Riptide (Sam McRae Mystery 3)

Was it because Jamila was black?

“Can’t we move this case somewhere less …” I fumbled for the word. “Prejudicial?”

“I could ask the court. As you know, a change in venue would be at the court’s discretion. No guarantees.” Mulrooney stared fixedly at his desk. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but you realize it is my job to prepare you for the worst.”

I sighed. Jamila sat up straight. “So … what would my options be?” she said, looking braced for impact.

Mulrooney leaned on his forearms, hands clasped as if in supplication. “Of course, I’ll do everything I can to dismiss any of their evidence or buy us time. I’ll request the venue change. However, assuming the worst, the only sure way to avoid an indictment and trial is through a plea bargain. Most likely a plea to involuntary manslaughter based on diminished capacity.”

I jumped up. “No. Way.”

The elderly lawyer’s gaze drifted my way. “I believe that’s the client’s decision.”

“Jamila wants to be a judge. She’s wanted that ever since law school. As long as I’ve known her. Do you realize what a guilty plea would do to her career?”

Mulrooney nodded, looking sad. “Yes.”

“Then you have to know that’s unacceptable.”

I looked at Jamila for confirmation. She looked thunderstruck. “Surely,” she said, in a near whisper. “It won’t have to come to that.”

“Let us hope not. However, you need to be ready for the possibility.” Mulrooney’s look bore into me. “The only other possibility is to come up with another suspect. I’ve made it clear to Conroy that he needs to treat this case as his first priority. We need to dig up something that’ll blow their case out of the water.”

I nodded, thinking, I’ll be damned if I rely on Conroy for that.

*****

Before we left, Mulrooney advised Jamila to lay low and avoid talking to anyone else about the case without counsel present. “Let your attorneys handle everything,” he said. Jamila concurred, but seemed to respond on autopilot.

As we drove back to the motel, I warned Jamila about the media’s awareness of her situation. She only nodded and stared straight ahead.

“Jamila.” I paused, considering my next words. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

She sighed. “Nothing important.”

I wished I could believe her.

CHAPTER NINE

After dropping Jamila at the motel, I had to act. But where to start? The eyewitness. What was his name? Mulrooney hadn’t said, and I’d neglected to ask. I called Mulrooney and left a message. Now what? Start with Billy Ray’s friends. They knew about the confrontation. They also could’ve stolen the knife and clothes. They’d be the logical ones to frame Jamila. But who were they? And assuming I could track them down, what would I do? Torture them into confessing? Right.

Time was my enemy. The preliminary hearing was in two weeks. And Jamila’s presentation was in three days. So I had only so much time to … what exactly? Exonerate Jamila? Do damage control?

I took a moment to think and try to pick a sensible course. Maybe I should start with the name I did know—Marshall Bower. Perhaps there was something to be learned from Billy Ray’s stepfather, the man with all the local pull.

Sam McRae, girl of action, decided to find an Internet café. I figured it would take me all of five minutes to look him up.

The “café” turned out to be one lonely terminal tucked in the corner of a forlorn shop that sold cheap T-shirts in one of the strip malls a couple of miles north on Coastal Highway. They charged an outrageous $20 for ten minutes. I figured I’d rather cough up the cash than run back to the condo, fetch Jamila’s laptop and hunt around looking for free Wi-Fi.

As the connection—dial up, no less!—crept to life, I checked my watch. Almost 10:30. Okay, I had time. Still it was mere hours away from my meeting with Jinx. It felt like waiting to have a tooth pulled.

When the home page finally downloaded, I checked my favorite directory. Three listings for a Marshall Bower in Maryland. None of them in the area.

“Shit.” Unlisted, no doubt. Given his apparent stature in the community, I guessed it was his way of avoiding contact with the hoi polloi.

I Googled the name, throwing in the terms “Eastern Shore” and “Ocean City.” Results! Among the top hits was a blog post about Bower Farms, Inc. Bower, who reportedly owned amusement rides, arcades, a few hotels, and other real estate holdings, had diversified last year into the poultry business—big business on the Eastern Shore. His outfit was small compared to the heavy hitters like Perdue and Tyson, but according to the post dated two months ago, the company was making aggressive inroads into the industry. Enough to where it put the local farm and migrant worker protection groups on alert. The blog had been created by just such a group. The Farmworker Protection League, aka FPL. Interesting.

With another glance at my watch, I quickly Googled Bower Farms, Inc., for its address and phone number. A few more clicks and I had it mapped and printed on a dusty, but functioning ink jet printer.