“Why won’t you let Bobby Moreno take a lie-detector test?” she asked, unable to let the subject go. “If he’s clean, let him prove it.”
“I never allow my clients to take a police polygraph exam. There’s nothing to be gained by having a client in an alien environment, confronted by aggressive cops. Hooked up to a polygraph machine under those circumstances, even the bishop of San Francisco might flunk. Bobby would fail on the spot.”
“Are you saying he’s guilty?”
“No. I said he wouldn’t pass a polygraph test. Notice I didn’t call it a lie-detector test.”
“You’re playing with words.”
“Christie, sit down and stop arguing while I can still control my temper. How much do you know about polygraphs?”
“They measure skin responses caused by truthfulness or deceit.”
“Partially correct. They measure changes in skin response, heart rate, and blood pressure due to nervousness or emotional turmoil. They don’t necessarily measure truthfulness. Someone like Bobby is always nervous in the face of authority. His fear of blame in this case would be so disruptive, he probably wouldn’t be able to give his name without prompting the needle to record a negative response.
“The police want him to take the test for one reason: they are convinced he’ll fail. It’s inadmissible in court, but can be used against him in other, more subtle ways. If he passed it would be glossed over and it might even be suggested that he’s a pathological liar, immune to the mechanizations of the exam. He has nothing to gain by taking it. That’s why I’ve advised him to refuse.”
“I see.”
“Do you really?”
Christie looked out the window, avoiding Cash’s eyes. She didn’t understand his tactics. She did not know if he was following a win-at-all-costs procedure, or if he was rightfully protecting a man he believed was innocent. She turned to face him, and ignored his question. “Heed what I said about the other suspect. That kid’s a time bomb waiting to go off!”
“He’s my client, Christie. I have to do all that is in my power to prove him innocent.”
“To set him free to do harm again? That’s…that’s immoral!”
“Do I have to remind you that this case hasn’t gone to trial? And if it does, twelve people will decide on guilt or innocence. Where’s the immorality in that? At least they won’t be making their decision on the basis of sloppy penmanship.” His voice was thick with anger.
“That’s a cruel cut.” Christie studied her hands, clasping and unclasping them before she spoke again. “I’m out of my league, Cash. I’ve never been up against crime firsthand. I’m just a document examiner who is confronted with the objects of misdeeds, not the perpetrators.”
“Then maybe you need to learn more about the real world before you walk into court again.”
His tone was nasty. His words had gotten to her. She pressed her hands against her sides to quell the shaking. She prayed her lips wouldn’t quiver and give away her emotions.
“Pardon me, counselor, I didn’t expect my advice to start a war. And never mind about apologizing for breaking our lunch date. I consider it most opportune that you can’t keep it.”
Christie turned and stomped out of the office, slamming the door in her wake. She was furious at the way he had spoken to her; he’d been mindless of her feelings. She resented his disdain for her attempt to evaluate the new suspect’s psychological background. Admittedly, she had told him that she rarely went on record on character judgment, but she had also indicated there were exceptions.
He was assisting a dangerous criminal’s attempt to gain freedom. If a judge agreed to bail reduction, the kid could be on the street in twenty-four hours. Whether or not he was guilty of arson, he was on the edge, and no good would come of his release.
She understood that not all of Cash’s clients were innocent. He had to provide each client with the best defense possible; that was his job, and he was good at it. One of the best. He undoubtedly considered himself an advocate for justice in this case, as in his other pro bono cases. But freeing a possible criminal into the midst of society to wreak havoc again was far from her definition of justice.
She had thought they shared the same values, but now she wasn’t sure. This created a quixotic predicament. Her immediate reaction was to back away, at least from working together. But her heart did not want to unravel their personal entanglement. His unpardonable error had been to run roughshod over her opinion. Where was the caring, loving man to whom she was ready to hand her heart? Was he an apparition? An impostor?
Downstairs in the lobby, Christie went into the coffee shop and slipped into a booth. She needed a few minutes to overcome her anger. It would not be prudent to get into her car and attack the traffic-ridden streets of San Francisco in her current mood. A waitress asked if she wanted to see a menu. Christie shook her head and ordered coffee. She watched, almost without seeing, as the woman poured the dark brew into a cup. She reached for the cup and stared at her trembling hand, a visual reminder of Cash’s ability to toss her neatly ordered life into a maelstrom.
Although Cash had suggested she keep the rental car indefinitely, in case he needed her on another case, she decided she would return the Mustang tomorrow.
Later, in her apartment, Christie changed into an old fleece-lined sweat suit and padded into the kitchen. She slid a mini pizza from the oven, poured a glass of wine, and carried her dinner into the living room. She sat on the couch and smoothed an afghan across her legs. Tosha took the gesture as an invitation to leap onto Christie’s lap. She lifted the cat up and looked into its face. “How can I give him up? I love him, warts and all. Why is my life being turned upside down?”
Tosha’s tail swung like a pendulum. “You don’t have the answer either, do you?” Christie murmured. She nuzzled the cat, then returned her to her lap. Tosha, undoubtedly miffed at the intrusion, gave a yowl and jumped to the floor. Tail held high, the cat stalked out of the room.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Tomorrow it would be back to the old clunker, Christie mused. Oh, well, it had gotten her where she was going for the past ten years, what did it matter if the paint was flaking from the salt air and she’d never fixed the dent on the right fender where she’d tapped a guardrail last November? And of course her car didn’t have cruise control or a stereo system with a five-disc CD player. And the air-conditioning rattled, that was, when it worked well enough to send spurts of cold air into her face. Who needed air-conditioning in San Francisco, anyway? The fog and sea breeze were good enough. Unless it was an unseasonably warm summer day. Admittedly, there were quite a few of those.
She turned the keys over in her hand, the leather fob warm against her palm. Yes, the Mustang had been nice. She recalled driving Highway 1, the coastal route, with the top down, the breeze in her hair, the flashing scenery, the carefree feeling.
This is silly, she reproached herself. A car was a car, and nothing more. Her old buggy was as good as that brand-new Mustang. And so was public transit. She’d spring her car from the cheap long-term parking lot, and life would return to normal. Now, if she would only believe the internal pep talk, she thought as she drove to Cash’s office.
Paige’s eyebrows shot up when Christie plunked the keys on her desk.
“Please thank Cash for the rental car,” Christie said. “I won’t need it anymore.”
“He’s in, would you like to talk to him?”
“No, I’ve got to catch a cab for an appointment across town. I’ll be late if I don’t get moving.”
The surprise on Paige’s face did not go unnoticed. With a quick good-bye, Christie hurried out of the office, fearful that any delay could result in a face-to-face meeting with Cash. She knew that he would be offended that she had not given him the keys to the Mustang in person, but she did not trust herself to see him. Not until she was stronger in her determination to sever personal ties. Right now she was fragile and her pledge could easily break.