Most Wanted (37 page)

“True.” Griff set down his Coke can.

“Is this where you say, ‘Good work'?”

“No, I never say that,” Griff answered, deadpan.

Christine chuckled. “You would be a bad teacher.”

“Luckily, I'm an excellent lawyer.” Griff blinked, eyeing Christine. “And you're ignoring the fact that Jeffcoat lied to you about when he met Gail for the first time. The police now have a neighbor, an eyewitness, who placed him there earlier.”

“Maybe the neighbor was mistaken. They say eyewitness identifications aren't as reliable as everybody used to think. I know I read that in an article, somewhere.”

“True, those articles come from cases that hold eyewitness identification as being unreliable in situations that are stressful, such as when somebody robs a bank and people at the bank were asked to describe the perpetrator. Those cases support the proposition that people do not make reliable eyewitness identifications when they are emotional or stressed.” Griff wiped his mouth. “That's not the situation with the neighbor. You're describing to me a woman who goes to put out the trash in her backyard. She looks up because she sees a handsome man calling on her neighbor. In addition, it sounds like the lighting was good. Interior lighting is a factor, as opposed to exterior or outside lighting, like from a streetlamp or moonlight.”

Christine swallowed hard. “Maybe Zachary didn't lie, maybe he just misunderstood me. Or maybe he lied because he didn't know me that well. I wasn't working for his defense then. He'd just met me that day. Plus—”

“You're making excuses for him.” Griff's aged gaze bored into Christine.

“I'm keeping an open mind.”

“No, you're disregarding facts that inculpate Jeffcoat, that is, bad facts that point the finger of blame at him, and you're emphasizing facts that exculpate him, in other words, good facts that get him off the hook.”

“No I'm not,” Christine said, though she wondered if he was right.

“You believe he's innocent.”

“Yes, I do,” Christine answered, meaning it. “I'm not absolutely sure, but I do think he's innocent.”

Griff lifted a furry white eyebrow. “I would fire you if you weren't working for free.”

“Why?” Christine asked, surprised. “We're his legal team, we're supposed to believe in his innocence.”

“No, that's only in movies and TV. Unrealistic ones, at that.” Griff leaned forward, placing his elbows on the desk. “Jeffcoat does not need our subjective belief, one way or the other, yea or nay. Our job is to get him acquitted. The only way to do that is to be completely objective about the facts as we learn them. That's how we put ourselves in the shoes of the jury, and before that, the district attorney, the FBI, and the prosecutors in Virginia and Maryland.”

Christine didn't interrupt Griff because he was on a roll, his gray eyes flashing with a conviction that she sensed had been dormant for a long time.

“If you understand the persuasive weight of the facts against your client, then you can think of an effective argument to meet them. If you don't give the bad facts the weight they truly deserve, then you will never be able to convince the person who does.”

“Okay.” Christine felt as if she'd just heard why Griff could be good in front of a jury. She rose, coming around the desk to see his notes, which were a mess. “You know, it wouldn't take me very long to read these and organize them. Then we could share the information.”

“My old paralegal used to say the same thing.”

“Where is she now?” Christine started gathering up the pads.

“She died.”

“Sorry.” Christine let it go, pointing at the stack of accordions that weren't there earlier. “What are those?”

“Legal research. Relevant cases I pulled out from my files in the back.”

“What back?”

“There.” Griff gestured vaguely to a side door. “That's where I keep my case files. In the old days I had this whole floor, but since I scaled back, I don't need it.”

“Let me see.”

“Don't go snooping back there.”

“It'll just take a minute.” Christine went to the side door, opening it onto a dark corridor, which ended in a back door. She flipped on the light, illuminating a wall of boxes on the left-hand side of the hallway, and on the right, she spotted something that gladdened her heart. “Is that a bulletin board?”

“What did you say?” Griff called from his desk, but Christine was already tugging the bulletin board from behind some old foamcore trial exhibits. She dragged it out of the hallway and into the office. Nobody could set up a bulletin board like a teacher, and she was getting a second wind.

Griff groaned. “What are you doing?”

“Organizing us.” Christine rested the bulletin board on the side wall, which was bare. “What did you use this for?”

“My secretary liked to keep track of me. My calendar was up there, and a calendar from my associate, back in the day.”

“You had an associate?”

“Yes. His name was Tom, I forget his last name. He was short. I called him Tom Thumb.”

Christine let it go. “Do you have any paper towels?”

“No, why?”

Christine blew dust off the top of the bulletin board. “That's why. Please hand me some napkins.”

“Why are you doing this?” Griff handed over the napkins.

“We need a bulletin board for the case. One place where all the facts can be collected, maybe a map so we can plot where the three murders occurred, as well as the date and time.” Christine wiped dust from the bulletin board. “We need a list of the facts, like you said, the good facts and the bad facts, so that we can analyze them objectively. We need a chronology of the case, so we can fill in the facts.”

Griff rolled his eyes. “You want a war room. Maps with little flags, like on TV.”

“Yes, but they exist in real life, don't they? Didn't you used to have a war room?”

“War rooms are for lawyers who have an army. I only had me.”

“What about Tom Thumb?”

“He lasted six months.”

“He quit?”

“He died.”

Christine wondered if it was suicide. “You don't play well with others, Griff.”

“Don't try and change me. Women always try to change men. It never works.”

“I'm not trying to change you. I'm trying to work with you.” Christine tossed the dirty napkins into the trash can. “I still don't have most of the important facts of the case.”

“But
I
do.”

“Where?”

“In my head.” Griff pointed to his fluffy gray temple.

“But I need to know things, too. We need to communicate.” Christine shot him a look. “Can you get me another napkin? We're a team.”

“I'll know more after tomorrow.” Griff leaned over the desk, got a napkin, and handed it over. “I'm meeting with the detectives from Maryland and Virginia.”

“When did that happen?” Christine wiped down the sides of the bulletin board.

“I set it up on the phone, while you were out. Must I account to you?”

“You have to inform me, not account to me.”

“A distinction without a difference.” Griff sniffed. “They'll be here tomorrow. Maybe the FBI, too, but I'll know better tomorrow morning.”

“Should I meet them with you? It sounds interesting, but I'm not sure it's the best use of my time.”

“It isn't. No sense in our duplicating effort. You should continue factual investigation. I can't get around as easy as you, with my bunions.”

“Okay.” Christine felt pleased that he seemed to be thinking about their working together. “I was thinking I'd go back to Zachary and talk to him about when he first met Robinbrecht, see why he lied. What do you think about that?”

“Do it. See him after the crime scene. Ask him any questions you come up with. See if you can find out if he lied. But only tell me good things.”

“What's that mean?”

“When were you born? Yesterday?” Griff sighed theatrically. “If I know he lied, I can't put him on the stand. Lawyers can't lie, officially. Only Congress.”

“Okay.” Christine understood what he was saying. He wanted deniability.

“After that, pop over to his apartment in Exton. The landlord was expecting me at noon, but you go instead. Snoop around.”

“Wow, okay.” Christine hadn't thought she'd get to see inside Zachary's apartment. She liked the idea, even if she didn't learn anything about the case. The more she knew about him, the better. “Where does he live?”

“I wrote down the address somewhere.” Griff gestured at his messy desk.

“See? That's why we need the bulletin board.” Christine bubbled over, only half-kidding. “Organization! Communication! Sharing! Cooperation!”

“Go, team, go.” Griff scowled.

“Ha!” Christine set the bulletin board against the wall. She'd need to buy tools to hang it up, plus office supplies, paper towels, Fantastic, and Windex. “Is there a Staples around here?”

“God knows.”

“Why don't you look on the Internet? Oh, wait. You don't believe in progress.” Christine smiled to herself.

“You're making me tired.” Griff rubbed his forehead, leaving pinkish marks.

“So go home, let me take over. Where do you live anyway?”

“None of your business. Go.”

“But I'm not tired.” Christine would have been exhausted at home, but fatigue hadn't hit, maybe because so much was at stake. She was curious, and her curiosity led her where it always did, to books. She crossed to the bookshelves and scanned the bound lawbooks, blue volumes with gold numbers, which read
ATLANTIC REPORTER
,
SECOND SERIES
.

“What are you doing now?” Griff asked, wearily, leaning against the desk.

“I wish I knew more about criminal law.”

“Leave the law to me.”

“It would help if I knew the basics, too.” Christine pulled a book off the shelf.

“Don't touch that.”

“Would it help if I read a few of these?” Christine opened the book, which had yellowed pages. The print was old-timey and small, and the paper so thin that she could read through to the other side. She read the first line:
this dividing line is significant in a discussion of the extent of riparian rights …

“No. That's a casebook. Reports of decided cases, from all areas of the law. Not just criminal.”

“Do you have any books about the basics of criminal law?” Christine closed the casebook and put it back on the shelf.

“You're talking about a hornbook. I have a criminal hornbook from law school.”

“Is it still good?”

“Of course. Am I still good?”

Christine let it go. “Where is your hornbook?”

“In one of those boxes.” Griff motioned to the hallway, reluctantly.

“Great.” Christine went back to the threshold and peered down the hall. Stacked boxes lined the walls on either side, making a narrow walkway between, and there was a wooden door on the left. The boxes bore the printed name
CHESTER SPRINGS BUSINESS ARCHIVES
, but they weren't labeled on the side. “Are these labeled on top, so you know what's inside?”

“I know what's inside.”

Christine didn't believe him. “Do you remember where the hornbooks are?”

“Far right. Second row. Third one from the bottom. But don't go in there.”

“Just a minute.” Christine walked down the hall, scanning the boxes. She went to the door on the left, opened it, and flicked on the light. It took her a moment to understand what she was seeing, as she took in the windowless white room about the size of a large storage room, with a neatly made single bed on one side next to a night table that held a small, open carton of milk and an unwrapped packet of half-eaten chocolate cupcakes. Next to the table was a dorm-sized refrigerator, a white IKEA cabinet, and a stainless-steel rack of suits—seersucker, light gray wool, heavyweight tweed three-piece—then a rack of striped bow ties and a row of wingtips on a wire shelf at the bottom, each shoe filled with a cedar shoe holder. Attached to the room on the left was a tiny bathroom with a shower. It was obvious that Griff was living here and didn't want her to know that. She felt a stab of sympathy for the old lawyer, and sadness that he had come to such dire straits.

“What are you doing?” Griff called from the office.

“I think I found the box!” Christine called back, closing the door quickly so he wouldn't suspect she had seen anything.

“Don't touch my boxes!” Griff called out from his office.

“I won't, I'm coming back!” Christine swallowed hard as she walked back down the hall and entered the office. “I think I found the right box, but I can't get it out. Do you have a hand cart?”

“Why would I have a hand cart?” Griff sighed, but he looked tired, his lids lower, and Christine knew it was time to go.

“It can wait. Tomorrow, can we borrow a hand cart from the other law firm?”

“Yes, good.” Griff went back to his desk and eased into his desk chair slowly, with a squeak from its dry springs. “I'll finish up here. You go.”

“You're the boss,” Christine said, her throat tight. She went to the door. “See you after my morning stops. I'll keep you posted on what I find.”

“Hold on, I almost forgot.” Griff dug through the piles on his desk, found a manila envelope, and handed it over. “This is from the police. They didn't have to turn 'em over yet. They threw me a bone.”

“What is it?” Christine took the envelope, intrigued.

“Look 'em over. But not before bedtime.”

 

Chapter Forty

The Warner Hotel turned out to be as charming as the rest of West Chester, and Christine's room reminded her of a Victorian dollhouse; it was a cozy size, with a panel of mullioned windows that overlooked a horse pasture, so she didn't have to bother closing the curtains. She left the windows open since the night air was surprisingly cool and smelled fresh, if vaguely earthy. A bed with a chintz canopy and matching bedspread sat on top of a pink-and-green hooked rug, and the dresser and armoire were both carved antiques. Soft crystal lamps gave off a gentle light, lending the room a serene country feel, but even the lovely setting couldn't put Christine's mind at ease.