The Good Lie by A.R. Torre
CHAPTER 9
Cluster & Kavin Law Firm was housed in the same building as the Creative Artists Agency, which meant that once a week, Robert Kavin bumped elevator elbows with a celebrity. It was a factoid that had once earned him enormous street cred with his son, back when he was young enough to be impressed. That magic had left around puberty, replaced by a bored expression that only seemed to react when money, his car, or girls were involved.
One day soon, Robert would set all his files on fire and move to a shack on the beach. He’d wear board shorts and a baseball cap and not shave for a year. He’d handle cases about beach access and rental deposits and represent sandy daiquiri bars that paid in alcohol and coconut shrimp. This sleek building, pressed and starched suits . . . all that would be left behind.
“You’re daydreaming again.” His receptionist spoke from her spot next to him in the elevator, a knowing smile stretched across the older woman’s face. “Let me guess. Aruba?”
“I’m thinking Uruguay now.” The elevator doors slid open, and he held his hand against the opening, gesturing her forward. “Lower tax rate. Want to join me?”
The stately grandmother of three chuckled as she stepped off the elevator. “I can’t convince Fred to take the forty-five-minute drive to Costco. There’s no chance of getting him on an airplane anytime in this century.”
They rounded the corner and passed through the tall glass doors and into the law-firm lobby.
“Is Martin here?” He pulled his keys out and flipped through the set, finding the one for his office door and pushing it into the lock. Out of the three firm partners, he was the only one with the additional layer of security, but he didn’t care. That was the difference between him and someone like Gwen, who left her files out for anyone to see. Carelessness like that was how cases were lost, secrets were spread, and careers were destroyed.
“He’s been here since seven.”
“Imagine that.” He flipped on the lights and tossed his keys on the desk, then headed to his partner’s office.
Martin was on the phone and met Robert’s eyes as he came in. Nodding toward the conference table at the end of his office, he held up his finger in a “Just one minute” gesture. Robert took one of the leather rolling chairs and plucked a sticky doughnut off a discarded plate on the edge of the massive desk.
“There’s coconut in that,” Martin warned as he ended the call. “I swear, Joy’s teaming up with my wife to get me to lose weight.”
“I like coconut,” Robert said through a mouthful.
“Right.” Martin picked up the end of his tie and examined it, scratching at a spot with his fingernail. Glancing back at Robert, he paused. “I’m assuming you heard about Scott Harden returning home.”
“I did.” Robert wiped at his mouth. “One of the detectives called.”
“Do they have any leads?”
“Actually, the kid said it was one of his teachers. They brought the guy in for questioning, and Judge Glenn gave them a warrant this morning.”
“They find any evidence?” Martin tented his hands atop his stomach, his full attention on Robert. Between the two of them, they had freed hundreds of accused criminals from a life behind bars, and most of the time, a missing piece of evidence had been the weak link that had dictated the verdict.
“They found a shoebox in his house.” He met the man’s eyes. “It had souvenirs from each of the boys, including Gabe.”
Martin winced. “I’m sorry, Rob.”
“It’s fine.” He took a final bite of the doughnut and forced himself to chew, his mind refusing to let go of the detective’s words. They found some of Gabe’s hair in the box. It matches his DNA. There’s a few other things here. A key chain. We’ll need you to come down and identify it. Robert coughed, then swallowed, willing his voice to remain calm. “They’re charging the teacher for all six murders and putting him in Central.”
“Well.” Martin’s bushy white eyebrows raised in the middle of his dark forehead. “That’s great. That’s got to give you some peace.”
Robert stayed silent.
“What?” His partner hunched forward. “What are you thinking?”
“Something’s wrong.” Robert shook his head. “It’s too easy. Scott Harden escapes, makes it all the way back home without this guy catching him. And he knows the killer? BH’s other victims didn’t attend Beverly High. So why break routine? Why take a kid who can ID him? It’s too risky.”
“You’re looking for reason and forgetting that the BH Killer is a human. An unstable human. Don’t look at it through a prosecutor’s lens.”
“I have to. I’m pointing out the same things they will.”
“Robert . . . ,” Martin warned him.
“There’s not enough to go on. It’s the word of a teenage kid and a box that could have been planted—”
“Come on.” Martin’s voice was calm and comforting, and there was a reason he was one of the most successful attorneys in California. He could manipulate a jury’s entire mood with just the lilt of his voice. “You’ve got a victim’s eyewitness and evidence. He’s it. We’ll make sure he pays for what he did.”
“I’m worried it’s not him.” Robert leaned back and crossed his arms, steeling himself for his partner’s response to his next words. He had been up all night thinking over Randall Thompson’s arrest and the evidence against him. The man would need an attorney, and the public defenders would be playing hot potato to avoid the representation. Martin had always given him a fair amount of leniency in things that involved Gabe, but what he was about to say wouldn’t go over well. “I want to represent him.”
Martin stared at him for a long moment, then laughed. “Is that a joke?”
“As I said, I don’t think it’s him.”
“No, you said you’re worried it’s not him.”
“Fine.” He sighed and amended his statement. “I don’t think it’s him.”
His partner in the firm moved closer to the desk and rested his elbows on the surface, pinning him with laser eye contact. “This is Gabe’s killer we’re talking about. Your son was like my own. I’d be more in support of you saying you want to deliver justice via a prison shank. You don’t think isn’t good enough, Rob. You want this to go to trial without cutting off this asshole’s balls, then fine. But sitting on his side of the defense table?” He studied him. “If you were anyone else, I’d think you were trying to sabotage his case, but you’re too ethical for that.”
“I don’t have an ulterior motive here. I don’t think he’s the guy, which means the police have stopped looking for the real guy.” Robert shrugged and hoped it came off as believable. “I’ve thought it through, Martin. I’m reaching out to the courts this afternoon to set up a meeting.”
Martin let out a sigh. “You’re a grown man, Rob. You know the case better than anyone. But this feels rotten. I don’t know what to tell you.”
“You don’t have to tell me anything. I’m not asking permission.” Robert balled up the napkin and tossed it into a round wastebasket beside Martin’s desk. He needed to end this meeting, before the questions began. Martin would nail him with brilliant, precise, and unavoidable inquiries that Robert wouldn’t have answers for because it made no logical sense for him to come within a thousand feet of the Randall Thompson case, not unless he was standing opposite him in the courtroom.
“Okay, but one last thing that has to be said. This is a huge conflict of interest.” Martin stood and walked around the desk, his arms crossing over his wide chest and pinning the front of his blood-red tie into place. “You lose this case, and he’ll sue us. Say that you intentionally botched it. He’ll say you destroyed evidence and led witnesses and didn’t properly represent him.”
“I’m not going to lose.”
Martin let out a frustrated laugh. “What am I missing here? You think he’s innocent? Fine. Let the police and public defender handle that. There’s nothing good that will come from your involvement.”
“I need to meet with him. See what he says. Being his potential attorney gives me face time that I wouldn’t otherwise have.” He squeezed the man’s thick shoulder. “If I don’t believe what he says, I’ll walk. You know I’ll walk.”
Martin shook his head. “He’s not going to want you as his attorney. I can’t imagine he wants to discuss his activities with the father of one of the boys he killed.”
Robert said nothing. He’d spent the evening digging for everything he could find on Randall Thompson. The man worked as a high school science teacher, drove a five-year-old Honda Accord, and lived in a two-bedroom teardown. He couldn’t afford to pass up free legal representation from the top criminal defense attorney in Los Angeles, no matter who that attorney’s son was—had been. Robert released Martin’s shoulder and headed for the door, pausing when his partner spoke.
“The press is going to crucify you for this. I know you think he might be innocent, but what if he’s not? What if he killed Gabe and all those other boys?”
Robert glanced back over his shoulder and pulled the door open, wishing he could tell the man everything. “Just trust me.”
The big man winced. “That’s the problem. I don’t.”