~ George Abramo
...................
Ryan pulled the ticket out of the machine and the gate lifted in front of him. He set it on his dash, then wondered if his new attorney had parking validation. He’d likely be spending well into the six-figure range before this ordeal was over, so every penny counted. He placed the parking slip into his front shirt pocket and then created a mental trick that would remind him it was there.
Appointment. When he said the word appointment to the receptionist, that would trigger the word ticket, and he’d remember. He enjoyed creating mental games; it kept him from dwelling on his circumstances.
He glanced back to see if anyone had followed him into the parking structure, no cops were visible, but he assumed they were close. He’d seen them when he left his house.
What a stupid waste of taxpayer money; do they actually think I’m going to snatch a woman in broad daylight?
Do they think I’m stupid?
It was of little concern to him, how taxpayer monies were spent, so he put the affront out of his mind.
Ryan shook his leg and tapped his foot while he waited for the elevator doors to open on the fifth floor. He exited into a lobby shared by two attorneys; one was George Abramo, renowned criminal attorney. He had successfully defended Jack Winston the Third, a wealthy socialite visiting from England who had, seemingly, bludgeoned his wife to death while arguing about a referee’s controversial call during a soccer game. It was one of those cases that got air time for weeks, endless network news coverage, talking heads on radio, and late night analysis on cable television. Abramo had convinced the jury that reasonable doubt existed, and like in the O.J. Simpson case, a wife-killing misogynist went free.
Jessica was not happy with his choice; she hated George Abramo. Most American and English women who had followed the Winston story hated Abramo; he typified the stereotypical smarmy and dishonest attorney. However, the attorney Abramo was also brilliant, cunning, and relentless, so Ryan had convinced Jessica that he was the best chance he had. The American justice system, Mills had told her, was adversarial. It wasn’t based upon truth and justice; it was based on the outcome of adversary’s dueling for victory. He needed, no, he deserved, the very best defense they could afford. She had acquiesced, but that didn’t change her opinion of the man.
Ryan shook hands with George Abramo and sat across from him.
He looked up and asked, “What’s next?”
“First thing. You need to start eating. And I mean eating like a weight lifter who needs to grow by twenty-five pounds.”
Ryan looked at him with a tilted head. “Huh?” His attorney was portly and tall, like Raymond Burr as Perry Mason, except with an extra eighty pounds. He wore a neatly trimmed beard, and it appeared that he colored both his beard and hair a few shades darker than natural, but it was hard to tell. He had perfect teeth and spoke with excellent enunciation as if he was teaching English lit.
“Yes. I want you to gain weight. A lot. Here’s why: From now until the trial, if there is a trial, you’re going to be on the news. The shit press will be following you: tabloids, late night women’s network crime commentary, the whole media circus will be up and coming at you. I want you to look like shit. Another thing: no haircuts. And don’t shave.”
“I’m confused.”
“And don’t wear nice clothes out.”
“Why?”
“American criminal justice is a myth. There isn’t anything like actual justice in this country. At least you’re a white guy with a decent job, that helps a little bit. You know in Orange and San Diego Counties, where juries are conservative, the conviction rate is about ninety-nine percent?”
“Damn. Really?”
“Yes. Basically, in your case, there is no jury out there, no possible way to get a jury, in which the members haven’t been tainted by the news. It’s impossible. You’re already being tried and convicted. What you have to do now, the mountain you have to climb, barring a miracle, is prove that you’re innocent. And I say that even though you haven’t even been arrested. Yet. My amazing paralegal team records all the news in these big cases and tracks how a case is being represented. In your case, you’re being barbecued. Slowly. And the government is going to bring out knives and forks and serve you to the jury, afterward they’ll all wipe the barbecue sauce off their faces and go back to their lives while you, my friend, go to prison. For life, if you’re lucky, and to death row, if you’re not.”
“You make it seem like I should just hang myself before they arrest me.”
“Nope. You came to the right attorney. I can do what the others only dream of. One thing is certain, if the prosecutor is going to win this case, I’ll make him work for it. He’ll lose sleep. I’ll make him think that his career is in danger. Hell, you know, I have two junior attorneys on my staff that came directly from the DA’s office.”
“That’s, ummm, good, I guess?”
“Yes, very good. Now, let me explain the weight gain and the appearance for public consumption. You’ll be photographed and talked about. I want you looking like shit because when, and if, a trial happens, we are going to transform you. Once we have started pre-trials, we’ll have an idea, approximately, of when a trial will start. I’m going to be frank here; you aren’t going to be eligible for bail. It’s going to be a capital case. We’ll start preparing you for how to deal with that, but in the meantime, we’ll make plans now for how we are going to attack your case. Once you’re sitting in front of a jury, if we get to that point, I’ll have a custom fitted suit made. It’ll be fitted to the new you. I’ll have you losing weight for six or eight weeks before the actual trial starts. You’ll shave. You’ll get a haircut, even if you have to have a cellie do it, you’ll be clean cut and thin. A new man.”
“That sounds crazy.”
“Yes, crazy like a fox, as my old man used to say. Look, what does this tell the jury? Two things: One, many of them won’t recognize you at all. That really sends the message: eyewitnesses suck. And we’ll have an expert on the stand to say that, too. We’ll be prepared to counter-act any reliable eyewitness testimony. And of course, we are going to destroy Drew Stirling’s testimony. Destroy it. I’ve been watching old newscasts, that shitty business with Boyd. She’s not reliable. Hell, if she’s all they can come up with, we might not even get an arrest. I’ll be returning much of your retainer. Ha ha...not all of it, of course.”
“You said two things?”
“Yes, of course. The second thing: You’re a new man. A changed man. If the jury ends up going against you, we still want as much sympathy as possible. The new look will contrast with this image that the press has put out there, that you’re a scumbag with no redeeming qualities. We’ll want to impress on the jury that you’re a good person. A good professor, a good husband, a good citizen. Being all clean-cut and thinner, making that contrast, it will help us.”
“Okay. I’ll stop on the way home and buy ice cream.”
“And bread. And cookies. And bacon. And drive through McDonalds, too. Eat.”
“That’s easy enough.”
“Now, cops still following you? You doing okay with that?”
“Yeah, I’m okay. It’s night and day, though.”
“Okay. We’ll leave that off the table for now. Nothing could be gained by fighting them in court. One we’d lose, and two, it might work to your advantage.”
“Why is that?”
“Never mind. It’s not important. What is important is that you don’t try to evade the police. If you’re stopped for any reason, cooperate, but ask for me immediately. Carry extra business cards on you. And I’m sure you’re tired of me explaining this, but don’t talk.”
“I know.”
“I’ve heard that before. Don’t talk. Don’t talk. Don’t talk. You say only one thing: I’d like my attorney present.”
“I get it.”
“So have others. But the cops are tricky. They’ll use any centrifuge they can.”
<
br /> “You mean subterfuge.”
“Yeah, that’s what I said.”
...................
Ryan left the parking structure and drove until Market Street before his tail came into view, he wasn’t concerned anymore about being followed, but it had been jarring when it first happened. Driving under the speed limit, using the proper signals, and even stopping at yellow lights became his standard operating procedure. There was no sense in causing any additional drama if it could be helped.
He went to the supermarket, purchased two New York strips for dinner and then filled his cart with cookies, ice cream, chips, and candy. He also picked out a bouquet of flowers for his wife: sunflowers and daisies.
Loading the groceries into his trunk, he waved awkwardly at a couple of uniformed cops in a patrol car who were observing him, but they ignored the gesture and pulled out into traffic behind his car, not bothering to be discrete.
He turned on the radio and drove home.
Ryan was putting the flowers he’d bought into water when Jessica approached him from behind, she put her hand on his shoulder and squeezed.
“How have your individual sessions been going?”
“Oh, fine. He’s great at getting to the bottom of things.”
“I think we should go to couples counseling more frequently. This whole thing, it’s destructive.”
“Okay, honey. I’ll schedule something. Are you okay?”
“Yes. Well, no. I mean I can’t go anywhere without being afraid someone is going to stick a microphone into my face. I hate this. I hate that woman. I hope she gets charged with a crime. She screwed over that Congressman, and now she’s doing it to you. I hate this.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry, just don’t say anything stupid. And stay away from her. Get campus security to walk you to class.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”
“I’m not so confident.”
They ate steaks together for dinner; Ryan had barbecued, and Jessica had made a salad. After eating a bowl of ice cream, he turned on the television to watch the news.
“Holy shit!” Ryan shouted.
The news was reporting another missing student.
A young woman named Laura Wistern had failed to show up for classes and nobody could contact her. She was a blue-eyed blonde, short, and petite. The media was speculating that she’d become the latest victim of the serial killer, which led to vast amounts of speculation about whether Professor Ryan Mills was actually a guilty man or not.
“What’s this mean?” Jessica asked.
“It better mean that I’m in the clear. I’ll call George tomorrow. This is good news. I mean, it’s horrible another student is missing, but it’s proof I’m not their guy. They’ve been watching me too closely, twenty-four hours a day. Nobody can say I’m responsible for this woman going missing. It’s really good news for us; we can breathe.”
“I feel horrible for being happy about this,” Jessica said.
Ryan hugged his wife. He took a deep breath. “Everything is going to be okay. I knew it would be.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
The fountains mingle with the river
And the rivers with the ocean,
The winds of Heaven mix for ever
With a sweet emotion;
Nothing in the world is single;
All things by a law divine
in one spirit meet and mingle.
Why not I with thine?-
See the mountains kiss high Heaven
And the waves clasp one another;
No sister-flower would be forgiven
If it disdained its brother;
And the sunlight clasps the earth
And the moonbeams kiss the sea:
What is all this sweet work worth
If thou kiss not me?
~ Percy Bysshe Shelley
Falling in love is spectacular. Life feels right to a new couple, at long last, they’ve come home. Why is it that the number of successful long-term relationships is so small? I blame the failure on the inability of individuals to recover from previous trauma. Your partner is not a panacea, an elixir, or a solution: rather they’ve come to you with their own unique toxicity.
~ Randy Hawkins
...................
Drew phoned the FBI and demanded to speak to Special Agent Rick Stevenson. Her pulse increased ten beats a minute during the thirty seconds she was on hold.
He answered.
She raised her voice into an escalating scale that reached screaming.
“What the hell! I am so speechless. I can’t believe this.”
“I understand your frustration, Ms. Stirling.”
“Goddamnit! I asked you not to call me that.”
“I’m sorry. These calls are recorded. Maybe we can meet and talk in person?”
Drew silently counted to five. She exhaled. Agent Rick was kind of attractive, in a boyish way. No, he was handsome, truly. She realized that. And he was intelligent. Nobody got into the FBI unless they had a high I.Q. and street smarts. So, he wanted to meet in person?
Drew had only one interpretation.
She told herself that she shouldn’t be thinking about men.
She was supposed to be in recovery. Healing. Going to see a therapist. Rape was supposed to destroy and fracture a woman to the core.
Drew Stirling was tired of being a victim. Fuck victimhood.
“Take me to dinner.” She commanded.
“I’m not sure. I’d like to, but, protocol.”
“Don’t be a pussy. You’ve already pointed out that my case is over. That fuck-head is not connected to the serial case anymore. Hell, the police aren’t even charging him with my case. So I’m not a party to shit. You can take me to dinner. I’m not connected to anything. We can go dutch if you want. You are single, right?”
“Give me five minutes to call you back.”
Five minutes later Drew’s cell phone rang.
“Hello.”
“Hi, Drew.”
His voice had changed. It was softer and not so business-like.
“Hi. Nice to talk to the real you,” she said.
“So dinner. I’d love to take you to dinner. I was being careful on the company phone is all. I’m not a stuffed shirt. Honest. And not dutch. Let me take you out.”
“I didn’t think you were a corporate asshole. You only chase serial killers nine to five, and you’re just a regular guy evenings and weekends. I can see you now at a Padres game drinking a beer.”
Drew liked his laugh. He had a carefree spirit when he wasn’t talking about a case. She was rarely nervous about a first date, but the way things had been going lately? She was suddenly thinking about taking a Xanax.
“So how about Friday night?” he asked.
“Yes, that would be great. No, wait. I can’t. Friday isn’t good. Saturday?”
“Saturday it is. Text me your address.”
“You have my address; it’s in a thousand forms.”
“Drew, I can’t do that. Look, I have your address memorized. I still need you to text it to my personal phone.”
“Okay. I understand. And I’m not offended or anything, you needing to protect yourself, I get it.”
“Thanks. There’s a few things about dating someone in law enforcement. It can get complicated. There’s always a chance I’ll get an emergency call in the middle of dinner. It’s messed up a few relationships in the past. Just a heads-up.”
“Don’t worry. The last guy I dated went back to his wife and the guy before that got murdered for trying to help me. So a ruined date is nothing. Hell, the man in my life before that tried to have me killed. But I did ruin his career, so maybe it’s me, not you, that should be giving the warnings.”
Rick laughed.
“I love your sense of humor. You’re a courageous woman.”
“Seems like that’s my new job. Being courageous. Unbreakable. But, it’s getting old.”
<
br /> They chatted for another fifteen minutes.
Going out. That’s what she needed. The best thing for her now would be time with a good man. Fuck therapy.
...................
Drew Stirling had a reason for leaving Friday night free.
And he was getting into his car.
She followed Professor Ryan Mills from the University campus to his home in the suburbs. She waited. She watched. She played games on her iPhone.
If the police weren’t going to follow him, she would. Hunting the hunter. It had been on Friday nights she’d gone with him to his boat, and the other two missing women had been taken on Friday nights as well. It was also the night he left on his weekend fishing trips, when he got away from his wife, Jessica. Poor foolish woman.
Drew would follow him, prove that he was a monster, and that she hadn’t been seeking publicity; she’d been a victim.
By midnight she was bored. At one a.m., she assumed that tonight wasn’t the night. Not unexpected, he didn’t fish every weekend. But Drew was confident that she’d catch him on a Friday night. Even if it took months. The only night she needed to be concerned about was Friday. The boat and his fishing hobby were the perfect cover. He’d be extra careful after all the media attention, but predators don’t stop feeding in the midst of danger, they only become more clever.
...................
On Saturday evening Drew dressed up. An evening gown, part Tom Ford, part slutty-I-want-you-to-fuck-me. Big shoes. Big hair. Understated jewelry. Why have competition for her eyes? She dabbed Beyoncé’s Midnight Heat and sang If I Were a Boy. She looked at herself in the mirror and laughed. “I’d be a whore for sure.”
“You look very beautiful tonight,” Rick said when she opened the front door.
He leaned in and air kissed her cheek.
“Thank you. Shall we?”
They chatted about work and school. They avoided talking about police work, cases, murder, rape, and serial killers—unusual for them both—for him it was work, for her it was a fascination with true crime stories and Hannibal Lector. Maybe she needed better hobbies?
Undressed At Sea: A Psychological Thriller (Drew Stirling Book 2) Page 23