False Witness
by
Lelia Kelly

LELIA KELLY

False Witness
Kensington Books http://www.kensingtonbooks.com KENSINGTON BOOKS are
published by Kensington Publishing Corp.

850 Third Avenue New York, NY 10022 Copyright 2000 by Lelia Kelly

MISSING YOU by Raul Malo and Al Anderson Copyright 1995 Sony/ATV Songs
LLC, EMI Blackwood Music, Inc." Mighty Nice Music, Al Andersongs, and
Rumbalo Music. All rights on behalf of Sony/ATV Songs LLC administered
by Sony/ATV Music Publishing, 8 Music Square West, Nashville, TN 37203.
All Rights Reserved. Used by Permission.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any
form or by any means without the prior written consent of the
Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

Library of Congress Card Catalog Number: 9963481

ISBN 1575664909

First Printing; January, 2000 10 987654321 Printed in the United States
of America This book is dedicated to Michael, Ellen, and William
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thanks are due, as always, to the team of Kay Kidde and Laura Langlie,
whose advice both editorial and practical I value most highly. John
Scognamiglio proved once again to be a patient as well as a creative
editor.

To my Atlanta readers, I would like to say that yes, I do know that the
garage at the Hyatt downtown is underground. I took a few liberties
with other locales as well, though none as glaring as that one.

I would like to give special thanks to my Book Club for help and
encouragement on all fronts for the past five years--every author
should have such a cheering section. A shout-out also goes to all the
folks at Duke University Medical Center Bone Marrow Transplant
Clinic--thanks for making the unbearable bearable. As usual. Dr.
Martin York is the man and his staff are the women.

I also owe a very large debt to my family, especially to my mother, who
served as photocopier and proofreader, and who allowed me to play Lyie
Lovett and the Mavericks as loud as I wanted to in her house while I
was getting inspired. And to my Aunt Lillian, big kisses and thanks
for the taxi service, the lunches, and all the bandaging. My
sister-in-law deserves credit for her tireless promotion of this and my
first book: Thanks, Karen! And to Cameron, Elizabeth, and Grantland:
Aunt Eeyah says thank you very much, and I'm sorry there are no
pictures.
PART ONE

MAY
CHAPTER 1

On the first day of the rest of her life, Laura Chastain stood
blithering before a judge of the Superior Court of Fulton County.

Her first courtroom assignment as an assistant district attorney was
simple: get a plea bargain entered in the Fulton County Superior
Court.

"It should take about five minutes," her boss, Meredith Gaffney, had
admonished.

"Keep everything moving along; the judge doesn't want to reinvent the
wheel." Unfortunately, Judge Jones Talbot seemed to want to do just
that. He had already spent half an hour probing the slender, innocuous
record of Juwon Taylor, the defendant in the case, and he showed no
sign of tiring of the subject.

"I see from the record that this... young man"--how carefully he
avoided the word boy--"has graduated from truancy and vandalism to
accessory in an auto theft. I don't call that very promising.

If I sentence him to probation, what's to say he won't be back in here
next year for some more serious crime--maybe a violent felony!" Talbot
glared down at Laura from the bench and shook his head.

"I'd like to see a recommendation from the district attorney for some
jail time."

Juwon Taylor, a nineteen-year-old high school senior, jerked his head
up and looked around in alarm. Laura shifted her weight from one foot
to the other and glanced at him. Her eyes met those of Julia Walton,
the public defender representing Juwon. The two attorneys, who had
spent quite a bit of time working out the now-doubtful plea bargain,
began some subtle nonverbal communication.
Julia's eyebrows lifted quizzically, which Laura understood to mean,
"What's he trying to do?"

Laura shook her head and compressed her lips in reply.

"This is my first time before Talbot," she telegraphed back.

"How should I know?"

"Well, say something anyway," Julia indicated with a jerk of her
head.

Say something. Sure, but what? Talk about what a great kid the
defendant was? That's what she sensed the judge wanted for the
district attorney's office to look soft on criminals. A wave of
irritation rose up in her. I won't sing this kid's praises, she
thought.

I'm the prosecuting attorney why should I act as an advocate for Juwon
Taylor? That's Julia's job. They called the justice system
adversarial for a reason. She almost made a sarcastic reply to Judge
Talbot, but her better nature held her back. She took a breath and
collected herself instead.

"What would Tom do?" she asked herself. Yes, what would Tom Bailey
have done? She cleared her head, and in the silence she could almost
hear his voice.

"This guy is a sadist he's playing with you like a cat with a chipmunk.
Do not accept this behavior. Come on, Laura, what do you know about
him? Think."

According to Tom, everyone had a weakness some blind spot of vanity,
some bad habit, some carefully hidden secret and it was the duty of a
good trial lawyer to know that weakness and exploit it if necessary.
Okay, so what did she know about the Honorable Judge Talbot? She'd
done her homework; there must be something... She felt herself
straighten up as a notion occurred to her.

"That's the ticket!" she thought triumphantly. She started to speak,
but she seemed to hear Tom's voice again, cautioning her.

"Hold on remember you're in open court. Don't say anything that's
going to embarrass him or make him angry. You're going to spend a lot
of time in his courtroom."

True. Laura cleared her throat.

"Your Honor, may we approach the bench?"

He assented, and as Laura approached, she suppressed a chuckle. What
would these people think if they knew she was standing here channeling
the spirit of her dead mentor and lover?

Not that she cared; after seven years of seeing him every day, she
wasn't about to let a little thing like death interfere in her
relationship with Tom Bailey. She and Julia reached the judge
simultaneously.

"Your Honor," Laura began, "the district attorney's office stands by
this plea recommendation."

"You can't tell me you believe this boy is a good risk!" Talbot
sneered.

"As a matter of fact, I do. But even if I didn't, I would still
recommend this plea."

"Why would you do a damn fool thing like that?" he asked.

Even Julia looked puzzled.

"As Your Honor knows, the district attorney has been under taking a
detailed study of sentencing patterns in the county. Some, umm,
significant differences have popped up, especially between sentences
handed down to defendants from North Fulton" to white defendants, she
added silently "versus sentences handed down in South Fulton" to black
defendants.

"And?" the judge inquired sarcastically.

"Now go easy, Laura," she seemed to hear Tom say.

"Don't rile him up, and whatever you do, don't say the magic letters!"
No need to remind me of that, she thought saying "ACLU" to Judge Talbot
would truly be waving a flag at a bull. His Honor had the dubious
distinction of having had more decisions overturned on appeal than any
other Superior Court judge in the state of Georgia, and the civil
liberties group had backed a good number of those appeals.

"We wanted to avoid invidious comparisons," Laura said simply. Like
comparisons to those five preppies who got off scot-free last month
after being charged with gang rape, she added to herself. That case
had caused quite a bit of consternation in the press. Talbot had taken
it upon himself to nullify the jury's "guilty" verdict, reduce the
charges to simple battery, and sentence each defendant to six months'
probation.

"Boys will be boys!" he had said, with a few wise admonishments to
teenage girls not to wear "provocative clothes." Lord knows Laura was
no knee-jerk feminist she'd defended an accused rapist, once, and
caught heat for it but Talbot's actions went way beyond the pale. The
district attorney's appeal on that one was still pending. Laura met
Talbot's eyes steadily; he knew exactly what she meant.

The judge's face flushed, as if he could read Laura's mind.

"What are you saying that I can't judge in my own courtroom without
looking at a bunch of statistics? Why don't we have a computer
sitting up here instead of me, then?" He was blustering, but Laura
sensed capitulation; next year he was facing reelection, and he didn't
need any more bad press. She treated his question as rhetorical, and
remained silent. Judge Talbot snorted, and threw up his beefy hands.

"Well, there's a kick in the pants or the robe, I should say." Laura
and Julia smiled politely at this witticism.

"All right. Miss Chastain, you've made your point." As the lawyers
returned to their respective tables. Judge Talbot gaveled the court
room to order and passed the agreed-upon sentence on a relieved Juwon.
Laura and Julia gathered up their papers, and walked out of the
emptying room together.

"Sorry about that," Laura said to her erstwhile opponent.

"I

had no idea he'd be playing to the gallery."

Julia shrugged.

"He hates plea bargains unless he's the one making them, of course."

"But he's got no qualms about putting a nineteen-year-old kid in jail
to make a point."

"He's trying to win over the law-and-order crowd, and they want
everybody to do jail time. They're doing away with parole next it'll
be probation and plea bargains."

"Great. I hope they're ready to add about a thousand new assistant DAs
and public defenders. Not to mention the new jail cells we'll be
needing."

"You're preaching to the choir," Julia said with the weary shrug of a
career public defender.

"Want to get some lunch?"

"Maybe next time. They're expecting me back at the office.

Thanks for the help in there," she added, as she turned toward the
exit.

The district attorney's offices were located directly across the street
from the courthouse in a steel-and-glass building that reflected the
colonnaded beaux-arts front of the courthouse, appropriating some of
the older building's grandeur. There was certainly no innate grandeur
in the offices of the district attorney, which were a warren of
cubicles, jangling with phone calls and raised voices. Overstuffed
filing cabinets banked every available wall, even in the hallways. When
the building had been constructed the designers had allowed for such
amenities as conference rooms; they had lasted a year or two before
being appropriated as office space. The conditions were in stark
contrast to Laura's plush former quarters at the midtown law firm of
Prendergrast and Crawley, but she didn't often notice the difference

Back in her cubicle situated in a windowless room that she suspected
had been intended as storage space Laura checked her voice mail, her
e-mail, her in-box, and her calendar. She returned a few phone calls,
made a few of her own, and pulled a sheaf of papers from her briefcase.
She settled in to work on a brief her boss needed for an appeal of a
pretrial ruling, the kind of thing Laura could do in her sleep after
seven years of training at PC.

Laura knew that some of her fellow assistant DAs were watching her
closely, waiting for the grind to get to her. They thought she was
soft. Little did they know how many eager young associates all Law
Review at top-ranked schools had burned out at Prendergrast and
Crawley. Although the district attorney's office ran at top speed all
the time, the pace was nothing in comparison to her first three years
at the old firm. And there was one great, and welcome, difference
between the old life and the new: no billable hours. During an
ordinary week at PC she had spent about an hour each day filling out
time sheets, dealing with the accounting department, and tending to
other administrative details. She had gladly given up the thick
carpets and china coffee cups in return for the certainty of never
filling in another time sheet.

Laura was happily researching away when her boss, the redoubtable
Meredith Gaffney, popped her head in.

"Back? How did the hearing go?"

"Great I think." She told Meredith what had taken place.

"Well done," her boss said.

"I should have thought to warn you about Jones. He likes to take the
new prosecutors out for a spin. But I knew you could handle him.
Listen. I came in here to ask you if you're up for something."

"Anything," was Laura's automatic reply.

"Don't be hasty; let me run it by you. I've been called to a crime
scene. I'd like you to come with me."

"What... I mean, what kind of crime?" Laura asked unnecessarily. She
knew that if the police had requested the presence of a representative
of the district attorney's office, it had to be a "major crime" a
murder, sexual assault, or hate crime. Or maybe a prominent Atlantan
was involved.
"It's a murder. A bad one--as if there's a good one. Laura, I want
you there, but if you're not ready ..."

"I'm ready. I mean, I'm not exactly eager, but I won't fall apart on
you."

"Of course you won't. But I'm warning you, Laura, these things are
pretty bad. I still get nightmares myself, and after what you went
through ... but if you want to come along, get your things together and
meet me at my office."

Meredith turned and sped away, calling for her administrative assistant
as she retreated. Laura gathered her things and found the boss a few
minutes later in her cluttered office, simultaneously concluding a
telephone conversation, issuing directives to the assistant, and
searching for her keys.

"I need you to make these changes and have this motion ready when I get
back," she told her assistant. To the telephone, she said, "Call Judge
Shivers's clerk and arrange a meeting on the pretrial hearing on the
Tucker case. I want to set some rules about the press coverage." As
she finished her conversations, she produced her keys from the bottom
of her huge purse. Shouldering a bulging briefcase, she swept Laura
out of the office with her, spewing directives into cubicles as she
passed them.

Laura followed, bemused. She had a great admiration for Meredith, but
she couldn't fathom how someone who seemed so disorganized did as much
as Meredith. Nevertheless, Meredith had the best conviction record in
the office, served as the deputy to the overburdened district attorney,
and still managed to have an enviable marriage and two great kids. And
Laura, single and without her own caseload, crawled home at night
exhausted.

"So, where are we heading?" Laura asked as they waited for the
elevator.

"Brookhaven," Meredith said, carefully watching for Laura's reaction.
Laura remained impassive; she knew what Meredith was thinking. Laura's
old neighborhood ... how will she feel about going back? Meredith
continued.

"Lakehaven Drive. Looks like a botched burglary. The victim was a
woman named Christine Stanley.

She had two kids, both in the house when it happened--they weren't
hurt, thank God. Here's the elevator."

The elevator pinged its arrival in the lobby, and they walked briefly
into the warm spring air before entering the parking garage.
They clopped across the concrete floor and climbed aboard Meredith's
urban assault vehicle. Laura almost sat on a Gummi bear, which she
placed pointedly in the ashtray.

"Sorry," Meredith said, as she pulled out.

"I've got to get this thing washed, but when? Anyway, I thought this
would be a good case for you. Not that there's anything good about it,
of course, but it seems straightforward, at least. It's a chance for
you to get familiar with crime-scene procedure, and Randy Travers is
running it he's one of the most experienced homicide detectives they've
got. It'll be good for you to see him work."

"Do you know when it happened? Or how she was killed?"

"She was shot, late last night or early this morning. I don't have a
lot of details. I do know that no one heard the shots she wasn't
discovered for several hours. Her son found her this morning."

"My God!" Laura gasped.

"What about her husband? Were they divorced?"

"No, he was out of town. That's probably why the burglar chose their
house. But I shouldn't speculate until we hear what the cops have to
say. Our role today is just to observe, get an impression we can carry
with us as the case develops. Look, Laura, I've been walking on
eggshells around the subject, but it's only been four months since Tom
was killed ..."

"And since I killed Jeff Williams. You don't need to say any thing,
Meredith I know it's what everyone thinks of when they see me: "That's
the girl who killed that guy!" But believe me, nothing I see today is
going to be worse than the pictures I see in my head every day."

Meredith shook her head.

"I know this won't be the first violent death you've seen, but it will
be the first you'll have to see objectively. Not unemotionally, just
objectively. We're only invited as a courtesy, you know. Some of the
police officers resent our being there. I've cultivated a relationship
with Homicide, though, because it's important for me to know what
happened. Maybe I lack imagination, but I feel that I can make a
better case if I was really there. You see, when I go to a crime
scene, I try to learn something personal about the victim, so I can be
a better advocate for him or her in court, so I can bring up something
about the victims that will make them real to a jury. I call them
Valentines."

"Why Valentines?"
"There was one case, when I first started out the victim was just an
average guy. He worked in computers or something. He was shot to
death in a mall parking lot one day in February. When I got there, I
saw that there was a little bag lying beside him. It had two Valentine
cards in it one for his mother, and one for his girlfriend. Those
cards humanized him for me, gave him a life. I entered the cards in
evidence we even passed them around the jury. We got a felony murder
conviction, although everyone said we should let the defendant plead to
voluntary man slaughter."

Laura nodded. "} want to do this," she reassured Meredith.

Meredith signaled a lane change and exited onto Georgia 400, which
would take them directly to Brookhaven.

"Tell me the best way to get there," she said to Laura as they
approached their exit.

"Take Peach tree Dunwoody to Stovall, and turn right." She paused for
a few seconds, contemplating her old neighborhood. "\softline guess
there hasn't been a murder in Brookhaven well, since ... I mean ..."

Meredith knew what she meant not since that night four months earlier.
But she didn't say that; she covered Laura's confusion.

"No, not that I can recall. Burglaries, a few armed robberies in the
MARTA station, but nothing really violent. That's probably why the
police think we're up against a botched robbery, not a premeditated
crime."

They exited from the expressway, and began traveling through one of the
most beautiful neighborhoods in Atlanta. Brookhaven was an old
district of charming homes set on large wooded lots.

Some of the houses there were as large and impressive as anything in
the more celebrated Buckhead area. The center of Brookhaven was the
Capital City Country Club, its slate-roofed clubhouse set on an emerald
island of a golf course. The even more prestigious Peach tree Country
Club was located on its northern fringes, its clubhouse one of the few
antebellum houses remaining in the whole city. The most impressive
mansions, built in the first decades of the century, overlooked the
Capital City golf course, but the prosperous atmosphere extended to the
streets which extended like spokes from the roads ringing it.

Lakehaven Drive, where Laura directed Meredith, didn't have a view of
the club, but it was heavily wooded and hilly, the houses barely
visible behind the spring foliage. Most of the houses on the street
had been built in the fifties and sixties, generously proportioned
ranches and Colonials on spacious lots. Lately, with values of scarce
in-town property soaring, many of these comfort able homes had been
purchased by ambitious builders, who tore down the old houses,
subdivided the lots, and built two or three "trophy houses." It was in
front of one of these that Meredith stopped the car.

"Wow. Big house," Meredith commented.

Laura nodded. Ugly house, she thought. Too large for the lot it was
built on, its facade was a jumble of gables and dormers mix master
traditional. It was finished with faux stucco in a sickly beige. Fake
river stone adorned the front steps, foundation, and windows. Because
the subdivided lot the house sat on was narrow, a garage jutted from
the front of the house like a growth. Two large arched windows
illuminated it. Laura reflected that if it weren't used to store the
sport utility vehicles, it would probably be the nicest room in the
house. She kept all these uncharitable thoughts to herself, however,
and merely commented, "It looks new. I wonder how long she lived
here."

"Let's find out," Meredith said.

"You ready?"

"As ready as I'm going to be." She shouldered her purse, and set off
purposefully toward her first crime scene.
CHAPTER 2

There were a number of police vehicles parked in the driveway and on
the street, and yellow crime-scene tape festooned the perimeter of the
lot. The crackle of two-way radios competed with birdsong from the
woods nearby. Laura noticed a pale face at the window of a neighboring
house, barely ten feet from the wall of the victim's house. But none
of the neighbors had ventured out to stand in the street and speculate
the way folks might have in another neighborhood. They thought that
gawking at a crime scene would be in poor taste, Laura supposed. In
fairness, this truly was not a neighborhood where crime was
commonplace. In fact, Laura would be willing to bet that this was the
first time a police cruiser had ever been parked on the pavement of
Lakehaven Drive.

Meredith showed her ID to a patrolman standing guard on the front
steps, and Laura, fumbling for her own laminated badge, followed her
into the house. They entered a high-ceilinged hallway, with a black
and white marble floor that, Laura registered automatically, was
curiously at odds with the rustic exterior of the house. A formal,
banistered stairway on the right rose to a large landing that
apparently doubled as a sitting area: a couple of Art Deco-style
leather club chairs were placed in front of a large and architecturally
incongruous Palladian window. What is the matter with you, Laura
Chastain? She scolded herself. A woman is dead and you're getting
snotty about her taste in interior design! She knew, however, that it
was only a protective reaction, an effort to distance herself from what
she was about to see.

She glanced in the living room, which opened off the hallway to the
left; it looked professionally decorated, with coordinated fabrics on
the furniture and windows. It was so neat that the pattern left by a
vacuum cleaner was clearly visible, marked only by a few shoe prints.
The room seemed cold, not homelike at all.

It must be off-limits to the kids, she reflected. Everything was
new;

Laura's keen eye spotted no idiosyncratic battered, beloved family
pieces. It felt more like a hotel lobby than a home. As they passed
along the hall, Laura noticed a security alarm mounted on the wall just
inside the front door. Was it armed last night? She assumed that it
had not been, or the crime would have been discovered before morning.
The hall ended in an arched entryway which led into what appeared to be
the family room. Laura knew without seeing any further that this was
where the crime had taken place.

The room was a scene of organized chaos: a uniformed officer was
keeping out everyone who didn't absolutely need to be in it, while
technicians wearing "clean suits" combed the area for evidence. A
photographer stood by idly, waiting for directions.

The fingerprint team had evidently been through the room already--every
surface likely to show prints had been dusted with a greasy black
powder. Who will clean this up? Laura wondered, and then she
remembered that there were private contractors who did nothing but
clean up crime scenes. They had returned her own living room to
something like its normal state after that night last December.

At the center of the activity stood Randy Travers--at least Laura
assumed he was the detective in charge. He looked as if he had been
cast for the part of Homicide Detective, wearing a rumpled blazer over
gray polyester slacks and a wrinkled white shirt accented with a tie of
indescribable ugliness. He was giving orders to the technicians, and
didn't notice Meredith until she spoke.

"Oh. You're here," he said without enthusiasm when he did notice their
arrival.

"Come on in; they're just about done here."

Laura cast her eyes around, bracing herself for her first sight of the
victim. As if reading her mind, Travers said, "Body's already gone.
That's where she was." He indicated an area of the carpet that was
soaked with blood. There was also blood on the sofa, and the wall,
even the ceiling. Laura felt her stomach lurch. Travers seemed
oblivious to her discomfort. He flipped open a notebook and began
reading in a monotone: "Christine Stanley, age thirty-six. Married to
James Alan Stanley, also thirty-six--he's out of town, but he's been
informed. Two children: Matthew, age eleven, and Sara, age seven. She
must have been sitting on the sofa, there" Travers indicated the
location by pointing "and the TV was on. She left a magazine there,
and that container of ice cream."

Laura took in the blood-spattered fashion magazine left open on the
sofa, and the pint container of melted ice cream, spoon still in it, on
the coffee table. The scene would be poignantly familiar to any woman
who had spent an evening alone after a long day: brain candy on the
television, gorgeous, unwearable clothes in the magazine, and ice cream
with a heart-stopping butterfat content. She was just like me, she
thought involuntarily.

This is the Valentine card Meredith was talking about. Without ever
having met the dead woman or even seeing a photograph of her, Laura
felt that she knew her, felt a kinship with her.

Travers directed them across the room, to the kitchen, which was
divided from the family room by a stylish breakfast bar.

Everything in the kitchen was first-rate slate countertops, cherry
cabinets, glossy wooden floor. The refrigerator was festooned with
children's artwork, birthday party invitations, and photos, all held in
place by a diverse collection of magnets. It was the first sign of
normal family life Laura had seen in the house. She peered closely at
the pictures, scanning them for an image of Christine Stanley. One
woman appeared over and over again in the photos of birthday parties,
vacations, and school events. That must be her.

In virtually every picture she was hugging one or both of her children.
Her husband if that dark-haired man with them was her husband seemed
physically distant in the family snapshots, rarely touching either his
wife or his children.

"Looks like he came in here," Travers was saying, indicating French
doors that led onto a deck.

"He wouldn't have been seen back here, even though she had the security
light on. There's a wooden fence that runs alongside the driveway on
this side, and woods block the view from the other side."

"What about the burglar alarm?" Laura asked, recalling the monitor she
had seen in the hall.

Travers eyed her suspiciously.

"Who's she?" he asked Meredith

"My assistant, Laura Chastain. So, what about the burglar alarm?"
"Disarmed either she didn't have it on, or he turned it off, which I
doubt. There are keypads here and in the front hall.

Probably she didn't bother turning it on. We checked with their
security company. The Stanleys had been having some problems with the
system in the past couple of months. They got charged for a few false
alarms, so I bet they'd gotten out of the habit of using it. Happens,
sometimes. We'll know more after we talk to the husband."

"Where is he?" Meredith asked.

"On his way home from Charlotte. The Charlotte police sent an officer
to his hotel this morning."

"Where are the children?" Laura interjected, a little frustrated by
Travers's taciturnity.

"With their aunt victim's sister. She lives in Marietta. The older
kid called her right after he called 911. Kept his head pretty well,
poor little guy. The little sister was in bad shape; the para medics
had to sedate her. Glad they had a close relative who could take care
of them. Gonna be tough for them."

"So, what else do you have?" Meredith asked.

"Not much, yet. Two shots were fired. One missed lodged in the wall
behind her. Looks like a nine millimeter. Other slug is probably
still in the body. I figure this is how it happened: She hears the guy
break in the doors here, and gets up, starts into the kitchen to
investigate. He probably thought no one was at home her car was in the
garage, where he couldn't have seen it, and there weren't many lights
on. He comes through the kitchen as she's getting up to investigate
the noise, and reaches the family room as she's standing there."
Travers had led them back to the bloodstain on the carpet.

"He sees her, panics, and fires. One shot goes wide you can see the
hole, over there the other one catches her in the chest. She falls, he
flees, and she bleeds out.

She mighta lived if someone had called 911 right away." He shook his
head sadly.

"Why didn't someone call? Those shots made some noise.

Surely the kids would have heard them." Meredith was frowning as she
looked around.

"Or even the neighbors."

"Maybe not. It's a big house. Might have sounded like a back fire.
I'm getting a ballistics guy over here to test-fire a gun in here, see
if the sound carries."
"Could he have used a silencer?" Laura didn't know much about guns,
but she couldn't believe that no one would have heard two shots, no
matter how large the house.

Travers looked at her contemptuously.

"Silencer? I doubt it.

This guy's just a punk burglar. He wouldn't have access to any thing
that fancy."

"Well, was anything stolen?"

Travers eyed her as if she were some fungal growth.

"He ran after he shot the lady, okay? He didn't have time to shop."

Laura was spared further comment by the entry of another plainclothes
detective, identifiable by the badge hanging from his belt. He was a
young black man, as well-groomed as Travers was sloppy. He addressed
Travers respectfully.

"Excuse me. Randy the photographer wants to know if you need him
anymore."

"I guess not. Tell him I want the prints when I get back down town.
You know Meredith Gaffney?" Travers jerked his head in Meredith's
direction by way of introduction.

"No, we've never met. I'm Carlton Hemingway," he said, extending his
hand to Meredith.

"I'm Meredith Gaffney, from the district attorney's office, and this is
my assistant, Laura Chastain."

Hemingway shook Laura's hand, too.

"Pleased to meet you.

You'll have to excuse me; this is my first homicide case. I just made
detective a couple weeks ago."

"It's my first, too," Laura replied, disarmed by the warmth of his
smile.

"I've only been with the district attorney for a few weeks."

Travers broke up the introductions.

"Hemingway, why don't you tell the ladies what the crime scene team
found?"

"Sure. It's not much, really. They've recovered a slug from the wall,
probably nine millimeter. The fingerprint team got some clear prints,
but they haven't analyzed them yet. They might turn out to belong to
the family they need to fingerprint the husband when he gets back;
they've already started collecting elimination prints from other
regular vistors, like the cleaning lady. There were a couple of good
footprints left in the carpet; the cleaning lady was in yesterday, and
the carpet was freshly vacuumed, so it held a print. Looks like a
man's dress shoe, smooth-soled, possibly size ten. Not enough prints
to extrapolate height or weight, unfortunately. And there were a few
fibers caught in the wood on the French door where he broke in.
They're going to the GBI crime lab."

"Have all the neighbors been interviewed?"

"Yes. The couple on the right-hand side were in bed asleep;

their bedroom is on the far side of the house, which is a good hundred
yards away from this room. The folks in the left-hand house were
watching TV--he's a little deaf, so they might easily have missed a
noise. No one saw anybody or heard a car."

Travers seemed pleased with the young detective's work.

"Great. Did you get the reports on those break-ins?"

"Right here," Hemingway said, producing a sheaf of fax paper.

"There have been five incidents, starting last October. The first
three took place during the day, when no one was home. He's gotten
more reckless lately--there's been someone at home during the last two
break-ins, so we have a description of the perpetrator.

African-American male, over six feet, slim build. Carries a
nine-millimeter semiautomatic; we know that because he used it to force
his last victim to drive to an ATM."

"Seems like they could have caught this guy before last night,"
Meredith remarked dryly.

Laura decided to brave Travers's scorn again.

"Why did he shoot this time? He'd been discovered by homeowners
before, and he never lost his head. Why kill this woman and not the
others?"

Neither detective answered her question.

"One more thing," Hemingway continued.

"The detective covering the break-ins says that there was another
incident he thinks is related--a dog was shot a couple of months ago,
also with a nine millie. They recovered the slug, so ballistics will
be able to match it against what we got from this scene."

"Good work," Travers said.

"Now let's get this bastard. The Dekalb County line runs right over
there," he said, waving a hand northward.

"Get them involved; maybe they've had some similar incidents. Could be
they're looking for the guy, too. Meredith, I think that's all we've
got for you. Care to join a press conference at City Hall East? It's
scheduled for five, to catch the evening news. The big guy is gonna be
there. Might want you to say a piece."

"Sure, we'll be there. Come on, Laura--let's get back to the office.
Keep us posted. Randy," she said as they left.
They returned to Meredith's car in silence. They had driven half a
block before either of them spoke.

"You can ..." Laura began.

"Are you .. ." Meredith said at the same time.

"Sorry. What did you want to say?"

"You can get back to Peach tree this way," Laura said.

"Okay. Are you okay?"

"I'm glad the body was gone," Laura said.

"But otherwise?" Meredith prompted.

"But otherwise it was horrible. My God, Meredith the children! How
will they ever get over a thing like this?"

"They might not. If they have a loving family grandparents, aunts, and
uncles that will help. And they still have their father.

Poor man."

They both contemplated the magnitude of James Stanley's loss as
Meredith steered the car.

"Turn here," Laura said.

"Club Drive goes straight to Peach tree." She remembered too late that
this route would take them past the townhouse where she had lived, and
which she had not seen for three months. She hoped Meredith would not
remember, but she wasn't so lucky.

"Isn't that... ?" Meredith began to say as they passed.

"Yes, that's the place."

"Laura, I don't want to seem to pry just tell me to shut up if you
don't want me to talk about your private life, but I have to ask you if
you're seeing someone."

Seeing someone? Good Lord, it had only been four months since Tom
died. No one fully understood her relationship with Tom Bailey they
might have been officially "involved" only for a short time, but she
and Tom had worked side by side for so long that they had been as much
intertwined as any longtime couple.

She gaped and tried to formulate a polite answer to Meredith's
question.

"It's ... too soon," she managed to stammer.

"Too soon? I would have thought the sooner the better. It wouldn't
have to be a shrink, you know there are a lot of good grief support
groups, and victim's groups ... what's so funny?"

"Oh, Meredith, when you said 'seeing someone," I thought you meant
dating. But I don't see anyone in the other sense either, not
officially. My family and my church have been very supportive, and
there's always Amos."
"Good old Amos Kowalski. I guess he's as good a therapist to see as
any. Or to see in the other sense, if you know what I mean."

"Will you just drive? I have work to do back at the office," Laura
said sternly. Meredith laughed, and drove, the grim atmosphere of the
crime scene dissipated.
CHAPTER 3

Laura was running late. She had promised to meet Amos Kowalski at her
new house in Buckhead at six-thirty, but it was already later than that
when she scrambled into the grocery store to assemble a takeout dinner
of roasted chicken and pasta salad.

The press conference had run longer than expected--apparently, the
murder of a young mother pulls ratings on the evening news, even on a
Friday, she concluded. Laura had attended, but she had not spoken.
Meredith herself had said very little, fielding only one question: What
charges would be filed against the burglar if and when he was
apprehended?

"Felony murder," Meredith had said, explaining that under Georgia law a
killing committed in the course of a felony--even if the assailant did
not plan to kill anyone--was legally equivalent to a premeditated
murder. And, yes, felony murder was a capital crime--and they would
pursue the maximum penalty.

After the press conference ended, Laura asked Meredith if she would
really ask for the death penalty, assuming that the burglar was caught
and the circumstances fit Travers's scenario.

"Yes. We don't have a choice," was the terse reply.

"Of course we do!"

"Oh, sure, on paper--but Marshall is up for reelection next year, and
he has to carry North Fulton to win." Marshall Oliver was the Fulton
County district attorney, who had won his office by a slender margin
three years earlier. His tenure had been marked by controversy,
especially a series of civil suits filed on behalf of inmates of the
overcrowded jail. Laura liked Marshall, as far as she knew him, but
she wasn't sure Meredith and he always saw eye-to-eye--or that she and
Marshall would. But there was no room for death-penalty dissenters in
the district attorney's office; they were all sworn to uphold the law,
and in Georgia that meant they swore to send the deserving to the
electric chair.

Laura's private doubts about the justice of the death penalty remained
that way, even in friendly discussions with Meredith.

Shopping done, Laura hurried home through the snarled Buck-head
traffic--or tried to hurry anyway. Just making the left turn out of
the grocery store parking lot took almost ten minutes, and she got
caught at every red light between the store and her turnoff at East
Paces Ferry Road. From there, she was home free; East Paces had been
designated for "local traffic only" on the east side of Piedmont Road.
Laura had paid dearly to live in Peach tree Park, one of the oldest and
most charming of Buckhead's residential areas--but she would have paid
any price to remain in town.

There was no way she could have moved out beyond the Perimeter Highway,
into those desolate car-packed suburbs. She glanced at the dashboard
clock; it read almost seven o'clock. If Amos did beat her to her
house, it was no big deal; he had a key. Just the same, she wanted to
get dinner out of the way so they could tackle the latest
home-improvement project Amos had cooked up.

Laura had bought her new house, a two-bedroom 1920's cottage, only six
weeks earlier. She had picked the house because it hadn't needed a
great deal of work--the previous owner had "updated" the kitchen,
reroofed, and put in new heating and air-conditioning. Laura had
planned to leave the rest as she found it, but Amos was an inveterate
remodeler of houses, and he had convinced her that she should refinish
the wooden floors and paint the interior walls. He had been right, of
course; Laura couldn't have lived with the generic beige carpet and
white walls for long. After she closed on the house, Laura and Amos
had spent almost every evening for three weeks sanding, sealing, and
painting. While the house was a construction zone, Laura had camped in
Amos's guest room a familiar refuge. His house had been a haven for
her in the weeks after that terrible December night, when her rented
townhouse in Brookhaven was inhabited by too many memories, good and
bad, for her to feel at home there again. Her parents had tried
mightily to persuade her to return to Nashville, where all her family
lived, but Laura had stubbornly insisted on remaining in Atlanta. It
wasn't that she liked the place all that much--in fact, the city was
sometimes just plain annoying, with its schizo id mix of boosterism
and self-loathing. But everywhere she went in her adopted city she was
reminded of Tom, and those reminders comforted her in a way that no
amount of sympathy from her well-meaning parents could.

Amos understood. He had eased her agony as much as anyone could have
in the past four months, giving up his own social life to be available
for her. She had made it through, thanks to his tireless concern and
apparently inexhaustible appetite for long winded games of Scrabble in
front of his fireplace. But much as Laura appreciated his kindness,
she was glad to be under her own roof, and glad that he could reclaim
his own life, as well.

Even so, Laura suspected that Kowalski was going to come up with an
endless stream of home-improvement projects, just so he could keep an
eye on her.

His latest notion had been to turn a back hallway into a study.

It had been wasted space, lined with a couple of shallow closets
fronted with cheap sliding doors. With the help of a builder, those
had been torn out, and a window punched through the back wall in their
place. Laura had designed built-in bookshelves and a desk to surround
the new window. When the construction was complete, the carpenter had
packed up and left the finishing details to Laura. Tonight, she and
Amos were going to paint the walls a pumpkin color to match a worn
Oriental rug. The bookshelves, desk, and moldings were to be white. It
was going to make a nice little room.

Laura dumped the grocery bags on the kitchen table and headed back to
her bedroom to change. The light on the answering machine was blinking
steadily; Amos had called to say he was running late. She smiled; no
need to confess to him that she had been behind schedule, too. Amos
was chronically well-organized and maniacally punctual. Laura often
wondered how he tolerated the chaos of his chosen profession.

"You should have been a CPA, Kowalski," she teased him.

"You have none of the personality traits of a cop." Of course, that
was precisely why Amos made such a good police officer; he had a rare
combination of moral authority and empathy. And he needed both as head
of the sex-crimes squad, where he saw some unimaginably sordid
things.

There was no sense in dressing up to get splattered with paint, so
Laura pulled out some old and ratty clothes. She slipped an ancient
T-shirt over her dark, wavy hair, which she had cut short a few weeks
earlier so that she wouldn't have to bother with blow-drying it. As
she buttoned an old pair of khakis that hadn't been worn in a while,
she noticed that they were awfully loose in the waist and the seat.
Eating was not something she had been interested in the past few
months; other people noticed and bothered her about it. She thought
she looked just fine; she had always carried a few more pounds than she
liked anyway.

Laura had set the table and was spinning lettuce for a salad when she
heard the tires of Kowalski's meticulously preserved Jeep Wagoneer in
the driveway. He came in the back door, dressed in an ancient pair of
paint-splattered khakis, a bedraggled T-shirt, and a stained
workshirt.

"Oooh, you didn't have to dress up for me, Amos!" Laura said.

"For dinner with you, baby?

"Course I did." He kissed her on her forehead.

"What's cooking?"

"Technically, what's reheating is chicken a la Publix. I'm making a
green salad, and there's pasta salad in that container. I got some of
those brownies you like for dessert, too. Would you care to select a
bottle from the cellars?"

"Of course," he said, heading for the narrow pantry.

"Got some of that Australian stuff?"

"The Shiraz? Sure."

"Think the wine police will cite for drinking red with poultry?"

"No, they're too busy busting the folks who store their bottles
upright."

Amos opened the wine while Laura hustled the chicken and salads to the
table, and they sat down.

"So, how was your day?"

she asked. Amos's job could be harrowing; she had learned that it was
better sometimes not to ask him about it. He seemed in a fairly benign
mood this evening.

He shrugged.

"More of the usual stuff. Paperwork, mostly.

How about you?"

"Mom let me take the car out today," she said.

"All by myself!"

"Really? What did you do?"

Laura described her appearance atjuwon Taylor's plea hearing.

"It came up in front of Judge Talbot you know all about him, I
suppose?"

"Yes. He nullified the jury in that gang rape case. Nearly drove Mike
Yowell around the bend." Yowell was the head of the Fulton County
Sheriff's department's sex-crimes unit, and a close friend of Amos's.
Yowell had made the case against the 'preppy rapists."

"Did he give you a hard time?" Amos asked.

"He tried. But I triumphed, of course."

"Of course." They clinked their wineglasses, and moved on to other
topics. Laura deliberately omitted telling Amos about her visit to the
murder scene; something told her that he wouldn't approve. He was
overly protective of her; he hadn't wanted her to take a job in the
district attorney's office. He had been especially opposed to her
joining Meredith's team, which handled some of the worst crimes. Laura
thought his attitude was disingenuous if he had been in her position,
he would have plunged himself right back into work, the toughest
assignments he could find. But he thought Laura should handle nothing
more grisly than wills and trusts.

After hurrying through dinner and cleaning up the dishes, they
proceeded to the office. The previous weekend they had done the prep
work: sanding, masking, and priming. Amos was a meticulous workman.
Masking the moldings and trim alone had taken the better part of
Saturday afternoon. Laura would have been just as happy to cut a few
corners; she ragged Amos for his attention to detail.

"You'll thank me for it," he had admonished.

"There's nothing worse than a sloppy paint job. It'll drive you crazy
for years." Laura had laughed and refrained from making a joke about
"painting foreplay." She stayed off sex and romance in general with
Amos; there was an unexplored zone between them that Laura was not
eager to violate. He had asked her out once, but she had been so
wildly in love with Tom at the time that she had declined. He had
never made even the slightest move in her direction since, not during
all the time they had spent together, not even when they slept under
the same roof. That was another reason that Laura was glad to be
finally set up in her own place it didn't seem fair for Amos to invest
all his free time in his relationship with her when there wasn't a
chance of his making a return, so to speak, on his investment.

Laura's job was to paint the walls; Amos was doing the detail work.
Laura pried open the can of paint and stirred it doubtfully.

"Gosh, this is really very ... orange. It didn't look quite so bright
on the paint chip." Amos came and looked over her shoulder.

"I'm afraid it's going to look like a sweet potato exploded in here."
"It's intense," he agreed, "but you're putting on a relatively small
area. I don't think it'll be too much. What kind of music do you want
to listen to while we work?"

Painting wasn't the only thing Amos was particular about;

he also had very strong opinions about music. He liked "the
standards," a canonical collection of songs written by talents like
Johnny Mercer, Harold Arlen, Rodgers and Hart, Cole Porter, and the
Gershwins, performed by great voices like Ella Fitzgerald, Frank
Sinatra, and Sarah Vaughn. He adored Duke Ellington and Harry James,
and despised almost anything recorded after 1960 the Beatles excepted,
of course. Laura, who was used to men whose musical development had
halted at "Clapton is God," was happy to let Amos choose the tunes. He
had introduced her to a lot of great music.

Tonight he had brought along the Nat King Cole Trio, and as they began
painting, he delivered a short lecture on Cole's career.

" One of the best piano men in jazz until they found out he could
sing," he said.

"Then he almost never played again just sang."

"I like his songs.

"Mona Lisa' is great," Laura ventured.

Amos shrugged.

"It's okay but nothing like what he did in the thirties and forties.
For my money, his cover of "Laura' is the best ever recorded. It's on
this CD." They listened and worked in silence for a few minutes until
Amos spoke again.

"I saw your press conference tonight on the news."

Laura was a little taken aback; now it looked as if she'd been hiding
something which, of course, she had been.

"Oh. I meant to tell you about that. Meredith thought it would be a
good case for me to get involved with you know, to follow all the way
through the system."

"And what do you think?"

She shrugged.

"I handled it all right. Don't worry so much, Amos; I'm tougher than
you think. It was horrible, but I didn't break down."

"I'm sure you didn't, but I can't see why Meredith chose this case."

"What is it about this case that you object to?" Laura asked a bit
testily.

"Just the stupid pointless violence of it, that's all. The shooter is
some penny-ante thug who thought his gun made him a big man; he'll
plead out and go to jail for life before he'll face trial."
"There's where you may be wrong," Laura said, laying down her paint
roller.

"There were a lot of things at that house that didn't make sense to me.
Like why wasn't the alarm turned on, and why didn't anyone hear the
shot? Randy Travers said himself that this guy wouldn't be likely to
have a silencer. And nothing was stolen, or even disturbed--it didn't
look like a burglary to me.

"All that may be true, but Travers has good instincts. He'll find a
good explanation for all the anomalies."

"No, I don't think he will. There was just something wrong at that
house; I could sense it."

Amos raised his eyebrows.

"Like what--other than a body on the floor?"

"Don't be sarcastic. It just wasn't a happy house; it didn't feel
lived in. It was like ... a facade. Like ..." Laura looked around
the small room where they stood.

"See that window?"

"The one I'm painting? Yes, I see it. What about it?"

"What do you call those wooden things between the panes?"

"Mullions."

"Okay, the windows in this huge, brand-new house didn't have wooden
mullions. They had these plastic things instead, like a plastic grid
that just attaches to one side of the window."

"What--that makes you suspect something more than a breakin? Come on,
Laura, lots of new houses have snap-in mullions.

Just look at how much this one wood-frame window cost you-imagine
putting these babies in a big new house. It would cost a fortune.
Plus, they're easier to clean than these divided lights."

"But the whole house was designed to give the impression that there was
tons of money, yet there were all kinds of cut corners. And there were
no toys lying around, no signs of family life, really. It was nothing
like where I grew up anyway. It was not a happy house, I'm telling
you."

Amos chuckled and picked up his brush.

"Okay, sport. Whatever you say."

Laura took up her roller again, but she watched for a few moments as
Amos spread white paint on the wooden mullions of her new window. She
thought about what she had been trying to articulate--without much
success--to Amos. What exactly was she saying--that this had been a
premeditated murder? Or maybe that the "burglar" was really some kind
of psychopath? Or maybe somebody had something against the Stanley
family. Whatever the truth was, Laura didn't think it was going to
turn out to be a straightforward botched burglary. She dipped her
roller in the yarn-colored paint and began coating the wall as Nat King
Cole crooned "Laura" in the background.
CHAPTER 4

Laura was in the ladies' room Monday morning scrubbing at an overlooked
orange paint spot on her elbow when Cheryl, the office receptionist,
found her. Cheryl, who had a somewhat fearsome reputation as a prima
donna in the office, folded her arms across her chest and looked
annoyed.

"There you are. There's a woman out here who's demanding to see
Meredith."

"Did you tell her that Meredith is in court today?"

Cheryl gave Laura a what-kindoffooldoyouthinkI-am look, and did not
deign to answer.

"I told her that you would talk to her."

"Me? I don't know anything about Meredith's cases. Did she say what
it's about?"

"No," Cheryl sniffed.

"She's just about worked my last nerve, and I can't deal with her
anymore. You'll have to see her. All she'll say is that she's
Christine Stanley's sister, like Christine Stanley is all that and a
bag of chips."

"Christine Stanley?" Laura hastily dried her hands.

"Lead me to her."

In the lobby, Cheryl jabbed a well-manicured finger in the direction of
the most beautiful woman Laura had ever seen off a movie screen. She
had pale skin and dark, wavy hair, at the moment swooped up into a
careless ponytail, and dark, dark eyes, a little puffy and red from
tears, but arresting. She was tall--an inch or two taller than Laura,
who was no shrimp--and casually dressed in faded jeans and a T-shirt.
Christine Stanley, judging from the photos Laura had seen on her
refrigerator, had been short and blonde, nothing like this girl.
Laura approached the vision of loveliness and introduced herself.

"I work with Meredith Gaffney. You need to see her about something?"

"Yes. About my sister's murder. The police won't listen to me, so I
came here. Where is Ms. Gaffney?"

"In court all day, I'm afraid. I know your sister's case maybe I can
help. I can at least get a message to Meredith for you."

The woman looked at Laura appraisingly for a minute. She must have
liked what she saw, because she nodded her head.

"Yes. Where can we go to get some privacy?"

Not many places, Laura thought, hoping that the small conference room
would be available. Cheryl checked the log, and told her it was.

"I'll be in there for a half hour or so, I guess," Laura told her.

"And if Meredith calls, tell her that Christine Stanley's sister is
here, and that I'm with her." Cheryl, seeming more intrigued than
irritated now, nodded assent, and Laura led the woman to the conference
room.

"Can I get you something, Ms.... ?"

"Sorry. My name is Lynette Connell, and I'd love a cup of coffee.
Black."

Laura got a cup for herself as well. The trip to the break room gave
her a chance to gather her thoughts. Poor woman, she thought.

Laura had only brothers, so she couldn't imagine what losing a sister
would be like but she did have a heartfelt natural empathy for any
victim of a violent crime. But what she was doing here was anyone's
guess; crime victims rarely dealt with the district attorney's office
until a trial date had been set.

Back in the conference room Laura put the coffee down in front of
Lynette Connell and took a seat.

"This is about your sister, obviously. I know the case; I went to the
house with Meredith."

"Then you know that the person who did this wasn't after the silver and
the VCR. The police seem to believe it was a break-in that went
wrong." Lynette had a soft voice, and a Southern accent smooth as
butter, but Laura heard the iron in it.

"You disagree?"

"Strongly. To put it bluntly, my sister was killed by her husband."

"But he has an alibi he was away on business, I thought."

Lynette waved her hand.

"It's a fake. Or he hired someone to do the dirty work for him. Either
way, that sob. is guilty."
"You've spoken to Detective Travers about this?" Laura was unwilling
to intrude on police turf, but if Travers had given Lynette short
shrift, the least she could do was listen.

Lynette snorted contemptuously.

"Oh, yes, he's got it all boxed up. It fits his little 'pattern," so
it has to be the neighborhood burglar. I told Christine to leave I
told her he would get violent, but she didn't believe me."

"Can I ask you to back up and give me some details? I'd like to know
more about your family, and about your sister's marriage and her
husband. How long had they been married?"

"Almost fifteen years they met in college, the University of North
Carolina. She was smart. If she hadn't married The Ass hole sorry,
that's my name for him; I have trouble even thinking of him as anything
else if she hadn't married him, she would have gone to law school, or
gotten an MBA and run the family business. She was the smart one."

And you were the pretty one, Laura thought not that Lynette seemed to
be lacking in the brains department.

"How many brothers and sisters do you have?"

"There were just the two of us. She was older, six years older.

But we were always best friends." She began to cry softly, producing a
much-used tissue. Laura delved into her pocket for a fresh one, and
offered it without comment.

"I never liked James. He was 'sorry," as we say down here .... Are you
from the South?"

"Nashville and I've met my share of 'sorry' men. Go on."

"Everything was fine for a long time. I never liked James, and my
daddy wasn't real fond of him, either, but there was no reason for us
to suspect that they weren't happy. Not at first, at least.

After they married, Christine worked for a couple of years in Daddy's
company. Then, when she had Matthew, she quit and became a full-time
mama."

"Was she unhappy doing that?"

Lynette shook her head vigorously.

"Oh, no she was the best mother in the world. She just loved those
children! We all lived close together I'm not married out near
Marietta. We saw each other all the time, and after our mother died,
we got even closer.

Then, about five years ago, James left his job. He had been a broker
at Barker Brown, but he decided that he wasn't getting ahead fast
enough there. I suppose they just failed to appreciate his brilliant
financial mind," she said sarcastically.

"He wanted to set up his own money-management firm. Daddy helped him
out by letting him manage some of his money not all of it, thank God
and he seemed to settle down. But his business didn't exactly take off
I mean, who's going to put money with a Bozo like that when there are
competent financial managers out there?

Anyway, he told Christine that if they wanted to 'run with the big
boys' they had to move into town. Fine, she said, and they did. They
built that house over there in Brookhaven. I didn't care for it, and I
never thought it was Chrissie's style, but she seemed pleased, so I
kept my mouth shut. Then, once they got over there, he decided that he
needed to join one of the clubs so he could rub shoulders with the big
boys. You know what a membership at one of those museums costs?"

"I have an idea," Laura said.

"How did he get the money?"

"Daddy. He's too soft. He paid the club's initiation fee, but he told
James he'd have to handle the dues. From there, it was more status
bullshit. They had to put the kids in private school, had to get a
Lexus. Daddy turned off the spigot, but I think James had no trouble
borrowing from other sources."

"He's in debt?"

"Massively, I would think. He entertained on what you might call 'a
lavish scale' golfing trips, fishing trips, hunting trips with
'potential clients." He was always talking about landing this or that
big account, but I never saw his name in the papers, if you know what I
mean. Anyway, Chrissie was getting more and more unhappy all this
time. She wasn't brought up to live like that we're simple folks.
Richer than hell, but simple. Daddy lives in the same old ranch house
he bought when he and Mama got married. He never had to join in all
this Atlanta bullshit. Chrissie wanted to sell that house and move
back to Cobb County, put the kids in public school, drop the club
membership, and live the way she used to. James said no way. He had
to have all this stuff for his business. If you want to know what I
think, he is so damn deep in hock that selling every last asset he has
won't even begin to pay the piper. Chrissie was more and more
miserable. She would call me up all the time, crying and saying she
couldn't stand it. I wanted her to leave him."

"Was she prepared to do that?"

Lynette shifted her eyes away from Laura's.

"I think so. I mean, she never said so, not in so many words ..."

"But you were encouraging her to?"
"Yes! And she was listening to me, these last few months. I think
she wanted out any way she could. And I think he found out that she
was planning to leave and take the children."

"Did he have insurance on your sister's life?"

Lynette shrugged.

"Wouldn't surprise me a bit. But the real money was in the trusts."

"The trusts?"

"Yes. Like I said, we've got money. Lots of it. Sorry if that sounds
tacky, but it's just the truth. Daddy grew up on a dairy farm in Cobb
County. After he graduated from the University of Georgia, about 1953,
he came back home and helped my granddaddy.

They bought dairies all over the northern part of the state.

You know what a dairy farm is?"

"Well, yes," Laura said, baffled as to why she was being patronized by
this whirlwind of a woman.

"It ain't cows, shugah--it's real estate. And Daddy and Granddaddy
owned a pant load of it, right in the path of Atlanta's growth. Cobb,
North Fulton, Gwinett--even out in Cherokee, Jackson, and Forsyth
counties--they bought every pasture they could lay their hands on. Then
about twenty years ago they started to sell. And I am here to tell you
that my daddy is no dummy-he held on until he could get absolute top
dollar. He never wanted to be a developer; he just took their money
and said, "Thank you," and invested in more property, stocks,
bonds--you name it. Most folks have never heard of Lester Connell, but
he's as rich as any of these sons of bitches who sit around at the
Capital City Club.

Probably more so. And Daddy hates debt--he's strictly a cash man. So
you can imagine how pleased he would have been if he knew about
James."

"He didn't know Christine and James were in debt?"

"No. And he didn't know how unhappy she was, either. He doesn't know
that I came down to tell all this to the police, either."

"Let me back up for a minute. You say that your sister was planning to
leave her husband, who was in debt, and that's why you believe he had a
motive to kill her--to collect insurance?"

"No, not exactly. See, Daddy hates to pay taxes even more than he
hates to owe money. He set up trusts for Chrissie and for me when we
were kids. I still let him manage my money, but Chrissie took control
of hers after she married. At that time her trust might have had two
or three million in it, enough to produce a nice income. But I think
James did some pretty stupid things with the money. And he spent so
much, too--that house alone, with all the furniture and all, must have
set him back about a million and a half. But the children each have
trusts that are worth maybe twenty million all told, and James and
Chrissie have--or had--control of the income from them until the kids
turn twenty-five. Daddy and I are trustees along with Chrissie and
James and our family lawyer. But, like I said, if Chrissie divorces
The Asshole--no soup for him! If you follow my meaning."

"You all would have removed him as a trustee, I'm guessing."

"Bingo. And James would come tumbling down."

"I see." Laura thought for a moment.

"Lynette--may I call you Lynette?--James might have had a motive to
kill your sister, but the best motive in the world is not proof of a
crime. It's not an 'element' of the crime, as we say--because there
needn't be a motive for a murder to take place. A psycho can kill for
no reason at all. So, providing a motive is important in understanding
the crime, but proving a murder is far more complex. And your
brother-in-law has a rock-solid alibi as far as I can tell. What did
Detective Travers say?"

"Just what you did. but a helluva lot less tactfully."

"I'm sorry he wasn't more sympathetic, but he's right. And wouldn't it
be best for all concerned if this did turn out to be just a random,
senseless act of violence? Think of the children. They've been
traumatized enough without being told that it was their father who
killed their mother."

"So, you think I'm full of crap, too."

"I didn't say that. As a matter of fact, there were certain ...
anomalies at the crime scene that aren't explained by Detective
Travers's theory. But he's the best, I'm told, and I think we should
just let him work."

"So, you're not going to do anything?" Lynette said, standing up and
preparing to leave.

"I didn't say that, either. I'll tell Meredith everything you told me,
and I'll talk to the detectives. May I have your phone number so I can
stay in touch with you?"

"Sure," Lynette replied, reciting a number.

"Just leave a message if you don't get through. And thanks for
listening to me."

She turned and was gone.
Laura walked back to her cubicle with furrowed brow. What Lynette had
just told her chimed very well with her own impressions of the house
and the Stanley marriage. It also answered some of the nagging
questions about why the alarm had not sounded, why nothing was
taken--and why the heretofore cool headed burglar had panicked and shot
this time. I wonder if James Stanley knew about those other break-ins
in the neighborhood, she mused. At her desk, she reached for the phone
and started to dial the police department's homicide squad. She
stopped in mid-number, hesitated, then continued. When the operator
answered, she asked not for Detective Travers, but for the more
user-friendly Detective Hemingway.

"Hemingway," he said in a rich baritone.

"Detective Hemingway, this is Laura Chastain. We met Friday at the
Stanley crime scene."

"Sure, I remember. What can I do for you?"

"I've just seen the victim's sister, Lynette Connell. Did you speak
with her?"

"Yes, I was with Randy when she came in this morning. She's very
upset."

"But what did you think of what she had to say?"

There was a pause on the other end of the line; then he said,
carefully, "Randy thinks she's in shock, and that she wants someone to
blame. There's nothing that suggests to him that this was a
premeditated crime."

"No? I know I don't have much experience, but there were several
things that didn't seem right to me. Why did the burglar have to
shoot? If he stuck with his pattern, wouldn't he have held her at
gunpoint and robbed her?"

Hemingway sighed.

"Maybe, maybe not. Who can say? The guy could be on meth, crack--his
behavior may not be rational.

He might have been a murder waiting to happen all this time."

"What about the alarm, and the gunshots that nobody heard?"

"Ah, that we can explain--Randy had the ballistics guys set up a test
this morning. They fired several shots in the Stanley living room
while officers were stationed upstairs and in the neighboring houses.
They heard something, but not anything readily identifiable as a
gunshot--and the kids could have slept right through it. Big house.
And remember, one neighbor was asleep and the other had the television
on. And another thing-the ballistics on the slugs we recovered at the
Stanley scene matched the bullets that killed the dog a few weeks ago.
We think our guy shot the dog to stop him from barking when he was
casing a house."

That was more or less conclusive, Laura supposed.

"Have you interviewed James Stanley?"

"Of course."

"How did he seem to you?"

Hemingway sighed.

"Like a bereaved husband."

"What did he say about the alarm being turned off?"

"Just what we thought that Mrs. Stanley sometimes left it off because
she didn't want to rack up any more false alarms."

"I see. So, you're still looking for the burglar?"

"Yes. And we'll continue to until we get him, or until somebody gives
us a more substantial reason not to."

"I see. Well, thanks for the time. Detective. I'm sure we'll be
speaking again."

"I hope so.

"Bye now."

Laura twiddled the phone cord after she hung up, staring into the
middle distance. Lynette Connell was a whole lot more convincing than
Detective Hemingway, but she had no standing to push the investigation
in another direction. Things would have to run their course; Laura
resigned herself to waiting for the next development.

She didn't have to wait more than a couple of days, as it turned out.
Late Thursday afternoon, Meredith buzzed Laura's cubicle.

"Something's happened in the Stanley case. You better come along to my
office now," she said tersely.

Laura hurried down the hall, forgetting everything else in her
eagerness to hear the news. Christine Stanley's murder had never been
far from her mind in the past week, and something major must have
happened, judging from Meredith's tone of voice.

"What is it?" she asked anxiously as she entered Meredith's office. To
her surprise. Randy Travers and Carlton Hemingway were there.

"They got the burglar," Meredith said.

"Oh," Laura replied, a little disappointed.

"Did he have the gun?"

"No," Travers said.

"In fact, he has an alibi."

"You're gonna love this, Laura," Meredith said with a grin.

Travers glowered at her and continued.

"Our suspect in the burglaries is Marcus Griffin, twenty-eight. He was
located inside the Dekalb County Jail, where he has been for two
weeks."
"Alibis just don't get any better than that, do they?" Meredith
seemed amused, but Laura was impatient.

"So, does this mean you're considering alternate theories of the
crime?" she asked, unable to eliminate the sarcastic tone from her
voice.

"Yes," Travers said.

"And we are looking first at the husband."

"But he has a pretty good alibi, too," Laura reminded the detective.

"We're looking at a killer-for-hire theory. I understand you talked to
the sister."

"Yes, I did. She made a lot of sense." Laura ran down Lynette
Connell's story, and ended by saying, "She is sure, absolutely, that
James Stanley was involved in the killing."

"She may be right, but there's a long way to go. Chief is going to
want to talk to you, Meredith, before the press gets hold of this news.
And if the press comes after you, its 'no comment," okay?"

"Gotcha," Meredith said.

Travers and Hemingway left after exchanging a few pleasantries leaving
Laura and Meredith alone.

"So?" Laura asked.

"What did I say all along?"

Meredith held up a hand.

"Now, don't get on a high horse.

Travers saw everything you did, but the rules of detection say always
follow the simplest theory first. The burglar was the most obvious
suspect, you have to admit. Okay, now he's been eliminated on to
suspect number two."

"But a whole week's been wasted!"

"Not wasted. Randy had both eyes open all along, believe me.

But there was no point in getting everybody het up if the burglar
killed her. You'll understand as you spend more time in this job a
whole lot of district attorneys and cops have said too much too soon.
Look at that mess in LA if they'd played that right from the start,
they might have had a different outcome."

"I guess you're right. Will Travers be angry if I call Lynette
Connell?"

"I doubt it. But don't run him down to her he's still in charge, and
he's going to need the family's cooperation."

"I'll be good," Laura promised. But she couldn't help feeling
vindicated as she walked the narrow hallway back to her desk.

She hesitated only a moment before she fished Lynette Connell's phone
number from her address file and dialed it.

"Lynette?"
"Yes?"

"This is Laura Chastain, from the district attorney's office."

"Oh, hi what's happened?"

"I wondered if Detective Travers had been in touch with you."

"No, why?"

"Because they found the guy who had been committing those burglaries in
Brookhaven."

Lynette paused on her end of the line.

"And has he been charged?"

"No. And he won't be." She told Lynette where the man had been on the
night her sister was killed.

"So, they'll be looking at other scenarios now."

"Like what?" Lynette asked.

"Well, Travers was curious about what you had told me, so I assume
they'll be checking out your brother-in-law pretty thoroughly

Lynette sighed, as if relieved.

"God ... you don't know what this week has been like. James took the
kids back home to that house yesterday. Can you believe it? I wanted
to keep them here for a while longer."

"He is their father. But I guess I would have waited until the trauma
was a little more distant before I went back to the house where it
happened." What am I saying? she thought. I moved away as soon as I
could.

"Anyway, I expect the police are going to want to talk to you and your
father right away."

"Thanks for the heads-up. And, Laura ..."

"Yes?"

"Was anything said about where James might have gotten a gun?"

"No. Why do you ask?"

"It's nothing, but I think I might know."

"Tell Detective Travers I'm already out of line just calling you."

"Okay, I understand. And I really appreciate your doing this,
Laura."

"No problem. I'm sure we'll be seeing each other again as this thing
goes on."

After she hung up, Laura felt a little guilty. She should have let
Travers get Lynette's reaction firsthand but how could it hurt?
CHAPTER 5

The death of Christine Stanley drew reporters as surely as a
two-for-one happy hour special. The story made the front page of the
Constitution for two days running, then moved to the front page of the
local section for a few more. Virtually every nightly newscast led
with the story for the best part of a week.

There was a lot of interest in the bereaved husband, and the children.
The police department had to park a cruiser in front of the Stanleys'
house around the clock to keep photographers from trying to shoot the
family through the windows.

When a police spokesman announced at a routine press conference that
the primary suspect in the Stanley case had been exonerated, the story
returned to the top of the news heap. The reporters had to give up the
"deadly home invasion" theme they had been working, but they were able
to switch seamlessly to suspicion of the husband. Little bits of
gossip about his business and the state of his marriage began to
surface, unattributed, in the press. Laura suspected that she knew the
source, but she kept her own counsel on that. Randy Travers cussed the
reporters privately, but said only "no comment" when they swarmed
around him, to no avail.

James Stanley had been convicted on the Northside cocktail party
circuit by the end of the weekend.

The district attorney's office had no role in the case technically
until the police were prepared to make an arrest. Informally, though,
Travers kept Meredith up to date. Laura stuck her head into the boss's
office on Monday morning, knowing that Meredith would share whatever
she knew.

"Anything new?" she asked, not expecting an affirmative reply.
"On the police investigation, no. Randy has talked to your pal,
Lynette Connell ... /' "She's not my 'pal,"

" Laura corrected.

"Okay, your informant, Lynette Connell. She gave him all the details
of that trust the grandfather set up for the Stanley children.

He also met the grandfather."

"And what's his take on the thing?"

"He's an old man, and he's basically in shock, but he reluctantly
conceded that he knew that Christine and James Stanley didn't have the
happiest of marriages. He firmly denies that there was any talk of
divorce."

"Maybe his daughter wasn't as open with him as she was with her
sister."

"Could be. Anyway, Randy got a warrant to look at Stanley's business
and personal financial records. He should be exercising it right about
now."

"Keep me posted," Laura said.

"You know, Stanley's records are probably going to be pretty complex. I
know a little about the money-management business. And the police may
need a lawyer to help sort out the terms of the trust, and Christine's
will."

"I've told him to call on us. But the department has a forensic
accountant on staff now. I think they'll be able to get answers to
most of their questions from him."

Laura knew when she was being dismissed, no matter how gently Meredith
did it. She grinned and shrugged.

"I can't help butting in. Tom always said I had two speeds: Overdrive
and turbo. It's hard for me to be patient when there's a good case on
hand."

Meredith chuckled.

"I'll remember that when we're ass-deep in Stanley's records. There's
nothing that drives me crazier than looking at a bunch of financial
documents. If there's an accountant out there willing to do it for me,
I say God bless him. And if my new assistant wants to put on a green
eye shade, I say God bless her. You'll be fully involved as soon as
Randy puts a case together.

I promise."

As it turned out, Laura got "fully involved" even sooner than she
hoped. She had been back at her desk only about an hour when Meredith
buzzed her.

"Laura? Get in overdrive and get into my office."
~T}J I A-A/HL* 21.C11y

Laura grabbed a pad and pen and hustled down the corridor, trying to
control her grin.

"What's up? Is it Stanley?" she asked.

"As if you don't know. Yes, it seems that the bereaved husband objects
to the jack-booted thuggery of the Atlanta Police Department.

In short, he's got himself a lawyer. They've moved to suppress the
warrant."

"Grounds?" Laura asked, pen at the ready.

"Privilege. Stanley says he can't show us all his records because he
has confidentiality agreements with all his clients."

"Bullshit. Lynette Connell says he has hardly any clients at all."

"Bullshit or not, the judge wants us in his chambers to argue our side
at four o'clock. I'm sure that the brief you're about to prepare will
ensure us total victory. By the way, guess who's representing
Stanley."

Laura shook her head.

"I don't know the courthouse types yet.

Is it someone from Prendergrast and Crawley?" She knew that it was
less than likely that anyone from her old firm would take a case like
Stanley's.

"Nope. It's Craig Fannin. You know him, don't you?"

"Well, I know of him, of course, but I've never seen him in person."

"Then this is your lucky day. Now, write me a brief that will blow him
out of the water."

Laura hurried back to her desk and dumped the file she had been working
on back into its jacket. She narrowed her eyes and stared at the
computer screen, focusing on her task. She jotted down a couple of
ideas and clicked into the legal database program to begin her
research. She started to type in the number of the Code section that
she thought was applicable, to search for Supreme and Appellate Court
decisions, but she cleared the form before hitting "Search'. Instead,
she typed in the name Craig Fannin and clicked the button.

Craig Fannin was a busy man, judging from the number of times his name
came up in connection with court cases in the state of Georgia. Laura
scrolled down the list of case names in which he was listed as an
attorney. There were a few that rang a bell, and one that rang a whole
bell tower. Craig Fannin had represented the four infamous high-school
students accused of gang rape--the kids who got a "Get Out of Jail
Free" card from Laura's pal. Judge Jones Talbot. Laura wondered how
she had managed not to remember Fannin's name in association with that
case the papers had certainly been full of it. Scrolling on through
the list of references to Fannin, Laura noted a disproportionate number
of narcotics cases, many of which had been dismissed on procedural
grounds. It was an impressive record. Fannin was the kind of guy you
wanted on your team when Big Trouble came to call. So, what was he
doing on James Stanley's team?

Laura wasn't stupid or naive enough to believe that hiring a lawyer was
a sign of guilt. Anyone innocent or not who got caught up in a murder
case needed legal advice, period. All the same, hiring a gun like
Fannin, as opposed to just calling the old family retainer, indicated a
certain state of mind on the part of James Stanley. You don't hire
Christian Barnard to treat a cold.

Before she returned to the Search page, Laura's eye fell on a Georgia
Supreme Court lawyer-discipline action, several years old. She read a
summary of the decision with raised eyebrows.

Any lawyer might get in trouble from time to time, for sloppy work, or
just for displeasing a client. Craig Fannin, however, had been
disciplined for improper contact with a witness. The impropriety
seemed to have been sexual. Oh, you bad boy! Laura thought. She'd
have to remember to ask Meredith what she knew about the incident.

By three-thirty, Laura was ready to go. Her brief which really was
brief, considering the length of time she had to prepare it covered
every eventuality. She didn't think that Fannin had a chance of
suppressing the warrant based on case law, and judges usually weren't
interested in making new law in motion hearings.

Judges other than Jones Talbot, that is. An hour later, a frustrated
Laura sat in his chambers, listening to Fannin's argument.

Stanley had confidentiality agreements with his clients, which,
according to Fannin, made them privileged within the statutory meaning.
He argued that the judge should invalidate the part of the search that
involved Stanley's corporate records.

Craig Fannin looked just as Laura had pictured him sleek, well-fed,
middle-aged. He was a fastidious, if flashy, dresser, from the blazing
shine on his shoes up to the crisp square of linen protruding from his
pocket. His client, James Stanley, was equally well-groomed, wearing a
silk tweed blazer with a black polo sweater beneath it no tie. Stanley
hadn't spoken a word; he merely sat and looked stricken and confused.
He didn't look like a murderer, but murdering wasn't his regular line
of country.

What did a murderer look like anyway? Laura didn't pay much heed to
Stanley, at any rate. Most of her attention was focused on Craig
Fannin as he delivered his argument for the suppression of the evidence
collected from Stanley's business in graceful, flowing periods.

Laura was itching to counter those silken arguments. Practically
squirming in her chair, she looked at Meredith, pleading silently for
permission to speak. Meredith nodded, and Laura spoke.

"Your Honor, with all due respect, I find Mr. Fannin's argument flawed
on two levels. First, the statute specifically addresses privilege
only as it applies to attorney-client relationships. Mr. Fannin is
trying to extend that privilege to Mr. Stanley, who is not an
attorney. Second, regardless of confidentiality agreements, personal
financial information is quite often released to third par ties banks
and other creditors and to the government. Mr.

Stanley could not claim privilege if, say, the IRS requested
information on one of his clients in fact, he is obligated to provide
information to the IRS every year. Finally, even if privilege could be
extended to an individual in Mr. Stanley's position, evidence of
criminal activity is never privileged."

"That's correct, Jones," Fannin said agreeably, addressing the judge
instead of Laura, and addressing him by his first name at that. The
technique would have irritated her if she hadn't just used it herself.
Fannin continued.

"But there's the matter of probable cause. There's no possible
connection between my client's dealings with his clients, and the
murder of his wife."

"That's incorrect," Laura countered.

"The police have witness testimony indicating that the condition of Mr.
Stanley's business was a material issue in his relations with the late
Mrs. Stanley."

"The general condition of the business may have been at issue, but not
the records of individual clients." Fannin flicked a phantom piece of
lint from his trousers.

"How are the police supposed to determine the 'general condition of the
business' without access to all its records?" Laura demanded.

"I have a suggestion," Meredith said.

"I'd be relieved to hear it," Judge Talbot answered.
"The statute allows for the appointment of a special master in cases
like this. Why can't we do that?"

The judge's face brightened at this Solomonic suggestion.

"A

good idea. Yes, we'll have a special master examine the records seized
by the police, and prepare a report to me which will tell us whether
the evidence is relevant to the police investigation.

Let's see--who would be qualified?" Judge Talbot pressed his
fingertips together and stared at the ceiling, as if he expected a name
to appear on the acoustic tiles.

"I have a suggestion," Laura ventured.

"William Borden is an attorney and a retired partner in an accounting
firm. My old firm used him many times. He'd be uniquely qualified."

Fannin cocked an eyebrow.

"I don't think I like the idea of the district attorney nominating the
special master."

Judge Talbot came unexpectedly to the rescue.

"Oh, there's no problem there--Will's integrity is undoubted. He runs
an arbitration service now. Yes, I agree with Miss Chastain. If Mr.
Borden is available, he will be appointed special master. Until he
assumes the post, however, the Atlanta Police Department will turn the
disputed evidence collected under the warrant over to the Court."

"I assume that the personal financial records of Mr. and Mrs.

Stanley can remain in police custody," Meredith said.

"Yes, of course. Well, if that's all, we can get back to work."

Judge Talbot was clearly relieved to have had the matter settled for
him. He seemed uncomfortable, Laura thought; maybe it was the residue
of their earlier encounter. But she noticed that Talbot nodded his
head curtly at Stanley as they all rose to leave. He knows Stanley,
she thought. Probably another country club connection--he should have
recused himself, even from a pretrial matter. It was something else to
ask Meredith about.

Meredith, however, was more interested in talking to Fannin than to
Laura.

"So, Craig ..." she was saying as Laura followed them into the
hallway.

"Got a new client, I see."

"Yep. Doing my best to keep the police state at bay," he replied.

"Oh, is that why you're not allowing him to talk to the police?"

"He has talked to the police."

"Last week, when they thought they were looking at a breakin. Now,
they're more interested in the victim's personal life."

"I'm not going to have my client convicted by innuendo, Meredith."
i^/ciil* ivctly

"I wouldn't want that, either. Don't you think you could put a lot of
the innuendo to rest by sitting down with the detectives?

Your client has an alibi, I think."

Fannin drew a fat cigar from an inner pocket and sniffed at it
appreciatively. "} might consider a parley--with ground rules."

"Naturally. Just let us know what you need, Craig. Let's get this
cleared up as soon as we can, okay?" Fannin shook Meredith's hand.

"Pleasure meeting you," he said to Laura, clasping her hand firmly for
a moment.

"I knew Tom Bailey. I'm sorry about all that."

Laura stiffened, as she always did when Tom's name came up.

She murmured something inarticulate, resentful that Fannin had upset
her before they even stepped into a courtroom.

Fannin led his still-silent client away.

"So, what do you think of the great Craig Fannin?" Meredith asked
Laura.

"Eh," Laura answered with a noncommittal shrug.

"I'm not blown away. I know he's cozy with Judge Talbot, but did you
get the impression that the judge knew James Stanley, as well?"

"No, but it wouldn't surprise me. They're all three prosperous
Northside males. They probably know each other through an alumni group
or some other club."

"Then shouldn't Talbot have recused himself?"

"Simple acquaintance with a defendant isn't automatically
prejudicial.

After all, I see Jones Talbot socially from time to time, and that
doesn't seem to influence his decisions. I might worry if the trial
landed on his calendar, but I think we got a fair hearing today. You
did a good job in there."

"But you never let me cite the case law," Laura said mournfully.

"I had a darn good little brief all ready."

"I'm sorry. Maybe you'll get another chance to use the research.

It just occurred to me that a special master might be a good idea,
since neither we nor the cops have the staff to digest all that
stuff."

"I agree. I just wanted to win the point outright, I guess."

"And I admire you for it. I believe you would have, too. Craig isn't
really into research."

"Speaking of which, I looked him up. There was a disciplinary action
against him."

"Oh, that's famous--he tampered with a witness. Or he slept with a
witness; they never really nailed him for tampering, and it made no
difference in the outcome of the trial. I have a friend who was on
the Bar discipline committee at the time. He says Craig was hilarious;
he admitted to everything. In his testimony, he said he tampered with
her as often as possible, and sometimes coached her three or four times
a night. They suspended him for six months a slap on the wrist. He
went to the Caribbean and came back married to the girl. I think she
was wife number two.

He's on number three or four now."

Laura shook her head.

"Don't tell me you like the guy."

Meredith laughed.

"What's not to like? He plays a good game;

I'm glad to be up against him again. You'll see it's always better to
go against the best."

"As long as we win," Laura said, dryly.
CHAPTER 6

Ilona Crawford, whom Laura thought of as "The PR Weenie," was skulking
in the precincts of Meredith's office when she and Laura returned from
the judge's chambers. Forcing a brief grimace that would never pass
for a smile, Ilona launched into her request.

"Marshall wants a statement on the Stanley murder. He wants me to
prepare it, but you have to deliver it tomorrow afternoon for the TV
people."

Marshall Oliver, the district attorney, held a regular weekly press
conference. Lately, he hadn't had many good things to share with the
news hounds, preoccupied as he was with fighting lawsuits and managing
scarce resources. A prominent murder case was really a blessing in
disguise for him--so long as it resulted in a conviction. Laura knew
that there was much riding on the outcome of the Stanley case, and so
did Meredith. That's why Meredith's reply to Ilona was so baffling.

"Laura can take it--she's up to speed."

"I can't speak at a press conference!" Laura proclaimed.

"Why not? You dealt with the press when you were at Prendergrast and
Crawley. They're no worse now than they were then."

"Says you! What would I say anyway?"

"Ilona will handle that," Meredith said.

"Just put on a little lipstick and read the statement she gives you."

"And if they have questions?"

"Answer them--have you never seen a baseball player get interviewed
after a game? Just tell 'em that we're working as a team with the
police department, that we expect the cops to make a case in the near
future--you know how it goes. Say something without actually saying
anything."
Ilona pressed her lips together.

"I'm not sure this is a good idea. She hasn't had media training."

"Oh, for God's sake, Ilona where were you last winter? She was on the
news every night, and she did just fine. I can't do it anyway; I've
got a conference with the clerk on the calendar for next month. It's
Laura or no one."

"I'll check with Marshall," Ilona said.

"Which one of you is going to brief me so I can write the release?"

"Laura will," Meredith said cheerfully.

"She's free right now."

Ilona trailed after Laura back to her desk.

"Where is the investigation now?" she asked, settling into a chair.

"With the police," Laura replied.

"We really don't have a whole lot to add to their statement if they're
making one."

"So you're cooperating with the police department." Ilona scribbled on
her pad.

"Is an arrest expected soon?"

"That's a question for the police to answer."

"Well, what can we say?"

"Nothing. Just that we're cooperating with the police."

"And we have every confidence in their investigation?"

"I certainly do," Laura said.

"Look, why don't you tell Marshall to wait until next week?"

"I can't. He wants to be on top of this case right from the start."

"Well, you'll just have to pad out what you have."

Ilona sighed and rose.

"I'll send you a draft tomorrow morning.

Let me know if anything else happens."

"Of course. I'll see you tomorrow." Laura shook her head after Ilona
left. Would they never learn? More than one trial had been sunk by
premature press coverage. More than one district attorney had come to
grief by trying to ride a case to glory.

After five o'clock, the office got quieter. Most of the attorneys
continued to work, but the phones rang less frequently and the hall
traffic dropped off. It was the office's most productive time of the
day, Laura had quickly realized, with no interruptions from defense
lawyers, clerical staff, and colleagues. She routinely worked until
seven or later, but she always tried to get home in time for a decent
dinner. She'd eaten enough pizza and Chinese as an associate at PC to
last a long while. But what she really wanted tonight was a really
good dinner in a restaurant no dishes to wash. She was thinking about
calling Amos and asking if he had dinner plans when her own phone rang.
I bet that's him great minds think alike, she thought as she picked up
the receiver.

It was Meredith.

"Laura? Good--you're still there. Really, you shouldn't be, but I'm
glad you are. Listen, I got a call from Craig Fannin. He wants to
'parley," as he calls it--what are we, the UN? Anyway, he's faxing
some conditions to us. I'm at Chuck E. Cheese, so I told him to send
them to the office. They should be coming over the machine right now.
Go get them and call me back on my cell phone."

Laura hustled to the fax room, where one machine was quietly whirring
as it expectorated paper. The message came from the law office of
Craig Fannin, Esq. Laura allowed herself a moment to be irritated by
his use of "Esq.," a meaningless title that some lawyers just insisted
on using. The cover sheet was followed by two more pages, a letter
that Laura could see contained a list of "bullet points," presumably
Fannin's conditions for the parley.

She began reading them as the fax continued to process.

Dear Meredith:

You have expressed a desire to meet with and interview my client, James
A. Stanley. Mr. Stanley maintains that he has no involvement in the
recent tragic death of his wife, Christine Council Stanley. The
Atlanta Police Department, however, is currently conducting an
investigation of my client, which would seem to imply that he is a
suspect in the murder of Mrs. Stanley.

In order to put any such speculation to rest, we agree to meet with
you, accompanied by such members of your staff as you deem necessary,
and the investigating officers handling the case for the Atlanta Police
Department. Mr. Stanley is eager to schedule this meeting at the
earliest opportunity, provided that you are willing to comply with
certain conditions. I list these conditions in detail below.

Mr. Stanley's remarks will be 'off the record," and may not be used
against him in any court proceeding arising from the investigation of
his wife's death.

Your office and the Atlanta Police Department will submit
in writing lists of questions to be asked at the meeting;

Mr. Stanley will not respond to questions which do not appear on the
list.

Mr. Stanley reserves the right to refuse to answer any question
submitted by your office or by the Atlanta Police Department.

The meeting will be recorded by a qualified court reporter, who will
prepare a transcript of the meeting and make it available to all
participants in the meeting within twenty-four hours after the
meeting's conclusion. Copies will be numbered, and a record will be
maintained of the persons to whom each copy is distributed. The
transcript may not be photocopied, nor may parts of it be transcribed
in any other form.

After review of the transcript, Mr. Stanley reserves the right to
amend any of his responses in writing.

Neither your office nor the Atlanta Police Department will make details
of the meeting, including the transcript, available to any member of
the press. Mr. Stanley reserves the right to make any information he
chooses available to the press.

At the request of Mr. Stanley, all transcripts will be returned to
him.

Mr. Stanley reserves the right to review all notes made during the
course of the meeting by any person attending the meeting.

No voice recordings will be made during the meeting.

If you consent to these terms, we will be happy to schedule a meeting
at the earliest mutually convenient time. We look forward to hearing
from you.

Golly, Laura thought as she finished reading. He forgot to deal with
procedures for excusing the participants for bathroom breaks. And how
does Stanley take his coffee? She dashed back to her desk and dialed
Meredith's mobile phone. The sounds of Chuck E. Cheese were audible in
the background. Laura cringed.

"My God, what are they doing to those kids?"
"Preparing them to assume their roles as consumers. Did you get the
fax?"

"Oh, yeah. You're going to love this." She read the letter to
Meredith verbatim, pausing only when Meredith snorted in disbelief or
screeched with outrage.

"Number the copies of the transcript? What does Craig think this is, a
corporate takeover? I never heard of anything so ridiculous! And
Stanley will be happy to manage the press I guess we should thank him
for that."

"Are we going to meet them?"

Meredith thought for a moment.

"Yes. Craig is going to have to give up a point or two. I'm not going
to give Stanley the right to recall all the transcripts, for instance.
But we'll have a meeting.

Can you fax that to my home office? I'll call Craig tonight and
negotiate with him."

"Sure, but will he negotiate?"

"Now he has to. Otherwise, we can make this letter public. It makes
Stanley look like a weasel. I'm surprised Craig didn't think of
that."

"I think he's counting on having us really want this meeting."

"Well, I for one do but if Craig wants to play games, I'm up to it.
Now, go home after you fax that out to me and have a decent dinner."

"Thanks. Do they have alcohol at Chuck E. Cheese?"

"I'm consuming as we speak."

"Have one for me." She hung up and returned to the fax room, where she
put the letter on the fax and punched in Meredith's home fax number.
She made a photocopy, placed the original in a folder on Meredith's
desk, and started to pack up her desk. The phone rang again. This
time it was Amos.

"Chastain? I was hoping you'd be working late. You had dinner?"

"No. You?"

"Nope. How does Italian sound to you? I was thinking about
Pulcinella."

"Make it Veni Vidi Vici and you've got a deal," she countered.

"Okay, I'm leaving now. I'll see you there in about twenty minutes.
Last one there picks up the tab."

That was all the inspiration Laura needed to hurry herself along. The
streets of downtown were eerily deserted at this hour, and she never
liked the lonely walk to her car, even though the police department
maintained surveillance of the courthouse and the surrounding buildings
at all times. There were people desperate enough to try something even
in the heart of the Justice Center.

She hurried to her disreputable old Toyota, hastily locking the doors,
and headed north.

The restaurant Laura had suggested was in midtown, about halfway home
for Laura, and closer for Amos. It was a little bit fancier than their
usual hangouts, but Laura was in the mood for some obsequious service
and some really good wine. Her work clothes were good enough to pass
muster with the pretentious staff, and she never had to worry about
Amos; she knew that he would be dressed with perfect propriety for any
restaurant in town.

He was waiting for her at the bar when she walked in.

"What took you so long?" he asked innocently.

"Kowalski, did you call me from your car?"

"You'll never prove it."

"And you call yourself an officer of the law! I should report this."

"Don't be a sore loser and remember, I wanted to go cheap.

You're the one who suggested this palace."

"That's okay I'll get you next time. Boy, do I have a story for
you!"

When they were seated she told Amos about her day, and Craig Fannin's
letter.

"For a man who says he's innocent, James Stanley's acting like he has
something to hide."

Amos shook his head.

"If you ask me, Craig Fannin is just overlawyering. Stanley probably
has no clue what was in that letter."

"Maybe not. But he's got to know he's suspect numero uno.

You know, if I had been in Randy Travers's position, I would have
started investigating Stanley right away. We've wasted almost two
weeks!"

"I wouldn't say it was wasted the investigation has eliminated one
suspect, the burglar."

"But meanwhile the husband has had time to cover his tracks."

"If there are any. Look, Laura, you may be right, and you may have
been right all along, but a police investigation has to be handled a
certain way. Every possibility has to be looked at in turn. We're
too short-handed to do everything simultaneously, so we take it one
step at a time. The most obvious possibility was the burglar. Travers
eliminated that. So, now he moves on to the family members."

"That's another thing he's investigating Christine Stanley's sister!
It's just silly."

"You think so? Maybe she's as innocent as I am, but Travers has to
eliminate her. You've got to be a little patient."

"Are you lecturing me, Amos?"

"No, just trying to curb your rookie enthusiasm. Now, what are you
having?"

Laura turned her attention to the menu, and the subject changed. She
didn't think about the letter again until she was brushing her teeth,
pleasantly drowsy from a good dinner and half a bottle of Italian wine.
I'd have given a whole dollar to hear Meredith "negotiate" with Fannin,
she thought as she closed her eyes. Lawyers just love that kind of
stuff.
CHAPTER 7

The interrogation room at the Atlanta Police Department's homicide
division was not an inviting place. There was nothing in the room that
could be used as, or converted to, a weapon:

the chairs were the kind of one-piece molded plastic butt-busters that
were favored by high school cafeterias and mental institutions;

the table was bolted to the floor; the light fixtures were caged. The
walls and floor were a dull institutional gray. The whole room could
have been hosed down without harming its furnishings, which was
precisely the point.

The choice of venue for the "parley" was a concession Meredith had won
in the negotiations, so the meeting was being held here, instead of in
a well-upholstered conference room at Craig Fannin's office, or even
among the dubious comforts of the district attorney's quarters.

"It'll put Mr. Stanley in the proper frame of mind," Meredith said.

Meredith had won a couple of other points, too. For one thing, the
whole ridiculous notion of having transcripts of the meeting numbered
had been discarded, as had Fannin's demands that copies of all notes
taken during the meeting be turned over to him. In return, Meredith
had promised Fannin that the district attorney's press release would
state that James Stanley was not a suspect.

"How can you say that?" Laura wailed to Meredith when she found out.

"Of course he's a suspect!"

Meredith waggled her eyebrows.

"Oh, I have my reasons.

Here's the release Ilona and I drafted--tell me what you think."

Laura took the piece of paper and read:
Good afternoon. My name is Laura Chastain, CHASTAIN. I am an
assistant district attorney in the Fulton County district attorney's
office. The district attorney's office is cooperating with the Atlanta
Police Department in the investigation of the murder of Christine
Stanley. No suspects have been named at this time, although a number
of individuals are assisting in the investigation. The victim's
husband, James Stanley, has agreed to meet with police investigators
and representatives of the district attorney's office. The police
investigators and the district attorney hope that Mr. Stanley can
provide information that will be helpful in the investigation. Thank
you.

"And Fannin was satisfied with this?" she asked. Saying that "no
suspects had been named at this time" was a far cry from saying that
James Stanley was not a suspect.

"I didn't give him approval of the wording. I just told him that we
would say that Stanley wasn't named as a suspect."

Laura snorted.

"Specious reasoning, Meredith!"

Meredith shrugged, unconcerned.

"It got us the meeting. Anyway, Randy likes the sister for this as
much as he likes Stanley now."

"That's ridiculous. She's got no motive. But Stanley has motive
coming out his ears."

"That remains to be seen. Now, let me look at you. Very nice.

Just look at one of the reporters and deliver the statement to him, and
step away from the microphone as soon as you've said. Thank you."" "I
wish you'd reconsider this," Laura said.

"You'd do much better than I will ..."

But in the end she had delivered the release to an eager press,
accompanied by Marshall Oliver. After she stepped away from the miche
had fielded the questions, and had done as admirable a job of parsing
the statement that "no suspects have been named" as any White House
aide could have done. Fannin had evidently been satisfied with the
tone of the press coverage the previous evening, because they were
expecting him and his client at any minute. In the meantime, Laura
shifted in her plastic chair and tried to get comfortable.

"Sure you won't take some coffee?" Carlton Hemingway asked.

Travers had barely acknowledged Laura's arrival.
"No, thanks. I have a bottle of water." Laura had tasted police
station coffee before, and in her opinion Amnesty International ought
to look into it.

"Y'all got your questions ready?" Meredith asked the detectives.

Travers made a contemptuous noise in his throat that sounded like
"Bullshit."

"What if we get on to a topic that I want to explore, but I haven't
written down the questions I want to ask?"

"Don't sweat it," Meredith said.

"Once we get going, Fannin knows he can't start drawing lines. I just
wish that we had the special master's report."

William Borden had accepted the appointment as special master; he and a
staff of two had been burrowing into Stanley's papers, at Stanley's
office, for two days. His report was due by the end of the week, which
was three days away. Fannin had probably engineered this meeting to
take place before the report was ready.

"Well..." Travers said, grinning.

"It just so happens that our accounting guy got a peek at those records
before the judge ordered them turned over to the special master. He
didn't want to say anything for attribution, but he thinks there's been
some hanky-panky." Travers produced a small notebook and read from
it.

"Some co mingling of client funds with ordinary business accounts, a
few transactions he couldn't find client authorization for. He thinks
they're the sort of things that could get him disciplined by the
regulators, but not prima facie evidence of crimes being committed. But
he suggests that we ask why he invested his kids' money in a hedge fund
that lost a bunch of money."

"You know about that, Laura?" Meredith asked. Laura was going to
handle the financial questions.

"Yes, it showed up in the personal financial records. But Stanley had
some of his own money in there, too, although he didn't lose a nickel.
In fact, he made money. Is that what your man noticed, Randy?"

"Yes, but he also thought that there was a quid pro quo involved. It
looks like Stanley invested in this loser fund because he was getting
business from its manager."

"That's self-dealing," Laura said.

"That could get him removed as a trustee even without a divorce."

"That's good to know. Randy," Meredith said.

"Laura, be sure you get that into your questions. Oh, here they come."
She rose and greeted Craig Fannin and his client as they entered the
grim little room, just as if she was receiving guests at her own
house.

"Craig! Glad you could make it! You know everyone, I think?"

"I haven't met this gentleman," Fannin said, extending a hand to
Carlton Hemingway, who introduced himself.

"And I believe you've all met my client."

They all acknowledged Stanley with curt nods. Fannin, even as an
opponent, was a charmer. Even Laura conceded that he was attractive,
with a warm smile and a way of meeting gazes head-on which would be
very effective with a jury. Stanley inspired no such warm feelings. He
was a smallish, slightly built man, dressed fastidiously in imitation
of GQ style, which he failed to carry off. He would not do
particularly well with a jury, Laura thought, especially the female
members of a jury. He was too prissy.

"Shall we begin?" Meredith said.

"I see you've brought your own coffee, Craig--very wise. You have our
prepared questions, of course."

"Yes."

"Well, then, if there are no objections, I suggest we get rolling."

Meredith nodded to the court reporter, who from that point on began
recording every word that was spoken. Meredith gave the date, time,
and names of all the participants in the meeting, then turned the floor
over to Randy Travers.

Travers cleared his throat.

"Mr. Stanley, thanks for coming down. We're going to go over some of
the information you gave us in your initial statement two weeks ago.
You were out of town on the evening of May 8, is that correct?"

"That's correct," Stanley said, glancing at Fannin as if for
approval.

"I was in Charlotte, North Carolina."

Fannin opened his briefcase and took out some papers.

"These are copies of my client's plane ticket and his hotel room
receipt.

You'll see that they support his statement." He gave copies to Travers
and to Meredith.

Travers took a long look at the papers.

"Your flight arrived in Charlotte at seven-thirty p.m.?" he asked.

Stanley nodded.

"Please give your answers aloud," Meredith interrupted, "so they can be
recorded."

"Sorry. Yes. At seven-thirty."
"And you checked into the Marriott at--let's see--eight-oh-five
p.m.?"

"If that's what the receipt says, yes; I don't remember the exact
time."

"And what did you do after that?"

"I ordered room service, and watched television. Oh, and I called home
as soon as I got to the room. I actually made two phone calls home,
but no one answered. I left messages on the answering machine."

Fannin was ready to support his client again.

"You'll see the charges for his dinner and the phone calls on the
bill."

Laura craned her neck to look at the hotel record, which Meredith
pushed toward her. The bill listed the time of the phone calls, as
well as the numbers--both the same, both in the 404 area code.

She felt a vague sense of disappointment; it would be awfully hard to
fake a detailed hotel record.

Fannin seemed to read her mind.

"And here's a copy of the answering machine tape. Shall I play it for
you?"

"Please," Travers said.

Fannin inserted the miniature cassette into a tiny player, and clicked
a button. Stanley's voice sounded tinny and small.

"Hi, honey, it's me. I'm at the hotel. Room, ahh, 407.1 guess you're
busy with the kids--I'll call back after they're in bed." Then some
whirrs, and clicks, before he spoke again.

"Hi, it's me again. It's eleven-fifteen. I'm turning in now, but call
me if you want to talk. Love you."

"Was there a time and date stamp on the machine?" Hemingway asked.

"Yes," Fannin answered.

"The first call was made at nine-fifteen, and the second, as my client
indicates on the tape, at eleven-fifteen. I have the answering
machine, with its original messages, at my office. I'd be happy to
submit it to you."

"Please," Travers said.

"Now, Mr. Stanley, tell us why you were in Charlotte."

"I had business there. I sell products from a couple of the banks and
brokerages there to my clients--CDs, funds, partnerships. I go up
there pretty regularly to meet with my contacts."

"I see. Mr. Stanley, was your business profitable?"

Stanley hesitated, and glanced at Fannin, who nodded.

"Well, it's hard to say exactly. I'm a financial manager. I set up
the firm about four years ago. There are a lot of, umm, up-front
costs, you know setting up an office, hiring, getting systems in place.
And then there's marketing, you know, entertaining prospective clients
and all that."

"But were you making money?" Travers said.

"Well, we had good cash flow, but no, I guess you would say we were
still in the red. Technically."

"I see. And had you borrowed money from your wife to help start the
business?"

"Yes, a little ..."

"And from you children's trust funds."

"Once or twice. Look, I gave them all partnership units it's not like
I just took the money! It's perfectly normal. The other trustees knew
about it, and no one objected."

"That's fine, Mr. Stanley," Travers said smoothly.

"That leads me to your personal financial situation. You have a large
mortgage on the Lakehaven house, I think?"

"Yes," Stanley said.

"It's a large house. But in keeping with our income."

"In keeping with your income, or your children's trust fund income?"
Hemingway interjected.

Stanley turned to him, angry.

"It's the same thing. I am their trustee, and it is my job as a
trustee and as a parent to give them an appropriate upbringing."

"We understand that," Travers said smoothly, "but the house is in your
name and your wife's, not the children's names."

Stanley emitted a burst of air from his lungs, frustrated.

"It's the same thing, dammit! Just what are you getting at anyway?"

"I'm not 'getting at' anything, sir. Is it true that your wife had
asked you for a divorce?"

"No! And I don't give a damn what Lynette has told you it's not true!
Why aren't you questioning her?"

"James ..." Fannin said, placing a warning hand on his client's arm.

"Mrs. Stanley had not asked for a divorce. There were some rough
patches in the marriage, but the Stanleys were working them out in good
faith. They wanted to stay together for the sake of the children."

"That's not what Mr. Frank Watson says," Hemingway replied.

"Who is Mr. Frank Watson?" Fannin asked.
"He is the attorney Mrs. Stanley had contacted about a divorce, just
about a month before her death."

Laura was surprised by this bit of information, but apparently not
nearly so much as Stanley was. He rose to his feet.

"Bullshit!"

he shouted.

"That's a damn lie!"

"I have here a statement from Mr. Watson, to the effect that your late
wife made an appointment with him to discuss the possibility of a
divorce on April 17." Hemingway produced a piece of paper and waved
it. You go, Carlton! Laura silently cheered.

Fannin extended his hand.

"May I have a copy? Thank you.

Now, Meredith, this line of questioning was not on our preapproved
list."

"Gosh, Craig," Meredith said.

"I didn't know a thing about this. But since it's on the table,
shouldn't we explore a little?"

"Give me a moment to read Mr. Watson's statement." Fannin read over
the page carefully, and put it down.

"I see nothing here that indicates that my client knew about his wife's
visit to this attorney. As I said, he was making a good-faith effort
to restore the marriage. What his wife did without his consent or
knowledge cannot be held against him."

Point to Fannin, Laura conceded.

"Let's move on, then," Meredith said.

"Ms. Chastain has a few questions pertaining to the structure of your
late wife's and your children's trusts, Mr. Stanley."

Laura had been assigned this part of the questioning because of her
marginally greater knowledge of trust issues. She'd had a bit of
family law experience at PC she warned Meredith, but wills and trusts
were way beyond her expertise.

"Just ask a few leading questions," Meredith had suggested, "and we'll
see where they take us."

"Mr. Stanley, who are the trustees for your children?"

"Me, and my wife ... was. Her father, her sister Lynette, and the
family attorney, Bradley Mellott."

"I see. And who controls the investments made by the trust?"

"Well, all of us."

"No, I mean who managed the investment decisions day to day?"

"I did. I was the most qualified."

"Did the other trustees ever object to any investment you made?"
Stanley licked his lips and took a gulp of his coffee before
answering.

"Yes. Lynette did, regularly. But my wife always agreed with me."

"And Mr. Mellott?"

"He usually needed an explanation of what we were trying to do, but
once I talked to him he was generally all right with whatever we
did."

"Does that include an investment you made in a hedge fund last year
that resulted in a substantial write-off?"

"Yes. Yes, it does. Not all investments are winners, Ms. Chastain."

Stanley's voice was ringing with sarcasm.

"No, of course not, Mr. Stanley, but I was wondering how it is that
your own personal investment in the same fund did not result in a
loss." She folded her hands and looked at Stanley.

"Again, Meredith, I have to object--this wasn't on the preapproved list
of questions," Fannin said sternly.

"But it would be nice to have an answer, wouldn't it?" Meredith
said.

Fannin leaned toward his client and whispered something.

Stanley whispered a reply. Fannin nodded.

"My client says that the difference was in the timing of the
investment--he invested his own funds before he placed any of his
children's money in the fund. While he didn't have an actual toss, his
return was far from what he had been led to expect by the fund manager.
He withdrew his and his children's investments at the same time.

Unfortunately, their investment had to be written down considerably,
while my client's was marginally profitable--owing to the longer
investment period."

It was a reasonable explanation--if you thought that putting your kid's
money in a hedge fund was a reasonable thing to do.

Laura pushed ahead.

"Did you do any other business with the manager of that fund, Mr.
Stanley?"

"A little, yes."

"Were your investments in his fund a quid pro quo for business
consideration for your firm?"

"No! Absolutely not! Do you think I'd play that game with my own
children's money?"

"I don't know, Mr. Stanley. Did Ms. Connell or Mr. Mellott ever
object to these particular investments?"
"I don't remember. Lynette probably did she objected to everything I
did."

"Do you know what self-dealing is, Mr. Stanley?"

"That's out of line," Fannin boomed.

"I insist that this line of questioning end right now."

"Okay," Travers said, unruffled.

"I just have a few more questions if that's okay." Fannin nodded his
assent.

"Mr. Stanley, who do you think killed your wife?"

Stanley gaped for a moment, and looked at Fannin, who nodded again.

"I... I think it was a botched burglary. There's more than one
housebreaker out there just because you folks found one who didn't do
it doesn't mean that someone else still out there couldn't have done
this. In fact, I'm going to offer a reward fifty thousand dollars for
any information leading to an arrest and conviction. I figure that'll
make up for your lack of interest in investigating my wife's murder."

"We always appreciate help," Travers said coolly.

"Did you or your wife have any enemies?"

"Enemies? No! Are you saying this may have been a revenge thing?"

"No possibility can be overlooked."

"Well, I'm in a tough line of business there may be some clients who
were angry with me. But mad enough to kill Chrissie?

I don't know ... It bears looking into, I guess."

Fannin straightened in his chair and snapped his briefcase closed.

"I think that will do."

"We appreciate your cooperation," Meredith said.

"If we have more questions, would you be willing to meet with us
again?"

"On similar terms, yes, I suppose so," Fannin replied amiably.

Then to the court reporter, he said, "This concludes the meeting.

Please deliver transcripts to me, to Ms. Gaffney, and to Detective
Travers. I think that's all." He rose, and Stanley followed him from
the room.

"That went about as well as could be expected," Meredith said.

"What did you think, Laura?"

"He seemed sincerely bereaved, and he had answers for every thing. His
alibi is pretty convincing."

"It's a lock," Travers conceded.

"We move on from here to a killer-for-hire theory. I don't think
there's anything in the revenge killing, but did you see how he went
for it?"
Meredith nodded.

"Are you really looking at his clients?"

Travers shrugged. "} like a family member in situations like this, but
I've seen stranger things. But the sister is looking better and better
to us." He flipped open his ubiquitous notebook.

"Lynette Connell, age thirty. Lives with her father, Lester Connell,
age sixty-eight, at 1022 Connell's Farm Lane in Marietta. She's got a
record one DUI, one misdemeanor possession of marijuana That was about
two years ago. Dad keeps her on a short string; apparently she's the
wild one in the family. She went to the university but never finished
her degree. She's never held a job, either, unless you count giving
horseback riding lessons out at her father's place. She has a trust
fund, like her sister's, but she doesn't have control of the income."

"In other words, her motive is identical to James Stanley's," Meredith
reflected.

"Yep. But there's another thing. Carlton, what about that stuff you
got on Lynette's associates?"

"Not good folks, I'm afraid. In addition to her drug buddies, she had
a boyfriend last year who is a registered gun dealer."

Laura managed to control her voice.

"Did you find out where she was when her sister was killed?"

"Yes," Hemingway answered.

"She has an alibi, too she was away in Tennessee at a horse show. She
was competing in one category and judging in another, so she was away
from Tuesday until she heard about her sister on Friday. She's got
receipts and witnesses who place her there the entire time she says she
was."

"So," Travers said, "it seems that motive isn't the only thing Lynette
Connell has in common with her brother-in-law. Iron clad alibis must
run in the family."
CHAPTER 8

C beryl's voice was taut with irritation.

"That woman is here again."

"Which woman would that be, Cheryl?" Laura asked.

"You know--Miss Thing," Cheryl sniffed.

"She says that she has to see you right now."

She could only mean Lynette Connell, although Lynette was certainly not
the only person capable of inspiring irritation in Cheryl.

"Tell her I'll be right with her." Laura hung up the phone and closed
her eyes. This was an encounter she did not want to have-Lynette had
to know that she had made Travers's short list of folks who were "good
for" the murder. She probably saw Laura as an advocate for her
innocence. I shouldn't have talked to her in the first place, Laura
chided herself. I'll just have to get rid of her.

She pushed back from her desk and walked to the lobby.

Lynette was standing by the reception desk, arms folded across her
chest. She was wearing an expensive-looking trouser suit, and her
thick, dark hair was piled into an artfully disheveled "updo."

She was so effortlessly elegant, so wantonly beautiful. Laura felt a
pang of envy, mixed with admiration.

Lynette, however, was not in the mood to be contemplated as an object
of beauty. She started talking even before Laura reached her side.

"What do you know about all this bullshit?"

"Hello, Lynette. This isn't the place. Let's go into the conference
room."

"Uh-uh," Cheryl said.

"It's being used. All day."

Laura sighed.

"Let's go get a cup of coffee, then. I'll get my purse."
She guided Lynette to an out-of-the-way luncheonette where she hoped
they wouldn't be seen. "} shouldn't be talking to you," she warned
Lynette as they waited for their coffee.

"You're the subject of a police investigation."

"Don't I know it? Everybody I've ever slept with, partied with, or
just talked to seems to have been questioned by the cops and that's a
long list, believe me. And it seems that because I have a little
marijuana bust on my record, I'm now the prime suspect in my sister's
murder."

"Calm down, Lynette. You're not the 'prime suspect." The police are
just doing their job. Besides, you have an alibi, don't you?"

"Of course I do! Don't tell me that you think ..."

"I don't think anything. That's the cops' job. But, Lynette, there
are a couple of things that raise questions. You say that James wanted
your sister dead so he could get hold of the income from the children's
trusts. Well, you stand to benefit, too, as a trustee."

"How? How?" Lynette thumped the table in frustration.

"If I killed Chrissie, James would become sole guardian of the kids. I
would be a trustee, same as I am now and I don't see a nickel of that
money now, believe you me!"

"But if James were convicted of killing your sister, you would
presumably inherit the guardianship."

"Oh, my God! Am I supposed to be that subtle? I not only killed my
sister, but I'm framing James for it? I wish I'd have known I was this
smart when I was flunking out at the university."

Laura couldn't help but smile.

"You have to understand that a police investigation is a process of
elimination," she said soothingly quoting Amos's lecture to her nearly
verbatim.

"They're looking at everyone. They're also looking at clients who
might have had a grudge against James did you know that? You're not
alone in this."

"Tell that to the people who were questioned about me! The director of
the horse show was appalled I doubt she'll ever ask me to judge again!
And to dig up my old boyfriends that's going too far."

Laura swirled her coffee thoughtfully. I should not be having this
conversation, but if I'm in for a penny, I might as well be in for a
pound.

"About the boyfriend the one who was a gun dealer ..."
"See? You do think I'm a suspect! Well, for your information, Jesse
is not a gun dealer at least not the kind who sells handguns to
murderers. He sells high-end hunting weapons, shotguns and rifles.
Custom stocks and barrels. You can ask my father he's the one who
introduced me to Jesse. He bought a shotgun from him last year. We
dated for all of three months last summer. He turned out to be a jerk,
not unlike every other guy I've dated, and when he found out that I
don't have any money of my own, he couldn't light out for the territory
fast enough. Not that I would have kept him around much longer anyway.
Jesse has some talent, but not enough to keep a girl enthralled more
than a few weeks.

No, as soon as he saw the lay of the land, he was outta there. I was
mildly upset for about an hour."

"Did James know Jesse?"

"Jesse and James met a couple of times, and they seemed to get along
fine. But I wouldn't say they were tight; Jesse couldn't do anything
for James's career, and that's The Asshole's sole criterion for all his
relationships: How can this person help James Stanley?"

"Lynette, when you called me a while back, you said you thought you
knew where James might have gotten a gun. Was it from Jesse?"

Lynette hesitated.

"Ye-es, I thought so at the time. But like I said, Jesse doesn't
handle handguns."

"Surely he knows people who do, though."

She shrugged.

"He goes to all those gun shows, and he's a social animal. The gun
show circuit is a little bit creepy, and I'm sure he's met some shady
types. But he would have told the cops if James had asked to be hooked
up with a gun. Jesse wouldn't take a fall for anyone, let alone
James."

"So, you've changed your mind?"

"I guess so. Besides, James didn't need to get a gun to kill
Chrissie."

"Oh? Why not?"

"Because he hired someone to do it for him can't you see?

That's why he has this big elaborate alibi!"

Laura didn't want to point out that Lynette's alibi was just as "big
and elaborate" as James's. She changed the subject.

"Lynette, I really, really should not discuss this with you. But
speaking of alibis, you were at the Nashville Classic, I guess."

"Yes they told you where I was?"
"Not really; they just said you were in Tennessee at a horse show, and
I figured it had to be the Classic. I'm from Nashville, and I rode in
it a time or two."

"No kidding! I should have known you were a rider you've got the build
for it. Where do you ride now?"

"Nowhere, really. My good old horse is out to pasture up in Tennessee,
and the way I work, it would be cruel for me to get another one I
couldn't ride regularly enough."

"Well, come ride mine! What do you ride?"

"I showed on hunter-jumpers, but I'll ride anything for fun.

What do you keep?"

"Hunter-jumpers mostly warm bloods and a couple of thoroughbreds. I
have a Belgian warm blood who'd be just perfect for you you really have
to come out to the farm! We have a great setup. I've just had the
main arena rebuilt; it's gorgeous.

We even have a Grand Prix ring at least we call it the Grand Prix ring,
although it's really just a paddock. But I can give you a good
ride."

"I'd like to, after ... when ..."

"Oh, yes, when I'm cleared of my sister's murder. I forgot.

Well, just give me a call." Lynette stood up. She seemed angry.

"I hope you're not taking this personally, Lynette. I have a job to
do, and I'm kind of low woman on the ladder here. I'm not in control
of the investigation."

Lynette's frown softened.

"I know. I'm just it's hard enough to lose your sister, but to have
the police looking at everything you do ... I'm frustrated. I wish the
guys investigating me knew what it was like to lose someone you love
this way then they might go a little easier on their suspects."

Laura said nothing, but she thought of those terrible days and weeks
after Tom's murder. She wanted to tell Lynette that she had been
there, that she of all people could understand, but she couldn't bring
herself to say anything.

"It'll all be wrapped up soon," was all she could manage, with a weak
and unconvincing smile.

"And then we'll ride," Lynette said.

"It's a deal."

The meeting with Lynette left Laura dispirited for the rest of the day.
One of many things that was lacking in Laura's life was a close
girlfriend, someone who shared her interests. She would very much have liked to take up Lynette's offer of a ride, for the sake
of her company as much as for the joy of being back up on a horse
again. Amos was a wonderful companion, but he was about as far from a
girlfriend as hormones could make him. Laura's college and law school
buddies were scattered from New York to California. She had tried
participating in alumni events in Atlanta, but everyone who attended
them seemed to be married, with children, living in the distant
suburbs. And here it was, the Friday night before Memorial Day, and
what was she doing?

Cooking out at Amos's house. But Kenny Newton and his wife, Cindy,
would be there--that brightened Laura's prospects a little.

She didn't see nearly enough of Kenny these days.

"Laura, do you have a minute?" Meredith was poking her head around the
doorway of Laura's cubicle, wearing an uncharacteristically solemn look
on her face.

"Sure. What's the matter?"

"Fannin's had a press conference. Come into my office--I think we need
to be private for this."

Laura had a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. This is about
my meeting with Lynette, she thought irrationally. Of course no one
could have known about it--especially not Craig Fannin, but Meredith
seemed so stern that Laura figured she had to have done something to
upset the boss. Her contact with Lynette was the only thing she could
think of that was likely to cause trouble.

"Look, Meredith, she came in here this morning and asked to see me.
She's completely capable of making a scene. I thought it would be best
just to listen to what she had to say ..."

"Who are you talking about?"

"Lynette Connell. Isn't that what you want to see me about?"

"No--but, dammit, stop talking to her. I don't care what kind of scene
she can make. I don't need Randy on my back." They had reached
Meredith's office. Meredith shut the door and waved Laura into a
chair.

"No, I wanted to talk to you about Fannin's press conference. There's
going to be some fallout, and I'd prefer that you hear it from me." She
handed Laura a press release.

"That was his opening statement."

Laura took the single sheet of paper and read.

James Stanley, husband of Brookhaven murder victim Christine Stanley,
has retained the firm of Craig Fannin and Associates to
represent him. Mr. Stanley is cooperating with
the Atlanta Police Department and the Fulton County district attorney's
office in their investigation. Mr. Stanley is not a suspect at this
time, according to the police investigators and Senior Assistant
District Attorney Meredith Gaffney ... "Nice of him to reword our press
release," Laura commented.

"Read on," Meredith said grimly.

Mr. Stanley, although not under suspicion, met voluntarily with the
investigating team this week to offer information. Mr, Stanley was in
Charlotte, North Carolina, on the night of the murder. He provided the
investigators with airplane and hotel records confirming his
whereabouts--it was clever of Fannin to avoid the use of the word
"alibi;" no matter how innocuous the word was in reality, it implied
guilt and suspicion--at the time of his wife's tragic and brutal
murder.

"Mr. Stanley had no involvement in his wife's death," Craig Fannin
stated categorically.

"The police and district attorney have wasted a good deal of time,
first in seeking a known burglar who was in custody at the time of the
murder, and then in looking into my client's finances and his
relationship with his wife. The police seem to have discounted the
probability that the killer was not known to Mrs. Stanley, despite
numerous signs of forcible entry into the house. Certain evidence
collected at the crime scene and turned over to the state crime lab
also seems to have been discounted. Mr. Stanley hired me to ensure
that the investigation is kept on track and that the police and
district attorney do not overlook any possible solution to this
horrible crime.

My client's only wish is to see the killer brought to justice, so that
he and his children can mourn the loss of a beloved wife and mother in
private."

"Well, it's obnoxious, but we don't have any control over what Fannin
says," Laura said.

"Are you going to respond?"

Meredith shook her head.

"To that? No. But there was a question and answer session after he
read his little statement. I don't know exactly what was said, but
Ilona and I have already fielded a couple of calls from reporters.
Laura, he's making an issue of you."

"Me? How? Is it Lynette?"
"Will you stop with the Lynette stuff? No, I'm afraid it's Jeff
Williams again. And Tom."

"But no one said a word after I read our statement the other day--I
thought they had forgotten all about me!"

"They probably had, but Craig seems to have given them a not-so-subtle
nudge in your direction."

"But what does it matter? I mean, what happened with Williams has
nothing whatsoever to do with Christine Stanley's murder."

"You would think not. And yet two reporters want to know about your
emotional state. Judging from their questions, they seem to want you
to be filled with remorse at Tom's death, and determined to prove your
mettle by convicting James Stanley of murder."

"That's ridiculous! For one thing, I'm way down the chain of command
on this investigation. For another--what business is it of theirs what
my emotional state is?"

"None, really, but they're asking anyway. I laughed them off the
phone, and Ilona 'no commented' them, but I'm afraid that you're going
to be back in the spotlight for a day or two. Thank God it's Friday.
Maybe they'll cool their jets over the weekend.

What are your plans for the weekend?"

"Nothing special--Amos is kicking off the Memorial Day weekend with a
cookout tonight. Kenny Newton and his wife are coming."

"Good. Maybe you should stay with Amos for a couple of days."

"I don't want to stay there! I want to be in my own bed, now that I
have one again."

"Suit yourself, but think about it. I never saw the reporter who Amos
Kowalski couldn't deal with."

"They probably won't even come after me, you know," Laura said.

"Maybe not. But if they do, I wouldn't talk to them if I were you.
They've already got a story in their little heads: Assistant District
Attorney Has a Past--that sort of thing. Just say nothing to them, and
maybe they'll drop it."

In Laura's experience, "they" usually didn't drop it until every minute
aspect of a story had been exhaustively examined. Maybe Meredith was
right--Amos had been her shield and defender when it first happened.
Maybe she should cower in his guest room once again.

"I'll keep my mouth shut," she said as she rose to leave Meredith's
office.

"What does Fannin hope to accomplish by dragging me into this?"

"Distraction, pure and simple. The more attention they pay to you, the
less they pay to James Stanley."

"Great. Have a good weekend, okay?"

"I'll see you Tuesday."

Laura left the office with every intention of not thinking or talking
about Christine Stanley's murder for an entire seventy-two hours.
CHAPTER 9

Kenny Newton was the one person Laura could always count on to take her
mind off things--maybe because he was the only truly happy person she
knew. Kenny thought his life was just perfect, and who was to say it
wasn't? He loved his wife and their three bumptious children just as
much as he loved his work as a private investigator--this despite
having been attacked and injured by Laura's erstwhile crooked-cop
client, the infamous, thankfully late Jeff Williams. Kenny hadn't
allowed Laura to waste a lot of time in feeling guilty, however, and
even though his limping walk, supported by a cane, was a constant,
unhappy reminder of last December's events, Laura was always eager to
see the big detective.

"Hey, shug!" he greeted her as soon as she stepped onto Amos's
patio.

"Lordy, you get better lookin' every time I see you! Doesn't she,
Cindy?"

"Of course she does," Kenny's unflappable wife said as she gave Laura a
hug.

"She could gain a pound or two, I think. You're not dieting, are you,
hon?"

"No, I'm working for the district attorney--it's the next best thing to
running a triathlon. What about you? You're looking mighty svelte."

"Finally got rid of the baby weight--just in time to chase the little
rascal around the house all day."

"Oh, he's walking already?"

"No, he's running, everywhere, all the time. I never saw a child in
such a hurry. Ken, did you bring the pictures?"

Laura and Amos performed the requisite ooh-ing and aahing that married
couples expected of their single friends, aided by the fact that the
three Newton children really were very attractive.

The purpose of the ritual photograph display was, of course, to stir
the hormones of the single friends to such a pitch that they would rush
immediately out and book the church. Neither Amos nor Laura seemed
particularly susceptible to the tactic, but Kenny hoped eternally.

When the pictures had been put up, and Amos and Kenny had lit the fire,
Kenny settled down beside Laura and took a pull on his beer.

"Look at that cat I can't believe that Amos Kowalski lets a little
kitty cat run his life."

"But Mr. Kitty is such a good boy!" Laura cooed as the cat in
question jumped on to her lap.

"Did you know that Amos has never given him a name? He just calls him
Cat, so I call him Mr.

Cat. Or Mr. Kitty, or Senor Gato, if I'm in an international mood."

"Isn't that sweet?" Kenny smirked. He was one of those men who
pretended not to like cats.

"So, I hear you're mixed up in this murder in Brookhaven."

"Yep. What do you think?"

"There's nothing like rich people when they get to killing each
other."

"So you think money was the motive?"

"Is there any other?"

"Well, love, I suppose."

"I find that's usually pretty well tied in to money."

"You do not you can't pretend to be cynical about love, Kenny
Newton."

He laughed.

"Okay, I'll qualify my statement: love and money in Northside Atlanta
are often inseparable."

"So, you think maybe the husband did it?"

"I think maybe yes, he did. He's the most obvious candidate, and,
sadly, it usually is the most obvious candidate in these domestic
things."

"What about one of the husband's vengeful clients? He seemed to be
good at losing other people's money."

"So why would an angry client shoot the wife assuming he was mad enough
to shoot anyone? No, I don't buy it. Is that what Randy Travers is
looking at?"

Laura worded her answer carefully. Kenny was a former cop, and he
undoubtedly knew Travers.
"I think he's exhausting all avenues. There's really not a lot of
hard evidence, and the husband has a very strong alibi."

"What? That he was out of town?"

Laura nodded.

"His lawyer gave us copies of the plane ticket and the hotel bill."

Kenny snorted.

"And Travers was satisfied with that?"

"Well, maybe not satisfied, but he's looking pretty carefully at
Christine Stanley's sister, and the husband's clients. He doesn't seem
too keen on going after the husband, unless he thinks Stanley hired a
killer."

"Maybe, maybe. Has he checked out the alibi?"

"I suppose so, but it's pretty hard to dispute there were phone calls
on the hotel bill that match up to calls on the Stanleys' answering
machine. He can't have been in two places at once, can he?"

"I can't say. Look, I don't want to criticize Randy he's the best. But
he's also taking early retirement. He's tired, and he's a little
bitter, from what I hear, about the way he's been treated."

"What do you mean?"

"Just that certain highly paid officers were offered retirement
packages with the not-so-subtle message that if they didn't take them,
they might not be able to stay in the jobs they were in or even keep
their rank. It's a 'cost-saving' program a pretty shortsighted one,
too. They're kissing off years decades of experience."

"Wow. I thought he seemed kind of lackadaisical. But his partner on
the ball. Do you know Carlton Hemingway?"

"Never met the man. Nice name, though."

"Isn't it? He seems to be carrying a lot of the work of the
investigation."

"Maybe he's verified that paper alibi, then."

"What do you mean, paper alibi?"

"You think a plane ticket and a hotel receipt can't be faked?

No, if you really want to eliminate the husband as the shooter, you
gotta have someone reliable place him on that plane, and in that hotel,
when he says he was there."

"But the phone calls ..."

"Please!" Kenny said, waving away her objection.

"Look, if you were going to murder your wife, couldn't you cook up a
clever scheme that would allow you to be in two places at once?"
Laura thought for a minute.

"Yes," she finally said.

"I mean, I don't know if I could cook up a clever scheme exactly, but
James Stanley strikes me as the clever-scheme type."

"There you are, then. You just concentrate on how James Stanley could
have been in two places at once. If he can't have been, then you go on
and look at other suspects, or at a hired killer.

But if you find that alibi's just paper after all, you might catch you
a bad guy."

Laura needed no further incentive to break her resolution not to think
about the murder. As she and Amos were cleaning up the dishes, Amos
took note of her preoccupation.

"I saw you and Kenny with your heads together," he said.

"What were you talking about? Christine Stanley, I presume?"

"Yes. He's interested in the case. He thinks Randy Travers may be
giving it short shrift. Did you know Travers was taking early
retirement?"

"Yes, and I'm sorry about it. He's a good cop. But I don't think that
he's capable of giving anything 'short shrift," no matter how crappily
he's been treated."

"Isn't it possible that he has a lot on his mind these days? Look at
how this murder investigation has been handled so far. We wasted a
week tracking down a phantom burglar who turns out to have been in
jail. The victim's sister who has her own alibi and no motive to speak
of seems to be a prime suspect, while James Stanley waltzes around
Atlanta saying whatever he pleases."

"Your criticism is predicated on your belief that the husband is
guilty. Randy can't afford to jump to conclusions like that. He knows
that if he lets his mind get fixed on one possibility, others will
elude him."

"But even you have to admit that the husband has the best motive!"

Amos sighed as he dried a platter.

"Since when does a killer need a motive? And there's another thing
Meredith tells me that the reporters are after you again."

"They don't bother me."

"Just the same, I wish you would bunk here for a few days."

"No, but thanks. My phone number is unlisted and no one knows my new
address. They can only find me at work, and to get to me there they
have to go through Ilona and Meredith first.

I'll be okay."

She spoke too soon. When she arrived home, Laura's answering machine
was blinking crazily, loaded with messages from a newspaper reporter
who apparently believed that if he called every ten minutes he had a
good chance of getting an interview with her. She deleted all his
invitations and imprecations, annoyed that he seemed to have had no
trouble getting her unlisted number.

He must have somehow obtained a copy of the supposedly sacred district
attorney's office phone list. At least he hadn't been parked in front
of her house, awaiting her return. Laura was reassured that she wasn't
that great a story. But her conversation with Kenny was uppermost in
her mind. She hustled back to her new study, which still smelled of
fresh paint. Her briefcase sat on the desktop.

She plowed into it, rustling papers until she produced what she
wanted.

The photocopies of James Stanley's travel records on the night of the
murder hadn't seemed very significant to her when Craig Fannin had
distributed them in their meeting. She had taken for granted that
Stanley had been where he said he was--the two phone calls that showed
up on the hotel bill had been especially convincing. She had no more
than glanced at the papers since.

But now, in the light of Kenny's contempt of "paper alibis," there were
a couple of things that struck her as odd.

There had to be at least twenty nonstop flights every day between
Atlanta and Charlotte, North Carolina; the two cities were the chief
engines of economic growth in the Southeast region.

So why had James Stanley booked a flight with a stopover in Greenville,
South Carolina? To save money? Laura logged on to the Internet, and
checked out a travel service. She sampled fares for nonstop flights to
Charlotte, from the cheapest advance-purchase deal available to the
full-price ticket. She repeated the process, adding a stopover in
Greenville--it was hardly worth flying to Greenville, it was so close
to Atlanta--and she found what she suspected: it cost more to fly to
Charlotte through the connecting city than it did to fly directly. The
reason, she knew, was simple economics: with a large supply of seats
available from Atlanta to Charlotte, the airlines were eager to
discount. But there was scarcely any traffic on the
Atlanta-to-Greenville and the Greenville-to-Charlotte routes, so prices
were higher, with few discount fares available. So there was no
economic reason for Stanley to have traveled through Greenville. Could
he have had a meeting there? He certainly hadn't mentioned it. Laura
checked the flight times. If Stanley had scheduled a meeting in
Greenville, it had to have been a fast one: there was less than a half
hour between the arrival of the flight from Atlanta and its departure
for Charlotte.

Laura felt distinctly satisfied with what she had found, despite the
fact that it was after one a.m. when she switched off her computer and
headed for bed. She knew, or thought she knew, how James Stanley had
been in two places at once: he hadn't. He had gotten off that plane in
Greenville and returned to Atlanta, where he killed his wife. There
was, of course, the hotel record from Charlotte, and the phone calls
from there to Atlanta--but these were only details. Laura knew she had
her man.
CHAPTER 10

On Memorial Day weekend Laura had made no plans to honor the unofficial
start of summer; holidays had a way of creeping up on her. She could
easily have driven home to Nashville, but her parents were in Virginia,
visiting her mother's college roommate.

Laura's calendar was blank until Tuesday.

It was just as well, she reflected as she rose from her bed Saturday
morning; she was eager to pursue her sleuthing. After a hasty
breakfast, she flipped through the telephone directory, searching out
the number of the airline that had carried James Stanley to Charlotte
via Greenville. There was a benefit to its being a holiday weekend,
from Laura's point of view: the airlines would be fully staffed, as if
it were a normal workday. Airline employees lived in a curious
inside-out world where everyone else's holidays were their peak
stress-inducing times. It's a pity for them, Laura reflected as she
dialed the number, fully prepared to add to some airline employee's
burden of work.

After hacking through the jungle of choices on the computerized
switchboard, and running a gamut of uninterested humans, Laura was
transferred to Operations.

"Wendy Mays," a tired voice answered.

"Hello, Ms. Mays. This is Laura Chastain from the Fulton County
district attorney's office ..." she began.

"Oh, let me transfer you to Security," said Wendy Mays.

"No! I don't need Security. I need flight information ..."

"That's 1-800-FLY NOW1 Wendy said helpfully.

"No, not that kind of flight information. I need to know the details
of a flight from two weeks ago--when it actually took off and when it
landed. And I need a passenger manifest," she added casually, knowing
that she had as much chance of getting that without a warrant as she
did of getting a date with Brad Pitt.

"Oh," Wendy hesitated.

"That's not really in my area. Could you call back on Tuesday? I'm
sure someone will be here who can help you then."

"No. This is in connection with a murder investigation. It's
urgent."

There was a moment's hesitation, then capitulation. Laura knew that
the magic words "murder investigation" were capable of getting results
where none normally would be forthcoming.

Most people welcome the opportunity to be part of something outside the
scope of their everyday lives, and a real, live murder would make a
great story at the dinner table. Wendy was only partially hooked,
however.

"I see. Well, how do I know you're for real? You could be just
anyone, and say you're a district attorney."

"Of course. I could come down there," Laura volunteered, "and pick up
the information in person. I could show you ID then."

Wendy surrendered.

"Okay. Give me the flight numbers and the dates. I'll have to check
with my supervisor about the manifest, though."

"That's cool. Maybe I can talk to her when I'm down there.

Could you give me directions to your offices," Laura said, fumbling for
a scrap of paper. She wrote down the convoluted instructions, and
promised to be there in an hour.

Atlanta's Hartsfield International was a city unto itself. All the
airlines had offices there, in addition to the offices of the
airfreight companies, and the FAA, the security force, and the
caterers. Laura wound through a maze of buildings looking for the
address she needed, amazed at the sheer expanse of the place. She
reached her destination without trouble, and pulled into a parking
space marked Visitor. She had remembered to bring her official
identification badge, which was a good thing, because the security
guard inside the building seemed to suspect her of smuggling cocaine in
her briefcase.

"I'm here to see Wendy Mays. She's expecting me," Laura explained.

Still suspicious, the guard dialed Wendy's extension. After about five
minutes, Wendy herself appeared, a plump, cheerful blonde.

"Oh, hey. Miss Chastain," she said.
"I got the information you wanted. I mean, I got some of it, but my
supervisor said uh-uh, no way to the passenger manifest. Sorry. She
says she needs a warrant to let you see that."

"That's okay; I can always get one if I need it. What do you have?"

Wendy produced a report on several pages of paper.

"Okay, this is not easy to follow. I highlighted the stuff I think
you're interested in. Flight 1614 was scheduled to leave here at 5:50
p.m.

on May 8. The actual time of departure was 5:56, and it landed in
Greenville at 6:39 p.m. The connecting flight to Charlotte was
scheduled to leave at 6:57, but you see here that it was delayed-that
code means 'equipment problem." It looks like they replaced a faulty
electrical relay. The flight actually took off at 7:50 p.m., and
landed in Charlotte at 8:23 p.m. Is this what you needed?"

"Wendy, I think I'm gonna kiss you!" Laura said. James Stanley's
flight landed eighteen minutes after his receipt showed that he had
checked into the hotel at 8:05. Laura's heart yo-yoed in her chest,
and her hands shook.

Wendy shrank away from her.

"Was the murderer on this flight?" she asked, whispering so the guard
wouldn't hear.

"So he claims," Laura said, "but he can't have been! Wendy, you've
been a big help. Tell your supervisor I won't be needing that manifest
after all." She wrung Wendy's hand gratefully and took off, trying not
to break into a run.

Back in the car, Laura took out her hated cellular phone. Talking on
it always made her feel like a big, fat jerk--Meredith complained that
there was no point in her having one, since she kept it turned off all
the time. But she couldn't wait to get home to make this call.

"Homicide," a burly voice answered.

"Is Carlton Hemingway working today?" she asked.

"Nope," came the reply.

"I can give him a message."

"Can you page him?"

"That depends on who's asking."

"Laura Chastain, with the Fulton County district attorney."

"Oh, I know you--you're the girl who killed Jeff Williams!"

"Well, yes, I am. I also won first place in the Tennessee senior essay
contest when I was in high school. I'd prefer to be famous for that,
if it's all the same to you."

"No, it's just that I knew Jeff. He was a really bad dude."
"No kidding. Detective... ? I don't think I caught your name," Laura
said.

"Sergeant Eldredge, Howard Eldredge. What do you need Hemingway
for?"

"It's something that's turned up on the Christine Stanley murder.

I think he'd want to know."

"That's Randy Travers's case--I could page him," Eldredge
volunteered.

"No, this is something Carlton wanted me to follow up on with him,"
Laura fibbed, not wanting to deal with Travers.

"Okay, I'll page him. What's your number?"

Laura read it off the phone; she had never bothered to memorize it.

"Tell him it's urgent, please."

"You got it."

Laura started the car and headed for the expressway that would take her
back to town, hoping that she could get there before Carlton called
her. She wasn't so lucky; the little phone cheeped at her while she
was still on the interstate. Despite her often-repeated condemnation
of people who tried to talk on the phone while they drove, Laura picked
up.

"Carlton? That you?"

"I got your page. What's up?"

She told him, as briefly as possible, her story, punctuated by the
honking horn of the driver behind her.

"Just go on and pass, Mister Man!" she said.

"Excuse me?" Carlton said.

"Not you. I'm on 1-85, and I'm causing road rage. All I want to tell
you is that I've found out that James Stanley's alibi is bogus--the
records Fannin gave us have him checking into the hotel before his
plane landed."

"You're kidding! Where did you get this?"

"Straight from the airline's mouth! I'm on my way back from their
offices now. Where are you?"

"My place, just off Cascade."

"Mind if I drop by? I'm coming up on your exit."

"Sure, come on," he said, and gave her directions.

Carlton lived in an area populated by Atlanta's large and prosperous
black middle class. It was a place few Northsiders visited, but Laura
had no trouble finding the garden apartment complex where he lived. She
parked her shabby car between a Lexus and an Audi. Carlton waved to
her from his door. He was as neatly dressed on his day off as he was
when he was working. Strains of jazz floated from the apartment behind
him.

"What are you doing investigating and on a holiday weekend to boot?" he
asked with a grin.

"I just got this idea, and I couldn't let it rest. Let me show you."

"Can I get you something? I just made a pot of coffee," he offered.

"Coffee would be great I like a good bit of milk, if you've got it."

"Sure," he said, and headed into the kitchen, leaving Laura to survey
his bachelor pad. It was neat as a pin, and dominated by stereo
equipment. Carlton quickly returned with two mugs of coffee.

"Okay, here's the deal," Laura began.

"Did you notice that Stanley made a stopover in Greenville on the way
to Charlotte?

I wondered about that did he do it to save money? Obviously not,
because that ticket actually cost him more than a nonstop flight would
have. So I thought maybe he had a meeting in Green ville, but that
didn't wash, either: the flight for Charlotte was scheduled to take off
after less than thirty minutes on the ground.

Then here's the kicker I went to the airline to confirm the actual
times of departures and arrivals. Look here." She showed him the
report with Wendy's explanatory highlights.

"The hotel record shows check-in at 8:05, but the flight didn't touch
the ground until 8:23! He could not possibly have been there before
nine at the earliest!"

Carlton took it in slowly. He surveyed the airline report care fully,
comparing it to the photocopies of Stanley's ticket, which Laura had
also produced. Then he nodded.

"You're right. He's lying, unless the hotel record is in error. Let's
see could they have been off by an hour because of daylight saving
time?"

"Nope. That changes in April. Surely they would have caught it before
May 8. Anyway, it's 'spring ahead," isn't it? Which would make his
check-in time an hour later."

"It could be just a clerical error," Carlton said, still dubious.

"Think so? Then here's another brain-teaser: James Stanley says he
checked in, went straight up to the room, and called home right away.
But do you see when his first phone call home was made?"
"Nine-fifteen."

"I say we need to go up there and talk to the people at the hotel to
find out for sure.

"I don't know. We're kind of short-handed, and Randy has a lot on his
plate."

"Then you can go. I'll go with you. Meredith will give me the time
off. It's just a day trip come on, Carlton, we have to go!"

"I'll talk to Randy about it."

"You do that, but tell him that I'm driving to Charlotte first thing
Tuesday morning with or without you."

Carlton chuckled.

"He's gonna love that. You give me your home number, and I'll let you
know if you have a driving companion

They finished their coffee, and talked about work for a while.

Pretty soon it was lunchtime, and Carlton suggested a trip to a
barbecue place he knew. Laura agreed, and offered to drive.

"Is that really your car?" Carlton asked, surveying the old Toyota
dubiously.

"Yes. Why?"

"Let's take mine," he suggested, leading her to a shiny Nissan.

"I know the way."

"You just don't want to be seen by your neighbors in a beater!

Snob!" she accused him laughingly.

They lingered over Harold's spicy ribs and iced tea until well after
two o'clock. Laura looked at her watch.

"I should head on home," she said reluctantly.

"This has been fun." It had been. It was the first time she had spent
time with someone who knew nothing about Tom, or Jeff Williams and the
whole horrible thing.

Carlton didn't treat her like she was made of crystal that could
shatter at any moment.

"We'll do it again," Carlton said.

"And I'll call you about Tuesday. But one thing: if we do go to
Charlotte, we take my car.

That's nonnegotiable."

"Okay, okay just as long as we go. See you then." She cranked up her
shameful old wreck, and headed home happier than she had been in
weeks.
CHAPTER 11

Gwinnett County lies to the northeast of Atlanta, with Interstate 1-85
running through it like a vein that each morning bleeds half the
county's population south to the city. Not so long before Laura had
moved to Atlanta, Gwinnett had been an amiably slow place, dotted with
small hamlets like Snellville and Duluth. Now, it was a terrifying
object lesson in the evils of unregulated development.

Strip malls, office parks, and tree-hating developers had turned the
old fields and pastures into a carbon-monoxide-spewing knot of roads
and acres of parking lots. Laura never passed through the place
without wondering how anyone lived there and kept sane.

People seemed to like it, though; the building boom was still going
full tilt, despite the best efforts of irate residents. Still, if you
wandered off the highways a bit, you could find a touch of the old
Gwinnett, just as Laura and Carlton Hemingway found themselves early
Tuesday morning, driving through a town in eastern Gwinnett that still
had some claims to rural credibility, if not charm.

"This is the kind of place that makes me nervous," Carlton said,
gripping the steering wheel tightly.

"They're not used to seeing a black man in a nice car out here."

"Oh, I don't think they're so backward--this is all suburban Atlanta
now."

Carlton harumphed at Laura's naivete.

"I'm just glad I have a badge. Where is this guy's house anyway?"

"The way I read the map, it's about a mile farther on this road;

then we turn right onto Meeting House Road. He's at 1367 Meeting
House."
They were on their way to visit Jesse DuPree, who had been out of town
the previous week and unavailable for an interview.

Randy Travers had reluctantly given permission for the expedition to
Charlotte only on the condition that they stop off in Gwinnett and talk
to Jesse on the way. They were traveling east on a two-lane state road
lined by small brick ranch houses with scraggly lawns that were home to
chipped birdbaths, powerboats on trailers, and the occasional sleepy
yard dog. They had left the new subdivisions, with their malls and
mini mansions back to the west.

"Here's the turnoff," Laura said.

"Slow down and let me look for the address."

Jesse DuPree's house was as modest as its neighbors, but the presence
of a black BMW in the drive announced that its resident had
aspirations, possibly of the wrong kind.

"Here we are," she said.

"Gun business must be pretty good," she added, inclining her head at
the car.

"Probably on lease," Carlton sniffed.

"Probably spends his whole paycheck on it."

Laura laughed.

"Carlton, you are a hard man."

"Well, just look at this place--run down, no grass in the yard, old
washing machine in the side yard. If he could afford that car,
wouldn't he live in a better place?"

"I bet this is his mama's house," Laura said.

"He probably looks after her. Come on, we're wasting time speculating
anyway."

They approached the front porch after crossing the bald front yard.
Jesse answered the door before they could knock. Laura remembered what
Lynette had said about Jesse's "talents"--she could see now what
Lynette had meant. Jesse was one good-looking country boy, with black
curly hair and eyes as blue as the neon in a beer sign. His spanking
white T-shirt was just tight enough to hint at a muscular form beneath,
and he stood with the hip-cocked confidence of a man who knew just
where his own talents lay.

"Hey," he said, flashing a friendly grin.

"I've been waiting for you; I didn't want you to ring the bell--my
mama's still asleep." Laura poked Carlton with her elbow.

Jesse led them into the small but neat living room and offered coffee,
which Laura accepted and Carlton refused. Jesse continued talking
cheerfully from the kitchen.

"I sure am sorry that y'all had to come all the way out here. I wish
I'd a known last week that you wanted to talk to me. I surely would
have come downtown to see you before I went to Florida.
"Course, I knew about Lynette's sister being killed before I left, but
I had no idea that y'all would think she had anything to do with it."
He reappeared with two mugs in his hands.

"You sure you won't have coffee. Detective?

Anyway, that is why you're here, I guess to ask me about Lynette."

"In part, Mr. DuPree," Carlton said, not falling for the charm.

"We need to know a few things about you and your relationship to the
Connell family, too."

Jesse shrugged as he sat down.

"Not much to tell. The old man bought a rifle from me 'bout this time
last year. It was a custom job, so I had to go over there and see him
several times. That's how I met Lynette. Have y'all met her?" They
both nodded.

"Well, then you don't need me to explain why I wanted to get to know
her better. She's the best-looking gal I ever dated, that's for
sure."

He grimaced in mock regret.

"She didn't have much use for me, I guess. We went out a few times I
even went with her to a couple of her horse shows. But I didn't mix
very well with her horse friends. Except the ones who hunted they
thought I was all right."

"Did you meet James Stanley through your acquaintance with Miss
Connell?" Carlton was speaking with stilted formality, in contrast to
Jesse's drawling candor.

"Sure, a coupla times. He's got a corncob the size of a white pine up
his ... Sorry, miss," he said with a wink.

"He didn't have any use for me a'tall. None a'tall," he reflected,
seeming to muse on the injustice of it.

"I don't have much money, and James does like money. Hell, don't we
all? But he really likes the stuff. Soon as he found out I was just
an old cracker from Gwinnett, he was done with me." Another wink.

"Not that I minded. I got no use for a man who doesn't hunt, and James
Stanley definitely ain't the hunting type."

"Did James Stanley ever approach you about buying a gun?"

Carlton asked.

"No, not really. I showed him a few pieces, and he seemed interested,
but he never bought one not from me anyway. I don't deal in handguns
in a big way just a few pieces of historic interest. Lemme show you
what I mean." Jesse rose and crossed the room to a locked steel safe.
He unlocked it and produced a box.

"This is about the only handgun I have in stock now," he said as he
opened the box. Inside was a leather-holstered gun of incredibly evil
appearance.

"It's a Walther P-38, a genuine Nazi sidearm." He withdrew it from the
holster and displayed it.

"You ever seen one of these? I get my hands on one from time to
time-lotta old vets out this way brought these back from Europe. When
they die, the widows call me about selling the guns."

"Was this the kind of gun James Stanley looked at?" Laura asked.

"Something similar. I believe it mighta been Soviet, World War II
vintage. Those are rarer." Jesse hefted the gun one last time, then
replaced it in its box.

"Do you know if he contacted any other dealers?" Carlton asked.

"No. That's not to say he didn't. I just don't know. I could ask
around if you'd like."

"That won't be necessary. Laura, did you have any questions for Mr.
DuPree?"

"Call me Jesse, please. Mr. DuPree was my daddy, and he's dead." He
grinned in a way that Laura supposed might be charming, maybe after a
couple of drinks.

"Yes. I'd like to know if Lynette Connell ever discussed her sister's
marriage with you."

"Sure. She hated of' James. Talked about it all the time. It made
her madder 'n hell that he was spending her daddy's money on country
clubs and that big house. Didn't seem to bother the old man any, but
Lynette acted like it was her money."

"I see. Did she ever tell you that her sister was thinking about
leaving her husband?"

"Nope. I only met Christine a time or two. She was a real sweet
girl--short and blonde, didn't look a thing like Lynette--but it never
struck me that she was unhappy with her husband. Not that he was any
prize, of course, but I can usually tell when a woman's not being taken
care of. She didn't strike me as particularly unhappy in that
department." He grinned at Laura.

Carlton cleared his throat.

"Mr. DuPree, would you tell us where you were on the night of May
8?"

"Sure. I was out at Foley's--that's a bar in Dacula."

"Can you remember when you arrived there?"

"I had dinner there, so it was probably about eight. Then I went to
the bar and watched the baseball game for a while."

"Anyone with you?"
"Not at first," Jesse leered.

"But I went home with a gal. You want her name? It's Deanna Sutton. I
don't have her home number--lost it--but she works at the checkout at
the Publix on Hamilton Mill. She's probably there now," he added
helpfully.

Carlton stood up, and Laura followed.

"One more question, Mr. DuPree," Carlton asked.

"What size shoe do you wear?"

"Eleven and a half," Jesse said with a lewd wink in Laura's direction.
He stuck a Gucci-loafered foot up in the air.

"Want to check?"

"No, thanks," Carlton said.

"That's all I have for now, Mr.

DuPree, but we may need to talk to you again." He handed Jesse one of
his cards.

"Be sure to call me if you plan to go out of town again."

"Will do. And you call me any of' time, you hear?" He addressed this
to Laura. It must just be a reflex with him, she thought.

If it's female, he flirts with it.

"We'll do that," she said, and they left.

Carlton backed the car carefully from the driveway.

"What did you think?" Laura asked him.

"Not much. These people sure are good at collecting alibis, aren't
they?"

"His seems to fit him pretty well. He doesn't deal in handguns--I
guess that kind of lets him off the hook, too."

"Not necessarily. Those European sidearms are all nine mil lies

The ballistics guys at the crime lab are having some trouble telling
what kind of weapon fired the bullet--could be that it was an antique.
I'll give 'em a call when we get to Charlotte. In the meantime, I
guess we should stop by that grocery store and talk to that girl who
slept with DuPree."

"We can get there without getting back on the Interstate," Laura said,
surveying her map.

"Head west on 20 to 316, then go north to Hamilton Mill Road."

The parking lot of the Publix was crowded, even on a weekday morning.
It looked like an SUV dealer's lot.

"What do these people think they need these tanks for?" Carlton
groused.

"I can't even see around the damn things to find a parking place. Do
they think the Ice Age is coming back? Do they go moose-hunting on the
weekends?"

"I think they only thing they hunt is a good cappuccino," Laura said.

"There's a spot. You want me to come with you?"
"Yes. I don't want to know what these people would say to a black man
coming in, asking to talk to a white girl."

"A, you don't know that she's white .. ." Carlton snorted in
disagreement, and gestured to the all-white shoppers.

"And B/ you are just too paranoid about the suburbs. I came into your
neighborhood, didn't I? I didn't think that I was going to be jumped
by gang members."

"Of course not not where I live!"

"Well, this is where these people live. They're not wearing sheets,
Carlton."

Carlton snorted again and let Laura enter the store ahead of him. They
took a moment to orient themselves to the cavernous interior of the
store. There was nothing like a new suburban grocery store, complete
with cafe, bakery, deli, salad bar, pharmacy, and florist.

"What if you just want a can of corn?" Carlton mused.

"There's the office. Let's find a manager."

A young man with a lush mustache confirmed that Deanna Sutton worked
there, and that she was working her shift.

"But I can't take her off her register until her break, which is in
about five minutes. Can you wait?"

"We'll get some coffee," Laura said.

"Send her to the cafe when she gets off, if you don't mind."

Deanna Sutton, when she shuffled into the cafe, was a surprise.

Laura had been expecting big hair and long nails, but Deanna was fully
Goth in a Gwinnett County sort of way. Her shingled hair was dyed dark
as a raven's wing, streaked with magenta and center-parted. She
sported a pierced nostril. Her black "Dead Can Dance" T-shirt looked
odd beneath the cheery green apron she wore.

"You wanted to talk to me?" she sighed.

Carlton flashed his detective's badge.

"Carlton Hemingway, Atlanta Police Department. And this is Laura
Chastain with the Fulton County district attorney's office. We'd like
to ask you some questions about your whereabouts on the night of May
8."

"May 8. When was that?"

"Two weeks ago," Carlton said, exasperated.

"It was a Thurs day night."

Deanna did some mental calculating.

"Oh. Yeah. Me and my friend went to Foley's."

"Did you meet anyone there?"

"Yeah. Jesse something."
"And did you spend some time with him?"

"Yeah. We went back to his place. I live with my mom. So does he,
but she's so old she doesn't care if he has people over.

What did he do?"

"Nothing. Did you spend the whole night with him?"

"From about ten o'clock, yeah. I thought he was cute, but he turned
out to be such a redneck. God."

Carlton looked at Laura and rolled his eyes.

"I think that's all we need. Give me your home address and phone
number, in case we need to contact you again. And here's my card."

Back in the parking lot, Carlton laughed.

"What do you think her problem is?"

"Rebel without a cause. She's stuck here in Dacula, dreaming of the
Yorkshire moors."

"I wonder what'll happen to her."

"Not much."

They got back in the car, secured their coffee cups, and headed for the
Interstate. Charlotte was about a four-hour drive from where they
were.

"Would you mind some music?" Carlton asked "Bring it on," Laura
replied.

Carlton slid a CD into the player, and a few tinkling piano notes
sounded. A familiar tenor voice started singing.

"Bet you don't know who this is," Carlton said, pleased with himself.

Uh-oh, Laura thought another jazz fan. Only one way to deal with
'em.

"Nat King Cole Trio Nat on piano and vocals, Oscar Moore on guitar. I
forget the bass player's name. This recording was made in the McGregor
studios between 1941 and 1945 as a radio transcription." Hemingway
looked so crestfallen that Laura had to laugh.

"Sorry, I'm cheating I've just been lectured on Nat's early career by
another fan. You know Amos Kowalski?"

"He's in Sex Crimes, yeah. Are you and he ... ?"

"No," she said, too vehemently.

"I mean, he's a great friend, but I recently lost someone, and I'm not
back in the game just yet."

"Yeah, I remember when all that happened. It's a shame they had to
drag all that up again. It's got nothing to do with the case you're
working on now."

"What do you mean, drag it back up?"

Carlton looked stricken.

"You didn't read the paper this morning?"
"No. I have it in my briefcase. Oh, my God, are you saying they
printed something?"

"It's no big deal, really. Just Andy Martin's column, and no one reads
that."

"You did," Laura said grimly as she fished her case off the backseat
and pulled out the folded newspaper. Andy Martin wrote a column which
usually appeared on the second page of the local section. Laura
furiously ruffled through the paper to find it. There it was:

PROSECUTOR NO STRANGER TO MURDER

The murder of Christine Stanley shocked and horrified Brookhaven a few
weeks ago, almost--but not quite--dimming the memory of another crime,
equally horrible, that took place there just a few months ago. Now, in
a strange coincidence, a major player in that earlier drama has become
a central figure in the investigation of Christine Stanley's death.

It was a rainy night in December. Laura Chastain, a promising
associate at the prestigious law firm of Prendergrast and Crawley, was
preparing to celebrate her latest courtroom victory at the firm's
annual Christmas party. Laura had won a dismissal of charges against
Jeff Williams, an Atlanta detective accused of murdering a suspect in
his custody. By the time the evening ended, Laura would know that her
client was guilty of that murder and several others--including the
brutal stabbing death of Laura's mentor at Prendergrast and Crawley,
Tom Bailey. She would also nearly lose her own life.

The story went on to describe, in thrilling detail, what had taken
place on that night. Laura skipped over it; no one needed to remind
her of what had taken place in her own living room.

She read the last paragraph aloud in a bitter tone.

Laura Chastain lost everything she cared about that night--her career,
her lover, and her best friend. Her friends expected her to give up
practicing law, but they were wrong. Laura Chastain, according to one
former colleague, is determined to right the wrongs committed on that
rainy night.

"I think she feels that everything that happened was preventable, if
she had just listened to the people
around her," says this former co-worker.

"She really didn't have enough experience to take on a case like Jeff
Williams."

Laura felt heat rising in her face. Who at PC would dare speak to a
reporter about her? Libby Arnold, of course--that old cow would relish
the opportunity to take one more slap at her.

Or maybe it was that prissy girl in Securities--what was her name? It
had to have been a woman, at any rate. Her relationship with Tom--the
professional one as much as the personal--had inspired much envious
gossip. She forced herself to read on through her anger.

Laura has now joined the Fulton County District Attorney's office,
where she can prosecute criminals who caused others the pain she knows
all too well.

"I respect Laura Chastain," says Craig Fannin, who represents the
husband of Christine Stanley.

"She's a good lawyer and a fine person. I only hope that her need for
revenge doesn't lead her to the wrong conclusion in this case."

Laura snapped the paper shut.

"Revenge? Do I strike you as a woman on the hunt for revenge,
Carlton?"

"Don't let it get to you," he said.

"I thought the article was kind of nice--you came across well."

"I come across as a revenge-seeking head case! That's what Fannin
wanted people to think, anyway."

"Fannin's just trying to distract everyone's attention from his
client."

"Well, it won't work. What happened back then has nothing to do with
this case--except that I think it makes me a better prosecutor."

"I think so, too. I think it's just a shame you had to go through all
that. I know you miss your boyfriend. I'm real sorry it happened."

"So am I, Carlton. So am I," she said, turning her head to stare at
the passing roadside as Nat sang a Johnny Mercer lyric.
CHAPTER 12

The road from Atlanta to Charlotte is not a beautiful one. Virtually
the entire length of the Interstate between the two points is an
exurban, semi industrialized landscape of warehouses, office parks,
motels, and outlet malls. The beauty of South and North Carolina is
reserved for the traveler who departs from the main road. But if speed
is paramount, the hapless driver has no choice but to soldier through
the blight. There are some beauty spots along the way, of course, and
the Big Peach at Gaffney, South Carolina, provides at least comic
relief. All the same, Laura was glad when the sign announcing the exit
that would take them to the Charlotte Marriott appeared by the side of
the road.

The hotel itself was nothing out of the ordinary, a multi story pile of
concrete and glass set between the airport and downtown.

Laura and Carlton parked and emerged from the car cramped and wilted.

"You got a plan for this?" Laura asked him He shrugged.

"Just to ask for the manager, I guess. Ready?"

"I'd like to powder my nose first. I'll meet you at the desk."

The lobby was dark after the glaring light of the late-spring day.
Laura blinked and oriented herself. She found the restrooms without
trouble and returned to find Carlton leaning on the checkin desk,
tapping the case that held his shield impatiently on its faux marble
surface.

"They're getting someone to talk to us," he said.

"I hope whoever he is that he's quicker on the uptake than the desk
clerk."

As he spoke, the clerk reemerged from the office behind the counter
with a middle-aged man who looked authoritative, if not impressive, in
thick eyeglasses and the uniform Marriott blazer.
"I'm Lloyd Batey," he announced.

"I'm the assistant manager on duty now. Can I help you. Officer ...
?"

"Detective Hemingway, Atlanta Police Department. And this is Laura
Chastain with the Fulton County district attorney. I need to ask you a
few questions about a guest who registered here on the night of May 8.
Can we go someplace where we can talk?"

"Certainly," Lloyd Batey said graciously.

"Come around to the side door and I'll let you into the office." The
office was a ramble of desks placed in the open, and a cubicle for the
assistant manager in the corner. The door to the general manager's
office, Laura noted, was firmly closed against the noise and bustle.
There was barely room for three adults in Batey's corner, but they man
aged to squeeze in.

"Now, what can I do you for?" he asked amiably.

Carlton produced a copy of James Stanley's receipt.

"Is this from your hotel?"

"Yes," Batey said, peering at it.

"It surely is."

"Did you happen to be on duty when Mr. Stanley checked in?"

"No, no, I never work in the evenings. That night Ms. De Marco would
have been on duty. I could call her ..."

"I don't think we need to do that just yet, Mr. Batey. We're curious
about the time that's noted for the check-in." Batey peered once again
at the document.

"It says 8:05 p.m. is that correct?"

"Yes."

"And does the record appear to have been altered in any way?"

"Well, it's not the original copy, but let me look it up on the
computer." He frowningly tapped at his keyboard.

"Here it is.

No, our record agrees with your copy 8:05 it was. What is this all
about?"

"We're not sure. Could your computer's clock have been in error?"

"No."

"You sound very sure of that, Mr. Batey."

"I am, and I'll tell you why. Our wake-up call system is run off this
same computer, and if it's off by as much as five minutes we catch
hell." Lloyd Batey was very firm on this point.

"You couldn't have been off by exactly one hour because of daylight
savings, or something like that?"
"No. If ever we do get off and I can't say I remember a time when we
ever have been the error would be caught and corrected very quickly.
No, if your Mr. Stanley says he was here at 8:05, he was." Batey
settled back in his chair with a stubborn expression on his face.

Laura ventured a question.

"Could someone have changed the clock just for this one check-in maybe
as a special request from a good customer and then changed it back
right away, before anyone noticed?"

"No. That is, I doubt it ... It seems to me that a systems manager
would be the only one who would have the password to do that."

"Is there a systems manager working today?" she probed.

"Of course."

"Could you call him or her? This is terribly important, Mr.

Batey."

Lloyd pondered her request for a minute, then nodded. He picked up his
phone and punched in an extension.

"Wayne? Can you get up here to my office? I have the Atlanta police
here asking some questions about our systems." He hung up.

"Wayne'll be right up."

Wayne proved to be a lanky youngster in khakis and a plaid shirt. Laura
supposed that the systems guys couldn't be persuaded to wear the
polyester blazer and black slacks that the other employees sported, and
she admired his independence.

"Whassup?" he asked, glancing at her and at Carlton.

"This is Wayne Catrall. Wayne, these good folks want to know if the
time stamp on a check-in could be altered."

"Sure," Wayne said.

"If you have the password and can get into the systems files."

"Who has the passwords?" Carlton asked.

"Me, Danny Demopoulos he works the night shift in Systems and the
general manager."

"No one else?" Carlton asked, skeptical.

"No one," Wayne said firmly.

"Look, just tell me what the problem is and maybe I can help you
better."

Carlton explained the discrepancy in the flight arrival and the
check-in times.

"Your record says the check-in was at 8:05, but the plane James Stanley
took wasn't even on the ground then.

The airline records can't be wrong those times are from FAA reports.
And Stanley also says that he called his wife as soon as he got into
the room, but you can see his first call wasn't until nine-fifteen. We
can't explain either discrepancy."

Wayne nodded.

"I see. Lemme get at your computer, Lloyd."

Lloyd yielded his seat to the younger man and plastered himself against
the wall to make room. Wayne's fingers flew, and the computer
responded with beeps and clicks.

"I'm looking at check ins just before and just after this one," he
explained.

"Nope, nothing unusual. Let me see ..." He paused for a moment and
resumed his communication with the machine.

"Okay, here's something. I don't know if this is important. It looks
like your guy Stanley checked in with one credit card, but presented a
different one at checkout."

"What does that mean?" Carlton asked.

"Nothing, maybe. It happens all the time--they switch from their
business to their personal cards, or vice versa. People are just funny
that way. But here's the strange thing--he checked in on a card that's
issued to James T. Stanley, but checked out on one that's in the name
of James A. Stanley."

Laura felt her excitement growing.

"Can you check the billing addresses for those cards?"

Wayne hesitated for the first time.

"We'd have to call the issuer.

I'd be happy to, if ..." He glanced at Lloyd for approbation.

"I don't know," Lloyd said.

"Those records are pretty private."

"Look, Mr. Batey," Laura said, "I appreciate your scruples, but this
is a murder investigation. I can always get a warrant."

Once again, the words murder investigation worked their magic.

Lloyd suddenly became a co-conspirator.

"I don't suppose it would hurt. Wayne, would you make that call?"

"Sure." Laura shifted impatiently in her seat as Wayne looked up the
toll-free numbers of the credit card issuers, and as he sweet-talked
the operators. Amidst a lot of "uh-huhs'and "yeahs," he jotted down
information. When he finally hung up, Laura was in a state of nervous
tension.

"Well," Wayne drawled.

"Got something.

James T. Stanley is from Winston-Salem, but James A. Stanley has an
Atlanta address." He shoved the paper across the desk so that she and
Carlton could see it.

Once Laura had been in a department store, standing next to a
glass-sided escalator. Something had apparently caught in a seam of
the glass panels, and in the moving treads of the stairs.

As the stairs advanced and the stress increased, the glass panel
shattered. Laura remembered how the cracks had spread across the
pane, and the tinkling sound the fragments made as they crashed down on
the marble floor. Her tension cracked and shattered just like that.

She jumped to her feet.

"That's it!" she declared.

"An accomplice!"

Wayne grinned.

"No shit! Is this all for real?"

"It's very real," Laura said.

"We're going to have to ask you two to say nothing about this, of
course," she added, regaining her composure somewhat.

"My lips are sealed," Wayne promised.

"Anything else you need?"

Carlton asked for a list of employees who had been on duty that night,
and asked Lloyd if there was some way of determining which clerk had
actually checked James T. Stanley into the hotel, and which waiter had
taken his dinner up. Lloyd agreed to check the records, and Wayne
headed back to his basement redoubt after shaking hands with Laura and
Carlton. The really nice thing about a murder investigation is that it
brightens so many lives, Laura thought ruefully. Now Wayne and Lloyd
and Wendy Mays all had great stories because to them, of course, it was
just a story.

They weren't dealing with the memory of Christine Stanley's
blood-soaked family room, and the pitiful reminders of her last evening
a magazine and a pint of ice cream.

I'm doing it for you, Christine, Laura vowed. I'm not going to let him
get away with this.
CHAPTER 13

Laura was beside herself in the parking lot. She tugged at Carlton's
sleeve in her eagerness to get back in the car and head for
Winston-Salem right away. Carlton was less keen on the idea.

"Let's dial down a minute here," he urged her.

"I want to call Randy and put him in the picture on this. If we go on
up there, we might have to spend the night, and he might not be so
thrilled about that."

"Oh, so he'd rather let a killer get away than pay for a night in a
hotel? You can tell him I'll pay for it, if that's his beef."

"Don't be ridiculous--he won't buck at the cost if he thinks this thing
is for real. Anyway, I'm not getting back on that highway until I have
some lunch in me. Let's find a nice place to sit down and eat
something; then we can call Atlanta. We'll get along much better if
you let me eat regularly. I don't like to go too long between
feedings."

Laura conceded, reluctantly, and they set off in search of a place to
eat. Carlton rejected all the fast-food places, and recoiled in horror
when Laura pointed out a Cracker Barrel Country Store.

Finally, they were able to agree on a Shoney's. Carlton once again
made a show of nervousness about being seen with a white girl, but
Laura blew off his objections unsympathetically.

"It's not Denny's, okay?" she said as she shouldered her purse and
swung her legs out of the car door.

"No one is going to think a thing about us, unless it's that we're two
coworkers out for lunch. Now, come on."

Laura was right; no one paid them the least attention. After waiting
patiently for five minutes, she grabbed the hostess and asked for a
nonsmoking table. It was after the lunch rush, and the hostess seemed
most unenthusiastic about seating two latecomers, regardless of their
races. She led them wearily to a booth and plopped down menus in front
of them, and they ordered as soon as a waitress approached. Carlton
asked for the salad bar, but Laura ordered a bacon cheeseburger.

"Road food," she explained.

"Oh, that makes sense--take in as many calories as you can while you're
sitting immobile in a car all day," he remarked.

"You do it your way, I'll do it mine. Are you going to call Detective
Travers?"

"May as well." Carlton produced a sleek cellular phone and dialed his
boss. Laura nibbled her fries as she listened to Carlton's account of
their day so far. He fell silent, apparently listening to Travers.
Finally, he gave Laura a thumbs-up.

"Okay, we'll go on to Winston-Salem and find this clown. Oh, one more
thing--Jesse DuPree has an alibi; he was with a girl. But one thing
did come out when we talked to him: he deals in antique weapons,
especially Nazi and Soviet military sidearms. DuPree says Stanley was
interested in buying a Soviet piece. That could explain why the
ballistics don't match any known weapon. I'll call you again after
we've seen this guy. If it goes late, we might have to spend the night
up here." He refolded his little phone.

"Happy now?" he said to Laura.

"We get to drive some more."

"Carlton, I swear you sound as if you're not excited about this."

"I just don't like to get my hopes up. Of course I'd love to wrap this
up, but I have misgivings. It just seems pretty stupid of Stanley to
have involved a co-conspirator. He had to know the guy would talk if
we found him--an accomplice has nothing at stake, but Stanley could go
to the electric chair."

"Maybe he thought we'd just look at his hotel receipt and take his word
for it."

"Maybe. You gonna eat those fries?"

"Yes. You gonna eat that lettuce?"

A short time later, they were on their way to Winston Salem which
required more driving on the Interstate, although through slightly less
ugly terrain. As they neared the city, Carlton fished out his phone
and handed it to Laura.

"We got his home and work numbers--call the work number first."

After some difficulty with the phone--apparently you needed to dial the
area code first--Laura was connected to First Statewide Mortgage,
which she assumed was James T. Stanley's employer.

"May I speak to Mr. Stanley?"

"May I say who's calling?"

"He doesn't know me. I'm calling on a private matter."

"Just a minute. I'll see if he's free." After a moment the woman came
back.

"He wants to know what this is in regard of." Laura winced at the
tortured syntax.

"Say it's about May 8. Tell him the Atlanta Police want to talk to
him."

"Oh. Wait a minute."

It was less than a minute later that a male voice came on the line.

"This is Jim," he said heartily.

"Mr. Stanley, my name is Laura Chastain. I'm with the Fulton County
district attorney, in Atlanta. I'm in Winston-Salem with a detective
from the Atlanta Police Department, and we would like very much to
speak with you. Now."

"What's this all about?"

"Oh, I think you know, Mr. Stanley. Just give me directions to your
office, and we can meet face-to-face."

Stanley complied. They weren't far from his office; Laura scribbled
down the directions, and hung up.

"He pretended not to know what this was about?" Carlton asked.

"Yep. I think this is it." They pulled off the highway access road
into the parking lot of an undistinguished, slightly shabby office
park.

"That's his company First Statewide Mortgage."

They parked and exited the car.

"You want to do the talking?"

she asked Carlton.

"Better let me. The badge always gets things going." They entered the
offices through a glass door into a small lobby, covered in worn orange
carpet. The receptionist, a chubby brunette wearing a purple
tracksuit, sat at a metal desk covered with little office tchotchkes
and cheap picture frames. A nameplate identified her as Candi.

"Are y'all the people who called a minute ago?" she asked, eyes
wide.

"Yes. Mr. Stanley is expecting us." Carlton's voice took on a Jack
Webb quality, Laura noticed, when the business was official.

"He says he'll be with y'all in a minute. Y'all want some coffee?"

"No, thanks."
There was nowhere to sit in the tiny lobby, so they didn't.

Carlton leaned his muscular frame against the wall and looked pointedly
at his watch. They waited almost ten minutes, no one speaking. The
phone didn't ring once in that time. Finally, thud ding footsteps
sounded in a hall behind the receptionist's desk.

Candi smiled nervously.

"That's him. Y'all sure you don't want some coffee?"

They didn't have time to refuse; Jim Stanley burst into the
already-crowded room. He was of medium height, with medium brown hair,
thinning on the top. His gray off-the-rack suit was rumpled, and his
tie was loose around his collar. His features were oddly blunt, almost
simian; he was by no stretch of the imagination an attractive man.
Laura guessed that he was in his midthirties, judging from the degree
of hair loss and his softening middle section.

"Hey," he said in a surprisingly deep voice. Not bothering with any
ceremonies, he cocked his head back in the direction he had come
from.

"Let's go back here where we can talk in private."

He led them down the hallway, which was short, with only two doors
opening from it. One, Laura presumed, was Stanley's office. The other
was a small room containing a table and a few mismatched chairs.
Stanley ushered them into this room and invited them to sit down. Files
were stacked on the windowsill, the floor, and even on one end of the
table. Jim Stanley made no effort to move them, so Carlton and Laura
dragged chairs to the far end and sat down. Carlton spoke first.

"I think you know why we're here," he began.

"Yep. And you might as well stop talking right now. I've been on the
phone with my lawyer, and he's on his way over here now."

"Surely that's not necessary," Laura said suavely.

"We just want to ask a few questions."

"Yes, it's necessary. He'll be right along. Y'all will have to excuse
me I'm going to wait for him in my office. Did Candi offer you
coffee?"

"Yes, thank you. We don't need anything. Really, Mr. Stanley, you're
not a suspect in anything, and we have no intention of arresting you.
We don't even have jurisdiction in North Carolina."
"We can sort all that out when Hoyt gets here. Won't be a minute." He
gave Laura a wink and an ingratiating smile, and left the room.

"He's lawyering up? Why?" Carlton asked.

"He knows this is serious. Cops don't cross state lines just to talk
about parking violations."

"What if he wants a deal before he talks?"

Laura shrugged.

"I guess we give it to him. We don't want him--we just want James
Stanley. This is going to get confusing, the two of them having the
same name. This one calls himself Jim. I guess we'll have to, too.
But what other evidence against James Stanley do we have? We need
Jim's story."

"I think you're right. At least getting a co-conspirator to talk makes
an easy case for you."

"If we have enough corroborating evidence to admit coconspirator
testimony."

"What does that mean?"

"Co-conspirators are notoriously unreliable--you can't just put one on
the stand and have his testimony convict a defendant, especially in a
capital case. We have to establish independently that a conspiracy
existed. The check-in records at the hotel should be enough to satisfy
the requirement."

"How do lawyers think up these things? It seems to me that a
co-conspirator is almost as good as an eyewitness."

"Not always. There was one really famous case in England in the
seventeenth century--a man testified against his mother and brother. He
said they had all three killed a man who had disappeared.

The supposed victim turned up a year or two after the three of them
were hanged. John Masefield wrote a play about it."

"Why would someone do a thing like that?" Carlton asked, astounded.

"Who knows? Maybe it was a highly inefficient means of committing
suicide, or of working out some family issues," Laura replied dryly.

"Listen--I hear footsteps."

In the silence, they could hear murmured conversation in the hallway. A
moment later, Jim Stanley reappeared in the doorway, followed by a
highly groomed representative of the legal profession.

Laura raised an eyebrow in Carlton's direction, hoping that he noted
the glossy shoe and briefcase leather, the exquisite tie, and the
expensive suit worn over the veddy British blue-striped shirt with
white collar and cuffs. It was all at odds with the generally run-down
and weary look of Jim Stanley and his office.

This apotheosis of the legal profession flashed a white-toothed smile
at Laura and Carlton.

"Good afternoon!" he said heartily.

"I'm Charlie Hoyt. Jim here says y'all want him to answer a few
questions, and I thought it might be advisable for me to sit in.

Y'all don't mind, do you?"

"Of course not," Carlton said.

"But we really just have a couple of questions."

"Well, fire away. Detective ... ?"

"Hemingway. And this is Miss Chastain, from the Fulton County district
attorney's office."

Hoyt shook their hands, still smiling, and settled into a chair.

His client followed suit.

"Shall we begin?"

"Great. Mr. Stanley, did you check into the Marriott Hotel on
Thursday night. May 8?"

Stanley and Hoyt whispered together before Stanley answered.

"I can't answer that question."

"What do you mean?" Carlton said.

"Mr. Hoyt," Laura broke in, "is your client invoking his rights?"

"He has that right," Hoyt said, unruffled.

"But he's not in custody we're on his premises, for pity's sake! Surely
he can give us a yes or a no!"

"Let's cut to the chase," Hoyt said, still showing his crocodile teeth
in a smile.

"My client wants immunity."

"Immunity from what? He hasn't been charged with anything.

Are you saying that he could be charged with something?"

"We make no admission, Ms. Chastain. Are you prepared to talk about
an immunity deal?"

"Let's get hypothetical, shall we? Let's say your client assisted
someone in the commission of a crime let's say felony murder, for the
sake of argument. Would he be willing to testify to his role in that
crime if we gave him immunity on the conspiracy charge?"

"We want transactional immunity."

"Why? Exactly what did your client do, Mr. Hoyt? I'm acting on the
presumption that he provided an alibi for a felon. Is there something
I'm missing here?"
"No, you're not missing anything. We would simply be more comfortable
with transactional immunity under the circum stances."

Carlton interrupted the debate.

"Help me out here. What's transactional immunity?"

Laura answered him, her eyes fixed on Hoyt as she spoke.

"Transactional means that we will not prosecute for any transaction
referred to in Mr. Stanley's testimony. In other words, if he tells
us that he planned the murder and provided the gun, as well as the
alibi, we couldn't touch him."

"That's correct," Hoyt said.

"Without, of course, making any admission."

"What if your client played a material part in the commission of the
crime? I could see us making a plea deal on a lesser charge but
immunity? Come on, Mr. Hoyt!"

"Those are our terms, Ms. Chastain. Otherwise, you can do this the
hard way. Would you and your colleague like us to leave you alone for
a few minutes to discuss our offer?"

"Yes. Please," she said. Hoyt and Jim Stanley left the room in a mild
air of triumph.

"What's all this bullshit?" Carlton said.

"You heard him he wants immunity from everything, not just a conspiracy
charge. Normally, we would give 'use and derivative use' immunity,
which means that we can't prosecute him for any charge arising from his
own testimony. In that case, if we proved independently of his own
testimony that Stanley played a larger role, we could go after him. But
if we give him what he wants, we could find out he fired the damn gun
and we'd have to let him go. He doesn't want to run the slightest risk
of being prosecuted."

"Let's just get a warrant and arrest the sonofabitch, then."

"Then our case will be entirely based on the testimony of the hotel
employees which is inconclusive without this guy's story.

If we arrest him, he pleads the Fifth and we get nothing."

Carlton frowned.

"It seems to me that the worst case is that Jim Stanley did more than
just provide an alibi maybe he did plan the crime, or get the gun. We
know that he couldn't have been the shooter, at least."

"How?"

"He has the alibi that James Stanley is claiming remember?
If we're right, it was Jim in the hotel room, ordering dinner and
making the calls."

"You're right. But transactional immunity is a big deal--we very
rarely grant it."

"What are you going to do?"

Laura sighed.

"I'm going to talk to my boss. I can't make a call like this." She
produced her cell phone and dialed Meredith's number. Meredith, of
course, was away from her desk. Laura paged her.

"Let's just hope she's not in court," she told Carlton.

She tapped her pen on the table as she waited impatiently for a call
that might take an hour to come.

"Let's go back over the ground again before we say this immunity is
really necessary.

We keep on saying that there's no forensic evidence, but is that really
true?"

"Practically. There are the slugs, but DuPree's Nazi guns are the best
lead we've got on the actual gun. Other than that, there's just the
footprint in the carpet--that's not going to send anyone to the
electric chair--and the fibers that were caught in the door."

"What about those fibers?"

"The crime lab is underfunded and way backed up. It takes forever to
get fiber analyzed, and then it's usually inconclusive.

And there's really nothing else--the only fingerprints we found
belonged to family members and known visitors."

"Hmm.

"Consider the strange behavior of the dog in the nighttime," as a man
once said."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"In that case, the dog didn't bark when the house was burgled, because
he knew the burglar. In this case, the burglar appears to have left no
fingerprints--or maybe he did, and we just assume that they belonged
there. And speaking of the dog, what about that dog killed with the
same gun?"

"That's got me, I have to admit. Why would Stanley use the weapon he
planned to kill his wife with to kill the dog? It doesn't make sense.
It puts the gun in that neighborhood, when you'd think he'd be trying
as hard as he could to convince us that he'd never so much as touched a
gun."

"That's true." The ringing of Laura's phone cut off further
speculation.

"Thank goodness it's you," she said to Meredith.

"We have a helluva situation up here." She tried to explain as simply
as she could, starting with why she was in Winston Salem and not
Charlotte.

"So the good news is, we may have found our key witness. The bad news
is, he wants a transactional immunity deal."

"What's his involvement?"

"We don't know, but he's got himself a whole lotta lawyer.

The guy must be costing him three hundred bucks an hour. He's not
letting his client say anything until he has his immunity. I figure
his story must be pretty damning, though. What should we do?"

"I guess we don't have a choice. What does Carlton say?"

"We've just been talking about our pitiful lack of evidence. I think
we both agree that we need this guy."

"And you can demonstrate that there was a conspiracy?"

"I think the hotel records show that."

"Then give him what he wants. I assume you're staying up there
tonight."

"I think we'll have to. It's going to take some time to hammer out the
details and get a statement. Better count me out for tomorrow."

"Okay. Just keep me posted."

"I will. Thanks, Meredith." She ended the call and looked at
Carlton.

"All systems are go. Let's get that lawyer back in here and have us an
immunity party."

Charlie Hoyt remained smoothly affable when he rejoined them.

"I tell you what," he said.

"It's after four o'clock now, and this is going to take us a while. Why
don't we sketch out some terms for the immunity agreement, and I'll
have it drafted overnight?

Then we can all meet at my offices in the morning, finalize our
agreement, and Mr. Stanley can give you a statement. I'll even have
one of my girls transcribe it for you. How's that for an offer?"

"I think I'd prefer to draft the immunity agreement myself," Laura
replied.

"It will have to hold up in a Georgia court."

Hoyt grinned.

"By a happy coincidence, I am a member of the Georgia bar. I've argued
many cases in your fair state, Ms. Chastain.

And I have a big of' staff back at the office just waiting to do my
bidding. I promise you you'll get a crack at redrafting it-if you
still want to after you see it."

Laura looked at Carlton, who shrugged, as if to say, "It's your
call."

"Okay. Fine. Let's just get the main points down now, and we'll
finish in the morning."
Two hours later, Laura and Carlton staggered into the parking lot.

"Lawyers!" Carlton said.

"It's every little thing with you people!"

Laura laughed.

"Oh, that was just a warm-up. It'll be even better tomorrow. That
Hoyt is a smoothie."

"He seems like an okay guy. It was real nice of him to give us the
name of a good restaurant. I say we find a hotel, check in, and head
for dinner."

"I am with you one hundred percent. Detective."
CHAPTER 14

I do attest and swear that this is a true and complete statement of the
events that took place prior to and on the date of May 8,1999 in
Charlotte, North Carolina, to the best of my recollection.

Laura carefully folded the signed and notarized copy of Jim's statement
and placed it in her briefcase. She wondered why she wasn't feeling
more triumphant, given the victory that she held in her hand. But it
had been a long day, and she and Carlton still faced the drive back to
Atlanta--six hours, if the traffic wasn't too horrible--which would put
them in the city around midnight.

All she wanted was to put her feet up and have a drink, but that would
have to be deferred; there was no chance of their spending another
night in North Carolina. Neither Randy Travers nor Meredith would
tolerate further delay.

The day had started at eight o'clock, when Laura and Carlton arrived at
Hoyt's office in downtown Winston-Salem. They had made a quick trip to
a Target the night before to pick up toiletries and other necessities.
Laura was quite proud of the knit shell and scarf she had snagged at a
bargain price, but Carlton had limited his wardrobe replenishment to
underwear.

"I don't discount shop," he had sniffed.

"You should. Some of those ties are just as good-looking as anything
they have at Nordstrom," she had commented. Somehow, though, Carlton
managed to look fresh and crisp despite wearing the same clothes he had
traveled in the day before.

The offices of Marbury, Wright and Hoyt were as plush and elegant as
Jim Stanley's had been shabby. An immaculately coiffed and tailored
woman had escorted them into a conference room and asked them, in a
pleasant Southern accent, to wait there for Mr. Hoyt.

"Help yourself to coffee and pastries," she offered. A sideboard was
spread with a lavish feast of muffins, Danish, bagels, and Krispy
Kremes, which were native to North Carolina.

Coffee steamed in silver carafes marked Regular and Decaf. Carlton
made a move on the spread; they had skipped breakfast, at Hoyt's
suggestion, and Laura was glad. This was far better than the buffet at
the Hampton Inn.

"Eat up," she said to Carlton.

"It's all going on Stanley's bill. I wish we could make him pay for
our expenses, too."

Hoyt and Stanley had kept them waiting in the conference room about an
hour, during which time Laura consumed more coffee than was good for
her. When they finally arrived, all apologies and smiles, she was
wired. Hoyt presented his draft of the immunity agreement with a
flourish for her review.

"I think you'll find that it's just as we discussed last night."

It wasn't. It was lunchtime before Laura and Hoyt agreed on every word
of the agreement. Laura was extra vigilant and nitpicked every detail.
She didn't want to bring back some turkey of a deal to Meredith, so she
concentrated on narrowing the immunity as much as she could--which
wasn't much. At last, a secretary took a marked-up document away to
produce a final copy. Sandwiches magically appeared, and they all ate
again. At about one o'clock, they signed the immunity papers. Hoyt
summoned a court reporter to make a transcript of Stanley's statement,
which he was now prepared to give. Laura felt a sudden rush of
anxiety-what if Jim Stanley had been more involved than they
suspected?

Had she let a murderer off the hook with the immunity deal?

Hoyt cleared his throat and began.

"This statement is made by Jim Stanley at Winston-Salem on the
twenty-eighth day of May, 1999 in the presence of Mr. Charles Hoyt,
attorney for Mr.

Stanley; Miss Laura Chastain, assistant district attorney for Fulton
County, Georgia; and Detective Carlton Hemingway of the Atlanta Police
Department. Mr. Stanley, please state your full name and address for
the record."

"James Thomas Stanley, 1341 Brightleaf Circle, Winston Salem North
Carolina."

"Detective Hemingway will now ask you some questions.
Please answer as concisely and as accurately as you can. Detective

"Mr. Stanley, did you travel to Charlotte, North Carolina, on May 8 of
this year?"

"I did."

"And did you register at the Marriott Hotel on May 8?"

"Yes, sir, I did."

"Why did you go to Charlotte on that date, Mr. Stanley?"

"I go there all the time. I'm a mortgage broker, and that's where the
big banks are headquartered. I'm down there all the time talking to
the mortgage servicing people."

"Did you have business with a bank on May 8 or 9?"

"No."

"Then why did you go on that date?"

"I went at the request of an acquaintance of mine."

"Could you name this 'acquaintance'?"

"Sure. James Stanley. He's from Atlanta."

"How did you come to know Mr. Stanley?"

"Well, that's kind of complicated. Like I said, I go to Charlotte a
lot, and I always stay at the Marriott down there it's close to the
banks, and they have a good bar and restaurant for entertaining
clients. One day I guess this was about a year and a half ago I showed
up as usual to check in, and they told me that my room was gone that
someone had already checked into it. Well, you better believe I raised
hell about that I was a good, regular customer, and I wasn't used to
that kind of treatment! Everybody runs around, they get a manager, and
we come to find out that another fella with the same name as me had
showed up. They thought my reservation was a double-booking, so they
canceled it. They apologized, and gave me a room, and I thought that
was it, but things kept on getting screwed up. I got his phone calls,
and he got mine things like that. Well, after I had dinner with a
client, I headed for the bar, and I'm sitting next to this guy, just
having a beer and talking, you know, like you do in these places and
wouldn't you know it's him the other Jim Stanley! Except he goes by
"James." We had a good laugh about the foul-ups."

"Was this the only time you met the other Mr. Stanley?"

"Oh, no. It got to be a regular thing with us we'd always check when
we got in to see if the other one was there. He came up a good bit,
too, you see he had business with the banks himself."

"So you became friendly?"

"I guess you'd say that."

"Returning to the evening of May 8, you say that you traveled to
Charlotte at the request of James Stanley. Why?"

"One time I guess it was about a year ago; that would make it about six
months after we met James said to me, "You know, this name thing may
come in handy someday." I asked him what he meant by that, and he
sorta smiled and said, "Oh, you know if one of us ever needed to be in
two places at once," and he kinda winked. Of course, I thought right
away that he was fooling around on his wife. I knew he was married,
but he didn't seem too happy about it to me."

"Did he ever tell you he was unhappy?"

"No-o, not in so many words I just had a feeling. I'm married myself,
and I know it's not a party all the time."

"Did he suggest at that time that you might cover for him someday?"

"Not directly. But he did joke about it a time or two after that."

"And did he ask you to travel to Charlotte and check into the Marriott
for him?"

"Yes."

"When was this?"

"It was about a month ago. He called me at work, and we chewed the fat
a little, and he asked me if I was planning any trips to Charlotte in
the near future. I told him no business has been a little slow and he
hemmed and hawed. Finally, he comes out with it would I mind doing him
a favor and drive down there on May 8 and check in? I was kind of
reluctant. I figured he was cheating on his wife, and I really didn't
want to be a part of that. But he kept after me, and said it was no
big deal, that he just needed to go somewhere he didn't want his wife
to know about."

"Did he ask you to do anything else?"

"Uh-huh. I was supposed to check in around eight, and go on up to the
room. He told me to order room service he said he'd pay the bill for
whatever I wanted and that I was to make two calls to his number in
Atlanta, one at about nine o'clock, and one about eleven. He told me
to hang up as soon as anybody answered, or if the answering machine
picked up."

"Anything else you were to do for him?"

"No. He said he'd be along later, and that I was just to stay there
and go on to bed. He asked me to let him into the room when he did
come, and said that he'd handle the bill with his own credit card when
he checked out."

"And did he show up?"

"Yep. I think it was about four in the morning I was a bit groggy, you
can understand."

"How did he know which room to go to?"

"He rang me from the lobby, and I gave him the number."

"Did you have any conversation with him when he got to the room?"

"Hell, no all I wanted was to get back into bed. He must have been
tired, too, because he took his clothes off and got into bed."

"Was his behavior in any way out of the ordinary?"

Jim Stanley cocked an eyebrow at Carlton.

"Other than running around in the middle of the night and asking me to
pretend I was him? No, nothing out of the ordinary."

"How was he dressed?"

"Jeez, what kind of memory am I supposed to have? I guess he was
wearing pants and a shirt maybe khakis."

"Not a business suit?"

"No, I don't think so. I could be wrong."

"Was Mr. Stanley carrying anything?"

"Some luggage, I think, and maybe a briefcase."

"What happened in the morning?"

"I got up before he did I had to drive back here and be in my office by
nine. He was still asleep when I left."

"So you were not there when the police arrived to tell him that his
wife had been killed?"

"No."

"Have you had any further communication with him since that date?"

"No. Wait I take that back. He called me the next day and said thanks
for doing what he asked me to do."

"Did he mention at that time that his wife had been killed?"

"No! I didn't know a thing about that!"
"Mr. Stanley, you didn't seem surprised to hear that a detective from
the Atlanta Police Department was here to see you. Why was that?"

"Because I knew by the time you got here that she was dead it was in
the Charlotte paper, because he had supposedly been here when she was
killed."

"You knew that his alibi was false, then. Why didn't you go to the
police immediately?"

"I was scared. Hell, what was I supposed to do? I didn't sleep for
about a week. Then I decided to get me a lawyer."

"And you retained Mr. Hoyt?"

"Not at first. I went to another guy, and I told him what had
happened. He said he couldn't handle something like that. He gave me
Charlie's name."

"But didn't Mr. Hoyt tell you that you had to go to the police right
away?"

"No. I didn't call him until yesterday, when I heard you were on the
way. See, I just thought I better let the trouble come to me, and not
go out looking for it. I was scared that Stanley might come after me,
and I was scared that I would be charged with murder myself if I went
to the police. But Charlie calmed me down. He told me about immunity,
which is why we're having this little talk now." He smiled broadly.

Laura, who had been listening in silence to everything Jim said,
cleared her throat.

"Let's go back over the details. James Stanley called you and asked
you to impersonate him, in effect, by checking into the Marriott, and
you didn't hesitate to do so?"

"I didn't say that I thought it was fishy."

"But you did it out of the goodness of your heart, despite your
reservations, as a favor to a friend?" Laura let a tinge of sarcasm
creep into her voice.

"No, not exactly ..." Jim trailed off, and looked at Hoyt.

"Did James Stanley offer you something for your trouble?"

Laura asked. Jim Stanley nodded.

"Please state your answer aloud for the record," Laura commanded him.

"Yes. He offered me money."

"How much?"

"Five thousand dollars."
"Five thousand dollars for helping him cover up a marital infidelity?
That seems like an expensive night on the tiles to me, Mr. Stanley."

"Well, uh, he offered me less at first, but like I say, business has
been slow, and I was reluctant to do something dishonest ..."

"So you dickered with him?"

"I wouldn't say I dickered, exactly he just kept raising the amount
while I hesitated."

"But when he said five thousand, you abandoned your scruples?"

Hoyt intervened.

"Ms. Chastain, I don't see the point of your badgering my client. He's
only trying to help you."

"And I'm only trying to understand why someone as naive and
well-intentioned as your client allows himself to be drawn into an
enterprise that must have seemed suspicious, even to someone as naive
as he."

"Are you implying that my client had foreknowledge of the murder of
Mrs. Stanley?"

"I am saying that he had reason to suspect that James Stanley had
criminal intentions."

"Even if he did have such suspicions, how was he to have known that
Stanley contemplated murder? Nothing in his prior acquaintance with
the man led him to believe that he was capable of homicide."

"If someone offered me five thousand dollars, you better believe my
antennae would be up."

"I am sorry that you seem to have an untrusting nature, Ms.

Chastain. But whatever the case may be, my client's actions on the
night of May 8, and subsequent to that date, are covered under our
immunity agreement. No purpose is served by trying to force him to
admit that he suspected that he was being made into an accomplice in a
criminal conspiracy."

Hoyt was right, of course Jim could sit there and tell them that he had
known all along what James Stanley was up to, and they couldn't do a
thing about it. But Laura didn't believe for a nanosecond that Jim
Stanley was as ignorant as he pretended to be you don't get a
five-thousand-dollar payday just for being a good pal. A question
occurred to her.

"Mr. Stanley, have you been paid?"

"Yes. The five thou was wired to my bank account at Wachovia."
"Could we have a copy of the record of that transaction?"

"Sure. Charlie's got it right here."

"We'd be happy to provide you a copy," Hoyt said smoothly.

So Hoyt had known all along that his client had dirty hands which was
why he insisted on transactional immunity. Laura had the uneasy
feeling that she had been out-lawyered, but she comforted herself with
the assurance that anyone would have done what she had even Meredith.
Even Tom. Sometimes you had to sacrifice the small victories when you
were after the big one.

"We've gotten off-topic," Hoyt said.

"Do either of you have more questions for my client?"

"I don't," Carlton said.

"Laura?"

"Not now. Can we stipulate that your client agrees to make himself
available for further questioning at our request?"

"Certainly. And he will of course make himself available for all court
proceedings."

"Thank you. I guess that's all."

"Then I'll have Maria type this interview up, and we'll review it and
sign it and you two can return in triumph to your native city."

And, after some lawyerly gee-hawing about the form of the document, to
Carlton's disgust, that is what they did. They returned to Carlton's
car in the gathering dusk, and began the long drive home in silence.

After about half an hour, Carlton spoke.

"So how do you feel about this?"

"I don't know. I thought I'd be happier."

"Me, too. Why aren't we?"

"Because we don't like Jim Stanley, and we know that he's gotten away
with something, scot-free."

"I guess you're right. But we couldn't have done it any other way
could we?"

"No. I've gone over it again and again, and he had us over a barrel.
We could never have proved our case without Jim Stanley's testimony,
and we never would have gotten that without giving him immunity. That
doesn't make me like him one bit better, though."

"Me, neither. I feel like I need a good long shower."
They rode in silence for a few more miles. Suddenly, Laura cried
out.

"What is it?" Carlton asked.

"You just about scared the shit out of me!"

"The payment! The special master who's looking at Stanley's business
would have found that payment! Damn!"

"So what about it?"

"I mean that we would have found Jim Stanley eventually, even if we
hadn't found that the hotel record was screwy. Oh, God, I've been such
a bonehead!"

"Whoa. Don't be so hard on yourself. We might never have noticed the
payment remember it was made by James Stanley to James Stanley. It
would have looked like he was just shifting funds around his
accounts."

"That's true," Laura said, only partly reassured.

"But what if we had noticed it? We could have found Jim Stanley and
implicated him without giving him immunity."

"He still would have taken the Fifth, don't you think?"

"A plea bargain could have gotten him talking. Well, there's no point
crying over spilled milk. Although we could argue inevitable discovery
and try to void the immunity ..."

"Don't lawyer this thing too much, okay? We've got James Stanley, and
I'd like to see it stay that way. Look on the bright side, girl you
just caught yourself a killer. You should be feeling great right
now."

"You're right, Carlton. It's just hard to celebrate something so
completely, utterly sad."
CHAPTER 15

Meredith Gaffney put down Jim Stanley's statement and removed the
wire-rimmed half-glasses she needed for reading.

"What a story. What a damned liar."

Laura was startled.

"You mean you think it's not true?" Panic washed over her.

"No, no, not that--just the bit about not knowing why Stanley wanted
him to give him an alibi. He must have known James Stanley was up to
something criminal."

Laura fiddled anxiously with the heart-shaped stone on the necklace she
always wore.

"I know. You don't get five-thousand-dollar pay days for innocent
deceptions. And now I'm sorry I gave this creep the deal. Do you
think we can get around it? I thought that we could argue that the
payment from James to Jim would have inevitably led to the discovery of
the conspiracy. We found the record of the payment, by the way--would
you believe that the creep made it with funds from one of his kids'
trust? Can't we void the immunity?"

"It's a long shot, at best. If we try to void the immunity on any
grounds, this Hoyt guy will have us tied up in court for months. And I
don't want to do anything fancy until after we get James Stanley
indicted anyway. We'll go with what we've got.

But if it makes you feel any better, I would have done exactly the same
thing. Who knows if we would have smelled a rat just by looking at
Stanley's bank records? We've got the real killer, and that's all that
matters. Jim Stanley will get his someday, I'm sure."

"I wonder what Craig Fannin will do."
"Nothing, right away. He'll let us set a trial date, and he'll want
to look at our case. We'll offer to take the death penalty off the
table if he pleads his client."

"What if he doesn't?"

"He won't. And I'm ready to rumble if he is. What we have isn't
perfect, of course it would be great to get some solid forensic
evidence placing him at the crime scene but Craig's alibi defense is
gone."

"Unless, of course, he places James somewhere other than the house or
the hotel."

"Yes, that had occurred to me. This is going to be very interesting
Now, let's get our ducks in a row and get this thing in front of the
grand jury next week. You'll need to get your witnesses subpoenaed and
send notices to all the concerned parties."

"Who do we want to call as witnesses?"

"I think just the detectives, Jim Stanley, and the systems guy at the
hotel. That'll be good enough for now. Let me know as soon as you get
on the calendar, and I'll call Craig Fannin myself."

"Why?"

"Professional courtesy. He'll get a formal notification, but he'll
appreciate a phone call before the press gets hold of the story.

Now get cracking."

The operations of a grand jury were mysterious to the uninitiated, and
Laura was very uninitiated. Her limited experience in criminal defense
had never included a grand jury indictment even Jeff Williams's case
hadn't gone that far. Everything Laura thought she knew was merely
theoretical, and mostly incorrect.

Luckily, there was an entire division of the district attorney's office
that dealt with grand jury proceedings, and Laura was able to lean
heavily on its expertise. She was soon deep in the arcane, ancient
mysteries of the grand jury system.

The grand jury met only two days a week, so the assistant district
attorneys who managed its caseload had to perform a sort of triage,
taking the most pressing cases first. Christine Stanley's murder went
straight to the front of the line, partly because the bill of
indictment was for malice murder, the highest crime possible, but also
partly because of sheer, sordid politics. People v. James Alien
Stanley was scheduled to be heard by the jury on Wednesday, one week
after Laura and Carlton had returned to Atlanta.

Meredith and Randy Travers had decided, given the high profile of the
case, that the indictment should be obtained prior to an arrest
warrant being issued for Stanley.

"He's not a risk for flight," Meredith explained to Laura, "and it's
always smart to proceed with caution before slapping the handcuffs on a
taxpayer like Stanley. We don't want this to blow up in our faces."

That was fine with Laura, who was busy subpoenaing her witnesses and
arranging for their appearances. She had to explain to Jim Stanley
that a golf date could not take precedence over his appearance before
the grand jury. He showed a tendency to pout about it, but she quashed
his objections. Wayne Catrall, the systems genius from the Marriott,
raised no objections at all to taking a couple of days off to fly to
Atlanta and testify. Other than Travers, who would present the
crime-scene evidence, those were all the witnesses they needed. Laura
had made a halfhearted argument for calling Lynette Connell to
testify.

"Nope. She's all hearsay," Meredith answered.

"But she's the best motive witness we have!"

"Randy is going to summarize the special master's report, and that
should take care of the financial motive. We can also slip Christine's
visit to the divorce lawyer into Randy's testimony."

"Wouldn't that be hearsay, too?"

"Not if I have a photocopy of the attorney's calendar to intro duce."

"Oh. It's just that I think Lynette would make a great witness."

"At the trial, yes, maybe she would. But my theory on grand jury
hearings is "Less is more, and for God's sake keep it simple."

If the jurors want more, we can always give it to them, but I think
that after they hear your boy Jim it'll be unanimous."

Laura had to be satisfied with that, and a promise that she could
attend the proceedings, although she would not be allowed to enter
evidence or question witnesses. She didn't mind; she was a great
believer in learning by observation. For the rest of the week after
she returned from North Carolina, she concentrated all her energies on
making Meredith look good. This was a role Laura had rehearsed to
perfection under Tom Bailey's tutelage Meredith never needed to worry
that Laura would forget to file an important document, or to notify a
party to a proceeding. And Laura didn't pester Meredith with a lot of
irrelevant questions;

she knew that she could get answers from the clerks more quickly and
maybe more accurately. She did inform Meredith, though, when the
notifications were sent out including one to James Stanley in care of
Craig Fannin. Fannin immediately called a press conference, preempting
Marshall Oliver's planned announcement that his office was moving to
indict James Stanley. Laura thought that they had given away a
strategic opportunity by letting Fannin run the story. Meredith just
laughed.

"So what has Craig gained? Nothing. I think he's running a risk of
painting himself into a corner with all this press coverage--he's going
to look like a chump if he eventually asks us for a deal."

"I guess so, but I've started thinking of him as the enemy. He's the
one who made it personal, after all--he should have kept my name out of
it."

"It's never personal with Craig, believe me. He just likes to create
distractions. You think Randy's bothered by all the stuff Craig's been
saying about the investigation?"

"I don't think anything bothers Randy."

"And you should adopt his attitude."

Easier said, Laura thought as she returned to her work. She had a
voice mail message from Lynette Connell, however, which gave her an
entirely new problem to consider. Should she return the call? She
decided that she could rely on her own discretion, and dialed the
number. The phone was answered by a woman with a Spanish accent.

"Miss Lynette is in the barn. I will transfer you to her."

Lynette picked up after a few more rings.

"Hello?" she said, sounding breathless.

"Lynette? Laura Chastain. Did I catch you at a bad time?"

"No, of course not--I was just grooming a horse for a show tomorrow and
he's giving me fits. I need a break. How are you?"

"Fine. You?"

"Okay. I hadn't heard from you in a while, but I did hear that you're
going to get an indictment of The Asshole. Nice going."

"How did you hear that?"

"His lawyer called Daddy--he said that we should probably count on
taking the kids for a couple of days, to shield them from the
publicity. I assume that James is also going to be in jail for a
while."

"} don't know about that. He's probably bailable."

"Can't you keep him in until he goes on trial? They put O.J.

away, didn't they?"
"O.J. proved that he was a flight risk--James hasn't done anything to
make a judge suspect that he'll run off. Listen, I probably shouldn't
be discussing this with you at all."

"Oh, come on if his lawyer knows all about it, what's the big secret?
Just tell me one thing: What did you get on him?"

"I definitely can't tell you that."

"But does it prove anything?"

"I think so, but that's up to the grand jury to decide," Laura said
cautiously.

Lynette laughed.

"Okay, I get it I should mind my own business. Speaking of which, I
heard you met Jesse."

"You talked to him?"

"He called me Lord knows I wouldn't have called him. He thought you
were cute."

"He's just one big hormone, isn't he? What else did he say?"

"Nothing really just that he was glad he had an alibi."

Laura chuckled.

"I met his alibi. A checkout girl at the Publix, with a nose ring."

"That's a bit off the main road for him. Still, I'm glad that he's not
mixed up with James. I know that topic is not open for discussion.
Anyway, the real reason I called you was to ask you if you wanted to
come riding this weekend."

"Gosh, I'd love to, but I don't know if I should."

"Why the hell not?" Lynette sounded offended.

"Lynette, you are a witness in a criminal matter. There might be a
conflict, or the appearance of a conflict. I wouldn't want to do the
defense any favors. Let me run it past my boss, and I'll call you
back."

Laura felt slightly goofy approaching Meredith to ask for per mission,
in effect, to play with one of her friends. Meredith apparently saw
nothing unusual in the situation, however.

"I don't see why not. We're not calling her to testify in the grand
jury proceedings, and I doubt we'll need her for the trial."

"Of course we'll need her! She'd be a great witness why shouldn't we
use her?"

"For one thing, I'm still expecting Craig to cut a deal with us once he
hears what your witnesses have to say. But even if we do have a
full-on trial, I'm not sure Lynette Connell would do us a lot of good.
It's obvious that she has an ax to grind, and Craig might be able to do
some damage to her on the stand."

"What kind of damage?"
"Oh, you know she's a trustee for Christine Stanley's children, so she
stands to gain from James Stanley's conviction. And there's that old
boyfriend of hers I'm not one hundred percent comfortable that he
wasn't the source of the gun, alibi or no alibi.

I'm not saying anything against Lynette as a person; I'm just afraid
she's a little too messy to be useful to us. But the good news is that
I see no problem with your socializing with her all you want to."

"She's really a very nice person," Laura said, a little defensively.

"I'm sure she is. And even if we don't call her as a witness, she can
give a victim-impact statement at the trial."

"That's a good thought. Thanks, Meredith."

Laura called Lynette and accepted her invitation, on the condition that
she be allowed to take a rain check until after the grand jury
proceedings were concluded. That way, she felt she could avoid any
awkward moments. After the grand jury indicted James, everything would
be on the public record, and they could discuss it to their hearts'
content.

After all the preparations, the actual grand jury hearing was
anticlimactic for Laura although she guessed that it was any thing but
for James Stanley. The jury returned a "true bill" against Stanley for
malice murder after a brief deliberation. All the witnesses had been
effective, especially Wayne Catrall, the computer expert.

"Isn't he adorable?" Laura gloated to Meredith.

"He's so self-assured can you believe he's only twenty?"

"Is he? I thought he was much older. He's very convincing. I wish I
could say the same of your star witness."

"Jim? What's the problem with him?"

"He's sort of smug, I think, and cocky. He smiles too much when he
tells his story, like he thinks it's just a ripping yarn. I told him
to try to keep in mind that this is about a dead woman and her two
orphaned children, but I don't think I got through."

"Maybe he's just nervous some people act strange when they're tense. I
think he put the story over, though, don't you?"

"Oh, yes, the grand jury didn't have any trouble with his testimony.
And we have time to work on him before a regular jury sees him.
Overall, I'd say you done good, kid."

"Thanks," Laura said, foolishly gratified by the praise.
After the indictment was handed down. Randy Travers swore out a
warrant for Stanley's arrest. Craig Fannin had arranged for his client
to surrender voluntarily, so that he would be spared the humiliation of
being handcuffed and taken away from his home or office. Meredith had
warned that they should be especially careful not to upset the Stanley
children. She assisted Fannin in arranging a speedy arraignment and
bail hearing. Fannin made a strong argument that Stanley's ties to the
community and to his family would prevent his fleeing. Meredith
countered that a million-dollar bond should back up Fannin's promise.
The judge eventually agreed to a five-hundred-thousand-dollar bond, and
James Stanley was free to go.

And Laura was free to visit Lynette without qualms about conflicts of
interest. Saturday morning she drove to the Councils' farm in northern
Cobb County, northwest of the city. Lynette had described her father's
house as "a plain old ranch," but that didn't begin to do justice to
the low, sprawling farmhouse that came into view as Laura rounded a
bend in the driveway. She parked on the circular drive that ran in
front of the house, hauled her saddle from the backseat of her car, and
lugged it onto the wide front porch. The door opened before she could
ring the bell, and a smiling woman in a housekeeper's uniform greeted
her.

"You are Miss Chastain?" Laura recognized the Spanish-accented voice
who had answered the phone.

"Yes. I'm here to see Miss Connell."

"She is in the barn, miss. She says you should go on back there.

Follow me, please."

Laura followed on through the antique-filled hallway and into a sunny
room that looked out onto a landscape of fields and paddocks. It was
hard to believe that she was only a few miles from some of the worst
suburban sprawl in the country. The housekeeper opened a French door
and pointed to a structure on the far side of the paddock.

"There it is, miss."

"Thank you." Laura followed a gravel path that wound through flower
beds to the barn. She found Lynette inside cleaning tack.

"Hey! You finally made it. You brought your own saddle?

Great. I thought I'd get you up on Mica. His name was Orgueil de
Flandres when we bought him, but we're just old rednecks who can't
speak French, so we changed his name. Come on and have a look at
him."
Mica was a huge silver-gray warm blood gelding.

"I like his looks," Laura said. She reached forward to pet Mica's
nose. The horse reared and rolled his eye back in its socket.

"Ho, boy!"

Laura said.

"Lynette, I'm afraid this might be a little too much horse for me."

"Don't be silly you can ride anything in this stable. Besides, what's
the worst that can happen? You might take a spill."

And break my neck, and get my skull trampled in, Laura added, but
Lynette was busy calming the huge horse, holding out her hand and
clucking her tongue softly. The horse calmed, and thrust his nose into
her palm and snuffled.

"There, see how sweet he is? You wouldn't want me to put you up on
some old mattress with feet even if I had a wimpy horse. You'll love
this boy."

Laura was less sanguine, after more than a year out of the saddle, but
she said nothing. She didn't want Lynette to think she was a wimp.
Lynette entered Mica's stall and attached a lead rope to his bridle.
Together they saddled him up and led him outside into a sunlit ring,
which Laura noted was of championship caliber no potholes or puddles to
be seen. There were a couple of massive jumps set up in the center,
which Laura immediately decided she would decline to attempt.

"Get on up, and I'll get my horse and join you."

Laura led Mica to the mounting block and got up. The horse sidled and
tossed his head, but Laura spoke firmly to him and set him at a
moderate walk around the ring. She was gaining confidence, trying him
at a trot, when Lynette joined her, mounted on a gorgeous chestnut
mare.

"This is Austen. Mean as a rattle snake, but she can jump anything.
How do you like Mica?"

"Love him. Do you show him?"

"Not yet he's a little green. And I really don't have anyone to ride
him regularly. I don't suppose you'd be interested?"

"I certainly would be. Can I try his canter?"

"Be my guest."

Laura rode happily for the next hour, taking Mica through his paces,
and testing her own skills. She felt rusty and a little uncertain
after more than a year away from the ring, so she declined Lynette's
offer to set up a few easy jumps.

"Another time," she said.

"I'm going to be sore enough as it is just from riding flat the last
thing I need is to land on my butt."
She was pleasantly exhausted when Lynette suggested that they cool
down the horses on the well-groomed track that ran around the largest
paddock.

"This is where I set up the Grand Prix course," she said.

"We have a low-key show for my students here twice a year. It's fun
for them, and I enjoy all the planning."

"This is such a beautiful place," Laura said.

"I envy you all this space, and so green."

Lynette nodded.

"Daddy gets disgusted with the commuter traffic, and talks about
selling, but I won't let him. I like being close to the city. Or I
did, anyway, while Chrissie was alive. We haven't talked about what
we're going to do after the trial. Maybe the best thing would be to
take the children away from here, maybe out to Greene County or
someplace like that. We have some land there."

"You're going to take the children if James is convicted?"

"Of course! That's what Chrissie would have wanted. His parents won't
try to get custody. At least, I hope they won't, for the good of
Matthew and Sara."

"Do James's parents live around here?"

"No, they're in North Carolina. There's no way Daddy would let those
children go up there except for visits."

"And if James isn't convicted?"

"What are you talking about? Of course he will be! You of all people
should know that!"

"Funny things happen in the legal system, Lynette. There's no telling
what a jury may do."

"I think that lawyer should plea bargain, don't you? He's got to know
he can't win. James should just admit he's guilty and save everyone a
lot of heartache."

"Craig Fannin might not see things that way. From where he sits, his
case might look pretty good."

"How could it? You've proved that The Asshole did it!"

"Not exactly. I've proved that he lied about where he was that night,
and that he conspired with someone to hide his whereabouts but that
doesn't prove he killed your sister. The investigation has to
continue, even though we have an indictment."

"Why are you just telling me this now? I thought everything was taken
care of, and now you tell me that he might get off!"

Lynette seemed panicky.

"No, it would be naive to assume that we had tied it up with a ribbon.
Craig Fannin is no patsy, Lynette, and he's going to go to the limit
for his client. He's going to argue that we don't know where James
went that night, and he knows that right now we don't have proof that
he came back to Atlanta. If I were in his shoes, I would argue that
the evidence doesn't convict James beyond a reasonable doubt."

"That's so cynical! Don't you believe that James is guilty?"

"Of course I do, and I'm not cynical--just realistic. Look, the trial
is scheduled for October--barring delays--and by then we should have a
much stronger case. We may get the gun, which is really critical. The
crime lab is working on some fiber evidence-we know what clothes James
was wearing when he showed up in Charlotte. Maybe they can match the
fibers they found on the broken door to them. And maybe Craig Fannin
will decide it's wiser not to go to trial. All I'm saying, Lynette, is
that you should be prepared for anything."

"I hear you. Let's put these horses up. Can you stick around a while?
I'd like you to meet Daddy. I thought we could have lunch."

"Sure. Can I help with the horses?"

"Of course. You can wash 'em while I run out the rest of them.

Care to muck out a stall or two?"

"It would be my pleasure."

Two hours later, a very sweaty Laura was introduced to Lester Connell.
He didn't seem to notice, however, that her hair was a mess and her
clothes were filthy as he extended a callused hand to Laura and greeted
her, looking straight into her eyes. He looked more like an old farmer
than a millionaire land baron, Laura thought. His face was a delta of
wrinkles and his skin was sun-roughened and brown. They sat down on a
patio overlooking the paddocks to eat lunch served by the housekeeper.
They talked about horses for a while, but Lester clearly had other
things on his mind.

"You're the gal who's prosecuting James?" he asked abruptly.

"Yes, sir."

He nodded.

"Lynette's all for it. She never liked him. I say it doesn't matter
anymore how we feel--I say what about the children?

How's it going to be for them to lose their father and their mother?"

"It's a tragic situation, Mr. Connell, but we have no choice but to
prosecute. You can't just let someone get away with murder."
"I understand. But I'll speak at the trial against the death penalty
I never was for it anyway. Foolishness. Those children will need
help. A lot of help."

"We're going to do everything we can for them. Daddy," Lynette said,
patting his hand.

Lester looked at his daughter sharply.

"I'm seventy years old.

I can't be a daddy to them."

"But I can be like a mother. I'll never take Chrissie's place, but I
can try."

He shook his head sadly.

"Nothing's like a mother. You know what is was like after your own
mama died. No, you can say whatever you want to about James, but he's
their daddy. Anyway you look at this, it's our family that loses. You
go on and have your trial, miss. You do what you have to do. But I
won't be celebrating."
PART TWO

SEPTEMBER
CHAPTER 16

Laura brushed her hand across her sweaty forehead, unwittingly smudging
it with black dirt. Her hands were beginning to blister, even though
she was wearing gloves. She wanted to stop, but she could see that
Amos was nowhere near ready to quit.

"Damn his energy," she muttered as she resumed jabbing at the rock-hard
ground with her trowel.

They were working on Laura's "garden," which was a very kind way to
refer to the weed-choked patch of ground behind her house. It had
seemed like a good idea--Laura had imbibed many seed catalogs since she
acquired a house--but now, in the heat of a September afternoon, the
rewards of a blooming garden seemed as remote as Eden itself. Laura's
task was to dig up the old flower beds in search of any ancient bulbs
that had managed to survive years of neglect, while Amos roto-tilled
the sparse lawn.

He had offered her the roto-tilling job, but she had thought that
digging up a few jonquils and the odd bearded iris seemed simpler and
less taxing. She glared at his back as he zipped easily through
another few feet of earth. He must have been aware of her scrutiny,
because he stopped the machine, raised his protective goggles, and gave
her a mischievous grin.

"Getting tired?" he asked.

"This is impossible," she said.

"I've been digging like a Welsh miner and I've only got about ten of
them up."

"I told you to use the spade--you can't dig in this hard ground with
that little thing. Want me to take a turn?"

"No. Let's just forget these old bulbs. I can order some new ones."

He shrugged.

"It's your garden. I just thought you might like to save what you
could of the old things. All they need is to be divided and given a
little fertilizer, and they'll do better than anything you can get from
a catalog."

"Well, let's stop and rest for a little bit. My back is killing me."

Amos nodded, took off his gloves, and disappeared into the house. He
returned in a moment with two bottles of beer.

"Here you go." They sat down at Laura's new patio table and sipped in
silence for a few minutes.

"Amos, where did you learn how to garden?"

He shrugged.

"Just picked it up when I bought my first house, I guess. I'm no
expert, but I can get some things to grow."

"I can't even keep potted plants alive."

"That's why we're giving you a strictly low-maintenance gar den. Once
we get it planted, it should take care of itself except for the
occasional weeding, or fertilizing. Of course, you could get some
insect damage, or maybe have problems with moles or rabbits ..."

"Stop. You're exhausting me." She gazed out at what they had done so
far.

"It will be nice, though." The yard she had inherited might not have
not been cared for, but it was nicely shaped, level, and it boasted a
shapely, thriving holly tree in one corner. A lush bank of pink, red,
and white azaleas had bloomed the previous spring without any prompting
from her. It had potential. Amos had planned two simple rectangular
beds and a small lawn small enough, Laura had specified, to be cut with
a push-mower.

She refused to invest in a power mower too suburban.

The beer perked her up sufficiently to allow her to watch patiently as
Amos showed her how to dig up the dormant bulbs with a spade. They
returned to work. Despite the heat, there was an end-of-summer feeling
to the weekend Labor Day was past, and Laura felt the pull of that
back-to-school circadian rhythm, even though her summer had been far
from leisurely. Crime, if anything, rises in the warm months, and
Laura had been run off her feet covering for vacationing co-workers.
She wasn't eligible to take time off herself until Christmas, although
she had managed a few weekends in Nashville and a run to the mountains
over the Fourth of July holiday and she had ridden at Lynette's barn at
every opportunity. She had even showed Mica in a flat class no jumping
at one of Lynette's informal shows and done quite well. Not much of
note had happened at the office, although she could look back in pride
at how well she had performed the ordinary tasks. Meredith was giving
her more responsibility all the time, and there were a couple of armed
robbers and a carjacker who weren't going to be forming a Laura
Chastain fan club any time soon.

Always, though, at the back of her mind, was the James Stanley case.
Everything else felt like a rehearsal for the big opening of the only
trial anyone in Atlanta cared about. And yet the case had been
strangely quiescent these months too quiet, Laura reflected frowningly
as she turned up the earth of her backyard. There had been some
activity a few weeks earlier, which had whetted her appetite for
more.

Carlton Hemingway had called her on a sullen August morning It had
been weeks since she had last talked to him.

"Carlton!

I thought you had been promoted or something! What have you been
doing?"

"Nothing much. Just the routine cases it seems like nobody has the
energy to murder ingeniously during the summer. I've been looking for
you at the courthouse, but I guess our paths just haven't crossed. Are
you busy?"

"Not excruciatingly. Why?"

"The crime lab is ready to report to us on that fiber evidence.

I thought you might like to tool out there with me and hear what they
have to say."

A trip to the GBI crime lab would indeed be a welcome distraction, and
Laura had agreed readily to meet Carlton downstairs in an hour.

The crime lab was located in Decatur, about a half hour's drive in
Carlton's immaculate car. They chatted about this and that during the
trip, but never mentioned the Stanley case. Although it was uppermost
in both their minds, there was little they could say that wouldn't be
just going over the same old ground.

At the crime lab, they were directed to the trace evidence section,
where Carlton and Laura showed their id's and asked to see Carla
McNulty, who was produced and who proved to be a tired-looking woman in
her late thirties. She greeted them in a pleasant Southern drawl, and
asked them to step on back into her room, where she had set up a
demonstration in anticipation of their arrival.

"I hope y'all aren't counting on this little bitty bit of fiber to
make your case, 'cause if you are, I'm afraid you're out of luck,"
Carla McNulty said with a shake of her head.

"No. We actually don't know what this fiber means," Carlton said.

"We were kind of hoping you might tell us."

"I'll tell you what I know. What we have is a small sample-about six
threads--of material that was found caught in the splintered wood
surrounding a lock on a French-type door. There are two things I can
tell you positively: one, that the splintering of the wood around the
door lock was fresh. There was no dust or oxidation present which
would have indicated that it had been broken some time earlier. That
fits with the police theory that the intruder broke in through the door
on the night of the crime.

Second, because we know the lock was broken by the intruder, we can
assume that the fibers were also left by the intruder--he or she
brushed against the broken wood and caught a garment on the jagged
pieces. Now, as to what we have here, I wish I could be more helpful.
Step over to the microscope and take a look."

Carlton went first, screwing up his eye against the microscope.

"It looks like two kinds of fiber," he commented as he stepped aside.
Laura looked, and saw what appeared to be two threads twisted together,
one dark and thick and one lighter and thinner.

"That's right," Carla said.

"What you're seeing is a wool-and-acrylic blend of the type used to
make suiting material. Unfortunately, we don't have a large enough
sample to determine how the fabric was woven--if we had that, we might
be able to trace it to a manufacturer. But I can tell you that, in all
likelihood, the sample you're looking at comes from a gray
tropical-weight wool-blend suiting."

"In other words, it's from one of possibly a billion gray suits?"

Laura asked.

Carla laughed.

"Make it two billion, and you've just about got it."

"But," Carlton said, "if Stanley had a suit made of material like this,
we can link him to the fibers found in the door."

"He surely would have gotten rid of it by now," Laura said.

"He would have realized it was torn."

"Not necessarily," Carla said.

"This was a very small sample-it would have looked more like a snag, or
an irregularity on the fabric, than a real tear."
Laura thought for a long moment.

"Carlton, what did Jim say Stanley was wearing when he finally showed
up at the hotel?"

Carlton consulted his notebook.

"Khaki trousers and a sports shirt."

"Which means he changed his clothes," Laura said.

"Or that he wasn't at the crime scene," Carlton corrected her.

"No, he changed, because he was splattered with blood. He must have
gotten rid of that suit somehow, just like he got rid of the gun."

Carla consulted her file.

"I see that the firearms section determined that the shooter was about
ten feet away from the victim.

At that distance, he would have been spattered with very fine
droplets--so fine that they would be almost invisible to the naked eye.
He may not have known that he had bloodstains on him at all."

"So if we can find a gray suit belonging to our suspect, with a slight
snag in the fabric and microscopic bloodstains on it, we can show he's
the shooter," Laura said.

"I would say that's correct," Carla said.

Laura looked at Carlton.

"I can get a search warrant for James Stanley's clothes."

"Let's do it, then," he replied.

"Thanks a lot, Carla. We'll see you at the trial."

Laura waited with anxious high hopes while Carlton and a team of
crime-scene technicians executed the search warrant, seizing every gray
garment in Stanley's wardrobe while the suspect fumed and called his
lawyer. There was nothing Fannin could do, however, and armfuls of
expensive clothes were hauled away and taken to the crime lab. It only
took a day or two for a discouraging report to come back: James Stanley
owned nothing but one hundred percent wool suits, slacks, and sports
coats although a great many of those were gray. The crime lab examined
all the clothing for bloodstains anyway, but no one was surprised when
they found none.

"He got rid of it, that's all," Laura said.

"He wore his oldest, cheapest suit, and he ditched it before he got to
Charlotte--just like he ditched the gun. We need that gun, dammit. How
hard can it be to find out where he got an antique military sidearm
anyway?"

"You'd be surprised," Carlton answered.
"We're crosschecking registration records from all over the country,
but the thing about a gun like that is that it might never have been
permitted at all.

Lots of soldiers brought them back from Europe and just stuck them away
in their closets."

"Did James Stanley have a near relative father, uncle, what ever who
served in Europe during the war?"

"No. His dad was in the Pacific, and neither of his uncles were sent
overseas. We've thought of all of this already."

"How did he get the gun, then, if he didn't get it from Jesse and he
didn't already have it?"

"I'm stumped."

And that was the last contact she had had with the investigation. She
hopped on the spade with all her weight, and wedged its blade beneath a
chunk of earth. She plucked a bulb from the spadeful of earth, and
plunged the shovel back into the hard ground as forcefully as she
could. She was thinking about the trial and not about her garden at
all. She had every reason to be confident in their case, of course,
but doubts continued to nag at her. We need to prove that he was in
that house on the night Christine Stanley died, she thought. Without
that, there's reasonable doubt, although a jury might not buy that a
man would go to the elaborate lengths James Stanley had just to get a
night out faking a business trip and paying a co-conspirator five
thousand dollars is pretty weird behavior for an innocent man. Yes,
that was certainly reassuring.

But why can't we link him to a gun? Laura's foot slipped off the
shovel, and she caught herself as she almost fell. Jesse DuPree must
know more than he's saying. We need to take a look at his financial
records. James might have paid him to lie. She rammed the spade into
the dirt with unconscious violence.

"Whoa there. You look like you're trying to beat the ground to death
with that thing." She hadn't noticed that Amos had turned off the
tiller and was standing behind her.

"I'm thinking about James Stanley. That always brings out the animal
in me."

"What about James Stanley?" Amos asked patiently. He had heard Laura
go over every aspect of the case at least a thousand times, but he
always pretended to be interested.

"The gun. Here we have this distinctive weapon, and yet we can't find
hide nor hair of it. What does that make you think?"

"That James Stanley never owned the gun."
"What makes you say that?" she asked, dropping the spade and looking
at him with interest.

"If he had bought a gun from that guy who dated the sister ..."

"Jesse DuPree."

"Right. DuPree would have told you."

"Unless Jesse is also a co-conspirator. I was just thinking we should
look at his financial records."

Amos shook his head.

"The last thing a legitimate gun dealer wants or needs is to be caught
up in a crime like this although you should check into him. Who knows?
He might be stupid enough to do it, and I admit it's one helluva
coincidence that Christine Stanley was killed with a rare weapon of a
type DuPree was known to deal in."

"And Travers has checked the records of every other dealer specializing
in antique weapons in the country without turning up a thing."

"That's why I've come to the conclusion that James Stanley didn't own
the gun at all, and that, in fact, he may have been in possession of it
only long enough to commit the crime."

"That's a good point," Laura said, excited.

"So what we need to do is look at every known gun of that type and
determine if Stanley had access to it starting with Jesse's stock."

"Correct. You know already that James Stanley didn't have a gun like
that in his own family, so look at a wider circle. Friends?

Clients? Did he know any gun collectors?"

Laura blanched.

"Actually, his father-in-law collects guns but I think they're just for
hunting. I guess we should check that out. I wonder if Lester Connell
fought in Europe?"

"There you go. Carlton Hemingway can get started checking it out first
thing Monday morning. In the meantime, I can't till anymore until you
finish digging these old flower beds. Or would you like me to finish
for you?"

"Would you? I hate to be a wimp, but this is killing me."

Amos took the shovel, and fifteen minutes later he had recovered all
the old bulbs that yard could yield. He looked into the bucket where
Laura had tossed them.

"It would have cost you a hundred bucks to buy that many. I'll just
finish tilling so I can fertilize and seed the grass tomorrow."

Laura looked at her watch.
"It's after six. I'll go take a quick shower and start dinner. Did
you bring something to change into, or do you need to go home?"

"Nope. I brought some clothes. And I brought Scrabble," he added
hopefully.

"Bring it on," she said.
CHAPTER 17

With James Stanley's trial only a few weeks away, Laura was not the
only busy lawyer in Atlanta. Craig Fannin was not letting the grass
grow under his feet, either--at least Laura assumed that it was Fannin
who was behind the spate of news stories that began appearing in
September. The first salvo was fired by the Atlanta Constitution, the
morning paper, which printed a rehash of the case, heavy on sentiment
but short on new revelations.

Meredith even gave them an innocuous quote. Laura saw no cause for
concern until one of the television stations ran a story alleging that
her key witness had some experience of his own with the legal system.

Laura was no fan of the local news broadcasts, which hewed to the "if
it bleeds, it leads" school of television journalism. She was always
reminding herself that she should watch them for any references to the
cases she was working on, but she was just as happy to let Ilona and
her PR crew do the dirty work. She was wallowing in her usual state of
blessed ignorance when Meredith stuck her head into Laura's cubicle one
fine September morning and asked, "Did you see the news?" with a wry
expression on her face.

"No. Should I have?"

"Come on; I'll show you the tape. They got Jim Stanley's name."

"Not from us!" Laura said, half asserting, half questioning. As a
matter of policy, no one from the district attorney's office would
discuss grand jury testimony with anyone from the press. Craig Fannin,
however, was under no such obligation.

"No, I'm sure it was Craig's doing. But that's not all they have."
They entered the conference room, where a small television and VCR
were hidden in a cabinet. Meredith punched the Play button on a remote
and the handsome-but-empty talking head of news anchor Hank Morse
appeared.

There are new developments to report tonight in the investigation of
the murder of Brookhaven housewife Christine Stanley. Sources close to
the investigation have informed the Live Eye news team that a key
witness in the case has had some experience with the legal system
himself. Here's Dorinda Lewis live with details.

The cameras cut away to a reporter standing outside the Fulton County
Courthouse.

"Why do they do that?" Meredith mused.

"Why do they stand outside when nothing is happening?"

"I'm just glad they're not at James Stanley's house. Is this about
Lynette?"

"Shh. You'll see."

Dorinda adjusted her earpiece and spoke into her microphone.

Thanks, Hank. The Live Eye has learned that a key witness against
James Stanley has himself been in trouble with the law more than once.
Jim Stanley of Winston-Salem, North Carolina, testified to the grand
jury hearing charges against James Stanley that he had conspired with
James Stanley to provide him with an alibi. It was the similarity in
the two men's names that gave them the idea. Jim Stanley checked into
a hotel in Charlotte, pretending to be the husband of the murdered
woman on the night of her death. Police investigators discovered the
ruse, and Jim Stanley was granted full immunity in exchange for his
testimony. Our own investigation has revealed that Jim Stanley--that's
the one in North Carolina, Hank, not Christine Stanley's husband--has a
record of drug convictions. He's also no stranger to immunity deals,
Hank. He was given immunity by the state attorney general of North
Carolina in a fraud case two years ago.

How will this affect the case against James Stanley, Dorinda?

We're not sure, Hank. Right now we don't have a comment from the
district attorney's office. James Stanley's attorney, Craig Fannin,
gave us a statement, however. In it he says, "Immunity
agreements are one tool that prosecutors have in their box, and I
don't mind their use--as long as the testimony they elicit is fair and
truthful. We plan to show that the second Mr. Stanley's testimony is
neither of these things."

Sounds like things are heating up. We'll certainly be keeping our ears
open on this case, Dorinda. Thanks for that report.

Meredith stopped the tape.

"What do you think?"

"} think Craig Fannin hired a private detective."

"Me, too. Did you know any of this?"

"Of course not! I would have told you right away!"

"We need to get on top of this," Meredith said.

"Call Randy Travers and ask him if he can put a man onto researching
Jim Stanley's background. If he can't, I'll find some money to hire
someone of our own."

"Do you think our case is hurt?"

"Not yet, but I've been waiting for a shoe to drop. Craig has been
unnaturally quiet lately. But there's no cause for panic-James Stanley
has a hell of a lot to explain, any way you look at it. But bring me
details--I need details. We'll plan our next step when we know exactly
what Craig has on our boy."

Laura hurried to do her boss's bidding. She called Carlton, not Randy,
however, preferring not to get chewed out, which she anticipated
Travers would do with relish. Carlton wasn't aware of the report on
Jim Stanley.

"It looks bad, Carlton," Laura said.

"Of course, the news people were playing it for maximum effect.

The drug convictions could be a couple of marijuana busts, and the
fraud case--well, I don't see how that can have anything to do with
us."

"It does show that Jim Stanley has a propensity for getting into
trouble with the law--and that he knew about immunity deals anyway.
That must have been his strategy all along--get us to come across with
the free pass before he talked."

"Yeah. And so much for his argument that he didn't know James was up
to no good. God, I'm beginning to hate Jim Stanley.

I can't get past the feeling that I've let him get away with
something."

"I wouldn't beat myself up--and I was there, too, remember.
What we have to do now is get busy. Unfortunately, we're real busy
over here. I don't think Randy can spare an investigator.

What about your guys?"

"Always too busy to take on something like this. But Meredith said she
might find the money to hire someone. Run it past Randy anyway if he
says no, we'll take it here. Meanwhile, do you have anything new on
the gun?"

"Negative. We checked out Mr. Connell's collection the old boy nearly
blew a gasket when we told him what we were after but it's strictly
hunting weapons. We're running down every other possibility we can
think of, but it's going to take a long time."

"I'd hate to go to trial without that gun."

"Can't you postpone the trial?"

"Nope. James Stanley has requested a speedy trial, which means it has
to be in this session of the Superior Court. He seems to be in a hurry
for some reason usually they want all the time they can get." Laura
sighed.

"I'm getting a bad feeling about all this, Carlton. Give me a holler
if you need us to take up the investigation of Jim Stanley's record."

Randy ultimately got Jim Stanley's sheet from the authorities in North
Carolina, but it was short on detail. Meredith decided to hire someone
to run down the story. Laura suggested Kenny Newton, since Meredith
knew him, too. Kenny was only too happy to get a "real" job.

"I've been peeping into too many bedrooms lately," he said.

"I'm beginning to feel like a special prosecutor."

"Then this will be a welcome break for you; Jim Stanley is a whole
different kind of sleaze."

"What you got on him so far?"

"His sheet says he has two busts for drug possession one marijuana, the
other not specified. He paid a fine and got probation on the marijuana
charge, but he served time on the second charge."

"What about the fraud case?"

"That's not on the sheet, but I put in a call to the North Carolina
attorney general's office. It seems that he was a minor player in a
bank fraud. He helped one of his pals get a mortgage on a building
that the guy didn't exactly own. Jim got immunity because they wanted
his partner more than they wanted him."

"Fax over what you've got, and I'll head for Carolina in the
morning."

"Isn't that a song?" Kenny answered in the affirmative by singing a
few off-key bars. Laura hung up on him.
Laura was privately getting very uneasy about her case. It wasn't
that she thought Fannin could really impeach Jim Stanley;

if he could do that, he would have come out and done so, and not
bothered with all this sneaking around to the press. And it wasn't the
lack of forensic evidence; trials had been won on far less than she and
Meredith had to go on. But the sum total was enough to keep her awake
late into the night, staring at a crack in the ceiling that she really
should have fixed weeks before. The wear was beginning to show in her
face and in her mood, which was sharp and snappish, so much so that she
nearly took Cheryl's head off when she got another call from the
receptionist announcing that she had a visitor.

"There's a man here asking to see you," Cheryl said.

"Well, what's his name?"

"I don't know."

"It didn't occur to you to ask him, I suppose?"

She must have been intimidating, because Cheryl put her on hold and
came back a moment later and said, "It's someone named Jesse DuPree."

"I'll be right out." What was Jesse DuPree doing in downtown Atlanta
in the middle of the week? It crossed her mind that he might have just
stopped in to flirt with her, but she immediately dismissed the idea as
too embarrassingly egotistical. She hurried to the lobby to see what
he really did want. He was standing, hands in pockets, looking at the
large color photographs of district attorneys past and present that
adorned the walls.

"Mr. DuPree?"

"Hey!" he said, smiling widely.

"Boy, you don't have to be pretty to be the district attorney, do you?
I'm glad you're here.

You know, I wasn't sure I could just drop in on you, but I thought it
was worth a try. I have something I need to tell you."

"Come on back to my office. Want some coffee?"

Jesse declined, and Laura led him to her cubicle and offered him a
chair. He looked around, astonished.

"They have you in one of these little old things? I pictured you in a
big fancy office."

"I'm just a public servant. The big offices are for the defense
lawyers. How can I help you?"

"I think I can help you, actually. See, I sold a weapon to Jim Stanley
a few years ago."

"You what?" Laura was halfway out of her chair.

"Why didn't you tell us this months ago?"
"I didn't know you were interested when we first talked. But I saw on
the news that Jim is a witness for you. I thought you might want to
know that he had a gun like the one James Stanley was interested in."

The situation became slightly clearer.

"You mean you sold a gun to Jim Stanley, not James?"

"That's what I said."

"But how do you know Jim Stanley?" Laura's brain was reeling from the
shock.

"I've known him for years we grew up together. He's from Snellville,
out in Gwinnett, you know, and we went to the same high school."

"Did you know that he knew James Stanley?"

"Nope. I haven't seen him in years, since before he moved to Carolina.
But I recognized his picture when they showed it on the news." The Jim
Stanley story had continued to be newsworthy, and one station had sent
a camera crew to try to get an interview with him. All they got was
Jim grinning and saying, "No comment but they ran his picture for
days.

"Hold on, Jesse I want you to tell this to my boss." Laura buzzed
Meredith, and told her she needed to see her right away.

She hauled Jesse around to Meredith's office and sat him down.

"Meredith, this is Jesse DuPree. Jesse, this is Meredith Gaffney.

I want you to tell her exactly what you just told me."

Meredith listened as Jesse went through his story again. She was
initially as confused as Laura had been, but Jesse patiently
straightened her out.

"This business of them having the same name is getting to be a pain in
the butt," Meredith commented.

"Mr. DuPree, do you have a record of his buying this gun?"

Jesse grimaced.

"Not exactly. See, Jim really wanted that gun, but he was still on
probation from one of his drug arrests, and it would have violated the
terms. So, seeing as how he was an old friend, I kinda sold it off the
books. Hell, it was an antique anyway, and it was before all this
checking and waiting period," he added defensively.

Laura was too excited to express reservations.

"That's not good, but we can live with it. You see what it means,
don't you, Meredith We can get the gun, and we can prove that James
Stanley had access to it."
"I hope we can. Why didn't Jim Stanley tell us this to start with?"

"That's exactly what I'm going to ask him," Laura said grimly.

"I'd like to smack him."

"I'll help. Let's get him on the phone."

They had to go through Candi again to get Jim, but he came on, cheerful
as ever, after only a short delay.

"Jim? This is Laura Chastain. I have you on speakerphone because I
have two people with me Meredith Gaffney, whom you met when you came
down for the grand jury, and an old friend of yours."

"Hey, Jimmy," Jesse drawled.

"Who's that?"

"Jesse DuPree."

"Oh. Hey, Jesse."

"So you do know Mr. DuPree?"

"Uh, yeah. We went to school together."

"Is that all you did together, Jim?" Laura asked sternly.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean have you had any business dealings with Mr. DuPree?

Have you ever bought anything from him, for instance?"

There was a long silence.

"I think I'd like to talk to Charlie Hoyt before I answer that," Jim
said.

"Oh, come on, Jim, you have transactional immunity. You can tell me
that you gave James the gun knowing that he was going to kill his wife
with it, and I can't prosecute you for it. You're bullet-proof, Jim
you have a "Get Your Butt Out of Trouble' card you can use anytime."
Laura was growing angry.

Meredith intervened before she completely lost her temper.

"Mr. Stanley, this is Meredith Gaffney. Why don't you get your
attorney on the phone and call us back?" She gave him her number and
hung up.

"No point in hollering at him. He might be able to help us. Tell me
more, Mr. DuPree. When did you sell Jim Stanley this gun?"

"Must have been about three or four years ago it was before the new law
took effect, anyway, because, like I said, I didn't have to do a
background check on him. It was all aboveboard from my side, although
he could have gotten into a bunch of trouble for it. The gun he bought
is a Walther P-38. It's an antique nine millimeter."

"Was the gun in working condition?"
"Oh, yeah. I got it from an old man who had traded for it in Europe
when he was in the Army over there. He kept it mint."

"It's probably the murder weapon, then. Mr. DuPree, thanks for coming
to us with this. We may need you to make a formal statement. Does
Laura have your address and phone number?"

"I sure hope so," Jesse said with a wink at Laura as he rose to
leave.

"She can call me anytime."

"Thank you, Mr. DuPree," Laura said primly.

Meredith chuckled when Jesse was out of earshot.

"He's a case.

I've seen about a million boys just like him."

"I can't understand why Lynette ever dated him at all."

"Oh, he's plenty attractive."

"But what would you talk about with him?" Laura asked.

Meredith hooted.

"You don't talk with a man like that! You can talk to your
girlfriends, for pity's sake."

Fortunately, Meredith's phone rang before the boss could go any further
down this ribald road. Laura knew it was Charlie Hoyt because Meredith
slipped into her horse-trading lawyer mode right away.

"Hello, Mr. Hoyt. We're having a little problem down here and we were
hoping that you could see your way to helping us out. May I put you on
my speaker? Laura Chastain is with me." She hit the speaker button
and replaced the phone in its cradle.

"I'll let Laura tell you what we'd like from your client."

"Hello, Mr. Hoyt," Laura said.

"You've spoken to Jim Stanley?"

"I have him on hold on the other line. I understand that there's
something about a gun ...."

"Yes. I have a man here who claims to have sold a Nazi sidearm to your
client a few years ago. The ballistics people believe that the shots
that killed Christine Stanley were fired from a similar type of antique
gun. It seems possible that your client was the source of the gun that
James Stanley used to kill his wife."

"You understand, Ms. Chastain, that nothing I say will be binding on
my client until I discuss it with him?"

"Of course."

"Well, let's say that Jim Stanley can produce the weapon you're
interested in for ballistics testing. I want it to be clearly
understood that his failure to do so earlier will have no impact on the
immunity agreement we reached."

Laura looked at Meredith. They could make a stab at voiding the
immunity by claiming that Jim Stanley perjured himself by giving
incomplete information. Meredith didn't seem interested, however. She
nodded, and mouthed, "Okay," to Laura.

"We can give you that assurance," Laura said reluctantly. She believed
that now, more than ever, they had an argument for voiding the immunity
on the grounds of inevitable discovery, because if they had squeezed
Jesse just a little harder, they might have found Jim Stanley by
tracking the gun. But Meredith was the boss, and Laura didn't want to
lose what little traction they had with Charlie Hoyt.

"Fine. Let me patch Jim in," Hoyt's disembodied voice said.

There was a click, and Jim was back on the line.

"Jim, why don't you tell the ladies what you just told me?"

"I lent James Stanley my gun, months ago. I had no idea he was going
to use it to kill anyone he told me he was interested in buying one,
and he wanted to take it to a shooting range he knew of in Georgia. I
... I guess I should have known when he came to me about checking into
the hotel that he had something in mind, but, honestly, I had almost
forgotten that he had the gun."

"Why didn't you tell us this earlier?" Laura said sternly.

"I didn't know if my immunity would cover it."

"Surely you could have asked Mr. Hoyt."

Charlie Hoyt broke in.

"Ms. Chastain, you had ample opportunity to question my client. He
would have answered questions about this gun fully and truthfully."

"If only I had known to ask," Laura said sarcastically.

"That's water under the bridge," Hoyt said.

"I assume you'll want the gun?"

"Is it back in your client's possession?" Meredith asked.

"Yes. James Stanley returned it to him that morning at the hotel. I
have suggested to him that he place it in my hands, and I will have it
sent to you by courier."

Laura had a notion.

"We have an investigator on the ground up there on, ahh, another
matter," she said. She didn't want Jim Stanley to know that they had
sent Kenny up there to check him out.

"He can pick it up from Mr. Stanley this afternoon before he returns
to Atlanta."

"Fine. Jim, can you arrange to turn the gun over this after noon?"

"Sure. Just tell him to drop by the office. It's in the safe here."
Laura swallowed her bitterness and said polite good-byes to Hoyt and
his client. To Meredith, however, she vented her frustration

"Just think that damn gun was in the office all the time!

Do you have any idea how much sleep I've lost over this, and all the
time that idiot had it! God, I wish I had some reason to prosecute
him."

"It would be nice, but let's keep in mind that James Stanley is the one
we're really after. And now I think we really have him."

"There's still one thing I'd like to do."

"What's that?"

"Find out how James Stanley got from Greenville back to Atlanta that
night. I figure he rented a car, and I think we should check out the
rental car agencies. Carlton says Randy can't spare him, but I could
go. I could do it this weekend."

"I don't know, Laura. You don't have a lot of experience
investigating. I'd prefer to have the police do it."

"Can we get Kenny to do it?"

"Afraid not. I've used up most of my budget for outside investigators
already, and I don't think it's such a crucial piece of evidence."

Laura had a sudden inspiration.

"What if I can persuade Amos to go with me?" she asked.

"He could do something like that in his sleep."

"If he's willing to give up his day off, it's fine with me."

"I know he'll do it," Laura said eagerly.

"Amos is very interested in this case."

"He's interested in something, all right," Meredith said with a grin.

Laura reassembled her dignity and left without comment.
CHAPTER 18

T" his is the gun that killed Christine Stanley?" Laura was peering
into a box that lay open on her desk.

"Pending ballistics confirmation, yes." Kenny Newton shook his head
sadly.

"Ugly bastard, isn't it?"

"They all are to me. But thanks for picking this nasty thing up
anyway. I'll get it over to the police this afternoon. Did you ask
Jim Stanley if he had cleaned it? I'm wondering if we might be able to
get prints off it."

"Yes, I did ask him, and yes, he did clean it. You'll have to make do
with a match on the slug."

"Oh, well, I guess that was just wishful thinking. So what did you
think of our boy Jim Stanley?" Laura leaned back in her chair and
waited for Kenny's assessment.

"Jim Stanley? He's an operator--not a very good one, but an operator."
Kenny flipped open his notebook.

"I didn't expect to meet him in person--that was the cream in my
coffee, let me tell you. First, I talked to the narcotics detective
who busted him the second time. He says it was for possession of
cocaine, about a gram. Jimmy ratted out his connection to get a light
sentence. He has a propensity for making deals when he gets into
trouble, doesn't he? As for the fraud charge--well, he might not have
been so much guilty there as he was greedy. He hooked up with a
developer who said he owned a piece of land and was going to build a
strip mall on it. Jim got him a construction loan and a mortgage, but
they failed to disclose to the lender that the land in question was an
EPA clean-up site. Jim made a convincing case that he didn't know
about the designation. Anyway, the developer took the loan proceeds
and skipped out. Jim was left holding the bag, so once again, he cut
a deal and helped them trace the guy.

They recovered most of the money."

"In other words, he is no stranger to the legal system."

"Right. He's a crappy little guy, but I don't think that Fannin can
use that to help his own client. He's got a solid story to tell your
jury."

"I'm glad you think so. I've been worried half to death about the
trial. It's just too big a coincidence, don't you think, that Jim
Stanley knows Jesse DuPree?"

"It's a big coincidence, all right. But I put my giant detective brain
on the problem on the drive home, and here's what I think:

Jesse and Jim tell the same story about the gun, right? Which means
that either they're both lying, or there both telling the truth."

"Right. And if they're telling the truth ..."

"Then it really is a big coincidence. Two big coincidences, really, if
you believe that James Stanley met Jim Stanley completely by chance."

"But what if Jim and Jesse are lying?"

Kenny thought for a long moment.

"If they are, it's Jesse who is the linchpin of this whole thing."

"Oh, I see he would have to be the one who introduced James to Jim,
because he knows them both. And he provided the gun.

But why would they have turned the gun over to Jim Stanley?"

Kenny shook his head.

"Maybe it's because Jim has immunity, and Jesse didn't want to take a
chance on being charged with something."

"So Jim Stanley told you the same story we got about how he came by the
gun, and how he gave it to James Stanley months ago?"

"Yep. And you'll love this: He asked me how long it would be before he
got it back he wants to auction it on the Internet."

"No! That little creep. Is he going to advertise it as a murder
weapon?"

"That I cannot say. I doubt that would add to its value, so probably
not. It's the Nazi associations that bring in the bucks."

"How much is it worth?"

"I couldn't say. A good nine-millimeter gun would go for several
hundred bucks. The historic angle might boost the value of this one to
a collector. If you want, I'll take it over to Travers for you I was
planning on dropping in over at Homicide since I'm downtown."
"I'd appreciate it."

"And I'll write up my report on Stanley and get it to you in a day or
two."

"Right and don't forget to send us the bill."

"Not to worry."

"Hey, Kenny, before you go, there's something else I want to ask you. I
want to make this case as strong as I can, and I think it might be
helpful to find out how James Stanley traveled from Greenville to
Atlanta to kill his wife. I thought someone should go check out all
the car rental places in Greenville. What do you think?"

Kenny nodded.

"Makes sense. I would volunteer, but Meredith made it pretty clear
that she can't pay me for more than two days."

"And Travers says he can't spare a man, either. So I thought I'd go,
and ask Amos to come along you know, to flash the badge and all
that."

"Sounds like a plan. You talked to Kowalski yet?"

"No. I thought he might say it was a stupid idea."

"Taking a road trip with you a stupid idea? Naw, he'll jump at the
chance."

"Don't you give me that innuendo, Newton. We're just friends."

"Now. But after a trip to a magical romantic spot like Green ville,
South Carolina, who can say what might happen?"

"Don't you have some work to do?"

"Just leaving. I'll talk to you soon."

There was no real reason to run her plans past Kenny, except to see if
he would react the way he had. Laura sighed in frustration;

her relationship with Amos was going to be fraught with this tension
for a while, until ... until he gives up or I give in, she thought. She
tried to sort out why it was that she couldn't let herself get involved
with him, but she bogged down in her usual muddle. It came down to Tom
Bailey, of course, a man with whom she had been romantically involved
for a grand total of three weeks before he was killed. If she hadn't
fallen in love with Tom, she might well have started dating Amos. But
if she hadn't been involved with Tom, Tom would still be alive, and she
would probably still be in love with him. Which led her to construct a
syllogism: If I hadn't started dating Tom, he would still be alive:
therefore, I killed him. It was nonsense, of course, but she couldn't
convince her weary little psyche of that. She gave up worrying about
it and called Amos.

"Whatcha doing?" he asked after they exchanged greetings.

"Little of this, little of that. Hey, Amos, I was wondering if you've
got plans this weekend."

"Nothing I can't change. Why?"

"Would you be up for a trip to Greenville, South Carolina?"

"Why do you want to go there? Wait a minute--does this have anything
to do with James Stanley?"

"Yes. I want to check out the rental car agencies, and see if we can
prove that he got off that plane and rented a car."

"Isn't this a little bit of overkill? You've got a coconspirator to
testify, and now you've got the murder weapon. Isn't that enough to
make your case?"

"If James Stanley was being defended by some chump just out of law
school, maybe it would be. But he's being defended by Craig Fannin,
and I don't want to take any chances. I know what I would do if I were
in Fannin's shoes--I'd hammer away at the fact that we can't put James
Stanley at the murder scene. If we had a fiber match, I'd be happy.
But we don't, so I want that damn rental car."

"Okay, okay--what's my role in all this?"

"I want you to be a cop--show them your badge and ask the questions. I
think we'll have better luck that way."

"I'll do it if Randy Travers says it's okay with him."

"Will you ask him? I'm afraid that if I call, he'll say no. I seem to
get on his nerves."

"I'm sure you're imagining that. Where is Greenville anyway?

Hang on a second--let me get out my maps." There was a rustling as
Amos laid a map on his desk.

"Greenville is about a two-hour drive from Atlanta, straight up 1-85.
We could drive up there Saturday morning and spend the afternoon asking
around the rental places. We better plan on staying overnight--we can
always come home if we luck into something, but we might need to try
again Sunday morning. What's Greenville like?"

"I've only passed through it, but I don't think it's a real garden
spot. There's probably a Holiday Inn or a Hyatt or something."

"That's no fun. Let me see what's nearby--Asheville?"

"Too far."
"How about Brevard? That's supposed to be pretty."

Brevard was a small and pleasant mountain town near the point where
North Carolina, South Carolina, Georgia, and Tennessee almost
touched.

"How far is it from Greenville?" Laura asked.

"Looks like it's less than an hour. Why don't I try to find a nice
place there for us to stay? That way we can get a decent dinner and
see some pretty scenery, and the weekend won't be a total waste."

"Okay, I guess," Laura said, but there was hesitation in her voice.
Amos must have noticed it.

"I'll book two rooms, of course," he said casually.

"Oh great. Sure you don't want me to do it?"

"No, just leave it to me. I'll call you back."

Laura hung up uneasily. Dammit, Kenny, she thought, I wouldn't have
worried one bit about going away overnight with Amos if you hadn't put
ideas in my head. But to do Kenny justice, Laura knew that Kenny only
said what she had been thinking herself. There was something between
her and Amos, and it had to be resolved sooner or later. But if he
wants it resolved this weekend, Laura told herself, the answer will
have to be no.

She didn't have the luxury of worrying about Amos for too long,
however, as Meredith buzzed her right away.

"More fun revelations from the press. Can you come in here?"

Laura found Ilona Crawford sitting in Meredith's office with a sour
look on her face.

"Here's Laura," Meredith said.

"She can help us. Laura, Ilona has gotten a call from a reporter
asking us to confirm some more information about Jim Stanley."

"I just talked to Kenny; I have the full story right here," Laura
answered, happy to be on the ball.

"Good," Ilona said.

"So we want to take the position that we've been aware of the divorce
all along, and that it has no bearing on our case?"

"Wait a minute divorce? We don't know about a divorce."

Ilona grimaced.

"I thought you had sent a detective up there to check Stanley's
background."

"To check his criminal record, yes, we did. But this is the first I've
heard about a divorce. What are they saying?"

"It seems that Jim Stanley's wife has filed for divorce, and she talked
to a reporter about her husband's ... propensities."
"Okay, so how bad can it be? We know he has busts for marijuana and
cocaine possession on his sheet, and that he was involved in a
financial fraud what more can the wife say?"

"Plenty. She's alleging domestic violence and spousal abuse.

She paints a picture of a very unstable man. She also says that he's
'a pathological liar."

" "That's for a psychiatrist to say, not a disgruntled spouse. Any
substantiation of the claims of abuse?" Laura said, quickly moving in
damage-control mode.

"Yes. Police reports, hospital records, photographs the works."

Laura turned to Meredith.

"This is Fannin's doing, isn't it? I guess we're really at war now."

"You said it. It's a bar fight, no holds barred."

"But none of this really impeaches Jim's testimony, does it?

Yes, he's a jerk, maybe a violent, unstable jerk, but there's nothing
in any of this to disprove his story."

"You and I know that, but will the public the public which is going to
make up our jury? Craig is trying to get as much as he can out there
before jury selection begins."

"I say we can turn it around on him we can show that his client was
willing to make a deal with someone who is clearly a criminal."

"Maybe. But I think this gives us a hint of Craig's trial strategy.

We thought that he was going for reasonable doubt and he may be yet but
now I'm thinking that he's going to present an alternate theory of the
crime."

"Such as?"

"Such as a conspiracy between Jim Stanley and Jesse DuPree."

Laura paused, thinking it over.

"There's no reason for those two to conspire, unless he's going to say
that Lynette Connell was a part of it."

Meredith nodded.

"I'm afraid so. There are always going to be casualties in a war like
this one. For now, let's help Ilona draft a statement that will show
how supremely unconcerned the district attorney's office is with this
sideshow."

In the end, they issued a statement which was long on bravado and short
on contradiction, and the allegations against Jim Stanley led the six
o'clock news. Laura didn't see it, however, because she was out in her
backyard, planting bulbs in the newly dug flower beds and worrying
about the weekend.
CHAPTER 19

There were many, many places to rent a car in Greenville, South
Carolina--so many that, after six fruitless and frustrating hours of
trailing from one agency to the next, Laura was ready to name
Greenville the Car Rental Capital of the Western Hemisphere.

Amos patiently pointed out that the city was located in the center of a
tourist region, but the more he tried to calm her, the more irritable
Laura grew.

Laura had started the trip with misgivings, which seemed to her now to
have been prescient. What had seemed so necessary the other day now
seemed of dubious value--she doubted that they would find proof that
James Stanley had rented a car in Greenville, and even if they did,
what would that prove? Fannin would have the same argument for
reasonable doubt as he had before. The fact that he had rented a car
didn't mean that Stanley had driven it to Atlanta, or that he had
killed his wife once he got there. Her mood grew steadily gloomier as
their search turned up nothing time and time again.

She hadn't been in the best frame of mind when they started out from
Atlanta, after spending most of Friday night worrying as she tried to
pack her bag. Suddenly, choosing clothes became a task of monumental
significance. If she took a silk blouse to wear to dinner Saturday
night, would Amos think that she was dressing up for him? On the other
hand, if she just threw on jeans and a sweater, would he think she
didn't care how she looked?

She had never had these doubts before when it came to Amos.

When he complimented her appearance, she had always taken it as a
routine remark that any friend would make. Why was it different now?
Amos hasn't changed, Laura thought. Nothing that he's said or done
has given me any reason to believe that he's pining for me. What was
it, then--Kenny's remarks? Meredith's? Or, Laura realized with a
jolt, is it me? Am I the one who's seeing Amos in a new light? The
thought left her even more discombobulated, so when Amos came by to
pick her up Saturday morning she could hardly look him in the face.

"What's with you this morning?" he asked as he tossed her bag into the
back of the Jeep.

"Didn't you get a good night's sleep?"

"I slept fine," she replied.

"I'm just anxious to get up there and get started."

"You might as well relax; worrying won't get us there any faster. Want
to stop and get coffee on the way out?"

"Sure. There's a drive-through on Piedmont."

As they merged onto the expressway, coffees tucked into cup-holders,
Amos jerked his head toward the CD player, one of the few alterations
he had made to the old truck.

"Pick out a CD. I brought some I thought you'd like."

"Nope. This time, I brought some of mine. We have Lyie Lovett and the
Mavericks. Got a preference?" Laura had hoped that bringing along her
own music would allow her to relax a little.

"Country music? You want me to listen to that stuff? It sounds like
two cats in a bag, for God's sake."

"Not this. It's very sophisticated." She put a Lyie Lovett into the
player. Lyie, however, turned out to be a poor choice, if the goal was
to distract her from romantic preoccupations. Every other song was
about rejection, which Laura thought was pretty rich, given that Lyie
Lovett was a jillionaire music and movie star now, and that he had been
married, albeit briefly, to the lovely Julia Roberts. He hardly seemed
justified in complaining about his luck with women, in any case. Laura
abruptly ejected the disc during one especially lugubrious song.

"Hey, why'd you do that?" Amos complained.

"I was actually enjoying it."

"I want something more upbeat," she said, as she fumbled a Mavericks
disc into the slot.

"You'll like this just as well."

It was a better choice. Raul Malo sang about broken hearts and
rejection, too, but over a bright Latino beat. The Mavericks could
make a song entitled "All You Ever Do Is Bring Me Down" sound like a
party.

"How's this?" Laura asked.
"Okay, but I liked the other guy better."

"I just wasn't in the mood for him. Look at those horses!" They were
out of the suburbs and passing through farm country.

"Uh-huh. Very pretty. How's your riding coming, by the way?"

"Great. I'm jumping--just little schooling jumps, but I'm getting the
hang of it again."

"When are you going to let me see you on a horse?"

"I didn't know you wanted to. You can come anytime--Lynette would let
you ride, too."

"No, thanks. I prefer to live. But I would like to see you."

Now, that was just the kind of remark that Laura would have taken at
face value only a few short weeks earlier. Now, however, she replayed
it in her mind until it nearly drove her crazy. She looked sideways at
Amos, who was calmly concentrating on driving, and realized that she
was right: He hadn't changed at all-it was her feelings that had
changed. Somehow, over the summer, her shocked brain had relaxed its
grip on Tom's memory and starting living again--without Laura's
permission. A wave of guilt broke over her. He hasn't even been gone
a year, she reprimanded herself, and you're already forgetting him. She
conjured an image of a sad and lonely Tom watching her driving up 1-85
with Amos Kowalski, and the picture almost caused her physical pain.

As bad timing would have it, the Mavericks launched into a song
entitled "Missing You."

Though you're not here with me, I still want what used to be I need you
so Oh don't you know I'm missing you?

Laura batted tears away from her eyes.

"What CDs did you bring?" she asked.

"Check the case. We can listen to this, though--I'm just kidding you.
I really kind of like it."

"I'd rather hear something else." She flipped through Amos's CDs,
chose Earl Hines, and changed the disc again.

"Did you know that Carlton Hemingway is a jazz fan?"

"No. You've gotten to be quite friendly with him, haven't you?"

"A bit. I haven't seen much of him lately, but I think he's a nice
guy."
"No truth to the rumors, then?"

"What rumors?"

"That you're dating him."

"Dating him? We had lunch a couple of times! Who starts these
things?"

"There's nothing like a police department for starting gossip.

I didn't think there was anything to it he seems too young for you, in
my opinion."

"Too young? I don't think he's more than a year or two younger than I
am. And we have a lot in common." Laura had no idea why she was
arguing in favor of a relationship with Carlton, a thing which had
never crossed her mind. She had, in fact, relatively little in common
with Carlton outside of the Stanley case. Not that he wasn't a great
guy, but he lacked Tom's intellectual gravity, and Amos's general air
of male competence, which was the most attractive thing about Kowalski
... There I go again, she thought. I should just admit it: I am
attracted to him. She glanced sidelong at him again, and tried to see
him in a new light. Amos was a big, muscular guy, and that was nice.

He was in his late thirties, but he had good hair not that there's
anything wrong with thinning hair, she hastened to edit her own
thought, but Amos's hair is very nice. And he had green eyes, and a
nice smile, and he could do anything around the house, and he was a
great cook ... but mostly Amos was just kind, which in the final
analysis was the most attractive quality of all.

Amos, luckily, was unaware of Laura's train of thought. He pulled a
map from the center compartment and handed it to her.

"We want to go to the airport first," he said.

"See if you can tell which exit we should take."

They had crossed the South Carolina line sometime earlier, and Laura
hadn't noticed. She unfolded the map and peered at the Greenville
inset.

"Okay, I see just follow 1-85 and we'll see the signs for the airport.
What's the drill when we get there?"

"I'll flash the badge, but you can jump in anytime and ask questions.
This is your trip, after all. I thought that we'd start by asking to
see all the contracts from the evening of May 8 between, say, seven
p.m. and midnight, on the assumption that Stanley would have taken a
car out in those hours. There's no point in asking for contracts in
his name I'm assuming that the guy was smart enough to use a fake
driver's license and pay cash."
"Maybe not remember, he didn't expect anyone to be looking for him in
Greenville."

"We'll see, then. Who knows? We may luck into what we're looking for
right away."

"And then?"

"We'll get a copy of the contract. If it's in his own name, that's all
we need. If it's under an alias, we'll need to find the clerk who
dealt with him and see if we can get a photo identification. That's
why I asked you to bring Stanley's mug shots. You did bring them,
didn't you?"

"Of course. I also calculated the approximate mileage that he would
have put on the rental car if he drove from Greenville to Atlanta, and
then back to Charlotte. The record should show how far the car was
driven by whoever rented it, I figured."

"Smart girl. Here's our exit."

They pulled off the highway and found the small but busy airport
easily. Amos followed the signs to the rental car returns, and soon
they saw a green National sign.

"Might as well start there," Amos said.

Laura jumped down from the car as soon as it stopped, and tugged her
sweater back into proper alignment. She was almost as excited as she
was when she and Carlton had first discovered Jim Stanley. She waited
impatiently as Amos put a blazer on over his sport polo and tan slacks.
When he carried his gun, Amos wore a jacket of some sort to hide his
shoulder holster.

"Oh, come on, beauty bunny you look fine!" she said, her impatience
showing.

Amos smiled and shook his head.

"Damn amateurs, always rushing. Let me give you a hint: it seems to
help if you don't give a damn if they have what you're looking for or
not. If they think it's too important, they get uneasy."

"Really? I've found that people love to be involved in a murder
investigation."

Amos shrugged.

"Maybe they just react better to your pretty face. Ready?"

They entered the building, and waited while the lone clerk on duty
helped a customer. When the clerk was free, Amos approached the
counter and casually flipped open the wallet that held his glaringly
gold badge.

"Hey. I'm Lieutenant Kowalski, from the Atlanta Police Department. Got
a minute?"
"Sure," the clerk said, wide-eyed. He looked hardly old enough to
drive the cars he was renting out.

"I'm looking for a particular rental contract. Can you help me with
that?"

"I ... I don't know. Maybe I should get my manager."

"Sure, that'd be great. I can wait." The clerk scuttled through a
door, and a minute or two later a slightly older boy emerged.

"May I help you, sir?" he asked.

"I sure hope so. I'd hate to spend my whole Saturday on this
wild-goose chase," Amos said with a confiding grin.

"What I need is to see if you have on your records a rental contract
meeting certain specifications. Can you look up contracts by date?"

"Yeah."

"And time?" The manager nodded.

"Okay, here's what we're looking for: a contract for May 8 of this
year, taken out sometime after seven p.m."

"Name of the renter?" the manager asked, hands poised over the
keyboard of the computer. Laura read his nametag: Erik Slaton.

"We're not sure. Maybe we should just look at a list of all of
them."

Erik nodded, and began clicking at the keys.

"Okay, here's a list of all the cars that went out that night after
seven p.m. Should I print it out?" Amos nodded. He was somehow
managing to look bored, although Laura's pulse was racing. In a few
seconds, the printer had rattled out a sheet of paper, which the
manager tore off and handed to Amos. Laura crowded in next to him and
read the list. James Stanley's name did not appear on it.

"Can you look for any of these that were turned in at Charlotte, North
Carolina?" Amos asked. More clicking ensued. Erik shook his head.

"All local. Sorry."

Laura spoke for the first time.

"Any that were turned in after midnight, and had especially high
mileage?"

Click, click.

"Nope. All of them stayed out at least twenty-four hours," the
boy-manager said.

"Sorry. What are y'all looking for, anyway?"

"We're interested in a particular individual," Laura said.

"You didn't happen to be on duty that night, did you?"

"May 8?"

"It was a Thursday," Amos added helpfully.

"Oh. I wasn't here, but Donnie mighta been. Donnie!"
The first clerk reappeared, drinking a Mountain Dew.

"Huh?"

"Did you work the three-to-midnight shift back in May?"

"Yeah. I just got day shift last month."

Erik jerked his head in Donnie's direction.

"Ask him."

"Donnie, do you remember seeing a man who looked like this?" Laura
asked, displaying an enlarged mug shot of a sullen James Stanley.

Donnie looked at the photo for a long moment, and shook his head.

"I'm sorry, ma'am. They all look like that." It was true;

James Stanley looked like any one of a million well-groomed
professionals in his midthirties. Laura put the picture away with a
sigh.

"Thanks a lot," she said.

"You've both been very helpful."

Amos pulled out a card and handed it to Erik.

"Give me a call if you find anything, or if Donnie remembers
something." Erik's eyes widened as he read the card, which of course,
said Sex Crimes on it.

Outside, Laura laughed.

"He thinks we're looking for a sex fiend."

"He's probably more impressed by that than he would be by a mere
murderer. Okay, next stop: Budget Rent-a-Car."

They went through the same drill at Budget, and Avis, and Hertz, and
about a half dozen smaller companies at the airport.

An assortment of Eriks and Donnies and Shaunyas, and Darrells, and a
host of other bored clerks gave them the same answers.

"Sorry, dude."

"Nope, nothing here."

"Everybody who was working that night has quit, man this job sucks."

They took a break for lunch at a Wendy's, and then started on the
agencies located around town, with the same results. By five o'clock,
they had only six places left to visit, but Laura was tired and
discouraged.

"Let's bag it for the day," she said.

"I can't stand any more rejection."

"Welcome to the glamorous world of police work," Amos said with a
grin.

"Don't be so discouraged not finding something is sometimes as good as
finding something."

"Says you. Do you realize that if I can't positively prove that James
returned to Atlanta, Craig Fannin can raise a reasonable doubt in the
jury's minds? He's going to throw all kinds of pixie dust at them
including conspiracy theories involving Lynette Connell. I need this
rental car."
"If it's out there, we'll find it tomorrow. Let's head to the land of
the white squirrel for the night."

"Huh? What's the 'white squirrel?"

" "I did a little research on Brevard it's home to one of the few known
colonies of white squirrels in North America. The whole town is a
squirrel preserve."

"You're kidding. What do they do for garden club shows displays of
stems with the flowers chewed off?"

Amos laughed.

"We'll have to ask. Look in the glove compartment I printed out
driving directions."

Laura navigated them out of Greenville and onto a mountain road that
wound uphill to Brevard. The scenery was breathtaking.

"I'm told that we should see Caesar's Head," Amos remarked.

"We can stop tomorrow morning on the way back down unless you're in a
real big hurry to get back to Greenville."

"I'm not in that big a hurry," she said. But part of her did want the
night to end quickly, so that she and Amos could get back to their
regular stomping grounds and she could look him in the eye again
without blushing.
CHAPTER 20

Brevard was a beautiful town, especially in the golden light of a
late-September evening. Laura marveled at the collection of
shingle-sided and white-columned mansions left from the days when
Brevard had been host to presidents and potentates, while Amos gave her
a brief rundown on the history of the place, gleaned from a North
Carolina guidebook he had picked up at the big Borders store on Peach
tree. Amos was always prepared.

"The town was founded in the early nineteenth century, but it was
around the beginning of the twentieth century that it was in its glory.
There are scads of tourist attractions around--lakes, mountains,
trails. I guess the flatlanders used to come up here to get away from
the hot summers. A lot of these big houses are bed-and-breakfasts
now."

"Where are we staying?"

"Right here," Amos said, pulling into the parking lot of a large white
house with an inviting porch.

"Does this meet with your approval?"

"It sure does. Is it very expensive?"

"That's not your concern. This is all on me."

"Amos, I can't let you ..."

"Yes, you can. Now, hop on out and let's get checked in. There's
still enough light for us to take a walk and see some of those white
squirrels."

They carried their bags into the inn and were welcomed by the friendly
owner.

"You were lucky to get these rooms," she said.

"I usually don't have last-minute cancellations. I'll show you
upstairs." If she was puzzled at why a youngish couple were checking
into separate rooms, she didn't show it. She had probably seen many
stranger things in her career as an innkeeper.

Laura's room was pleasantly decorated, with a minimum of the flowered
chintz that seems to be de rigueur at B&B's. She was also glad that
she had her own bathroom. Laura hated sharing a bath with strangers.
She looked at herself critically in the mirror, and did a little
patching up of her makeup before she rejoined Amos downstairs.

"Is your room okay?" she asked, suspecting that she had gotten the
nicer quarters.

"It's fine. Yours?"

Laura nodded.

"Do you have your own bath?"

"All the rooms do."

"Oh. Well, that's good. I hate creeping around the halls in a
robe."

"Not half as much as I do. Hell, I don't even own a robe. By the way,
I asked where we can see the squirrels, and they were kind of evasive.
She said that the squirrels are shy of people. Shy squirrels that
would be a first. I think the whole thing may be a scam.

"That's a nice thing to do! They get us all excited about white
rodents and then tell us we might not see any after all." They headed
outside nevertheless, undaunted in their determination to spot one of
the snowy pests.

They followed a walking tour which their hostess had marked for them on
a map. It took them past some fine houses, some of which were private
residences, but more of which had been converted to inns and
restaurants. They wandered into a small park with many oak trees.

"If we're going to see one, this would be the place," Laura said,
scanning the branches for squirrel activity.

"I see a gray one," Amos said.

"Are the gray ones a protected species, too?"

"I guess so. Here's the restaurant where we have reservations.

Want to read the menu? If we don't like it, we can always go somewhere
else."

The menu was very appealing, but expensive. Laura decided that she
would pay the check, even if that meant secret negotiations with the
waiter. They always brought the check to the man.

Laura believed that even an incredibly rich woman like Madonna
probably had to negotiate to get the check delivered to her, even when
she was out with her pool boy.

Long shadows were falling, and Amos suggested that they return to the
inn and change for dinner. As they crossed the park, Laura saw a flash
of white scuttling up the side of a tree.

"Look!

The great white squirrel!"

Amos and Laura watched as the white furry creature jumped onto a branch
and disappeared into a canopy of leaves. "

"He piled upon the whale's white hump the sum of all the general rage
and hate felt by his whole race from Adam down,"

" she solemnly intoned.

"Or should it be "He piled upon the squirrel's white bushy tail...?""
"Melville?" Amos guessed.

"Uh-huh. Although I'm not really a fan. I bet everyone who comes to
Brevard makes a Moby-Dick joke."

"I bet they don't," Amos replied.

"You don't seem to realize, Laura, that you're 'smarter than the
average bear," so to speak.

I've never met anyone as well read as you."

"I'm just a lapsed English major, that's all. You don't think I'm
pretentious, do you, Amos?"

"Since when is it pretentious to be intelligent and show it? It's just
a part of who you are. I wish I knew half as much as you do about
literature and art."

"Literature and art don't seem very relevant to our line of work, do
they? Sometimes I think I should just quit, go get a master's in
English, and try to get a teaching job."

"You'd be a good teacher, but the world would lose a great lawyer."

Laura laughed.

"Stop it you're making me blush. I think it's getting too dark for
squirrel-spotting. Should we head on back?"

They walked back to the inn in silence, Laura reflecting on what Amos
had said. She used to love pulling out obscure quotations. It had
been a game that she and Tom had played. He had been a great quoter,
and Laura had always tried to keep herself stocked with a repertoire of
mots justes, just so she could meet him on his own ground. She missed
that. Amos was no dummy, but he was street smart rather than erudite.
Laura didn't fault him for that; she just missed the intellectual
camaraderie she had had with Tom. She returned to her room, wondering
if she should tell Amos what she was thinking. No, she decided, it
would just make Amos uncomfortable. He didn't want to hear about
Tom.
No one did, and Laura was determined not to make a bore of herself by
saying "Tom this" and "Tom that" at every opportunity.

She took a quick shower, keeping her thick hair dry so she wouldn't
have to deal with it, and pulled out the outfit she had chosen to wear.
She had brought her confidence-building black slacks, slinky and
low-slung, which emphasized her newly slim hips, and a close-fitting
white knit shell, through which the lace of her brassiere peeped. She
topped it with a fitted watermelon-colored cashmere cardigan which made
her skin glow. She paused for a moment before she took off the
rose-quartz heart on a fine gold chain that she always wore. It was
the last--the only--gift Tom had given her. It felt strange not to
have the little heart nesting in the hollow of her throat; she had
never taken it off since the day Tom had given it to her. Sometimes
she hid it under scarves and collars, but she had developed a nervous
habit of fingering it even when it wasn't visible. She thought about
putting it back on, but she resolutely snapped closed its little box
and reached for an oxidized-silver necklace from which pearls dangled
every inch or so. She looked at it critically; it was new, bought on
impulse just a few weeks earlier and never worn. She wondered if Amos
would notice. He had never commented on the heart, but he knew that it
had been a gift from Tom.

She finished her makeup and went to the lobby, where Amos was waiting.
He was wearing a sports coat over a black polo sweater and slacks. He
looked so good that Laura wondered, not for the first time, why it was
that cops seemed to be either really well dressed or really poorly
dressed, with no middle ground.

She was glad--also not for the first time--that Amos belonged to the
former group. They walked back into the warm night; Laura took off her
sweater and draped it around her shoulders. They arrived at the
restaurant early for their reservation, so they sat at the tiny bar and
had a glass of wine.

"This seems like a nice place," Laura said.

"Did you find it in the guidebook, too?"

"No. The people at the inn suggested it when I made the
reservation."

When they were escorted to their table, Laura slipped the captain her
credit card.

"Please tell the waiter to bring me the receipt," she whispered behind
Amos's back. She encouraged Amos to order a nice bottle of wine,
knowing that she was paying. Dinner was excellent; Laura was able to
get smoked brook trout, a favorite dish of hers, and Amos talked her
into an extravagant dessert.

He started to protest when he saw the waiter bring the check to Laura,
but she waved him off.

"Don't start with me, Kowalski. I think I need to go for a walk after
that dessert. Are you up for it?"

He said he was, and they strolled around the streets they had explored
earlier, now made mysterious by the moonlight. They were mostly
silent, until Amos spoke.

"Are you okay, Laura? You were awfully quiet at dinner."

"I'm fine. I guess I just have a few things on my mind."

"Like James Stanley?"

"Among other things."

"I've been a little worried about you lately. That's partly why I
agreed to come here this weekend I thought I could talk to you better
away from work and all that. Look, Laura, I wouldn't blame you if you
told me to shut up and mind my own business, but I think you should be
getting some counseling."

"Have you been talking to Meredith?"

"No. This is something I've wanted to say for a long time.

Laura, you had a horrible experience. I've been a cop for almost
fifteen years, and I've rarely seen the kind of violence I saw that
night. And yet you've just picked up and moved on, never saying a
word. And I question the wisdom, frankly, of your taking a job with
the district attorney. Maybe you should be teaching English."

"You don't think I'm doing well in the new job?"

"Far from it. I think you're doing too well. I think you're
sublimating everything into that job, and I don't think it's good."

"Do you think the guy who wrote that column was right that I'm bent on
some kind of revenge?"

"That idiot? No, of course he wasn't right. He missed the boat
completely. No, if anything, I think you're using the job and the
Stanley murder in particular to avoid dealing with Tom's death."

Laura threw up her hands.

"Can nobody accept that Tom has nothing to do with this case? I'm just
doing what I was trained to do!"

"Of course I don't think your every move is dictated by the way you
feel about Tom. All I'm saying is that you're using the job as a
cover, and as a way of delaying dealing with his death.

Meredith should never have let you come to work for her so soon after
it happened."

"But what else could I do? I trained to be a lawyer a very good one,
thank you for almost ten years. I'm not like one of those feisty gals
on the Lifetime channel who picks herself up after a tragedy and starts
a whole new life. What else could I do?"

"You could have taken some more time, Laura. You could have mourned a
little longer."

"Working hasn't kept me from mourning. Trust me."

"I'll have to trust you on that, because all I can see from the outside
is you working away, buying a new house, just like nothing happened."

"Of course something happened! You think I don't remember it every
single day? I miss Tom so much it hurts, but I can't bore everyone
around me by talking about him all the time. People are sick of
hearing about it!"

"That's what you don't understand, Laura we're not sick of hearing
about Tom, because you never talk about him. You never have. It's not
healthy, and it's not right."

"But I can't talk about him. It doesn't feel right. As far as the
world knows, we dated for a very short time. In fact, technically, I
dumped him that night, before Jeff killed him. So you can see that
public mourning would be ostentatious and inappropriate, I hope."

"But I'm not the public; I know what Tom was to you. I don't care how
long you dated him. Why can't you talk to me? I was there that night,
remember? It drives me crazy that you won't let me help you. I know
I'm no substitute for Tom Bailey ..."

"I don't need you to be! I don't want you to be! I just want you to
be you."

"But you need things I can't give you. I can't talk about books and
music. I can't drive you in a Bentley ..."

"Is that what you think I want? I didn't care about Tom's money; you
should know that. And so maybe you can't quote poetry at the drop of a
hat. It was great that Tom could. It was like a game we had going for
years, before we ever got romantically involved, but to be honest,
sometimes it was more like a competition than a conversation. Maybe I
don't want to be in top form all the time. Tom was like a walking
Socratic dialogue. He was brilliant. He was a great teacher. And,
yes, I loved him I still do. But he's gone, and sometimes I get so
confused. I want to move on, but when I try to, I feel guilty like I'm
betraying him.

Sometimes I wonder if I can ever be happy again."

They had stopped by the little park where they had seen the squirrel.
Amos silently put his arms around her, and she leaned gratefully into
him.

"I just want you to be happy, Laura," he said.

"I'd like you to be happy with me, but I can understand what's holding
you back. I'm willing to wait."

"I can't ask you to do that, Amos," she said, pulling away from him.

"You're the greatest guy in Atlanta, and you deserve more than I can
give you. You're wasting your time playing Scrabble with me and
helping me with my house when you should be out there having fun."

"Being with you is my idea of fun. I'm thirty-seven years old, Laura,
and I know what I want. I'm not going to find it in any stupid singles
bar, or at the health club I've got it right here.

And I'm not giving up. You take all the time you need to, and if in
the end, you tell me that you don't want me, I'll go away quietly. But
if you do decide that you might be able to stand having me around, I'll
be the happiest guy in Georgia. You under stand what I'm saying to
you?"

Laura nodded.

"I do love you, Amos. You know I do. You're the best thing that's
ever happened to me, and I don't deserve you."

"Yes, you do. Now, let's get back to the hotel. I need to get some
sleep if we're going to finish with those rental car agencies
tomorrow."

They walked back slowly, hand in hand, and said good night at Laura's
door. She slept better than she had in a long, long time, waking only
when the phone beside her bed jangled in her ear.

It was Amos, already dressed and waiting for her downstairs.

Laura hurriedly showered and dressed, and went to meet him with her wet
hair under a baseball cap. It crossed her mind that she was hardly
presenting him with as romantic picture, but he'd seen her looking
worse. No one could say they didn't have a high comfort level with
each other anyway. They talked cheerfully at breakfast, as if they had
made an unspoken promise not to mention what had happened between them
the night before. At nine-thirty, they were on their way back to
Greenville.

Laura insisted that they stop at the overlook at Caesar's Head, which
commanded a view of the misty valley far below. There was just the
slightest touch of fall in the air. "} bet this is beautiful when the
leaves turn," she said.

"Yep. And I bet that road is one hellacious traffic jam all the way
from Greenville."

"There's no traffic worse than leaf traffic," Laura agreed.

"Seen enough?"

"Hey, you're the one who wanted to stop."

"And now I'm the one who wants to go to Greenville and finish up."

There were only a half dozen or so agencies left on the list, but they
were well dispersed across the map of Greenville. They tried each one
doggedly, with the same lack of success they had encountered on the
previous day. Finally, at about three o'clock in the afternoon, Laura
conceded defeat.

"I give up."

"I never thought I'd hear you say that," Amos said.

"There are some more agencies in some of the outlying towns. Want to
try them?"

Laura shook her head.

"It's no good. We're not going to find anything."

"At least you're no worse off than you were before," Amos offered
helpfully.

"It was never absolutely critical to your case, was it?"

"No, you're right. I just thought it would be nice."

"I say we get a late lunch and head home."

"I vote 'yes' for that plan."

They found a Waffle House. Waffle Houses were great favorites of
Amos's, who, as a Yankee, had grown up deprived of their waffly
goodness and six-way hash browns. A friendly waitress took their
orders. Laura took off her cap and shook out her hair.

"How mangy do I look?" she asked.

"You're beautiful," he answered disingenuously.

"I've never seen you look more lovely."

She swatted him with a menu.

"I just hope I don't look as bedraggled as I feel. Do you hate me for
ruining your weekend with this foolish mission?"
"This is the best weekend I've had in ages," he said. Just as she
thought he was going to get sentimental on her, he added, with a
twinkle, "You know I've been regrouting my bathroom tile. You're a
definite improvement over that."

"Oh, am I? I'll take that as a compliment, since I know how much you
do love a good grouting session. But I was just so sure we were going
to find a rental car contract."

"We may have overlooked it. We made some assumptions that may have
been invalid."

"Like what?"

"For instance, that James Stanley rented the car that night. He could
have done it days earlier and left it sitting at the Greenville
airport."

"I never thought of that. Do you think we should go back and ...?

Amos cut her off.

"There's another possibility that I think makes more sense."

"What is it?"

"Guess. It's as plain as the nose on your face."

Laura pondered frowningly for a few minutes before realization
dawned.

"He flew!" she exclaimed.

"Why didn't I think of earlier? He just turned around and hopped on a
plane back to Atlanta. Amos, why didn't you tell me this before?"

"You seemed so certain about the rental car that I didn't want to
question your judgment. It's your case, after all. But it did cross
my mind that you were looking so hard at one possibility that you were
ignoring all others."

"You should have told me," she scolded him.

"You knew we didn't need to come up here!"

He smiled.

"Oh, I think we did, don't you?"

She reached across the table and took his hand.

"We did. You're a devious bastard, Amos Kowalski, but I love you for
it. Now, finish that sandwich and drive me back to Atlanta."
CHAPTER 21

S" o this is why I need a subpoena for the passenger manifests for
those two flights," Laura said, breathless after presenting her case to
Meredith first thing Monday morning. She was trying to convince her
boss that they could prove that James Stanley had returned to Atlanta
from Greenville on one of two Delta Airlines flights on the night of
May 8.

Meredith looked doubtful.

"The airlines are pretty sensitive about giving out that information.
Are you sure it would be worth our while? They might fight the
subpoena."

"Of course it's worth it! If we put James Stanley on one of those
flights, we also place him in Atlanta on the night Christine was
killed. I think it's critical."

"Okay, but what if he traveled under an assumed name? Are we supposed
to run down every man on the flight?"

"If we have to. It won't be a long list--they don't fly jumbo jets on
the Greenville-to-Atlanta run, and some of the passengers are bound to
have been women. It could turn out to be a very short list."

"All right, I'll get your subpoena. Or better yet, I'll have Marshall
approach Delta's general counsel and see if we can get what we need
without a subpoena. He's pretty sensitive when it comes to serving
papers on the city's largest employers. Now that we've dealt with that
little matter, I'd like to talk to you about how we're going to
approach the trial." Laura sat down and poised her pen over her pad,
and waited for Meredith to continue.

"I

realize that this is really your case, and I want you to know that I
appreciate all the work you've done. I wish I could let you run with
it by yourself, but it's just too big a case--there's too much at
stake."

"I understand completely, Meredith. I didn't ever expect to take the
first chair."

"Good. I just wanted to make sure that there's no misunderstanding.

I think you're probably every bit as capable as I am of winning with a
jury, but I wouldn't want to put you under that kind of pressure. Now,
that said, I want you to play a very big role at the trial. I'll give
the opening statement, but I want you to present the crime-scene
evidence. We'll do that before we present any of the motive witnesses,
and of course before we put Jim Stanley on the stand. I want you to
set the scene for the jury. Take them inside that living room and make
them see what you did."

"No problem. Who should we call--Travers, of course, but would you
like to have Carlton Hemingway on the stand as well?"

"Hmm. No--not in the first phase. We'll call him and your computer
buddy, Wayne Whatsis, before I call Jim Stanley. They can tell the
court how we came to find the second Stanley. That way Jim's
appearance will make more sense to the jury."

"Okay, we can call Randy, the ballistics expert, and the medical
examiner. Then the motive witnesses. Are you planning to call Lynette
Connell, or her father?"

"No. At least, not Lynette. You've met the father, though. How do
you think he'd be as a witness?"

"On the plus side, he'd be powerfully emotional. But he's said all
along that Christine never talked to him about the problems in the
marriage."

"What about the financial angle--he lent money to James Stanley, didn't
he?"

"Yes, and if you really made him get down to bare knuckles I think he'd
tell the jury that he thought James was good-for-nothing. But there's
one more thing to take into consideration:

He thinks it's bad enough that those two children lost their mother.

The idea of helping to send James to the electric chair is horrifying
to him."

"So he might be an ambivalent witness. Well, we don't need that. I
think I'll stick to the divorce attorney--what was his name?"

"Frank Watson," Laura replied, flipping through her notes.

"I

have his address and phone number here."

"Good. We'll call him and the special master, for the financial
evidence. Come to think of it, I think I'll let you question the
special master. You've got a more solid grasp of the money stuff than
I do."

"I'd be happy to do it. Mr. Borden is an old buddy of mine from my
Prendergrast and Crawley days. I know how to approach him; he's very
methodical, you know."

"Better you than me my eyes just about roll back in my head when I have
to deal with numbers."

Laura reviewed her notes.

"Let me get back to the crime-scene evidence. When do you want to
introduce the gun? And do you want Jesse on the stand?"

Meredith made a face.

"Yikes. No, I don't think we need Mr.

DuPree Jim Stanley can give the jury the provenance of the gun without
him. I'd hate to give Craig a shot at Jesse."

Laura nodded.

"That's what I was thinking. If Craig is going to go after Lynette,
Jesse would be the way he'd do it. I'm betting that when we get his
final witness list Jesse will be on it."

"A pretty hostile defense witness, I would think. But back to the gun
itself, I think it would be best if you had the ballistics expert
identify it as the murder weapon. Then, when I have Jim on the stand,
I'll have him cop to owning it and lending it to James Stanley."

"Suits me. One more question on the crime-scene evidence:

there were those fibers caught in the broken door. We weren't able to
connect them to James Stanley, so I'm wondering if we want to bring
them up at all."

"No, I don't think we need to. Randy can get the broken door into
evidence, and that's all we really need. The fiber evidence is
inconclusive at best."

Laura nodded.

"It might even be something that Fannin could use against us. I'd just
as soon leave it out."

"But, while we're on the subject, I guess we should turn over the crime
lab report on the fiber evidence to Craig. I wouldn't want to be
accused of withholding exculpatory evidence."

"You don't think he'll be able to make use of it?"

Meredith shrugged.

"It's as ambivalent from his point of view as it is from ours. Why
should he drag it in unless he can connect it to another suspect?"

"I guess you're right. I do think that he's going to present an
alternate theory of the crime, so maybe he'll find some use for the
fiber evidence."

"He'd better hurry up the only defense notification we've had is the
alibi he gave us at the conference."

When a defense team planned to argue that a defendant was not guilty of
a crime for an "affirmative" reason, the defense was required to notify
the prosecution of its intention. Then, the defense became responsible
for proving its argument. Affirmative defenses included alibis,
"mistakes of facts,"

"mistakes of law," diminished capacity, insanity, or, Laura's favorite,
"impossibility" (for instance, if the gun alleged to have been used in
a crime was not in working order when the crime was committed, and the
defense could prove it).

Craig Fannin had filed notification of alibi defense months earlier,
and had even moved for dismissal of the charges based on the evidence
of the hotel record. Meredith and Laura had introduced Jim Stanley's
statement and had the motion over turned. Fannin had been silent ever
since, and Laura thought his silence was baffling. Surely he didn't
expect his little media bombs about Jim, and her, to tip the scales in
his favor. She felt pretty sure, based on his reputation, that he was
cooking up something.

Her suspicions were confirmed a few days later, when she was having
lunch with Kenny Newton. The conversation gradually worked its way
around to the Stanley case, and Laura told Kenny, ruefully, about her
wasted trip to Greenville.

"We came up with nothing and then Amos announces that he's thought all
along that the guy took a plane."

"That Kowalski is a sly one I told you he wanted to get you alone in
Greenville. He knew all along you wouldn't find anything."

"I felt pretty stupid, I can tell you. But it all turned out okay.

We're getting passenger manifests for the flights I think he might have
taken. We have plenty of time to check them out before the trial
opens."

"Let me know if I can help. And speaking of hiring private detectives,
I've heard on the grapevine that Fannin is sparing no expense in that
area."

"What do you mean?"

"He's hired at least three investigators that I know of."
"Three! I know he had a guy in North Carolina looking at Jim, but
what else is he up to?"

"There's a guy checking into the victim's sister, Lynette Connell."

Laura nodded.

"I knew he would go after her, but he won't get anything. What else do
you hear?"

"He's hired a guy who usually investigates for litigators in civil
liability lawsuits, especially airline disasters. Clan Crowder-ever
hear of him?"

"No. Hmm. I thought Fannin was awful quiet. Evidently, he's got
nothing, or we would have heard from him by now. As it stands now, all
he can do is try to impeach Jim Stanley and make the jury believe that
he's lying. I think he's going to draw them a picture of a conspiracy
among Jim, Lynette, and Jesse DuPree."

"The gun dealer?"

"Yep. It won't wash, either--all three of them have corroborated
alibis for the time of the murder. Juries don't like to have smoke
blown at them. Maybe Craig will come back to the table and try to cut
a deal before the trial starts. He's got plenty of time, and I
wouldn't be a bit surprised."

"I'd sure hate to see you deprived of your first big trial," Kenny said
with a grin.

"I can tell you're just rarin' to go."

"You better believe I am--I've been rehearsing in my sleep for months.
I can't wait to get at it."

"Amos will sure be glad when it's over."

"Why do you say that?"

"

"Cause then he can have your full attention."

Laura blushed.

"Have you been gossiping with him?"

"Nope. Swear. It was Cindy. She wormed it out of him the other
day."

"It's no big deal, really. We've just agreed to give it a try. I have
a long way to go before I'm ready to pick my bridesmaids.

I still feel like I owe something to Tom."

Kenny nodded.

"I can understand that. You guys were together a long time. Just like
I hope you and Amos will be."

"It's a dream come true for you, isn't it? You've schemed and planned
this for three years."

"And now you've finally had the sense to see I was right."

"Lean over here a little closer. Ken."

"Why?"
"So I can smack you."

Smacking aside, Laura was happy that Kenny was happy. She had a
special reserve of guilt feelings where he was concerned, no matter how
often he reassured her that he didn't blame her for his limp or the
cane he needed to walk. She blamed herself anyway. So much misfortune
had flowed from that ill-starred first meeting with Jeff Williams, so
many lives had been changed. It all seemed very long ago. The Laura
who had so enthusiastically taken up Jeff's case was long gone,
replaced by a somber drone.

Amos had rekindled the first tiny spark of real life that Laura had
felt for a long time. Still, every time she tried to lose herself in a
happy daydream about Amos, she saw Tom's sad face. She didn't tell
Kenny that. Let him at least be happy, she thought, and I'm going to
be happy, too ... eventually.

Prospects for happiness increased every weekend, when Laura loaded her
saddle into the trunk of her car and headed for the Councils' farm. She
thought about inviting Amos out to watch her ride the weekend following
the South Carolina trip, but something inside her hesitated. She didn't
want to explain him to Lynette.

In the end, she made plans to have dinner with him Saturday night
without mentioning riding, and she went to Cobb County alone.

Laura was now a familiar figure at the farm. Amparo, the housekeeper,
and even Lester Connell, had begun to treat her as one of the family.
She no longer knocked at the front door of the house when she arrived;
she just parked her car around back, beside the paddock, and went into
the barn. If Lynette wasn't there, she saddled Mica on her own and
headed for the ring to warm him up. Lynette always came along
eventually to ride with her, or to help with the jumps.

This Saturday, Lynette was nowhere in sight, so Laura parked next to a
black BMW, heaved her saddle out of the trunk, and headed for Mica's
stall. She was entering the barn, blinded by the slanting
early-morning sun, when she heard a familiar laugh. Oh, good, Lynette
is in the barn, she thought. She stepped past the curtain of light and
saw something that shocked her to her core.

At the far end of the sunlit barn, with motes of dust floating in the
air like glittering confetti, Lynette was standing close to someone,
and talking in quiet tones. Laura could not hear what she was saying,
but she saw who she was saying it to: Jesse DuPree.

Laura froze, not wanting to make her presence known. She realized that
the sunlight was in Lynette's eyes, making Laura invisible from where
she stood. Whatever she was saying to Jesse was making him laugh Laura
couldn't make out words, but she could hear him braying. Finally,
after what seemed like an hour, but which was probably no more than a
minute, he bent down and kissed Lynette on the cheek, Laura thought,
but she couldn't say for sure. Then he turned and left. Laura stood
rooted to the ground. Lynette turned and took a couple of steps into
the barn before she saw Laura.

"There you are!" she said cheerfully.

"You're a little late this morning. We missed you last weekend. Did
you have a good time?"

Laura had told Lynette only that she was going away for a couple of
days, to explain why she wouldn't be riding. She hadn't mentioned the
purpose of the trip, because she felt that discussing the trial with
Lynette wasn't a very good idea, and she hadn't mentioned Amos because
she wasn't ready to discuss him with anyone but Kenny. Now she
stumbled over a routine answer to Lynette's question.

"Oh, yes, I had a good time. It was great. I went to Brevard. In
North Carolina."

"Really? I hear it's nice, but I've never been. I only seem to go to
places that have horse shows these last few years."

"You should take a weekend off and go up there. It's very beautiful.
They have white squirrels." Should I say anything about Jesse? she
wondered while her mouth moved mechanically, carrying on an automatic
conversation with Lynette. What the hell was he doing here? They
seemed very friendly for two people who had nothing in common but a
brief fling that was over more than a year ago.

She followed Lynette to Mica's stall, and chatted about this and that
as she took him out and tethered him, put on his bridle, and saddled
him up. Lynette was telling her about something Mica had done earlier
in the week, when she was up on him, but Laura was having trouble
following what she was saying.

"Okay, he's ready. Check his girth before you mount. I'm going to
ride Claudius today. I don't think you've seen him in the ring. I'm
schooling him over three-foot jumps. You up for that?"
"Sure," Laura mumbled, tucking her hair under her helmet.

"If Mica is."

"Great. The jumps are all set. I'll be right behind you."

Laura led Mica outside, positioned him next to the mounting block, and
hauled herself into the saddle. The horse let out a gusty sigh,
deflating his abdomen, an old horse trick that loosened the girth strap
holding the saddle in place.

"You rascal," Laura said as she bent down and took up another notch in
the girth.

"You can't fool me. I'm wise to your horse tricks." But not to people
tricks, she thought. Seeing Lynette with Jesse had made her profoundly
uneasy for reasons she couldn't define clearly. She had not been
comfortable, however, since she learned that Jesse and Jim Stanley knew
each other.

"The Jesse-Jim axis" was what she called their oddly coincidental
relationship, the sinister connotation of the joking nickname not lost
on her.

"Walk on. Mica," she commanded, and the horse strolled into the ring,
pretending to have no interest in the jumps. That didn't fool Laura,
either; Mica was a demon over the jumps, and he loved them. Laura let
her mind empty of everything but the rhythm of the horse, and by the
time Lynette joined her, she was taking Mica around the ring at a fast
trot.

Lynette warmed up her horse briefly, then stopped to explain how she
had laid out the jumps.

"Mica hates those artificial flowers so I put a whole bunch on that
first jump. Try him over it."

Laura did; the horse balked a couple of times, but she finally got him
over smoothly several times running. Lynette took a few jumps on her
horse, and suggested that they ride around the track to cool down the
horses. They rode in silence for a moment until Laura gathered up her
nerve.

"Lynette, was that Jesse DuPree?"

"Yes. You saw him? Why didn't you say hello?"

"You two seemed ... preoccupied."

"Well, we weren't. He was just trying to charm the pants off of me, as
usual."

"Is that why he came all the way over here?"

"No. What is this, an inquisition? He came to talk to Daddy about a
shotgun, and he wandered out back to see me."

"He came to talk to your father at eight o'clock in the morning about a
gun?"

Lynette looked surprised.

"Jesus, Laura, you don't believe me, do you? I'm sorry, but it's true
everybody knows Daddy gets up at dawn. He's still a farmer at heart.
And Jesse was on his way to Chattanooga, so we were on his way. Does
that satisfy you?" Lynette looked and sounded angry.

"Yes, but I hope you understand why it concerns me."

"Frankly, I don't. I thought you told me that Jesse DuPree has nothing
to do with the case. I didn't know that I should be throwing him off
the property every time he showed his face."

"Jesse may not be directly involved, but don't forget that he was the
source of the gun. My God, Lynette, do I have to spell it out for you?
James's attorney is a piranha, and he'll attack anything that moves.
Please don't give him any more reason than he already has to go after
you."

"What reason does he have to go after me?"

"For one, he can spin a nice theory about a conspiracy among you, Jim
Stanley, and Jesse to kill your sister and frame James Stanley for
it."

"That's ridiculous! He might as well say Daddy was in on it, too!"

"Don't think for a minute that he wouldn't. You have to avoid any
appearance of an ongoing relationship with Jesse DuPree, Lynette, and
your father should, too. You don't understand what a lawyer like Craig
Fannin can do with a few facts and a little innuendo. Don't play into
his hands."

"It seems to me that you're not as confident in your case as you ought
to be. I thought you people had James cold, but now I guess we might
not get justice for Chrissie after all. I guess it's just the system,
and you're a part of it."

"I understand why you're angry, Lynette, but I wish you wouldn't turn
it on me. I'm just telling you how it is. I'll go home now. Maybe I
shouldn't come out here anymore."

"No, don't say that! I'm sorry, Laura. I didn't mean to imply
anything. I know you're doing the best you can. I'll tell Daddy that
he can't let Jesse come here until after the trial. And please,
please, don't stop coming to ride with me I look forward to Saturdays
so much!"

Laura saw that Lynette had tears in her eyes. She leaned across and
squeezed her hand.

"It's okay. We're almost through it, and life will be back to normal
very soon." If only she could believe her own soothing words.
CHAPTER 22

Tudge Claudia Penfield peered through her bifocals at the panel J of
prospective jurors.

"Ladies and gentlemen," she began in her deep. Southern-accented
voice, "thank you for being here today. You have been selected as
potential jurors in the trial of James Stanley for the murder of
Christine Connell Stanley, his wife. We will now begin a process known
as voir dire, which means 'to speak the truth." You have already
completed a questionnaire about your background. I will now ask each
of you a number of questions which will help us to determine if you are
able to serve impartially in the matter of People v. Stanley."

Jury selection had begun. After all the months of waiting and
worrying, they were finally seated in an actual courtroom, presided
over by Judge Claudia Penfield, the first woman and the first black to
serve as a Superior Court judge in the State of Georgia. She had been
on the bench almost thirty years; at least two governors had tried to
appoint her to the State Supreme Court, and Lord knows how many times
she had been asked to run for attorney general. She was a Democrat,
but the Republicans had asked her to be their candidate for Congress.
She was always short-listed for federal judgeships, too, but she said
no to everything.

The Fulton County Superior Court was her kingdom, and she was its
undisputed queen.

Meredith said they were lucky to have had the trial land on Judge
Penfield's calendar.

"She has a low tolerance for theatrics, and she never lets cameras into
the courtroom." A coalition of television stations had already filed
suit to be allowed to broadcast the James Stanley trial, but both the
district attorney's office and, to Laura's surprise, Craig Fannin had
submitted briefs opposing the cameras. Laura guessed that was
Stanley's wish, and not his attorney's Craig Fannin had never met a
camera that he didn't love.

They were now considering a panel of forty-two prospective jurors, or
venire persons Laura liked that word. It was based on the Latin verb
"to come," because the venire persons came in response to a summons.
During voir dire, panels of venire persons were selected by lottery;
then they were culled by a long and sometimes tedious process of
questioning by the judge and the attorneys. In this case, the two
sides would go through as many venire persons as it took to select
twelve jurors and six alternates.

If they exhausted the initial supply of forty-two, more would be
called. It could take two days or two weeks to select eighteen
objective citizens.

Laura was watching Fannin closely, trying to determine what he was
looking for in the jury. The defense in a death penalty case was
allowed twenty "peremptory strikes," which allowed them to dismiss an
apparently unbiased juror without specific cause. The prosecution had
half as many strikes. Laura and Meredith were less concerned about the
composition of the jury than Fannin seemed to be. They had a good
story to tell, with strong witnesses. Meredith didn't believe in
trying to finesse the selection process too much.

"What good does it do, unless there's some really explosive issue
involved, like race or abortion?" she had said when Laura asked
whether they should consider asking Mar shall to stretch the budget for
some jury consultants.

"I think we can trust the common sense of Joe and Josephine Six-pack on
this one."

Craig Fannin, however, had hired some expensive-looking consultants to
sit behind him and whisper in his ear. Laura knew what they were
telling him; they had used jury consultants all the time at PC. Drawing
on opinion polls and demographic research, they would construct for
Fannin an ideal juror, which in this case would probably be a
professional male.

There were two consultants, one a balding man and the other a
sharp-featured young woman who seemed to be the shot-caller.

They were marshaling the defense's copies of the jury questionnaires
looking for any detail which might be cause for closer questioning. The
woman would occasionally whisper something to her colleague, and he
would scurry out of the room, returning a few minutes later with a
piece of paper. She tapped steadily on the keys of a laptop computer,
which she would turn and display to Fannin from time to time.

Judge Penfield was beginning her questions to the panel, beginning with
an mild-looking man whose questionnaire identified him as retired tax
assessor.

"Have you, Mr. Bennett, formed and expressed any opinion in regard to
the guilt or innocence of Mr.

Stanley?"

"No, ma'am."

"Have you any prejudice or bias resting on your mind either for or
against the accused?"

"No, ma'am."

"Is your mind perfectly impartial between the state and the
defendant?"

"Yes, ma'am, I hope so."

"Are you conscientiously opposed to capital punishment?"

Mr. Bennett paused before he answered.

"No, ma'am, I reckon it's the law."

"Thank you, Mr. Bennett. Mr. Fannin, do you have any questions

Fannin rose and asked a series of questions about Mr. Bennett's work,
his family, and his background.

"Have you ever had a close friend or relative who was the victim of a
violent crime, Mr.

Bennett?"

"No, sir."

"You were a tax assessor for Fulton County. Are you familiar with the
Brookhaven neighborhood?"

"No, sir, not really. I worked in south Fulton mostly."

And so on. Laura could see no particular pattern to Fannin's
questions. Meredith had only one or two queries for Mr. Bennett
before they moved on to the next venire person The pattern was always
the same: the judge asked the statutory questions first.

Only twice did a prospective juror admit an outright bias. Judge
Penfield dismissed both of them "for cause."

Laura noticed, as more people were questioned, that Craig Fannin was
particularly anxious to know how the women on the panel felt about
violent crime, especially the mothers. He obviously didn't want jurors
who could identify too readily with Christine Stanley. He questioned
the men more about their feelings about money; Laura deduced that he
was concerned that James Stanley's profession and his family's wealth
might arouse hostility in a workingman. It doesn't seem that he really
needs those consultants, she said to herself after the first few people
had been questioned. She hadn't seen anything yet.

When Fannin rose to his feet to question Mrs. Henry Morse, a
silver-haired Buckhead matron, Laura saw the first evidence of serious
activity by the consultants.

"Mrs. Morse, you and your husband belong to the Capital City Country
Club, is that correct?"

"Yes, it is."

"Did you know that James and Christine Stanley were also members
there?"

"Yes."

"Did you ever meet the Stanleys there?"

"No. It's a very large club. There were a lot of new people that we,
well ... I'm a good bit older than Mr. Stanley. I never met him or
his wife, and I'm certain that my husband didn't."

It was impossible to miss Mrs. Morse's implication: I wouldn't be
caught dead hobnobbing with a nouveau-riche so-and-so like James
Stanley. Laura noticed that the back of James's neck was turning red.
He had probably dealt with his share of Mrs. Morses in his attempts to
reach the aerie of Atlanta society. He whispered something to Fannin,
who spoke to the pointy woman. She nodded, and said something to her
associate that sent him scurrying out of the room.

Fannin continued to question Mrs. Morse.

"Did you ever hear anything about the Stanleys at the club that might
affect your judgment in this trial?"

"No. Of course, people talked about the murder it was shocking But I
have an open mind."

The bald jury consultant came back, and the pointy-faced woman was
displaying her laptop's screen to Craig, who nodded and turned back to
jury box.

"Mrs. Morse, you say that you had no personal acquaintance with James
Stanley, his late wife, or any member of their families.

Is that correct?"

"Yes, it is."

"Mrs. Morse, you're active in a number of civic organizations is that
true?"

"Yes, I suppose I am."

"Are you a member of a group called Atlanta Neighborhoods?"
"Yes."

"And you serve on the board of directors of Atlanta Neighbor hoods?"

"Yes." It was clear from the tone of her voice that Mrs. Morse had no
idea where Fannin's questions were leading. Laura was equally baffled;
she exchanged raised eyebrows with Meredith.

"Mrs. Morse, do you recall testifying at a zoning board hearing about
six years ago?"

"I have appeared before the Zoning Board many times."

Fannin turned back to the defense table, and the pointy woman handed
him a piece of paper.

"Let me read you something, Mrs.

Morse.

"This neighborhood was intended to have relatively modest homes on
large wooded lots. It is neighborhoods like Brookhaven which give
Atlanta its charm, and its nickname the "Tree City." If this petition
for a variance is approved, three houses, none in keeping with their
neighbors, will take the place of one. Some thirty mature trees
irreplaceable trees will be sacrificed, all in the name of greed." Do
you recall making this statement?"

"Ouch," Laura said under her breath. She had a new appreciation for
the value of jury consultants.

Mrs. Morse's face was impassive.

"Yes, I believe I remember making that statement."

"And do you remember the name of the property owner who filed for that
zoning variance, Mrs. Morse?"

"Well, yes, it was Mr. Stanley, now that you bring it to my memory.
But I never met Mr. Stanley I didn't even remember his name! There
must be dozens of James Stanleys out there!"

"You can say that again, sister," Meredith muttered.

Fannin turned to Judge Penfield.

"Your Honor, the defense asks that this juror be dismissed for
cause."

"So ordered. Mrs. Morse, you may go."

Meredith rose to her feet.

"Your Honor, with all due respect, an old zoning dispute hardly amounts
to an animus against Mr.

Stanley."

Fannin cut in quickly.

"I disagree with my learned colleague.

Mr. Stanley recalls that the dispute was extremely acrimonious and
adversarial. Seating her would be clear error. Your Honor."

Judge Penfield nodded.

"Quite right. We wish to avoid even the appearance of a conflict.
Thank you for your time, Mrs. Morse."
Mrs. Morse stood trembling with indignation and humiliation in the
jury box.

"Your Honor, I'd like to say something. May I say something?"

"No, Mrs. Morse."

"But he that man he implied that I was lying! What I said was
absolutely true; I did not until this moment connect Mr.

Stanley with that teardown in Brookhaven. How was I to know it was the
same James Stanley? I resent the implication that I was hiding
something. And if that man thinks for one minute that I would let
something like a zoning dispute affect my judgment in a murder trial
...."

"Yes, Mrs. Morse. I understand your feelings, but I don't think that
Mr. Fannin meant to imply that you were being dishonest in any way. We
are only trying to avoid the appearance of impropriety." Mrs. Morse
left, head held high.

Judge Penfield looked at her watch.

"As it is almost one o'clock, this seems like an opportune time to call
a recess for lunch. All parties will be back in this courtroom at one
forty-five." She banged her gavel, rose, and left in a magnificent
swish of silk.

Meredith turned to Laura.

"And now you see, my young apprentice, what Craig Fannin can do to a
witness. Speaking of which, at the rate we're going, we should have a
jury empaneled by Thursday, which means that with any luck we may get
to make opening statements on Monday. I want you to get Jim Stanley
down here this weekend so you can begin to review his testimony. We'll
need him to stay the entire length of the trial."

"Where do we put out-of-town witnesses?"

"One of those suite hotels. Talk to Regina Alvarez when you get back
to the office. She coordinates all that."

Voir dire continued, as Meredith expected, for another three days.
Craig Fannin didn't get another chance to repeat the tactics he had
used to strike Mrs. Morse, but he did manage to persuade Judge
Penfield to strike five more jurors for cause, and he expended all
twenty of his peremptory strikes.

When the dust settled, Meredith and Laura were pleased with the
composition of the jury. There were three retired men on the final
panel two white, one black, all professionals. There were four single,
childless workingwomen, two white and two black.

Two more white men, an accountant and a car salesman, were seated, and
two young black men, a substitute science teacher and an auto-parts
store manager. The six alternates were similarly diverse but there
were no married women with children on the panel.

"Do you think that Fannin got what he was after?" Laura asked
Meredith.

"Who can say? None of them have any obvious axes to grind, and they
all seem to have common sense. But if Craig wants to sell them a
conspiracy theory, it might be the wrong group. If, on the other hand,
he wants to make a complex argument for reasonable doubt, he's got a
good jury to tell it to. Or they may be smart enough not to buy it. I
find that it's the weaker juries that overemphasize reasonable doubt
they seem to forget the word 'reasonable." But there's a funny thing
about juries: some times both the defense and the prosecution think
they have the ideal jury. I guess that's how you can tell they're
really impartial."

Laura nodded.

"There doesn't seem to be anyone on the jury with an emotional stake in
the outcome. They'll decide it on the facts, and I think they can tell
smoke from fire. By the way, Jim Stanley is coming down on Saturday
morning. I'm meeting him at the airport. I'll take him to his hotel,
and we'll start to go over his story. I thought we could all three get
together at his hotel Sunday afternoon and you could play Fannin, and
prepare Jim for some rough questioning. I don't think I can do that
part."

"I can. And I am very much looking forward to leaning on Jim Stanley
for a few hours."
CHAPTER 23

W" hat a dump," Jim Stanley said as he looked around the lobby of the
downtown hotel where the district attorney's office had arranged for
him to stay.

"The Ritz was booked," Laura said.

"I'm not blaming you," Stanley replied as Laura's facetious remark
sailed over his head and out of sight.

Laura had picked Jim up at the airport an hour earlier, and she was
already tired of his complaining about the inconvenience of coming to
Atlanta. What was most galling was that Jim was her star witness, and
he knew it. All Laura's hopes of finding some nice, clean
witness--someone who hadn't conspired with James Stanley, someone who
had never met Jesse DuPree--had evaporated when the passenger manifest
for the Greenville Atlanta flights turned up no one who could be James
Stanley, and no one who remembered seeing him on either plane. They
were stuck with Jim's imperfect record for truth-telling, and Laura was
stuck with him on a Saturday brilliant with the dying embers of the
summer sun.

"Let's get you checked in and then we can start to work," she said,
seized by a sudden desire to get it over with.

"I could use some lunch," Stanley said.

"They have a coffee shop here. We can get sandwiches and take them up
to your suite."

"Didn't we pass a Friday's? I could use a beer, too."

"You'll have to get one later. We have to get some work done, and we
have to do it in private--either in your suite or in my office. Let me
get you checked in, and then we'll get something to eat." Laura left
Jim standing in the lobby, and went to the registration desk.

"You have a room for Mr. Stanley, booked by the Fulton County district
attorney's office."

"Yes, miss. Room 349."

The clerk handed Laura a small paper wallet containing two keys. Laura
thrust it into the pocket of her ratty barn jacket as she spoke to the
clerk.

"I'll sign for the room. We're paying for the room only. There should
be a block on the phone, and on room service, and laundry and things
like that."

"Yes, miss. I'll need Mr. Stanley's credit card for those
services."

Laura turned and beckoned Jim to the counter.

"You'll have to pay for your own phone calls. We'll reimburse you up
to twenty dollars a day in meal allowance keep your receipts."

Jim handed over his credit card, but he started to pout.

"I think you people should pay for everything you're dragging me down
here for God knows how long, and you won't even pay for my phone calls.
That stinks."

"Do I need to remind you that we have the power to compel you to
testify, Mr. Stanley, and to hold you in contempt if you refuse? We
could have subpoenaed you and made you pay your own way. As it is, I
think we've been downright generous to you." We could have tried to
void your immunity and put your sorry butt in jail, too, she thought,
wishing more than ever that they had at least attempted to do just
that.

"I'm not saying it's your fault," Jim said ingratiatingly.

"It's just hard on a man to be away from home for an indefinite length
of time."

"I bet it is," Laura said, thinking of the charges Jim's wife had made
against him.

"Let's get some sandwiches and go upstairs.

Here's your key." She fished the key from her pocket and gave it to
him.

They ordered sandwiches to go at the counter of the cheerful coffee
shop. Laura asked for two cups of coffee to fuel her for the upcoming
ordeal. On a generous impulse, she paid for Jim's meal, too.

"I'll expense it," she said.

"Come on, let's shake a leg. We can get this done in a couple of hours
if we concentrate."

The suite really a glorified hotel room with a half-wall separating a
sitting area from the bed and bath was pleasantly, if blandly,
decorated.

"Give me a sec to hang up my things, and I'll be right with you." Laura
could hear Stanley fussing around in the other part of the suite. The
toilet flushed, and she heard running water. She was suddenly
uncomfortable and wished that she had insisted that they go to her
office, but it was too late now.

Jim, now jacketless, returned to the sitting area where Laura had
unpacked the sandwiches and drinks onto the coffee table.

Jim sat down on the sofa. Laura took the chair to his right.

"So, what you do for fun in this town?" he asked as he popped the tab
on his Coke.

"I prepare witnesses for court appearances," Laura responded.

"Don't be such a stick in the mud! If I'm going to be stuck down here
for God-knows-how-long, I'll have to have some fun.

You don't expect me to stay cooped up in this crummy room, do you?"

"What you do on your own time is up to you as long as you stay out of
jail and away from reporters."

"You mean I can't talk to the press?"

"Absolutely, you cannot talk to the press. Too much has been leaked
out already, and I don't want any more surprises. Your only comment is
'no comment."

" "Why are you so hostile?"

"You think this is hostile? Wait until you see me in a courtroom.

Now, I'm just trying to get some work done here so I can go home."

"You hardly said a pleasant word to me all the way from the airport,"
he said accusingly.

"I'm not here to be your buddy, Jim. This is work." Laura was trying
to maintain a strictly professional atmosphere, but the truth was that
she didn't like Jim Stanley. She hadn't liked him from the first time
they met. There was something sleazy about him.

Laura would believe almost anything bad that was said of him and yet
she was depending on him for virtually her entire case against James
Stanley. The situation was profoundly uncomfortable for her. She
wished that Meredith was here; her presence might at least keep Jim
from looking Laura up and down in that appraising way.

"Let's get going. Since you've had a little bit of experience with the
law, I assume you have a general idea about what goes on in a trial."

"I've never had a trial," Jim said, a note of pride in his voice.

"No, I guess you haven't. So, here's how it going to be: The trial
begins with opening statements from both sides. Then the prosecution
presents its case. We call a witness and question him;
that's called direct examination. Then the defense questions
him-that's cross-examination. Then we get to ask a few more questions
in rebuttal. We plan to call about half a dozen witnesses ahead of
you. That could take anywhere from two days to a week. Maybe longer,
depending on how the defense handles our witnesses."

"Why'd you get me down here so soon, then?"

"I said, it may take that long. And you're here now because I won't
have time to deal with you after the trial gets underway;

I'll have too much else to do, and I'll be in court all day."

"It'll be fun to watch you, at least," he said, leering slightly.

"No, Jim, you're not going to be in the courtroom. You're going to be
sequestered in a witness room at the courthouse, waiting to be called.
I suggest that you pick up some books and magazines to pass the time.
There won't be much to do in there except talk to the other
witnesses."

"Jesus. Who are the other witnesses?"

"Mostly cops," Laura said breezily.

"And a lawyer. I'm sure you'll like all of them."

Jim slumped back onto the sofa.

"I didn't think it would be like that. I was kinda pumped about seeing
a real trial."

"You'll see plenty. I expect that we'll have you on the stand for the
better part of a day, and Lord knows how long Craig Fannin is going to
keep you up there."

"Who's he?"

"He's the defense lawyer. He's going to try to destroy you, which
brings us back to why we're here right now."

"Okay," Jim said with a resigned sigh.

"Where do we start?"

"When you're called to the stand, the jury will already have heard all
the details of the crime from the police and the crime-scene witnesses.
We're going to let the ballistics expert introduce the gun into
evidence. Carlton Hemingway--you met him in Winston-Salem--is going to
set up your testimony by describing how we found you. You'll be sworn
in, and Meredith Gaffney will question you."

"I thought you would."

"Nope. This is too important. I'm new at this, but Meredith has years
of experience. Now, when she--or Fannin, or the judge--asks you a
question, give the shortest answer possible. If you're asked a
yes-or-no question, answer 'yes' or 'no," period.
If the questioner wants more, he'll ask for it. That's especially
important when Fannin asks you a question."

"Why?"

"Because he'll be trying to discredit you, and the more you talk, the
better his chances. Let's say he asks you, "Mr. Stanley, why did you
think James Stanley offered you five thousand dollars to check into a
hotel in his name?" What would you reply?"

"I'd say, "I thought it was real important to him that I be in that
hotel."

" "Wrong. That's too much information, and, anyway, it's speculative.
Fannin would take that answer and run with it, and he'd make it seem to
the jury that you knew that James was planning to murder his wife. Now
try again.

"Mr. Stanley, why did you think James Stanley offered you five
thousand dollars to check into a hotel in his name?"

" "} have no idea."

"Much better. That's not really what I want to work on today, though
Meredith is going to play defense attorney and give you a good
going-over tomorrow. Then you'll have a much clearer idea of what it's
like to go up against a lawyer like Craig Fannin."

"What's the big deal about him? I've dealt with a fair number of
lawyers, you know."

"I doubt you've ever dealt with one like Craig Fannin. He's a
turbo-charged, heavy-duty, all-wheel-drive lawyer. He will run right
over you and leave you wondering what the hell hit you."

"Oooh, I'm scared."

"You should be. Now, let's get back to work on the basics.

State your name."

"Huh?"

"State your name for the record."

"What record?"

"Jim, get with it we're talking about your testimony. I want you to
tell the court your name."

"Oh. Jim Stanley."

"No."

"Whaddaya mean, no? I know my own name."

"Your name is James Stanley."

"I get it you want the jury to pick up on the same-name thing. Okay,
James T. Stanley. How's that?"

"Fine. And where do you live, Mr. Stanley?"
"Winston-Salem, North Carolina," he replied cautiously, unsure whether
Laura was going to jump on him again.

She nodded.

"What line of work are you in?"

"I'm a mortgage broker?" he said, raising his inflection at the end of
his statement.

Laura tried not to smile, but it was funny.

"I'm not trying to trap you, Jim. Just give straightforward answers.
Does your business require you to travel much, Mr. Stanley?"

"Some, yes."

Laura nodded and continued.

"And do you visit Charlotte, North Carolina, from time to time?"

"Yes. There are a lot of banks there ..."

"No! Too much information. Try again. Do you visit Charlotte, North
Carolina, from time to time?"

"Yes."

"Did you often stay overnight in Charlotte?"

"Sometimes."

"How often is 'sometimes?"

" "Maybe twice a month."

"Okay, you're getting the hang of this. You'll be asked about the
hotel, and how often you stayed there, and Meredith will gradually lead
you up to the story of how you met James Stanley.

Don't anticipate her; she's going to go slowly for a reason. Let her
draw out the details. Let's try it.

"Is there a particular hotel you stay in when you visit Charlotte, Mr.
Stanley?"

" "Yes."

"Okay, you can be a little more forthcoming there. You can give the
name."

"Yes. The Marriott."

"Why do you stay there?"

"Because it's a good location."

"Is the service there good?"

"Yes."

"Always?"

"Usually."

"Have you ever had any problems at the Marriott?"

"I get it this is where I tell about the time they screwed up the
reservations."

"Exactly. Have you ever had any problems at the Marriott?"

"Only once."
"Okay, this is good. I want you to be prepared, though, for Fannin to
jump in with objections from time to time. Right then, he might say,
"Objection, Your Honor relevance." If he does break in, just sit tight
and let us hash it out. Never try to answer the objection yourself.
All right, where were we? Did you have a problem when you tried to
check into the hotel on July 15, 1998?"

" "Yes."

"What happened?"

"They didn't have a room for me."

"Why not?"

"They had given it to another James Stanley."

"That's your big moment make it count. Meredith will go on and pull
out the details, how you met the other James Stanley, and all that.
Then she'll ask you if you see James Stanley in the courtroom."

"Will I?"

"Yes. You just tell her where you see him sitting. Then she'll return
to questioning you. She'll ask you if you met James Stanley again, and
how often. She'll ask if the two of you ever discussed making use of
the similarity in your names. She'll ask you for details of those
discussions, and then she'll ask if James Stanley asked you to check
into the hotel for him on the night of May 8.

That's another big moment answer it with a simple yes or no."

Jim nodded solemnly.

"She'll pull the details out of you when he told you to check in, what
you were supposed to do. Don't volunteer anything; wait until you're
asked. For instance, when she says, "What did James Stanley ask you to
do after you checked in?"

give only the immediate answer."

"Like, "He asked me to go up to the room and wait until he showed
up?"

" "Exactly. She'll ask if he wanted you to do anything else, and you
say ..."

"Yes."

"What else did he ask you to do?"

"Order dinner, and make two phone calls."

"Good. Then she'll ask you what happened when he showed up if he said
anything to you, what he was wearing.

"What did the defendant say to you when he arrived at the hotel
room?"

" "That he was tired. He took off his clothes and got into bed there
were two beds in the room."
"Too much data, Jim."

"But he didn't get into bed with me."

"No one cares. Now, what did he say?"

"That he was tired."

"And what did he do?"

"Went to bed."

"Okay, that'll pretty much get out that part of the story. Then it's
going to get sticky."

"Why?"

"We have to deal with the gun, and what you knew about his intentions.
Let's give it a try.

"Mr. Stanley, do you recognize this gun?"

Remember, the gun has already been introduced into evidence, but the
jury has no idea it belongs to you."

"Yes. That's my gun."

"Did you ever lend this gun to anyone?"

"Yes."

"To whom did you lend it?"

"To James Stanley."

"Okay, she'll probably ask you to point him out again for the record.

"Why did you lend the gun to Mr. Stanley?"

" "He said he was interested in military pistols. I told him I had
one. He asked to see it, and then he asked if he could borrow it.

Is that too much?"

"No, that's okay. Meredith may phrase the question differently.

"When did you lend the gun to James Stanley?"

" "Maybe last November or December. I don't remember."

"Did you think it was odd that he asked to borrow a gun?"

"No. He seemed to know a good bit about the gun. I thought he was a
collector."

"Okay, that's good. She may ask a few more questions like did you know
that the gun was in working order, was it loaded when you gave it to
Stanley? That part is pretty straightforward, but it leads us up to
the tough stuff: "Mr. Stanley, did you wonder why James Stanley
offered you five thousand dollars to pretend to be him for one
evening?" That's the crux of your testimony your answer will determine
in the jury's eyes how reliable you are."

"What do you want me to say?"

"I can't tell you what to say."

"Oh. How about "I thought he was having an affair?"

"
Laura sighed.

"That might have to do. You knew, didn't you, that he was planning to
kill someone?"

"Of course not!"

"You lent him a gun, and gave him an alibi, and you didn't know he was
planning a murder? Come on, Jim, it's just you and me here. Why don't
you just tell me what you really thought?"

Jim narrowed his eyes, cagily.

"You won't use it against me?"

"How can I? You have 24-carat immunity. And I can't testify, and even
if I did, anything you say to me here is just hearsay. And I just want
to know what you thought. Thoughts aren't criminal."

"Okay, then, I'll tell you not to go out of this room. I thought James
wanted to kill the old man."

"What old man?"

"You know his father-in-law. He was always bitching about him. He
said he couldn't wait until the old sonofabitch died, so he could get
some real money behind his business. That's how the subject of the gun
came up he said the old man collected guns. I mentioned that I had a
Nazi piece that I was looking to sell. The thing's worth more than a
grand, you know, and I was a little short of cash. He told me he'd
take the gun down to Georgia and show it to his father-in-law. I saw
him a couple of times after that and asked him if the old man wanted
the gun, and he said that he hadn't made up his mind. Then, when he
asked me to check into the hotel, I thought I had it all figured out."
Jim smiled at his own canniness.

"What did you figure out?"

"That he was going to kill the old man, and stage it as an accident or
a suicide, using that gun."

"Why not use one of Mr. Connell's guns?"

Jim shook his head.

"They were kept in a locked gun room.

James couldn't get in there. I figure James held on to that gun for a
while trying to work up the nerve to do it. You could have knocked me
over with a feather when you told me he had killed his wife."

Laura frowned as she tried to take it all in.

"At least it's logically consistent. I'll tell Meredith about it.
She'll lead you through it.

I think it makes you much more credible. Yes, it's good."

"Wait! I thought you said it was between you and me not to leave this
room."

"Oops. I lied. You'll have to tell that story to the jury now."
Laura had realized that Jim Stanley was a one-man Rashomon, t able to
provide multiple versions of the same event, depending on his audience.
She had decided, after one too many surprises, that she should meet him
on his own ground, and if that meant playing with the truth, so be it.
Besides, if she let him say something else on the stand, she would be
suborning perjury.

Jim looked indignant for a moment; then he laughed.

"Taste of my own medicine, huh? You're a smart gal."

"You're right about that. Okay, we're done here. I'll pick you up at
about eleven tomorrow morning. That'll give you time to go to church.
We'll need you for four or five hours, so don't make any plans for the
afternoon." She gathered her papers and prepared to go.

"You're leaving?"

"Yep. It's after four, and I have plans for tonight."

"Big date?"

"Dinner with a friend."

"Care if I tag along?"

"I don't think that's appropriate. Don't you know anyone down here? I
thought you grew up in Georgia."

"I don't have a car. I guess I could call Jesse DuPree."

"Oh, no, you don't. Why don't you take in a movie? Take a cab to
Buckhead. I'll make sure you're reimbursed. Just for pity's sake,
don't call Jesse."

Jim grinned, conscious of having scored a point. Laura stood up, put
on her jacket, and made for the door.

"Don't get into any trouble--your immunity only applies in the Stanley
case." She left the hotel quickly, eager to get into the fresh air.
She headed for home, and dinner with Amos.
CHAPTER 24

The trial of James Alien Stanley for the murder of his wife opened on a
crisp Monday morning in October. A front had moved in from the plains,
bringing with it the first nippy breeze of fall and shooing the last of
the summer's humidity away. It was as if even the weather knew that it
was time to get serious.

Laura woke early from a restless night and was unable to return to
sleep. After an hour or so tossing in the greenish glow of her clock's
electronic display, she decided to shower and get dressed.

She had already picked her clothes carefully. Of course, if the trial
dragged on for weeks, she would eventually work her way through her
entire working wardrobe, but for today, she wanted Full Battle Dress.
She took her favorite black suit from the closet, and a creamy silk
blouse. The skirt hit in just the right place-not so short that she
would look like a television lawyer, and not so long that she would
appear frumpy. She opened a fresh package of nude pantyhose, and put
on her best underwear--not her best date underwear, but her most
serious bra and panties. The black pumps she selected had heels just a
smidgen higher than her everyday pair. She wore minimal jewelry; Tom's
necklace would be hidden by her collar, so she put on her grandmother's
pearls and a matching pair of stud earrings. Makeup had to be light
and neutral--no eyeliner, and only a little gray shadow. No blush, and
light pink lipstick. She had had her nails done Saturday before she
met Jim Stanley at the airport, in a barely there pink like the inside
of a seashell.

When she had fully armored herself, she looked at her watch.

It wasn't even six o'clock yet, and she didn't plan to meet Meredith at
the courthouse until eight. She retrieved the paper from the front
yard, made coffee, and toasted a bagel. She dozed off over the paper,
and awoke with just enough time to make her rendezvous with the boss.
Wouldn't you know? she thought as she backed the car out of the
driveway. Up all night, and I'm running late.

She met Meredith in the parking lot. Her boss looked at Laura
approvingly.

"Dressed to convict, I see."

"Mm-hmm. And I see you've opted for the up-do."

"Hey, I'm a blonde with big boobs. If I didn't wear my hair up in
court I'd never get a conviction."

If anyone overheard them, they might have been shocked at their callous
attitude toward something as solemn as a trial, especially a trial in
which a man's life was at stake. But all professions have a tradition
of dark humor--gallows humor, literally, in the case of trial lawyers.
It was a way of keeping a psychological distance from a tough and
sometimes harrowing job. Laura had lost count of the times Tom Bailey
had made tasteless jokes completely out of keeping with his character,
things he never would have said to anyone but another trial lawyer.

When they arrived in the courtroom, Craig Fannin was already there with
James Stanley and two associates Laura had not met before. Meredith
strolled toward him and greeted him as if it were an ordinary day.
Laura followed and was introduced to the associates. Craig greeted her
warmly, but the assistants eyed her warily. Laura made a point of
being extra-casual and friendly with them, just to prove to herself
that she had no personal stake in "beating" them. It's not a beauty
contest, Laura, she could hear Tom saying. It's business. Of course,
Tom had never tried a murder case. Laura tried not to look at James
Stanley, but it was hard.

He was neatly dressed, as always, but he was staring straight ahead,
his hands folded in his lap. He looked calm, but Laura could see that
he was pressing his hands together so tightly that the knuckles were
white.

The courtroom was filling up with reporters and spectators, and there
was a low hum of voices. The bailiff came in and placed some things on
the judge's desk, and then left again. Laura arranged her own things
on the prosecution table: legal pad, pens, and the hefty box of files
that she had helped Meredith haul in from the parking lot. She saw
Lynette and her father taking a seat in the row behind the prosecution
table. This is going to be hard for Mr. Connell, Laura thought
sympathetically. Whatever the outcome, he loses. She waved to
Lynette but didn't approach her to speak. She didn't have time; she
needed to speak with Randy Travers, but he wasn't there yet. She did
see Megan Carney/ though, coming through the great double doors with a
huge artist's portfolio in her hand.

"The exhibits are here," Laura said to Meredith.

"Good. Have you had a chance to check them?"

Laura shook her head.

"They were still working on them over the weekend. Should we take a
look?"

"Yes. I wish Randy would get here before the proceedings start so he
can check them. Hello, Meggie. Let's see what you've got."

Megan was a freelance graphic designer with one of the more unusual
jobs in her field: she designed exhibits for trials. Prendergrast and
Crawley had used her, and the district attorney's office did, too.
There weren't that many designers who understood the requirements of a
courtroom.

"Hello, lawyers," she said, opening her portfolio and producing four
foam-backed boards.

"I've got them all, but there's time to make changes if you need
them."

Laura flipped through the displays. The one that particularly
concerned her was the floor plan of the Stanley house, with the
positions of the important details marked. She was surprised that
Megan had represented the position of Christine Stanley's body with the
outline of a human figure. She had expected an X. "Is it okay?" Megan
asked anxiously.

"That's the first one you'll be using, so I don't think there's time to
alter it."

"It's fine. It's just that the body--well, it's a little macabre."

"That's how Meredith likes it done, right?"

"Right," Meredith answered, surveying a board on which were mounted
black-and-white crime-scene photos.

"These blew up well. What else? Oh, the ballistics. Good job."

"Thanks. Beep me if you need me.

"Bye." And Megan was gone, but Randy Travers took her place.

"Good," Laura said.

"I wanted to catch you before they sequestered you. Here are the house
diagram and the crime-scene photos.

Take a look at them."

Travers had dressed up for court, in a baggy blue suit and a
white-on-white striped shirt, with a wide gold tie. The jury would
look at him and see "cop" personified, and Laura supposed that was all
right. He gazed at the exhibits, and grunted his approval.

"You'll be the first called after the opening statements," Laura
said.

"I hope we can get through your testimony today."

"Me, too. See ya later," he said, and walked off.

"I can't get over the feeling that he doesn't like me," Laura said as
she watched him leave the courtroom.

"He doesn't like anyone much these days," Meredith said.

"And you did more or less take over his investigation."

"With Carlton! Carlton was always with me!"

"I know, I know. Oh, here's Judge Penfield."

The bailiff announced the judge, who made a stately entry and gaveled
the courtroom to order.

"Please summon the jury," she commanded. The jurors filed in, led by a
Fulton County sheriff's deputy. They had been in this room before, but
the atmosphere today was charged as it had not been the previous week
during voir dire. They looked appropriately awestruck today.

"Have you selected a foreperson?" Judge Penfield asked.

"Yes, Your Honor," replied one of the jurors Laura had liked the best,
a retired black man who had worked for the power company.

"I've guess I've been elected."

"Very well. The bailiff will administer the oath to the jurors."

The bailiff did. Then he proceeded to read out the charges in solemn,
ringing tones, and the trial was officially underway. Laura caught her
breath as Meredith rose to give her opening statement.

The boss walked confidently around the prosecution table and stopped
before the jury box. As she took those few steps, Laura could hear the
courtroom preparing itself to listen. There was a soft intake of
breath, and a rustle of bodies settling deeper into the hard seats.
Then, in the dead, absolute silence that followed, Meredith began to
speak.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I want to thank you, right now,
before this trial starts, for what you are about to do. There is no
more solemn duty that a democracy demands of its citizens than that of
sitting in judgment of another citizen's life. Right now, if you'll
permit me to do a little mind-reading, I imagine that some of you are a
little uneasy about that responsibility. I '; imagine that some of you
are asking yourselves, "How can I judge $ another person? What
qualifies me for this onerous duty?" You might ^ even find yourself
thinking , "What if there were me what if I were the defendant in this
case? Would I want to be judged?" These are natural questions.

"We live today in a culture where tolerance is considered the prime
virtue. And it is a virtue; I would never dispute that. But how far
will we go in our tolerance? Will it keep us from judging anyone,
anytime? Take as an example Adolf Hitler. Surely we can all agree
that here was a man truly unworthy of his humanity, a living embodiment
of evil. Of course, you may be thinking now, Adolf Hitler was the most
evil man ever to have lived. No problem there.

And yet, when a high-school teacher recently asked his students what
they thought of Hitler, some of them not all of them, thank God said
that they didn't feel 'qualified' to sit in judgment of him. Maybe,
these children said, if they had been in his shoes, they would have
become Hitler themselves.

"Well, ladies and gentlemen, I hope you think more highly of yourselves
that that. I believe that none of us would like to think that he or
she has the potential to become a Hitler. But I think I understand
what those naive students were driving at, don't you?

We define our humanity in terms of our ability to empathize with
others. We live in fear of losing that ability to empathize, fearing
that if we do, we might become less than human ourselves. So how can
we judge someone else?

"Part of our reluctance to pass judgment comes from that sense of
common humanity. We have a wonderful capacity for empathy that allows
us to project ourselves into another's position. Most of us have said
at one time or another, "There but for the grace of God go I." When we
open the newspaper in the morning, we feel instinctively the pain of
the parents who have lost a child in an accident, or the agony of
victims of some faraway natural disaster.

And we say, "There but for the grace of God ..."

"But there have to be limits to our ability to empathize. When we
read, in that same newspaper, a story about a brutal, senseless crime,
our empathy dries up our empathy for the perpetrator of that crime, at
any rate. We cannot project ourselves into his shoes. We cannot
conceive of ourselves brutalizing another per son, especially a person
we love. Of course we pity the person who causes harm by accident.
Maybe we even identify a little bit with someone pushed beyond the
limits of human patience who lashes out violently. But it is
impossible to identify or empathize with a person who deliberately and
methodically plans a crime.
Of that person we say, "How could he do that?" In short, we judge.

Someone who would do that is not us he is The Other. We cannot
empathize with him, because he has forfeited his own humanity.

"And that, ladies and gentlemen, is where you will find the strength
and the courage to do your duty as jurors in the trial of James Alien
Stanley for the murder of his wife. Here is a man who planned,
carefully and cleverly, to kill his own wife, the mother of his two
young children. And he did it out of greed.

He did it for money.

"Christine Connell Stanley was a beautiful young woman. She loved her
family, especially her two children, Matthew and Sara.

But her marriage was not happy, and it had not been for a long time.
She and her husband disagreed about the importance of money. Christine
wanted to live simply, as she always had, despite the fact that she was
rich very rich. James Stanley, her husband, wanted to live the life of
a rich man. He wanted a big house, and a country club membership, and
fancy cars. He already had the love of a beautiful family, but that
wasn't enough for him. And when Christine Connell Stanley grew so
unhappy that she began to think about leaving him, James Stanley
realized that he would lose all that lovely money. That is when he
began to plan, and to calculate.

"In the coming days, you are going to hear a horrible story.

You are going to hear some painful details, and you will be asked to
look at some pictures that will make you profoundly uncomfortable. But
nothing that you will be asked to contemplate will be as terrible as
what we will tell you about why this crime took place, and how
carefully it was planned and carried out.

"You will need to pay attention to the facts in this case. They are
fairly straightforward. We're not going to drag in a lot of scientific
testimony, and we're not going to ask you to understand the mind of
this brutal killer. We only ask that you listen carefully, and keep
the simple facts in your mind.

"You may hear some of those facts disputed. You may hear the term
'reasonable doubt' thrown around. I ask you only this:

remember that the doubt must be reasonable. Don't let yourself be led
astray by fancy theories. Don't ignore facts and allow doubt to grow
in your minds, because if you follow those facts, you will have no
doubt that James Stanley killed his wife.
"Thank you."

As Meredith spoke, Laura relaxed. The anxiety that had kept her awake
most of the night slowly ebbed away. The trial had begun, and she
could stop second-guessing herself about what more she could have done
to strengthen the case. They had to go with what they had and what
they had was good. Meredith's experience was showing in every gesture
she made, and the jury couldn't ignore the facts that they were about
to hear. Craig Fannin might be a great courtroom duelist and Laura
hoped that he was, because she did love a challenge but he couldn't
overcome the truth. Meredith returned to the table, and raised her
eyebrows in a silent query. Laura gave her two thumbs-up under the
table.

"He's halfway to prison," she whispered.

Craig Fannin scraped the legs of his chair on the floor as he pushed
back from the defense table and stood. He walked care fully to the
same position that Meredith had just abandoned, his tread firm. He
gave the jurors a warm smile.

"Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you for being here today.

"I've been a trial lawyer for almost twenty years and yes, I know all
the lawyer jokes. We lawyers don't get a lot of respect, and maybe
sometimes we don't deserve it. But I love my job. It's the most
satisfying job in the world. You know why? Because every day, I look
for the truth, and there's nothing more satisfying than finding the
truth.

"Every time I take a case, I see it as an opportunity to solve a
puzzle. Somebody comes to me with a problem and if he's coming to me,
it's a bad one. He tells me his story, and I listen. Just like you're
going to listen to a story in this courtroom.

"And that's one thing you folks will have in common with me: to us,
this is just a story. None of us were there when the events we're
going to hear about took place. None of the prosecution witnesses were
there, either. They'll all be telling part of the story, but there are
only two people who know the entire tale: Christine Stanley and the
person who murdered her.

"Right about now, I bet you're wondering, "So how are we supposed to
get the whole story of what happened that night?" That's exactly what
I asked myself when James Stanley came to me.

"How can I find the truth of what really happened?"

"One thing that I've learned in twenty years of lawyering is that you
don't just cobble together a fact or two and serve it up as a case.
No, before you make a case, you have to get all the facts in front of
you, and you have to make use of all those facts.

It's like doing a jigsaw puzzle: You lay out all the pieces on the
table, and you turn them right side up, and you sort them by shape and
color. Then you start to assemble the puzzle. If you don't do all
that sorting, you'll be starting without a clear idea of what you're
doing. You may find a few random pieces that stick together, but you
won't know where they go in the larger picture. Put together enough
random pieces, and you may even get a picture but it might not be the
right one. You can force some of the pieces to fit together, and you
can leave out the ones that don't seem to go anywhere. Maybe you'll
get a rough idea of what the puzzle-maker intended the picture to look
like, or maybe you'll get a different picture entirely.

"When James Stanley came to me with his problem, I started laying
pieces out on a table. Since last May, I've been collecting those
pieces. When I finally had all the pieces, I was able to put together
a picture. It's a very ugly picture, I'm afraid. But it's a very
different picture from the one the prosecution has put together.

"

"Now, how can that be?," you might ask.

"Surely we're all dealing with the same set of facts." Well, yes, we
are, but the prosecution has chosen to use only some of the facts in
building its case. When a fact didn't fit their theory, they simply
discarded it. And by pounding and mashing what was left into place,
they put together a pretty good picture of their own.

"But you know and I know that 'pretty good' isn't good enough in this
case. James Stanley has been accused of murder, and the penalty, if
you find him guilty, is life in prison without the possibility of
parole or death. I'm sure that before you make a decision like that,
you'll want more than a 'pretty good' idea of what happened that night
in May.

"I think I told you that the picture I got when I put all the pieces
together was not a pretty one. In fact, it's downright ugly.

It's ugly because someone has committed the most heinous crime that we
know of, murder. Worse than that, someone has very cleverly planned
this crime to make it appear that it was my client who is the murderer.
Ladies and gentlemen, I am relieved to tell you that he is not.

"Mrs. Gaffney asked you to listen. Please do. Please listen to
everything that is said in this courtroom. And when you've heard it
all, and when you've seen all the pieces of this puzzle in their proper
places, you will know who killed Christine Stanley. And it will not be
James Alien Stanley."

With a curt nod, Fannin spun around and returned to his seat.

Meredith turned to Laura.

"Your turn," she said.

"Vaya con Dios."
CHAPTER 25

A short while later, Laura sat down, very pleased with herself, and
very, very pleased with Randy Travers. Travers had managed to shuck
his weary cynicism for more than two hours while Laura questioned him
about the events of May 8. He had even joined her in front of Megan's
diagram of the house, and pointed out the position of various objects.
They were a team, and a good one. And Randy was, well, incredibly
credible, Laura thought paradoxically.

The jury had listened closely as the experienced detective took them
inside the Stanley house and re-created the events that took place
there. The jurors craned their necks and took in every word, every
syllable, he spoke. They cringed, Laura noticed, when the actual
crime-scene photos were shown, but she noticed at least one juror
taking out a tissue and dabbing at her eyes when Travers described the
container of melted ice cream. He even made the nonexistent
fingerprint evidence seem compelling.

Laura sat down next to Meredith, who patted her arm warmly.

"You done good," she whispered.

"Craig's going to have a hard time with Randy." As she spoke, Craig
Fannin and one of his young associates rose from their seats. The
associate lugged a foam-board exhibit to the easel where Laura's
exhibits still rested.

The bailiff removed the prosecution's boards, and Laura was surprised
to see that Fannin was replacing them with a diagram of the house
exactly like her own.

"That Megan--comforting the enemy," she muttered. But another look
told her that the diagram was not exactly the same. Megan had added
two large red arrows, one pointing to a spot on the floor in front of
the body, another to the French doors in the kitchen. They were
labeled "shoe print" and "fibers," respectively. Laura knew
immediately where this was headed.

Fannin greeted Travers as an old friend, and Laura was pleased to see a
mulish look cross the detective's face.

"Hello, Detective.

I'd like to go back over a couple of points in your testimony if I
may." As if he needs to ask permission to cross-examine, Laura
thought.

Travers nodded his assent.

"Detective Travers, when you examined the crime scene, you say that you
found no sign of an intruder in the house, other than the broken lock
on the doors in the kitchen."

"That's correct."

"And yet. Detective Travers, didn't you find a shoe print in the
carpet in the family room?"

"There was a faint print, yes."

Fannin walked to his exhibit.

"The mark was here, was it not?"

"Yes, approximately."

"About eight feet from where the body lay."

"Yes."

"Did the crime-scene team take the measure of that print?"

"Yes, they did."

"And what size was it?"

"It was about twenty-nine centimeters long."

"And what size shoe does that equate to?"

"A ten."

"A men's ten, is that correct?"

"Yes."

"I see. Detective Travers, what size shoe does the defendant wear?"

"An eleven. Men's."

"Detective Travers, do you know the equivalent woman's size?"

"About a ten and a half or an eleven."

"Hmm. That's large for a woman's shoe, isn't it?"

"Yes, I suppose so. I'm not an expert."

Fannin smiled graciously.

"And yet you knew immediately when I asked, what size woman's shoe
equated to a men's ten."

"Yes."

"Did you look into that for some reason. Detective?"
"Yes. You can't tell what sex someone is just by looking at a shoe
print, Mr. Fannin. We had to consider that a woman or a man might
have made that print."

"Yes, of course. Did you determine what size shoe Mrs. Stanley
wore?"

"Yes. Eight and a half."

"And the cleaning lady?"

"Seven and a half."

"Did you find in your investigation any woman who wore a size ten and a
half or eleven shoe?"

"Objection, Your Honor relevance," Laura said, standing.

"Your Honor, I am trying to determine why the police didn't think that
the shoe print was important."

Judge Penfield nodded.

"Objection overruled. You may continue

"Thank you. So, Detective, were there any women connected with the
investigation who wore a shoe of that size?"

"Yes. One."

"And who was she?"

"The victim's sister, Lynette Connell. But we ..."

"Thank you. Now, Detective, I'd like to turn your attention to the
second spot marked on this diagram. Can you see where the arrow is
pointing?"

Randy looked at Laura for a split second before he answered.

She nodded reassuringly; Fannin had managed to introduce Lynette's name
without allowing Travers to exonerate her, but Laura could easily
correct that in her redirect examination "Yes. It points to the
kitchen doors," Randy said in answer to Fannin's question.

"It was the lock of those doors that was forced, was it not?"

"Yes."

"Detective Travers, did the crime-scene team find anything caught in
the splintered door?"

"Yes."

"And what was that?"

"A few fibers."

"This is a report prepared by the Georgia Bureau of Investigation Crime
Lab," Fannin said, displaying a document.

"I request permission to enter this report as Defense Exhibit B. Now,
Detective could you read the highlighted section on that page?"

"
"Approximately six fibers measuring six to ten millimeters each were
discovered in the splintered wood around the door lock. Examination
showed these fibers to consist of gray wool and polyester fibers
twisted together in a manner consistent with wool-blend fabrics of the
type used to make garments, especially suiting material. The sample
was not large enough to permit further identification."

" Travers handed the report back to Fannin with no comment.

"Detective, did you examine Mr. Stanley's wardrobe to see if he owned
a garment made of material matching the fiber sample described in this
report?"

"Yes."

"And what did you find?"

"We found no wool-blend garments. But ..."

"Thank you. Detective. Did you look only at Mr. Stanley's wardrobe,
or did you examine clothing belonging to other suspects, as well?"

"Only Mr. Stanley. By that time he was indicted ..."

"So you didn't look at clothing belonging to Miss Council?"

"No. She was not ..."

"Thank you. Detective. I'd like to turn your attention now to the
fingerprint evidence. You told the court that the fingerprint team
found no prints except those belonging to the family, the cleaning
lady, and frequent visitors. Is that correct?"

"Yes."

"And how was this determined?" Fannin asked patiently.

"The latent evidence team got elimination fingerprints from all the
family members, and the others whose prints we might have been expected
to find."

"Did you find any prints on the kitchen door, or on the broken lock?"

"Yes, there were a number of prints on the handle and the plate
surrounding it, all belonging to family members."

"Did you also find prints on the burglar alarm control panel?"

"Which one?"

"Either of them. Detective."

"Yes, there were prints on the panels in both the front hall and in the
kitchen."

"You have testified that the latent evidence team took prints from all
the family members, the cleaning lady, and close friends who may have
visited the house in order to eliminate prints they might have left. Is
that the case?"
"Yes."

"Did you, or someone from your team, fingerprint Lynette Connell,
Christine Stanley's sister?"

"We did."

"And did you find any of her fingerprints in the house after the
crime?"

"Yes, several sets."

"And would you mind telling us where they were located?"

Fannin asked the question casually, with his back half turned to
Travers.

"May I refer to my notes?"

"Certainly."

Randy riffled through his notebook.

"Lynette Connell's prints were found on the refrigerator door, on the
taps on the kitchen sink, on the kitchen door ..."

"Wait just a moment, please. Her fingerprints were on the broken
door?"

"Yes. Actually, they were on both kitchen doors the French doors that
led to the patio, and the swinging door that led to the dining room."

"I see. And were Miss Connell's prints on the burglar alarm control
panel, as well?"

"Yes."

"Both control panels?"

"No, only the one in the kitchen."

Damage. Laura sensed it. She could also sense Lynette's eyes boring
into the back of her head, willing her to turn around. Laura couldn't.
She rapidly collected her thoughts, and scribbled a note to Meredith. I
can handle all this on redirect. Meredith nodded; she didn't look
overly concerned.

"So we can conclude that Miss Connell had been in the house shortly
before the murder?"

"In all likelihood, yes. But she frequently ..."

"And let me clarify something. Detective. Did Miss Connell stand to
benefit in any way from her sister's death?"

"Not directly."

"But indirectly ... ?"

"She was a trustee for Mrs. Stanley's children, along with Mr.

Stanley, Mrs. Stanley, and a family attorney."
"The trustees for the children have control of quite a large sum of
money, isn't that true?"

"I'm not sure. I didn't examine the financial records personally."

"But you must have discussed them."

"No," Randy said, digging in his heels.

"The court appointed a special master to look at all that stuff. I
have no idea what the specifics of those trusts are."

"I see. But if Mr. Stanley is convicted of his wife's murder, the
trust would presumably be removed from his administration."

"Is that a question?"

"Yes. Who would be trustee for those children if Mr. Stanley was not
available?"

"I don't know."

Fannin gave up that line of questioning, but he quickly wound up for
another run at Lynette.

"Detective Travers, in your investigation, did you find that Miss
Connell had a police record?"

"Objection, Your Honor--relevance," Laura said. She and Meredith
agreed that she would handle objections when one of "her" witnesses was
on the stand.

"Your Honor, the defense is trying to determine whether the police
considered suspects other than Mr. Stanley," Fannin explained.

"The prosecution questions whether the existence of other suspects is
relevant. Your Honor," Laura countered.

"It is, if the police investigation was inherently flawed and biased,"
Fannin retorted.

"Do you have some evidence of bias, Mr. Fannin?" Judge Penfield
asked.

"I believe that the failure of the police to investigate subjects other
than Mr. Stanley is prima facie evidence of bias. Your Honor."

"That's ridiculous. Your Honor--Detective Travers did investigate Miss
Connell, and a number of other individuals in connection with the case,
and he has already stated that he did so."

Judge Penfield sighed.

"I'll disallow your last question, Mr.

Fannin, but you may ask if the detective investigated specific
subjects."

"Thank you. Your Honor. Detective, was there a point in time when you
considered Miss Connell a suspect in her sister's death?"
"There was a time when I considered you a suspect, Mr. Fannin.

I never overlook any possibility."

Fannin smiled.

"And yet you didn't fingerprint me, or question my associates. Did you
question Miss Connell's associates?"

"Yes, we did. We investigated her thoroughly and exonerated ..."

"Thank you. Detective. That's all I have for now," Fannin said
serenely.

Laura was on her feet, with no prompting from Meredith, before Fannin
had sat down again.

"Your Honor, the prosecution would like to question this witness
again."

"You may."

Laura stepped to the witness box, careful not to block the jury's view
of Travers. She was going to take it point by point, although it was
hard not to deal with the insinuations against Lynette right away.

"Detective, you have testified that the shoe print found in the Stanley
family room measured twenty-nine centimeters. Is that an exact
measurement?"

"No. The print was blurred and indistinct."

"Could the shoe that made it have been larger than twenty-nine
centimeters long?"

"Yes. Or smaller."

"So you didn't regard that shoe print as reliable evidence?"

"No. There was no distinctive tread pattern, and no way of telling
when the print was made. The room had been vacuumed early that
morning, and several people had been in the room since, including James
Stanley, the defendant."

"Thank you. Now, Detective, you read to the court the crime lab report
on the fibers found in the broken door. Did you find a garment that
matched the description of those fibers?"

"No, we did not."

"But you did look at Mr. Stanley's wardrobe, did you not?"

"Yes, but there was nothing made of that type of fabric."

"You looked only at Mr. Stanley's wardrobe. Why was that?"

"Because he had been indicted by the time we received that analysis of
the fiber evidence. We had no other suspects."

"I see. Detective, you testified that the gunman stood approximately
six to eight feet from Christine Stanley as he shot her.

Would he have been splattered with blood at that distance?"
Fannin hopped up.

"Objection, Your Honor the witness is not an expert in ballistics."

Laura was quick to counter the objection.

"Your Honor, Detective Travers is a veteran of twenty years on the
homicide squad.

He is very familiar with firearms and the damage they do."

"I'll allow it," Judge Penfield said.

"Answer the question, Detective."

"Yes, he would have been splattered with fine drops of blood.

The gun was a nine millimeter, which uses a high-velocity cartridge
When it meets the target, it causes 'blowback." Very close to the
target, there would be a great deal of blood. Farther away, the
droplets of blood would have been very fine."

"Would they have been visible to the naked eye?"

"Probably not."

"Could they have been detected by a lab, using a microscope?"

"Oh, yes. Very easily."

"So, if the shooter knew about blowback, he may have known to dispose
of the garments he wore, despite there being no visible bloodstains on
them?"

"Objection, Your Honor calls for speculation." Fannin had been waiting
for an opportunity to cut Laura off.

"I withdraw the question. Detective, you testified that at one time
you considered Lynette Connell, the victim's sister, a suspect in her
death. Is that correct?"

"Yes."

"And did you investigate Miss Connell?"

"Yes, and her associates."

"What did your investigation find?"

"Miss Connell had a corroborated alibi for the night of the murder. She
was at a horse show of some kind in Nashville, Tennessee. She ate in a
restaurant with three people who all gave affidavits that they had been
with her. Miss Connell also produced restaurant and hotel receipts."

"I see. Did you consider the possibility that Miss Connell may have
hired a gunman?"

"Yes. Miss Connell had an associate, a former boyfriend, who deals in
guns. We thought he might be involved."

"And was he?"

"No. He also had an alibi, which we were able to corroborate."
"And so your investigation showed that Lynette Connell had nothing to
do with her sister's murder?"

"Yes. We also uncovered evidence that James Stanley had been involved
in the crime. We confirmed Stanley's role, and that served to further
exonerate Miss Connell."

"Thank you. I have no further questions for this witness at this
time," Laura said. She returned to her seat, and got an
under-the-table low five from Meredith.

"Would counsel for the defense like to reexamine this witness?"

"Not at this time. Your Honor."

"You may step down. Detective Travers. Please remain available
throughout the trial for recall. Call the next witness, please."

The next witness Laura called was Carl Bellamy, the GBI Crime Lab
ballistics expert, veteran of many trials. He very carefully, almost
lovingly, walked the jury through the procedures he used to identify
the weapons used in crimes. They could have passed a test on it
afterward. Then he delved into the specifics of the gun that was used
to kill Christine Stanley. He told them why he had suspected a
European military gun, an old one, from the beginning.

When Laura introduced the actual gun, Bellamy gave a short lecture on
the history of the Walther P-38. Fannin interrupted, objecting that
the testimony was irrelevant, but Judge Penfield overruled him when
Laura argued that it was important for the jury to know that the
witness was very familiar with the gun used to kill Christine
Stanley.

Bellamy also confirmed what Randy had said about "blow-back" of blood
from the impact of the slug. To Laura's delight, he thought that the
blood might even have been visible on the shooter's clothing, making
it, Laura was quick to point out, more likely that the killer would
have destroyed his clothing. By the time Carl stood by the enlarged
pictures of the slugs removed from the crime scene, the jury was
following his every syllable.

He should have been a teacher, Laura thought. And, God, I'm glad he's
on my side. She beamed at him when she was done with her questions.

Fannin approached the witness box with a thoughtful expression on his
face.

"Mr. Bellamy, you testified that the slugs from the crime scene were,
with ninety-eight percent certainty, fired from the gun presented by
the prosecution."
"Yes, that was my testimony."

"And you also testified that this same gun was used to kill a dog near
the Stanleys' home some weeks before the murder. Is that correct?"

"Yes."

"Mr. Bellamy, did it strike you as odd that someone shot a dog with
this gun?"

"It struck me as sadistic and unnecessary."

"Exactly. Unnecessary is exactly the word I was searching for.

Does it not seem curious to you, Mr. Bellamy, that someone planning a
murder would use the gun he planned to kill his wife with to kill a
dog?"

"Objection calls for speculation." Laura was quick to intervene

"I only asked Mr. Bellamy for his opinion. Your Honor."

"The objection is sustained," Judge Penfield said.

Fannin returned to face Carl.

"I'll rephrase the question: Mr.

Bellamy, don't you think it's odd that the killer used the same gun in
both these crimes, thus allowing us to place the gun in the Stanleys'
neighborhood weeks before the murder?"

"I wouldn't know," Carl answered.

"I've never killed anyone."

Meredith poked Laura under the table and waggled her eye brows in
delight. Fannin gave up the line of questioning, and Carl left the
stand in triumph. Laura wondered, though, if Fannin's question had
been such a blunder. He had managed to point out one of the most
illogical aspects of the crime, one that Laura had not been able to get
comfortable with herself. But Carl had done a good job deflecting
Fannin's speculation, and she was content to let his testimony stand
without further questioning.

Laura was so absorbed in the trial proceedings, and so
adrenaline-fueled, that she was shocked when Judge Penfield gaveled the
proceedings closed for the day. She and Meredith were conferring,
heads together, when Laura felt a touch on her shoulder. It was
Lynette.

"I just want to say thanks," she said.

"I can see why you didn't want me on the stand I would have come out of
the chair and strangled that sonofabitch."

"He took a lot of shots at you, but they all went wide, I think," Laura
said.

"Just be prepared for more of the same especially when the financial
testimony is introduced."
CHAPTER 26

M" r. Borden, you reviewed the financial records of James Stanley's
firm, James A. Stanley and Associates, did you not?"

"Yes, I did."

"And did you also review the personal financial records of James
Stanley and his late wife Christine Connell Stanley?"

"Yes, I did."

"Could you please tell the court how you conducted your review?"

Laura was presenting her last witness. When William Borden, the
special master, finished his testimony, only Meredith's three
witnesses--Carlton Hemingway, Wayne Catrall, the Marriott's computer
jockey, and Frank Watson, Christine Stanley's divorce
attorney--remained before Jim Stanley took the stand. Laura was
questioning Borden slowly and methodically, as his testimony was going
to be the hardest for the jury to follow, and, frankly, the least
exciting. Borden was a great choice as special master, but he left
much to be desired as a witness, having a tendency to use expressions
like "within the meaning of the act," and "pursuant to our mandate."
But there was no doubting his honesty or his thoroughness. Meredith
called him "Mr. Probity."

"Kind of makes you understand what they mean by eminence grise, doesn't
he?"

she said, eyeing the gray suit, white shirt, and red tie that he wore
every day.

Laura was hoping that she could lead him through his testimony in less
than two hours. She had no idea what Fannin was going to do with him
on cross-examination. There was always the risk that Fannin would try
to numb the jury by keeping Borden on the stand hour after hour, while
the details of the crime receded from the memories of the jurors, but
Laura and Meredith had decided that it was a risk worth taking. Putting
him on earlier would have meant that the impact of his testimony would
have been dissipated, and, besides, if Borden's report slowed down the
trial a bit, Meredith could always jump-start it again with Carlton's
testimony.

Borden cleared his throat and prepared to answer the question.

"We reviewed records of Mr. Stanley's firm, of which he was managing
partner, from its inception in 1994 to the present. We also reviewed
his personal financial records, and those of his wife and children, for
the same period."

"And did your examination also include a review of the trusts in the
name of the two Stanley children, Matthew and Sara?"

"Yes, it did."

"Please explain to the jury what business the firm of James A. Stanley
is involved in."

"James A. Stanley and Associates is a financial advisory and management
firm which specializes in managing the assets of high net-worth
individuals. Mr. Stanley there are no associates solicits funds from
individuals, and invests them in various instruments and
enterprises."

"Such as?"

"The investments range from publicly traded securities, to partner ship
interests for instance, real estate, and restaurant partnerships.

He also markets financial products for certain banks and insurance
companies certificates of deposit, annuities, and the like. He also
places client funds with financial funds, such as mutual funds and
hedge funds."

"Is Mr. Stanley required to have any special licenses or
certifications to provide these services?"

"Oh, yes. These are highly regulated businesses."

"Are Mr. Stanley's qualifications all in order?"

"Yes, so far as we could tell."

"How many clients did the firm of James Stanley and Associates have?"

"In addition to the trust funds belonging to his two children, Mr.
Stanley had approximately ten clients."

"Who was his largest client?"

"The two trusts were by far the largest clients."
"Is there an inherent conflict of interest in Stanley's role as a
trustee and in his role as an investment manager?"

"No, not as long as his role was fully disclosed to the other trustees,
which it was."

"Mr. Borden, could you summarize for the jury, in layman's terms, what
you discovered in your investigation of the firm of James A. Stanley
and Associates?"

"There were numerous irregularities in the management of the affairs of
James A. Stanley and Associates. In some instances, client funds were
received and not segregated from the firm's general operating funds.
More seriously, Mr. Stanley did not disclose to his clients certain
fiduciary arrangements he had with some of the partnerships and funds
in which he invested their monies."

"Such as ... ?"

"In particular, Mr. Stanley had an arrangement with a so-called hedge
fund .. .."

Laura had to stop Borden and ask him to explain what a hedge fund was.
She had to stop him numerous times, in fact, to explain the esoteric
terms he used, like "self-dealing." Finally, when Borden had spelled
out the whole story of the hedge fund, Laura took a stab at summing up
in terms that would say to the jury "James Stanley was crooked as a
kudzu vine."

"So, Mr. Borden, if I understand it correctly, Mr. Stanley invested
client funds and that includes his children's trusts in this hedge fund
that paid him what amounts to a kickback. Is that correct?"

"Objection, Your Honor. The term 'kickback' has no legal meaning
here." Fannin had been quiet up to this point.

Laura didn't wait for Judge Penfield to rule.

"I'll rephrase the question. Your Honor. Mr. Borden, was Mr. Stanley
allowed, by the laws and regulations governing his profession, to have
a financial interest in the investments he sold to his clients?"

"A financial interest, yes. He could make an investment. But he could
not receive a commission from any firm in which he invested client
funds without disclosing that arrangement to his clients."

"Did he receive commissions from this hedge fund?"

"Yes, he did."

"And did he disclose this commission from the hedge fund?"

"No."
"Would you say that this action was illegal?"

"Yes. In fact, I have forwarded my report to the regulatory
authorities for action. I have cited his dealing with the hedge fund
as well as his mismanagement of client's funds which should have been
held in escrow pending investment. Either offense is sufficient to
cost him his licenses."

"I see. Would loss of his license have caused his removal as a trustee
of his children's money?"

"No. You must understand. Miss Chastain, that Mr. Stanley wore two
hats, as it were, with regard to the trusts. First, he acted as a
trustee, which is to say that he, along with his fellow trustees, was
responsible for the prudent investment of the funds to ensure the
maximum benefit to the children, Matthew and Sara. In addition to
those duties, Mr. Stanley, in his capacity as an investment manager,
was hired by the trustees to make investments for the trusts. The two
roles were separate."

"I understand. So, if he lost his license, he could remain a trustee,
but he could no longer manage the trust funds."

"Yes."

"How much would his firm lose in income if that were to happen?"

"James A. Stanley and Associates received a fee of approximately 1.75
percent per annum on assets managed for the trusts.

That equates to about three hundred fifty thousand dollars per
annum."

"What effect would loss of this income have had on the firm?"

"It would have been disastrous. The firm would not have been able to
meet its overhead, such as rent and salaries."

"Bottom line, Mr. Borden, what kind of financial shape was Mr.
Stanley's firm in?"

"The firm consistently lost money, largely due to high overhead
expenses."

"Such as ... ?"

"Lavish offices, exorbitant travel and entertainment expenses, for the
most part, as well as some investment losses. Mr. Stanley had all but
exhausted the firm's original capital. That is why I believe he sold
partnership interests in his own firm to his children's trusts to raise
more capital."

"Anything illegal about that?"
"No, not if it was done with the knowledge and approval of all the
trustees."

"Was it done with that approval?"

"Yes. That, of course, does not mean it was a good investment of those
trust funds."

"Was James A. Stanley and Associates a good investment?"

"No. In my opinion, the firm was near insolvency and required an
additional capital injection of some two million dollars in order to
continue operations."

"Mr. Borden, without the benefit of continued income from the trusts,
would Mr. Stanley's firm have been bankrupt?"

"Objection. Calls for speculation," Fannin interjected.

"Sustained." Judge Penfield sounded weary. Laura hurried to sum up.

"I'll rephrase the question. Could Mr. Stanley have continued to
operate his firm without the management fee paid to him by his
children's trusts?"

"No, not without a capital injection from some other source."

That was what Laura had wanted the jury to hear and to understand. She
turned from the problems of James A. Stanley and Associates to the
personal finances of the Stanleys, which were an ugly jungle of tax
problems and past-due bills. She wanted to make sure that the jury
understood Stanley had been using his children's income from their
trusts to fund both his business and personal expenses.

"I'd like to turn your attention now, Mr. Borden, to the 'second hat'
that the defendant wore as a trustee. Was the defendant paid for his
work as a trustee?"

"No."

"He derives no financial benefit from those trusts?"

"Yes, in fact he does. As the guardian of Matthew and Sara Stanley, he
is able to direct the expenditure of the trust income.

The income was technically Matthew and Sara's, but, as they were
minors, their parents used the income to provide housing, schooling,
and all other necessities. As Mr. Stanley lived in the same house his
children did, he could be said to have benefited from the trust
income."

"And how much income would the trusts pay out each year?"

"The trustees voted the annual disbursements based on investment
performance and the needs of the children. Last year, it was
somewhere in the neighborhood of five hundred thousand dollars."

"That's in addition to the income received by the firm of James A.
Stanley and Associates?"

"Yes."

"You have said that Mr. Stanley would continue as a trustee even if he
was removed as manager of the trust funds. Is that correct?"

"Yes, he would, unless the other trustees voted to remove him for
cause."

"What would constitute cause?"

"Financial malfeasance, fraud, or conflict of interest, primarily.

Also incapacity, or conviction of a felony."

"So, even though the loss of his investment license would not
necessarily have cost him his role as trustee, he could be removed for
other reasons?"

"Yes."

"What about in the case of divorce? Would he remain as a trustee if he
and Mrs. Stanley divorced?"

"No, that is a term of the trust indentures. If Mr. and Mrs.

Stanley divorced, Mr. Stanley would be removed as a trustee."

"Could the defendant have continued making mortgage and tax payments on
his Brookhaven residence without the children's income?"

"No."

"Could the defendant have paid the annual dues of his country club
without the income from his children's trusts?"

"Again, no."

"In short, Mr. Borden, you would say that the defendant would be
materially harmed financially if his wife chose to divorce him?"

"Objection. Calls for speculation."

"No, Your Honor, actually it does not call for speculation."

Borden was addressing Judge Penfield directly.

"It's a matter of fact: Mr. Stanley's expenses far exceeded his own
income, even the children's income from the trusts in some years.
Without that income, he would have needed to make major changes in his
lifestyle."

"Thank you, Mr. Borden. We'll accept that as your answer.

However, I must ask you to remember that you are a witness in this
matter, not an attorney. Please refrain from responding to Counsel's
objections," Judge Penfield said, smiling.

"You may continue. Miss Chastain."

"I have no further questions for this witness at this time," Laura
said, relieved that she could sit down again.

Fannin approached the witness stand with a smile.

"You've been on the stand quite a while, Mr. Borden. I won't keep you
too much longer. I'd like to thank you for giving us such a clear
picture of the financial arrangements that Mr. and Mrs. Stanley had
made for their family. Let me clarify something: If Mr. and Mrs.
Stanley had divorced, you say that Mr. Stanley would have been
automatically removed as a trustee for his children?"

"That is correct."

"And would his firm have been removed as the manager of the trust funds
if he and Mrs. Stanley divorced?"

"Not automatically, in the case of divorce. However, the loss of his
business licenses would have forced his resignation from that job."

"Yes, but the mere fact of his divorcing would not cost his firm the
trust business?"

"No, it would not."

"And what about the income from the trusts as father to the two
children, would he still have had some say over the expenditure of that
money, even if he were not still a trustee?"

"That would depend entirely on the terms of the divorce settlement and
that is an area outside my expertise."

"I understand. But what I want to know is, if, in your opinion, a
divorce would have automatically meant financial disaster for Mr.
Stanley?"

Borden thought for a minute.

"No, it would not have, automatically."

"Of course, there is no possibility of a divorce now. How does the
death of Mrs. Stanley affect the trusts?"

"The terms of the trust call for the replacement of a deceased trustee
by the vote of the remaining trustees."

"That would be Mr. Stanley, Lynette Connell, her father Lester
Connell, and their attorney, Mr. Bradley Mellott?"

"Yes."

"If Mr. Stanley is sent to prison, would he be removed as a
trustee?"
"Yes. Conviction for felony would result automatically in his
removal."

"And what about the status of his guardianship of the children?

Would that change?"

"Yes. He could not fulfill a guardian's duties if he were
imprisoned."

"Who would be the guardian?"

"That would be determined by the courts, in all likelihood."

"Would Miss Connell be a candidate?"

"Certainly, I would think so. She would have standing to petition for
custody of the children, at any rate. Again, my review was not
conducted with a view to answering these questions ..."

"That's all right, Mr. Borden. We accept your expertise in these
matters. If James Stanley went to prison, and Lynette Connell became
guardian to his children, would Miss Connell direct the expenditure of
approximately half a million dollars annually in trust income?"

"Whoever assumed the guardianship of the children would have that
power."

"That's an enormous financial benefit, is it not?"

"Objection. Asked and answered. Your Honor," Laura said.

"I withdraw the question. Thank you, Mr. Borden. I have no further
questions."

"Does the prosecution wish to question this witness again?"

"Yes, Your Honor," Laura said.

"It's after one o'clock. Miss Chastain. If this is going to take
long, I would prefer to resume after a break for lunch."

"I have only a few questions for the witness."

"Go ahead, then."

"Thank you. Mr. Borden, you have said that a divorce from the victim
would have damaged the defendant financially. If he had lost custody
of the children in a divorce, would he have continued to be able to
spend trust monies on his housing and his other expenses?"

"Probably not."

"Mr. Borden, as it stands now, after the death of his wife, is Mr.
Stanley the sole guardian of his children?"

"Yes."

"And as such, is he the sole arbiter of how the trust income is
spent?"
"Yes."

"And would you say that he is better off as a widower than as a
divorced man?"

"Objection, Your Honor! That's an outrageous question!" Fannin was
almost shouting.

"Sustained. Watch yourself. Miss Chastain," Judge Penfield said
sternly.

"Yes, Your Honor. Thank you, Mr. Borden. I have no further
questions."

Judge Penfield picked up her gavel.

"We will adjourn for forty-five minutes. Please return by two
o'clock."

"That went well," Meredith said.

Laura looked at Meredith anxiously.

"Do you really think so?

I thought we did a good job of making James look like a greedy yuppie,
but we didn't get the motive across clearly. And Fannin got in a
couple of licks at Lynette."

"Don't worry. The divorce lawyer will take care of that. He's going
to tell the jury that Christine was primarily interested in getting her
children's money away from James. At least, that's what they're going
to hear when I question him. And don't forget that the jury hasn't
heard from Jim Stanley yet. We've still got our ace in the hole."
CHAPTER 27

The "ace in the hole" stood before the judge with a grin on his face,
his eyes scanning the courtroom, as he took a solemn oath to tell the
truth. You would think that Jim Stanley testifies in murder trials
every day of his life, Laura thought ruefully. At least he had bought
a new suit for the occasion, although it didn't fit any better than the
disreputable old gray one he had worn when Laura first met him.

Meredith approached the witness box, and began her questioning/Tlease
state your name."

Jim looked pleased. He could handle that one.

The jury knew already who Jim Stanley was, because Carlton had
testified to his existence the day before. Laura had expected that to
be one of the more combative episodes of the trial; she had expected
Fannin to make every effort to discredit what Carlton--and Wayne
Cattrall--had said, but he didn't. He had only a few questions for
Carlton, and none for Wayne. They had flown through both witnesses'
testimony in less than three hours. That didn't make Laura feel any
better, because she knew that Fannin was keeping his powder dry for his
assault on Jim Stanley. The big guns wouldn't be silent for long.

Meredith walked Jim through his background testimony-where he lived,
what he did, how often he traveled to Charlotte and where he stayed
when he was there. Jim seemed to remember what Laura had tried to
drill into him, and he kept his answers short and direct. Laura had
never really worried about how he would respond to Meredith's
questioning, but she was still shuddering at the memory of the debacle
that had taken place when Meredith, playing the role of Craig Fannin,
had grilled him in a rehearsal for the trial. Jim had lost his temper
several times, but worse, from Laura's point of view, was his tendency
to over answer leading questions.

"Don't give me a paragraph when a sentence will do!" Meredith had
warned. But Jim hadn't been able to master his desire for
self-justification.

"We'll just object a lot," Meredith said to Laura at the end of a long
day.

"At least it'll break up the flow."

Meredith was getting to the meat of the matter.

"Let me make sure I understand the sequence of events, Mr. Stanley,"
she said.

"After you and James Stanley discovered the mix-up in your names, who
suggested that the coincidence might be useful to you at some point?"

"That was him. He said it was nice to have a double-ganger."

"A doppelganger?"

"That's right it's German."

"I see," Meredith said.

"And the defendant at some point actually did suggest to you that you
should pose as him on a certain date?"

"Uh-huh. He wanted me to be him last May 8."

"When did he propose this plan to you?"

"It was around the middle of April. I remember because it was tax
time, and I was a little short of funds."

"Did the defendant offer to pay you for cooperating in this little ruse
of his?"

"Well, not exactly. Not at first."

"You mean that it was you who suggested that he pay you?"

"More or less."

"Is that a 'yes," Mr. Stanley?"

"Yes, it is. I asked him for money."

"How much money?"

"I didn't exactly specify an amount. I just kind of hinted that I
could use some dough."

"Did the defendant suggest an amount?"

"Yes. He offered me five hundred dollars."

"Did you accept?"

"I told him I needed more I told him about my tax situation."

"In other words, you negotiated with the defendant."

"Yes."

"And what price did the two of you finally agree on?"

"Five thousand dollars."
Laura watched the jury for their reactions. Jim was making himself
appear shameless, but she hoped that his misplaced candor would at
least convince them that he was telling the truth.

Meredith turned away from Jim and faced the jury. She took a couple of
steps toward the jury box as she phrased her next question.

"What did you do to earn this five thousand dollars, Mr. Stanley?"

"Well, for starters, I showed up at the Marriott..."

"Go on. What time did you arrive there?"

"It was around eight p.m."

"Did the defendant specify the time you were to arrive and check in?"

"Yes, he did."

"Did he say why?"

"Yes, it was because that was when his plane was supposed to land."

"Did you check in under your own name, or under that of the
defendant?"

"The reservation was in his name that's James A. Stanley, and I'm James
T. Stanley so I just said I was "James Stanley." I gave them my credit
card. They didn't notice the difference in the name."

"What did you do next?"

"What he the defendant asked me to do. I went up to the room, ordered
some dinner, and made two phone calls to his home number."

"Did anyone answer the phone?"

"No. I hung up as soon as the machine picked up."

"Did you do anything else?"

"Nope. I mean, not anything else that he asked me to do. I watched a
movie, and I had a couple of beers from the minibar.

That's it."

"And did the defendant show up at the hotel that night?"

"Not that night the next morning," Jim said precisely.

"What time the next morning did the defendant arrive?"

"I'm not sure. Maybe five a.m." maybe later. He woke me up, because
he had to call up from the lobby to get the room number.

He didn't have a key."

"Of course. Did you talk to him when he came to the room?

Did you ask him where he had been?"
"No. I went back to bed. There were two beds in the room."

Jim always insisted on the two beds being there as if anyone suspected
that he and James had indulged in a little man-on-man action.

Laura let her attention wander from Meredith and Jim back to the jury.
They were intent, still paying careful attention to what was being
said. After almost four days of testimony, that was good. And they
didn't appear to be revolted by Jim, which was even better. Laura
glanced over at the defense table. James Stanley's face was blocked
from view, but she could see that Fannin was relaxed back in his chair,
his hands jammed into his pockets.

His associates were taking notes furiously, stopping every so often to
talk to their boss, but Craig might have been watching a movie, he was
so stoic.

Meredith was now moving on to the sensitive topic of the gun.

They had decided, after a long debate of the pros and cons, that it
would be best not to examine Jim about where he had bought the gun.
Fannin had Jesse DuPree on his witness list, and this was a cause of
much consternation to Laura, but Meredith was sanguine.

"All Jesse can do is introduce more innuendo about Lynette, and we can
object Craig into the ground on that."

Meredith had retrieved the gun from the exhibit table, and was
displaying it to Jim.

"Mr. Stanley, do you recognize this gun?"

she asked.

"Yes. It's my gun."

"Your gun!" Meredith acted surprised, in order to emphasize to the
jury that this was indeed a big surprise.

"Mr. Stanley, this was the gun that was used to kill Christine Connell
Stanley, the defendant's wife. How did it come to be used in a
crime?"

"I had no idea that was what he wanted it for!"

"What who wanted it for?"

"Him the defendant. James Stanley."

"Did you sell this gun to the defendant?"

"No, I lent it to him."

"Are you in the habit of lending guns to people, Mr. Stanley?"

"No, but I was trying to sell it to him. See, I bought it about five
years ago. I thought it was neat." Turning to the jury, Jim said
earnestly, "It's a Nazi gun, you know. I thought it would be a good
investment."

"So you owned it for several years?"
"Uh-huh. And I mentioned to the defendant that I had a valuable gun I
wanted to sell. I needed a little cash."

"Did he express an interest in buying it?"

"Not for himself. He said his father-in-law might be interested in
it--he said the old man had a gun collection."

"So you let him take the gun to show to Mr. Connell?"

"Yes."

"When did this take place?"

"A few months before ... maybe November. Or maybe it was December--I
needed a little extra money for the holidays, I remember."

"And did you discuss the gun with the defendant at any time after you
lent it to him?"

"A couple of times. I told him that if his father-in-law didn't want
it, would he please give it back to me, so I could get some money for
it."

"But the defendant never returned the gun to you?"

"No, he didn't," Jim said sadly.

Meredith replaced the gun on the exhibit table, and walked back to the
witness stand. She folded her arms and looked at Jim for a long
moment.

"Mr. Stanley, I want you to be completely honest with this court. You
have said that you took five thousand dollars from the defendant to
pose as him for one night. You have said that you loaned him a gun.
Mr. Stanley, did it never occur to you that the defendant was planning
a criminal act?"

"Not killing his wife, for God's sake--I wouldn't have had anything to
do with that!"

"But why did you think the defendant wanted a weapon, and an alibi?"

"I ... I thought maybe he was planning to kill his father-inlaw--but,
Christ, I didn't think the little squirt had the guts to do something
like that!"

"In fact, you tried deliberately not to inquire too closely into the
defendant's motives, didn't you, Mr. Stanley?"

"Yes. I mean, I didn't ask and he didn't tell."

"Do you realize that you acted as an accessory to murder?"

"I didn't, not knowingly!" Jim was growing agitated.

"Whether knowingly or not, you did. Mr. Stanley, why are you
testifying today?"

Jim hung his head, and Laura was surprised to see that he was
crying.

"I ... I knew something was wrong when that detective and Miss Chastain
came to see me I knew he had done some thing bad, as soon as I heard
they were from Atlanta. I had to tell them what I knew. Oh, God, I'm
sorry so sorry! I never would have done it oh. God!" He was crying
quite hard now, and so were a couple of the jurors.

"I want to say to her family to Christine's family how sorry I am. I
know they can never forgive me, but I want them to know I'm sorry ...."
His voice trailed off into broken sobs.

This was more than either Laura or Meredith had expected from Jim, and
it was great. Any doubts about Jim's character and veracity the jury
might have had would be swallowed up by this performance and Laura
didn't doubt for one minute that it was a performance, carefully
planned. She felt partly responsible for the theatrics, because she
had warned Jim that his answer to the critical question of what he knew
and when he knew it would determine his credibility in the eyes of the
jury. All the same, she never expected the pageant of grief and guilt
that was unfolding on the witness stand. Trying not to look
triumphant, she sneaked a glance at Fannin. His face was twisted in a
wry, cynical smile.

"Would the witness like to take some time to compose him self?" Judge
Penfield asked.

"Your Honor, I have no further questions for Mr. Stanley at this
time," Meredith said.

"Then's let's take a five-minute recess so that the witness can collect
himself before Mr. Fannin begins his cross-examination."

Meredith returned to the prosecution table, one eyebrow lifted in
inquiry.

"Don't look at me," Laura said.

"I had nothing to do with it."

"I guess our friend has seen one too many Bette Davis movies.

I think it was effective, anyway."

Laura nodded.

"But now Craig Fannin is going to give him something to cry about, to
borrow a phrase from my mother." A bailiff was ministering to Jim with
water and tissues. Jim was managing a weak smile, darting glances at
Laura and Meredith every few seconds as if looking for approbation. It
was not forth coming. Fannin was conferring with his associates and a
casually dressed man whom Laura had not seen before. He was
expostulating to the lawyers while pointing to a piece of paper he held
in his hand. As the bailiff reentered the courtroom to announce Judge
Penfield's return, Fannin nodded to the man, and said something.

The man nodded in return and left the courtroom. Laura didn't have
time to worry about what was up, however, as Judge Penfield was
gaveling the courtroom back into order.

"Your witness, Mr.

Fannin."

Craig Fannin ambled casually toward the witness stand.

"Feeling better, Jim?"

"Yes, thank you," Jim replied weakly, shifting his eyes away from
Fannin's cool gaze.

"That's good, because I have some questions for you, Jim, and I'd like
some straight answers. You're not here today because you think it's
the right thing to do, are you?"

"I don't know what you mean." Good, Jim, Laura thought. Just like we
told you: buy time by making him repeat the questions.

"Oh, I think you do know, Jim. What was it that induced you to come
here today and testify against James Stanley?"

"The detective and Miss Chastain, they came and told me what had
happened. I just had to tell them what I knew."

"But you didn't tell them anything at first, did you, Jim?"

"I don't understand the question."

"Oh, come on, Jim, don't be disingenuous. You negotiated with Miss
Chastain before you would talk to her, didn't you?"

"I called my lawyer, if that's what you mean. He told me ..."

"Cut the act, Jim. You're no virgin."

"Objection, Your Honor," Meredith cried.

"He's characterizing the witness."

"Sustained. Watch yourself, Mr. Fannin."

"Thank you. Your Honor. Jim, isn't it true that you are testifying
today under an immunity agreement with the district attorney?"

"Yes." Before the trial, Jim had showed a tendency to try to justify
himself whenever the question of the immunity came up.

Laura was glad that he was sticking to monosyllables now.

"And isn't it true, Jim, that you've testified under immunity deals in
the past?"

"That was different ..."

"No, that was the same thing. You're quite a negotiator, aren't you,
Jim?" Fannin managed to make "negotiator" sound like "orphan-robbing,
nun-raping dirtbag."

Meredith caught the tone, too.

"Objection, Your Honor counsel is continuing to characterize the
witness."
"Your Honor, I don't see how asking the witness about his negotiations
with the district attorney amounts to a characterization."

"Possibly not, Mr. Fannin, but I will ask that you watch your tone of
voice."

"Thank you, I will." He turned back to Jim.

"You had been expecting a visit from the Atlanta Police Department for
quite some time, hadn't you, Jim?"

"No, I didn't think that he had gone through with it ..."

"Oh, really?" Fannin wheeled around and strode to the defense table,
where he plucked a sheet of paper from the waiting hand of one of the
associates, all in one smooth, balletic pass.

"Would you read the highlighted portion of this statement for the
Court, please?" He handed the paper to Jim.

Jim peered at the page, frowned, and began to read quickly, slurring
the words.

Detective Hemingway: Mr. Stanley, you didn't seem surprised to hear
that a detective from the Atlanta Police Department was here to see
you. Why was that? Stanley: Because I knew by the time you got here
that she was dead--it was in the Charlotte paper, because he supposedly
had been here when she was killed.

Hemingway: You knew that his alibi was false, then. Why didn't you go
to the police immediately? Stanley: I was scared. Hell, what was I
supposed to do? I didn't sleep for about a week. Then I decided to
get me a lawyer.

Jim looked up at Fannin.

"Was that an excerpt from the statement you gave to Miss Chastain and
Detective Hemingway when they interviewed you in Winston Salem

"Yes."

"So you knew days--weeks--before the detective and Miss Chastain
arrived that Christine Stanley had been killed. Is that correct?"

"I was confused ... I thought..." Jim was floundering badly, having
been caught in what amounted to a lie. Come on, Jim, Laura thought.
It's just a small inconsistency. Brazen it out--God knows you know how
to do that.
As if he could read Laura's mind, Jim suddenly straightened in his
seat.

"No, I didn't come forward right away. I was scared.

I've been in trouble with the law before, Mr. Fannin, and I knew what
it would mean if I was to get involved again. I wanted to go to a
lawyer, I really did ..." Here, Jim turned a tormented face to the
jury.

"But do you know what those lawyers charge?

I'm not rich ... I didn't know what to do."

"It seems to me that you knew exactly what to do, Jim. You waited
until you got caught, and then you started negotiating, just like you
did when you were caught before ..."

"Objection, Your Honor, he's badgering the witness, and the witness's
past criminal record is not relevant."

"I disagree. Your Honor," Fannin said.

"Jim Stanley is a veteran of the justice system. He knows as much
about immunity as you and I do."

"I doubt that, Mr. Fannin," Judge Penfield answered tersely, "but I
accept your argument. You may continue this line of questioning
without badgering Mr. Stanley."

"Thank you. Your Honor. Jim, how many times have you been
arrested?"

Jim paused and glanced at Meredith, evidently hoping for an objection.
None came.

"Two times," he answered.

"And what were the charges on each occasion?"

"One, possession of marijuana. The second time, possession of
cocaine."

"You were convicted of both offenses, were you not?"

"Yes. I pled guilty both times, and I paid a fine for the grass, and
served a sentence for the coke."

"Wasn't there a third arrest, Jim?"

"No," Jim replied firmly.

"I was questioned in a business matter but never arrested."

"You weren't arrested because you arranged to testify against a
co-conspirator under a grant of immunity, isn't that so?"

"There was no conspiracy. I was as much a victim as the bank was
..."

"If there was nothing to charge you with, why did you need immunity?"

"They had the facts wrong," Jim answered stubbornly.

"I didn't do anything wrong."

"But you did negotiate an immunity deal, didn't you, Jim?"

"My lawyer did, yes."
"Is that how you learned about immunity?"

Jim shrugged.

"I guess so."

"So that when Detective Hemingway and Miss Chastain appeared on your
doorstep, you were waiting with a plan, is that right?"

"Objection, Your Honor asked and answered," Meredith intoned.

"I'll withdraw the question. Jim, you knew that prosecutors will offer
immunity to certain witnesses to get the testimony they need to convict
someone, don't you?"

"Yes, I know that."

"And you knew that you could craft an immunity that would protect you
even if you had played an active role in a crime, did you not?"

"Yes, I guess so."

"And that is why you agreed to come here today and, under immunity,
tell the story that you and your co-conspirator cooked up, isn't it?"

"I don't understand what you're asking."

"Really? Then I'll make it simple for you: You agreed to come here and
tell lies about my client, James Stanley, because you knew that under
your immunity deal you couldn't be convicted of conspiring to kill Mrs.
Stanley. Is that simple enough?"

"Objection, Your Honor," Meredith said.

"Badgering the witness."

"Badgering, Your Honor?" Fannin said.

"I'm merely stating the facts."

"Sustained," Judge Penfield said.

There was activity at the defense table; the casually dressed man had
returned and was conferring with one of the associates.

James Stanley was leaning in to hear what they were saying. None of
them was following the exchange between Fannin and Jim Stanley.

Fannin rephrased his last question.

"Did you participate in a conspiracy to kill Christine Stanley?"

"Not knowingly I've already said that."

"Who is Jesse DuPree?"

Jim looked startled, although he had been prepared for this line of
questioning.

"Jesse DuPree? He's a guy I went to high school with."
"And did you buy a gun from Jesse DuPree?"

"Yes."

"What kind of gun?"

"That gun," Jim answered.

"The murder weapon."

"Oh, I see. So Jesse DuPree knew you had this gun?"

"I guess so," Jim said, puzzled.

"Did you ever meet Lynette Council, Christine Stanley's sister?"

"No."

"Did Jesse DuPree ever discuss her with you?"

"No." Out of the corner of her eye, Laura could see more activity at
the defense table. The casually dressed man was not there any longer,
but one of the associates was signaling to Fannin.

He acknowledged the signal with a slight incline of his head, and
turned back to Jim to continue his questioning.

"Really? If you've never met Lynette Connell, how did you come to be
involved in a conspiracy with her and Jesse DuPree to kill Christine
Stanley, Jim?"

"I'm not involved in any conspiracy!"

Fannin shook his head.

"Why are you lying to this court, Jim?"

"Objection, Your Honor. Counsel is making unsubstantiated
allegations," Meredith said.

"I can substantiate them. Your Honor," Fannin said, "if Your Honor
will allow it."

"Please make yourself clear, Mr. Fannin."

"I have evidence that the witness is not telling the truth. Your
Honor. I would like to introduce this evidence now to impeach him."

Laura gripped the table to prevent herself from sliding under neath it.
Meredith turned to her and spoke; Laura heard her voice as if it was
coming from a long way away, from the bottom of a deep well.

"What does he know, Laura? What does Fannin have?"

"I don't know," Laura managed to say.

"I don't know."
CHAPTER 28

Judge Penfield's chambers were as austere and grand as the judge
herself, but there was scarcely room for all the participants in the
meeting taking place there. Meredith, Craig Fannin and one of his
associates, James Stanley, and a bailiff sat where they could. Laura
remained standing by choice. Judge Penfield folded her hands on her
desk.

"I'm listening, Mr. Fannin."

"Thank you. Your Honor. As you know, my client has maintained all
along that he is innocent of the charges against him. At his
suggestion, I hired private investigators in an attempt not only to
disprove the prosecution's case, but also to prove, beyond all doubt,
that he is, indeed, innocent. The prosecution's case consists largely
of the testimony of Jim Stanley to the effect that Jim Stanley provided
my client with an alibi for the night of his wife's murder.

The prosecution's presumption is that, because they could prove that he
was not where he said he was, he was in fact in his own house, killing
his wife. I immediately seized on the logical inconsistency in that
theory, which I am sure hasn't escaped Your Honor's attention,
either.

"The mere fact of James Stanley's not having been in Charlotte, North
Carolina, when he claimed to have been is not in itself proof that he
was in his house, or even in Atlanta. I took Mr.

Stanley's case believing that the prosecution had not--and could
not--prove its case beyond a reasonable doubt. I told my client that
these were the grounds on which I would defend him. Instead of being
reassured, however, Mr. Stanley grew very angry with me. He told me
that he didn't want to be acquitted because there was only a
'reasonable doubt' of his guilt; he wanted to be exonerated because the
facts showed that he was innocent. He has never once wavered from his
contention that he did arrive in Charlotte, and that he did check into
that hotel room. Moreover, he is adamant in insisting that he has
never met this man Jim Stanley in his life, let alone planned a crime
with him.

"I told my client that, ideally, we would establish his innocence
beyond any doubt, but that with the facts at hand as the trial date
approached, he might have to be content with my original strategy.

He suggested that we hire private investigators to prove that he was
where he says he was in fact, that he was in that hotel when the murder
took place. Mr. Stanley told me that he had taken the second segment
of his flight that night, that he had arrived in Charlotte, and that he
had checked into the hotel, just as he has said all along. He recalled
a curious incident, however: when he attempted to register, the hotel
clerk said that he was already checked in. The hotel clerk insisted
that the record was not in error, and gave him a key to his room
without asking for his credit card.

"Mr. Stanley dismissed the error from his mind, and went about his
business ordering dinner, calling home, and going to bed. He was
preparing for a morning meeting when the Charlotte police arrived and
told him that his wife had been killed.

"While I never for a moment doubted my client's veracity, I was
skeptical about our ability to prove his story. We seem to have been
in a he-said, he-said situation. However, when the prosecution
witness, Jim Stanley, began his testimony, both my client and I
listened carefully for any inconsistencies in his story which might
prove it false. Under examination by Mrs. Gaffney, he made a
statement that excited my client tremendously. Jim Stanley said that
he had been awakened very early in the morning by my client, and that
he had admitted him to the room, where they both went to sleep in two
beds. My client was sure that there had been only one bed a king-size
one in the room. We have managed to verify that with the hotel, and we
can prove our contention. This proves that Jim Stanley was never in
that hotel room, and it further proves that his entire story is false.
I believe that Jim Stanley was part of a conspiracy not only to kill
Christine Stanley, but also to frame my client for it. Your Honor, I
move that this witness be impeached and that a directed verdict of
acquittal be entered."

"Whoa!" Meredith said, holding up her hand.
"Just a doggone minute--this is a nice story, but we're not buying it
yet. We need a chance to examine the evidence and come to our own
conclusions."

"I agree with Mrs. Gaffney. While your story is compelling, Mr.
Fannin, the prosecution must be allowed time to assess its position.
I'll grant a continuance until tomorrow at noon ..."

"Your Honor, may I respectfully request more time? We may have to send
an investigator to Charlotte, and tomorrow is Friday," Meredith pointed
out.

"Yes, so it is. I'll grant a continuance until Monday morning at eight
a.m."

"Your Honor, this is onerous for my client. We would be happy to allow
them time to examine the new evidence, but three days is too much time.
My client is under a cloud. Your Honor, and he wishes it removed as
speedily as possible so that he can pick up the pieces of his life,"
Fannin concluded dramatically.

"Your client is not incarcerated, Mr. Fannin, and I fail to see what
difference three days will make if he is ultimately acquitted," Judge
Penfield replied tartly.

"The continuance is granted. Now, if you will all return to the
courtroom, we can formalize this decision and adjourn until Monday."
Dutifully, the participants returned to their places in the courtroom,
where the spectators were buzzing. As soon as the jury filed in. Judge
Penfield gaveled the humming room to order, announced the continuance,
and gaveled the proceedings closed. Laura gathered her things
robotically, and followed Meredith like a duckling toward the door.

Fannin intercepted Meredith.

"Got a minute? Good. Here's our report. You can check it out, but I
think you'll find it's good information. We used Clan Crowder--you
know him? He used to be with the Atlanta Police Department."

"We still need corroboration," Meredith replied evenly.

"But thanks for the info."

"Good luck," Fannin said, sounding sincere, and not appearing to enjoy
his advantage. No matter how adversarial the proceedings might get, a
good lawyer didn't make it personal. Meredith wouldn't celebrate in
front of her opponent, and Tom Bailey wouldn't have, either.

"Have a good weekend, Craig," Meredith said, like an honorable
duelist.

"You, too," he replied.
"Don't work too hard." He and his crew disappeared out the door,
leaving Meredith and Laura standing in the emptying courtroom.

"Meredith, I don't know what went wrong ... I'm so sorry. I really
screwed up this time. Why did I ever believe a single word Jim Stanley
said?" Laura finished on a note that fell somewhere between a sob and
a wail.

"Oh, no none of that," Meredith said, putting an arm around Laura's
shoulders.

"We don't have time for that. We have work to do, and lots of it." She
began steering Laura toward the doors.

"I want you to get Kenny on the horn. We need to verify this thing
independently, or debunk it, one or the other. Tell him we'll pay for
everything I'll find it in the budget somehow. And I want Randy and
Carlton brought up to speed. They need to jump on Jesse DuPree with
both feet. But most of all," Meredith said as she propelled her
shattered assistant into the hall, "I want Jim Stanley. He disappeared
right quickly did you notice that? Find him. I want to see him in my
office now, in handcuffs if necessary.

And if we have to take him over to Homicide and keep after him all
night, that's what we'll do, until he tells us the truth if he's
capable of telling the truth." Laura nodded mutely, and Meredith
hugged her tighter.

"Don't fall apart on me, Laura. Focus I need you now."

"But, Meredith, I'm the one who screwed up this whole thing, right from
the get-go. I knew there was something about the way he insisted on
there being two beds how could I have overlooked something like that?"
she moaned.

"How? My God, it was one tiny detail buried in one of the most
complicated cases I've ever seen. And I'll tell you something else:
I'm not convinced that catching Jim Stanley in an error if that's what
it is exonerates James Stanley. It certainly doesn't automatically
incriminate DuPree and Lynette Connell anyway.

I think it's time that we got the facts together and looked at them in
a new light."

They were in the main hallway now, heading for the elevators.

Laura was listening to Meredith so intently that she didn't see Lynette
Connell hurrying toward them.

"What is going on?" Lynette demanded.

"What happened in the judge's office? What's a continuance?"

Laura looked from Lynette to Meredith, unable to speak. Meredith
answered for her.
"The defense has introduced some new evidence. Miss Connell, which
may affect our case. I'd like you to make yourself available for
questioning tonight and tomorrow and all weekend, in fact."

"Yes, of course I'll be available but what does all this mean?

Daddy's still sitting in the courtroom; I think it's been too much for
him. I'm taking him straight to the doctor, but what should I tell
him?"

"Tell him just what I told you there's been some new evidence
uncovered, and we're stopping the trial until it can be thoroughly
checked out."

"Is it evidence for or against James?" Lynette persisted.

Meredith looked at Lynette intently for a moment.

"If verified, this evidence would tend to exonerate him." Laura saw
that Meredith was watching Lynette closely as she spoke, gauging
Lynette's reaction.

Lynette's face, frantic with worry about her father, gave nothing
away.

"Daddy will be glad to hear that," she said.

"He's been all torn up for weeks about this. Laura, will we see you
Saturday?"

"Probably not," Laura said awkwardly.

"I have a lot of work to do."

"I see," Lynette said, a chill in her voice.

"Well, call me if you change your mind, or if you need me for
anything." She turned and disappeared down the hall.

"Don't worry," Meredith said when they boarded the elevator.

"She may not be involved. And if she is well, she fooled all of us.
Randy Travers included. Come on, let's get in gear. I have to run
home and get my ducks in a row there. Go back to the office and take
care of everything for me, will you? I'll be down in a couple of
hours. I guess we'll be having pizza for dinner tonight."

Meredith clattered away, and Laura slumped toward the office.

Meredith was right to push Laura out of her stupor; once she threw
herself into activity, she quickly got over the numbing shock. A grim
determination took its place. She paged Kenny Newton first, and told
him what had happened. He was sympathetic, and agreed to fly to
Charlotte immediately.

"Where is that computer guy from the hotel? Is he still down here?"

"Wayne? No, he was dismissed and went home yesterday.

He'll help you, and if he's not on duty tonight, he'll tell you who
is." She gave him Wayne Cattrall's home and work numbers.
"Okey-do key Now listen, sugar, I know that you've got your knickers
in a big old twist about this, but don't sweat it. I'm sure things
like this happen all the time."

"Oh, sure they do all the time. I'm at my computer looking at case law
right now. I can find almost no cases in which a prosecution witness
was impeached."

"Look at the bright side, then you're setting a precedent.

Now, you know I'm just kidding they haven't impeached him yet, have
they? And they might not after all. I say go get yourself a big
strong drink."

"Not tonight, I'm afraid. But when this is over, I may start drinking
and never stop. You travel safely now, and say 'hey' to Wayne for
me."

Randy Travers, unsurprisingly, was less sympathetic than Kenny.

"Damn!" he shouted.

"I knew that hookup between Jim Stanley and DuPree couldn't be a
coincidence."

"What do you think happened?"

"It's a plain as the nose on your face DuPree wanted to help his
girlfriend come into a little money, and he got the bright idea to use
a guy he knew with the same name as James Stanley to set him up for his
wife's murder."

"I don't know does Jesse DuPree strike you as that smart?"

"No. But Lynette Connell does."

"I still don't see what she has to gain."

"Guardianship of those kids, and all the money that comes with them."

"I still don't buy it. Have you seen the farm where they live?

She's got everything she wants with a cherry on it out there, Randy."

"But it's not hers it's the old man's. Maybe she wants some little
ponies of her own. Maybe she has debts that we don't know about. We
stopped looking at her when you found Jim Stanley.

Maybe we should have dug a little deeper."

Laura flushed.

"We stopped looking at everyone else when we found Jim. Speaking of
which, I have to find that piece of ... work now, and get him in here
so Meredith can go over him. You want to be there?"

"You bet your sweet ass I do. I'll send Carlton after DuPree, and I'll
be at your office in half an hour."

Laura's next task, and her most daunting one, was to find Jim Stanley.
She called his hotel room and got no answer. She shrugged on her
jacket and headed to look for him. I'll make a hard-target search of
every fern bar, dive bar, karaoke bar, and strip bar in Atlanta, she
thought as she hopped in a taxi. Luckily, though, Jim was a creature
of habit. She knew that he had taken up temporary barfly status at a
pub in Underground Atlanta which was in walking distance of his hotel.
He was there, perched on a stool, eyes glued to the TV, which was
broadcasting the run-up to a baseball playoff game.

"Come on, Jim," she said, tossing a couple of bills on the bar to cover
his tab.

"We've got work to do."

"Aww, c'mon--didn't the judge say we had until Monday?"

"You have until about thirty seconds from now before I call a cop and
have you taken to the station in handcuffs."

"Jesus, don't have a cow! Lemme just see this interview with Nolan
Ryan ..."

"No dice. Get moving, Jim, or so help me God, I'll see that you spend
the night in jail."

"I have immunity," he whined, sliding from his stool, still watching
the screen.

"Not from what I'm going to charge you with," Laura said as menacingly
as she could. People in the bar were starting to look at them in the
expectation of fireworks. To them, she and Jim looked like a battling
couple, and she could almost hear them muttering, Aww, lady, let the
man watch his ball game. She took his arm and tugged him firmly toward
the door. He tensed, and for a moment she thought he was going to hit
her, but then he acquiesced.

"Okay, okay, don't pull on me," he said sulkily.

"I'm starving-can we get something to eat?"

"We're getting a pizza later. Right now, though, Meredith and Randy
Travers want to talk to you." She found another taxi, which almost
qualified as a miracle in Atlanta, although it was a rump sprung and
smelly carriage, to be sure. They rode bumpily, in silence, for the
six blocks back to the district attorney's offices.

The offices were now officially closed, and the autumn twilight was
settling over the deserted streets. A small breeze sent some trash
skittering around their feet as they crossed to the building.

Jim seemed inclined to sulk, and Laura didn't care. She didn't dare
ask him the questions that were pounding in her brain. Did you do it,
Jim? Did you pull the trigger? It had to have been him.
After all, James had an alibi now. That was the paradox: Jim's slipup
about the beds had exploded his own cover story and given James back
his alibi. Now, he was the only player whose whereabouts were not
accounted for.

When they arrived upstairs. Randy Travers was waiting for them outside
the locked doors of the office. Laura used her card-key and let them
in. She led them back to the conference room and flipped on the
lights. Jim looked at Randy and scowled.

"I

want a lawyer."

"You don't need a lawyer," Travers said.

"You're not under arrest."

"} want my lawyer," Jim insisted.

"And I'm not answering any questions until he's here."

"Listen to me and listen to me good," Randy said, emphasizing his
points with stabs of his forefinger to Jim's chest.

"Your lawyer isn't here, but I am, and my legal advice to you is to
answer any and all questions we ask you, or I will pound the snot out
of you.

Got it, sport?"

Laura warmed with pride at Randy's handling of Jim. Just to think, she
marveled, that a few weeks ago I was all het up because some cops were
violating a suspect's civil rights. How quaint. She was halfway
hoping that Jim would mouth off to Randy, and that the big cop would
make good on his threat, but Jim backed down.

He turned to Laura.

"I want immunity," he said querulously.

"Immunity? From what? Perjury charges? No can do," she said
breezily.

"What do you like on your pizza. Randy? I'll go ahead and
order--Meredith will be along in a minute or two."

"Mushrooms, green peppers, and pepperoni," Travers replied.

"I hate mushrooms," Jim said.

"Double mushrooms," Travers amended.

Meredith arrived while Laura was on the phone with the pizza parlor.
She greeted Randy, and looked Jim up and down coldly.

"I've asked for a lawyer," he told her.

"And I'm not talking unless I get immunity."

"Let him call his lawyer," Meredith said.

Laura brought Jim Stanley a phone and left him alone to call Charlie
Hoyt. She, Meredith, and Randy went to Meredith's office and chatted
about anything but the trial while they waited for Jim to finish his
consultation. In about fifteen minutes, Laura heard Jim hollering her
name.

"I better go see what he wants," she said gloomily.
"Charlie wants to talk to you," Jim said, and from the smug expression
on his face, Laura knew that she was not going to enjoy this
conversation. She took the phone and spoke gruffly into it.

"This is Laura Chastain."

"Hello, Miss Chastain," Hoyt said, smooth as ever.

"Jim's been bringing me up to date. I wish I could fly down there, but
I think we can handle this over the phone. I've instructed Jim that he
need not talk to you or answer additional questions."

"Mr. Hoyt, your client perjured himself and is about to be
impeached."

"Be that as it may, he has not abrogated his Fifth Amendment right not
to incriminate himself."

"We're going to charge him with perjury," Laura warned.

"If you think that's in your best interests, by all means do so."

"Let's cut to the chase, Mr. Hoyt. What are you insinuating?"

"My client has valuable information that he would be willing to share
with you under the right conditions."

"We'd be happy to discuss a plea bargain."

"I think you know that won't suffice. Miss Chastain. In brief, we
want your affirmation that the grant of immunity still stands, as well
as an agreement that the perjury charge will not be pursued."

"What?" Laura practically shrieked.

"Mr. Hoyt, your client has proved a most unreliable witness. We are
not inclined to grant him any concessions, let alone immunity."

"As a point of law. Miss Chastain, you may have no choice. I take it
you're familiar with Corson v. Homes?" Corson v. Homes? Laura racked
her brain. She had run across the decision in her review of Georgia
case law only recently. She didn't want this Carolina lawyer getting
the best of her. Think, think ... it has something to do with
immunity. She grabbed a reference book from a nearby shelf and flipped
through it. There it was: the Supreme Court of Georgia had ruled that
witness immunity could not be conditioned on "full and truthful"
testimony.

It seemed illogical why would an immune witness need to lie?

but there it was in black and white. Laura clutched at a straw.

"Corson v. Homes addresses grand jury testimony only. The Court is
silent on trial testimony."

"Oh, come on. Miss Chastain, that's parsing. You and I both know that
as a practical matter the venue doesn't matter. But there is really no
reason to cite case law at all; the Fifth Amendment is quite
sufficient to protect my client. He cannot be compelled to incriminate
himself. Now, my client is willing to revise his testimony and give a
full and truthful account of the conspiracy to kill Christine Stanley
..."

"How will we know he's not lying this time?" Laura asked.

"You won't. But if you can prove your case by any means other than my
client's testimony, you are certainly free to do so."

He had her; there was no other way to get at the facts on short notice
without dealing with the devil they knew all too well. Still, Laura
struggled against the inevitable.

"We have independent evidence that your client owned the gun that
killed Christine Stanley. We can indict him for conspiracy on that
basis."

"You could, if you had evidence that he owned the gun other than the
testimony of another interested party. I believe you're referring to
Jesse DuPree's claim that he sold the gun to my client?"

"Yes."

"You'll find that Mr. DuPree is unable to back up with any hard
evidence his contention that my client purchased the gun from him."

"But we have your client's own statement that he bought the gun!"

"Which you cannot use against him, as he admitted it only under a grant
of immunity. It's tainted fruit. Miss Chastain," Hoyt said.

"I need to talk to my boss. We'll call you back."

"I look forward to it," Hoyt said cordially.

Laura staggered to Meredith's office, where Randy was growing
impatient.

"We need to talk," she said. She told them about her conversation with
Hoyt.

"Bottom line, we either let go of the case, or we dance with Jim on his
own terms."

"How the hell can that be?" Travers said.

"The sonofabitch has been lying all along."

"Hoyt has done his homework. He cited Corson v. Homes.

Immunity cannot be conditioned upon the witness's truthful
testimony."

"Does it apply here?" Meredith said.

"Well, as Hoyt said, as a practical matter it's irrelevant the Fifth
Amendment holds sway."

"Would you ladies mind clueing me in?" Randy demanded.
"Are you saying that this jackass can get up on the stand and lie and
you can't do anything about it?"

"Not exactly," Meredith said.

"He's still good for a perjury charge, but we're talking about our
ability to revoke Jim Stanley's immunity. I don't think we can, even
though his testimony was false."

"Why, for the love of Mike?" Travers thundered.

"I've had it up to here with the law--thank God I'm retiring at the end
of the year."

Meredith patted the detective's arm soothingly.

"I know, it sounds ridiculous, but it all has to do with the
Constitutional protection against self-incrimination. Jim was induced
to testify about his role in Christine Stanley's death by a promise
from the State that nothing he said could be used against him. Now his
own testimony seems to have incriminated him, but we can't use his
statements to bring conspiracy charges against him."

Travers shook his head.

"Unbelievable. You realize, of course, that if there was a conspiracy,
either between Jim and James Stanley, or among Jim Stanley, Jesse
DuPree, and Lynette Connell, Jim had to be the shooter. The others all
have alibis. So now the little weasel is going to get away with
murder?"

"Not necessarily, but in order to charge him, we have to prove the
conspiracy without using Jim's own testimony," Laura said.

"Like tying the gun to Jim, which we can't do because Jesse didn't keep
a record of the sale."

"So what do we do?" Travers asked.

Meredith shrugged.

"We let Jim rat out his coconspirators, whoever they are, under his
existing immunity deal."

"And he gets off?"

"Yes."

Laura put her face in her hands.

"That stupid transactional immunity! Fannin was right; Jim Stanley
knew exactly what he was doing when he asked for immunity. He's
covered even if he did pull the trigger. I am such an idiot--he used
me all the way!"

"There's no time for that now," Travers said, patting Laura on the
shoulder awkwardly.

"We are where we are, and we have to do what we have to do."

Laura was touched by the detective's sympathy, but not comforted.

A murderer was about to go free, and she was responsible.
"We might as well go tell Jim the good news," she said. They trooped
back to the conference room, where they found Jim lobbing wads of paper
at the wastebasket.

"Okay, Jim, we've talked to your lawyer. We'll forget the perjury
charge, and you're still covered by your immunity deal. Do you have
something to tell us?"

Jim quickly replaced his victorious smile with an appropriately solemn
look.

"It was Jesse DuPree him and Lynette Connell. They planned the whole
thing."
CHAPTER 29

Laura and Meredith cleared away the litter of pizza boxes and drink
cans while Randy set up the video camera. It was too late to get a
stenographer, so they were going to videotape the statement they had
wrested from Jim over the past two hours.

Jim rocked back in his chair, looking very pleased with himself.

Laura's feelings for him had moved over the course of the evening from
dislike and discomfort to outright loathing. She really wished that he
had given Randy an excuse to smack him around a little, but, as always,
Jim had landed sunny side up.

"I think I have this damn thing right. Check it for me, Laura-I'm no
good with technology," Randy said impatiently.

"I'm not much better," Laura said, approaching the tripod on which the
camera was perched.

Jim jumped to his feet.

"Here, let me. I've got one of these."

He squinted through the eyepiece and fiddled with the focus.

"Is it important that the date and time be correct?" he asked.

"Yes, of course it is," Laura said, exasperated.

"Well, it's not. What time do you have?"

"Eight-fifty," she replied.

"October 9."

"Okay, that does it. Now, let me sit down, and you can make sure it's
pointed right at me." Jim sat in his chair, ready for his close-up.

"Am I in focus?" he asked.

Randy snorted contemptuously.

"Can we get rolling? I got a wife at home waiting for me."

"Right," said Meredith.

"I'll ask the questions. Ready, Laura?

Roll camera, I guess."

Laura hit the Record button and returned to her seat as Meredith
began.
"This is a statement made by James T. Stanley of Winston-Salem, North
Carolina, on Thursday October 9, 1999.

Present in the room are Mr. Stanley, Meredith Gaffney, and Laura
Chastain of the Fulton County district attorney's office, and Detective
Randy Travers of the Atlanta Police Department. Mr. Stanley, please
state your name and address."

Jim did, and after a few set-up questions, he rolled out a narrative
with few interruptions. "} would like," he said, "to give all the
details of my involvement in a conspiracy to frame James A. Stanley of
Atlanta, Georgia, for the murder of his wife. I would also like to say
that I deeply regret my part in this horrible plan.

I hope that by telling the truth I can help to see justice done."

Laura bit her tongue to keep from hollering "Bullshit" and ruining the
tape.

"Where should I start?" he asked.

"Just begin with what you told us about Jesse DuPree," Meredith said.

"Okay. Jesse DuPree is a guy I grew up with in Georgia. I see him
from time to time when I'm down this way, and we've done a little
business in the past."

"What kind of business?"

"Jesse sells guns mostly hunting pieces. I've brought him a few sales,
and he pays me a commission on them. Anyway, I was down in Georgia
last year it was early in the summer and I hooked up with Jesse for an
evening. He was all bent out of shape about a girl he was dating."

"Who was this girl?"

"Her name was Lynette Connell. He said she was good-looking and rich,
or at least her daddy was rich. Jesse likes good-looking women, and he
really likes the rich ones. But there were some problems with the
relationship."

"What, specifically, were those problems?"

"Apparently this gal is a bit of a wild hair. She'd gotten herself
into trouble a time or two along the way. She was about thirty when
Jesse hooked up with her, but she didn't have any money of her own. It
seems that her father had put it all in a trust where she couldn't get
at it. She was stuck living at home with the old man, and she wasn't
real happy about it. But she wasn't the type to go out and get a job
and support herself, either; she liked living in a big house with
servants and all that. She also liked to ride horses, and if you know
anything about that, you know it takes bags of money to do it right.
So she wanted to get away from the old man, but she couldn't give up
the money. She was real jealous of her sister, too, apparently that
was Christine Stanley."

"Why was she jealous of Christine Stanley?"

"Well this is all according to Jesse, remember Christine had control of
her money and also control of a bunch of money that old Mr. Connell
had given to her two kids. They were his only grandchildren. Jesse
said Lynette used to fume about her sister and her husband living in a
big house in town, and having all that money to spend. She didn't like
her brother-in-law, and I guess she and Christine Stanley used to get
into it pretty regularly about James Stanley."

"James Stanley being Christine Stanley's husband, and Lynette Connell's
brother-in-law, correct?"

"Yes."

"What do you mean by saying that Lynette Connell 'got into it' with her
sister?"

"According to Jesse, Lynette was always after Christine to divorce
James and get him taken off the children's trusts."

"Why was that according to Jesse?"

"Mostly because Lynette was a trustee, too, and she didn't like the way
James's firm managed the kids' money, or the way James and his wife
spent the kids' income. See, the way I understood it, if Christine
divorced James, he wouldn't be a trustee anymore, and he wouldn't
manage the trust funds, either. But Lynette, because she would still
be a trustee, would have a crack at all that dough."

"But surely Mrs. Stanley would have control of her children's incomes,
even if she divorced Mr. Stanley."

"Well, yeah, but not if Christine Stanley was to die."

"I see. And who brought up the possibility of Mrs. Stanley's
death?"

"I expect it was Jesse. At least he told me that they talked about
what would happen if Lynette was to become guardian of her sister's
children."

Laura scribbled a furious note to Meredith: Hearsay, hearsay,
hearsay!!!! Meredith nodded, and moved smoothly onto the next topic.

"Mr. Stanley, so far, all we've heard is a recital of conversations
you may or may not have had with Jesse DuPree about Lynette Connell
and her sister, and her sister's husband. Did Mr.

DuPree ever specifically ask you for your assistance?"

"Yes, he did."

"When was this?"

"Like I said, early last summer I came down to Georgia for a week or
two. I saw Jesse several times. We were out having a couple of drinks
one night, and Jesse says to me, "What's your full name, Jim?" I said
"James Thomas Stanley," and I asked him why he wanted to know. Well,
he says, it's just occurred to him that I have the same name almost the
same name as Lynette Connell's brother-in-law.

"I ought to be able to do something with that," he says. We didn't
talk about it anymore that night, and I went on home to North Carolina.
A few weeks later, though, he called me up.

"I got a proposition for you. Jimmy," he says.

"Lynette and I have been talking, and we think that we can use this
name thing to our advantage." He told me that James Stanley came to
North Carolina all the time on business, and he asked me if I thought I
could sort of pretend to be him for a night. Sure, I said, but what's
in it for me?"

"Did DuPree offer to pay you?"

"He said he had to check with Lynette, because Jesse never has any
money of his own. I told him to get back to me, and if the price was
right, I would help them out."

"Did Jesse DuPree tell you that he and Miss Connell were planning to
kill Christine Stanley?"

"God, no! I never would have gone along you have to believe that. I
thought that they were trying to lay a little trap for James Stanley to
convince his wife that he was tom-catting around so she'd divorce him.
It seemed pretty harmless, and they offered me five thousand
dollars."

"Did they offer you that sum of money, or did you ask for it?"

"We gee-hawed a little, if you know what I mean."

"Actually, I don't. Could you tell me what 'gee-haw' means?"

"You know horse-trading. Dickering."

"Thank you. Please continue, Mr. Stanley."

"Well, like I was saying, they agreed to pay me when they needed me."

"And when was that?"

"It was a long time later several months. I had forgotten all about
it, to tell the truth. But one day Jesse called up and said that
James Stanley was coming to North Carolina, to Charlotte.

He told me where he was going to be staying, and that he wanted me to
check in under the name "James Stanley." He made a real big deal about
the time I was to check in--he had James Stanley's flight reservations,
and he said that I had to make it look as if James Stanley was lying
about the time he checked in. In other words, I was to check in at a
time when James Stanley couldn't have."

"And how did you arrange to do that?"

"I drove down to Charlotte, to the Marriott, where James Stanley had a
reservation. I waited in the lobby, and I called the airline several
times. I was supposed to check in about the time his plane landed, but
there was a delay in the flight--he was coming through Greenville, and
he got stuck there, I guess. Anyway, I went ahead and checked in even
though I knew that the plane hadn't landed in Charlotte yet. I had to
get back to Winston Salem and I was getting antsy. So I ended up
checking in way early, but I didn't see the harm in that. Jesse was
pissed off when I called him, though, because he said James might
notice the discrepancy. I guess he didn't, though."

"What else did you do?"

"That's all, that night. Then I was supposed to wait until the Atlanta
cops came after me.

"How do you know they're going to?" I asked Jesse.

"Oh, don't worry--they will. Lynette's going to take care of that."

" Laura's stomach churned as she listened to Jim recount how Jesse and
Lynette had played her--and Carlton and Randy, but mostly her.

"Did Jesse DuPree give you instructions about what you were to do when
the police arrived to question you?"

"Yes. He gave me a story. I was supposed to say that James Stanley
and I had planned on my giving him an alibi for the night of May 8. I
was to say that I had checked in and gone up to the room, ordered
dinner, and made two phones calls to James Stanley's home number. They
even gave me the times the phone calls were made."

"When was it that Jesse DuPree gave you this story?"

"It was a few days after I checked into the hotel--probably around the
twelfth or thirteenth of May."

"Mr. Stanley, do you have any record of these communications with
Jesse DuPree?"

"No, I don't think so."
"Would your phone records show any calls to him?"

"No, he always called me--from pay phones, I think."

"What about Miss Connell--did you have any contact with her?"

"No, I never met her. I saw her in the courtroom, that's all. She's
really something, though. I can understand why Jesse wanted to get
with her so badly."

"Moving on, Mr. Stanley, I assume that you're changing your story
about the gun as well."

"Well, yes, Jesse wanted me to say that I'd bought the gun from him a
few years ago. But I didn't; it was Jesse's gun. He brought it up to
North Carolina after the murder and told me to hang on to it. He said
he didn't think the cops could trace it, on account of its being so
old, and not the kind of gun they see a whole lot of. If they did come
to me looking for the gun, I was supposed to say that he sold it to me
a few years back, sort of under the table so that I wouldn't have to
produce a record of the sale."

"What about the story that you lent the gun to James Stanley?"

"Oh, that--I forgot that. You know, it all got real complicated.

Yes, I had a story for that--Jesse called it a "back story." I was
supposed to just say that I lent the gun to James Stanley. I came up
with that bit about James wanting to sell the gun to his father-in-law.
I didn't think it was believable that I would just lend a gun to
someone." Jim frowned to communicate his sagacious ness

Laura's fingers curled as she indulged in a fantasy of putting them
around Jim's neck and choking the truth out of him--the real truth, not
this Greek myth that he was spinning for them.

He was the most shameless liar Laura had ever met--but she couldn't
prove it.

"Let's go back to the money for a moment, Mr. Stanley," Meredith said,
circling back to something that was clearly bothering her.

"You say that Jesse DuPree offered you five thousand dollars to
participate in this plan of his. Correct?"

"Yes, that was the figure."

"Early in our investigation, Mr. Stanley, you were kind enough to
provide us with your bank records showing the transfer of that amount
to your account."

"Yep. That I did."

"Please explain something for me, then. Your bank records, and the
financial records of James Stanley, both clearly show that the payment
was made to you by James Stanley--not Lynette Connell, and not Jesse
DuPree. How do you explain that?"

God Bless Meredith! Laura's heart leapt with hope. Why didn't I think
of that? she chastised herself. It's a big screaming discrepancy.

Unless, of course, Jim has an answer for it.

He did.

"Yes, I thought that was weird, too," Jim said, leaning forward
confidentially.

"But Jesse said that Lynette Connell had access to some trust funds
that were set up for James's kids, and that Lynette was a trustee, too.
She somehow finagled it so it would look as if James made the payment,
and not her."

"Oh? How did she manage that?"

"Beats me. Something to do with payments the trusts made to James--you
know the payment was just made to "James Stanley," and not James T.
Stanley. You'll have to ask her, I guess. She must have had the power
to move money around anyway, because I damn sure got paid."

"Yes, you did. Let me clarify another point, Mr. Stanley. Are you
willing to swear under oath that you have never met James Alan
Stanley?"

Jim nodded, and the corners of his mouth turned down in what Laura
recognized as his "regretful" look.

"No, I never saw him until I came into court. And I know what you're
thinking: How could I get on the stand and tell all those lies about a
man I'd never met?

I must seem like the worst person on the face of the earth, and maybe I
am. But by the time I realized exactly what Jesse was asking me to
do--put an innocent man in the electric chair!--it was too late to back
out. And you don't know Jesse. He would have killed me if I told what
he had done. I didn't think it could go as far as it did, until I
found myself in that courtroom. I think that's why I broke down the
way I did. And you know what else? I think I made that mistake about
the bed in the hotel room sort of accidentally on purpose. Like one of
those Freudian slips, you know?" he added, mispronouncing
"Freudian."

"That's very interesting, Mr. Stanley. Is there anything else you'd
care to share with us now?"

"No, just how sorry and ashamed I am to have been involved in this
thing. But I'm glad I finally have the chance to set the record
straight. I'm glad I can give James Stanley his life back, so he can
get back to taking care of his children," he concluded piously.
"That's all I have," Meredith said, cutting off further sermonizing.

"Laura, Randy, do you want to ask anything?"

"I do," Laura said.

"Who pulled the trigger, Jim?"

"The trigger? How should I know? I wasn't there."

"Jesse DuPree and Lynette Connell both have alibis that were
corroborated by third parties. We know neither one of them could have
been in the Stanley house when Christine was killed. But you don't
have an alibi for any time after eight p.m. on May 8, do you? You had
plenty of time to drive to Atlanta and to kill Christine, didn't
you?"

"I do have an alibi! I ... I already told you that I went back to
Winston-Salem. I had to meet somebody. And I can't have been in
Winston-Salem and in Atlanta," he said triumphantly.

"Oh? Can you corroborate your whereabouts?" Laura asked, pressing
him.

"Yes. I had ... a date. With my secretary, Candi. She'll tell you
that I came to her house about ten-thirty that night."

"In that case, we'll get in touch with Candi right away. Randy, can
you hit the Pause button on the camera while I make the call?

Thanks." Then, to Jim, she added casually, "Our investigator is in
Charlotte; it won't be a bit of trouble for him to go to Winston
Salem

Could you give me Candi's full name and address?"

It might have been only Laura's wistful imagination, but Jim seemed to
hesitate before he gave her the information.

Laura pulled out her cellular phone and dialed Kenny's mobile phone
number, focusing her gaze on Jim all the time. Ken picked up after a
couple of rings.

"Yell-oh. Newton here."

"Hi, Ken. This is Laura. Where are you?"

"At the Marriott. Wayne says 'hey."

" "Back at him. What does he know?"

"Nothing good, I'm afraid. The bed is king-size. He's checking to see
if anyone's monkeyed with the records, but it looks like your man Jim
was lying about being in the room."

"Among other things. Listen, Kenny, as long as you're up there, would
you mind a side trip to Winston-Salem?" She explained what they needed
him to do, and gave him Candi's address and phone number.

"Will do," Kenny said.

"You know what she's going to say, though, don't you? Jim didn't just
fall off the rutabaga wagon."

"I know. Try anyway."
"Is he in the room with you?"

"Yep."

"I see. Well, I'll shake this Candi up a little and see if I can't get
something out of her. In the meantime, keep Jim-boy away from the
telephone. Is he under arrest?"

"Nope."

"Why don't you have Randy clap him in irons for a while? A night in
jail would do Jim Stanley a power of good. But that's not up to me, is
it? I'll just butt out and run along. I'll be back in Atlanta
tomorrow."

"Thanks, Kenny. We'll talk more then." She clicked her phone closed,
and looked at Jim.

"He's going to see Candi tonight."

Jim smirked.

"I wish you'd let me talk to him--I'd have told him to say 'hi' to
her."

Laura turned to Randy and Meredith.

"Do either of you have any more questions?" Both shook their heads.

"Let's switch this thing off, then," Laura said, making for the video
camera and removing the tape.

"Can I see you ladies in the hall?" Randy asked. Laura and Meredith
joined him after Laura had assured herself that there were no
telephones left in the room with Jim. They closed the door and talked
in low voices.

"I don't believe him," Randy said bluntly.

"That makes two of us," Meredith said.

"Me three," Laura added.

Randy nodded thoughtfully.

"We haven't heard from Carlton, yet, of course--DuPree may have been
able to tell him something to contradict Jim's story. If he could
prove that he sold the gun to Jim Stanley ..."

I don't think he'll be able to," Laura said, although she hated to be
pessimistic.

"The conspiracy theory is the fall-back plan, and at this point I've
begun to realize that Jim doesn't leave anything to chance. He has a
brilliant legal mind."

"What makes you say that?" Randy asked.

"He's played the system like a harmonica. Look at where we are: Craig
Fannin is angling for a directed verdict of acquittal for James
Stanley. If he gets it, jeopardy is invoked and James is scot-free.
And so is Jim, because of the immunity."

"Can't you stop Fannin for a while?" Randy asked.

"If we have another week or two, we might be able to find an
inconsistency in their stories. I'm thinking about that fiber
evidence--if Jim Stanley was the shooter, those fibers had to come from
his clothes. And he might not have known that he left fibers, or that
there were microscopic bloodstains on his clothes, so he might not have
been smart enough to get rid of them. Can we get a search warrant and
look for clothes that match the fibers in Jim's closet?"

"Now, that's the best idea anybody's had all night," Meredith said.

"Laura, help Randy swear out an affidavit for a search warrant, and get
someone in the district attorney's office in Winston Salem on the horn
first thing in the morning. Randy, can you hightail it up there and
execute a warrant tomorrow?"

"You bet your ass I can," he replied.

"But can't we ask for a little more time? Even if I find something,
the crime lab is going to need a least a couple of days to analyze
it."

Meredith shook her head.

"Afraid not," she said.

"The judge isn't going to sit on her hands if there's exculpatory
evidence. The prosecution only gets one bite at the apple, and we've
had ours."

Laura nodded grimly. They had very few chances left. Once a trial
began, a good judge would be loath to interrupt it for any reason, let
alone because the prosecution was unprepared. There was one shameful
alternative that Laura didn't even want to bring up: a nolle prosequi.
If Judge Penfield granted a nolpros," they could stop the trial and
resume prosecution later, or even reindict James Stanley using new
evidence. But if I were in Craig Fannin's shoes, Laura thought, I
would yell like hell before I would let the judge enter a nolpros when
I was so close to winning it all.

"Let me go with Randy," she said aloud, abruptly.

"I need you here," Meredith said.

"For what? We don't have to be in court tomorrow, and there's nothing
I can do down here but wait. If I go to Winston-Salem I can help draft
the search warrant, at least, and if any problems come up, I'll be on
the spot."

"I'd like to have her," Travers said.

Meredith looked from one of them to the other.

"Okay. Go as early as you can tomorrow, and get back as quickly as you
can.

No matter what you find up there, we have to be ready to face the music
Monday morning. And I hate the tune that's playing."
CHAPTER 30

"0 andy Travers was a surprisingly congenial traveling compannion,
Laura discovered. He had a stoic's attitude toward airport traffic and
garbled boarding announcements. He didn't even seem to mind when they
were delayed on the taxi-way at Winston Salem for half an hour with no
explanation. While Laura fretted and fumed, he simply folded his hands
over his chest, tipped his head back, and dozed off with the practiced
air of a man who had spent many nights on stakeouts.

Laura was even gladder of his company when they reached the
headquarters of the Winston-Salem Police Department. She was still
tentative in her dealings with the Atlanta Police Department, let alone
cops in other cities. She hadn't the least idea whom she should
approach to get a search warrant issued in Winston Salem

Randy did, though. He flashed his badge to an officer at the desk, and
explained in a sort of cop-pidgin what they were after. Laura didn't
understand how so few syllables could have communicated the complexity
of the proposition, but evidently they did, because in less than five
minutes they were seated in the office of a lieutenant who headed a
squad of detectives. Lieutenant Barber insisted that they accept a cup
of coffee, and he and Randy swapped stories while they waited for it to
arrive. Laura was beginning to realize that all cops liked to play a
sort of "Six Degrees of Law Enforcement" when they met. Working
through their memory banks to find some case that connected them. Randy
and Barber were able to identify a bank robbery suspect who, fleeing
Atlanta, had been captured by Barber when he was a young sheriff's
deputy in Forsyth County, North Carolina. A line from a poem by John
Donne popped into Laura's head: /... and yet we see Formalities
retarding thee." But just as she was deciding to interrupt the
formalities the policemen got down to cases.

"So you need a local search warrant?" Barber asked.

"Yep. We've got a suspect down in Atlanta in a murder case.

We're looking for the clothing he might have worn on the night of the
crime. Here's an affidavit." Randy handed over the paper he and Laura
had prepared the night before, which laid out the specifics.

Barber nodded.

"Got his address, I see. What's this second address?"

"His wife threw him out. He's living in an apartment," Laura
explained.

"But you want both locations searched?"

"Affirmative," Randy replied.

"The suit could be in either place."

"Okay, then. Let's get this typed onto one of our forms, and I'll head
over to City Hall with you. You want us to help you execute this?"

"Could you spare a patrol car?" Randy asked.

"Sure. I always say better safe than sorry."

City Hall was just a few steps away from the police headquarters, and
it was a tribute to the relaxed pace of life in a city smaller than
Atlanta that they were able to get before a magistrate almost without
delay. Laura had learned one thing during her tenure as an assistant
district attorney, and that, when appearing before any judge with a
request, less detail is better. She and Randy answered the
magistrate's questions as succinctly as possible;

there was no need to embark upon the whole story even if there was
time. Still, Laura couldn't help but wonder what the judge would say
if he knew that they were seeking a warrant to search the personal
goods and chattels of a prosecution witness. Thank fully, he didn't
inquire, and they were back outside in less than ten minutes. A squad
car was waiting for them, manned by two young officers.

"Here's your ride," Barber said.

"I'll leave you to it. Give a shout if you have any problems."

"Thanks. It's been a pleasure," Randy said, wringing Barber's meaty
hand. Laura submitted to a bone-crushing handshake, and Barber ambled
back to his office. Randy took charge of the two uniforms.

"You know where these addresses are?" he asked, displaying the
warrant.

"Brightleaf Circle, yes, sir. That's right near here," one replied.

He wore a badge that announced his name as DeLorio. The other one was
called Butler.

"You know this other place, Andy?" DeLorio asked his partner.

"Uh, yeah, I think that's one of them apartments out by the
expressway."

"Guess we should go to Brightleaf first, then," Randy said.

"Y'all want to ride in the patrol car, or do you have your own car?"
DeLorio asked.

"We'll take our own. It's parked in that lot," Randy said, pointing
across the street. Laura was disappointed; she wanted to ride in the
patrol car. It is always a good thing to make an entrance.

But she went with Randy, who pulled the rented car out into traffic
behind the patrol car. They followed it through a couple of turns, and
they were soon in a residential area, a neighborhood of attractive
houses with well-groomed lawns. The cop car drew up before number
1341, Jim Stanley's house or his former house, at any rate. There was
an SUV parked in the driveway.

"Good someone's home," Laura said.

"Must be the wife."

"Yep," Randy said.

"You can bet she won't be too happy to see us."

"Why? She's already been questioned, and she's talked to the press."

"They don't like cop cars in neighborhoods like this," he replied.
DeLorio and Butler were out of their car, waiting for Randy's
instructions.

"Let's roll," he said.

Laura scrambled from the car and straightened her jacket, eyeing the
house.

"I don't have great expectations. Do you? If he's living in an
apartment, he's probably taken his clothes."

"He might have left some here, and it's always interesting to talk to
an angry wife. No telling what we might find out. Okay, you men just
hang back," he said to the patrol officers.

"I don't anticipate that we'll meet resistance." They headed down the
front walkway. Randy and Laura preceding the officers. Randy rang the
doorbell, and the door swung open almost instantly. She must have seen
the cars.

Mrs. James T. Stanley was a very attractive woman, tall and blonde,
well dressed in simple slacks and a cashmere turtleneck.
She was, however, wreathed in cigarette smoke, and frowning, two
factors which tended in Laura's mind to diminish her good looks.

"He's not here," Mrs. Stanley snapped as Randy displayed his badge.

"We know that, ma'am," Randy said patiently.

"We're from Atlanta. We left your husband down there. We're here with
a search warrant."

"Search warrant? What the hell for? Let me see it." She looked it
over quickly, and snorted.

"Well, you're shit out of luck today.

I don't have any of his clothes."

"He took them when he moved out?" Randy inquired.

"A, he did not move out he was thrown out, and B, no, he didn't take
his clothes, not all of them. But I gave the stuff he did leave here
to Goodwill. I burned all his papers, and I sold his precious goddamn
record collection. The only things I have left are his girlie
magazines and his porn videos, just because I'm too embarrassed to put
them out on the curb. You're welcome to take those. In fact, I wish
you would."

"No, thank you, Mrs. Stanley. Did you give the clothing to Goodwill
recently, ma'am?"

"No. It was months ago. God knows where they are now," she said, with
a satisfied look on her face.

Laura decided it was time for her to speak.

"Do you recall if you gave away his gray suit?"

"Which one?"

"He had more than one?"

"He had two. One I gave away. The other I think he must have taken
with him. Why don't you check over at that little whore's apartment?
That's where he's staying now."

"You mean he's, ah, living with someone?" Laura asked. Jim had failed
to mention that.

"You didn't know? He's shacked up with that fat little secretary of
his Candi." She put the name in contemptuous italics as she said it.

"And she's more than welcome to him, after I'm through divorcing him.
He won't be worth much to her then I can promise you that," she added
with a grim smile.

"That should teach her to try sleeping her way up."

There didn't seem to be much they could gain by staying here.

Laura glanced at Randy, and he nodded.
"Thank you, Mrs. Stanley," he said.

"We do appreciate the time. May I ask one more question?"

"Why not? The whole neighborhood has already seen you."

"I'm sorry. You told the investigators that your husband was not with
you on the night of May 8. Did you know if he was with Miss .. .
Candi?"

"No, he was not."

"Are you sure of that?"

"Of course I am. He didn't take up with her until after I tossed him
out. He didn't have anywhere to go, and she always had a crush on him,
so he sweet-talked her into letting him move in.

She thought he was going to make all her dreams come true. Bet she's
having nightmares now," Mrs. Stanley added with a dark chuckle.

"Any idea where he actually was that night?"

"Not the foggiest. But don't believe him if he says he was with her he
never looked twice at her until I tossed him out. The only reason he's
there is to keep a roof over his sorry head."

"Well, thanks for the information," Randy said, pocketing the
warrant.

"If you think of anything else, I sure would appreciate a phone call."
He offered her a card.

"What's this all about anyway? I thought Jim was just a witness in
that thing down in Atlanta. Y'all are acting like he's a suspect."

"Just routine, ma'am," Randy said.

Mrs. Stanley watched them as they returned to their cars. Aware of
her scrutiny, Laura remained silent until the doors closed.

"That was interesting," she said.

"I thought it might be," Randy said.

"No telling what an angry woman will tell you. I'm right eager to talk
to this Candi what's her last name?"

"Shane."

"Candi Shane? You've got to be kidding." Randy was actually chuckling
as they followed the patrol car across town.

Winston-Salem wasn't a big city and it took only a few minutes for them
to reach their destination, the Twelve Oaks Apartments.

There were no oaks, however, visible anywhere in the complex of
two-story barracklike buildings. With the uniformed officers once
again trailing behind them, Laura and Randy mounted an outside stairway
and traveled down a covered walkway to the door of Candi's apartment.
There was no way of telling if she was at home. Randy knocked firmly
on the door. A moment or two later, the door, chain lock still in
place, opened slightly.

"Yes?"

a little voice said.

"Miss Shane?"

"Who are you?"

"I'm Detective Randy Travers of the Atlanta Police Department, and this
is Miss Laura Chastain. I believe you've met her."

"I don't want to talk to you."

"I'm real sorry, miss, but I'm afraid you have to. I have a search
warrant here. We need to take a look around your place."

"You can't come in! I ... I'm not dressed!"

"We'll give you a minute to put on some clothes, miss, but I am going
to have to insist that you let us in." Randy gestured to Officer
DeLorio, who stepped into a position visible to Candi.

"Miss? I'm with the Winston-Salem police. Please open the door, and
we'll get this over with as quickly as we can," DeLorio said
authoritatively.

"No!" Candi screamed, very loud.

"I can't ... I won't! I'm going to call Jim's ... I'm going to call my
lawyer."

"Oh, crap," Randy muttered as the door slammed in his face.

"What do we do?" Laura asked, concerned.

"Well, I'm not going to beat the door down that's for sure.

I guess we wait for this lawyer."

With a great sense of foreboding, Laura realized that the lawyer in
question was probably Charlie Hoyt. She was not eager to meet him
again, especially in these circumstances.

"Can't we try again?

Let me talk to her."

Randy shrugged and stood back from the door.

"All yours," he said.

Laura rapped on the door, softly at first, and then, when she got no
response, more assertively.

"Candi? Please come out here and talk to us. I want to explain to you
what we're looking for.

I promise that we won't get you involved." There was no answer.

Laura turned to Randy.

"I don't want to break the poor girl's door in. You don't think she's
in there destroying evidence, do you?"

Randy raised his hands in exasperation.

"How could she get rid of a man's suit? She can't flush it, and I
don't see chimneys, so she can't burn it. Worst she could do is cut it
into ribbons if she even knows that's what we're after. She didn't
give us much of a chance to explain why we were here."

"And yet she seemed prepared for us. But I guess we have to wait for
Hoyt to get here."

Randy snorted.

"That guy again? Great."

"I know. He's beginning to get on my nerves, too. The only comfort I
take is in knowing that his bill is going to be huge."

"Let's go wait in the car. No point in standing around out here.

Boys, I'm afraid we're going to be keeping you tied up for a while."

"No problem," DeLorio said.

"I'll radio in. Y'all want me to go get you some coffee? There's a
place down the street that has good coffee. Sandwiches, too."

"I'll pass on the sandwich, but I'll take a cup of coffee," Randy
said.

"How about you, Laura?"

"One for me, too. Lots of cream."

Laura's coffee was still too hot to drink when a black Mercedes pulled
into the parking lot and stopped alongside the rental car.

"Here we go," she said.

"I'll handle this guy."

Charlie Hoyt was looking fresh as a daisy, and as dapper as ever.

"Hello, Mr. Hoyt," Laura said.

"This is Detective Randy Travers of the Atlanta Police Department. I
suppose Candi told you why we're here."

"Hello, Miss Chastain. Detective. Candi was a bit upset when we spoke
on the phone. I understand you have a search warrant for her premises
may I see it?"

"Of course," Laura said, and Randy produced the document.

Hoyt glanced through the paper quickly, and then returned it to Randy.
He reached into his jacket pocket and extracted another paper.

"This is a stay. Miss Chastain. It prevents you from executing your
search warrant until my motion to quash the warrant is heard."

"What the ... ? How did you get this so quickly?"

"The county courthouse was on the way. I just popped in and saw Judge
Sidney."

"I see. And on what grounds are you moving to quash?"

"On the very logical grounds that, as my client has immunity, anything
you find will be inadmissible."

"J know your client has immunity, Mr. Hoyt, but his clothes don't. The
existence of that suit is critical to our case against James Stanley."
Laura was not being entirely candid with Hoyt when she said that. In
truth, it would be of little help in the case against James Stanley.
She was hoping to use the suit to threaten Jim's immunity deal and get
him talking again.

"You certainly will have the opportunity to convince the judge of your
point of view," Hoyt said genially.

"He's expecting us right about now. I'll meet you in his chambers."
With that, Hoyt returned to his car and drove off.

"Does he have a chance?" Randy asked.

"Of course not! It's completely illogical," Laura fumed.

"He knows very well that if I find independent evidence that Jim was
involved in the murder more involved in the murder I can introduce it,
even if I can't touch Jim. Jim's immunity doesn't go away, not even if
I find independent corrobation that he pulled the trigger, so I can't
understand why Hoyt is taking this aggressive stance." She shook her
head.

"Anyway, we better get going."

Randy explained the state of affairs to the patrolmen, and dismissed
them.

"When we get the warrant confirmed, we can request another patrol car,"
Laura said optimistically.

Too optimistically, as it turned out. From the moment Laura was
ushered into Judge Melvin Sidney's chambers, where she found Hoyt
lounging in a comfy chair and talking football with the judge, she knew
she had lost. Hoyt proceeded to tie logic up in knots, first arguing
that the transactional immunity made any new evidence of Jim's
involvement in the murder moot. When Laura challenged him
aggressively, he fell back on a flimsy argument that his client had
only perjured himself at Laura's urging.

Indignant at the implication that she had suborned perjury, Laura lost
her temper.

"You're one to talk!" she cried.

"The only mistake I made was trusting that you had verified your lying
client's story.

How was I to know you were shielding a murderer?"

"Now, that's enough. Miss Chastain," Judge Sidney intoned.

"We'd needn't stoop to ad hominem attacks."

You were perfectly happy with ad hominem attacks when your pal Hoyt was
making them, Laura wanted to say.

The judge continued in a calm, friendly tone.

"This matter seems perfectly plain to me. Miss Chastain. You may
regret having given the witness a grant of transactional immunity, but
I'm afraid that it limits your ability to seek evidence against him.
That is, even if you were to find evidence of his guilt, you could not
use it. The search therefore would be nothing more than a nuisance to
the witness and his roommate. The motion to quash is granted."

Slack-jawed and reeling, Laura rejoined Randy in the hall out side the
judge's chambers. She didn't need to tell what had happened he read
her face.

"No go, huh?" he said gruffly.

"Cheer up, kid you just ran into a little hometown officiating. Any
chance of an appeal?"

She shook her head.

"It's an error, but it would take too long to reverse it."

He threw an avuncular arm around her shoulders and led her down the
hall.

"Well, can't be helped now. Let's go home and have us a weekend. We'll
think of something before Monday. I don't know about you, but I've
always done my best work when my back was against the wall."
CHAPTER 31

Randy Travers might have relished the challenge of fighting with his
back against a wall, but Laura was too battle-weary even to contemplate
her next move. She called Meredith as soon as she reached her house.
Her report was bleak.

"The best--the best--I think we can do is get a nolle prosequi and buy
some time. But you know what the odds are against Judge Penfield
entering a nolpros at this stage."

"I wouldn't count it out," Meredith said soothingly.

"But what I really think you should do is turn loose of it. Leave the
whole thing to me, Laura, and get some rest this weekend."

"But this whole ... train wreck is my fault, from start to finish!"

"Laura," Meredith said with admirable patience, "I was with you every
step of the way. I agreed to everything we did. There was no way
either of us could have seen this coming. Now, what are your plans
this weekend?"

"I have none."

"Well, get some. I don't want you to come into the office until Monday
morning. I'll meet you there at seven--I'll bring breakfast. We'll
draft a motion for a nolpros. It's all going to come out right in the
end, you'll see. I've stared at worse disasters than this."

Laura doubted that, but she hung up the phone with the intention of at
least attempting to relax and forget things for a few hours. She
called Amos. It was almost eight, but he was at home.

"Hey. I'm back," she said.

"You don't sound too happy," he remarked.
She told him what had happened, and he listened without comment.

"Sounds like you need a drink. Why don't I come over there?"

"Have you eaten?"

"No. I went to the gym, and had a beer with a guy I met there.

I was just going to order a pizza."

"I've got some leftover lasagna in my freezer. There's plenty for two
of us," she said.

"Okay. I'll bring a bottle of wine."

"Thanks. Could you pick up some ice cream on the way?"

"What kind?"

"Surprise me," she said, too weary to decide even that matter.

"But don't get any of that low-fat junk, and no frozen yogurt, either.
I want the kind of ice cream that comes with a warning label from the
surgeon general."

"Got it. See you in about half an hour."

Laura shucked off her work clothes and put on her most comfortable
jeans and a black turtleneck. She had already opened a bottle of
Cabernet when Amos arrived.

"I started without you," she said. Amos was adept at reading Laura's
moods, and he made no attempt to bring up the subject of the trial. He
adroitly maintained the flow of conversation on more benign topics, and
kept Laura's glass full, leaving her pleasantly muddled by the time
they finished the ice cream.

"Oof!" she said as she cleared the dishes.

"I feel like I just gained ten pounds. Let's take a walk it's a nice
night. And if I sit around here, I'm going to open that second bottle
of wine, which I know I would regret in the morning."

"Let's walk, then."

It was a cool night, so Laura slipped on her good old barn jacket and
inhaled its comforting horsy smells of leather and sweat and hay. They
left the house and walked down to the dead end of her street, then
turned right. Laura tipped her head back to look at the sky.

"Pretty night," she said.

"Yep," Amos replied.

"Do you know anything about astronomy?"

"Nope. I couldn't find the North Star with the Hubble tele scope."

"Me neither." They returned to silent contemplation of the universe.
Laura thrust her hands into the pockets of her jacket.

"It's getting chilly," she said.
"Chilly? You Southerners are such wimps. This is warm." He wasn't
wearing a jacket, just a long-sleeved denim shirt.

"You Yankees! You talk a good game, but I haven't noticed a lot of
y'all lining up to move back to Chicago."

He laughed.

"True. They couldn't get me back there unless they made me the King of
Illinois. And even then they'd have to promise to get a full-time
lackey to shovel my driveway for me."

"Do you really like Atlanta?" she asked, fumbling with some thing she
felt in her pocket.

"Not really. I sometimes think about moving to a smaller city.

This place is such a mess the traffic, the politics. Sometimes I get
fed up."

"I know," she sighed.

"I sometimes wonder if I shouldn't just go back to Nashville." She
pulled her right hand from her pocket and looked at the object in her
hand.

"What's this? I must have left a credit card in here."

"No, it looks like one of those electronic hotel room keys," Amos
observed.

"Oh. I wonder where that came from." Laura shrugged.

"Any way, I'm getting a little tired of Atlanta, too. I'd hate to quit
my job after such a short time, but I haven't exactly been an asset to
Meredith."

"Don't sell yourself short. Meredith wouldn't have hired you if she
didn't think you were the best."

"She may have thought so at the time, but she must rue the day now."

"Stop it. Let's head back. You're tired, and I have an early squash
game tomorrow."

"Okay." They walked back to her house in silence. They said good
night in the driveway. Laura stood and watched as Amos's truck pulled
away, and then she went inside. As she hung her jacket on the peg in
the laundry room that was its home, she remembered the hotel key in the
pocket. She took it out and looked at it. She couldn't recall having
taken this ratty jacket on any trips recently. She knew that she
hadn't taken it to Brevard, which was the last place she had traveled.
Then she remembered: She had been given two keys when she checked Jim
Stanley into his hotel room. She thought that she had given him both
keys, but one must have slipped from its little folder and remained in
her pocket.
She twiddled the key thoughtfully in her hand as she headed for her
bedroom. Jim Stanley's hotel room--why hadn't she thought of it? He
might very easily have brought the gray suit with him to Atlanta, not
realizing that it was evidence against him. She could get a search
warrant for his room easily, and have it executed before Charlie Hoyt
could interfere. Hoyt could try to suppress any evidence they found,
of course, but without his home-field advantage Laura doubted that his
ridiculous arguments would hold water. Of course, they might find
nothing in the room, and the search warrant would be a wasted effort.
More than a wasted effort, really, because if Craig Fannin got wind of
what they were up to, he would have a great argument for a mistrial, or
even an acquittal. She had been pondering Jim Stanley and Charlie Hoyt
to the exclusion of Fannin in the past few days, and that was not good.
One slip, and Fannin would make sure that James Stanley would be a free
man forever.

Laura sat on the edge of her bed and puzzled over the key a while
longer. Finally, she gave it up. Her head was buzzing with exhaustion
and wine, and there was nothing she could do at eleven o'clock on
Friday night anyway. She put the key on her bedside table and started
getting ready for bed. She was sleeping soundly fifteen minutes later,
the key forgotten.

Saturday morning Laura awoke well rested for the first time since the
trial had begun. In fact, for the first time in weeks, she didn't wake
up thinking about the trial at all. It was only the presence of the
key, glowing white against the dark cherry surface of her night table,
that reminded her that there was a trial at all.

As soon as she spotted the key, however, she formed a resolution.

I'm going to break into Jim's hotel room.

There. It had seemed absurd last night when she had the same notion,
but now it made perfect sense. If the suit was there among Jim's
things, she could get a search warrant and discover it
legitimately--and quickly, before Hoyt could interfere, and before
Fannin got a whiff of what they were up to. If there was nothing in
the room, she could continue to pursue other tactics against Jim-that
is, if she could come up with any.

Having formed the resolution, Laura tested it. Even though she had a
key, and even though she planned to take nothing from the room, it
would be breaking and entering, a felony. On the other hand, if anyone
at the hotel questioned her, she would have a good cover story. She
could simply claim that Jim had given her the key and asked him to meet
her in his room. The only other risk was that Jim himself might
interrupt her. She could manage that problem to some degree, however.
She could call before she left home to his room to make certain he
wasn't in, and she would call again from the lobby to make sure he
hadn't returned. She figured that she would need no more than ten
minutes to nip up to the room, get in, look around, and nip back out.
Ten minutes was an acceptable window of risk.

Laura pulled herself up short. What am I thinking? she asked herself,
amazed. It was easy enough to rationalize away the practical and legal
risks, but not the moral and ethical ones. Laura prided herself on her
honesty. She was the kind of person who returned to the grocery store
to tell the clerk she had been under charged for an item. And now she
was thinking about cheating the system just because things hadn't gone
her way. But why haven't they gone my way? she asked herself.
Because I'm up against the biggest liar I've ever met and his
slicker-than-goose-grease lawyer, that's why.

That decided it. She was surfing on a wave of indignation now, angry
at the way the system had been manipulated. Jim Stanley is hiding
behind that poor stupid little secretary of his, she stormed as she got
up and headed for the bathroom. And Charlie Hoyt is shielding him, she
added as she turned on the shower.

By the time she dried her hair, all doubt had been vanquished.

If she thought she would run a risk of discovery, she might not have
been so sanguine the shame she would feel when Meredith, or Amos, or
her parents learned that she had been dishonest would be too much to
bear. But they weren't going to find out;

no one was. She hastily dressed in casual, comfortable clothes,
grabbed her purse and keys and headed for the door. She snagged the
barn jacket off the hook and replaced the hotel key in the pocket where
she had found it, where it would be handy.

She had one foot out the door when she remembered that she had intended
to call the hotel. She half turned, starting back toward the telephone
on the kitchen wall, but then thought better of it.

A real professional wouldn't make a call that could be traced. She
decided to stop for a cup of coffee at the Starbucks on Piedmont and
use the pay phone there.
There was no answer at Jim's hotel room, so Laura got back into her
car and headed down Piedmont toward downtown.

Stopped at a red light, she thought through her strategy. It was a bit
of luck that she had actually been inside the room on the day Jim had
arrived in Atlanta. She would be able to cross into the bedroom and
locate the closet without hesitating. She tried to visualize herself
making the trek on silent feet, putting her hand on the closet door ...
Fingerprints! She couldn't run the risk of leaving fingerprints.

She was just passing the shopping center at Piedmont and Lindbergh, so
she pulled in and found a drugstore. They had only large boxes of
latex gloves, so Laura bought what amounted to a lifetime supply. Now
completely prepared for her mission, she continued downtown in her
car.

The hotel had no parking, so Laura found a lot nearby. Downtown was,
as usual, nearly deserted on a Saturday morning. A few tourists and
some conventioneers were wandering toward Underground, but most of the
storefronts Laura passed on her way to the hotel were sporting Closed
signs. She would have preferred more of a crowd, in which she could be
less conspicuous, but she knew she could rely on her unassuming
appearance to shield her from notice. There were times when it was
good to be average-looking.

When she reached the door of the hotel, she took a moment to gather her
resolve. Then she marched into the lobby. As she expected, it was
sparsely inhabited; the few people staying over the weekend would have
headed out into the sparkling fall sunshine.

She hoped that Jim had made the same decision. She crossed to the
house telephones and picked up a receiver. It was then that she
realized she wasn't sure of the room number. She tugged the card key
from her pocket. No, just as she remembered, it did not have a number
imprinted on it. She stood for a moment, straining her memory. She
didn't want to draw attention to herself by trying to weasel the number
out of the desk clerk. She doubted she would succeed in any case.
Think, Laura.

It was on the third floor; that much she was sure of. And they had
turned right off the elevator to get to it. Laura was fairly sure that
she'd recognize the door when she came to it; she navigated by
landmarks, whether on foot on in her car. She'd find the door that
felt like the correct one, and if the key didn't open it, well, since
she knew that the door lay to the right of the elevators, she would
have to try, at most, half the rooms on the third floor before she
found the right one.

Proud of that bit of logic, she returned her attention to the phone.
She hit the 0 button and was connected to the hotel switch board.

"Jim Stanley's room, please," she said lightly. There was a slight
click, and the phone began to ring. And ring, and ring.

Finally, the operator came back on the line.

"There's no answer, miss," she said.

"May I take a message?"

"No, thank you," Laura said. She hung up and looked around.

Now or never, she thought, and she stepped away from the phone and back
into the lobby. She strode toward the elevators trying to look as if
she belonged there. No one challenged her, or even gave her a second
glance. An elevator was waiting, doors open, and she stepped quickly
aboard, pressing the Close Door button so she wouldn't have to share
the car with anyone. She jabbed at the button marked 3, and the
elevator started with a slight jerk.

She pulled out the latex gloves she had stored in her left pocket.

She would put them on only when she got inside the room, she decided. A
woman, however innocuous-looking, might attract attention if she wore
latex gloves in a hotel corridor. She would have to remember to wipe
the outside handle of the door as she left.

The elevator doors slid open on the third floor, and Laura stepped out.
She looked quickly to the left and right. Damn! The housekeeper's
cart was stopped outside a room to the right, very close to the one she
thought was Jim's. She forced herself to walk casually past the open
door. She passed room 345, then the open door where the vacuum cleaner
was running. The next door, room 349, was Jim's; she felt sure of it.
The only question remaining was whether it had been cleaned. Would the
housekeeper discover her in the room if she went in? On the other
hand, if she waited until the room was cleaned, she would waste
precious time. Jim might even return. She decided to risk it.

Breathlessly, she inserted the flat plastic card into the slot in the
lock, hardly daring to look at the row of lights that ran across the
top of the mechanism. Red would mean that she had the wrong room;
green that she had guessed correctly. She withdrew the card, and
looked down. The light was flashing green. She looked at it in
disbelief, and it stopped blinking. When she tried the handle, the
door would not open. Once again, she inserted the key, and this time
she did not hesitate. She turned the handle and opened the door,
slipping through the narrowest opening she could manage.

The room was dark, the curtains drawn. Laura could tell even before
her eyes adjusted to the dimness that the room had not been cleaned.
The remains of a pizza, still in the box, were spread across the coffee
table, and the air smelled of stale beer. Laura hurriedly pulled on
the latex gloves and passed through the living room and into the
bedroom. The closet was to the right, on the inside wall of the room,
with the bathroom beyond it. She quickly approached the mirrored
closet door and slid it open.

Jim had brought few clothes to Atlanta with him. There was the blue
suit he had worn every day in court, a few shirts, a pair of tan
slacks, and a leather jacket. That was it. No gray suit. Laura
swallowed her disappointment. The chances of finding the suit had
never been very good; it was probably in some Goodwill bin, if not
hanging in Candi's closet.

Laura turned from the closet, disappointed but relieved that she could
at least get out of the room. As she did, her eye fell on the dresser.
I've come all this way, she thought. Might as well snoop a little. She
took a few steps and stood in front of the dresser. She didn't expect
to find anything but the Gideon Bible in the drawers, but she pulled
them open just the same. One contained Jim's underwear; she shut it
quickly. The next one held the phone books and the expected Bible, but
in the third drawer she saw something that aroused her curiosity.

It was a bulky padded envelope, marked "Tapes." What tapes?

Laura wondered. She pulled the envelope out and peered down into it.
There were several cassette tapes in plastic boxes, held together with
a fat rubber band. She pulled out the bundle. The top tape was
labeled, in a neat hand, "February 1-28." She pulled off the rubber
band and sorted through the rest of the stack. Each one was labeled
with the month and date, but there was no other information on them.
Laura wished she had her Walkman with her so she could listen to
them.

But there was something still inside the envelope, a thick sheaf of
paper. She tugged it out of the envelope and read the top page.

It was a letter, typed on the letterhead of Jim Stanley's firm and
addressed to Charlie Hoyt at his law firm's offices.
Dear Charlie:

Here are the transcripts of the conversations I have on tape. I am
also enclosing the original note in Stanley's handwriting. As we
discussed, you will hold these until it becomes necessary to produce
them, if that day ever comes. I appreciate your assistance in this
matter.

Laura flipped through the pages in disbelief, astonished at what she
was reading. They were transcripts of conversations between Jim and
James Stanley. Some of the passages were trivial, ranging from the
weather to sports, but some paragraphs and sentences leapt out at
Laura:

My plane is due to arrive at seven-thirty ... You should check into the
hotel sometime after eight, because it'll take me a while to get to the
hotel. Go ahead and check in, though, because if you start too late
for Atlanta she'll be upstairs, and I don't want it to happen there ...
I'll send you the alarm code later. We change it every month or so ...
Right here, in her hand, Laura held the record of the conspiracy
between Jim and James Stanley. It was just as she had speculated;

Jim was actually the gunman. Her hands trembled with excitement and
anger. It wasn't only Jim and James who were involved-Hoyt had
knowledge of the crime. When Laura had accused him of shielding a
murderer she had no idea how close to the truth she had come. She read
as much of the document as she could, as quickly as she could. The
very last page in the sheaf was a photocopy of a handwritten note. It
was unsigned, and Laura didn't recognize the handwriting, but she knew
who had written it:

Jim--the code for the burglar alarm is 7-4-3-6. Punch in the numbers
and hit Enter and the system turns off. Good luck.

Laura's stomach churned--in her worst imaginings she hadn't supposed
that James was capable of wishing his wife's killer "good luck."

She was holding dynamite in her hands, pure, hundred-proof inadmissible
dynamite. This was evidence that would never see the light of day.
For one thing, taping conversations without the consent of the all
parties was illegal in most states; Laura presumed that it was illegal
in North Carolina, as well. But for another, and more important,
thing, there was no way that Laura could divulge the existence of these
tapes and transcripts without revealing that she had entered Jim's
hotel room illegally. Her mind raced, trying to solve the puzzle that
confronted her. There had to be some way to get this in front of the
court. Wild ideas popped into her mind, only to be dismissed
immediately. Take the papers, have them copied, and return them before
Jim missed them? She could then mail them to herself anonymously. No,
too risky, and anonymously submitted papers wouldn't be admissible
without someone to corroborate that they were not forgeries. Get a
search warrant for the hotel room ? That was more promising, but there
was the problem of swearing out the affidavit. Who could have informed
the investigators of the existence of the transcripts?

Laura turned to the last page of the transcript. There, at the bottom
of the page, was a typist's notation: JTS/cs. Laura almost laughed
aloud. Good old Candi conscientious to a fault. She began to form a
plan. She returned the pages to the envelope, careful to place them
behind the tapes, as she had found them.

She replaced the envelope in the drawer, closed it without making a
sound, and made tracks for the hall.

She opened the door cautiously and looked from right to left before she
stepped out. The housekeeping cart was still in the same place it had
been when she entered Jim's room. How long was I in there? she
wondered. It couldn't have been more than five minutes. She stripped
the gloves from her hands, stuffed them into her pocket and gave the
door handle a quick rub with the sleeve of her jacket. She then made
for the elevators with all deliberate speed. As the doors closed, she
sagged against the back wall of the car with relief. She had done it.
Not only that, she had the germ of an idea which, if she could make it
work, would take all the tricks. There was a lot of work she needed to
do; it would mean all afternoon in the office, but it would be worth
it. If she could convince Meredith. If she had the case law on her
side.

She was so preoccupied when she exited the elevator that she didn't
notice, standing right in front of her, Jim Stanley. She pulled up
short, and she could only hope that she didn't look as horrified as
she felt.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, his eyes narrow with suspicion.

Laura's brain, limber from the exercise she had been giving it, quickly
suggested a solution.

"Looking for you, that's what I'm doing! Where the hell have you
been?" She managed to sound genuinely indignant.

"I've just been up knocking on your door!"

Jim looked taken aback, but only for a moment.

"What were you trying to do? Serve a search warrant on me?" Naturally,
he would have spoken to either Candi or Hoyt; either one could have
told him about yesterday's failed gambit in Winston Salem

"No," she said.

"I wanted to talk to you about what's going to happen on Monday."

"Oh," Jim said.

"Why didn't you call me?"

"I tried to call you, but since I was coming downtown to the office
anyway, I decided to stop in at the hotel."

"Well, you've got me now. Tell you what, I'll buy you lunch and you
can bend my ear as long as you want to."

Laura considered declining, but she realized it would seem suspicious
to be so eager to see him one minute, and to refuse his invitation the
next. And so she ended up having lunch with the man whose room she had
just burgled, unable to erase from her mind what she had seen, hoping
that she wouldn't say or do anything to betray herself. She was
painfully conscious of the gloves in her pocket; her hand went to them
continually to ensure they wouldn't protrude and give her away. She
gulped down a salad and left as quickly as she could, leaving Jim to
wonder, no doubt, what had made her so nervous.
CHAPTER 32

On Monday morning, Meredith Gaffney arrived in her office promptly at
seven a.m." but Laura had been there for two hours already. She had
arranged a group of papers on the boss's desk, knowing that they would
surprise, possibly even shock, Meredith. Then she retreated to her
cubicle to read the paper and await Meredith's summons.

Meredith came to the door of the cubicle in person, wearing a puzzled
expression and carrying the stack of papers.

"Laura?

What is all this?"

Laura grinned.

"It's a new tack," she replied.

"That much I can see. What I want to know is why, and what you're up
to."

"Let's go into the conference room and I'll lay it out for you."

"Okay. I brought breakfast, just like I promised. You haven't eaten
already, have you?"

"I'm starving," Laura said sincerely.

In the conference room, Laura took the papers from Meredith and put
them in front of a place at the table, arranging them in the order she
had planned. Meredith unloaded scones and coffee from a bag, handed a
cup to Laura, and took the seat Laura indicated. Laura took the chair
on the opposite side of the table and pulled copies of everything from
her briefcase.

"Okay, what do you want to know?" she asked Meredith, a smile pulling
at the corner of her mouth.

"Start from the beginning. What is this--a motion to dismiss the
charges against James Stanley?"

"Yep."

"Why?"
"Because we're going to lose. And if we let the trial get to the jury
phase, or if Judge Penfield directs a verdict, jeopardy is invoked and
we'll never get another crack at him."

"But I thought we had agreed to ask for a nolle prosequi today.

And now you say you want to drop the charges?"

Dropping the murder charge was perhaps the boldest part of Laura's
strategy, and the one she anticipated having the most difficulty
selling to Meredith. A nolpros would allow them to resume prosecution
under the existing indictment, but if the charges were dropped, the
indictment was voided. That would mean re indicting James Stanley, and
there was always some risk involved in going before the grand jury.
Laura explained her thinking to Meredith.

"Last week, we thought a nolpros was the best we could do. But now I
think we can do a lot better; I think we can get an indictment and a
conviction using a new set of facts. Besides, the nolpros isn't a sure
thing at this stage of the trial. Judge Penfield might say no. And
then we'd really be in trouble. We'd have to finish out the trial, and
I'm afraid that James would be acquitted."

"Understood. But to drop the charges at this stage ... won't Fannin
object?"

"Of course he will. But we have a very good reason: It's because the
indictment was invalid which is absolutely true. There's been an error
at the heart of this trial from the get-go. Look at the next
document."

Meredith obediently turned over the next page.

"It's a grand jury memorandum, calling for a panel to assemble to
investigate the murder of Christine Stanley. I assume you're going for
a re indictment of James Stanley?"

"Correct. And maybe an indictment of Jim Stanley, too."

"What about his immunity?"

"I'm going to try to void it. I'm going to argue that we would have
inevitably discovered his role in the crime without his testimony."

"How would we have done that?"

"We are going to challenge his alibi, for one thing. For another, we
are going to have some hitherto undisclosed evidence to deal with."

"I see. And how are we to accomplish this feat?"

"Read on, McDuff."
Meredith pulled out the next document.

"A grand jury sub poena for Candi Shane. Who is Candi Shane?"

"Jim's secretary."

"Is that her real name?"

"So she says."

"And why are we subpoenaing her?"

"We believe that she has guilty knowledge of a crime commit ted by Jim
Stanley."

"And what is our basis for this belief?"

"Information from a confidential informant," Laura said, poker-faced.

"And she is Jim's alibi witness for the night of May 8," she added, not
wanting to seem too mysterious. The fact that Candi might break Jim's
alibi was almost as important as the physical evidence she could
testify existed.

Meredith looked closely at Laura.

"Gosh, and I thought that the blueberry scone was going to be the big
surprise this morning.

What's next in this little trick deck of yours?" Meredith turned over
the next document.

"Another subpoena a subpoena duces tecum, for Charles Hoyt. Hoyt! Good
grief, Laura, isn't he Jim's attorney?"

"He sure is."

Meredith sat back in her chair.

"Child, have you never heard of privilege? You can't call Stanley's
attorney to appear in front of a grand jury."

"I can if I can show that he has in his possession physical evidence
which is not privileged. That's why it's a subpoena duces tecum I just
want Hoyt to produce the evidence. I don't care if he testifies or
not. A defendant can't confer privilege on evidence simply by putting
it in his lawyer's custody; I can subpoena papers and other materials
that are evidence of a crime. It doesn't matter if Jim's attorney has
them; I don't care if the Pope has them. They're not privileged, and
all the lawyers in the world can't make 'em so."

"I know that but what evidence do you have that Charlie Hoyt has this
evidence?"

"I have Candi Shane's testimony."

"Whoa, Nellie. Aren't we going in circles?"

"A little bit. I'll stop playing games with you now, Meredith.
This is what I want to do: After we drop the charges against James, I
want to go immediately to the grand jury. My chief witness is going to
be Candi Shane, Jim's secretary."

"She knows about the murder conspiracy?"

"Yes and no. She doesn't have direct knowledge not that I know of
anyway but she does have knowledge of the evidence that the conspiracy
exists."

"And what evidence would that be?"

Laura took a deep breath.

"I'm not at liberty to say just yet."

"I see. This is the information you got from your 'confidential
informant?"

" "It is," Laura said.

Meredith gave Laura a long, searching look, but Laura made sure that
her face showed nothing. At length, Meredith turned her attention to
the last item in the pile before her.

"And what's this? A brief, I see."

"That's right. A brief citing all the case law I could find for
voiding attorney-client privilege. Only a couple of cases deal with
actual concealment of evidence, but there are quite a few regarding
attorneys who have guilty knowledge of a crime. Hoyt will fight back,
but I'm ready for him. We've got plenty of law on our side."

Meredith shook her head.

"This is a very, very long shot."

"Not as long as it looks, Meredith," Laura demurred.

"Think about it: If I can get Candi Shane to tell the grand jury that
she knows that Hoyt has certain evidence, I've got my nose under the
tent. I think I know how Hoyt's mind works, and I think he's going to
be looking for a way out as soon as that subpoena hits his desk,
because he knows I can break privilege if I get Candi's testimony. It's
virtually inevitable. He'll try to have the subpoena quashed, but if I
know Hoyt, he'll also open a back-channel negotiation so that he has an
avenue for escape. And I think we can negotiate we can agree not to
force him to testify, and we can certainly agree not to charge him as
an accessory. We're not interested in putting him in jail."

"I see. Let me clarify one thing: You're planning to call Hoyt only
after Candi Shane testifies, right? Because the subpoena refers to the
evidence you believe Hoyt has, but only Candi Shane can attest that he
does indeed have it. And you can't call Hoyt unless you have probable
cause to believe that he has material evidence.

Right?"
"Right. We don't issue the subpoena for Hoyt until Shane has appeared
before the grand jury. That will also preserve the element of surprise
to some degree. And you're right--as of now, we have no cause to call
Hoyt."

Meredith pushed the papers away from her.

"Laura, is there anything else I ought to know?"

"No. This is the strategy I worked out over the weekend. You don't
have to do anything with it, but I believe it's our best--our
only--shot at getting a conviction in Christine Stanley's murder."

"Can you at least give me a hint of what evidence Hoyt may be
holding?"

Laura thought for a second.

"It may consist of communications between James Stanley and Jim
Stanley. It may include a note in James Stanley's handwriting."

"I see," Meredith said, eyebrows lifted. She looked at her watch.

"You haven't given me a lot of time to make a decision," she
grumbled.

"I know. I'm sorry; I worked on it all weekend, and I was in here at
five o'clock this morning. I only finished the brief about an hour
ago, and I wasn't sure this would work until I had really combed
through the case law. I had to make sure that we were standing on
solid ground."

Meredith nodded.

"Understood. But I don't have time to review the brief now; we're due
in court in twenty minutes. And if we really are going to go into that
courtroom and drop the charges, I have to let Marshall know. This
could be a public relations nightmare, and he wouldn't take kindly to
being surprised by it."

"Does that mean you'll do it?"

Meredith paused for a moment, then stood up.

"Yes. I'm going to do it. I'll find Marshall right now." She picked
up the papers and started to leave the room.

"And, Laura--whatever you did, don't ever do it again."

Thirty minutes later. Judge Penfield gaveled the courtroom to order.
Meredith immediately rose and requested permission to approach the
bench. Laura and Craig Fannin joined her there.

Fannin looked puzzled; Laura just hoped that her face didn't betray her
anxiety. She held her hands behind her back and twisted them
compulsively.

"Your Honor," Meredith began, "the State moves at this time to dismiss
the charges against Mr. Stanley."
"What!" Fannin ejaculated.

"Quiet, Mr. Fannin. Mrs. Gaffney, would you be so kind as to tell
the Court why, at this late hour, you have come to this decision?"

"Yes, Your Honor. We have information which indicates that the
original indictment of the defendant was based on errors of fact."

"On perjured testimony, she means. Your Honor," Fannin said, barely
bothering to hide his anger.

Judge Penfield looked stern.

"Mr. Fannin, I expect no more outbursts from you. You will have a
chance to speak when I am satisfied that I understand this matter. Mrs.
Gaffney, if I may say so, this move smacks of desperation. I note
that when we adjourned last week, Mr. Fannin was on the point of
impeaching your key witness."

"Exactly, Your Honor. Our investigation also indicates that the
witness, Mr. Jim Stanley, has been ... less than truthful about his
involvement in this matter. That is why we wish to withdraw the
charges against the defendant at this time. While we continue to
maintain that the defendant was involved deeply involved in the murder
of his wife, we do not believe that the original indictment was based
on the true facts in the case."

"I see," the judge answered dryly.

"I suppose that the Court should be grateful that the error has been
discovered now. You seem to be intent on saving the Appeals Court some
tedious work."

"That is not my motive. Your Honor," Meredith said. Laura cringed; it
was she who had subjected Meredith to this withering sarcasm. Meredith
was taking it like a good soldier, though.

Judge Penfield turned to Fannin.

"Now, Mr. Fannin, you may speak. I'd be interested to know what's on
your mind."

"Your Honor, the defense moves that a directed verdict of 'not guilty'
be entered. We also wish to continue with our impeachment of the
witness. We believe that when Your Honor understands the extent of the
perjury committed in this courtroom by Mr. Jim Stanley, you will see
that the only possible outcome is a verdict of 'not guilty."

" Meredith respectfully rebutted Fannin's argument.

"Your Honor, the State disagrees. We will stipulate to the perjury,
but not to Mr. Fannin's logic. The fact that Mr. Jim Stanley
perjured himself does not prove that Mr. James Stanley is not guilty
of taking some part in the murder of his wife. In fact. Your Honor,
we hope to produce evidence very soon that James Stanley was in fact
the originator of the conspiracy to kill Christine Stanley.

Directing a verdict, as Your Honor knows, would invoke jeopardy, and in
this case, that would allow a murderer to go free. The State merely
wishes an opportunity to correct the underlying error in the original
indictment."

"The State merely wishes a second bite at the apple. Your Honor,"
Fannin remarked bitterly.

Judge Penfield sighed.

"This is a difficult decision, and, I'm afraid, one fraught with peril
for the Bench. I am prepared, how ever, to render a decision. Counsel
may return to their chairs."

Laura, Meredith, and Fannin did as instructed and returned to their
chairs. Judge Penfield rapped the gavel to quiet the buzz that had
broken out during the conference.

"There are two motions before the Court at this time, one to direct a
verdict of 'not guilty," and the other to dismiss the charges against
the defendant. There are strong arguments to be made for and against
both motions.

Defense counsel argues that the State has put his client in jeopardy,
and that a directed verdict is the only outcome that can be
satisfactory in the circumstances. While I see the rationality of his
argument, I do not necessarily agree with it in its entirety. The
State, on the other hand, wishes to dismiss the charges against the
defendant. If I were in the same position, I might do the same the
defense has shown that it can effectively impeach the prosecution's
chief witness, which would virtually destroy the State's case. The
question is whether the State deserves a chance to rectify what appears
to have been an honest error, that of accepting the false testimony of
a witness as true. There is no indication that the prosecution
suborned the perjury; in fact, the prosecutors seem to have been the
chief victims of the false testimony of the witness.

Therefore, the State's motion to dismiss the charges of murder and
conspiracy against the defendant is granted. Mr. Stanley, you are
free to go. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, the Court thanks you for
your service. The Court is adjourned."

There was a moment of stunned silence in the courtroom which then
erupted into clamor.

"That should keep the reporters busy," Meredith remarked.

"Are you going to make a statement?" Laura asked.
Meredith nodded.

"Marshall doesn't want to be involved unless he has to be."

"I'm going to try to get away then without talking to the press.

I'll meet you back at the office."

With Meredith as a sop to the reporters, Laura was able to leave the
courtroom unnoticed or almost unnoticed. As she headed for the stairs,
she heard someone calling her name. She turned and saw Lynette Connell
hurrying after her.

"Wait! I need to talk to you!" she said. Laura stopped and waited
for her.

"What is happening? Why did you drop the charges?" Lynette asked.

"We couldn't have won. Craig Fannin had us penned up, and he could
have gotten a not guilty verdict, either from the judge or from the
jury. And I we have reason to believe that we've been working under
the wrong set of assumptions all along, any way. Our whole case was
predicated on James returning to the house and killing Christine
himself."

"And that's not the way it happened?"

"No. It was Jim Stanley who did it with a lot of help from James."

"So, you're going to charge Jim Stanley?"

"Not exactly. He still has immunity, and it's going to be tough to get
around that. But we are going after some additional evidence which
will incriminate James. Look, I really have to get back to the office.
I'll explain everything later."

"But what am I supposed to say to my father?" Lynette said, beginning
to look angry.

"I left him back in that courtroom almost in a state of shock. He
can't take much more of this yanking around. Neither can I, for that
matter. This thing has been hanging over us for six months, and now
you tell me that you're going to drag it out even longer. I don't
think any of us can take it anymore. Why couldn't you have figured all
this out from the beginning?"

Lynette's anger might have been justified, but Laura, short on sleep
and battling anxiety herself, was in no mood to take it lying down.

"I'll try to forget you said that," she replied.

"But I don't think your father would have liked hearing what Jim's new
story was, either. If I hadn't stopped Fannin, he was going to put Jim
up there and have him give a new version of the murder conspiracy one
that involved you and Jesse DuPree. I think you'll find this outcome
preferable to being accused of your sister's murder in open court."

Lynette looked as if she had been struck.

"That's impossible I have an alibi! And Jesse does, too! No one would
believe that I ... that we ..."

"Wouldn't they? No one would have ever been able to prove that you did
it, but they wouldn't have been able to prove that you didn't, either.
You would have lived under a cloud of suspicion for the rest of your
life."

Lynette shook her head.

"That can't be. Jim Stanley can't just get on the stand and say
whatever he wants to!"

"Yes, he could, until we stopped him. This is why there are safeguards
against taking co-conspirator testimony, Lynette.

There are people out there and Jim is one of them who would say or do
anything to save their own skins. Now, if you'll excuse me, I really
do have a lot of work to do. You can tell your father that James has
only been reprieved temporarily. Tell him that I'm sorry for the
strain, but we're doing the best we can. We've had interference every
step of the way, but we're finally close to getting this thing sorted
out."

Lynette nodded.

"I'll tell him. But please promise to call me and keep me posted."

"I'll try, but this is going to be a hell of a week for me. I do
promise, though, you won't read it first in the papers. I'll call as
soon as I know anything for sure."

"Thank you," Lynette said, and she turned back toward the courtroom.
Laura ran down the steps as quickly as her pumps could carry her. It's
time, she thought, to fight the real enemy.
CHAPTER 33

Once Meredith committed to Laura's plan, the real work began.

A great deal had to happen in a very short time. Laura lived in fear
that Jim or Hoyt would destroy the tapes and the note, especially once
they learned that Candi would be appearing before the grand jury. There
could only be two reasons for Candi to appear: as Jim's alibi witness,
or as a witness to the existence of incriminating evidence. Laura
wanted there to be very little room between cup and lip, so to speak,
so she urged Meredith to schedule the grand jury hearing as soon as
possible--within the week, if it could be done.

It could be. Getting the grand jury hearing set up was a snap with the
district attorney, Marshall Oliver himself, clearing the decks for
action. Marshall was taking all the heat, just as Meredith had feared
he would, for the abrupt ending of the Stanley trial.

If he could have explained the prosecution's new strategy to the
reporters, he might have had an easier time of it, but he couldn't
reveal the strategy without crushing any chance it had of success.

Instead, he had to keep peddling the same story over and over:

New facts had come to light during the trial. It would be necessary to
examine all the facts and possibly to seek a new indictment. What new
facts? When will James Stanley be reindicted? They wanted to know,
but they couldn't be told. The sooner the grand jury could return a
bill of indictment, the better it would be for the district attorney's
office.

"It will all come to a head soon," Laura assured Meredith.

"Once we get Candi Shane down here and in front of the jury, I am
almost positive that things are going to happen." She kept her fingers
crossed when she said it, though.
The grand jury was scheduled to begin hearing evidence in the case on
the Thursday following the end of the aborted trial, which gave the
prosecution only two full days to subpoena Candi and get her to
Atlanta.

"We need to delay serving the subpoena until the last possible moment,"
Laura told Meredith. They were having a war council over cartons of
Chinese food in the office Monday night, with Randy Travers and Carlton
Hemingway in attendance.

"We don't want Candi turning to Jim or. God forbid, Hoyt for advice.
We just need to convince her that there's no harm in coming down here
to answer a few questions."

"But we don't want to deny her the right to counsel, do we?"

Meredith said.

"Of course not! But I think it would be helpful if someone pointed out
to her that she's not a suspect. Someone needs to get it through her
air head, too, that Charlie Hoyt does not have her best interests at
heart."

"And who's going to do that?" Meredith asked.

"I thought," Laura said, sneaking a glance at Carlton, who was
abstracting a shrimp from one of the containers, "that Carlton would be
the best person to go."

"Me?" he said.

"I'm no lawyer."

"That's just the point. She knows me, and I don't think she trusts me.
Trying to serve that search warrant on her may have been a mistake, in
hindsight. But she's only met you once, that day we were in Jim's
office. She'll be more likely to trust you.

Besides, a cop is an authority figure. No one respects a lawyer, but
you can work miracles with that badge of yours. Not to mention your
personal charm."

Carlton objected strenuously, but in the end they agreed that he would
go to Winston-Salem on Wednesday morning, with subpoena in hand, to
fetch Candi personally.

"If she seems reluctant," Laura instructed him, "just remind her what
the penalty for contempt of the grand jury is."

"What is the penalty for contempt of the grand jury?" Carlton asked.

"Twenty days," Meredith answered.

"She'd also be liable for obstruction charges, which could get her a
year. And that's a felony, which carries an onus of its own."
"You wouldn't really lock up that poor kid, would you?" Carlton
asked.

Meredith shrugged.

"Everyone's equal under the law, lying scumbags and poor kids alike."

"But I think she'll come right along when you lay out the picture for
her," Laura added hastily.

"What do I do if she says she wants a lawyer?" Carlton asked, still
seeming reluctant to take on the assignment.

"First, point out that Hoyt has a conflict. He can't ethically
represent her. She needs someone down here anyway. She's not entitled
to a public defender, but there's a legal aid co-op that all the
associates from the big firms participate in. I used to be on the
board. They can help her. I'll give you their number, but specify
that no one who knows me can take the case."

"Okay, but what if she calls Jim?" Randy asked.

"Oh, she will call Jim--you can bet on it. He can't talk her out of
coming, because once we serve that subpoena, she's got a date with the
grand jury, come hell or high water. But he can tell her what to say.
Just stick close to her. He'll try to get her to take the Fifth, or
some nonsense. But the only way he can stop her from testifying--or
going to jail--is to marry her," Laura said with a smile.

"Or kill her," Randy said dryly.

"Don't even joke about that!" Laura exclaimed.

"Why don't we offer her immunity?" Meredith suggested.

Laura blanched.

"Limited immunity," Meredith amended.

"I think I've done my last transactional immunity deal for a while.
Hook her up with some eager young lawyer, Carlton, and tell him we'll
cut a deal for his new client."

"I think that's a good idea. It should convince her even if nothing
else does," Laura said. She hadn't dared suggest immunity herself, but
she was relieved that Meredith had.

"Okay, then," Randy said, looking at his watch.

"Sounds like we're all set. And I hope this is the last trip to North
Carolina I'm going to have to explain to the bean-counters."

As Tuesday and Wednesday rolled slowly by, Laura found that she had
planned everything so well that she had almost nothing to do--nothing
related to the Christine Stanley murder, at least. She dug out some
overdue reports and tried to work diligently, but she spent all day
Wednesday with one eye on the phone, afraid to go to the restroom in
case Carlton should call.

Finally, at about one o'clock, her phone rang.

"It's me," Carlton said.

"I've got her."

"Where are you?"

"I'm in my car, with Candi, outside Stanley's office. I came here
first, and waited for him to leave for lunch. She was a little
reluctant to come with me." Laura could hear muffled sobbing in the
background.

"I thought you could talk to her." There was a note of desperation in
his voice.

"Give her to me," Laura said.

"Candi? This is Laura Chastain.

We've met before. Do you remember me?"

"Yes," a tear-soaked voice replied.

"Do you understand the paper Detective Hemingway has given you?"

"I think so," Candi snuffled.

"You don't have a choice in this matter, Candi. You have to come back
to Atlanta with Detective Hemingway. We'll pay all your expenses and
put you in a nice hotel. But you have to come."

"I want to talk to Jimmy first."

"Nothing Jim says can change the fact that you have to come," Laura
replied sternly.

"But he'll call Mr. Hoyt ..." Candi objected.

"Candi, let me explain something. You have been called in front of the
grand jury, not Jim. You have a legal problem that is entirely
separate from his. Mr. Hoyt cannot ethically help you, because he has
to take care of Jim's interests which are not the same as yours. But
if you come down here, we'll hook you up with a good Georgia lawyer who
won't charge you a dime. He'll only have you and your interests to
worry about, and he'll give you the best advice in the world. I
wouldn't dream of questioning you without a lawyer, Candi. How does
that sound?"

"Okay, I guess," the little voice conceded.

"Then why don't you and the detective go on to the airport and come
down here? We can meet as soon as you get here."

"I have to tell Jimmy ..."

"Run in and leave a note for him," Laura suggested, anxious to get
Candi away from the office before Jim returned.

"Now let me speak to the detective again."

"Yes?" Carlton said.
"It's a done deal. Get her out of there quickly. Did you line up a
lawyer for her?"

"Yes. Some guy named Michael Barrett. He's agreed to meet us at your
office at five."

Laura's conscience was somewhat assuaged by the offer of an impartial
attorney. She just hoped that the unknown Michael Barrett wouldn't be
an eager-beaver, Atticus-Finch-wannabe type who would give her a lot of
trouble. She knew, though, as soon as she saw him, that she could
handle him. He was tall and gawky, with Coke-bottle glasses and
idealism written all over his face.

He was no match for a lawyer trained by Tom Bailey. Laura played
gracious hostess for about two minutes, then went into full
attack-lawyer mode. She made Candi cry; Barrett held up a little
better, but in the end, they agreed that Candi would appear in front of
the grand jury the following morning and tell everything she knew about
Jim's communications with James Stanley.

Laura had arranged for a typist to stay late and take down Candi's
statement, which she delivered haltingly, looking to Laura and Barrett
for approval as she spoke.

My name is Candi Shane. I live in Winston-Salem, North Carolina. I
work as a secretary at First Statewide Mortgage. My boss is Jim
Stanley--James Thomas Stanley. I have worked for Mr. Stanley for
about two years. I do all kinds of work for Jim-Mr. Stanley. I type
and file and do the bills. I also answer the phone and make his travel
reservations and all that. Mr. Stanley has an answering system on the
office phone that also works kind of like a tape recorder. I know that
he records some calls, because every once in a while he asked me to get
new tapes. One day about I guess four or five months ago he asked me
to transcribe some conversations he had recorded. I think it was in
June. There were about four tapes, all full. It was about twenty
pages all typed up.

They were all conversations with this one man whose name was also James
Stanley, but he called himself James, not Jim. At first, when I was
typing, I didn't know what they were talking about.

It was all about going to some hotel, and Jim going to Atlanta to do
something. It was very confusing. Then Jim started talking about a
gun, and they started talking about money. I knew than that they were
planning something bad. I knew that some police from Atlanta had come
up to Winston-Salem, and this James Stanley lived in Atlanta, so I
knew that they had done something in Atlanta. Anyway, I can't remember
all the specific details, but it was something like Jim was supposed to
go to this hotel and pretend to be James Stanley, but he was really
going to Atlanta. James was going to pay him five thousand dollars, so
I knew they must be talking about something real bad. I didn't tell
anybody, though, because Jim and I ... we were living together by this
time.

Candi was crying again as she reached this stage of her narrative;

they had to stop several times to let her recover her composure.

He was getting divorced and he was going to marry me. Jim is a really
wonderful person; you just have to know him. I know he had a lot of
trouble with money, and his wife never understood him. He said she was
obsessed with status, and Jim just isn't that kind of guy. He's real
down to earth. Anyway, I typed all these things, but I knew that Jim
never could have killed anybody. I asked him what he wanted me to do
with them, and he said to send them to Charlie Hoyt, who is Jim's
lawyer. So I did. And I also sent a note that Jim gave me. It didn't
have a signature on it, but it was something about a burglar alarm. I
sent it all to Mr. Hoyt.

Jim told me later, when he had to come to Atlanta to testify in the
trial, that James Stanley had killed his wife and that he had tried to
get Jim to help him. Jim said that he didn't do anything wrong, but
his conscience bothered him so much that he had to turn James in and
testify against him. He said that he had sent all that stuff to Mr.
Hoyt as a safeguard, like if James Stanley accused him or something. I
didn't think the tapes were important, because Jim said he had told the
police everything he knew. Jim told me to tell anybody who asked that
we had spent the night together on May 8, which we did not because he
was still living with his wife then.

That's really all I know about it.

When the statement was sworn and signed, Laura could revert to being a
well-mannered Southern girl once again.

"Thank you, Candi," she said sincerely.

"You've been a great help to us. I'm sure you're tired and hungry
after all that talking. We've made a reservation for you at a nice
hotel near here. There are a lot of
nice restaurants, too. Detective Hemingway and I would be happy to
take you and Mr. Barrett out to dinner."

Candi's eyes lit up.

"They have a Hard Rock down here, don't they?"

Laura's heart sank, and Carlton rolled his eyes. Even Barrett looked
appalled.

"Of course we do! Atlanta has everything! And I'd just love to go to
the Hard Rock," she lied. She prayed that the line would be short on
this chilly weekday evening. Laura could handle all sorts of
challenges, but the thought of being spotted by anyone she knew while
standing in line to get into the Hard Rock Cafe made her toes curl. One
of Tom Bailey's time-tested maxims, however, was do whatever it takes,
so they set out for the hotel to check Candi in, and thence to the
restaurant.

Maybe it was because victory was in sight, or maybe Laura was just
goofy with exhaustion, but she really enjoyed dinner.

Candi was a sweet kid, and Michael Barrett was bright and funny when he
relaxed. Even Carlton unbent and had a good time, or at least he
seemed to. Laura hated to break up the party by reminding Candi that
she needed to be at the courthouse at eight the next morning.

"I have a couple of witnesses to present ahead of her," Laura assured
Barrett, "but it won't take long. She'll be on a plane home by
tomorrow afternoon."

By skillfully presenting all of the background testimony through Randy
Travers alone, and skipping motive witnesses, Laura was able to keep
her promise to let Candi go home Thursday afternoon.

In fact, Candi finished testifying before the grand jury requested a
lunch break. There was only one hitch: Although she testified to the
existence of the tapes, the transcript, and the handwritten note, and
to the fact that Hoyt knew about them, Candi adamantly and tearfully
insisted that Jim could not have committed the murder.

When Laura gently reminded her that he had asked Candi to provide him
with an alibi for the night of Christine's murder, Candi broke down and
cried.

"I... I was with him! I just said I wasn't because I didn't want his
wife to find out that we were in love before he left her. She'll use
that against Jim in the divorce." Laura couldn't budge her, and she
didn't think it worthwhile to threaten the poor thing with the penalty
for perjury. She had what she needed.

After Candi had been packed off to the airport, Laura dropped a dime
and set the process-server she had hired in Winston Salem into action.
He was instructed to serve the subpoena duces tecum on Charlie Hoyt at
Hoyt's offices if possible. Laura expected a fight, so she notified
the grand jury clerk that she would not be able to present her next
witness for a few days. Then she settled in to wait for the storm to
break.

She didn't have to wait long. At five o'clock, as she was getting
ready to go home, Cheryl buzzed through to announce that there was a
man in the lobby asking for her. Laura didn't need to ask what his
name was.

"Mr. Hoyt!" she said in delighted tones as she approached him, hand
outstretched in a welcoming gesture.

"You certainly got here quickly!"

Hoyt ignored her greeting.

"What kind of a game are you playing. Miss Chastain? I'm going to
have you up on charges for harassment."

"I hope not, Mr. Hoyt. Shall we continue our discussion in the
conference room?"

Hoyt followed her into the small room, still glowering. He angrily
refused Laura's offer of a Coke or a cup of coffee.

"I'm not here to socialize with you. What is the meaning of this sub
poena?" he asked, producing the paper from his briefcase.

"Where did you go to law school. Miss Chastain?"

"University of Virginia."

"Didn't they teach you about privilege there?"

"Of course they did, but they also taught me about obstruction of
justice. Mr. Hoyt, I'll cut right to the chase: I have testimony that
you are in possession of certain documents given to you by Jim Stanley
which are evidence in the murder of Christine Stanley.

I want those documents. If you turn them over to me as you should have
done months ago you needn't appear before the grand jury. If you
don't, however, I will pursue the maximum civil and criminal penalties
against you."

"Never threaten a man who knows your gun is unloaded. Miss Chastain.
Jim Stanley has an immunity deal which you cannot circumvent. Any
evidence against him is utterly useless to you, and you know it."

"I'm not after Jim or I should say, I'm not only after Jim."

"Regardless, your tactics smack of desperation. I can have this
subpoena quashed before noon tomorrow."

"Will you? I don't think so. Here's a brief I've written on the topic
of attorney-client privilege in the great State of Georgia. Pay
particular attention to the Court's comments in Johnson v. State.

I think you'll find that the situation here is very similar. Defense
attorneys cannot extend privilege to evidence which is not inherently
privileged. I also draw your attention to Shelton v. State, which
establishes that a lawyer is expected to withdraw if he knows that his
client is lying."

Hoyt tossed the brief back across the table at her.

"I have no interest in your attempts to impress me. Miss Chastain.
Your action is illegitimate at its heart. My communications with Jim
Stanley are protected by the highest form of privilege our system
recognizes."

"Okay, then, if you insist in going down with the ship, I'll indict
you," Laura said, "for obstruction of justice, contempt of court, and
anything else I can think of. As a matter of fact, I believe that your
actions define accessory after the fact in the murder of Christine
Stanley. You have been shielding a murderer, Mr. Hoyt, and I will not
have it." Laura rose from her seat as she spoke and leaned on her
hands across the table.

"What's your evidence? The testimony of Stanley's secretary?

That's hearsay."

"That's eyewitness testimony, Mr. Hoyt. Candi Shane heard those
tapes, and typed transcripts of them. And she's testified that a note
in James Stanley's handwriting exists, containing details of the murder
plot."

Hoyt snorted.

"The tapes and the transcripts of them are inadmissible. Jim Stanley
did not have James Stanley's permission to record their conversations.
As for any note. Miss Shane doesn't know James Stanley's handwriting.
She doesn't know who wrote the note, or why if such a note even
exists."

"She does know who wrote it, and why. And if that note no longer
exists, I will see that you serve the maximum sentence for obstruction
of justice and tampering with evidence, which is a felony in Georgia
even if you North Carolina lawyers don't take it seriously. You can
give me the documents I'm seeking, Mr.

Hoyt, or I will have a search warrant executed on your business
premises. I will have the cops go through every phone message, memo,
birthday card, and used tissue in your office. Is that what you
want?"

"I've quashed one of your search warrants. Miss Chastain, and I
believe I have it in me to quash many more. This is all sound and
fury and, I might add, a waste of my time. I have already drafted a
motion to suppress this ludicrous subpoena, which I will present to the
Superior Court first thing in the morning."

"If you want to fight, I'm game," Laura said.

"I'll offer you an easy way out one last time: Simply hand over the
transcripts, the tapes, and the notes, and you'll be on your way."

"My answer is no. Miss Chastain. I'll see you in the morning."

Hoyt rose, nodded curtly at her, and left.

Laura sank back into her chair, heart pounding and mouth dry. Charlie
Hoyt was a damn fortress of a lawyer. If she hadn't been so angry
about his shenanigans she would have admired his style. She picked up
the phone and buzzed Meredith's office.

"Boss?" she said.

"Hoyt was just here. It's war."

"Better go home and get a good night's rest, then. I'll meet you here
at seven."

"Right-o." Laura packed up her things with a familiar sense of
exhilaration that she hadn't felt in a long, long time, not since she
and Tom were fighting side by side in a courtroom. Oh, God, I wish he
could see me now, she thought. / think he'd be proud.
CHAPTER 34

Laura and Charlie Hoyt met again in Judge Byron Copeland's chambers
Friday morning. Meredith declined to attend.

"I

think you can handle it," she said, and in so doing she gave Laura all
the confidence she needed to go against a dozen Hoyts. They observed
all the proprieties in the meeting, of course--their sentences were
grammatical, their arguments were erudite, and they were scrupulously,
if edgily, polite at all times. Below the surface, though, the
dynamics of the meeting were similar to a sandbox brawl between two
determined four-year-olds.

Judge Copeland was a patient man, and one of few words. He set the
ball rolling and then sat back and listened as the two lawyers thrashed
it out in front of him. Once the basic facts were on the table, the
real arguing began with Laura.

"Your Honor, Mr. Hoyt cites privilege with respect to his
communications with his client as sufficient reason for quashing this
subpoena. I am not challenging that privilege, as my subpoena clearly
indicates.

I am seeking only documents, tapes, and other evidence of
communications between Mr. Hoyt's client and James Stanley.
Communications between Mr. Hoyt and his client will remain a closed
book."

"Your Honor," Hoyt rejoined, "it is a shame Miss Chastain forgot to put
on her hip waders this morning, because she is surely on a fishing
expedition." Laura noticed and deplored Hoyt's tendency to get a
little folksy when he was in front of a judge. He'd probably sound
like Goober Pyle in front of a jury.

"My correspondence with my clients--all my correspondence-is
privileged. This subpoena is a poorly disguised attempt to probe for
evidence in an area clearly off-limits to the prosecution. In fact,
she has only her own wishful thinking as a basis for asserting that
this so-called 'evidence' exists."

"That's right," Laura said sarcastically. "} have no basis for this
subpoena at all, except for a sworn statement from his client's
secretary. Your Honor. She saw the documents referred to in the
subpoena. She testified that it was she who sent them to Mr. Hoyt, in
fact."

"Miss Shane acted merely as a conduit for communication between my
client and me. It's like subpoenaing the postman to get access to a
letter he delivered. Your Honor."

"It is nothing like that. Miss Shane didn't just lick a stamp she
typed transcripts of conversation between his client and a suspect in
the murder of Christine Stanley, conversations that contained details
of a murder plot. Mr. Hoyt is blatantly disregarding the rules."

"Miss Chastain raises an interesting point. Your Honor: part of the
evidence she seeks consists of transcripts of telephone conversations
that my client made without the consent of James Stanley, the other
party. I can't think of any circumstances under which those tapes, or
transcripts of them, would be admissible."

"That may be. Your Honor, but the transcripts are not the only
evidence we are seeking," Laura countered.

"There is also a note in the handwriting of our chief suspect, James
Stanley, which contains incriminating details of the murder plot. That
is admissible, and it can't be privileged, because it's not a
communication between Mr. Hoyt and his client."

"All communications between me and my client are privileged," Hoyt
maintained.

"If he mailed you the murder weapon, would you argue that was
privileged?" Laura asked in frustration.

"Certainly not," Hoyt said.

"I would readily turn over any actual evidence of a crime, if I
possessed any. I can assure the Court that I do not."

"Is there a note, Mr. Hoyt?" Judge Copeland asked wearily.

"There is a scrap of paper which I wouldn't call a note. I have no
idea who wrote it," Hoyt said smugly.

"Candi Shane knows who wrote it she can identify it," Laura argued.

"I'm not relying on Mr. Hoyt's expertise as a handwriting analyst. I'd
be happy to have the note examined by forensic experts."
"Candi Shane's testimony is irrelevant. Your Honor, and it should be
stricken from the record."

"Are you so moving, Mr. Hoyt?" the judge asked.

"I am. Your Honor."

"On what basis?"

"That which I stated earlier--that Miss Shane merely prepared
communications from my client to me. Her presence in the chain of
custody cannot be used to break privilege."

"Your Honor, that is outrageous. His client was indiscreet enough to
rely on his secretary to keep silent about a crime. By no stretch of
the imagination is her knowledge covered by attorney-client privilege,
and the last time I looked there was no secretary-client privilege.

She was fair game. Your Honor."

"Perhaps if Miss Shane had been allowed to seek legal counsel, Miss
Chastain would not be in a position to make that argument to you. Your
Honor," Hoyt said.

"Miss Shane was given access to counsel, and it was on his advice that
she made her statement."

"Legal counsel handpicked by the prosecution. Your Honor," Hoyt
interjected.

"Your Honor, I had nothing to do with the selection of counsel, beyond
referring Miss Shane to a legal aid cooperative."

"A co-operative on whose board Miss Chastain serves."

"Your Honor, I resent Mr. Hoyt's implication. I resigned from that
board when I accepted a job with the district attorney's office because
it was a conflict. I have had nothing to do with the organization for
nearly a year!"

At this point Judge Copeland had heard enough. He rapped his knuckles
on his desk.

"Enough! This isn't the Jerry Springer Show. I have briefs from both
of you, and I think I've heard enough of your oral arguments. I'll
take some time to review the briefs, and I'll render my decision later
today. Please be back in my chambers at four o'clock."

"Thank you. Your Honor," both lawyers said in chorus as the tension in
the room dissipated. They left the room together. In the hall, Hoyt
looked frowningly at his watch. It was only eleven o'clock, and
somehow he would have to fill the next five hours with activity away
from his office. Laura felt in the mood to make a gracious,
sportsmanlike gesture.

"Can I buy you lunch, Mr.

Hoyt?" she asked.
He looked surprised, as she expected he would.

"No," he replied abruptly.

"I have phone calls to make." His tone implied that lunch was a
frivolous distraction for those weak enough to get hungry in the middle
of a workday.

"Suit yourself," Laura said. She was growing accustomed to Hoyt's
machinelike composure. He wasn't really rude; he was just ... not
quite human. He gave Laura a curt nod and turned away from her.

"Mr. Hoyt!" Laura called after him. It never occurred to her to call
him Charlie. He turned and looked at her suspiciously, possibly afraid
that she was going to suggest some other foolish waste of time, like a
cup of coffee.

"Where are you staying? If the judge reaches his decision early, I'll
need to get in touch with you."

"Oh," he said, relieved.

"I'm at the Hyatt at Peach tree Center."

"Thank you," Laura said, and this time she managed to turn away first.
What an odd man, she reflected as she reached the street outside the
courthouse. She had noticed that he didn't wear a wedding ring. He's
the type they always say is "married to the law."

Well, at least the law can't divorce him and take half his property.

Laura sought Meredith as soon as she reached the office, and gave her a
blow-by-blow description of the meeting in chambers.

"No decision yet," she concluded, "but I feel pretty good about it.
Hoyt was really stretching, and he's not on his home turf this time."

"Keep me posted," Meredith said. She looked at her watch.

"I'm hungry. Do you have plans for lunch?"

"I was just going to run downstairs and get a sandwich. I didn't want
to be away from my desk if Judge Copeland's clerk calls."

"Forward your calls to your cell phone, and let's go eat."

It was one of the last really nice fall days, with just a hint of
winter in the air, so they decided to take their sandwiches outside for
what might be the last time for months. They were just finishing when
Laura's phone rang. It was Randy Travers.

"Bad news, kid," he said.

"Candi Shane is dead."

Laura reeled.

"How? When... ? Oh, my God," she said, picturing a plane crash, a car
accident.

"It looks like murder," Randy said.

"Oh, no," Laura moaned.
"What is it?" Meredith asked. Laura told her hastily, not wanting to
miss anything Randy was saying, and yet not wanting to hear it,
either.

"She was battered and strangled," he was saying.

"Strangulation was probably the cause of death. I got a call from
Lieutenant Barber up there in Winston-Salem. A neighbor found her dead
this morning. It must have happened late last night the neighbors on
both sides heard people arguing around eleven, a man and a woman. They
said it sounded like he was thumping on her pretty good, but of course
no one thought to call the police. Anyway, the girl who lives two
apartments down noticed that Candi's door was open this morning as she
passed. She checked it out, and found her. She's the one who reported
it."

"Where is Jim?" Laura asked.

"Gone. They put out an APB on him right away, and they found his car
in the parking lot at the Raleigh-Durham airport.

They're trying to figure out if he really got on a plane or if he just
ditched the car to throw them off."

"What do you think?"

"I think he probably took a flight, probably to someplace with
connections to Miami, or Texas, even California. There aren't a whole
lot of flights out of Raleigh to check, but if he went to Atlanta or
some other big hub, it could take a while to trace him.

That's assuming he's traveling under his own name, of course. If he's
not, it will take even longer, and in all likelihood he'll slip
through."

"He couldn't have faked an ID that quickly, could he?"

"He could at least have gotten a fake driver's license, if he knew the
right people. Remember, he's done some jail time, so he knows a bit
about the seamy side of town. They're checking his bank accounts to
see if he withdrew a large sum of money.

He could hide his tracks for a while, maybe long enough to get out of
the country, if he's smart enough."

"He's smart enough," Laura said grimly.

"But why kill Candi?

He had to know he'd be the only suspect!"

"He wasn't divorced yet. Otherwise, I think he would have done just
what you said married her to keep her from testifying.

As it was, this must have seemed like his only option."

Laura remembered with some pain the joke she had made just a few nights
earlier. She hadn't been serious, and neither had Randy when he
suggested that Jim could kill Candi. Neither of them thought that he
was capable of that. Laura had never intended to put Candi in harm's
way; if she thought for one minute that she had been, she would have
taken precautions-kept her in Atlanta, sent her anywhere but back to
Winston Salem back to Jim. But Laura was foolish to have forgotten
Jim's history of violence--his abuse of his wife, and especially his
cold-blooded willingness to kill Christine Stanley for a few thousand
dollars.

That made him by definition a psychopath--remorseless, without a
conscience. She should have known, she should have known.

Meredith was asking questions, and Randy said he needed to go, so Laura
hung up and told Meredith as best she could what had happened.

"It was Jim. I have no doubt about that. He's fled, and there's a
national alert for him, but Randy thinks he may already have made it
out of the country."

"It's not your fault, Laura," Meredith said, anticipating her
assistant's reaction to the news.

"I should have kept her down here," Laura said.

"It would have been so easy to do!"

"And Jim would have found her and killed her down here."

"She didn't want to testify against him," Laura said.

"She had to. And it was she who should have been more careful,"
Meredith added remorselessly.

"For God's sake, Laura, we're talking about a girl who typed up
transcripts of a murder plot and never breathed a word about it to
anyone. She could have quit her job--a person with a normal sense of
conscience and duty would have gone to the police. She should have
realized long before it came to this that Jim was trouble for her. But
she let him move in with her, knowing what she did! You can't take
responsibility for people who take foolish risks."

Laura nodded. On the surface, she could appreciate what Meredith was
saying. But Meredith didn't have a mental picture, as Laura did, of a
happy Candi running amok with her credit card in the Hard Rock Cafe
boutique.
CHAPTER 35

T should call Hoyt, Laura thought. She was still numb with shock,
-Lbut she knew that Hoyt ought to be told. She didn't feel any sense
of triumph or vindication at the prospect of proving to Hoyt once and
for all that he had a violent and conscienceless criminal for a client.
Instead, Laura felt a little sorry for Hoyt. Even an aggressive
defense attorney likes to keep the respect of the community, and there
was little chance that Hoyt would escape public censure when all the
facts were known.

He was staying at the Hyatt; she found a phone book and looked up the
number. She asked for his room, but there was no answer.

"Would you care to leave a message?" the operator asked.

"Yes," Laura said. Then she thought better of it. This was not the
kind of message that could be left on voice mail.

"No, thank you," she said, and she hung up.

Maybe he had gone out for lunch after all. If so, he would probably be
in or near the hotel. Laura knew that, with Candi on her mind, there
was little chance of her doing any substantial work, so he made a quick
and possibly illogical decision. I'll go to the hotel and look for
him. He should hear this in person. She tidied her desk, packed her
briefcase, and headed for Meredith's office.

"I'm going to find Charlie Hoyt before time for our meeting with the
judge," she announced.

"I think he should be in full possession of the facts before he goes
into the meeting."

"Do what you think is best," Meredith said.

"Just keep me informed."

"I will. But I probably won't be back in today." She grabbed her coat
and left the building.

Peach tree Center lay just to the north of the heart of downtown
Atlanta, a cluster of dull-beige office towers spiked with hulking
hotels. Laura didn't like the Hyatt, one of those atrium hotels that
tried to create an "experience" indoors with no reference to the city
outside it. And it had a ghastly blue glass dome on the roof that
contained a revolving restaurant. Laura had never voluntarily set foot
in the place. She did like the Peach tree Center MARTA station,
however. It was an engineering marvel, a manmade cave blasted out of
the deep gray granite that was the bedrock on which Georgia lay, more
wildly beautiful than any station that the Paris Metro had to offer.
The temptation of walking through its mountain-king vastness convinced
Laura to leave her car down town and take the train. Fifteen minutes
later, after ascending to the street on one of the longest escalators
in the world, she entered the Hyatt.

Her first step was to find a house phone and call Hoyt's room again. He
easily could have returned in the time it had taken her to get there.
But she got the same repeated ringing, and the same offer to take a
message. She declined once again and set off walking through the
echoing lobby with the intention of looking into all the public bars
and restaurants in the hotel. There were a variety of choices, so she
started with the coffee shop. Hoyt seemed like a coffee-shop guy. She
certainly didn't expect to find him in the revolving restaurant, and
she didn't think there was much chance that he was seated on a barstool
enjoying a midday tipple, either.

He wasn't in the coffee shop, and he wasn't in either of the fancier
restaurants the hotel boasted. The bars were virtually deserted, so
she quickly eliminated them. She was on the point of returning and
trying the phone again when she thought of the gym. Hoyt might be the
type to take advantage of a day away from the office to sweat off a few
calories. It was worth a try anyway. She approached the concierge's
desk and started to ask where the gym was located. Then, out of the
corner of her eye, she saw a man who resembled Hoyt, far across the
huge lobby.

He was in his shirtsleeves. Laura was surprised that he would appear
in public with his clothes less than perfectly ordered, but there was
something in the man's bearing that convinced her it was indeed Hoyt.

"Never mind," she started to say to the concierge when she noticed that
there was someone with Hoyt, standing close alongside him unnaturally
close. The two men were crossing the lobby, and as they turned to
avoid a huge planter, she caught a glimpse of their faces. She froze in
shock for just a split second before turning back to the baffled
concierge.

"Call 911, now! Tell them there's a kidnapping in progress. Then call
the Atlanta Police Department and ask for Homicide. Ask for Randy
Travers, and tell them it's an emergency. Give him this message: Jim
has Charlie Hoyt. Got it?"

The concierge nodded and proved that he was good for more than getting
tickets to Miss Saigon.

"Call 911," he repeated.

"Kid napping in progress. Call Atlanta Police Department Homicide and
tell Randy Travers that Jim has Charlie Hoyt."

"Great. Now one more thing. See those two men?" She indicated Jim
and Hoyt, now approaching an escalator.

He nodded again.

"Where are they heading?" Laura asked.

"That's the escalator that leads down to the parking garage," he
said.

"Tell the cops that, too," she said as she hurried away across the
lobby.

By the time she reached the head of the escalator, Jim and Hoyt had
disappeared. She ran unhesitatingly down the moving stairs.

At the bottom she took a moment to look around. Signs pointed to
various meeting rooms along a corridor directly in front of her, but
another sign pointed to the garage, behind her and to the left.

She chose that direction. He must be trying to take him away, she
thought. But why? She knew only one thing for sure: Charlie was not
accompanying Jim willingly. There had been only a brief moment in
which she had seen his face, but she could tell, even at a distance,
that he was frightened. Hoyt was a hostage. Dear God, that must be
it. He's going to try to get away using Hoyt as a shield. She reached
the glass door that led to the parking deck, and looked through it
before she pushed it open. At first she saw no sign of the two men.
Then she saw two pairs of legs ascending a ramp on the far side of the
garage. She plunged through the door, across the sidewalk, and almost
ran into an oncoming car, but she didn't stop.

Laura was following Jim and Hoyt on instinct. There was nothing she
could do to overpower Jim, her common sense told her she had no weapon,
and she didn't know if he was armed or not.

Still, she didn't want them to get out of sight. She was keeping the
two sets of legs in sight from a safe distance as they walked up the
ramps of the parking garage. They were walking fast, though, and she
was hampered by her skirt, a narrow midcalf thing. Her modestly heeled
pumps weren't helping things, either.

She couldn't do anything about the skirt, but she slipped off the shoes
and left them. She could at least make quieter progress without
them.

Up and up they went, in silence. Laura strained to hear Jim or Hoyt's
voice, and she strained to hear sirens. She heard nothing.

The awful possibility crossed her mind that the concierge had thought
she was a nut, and that he had been humoring her. Maybe he hadn't
called the police at all. No, no of course the police were on the way,
and Randy would get her message and understand it.

But in the meantime, they were running out of garage.

Jim and Hoyt had stopped walking now. They were on the top level of
the parking deck. Laura hid herself behind a concrete pillar and
cautiously peered around it to see what was happening.

They were on the far side of the flat-top deck, in the bright fall
sunshine, about five stories from the ground. There was a light breeze
blowing. Jim appeared to be talking to Hoyt, but they were too far
away from Laura to hear what was being said. He was gesticulating
frantically, and every so often he would shove Hoyt, not hard enough to
hurt him, but as if he was trying to emphasize a point. Laura still
couldn't tell if Jim was armed; his right hand was hidden from her
view, and he was keeping it tucked in close to his body. He could have
a gun, she thought. That would explain why Hoyt had left the hotel
with him without any apparent struggle.

They were moving again now; Jim was forcing Hoyt backward to the rail
of the deck. Jim turned and Laura saw that he did have a gun, a small,
snub-nosed thing. Suddenly, with Hoyt's back against the deck rail,
Jim swung the gun at him. Laura couldn't hear the impact, but Hoyt's
head snapped back and his hands flew to his face. He staggered forward
blindly, obviously in pain, and Laura's heart leapt with fear for him.
Where are the cops, dammit?

Jim was pushing Hoyt, who was still bent double, back against the rail.
He gestured with the gun, instructing Hoyt to do some thing. Hoyt
slowly raised his head and shook it. Jim cocked back his arm and hit
him again, hard, with the pistol. This time, Hoyt fell to the
ground.
"Stop! Stop it!" she screamed, unable to bear it any longer.

She ran across the concrete deck as Jim spun around and saw her. He
pointed the gun at her, and she pulled up about twenty feet from him.

"The police have been called, Jim. This will do you no good. Let
Charlie go let him walk to me, and we'll leave you. You'll have a
chance to get away."

"Shut up and get over here with him," Jim ordered.

Laura assessed her position. She had no way of knowing if Jim was a
good shot, but she didn't care to find out the hard way.

There were few cars parked on this level of the deck, but there was one
to her right. Would it be worth the risk of making a dash for it?

Yes, she decided. As Jim leveled the gun in her direction, she saw
that Hoyt was crawling toward him. If she could distract Jim, and get
him a little off balance, Charlie might be able to tackle him. She
hoped that Charlie was thinking along the same lines as she took a deep
breath and lunged to her right, seeking the shelter of a minivan.

She heard the gun go off and a second later the air was filled with
screaming sirens and squealing tires. A patrol car screeched to a halt
to Laura's left and two armed cops leapt out.

"Get down!

Get down!" they shouted to her.

"Help him!" she screamed, frantic with fear for Charlie. She ignored
the officer's orders and ran to the front of the van where she could
see. Jim had dragged Charlie, whose face was covered with blood, to
his feet and was holding the gun to his head. The cops were trying to
talk to him, but Jim was screaming incoherently. Hoyt was stoically
calm and perfectly still in Jim's grasp, but it was clear that neither
of the policemen was going to be able to get off a shot at Jim without
hurting Charlie. Then Laura saw the sharpshooters taking their places
at the windows of a neighboring building. She prayed that Jim hadn't
noticed them;

he was screaming and cursing, threatening to kill Hoyt. Laura drew a
deep breath.

"Jim!" she shouted.

"Shut up, lady!" one of the cops growled.

"No! Let me talk to him! Jim, you don't have to do this! Let Charlie
go. I can make a deal for you I can get you safe passage out of the
country."

"I don't want to listen to you!" Jim screamed.
"You bitch! You bitch! Look what you've done to me! Look at what
you've done!

You stupid bitch, you ruined everything. I should kill you!"

"Do it, then," Laura said, stepping into full view of him.

"Go ahead and shoot. You won't live long enough to enjoy it. Just let
Hoyt go and you can have me."

"Shut up and get behind the goddam car!" the cop ordered.

"No," Laura said.

"Let me talk to him. Jim, I can help you.

We can work this out." Laura took a cautious step toward Jim, and
watched Hoyt. As she moved, Jim relaxed his grip on Charlie.

Did he notice? Laura was taking account of Jim's position relative to
Charlie; Charlie was bigger than Jim, and Jim's grip on his hostage was
awkward. If Jim allowed a little room to open between them, Hoyt would
have sufficient leverage to throw him off-balance again. Watch me,
Charlie, she said to herself, concentrating as hard as she could. Watch
me and make your move when I do. She could only pray that he would do
it.

She took another step, and as she did, Charlie spun out of Jim's grasp.
A shot, then two, then a dozen cracked the air, and then there was
silence. Jim lay on the concrete deck, blood seeping into a pool
beneath him. Hoyt had staggered back to the rail, where he stood
panting, bleeding--but alive. Laura sank to her knees; her legs were
suddenly unable to support her weight.

A firm hand pulled her back to her feet, and a familiar voice was
saying her name.

"That was the stupidest thing I have ever seen anybody do," it said,
and the harassed tone was very comforting.

"Leave it to two lawyers to do everything completely wrong and still
come out smelling like roses."

"Thanks, Randy. I'm glad you appreciated it," she said, smiling weakly
at Travers as she slumped against him.

"Aren't you glad you're retiring next month?"

There were more sirens, and ambulances were arriving. Laura tugged
herself out of Randy's grasp and stumbled toward the ambulance where
they were treating Hoyt.

"Is he going to be okay?" she said, anxious.

"Yes, ma'am," the burly EMT said.

"Can I see him?"

"Just for a minute, but he can't talk."

Laura climbed into the ambulance. Hoyt was pale; there was blood
soaking a bandage on his head.

"Charlie?" Laura said. He opened his eyes.

"Are you okay?"
He nodded.

"Is Stanley dead?"

"Yes, he is. I'm sorry." And she was, sorry for Jim and sorry for
Charlie.

Charlie weakly raised his wrist and looked at his watch.

"Miss Chastain, I'm afraid I'm going to miss the meeting in Judge
Copeland's chambers this afternoon."

"I'm sure he'll understand. I'll call his clerk right away."

"Please tell him that I'm sorry, and ask if he could deliver a ruling
without my being present."

"Don't worry about any of that now, Charlie. I'll tell him what
happened. He'll delay the ruling."

"I don't think the ruling should be delayed. I'd like this matter
cleared up."

"Are you saying that you'll release the transcripts and the note?"

"Certainly not. Privilege survives the death of a client. Miss
Chastain."

"For crying out loud! I can't believe you're still arguing a motion on
behalf of a man who just tried his damnedest to kill you! You are
truly a piece of work."

The EMT plucked at Laura's sleeve.

"Don't be getting him all riled up, miss."

"Nothing riles this guy," she said, exasperated.

"I have to go now, Charlie. I'll let you know what happens with your
motion."

"If the ruling goes against me, my secretary has the items you
subpoenaed. She'll send them right along," he said, his voice growing
weak.

"I don't expect that will be necessary, though."

"But I expect it will be necessary, Mr. Hoyt. I expect the ruling to
go in my favor."

Hoyt tried to lift his head from the stretcher to reply, but the
attendant pushed him back down.

"Please, miss," he said.

"Don't upset him."

Laura stepped down from the back of the ambulance. Randy was waiting
there, having listened to her conversation with Hoyt.

He shook his head in bemusement.

"Lawyers," he said.

"If that don't beat all."
Epilogue

Laura plunged the knife into the top of the pumpkin and sawed a
circular opening.

"You look like you're enjoying that just a little too much," Amos said.
They were on the front porch of his house on a warm golden afternoon.
Only a week had passed since Jim's attack on Charlie Hoyt, but it
seemed like the events of that day belonged to some remote past. All
Laura wanted now was to bask in this beautiful day and revert to her
childhood, when her biggest challenge had been choosing a Halloween
costume.

"I love Halloween," she replied, thrusting her hand inside the pumpkin
and fetching forth a handful of goo.

"Got something I can put this in? No, not the garbage can--I want to
toast the seeds. That's the best part. Now, what kind of face do you
want?

Scary or goofy?"

"Scary, definitely."

"Coming up. Hand me that marker, will you?" She was soon intent on
drawing a snarling face on the gourd while Amos sat in the porch swing
with a beer.

"Well?" he said after a few minutes.

"That's a deep subject," she replied, borrowing one of her mother's
more annoying ripostes.

"You know what I mean. Or do I have to read about your exploits in the
newspaper like the rest of the rabble?"

"What do you want to know? Hand me that little knife, please.

We finally got the note that Hoyt was holding for Jim, the one that
gave Jim the burglar alarm codes. I can't believe that guy-he lost the
motion, his client was dead, but he appealed it anyway.

He's lost half the battle, though--the Appeals Court gave us the ruling
on the note, and he handed it over. Now he's trying to fight the
subpoena for the transcripts of the tapes."
"Why?"

"He says they're inadmissible."

"What are you and Meredith doing about it?"

Laura shrugged.

"Nothing, really. What Hoyt doesn't know is that the Winston-Salem
Police found the original tapes in Candi's apartment. They sent copies
to us. Hoyt's right Jim made the tapes illegally, so they probably are
inadmissible, but they're incriminating beyond anything even I had
imagined. I mean, I just got a glimpse of the transcripts; I had no
idea how detailed the tapes would be."

"Where did you see the transcripts? That's one thing I still don't
understand."

"I, umm, had an anonymous source."

"Really? Who could that have been?"

Laura looked at Amos sharply, but his face was a blank.

"Just a concerned citizen. Thank God they still exist. The important
thing anyway is not how we knew about the tapes, but what's on them.
God, Amos, I wish you could hear them. No, maybe I don't want you to.
They're depraved; there's just no other word for it."

"In what sense?"

"The way they talk about killing Christine is horrible. They're so
casual about it like they're planning a fishing trip."

"Whose idea was it to kill her?"

"It's hard to say; the taped conversations began after they first
hatched the plan, so it's never explicitly stated. But it's clear that
it was James who initially got in touch with Jim, after he learned
about his existence from poor old Jesse DuPree. The tapes completely
exonerate Jesse, by the way."

"And Lynette?"

"Her, too. It all points to James. We sent copies of the tapes to
Craig Fannin. Even though we can't use them, we thought it would be
helpful for him to know that his client is a monster."

"What have you heard from him?"

"He's trying to buy time, but I think he's ready to deal. We're
prepared to take the death penalty off the table if he opens
negotiations But James is now insisting that he only wanted Jim to
help him in a little fancy financial footwork, using the coincidence of
their names. He says he was just going to swipe a little money from
the trusts, and that it was Jim who came up with the murder plot."
"Could James be telling the truth?"

"Who knows? There are places in the tapes where it does seem as if Jim
was trying to talk James into the killing. And James probably never
would have done it on his own. James actually tried to back out a
couple of times, but Jim always revved him up again. I think Jim had
waited all his life for a chance to kill another human being. He was a
psychopath waiting to happen.

The really amazing thing is to hear Jim talking about how he can get an
immunity deal and virtually get away with the murder.

He really understood the law. I had assumed that Hoyt advised him, but
Jim had picked up enough from his own experience to plan out the whole
thing. It was brilliant, in a way especially convincing James that he
would have to stand trial. There's no question who the mastermind was.
But it doesn't matter, legally James ultimately went along with the
plan, and that makes him just as guilty as Jim."

"What's going to happen next?"

"We'll use the note to get an indictment of James Stanley for murder.
That should bring Fannin to the table to negotiate a plea he won't let
it come to trial again, I hope. Lester Connell Christine's father has
asked us to be as lenient as we can be."

"How lenient is that?"

Laura sighed.

"It's hard to say. He should get life in prison.

There's no way Fannin will let him get the death penalty. The Connells
want us to drop down to voluntary manslaughter, which would give the
Court some wiggle room in the sentencing the maximum for manslaughter
is twenty years. But I don't know if Marshall can do that politically.
We can offer to get him committed to a minimum-security facility,
though. Mr. Connell owns some property out in Green County, and he
wants to take the children there, away from Atlanta. There's a
minimum-security facility out there, so we could arrange for James to
be near his children, at least."

"It sounds like you feel sorry for James."

"In a way, I do. But it's really old Mr. Connell I feel for. He lost
the most."

"What about Lynette?" Amos asked.

"She'll be okay. She's selling her horses and quitting the show
circuit to take care of Christine's children. She'll move wherever her
father wants."
"I'm glad it all turned out right, Laura, but you never should have
followed Jim and Hoyt like you did."

"What was I supposed to do? Let him kill someone else? I already had
Candi on my conscience. Anyway, I was the one who messed everything
up. It was up to me to fix it."

Amos shook his head.

"You were very, very lucky. If things had gone the other way, you
might not be so cocky. You might not even be here."

"But I am here, so you don't have to lecture me. I promise I'll never,
never face an armed gunman again, okay? There," she said, surveying
the pumpkin, satisfied with her work.

"He's terrifying."

She turned him around so that Amos could see.

"What do you think?"

"I think you and your pumpkin are both masterpieces."