Double Jeopardy (3 page)

Travis’s client was Alberto Moroconi. Moroconi had been drinking Scotch and sodas in O’Reilly’s, the off-campus bar where the victim, Mary Ann McKenzie, came looking for her roommate. Moroconi admitted being there, and admitted seeing several men leave shortly after she did, but he claimed he played no part in the rape and torture.

As far as Travis could discern from the prosecutor’s witness and exhibit lists, there was little concrete evidence disputing Moroconi’s testimony. The decision to prosecute him on this rape charge appeared to be based entirely upon Mary Ann’s identification. She picked Moroconi out of a lineup, with the help of more than gentle persuasion from the Dallas PD. Given the poor woman’s mental state, Travis didn’t think it proved anything.

Travis knew the constitutional guidelines for lineups by heart, and he doubted whether those guidelines had been met. Moroconi was the only man in the lineup close to the size, height, and weight description Mary Ann gave for any of her three white assailants. If she was going to identify anyone out of that lineup, it would have to be Moroconi. Travis wondered why Moroconi had been picked up by the police in the first place. They claimed they were acting on a tip from an unnamed informant.

Travis interpreted the facts in the file thus: the police brought in a sucker, pushed the victim for a positive ID, and ran with it to the prosecutor. Which, of course, didn’t necessarily mean Moroconi was innocent, but it did give Travis something to dispute during the trial. To his surprise, he saw no indication in the file that Seacrest ever filed a motion to suppress. Amazing. If Travis could get the lineup ID excluded, everything that followed therefrom also would be inadmissible—fruit of the poisonous tree. Perhaps Seacrest considered that type of tactic beneath him. Travis didn’t. As a criminal attorney, his job was to exculpate his client, period. If he could do so by means of a legal technicality, he was ethically bound to do so.

“Dinner’s here.”

Gail, the firm’s receptionist and secretary, entered Travis’s office with a white Styrofoam container.

“Gail, why on earth are you still here?”

“I’m looking after you, of course. You’d forget to eat altogether, left to yourself. You’d just sit here all night drinking Maalox, wondering why your stomach hurts.”

She probably was right. Now that the subject had been broached, Travis realized he was hungry.

Gail tossed the carryout container on his desk. “Here you go. Chow down.”

Travis peered inside. It was a salad, of course. Doctor’s orders. Dr. Anglis had barely let him squeak by his last insurance-mandated checkup. His blood pressure was too high, his cholesterol count was too high, his ulcer was active, he was twenty-five pounds overweight, and according to Anglis, he was “the most clear-cut Type-A personality” the doctor had seen in his entire career. In short, Travis was a heart attack waiting to happen: The doctor put him on an all-vegetables-and-salads diet and ordered him to get more exercise. As if saying it would make it happen. Travis would’ve loved to exercise more; he hated the way his body had deteriorated since he quit the police force and joined the relatively sedentary legal world. But when? He barely had time to breathe, much less run laps and do sit-ups.

Unfortunately, Dr. Anglis had repeated his orders to everyone in the office, including Gail. She couldn’t make Travis exercise, but she did a thorough job of monitoring his diet.

“Yum, yum,” Travis said, licking his chops in cartoonish exaggeration. “Rabbit food—accept no substitutes.”

Gail smirked. “This one’s a chef salad. Of course, I had them remove all the meats.”

“Which leaves what? Lettuce?”

“More or less, yes.”

“Great.” Travis reached for his wallet. “What do I owe you?”

“My treat.”

“No, no, take a fiver.”

“Just put your money away, Travis. This is the least I can do, considering all you’ve done for me.”

Travis could see this was important to her, so he relented. Gail had been having problems with an ex-felon ex-husband who had suddenly taken a renewed interest in their eleven-year-old daughter, Susan. Gail was terrified he would involve Susan in his miasma of booze, drugs, and orgies. Travis had drafted airtight custody documents and represented Gail at the hearing that almost totally marginalized her ex. He ended up with radically reduced visitation—one Saturday a month, no overnights, and only under Gail’s supervision. After the case was over, Travis tore up the bill, which he knew she could ill afford.

“I’m monitoring the level of your Maalox bottle, too,” Gail announced.

“I’m delighted.”

Gail was a few years older than Travis, not conventionally pretty, but not unpleasant either. A winning personality easily compensated for crooked teeth in Travis’s book.

“You know, Travis, it wouldn’t hurt to take a night off.”

“I wouldn’t know what to do with myself.”

She toyed with a lock of his curly black hair. “Well, I could make a few suggestions.” She sighed, then walked a dancing step toward the door. “Oh well, maybe in another life.”

And a fine life it would be, Travis thought to himself. If only we had several to work with.

“Enjoy your salad.”

“Thanks, Gail. I will.” Travis returned his attention to the photographs. It was best if he didn’t dwell on what he was eating, since there wasn’t much of it and what there was was far from appetizing. Soon he was deep in the case. Time passed as Travis compared statements, examined reports, planned cross-examinations, and tried to discern what really happened.

“Travis, have I mentioned that you work too damn hard?”

Travis, engrossed in his research, started. It was Dan Holyfield, his boss. “About a hundred times, Dan. Make that a hundred and one, now.”

“Well, then, listen to me for a change. I’m sick and tired of seeing you squirreled away in your office every night.” Dan was dressed in his usual manner—brown suit with a bolo tie. Old-guard Dallas, but very classy. “You need to get out more. Visit some friends.”

Travis didn’t say anything. It was embarrassing to admit that, bottom line, he really didn’t have any friends.

“Are you feeling all right?”

“I’m fine. Just a little stomach stress.”

“Uh-huh.” Dan’s voice had just the slightest hint of a Dallas drawl, although Travis suspected it was an accent more cultivated than natural. Dan had always been a master at fitting in. “Have you had anything for dinner? Or did that slip your mind?”

“I ate, in a manner of speaking.” Travis pointed to the empty take-out container. “Gail brought me a salad from Sprouts.”

Dan chuckled. “Sounds delightful.” He picked up the container and tossed it into the trash. “You know, Gail is a fine girl. She’s had a tough time of it, raising Susan all by herself. I betcha she’d leap at a dinner invitation from a promising young attorney.”

Travis shifted uncomfortably. “No one would want to go out with a tub of lard like me.” Travis knew he wasn’t
that
overweight, but because he was only five foot seven, every extra pound looked like three.

“You need to get out more,” Dan grumbled. “I don’t care if it’s Gail, but you hear what I’m saying—it’s time to start dating again.”

Travis pressed his lips together. “I’m … not ready for that yet, Dan.”

Dan laid his hand on Travis’s shoulder. “I don’t mean to seem unsympathetic, Travis, but it’s been over four years. When you were in law school, it was understandable—you were busy. You didn’t have time to deal with it. But now you have a good job, a steady income. It’s time.”

“I said I’m not ready. Okay?” Travis hoped he sounded forceful, but not rude. He would never intentionally offend Dan Holyfield, the one bona fide hero he had ever known. Dan had put in thirty-five years as a criminal defense attorney, taking unpopular clients, defending unpopular causes, representing the poor and elderly for free long before it became trendy. Most important, Dan had been there when Travis needed someone—in fact, he was the only person who was. Travis didn’t have any living relatives, and he didn’t have any inside connections to the rich or powerful. Dan Holyfield made it possible for him to attend law school. When Travis received his J.D. and hit the streets, he was an ex-cop, already in his midthirties, with mediocre grades. Not what most of the blue-chip firms were looking for. Or anyone else for that matter. But Dan Holyfield was willing to give him a chance. That meant something to Travis. That meant a lot.

“All right,” Dan said, “have it your way. But don’t be surprised if you come in some night and find I’ve locked you out of your office.” He smiled, almost as an afterthought. “I hear you won your trial today.”

“Yup. Jury was out less than an hour.”

“Talk about turning a sow’s ear into a silk purse. Congratulations are in order, I suppose. You’ve become a mighty fine defense attorney, Travis.”

“I learned it all from you.”

“That’s a crock of bull, but it’s nice to hear, anyway. What are you working on now?”

“New case. Forcible rape, aggravated assault. Pretty grisly stuff.”

Dan thumbed through the photographs on the desk. “Grisly is an understatement. I thought you were going to take on more civil work.”

“Didn’t have any choice about this one. Judicial appointment.”

“I see. Hagedorn punishing you for having the audacity to win?”

“Something like that. I don’t suppose you’d like to second-chair this loser?”

“No thanks, Travis. That’s why I hired you, remember? So I wouldn’t have to try slop like this. When I said I was retired, I meant it.”

“That decision was a monumental loss for the Dallas criminal justice system.”

“Travis, if this flattery is your way of campaigning for a Christmas bonus, forget it.”

Travis grinned. “Sorry, Dan.”

“My retirement was way overdue. I’ve been staying plenty busy running my parents’ food-distribution business since they died. Conrad and Elsie Holyfield may not have been college graduates, but they made a fine little company—and I’m not going to let it go down the tubes.”

Actually, Travis was glad Dan had slowed down, though he’d never tell Dan that. Dan was one of the few who deserved retirement; he’d fought the good fight and lived to tell the tale. Looked remarkable for his age, too, which had to be near sixty. The clerks down at the courthouse called him Dorian Gray.

“You’ll be impossible to replace in the courtroom, Dan.”

“Nonsense.” Dan walked to the door. “Don’t stay up too late.”

“Sorry, but I may have to pull an all-nighter. The trial starts tomorrow morning.”

“Tomorrow morning? Man alive, Hagedorn stung you but good.”

“Yeah.”

“Going straight from one trial to another like this will kill you, Travis, and that’s a certainty. Promise me you’ll take a break sometime tonight.”

“That I can do. I promised Staci I’d visit.”

“I’ll let you get back to work then. But seriously, Travis, don’t ruin yourself. You’ve got a loser here, and you’re tackling it under extremely adverse circumstances. Every now and then it’s all right to let the scum sink.”

After Dan left, Travis returned his attention to Exhibit A, the first color photograph of Mary Ann McKenzie taken after her attack.

He drew the photo closer to the light. His eyes were drawn to her shattered rib cage, her scraped, bloody face, her bruised breasts. He choked; his eyes began to sting.

“My God,” he whispered to himself.

She
was
a redhead. Just like Angela.

M
ARIO SAT BEHIND THE
large oak desk in his downtown office, his hands resting atop a green blotter. A gooseneck lamp illuminated his two visitors, but left Mario in shadow. He liked it that way.

He gazed across the desk at Kramer, Mario’s most dependable enforcer, and Donny, Mario’s idiot nephew. Mario and his nephew wore sport coats, Ban-Lon shirts, and patent-leather oxfords. Kramer tried to dress like them, but, as always, it didn’t quite ring true. And what was that jacket made of anyway—
polyester,
for God’s sake? Christ, it wasn’t as if the man didn’t have enough money. He’d been drawing sizable chunks of change for years.

Mario and Donny both wore gold, too—Donny around his neck and Mario on his pinky. But Kramer put them to shame; he wore three chain necklaces and two nugget-size rings. He even had a gold tooth. That was so like Kramer—always trying to look like a member of the family. Trying too goddamn hard. Mario should’ve dumped him years ago, and he would’ve, too—if the man didn’t scare him shitless.

Kramer had come in to report. He was pacing alongside Mario’s desk. Donny lounged on the sofa by the door, biting his nails like a five-year-old. Jesus T. Christ, Mario thought. Donny wants to be a
made man,
and he sits there biting his nails, barely paying attention. What a worthless piece of crap. Donny would never learn the business. Or anything else.

“You have news to report, Mr. Kramer?” Mario asked.

“Yeah. Matter of fact, I do.” Kramer was a thin man—quick, wiry, elusive. Like a snake. His most prominent feature was a long ugly scar that stretched down the left side of his face. “The job was completed accordin’ to plan.”

“Can you provide a few more details?”

“You really wanna know?”

Mario considered for a moment. “No. I suppose it’s best if I don’t.” It didn’t matter how much he worked with Kramer; the man made his skin crawl. Always had, always would. He was so much more than just an enforcer; he was capable of planning, equipping, staffing, and executing an entire operation, from start to finish, no matter how complex or clandestine. He was effective and efficient—he always got the job done. He was creative and innovative—he didn’t have to be led by the hand. He had connections everywhere—the press, the police, the government. He could obtain valuable information or plant false information anywhere he wanted. He had countless assistants, all of them willing to do anything, go anywhere.

But he was also a sadist. Most hit men fell into their jobs because there was nothing else they were capable of doing. Not so Kramer. He was in this line of work because he enjoyed it. He was a sociopath who derived inordinate pleasure from cruelty to other people. And his fondness for fire was legendary. Just thinking about it was enough to make Mario grind out his cigarette. Life was safest when Kramer had no access to anything burning, no matter how small.