Eight

The courtroom fell silent for several seconds—the calm before the storm, Regan would later reflect—then burst into a flood of voices. Reporters scrambled over each other, some aiming for Lester Ray, some for the prosecutor, others for the victim’s family members, one of whom had shrieked as if in pain.

Regan turned for the aisle and tried to ignore the calls for her attention from Roland Booth as well as from several reporters. She worked her way to the door, and to the courthouse steps, where a reporter from one of the local network affiliates stuck a microphone in her face.

“I’m outside the courthouse with noted true crime author Regan Landry.” The aggressive blonde held her ground despite Regan’s attempts to walk around her. “Roland Booth announced right before they went into court this afternoon that he and his client are going to be working with you on a book about Lester Ray’s experiences. This will be a departure for you; as we all know, your previous books—and those of your father—have all been centered around cold cases. Lester Ray’s case couldn’t be hotter. How different will this book be for you? And how much of the book will be written by you, how much if any by Lester Ray and Roland Booth?”

“I…” Regan started to respond, but before she could get a word out, something struck her in the middle of her back.

Regan fought to keep her balance even as a young woman spun her around and screamed, “How could you? Why would you waste one second of your time even talking to him? You’re going to tell his story?” Regan recognized the woman from the courtroom. Carolyn Preston’s sister. “What about Carolyn’s story? Who’s going to tell her story?”

Regan opened her mouth to explain that she hadn’t agreed to write anyone’s story yet, but the woman screamed over her.

“Do you know what that bastard did to my sister?” She lunged forward but was restrained by two young men, one on either side.

The brothers, Regan thought. She’d seen them all in the courtroom.

“I know what someone did to your sister,” Regan said softly. “I don’t know that it was him. I’m terribly sorry for your loss. I know you want someone to blame.”

“What could you possibly know?” The woman began to sob. “You don’t know what it’s like to have someone you love murdered. You don’t know how it feels.”

“I do know what it’s like,” Regan told her. “I know exactly how it feels.”

The woman froze, her eyes challenging Regan.

“Two years ago, my father was murdered.” Regan reached out a hand to the woman and touched her arm gently. “We know for certain who murdered my father, but if there’d been any question—any question whatsoever—I’d have wanted it answered, once and for all. I’d want to know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, who was responsible. I’d have wanted justice for my dad. I’d think you’d want to know the truth, too.”

“We all know it was him.” The woman was crying softly in the arms of one of her brothers. “If that lab tech hadn’t lied, if he hadn’t messed up the evidence, there’d be no question now. Barnes would still be in prison, where he belongs.”

“But Potts did lie. He did mishandle the DNA. And that is on Eugene Potts, not Lester Ray Barnes.”

“You’re defending him because you’re going to write a book about him and get rich off my sister’s death.” The woman’s voice began to rise, and the young man holding her pulled her back again, his eyes dark with rage even as he tried to calm his sister.

“I’m not defending him, I’m stating the facts. I haven’t made any decision about this book. I don’t know enough yet to know if it’s something I want to write about. But if I go ahead with this project, I promise Carolyn’s story will be told.” Regan took a deep breath. “The true story, whatever that may turn out to be.”

Carolyn Preston’s grieving sister stared at Regan through redrimmed eyes, then turned her back and walked away, a brother on either side.

“I’m so very, very sorry for your loss,” Regan said softly, knowing there was nothing she could say that would evoke a rational response. Best to walk away, she told herself. There was nothing she could say that they would want to hear.

She eased her way through the crowd, her cheeks burning, ignoring the reporters and Roland Booth’s attempts to catch her attention. Her cell phone was ringing by the time she got to her car. She checked the incoming number before answering.

“You okay, babe?” Mitch sounded far away.

“I’m okay. I just want out of here.” She locked the doors and turned the key in the ignition. “But how did you know…”

“Someone put the TV on in the lobby, and there was live coverage. It looked like you were being mobbed.”

Regan frowned.

“What exactly did you see?”

“I saw a woman—apparently the victim’s sister—screaming at you. But I have to say, you were cool, very understanding, very gentle with her. Anyone else might have—”

“Are you telling me that the confrontation by the Preston family was televised?”

Mitch sighed, painfully aware now that she hadn’t known, and wished he hadn’t been the one to tell her. “The camera was rolling from the minute the reporter stuck that mike in your face. The entire conversation—if you could call it that—was broadcast live. The cable news channels are just starting to run it now.”

“Great.” She pulled away from the curb, and immediately a dark car pulled behind her. She stopped at the stop sign and glanced at the rearview mirror. “That’s just fucking great.”

She watched the car turn when she did.

“I think someone’s following me. I saw him in the courtroom. I think it’s a reporter,” she told Mitch.

“I’m on my way back to the hotel room. I’m going to pick up our things and I’ll meet you. We’ll stay someplace else tonight, just in case you were followed yesterday after you dropped off Booth. Can you drive around for a while?”

“Yes, but I don’t know where to go.”

“Where are you now?”

She named the cross street she’d just passed.

“Go three more lights, then take a right. Five blocks down from there, make another right into the parking lot on the corner.”

“And from there I should go where?” She passed through the first light.

“From there you’ll go inside the building on the corner. I’ll call ahead and let them know you’re coming.”

“What building?” She frowned. Light number two was straight ahead.

“The local office of the FBI.” She could almost hear the note of satisfaction in his voice. “That guy who’s following you will never make it past the lobby.”

 

“You think he’s still sitting in the parking lot?” Regan asked Mitch as she hung her clothes in the closet of their new hotel.

“Probably.” Mitch grinned. “He’s probably made a bunch of calls back to his office.”

Mitch held an imaginary phone to his ear.

“‘Yeah, she’s still in there, she’s been in there for hours. You hear anything about her being with the FBI? Or anything about the Bureau being in on this? No, I have no idea what’s going on in there, but I’m not leaving till she comes out.’”

Regan laughed. “I had no idea there was parking under the building.”

“Unless you see the building from the back, you wouldn’t know. And of course, that’s a restricted area.”

She smiled, pleased at having made a getaway in Mitch’s car, happy to have some time alone with him, for some peace and quiet.

He stood behind her and rubbed her shoulders.

“Tough day?”

“Crazy.” She nodded. “A little lower, on the right. Yeah, right there…perfect.”

He reached around her for the remote and turned on the television.

“Am I going to have to watch myself being verbally accosted by the Prestons?”

“Might as well see what everyone else is watching.”

“Thanks,” she said dryly. “I can’t wait.”

He turned on the news.

“How about I call room service, and get us a nice bottle of wine and some dinner.” He nuzzled the back of her neck. “What did you eat today, by the way?”

“I had a burger from a drive-through place on my way to court this morning, and Dorsey got me a package of peanut butter crackers and a soda from the vending machine while I was waiting for you to pick me up.”

“No wonder you’re tired. Your body hasn’t had any decent fuel all day. How ’bout a big salad and a steak? Or some fish? They have a nice menu here.” He went to the desk and brought her the menu to look at.

“Do they have any good desserts?”

“Well, they have crème brûlée, and…”

“Oh, shit, Mitch.” She grabbed the remote and raised the volume. “What are these idiots up to now?”

Roland Booth and Lester Ray Barnes were being interviewed on the steps of the courthouse. Guards held back the crowds, including, Regan supposed, the Preston family. She could only begin to imagine what they’d had to say to the newly released Barnes and his lawyer.

“…and thank my lawyer, Roland Booth, who believed in me from day one,” Lester Ray was saying in that soft voice. “And the judge for making the right decision.”

“Lester Ray, did you have any family in court today?” the reporter asked.

“No, sir, I did not. I have no family.” There were tears in his eyes. “But my friend, Regan Landry, was there today, and I am grateful for her support.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake.” Regan grimaced.

“It’s rumored she’s basing her next book on this case,” the reporter continued.

“Fuck!” Regan snapped.

Roland Booth leaned forward before Lester Ray could respond.

“Shut up, Roland,” Regan said to the image on the TV screen. “Don’t say it.”

“We’ll be meeting with Ms. Landry over the next few days to work out the details,” Roland said. “We’re very excited about the prospect of getting Lester Ray’s story out there. It’s a real triumph, an inspiration. She’s the one to write it, she’s our first choice. And as Lester Ray said, we’re grateful to her for being in the courtroom with him. Her presence was even noticed by the judge.”

“Did he mention…?” the reporter asked.

“Oh, yeah.” Booth nodded enthusiastically. “When we went into chambers, he even asked Lester Ray if she was there to take notes for a book, and we told him she was. I can’t help but think that could have impressed him, you know? That someone with her credentials was behind Lester Ray…”

“Oh, that is such bullshit, Roland,” Regan yelled at the screen. “Just shut the fuck up!”

“Calm down,” Mitch told her.

“No way would a judge be influenced by who was or was not in the courtroom.” She turned to Mitch. “Least of all a writer, for Christ’s sake. That’s just crap.”

“But it’s apparently crap that Booth believes. Or at the very least, he wants other people to believe it. Wants everyone to know that he’s rubbing elbows with the big-time author.”

“That’s bullshit,” she repeated. “And I never said I was supporting Lester Ray and I certainly wasn’t in that courtroom as his friend. I never said I believed he was innocent—I definitely never said that, especially after that Academy Award–winning performance he put on for me in the prison, did I tell you about that?”

Before Mitch could respond, Regan went on.

“Mitch, I never said I was definitely going to write that book.”

“I hear you, babe. But I think you’re going to have to have this conversation with Mr. Booth.”

“The sooner, the better.” She grabbed her bag from the desk and started searching for her wallet. “He gave me his business card, I put it in here someplace. I’m going to call him and—”

Her cell phone began to ring. She took it from her pocket and checked the number.

“Oh, great.” She groaned. “It’s my editor. Go ahead and order something for me from room service. I think this is going to take a while…”

She opened the phone and raised it to her ear.

“Nina, hi. Let me guess…you’re watching the news…”