Moment of Truth (14 page)

“I guess I should tell you, my marriage hadn’t been going very well lately.”

Davis had to find his lie. Figure out what it was. Instinct and experience told him it was there. But where? He sat at one end of the table and Newlin, on video, sat at the other, squaring off in the dark. Or almost dark. A four-panel window faced Arch Street and the last blind was cinched up unevenly, like an Oriental fan on its side. The blinds would never be repaired; they were as permanent as the leftover Chips Ahoy.

“For a year, actually. Honor wasn’t very happy with me.”

The image on the screen was grayish, the focus poor, and the lighting gloomy. Under Newlin’s face was a line of changing white numbers, a time clock that ran into split seconds. The numbers were fuzzy. When the hell would they get decent equipment? The same time the blinds got repaired. Money, money, money. Frustrated, Davis picked up the remote, hit STOP, then replayed the sentence. Where was the lie? What was wrong with this confession?

“Something snapped inside. I lost control. I threw my glass at her but she just laughed. I couldn’t stand it, her laughing at me like that.”

Liar, liar, liar. Then Davis realized Newlin was lying about the way the murder had gone down. It hadn’t been a crime of passion, fueled by Scotch or threat of divorce. Newlin wasn’t a crime-of-passion kind of guy, all you had to do was look at him to know that. He was an estates lawyer, the kind of man who planned death. Could it be any more obvious? And what kind of pussy threw a glass in anger? Women threw glasses; men threw punches. No, Davis wasn’t buying.

“I realized there was no way I could hide what I’d done. I had no plan, I hadn’t thought it out. I didn’t even have a way to get her body out of the house.”

Classic protesting too much, he had seen it over and over again. Davis had Newlin’s number. Everybody knew the family, one of the wealthiest in town, and it always was her money, Buxton money. So, follow the money. Newlin must have killed her because he wanted her money, pure and simple, and made a plan. Either he had decided to kill her himself or hired someone to do it for him, but something had gone wrong. Newlin was trying to cover that up, trying to sell that it was a fight that went too far. What had happened? Davis would have to find out, but with this much dough floating around, it had to be premeditated.

“I wasn’t thinking logically, I was reacting emotion
ally. To her shouting, to her insults. To the Scotch. I just did it.”

Davis’s anger momentarily blinded him to the image of Newlin. He kicked himself for not realizing the scam at the crime scene, which had been too perfect to be real. Newlin had come home, stabbed his wife, and staged the scene to look like a fight. Thrown the crystal glass down after she was dead. Drunk Scotch over her body, to congratulate himself on a job well done. Acted real confused when he washed up his hands. Cried crocodile tears when he called nine-one-one.

“Detective, this interview is over. I want to call my attorney.”

Davis couldn’t understand Brinkley’s problem. Maybe the detective hadn’t had the benefit of the lab results, or maybe Brinkley was smelling that Newlin was a liar and mistook what Newlin was lying about. To Davis, Newlin was a selfish, sick, cold-cock murderer. He would have to get to the bottom of Newlin’s scam. Learn how he’d planned to get the wife’s dough.

“I insist on my attorney.”

Davis hated people like Newlin, who were all about money. It was the ultimate perversion of values, and he had witnessed it firsthand. Crack pimps who knifed their more entrepreneurial girls, drug dealers who capped their light-fingered mules, teenage smoke dealers who executed their rivals with one slug from a nine millimeter. Newlin was no different from them; he just dressed better.

“I should have called him in the first place.”

Davis stared at the TV without focusing. There was another thing he didn’t understand. Why would Newlin say even this much to the detectives? Or botch it so completely? He heard Newlin making demands in a cold, impersonal tone, and he knew the answer immediately. Newlin was a big-time estate lawyer with an ego and a brain to match. He was thumbing his nose at them. He thought he could get away with it. Outsmart the legal system, even if they had a head start.

“I want my lawyer, and we’ll take care of notifying Paige.”

Davis looked at the filmed image of the corporate lawyer on the screen and knew instinctively that he was dealing with evil in its most seductive form. A nice guy. A partner in a respected firm. The caring father. Davis wasn’t fooled by the guise, even if Brinkley was.

“I’ll handle the notification through my attorney.”

Davis predicted what Newlin’s next step would be. He’d ask for a deal. He would have realized he’d said too much and the evidence would incriminate him. He wouldn’t want a trial, with the ensuing embarrassment and trauma; he’d want his way greased, as it always had been. Newlin would try to plead down to a voluntary. Figure he’d get twenty and serve eight to ten. Come out a relatively young man with a shitload of his wife’s dough. The murder rap would let him out of the insurance, but he’d have tons of bucks already socked away.

“But I am a lawyer.”

Davis scowled. A lawyer, killing for money. It brought shame on all of them. Davis had always been proud of his profession and hated Newlin for his crime. On his own behalf, on Honor Newlin’s behalf, and on behalf of the people of the Commonwealth. There was only justice to protect all of us. It sounded corny, but anything worth believing in ultimately sounded corny. Davis believed in justice; Newlin believed in money.

“No thanks,”
the videotaped Newlin answered, and Davis saw the snotty smile that crossed Newlin’s face.

It fueled Davis’s decision. Suddenly he knew what to do in the case, but he’d need approval for it. It would be an extraordinary request, but this case was extraordinary. In fact, in all his years as a prosecutor, he had asked for such a thing only twice, and the Newlin case was worse than those. This would be the case of Davis’s life and Newlin’s. There was only one way to go. On the pad in front of him, he wrote:

NO DEALS.

He underlined it in a strong hand. The Commonwealth of Pennsylvania would not offer a plea bargain to Jack Newlin. Newlin would be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law, like the common killer he was, even in his hundred-dollar tie. He would be tried, convicted, and sentenced to death for the murder of his wife. Davis would see to it.

He switched off the videotape, closed his pad, and stood up. He stretched, flexing every muscle; he’d been up for hours and hadn’t run in two days, but he felt suddenly fit and strong. Alert and ready. Psyched. Davis was going to win.

Because he always did.

It was early the next morning when Mary returned to the interview room at the Roundhouse to meet with Jack Newlin before his arraignment. She sat opposite him in the grim room, a bulletproof barrier between them. She wore a navy suit with a high-necked blouse to hide the blotches that would undoubtedly bloom like roses in court. That she felt them growing now, merely in Jack’s presence, was difficult to explain. To herself. She didn’t want to even think about explaining it to her client and was sure it breached several ethical canons, at least two disciplinary rules, and perhaps even a commandment.

Mary cleared her throat. “I wanted to see you to touch base. I have a strategy for our defense and I need to prepare you for the arraignment hearing.”

“Sure, thanks.” Jack seemed tired, too, in his wrinkled jumpsuit, but his good looks shone through fatigue’s veneer. His five o’clock shadow had grown to a rougher stubble, which only emphasized how careless he seemed about his good looks. He raked back his sandy hair with a restless hand. “First tell me how everything’s going.”

“Better than I expected. I’m very encouraged by my research. That’s why I’m here.”

“No, I meant generally. The case is all over the news. How’s Paige taking all of it?”

“Fine,” Mary said, noting that his first question was about his daughter. She decided to test the water. “You know, I’ve been wondering about Paige. Where she was last night, when your wife was killed. Do you know?”

“Home, I suppose. What’s the difference?” Jack’s expression was only mildly curious, and Mary, distracted, couldn’t tell if it was an act. She both wanted and didn’t want to believe him. She resolved to find uglier clients.

“Paige told me she was supposed to come to dinner with you and your wife, but she canceled. Is that right?”

“Yes, it is.”

“She’s telling the truth?”

“Of course she is.” Jack’s blue eyes hardened to ice.

“I ask because I thought teenagers made things up at times.”

“Not Paige.”

“I see.” Mary paused. Was he lying? “You didn’t mention that when we met.”

“I didn’t think it mattered, and it doesn’t.” Jack frowned. “Who cares who else was supposed to come to dinner the night I murdered my wife?”

“I do, it’s my job. I think Paige may have lied to me about something. She told me her boyfriend Trevor wasn’t with her last night, and I think he was.”

“What? How do you know that?”

“I saw him leaving her apartment when I went to meet her.” She checked Jack for a reaction, but he managed to look calm, except for that jaw clenching again. “And you said Paige doesn’t lie.”

“She doesn’t, except when it comes to Trevor. I don’t like him, and Paige knows it. That’s probably why she said what she did. She wouldn’t want me to know he was over there. Paige edits her conversations, like all of us.” He appraised her. “You’re not a liar, Mary, but I bet you don’t tell your father about the men you see, do you?”

Mary squirmed. He was right but she didn’t find it persuasive. She considered confronting him about whether he was protecting Paige, but settled for planting a seed of doubt. “Okay, let’s move on. Paige isn’t what I came to talk to you about. I’ve been doing my homework, and the primary evidence against you will be your confession. The videotape.”

“They said there would be other evidence, too. Physical evidence. They told me that.”

“I know.” Mary checked her notes. “But let me make my point. We can argue that you were drunk at the time you confessed.”

“Drunk?”

“Yes. You said you had some Scotch. Two drinks, you weren’t sure.” She rummaged in her briefcase, pulled out her notes, and double-checked the law on point. “You said you weren’t used to drinking and that it caused you to throw up. That’s legally significant, and throws doubt on the validity of your waiver. The case law is clear that you can’t waive your right to counsel when you’re drunk.”

“But I wasn’t drunk.”

“You could have had three Scotches.”

“Two, I think.”

“Isn’t it possible you had three? You told me you had a few. A few is three.”

“You want me to say three, is that what this is about?” Jack smiled easily, his teeth straight and even. “Are you coaching me, counselor?”

“Of course not.” Mary never coached clients, though she had been known to kick them under the table, collar them in the hallway, or tell them to shut up. None of these breached ethical rules, and was, on the contrary, looked upon with favor. “But if you had two or three drinks, your blood alcohol had to be high. We’ll get the tests when they turn them over, but frankly, I plan to argue you were impaired when you confessed.”

“But you saw me. I wasn’t drunk.”

“By the time I saw you, maybe you weren’t. Besides, I can’t tell if someone’s drunk in an interview, necessarily.”

“This is silly.” Jack leaned forward, and the gravity in his tone telegraphed controlled anger. “I’m telling you I wasn’t drunk when I spoke to the police. They asked me if I was drunk and I told them no. I even signed and initialed the waiver.”

“You’re not the judge of whether you’re drunk or not.” Mary hadn’t expected a fight when she was trying to save the man’s life, though maybe she should have. The situation was downright perverse. “Lots of drunks think they’re sober. That’s why they get into cars and drive.”

“I
know
I wasn’t drunk.”

“How can you be sure, Jack? Your actions weren’t exactly rational. Beginning the confession, then calling for a lawyer. You weren’t thinking clearly. You’d had the Scotch, early on.”

“And then I killed my wife. It sobered me up.”

“I don’t think that’s funny,” Mary said coolly, though his bravado didn’t ring true. “Why are you fighting me on this? This is good news. Without that confession, their case against you is much weaker. I intend to cross the detectives about it at the prelim and file a motion to suppress the confession.”