Three hours to acquit on all charges.
Not a record but good enough, Lescroix reflected as he sat in his hotel room that evening. He was angry he’d missed the last of the two daily flights out of Hamilton but he had some aged whisky in a glass at his side, music on his portable CD player, and his feet were resting on the windowsill, revealing Italian socks as sheer as a woman’s black stockings. He was passing the time replaying his victory and trying to decide if he should spend some of his fee on getting those jowl tucks done.
There was a knock on the door.
Lescroix rose and let Jerry Pilsett’s uncle into the room. The lawyer hadn’t paid much attention to him the first time they’d met and he realized now that with his quick eyes and tailored clothes this was no dirt jockey. He must’ve been connected with one of the big corporate farming companies. Probably hadn’t had to hock the family spread at all and Lescroix regretted charging him only seventy-five K for the case; should’ve gone for an even hundred. Oh well.
The elder Pilsett accepted a glass of whiskey and drank a large swallow. “Yessir. Need that after all of today’s excitement. Yessir.”
He pulled an envelope out of his pocket and set it on the table. “Rest of your fee. Have to say, I didn’t think you could do it. Didn’t even get him on the burglary charges,” the man added with some surprise.
“Well, they couldn’t very well do that, could they? Either he was guilty of everything or guilty of nothing.”
“Reckon.”
Lescroix nodded toward the fee. “A lot of people wouldn’t’ve done this. Even for family.”
“I’m a firm believer in kin sticking together. Doing whatever has to be done.”
“That’s a good sentiment,” the lawyer offered.
“You say that like you don’t believe in sentiments. Or don’t believe in kin.”
“Haven’t had occasion to believe or disbelieve in either of them,” Lescroix answered. “My life’s my job.”
“Getting people out of jail.”
“Protecting justice’s what I like to call it.”
“Justice.” The old man snorted. “Y’know, I watched that O.J. trial. And I heard a commentator after the verdict. He said it just goes to show if you have money — whatever your race — you can buy justice. I laughed at that. What’d he mean justice? If you have money you can buy freedom. That’s not necessarily justice at all.”
Lescroix tapped the envelope. “So what’re you buying?”
Pilsett laughed. “Peace of mind. That’s what. Better’n justice and freedom put together. So, how’d my nephew stand his ordeal?”
“He survived.”
“He’s not at home. He staying here?”
Lescroix shook his head. “He didn’t think he’d be too welcome in Hamilton for a while. He’s at a place on Route 32 West. Skyview Motel. I think he wants to see you. Thank you in person.”
“We’ll give him a call, the wife and I, take him out to dinner.” He finished the whiskey and set the glass down. “Well, mister, it’s a hard job you have. I don’t envy you it.” He appraised the lawyer with those sharp eyes. “Mostly I don’t envy you staying up at night. With that conscience of yours.”
A faint smile crossed Lescroix’s face. His smiles tended to be colder than his most ferocious glare. “I sleep like a baby, sir. Always have.”
They shook hands and walked to the door. Jerry’s uncle stepped into the corridor but then stopped and turned. “Oh, ’nother thing. I’d listen to the news, I was you.” He added cryptically, “You’ll be hearing some things you might want to think on.”
Lescroix closed the door and returned to the uncomfortable chair and his sumptuous whiskey. Things I want to think on? he wondered.
At six he picked up the remote control and clicked the TV set on, found the local news. He was watching a pretty young newscaster holding a microphone in front of her mouth.
“... it was this afternoon, while prosecutors were asking freed suspect Gerald Pilsett about the role of Charles Cabot in his wife’s death, that Pilsett gave the shocking admission. A claim he later repeated for reporters.”
Oh, my Lord. No... He didn’t!
Lescroix sat forward, mouth agape.
Jerry came on screen, grinning that crooked smile and tapping a finger against his earlobe. “Sure, I killed her. I told my lawyer that right up front. But there’s nothing nobody can do about it. He said they can’t try me again. It’s called double jeopardy. Hey, their case wasn’t good enough to get me the first time, that ain’t my fault.”
Lescroix’s skin crawled.
Back to the blond newscaster. “That very lawyer, Paul Lescroix, of New York City, created a stir in court earlier today when he suggested that Hamilton businessman Charles Cabot himself killed his wife because he was in love with another woman. Police, however, have discovered that the woman Lescroix virtually accused Cabot of having an affair with is Sister Mary Helen Henstroth, a seventy-five-year-old nun who runs a youth center in Gilroy. Cabot and his wife frequently served as volunteers at the center and donated thousands of dollars to it.
“Police also dispelled Lescroix’s other theory that Cabot might have killed his wife to take control of the company of which he is president. Even though he owned a minority of the shares, a review of the corporate documents revealed that Patricia Cabot and her father had voluntarily handed over one hundred percent voting control to Cabot after he paid back fifty thousand dollars her father had loaned him to start the business five years ago.
“State prosecutors are looking into whether charges can be brought against Lescroix for defamation and misuse of the legal process.”
Furious, Lescroix flung the remote control across the room. It shattered in a dozen pieces.
The phone rang.
“Mr. Lescroix, I’m with WPIJ news. Could you comment on the claim that you knowingly accused an innocent man—”
“No.” Click.
It rang again.
“ ’Lo?”
“I’m a reporter with the New York Times—”
Click.
“Yeah?”
“This that gawdamn shyster? I find you I’m gonna—”
Click.
Lescroix unplugged the phone, stood, and paced. Don’t panic. It’s no big deal. Everybody’d forget about it in a few days. This wasn’t his fault. His duty was to represent a client to the best of his ability. Though even as he tried to reassure himself he was picturing the ethics investigation, explaining the matter to his clients, his golfing buddies, his girlfriends...
Pilsett... What an utter fool. He—
Lescroix froze. On the TV screen was a man in his fifties. Unshaven. Rumpled white shirt. An unseen newscaster was asking him his reaction to the Pilsett verdict. But what had snagged Lescroix’s attention was the super at the bottom of the screen:
James Pilsett, Uncle of Acquitted Suspect
It wasn’t the man who’d hired him, who’d been here in the room an hour ago to deliver his fee.
“Wayl,” the uncle drawled, “Jurry wus alwus a problem. Weren’t never doing what he ought. Deserved ever lick he got. Him gitting off today... I don’ unnerstand that one bit. Don’ seem right to me.” Lescroix leapt to the desk and opened the envelope. The full amount of the rest of the fee was enclosed. But it wasn’t a check. It was cash, like the retainer. There was no note, nothing with a name on it.
Who the hell was he?
He plugged the phone in and dialed the Skyview Motel.
The phone rang, rang, rang...
Finally it was answered. “Hello?”