Slow Kill - Michael Mcgarrity [84]
Kessler named the restaurant. It was one of the oldest and finest restaurants in the city.
“Thank you,” Kerney said.
“Why are you trying to find Debbie?”
“It’s a police matter.”
Mrs. Kessler nodded as though it was of no importance and closed the front door.
On the drive back to Santa Fe, Kerney couldn’t shake the image of the rigid, unforgiving Mrs. Kessler from his mind. Surviving a Sunday meal at the Kessler home must have been pure agony for Debbie.
Although he tried to seem impassive, Kim Dean knew that his fear showed through. Whenever an inmate looked at him, he averted his eyes. His face felt like a frozen death mask, his upper lip was wet with sweat, and he was constantly swallowing, rubbing his nose, or fidgeting with his hands.
A big Hispanic guy with tattoos on his arms and the back of his neck kept eyeing him, as did a black Cuban who grabbed his crotch and smiled wickedly every time Dean glanced in his direction.
He sat by himself at a table in the communal area of the living pod and stared at the wall-mounted television tuned to a Spanish language station no one else was watching. Clusters of inmates were playing cards or talking in tight-knit little groups.
All the metal tables, fabricated with attached benches, were secured to the floor, as were the beds in the cells, the sinks—everything that ordinarily could be disassembled or dislodged was bolted, welded, or fastened down. The stairs to the upper-level cells, the security grates covering a high row of frosted windows, and the bars on the cell and pod doors were gleaming steel.
Four young, tough-looking inmates—kids really—stood in front of the lower tier of a semicircular wall of cells singing rap in low voices, flashing gangbanger signs, and laughing. Two older inmates who were mopping floors and cleaning tabletops moved slowly across the room.
The guy wielding the mop, a small, stoop-shouldered man who looked like a character from a Dickens novel, appeared to be perfectly content with his task. In fact, everyone in the pod seemed completely at ease, like it was no big deal to be locked up. It only served to make Dean more apprehensive.
He kept glancing at the glassed-in guard station and the locked pod door, hoping someone would come to fetch him to meet with his new lawyer, Scott Ingram.
Ingram had called hours ago to say he’d spoken with Howard Stubbs, the inexperienced lawyer Dean had fired, and would be out to see him as soon as he’d received and reviewed the arrest affidavits, warrants, and charges, and talked to the district attorney.
He was about to return to his cell, which Dean figured was the safest place to be if he never fell asleep, when a guard appeared and motioned him to approach the pod door.
“Is my lawyer here?” Dean asked.
The guard nodded as the door slid open. After being patted down and cuffed, he was walked down the main corridor and deposited in an interview room where Scott Ingram waited. Neither man spoke until the cuffs came off and the guard left the room.
“You took your time getting here,” Dean snapped.
Ingram smiled indulgently at Dean. “I’m sure you wanted me to be well prepared before we talked.”
“Are you a good criminal defense attorney?”
“I’m very good at what I do,” Ingram said.
“Has anyone tried to contact you on my behalf?” Dean asked.
Ingram looked down his hawkish nose as he sat at the table. “Do you mean Claudia Spalding?”
Surprised, Dean nodded. “How do you know her name?”
“Because Stubbs told me about the phone call he made at your request, and I’ve learned that the DA is sitting on a pending murder arrest warrant for her, waiting for the receipt of more information from California.”
“Dammit,” Dean said.
“Have you talked to anyone about the charges since your arraignment?” Ingram asked.
Dean sat down across from Ingram. “Nobody.”
“That’s good. But time may be running out on you to enter into a plea agreement.”
“I don’t want that. I want you to find a way to get me out of here, now.” He bit a hangnail off his thumb and spit