Due Justice

Chapter 2

Tampa, Florida

Wednesday 5:05 p.m.

January 6, 1999

It was like watching my own train wreck.

Gooseflesh raised on my skin.

Carly had set me up. I felt foolish for letting her get away with it. And I was scared for her. She’d manipulated me, which meant she knew she was in serious trouble. Why didn’t she take her guilty conscience to Tampa’s best criminal defense attorney? At least he would have been required to keep her secrets.

Masterfully played, though. Showed up here without warning; protested my invitation to talk just strongly enough to establish reluctance. Didn’t volunteer information, but waited until I insisted she tell me. Forced me to press her until she relented.

I might not keep her secrets, but nothing she told me could be used against her now. Under the law, she’d been interrogated in violation of her constitutional rights. It didn’t matter that she knew she had rights; it only mattered that I hadn’t warned her before she spilled her story.

She must have used the technique hundreds of times before. Like a dumb street criminal, I had walked right into her game before I realized we were on the playing field. Call me crazy, but I wasn’t expecting to discuss murder in the moon glow.

No matter. I am the law; a role that suits like second skin, as Carly well knows.

Keeping score? Carly Austin, member in good standing of the Florida Bar, one; Wilhelmina Carson, United States District Court Judge for the Middle District of Florida, zero.

Maybe she saw my dawning understanding and figured I might actually strangle her, for she perched on the chair’s edge, ready to run should the need arise.  I’ll admit, shaking her silly appealed. I grabbed my biceps instead.

Carly’s words rushed faster.

“Hypothetically speaking,” she said -- my teeth clamped painfully onto my cheek -- “What if someone might know the identity of that body?  Would they be required to go to the police? Tell who they think it is? Even if they’re not sure?”

She stressed the word required to emphasize her legal question. One that posed serious risks to us both.

And raised my temperature a good ten degrees. Hers, too, judging by her deeply crimsoned face. I appreciated the warmth.

Just like she’d done all her life, Carly put me in a hell of a spot, even if she was telling me the whole story, which I was very sure she wasn’t.

Carly’s usual style was to reveal only what she thought you needed to know. As a kid, she’d say, “If I tell you, I’ll have to kill you,” but that wouldn’t have been a funny line at the moment.

Swiftly, my mind stepped through the logic.

Knowing the dead man’s identity alone wasn’t enough to scare her so badly.  She’d have handled that small issue on her own. One phone call to the police chief or even an anonymous 911 tip. Simple problem with a quick resolution.

No, complications motivated her behavior.

Whether she was required to disclose information about the identity of this body depended on how she obtained the knowledge--and who was asking. Consequences chased her here. But why? She didn’t kill the guy. Right? I was afraid to ask; she might tell me.

Reporting Carly to the local police for withholding evidence or being an accessory to obstruction of justice and facing impeachment myself. Just great.