Most Wanted

Chapter Twenty

Christine sipped water and pressed END to hang up the call. She felt somewhat better after a salad and French fries at a drive-thru MacDonald’s, and they were making phone calls from the idling car, parked on the street near the courthouse in West Chester, which was a quaintly charming town with funky boutiques, restaurants with sidewalk seating, and a tiny business district that had a confusing number of one-way streets. It had the feel of a college town since it contained West Chester University, reminding her of where she had grown up, since Middletown had Wesleyan. It had taken them an hour to drive here, and on the way, they’d called local criminal lawyers that Lauren had found online. Unfortunately, it was five thirty on a Saturday night, and none of the lawyers was in.

Christine sighed, worried. She’d just called the sixth lawyer and got another no answer, leaving messages on voicemail. “I’m striking out here. Do we have more names?”

“Just a few. Look.” Lauren clicked to get another website, then showed her the phone screen, munching away. Napkins, used ketchup packets, and a crumpled white bag joined the other food debris on the floor of the backseat.

“On it.” Christine pressed in the number of Melinda Norate, Esq., who according to her website, had been practicing for twenty-two years, representing felons in distinctly rural Chester County, which as far as Christine could see, could include horse thieves. A bronze historical plaque on a pole by the car read, Chester County-One of Pennsylvania’s three original counties, formed in 1682 by William Penn.

“I can’t believe we’re doing this.”

“Getting him a lawyer? You heard him. He said he’d tell us anything if we helped him. Tomorrow, I will find a way to ask him if he’s Donor 3319.” Christine straightened up, and the phone stopped ringing, but it didn’t go to voicemail.

“This is Melina Norate,” a woman answered, sounding harried.

“Yes, hello!” Christine said, hopeful. She put the call on speaker so Lauren could hear. “I’m calling for Zachary Jeffcoat, who needs a criminal lawyer. He’s-”

“The serial killer who killed Gail Robinbrecht.”

“Allegedly,” Christine answered, surprised. “Would you represent him?”

“No.”

“But you practice criminal law, don’t you?”

“Yes, but I’m too busy. That’s why I’m here on a Saturday night.” Norate paused. “You’re never going to be able to get Jeffcoat local representation.”

“Why?”

“Are you from here?”

“No.”

“Okay, West Chester is the proverbial small town. Everybody here knows everybody else. Gail Robinbrecht had a lot of friends, she worked at the local hospital. Haven’t you seen the white ribbons people are wearing?”

“No. I just got into town.”

“Any lawyer who defends her murderer will never get new business, ever. He’ll be a pariah.”

Christine hesitated. “But what if Zachary Jeffcoat isn’t guilty? Doesn’t he deserve a defense?”

“In theory, but law is a business…” Norate didn’t finish her sentence.

“Can you recommend anybody who would take him?”

“You know who I would try? Francis Xavier Griffith. He goes by Griff. He’s semi-retired, but he’s the best.”

Christine took heart. “Is he local?”

“Yes.”

“So why would he do it, when others wouldn’t?”

Norate chuckled. “Give him a call. You’ll see. Don’t be put off by his demeanor.”

“Okay.” Christine started scrolling through her phone for Griff’s website. “Thanks.”

“Bye.”

Christine hung up, found the website, which was barebones and had no photo, but she pressed CALL, and the phone rang a few times.

“Griff,” a man answered in a grumpy voice.

“Yes, hello.” Christine introduced herself, then said, “I’m calling on behalf of Zachary Jeffcoat, who needs a lawyer. He’s charged with the murder of Gail-”

“I know who he is. I’m old, not stupid. Who are you? Are you family?”

Christine cringed. She was family, in a way. “I’m a freelance journalist and-”

“Lord, deliver me. Journalists are bad enough. Freelance means you couldn’t get hired by anybody.”

Christine and Lauren exchanged looks.

Griff said, “I heard Jeffcoat had a PD.”

“PD?” Christine didn’t know what that meant. To her, PD meant Professional Development, or homework for teachers.

“Public Defender.”

“Yes, but he wants a private lawyer. Would you represent him?”

“I don’t know. I’m trying to retire. My daughter says if I do, I’d make everybody miserable. But I already make everybody miserable. So.”

Christine wasn’t sure how to respond. “Well, please don’t retire, because we need a lawyer.”

Griff sighed heavily. “I don’t do this over the phone. Come in Monday morning.”

“Can I come in now? I’m only available for the weekend. I see that your office is on Market Street. We’re in town, near the courthouse.”

“Then get here before I change my mind.”

“See you in five-” Christine said, but he had already hung up.

Five minutes later, Christine and Lauren were sitting in an office that was as different from Gary Leonardo’s as a mousehole from a lion’s den. The law firm of F.X. Griffith, Esquire, was a single room in the back of the first floor of a converted row house, which Griff evidently rented from a large estates practice; the office was a medium-sized rectangle with a single window in the back wall, containing brown bookshelves, a gray file cabinet, a plain wooden desk with an old desktop computer, and two maroon leather chairs opposite the desk, in which Christine and Lauren sat. The bookshelves held faded photographs of grinning family members, and the lawbooks were leather-bound, their spines broken and their tops feathered. The framed diplomas and court admission certificates on the wall dated from the 1970s.

“So, fill me in.” Griff narrowed his eyes, which were gray-blue and cloudy at the edges behind old-fashioned tortoiseshell glasses. His thick, chalk-white hair shot straight up from both sides of his part, and he had unruly eyebrows to match. He had to be seventy-five years old, given the number of age spots on his temples, the depth of his crow’s-feet, and the fissures etched into his face, bracketing his flattish lips. Still, he had sunburned cheeks and a small red nose, which made him look like an outdoorsy Methuselah.

Christine answered, “We just met with Zachary, and he asked us to find him a private lawyer.”

“He too good for a public defender?” Griff wore a dingy white polo shirt with baggy khaki pants, and when he leaned forward on his desk, his arms were covered with spidery white hair.

“I guess he wants somebody better.”

Griff frowned. “Public defenders are good. I started my career there.”

Christine wondered when but didn’t ask. “Well, he wants a private lawyer.”

“What he should want is a local lawyer.” Griff leaned over the desk, picking up a dirty rubber band. “Somebody who lives in Chester County. Knows the judges and the bar. Knows how to pick a jury, what appeals to them and what doesn’t. Knows how to reach them, speaks their language. Has the same accent.”

Christine noted that Griff had a farm-y accent. “So you’ll do it?”

“I didn’t say that.”

Christine felt nonplussed. “Okay, can you tell me about yourself? How many murder cases have you handled?”

Griff frowned in thought. “Can’t tell you. Lost count.”

“Can you ballpark it?” Christine was trying to evaluate him as a lawyer.

“Handled up to thirty felonies a year in my salad days. Practiced criminal law for fifty years. You do the math.”

Christine got the gist. “How many cases did you win?”

“Nobody keeps count, nobody worth knowing.” Griff held up a thick finger. “Wait. Four.”

“You won only four cases?” Christine glanced at Lauren, worriedly.

Griff shook his head. “No. Four death-penalty cases. That’s all anybody keeps track of. Got life without parole for all four. That’s four victories.” Griff nodded, satisfied with himself. “Two of my guys are at Graterford. I wouldn’t recommend you say hello.”

Christine shuddered. “Do you have staff to help you on this case?”

“Used to. These days I’m a one-man band.”

“Can you handle this case on your own?”

“Jeffcoat’s got no money for staff, does he? He’s not a rich kid, is he?”

“No. But do you have a paralegal or a secretary?” Christine hadn’t even seen a receptionist’s desk

“I know how to answer a phone. See?” Griff reached for his beige telephone and held up the clunky receiver, then hung it up again.

“You have a cell phone, don’t you?”

“No. No email, either. The government taps our phones and email. NSA admits as much. You know what NSA stands for? No Such Agency.” Griff permitted himself a crooked smile, showing yellowing teeth. “You ask me, politicians are the real criminals. Wholesale violations of the Fourth Amendment, every day. Unreasonable searches and seizures. Dragnetting of information, which is exactly what our forefathers warned against. Why the citizenry consents to it, I don’t know. Not me. I don’t consent.”

“So how do you work?” Christine asked.

“I use the computer for word processing. I type my own briefs and motions. I don’t e-file. I wouldn’t have the website, but my grandson made it for me.”

“Do you have Internet?” Christine had to draw the line. She would accept a Luddite, not a crackpot.

“No. Too easy to hack into. I’ve been saying it for years, but you see it on TV now. Everybody getting hacked into.” Griff pointed to the door. “If you don’t like it, do me a favor. Go. Let me retire. I was about to. Also my bunions hurt. I have two now. My feet are tripods.”

Christine didn’t think he was kidding.

“Now, to business. Can Jeffcoat pay? Freedom isn’t free. My retainer is low because I have no overhead. $5,000. He’ll pay fifteen grand with someone else. Twenty-five in Philly.”

“He says he’ll pay. So what happens, next, for him?”

Griff linked his fingers. “In ten days, if we don’t ask for an extension, the Commonwealth will have to appear at a preliminary hearing and show its prima facie case.”

“What does that mean?”

“You don’t know Latin?”

“No.”

“Too bad.” Griff sniffed, his disapproval plain. “Prima facie means first face or first impression. The Commonwealth has to show its first impression of the evidence against Jeffcoat, sufficient to make out the crime of capital murder. Then there’s a formal arraignment date, where he’d enter a plea, and we’d ask the Chester County D.A., for mandatory disclosures.”

“Which is?” Christine felt like she was pulling teeth.

“The photos they took, autopsy reports, blood and DNA tests, review of physical evidence, reports of forensic evidence, and the like. They have to turn it over, but not until later. Jeffcoat will have to enter a plea, yay or nay. Pretty soon, the FBI and the other state jurisdictions, Maryland and Virginia, will want to interview him about the other murders. It’s fun messing with the government.” Griff smiled sideways again. “Messing with the press, even better. They’re calling him a serial killer. It prevents him from getting a fair trial.”

Lauren interjected, “What does the FBI have to do with this?”

“The FBI sticks its nose where it doesn’t belong. In a situation with multiple killings over multiple states, every state has jurisdiction over the murder that took place within its borders. The FBI shouldn’t investigate a murder unless it happened on a government property, an Indian Reservation, a federal building, national park, military base, or involves a U.S. citizen abroad. They’re supposed to have a nexus, a jurisdictional hook, but they try to find one. Remember that spree killer, Cunanan? Shot that famous Italian designer, back in ’97?”

Christine tried to remember. “You mean Gianni Versace?”

“Right. The FBI got involved because he also killed a caretaker of a park in New Jersey. It turns out that in the middle of the park, there was a one-acre cemetery deeded to the federal government. That gave the Feds their nexus. Cunanan eventually killed himself, so he wasn’t prosecuted.”

Christine listened, interested. When Griff talked law, his words took on an authoritative ring.

“Whether or not the Feds find a nexus in Jeffcoat’s case, their behavioral science people or a profiler will work with all three jurisdictions. The profiler would be assigned to the Philly FBI Office but he could travel anywhere covered by the Philadelphia Division. He’ll meet with both state police departments and the prosecutors from the Chester County D.A.’s office. He might also get input from a unit at Quantico.” Griff rolled his hooded eyes behind his glasses. “Big deal. Jeffcoat’s advocate would have to shield him from the FBI and other jurisdictions. I would sideline the Maryland and Virginia cases. Focus on the Robinbrecht case. Investigate it. Decide whether he pleads out or goes to trial.”

Christine sensed Griff would take the case, though he hadn’t said as much yet.

“This case alone will be difficult enough. They’ve already leaked incriminating information, like the kill bag.”

“He has an answer for that. He’s a medical equipment salesperson at Brigham Instruments.”

“In town? He told you that?” Griff lifted his furry eyebrows.

“Yes.”

Griff didn’t say anything for a moment.

Christine filled the silence. “I heard that not many lawyers in town would take his case. Why would you take it if they won’t?”

“I don’t care what anybody thinks. I only care about the law. I only care about the Constitution. I care about the rights of the individual against an oppressive and corrupt government. No lawyer worth his salt gives a damn what anybody thinks.” Griff stopped playing with the rubber band, eyeing her and Lauren. “Why are you doing this?”

“I got interested in this case for a freelance article or a book, and I wanted to meet Jeffcoat.” Christine stopped herself from calling him Zachary, then wondered when she had started thinking of him as Zachary, not Jeffcoat. “He said he’d give me the exclusive for my book if I found him a private lawyer.”

“So you’ve spoken to him about the facts of his case?”

“Yes.”

“What did he tell you?”

Christine answered truthfully, telling him about Zachary’s date with Gail Robinbrecht and finding her dead in her home, which was when Griff’s mood soured.

“He shouldn’t have said anything about his case. If he hires me, I’m going to advise him not to talk to you. Ever again.”

“You’re putting me in a difficult position,” Christine said without elaborating.

“So?” Griff snorted. “If I take Jeffcoat on, my interest is what’s good for him. Not you.”

“Why shouldn’t he talk to me?”

“Anything he says to you is discoverable. If you’re taking notes, your notes are discoverable. You can be called as a witness at trial by the Commonwealth. You have no privilege to protect that conversation.” Griff pointed to Lauren. “Did she go with you to see him?”

“Yes.”

“Then she can be called, too. That’s true whether I put Jeffcoat on the stand or not. He has nothing to gain by talking to anybody but me, and only my conversations with him are privileged. Or somebody who works for me. By the way, where did you say you were from?”

“Connecticut.”

“How did you hear about the case? You saw it on TV or something?”

“Yes,” Christine answered, because she was tired of lying.

“Don’t be surprised if the FBI comes knocking on your door. Or hers.”

“Why?” Christine couldn’t imagine what Marcus would do if the FBI showed up at home.

“They may want to talk to you as part of their investigation. It’s within their purview.”

“How would they know where I live?” Christine realized the answer as soon as she’d asked the question.

“You signed the visitors’ log at Graterford. You showed your driver’s license. They’re the FBI. Even they can find you if they have the address.” Griff chuckled at his own joke. “So, if you want to write a book after the trial, that’s up to you and Jeffcoat. But for right now, it’s no-go.” Griff hunched over his desk. “So now, decide. I’ll take the case, but if you hire me, you got no book. Do you care about Jeffcoat or do you care about your book? Who are you advocating for?”

Christine thought fast. “I have to see him one more time, tomorrow morning. To tell him about you.”

“One and done?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.” Griff eyed her behind his bifocals. “You’re putting his interest above your own?”

“I guess so.” Christine could feel Lauren’s eyes on her but didn’t look over.

“Hmph! Can I trust you not to talk to him about the case?” Griff wagged an index finger at her, his knuckle as gnarled as the knot of a tree.

“Yes.”

“You give me your word?”

“Absolutely.”

“That was easy,” Griff said, with a derisive snort. “You sure you’re a real reporter?”