Jonathan Kellerman: Breakdown

Milo said, “She didn’t even bother to wipe it. Or to get rid of those documents on Zina and Zelda.”

I said, “Why would she think she’d need to?”

“Living in her walled world and getting away with it for so long? Guess so — oh, yeah, I called the Cleveland D.A.’s office. They’re not rushing to dig up Jim Smith but they’re not saying no.”

“Frosting on the cake for you, a hassle for them. Have you spoken to Ott?”

“Just before you got here. He said, Great, but he sounded bummed about not closing it years ago. Still, talking to him was one of the more pleasant conversations I’ve had recently. Had a second go with the families, along with Lorrie. The worst was Andrea Salton. You can imagine what she had to say about Rod being left off the indictment.”

He wiped his face. “Meanwhile, I’m feeling like an ass because I can’t come clean with her — God, I hate feeling like a bureaucrat.”

His phone rang. “Hi, John... that so? You’re kidding — well, yeah, that was an ad lib... fine, fine, glad it worked out. When?”

He hung up. “So much for keeping our cards close to the vest. Nguyen took it upon himself to give Loach’s lawyer the basics of the case. An hour later, he gets a call: J. Yarmie wants to chat.” He shrugged. “Ends, means, I guess.”

Buttoning his collar button, he tugged his tie toward his gullet, collected his papers, checked his sidearm, and stood to slip on his sport coat.

“Presentable?”

“Downright authoritative,” I said. “You’re heading over to the jail, now?”

“John is apparently operating on his own schedule. You can come, too. Being the APC and all.”

Milo stashed his gun in one of the lockers the men’s jail provided for such, and we both submitted to cursory searches by a pair of bored-looking sheriff’s deputies. Nguyen was waiting for us as we passed through the metal detector and the sally port, dapper in a midnight-blue suit with a stars-and-stripes pin on the lapel, a TV-blue shirt, a red power tie patterned with crossed muskets.

He bounced on his feet, punched air.

Milo said, “You’re looking happy, John.”

“Cracked the bastard, gentlemen. It was more than improv. It was deductive reasoning based on logic.”

I said, “Loach is the submissive and since there’s no hard evidence against him, you suggested a plea for accessory after the fact.”

Nguyen looked as if I’d eaten his birthday cake.

“Actually,” he said, drawing himself up, “I made no specific plea suggestions because that would be amateurish, Alex. What I did communicate was that my case was growing stronger by the moment due to unnamed biological evidence and that time was running out. His counsel began yammering about cooperation in return for a reduction to mistreating a corpse and violation of county burial rules.”

He raised a middle finger. “Good luck with that.”

His voice had risen with each sentence. Two deputies stationed on the other side of the port looked at each other.

Milo sidled closer to Nguyen and spoke softly. What he told Nguyen made the D.D.A. stiffen. “And you learned this when?”

“Couple of hours ago.”

“And you were planning to tell me—”

“Just about to share, John. You’ve been busy.”

“Well, yeah, that’s... okay, obviously that changes things,” said Nguyen. He played with his tie. “All right... good... though it really doesn’t change the overall tenor of my attack... is that everything I need to know?”

“It is, John. How’s Loach adjusting to jail?”

Nguyen pouted and ran a finger down his cheek. “Big boo-hoo story. Constant verbal assault and humiliation from the ruffians who are housed here, an upright senior citizen grows older by the minute. Which I can actually believe, he’s not exactly Crips/Bloods material. That’s why I put him in High-Power. Can you can imagine how long he’d last in general population? Though, according to my source at Lynwood, Madame DePauw seems to be adjusting quite well. She refused High-Power, insisted on joining the blue-scrubs gang, seems to be one of the popular girls.”

I said, “Life-coaching the young ’uns.”

“God help us,” said Nguyen. “Okay, let’s talk strategy on Mr. Wimp.”

I watched through a one-way mirror as Milo and Nguyen entered the room and sat opposite Loach and his counsel of record, a Yale-educated, Beverly Hills — based trial lawyer named Fahriz (“call me Flip”) Moftizadeh.

Milo had prepped by asking Earl Cohen about Moftizadeh and Enid Depauw’s defender, a Columbia-educated, Beverly Hills — based trial lawyer whose sterling career had overcome being named Siobhan Malarkey.

Cohen asked around and reported back quickly. “She’s smart but tends to go broad-stroke and miss details. He’s good with details, sometimes gets overconfident. Overall: A-minus. Your suspects could do worse.”

This morning, Moftizadeh was attired in a peak-lapel, charcoal-brown shadow-stripe bespoke suit with covered buttons, a stiff-collar shirt that made fresh snow look grimy, and a massively knotted gold jacquard necktie that drained some of the power out of Nguyen’s strip of silk.

His client sat hunched in too-large orange scrubs, the designated color for inmates judged too violent or vulnerable for inclusion in general population.

Incarceration had turned Loach’s complexion gray and grainy, added weight to his eyelids, stripped the shine from his hair, and rounded his shoulders. He picked at his cuticles and pumped a leg.

Not a hint of Cary Grant. At best, a low-level character actor, the type relegated to playing boozers and hangers-on.

Flip Moftizadeh said, “Good morning. How about we establish some ground rules... is it John?”

Nguyen said, “The rule is that your client answers questions truthfully and I decide his fate.”

Loach flinched. “If I might,” said Moftizadeh, airily, “you’ll file the charges but a jury will decide his fate, no? Now, you say there are biological factors that will—”

“I’ve got enough to indict Mr. Loach for first-degree homicide. I can go special circumstances given the cruelty factor.”

Moftizadeh blinked himself, then recovered with a patronizing half smile. “My client is not a cruel man, John.”

“We’ll see how a jury feels about that.”

“Well,” said Moftizadeh, “we’re here to exchange ideas. Let’s see how things develop.”

Loach gnawed his lip, tugged at his orange blouse, ran a finger behind one ear.

Nguyen looked at his watch. “If Mr. Loach has something to say, let’s hear it.”

“C’mon, John, no need for zero-sum. Folks can get along, even in this context.”

“Folks,” said Nguyen. “That sounds like a campaign speech.”

Loach burped. Grimaced in shame. Covered his mouth.

“Cuisine around here takes getting used to,” Nguyen told him. “You’ll have plenty of time to adjust.”

“John,” said Moftizadeh.

“Have we met?”

“Now we have.”

“I was just wondering, sounds like you knew me. Fah-reeeez.”

“Flip is fine.”

“Flippant isn’t, Fahriz. Are we doing this or not?”

Moftizadeh turned to his client and patted his hand. “You ready?”

Loach’s response was a low grunt.

Nguyen said, “Should I take that as a yes? I don’t speak inmate.”

“John,” said Moftizadeh, “I’m here to make your life easy. Mr. Loach has compiled a statement that I will read. You’ll like it.”

The statement, printed on Moftizadeh’s stationery, took four minutes to read and once you got past the lawyer’s metaphoric flourishes and overuse of adverbs, the essence was simple: