Technically, it’s not; the privilege exists only between attorney and client. It doesn’t extend to communications with third parties. I shake my head and Helene looks surprised. I can’t guarantee that, I write. But remember, I’m Senator Kendrick’s lawyer. Nothing you say that’s adverse to his interests will go anywhere else. Not if I can help it.
She hesitates again, considering my written message, and I’m touched by the depth of her loyalty to her neighbor. “Michelle was here last Thursday night,” she says at last. She points out her side window, toward Senator Kendrick’s estate. “Next door.”
There it is. And it’s only a matter of time before some Chatham detective is sitting where I am. Two, probably. Did you see her arrive? I write.
“Not exactly,” she says.
I arch my eyebrows.
“She got here around seven,” Helene continues. “I remember because I’d just finished watching the news and Michelle had been on it. She and the Senator had held a press conference at Four Cs that day.” Helene points toward a distressed-pine corner cupboard that houses a modest TV. “Closed captioning,” she adds, smiling. “It’s not perfect, but it usually gets the job done.”
She’s two steps ahead of me. Not exactly, I write. You didn’t exactly see her arrive. What do you mean?
She shrugs. “It was dark,” she says, “so I didn’t see Michelle pull in. But her car passed in front of my house.” She points over her shoulder, out the window behind us.
I’m still for a moment, and Helene seems to sense my questions, one of them anyhow. “Michelle’s car has been here before,” she says, “many times. She always keeps her headlights off when she travels this lane, but I know when she comes and goes. She drives a sporty, foreign number. I know the feel of it.”
I’m not sure how to ask her what that means. My pen is still.
“Not for a while, though,” Helene adds. “Until last Thursday, it had been months since Michelle Forrester had been here. Not since the end of the summer.”
Helene Wilson knows what she’s talking about; her time line dovetails with the Senator’s. I still don’t get it, though. How? I write on a new page. How did you know a car was driving by in the dark? And how did you know it was Michelle’s?
Her grin tells me she’s been asked questions like this one before—more than a few times—and she expects a healthy dose of skepticism from her listener. “I have five senses,” she says. “Just not the same five you have.”
None of my five is particularly keen right now.
“I know when an animal passes by in the dark,” she continues. “And I usually know what kind of animal it is—long before I grab my flashlight to check. On occasion, I confuse a coyote with a dog, but I never misidentify a deer. Automobiles are much easier by comparison. It’s all about vibration. Sound is vibration, after all.”
I know that—and I believe what she’s telling me—but I still don’t understand. I hold up my hand so she’ll pause. Are you saying you can tell the particular type of car that’s driving by? I write. Even if you don’t see it?
She laughs. “No,” she says. “I’m not that good. But I do know when it’s the Senator’s. That Humvee of his is no ordinary car. Talk about vibration.”
I stop her again. But you said you knew Michelle’s.
“Only because I know her pattern,” she says. “She keeps her headlights out, comes and goes in total darkness.”
I’m quiet for a moment, digesting the fact that Michelle Forrester’s cover is what gives her away—to this astute neighbor, anyhow.
“The Senator pulled in at around five-thirty that afternoon,” Helene says. “Michelle arrived just after seven.”
My pen is paralyzed again. It won’t take much longer for the Chatham cops to unearth this information. Once they do, they’ll take it straight to Geraldine. And though she already knows about the affair, I’m certain she has no idea Michelle was with the Senator the night before she disappeared. When that fact comes to light, Charles Kendrick will have some explaining to do.
“She left early the next morning,” Helene adds. “And I saw her little hot rod that time. She left a bit later than she normally does. It was starting to get light already.”
I’m still wordless, written or otherwise, but a wave of relief washes over me. My client faces an outraged wife and a political scandal. But this last piece of information from Helene Wilson should ultimately shield him from our District Attorney, at least. I pull a business card from my wallet and hand it to her. If you think of anything else, I write.
She puts a hand on my forearm to stop me. “I’ll let you know,” she finishes for me. “And I mean it,” she says, tucking my card into her sweater pocket. “I will. I’m not the least bit afraid to get involved.”
I don’t doubt that for a minute. Something tells me Helene Wilson isn’t afraid of much.
Chapter 14
Thursday, December 16
Big Red hustles out the side door as soon as Judge Gould’s eyes give him the go-ahead. Derrick Holliston has made up his mind. He’ll represent himself. He’s every bit as determined this morning as he was in chambers yesterday.
“Mr. Holliston,” the judge says as the door clicks shut behind the bailiff, “you’re absolutely certain about this?”
At least Holliston has the good sense to stand as he replies. “Hell, yeah,” he says. Geraldine groans.
My bet is that’s the first of many groans we’ll hear from Geraldine Schilling during the next couple of days. No prosecutor wants to take on a pro se defendant; it’s a lose-lose proposition. If she hammers on Holliston for every mistake he makes, he’ll rarely finish a thought; the jurors will likely think she’s a bully. If she doesn’t, he’ll muddy the record—and the jurors’ minds—with all sorts of information that doesn’t belong there. To add to her conundrum, any objections Geraldine forgoes here will be waived for good. If she decides to let a few of Holliston’s mistakes slide—to avoid looking like a bully—those issues are lost once and for all. The Court of Appeals won’t consider an argument that isn’t raised in the trial court first.
Harry and I pack up and move to the bar, where the half dozen chairs reserved for attorneys are empty. They’re the only seats in the house that are. Every row in the gallery is packed, even the pair of deacon’s benches in the small loft at the far end of the room. And, according to Big Red, a sizable spillover crowd is already assembled in one of the basement conference rooms, where the proceedings will be aired on closed-circuit TV.
Holliston stands, wheels the two chairs Harry and I had been using away from the defense table, and parks them against the side wall. He centers his own chair and then settles into it, neither a pen nor a shred of paper in front of him. He’s sculpting a scene for the jurors, one with a message: The world is against him. And he’s all alone.
“Crazy like a fox,” Harry whispers.
Big Red returns, the jurors single file behind him. Most look surprised as they enter the courtroom, their eyes wide as they take in the sea of spectators. I twist in my chair to absorb the scene with them, and I spot dozens of familiar faces. The front benches are peppered with press. The whole room is sprinkled with Chatham residents, many of them undoubtedly St. Veronica’s parishioners. And dead center in the front row, directly behind Harry and me, sits Bobby “the Butcher” Frazier.