making it all neat and tidy. The defense didn’t have to build a wall of its own. It just had to scratch away at the state’s wall, searching for weak spots. Rotten bricks or weak mortar, that’s what the defense is after.
Make an iddy-biddy crack in that wall, just enough for a handhold, and you can tear the whole damn thing down.
Right. But sometimes you were lucky just to spray paint some graffiti on that old wall.
“So what do you have?” Herbert asked.
“The state’s time line is fuzzy. Sanders was there three or four minutes before Grisby shot him. What the hell was going on all that time? Why would Sanders go for his gun when Grisby held a shotgun on him? And why’d Grisby shoot him twice?”
“Why was Grisby there at all?”
“He says he expected trouble after Pincher warned him about the ALM. But why be alone? Why not hire a new security guard? Or two or three?”
“You suggesting Grisby didn’t want witnesses?”
“Just asking questions, Dad, the way you taught me.”
“The guard that supposedly quit. He back up Grisby’s story?”
“Can’t find him. Moved without notifying his landlord. I can’t find my client’s girlfriend, either. She was also his accomplice. Moved out of her apartment and hasn’t called Nash. Then there’s the victim. Charles Sanders, last known address, Denver.”
“For your sake, Ah’m hoping he’s got a long rap sheet.”
Steve knew what his father was thinking. When defending a murder charge, it’s always helpful if the victim was a lowlife who wouldn’t be missed by law-abiding, God-fearing citizens like the dozen good folks in the jury box.
“No priors,” Steve said. “Military. Retired Navy. Lieutenant Commander in the SEALs.”
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Next you’re gonna tell me he’s a war hero.”
“Bronze Star for defusing mines in the Persian Gulf during the first Gulf War.”
“Holy shit. And since then?”
Steve shrugged. “All I know is he was stationed in San Diego when his retirement papers came through.”
“What were his duties?”
“The Navy’s classified everything after Desert Storm.”
Herbert polished off his drink. “Don’t fit. A decorated naval officer hanging out with these animal weirdos.” He reached for the Jack Daniel’s bottle. “That brick wall ain’t crumbling yet, but the mortar’s a little sloppy around the edges.”
“That’s what I was thinking.”
“Jesus, Ah like a good puzzle.”
Deep into it now. Steve watched his father, his crinkled eyes seemingly focused on a distant horizon.
“So what do you think, Dad?”
“Tough cases are more fun, and this one’s a doozy. If only you could stay in the damn thing.”
“Keep going.”
“Can you get your client to waive the conflict?”
“Absolutely. He wants me.”
“Can you keep things peaceful with Victoria?”
“I can try.”
“Then go for it. But keep focused, son. It’s State versus Nash. Don’t make it Solomon versus Lord.”
Fourteen
WHAT’S A MOTHER FOR?
Victoria wanted her mother’s advice.
How can I beat Steve in the Nash case and still preserve our relationship?
But, as usual, Irene Lord, aka The Queen, was wrapped up in her own melodrama. “I’ve never been so humiliated,” she huffed. “My daughter’s paramour suing
me.”
“Mother, no one’s had a paramour since Barbara Stanwyck was making movies.”
“Your live-in lover, then.” Irene sniffed, as if she found the notion of cohabitation distasteful.
The air was tinged with rosemary, eucalyptus…and malice. Mother and daughter were settled into comfy chairs at the Bal Harbour Spa for their monthly pedicures. Irene wore a purple Hervé Leroux bandage dress with a matching boomerang clutch. Her shoes—until she’d ditched them for her pedicure—were rainbow-colored Cavalli slingbacks with a heel just shy of four inches. Her hair—the color of champagne—was swept up, revealing her graceful and still taut neck. Over the years, many men had
Make an iddy-biddy crack in that wall, just enough for a handhold, and you can tear the whole damn thing down.
Right. But sometimes you were lucky just to spray paint some graffiti on that old wall.
“So what do you have?” Herbert asked.
“The state’s time line is fuzzy. Sanders was there three or four minutes before Grisby shot him. What the hell was going on all that time? Why would Sanders go for his gun when Grisby held a shotgun on him? And why’d Grisby shoot him twice?”
“Why was Grisby there at all?”
“He says he expected trouble after Pincher warned him about the ALM. But why be alone? Why not hire a new security guard? Or two or three?”
“You suggesting Grisby didn’t want witnesses?”
“Just asking questions, Dad, the way you taught me.”
“The guard that supposedly quit. He back up Grisby’s story?”
“Can’t find him. Moved without notifying his landlord. I can’t find my client’s girlfriend, either. She was also his accomplice. Moved out of her apartment and hasn’t called Nash. Then there’s the victim. Charles Sanders, last known address, Denver.”
“For your sake, Ah’m hoping he’s got a long rap sheet.”
Steve knew what his father was thinking. When defending a murder charge, it’s always helpful if the victim was a lowlife who wouldn’t be missed by law-abiding, God-fearing citizens like the dozen good folks in the jury box.
“No priors,” Steve said. “Military. Retired Navy. Lieutenant Commander in the SEALs.”
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Next you’re gonna tell me he’s a war hero.”
“Bronze Star for defusing mines in the Persian Gulf during the first Gulf War.”
“Holy shit. And since then?”
Steve shrugged. “All I know is he was stationed in San Diego when his retirement papers came through.”
“What were his duties?”
“The Navy’s classified everything after Desert Storm.”
Herbert polished off his drink. “Don’t fit. A decorated naval officer hanging out with these animal weirdos.” He reached for the Jack Daniel’s bottle. “That brick wall ain’t crumbling yet, but the mortar’s a little sloppy around the edges.”
“That’s what I was thinking.”
“Jesus, Ah like a good puzzle.”
Deep into it now. Steve watched his father, his crinkled eyes seemingly focused on a distant horizon.
“So what do you think, Dad?”
“Tough cases are more fun, and this one’s a doozy. If only you could stay in the damn thing.”
“Keep going.”
“Can you get your client to waive the conflict?”
“Absolutely. He wants me.”
“Can you keep things peaceful with Victoria?”
“I can try.”
“Then go for it. But keep focused, son. It’s State versus Nash. Don’t make it Solomon versus Lord.”
Fourteen
WHAT’S A MOTHER FOR?
Victoria wanted her mother’s advice.
How can I beat Steve in the Nash case and still preserve our relationship?
But, as usual, Irene Lord, aka The Queen, was wrapped up in her own melodrama. “I’ve never been so humiliated,” she huffed. “My daughter’s paramour suing
me.”
“Mother, no one’s had a paramour since Barbara Stanwyck was making movies.”
“Your live-in lover, then.” Irene sniffed, as if she found the notion of cohabitation distasteful.
The air was tinged with rosemary, eucalyptus…and malice. Mother and daughter were settled into comfy chairs at the Bal Harbour Spa for their monthly pedicures. Irene wore a purple Hervé Leroux bandage dress with a matching boomerang clutch. Her shoes—until she’d ditched them for her pedicure—were rainbow-colored Cavalli slingbacks with a heel just shy of four inches. Her hair—the color of champagne—was swept up, revealing her graceful and still taut neck. Over the years, many men had
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