Blood Orange. Drusilla Campbell
people thought he had a sense of humor. “Serve you right, you brass-balled pirates.”
It galled David to recognize that when it came down to the bones of it, he practiced law much as his father had adjudicated. Judge Cabot had assumed if you were in court you’d done something bad now or in a previous life, so he might as well punish you hard. Guilt and innocence had been irrelevancies to the judge. They weren’t important to David, either, although in the early days of a defense the question of guilt or innocence popped up in his mind like an irritating ad on a computer screen. Especially in a capital case like this one, with Frank Filmore’s life on the block. At the preliminary hearing the prosecutor, Les Peluso, was going to argue for murder with special circumstances, leaving open the possibility of the death penalty. Peluso wanted to be mayor of San Diego, and as far as he, the press, and public were concerned, Filmore’s trial was only a formality on his way to that position.
Right now David was less interested in Filmore’s answers to Gracie’s questions than he was in his client’s mannerisms and body language, the way his right eyebrow twitched and he rubbed at it with the knuckle of his index finger. David learned a lot about people when he tuned out the words and just watched the body.
On television child killers were invariably homely, with pocky skin and small, mean eyes. Filmore was fit and handsome in a slick, saturnine way. A “hottie,” according to Allison, who believed him innocent, framed by cops trying to cover up sloppy police work. She was twenty-two, and this was her first case. Her reaction to Filmore’s appearance would be important information for David when it came time to choose a jury. Who would find him most appealing? Young women without children, or thirty-something guys resentful of authority and short on empathy?
David’s stomach growled. After tennis and a massage, what he wanted was a three-inch filet so rare it moaned when he cut into it. But he couldn’t charge another expensive dinner. Dana wrote the checks, and she knew how much interest they were paying on their MasterCard and Visa accounts, all seven of them. One of these days, David thought, he was going to be able to throw down cash for a hundred-dollar steak dinner. Frank Filmore was going to do it for him.
Gracie asked Filmore to account for his activities on the day three-year-old Lolly Calhoun was snatched from her backyard. He answered calmly, with a slightly clipped accent.
David interrupted, leaning forward. “You English, Frank? South African, maybe?”
“People ask me that.” Filmore had a good smile and even white teeth with a chip out of a front incisor. Allison said it was the kind of imperfection that gave his face appeal. “Born and raised in California.”
The movie-star smile was all wrong on a man facing a possible death penalty. And jurors did not like defendants with phony accents.
David, Gracie, and Les Peluso had been study partners in law school, and there had been a time when they were either young or foolish enough to confide their ambitions to one another. Peluso wanted to be mayor. David wanted the big-ticket cases where drama and stakes were high. Gracie the same. He wondered as he watched Filmore answer Gracie’s questions if it was really ethical to see a client as a means to a career goal, as a way out of debt and on to Court TV.
Gracie disliked Filmore as much as he did, but she hid her feelings behind a cool authority. She listened to him, her gaze locked on his, her expression impassive and clinical. In all things legal she was implacably self-contained. And just as ambitious as me, David thought. He liked that about her.
The mystery of Gracie tantalized him. She was his best friend, the person apart from Dana whom he trusted most. But friendship and respect didn’t stop him from wondering about her body and what she would be like in bed. Last year she had worn a backless dress to Cabot and Klinger’s Christmas party, and for a couple of weeks afterward David could not look at her without thinking of her gorgeous honey brown back, the shapely and muscular swale of her spine. He wanted to put his hand on the small of it to know if it felt as warm as it looked. He had caught a glimpse of a tattoo and fantasized about it, imagining something African, winged and tribal extending down the curve of her hip.
Gracie asked Filmore, “Why didn’t you go to work that day?”
“I told you, my wife didn’t feel well.”
“Do you always stay home if your wife’s sick?”
“When I can.” Circles of sweat ringed the sleeves of Filmore’s cotton shirt, but he flashed the smile and beaming teeth. “Wouldn’t you?”
“The problem is,” Gracie said to Filmore, “your wife didn’t tell anyone at work she was sick.”
“She’s not a complainer; and, besides, we made a deal we wouldn’t tell anyone about the baby until after the first trimester. We were sort of superstitious—you can understand. If we said anything too soon and it didn’t work out . . .” He massaged his thick knuckles. “We’d been trying a long time. Years. We’d begun to lose hope, and then Marsha came up pregnant.” He looked at Gracie and flashed the smile again. “It just seemed too good to be true.”
None of this was new, though Filmore’s answers were getting more detailed and emotionally nuanced. For now that was okay.
Gracie said, “According to her coworkers she seemed perfectly well.”
“And she was. She ate a few crackers. That’s all it took to settle her stomach. Sandra had a harder time.” A flicker of confusion jerked across Filmore’s face. “I suppose poor Sandra Calhoun’s still pregnant. Is she?”
Gracie didn’t miss a beat. “Go on with your story, Frank.”
“Oh. Well, in the morning—we were all early risers—Marsha and Sandra Calhoun liked to hang over the fence, drink a cup of coffee.” Again he grinned disarmingly. “They were never too sick for coffee.”
“You said it was a secret, this pregnancy.”
“Under the circumstances, two women, neighbors and both pregnant, Marsha had to tell Sandra. They’d compare how crummy they felt, and then they went on with their lives. At least Marsha did. I worked at home that day, I have that kind of job.”
“Did anybody see you at home that afternoon?”
Filmore pursed his lips. “I’ve told you, I don’t like outside help in the home.”
A privacy nut with a twitchy eyebrow.
“What about the mail or UPS?” Gracie asked.
“I talked to my wife during the day. On the phone. I made some business calls. Does that help?”
David hoped phone company records would back this up, but even if they did, it would not prove much. Frank Filmore had plenty of time between calls to dart into the backyard of the house next door, snatch Lolly, and deposit her in the trunk of his 2002 Lexus sedan. Les Peluso would be sure to mention this. The good news for the defense was the police had found no evidence of her body anywhere in either the Lexus or the BMW Marsha Filmore had driven to work that day. But they hadn’t stopped looking. They expected a flake of skin or drop of blood to turn up eventually. They would dismantle the cars down to the atomic level if they had to.
Gracie said, “According to the police report Sandra Calhoun called 911 a bit after nine, but before that she knocked on your front door to see if Lolly was with you. Why did she do that?”
“How should I know? We were neighbors. And Lolly was a sweet kid. I liked her when she wasn’t whining.”
“You didn’t answer the door.”
“Well, no, I didn’t.”
“Why was that?”
He lifted his hands, showing his smooth pale palms. “My office is on the other side of the house, Ms. Perez. I had the door closed, and I listen to music with a headset when I’m working. Helps me focus.”
“Cops knocked on the door, too.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I