The interview room echoed with the clank of barred doors sliding shut in the adjacent corridor. Even with the heavy door to the booth firmly closed, it wasn’t enough to keep out those sounds. Crying, singing, and praying.
Child wiped his face. He sniffed and straightened up.
“I knew something bad was going to happen before I left the apartment. I checked my e-mail on my phone; I had seventeen new messages. An odd number. I don’t like odd numbers, so I knew something bad would happen and it would be my fault. I know it’s crazy, but I’ve always had this, well. The doctor diagnosed…”
“We don’t have much time, David. We can get to the details later. Just the basics of what happened to your girlfriend.”
“I left Clara in my apartment—she’d just moved in that day. I was on my way to work—I stopped at the traffic lights a couple of blocks from my building. We have a meeting at Reeler every Friday night at eight thirty; we check the figures for the week, adjust the marketing plan, and bounce ideas around. The light turned green, and I moved across the white line. I got maybe twenty feet across the intersection when this asshole rammed me. He drove through his stoplight and hit my Bugatti. I could smell the booze on him as soon as he got out of the truck and then he threatened me. The police came and they … they asked me what happened. I told them, and then the cop told me the driver saw a gun in the footwell of my car. I told him that was a mistake, but then the cop went to my car. I swear to you, Mr. Flynn, I’ve never seen that gun before. I don’t own a gun. He asked me for my permit. I didn’t have one. I told him it wasn’t mine, and he arrested me. I thought I’d get a fine or something. We were only in the precinct for a few hours. They came and took my clothes, swabbed my face, arms, hands, and took my fingerprints. I thought it was all routine. I called Gerry Sinton and he came to the precinct. Later that night they told me Clara was dead. She’d been shot. Her body was in my apartment … I … I…”
Panic choked him, and I saw the tears beginning to form.
“I left her in my apartment around eight o’clock. I kissed her goodbye. She was alive when I left my place. I swear it.”
“So you were questioned. Gerry was with you. You told the cops what you told me?”
“Yes, I told them the truth. I didn’t have anything to hide.”
If he was a liar, he was one of the best.
“Why’d you tell me she was dead because of you?”
“The goddamn odd number. I knew it. Somebody must have broken into my apartment looking for me, to rob me—and they … they found her. I didn’t kill her. I don’t have a gun. I didn’t do it … I … no … not me … I couldn’t.”
His chest began pumping, and his eyes glazed over. His hands shook violently, and his face turned a shocking white just before he threw up on the desk. Then his head dropped. I caught him before he fell out of the chair, set him down on his side, kicked the consultation room door open, and called for help.
Through guttering breaths, he struggled to force out the words.
“Gerry … Gerry … told … me … no bail … no bail … no media … won’t get bail … flight risk.”
“Calm down. Shut up and breathe.”
A guard rushed in, knelt beside Child, and looked at me. David was going into shock.
The guard, a young officer with large and kindly eyes, left and quickly returned with a mask and a small portable oxygen tank. Together we got David into a sitting position, back against the wall. He took two desperate sucks on an inhaler before the guard slipped the oxygen mask over David’s face. We sat with him for a few minutes, letting him get control on his own. After a while his breathing became deeper, slower.
Slipping the mask onto his chest, he said, “Gerry told me I don’t have a chance for bail.”
This was my shot. I stood, opened my file, slipped a four-page document on top of the file, and placed it on David’s knees.
“What’s this?”
“It’s a retainer agreement. You sign this, I become your lawyer. I’ll get you bail and I’ll keep this out of the papers. All you have to do is sign it,” I said, handing him my pen.
“But Gerry said I can’t get bail. I’ve got four private airplanes. I’m a flight risk. And if somebody makes a bail application, the press … they’ll … be all over it,” he said, the fear threatening to close down his chest.
“Just sign it. You won’t last a day in jail. I can get you out. But I need to do it legally. Sign this, and I’ll look after you, David.”
The pen shook in his hand as he scrawled a hasty signature. I took the document and the pen and handed it to the guard beside him.
“As he’s a little shaky, witness this for me.”
The guard looked at that paper like it was anthrax and held up a hand.
“Look, it’s for my protection,” I said.
“Go ahead and sign it,” said Neil, standing in the doorway. He’d come to make sure I was okay.
I looked at the guard’s name tag—Darryl Cole. I got Darryl to sign, initial, and date the document.
“Is the doc around?” I asked.
“He’s seeing one of the regulars,” said Neil.
“Can you let him take a quick look at my boy, here? Maybe give him a blue to calm him down?”
“Sure thing. Come on, son. You’re in good hands now,” said Neil.
Together, we lifted David to his feet. Darryl, who was smaller than me, could have lifted the kid one-handed. He probably weighed a hundred and ten pounds. His bones felt sharp at the elbow, and there was almost no musculature there at all, as though he were held together with sinew and paper glue.
Sitting in the medical room, head back, eyes wide as though he was willing them to suck air into his lungs, David spoke. A whisper. I didn’t catch it.
“Take it easy. The doc will be here in a second,” I said.
Taking a noisy gasp of air from the oxygen machine, David pulled the mask to the side and said, “Is it okay if I call you Eddie?”
“Sure,” I said.
“Okay. I signed your agreement. That means you’re my lawyer, right?”
I nodded.
“Please, Eddie, help me. I didn’t kill Clara. Help me. I’m begging you.”
And there it was, the plea. A cry for help from a terrified kid.
Vibration from my cell phone.
Another text from Dell.
Gerry Sinton just walked into court 12.