“It’s Bill. But no can do.” The guard one-finger-typed their names into a computer, one agonizing letter at a time, waited for a machine to print out individual passes. Handed them back their identification, and offered each a slick white nametag on a peel-and-stick backing. “Third floor only. You can go up, he can go up, cameras cannot go up.”
Jane checked her watch. She’d told Elizabeth McDivitt’s assistant they’d be here at ten, and it was ten. Jane had neglected to specifically mention the camera, but who would do an interview without a camera? She slapped the name badge on her black T-shirt, knowing it would leave an indelible gummy mark.
“I’d explained it was an interview.” Jane had to give it at least one more try. She needed shots of McDivitt in her office, show her working the phone, illustrate how the bank had a whole department allocated to customer service.
“No one approved cameras, Ma’am.” Bill pointed at a red light blinking from a black box mounted on one wall. “We have enough of our own. As you can see. Ma’am.”
Jane puffed out a breath. Technically this wasn’t her story, she was beyond tired, and at this point she’d be happy to give up-and yet, she had to get it done. Somehow. She looked at TJ, trying not to roll her eyes. The guy was only doing his job. Too well.
“Teege? I’ll go by myself. I’ll get McDivitt to arrange for the camera, and-”
“Good luck with that,” Bill interrupted.
“-then call your cell,” Jane went on.
“No prob,” TJ said. “I’ll get exteriors.”
“No cameras,” Bill said.
“Don’t disappear,” Jane said. “I’ll make it work.”
“Don’t say a word, Elliot.” Peter clamped a hand on his client’s arm, holding him back physically as well as emotionally. The outcome of this living room face-off was inevitable, but Peter would insist the cops go by the book.
Any One-L student knows the first rule after being arrested is “don’t say anything.” The second and third rules, too. Peter had already argued his client was hardly a flight risk, given his wife was about to give birth to their child. Jake Brogan seemed to be accepting that. Good thing, since it was true.
Brogan-who must be exhausted after last night, just as Peter was-and the guy Sherrey, whom Peter didn’t trust any farther than that bad tie he wore, stood right inside the closed front door. Brogan took the lead position, Sherrey slouched behind him. They had a warrant, so legally didn’t need to be invited in. Nevertheless, they’d barely entered the Sandovals’ territory.
“Guess Mr. Sandoval doesn’t want to defend himself.” Sherrey directed his words to Brogan. A cheap shot. Legal, but cheap, and clearly intended to harass his client into some angry and incriminating retort.
“You-” Elliot’s face was going red, even with the AC blasting. He’d dressed in a suit, as Peter had suggested, in case they could arrange for an arraignment and bail hearing this afternoon. Might as well show the judge Sandoval was a respectable businessman, underscore the image of an innocent good guy who was in the wrong place at the wrong time with a few bits of arguably circumstantial evidence against him. If the arraignment were postponed to tomorrow, Sandoval’d be the best dressed defendant in the Boston PD lockup. Sans belt, of course. And shoelaces.
“Not a word, Elliot,” Peter said again. This was shaky ground in some ways. Brogan had the class to call Peter and warn of the arrest. He’d also told Peter there were fingerprints in the Waverly Road house (though of course there would be, Elliot had lived there) and that Shandra Newbury had been the Sandovals’ real estate agent, arranged their mortgage, and promised them the bank would understand if they got behind. All well-documented, apparently, in real estate records the cops seized from her office at Mornay and Weldon Realty. Records, including some nasty letters Sandoval wrote, the cops were required by law to turn over to the defense.
Could be a big deal. Could be meaningless. No way for Peter to characterize it at this point, but clearly enough probable cause for some judge to issue a warrant. What else they had, Peter and his client would have to find out in court.
“Elliot, please.” MaryLou Sandoval, tears welling, didn’t seem to be able to let go of her husband. She had one arm tucked through his, leaning into him, the other protecting her belly. “Peter will have you home again soon.” She looked at Peter, pleading. “Won’t you?”
“I’ll do my best,” he said. He wished he could say yes, but that wouldn’t be fair. Or honest.
“Elliot Sandoval, we have a warrant for your arrest, for the murder of Shandra Newbury, on or about…”
Peter listened to the arrest litany he’d heard in so many living rooms, so many street corners, so many offices. Often, he knew the defendant was guilty, the police not the bozos they were often portrayed to be, but there was still the one in-ten? twenty? times that his client really didn’t do it. Not simply that Peter could get him acquitted because the Commonwealth couldn’t prove its case or the jury didn’t want to convict, but because the guy was actually, literally, not guilty.
Those were the tough ones. Those were the ones that clenched your stomach and kept you awake at night, when you had an innocent person’s future in your hands. Was this one of those times?
“You have the right to remain silent,” Brogan was now reciting the Miranda, signaling the end of this stage of the game and the beginning of the next. No matter what happened, Elliot Sandoval and his poor wife and family were about to enter the rat maze of the legal system. Even with Peter guiding them the best he could, no one emerged the same way they went in, innocent or not.
MaryLou Sandoval had started crying at the words “warrant for your arrest,” and her tears only increased since then, leaving wet blotches on her husband’s khaki suit. Soon she’d have to say good-bye. Peter had no way to predict for how long. Overnight, maybe. Or forever.
“Sir?” Bing Sherrey reached under his sport coat, the handcuffs clinking as he gestured them toward Sandoval.
Peter closed his eyes for a brief second, then shot Brogan a look. “Any way we can skip this?”
“Sorry.” Brogan looked like he might be telling the truth. “We could have picked him up middle of the night, you know. Not let them say good-bye.”
“Not let him change into that snazzy suit.” Sherrey took a step forward with the cuffs, motioned to Elliot, turn around. “Shouldn’ta bashed Miz Newbury with a two-by-four,” he said. “Shouldn’ta left all those prints in the house.”
“Sherrey.” Brogan raised a palm.
MaryLou wailed, one long, miserable note, then stumbled, backward, catching herself on the arm of the couch. Watching as the handcuffs clicked over her husband’s wrists. “He’s a construction worker! Just a-she showed us that house,” MaryLou said. “We only knew her because-”
“MaryLou.” Peter had to step in here. If she got hysterical, started making statements, the cops could try to use that information. Even though it would legally be hearsay, anything the wife said could lead to trouble in the emerging case against her husband.
“I’ll be okay,” Sandoval said. “I will. This’ll all be over before you-”
Sandoval stopped, and suddenly the room was still. Probably everyone thinking the same thing Peter was, he figured. Unless Peter could prevail, Elliot Sandoval would be behind bars when his first child was born.
“You’re taking him to the police station? Booking him there?” Peter broke the silence. It was better to keep it cold and legal, no emotion, move this thing along the track, get it over with the best way possible.
“We’ll see you in court,” Brogan said.
“Elliot.” Peter needed to have the last word. “Listen to me.”
The cops were at the front door, Brogan’s hand on the knob. Elliot turned to him, his face hardened, suddenly ten years older, the cords in his neck threatening to pop as he sealed in his anger.