by Ellen Butler
“Excuse me.” Jillian stopped the sandy-haired lawyer. “Are you Sadira Manon’s lawyer?”
“Are you a reporter?” He gazed down his long patrician nose at her as though she was a pesky bug.
“No, a friend.” Jillian’s hackles rose. “I was with her when she got arrested. I just arrived. What happened? Is she getting out today?”
The supercilious look faded slightly. “Follow me. We’ll converse somewhere quiet.” He took Jillian’s elbow, escorted her into the tiled hallway, and led her to an unoccupied corner.
“What’s going on?” Jillian asked in low tones.
“Did you know your friend purchased airline tickets this week to Argentina?”
“No.” She shook her head. “School is almost out. Many of us travel in the summertime. What does that have to do with anything?”
“Argentina has no extradition treaties with the US.”
“So?” Jillian put her hands on her hips.
“The DA argued your friend was a flight risk.”
“Uh-oh.” Her hands dropped. “I don’t suppose that went well.”
“No.” He glanced past Jillian as if checking to make sure no one listened.
“So she’s not getting bailed out?”
“No, I was able to get the judge to set bail. However, due to the DA’s arguments and the fact that the diamonds have not yet been found, he set bail at $200,000, your friend must surrender her passport, and she’ll have to wear a tracking anklet.”
“Two hundred! How much will she have to pay a bail bondsman?”
“Ten percent.”
Jillian whistled. “I wonder if she can afford it.”
The lawyer scrutinized Jillian. “She assured me she could. Why? Don’t you think she’ll be able to?”
“No, no, if Sadira said she could pay it, I’m sure she can,” Jillian replied in an overly jovial manner. Her smile fell as the lawyer continued to study her through his small rectangular black glasses. “So—where is her passport?”
“I’m not sure. I need to speak with my client before they transport her back to county lockup.”
“I have a set of her housekeys if that helps,” Jillian offered.
He finally looked interested in something she said. “It might.”
“Do you think I could talk to her before she goes?”
“Doubtful, but” —the lawyer’s phone beeped, and he glanced at it distractedly— “I’ll see what I can arrange.”
“Oh, by the way, my name is Jillian Cardinal.” She held out her hand. He ignored it, his attention focused on the phone, and Jillian began to wonder if the haughty mien was simply his resting face.
“Bernard Evans.” He pronounced his first name Ber-nerd, in the English manner, rather than the Americanized way of Burr-naard. “Esquire,” he added while tapping on the mobile.
Did he just esquire me? Jillian rolled her eyes and crossed her arms, waiting for Ber-nerd to finish his message.
“Follow me,” he said with an abrupt turn, still staring at his phone.
Bernard was able to get Jillian in with Sadira. “Against my recommendations, she wants to talk to you—without me.” His stiff demeanor bent into a deep frown. “She’ll tell you where to find the passport. You’re not her lawyer. Your conversation is not confidential, and an officer will be in the room with you.”
Jillian nodded, and Bernard held open the door for her.
The miniature room held a metal table, but Sadira wasn’t handcuffed to it. The bright orange jumpsuit turned her skin tones sallow and, without any makeup, Sadira’s face resembled melted wax, shiny and pale. Her eyes were red-rimmed from lack of sleep or possibly crying. A barrel-chested police officer entered the room behind Jillian and posted himself in the corner.
“Hey, Sadira, how are you holding up?” Jillian reached out to place a reassuring hand on her friend’s.
“No touching,” the officer barked.
Jillian pulled her arm back as if dodging a cobra strike.
“I’m holding up.” Sadira delivered a wobbly half-smile. “My lawyer said the school system put me on leave for the rest of the year.”
“You mean Ber-nerd?” Jillian’s mouth twisted.
Sadira nodded, and her eyes shined over. “He seems like he knows what he’s doing.”
“Don’t worry. Once this gets straightened out, they’ll have to let you come back in the fall. Besides, summer break is only two and a half weeks away. Testing is almost done. The kids are checked out. You’re not missing anything.”
“Nothing but the field trip, I suppose. And I won’t get to say goodbye,” she sniffed.
Jillian leaned forward and whispered, “Listen, we don’t have much time. I heard about your bail. Are you going to be able swing it? I could start a Go Fund Me page. . . .”
Sadira shook her head and mumbled, “I’ll figure it out.”
“What about your passport? Is it at the apartment? Can I get it for you?”
“That . . . could be a problem.” Sadira frowned and her gaze shifted sideways. “I’m not sure where I left it.”
“Okay, why don’t you tell me where you think it might be.”
Sadira listed off half a dozen different locations for Jillian to search. “One last thing, can you pick up and deliver a package for me?”
“Deliver a package?” Jillian’s brows drew down in confusion.
“Yeah, I provide courier services—kind of like Uber. It’s one of the ways I make extra money.”
This reminded Jillian of the entire reason she wanted to speak to Sadira. “Right, because you don’t actually make commission on your sales. Do you?” She didn’t bother to temper her tone.
Sadira jerked back, but quickly recovered with a strained laugh. “So you found out.” She leaned forward and returned to a whisper. “Look, I don’t like to brag about it, but when my uncle died, I received his life insurance policy. My parents were angry that I didn’t dole it out to them like candy. But they’re terrible with money. My dad would have pissed it away on booze.” Sadira’s head drooped and she fidgeted with the cuff of her jumpsuit. “I’m don’t like to talk about it, because the money is the reason we no longer speak. Even my mom won’t talk to me.”
“Oh.” The explanation was not the one Jillian expected. “That’s . . . too bad. I—I’m sorry. I guess I can help with your delivery.”
Sadira’s head popped up, eyes wide, tears miraculously gone. “Thanks, you’re my savior.”
“Well, I don’t know ab—”
Sadira cut off Jillian’s demur, speaking rapidly in a low tone. “I’m supposed to pick up a package Wednesday night at seven o’clock. and deliver it to a house out in Great Falls. The information and pick up address is in the glovebox of my car. You still have the keys?”
“Yes. I can get it.”
“You will have to take my car. It’s the license plate connected with my courier account. Like Uber. When you arrive, you’ll be given the exact location for the drop off. Got it?”
“O-kay. What happens when I don’t match the face on the account?”
“That won’t matter.” Sadira dismissed the concern with a wave of her hand. “If he asks, just tell him I’m sick and can’t make it. Also—tell him I’m going on vacation . . . and won’t be able to make drops, I mean deliveries, for a few weeks. Tell him I’ll contact him when I return.” She leaned closer and continued, “At the delivery stop, they’ll give you an envelope. Just lock it in the glovebox—but don’t open it.”
“Time’s up,” the police officer said, taking Sadira’s elbow to help her out of the seat.
“Can you do that for me, Jillian?” Sadira asked as the officer led her to the door.
“Yes, yes. I’ll get your passport too. So you’ll be out by the end of the day. Don’t worry!” Jillian called as the pair exited.
“WHAT ABOUT IN HER LINGERIE drawer?” Bernard called from the kitchen, where he searched Sadira’s cabinets.
“Nope.”
&
nbsp; “Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“That was the first place she told you to look.”
“I’m telling you, it’s not in here,” Jillian answered, shuffling through Sadira’s lacy unmentionables one more time before shutting the drawer with a frustrated thump. “Would you like to check yourself?” She and Bernard had been rifling through Sadira’s apartment for almost an hour, to no avail.
“Uh . . . no.”
“It’s not in the jewelry box, nor any of the drawers in her bathroom.” Jillian turned in a circle.
“Does she have a safe deposit box?” the lawyer asked.
“I have no idea. Not one she told me about.” Jillian came out of the master bedroom. “Did she say something to you?”
“No.” Bernard ran a hand through his hair, ruffling the stiff, moussed style out of place. He’d taken off his coat and tie and unbuttoned the top button of his dress shirt.
Jillian thought the tie and perfectly coiffed hair better suited the stuffy Ber-nerd. With the disdainful guise removed, this relaxed fellow looked more like— “Hey, do any of your friends call you Bernie?”
An appalled expression twisted his face. “God, no. Well—” He considered. “Once in college—” He looked up at Jillian as though realizing he was talking to a practical stranger and muttered, “Never mind.”
She tilted her head. “Well, when you’re not all buttoned up tight, I think you look like a Bernie.”
He had no response to that and returned to the matter at hand. “Do you have any other ideas where we should look?”
“Check the medicine cabinet in the other bathroom. I’ll look through the living room.” Jillian continued her search, opening and closing drawers she’d been sure the police had already combed through, to no avail. They’d also put the apartment back to together as they searched. After another half an hour, the pair gave up.
Jillian locked the apartment and Bernard escorted her back to her car. “What happens now?”
He shook his head. “I doubt the judge will release her without the passport. I’ll speak to her again, see if she can give us other places to search.”
Jillian pulled her car door closed and rolled down the windows to release the trapped heat. “It’s odd, don’t you think?”
“What’s odd?” he asked, distracted by his phone.
“Where is your passport?”
“Mine?” Bernard looked up and adjusted his glasses. “Desk drawer at home.”
“Mine’s in a fire safe in my closet. It’s just something that you know,” Jillian mused. “I would think, if you were planning an international trip, you’d pull it out to check the expiration dates, or put it with your ticket confirmation.”
Bernard’s face betrayed nothing. “Maybe she misplaced it.”
“Yeah, I suppose you’re right. It was nice meeting you, Bernard. Here’s my card if you need to reach me.” She passed the small placard through the window. “That’s my cell number. I can’t answer during school hours. Send a text if you need something.”
“Here, let me give you mine.” He reached into the inside pocket of his suit coat and passed his card through the window before turning away.
Jillian glanced at the card. It read, Bernard T. Evans III, Esquire. I guess when you’re saddled with a name like that, you can’t help being pompous. “Bye, Bernie!” She couldn’t help herself.
His shoulders stiffened, but he continued walking.
Chapter Eight
The soft spring breeze ruffled my hair as I trotted up 14th Street in downtown D.C. My stomach grumbled and I checked my watch—1:20 p.m. I hadn’t eaten lunch and was riding on the fumes of a coffee I drank around ten. My choices were either fast food in the basement of the Ronald Reagan building a block from where I currently stood, or the deli across the street. A tall figure I thought I recognized ducked into the deli, making my decision for me. The pedestrian walk signal counted down from four, and I hurried across the six lanes, landing on the opposite sidewalk as the flashing red DON’T WALK sign turned to a hard red, and the rev of engines roared behind me. Pulling the door open, I identified my target.
“Jessica, it’s good to see you,” I greeted.
Jessica Williams turned from her menu perusal. The smile she delivered only enhanced her beauty, her white teeth bright against mocha skin tones. “Hello, Karina. What brings you to my neck of the woods?”
Even though I’m five feet nine and was wearing a pair of two-inch heels, I still had to look up to Jessica. She towered over most men, but where I’d noticed other tall women sometimes slouched to make themselves seem smaller, Jessica owned her height. I surmised she used it to her advantage in court and negotiations. “Meetings with one of our members, reviewing their legislative agenda for the fall. They ran long, and now I’m starving. Do you have to get back to the office, or can you join me for a quick bite?”
She checked her phone. “I’m free.”
We received our drinks and sandwiches—tuna for me and a club for Jessica—and found a table for two in a front window. After some general small talk about her visit to the Hamptons, I dived into the reason for following her into the deli.
“How did Sadira’s arraignment go?”
She gave me a confused look. “Didn’t your sister tell you?”
“Jilly? No, we haven’t spoken since yesterday. She told me she was headed to the courthouse to check on things, but I never heard back from her.”
“Well, I can tell you, since it’s all public record, the judge set bail at $200,000, she’s got to surrender her passport and wear a tracking anklet.”
My mouth dropped. “Is that usual for this type of case? I think you said you expected fifty or hundred for bail . . . and the passport?”
“The search warrant didn’t turn up the diamonds, so surrendering the passport isn’t unusual if they think she’s a flight risk, which they do . . . because she bought tickets to Argentina—”
I drew in a deep breath and sat back in my chair.
“—two days before the diamonds were stolen,” Jessica finished.
“When was she scheduled to leave?”
“Not until after school got out. I’m assuming you didn’t know about the tickets?”
“Of course not. Wow . . . wow. Did she explain the tickets?”
“She’s never visited before. She says she’s on a bunch of travel discount email lists. This one came across her desk.”
“Convenient timing. And the high bail?” I bit into my tuna sandwich.
Jessica finished chewing before replying, “It was a compromise. The DA didn’t want to set bail at all, her ties to the community are a bit tenuous and she’s estranged from her family, but my associate Evans was able to talk him into setting one. He said the judge was in a cranky mood and wanted to make an example out of Sadira.”
“Hm. I suppose it’s good your associate got him to set some sort of bail.”
“He is very good.”
“Was she able to pay the bond?” I crunched into the dill pickle.
“I don’t know. We can’t find her passport.”
“What do you mean?”
“Sadira’s ‘misplaced’ it.” She used finger quotes. “Your sister and Evans spent an hour searching her apartment yesterday. The cops didn’t find it in their search.”
“So where is it?”
Her brows rose and she shrugged. “You got me.”
“She won’t get out of jail without surrendering the passport?”
Jessica’s cherry-colored nails reached in and pulled a salt and vinegar chip out of the yellow bag. “Nope.” She crunched down on the crisp.
“Can’t we look again? Maybe I can help search for it.”
She sipped her water. “Evans said they turned the apartment upside down.”
“What’s that look?”
“I don’t know.” She shuffled around in the chip bag looking for the perfect specimen. “Something about this girl isn’t adding up. Evans told
me he felt Sadira was lying to him.”
“About the passport?”
“No-o . . .” She put the bag down and contemplated her half-eaten sandwich. “Something else. He said he couldn’t put a finger on it.”
I thought about the lie Sadira had told my sister about making commissions. I’d already notified Jessica of the miscommunication and didn’t feel rehashing it was valuable to the current conversation. Instead, I changed the subject. “Did you put an investigator on Tazim, or do you think it’s a waste of time?”
“Actually, I did. My regular investigator was tied up with another case, so I reached out to someone you know.”
“Me?” I pointed to my chest. “I don’t know any PIs.”
“Silverthorne?”
“Oh, right. I guess they do investigative work too.”
“Apparently, they do everything.”
“Yeah, they give Mike heartburn.”
“I can see why.” Jessica picked up the chips again and offered me one.
“No, thanks. Are you going to have them look into Sadira, also?”
She shrugged with a noncommittal look and bit into another chip.
Her non-answer spoke volumes, and we ate silently for a time, both of us ruminating on our own thoughts. There was no denying Jessica was smart. However this case shook out, the more information she knew about her client, the better her firm could prepare a defense. The dangers of investigating your own client could bring a lawyer to the realization that their supposedly innocent client was indeed guilty of the crime. Then the attorney is put in the position of defending a client, claiming they are innocent, even when they know the opposite. Some lawyers do this all the time. Others limit their questions, so they don’t have to know the truth, and can put together a strong defense on the assumption of innocence. One of my Constitutional Law professors, a retired criminal justice lawyer, explained this phenomenon. He also stated, “It helps lawyers sleep at night.” It’s one of the reasons I didn’t end up working for a law firm. I also had a passion for politics, and even though some of my wide-eyed-just-out-of-college passions had the shine rubbed off, I wasn’t yet completely jaded.