Most Wanted (32 page)

“What if you can't help him?”

“Then at least I tried. Unless I try, it's going to bug me. You know how I am.”

“Curious.”

Christine smiled.

“But what about Gary? Does this mess up your lawsuit?”

“No, I don't think so. I'm doing what you call self-help.”

Lauren sighed. “How long do you think you'll be down there?”

“I don't know, a couple of days? I'm going to play it by ear. If my mother calls you, back up my story. I'm at your house at the Jersey Shore.”

“The house is getting a lot of use for a house that never gets any use.” Lauren chuckled. “What does Marcus know?”

“I didn't lie. I told him where I was going.”

“What'd he say?”

“He's angry. So be it.” Christine knew she sounded tougher than she felt.

“So what do I tell him if he calls here?”

“He's not going to, but if he does, tell him to call my cell. I made a reservation at the Warner Hotel in West Chester.”

“That town has a hotel?”

“Just the one, it's a converted movie theater.”

“So no Jacuzzi.”

“Not likely. It looks nice online.” Christine braked when the downpour intensified, and a passing truck sprayed her with grit and water. “Okay, I should go. The rain is bad.”

“Stay in touch. I'll give you a call to check on you.”

“Take care, talk soon. Love you.”

“Love you, too.” Christine hung up, with only one more phone call to make. She pressed Griff's number, and the lawyer answered on the first ring.

“Christine. I'm busy.”

“Can I meet with you this afternoon?” she asked, with hope.

 

Chapter Thirty-three

Christine walked down the hall toward Griff's office, gearing herself up. It was one thing to have a plan and another to put it into action, especially when it required convincing Griff the Gruff. She reached the end of the hall and opened the door just as he hung up his landline.

“Why are you here?” Griff frowned, and Christine was pleased to see he was better groomed than the other day. His hair was almost tamed with something pomade-y, and he had on a white oxford shirt, a red-and-blue bow tie, and a boxy blue-and-white seersucker suit, like a demented Atticus Finch.

“Thanks for seeing me, Griff. You look very spruced up.”

“Did I ask you?”

“No, that's called being polite.” Christine sat down. “You should try it sometime.”

“I'm too busy.”

“On Zachary's case?” Christine scanned the desk, which was newly cluttered, strewn with pencils, pens, and yellow legal pads covered with scribbled notes. To the right of the computer keyboard was a stack of expandable accordion files stuffed with papers and Xeroxed cases.

“None of your business. Why are you here? I'm busy.”

“Good.” Christine reached into her purse, pulled out a manila envelope, and slid both across the desk. “My résumé is inside. I'm married, thirty-two years old, and I've been a reading teacher at an elementary school for the past eight years.”

“Why do I care?” Griff didn't even glance at the envelope.

“I want to be your paralegal. At no cost to you.”

“No.” Griff pushed the envelope back. “Good-bye.”

“Why?” Christine had prepared for the reaction. “You're busy, you need help. You said you're a one-man band. You don't have to be.”

“This is about your book. Admit it.”

“No, it's not.” Christine cringed inwardly. “I put Zachary's interest ahead of my book, didn't I? That's already been established. I just want to help Zachary and I'm interested in the case.”

“Why?” Griff's eyes narrowed behind his glasses, which were remarkably unsmudged.

“I think he's innocent.”

Griff harrumphed. “That's proves you're not qualified to work in criminal law.”

“You don't think he is?”

“I'm not discussing the case with you.”

“Okay, but I'm qualified. You don't need a degree to be a paralegal. I have a degree in education. I'm a college graduate, University of Connecticut. I can be taught to do legal research, and factual research is common sense.”

“Voltaire said common sense isn't common.”

“Luckily, Voltaire's not here. After what happened with Linda Kent, I think something suspicious is going on and I want to get to the bottom of it.”

“No. Good-bye.” Griff's phone started ringing, but he ignored it.

“Be practical. You can't do it all, and there's no money to hire staff. Somebody needs to follow up about Linda Kent.” Christine gestured at the ringing phone. “I'm sure the FBI's calling you, and the other state jurisdictions will want to talk with you, just like you said. You can't do it all yourself, can you?”

Griff pursed his dry lips but didn't reply. The phone stopped ringing.

“I promise I'll be completely loyal and I'll keep everything we learned confidential. I'm much more responsible than anybody you'd get off the street, and I already have a rapport with Zachary.”

Griff didn't say anything, so Christine kept talking.

“I'm good with computers, unlike somebody we know. The FBI and other authorities will need to email you. They're not all going to be able to call you on the phone, especially if you don't answer. You have to be realistic, if not for your sake, then for Zachary's. If you stay in the Dark Ages, that's not going to serve your client. Let me help.”

“I don't think so.” Griff shook his head, and the phone started ringing again.

“Aren't you going to answer that?”

“No.”

Christine half-rose, reaching for the phone. “Let me, I can take a message.”

“No. Sit back down. I know who it is.”

“Who?”

“None of your business.”

“Why aren't you getting it?”

“Phone calls are always somebody else's agenda. Remember that.” Griff held up a knotted index finger. “People would get more done if they would ignore the phone calls of others. Work their own agenda. Like me. I have my own agenda. Do you know where the word agenda comes from?”

“I'm guessing Latin?”

“Of course. Actually it is a Latin word, the neuter plural of
agendum
. It means ‘things that need to be done.' As in, answering the phone is not my
agendum
, my thing that needs to be done. My
agendum
is my client.”

Christine resorted to Plan B. “I'm going to do factual investigation on this case, whether you like it or not. You can't stop me.”

“So do it. Why bother me?” Griff shifted his knobby shoulders inside his jacket, which was too big, undoubtedly from his younger days.

“Because if I do it as your employee, then it's privileged, isn't it? I wouldn't have to reveal it to the FBI or in court. That's what you taught me, am I right?”

Griff didn't reply except to frown, a fissure between his unruly eyebrows.

“But if I do it on my own, it's not privileged and it's not confidential. I have to answer questions about it, and I can also tell anybody I want to. I could print anything I wanted to. I could go to the newspapers myself. I could put it on that crazy new thing called the
Internet
.” Christine paused to let it sink in. “The only way you can control me is if you hire me. Either way, I'm going forward. It benefits Zachary if we work together, not against each other.”

Griff kept frowning. “That's blackmail.”

“No, it's cooperation.” Christine couldn't give up on teaching, even at his age. “Our cooperating is in Zachary's best interests. We both want the same thing, which is to see him acquitted. What do you say?”

Griff sighed, unhappily. The phone stopped ringing.

“Griff, you have no money. You have no staff. You can't do it by yourself. Please, be practical. Use me.”

Griff paused, pursing his lips.

Christine waited. “Please?”

“You have to do what I say,” Griff answered, after a moment.

“I will.” Christine felt her heart lift.

“Don't write or talk about the case, except to me. No books, no Facebooks, no leaks. Do I have your word?”

“Yes.”

“You're covered by Rule 1.6, which means that anything you discover while you're working for me is work product, protected by attorney-client privilege. Keep it that way.”

“I will.” Christine shifted forward in her seat. “Okay, so tell me, you meet Zachary?”

“You're asking questions already?” Griff's hooded eyes widened.

“If we're going to work together, we have to share information. Sharing and cooperation, Griff.” Christine felt like she was talking to a fourth-grader, only hairier.

“What's to share? I went over on Sunday and met Zachary.”

“And what do you think of him?”

“It doesn't matter.”

“It doesn't matter what you think of him?”

“No.” Griff met her eye behind his glasses and sealed his lips into a flat, if wrinkled, line.

Christine let it go. “Do you think he's innocent?”

“That doesn't matter either. I'm his lawyer, not his Creator.”

Christine had no idea what that meant. “Did you ask?”

“Of course not.”

Christine didn't understand. “So what happened in the meeting? How do you have a meeting where that doesn't even come up? Isn't that the elephant in the room?”

Griff sighed theatrically. “I asked him what happened the night of the murder. He told me the same story he told you. I took notes.” He gestured at his legal pads. “Somewhere in here.”

“You didn't ask if he did it?”

“Do I have to repeat myself?” Griff frowned, recoiling. “Is this what it's going to be like? You bothering me with stupid questions,
ad nauseam
?”

“Zachary called 911 that night, you know. He was the one who reported the Robinbrecht murder.”

“So?” Griff shrugged. “Serial killers have been known to do that. Robert Durst called 911. So did the BTK killer. They like the game. They toy with the cops. They like to tease. Show their superiority.”

Christine held up a hand. “Okay, I'll move on. What else have you done so far on the case? Catch me up.”

“I filed an Entry of Appearance, which puts everyone on notice I represent him. I cleared his visitors' list at the prison of everyone but me. I'll have to put you back on. I went to the scene.”

Christine gasped. “You went to Robinbrecht's apartment?”

“Robinbrecht's apartment is the scene, so, yes.” Griff flared his cloudy gray eyes. “How is it I don't need a hearing aid but you do?”

“How did you get in?”

“How do you think? I called the D.A. Detectives take you. They stand watch. You look around.”

“Did you see anything helpful?”

“No.”

“I wish I had gone.” Christine couldn't imagine what it had looked like, but she wanted to know.

“Then go. I'll set it up for tomorrow morning.”

“Really?” Christine felt her pulse quicken. It would be grim, but maybe she would see something that Griff had missed.

“Hold on.” Griff dug under his accordion files and produced a single-lens reflex camera, which he passed her over the desk, dragging the black strap across his papers. “I took pictures.”

“Thanks.” Christine rose, took the camera from him, and turned it over to look through the pictures, but the back was sealed. “It's not digital?”

“No, it's not. Human beings are digital, not cameras. See these?” Griff wiggled his arthritic fingers. “They're called digits. Know why? From the Latin,
digitus
, meaning fingers or toes.”

“Really?” Christine sat down with the camera. “You learn something new every day.”

“I don't, but you do.” Griff waved at the camera. “Get that film developed. That will be your first assignment as my paralegal.”

“Okay, but I do have something I want to do first. In fact, right now.”

“Already, you're not listening.” Griff frowned.

“I'm listening, I'm just not obeying.”

“You said you'd obey.”

“No I didn't.” Christine hadn't even said that in her wedding vows, which was turning out to be a good thing. “Let me tell you what I want to do, and if you give me the go-ahead, I'll go. How about that?”

“No.”

But Christine didn't obey, and told him anyway.

 

Chapter Thirty-four

Christine dropped off the film at a drugstore, which unfortunately didn't have one-hour developing, then went on to Warwick Street, arriving at six o'clock, which was perfect timing. It was still light out, so she could see the lay of the land, and residents were returning home from work. She circled the block, noting that some were finding parking spaces in front of their houses but others were driving down the block, taking a right turn on Warwick, and turning into the skinny driveway behind the houses on Warwick.

She pulled into a space a few doors up from Gail Robinbrecht's house and parked the car. She cut the ignition, grabbed her purse, and got out of the car, chirping it locked behind her. She walked to 301, two houses up from Gail's, and scanned Warwick Street on the fly. All of the houses, from 301 to 307, which was at the corner, were redbrick row houses, the same except for the paint color of their shutters, window treatments, and plantings.

Number 301 had petunias and pretty black window boxes, with a black door to match, and Christine could see from the two front windows on the first floor that lights were on inside the house. She walked up the two front steps, knocked on the door, and reminded herself to act like a paralegal, which was basically a teacher with a better pay scale.