Chapter 11

Alma Gordon watched Julia Blackwell push the “play” button on her ancient answering machine.

“Listen to this,” Julia Blackwell said as the machine spoke. “Mrs. Blackwell, this is Spencer Tremaine—”

“Spencer Tremaine?” Alma Gordon croaked. “The Spencer Tremaine?”

“Shh. I want to hear this,” said Frances Noonan.

“—and I’d like to talk to you about your son’s case. I’d like to speak to both of you about representing him. I think he needs a top-notch defense, and I would be interested in leading the team. Juries don’t like men who kill the mother of their child. I think you’d be remiss not to call me. You can reach me through my San Francisco office.”

Mrs. Blackwell punched the button again, hitting it so hard the machine fell off the table. “What do you think of that?”

Alma Gordon, Frances Noonan, and Harriet Flynn all jumped forward to try to catch the machine, but it caught on its cord and slowly dangled to and fro. They had come to pick up Ben, who was now in his bedroom retrieving his sand bucket and shovel. They would drop Mrs. Flynn at her doctor’s office, which was in the Sunset District near Ocean Beach. While they waited for her, they were going to make a sandcastle. Baby Owen had his own bucket and squatted on the floor with the bucket in his hands.

“Was that really Spencer Tremaine?” Mrs. Gordon asked.

“Sounds much different than on television,” Mrs. Noonan said.

“Who’s Spencer Tremaine?” Mrs. Flynn asked.

“Who’s Spencer Tremaine?” said Mrs. Gordon, aghast. “Who’s Spencer Tremaine? Didn’t you follow the Baker Beach killings?”

“Why would I ever follow the Baker Beach killings? Ladies of ill repute, murdered and left on a nudist beach—why would I ever subject myself to such tawdry goings on?”

“Well, Spencer Tremaine was the lawyer who represented the killer. Got him off, if you can believe it. The whole case hinged on a technical issue—”

“No search warrant,” said Mrs. Noonan.

“Yes, no search warrant.” Mrs. Gordon knew everything about the case. “The police said they didn’t need one, as the evidence was in full view through the window. Mr. Tremaine successfully argued that to see inside the house, the police needed to step onto private property through a latched gate and even climb into the bushes to see through the window. Thus, when Mr. Butts opened the door and they rushed in to seize the incriminating objects, they were conducting an illegal search. So the jury was never told about the evidence.”

“He said the Fourth Amendment assures a right to privacy within one’s home and protects against unreasonable search and seizure. So, Mr. Butts walked free,” Mrs. Noonan said.

“What incriminating objects?” said Mrs. Flynn.

“Oh, you don’t want to know,” said Mrs. Noonan.

“Ladies’ undergarments, a bloody rope, and handcuffs,” said Mrs. Gordon at the same time. How had she remembered all this?

“And this Mr. Butts is out there because of Spencer Tremaine?” Mrs. Flynn asked. “Why would you want to have anything to do with him? A man who makes deals with the devil is no better than the devil himself.”

“Yes, that’s how part of me feels,” said Julia Blackwell.

“Part?” said Mrs. Flynn.

“Well,” said Julia, “when Spencer Tremaine took that Baker Beach case, people could not understand it. It seemed so open and shut. The man was certainly guilty, at least in the public’s eyes.”

“So why would you ever want to associate with someone who willingly defends such a fiend?”

“Because now Mr. Butts is free,” said Julia Blackwell. “My Paul could be free.”

If he takes the case, Alma Gordon thought, I might get to meet Spencer Tremaine.

“Will you come with me?” asked Julia.

Alma Gordon whipped her head around, words about to spill out. Of course she would go! She’d get to meet the great man himself!

“Frances, you are very levelheaded,” Julia Blackwell continued. “Will you come with me? You’ll know if this is right.”

Mrs. Gordon shut her mouth.

“You already know this is not right,” said Mrs. Flynn. “This Spencer Tremaine will meet his maker in the end.”