John Grisham

Surely I haven’t killed a man.

The crowd gets larger, and a cop moves everybody back.

I lose track of time. A coroner’s van arrives, and this sends a wave of excited gossip through the gawkers. Cliff won’t be riding in the ambulance. Cliff will be taken to the morgue.

I crack the door, and vomit as quietly as possible on the

side of the car next to mine. No one hears me. Then I wipe my mouth, and ease into the crowd. "He’s finally killed her," I hear someone say. Cops stream in and out of the apartment. I’m fifty feet away, lost in a sea of faces. The police string yellow tape around the entire end of the building. The flash of a camera inside streaks across the windows every few seconds.

We wait. I need to see her, but there’s nothing I can do. Another rumor races through the crowd, and this one is correct. He’s dead. And they think she killed him. I listen carefully to what’s being said because if anyone saw a stranger leave the apartment not long after the shouts and screams, then I want to know it. I move around slowly, listening ever so closely. I hear nothing. I back away for a few seconds, and vomit again behind some shrubs.

There’s a flurry of movement around the door, and a paramedic backs out pulling a stretcher. The body is in a silver bag. They roll it carefully down the sidewalk to the coroner’s van, then take it away. Minutes later, Kelly emerges with a cop on each side. She looks tiny, and scared. Thankfully, she’s not handcuffed. She managed to change clothes, and now wears jeans and a parka.

They place her in the backseat of a patrol car, and leave. I walk quickly to my car, and head for the police station.

I INFORM THE SERGEANT at the front counter that I am a lawyer, that my client has just been arrested, and that I insist on being with her while she’s being questioned. I say this forcefully enough, and he places a call to who knows where. Another sergeant comes after me, and I’m taken to the second floor, where Kelly sits alone in an interrogation room. A homicide detective named Smotherton is looking at her through a one-way window. I hand him one of my cards. He refuses to shake hands.

"You guys travel fast, don’t you?" he says with absolute contempt.

"She called me right after she called 911. What’d you find?"

We’re both looking at her. She’s at the end of a long table, wiping her eyes with tissue.

Smotherton grunts while he decides how much he should tell me. "Found her husband dead on the den floor, skull fracture, looks like with a baseball bat. She didn’t say much, told us they were getting a divorce, she sneaked home to get her clothes, he found her, they fought. He was pretty drunk, somehow she got the bat and now he’s at the morgue. You doing her divorce?"

"Yeah. I’ll get you a copy of it. Last week the judge ordered him to stay away from her. He’s beaten her for years."

"We saw the bruises. I just wanna ask her a few questions, okay?"

"Sure." We enter the room together. Kelly is surprised to see me, but manages to play it cool. We exchange a polite lawyer-client hug. Smotherton is joined by another plainclothes detective, Officer Hamlet, who has a tape recorder. I have no objections. After he turns it on, I take the initiative. "For the record, I’m Rudy Baylor, attorney for Kelly Riker. Today is Monday, February 15, 1993. We’re at Central Police Headquarters, downtown Memphis. I’m present because I received a call from my client at approximately seven forty-five tonight. She had just called 911, and said she thought her husband was dead."

I nod at Smotherton as if he may proceed now, and he looks at me as if he’d like to choke me. Cops hate defense lawyers, and right now I couldn’t care less.

Smotherton starts with a bunch of questions about Kelly and Cliff-basic info like birth dates, marriage, employment, children and on and on. She answers patiently,

with a detached look in her eyes. The swelling is gone in her face, but her left eye is still black and blue. The bandage is still on her eyebrow. She’s scared half to death.

She describes the abuse in sufficient detail to make all three of us cringe. Smotherton sends Hamlet to pull the records of Cliffs three arrests for the beatings. She talks about assaults in which no records were kept, no paperwork was created. She talks about the softball bat and the time he broke her ankle with it. He also punched her a few times when he didn’t want to break bones.

She talks about the last beating, then the decision to leave and go hide, then to file divorce. She is infinitely believable because it’s all true. It’s the upcoming lies that have me worried.

"Why’d you go home tonight?" Smotherton asks.

"To get my clothes. I was certain he wouldn’t be there."

"Where have you been staying for the past few days?"

"In a shelter for abused women."

"What’s the name of it?"

"I’d rather not say."

"Is it here in Memphis?"

"It is."

"How’d you get to your apartment tonight?"

My heart skips a beat at this question, but she’s already thought about it. "I drove my car," she says.

"And what land of car is it?"

"Volkswagen Rabbit."

"Where is it now?"

"In the parking lot outside my apartment."

"Can we take a look at it?"

"Not until I do," I say, suddenly remembering that I’m a lawyer here, not a co-conspirator.

Smotherton shakes his head. If looks could kill.

"How’d you get in the apartment?"

"I used my key."

"What’d you do when you got inside?"

"Went to the bedroom and started packing clothes. I filled three or four pillowcases with my things, and hauled a bunch of stuff to the den."

"How long were you there before Mr. Riker came home?"

"Ten minutes, maybe."

"What happened then?"

I interrupt at this point. "She’s not gonna answer that until I’ve had a chance to talk to her and investigate this matter. This interrogation is now over." I reach across and push the red Stop button on the recorder. Smotherton simmers for a minute as he reviews his notes. Hamlet returns with the printout, and they study it together. Kelly and I ignore each other. Our feet, though, touch under the table.

Smotherton writes something on a sheet of paper and hands it to me. "This will be treated as a homicide, but it’ll go to Domestic Abuse in the prosecutor’s office. Lady’s name there is Morgan Wilson. She’ll handle things from here."

"But you’re booking her?"

"I have no choice. I can’t just let her go."

"On what charges?"

"Manslaughter."

"You can release her to my custody."

"No I can’t," he answers angrily. "What kinda lawyer are you?"

"Then release her on recognizance."

"Won’t work," he says, with a frustrated smile at Hamlet. "We got a dead body here. Bond has to be set by a judge. You talk him into ROR, then she walks. I’m just a humble detective."

"I’m going to jail?" Kelly says.

"We have no choice, ma’am," Smotherton says, sud-

denly much nicer. "If your lawyer here is worth his salt, he’ll get you out sometime tomorrow. That is, if you can post bond. But I can’t just release you because I want to."

I reach across and take her hand. "It’s okay, Kelly. I’ll get you out tomorrow, as soon as possible." She nods quickly, grits her teeth, tries to be strong.

"Can you put her in a private cell?" I ask Smotherton.

"Look, asshole, I don’t run the jail, okay? You gotta better way to do things, then go talk to the jailers. They love to hear from lawyers."