"Was that what you were doing just now?"
"Look, I thought . . ."
"You thought I'd fall into bed with you because I'm smashed."
"No. It's not like that. You looked like you needed a friend."
"And that's what you were doing? Being my friend?"
"Hey," Rose said angrily, "when I kissed you, you didn't exactly faint."
"You bastard. I'm drunk."
"Man, you are one cold bitch."
"Cut the shit, Tony. You wanted to get me into bed. Well, it didn't work out."
Rose looked hurt, like a little boy.
"It could," he said. "I mean, we got off on the wrong foot here, but that's not my fault. You're the one who was giving off signals."
"Tony, haven't you been listening... ?" Abbie started.
Then she stopped herself. Whatever had happened had happened. She just wanted Rose out of her house.
"Look, Tony, this was a major mistake. Let's just forget it.
Okay?"
Rose took his hand away from his ear. It was covered with blood.
"Jesus," he said. "You really hurt me."
"I'm sorry," Abbie answered, too exhausted to be angry anymore. "Can you please leave? I want to go to bed."
"I guess you are as frigid as everyone says," he snapped, getting in the last word. Abbie let him save face. It was worth it to get him out of her house. He slammed the door and she locked it immediately. The engine of Rose's car started and she heard him drive away.
Abbie turned away from the door. She saw herself in the hall mirror.
Her lipstick was smeared and her hair looked like it had been permed in a washing machine.
"Jesus," Abbie muttered. She imagined herself in court looking like this. She started to laugh. That would be something. She laughed hirder and could not stop. What a fool she was. How had she let herself get into this situation?
Abbie slumped down on the carpet. When she stopped laughing, depression flooded over her. She leaned against the wall and started to cry. It was Robert's fault she was falling apart. She had loved him without reservation and he had deceived her. She hated him more than she ever thought possible.
Abbie closed her eyes. She was so tired. She started to fade out, then jerked herself awake and struggled to her feet. She was going to sleep, but not on the floor in the entryway.
Abbie's bedroom was at the end of a short hall. She staggered inside.
The shades in the bedroom were open and the backyard looked like a black-on-black still life. The only light came from the window of the house next door. Abbie reached for the light switch. In the moment before the bedroom light went on, a shape erased the glow from the next-door window. Abbie stiffened.
Someone was in the yard. She switched off the light so she could see outside, but she had been blinded momentarily when the bedroom light flashed on.
Abbie pressed her face against the windowpane, trying to see as much of the backyard as possible. There was no one there. She must have imagined the figure. She sagged down on the bed and Closed her eyes. A doorknob rattled in the kitchen. Abbie's eyes flew open. She strained to hear, but her heart was beating loudly in her ears.
Abbie had received a number of threats over the years from people she had prosecuted. She had taken a few of them seriously enough to learn how to shoot a semiautomatic 9mm Beretta that she kept in her end table.
Abbie took out the gun. Then she kicked off her shoes and walked on stocking feet down the dark hall to the kitchen. Abbie heard the doorknob rattle again. Someone was trying to break in. Was it Rose?
Had he parked his car and returned on foot?
Abbie crouched down and peered into the darkened kitchen.
There was a man on the deck outside the kitchen bent over the lock on the back door. Abbie could not see his face because he was wearing a ski mask. Without thinking, she ran to the door and aimed her gun, screaming "Freeze!" as she pressed the muzzle to the glass. The man did freeze for a second. Then he straightened up very slowly and raised his arms until they were stretched out from his sides like the wings of a giant bird. The man was clothed in black from head to foot and wore black gloves, but Abbie had the strange feeling that she knew him.
Their eyes met through the glass. No one moved for a moment.
The man took one backward step, then another. Then he turned slowly, loped across the yard, vaulted the fence and disappeared.
It never occurred to Abbie to pursue him. She was just glad he was gone. The adrenaline began to wear off and Abbie started to shake. She dropped onto one of her kitchen chairs and put the Beretta on the kitchen table. Suddenly she noticed that the safety was on. She felt sick for a moment, then felt relieved that she was safe.
Abbie contemplated reporting the attempted break-in, but decided against it. She was so tired that she only wanted to sleep, and she could not describe the man anyway. If she called the police, she would be up all night. Worse, she would have to tell the officers about Tony Rose, even though she was certain he wasn't the intruder, and there was no way she was going to do that.
Abbie rested for a few moments more, then dragged herself back to the bedroom after checking to make sure that all the doors and windows were locked. She put the Beretta on the end table and stripped off her clothes. She was certain she would drop off to sleep immediately because she was so exhausted, but every sound primed the pump of her overwrought imagination and she did not slip into sleep until an hour before dawn.
Chapter SIX
The intense leather, glass and stainless-steel decor of the big law firms was nowhere to be found in Matthew Reynolds's reception area. The hand-knit antimacassar draped over the back of the country sofa, the Tiffany lamps and the deep old armchairs had a calming effect that was equally appreciated by clients facing prison or a nervous young woman waiting for a job interview.
Masterful black-and-white photographs of jagged mountain peaks, pristine lakes and shadowy timberland trails graced the walls. One picture in particular caught Tracy's eye. A doe and her fawn were standing in a clearing nibbling on a bush, apparently oblivious to the presence of the photographer. A wide ray of sunlight shone down through the trees and bathed the bush in light. The picture had a quiet, almost religious feel to it that touched something in Tracy. She was admiring the photograph when the receptionist beckoned her down a corridor on whose walls hung more of the exceptional wilderness photography.
"Mr. Reynolds took those," the receptionist proudly told Tracy as she stepped aside to admit her to Matthew Reynolds's office.
"They're terrific," Tracy answered, genuinely impressed by the use of light and the unique perspectives. "Has Mr. Reynolds ever shown them in a gallery?"
"Not that I know of," the receptionist answered with a smile.
"Why don't you have a seat. Mr. Reynolds will be with you shortly."
The receptionist left Tracy alone in the large corner room.
Law books and legal papers were arranged in neat piles on the oak desk that dominated it. Two high-backed, dark leather client chairs stood before the desk. Through the windows Tracy could see sections of a flower garden and the cheerful green of a wellmanicured lawn.
Tracy wandered over to the near wall, which was covered with memorabilia from Reynolds's cases. There were framed newspaper clippingsand the originals of courtroom sketches that had appeared in newspapers around the country. Tracy stopped in front of a frame in which was displayed the cover of a brief that had been filed in the United States Supreme Court. Above the cover, in a narrow recess, was a white quill pen.
"Those pens are specially crafted for the Court," Matthew Reynolds said from the doorway. "If you ever argue there you'll find them at counsel table. You're expected to take one as evidence that you have appeared before the highest court in the land. I've argued seven cases in the United States Supreme Court, but that pen means the most to me."
Reynolds paused and Tracy was transfixed, the way she imagined his juries were, as his h
omely features were transformed by his quiet passion.
"I won that case on an insignificant technicality. A procedural point.
Saved Lloyd Garth's life, though. Took him off death row as surely as any great legal point would have." A gentle smile played on Reynolds's lips.
"Two weeks before the retrial, another man confessed to the murder.
Lloyd always swore he was innocent, but few people believed him. Sit down, Ms. Cavanaugh. Sit down."
Tracy had been caught up in Reynolds's tale and it took her a moment to respond. While she took her seat, Reynolds studied her r(sum(. Tracy was rarely at a disadvantage, but she felt that Reynolds had already begun to dominate the interview. To regain the initiative, Tracy asked, "Are all the wilderness photographs yours?"
"Why, yes," Reynolds responded with a proud smile.
"They're incredible. Have you had formal training?"
Reynolds's smile vanished. A look of sadness passed over him.
"No formal training with a camera, but my father was a hunter--a great hunter--and he taught me all about the woods.
He could stay with an animal for days in the forest. The sheriff asked him to track men on occasion. Lost hunters, once an escaped convict. He found a little boy alive after everyone else had given up hope.
"He taught me to hunt. I was good at it, too. Eventually, I lost heart in the killing, but I still loved the woods. Photography is my way of getting out of myself when life gets too ponderous."
"I know what you mean. I rock-climb. When you're on a cliff face, and the difference between life and death is the strength in your hands, you pull into yourself. You forget everything else except the rock."
Tracy realized how pretentious she sounded as soon as she spoke.
Reynolds seemed to close off a little. When he addressed her, there was less warmth.
"You're from California?"
Tracy nodded.
"What do your parents do?"
"My father works in motion pictures. He's a producer."
Successful?
Tracy smiled. "Very."
"And your mother?"
"She doesn't work, but she's involved with charities. She devotes a lot of her time to volunteer work."
Tracy hoped this would sound good, but she was afraid her background would be anathema to someone like Reynolds.
"Yale," Reynolds went on, his voice giving away nothing of how he felt about her or her background, "math major, Stanford Law Review."
Tracy shrugged, wondering if she'd already blown the interview.
"And you placed fifth in the NCAA cross-country championships. You appear to have been successful at everything you've tried."
Tracy considered a modest answer, then decided against it. If she got this job, it would not be by being a phony.
"I've been lucky. I'm very smart and I'm a natural athlete," Tracy said. "But I also work my butt off."
Reynolds nodded. Then he asked, "Why did you choose the law as a profession?"
Tracy thought about the question, as she had many times before.
"When I was young, I couldn't understand the world. It made no sense that the earth and sun didn't collide. Why didn't we fly off into space? How could a chair be made of tiny, unconnected atoms, yet be solid enough to prevent me from putting my hand through it? Mathematics imposes order on the sciences. Its rules helped me to make sense out of insanity.
"Human beings like to think of themselves as rational and civilized, but I think we are constantly on the brink of chaos.
Look at the madness in Africa or the carnage in Eastern Europe. I was attracted to the law for the same reason I was fascinated by mathematics. Law imposes order on society and keeps the barbarians in check. When the rule of law breaks down, civilization falls apart.
"America is a nation of laws. I've always marveled that a country with so much power shows such restraint in the way it treats its citizens.
Not that I think the country is perfect. Not by a long shot. We've condoned countless injustices. Slavery is the most obvious example. But that's because human beings are so fallible.
Then I think of what the President could do if he wanted to.
Especially with today's technology. Why don't we live in a dictatorship? Why did Nixon resign, instead of trying a coup d'etat? I think it's because we are a nation of laws in the truest sense and lawyers are the guardians of the law. I really believe that."
Tracy felt she was running on. She stopped talking and studied Matthew Reynolds, but his face revealed nothing and she could not tell if her speech had impressed him or made him think she was a fool.
"I understand that the young woman who was murdered at the court was a friend of yours."
Reynolds's statement shook her and all Tracy could do was nod. An image of Laura, strands of curly black hair wrapped around her fingers as she worked through a legal problem, flashed into her mind. Then anotherimage of Laura, dead, her curly black hair matted with blood, superimposed itself on the first image.
"What punishment should your friend's killer receive if he's caught?"
Tracy knew Reynolds would ask about her views on the death penalty, but she never expected him to come at her in this way.
She had spent several hours reading articles about the death penalty, including some by Reynolds, to prepare herself for the interview, but dealing with punishment in the abstract and asking her to decide the fate of Laura's murderer were two different things.
"That's not a fair question," Tracy said.
"Why not?"
"She was my friend. I found the body."
Reynolds nodded sympathetically.
"There's always a body. There's always a victim. There's always someone left alive to mourn. Don't you want revenge for your friend?"
It was a good question that forced Tracy to decide what she really thought about the death penalty. She looked across the desk at Matthew Reynolds. He was watching her closely.
"If I found the man who murdered Laura, I would want to kill him with my bare hands, but I would hope that the sober people around me would stop me. A civilized society should aspire to higher ideals. It should be above legalized killing for revenge."
"Would you be in favor of the death penalty if it deterred crime?"
"Maybe, but it doesn't. I don't have to tell you that there's no statistical evidence that the penalty deters killing. Oregon had a record murder rate a few years after the penalty was reinstated.
"And then there's the mistake factor. I read recently that four hundred and sixteen innocent Americans were convicted of capital crimes between 1900 and 1991 and twenty-three were actually executed. Every other sentence can be corrected if the authorities realize they've made a mistake, except for a sentence of death."
"Why do you want to work for me, Ms. Cavanaugh?"
"I want to work for you because you're the best and because everything in my life has been easy. I don't regret that, but I'd like to give something back to people who haven't been as fortunate."
"That's very noble, but our clients are not the 'less fortunate." They are sociopaths, misfits, psychotics. They are men who torture women and murder children. Not the type of people you associated with in Beverly Hills or at Yale."
"I'm aware of that."
"Are you also aware that we work very long hours? Evenings and weekends are the norm. How do you feel about that?"
"Justice Sherzer warned me about your version of a workweek and I still called for this interview."
"Tell me, Ms. Cavanaugh," Reynolds asked in a neutral tone, "have you ever been to Stark, Florida, to the prison, after dark?"
"No, sir," Tracy answered, completely stumped by the question.
"And I suppose you have never been to Columbia, South Carolina, to visit after dark?"
Tracy shook her head. Reynolds watched her carefully, then continued.
"Several attorneys of my acquaintance have visited their clients in prison after dark. These attorneys have a number
of things in common.
They are brilliant, extremely skilled legal practitioners. They are what you would call the top of the bar in morality, ethics and commitment. They are people we can admire very much for what their lives are about and what their commitment to the criminal justice system is.
"These people have something else in common. They all visited these prisons after dark and left before sunrise with their clients dead."
A chill ran up Tracy's spine.
"There is something else they have in common, Ms. Cavanaugh. They all left before dawn with their clients dead because of some act of another lawyer in not preserving an issue, in failing to investigate competently, in not seeing that that client was represented in the way that a codefendant was. And the fact is that these codefendants are on the street today, alive, just because of the quality of the words written or spoken in some court or some act by some lawyer."
Reynolds paused. He leaned back in his chair and formed a steeple with his slender fingers.
"Ms. Cavanaugh, I've been a lawyer for more than twenty years and neither I nor any associate of mine has ever visited a prison in this country after dark. Not once. I take no pride in that fact, because pride has no place in the work we do. It is backbreaking, mind-numbing work. If you work for me, you won't sleep right, you won't eat right, and you certainly won't have time to climb or run. This work tears the soul out of you. It requires dedication to men and women who are pariahs in our society. It is work that will earn you no praise but will often earn you the hatred and ill will of decent citizens."
Tracy's throat felt tight. There was a band around her heart.
She knew she had never wanted anything more in life than to work for this man.
"Mr. Reynolds, if you give me this chance I won't let you down."
Reynolds watched Tracy over his steepled fingers. Then he sat up in his chair.
"You know I've never worked with a woman?"
"Justice Sherzer told me."
"What special gifts do you think you'll bring to this job as a woman?"
"None, Mr. Reynolds. But I'll bring several as a lawyer. I'll bring an exceptional ability to analyze legal issues and total dedication to my work. Justice Forbes knows my work. He wouldn't have told you to talk to me if he didn't think I could cut it. If you hire me, you won't have to worry about the quality of the words I write or speak."
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