MARTHA GARDINER
Martha stashed her wineglass in the kitchen as the doorbell rang again. Considered selecting another one to offer her guest, then decided against it. This was a business meeting. Pure and simple.
She made it to the couch as the doorbell rang again, stepped into her shoes, closed her files, tucked the papers under the coffee table. Smoothed her hair. Pulled open the door.
“Sorry, Lizann.” A wash of blush-tinged sky framed her former associate’s silhouette. Lizann, with her hardscrabble background and bootstrapped law school, now looked like a successful young attorney, all briefcase and chignon. At least her fellow murder listers hadn’t stolen her style along with her philosophy. Every year, the newbies were Martha’s children, she thought of them that way. Her ducklings, her students, her legacy. She’d had high hopes for Lizann Wallace, maybe a partnership someday. But Lizann had disagreed with Martha’s methods. Called her on it. Hard. The two had parted. Not amicably. “Come in.”
“Surprised you wanted to talk here and not the office. Home-turf advantage?” Lizann’s voice stayed professional, appropriate, though Martha knew her well enough to recognize some underlying nerves.
The devil you know, Martha thought.
“Simply easier.” Martha escorted her to the living room, the pink light now bathing the grasscloth-papered hallway and putting a glow on the sterling picture frames and Lizann’s silver earrings. She asked the question she already knew the answer to. “What can I do for you?”
“Fine, and you?” Lizann selected the wing chair, though Martha had indicated the couch.
Good for you, Martha thought, recognizing the sarcasm. Power choice, but it wouldn’t matter.
“You always loved small talk.” Martha perched on the arm of the couch, signaling this was not a cozy conversation. And it made her taller.
“All right then. Your way.” Lizann crossed her legs, adjusted her black skirt, cleared her throat. “My client. Jeffrey Baltrim.”
“Guilty,” Martha said. “As hell. Next question.”
Lizann tapped a black suede toe on the figured rug, once, then again, watching her own action as if counting off seconds. Those hoop earrings, Martha noted, were bigger than Martha herself cared for.
“I know you like to think my client is guilty,” Lizann finally said. “But indulge me here. How do you arrive at that conclusion?”
Martha ignored the question. “You’re here to inquire about a deal, I take it.”
“I know you don’t like to lose,” Lizann said. “But you’ll lose this one.”
“To you?” Martha couldn’t help it.
“‘The devil you know’ as you always say, Martha.” Lizann smiled. “Before we go any further, let me ask you. I noticed in the crime-scene report that the oven was on. Why would that be?”
Martha rolled her eyes. “I know it’s a wild guess, but possibly to keep the pizza hot?”
“For who?” Lizann asked. “And since two pieces were gone, and there was no pizza in Ms. Lyle’s stomach, and my client is allergic to cheese, who ate them?”
Martha shrugged. Allergic to cheese? Probably a bluff.
“And the pizza place, Oregano Brothers. Did you know that closed at eleven?” Lizann went on. “But Dr. Ong estimated the time of death was around four A.M.”
“Liz? Did you know that Jeffrey Baltrim had the delivery car, had a child in the car, and the child can testify? And that we found drugs from Ms. Lyle in her house? And more drugs, with the same batch number, in Baltrim’s car?”
Lizann nodded. “I do know that. So he may have been a drug dealer—though I see you didn’t charge him with that. But Martha? Please. Do tell me how that makes him a murderer.”
“Do you want to argue this now?” Martha had considered all of this, certainly, and was aware the case had a few holes. But nothing she couldn’t deal with. “Shall I call in some neighbors to play the jury?”
“Funny.” Lizann shifted in her chair, drummed her fingers on its padded chintz arms.
Martha said nothing, since nothing Lizann was saying merited a response. This would be adjudicated in court. Jeffrey Baltrim would be found guilty, game over.
“How about manslaughter?” Lizann offered. “My client does seven years.”
“The murder took place only a week or so ago.” Martha shook her head, dismissive. “It’s silly, as I’m sure you are well aware, to discuss this now.”
Lizann tapped her toe again. Stood. “No wonder you didn’t want to meet at your office,” she said. “Talk about bad faith. You didn’t want to meet at all.”
“Always a pleasure to see you, Liz.” Martha stood too, brushed down her tan slacks. Gestured to the door. “If there’s nothing else?”
“What’re your plans, Martha?” Lizann didn’t move. “You going to disappear a witness? Get the court officers to eavesdrop on the jury?”
“That’s ridiculous.”
Lizann widened her eyes. “Well, you are so right, Martha. And I would have thought so too, years ago. But now…”
Martha took a step toward the door. She would not be intimidated by this person. Or anyone.
“Or, oh, I know.” Lizann held up a forefinger. “You’ll wine and dine the judge. Or have some little off-the-record discussions? Or possibly—get a few pivotal jurors dismissed? Don’t forget, Martha. I’ve been in on those cases. I know how you operate. You’re—”
“That’s quite enough, Ms. Wallace.” This pitiful attempt at extortion was simply the last stand of a losing battle. “If you participated in any prohibited activities, then it’s your responsibility to turn yourself in. I am unaware of such a thing, certainly, but happy to facilitate your confession with the disciplinary board.”
Lizann kept talking. “Or will you coerce that little boy—Jonah, remember?—into saying where he was that night, when he clearly has no idea? His mother tells me he came home just after ten. Isn’t that interesting? Or, oh. Will you alter the warrant so those drugs you took—illegally, I might add—are actually listed?”
“Does it matter to you murder-list people? That you’re letting murderers go free?” Martha planted her hands on her hips. “Because of paperwork?”
Martha knew she was going too far, letting her emotions get the better of her. But she could not let this go. “That’s what makes you proud and happy? That’s why you went to law school? To put guilty people like that back out on the streets to kill someone else?”
“Innocent ’til proven guilty, if I might remind you, Martha.”
“Guilty is guilty.”
“Is it?” Lizann lifted her chin, narrowing her eyes. “Imagine, if you can. What if it were someone you loved? Would you be so dismissive about the rules then? Every defendant is loved by someone. Just—not you.”
“Jeffrey Baltrim is a killer.” Martha walked to the door herself now. She’d had quite enough. “He’ll face trial, he’ll face a jury, and fairly and squarely. And if I do my job properly—as I always do, I might add—he’ll be justly convicted and be sent to prison for life.”
“Not if I can help it,” Lizann said.
“You can’t.” Martha opened the door.
“Watch me.” Lizann took one step over the threshold, then turned back. Looked Martha square in the eye. “You’ll have to win this one the right way, Martha. By the rules. Not your rules. But the rule of law. Do you think you’re capable of that? Remember, as you’re plotting your clever Martha-strategies. Remember I know your secrets.”
Martha didn’t mean to slam the door. She paused for a moment, alone in the entryway, waiting for the quiet to return. She’d been threatened by far more powerful people. It was part of the job. And if justice was the result? That’s all that mattered.