Lisa Scottoline - Running From The Law

“Criminal homicide ring a bell?”

“Sounds familiar.”

“Murder of the first degree? Intentionally causing the death of another human being? And a total fox at that?”

“Like that makes a difference?”

“Not to you maybe. The newspapers are calling you a superlawyer. An experienced criminal advocate. They know something I don’t?”

“I memorized the Crimes Code in the hospital.”

“You studied? For a murder case?”

It could happen. “What are you calling for, Tobin? I’ve got things to do.” I dripped onto the rug, but I’d be damned if I’d tell him I was wearing a washcloth.

“The preliminary hearing is Friday,” he said.

“What? That’s tomorrow! I thought I had ten days!”

“No, the hearing is held between three and ten days. They’re pressing this one, they must think their case is strong. With the media howling, the pressure is on-”

“Wait a minute. How do you know when the hearing is?”

“The notice.”

“A notice came to you?”

There was a pause on the other end of the line, except for a slight crunching noise. “Mack asked me to watch your desk, okay? He said you might need a hand.”

“You read my mail?”

“I was trying to help.”

“I don’t need help. And don’t open my mail for me. That’s what my secretary is for.”

“Oh, is that it? I was wondering.” There was a crunching sound again.

“What are you doing?”

“Eating breakfast.”

“Well, it’s rude.”

“Bear with me. I got Snickers, a cup of coffee, and a box of Goobers, but only if I’m good. And I’m good. That’s why you need me.”

“I’m sure. I have to go.” I dripped onto my answering machine and noticed its green light flashing. If I had played the messages I probably would have found out about the hearing, but I had been too tired to listen to them when I got home from the hospital.

“Ask me anything. You must have questions.”

“Tobin, look, I have a lot to deal with right now. My father is just out of the woods.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, between nougat and caramel. “Look, if you have to be with your father, I’ll take the preliminary hearing for you. Spell you. You’d stay lead counsel.”

“No. I’ll postpone the hearing.”

“You don’t want to do that.”

“Why not?”

“It gives them time. Time to rehearse the witness, time to get the lab results.”

“Lab results?” My head was full of blood cultures from the hospital.

“They test for blood, hair, fiber samples. They’ll be doing all of that right now. A burg like Radnor, they’re not like Philly, they don’t have their own lab. They can do some fingerprint comparisons locally, but they have to send the other stuff out.”

“Since when do you know so much?”

“Me? I’ve returned hundreds of sociopaths to a peace-loving society.”

“I’ve been before a jury, too, Tobin. I win money. Lots of it.”

“I know, superlawyer. You work too hard.”

“Hold the lecture.”

“I wasn’t going to lecture you. I admire it, in fact.”

“You make up this bullshit as you go along?”

“I mean it. I know how tough it is to try as many cases as you do. I give you credit.”

It sounded almost convincing. “You trying to make nice after you opened my mail?”

“Can’t fool you, can I? By the way, I heard about that stunt you pulled in court last week.” He laughed. “I could tell you stories.”

Maybe he could, but I’d be the last to admit it. I heard the sound of crinkling cellophane over the phone. “What are we eating now?”

“I’m eating Goobers, I don’t know what you’re eating. Why do you talk like a schoolteacher?”

“Because you act like a child. I have to go now.”

“You want me to come to the hearing? I’ll sit second chair. Subordinate to you, so you won’t feel threatened.”

“I don’t feel threatened.”

“Sure you do.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

He laughed. “It’s your funeral. My only advice is to hammer the witness. She couldn’t have seen anything all that clearly. You could fit a fucking football field from the main house to the carriage house.”

“I know that. How do you?”

“I scoped it out. Just the outside, I couldn’t get in. Something about CRIME SCENE DO NOT CROSS. They had a guard posted, he watched me the whole time. What a pain in the ass they are out there, nothing else to do-”

“Why’d you go to the carriage house?”

“I’m a helpful guy. You want my advice, the trick is to just listen at the hearing. The standard is low for the Commonwealth, so there’s no way you’re gonna win.”

“You call this helpful?”

“Pay attention and take notes. Anything you learn, cross-examine, but don’t try to score. Just let ’em know you’re there. That you’re comin’ at them.”

“Now who sounds like a teacher?”

“You can be a real bitch, you know that?”

“So I hear.”

He laughed. “Women. Fear them.”

“What?”

“Have it your way. Come back when you grow up, girl. In the meantime, DNFU.”

“What does that mean?”

“DNFU? It’s a term of art in criminal law. You must’ve heard it now that you’re trying murder cases.”

“Enlighten me.”

“Do not fuck up.”

Christ. I hung up the phone.

Later, standing in front of my closet in my robe, I realized I didn’t need to put on a suit today. It left me with almost nothing to wear.

You work too hard.

Tobin had said it with approval, but my father hadn’t. And neither had Paul, who had lectured me about it more times than I cared to remember. I found myself staring at Paul’s side of the closet, which used to be full of sports coats and hanging shirts. It was empty. He had taken everything, evidently planning a long stay. Good. I slapped one of his empty hangers, sending it rocking back and forth, screeching.

I wondered what else he had taken and nosed around his bureau. His boar brush was gone from the top, as was a tortoiseshell comb and the silver-framed photo of us he kept on the top. It was the one taken in Bermuda, the one used for the portrait in Patricia’s garage. I remembered the sketchbook with a vague uneasiness. Had Paul taken that, too?

I slipped into a shirt and khakis while I went through his drawers. Only some balled-up sweat socks and a pair of Jockey shorts. I padded downstairs in bare feet, the staircase creaking loudly in the quiet, empty house. The sketchbook wasn’t in the entrance hall where I’d thrown it, or in the living room or dining room. I checked the kitchen and the trash cans but it wasn’t anywhere to be found. I went upstairs to Paul’s desk, the one in his home office, but no sketchbook. He had taken it.

Why?

I ran a hand through tangled, wet hair. The sketchbook was the only link between Paul and Patricia.

So what? What was I thinking?

I pushed aside my questions and finished dressing hastily. Then I grabbed my briefcase and prepared to do the only thing I was really good at, after poker.

Work.

This being the provinces, a scuffed Formica dais stood at the front of the small courtroom, flanked by cheap nylon flags of the United States and the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania. The counsel tables were wobbly, with peeling veneer, and instead of the typical fixed pews for spectators, there were chairs arranged in rows, like at an Amway demonstration. In fact, with the reporters and police milling around, the courtroom felt more like a Tupperware party than a preliminary hearing, at least until the judge took her seat on the dais and the bailiff shouted:

“The Commonwealth of Pennsylvania versus the Honorable Fiske Harlan Hamilton.”