Read High Crimes Online

Authors: Joseph Finder

Tags: #Mystery, #Thriller

High Crimes

BOOK: High Crimes

For Michele and for Emma & her fan club

He that has eyes to see and ears to hear may convince himself that no mortal can keep a secret. If his lips are silent, he chatters with his fingertips; betrayal oozes out of him at every pore.

—Sigmund Freud,


Title Page



Part One

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Part Two

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Part Three

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Part Four

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Part Five

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty



St. Martin’s Paperbacks Titles by Joseph Finder

Praise for
New York Times
bestselling author Joseph Finder and his novels




At exactly
nine o’clock in the morning, Claire Heller Chapman entered the cavernous old Harvard Law School lecture hall and found a small knot of reporters lying in wait for her. There were four or five of them, one a TV cameraman hefting a bulky videocam.

She’d expected this. Ever since the Lambert verdict was announced two days ago, she’d been fielding calls from journalists. Most of them she’d managed to avoid. Now they stood at the front of the old classroom by her lectern, and as she walked right by them, they shouted questions at her.

Claire smiled blandly and could make out only fragments.

“—Lambert? Any comment to make?”

“—pleased with the verdict?”

“—Are you at all concerned about letting a rapist go free?”

A murmur of student voices went up. With the lectern giving her the advantage now of two feet of height, she addressed the reporters. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to leave my classroom.”

“A brief comment, Professor,” said the TV reporter, a pretty blonde in a salmon-colored suit with shoulder pads like a linebacker’s.

“Nothing right now, I’m sorry,” she said. “I have a class to teach.”

Her criminal-law students sat in long arcs that radiated outward from the front of the room like the rings around Saturn. At Harvard Law School, the professor was construed as a deity. This morning the deity was being assaulted.

“But, Professor, a quick—”

“You’re trespassing, folks. Out of here, please.

Muttering, they began turning around, straggling noisily up the creaky floor of the center aisle toward the exit.

She turned to the class and smiled. Claire Heller, as she was known professionally, was in her mid-thirties: small and slender, brown eyes and dimpled cheeks, with a tangle of coppery hair nuzzling a swan neck. She wore a tweedy but not unstylish chocolate-brown jacket over a cream silk shell.

“All right,” Claire said to the class. “Last time someone asked me, ‘Who’s Regina? And who’s Rex?’” She took a sip of water. There were a few chuckles. A few guffaws. Law-school humor: you laugh to show you get it, you’re smart—not because it’s funny.

“It’s Latin, folks.” Another sip of water. It’s all in the timing.

A gradual crescendo of giggles. “English law. Regina is the queen. Rex is the king.”

Loud, relieved laughter, from the slower ones who finally got it. The best comedy audience in the world.

The back door of the classroom banged shut as the last cameraman left. “All right,
One of the last Warren Court decisions. A real landmark in liberal jurisprudence.” She cast her gaze around the classroom, a Jack Benny poker face. A few students chortled. They knew her politics.

She raised her voice a few decibels. “
That great decision that permitted the police to shake people down for just about any reason whatsoever. Mr. Chief Justice Earl Warren giving one to the cops.” She swiveled her body suddenly. “Ms. Harrington, what if the cops burst into your apartment one evening. Without a search warrant. And they find your stash of crack cocaine. Can you be prosecuted for possession?” A few titters: the humorless, studious Ms. Harrington, a very tall, pale young woman with long ash-blond hair parted in the middle, was not exactly the crack-smoking type.

“No way,” said Ms. Harrington. “If they burst in without a warrant, that evidence can be excluded at trial. Because of the exclusionary rule.”

“And where does that come from?” Claire asked.

“The Fourth Amendment,” Ms. Harrington replied. The purple circles underneath her eyes advertised how little she’d slept her unhappy first year of law school. “It protects us from unreasonable government searches. So any evidence obtained in violation of the Fourth Amendment must be excluded from a criminal trial. It’s called ‘fruit of the poisoned tree.’”

“Like your vial of crack,” said Claire.

Ms. Harrington peered gloomily at Claire through raccoon circles of purple and gave a grim half-smile. “Right.”

The students, the smarter ones anyway, were beginning to sense the undertow: the good old liberal wisdom from Claire Heller, old Sixties Liberal, arrested during her student days at Madison, Power to the People, Fuck the Establishment. Time to whipsaw them.

“Okay, now will someone tell me where in the Fourth Amendment it says that evidence illegally obtained must be excluded from trial?” Claire asked.


“Ms. Zelinski? Ms. Cartwright? Ms. Williams? Mr. Papoulis?”

She stepped off the rostrum, took an Oprah-like stroll down one of the creaky-floored aisles. “Nowhere, folks. Nowhere.”

From the back of the room came the reedy baritone of Chadwick Lowell III, sandy-blond hair already receding above round British National Health Plan wire-rim glasses, probably from his year as a Rhodes. “I take it you’re no fan of the exclusionary rule.”

“You got it,” Claire said. “We never had such a thing apply to the States until maybe forty years ago—a hundred and seventy years after the Fourth Amendment was adopted.”

“But the exclusionary rule,” Mr. Lowell persisted disdainfully, “didn’t exactly bother you at the Gary Lambert appeal, did it? You got his conviction overturned by getting the search of his trash excluded, right? So I guess you’re not so opposed to it, are you?”

There was a stunned silence. Claire slowly turned to face him. Secretly she was impressed. Mr. Lowell did not flinch. “In the classroom,” she said, “we can talk about principle. In the courtroom, you put aside whatever the hell you believe in and fight with every goddamned scrap of ammunition you’ve got.” She turned to her podium. “Now, let’s get back to

*   *   *

“Still working on that?”

The waiter was tall and rail-thin, early twenties, insufferable. He looked like a Ralph Lauren model. His blond hair was cropped short; his sideburns were trimmed. His sandpiper legs were clad in black jeans and he wore a black linen T-shirt.

Claire, her husband, Tom, and her six-year-old daughter, Annie, were having dinner that evening at a family-friendly seafood restaurant in an upscale shopping mall in downtown Boston. “Family-friendly” usually meant helium balloons, crayons, and paper placemats. This place was a cut or two above that, and the food was decent.

Claire caught Tom’s eye and smiled. Tom liked to make fun of that old standard waiter’s line. They both did: since when was eating dinner supposed to be

“We’re all set,” Tom said pleasantly. Tom Chapman was a youthful mid-forties, trim and handsome in a navy Armani suit. He’d just come from work. His close-cropped hair was graying and receding slightly. His eyes, bracketed by deep-etched crow’s feet, were gray-blue, more gray than blue, and almost twinkled with amusement.

Claire nodded agreement. “All done working,” she said with a straight face.

“I’m all done, too,” said Annie, her glossy brown hair in pigtails, wearing her favorite pale-pink cotton jumper.

“Annie-Banannie,” Tom said, “you didn’t even eat half your burger!”

“Was everything all right?” the waiter asked with concern.

“Very good, thanks,” Tom said.

“But I ate the fries!”

“Can I tempt you with dessert?” asked the waiter. “The
marquise au chocolat
with pistachio sauce is fabulous. To
for. Or there’s a warm molten chocolate cake that’s really

“I want chocolate cake!” said Annie.

Tom looked at Claire. She shook her head. “Nothing for me,” she said.

“Are you
?” the waiter asked conspiratorially, wickedly. “How ’bout three forks?”

“No, thanks. Maybe just coffee. And no chocolate cake for her unless she finishes her hamburger.”

to finish it!” Annie protested, squirming in her seat.

“Very good,” the waiter said. “Two coffees?”

“One,” Claire said when Tom shook his head.

The waiter hesitated, cocking his head toward Claire. “Excuse me, are you Professor Heller?”

Claire nodded. “That’s me.”

The waiter smiled wide, as if he’d been let in on a state secret. “I’ve seen you on TV,” he said as he turned away.

“You don’t exist unless you’ve been on TV, you know,” Tom said when the waiter had left. He squeezed her hand under the lacquered tabletop. “The burdens of fame.”

“Not exactly.”

“In Boston, anyway. How are your colleagues at the Law School going to deal with this?”

“As long as I meet my teaching obligations, they really don’t care who I defend. I could represent Charles Manson; they’d probably whisper I’m a publicity whore, but they’d leave me alone.” She placed a hand on one of his cheeks, then the other hand on his other, and planted a kiss on his mouth. “Thanks,” she said. “Wonderful celebration.”

“My pleasure.”

Light glinted off Tom’s forehead, his deeply furrowed brow. She admired the planes of his face, his high cheekbones, his square chin. Tom wore his hair short, almost military style, in order to de-emphasize the balding, but as a result he looked like an overgrown school kid, fresh-scrubbed and eager to please. His blue-gray eyes, this evening tending toward blue, were translucent and innocent. He caught her looking at him and smiled. “What?”

“Nothing. Just thinking.”


She shrugged.

“You seem a little subdued. Feeling funny about getting Lambert off?”

“Yeah, I guess so. I mean, it was the right thing to do, I think. A really important case. Evidence that clearly should have been suppressed, the whole issue of ‘knowing and informed consent,’ unlawful search and seizure, inevitable discovery. Important Fourth Amendment stuff.”

“And yet you got a rapist off,” he said gently. He knew how uneasy she was about having taken on the Lambert case. The famous heir to the Lambert fortune, thirty-year-old Gary Lambert, whose picture you couldn’t help seeing in
magazine, usually in the arms of some supermodel, had been charged by the New York Police Department with the rape of a fifteen-year-old girl.

When Lambert’s fancy trial lawyers asked Claire to handle the appeal, she didn’t hesitate. She knew why she’d been hired: it wasn’t simply because of her growing reputation as an appellate lawyer but rather because she was a professor at Harvard Law School. Her prominence in the legal profession might go a long way toward offsetting Gary Lambert’s fairly squirrelly reputation. Yet she was fascinated by the legal issues involved, the police search of Lambert’s penthouse apartment and his trash, which she knew wouldn’t stand up. She never doubted she’d get his conviction overturned.

Suddenly, as a result of the case, Claire was on the cusp of minor celebrity. She was now a regular on Court TV and on Geraldo Rivera’s legal talk-show. The
New York Times
had begun to quote her in articles on other trials and legal controversies. She certainly wasn’t recognized walking down the street, but she was on the national media’s radar screen.

“Look,” Tom said, “you always say that the more despicable the person, the more he needs counsel. Right?”

“Yeah,” she said without conviction. “In theory.”

“Well, I think you did a great job, and I’m really proud of you.”

“Maybe you can give my interviews to the
” she said.

“I’m all done now,” Annie said, holding up a crust of bun. “Now I want dessert.” She slipped out of her chair and crawled into Tom’s lap.

He smiled, lifted his stepdaughter up in the air, and gave her a loud smacking kiss on the cheek. “I love you, pumpkin. My Annie-Banannie. It’s coming soon, baby.”

“I forgot to tell you,” Claire said, “that
magazine wants to name us one of its Fifty Power Couples, or something like that.”

“Mommy, can I get ice cream with it?” asked Annie.

“Let me guess,” Tom said. “They just called because you got Gary Lambert off.”

“Yes, sweetie, you can,” said Claire. “Actually, they called a few days ago.”

“Gee, I don’t know about that, honey,” Tom said. “We’re not that kind of people.”

She shrugged, smiled with embarrassment. “Says who? Anyway, it’d be good for your business, wouldn’t it? Probably attract a lot of investors to Chapman & Company.”

“I think it’s a little tacky, honey, that’s all. ‘Power Couples’…” He shook his head. “You didn’t say yes already, did you?”

“I didn’t say anything yet.”

“I just wish you wouldn’t.”

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