Fruit of the Poisonous Tree （n.） – Scarlett
FRUIT OF THE POISONOUS TREE (N.)
IN CRIMINAL LAW, THE DOCTRINE THAT EVIDENCE DISCOVERED DUE TO INFORMATION FOUND THROUGH ILLEGAL SEARCH OR OTHER UNCONSTITUTIONAL MEANS (SUCH AS A FORCED CONFESSION) MAY NOT BE INTRODUCED BY A PROSECUTOR.
SCARLETT
My mother squeals like a fangirl as we walk into the special post-show for Peter Hansel’s biggest fans.
The room is filled with massive screens featuring his book covers and headlines from cases he won. Above us, the words “Justice is served” swirl across the ceiling in bright lights.
So far, we’ve received a bag of signed books and swag, and now we’re waiting in line for a special seven-minute session with him.
“You can have my session, Scarlett,” my mom says suddenly as we get close to the front.
“What?” I arch a brow. “Don’t you have a list of questions?”
“Yeah, but…” She sighs. “I always back out of these things at the last minute.”
“Why?”
“Never meet your heroes.” She shrugs. “That’s a thing, you know?”
“No.” I shake my head. “You should ask him your questions.”
“My first one is ‘Are you single’?”
“Okay, so you shouldn’t ask him questions.”
She smiles and hands me her pass. “I’ll stick to the group Q&A that’s right after. Besides, I already got my picture, and that’s far more than I hoped for when I started reading him.”
“He’s not a God, Mom.”
“No, but one of my other questions is if he fucks like one, so…”
I lift the velvet rope for her, and she laughs as she slips underneath.
She grabs my book bag from my shoulder. “I’ll get us a table, okay?”
“Okay.” I smile at her.
“Oh, and—I’m looking forward to the day you can tell me about your boyfriend.”
“I’ve already mentioned Cole to you.”
“No.” She shakes her head. “The guy you were on the phone with the other night for hours.”
“Oh.” My cheeks flush. “Well, that’s complicated.”
“Um hmmm.” She winks. “One day.”
“Next reader, please!” A woman dressed in all-black calls out from behind the VIP curtain.
I let out a breath and brace myself for what I hope will be a good performance.
“Well, hello there!” Peter Hansel smiles at me from behind a table. “I would greet you by name, but you’re not wearing your name tag.”
“You can call me Rachel,” I say.
“Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” He beckons me closer. “Thank you for reading my books.”
“Pleasure’s all mine.” I step in front of him and grab five things from the VIP shelf for him to sign.
“Any questions you have for me?” he asks. “I’m all yours for seven minutes.”
“Fourteen.” I place my mother’s pass on the table next to mine. “My friend was too starstruck.”
“Ah, yes. Well, my characters tend to have that effect on people, Rachel. Which characters are your favorite?”
“None.”
“Excuse me?”
“Is there any chance the jury got the Jameson Tate murder verdict wrong?” I try to keep my voice firm. “Like, any chance you might’ve been wrong?”
“I was the defense attorney, Rachel,” he says. “My job was to make him look innocent.”
“Did you?”
“It’s pretty hard to do when it comes to an open-and-shut first-degree murder.” He shakes his head. “The evidence at that trial spoke loud and clear for itself.”
The look on my face must give him pause because he lets out a deep sigh.
“Mr. Tate’s DNA was all over the scene,” he says. “It was on the murder weapon, the clothes he attempted to stash away, and the boots.”
“Yes, but—”
“But what?” He arches a brow. “Where I’m from, they call that type of evidence a ‘slam fucking dunk.’”
“So, Mr. Tate just woke up one day and decided to murder his next-door neighbor?” I ask. “You believe he just magically transformed into a murderer?”
“Well, committing one murder automatically earns you that title, Miss,” he says. “So, yes. Mr. Tate might’ve been triggered by something Mr. Raider said and just lost his temper.”
“What if it was a crime of passion?” I ask. “Or a crime committed to prevent more crimes from happening?”
“Well, maybe you should’ve been his attorney.” He laughs. “I could’ve used those suggestions back then.”
“His son tried to give them to you.”
Silence.
“He wrote and called you every week.”
“He was a child, Rachel.”
“What if Mr. Tate really didn’t do it, though?” I ask, glancing at my remaining time. “What if someone else did?”
“Don’t tell me you’re one of those social media conspiracy crime people.”
“No.” I shake my head. “Just—someone who enjoys looking up old cases. Plus, uh, you literally mention this case at the back of your first twenty novels.”
“Ah, you must have the early editions.” He laughs. “My new publisher sucked all that away in favor of snippets from new books and photos. Would you like to see?”
“No.” I’m down to four minutes. “Back to Jameson Tate…His son was so affected by the case that he became a lawyer and filed appeals. He doesn’t just believe his father didn’t do it—he knows he didn’t.”
“Miss Rachel, in my wildest dreams, I would’ve never guessed that the son of this convicted murderer would become one of the worst defense attorneys I’ve ever seen.”
“You mean the best?” I ask. “He’s never lost a single case.”
“That doesn’t make someone the best.”
“How? You’d lost over fifty cases before you got into writing books.”
“I said what I said.” The jovial tone in his voice disappears. “Are you a friend of Mr. Tate’s?”
“No, I barely know him.” The words hurt to say. “I’m just wondering if you missed something at the crime scene. If maybe there was something more to this case and you brushed it away because you didn’t want to do any extra work.”
“Any extra work for a murderer?” He signs a mug and slides it toward me. “Okay, Rachel. I think I’ll have to give you a rain check on your friend’s pass, okay?”
I nod, expecting that.
“For the record, I can assure you that I gave my all to Mr. Tate’s case, and there was nothing I missed at the crime scene—no panties or pajamas in a drawer—nothing. Clear?”
“Crystal. Thank you for your time, Mr. Hansel.” I extend my hand as he stands.
“I’m looking forward to hearing more questions at the evening session,” he says. “You asked some pretty good ones in here.”
“One last thing, sir,” I say as I collect the unwanted swag.
“Yes?”
“I never mentioned anything about panties or pajamas in a drawer.” I look him directly in the eyes. “How did you know anything about that?”
“I didn’t say anything about a drawer.”
“You did…” I narrow my eyes at him. “I heard you.”
His fake smile fades, and his jaw clenches.
“What did you mean by that?” I ask again. “A drawer of panties and pajamas at the crime scene, perhaps?”
“No.” He steps closer to me, his eyes narrowing. “This case is closed, Rachel. Mr. Tate did it, and I did the best I could.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
I leave his session without another word, my heart aching for Jameson.