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“It was the wife,” Richard states, almost matter-of-factly.
Neither myself nor Reese comment as they proceed to debate their points of view. I half listen, reading through all the Walker notes, which include some phone calls between the wife and the victim, as well as a few emails about meetups. “There’s nothing that proves the wife is the killer,” I say. “But I find the meetings curious. Reese, does your client know about those meetings?”
Reese turns to face us. “Good question,” he says, walking to a chair right by me and sitting down. “He’s not answering his phone.”
“The boyfriend did it anyway,” Elsa interjects. “We have police reports of a violent history. Fights. Domestic disturbances.”
“None with the victim,” Richard points out. “And all years ago, when he was a punk kid.”
“In the absence of evidence,” I say, “we have to make the suspects believe we have it.”
“Exactly,” Reese says. “Let’s get a list of questions and cover every possible way they might be answered.”
“We can’t predict where the questions will lead,” I say. “But we can come up with scenarios.”
“The challenge,” he says, “is that I don’t want the jury to simmer on the heels of a hot testimony that helps us. I need to get a closing ready that I can tweak slightly based on courtroom action, and go in for the kill fast and hard.”
We all agree, and for the next two hours, we work on prep for the wife. Reese is focused on his trial, not on me, but when our eyes collide, I feel it in every inch of my body. And I like watching him with his team, the way he interacts with them, the fierceness of his beliefs in each communication. We’ve all just filled room service cups with coffee from the pot Reese ordered when Liz calls my cellphone I have sitting on the coffee table. I inhale on the memory of her words, and pick up my phone and myself from the floor. Reese, who has been reading through his notes, looks up, and I look away before he reads something in me I don’t want him to read.
Crossing the room, I feel Reese watching me, curious, perhaps too intuitive about my present mood, which is tense and fired up. I pass the stairwell and answer the call. “Just a minute,” I say, even as I exit to the hallway and cross through to the living room, where I will have privacy. “Are you there?” I ask, stepping to the window I’d stood at with Reese last night.
“Yes,” Liz says. “I’m here. I saw you called. I had a meeting this afternoon.”
It feels like a fake excuse, and that just drives me to get right to the point. “Dan stands for everything I don’t like about the legal system,” I say. “I’m not writing a book with him, and nothing you say to me is going to change that.”
“The damage is already done,” she replies. “The publisher is not happy. But I have to ask, because I have to explain this when asked. How is Dan a problem for you, but you’ll sleep with the guy defending a killer?”
“What? Did you really just say that to me? Have you read my columns at all? There is no proof that the defendant is guilty. You don’t convict an innocent man just to please the public.” I remember Reese’s courtroom statement. “Or to get a book deal. You know what, Liz? I think you need to represent Dan, not me.”
“What? No. I’m just being frank.”
“I’m glad you are. It tells me that we don’t match up. And I’ve learned that when I expect those kinds of relationships to improve, they don’t. They become poison. I’m sorry.” I hang up, and the reality of what I just did hits me hard and fast. I fired my agent. Oh God. I fired my agent. That’s a big deal.
I press my hands on the rail around the window and replay the conversation. My mind races so fast I don’t even hear Reese approach. Suddenly, he’s behind me, his hand on my belly, his body cradling mine. My body warms everywhere he touches and everywhere I instinctively want to be touched by this man. “How long have you been there?”
“I heard the call,” he says. “All the important parts.”
I face him, leaning on the rail around the window. “You’re nosy.”
“Concerned, and you were talking louder than you realized.”
“Oh. I was?”
“Yes. You were. And back to me being concerned.”
“No. Yes. I mean, firing Liz was the right choice. She has different priorities than I do.”
“Are you sure? Or have you made this personal?”
I think about her reprimanding my brother over ignoring my New York Times achievement. “I think she cares about my career, but only when it pays her well. And I get that, too. She needs to get paid. I’m just not willing to get her paid doing what she wants me to do. It’s just one of those decisions that you make, and then you get drunk on ice cream and chocolate afterward and move on.”
“Okay. Then we’ll have chocolate and ice cream for dinner. But you should write the book, just do it your way. It’ll sell.”
And just that easily, he becomes the first man in my life that has told me to do something my way, not his. Especially when it might affect him, and this will. I’d be writing about him to a rather large extent. “Maybe,” I say. “I’ll think about it. Right now, let’s go win your trial.”
“You’re good in there, Cat. Really damn good.”
And he gives compliments. I do like this man. “Thank you.”
