“He said it looked more like a truck accident than a fight.”
The pen started again. “I was afraid of that.”
“He was very convincing.”
“I was afraid of that too. So that’s our whole strategy, huh? Righteous indignation?”
“So far. We’re going to see if we can get any dirt on Dillon Chase and either of the other boys to muddy the water some more.”
“I like the story,” said Lindsey. “But the autopsy’s going to undermine all of it.”
“We're going to have to paint a picture of Hank as a protective uncle who was enraged by what he saw.”
Lindsey’s pen paused. “Uncle?”
“Do you know of anything more?”
We both looked at Cyn. She shook her head. “Not that I know of. But I wouldn't put it past him. You’ll want to ask.”
I made a note. “There's a second layer to this. If we don’t win the case, we have to at least beat the aggravating circumstances.”
“What do you mean?” said Danny.
I kept forgetting that he had no experience with this kind of thing. “Just killing someone isn't enough to warrant the death penalty. The prosecutor has to show something more, either that the killing was part of the premeditated plot or that it happened in the course of some other crime like burglary or robbery. Here, they’re charging him with attempted murder against Whitsel too. If we beat the attempted murder charge, we eliminate the death penalty.”
“And what’s the defense there?” said Danny.
“Hurting Whitsel was an accident. Hank was trying to get to Chase. He had no intention of harming Whitsel so no attempted murder.
Cyn tapped a single red nail against the table. “Mr. Braggi isn't interested in life in prison.”
“I doubt he's interested in death row either,” said Lindsey.
Her pen kept spinning. “Have we thought about an insanity plea?”
“Mr. Braggi is not insane,” said Cyn.
“Dillon Chase’s body says otherwise,” said Lindsey. “Listen, I had a psychiatrist on board before I was canned the first time. Let’s send her the written file, just in case. Then if we decide to call her in, she can hit the ground running.”
“Mr. Braggi will not consent to that,” said Cyn.
“An insane person wouldn't,” said Lindsey.
Lindsey’s pen was spinning while Cyn’s red nail was tapping. It was riveting. Then I realized they were both looking at me. “Send her the materials,” I said. “But hold off on the review. It’s just in case.”
Cyn’s lips pressed together slightly but didn’t say anything.
I raised a hand. “Like I said, it’s a precaution. We may not use it. Let’s focus now on showing that Chase was a scumbag. I have Olivia Brickson investigating his background. I should have something over the weekend. Danny, get to work on the jury instructions.”
“Got it,” said Danny.
“Lindsey, you spend the weekend getting familiar with the file.”
“I've read it.”
“I'm sure, but Cyn has organized it and I need you to know where everything is. I'd also like you to put your prosecutor's hat on and think about how they’re going to present the murder case.”
“I bet it starts with a five-foot-tall picture of what was left of Dillon's face.”
“Then pick the worst ones and think about how you would present that without turning off the jury.”
“Got it.” She pretended to write a note. “Prepare the easiest case ever.”
“Probably. Cyn, I assume they're going to call the police officers that investigated the scene and arrested Hank. I want you to find statistics about the number of heroin arrests and convictions in Carrefour in the last ten years. Then I want you to make a couple of graphs.”
“Of the arrests and convictions?”
I nodded. “I'm certain they've skyrocketed. We’re going to want to convey to the jury the scope of the heroin problem. I think most people have a sense that this is going on, but I want them to see it in black and white.”
Cyn’s fingernails rattled across her keyboard. “Should I do the same thing for deaths and overdoses?”
Danny's eyes darted towards me while Lindsey stared at the table.
“Absolutely,” I said. “Let's make it so they can see that the risk was real when Hank entered that room. We’re going to have to build the feeling that any one of them would've done the same thing and that all we’re talking about is the method.”
“Done.”
“We need to take another shot at interviewing Purcell and talking to Whitsel but that can wait until Olivia gets us more information on them. I'd love to talk to Lizzy Saint and Jared Smoke, but they're not going to be back in town until trial.”
“Do you want to speak with them?” said Cyn.
“I want to do a lot of things.”
The nails rattled on the keyboard again. “They’re in Raleigh, North Carolina tomorrow, Wilmington the day after that, and then Charlotte on Tuesday.”
I gave her a bobbling head shake. “Okay.”
“You want me to book your flight?”
I blinked. “That's an option?”
Her eyes were cool but I swear I saw a little amusement in there. “I told you, Nathan. All of the resources of our firm are at your disposal for this one.”
“Then yes. Can we get a hold of her?”
She nodded. “Hank gave us her contact information. We can reach her.”
“I better get down there right away then. Do we know how she feels about all this?”
“We know she was on good terms with Hank before this. She's distanced herself from the situation now.”
“I can't imagine she's thrilled about the whole heroin angle,” said Lindsey.
“She was the victim on that,” I said.
Lindsey shrugged. “Still.”
“All right. I'll leave tomorrow.”
“So basically,” said Lindsey, “we’ll all start working on the case and you’ll fly off to talk to a rock star?”
I pointed. “Exactly.”
“Just making sure.”
I looked around. “Anything else?”
“Sure you don't need to check in on Taylor Swift to see if she has any information?”
“I'll catch her on the way back.” I looked around and no one else had anything so I said, “All right, that's it.”
“Mind if I take the file home?” said Lindsey. “What with you going to rock concerts and all.”
Cyn turned her chair, grabbed a tablet off a side table, and handed it to Lindsey. “It's all on there.”
Lindsey looked at me.
I smiled. “Told you.”
We broke up. Danny went to his office to start on the jury instructions and Lindsey took her tablet and left. As I started to leave, Cyn said, “I take it I can tell Mr. Skald that you’re in?”
“You can.”
“Good.”
Cyn was hard to get a handle on. It's not that she was distant—she engaged in small talk and she was always considerate, but I just never really felt like I knew what was going on in her head. Just now, she could just as well have been discussing the weather as planning strategy for a murder trial. “Do they get it?” I said.
“Get what, Nathan?”
“That Hank is in big fucking trouble.”
“The language I used was different. The connotation was the same. And yes, they understand.”
“I'm not sure Hank does.”
“That's not true, Nathan.” Cyn's eyes were like green stones. “Mr. Braggi understands exactly what's at stake. That's why he's acting the way he is.”
“That doesn't make a lot of sense.”
“It does to him.”
“You’re going to have to explain that to me.”
“Maybe he will at some point. In the meantime, let's get you to Raleigh.”
16
I was walking through the Raleigh-Durham airport the following afternoo
n when my cell buzzed. Olivia Brickson. “Hi, Liv,” I said.
“I have some info for you on Chase, Purcell, and Whitsel.”
“Great. Shoot.”
“Whitsel seems to be exactly what he looks like.”
“Which is?”
“A slightly douchey MBA student living on internships and student loans.”
“Got it. And Purcell?”
“Murkier. Dropped out of school a couple of years ago but still hangs around it. No discernable source of income but could be living off indulgent parents or under the table work. Nicer car and house than you’d expect for the unemployed.”
“Consistent with what I saw. Keep checking. And our victim?”
“Dillon Chase was a professional facilitator.”
“A what?”
“From what I can see, Chase floated around the music tour scene, glomming on to different acts and acquiring what they needed as they moved from place to place.”
“Rock groups?”
“All sorts—hip-hop, country, rock. Usually one rung below the biggest thing—a hot group on the way up, an old group on the way down, or a successful journeyman who was making a big living.”
“Or journeywoman.”
“Bingo.”
“Any common denominator?”
“Not that I can see yet.”
“Can you tell what he provides?”
“He doesn’t provide. He facilitates. And literally anything—the usual drugs and booze, but also companionship, venues, and exotics.”
“Exotics?”
“ I’m pretty sure he got a certain popstar in touch with an elephant trainer.”
“You’re shitting me. For that Music Awards stunt?”
“You got it.”
“We’re in the wrong line of work, Liv.”
“Sure seems that way—it’s a bitch getting your own elephants all the time. Want to stop by and pick up the file?”
“I’m in Carolina right now. Why don’t you email it to me?”
Olivia paused. “I’d rather not, Nate. I’m leaving enough footprints as it is.”
“Okay. I’ll pick it up at the gym when I get back.”
“Perfect. What’s in Carolina?”
“A rock star witness.”
“Will she see you?”
“I hope so.”
“You don’t know?”
“Cyn’s working on it.”
“Good luck. And get a workout in when you’re down there.”
“Yes, Boss. And thanks.”
I had just hung up when the phone buzzed again. Cyn. “Hey.”
“I got your tickets to the show at the North Carolina campus but you're not going to be able to see her until after.”
“No hello? No how was your flight?”
“Hello, Nathan. How was your flight?”
“Well hello, Cyn. A little bumpy over the Appalachians, but I can't complain.”
“And yet. Can we go back to why you flew to North Carolina now?”
“If you’d ever stop with the small talk we could. It's only three o'clock. I really can't talk to her before the show?”
“It took all the connections we had for you to see her at all. Apparently, Ms. Saint has a pre-concert routine that will brook no disturbance.”
“All right. When's the show?”
“Opening act is at seven, Saint at nine, and you should be able to talk to her sometime after midnight.”
“Jesus.”
“Rock stars being what they are, I imagine that qualifies as an early morning meeting.”
“I imagine it does. Flight home?”
“Ten a.m. I booked you at the Chapel Hill Marriott. I'm texting you the information.”
“I'm not sure what I did before you, Cyn.”
“Floundered. Make sure you're on that flight.”
I noticed I was taking a lot of orders at the end of these conversations. Apparently, I needed direction. “Got it. Do they know why I want to see her?”
“They do. They're fine with it.”
“All right. I'll let you know what I find out.”
“Excellent. I truly hope that you enjoy your accommodations, Nathan, and that your flight home is pleasant and utterly without incident.”
“That's just mean-spirited.”
“One can never go wrong with concern for one's coworkers.”
“Goodbye, Cyn.”
“And not even the slightest inquiry about my well-being or weekend evening? Fine, Nathan. Goodbye.”
“Wait, Cyn. What about your—”
The call disconnected. I had the score as Cyn 1, Nate 0.
I caught an Uber to the hotel, which wasn’t too far from the Dean Smith Center on the UNC campus where the concert was going to be. I had just checked in and found my way to the room when my phone buzzed with a number I didn't recognize but was from my home area code. “Nate Shepherd,” I said.
“Nate, it's Lindsey.”
“Oh, I guess I have to add you to my contacts.”
“I’m hurt.”
“My apologies. Why aren't you out on a Saturday night?”
“What am I going to do, go to a rock concert? I have a trial to prepare for.”
“Good point. Only an asshole would do that.”
“Exactly. Hey, have you really studied this autopsy?”
“I thought so. What's up?”
“It takes a while to break this many bones and then smear the guy all over the hotel room.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean punching him in the head and breaking his arms and smashing his ribs and then bouncing him off every wall in the room takes some time. I'm telling you right now that the prosecutor is going to reenact it or at least measure out the pace of it and it's gonna seem awfully goddamn long.”
“Alright.”
“So when you talk to Saint or to Smoke, try to nail down what, if anything, they saw. My thought is that if we can confirm that no one saw it, then maybe we can keep the prosecutor's presentation about how long it took out of evidence.”
“Good point. From the reports, Lizzy was unconscious or on the verge of it and Smoke was out of the room for a time.”
“Exactly.”
“Thanks, Lindsey. That's helpful.”
“Thanks. Sounds surprised again and I’ll whip your ass.”
“A lot of that going around today. Doing anything tonight?”
“On my personal time?”
“Yes.”
“Personal things.”
“Excellent. See you Sunday.”
“Right. Enjoy your concert.”
I hung up. I had about three hours until the concert started and to tell you the truth, I really didn't have much of an appetite for Five-Fold Death Cake or whoever it was that was opening for Lizzy Sainte. I decided to take Olivia's advice and worked out, then cleaned up and got some dinner before heading over to the concert at about eight.
The fact that I called all this work is basically why my dad says I don't have a real job. And tonight, I couldn't really argue with him.
My ears were still ringing when I leaned in toward the security guard and showed him the credential around my neck. “Nate Shepherd to see Lizzy Saint.”
The man looked at me, looked at the plastic card, and looked at the tablet in his hand. His lips moved, but I couldn't hear him.
“I'm sorry?” Even though I’d been up in a luxury box (honestly, Cyn is amazing), two and a half hours of spine-grinding music blasting out a thirty-foot-high wall of amps takes a little while to get over. Although, to be fair, I think it was the cannons at the end that were giving me trouble.
The security guard leaned closer. “Ms. Saint said to show you to her road manager and he'll take it from there.”
“Thanks. Where do I go?”
The security guard waved to another man who guided me down the hall behind the stage. The Dean Smith Center was where the Tar Heels played their basketball games so he led me down to the home te
am locker room, which sounds dreary until you see just what a modern-day basketball locker room of a top-five basketball team looks like. Staffers were scurrying around everywhere, along with roadies and community members and about fifty other people who had credentials just like mine. The security guard passed me off to a runner who pointed me to an intern who introduced me to the assistant to Lizzy Saint’s road manager, a harried-looking man in his mid-twenties with a look that I assume he hoped would work in the presence of both corporate sponsors and rock stars. “Who are you?” he said, looking over my shoulder.
“Nate Shepherd. Appointment to see Lizzy Saint.”
“You and everybody else here.”
I looked around and revised my estimate up to more than a hundred people crammed into the locker room. “All of them?”
“Every single one. Make-A-Wish, United Way, WRCK, and fifty meet and greet tickets. So, which group are you?”
“Hank Braggi's lawyer.”
That got the assistant to the road manager's attention and he looked at me directly for the first time. “How is Hank?”
“Good as can be expected.”
“Is he going to fry?”
“That's what I'm trying to prevent.”
“That why you’re here to see Lizzy?”
I nodded. “We cleared it.”
He looked at his tablet. “I see that. But you're not gonna get jack-squat done here.” He pulled a black leather wristband out of his pocket and motioned. I held my arm out and he attached the wristband to me. “It’s going to be a zoo here. Go to the Regency. There's an after-party in the main suite. This’ll get you in.”
“When?”
“The party’s started now. Lizzy will be there after she works her way through this.”
“Thanks,” I said and I meant it.
“Hank helped me a lot, man.”
“Yeah? How?”
“Helped me get with my girl. Man knows how to lay it down.”
A look must've flashed across my face. The assistant to the road manager laughed and said, “Words. The wrap. He told me exactly what to say. In ways I never would've thought to say it. I owe him.”
I nodded and extended my hand. “I'll tell him.”
“Do that.” And then the assistant to the road manager was consumed with a flood of coeds who demanded better lighting to take their selfies in when they met Lizzy Saint.
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