Angel's Advocate (7 page)

“Think Microsoft in future, Goldstein,” Ron said. “It’d save us a trip down here. C’mon, Bree. This is going to be interesting. A ninth-circle case. I can’t wait. Shall I take a look?”

Bree turned and swept the huge room with her gaze. One of the torches in the wall snapped and sputtered. The angels in their monk’s habits scribbled away peacefully. Bree breathed in the dusty, library-scented air and said, “I don’t know if I can handle anything much more interesting than this.”

“La, la,” Ron said, unrolling the parchment, reading as he went. “Simony. Profiteering. Hm. That’s all seventh-circle stuff. Not nine. Doesn’t matter, though. So maybe he did get a raw deal. It’s been known to happen, especially if the prosecution’s zealous.” He shook his head. “If Chandler’s appeal isn’t reversed, he’s going to have an uncomfortable time of it, hereafter. Looks like a worthy case, Bree.”

“Let me see.” Bree took the paper and scanned the first few paragraphs. The petition was laid out in an elegant Gothic script. “This isn’t an appeal. It’s a request for a retrial based on evidence not in fact.”

“Humph,” Goldstein said. “That’s what they all say.”

Bree looked at him with a slight frown. “Mr. Chandler’s disputing the suicide charge. He says he didn’t kill himself. He says someone else did.

“He says it’s murder.”

It was not that legislators, judges and attorneys weren’t
good and decent human beings—though some cer
tainly were not, Ford thought. The problem was they
and their legal forbears had gradually perverted the
legal system for the protection of their own profession.
Jurisprudence was no longer a moral process. It was
a competition in which the competitors—attorneys—
created their own rules.

—
The Heat Sand
, Randy Wayne White

“Come on, Cordy,” Bree said. “The kid’s seventeen years old. Her hormones are running amok. Not only that, there’s a lot of case law about the wonky developmental stages of the teenage brain. I can make a pretty good case for diminished responsibility.”

Cordelia Eastburn snorted derisively. She was good at it. “The wonky defense? Give me a flippin’ break, girlfriend.” Cordy’s charm and presence reminded a lot of people of Oprah Winfrey. Unlike that smart and genial talk show host, Cordy had a temper to rival an F5 tornado and an unabashed ambition to become the first black female governor of the State of Georgia. Most of the time, she scared Bree to death. The rest of the time, the two of them got along like a house afire. “She’s a spoiled rich kid with an attitude. You tell me how that’s going to go over with a jury.”

“Well, not so hot,” Bree admitted. She settled back in the visitor’s chair. The district attorney’s office occupied a corner suite on the fifth floor of the courthouse. Cordy’s Stanford law degree hung over the credenza, surrounded by photos of Cordy with the current governor of Georgia, two former presidents, and two of the Take Back Our Street missions to which she dedicated much of her off-duty time.

On impulse, Bree had stopped to see if she could catch Cordy on the fly. She’d sent Ron back to Angelus to begin researching Probert Chandler’s background. The thrifty family man image was at odds with the charges in his original case, and there was a pile of investigating to do. Cordy was in, and agreed to spare Bree a couple of minutes.

She wore what Bree had come to think of as the uniform for professional Savannah women: a dark suit with a skirt that came to below the knees, a silk turtleneck, and low-heeled shoes. Cordy’s only concession to frivolity was her earrings, which were large, splendid, and handmade.

Bree looked her right in the eye. “Let’s be blunt here. Is this push for a prison sentence because she’s a spoiled rich white kid?”

The DA glared at her. Her temper was legendary. Bree was hard put not to sink down in her chair, close her eyes, and stick her fingers in her ears in anticipation of the coming storm. But Cordy controlled herself with an effort, expelled her breath with a sharp “Pah!” and then said, “I’m not going to dignify that with an answer.”

“Your current drive to break up the street gangs has the support of a whole lot of people,” Bree said. “But you and I both know that the drive’s been politicized. And it’s not just that small segment of the African American voters who’re screaming your cleanup campaign is racially motivated and that you’re an Auntie Tom. A lot of white liberals are, too. If I were in your shoes, Cordy, you bet that I’d be taking a kick-butt attitude about this little case, if only to demonstrate that the law applies equally to everybody. It’s high profile enough to make your point without you having to defend yourself on the early morning talk shows. So—do I think you’re pushing this because she’s a spoiled rich white kid? You bet.” She leaned forward and said firmly, “I’m not going to holler about a rigorous prosecution. You want to push the aggravated theft charges, that’s fine with me. But this business of threatening bodily harm with the Hummer is a real stretch. I watched the video of the surveillance tape on the late night news before I went to bed last night. What I
am
hollering about is your excess of zeal.”

Cordy tightened her lips, thought a moment, and said, “You’ve got a point.” There were a lot of good things about Cordy; chief among them was that she conceded with grace and a no-hard-feelings attitude. She chuckled. “The kid’s gonna hang herself the minute she opens her mouth anyway.”

“No kidding,” Bree said gloomily. “So we can deal a little on these charges?”

“Tell you what. The kid allocutes to the crime on camera.”

“Cordy!”

“Not negotiable. Sorry. I’ve got to feed the ravening herd. The people of this state want to see some groveling. And I want to see her express a little remorse. But then we can talk about a community service sentence. Scrubbing public toilets, maybe. Like that model.”

“I’ll talk to her.” Bree extended her hand. “Thanks, Cordy.”

Cordy reached across the desk and took Bree’s hand in both of hers. “I’ve been hearing a lot about you lately, Bree. Ever think about joining the good fight down here at the DA’s office?”

“Me?” Bree said. “Really?” She could feel herself blushing. She had an enormous respect for the DA’s office and the furious focus that Cordy brought to the job.

“Liked the way you stood up to John Stubblefield over that Skinner case.”

“If I went into public service, I can’t think of anyone I’d rather work for than you,” Bree said honestly. “But I’ve got my hands full at the moment. Maybe in the future . . . I don’t know. Let’s meet for a drink sometime.”

“I’ve got high blood pressure, and problems with sugar. So I don’t drink. But I’ll be glad to buy you one, any old time.” Cordy grinned at her, released her hand, and stood up. “All right, then. You’ll let me know if the kid agrees to the deal?”

“Fast as I can. I’d like to get this one out of the public eye sooner than quick.” She followed Cordy to the door. “By the way . . .”

Cordy paused and sighed. “How come there’s always a ‘by the way’? I give a lot more than I was intending to, let you push me around, and instead of a ‘Thank you, Miz Cordy, for all your help’ I get a ‘by the way’?”

“Probert Chandler?”

“Probert Chand . . .” Bree could almost see the data retrieval going on behind Cordy’s eyes. “Okay. Got it. The kid’s daddy. DOA on Skidaway Road about four months ago. What about him?”

“Have you heard anything about the resolution of the investigation into the car crash?”

Cordy raised one eyebrow. She had an open, very readable face. “And what should I be hearing?”

“I don’t know. That the case is still open, maybe?”

“I can find out, I suppose. Any reason why I should?”

“Just lookin’ for every possible exculpatory road.”

Cordy shrugged. “Guy was rich. Got himself drunk and misjudged the turn in the road on a wet and stormy night. Just have to praise be he didn’t take any of our innocent citizens with him. Now, if you don’t mind, Bree, I’ve got to get along.”

“I owe you one, Cordy. Thanks.”

“You owe me a lot more than one.” She smiled widely—not an angelic smile, by any stretch of the imagination—and stepped aside to let Bree through her office door. “One last thing. If the kid doesn’t agree to my terms, she’s looking at some jail time for sure. You got that? This is the deal. I’m not open to any further negotiations.”

Bree nodded. “You’ll be hearing from me. One way or the other.”

“So if there is an ongoing investigation into Chandler’s death, the DA’s office doesn’t know a thing about it.” Bree sat at the desk in her tiny office. She’d gone straight from the DA back to Angelus Street, flushed with the minor victory. Petru sat in the only other chair the space allowed. Ron perched on the edge of her desk. Lavinia hummed away in the corner, brushing the feather duster over the bookcase under the room’s sole window. She looked at her team with affection. “If we can prove it’s murder, it mitigates the other charges, don’t you think? At least it can help. And poor Mr. Chandler gets to move out of the ninth circle to a far sunnier place, just like that.” She snapped her fingers.

“There are the other charges to consider,” Petru said gravely. “Simony. Profiteering. I do not believe we can guarantee sunshine. At least not yet.”

Bree smiled confidently. “We’re going to give it our best shot. Which means all the usual info, guys. Autopsy report, accident report. Interviews with any witnesses. Just for a start. We don’t have a ton of info from our client, to be sure. Just ‘Marlowe’s. Lindsey. Blood. Blood. Blood.’ And, of course, ‘I didn’t die in the car.’ But I think it’s safe to assume that this is one case with three connections, not two cases that are unrelated.”

Ron nodded. “Got it.”

Petru shook his head. “Perhaps.”

“Petru, please get me all the background data on Chandler and his company that you can find. Who was he? Where did he come from? Who did he associate with? Anything you can turn up on the Internet. We haven’t got a lot to go on. Just his ghost’s reference to his business. But any lead’s better than no lead.”

“
I
have already started a file,” Petru said with a rather smug air. “I assumed we would be following the procedures established by our last successful case.”

“Well, whoop-dee-do,” Ron muttered.

The two angels glared at each other.

Bree paused a moment. This antagonism was new. Finally, she said, “Is there something the two of you need to discuss? With me? With each other?” Neither of her angels looked her in the eye. “No? If not, can we get on with this case?” She locked her hands behind her head and leaned back in her chair. “I think procedures are a good thing, myself,” she said. “But we’ve got to be flexible. Each of us has to be able to take on all kinds of things. Circumstances are going to be different with each new case. I don’t need to remind you both that we’re a team here, and a pretty specialized team at that. We’ve got a live client here who’s going to need a pretty aggressive defense right here in Savannah, if I can’t get her to plead out. And I’m no expert in juvenile cases.”

“You sayin’ you might need to bring somebody else in to help with this chile’s defense?” Lavinia said.

“I hope not. So Petru, I’d like you to start researching similar cases involving minors, so I can get a better sense of the pitfalls ahead. If you can get the names of the two or three top juvenile specialists here in town, I’d be grateful. And Ron—could you set up meetings with Madison Bellamy, Hartley Williams, and the Girl Scout and her mom? What’s her name? Sophie Chavez, that was it. And I’d like a copy of that surveillance tape from the mall.” She got to her feet and slung the strap of her briefcase over her shoulder. “I’ve got to go. I’m going to get Lindsey to agree to allocute, apologize, and get the outward and visible signs of this case out of the way.”

Ron rolled his eyes. “Apologize? That kid? When pigs fly, Bree, sweetie. When pigs fly.”

Bree frowned. “Why do you say that?”

“You have not seen it yet.” Petru sighed heavily and shifted his cane across his knees. “I thought perhaps you had not.”

“Seen what? What are you guys talking about?”

“That chile went on Bonnie-Jean Morrissey’s talk show and said how’d she do it again, that’s what,” Lavinia said repressively.

“What?” Bree said. She sat down, slowly. “Bonnie-Jean Morrissey? That’s the
Bonny Good Morning
show, right? Lindsey went on the talk show and said she’d do it again? Do what again? Mug a Girl Scout?”

“Yes, indeedy,” Ron said. “Said it was a real gas. A hoot. A scream.”

“At least it’s just a local show,” Bree said feebly. Bonnie Morrissey was one of those round, pink-cheeked, silver-haired, extremely pretty women the South seemed to breed like hamsters. She looked like Paula Deen’s little sister. Her seven A.M. talk show was gossipy, verging on the scurrilous. “Nobody watches it, though,” Bree said confidently. “Cordy hasn’t seen it, for instance. She would have said something. She would have said a
lot.
”