Midnight Rambler_ A Novel of Suspense - James Swain [22]
“Are they good pictures?”
“Dad, this isn't funny. I read about this dirty trick in my criminology class. He's courting public opinion to pressure the judge. He's making you look horrible.”
I trudged downstairs with the phone pressed to my ear. I asked the bartender to find Court TV on the TV hanging over the bar, and he picked up the remote and obliged me. Skell's attorney, the infamous Leonard Snook, appeared on-screen.
Snook was in his early sixties, with a silver goatee, tailored clothes, and a movie-star tan. He practiced out of Miami and had built his reputation on representing lowlifes and scumbags. He'd gone over to the dark side long ago, and he floated in his chair like grease simmering in a frying pan.
Beside him was a big-haired, big-bosomed woman named Lorna Sue Mutter. Lorna Sue had materialized in the spectator gallery during Skell's trial and had been seen slipping notes to him. Two months after Skell went to prison, they got married. I know a psychiatrist who believes that if you did a TV show starring nothing but convicted murderers, millions of women would watch. Lorna Sue would be president of their club.
Two photographs of Skell appeared on the screen. Before I beat him up, and after. Skell was trim and athletic, with surfer-white hair, a paintbrush-blond beard, and eyes too small for his face. For reasons no one knew, both of his hands had missing fingers; half the pinky was gone on his left, half the index finger on his right. He had been semi-normal-looking until I got my hands on him.
“Oh, man, did you kick his ass,” my daughter said.
I'd forgotten Jessie was there.
“Shouldn't you be in class?” I asked.
“Dad, this is important. That bastard Snook is slandering you.”
“Let him,” I said.
“Is his client going to get out? Will they let Skell go?”
More pictures appeared on the screen, showing the studio in Skell's house and several framed photographs of Florida landscapes. Skell claimed to be a professional photographer, but no evidence existed of him ever being paid for a job.
“Answer me, Daddy.”
I was “Daddy” when Jessie wanted something. I didn't give in.
“Go to class. Please.”
“But—”
“Everything's going to be okay, trust me.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
“I love you, Daddy.”
“I love you, too.”
I folded my phone while staring at the TV. The show's host let Snook present his case, and Snook put all his cards on the table. His client didn't put Carmella Lopez's skeleton in her sister's backyard; someone else did. Therefore, his client didn't murder Carmella Lopez, and he should be released from prison. Lorna Sue Mutter said nothing, content to nod like a bobblehead doll whenever Snook made a salient point.
The segment ended, and I found myself agreeing with my daughter. Snook was trying his case in the court of public opinion. If he could get a couple of newspaper editors and TV commentators to support him, he'd run to a judge.
I went upstairs to my office. Buster was on the other side of the door, panting frantically. Leaving him behind usually resulted in a piece of furniture being destroyed. He'd spared me this time, and I scratched behind his ears.
The Skell file sat on my desk. Beside it was a handful of mail. Most of what I got these days were flyers and solicitations for credit cards. A mailing on top of the stack caught my eye.
Kinko's.
That gave me an idea, and I spent thirty minutes counting each page in the Skell file. All totaled, there were eight hundred and ninety-five pages of evidence.
I called the number on the Kinko's flyer. The guy who answered was polite and helpful. I asked for a ballpark quote on copying everything.
“That it?” he asked.
I start to say yes, then realized I'd need copies of the victims' photographs as well.
“Do you copy photographs?”
“Of course.”
I added the photographs to the quote.
“How quickly do you need this?” the guy asked.
“Zoom,” I said.
The guy put me on hold, and returned to the line a minute later.
“That's going to cost you four hundred