by A. W. Gray
Holy smoke, Sharon thought, he feels left out. Russell Black, the king of the courtroom, is miffed because his assistant, me, has gotten herself involved in something and hasn’t asked his advice. She felt a twinge of guilt. “I’ve got to level, boss,” she said, “I’ve come within a whisker of contacting you, but I didn’t want to interrupt your fun. I may be in over my head here.”
Black’s interest picked up. He raised one shaggy eyebrow. “Well, tell me about it, girl,” he said. “Like I been sayin’ to my daughter. It’s what I’m here for, to help you youngsters.”
Sharon told the story from moment one, when Darla had first spotted her at Planet Hollywood, up to Darla’s call to the courtroom an hour ago. Black listened, scratching his chin, going to the Mr. Coffee for a steaming cupful, sipping as he listened. Sharon thought that Russ’s memory was one of the wonders of the world; the man never took notes but had total recall.
When she’d finished he said, “You know they’re gonna arrest her.”
Sharon nodded. “Would appear so, if they can dig up probable cause to identify her as a suspect.”
“They got probable cause up to here without liftin’ a finger. She got into a fight with him in public. Witnesses saw her leavin’ the scene o’ the crime, and didn’ see anyone else comin’ or goin’. They can pick her up on that alone.”
“They can pinpoint her arrival at the hotel, too. What they can’t establish right now is the exact time of death. Within a couple of hours give or take, but it will be up to Darla’s defense to show he could have died after Darla was already gone.”
“You’re not talkin’ a trial yet. You’re talkin’ only probable cause to arrest this woman. They’ll have to extradite her, but that’s only a matter of showin’ they got a valid warrant. Somebody needs to prepare this lady that she’s goin’ to jail.”
“It’s not up to me to do that,” Sharon said. “That’s for her lawyer. Milt Breyer being the prosecutor will help the defense, Russ. Whatever Milt knows, the newspaper knows. There are times I’m surprised he doesn’t furnish reporters copies of his opening and closing arguments in advance.” She chewed her lower lip. “I’ve already been to an interview. Milt Breyer, Kathleen Fratemo, Stan Green, and the FBI.”
Black scowled, scratching above his eyebrow. “The feds have somethin’ legitimate, or just snoopin’ around?”
“More the latter, I think. They’re in the prosecution’s way, which is a plus for the defense. I doubt we’ll see much more of the fibbies now that their presence is in the headlines.”
“And that they’re monitorin’ the case, which they’ll do from Washington by readin’ the newspaper. Yeah, okay, that much I understand.” Black picked up his cup and blew on the hot liquid. “I wouldn’t let the actress talk to Milt Breyer. Not yet.” He sipped.
“She’ll have a lawyer present.”
“Not even that way. I’d feel better if the lawyer was you, but not some person we know nothin’ about. No way.”
“Look, I can’t advise her. All I’m supposed to do is help her select a California attorney. Hold her hand. It’s as far as I can get ethically involved.”
“There’s ethics and there’s right, and a lot of the time it’s two different things. Nine lawyers outta ten are gonna see dollar signs, which will interfere with what they know to be proper legal counselin’. The best advice she can get right now is to keep her mouth shut. She can tell them what she wants to once they clear her, but the best way for a lawyer to build up a fee is to have her talk her bloomers off. Like I say, two different things.”
All of which Sharon knew to be on target, and she suspected that things in fast-track California were even worse than she was accustomed to in Texas. “I don’t think Darla wears bloomers, Russ,” she said. “That was Fanny Brice.”
“Well, whatever. You can represent her when she talks to Milt Breyer without gettin’ in any conflicts, an’ I think you ought to.”
“I’ve already told her I couldn’t. I can’t do an about-face and hire myself, now, can I? What I’ve agreed to do is test the water with Milt Breyer, find out when the Dallas people can go to California to talk to her.”
“Now, that,” Black said, his expression dead serious, “is somethin’ you shouldn’ be doin’.”
Sharon was puzzled. “That’s not performing any legal function. I’m just coordinating travel schedules.”
“From the actress’s standpoint, yeah. Your whole thrust is, she’s only a witness, an’ until the D.A. agrees that’s her only function, they don’t hear a word from her. I’m talkin’ about your position in this thing. You’re a witness, too, and if you go over there tryin’ to make travel plans, they’ll put you on the hot seat. You should keep away from the D.A. for the same reason Darla Cowan’s s’posed to. Should never have talked to the feds, for that matter.”
“That’s a little silly, Russ. No way could I be a suspect.”
Black’s scowl was suddenly more intense. “When you’re dealin’ with Milt Breyer, anything’s possible.” Sharon’s puzzlement vanished as a flashbulb exploded in her head. You’re not fooling me, Mr. Black, Sharon thought. She pictured Black mother-henning his daughter around eastern Europe, trying to dictate her comings and goings, and imagined that had been quite a battle. Ginny Black was a headstrong young woman. Well, so was Sharon Hays. But she did recognize concern, and that Russell Black viewed her about as much as family as he did his only child. His legal arguments were weak as watered-down whiskey, but Russ was sending a message that he wanted to be involved. Time for a little diplomacy, Sharon thought. She reached into the past, to her stage career, and put on her best round-eyed look, the little-girl-lost-in-thewoods approach. “Well, maybe I should have a lawyer of my own,” she said.
Black’s expression softened. “At the very least, if you’re goin’ ahead with this thing.”
“I hate to ask, boss,” Sharon. said, “but do you think you could call the D.A. for me?”
Black made a show of looking at his calendar, which Sharon happened to know was blank because he was scheduled to be away. “Reckon I could,” Black said. “Don’t seem to have anything else goin’ on.”
“Great.” Sharon’s mind was moving a mile a minute now, planning her trip, what she was going to tell Darla, thinking of things which, as a lawyer, she needed to know in advance. Such as what she might run into in California, the laws being somewhat different out there. She started to rise, then remembered Black’s feelings and sat back down. “Something else I’d like to run by you, Russ.”
“Shoot,” Black said. “I’ll help ya if I can.”
“They’ve got a section of the SMU law library for statutes of foreign states. I’m thinking, maybe I should scan the California code. See what might be different out there. I’ve never handled an extradition, and I think I should know the procedure from A to Z.”
“Good idea,” Black said. “I never said you weren’t sharp as a tack when it comes to gettin’ prepared.”
Though she kept her help-me expression, she smiled an inward smile as broad as a Cheshire cat’s. Russ hated research with a passion and always had. “What I was wondering,” Sharon said, “could you come with me? You might come up with something in the California code that I’d miss, boss.”
Black pretended to think that one over, then dismissed her with a wave of his hand. “I trust your judgment, Sharon. I’ll letcha go that one alone.”
Sharon stood. On her way to the library she could call the airlines, check the schedules. “Well, after I’m finished, I’ll call you and let you know what I find.” She smiled. “I’m glad you’re back, boss. I don’t know how I could manage without you.”
10
Sharon entered the law library at SMU, climbed the stairs to the second level, and signed in at the desk. Then she veered to her right in the cavernous research section and went to the stacks containing statutes for
the state of California. In moments she trudged to a reading table carrying three doorstop-sized volumes, dumped her load on the table, jammed her Walkman’s earphones into her ears, set the dial on Country 96.3, sat down, and went to work.
She briefly scanned the California Criminal Codes. As she studied she silently lip-synced Tammy Wynette, who was belting out “Stand by Your Man” over the airwaves. She didn’t find any surprises in the laws themselves; what Texas designated as capital murder was murder with special circumstances in California, though either offense subjected the perp to the death penalty. Sharon thumbed to the index and looked up the questioning of witnesses. As long as Darla wasn’t under indictment, she’d be treated as a witness, and any questioning by Texas people would be subject to California law if Milton Breyer flew to L.A. On his home turf Milt could push witnesses around just about any way he wanted to. In La-La Land, however, Sharon suspected that intimidation tactics weren’t going to fly.
A smile touched her lips as she read over the law. Milt was going to be more of a fish out of water in California than she’d thought. Not only did Darla have a right to counsel during questioning—a right governed by the U.S. Constitution and therefore applicable in every state—in California she could have the interrogation conducted in open court in front of a judge. Ergo, if Milt balked at having a court reporter take down his questions and Darla’s answers, then the whole group could simply march into the courtroom. She yanked a legal pad from her satchel and made a note to question whatever lawyer Darla retained as to his knowledge of the California witness statutes. Some hoity-toity L.A. attorney would get his nose bent out of shape over an upstart woman from Texas putting him through the meat grinder. Well, that’s tough, Sharon thought. Darla had asked her to aid in the selection of a lawyer, and that’s what Sharon Jenifer Hays was going to do.
A hand moved into Sharon’s line of vision and touched her on the arm. She looked around. It was the student worker from the sign-in desk, a Phi-Delt-looking youngster wearing a Polo shirt. Sharon unplugged her earphones and smiled expectantly.
“Miss Hays?” The student’s whisper was anxious. “Are you Sharon Hays?”
Sharon was a regular at the university library, and had long since gotten used to being recognized. She said, “Yes, I’m Sharon.”
“There’s a phone call for you at the desk.” He beckoned and walked toward the entry.
Sharon frowned as she laid her earphones down, got up, and followed the student to the sign-in desk.
The telephone receiver lay off its hook, on the desk beside a seven-inch TV where the student worker had been watching Days of Our Lives. The student sat down and looked at the screen. Sharon picked up the phone and said, “Hello?”
“Better get undercover in a hurry, girl.” It was Russell Black, his tone showing disgust.
Sharon leaned one hip against the desk. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s that so-and-so Milton Breyer.”
Black would have called Breyer a sonofabitch or an asshole if he’d been speaking to one of his male cronies, but when women were around he watched his language. Sharon suppressed an affectionate grin. “What’s Milt done now?” she said.
“I called him to set up a meetin’ in California. He says he can fly out tomorrow. That’s the good part.”
“It’s the good part if he doesn’t mind cooling his heels in a hotel for a night or two. It’s going to take me awhile to get with Darla and let her hire a lawyer. What’s the bad part?”
“Two bad parts. They’ve found a car, in the hotel valet lot. Milton’s told the press that you rented it on your credit card.”
“Yes, at Love Field. Darla and I wanted to ditch the limo so we could travel on the q.t. I’ve got receipts, and I think I can establish she took me home before she went to the hotel.”
“Which helps you, but not Darla Cowan. Breyer’s held a press conference,” Black said, “tellin’ that she’s the prime suspect. Usual prosecutorial baloney, that they’ve got all this evidence that they don’t want to go public with.”
“Which means they’ve got zip for evidence, but are beating the bushes for some,” Sharon said. She felt a bit cold as pity for Darla surged through her. She clenched her jaws. There would be plenty of time for hand holding later, but for the moment she had to think legal. “Have they issued a warrant for her?” she said.
“Hadn’ had time, but that’s next. Expect Breyer to do it in secret and carry the warrant to California with him. Then when the actress shows up expectin’ to go through questionin’, Milt will have her arrested with the cameras grindin’.”
Which would be SOP for Milton Breyer, Sharon thought. She said vacantly, “I suppose I’d better forget the witness statutes and bone up on extradition procedure,” she said. She sighed. “You told me there were two bad things, boss. What’s the other one?”
“Milt’s been givin’ all kinds of interviews.”
“So what’s new? If the newspapers don’t call Milton once a week, he starts calling them.”
“He’s told them all that you’re Darla Cowan’s lawyer,” Black said.
Sharon looked at the floor, then up at the ceiling. “You’re joking.”
“It’s all over the television, the networks,” Black said. “CBS ran pictures of you getting in her limo in the West End, then showed your college yearbook photo. The phone’s ringing every fifteen seconds, people wanting to interview you.”
Sharon drummed her fingers as anger welled within her. “I told that moron I wasn’t Darla’s lawyer when I saw him at the FBI office the other night. Several times.”
“Evidently you wadn’ clear enough. We’re not set up to deal with all these phone calls, Sharon.”
“Don’t I know it?” Sharon turned her back to the sign-in desk, ducked her head, and lowered her voice.
“I can’t take this, boss. I’m leaving town.”
“Can’t say as I blame ya. Every fifteen minutes I run the message tape back to erase everthing, an’ then fifteen minutes later it’s full again. I’m goin’ to be scarce around here myself.”
“Go back to Paris. That or fishing or something. I’m headed for sunny Southern.” Sharon hung up. She softly closed her eyes and thought. She called Sheila.
“Have you seen the news?” Sheila said.
“I don’t want to see the news. Take Melanie up the street and pack her things, Sheila.”
“Pack what?”
“Enough clothes for four or five days in California. I’ll need for you to take me to the airport, if it’s okay.”
Sheila snickered. “Are you out of your mind?”
“More than likely,” Sharon said. “Darla wants me to help her with something.”
“You’re all over the television. Profiles of Darla Cowan’s lawyer. Former Broadway star. Ex lover of Rob Stanley. ABC just announced they’ll interview Rob on Prime Time Live to get the real skinny on you.”
Sharon sagged. She was suddenly weak in the knees. “God, they didn’t say I was a star…”
“They wouldn’t exaggerate would they?” Sheila said. “Represent biggo clients, become biggo news yourself. Ask Robert Shapiro.”
“I’m not Darla’s lawyer. That false information comes from Milton Breyer’s office. Is Melanie there?”
“Sure, I picked them both up from school. Which brings up a point. She’d have to miss school to go on—”
“Her grades are pretty up to snuff, and she hasn’t been sick any. So she’ll have some makeup work. It might keep her out of my hair for a couple of nights when we get back. Just help her pack, okay? I want to look up a couple of more things in the law, extradition procedure, and then I’ll be on home.”
There was a pause, and Sharon pictured Sheila standing there holding the phone, rolling her eyes. Finally Sheila said, “When is this trip supposed to occur?”
“Tonight.”<
br />
“Sharon…”
“I’ve got to get out of here before these newspeople drive Russ completely crazy. I don’t think I’m going to have another moment’s peace until I can get this over with. I’m going to call Darla, have the tickets left for us at DFW, and I’ll see you in, oh, a half hour.”
“Sharon, this is insane.”
Sharon backed away from the desk and peered around the comer, at the table where her satchel and Walkman sat along with the California law books. Extradition statutes would be in the federal code, way down at the other end of the library. “I suppose I am a little crazy, Sheila. Just help Melanie pack, okay? For the rest of our lives I’ll be indebted to you.”
Darla wasn’t in, but had erased Spencer’s message from the answering machine and substituted one of her own. Her soft voice was much more pleasant than David Spencer’s, which had sounded as if whoever was calling was being a pest. Sharon waited for the beep, gave Darla’s machine her flight number and the information as to where to call to arrange for the tickets, then paused and thought, carefully selecting her words. Finally she said, “You’ll have heard by now that Mr. Breyer is spouting off to the press that you’re now his main suspect. He isn’t joking, Darla, and he’s just off balance enough to be dangerous. Beginning right now, love, right this second. Don’t say a word about this matter to anyone other than me, and whatever lawyer we end up choosing for you. Pay attention, Darla. To discuss this with anyone is suicide.”
11
Sharon rode to DFW Airport scrunched down low on the passenger side of Sheila’s Pontiac station wagon, wearing big sunglasses and a scarf tied around her head to complete her disguise. She felt dumb, dumb, dumb, but feeling stupid was better than having the media on her trail. They’d tracked her down at the house, the doorbell bong-bong-ing as Sharon was in the midst of packing her things. She had peeked through the drapes and thought she was having a stroke. There’d been two mobile news units parked outside and three harried-looking guys on the lawn toting minicams. Sharon had crept to the front door and put her eye to the peephole. Two coiffed on-thespot reporters punched the doorbell button relentlessly. Sheila had then slipped on Sharon’s housecoat and answered the bell, and Sharon listened from the kitchen as Sheila told the reporters in her best piping Aunt Jemima soprano, “Miz Hays, she ain’t heah. I’s jus’ cleanin’ house fo’ de lady.”