Lisa Scottoline - Lady Killer

“You have a few options,” Mary answered, shifting gears. “You can turn yourself in and accept responsibility for the murder, and then you can either plead guilty and make a deal or you can go to trial and make them prove their case.”

Mrs. Gambone sighed again, but Trish tilted her face up from her mother’s embrace, her cheeks stained with tears and her glistening eyes hopeful.

“Why, Mare? Why should she say anything? Why does she have to turn herself in? What if she doesn’t tell the cops anything? What if she just shuts up?”

Mrs. Gambone looked over, and Mary blinked, plunged suddenly into a conspiracy of silence. She hadn’t even considered the possibility that Mrs. Gambone would keep it a secret.

Trish sat up suddenly, wiping her eyes, and looked at her mother. “Keep it quiet, Ma. The cops don’t know a thing about you. The girls don’t even know, and this, they’d shut up about anyway.”

Mary looked from daughter to mother and back again, realizing how naive she must have been, and how unprofessional. She’d wanted Mrs. Gambone to turn herself in, but that wasn’t in her interest. It might be justice, but it wasn’t law. Mary found herself in the middle of an ethical dilemma as Mrs. Gambone and Trish turned to her.

“Mare, you have to tell the cops on me, don’t you?” Mrs. Gambone’s asked. “You have to because you’re a lawyer.”

Trish sat beside her, equally puzzled. “No, you’re not allowed to tell the cops, are you, Mare? I mean, my mom’s your client, and this is all confidential, right?”

“Slow down, ladies.” Mary put up both hands, wondering how she’d gotten herself into this mess. She’d thought the hard part was figuring out whodunit, but this was even harder. “As a legal matter, I have no obligation under Pennsylvania law to tell the cops what you just told me. But as a moral matter, I feel differently.” She paused, emotion confusing her reasoning. “Mrs. Gambone, I understand why you did what you did that night, but I believe in the law and I don’t think you can take it into your own hands.”

Trish gasped. “Bobby was gonna kill me, Mare.”

“Not then he wasn’t. Not in the alley he wasn’t. He was an awful person, but he was still a person.” Mary found herself thinking not of Bobby, but of Rosaria, grief stricken. “I’m sure the facts will help your mom get a good plea bargain, maybe downgrade the charge from murder to voluntary manslaughter. She has no record and she just lost it, thinking Bobby had murdered you. It’s almost like a temporary insanity defense, and the sentence for manslaughter could be as low as five years. Or if she went to trial, the facts could even persuade the jury to let her off. It happens.”

Mrs. Gambone remained silent, her lips a resigned line, but Mary could see she was mulling it over.

“It’s not for me to say, Mrs. Gambone, and I don’t want to judge you. I can’t put this back in the bag, or pretend I don’t know, which gives you a compromised lawyer. I can’t be objective about your case, so I can’t be the one to represent you.”

Mrs. Gambone frowned, and Trish looked at Mary, astonished, the pain of betrayal reminding Mary of that first day in her office.

“I can’t believe you’re doin’ this, Mare.”

“I have to. There’s also a conflict of interest here, Trish. Right now, I’m your lawyer, and we both know you’re not completely in the clear. There’s lots more evidence to come, like that lamp in the cabin, and it’ll show Bobby’s blood on it. What if any of it points to you?”

Trish’s outrage diminished.

“The best way for me to get you off the hook is to take your mom in to confess. Is that what you want? Should I sell your mom out-for you? That’s in your interest, but not hers, understand?”

Trish nodded, reluctantly.

“You see the issue, then.”

“So you’re gonna leave my mom in the lurch?”

“Of course not.” Mary rose on knees that felt surprisingly weak. “Mrs. Gambone, I’ll get you the best criminal lawyer I know. Then you can decide what you want to do, with solid legal advice. Be right back.” She crossed to the door and slipped outside, taking her phone from her purse. She closed the door behind her, then sat down at the top of the stairs, and pressed in the number, ignoring a bad case of jitters. When the call connected, she said, “Bennie?”

“DiNunzio. It’s about time you called. Are you clearing out your office tomorrow?”

Ouch. “No, uh, it’s not about that.”

“What else do we have to talk about?”

“I…don’t know who else to call. I just heard a murder confession.”

There was a pause, then Bennie asked, “Are you serious?”

“Can you come?”

“Tell me where you are,” Bennie answered, and the sudden softness in her tone made Mary feel like crying.

M ary, Bennie, and Trish didn’t leave the Roundhouse until past midnight, the three women crossing the parking lot in a silent little group. That they had left one of their number behind hardly needed saying. The drizzle hadn’t let up, and the night felt heavy and muggy, the dampness making a vaporous halo around the streetlights. The lot was busy, but not with the clamoring media, only with routine hustle and bustle, the everyday business of murder and mayhem.

Mary led the walk to her car, feeling a heaviness she had never known, her heart a weight. It was a grown-up perspective, new to her, but she was coming to the understanding that not every ending could be a happy one.

“I’m gonna catch a cab,” Bennie said abruptly, waving a hand, and Mary looked over, surprised. In the lights from the building, she could almost see the boss’s expression, impassive. They hadn’t exchanged a word in private, like a couple keeping their fight before a dinner party a secret.

“I can drop you at home,” Mary said, anyway. They had all come together, and she felt funny just letting Bennie go, an attack of separation anxiety. She wondered if they’d ever work together again or if she’d ever even see her another time.

“Understood, but I’ll get a cab.” Bennie’s blond hair curled in the humidity, a fuzzy topknot, and her trenchcoat hung open. She turned to Trish and extended a hand. “It was good meeting you. Don’t worry about your mom.”

“Thanks, Bennie.” Trish smiled wanly. “I guess I shoulda told you, I don’t know how soon I can pay you. If we could do installments-”

“Don’t worry about it,” Bennie answered easily, turning toward the street. “This one’s a favor to DiNunzio.”

“For real?” Trish sounded as incredulous as Mary felt.

Huh? “You don’t have to do that, Bennie.”

“Don’t worry about it. Trish, take care now. I’ll keep you posted.”

“Thanks,” Trish called after her.

But Mary didn’t know what to say. “Bennie, can we talk?” she blurted out. “Maybe tomorrow?”

“Tuesday’s better, nine o’clock,” Bennie answered, then she walked to the street, her trenchcoat billowing.

“That was nice of her, not to charge me,” Trish said quietly.

“It sure was.” Mary nodded, watching her go. She was thinking about what Judy had said about Bennie’s clients not paying. Maybe it was because she’d been doing nice things, like that.

They got into the car and slammed the doors, and Mary turned on the ignition, rewinding the events of the night like a video. Mrs. Gambone had confessed, and Bennie had proposed a plea bargain that would reduce the charge to voluntary manslaughter, with a two-to-four-year term. She had argued that the murder was the misguided act of a loving mother, the inevitably tragic response to domestic abuse, and that Mrs. Gambone deserved credit for coming in voluntarily and preventing an all-out Mob war. The young A.D.A. had said he’d take the offer to his boss and even he appreciated the sympathy factor. The whole time, Mrs. Gambone had remained stoic, if shaky, but Trish had cried hard.