by Ellie Smith
Phil Blakely glanced at his watch as he crossed the street and headed up the sidewalk at a quick pace. If Richard Clark was as guilty as the newspaper implied it might be possible that he could still catch a flight out to Canada in the morning and only lose one day of his vacation. After all, he had only promised Ted that he would talk to the man.
"Hey Phil, I thought you'd be halfway to Canada by now."
The attorney looked up to see a uniformed police officer coming across the lobby toward him. He gave the familiar man a slanted smile. "So did I," he admitted. "But I got a call from a colleague of mine. He asked me to come down and talk to a friend of his who's one of your guests."
Lieutenant Jerry Alvarado's black eyebrows twisted downward. "He's a prisoner here?" Walking to the counter, he reached over it and produced a computer printout. "What's his name?"
"Richard Clark."
The officer's dark gaze jetted to the attorney. "Don't tell me you're going to defend this guy Phil." He tossed the printout on the counter. "He's as guilty as hell itself. We've got him dead to rights and he knows it."
Phil studied the shadowed expression of the man he had known the better part of fifteen years. Jerry Alvarado was what Phil Blakely considered 'pure cop'. "Has he confessed to killing Thornton?"
"No," the Lieutenant grunted with blatant disgust. Normally the man who had worked his way up from a rookie patrolman would never think of giving any information to anyone, especially most of the attorneys who frequented his domain. But Phil Blakely was not one of those slick barristers who would try to weasel information out of anything that moved. No, he was totally on the level and a man that Jerry Alvarado considered a good friend. "He's sticking to the innocent routine. He swears he was home when the Professor was killed."
"You got any witnesses who say he wasn't?"
The dark head swung. "Not yet but we're working on that." His frown deepened again. "You really sure you want to talk to this guy Phil?"
"I made a promise," the attorney replied steadfastly and laid his briefcase on the counter. "And we both know how my promises hold up."
The corners of Alvarado's taunt mouth twitched into something that might have faintly been taken as a smile before he nodded then disappeared through a door at the end of the counter. "Alright," the Lieutenant said as he appeared on the other side of the counter. "Let me get the paperwork together and I'll take you back." He pulled a blank form from under the counter. "I suppose you're going to want a copy of the reports."
"Of course."
The officer's dark head bobbed as he began filling out the necessary paperwork that would get the barrister through the security doors. "Go ahead and finish filling this out," he instructed as he swung the partially completed form around and slid it across the counter. "I'll go make those copies."
Phil finished filling out the paperwork, was just signing his name when the Lieutenant returned.
"Here you go," Alvarado said and laid a short stack of sheets on the counter then took the form the attorney handed over. "I'll call back and have him brought up."
The attorney turned his attention to the preliminary police report with a growing frown. According to the reporting officers, the body of Professor Harold Thornton was discovered by his butler, Arthur Withers, when he checked the house before commencing his daily duties at 5 a.m. The body was lying on the floor in the den, a WW II Japanese dagger sticking out of his back. Upon questioning Withers, police had learned that, two evenings prior, the day before the murder, the butler had admitted Richard Clark, a fellow professor at Harrison College, to the house about seven o'clock, then had went to his quarters for the night after Thornton had dismissed him. The butler had no idea when Clark had left. Withers said, as far as he knew, Professor Thornton had no visitors the evening he was murdered. Withers said he had retired for the evening just after seven and did not see his employer alive again. When asked if Withers had heard any unusual noises after he had retired, the butler had said that he had not but probably would not have since his quarters were at the back and opposite end of the house from the den. According to the Coroner's preliminary report, time of death was tentatively set between the hours of nine p.m. and three a.m. The attorney met the Lieutenant's searching eyes. "Who's heading the investigation?"
Jerry Alvarado's jaw set firmly. "I am." The edge in his voice softened slightly but the fire in his eyes remained as he met the gaze of the man he had known since his early years as a patrolman. "I'll tell you right now Phil you're wasting your time on this one."
Phil frowned. Did the Lieutenant know something that was not in the reports? "Maybe so," the attorney replied as he slipped the sheets into his briefcase. "But, like I said, I made a promise."
The Lieutenant's head bobbed before he gestured to his left. "I'll meet you at the side door."
After Phillip Blakely was motioned through the metal detector and his briefcase through the scanner he picked up the leather satchel then followed the Lieutenant down a corridor and into a brightly lit room. The room, otherwise unoccupied, held a wooden table and four wooden chairs.
"Have a seat Phil," Alvarado said from behind him. "Clark will be in shortly."
The attorney placed his briefcase on the floor beside one of the chairs and had barely gotten seated when the steel door opened and a dark haired man who was followed closely by two uniformed guards entered. Phil examined the dark haired man. He was tall, at least six foot, and his dark hair, even though it was tousled, was cut in a short, modern style. Phil thought he looked totally out of place in this domain. The man who Phil guessed was in his mid-thirties, looked dismal. His head was downcast, his expression one of total defeat. He wore the typical bright florescent orange coveralls and black tennis shoes. The handcuffs that circled his wrists were attached to a thick chain that circled his waist. Leg irons restricted his pace and clanked noisily as he walked. Only after Richard Clark had been shuttled into the chair on the other side of the table did he lift his gaze. Phil watched the guards exit the room before he spoke. "I'm Phil Blakely," he informed, trying to keep his tone light. "Ted Campbell called and asked me to come down and talk with you."
Richard Clark exhaled raggedly. "Thanks for coming Mr. Blakely. I hated to bother Ted but I didn't know where else to turn." His soft brown gaze darted around the room in a short, haphazard pattern before coming to rest on the man across from him again. "I've never been in this position before."
Phil studied the brown eyes. Even though they were filled with desolation, he saw a steadiness in them. “It doesn’t look good.” His eyebrows met discerningly. "Did you kill Professor Thornton?"
"No," was the instant response. "I was home when they say he was murdered."
Phil saw no change of expression or difference of inflections in his voice. He laid suited arms on the table. "When was the last time you saw Professor Thornton?"
"I was over there the night before he was killed," Clark informed. "And I talked to him that evening."
"The evening he was killed?"
The dark head bobbed. "He called me a little after seven to confirm our golf date. We were supposed to go out and play a couple of rounds Saturday morning."
So Richard Clark had spoken to Thornton that night. That had not been in the report. Phillip Blakely wondered what else was not in there. "I gather you and Professor Thornton were good friends."
"We were at one time. We had a falling out for a year or so and were just getting our friendship reestablished."
"What happened to break up your friendship?" Blakely questioned.
"It would be easier to explain if I started at the beginning," Richard Clark replied. "It's the only way you will understand."
Phil glanced at his watch. He had already missed his flight today. And, since he had guessed he would, he might as well hear all of Richard Clark's story. "Alright, go ahead."
"I met Harold Thornton two days after I arrived at Harrison," Clark began. "Over the next couple of years, we became close friends. More than once, during
summer break, Harry and I would take off and drive up to his cabin in the Colorado Rockies to do some fly fishing. We played golf every Saturday morning when we didn't have classes scheduled and when weather permitted." Richard Clark released a heavy sigh. "Then, last fall, just before classes started, we had a faculty meeting. An alumni had donated five million dollars to the school. It was the faculty’s decision what would be done with it. There was a lot of discussion but, as it turned out, Harry and I were on opposite sides of the fence. He thought we needed library renovations and I thought we needed a new stadium scoreboard." His eyebrows met. "There were some heated words and Harry and I went our separate ways. We didn't speak to each other for more than eight months."
"If you weren't speaking, why did you go over to Thornton's house the night before he was murdered?"
"The week before I went over there I went to the library to check some references I was going to use for one of my lectures." Clark’s head swung slowly. "The books were so outdated they didn't have the information I needed. I realized that Harry had been right. I called the Chancellor the next morning and told him that I wanted to change my vote for the five million and why. The decision had been tabled due to an even amount of votes on each side. When I changed my vote it settled the decision. Harry and his wife were out of town that week on a family emergency so I called and left a message on his office answering machine. I told him what I had done and that I was sorry but I hadn't realized the library was so in need of updating."
"Did Professor Thornton call you when he got back into town?"
The dark head bobbed. "He called me Monday morning at my campus office. He said it had been a stupid argument and I agreed. We apologized to each other then met that day for lunch and managed to get our friendship back on the right track." A weak smile tickled his taunt mouth and was gone. "Harry called me Wednesday afternoon and asked me if I'd like to come over to his house that evening."
"Did he give you a reason why he wanted you to come over?"
"He didn't have to," Clark said. "Harry and I used to get together on Wednesday nights and watch a fly fishing program he received on his satellite dish. I got there just after seven. The show starts at seven-thirty and runs until eight-thirty. We sat there and talked a little bit then I left about nine. Before I left, we made a date to play golf Saturday at his club and he said that he was going to have a surprise for me."
Phillip Blakely frowned. "Any idea what the surprise was?"
"I didn't at the time," came the hollow response. "But the Lieutenant that questioned me said that they'd found a brand new set of graphite clubs in Harry's den." Richard Clark blinked back the wetness that was filling his eyes. "Harry used to tease me whenever we played golf. He said that the only reason I beat him was because of my graphite clubs. He used to threaten that he was going to get a set one of these days then he would, 'whip the pants off me.' That must have been Harry’s surprise. He must have bought the same kind of clubs I have and was going to play with them Saturday."
Phil made a mental note to check on the clubs. "Did you two talk about anything else when he called the night he was murdered?"
The dark head swung. "Both of us have heavy schedules on Friday and usually spend Thursday nights making up our class schedules for the following week. He just said that he would see me in the morning and we hung up."
"And you never left your house after that?"
"I never left the house until the police pounded on my door."
"Did anyone else call you during the evening?"
"No. I didn't receive or make any calls."
"What did you do when you got home?" Phil knew he was grasping for straws to find this man some kind of an alibi. But if there was just something to prove that he was home that would clear him.
"I took a shower then made myself a sandwich and sat down and watched CNN while I ate it. Then I went in the den and worked on an upcoming lecture on my computer. I went to bed just after ten."
“Were you online at all?”
“No.”
Nothing. Phil knew he needed more before he made up his mind. He slipped the police report into his briefcase then met the man’s gaze. "Have they set your arraignment date yet?"
"I don't know. They haven't told me much."
That was not a surprise. "If I decide not to take your case I'll find an attorney who will," he told the dark haired man. Phil gave him a reassuring smile as he got to his feet. "Until then, just relax."
"Easier said than done Mr. Blakely," Richard Clark said forlornly. "Thanks for coming. I do appreciate that."
Phillip Blakely was barely halfway down the hallway when Jerry Alvarado came through a nearby doorway.
"Well?"
The attorney knew what he was asking. "I don't know yet."
The uniformed man took a step closer. "Stay away from this one Phil. Clark is as guilty as the devil himself." He glanced up and down the hall before his voice lowered. "We found his prints all over that den. They were on everything from the murder weapon to the glass case where the dagger was kept to the wine glasses we found on the table." His bushy eyebrows met above narrowing eyes. "But the clincher was the clubs."
"The golf clubs?"
"Yep," Alvarado confirmed. "According to the butler, those clubs were delivered that evening just after six. Thornton was killed sometime between nine and three."
Phil Blakely's forehead furrowed. "What do the clubs have to do with it?"
"Simple," the Lieutenant smiled exultantly. "They're going to hang Richard Clark. His fingerprints were all over them."
Phil looked up to see the two guards escort Richard Clark out of the visiting room. "Can I have one more minute with Clark?" he asked of the man standing beside him.
“I guess so.” Jerry Alvarado looked back over his shoulder. "Stan?" One of the guards looked his way. "Hold up a minute." He looked back at the attorney. "You want him back in visitation?"
"That won't be necessary," Blakely replied. "I've only got a couple of questions." He went down the hallway with the Lieutenant at his heels. As he stopped by the threesome, Richard Clark looked up. "When you went over to Professor Thornton's Thursday night did you touch anything?"
"I guess I did," the prisoner said with a thoughtful frown. "I honestly don't remember."
"Did you touch the case where he kept the dagger?"
The dark head swung instantly. "Definitely not."
"Just one more question," Blakely informed and held the dark gaze steadily. "Did you drink anything that night?"
Clark's gaze slid sideways and instantly back before he nodded. "I had a Coke."
"Can or glass?"
The prisoner's frown deepened. "Can, why?"
"Just curious." A soft smile curled Phillip Blakely's lips. "I'll take your case Professor Clark."
Richard Clark's eyes widened as his face filled with surprise. "You will?"
"Yes," Phillip Blakely announced decisively. "I will." He patted the man's bound arm. "I'll be in touch in the next couple of days. Until then, just relax." He watched Richard Clark as the two guards ushered him through a nearby door then turned to the Lieutenant who was staring at him in disbelief.
"You're crazy Phil," Jerry Alvarado scowled. "The D.A. is going to have you for lunch." His voice lowered. "You didn't hear this from me but he told me that he's going for murder one. We've been friends a long time Phil. You really need to reconsider.”
The attorney smiled then patted the uniformed shoulder. "Thanks for the advice Jerry. I appreciate it. But Clark needs a damn good lawyer and he's going to get one."
"But why?" the Lieutenant cried softly. "Clark's guilty."
Phillip Blakely arched his left eyebrow as a mischievous smile touched the corners of his mouth. "Is he?"