Chapter 9
9
SAMANTHA
I hope Braiden will relent on his no-sex rule after he spends a long day studying real estate listings, but he doesn’t. I think he might change his mind after another day spent reviewing Fishtown security with his acting Warlord, but I’m wrong. I do my best to get under his skin when I get ready for bed—strutting across the room in my high heels as I return my skirt to the closet, stretching for the covers as I climb into bed, shifting closer and closer as I find a comfortable position amid the ocean of white-cased pillows…
He mutters under his breath. But he doesn’t reach for me. Not even when he wakes with a wicked case of morning wood.
Frustrated, I consider leaving the hotel and heading across town for my morning meeting, but I’d rather convince Braiden I’m playing by his rules. So I phone my lawyer, Teddy Newland, and I ask him to come to the Rittenhouse. I secure us a meeting room downstairs. Teddy has done enough work for the mob that he doesn’t even blink at the four men standing guard.
Or maybe he doesn’t notice them.
Teddy could be someone’s kindly grandfather, the type of man who’s always prepared with a peppermint in his pocket and a pat on the head. His fringe of gray hair makes him resemble a gentle old monk. His eyeglasses slip down his nose so frequently I wonder how much he can actually see out of the smudged lenses. A stain darkens the crimson of his Harvard tie, blurring the word veritas —truth—on its miniature shield.
Teddy looks like a long-retired absent-minded professor. But he sounds like one of the sharpest legal minds I’ve ever encountered.
“Detective Hiram Tarrant is an old-school cop,” Teddy says. “If we look at the testimony he’s delivered in trials over the past five years…”
Teddy pulls up an elaborate spreadsheet on his computer. The document is filled with cross-referenced information—judges’ names, criminal counts, number of witnesses, even the number of exhibits filed by the prosecution in each case. Teddy walks me through the data, doing me the honor of treating me like a fellow professional. He never talks down to me, but he makes sure I understand the gravity of the situation.
He concludes: “So Tarrant is a bulldog. He doesn’t get bored, and he doesn’t get sloppy. He’ll put in the extra hours to get the job done.”
I nod slowly. As a taxpayer, I should be grateful for the man’s dedication. As a likely criminal defendant, I’m sickened. “And what that means for my case is…”
Teddy pushes his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. “There’s good news and bad news.”
I can’t imagine anything good about the situation Teddy’s just laid out. But I humor him. “And the good news is?”
“The statute of limitations has expired on a lot of counts the prosecutor might consider. Leaving the scene of an accident… Duty to render aid… Aggravated assault or insurance fraud or intimidation of witnesses… Those all washed out after five years.”
I already know what he’s going to say next, so I cut to the chase: “And the bad news is there’s no statute of limitations on murder.”
“Or manslaughter. Or vehicular homicide.”
I let the words hang in the air for a full minute before I ask, “So what do we do?”
Teddy pushes his glasses again. “Unfortunately, at this point, there isn’t a lot we can do. Detective Tarrant has to finish his investigation. After he’s gathered all of his evidence, he’ll pass it to a prosecutor. The prosecutor will decide whether to proceed with a criminal case against you.”
There isn’t a prosecutor in Pennsylvania who won’t jump at the chance to drag me into court. Not after the paparazzi have been agitating for months. Not after what I did.
“That’s it?” I ask. “We just wait?”
Again with the glasses. Teddy peers at me through the smudges, his watery blue eyes kind. “We could hire our own investigator. We can track what Tarrant does. Follow the physical evidence he comes up with. Study the same facts, talk to the same witnesses.”
“And the advantage of that?”
He tilts his head just a little, projecting a soft, quiet sympathy. “We won’t be surprised. We can begin to build our defense. Figure out the story we want to tell at trial.”
There’ll be a trial. Neither of us doubts that.
I take a moment, but I nod. “Go ahead, then. Let’s get as much information as we can.”
He clears his throat softly. “There’s something else.”
I wait through the pushing up of the glasses. Through another throat-clearing. Through a distracted thumbing of the stain on his tie. “Something else?” I finally urge.
“We can do some research on Tarrant himself. Find out about the detective’s personal life. See if there’s anything that might…discredit him on the stand. Nothing’s come up in the research we’ve already done—” He gestures at his spreadsheet. “But a proper investigation might find…”
He puts the slightest emphasis on the word proper , just enough for me to realize he means exactly the opposite. An improper investigation might come up with something worthy of blackmail. An even more improper investigation might actually plant misleading evidence, something to discredit the stalwart Detective Tarrant.
Braiden can do that. In fact, he’s probably done things like that dozens of times before. Hell, he can probably send one of his men to convince Hiram Tarrant it’s not worth investigating me for one more day, one more hour, one more minute. He could get rid of Tarrant altogether.
No.
Some bridges stretch too far. I killed three people That Night. I won’t compound my crime now.
“Thank you,” I tell Teddy. “I don’t think that’s a good use of our resources. Not now. And not down the line.”
From his slow nod, I know I’ve made myself understood.
“But let’s shadow Detective Tarrant. Let’s keep an eye on what he finds. Let’s avoid any surprises.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Teddy says.
There’s more—a discussion about staffing and how things slow down in summer and how my case isn’t likely to move forward before early fall, barring any major change in circumstances.
That means barring the ethics board finding me unfit to practice law. Teddy doesn’t say the words out loud. It’s like he’s superstitious, like he doesn’t want to risk bringing down the same fate on himself. But we both understand precisely what he means.
Finally, he stands. He dusts his hands down the front of his suit. He locks his briefcase with careful, precise motions.
I see him to the door of the conference room, and his hand is dry as he shakes mine. “I wish you all the luck in the world, Ms. Kelly,” he says.
I’m going to need it.