"The quicker the better."
"You want me to perform another autopsy or just review her report?"
"Do everything you can think of. At this point, I have no idea what might be important."
"What lab tests has Sue done?"
"I don't know."
"Probably not as many as she should. I'll check it out. The budget pressures don't encourage a lot of lab work."
"We don't have to worry about a budget. Darius will go top dollar."
"That's what I like to hear. I'll call as soon as I have something to tell you. Give 'em hell."
"I will, Ray."
Betsy hung up the phone.
"Are you ready for lunch?" Nora Sloane asked hesitantly from the office doorway. Betsy looked up, startled.
"Your receptionist wasn't in. I waited for a few minutes."
"Oh, I'm sorry, Nora. We did have a lunch date, didn't we?"
"For noon."
"I apologize. I forgot all about it. I just picked up a new case that's taking all my time."
"Martin Darius. I know. It's the headline in the Oregonian.
I'M afraid today isn't good for lunch. I'm really swamped. Can we do it another day?"
"No problem. In fact, I was sure you'd want to cancel. I was going to call, but… Betsy," Sloane said excitedly, "could I tag along on this case, sit in on conferences, talk to your investigator? It's a fantastic opportunity to see how you work on a high profile case."
"I don't know…"
"I wouldn't say anything, of course. I'd keep your confidences. I only want to be a fly on the wall."
Sloane seemed so excited, Betsy did not want to turn her down, but a leak of defense strategy could be devastating. The front door opened and Ann appeared in the doorway carrying a brown paper bag. Sloane looked over her shoulder.
"Sorry," Ann said, backing away. Betsy motioned her to stop.
"I'll talk to Darius," Betsy said. "He'll have to give his okay. Then I'll think about it. I won't do anything that could endanger a client's case."
"I understand perfectly," Sloane said. "I'll call in a few days to see what you decide."
"Sorry about lunch."
"Oh, no. That's okay. And thank you."
There was a van with a CBS logo and another from ABC in Betsy's driveway when she pulled in.
"Who are they, Mom?" Kathy asked, as two beautifully dressed blondes with perfect features approached the car. The women held microphones and were followed by muscular men armed with portable television cameras.
"Monica Blake, CBS, Mrs. Tannenbaum, the shorter woman said as Betsy pushed open the door. Blake stepped back awkwardly and the other woman took advantage of the break.
"How do you explain a woman who is known for her strong feminist views defending a man who is alleged to have kidnapped, raped, tortured and killed three women?"
Betsy flushed. She turned abruptly and glared at the reporter from ABC, ignoring the microphone thrust in her face.
"First, I don't have to explain anything. The State does. Second, I'm an attorney. One of the things I do is defend people-male or female-who have been accused of a crime. Sometimes these people are unjustly accused, because the State makes a mistake. Martin Darius is innocent and I am proud to be representing him against these false accusations."
"What if they're not false?" asked the CBS reporter.
"How can you sleep nights, knowing what he did to these women?"
"I suggest you read the Constitution, Ms. Blake. Mr. Darius is presumed innocent. Now, I have dinner to make and a little girl to take care of I won't answer any questions at my house. I consider this an invasion of my privacy. If you want to talk to me, call my office for an appointment. Please don't come to my house again."
Betsy walked around the car and opened Kathy's door. She jumped out, looking over her shoulder at the cameras as Betsy dragged her toward the house. The two reporters continued to shout questions at her back.
"Are we gonna be on TV?" Kathy asked, as Betsy slammed the door.
Chapter Eleven.
Alan Page was trapped in a car, careening downhill through traffic at breakneck speed on a winding turnpike, brakes screeching, tires smoking, twisting the wheel furiously to avoid an inevitable collision. When he sat up in bed, he was inches from the burning headlights of a massive semi. Sweat glued his flannel pajamas to his damp skin and he could feel the thunderous pounding of his heart. Page gulped down lungfuls of air, still uncertain where he was and half-expecting to die in a fireball Of lacerated steel and shattered glass.
"Jesus," he gasped when he was oriented. The clock read four fifty-eight, an hour and a half before the alarm would go off, four and a half hours before the bail hearing. He fell back onto his pillow, anxious and sure sleep was impossible, haunted by the question that had hounded him since the arrest of Martin Darius. Had he moved too soon?
Was there "clear and convincing" evidence that Martin Darius was a murderer?
Ross Barrow and Randy Highsmith had argued against searching Darius's house, even after hearing what Gutierrez had to say. They wanted to wait until Nancy Gordon was found and they had a stronger case, but he had overridden them and instructed Barrow to make an arrest if the tire tracks at the scene matched the treads on Darius's car. Now, he wondered if Barrow and Highsmith hadn't been right all along. He had counted on finding Nancy Gordon for the bail hearing, but even with three detectives working around the clock, they were striking out.
If he could not sleep, he could rest. Page closed his eyes and saw Nancy Gordon. He had thought of the detective constantly since learning that her body was not in the pit. If she was -alive, she would have gotten in touch with him as soon as she learned of Darius's arrest.
If she was alive, she would have returned to the Lakeview. Was she dead, a look of unimaginable suffering on her face? Darius knew the answer to Page's Questions, but the law forbade Alan to talk to him.
Page would need all of his energy in court, but the fear in his belly would not let him rest. He decided he would shower, shave, eat breakfast, then dress in his best suit and a crisp, starched shirt, fresh from the laundry. A shower and a big breakfast would make him feel human.
Then he would drive to the courthouse and try to convince the Honorable Patrick Norwood, judge of the Multnomah County Circuit Court, that Martin Darius was a serial killer.
Mar-tin Darius slept peacefully and felt well rested when he awoke with the other inmates of the Multnomah County jail. Betsy Tannenbaum had arranged to have his hair cut by his barber, and the watch commander was permitting him an extra shower before court. Only a breakfast of sticky pancakes soaked in gluey, jailhouse syrup spoiled his mood. Darius used the acidic taste of the jail coffee to cut the sweetness and ate them anyway, because he knew it would be a long day in court.
Betsy had exchanged a full wardrobe for the clothes in which Darius was arrested. When Darius met her in the interview room before court, he was attired in a double-breasted, chalk-striped, dark wool suit, a cotton broadcloth shirt and a navy blue, woven silk tie with white pinpoint dots. Betsy wore a single-breasted jacket and matching skirt of black and white, windowpane plaid and a white silk blouse with a wide collar.
When they walked down the courthouse corridor in the glare of the television lights, they would look like a couple you might "Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous," rather than seen on a suspected mass murderer and his mouthpiece.
"How are you feeling?" Darius asked.
"Fine."
"Good. I want you at your best today. jail is interesting, if you treat it as an educational experience, but I'm ready to graduate."
"I'm glad to see you're keeping your sense of humor."
Darius shrugged. "I have faith in you, Tannenbaum.
That's why I hired you. You're the best. You won't let me down."
The praise made Betsy feel good. She basked in it and believed what Darius told her. She was the best.