first appearance on Monday.”
“They think that I’m going to plead guilty?” he asked indignantly. “I didn’t kill her.”
“That’s not what they believe, and they’re hoping they can avoid a messy trial by having you cop a plea.”
“I’m not pleading guilty to killing the woman I loved,” he insisted vehemently.
“Let’s not worry about that right now. And for the time being, I don’t want you referring to Tricia as ‘the woman you loved’. In fact, I don’t want you referring to anyone or to anything about your case. Have you got that? Not a word. Not to a guard, not to a detective, not to a Crown prosecutor. No one. You don’t say anything about the murder or your relationship with Tricia unless I’m present. You understand?”
“Okay,” he relented. “I won’t say anything.”
That dispensed with, I figured our time was just about up. There was nothing more I could do for my friend right now. “Good,” I said, rising from the table. Walking around to his side, I placed my hand on his shoulder. “This is going to be a really tough time, Carl. It will be worse than anything you’ve been through, but we’ve got some time on our hands. My first job will be to get you out of here on Monday. Then, we’re going to work on ensuring there’s no way this ever gets to trial. But it isn’t going to be easy. We’ll have lots of work to do.”
He looked up at me, placing his hand across mine, still on his shoulder. “I don’t know how I’m going to thank you. I don’t have much, but I’ll pay you as my lawyer, I promise you that.”
“We’ll take care of that later.” I walked towards the door to notify the sheriff’s officer that we were done. Then I turned to face Carl again.
“I’m going to ask you something one more time. It’s not a question defence counsel generally get into. It isn’t technically relevant, but I’m not just a lawyer any more. I’m a servant to two loyalties, so I’m going to ask you anyway. Whatever your answer is, I’m still going to be your lawyer, and I’m going to defend you. But for my own state of mind, I have to know the absolute, honest truth. Did you kill her?”
Carl’s eyes filled with tears. I knew and—damn it—believed the answer before he even spoke it. “No. I told you. I loved her. I would have given my life for her. I did not kill her.”
“Okay.” Running my hand through my hair with exhaustion, I regarded him one last time. “I’m very relieved to hear that. Is there someone you want me to call?”
He looked absolutely lost. His wife had already taken off to her parents’. It didn’t seem likely she was going to want to come visit him in jail. “I don’t think so.”
I knocked on the door. “I’ll check in with you tomorrow. Try to get some rest, all right?”
“All right,” was all he could muster. The door hummed as an electronic pass card key buzzed the lock and the sheriff’s officer poked his head in.
“We’re done,” I told him. “Goodnight, Carl.”
He was slumped at the table as the sheriff came to escort him to his first-ever jail cell. I turned and headed down the hallway towards the front entrance, unable to watch.
Fifteen
A funny thing happened when I returned to my apartment after leaving Carl: I slept. Almost immediately upon closing my door, a wave of tiredness hit me. It was like walking into a big wall of exhaustion. In fact, I was so tired, I actually felt nauseous.
I’m no scientist, but when I feel that way, it is a sign I should go to sleep. Simple as it sounds, for those of us for whom sleep is a constant battle, just the notion of going to bed can fill you with anxiety. The bags under my eyes add at least five years to my age.
It was nearly two a.m. as I undressed, carefully picking up my clothes and placing them in the laundry hamper next to the ensuite bathroom door. Sandi was always amazed at what she deemed my obsessive need for tidiness and order around the house. We would come home from a party or family gathering—and with her family, there was always a wide assortment of social responsibilities—and Sandi would simply dump her clothes on the floor, only to wait in bed while I went around picking them up and hanging them in the closet where they belonged, or placing them in their assigned spot in the laundry room.
In the past week, I had accumulated probably around eight hours of sleep. Sleep deficit often catches up with me at the strangest times. No doubt many lawyers taking on a murder case, especially when it was the kind of case likely to be difficult, long and very public, would sit up all night worrying about the case and beginning a mental to-do list of briefs to prepare, witnesses to interview, and assorted menial startup tasks ad infinitum.
I found myself remarkably calm. It was as though returning to my original calling had brought about an inner peace. That worried me. Fortunately, it didn’t worry me enough to lose sleep. I literally collapsed into bed and crashed.
The phone rang minutes later. Actually, it was hours later, but the phone’s interruption of my sleep made it seem as if I had just lain down. The only thing worse than the phone ringing and waking you up is when it gives two short rings instead of just one. As nearly every apartment dweller knows, the double ring is an indicator someone is standing outside the front door of the building waiting to see you.
I grumbled into the receiver. “You better not be selling something.”
“Get up,” came a much-too-perky voice. “I have fresh raisin scones and coffee.”
“That’s not good enough,” I replied.
“I have a gun, and I can shoot my way in.”
“That’s better,” I said, pressing the number six to admit Detective Andrea Pearson.
Glancing at the clock, I saw it was nearly ten a.m. I had slept for almost seven and a half hours, some kind of record for me. Maybe things were getting better. Then Carl flashed into my barely conscious memory, and I realized things were likely to get worse long before they got any better. Stumbling out of the bedroom, I managed to make my way to the front hallway just as Andrea began to pound on the door. Fists of steel, that one.
“Good morning, sunshine!” she beamed as I opened the door.
“Hmmph,” was my reply, walking away from the door in the general vicinity of the bathroom. “I gotta whizz.”
“Lovely. Maybe you could find some pants in your travels. This is how you greet me? In your boxers?”
“I don’t remember inviting you,” I growled, closing the bathroom door behind me. A quick glance in the mirror confirmed the vast amount of sleep had done little to improve my overall visage.
For informal clothing, I managed to find an old pair of warm-up pants. I rarely wore them, because they were those annoying plastic type that make swishing sounds when you walk. I hate announcing my pending presence. But for Andrea, they would just have to do.
When I resurfaced from the bedroom, Andy had already placed scones in the toaster oven and was scanning the fridge for jam.
“You need to shop,” she complained. “Don’t you have jam?”
“In
