*
Mac Picker ushered her into his office with a look of sheer confusion. She liked that he was off-balance. It had been a perplexing few days for him, certainly, but Sam hoped this little charade would be the key to getting the proof they needed to take Curtis Lott and Mac Picker down for good.
Picker offered her coffee, which she accepted. Having a cup, a prop, would give her hands something to do so they wouldn’t shake.
As cocky as she’d been in the car with Fletcher, she was feeling a few nerves now. This was it, this was their chance, and she couldn’t afford to blow it.
Coffee doctored, she took a sip, then set it in its fine bone china saucer. Picker took the hint.
“What can I do for you, Dr. Owens?”
She smiled, tremulous. “For starters, can you call me Sam? I’m not here in an official capacity. Actually no one knows I’m here, and I’d like to keep it that way.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. You see...well, this is going to sound crazy, but I was hoping you could help me.”
Picker’s face softened a touch, and he gave her an avuncular smile. “Help you how, my dear?”
She cast her eyes downward. Careful, girl, careful. “This is very hard for me. I have a request of a very personal nature.” She looked up, knowing there were tears shining in her eyes. “Very personal. I’d like to state up front this conversation is so far off the record, I will deny ever having it if it comes to light.”
Now she had his attention. He leaned forward in his old leather chair, the springs creaking under his weight. “If you retain me as your lawyer, everything we discuss here will remain under attorney-client privilege. Would you like to take that step?”
She nodded. “I think that’s a very good idea. It would protect you. Especially considering what I’m about to ask.”
“I see. All right, then. Let me just grab an attorney-client privilege form. Once you sign it we can talk freely. It will protect both you and me in the event there are questions later about our conversation.”
He walked to his credenza and thumbed through a file, pulling out a single sheet of paper and bringing it to her. He was careful not to touch her as he handed her the paper. She glanced at it quickly—it wouldn’t do to look too interested in what it said—then signed her name. He signed, as well, then slid the form to the corner of his desk and sat expectantly in his chair.
“What can I do for you, Sam?”
She blurted out the words. “I want to have a baby.”
He didn’t react, didn’t move.
“I’m sorry. That didn’t come out right.” She took a deep breath. “I’m unable to have children anymore. I was married, and had twins, and was pregnant again when...” This time she did swallow hard, then stood and pulled the front of her shirt up. The scar was four inches long, sliced diagonally across her stomach below her belly button. She knew it was dramatic, the edges silver, the twist at the end leaving absolutely no question as to the nature of the wound.
“I was held captive by a deranged man, and he made sure I lost my baby. And that I wouldn’t ever be able to have one again.”
Picker sucked in a breath. “Dear God in heaven. I am so sorry.”
There was no reason for him to know that the stabbing hadn’t caused the miscarriage; it was the stress of being held against her will, the stress of being captured and nearly eviscerated by a madman. That according to her doctor, there was no reason why she couldn’t conceive again, should she so choose.
“Since I can’t have a child of my own, I’d like to look into adoption. With all the things that have gone on since Rolph Benedict’s murder, I’ll understand if you say no. But I overheard one of the detectives on the case when he was talking about you facilitating private adoptions. I certainly don’t want to go through an agency or anything like that. And when I say private, I mean private. I don’t want anyone to know the child is for me, and I want the mother to sign away her rights to any sort of future contact.” She gave him a meaningful look. “I don’t intend for my child to know I am not his or her mother.”
He actually looked relieved. “Oh, Sam, I am sorry. We don’t engage in private adoptions anymore. There are so many legal issues these days with adoptees searching out their biological parents, the lawsuits were becoming more trouble than they were worth.”
She shook her head.
“Forgive me for being forward, Mr. Picker. And if you’re not interested, of course, you can tell me right now, and I’ll leave and you won’t hear from me again. But when I say private, I mean I want this adoption totally off the books. Your name, and your firm’s, wouldn’t be anywhere near it. It would just be an exchange of funds, cash, from me to you. You get paid, and I get the child I so long for. Everyone’s happy.”