Brian Freeman - Immoral

Dan ate the last Brazil nut and dusted the salt off his hands. His eyes were cold and angry. He looked up at Gale and jabbed a finger in his face. "Don't think you can intimidate me. Stoner's life is over, all right. He's going to spend the rest of it in prison. He's a murderer, and I'm going to put him away."

"You're so sure he's guilty?"

Dan groaned. "Come on, Archie. This is just us boys. Don't tell me you think he's innocent?"

Gale shrugged and didn't reply.

"Well, I guess we have nothing else to say," Dan told him. "I'll see you in court."

"Yes, indeed," Gale said, still chuckling. "Don't say I didn't warn you."

Gale strolled southward along the back street, avoiding the early evening crowds on Superior. For a large man, he walked briskly and athletically. When he saw the circular Radisson a couple of blocks to his right, he turned up the street, keeping an eye on the people around him as he neared the hotel. He drifted casually into the lobby and headed for the elevators.

This was always the risky part. Gale was a recognizable figure, and he worried that reporters from the Duluth newspaper, whose offices were only a few blocks away, might be hanging out over drinks in the hotel bar. He took the elevator to the seventh floor, got out, then retreated to the stairwell. He walked down three flights, took the elevator again, and this time got out on the eleventh floor. He glanced carefully down the corridor, then proceeded to the far end and knocked five times on the door of one of the hotel's suites.

He saw a shadow pass across the peephole.

Graeme Stoner opened the door.

"Counselor," Graeme said. "It's always a pleasure."

Graeme moved aside to let Gale in, then closed and locked the door behind him.

"Bird Finch is convinced you're still in Minneapolis," Gale told him.

"That's good. Otherwise, the hotel would be under siege."

Gale had succeeded in obtaining bail for Stoner, but he couldn't go home. The publicity surrounding his arrest put him in danger, and even if he had been safe, he was no longer welcome in his own house. Emily had filed for divorce. His bank had also fired him, although Gale had helped Graeme win a lucrative settlement in return for his walking quietly away without a legal challenge.

"What's the good word from Danny Erickson?" Graeme asked.

Gale chuckled. "As confident as ever. He wants to bury you, Graeme."

Graeme shrugged. "That's Danny boy. You know, we used to go out together now and then. I thought of him as a friend. But with Danny, friendship is important only as long as it is useful. Can I get you a drink?"

Gale shook his head.

"Well, I hope you don't mind if I indulge," Graeme said. He hunted under the bar and poured himself a glass of brandy, then situated himself in a comfortable chair by the window. The sky had turned to a deep blue twilight. Graeme was wearing a maroon golf shirt and pleated tan slacks. His laptop was glowing on a nearby desk. Gale asked him once what he did to pass the time, and Graeme told him he had increased his holdings in the stock market by 20 percent over the past five months. It was like a vacation for him.

Gale, still standing, studied his client. Even when Graeme called him on the day of the search, the man had been unemotional, calmly asserting his innocence and apologizing to Gale for talking to the police without his lawyer present. But, he claimed, he knew he was innocent and so had nothing to hide.

He wondered. It made no difference to the defense, of course, but morbid curiosity made Gale speculate on the truth. He had heard many liars in his day, and usually he could see through them immediately. Graeme was different. Either the man was sincere, or he was one of the most gifted liars Gale had encountered in his career. Unfortunately, he had always found that the better the liar, the more likely his client was guilty as charged.

Not that he couldn't make a jury believe otherwise.

But which was it?

Gale had to admit to himself that the prosecution had a compelling circumstantial case. The evidence in the truck and the barn pointed directly to Graeme, even though there was nothing specific to link him to either location. And though the prosecution had nothing (so far as he knew) to prove a sexual relationship between Graeme and Rachel, the hints were tantalizing, maybe enough to sway a jury of stolid Scandinavians who didn't approve of phone sex or promiscuous seventeen-year-olds. The truth? He simply didn't know. He could poke holes in the prosecution's case, and he had other suspects that the jury could readily believe were involved in Rachel's disappearance. None of that cleared Graeme in his own mind.

He just didn't know. It made him vaguely uncomfortable. He didn't mind defending guilty clients, and he enjoyed defending innocent ones. Being in the middle was a new experience for him.

Graeme was smiling at him. It was as if he could read his thoughts. "Do you feel like you're dancing with the devil, counselor?"

Gale took a chair opposite Graeme. "A totally different jury will have to decide who owns your soul, Graeme. Let's worry about the jury in court tomorrow."

"Touche," Graeme said. "Well, what did you learn from Danny? Did you psych the poor boy out?"

Gale shrugged. "He's got a pretty good case for a man without a body. And Daniel is good before a jury."

"But not as good as you," Graeme said.

"No," Gale admitted easily. "He's not."

"See, that's the confidence I'm paying for. But tell me honestly, what's the outlook? Don't spare my feelings."

"All right," Gale said. "The physical evidence is the heart of the case. It's strong. And the publicity has been so vicious against you that much of the jury pool is likely to be tainted, regardless of what they say in voir dire. I'm afraid that most of them are going to walk in thinking you're a perverted son of a bitch."

"So what do we do?"

"Daniel knows the evidence only takes them to the edge of the cliff, and he wants the jury to stroll across the bridge to the other side. I want them to take a long look down and conclude the bridge isn't sturdy."

"A beautiful analogy," Graeme said. "I assume there's more."

Gale nodded. "Then there's the bogeyman theory."

"I've always liked that one."

"You should. It's not enough to plant doubt as to whether you did it. I have to make sure the jury realizes there are plausible alternatives. If you're the only game in town, they'll convict, even if the evidence is shaky."

Graeme finished his brandy and poured himself another from the bottle. "But you assured me we do have alternatives."

Gale nodded. "I think so."

In fact, Gale was unusually suspicious that either of the persons he planned to paint as a culprit might actually be guilty. But there was something in Graeme's cool smile that disturbed him. He didn't like the man.

"You won't tell me what you've found, though," Graeme continued. "That doesn't seem fair."

"Sometimes the less you know, and the less you tell me, the better," Gale said.

"Well, then, give it to me straight. Do you think I'll be free to move to Colorado in a few weeks, or will I be checking into a less comfortable hotel for the rest of my life?"

Gale eyed his client. "I'm not a betting man, Graeme. I don't know if you're innocent or not, and I don't really care. But the fact is, it's hard to prove a murder without a body, and in this case, I don't think the circumstantial evidence will be enough. I think you'll walk."

"Even though the jury thinks I'm a perverted son of a bitch?" Graeme replied, smiling.

"We can get past that," Gale said.

Graeme nodded, satisfied. "I'm delighted to hear it. But I can think of at least one person who will be bitterly disappointed."