Caught
“But?” Ed said.
“But I don’t like the timing.”
“Me neither,” Ed said.
“I mean, I just ripped Walker a new hole a few hours ago. So why pick you up and actually arrest you?” She paused. “Unless I’ve lost my touch?”
“I don’t think that’s it.”
“Neither do I. So that means that they have something new.”
“The blood test?”
“That shouldn’t be enough.” Hester hesitated. “Ed, you’re sure there is no way they found, uh, anything more incriminating?”
“No way.”
“You’re certain?”
“Absolutely.”
“Okay, you know the drill. Don’t talk. I’ll have my driver take me out. Shouldn’t be more than an hour this time of night.”
“One more troubling thing,” he said.
“What?”
“I’m not at the Sussex County police station this time. I’m in Newark. That’s Essex County, a different jurisdiction.”
“Any idea why?”
“Nope.”
“Okay, sit tight. Let me throw on some clothes. I’m bringing my A game this time. No mercy on these asswipes.”
Forty-five minutes later, Hester sat with her client Ed Grayson in a small interrogation room with Formica floors and a bolted-down table. They waited. They waited a long time. Hester grew furious.
Finally the door opened. Sheriff Walker entered, wearing his uniform. Another guy—potbellied, around sixty, in a squirrel gray suit that looked as if it had been intentionally wrinkled—was with him.
“Sorry for the wait,” Walker said. He leaned against the far wall. The other man took the chair across the table from Grayson. Hester was still pacing.
“We’re leaving,” she said.
Walker gave her a finger wave. “Bye, Counselor, we’ll miss you. Oh, but your client is going nowhere. He’s under arrest. He’s going through the system—being processed and held. It’s late. We’ll probably have the bail hearing first thing in the morning, but don’t worry, we have cozy accommodations.”
Hester was having none of it. “Excuse me, Sheriff, but aren’t you an elected official?”
“I am.”
“So imagine when I put my full resources into getting your ass canned. I mean, how hard will this be? Arresting a man whose son was a victim of a heinous—”
The other man finally spoke. “Can we just cut through the threats for a moment?”
Hester looked at him.
“Do whatever the hell you want, Ms. Crimstein, okay? I don’t care. We have questions. You’re going to answer them or your client is going to get very lost in the system. Do you get me?”
Hester Crimstein squinted at him. “And you are?”
“My name is Frank Tremont. I’m an Essex County investigator. And really, if we could cut the posturing for a minute, maybe you’ll get why you’re here.”
Hester looked as though she was ready to attack, but she pulled back. “Okay, big boy, what do you got?”
Walker took that one. He slapped a file down on the table. “A blood test.”
“Saying?”
“As you know, we found blood in your client’s car.”
“So you said.”
“The blood in the car is a perfect match with the victim, Dan Mercer.”
Hester faked a big yawn.
Walker said, “Maybe you could tell us why that would be?”
Hester shrugged. “Maybe they took a ride together. Maybe Dan Mercer got a bloody nose on his own.”
Walker folded his arms. “Is that really the best you can offer up?”
“Oh no, Sheriff Walker. I can offer up much better, if you’d like.” Hester batted her eyes and put on a fake girlie voice. “May I give you a hypothetical?”
“I’d rather have facts.”
“Sorry, handsome, that’s the best I can do.”
“Fine, go for it.”
“Well, here’s one hypothetical, if I may. You have a witness to the alleged murder of Dan Mercer, isn’t that correct?”
“That’s correct.”
“Now hypothetically, let’s say I’ve read the statement made by your witness, that TV reporter Wendy Tynes.”
“That would be impossible,” Walker said. “The witness’s statement and identity are both confidential.”
“Gasp oh gasp, my bad. The hypothetical statement made by a hypothetical TV reporter. May I continue?”
Frank Tremont said, “Go ahead.”
“Super. Now according to her hypothetical statement, when she encountered Dan Mercer at this trailer, before any shooting took place, there were clear signs that he’d suffered a recent beating.”
Nobody spoke.
“I like feedback,” Hester said. “One of you nod.”
“Pretend we both did,” Frank said.
“Okay, good. Now let’s say—again hypothetically—Dan Mercer met up with one of his victims’ fathers a few days earlier. Let’s say that a fight ensued. Let’s say a little bit of blood was spilled. Let’s say that little bit of blood ended up in a car.”
She stopped, spread her hands, and arched her eyebrow. Walker looked at Tremont.
Frank Tremont said, “Well, well.”
“Well, well what?”
He tried to smile through the strain. “If a hypothetical fight started, that would certainly give your client motive, now wouldn’t it?”
“I’m sorry, what’s your name again?”
“Frank Tremont, Essex County investigator.”
“You new on the job, Frank?”
Now he spread his hands. “Do I look new?”
“No, Frank, you look like a hundred years of bad decisions, but your statement about motive would be the kind of thing some oxygen-deficient rookie might try on a brain-dead paralegal. First off—pay attention here—the loser of the fight is usually the one who seeks retribution, correct?”
“Most of the time.”
“Well”—Hester gestured to her client as if she were a hostess on a game show—“take a look at this strapping hunk of manhood I call a client. Do you see any bruises or abrasions on him? No. So it would seem that if there was a physical altercation, my boy got the better of it, don’t you think?”
“That’s proof of nothing.”
“Trust me, Frank, you don’t want to get into a proof argument with me. But either way, win or lose a fight, it’s irrelevant. You’re talking about finding motive, like that’s innovative or helpful. You’re new to the case, Frank, so let me help you here—Dan Mercer took nude pictures of my client’s eight-year-old son. That’s motive already. See? When a man sexually assaults your child, that would be motive to seek revenge upon him. Write that down. Experienced investigators need to know stuff like this.”