An Imperfect Process (9 page)

Rachel laughed. "If he looks like that and has a brain as well, ask him if he has a brother. I await developments eagerly."

"Don't hold your breath. Rob is strictly fantasy fodder."

Rachel arched her brows in patent disbelief, but didn't argue the point. "Even if he's a nonstarter, a new job means meeting new people. Maybe one of them will be the love of your life."

"Even if I do find Prince Charming, that would lead to the biggest ambivalence of all—motherhood," Val said wryly. "My biological clock is ticking madly, but the prospect of children also terrifies me. What if I find a guy who's a keeper, have a baby, then discover I'm a total loser as a mother? It's a job that you can't quit after you start."

"Personally I suspect that you have plenty of ambivalence about the love-of-your-life part as well," Rachel observed, "but you won't be a failure if you decide to have kids. You'll read every book on parenting ever written, analyze them all, then put the best ideas into practice. The real question is not whether you'd be a decent mother, but whether it's a responsibility you want to take on."

"You're right. It's the responsibility that's so scary. Sure would be nice if we could do a test run on parenting before jumping into the abyss."

"You're over-thinking this parenting business—an amazing number of people manage it with no advance planning at all. But if it would make you feel better, there are different kinds of test runs available."

Val ran a mental list of friends with small children. "Borrow someone's child for a weekend?"

"That's a start. Or you could join a Big Sister/Little Sister program." Rachel grinned. "It would fit right in with your new do-gooder status."

"I never thought of that," Val said slowly, "but it's a good idea. Maybe I'll learn something about how well I can handle a long-term relationship with a kid."

"Maybe, or maybe not. I know plenty of people who say the only children they can stand are their own. But even if you don't get a definitive answer on becoming a parent, mentoring a young girl should be rewarding in its own right."

"I'll put 'little sister' at the top of the list." Val smiled, soothed by wine, good company, and feline purring. She had the prospect of exciting new work, an intriguing man, and finding a little girl she could play with, then hand back.

What more could a woman want?

Chapter 6

Rob was about to start framing the new offices in the church basement when Val rang up on his cell phone. "Hi, Rob, it's Val. I know this is short notice, but can you meet me at the SuperMax prison on Madison and Fallsway in an hour so we can talk with Daniel Monroe?"

So soon. The knowledge of what he was starting was like a cold north wind on bare skin. "Sure, but let me pick you up at your office."

"I can manage. It's not far from where I work."

"Do you really want to park your Lexus in that area?"

"Mmm... probably not," she agreed. "Do you know where my office is?"

"Yes." He had learned that when he web-searched her. "See you at eleven." He hung up, thinking he had better go upstairs to his apartment and change clothes. Worn denim was his fabric of choice, but he needed to look like an investigator, not an inmate.

It had been years since he had made much effort to look respectable, and he found that his navy blazer was now tight across the shoulders and his khakis loose at the waist.

Hammering a nail was much better exercise than hammering a keyboard.

He climbed into his truck and headed downtown, thinking it felt odd to wear business casual clothing in his old pickup. The monastic simplicity of the life he had lived these last years would surely break down if he involved himself with people and causes. His feelings about that were ambivalent. The oppressive heaviness that had flattened him was slowly beginning to lift, but what kind of changes could he bear?

And what did a man who bore the mark of Cain deserve?

The offices of Crouse, Resnick were polished, hushed, and expensive. Even in his blazer, he felt like a janitor. The receptionist was impeccably polite despite his appearance, and two minutes after she called to report his arrival, a tall, stunning black woman came to collect him. Hair pulled into a sleek chignon showed off her beautifully shaped head while a fuchsia-colored suit set off an admirable figure. "Mr. Smith? I'm Kendra Brooks, Ms. Covington's assistant."

He offered his hand. "I'm Rob. It's a pleasure to meet you. We'll be seeing more of each other, I'm sure."

She glanced around as she led him back into the offices. No one was in sight, but she still kept her voice low. "I appreciate that you volunteered to help Daniel."

This close, he saw the strain around her eyes, and he revised his estimate of her age from thirtyish to fortyish. Kendra Brooks was a woman who had weathered her share of troubles. "I hope I can help. This case... pushes some personal buttons."

Kendra gave him a shrewd glance as she opened the door to an office. Val was on the phone, and she beckoned to Rob to enter. She was in full professional mode today, with hair up and a sober gray suit. Interesting how that flaming red hair looked several shades darker when firmly restrained.

As she bent her head to take notes, he admired the delicate line of her nape, where a tendril of bright hair curled over her fair skin. A perfect place to kiss...

He turned away as soon as the thought formed. He was here on serious business, not to fantasize like an adolescent.

He walked to the window behind her, which offered a spectacular view of the Inner Harbor. Far below, a tall ship flying the German flag was docked and an untidy line of visitors waited for a tour. A juggler entertained them, while on the other side of the Harborplace pavilion a water taxi discharged tourists. He wondered if Val would miss being in the center of the city with a nonstop carnival outside her window. He turned when the phone clicked down.

"Sorry to make you wait." Val stood and stepped from behind the desk. Today she wore a pantsuit. Probably didn't want to foment trouble in a prison by showing off those excellent legs. She also wore high heels that created the illusion of average height.

He wondered how she would react if he told her she looked cute. She'd probably deck him. "No problem. Ready to go?"

She handed him an accordion file heavy with documents, then grabbed a briefcase and set a brisk pace toward the elevators. "I've done a quick review of the case documents. That file contains copies of the most important ones. After you've gone through them, we need to sit down and discuss the evidence and decide how to attack. Assuming you and I and Monroe all want to proceed, that is."

"You've had time to get the files and read them already? It's only been four days since you decided to open your own office."

"This is one case where time really is of the essence." The elevator doors opened and she pressed the button for the garage after they entered. "Anyone sentenced to death in Maryland automatically has appeals filed, so the evidence has already been studied six ways from zero. Four months isn't much time to come up with a strategy that will convince the governor to commute the sentence. Especially not in an election year when politicians are terrified of looking soft on crime."

"If he's innocent, there should be a way."

She smiled as they emerged into the parking garage and walked to his pickup. "I like your optimism."

"Optimism is easy when you're ignorant." He helped her up the high step into the pickup. Her hand was small and cool, and her composure made her seem perfectly at home on the patched bench seat of a working truck. He liked that in a woman.

Less than ten minutes of driving brought them to the area by the Jones Falls Expressway where several major Department of Corrections facilities were jammed together like rock fans in a mosh pit. Rob's skin crawled when they came in sight of the Maryland Penitentiary.

The oldest continually operated prison in America, the Pen looked like a dank medieval castle. The looming stone building sat right on one of the city's major westbound streets without even a sidewalk to separate it from heavy traffic. High above, wicked spirals of concertina wire glinted in the pale sun. He wondered what those slashing razor spikes would do to an escaping prisoner who fell into a coil, then decided he didn't want to think about it.

As they circled the Pen on one-way streets to reach the parking lot, Rob saw women standing on the sidewalk and shouting up to inmates visible in the prison's narrow windows. Wives and girlfriends, presumably. He wondered if drugs and other contraband were ever thrown to the prisoners.

He was glad their destination was the SuperMax prison across the street. Relatively new, the brick structure hadn't had time to accumulate as many ghosts as the Pen. As they parked, Val explained, "Even though death row is here, the main purpose of SuperMax is to secure the most violent criminals. Prisoners spend twenty-three hours a day in solitary confinement, with an hour of recreation time."

"So if they aren't crazy when they're first sent there, they soon will be."

"Probably, but at least they can't murder each other."

They fell silent when they reached the entrance to the SuperMax. Though Rob had never been in this prison, the routine was painfully familiar. Guards and metal detectors, Val's briefcase thoroughly searched, and an atmosphere as toxic as poison gas.

As the guards patted him down for concealed weapons, he felt as if a steel band were tightening around his chest. Recognizing his panicky desire to bolt, Val said quietly, "If you want to wait in the truck, that's okay."

"Thanks, but no. This needs to be done." Grimly he reminded himself that he was here by choice. If he visited the SuperMax again, maybe it would be easier. "But it's a good thing you're doing the talking."

"Talking I can always manage." Her mouth tightened as she surveyed their surroundings. "Making sense is something else again."

"You'll make sense." They shared a glance of mutual support, then followed a guard to a visiting room. It was little more than a glorified closet with a transparent plastic barrier separating the prisoner from visitors. Conversation was through a pair of telephones.

Val took one of the two chairs on their side, but Rob fidgeted about the small space, unable to relax. He didn't take the seat next to Val until the opposite door opened and two guards escorted a shackled Daniel Monroe into the other half of the room.

Rob's first impression was of intimidating size. Monroe was well over six feet tall with massive shoulders that stretched the fabric of his bright orange jumpsuit. A long, wicked scar marred the ebony perfection of his gleaming bald head. Another scar had been carved in his jaw. Knife cuts? Broken glass? If Rob saw this man at night on the street, he'd get the hell away as fast as he could. Even shackled and separated from the visitors' area, Daniel Monroe was scary.

Not turning a hair, Val waited until he'd taken his chair and lifted the handset, then introduced herself. "Mr. Monroe, I'm Val Covington. Kendra Brooks said she'd let you know I would be coming."

"She told me." Monroe's basso profundo voice rumbled the telephone, sounding more resigned than dangerous. "That girl just don't give up."

"Neither do I, Mr. Monroe." Val gestured toward Rob. "This is my investigator, Rob Smith. You fired your previous lawyers. Will you allow us to act on your behalf?"

Monroe turned his attention to Rob. His gaze wasn't that of a mad dog killer, nor did he have the flat stare of a psychopath. Instead, he had the wise, sad eyes of a man who had seen unspeakable things and given up all belief in justice. "Why bother? I ain't hopin' no more. When the chief justice of the Supreme Court says that actual innocence isn't necessarily a constitutional claim, it's time to quit."

Val said incredulously, "A chief justice said that? Which one?"

"Rehnquist. Look it up." Monroe's voice was matter-of- fact.

"I will." Val frowned as she considered how to reply. "Very well, since hope is a luxury you can't afford, don't hope that we can do anything. We both know that the odds of success are slim. But isn't even a long shot worth trying?"

Monroe stared at his manacled wrists. "You don't know what you're askin'."

"I think I do," Val said quietly. "And now I'm going to take a cheap shot. Will you let us do what we can for Kendra's sake, so she won't torment herself wondering if more might have been done?"