Evidence of Guilt

In eight years of practicing law, I'd never had a client who gave me the creeps. I'd had clients I didn't particularly like, of course, ranging from the overly brash to the downright sleazy, but never one who caused goosebumps to rise along the back of my neck. And I saw no reason to start now with the likes of Wes Harding.

"Sorry," I told Sam Morrison, shaking my head in apology. We were having lunch together, something we did a couple of times a month. He'd waited until we'd finished our burgers and fries before raising the matter. "I appreciate the offer, but I don't think I'm interested."

"And why the hell not?" Sam leaned forward with both elbows on the table, oblivious of the catsup spill his shirtsleeves mopped up in the process. "Wasn't it only a couple of weeks ago you were complaining about how slow things were? Slow and 'megamonotonous' was, I believe, the way you put it."

He had me there. Solo practice is attractive as a concept, but the reality falls somewhat short. In the year since I'd

gone out on my own, my cases had been few in number and all rather pedestrian. Divorces, wills, a couple of DUIs and an occasional commercial dispute. Hardly life on the cutting edge of the law. Besides which, I was barely making a living.

"I'm offering you a piece of something big, Kali. Something that will jump-start those atrophied brain cells of yours and make you feel like you're practicing law again."

Sam can talk like that and get away with it--the prerogatives of age and experience. He's semi-retired now, slowed by the death of his wife three years ago and a more recent string of minor heart attacks. But Sam is still the best lawyer in Silver Creek, and one of the big names in California legal circles.

You wouldn't know it to look at him, though. He's overweight, ruddy in the face, and habitually, if charmingly, disheveled in appearance. His white hair stands in tufts over his temples, and the clean, freshly starched shirt he takes from the hanger each morning is rumpled and stained under the arms half an hour after he's put it on. Today, one of the lower buttons was missing, causing the shirt to gap around his middle.

"It's a high-profile case," he said, "a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity."

I nodded, although I wasn't sure I viewed high-profile cases in quite the same light Sam did.

'There's a tidy sum of money in it for you," he added. "I'm not asking you to work for nothing, you know."

Handing him a napkin, I gestured to the spot of catsup on his sleeve. "Money's not the issue."

"What is it then? Are you like these folks in town who forget that
accused
and
guilty
aren't one in the same?"

I knew they weren't; still I couldn't help asking, "Do you think he's innocent?"

"He says he is."

"And you believe him?"

"I'm inclined to." Sam ran a thumb around his bottle of Bud, then looked up and caught my eye. "In any event, what I think doesn't really matter. Neither, I might add, do your own thoughts on the subject. The law says a man is innocent until proven guilty. And that means in a court of law, not over backyard fences and mugs of beer at the local tavern."

I couldn't have agreed with Sam more--in theory. But I'd known Lisa Cornell, at least well enough to say hello to. And I knew Wes. What's more, I'd seen pictures of Lisa and her daughter. Not the ones published in the paper, but the photos taken at the scene. It wasn't a case I could easily relegate to theory. Even here in the cafe, amid the lively bustle of the lunch crowd and the clatter of dishes, the memory of those pictures sent a shiver down my spine.

Sam raised the bottle to his lips, took a swig, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "A murder trial is an enormous undertaking. I could use your help, Kali. I can't do it alone." He paused. "Not anymore."

He didn't add, "You owe me," but I knew it was there, in my mind if not in his. Sam's daughter and I had been high school friends. We'd gone our separate ways after graduation, but we'd stayed in touch--until her death from a drug overdose three years later. Although I hadn't seen Sam in the interim, when I moved back home to Silver Creek last year, he took me under his wing as though I were his long-lost daughter herself. He'd introduced me around the local legal circuit, making sure I met everyone

from judges to clerks. He'd sent me clients, allowed me to use his law library at all hours of the day and night, acted as counsel and, above all, friend. It's not easy to refuse a friend.

I suspected that Sam's involvement in the case was of a similar nature. Jake Harding, Wes's father, was a fishing buddy of Sam's, as well as the doctor who'd treated his wife during her long, downhill battle with cancer. Jake needed Sam's help; Sam needed mine. I wasn't so sure Wes wanted any of us, but maybe that didn't matter.

Sam lowered his voice. "The cops never looked at anyone but Wes. They saw only what they wanted to see."

"There was plenty there for them to see."

"They never even let on that he was a suspect," Sam continued. "Never read him his rights. Not until after they had what they wanted."

I raised a brow. "That ought to make your job easy, then."

"Well, maybe they didn't cross the line, but they pushed it." Sam started to say something more, then closed his mouth and looked at me glumly. "I guess you don't need to hear the Defense Bar lecture on fair representation."

I shook my head. "I think I know it."

"But you're not convinced."

"Let me think about it, okay?"

He nodded, was silent a moment, then finished off what was left of his beer. "You and Wes were in school together, weren't you?" he asked finally.

"For a while."

Wes was with us through junior high and part of high school. I can't remember when he was sent away exactly, because we continued to talk about him long after. I don't even know
why
he was sent away, really. There were stories

that he'd molested a ten-year-old girl, that he'd gotten another girl pregnant, that he'd broken into the school at night and left a headless and disemboweled cat on Mrs. Heafy's desk. There were so many stories they've run together in my mind. And, of course, I never did know how many were true. Parents and teachers may have talked among themselves, but they never shared any of it with us.

What I do remember clearly is the way Wes would stare at you. Not mean, like the Armstrong boys, and not loony like old Mr. Wilks, but with eyes that would get under your skin and seek out the dark, uncomfortable places you tried to ignore. He was bad news; we knew that. And in case we didn't, our parents never failed to point it out.

But there was an undeniable fascination there as well. Wes was good-looking--dark hair, dark eyes, a full mouth that curled at the edges in an almost feminine manner. More than that, though, Wes had a way about him, something that pulled at you even when you tried to ignore it.

Can a fifteen-year-old feel lust and loathing at the same time? Because that's the closest I can come to describing the effect Wes Harding had on me. At night he would work his way into my dreams and leave me breathless with anticipation. By day I couldn't bear to look at him.

"The boy's had a rough time of it," Sam said, interrupting my thoughts as though he'd been listening in.

"He's hardly a boy," I corrected, knowing Sam undoubtedly referred to me, when I wasn't around, as "the girl." Language that might have earned him a severe tongue-lashing in politically correct San Francisco went largely unnoticed a couple hundred miles away in Silver Creek.

'Jake was sure he'd straightened out, though."

"Was?"I
asked.

Sam smiled. "Is. He's standing behind his son one hundred percent."

I hadn't spoken to Wes since I'd been back in Silver Creek, hadn't even seen him much, and then only at a distance. His name had come up, however, on a number of occasions. Once in connection with a drunk-driving arrest, once over a fistfight, and several times in the context of "those hooligans out there in the woods," which was the way a lot of the folks in town referred to Wes and his particular group of friends. Myself, I wasn't so sure he'd straightened out much.

"Of course Wes isn't really his son," Sam said. 'Jake married Grace when the boy was about ten or eleven. At that age there's only so much you can do."

I nodded. It couldn't have been easy taking someone like Wes into your life. 'There are a couple of girls in the family, too, aren't there?" I asked.

He nodded. "Andrea is headed for UC San Diego this fall, and Pammy's a sophomore at the high school. They're nothing like Wes, either of them. But then, they've had the benefit of two parents from the start. It makes a big difference."

I finished off my iced tea, then sucked on a cube of ice. I knew plenty of people who'd grown up without that particular benefit and not a one of them ended up accused of murder.

"I used to see Lisa Cornell at the diner sometimes," I said. "When she worked the lunch shift there. She was a pretty girl. Always friendly and upbeat. Just about every week she'd come in with a new picture of Amy and show it off to anyone who'd take a look. It's hard to believe they're both dead."

Sam regarded me for a moment, his bushy gray brows

pulled tight with a frown. He set his beer on the table and folded his arms in front of him. "I'm not going to twist your arm, Kali. It's up to you. I'll work something out, one way or another."

I watched the waitress deliver ice cream sundaes to a mother and her young daughter. With wide-eyed delight, the girl scooped the cherry and a spoonful of whipped cream into her mouth. She grinned at her mother. I turned back to Sam. "I'll let you know in a day or two," I said.

After lunch I headed back to my office, two upstairs rooms in a converted Victorian. A chiropractor and an accountant occupied the remaining second-floor offices, while the downstairs housed one of the town's two beauty salons. My rooms were airy and light, but spartan. An old oak desk--the kind teachers used when I was in grade school--a couple of chairs, a file cabinet and a wobbly bookcase left by the previous tenant. It was a long way from my plushly carpeted, twenty-seventh floor office at Goldman & Latham in San Francisco. Most days I couldn't decide whether I'd taken a step up or down. I could wax poetic about both places and all that was implied by the differences between them, yet I knew that either way I was bending the truth more than a little.

I dropped my purse into the bottom desk drawer, reached for the stack of mail and kicked off my shoes, letting my bare toes slide across the worn spots in the carpet Except for the days I was required to appear in court, I skipped the panty hose and heels routine--
a
decided plus to small-town practice.

I'd come home to Silver Creek to attend my father's funeral, and then, when my life in the Bay Area fell apart, I'd stayed on. An interim measure initially, now aug-

mented by the force of inertia and a blinding confusion about the direction of my life.

Although Silver Creek is no longer the small, sleepy town it was when I was growing up, it's definitely not the place to come if you're looking for a hot time. Or refined culture, sourdough bread or good coffee. A fine place to raise a family, or so I've been told, but of questionable merit to a single woman in her thirties who has yet to give up hope of making her mark on the world.

On the other hand, I was my own boss. And while the majority of my cases might be, as Sam had so aptly quoted,
megamonotonous,
they were all mine. I could come and go without having to walk through a minefield of prying eyes or account for my time. No jockeying for position with other associates, no running interference between client and senior partner, no taking on cases just because they were assigned to you.