“All right then. Your way.” Lizann crossed her legs, adjusted her black skirt, cleared her throat. “My client. Jeffrey Baltrim.”
“Guilty,” Martha said. “As hell. Next question.”
Lizann tapped a black suede toe on the figured rug, once, then again, watching her own action as if counting off seconds. Those hoop earrings, Martha noted, were bigger than Martha herself cared for.
“I know you like to think my client is guilty,” Lizann finally said. “But indulge me here. How do you arrive at that conclusion?”
Martha ignored the question. “You’re here to inquire about a deal, I take it.”
“I know you don’t like to lose,” Lizann said. “But you’ll lose this one.”
“To you?” Martha couldn’t help it.
“‘The devil you know’ as you always say, Martha.” Lizann smiled. “Before we go any further, let me ask you. I noticed in the crime-scene report that the oven was on. Why would that be?”
Martha rolled her eyes. “I know it’s a wild guess, but possibly to keep the pizza hot?”
“For who?” Lizann asked. “And since two pieces were gone, and there was no pizza in Ms. Lyle’s stomach, and my client is allergic to cheese, who ate them?”
Martha shrugged. Allergic to cheese? Probably a bluff.
“And the pizza place, Oregano Brothers. Did you know that closed at eleven?” Lizann went on. “But Dr. Ong estimated the time of death was around four A.M.”
“Liz? Did you know that Jeffrey Baltrim had the delivery car, had a child in the car, and the child can testify? And that we found drugs from Ms. Lyle in her house? And more drugs, with the same batch number, in Baltrim’s car?”
Lizann nodded. “I do know that. So he may have been a drug dealer—though I see you didn’t charge him with that. But Martha? Please. Do tell me how that makes him a murderer.”
“Do you want to argue this now?” Martha had considered all of this, certainly, and was aware the case had a few holes. But nothing she couldn’t deal with. “Shall I call in some neighbors to play the jury?”
“Funny.” Lizann shifted in her chair, drummed her fingers on its padded chintz arms.
Martha said nothing, since nothing Lizann was saying merited a response. This would be adjudicated in court. Jeffrey Baltrim would be found guilty, game over.
“How about manslaughter?” Lizann offered. “My client does seven years.”
“The murder took place only a week or so ago.” Martha shook her head, dismissive. “It’s silly, as I’m sure you are well aware, to discuss this now.”
Lizann tapped her toe again. Stood. “No wonder you didn’t want to meet at your office,” she said. “Talk about bad faith. You didn’t want to meet at all.”
“Always a pleasure to see you, Liz.” Martha stood too, brushed down her tan slacks. Gestured to the door. “If there’s nothing else?”
“What’re your plans, Martha?” Lizann didn’t move. “You going to disappear a witness? Get the court officers to eavesdrop on the jury?”
“That’s ridiculous.”
Lizann widened her eyes. “Well, you are so right, Martha. And I would have thought so too, years ago. But now…”
Martha took a step toward the door. She would not be intimidated by this person. Or anyone.
“Or, oh, I know.” Lizann held up a forefinger. “You’ll wine and dine the judge. Or have some little off-the-record discussions? Or possibly—get a few pivotal jurors dismissed? Don’t forget, Martha. I’ve been in on those cases. I know how you operate. You’re—”
“That’s quite enough, Ms. Wallace.” This pitiful attempt at extortion was simply the last stand of a losing battle. “If you participated in any prohibited activities, then it’s your responsibility to turn yourself in. I am unaware of such a thing, certainly, but happy to facilitate your confession with the disciplinary board.”
Lizann kept talking. “Or will you coerce that little boy—Jonah, remember?—into saying where he was that night, when he clearly has no idea? His mother tells me he came home just after ten. Isn’t that interesting? Or, oh. Will you alter the warrant so those drugs you took—illegally, I might add—are actually listed?”
“Does it matter to you murder-list people? That you’re letting murderers go free?” Martha planted her hands on her hips. “Because of paperwork?”
Martha knew she was going too far, letting her emotions get the better of her. But she could not let this go. “That’s what makes you proud and happy? That’s why you went to law school? To put guilty people like that back out on the streets to kill someone else?”
“Innocent ’til proven guilty, if I might remind you, Martha.”
“Guilty is guilty.”
“Is it?” Lizann lifted her chin, narrowing her eyes. “Imagine, if you can. What if it were someone you loved? Would you be so dismissive about the rules then? Every defendant is loved by someone. Just—not you.”
“Jeffrey Baltrim is a killer.” Martha walked to the door herself now. She’d had quite enough. “He’ll face trial, he’ll face a jury, and fairly and squarely. And if I do my job properly—as I always do, I might add—he’ll be justly convicted and be sent to prison for life.”
“Not if I can help it,” Lizann said.
“You can’t.” Martha opened the door.
“Watch me.” Lizann took one step over the threshold, then turned back. Looked Martha square in the eye. “You’ll have to win this one the right way, Martha. By the rules. Not your rules. But the rule of law. Do you think you’re capable of that? Remember, as you’re plotting your clever Martha-strategies. Remember I know your secrets.”
Martha didn’t mean to slam the door. She paused for a moment, alone in the entryway, waiting for the quiet to return. She’d been threatened by far more powerful people. It was part of the job. And if justice was the result? That’s all that mattered.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
RACHEL NORTH
I’m in the middle again. Facing past and present. Deacon Davis. And Danielle Zander. How far does Martha Gardiner go to win a case? And to protect her own reputation? Maybe, standing beside her in front of a bank of fancy elevators, I’m about to get a clue.
“Twenty-five.” Martha cocks her head toward the panel of numbered buttons in this chic downtown apartment building. I push, as silently instructed. The polished aluminum doors close us in, and we ride, silent, heading up twenty-five floors.
Third floor.
How must this woman feel about Deacon Davis’s death? Does she know about it? The larger question is—did she have something to do with it?
I’d deconstructed all the reasons Kurt Suddeth might have lied about Roni Wollaskay’s daughter, and decided, irrevocably, that Martha herself must have been involved. I know from law school—thank goodness I’m learning the rules—that to excuse a juror that way there must have been a hearing in the judge’s chambers. The judge would have to interrogate the juror, even by phone, and then hear arguments from both sides. That means both Martha and Jack must have been there. If Jack wasn’t, that’d be improper. Which means Suddeth and Martha—and maybe the judge—must have lied to him.
Fifteenth floor.
But when I’d broached it last night at the dinner table, thinking Jack would be intrigued or even incensed, instead he’d been—devastated.
“Why’d Mrs. Wollaskay come over?” He’d introduced the topic, which gave me a graceful opening. “What’d you two discuss?”
“Well, Deacon Davis. It’s so disturbing. I can’t even—how do you live with that, honey?”
“That he was killed?” Jack tilted his chair back, teetered it on two legs. “You think that’s my fault somehow?”
“Your fault? Your fault?” I’d been shocked by that. And I’d over-reacted. “Jack, give me a break. For once. This is not about you! I voted guilty! And now he’s dead. And if I hadn’t—”
“He wasn’t guilty, Rachel,” Jack plunked his chair back down. “Got it? End of
story. Shit happens.”
“He wasn’t—” It took me a moment to process. Regroup. “But you never told—He didn’t do it? How do you know? I mean, how could I have known?”
“Exactly. You couldn’t. But I failed. Horribly. He wasn’t in prison because of you. It was my fault. Because of me. I lost. And now he’s dead.”
Jack looked so solemnly mournful, eyes welling with tears. I’d never seen him this upset. And I knew it was my mistake, a little, for making it be about me.
“I’m sorry, honey,” I reached out, touched his hand. “I’m so sorry. But how could the system—”
“The system? Listen, Rachel.” He yanked his hand away, picked up his fork, jabbed it at me. “The system can be a death sentence. For all involved. Not just physically, but emotionally. I defend people because … my job, my motivation, my life, is that justice is done during the trial process. That the system, as you call it, is fair. Deacon Davis didn’t kill that woman. I’m convinced of it. And yet, I couldn’t convince you. Or all the others. I failed, I utterly failed. That’s why I’d been pouring my life into the appeal.”
No reason for that now, I’d thought. Poor Jack. “I’m so—”
“And you know what else? Now Deke’s conviction gets dismissed! Mass law says so, did you learn this yet? Because there was no appeal. Remember Deke’s sister Latrelle? I had to tell her that her brother was dead—but he was no longer a convicted murderer. Imagine that conversation.”
“How awful,” I said. “The justice system is—”
“The justice system? How about the corrections system? It’s Dickensian. Brutality more common than you can imagine. But Rach? I can’t—dwell. Sometimes doing what I have to do is impossible. You’ll learn. Can we not talk about it? Please?”
Which made sense. His client was dead. And he had no idea what I suspected about that trial. “Okay,” I’d said. “Sure.”
Our silverware had clinked against our white plates. A minute passed. Two.
No. I had to pursue it. I could help him. “But Jack? One thing, okay? D’you remember the hearing when they excused Roni? In the judge’s chambers?”
“A hearing?” Jack sighed, then grimaced as if he were trying to recall. “Not really. Why?”
“Do you remember that the court officer told Judge Saunders that Roni’s daughter was possibly going to die?”
“Yeah, no,” Jack shook his head, then he examined every roll in the wicker bread basket, chose one. “Long time ago,” he said. “And you know? None of it matters. End of story. Like I said.” Then he’d almost twinkled at me. “And if I remembered anything about jurors, it would have been about you, right?”
“But Jack, see, it might matter,” I persisted, ignoring his surprisingly flirty tone. “Roni said—”
“Rach? How was your day otherwise?” At that point, Jack had resolutely changed the subject. “What’re you and your Martha working on in the lion’s den?”
I’d almost choked on my rice pilaf, imagining me telling him about the interview with Logan Concannon, including Martha’s speculations about the philandering Tom Rafferty and the jealous Nina. Who, it seemed to me, was once again in Martha’s gunsights. And who, no doubt, would once again be Jack’s client. Which meant I could not talk about it.
“Ah, paperwork,” I said. “Boring intern stuff. I hardly see Eli and Nick and Andrew. Who knows what my fellow baby lawyers are working on. But let me ask you, making sure I’m clear on the rules. The factor that determines which county’s DA’s office will investigate is where the crime was committed, is that correct? That’s the only thing?”
“Bzzzt.” Jack made a noise like a wrong-answer buzzer. “Better study up before the bar exam, sweetheart. First, allegedly committed. Even though you’re playing prosecutor this summer, it’s allegedly.”
“Allegedly.” This is what we talked about at the dinner table. Death and murder. “But there was a crime, for gosh sake.”
“Is this about something specific?”
I’d kept forgetting how smart he was. But this had been bugging me, and when I brought it up to Martha, she waved me off. I’d looked it up, but the law is complicated.
“No, no,” I said, “I’m only trying to understand. This is why I’m lucky to be married to a fancy successful lawyer. So. Could the investigation of a crime change jurisdiction? Why would that be?”
“Can of worms,” Jack said. “Mass General Laws, chapter two-seven-seven, section sixty. Says, essentially, prosecution of a crime shall take place in the county in which the crime occurred.”
“Show-off,” I’d said. “Any exceptions, though?”
Jack had put on his recitation-of-legal-facts expression. “Murder on the high seas, or close to a geographical boundary, or if it’s not clear where the crime was committed. Or, for instance, if you poisoned me at the dinner table here in Middlesex County and drove me to Suffolk County, where I then died. Then you could be prosecuted in either county.” He forked up a bit of chicken and rice, examined it. “You didn’t do that, though, did you, sweetheart? Poison me with this chicken? At least it’s delicious, thank you. Did Martha put you up to it? Give you instructions? Promise to get you acquitted?”
We’d gone on that way, spousal banter—No, I didn’t poison you and won’t unless you keep leaving your towels on the floor—and soon we were deep into scraping and stashing the dishes, and then Netflix.
But I was still chewing over my question. Did Martha Gardiner convince someone—the DA or a judge or grand jury or someone, I wasn’t exactly clear on how it would work—that she thought the murder of Danielle Zander took place in Middlesex County and not at the statehouse, which was in Suffolk County? And convinced whoever that her body was moved to the statehouse from Middlesex?
Whoa. Nina lived in Middlesex. As did Tom Rafferty. As did Logan Concannon. As did Jack, not that it mattered. And, in fact, as do I, although not back then. But as a result of my dear husband’s legal knowledge, I got a better idea of what was under way. What Martha Gardiner must suspect about Dani’s murderer.
Now I glance at my boss who’s all bespoke dove-gray suit and silk scarf, stolidly watching the lighted green numbers on the elevator count higher and higher. I’m tempted to float the jurisdiction question to her, oh-so-casually. And maybe also ask her about why Roni Wollaskay was excused. But now’s not the time. I can wait.
The elevator dings to signal we’ve arrived. It also means I’m about to cross another threshold. As we approach apartment 2505, walking down the plush wall-to-wall, past the glowing lily-shaped sconces and brass-plated numbers, my heart is racing. I scold myself. So silly. But I smooth my hair and then the shoulder of my linen blazer and swipe my tongue across my teeth to make sure there’s no lipstick.
Martha knocks, one elegant fist rapping the white-lacquered door. It opens.
MARTHA GARDINER
Martha had stepped aside after she knocked. Put Rachel front and center. Old cop trick, learned in her own intern days. But just out of curiosity, she wanted to see Tom Rafferty’s face when he saw Rachel North. The poor man flinched, his neck flushing red, though she had to give him credit for a quick recovery. Martha wasn’t surprised. Photos and videos of Rachel from six years ago, of the person Tom Rafferty knew and promoted, might have been of an entirely different person. The Rachel North she’d seen for the first time on the Deacon Davis jury, then sitting in the courtroom cozying up to Rafferty, was dark-haired, with a mass of wild curls, and fresh-faced, a voluptuous cat. That barely jibed with this new Rachel—blond, thin, and brittle around the edges.
“Rachel,” he said now. “Martha.”
“Senator.” Rachel’s voice did not falter.
“Tom,” Martha said. She’d tried to read Rachel’s expression, too, but couldn’t manage the choreography. “Thank you for making the time.”
In reality, Tom had no choice, of course, and he knew it as well as she did. But it never hurt to be polite. Even to a predator. Or a power-drunk pol. But he kn
ew what this was about. The murder of a young aide. The possible guilt of his own wife. His own precarious position.
They followed Rafferty out of the corridor into the austere apartment, Martha briefing Tom on Rachel’s internship along the way. It hardly looked as if someone lived in the cookie-cutter living room—magazines stacked edge to edge on a glass coffee table, tawny suede throw pillows lining a creamy tweed couch, a fake orchid curving against the bare walls, the flower’s blood-purple center the only color in the white-walled rectangle. On the bookshelves, the faded leather-bound spines stood perfectly aligned. Unseen air conditioners hummed, a pulsing undercurrent to this drama’s stage setting.
“Please. Both of you.” Tom gestured them toward the living room. “What can I do for you, Martha?”
Tom had changed over the years, too, Martha noted. He’d gained weight. And lost hair. But he remained the basic Tom Rafferty, knit shirt and boat shoes, insistently power-casual.
“As I mentioned on the phone,” Martha began. “It’s about Danielle Zander. May we sit?”
“Cut to the chase, shall we?” Rafferty remained standing. “Do I need a lawyer?”
“Let’s sit, why don’t we, Senator?” Martha understood his nerves. This was a tightrope. “Always pleased if you’d like to call a lawyer, of course. We’ll wait. But at this point we’re only gathering information. As I said. Take a seat. Rachel?”
Martha signaled her not only to sit, but to take out her yellow pad. Rachel had to obey, and accept her place. That she was an observer, a stenographer. With no personal stakes in this session other than getting experience.
“I’m at Harvard Law now,” Rachel explained, as she retrieved her pad and stashed her leather bag beside the couch. “I’ll graduate next year.”
Martha almost smiled. Tactics, even now. Telegraphing to her former boss that their positions had changed, their power structure. Fine. Rachel was learning about being a lawyer, and that meant learning even more about manipulation. That things weren’t always what they first appeared.
The Murder List Page 24