Great. Even a cop took one look at the rich pretty white lady versus the scumbag ex-con and gave Adrienne a pass.
Ellie hit the reply button on her e-mail system and pecked off a response:
Thanks for keeping us in the loop. To prove that I am in fact the most obsessive-compulsive person you’ve ever met, can you please ask your records department to fax us a copy of the reports George Langston requested? You never know . . . Don’t forget. We owe you. Thx!
Max looked happy when he returned to the bar. “I was about to say ‘another round to celebrate,’ but I see Dennis already got here.”
“What are we celebrating now?”
“That was Adrienne Langston’s defense attorney. She’s taking the deal. As is.”
“You’re kidding? Just like that? I thought she said she wouldn’t take anything other than Man Two.”
“The attorney was surprised too. She said it was all George’s doing. Plus, they’re in a rush. Adrienne will enter her plea tomorrow at nine a.m., straight into sentencing. So let’s drink to George.”
Ellie still had her phone in her hand.
“Sorry, babe. I hate to tell you this, but I’ve got work to do tonight.”
His disappointment was obvious. “Come on. I thought we were finally both out early for once. I was sort of looking forward to talking about the new place. What to keep, what to get rid of. It’ll be fun.”
She knew it should sound fun. It didn’t. “I really need to work. You stay here and chill with the other regulars. I’ll make it up to you tomorrow. Take you to Bed Bath and Beyond to look at shower curtains with all the other ladies.”
He feigned a stabbing motion to the gut. “Fine, I deserved that. I’m soft.” He gave her a kiss on the lips, and she waved goodbye to Dennis on her way out.
From the sidewalk on Eighth Street, she pulled up Marci Howard’s phone number from her call log, then plugged one ear with her fingertip to block out the sound of a passing bus. “Hey, there, it’s Ellie Hatcher. Did you happen to get the e-mail I just sent you?”
“Didn’t surprise me at all. You’re definitely thorough. We’ll get those records to you this week.”
“Don’t kill me, but I actually need them tonight—as in, right now.”
They were still missing something.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Ellie waited in the hallway outside of Judge John DeWitt Gregory’s courtroom until they spotted George Langston exiting the elevator. He was flanked by Ramona on one side and his wife’s defense attorney on the other.
Behind them came Casey Heinz, walking alongside Katherine Whitmire. Katherine’s pending divorce against Bill was all over the tabloids, but from what Ellie heard, Katherine’s higher priority had been getting Casey moved into the top floor of her townhouse and enrolled in classes at Hunter College. Apparently she had found a way to try to make up for her and her husband’s previous failures.
Ellie intercepted George before he made it to the courtroom. “Mr. Langston, I’d like to have a quick word with you, alone, before your wife’s case is called, if that’s all right with you.”
Adrienne’s attorney was a straight shooter named Bernadette Connor. A gorgeous Asian woman with a French first name and an Irish last name, she had also gone on three dates with Max four years ago, a fact Ellie tried very hard to forget whenever her name came up.
“No way. You can talk to George after Adrienne’s plea is entered.”
“I need to talk to him now,” Ellie said.
“Then you can talk to him with me present.”
“You represent Adrienne, not George.”
“Then we’ll call George’s attorney.”
“Mr. Langston,” Ellie repeated, “I need to talk to you. I think you’ll want to have this conversation with me privately, but if you want to call counsel of your choosing, that is of course your prerogative.”
“No. I’m fine. Thank you, Bernadette.”
Ellie led the way into the vacant jury room she’d scored from Benny the Bailiff. (Never underestimate the value of finding time to talk Mets games with the courthouse staff.)
She waited until they were alone and the door closed to speak. “I got a call from Marci Howard yesterday from out in Suffolk County.”
No reaction.
“She told me you had requested the incident reports involving Gabriella’s car accident.”
“You can’t do a thing without all of government knowing about it these days?”
“Why would you want to see those reports after all these years?”
“It’s funny how the mind works. I loved that woman like—well, the way you maybe get to love only one person your entire life. When we finally got Ramona, it was the happiest day either of us had ever experienced. And then the phone call about the accident was the worst. It’s not like I ever stopped thinking about her, but I’d finally gotten to the point where I didn’t always think about her. Now I find out that Adrienne is actually Ramona’s mother, only to be losing her now to prison for trying to protect our family? I don’t know—it had me thinking about losing Gabriella, too.”
“It’s a very touching story. I suspect it’s even partially true.”
“Of course it’s true.”
“But it’s not the whole truth, is it? If you don’t want to lose Adrienne to prison, why were you the one to help talk her into this plea?”
“It’s better than a maximum sentence, isn’t it? I saw the discovery. I know the evidence against her. Neither one of us wants to put Ramona through a trial.”
“It’s always been about Ramona, hasn’t it?”
“What do you mean?” he asked, looking at the jury room door. Ellie knew he was thinking about the clock’s minute hand working its way toward 9:00 a.m.
“Don’t worry about the time, George. It always takes the deputies forever to transfer prisoners into the courtrooms. We’ve got a good half hour before the judge takes the bench. I mean that it’s always been about Ramona, for both you and Adrienne. Ramona was the reason Adrienne found a way to get close to you and your family. Her devotion to your child was probably the reason you married again, even though you were still in love with Gabriella.”
“Adrienne and I came to love each other. We’re a family now.”
“You’re a family, but only because of the bond you share with your daughter. And that daughter is the reason you convinced Adrienne to take this deal. You don’t want Ramona to know the rest of the story.”
“There’s nothing else to tell, Detective. Like I said, we just don’t want to put her through the trauma and publicity of a trial.”
“Adrienne’s attorney told the ADA you spent all of Monday studying the case against your wife. The very next morning, you drove out to East Hampton to get copies of Gabriella’s accident reports. That same night, you suddenly convinced Adrienne to take a deal she practically laughed at for the last two weeks.”
“I don’t want to have this conversation. Please. I know you think I’m a terrible person, and I have given you every reason to believe that. But I swear—I have been trying to do everything in my power to make it right. This plea agreement is what’s right.”
“I followed the same paper trail you did, George. The Suffolk County Police faxed me those same accident reports last night.”
“Please don’t do this. It’s not right. There’s no need.”
“The police always suspected a drunk driver in the hit-and-run that killed Gabriella. She was walking home from the stables in East Hampton, just like she usually did after she rode. Based on the tire treads and paint transfer to a light pole, they suspected one of four Pontiac models, red in color. You probably hadn’t thought about that detail for fifteen years. You asked for the accident reports to confirm what you suspected when you saw your wife’s file.”