Hear No Evil

43

It would forever remain a mystery, Jack figured. He was standing at the bathroom sink in Sofia ’s house, his hands dripping wet. His ex-wife used to have the same puzzling habit, always stocking the guest bathroom with linen-and-lace hand towels that were frilly enough for royalty and about as absorbent as Teflon. He’d always suspected that the towels you were actually supposed to use were hidden away in some secret drawer that only people who were raised “properly” knew how to find. He just didn’t get it. One of life’s little enigmas.

He wiped his hands on his pants.

“Jack, should I pour you some coffee?” Sofia asked from outside the closed door.

“Thanks, good idea,” he said.

He was bracing himself against the countertop, palms down and elbows straight as he stared wearily at his reflection in the mirror. The in-prison prep session with Lindsey had delivered more than its usual share of surprises. They could have spent all night with her, but the guard had allowed them only an additional fifteen minutes beyond the end of visitation. Jack had hoped to get a good night’s sleep before putting Lindsey on the stand, but he and Sofia had left the jailhouse with the same realization. They had a lot of work to do.

“I’m making espresso,” said Sofia. Jack could tell she was no longer right outside the door but was shouting from somewhere near the kitchen. “You want some, or you still want coffee?”

“Double espresso,” Jack shouted back.

It was funny how eighteen-hour workdays and late-night trial preparation bred such familiarity between coworkers. Sofia was actually carrying on a conversation with him while he was in the bathroom. For all she knew, he was seated on the proverbial throne, yet it didn’t seem to faze her. Not even his ex-wife used to talk to him through the bathroom door, except for that one time. Honey, hurry up, I’m ovulating! As it turned out, the world was probably a better place for his decision to go right ahead and finish that Sports Illustrated article about Dan Marino and his record-setting passing season.

Jack was still staring into the mirror. He looked exhausted, bordering on burnout. Trials were always draining, but few lawyers had ever handled during their career a murder trial in which the stakes were as personal as they were for Jack in this one. Brian was his son, and no matter how much Jack tried to play that down as a mere biological fact, he couldn’t erase it as irrelevant. So what if the law of adoption regarded him as insignificant? It had meaning to him, and so long as it had meaning, it mattered not only whether Lindsey was acquitted or convicted, but also whether she was truly guilty or truly innocent. The trial was nearing an end, and for all the ups and downs, ins and outs, he still didn’t know whom to believe.

And tonight’s session hadn’t helped any.

He splashed cold water on his face, then again took stock of himself in the mirror.

It seemed like light-years ago, but earlier that same evening he’d been on a definite roll. His drug-running theory had finally gelled in his mind, and he was even beginning to believe it. It seemed entirely plausible that Lindsey had been right all along. Her husband had been murdered because he knew the wrong thing about the wrong person. Her theory seemed to fit nicely with his latest thinking that Captain Pintado had uncovered a connection between his Coast Guard source and a drug-smuggling scheme.

Then Lindsey dumped on him all over again.

“There’s something you should know,” Lindsey told him. She was seated on the opposite side of the table, dressed in prison coveralls. Her voice was flat, her expression grave.

“What?” asked Jack.

“There’s a good reason my fingerprint was found on Oscar’s gun.”

“Right. You said it was because you and Oscar had shot the gun previously in target practice.”

She shook her head. “That’s not it.”

Jack had the definite feeling that she was about to tell him something he should have heard much earlier. “All right. Tell me how your print really got there.”

Her shoulders slumped, she looked down at the table. “You know how we’ve talked in the past about how Oscar’s gun was found with the safety on, which meant his death probably wasn’t suicide?”

“Yes.”

There was a long silence, then finally she said quietly, “I was the one who put on the safety.”