The Guilty Plea (5 page)

Greene thought of Parish’s closed office door. He was pretty sure Wyler was in there.

“We both know she has no legal obligation to speak to you,” DiPaulo said. The smile was gone.

DiPaulo always played hardball. The guy loved to win. But to his credit, he played by the rules, and what he’d said was true. Greene had no power to force Samantha Wyler to talk to the police. If she didn’t, his only option would be to arrest her. And then she’d probably shut up entirely.

“There’s a knife and a red-and-white towel missing from the murder scene.” Greene lifted up the bag. “I want to know where she was last night.”

A fragile trust develops between a good lawyer and a detective on a tough case like this. DiPaulo had moved quickly to get the bloody knife returned. It showed good faith. Sometimes it was better to leave a suspect’s lawyer alone with his client. He might talk the client into being realistic, entering a quick guilty plea for the best possible deal.

“How much time do you need?” Greene asked.

“We have quite a bit of ground to cover.”

This was defense-lawyer code for “Let me work on her. She’s still in denial.”

“If I’m going to arrest her, I’ll call you first,” Greene said.

“That’s fair.”

“The longer it takes, the weaker her alibi becomes. Like fish, it starts to stink in a few days.”

“Don’t I know it,” DiPaulo said.

He looked at the plastic bag in Greene’s hand. He fidgeted again with his wedding ring. DiPaulo looked like a gambler who’d drawn a bad hand but was in too deep to pull out of the game. With nothing left to smile about.

“Forty-nine, please,” Daniel Kennicott said to the woman standing next to the number display in the crowded elevator. He’d squeezed into the last available space among all the people in business suits. Most carried dark briefcases or expensive bags, and at least half of them were tapping away on BlackBerrys. The others were watching the elevator news.

This was me four years ago, he thought, remembering his days as a junior lawyer working his way up the big-firm ladder. Back then he would have fit in. Stylish suit. Handmade shoes. But now, in full cop uniform, he felt totally out of place.

The elevator accelerated upward and in moments he was deposited into the reception area of Anita Starr and Associates, Barristers & Solicitors, Specialists in Family Law. Across a shining marble floor, behind a rosewood desk accented by a bouquet of yellow roses, a young female receptionist wore a thin headset.

Kennicott took out his police business card. The woman put her hand over the microphone and smiled. There was a tiny diamond stud under her bottom lip.

“Daniel Kennicott, Toronto Police. I’m here to see Ms. Starr.”

“She’s expecting you,” the woman said. “Would you like a cappuccino, herbal tea, bottled water?”

“I’m fine,” Kennicott said.

“Ms. Starr’s office is at the end of the hall. You can go straight in.”

Kennicott walked past a raft of modern paintings and photo prints. Starr’s office was a huge affair featuring an enormous glass desk held
up by four pillars made of the same marble as the front hall floor. More yellow roses rested on a side table. There was only one client chair in the room. It was covered in lush black leather.

Starr was a thin woman, dressed in a fine linen jacket and skirt. A jade necklace matched her earrings. Her hair, heavily streaked, was perfectly in place.

“It’s been an unbelievable morning,” Starr was saying into the phone. She waved Kennicott in, motioning to the chair. “No one can believe that this has happened to me.”

Cradling the phone on her shoulder, Starr pointed to two legal file folders on her desk. She lifted one and passed it to Kennicott. “Can you believe it?” she said into the phone. “I canceled our trip to Barcelona for this trial.”

The file was labeled
WYLER, TERRANCE
. It was well organized, with different-colored folders for each section.

“Normie’s ready to kill me.” Starr giggled. “Oh, I guess I shouldn’t say that. A police officer just came in. Hope I’m not a suspect. Tell His Honor I’m bringing the motion into his court in about an hour. You’re a doll.”

She hung up and came around the desk. Kennicott stood to greet her.

“Anita Starr.” She stood near him and took his hand in both of hers. “Good of you to come, Officer Kennicott. Terrance was such a wonderful client. I still remember the first day he came into the office. All the girls swooned.”

“We’re hoping you can help us with this investigation.”

“Twenty-four years of practice,” Starr said, still holding Kennicott’s hand. “I’ve never had anything like this happen to me.” Her attention was drawn to a thin computer screen at the side of her desk. Every few seconds there was a faint ping. “My phone, e-mails—it hasn’t stopped. Everyone’s asking me how I am handling it.”

Kennicott lifted the folder in his free hand. “This for us?”

“Of course. I’ll do anything to help with this investigation.” She patted his hand. “I assume you know about Samantha’s false charges against Terrance last year. Her e-mails and phone messages, how the police warned her.”

“We’ve pulled all the files,” Kennicott said.

“Her lawyer, Feindel, is no fool. But he lost control of his client. I’m sure you’ve talked to him already.”

Kennicott shook his head. “I can’t discuss the investigation with you.”

“Sorry. My husband, Norman, calls me a backseat driver, even when I’m in the front seat. I feel so helpless.” She sighed and finally let go of his hand. Reaching for the other folder, she flipped through it with practiced ease. “I organize every file the same way. Financials are blue, child custody assessments green, family court pleadings and affidavits are red. Yellow is correspondence.” Starr bit her lower lip. “I was going to rip Samantha apart on the witness stand.”

“When’s the last time you heard from Terrance?”

“Last night. We e-mailed back and forth all weekend. Feindel knew his case was going down the tubes, so on Friday morning he hit us with a last-minute offer. Samantha had been fighting for joint custody, and she didn’t have a prayer. Now she wanted partial access, proposed a whole schedule. I told Terrance they were running scared and he shouldn’t respond. Sunday night he e-mailed me that his family had been over for dinner and everyone agreed. No deal. This morning I checked my messages.” She reached for the BlackBerry on her desk and scrolled through it—“‘Ms. Starr. I know you’ll be upset with me. I’ve accepted Sam’s offer. This will be best for Simon. Sam’s coming over in half an hour to talk through the details. Thanks for everything you’ve done.’” Starr was still standing close to Kennicott. “I was in shock.”

“When was that written?”

“I canceled my summer holidays for this.”

“The time of the e-mail?”

She shook her head. “Twelve thirty-seven a.m.” She walked back to her chair. Her computer screen was ping-pinging away more than ever. Kennicott sat down. He realized that by having only one chair facing her, she made clients feel they were getting her undivided attention.

Her hands flew across the keyboard. “This is an emergency ex parte motion to prevent Samantha Wyler from having access to her son.”

“On what grounds?” I sound like a lawyer, Kennicott thought.

Starr turned to him. “That she’s a danger to the boy.”

He expected her to turn back to her computer. Instead she looked right at him. “I know you’re a lawyer. And I know why you became a
cop. I went to university with your brother, the joint LLM–MBA program. Michael was the most brilliant person I’ve ever met.”

This happened quite often. His brother had been such a big presence in so many people’s lives. Kennicott often ran into his former friends or colleagues. He decided to ignore her comment. “Why do you say Samantha’s a threat to her son?”

Starr chuckled. She had a surprisingly guttural laugh. “Because she killed her husband.”

“You know I’m not going to comment on that.”

“Okay. You want background?”

“This only happened a few hours ago. We need to find out everything we can.”

“I’ll start with Samantha. From some small town up north. Middle of nowhere. Family ran a gas station. Scholarship student, real ambitious, worked for the bank and got recruited to work at Wyler Foods. Nathan, the oldest brother, was running the business into the ground.”

“That how she met Terrance?”

“He was living in the States and came back for the company barbecue. They had a whirlwind romance, and he moved back home. Terrance’s mother planned a big wedding, but Sam talked Terrance into eloping. Before you know it, she’s pregnant. They were so mismatched.”

“How’s that?”

“Terrance had it easy his whole life. He didn’t want to work that hard. When Simon was born, he was head over heels about the baby. Samantha wasn’t into motherhood. And she hated the stupid social scene. The balls, the opera openings, sitting around that boring yacht club all summer. Sam didn’t care about any of that crap. I give her credit for one thing: she actually worked.”

“What happened to their marriage?”

“Samantha talked Terrance into leaving Wyler Foods and starting up their own food store. A total disaster. Last year he met April Goodling and that was it. He went back to work with his brothers and was loving it.”

“You know the brothers?”

“Those Wyler boys. What a mess.” Starr ran a hand through her hair. “Nathan, the oldest, is fifty-three and on his third wife. We’ll see how long that lasts. And Jason has that terrible disease. Another year
and he’ll be on a feeding tube. Poor guy. In the Wyler family what good are you if you can’t haul around a bunch of vegetables at three in the morning?”

“I met Nathan this morning,” Kennicott said. “He’s not fond of Samantha.”

“Hah,” Starr said. “The whole family hates her.”

Starr hit the keyboard again and the printer started spitting out pages.

“How did Terrance react to Samantha’s angry e-mails and voice messages? Was he upset? Furious?”

She shook her head. “Not the vengeful type. I almost had to break his arm to force him to call the police. My husband calls me Anita the Hun. Says I make Attila look like a marshmallow.”

A marshmallow, Kennicott thought, that’s burned to a crisp. He stood up and tucked the file under his arm.

Starr walked him to the door. She took his hand again. Her grip was strong. “Your brother told me a lot about you.”

“Michael? Why would he talk to you about me?”

“I had a younger sibling too. My sister Arlene.” Starr dropped Kennicott’s hand. “She killed herself the first year we were at graduate school. Michael was great to talk to.”

A part of Kennicott didn’t want to have this conversation. Another part couldn’t pull away.

“Michael thought because your father was such a famous judge, your mother the high-profile journalist, and then he was so successful so young, it would be a tough act to follow. Like I was for Arlene.”

“Thanks, but we should really talk about this some other time.”

Starr didn’t budge. She’d zeroed in on him, and he could see that she had laserlike focus when she needed it. He thought of her clients, sitting in the only chair facing her. Mesmerized.

“Michael said everything came so easily to you. He told me girls had been following you around since about grade six. You hardly worked at school and were always top of your class. But he was frustrated too. Said you never pushed yourself. I still remember it used to drive him crazy, that you were always late for things.”

Kennicott had been famous in his family for always being tardy. “Meet Daniel, my great, always-late brother,” was how Michael used to
introduce him. The last time they spoke, Michael told him to be at the restaurant at seven-thirty. “And this time, surprise me. Be on time.” They had both laughed. He got there at ten to eight. Too late.

“With no family, I’m sure it’s lonely.” Starr let go of his hand at last. “I know he’d be proud of you now.”

“Thank you.” Kennicott took a step toward the door.

Starr rustled the papers from the printer. They were in her other hand. “I’m going to get this order. Samantha won’t be able to see Simon for the next seventy-two hours.” She was all business now.

“Why seventy-two?” he asked

“Takes us through the funeral on Thursday.”

“This investigation could last a long time.”

“You’ll arrest her in a few days,” she said. “No judge will let her see Simon while she’s on trial for murder. Sam will try to con the jury, but it won’t work this time. Once she’s convicted this order will become permanent. I’m going to make sure she never sees her son again.”

“Detective Greene just left,” Ted DiPaulo told Winston Feindel, who had picked up the phone on the first ring. “Terrance Wyler was stabbed seven times.”

“More bad news on this end,” Feindel said. “Anita Starr, Terrance’s family lawyer, got an emergency order from the court prohibiting Samantha access to her son for the next seventy-two hours. Your client will not be pleased.”

“That’s for sure.” DiPaulo thanked Feindel and hung up. Samantha was next door in Nancy Parish’s office, and he should have gone to get her. Instead he wandered over to the credenza and picked up the picture of himself and Olive.

Late one night soon after Olive had been diagnosed with liver cancer, DiPaulo found himself sleepless, staring at the bookshelf in their living room. He pulled down his old college copy of the Elisabeth Kübler-Ross book
On Death and Dying
, wrapped himself in a Hudson’s Bay blanket, and read straight through until morning. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance: the five stages of dying. He had watched his wife go through them all.

He realized that his clients went through the same process. And it could take weeks, sometimes months, to coax them out of denial, cushion their anger, reason through their bargaining, nurse them through depression, and push them to acceptance. That the rest of the suite was shabby did not bother him. It was the inner sanctum that needed to feel safe. How they were handled at the first meeting was crucial.

When they came to see him they were almost always in shock. That’s why he’d set up his office so it oozed comfort. His wooden desk
was always clean, the window counter was covered with jade plants and small watercolors, and old film noir posters and artwork from various stages of his children’s lives lined the walls. Two upholstered clients’ chairs rotated so they could face each other. He insisted that clients sit in the far chair while he took the one closest to the door—never behind his desk, to start out.