Brunswick?”
Ellie held her forearm up instinctively against the bright light shining above the cameraman, but the television correspondent kept yelling questions. “Why has the district attorney’s office assigned a fresh look to the case?”
Ellie felt Rogan pushing her toward the car. How did the media know so much already? As she fell into the front seat, she heard the reporter’s final question: “Is it true that you have evidence connecting Helen Brunswick’s murder to the crimes of convicted killer Anthony Amaro?”
Rogan jumped into the driver’s seat and gunned the engine. Once he pulled away from the curb, he looked at her and frowned. “And boom goes the dynamite.”
CHAPTER
THIRTEEN
T he law office of McConnell and Associates was typical of a small partnership in New York City: shared space with a few other lawyers in the same predicament added up to one floor in a respectable building with a respectable-looking communal staff. Kristin McConnell’s office exceeded expectations, however. Given that the original McConnell, Harry, had been Amaro’s court-appointed lawyer, Carrie would not have been surprised to find peeling paint and loaded mousetraps. But now that the man’s daughter, Kristin, was in charge, Carrie recognized a large canvas on the interior wall as the work of a contemporary of Jackson Pollock.
Beneath the artwork were two large cardboard boxes, marked neatly with labels that read: “Anthony Amaro, 8/5/96.”
“You must be Carrie.” Kristin looked to be Carrie’s age—mid-thirties—but handled herself with a confidence that Carrie was still searching for.
“I called you on a lark,” Carrie said. “I can’t believe you still have records this many years later.”
“Like I said on the phone, long story. The old man didn’t believe in throwing files away, and he retired before getting around to computerizing the documents. I swore to him that I’d retain all client records for twenty years, and I spend a small fortune on storage keeping my word. I have them filed by date of conviction and do a purge every four months. That’s how I was able to get you these so quickly. Honestly, you’re doing me a favor by taking them two years early.”
“Well, I really appreciate it.”
“Amaro’s challenging his conviction?” Kristin asked.
Carrie nodded, unsure how much she should reveal. “It’s part of a larger project. Major issues with the police department’s lead detective.”
“I know Linda Moreland’s work. Your client could certainly do worse.”
Carrie smiled.
“How much do you know about my father?”
“I know he was Anthony Amaro’s lawyer.”
“That’s as much as I expected. I’m probably the only attorney our age who knows what a lion he was in his era. A true voice of the downtrodden. I actually remember this case: he took it pro bono because it was one of the very first cases that was death-eligible in the state of New York.”
Carrie was now regretting that she hadn’t taken the time to conduct a quick Google search of Harry McConnell. His daughter clearly admired the man.
“The client made a point of saying how appreciative he was of your father’s representation on his behalf.” Did that sound as stupid in the room as it sounded to Carrie’s own ears?
“He worked when he should have been enjoying his last healthy years. His opposition to the death penalty was that strong. At least he was able to see capital punishment go down with barely a whimper before this state ever saw a single execution.”
Carrie found herself confused by the direction of the conversation. “I’m sorry if you lost him prematurely.”
Kristin shook her head. “No, my father’s still living and breathing. He just doesn’t remember everything. He had the curse of being told by his doctors early on that he’d lose his memory to Alzheimer’s. I don’t even know why they bother telling people. What are you supposed to do? I wanted him to retire and spend
Ellie held her forearm up instinctively against the bright light shining above the cameraman, but the television correspondent kept yelling questions. “Why has the district attorney’s office assigned a fresh look to the case?”
Ellie felt Rogan pushing her toward the car. How did the media know so much already? As she fell into the front seat, she heard the reporter’s final question: “Is it true that you have evidence connecting Helen Brunswick’s murder to the crimes of convicted killer Anthony Amaro?”
Rogan jumped into the driver’s seat and gunned the engine. Once he pulled away from the curb, he looked at her and frowned. “And boom goes the dynamite.”
CHAPTER
THIRTEEN
T he law office of McConnell and Associates was typical of a small partnership in New York City: shared space with a few other lawyers in the same predicament added up to one floor in a respectable building with a respectable-looking communal staff. Kristin McConnell’s office exceeded expectations, however. Given that the original McConnell, Harry, had been Amaro’s court-appointed lawyer, Carrie would not have been surprised to find peeling paint and loaded mousetraps. But now that the man’s daughter, Kristin, was in charge, Carrie recognized a large canvas on the interior wall as the work of a contemporary of Jackson Pollock.
Beneath the artwork were two large cardboard boxes, marked neatly with labels that read: “Anthony Amaro, 8/5/96.”
“You must be Carrie.” Kristin looked to be Carrie’s age—mid-thirties—but handled herself with a confidence that Carrie was still searching for.
“I called you on a lark,” Carrie said. “I can’t believe you still have records this many years later.”
“Like I said on the phone, long story. The old man didn’t believe in throwing files away, and he retired before getting around to computerizing the documents. I swore to him that I’d retain all client records for twenty years, and I spend a small fortune on storage keeping my word. I have them filed by date of conviction and do a purge every four months. That’s how I was able to get you these so quickly. Honestly, you’re doing me a favor by taking them two years early.”
“Well, I really appreciate it.”
“Amaro’s challenging his conviction?” Kristin asked.
Carrie nodded, unsure how much she should reveal. “It’s part of a larger project. Major issues with the police department’s lead detective.”
“I know Linda Moreland’s work. Your client could certainly do worse.”
Carrie smiled.
“How much do you know about my father?”
“I know he was Anthony Amaro’s lawyer.”
“That’s as much as I expected. I’m probably the only attorney our age who knows what a lion he was in his era. A true voice of the downtrodden. I actually remember this case: he took it pro bono because it was one of the very first cases that was death-eligible in the state of New York.”
Carrie was now regretting that she hadn’t taken the time to conduct a quick Google search of Harry McConnell. His daughter clearly admired the man.
“The client made a point of saying how appreciative he was of your father’s representation on his behalf.” Did that sound as stupid in the room as it sounded to Carrie’s own ears?
“He worked when he should have been enjoying his last healthy years. His opposition to the death penalty was that strong. At least he was able to see capital punishment go down with barely a whimper before this state ever saw a single execution.”
Carrie found herself confused by the direction of the conversation. “I’m sorry if you lost him prematurely.”
Kristin shook her head. “No, my father’s still living and breathing. He just doesn’t remember everything. He had the curse of being told by his doctors early on that he’d lose his memory to Alzheimer’s. I don’t even know why they bother telling people. What are you supposed to do? I wanted him to retire and spend
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