“Her husband Scott, I’m sure. Maybe his partner. I don’t really know.”
“What is it you need me to do?” she asks.
“Well—thanks to this,” I pull up my pant leg showing off my ankle monitor. “I can’t leave this house, and it makes it difficult to investigate my own case.”
“What about your lawyer?”
“You mean my wife?”
Rebecca lets out a nervous laugh.
“I’d say considering the circumstances I’m not sure she has my best interests in mind.” I raise an eyebrow.
“Oh, that can’t be true. I’m sure your wife is doing everything in her power to win this case for you,” she says trying to feign optimism in her voice, which I find odd, considering she doesn’t really know me, and she doesn’t know my wife, but I suppose I understand the gesture.
“Maybe. But my life is on the line, and I’m not just going to sit here and have it taken away from me. Not without trying my damnedest to find out the truth.”
“Understandable. Now, here’s what I want. An exclusive interview and five thousand for my troubles.” She holds out her hand to make a deal.
I look at her hand and then at her. I honestly didn’t think she’d have the balls to ask for cash. She sure is a firecracker. I consider negotiating with her, but I don’t have any other options, and I don’t really have the time to be finagling over pocket change. “You got yourself a deal.” I shake her hand.
She smiles, and I can tell she is pleased with herself. “What exactly do you need my help with?” Rebecca repositions her pen, ready to write down anything that comes out of my mouth.
“I need to find out the name of her first husband, and then I need names and numbers and maybe background reports, if you can muster that up, on friends and family he was really close with. I guess I’ll start there. Can you handle that?”
“It shouldn’t be a problem. You said her name was Jenna Way?”
“Yes, Jenna Way. From Wisconsin,” I confirm.
“Got it. I should be able to pull all that within forty-eight hours. I’d ask you where you’d like to meet again, but I have the answer to that already. I’ll be back, Mr. Morgan.”
“Thank you, Rebecca. Oh, and before I forget…” I pull out a Folgers coffee can from a cupboard. I open it and pull out a stack of cash and hand it to her. “Here’s half right now. I’ll give you the other half when you bring me what I need.”
“Hiding it in the coffee can… how clichéd.” She takes the money and shoves it into her bag. “I’ll be seeing you,” Rebecca says as she lets herself out.
I really hope she didn’t just take my cash without any intention of helping me or following through with the investigation. Not much else I can do so I guess I’ll just have to take my chances. Time is ticking.
31
Sarah Morgan
I head into work and I’m immediately intercepted by Anne on the way into my office.
“Sarah. Kent wants to see you. He says it’s urgent,” she says with a tinge of worry in her voice.
“Did he say why?”
“No.”
“Fine. Here. Take my bag and hold my calls until I return, please.” Anne nods and complies.
Kent is the other named partner at the firm. The Williamson in Williamson & Morgan. This was his show first, and he likes to remind me of that from time to time. While I may be the hot up-and-comer in the courtroom, he has been at this for decades and has contacts I couldn’t dream of.
His secretary allows me to pass through with a “he’s expecting you.” His office is the only one in the firm that puts mine to shame. Straight out of a movie set, he had his walls finished with mahogany paneling and a large chandelier dangles from the ceiling. A boar’s head hangs on the wall, a trophy from a recent hunting trip in Texas. This was with his big oil lobbyist friends to ensure that despite my defending Senator McCallan he was still in their corner. Needless to say, I wasn’t invited. The wall behind me has photos of him with every significant politician over the past two decades. Bushes, Clintons, Obama, you name it.
Two full walls of his office are floor-to-ceiling windows, tinted to his own specific requirements. He is not a fan of leaving his office, so he also has a twelve-person conference room table, bare bones as can be. No conference phone, no flat screen display for a computer: he runs his meetings old-school. If it can’t be solved with a pen, paper, and a sharp tongue, then it isn’t worth him getting involved.
“You wanted to see me, Kent.”
“Yes, Sarah, please take a seat.” He motions to a chair in front of the desk he sits behind.
“What’s up?” I say, trying to keep it casual, which I know he hates.
“Yes, well your recent behavior and performance here at the firm have been… erratic, to put it mildly. You come and go as you please, you don’t return calls, you miss meetings. Have you forgotten that as a named partner you don’t have the luxury of focusing on one case, one client at a time?” He ends with what sounds like a rhetorical question, yet he will make me answer it anyway. One of his many charming habits.
“No, Kent, I have not forgotten. It’s just that I am defending my own husband in a murder trial and as you can imagine—”
“That would be quite the conflict of interest? Cause you a tremendous amount of distress and distract you from your job? Yes, yes, I can imagine that. Which is why I wish you would have run it by me first.” He is in full father mode.
“You know with our agreement that I don’t have to run cases by you unless it is a corporate interest that conflicts with one of your clients. This is not a corporate case, and thus I am clear to take it as I see fit.”
“Yes, you certainly did have the right to do that. But the question is, should you have done it? You don’t think this might concern me as well? The other named half of the firm blowing off her duties, making us look unstable and flighty, anything but professional.”
“That was not my intent at—”
“Well, it’s what’s happening, isn’t it? Regardless of your intent.” He pauses and stands to come around to the front of his desk and sit on the edge. “Look, Sarah, I’m not here to scold you. You are a big girl, and you are free to do as you please, for the most part. I just want to get a handle on this because it is making us look weak and spread thin, and don’t think others haven’t noticed.”
“You’re right. This is… harder than I anticipated. I just…”
“And who can blame you? I certainly don’t. Hell, I can’t imagine the stress. But that’s my point. Look, I’ll allow this charade to continue because I know nothing I say is going to stop you, but—hear me out—you need to end this, and end it quickly. For you. For me. For the firm. I’ll get other people to cover some of your accounts in the interim, and I’ll clear you from any new work for the time being. But get this taken care of.”
“Thank you. I appreciate your understanding,” I say, a bit angry but knowing that I won’t win this argument. He isn’t wrong.