CHAPTER 19

“How is this woman out on bail?” the talking head with the platinum-blonde wig and bug eyes demands to know.

I turn my head away from the television above the bar and send some rum and Coke down my throat. I’m off the scotch today because I’m attempting to maintain a somewhat clear head for tonight, when I’m scheduled to meet Erin at her home—ahem, place of confinement—in Kaneohe on the windward side of the island.

“Well, Marcy,” the quote-unquote legal expert says, “the Eighth Amendment of our Constitution guarantees—”

“Wait a minute,” Marcy Faith snaps at him. “Whose Constitution? Hawaii’s?”

“Um, no, Marcy, the U.S. Const—”

“Wait a minute. WAIT A MINUTE. Uno momento, por favor,” Marcy bellows as I take a bite out of my cheeseburger and peek at the screen above Seamus’s head. “You’re trying to tell me that the Constitution of the U-nited States of America grants special privileges if you commit mass murder in the state of Hawaii?”

The legal expert grimaces. “Actually, no, that’s not what I’m saying at all.”

“Then just what are you saying? That the Kingdom of Hawaii has its own laws?”

“I’m not quite following you, Marcy.”

“Ha-wa-ii,” she yells. Her southern drawl is so grating that Seamus slightly turns down the volume even though Jake, Flan, and I are Sand Bar’s only three patrons and we’ve asked him to keep the volume up. “More like Ha-die-ii. You won’t see me on vacation with the twins on the island of Waikiki anytime soon.”

“Well, Waikiki isn’t an island, Marcy, it’s a—”

Marcy’s eyes nearly pop out of her bulbous head. “That’s it! Someone cut his microphone, pronto!”

“Sorry, gents,” Seamus says with his thick Irish brogue, snapping off the TV with his remote. “I just can’t fucking take her anymore. I realize you three are the best customers I have, and that my bar probably can’t survive without you, but I’d rather the pub go under and I live under a fucking bridge than listen to another minute of that crazy bitch.”

“No worries, Seamus,” I tell him.

He turns up the stereo and Marcy Faith’s shrill voice is replaced by the soothing sounds of the Dubliners.

I’ve already been through the ringer on the national cable news, so I know what’s coming—constant coverage, all of it bad for the defense. Indignant legal analysts who prefer the television studio to the courtroom, know-nothing civilians phoning in and calling for crucifixion or execution-by-stoning before the first witness takes the stand. Then of course there will be round-the-clock trial coverage, during which the American system of criminal justice will be praised and/or criticized depending on the day’s events.

I don’t give a damn what they say about me anymore. But the fact is, a defendant who receives national attention from the media cannot take for granted that she will receive the same constitutional protections meant to afford all Americans a fair trial.

“Found a used condom in the backseat of my car,” Flan says, a string of lettuce hanging out of his mouth. His daughter Casey has been living with him now for a week. “That and four parking tickets. I don’t know what the hell to do.”

“Give ’em to me,” Jake says, popping a Tater Tot into his mouth. “I know a municipal court judge who’ll take care of them for you.”

“Not exactly what I meant,” Flan mutters. “But thanks.”

Jake pushes his plate away and continues flipping through the crime scene photos.

“I especially want to learn everything we can about Trevor’s business dealings,” I tell Flan, trying to bring us back on point. “Work with a San Francisco P.I. firm if you have to. And ask them to bring in an accountant, one who’s very discreet.”

“Sounds like I’m going to be out there for a while,” Flan says.

“Just until you find what we need. Remember, this is coming out of the firm’s own pocket for the time being, so work efficiently. Look fast, but look hard.”

“Speaking of looking hard,” Jake says, sliding one of the crime scene photos down the bar toward me. “What in the hell do you reckon this is?”

Flan studies the photo over my shoulder. “That’s the floor in the hallway.”

“Yeah,” Jake says, licking his sun-chapped lips after taking a gulp of ice water. “But what’s on it?”

“Burns in the carpet?” Flan suggests.

I lift the photo off the bar. “No, the circles are too perfect. Looks more like coins.”