Vida intoned, then made a face. “Unless they can't.”
“Which is why we're here?” I remarked with a wry expression.
“Your cousin's resources are limited in prison,” Vida replied.
As we made our way to the elevator, I tried not to look at the arriving visitors. No matter what sex, color, age, or size, there was something forlorn about them. A little black girl about four was stumbling along beside her mother, who carried an infant. The mother's eyes were empty, devoid of hope. The little girl clung to a stuffed Curious George, with a yarn monkey's bright-eyed smile. The child stopped and looked up at me. She, too, smiled, more shyly than her toy. Maybe there was still hope for one so young. I smiled back. But there was nothing I could do for her. I walked on.
Forlorn and forsaken, both the innocent and the guilty. I wondered if there was really anything I could do for Ronnie.
Before leaving the motel, I'd called his lawyer at home. Alvin Sternoff lived in a condo in Belltown, a couple of miles away. His offices were in the Public Safety Building adjacent to the jail. Alvin was coming into work for a few hours, and had agreed to meet us at ten-thirty. We were early, but I didn't want to waste my good parking place.
Alvin, however, was already struggling through a tall pile of beige folders. He looked harried, anxious, and incredibly young.
“Excuse the mess,” he said, pulling out an extra chair and hitting his shin in the process. “My office isn't exactly fancy.”
Alvin was right. It was austere, even drab, and the only personal, nonfunctional items were a figurine of Snoopy wearing a mortarboard and Alvin's law-school degree from the University of Washington.
“I hope you don't think I'm not giving your cousin my full attention,” Alvin said after I'd made the introductions. “I'm not, but I want to. It's just that…” He waved a pudgy hand at the stacks of papers and folders on his desk, accidentally knocking a legal pad on the floor. “Sorry,” he said, ducking down to retrieve the pad.
“You're overloaded,” I said.
“Boy, am I,” Alvin replied, his dark eyes wide. He was a chunky young man with black hair and a dimple in his chin. His heavy black eyebrows grew upward, like little bird wings. “I've only been doing public-defender work for six months. I figure it'll help me decide what kind of practice I want to get into if I go off on my own or join a firm.” He jumped up, hands gripping the arms of his chair. “I forgot. Coffee? Tea?”
“We're fine,” I said for both of us. “Can you go over the statement Ronnie made when he was arrested?”
“Statement,” Alvin murmured, shuffling papers, some of which appeared to have food stains on them. “Statement, statement… Here it is. It's not very helpful.”
Alvin was right. I shared the account with Vida, who leaned to one side and frowned.
I came home about one or so
, Ronnie had written in a clumsy hand,
and there were the cops, with Carol dead. I'd been out drinking since nine or so. I think I was at Top's and the Satellite Room and maybe Freddy's, but I don't know where when. Carol and I had kind of a shouting match before I went out, but she was okay when I left and watching TV. I didn't hurt her, not at all. I ain't done nothing wrong, least of all kill Carol who I really loved
.
“The police didn't believe him,” I said, handing the statement back to Alvin.
“Ronnie was drunk,” Alvin said, fiddling with a ballpoint pen. “He had some fresh bruises and scratches, as if he'd been in a fight. Carol was bruised, too, her shoulders, her face, and her chest. Whether or not Ronnie killed Carol, it's hard to believe that the two of them didn't come to blows.”
“Do you think he strangled her?” Vida asked.
Alvin grimaced. “I don't know. If she'd been beaten to death, I'd have to believe he did it. But this strangling business puts a different spin on it. Whoops!” He dropped the pen. “Sorry,” he said,
“Which is why we're here?” I remarked with a wry expression.
“Your cousin's resources are limited in prison,” Vida replied.
As we made our way to the elevator, I tried not to look at the arriving visitors. No matter what sex, color, age, or size, there was something forlorn about them. A little black girl about four was stumbling along beside her mother, who carried an infant. The mother's eyes were empty, devoid of hope. The little girl clung to a stuffed Curious George, with a yarn monkey's bright-eyed smile. The child stopped and looked up at me. She, too, smiled, more shyly than her toy. Maybe there was still hope for one so young. I smiled back. But there was nothing I could do for her. I walked on.
Forlorn and forsaken, both the innocent and the guilty. I wondered if there was really anything I could do for Ronnie.
Before leaving the motel, I'd called his lawyer at home. Alvin Sternoff lived in a condo in Belltown, a couple of miles away. His offices were in the Public Safety Building adjacent to the jail. Alvin was coming into work for a few hours, and had agreed to meet us at ten-thirty. We were early, but I didn't want to waste my good parking place.
Alvin, however, was already struggling through a tall pile of beige folders. He looked harried, anxious, and incredibly young.
“Excuse the mess,” he said, pulling out an extra chair and hitting his shin in the process. “My office isn't exactly fancy.”
Alvin was right. It was austere, even drab, and the only personal, nonfunctional items were a figurine of Snoopy wearing a mortarboard and Alvin's law-school degree from the University of Washington.
“I hope you don't think I'm not giving your cousin my full attention,” Alvin said after I'd made the introductions. “I'm not, but I want to. It's just that…” He waved a pudgy hand at the stacks of papers and folders on his desk, accidentally knocking a legal pad on the floor. “Sorry,” he said, ducking down to retrieve the pad.
“You're overloaded,” I said.
“Boy, am I,” Alvin replied, his dark eyes wide. He was a chunky young man with black hair and a dimple in his chin. His heavy black eyebrows grew upward, like little bird wings. “I've only been doing public-defender work for six months. I figure it'll help me decide what kind of practice I want to get into if I go off on my own or join a firm.” He jumped up, hands gripping the arms of his chair. “I forgot. Coffee? Tea?”
“We're fine,” I said for both of us. “Can you go over the statement Ronnie made when he was arrested?”
“Statement,” Alvin murmured, shuffling papers, some of which appeared to have food stains on them. “Statement, statement… Here it is. It's not very helpful.”
Alvin was right. I shared the account with Vida, who leaned to one side and frowned.
I came home about one or so
, Ronnie had written in a clumsy hand,
and there were the cops, with Carol dead. I'd been out drinking since nine or so. I think I was at Top's and the Satellite Room and maybe Freddy's, but I don't know where when. Carol and I had kind of a shouting match before I went out, but she was okay when I left and watching TV. I didn't hurt her, not at all. I ain't done nothing wrong, least of all kill Carol who I really loved
.
“The police didn't believe him,” I said, handing the statement back to Alvin.
“Ronnie was drunk,” Alvin said, fiddling with a ballpoint pen. “He had some fresh bruises and scratches, as if he'd been in a fight. Carol was bruised, too, her shoulders, her face, and her chest. Whether or not Ronnie killed Carol, it's hard to believe that the two of them didn't come to blows.”
“Do you think he strangled her?” Vida asked.
Alvin grimaced. “I don't know. If she'd been beaten to death, I'd have to believe he did it. But this strangling business puts a different spin on it. Whoops!” He dropped the pen. “Sorry,” he said,
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