Good Morning, Killer - April Smith [89]
“So now we’re exploiting a rape victim.”
“If this kid will do something for you, I want to use her, you bet.”
“What if, on cross-examination, the DA takes her apart and she’s even more traumatized?”
“Ana, when I was a cop, I put rapists in prison. I’m not insensitive and I don’t want to hurt anyone, but my sole focus and ethical duty is to my client and my client only, and frankly, I’m not concerned if she has to see a therapist a few times more, we’ll pay for it, so what?”
“I don’t think I have ever been more offended in my life.”
“You don’t have to go along with it.” He waited, eyes downcast. “You see, we are now at the point where this begs the fundamental question of the relationship between the defense lawyer and client.”
By then it must have been five o’clock, the energy of the city draining the other direction, away from the daily battles toward resolution and home. He wasn’t exactly putting it on the line, but he was forcing a calibration. Where did we stand? Did I trust his judgment enough to override my feelings for Juliana?
“You’re saying if I don’t want to do this, you won’t force it?”
“My sole concern is in walking you out of that courtroom. If we can’t go down the Juliana road, we’ll find another way. But as I said, I think she can help you and it’s important.”
I thought about it for several silent moments until Devon picked up one of the model cars and began spinning its wheels.
“Is that a Porsche you’ve got there?”
He nodded and spun some more. “A Boxter S.”
“Why don’t you have a Barracuda?”
“My clients give these to me. I guess I never had a client who owned a Barracuda.”
I waited. Finally I told him: “All right. You’ve got one now.”
His eyes rose.
“Call Juliana and ask if she wants to testify. The best thing for her would be to make that decision herself.”
“Thank you,” Devon said, and a palpable tension left the room.
I sucked the warm, half-empty water bottle.
“How much will the prosecution give us on Andrew?”
“His statement, which is whatever they decide it should be. We can’t depose him until the trial. In other words, not much. They sent over a preliminary list of witnesses”—he tossed me a copy—“including someone you know from the Bureau, Special Agent Kelsey Owen?”
“Kelsey is going to testify against me?”
“She is being subpoenaed.”
“Holy cow.”
“What does she have on you?”
“I don’t know!” I was really fried. “Nasty voice mails. Obscene gestures. That I’m an asshole because I didn’t want her taking over my case?”
“There are two sides to every asshole.”
I chortled. “The jokes are getting better.”
“That’s good.”
Devon had taken out a paintbrush and opened the little doors and was dusting the interior of the Porsche.
“How are you going to prove your theory that Andrew was trying to kill me?”
“Investigate him and everyone around him. I’ve got a string of great PIs who work for me—former cops, an ex–financial reporter who’s very good on the computer stuff. We’ll look at everything—his marriages, cases. I’m intrigued by that bank robbery.”
“You mean what was going on in the police department at the time—”
Devon was nodding. “—that made that particular heist so damn important to everybody.”
“And the people he works with at the Santa Monica police?”
“Everyone, at least going back five years. Their wives, girlfriends, boyfriends, kids, vendettas, paybacks, who owed what to whom, their mortgages, car payments, bank accounts.”
“Follow the money,” I suggested.
“That’s my credo,” Devon affirmed. “The sign on my wall.”
Twenty.
Afterward, waiting for the elevator, a soundless voice cajoled me, Why didn’t you tell him about the Sandpiper motel? It’s a private matter that would not be usable in my defense. How do you know, aren’t we talking about Andrew, who he is? Devon would have discarded it, and I didn’t want to see that, his cynical dismissal. What you don’t want to see is your own face in his mirror—but the voice was silenced as the