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Authors: Barbara Delinsky
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as the thought of what might happen if she divulged it.
Hal had made her his partner in crime. She
hated
him for that.
“I don’t think there’s any problem,” she told him now, “but I want to be sure. I went down to the station yesterday.”
“I know. I talked with John. He doesn’t see any cause for concern.”
Deborah might have been irked that he had taken it upon himself to talk to the police, but she knew her father was right; Hal was the best defense lawyer around. And Hal regularly played poker with Colby, so his assurance carried more weight. Of course, things had changed since yesterday.
“Calvin McKenna just died,” Deborah said, “and don’t ask how, because I’m waiting to learn myself. Do you think this alters the picture?”
There was a pause—to his credit, the lawyer at work—then a prudent, “That depends. Is there anything you were doing at the time of the crash to suggest you were at fault?”
There it was, a golden opportunity to set the record straight about who was driving. She knew it was wrong to lie. But the accident report was filled out, and the fact of a fatality made it even more important to protect Grace. Besides, Deborah had repeated the line often enough that it rolled off her tongue. “My car was just at the wrong place at the wrong time. If they weren’t going to charge me with operating to endanger before, will a death change that?”
“It depends on what the reconstruction team finds,” Hal replied, less comforting than she had hoped. “It also depends on the D.A.”
“What D.A.?” Deborah asked nervously.
“
Our
D.A. A death might bring him into the picture.”
She had called for
reassurance
. “What does ‘might’ mean?”
“You’re starting to panic. Do not do that, sweetheart. I can get you out of whatever it is.”
“But what
is
it?” she asked, needing to know the worst.
“When a death is involved,” he said in a measured tone, “every side is examined. An accidental death can be termed vehicular homicide or even negligent homicide. It depends on what the state team finds.”
Deborah took a shaky breath. “They won’t find much,” she managed to say. Of course, she hadn’t imagined Calvin McKenna would die.
“Then you’ll be clear on the criminal side,” Hal added, “but a plaintiff doesn’t need much to file a civil suit. The standard of proof is looser. John tells me he got a call from the wife. He says she’s looking for someone to blame. And that was before her husband died.”
“We weren’t even going
thirty
in a forty-five-mile-per-hour zone.”
“You could have been going twenty, and if she hires a hotshot lawyer who convinces the jury that you should’ve been going fifteen in that storm, she could recover something. But hey,” Deborah heard a smile, “you’ll have a hotshot lawyer on your own side. I’m giving John a call. I want to know what tests were done to register the guy’s blood alcohol or the presence of drugs. John said you took the crash report home with you. Did you fill it out?”
“Last night.”
“I’d like to see it before you file. One wrong word could suggest culpability. Are you going to be home for a little while?”
“Actually, no.” She was grateful for a legitimate excuse to see him away from the house. “I have to take Dylan to school and, since the police are done examining my car, I want to drop it at the body shop. Can you meet me at Jill’s in, say, twenty minutes?”
Jill Barr’s bakery,
Sugar-On-Main, was a cheery storefront in the center of town. After leaving her car at the garage for repair, Deborah approached it on foot, her medical bag slung over her shoulder. Keeping her eyes on the sidewalk with its faux brickwork, she tried not to think of Cal McKenna’s wife. She tried not to think of vehicular homicide. She tried not to think that people seeing her walking along Main Street might view her now in a different light.
The sweet scent of
Hal had made her his partner in crime. She
hated
him for that.
“I don’t think there’s any problem,” she told him now, “but I want to be sure. I went down to the station yesterday.”
“I know. I talked with John. He doesn’t see any cause for concern.”
Deborah might have been irked that he had taken it upon himself to talk to the police, but she knew her father was right; Hal was the best defense lawyer around. And Hal regularly played poker with Colby, so his assurance carried more weight. Of course, things had changed since yesterday.
“Calvin McKenna just died,” Deborah said, “and don’t ask how, because I’m waiting to learn myself. Do you think this alters the picture?”
There was a pause—to his credit, the lawyer at work—then a prudent, “That depends. Is there anything you were doing at the time of the crash to suggest you were at fault?”
There it was, a golden opportunity to set the record straight about who was driving. She knew it was wrong to lie. But the accident report was filled out, and the fact of a fatality made it even more important to protect Grace. Besides, Deborah had repeated the line often enough that it rolled off her tongue. “My car was just at the wrong place at the wrong time. If they weren’t going to charge me with operating to endanger before, will a death change that?”
“It depends on what the reconstruction team finds,” Hal replied, less comforting than she had hoped. “It also depends on the D.A.”
“What D.A.?” Deborah asked nervously.
“
Our
D.A. A death might bring him into the picture.”
She had called for
reassurance
. “What does ‘might’ mean?”
“You’re starting to panic. Do not do that, sweetheart. I can get you out of whatever it is.”
“But what
is
it?” she asked, needing to know the worst.
“When a death is involved,” he said in a measured tone, “every side is examined. An accidental death can be termed vehicular homicide or even negligent homicide. It depends on what the state team finds.”
Deborah took a shaky breath. “They won’t find much,” she managed to say. Of course, she hadn’t imagined Calvin McKenna would die.
“Then you’ll be clear on the criminal side,” Hal added, “but a plaintiff doesn’t need much to file a civil suit. The standard of proof is looser. John tells me he got a call from the wife. He says she’s looking for someone to blame. And that was before her husband died.”
“We weren’t even going
thirty
in a forty-five-mile-per-hour zone.”
“You could have been going twenty, and if she hires a hotshot lawyer who convinces the jury that you should’ve been going fifteen in that storm, she could recover something. But hey,” Deborah heard a smile, “you’ll have a hotshot lawyer on your own side. I’m giving John a call. I want to know what tests were done to register the guy’s blood alcohol or the presence of drugs. John said you took the crash report home with you. Did you fill it out?”
“Last night.”
“I’d like to see it before you file. One wrong word could suggest culpability. Are you going to be home for a little while?”
“Actually, no.” She was grateful for a legitimate excuse to see him away from the house. “I have to take Dylan to school and, since the police are done examining my car, I want to drop it at the body shop. Can you meet me at Jill’s in, say, twenty minutes?”
Jill Barr’s bakery,
Sugar-On-Main, was a cheery storefront in the center of town. After leaving her car at the garage for repair, Deborah approached it on foot, her medical bag slung over her shoulder. Keeping her eyes on the sidewalk with its faux brickwork, she tried not to think of Cal McKenna’s wife. She tried not to think of vehicular homicide. She tried not to think that people seeing her walking along Main Street might view her now in a different light.
The sweet scent of
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