33 HOURS UNTIL THE SHOT
The FedEx office boasted six of the latest high-tech photocopiers. I threaded the pages from the file into three of them, distributing the pages evenly, no more than fifty to a machine. I hit start on each machine and waited while the copiers purred and whirred their way to making me copies of Dell’s file.
I collated the copies from each machine, paid at the desk, and left.
I called Dell direct, my emergency number.
The SUV appeared within a minute.
This time I opened the passenger door and held out the papers. “Sorry, this must have gotten mixed up with my files.”
The twitch.
Without a word, Dell grabbed the original documents, closed the door, and rejoined the New York traffic, heading toward the Chrysler Building.
I had my copies slipped between the discovery pages of the old Popo files I’d carried with me that day. At that moment I couldn’t read the file. I was due back at court to assist with Child’s bail processing and release as soon as things calmed down in holding. I would have to read the file later. When I had time to sit and figure things out.
In taking those papers, I’d crossed a line. Even if Dell couldn’t be sure I’d taken the file deliberately, he would assume it was a move on my part. I had to tread more carefully with Dell. He held Christine’s fate in his hands. And I hated that.
Somehow, I had to figure out a way to shift that balance of power in my favor, and I knew the key to that was a twenty-two-year-old boy, pissing himself with panic in a cell, unable to breathe or think, never mind help anyone else.
I waved down a cab, told the driver to bring me back to court, flicked open the prosecution file Lopez had given me in Knox’s chambers, and began to read. I already knew the basic facts—the victim, David’s girlfriend, had been found shot in his apartment. What I didn’t know before I opened that file was how the prosecution were going to run with the case, what specific pieces of evidence they had against Child, what motive they would put up in front of the judge.
It wasn’t a thick file—preliminary forensic reports, witness statements, crime scene photographs, and computer logs. After I’d finished reading, I began to doubt my assessment of David Child; the evidence looked clean, and it proved, way beyond any doubt, that David shot and killed his girlfriend, Clara Reece. I thought about the kid’s eyes. His panic. It was like watching him falling down a deep hole.
I found it hard to guess what way the prosecution would spin the motive for the killing. The evidence made it clear that not only did David kill his girlfriend, but it would’ve been impossible for anyone else to have done it.
I asked the cabdriver to pull over a block away from the courthouse. I needed a walk to clear my head.