After Dark (10 page)

"You must be the new associate. I'm Barry Frame, Matt's investigator."

Frame was a little over six feet with wide shoulders and a tapered waist. He was wearing a blue work shirt and khaki slacks.

The sleeves of his shirt were rolled back to the elbow, revealing hairy forearms that were corded with muscle. Tracy stood up and wiped her hand on her jeans before offering it to Frame. His grip was gentle.

"Getting settled in okay?" Frame asked, looking at the cardboard cartons.

"Oh, sure."

"Can I help?"

"Thanks, but I don't have that much stuff."

"Have you found a place to stay?"

"Yeah. I've got a nice apartment down by the river. I found it just before I moved up."

"You were living in Salem, right?"

Tracy nodded. "I was clerking for the Supreme Court."

"Which justice?"

"Alice Sherzer."

"I clerked for Justice Lefcourt five years ago."

Tracy was confused. She was certain Frame had said he was an investigator. Frame laughed.

"You're wondering why I'm not practicing, right?"

"Well, I . . ." Tracy started, embarrassed that she was so transparent.

"It's okay. I'm used to getting that look from lawyers. And no, I didn't flunk the bar exam. After the clerkship with Justice Lefcourt, Matt hired me as an attorney, but I liked being a detective more than I liked practicing law. When his investigator quit, I asked for the job.

I don't get paid as much, but I'm not stuck behind a desk and I don't have to wear a tie."

"Does Mr. Reynolds have you do any legal work?"

"Not if I can help it, although I did fill in while we were waiting for you to come on board. The last associate left precipitously."

"Why did he go?"

"Burnout. Matt expects a lot from people and some of his requests are above and beyond the call of duty."

"For instance . . . ?" Tracy asked, hoping Frame would tell her examples of the horror stories others had hinted at when talking about the demands Reynolds put on his associates, so she could prepare herself for the worst.

"Well, Matt handles cases all over the country. Sometimes he'll expect an associate to become an expert on another state's law."

"That doesn't sound unreasonable."

"I've seen him give that type of assignment to some poor slob a week before trial."

"You're kidding?"

"Absolutely not."

"Boy, that would be tough," Tracy answered, a bit worried.

The work at the Supreme Court was demanding, but Justice Sherzer always emphasized that good scholarship was more important than speed. Tracy hoped she wasn't in over her head.

"Do you think you could do it?" Frame asked.

"I'm a quick study, but that's asking a lot. I guess I could in a pinch, if the area was narrow enough."

"Good," Frame said, grinning broadly, "because you leave for Atlanta next Monday."

"What!"

"Did I mention that Matt also uses me to bear grim tidings?

No? Well, I'm frequently the messenger that everyone wants to kill."

"What am I supposed to do in Atlanta?" Tracy asked incredulously. "I'm not even unpacked."

"You'll be second-chairing the Livingstone case. The file is in the library. You'll want to get to it as soon as you get your stuff put away. It's pretty thick."

"What kind of case is it?"

"A death penalty case. Matt rarely handles any other kind.

The legal issues are tricky, but you can get up to speed if you work all week. There's a good place for Chinese takeout a few blocks from here.

They stay open late."

"Mr. Reynolds wants me to become an expert on Georgia law and learn everything I can about this case in five days?" Tracy asked with an expression that said she was certain this was some bizarre practical joke.

Frame threw his head back and laughed. "There's nothing I enjoy more than that look. But cheer up. I hear Atlanta is lovely in August. A hundred twenty in the shade with one hundred percent humidity."

Frame cracked up again. Tracy could hear him laughing long after he was out of sight. She sat back down on the floor and stared at the boxes that still had to be unpacked. She had planned on running after squaring away her office, but that was not possible now. It looked like the only exercise she would get in the near future would be from lifting law books.

"Thank you for seeing me on such short notice," MatthewReynolds said as Abigail Griffen ushered him into her office, three weeks after their argument at the Supreme Court.

"I don't have much choice," Abbie answered, flicking her hand toward the slip-sheet opinion in the State ex rel. Franklin case. "The court bought your due process argument. When can your people go into Mrs.

Franklin's house?"

"I phoned California. The criminologist I'm working with can be here Tuesday. My Portland people are on call."

"I'll tell Mrs. Franklin you'll be there sometime Tuesday. She doesn't want to see you. There'll be a policeman at the house with a key to let you in."

"I'll be in Atlanta for a few weeks trying a case. Barry Frame, my investigator, will work with the forensic experts."

"I'll be out of the office myself."

"Oh?"

"Nothing as exotic as Atlanta. I'm taking a week of R. and R. at my cabin on the coast. Dennis Haggard can handle any problems while I'm away. I'll brief him."

"Can we have a set of the crime-scene photographs and the diagrams your forensic people drew?" "Of course.

Abbie buzzed her trial assistant on the intercom and asked her to bring what Reynolds had requested. While she talked, Reynolds took in the line of Abbie's chin and her smooth skin.

She was wearing a black pantsuit and a yellow shirt that highlighted her tan. A narrow gold necklace circled her slender neck.

A diamond in the center of the necklace matched her diamond earrings.

Abbie turned and caught Reynolds staring. He blushed and looked away.

"It's going to be a few minutes," Abbie said, as if she had not noticed.

"Do you want some coffee?"

"Thank you."

Abbie left, giving Matthew a chance to compose himself. He stood up and looked around her office. He had expected to see pictures of Abbie and her husband and was surprised to find the office devoid of personal items. Abbie's desk was covered with police reports and case files. One wall was decorated by her diplomas and several civic awards. Framed newspaper clippings of some of her cases hung on another. They were a testimonial to Abbie's trial skills and her tenacity. Death sentences in almost every case where she had asked for one. Lengthy sentences for Oregon's most wanted criminals. Abigail Griffen never gave the opposition an inch or a break.

Matthew noticed a blank spot on the wall. The framed article that had been hanging there lay facedown on top of a filing cabinet. Matthew turned it over. The headline read: BOMBER CONVICTED. There was a picture of Charlie Deems in handcuffs being led out of the courthouse by three burly guards.

"I forgot to ask if you take cream or sugar," Abbie said as she reentered the office with two mugs of coffee.

Reynolds had not heard her come in. "Black is fine," he answered nervously, sounding like a small boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Abbie held out his coffee, then noticed what Reynolds was looking at.

"I'm sorry about Deems," Reynolds told her.

"I never thought I'd hear Matthew Reynolds bemoaning the reversal of a death sentence."

"I see nothing inconsistent in opposing the death penalty and being sorry that a man like Deems is not in prison."

"You know him?"

"He tried to hire me, but I declined the case."

"Why?"

"There was something about Deems I didn't like. Will you retry him?"

"I can't. The court suppressed statements Deems made to a police informant. Without the confession we don't have a case.

He's already out of prison."

"Are you concerned for your safety?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Deems struck me as someone who would hold a grudge."

Abbie hesitated. She had forgotten about the man who tried to invade her home, assuming he was simply a burglar. Reynolds's question raised another possibility.

"Deems is probably so happy to be off death row that he's forgotten all about me," Abbie answered, forcing a smile.

The trial assistant entered with a manila envelope. Abbie checked the contents, then handed it to Matthew.

"I'd like to set a trial date," she said. "After your forensic people are through, you should have an idea of what you want to do. Get in touch with me."

"Thank you for your cooperation," Reynolds said, as if he was ending a business letter. "I'll have the photos returned when my people are done."

What a peculiar man, Griffen thought, after Reynolds was gone. So serious, so stiff. Not someone you'd go out with for a beer. And he was so awkward around her, blushing all the time, like one of those stiff-necked South Seas missionaries who didn't know how to deal with the naked Tahitian women. If she didn't know better, she'd guess he had a crush on her.

Abbie thought about that for a moment. It wouldn't hurt if Beynolds was a little bit in love with her. It might make him sloppy in trial. She could use any edge she Could get. Reynolds might be an odd duck, but he was the best damn lawyer she'd ever gone up against.

Chapter EIGHT

Joel Livingstone was a handsome, broad-shouldered eighteenyear-old with soft blue eyes and wavy blond hair. On the most important day of his life, Joel wore a white shirt, a navy-blue blazer, gray slacks with a knife-sharp crease and his Wheatley Academy tie. This outfit was similar to the one he was wearing when he raped Mary Harding in the woods behind the elite private school before beating her to death with a jagged log.

Outside the office of Matthew Reynolds's Atlanta co-counsel, a torrid sun was shining down on Peachtree Street, but inside the office the mood was dark. Joel sprawled in a chair and regarded Reynolds with a smirk.

An observer might have concluded that Joel was contemptuous of anything Matthew had to say, but the rapid tapping of Joel's right foot betrayed his fear. Reynolds imagined the tapping foot was asking the same question the boy had asked him over and over during the year they had spent as lawyer and client: "Will I die? Will I die? Will I die?" It was a question Reynolds was uniquely qualified to answer. "Are we going to the courthouse?"

"Not yet, Joel. There's been a development."

"What kind of development?" the boy asked nervously.

"Last night, when I returned to my hotel, there was a message from the prosecutor, Mr. Folger."

"What did he want?"

"He wanted to resolve your case without going to trial. We conferred in my hotel room until midnight."

Matthew looked directly at his client. Joel fidgeted.

"Mary Harding was very popular, Joel. Her murder has outraged many people in Atlanta. On the other hand, your parents are prominent people in this community. They are well liked and respected. Many people are sympathetic to them. Some of these people are in positions of power.

They don't want your mother and father to suffer the loss of their only son."

Joel looked at Reynolds expectantly.

"Mr. Folger has made a plea offer. It must be accepted before the judge makes his ruling on our motions."

"What's the offer?"

"A guilty plea to murder in exchange for his promise to not ask for a death sentence."

"What . . . what would happen then?"

"You would be sentenced to life in prison with a ten-year minimum sentence."

"Oh no. I'm not doing that. I'm not going to jail for life."

"It's the best I can do for you."

"My father paid you a quarter of a million dollars. You're supposed to get me off."

Matthew shook his head wearily. "I was hired to save your life, Joel.

No one can get you off. You killed Mary and you confessed to the police. The evidence is overwhelming. It was never a question of getting you off. We talked about that a lot, remember?"

"But if we went to trial . . ."

"You would be convicted and you might very well die."

Matthew held up a photograph of Mary Harding at her junior prom next to a full-face autopsy photograph of the girl.

"That's what the jury will see every minute of their deliberations. What do you think your sentence will be?"

Joel's lip quivered. His teenage bravado had disappeared.

"
I'm only eighteen," he pleaded. A tear trickled down his cheek. "I don't want to spend my life in prison." Joel slumped in his chair and buried his face in his hands.

Matthew leaned forward and placed a hand on Joel's shoulder. "What, Joel?"

"I'm scared," the boy sobbed.

"I know, Joel. Everyone I've ever represented has been scared when it was time to decide. Even the tough guys."

Joel raised his tear-stained face toward Matthew. He was just a baby now and it was impossible to imagine what he must have looked like when he straddled Mary Harding's naked body and slammed the log down over and over until he had smashed the life out of her.

"What will I do, Mr. Reynolds?"

"You'll do what you have to to make a life for yourself. You won't stay in prison forever. You'll be paroled. Your parents love you. They'll be there for you when you get out. And while you're in, you can take college courses, get a degree."

Matthew went on, trying to sound upbeat, wanting Joel to have hope and knowing it was all a lie. Prison would be hell for Joel Livingstone. A hell he would survive, but one from which he would emerge a far different person from the boy he was today.

Matthew Reynolds and Tracy Cavanaugh had been in court for three solid days of pretrial motions when Joel Livingstone's lateafternoon guilty plea abruptly ended the case. As the judge took the plea, Tracy had glanced at Joel's parents, who were elegantly dressed, barely under control and totally at peace in the Fulton County Circuit Court.

Bradford Livingstone, a prominent investment banker, sat stiffly, hands folded in his lap, uncomfortable in the company of cops, court watchers and other types with whom he did not normally associate. On occasion, Tracy caught Bradford staring at his son in disbelief. Elaine Livingstone pulled into herself, be coming more distant, pale and fragile every day. When the judge pronounced sentence, the couple seemed to age before Tracy's eyes.

After court, there was a tearful meeting between Joel and his parents, then an exhausting meeting between the parents and Matthew, which Matthew handled with great compassion.

It was almost seven when Tracy joined Reynolds in the hotel dining room for their final dinner in Atlanta. Tracy noticed that Reynolds was indifferent to food and every night had ordered steak, a green salad, a baked potato and iced tea. This evening, Tracy was as disinterested in food as her boss. She was toying with her pasta primavera and replaying the events of the day when Reynolds asked, "What's bothering you?"

Tracy looked across the table. She knew Reynolds had said something, but she had no idea what it was.

"You've been distracted. I was wondering if something was wrong," he said.

Tracy hesitated, then asked, "Why did you convince Joel to take the deal?"

There was a piece of steak on Reynolds's fork. He put the fork on his plate and leaned back in his chair. "You don't think I should have?"

Reynolds's tone gave no clue to what he was thinking. Tracy had a rush of insecurity. Reynolds had been trying cases for twenty years. She had never tried a case and she had worked for the man she was questioning for all of one week. Then again, Reynolds struck her as a man who welcomed ideas and would not take offense if she had a sound basis for her views.

"I think Folger made the offer because he was afraid he might lose our motion to suppress the confession."

"I'm sure you're right."

"We could have won it."

"And we could have lost."

"The judge was leaning our way. Without the confession, we might have had a shot at manslaughter. There's no minimum sentence for manslaughter. Joel would have been eligible for parole anytime."

"There's no minimum sentence with death either."

Tracy started to say something, then stopped. Reynolds waited a moment, then asked, "What was our objective in this case?"

"To win," Tracy answered automatically.

Reynolds shook his head. "Our objective was to save Joel Livingstone's life. That is the objective in every death case. Winning is one way of accomplishing that objective, but it must never be your main objective.

"When I started practicing, I thought my objective was always an acquittal." Reynolds's lips creased into a tired smile. "Unfortunately, I won my first three murder cases. It's difficult to avoid arrogance if you're young and undefeated. My next death case was in a small eastern Oregon county. Eddie Brace, the DA, was only a few years older than I and he had never tried a murder case. The rumor was that he'd run for DA because he wasn't making it in private practice. The first time we were in court, Brace stumbled around and spent half his time apologizing to the judge.

"The night before we were to start motions, Mr. Brace came to my hotel, just like Folger did. We jawed for a while, then he told me flat out that he felt uncomfortable about asking a jury to take a man's life. He wanted to know if my client would take a straight murder if he'd give up the death penalty. Well, I had a winnable case and I'd gotten not-guilty verdicts in every murder case I'd tried, so I figured what you figured with Folger, that Brace was afraid to lose. I knew I was so good I'd run right over him."

Reynolds looked down at his plate for a moment, then directly at his associate.

"The worst words a lawyer can hear is a verdict of death for his client.

You don't ever want to hear those words, Tracy. I heard them for the first time in the case I tried against Eddie Brace."

"What went wrong?"

"Only one thing. Brace stumbled along, I tried a brilliant case, but the jury was for hanging. They really wanted to see my client die. With hindsight I could see that it really didn't matter who tried the case, my man was going to die if a jury was deciding the matter. Brace knew that. He knew his people. That's why he tried so hard to convince me to take the deal. Not because he was afraid he would lose, but because he knew he couldn't lose."

"But Joel's case... It's different. The judge might have . . ."

"No, Tracy. Not while there was any kind of argument on Folger's side.

I know you don't believe that now, but you will after a while. What's important is that I know the judge would have found a way to keep the confession in and the jury would have no sympathy for a spoiled rich kid who took the life of that lovely girl."

Reynolds looked at his watch.

"I'm going to take a walk, then turn in. There'll be a limousine waiting to take us to the airport at seven. Get a good night's sleep.

And don't let this case keep you up. We did a good job. We did what we had to do. We kept our client alive."

Matthew Reynolds closed the door to his hotel room and stood in the dark. The sterile room was immaculately clean, the covers on his bed neatly tucked in at the corners, a chocolate mint centered on the freshly laundered pillowcase. It looked this way every night.

Reynolds stripped off his jacket and laid it over the back of a chair.

The conditioned air dried the sweat that made his shirt stick to his narrow chest. Outside the hermetically sealed window, Atlanta sweltered in the sultry August heat. The lights of the city flickered all around.

This was the last time Reynolds would see them. Tomorrow he would be home in Portland and away from the reporters, his client and this case.

Reynolds turned away from the window and saw the red message light blinking on the phone next to his bed. He retrieved the message and punched in Barry Frame's number, anxious to hear what he had uncovered in the Coulter case. "Bingo!" Frame said.

"Tell me," Reynolds asked anxiously.

"Mrs. Franklin hung a picture over the bullet hole. This horrific black velvet Elvis. The cops never thought to move it because they have no aesthetic taste. Fortunately for Jeffrey Coulter, I do.)

Frame paused dramatically.

"Stop patting yourself on the back and get to it."

"You can relax, Matt. We don't have to worry about this case anymore.

I' guarantee Griffen will dismiss once she reads the criminologist's report. See, the picture was too high. No one would hang it like that.

Not even someone with Mrs. Franklin's awful taste. It bothered me in the crime-scene photos and it was worse when I walked into the hall.

"In Jeffrey's version of the shooting, he fell back when Franklin pulled out the gun. When he tripped, Franklin's shot missed him. Jeffrey is tall. If Franklin shot for the head, he'd be aiming high. We found a snapshot in the family album showing the hallway three months before the shooting with the Elvis on another wall. I moved the picture and there was a freshly puttied hole. We've got everything on videotape, as well as stills. We dug out the putty. The expert's pretty certain its a bullet hole. The bullet's gone. Ma Franklin must have deep-sixed it."

"When will we have the criminologist's report?"

"By the end of the week."

"Let's step up the background investigation of Franklin. Put another man on it if necessary."

"What for? The fact that Mrs. Franklin puttied over the bullet hole, then moved the picture to conceal it, proves she was covering up for her son. Griffen will have to drop the charges."

"Never bank on the prosecution acting reasonably, Barry. Abigail Griffen is not the type to roll over. She may not draw the same conclusions from the evidence that we did. We go full-bore until the moment the indictment is dismissed."

"You got it," Barry said wearily. "I'll put Ted French on the backgrounder. How are things in Atlanta?"

"Joel took the deal."

"That's what you hoped, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"How are his parents doing?"

"Not well." Matthew paused for a moment and rubbed his eyes. "I'm flying back tomorrow, Barry, but don't tell anyone. I want to take a few days off."

"Are you okay? You don't sound so good."

"I'm tired. I need some time to myself."

"I've been telling you that for years. When do you land? I'll pick you up at the airport."

"I'll be in at three-ten. And, Barry, that was good work at the Franklin house. Very good work."

Matthew hung up. His eyes were glazed with fatigue and he was bone weary. He lay back on the bed in the dark and thought about Joel Livingstone and Jeffrey Coulter back in Portland and Alonso Nogueiras in Huntsville, Texas, and all the other people for whom he was the sole difference between life and death. It was too much for one man to do and he was beginning to think he just couldn't do it anymore.

Matthew thought about Tracy Cavanaugh's drive and desire.

There had been a time when he moved from one cause to another with the energy of a zealot. Now the cases just seemed to grind him down, and it was taking all his strength to stand up after he was done with them. He needed time away from the clients and the ever present specter of death.

He needed something . . . someone.

Matthew turned on his side and hugged a pillow to his cheek.

The linen felt cool and comforting. He closed his eyes and remembered the way Abigail Griffen looked in one of the photographs he kept in the manila envelope in the lower right drawer of his desk. The photo was his favorite. In it, she stood relaxed and happy outside the French windows of her home, her arms at her side, her right knee slightly bent, looking toward the woods, as if she was listening to some faint sound that carried to her on the wind.

Chapter NINE

The morning had been cool and overcast, but the fog burned off by noon and the sun was shining. Abbie circled the cabin taking pictures from different angles with her Pentax camera. She tried to capture the cabin from every angle, because she needed a photographic record of the place that in all the world had come to be her favorite.

When she was finished photographing the cabin, Abbie followed a narrow dirt path through the woods to a bluff overlooking the Pacific. She took some shots from the bluff, then walked down a flight of wooden steps to the beach.

Abbie was wearing a navy-blue tee shirt, a bulky, hooded gray sweatshirt and jeans. She hung the camera around her neck and took off her sneakers and socks. There had been a storm the previous day and the Pacific was still in turmoil. Abbie pushed her toes through the sand until she reached the waterline. Gulls swooped overhead, She set up a shot, stepping sideways toward the bluff whenever the freezing water came too close. A wave rose skyward, spraying foam, then fell in a fury.

Abbie finished the roll of film and continued down the beach.

She loved the ocean and she loved the cabin. The cabin was the place she came to escape. She would awake with the sun, but stay in bed reading. When she was hungry, Abbie would whip up marionberry, ginger or some other type of exotic pancakes and a caff latte. She would nurse the latte while reading the escapist fiction she had no time for when she was in trial and which helped her to forget the grim work of prosecuting rapists and murderers. Then, for the rest of the day, she would continue to do absolutely nothing of importance and revel in her idleness.

Abbie hunched her shoulders against a sudden gust of wind.

The sea air was bracing. The thought of losing the cabin was unbearable, but she was going to lose it. The cabin belonged to Robert and he had made it clear that she would never use it once the divorce was final, taunting her with the loss because he knew how dear the place was to her. It gave Abbie one more reason to hate him.

The sun began to set. Abbie reached a place where the beach narrowed at the base of a high bluff. She turned for home, leaning forward to fight the tug of the sand. By the time she arrived at the stairs that led back up to the cabin, she was feeling melancholy. She sat on the lowest step and tied her sneakers. She would be able to buy another cabin, but she doubted she would find one that suited her so perfectly.

Abbie rested her forearms on her thighs and lost herself in the rhythm of the waves. What would she do after the divorce? She would not mind being alone. She had lived alone before. She was living alone now.

Living alone was better than living with someone who used you and lied to you. What she would miss was the special feeling of being in love she had experienced with Larry Ross and during the early days of her marriage to Robert. Abbie wondered if she would take the risk of falling in love again, knowing how easily love could be snatched away.