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“Judge Ambrose and Howard Pickett are staying at the hotel. I was talking to Ambrose when Pickett showed up. We got into the elevator and Pickett asked me what floor I was staying on. I told him.”
“And you think...?” began Jack.
“Anyone could have found out what floor I was on. But he didn’t know what number my room was. Although he could have gotten that information. I was surprised because Ambrose was polite to me, and even stood up to Pickett when he started his racist stump speech.”
Jack nearly dropped his fork. “Seriously?”
“Yes. He told me he was retired and then was called in to take this case. I asked him who had called him, but that’s when Pickett showed up and I never got an answer.”
“Well, Ambrose treated us pretty fairly on the trial date.”
She put her cup down and studied him.
“What?” he said.
“Up till now it’s just been the calm before the storm, Jack. Even with the attempt on my life. The real battle hasn’t even started.” She looked at him questioningly. “So are you good?”
“I’m good, Desiree,” he replied immediately, meeting her eye.
“I hope so,” she said. “I’m counting on you.”
After Jack showered and dressed they headed over to Sam Randolph’s home.
“I’d like to know how Battle was able to get that search warrant issued that found the money at Jerome’s. He had to have a witness to tell him that it might be there.”
“We should be able to confront that witness,” said Jack.
“We’ll move to get the search warrant and the affidavit and any other information they might have. Maybe we can have all of it excluded.”
“Jerome doesn’t deny he put the money in the lean-to.”
“But I don’t want the jury drawing negative inferences from that discovery. One frame does not make a whole picture. And the whole matters a lot more than the individual parts, because that conveys an entire story to the jury.”
They turned down Cottage Street, which contained columns of small, aging homes, some better kept up than others. They pulled into Randolph’s driveway, eased from the Fiat, and looked around. The lawn was dead, the flowerbeds sloppy and untended, the bushes overgrown, with clumps of dead leaves scattered among the green. The house itself was in disrepair; everything seemed to sag with time and lack of care. A one-car garage with peeling paint stood at the back of the property. Jack walked over and tried the banged-up overhead door, but it was locked.
They walked up the crumbling concrete sidewalk to the front door and Jack knocked. They heard footsteps and Randolph opened the door. He wore camel-colored slacks and a T-shirt. He held a newspaper and had on a pair of black specs with thickened lenses.
His body clearly looked withered, and his coloring appeared grayish in the light.
“What are you doing here?” he exclaimed.
“We need to ask you some questions,” said Jack.
“Not now.” He started to close the door, but Jack put a hand against it.
“You’re on a witness list provided by the commonwealth. That gives us the right to question you and take your statement.”
“I... I was actually going out somewhere. On business.”
“Okay, we can follow you and then we can meet after you’ve finished your business. What kind of car do you drive, by the way?”
“Jesus Christ. All right, all right.” Randolph stepped back and waved them in.
The interior held cheap furnishings, stacks of clutter, smells of fried foods, and an air of general neglect that corresponded with the exterior.
Jack noticed the pill bottles lying everywhere, along with some opened mail. Randolph hurried them into the next room, which was a small den furnished with a cracked leather couch and a wooden chair. The square of carpet underneath was badly faded, with loose threads sticking out.
“Let’s make this as snappy as possible,” he said irritably.
