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and curiosity about the truth of his client’s claims. Who better to frame for a murder than a serial killer? No one would take the protestations of a homicidal maniac seriously.
Halfway to Portland, Brad dialed his cell phone.
“Ginny Striker,” the voice at the other end answered.
“Hey, it’s Brad, Brad Miller.”
“Hi, what’s up?”
“Do you have time to meet me for coffee?”
“I’m kind of busy. Paul Rostoff gave me a rush job.”
“This is important. I’m really desperate for some advice.”
There was dead air for a moment and Brad held his breath. He’d called Ginny because she was very smart and had good judgment. Also, he couldn’t think of anyone else at the firm in whom he could confide.
“I guess I can use a break.”
“Can you meet me at the coffee shop on Broadway and Washington?”
“Brad, this is Portland. I can see at least a million places to get coffee from my window. Why don’t we meet someplace closer to the office?”
“I don’t want to risk running into anyone we know.”
“What’s going on, Brad?”
“I’ll tell you in twenty-five minutes.”
Ginny was nursing a caffe latte at a table at the back of the coffee shop when Brad walked in. He waved at her then ordered a black coffee and carried it to the table. He’d grown up drinking his coffee black and had yet to develop a craving for the lattes, cappuccinos, and other fancy coffee drinks to which Portlanders seemed addicted.
“I feel like Mata Hari,” Ginny said when Brad sat down. “Why all the secrecy?”
Brad looked around to make sure that no one from the firm was in the shop.
“I’m going to tell you about a confidential communication I just received from a client. You’re bound by the attorney-client confidence rules because we both work for Reed, Briggs, right?”
“Yeah, that’s how I understand it.”
“Because you can’t talk about what I tell you to anyone.”
Ginny ran her finger back and forth across her chest. “Cross my heart and hope to die,” she said with a grin.
“This isn’t funny.”
“Sorry, but you’re so serious. I thought I’d lighten things up.”
“You won’t be laughing when you hear what I have to say. I just got back from meeting Clarence Little at the state pen.”
“What’s he like?” Ginny asked eagerly.
“He’s worse than I imagined,” Brad answered. Then he told Ginny about his meeting. She wasn’t smiling when he finished.
“Do you think he’s telling the truth?” Ginny asked.
“I don’t know. The guy’s a freak. When he told me he’d disemboweled that poor girl he didn’t show an ounce of emotion. I thought I was going to throw up. I’m sure he found my discomfort amusing. Little is sick and he’s a sadist.”
“But is he a liar?”
“I don’t know, but if I had to bet I’d guess he was telling the truth. He seemed genuinely offended at being convicted for something he claims he didn’t do, and he was adamant about proving his innocence, even though it won’t do him a damn bit of good because he’s going to be executed anyway.”
“Why did you ask me here?” Ginny asked.
“I don’t know what to do. My assignment is to research and file Little’s appeal. It’s not to prove he’s not guilty. And, anyway, legally, his guilt or innocence doesn’t mean anything in the Ninth Circuit. The court’s only interested in whether his lawyer was incompetent. Even if I find the pinkies the court wouldn’t consider the evidence.”
“So don’t do it. Just write the brief.”
“Can I just do that? I am his lawyer. Wouldn’t I be incompetent if Little gave me proof of his innocence and I didn’t investigate? And what if I don’t investigate and he goes to the press? How would that go over at the firm?”
“I can make an educated guess,” Ginny said. “The partners loathe bad publicity. It discourages well-heeled clients from shoveling money into the Reed, Briggs vault. So I’d guess that you’d be thrown to
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