VICTOR JENKINS SAT in Public Defender James Allard’s office. Atop Allard’s desk sat family photos. In each was James Jr., with a thicker head of his father’s flaming red hair to go with the florid cheeks, British-bad teeth, and eyeglasses as big as the father’s glasses. Between Jr. and Sr. stood a woman who might have been pretty if her almond eyes were the same size as each other and one did not seem to float aimlessly, even in a photo.
In the series of staged photos, the Allards smiled as though they had guns aimed at their heads.
“Let me ask. First thing. Up front.” Allard paused and nodded to the door. “Close that door for me? This is private.”
Victor shut the door.
Allard said, “Do you believe your son did it?”
“No.” What kind of question was this to start out?
“I can tell you believe it. But that doesn’t make it so. Nor does it matter. It doesn’t matter what you or your wife or I or the police or the judge or the media or anyone else believes. You know what matters?”
Vic was frustrated already with this circular talk.
“What matters is what twelve people in a jury box think,” Allard said. “That’s it. Nothing else. We are planting the seed of reasonable doubt and letting it grow into a big redwood of not guilty.”
It mattered to Victor that Brad was innocent. Murder was not the same as other sins. Victor would not be able to bear the shame if Brad had killed that girl. His life would be shattered, his name and family ruined. His wife shamed. He would not know how to forgive his son.
He glanced at the dead fern on the bookshelf. He nearly got up and left. But he thought about what a real lawyer cost and remained seated. “This is going to court?” Victor said.
“I will need to speak to Brad, ASAP. He’s spoken too much to the police already.”
“I don’t think he said anything damaging.”
“Everything he says is damaging. Your son has no alibi?”
“No.”
“He was seeing the girl?”
“Yes.”
“And that girl was pregnant?”
“What?” Victor felt as if a jolt of electricity had shot through him.
“You didn’t know?” Allard said. He waved a hand. “I’m privy, as the PD. It doesn’t matter.”
“Doesn’t matter, of course it—“
“And his fingerprints are all over the house,” Allard said.
“He’d been there before. And if they had prints on the murder weapon, they’d have arrested him as soon as they got a match. So. That’s good.”
“Maybe.”
“How can it not be?” Victor wondered if this guy was on Brad’s side or not.
“If we had the weapon and there were someone else’s fingerprints, that would be good. We need evidence that points to someone else. Not just less evidence against your son.”
“It’s all circumstantial.”
“Not his prints. While the police can’t prove they were left the night of the murder, we have no way to prove they weren’t. And. I have to be honest. I’m a straight shooter if nothing else. People are convicted. Every day. On circumstantial evidence. Every day. On much less of it too.”
“You think he did it.”
“I am your son’s attorney. My sole priority is to create reasonable doubt. Or unearth evidence that points elsewhere.”
“Can you?”
Allard glanced at the folder. “Honest. Based on what I see here.”
“Have you even handled a murder case?”
“They don’t come up much in the Kingdom. I’ve handled plea bargains to manslaughter. I really need to speak to your son ASAP.”
“How about now?”
Allard snapped his arm up so his shirt cuff receded to reveal a gold wristwatch. He lowered his arm with a snap, as if performing a magic trick, concealing his wristwatch again.
“Okeydokey.”