Not Guilty (9 page)

“Well, it makes sense. Of course, he’s terrified to admit it. He’s probably afraid I won’t love him anymore. But I don’t intend to make him suffer his whole life for a moment of carelessness. We all do things we regret. Things we would take back if we could. His mistake led to tragedy. I know it, he knows it, and now you know it. If you want to say
that subconsciously he might have . . . I don’t know. It’s true that he had mixed feelings about the baby. It’s true he resented my remarriage. But any kid would. That doesn’t mean he did it on purpose. Never intentionally. Never. He is a good boy.”

Detective Stratton looked at her thoughtfully. “You’re so sure,” he said.

“Of course I’m sure!” she cried. “I know my own son.”

Detective Stratton called out to the CSI team that it was time to wrap it up. Then he looked at her impassively. “In that case, you have nothing to worry about. Until three-thirty, then? You might want to have your attorney present. We’ll try not to keep you for too long.”

T
he offices of Weaver, Weaver, and Bergman were located in a newly refurbished, Federal-era house at the end of the downtown business area of St. Vincent’s Harbor. Lucas had chosen shrewdly when selecting this space. From the street, it was a dignified, perfectly proportioned townhouse that exuded an aura of history, discretion, and taste. Inside, there were views of Chesapeake Bay from most of the windows, and anyone who knew anything about the town of St. Vincent’s Harbor knew that harborview property was the most expensive property in town. One had only to step through the door onto the blue-and-gold-patterned Stark carpet to know that this was the firm where people of means found their legal representation.

Keely pulled her SUV into a space that was being vacated in front of the building and looked up at the formal redbrick façade with a feeling of dread. She had wanted to postpone coming here as long as possible, but it simply couldn’t be avoided. Detective Stratton’s suggestion that she bring Dylan and an attorney to the prosecutor’s office had her panicked. She needed Lucas’s advice, face to face. She looked down ruefully at the tailored glen-plaid pantsuit that she had hurriedly put on. Since Abby’s birth she rarely wore her “work” clothes, but today the suit made her feel more professional, more in control of this hostile situation. She had left Abby with Ingrid, who had seemed more than willing to take the baby if it meant helping Dylan.

Keely climbed the white steps to the gleaming door, glancing at the gold plaque with the name of the firm engraved on it. She knew better than to ring the bell, although she felt like an intruder as she opened the door and walked in. She had not come here often. Mark was a man who became intensely absorbed in his work, and he made it clear, just from
his body language, that impromptu visits, even from his wife, were not welcome.

Keely stepped inside, crossed over to the desk of Sylvia Jeffries, the longtime receptionist, and cleared her throat. Sylvia looked up from her computer monitor and her eyes widened.

“Mrs. Weaver,” she said, extending her hand. “So good to see you.”

Keely shook the older woman’s hand and didn’t bother to urge her to use her first name. Sylvia was from the old school and had no intention of changing her ways. “It’s good to see you, Sylvia.”

“How are you and the children doing?” Sylvia asked sympathetically.

“We’re managing,” said Keely.

Sylvia, a widow herself, nodded. “It’s not easy,” she said. “You just have to take it one day at a time.”

“Right,” said Keely. “I’m sorry to bother you . . .”

“Oh, I suppose you’d like to get into Mr. Weaver’s office. I keep it locked,” Sylvia said.

“Actually, no,” said Keely. “I was hoping to see Lucas.”

“Well, that could be a problem,” Sylvia said grimly, a little frown creasing her forehead. “He has someone with him right now.”

“I’ll wait,” said Keely. “It’s important.”

“I’ll let him know you’re here.” Sylvia picked up the phone.

“Thanks,” said Keely. She walked over to the gold-and-blue striped Queen Anne–style chair and sat down. She looked at the headlines of the magazines on the coffee table, but nothing was interesting enough to distract her from her current worries. She sat back, gripped the curved arms of the chair, and tried to calm her breathing by inhaling deeply.

The walls of the office were decorated with groupings of the sepiatoned photographs from Lucas’s collection. Keely stared at them as she waited. The cowboys in the photos had been brought to heel by the time-consuming demands of primitive photography. They glared out at the camera, forced to sit still for posterity.

“Mrs. Weaver,” Sylvia called out in a soft voice. “Your father-in-law wanted me to tell you he’ll be right with you.”

“Thanks,” said Keely.

Just then the door to Lucas’s office opened, and Lucas came out into the hall, followed by an exotically handsome young man with African features, a mocha-colored complexion, and frizzy bronze dreadlocks. His eyes were a startling sea green. He was wearing a black leather coat and engineer’s boots with their buckles flapping. “I’m sorry, Mr. Graham,” Lucas said. “I wish I could help you. I don’t know what else to tell you.”

“Right, mate,” said the man sarcastically in a British accent. “I rather expected you wouldn’t be much help to me. My being black and all . . .”

“You couldn’t be more wrong, Mr. Graham,” said Lucas stiffly.

The young man shook his head as if in disbelief and slammed the door to the anteroom back as he left.

Lucas came over to her. “Keely,” said Lucas, “I’m sorry about that.”

“That’s all right,” she murmured.

“Come into my office. Sylvia, hold my calls.”

Keely followed him as he walked haltingly down the corridor, leaning on his silver-headed ebony cane. She sat down in one of the comfortable chairs in front of his desk. A Frederick Remington statue of a broncobuster stood on one corner of the large desk. Lucas frowned as he slowly walked around and pulled out his chair.

“What an amazing-looking young man,” Keely observed.

Lucas sighed as he sat down. “Yes,” he said.

Keely wanted to ask if he was in some kind of trouble, but she knew enough about client privilege not to bother. Lucas wouldn’t be able to tell her even if he wanted to. But he sat in his chair staring into the distance with a frown on his face.

“Lucas?” she asked. “Are you all right?”

Lucas did not reply.

“Lucas?”

He shook his head, as if to shake off some heaviness in his heart caused by the young man’s visit. “I can tell you I don’t like being called a bigot,” he said.

“It’s not you, Lucas,” Keely said reassuringly.

“I’ve got my faults. God knows, I’ve done my share of things . . .”

“If he knew you, he wouldn’t have said that,” Keely insisted, leaning forward.

Lucas nodded and tapped a pen on his blotter thoughtfully.

“Was he a client?” Keely asked. She didn’t know what else to say to fill the silence. The attorney seemed so preoccupied.

Lucas turned his head and looked at her quizzically. “Who?” he asked.

Keely sat back in her chair, taken aback a little by this apparent memory lapse. “Your visitor,” she said. “The young British guy who just left.”

“Oh, no. He was just . . .” His voice trailed off. Then Lucas said abruptly, “It was nothing,” but Keely saw the pain that flashed in his eyes. “Enough about my problems,” said Lucas firmly. “To what do I owe the pleasure . . . ?”

Keely shook her head, as the full weight of her worries came back to her. “Lucas, I need your help.”

“Something about the house?”

“No. Something about the police. Remember I told you that Detective Stratton came by . . .”

“Yes.”

“Yes, well, he came back today with some men, and they were taking pictures and measurements in back of the house. They want me to bring Dylan into the prosecutor’s office this afternoon for questioning.”

“Questioning? About what?”

Keely shook her head. “Mark’s accident. Lucas, I don’t know what’s going on.” She could hear the unsteadiness in her own voice. “I’m supposed to pick him up after school and take him down there. The detective suggested I bring an attorney.”

“Standard procedure when questioning a juvenile,” he said. “Don’t let that concern you.”

“Oh, great,” she said with a trace of sarcasm. “I feel a lot better.”

Lucas was silent for a moment. “What time?” he asked abruptly.

Keely glanced at her watch. “I’ll pick Dylan up in fifteen minutes.”

“Okay.” He tapped his intercom button and spoke to Sylvia. “Cancel my appointments for this afternoon.” Lucas stood up and came around the desk. “Now, don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll make a few calls and get to the bottom of this. I’ll meet you at the courthouse in half an hour, all right?”

Keely sighed. “Okay. Thank you, Lucas.”

“Don’t worry, Keely. There’s nothing to worry about,” he said.

Keely started for the door but turned back in time to see his frown. Her heart, which had lightened for a moment, suddenly grew leaden again.
He isn’t sure of anything,
she thought.
Oh Lord,
she thought,
what is it they want from us?
She walked down the hall passing the closed door of Mark’s office on her left.
Not today,
she thought. That was more than she could face today.

A
S TEENAGERS POURED
out of every doorway of the school, Keely squinted to locate her son. He was fairly easy to spot with his shaved head and his leather jacket, which hung off his narrow frame. His gold earring glinted in the afternoon sun. He was by himself, frowning as he came down the steps. She got out of the car and started toward him. She didn’t want to embarrass him by calling out to him in front of all these other kids. He was at the age when almost any kind of attention embarrassed him.

She came up beside him, and at first, he speeded up his steps, without even looking to see who was next to him. “Dylan, wait,” she said in a low voice.

Dylan turned and looked at her in surprise. He took note of her formal clothes, and a look of concern crossed his face. “What’s the matter? Where’s Abby?”

“Abby’s with your grandmother,” Keely said. “Dylan, I have to . . . we have to go down to see . . . Detective Stratton this afternoon.”

Dylan stopped short, and teenagers fanned out around them. “Why? When?”

“Right now,” she said apologetically. “They . . . they want to talk to
us.”

“To me, you mean. They want to talk to me.”

“Lucas is going to meet us there, so there’s nothing—absolutely nothing—to worry about.”

“Oh, sure, Mom,” he said.

“Honey, I don’t know what this is all about, but we’ll just go down there and answer their questions and get it over with.”

Dylan’s shoulders slumped, and his gaze looked haunted. “This is never going to end,” he said.

Keely tried to put an arm around his shoulders, but he shook it off. Soon, she realized, she would have to reach up to embrace him. “Hey, now stop that talk,” she said. “This is not a big deal.”

He trudged along beside her to the Bronco, lost in thought. He opened the door and climbed in. She went around and got in beside him. She didn’t want him to see that she was anxious, too. He didn’t need that. Besides, she thought, trying to put a positive spin on it, it might do Dylan good to tell them what had happened and get it off his chest.

When she pulled the SUV up and parked it across the street from the courthouse, she saw Lucas, getting out of his car down the block. She called out to him, and they waited as Lucas, leaning on his cane, made his way to them. Lucas greeted Dylan heartily, and Dylan responded to his extended hand with a lifeless handshake. “Let’s get in there and get this over with, shall we?” Lucas said.

They followed him into the stately old courthouse. Lucas walked across the marble floor of the lobby to the receptionist and asked for Detective Stratton. In a few minutes, there was a buzzing sound at the creamy double doors, which were guarded by a police officer. Phil Stratton emerged, looked around, and spotted them.

“Counselor,” he said, extending a hand to Lucas. “I figured I might see you here. Come on back. Mrs. Weaver, Dylan, will you follow me?”