that she was all alone. He wasn't going to come. He'd never
loved her, not the way she'd needed to be loved. With true love came trust.
Unconditional trust.
If he'd truly loved her, Brent would have trusted her. He would
have known without having to be told that she was innocent.
"I need to use the telephone," Royce told the matron
when she finally got her attention.
"You're number sixty-seven," the woman said as she
shuffled back to the post where a videotape of last week's soaps was playing.
It was another three hours before her number was called. She
dialed Wally, then rested her head against the wall where every inch was
covered by graffiti. She listened to her uncle's recorder. The matron was
concentrating on the TV, so Royce covertly dialed Val's number only to get her
machine too. She tried to keep the frantic tone out of her plea, but heard it
anyway.
"I'm still in jail. I don't know what's happened to Uncle
Wally. I need your help."
It wasn't until well after dinner, almost twenty-four hours since
her arrest, that the matron bawled, "Royce Anne Winston."
She hurried along the visitors' wing, each room the size of a
restroom stall with video monitors hanging from the ceiling, electronic
sentinels. She stepped into the visitors' cubicle, expecting Uncle Wally and
halted.
Not Mitchell Durant. The matron gave her a shove and slammed the
steel door behind Royce. Mitch stood at a table hardly bigger than his
briefcase.
"Your friends retained me to represent you." He motioned
to the chair on her side of the table. "They haven't been able to locate
your uncle."
She dropped onto the seat, knowing her situation was worse than
she'd imagined. Val and Talia knew how she felt about Mitch. They would never
have hired him unless— "How bad is it? Why haven't they formally charged
me?"
Mitch took the seat opposite her, his attitude detached,
professional, without any hint of compassion. "Abigail Carnivali is
milking your arrest to get as much free publicity as possible. She's running
for DA next year, you know. She loves headline felonies and isn't going to file
charges until your forty-eight hours are up."
Dear Lord, she was in hell. It shouldn't be happening, but
it was actually comforting to see Mitch Durant. "Then what?"
"You'll be formally charged and bail set. There's already
been too much publicity in this case to release you on your own recognizance.
I'll need your passport and loan info on your house to meet bail
requirements."
"I don't have much equity in the house," she said, her
voice surprisingly calm. She hadn't slept in two nights now and found she had
trouble concentrating on what he was saying as they settled the details of
arranging bail and getting her passport.
"I'm worried about my uncle," she told Mitch as the
matron escorted her from the visitor's room. "Please, check on him."
As Mitch had predicted it was almost midnight the following
night—just short of forty-eight hours—before she was formally charged with
grand theft. Mitch quickly satisfied the bail requirement by surrendering her passport
and the deed to her heavily mortgaged home.
Clad in the beaded gown that had once made her so proud, she stood
in the release bay, looking for Wally. During the proceedings she hadn't been
able to talk to Mitch, but she assumed Wally would be waiting for her. Mitch
walked in, his briefcase in one hand. The shadow along his jaw said he hadn't
been home since early that morning.
"Did you call Shaun Jamieson? What did he say about
Wally?"
"No one's seen your uncle since the auction." His hand
on her waist, he guided her down a deserted corridor. "Where are we
going?"
"Out the service entrance. The press is in front."
Wise move. A brief glimpse in the mirror as she'd changed out of
her prison jumpsuit had confirmed the worst. Hair hanging in unkempt hanks.
Dark circles that had cost Richard Nixon an election. The only reporter she
wanted to see was her uncle.
In the back alley a group of homeless
loved her, not the way she'd needed to be loved. With true love came trust.
Unconditional trust.
If he'd truly loved her, Brent would have trusted her. He would
have known without having to be told that she was innocent.
"I need to use the telephone," Royce told the matron
when she finally got her attention.
"You're number sixty-seven," the woman said as she
shuffled back to the post where a videotape of last week's soaps was playing.
It was another three hours before her number was called. She
dialed Wally, then rested her head against the wall where every inch was
covered by graffiti. She listened to her uncle's recorder. The matron was
concentrating on the TV, so Royce covertly dialed Val's number only to get her
machine too. She tried to keep the frantic tone out of her plea, but heard it
anyway.
"I'm still in jail. I don't know what's happened to Uncle
Wally. I need your help."
It wasn't until well after dinner, almost twenty-four hours since
her arrest, that the matron bawled, "Royce Anne Winston."
She hurried along the visitors' wing, each room the size of a
restroom stall with video monitors hanging from the ceiling, electronic
sentinels. She stepped into the visitors' cubicle, expecting Uncle Wally and
halted.
Not Mitchell Durant. The matron gave her a shove and slammed the
steel door behind Royce. Mitch stood at a table hardly bigger than his
briefcase.
"Your friends retained me to represent you." He motioned
to the chair on her side of the table. "They haven't been able to locate
your uncle."
She dropped onto the seat, knowing her situation was worse than
she'd imagined. Val and Talia knew how she felt about Mitch. They would never
have hired him unless— "How bad is it? Why haven't they formally charged
me?"
Mitch took the seat opposite her, his attitude detached,
professional, without any hint of compassion. "Abigail Carnivali is
milking your arrest to get as much free publicity as possible. She's running
for DA next year, you know. She loves headline felonies and isn't going to file
charges until your forty-eight hours are up."
Dear Lord, she was in hell. It shouldn't be happening, but
it was actually comforting to see Mitch Durant. "Then what?"
"You'll be formally charged and bail set. There's already
been too much publicity in this case to release you on your own recognizance.
I'll need your passport and loan info on your house to meet bail
requirements."
"I don't have much equity in the house," she said, her
voice surprisingly calm. She hadn't slept in two nights now and found she had
trouble concentrating on what he was saying as they settled the details of
arranging bail and getting her passport.
"I'm worried about my uncle," she told Mitch as the
matron escorted her from the visitor's room. "Please, check on him."
As Mitch had predicted it was almost midnight the following
night—just short of forty-eight hours—before she was formally charged with
grand theft. Mitch quickly satisfied the bail requirement by surrendering her passport
and the deed to her heavily mortgaged home.
Clad in the beaded gown that had once made her so proud, she stood
in the release bay, looking for Wally. During the proceedings she hadn't been
able to talk to Mitch, but she assumed Wally would be waiting for her. Mitch
walked in, his briefcase in one hand. The shadow along his jaw said he hadn't
been home since early that morning.
"Did you call Shaun Jamieson? What did he say about
Wally?"
"No one's seen your uncle since the auction." His hand
on her waist, he guided her down a deserted corridor. "Where are we
going?"
"Out the service entrance. The press is in front."
Wise move. A brief glimpse in the mirror as she'd changed out of
her prison jumpsuit had confirmed the worst. Hair hanging in unkempt hanks.
Dark circles that had cost Richard Nixon an election. The only reporter she
wanted to see was her uncle.
In the back alley a group of homeless
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