The Second Chair (31 page)

“But nothing physical?” she asked.

“No.”

“Nothing?” Hardy repeated. This was the kind of fact about which you wanted no ambiguity. “You never hit her? Nobody ever saw you hit her?”

“I never hit her,” he said. “I would never hit her. I loved her.”

“Okay.” Hardy thrummed his fingers on the table. “Let’s go back to the story. Do you have any idea how we deal with it, or get around it?”

Andrew sighed. “It’s fiction. I don’t know what else I can say. The character isn’t me. Julie isn’t Laura, Miles isn’t Mike. There’s tons of stuff in the story that didn’t really happen.”

“Name me something important,” Hardy said. “Something that will make any difference to a judge or jury.”

“Well, the main thing, in the story, Trevor had had a lot of sex with other girls. That wasn’t me.”

“You’re a virgin?” Hardy asked. “That didn’t read like a virgin wrote it.”

“I was then,” Andrew said, a hint of pride in the admission. “I imagined what a guy like Trevor would have felt and done.”

“All right.” Hardy wasn’t giving him much. “But it’s a stretch to call that the main thing, Andrew. Maybe you could tell us something about the crime that’s different in the story from real life.”

The boy looked to Wu for help, but she, too, was waiting for what he’d say. “Okay,” he said finally. “Okay. In the story, I have Trevor almost decide not to use his father’s gun, right? He understands that if he does that, the cops have got to see that he’s tied to the crime. So if I understood that clearly enough to write about it four or five months ago, would it make sense that I’d just go ahead and use Hal’s gun?”

Hardy shrugged. “Maybe you figured out some way you could make it work?”

“But I didn’t. It wouldn’t have worked. So I wouldn’t have done it. Not in real life.”

Wu came forward. “But Hal’s gun
was
there, Andrew.”

“But that was—I mean, look, I got the idea from writing the story—we have the gun there on stage . . .”

Hardy butted in. “We’ve already done this. Let’s go to something a little more personal. Your best friend—Lanny is it?—Lanny has testified that you thought Mooney and Laura were intimate. That’s why you brought the gun to school in the first place, and . . .”

“That’s another one!” Andrew’s expression was alight with triumph. “My character Trevor never would have showed the gun to anybody at school. I wouldn’t have shown it to Lanny if I’d been planning to use it. I mean, think about it, would that make any sense? Would a guy smart enough to write the Trevor character be dumb enough to show the gun around?”

“Smart guys do dumb things all the time,” Hardy said. “The question is did you believe that Laura and Mooney were having sex?”

Deflated, Andrew sat back. “I thought maybe. That’s why I wrote the story. But then we got back together . . .”

“You and Laura?” Hardy asked. Between the fiction and the reality, he almost felt he needed a scorecard. “I guess I missed the breakup. What was the timing on that?”

“Before Christmas. A couple of weeks after we got on the play.”

“And why did you break up again?”

“She broke up with me. Over me being so jealous.”

“But then after Christmas, you got back together?”

“Right.”

“How did that happen?”

Again, the lick of pride. “She convinced me there was no reason for me to be jealous.”

“In other words,” Wu put in, “you started having sex.”

Andrew nodded.

“But in the story,” Hardy wasn’t letting this go, “Julie having sex with Trevor didn’t make any difference. In fact, it only fueled his jealousy.”

“Right. But that’s not what happened with us.” Suddenly, he brightened. “In fact, ask Lanny about that. He’ll tell you.”

“What?” Wu asked. “About you having sex with Laura?”

“No.” The question rankled him. “I didn’t tell him about that.” He read doubt in both their faces. “That’s the truth! I didn’t brag about it. Laura and I . . . that was private. It was nothing like in the story at all. That was another reason I didn’t think I could send the thing out—those descriptions, they would have hurt Laura’s feelings. That’s not how we were. That’s how Trevor was. Don’t you guys see that?”

Hardy prompted him. “We were on Lanny.”

“I never said a thing to Lanny. I’ve never told anybody about me and Laura, in fact, until right now. Nobody even knows we’d gone that far. It was only between us.”

“Okay.” Hardy, unimpressed with Andrew’s vision of his own virtue, pressed the inquisition. “So what do we ask Lanny about?”

“Whether I was jealous anymore after we got back together. I didn’t have to tell him why, about the sex, I mean. But I did tell him that all the jealousy was over.”

“But you still kept the gun in your backpack? And while we’re at it, you want to tell me how a spent shell casing, I’m assuming from your father’s gun, got into your car?”

“I think that must have just been bad luck. When I first took the gun, I wanted to see what it felt like to shoot it, so I drove out to the beach one night and fired it a few times.”

“From inside the car?”

“Just outside. One casing must have kicked out and gone back in through the window.”

“It must have,” Hardy said. “But it still leaves you with the gun in your backpack for at least several weeks after you say you had no intention of using it, except of course,” Hardy paused, “for your motivation.”

“I should have put it back. I see that now. Oh, and another thing I just remembered . . .”

“You just remembered?” Hardy said. “Don’t start remembering things now, Andrew.”

“No, about the story, another thing I would have done, definitely, that Trevor did when he went for his walk. He made it a point to talk to the clerk in that store. Remember that?”

“Vividly,” Hardy said. “What of it?”

“On my walk, on my
real
walk that night, I didn’t do that. I didn’t stop in some store and establish where I was. And I would have, don’t you see? Trevor thought of it, so I would have.”

“Terrific,” Hardy said. “There’s progress. The problem we’re on, though, is still that you didn’t put the gun back in your father’s drawer. And Mr. Salarco happened to see it at Mooney’s.” He paced three steps to the wall, turned around. “Andrew, I promise you I’m a lot gentler than anybody else you’re going to talk to in the courtroom. I want to get your answers down here so we can have an opportunity, perhaps, to . . . give them a more positive slant if and when you get up in front of the judge. Are you with me?”

“What’s my other option?”

Hardy snapped his reply. “I’ve already told you that. Your other option is pleading guilty as Amy suggested at the beginning if—and this is a big if—they’ll still do the deal. You want that? No? All right, so here’s my last question. Did Laura in fact wind up staying at Mooney’s once in a while after you left? To your knowledge, did he ever drive her home?”

“Yeah.”

“Just like in your story?”

“Well, except they didn’t . . .” He hesitated.

“Have sex? Are you sure about that?” When he didn’t answer immediately, Hardy pounced. “Yes! The answer’s yes, Andrew. You’re sure about that. If you ever get on the stand, there is no doubt at all. Do you understand?”

Cowed, the client nodded. “If I’m not sure, the jury will think I’ve still got a motive.”

His mouth a tight line, Hardy nodded. “Good, Andrew. That’s correct. And you know for sure they didn’t have sex because you and Laura talked about that, the way you talked about everything, isn’t that right?”

“Yes, sir. That’s right.”

“And because you talked about everything, you knew everything important about her and her life, isn’t that true?”

Andrew sat back in his chair, suddenly wary. “Pretty much everything, yeah,” he said. “Everything important.”

“Andrew.” Wu couldn’t wait any longer. “What Mr. Hardy’s getting at is that Laura was pregnant. Did you know that?”

“That’s what they told me, after the autopsy.”

“But before that? Didn’t you know she was carrying your baby?”

Hardy asked him, “You know that DNA sample they took when they booked you? They called with the results before we came up here today. It was yours.”

“It had to be,” Andrew said. “I know that.”

“But you didn’t know it while she was alive?” Wu asked. “That she was pregnant? She didn’t tell you?”

“No. She didn’t.”

Andrew’s face went slack and told the whole story. He’d just told his attorneys that he and Laura shared everything—their most intimate secrets—but he’d had no clue she’d been pregnant. Hardy, certain that he’d never had a client who was less inherently credible, cast a quick glance at Wu.

Andrew must have seen it. “It’s really bad, isn’t it?”

Hardy rubbed a hand back and forth across his forehead. “This might be a good time to take a break,” he said.

18

H
ardy left for a lunch meeting, and Wu stayed with Andrew, preparing her witness list, revisiting his alibi, playing devil’s advocate for what she guessed would be Brandt’s attack at the 707 hearing. It continued to be dispiriting work. Getting information and/or cooperation from Andrew was like pulling teeth without an anesthetic. It was early afternoon by the time they finished.

Ray Cottrell was coming up the hill to the cabins when Wu walked out into the sunshine. He got to the gate a few steps before she did, and held it open for her.

When she thanked him, he took it as an opening. “So how’d it go today?” he asked.

She made a face, shrugged. “All right, I guess.”

“Curb your enthusiasm.”

“You really want to know, he’s pretty depressed.”

“He’s looking at life in the joint. You’d be depressed, too.”

“I guess so.” She paused. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“You were in court when Andrew wouldn’t plead. When he said he didn’t do it? Well, that’s what’s got him looking at life without.”

“Okay. What’s the question?”

She considered her phrasing. “You pretty much know how things work up here. You’ve seen a lot of these kids. I’m thinking Andrew’s got a lock on an eight-year top; he’s got to take it. He doesn’t understand that whatever the actual truth is,
it looks like he did it.
Almost any jury is going to find him guilty. I don’t understand why he can’t see he can still get out of this. Johnson might still take a plea. Andrew doesn’t have to be looking at life.”

“He probably thinks it matters that he’s innocent. If he is.”

She shook her head, frustrated. “That’s
so
not the point.”

“He probably thinks it is.”

“Well, that’s my question. Why can’t he see it isn’t? What matters is playing it to your best advantage. There’s a system here, a way that it works, and it’s not going to work to let him out. So he should take the best deal they offer, right? Is it only because I’m a lawyer that I see that so clearly?”

Cottrell stared off somewhere behind her. “Maybe.”

“Okay. But look,” she said, “even if he’s in fact innocent, he could take the plea and his dad could buy a team of private investigators who might find something that could get him out.”

“ ‘Might’ and ‘could.’ Not exactly a lock. Eight years, a kid his age, it’s the rest of his life. You ask how he feels, he just wants to get back out. He doesn’t care how it works.”

She set her jaw. “Here’s how it works, Ray. There’s one rule. Maybe you could help Andrew with it if you two talk.”

“What’s that?”

“You listen to your lawyer. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred you’re better off.”

“But there’s that one,” Cottrell said. “If you think the one chance where you’re not better off happens to be
you,
it’s hard to take.”

“You still play the odds. You deal with it.”

For a second, he seemed almost angry with her view of it. But then he shrugged. “Or not,” he said. “Anyway, it looks like you’re feeling better today.”

The reference took her a minute. “Oh. Than yesterday?” She broke a smile. “I
always
feel better than I did yesterday. That was the low point of my life.”

“That’s good news then.”

“The low point of my life? How’s that?”

“It’s behind you. Everything’s better from now on.”

“That’s a nice way to look at it.” She paused, then added, “Though I may never drink again.”

“Darn,” he clucked with disappointment. “I was going to ask if I could buy you a drink sometime.”

The comment stopped her cold. Glancing quickly up into the pockmarked face, she cocked her head, sighed as though she meant it. “I’m flattered, Ray,” she said, “I really am. But I’ve got a policy about seeing people with whom I have a professional relationship. I’ve found it’s just not a good idea.”

“Sure,” he said, “No sweat. It’s cool.”

“I’m sorry. I really am. It’s nothing personal at all.”

“No,” he said. “Why would it be?” He pointed at the cabins. “Well, I’ve got to get in to work. See you around.”

If she thought cabs were few and far between downtown, they were an endangered species up here on the hill. Now she waited at the corner of Market, berating herself for more stupidity, being friendly to the bailiff. But again, her actions had been misinterpreted. This was becoming a goddamn trend. She was tired of it.

No cab.

She checked her watch. Quarter to two. She’d been standing here for nearly fifteen minutes. She should have called and ordered one. Now she reached down into her briefcase, pulled out her cellphone, flipped it open. Suddenly a purple PT Cruiser pulled up to the curb. She stepped back as the window came down. Brandt was leaning over. “I couldn’t help but notice you standing here when I left the building five minutes ago. Are you waiting for somebody? Where are you going?”

“Downtown.”

“Me, too. You want a lift?” He pushed open the passenger door. “Professional courtesy,” he said.

She started to hesitate, then realized she was being foolish. She could take a ride downtown with him.

Ray Cottrell was outside on guard duty, watching an inmate basketball game. The court was on the far side of the cabins, at the highest point of the grounds. The fence, topped with more razor wire, ran along a ridge that fell off in about a hundred-foot cliff to Market Street, just below.