Simple (21 page)

“I do?”

“You said something about liking him.”

*   *   *

“I'M YOUR DEFENSE
attorney,” the man says. He's young looking, he wears a whole matching suit, and his hair sticks up in that style done with gel. He wears glasses. “What we say in here is confidential. You should feel free to tell me anything you need to tell me. How are you?”

“Terrible.”

“I imagine.”

“Can you get me out of here?”

“I doubt that. The bail is set very high. Five hundred thousand. You don't have that handy, I'm thinking.”

“No. No I don't.”

“You remember when you saw the magistrate in the middle of the night—let's call it Saturday morning. He told you then there's a hearing scheduled for next Tuesday. I'm here to prepare for that. We don't have to keep the date. That is, you can waive the hearing—”

Cal was confused, trying to follow the steps. “What does that mean? No trial? How would we—”

“No, this isn't a trial stage yet—next Tuesday. Just a hearing to see how much evidence there is and if we're going to trial. Okay? There are a couple of reasons people will waive a hearing like the one next Tuesday. If you've already decided to plead guilty—that's one reason.” The fellow pauses and studies Cal closely. His glasses slip forward; he replaces them carefully, slowly.

“What's your name?” Cal asks.

“Oh, my God, I'm sorry. I'm jumping ahead. My name is Foote. Gerald Foote.”

“Did … did they assign you?”

“They assigned me.”

“Okay.”

“So, to go on with how this all works, people might waive a hearing if they decide to plead guilty or they want to hurry things up or they want to avoid the publicity of a hearing. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Then we enter a plea. If we want a trial, we enter a plea of not guilty
or
not guilty by reason of insanity.” He pauses, looks at Cal searchingly again. “Then the trial date is set. If, after the hearing next Tuesday, you decide you want to plead guilty, we avoid the trial and set a date for sentencing.” Gerald Foote looks down at his blank notebook page and back up to Cal. “I know I'm doing a lot of the talking. Did you understand everything so far?”

“Yes. Um, more or less.” Can he trust this man? Should he?

“I've read all the notes they have, especially Dr. Beni's. Apparently you've had some nervous episodes in the past, and that could stand in your favor if—”

“What's a nervous episode?”

“Blackouts.”

“I think they were just blackouts.”

“But apparently you've had some trauma in your background, and blackouts can be an indication of a nervous condition. Let me just explain. You do have the choice of pleading innocent, and then it's all up to the prosecutors to come up with proof. The detectives and the labs will all weigh in, and what they'll be looking for is
proof.
A trial is very difficult for anyone to go through—even people who have not suffered a past trauma.”

Cal thought Gerald Foote was a pretty nervous person himself.

“Or you could plead guilty by reason of insanity, which gets you different treatment and a shorter term. Have you ever been institutionalized for your condition?”

“No, I have not.”

“O-kay. Well, that isn't a reason to dismiss that appeal as a possibility. Keep that in mind. There is also another possibility. We could enter a plea of no contest. Nolo contendere. It basically means guilty, but the plea can't be held against you if the family wants to sue, for instance. It could mean many things—extenuating circumstances that you are unwilling or unable to explain, for instance. It's kind of like, ‘Let's not get into this. Do what you have to with me. I refuse to talk.' Do you understand?”

“Sort of.” It sounds like something that would be good for a Mafia boss, Cal figures. And he certainly would like not to talk, especially in court, but if it translates to a guilty plea … “The thing is,” he says, “the longer I sit in my cell and think, the more sure I am that I didn't do anything to Cassie Price except find the body. The rest I can't explain—why they went after me.”

Foote appears to study him. Cal can't read Gerald Foote's expressions—the way he grimaces and sucks on his tongue.

“I think—before I met you, reading everything over, I assumed guilty by reason of insanity was the best plea. Now I'm a bit undecided. You seem different from what I expected, more aware. On the other hand, you said you did it, then you said you didn't, which would be confusing to anyone. Why did you say yes?”

“It seemed they knew more about me than I did.”

“Hm. If you could justify an insanity plea, we might be able to use that change of mind to your advantage—like you didn't know what you were
saying,
nor did you know what you were
doing
.”

“I'm not insane.”

Foote writes something down. “So long as you know it's your best bet.”

“What about finding out who did it?”

“I'm not sure what you're saying.”

“I think it was whoever followed her home, whoever made her cry.”

“Okay. Okay. Explain to me.”

Cal heaved a sigh and once more he explained. He wondered if he seemed crazy to Foote. He talked, describing everything for the thousandth time.

Foote looked puzzled. “There's lots to think about. This is just our first meeting. There is also the possibility of plea bargaining,” Foote said brightly. “That way, we could get the charge reduced to third degree or manslaughter.”

“I didn't do it.”

“You haven't been sure of that. There's the possibility of selective memory.”

They left it that Foote would be back in two days.

*   *   *

COLLEEN HAD TO SEE
the handler first because Todd Simon was in an anxious state about needing to be in Centre County later in the day. He asked if they could meet in the conference room at the Connolly offices. He worked in different places, he explained—he had an office in Harrisburg, he said, in the Republican reps quarter, and he had a title, but he was on the road a lot. They called him a campaign fund-raising czar. The phone chat leading to their interview made things seem informal. Colleen decided to go with that. She decided he was a person she could get to most easily by seeming to be doing nothing serious.

The conference room at Connolly was huge. All the chairs were upholstered in a brown tweed fabric that might have come from Ireland. It was lovely cloth. The chairs all swiveled and wheeled on miracle bearings that made it clear how low-end the conference room chairs at Headquarters were.

They sat at the end, him at the head of the table, her next to him. “I'm curious. What do you czar it over? Does that mean you look for funding irregularities?”

He made a face. “Would it shock you to hear I don't actually work at anything like my job description? Plus I tend to love irregularities. I'm a party organizer.”

“And specifically a handler for Connolly?”

“Where did you get that term?”

“The media boys.”

“Okay”—he put his hands up—“it's true.”

“So how does it all work?”

“I try to get him money. And votes. I hardly ever land in my actual office. I'm always in meetings here and there.”

“I see. Is he going to be elected?”

“You know anything bad about him?”

“No.”

“He's a golden boy. He's going to be elected.”

“He seems … more like a Democrat that a Republican.”

He smiled. “I think that's good news to me. But what in particular makes you say so?”

“Personal style. He seems nicely loose. He doesn't have that strict part in his hair. You know, Republican hair. Neither do you, actually.”

“Can it all be that simple?”

“Well, it probably wouldn't stand up in court, but there's a look and a manner. Come to think of it, you seem even more Dem than he does.”

He swiveled back and forth in his chair, looking at her amusedly. “Well, I was once upon a time.”

“Aha. Why the change?”

“I'm a complete pragmatist. I'm good at what I do. They saw that. They wanted me.”

“Like an attorney. They paid, so you took their side?”

“Pretty much, yes.”

“That's wild.”

“Why?”

“I'm all about conviction. True belief and all that. Do you have a law degree?”

“No. Political science. Which has nothing to do with the real world, believe me.”

“Interesting. Well, I know you have to go. I should get down to business here. Couple of questions only, just a little rumor we have to follow up. Ready?”

He opened his hands. “Sure.”

“Did you actually know Cassie Price?”

“To say a hello. I saw her around the offices.”

“Did you ever think she was in love with anybody up here at the offices?”

His expression got wary. He didn't attempt to hide it. “No. Was she?”

“I'm asking you.”

“I don't know.”

“Are you a married man?”

“No. I was. Once. A pretty long time ago. Then I realized I wasn't much good at marriage. Why are you asking?”

“Honestly, we just need to clear possibilities off the books.”

“I'm sorry. But you have a confession in this case, don't you?”

She nodded glumly. “And no details. And so it means a lot of work for us, to eliminate all other possibilities.”

“Oh, I see. Everything is always more complex than people know. Almost everything.”

“Yes. It can be a drag, doing all the eliminating. So only two more questions. What kind of car do you drive—make and color?”

“A Saab. Color? I think they call it Light Pewter. No, let me think. That was some other car I had. Glacier Silver, I think.”

“Fine. And where were you on the night of Thursday the thirteenth?”

“In my bed.”

“Anybody to vouch for you?”

“No. Is that bad?”

“Neither bad nor good. It just is.”

*   *   *

CHRISTIE'S INTERVIEW
with the most senior Connolly, the head of the family and of the firm, was brief and unfulfilling. The man oozed importance and conducted himself with absolute restraint. He welcomed Christie into his office, a place of high polish and almost clear surfaces. It must have taken whole rooms full of files to keep things this free of clutter. Christie had passed other offices in which file folders were piled high on every surface, high and low, among family pictures, food, trinkets, mementos.

“I want to be helpful. What can I tell you?”

“Tell me how you happened to hire Ms. Price.”

Connolly told the same story his son had. The son's friend called. Then his own friend called. Her name kept coming up. “By the time we had three pleas to hire her, it seemed fated.”

“Tell me about Elinor Hathaway—her work habits, her family?”

Connolly Sr. frowned at the change of subject. “She used to work for me. I hated to leave her behind, but we talked it over and did what was best for her. I adore her. She is like a part of the family. I can't say enough good about her.”

“And her son?”

“I didn't know him well. Like everyone else, I'm shocked that he did this murder. I always liked him. He seemed a lot like his mother, a salt-of-the-earth hard worker.”

“Did you know he got badly beaten as a boy? Almost died?”

“I knew about that, of course. I hired a temporary worker to give Elinor time off.”

Christie asked a few more questions. He asked formally for an alibi for the time of death.

“Me?” John Connolly looked at him strangely. “At home in my bed.”

“Any witnesses to that?”

“No. More here than meets the eye, then,” he said.

“Just routine.”

“Let me know of anything we can do to help. And anything I can do to help the family.”

Christie left John Connolly's office aware the man had not tooted his own horn, had not said he paid Elinor the whole time she was off and paid doctor bills, too. He found himself literally scratching his head. He watched Colleen Greer now leaning forward to hear something one of the secretaries was telling her sotto voce. He hoped Greer got something good.

So, no alibi at all for the elder Connolly. The youngest, Mike, had an alibi, but it wasn't airtight. A man could drive like a maniac from Harrisburg to Pittsburgh, do the murder, and drive back equally fast to make it to breakfast. It was unlikely but almost possible.

The other Connolly son was named Evan. He opened the door to his office almost eagerly.

“How are you holding up?” Christie asked.

“We have a lot going on. Issues with Aramark, Allegheny General, just to name a few, but of course we're all thinking about our paralegal.”

“Thank you for making time for me.”

“You're welcome.” Evan's less than perfect face became more and more attractive as they talked. It reminded Christie of how John Malkovich's looks had seemed to morph on various screens from simply odd to simply fascinating.

Christie asked many of the usual questions and ended where he had ended with Michael—asking about the rumor of an affair at the office. “I have to ask if you were seeing her.”

Evan was visibly shocked. “No, absolutely not.”

“Do you know who was seeing her?”

“No.”

Was there a flinch, a glance aside? “Just one more thing. I have to ask this. It's part of a routine investigation. Can you account for your own whereabouts on last Thursday evening and night—the thirteenth of August?”

“I can't think.”

“Take your time.”

“I went home. We … watched TV.”