“I don’t have to tell you everything about me. You don’t tell me everything.”
I want to jump up out of my seat and scream at Tommy. I want to ask him what the hell he means by that. But I hold my tongue.
“Okay, forget it,” I say. “Here’s what I need you to do.”
Tommy interrupts. “You think he’s innocent?”
I take a breath. “I don’t know whether he is or not. Either way, I’m going to do everything I can to keep him out of prison.”
Tommy stares at me for a long moment. “What do you need from me?”
“Right now, I want you to sit in on the rest of our meeting.”
“He’s here? Now?”
“Is that a problem?”
“No problem. Let’s go.”
I buzz Angie, ask her to have Susan and Vaughn come back to the conference room.
David tenses up the minute he sees Tommy. Tommy’s own eyes launch daggers.
Susan moves right back into the questioning. “We were just about to get to the night of the murder. So, it’s Thursday night. What happens?”
David inhales, looks around the room—at everyone but Tommy. “I got home about seven. Took a shower. Watched some TV. Marcie and the boys were in California with her relatives, and I was alone. About 10:30, I decided I wanted to see Jennifer. So I drove into town. I parked on Seventeenth Street. I walked down Waverly Street, the alley behind Addison Street, knocked on the back door. Jennifer didn’t answer, and the lights were off. I figured she was out, so I thought I would go in and wait for her. I opened the door using my key.”
“She gave you a key?” Susan interrupts.
“Well, yeah. Is that bad?”
“Just surprising, since you weren’t really in a relationship and only saw each other a handful of times,” she answers, somewhat snidely.
David considers this, then continues. “When I got inside, I turned on the kitchen light, then started to walk to the living room. When I was in the hallway, I saw that the basement light was on, so I pushed back the bead curtain she has hanging in the doorway to the basement. I looked down and saw Jennifer. She was . . . on the steps. Flat on her back. Her eyes were open, but she wasn’t moving. So I went down to her, shook her a little, said her name. Her eyes stayed open, but she didn’t answer and she didn’t move. And there was blood everywhere. I knew she was dead.”
“Why didn’t you call the police?” Vaughn asks.
“I panicked. I thought about Marcie. With all she’d gone through, it would just kill her if it came out about me and Jennifer. So I thought, ‘Hey, nobody knows about us.’ I never told anyone and Jennifer promised she wouldn’t, either. That was part of the deal.”
“Deal?” Susan raises her eyebrows.
David pauses. “Our understanding! Our—For chrissakes, Susan, it’s just a word.”
“Let’s all take it down a notch,” I say. “Keep going. What did you do next?”
David exhales. “I know it was stupid, but I decided to clean the place. Get rid of anything that could point to me. I mean, it was probably hopeless, but I had to try. At least get rid of the spare clothes I kept there. But then I figured I needed to really clean the place. My hair and fingerprints. DNA. So I loaded the dishes into the dishwasher, then started vacuuming and wiping everything I could think to wipe. Then I heard the knock at the door and the guy saying ‘Police.’ I froze. I didn’t know what to do. Then they knocked again and started ringing the bell, too. Finally I responded, said to hold on a minute, like I was going to let them in. And you know the rest. They got me in the alley. Took me down. Cuffed me. Walked me to the squad car and stuffed me inside. Next thing I know the whole street was jammed with cop cars.” David closes his eyes. “Christ, what a nightmare. What a fucking . . .”
Vaughn pours a glass of water for David, who drinks it empty, then acknowledges Tommy for the first time since Tommy and I sat down. Something passes between them, but I can’t tell what it is.
“When I came to the station to meet with you the next morning, one of the cops told me that the patrolmen showed up at the house because a 911 caller said he heard shouting and loud noises coming from inside. But you’re saying you were alone with Yamura’s body.”
“I was alone. There was no yelling, no loud noises. The caller was lying.” David reaches for the pitcher and pours another glass of water. His hands are shaking.
We all sit quietly for a moment to allow David to compose himself. Then I broach the issue of the fee. “For a case of this seriousness, the firm is going to do a lot of work,” I say. “Tommy will investigate the case to the hilt—talk to all the neighbors, Jennifer’s coworkers, everyone who knew her, try to find holes in the prosecution’s case, try to find someone else with a motive to kill her. Susan and Vaughn and I will put our heads together and map out a legal strategy. Lots of work, lots of hours. Even before trial. We’re going to require a substantial retainer. Let’s start with seventy-five thousand dollars. As we get closer to trial, we’ll revisit the rate.”
David stiffens. “Seventy-five thousand dollars seems like a lot up front, Mick.”
Susan and I glance at each other. “We’re talking about your freedom, David.”
David looks at me coolly. “I’d like to start with fifty thousand. If that runs out before trial, we can talk.”
I shake my head. “All right . . . ,” I say slowly. “We’ll start with fifty thousand. But I’m not going to hold back on doing things I think may help just to save a dime. That’s not how I work, even when I’m not representing an old friend.”
David considers this, then shifts gears. “First-degree murder carries a mandatory life sentence, doesn’t it?”
I nod.
David closes his eyes, lowers his head. “Jesus.”
“All right. I think we’ve done enough for now,” I say. “Why don’t you go home and keep working on things with Marcie.”
I ask Susan, Vaughn, and Tommy to remain in the conference room while I escort David out of the office. At the door to our suite, David absently shakes my hand, glances at me only briefly before turning and walking down the hall. When I get back to the conference room, the others wait for me to sit.
“Tell me about David’s temper,” Susan says. “Is he a hothead?”
I think back to the time I first met David, on the first day of civil-procedure class. I was already seated, and David came in and sat beside me. He smiled, introduced himself, held out his hand. He did the same thing to the guy on the other side of him. While we waited for the professor to show up, David told some funny story that had us in stitches. In my mind’s eye, I see David over the next two years, laughing at the New Deck Tavern on Sansom Street, across from the law school, picking up undergrads, laughing as he drove Cheryl Cooley and me down to Atlantic City in his Mercedes convertible, laughing during a party he and I and our two roommates threw at our apartment in West Philadelphia.