Charley's Web (7 page)

Alex Prescott paused, looked toward the window of his small, nondescript office. There wasn’t even a painting on the wall, Charley realized. “I imagine she wants her side of the story to come out,” he said.

“You think she has a side?”

“I think she has many sides.”

“All of them guilty,” Charley said.

“See. Now, that’s just the kind of thing I’m talking about.”

“What kind of thing?”

“Why you’re not the right person to tell her story.”

“Because I think she’s guilty?”

“Because you won’t give her a fair hearing.”

“She’s already had a fair trial.”

“Jill’s never been treated fairly in her entire life.”

“You’re trying to tell me she’s innocent?” Charley heard the incredulousness in her voice.

“I’m saying there’s a lot you don’t know, a lot the jury didn’t hear.”

Charley squirmed in her chair, trying to contain her growing interest. “How did you get involved in this case, Mr. Prescott?”

“I believe in our court system,” he answered, evading the question ever-so-slightly. “Even accused child-murderers are entitled to the best possible defense.”

“How did Jill find you?” Charley pressed, trying to get him back on track.

“I’m not sure I understand the question.”

“Well, Jill Rohmer has no money, you don’t work for the public defender’s office, and you weren’t appointed by the court. I checked the records first thing this morning.”

“I’m impressed.”

“So, what brought the two of you together?”

A slight pause, then, “The fact is I offered my services.”

“You offered your services?” Charley repeated.

“Free of charge.”

“Even though this type of case is a little out of your bailiwick?”

“I’d tried a number of murder cases before this one.”

“But never anything as ‘complicated,’” she said, using his word. “Or as high-profile.”

“True enough.”

“So why would you volunteer to take it on?”

He shrugged. “I guess because I thought it would make an interesting case.”

“Or maybe because you thought it might get you a lot of publicity. Maybe even make you a star,” she stated, again borrowing his words.

He smiled. “That might have had something to do with it.”

“The details of this case didn’t repulse you?”

“On the contrary, they repulsed me very much.”

“Did you think Jill was guilty when you first met her?”

“I have to confess I did, yes.”

“But you took the case anyway. The fact you thought she was guilty didn’t stop you from giving her the best possible defense under the law.”

“If anything, it made me even more determined to do a good job.”

“Okay,” Charley said. “To recap: You volunteered your services, you took the case despite the fact you had no real experience with crimes of this magnitude, and the fact it was high-profile and might make you famous admittedly crossed your mind. So, no disrespect intended, but what the hell gives you the right to sit in judgment of me? What gives you the right to question my motives and tell me I’m not qualified to write this book? Whether or not I think Jill Rohmer is guilty is beside the point. The point is that I’m the one she wants. Your client is sitting on death row, Mr. Prescott. What makes you think I could do any worse a job telling her story than you did?”

She released a deep breath. He did the same.

“That was some closing argument,” he said with obvious admiration.

“Thank you.”

“Anybody ever tell you you would make an excellent attorney?”

“My father wanted me to be a lawyer.”

“But you never listened to your father, did you?”

Again Charley squirmed in her seat. “The only thing I’d enjoy about being a lawyer would be staring down some lowlife and saying, ‘Tell it to the judge.’”

Alex laughed. “Doesn’t happen very often.”

“If I were to do this book,” Charley said, returning to the original subject, “I’d have to have total access to Jill Rohmer’s files.”

“What’s mine is yours.”

“I’ll also need the transcripts of the trial.”

“You’ll have them by the end of the day.”

“I’ll need to talk to her family and friends.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“And, of course, I’ll require access to Jill on a regular basis.”

“We’ll have to work that out with the prison officials.”

“I insist on total freedom and absolute control. Jill has to understand she might not like the end result.”

“You’ll have to talk to Jill about that.”

“When can you arrange a meeting?”

“How does Saturday afternoon work for you?”

Charley knew both Franny and James would be spending the weekend with their respective fathers, but her mother had mentioned treating Charley to a day at a spa, six uninterrupted hours of mother-daughter bonding. Charley smiled across the desk at Alex. “It works fine,” she said.

WEBB SITE

During a recent visit to a lawyer’s office, I had time to glance through a number of magazines. Luckily for me, they were all recent editions, so I didn’t have to waste time wondering why the movie world was just mourning the loss of Marlon Brando when I was pretty sure he’d died a few years ago.

Several items quickly caught my eye. One was a disturbing article about a popular drug for osteoporosis and a heretofore unknown side effect of this widely prescribed pill, a little thing called “necrosis of the jawbone,” which has been occurring in an alarming number of women who’ve just had oral surgery. The dentist I subsequently contacted tells me it’s every bit as awful as it sounds. “The jawbone literally disintegrates,” Dr. Samuel Keller informed me. “Any woman on this drug who needs to have something as simple as a tooth extraction will be faced with a terrible dilemma.”

That’s not the only terrible dilemma women are facing these days.

“Okay,” Charley said, rereading the opening paragraphs she’d written for this Sunday’s column. “So far, so good.”

Another dilemma is the price of tea in China. Or more to the point, the price of a purse on Worth Avenue. More precisely, the price of a cherry-red crocodile bag that, size wise, isn’t even all that big by today’s exaggerated standards, but that sells for the whopping figure of
seventy-five thousand dollars.

Yes, you read that right.

Seventy-five thousand dollars.

For a purse.

The mind boggles. Who in their right mind would even consider spending that kind of money for a handbag? “Is it lined in gold?” I queried the reed-thin saleswoman with the sleek, dark hair who greeted me at the door of the beautifully appointed Bottega Veneta store in the shopping heart of Palm Beach.

The saleswoman smiled the tight smile of someone who’s had perhaps one too many nips and tucks, and said patiently, “It’s handmade.”

Oh, I see. That explains everything. “Can I see it?”

“We don’t keep it in the store,” the saleswoman said, as if this fact should be self-evident. “You’d have to special-order it.”

“Isn’t it against the law to make purses out of crocodiles?” I ventured further, receiving only a look of disdain in reply.

Who’d even want something made from the skin of a reptile? Charley wondered, literally shuddering at the thought.

I spent the next half hour checking out the other, somewhat less outrageously priced items that sat at respectful distances from one another on the long row of shelves on either side of the small store. Sprinkled among the gorgeous, latticed leather bags that are Bottega’s trademark, were an array of stunning sling-back sandals, flats, and high-heeled shoes, all equally fabulous, and all mind-numbingly expensive, although even a seven-hundred-dollar pair of pumps starts to sound reasonable when it’s sitting next to a seven-thousand-dollar bag. And what’s seven thousand dollars compared to seventy-five thousand anyway? Why, it’s a bargain, I thought, deciding I had to get out of there before it was too late.

Continuing down Worth Avenue, I visited a number of other shops. I found a long silk skirt for fifteen thousand dollars at Giorgio Armani, a simple cotton dress for eight thousand at Chanel, and a two-million-dollar yellow diamond pendant at Van Cleef and Arpel. In Neiman Marcus, I came across the six-thousand-dollar blouse from Oscar de la Renta I’d admired in the latest issue of
Vogue.
Hanging on a rack! In the middle of a bunch of other similarly priced items. As if this were normal. “Would you like to try that on?” a salesgirl asked matter-of-factly.

“Maybe another time,” I answered, fleeing the premises, and heading for the ocean at the east end of the street in an effort to clear my head. “Who’s buying these things?” I heard myself ask out loud, my voice carried out to sea by a gentle gust of ocean breeze. As I slipped off my sandals ($16.99 at Payless) to walk along the cool sand….

“No, I don’t like that. A little too
Remember Love-
ish for my taste,” Charley muttered under her breath, deleting the last two lines from her computer, and pausing to reconsider what she wanted to say next.

Who’s buying these things? I wondered, surreptitiously scrutinizing each woman I passed. Could that hideous handbag on the arm of the frump in the navy sweatsuit really be worth almost as much as my house? Did those oversize sunglasses hiding the pimples on the faces of the teenage girls giggling in front of Tiffany’s really cost more than my monthly car payments? Was nobody else as shocked as I was by the prices designers were asking—and people were paying—for their wares?

“Uh-oh. Maybe starting to sound a touch disingenuous,” Charley said under her breath.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not naive when it comes to what it costs to look fashionable these days. I, myself, have been known to shell out exorbitant bucks for a pair of jeans just because they have a little embroidered crown on the rear pocket. But six thousand dollars for a blouse? Seventy-five thousand dollars for a purse? Is everybody nuts?

And, in the end, where does such extravagance get us?

Where does it get us indeed? Charley wondered, not quite sure what point she was trying to make.

Does it buy us better sex, better health, a longer life? As we march our poor feet down the street in our too-high stilettos, our shoulders cramping under the weight of those oversize crocodile bags, our bones are already crumbling and threatening to disintegrate. Despite our best efforts at denial and the continuing advances of modern science, we are getting older. Necrosis of the jawbone is only one ill-conceived miracle pill away.

“Charley?” Michael Duff interrupted.

Charley swiveled around in her seat.

The editor-in-chief filled the entrance to her cubicle. “A police officer is here to talk to you.”

“The police?”

“About that e-mail,” he explained. “She’s in my office.”

“Oh.” Charley pressed
SAVE
on her computer and stored the article she was writing for Sunday’s column before getting up and following Michael to his office. The truth was she’d almost forgotten about Monday’s e-mail. It seemed so long ago. “Do they know who sent it?” she asked, speaking to the back of Michael’s green-and-white golf shirt.

“I think she just wants to talk to you,” he said, opening the door to his office and stepping aside to let Charley enter first.

A uniformed officer promptly jumped to her feet. “Jennifer Ramirez,” she said, introducing herself and extending her hand. Despite her slim build and shy smile, the officer’s handshake was strong and firm. Her dark hair was pulled into a bun at the nape of her neck, and her brown eyes were the color of warm chocolate sauce.

“Charley Webb,” Charley said.

Michael Duff took his seat behind his desk, then motioned for the two women to sit down. “You sure you wouldn’t like a cup of coffee?” he asked the police officer.

“No, thank you. I’ve already had my quota this morning.”

“Charley?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Do you know who sent me that e-mail?”

“I’m afraid not,” Officer Ramirez said, pulling out her notebook from the pocket of her navy shirt. “Have you had any more?”

“Well, I get lots of e-mail every day.”

“Ones that threaten your life?”

“Not usually, thank goodness. I always give copies of those to Michael.” She nodded in his direction.

“We keep all threatening letters on file,” he volunteered.

“We might need to see those later.”

“Certainly.”

“But this particular letter was the first one that threatened your children?” Officer Ramirez asked, although it was more statement than question.

“It said I should ‘die, bitch, die,’ and take my bastard children with me. It also said I should keep a very close eye on them, that I’d be surprised by the horrifying things people were capable of,” Charley recited, seeing the e-mail in her mind’s eye as clearly as it had appeared on her computer screen earlier in the week.

“Which you interpreted as a threat?”

“You don’t?”

“It’s certainly not a very nice letter,” Officer Ramirez said.

“But you don’t think whoever wrote it is dangerous?”

“I think they’re angry.”

“Angry enough to harm my children?”

“Hopefully it’s just some jerk who gets his rocks off writing nasty letters.”

“That’s what Michael said,” Charley told her. “I probably just overreacted.”

“Better safe than sorry.”

“You haven’t been able to trace the computer?”

“Unfortunately, no. So you haven’t received any more threatening letters in the last several days, is that correct?”

“Not since Monday.”

“Well, that’s good. Pardon my ignorance, Miss Webb, but what sort of thing is it you write?”

Charley tried not to let her face register dismay that the officer was unacquainted with her work. “I write a weekly column about various issues of the day. Whatever happens to be on my mind,” she qualified.

“I take it that what’s on your mind is sometimes upsetting to other people,” Officer Ramirez stated.

Michael Duff laughed. “Charley has been known to stir things up a bit.”

“Sounds fascinating. I guess I’ll have to start reading your column. Tell me, Miss Webb, and again, pardon my ignorance, but have you ever targeted anyone in particular in these columns, someone who might want to get back at you for something you’ve written?”

“I’m sure there’s a long list.”

“I’d like to see it.”

“Oh,” Charley said, as the faces of Lynn Moore, Gabe Lopez, and Glen McLaren flashed quickly before her eyes. And those were only the more recent examples. “Shouldn’t you wait to see if I get any more letters before you start questioning anyone? Wouldn’t want to antagonize them any more than I already have.” She tried to laugh, failed.

“Of course. This is all very preliminary,” Jennifer Ramirez told her. “But I would like to have that list. Just in case.”

“In case of what?” Charley asked. “In case something happens to me? Is that what you mean?”

“Is there anyone else, someone from your personal life perhaps, that you think could have sent that e-mail? An ex-husband, perhaps? A coworker you’ve pissed off?”

Charley shook her head. She was on reasonably good terms with both her children’s fathers, although less so with Franny’s stepmother. And while she wasn’t exactly buddy-buddy with the other reporters on staff, she doubted any of them disliked her enough to threaten her or her children. “There’s no one.”

“It’s probably just a disgruntled reader,” Michael interjected.

“Probably.” Officer Ramirez rose to her feet. “I wouldn’t worry too much if I were you, Miss Webb. The odds are this was a onetime thing. Get me that list as soon as you can, and of course, if you receive any more ‘interesting’ letters, please contact me immediately.” She handed a copy of her card to both Charley and Michael. “It was a pleasure meeting you. I can show myself out.”

“You okay?” Michael asked Charley after the policewoman was gone.

“Fine.” Maybe she should have told the officer about the “interesting” letter she’d received from Jill Rohmer, she was thinking. Now that’s a name that would have gotten her attention, made her sit up and take notice. Except what would have been the point? Jill couldn’t have sent that e-mail. Charley doubted that murderers were given access to computers while in prison. Wasn’t that why Jill had contacted her by hand? No, mentioning Jill Rohmer would have served only to distract the officer. Jill would have highjacked the investigation before it even got off the ground.

Still, how ironic was it that Charley was considering meeting with a convicted child killer at a time when her own children had come under threat?

She almost laughed. Who was she fooling? She wasn’t considering anything. She’d already made up her mind. Although in thinking back on her meeting with Alex Prescott, she wasn’t sure quite how he’d managed to talk her into agreeing to see Jill. She smiled, again wondering who was fooling whom. The truth was that Alex Prescott hadn’t talked her into anything. He’d been opposed to her telling Jill’s story. The truth was she was the one who’d persuaded him.

“What’s the matter?” Michael was asking.

“What?”

“What’s on your mind?”

“Nothing. What do you mean?”

“You were a million miles away.”

More like seventy-five, Charley thought, calculating the distance to the prison in Pembroke Pines. “Actually, I’m thinking of writing a book.”

“Thinking or planning?” Michael asked, cutting right to the chase.

Charley smiled. “Planning.”

“Does that mean you’re also planning to ask for some time off?”

“No,” Charley said quickly. “Unless, of course, you disapprove of the subject.”

“The subject being?”

“Jill Rohmer.” Charley immediately filled Michael in on the details of Jill’s letter and her visit to Alex’s office. “You think it’s a bad idea?”

“On the contrary—normally I’d say it’s an excellent idea.”

“Normally?”

“Well, you’ve just received an e-mail threatening your children. Do you really think this is the best time to go one-on-one with a convicted child killer?”

Charley gave the question a moment’s thought. Maybe it was precisely the threat to her children that was contributing to her willingness—indeed, her eagerness—to meet with Jill Rohmer. Maybe she had a need to understand the kind of mind that could do such horrible things.

Or maybe I just want to be famous, she admitted silently.

“Of course, if you do decide to proceed, I get first serial rights,” Michael added, turning his attention to the papers on his desk. His way of signaling the meeting was over.

“Consider it done.” Charley rose from her seat and left his office.

Her phone was ringing when she reached her cubicle. “Hello,” Charley said, answering it just before her voice mail could click in.