See Jane Die (16 page)

“What's included in the indictment is crucial. The prosecution can't change their mind later, they can't switch to a lesser charge—or a greater one for that matter. A defendant can only be convicted of the specific crime with which they were charged. Before indicting, the state carefully considers the evidence in an attempt to determine what charge they can get a conviction on. A savvy prosecutor includes every allowable charge in a murder indictment. For example, both murder in the first and second degree.

“To seek the death penalty the charge must include what's called special circumstances. In order to be death eligible, as it's termed, certain criterian must be met. This criteria varies from state to state but includes multiple murder, murder for financial gain, hate-crime murders, murders of police officers, witnesses, prosecutors and judges, murders that are particularly cruel, unusual or heinous, and the murder of a child under six years of age.”

He paused, as if to give her time to absorb the information. “The crimes Ian's being accused of fit several of those criteria, Jane.”

He handed her a box of tissues. She hadn't realized she was crying. She took several and dabbed at her eyes.

Whit spoke up. “Isn't there a chance the prosecution will decide to try the cases separately?”

“There is,” the other attorney agreed. “The Vanmeer homicide could be argued to be a crime of passion, carrying a charge of voluntary manslaughter. The Tanner homicide, on the other hand, was far more heinous and obviously premeditated.”

Whit glanced at her. “A crime of passion,” he explained, “lacks two of the necessary elements of murder one, premeditation and malice aforethought.”

“Exactly,” Elton said. “If the state lumps the two cases together, they're taking a bit of a chance. If the jury can't convict on one, the other becomes suspect as well. There's no lesser charge for the jury to fall back on. However, my gut instinct here is that they're going to go with capital
murder, that they're planning on building a carefully orchestrated case, linking the two crimes.

“So,” Elton continued, “until the indictment comes in, let's consider the worst-case scenario for now—capital murder with special circumstances.”

Jane listened to the men, struggling to focus on what they were saying and not on the denial that held her in its grip. To help Ian, she had to understand the process.

“The death penalty is not decided upon until after conviction,” Elton continued, “during the sentencing phase of the trial. In Texas, the jury is asked to consider these questions when deciding if the death sentence is right and just. Did the defendant commit the murder deliberately and with expectation that the victim would die? Is there a probability that the defendant would pose a continuing threat to society? And was the conduct of the defendant an unreasonable response to provocation of the victim, if there was provocation? If the jury responds unanimously yes to all three of these, the trial judge must sentence the defendant to death.”

“But he didn't do it,” she said weakly. “It's a mistake—”

He leaned toward her, apple-cheeked and earnest. “Now for the good news, Jane. I don't have to prove your husband innocent. He is innocent unless the prosecution can prove him guilty beyond a shadow of a doubt. The burden of proof rests on them. All we need to do is weaken the prosecution's claims. Create doubt.”

“How do you do that?” she asked, hopeful for the first time since Ian had been taken away in handcuffs.

“Examine the evidence, poke holes in it. Something I'm an expert in, particularly with circumstantial evidence. And from what I know of the case so far, they have nothing but circumstantial evidence against your husband. Yes, many a man has been convicted on that—and less—however, those men were not represented by me. Frankly, Jane, I'm the best defense money can buy.”

She glanced at Whit, then back at Elton. “I'm very glad to hear that.”

“A note of caution. The situation changes dramatically when there's physical evidence involved. Juries love physical evidence because it gives them something concrete to hang their verdict on. DNA from blood or other body fluids. Fingerprints. Eyewitnesses, hair or fiber.”

“There won't be any of that,” she said firmly, “because he didn't do it.”

“Then that should make our work easy.” He steepled his fingers, his broad, pleasant face inspiring trust. “But perhaps I'm jumping the gun here? Are you hiring me to represent your husband?”

Something about him made her like him, despite the grim news he had imparted. He simply looked honest. Trustworthy.
How could this sprightly imp of a man lie?
She would bet that quality was pure gold with juries. Her gut told her she and Ian would find no better lawyer to defend him.

“Absolutely. You've got the job.”

“Shall I go over my fee schedule?”

“I don't care what your representation costs, Whit says you're the best and I trust him. I want my husband back.”

“Very good, then.” He stood. “It's time to get to work proving your husband not guilty.”

Thursday, October 23, 2003
3:30 p.m
.

T
he Jesse Dawson State Jail, where Ian was being held, was a large, grim affair with keyhole windows and a noticeable absence of landscaping. In stark contrast to the deliberately imposing and beautiful red-brick-and-glass Frank Crowley Courts Building across the street, the jail looked both forlorn and frightening. The kind of place a parent pointed to and said “See that? Be good or you'll end up there.”

The inside, Jane had learned, was just as grim; the officers manning the facility humorless, direct to the point of rudeness.

She rubbed her arms, chilled. She had voted to wait for Elton outside, despite the cold. She hated it in there. It had been oppressive and depressing. She had found herself growing angry.

Ian didn't belong there. She was going to get him out, no matter the cost.

Elton was with him now. He had expected their meeting would take thirty or forty minutes. When he emerged, it would be her turn. She was allowed a one-half-hour visit, once a week. They would be separated by glass and allowed only to communicate by phone, in the presence of a guard.

Not being able to touch him would be torture, but at least she would be able to see for herself that he was okay.

Only a few more minutes.

Jane glanced up at the brilliant blue sky. In the hour since their initial meeting, Elton had spoken both with the D.A. assigned to try the case against Ian and to the police. He had learned that the grand jury was hearing the charges against Ian that afternoon. The prosecutor had promised Elton the indictment today. Other than expressing confidence in his case, the man had said little else.

Jane shivered, though not from the cold. She was both terrified and hopeful, angry and resigned. How could the prosecutor be confident when Ian was innocent? She kept telling herself that Elton Crane was the best, that he would blow the state's case apart—maybe even before they went to trial. She even dared to hope that the real killer would be found in the meantime and Ian would be set free.

But the police weren't looking for the real killer—they thought they had him already.

Pacing, she rehearsed what she would say when she saw her husband, how she would act. She had to maintain her composure, couldn't fall apart. He needed her to be strong. Confident. She wouldn't mention the clipping and its ominous message. It would only make him worry, only increase his feelings of helplessness and frustration.

She had decided to cancel her show. The timing was wrong. She needed to devote all her energy to Ian. And their baby.

“Jane?”

She stopped, turned. Elton stood in the doorway. He motioned her inside.

“How is he?” she asked when she reached him.

“Good,” Elton assured her. “Anxious to see you.”

“You told him everything?”

“Yes.” He touched her elbow, steering her toward the desk officer. He told the man who she was here to see and she signed in. They made their way through the metal detector, her handbag through the X ray.

The lawyer touched her arm. “I'll make some calls while you're in with Ian. The indictment might be in.”

She followed the guard. He led her to the visitation area, a bank of open cubicles, similar to teller windows at a bank, only sealed with Plexiglas. A single wooden chair sat on either side of each cubicle.

“Wait here,” he said, indicating the one marked “6.”

She sat. Seconds ticked by, seeming like hours. She found it difficult to breathe past the tightness in her chest. Past the thundering of her heart. She clasped her hands together; her palms were damp.

Then she saw him. A cry slipping past her lips, she jumped to her feet. She didn't know what she had expected, but certainly not this drawn, beaten-looking man in an orange jumpsuit. He looked like he had aged five years in the past twenty-four hours.

She picked up the phone. He did the same. The guard who had escorted Ian in took a place behind him, hand on his gun.

As if uncomfortable with the other man's presence, Ian angled away from him. As he did, she got a better view of the right side of his face. An ugly bruise marred the right side of his jaw.

“My God,” she said, alarmed. “What happened?”

“It's not what you think. I fell.” He leaned toward the glass, expression naked with yearning. “I couldn't stop thinking about you last night. Worrying. About how you were doing. What you were thinking. About the baby.”

“We're fine. I'm fine.” She held the phone tightly to her ear as if it would bring him closer. “Don't worry about us.”

“No, I need to. Thinking about you is the only thing that keeps me sane. I miss you so much. I miss…us.”

Jane fought to get a hold of her runaway despair. “It's going to be okay. Elton is supposed to be the best. Whit said so. He'll get you out of here.”

A cloud moved over Ian's expression. “He laid it all out for me. What they're saying. I didn't do it, Jane.”

“I know you didn't.”

“I couldn't hurt anyone,” he went on, as if she hadn't spoken. “The last time I saw Marsha was that night when she left work. I was home the night Elle was murdered.”

She laid her hand on the Plexiglas, aching to hold him. To comfort him. “I know,” she said. “I believe you.”

He fitted his palm against hers; though separated by the glass, she found comfort in it. “I don't deserve you.”

“Don't say that.”

“I never cheated on you, Jane. I love you. I love our baby.” His voice broke. “You believe me, don't you?”

“Yes.” The word came out a choked whisper. “Of course I do.”

“Without you, I won't make it through this.”

“We will make it, Ian. I promise you that. I'll prove you're innocent. I don't know how, but I will.”

“Thank you.” He moved his fingers against the Plexiglas in a kind of caress.

“I'm canceling my show.”

“I knew you were going to say that. But I'm not going to let you do it, Jane. You've worked too hard.”

“It means nothing to me now. Without you, none of it matters. Besides, I have to devote my full attention to getting you out of here. No distractions.”

“If you cancel because of me, I'll never forgive myself. Promise me you won't.”

She tried to argue. He refused to allow it. In the end, she promised not to, though her heart wasn't in it. How could she devote her thoughts or enthusiasm to anything right now? How could she move through her life pretending it wasn't falling apart?

Elton was waiting outside for her. “I have news,” he said. “The indictment's in.”

Jane braced herself. “It's bad, isn't it?”

“I'm sorry, Jane. He's being charged with capital murder with special circumstances. The State plans to ask for the death penalty.”

Thursday, October 23, 2003
11:05 p.m
.

T
he jangle of the phone dragged Jane from deep sleep. Her eyes snapped open. In that moment, all was right with her world. Ian slept beside her. She was pregnant with their first child; life was good.

Then reality crashed down on her. The murders. Ian's arrest. The clipping with its boldly scrawled message.

I did it on purpose. To hear your screams
.

The phone jangled again. The portable receiver lay on the bed stand; she grabbed it. “Hello?” she managed, voice froggy with sleep.

“Mrs. Westbrook?”

“Yes?”

“Trish Daniels from the
Dallas Morning News
. I wondered if I could get a statement from you about your husband's arrest?”

Jane came fully awake. “Do you have any idea what time it is?”

“I apologize for the timing, Mrs. Westbrook, but—”

“No.” Her voice rose. “If you want a statement, call my husband's attorney, Elton Crane.”

“We understand Terry Stockton's asking for the death penalty. A statement would—”

Jane hung up on the woman and in a burst of anger threw the receiver across the room. It hit the dresser and broke open, its battery pack spilling out.

Elton had warned her this might happen. The double homicide was big news; her and Ian's involvement made it sexy—the handsome plastic surgeon and his quasi famous artist wife, a hometown girl who had fought her way back from tragedy to find fame and true love. The police version of the story had all the elements the press loved to print and the public lapped up: sex, betrayal, greed and murder.

It made her sick to think of it. At least they didn't know about her pregnancy. Yet. No doubt they would find out. When they did they would exploit it.

Jane sat up, pushed her hair away from her face. The attorney had advised her that the press could be merciless, that she should expect them to lay in wait for her and to call at all hours.

He had advised her to say nothing, simply refer them to him. He had stressed the importance of her maintaining silence. For now. The less in the media, the better. When the time was right, they would plant the information they wanted disseminated.

She had thought him exaggerating. She had been certain maintaining her cool would be easy.

She had been wrong on both counts. Reporters had been waiting for her when she arrived home earlier that afternoon. The phone had rung all afternoon and evening. With each call, each “No comment,” the urge to give the caller a piece of her mind had become stronger, the compulsion to jump to Ian's defense more urgent.

She had resisted. She wouldn't give them words to twist and use against him.

Elton felt the media would ease up after the arraignment Monday morning. After that, Ian would cease to be breaking news and they would look for fresh meat.

She climbed out of bed, stepped over Ranger and padded
to the bathroom. She felt crampy and queasy. She frowned, wondering if that was normal at this stage of pregnancy. She had purchased a book on what to expect during each month of pregnancy but hadn't begun reading it yet. In truth, the giddy excitement she had felt at the bookstore the day she'd bought it seemed a lifetime ago.

It had been less than a week.

After emptying her bladder, Jane crossed to the sink for a drink of water. She filled the glass and drank. As she did, she caught sight of herself in the mirror. Pale, sunken cheeks. Alarmingly dark circles under her eyes. She looked exhausted.

She needed rest, she acknowledged. The baby needed her to rest. How much help could she be to Ian if she was dead on her feet? Or landed herself in the hospital?

How much help was she being to him now?

She drained the glass, flipped off the light and started back to bed, stopping halfway there. The night he'd been arrested, Ian had said the police had come to his office with a search warrant. They'd taken his computers and appointment books. Some patient files, Elle Vanmeer's among them, no doubt.

What had they been looking for?

The police believed Ian had been having an affair with Elle Vanmeer. They believed him to be in financial trouble. That he had killed the woman to keep her from telling his wife about the affair—not because he feared losing Jane, but her millions. They believed he had killed Marsha to keep her from implicating him.

Jane brought the heels of her hands to her eyes, fighting to stay at least marginally objective. If she allowed herself to focus on their accusations, she would lose it. She couldn't. She had to stay sharp.

They were building their case against him. They would have taken all his financial information. All telephone and appointment records, looking for evidence of his affair.

Maybe they had missed something. Something that would point to his innocence. It made sense—after all, how could they find something they weren't looking for?

But what? And where could she look? She narrowed her eyes in thought. Everything would have been on the computers and the police had confiscated them all.

The computers, she realized. Of course.

When they'd moved to the new office, Marsha had backed everything up on CD. In case the computer hard drives were damaged in the move.

She would bet her life that those CDs were still there.

Jane threw on a pair of jeans and a sweater. Ranger watched her, then got to his feet and followed her out to the kitchen. She collected her purse and keys, then looked at the dog.

“Not this time, pal. Sorry.”

He woofed softly, as if in argument. Jane frowned, then glanced toward the front windows and the dark, starless sky.

I did it on purpose. To hear your screams
.

He could be out there. Waiting. Watching.

Fear propelled her to the pantry. She retrieved the animal's leash and a flashlight. She snapped the lead onto his collar. “Good point, Ranger. You ride shotgun.”

Moments later they reached the street. A music festival was in full swing two blocks over on Elm. Light spilled from the tattoo parlor down the block; a couple of teenagers lounged in front, smoking. After Ranger had taken care of his immediate needs, she packed them both into the SUV and started off.

Jane reached the clinic and parked in back, in a spot hidden by the Dumpster. She cracked the windows for Ranger, told him to stay put and climbed out. She entered through the rear door, noting with concern that the alarm hadn't been set. She wondered who had been last to leave and chastened herself for not making certain the clinic was secure in Ian's absence.

From inside came the hum of a copier left on. The exit sign above the door cast a reassuring red glow in the otherwise dark hallway. Eschewing the overhead, she flipped on the flashlight and made her way toward the front of the building and Marsha's office. She felt a bit foolish at playing
this so cloak-and-dagger; after all, she co-owned the business and had every right to be here. But she didn't want to draw attention to herself. Didn't want the police to know she was anything but a helpless little wife.

And if she found anything, she wanted Elton to have it first.

Ian's was a small practice and Marsha had served as both office manager and receptionist. Her office opened to the reception area so she could greet and check in patients as they arrived.

Jane reached it. She swept the flashlight beam over the desk, seeing that, as she had suspected, the police had confiscated the computer. The appointment books as well. The desktop looked naked.

She headed to Ian's office. His desktop computer was also gone.

She smiled to herself. She didn't need them, thanks to Marsha's competency.

Jane decided to locate the CDs first, then look around for something the police might have missed. Her gut told her they had missed something, that if she looked carefully enough, she would uncover some piece of evidence that would help prove Ian innocent.

She wished her gut would give her a clue as to what that might be.

Jane moved her gaze over the space, taking in the credenza, file cabinets and desk drawers. The closed door to the walk-in supply closet.

She decided on the credenza first. She squatted in front of it, and propping the flashlight so its beam illuminated the interior, she began going through the contents. Supplies, she saw. Paper for the fax and copier. Stationery. Envelopes.

A box of CD jewel cases.

Jane retrieved the box, opened it and with trembling fingers flipped through the CDs. Sure enough, the CDs were marked: NextGen medical software. Quicken 12.0. FileMaker Pro 6.

Bingo. Right out of the gate
.

She carried the box to Marsha's desk. A dozen photos graced its top—of the woman's nieces and nephews, several of Marsha and her dog. A lump formed in Jane's throat, even as anger rushed over her. Ian hadn't done this. And she wouldn't let the monster who had get away with it.

She searched the desk drawers. Mostly supplies: paper clips, rubber bands and staples. Jane made a sound of frustration. The police, it seemed, had even taken the telephone message pads.

Looking for records of Elle Vanmeer's calls
.

The realization should have made her squirm. It didn't. She was over that, focusing now not on what they had found, but what they had not.

She crossed to the bank of file cabinets. She slid open the drawer containing patients whose names began with Vs. She thumbed through. Elle Vanmeer's file was gone. No surprise there.

On a whim, she began scanning patient names, from V through Z, then moving up to the beginning of the alphabet. There were more names than she had expected, patients Ian had taken with him when he bought out of his partnership in the Dallas Center for Cosmetic Surgery.

The names meant nothing to her until one jumped out. A woman prominent in the art community. Then another from the society pages. She finished the Bs and moved on to the Cs. She thumbed through, stopping on the name Gretchen Cole.

One of her art subjects.

Jane frowned. When had she become a patient of Ian's?

After she had interviewed the woman. Because she had introduced them, Jane remembered. She worked to recall how it had happened. She had wrapped her session with Gretchen. She and Ted had been scheduling dates for her molds. Ian had stopped in to invite her to lunch. She had made the introductions.

No big deal. It had happened several times befo—

Sharon Smith. Lisette Gregory. And others…a few, anyway. She struggled to recall, but her mind had gone blank.
She slid Gretchen's file out of the drawer, opened it, confirmed her memory was accurate and returned it to the drawer. She then went to the Gs, thumbed through, then stopped.

Lisette Gregory
.

She checked the date. Like Gretchen, Lisette had become Ian's patient after their work together. And like the other woman, she'd had breast augmentation.

It didn't mean anything, Jane told herself, even as she replaced that file and shifted her search to names beginning with the letter S.

There she was—Sharon Smith
.

Jane stared at the typed name, a trembling sensation stealing over her. A feeling of hurt. Betrayal. Why hadn't Ian mentioned that several of her art subjects had become his patients? Subjects she had introduced him to? One she could shrug off, but three? What did it mean?

Business is a little slow; visit Jane's studio. The poor things are neurotically insecure. Easy pickings
.

No. Ian was a plastic surgeon, a damn good one. Many of her subjects were plastic surgery junkies. Women obsessed with youth and beauty. Women always on the lookout for the next, newest procedure to improve their looks—and the surgeon who could make it happen.

There could be more. She would have to go through every file to be certain. She began to close the drawer, then froze at the sound of a door clicking shut. Where? The rear, she realized. Had she forgotten to lock the door?

Jane switched off her flashlight. She heard what sounded like soft footfalls. Quiet breathing. She craned her neck, saw the beam from a flashlight bouncing across the back wall.

Panicked, Jane looked for a hiding place. Her gaze landed on the door to the supply closet.

Leaping to her feet, she darted for it. She ducked inside, pulling the door nearly shut behind her. She peered through the crack. She saw a figure standing just inside the doorway, dressed entirely in black. A woman, Jane decided, judging by her size and what she could make out of her silhouette.
As Jane watched, the woman crossed to the patient files. She slid the drawer Jane had been going through shut, then opened another. Holding her penlight between her teeth, she began thumbing through the files.

She found what she was looking for, straightened and slid the drawer shut. As she turned, the flashlight beam passed directly across Jane, momentarily blinding her.