"Maybe he just panicked and was really trying to save her." "Gerry, she'd been dead underwater for six hours. This isn't like a close call."
"In real life, maybe not. But it's colorable, as they say, to a jury. If I'm defending him, I can hear myself: 'Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, in the intense emotion of finding his beloved wife of twenty years dead in the hot tub, Mr. Gorman couldn't think of any other response than to try and breathe some life back into her, even if it seemed impossible. He loved her so much, maybe that love could produce a miracle. There was literally nothing else he could do.' " Abrams spread his hands. "This flies on gilded wings, Dev. Two or three out of your twelve are going to completely accept it, no problem."
«t v j?
"I can't."
"Well, of course not. It's ridiculous on the face of it. So since when has that been a reason not to make an argument to a jury?" Abrams finally brought his feet to the floor and pulled himself up in his chair, elbows on his desk. "How's his alibi?"
"He says he was on the road, driving down from Echo Lake, a little southwest of Tahoe. Leaving, as I believe I've mentioned, at two o'clock because he couldn't sleep."
"So he could have left at say, eight the night before, and who would know?"
"Right. Nobody."
"So you think it's him?"
While he'd been talking, Juhle had straightened out a paper clip and now he was bending it around his finger. "I'll tell you what I got in some kind of order and then you tell me. First, she'd told him just Friday that she wanted a divorce. Second, she made a ton of money- I mean, evidently a large ton-and now it's all his, although he's never really cared much about money."
"No," Abrams said. "Me neither."
"Few are so shallow," Juhle agreed. "Then the CPR thing. Except really for truly, it doesn't strike me that he's in any kind of mourning. Their daughter being hurt by all this, okay, that got to him. But the wife? They were over anyway."
"You got all that from him? From Gorman?"
"Most of it. Not the CPR. But everything else, horse's mouth. Finally, he plants this scenario with Vicodin and alcohol and a hot tub with a temperature of exactly a hundred and five degrees, which he just happens to mention to me in case I needed to have a theory for how she died. And which, p.s., fits the facts perfectly."
Abrams, his eyes with a faraway look they got when he was concentrating, scratched at a blemish in the wood of his desk. "Too perfectly, you're thinking."
Juhle nodded. "Strout even said it was a damn professional-looking job."
Finally, Abrams met Juhle's eye. "Well, you've got your work cut out. Especially if his alibi holds. I wouldn't go near a grand jury yet with what you've got." Abrams paused, shook his head disconsolately. "Strout's sure, huh? Cause of death was drowning?"
Juhle nodded.
" 'Cause drowning is a bitch to prove murder. Any sign of struggle?"
"Just the bump."
Abrams was staring at the wall behind Juhle's head. Suddenly he snapped back into focus, flashed a quick smile. "Well," he said, "it's early innings. Meanwhile, you hear about the woman's body they found this morning out in the flats in the bay?"
"No. What about her?"
"She was so ugly even the tide wouldn't take her out." "Wow." Juhle shook his head in admiration. "A joke, right? And people say lawyers don't have a sense of humor."
Six
Wes Farrell rarely wore a coat and tie except when he was in court, and almost never when, as now, he was in his third-floor suite at the Sutter Street offices of Freeman, Farrell, Hardy & Roake. When Gina walked in on him after returning from her frustrating time in Department 21, one of the courtrooms in the Hall of Justice, the near-legendary schlumpiness that was Wes's trademark was even more pronounced than usual. He wore only a T-shirt, red running shorts that read Stanford across the back, a pair of black knee-length socks, and Birkenstock sandals. His long gray-brown hair was partially tied up in his usual ponytail and he was down on one knee over by what passed for a work desk by the window. Wes liked to think that he had the world's greatest collection of epigrammatic T-shirts, and perhaps he was right. The one he wore today read i'm out of my mind… please leave a message.
"Am I interrupting something?" Gina asked, mostly in jest. "What are you doing?"
"Training Gert, or trying to." He looked vaguely over to the
other side of the large room. His office was haphazardly decorated, to say the least: a couch with some floral touches, a battered coffee table, two leather upholstered chairs, a television set on an old library table, a sagging Barcalounger over by the wet bar, which was in turn piled with drafts of legal briefs and old newspapers. "C'mere, girl, come on, now! Bring the ball. Good girl."
Gina stepped farther into the room, closing the door behind her, and only then saw Wes's new Labrador puppy chewing a yellow Nerf basketball. As soon as she saw Gina, the dog forgot the ball entirely and bounded across to her, tail wagging, turning in little circles, jumping up. Wes hopped up to his feet, scolding. "No, Gertie. No, no, no. Bad girl."
Gina reached down to pet the dog, who was now on her back in apparent dog glee. "It's all right, Wes. She's a good girl." Gina scratched her belly. "Aren't you, sweetheart? Good girl." Then, to Wes, "Have you been bringing her in here a lot?"
"Nothing on my calendar this afternoon. I thought I'd work on her fetching. I'm starting to think she's got a learning disorder or something."
"ADHD," Gina said. "All dogs have it."
"Bart didn't." For nearly fifteen years, Bart had been Wes's pet, a good-size boxer that he'd had to put down a few months before. The experience had nearly broken his heart until his girlfriend, Sam, had come home with Gert about three weeks ago. "You threw a ball for Bart, he knew what to do with it. Gertie doesn't have a clue. Maybe it's a guy thing."
"A guy thing?"
"You know, Bart was a guy. Gertie's a girl. Maybe girl dogs don't like ball games."
"Maybe you haven't trained her yet, Wes. Could that be it?"
"I'm trying. We've been at it half an hour now and look at her." Gert was still enjoying the tummy rub Gina was administering. "Hopeless."
Gina straightened up and brushed some dog hair off her skirt.
"Well, keep at it. I'm sure she'll get it someday." Suddenly, she seemed to notice her partner for the first time. "Nice outfit, by the way. Very professional. I'd like to have seen Phyllis's face when you passed her."
Phyllis, the firm's elderly, opinionated and dictatorial receptionist, manned the phone banks from an oval station in the center of the lobby one floor down with all the warmth and personality of a glacier. Wes looked down at himself and shrugged. "She has yet to see me this afternoon. I came up by elevator directly from the garage." A pause. "Hey, I told you I wasn't expecting clients," he said. "Or company."
"Well, I'm afraid you've got it." She boosted a haunch onto the back of the couch and swung her leg back and forth. "I've just come from the Hall. You know how many lawyers they have on the list waiting to pull conflicts cases? It used to be twenty-five. You'd get a day about once a month. Now it's a hundred and ten. You're lucky to get three days a year."
Walking across the room, Farrell picked up the Nerf ball, cleared a space on his library table, and sat on it. "Three's not a big number. I guess the word's out. You bill the city and you get paid. It's a good gig. Gertie." He wagged the Nerf ball, threw it back across the room, and came back to Gina. "And you never know what you get. Last time I went down, all I got was a deuce"-a drunk driving case- "and had to plead it out. The guy was doing fine, almost passed the field sobriety test, but when the cop asked him when he started drinking, his answer was 'Panama, 1989.' "