Will sipped his wine and considered his response.
“When I was a prosecutor, my biggest concern in the courtroom wasn’t the celebrity criminal attorney defending some splashy case. It was the nervous junior associate from the big law firm who’d never set foot in court before defending some lost cause as part of his firm’s pro bono program. You know why?”
Sasha shook her head.
“Because a seasoned criminal defense attorney is a realist—no matter the facts, he’ll likely cut a deal if the client lets him. If the client insists on going to trial, he’ll give it his best shot, but both the lawyer and the client accept that the deck is stacked against them,” Will explained.
He paused and tore a chunk of bread in half. As he mopped it around the dish of olive oil, he continued, “But a big firm lawyer who hasn’t been ground down by criminal practice? He’ll charge ahead, maintaining the client’s innocence. And he won’t spend every day in court handling misdemeanors, entering pleas, or negotiating bonds in the weeks leading up to trial. He’ll have the luxury of focusing on the trial exclusively, working hundreds of hours, and come up with arguments a prosecutor would never anticipate.”
Sasha supposed that could be true. At Prescott & Talbott, the criminal pro bono program—through which lawyers provided free representation to indigent accused criminals or already-convicted criminals who wanted to appeal—was serious business. Associates who took those cases were told to treat them like bet-the-company civil litigation, and they did. As a Prescott associate, Sasha had pitched in on some appeal briefs for a death penalty case. Eventually, twenty-two years after the firm had taken the case, a team of Prescott attorneys had exonerated the defendant through DNA evidence and he’d been released from death row.
She said, “Maybe so, but I’m not a big firm associate anymore. I’m building a practice, Will. I can’t ignore my caseload to give a homicide trial the attention it would need, even if I could figure out what I was supposed to be doing. “
Will took a longer drink before answering this time.
“I’m here on behalf of the partnership asking you to take this case as a personal favor to us. We believe Greg is telling the truth—he didn’t kill Ellen. And, it’s in the firm’s interest that he be found not guilty. We’re still recovering from the scandal surrounding Noah’s death last year. Our partner was murdered by a former partner—an officer of a client, no less—to prevent the discovery of her plan to murder hundreds of innocent air travelers to make a profit. This situation with Ellen has been salt in that wound. Our clients don’t care to see their attorneys on the evening news quite so much. To the extent publicity in this case is unavoidable, Greg’s exoneration would at least bring some positive attention.”
Will finished his speech; Sasha thought she saw a shadow of self-disgust cross his face.
She arched a brow. “I still don’t get it, Will. Why me?”
Will flushed. “You, yourself, have attracted a fair amount of attention in the past year, both as a result of the Hemisphere Air fiasco and because of the murder of Judge Paulson up in Springport. You were appointed special prosecutor by the chief justice of the supreme court, Sasha. That has a certain cachet. I think the firm’s management likes the idea of a former Prescott & Talbott attorney handling this, especially one who seems to thrive in the spotlight. Speaking personally, I hope you’ll consider taking on the matter because I believe you can help Greg.”
He met her gaze, unblinking, and she felt sorry for him. Leave it to Prescott & Talbott to send Will to carry its water. She wondered if the gobs of money he earned really outweighed the psychic cost of selling his soul.
She sipped her wine.
“Oh,” Will said, like he’d forgotten a minor detail, “the partnership also voted to pay for Greg’s legal defense out of what would have been Ellen’s next guaranteed draw. We will, of course, pay your standard hourly rate, but given the costs involved in defending a homicide, we also have a retainer for you.”
He reached into his jacket pocket and took out a check. He placed it in the exact center of the table with the type facing her so she could read it easily. It was made out to The Law Offices of Sasha McCandless, P.C., in the amount of three hundred thousand dollars.
CHAPTER 3
Back in her office, Sasha stared down at the check, wondering what the hell she was thinking.
She had agreed to talk to Greg Lang and make her own assessment of his case. She’d told Will she’d be in touch to let him know if she was going to take Greg on as a client.
Despite what Prescott & Talbott might have thought of her ability, though, she knew she had no business even contemplating taking on a homicide case. A quick chat with Naya had only served to confirm that Sasha should stay far away from Greg Lang and his murder defense. Naya’s immediate reaction had been that no good could come of dabbling in criminal work, especially given that a Prescott partner was the victim.
Sasha shook her head and slid the check into her top desk drawer. She didn’t owe Prescott & Talbott anything. If she had wanted to be the firm’s lapdog, she would have accepted its offer of partnership a year ago. But, she did owe Will.
She stood, stretched, and looked out the window. The sun was gone now; the sky was gray and cloudy, thick with the promise of rain.
Just get it over with.
She picked up Will’s heavy, linen business card and turned it over. He’d written Greg Lang’s telephone number on the back in tiny, precise script.
Not only was the firm paying Greg’s legal costs, it had also posted his $1.5 million bail. As a result, Ellen Mortenson’s accused murderer and estranged husband was awaiting trial from the comfort of their marital home.
Doesn’t matter. Just call him already.
Sasha jabbed the numbers into her telephone’s keypad and hit the speaker button. She adjusted her neck, cracking it first on one side and then the other, while the telephone rang.
Four rings. And then a recorded message—startling because it was in Ellen’s lilting voice:
You’ve reached the Mortenson and Lang residence. We’re out and about, but leave a message for Ellen or Greg, and we’ll be sure to call you back.
Sasha waited for the beep.
“This message is for Greg Lang. Mr. Lang, my name’s Sasha McCandless. I used to work with your wife at —”
She stopped when the screeching sound of someone picking up the phone filled her ear.
“Wait, hold on! Let me turn this thing off!” A man’s voice, agitated.
She cringed at the metallic shriek that followed.
Then the man said, “Hello? Ms. McCandless, are you there?”
“I am.”
“Oh, good. I have to screen all the calls. Blasted reporters.”
“I understand. This is Mr. Lang, correct?”
“Yes.” His voice took on an accusing tone. “Am I on speakerphone?”
Sasha looked down at the phone on her desk.
“You are. But I’m alone in my office. I like to have my hands free in case I need to take notes.”
“Oh. Okay, then.” He said it reluctantly, as if he’d rather stay offended.
“As I was saying, I’m a former Prescott—”
Lang cut her off. “I know who you are, you’re the tiny little girl. We’ve met at a few Prescott parties. Anyway, they told me you’d be calling.”
Sasha invested considerable energy in not thinking of herself as a tiny little girl, but she had to admit the description was accurate. At just under five feet tall and around one hundred pounds, she was rarely anything other than the smallest person in the room, unless she was babysitting her nieces and nephews. And, even then, at eight years old, Liam was gaining on her.
She viewed her diminutive size as a competitive advantage, though. People tended to underestimate her. It was as though they expected her to be weak or childlike just because she was small. Opposing attorneys sometimes failed to adequately prepare when they squared off against her for
the first time. They were always prepared the second time.
“That’s me,” she said, searching her memory to try to place Lang.
She had a fuzzy recollection of Ellen’s husband as some type of scientist with no sense of humor. If she had the right guy in mind, Greg had trapped her date at one of Prescott & Talbott’s cocktail parties and talked at length to him about polymers and the dangers of BPA.
Of course, her date had been partially at fault. Ben, a chronically underemployed independent filmmaker, had thought he was being funny when he’d answered Greg’s question about what he did for a living by saying “I’m in plastics.” Greg apparently had never seen The Graduate and hadn’t gotten the joke.
“I’d like to come over and talk to you,” she said.
“Of course,” Greg said, all business now.
Sasha pulled her old Prescott & Talbott attorney directory from her top desk drawer and looked up Ellen’s home address. The telephone number matched the one Will had given her.
“Are you still on Saint James Place?” she asked.
“Uh, yes, I’m keeping the house. For now.”
“Great. I’ll be there in ten minutes. Twenty, tops.”
“You want to come here? Now? This isn’t a good time. The house is a mess, and I have some errands to run this afternoon. Why don’t I come to your office tomorrow?”
“Listen, Mr. Lang,” Sasha said, “I’m trying to determine if I’m the right person to represent you. To do that, I need to meet with you. If you aren’t interested in my services, that’s fine. If you are, I suggest you reschedule your errands.”
Although she halfway hoped he’d refuse to see her, thereby solving the problem of whether to represent him, she collected a notepad, pen, her wallet, keys, and mobile phone as she spoke and swept them into a light blue leather laptop case that matched her sweater.
Greg Lang huffed and puffed and then finally said, “Fine.”
“Great. Goodbye.”
She hung up and shut down her laptop. That went into the bag, too. Then she turned out the lights, locked the door behind her, and hurried down the stairs to the coffee shop.
The point of springing her visit on Lang was to see him on his home turf. Sasha believed she could learn a lot about a person from seeing him in his natural environment. She would have preferred to show up unannounced so that he wouldn’t have time to clean up or hide anything, but that would have been unprofessional. The best she could do now was get over to his place quickly.
Sasha made it a habit to meet people at home. She’d started the practice after she’d stopped by the home of a well-regarded economist to drop off an expert witness report for her to review. Sasha’s expert had answered the door at two o’clock on a Saturday afternoon in a bra and panties, expecting to find the male exotic dancer she’d picked up the night before, not the attorney who’d retained her to testify in a commercial dispute. Although Sasha didn’t particularly care what Professor Robbins did in her spare time, she did think some discretion was in order considering she held herself out as an economic expert to the tune of seven hundred and fifty dollars an hour. The last thing Sasha needed during trial was to have to rehabilitate the credibility of a woman who, as it turned out, claimed her patronage of male sex workers was an effort to support and legitimize an underground economy.
Despite the threat of rain, she decided to walk. Greg’s house was just about a mile away, and she could use the air. She confirmed there was a travel umbrella in the bottom of the laptop bag, then slung the bag across her chest diagonally, like a messenger bag, and headed toward Ellsworth Avenue.
She’d never been inside Ellen’s home, but she knew the street from her running route through the neighborhood. Saint James Place was a short street that ran between Fifth Avenue and Ellsworth; the homes there could fairly be called mansions. Both sides of the street were lined by hulking hundred-year-old Victorians set back behind wrought iron fences. None of the homes on Saint James looked to be smaller than six thousand square feet, and several of them were considerably larger. Ellen and Greg had no children. Sasha tried to imagine what they did with all that space.
She crossed against the light, jogging through the intersection, although no cars were in sight. As she turned onto Ellsworth, the wind picked up and she pulled her cardigan tight. She stopped in front of a massive, pre-war apartment complex to check the time. It had been six minutes since she’d left the office.
A dime-sized raindrop splashed onto her arm. Followed by another.
She was a little more than halfway there. Options were to take out the umbrella and mince her way along the wet sidewalk in heels or to take off her shoes and run for it.
She ran for it.
The rain was cold on her face, but the fat drops were still long seconds apart. She felt as though she really were dodging them. She opened her lungs and her stride and sprinted, flat out.
She stopped in front of a painted lady Victorian done up in yellow, green, and pink. An iron gate with scrollwork detail cut into the six-foot fence was unlatched and hanging ajar.
This was it.
She squeezed through the open gate and hurried up to the wide, columned porch. She took her shoes out of her bag and put them back on, then shook the water from her hair and caught her breath. Then she wiped her hands on her sweater and stepped up to the door to ring the bell.
A shadow passed behind the stained glass transom window, and the door jerked open before she could press the doorbell button.
“Don’t you have a car? Or an umbrella?” Greg Lang said.
He stood to the side and let her pass into the entryway.
He was the humorless scientist she remembered from the cocktail party. Tall and stooped, with a shock of red hair. Green eyes that might have been soft and kind at one time but were now bloodshot and dull.
Sasha ignored his questions and stuck out her hand, “It’s good to see you, Mr. Lang, although I wish it were under other circumstances.”
He shook her hand with a lazy grip, taking just her fingers in his hand.
“You might as well call me Greg. Can I call you Sasha?”
“Sure.”
He led her over to a seating arrangement in front of a fireplace surrounded by green, black, and brown mosaic tiles. The chairs faced an enormous staircase carved from dark wood with thin, intricate spindles.
“Let’s talk here in the sitting room,” he said, taking a seat in a formal wingback chair covered in a dark green and brown paisley silk.
She lowered herself into its mate. They were in what was essentially a hallway. From her seat she could see solid wood pocket doors leading to three rooms. All three were closed off.
Greg reached for a cut-glass decanter that sat on the table between the two chairs. It held an amber liquid. “May I offer you a drink? Scotch? Something else?”
“No, thanks.”
“Suit yourself.” He shrugged and tipped a generous pour into a dirty-looking tumbler.
In fact, the entire place, majestic as it was, looked a little dingy. As if it hadn’t been thoroughly cleaned in weeks. A musty funk hung in the air. It smelled like wet dog. She wondered about the condition of the rooms behind the closed doors.
“Thank you for seeing me on such short notice,” she said.
He stared into his glass. “I suppose I should be the one thanking you for even considering to take my case. They say you’re very good.”
“I’m an experienced litigator, Greg, but I trust Will told you I have no criminal law experience.”
“He did. I don’t care. Ellen always said you were a superstar. I need a superstar.”
His face didn’t soften at the mention of his dead wife’s name. He leaned forward and searched Sasha’s face. “Will you take my case?”
“I don’t know. Why do you need a superstar?”
He frowned. “What?”
“You’re innocent, right? Why do you need a superstar lawyer?”
Anger flashed across hi
s face, but he controlled his voice. “Don’t be cute. I know how things look. The divorce proceedings, the razor. And ... I found her.”
He looked toward the pocket doors that closed off the room to the right of the front door, staring at the dark wood.
Sasha followed his eyes. “Is that where she was?”
He nodded. Didn’t speak. Dragged his eyes back to hers.
She stood and ignored the lump in her throat. “Walk me through it.”
He sighed but didn’t argue with her. He deposited his tumbler on the table with a heavy thud and led her over to the doors.
He slid the doors open, careful to push them into the recessed area of the wall, and stood back. From behind him, Sasha could see into the room. It was a good-sized square, with floor-to-ceiling cherry bookshelves on three walls. The outside wall housed a large window, with a built-in, cherry bench running its length beneath it.
The window looked out onto a flower garden that may have been a riot of color and beauty at one time. Now tall weeds choked the handful of late summer roses that were still in bloom, and the heather was drying from purple to brown. Rain drummed against the window.
Sasha waited for Greg to go into the room, but he stood rooted in place in the doorway. She walked around him and stood in the approximate middle of the room. She thought she smelled the metallic tang of blood, but that had to be her imagination. That smell would be long gone by now.
“Was this Ellen’s office?”
“Yes.” He cleared his throat. “Mine was—is—upstairs.”
She’d assumed as much. Legal journals formed a neat stack on one corner of the desk, and law books lined at least a third of the shelves. There was one section devoted to biographies and another to literary fiction. Photographs displayed in silver frames in a mix of sizes were scattered on several shelves in a deliberately casual way, as if Ellen had had a designer’s help. Ellen and Greg smiling on a ski lift. Ellen in a cap and gown, standing between a beaming older couple. A large black-and-white candid shot of Ellen and Greg sitting under a leafy tree; she was leaning against his chest, her eyes closed and her lips parted, her face upturned to the sun, and Greg had his arms wrapped around her, looking down at her with a tender expression. Sasha felt a lump in her throat at the obvious love they’d once shared and turned her attention to the next picture. It was a photo of Ellen, beaming, along with two other women, all dressed in ball gowns, their arms linked.
Sasha McCandless 03 - Irretrievably Broken Page 2