Read Three Strikes and You're Dead Online
Authors: Jessica Fletcher
Three Strikes and You're Dead (25 page)
“They’ll be back,” Cole said.
“I suppose you’re right,” she said, “but even a brief respite is welcome.”
“The menu sounds delicious,” he said.
I agreed with him, even though I had to admit that I was somewhat “tacoed” out. But as long as it lifted Ty’s spirits, I was up for anything.
I’ve always loved a kitchen gathering where everyone chips in to make a meal that will eventually be enjoyed by all. Ty arrived in the kitchen, and while Meg and I took care of prepping and cooking the fish and ground meat, he and Sylvester handled the chopping of onions, peppers, and tomatoes. Jack had called and told Meg that he wouldn’t make it home for dinner after all. He and Pierce needed more time together because Ty was due back in court the next day for a hearing with the judge, something to do with motions by the DA and Pierce that were, according to Jack, vitally important. Meg seemed almost relieved that Jack wouldn’t be joining us. I hated to admit it, but I shared her feeling to an extent. Jack was tightly wound of late and snapped easily. He would always apologize afterward, and I couldn’t blame him for being uptight. Still, it became uncomfortable at times, and I knew Meg suffered through those moments.
Ty shared some laughs with Sylvester during their kitchen prep duties. It was nice to see Ty enjoying himself, and Sylvester seemed up to the task of keeping things light without forcing the issue.
“Hey, Ty,” said Sylvester, “you cut up the green peppers, I’ll cut up the red. I hate green.” Sylvester looked at me and winked. “Did you hear that H.B. bought a flashy green Mercedes convertible?”
“No,” said Ty.
“Yeah, that was the car Junior drove to the Crazy Coyote,” Sylvester added.
“Oh,” Ty said quietly, almost a mumble. It was obvious he didn’t want to speak about that night.
“Anyway, I hate green, Ty, so you cut up the green peppers.”
“Okay,” Ty said, shaking his head and laughing. “But will you
eat
the green peppers?”
eat
the green peppers?”
“Oh, yeah, I’ll eat anything,” said Cole. “I don’t care what color it is as long as it tastes good. But don’t ask me to look at it if it’s green. I close my eyes when I eat green things.”
“Okay,” said Meg cheerily. “Meat and fish are ready. You guys set to go?”
“Ready to rock ’n’ roll,” Cole said. “Time to chow down.”
Meg and I knew and appreciated that Cole was making an effort to relate to Ty and to speak on his level. Although he was older than Ty, he came off as a cool sort of guy, comfortable and conversant with the younger man’s world. Like his teammates, Ty used what sometimes seemed a different, almost foreign language. But Cole was able to fit in, a chameleon of sorts.
We all took a plate, created our individual tacos, and sat down to enjoy them. I had a fish taco and a beef taco, both of which were delicious. Meg had made a batch of margaritas for herself, Sylvester, and me, and a virgin margarita for Ty.
When dinner was over, Ty excused himself, saying he was tired and didn’t feel well. He left us and went upstairs. Cole said he had to leave because he had an early-morning appointment and wanted to hit the gym before it.
“I think it’s still raining out,” I said as Meg and I walked Sylvester to the front door.
“I heard it’s going to rain tomorrow, too,” said Cole. “Arizona in the summer loves rain. Bring it on!”
Cole thanked Meg for dinner and left. Meg went back into the kitchen, but I lingered at the glass front door for a minute, watching Cole walk down to the driveway. As he navigated the path, he stumbled on an uneven stone and inadvertently stepped in a small puddle, leaving muddy footprints behind, illuminated by a row of solar lights that flanked the walkway.
Footprints,
I thought.
Whose footprints were at the murder scene?
When I glanced back up, Cole had stopped and was watching me curiously from outside his car. I waved and he responded in kind before getting in the car and driving away.
Footprints,
I thought.
Whose footprints were at the murder scene?
When I glanced back up, Cole had stopped and was watching me curiously from outside his car. I waved and he responded in kind before getting in the car and driving away.
“I just don’t understand who’s leaking all this erroneous stuff to the press,” Jack growled as he paced back and forth, a crushed newspaper in his hand. “Are they making it up? It’s like they’re dressing him up to be a giant monster, and dancing around their own creation.”
Meg and I were seated on the buttery leather sofa in the den, sipping from dainty glasses filled with Sambuca, while Jack nursed his second martini since getting home.
“Jack, you’re going to have a heart attack if you don’t stop,” Meg said. “You’ve got to calm down. There is nothing you can do, absolutely nothing, to prevent the stories in the press. I suggest you forget about reading the papers. In fact, I’m going to cancel the subscriptions in the morning.”
“You’re right,” he said. “I’m going nuts.” He came behind the sofa and rubbed her neck. “It’s just that the DA is getting a rise out of all this and it really burns me. Meg, they’re saying the most awful things, digging up Ty’s past and embellishing it with stories about how he has a child with a drug-addict girlfriend who gave birth when she was fourteen, how he went from bad to worse, from bad parents to worse parents. Listen to this quote: ‘Jack Duffy is a poor excuse for a father, a hapless, desperate man who took in an antisocial felon when his marriage was falling apart because he and his wife, Meg, couldn’t have children of their—’ ”
“Enough, Jack! That’s enough,” said Meg. “Please.” She turned to me. “They are just awful, Jessica. And there’s nothing we can do.”
I touched her arm. “It’s okay, Meg,” I said. “It’s going to be okay.”
My voice conveyed more conviction than I felt inside.
Chapter Fifteen
The mood in the Duffy house the following morning was understandably glum. The prospect of having to appear in court is unpleasant even for minor legal matters. But today’s hearing was about murder and the fate of a young man who, I was convinced, was unjustly accused.
I was up and dressed early and assumed that I’d beaten everyone downstairs. I was wrong. Jack and Meg were already having coffee on the patio when I arrived. Their greetings were strained, at best, and I wondered whether they preferred to be left alone with their thoughts. I started back inside, but Jack said, “Please, Jess, sit down. There’s something we’d like to discuss with you.”
I joined them at the table, and Jack poured me coffee from a carafe. Meg said, “I’ll get breakfast going in a minute.”
“Don’t worry about breakfast for me,” I said. “I’ve been eating far more than I’m used to and—”
“Jess,” Jack interrupted, “I hope you plan on being with us today for the court hearing.”
“Of course—if you think it’s appropriate.”
“It’s more than appropriate, Jess,” he said. “Ty needs to be surrounded by positive people. Judge McQuaid is the sort of man who puts a lot of stock in the caliber of people a defendant associates with. It also turns out that he’s a big fan of yours and of your books.”
“That’s very flattering,” I said, “but I don’t see why it’s relevant.”
“I know Mike McQuaid from back East. He’s always been a judge who wears his heart on his sleeve. Some claim he’s too easy on defendants, too quick to latch on to their positive attributes and forget the crimes they’ve committed. That should be good for us.”
“You saw how he congratulated Ty on getting the winning hit,” Meg said. “That’s typical of him, according to Jack.”
“It strikes me,” I said, “that such behavior could get a judge in trouble, and create the basis for a mistrial.”
Jack was thoughtful. “I’m not worried about that, Jess. He knows when to put on the brakes and get tough. Besides, once a defendant is found not guilty in a trial, the prosecution can’t claim a mistrial and call for a new one. That would be double jeopardy. Only the defense can do that if they lose a case and the judge has misbehaved or made legally questionable decisions. At any rate, David Pierce told me that Judge McQuaid is aware that you’re staying with us, and presumably in Ty’s corner. He said he’d enjoy meeting you following the hearing this morning. He’s bringing a couple of your books for you to sign.”
“I’ll be happy to sign his books,” I said, “as long as you think it’s not a legal misstep to do so.”
“It might be if you bought the books for him, but the ones he’s bringing already belong to him and his wife. She claims to be your number one fan.”
“Fair enough,” I said. “What’s today’s hearing about?”
“Larry Martone, the DA, has filed a motion asking that Ty’s bail be rescinded.”
“Oh? On what basis?” I asked.
“Martone claims that Ty’s been having too much contact with his teammates, which he claims is a breach of house arrest rules.”
“Is it?”
“Not as far as I’m concerned, but that doesn’t mean he won’t prevail. He’s also asking that the court subpoena Meg and me and take our depositions.”
“Whatever for?” I asked.
“Martone says that since Ty lives with us, there must have been numerous conversations with him about the murder. Pierce has countered with a claim that anything we might have heard from Ty would violate the hearsay rule if we were forced to testify. He’s not technically right. What a defendant in a felony case says to others can be used against him. Pierce is also claiming lawyer-client privilege because I’m a lawyer and a judge.”
“It sounds outlandish to me that the district attorney could expect to have the judge rule favorably about something like that. Isn’t there such a thing as a parent-son privilege in the law?”
“Afraid not,” Jack said. “Keep in mind that Martone is a very ambitious young man—and that he has the backing of important men in this town, including one Harrison Bennett, Sr.”
“And the district attorney’s office is an elected one,” I offered.
“Right. And those campaigns rely on contributions. Judge McQuaid is also elected, but he’s not the sort of man to make rulings based upon his political future. Then again, I may be wrong. I’ve been wrong plenty of times when it comes to reading people. It can’t hurt having you there—you’re obviously part of Ty’s life—and it may, I believe, help sway McQuaid in a positive direction.”
“This sounds more like a public-relations hearing than a legal one,” I said.
“Unfortunately, the law and PR often intertwine. That’s why judges impose gag orders on attorneys in high-profile cases, to keep them from launching their own PR campaigns out of court. I’ve done it many times. All I’m saying, Jess, is that not only will your presence be a boost to Ty’s morale, it could have a good impact on the outcome of the hearing.”
“I’ll do whatever you ask me to do,” I said. “Speaking of Ty, where is he?”
“Still sleeping,” Meg said. “I figured he could use all the rest he can get. Besides, the less time he has to think about what’s coming up this morning, the better it will be.” She stood. “Eggs over easy for everyone? I’m up for some crisp bacon. Are you?”
“Not only are you a wonderful cook,” I said, getting out of my chair, “you’re a mindreader. Let me help you. I’ll get out the eggs.”
Ty looked good for his court appearance. Meg had picked out a fresh white shirt, dark blue tie, and chino pants with razor-sharp creases for him. One of the legs bulged at the bottom where it covered his ankle bracelet. I’d heard Jack tell him to shave, and Ty had balked, but not for long. “Don’t argue with me,” Jack said. “When I say you shave, you shave.”
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