“Why’s she have to tell the defense lawyer?”
“There’s a rule about it. It’s not like on TV where the prosecution can sandbag the defense. The government has to give the other side anything exculpatory—anything that might help the defendant.”
Ryan gazed out the SUV’s window. “Is that why you didn’t tell her about what happened with the man from Chipotle? Because she’d have to tell the defense?”
“No. I’m still just trying to figure out what to do. I shouldn’t have brought the gun…”
“What’s Mom think?”
“I’m working on that, too—how to tell her.”
Ryan furrowed his brow, but didn’t inquire further. “You know what I don’t get?”
“What’s that?”
“I don’t get why Abby’s files had no notes. You ever see her school notebooks? She’d jam them full with notes. She tried to teach me note-taking, and I couldn’t keep up—she would write down everything. And she typed like crazy on her computer. But those files you have, they don’t have any notes. That can’t be all her work.”
His son was right. Since elementary school Abby had been a fervent note-taker. She’d once told Sean that to learn something she needed to write it down, in longhand. The notebook they’d found in the library that night, her notes from Tax class, were jammed full with single-spaced notes. Sean thought of his friend Jonathan Tweed’s reluctance to give him Abby’s files.
“Did you check her laptop?” Ryan asked.
“It’s missing,” Sean said. “Whoever broke into her apartment probably has it.” Sean spared his son an alternative theory: Abby had the computer with her that night in the library and the killer took it.
“Even if she used the computer, she’d still have some handwritten notes,” Ryan said.
Sean pulled behind the procession of yellow school buses slowly making their way up the hill to the front of the middle school.
“Hey, Ryan.”
“Yeah?”
Sean gave his son a crooked smile. “Wanna miss school and help me with something today?”
CHAPTER 35
Sean gazed up at the massive portico of the Supreme Court as the morning sun reflected off the white marble steps. Even under his Ray-Bans, which he wore to conceal his bruised eye, it was blinding. He was one of the few lawyers at OSG who liked to enter the building through the 1,300-pound bronze doors—until the court closed the front entrance for security reasons. It made him feel patriotic, American, to trudge up the forty-four steps, through the iconic doors, and into the marble palace where the country solved its problems, not through rioting in the streets, but through the opinions of nine justices declaring the law of the land. Now, the building was just a crime scene. A place of horribles.
Sean followed Ryan’s gaze to a homeless man who sat on the sidewalk jingling coins in a cup. Ryan. Predictable, wonderful Ryan. On cue, Ryan dug into the pocket of his jeans for whatever balled-up bills or stray coins he had. His son walked past the small crowd of protesters who seemed to have taken up permanent residence on the sidewalk in front of the building and dropped the money into the homeless man’s cup. Ryan said something to the man, prompting a toothless grin.
When he returned, Ryan let out a loud sneeze. It was May in the District, which meant an oppressive pollen count. Sean had called Jonathan Tweed’s office. Tweed’s secretary, always friendly with Sean, told him that Tweed had just left to take a group of students on a field trip to the Supreme Court. The school was just down the street from the court, so Sean gambled that he might catch them on their way.
Sure enough, Sean saw a parade of law students led by Tweed marching down First Street. As Tweed reached the sidewalk in front of the court, he noticed Sean and waved. He said something to his students and pointed for them to assemble on the court’s plaza.
“Another surprise visit,” Tweed said. “Nice to see you. I’d heard through the grapevine that your face looked like you’d been in a bar fight, but you don’t look so bad. Though reportedly the president was disappointed you wouldn’t be suitable for a television appearance.”
“Not that it matters,” Sean said. “He pretty much told me that I’m not ready for prime time.”
“I don’t know, I heard you made an impression. And not just for your messed-up face. You might want to keep your phone nearby. I get the sense they’re deciding on the nominee soon.”
Sean drew his mobile from his pocket and displayed it to Tweed. “I turn this on only when I need to make a call. I deleted all of my messages last night and already the voice mail is full—all reporters.”
“I’d keep it turned on,” Tweed said. He then shifted his gaze to Ryan. “Shouldn’t you be in school, mister?”
Ryan smiled.