And finally, and maybe most important, why was Jackson telling him things she might not have even admitted to herself when Hamlin was alive? After all, she profited from those betrayals and ethical violations every month when she accepted her wages.
Instinct told him not to press her any further.
“Set up a time for Galen to come by,” Donnally said. “I’ll be there. And make copies of the files, except Mark’s notes or any defense investigation, that way he can’t learn enough about the cases to do anything more than just kick them over.”
“But how you gonna keep him from looking at the files before he leaves and notice what’s missing?”
“Don’t worry.” Donnally hit the accelerator. “I’ll take care of that.”
Chapter 19
Sitting behind Mark Hamlin’s desk, Donnally noticed Sheldon Galen’s face harden as he walked into the office and spotted Detective Ramon Navarro sitting on the couch. Galen flinched at the metallic click when Takiyah Jackson closed the door behind him, then came to a stop and glared at Donnally.
Janie’s description had been dead-on. Galen looked like a greyhound, maybe a whippet. Narrow shoulders. Dark eyes. Prematurely gray at forty. So stiff and skinny Donnally felt like he was looking at a manikin.
“Your appointment as a special master doesn’t authorize you to disclose attorney-client privileged matters to the police,” Galen said. He pointed a forefinger at Navarro. “He shouldn’t be here.”
Donnally patted the three file folders he centered on the desk. “I haven’t talked to him about these.” He opened his hand toward one of the chairs facing the desk. “He’s here for another reason.”
Donnally watched Galen glance back and forth between the chairs and files, as though evaluating the risks. He imagined Galen was asking himself whether it was worth subjecting himself to whatever Donnally had in mind in order to walk out later with the files and the money they represented.
Galen rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet, then took the four steps forward and sat down.
Navarro stayed seated where he was, didn’t rise and take the chair next to Galen. The plan was for him to inflict a kind of side pressure to keep Galen off balance, with Donnally pushing from the front.
Galen unbuttoned his suit jacket and tugged at each pant leg to preserve the creases, and did so with such flourish it seemed to Donnally to be a performance, for reasons he didn’t know, but for whose benefit he did.
Contrary to what Galen might have had in mind, what the theatrical gesture engendered in Donnally was revulsion. He imagined Galen making the same moves in court, each time with a different meaning. One time to show annoyance at an adverse ruling, the next time as a way of providing the jury with a silent commentary on the testimony of a prosecution witness, and the time after that to impress a client with his confidence even though he was outnumbered in a hostile environment.
It reminded Donnally of what he hated about the court system; it cherished theater over fact. He’d watched it turn testifying police officers into actors in order to compete with the professionals-the lawyers-and it too often got them into a kind of self-destructive verbal sparring they couldn’t win against people who did it for a living.
Even worse, the courtroom as stage made jurors expect a show and left them bored and frustrated when they didn’t get one. It was bad enough that they expected television crime drama forensics, they also wanted to be entertained by popping dialogue and sudden plot twists.
Donnally wished he was back in his cafe kitchen. His burgers and fries were either done right or done wrong, and they couldn’t pretend to be anything other than what they were. Meat, wheat, and potatoes.
“I’m interested in the theories you have about what happened to Mark,” Donnally said.
Galen crossed his right leg over his left. “At the moment I don’t have any.”
Donnally leaned forward. “I’m not asking for conclusions, just theory, speculation.”
Galen rocked his head side to side.
Hamlin’s intercom buzzed. Donnally picked up the telephone receiver. It was Jackson.
“I just realized something,” Jackson said. “Can you come out for a minute?”
Donnally didn’t look up, but knew Galen was staring at him, suspecting the call was about him. It was like a ringing phone in those old black and white movies. There was never a wrong number. It always moved the story forward, and Galen’s licking lips and fidgeting fingers told Donnally he understood he was at the heart of today’s episode.
“I’ll be right there.” Donnally hung up and walked out to Jackson’s desk.
“Galen’s fingerprints shouldn’t have been on any of the money,” Jackson said. “I just realized that the cash from Galen was all paid out to The Crew. There shouldn’t have been anything left.”
“You sure? Warren Bohr didn’t remember receiving his share back.”
“I think that says more about Warren’s mental state than about the money.” Jackson tapped the side of her head. “He comes and goes. The Lawyers Guild had a dinner honoring him last month and he showed up at the hotel a day early.”
“Then where did the money in the safe come from?”
Jackson shrugged.
Galen didn’t look behind him when Donnally came back into the office, but tracked him with a stare as Donnally walked past him on his way to the desk.
Donnally watched Galen’s eyebrows rise and the skin on his forehead wrinkle in expectation, as though waiting for Donnally to explain the call.
Instead, Donnally asked, “Where were we?” He paused. He knew exactly what the topic had been. “We were talking about any theories you might have.”
Galen’s face relaxed as though the call had been a wrong number, not one that might lead to the exposure of one of his secrets.
“Mark was an aggressive lawyer,” Galen said. “Aggressive lawyers make lots of enemies.”
It sounded to Donnally like Galen and Warren Bohr had been reading from the same book of evasive descriptions.
“Like who?”
Galen smirked. “How much time have you got?”
Donnally glanced at Navarro. “As much time as we need to figure who killed him.” He folded his arms across his chest. “Let’s narrow it down. Did Mark ever tell you that he was afraid of anyone?”
“He never used the word ‘afraid.’ He wasn’t that kind of guy. Concerned? Sure. But not so he felt he needed to go into hiding. It was more professional stuff. Sometimes he’d pull a stunt and worry about it snapping back on him or his clients.”
“Anything recent?”
Galen shrugged. “I guess it can’t hurt now. Mark’s gone.” He pointed at the television on Hamlin’s credenza. “You see on the news last month about that federal judge who’d been telling people for years he went into law after he saw his sister murdered on the street right in front of him?”
Donnally nodded. It was a big story since the judge had been nominated to head the FBI. The judge had used it to inspire law students to pass on offers to join big civil firms and to encourage them to become prosecutors, even though they’d make just a quarter of the salary.
“Hamlin found out it was bogus and went to the press,” Galen said. “The judge never had a sister.”
The judge had withdrawn his nomination the next day.
“Why’d Hamlin do it?”
“The judge was forcing him out to trial on a case he wasn’t prepared on. Big, complicated securities fraud. I’m not sure Mark even understood the money flow, and that’s most of what those cases are about. He’d expected the case to deal out, but the U.S. Attorney played hardball and it didn’t. The day before jury selection, the story is all over the news. The judge is afraid to show his face in court. The trial gets put over and Mark is off the hook.”