Lie in Wait (20 page)

 

Chapter 46

V
ICTOR
J
EN
KINS SAT
in Public Defender James Allard's office. Atop Allard's desk sat family photos. In each was James Jr., with a thicker head of his father's flaming red hair to go with the florid cheeks, British-­bad teeth, and eyeglasses as big as the father's glasses. Between Jr. and Sr. stood a woman who might have been pretty if her almond eyes were the same size as each other and one did not seem to float aimlessly, even in a photo.

In the series of staged photos, the Allards smiled as though they had guns aimed at their heads.

“Let me ask. First thing. Up front.” Allard paused and nodded to the door. “Close that door for me? This is private.”

Victor shut the door.

Allard said, “Do you believe your son did it?”

“No.” What kind of question was this to start out?

“I can tell you believe it. But that doesn't make it so. Nor does it matter. It doesn't matter what you or your wife or I or the police or the judge or the media or anyone else believes. You know what matters?”

Vic was frustrated already with this circular talk.

“What matters is what twelve ­people in a jury box think,” Allard said. “That's it. Nothing else. We are planting the seed of reasonable doubt and letting it grow into a big redwood of not guilty.”

It mattered to Victor that Brad was innocent. Murder was
not
the same as other sins. Victor would not be able to bear the shame if Brad had killed that girl. His life would be shattered, his name and family ruined. His wife shamed. He would not know how to forgive his son.

He glanced at the dead fern on the bookshelf. He nearly got up and left. But he thought about what a real lawyer cost and remained seated. “This is going to court?” Victor said.

“I will need to speak to Brad, ASAP. He's spoken too much to the police already.”

“I don't think he said anything damaging.”

“
Everything
he says is damaging. Your son has no alibi?”

“No.”

“He was seeing the girl?”

“Yes.”

“And that girl was pregnant?”

“What?” Victor felt as if a jolt of electricity had shot through him.

“You didn't know?” Allard said. He waved a hand. “I'm privy, as the PD. It doesn't matter.”

“Doesn't matter, of course it—­“

“And his fingerprints are all over the house,” Allard said.

“He'd
been
there before. And if they had prints on the murder weapon, they'd have arrested him as soon as they got a match. So. That's good.”

“Maybe.”

“How can it not be?” Victor wondered if this guy was on Brad's side or not.

“If we had the weapon and there were
someone else's
fingerprints,
that
would be good. We need evidence that points to someone else. Not just less evidence against your son.”

“It's all circumstantial.”

“Not his prints. While the police can't prove they were left the night of the murder, we have no way to prove they weren't. And. I have to be honest. I'm a straight shooter if nothing else. ­People are convicted. Every day. On circumstantial evidence. Every day. On much less of it too.”

“You think he did it.”

“I am your son's attorney. My sole priority is to create reasonable doubt. Or unearth evidence that points elsewhere.”

“Can you?”

Allard glanced at the folder. “Honest. Based on what I see here.”

“Have you even handled a murder case?”

“They don't come up much in the Kingdom. I've handled plea bargains to manslaughter. I really need to speak to your son ASAP.”

“How about now?”

Allard snapped his arm up so his shirt cuff receded to reveal a gold wristwatch. He lowered his arm with a snap, as if performing a magic trick, concealing his wristwatch again.

“Okeydokey.”

 

Chapter 47

B
RAD'S EYES WERE
beads of fear. A rash bloomed on what had always been the clear skin of his forehead. Fran appeared as if she'd just finished a crying jag. Victor stared at them both as he entered the visitor room at the state prison in St. Johnsbury.

Allard looked Brad in the eye. “You do it?”

Brad did a double take, as did his mother. “What? Why would you—­”

“The answer is
no
. And the answer comes fast and it comes with certainty,” Allard said. “No hesitation. No answering the question with a question. Understood?”

“Yes.”

“Atta boy. I am going to do everything I can. What about your fingerprints in the house?”

“I've been over and over this.”

“And you will go over and over it again and again,” Allard said. “Stop being defensive.”

“Those prints are from the other times I was there,” Brad said.

“We'll argue that. I'm on your side. Honest,” Allard said to Victor. “Either your son is lying. Or we are up against a calamity of circumstances and grave misfortune.”

“ ‘Calamity?' What do you mean, calamity?” Fran said and put a hand on Brad's shoulder.

“What if it's more than that?” Victor said.

All eyes moved to look at him.

“How's that?” Allard said, squinting as if to decipher a code.

“What if someone deliberately made it look like Brad did it?”

“Like who?” Allard said.

Victor shrugged. He had no idea. He was grasping at straws.

“We can't be wasting a second of energy or focus on preposterous notions,” Allard said. He addressed Brad. “You know anyone who would ‘set you up?' ”

“I don't know anything anymore.”

“Chin up,” Allard said. “We're not even at halftime. We may be down a ­couple touchdowns, but that's nothing for you, right?”

“Sure,” Brad said with no fight in his voice.

“What are we going to do?” Fran chimed.

“Fight,” Allard said. “We argue that while Brad has no alibi, no one can place him at the scene at the time of the crime either. A male was seen by Jon Merryfield. But he can't give a positive ID. We argue that your son's fingerprints are from earlier. We argue that he was at home. We argue that no e-­mails of his mention or even allude to the fact that he knew she was pregnant, or even that
she
knew she was. It's quite possible she never even knew. If
she
didn't know, Brad sure didn't. Unless the victim mentions anywhere in her private writings or we find other evidence, a doctor's appointment, purchase of a pregnancy test, anything to indicate for a fact that she knew, we can argue she didn't know. Thus, Brad couldn't have known either. Thus, the strongest motive is taken away. You
didn't
know about her pregnancy, right?” Allard said.

“No, sir,” Brad said.

Victor's spirits were buoyed. He felt hope run through him.

“Atta boy,” said Allard. He placed a hand on each of Brad's shoulders but looked at Fran, giving her a reassuring nod. “We argue someone else did it. Someone who wanted to threaten Jon Merryfield. Plenty of whackos out there who hate the man. The prosecutors will argue that this is smoke.” He looked Brad straight in the eyes. “They will say you were sleeping with her. She was underage and wanted to announce your love to the universe. She was pregnant. You knew. You argued. You wanted to keep her from ruining your future. But we'll tell the jury there's no physical evidence. Zero.”

“That's
right.
” Victor said, feeling the rush of optimism. Of faith. He realized that until now, he had not been sure of Brad's innocence. Now, he was certain. His boy was innocent.

“You speak as if we are going to trial,” Fran said to Allard.

“I have to be straight,” Allard said. “I'm nothing if not a straight shooter. This is a hard case. If I didn't think your boy was innocent, I'd have him plea to manslaughter. Get it done. Say it was an act of passion. He hit her out of fear. Nothing premeditated.”

Fran clutched at her throat. “He'd never do that.”

“They'll push for first degree. That brings a minimum of twenty-­five years in a maximum security. Vermont's prisons are full up. He'd be shipped to Kentucky or Virginia. Manslaughter, he'd get five to ten. Be incarcerated in-­state. Maybe out in three.”

Victor felt his faith bleeding out of him. “He's not pleading to a thing,” he said.

“I didn't say that. Follow me here,” Allard said. “I was saying
if
I thought he was guilty, I would not take this to court, because it's a tough one. But I believe we'll win it because I believe the system works. We do not convict the innocent. And any damned idiot can see Brad's innocent. So. You keep telling me the truth and we stand a good chance.”

“A chance?” Fran said.

“A very good chance,” Allard said.

“I find out who did this, I'll be the one up on murder charges,” Victor said.

“No, you
won't
,” Allard snapped. “You will be a model citizen. You. Your family. You will act and speak exactly as I instruct. Otherwise you undermine the entire case.”

“You believe your theory?” Victor asked Allard. “That some crazy killed that girl because of Jon representing the homosexual ­couple?”

“I just don't see why else anybody would have done it.”

“Can we talk privately?” Victor asked Allard.

Fran looked at Victor with fearful, distrusting eyes.

“Whatever you have to say, say it in the open,” Allard said.

“In private.”

“Say it in front of us,” Fran said, alarmed.

“You think I did it,” Brad said. “Just say it.”

“I don't. I just have something to ask him.”

“Ask away,” Allard said.

Victor sighed. “OK. What are the odds that my boy is found guilty?”

“I don't give odds.”

“I need to hear them.”

“I don't give odds.”

“You're the straight shooter. Shoot straight.”

“Fifty-­fifty,” Allard said.

Fran sobbed.

It was worse than Victor had thought. Even now, he swayed between being certain his son was innocent, and thinking his son had murdered the girl. Brad didn't look like he had it in him to commit such an act. But Victor knew how looks deceived, how even those closest to us can harbor secret sins.

“It's not just the circumstantial evidence. It's ­people's
emotions
,” Allard said. “Say all you want about facts and evidence, in a case like this, emotions often rule. It's the human condition. ­People judge others based on emotion when there are no hard facts. And the emotions lean toward the girl. Not just because she's dead. But because, one: she was cute. Two: she was young and likeable and naïve and your boy took advantage of that.”

“He did not!” Fran said.

“Yes, he did,” Allard said. “Three: As you said, ­people are envious of Brad. They envy his talent and his drive and his looks. A star QB. They find him arrogant and spoiled; they think—­”

“Enough!” Fran cried.

“Mrs. Jenkins, your boy committed ongoing statutory rape,” Allard said. “If that girl wasn't dead your boy would be charged with a crime if he were found out. Let's not make him out to be a saint. Your husband wants me to shoot straight. Here it is. Here is how the jury is going to see it. Your boy was raping that girl . . .”

“I don't have to listen to this!” Fran shouted.

“Yes you do,” Victor said, trying to keep himself from yelling.

Fran quieted.

“Let him talk,” Victor said.

“Fifty-­fifty,” Brad mumbled.

“
Unless
,” Allard said, “new evidence arises. And believe you me, if it exists, I'll find it.”

“What's the statute of limitations on sexual assault?” Victor blurted, not meaning to speak aloud the shadowy thought that had just flitted through his mind.

“Statutory rape?” Allard asked.

“All kinds.”

“In Vermont. If violence is involved, aggravated sexual assault with a weapon, there is no limitation. But if no violence was perpetrated, that is
no weapon involved
, I should clarify, for all acts of rape are violent, then the statute of limitations is six years.”

“And beyond six years?” Victor asked.

“Prosecution cannot take place.”

“A person can't be arrested or charged?”

“No.” Allard looked at Brad. “I'll tell you this once. Lie to me. We're done. You can find someone else. Got it? I need the truth the whole way. Good or bad. The truth.”

“I'm fucked,” Brad said. “That's the truth.”

“Don't use that language,” Fran said.

“I need to get out of here.” Brad clawed at his handcuffed wrists.

“Let's go over everything together from the very start,” Allard said. He placed a micro-­recorder on the table. “Leave nothing out. You were seeing Jessica Cumber . . .”

 

Chapter 48

S
OMETHING IS WRONG
,
Test thought.
No. Not wrong. Unclear. Misunderstood
. She pondered now how certain she had been initially that Victor Jenkins had murdered Jessica when she'd first found his name on the Family Matters roster. She'd been as certain as could be. She'd imagined Victor leading Jessica astray, taking advantage of her with some sort of leverage. The older man with the power. It was absurd now. Yet she had believed her theory as if it were fact.

There was evidence against Brad. Circumstantial, but mounting each day.

Still, the killing of the dogs nagged.

If whoever had killed Jessica was still out there, and Brad was in custody for the killing, why would the real killer call attention to himself by killing dogs? Perhaps he felt invincible. Like King.

King, who had no alibi.

And neither did . . . Who? Who else could not account for their actions in the time frame? Who else was not in the company of anyone during the window of time Jessica had been killed?

King. Victor. Brad. Any number of ­people who had made threats against the Merryfield family.

She was missing something. She felt it. Knew it. But could she any longer trust what she felt, or what she supposedly
knew
?

Brad seemed like the only suspect who was aware that Jessica had been alone in the house babysitting. Could King have known this? No. Unless he'd been planting the sign and peeked in a window and seen the opportunity. But there was no proof he'd planted the sign. The fingerprints were too smudged to be of use. Besides, the Merryfields' other car, Bethany's Lexus, had been parked in front of the creamery, suggesting that an adult could be present. So. No one else besides Brad knew Jessica was alone babysitting, except Jessica's mother and the Merryfields. Jessica's mother was ruled out. So were the Merryfields.

She wondered if North had gotten his hands on the incoming phone calls through the telephone company's Local Usage Details. Perhaps there was something to be found in the LUD. A recurring number. Test found it odd Jon Merryfield had said he thought there were messages on his voice mail, but the following morning when Test had checked there had not been any. Or any numbers on the caller ID. Had Jon deleted them? What possible reason could he have? An affair. Was he having an affair? Had
he
had an affair with Jessica?

Test recalled information Bethany and Jon had mentioned when interviewed at their home the night of the murder. Bethany had repeated it the next morning when Test had spoken with her. Something that had happened at the restaurant. It was probably nothing. Still. Test wondered if North had checked up on it, just to take it off the table, if not for anything else.

She looked at her watch. It was nearly 3:00
P.M
. She had an hour and half before she had to leave for home. Claude was in St. J, preparing his exhibit at the Kingdom Gallery. George and Elizabeth would be dropped off from the after-­school program by 5:00
P.M
. and Test needed time to stop to get pizza.

Before Charlie was poisoned, she wouldn't have had any grave misgivings about leaving her kids to their own devices for a half hour or so. The bus driver made sure to watch until George and Elizabeth entered the house or were greeted by a parent before driving off. In the one or two rare instances when Test or Claude were running a few minutes late, George had locked the door behind him, and knew that he and Elizabeth were allowed to treat themselves to the Sprout Channel. Reduced to zombies by TV, there was no risk of the kids even glancing away from the screen, let alone breaking an arm or knocking out teeth with horseplay.

Test called North to ask if he'd gotten the LUD records of incoming calls.

North let out a breath. “Those were a bitch to sift through and no help. So I hear. I put two others on it. We have numbers and can trace some back. There are a lot. But without voice mail messages we don't know who left what kind of message, who is friend or foe.”

“Can we have the Merryfields give a list of ‘friendly' numbers?”

“We did that,” North said.

“Can we go to the unfriendly ­people and interview them?”

“Sure.” She sensed frustration.

“But?”

“If you left a threatening message, even if you had nothing to do with the murder, would you confess to it now?”

Playing devil's advocate, she said, “If I was proud or loony enough about my stance.”

“I don't have the resources or inclination to track calls not germane to our investigation.”

“Threatening calls aren't germane?” she snipped.

“Not with our doer charged. And, I had the numbers checked to see if Brad's cell or home number came up. They didn't. That's all that matters.” North yawned. Test wished he would at least get angry. Instead, he simply sounded bored.

“Were there any repeats from numbers the Merryfields don't know?”

“Of course,” he said, exasperated, like a parent tired of a child saying,
But why? Why?
“But we don't know whose numbers they are. The phone company provides the numbers under subpoena, they don't give names or addresses. We'd have to dig for those on our own. And my team isn't doing that because there's no need.”

“Can I have a copy LUD?” Test said.

“Be my guest.”

Test looked at her watch. The conversation had gone longer than she'd imagined.

“What's this all about?” North said.

She took a deep breath, cringing as she prepared to say what had struck her earlier.

“Did anyone follow up on Merryfield?” she asked.

“What are you talking about?”

“He was alone an undetermined time in the restaurant bathroom. He claimed he was sick but—­”

“
Claimed?
No. No one
checked up
.” His tone one of finality.

“Of course. Would you have someone fax me the LUD report?”

“I'll have e-­mailed.”

“I'm in a rush. Fax them. If our spreadsheet programs aren't compatible, the attachments will be all buggy and useless and I'll just have to call back. And I won't have to open all the attachments and print them if you fax hard copies. I'll get them faster. Tell a subordinate. Please. Send them straightaway. I'll owe you.”

“You already owe me.”

“I'll go stand by now.”

Test hung up so she could switch over her line to receive a fax.