Because the temporary Charleston County Judicial Building had such limited space, Monroe Mason had asked if his press conference could be held downtown in city hall. His request had been graciously granted.
Out of respect for the man who had served the community so well for so long, many, who typically rushed headlong toward the weekend at five o’clock on Friday afternoon, had congregated to hear the formal announcement of his retirement.
That’s what they had come to hear.
They got more than they bargained for. A head start on the weekend didn’t seem such a sacrifice when rumors began to circulate about what had transpired in the same hotel suite where Lute Pettijohn had been found dead less than a week ago. One of the solicitor’s own staff had been arrested for the murder.
The room was already crowded when Hammond entered behind Mason and the rank and file of the County Solicitor’s Office. Even Deputy Solicitor Wallis, looking gray and ravaged by chemotherapy, had found the strength to attend. Only Stefanie Mundell was absent as they took seats on the dais.
The first row of spectator seats was occupied by reporters and cameramen. Behind them were three rows reserved for city, county, and state officials, invited clergymen, and assorted dignitaries. The remainder of the folding chairs were for guests.
Among them were Hammond’s parents. His mother returned his hello nod with a cheerful little wave. Hammond also acknowledged his father, but Preston’s visage remained as stony as those gracing Mount Rushmore.
That morning, Hammond had called Preston with the deal he had referenced to Bobby Trimble. It was this: He would recommend to the attorney general that no charges be brought against his father if Preston would testify against Trimble.
Of course that was tantamount to Preston’s admitting to his own knowledge of the terrorist activities that had taken place on Speckle Island. He had separated himself from the venture, but not in time to relieve him of culpability.
“That’s the deal, Father. Take it or leave it.”
“Don’t issue me an ultimatum.”
“You admit your wrongdoing, or you go to jail denying it,” Hammond had stated with resolve. “Take the deal.”
Hammond had given him seventy-two hours to think it over and discuss it with his solicitor. He was betting that his father would agree to his terms, an intuition strengthened when Preston’s hard stare wavered and he looked away first.
Was it too much to hope that his father was experiencing a twinge of conscience? Although there would always be chasms they couldn’t cross, he hoped they could find reconciliation on some level. He wanted to be able to call him Dad again.
Davee was also there, looking like a movie star. She blew him a kiss, but when a reporter poked a microphone at her and asked for a comment, Hammond saw her tell him to fuck off. In those words. But smiling sweetly.
He was watching the rear door when Smilow escorted Alex in. Their gazes locked and held, gobbling up each other. They had spoken on their cell phones while en route, but that wasn’t as satisfactory as seeing for himself that she was, finally, safe. From prosecution. From Steffi. From Bobby.
Smilow motioned her toward an empty chair next to one in which Frank Perkins was seated. The lawyer stood and hugged her warmly. Smilow relinquished her to Perkins, then moved down the outer aisle toward the dais. He motioned Hammond over. Nonplussed, Hammond excused himself and stepped down from the temporary platform.
“Good work,” Smilow told him.
Knowing the pride that the compliment must have cost the detective, Hammond said, “I just showed up and did what you advised me to do. If you hadn’t coordinated it, it wouldn’t have worked.” He paused a moment. “I still can’t believe she came after me. I would have expected a surrender and confession first.”
“Then you don’t know her very well.”
“I came to realize that. Almost too late. Thanks for all you did.”
“You’re welcome.” Smilow glanced toward Davee and caught her looking at him. Unless Hammond’s eyes were deceiving him, the detective actually blushed. Quickly he returned his attention back to Hammond. “This is for you.” He extended a manila envelope toward Hammond.
“What is it?”
“A lab report. Steffi gave it to me this morning. It matches your blood to that found on Dr. Ladd’s sheets.” Hammond’s lips parted, but Smilow shook his head sternly. “Don’t say anything. Just take it and destroy it. Without this, any allegations Steffi makes about you sleeping with a suspect will be unsubstantiated. Of course, since Dr. Ladd turned out not to be the culprit, it’s really only a technicality.”
Hammond looked at the deceptively innocuous envelope. If he accepted it, he would be as guilty as Smilow had been in the State v. Vincent Anthony Barlow case. Barlow was guilty as sin of murdering his seventeen-year-old girlfriend and the fetus she was carrying, but Smilow had fudged some exculpatory evidence which Hammond was obligated by law to disclose.
It wasn’t until after he had won a conviction that he learned of Smilow’s alleged mishandling of the case. He could never prove that Smilow had deliberately excluded the mitigating evidence in his discovery, so an investigation into malfeasance was never conducted. Barlow, now serving a life sentence, had filed an appeal. It had been granted. The young man would get another trial, to which he was entitled no matter how guilty he was.
But Hammond had never forgiven Smilow for making him an unwitting participant in this miscarriage of justice.
“Don’t be a Boy Scout,” the detective said now in an undertone. “Haven’t you earned all the badges you need?”
“It’s wrong.”
Smilow lowered his voice even more. “We don’t like each other, and we both know why. We operate differently, but we’re working the same side. I need a tough prosecutor and trial attorney like you over there in the solicitor’s office, not a glad-handing politician like Mason. You’ll do far more good by serving this county as the top law officer than you would by making a confession of sexual misconduct, which nobody gives a damn about anyway. Think about it, Hammond.”
“Hammond?”
He was being summoned back up onto the dais so they could begin. Without turning, he said, “Coming.”
“Sometimes we have to bend the rules to do a better job,” Smilow said, staring hard at him.
It was a persuasive argument. Hammond took the envelope.
* * *
Mason was drawing his speech to a close. The reporters’ eyes were beginning to glaze. Some of the cameramen had lowered their cameras from their shoulders. The account of Steffi’s attempt on Hammond’s life and subsequent arrest had held them spellbound, but this portion of Mason’s address had caused their interest to wane.
“While it pains me that someone in our office is presently in police custody, soon to be charged with a serious crime, I’m equally proud that Special Assistant County Solicitor Hammond Cross was instrumental in her capture. He demonstrated extraordinary bravery today. That’s only one of the reasons why I’m endorsing him as my successor.”
That received a thunderous round of applause. Hammond stared at Mason’s profile while his mentor extolled his talent, dedication, and integrity. The envelope with the incriminating lab report was resting on his knees. He imagined it to be radiating an angry red aura that belied Mason’s accolades.
“I won’t bore you any longer,” Mason boomed in the good-natured, straightforward manner that had endeared him to the media. “Allow me to introduce the hero of the hour.” He turned and motioned for Hammond to join him.
The cameramen repositioned their video recorders on their shoulders. The newspaper reporters perked up and almost in unison clicked their ballpoints.
Hammond laid the envelope on the slanted tray of the lectern. He cleared his throat. After thanking Mason for his remarks, as well as for the confidence he had placed in him, he said, “This has been a remarkable week. In many ways it seems like much more time than that has passed since I learned that Lute Pettijohn had been murdered.
“Actually, I don’t consider myself a hero, or derive any pleasure from knowing that my colleague, Steffi Mundell, is to be charged with that murder. I believe the evidence against her is compelling. As one familiar with the case—”
Loretta Boothe rushed into the room.
Hammond’s heart lurched; his speech faltered and died.
Only those standing near the door noticed her at first. But when Hammond stopped speaking, all heads turned to see who had caused the interruption. Impervious to the stir she had created, Loretta was frantically motioning him toward her.
With all the other events unfolding so rapidly today, he hadn’t had time to call and tell her that Alex was no longer a suspect, therefore her whereabouts last Saturday evening were irrelevant.
But Loretta was here, with one of the brawny marines from the fair in tow, and there was no way he could avoid her. “Excuse me a moment.”
Despite the murmur of puzzlement that rippled through the crowd, he stepped off the dais and made his way to the back of the room. As he went, he thought of all the people the next few moments would inevitably embarrass. Monroe Mason. Smilow. Frank Perkins. Himself. Alex. When he passed her, his glance silently apologized for what was about to happen.
“You wanted to speak to me, Loretta?”
She didn’t even try to mask her irritation. “For almost twenty-four hours.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“Well, so have I.” She stepped back through the door and spoke to someone who had been left standing out in the hallway. “Come on in here.”
Hammond waited expectantly, wondering how he was going to explain himself when the marine gaped at him and declared, “He’s the one! He’s the one that was dancing with Alex Ladd.”
But it wasn’t a fresh recruit who came through the door. Instead, looking self-conscious and miserable, a slight black man with wire-rimmed spectacles stepped into the room.
Hammond released a short laugh of pure astonishment. “Smitty?” he exclaimed, realizing that he didn’t even know the man’s last name.
“How’re you doing, Mr. Cross? I told her we shouldn’t interrupt, but she wouldn’t pay me any mind.”
Hammond looked from the shoeshine man to Loretta. “I thought you went to the fair,” he heard himself say stupidly. “That’s what your messages said.”
“I did. I bumped into Smitty there. He was sitting in the pavilion all by himself, listening to the music. We started chatting and the subject of the Pettijohn case came up. He’s moved his business to the Charles Towne Plaza.”
“I saw him there today.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t talk to you, Mr. Cross. I guess I was feeling sort of ashamed.”
“For what?”
“For not telling you about Steffi Mundell’s switcheroo last Saturday,” Loretta cut in. “First he sees her in jogging getup, then in one of the hotel robes, then in jogging clothes again. All very strange.”
“I didn’t make much of it, Mr. Cross, until I saw her on the TV yesterday, and it reminded me.”
“He was reluctant to get anyone into trouble, so he didn’t say anything to anyone except Smilow.”
“Smilow?”
The detective, who had moved up beside Hammond, addressed Smitty. “When you referred to the lawyer you saw on TV, I thought you were talking about Mr. Cross.”
“No sir, the lady lawyer,” the older man explained. “I’m sorry if I caused y’all any trouble.”
Hammond laid his hand on Smitty’s shoulder. “Thank you for coming forward now. We’ll get your statement later.” To Loretta he said, “Thank you.”
She frowned, grumbling. “You got her without my help, but you still owe me a foot rub and a drink. A double.”
Hammond turned back into the room. The cameras were whirring now. Lights nearly blinded him as he made his way back to the dais. He could have skipped like a kid. The bands of tension around his chest had been snipped loose. He was breathing normally.
Nobody knew about him and Alex. There wasn’t going to be any surprise witness who had seen Alex and him together last Saturday. Nobody knew except her. Frank Perkins. Rory Smilow. Davee.
Well… and him.
He knew.
Suddenly he didn’t feel like skipping anymore.
He resumed his place behind the lectern. As he did so, Monroe Mason gave him a wink and a thumbs-up. He glanced at his father. Preston, for once, was nodding his wholehearted approval. He would agree with Smilow. Let it drop. Accept the job. Do good work and the misbehavior would be justified.
He was a shoo-in. He would win the election in a landslide. He probably wouldn’t even have an opponent. But was the job, any job, worth sacrificing his self-respect?
Wouldn’t he rather tell the truth and have it cost him the election than keep a secret? The longer the secret was kept, the dirtier it would become. He didn’t want the memory of his first night with Alex to be sullied by secrecy.
His gaze fastened on hers, and he knew in an instant, by the soft expression in her eyes, that she knew exactly what he was thinking. She was the only one who knew what he was thinking. She was the only one who would understand why he was thinking it. She gave him an intensely private, extremely intimate smile of encouragement.
In that moment, he loved her more than he had ever thought it possible to love.
“Before I proceed… I want to address an individual whose life has been unforgivably upended this week. Dr. Alex Ladd cooperated with the Charleston Police Department and my office at the sacrifice of her practice, her time, and most importantly her dignity. She has endured immeasurable embarrassment. I apologize to her on behalf of this county.
“I also owe her a personal apology. Because… because I knew from the start that she had not murdered Lute Pettijohn. She admits to seeing him that afternoon, but well before the time of his death. Certain material elements indicated that she might have had motive. But I knew, even while she was being subjected to humiliating interrogations, that she couldn’t have killed Lute Pettijohn. Because she had an alibi.”
Nobody knows. Really only a technicality. Why be a Boy Scout? You’ll do far more good… Nobody gives a damn anyway.
Hammond paused and took a deep breath, not of anxiety, but relief.
“I was her alibi.”