the jury was for hanging. They really wanted to see my client die. With hindsight I could see that it really didn't matter who tried the case, my man was going to die if a jury was deciding the matter. Brace knew that. He knew his people. That's why he tried so hard to convince me to take the deal. Not because he was afraid he would lose, but because he knew he couldn't lose."
"But Joel's case... It's different. The judge might have . . ."
"No, Tracy. Not while there was any kind of argument on Folger's side.
I know you don't believe that now, but you will after a while. What's important is that I know the judge would have found a way to keep the confession in and the jury would have no sympathy for a spoiled rich kid who took the life of that lovely girl."
Reynolds looked at his watch.
"I'm going to take a walk, then turn in. There'll be a limousine waiting to take us to the airport at seven. Get a good night's sleep.
And don't let this case keep you up. We did a good job. We did what we had to do. We kept our client alive."
Matthew Reynolds closed the door to his hotel room and stood in the dark. The sterile room was immaculately clean, the covers on his bed neatly tucked in at the corners, a chocolate mint centered on the freshly laundered pillowcase. It looked this way every night.
Reynolds stripped off his jacket and laid it over the back of a chair.
The conditioned air dried the sweat that made his shirt stick to his narrow chest. Outside the hermetically sealed window, Atlanta sweltered in the sultry August heat. The lights of the city flickered all around.
This was the last time Reynolds would see them. Tomorrow he would be home in Portland and away from the reporters, his client and this case.
Reynolds turned away from the window and saw the red message light blinking on the phone next to his bed. He retrieved the message and punched in Barry Frame's number, anxious to hear what he had uncovered in the Coulter case. "Bingo!" Frame said.
"Tell me," Reynolds asked anxiously.
"Mrs. Franklin hung a picture over the bullet hole. This horrific black velvet Elvis. The cops never thought to move it because they have no aesthetic taste. Fortunately for Jeffrey Coulter, I do.)
Frame paused dramatically.
"Stop patting yourself on the back and get to it."
"You can relax, Matt. We don't have to worry about this case anymore.
I' guarantee Griffen will dismiss once she reads the criminologist's report. See, the picture was too high. No one would hang it like that.
Not even someone with Mrs. Franklin's awful taste. It bothered me in the crime-scene photos and it was worse when I walked into the hall.
"In Jeffrey's version of the shooting, he fell back when Franklin pulled out the gun. When he tripped, Franklin's shot missed him. Jeffrey is tall. If Franklin shot for the head, he'd be aiming high. We found a snapshot in the family album showing the hallway three months before the shooting with the Elvis on another wall. I moved the picture and there was a freshly puttied hole. We've got everything on videotape, as well as stills. We dug out the putty. The expert's pretty certain its a bullet hole. The bullet's gone. Ma Franklin must have deep-sixed it."
"When will we have the criminologist's report?"
"By the end of the week."
"Let's step up the background investigation of Franklin. Put another man on it if necessary."
"What for? The fact that Mrs. Franklin puttied over the bullet hole, then moved the picture to conceal it, proves she was covering up for her son. Griffen will have to drop the charges."
"Never bank on the prosecution acting reasonably, Barry. Abigail Griffen is not the type to roll over. She may not draw the same conclusions from the evidence that we did. We go full-bore until the moment the indictment is dismissed."
"You got it," Barry said wearily. "I'll put Ted French on the backgrounder. How are things in Atlanta?"
"Joel took the deal."
"That's what you hoped, isn't it?"
"Yes."
"How are
"But Joel's case... It's different. The judge might have . . ."
"No, Tracy. Not while there was any kind of argument on Folger's side.
I know you don't believe that now, but you will after a while. What's important is that I know the judge would have found a way to keep the confession in and the jury would have no sympathy for a spoiled rich kid who took the life of that lovely girl."
Reynolds looked at his watch.
"I'm going to take a walk, then turn in. There'll be a limousine waiting to take us to the airport at seven. Get a good night's sleep.
And don't let this case keep you up. We did a good job. We did what we had to do. We kept our client alive."
Matthew Reynolds closed the door to his hotel room and stood in the dark. The sterile room was immaculately clean, the covers on his bed neatly tucked in at the corners, a chocolate mint centered on the freshly laundered pillowcase. It looked this way every night.
Reynolds stripped off his jacket and laid it over the back of a chair.
The conditioned air dried the sweat that made his shirt stick to his narrow chest. Outside the hermetically sealed window, Atlanta sweltered in the sultry August heat. The lights of the city flickered all around.
This was the last time Reynolds would see them. Tomorrow he would be home in Portland and away from the reporters, his client and this case.
Reynolds turned away from the window and saw the red message light blinking on the phone next to his bed. He retrieved the message and punched in Barry Frame's number, anxious to hear what he had uncovered in the Coulter case. "Bingo!" Frame said.
"Tell me," Reynolds asked anxiously.
"Mrs. Franklin hung a picture over the bullet hole. This horrific black velvet Elvis. The cops never thought to move it because they have no aesthetic taste. Fortunately for Jeffrey Coulter, I do.)
Frame paused dramatically.
"Stop patting yourself on the back and get to it."
"You can relax, Matt. We don't have to worry about this case anymore.
I' guarantee Griffen will dismiss once she reads the criminologist's report. See, the picture was too high. No one would hang it like that.
Not even someone with Mrs. Franklin's awful taste. It bothered me in the crime-scene photos and it was worse when I walked into the hall.
"In Jeffrey's version of the shooting, he fell back when Franklin pulled out the gun. When he tripped, Franklin's shot missed him. Jeffrey is tall. If Franklin shot for the head, he'd be aiming high. We found a snapshot in the family album showing the hallway three months before the shooting with the Elvis on another wall. I moved the picture and there was a freshly puttied hole. We've got everything on videotape, as well as stills. We dug out the putty. The expert's pretty certain its a bullet hole. The bullet's gone. Ma Franklin must have deep-sixed it."
"When will we have the criminologist's report?"
"By the end of the week."
"Let's step up the background investigation of Franklin. Put another man on it if necessary."
"What for? The fact that Mrs. Franklin puttied over the bullet hole, then moved the picture to conceal it, proves she was covering up for her son. Griffen will have to drop the charges."
"Never bank on the prosecution acting reasonably, Barry. Abigail Griffen is not the type to roll over. She may not draw the same conclusions from the evidence that we did. We go full-bore until the moment the indictment is dismissed."
"You got it," Barry said wearily. "I'll put Ted French on the backgrounder. How are things in Atlanta?"
"Joel took the deal."
"That's what you hoped, isn't it?"
"Yes."
"How are
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