David Ellis: In the Company of Liars

She returns her eyes to the window. “I found Jessica out back,” she continues. “She had wandered through the delivery area in the back of the store. She had gone down that little ramp they have for deliveries and she was standing outside by the fence. She was pointing at this post that was supporting the fence. It was yellow. This was during that ‘lemon’ thing she had.”

Mat, she assumes, again does not get the reference. When Jessica was very young, she had great difficulty pronouncing the wordyellow, so she used the wordlemon instead. Even a banana was the colorlemon. Even after she matured a bit and was able to say the word, she continued for many years to qualify it with the phrase-

“Yellow like lemon,” Mat says.

Allison squeezes her eyes shut. It is these little things that always move her. She takes a moment, swallows hard, before continuing.

“That’s where I put it.” She raises her chin and keeps her voice strong, as she faces the window. “It’s still there, that post. The paint has chipped away some but it’s still the only yellow post out there. I-I can’t say why I went there. I-we hadn’t shopped there for years. I didn’t think anyone would ever connect me to it.”

She takes a deep breath and faces him. His eyes retreat again.

“You buried the trophy from the manufacturers’ association next to a yellow post behind the Countryside?” Mat asks. “The one on Apple and Riordan?”

“I did. So if I’m convicted, you tell this to Jessica. But only then.”

Mat’s gaze moves about the room, anywhere but at her. He is lost in thought for a long moment, blinking rapidly, eyes narrowing. “Okay. If it ever comes to it, I can tell her about that. I’m-let’s find something to eat.”

Allison takes a step toward him. “You’re the only person who knows this,” she says. “I haven’t even told my lawyer. If this got out-if anyone found out-”

“Allison.” He stops on his way to the kitchen but does not look at her. She senses a tightening in his posture.

“I won’t tell a soul,” he assures her.

Allison stares at the ghost in the mirror. She wants the judge to see her as she used to be, before the stress started doing its damage three months ago. She wants him to know her as a person, to know her life and background, to understand what she is capable of and what she is not.

But Judge Wilderburth will not know these things. Will not care to know. The facts of the case are the only things of relevance to him. It is a tainted filter, she realizes now more than ever. He will never know the full story. No jury, no judge ever has.

She looks at her watch, expecting Mat to walk in the door any minute to drive her to court, when the phone rings. It’s seven-thirty in the morning and the phone is ringing.

She walks out of the master bathroom and finds her phone by the bed. The caller ID is noncommittal; the call is coming from an office.

“Allison, Paul Riley here.”

Paul Riley is the first lawyer Allison retained on the case. “How are you, Paul?”

“Great, Allison. I’ve been following the trial. It looks good.”

“Nice of you to say.” Allison is sure the comment is insincere.

“The evidence is circumstantial,” Paul adds, the classic take from a defense attorney. “They still don’t have the murder weapon, do they?”

Allison catches her breath. She grips the phone until it hurts. “The, uh-”

“The murder weapon,” Paul repeats. “They don’t know for sure what it is, and they surely don’t have it, as far as I can tell.”

“No-no,” Allison manages through the burn in her throat. “They don’t have it.”

“That will be tough for them, I would think. That’s how you really put someone at a crime scene. No murder weapon, it’s all speculation.”

“I-I hope so.”

“I think I’ve upset you here, Allison. Listen to me, talking about murder weapons. All I really wanted to tell you is I’m rooting for you.”

“Thank you, Paul. I should-I should probably-”

“You need to get going. Best of luck, Allison.”

She sets the phone down and puts a hand against the wall to support herself. She feels the heat on her face, the perspiration gather on her forehead.

The murder weapon.

The front door opens, Mat calls out to her to come down.

She shakes her head hard. Okay. She collects herself and takes the stairs down.

Jane McCoy sits in the back row, far left corner, a place that has been kept open for her. She’s wearing her glasses-first time in years-and a baseball cap. There’s no law that says you have to dress up to watch a trial. She’s not in hiding, exactly, but she doesn’t feel the need to highlight her presence. No one’s going to notice her, anyway. All eyes are forward, as the defense begins its case in the trial ofPeople versus Allison Quincy Pagone.

McCoy recognizes some of the reporters, who have been given the first two rows on the other side-Andy Karras from the Watch crime beat and Carolyn Pendry from Newscenter Four are sharing notes. You can tell the print media from television by their appearance, clothes and makeup, and by her count most of these people are not going before a camera.

McCoy’s left-side seat puts her in the prosecution’s half of the courtroom. If this thing lines up like a wedding, this would make her a friend of the prosecutor, Roger Ogren, which amuses McCoy, because she has been anything but.

She sees Allison Pagone leaning in at the defense table as her attorney speaks with her. She looks awfully good for a woman on trial. Her red hair is short now, curling out in the back, and damn, she has nice clothes, a tailored blue suit, white blouse, and colorful scarf. She’s probably hoping the seventy-year-old judge will look down on her and think,How could this cute little gal be a killer? Maybe this is why the defense waived the right to a jury trial, letting the judge be the sole finder of fact.

Allison’s new attorney is Ron McGaffrey. McCoy has never had the pleasure. She has been cross-examined by half the defense attorneys in this town, but not typically the ones on the high end, where McGaffrey apparently falls.

She looked into McGaffrey when Allison made the switch from Paul Riley. Riley, she knew. She liked him. A former federal prosecutor who once ran the county attorney’s office as well. Former G-man who could give as well as he got but made it look natural. When Pagone changed lawyers, McCoy was concerned. McGaffrey never prosecuted, and those are always the guys hardest to deal with. The word about McGaffrey is that he never pleads a case, which is probably not a bad marketing device, because every criminal defendant wants a warhorse.

And that’s exactly what Ron McGaffrey looks like, as he stands and moves toward the battered wooden lectern between the defense and prosecution tables-a fighter, a tough guy. He has been through the wringer and looks it, a wide, weathered face, bad skin, deep worry lines across his forehead. He is a large man, not tall but a physical presence, a darkness through the eyes, a halt in his stride. He drops a notepad on the lectern, wags a pencil as he leans his considerable frame forward. He took shrapnel above the knee in Vietnam, survived a heart attack a couple years back and quit smoking, which may explain why he’s holding the pencil with such reverence.

“Call Walter Benjamin,” he says to the judge.

McCoy watches the witness enter the courtroom. She wonders if he will make eye contact with her, but his eyes are forward and down, as he moves his long, thin body along the aisle, trying to maintain his dignity. He takes his seat and is sworn in, spells his last name. He is pushing fifty but looks older. Looks ill, actually, like the last time she saw him. He pushes his small glasses up on his long nose and fixes his hair, chestnut with gray borders.