Keep No Secrets (14 page)

Lee had shushed her. "Don't go soft on me, Becky."

But soft she went. How could she not, after seeing the way the DA looked at this woman? She and Lee followed them from the garage to the woman's house in Lafayette Square. Lee staked out the front, Rebecca the back. The DA stayed the night. According to Lee, another unknown man came to the door shortly after they arrived; Rebecca later learned he was the woman's ex-boyfriend. He was followed minutes later by a carry-out deliveryman. Both left soon after, the deliveryman only a moment before the ex-boyfriend.

At one fifteen in the morning, the woman emerged onto her small, covered rear deck that overlooked the alley, wearing only a man's white dress shirt.

She sat on the deck with her back against a post rail, her long legs resting on the steps leading down. Rebecca remembers thinking, how cold she must be! But the woman appeared oblivious to the

temperature or the gently pattering rain that made her shins glisten. She cried—

powerful, wracking sobs that made Rebecca want to cry, too—and only when she'd collected herself did she go back into the house. The rest of the night passed without obvious incident. In the morning, Lee summoned Rebecca to the front where their target emerged to sit on the stoop. Later, the woman also came out, and Rebecca was surprised when they didn't speak to each other.

"They've had a tiff," Lee said.

Rebecca wasn't so sure. The look

exchanged between the two lovers before the woman descended the steps and drove away in her car reflected something other than anger. Maybe Rebecca had formed too many stereotypes in her head based upon all the reports she'd read in her first two years working for Lee. Maybe she'd watched too much bad television and attributed the clichés on TV to the subjects she read about in the reports.

Whatever the reason, she expected all male adulterers to be obvious cads, playboy types, and their mistresses to be loose floozies who stole other women's husbands without thought or regret. But that's not what she saw the night before in the garage, or the next morning, when the DA sat on the stoop looking utterly despondent. If she had to label what she'd witnessed, she would have called it unrequited love.

She realized she might never know, though, because once Lee reported this one sleepover, the client stopped the job.

Rebecca wasn't sure whether to be upset or relieved. She felt as if a television show to which she'd become addicted had suddenly been cancelled.

Three days later, the woman—whose name Rebecca learned was Jennifer Dodson—was accused of murdering her client on the night she'd spent with the DA.

"But she didn't do it!" Rebecca had cried to Lee.

"It's not our concern."

"Lee, you can't let this go forward without saying something. How could you live with yourself if they convict her?"

"It's not our concern," he repeated.

"One, we don't know the basis for the charges. She could still be involved even if she was home the whole time. Two, I promise confidentiality to my clients. I can't breach that. And neither can you, especially if you want to keep your job."

"Can't you at least talk to the client?"

she begged. "Convince them to come forward with what we know?"

"It's not my place, Becky."

Rebecca finally, reluctantly, let it go.

Until a few days later, when she got an unexpected call.

At first it was like any other inquiry. A potential client, calling to ask about Lee's services. When Rebecca asked for a name, the caller hesitated.

"It's extremely important that my identity be kept confidential."

"Absolutely," Rebecca said.

"Confidentiality is assured not only to those who hire us, but to everyone who inquires about our services. It's in our mission statement and in our contract.

We take it very seriously. But until I know your identity, I can't tell you if I can help you. I need to ensure our agency would have no conflicts."

The line fell silent. She heard the caller take a deep breath.

"My name is Jennifer Dodson."

Stunned, Rebecca couldn't respond.

"You recognize my name, don't you?"

the woman at the other end asked.

"Yes, I do."

"Then do you understand why I need my privacy?"

"Yes, I think so."

Rebecca glanced over to Lee's empty desk chair. He'd been out since early morning on a job. She didn't even know what this woman wanted, but she already knew Lee's answer.
No
.
The potential for
conflict is too great
. The job following the new DA had ended just one week before.

Rebecca asked, "What would you want our agency to help you with?"

"You may be aware I've hired Earl Scanlon to represent me."

Rebecca murmured her

acknowledgment.

"There are things . . . events . . . from my past that I think might help my defense, but I don't want to share them with anyone, even my attorney, until I've done some investigation myself. Or rather, until I've hired someone with the proper skills to investigate for me. I know I'm being somewhat cryptic, but—"

"Ms. Dodson, I'm sorry to interrupt you, but I don't think we'd be able to take this assignment."

"Why not? Isn't that what you guys do?" She spoke the next words with heavy sarcasm. "Work for the accused to counterbalance the unlimited resources of the state?"

"We're hired for many different situations," Rebecca said softly. She wanted so badly to say,
I want to help you
.

You have no idea how much I'd like to help you
.

"Why wouldn't you take this, then?"

"I really can't say much without breaching another client's confidentiality.

Our agency recently had an assignment that is arguably related to what you're asking us to do. Simply stated, it requires us to decline your job. I know, as an attorney, you understand conflicts."

"It doesn't sound simple to me." The voice on the phone went cold. "What kind of assignment?"

"I'm not at liberty to explain that to you."

"Who was your client?"

"I'm sorry, Ms. Dodson, I can't tell you anything. I'm sure you understand."

"No, frankly, I don't. Did this other job have anything to do with the charges against me?"

"I can't—"

"My
life
is at stake here. I'm sure you're aware what punishment the state is seeking."

"Yes, I am." Rebecca closed her eyes.

This wasn't right. The woman was

entitled to know anything that might help her defense. "I'd be happy to refer you to another investigative agency."

"How kind of you."

"I'm sorry, ma’am. Good luck, and thank you for considering us." Rebecca replaced the handset back onto the receiver before the woman could wear her down.

A car horn sounded on Soulard St.

below her window, causing her to check her computer screen for the time. It read five fifteen; rush hour had started and she was supposed to meet some girlfriends for drinks at five thirty. She quickly gathered her coat and purse. As she fumbled with the lock on the door, she stopped and stared at the phone.

She returned to the desk and checked the Caller ID. Pulling a Post-It note from its pad, she jotted down the number and tucked the note into the front pocket of her jeans.

Just in case
.

Rebecca spent the next several hours listening to her girlfriends discuss such important topics as whether their earrings matched their outfits and whether they had the time and money for pedicures on Saturday. When she broached the DA, they stared at her with blank expressions.

She explained who he was and they finally connected him to the television news about his lawyer friend who'd been accused of murdering her client. Rebecca quickly understood that her girlfriends equated "accused" with "guilty." Nothing she said convinced them otherwise.

By the time she bid her girlfriends goodbye, she'd ingested just enough alcohol to loosen her inhibitions and heighten her conscience.

Inside the privacy of her locked car, she pulled the small piece of paper from her pocket. In the fluorescent light of the parking lot, she read the number and dialed it on her cell phone. When the woman answered, Rebecca said without preface, "Look, we can't take the assignment, but if you meet me at our office in an hour, I'll explain why."

By the time she returned to her office, she'd decided to do more than explain.

She photocopied Lee's report and made additional prints of the pictures they'd taken the night they followed the DA.

When Jennifer Dodson arrived, Rebecca simply handed over a manila envelope, the contents of which required no explanation.

Not long after that late night meeting, the entire city knew about the DA's tryst with the beautiful lawyer. The charges against her were eventually dropped, and Rebecca always wondered if the information she'd given Dodson had anything to do with it.

At the time, she assumed she'd never know.

Now, four years later, she perches on her bed watching the news, her mouth dropped open. Her boyfriend gave up pestering her for sex. He sits at the head of the bed eating a bowl of ice cream.

The sexual assault charges against the DA surprise her, and so does the fact that the national news has picked up the story.

But neither requires her to call up long-buried memories. In the four intervening years since Lee promoted her, Rebecca hasn't forgotten that first short assignment, or her brief interaction with Jennifer Dodson a few days later. How could she, with the DA being somewhat of a local celebrity? His boyish face, with its slight dimples when he smiles, regularly shows up on the local television news. His reserved but assured voice is heard on the airwaves whenever a high profile crime hits the city. Not to mention his frequent appearances during the lead-up to his recent re-election. She was a little amazed at how well he recovered from the debacle with Jennifer Dodson, but she understands how it happened.

People simply love him, despite his past bad deeds. Men envy him. They want his power, his looks, his easy way with the jurors in the courtroom. Women want to be his smart, pretty wife, or barring that, the woman who causes him to stray again.

Rebecca developed a crush on him

herself. She can't see his face without remembering the look he gave the

Dodson woman in the garage, a look she's yet to get from any man. What woman wouldn't want a man to look at her like that? His appeal lies in the fact that, despite his abundant gifts—physically, legally, and socially—he seems innocently unaware of them. He isn't cocky. If anything, he appears at times to be slightly uncomfortable with the attention the town bestows on him, as if he doesn't deserve it.

She doesn't know if he does or doesn’t.

But one thing she does know: he

doesn't deserve what he's getting now.

"He's innocent," she says.

She twists to look back at her

boyfriend. He's absorbed in his ice cream.

"Huh?" he says, and gives her a sheepish shrug.

CHAPTER TWELVE

THE SUN DIPS into the horizon a few minutes earlier each day as the winter solstice grows nearer. By the time Jack arrives home at six, it's been dark for over an hour. The rain stopped a few hours earlier, causing the media vermin to reappear, just as they did that morning.

Even though he feels, mentally and physically, it could be midnight, he's grateful for the cover of night. Maybe he should simply become a nocturnal

creature for the duration of the case.

As soon as he steps into the laundry room from the garage, he hears footsteps bounding up the stairs. Michael, making his escape before his father appears. Will Claire go into hiding, too? Or will they spend the evening engaged in another exhausting argument? He detects the aroma of her homemade spaghetti sauce, and for the first time since his arrest, has an appetite. He hopes she intends to share.

In the kitchen she faces the stove. Her right hand holds a long wooden spoon and she slowly stirs the contents of the large pot in front of her, but there's no awareness associated with the movement.

She had to have heard him come in, but she doesn't turn around. She's lowered every window blind in the kitchen and closed the slats. The family room drapes that frame the large windows, usually mere decoration, are unhooked and pulled shut.

He hangs his coat on a bar stool and comes up behind her. She tenses when he wraps his arms around her waist, but at least she doesn't push him away. His lips are near her left ear, her curls brush his cheek.

"I'm sorry about this morning." The spoon stops stirring. "What I said was cruel. I didn't mean it. I was lashing out because I was so upset." When she doesn't respond, he says, "Claire?"

"Do you know it's gone national?"

He's caught off guard by the question.

"Yeah. I know."

When she resumes stirring, he reaches and takes the spoon from her. She sighs.

He leans the spoon against the side of the pot and turns her to face him. She doesn't resist, but neither does she meet his eye.

"I don't want each of us to go through this alone. I know it's horrible for you, too."

"The phone has been ringing non-stop.

After the first few calls—one of which Jamie answered—I took it off the hook.

Now I'm wondering how long it will take them to figure out our cell phone numbers."

"I'm sorry." He tries to keep in mind what her father said this morning.
She
might insist on sticking by you
. He hopes this was more than a mere assumption on Harley's part. "I wish I could go back to that night. I wish I'd woken you to ride with us, or called her dad to come for her

—"

Claire lets out a short, weary laugh. She doesn't say anything, but he hears her thoughts nevertheless:
Why didn't you?

She's still not sure what to think, whether to believe him.

"—but I didn't, and I'm sorry." He touches her cheek and then lifts her chin so that she has no choice but to look at him. "I'd really like for us to do this together. I
need
you. We've got enough to deal with in the next few months without fighting each other, too, you know?"