Maybe Dragovich could. Runyon wanted to talk to him anyway, in person, to get his take on her legal situation. He called Dragovich’s law office to make sure he was in before driving downtown.
The doubts about Bryn’s story still plagued him. He’d been over it and over it and still he couldn’t quite put his finger on what rang false. Part of it had to do with the sudden shift in her emotional makeup: frantic, nearly hysterical, when she’d called him, calm when he’d arrived at Darby’s flat. The twenty-five minutes it’d taken him to get to the Marina was time enough for her to regain control, yet her calm hadn’t had the residue of shock and terror in it. What he’d seen, sensed, was a mixture of resignation and determination, as if in the interim she’d made some sort of accommodation or decision. Possible he’d read her reactions wrong, but his cop’s instincts said he hadn’t.
There were other things, too. Her account of what’d happened seemed a little too pat, as if some or all of it had been quickly made up and then gone over and refined several times before his arrival. And why had she volunteered information to the homicide inspectors when she’d been warned not to? There was something else, too, something off-key she’d said or done before Darby and the police showed up that kept eluding him.
It all came down to a measure of premeditation: Bryn had gone to the flat to confront Francine, lost it when she saw Bobby hurt again, and in the heat of the fight that followed picked up the kitchen knife and stabbed the woman. That would explain Bryn’s near hysteria when she called; the aftermath of violence, even anticipated violence, throws most people into a panicked state. It would also explain the calm: resignation once she gathered herself, then the decision, the determination, to alter her account to protect herself.
But the problem with that was, Bryn was neither a liar nor a violent person. He couldn’t see her willfully taking anyone’s life, even a woman she hated as much as Francine Whalen. Or fashioning a net of lies to cover up a homicide. Totally out of character.
Or was it? How well did he really know her? Only a short time since they’d met; only a few weeks since they’d become intimate both physically and emotionally. She was complicated, high-strung, damaged by the stroke, her husband’s betrayal, the custody loss of her son. He wasn’t a shrink, couldn’t probe down into the psyche of a woman like Bryn. Just wasn’t equipped. The trouble he’d had dealing with his own demons was proof of that.
He could be wrong about her. Didn’t want to believe he was, but the possibility was still there. Wouldn’t go away until he knew exactly what had happened in Robert Darby’s flat yesterday afternoon.
Dragovich’s law office was on Grove Street close to City Hall. As successful as his criminal law practice was, he didn’t believe in spending money on jazzing up his workplace. His private office had the usual shelves of law books and an oversized desk, but there were none of the expensive trappings-leather furniture, polished wood paneling, mirrors, paintings, wet bar-that some high-powered attorneys went in for. Strictly functional. Runyon didn’t much like lawyers as a general rule-too many of them were self-promoting, profiteering sharks-but Dragovich was an exception. A man as straightforward and businesslike as his surroundings.
In his late forties and small in stature, not much more than five eight and a hundred and forty pounds; even with his chair jacked up high, the desk dwarfed him. Thinning sandy hair, a beak of a nose, a pointy chin. Habitually he wore a gray suit, a pale blue shirt, and a striped red tie, a kind of signatory outfit like the TV lawyer Matlock. Except that no matter what time of day you saw Dragovich, his shirt collar was unbuttoned, the knot in his tie was loosened, and his suit had a rumpled look. The compensation for all of that was his voice-deep, booming, commanding. He used it to maximum effect in a courtroom.
Runyon was admitted promptly to the attorney’s private office. Dragovich shook his hand, waved him to a client’s chair. As soon as they were both seated, Runyon said, “I just came from the Hall. Do you know why they AdSeg’d Bryn?”
“Yes. It happened after I consulted with her last night-I saw her again early this morning. I wish you’d told me about her stroke.”
“What does that have to do with it?”
“Badly agitated after she was booked because she wasn’t allowed to cover the damaged side of her face.”
“Why wasn’t she?”
“Jail rules. No scarves-the standard suicide concern. She begged for a towel, but the matrons wouldn’t give her one for the same reason. While she and I talked she tried to cover her face with toilet paper.”
Toilet paper. Jesus Christ.
“After I left her,” Dragovich said, “apparently some of the other prisoners made fun of her condition and she had what the matrons called a temporary breakdown. They were afraid she might harm herself-that’s why she was AdSeg’d.”
Runyon’s hands bunched into fists. As sensitive as Bryn was about her face, the humiliation she’d felt must’ve been acute. The thought of her being harassed by women without conscience or compassion was galling.
“Is she all right now?”
“Better, yes. Resigned. And very concerned about her son.”
“But still segregated. How long before I can see her?”
“I wasn’t given a time line.”
“Not until her arraignment?”
“It’s possible.”
“Is there anything you can do to get me in to see her?”
“You mean in my presence?”
“Alone, preferably.”
Dragovich gave him a long, shrewd look. “Is there a specific reason you want to see her alone? If there is, you’d be well advised to tell me what it is.”
What could he say? That he was afraid she was either lying or telling half-truths? That he was afraid she might actually be guilty of the unlawful killing of a human being with malice aforethought?
“Personal reasons,” he said. “You already know everything I know about Francine Whalen’s death.”
“I hope so.”
“Will you do what you can to get me permission?”
“Of course. But I’m not in a position of strength on this issue.”
Runyon changed the subject. “Concerned about her son, you said. Bobby’s welfare, what his father might say or do to him?”
“Yes.”
“She has good reason.”
“I don’t know Robert Darby, except by reputation.” The attorney’s mouth quirked wryly. “There seems to be some question as to whether he upholds the highest standards of our profession.”
“Have you talked to him yet?”
“I have a call in to him. Of course he’s under no obligation to speak to me at this time. He may decide to wait until Mrs. Darby is arraigned.”
“If he doesn’t return your call, can you find out how the boy’s doing some other way?”
“The inspectors in charge should know. I’ll check with them when they come on duty this afternoon.”
Runyon asked Dragovich what he thought Bryn’s chances were. Unlike some criminal defense attorneys, he was never overconfident; cautious optimism was the limit of his pretrial position on any case. It was likely that the judge at Bryn’s arraignment would uphold the homicide charge and the DA’s office would prosecute, in which case Dragovich would advise her to plead not guilty. The DA might or might not opt to proceed on the first-degree charge, depending on how convinced he was that willful premeditation could be proven. Dragovich’s best guess was that it would be knocked down to either second degree or manslaughter, both of which offered the DA a better chance of conviction.
In any event, and as Runyon had surmised, self-defense would be difficult to prove without a witness to Whalen’s death. But still it seemed the best option under the circumstances. Juries were notoriously unpredictable, but they tended to side with a defendant mother in a homicide case involving child abuse-if the abuse was proven to their satisfaction. Testimony by the victim was the best way to accomplish jury sympathy, but when Dragovich had broached the subject to Bryn this morning she’d been adamant against it. Didn’t want Bobby put through any more pain and suffering, she’d said. Even if she changed her mind, they’d have her ex-husband to contend with.