What Happened to the Bennetts(19)

I felt my heart begin to pound. It had to be the same John Milo. Avondale was in southern Chester County, about an hour from our house. But something didn’t make sense. If Milo had been arrested for murder last year, why was he on the street? If he had been caught fleeing the scene, they had him dead to rights. He should have been convicted.

I skimmed the other articles, but there was no mention of his trial or sentence.

I paused a minute. Not every murder trial made the news, though I would have thought this one would have. Another possibility was a plea deal, but even that would’ve made the news at sentencing.

I checked the article for the name of the defense counsel, but it wasn’t specified. That didn’t make sense, either. Most criminal defense counsel were shameless self-promoters, crowbarring their name into the news. They should be touting the representation of Milo.

I logged on to the database of the Courts of Common Pleas, using my office manager’s access code. That didn’t break any FBI rules, and I wasn’t asking anyway. The database contained orders of all of the judges, whether published or not. If Milo’s case had gone to trial, it would be here.

I plugged his name into the search function, and an unpublished opinion popped onto the screen under the caption Commonwealth of Pennsylvania v. Milo:


For all of the foregoing, the case is hereby dismissed with prejudice. It is SO ORDERED.



I blinked. Milo had gotten off scot-free. I clicked and scanned the court opinion. The defense lawyer had gotten the case thrown out before it went to the jury, suppressing evidence on procedural grounds. It was skillful lawyering, so it didn’t make sense that defense counsel wasn’t taking credit.

I navigated back to the docket, a list of pleadings filed in the case. I clicked on the Entry of Appearance, the first filing by any defense counsel. Appearing for the defendant was Paul Hart of Lattimore & Finch.

After I had searched under Milo’s name, I looked under Junior’s and his father’s. They had been arrested many times but had beaten every rap on procedural grounds: improper search, wrongly included testimony, wrongly excluded testimony, and for darker reasons, witnesses who recanted—or in one grim case, had simply vanished. It gave me the chills. And every victory was won by Paul Hart of Lattimore & Finch.

I mulled it over. Lattimore & Finch was one of the most prestigious firms in Philadelphia, comprised of Ivy League graduates and Supreme Court clerks. I’d met plenty of them, and they represented Fortune 500 companies, banks, and insurance companies. Since when did they represent a thug like Milo?

I scrolled to the Lattimore & Finch website and searched under Paul Hart. A thumbnail of a blond preppy popped onto the screen, with horn-rimmed glasses and a bow tie. I couldn’t believe people still looked like him, but the Main Line was full of the whale-belt and seersucker shorts crowd. Hart’s face was lean, and he had a longish nose and a smile that was client-ready, with veneers that were the rich-guy flex.

I skimmed the bio. Hart was a year older than I was; Princeton grad, Harvard Law, Law Review Comment Editor, Assistant U.S. Attorney for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania, Chairman of the White-Collar Criminal Group at Lattimore & Finch. No wonder Hart hadn’t wanted his name in the paper. Lattimore & Finch did not want to be publicly associated with John Milo.

I stared at Hart’s photo. Once I had admired lawyers so much that I had wanted to become one, but that was before I knew better. I was raised to believe that law led to justice, but I grew up to learn that law could perpetrate injustice, like letting killers go free on technicalities. I valued procedural safeguards, but form was too often elevated over substance.

Now I was living that reality. Milo was on the street to kill my daughter because of lawyers like Hart. I wondered if he knew what he had wrought. I would never understand lawyers who weaponized the law against justice.

And now I knew the cost.

Allison.





Chapter Ten



I climbed the stairs, my head buzzing with what I’d learned online. I didn’t know if I would tell Lucinda yet, because I still had to tell her about Allison’s funeral, which would devastate her. She and Ethan hadn’t come down to breakfast yet, and I wanted to check on them.

I reached the landing and heard them talking in his bedroom, so I opened the door. They were sitting against the headrest and looking at one of our old photo albums. I recognized its maroon cover instantly, though I hadn’t known Lucinda had taken it from the house. I couldn’t imagine looking at it. I knew I couldn’t.

“Hey guys.” I masked my emotion, crossed to the bed, and kissed Lucinda on the cheek. “How are you?”

“We’re hanging in,” Lucinda answered, looking up with a wan smile. Her eyes were puffy, and her reading glasses were on top of her head.

“Hi, Dad.” Ethan smiled, though his eyes were glistening. I didn’t know what had made Lucinda show him the album, but if she had been hoping to make him feel better, it looked like it was working.

“What’re you doing, looking at pictures? Aren’t you guys hungry?” I sat down on the edge of the bed, glancing at the photo album. It was open to a picture of Allison holding baby Ethan in the hospital, on the very day she’d first met him, a look of goofy puzzlement on her face. With effort, I put on a smile, like I’d put on a tie for work.