Guilty as Sin

by Tami Hoag

  She stormed into the room and slammed the door.

  “How dare you!” she snapped. “How dare you come here and bully my secretary and walk into my private office without an invitation! I ought to call security and have you thrown out of the building!”

  “You do that, Ellen,” he said. “That will only add credence to my story when I relate to the press how you've attempted to shut me out. How you don't answer my phone calls and refuse to schedule me for appointments. I've left no fewer than five messages this morning alone.”

  “Oh, pardon me that my life doesn't revolve around you, Tony. You think I should just drop everything and answer to you because I was once foolish enough to become involved with you?”

  He stepped closer, but she refused to back away.

  “No,” he said quietly. “I think you're shutting me out to punish me, and if that's true, then maybe you should remove yourself from this case and give it to someone with no emotional baggage.”

  “You'd like that, wouldn't you?” Ellen said with a humorless laugh. “I'm far and away the best prosecutor in this office and you know it. You think I'll hand this case over so you can maul a lesser attorney in court? Get real.”

  On that shot she walked away from him, taking her place behind her desk. She did a quick scan of the room, looking for anything out of place, any indication that he had taken advantage of his time alone.

  “You realize you're laying the groundwork for an appeal.” He sat once again, control firmly in hand. He seemed almost casual, though she knew he was equally dangerous in this mood as when he was in full fury—if not more so.

  Ellen arched a brow. “Already planning the appeal? That bodes ill for your client. I'm not concerned, at any rate. I haven't done anything unethical. If you try to drag the past into it, the spotlight will end up on you, Tony. I don't think you'd like to be the star of that particular show.”

  He leaned back, a smile cutting across his handsome mouth. “You've still got it, Ellen. Hard as nails and twice as sharp when you have to be. I used to love debating with you. Passion at the touch of a button.”

  That many of their debates had taken place in bed or ended up in bed was a point he undoubtedly wanted to make. But she wouldn't give him the satisfaction.

  “Let's stick to the subject,” she said, resting her arms on her blotter. “You, of all people, have no business coming into my office without my permission.”

  “You don't really think I came here to steal something, do you?” He had the gall to look amused. Poor, paranoid Ellen. “In the first place, I know you would never leave anything of real value to a case lying around. I know how you operate—you've got every scrap of pertinent information tucked away in your neat little three-ring binder in your briefcase, which you never let out of your sight. Secondly, I don't need to steal from you to make my case. My client is innocent.”

  “Save it for the judge.”

  “With whom we have an appointment in five minutes,” he said, consulting his platinum Rolex.

  “What?”

  He tipped his head. “I tried to call you, Ellen. I need to see Grabko, and I certainly don't want to be accused of trying to have an ex parte conversation with him.”

  “I have a meeting with someone else in five minutes.”

  “Not anymore,” he said. “Rule number one in the laws of courtroom survival: don't piss off the judge.”

  “And what's so pressing that we have to attend to it right now?”

  “I'm going to petition the court for the release of Josh Kirkwood's medical records,” he said smoothly.

  “What? Why?”

  “Because I have reason to believe the child has been physically abused—by his father.”

  CHAPTER 20

  Of all the dirty, sleazy, underhanded, back-alley tricks, this absolutely takes the prize!” Ellen ranted, too furious for circumspection. She paced a track behind Judge Grabko's visitors' chairs, her red wool blazer open, hands jammed on her hips.

  Costello sat with his legs crossed, a long-suffering expression directed at the judge. “It's a legitimate request, Your Honor. My client is entitled to present facts that exonerate him, including evidence pointing to other suspects.”

  “Legitimate?” Ellen repeated. “It's utter bull!” She turned toward Grabko. “Your Honor, Mr. Costello isn't preparing a defense here. He's preparing to mount a smear campaign against Josh Kirkwood's parents in order to divert attention away from his client and the hard evidence against him. An act so low I can't believe even Mr. Costello isn't disgusted by the mere concept.”

  Judge Grabko fingered his plaid bow tie, a frown bending the line on his forehead. “Have a seat, Ellen. We'll discuss the issue like rational adults.”

  She forced herself to comply, bristling inwardly at Grabko's patronizing attitude. He seemed bent on treating her like a second-year law student, and she knew the show was for Costello's benefit. But she also knew she had to rein in her temper. She couldn't let Tony get her back up.

  She settled in the chair, straightened her jacket, crossed her legs, and picked a fleck of lint off the leg of her black slacks, flicking it subtly in Tony's direction.

  “Your Honor,” she said with forced calm. “Josh Kirkwood's medical records have no bearing on his abduction.”

  “They do if Paul Kirkwood is guilty of the crime,” Costello said. “In that event, they go to motive. During their investigation and questioning of potential defense witnesses, my associates have had several incidents mentioned to them. Seeing the child with bruises, injuries, a broken arm at one point—”

  “He's an eight-year-old boy,” Ellen interjected. “They fall off bikes and out of trees. They play rough sports—”

  “They fall victim to abusive parents. Paul Kirkwood is known to have a volatile temper, to be subject to mood swings—”

  “Paul Kirkwood isn't on trial here—”

  “Perhaps he should be.”

  “Perhaps he would be if he had been the one chased down and apprehended by the police,” Ellen said derisively. “What possible motive could Paul have for stealing his own child, then playing twisted mind games with the police? But let's say for argument's sake Paul kidnapped his own child and led police on a bizarre hunt—why would he then turn around and bring Josh home? None of this follows any known form of logic, and you know it.”

  Costello arched a thick brow. “The infamous accomplice was your theory,” he said. “But we're getting off the point, here, Your Honor.” He dismissed Ellen, giving Grabko his full attention. “The boy's medical records—”

  “Fall under doctor-patient privilege,” Ellen argued. “They are private and beyond the scope of this hearing.”

  “That will be for me to determine, Ms. North,” Grabko chastened.

  Elbows on the arms of his chair, he steepled his long fingers in front of him and looked from one attorney to the other. A Vivaldi concerto played softly in the background. The judge shut his eyes for a moment and breathed deeply, letting the purity of the music cleanse his mind.

  “Ellen,” he said in his law-professor voice, “would you deny a defendant the right to present a defense on the grounds that that defense implicated another suspect?”

  The letter of the law. All emotion pared away. No bias.

  “No, Your Honor, of course not. It's part of the adversarial system.”

  “You simply object to having Paul Kirkwood singled out as that other suspect?”

  Justice was supposed to be blind, impartial, unsentimental.

  “The police investigated the possibility of Mr. Kirkwood's involvement and dismissed it,” she said. “There was no real evidence against him—”

  “If we could get those records—” Costello began.

  “The family has been through hell as it is, Your Honor.”

  Costello cut her a look from the corner of his eye. “We can subpoena the records.”

  “It is within your rights to try, Mr. Costello,” Grabko said. “However, the famil
y also has the right to seek a protective order to prevent you from doing so.”

  He pursed his lips and let his eyes drift shut once again as the second movement of the concerto built to a finish. Ellen held her breath, waiting, muscles tensed. It hadn't occurred to her that Grabko's tendency toward pretension included a tendency toward theatrics. This was his big case, his time to shine, to get his name in the papers. The distinguished Judge Gorman Grabko.

  Vivaldi soared from a shelf loaded with scholarly treatments of the gentlemanly art of fly-fishing.

  “The court will request the records,” Grabko said at last. “I will review them privately to determine relevance to the case, and we'll go from there.”

  Costello smiled. “Thank you, Your Honor.”

  They emerged from Grabko's chambers half an hour later, walking into the empty courtroom, where Ellen had a DUI sentencing scheduled for two o'clock. The buzz of conversation from the hall penetrated in a dim way. Lawyers hanging around, chewing the fat with county welfare advocates, cutting deals with prosecutors while they waited for their cases to be called in Judge Witt's court.

  Intermingled with the usual crowd were reporters, lying in wait like cheetahs ready to jump up and run down their prey. There had been more than a few in the hall when she and Costello had come up. By now they would be thick all down the corridor. Between her own headline potential as a victim of vandalism, and Costello's sensational bomb, they had to be drooling in anticipation.

  In no hurry to throw herself into the fray, she paused in front of the bench and leaned back against it, crossing her arms over her chest. “Your media puppets await.”

  Costello looked amused. “What makes you think I asked them here?”

  “I haven't been innocent in a very long time, Tony. Whenever two or more reporters are gathered, you'll give them a show. And they'll eat this up—your casting the blame on the family. The stuff tabloids are made of. It's disgusting.”

  “It's a valid argument,” he said, bracing a hand beside her shoulder. “You know as well as I do Kirkwood has inconsistencies in his story.”

  “It's a big leap from ‘Can you prove you were getting a burger at the Hardee's drive-through while your son was being abducted?' to ‘Isn't it true you abducted your own son?' ” Ellen pointed out. At the same time she dismissed the little voice of truth that reminded her she had never been very comfortable with Paul's excuses herself. “Your client was caught red-handed.”

  “He has an alibi for the night Josh Kirkwood was abducted.”

  “Which is about as phony as your tan. He has no witnesses to corroborate—”

  “I'll have to correct you there, Ellen.” A nasty, anticipatory gleam in his dark eyes, he took his briefcase to a counsel table, popped it open, and extracted a sheaf of documents. “Disclosure pursuant to rule 9.02. Happy reading.”

  Ellen scanned the first page, where one of Tony's assistants had typed an elaborate explanation of the fact that they as yet had no written or recorded statements from witnesses. What a joke. Tony would never take a written statement prior to trail for the express reason that he would be compelled by law to turn it over to the prosecution. The second page stated Wright's alibi for the time of Josh's abduction. As he had stated repeatedly, it said he was in his office in the Cray building, at Harris. What he had never said before was that he was working in the company of a student—Todd Childs.

  Ellen's heart picked up a beat. She turned the pages to the witness list, and a chill of apprehension pebbled the skin of her arms and ran down her back. At the top of the list was Todd Childs, 966 Tenth Street NW, Apartment B.

  “When did you speak with Todd Childs?” she asked carefully.

  “Does it matter?”

  “It matters that he has already stated to the police he wasn't with Dr. Wright that evening.”

  “He'll swear under oath that he was.”

  “He's lying.”

  “Prove it.”

  “I intend to,” she said, anger shuddering through her. “You might have taken notice of his name on my witness list.”

  He raised his brows in mock innocence. “Was it? Things have been so hectic this week. . . . Has he been served?”

  “I'm sure you'll be stunned to hear we've been unable to locate him. You wouldn't happen to know where he's staying, would you?”

  Costello deflected the pointed question with a humorless laugh.

  “Ellen, your paranoia is reaching new heights if you believe I'm hiding a witness from you.”

  She took the verbal shot and pressed on, immune to his attempts to hurt her. “How is it you've spoken to him while the cops can't even find him?”

  “That might have something to do with the caliber of cops you're working with.”

  “You underestimate them, Tony. And I think you underestimate me, which is fine. It'll be all the more gratifying when I kick your ass next week.”

  “You're overestimating your case, Ellen,” he said. “And you're grasping at straws going after Wright's phone records. You can't believe you'll find anything linking Dr. Wright to the kidnapping, which means you're really looking for something else. I'm surprised Judge Grabko didn't call you on it.”

  “Actually, I don't expect to find anything at all,” she admitted coolly. “I don't expect to find your phone number listed under calls placed on the twenty-fifth, for instance. Which will mean that Karen Wright didn't call you on behalf of her husband. And if Karen Wright didn't call you, then who did?”

  “So we're back to that conspiracy theory. You know, maybe you need help for this, Ellen. Although I'm sure our mutual friend Mr. Brooks will find your psychological quirks an interesting added facet for his book.”

  “Mutual friend?” she asked, the cool disinterest in her tone completely at odds with what she was feeling. “I've barely met the man,” she lied. “How do you know him?”

  What did he know? Did he know about Jay's connection to the attorney general? He had a private investigator working the case. Did he know Brooks had taken her home last night? Would he try to make an issue of it?

  “I met him years ago, actually,” he answered casually. “We were both at Purdue, though we were several years apart. Small world, isn't it?”

  Ellen felt the floor dip beneath her feet. Brooks knew Costello. They had gone to the same college. He had never said one word.

  “Ellen? Are you all right?” Costello asked. “You look a little pale.”

  “Don't worry about it, Tony.” She spurred herself to move, to turn away, to duck her head. “It's nothing the truth won't cure.”

  She hefted her briefcase onto the other counsel table and stuffed the disclosure into the appropriate file folder. “You don't have to concern yourself about my mental state—unless, of course, I'm right and your client's accomplice called you in on this case, thereby making you an accessory in the Holloman kidnapping.”

  She clicked the locks closed and gave her adversary a final, challenging stare. “As an officer of the court, I'm sure I don't have to remind you of your obligation to report Todd Childs's whereabouts to the police—should you happen to see him. Who knows? Maybe we can kill two birds with one stone—serve our witness and nail an accomplice all in one shot. Wouldn't that be nice and neat?”

  “Only two birds?” he questioned. “I thought you were after my head, too.”

  “Oh, I am, Tony,” she said with a nasty smile. “You'll be my bonus dead duck.”

  He stepped close enough that she could smell the expensive aftershave he wore and lowered his head as if to share a secret.

  “It's so nice to know you still think of me as special,” he murmured.

  God, she hated that he thought he could manipulate her with memories and sex appeal. “Special isn't how I think of you, Tony. You're at the wrong end of the adjective spectrum altogether.”

  “Does that mean you won't have dinner with me for old time's sake after all this is said and done?” he asked, his tone still intimate, his expression hun
gry and amused.

  “I'd rather have my limbs gnawed off.”

  He had the nerve to laugh and the gall to hold the door for her as they left the courtroom.

  They were mobbed as soon as they stepped into the hall, a dozen voices shouting questions at once. Bodies pressed in on them, hands thrusting forward with microphones and tape recorders. Ellen found herself trapped at Costello's side, her shoulder brushing against his arm. As she was jostled, she had to steady herself with a hand against the small of his back. She hated to touch him.

  “Our mutual friend Mr. Brooks . . .”

  “Ms. North, is it true you've been threatened?”

  “We were both at Purdue . . .”

  “Ms. North, are there any suspects in the vandalism?”

  “Small world, isn't it?”

  “Mr. Costello, does Dr. Wright have any comment on possible involvement of the Sci-Fi Cowboys in the attack on Ms. North?”

  “Mr. Costello, is it true you're pushing for the investigation to turn toward Paul Kirkwood?”

  “My client is innocent,” Costello shouted, fixing his eagle glare just to the left of a portable sun gun. “The police have been negligent in pursuing leads that might take their investigation in a direction they don't want to consider. My investigators have pursued all leads. I can guarantee you that when the hearing begins next week, Dr. Garrett Wright will not be the only one on trial.”

  The statement had the effect of pouring gasoline on a fire. The noise level rose to a deafening din. Wanting nothing more than to escape, Ellen positioned her briefcase to use as shield and battering ram and started against the current of the crowd.

  “Ms. North, do you have any comment?”

  “Ms. North, can we get a statement?”

  She lowered her head and pushed forward, slamming the briefcase into someone's knees. Down the hall the door to Judge Witt's courtroom opened, and the old bailiff, Randolph Grimm, barged into the hall, shouting for quiet, his face as red as a cherry tomato.