Chapter One
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It started with a slip of the tongue. At first, Marta Richterthought she'd misunderstood him. She felt exhausted after thetwo-month murder trial and couldn't always hear her clientthrough the thick bulletproof window. "You mean you struggledin his grasp," Marta corrected.
Elliot Steere didn't reply, but brushed ash from his chair onthe defendant's side of the window. In his charcoal Brioni suitand a white shirt with a cutaway collar, Steere lookedincongruous but not uncomfortable in the jailhouse setting. Thebusinessman's cool was the stuff of tabloid legend. The tabsreported that on the night Steere had been arrested for murder,he'd demanded only one phone call. To his stockbroker. "That'swhat I said," Steere answered after a moment. "I struggled inhis grasp."
"No, you said he struggled in your grasp. It was self-defense,not murder. You were struggling, not him."
A faint smile flickered across Steere's strong mouth. He had afinely boned nose, flat brown eyes, and suspiciously few crow'sfeet for a real estate developer. In magazine photos Steerelooked attractive, but the fluorescent lights of the interviewroom hollowed his cheeks and dulled his sandy hair. "What's thepoint? The trial's over, the jury's out. It doesn't matteranymore who was struggling with who. Whom."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Marta asked. She didn't wanthim to play word games, she wanted him to praise her brilliantdefense. It was the case of her career, and Steere's acquittalwas in the bag. "Of course it matters."
"Why? What if it wasn't self-defense? What if I murdered himlike the D.A. said? So what?"
Marta blinked, irritated. "But that's not the way it happened.He was trying to hijack your car. He attacked you with a knife.He threatened to kill you. You shot him in self-defense."
"In the back of the head?"
"There was a struggle. You had your gun and you fired." Withoutrealizing it, Marta was repeating the words of her closingargument. The jury had adjourned to deliberate only minutesearlier. "You panicked, in fear of your life."
"You really bought that?" Steere crossed one long leg over theother and a triangle of tailored pant flopped over with a fine,pressed crease. "'In fear of my life?' I stole that line from acop show, the one where everybody smokes. You know theshow?"
Marta's mouth went dry. She didn't watch TV even when she wason, another television lawyer with wide-set blue eyes andchin-length hair highlighted blond. A hardness around her eyesand a softness under her chin told the viewers she wasn'tthirty anymore. Still Marta looked good on the tube and knewhow to handle herself; explain the defense in a sound bite andbicker with the prosecutor. Wrap it up with wit. Smile for thebeauty shot. "What is this, a joke? What's TV have to do withanything?"
"Everything. My story, my defense, was fiction. Rich white guycarjacked by poor black guy. White guy has registered Glock forprotection. Black guy has X-Acto knife. Not a good match."Steere eased back into his chair. "The jury bought it becauseit was what they expected, what they see on TV."
Marta's lips parted in disbelief. The news struck like anassault, stunning and violent. Her mind reeled. Her face felthot. She braced her manicured fingers against the cold aluminumledge and fought for her bearings. "What are you saying?"
"I'm guilty as sin, dear." Steere's gaze was point-blank andhis voice tinny as it passed through a thin metal grate underthe bulletproof window. The cinder-block walls of the interviewroom, lacquered calcium white, seemed suddenly to be closing inon Marta.
"But he slashed your cheek with the knife," she said,uncomprehending.
"He was dead at the time. I held his hand, with the knife init."
"They found fibers from your tux on his hands and clothes."
"There was a struggle. He put up a fight. Mostly begging,boohooing like a little girl."
Marta's stomach turned over. "Tell me the whole story. Thetruth."
"What's to tell? A bum came at me when I stopped at the redlight. He was waving a knife, drunk, screaming I should give upthe car. Like I would. A new SL600 convertible. Wet dream of acar." Steere shook his head in momentary admiration. "So Igrabbed my gun, got out of the car, and shot him in the head. Icalled the cops from the cell phone."
Marta crossed her arms across her chest. You could call it ahug but that wasn't how she thought of it. She'd heardconfessions like this from other clients, and though Steeredidn't look like them, he sounded like them. They all had theurge to brag, to prove how smart they were and what they couldget away with. Marta had known Steere was tough-minded; shehadn't guessed he was inhuman. "You're a murderer," shesaid.
"No, I'm a problem-solver. I saw some garbage and took it out.The man was a derelict, worthless. He didn't work, he didn'tproduce. He didn't own anything. Fuck, he didn't even liveanywhere. This time he picked the wrong guy. End of story."
"Just like that?"
"Come on, Marta. The man was useless. He didn't even know howto handle the fucking knife." Steere chuckled. "You did itbetter during the demonstration, when you held it under yourchin. Did you see the jury? The front row almost fainted."
Marta felt a twinge as she flashed on the jurors, their facesupturned like kindergartners. She'd hired the requisite raft ofjury consultants but relied on her own instincts and experienceto pick the panel, ending up with a solid reasonable-doubtjury. She'd stood in front of them every day of the trial,memorizing their features, their reactions, their quirks.Fifteen years as a top-tier criminal lawyer had taught MartaRichter one thing: the jurors were the only real people in anycourtroom. Even the ones with book deals.
"They're suckers," Steere said. "Twelve suckers. The biggestloser was your friend the Marlboro Man. Better watch out,Marta. He had the look of love. He may be fixin' to get hisselfa filly."
Marta winced. Steere meant Christopher Graham, a blacksmithfrom Old Bustleton in northeast Philadelphia. Marta had learnedthat Graham had recently separated from his wife, so she workedhim the whole trial, locking eyes with him during her cross ofthe medical examiner and letting her fingertips stray to hersilk collar when she felt his lonely gaze on her. Still,manipulation was one thing, and prevarication quite another."Everything you told me was a lie."
"It worked, didn't it? You shot the shit out of their case. Thebailiff thinks the jury will be back by noon tomorrow. That'sonly four, five hours of actual deliberation." Steere smiledand recrossed his legs. "I hear the reporters have a poolgoing. The smart money's on you, twenty to one. There's evenaction that they acquit me before there's three feet of snow onthe ground."
Marta's mind reeled. The media, more lies. She'd told thereporters Steere was innocent and declined to speculate on howlong the jury would be out. I just win, boys. I leave thedetails to you, she'd said with a laugh. She wasn't laughingnow.
"It's almost three o'clock," Steere said, checking a watch witha band like liquid gold. "You've never had a jury out longerthan two days, if memory serves."
Marta flipped back through her cases. She was undefeated incapital cases and she'd win this one, too. No tough questionsof physical evidence to explain away, just a disagreement overthe way it had gone down, with the Commonwealth claiming Steerehad intended to kill the homeless man. It took balls toprosecute a case that thin, but it was an election year and themayor wanted to crucify the wealthiest slumlord inPhiladelphia. Marta understood all that, but she didn'tunderstand the most important thing. "Why did you lie to me?"
"Since when are you so high and mighty? Did you ask if I wasguilty?"
"I don't ask my clients that question."
"Then what's the difference if they lie to you?"
Marta had no immediate reply except to grit her teeth. "So youmade up this cock-and-bull story."
"You never doubted it? One of the best criminal lawyers in thecountry and you can't smell shit?"
Not this time, because she had let her guard down. Becauseshe'd been attracted to him, though she wouldn't admit it, evento herself. "Your story made absolute sense. We went over itand over it. You told it the same way every time."
"I lied from the door."
"Even to the cops? The statement you gave them. It wasrecorded. It was all consistent."
"I'm excellent at what I do."
"Lie?"
"Sell."
"You used me, you asshole."
"Come off it, dear." Steere's smile twisted into a sneer. "Yougot paid, didn't you? Almost two hundred grand this quarter,including your expenses. Hotel, phone, even dry cleaning. Everycent paid in full. Twenty-five grand left on the retainer."
"That's not the point."
Steere's laughter echoed off the cinder-block walls of theinterview room. "Easy for you to say, you're not paying it. Forthat much money, using you should be included. Christ, for thatmuch money, fucking you should be included."
"Fuck you!" Marta shot to her feet, seething. She felt the urgeto pace, to move, to run, but the interview room was as crampedas a phone booth. She was trapped. By Steere, by herself. Howcould she have been so naive? She still couldn't bring herselfto accept it. "So you killed Darnton, even though you'd bequestioned? Charged?"
Steere shrugged. "It was a risk, but I run risks every day. Ifigured the D.A. would find a reason to charge me, but that'sokay. Any ink is good ink. I knew I'd hire the best and getaway with it, and I will. Because of you."
Because of you. The words burned into Marta's brain. Steere hadwritten the story and she had sold it, better than she'd eversold anything in her professional life. Pitched it to the juryin the day and the satellites at night. And she didn't do itfor the money or the facetime, not this time.
She did it for Steere.
In the split second she realized it, Marta's fury becameunreasoning. She could have sworn he wanted her, he'd givenevery signal. He'd lean too close at counsel table, look toolong at her legs. Once he'd touched her knee, bending over toretrieve his fountain pen, and her response had been soimmediate it surprised even her. The memory made her feelcrazy, unhinged. Unleashed. "I'm going to Judge Rudolph withthis," she said.
"You can't. I'm your client and this is a privilegedconversation. Disclose it and you're disbarred, ruined." Steerelaced his long fingers together and leaned forward on his sideof the metal ledge. "Of course, I'd deny the conversation evertook place. You'd look like a fool."
"Then I quit. I'm not your lawyer anymore. I'm withdrawing fromthe representation." Marta snatched her bag and briefcase fromthe tile floor.
"The judge won't let you withdraw while the jury's out. It'stoo late in the game. It's prejudicial to me, infringes myconstitutional rights."
"Don't you lecture me," Marta shot back, though she knew he wasright about her withdrawal. "I suborned perjury for you."
"Suborn perjury, my my. You can talk the talk, can't you? Socan I. You didn't suborn perjury because I didn't testify in myown defense."
"It's a fraud on the court--"
"Enough." Steere cut Marta off with a wave. "Here's whathappens next: the verdict comes in by noon and I go free. ThenI hold a press conference where I tell the world that the mayoris a smacked ass, the jury system is a blessing, and you're thebest whore money can buy."
Marta froze. Her fingers squeezed the handle of her briefcase.Rage constricted her breathing. She felt choked, with Steere'spolished loafer on her throat.
"Then we'll go to the Swann Fountain for the victorycelebration," Steere continued. "We can play footsies, justlike old times. After that I'm booked to St. Bart's on aLearjet that'll take off from Atlantic City if Philly is snowedin. I love the beach, don't you? Hate the water, but love thebeach. Want to come?"
Marta only glared in response. She wouldn't be used like this.Not by him. Not by anyone. She reached for the door of theinterview room.
"Aw, don't go away mad, honey," Steere said.
"I have work to do."
"What work? You just proved me innocent."
"Right. Now I'm going to prove you guilty."
Steere chuckled behind tented fingers. "There's noevidence."
"There must be."
"The police couldn't find any."
"They didn't have the incentive I do."
"And you'll find this evidence before the jury comes back? Bynoon tomorrow?"
"They won't be out that long," Marta said. She yanked the dooropen to the sound of Steere's laughter, but as furious as shewas, she knew it didn't matter who was laughing first. Only whowas laughing last.It started with a slip of the tongue. Atfirst, Marta Richter thought she'd misunderstood him. She feltexhausted after the two-month murder trial and couldn't alwayshear her client through the thick bulletproof window. "You meanyou struggled in his grasp," Marta corrected.
Elliot Steere didn't reply, but brushed ash from his chair onthe defendant's side of the window. In his charcoal Brioni suitand a white shirt with a cutaway collar, Steere lookedincongruous but not uncomfortable in the jailhouse setting. Thebusinessman's cool was the stuff of tabloid legend. The tabsreported that on the night Steere had been arrested for murder,he'd demanded only one phone call. To his stockbroker. "That'swhat I said," Steere answered after a moment. "I struggled inhis grasp."
"No, you said he struggled in your grasp. It was self-defense,not murder. You were struggling, not him."
A faint smile flickered across Steere's strong mouth. He had afinely boned nose, flat brown eyes, and suspiciously few crow'sfeet for a real estate developer. In magazine photos Steerelooked attractive, but the fluorescent lights of the interviewroom hollowed his cheeks and dulled his sandy hair. "What's thepoint? The trial's over, the jury's out. It doesn't matteranymore who was struggling with who. Whom."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Marta asked. She didn't wanthim to play word games, she wanted him to praise her brilliantdefense. It was the case of her career, and Steere's acquittalwas in the bag. "Of course it matters."
"Why? What if it wasn't self-defense? What if I murdered himlike the D.A. said? So what?"
Marta blinked, irritated. "But that's not the way it happened.He was trying to hijack your car. He attacked you with a knife.He threatened to kill you. You shot him in self-defense."
"In the back of the head?"
"There was a struggle. You had your gun and you fired." Withoutrealizing it, Marta was repeating the words of her closingargument. The jury had adjourned to deliberate only minutesearlier. "You panicked, in fear of your life."
"You really bought that?" Steere crossed one long leg over theother and a triangle of tailored pant flopped over with a fine,pressed crease. "'In fear of my life?' I stole that line from acop show, the one where everybody smokes. You know theshow?"
Marta's mouth went dry. She didn't watch TV even when she wason, another television lawyer with wide-set blue eyes andchin-length hair highlighted blond. A hardness around her eyesand a softness under her chin told the viewers she wasn'tthirty anymore. Still Marta looked good on the tube and knewhow to handle herself; explain the defense in a sound bite andbicker with the prosecutor. Wrap it up with wit. Smile for thebeauty shot. "What is this, a joke? What's TV have to do withanything?"
"Everything. My story, my defense, was fiction. Rich white guycarjacked by poor black guy. White guy has registered Glock forprotection. Black guy has X-Acto knife. Not a good match."Steere eased back into his chair. "The jury bought it becauseit was what they expected, what they see on TV."
Marta's lips parted in disbelief. The news struck like anassault, stunning and violent. Her mind reeled. Her face felthot. She braced her manicured fingers against the cold aluminumledge and fought for her bearings. "What are you saying?"
"I'm guilty as sin, dear." Steere's gaze was point-blank andhis voice tinny as it passed through a thin metal grate underthe bulletproof window. The cinder-block walls of the interviewroom, lacquered calcium white, seemed suddenly to be closing inon Marta.
"But he slashed your cheek with the knife," she said,uncomprehending.
"He was dead at the time. I held his hand, with the knife init."
"They found fibers from your tux on his hands and clothes."
"There was a struggle. He put up a fight. Mostly begging,boohooing like a little girl."
Marta's stomach turned over. "Tell me the whole story. Thetruth."
"What's to tell? A bum came at me when I stopped at the redlight. He was waving a knife, drunk, screaming I should give upthe car. Like I would. A new SL600 convertible. Wet dream of acar." Steere shook his head in momentary admiration. "So Igrabbed my gun, got out of the car, and shot him in the head. Icalled the cops from the cell phone."
Marta crossed her arms across her chest. You could call it ahug but that wasn't how she thought of it. She'd heardconfessions like this from other clients, and though Steeredidn't look like them, he sounded like them. They all had theurge to brag, to prove how smart they were and what they couldget away with. Marta had known Steere was tough-minded; shehadn't guessed he was inhuman. "You're a murderer," shesaid.
"No, I'm a problem-solver. I saw some garbage and took it out.The man was a derelict, worthless. He didn't work, he didn'tproduce. He didn't own anything. Fuck, he didn't even liveanywhere. This time he picked the wrong guy. End of story."
"Just like that?"
"Come on, Marta. The man was useless. He didn't even know howto handle the fucking knife." Steere chuckled. "You did itbetter during the demonstration, when you held it under yourchin. Did you see the jury? The front row almost fainted."
Marta felt a twinge as she flashed on the jurors, their facesupturned like kindergartners. She'd hired the requisite raft ofjury consultants but relied on her own instincts and experienceto pick the panel, ending up with a solid reasonable-doubtjury. She'd stood in front of them every day of the trial,memorizing their features, their reactions, their quirks.Fifteen years as a top-tier criminal lawyer had taught MartaRichter one thing: the jurors were the only real people in anycourtroom. Even the ones with book deals.
"They're suckers," Steere said. "Twelve suckers. The biggestloser was your friend the Marlboro Man. Better watch out,Marta. He had the look of love. He may be fixin' to get hisselfa filly."
Marta winced. Steere meant Christopher Graham, a blacksmithfrom Old Bustleton in northeast Philadelphia. Marta had learnedthat Graham had recently separated from his wife, so she workedhim the whole trial, locking eyes with him during her cross ofthe medical examiner and letting her fingertips stray to hersilk collar when she felt his lonely gaze on her. Still,manipulation was one thing, and prevarication quite another."Everything you told me was a lie."
"It worked, didn't it? You shot the shit out of their case. Thebailiff thinks the jury will be back by noon tomorrow. That'sonly four, five hours of actual deliberation." Steere smiledand recrossed his legs. "I hear the reporters have a poolgoing. The smart money's on you, twenty to one. There's evenaction that they acquit me before there's three feet of snow onthe ground."
Marta's mind reeled. The media, more lies. She'd told thereporters Steere was innocent and declined to speculate on howlong the jury would be out. I just win, boys. I leave thedetails to you, she'd said with a laugh. She wasn't laughingnow.
"It's almost three o'clock," Steere said, checking a watch witha band like liquid gold. "You've never had a jury out longerthan two days, if memory serves."
Marta flipped back through her cases. She was undefeated incapital cases and she'd win this one, too. No tough questionsof physical evidence to explain away, just a disagreement overthe way it had gone down, with the Commonwealth claiming Steerehad intended to kill the homeless man. It took balls toprosecute a case that thin, but it was an election year and themayor wanted to crucify the wealthiest slumlord inPhiladelphia. Marta understood all that, but she didn'tunderstand the most important thing. "Why did you lie to me?"
"Since when are you so high and mighty? Did you ask if I wasguilty?"
"I don't ask my clients that question."
"Then what's the difference if they lie to you?"
Marta had no immediate reply except to grit her teeth. "So youmade up this cock-and-bull story."
"You never doubted it? One of the best criminal lawyers in thecountry and you can't smell shit?"
Not this time, because she had let her guard down. Becauseshe'd been attracted to him, though she wouldn't admit it, evento herself. "Your story made absolute sense. We went over itand over it. You told it the same way every time."
"I lied from the door."
"Even to the cops? The statement you gave them. It wasrecorded. It was all consistent."
"I'm excellent at what I do."
"Lie?"
"Sell."
"You used me, you asshole."
"Come off it, dear." Steere's smile twisted into a sneer. "Yougot paid, didn't you? Almost two hundred grand this quarter,including your expenses. Hotel, phone, even dry cleaning. Everycent paid in full. Twenty-five grand left on the retainer."
"That's not the point."
Steere's laughter echoed off the cinder-block walls of theinterview room. "Easy for you to say, you're not paying it. Forthat much money, using you should be included. Christ, for thatmuch money, fucking you should be included."
"Fuck you!" Marta shot to her feet, seething. She felt the urgeto pace, to move, to run, but the interview room was as crampedas a phone booth. She was trapped. By Steere, by herself. Howcould she have been so naive? She still couldn't bring herselfto accept it. "So you killed Darnton, even though you'd bequestioned? Charged?"
Steere shrugged. "It was a risk, but I run risks every day. Ifigured the D.A. would find a reason to charge me, but that'sokay. Any ink is good ink. I knew I'd hire the best and getaway with it, and I will. Because of you."
Because of you. The words burned into Marta's brain. Steere hadwritten the story and she had sold it, better than she'd eversold anything in her professional life. Pitched it to the juryin the day and the satellites at night. And she didn't do itfor the money or the facetime, not this time.
She did it for Steere.
In the split second she realized it, Marta's fury becameunreasoning. She could have sworn he wanted her, he'd givenevery signal. He'd lean too close at counsel table, look toolong at her legs. Once he'd touched her knee, bending over toretrieve his fountain pen, and her response had been soimmediate it surprised even her. The memory made her feelcrazy, unhinged. Unleashed. "I'm going to Judge Rudolph withthis," she said.
"You can't. I'm your client and this is a privilegedconversation. Disclose it and you're disbarred, ruined." Steerelaced his long fingers together and leaned forward on his sideof the metal ledge. "Of course, I'd deny the conversation evertook place. You'd look like a fool."
"Then I quit. I'm not your lawyer anymore. I'm withdrawing fromthe representation." Marta snatched her bag and briefcase fromthe tile floor.
"The judge won't let you withdraw while the jury's out. It'stoo late in the game. It's prejudicial to me, infringes myconstitutional rights."
"Don't you lecture me," Marta shot back, though she knew he wasright about her withdrawal. "I suborned perjury for you."
"Suborn perjury, my my. You can talk the talk, can't you? Socan I. You didn't suborn perjury because I didn't testify in myown defense."
"It's a fraud on the court--"
"Enough." Steere cut Marta off with a wave. "Here's whathappens next: the verdict comes in by noon and I go free. ThenI hold a press conference where I tell the world that the mayoris a smacked ass, the jury system is a blessing, and you're thebest whore money can buy."
Marta froze. Her fingers squeezed the handle of her briefcase.Rage constricted her breathing. She felt choked, with Steere'spolished loafer on her throat.
"Then we'll go to the Swann Fountain for the victorycelebration," Steere continued. "We can play footsies, justlike old times. After that I'm booked to St. Bart's on aLearjet that'll take off from Atlantic City if Philly is snowedin. I love the beach, don't you? Hate the water, but love thebeach. Want to come?"
Marta only glared in response. She wouldn't be used like this.Not by him. Not by anyone. She reached for the door of theinterview room.
"Aw, don't go away mad, honey," Steere said.
"I have work to do."
"What work? You just proved me innocent."
"Right. Now I'm going to prove you guilty."
Steere chuckled behind tented fingers. "There's noevidence."
"There must be."
"The police couldn't find any."
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"They didn't have the incentive I do."
"And you'll find this evidence before the jury comes back? Bynoon tomorrow?"
"They won't be out that long," Marta said. She yanked the dooropen to the sound of Steere's laughter, but as furious as shewas, she knew it didn't matter who was laughing first. Only whowas laughing last. |
