“I’ll just be a minute,” April said.
“That’s fine. I’m… parched. I’m going to get a drink.”
“Nothing too strong now,” she said, grinning. “Don’t dip into the company booze.”
“I don’t drink liquor,” he said, not adding: I’m not allowed.
Aravena entered the men’s room and shut the door. He splashed water on his face. It didn’t help. He was just going to have to take care of this problem the old-fashioned way. He unzipped his slacks and sat down on the toilet stool.
While he worked he closed his eyes and thought of many women. Dr. Bennett, Erin. Even that bratty teenager who asked about the bras. And April. She was the central vision in his fantasy life, today anyway. He dreamed about the way she talked, the way she walked, the way she put bags of potato chips on the high shelf. What he had felt when she touched him. How she looked. Each and every magnificent feature.
But most of all, he thought about her eyes, her deep dark rich eyes. He loved those eyes. He wanted them. He wanted them for his very own.
Chapter 10
When Ben returned to his office, he found his staff huddled around a desk passing Polaroids.
“Baby pictures?” Ben guessed.
Jones pulled a face. “C’mon, Boss. Paula and I have only been married a few months.”
“Yes, but I know how industrious you are.” He snatched one of the pics. “Somebody buy a house?”
“Loving,” Christina answered. “A cabin. Out in the woods.”
“Cool,” Ben said, eyeing another photo. “A weekend retreat? Fishing and hunting and water sports and such?”
Christina shook her head and silently mouthed, “No.”
Loving pushed himself up on the desk, flexing his considerable biceps. “It’s a retreat, you got that right. But not for playin’ around.”
“This is where Loving plans to live,” Jones explained. “After the impending global economic holocaust.”
“Ah.” Ben nodded. “I’ve been meaning to get a place for that myself.”
“It’s fully stocked,” Christina explained. “Freeze-dried food, bottled water, and gold coins.”
“Gold coins?”
“It’s the only currency that’s gonna be worth a damn,” Loving explained. “After the holocaust, I mean.”
“And when are we expecting this holocaust?”
Loving’s voice dropped. “It could be any day now.”
“Don’t I remember you saying it was starting a few years ago, when the bottom started dropping out of all the tech stocks? It didn’t happen.”
Loving raised a knowing eyebrow. “Because they didn’t want it to happen.”
“And they being…?”
“The international banking cabal. They sold short all those tech stocks before the crash, then raked in the money.”
“How could they know the prices were going to drop?”
“Because they’re the ones pulling the strings. They’re the ones making it all happen.”
“Do you happen to know these people’s names?” Ben asked. “Because I’d like to put them in touch with my stockbroker.”
“Of course I don’t know their names,” Loving said solemnly. “If I knew their names, I’d be dead.”
Somehow, Ben suspected he wasn’t going to get the best of this conversation. And frankly, he didn’t have the time. “Staff meeting in the main conference room in ten minutes. I want everyone there.”
“I won’t claim this case will be easy,” Ben said, standing at the head of the table.
“They never are,” Jones groused.
“The odds against getting a prisoner released via habeas corpus are staggering. And we have some procedural problems, too.”
Christina nodded. “You mean the Antiterrorism and Effective Death Penalty Act.”
“You got it.” Ben passed copies of the document around the room. “This was enacted in 1996 in the aftermath of the bombing in Oklahoma City. It placed extremely tight restrictions on habeas relief. Once, habeas petitions could be filed anytime. No longer. Now there are tight deadlines. As soon as the state postconviction proceedings end, the time limits on federal relief start ticking.”
“Which is why we filed our petition,” Christina explained. “Even though we had nothing new to say. But now we do.”
“I thought you weren’t allowed to introduce issues in federal appeals that weren’t presented to the state courts,” Jones said.
“Technically, you’re not,” Ben replied. “But there are exceptions. Such as when newly discovered evidence arises. Or when there was good cause for the failure to raise the issue earlier.”
“Or the Coleman exception,” Christina added. “When the failure to present the issue would result in a fundamental miscarriage of justice.”
“Right. Which the Gilbert case defined as arising when a constitutional violation resulted in the conviction of an innocent person. Which gives us a back door to argue Ray Goldman’s actual innocence. We’ve got a hearing in less than a week. We need to be ready to present strong evidence that Ray was wrongfully convicted.”
“How are we going to do that?” Jones asked. “Now that Erin Faulkner is dead.”
“That, my friend, is the million-dollar question. What we need is a million-dollar answer.”
“She actually said that? She said, ‘no grabass in your Trans Am’?”
Mike nodded. “Her exact words. And get this. When I pulled up to take her to the crime scene-she wanted to drive. Even after I warned her.”
“Your Trans Am?” Sergeant Tomlinson slapped his forehead. “She must’ve been kidding.”
“She was not kidding. She was trying to rattle me.”
Frank Bolen, the third cop in the canteen, a large man with a voice as deep as a well, was equally amazed. “I woulda thought she’d rather have you drive. To keep your hands occupied.” He winked. “So you wouldn’t be playin’ grabass.”
“It’s a control issue,” Mike said, cradling his coffee. “She wants to prove she’s on top. That she’s the boss.”
“And she’s been here how long?” Tomlinson asked. “A day and a half?”
“Whatever.”
“Don’t get me wrong,” Bolen said. “She’s a damn fine-looking woman. I’d let her be on top. So to speak. I love the way she fills out those Levi’s. She’s a got a first-rate ass. Don’t you think, Mike?”
“Hadn’t noticed,” he said, not making eye contact.