Riptide (Sam McRae Mystery #3)

Chapter 8

The sun shone in a China blue sky as Jamila and I drove to Salisbury the next morning. A salty breeze blew through the car. Seagulls wheeled and squawked in airborne choreography as we left the ocean, crossed the Route 50 Bridge and motored inland.

Mulrooney's office was near the courthouse, but our first stop was a coffee shop down the street. Mulrooney was there, chatting up the cashier.

"Mornin', ladies," he said, with a nod and a smile.

"Hey," I said.

As I scanned the pastry selections, Mulrooney nudged me and said, "I'm a cheese Danish man, myself."

I smiled, nodded. Why not? I ordered one with a large cup of dark roast coffee to go.

After we paid, Mulrooney led us on foot to his office. People smiled and waved at him, and he beamed and returned the greeting. Where am I, Mayberry?

Mulrooney's office was in an old brick building where George Washington probably slept. As we entered, he told his secretary, "Becky, please hold all my calls," before we proceeded past her desk and into his inner sanctum. He switched on a small oscillating fan atop a file cabinet, walked behind his desk, and dropped into his chair. Jamila and I each settled into a seat facing him.

"Here's the situation," Mulrooney intoned, perching his elbows on the armrests and steepling his fingers. "Right now, a preliminary hearing is scheduled in two weeks. As you know," he said, nodding toward me, "the matter could still get dismissed. However, if the blood on the clothing matches the victim's, they will probably look for confirmation in DNA tests on it. If there's a match, we've got a problem."

"If there's a match, the clothing must have been stolen," I said. "Along with the knife."

Good grief! I sounded like a candidate for a tin foil hat.

I wanted to say Jamila had an alibi. She was with me. But we were in separate rooms. I couldn't account for her whereabouts. Anyhow, who would believe me?

I wracked my brain, but other than standard arguments for excluding evidence, I wasn't sure exactly what to suggest.

"I met with Ellis Conroy," I said. "I was hoping we could work together to find a way to clear Jamila. But he doesn't seem terribly open."

"Why am I not surprised?" Mulrooney looked grim. "The man is a curmudgeon."

"That's one way of putting it," I said.

Mulrooney smiled. "Yes. Well."

He scribbled a note on his pad.

"Now," he said. He really liked that word. "I don't want to unduly scare you, but we need to be prepared for the worst."

"What do you mean?" Jamila asked.

"Here's the problem in a nutshell. We're dealing with a high-profile murder involving a well-established family. There is some political pressure to bear on the State's Attorney's Office to prosecute this case with all due speed."

"I take it the lack of a speedy trial won't be a problem," Jamila said.

"If anything, quite the opposite."

"But all they have is a bloody knife and clothing, which may have been stolen from us, a comb that Jamila lost, blood on the porch that someone went out of their way to plant and a possibly unreliable eyewitness." I took a breath. Okay, that was quite a bit. "They also have no motive," I added, waiting for the elderly attorney to supply one.

Mulrooney sighed. "There's another thing."

No. Not another thing.

"My sources tell me hairs were found on the clothing. Coarse, dark hairs." He looked at Jamila and sighed. "You can bet they'll do DNA testing on those."

I shook my head, as if it could wipe everything away. "They could've gotten those off her comb." Seemed like a reasonable explanation. To me, anyhow. Would it just sound like an excuse to someone else?

Mulrooney gazed at me with a thoughtful expression. "There's more to this than simply the evidence. We're dealing with a highly influential Eastern Shore family."

My jaw dropped. "What's that have to do with anything?" Like I didn't know.

Mulrooney grunted. "Marshall Bower and his son, Junior, carry a lot of political clout. Now, assuming the DNA evidence implicates you"—he nodded toward Jamila—"they'll probably take this to a grand jury and seek an indictment for first-degree murder."

He paused and looked down. "Given what I've said—not to mention certain other circumstances—it's best we avoid that."

"What other circumstances?" I asked.

Mulrooney said nothing. I looked at Jamila. She wouldn't look back.

Was it because Jamila was black?

"Can't we move this case somewhere less ..." I fumbled for the word. "Prejudicial?"

"I could ask the court. As you know, a change in venue would be at the court's discretion. No guarantees." Mulrooney stared fixedly at his desk. "I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but you realize it is my job to prepare you for the worst."

I sighed. Jamila sat up straight. "So ... what would my options be?" she said, looking braced for impact.

Mulrooney leaned on his forearms, hands clasped as if in supplication. "Of course, I'll do everything I can to dismiss any of their evidence or buy us time. I'll request the venue change. However, assuming the worst, the only sure way to avoid an indictment and trial is through a plea bargain. Most likely a plea to involuntary manslaughter based on diminished capacity."

I jumped up. "No. Way."

The elderly lawyer's gaze drifted my way. "I believe that's the client's decision."

"Jamila wants to be a judge. She's wanted that ever since law school. As long as I've known her. Do you realize what a guilty plea would do to her career?"

Mulrooney nodded, looking sad. "Yes."

"Then you have to know that's unacceptable."

I looked at Jamila for confirmation. She looked thunderstruck. "Surely," she said, in a near whisper. "It won't have to come to that."

"Let us hope not. However, you need to be ready for the possibility." Mulrooney's look bore into me. "The only other possibility is to come up with another suspect. I've made it clear to Conroy that he needs to treat this case as his first priority. We need to dig up something that'll blow their case out of the water."

I nodded, thinking, I'll be damned if I rely on Conroy for that.

*****

Before we left, Mulrooney advised Jamila to lay low and avoid talking to anyone else about the case without counsel present. "Let your attorneys handle everything," he said. Jamila concurred, but seemed to respond on autopilot.

As we drove back to the motel, I warned Jamila about the media's awareness of her situation. She only nodded and stared straight ahead.

"Jamila." I paused, considering my next words. "Is there something you're not telling me?"

She sighed. "Nothing important."

I wished I could believe her.