“Because I don’t trust him,” she bit out, looking at Creed. “I don’t know him. He’s some guy who abducted you and your baby at gunpoint and held you overnight. He could get thirty years for that alone, and I don’t want to fight to keep him from paying for it!”
Holly leaned forward. “I know this is hard for you, but this is our chance to get Miller. Another chance to break up this drug ring once and for all. Haven’t we suffered enough? Haven’t we lost enough to that man?”
Juliet nodded. “Yes, we sure have.”
“Well, he can pay without my having to represent this guy,” Cathy said.
Creed tried again. “The fact is, I may not live through the rest of the week with Miller’s goons after me. There’s no guarantee that if the police let me go I’m going to survive.” His voice broke. “I just need some help here. I got in over my head. I was stupid, and now I can’t change any of it. I can’t fix it.”
Cathy considered him for a long moment, then looked from Holly to Juliet. Even Juliet seemed to be buying his story. Cathy cleared her throat, rubbed her face. Finally, she slammed her hand on the table and stood up. “I have to talk to Michael.”
“It’s not visiting day,” Holly said.
“I’m his attorney. I’ll get a private meeting with him. I need to get his advice and see what he thinks.”
She waved toward Max, asked him to come over. He set his newspaper down and ambled over. Cathy slipped out of the booth. “Max, he wants to turn himself in. I need to talk to Michael before deciding if I want to represent him. If not, I’ll find him someone else.”
Max’s frown cut deep. “What does he know about Miller?”
“We’ll talk later,” Cathy said. “Creed, until I decide, just stay quiet. Max, can he turn himself in to you? Can you keep him in custody until I talk to Michael?”
Max looked at Creed. “Yeah, I guess that would work. I could let Southport know I’ve got him.”
Cathy lifted her eyebrows. “Will you agree to that, Creed?”
“I’m not arrested, right? There’s still not a warrant, is there?”
Max shook his head. “No, not yet.”
“Okay. Cathy, please tell Michael that I know he’s been through a lot, and I can help you put this guy away if I live through this.”
Cathy gave them all one last look and headed out.
C
athy found a parking space a long way from the jail door, but it was worth the hike. Clutching her briefcase so she’d look more official, she walked as fast as she could to the jail doors.
She hated this place. The office where lawyers and bail bondsmen had to check in—where those charged with crimes were processed and booked—had the smell of Clorox, Lysol, and lice shampoo.
“Cathy Cramer,” she told the inmate trustee sitting at the desk, wearing the same orange jumpsuit that the other inmates wore. “I’m here to see my client, Michael Hogan.”
The man smirked, as if he doubted this was an official attorney/client meeting, but he put in the call for Michael.
She went through the usual metal detector and left her purse with the detective on duty, exposed the contents of her
briefcase—papers that looked official—then went to the interview room. She waited, anxious to see Michael and be close to him for the first time in days.
The room was uncomfortably cold, as always, air conditioning used as a tool to control the inmates. As she waited, she paced, thinking about what she was going to do next. Would she go straight to the police department, fetch Creed, and take him to Southport to turn himself in? Should she support him at all?
Finally, after fifteen minutes, the door opened and a guard brought Michael in. His eyes were soft and smiling as he looked at her.
Knowing they were being watched via video, Cathy held herself in control. They waited until the guard had stepped outside, then they quickly hugged. She couldn’t help letting her face linger against his for a moment too long.
“Didn’t expect to see you tonight,” he said. “Is something wrong? I’ve been worried since we talked. Did you find Holly?”
“Yes, she’s okay.” She pulled back, tried to rally her professionalism, but his face was tanned from working outside and there was a slight sunburn on his cheekbones. His charcoal gaze drew her deep. She didn’t want to talk about Creed, but she forced herself to focus. “Michael, this guy, Creed, was holding her against her will. He even forced her to put Lily in danger, but now she’s all on board with him. She wants me to represent him.”
Michael shook his head. “Are you considering that?”
“Michael, he says he can lead us to Miller.”
Michael was silent for a minute. “Tell me.”
She launched into a quick recap of the meeting they had just had.
Michael was quiet as he thought it over. Finally, he said, “Okay, I think he could be telling the truth.”
Cathy frowned. “But why?”
“Because I’ve talked to a couple of guys in here who said some things. From what I gather, Miller did take over when Bob was killed, and he’s back in town. I saw him myself, and I met another guy who’s seen him lately. If this guy Creed can lead us to him, then I think you need to represent him so you’ll continue to have access. He needs someone safe to represent him. Somebody they can’t pay off.”
“He’ll be safe in jail, right? If they arrest him?”
Michael shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. You need to do your best to keep him out of jail. Put him in a safe house, somewhere Miller’s people can’t get to him.” His breathing grew more rapid. “Cathy, if we could put Miller away for the rest of his life and make sure he never gets out, it would make all of this worth it.”
She shook her head. “No, Michael. Nothing can make all this worth it.”
His eyes misted as he looked at her. Taking her hands, he pulled her close and kissed her forehead.
“It’s just a few months, babe. It won’t be that bad.”
But it
was
that bad; he was just trying to make her feel better. Sleeping in a cage at night, working in a Dr. Seuss suit on the side of the road, being among people who had actually committed crimes. She knew it was no picnic.
“I’m praying for you,” he said.
She smiled. “You’re praying for me? I’m not the one who needs prayer.”
“Yes, you are,” he whispered.
That was so like him.
Back in her car, she called to let Max know she would take Creed’s case.
She had work to do while she waited for her life to begin again.
I
nstead of a holding cell, Creed sat in an interview room while he waited for Cathy’s decision. She had promised to send someone else if she wouldn’t take him herself. Creed hoped she wouldn’t renege on that.
He got up and paced in the small room, glancing occasionally at the camera in a corner near the ceiling. What would Michael tell Cathy to do? Would he tell her not to get tangled up in this mess? Would he fear the danger it could bring to her? Would he think Creed was nothing but a two-bit criminal with only bad news to offer her?
Creed sat down, lowered his face into his hands. His poor parents. They were probably sick with worry. He’d seen them a couple of days ago when he’d driven past the T-ball field. His mother looked as if she’d lost weight. She and his father had sat apart from the crowd in the bleachers, supporting their grandson but holding themselves aloof from friends. They were
both normally gregarious and friendly. It killed him to see them cutting themselves off from others.
They shouldn’t have to deal with all this negative publicity. They had raised him right. He knew better.
But when he’d turned to drugs, he hadn’t thought clearly, and his stupidity had led him right into the most ludicrous decision of his life—selling drugs. Who ever would have thought he could do such a thing? Why had he thought he could dip his toe into the drug world and not fall in and drown?
He stood again and leaned back against the wall. He could very well end up going to prison. Just when he’d learned of his daughter and had the privilege of holding her . . . he might never see her again. The thing was, he really liked children. He would have been an awesome dad.
Would his daughter have to overcome the fact that her father was in prison?
The door opened, and he looked up. Max came in and Creed slid back into his chair. “Heard from Cathy?”
“Not yet,” Max said. “But I did let Southport know I have you. I told them I needed to question you about a drug trafficking investigation, that I would transport you to them myself when I was done.”
“Did they agree to that?”
“Nope. They sure didn’t. They said they’d give us a couple of hours to interview you, and then they’ll head over and question you here.”
Creed set his elbows on the table and dropped his forehead against his fist. “I’m toast.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
“I can’t talk to anybody without a lawyer. I do know enough to know that.”
Max didn’t press. “All right, but when you get lawyered up, your greatest protection will be telling us everything you can remember. A lawyer who makes you shut up and gets you out could get you killed.”
Max started to leave again, but Creed said, “Detective Hogan?”
Max looked back.
“How bad do you think this is?”
“Pretty bad.”
“So . . . am I going to wind up going to prison?”
“I can’t say. It’s not my homicide case.”
As Max left, Creed hoped there would
be
an attorney. What if no one came? What if he was railroaded right onto Death Row?
He went to the door and peered out through the small vertical window of glass. Miller’s goons were still looking for him. If they realized he was here, they would panic. They’d figure out a way to shut him up. What if an inmate or dirty cop saw him and told Miller? Was he safe even here?
He wiped sweat from his forehead and temples even though the air conditioner blew cold air through the vents overhead. He ran his fingers through his hair.
God, if you could work this out . . . if you could just help me here.
He didn’t ask God to make Cathy his attorney. What if she wasn’t the best one? It was just that she was Holly’s sister, and that she had suffered the brutality of Miller and his cohorts. And she seemed to have integrity. She could be trusted, he was almost sure of that.
But what business did Creed have praying? God was surely sick of him. He had probably turned his back on him the moment Creed first got high. Then when he’d let greed take over and had decided to sell, God must have been even more revolted.
And here he was, praying, when he’d decided just weeks ago that he didn’t even believe there was a God. He’d locked his childhood faith in a box at the back of his mind and declared God to be nonexistent so that he could justify doing what he wanted.
It had all been so nice and convenient—until he needed that God he’d so easily dismissed.
God
will
give you what you choose.
His father had said that to him years ago, when Creed’s downward spiral had started in high school. After an all-nighter, Creed had come home drunk, and his father had waited until he woke up that afternoon, head gonging with pain, to say those words to him.
“You know, son, God will give you what you choose. And if you think about that real hard, it’ll scare you to death. I don’t think you’re ready to suffer the consequences of those choices.”
Why hadn’t he listened?
Tears came to his eyes, and he hated himself for it. He stood and went to the other side of the table, put his back to the camera, then sat again. He dropped his head onto his squared arms and let it flow.
God, I know I chose, but is there any room for me to change my mind? I know you’re there . . . if you could just forgive me.
He checked his watch. He’d already been here an hour. How much longer would Cathy make him wait?
C
athy had taken only two clients in the last two years—her brother, Jay, when he was falsely accused of murder, and Michael when he was charged with violating probation. She’d been passionately involved in both those cases, but she didn’t feel that way about this one. The last thing she wanted was to represent a guy who might be guilty of murder, someone whose case she might have ripped to shreds in her blog.
But as Michael had said, she had no choice if she wanted to find Leonard Miller.
Grudgingly, she showed up at the police station and declared herself Creed’s attorney. She found him in the interview room.
“Okay, Creed,” she said as she stepped into the room, “here’s the deal. I’m going to represent you, and in exchange, you’re going to tell us everything you know about Miller.”
He let out a ragged breath. “Thank you!”
She bent over the table, fixing her eyes on him. “This may come as a surprise to you, but I don’t like defending criminal cases. I’ve been disillusioned with the court system since my fiancé’s killer walked free. I write for a living now, trying to influence justice from the outside. I’m only doing this because I want desperately to find Leonard Miller, and you’re my best tool to do that right now. So I suggest that you not lie to me about
anything
. I don’t have the patience for it. Got it?”
He nodded. “Scout’s honor.”
“Not good enough,” she said. “Try again.”
He reached out his hand to shake. “You have my word. And you’ll see that I’ll stand by it.”
“You’re a drug dealer. Sue me if I don’t put a lot of stock in your word.”
He wilted. “I
used
to deal drugs. I’d rather be starving on the street than be involved in that kind of life again.”
“You realize that you deserve to go to jail for that, right?”
“For that, yes, but not for murder.”
Cathy gazed into Creed’s round, intense eyes, searching for dishonesty. He looked sincere. But sociopaths often did pull off the look of sincerity.
Still, she saw Lily in those eyes, and her heart softened a little.
She pulled out her chair and sat down. “So here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to offer information about Miller and his group in exchange for immunity. They won’t give immunity for the murder—we’ll have to prove that you’re not the killer. But I think they’ll give immunity for your involvement in Miller’s drug trafficking. Once we get that, you need to let them pick your brain about minute details in the operation that you won’t even think matter. I’m talking hours of
questioning. No attitude, no impatience. You’re their tool, and you let them jog your memory on everything you know.”