Evidence of Guilt (23 page)

"Assuming she knew she'd been in it in the first place." I decided stale was preferable to sweltering and shut the door. "Myra had an interesting observation." I told him her theory about Amy.

Sam's groan was tortured.

"What's the matter?"

Because I was holding the phone with my shoulder while measuring out the coffee grounds I missed part of his answer. The only words I heard clearly were "skin flicks."

I moved the receiver back to my hand and held it firmly against my ear. "What was that again?"

"What I said was, that among the items seized by the police from Wes Harding's residence were a couple of skin flicks. I just got the updated list yesterday afternoon."

"No one's trying to make a case that he's a Boy Scout, Sam."

"The thing is, one of the films is about a woman and her daughter."

"So?" I started to pour water through the coffee grounds.

"The daughter's a little older than Amy, and the woman's dark rather than fair, but it's kind of interesting, the parallels."

"Sam--"

"The other thing," he said, cutting me off, "is that they both wind up dead."

I set the kettle back on the burner. 'That doesn't prove anything."

"No, but the prosecution's going to make it into something, you just wait. This is going to be a jury trial, remember. Folks around here aren't going to think much of a man who watches that sort of filth."

"What's the matter, Sam? Sounds like you're getting spooked."

"Maybe I am. Maybe I got reason to be spooked. Hell, the DA's got what's practically a textbook case, and we've got zip."

"It's not a textbook case, and you know it. There's no murder weapon, no witness, no confession, no motive." This was a reversal in roles, me bolstering Sam, and it made me nervous. "You're not giving up, are you?"

His response was quick and unequivocal. "Not in a million years." Then he sighed. "I'm just frustrated, is all. Everything is ten times harder when you've got a personal interest in the case. Jake calls me every night, wants to talk strategy and evidence. Half the time he drifts into a rambling soliloquy about Wes's childhood and how nothing's ever gone right for him. It gets me wound up in a way I wouldn't be otherwise."

That was understandable. "Just remember your heart condition," I warned. "Stress is one of the things you're supposed to avoid."

"And how's a body supposed to do that?" he groused. "Stress isn't something you can politely decline, like ajelly donut."

"You haven't done so well along those lines, either." I half suspected Sam took his doctor's orders as an invitation to battle. 'Try not to fret over it. We'll pull together a case. A good one."

"Question is, will it be good enough." Sam's voice was throaty. He sounded tired. "Why don't you go see Wes today, find out what he has to say about this latest development. And see if he has any bright ideas about where we should go next in terms of a defense strategy."

The new jail, constructed only five years ago, is one of few air-conditioned county buildings. That's no small perk on a sweltering summer's day, but it wasn't enough to put me in a charitable mood. Wes didn't appear to be in any better humor. It was obvious from the outset that my visit wasn't the highlight of his day.

After we'd gone through the handcuff routine with the guard Wes slouched down in his chair, crossed his arms and eyed me suspiciously. "You here with good news or bad?" he growled.

"What makes you think I have either?" "I'm pretty sure you didn't drop by for a social visit." I eased my chair back from the table, wishing I'd found a polite way to remain standing. The posture of authority comes easier to me when I'm on my feet. I wished, also, that I'd given more thought to how I was going to conduct

the interview. Wes Harding had a way of throwing off my normal rhythm.

"Well," Wes said, pulling on an earlobe, "let's make it snappy. You're eating up my hour in the exercise yard."

"You'll have plenty of opportunity for that in the years ahead."

A faint smirk. "Only if you don't do your job."

I rose and stood behind my chair. It may have looked ridiculous, but I felt better. "I could do my job more effectively if you'd participate in the process a bit"

"That so?" He rocked his chair backwards. "You're forgetting it's my body here behind bars, my neck in the noose. I kind of feel like I
am
participating in this whole experience."

"I think you know what I mean."

He turned away to glare at the wall. "Try getting yourself locked up," he mumbled. "You'll get a fine, hands-on education in participation."

Despite the air-conditioned interior, my skin was warm. I could feel my blouse sticking to my back and shoulders. While Wes's eyes were diverted, I reached around and tugged at the neck.

His gaze slid back and fixed on a spot just over my left shoulder. "So, what is it you want from me?" he asked.

"Why don't you start by telling me about those videos the police seized from your place. The ones that are triple X-rated."

The eyes flicked to my face and held there. His mouth twitched in a deliberate, bad-boy grin. 'You want the play-by-play description, or just the plots?"

"How about the one with a mother and daughter? How long have you had it?"

"That make a difference?"

"It might."

"I can't remember how long. A couple of years probably."

"You watch it often?"

"Nope."

"You want to try and be a little more specific?"

Wes shrugged. "What's the big deal here? I've got some films that aren't exactly
Mary Poppins.
I've probably got a copy
(A Playboy
and the Marquis de Sade around the house too. None of that makes me a killer. I don't see the connection."

"The DA will find one. And even if it doesn't make a lot of sense in your mind, it just might in the jury's."

He pressed the knuckles of one hand into the palm of the other. 'Then it's a fucking, stupid system."

"Maybe, but it's the system we have to work in."

Wes said nothing.

"Couldn't you at least have warned us about the videos? Sam asked you if there were going to be any surprises. You didn't tell us about Harlan Bailey and you didn't tell us about the films. Makes me wonder what else you haven't told us."

"I didn't think they were important. Hell, they aren't even mine."

'They aren't?"

"I'm keeping them for a friend."

"Which friend?"

He shook his head. "Uh-uh. That's the reason I'm keeping them. If the guy's wife finds out, he's in big trouble."

"It can't be bigger than the trouble you're in."

"I told you, the videos have absolutely nothing to do with the case. Or the murders."

"But you've watched them?"

"Some of them."

"How about the one with the mother and daughter?"

"Yeah, once. It's not really my kind of thing."

"You watch it recently?"

Wes looked at the ceiling, tapped his foot, then rocked forward so that his body was halfway across the table. "Listen Ms. Big-Shot Attorney, you may have a fancy degree and all, but you're barking up the wrong tree."

I stepped back. He was probably right. I was less inclined than Sam to see the importance of the tapes. I wasn't so sure Willis would see it either.

"Who's Kathy?" I asked, switching trees.

Wes swallowed. "Where'd you hear about Kathy?"

"From Pammy."

His expression relaxed. "Oh."

"Who is she?"

"A friend. From a long time ago."

"Girlfriend?"

"In a manner of speaking."

"Is she the reason you hold women in contempt?"

A puzzled expression. "Where'd you get that?"

"Your comment to Harlan Bailey at the shop. The way you explained it to Sam, you were talking about women in general when you called Lisa Cornell a bitch."

Wes started to say something, then stopped. Closed his eyes for a moment.

"So," I said, "are you going to tell me about Kathy or not?"

'There's nothing to tell. It's been over for years."

'Tell me anyway."

He shrugged. "We went out for a while, then we didn't." There was a trace of bitterness, then a quick recovery.

"You're really coming out of left field today, you know that? First the damn video and now this. Why don't you quit wasting time and get on with preparing for trial?"

"Whose idea was it to stop going out?"

He hesitated, then said, "Hers."

"Where's Kathy now?"

Wes gave a brittle half-laugh. "You aren't going to like this."

'Try me."

"She's dead."

I folded my arms. "Not stabbed, I hope." It sounded crass, and I regretted it the minute the words were out.

"She died of a drug overdose," Wes said. Although I'm sure he tried, he couldn't keep his voice from faltering.

"Were you with her?"

Wes's face hardened. He stood and leaned across the table. "You listen, and listen good. I may not be a prince in a three-piece suit. You know, a guy with a Rolex watch and a Harvard education. But I'm not the lowlife you think I am either."

"I--"

"And I'm
not
guilty of murder."

I stepped back a bit but held his gaze. "Then quit stonewalling and face facts. The police have physical evidence linking you to the crime. You've got no alibi. You've got a co-worker who will testify that you made hostile remarks about Lisa Cornell. You won't explain any of it to us in a way that will allow us to put a favorable spin on it. And now we discover that you're addicted to pornographic snuff films. You tell me what the jury's supposed to think."

Wes's eyes narrowed but he made no response.

"You'd better hope that Willis doesn't find out there's a dead ex-girlfriend in your past."

Wes straightened, shoved his hands in his pockets. The muscle in his jaw worked furiously. We glowered at each other in silence, until, finally, I turned away and crossed to the wall at the rear of the room. Wes Harding was a most exasperating client.

"It would be nice," he said with tight control, "to think there was someone who believed me, someone who believed
in
me."

"Your family does."

Wes laughed hoarsely. "My dad maybe."

"And Pammy."

"Yeah, and Pammy. But not my own attorneys."

"We weren't hired to believe in you; we were hired to defend you. That's what you should be worrying about."

Wes sat again and stretched his legs out straight. The orange overall pants ended well above his ankles. "Let me tell you the way I see it," he said. "Sam's a straight-ahead kind of guy. He doesn't really care whether I'm guilty or not. He's got a job to do and he's going to do it. But with you, it's a different story. You do care. And you're having trouble convincing yourself you're on the right side."

"You want me off the case?"

"I didn't say that. I'm just telling you what's going on here, why you get in my face the way you do."

"I get in your face," I replied, "because I'm trying to do what I was hired to do. You're the one pushing for a speedy trial. Most defendants want to drag it out, give their lawyers ample time to prepare. Two months is difficult under any circumstances. It's especially hard when we don't get any help from you."

"I've been trying to help," Was said levelly. "You jus don't like my answers."

"You've got the last part right." I capped my pen an snapped my notebook shut. Enough was enough. It was almost like he was trying to keep us in the dark.

I was halfway to the door to call the guard when
i
thought struck me. I turned to face Wes. "Are you pro tecting someone, is that what's going on? You're taking th blame, risking your freedom and maybe your life, rathe than tell the truth and implicate a friend?"