Chapter 25
Eddie
I sat down on the barstool and ordered two large glasses of bourbon.
The bar was quiet, dark and smelled of stale beer and old wood.
Just the way I liked it. Two drunks sat in the corner surrounded by empty beer bottles and shot glasses.
Their conversation was low and slurred. There was no music.
Two holes in the wall behind me, a dangling electrical wire in the center and old, yellowed paint from a previous decoration job told me that a customer had ripped a juke-box off that wall at some point in time.
Either the act of yanking the jukebox off the wall had been a performative act of musical criticism, or more likely the closest thing at hand to hit someone over the head with.
Didn’t matter. I was grateful for the quiet.
There’s only so many times you can listen to ‘Free Bird’.
My young bartender had all the dedication to the profession of a college kid working three jobs to make his rent.
He lazily poured the Jim Beam into two glasses, straight.
Set them on the bar. Didn’t place any napkins under the glasses.
Didn’t ask if I wanted ice. It wasn’t an ice and napkins kind of place.
Harry took his seat beside me and dropped his leather satchel at his feet.
He reached for his glass, his fingers freezing in mid-air as he noticed the drink in front of me.
He didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to. He watched me stare at my glass, a decision in front of me. I’d been sober for years. The odd drink aside. Not falling off the wagon exactly, just running alongside it for a spell. Harry picked up his drink and took a long sip.
Smacked his lips and set his glass down.
The bartender stepped away, took out his phone and leaned on the bar, flicking his finger across the screen, watching TikTok videos.
Harry picked up his glass again, swallowed the contents and set it back down on the bar ceremoniously and with enough force to prick up the bartender’s ears. He continued to gaze at his phone.
‘You can’t get the staff these days,’ said Harry.
‘I could ask Denise to collect Amy. I’m thinking about having a drink,’ I said.
He picked up my glass, took a sip and placed it back down in front of him.
‘You don’t want to drink. You want some peace,’ said Harry.
‘You don’t know what the hell happened in Molly Green’s apartment.
You want to believe Vanessa, but something doesn’t feel right.
I know how your mind works. You want to quiet the storm.
It’s not going to happen. It will be waiting for you in the morning along with a hangover that would level a building. ’
‘I know it’s not worth it, but I hate this.
In the best-case scenario, we’re going to have Vanessa telling a court her husband confessed to her that he killed Molly Green.
The one thing I was warned not to let happen.
Julian Vanderpool will come after all of us.
I know his type. And it’s not going to get us anywhere, because Patrick is going to deny he ever said that to Vanessa, and he’s going to make the DA’s case for them.
The jury will buy the woman scorned argument and Vanessa goes to jail for murder.
Maybe that’s right? Maybe that’s wrong, I just can’t tell for sure. ’
‘If only it were that simple,’ said Harry. ‘You might be the best lawyer I ever laid eyes on, but you don’t know the law.’
‘I know enough, but for the obscure legal stuff I’ve got this consultant in my firm who used to be a judge. He’s old, he’s drinks too much and he’s wildly eccentric. Walks around with an old Colt 1911 strapped under his arm and brings his dog everywhere. I don’t know if you’ve heard of him?’
Harry smiled, but only for the briefest of moments. Whatever was on his mind wiped that smile away fast.
‘The People vs. Dudley, 1969,’ he said.
‘That’s supposed to mean something to me?’
‘Spousal privilege,’ said Harry. ‘Confidential communications between spouses induced by the marital relationship are privileged. The protection is owned by the spouse who made the communication.’
‘You want to tell me that again, in English?’
‘Vanessa can’t testify that Patrick confessed to murder.’
‘Say what?’
‘It’s an old legal maxim that was passed down from English common law, and it’s now protected in statute and a long line of case law.
It comes from the time when women were legally seen as chattels of their husbands.
Property, in other words. But in more recent years, the privilege protects both spouses.
If she tried to testify that her husband told her he was the Zodiac killer, that he had Jimmy Hoffa buried under his back porch and he stole the Lindbergh baby it wouldn’t be inadmissible testimony.
It’s just as sacrosanct as attorney–client privilege. ’
‘Holy shit.’
‘Exactly. So it doesn’t matter what he told her. It’s confidential, privileged information. She can’t testify that he confessed.’
‘Not even in her own defense?’
‘Nope. The law seems to think that protecting the sanctity of marriage is more important than the truth.’
‘What if she blurted it out in front of the jury?’ I asked.
‘The judge would declare a mistrial, and Vanessa would go to jail for contempt of court.’
‘And people think that being a con artist is a dishonest profession.’
The bartender was still engrossed in his phone. Harry finished my drink, slammed the glass on the bar. The young man turned around. Harry pointed at the glass.
‘You want two more?’ he asked, as he approached.
‘I want a Pepsi for my friend, and another two for me. In fact, just leave the bottle. I don’t want to distract you from your phone.’
‘Are you sure? I’d have to charge you for the whole bottle, even if you don’t finish it.’
Harry counted out his bills, put them on the bar, said, ‘I’m sure I’ll manage.’
The bartender poured me a Pepsi, then went back to the corner of the bar and his phone.
‘So we’ve got what looks like a murder weapon, with both the victim’s blood and our client’s DNA on it.
Vanessa lied to the police saying she’d never been to the victim’s apartment, but she’s on security footage entering and leaving the victim’s apartment on the night of the murder with what looks like the victim’s head in a gym bag.
Her husband was having an affair with the victim so there’s plenty of motive.
Our defense is our client was being abused by her husband, she was afraid and that’s why she lied, and that same abusive husband has confessed to our client that he killed Molly, but we can’t use that in court or tell anybody else?
And even if we do try to pin this murder on the husband, his father, who is one of the most powerful men in America, is going to come after us with everything he’s got. Have I missed anything out?’ I asked.
‘That’s about the sum of it. Plus, our client didn’t just lie to the police, she lied to us. Who is to know if she’s telling the truth now? Maybe she’s lying about the confession, so we stop looking at her and start focusing on the husband.’
‘I need something a lot stronger than Pepsi.’
‘Have you heard from Lake or Bloch?’ he asked.
‘No, let’s hope they find something useful.’
My cell phone vibrated.
Princess.
I checked my watch. I wasn’t due to pick up my daughter for several hours.
I answered the phone. ‘Amy, how’s the party? Is everything okay, sweetheart?’
The voice on the phone was one I didn’t recognize.
‘Mr. Flynn, this is Keisha. You need to get here right now. Something’s wrong with Amy.’