CHAPTER 55

“The question now is, do we put on a defense at all or rest and go straight to closing arguments?”

Leaning against the conference room window, Jake says, “That’s like asking me if I want a drink when you’re standing there with an empty bottle in your hand.”

I sigh heavily. Jake’s right. I’m convinced we did as much damage as we could to Maddox’s case-in-chief, but staging our own defense is another matter entirely. Maddox was leading us down a blind alley with Corwin Pierce and Javier Vargas and we called him on it, raised serious questions about the prosecution’s integrity, just as Johnnie Cochran & Company did to Marcia Clark and Christopher Darden in the O. J. Simpson trial. Bottom line is, though, unless we have another suspect to point to, our only argument to the jury is that the government didn’t meet its burden of proof.

Maddox rested his case earlier today after putting Trevor’s sister Lauren Simms on the stand. Lauren was an effective witness: articulate, sympathetic, memorable. In addition to putting a switchblade in Erin’s hand on the afternoon preceding the fire, Lauren provided that third dimension of a victim that is sometimes so difficult to achieve. Lauren was so good, in fact, that I decided not to cross, not to question her about Trevor’s business dealings with her fiancé Gabe Guidry. If, ultimately, we go in that direction, I’d much rather call Guidry himself during our case-in-chief.

“Who are you thinking about putting on?” Jake asks.

I lean back in my seat, watching Jake watch the rain. “Tara Holland and Isaac Cassel are useless because neither can offer Erin an alibi. And Maddox will kill Tara on cross because she witnessed the death threats. She’ll have to corroborate everything Mia said on direct and we don’t want her doing that.”

“How about Isaac?”

“The best man is another story. My fear is that Isaac will jump at the bit to protect Erin on direct and then bury us on cross. Besides, what can we get from Isaac that we couldn’t get from Mia Landow?”

“That leaves who? Baron Lee?”

“To testify to the points we already got Alison, Noonan, and Inez Rios to concede to.”

“Maybe we should pull up the knife,” Jake suggests.

“Too late for that,” I say. “Even if the knife has a known arsonist’s prints all over it now it’ll look staged. Besides, if there are no unknown prints on the door knobs or anywhere else in the honeymoon suite, then the true arsonist—assuming there even is one—used gloves. Introducing Erin’s knife as Erin’s knife is just one more reason to convict. We can’t hand Maddox the murder weapon this late in the game.”

Jake finally turns from the window and sits across from me. “Son, I know we’ve had our differences these past six months. Partly because of Alison, yes, but partly because you made a business decision without consulting me. You wouldn’t even hear me out. And that, son, is how you do a lot of things. You’re an alpha dog, I can accept that. But I’m still your partner and I deserve to be heard.”

“Look, I’m sorry, Jake…”

“No need for apologies. What I’m getting at is this: If you want to reverse yourself and ask Maxa for that mistrial, I’d understand. We can’t afford to try this case again, but at least Erin will get another shot. Who knows? Maybe something will turn up between now and then.”

I don’t tell Jake that my refusal of Maxa’s offer to grant a mistrial had nothing to do with our six hundred grand. Instead, I dump a manila folder full of photographs onto the conference room table. Each of us have studied thousands of these ordinary tourist photos of the day and night of the fire for the past six months. I’m certain we didn’t miss anything. But I need a prop to say what I have to say to Jake.

“There’s something I need to tell you,” I start. I still haven’t let Jake in on my relationship with Erin, but I suppose now is better than never.

“What’s that, son?”

As I flip through the pictures, I say, “Mind you, this didn’t start until a few weeks after we agreed to take on the case…”

Jake leans forward and crosses his arms on the conference room table.

I set aside a few of the photos. “Let’s get the original digital images of these,” I say, stalling for time. “These are garbage. This guy in the Boston Red Sox cap has red-eye in every shot.”

“The computer will help with that?” Jake asks.

“With the touch of a button,” I tell him. “It’s called red-eye reduction.”

“I’ll get Flan on it. He should be here any minute now. So you were saying, son?”

Just as I’m about to finally let Jake in on my romantic relationship with Erin these past six months, the conference room door swings open with that insufferable squeak like nails on a chalkboard. Flan steps in, shaking himself off like a wet dog.

“Don’t you own an umbrella?” I say.

“Funny, Paris Hilton,” Flan says in a huff. “But you guys are going to want to come downstairs with me to Sand Bar right away.”

“What for?” Jake asks.

“CNN is looping the latest celebrity sex tape. And you’re not going to believe who has the starring role.”