Total pages in book: 179
Estimated words: 173733 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 869(@200wpm)___ 695(@250wpm)___ 579(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 173733 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 869(@200wpm)___ 695(@250wpm)___ 579(@300wpm)
“Hi,” I say. “How’s it going?”
Elsa and Richard give me steady, unreadable stares. “Hi,” they say in near unison.
“I’m Richard, not Elsa,” Richard says, with a completely straight face. And it is a handsome face, with sharp features, hard, and framed by longish, wavy brown hair.
Elsa, on the other hand, is pretty, blonde, with a heart-shaped face and about ten years older than me. With manners, too, it seems, as she says, “Nice to meet you, Cat.”
“You look like Elsa,” Richard comments.
Elsa snorts. “If only I were so young, but I’m not, so thank you, Richard. I’ll take that comparison.” She looks at me. “Come sit. I’ve read your column. I’m a fan.”
“Agreed,” Richard states, his tone dry and unexcited, but I’ve had the impression from his courtroom presence that this is his normal.
“Thanks to both of you,” I say, chatting with them just a short bit about nothing much.
Reese breaks up the nothing chit chat by having me sign a confidentiality and consulting agreement before paying me one dollar for my services. “We’ll work out compensation later,” he promises.
I smile and he smiles, because we both know what I want, and it’s not money. It’s him, naked, and in all kinds of ways. That shared moment doesn’t pass without notice but I don’t really care. At this point, it’s over, and we all get to work. I’m settled on the floor at the end of the coffee table and Reese moves to stand at the window with his back to us while he stares out over the city, most likely seeing nothing but what’s in his head. “I still think it was the boyfriend,” Elsa says, as I’m reading through the Walker notes.
“It was the wife,” Richard states, almost matter-of-factly.
Neither myself nor Reese comment as they proceed to debate their points of view. I half listen, reading through all the Walker notes, which include some phone calls between the wife and the victim, as well as a few emails about meetups. “There’s nothing that proves the wife is the killer,” I say. “But I find the meetings curious. Reese, does your client know about those meetings?”
Reese turns to face us. “Good question,” he says, walking to a chair right by me and sitting down. “He’s not answering his phone.”
“The boyfriend did it anyway,” Elsa interjects. “We have police reports of a violent history. Fights. Domestic disturbances.”
“None with the victim,” Richard points out. “And all years ago, when he was a punk kid.”
“In the absence of evidence,” I say, “we have to make the suspects believe we have it.”
“Exactly,” Reese says. “Let’s get a list of questions and cover every possible way they might be answered.”
“We can’t predict where the questions will lead,” I say. “But we can come up with scenarios.”
“The challenge,” he says, “is that I don’t want the jury to simmer on the heels of a hot testimony that helps us. I need to get a closing ready that I can tweak slightly based on courtroom action, and go in for the kill fast and hard.”
We all agree, and for the next two hours, we work on prep for the wife. Reese is focused on his trial, not on me, but when our eyes collide, I feel it in every inch of my body. And I like watching him with his team, the way he interacts with them, the fierceness of his beliefs in each communication. We’ve all just filled room service cups with coffee from the pot Reese ordered when Liz calls my cellphone I have sitting on the coffee table. I inhale on the memory of her words, and pick up my phone and myself from the floor. Reese, who has been reading through his notes, looks up, and I look away before he reads something in me I don’t want him to read.
Crossing the room, I feel Reese watching me, curious, perhaps too intuitive about my present mood, which is tense and fired up. I pass the stairwell and answer the call. “Just a minute,” I say, even as I exit to the hallway and cross through to the living room, where I will have privacy. “Are you there?” I ask, stepping to the window I’d stood at with Reese last night.
“Yes,” Liz says. “I’m here. I saw you called. I had a meeting this afternoon.”
It feels like a fake excuse, and that just drives me to get right to the point. “Dan stands for everything I don’t like about the legal system,” I say. “I’m not writing a book with him, and nothing you say to me is going to change that.”
“The damage is already done,” she replies. “The publisher is not happy. But I have to ask, because I have to explain this when asked. How is Dan a problem for you, but you’ll sleep with the guy defending a killer?”