The reporter pushed forward unfazed. “But do you think Malik Montgomery’s race played a role in his arrest, Mr. Serrat?”
Sean glared at the man. “The color of Mr. Montgomery’s skin meant nothing to me when he dated my daughter, and it means nothing to me now.” It was getting harder to speak. “Abby went to law school because she still believed in justice—in the rule of law—and she didn’t let pessimism sway her trust in the system. And, for her, I refuse to partake in the cynical speculation by people who seem more intent on their own agendas than getting justice for my murdered daughter.” His voice broke, but then he recovered. He stared directly into the camera and added, “They didn’t arrest Malik Montgomery because he’s black. They simply followed the evidence. Now please, give my family some privacy.” Sean felt a hand on his arm.
Cecilia led him inside, slamming the door behind them. She hugged him tight. Then she eased back and examined his face.
“What’s the look for?” Sean said. “Was it that bad?”
“No,” Cecilia said. “I think you’ve accidently just become a media star.”
CHAPTER 16
Sean sat behind the glass-topped desk in his new office at Harrington & Caine. The space was all packed boxes and bare walls. His lunch, a limp sandwich he’d bought in the firm’s cafeteria, was still in its plastic container at the corner of the desk. He studied the visitor who sat across from him.
“Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Serrat. I know this must seem, well, unusual. A surprise.”
Sean was surprised—mainly that this was the famous defense lawyer Blake Hellstrom, the go-to hired gun for politicians caught with their hand in the cookie jar (or up an intern’s blouse) and for multinational corporations centered in the DOJ’s crosshairs. This was the lawyer representing Malik Montgomery: portly, with a bad comb-over. His suit, navy with pinstripes, was presumably expensive, but Hellstrom was the kind of guy who could make a $6,000 Brioni look cheap.
“To tell the truth,” Hellstrom continued, “in my forty years in practice, I’ve never showed up unannounced to speak with the victim’s family.”
Sean tilted his head. “I’d assumed the ‘victims’ in your usual cases are taxpayers or shareholders.”
Hellstrom stroked his chin. “That’s true these days, I suppose. But I was a public defender early in my career and handled many homicide cases.”
Sean gazed over Hellstrom’s shoulder out the window. The sunny morning had turned dull gray. The tip of the Washington Monument peeked over a neighboring building. Sean’s eyes shifted back to his visitor. “So why the break in routine, Mr. Hellstrom? What do you want?” Sean had never been one for pleasantries, but like so many things, they seemed even more pointless in the After.
Hellstrom slouched back in the chair, paunch sagging over his belt. “In most of my cases,” Hellstrom said, drawing out the words, “I do the best I can for my clients. I turn over every stone, file a mountain of motions, and I eat, drink, and sleep their cases until trial. But I vowed to myself two things long ago, lessons learned early in my career.” Hellstrom looked Sean in the eyes. “First, if anyone’s going to jail, it’s going to be my client, not me. So no matter how badly I want to win, I always play by the rules. Second, if my client goes to jail, I don’t take it personally. My clients are not my friends, not my family—they’re my clients.”
Sean began to understand why they called him “the jury master.” His manner. Hellstrom had a homespun sincerity—he was a truth teller—and you wanted him to continue talking, telling you his story, dispensing his wisdom.
“This morning, one of the associates at my office sent me an e-mail that had a video clip of an interview you gave the press. I normally don’t open these types of things.” Hellstrom pulled out a handkerchief and blew his nose loudly.
“You may be too young, but do you remember the days before we got deluged with all this YouTube and Internet crap? Anyway, this associate, a young guy fresh out of law school includes a note that says I really should watch it, so I did. And I was struck by your words about—no, your faith in—the system.”
Sean narrowed his eyes. “I’m not some na?ve kid, Mr. Hellstrom, so please don’t—”
“Of course not. But maybe I’ve been doing this too long, or it’s the type of cases I handle, but I see things a little differently. I don’t know what your experience was at the solicitor general’s office, but in my practice there are some cases—usually the big ones—where the government can’t see straight. Good people do strange things. Look at the Roger Clemens trial or the Ted Stevens and John Edwards cases.”
“So what’s your point, Mr. Hellstrom?”
“Please, call me Blake.”
Sean waited for a response.
“My point,” Hellstrom said finally, “and the reason I came here today, is that I’m convinced Malik Montgomery is innocent.”