Phillip Margolin - Executive Privilege

Little’s smile widened. “I knew I was right to trust you.”

“Yes, so, where are they?” Brad asked, anxious to get the meeting over with as quickly as possible.

“Before I tell you where I’ve hidden my keepsakes, why don’t you tell me a little about yourself.”

Brad rolled his eyes. “This isn’t going to be like Silence of the Lambs is it? You’re not expecting me to trade intimate details about my life for clues to the whereabouts of the pinkies?”

Little laughed. “Not at all. I’m just not in a rush to go back to my cell, and I think I’m entitled to know a bit more about the qualifications of someone to whom I’m entrusting my life.”

“Okay. What do you want to know?”

“Your accent suggests that you grew up on the East Coast.”

“New York. Long Island, actually.”

“And did you go to college in New York?”

“Hofstra.”

“What was your major?”

“English.”

“That’s not a very practical major. Why not something in the sciences or engineering?”

“I’m not very good at math or science and I like to read.”

“A good choice then. Where did you go to law school?”

“Fordham.”

“Didn’t you have the grades to get into Columbia or NYU?”

“My grades were fine, but I don’t do well on standardized tests. Look can we get back to the pinkies?”

“I see your patience is running thin. Impatience is not an admirable trait. I used to take a lot of time with my female friends. Here’s a tip, Brad. Never kill them quickly. It spoils the fun.”

“Okay, I’ve had enough. I don’t think there is a pinkie collection. I think you’re having fun at my expense.”

“If there’s no pinkie collection what happened to them?”

“You know, Mr. Little, I don’t care. I’m going now. I’ll do my best on your brief and I’ll argue your appeal, but I’m not going to waste my time and the time of my firm playing bullshit mind games with you.”

Brad stood up and Little started to laugh.

“Sit down. I’m fucking with you. I liked Silence of the Lambs, although it’s totally unrealistic. All those serial killer movies are ridiculous. I can’t sit through most of that shit. Watching them is like a busman’s holiday anyway.”

Brad stared through the glass, unsure of how to respond.

“Sit down, please. I wanted to see just how long I could string you along with this act. I don’t even talk like this. I even comb my hair differently when I’m not meeting with you. I was just doing my best Hannibal Lecter impersonation.”

“Your best…” Brad shook his head, thoroughly confused. “What’s going on here?”

“I thought you’d expect someone a little weird and I didn’t want to disappoint you. It was just harmless fun. I really am sorry I jerked you around.”

“I don’t appreciate being a mental hacky sack.”

“I said I’m sorry. It’s just that it really is boring sitting on death row all day with nothing to do. This was just a way of killing time.”

“So the pinkie thing was bullshit?”

Little sobered immediately. “No, no, that’s real. Get someone to fingerprint the pinkies and you’ll see I’m one hundred percent innocent of killing that babysitter. And I’m very serious about getting the bastard who had the audacity to frame me.”

Brad sat down. “No more nonsense. Where are the pinkies?”

“They’ll be a little difficult to find. Tell me, are you fond of the outdoors?”

“Not particularly. I’m basically a city boy.”

“Well, I’m a country boy, and I love to hike and hunt and shoot the rapids. There are so many wonderful wilderness areas in Oregon. You’ll thank me for introducing you to one of them.”

Oh, shit, thought Brad, whose idea of a wilderness adventure was a walk through Central Park.

“You buried the pinkies in the woods?”

Little nodded. “I was bringing them a new companion when I stumbled across Peggy and her friend.” He looked sheepish. “I hadn’t planned to kill her, but I couldn’t let the opportunity pass.”

“The fingers are buried near the bodies?”

“You’re definitely much faster on the uptake than my trial attorney. I’m certain you would have won my case had you been representing me. Then we wouldn’t have to be going through all this trouble to prove my innocence.”

“Is this treasure hunt going to involve an overnight stay in the woods?” asked Brad, who was starting to worry about bears and mountain lions.

“No, nothing like that. I told you, Peggy left Portland on Wednesday and had made camp when I found her. The trailhead is a few hours from Portland, and I’ve buried my cache near a waterfall about five miles in on a side trail. The bodies are very close by. Say hello for me, won’t you?”

“You know I might have to give the authorities the location of the bodies and turn over the pinkies to the police?”

“I authorize you to do whatever is necessary to catch the son of a bitch who framed me.” Suddenly a dreamy look suffused Little’s face. “Wouldn’t it be interesting if he ended up on death row, say in the cell next to mine. That would create some fascinating possibilities.”

Sunday morning, Brad and Ginny drove down I-5, past the prison, and turned onto a state highway heading east toward the Cascade Mountains. The outlet malls, motels, and gas stations that passed for scenery on the interstate gave way to farmland then forest in almost no time. The pace of work at Reed, Briggs had been so intense that Brad hadn’t had a chance to explore Oregon, and he was surprised by the rapid disappearance of anything remotely resembling the crowded, tightly packed urban and suburban areas he’d grown up with on the East Coast. The population of the towns they drove through was often listed in three or four digits, and the road ran parallel to rivers and dense forest instead of strip malls and tract homes. Every once in a while the course of the two-lane highway would veer and without warning the snowcapped peak of a huge mountain would loom over the vast expanse of green foothills, only to disappear when the road changed direction again.

“Does this look anything like the Midwest?” Brad joked.

“Are you kidding? A five-story building passes for a mountain where I come from. This is awesome.”

“Long Island’s flat as a pancake, too. It’s where the glaciers stopped. When they retreated they turned the whole place into a parking lot. And I can’t remember seeing this much green outside of Saint Patrick’s Day.”

Ginny smiled. Then she took another look at the MapQuest directions she’d gotten from the Internet. It was almost an hour and a half since they’d turned off I-5.

“Start looking for signs for the Reynolds Campground. It should be on our left.”

Ginny was wearing a T-shirt and shorts, and Brad caught himself casting surreptitious glances at her legs. He’d donned a T-shirt, jeans, and sneakers, the only items in his wardrobe that seemed appropriate for a hike in the woods, something he’d only done at summer camp when he was ten.

“There it is,” she said, pointing to a highway sign that was posted just in front of a gravel road.

Brad made the turn. A quarter mile later they found themselves in a primitive parking lot. A wooden sign pointed them toward a dirt path that served as the trailhead for part of the Pacific Crest Trail that wound through the Mount Jefferson Wilderness on its way from Mexico to Canada. Little had instructed Brad to follow the Pacific Crest Trail for a half mile before turning off onto another trail that would eventually take them-if Brad’s client was to be believed-to two decomposing bodies and a Mason jar filled with pinkies.