David Ellis - Eye of the Beholder

“Yeah,” McDermott counters, “but he knew what he was doing was a crime, right? He fabricated an alibi. He hid the girls in a basement. Would you change a single thing about your argument to the jury if you could do it over again?”

“One thing,” I say. “I wouldn’t make the argument at all.”

I walk away from him. Yes, Terry Burgos was aware that a law in this state prohibited murder. And, yes, he took steps to avoid getting caught. He manufactured an alibi. He hid the bodies so no one would find them until his spree was finished. He picked victims from different parts of the city so he wouldn’t have to go back to the scene of an abduction. And all of that means, he didn’t fit the definition of insanity, as that definition was written up by a bunch of politicians who don’t want to appear soft on crime.

“Leo Koslenko knew he was breaking the law,” I say. “Oh, and he also ‘knew’ that he was a superspy, protecting the world from undercover enemies posing as prostitutes. He also ‘knew’ that I was a spy working with him for that secret world organization.” I flap my arms. “So you’re telling me Koslenko wasn’t insane?”

McDermott shrugs. “You know better than anyone if you appreciate you’re breaking the law-”

“Oh, come on, Mike. I’m not talking about the legal definition of insanity,” I say. “I’m saying Burgos’s head was in another galaxy. He thought he was doing God’s bidding, and, if that’s what you really think, why would you care about some silly state law?”

McDermott doesn’t answer.

“He should have been incarcerated the rest of his life,” I say. “And treated. But he shouldn’t have been executed.”

McDermott’s in no mood to argue. He’ll let me beat myself up if that’s what I want. He walks over to me and shakes my hand. There was a time-really, only a couple of days ago-when I’d have never thought it possible that we’d be parting on cordial terms.

“None of my business,” he says. “But out of curiosity.”

“Shoot,” I say.

“You gonna stick with your million-dollar client, Mr. Bentley?”

A fine question. Harland’s conduct back then was disgusting. But he didn’t kill his daughter and didn’t have anything to do with the cover-up, either. Still, it seems hard to imagine we can just go back to business like nothing has changed.

“Hard to say if I even want to be a lawyer anymore,” I say.

He stares at me a moment, like he’s waiting for the punch line. “Yeah, right.” He waves me off. “Get lost, Riley. Take care of Shelly.”

I look back at the interview room, where Natalia Lake sits motionless. They might prosecute her, depending on media pressure. Maybe I would be a witness, too, because I have learned a good deal of information from her, Koslenko, and others. That would be hearsay, of course, but you could argue for an exception, statement of a coconspirator’s the best bet, if you could establish an overt act-

I catch myself. Listen to me, turning everything into an eviden tiary question. McDermott’s reaction was right. It’s in my blood, the law. It’s all I know. It’s all I want to do.

I leave the police station and, this time, say nothing to the reporters.

Not now, anyway. Maybe never.

Wednesday

July 6, 2005

SHELLY AND I are spending a week in the presidential suite at the Grand Hotel, ordering room service and walking on the beach and seeing the sights and eating delicious, rich food. We’ve managed some time for intimacy, too, but we’ve put a modern twist on the phrase sleeping together. We have done just that. We have averaged ten hours of shut-eye a day.

Shelly is doing better now. You don’t just bounce back from being attacked in your home and abducted, even if your memory of it is foggy at best. She has had to adjust, more than anything, to the concept of fear itself. We’ve walked into the town and strolled the beaches, but only during daylight hours. Without either of us acknowledging it, I’ve led her back to the fourteen-acre estate of the Grand Hotel every night. This, I’ve come to realize, is not about seeing the sights. It’s about getting away.

On our fourth day here, I awake around nine. Shelly has just come out of the Jacuzzi and is wrapped in towels. I open my eyes and catch her looking at me, watching, and I see it in her eyes, a sense of reserve, apprehension. I say “Good morning” and she reciprocates, but with her eyes diverted.

There is a knock on the door and she jumps.

“Oh. Room service,” she says, chuckling at herself without humor.

I throw on a shirt and answer the door. I tip the bellhop on his way out. I put the fruit and granola in my mouth, chew it, swallow it, but I don’t taste it. She plays with a piece of toast and laughs appropriately at my jokes, but she is holding back. Shelly holding back is about as natural as the sun rising in the east. But now I feel it, more than ever, even more than when she broke up with me, because, at least then, I had hope that she’d return.

I shower and dress in a short-sleeve shirt and slacks. I walk her down to the spa, where I have arranged a day of beauty for her. Massage, facial, the works. She demurred initially, and positively scoffed at the notion of a pedicure until they explained that a foot massage is included. She is not looking for pampering so much as relaxation.

I walk her to the door of the spa, an act of chivalry, but she senses I’m being protective escorting her everywhere. She’s right.

“What are you doing with your morning off?” she asks me.

“I’ll think of something.”

She nods and turns to the door.

“Shelly.”

She looks back at me casually, then reads my expression. When the pause becomes more than momentary, when she watches me struggle, she senses what’s coming and braces herself.

“Let’s move up our flight,” I suggest. “Let’s take off tomorrow morning.”

She looks into my eyes.

“You need to get back to your life,” I add. “I need to get back to mine.”

She struggles with that awhile, but, with every moment she doesn’t respond, she is answering. I know Shelly Trotter better than she knows herself. I know the difference between wanting to be with someone and the fear of never being with anyone. I know the difference between someone loving me and someone being in love with me.

I retreat to my hotel room with that silence, painful but honest, hanging heavily.

I STEP OUT ONTO the veranda with a folder I brought from work. I have a multiple-defendant fraud trial four weeks from now. I’ve fallen behind, but I don’t mind. The preparation is my favorite part, mapping out strategy and planning its execution. It’s a game, a competition, something between a contact sport and theater. My client probably should be convicted, seems to me. At best, he buried his head in the sand while the executives around him were playing fast and loose with the Medicaid regulations. At worst, he specifically directed the illegal action.

But I think he’ll walk. We will argue that he didn’t know what was going on and couldn’t have known. And their best witness, the flipper, the guy who cut the quick deal with the feds and agreed to testify against my guy, is on bad paper. He lied to the feds initially and admitted to doing so, and it looks like he had a bit of a gambling problem, too. I will tear him to pieces in front of the jury. I’ll throw up enough smoke to blur the picture.

That’s my job now, to smudge the picture, to mess with the prosecution’s case, to make adverse witnesses unlikable and untrustworthy while my client sits peacefully, smiling gently and sweetly and silently. That’s the game. It’s about winning. It’s not about truth. It’s not my job to make it about the truth.