Part 26 (1/2)
”No,” she said.
”No, you don't see ...?”
”No,” Addie interrupted, ”he was not s.e.xually deviant.” In the background, there was a snap as Wes broke the arm off a little clay figurine of a fisherman that sat on her father's bookshelves. He hastily balanced it and turned away, muttering an apology.
”Was St. Bride ever violent toward you?”
Addie raised her chin. ”He was the gentlest man I've ever met.”
”Did he drink?”
Her lips formed a thin line. She knew what the prosecutor was getting at; and G.o.d help her, even if Jack was guilty, she didn't want to contribute to his downfall any more than she already had.
”Ms. Peabody?”
Then again, a girl was out there. A girl who had been raped.
”He was drinking that night,” Addie admitted. ”With my father.”
”I see,” Matt said. ”Were you together that night?”
”He left my house about nine-thirty P.M P.M. My father was with him until eleven-thirty P.M P.M. I didn't see him again until one-thirty in the morning.”
”Did he tell you where he'd been?”
Addie closed her eyes. ”No. And I ... I never asked.”
The dimpled ball sailed over the wide, green sea of the driving range, landing somewhere in the vicinity of a sand trap. Without missing a beat, Jordan bent down and took another one out of the bucket to balance on the tee. He lifted his club, readying for the swing ... and jerked at Selena's voice.
”Whose face are you seeing on that little thing? Houlihan's ... or St. Bride's?”
Jordan swung and carried through, shading his eyes against the sun to see the ball fall way off the mark. ”Didn't anyone ever tell you not to interrupt a golfer?”
Selena set down the peel of the orange she was dissecting and popped the first section into her mouth. ”You're not a golfer, Jordan; you're a dilettante.”
Ignoring her, Jordan hit three more b.a.l.l.s. ”Got a question for you.”
”Shoot.”
”If you were charged with murder, who would you get to defend you?”
Selena frowned, considering for a moment. ”I think I'd try for Mark D'Amato. Or Ralph Concannon, if Mark wasn't available.”
Jordan glanced at her over his shoulder. ”Mark's good,” he conceded.
She burst out laughing. ”G.o.d, Jordan, you've got to work on your poker face. Go on, ask me why I didn't pick you.”
He set down his club. ”Well ... why not?”
”Because you're the only person I'd ever get angry enough with to actually kill, so you wouldn't be around to defend me. Happy now?”
”I'm not sure,” Jordan frowned. ”Let me think on it.”
Selena glanced at the half bucket of b.a.l.l.s. ”You get enough stress out of your system to tell me about your meeting this morning?”
”That might take six buckets.” He rubbed the back of his neck. ”Why do I feel that this one's gonna be a huge pain in the a.s.s?”
”Because St. Bride is dragging you out of a cushy retirement. An open-and-shut acquittal would still make you grumpy. Is he gonna plead?”
”Nope. Our marching orders are to go to trial.”
”No kidding?”
”You heard me.”
She shrugged. ”Okay. Do we have a game plan?”
”We've got nothing from our esteemed client, who's conveniently amnesiac. Which means you get to prove the girl is a liar.”
Selena was so quiet that Jordan went through six more shots before he realized she hadn't responded. ”I know,” he commiserated. ”It'll be next to impossible. Everything I've seen in her statement checks out so far.”
”No, that's not what I was thinking.” She looked up. ”Who's Dr. Horowitz?”
”You've got me. Someone from ER ER?”
”He ... or she ... is the doctor mentioned in the victim's statement. My guess is a psychiatrist Gillian Duncan met with in the past.”
For the first time that day, Jordan's ball landed within spitting distance of the flag. He turned slowly from the green and stared at Selena, who raised her brows and handed him the last slice of the orange. As he took it, their fingers brushed. ”Good guess,” he said.
It was all Jack could do to look at the pile of clothes folded neatly on the chair beside him and not start scratching.
In the three days he'd been in solitary confinement, he'd been fastidious about showering. At first, he'd dried off with his T-s.h.i.+rt. Then, as it began to mildew, he let himself air dry, bare-chested. But to be brought to the superintendent's office, the guard made him put on his s.h.i.+rt again. It stuck to his skin and smelled like the bottom of a sewage tank.
Jack looked longingly at the clothes. ”Attractive, aren't they?” the superintendent said. ”They're yours for the taking.”
”No, thank you.”
”Mr. St. Bride, you've made your point.”
Jack smiled. ”Tell me that when you're standing in my shoes.”
”The clothing is for your own safety.”
”No, it's for yours. yours. You want me to put on that jumpsuit so that every other man in here knows I follow your rules. But the minute I do, you've got control of me.” You want me to put on that jumpsuit so that every other man in here knows I follow your rules. But the minute I do, you've got control of me.”
The superintendent's eyes gleamed; Jack knew he was treading on very thin ice. ”We don't use our solitary cells as penthouse suites. You can't stay there forever.”
”Then let me wear my clothes into a regular cell.”
”I can't do that.”