Save Your Breath (Morgan Dane #6)(32)

Of course he had. Esposito had wanted the jury to feel his certainty that Erik was guilty. He had wanted them to feel—and share—his disgust. Much of what happened in the courtroom was theatrics. The truth was irrelevant if an attorney could not convince the jury.

Olander’s fist suddenly slammed down on her desk, rattling it—and surprising Morgan with the rapid shift in his demeanor.

“Erik’s trial was a farce.” Olander’s face twisted until he barely resembled the man she’d let into her office. “I paid a lot of money for a good lawyer, and the first thing he did was suggest Erik plead guilty.”

The firm the Olanders had hired was based in Albany. Morgan was familiar with their attorney’s reputation. He was experienced and seemed competent.

The skin of Mr. Olander’s already-lean face had tightened with anger. Maybe Erik had inherited his father’s volatile temper. She considered Olander’s behavior on the doorstep. He’d lost his entire life. Some emotional instability should be expected, but Morgan had interviewed hundreds of suspects, victims, and witnesses. Mr. Olander set off her well-honed bullshit detector.

Was he truly volatile, or had his depression been an act? Had he been trying to manipulate Morgan’s sympathy and cooperation? Which one was the real Mr. Olander?

Morgan remembered Mrs. Olander’s statement when she’d first entered Morgan’s office: Kennett doesn’t know I’m here. He wouldn’t approve. At the time, Morgan hadn’t thought much of the comment, but now she wondered if Mrs. Olander had been afraid of her husband.

Erik’s wife had been researching domestic violence shelters on the sly. Maybe wife beating and being a control freak ran in the family.

“Our fucking lawyer should have found out about the juror’s partiality,” Mr. Olander said. “We shouldn’t have learned about it from a reporter.”

“As I explained to your wife, being a domestic violence victim more than twenty years ago would not automatically disqualify her from serving on the jury.”

“That’s bullshit!” Mr. Olander spat out the words. “I hate lawyers.” His voice rose, and he banged a fist on his thigh. “Can’t I get a fucking straight answer from you either?”

“Mr. Olander, it isn’t that simple.”

“No shit. I’m not stupid,” he snapped. “I’m pissed off. I sold my farm, and I’ve nothing to show for it.”

Had he thought with enough money he could buy his son’s freedom?

“The past few years have been tough. I have nothing left. The fucking lawyers took what was left, and then Lena comes to me saying we need to hire another one. I told her”—his voice dropped off abruptly and his gaze shifted, as if he had barely stopped himself from saying something he knew he shouldn’t—“I told her, ‘No. We already have a lawyer. I’m not throwing more money at a different one.’ I need you to give me whatever money my wife gave you as a retainer.”

“She didn’t give me any money. I turned her down. As I told your wife, you need an appellate lawyer—”

“Fuck you!” He leaped to his feet. “I know she gave you money. She took a check, and it wasn’t in her purse.”

Morgan had a brief but vivid flashback to the last time she’d dealt with an impulsive, violent client. He’d punched her in the face in the middle of the courthouse corridor. She’d suffered a concussion. Her face had healed, but the incident had left a mark on her confidence. Her heart sprinted, its beats echoing in her ears, and sweat broke out under her arms.

Was Mr. Olander just a bully? Or was he out of control and dangerous?





Chapter Fourteen

Lance stared through the windshield of Sharp’s Prius at the Olander farm. “Does anyone even live here?”

“The place looks abandoned.” Sharp turned off the engine.

They stepped out of the car in front of a sprawling single-story house. A second house of the same style stood on the other side of a meadow the size of a football field.

“This is Kennett Olander’s address.” Lance pointed to the home in front of them. With few trees to protect it from the elements, the primary house was old and had been weather-beaten to a dull gray. The second house appeared newer, the sheen of its blue shutters and white clapboards suggested vinyl siding. “He built the second house for Erik and Natalie.”

Sharp crossed his arms and studied the two structures. “Looks almost like a compound.”

Behind the houses, a long, low barn stretched out, surrounded by empty pastures and smaller outbuildings.

Lance headed up the walk to the single step that led to the front porch of the first house. “Someone will probably turn the whole property into a housing development of McMansions.”

Sharp rapped on the front door.

Wind blew across the open space. Other than the rustle of dead leaves across the porch, the entire place was eerily silent.

Sharp knocked a second time. They waited several minutes, but no one answered.

“Let’s look around.” Sharp walked to the nearest window, cupped his hand over his eyes, and peered inside.

Lance followed his boss around the side of the house, looking in each window as they passed. Normally, Sharp was nosey but tried to color mostly within the lines of the law.

“I wonder how long they’ve lived on the farm.” Sharp pivoted on his heel and strode across the grass. “Let’s check out the barn.”