and she stands there for a long time, watching the chilly scene and weighing things, before going to ask her father if she can borrow his old Jeep.
TWELVE
Jefferson County Jail
Friday
Randy Vanderholt hears the lock snick open and hopes that someone is bringing him an early lunch. Instead, a guard who looks like Mike Tyson looms in the doorway. He grumbles, “Your lawyer’s here,” then steps aside and lets in a tall, thin guy with a stoop.
“Clyde Pierson,” the lawyer says, extending a hand.
Vanderholt waves his fingers at the man, and Pierson calls the guard back to have the restraints removed.
Vanderholt sits up on the bed, rolls his shoulders and stretches. “Where’s the other guy?” he asks. “I mean, I already talked to one lawyer, right?”
“Bradley? He was just getting the basic info, filling in while I was on vacation. I’ll be your public defender from here on.” Pierson seats himself on a plastic chair and sets his large briefcase on the floor beside him. He clicks it open, saying, “So, how are you feeling?”
“Hungry.”
“I’ll take that as a good sign. Eat and get strong. We don’t want you trying to off yourself again, okay?”
Vanderholt starts to say something, but just makes a face.
Pierson extracts a folder from his briefcase and spreads it open on his lap. Without looking up, he says, “So, Mr. Vanderholt, you’ve been in prison before.”
“Yeah, but that was just car theft, was all.”
“Lighter charge, sure.” The lawyer flips through a few more papers and grunts. “Listen, I’m not going to sugarcoat anything. The prosecution has your confession, plus a helluva crime scene, and a highly sympathetic young girl as a witness. Even your own photographs, man.”
“But I took good care of her. You gotta understand that. You gotta give me some credit for that.”
Pierson says nothing.
“So? What can you do to save me?” Vanderholt’s tone is halfway between a complaint and a whine.
Pierson gives him a weary look. “Diminished capacity?”
“Hey, I’m not crazy.”
Pierson shakes his head. “You tried to kill yourself, Randy. I’ll have an expert come and talk with you, okay? That’s standard.”
“You don’t really believe I’m crazy, do you?”
“I’m just saying that it’s worth considering, seeing how it might pan out. It could be an option, okay?”
Vanderholt scowls at him.
“I’ve got to do my best to represent you.” Pierson shifts in his chair. “But listen, you’ve got to work with me. They’re going to scrape every last bit of evidence off the walls of both of those basements, you know.”
“Yeah? So?”
“So, this is hot and they’re going full-bore. They’re planning your arraignment for early next week.”
Vanderholt winces. “But we’ll plead not guilty, right?”
“Sure. We’ll make them sweat as long as possible. We’ll look for mistakes. We’ll work the angles. But I want you to think seriously about cutting a deal.”
Vanderholt closes his eyes and mumbles.
“I think there could be an offer. That could be your best chance.”
“But they’ll crucify me.”
“You don’t really want to risk a jury trial, do you? Put Tilly Cavanaugh on the stand?”
“But she won’t, ah, I mean—”
“And she’s just your first problem. We’re talking DNA, here. They’re working damn hard to link you with those other girls.”
“What other girls?”
Pierson squints at him.
“What other girls?” he asks again.
“Hannah and Abby.”
“I don’t know about any other girls. Only mine.”
“You sure about that? Because if they find the least scrap of evidence linking you to Hannah Creighton or Abby Hill, we could be looking at a long list of very heavy, very serious, very ugly charges. Even the death penalty.”
Vanderholt feels stung. “No, no, hand to God, I don’t know what you’re talking about!”
“Think hard about this, man. They’re bringing in dogs. They’re looking for
TWELVE
Jefferson County Jail
Friday
Randy Vanderholt hears the lock snick open and hopes that someone is bringing him an early lunch. Instead, a guard who looks like Mike Tyson looms in the doorway. He grumbles, “Your lawyer’s here,” then steps aside and lets in a tall, thin guy with a stoop.
“Clyde Pierson,” the lawyer says, extending a hand.
Vanderholt waves his fingers at the man, and Pierson calls the guard back to have the restraints removed.
Vanderholt sits up on the bed, rolls his shoulders and stretches. “Where’s the other guy?” he asks. “I mean, I already talked to one lawyer, right?”
“Bradley? He was just getting the basic info, filling in while I was on vacation. I’ll be your public defender from here on.” Pierson seats himself on a plastic chair and sets his large briefcase on the floor beside him. He clicks it open, saying, “So, how are you feeling?”
“Hungry.”
“I’ll take that as a good sign. Eat and get strong. We don’t want you trying to off yourself again, okay?”
Vanderholt starts to say something, but just makes a face.
Pierson extracts a folder from his briefcase and spreads it open on his lap. Without looking up, he says, “So, Mr. Vanderholt, you’ve been in prison before.”
“Yeah, but that was just car theft, was all.”
“Lighter charge, sure.” The lawyer flips through a few more papers and grunts. “Listen, I’m not going to sugarcoat anything. The prosecution has your confession, plus a helluva crime scene, and a highly sympathetic young girl as a witness. Even your own photographs, man.”
“But I took good care of her. You gotta understand that. You gotta give me some credit for that.”
Pierson says nothing.
“So? What can you do to save me?” Vanderholt’s tone is halfway between a complaint and a whine.
Pierson gives him a weary look. “Diminished capacity?”
“Hey, I’m not crazy.”
Pierson shakes his head. “You tried to kill yourself, Randy. I’ll have an expert come and talk with you, okay? That’s standard.”
“You don’t really believe I’m crazy, do you?”
“I’m just saying that it’s worth considering, seeing how it might pan out. It could be an option, okay?”
Vanderholt scowls at him.
“I’ve got to do my best to represent you.” Pierson shifts in his chair. “But listen, you’ve got to work with me. They’re going to scrape every last bit of evidence off the walls of both of those basements, you know.”
“Yeah? So?”
“So, this is hot and they’re going full-bore. They’re planning your arraignment for early next week.”
Vanderholt winces. “But we’ll plead not guilty, right?”
“Sure. We’ll make them sweat as long as possible. We’ll look for mistakes. We’ll work the angles. But I want you to think seriously about cutting a deal.”
Vanderholt closes his eyes and mumbles.
“I think there could be an offer. That could be your best chance.”
“But they’ll crucify me.”
“You don’t really want to risk a jury trial, do you? Put Tilly Cavanaugh on the stand?”
“But she won’t, ah, I mean—”
“And she’s just your first problem. We’re talking DNA, here. They’re working damn hard to link you with those other girls.”
“What other girls?”
Pierson squints at him.
“What other girls?” he asks again.
“Hannah and Abby.”
“I don’t know about any other girls. Only mine.”
“You sure about that? Because if they find the least scrap of evidence linking you to Hannah Creighton or Abby Hill, we could be looking at a long list of very heavy, very serious, very ugly charges. Even the death penalty.”
Vanderholt feels stung. “No, no, hand to God, I don’t know what you’re talking about!”
“Think hard about this, man. They’re bringing in dogs. They’re looking for
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