Cold truth

Chapter 8

Mason liked privacy. He liked shutting out the rest of the world when he prepared for trial or wrestled with the devil. All of which meant he hated jails and the claustrophobic cubicles reserved for prisoners to meet with their lawyers. Mason took the jailers at their word that his conversations with his clients were not recorded, but in a crowded corner of his heart he made room for distrust of cops, jailers, and prosecutors. It was enough to keep his jailhouse office hours short and meetings with his clients shorter.

He worried about innocent clients who were guilty of nothing except bad luck. He worried about clients who were innocent of the charge that landed them in jail, but were guilty of other offenses. He worried about clients who were guilty as charged. For each of these clients, he had cards to play, deals to make. Mason knew what to do with them. But a client who confessed to a crime Mason believed in his gut she hadn't committed was the client he worried about the most.

Jordan Hackett had spent the night in jail, long enough to drain her reservoir of anger and refill it with the sullen realization that she would spend the rest of her life wearing government-issued clothes and eating with a spoon she had to turn in after every meal. Her brown hair was grimy and she was wearing a dirt tattoo around her neck. She must have come straight from digging fence posts to surrender, Mason decided. He knew that took a lot of nerve, but not as much as taking her first prison shower. They'd let her stink for a few days, but force her to wash before her first court appearance.

They sat across from one another at a metal table scarred with initials and bolted to the floor. Jordan looked past Mason to the small window in the door, big enough for the eyes and nose of the deputy sheriff on the other side. She looked at her feet, clad in paper slippers, her heels sticking out past the outer edge of one-size-fits-all. She stuck her hands in her armpits, covering them with the billowing sleeves of her orange jumpsuit. She looked everywhere but at Mason, who watched and waited.

"What?" she said at last. "Is this the silent treatment from my lawyer? I don't have to go to jail for that. I can get it at home."

Mason said, "Why did you do it?"

Jordan tightened her grip on herself. "It's all in my confession. I thought you would have read it." She finally looked at him. "What happened to your eye?"

"I ran into a door," he said. "I'm not talking about the murder. I'm talking about the confession. Why did you do it without talking to me?"

"I didn't mean to hurt your feelings," she answered, tucking her chin to her chest, giving a cigarette butt on the floor her undivided attention.

"Cut the crap, Jordan. We made a deal yesterday. You don't talk to the cops without me. What happened?"

She stood, paced, sat back down. Assumed the position again. "After you left, I had my session with Terry. I told him what was going on. He told me I had to clear the decks if I was going to deal with my issues. Confessing was the way to do that, the way to get everything straight in my mind."

"Did he tell you what a great psychotherapy program they have in prison?"

She grabbed the edges of the table, whitening her knuckles before taking a breath and relaxing her grip. "Centurion says it was involuntary manslaughter at the worst. He says I may even get off with careless homicide and that I'll get probation."

"Did Centurion tell you that there's no such crime as careless homicide? Did he tell you that waiting three days after you had your argument with Gina Davenport to kill her is a textbook example of premeditation and a short course in first-degree murder? Did he tell you that you could get life without parole or death by lethal injection, depending on what the jury had for breakfast? Did he tell you that you should talk to a real lawyer, not some jailhouse lawyer like him, before you throw your life away?"

Jordan's cheeks hollowed with instant aging, her eyes bleeding tears. "Centurion said you would talk me out of it so you could drag the case out and plea-bargain after you collected your fee from my parents. He said this was better. He said it would come out the same and be over a lot faster."

"Jordan, yesterday you were digging postholes and making plans to sneak off with me for pizza and beer.

You were full of enough piss and vinegar to sterilize a swamp. You told me you were innocent, then you confessed. What gives?"

She wiped her nose with her sleeve. "Why are you so mad at me? What difference does it make to you?"

It was Mason's turn to stand. "Call me crazy, Jordan, but it pisses me off when a dope-dealing scam artist like Centurion Johnson and a snake-oil Dr. Feel Good like Terry Nix manipulate a screwed-up kid into confessing to a murder she didn't commit."

"Centurion isn't a dope dealer-at least, not anymore," she said. "And Terry helps me a lot. Besides, I did it."

"Why? Because Dr. Gina told you to get another therapist? Terry Nix was treating you too. You said he was helping you. Was he doing such a bad job that you had to kill Gina? Or was killing Gina part of Terry's clear-the-decks therapy?"

"You don't understand anything!"

Mason planted both hands on the table and leaned over her. "You're right. Help me understand."

Jordan pushed her chair back. "It's all in my confession. Dr. Gina used me to bargain with my father on her contract. My father used me. He said he was just calling Gina's bluff-like I was a poker chip in their fucking card game!" She bent over, her head in her lap, sobbing on folded arms. "Everyone uses me. It has to end."

She trembled, Mason placing a hand on her shoulder, Jordan jerking away like his touch was electrified, Mason letting her cry.

"What's your brother Trent have to do with all of this?" Mason asked when she lifted her head.

"Nothing," she said.

Mason picked up the legal pad he'd brought with him. He hadn't made any notes. "I'm not like the others," he said. "I'm not your brother or your parents. I'm not Centurion and I'm not Terry. I only want one thing from you."

"What?"

"The truth. Call me when you're ready."

Mason already had one conversation with Arthur Hackett that morning. Hackett had called as Mason was leaving for the county jail. Mason didn't need the phone. He could have opened his window and heard Hackett yelling from the Cable Depot. Mason let Arthur rant and promised a report after his meeting with Jordan.

Mason was more than a little jumpy as he rode the elevator to KWIN's offices, certain that his reaction was normal, doubting that Dr. Gina or her brethren had much experience with people who jumped off the roofs of elevators and lived to be spooked by the next ride. He thought about taking the stairs, telling himself that he could use the exercise, but he opted for the get-backon-the-horse approach, not realizing he'd been holding his breath until he stepped out onto the eighth floor. Fresh crime-scene tape blocked the entrance to Dr. Gina's office, confirming Samantha's suspicion that Mason's elevator ride had not been an accident.

Arthur and Carol Hackett didn't have to say a word. Her bloodshot eyes and bloodless lips, his fiery eyes and puckered mouth, fixed in fury, condemned Mason as he crossed their threshold. They let him in and unloaded, questioning him at the same time, each oblivious to what the other was saying.

"How could you do this?" Carol asked.

"Mason, I'm not paying you to send my daughter to jail for the rest of her life! What in the hell am I paying you for?" added Arthur.

Mason suspected they'd spent their entire lives talking without listening to one another. He was certain they'd never heard much that Jordan had to say and probably tuned out Trent in self-defense.

"One at a time," Mason told them. "First, I didn't do anything to Jordan. She did it to herself, though she had help from your friends at Sanctuary. Second, you were paying me to keep your daughter out of jail, only now you're paying me to get her out. We're on the same side here, so let's focus on that for now."

Carol Hackett stalked out of the room, repeating the problem-solving approach she took at their last meeting. Arthur didn't bother apologizing for her this time. Mason was learning the family music. It was a classical piece composed of blame conducted with fingers pointed at everyone else.

Mason asked, "Was Gina Davenport trying to get out of her contract with you?"

"What if she was? What's that got to do with any of this?" Arthur asked.

"It's the story line in Jordan's confession, that's all," Mason said. "Dr. Gina threatened to cut off Jordan's treatment if you didn't let her out of her contract. You didn't think the good doctor was that bad, but she was. Last Friday, Gina told Jordan good-bye and why. Jordan didn't take it well and threw a brass paperweight at the window, leaving a nice long crack. After spending the weekend thinking it over-what the prosecutor calls premeditating-she called Dr. Gina and arranged to meet her Monday night so she could throw Gina out the window."

Arthur Hackett stood behind his desk chair, shielding himself from Mason's explanation. He folded his arms over the back of the chair, pulling it toward him, backing up until he slumped against the credenza along the wall.

"My God," he whispered, the enormity of Mason's description beginning to take hold. "I didn't think she would do it."

"Do what?" Mason asked.

"Both of them. Everything," Arthur said. "Gina had lost her own daughter. The poor girl killed herself. I never dreamt she would abandon Jordan over money. That's what it was all about-just money."

"And your daughter?"

Arthur shook his head. "Jordan has a temper," he said. "That's a little like saying a volcano makes smoke. But I always believed she could control herself if she wanted to."

Mason asked, "Is Jordan adopted?"

Arthur Hackett came out of his slump, raising his eyebrows. "Why do you ask?"

"There may be another angle to this. Was she adopted?"

Arthur pushed his desk chair away and stared out the window for a moment. "Yes. Trent's birth was very difficult. Carol couldn't have more children afterward. She didn't want another baby, but I did. We were living in St. Louis at the time. I was selling advertising for radio, just getting started in this business. Some young girl got herself pregnant and we adopted her baby." He shook his head, "We didn't know anything about the mother," he added as if that was a curse.

"You didn't like that?" Mason asked.

Hackett squared his shoulders. He was shorter than Mason, but broader, more full than fit, but powerful enough to throw Gina Davenport through the window.

"I like to know what I'm getting, that's all," Hackett said. "When Jordan started having so many problems, all I could think about was the mother-was she like that?"

"Did you ever try to find Jordan's birth mother?"

"No. We asked Gina if we should look for the mother in case she had a history of psychological problems. Gina said it wouldn't matter, that we had to deal with Jordan, not her mother."

"Do you have Gina's home phone number?"

"Of course, but don't expect much help from Robert-that's her husband."

"Why not?" Mason asked, though he was more interested in whether the number matched the one Abby had called.

"He's a painter, teaches at the Kansas City Art Institute."

"That's okay with me," Mason said. "I never got past paint-by-numbers."

"He's a drug addict," Arthur said. "Cocaine. Gina couldn't do anything with him. He was in and out of treatment centers all over the country. Cocaine is an expensive way to kill yourself." Arthur wrote the number on a slip of paper and handed it to Mason. "It's unlisted, but I guess that doesn't matter so much anymore."

Mason looked at the number. It didn't match Abby's. He was zero for three. "Do you recognize this phone number?" Mason asked Arthur as he wrote the number Abby had given him on the same paper.

"Where did you get this number?" Arthur asked, a tremor rippling through him.

"That's confidential for the moment. Whose number is it?"

"It's Jordan's cell-phone number. What's going on here, Mason? I'm paying you and I want to know."

Mason said, "I don't know. When I find out, I'll tell you if I can."

"You'll by God tell me period!" Hackett told him, pounding his desk with a fury, making Mason wonder whether Jordan's temper was the product of nature or nurture.

"Arthur," Mason said. "You're paying my fees, but you're not my client. I'll tell you what I can. Get used to it."

The ride back down the elevator was easier. Mason didn't hold his breath and turn blue, though he did breathe easier when he spun through the revolving door onto the sidewalk and into the midday sun of a perfect fall day. The Cable Depot had a heavy feel. He didn't know whether it was Gina's death or his near-death. Or whether it was the Hackett family imprint or the lingering ghosts of earlier tenants. The building had a way of laying cold hands on him and he was glad to be outside.

Mason knew that technically speaking, it was still summer, but he operated on a separate calendar he had devised in elementary school. It started the seasons on the first days of September, December, March, and June. It was a lot simpler than remembering the equinox and appealed to his optimistic off-balance logic.

Always too impatient for summer, he decided it should start on June 1. He was back in school by September 1, and that meant it was fall. December was too cold not to be winter. Best of all, his spring started on March 1 when everyone else was suffering through three more weeks of winter. His system was a child's invention that worked in an adult world. It was fall in Mason's world, the heat unseasonable.

There was a small park across the street with a pair of benches beneath a modest oak tree, broad enough for shade, open enough to mix in the sun. David Evans sat on one of the benches, watching Mason as he stood on the sidewalk, taking in the day. He caught Mason's eye with a wave, inviting Mason to join him.

Mason found Evans hard not to like. Evans, like Centurion Johnson, had the gift of schmooze. It was how they made people trust them. When they were caught, they used good humor and glad hands to lessen the blow. Evans had fought Mason hard in Max Coyle's case, representing himself and paying up only at the last moment. Throughout, he had never raised his voice at Mason or taken offense at Mason's harsh allegations. It was as if Evans wanted Mason to like him in spite of the fact that he had ripped off Mason's client.

Evans was in his mid-fifties, aging well, spending enough time in the gym and enough time touching up the gray to fool younger women and trusting investors, though not Mother Nature. He had more charm than good looks, but enough of both to slide by more on form than substance. He was a slick package.

"Lou," he said when Mason crossed the street. "It looks like we'll be on the same side this time. I prefer that since I can't afford fighting you again."

"That gives me great comfort, David, but how is it that we're on the same side?"

"I watch the news, Lou. Your client confessed to killing my client. Your job is to get her off. I can help you."

Mason looked down at Evans, whose return smile made Mason regret his next question. "How?"

"I know who did it."