A Real Basket Case (5 page)

Claire remembered Ned Peters as a tough, no-nonsense man
ager. Although president of the firm, he worked long hours and
expected his staff to be just as dedicated. Their personal lives
weren’t supposed to interfere with deadlines—ever. She blanched as she imagined what his reaction might be. “Did Ned sound upset?”

The secretary paused. “He looked angry, said he had some major damage control to perform with the investors. He told me to find the briefing Roger prepared.”

“Did you?” Claire watched the middle climber, who seemed to be less experienced and more tentative than the other two, search for a handhold.

“Yes, but I still can’t believe Roger could have killed someone. What happened?”

Claire sighed in dismay. The woman’s morbid curiosity undoubtedly would be echoed countless times over the next few days. “He’s innocent. This all will be cleared up soon.”

The climber’s hand slipped and threw him off balance. He fell.

Claire gasped.

“What! What’s the matter?” the secretary asked.

Frozen in terror, Claire watched the man plunge down, until the rope attached to his harness yanked him short. He swung from a piton anchored to the cliff between him and his mate below him. Stunned, he didn’t move until the other two climbers shouted instructions at him.

Then he swung back and forth until he could scrabble a handhold. He pulled himself to the rock, found footholds, and clung to the cliff like a squashed spider, his chest heaving.

Claire refocused on the phone in her hands. “Sorry I scared you. I’m at the Garden of the Gods and just saw a climber fall.”

“Is he hurt?”

“No, he was smart. His rope saved him. He was climbing in a group and had gear.”
Unlike the handful of tourists who managed to kill themselves each summer scrambling up the rock with no ropes, hardware, or brains
. “Back to what we were talking about. Tell Mr. Peters that Roger’s arraignment is this morning, so he should be released on bail today. I’m sure Roger will contact him right away.”

“But—”

“Roger said you gave him a message that I called yesterday. Do you have a record of it?”

“It should be in my message book, on the carbon copy.” The phone carried the sound of pages flipping. “It’s not here. Oh, I remember. Our new receptionist took the message and gave it to me.”

“Could you transfer me to her?” Claire sat down on the knee-high rock wall next to the trail.

“I guess so.” The secretary said it reluctantly, as if the last thing she wanted was to give up the chance to question Claire some more.

A moment later, a girlish voice said, “Hello?”

“This is Claire Hanover. I understand you took a phone message yesterday for my husband that supposedly came from me.”

After a delay, during which Claire heard paper rustling, the girl said, “I took the message at eleven-fifteen and gave it to Mr. Hanover’s secretary a few minutes later.”

“What did the woman say?”

“It wasn’t you?”

“No.” Claire drummed her fingers on the ice-cold rock next to her.

“Goodness. I just assumed it was you, since you, I mean the caller, said ‘This is Mrs. Hanover.’ ” The receptionist paused. “You . . . she said she needed Roger at home, it was an emergency, and he should be there by noon. I had a little trouble understanding you . . . her. She may have been on a cell phone.”

“Do you remember what she sounded like?”

“I couldn’t tell much with the static. The voice was definitely an older woman’s voice. Older than me, I mean. I know that much for sure, but something was different from the way you sound now.”

Heart beating faster, with the prospect of freeing Roger with this new information, Claire struggled to remain patient with the girl. “What? How was the voice different from mine?”

“The woman had an accent, like she was from Mexico or South America. Does this have something to do with—”

“Thanks for your help.” Claire hung up.

As she rose and headed back to the car, she wondered who had called Roger, and why. Someone had wanted him to find her with Enrique, but did that someone do it to hurt Roger, Claire, or Enrique? In any case, she had succeeded on all three counts. And Roger’s life was hanging in the balance just like that climber’s.

But now Claire had hope; new information to give the police. Maybe Enrique had told someone about his appointment with her, a woman perhaps . . . with a Hispanic accent.

SIX:
GUILTY OR NOT GUILTY?

Claire reached the city
courthouse at ten-fifteen and found the courtroom a few minutes later. She slipped through the door and searched for Dave Kessler, Roger’s interim attorney and Ellen’s ex-husband. The cavernous room smelled of dark oak, lots of it, polished with lemon-scented wax. The somber hush made her slow her steps so her heels wouldn’t click on the hard floor. She’d ditched her usual jeans and athletic shoes for a skirt and low-heeled pumps, hoping the image of a respectful wife might help Roger.

Up front, a rail separated rows of audience benches from the raised judge’s dais, two tables, and an empty juror’s box. A tall, orange-suited young man, with a swastika razored into his close-cropped hair, stood defiantly before the judge while his lawyer droned.

Claire spied Dave sitting near the front. He had put on a few pounds since she last saw him, but he still had his full head of wavy salt-and-pepper hair.

She slid onto the bench beside him and whispered a nervous hello.

He placed a finger against his lips then wrote on the legal pad in his lap: “Roger’s up next.”

Claire nodded and scanned the courtroom. The dozen or so other occupants of the benches seemed to be primarily pinstripe-suited lawyers, waiting patiently for their cases. Toward the rear of the courtroom, a short, middle-aged man with wispy brown hair caught her eye and gave a short wave. She studied his features, then looked away and frowned. She could have sworn she’d never seen him before.

Trying to get a sense of how Roger would fare, Claire focused on the proceedings before her, straining to hear every word.

The judge was a stout, white-haired black woman. She carefully explained the consequences of each type of plea—guilty, not guilty, and not guilty by reason of insanity, then waited for the young neo-Nazi to confer in whispered tones with his attorney. When he entered a plea of not guilty, the judge set bail, explained the reason for the amount, and scheduled a preliminary hearing.

The judge seemed both efficient and fair. Claire slowly exhaled the breath she’d been holding and unclenched her hands. Maybe the judge would be lenient with Roger.

As Swastika Scalp was led away, the bailiff announced Roger’s case. Dave stood and moved past Claire to the front of the courtroom.

She leaned forward and grasped the back of the bench before her.

A door opened in the left wall, beyond the railing. Accompanied by a uniformed guard, Roger shuffled through the door. He still wore the jail’s orange jumpsuit and ankle and wrist shackles. Dark shadows under his eyes suggested he’d had a sleepless night.

So intent on studying her husband for signs of strain or anger
or anguish, Claire realized she’d missed the first few exchanges with the judge, and she moved her gaze away from Roger.

“I see you already have an attorney. You also have the right to confront and cross-examine witnesses . . .” The judge continued to list Roger’s rights, finishing with, “Do you understand these rights?”

Roger raised his chin. “Yes, your honor.”

Hearing his soft-spoken words made Claire’s throat ache.

“How do you plead?” the judge asked.

Roger straightened, looked directly at her, and spoke the words clearly, “Not guilty.”

Claire felt a jolt, as the words,
unlike me
, popped into her head. Her damp hands slipped on the bench back, and she gripped it harder.

The judge said, “Next is the issue of bail.”

The prosecuting attorney stepped forward. “Your honor, the
accused has the resources to flee the country. He has a sizeable
investment portfolio, owns luxury automobiles, and holds con
siderable equity in his home. The people request this man be
remanded without bail.”

Claire hadn’t realized Roger might have to stay in jail unti
l his case was tried. She bit her lower lip. That would be awful, not just for him, but for her, too. Knocking around the large house by herself during the day was bad enough, but at night, every noise made her flinch. What if he was convicted? Then she’d be alone for years—her worst fear. She had thought she wouldn’t have to face it until she became an old widow like her mother, but now the possibility loomed near. And what would prison do to Roger? She felt faint.

Dave stepped forward. “Roger Hanover won’t be leaving Colorado Springs, let alone the country. He’s an upstanding citizen of this city who gives generously to local charities, and he’s never been arrested before. He is deeply attached to both his family and his career. As you can see, his wife is in the courtroom.” He pointed toward Claire and motioned for her to stand.

Claire flushed and rubbed her clammy hands on her skirt, her skin crawling from the stares of many eyes. She rose briefly and nodded before returning to her seat.

Dave turned back to the judge. “Mr. Hanover intends to stay and fight the charges since, as he stated so firmly, he is innocent.”

The judge peered over her reading glasses at Roger. “Mr.
Hanover, do you have anything to add?”

Roger squared his shoulders. “I plan to return to my work and family and clear my name. I have no intention of leaving town.”

His voice was clear and strong. Claire marveled at how self-
assured he sounded.
God, I love that man.
But the pride she felt for him only made her berate herself even more for putting him in this position. If not for her stupidity, he wouldn’t be here, defending his life.

After examining the papers before her, the judge said, “Bail is set at five hundred thousand dollars. Also, Mr. Hanover, you must relinquish your passport to the court, and you may not leave the city limits without this court’s permission.”

Stunned, Claire recoiled in her seat.
Half a million!
Where could she come up with that amount of money?

Dave returned, tapped her on the shoulder, and motioned for her to follow him to the rear of the courtroom.

She stood and moved to the end of the bench. As Roger was led out of the side door by the guard, she tried to catch her husband’s attention, but he kept his gaze trained on the clumsy ankle shackles. Wishing she had a chance to hug him, she watched the door close behind him.

When Claire walked down the aisle, the wispy-haired man stood and caught her elbow. “Mrs. Hanover, my name is Marvin Bradshaw. I’m a reporter with the
Gazette
. I have a few questions for you.”

Claire’s mouth fell open. He was the same reporter who had written the story under the damning headline in the morning paper. She trembled with fury at the audacity of the man.

Dave backtracked, shoved an arm between Claire and Bradshaw, and pulled Claire away. “No comment.”

Bradshaw raised a hand. “But—”

“I said, no comment. Now leave us alone.” He glared at the reporter until the man stepped back. Then he ushered Claire through the courtroom doors. Once in the corridor, he wheeled on Claire. “Don’t talk to any reporters, ever, without my say-so or the say-so of Roger’s criminal lawyer. Understand?”

“Yes.”

“This is very important, Claire. You could divulge something inadvertently that would undermine Roger’s case.”

She bristled. “I’m not stupid. I’ve already been avoiding reporters, and I certainly don’t intend to talk to that man.”

“Good. Sorry about that. He caught me off guard.” Dave wiped his brow then opened his briefcase. “I’ve alerted a high-stakes bail bondsman I know. He’ll put up the five hundred thousand, given your assets.”

He handed her a piece of paper. “We need these documents. How soon can you gather them?”

Claire scanned the list. Roger’s passport was stored in the safe deposit box. The brokerage and mortgage statements she could find at home. “About an hour and a half. Why do you need all this?”

“As the judge said, Roger has to relinquish his passport. The statements are for the bondsman. You also need to get a cashier’s check made out for thirty-five thousand to the bondsman.”

She couldn’t believe she heard him right. “Thirty-five-thousand
dollars?”

“Be glad it’s only that. He’s willing to take seven percent instead of his usual ten, given evidence of your net worth.”

“Do we get the money back when Roger appears in court?”

“No.” He placed his hand on her shoulder. “Being accused of a crime, especially murder, is expensive.”

“I never dreamed—”

“Nobody does.” He flipped a page over on his legal pad and scanned a sheet covered with handwriting that Claire recognized as Roger’s. “Roger listed a money market account that has enough in it to cover the check.”

Her throat tightened. One more brick in what used to be her
well-organized world had just crashed to the ground. “That’s
Judy’s college account.”

Dave glanced up and, upon seeing her face, his features softened a bit. “Yeah, well for now, it’s Roger’s freedom account.”

“Of course.” Claire flushed, feeling foolish under Dave’s scrutiny. “We’ll figure out Judy’s finances later.”

“I need to see Roger.” Dave placed a business card in her hand. “Once you’ve got the documents, meet me at this address. It’s right around the corner.”

Dave led her out of the courthouse. With a curt wave, he sent her on her errands, then strode toward the jail.

___

With the documents and cashier’s check in a folder on the car seat next to her, Claire drove back downtown. She passed Acacia Park, its stately elm and oak trees bare, and its benches empty except for a couple of homeless men with greasy mismatched clothing sitting slumped on separate benches. Claire figured they’d probably been booted out of the city shelter, as they were every morning, to spend the day looking for work. These two must have chosen to nap in the sunshine before manning a local street corner with an open palm and a hand-lettered cardboard sign proclaiming something like “Veteran, Please Help.” Instead of giving them handouts, Claire chose to donate money to the shelter, which offered job and substance abuse counseling to clients who wanted it.

She drove by a group of teenagers, probably between classes at Palmer High School, situated next to the park. They were passing something among them, most likely a joint. One boy with hair moussed into long black spikes glanced sharply at her as she drove by. The boy needn’t have worried. Claire had more important things to do than turn them in.

As she turned down Nevada Avenue, she remembered quite different summer scenes at the park. City workers lunching out of brown bags or take-out containers while listening to jazz or classical concerts in the band shell. White-haired men competing on the shuffleboard courts. The aromas of roasting chilis and kettle corn from the weekly farmers’ market. Children screeching and leaping with delight in the capricious waterspouts of Uncle Wilbur’s fountain under the plaster eyes of the whimsical tuba player.
Oh, to be young and worry-free.

Just before twelve-thirty, Claire parked her car in the lot facing a brown brick two-story office building near the courthouse. She entered through the glass doorway and glanced around the lobby, empty except for a statue of a blindfolded woman holding a set of scales. The stately quiet of the place enveloped her like an ominous cloud. She shuddered.

After taking the stairs to the second floor, she found the bondsman’s office and entered.

A bored-looking receptionist sat filing her nails behind a small black lacquer desk. She didn’t bother to glance up when Claire entered.

On the other side of the room, Dave sat on the edge of a leather loveseat. When he saw her, he stood and dropped the magazine he’d been reading onto the glass-topped coffee table. “Got everything?”

Claire held up the folder in her hands.

He ushered her into the back office, where a gray-suited man with slicked-down black hair sat behind a huge walnut desk scattered with papers. Smoke curled from a cigar that lay in an overflowing ashtray. The man held out his fat, tobacco-stained hand for the manila envelope Claire clutched to her chest.

“Wait,” Claire said, her nose wrinkling from the cigar fumes. “This is all moving too fast for me.”

The bondsman frowned and crooked an eyebrow at Dave.

Dave grabbed her arm and glared at her. “We haven’t got all day. You don’t want Roger to spend another night in jail, do you?”

From Dave’s angry expression, Claire realized he blamed her for Roger’s situation. “No, I don’t.” She handed over the documents.

A whirlwind twenty minutes later, Claire had relinquished the cashier’s check for the bondsman’s fee and signed over the equity in their house and the contents of their investment account as collateral for the bond. Nervous sweat trailed down her spine, because she didn’t fully understand all the papers she signed. She had to trust that Dave was looking out for Roger’s interests.

Dave took Roger’s passport and one of three copies of the agreement the bondsman had handed her. “Let’s go.” He strode out of the office without looking back.

Claire trotted after him, glad to escape outside into the clear, cold air. She followed Dave down the block and across the street into the courthouse.

Without a word to her, he worked through the process to release Roger, handing over the passport and bond agreement.

Relieved to be free of the confusing paperwork, Claire focused on Roger’s homecoming. She would fix his favorite meal of lamb chops and baked potatoes. Maybe she could find some asparagus at the market, and a chocolate cake. Open a bottle of the French Pinot Noir they had been saving for special occasions. Then she would beg his forgiveness.

Dave escorted her down a corridor and into another room. While she sat and waited, he paced, his dress shoes clicking on the linoleum floor.

A uniformed officer led Roger through the door. Roger’s eyes looked gaunt, and he needed a shave. He wore the same suit he’d had on when he was arrested, now wrinkled and limp.

Claire rushed to give him a hug but stopped short when he held up a hand.

His jaw was set in a hard line. “I need time alone to think, Claire.”