Brian Freemantle - Dead End

‘I fired Fletcher because he’d already decided I was guilty – said that’s how I had to plead and that we had to try for mitigation.’

‘I haven’t decided that or talked about guilty pleas or mitigation. But if you want to fire me, go ahead. It’ll cost you three hundred bucks for the consultation. There was a Perry Mason rerun on television tonight. I didn’t want to miss it.’

‘I want you to believe I’m innocent!’

‘I want to believe it, too. But I’m already way ahead of you, wondering how many cans of how many worms I’m going to have to open up to prove it.’

‘Please help me,’ pleaded Parnell. ‘I’ve thought about it every which way. I know how it looks.’

‘You good for a personal bail bond?’

‘Depends how much it is.’

‘Perhaps we’ll need a bondsman. You’re a good enough risk, with the Dubette position.’

‘If I keep the Dubette position,’ said Parnell.

‘They fire you ahead of a formal verdict, I’ll strip their skin off, layer by layer, until they bleed to death.’

‘What about Beverley?’

Jackson smiled, for the first time. ‘You just impressed me! They go for her while I’m going at them, her compensation would match yours.’

‘ You just impressed me,’ said Parnell.

‘You don’t say anything to anyone about anything, OK? Just yes, please and thank you. The two officers are out of it now, until a court hearing. But no more threats against them. Or anyone else, no matter what they do or say.’

‘OK.’

‘Anything you want to ask me? Tell me?’

‘I don’t want this no win, no fee.’

‘Neither do I. So it isn’t.’

It was more of a collapse into exhaustion than sleep and Parnell was awake long before the same detention officer, yawning away the effect of his own rumpled night, came into the cell with the offer of a bristle-matted electric razor, corned-beef hash and coffee. Parnell refused everything except the coffee, which came in a much stained, unbreakable tin mug that retained so much heat it was uncomfortable to drink. There were four other officers in the shower-equipped washroom to which the warder escorted him, but Peter Bellamy wasn’t among them. They all regarded him contemptuously. Parnell, accustomed to communal sports-room bathing, stripped without embarrassment. One of the watching officers said something to the others when Parnell came out of the shower cubicle and on their way back to the holding cell the detention officer said: ‘They think you’re shit, for what you did.’

Obedient to the midnight instructions, Parnell said nothing. He estimated it to be another hour before the door opened again to the smirking Peter Bellamy, flanked by Helen Montgomery.

The woman said: ‘Hear you got yourself a hot-shot lawyer.’

Parnell didn’t reply.

‘Got Judge Wilson out of bed this morning to put the cars under court jurisdiction. Cranky son of a bitch, old Davey Wilson. Won’t like that one bit.’

Parnell guessed neither of the officers did, either.

‘You got nothing to say, English boy?’ said the woman.

‘Are we going to court?’ He’d expected Barry Jackson to come back to the police station.

‘Bet that sweet ass we are,’ said Bellamy. ‘Gonna have you tucked up nice and safe in a proper jail with a lot of new and loving friends by tonight.’

Parnell hesitated directly outside the cell door, half moving his hands to be manacled again, but Helen Montgomery said: ‘That smart lawyer of yours got an order against restraint.’

‘Which doesn’t prevent us from cuffing you, you do something we don’t like,’ warned Bellamy. ‘You be very, very careful, English boy.’

It was bravado, Parnell guessed. He didn’t think they were worried yet but there was an uncertainty. The impression remained as he walked between them out into the receiving hall, where three of the officers from the washroom were standing. The expressions were still contemptuous but there were no sniggering remarks. There weren’t on the short drive to the courthouse, either. The car stopped directly in front of the building but it wasn’t until he started to get out, the two deputies already posed, that Parnell saw the cameras, television as well as presumably newspaper photographers. There was a babble of questions, which Parnell ignored. He tried to hurry through the pack but felt Bellamy’s hand upon his arm, slowing him, although at the same time he heard the man demanding that they be let through, which they finally were.

Jackson was waiting outside their assigned court, in a subdued suit and muted tie. The lawyer said: ‘How you feeling?’

‘Like shit.’

‘That’s just how you look. Those photographs aren’t going to flatter you, either. You already got today’s headlines, in the Washington Post even. Lot of background about your scientific work. Let’s get out of here, somewhere quieter.’ Jackson led the way into an anteroom equipped with a table, chairs and a closed, glass-fronted cabinet of neatly ordered legal books. As he sat where Jackson indicated, Parnell said: ‘Gather you started early?’

‘Earlier than you’d believe,’ said Jackson. ‘Did Bellamy or Montgomery question you about the contents of Rebecca’s purse?’

‘No.’

‘What does AF209 mean to you?’

Parnell stared back uncomprehendingly at the lawyer. ‘Nothing.’

‘You sure?’

‘If I tell you it means nothing it means nothing.’

‘It’s a flight number. An Air France flight number.’

‘Of course,’ understood Parnell. ‘It just didn’t seem to fit.’ Or did it?

‘What were Rebecca’s political views?’

Parnell’s breath came out in a laugh. ‘We never discussed her political views. I don’t believe she had any, not seriously.’

‘What about you?’

‘What’s this got to do with Rebecca’s murder?’

‘It could have a lot to do with it. Answer the question.’ There was a hardness to the man’s questioning there hadn’t been before.

‘If you’re looking for an American near equivalent I guess it’s Democrat. But I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.’

‘You ever belonged to a radical political organization? At university, maybe, when everybody does.’

‘I wasn’t one of the everybodies.’

‘Does that mean you never belonged or subscribed in any way whatsoever to a radical political organization?’

‘That’s very precisely what it means,’ said Parnell. ‘You going to make it any easier for either of us, because at the moment I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.’

Jackson studied him across the table for several moments before saying: ‘I find you lied to me, I’ll throw you in the snake pit myself.’

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake!’ said Parnell. ‘What’s the difference between a snake pit and the madhouse I’m in already?’

‘You might find out in a very short time,’ said Jackson. ‘Something else you should know is that getting the cars under the court’s jurisdiction gets them away from Metro DC police. I’m trying to fix independent forensic tests, as early as this afternoon if possible. Maybe, if you’re telling me the truth, it will be by someone more independent than we could hope for. Prosecution are going for a remand in custody, which I’m going to oppose, obviously. This is scheduled as an initial formality, a bail hearing… All that stuff in the papers about your professional career and integrity could help, as well as the rabbit I might have in my hat. And there might even be another edge.’

‘What?’ demanded Parnell.

The man hesitated. ‘Don’t want to build up false hopes.’ There was another pause. ‘We’ve got the preliminary autopsy report. Rebecca’s neck was broken and there were extensive crush injuries to the chest. And there was no finding of excessive alcohol.’