The Heavens May Fall (10 page)

“They’re fine,” Max said. “How well do you know Ben?”

“Like I said, not as well as I knew Jennavieve. They were pretty quiet neighbors. I suppose I’m pretty quiet myself. I know he’s an attorney. He’s always struck me as a good father. I’d see him going for walks with Emma or playing in their yard. It seemed like he spent more time with her than Jennavieve did, but like I said, I only know what I saw on the outside of the house. I didn’t spend time with them inside.”

“When’s the last time you saw Ben Pruitt?”

“Last night . . . about . . . oh, it had to be around midnight.”

Max and Niki shared a look, both being careful to withhold any facial expression.

“At midnight?” Max repeated.

“About then, yeah. I was up because . . . well, I just couldn’t sleep. It was such a beautiful night out and fresh air helps me fall asleep, so I went out onto my front porch. I was sitting there, about ready to come in, when I saw him pull up in a red car.”

“You actually saw Ben Pruitt?”

“Yes. I remember because it just seemed odd. The car wasn’t the black Lexus that he usually drives. I thought it might be a loaner from a mechanics shop or something.”

“Do you know the make of the car?” Niki asked.

“Well, I’m no car expert. It was red and a four-door I think, maybe a little older but not too old.”

“Are you sure it was Ben?” Max said “It was dark out, after all.”

“I’m sure. He parked on the street instead of pulling into the driveway, which seemed strange. There’s a streetlight on the corner, so I could see that it was Ben. Is that important?”

Max scribbled Ms. Gwin’s words onto his notepad as he envisioned Pruitt’s alibi turning to rot and crumbling through Pruitt’s outstretched fingers. Max pressed back a smile. “Every little bit helps,” he said. “What did Mr. Pruitt do next?”

“He kind of looked around—he didn’t see me—then he walked up to his house.”

“What’d you see next?”

“Nothing. I got my fill of fresh air and was feeling sleepy, so I went to bed. Stayed there until this morning.”

“Did you hear anything after you came inside?” Niki asked. “Any commotion or arguing, or maybe Ben Pruitt pulling away?”

“You think Ben killed Jennavieve?” Malena brought her hand up to her mouth. “Oh my. Is that what happened?”

“Ms. Gwin, we don’t know what happened,” Max said. “We’re just gathering information right now. We want to be as thorough as possible. Did you hear anything?”

“No. I went to bed and fell asleep. Do you really think . . . oh my God, poor Emma.”

“Ms. Gwin.” Max leaned forward. “We need you to think hard. Is there anything else you can tell us?”

“No. I saw the red car pull up. Ben got out, looked around, and walked up to the house. Then I came in. That’s all.”

Max stood up and Niki followed his lead. “I appreciate your help, Ms. Gwin. And as I said before, we’d appreciate it if this conversation remained private for now. There may come a time when you’ll be asked to repeat it, maybe even in court. I’d like it if you wrote down what you remember, and if anything else comes to you . . .” Max held out his card. “Please call me or Detective Vang.” They shook hands, and Max and Niki made their way back across the street toward the Pruitt house, pausing beneath a streetlight a few feet from the edge of the Pruitt property.

“He parked here,” Max said, looking back and forth between Pruitt’s house and Malena Gwin’s porch about one hundred feet away. “He’s driving a red car. Why?”

“He can’t fly back from Chicago,” Niki said. “We’d be able to track that down. A bus or a train would take too long. He’d never be able to get to Minneapolis and back in time to set up an alibi. He needs a car.”

“So, what, he rents one? Buys one?”

“On Craigslist, or a classified add.” Niki said. “If he shows up with cash, he could buy one on the spot. It’s more likely that he arranged it online. If he did, he may have left a trail on his computer or phone records.”

“I like where you’re going, but, remember, Pruitt’s clever. He’s not the kind of guy to leave a trail. If he’s going to call Chicago to buy a car, he’s smart enough to use a throwaway phone. So let’s assume he drives back from Chicago, he parks here and not in the driveway.”

“The driveway passes beneath the bedroom window. Mrs. Pruitt would have heard the car pull up.”

Max nodded. “And with Malena Gwin’s statement, we have enough probable cause to seize his office hard drives and search them to see if we can find proof to back up the theory.”

“You think the judge will let us look at the hard drives of an attorney?”

“I’m sure that Pruitt will scream about the violation of attorney-client privilege. But we can get around that. I did it once before. The judge ordered an independent third party to go through the evidence and determine what we could see and what was protected. If we find any evidence that he was planning a car purchase in Chicago or researching the best routes to get back here, that won’t be protected.”

Niki looked at her watch. “I can get the warrant knocked out before court closes for the day. I’ll take care of collecting the computers.”

“No. It’s my turn. I’ll—”

“Max,” Niki interrupted. She didn’t say any more than his name, letting the force of her tone hang in the air until he looked at her. Her eyes told Max that she remembered what day it was and the significance that that square on the calendar carried. She knew that he’d be watching the sunset from Lakewood Cemetery, surrounded by the pale stone markers that shared a slight knoll with his Jenni. Max could feel the mood shift as the chill of their unspoken conversation moved them across a threshold separating the bustle of the day’s events from the wistful approach of sunset.

“You going to be okay?”

“Yeah,” Max whispered. “I’ll be alright.”

Chapter 14

Boady Sanden stayed on his porch long after Ben Pruitt left. He watched kids pass by on bicycles. He watched joggers getting in their daily run after work. He watched the shadows of his oak trees spread across his yard. All the while, he contemplated Ben Pruitt’s offer. He tallied the numbers in his head, weighing the loss of his teaching income against the fees he would get from Ben, the scales tipping overwhelmingly in favor of taking the case. But then again, it had never been about the money.

The question he grappled with as he sat on his porch was, could he go back to that world? The high points of his years as a criminal-defense attorney came back easily: the victories, the accolades, the money. But he forced himself to remember the dark days, the last couple years when his guilt caused him to tremble as he approached a jury. He had made the mistake of believing in his own invincibility, which cost him dearly—and it cost his client his life.

As he watched the evening start to crawl across St. Paul, he wondered if he could honestly go back to that life, and he wondered if Diana would permit it. She had been the one to insist that he leave his practice.

Boady had been sitting on the edge of his bed at three in the morning, unable to sleep and unable to think straight. He had put on a suit, but couldn’t remember why. He’d lost so much weight that his pants crinkled into small folds under his belt. Then he felt Diana’s hand on his shoulder. She pulled him gently to her and held him like a mother might hold a scared child. She told him that he had to quit practicing law or it was going to kill him. He didn’t fight it. He knew she was right. And he did what she asked.

Diana had texted Boady to let him know that she had a house showing that evening, a prospective buyer who couldn’t be available until after normal work hours. So goes the life of a realtor. Boady had long ago become the family cook because of Diana’s frequent absences, a role he was glad to take on. He expected her home around seven, so shortly before that, he rose from his seat on the porch and went to the kitchen to start preparing a stir-fry.

As he cut green and red peppers into thin strips, he thought about Ben and Jennavieve and the many times he watched them together, two people as perfect for each other as he believed he and Diana were. He’d come at the thought of Jennavieve’s death from as many angles as he could, and every path led to the same conclusion. Ben would never hurt her. Boady believed that to his core.

He remembered when he’d first met Ben and Jennavieve. Ben had just put in his twelfth year at the Dakota County Attorney’s Office when a case they had against each other went to trial. It had been a burglary case where the victim and the accused had been boyfriend and girlfriend at one time. She broke up with him and he didn’t take it well, breaking into her apartment to confront her about it, pushing her to the ground, and skinning up her elbows.

Boady went to trial on the demand of his client, who was certain that he’d prevail. Boady didn’t see how. What neither Boady nor Ben knew was that by the trial date, the couple had reconciled. These lovebirds weren’t even supposed to be talking to each other, and they orchestrated the boyfriend’s acquittal. All the attorneys could do was watch.

At trial, the girlfriend took the stand and confessed that she’d made the story up because she was angry at her boyfriend. She swore that he’d never been there that night and she busted the door lock with a hammer to frame him. Because he’d been long gone before the police arrived, his guilt rested on her testimony alone.

Ben didn’t see the flip coming and he did what all young prosecutors do: he tried to introduce the girlfriend’s original statement. Boady, ten years Ben’s senior, objected and explained to the judge and to Ben Pruitt the
Dexter
problem.
Dexter
was a case that prohibited a prosecutor from putting a witness on the stand only to impeach her with a prior statement. “The prior statement can come in,” Boady pointed out, “but it can only be used to impeach. In other words, he can use it to show that the witness is lying, but he can’t use it to show that the burglary ever occurred. If there’s no substantive evidence that the burglary actually occurred, then all you’re left with is proof that the witness lied—nothing more. There is no evidence upon which a jury can legally find my client guilty.”

The girlfriend was the State’s last witness. After her testimony, Ben rested his case and Boady moved for a judgment of acquittal. The judge took the matter under advisement, and while Ben and Boady waited for the judge to return and issue the acquittal, which they both knew was inevitable, the two men struck up a conversation.

They talked about some recent cases handed down by the Supreme Court, and Ben, like Boady, disagreed with restrictions the Court had been placing on Fourth Amendment rights. Ben talked more like a defense attorney than a prosecutor. It was in that conversation that Boady floated the idea that Ben should come to work for him.

Ben asked for a week to think about it, but called Boady the next day to ask if they could have dinner together to talk about the offer, a dinner that would include their wives. They met at the University Club in St. Paul, a beautiful, private club that overlooked the southern edge of St. Paul. Boady had been a member since moving to Summit Avenue, just a few blocks west of the club.

It had been his plan to impress Ben and his wife with the fine meal and extravagant surroundings. He had no idea that Jennavieve Pruitt, formerly Jennavieve Adler, was a member of the Minneapolis Club, an equally swank private club in Minneapolis. Not only that, but Jennavieve’s mother and father had both served on the Board of Governors for the Minneapolis Club. She practically grew up in the place.

But Jennavieve didn’t come across as someone who gave a lick about clubs. Boady got the impression that they could have just as well been meeting at a fast-food joint for all she cared. Jennavieve was beautiful and gracious and completely levelheaded, and Boady took to her immediately. When Boady asked what she thought of the club, a question born of a momentary and uncharacteristic conceit on his part, Jennavieve never mentioned her illustrious upbringing. It wasn’t until months later, after Ben had made the leap from prosecution to defense that Boady learned of her family position.

Boady saw Diana’s car pull up the driveway just as he finished slicing the chicken. He poured a touch of oil into the pan and turned on the heat.

Diana entered through the back porch as she normally did. Boady met her at the door to the kitchen and gave her a kiss. But as she went to pull away from the kiss, he held her gentle brown hands in his pale white hands. He pulled her back in and embraced her, squeezing her tightly against his chest.

“Have you caught any news today?” he asked.

A look of concern eased into the edges of Diana’s smile. “What happened?”

“Jennavieve Pruitt is dead. She was murdered last night.”

“Oh my goodness. Murdered? Are you sure?”

“Her body was found this morning. She was stabbed in the throat.”

“That’s horrible. Are Ben and Emma . . . ?”

“They’re okay. Ben came by after he identified her body.”

“Ben . . . came here? Why would he come here?”

Boady went to the stove, where his oil was hot and ready for the chicken. He laid the chicken strips in and stepped back as the oil crackled and spit. He spoke now without turning to face Diana. “Ben wants my help.”

Diana crossed to the kitchen counter next to the stove. “Why does he want your help?”

Boady still didn’t look at Diana. “He thinks they may try to point the finger at him. It’s standard procedure to suspect the husband. He just wants to have the benefit of my advice.”

Diana put her hand on Boady’s arm and turned him to face her. “Is he a suspect? Do they think he killed Jennavieve?”

“They haven’t named him as a suspect. He’s understandably concerned. He wants me to be his lawyer, hold his hand as he goes through this.” Boady could feel her studying his face, searching for signs of the struggle she must have suspected raged in his head. Boady dumped the chopped onions into the pan.

Diana slowly walked to the kitchen table and sat in a chair. She didn’t speak for what seemed an eternity. Then she said, “He wants you to defend him?”

“He’s not charged, so there’s nothing to defend.”