Chapter Thirty-Two
It took the jury all of two hours to come back guilty on all counts.
Quinn splashes his face with water in the sink of the courthouse bathroom.
He thought this would make things better.
But he’s learned something he suspects many families of murder victims find out the hard way: Any comfort from the conviction—from knowing the perpetrator will be punished and can’t hurt someone else—is dwarfed by the crushing reminder that your loved one is never coming back.
Quinn also feels something else: a gnawing sense that the jury wasn’t told the full story.
The judge chastised the young defense lawyer because he blurted that Mom had reported something to the company.
The entire trial seemed so one-sided; the judge seemed to grant every one of the prosecution’s objections and overruled all of the defense lawyer’s.
Also, Randy’s alibi was strong, from Quinn’s perspective.
Martinez could’ve been lying, but it didn’t seem like it.
And the kicker: Ms. Glomm, Mom’s packrat coworker, told Quinn she suspected that his mother was murdered because of something she reported to the company, something in her missing Red Flag file.
Something the prosecution carefully avoided talking about.
At the same time, who else had a motive? Who else knew about the hiding spot in the house?
Still, the defense lawyer’s questions resonated with Quinn: Why wouldn’t Randy just dispose of the hammer?
Why hide it in the victim’s home that could be searched?
Why kill her near the plant when he could easily get her alone at home?
Randy’s no genius, but he’s not an idiot either.
And couldn’t someone have put Randy’s DNA on that hammer?
And another thing: Griffin never established a motive.
Randy got drunk and ranted a lot, but he never got physical with Mom.
For all his bullshit, Randy seemed to appreciate that Mom was out of his league.
Maybe Griffin was right, science doesn’t lie.
Occam’s razor: The simplest answer is almost always the correct one.
The boyfriend did it. But Griffin’s story about the murders in England wasn’t a perfect fit.
In that case, the science did lie—the DNA initially excluded the perpetrator as the murderer.
The police only caught him because of dumb luck: an overheard conversation in a pub about the murderer hiring a friend to give a blood sample in his place.
Quinn dries his face with a paper towel, tries to level the tempest of emotions raging inside him. He then realizes he’s not alone. He hears someone in the bathroom stall.
He’s surprised when he sees Randy’s lawyer emerge from the stall. His face is ruddy, eyes watery, like he’s been crying.
Those red eyes flash when he sees Quinn. The lawyer moves quickly to the sink, washes his hands, doesn’t look up.
“What was it they didn’t let you tell the jury?” Quinn asks.
The lawyer’s eyes rise to the mirror, and his reflection gives Quinn a cautious look. “You were a witness. I shouldn’t be talking to you.”
“The trial’s over. What’s the harm?”
The man dries his hands roughly with a paper towel.
Quinn continues, “Listen, I think your client is a piece of garbage. But I also think something was off in there.”
This time the man’s eyes hold Quinn’s for a long moment.
“What weren’t you allowed to tell the jury?”
The lawyer doesn’t answer. He just digs through his briefcase and extracts a sheaf of papers. He shoves them into Quinn’s hands, then pushes out of the restroom.
Quinn leaves the bathroom himself, reading the legal papers as he walks.
In the corridor of the courthouse, a voice calls out: “Q.”
Quinn’s eyes raise from the documents.
Uncle Pat comes over, gives him a hug. Quinn takes in a waft of alcohol.
“I thought you weren’t coming to the trial?” Quinn says. Pat had told him that he just didn’t have it in him to listen to what happened to his sister.
Quinn thinks it’s more than that—guilt at not protecting her, maybe.
“I saw the verdict on the news, so…” Pat breathes in through his nose loudly. “So it’s over.” A statement not a question.
Over Pat’s shoulder, Quinn notices Holly near the elevator, lingering, so as not to intrude.
“I guess so,” Quinn says. It doesn’t feel like he’d imagined. Anticlimactic isn’t the right word. But what is?
“You wanna go get a drink?” Pat asks.
Quinn hesitates. “I actually have plans.” Quinn looks over at Holly again.
Pat twists around, following Quinn’s gaze. He turns back to Quinn. “You and the redhead?”
Quinn gives a quick nod. “She works at George’s group home,” he explains.
Pat grins. “You sly dog.”
“I can cancel. We can go get the drink and—”
Pat holds up a hand. “I have a code: Never get between a man and a beautiful woman.”
Quinn smiles in spite of himself. It feels weird, smiling, today.
“I don’t want you to be alone. I can—”
“I’d never forgive myself,” Pat says, turning back to Holly. “Don’t you worry about me, Q. And besides, I’m getting together with an old friend who’s in town.”
Quinn doesn’t know if he believes Pat or if it’s just his uncle trying to make him feel better.
“You’re sure?”
Pat nods, then gives him a wink. “Now go make your Uncle Pat proud.”
Quinn doesn’t want to even ponder what that means, but he hugs Pat again, takes in another noseful of what he thinks is Jim Beam, and says goodbye to one of the only two members of his family he has left in the world.