convinced. If you listened to me once in a while, dumbass—"
He stopped abruptly. Maia Lee was standing by us now, a margarita in each hand.
"Don't stop insulting him on my account."
She plopped into a chair, shoved the margaritas forward, spilling most of them. Her face was bright red from her encounter with Pena.
"Went that well, huh?" I asked.
Maia crossed her legs at the knee, tugged at the hem of her black linen funeral dress.
Her calves below the hemline were lean and smooth. I didn't notice them at all.
"You can't sell out to Pena," she told Garrett. "You can't give the bastard the pleasure."
The margarita wasn't bad. Cointreau. Probably Cuervo Gold. Maia had called it well.
Then again, I'd taught her.
I took another sip. "What did Pena do to you, Maia?"
Her eyes managed to look ferocious and serene at the same time. Predator cat eyes.
"He didn't do anything."
"Used to be, you had two rules. You didn't defend paedophiles, and you didn't defend anyone you knew in your heart was guilty of murder. Now you're telling me this guy—a guy you defended twice—could be a murderer."
Over at the bar, Dwight Hayes was now arguing with Pena. Pena looked amused—as if he was not used to hearing anything but yes from Dwight Hayes.
Maia spread her fingers on the table, waited long enough to count them. "Ronald Terrence, my wonderful boss. He gave me the job of representing Matthew Pena last year."
"The Menlo Park case," I said. "The guy who ate his shotgun."
She nodded. "It wasn't a hard assignment. There was evidence Pena had harassed the victim, but absolutely nothing to suggest foul play in the shooting itself."
"Harassing like how?"
"Pena sent the victim email threats, spiked them with a virus so they'd crash the victim's system. He made some taunting phone
calls. But the shooting was a suicide. In the end, the police couldn't touch Pena for it. I came away with the feeling that my client was a creep, but not a murderer. I could live with that. Most of my clients are creeps. Then in January, Terrence sent me down to see Pena again. This time it was a little tougher."
"Adrienne Selak."
Maia pressed her fingers on the table, made a silent piano chord. "One of Adrienne's friends came forward. She gave a statement that Pena was violent, that he had threatened Adrienne several times. Adrienne's family pushed the police hard, demanding he be charged. They told the press their daughter's death was no accident, she was a good swimmer, she never drank to excess. Plenty of witnesses on the boat saw Matthew and Adrienne arguing. There was no physical evidence, but the circumstantial case looked bad. Pena's attitude when I interviewed him—he seemed stunned, maybe even griefstricken. But I didn't know. I had my doubts."
"You defended him anyway," I reminded her.
"That was my job. Dwight Hayes' statement was solid. I rounded up other statements from people on the boat who'd seen Adrienne inebriated, clearly not in full control of her faculties. I found some . . . less reputable acquaintances of Adrienne's, people from her past. I got statements about her unstable personality, her drug use, some other things . . . things that would've been embarrassing for her family to hear in court.
I made it clear that I would destroy Adrienne Selak's character in a trial, make it seem highly plausible she'd fallen off that boat, maybe even committed suicide. I would trash the prosecution's lack of physical evidence. Adrienne's family backed off. The police wavered. That's where we left it, as of January. They never filed charges."
"All in a good day's work," I said.
Maia didn't respond.
Garrett nursed his margarita. He was watching Pena and Hayes, who were still having words at the bar. Despite the crowd, the seat Maia had vacated there was still empty.
None of Jimmy Doebler's friends was rushing to fill it.
"Most of what I learned about Matthew Pena," Maia said, "I learned afterward. He tries to destroy people, Tres. It
He stopped abruptly. Maia Lee was standing by us now, a margarita in each hand.
"Don't stop insulting him on my account."
She plopped into a chair, shoved the margaritas forward, spilling most of them. Her face was bright red from her encounter with Pena.
"Went that well, huh?" I asked.
Maia crossed her legs at the knee, tugged at the hem of her black linen funeral dress.
Her calves below the hemline were lean and smooth. I didn't notice them at all.
"You can't sell out to Pena," she told Garrett. "You can't give the bastard the pleasure."
The margarita wasn't bad. Cointreau. Probably Cuervo Gold. Maia had called it well.
Then again, I'd taught her.
I took another sip. "What did Pena do to you, Maia?"
Her eyes managed to look ferocious and serene at the same time. Predator cat eyes.
"He didn't do anything."
"Used to be, you had two rules. You didn't defend paedophiles, and you didn't defend anyone you knew in your heart was guilty of murder. Now you're telling me this guy—a guy you defended twice—could be a murderer."
Over at the bar, Dwight Hayes was now arguing with Pena. Pena looked amused—as if he was not used to hearing anything but yes from Dwight Hayes.
Maia spread her fingers on the table, waited long enough to count them. "Ronald Terrence, my wonderful boss. He gave me the job of representing Matthew Pena last year."
"The Menlo Park case," I said. "The guy who ate his shotgun."
She nodded. "It wasn't a hard assignment. There was evidence Pena had harassed the victim, but absolutely nothing to suggest foul play in the shooting itself."
"Harassing like how?"
"Pena sent the victim email threats, spiked them with a virus so they'd crash the victim's system. He made some taunting phone
calls. But the shooting was a suicide. In the end, the police couldn't touch Pena for it. I came away with the feeling that my client was a creep, but not a murderer. I could live with that. Most of my clients are creeps. Then in January, Terrence sent me down to see Pena again. This time it was a little tougher."
"Adrienne Selak."
Maia pressed her fingers on the table, made a silent piano chord. "One of Adrienne's friends came forward. She gave a statement that Pena was violent, that he had threatened Adrienne several times. Adrienne's family pushed the police hard, demanding he be charged. They told the press their daughter's death was no accident, she was a good swimmer, she never drank to excess. Plenty of witnesses on the boat saw Matthew and Adrienne arguing. There was no physical evidence, but the circumstantial case looked bad. Pena's attitude when I interviewed him—he seemed stunned, maybe even griefstricken. But I didn't know. I had my doubts."
"You defended him anyway," I reminded her.
"That was my job. Dwight Hayes' statement was solid. I rounded up other statements from people on the boat who'd seen Adrienne inebriated, clearly not in full control of her faculties. I found some . . . less reputable acquaintances of Adrienne's, people from her past. I got statements about her unstable personality, her drug use, some other things . . . things that would've been embarrassing for her family to hear in court.
I made it clear that I would destroy Adrienne Selak's character in a trial, make it seem highly plausible she'd fallen off that boat, maybe even committed suicide. I would trash the prosecution's lack of physical evidence. Adrienne's family backed off. The police wavered. That's where we left it, as of January. They never filed charges."
"All in a good day's work," I said.
Maia didn't respond.
Garrett nursed his margarita. He was watching Pena and Hayes, who were still having words at the bar. Despite the crowd, the seat Maia had vacated there was still empty.
None of Jimmy Doebler's friends was rushing to fill it.
"Most of what I learned about Matthew Pena," Maia said, "I learned afterward. He tries to destroy people, Tres. It
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