“I’ll never go to prison. I’ll run first.”
“As your friend and lawyer, I feel compelled to advise you that such plans rarely work out.”
“Just keep her from talking, Faircloth. I’ll live with what comes after.”
“Very well. One thing at a time.” He patted her hand. “You were right to come to me, Elizabeth. Thank you for that, for that trust.”
“What can we do for Channing?”
“For starters, don’t panic. Even if she confesses everything, we can argue the shooting is justified. She’s a child, and traumatized. Prosecution is not a foregone conclusion. Conviction is not even worth discussing.”
“Eighteen rounds. You’ve seen the papers. You understand the context.”
He nodded because he did. Things were different since Baltimore and Ferguson. Everything was racial; everything was watched. That made the deaths of Brendon and Titus Monroe not just public but political, especially with allegations of torture and retribution. If the attorney general had to shift targets, he certainly could. The cop, the rich girl; at this point it didn’t matter. Win or lose, the machine needed a body.
“Even if she’s acquitted,” Elizabeth said, “you know what a trial would do to a girl so young. She won’t recover.”
“Give me a dollar.” The old lawyer held out a hand.
“What?”
“Make it two.”
“I have a twenty.”
“That’s fine.” He took the bill. “A ten-dollar retainer for you, and another for the girl. In case anyone asks. Do you have a cell phone?”
“Of course…”
“Give it to me.” Elizabeth handed it over. He removed the battery and the SIM card, then handed everything back and smiled to take away the sting. “Cops make bad fugitives. It’s the mind-set.”
“Jesus.”
She stared at the phone. Crybaby was already moving.
“Get a burner phone when you can. Call me with the number.” He shrugged on a wrinkled coat. The rest of him was in faded jeans and boat shoes without socks. “I’ll deal with the girl first, then we can talk about this indictment. Her father is Alsace Shore?”
“You know him?”
“I know his lawyers. They may complicate matters, which doesn’t matter so long as they keep her from talking. We’ll see when I get there. Will your friends on the force help the state police find you?”
“Beckett’s on my side. Dyer, too, I hope. Everyone else is a wild card.”
“Then, you should leave, immediately. Do you have a safe place to go? A friend in another town? Family?”
The question almost ruined her. How could she admit the truth? That most of her friends were cops and would arrest her on sight, that even family was a shelter built on sand. “Right now, you and Channing are all I have.”
The old man took her hand, and she felt kindness in the heat of his fingers. “Allow me to make a suggestion. I have a fishing cabin on the lake. It’s on Goodman Road, not far at all. I haven’t been there in forever, but a handyman keeps it open for me. You should go there. Just for now,” he assured her. “Just so I can find you.”
“Shouldn’t I be doing something?”
“Let me find out what’s happening. Then we can make a plan.”
“All right. Come on. I’ll drive you.”
“No. Stay out of the city. Stay away from people. I’ll call the car service.” He guided her off the porch, and she stopped on the second step. “Be quick, Elizabeth. They may have tracked your phone, already.”
He was eager, but she needed this single moment, just to be sure. “Why are you doing this?”
“Because you have pretty eyes and a lovely smile.”
“Don’t joke, Faircloth.”
“Very well. I’m helping you because Adrian spoke of you often, and because I’ve followed your career since his trial, because you are thoughtful and kind and unlike other detectives, because I find you to be a most admirable woman.” A twinkle glinted in the old man’s eyes. “Have I not told you that?”
“And if you’re charged for practicing without a license?”
“Until you showed up the other day, I’d not been out of my house for over a decade. Now, I’ve been to court, breathed fresh air, and helped a friend that needed help. I’m eighty-nine years old, with a heart so weak I’m unlikely to live another three. So, look at me.” He lifted his arms so she could take in the old jeans and flyaway hair, the coat he could have used for a pillow. “Now, ask again if I give a good goddamn about being charged with anything.”
18
Beckett watched the circus unfold. Alsace Shore. The lawyers. They were in the lobby beyond the glass, arguing, posturing. The Charlotte attorneys made the most noise, but that made perfect sense: $1,500 an hour between the three of them, the client right there and just as red-faced. Only Crybaby Jones seemed at ease. He stood a few feet to the side, both hands on his cane, his head tilted attentively as detectives tried to explain that none of them, in fact, represented Channing Shore.