he lies, “but we’ve arrested and charged Laurie Collins with the murder of Alex Dorsey.”
THE PRESS IS OUT IN FORCE BY THE TIME I GET TO the jail. When it was Oscar Garcia that stood accused, it was a marginal story. When it’s Laurie Collins, ex-cop and sworn enemy of the deceased, it’s page one all the way.
I work my way through the reporters and camera crews, making comments as I go. I don’t usually like to speak to the press until I know the facts, so I say only what I know to be true.
“What’s your reaction to the arrest?” I’m asked.
“It’s beyond idiotic,” I respond.
“Are you going to defend her?”
“The facts will defend her,” I say. “I’ll just make sure everybody knows them.”
I get inside the jail and ask to see Laurie. The bozo at the front desk tells me that she’s being “processed.” I know she’s smart enough not to talk to anyone without me present, but I don’t like the fact that she’s alone. After five minutes of waiting, I tell him I’m going to go outside and tell the press I’m being denied access to my client. Coincidentally, at that very moment he receives a telepathic communication informing him that the processing just ended.
I’m led back to an anteroom where I wait for another five minutes, until Laurie is brought in. Her hands are cuffed in front of her, and she is already dressed in jail clothing. I expect to see fear in her eyes, but that’s not what is there. What I see is anger. Which is good, because I’ve got enough fear for both of us.
“Andy, what the hell is going on?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “I haven’t tried to press anyone for information yet. I wanted to talk to you first.”
“They’ve charged me with Dorsey’s murder,” she says, total disbelief in her voice.
I nod. “Tell me what happened. Don’t leave out a thing.”
She sits down, resting her cuffed hands uncomfortably on the table. The cuffs are so offensive to me, I want to bite them off with my teeth.
“There isn’t that much to tell,” she says. “I went out to the stadium, like you said. It took a little while, but I finally noticed something in the shrubbery. I went over and looked at it, but I didn’t touch it. It looked like clothing with blood on it. Then I saw the handle of a large knife, as if somebody had tried to cover it with the shrubs.”
“What did you do?”
“I didn’t do anything. Ten seconds after I saw the stuff, officers seemed to come from everywhere. There must have been seven or eight of them, guns drawn. They read me my rights and brought me down here.”
“Do you think they had been following you, or waiting at the site?”
She shakes her head. “I don’t know, maybe both. There were a lot of them.” She shakes her head again, this time with more sadness. “It was weird; I helped train two or three of them.”
I’m silent for a few moments, trying to figure this out. None of these pieces fit together.
“Andy, why did you send me out there?” It’s not an accusation, just a need to know.
“I had information that the killer’s clothes might be there. I figured that if they were, it would get Oscar off the hook. It should do the same for you.”
Laurie speaks quietly, and for the first time I can hear the fear overtaking the anger. “Andy, they were my clothes.”
She can’t have said what I think she said. “What?”
“The clothes with blood on them … they were mine. I don’t know how they got there … I never even noticed them missing from my closet.”
In a flash that feels exactly like panic, I realize that this is the worst of both worlds. We are facing a situation that makes absolutely no sense, yet clearly has been planned and executed with precision.
“Laurie, we will get through this.”
“And where will I be while we’re doing that?” she asks.
She’s talking about the possibility of bail, which I started thinking about on the way over here. It’s very problematic. Oscar was
THE PRESS IS OUT IN FORCE BY THE TIME I GET TO the jail. When it was Oscar Garcia that stood accused, it was a marginal story. When it’s Laurie Collins, ex-cop and sworn enemy of the deceased, it’s page one all the way.
I work my way through the reporters and camera crews, making comments as I go. I don’t usually like to speak to the press until I know the facts, so I say only what I know to be true.
“What’s your reaction to the arrest?” I’m asked.
“It’s beyond idiotic,” I respond.
“Are you going to defend her?”
“The facts will defend her,” I say. “I’ll just make sure everybody knows them.”
I get inside the jail and ask to see Laurie. The bozo at the front desk tells me that she’s being “processed.” I know she’s smart enough not to talk to anyone without me present, but I don’t like the fact that she’s alone. After five minutes of waiting, I tell him I’m going to go outside and tell the press I’m being denied access to my client. Coincidentally, at that very moment he receives a telepathic communication informing him that the processing just ended.
I’m led back to an anteroom where I wait for another five minutes, until Laurie is brought in. Her hands are cuffed in front of her, and she is already dressed in jail clothing. I expect to see fear in her eyes, but that’s not what is there. What I see is anger. Which is good, because I’ve got enough fear for both of us.
“Andy, what the hell is going on?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “I haven’t tried to press anyone for information yet. I wanted to talk to you first.”
“They’ve charged me with Dorsey’s murder,” she says, total disbelief in her voice.
I nod. “Tell me what happened. Don’t leave out a thing.”
She sits down, resting her cuffed hands uncomfortably on the table. The cuffs are so offensive to me, I want to bite them off with my teeth.
“There isn’t that much to tell,” she says. “I went out to the stadium, like you said. It took a little while, but I finally noticed something in the shrubbery. I went over and looked at it, but I didn’t touch it. It looked like clothing with blood on it. Then I saw the handle of a large knife, as if somebody had tried to cover it with the shrubs.”
“What did you do?”
“I didn’t do anything. Ten seconds after I saw the stuff, officers seemed to come from everywhere. There must have been seven or eight of them, guns drawn. They read me my rights and brought me down here.”
“Do you think they had been following you, or waiting at the site?”
She shakes her head. “I don’t know, maybe both. There were a lot of them.” She shakes her head again, this time with more sadness. “It was weird; I helped train two or three of them.”
I’m silent for a few moments, trying to figure this out. None of these pieces fit together.
“Andy, why did you send me out there?” It’s not an accusation, just a need to know.
“I had information that the killer’s clothes might be there. I figured that if they were, it would get Oscar off the hook. It should do the same for you.”
Laurie speaks quietly, and for the first time I can hear the fear overtaking the anger. “Andy, they were my clothes.”
She can’t have said what I think she said. “What?”
“The clothes with blood on them … they were mine. I don’t know how they got there … I never even noticed them missing from my closet.”
In a flash that feels exactly like panic, I realize that this is the worst of both worlds. We are facing a situation that makes absolutely no sense, yet clearly has been planned and executed with precision.
“Laurie, we will get through this.”
“And where will I be while we’re doing that?” she asks.
She’s talking about the possibility of bail, which I started thinking about on the way over here. It’s very problematic. Oscar was
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