watched her. At last she straightened her back and the tears stopped. She drank the rest of the water. “No one will believe me.”
DiPaulo felt ill. Sam had been in Terrance Wyler’s home. Left the child alone. Had the murder weapon. “Where did you go after you left the house?”
“To my lawyer’s office. Feindel.”
“He’s miles away. How did you get there?”
“I walked. It’s downhill. That’s all I remember.” She looked frightened. Lost. “It’s true. You don’t believe me, do you?”
From the beginning of his career, he’d lived by the mantra: a lawyer who believes everything a witness or his client says is a fool. It wasn’t so much that everybody lied. But everyone had secrets. No one ever told the whole story, so DiPaulo never took anything at face value. Always had his own Plan B.
He got up and sat behind his desk. Samantha had her arms crossed in front, her hands clutching her shoulders. Logic dictated that he shouldn’t believe a word she’d said. But with this woman who was so remote, so difficult to like, what was true? What was denial? What was manipulation?
He would work like hell to get Samantha to admit her guilt while he bargained for the best possible deal. And if she stuck to her story, he would be prepared to defend her with everything he had.
“Don’t,” he said, looking Samantha square in the eyes, “ask me that question again.”
11
How many years have I waited to have a Monday morning like this? Jennifer Raglan wondered. She plopped her still-hot latte on the side table by the living-room couch and opened a new mystery novel, one set in Sicily. Bliss. Her two older boys were off at her mother’s place for another week, her daughter, Dana, wasn’t coming home from camp until this afternoon, and her husband, Gordon, was at work. It felt like the first time in decades that she’d been alone in her own house. On holiday from work. On a weekday. With no one to take care of but herself.
This past June she’d stepped down as the head Crown Attorney for the Downtown Toronto office, and since then she’d been luxuriating in the world of diminished responsibility. Raglan wasn’t going to prosecute any more murder cases that could take weeks or even months out of her life. Instead she was assigned to short daily trials. And now that she didn’t have to worry about the lives of fifty other lawyers, she could do her own work and go home.
Being back home was new too. A year ago the stress of the job, the kids, everything overwhelmed her. She moved out and within weeks started a secret affair with a homicide detective, Ari Greene. Breaking up with him to move back and give her marriage another shot had been tough. She was trying her hardest with Gordon. This morning she’d walked up to Queen Street with him and they even held hands while waiting for his streetcar.
But the best part of the morning, she had to admit, was wandering on the street after he was gone. Cruising the bookstore, buying the novel, picking up her fresh latte. Time for herself. What an amazing concept.
The phone rang.
No, no, no, she said to herself. I’m going to ignore it. She opened her book and let the phone keep ringing until it finally stopped.
She read the first paragraph. The phone rang again.
Damn. Maybe it was the camp. Something about her daughter. The bus was due in at twelve-thirty.
There was nothing around to use as a bookmark, so she folded back the first page along the spine of the book and peeled herself off the couch. Maybe if I go slow enough, whoever it is will hang up, she thought as she made her way into the kitchen. No such luck. It was still ringing when she got there. Raglan picked up the cordless phone. “Hello,” she said.
“Jennifer, thank God you’re home.” It was Ralph Armitage. Armitage had taken over as the head Crown two months ago. He called almost every day for advice. Even when she and Gordon were away in New England. It was too much.
“Ralph, please.
DiPaulo felt ill. Sam had been in Terrance Wyler’s home. Left the child alone. Had the murder weapon. “Where did you go after you left the house?”
“To my lawyer’s office. Feindel.”
“He’s miles away. How did you get there?”
“I walked. It’s downhill. That’s all I remember.” She looked frightened. Lost. “It’s true. You don’t believe me, do you?”
From the beginning of his career, he’d lived by the mantra: a lawyer who believes everything a witness or his client says is a fool. It wasn’t so much that everybody lied. But everyone had secrets. No one ever told the whole story, so DiPaulo never took anything at face value. Always had his own Plan B.
He got up and sat behind his desk. Samantha had her arms crossed in front, her hands clutching her shoulders. Logic dictated that he shouldn’t believe a word she’d said. But with this woman who was so remote, so difficult to like, what was true? What was denial? What was manipulation?
He would work like hell to get Samantha to admit her guilt while he bargained for the best possible deal. And if she stuck to her story, he would be prepared to defend her with everything he had.
“Don’t,” he said, looking Samantha square in the eyes, “ask me that question again.”
11
How many years have I waited to have a Monday morning like this? Jennifer Raglan wondered. She plopped her still-hot latte on the side table by the living-room couch and opened a new mystery novel, one set in Sicily. Bliss. Her two older boys were off at her mother’s place for another week, her daughter, Dana, wasn’t coming home from camp until this afternoon, and her husband, Gordon, was at work. It felt like the first time in decades that she’d been alone in her own house. On holiday from work. On a weekday. With no one to take care of but herself.
This past June she’d stepped down as the head Crown Attorney for the Downtown Toronto office, and since then she’d been luxuriating in the world of diminished responsibility. Raglan wasn’t going to prosecute any more murder cases that could take weeks or even months out of her life. Instead she was assigned to short daily trials. And now that she didn’t have to worry about the lives of fifty other lawyers, she could do her own work and go home.
Being back home was new too. A year ago the stress of the job, the kids, everything overwhelmed her. She moved out and within weeks started a secret affair with a homicide detective, Ari Greene. Breaking up with him to move back and give her marriage another shot had been tough. She was trying her hardest with Gordon. This morning she’d walked up to Queen Street with him and they even held hands while waiting for his streetcar.
But the best part of the morning, she had to admit, was wandering on the street after he was gone. Cruising the bookstore, buying the novel, picking up her fresh latte. Time for herself. What an amazing concept.
The phone rang.
No, no, no, she said to herself. I’m going to ignore it. She opened her book and let the phone keep ringing until it finally stopped.
She read the first paragraph. The phone rang again.
Damn. Maybe it was the camp. Something about her daughter. The bus was due in at twelve-thirty.
There was nothing around to use as a bookmark, so she folded back the first page along the spine of the book and peeled herself off the couch. Maybe if I go slow enough, whoever it is will hang up, she thought as she made her way into the kitchen. No such luck. It was still ringing when she got there. Raglan picked up the cordless phone. “Hello,” she said.
“Jennifer, thank God you’re home.” It was Ralph Armitage. Armitage had taken over as the head Crown two months ago. He called almost every day for advice. Even when she and Gordon were away in New England. It was too much.
“Ralph, please.
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