“You need to lawyer up.”
“Who should I call?”
“David Eldredge is good,” he said. “Smart. Respected. So is Herb Greene. Herb has cross-examined me three or four times in murder trials. Thorough. Kinda dull, though. A plodder. He’s no Clarence Darrow. He’s ain’t gonna win the hearts and minds of the jurors for you.”
There was an uncomfortable thought buzzing around my mind. I tried swatting it away but it kept coming back. “There’s another name occurs to me,” I said, “though I shudder to think about it.”
“Me too,” he said, “but he’s the first one I thought of. I just couldn’t bring myself to say it.”
We spat it out in unison: “Grease.”
“Art, I swear, I would never have imagined I might stoop to hiring that guy. But then again, I never dreamed I might need to.”
“I would never have imagined stooping to recommend him,” he said. “Bottom line, though, is he’s got the best win record, despite the worst clients.”
“Yeah, but hiring Grease is like taking out a billboard ad along I-40,” I said, “with my face and the words YES, I DID IT in ten-foot letters over Jess’s corpse.”
“Doesn’t matter,” he said. “If things get bad and you’ve hired a lawyer you respect, you might find yourself sleeping soundly in prison. If you’ve hired Grease, you’ve got a pretty good shot at tossing and turning in your own bed for the rest of your nights. Sure, everybody will assume you’re guilty. Doesn’t make it so, though. Suck it up and call the bastard.”
“I’ll think about it. Let me see how it goes once Evers comes back and starts asking questions again.”
“Okay. Call me later. I don’t know what I can do to help, but I’ll try.”
“You already have,” I said. “Thanks.”
“That’s what friends are for. You want me to sing it?”
“I’d rather you didn’t. Talk to you soon.” I hated to hang up. Art’s voice felt like a lifeline, and it was tough to let go. But I heard the doorknob rattling, and I knew I had no choice.
Evers and Bingham filed in and sat down, and Evers cranked up the recorder again. I felt his knee wedging itself between both of mine.
“Dr. Brockton, in your initial statement out at the scene, you told us you arrived at the Body Farm at approximately eight A.M. yesterday morning.”
“Yes, that’s right,” I said.
“And you told us that again in our interview in this room about an hour ago, did you not?”
“I think so. I’m pretty confident it was around eight. Give or take a few minutes. Doesn’t 911 automatically record the date and time of emergency calls?”
He ignored my question. “And before that, when were you last out there?”
“When was I last out at the Body Farm?”
“Yes, when? Think carefully.”
I did. “Last Thursday afternoon. End of the day. A little after five. I was there to check on the condition of that research body. The one tied to the tree.”
“You’re saying you were last there one day before your dinner with Dr. Carter?”
“Yes, why?”
“And you’re saying you were not out there at any time between Thursday night and Monday morning-yesterday morning-at approximately eight A.M.”
“That’s correct.”
Evers smacked the table again. “You are lying to me, Dr. Brockton. And there is nothing I hate worse than being lied to.”
“The hell I am!” I shot back in frustration. “What makes you think I’m lying?”
He swiveled and looked at Horace as if it were the most insulting thing anyone had ever said to him. “You hear that?” Horace nodded grimly. “You think I should tell him what makes me think he’s lying?” Horace shrugged, then-as Evers continued to stare at him-nodded again. Evers turned back to me, his face so close to mine I could count the pores on his nose. “What makes me think you’re lying, Doctor, is that I just watched a surveillance video that shows your truck-your truck, Doctor-driving through the gate of the Body Farm at five A.M. yesterday morning. Three hours before you called 911 to say you’d found her body.”
“That’s not possible,” I said.
“Don’t you dare fuck with me!” he shouted. Specks of spittle flew from his mouth onto my face. “It is on the goddamn tape! Your truck, Doctor.”
I wiped my face. Evers’s spit was mixed with a layer of sweat that had suddenly coated my forehead.
“I was not there,” I said. “I was at home, in my bed asleep, at five A.M.”
“Can you prove that in a court of law?”
“Do I need to? Are you saying I’m a suspect?”
“Not a suspect, Doctor. The suspect.”
“Should I get a lawyer?”
“Do you need a lawyer?”
“If you think I’m a killer, then I think I need a lawyer.”
He suddenly leaned back, out of my face, and scooted his chair back, withdrawing his knee from between my legs. He drew a deep breath and blew it out between pursed lips. “Here’s the thing, Doc,” he said in a weary, regretful voice. “If you want to stop talking to me until you’ve got an attorney present, you have that right. Absolutely. No question about it. But if I shut off this tape recorder and stop this interrogation now, then from here on, I’m gonna come after you with both guns blazing. Balls to the wall. If you’ll tell me everything right now-tell me what went wrong, tell me how it escalated, tell me what made you do it-I might be able to help you. Might even be able to get you a deal for second-degree or manslaughter. Can’t promise that, but I can recommend it. That’s a onetime offer, though, and it ends the instant we stop talking.”
I stared at him, and then at the impassive face of Horace, and then at Evers again. “You’re asking me to confess to a murder I didn’t commit?”
“I’m asking you to explain a murder you did commit.”
“And this isn’t what you’d call coming at me with guns blazing? Accusing me, spitting in my face, slamming things around, jamming your knee up my crotch?”
He smiled, in a sinister sort of way, and shook his head slowly. “Heavens no, Dr. Brockton. Not by a long shot. I have not yet begun to bear down on you. You think I’ve invaded your personal space? That was minimally invasive. I am fixin’ to get maximally invasive. Wouldn’t you agree, Horace?”
Horace considered it, then grinned nastily. “Y’all could share the same pair of grippers. If I was you, Doc, I’d try to clear things up right now. Tell us the truth. Don’t make it harder on yourself.”