Joel Goldman - No way out

“C’mon Roni,” Carter said, reaching for her arm. “We’ll finish this conversation downtown.”

He pulled her off the couch and spun her around, cuffing her hands behind her back.

“What’s the charge?” I asked.

“We’ll sort that out later, but I’d say she’s looking at conspiracy to commit murder at a minimum.”

The color drained from Roni’s face. Her mouth trembled as she blinked back tears. “Jack, please, I never…”

“No talking, Roni. Don’t say a word in the car or when you get downtown. I’ll have someone there as quick as I can.”

“You! I want you to be there!”

“Sorry,” Carter said. “Visiting day isn’t until Sunday. I guess you should have hired that lawyer after all.”

I followed them outside, standing on the curb as Carter put her in the backseat of his car and drove away. Lilly Chase watched from the front porch, arms folded tight against her chest. I started toward her, but she turned, marched into the house, and slammed the door.

I leaned against Lucy’s car, bracing one hand on the hood as gut-ripping spasms jacked me to my knees and strangled my breath. On the bright side, the onslaught saved me the trouble of kicking myself in the ass for letting Carter blindside Roni.

I should have known better. He wanted to meet at her house. There had to have been a reason, and I should have been smart enough to figure it out or at least ask the questions that would have tipped me off to the trap he set for her. Worse, I’d let him play me, accepting the pat on the head he gave me in front of Lilly Chase like a schoolboy getting a gold star.

No one touched by violent crime is objective because it’s impossible to separate our inner lives from what we do. Pressured to clear cases and win trials, cops settle on a suspect, and prosecutors shape the evidence to prove the cops are right. Needing a big fee to pay for the condo in Aspen, defense lawyers pretend it’s all about the state’s burden of proof and that their client’s guilt doesn’t matter. Confusing vengeance with justice and passing it off as closure, victims and their families demand immediate arrests and ironclad convictions.

Memories and nightmares of my dead children haunt my inner life, teasing me with second-chance fantasies that always end badly, waking me in a cold sweat. Helping Roni was my way of doing penance, but I’d let my twin burdens of grief and guilt color my thinking, making me give her too much benefit of the doubt, forgetting that I had to give doubt its due. I’d screwed up because I wanted her to be innocent too badly to consider the possibility that she wasn’t.

Her lawyer would fashion an explanation for how her gun became the Crenshaw murder weapon. Odds were it would be some variation of the lost or stolen gun defense offered by way of cross-examination of the state’s witnesses, denying the prosecuting attorney the chance to dismember Roni in front of the jury.

When I could stand and breathe, I called Kate.

“I need Ethan Bonner’s phone number.”

“Why, where are you?”

My vocal cords seized, my answer escaping in short staccato bursts. “Somebody used a gun registered to Roni Chase to kill Frank Crenshaw. Quincy Carter just took her downtown.”

“What does she say about the gun?”

“She didn’t have to say anything. Carter asked to see the gun, and she came apart. I didn’t want her to dig a deeper hole, so I didn’t give her a chance to explain. Ethan has to get to her before Quincy Carter gets her in a room.”

“Okay, okay, I’ll call him. Where are you?”

“In front of Roni’s house. Tell me where you are, and I’ll meet you.”

“The way you sound, not a chance. Give me the address, and if you get behind the wheel of that car, I’ll break both your legs above the knee.”

I gave her the address, the words fighting their way out of my mouth.

“Good,” she said. “Now sit tight until we get there.”

“Easy for you to say. You’re not the one shaking.”

“You are a crazy person. Don’t move. Oh shit, I did it again,” she said, laughing, and hung up.

I slid into the driver’s seat of Lucy’s car, my inner schoolboy glad that I’d made her laugh. Ten minutes later, Kate pulled alongside, and Lucy brought me up to date as we traded cars.

“Kate interviewed Peggy Martin and says we’ve got some problems. I’ll let her fill you in.”

“What about Ellen Koch and Adam?”

“Nobody answered their door. Adam’s pickup truck wasn’t there, but that doesn’t mean the house was empty. I’m going to go back and wait for someone to show up.”

“What about Kate? She’ll want to talk to them, probably on video.”

“We’ve got to catch up to them first. Besides, we can’t run this case around Kate’s schedule.”

“You’re right.”

I got into Kate’s rental, a flurry of tremors rippling from my waist to my neck.

“I talked to Ethan. He’s probably with Roni by now,” she said.

“Thanks. Lucy says you have some problems with Peggy Martin.”

“I don’t have problems; Peggy does. We’ll talk about it tomorrow. You’re in no shape. I’m taking you home.”

I waved her off. “Not yet. We have to find the Martin kids. The longer it takes, the less chance we find them alive.”

“How are you going to do that? At the moment, you can’t walk or chew gum.”

“I just need some down time, an hour or so. If I go home, Joy will handcuff me to my easy chair.”

“Where then?”

“Somewhere quiet where I can watch your interview with Peggy Martin and you can tell me all about her problems.”

She gave me a long look and a longer sigh. “You know the brain registers negative comments much more strongly than positive comments. That’s why it takes five compliments to make up for one shot below the belt.”

“Which means what, exactly?”

“That this is really hard for me, but I know just the place.”

“Where?”

“My hotel room.”

My track record with women made me more of a survivor than an expert. I’d managed to screw up my marriage to Joy and scuttle my relationship with Kate. After digging out from the debris, Joy and I were building something that was fragile and undefined but vital. And now, my ex-girlfriend, who was mad enough at me this morning to spit, was escorting me to her hotel room for some quiet time. Who said God doesn’t have a sense of humor? I closed my eyes, pretending that I’d been blindfolded and taken hostage.

“Perfect.”

Kate was staying at the Raphael on the Plaza, a Spanish Renaissance Revival-style boutique hotel built in the 1920s as an apartment building. A sign next to the elevators offering a special Romantic Getaway Package stopped me in my tracks. I looked at her.

“I don’t know about this,” I said.

“That’s what I say everyday when I wake up. I’ve got video, and Joy’s got handcuffs. Your choice.”

My legs buckled, making the choice for me. Kate grabbed my arm, keeping me on my feet as the elevator door opened and we stepped inside. Her suite had a bedroom with a king-size bed and a separate living room. She led me into the bedroom, pulled the spread and blankets back, and pointed at the mattress.

“Lie down,” she said.

“You’re sure?”

“Positive. I’ve got work to do. Get in bed, close your eyes, and don’t come out for an hour, or I’ll call Joy and tell her where you are. And take off your shoes.”

I woke to raised voices coming from the other side of the bedroom door, several people arguing, though I was too foggy to catch who was mad at whom and why. As my head cleared, I heard Kate say something about a video, to which Lucy answered they couldn’t wait. Simon Alexander interrupted her, saying he needed more time, and Ethan Bonner complained that his hands were tied until he could get in front of a judge. Someone’s cell phone rang, and they got quiet before I could figure out who was on first.