Chapter Twenty-one
“Y ou can be honest with me,” the man from the public defender’s office told me. “Attorneyclient privilege.”
“George Norton, from the public defender’s office.” He followed up the coffee cup with a business card.
My experience in jail continued to challenge my expectations. I’d assumed a public defender would be young and inexperienced. I eyed my attorney. Maybe he hadn’t been able to get promoted.
Now, our coffee cups drained and my story told, he shook his head. “Why would you be burning a bunch of sheets? And why in the middle of the night? Doesn’t make sense. Why not just give them away if they bothered you so much?”
“I had reasons,” I said. How to be honest but not stray into magic? If I told him I was a witch, he’d refer me to the state mental hospital. “They came from someone I didn’t like.”
“So you took them to the woods. In the middle of the night.” He let out his breath in a half sigh, half snort. “No, that won’t fly. I can’t help you if you won’t tell me the truth.”
“That is the truth. I could make up some kind of story, but it would be just that—a story.”
“How about the murder weapon, then? Where’s that?”
Was this a trap? “I don’t know how he was killed. I’m just as puzzled as you.”
“If they find the murder weapon in your apartment, you’re in trouble.”
I was already in trouble. The case against me was nearly impenetrable. “What about Ian’s wheelchair?” I asked.
“Say what?”
“Ian Penclosa was paraplegic. He couldn’t get around without a wheelchair. Finding it might lead to . . . new evidence.”
As soon as the words left my mouth, I feared any new evidence would only serve as another brick in the fortress-like case against me. A witch powerful enough to materialize this kind of case could manage a few fingerprints on a wheelchair.
The attorney swatted dismissively. “Could be at the bottom of the river by now. It hardly matters, given what they already have against you.”
I’d been an idiot to forget Babe Hamilton so easily, to think I’d driven her away simply by breaking her spell on the linens. She’d taken it as an opportunity to silence me for good.
The attorney leaned back. “We can’t say the death was an accident. Not with the fire, etcetera. Can we make a case for self-defense?”
“I didn’t kill him,” I said. “You have to believe me. I know it looks like I did, but, I tell you, I’ve only been trying to find him.”
“And why is that?”
“Because he’s my good friend’s boyfriend, and she was worried. She couldn’t get in touch with him. She wanted me to locate him and find out what was wrong.”
The attorney jabbed the air with a forefinger. “Motive. Right there. You killed him for the sisterhood.”
“No!” I groaned with frustration. “I’m innocent. I told you.”
He leaned toward me. “Let me make this very clear. You have been documented trying to locate Ian Pen closa. You reported finding him dead, but no body was recovered. You were seen late at night going into the woods where Mr. Penclosa’s body was found.
Then you made a show of continuing to look for him.
And your only excuse is that you were looking out for a friend and that you didn’t like some sheets, so you burned them, exactly where Penclosa’s body was found. ”
“I’m innocent,” I said, my voice faltering.
“Like I haven’t heard those words before.” When I didn’t reply—what could I say, after all?—he continued. “Tell me everything. The truth. I can’t help you unless I know exactly what happened.”
At least there were books in prison. Maybe they’d let me volunteer as the librarian. I thought about Rodney. He was a resourceful cat and would find a new home. However, my family would be crushed. How many years would I be sentenced for?
The door to the interview room opened, and a sheriff’s deputy—not Sam; I hadn’t seen him since he’d handed me off at the library—stood, the door behind him ajar.
“You’re free to go,” the deputy said.
“What?” the attorney and I said at the same time.
“You’ll need to stay in touch. You’re still under suspicion.”
“Why, may I ask, is my client to be released?” the attorney said. He’d sat straighter and almost appeared court-worthy.
I shot him a dirty look. Shouldn’t he be happy for me?
“Evidence that pertained to her arrest was disproven,” the deputy said.
“What would this evidence be?” the attorney said.
“I repeat, Ms. Way is still a suspect and may be detained again.”
“You didn’t answer my question,” the attorney said.
Speechless, I watched the two men talk. What was going on?
“Ian Penclosa,” the deputy said. “He’s been found. Alive.”