He didn’t offer any platitudes, for which she was grateful. There was nothing anyone could say that would make her current situation any easier to accept. There was no way anyone could understand what it was like for her brother to be locked away in prison, knowing he shouldn’t be there.
Still, she couldn’t stop herself from asking, “What would you do—if it was one of your brothers in jail?”
Scott started to shrug off the question. After all, he knew his brothers, and he knew that none of them would ever end up in the kind of situation Joe Juarez was in. Except he realized that Alicia felt the same way about her brother as he did about his, and that was why she was such a passionate advocate for his cause.
He also knew, from his years on the police force, that human beings were inherently volatile and anyone was capable of almost anything given the right motivation.
Could he imagine LJ smashing the window of an electronics store to lift a new stereo system? Or Ryan going door-to-door to scam people out of their savings in the name of home improvements that would never happen? Or Jake stealing cars to sell on the black market overseas? Of course not—the idea of any of his brothers involved in such criminal activity was ridiculous. On the other hand, he didn’t doubt that they were all capable of inflicting serious bodily harm on anyone who threatened someone they cared about.
“I’d do exactly what you’re doing,” he finally responded to Alicia’s question. “And leave no stone unturned in trying to prove his innocence—or at least understand why he’d done whatever it was that landed him in jail.”
“Joe didn’t take the engine or those plans.”
“I know you believe that, and you might be right. But maybe you should think about what circumstances might have forced him into a situation where he decided to take them.”
“Joe wouldn’t sacrifice his integrity under any circumstances.”
“What if his integrity demanded he do it?”
“What do you mean?”
“What if he believed the emissions of this alternative fuel were carcinogenic?”
“That isn’t what happened here.”
“What if something like that did happen?”
“Then he would have urged the company to scrap the project.” She handed him a mug of coffee. “Cream? Sugar?”
He shook his head. “No, thanks. And what would Joe do if the company refused?”
She frowned as she sat across from him, obviously considering possibilities she hadn’t before and not appreciating the implications. “Can we stick with the facts as they exist?”
“Okay,” he said. “What we know is that Joe had taken the prototype and the engine plans home to make some alterations on them over the weekend. On Saturday morning, he couldn’t find them.
“According to the statement he later gave to police, he tore the house apart looking for them and, when he still couldn’t locate them, put in a call to Gene Russo, his boss. A review of his phone records confirms that the call was made, although he didn’t leave a message on Russo’s machine.”
“Of course he didn’t leave a message,” she said, a little defensively. “He wanted to talk to his boss in person so he went to track him down—”
“—at the garage,” Scott interrupted to continue, reminding her that this was his recitation of facts. “Russo went back to Joe’s house with him and they called the police from there.”
“And Joe admitted to Mr. Russo and the police that he’d taken the engine and plans home on the weekend, which he wouldn’t have done if he’d had something to hide.”
That had occurred to him, too. But he’d worked a lot of cases where suspects had unexpectedly admitted to incriminating activities, and he’d found such confessions usually allowed the investigation to be wrapped up quickly. Which is exactly what had happened here.
Had it been wrapped up too quickly?
That was a question he couldn’t answer without more information and a close look at the transcripts.
“Other than the fact that Joe was the last person in possession of the items that were stolen, what evidence did the prosecution have?”
“There was a five-thousand-dollar deposit made to Joe’s bank account on Friday before the plans went missing.”
“Five thousand?” It seemed a paltry amount to risk prison for, but he’d known people who did crazier things for less.
“Yes,” she said. “And, yes, Joe had unpaid bills.”
“What kind of bills?”
“Outstanding medical expenses from Lia’s tonsil-lectomy in the fall.”
“How much?”
“He’s been making regular payments, but there’s still about two thousand owing.”
“Anything else?”
“Nothing out of the ordinary. Just the mortgage, household utilities, that kind of thing.”
“Credit card bills?”
She shook her head. “He didn’t carry a balance on his cards.”
“Did he gamble—horses, slots, stock market?”
“No.”
“Do drugs?”
Her jaw tightened. “No.”
“What did he do?”
“He worked and spent time with his kids.”
“Did he have a girlfriend?” he pressed.
“No. He dated occasionally, but no one seriously or exclusively.”
“Who else had a key to the house?”
“Me.”
“Anyone else?”
“No.”
“Not even Joey?”
“No. But he knows there’s a spare hidden in the ceramic frog on the back step.” She brightened at the implications of that. “Where almost anyone could have found it and come into the house to take the prototype and plans.”
“Anyone could have,” he agreed. “But there’s no evidence that anyone did.”
She sighed. “You’re right. I’m grasping at straws.”
“What did Joe say when the prosecutor asked him about the money?”
Alicia pushed away from the table and went to refill her mug with coffee.
