The Ex(61)

“It’s not polite. It’s basic human decency. Can we at least agree to leave out the other victims?”

“Jack—”

“Jesus H., Olivia. Did you forget that my wife—my daughter’s mother—is also a murder victim?”

“Okay, time out,” Don said. “I agree we can’t think about other people’s feelings right now. But, Olivia, we do need to think about how this is going to play with the DA, and eventually the jury. If you’re pointing the finger at everyone but Jack, it feels desperate. You told Charlotte we didn’t need a media backlash—well, you could trigger one if you’re perceived as trashing the victims. That’s what I meant about a clear narrative. Just stick with Madeline—or Helen, or what’s her name?”

Einer, Charlotte, and I all spoke in unison. “Sharon Lawson.”

“Stick with that,” Don said. “We have her affidavit. Someone hired Sharon specifically to look for Jack on his usual running route. Same e-mail address as whoever told him to go to the sports field the morning of the shooting. The prosecution needs to explain that or they can’t win. Reasonable doubt’s all we need.”

Don was right. The missed-moment and subsequent e-mails were complicated enough. Anything else was information overload.

I looked again at the rows of boxes filling the office.

Something was in there that Scott Temple was hiding. I needed to find out what it was before I told him about Sharon.


BY THE TIME I LEFT work, it was after ten o’clock. I knew I should go home, but I was feeling antsy and wanted a drink. I hailed a cab and automatically gave the driver the address for Lissa’s.

He had driven two blocks when I said, “Actually, drop me at Grand and Baxter instead.” He sighed even though the route was the same.

“Where am I stopping?” the cabbie asked as we approached.

“That place with the red pillars on the right.”

Unless you’ve been a woman who walks into a bar late at night by herself, you have no idea how it feels. It shouldn’t feel like anything. This city is filled with single adults, busy adults, tourists and businesspeople traveling alone. No one cooks. People are out more often than they’re home. Men show up on their own at bars and restaurants, and no one gives them a second thought. I tell myself it’s the same for me. But I know it’s not, not to the people who see me scanning for a place to sit. Probably not to me, either.

Tonight, my eyes were scanning for more than a chair. I was certain that I’d find the face I was looking for. I don’t know why I bothered to feel disappointed when my hopes weren’t satisfied. It had been a shot in the dark. But now that I was here, I still wanted a drink. I spotted one empty seat at the bar, with a half glass of wine on the counter and a cloth napkin folded across the back of the stool. That was bar-speak for smoke break. Until the human chimney returned, I could stand here in the meantime to get the bartender’s attention.

I had ordered a Hendrick’s martini up with a twist and was listening to the rattle of shaken ice when I felt someone brush up next to me.

“You’re stealing chairs now?”

I caught a whiff of lingering cigarette smoke, and turned to see Scott Temple. My gut hadn’t been off after all.

“Just ordering an end-of-the-day libation.”

“Would that be a bad day or a good day?”

Funny how that works. Whether everything goes right or nothing goes your way, booze always seems like a good idea.

He pulled out the barstool and offered it to me. “After you.”

I accepted and took a generous sip of my martini. “I didn’t know you smoked.”

“I don’t, but every once in a while, with the drinks—old habits, I guess. The bartender lets me bum them off her. Now why do I have the feeling bumping into each other isn’t pure coincidence? You and I have had some pretty meaningful conversations here.”

“Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar, and sometimes lawyers need gin near the courthouse.”

“You’re fishing for information, aren’t you?”

“You’re acting like you have information you want me to catch.”

“Sure, why not? Today I spoke to one of your client’s fellow plaintiffs in the Penn Station suit. His name’s Jon Weilly.”

I did my best to act unconcerned. “You don’t think jurors have also said things in anger?” I asked. “You have to be desperate if that’s the best you’ve got. I was hoping you might tell me why you sent over seventeen boxes of discovery, months before trial.”

His eyes were already glassy but he took another sip of his wine. “I love it. A defense attorney bitching that I sent over too much evidence.”

“I’m not some rookie, Scott. If you flood me with irrelevant evidence, I know you’re hiding something. You may have technically complied with the discovery rules, but you can only get so cute before a judge calls you out on your shit.”

“I’m not sure what you want here, Olivia. I’ve told you from the very beginning that our case is tighter than you think, but you won’t believe me.”

“Is the slam-dunk evidence in those boxes? Because, if so, I don’t see it.”

“Your request was for Brady material—that’s the exculpatory stuff, remember?”