The Attorney (14 page)

Until this moment I hadn't been paying much attention to Jonah, who is still standing behind the table, two hands planted firmly on the edge.

"Are you all right?" I ask him.

"Fine."

"Have you taken a statement from him?"

"Nothing you could call formal," says Greely.

"What does that mean?"

"We haven't taken any statement," says Avery.

"How long have you been here?" I turn back to Jonah.

He looks to his wrist, then realizes his watch is gone. He shrugs his shoulders. "I'm not sure."

"Are you analyzing his watch as well?"

"We'll give him his valuables when he leaves," says Greely.

"You better get 'em ready, because unless he's under arrest, we're leaving now."

"Why the hurry?" says Greely. "We're just trying to get some information."

"Did you read my client his rights?"

"We didn't think it was necessary," says Avery. "We haven't asked him any questions."

"And you're going to tell me next that he doesn't fall within your scope of suspicion?" Avery makes a face as if he might argue the point.

Jonah actually smiles. "I let them take my clothes. They said it might help to clear me. I didn't think there was anything wrong."

"Clear him of what?" I turn this on Avery. I hand Jonah the brown paper shopping bag. Inside is a gray cotton sweatsuit, large, one size fits all, something I grabbed from the back of my closet.

"We're investigating the death of Zolanda Suade. You're not going to tell me you haven't heard?' I shake my head, as if this doesn't compute, the best I can do under the circumstances. "If you have evidence against my client, maybe you can enlighten me."

"We might be able to clear your client and move on," says Avery. "That is, if he's willing to cooperate."

"Sounds like he already has."

"We'd like to ask him a few questions."

"I'll bet you would. It's not going to happen tonight." I have no idea what Jonah would say, or where he's been.

"We picked your client up out on the Strand," says Avery.

"Sitting on the beach, looking at the water." This is a stone's throw from the scene of the crime. Avery lets this information settle on me for effect, measuring how I react. I don't.

"It was a nice night," I tell him. "Maybe he wanted to look at the stars."

"His car was parked illegally," says Greely. "Partway on the road.

He's lucky it didn't get nailed. Traffic out there moves at a clip," he says.

"I'm sure my client appreciates your help. Where is his car?"

"Sheriff's impound. Maybe you'd like to talk to your client alone for a moment," says Avery. "Perhaps he would like to make a statement."

"If I talk to my client, it won't be here." I look at the one-way glass and wonder if there's a lip-reader on the other side.

"Sounds like your client has something to hide, Counselor." Greely would like to get into it with me.

"Bob." Avery stops him.

"Well, he shouldn't object to a gunshot residue test-." Greely debates this with Avery as if it were a question between the two of them.

"You're not conducting any tests unless you have a search warrant, or you want to arrest my client." They don't have enough evidence for an arrest, that much is clear. If they did, Jonah would be in a cell.

"Take about two minutes," says Greely. "A few squares of cotton wipes on his hands. No pain. If he's got nothing to hide, he can't object to that." Jonah offers an expression as if it might be okay with him.

"He can, and he does," I tell Greely.

I glance at Jonah's hands. They appear soiled. I don't know what's on them any more than Greely does. But consenting to anything the cops want in a case like this is against a lawyer's religion.

The fact is that at this moment I'm working from the same assumption as Avery and Greely. Jonah may have done it.

There's a tap on the door. Avery gets it. He opens it just a crack.

Whoever is on the other side passes him a slip of paper. Quickly he reads the note, then folds it in a neat little square and puts it in his pocket.

"Is there a place where my client can change?"

"Sure," says Avery. He opens the door wide this time.

"Bathroom's right down the hall. You can leave the jumpsuit on the hook behind the door." Jonah heads down the hall to change.

"I'd like his valuables, perhaps his shoes?"

"Valuables you can have. His shoes already went to trace evidence," says Avery.

"At three in the morning?"

"We're a full-service agency," he says.

"Right. And I assume you wouldn't have tried to take residue off his watch?" The look on Greely's face tells me he has not thought of this.

I can sense the gears turning. Before Avery can stop him, Greely is whispering in his ear, wondering, I am sure, if the consent they extracted from Jonah would cover the watch. Avery's shaking his head, coming down on the side of caution. When the lawyer is in place, you don't play games. It's a good way to draw a motion to suppress, which I'll no doubt file in any event. But games with the watch at this late a stage would add fuel to the fire. Avery calls the desk sergeant and a couple of minutes later just as Jonah returns with the empty paper bag, in bare feet, a uniformed cop delivers a good-sized manila envelope.

Avery takes it and hands it to me.

I open it on the desk and Jonah does inventory, taking out his watch and ring. He puts them on.

"Where are the keys to my car?"

"Those we will keep," says Avery. "Until we're finished with the vehicle."

"What do you mean, 'finished'?" I ask.

"We have a search warrant for the car. We just obtained it. As we were standing here talking," he tells me. He has this in his hand, brought to him by the desk sergeant when he delivered the envelope.

He shows it to me.

"Based on what?"

"Where're my cigars?" says Jonah.

Before Avery can respond, I have my answer.

"The cigars in question appear to match one we found at the scene," says Avery. "That, coupled with your client's name all over some press releases at the victim's office, was enough for the judge to allow us to look in his car."

"I'll give you a lift home," I tell Jonah.

"I understand you were at the scene tonight." Avery's talking to me. He says this as we are heading to the door. "With John Brower.

Nice of him to show you around." I don't respond.

"What exactly is your connection?"

"Just an acquaintance," I tell him.

"And I suppose he knew you were representing Mr. Hale at the time?"

"I don't know if he did or not." I'm trying to keep Brower out of trouble.

"He also gave us a cigar," says Avery. "Says your client gave it to him.

And some information about threats Mr. Hale made against the victim, at a meeting in your office." This is not looking good. Jonah and I are moving swiftly now down the short corridor, his naked feet padding along on the hard linoleum behind me.

As my hand reaches for the knob on the door leading into the lobby, Avery issues his last shot. "I wouldn't want Mr. Hale to be taking any long trips for a while."

"We'll keep it in mind."

chapter Ten.

this morning i don't get into the OFFICE until ten. I called Susan from the house before I left, filled her in, what little I knew, and told her to stay away from Brower until we could talk. The last thing I need is Susan browbeating one of her investigators for assisting the cops. It's a short walk to tampering with a witness, and I'm trying to keep Susan out of it. We had to cut it short as she had to get the kids to soccer practice, Sarah included.

When I get to the office, the lights are on, the receptionist is there, but Harry is not. He is baby-sitting, out in Del Mar, seeing if perhaps Jonah will tell him something he has not told me. I still haven't gotten straight answers from him as to where he was last night. We talked until nearly five in the morning at his house. He says he was depressed, angry, so that when he left Susan's office after the failed attempt to go after Suade for contempt, he drove aimlessly for hours until he found himself on the beach sitting in the sand, where the cops picked him up.

He doesn't recall meeting anyone, talking to anybody. It is a story that is likely to light a fire of enthusiasm under the cops.

When I get to my desk, messages are stacked neatly near the phone. I paw through them. One catches my eye. Joaquin Murphy wants to see me for lunch. I look at the time. He called a little after nine. I dial his number, I am assuming on the boat.

It rings several times, and I'm about to hang up when he finally answers. "Hello."

"Murphy. This is Paul Madriani."

"You got my message," he says.

"Do you have some information?"

"Better than that. My source wants a meeting." Twenty minutes Later, murphy picks me up at the curb out front near the entrance to the Brigantine. It is just before eleven, and I am operating on adrenaline, fighting off sleep deprivation.

I get in, and he looks at me from the driver's side. He is hunched over the wheel, wearing a Hawaiian shirt, printed flowers the size of basketballs, and Bermuda shorts.

"You look wiped," he says.

"Where's the luau?" I ask.

"It's a business meeting. I thought I'd go conservative."

"Just so long as we don't end up pig in the pit," I tell him.

He drives, north on Orange through downtown Coronado.

"I take it you had a busy night?" he says.

"Why's that?"

"I saw the news on TV about Suade." He checks me for effect.

"They're calling it a drive-by. Must be a new gang. Tell me," he says,

"what kind of graffiti do angry white husbands use?" He's smiling.

"Not exactly a drive-by. That is, if the cops are guessing right.

More of a sit-in." He looks at me as if he's not sure what I'm talking about.

"They think she was sitting in the perp's car when she got it."

"Ah. Is your client in any difficulty?"

"Depends who you want to believe. Him or me. The cops have the carpet of his car under a microscope as we speak."

"Optimistic sort, is he?"

"Sees a doughnut where the hole is," I tell him.

"You do have a few things going for you."

"Name one?"

"A hundred enemies who wanted to kill the woman," he says.

"I'll give you that."

"And right now I'll bet you're trying to identify them all."

"Something like that." The newspapers and local media are speculating that the police have a lead, a possible suspect in Suade's murder. So far, Jonah's name has not surfaced.

"I figured you might be getting busy," says Murphy, "so I thought I should get this information to you sooner rather than later. My source thought a face-to-face meeting would be best.

Outside your office."

"What does he have?"

"He'll have to tell you that himself. But I do have some stuff on your gal. Jessica. Mostly background," he says. "She had a dozen misdemeanor convictions before they sent her to Corona. Mostly small stuff. Petty theft."

"Tell me something I don't know."

"She tried her hand at a little forgery, but the checks were small.

Has a list of real colorful friends as well. Their latest kick was household burglaries and washing checks. That was before the drug charge sent her away."

"What about her friends? Any names?" So far Harry has not been able to come up with much.

"One in particular keeps cropping up," says Murphy. "Jason Crow." I've heard the name, but I can't place it.

"He worked at the airport," says Murph. "A baggage handler."

"Ah. I remember." The guy Harry told me about.

"Word is he and Jessica lived together for a "while. He's also reputed to have been her local pharmacist. Pills, pot, coke--you name it. Crow could get it. He put her in touch with people higher up on the chemical food chain."

"Is that how she got nailed on the drug thing?"

"Probably. The man you're going to talk to may have more on that"

"Tell me about him. Why all the secrecy?"

"The nature of his job," says Murphy. "He and his partner cross over into Mexico like birds in migration, only more frequently. I'm led to believe he works for the government--undercover."

"Ours or theirs?"

"Ours. I think."

"Wonderful."

"It's what you call a high-risk occupation. He's not gonna tell you his name, or what agency."

"Do you know his name?" Murphy shakes his head.

"Then how do you know you can trust his information?"

"Because he's given me stuff in the past, and it's always proved out. If I had to guess, I'd say he works for DEA. I've seen him with another man driving a large car with Mexican plates. Automatic weapons in the trunk," he says.

"Maybe they hunt."

"Heckler & Koch MP-5s, fully silenced?" He looks at me as if this is supposed to mean something.

"If you saw the assault on the Branch Davidians, you saw the FBI packing these. It'd cost you a couple of grand for one in mint condition. One silenced on full automatic could cost you five-to-fifteen at Terminal Island. I went with them once, down to Mexico.

These guys were able to cruise back and forth through customs with a wink and a nod."

"Where are we going?"

"To a restaurant," he says.

"Why is it I feel like a character in The Godfather?" I ask him.

"Don't worry," he says. "There're no pistols in the toilet."

"That's what I'm worried about." "Anyway. Back to your friend Jessica," he says. "She and this guy, Crow, worked a scam together for a short time, out of the airport. He checked bags and gleaned information on addresses from the luggage tags. Then she and a few friends would stake out the houses, see if anybody was home. Newspapers in the driveway, mail being picked up by neighbors--if a place looked empty, they'd hit it. Clean it out. It's how he went down, Crow. Nosy neighbor called the cops.

"What's interesting about this is the cops found evidence implicating Jessica when they arrested her. Property in possession tying her to Crow and the burglaries. But the authorities didn't press it."