The Best Defense (19 page)

No matter how she tried to work the information she had, there remained a missing piece, and without it she had a foot on two different tracks, exactly as her father had claimed from the start.

He simply hadn’t realized that one hand was clutching a third track as if life depended on not letting go.

She had taken seriously his admonition that she might be a hindrance rather than a help to Paula as long as Judge Paltz believed her to be dishonorable. She could not start a trial in his court until that was settled, she understood, but every time she had tried to find a way to clear the air of that business, she hit a wall.

She frowned at the paper she was holding, undecided where to place the report on William Spassero. She sat down to consider him yet again. Everything in his life had been exemplary right up to the time he acquired Paula Kennerman as a client. Good family, money in the background, good education, good prospects. Absolutely unblemished, not a sour note anywhere. She bit her lip in exasperation. He had come to Eugene two years ago, with faultless recommendations, to take the job in the public defender’s office. Not associated with right-or left-wing groups. Presbyterian. Probably would go with Doneally and Jensen in November. And Doneally, evidently, was in Dodgson’s pocket.

Suddenly she stood up.

“What if he didn’t know?”

she said softly, and after a moment she said to herself, “That’s it. He didn’t know.”

She sat down again to think about it, but she felt certain that Bill Spassero had walked into a bear trap without awareness until it closed on him.

She examined this idea for a few more minutes, and then she called Spassero’s office. She listened as someone at the other end yelled for him to pick up the phone.

“Barbara Holloway,” she said when he barked hello.

“I’d like to meet with you to discuss something.”

There was a pause, then he said, “Ms. Holloway, what a coincidence. I was going to call you about that file. I can’t tell you how sorry I am about that. We searched and searched, and just last night I found it at home, under a bunch of stuff. Why don’t I drop it off?”

“Fine,” she said.

“I’m at my father’s office. You know where it is?”

He said he did and would be by in half an hour.

She hung up thoughtfully. She had given up on obtaining the original file; the district attorney’s office had sent over what they said was everything, and she believed them. It seemed complete. And now Spassero had found his file. Interesting, she thought, just interesting.

She had seen him being coolly professional in court;

had seen him grinning with boyish enthusiasm and friendliness; he had been stiff and indignant and very righteous; and then furious. All the roles had been very well performed. The most important lesson he could learn at the public defender’s office was self-control; he would be given A plus if that were a graded subject.

Today when the receptionist, Pam, led him to the office, he was reserved and careful, open, willing to be friends but not pushing anything.

“I really do want to apologize for this,” he said, handing her the bulky file.

“Things happen,” she said.

“Thanks. But this isn’t what I called about. Please, sit down so I can.”

“Of course,” he said agreeably. He sat in one of the overstuffed chairs. She took one facing him.

“All right,” he said.

“What did you call about?”

He was wearing a lightweight suit that looked to be more silk than wool; his shirt appeared to be silk, and his tie. His hair, looking more silvery than gold today, was as fluffy as a cloud, and he had a good tan. His face was set in a pleasant expression, like the going-to-Aunt-Maud’s-tea-party expression he must have worn a lot as a youth.

“Let me tell you what I think happened,” she said.

“You found yourself saddled with Paula Kennerman’s case, not a happy situation, but there it was. A day, two days, maybe a week later, you had a talk with an established attorney here in town who made what seemed like an incredible offer. No resume required, no application, just walk out one door and in through another.”

His expression had changed as she spoke; it now was rigor-mortis blank. Not a muscle on his face twitched.

He could have become deaf in the last minute or so for all the response he was showing. She continued, “And this prestigious attorney said it would be a good idea for him to supervise a case or two, watch you at work, give you a pointer maybe. You leaped at the chance. Who

wouldn’t? A heavensent opportunity, lightning now instead of having to wait a few years. Did you celebrate?

I imagine you did. I would have.” She smiled slightly, then became serious again.

“When did you suspect you were being used? When that article appeared in Dodgson’s paper? I rather imagine that your new friend suggested that Paula needed a doctor, and it happened he knew the right one for her.

Is that how it worked?”

“Enough,” he said, an edge in his voice now.

“I’ve heard about enough.”

“No, you haven’t. Not yet. I’m not finished with my summation, you see. You were taken off the case and Fairchild was put on it and you asked to supervise him, a man with more years of trial experience than you have lived. What an arrogant suggestion that was, and a suggestion that probably didn’t originate with you. Did it? But then Fairchild was removed, and there were no more opportunities to spy on Paula and the development of her case. Were you scolded? Is that why you decided to leave town for a couple of weeks? Was the offer withdrawn, Mr. Spassero?”

He flushed and stood up.

“Last week I signed a contract to continue at the public defender’s office. So much for your fairy tale.”

“I intend to take my fairy tale to Judge Paltz,” she said quietly.

“I don’t intend to start a trial in his court with this hanging.”

“Why did you tell me all this?” he asked, halfway to the door.

“To give you the opportunity to go to Judge Paltz yourself, to admit you were taken in, that you had no idea at the time that Doneally was Dodgson’s attorney.”

He stiffened when she said the name, and she let out a breath softly and finished.

“To tell him that you’ve had time to think about what happened, and realize now that you were too trusting.”

“You’re out to get me, aren’t you? Why? Just a little game you play?”

She shook her head and got to her feet.

“If I have to go to him, he’ll question you. You will either lie or you will admit the truth; in either case you’ll be ruined. If you go, you can save yourself.” She regarded him levelly;

his look had turned bitter.

“I’ll call him next Monday if I haven’t heard from him by then. Good-bye, Mr.

Spassero.”

“Barbara,” Bailey said later that day, “I can tell you a little about the truck in the pictures, but probably not enough.” He looked at Prank questioningly; from his desk, Frank waved him toward the bookshelves. Bailey wandered to the section of shelves with the volumes from T through V, and opened the little bar by pushing against Tyrants. Frank had loved it when he had that addition made to his office. Now Bailey stood considering his options.

Bourbon, Barbara knew. It was always bourbon if he had a choice; if there was no choice, he took whatever was there.

“Just tell me,” she said with a touch of impatience.

“Sure, sure.” He poured his drink first, closed the bar, and slouched into a chair.

“Either Gallead or the guy who works for him, Terry Bossert, leaves after dark now and then in the truck, a Chevy van with no windows in the back, no markings. A couple of days later, before it gets light, the truck comes back. And then leaves again four or five days later for another two-day trip. It repeats just about every six to eight weeks. And that’s it. It heads south, maybe. We know that one time, at least, it either loaded or unloaded five guys in work clothes.”

“Unloaded,” she snapped. The enhanced pictures showed five men heading toward the open gate, where another man was standing, evidently the one who had opened the gate. No features, no identifying marks, no way could it be told who they were, but they were five in number, and they were going in.

“You’ve been watching for more than three weeks now,” she said, thinking.

“If they’re keeping to any kind of schedule, in two or three weeks the truck will take off again. Are you sure Gallead isn’t on to your men out there?” Bailey shrugged. Who could be sure? She went on.

“I don’t want him to change his routine. We need to talk to one of the men. Bailey. Are they regulars or new people each time? Do they have papers? Are they electronics people, drug packagers, pornographers?

What? I need one of them.”

He shrugged again.

“We’ll do what we can. No guarantees about when it leaves again.”

Frank made a growly sound.

“I think it’s time to call in proper help. The state special investigation team, or the D.A.“s special investigators, or even the Feds.

We’ve got enough to interest them.”

They had been through this before. Barbara hardly even glanced at him.

“No, not yet.” She knew a lid could be clamped down hard, that nothing to do with Dodgson or Gallead would be permitted out in the open, and her own case for Paula Kennerman might well be shot out of the water.

Bailey’s source for the Dodgson Publishing Company had said they printed everything: newspapers, magazines, posters, bumper stickers, labels, postcards, letterheads Some jobs even in other languages. The company got a lot of business by fax and modem. He didn’t think Dodgson wrote much of the stuff he ran.

Nothing new, Barbara had thought, listening gloomily to Bailey’s report; it seemed that no matter what they found out, what theories they confirmed with a witness who would testify to the truth of the theory, all she had was a series of speculations, theories strung to theories.

She was afraid that even if they got one of the men who had been delivered to Gallead, what he would tell them would be nothing more than what they already knew or suspected. Still, she told herself, she had to talk to one of them.

Bailey was being extremely cautious, they all knew.

If he slipped up now” the whole operation, whatever it was, might close down overnight, everything disposed of, nothing left to point to, and there would be very hard feelings about not notifying the proper authorities, very hard feelings indeed, possibly charges. Barbara shrugged away the worry. She had to talk to one of the men.

On Friday Judge Paltz had his secretary call her.

While she waited for his voice over the phone, she wiped her hands on a tissue.

“Barbara, how are you?” he began genially.

“It’s too damn hot, isn’t it? Maybe it will break soon.”

She assured him that she was fine and hoped he was, and then he got down to the business of the call.

“I had a little chat with Bill Spassero yesterday, Barbara. I’m afraid he’s been feeling quite perturbed over what turned out to be an innocent mistake. He confessed that he was the source for that article in the Dodgson rag.

Bill believed he was confiding in a valued mentor, but it seems that his confidante was instead a snake in the grass and he only recently came to understand this.

He rendered his most sincere apologies, and no doubt he will be in touch with you.”

“I’m glad that’s been settled,” she said.

“It was a worry.”

“Yes, yes. I know. I think that young man will go far, Barbara. It took a certain amount of courage to face up to what he had done, and he was very forthcoming about it all. He’ll go far.”

Barbara grinned.

Ten days to blast-off, she thought a few nights later, staring at the aerial map of the Canby Ranch, the Dodgson property, the surrounding woods…. Time became a curious ally and enemy all at once.

They had to prepare Paula for the trial; she was going to hear the most gruesome forensic details about how her child had died in a savage, inhuman attack, how severely she had been burned, the condition of her flesh, her skin, her hair…. She could not face all that without preparation; no one could. If she took the stand, another question not yet settled, she would face a grueling examination by the prosecutor; she had to be prepared for that. Few people were ever subjected to the kind of questioning that the witness chair permitted for hours at a time, days at a time.

Lucille Reiner shopped for her sister. Nothing fancy, Barbara warned her. Simple lines, no frills, washable clothes would be fine in this weather, hose, low shoes.

Just keep it simple, not black, no mourning now, but not wild prints either, and long sleeves, she had added.

Lucille had nodded, awed by the amount of money Barbara gave her for the purchases: three outfits, one pair of shoes, panty hose, underwear, a lightweight jacket in case the weather changed.

There was so much to do: review all the reports, listen again to all the tapes watch one more time the video Janey had provided, reread the Dodgson papers, which had been returned temporarily to Bessie’s office to his great relief…. It all had to be done in real time, without shortcuts. The days were too short, and, strangely, tomorrow with its new reports, new bits of in formation, new insights, tomorrow seemed unreachable, until all at once it had been there and was yesterday.

On Friday before Labor Day she realized how scant her own wardrobe was for this season. She hurriedly shopped for herself-^two skirts, two blouses, one dress and then she picked out a beige silk and ramie jacket that would go with everything she owned, but that wasn’t why she bought it. She wanted it because the fabric was beautiful, the garment was well tailored, well designed, and most of all or maybe even the only reason was because she loved it. She grinned at herself in the mirror modeling the jacket, and knew this was not the sort of rationale that her father would under stand, and it was not exactly the best way to hold down expenses, which she had agreed to do. But she loved the jacket.

Then, because time was behaving so mysteriously, she had the impression that she no sooner took off the jacket to have it wrapped, to pay for it, than she was putting it on again, on Tuesday morning. Countdown had come to an end.