Chapter 12

 

 

As I took a chair, I compared the Helen Bannerly sitting behind the desk with the images from ten years ago in the newspapers. Same blonde page hairstyle, although a few silver threads had woven their way into the gold. She’d arrived at a comfortable weight for someone in her fifties, although the thought flitted that perhaps she’d been under a great deal of stress during Rory’s trial, accounting for her rail-thinness back then. Blue was still the color of choice for her business suit and I saw the reason why—it complimented her eyes beautifully.

“All right,” she said, focusing those eyes on me. “What’s this about? I don’t believe I’ve ever received a personal visit from someone in the governor’s office.”

I let the moment for confession slide right on by. “We’re looking into the Rory McNab case.” Hey, that much was the truth. “You were his defense attorney.”

She sat back in her chair, her mind clearly looking for some clue as to why this was coming back now. All she gave me was a vague nod of agreement to my statement.

“You weren’t assigned as a public defender; your firm took the case because you believed Rory was innocent of the charges?”

“The head of the firm wanted us to take it,” she said. “The story was getting a lot of press and he thought it would make a name for us. I was on track for senior partner and pushed to be assigned the case. If it made a name for the firm, it would make me golden.”

I noticed she hadn’t exactly answered my question about Rory’s innocence. “You must have had good reason to believe you could win—witnesses to rebut the charges or at least to stand up for his reputation and character?”

“To tell you the truth, Ms. …”

“Parker.”

“Ms. Parker, I really have little memory of the specifics of the case now. It’s been years. I moved on.”

She didn’t say as much, but I wondered if the ‘move’ was because her previous position went away after losing such a public case.

“I handle an average of twenty clients at a time now, complex corporate mergers, real estate deals … I deal with each as it comes up; once finalized, I move on. I can’t bring up details of a case from last summer, much less from ten years ago.”

Including the most public trial, and its aftermath, that you’ve ever been involved in? My skepticism rose a good twelve notches.

“Surely you remember going up against Herman Quinto. The man spends a lot of time in the spotlight, especially now that he’s running for national office.”

Some emotion flashed across her face, gone in an instant. The blue eyes blinked and she looked down at her impeccably neat desk top. She sighed. “Look, I’m tired of being asked about that old case. It was only one of hundreds. It meant very little then and it means nothing now.”

“Do you have the files? I’m sure we would like to review those.”

“Nothing. Anything I might have had at the time was left behind when I left the firm, and they have a policy of destroying case files after five years. You have to understand; it would require a warehouse to keep everything, especially on closed cases.”

That much was probably very true. I’d seen lawyers arrive at court with three or four cartons of files. Simple math would tell me they must have thousands of such boxes in their offices.

A ping came from the cell phone she’d laid beside her desk blotter.

“You’ll have to excuse me. My next appointment is here.” She stood, making it clear she meant now.

I didn’t see anyone in the waiting area and suspected the well-timed reminder message was standard office procedure to get rid of anyone who overstayed her welcome—in this case, me. Which was fine; I’d gotten all I would from her—precisely nothing.

Out in the car, I did a quick online search for Rory’s former partner, Christopher Brown, and came up with a complete resume, including the fact that he now headed a twenty-person firm in Santa Fe. I called the handy number on their website, but the gatekeeper told me Mr. Brown was not taking any new clients.

“This is a personal matter and I only need fifteen minutes of his time,” I pleaded.

“He has a short opening at one-thirty.”

I would have to break every existing land speed record to make it, so that was out.

“He’s in court the rest of the week.” The tone of voice implied something weighty.

I made an appointment for Monday morning, knowing full well I wouldn’t wait around for that one. There had to be a better way. I ended the call with my devious little mind full of all kinds of ideas.

My poor little doggie was tired of guarding the vehicle and waiting for me to run all these silly errands, so my first priority was to take her home. It would give me the chance to pick up a few things Gram had requested. She was feeling feisty enough to want her own pajamas, robe, and toiletries. With careful planning and precision timing, my afternoon might unfold the way I wanted.

Freckles raced around the back yard with complete abandon. While she sniffed the chrysanthemums that were still in full bloom, I popped next door to gather Elsa’s wish list. Packing everything into a small tote bag, I locked up and went back home to give the dog an early supper and see her settled comfortably in her crate. While Freckles munched, I checked in with Drake. He’d finished the oil change on the helicopter and was polishing the windows in anticipation of tomorrow’s job for the Fish and Game Department.

One more stop, checking on Gram at the hospital. She was napping, so I set the tote bag where she would see it and stepped out to speak with the nurses.

“Looks like Friday,” the nurse said, consulting Elsa’s chart. “She’ll go to Sunrise Rehab where they’ll work with her and assess her independence level. If she passes the tests for dressing, feeding, bathing and toileting on her own, she can go home.” She gave me a bright smile. “Of course, you realize a lot of patients her age still require some help with those things. It would be best if she can go home with someone else, stay with a family member, have someone stay at her home with her …”

All the things Ron and I had talked about. Unfortunately, we still hadn’t reached any conclusions. I thanked the nurse and told myself I would get back with my brother on this question soon. Meanwhile, I had come up with an almost-surefire way to chat with Rory’s former partner.

I had the hour-long drive to Santa Fe to ponder it all, but my mind kept skipping ahead to Fergus and Rory McNab, hoping I wasn’t too late to get some answers before Fergus was no longer around to welcome his son home. Fortunately, the afternoon traffic was in my favor—southbound was insane; my northbound direction, only partially crazy. I’d determined my best bet was to exit I-25 at St. Francis. Christopher Brown’s office was on St. Michael’s Drive, roughly in the area where the hospital and a lot of medical offices are. I wondered if that spoke to the types of cases the firm handled.

The sun was low in the west now, and most of the various office parking lots held only a few cars. It seemed the time of day when patient and client appointments were finished; a few staff remained and most of those were headed for the exits, going to cozy homes, warm dinners, and helping kids with homework. Or so I imagined.

The address I’d found on the website came up on the right and I whipped into the parking lot on threat of being run down by an aggressive driver who clearly didn’t like someone address-searching on such a busy street. The building looked like dark brown adobe, a color within the Santa Fe building codes. Every window on the second floor was brightly lit. Would Brown’s be like those big-city law firms where they pride themselves on working half the night? I didn’t want to summon up the patience for that kind of waiting game, but I backed into a parking slot so I could watch.

Ten minutes later, meeting adjourned, lights began going out and people emerged one-by-one from the front entry. I realized I might not recognize Brown in the dim evening light, so I left the Jeep and walked to the double doors. I had a good idea what he looked like, provided his photo on the firm’s website was even close to current. Dark hair, trimmed short, goatee (although facial hair has a way of changing on a moment’s notice), green eyes, high cheekbones, a nose that was a little too rounded to qualify as handsome. I stood just inside the doorway, watching until I saw him come down the stairs.

“Christopher Brown?”

He turned toward me with an open gaze.

“I need to ask about Rory McNab.” I introduced myself and told him I’d been hired by Fergus. “Could we talk for a few minutes? I’ll buy you a drink, if you were heading somewhere.”

“Just home. I’ll pass on the drink. Rory, huh? Wow, that’s a name from the past.” He shifted a heavy briefcase from one hand to the other as two middle-aged women walked past. “Look, the lobby isn’t the most comfortable … Want to come up to my office?”

I followed him up the stairs, through a reception area and past a grouping of cubicles to a spacious office with windows that offered a surprising view of the city. I hadn’t realized this spot sat a bit higher than most. The room had a recently occupied feel—coffee mug on the desk, two thirds full of milky-looking brew, wastebasket half full, a faint warmth from the computer terminal at the corner of the large pine desk.

“So—Rory. What questions could you possibly have about him?” He plopped the briefcase on the floor beside his credenza and took a seat behind the desk. I sat across from him, although he hadn’t specifically invited me to.

“His father, Fergus McNab, is dying.”

“Oh, sorry to hear it. I remember Fergus. Kind of a crusty old guy. Must be in his eighties now?”

I nodded. “I gather he and Rory were always close.”

Christopher waggled one hand in a ‘maybe’ type of motion. “Fergus was very proud of Rory, of his success, especially when he started talking about running for the state Senate.”

“But …?”

“I’m not sure the admiration went both ways. Sorry, I shouldn’t be saying that. Rory just didn’t want to grow up to be a farmer. He had his sights set on fancier, more glamorous things for his own life. It wasn’t that he was ashamed of Fergus, not exactly. He just didn’t want to become him.”

“And yet Fergus put everything out there when Rory got in trouble, even going so far as to help him escape.”

A sharp look from Brown. “That was never proven. I mean, the police questioned everyone connected with Rory. Fergus got the lion’s share of the interrogation, but they never arrested the old man.”

Not sure how much I should say, I changed the subject. “What about the case against Rory, the jury tampering—was he guilty? Ten counts seems rather extreme.”

“It was. Come on, anybody who watches Law and Order could tell you one juror can throw a case. Why would Rory take the risk of messing around with ten of them?”

“It doesn’t seem logical. Maybe it was the nature of the case—I read somewhere that he’d defended a man accused of dealing drugs.”

“Ah, yes … what was that kid’s name … Baca. Damian Baca. I say ‘kid’ but he was legally an adult. Nineteen, I think. He came from a good family, one both Rory and I knew. Neither of us believed he was guilty and the evidence was skimpy. Everything was going our way and the jury found in Damian’s favor. His grandmother was so thankful she even kissed Rory on the cheek after the verdict was read.”

“So, what went wrong?”

“Herman Quinto. As a prosecutor he had the reputation for getting things done, cleaning up the streets, so to speak. He was on a winning streak with cases where he was putting drug dealers away for hard time. He couldn’t believe he lost the Baca case and he vowed to get back at Rory.”

“So he made up these jury-tampering charges? Wouldn’t there have to be some basis?”

“It roared up on us like a freight train. Suddenly, there were deputies from the U.S. Marshals’ office raiding our place and seizing files. Rory was served with a warrant. Both of us were sputtering like idiots. We had no idea where these charges had come from.”

“But how—?”

“Somebody got to them. That’s all I can figure.” He noticed the dirty coffee mug and turned to set it behind him on the credenza. “Jurors who’d been amenable to our case suddenly testified that they’d been approached by members of the Baca family who hinted that Damian’s lawyer sent them. The Bacas denied it, but Quinto made the argument that of course they would deny it. Guilty people deny incriminating evidence all the time. He came up with a couple of handwritten notes of a threatening nature, even had some recorded phone calls, evidence Rory swore he’d never seen before.”

“Did he prove those came from Rory …?”

“It was very shaky. We were stunned when the verdict came in, even more so at the sentencing.”

“And you weren’t dragged into it?”

“Luckily not. It was Rory’s case, and he seemed to be the one Quinto was after.”

“Any idea why?”

“I’ve thought about that a lot over the years. I told you Rory was planning to run for state Senate—it’s the same seat Herman Quinto holds now. I think, when it came to a squeaky clean reputation versus a tarnished one, Quinto realized he needed to get Rory out of the picture or at least smear him so badly he’d never get elected.”

During the drive home, my inborn skepticism kicked in. I wanted to believe Chris Brown—he’d seemed a genuine sort of guy—but I also had to remind myself that everything he’d said could also be used to cover his own ass. As Rory’s business partner at the time, he would have tried to throw some distance between them. And, if that was the case, it had worked. Rory had spent ten years on the run, while Chris now headed a very successful law firm, by the look of it.

Plus, everyone involved was a lawyer or a politician—seriously, how much could I trust anything any of them said? Both Helen Bannerly and Kate Letterman had been hesitant to talk to me, and I didn’t see either of them as the shy type.

I arrived at home to find Drake in the kitchen, working his magic with a couple of steaks and baked potatoes. When he handed me a glass of my favorite merlot, the happiness picture was complete. We finished our sumptuous meal, watched an action movie, and called an early bedtime. He would need to be airborne at daylight to head for the high country and count elk with his Fish and Game client. I snuggled in next to him, but my mind was a little too charged up to let me sleep right away—I’d learned something important today but couldn’t figure out what it was.