She asks herself the same question she did in jail: Did she really see this phantom, or is she simply desperate to have seen it? Even if she cannot believe that Max murdered Jonas, is she now sand-shifting the past to deny Maitland’s contention that Max was not only psychotic, but apparently had repeated hallucinations that Jonas wanted to kill him? There is also no denying that she found Max gripping the comb covered in Jonas’s blood.
She shakes her head. As his mother, she is utterly incapable of believing that her son has murdered. She knows him better than any human on earth. They are warp and weft, fire and flame. There has to be another suspect—the real murderer. If there isn’t, then all that is left is the unthinkable: Max will spend the rest of his life in a psychiatric institution—or prison—without her. No, she cannot go to that black place, no matter how unbalanced or violent Maitland claims he is. She sighs. If a client gave her such a story, she would never have bought it—and neither will Tony. No matter. Even if she is deluding herself and there is no other suspect, they must still build a defense sufficient to raise reasonable doubt in the minds of the jurors to acquit Max. This seems almost impossible given the damning physical evidence against him, even without the critical information she has concealed.
Her next thoughts are thorns. Every belief and value she has proclaimed immutable for herself now turn upon this one event, this one moment in her life. As an attorney and an officer of the court, she believes in the system, with all its frailties and foibles. As a human being, she believes in the dirt and clay of right and wrong. She is duty-bound to tell the truth, even if that truth leaves her son’s entire life in jeopardy, in danger, in pieces.
Danielle fights off a sick feeling in her gut. There is another moral dilemma that she has refused to consider, the mere possibility of which fills her with self-loathing. If they are unable to find the real killer, she will be forced to decide whether or not to marshal evidence to cast suspicion upon innocents. She has convinced herself that, if it comes down to the wire, whatever evidence she will be able to uncover probably won’t be enough to convict anyone—just enough to raise the requisite reasonable doubt to acquit Max. She can only pray that they find the real killer. If not, she doesn’t trust herself to say that she will not cross over the line into what is, for her, a mortal sin. She would walk willingly into hell for Max. But will she forfeit her soul to save him?
Before Danielle can speak, the telephone rings. Tony murmurs a few words and hangs up. “Listen, before we go any further, there’s someone I’d like to bring in on the case.”
“Another lawyer?”
He smiles. “Not quite. His name is Doaks. He’s a retired cop, now a private investigator. Since our position is that Max didn’t do it, we’re going to need someone top-notch who knows where all the bones are buried. Someone with connections to the local constabulary.”
Danielle notices his phrasing. Max’s innocence is framed as a legal position, not verity. “That sounds like a good idea. You’ve used him before?”
Sevillas nods. “I’ve known him for thirty-five years. We grew up in Plano together. He’s a little rough around the edges, but he’s the absolute best and, frankly, exactly what we need.”
“Then get him.”
Sevillas stands and walks to the door. “Let me grab his number from my secretary and you can sit in on the call. I have to warn you, though. He calls it like he sees it.”
She meets his probing gaze. “I can take it.”
Sevillas points at a document on his desk. “Why don’t you look this over? I’ll be back in a minute.”
Danielle stands quickly and walks over to him. She wants so badly to touch him, to have him know what she feels for him. He moves, as if to take her into his arms, and then stops himself.
“Tony, I—”
His brown eyes search hers as they both stand, immobile. “Danielle,” he says quietly. “I think we should focus on one thing—your and Max’s defense. The rest is too…complicated.”
“I know,” she whispers. “But you have to know that our night together was real, that it was…true. I was just too afraid to let you in.”
The brown eyes are warm again. He leans forward and kisses her gently on the forehead. “I believe you.” He stands back and shakes his head. “This is insane. It might be the first time in my life that I’ve fallen so hard and so fast. And, of course, the woman turns out to be a defendant in a murder case with the absolutely worst facts I’ve ever seen.” Sevillas sighs as he leans forward to embrace her. Danielle feels the warmth of his whisper against her neck. “I’m not sure how any of this is going to turn out, but I want you to know that I’m going to do the very best I can. As for the other,” he pauses, “maybe it was just one wonderful night. If so, it’s one I’ll always cherish.” With that, he strides to the door and disappears.
Drained, Danielle collapses into her chair as her forehead falls into her hands. Silent, treacherous tears slide down her face. Her universe is a vortex that has her in a pitiless grip. She struggles to quell her panic, now at an unprecedented height after Tony’s rendition of the damning facts. She takes deep, ragged breaths. Max…she must think only of Max. She focuses on his smile; the light gray of his eyes; the curve of his cheek. Slowly, she comes to herself.
As she reaches for the document Tony asked her to read, she notices a law review article on the corner of the burled desk. “Update of Juvenile Criminal Law in Iowa: Too Young for Life?” She glances at the closed door and stashes the article into her purse. Just as quickly, she scans the pleading, which turns out to be Max’s indictment. When she reads the style of the case—The State of Iowa v. Defendant, Maxwell A. Parkman—that numb, horrified feeling crawls over her again. She searches wildly through the indictment. Relief floods her as she realizes that there is no death-penalty demand.
A black thought slices through her brain. It isn’t that they won’t ask a jury to kill him.
They just haven’t done it yet.
Sevillas brings her a cup of coffee and goes to his desk. “Ready?”
Danielle nods as she takes a sip of the hot liquid. “Absolutely.”
“Here we go.” He presses a button.
Danielle hears an enormous crash through the speakerphone that has to involve shattered glass, followed by a loud “Goddammit!” The receiver on the other end of the line seems to be turning cartwheels as the invective continues. “Why in the fuck does a guy ever get married? Stinkin’ knickknacks. I shoulda tossed ’em when I threw her ass out!” There is the noise of something sweeping up shards from a wooden floor. “And that fuckin’ pink wallpaper. What kinda FDS crap is that?” Another long moment passes, and then a sound that resembles the popping of the top of a beer can rattles through the line. Danielle raises her eyebrows. Sevillas shrugs.
There is another clatter, and the scratch of whiskers against the receiver. “Doaks,” growls the voice. “And it better be damned good.”
Sevillas smiles at Danielle and leans back in his chair. “What’s up, buddy?”
“Christ, I knew I shoulda unplugged the phone.” A noisy slurp follows. “Whatever it is, Taco Face, I ain’t here.”
“Whoa, Doaks.” Sevillas uses his butter-cream courtroom voice. “Can’t an old friend call to see how life’s treating Plano’s finest?”
Doaks hoots. “You ain’t got time, hotshot. I can’t open the paper without lookin’ at your ugly mug standin’ on the courthouse steps after savin’ some white-collar prince from the pen. Besides, if you’re callin’ me, it means those asswipes who pass for flatfoots at your shop can’t be trusted not to screw somethin’ up.”
“Perceptive, as always,” says Sevillas.
“No way,” he says. “I’m out of it. Don’t they teach you the word in law school? R-E-T-I-R-E-D.”
“Come on, Doaks.”
“Blow me,” he says. “I’m whatcha call an independent agent now. I don’t gotta listen to squat.”
“You don’t even know why I’m calling.”
“Don’t take no genius,” he says. “P.I. junk, that’s what you’re after.”
“What if you’re right?”
Doaks laughs. “I’d tell you to fuck off. Like I done a thousand times before.”
“Come on, you know you miss it.”
“Yeah, every morning I wake up wishin’ I could stay up all night crammed in my car with cold coffee, chasin’ some moron. Forget it.”
“Just this once, pal,” says Sevillas. “I need the best, and you’re it.”
“Yeah, sure.” The unmistakable sound of someone crunching a can crackles through the line. Danielle can almost smell the beer. “Let’s reel in old Doaks one last time so he can do what those overpaid clods down in that fancy-shmancy office of yours ain’t got the gray matter for. What do you think I am, fuckin’ stupid?”
Sevillas sighs. “Did you hear about the Maitland murder?”
Doaks’s voice is cautious. “You mean that whack-job who put about a thousand holes into some psycho kid?” Danielle closes her eyes. It sounds even worse when he says it than when Sevillas laid it out a few moments ago. Hot shame suffuses her face.
Sevillas casts an apologetic glance at Danielle. “Watch it, Doaks, you’re referring to the son of our new client, Ms. Danielle Parkman, attorney-at-law, who also happens to be sitting across from me.”
“Take me off that speakerphone, shit-for-brains.”
Sevillas pretends to do precisely that. He winks at Danielle as he picks up the receiver and then puts it back in its cradle. “That better?”
“Yeah,” he growls. “But I still ain’t takin’ no case.”
“This one’s different.”
“Right,” he scoffs. “How many times we played that forty-five?”
“The boy was killed with a metal comb.”
“Interestin’ choice of weapon,” admits Doaks. “But not enough to get my blood goin’. So, you got any other suspects?”
“You’re biting.”
“No way.”
“Look, John.” The smooth voice is back. “I know you’ve got an axe to grind with Maitland.”
There is a pause. “So?”
“I’m not calling to ask for repayment—”
“Sure as hell sounds like it.”
“I’m just trying to help you out.”
“Bullshit,” says Doaks. “You need somebody who knows the joint inside and out.”
“Of course I do.” Sevillas lets the next words slide home. “How’s Madeleine?”
Silence.
“Watch it, asshole.” The voice is dark, angry.
Danielle raises her eyebrows, but says nothing. She makes a note to ask Sevillas about it later.
“So, you’ll trot over to my office in the morning?” asks Sevillas mildly. “That’s when we get the black box and start putting this defense together. And why don’t you get the skinny from your buddies at Plano P.D. this afternoon?”
“Don’t tell me how to run a stinkin’ investigation,” snarls Doaks. “I’m gonna watch Johnny Miller’s chippin’ lesson. No way this bullshit is gonna ruin my golf game.”
Sevillas laughs. “Payback is murder, Doaks.”
“Eat me,” he grumbles. “You just took a perfectly good day and shot it all to hell.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The next morning, Danielle smiles at Sevillas’s secretary and takes the coffee and doughnut she offers. As the door closes, she settles into her chair and glances down at the navy pantsuit she put on this morning. She decides that, except for the ankle bracelet hidden beneath the folds of fabric, she feels more clearheaded than she has since this nightmare began. She is impatient to begin. At nine, Sevillas will be here, and they will plan the strategy that will comprise Max’s defense—and her own.
But as the moments go by, black thoughts web her brain. If she is convicted, there will be no one to ensure that Max gets out of Maitland, or to financially fund his appeal. Even if Max is acquitted but she is in jail, who will take care of him? Georgia will do all she can, but Danielle knows she has neither the resources nor the ability to shoulder such a burden—nor would she ask her—and Danielle has no family to call upon. What if Max needs prolonged psychiatric care? She will have no income to fund it. And then there is the worst of scenarios: she is sent to prison, and Max is sentenced to life in prison. She refuses to even entertain the possibility that a jury would give him the death penalty. She shakes her head and wills the snarling hounds in her mind to flee.
Something catches her eye. It is a dark file box on the floor next to Tony’s desk. She is about to make out the words scribbled on top when he walks in.
He looks crisp and professional in a gray pinstripe suit. He strides over to her and squeezes her shoulder. His touch is electric. “Good morning,” he says. “You look like someone who had a good night’s sleep.”
“I did, actually. I was more tired than I thought.”
He sits behind the desk and pours himself a coffee from a silver thermos. “As well you should be.”
“Tony?” She tries to keep the desperation out of her voice. “Did you see Max? Is he all right? Can I see him?”
He nods. “Yes to the first two; no to the latter.”
She is crestfallen. “First, tell me how he is.”
“He seems well, but is understandably anxious about you and Jonas’s death,” he says. “I told him you were fine; that I was going to represent both of you; and that he could speak to you very soon. By the time I left, I think he felt much better.”
“Can I talk to him?”
“I’ve arranged for you to have daily telephone conferences with him. The ad litem agreed that it was in Max’s best interest.”
Relief fills her. “Oh, Tony, I can’t thank you enough. May I call him now?”
“This afternoon. And you’ve got to keep it short.”
“How short?”
“The court ordered that the duty nurse has the discretion to terminate the conversation when she thinks it appropriate.”
Danielle groans. “Nurse Kreng. She won’t give me five minutes.”
Tony shrugs. “We have no choice. Hopefully we’ll be able to convince the ad litem to extend the phone conferences. And I’ll try to get you a face-to-face visit—supervised, of course.”
She takes a deep breath. “It isn’t much, but I’ll take it. Now, tell me all about your visit.”
He tells her about Max’s horrified reaction to the charges against both of them and the upcoming hearing. When questioned, Max was adamant that he had no memory of the event at all. He was in tears and terrified, but calmed down when Tony assured him that he would talk to him every day and that Danielle would be calling him very soon. Tony met with him for an hour, but Max couldn’t stay alert. Tony stayed until he fell asleep. His voice softens. “He’s a fine boy, Danielle. I’ll do everything I can to bring him back to you.”
Tears catch in her throat as she starts to rise to go to him. “Oh, Tony, how can I bear this?”
He points at her chair. “By keeping sharp and helping us build a strong defense.” She sits back down. He smiles that wonderful, warm smile. “And by not coming over here and making it impossible for me to concentrate.”
She smiles back. “Whatever you say, Counselor. Where do we start?”
Sevillas points to the box next to his desk. “Right there. As soon as I—”
The door opens, and a disheveled man wearing a dingy golf shirt and khakis with a large, dried coffee stain on the right thigh strolls in. His white hair stands on end. He looks like he just stepped out of the shower and electrocuted himself. His voice is gravel crushed by a wooden wheel. “Mornin’, all.”
Danielle looks at Sevillas, expecting him to redirect the wanderer to the service elevator. Instead, Sevillas stands and smiles. “Doaks—good to see you. I’d like to introduce Danielle Parkman.”
The man turns to Danielle and offers her a rough, brown hand. His wrinkled frown splits into a grin, as if his face is
unaccustomed to it. “Glad to meet ya.”
Shaking his hand is like grabbing a piece of sandpaper. “Good morning, Mr. Doaks.”
“Just Doaks,” he says. “That’ll do fine.” He plops himself on the chair next to hers, takes a look around the room, and gives a low whistle. Danielle follows his gaze. There is no question that power pervades the room with the inaudible but palpable white noise of wealth. Floor-to-ceiling windows provide a panoramic view of downtown Des Moines as the rumble of traffic below filters up. Mirrored windows from adjacent office buildings shoot light throughout the room, which falls on four canvases of modern art that fill it with brilliant color.
“Holy shit, big shot,” he says. “What a dump you got here.”
“Thanks, pal.” Sevillas takes off his suit jacket, tosses his cuff links into a crystal ashtray and rolls up the sleeves of his freshly starched shirt. He gives Doaks’s trousers a wary look and winks at Danielle. “Appearances aren’t everything.”
“Fuck you.” He turns to Danielle and gives her a sideways grin. “Sorry, ma’am. Sometimes the boy gets too big for his long pants, and I gotta take him down a notch or two.” He turns to Sevillas. “Got any coffee in this hovel?”
Sevillas pushes a button on his phone and sits back. More coffee arrives on a platter loaded with Danish and coffee cake, smelling strongly of cinnamon and dripping with white icing. Within minutes, Doaks has waded through his first cup and spilled crumbs down the front of his shirt. He tips back in his chair. “Okay, clock’s runnin’. Let’s get started.”
Sevillas turns to Danielle. “I’ve given Doaks a detailed rundown on where we are and what you and I discussed yesterday, but before we get to the black box, I’d like him to fill us in on what he’s learned from the Plano Police Department. Doaks?”
Saving Max Page 11