The Pact (31 page)

“Social studies,” Thomas said, and before Jordan could stop himself, he thought, A little too social. He watched his son write in his three-ring binder, his left hand carefully printing so that the pencil wouldn't smudge. Left-handedness; Thomas had gotten that from Deborah. And also the thick black hair, and the shape of the eyes. But the promised breadth of his shoulders, and the long line of spine, all that was straight from Jordan himself.

Apparently he'd also bequeathed his son a healthy lust.

Sighing, he pulled the magazine out and threw it over the looseleaf paper. “Want to tell me about this?” he asked.

Thomas flicked a glance at the cover. “Not really,” he said.

“Is it yours?”

Thomas rocked back on his heels. “Seeing as how only you and I live here, and you know it's not yours, then I guess that's pretty obvious.”

Jordan laughed. “You've been hanging around lawyers too long,” he said. Then he sobered, capturing Thomas's gaze. “How come?” he asked simply.

Thomas shrugged. “I wanted to see it, is all. I wanted to know what it was like.” Jordan glanced at the Binocular Babe on the magazine cover. “Well, I can tell you, it's not really like that.” He bit his lip. “In fact, I can tell you anything you feel like asking me.” Thomas blushed, the color of a peony. “Okay, then,” he said. “How come you don't have a girlfriend?”

Jordan's mouth gaped. “A what?”

“You know, Dad. A steady girlfriend. A woman who actually sleeps with you and then comes back.”

“This is not about me,” Jordan said tightly, wondering why it was so much easier to keep control in front of strangers at a trial. “We're talking about how you came to have a Penthouse in your possession.”

“Maybe that's what you're talking about,” Thomas shrugged. “I'm not. You said I could ask you anything, but you won't answer me.”

“I didn't mean about my private life.”

“Why the hell not?” Thomas exclaimed. “You're asking about my private life!”

“What I do with my free time is my own business,” Jordan said. “If it bothers you when I bring women home, you may voice your opinion, and we'll discuss it. Otherwise, I expect you to respect my privacy.”

“Well, what I do with my free time is my own business, too,” Thomas responded, and he slid the Penthouse beneath his stack of schoolbooks.

“Thomas,” Jordan said, his voice terrifyingly soft, “give it back.” Thomas stood up. “Make me,” he said.

They squared off, tension thickening the air, their differences punctuated by the applause of the studio audience on the television. Suddenly Thomas grabbed the magazine from beneath his books and dashed toward his bedroom.

“Get back here!” Jordan roared, striding in the direction of Thomas's room only to hear the door slam and the lock twist home. He was standing in the hall, considering breaking down the door on principle, when the doorbell rang.

Selena. She would be coming over to discuss the Harte case. Which actually might be the best thing for all concerned parties, right now.

Jordan walked to the front door and opened it, surprised to find an unfamiliar man in a uniform.

“Telegram,” he said.

Taking the envelope, Jordan walked back inside. GETTING MARRIED DEC 25 STOP WOULD

LIKE THOMAS TO BE THERE STOP PLANE TICKET TO PARIS BEING SENT TO YOUR

OFFICE STOP THANKS JORDAN STOP DEBORAH.

He glanced in the direction of Thomas's closed bedroom door, and thought, as he had a thousand times before, that timing was everything.

“Let ME GUESS,” Selena said a few minutes later when she came into the house and found Jordan sprawled miserably on the couch. “Emily came back to life and pointed a finger at your client.”

“Hmm?” Jordan levered himself on an elbow and swung his feet off the edge so that Selena could sit down. “No, nothing like that.” He passed the telegram to Selena and waited for her to read it.

“I didn't even know your wife was alive, much less dating someone.”

“Ex-wife. I knew she was alive. Or, rather, my accountant did. Got to send that alimony somewhere.” He sighed and sat up. “The hell of it is, Thomas and I just had a fight.”

“You two never fight.”

“Well, there's a first time for everything.” Jordan scowled. “And now he gets to run off with the other parent.”

“In Paris,” Selena added, glancing around. “I've got to tell you, Jordan. You can't compete with the Left Bank.”

“Thanks a lot,” he grumbled.

Selena patted his knee. “It will all work out,” she predicted.

“What makes you so sure?”

She glanced at him, surprised. “Why, because that's your forte.” She unloaded a stack of small notebooks and set them on the coffee table beside Thomas's school binders. “Are we going to brood tonight? Or talk about the case? Not that I mind either one,” she hastily added.

“No, no, the case,” Jordan said. “Get my mind off Thomas.” He walked into the dining room, returning with a high stack of papers. “What are you doing for Christmas?”

“Going to my sister's,” Selena said, looking up. “Sorry.” She waited for Jordan to sit down next to her again. “Okay,” she said. “I'll show you mine if you show me yours.” Jordan laughed. “What did you get from Michael Gold?”

Selena flipped through her notebook. “I think he's going to help us. Reluctantly. You can use him to bring up how little time Emily spent with her parents, cast doubt on how well he knew his own daughter ...”

Jordan's mind flashed back to Thomas, hiding his Penthouse. How long had it been here, with Jordan away and working and lacking the time to find it?

Selena was still talking about Michael Gold. “... while he won't tell a jury that Chris didn't do it, I think you can get him to admit that Chris loved Emily.”

“Mmm,” Jordan said, looking over her notes. “And we can mention that Michael's been to visit Chris in jail.”

“He has?”

Jordan smiled. “You must have triggered something in him.”

“The only other thing I've got is Emily's art teacher, who has no verbal mention of suicide but a whopper of a convincing painting.” She told Jordan about Emily's self-portrait.

“I'll have to think about that. Who could we get to interpret the difference in styles? It's not like we're talking about a real artist.”

“You'd be surprised,” Selena said. She shucked off her shoes. “What have you got?”

“Well,” Jordan said, “Emily was eleven weeks pregnant.”

“What?”

“That's exactly what Chris said,” Jordan murmured, “before he passed out.” He looked at Selena.

“You know, I've seen a lot of liars over the years. Hell, I've made a career out of consorting with them. But either this kid is the best one I've ever met, or he really didn't know about that baby.” Selena's mind was racing. “That's the prosecution's motive,” she calculated aloud. “He knew and was trying to eliminate the whole problem.”

“Add college into the mix, and you too can be S. Barrett Delaney,” Jordan mocked.

“Well, then, it's simple. All we have to offer is a two-pronged defense. We get proof that Emily was suicidal, and we get proof that Chris didn't know about the baby.”

“Easier said than done,” Jordan reminded her. “Just because he didn't tell someone doesn't mean he didn't know.”

“I'll go back and talk to Michael Gold,” Selena said. “And there was something the art teacher saidabout Emily wanting to go study abroad, or attend a school of fine arts. Maybe she was the one who didn't want the baby.”

“Suicide seems a bit extreme as a method of abortion,” Jordan said.

“No, it's the pressure, don't you see? Emily's this perfectionist, and all of a sudden her plans had a wrench thrown into them. She wasn't going to live up to what everyone expected her to be, so she killed herself. End of story.”

“Very nice. Too bad you're not the jury foreman.”

“Can it,” Selena said pleasantly. “Did her regular doctor know about the pregnancy?”

“Apparently not,” Jordan said. “It's not in the medical files the prosecution handed over.” Selena began writing in her notepad. “We can try Wellspring and Planned Parenthood,” she said.

“May have to subpoena the records, but I'll see if I can find someone willing to talk. The other thing I want to do is try to plant doubt about who brought the gun. Maybe put James Harte on the stand and ask if Emily ever had access to the gun cabinet, if she knew where the key was, you know. Get the jury off on another tangent. Oh, and I'm meeting with Chris's English teacher. Scuttlebutt has it that she thinks he's the Second Coming.”

She paused for breath and looked up to find Jordan staring at her, a faint smile dancing at the edge of his mouth. “What?” she demanded.

“Nothing,” Jordan said, looking away. He clapped his hand over his collar, as if he could tamp down the blush creeping up his neck. “Nothing at all.”

It WAS HIGHLY UNLIKELY that any medical professional would be willing to talk to the defense team's investigator without being formally subpoenaed. Still, the rules at the clinics set up for free prenatal testing and care were slightly different. Although the records were sealed, the walls had ears. People talked in clinics, and cried, and other people heard them.

Selena had tried Wellspring first, without making a dent in the hatchet-faced receptionist. Then she'd gathered up her reserve at a nearby coffee bar and optimistically headed toward Planned Parenthood. Located two towns over from Bainbridge, it was on the bus line. Emily, who did not have her own vehicle, would have been able to get there without much difficulty. The office was small and lemon yellow, located inside a converted Colonial. The receptionist here had high, teased hair the same color as the walls, and eyebrows that were painted on. “May I help you?” she asked.

“Yes,” Selena said, handing her a card. “I wonder if I might be able to speak with the director.”

“I'm sorry, she's not here now. May I ask what this is in reference to?”

“I'm working with the defense in a case involving the alleged murder of Emily Gold. It's possible that she was a patient here recently. And I'd like to speak to someone who examined her.” The receptionist looked at the card. “I'll give this to the director,” she said, “but I can save you some trouble. She'll tell you you have to subpoena a request for the records, if they're here.”

“Marvelous,” Selena said, baring her teeth. “Thanks for your help.” She watched the receptionist turn toward a ringing phone, and walked back to the waiting room. A counselor holding a chart looked at her as she shrugged on her coat. As she walked out the door, the woman was escorting a heavily pregnant woman into the inner sanctum.

Selena slid into her car and turned over the ignition. “Goddamn,” she said, slamming her hand on the steering wheel so hard it honked. The last thing she really wanted was to subpoena the records, because that meant the State would be present too, and God only knew what Planned Parenthood would have to say. For all Selena knew, Emily Gold had come in crying that the baby was some other guy's, and that Chris had threatened to kill her.

She jolted as there was a sharp rap on the window. Rolling it down, Selena found herself face-toface with the counselor from inside. “Hi,” she said. “I heard you in there.” Selena nodded. “I-could I come in? It's cold.”

Selena noticed that the woman was still wearing her short, smocked nurse's uniform. “Be my guest,” she said, sliding over to open the passenger door.

“My name is Stephanie Newell,” the counselor said. “I was working the day Emily Gold came in here.” She took a deep breath, and Selena began to pray very, very hard. “The only reason I even remember that name is because I've been reading about her in the papers so much. She came a few times. At first she was talking abortion, but then she got scared and kept putting it off. There are counselors here-you know that the women all have to talk to counselors?” Selena nodded. “Well, I was the one who talked to Emily. And when I asked about the father of the baby, she said that he was out of the picture.”

“Out of the picture? Those were the words she used?”

Stephanie nodded. “I tried to get her to elaborate, but she wouldn't. Every time I asked if he lived out of state, or if he even knew about the baby, she just said she hadn't told him yet. As counselors, we're trained to help clients see all the options, but not to force them to change their minds. Emily cried a lot, and mostly I just listened.” She fidgeted in the seat. “Then I started reading in the papers about this boy, who'd killed Emily because of the baby, and I thought that didn't seem right, because he didn't even know she was pregnant.”

“Is it possible that you convinced Emily to tell him? Maybe after one of your visits?”

“It's possible,” Stephanie said. “But every time I saw Emily she said the same thing-she hadn't told the father; she didn't want to. And the last time I saw her was the day she died.” At THE SOUND OF the heavy barred door slamming shut, Dr. Feinstein jumped, leading Jordan to believe that it would not be all that difficult to convince the man not to come back. “This way, Doctor,” Jordan said so-licitiously, directing the man toward the narrow staircase that led up to the attorneys' conference room at the jail. The officer who unlocked the door smiled grimly, hitched his hands into his belt, and told them Chris was on his way.

“Interesting fellow,” Jordan said, taking a seat in the small, stifling room.

“You mean Chris?”

“No, the officer. He's the one who was held hostage here last year.”

“Oh,” Dr. Feinstein said, peering out the door. “I remember seeing that on the news.”

“Yeah. Messy thing. Ax murderer who was waiting for trial led the uprising, and they locked the guy in one of the cells after they cut up his face with a razor blade.” He leaned back, linking his hands on his belly and enjoying the way Dr. Feinstein's face leached of color. “You remember, now, the conditions for this interview?”

Dr. Feinstein turned his head away from the door with effort. “Conditions? Oh, yes. Although I will tell you again that my primary interest is healing Chris's mind, and there's a certain benefit associated with exploring the moment it was damaged in a now-safe environment.”

“Well, you'll have to go about your 'healing' in another way,” Jordan said flatly. “No discussing the crime, or the case.”