Four

“Counselor, I can’t imagine what you’re going through.”

Walter Fager rubbed his eyes and nodded back at the clerk clutching an armful of files against her chest. He had almost dozed off on the bench in the hallway of the Steve Herrera Judicial Complex. The police kept him until dawn. He had shaved badly. He hadn’t eaten. But he forced himself into a crisp white shirt and his standard pin-striped suit.

He wanted to see the man who had killed his wife.

The clerk hovered, then continued down the hallway with her files. Fager rose and crossed to the courtroom doors. They had been locked when he arrived. They were still locked. The electronic bulletin board said the case of State of New Mexico versus Cody Geronimo was set for a 10:00 a.m. bail hearing. It was now almost eleven.

Fager moved to the alcove leading to the chambers of the Honorable Judith A. Diaz. He pressed the black intercom button.

“Yes? How can I help you?” a woman’s voice crackled through the wire mesh speaker.

“I’m here for the Geronimo bail hearing. Has it been postponed?”

“Judge Diaz is hearing that matter in chambers.”

“I would like to attend.”

“She wanted only lawyers.”

“Twenty forty-seven.”

“Excuse me?”

“My State Bar number. This is Walter Fager.”

He stepped back and faced the camera.

“Oh, hi, Mr. Fager.” Pause. “I’ll check with Judge Diaz.”

The speaker went dead. Fager closed his eyes. He saw Linda from the back, over a kitchen sink washing tomatoes from her garden. In the sun, under a broad hat, reaching for a rose from the bushes she cherished. In her store, shelving books.

He could not see her face.

Last night she had not met him at their restaurant. He had gone to her store, found the front door open, darkness inside. A crack of light toward the back, the small bathroom lit from within by the bulb over the sink. Water running. The rug soaked. Linda’s cat hissed at him before fleeing into the shadows. A foot blocked the bathroom door. Linda’s shoe. Her green pants, her orange linen shirt, the silver necklace he had bought her on the plaza. A staple gun and boxcutter on the sink. On the wall, God, waist high, still dripping …

“Mr. Fager?”

He blinked at the intercom.

“The hearing’s over. I’m sorry about your wife.”

The door opened as the intercom clicked off. Out came Marcy Thornton in a black silk suit carrying a thin attaché case. She had been on friendly terms with Linda. When Thornton was a first-year associate in his office, it had been almost mother-daughter. He had seen her name on the electronic bulletin board. Now she was representing the man who had stapled Linda’s face to a bathroom wall.

“Walter.”

“Marcy.”

She hesitated. Then her narrow shoulders squared and she moved off, high heels clacking on the marble floor.

The door opened again and Assistant District Attorney Joseph Mascarenas stepped out. He was squat and obese, in a rumpled suit with scuffed shoes too small for his body. Fager had to move aside so he could get to the hallway.

“Joe, what’s with holding a bail hearing in chambers? Was Cody Geronimo back there?”

“Never brought him up.” Mascarenas smoothed his soiled tie. “We dismissed pending indictment.”

“The fuck?” Fager rubbed red eyes. “You don’t dismiss murder cases.”

“Pending indictment. All the time.”

“In stupid DWIs. Stupid shopliftings.” Fager’s hands balled into fists. He caught himself and forced his fingers open. “Not murder, Joe.”

Mascarenas dropped his voice and tilted his head at the intercom. “Hold it ’til we’re outside.”

Fager towered over Mascarenas as the prosecutor rested on a precast planter in front of the courthouse. It was a familiar staging for them. Fager on his feet, pacing, filling out his tailored suit with a body still trim and fit from his Army days. Mascarenas, a lump of flesh on concrete, listening to his smarter, more energetic, more prosperous adversary.

Mascarenas noticed something different. Fager used to be all right angles. He still had the square jaw of the Special Forces lieutenant. But today the ninety degrees at his shoulders came from padding. Fager was stooped, sagging.

“We’ve done how many cases together, Joe?”

“Maybe two hundred. Stand ’em up, knock ’em down.”

“I’ve never seen you release a murderer just to pull back and reload. What the hell?”

Mascarenas shielded his eyes from the sun.

“Hey, amigo. Two hundred times you screwed me in holes I don’t have. With you, Walt, nothing’s straight. But now you want me to be straight with you?”

“I can’t stand it. I need to know what’s going on.”

“Don’t like the view from outside the huddle? Big difference, counsel of record,” Mascarenas jerked a thumb at civilians lined up to pass through security, “or one of them.”

“I wanted to see Geronimo up close.”

“Only thing you missed was Thornton showing leg. Nice leg. Judge Diaz thought so, too.”

“Marcy always plays Judy Diaz like that.”

“No studs in that clubhouse. All tongue and groove construction.”

Fager came to a stop in front of the prosecutor. “Joe, I should have been in there. Fuck what you think about Marcy Thornton.”

Mascarenas shrugged. “You got no standing, Walt. If we get into this with Thornton, you’ll learn fast you don’t count.”

“If you get into this?” Fager shouted the question.

The sun’s heat beaded sweat on Mascarenas’s plump face. He wiped a yellowed handkerchief across his forehead and took his time folding it back into his pocket.

When he was ready, Mascarenas said, “I liked Linda. She can’t be blamed for you.”

“I guess that counts as sympathy. Now answer my question. What do you mean if you get into this with Thornton?”

Mascarenas sighed.

“Thornton’s screaming profiling. We’ve already heard from tribal presidents she rousted out of bed. Another Pueblo Revolt if we prosecute America’s favorite Indian artist. Throw in that Aragon eavesdropped on Geronimo consulting his attorney. Thornton lit a lawyer-client privilege bomb under Diaz and blew her through the ceiling.”

“Sanitize the investigation. Seal Aragon off. Reassign the file and start over. The profiling stuff is routine posturing.”

Mascarenas hauled himself to his feet but avoided meeting Fager’s stare.

“No one left to vaccinate. Aragon was so proud of herself she played her tape at roll call. Brass from State Police was in the room. They’re out, too. In steps Dewey Nobles.”

“Not Dewey No-Balls. Please don’t tell me he’s messing with Linda’s case.”

“You never complained when one of your guys needed a weak link on our side. Dewey pulled the case from Aragon and made the call to dismiss. I can’t prosecute a case the police won’t own. Diaz ordered us to give Thornton the recording and everything seized from Geronimo.”

Fager threw his head to the sky and swore. Mascarenas picked up his cracked briefcase.

“Sucks, don’t it, Walt? This conversation we’re having right now, I have them every day with people who learn the guy who hurt someone they love counts more than they do. Every time I charge someone, I give them power and rights their victims will never know. All it takes is that word, defendant, and a shitbag becomes a player with a pile of chips on his side of the table.”

“Marcy doesn’t have any moves she didn’t get from me.”

“You’re not in the game, Walt. You’re in the stands watching the teams on the field.” Mascarenas pulled a crumpled business card from his pocket. “Give Aragon a call. She gets yanked from a dead girl in a trunk because your wife’s case gets special attention. Then she’s told to sit in a corner and shut up. Call her right now, while she’s still loco about Geronimo walking.” He mimicked a sing-song Mexican accent. “Eeeee. Tell her cousin Jose sent you.”

“What can she tell me you won’t tell me yourself? I’m getting a bad feeling here.”

“You always had the good instincts.”

“Joe.”

“Call Aragon. But don’t use the accent. Seriously.”