Guilty as Sin

by Tami Hoag

  Quentin nearly gave himself a whiplash looking to one side and the other for a more likely target than himself. “Me?” he squeaked, color crawling up his neck.

  Slater jabbed him in the sternum with his finger. “Those charges were, like, so bogus!”

  His voice rang off the walls, drawing the attention of the bored reporters. He backed Quentin toward them as he ranted on, backed him toward the open area around the balcony, giving Ellen a route along the wall. She took it, head down, hustling toward the side door to Grabko's chambers. By the time anyone caught sight of her, she was able to throw out a handful of “no comments” and duck into the outer office.

  “It's all in the wrist, Mr. Costello,” Grabko said, demonstrating his casting move in slow motion.

  Costello stood beside him, looking like an ad for GQ in a pearl-gray suit that was worth a month of Ellen's salary. His shirt was as white as an angel's wings, his tie perfectly knotted. It was difficult to imagine he and Rudy Stovich belonged to the same species.

  “As in so many aspects of life,” Grabko preached, “success in fly-fishing is a matter of concentration, logic, and grace.”

  “And me without my waders,” Ellen muttered, skewering Costello with a look. He gave her a smile that was all too generous.

  With great care Grabko set his rod into a carved-walnut wall rack. “Do you fish, Ellen?”

  “Only in the metaphorical sense,” she said, sliding into a chair. “Catch anything, Tony?” she asked under her breath as he settled into the chair beside her.

  “That remains to be seen,” he murmured.

  The judge sank down into the pillow softness of his leather chair, straightened his red-striped bow tie, and immediately began to pet his beard, stroking it like a cat. His gaze fell on Ellen with fatherly concern.

  “I hear we're lucky to have you among the living, Ellen.”

  “I don't believe it was an attempt on my life, Your Honor. Just a warning.”

  “Dr. Wright was disturbed to hear about it,” Costello said.

  “That my car blew up or that I wasn't in it at the time?”

  “You'd be surprised at his concern, Ellen.”

  “Yes, I would be, seeing as how I have every intention of putting him behind bars for the rest of his life.”

  “He's also concerned about the allegations against the Sci-Fi Cowboys. He doesn't want to see the program suffer because of its ties to him.”

  “If the program suffers, it's because of the attitudes of the individuals involved,” Ellen said. “I think Dr. Wright and his colleagues may have overestimated a couple of their boys.”

  “Do you have any evidence against the young men?” Grabko asked.

  “Nothing solid at this point. The police and the BCA are working on it, but they're being spread thin these days. Thanks to your client and his friends,” she said, turning back to Costello.

  He shook off the responsibility. “My client is an innocent man. Our case will speak for itself.”

  “Which brings us to the business of the day,” Grabko said. He tapped the cover of a red file folder sitting squarely on his blotter. “Josh Kirkwood's medical records. I spent a good deal of time looking them over.”

  Ellen pulled in a breath and held it.

  “Parental child abuse is a horrible crime. One we seldom suspect in a family like the Kirkwoods'. A dangerous over-sight on our part. Abuse knows no socioeconomic barriers.”

  “Our point, exactly, Your Honor,” Costello said, leaning forward in his chair.

  “However . . .” He drew the words out, savoring his moment. “I found nothing in Josh Kirkwood's records that could be construed as out of the ordinary or as being relevant to the case.”

  The breath sighed out of Ellen. “Just as we expected all along.”

  Costello gave a subtle shrug. You win some, you lose some. He had got what he wanted out of the play—media attention, the opportunity to sow the seeds of doubt.

  “I suppose I shouldn't be surprised,” Costello said. “Hannah Garrison is head of the ER at the hospital where Josh has been treated. Well respected, well liked, the kind of woman who might be able to persuade a fellow doctor or nurse to see an incident her way.”

  “And convince them to falsify records?” Ellen said. After everything she had seen Hannah put through, she could have throttled Costello for taking this tack. “Watch where you're stepping, Tony. You're about to put your handmade Italian loafer in a big hot pile.”

  “I'm not trying to portray the mother as the villain,” he defended himself. “The husband is emotionally abusive and manipulative. He coerced her or convinced her.”

  “And maybe there's life on Uranus, but your speculation on that subject isn't admissible either,” Ellen said sharply. “The issue at hand is the medical records. You're dead in the water, Tony. Let's move on.”

  “Fine.” He reached into his briefcase and pulled out a document. “Motion to dismiss.”

  “And our argument against dismissal,” Ellen said, handing over Cameron's brief.

  Grabko accepted the paperwork with the satisfied glow of a teacher taking extra-credit projects from his favorite students.

  “And,” Costello said, pulling another rabbit from his hat, “in the event we do proceed, motion to suppress the lineup ID.”

  Ellen jerked around in her chair, gaping at him. “What? On what grounds? That was a perfectly good by-the-book lineup!” She turned to Grabko. “Your Honor, great pains were taken to ensure the fairness of that lineup.”

  “You were there, Ellen?”

  “No. Mr. Stovich oversaw the process personally. But I've spoken with all parties involved.”

  Costello handed the motion to Grabko. “Then you should be aware of the fact that Dr. Wright's attorney was barred from the room where Mrs. Cooper filled out her written report.”

  “Barred?” Ellen said, incredulous. “I hardly think so. Dennis Enberg was present at the lineup. If he wasn't in the room when Mrs. Cooper filled out the paperwork, it was his own choice.”

  “That's not the way I hear it.”

  “From who?”

  “From my client—”

  “Oh, there's a reliable source—a psychopathic child stealer.”

  “And from Mrs. Cooper herself. Her affidavit is attached, Your Honor.”

  “I'd like a copy of that, if you don't mind,” Ellen snapped.

  Costello permitted himself the tiniest of smiles. “Of course, Ellen. You did specify your office wanted everything in writing and handled through the proper channels. I've sent your copies over via messenger.”

  Fury burned in Ellen's cheeks. She glared at him and mouthed You son of a bitch. The smugness in his expression made her want to choke, particularly because she knew its origin. He had turned her own trick back on her. In the normal course of events around a rural courthouse, challenges were made over the phone or hashed out in person. Formalities were waived. She had imposed by-the-book standards on Costello to punish him, to slow him down, to irritate him. And here she sat. . . .

  “And what kind of messenger did you send? A dog team via Winnipeg?” she said sarcastically. “I should have been notified about this Friday at the latest.”

  Manufacturing a look of abject innocence, Costello directed his explanation at Grabko. “We weren't able to contact Mrs. Cooper until Friday afternoon, Your Honor. With the time constraints—”

  “Cheerfully accepted by you, Mr. Costello,” Ellen pointed out.

  He ignored her. “We're doing the best we can, Your Honor. And we are thoroughly prepared for the hearing. We hoped you'd be lenient with regards to service of this motion, all things considered.”

  The judge tugged at the white spot in his beard, looking grave. “I can't disregard the motion, considering its gravity. And I do feel the circumstances can be considered good cause to make an exception to the general rule. Ellen, if you feel this upsets the balance, if you feel you need more time . . .”

  “No, Your Honor,” she
said tightly. “We're ready. I just don't appreciate being ambushed—especially with something as groundless as this.”

  “Why don't we let the judge decide the merits of the motion, Ellen?” Costello suggested in a patronizing tone.

  Grabko perched a pair of reading glasses on his nose and turned to the affidavit. “According to Mrs. Cooper, Mr. Enberg expressed an interest in coming into the room where she was filling out her report, but one of three officers present in the room turned him away, then followed him out.”

  “I don't believe it,” Ellen challenged. “What officer? Let's get him in here.”

  Costello huffed a laugh. “I'm sure he'll tell us the truth when he sees what's riding on his story. Every cop in town wants to see my client publicly hanged. Mrs. Cooper is the only impartial witness to what happened.”

  “Dennis Enberg would never have allowed himself to be barred from the room if he had wanted to be present,” Ellen argued.

  “He's not here to tell us that, though, is he, Ellen?”

  “Yeah, what a lucky stroke for you, Tony,” she said, her words dripping venom. “Right about now Denny is on a stainless-steel table at Hennepin County Medical Center getting himself sawed in half by a medical examiner.”

  “Ellen, please,” Grabko chastised her. “I'll call the officer in, and I'll speak with Mr. Stovich, but as Mr. Enberg isn't able to speak for himself on the matter, I have to concur with Mr. Costello—Mrs. Cooper is the least biased of all involved parties.”

  “But, Your Honor, Mrs. Cooper never mentioned this when I spoke with her.”

  “Did you ask her specifically?”

  “I had no reason to ask such a question. We spoke at length about the lineup procedure—”

  “And she had no reason to think anything was out of the ordinary,” Costello said. “She isn't an attorney. She isn't a police officer. She had no way of knowing proper procedure. She trusted the police to conduct themselves properly, and they betrayed that trust.”

  “I'm sure that's what you led her to believe,” Ellen sneered.

  “That's enough, Ellen.” Grabko set the affidavit aside. “I'll speak to all parties involved and come to a decision. Is there anything more we need to discuss today?”

  Costello lifted his hands. “Nothing further, Your Honor.”

  “No, sir,” Ellen said grudgingly.

  “Fine,” Grabko said, straightening the stack of documents. “I'll see you both here tomorrow morning.”

  “You really are a sleaze, Tony,” Ellen muttered as they left Grabko's chambers for the outer office. His secretary had vanished, leaving them alone.

  “Why?” Costello pulled up short of the hall door and faced her, standing close enough for confidentiality. “Because I'm doing my job? Because I don't believe my client is guilty?”

  “You don't give a damn if he is. You play this system like a pickup soccer game. Nothing matters except that you win. You trick my witness into doing your dirty work for you. You call Josh Kirkwood's father a child abuser and impugn the reputation of his mother. If you publicly accuse Hannah Garrison of falsifying those medical records, I hope she sues your ass eight ways from Sunday.”

  He made a pretense of being hurt. “That's not a very charitable sentiment toward someone who is genuinely concerned for your safety, Ellen. You could have been killed in that car.”

  “Is that your unbiased opinion, or do you know something the rest of us don't?”

  “Yes, Ellen, I am not only trying to acquit a guilty monster, I am also in on the conspiracy to kill you. Christ, can't you take anything I say to you at face value?”

  “The fact that you have at least two faces complicates the issue.”

  He shook his head. “You always took it too personally,” he said almost to himself. “The job is the job, Ellen. Just because we stand on opposite sides of the courtroom doesn't mean we can't set it aside when we walk out the door.”

  “Oh, that's rich coming from you, Tony,” she sneered. “You're never off the job. As far as you're concerned, there are twenty-four billable hours to a day. No situation, no relationship, is exempt. Don't even try to argue with me on that score, and don't delude yourself into thinking you can win me over. I know just what lengths you'll go to.”

  Their past hung between them, dense with complicated facts and feelings and fears that had never been proved true or false.

  “Be careful, Ellen,” he said at last. “While you're busy watching for me to strike, there's a real snake out there.”

  “And his name is probably already in your Rolodex.”

  “Your imagined accomplice?”

  “Technically, I believe I would be correct in calling him your accomplice.”

  “In your delusions of vengeance.” He buttoned his jacket and tugged it straight, preparing himself for the cameras. “Nice try, siccing the BCA after me, getting Wilhelm to make noise about a warrant for my phone records. Sadly, it's just another example of how this investigation is being botched—which is what I'll have to point out to the press.”

  “Point away, Tony,” Ellen said with a knife-edge smile. “All the press needs is a suspicion of your involvement and they'll be digging like badgers. Who knows what they might turn up? I know I'll be standing right there to see what crawls out of your lair.”

  She jerked the door open and stepped out into the hall, eager for once to upstage him in front of the cameras.

  “I don't know how much help I can be to you, Mr. Brooks,” Christopher Priest said without apology. His expression was as neutral as his voice, his face the blank oval of a mannequin's.

  His office was exactly what Jay had imagined: a claustrophobic little cube crowded with books and file cabinets. A computer monitor on the desk displayed an endless repetition of starbursts. The room was filled with the stuff of academia—textbooks and reference books and student papers—but with none of the personal bric-a-brac that would have given a flavor of the man whose name was on the small placard outside the door. The desk was too neat, the office as devoid of personality as the professor himself.

  “Some of my students and I were involved with the volunteer effort to find Josh,” he said, seating himself with prim precision. “We set up computer stations at the volunteer center and went on-line to disperse and receive information through the various networks. That's the extent of my connection.”

  Jay voiced his skepticism. “That's a bit of an over-simplification, don't you think, Professor? You volunteered to help with the investigation, then one of the cops involved was attacked in your own front yard, then your best friend was arrested. . . . You must be feeling like this whole thing is sucking you in like a tar pit.”

  “It's been a little overwhelming, yes,” he conceded.

  “And Dr. Garrison is a friend of yours, right?”

  “I know Hannah,” he admitted. “I admire her. She's an extraordinary woman.”

  Jay took in the hint of color that touched the professor's pale cheeks when he spoke of Hannah. “Man, if I had all that buzzing around me, I'd be feeling downright dizzy. Now the cops are looking for that student—Todd Childs—and looking at the Sci-Fi Cowboys. You must feel almost as if you're under attack.”

  Priest stared at him like an owl from behind his oversize glasses. “I had nothing to do with any crime. Neither did the Cowboys.”

  “Circumstances suggest otherwise where the boys are concerned.”

  “Circumstances aren't always what they seem. The Sci-Fi Cowboys are a very select group of young men, Mr. Brooks. Handpicked for their talents and potential.”

  “Aren't most of their talents against the law?”

  “Academic talents,” Priest specified, unamused. “They are very bright young men who deserve a chance to prove they can be productive members of society.”

  “And they're no doubt grateful for the opportunity,” Jay said. “Giving a kid a gift like that inspires loyalty. Kids with the kind of backgrounds the Cowboys have might express that loyalty in, shall w
e say, inappropriate ways.”

  “I stand behind the Cowboys,” Priest said flatly. “I've said all I'm going to say about the subject to the police and to the press—and to you, Mr. Brooks. If you came here hoping for an admission of guilt, there's no point in continuing this conversation.”

  “No, no, not at all—”

  “I know what you told the police about the encounter with Tyrell and the other two boys Saturday night,” he said in a strangely quiet voice, as if it were a lurid secret.

  “I simply told them what happened, Professor. I'm not taking sides.”

  “Aren't you?” His thin lips pressed together. “You're not . . . aligning yourself with Ms. North?”

  “What would make you think I was?”

  “The two of you had words at the benefit. You followed her out.”

  And he had been watching from his post beside Garrett Wright's wife. The idea stirred a strange sense of violation.

  “Ms. North has a philosophical objection to my work,” Jay said with a well-rehearsed sardonic smile. “She has managed to equate the writing and publishing of true crime with the Romans selling tickets to watch Christians being devoured by lions.”

  Priest considered the response. “An interesting correlation. The readers of your work are, of course, insulated from the immediate horror of the violence, but perhaps the two do share a common attraction.”

  “Not for me.”

  “Hmm, well, it's all in our perception, isn't it?” he said. “And perception is dependent upon what? You can present the same set of facts and circumstances to five different people, and they may give you five different interpretations—which is why many seasoned courtroom attorneys will tell you there is nothing so unreliable as an eyewitness. The opinions we form are based on individual perceptions, something science has yet to fully understand.

  “Fascinating, isn't it?” He gave his head a slight shake, as if humans were simply too much trouble, and cast an affectionate glance at his computer screen. “The human mind can be infinitely logical and pragmatic, or stubbornly irrational. A hopelessly vacant mind can hold a kernel of brilliance. A brilliant mind can be fatally flawed.”