid if I mailed it and he didn’t respond, I’d never know if he got it or not. So I dropped it off with his secretary. She gave it to him.”
“It was signed by Cyndi Gabriel. When did you change your name?”
A faint smile crossed her thin lips. “Sounds stupid, huh?”
“Not at all. Did Mr. Marker suggest it?”
“No.”
“Who did?”
“Oh.” She looked up at the ceiling. “A lot of people told me that Blaskowitz wasn’t, um, well, it’s not really a pretty name, and it’s hard to remember or spell, so I changed it.”
“Look,” Washburn said, pulling papers from his briefcase, “we have to get some work done here. I need you to sign these papers acknowledging that I’ve been retained to act as your attorney.” He slid the papers across the table to her, along with a pen.
“What name should I use?”
“For now, I think you’d better go with your legal name.”
After Washburn thoroughly reviewed the legal papers he’d brought for his new client, and Cyndi signed “Cindy Blaskowitz” where he indicated, I asked what was in the file folder she’d brought into the room.
“Just some songs I wrote.”
“Since you’ve been here?” I asked, incredulous.
“Just a couple.”
“Like Johnny Cash with ‘Folsom Prison Blues,’ ” Washburn said with a chuckle. “Some say a jail experience is good for a country composer.”
Cyndi looked self-conscious. “Not really,” she said. “It’s just there’s not that much to do. They have me all by myself.”
“May I see them?” I asked.
She opened the folder and flipped through a few papers.
“Do you want me to save them for you?” I asked.
“Yes, please,” she said. “They won’t do me any good here.”
“I’ll give them back after you’re released.”
“Right,” she said, but the word was laced with irony.
Before I could take the folder, Cyndi slid out two songs, folded them neatly into halves, and then into quarters. “These are junk,” she said. “Those other two are maybe okay.”
“Let me take them anyway,” I said, tucking them back into the folder. “You may change your mind.”
“We should be leaving,” Washburn said. “I have a downtown meeting with another client in an hour.”
“Cyndi, before we go,” I said urgently, “I really wish you’d tell us where you spent those two days after you ran from Mr. Marker’s office. Mr. Washburn can’t help you unless you’re completely open and honest with him.”
Cyndi swallowed audibly. “I don’t want to get anybody in trouble,” she said.
“You’re in the most trouble,” I said. “You can’t afford to shield someone if it will make things worse for you. Would this person really want you to do that, to make yourself more vulnerable? What kind of friend would ask that?”
“But I promised I wouldn’t say anything.”
Washburn snapped his briefcase shut. “If the DA finds out who it is,” he said, “and you didn’t come clean on this, it’ll make my job defending you a lot harder.”
“Please, Cyndi,” I said. “Trust us. We’re here to help you.”
“Remember, Cyndi,” Washburn added, “anything you tell me is confidential, and I’m sure Mrs. Fletcher will respect that, too.”
“Of course I will.”
Cyndi slowly shook her head before drawing a deep, pained breath. “Wally,” she said so softly that I barely heard her.
“Who’s Wally?” Washburn asked.
“Wally Brolin.”
“Is he a friend?” I asked.
She started crying again as she said, “The only real friend I have here in Nashville. He’s a musician. He let me stay with him after I went to Marker’s office.”
“And he lives where?” Washburn asked.
Cyndi gave him an address in East Nashville.
Washburn jotted down the information on a legal pad, returned it to his briefcase, and made a show of looking at his watch. “Time to go,” he said, standing.
“Will I see you again?” Cyndi asked as the officer stood and walked toward her holding the handcuffs.
“You bet you will,” Washburn said. “We’re a team now.”
“You, Mrs. Fletcher?” Cyndi asked as she extended her slender wrists to the officer.
“I’ll be here every chance I get,” I assured, “and I’ll be working on your behalf when I’m not here.”
Once back in Washburn’s car, I asked, “I will be allowed to see her again, won’t I?”
He nodded. “As long as we’re together. Sorry, but you’re stuck with me.”
“Frankly,” I said, “I’d prefer it that way.”
“Welcome to the Washburn defense team,” he said lightly.
“Thank you,” I said, “for everything. You know, I think I know the key to defending Cyndi.”
“Oh? Tell me.”
“The key,” I said, “is to discover who really killed Roderick Marker, and to find out fast.”
Chapter Ten
“Would you like me to drop you off at your hotel?” Washburn asked as we headed back to the city.
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“That would be wonderful,” I said. “I’m staying at the Renaissance Hotel downtown.”
“I know it well. It’s my mother’s favorite place when she visits from L.A.”
“So you’re not from here. How did you end up practicing law in Nashville?” I asked.
“Well, it’s really just a short story. I came here for Vanderbilt’s law school, ended up clerking with a local judge, liked the city, decided to stay, passed the Tennessee bar, and here I am.”
“A nice concise tale. What appealed to you about Nashville?”
“It’s a little like Los Angeles in a way, in the sense that it’s mostly a one-industry town. That’s not to say that there aren’t lots of other corporations and businesses here, but country music is at the heart of Nashville, and everything revolves around it in the same way Los Angeles is all about the film business. The local media cover the industry. Many of the people here come from somewhere else. Yet everyone I’ve met, from my local dry cleaner, to the lady in the bank, to the guy who picks up the trash is a country-and-western fan, and some are remarkably knowledgeable about country music. The fellow who set up my computer can tell you the difference between the original Jimmie Rodgers and the one who had a TV show, that Loretta Lynn was the first female country singer to have a gold album, and even who Vernon Dalhart was.”
“Who was Vernon Dalhart?”
“Vernon Dalhart was one of over one hundred names used by a Texas singer named Marion Try Slaughter, back when country was known as hillbilly music. He’s in the Hall of Fame.”
“Does that mean you’re a lover of country music, too?”
He laughed. “I wasn’t when I first came here, but I’m a convert now.”
He dropped me at the front of the hotel, where a bellman relieved me of my rolling suitcase. “Thanks so much, Mr. Washburn,” I said through the open window of his car.
“It’s Jamal. You up for dinner, Mrs. Fletcher?”
“Why yes, I am. And it’s Jessica.”
“I thought we should get to know each other a little better and see how we can work together to help Cyndi.”
“I like that idea.”
“My treat,” he said. “I have a favorite place I think you’ll enjoy.” He consulted his watch. “It’s almost four thirty. Shall I pick you up at six? Will that give you enough time?”
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