“Ben, I handled the last one, but now—”
“C’mon, Christina. Didn’t I kill that spider in your office this morning?”
“Yes, but spiders are scary. Judge Derek is just an old egomaniac who’s too handsome for his own good.”
“You can handle the hearing. You’ll be great.”
“But your name is on the papers. If you don’t show, it could seem as though you thought the case wasn’t important. Derek might think you sluffed it off on some second-rate associate.” She batted the strawberry-blonde hair tied up behind her head. “Since he doesn’t know us well enough to realize that I am, in fact, the brains of the outfit.”
“Fine. Then I’ll come into the courtroom. But I won’t say a word. You’re in charge.”
From the end of the corridor, they heard a familiar voice. “Is this a power meeting? Can I eavesdrop?” Jerry Weintraub, from the AG’s office. Their ursine opponent. “I love this high-level strategic stuff.”
“Perfectly ordinary, I can assure you,” Ben murmured.
“Hey, I saw that motion you filed to transfer the case to another judge. What’s the deal?” He jabbed Ben in the ribs. “Don’t you have confidence in dear old Judge Derek?”
“I have confidence in his ability to railroad anyone he thinks is remotely connected to me.”
“Tsk, tsk. Such shocking lack of faith in the judicial system.” Weintraub tilted his head toward Christina. “So does that mean it’s you and me in there?”
“I guess so. Is that a problem?”
“Not for me. I’d rather have you on the other side anyway.”
Christina’s eyes narrowed. “Because you enjoy the challenge of going up against a superior legal mind?”
He smiled. “Because I love the way your cheeks flush when you get all worked up.”
Mike and Baxter sat on a sofa on the side of the cabin’s bedroom while the crime-lab technicians went about their appointed tasks. There was a window just behind them that afforded a breathtaking view of Grand Lake, still and tranquil. But neither of them looked. Mike didn’t want to see anything beautiful, anything that would stand in such stark contrast to the grisly scene before him. Which he also couldn’t look at.
And he wasn’t entirely comfortable looking at Sergeant Baxter, either.
One of the crime-lab tekkies, an emaciated man named Crowley, came over to Mike to report. “We’re just about through, sir. Still got to take some photos and video. But the surfaces have been pretty well scoured.”
“Find anything?”
“Not really, sir.”
“Fingerprints?”
“Just hers.”
“Including the weapon?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Blood?”
“Only hers. Lots of it.”
“What about the gun?”
“Already checked. It’s registered to her.”
Mike stretched. For some reason, his trench coat felt very uncomfortable all of the sudden. “What about the rest of the cabin?”
“We’ve found the usual stuff. Hair and fiber. Most of them match her or clothes in her suitcase. A few still unmatched, but nothing suspicious.”
He nodded. “Thank you, Crowley.”
“Of course, sir.” Crowley skittered away.
Leaving Mike and Baxter alone again.
“I guess you know,” he said, after a long while, “what this is going to do to our records. Our careers.”
“What?” Baxter said, not turning her head. “The fact that we let a suspect we were surveilling die right under our noses?”
“Yeah. That.”
“Doesn’t seem like the stuff commendations are made of.”
“The only thing that’s going to piss off Blackwell more than this screwup is the fact that we’ve already wasted so much time on this case.”
“Morelli, don’t start. There’s no way in hell this was a suicide.”
“It sure looks like one.”
“There’s no note.”
“That’s not even unusual.”
“The gun was in her hand. Again.”
“True. But she was dressed this time, so don’t go down that road.”
“Sheila Knight had no reason to kill herself.”
“She may have had the same reason Erin Faulkner did. And dealt with it in exactly the same way.”
“You don’t know that.”
“No. I don’t.” He pushed himself to his feet. Their eyes met briefly, then both hurriedly looked away. “I don’t know anything, right at the moment.”
“You must admit, it’s a hell of a coincidence.”
“That’s true,” Mike acknowledged. “And I don’t believe in coincidences. But what reason would anyone have to rub out Erin Faulkner—and her best friend?”
“That’s what we have to find out, Morelli. Because if we could answer that question—we could blow this whole case wide open.”
“Your honor,” Christina began, “if you’ll examine the attachments to our most recent brief, you’ll find a series of affidavits relating to this case.”
“If it please the court,” Weintraub said, rising to his feet, “the state objects to the use of affidavits. I can’t cross-examine an affidavit.”
Christina had seen this coming. “Your honor, I’m aware of the evidentiary problem. But given the exigencies of time, I thought it best—”
“Time pressures don’t allow her to trample the state’s rights,” Weintraub cut in.
“If the court would like to extend the execution date,” Christina answered, “we can have a full-blown hearing and call witnesses and do the whole dog and pony show. But with the execution date not even a week away, there was only so much we could do. I would implore the court in the name of decency—”
Derek waved his hand. “Relax, counsel. No lecture necessary. I’ll allow it. For the limited purposes of this hearing.”
“Thank you, your honor.”
She watched as Judge Derek fumbled with his stylish bifocals, ran a hand through his all-too-handsome graying temples, then rifled the pages of the brief. “Attachment A?”
“That’s the one, your honor.”
Derek grunted. “This better be good.”
She couldn’t resist. “It will be.”
Derek peered at her through his half lenses, gave her a few moments of visual sternness, then returned his attention to the brief.
A narrow escape, Christina realized. Her legs were tingling. Did that mean her cheeks were flushing, too? Damn Weintraub—was that remark some strategic mind game, or was she really blotching up like a ink blotter?
“Exhibit One,” she began, “is an affidavit from Michael Palmetto, the head of the organ clinic where Erin Faulkner worked before her death. He reports numerous instances of strange and inconsistent behavior on her part. Exhibit Two is from Dr. Hayley Bennett, a psychiatrist.”
“I’m familiar with Dr. Bennett,” Derek murmured. “She’s appeared in this court in criminal matters on several occasions.”
“She reports several instances of erratic behavior by Erin Faulkner—and her belief that Erin was hiding some secret.”
“That may be, but—”
“The third affidavit is from a man Erin dated, James Wesley. He, too, reports strange behavior on her part. The fourth is from a doctor—of sorts—Erin was seeing. Dr. Jamison Harris.”
“He’s the candle guy?”
“Uh . . . yes.” Christina paused. If Derek knew that, then Derek had actually read the brief before the hearing—quite out of character for him. Why was he so interested? Was it because this was a death-penalty case? Was it because Ben’s name was on the pleadings? Or was there something more? “We also have affidavits from several people connected to Erin’s father, Frank Faulkner. Two from his coworkers at the chemical plant. Dr. Conrad Reynolds and Chris Hubbard.”
Derek closed the brief and removed his glasses. “Counsel . . . what is the point of all this?”
Christina bra
ced herself. Here we go. “The point, your honor, is to make it clear that there are a lot of unanswered questions regarding the Faulkner deaths.”
“That could probably be said in every murder case, Ms. McCall.”
“Your honor, we can’t in good conscience allow an execution to take place when we don’t know what really happened.”
Derek pinched the bridge of his nose. “Counsel . . . in every criminal case, there will be uncertainties. Because ultimately, other people are unknowable. In any true sense. Are you familiar with Jean-Paul Sartre?”
He pronounced the name Gene Paul Sar-ter. Ben suppressed a grin. For all his vaunted Yale education, his facility with existentialists hadn’t improved over the years.
“Yes, your honor,” Christina replied. “I’m very fond of the French language.”
Yes, Ben thought, but is the French language fond of her?
Derek continued. “Sartre said, ‘Hell is other people.’ Do you know why he said that, counsel?”
Because he’d had dinner with you? “No, your honor.”
“Because ultimately, no matter how much time we spend with someone, no matter how hard we try to get to know them—we can never really know them. It’s sad, yes—but very true. Take it from the voice of experience.”
Take it from the voice, Ben thought, of a man who’s split up and reconciled with his wife about a dozen times.
“Now, I’ll grant you, some of these affidavits are interesting. They raise perplexing questions. Questions to which we will probably never know the answers. But imagine what would happen if we halted every criminal prosecution until we knew all the answers. We’d never be able to convict anyone.”
“Your honor,” Christina insisted, “this is a death-penalty case. There should be a higher standard.”
“Not in the eyes of the law. The standard is ‘beyond a reasonable doubt’—and that’s plenty high enough. A jury has already found this man guilty under that exceedingly tough standard. I’m not going to override their judgment based on a few unanswered questions.”
“Your honor, that conviction was based primarily on the testimony of a witness who later recanted.”
“So you say. But that evidence is not before the court. And frankly, it never will be. Unless you’ve got something more for me—I’m afraid this hearing is finished.”
“Baxter! Get over here!”
Baxter didn’t much appreciate being yelled at, but she figured this was not the time to make a fuss. She was just pleased he was speaking to her; since that brief lip lock in the car, he’d barely been able to look at her. Why did she always screw everything up?
She hustled around to the back of the cabin. There was a sharp slope that descended to the lake, covered with scrub trees and bramble. Mike was standing at the top. “What is it?”
“Take a look at this,” he said, pointing at the slope. “What do you see?”
She shrugged. “Typical Oklahoma backwoods scrub.”
“Look again.”
Baxter suspected she was being tested, and she didn’t want to fail. But she saw nothing extraordinary. A few trees with no leaves. Lots of unidentifiable ivy and bramble. Tall spindly plants with long thorns. You could see it anywhere in the state. What on earth did he think—
Wait a minute. There was a section where everything had been pushed down, just a few feet from where Mike was standing. All the brush had been flattened; there were several broken branches and plants. It was as if someone had started to cut a path about a foot or so wide down the side of the hill.
“Something’s been here. Recently.”
“That’s right,” Mike said, hustling toward the slope. “And it went down fast.”
Together, they carefully descended the slope. At the base, just off the lake, he showed her a deep impression. “And this is where it landed.”
Baxter crouched over the spot. The ground was only slightly muddy, but enough to leave a trace of what had been there. She spotted a small shape, outlined in the mud. It seemed flat at the top, but the bottom was three-sided, like the lower half of a hexagon.
She closed her eyes, letting her mind wander. She’d seen that pattern before. It was common. She saw it all the time. But she couldn’t place it. . . .
Until she did. “A pants pocket.”
Mike nodded. “A jeans pocket, to be precise.”
“Sheila Knight was wearing Levi’s when we found her body.”
“Damn straight. And look here, where the mud has been scraped. I think something was dragged.”
“Like a body?”
Mike didn’t comment. “And look over here.” He pointed to a place in the mud only a few feet from the jeans pocket.
“A footprint!” Only the top part was visible, but it was still undeniably the imprint of a shoe.
“Not much of one, but enough to make clear it isn’t Sheila Knight’s foot. And they had a heavy rain out here yesterday around noon.”
“So?”
“So this footprint was made after that. In the last twelve hours. As was the jeans pocket imprint.”
Baxter’s eyes widened appreciatively. “She was down here last night.”
“She fell down here,” he corrected. “Or was pushed.”
“The coroner said there were scrapes and bruises on her body,” Baxter recalled. “Her leg was injured. And her clothes were dirty. It didn’t seem important, given the big hole in the side of her head. But now—” She pondered a moment. “If there was a second person here, why didn’t we see him? We were watching the road all night. And the front door.” Baxter felt her heart racing. Did this mean she had been right all along? That Mike finally believed her? “Morelli, are you thinking—”
“It’s too soon for thinking. We need to collect all the evidence we can and see what we turn up.”
“Yes, but—”
“Baxter—round up the troops. I want every available officer in these woods looking for more traces of an intruder.”
“You got it.”
“And hurry.” Mike jerked his thumb upward. “It’s about to rain again.”
Derek shook his head vigorously. “I’m sorry, Ms. McCall, but I disagree with you one hundred percent. Did your cocounsel, Mr. Kincaid, suggest to you that this was a strong argument?”
Christina bit her lower lip. Either way she answered that question would give Derek an opening to make a caustic remark. She wasn’t taking the bait.
“Because I can assure you it is not,” he continued. “A habeas corpus petition is a request for extraordinary relief. And you have presented a most unextraordinary case. Didn’t you tell me at the last hearing that you were exploring a new theory? That there were two assailants involved in the Faulkner tragedy?”
Christina tilted her head to one side. “Ye-es . . .”
“So where’s the evidence in support of that?”
“I would suggest, your honor, that all of these affidavits . . .”
“Don’t play coy with me, young lady. I’ve read the affidavits. None of them addresses the issue.”
“Nonetheless, your honor, as you yourself have said, they raise questions. Serious questions. Not only about Erin Faulkner’s death, but about the murder of her entire family.”
“And that’s as good as it gets?”
Christina paused. Honesty or advocacy? “I will admit we have nothing that directly supports my theory—”
“That’s what I thought.”
“But it isn’t reasonable to expect that someone is going to sashay through our office doors admitting to being an accomplice to one of the worst crimes in the history of the state.”
“The bottom line here is that you have nothing.”
“I strongly disagree. We may not have anything conclusive, but we have uncovered many intriguing facts. That the police department missed.”
Derek clicked his tongue. “And based on that, you expect me to release a convicted man from death row?”
“Not yet, your honor,” she said.
“All we’re asking at this point is that you postpone the execution date. Give us more time.”
“I can’t do that.”
“You must!” Christina implored. “An innocent man is about to be murdered!”
“Don’t tell me what I must do,” Derek said, rising out of his chair. “I will not tolerate that type of behavior in my courtroom. Maybe your cocounsel thinks that sort of thing is acceptable, but I can assure you it is not.”
“Your honor—”
“If you were better informed, you’d realize your advocacy is inadequate and your behavior is appalling.”
Christina couldn’t hold back any longer. “And if you could get past your decade-old petty grudge against my partner, you’d see that you’re about to allow the execution of an innocent man.”
Derek’s eyes blazed. “Now you listen to me, young lady—”
“And I am sick and tired of this sexist, young lady crap. You will address me as you would any other attorney!”
“How dare you—!” He extended a tremulous arm. “You, Ms. McCall, may deposit another five hundred dollars with the clerk of the court on your way out of here. And if I hear another word from you, you’ll be spending the night in jail!”
Christina so wanted to speak she could taste it. But she had to think of Ray first, and she knew that wouldn’t be in his best interest. She held her tongue.
“Because of the gravity of the sentence passed, I have given you and your petition an enormous amount of leeway—and you see what my reward for that is. Open the door a crack to lawyers of this caliber, and they kick it wide open. It has always been my policy to go the extra mile with habeas petitions. No one wants to see an innocent executed. But the fact is, we do have the death penalty in this state, and your client was convicted of the first-degree murder of no less than eight human beings, and you have not presented the slightest evidence in support of any of your theories of innocence.”
He settled back into his chair. “I am not a jury, and I will not circumvent the decisions of the duly appointed jurors of this state. Not absent extraordinary circumstances.” He paused, drawing in his breath. “Accordingly, I rule against the petitioner.”
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