The Good Lie by A.R. Torre

CHAPTER 15

Robert’s first meeting with Randall Thompson was supervised by four guards and lasted less than ten minutes. An offer of representation was extended, paperwork was signed, and the men parted ways. Robert dipped into his Mercedes, headed toward Beverly Hills. Randall shuffled back to his private cell, his ankle shackles clanking as he moved down the wide hall.

Now, with the appropriate permissions and protections in place, Robert returned to the Men’s Central Jail. He moved through security and intake and waited for Randall Thompson in one of the private meeting rooms, his seat separated from Randall’s by two-inch-thick glass. Seated at a small card table, he used the valuable time to fix the date on his watch.

Randall was considered a high-risk inmate and would be housed in solitary confinement until his trial. Solitary confinement was a blessing for someone like him. The general population welcomed violent pedophiles with a unique brand of gusto.

The door opened, and two uniforms ushered in Randall, who took the lone seat with a heavy sigh.

“When you’re done, just bang on the door,” the guard said.

“This room is private?” Robert confirmed.

“We’ll be watching you through the glass, but there’s no cameras or mikes.”

Robert nodded. “Thank you.”

“You’ve got an hour.” The guard shut the door behind him with a firm click.

The science teacher, who was looking at a minimum of three life terms, surveyed Robert with distrust. “You again?”

“Me again.” He unlocked his tablet. “We need to go over the initial details of your case.”

Randall leaned forward and ran his hands over his white beard. “I’d like to get out of here and go home. I have a dog. I need someone to check on him.”

“The local pet rescue has your dog. They’ll keep it there until you are sentenced or released. If you’re sentenced, they’ll put it up for adoption. If there’s someone you know who will take it, I can arrange that.”

Randall rubbed his index fingers across the bushy white hair above his upper lip. “And you’re doing that for free? That’s what you said.”

“Yes. Completely free.”

“Doesn’t seem right,” the man muttered. He coughed, and something wet rattled in his throat.

“My office takes on a fair amount of pro bono cases.”

“Right, sure,” the man snapped. “But I’m talking about your son. He was killed by this guy, right?”

Robert removed the tablet’s stylus from its holder. “Yes, he was. I disclosed that to you in our first meeting.”

“Well, I was a little distracted then. But since then, I’ve had time to think.” The man inched his chair closer to the glass and lowered his voice. “How do you know I didn’t do it?”

“You don’t have to whisper. No one can hear us.”

His knee jiggled against the bottom of the table. “Your son—what was his name?”

“Gabe.”

The man drummed his thick fingers against the top of the table. “I never had any kids, but I have a nephew I’m close to. It’s, uh . . . I can’t imagine how you feel.”

No, he couldn’t. No one could. And it wasn’t a feeling you’d wish upon anyone else. The only blessing of Natasha’s death was that she didn’t have to experience it alongside him.

“How long ago . . .” His fingers stilled and he looked back up, meeting Robert’s eyes. “Did he, um—was he taken?”

The man’s ignorance of the BH Killer’s history was embarrassing. Then again, if Randall were an expert on the deaths, Robert wouldn’t be representing him.

“He died nine months ago.”

Randall nodded. “So, uh—”

“We need to go over the evidence against you.”

“Well, I don’t even understand how they have evidence.”

He was frustratingly obtuse. Either unwilling or unable to comprehend the fact that he was facing a lifetime behind bars. A year ago, under the prior legislation, he’d have been a candidate for lethal injection.

“Well, there are two things we have to overcome. First, Scott Harden identified you as the person who kidnapped and held him prisoner for seven weeks.”

“He’s lying,” the man said flatly, crossing his arms over his barrel chest. “I told the detectives that.”

“Any reason for him to lie about you? You ever have him as a student? Give him a failing grade? Confront him in the hall over something?”

The man sniffed, then wiped at his nose with the sleeve of his uniform. “He wasn’t one of my students. Was I aware of him? Sure. He’s one of those kids . . . you know the type.” He met Robert’s eyes through the scratched glass. “Thinks he’s untouchable. Always late. Has the school sweetheart hanging on his arm. They get attention.”

He may have been describing Scott, but it was a mirror to Gabe. The boyish, unapologetic smile that softened every action. The confidence that seeped from him. The gaggle of surrounding girls who called every hour, texted during dinner, and commented on every social media post.

“But . . .” Randall scratched the back of his head. “Even though I knew who the kid was, I never . . . Well, I don’t think I ever interacted with him. I don’t know. Maybe I yelled at him to get to class, or not to run in the halls—something like that. Maybe.”

Maybe? Juries hated maybes. For now, Robert let it slide.

“The cops asked about your alibi on the night each victim was taken and when their bodies were dumped. You said, and this is a quote from your questioning, ‘I don’t know. I was most likely at home.’” Robert looked up at him. “We’re going to have to do better than that.”

Randall shifted in the hard plastic seat, and his ankle chains clanked together. “I live alone. I read at night and grade tests. I’m not sure what to tell you. Unless you can get my dog to vouch for me, they’re just gonna have to believe me.”

“It’s hard to do that, considering the box they found.” On the tablet, Robert pulled up the photo, the one that made his anger rise in almost uncontrollable ways. It was a close-up of a small wooden box filled with a brutal assortment of souvenirs. A driver’s license for victim number one. The lobe of one ear. A slice of skin with a tattoo, carved out of a bicep. A watch, the inside engraved with a graduation date. A Polaroid photo of a boy, his face bruised, lip split, eyes swollen shut. Gabe.

“Yeah.” Randall barely glanced at the photo. “They said they found that in my house.”

“Underneath your bed. How’d it get there?”

The teacher raised his hands. “Who knows? I don’t make a habit of looking under my bed, not unless my glasses fall under there. Do you? Anybody could have stuck it there.”

“How would they get in the house?”

He shook his head in frustration. “Whose side are you on?”

“I’m playing devil’s advocate. You’re going to be asked all these questions during the trial.”

“Look, I DIDN’T TAKE OR HURT ANYONE,” Randall thundered, and if he did it just like that, there was a good chance someone on the jury would believe him. All they needed was one.

“Again, how would someone get in?”

“Someone could open the door and walk in,” he said defiantly. “It’s not like I own anything of value. No one’s robbing me. I lock the doors some of the time, but a lot of times I don’t. If the weather is nice, I open a window. So sue me.”

He didn’t need to be sued. Civil litigation was a moot concern when someone was behind bars for six murders. Six murders and seven kidnappings with aggravated and premeditated assault.

His life, whether he knew it or not, whether Robert got him off or not, was over.