While he's doing so, I look around the place. There are some pictures on the wall. One of them is of a young woman, perhaps twenty-one years old, sitting on a horse. It is the first photo I have seen of Denise McGregor that wasn't taken by the coroner, and it makes the fact of her brutal death all the more horrifying.
“She was a very beautiful young lady,” I say.
Obviously, Wally can't see where I am, so he asks, “Which picture are you looking at?”
“Denise sitting on a horse.”
Wally nods. “She was beautiful, that's for sure. But that's not Denise … that's her mother, Julie. Everybody says how much they looked alike.”
“Oh. Is Julie-”
“Alive?” he interrupts. “Can't say as I know. She left me and Denise when Denise was only a year or so old. Julie wasn't the family type; she couldn't be tied down. So when she found herself stuck with a husband and a child, well, she took off and never looked back.”
Wally McGregor lost his wife, his daughter, and his sight, yet he has the knack of making a visitor feel completely comfortable. It's a great knack to have.
“And you raised Denise by yourself?”
He laughs. “Once I lost my sight, it was more like she raised me. There was nothing Denise couldn't do.”
“Do you have any idea what she was working on at the time she was killed?”
“Sure don't. But Denise used to call me and read me all her articles once they got in the paper. I got such a kick out of that. She was some writer.”
I had read her articles, and he is right. She was a terrific writer.
“And you have no idea why anyone would want to kill her?”
“No. Everybody loved Denise … it don't make no sense … you'd have to ask Miller why he did what he did.”
“So you think it was him?”
He shrugs. “I just know what the police told me. But if you're looking for a reason for Denise to have died, there ain't none.”
He shakes his head and relives the senselessness of it for the millionth time. “Damn, there just ain't none.”
I can see that Wally is starting to get upset, and I give him time to let the pain subside. I know people that have lost children, and they tell me the pain never goes away, it's there twenty-four hours a day, but that after a while you develop techniques that can help to mask it. Wally manages to do that, and we have a conversation that steers clear of Denise.
Later I ask him about Edward Markham, and he tells me that they never met, not even at the funeral. Edward sent a large floral arrangement and a condolence letter, but did not show up personally. Wally doesn't seem particularly upset about the slight; Edward never really had any importance to him. Denise, in fact, had never mentioned Edward.
It's almost time for me to leave, and Wally knows he hasn't given me what I need. He brings it up himself. “So you think it could have been someone else that killed her?”
I nod. “That's what I think. It's not what I know.”
“If you find out something, I want to know. Promise me that.”
“I promise,” I say. It's one I'm going to keep, no matter how this turns out.
It's too late to go back to the office, so I head home. There's a pile of personal matters to attend to, not the least of which is dealing with my father's money. It's financially crazy to just let it sit in the low-interest bonds, but I'm somehow not inclined to touch it yet. Maybe a shrink can tell me why that is, and I can certainly afford Sigmund Freud if he's available. And if I had the time.
Nicole has warmed up considerably, and she greets me with a glass of Chardonnay and a kiss. It feels nice, and I appreciate it, but I know that I'm not going to have the time to pay attention to her, and it gives me a pang of guilt. I talk to her about it and she understands, so after dinner I retreat to the den with Tara and get back to work.
I have to wade through the latest of Kevin's briefs, which argues that the death penalty should not be considered in this case. The main point he makes is the obviously unfair way it has been administered throughout the country. Not only has racial bias been clear, but the number of death row inmates that have been exonerated is staggering. In Illinois alone, over a fifteen-year period, more death row inmates were exonerated than executed.
Once again, Kevin's work is professional and well reasoned, a clear, concise indictment of the death penalty, and I make very few changes. Unfortunately, Kevin and I both know that it is once again destined for failure, at least as far as Hatchet is concerned. He has long been a pro-death penalty judge, and with an election coming up next year we're not likely to change his mind.
I've also given Kevin the assignment of preparing our witness list, as well as the job of going over the witness list that Wallace has provided us. As is the norm, Wallace has given us a voluminous list, with every conceivable person listed on it. There is no way he is going to call even ten percent of these people, but he wants us to use our limited time and resources looking into people that will not appear in court. It's not terribly nice, but it's the way the game is played. I've told Kevin to come to me or even to Willie with anyone on the list whose role in the case we're not sure of, so that we can be prepared for any eventuality.
So much to do, so little time. The trial date is approaching like a freight train, and we are in deep trouble. I fall asleep around two o'clock in the morning, without having accomplished much of anything except making myself even more tired.
THE ALARM GOES OFFAT SIX A.M. DID I go to school to be a lawyer or a dairy farmer? I take Tara for a quick walk, then shower and head for the office.
I'm in full work mode now, able to totally concentrate on the matter at hand. I find that when I'm in this mind-set, I can drive somewhere and not remember anything about the trip. It amazes me that I don't have accidents, but my instinct must take over.
This morning my mind is in total clutter, trying to juggle a million things that have to be done and examined. Kevin is coming in with a jury consultant for a meeting. I've never had much use for them, always trusting my instincts, but Kevin has convinced me to keep an open mind about it. After that, I'm going over to depose Victor Markham at his lawyer's office.
I arrive at my office at eight-thirty, which is too early for Edna to have gotten in, so I'm surprised when the door is unlocked. I'm also concerned that someone may have broken in during the night, but I look around quickly and don't see anything amiss.
A moment later I don't see anything at all, as either a fist or a baseball bat hits me on the side of the head. The rest is more than a little blurry, but I hear myself scream in slow motion, and fall to the ground.
I look up and see a man wearing a ski mask, and since it hasn't snowed in the office in quite a while, I instinctively cover up. That proves to be a good move, as he kicks me in the stomach and then punches me again in the chest and head.
My mind registers the fact that there is no one around to help me, that this monster can continue to kick and punch me for as long as he wants. Fortunately, he stops after a few more well-placed shots, all of which send shooting pains through my body. He leans over and snarls through his mask.
“You'd better learn how to take a warning, asshole.”
I try to respond, but another kick silences me.
“Next time you're dead, asshole. Dead.”
He moves away and out the door, a beautiful, blurry sight if ever I've seen one.
After a few minutes, I stagger to the phone and call the police. I ask for Pete Stanton and tell him what happened. Then I slump down to the floor and wait for the cavalry to arrive.
The first soldier in the door is Edna, who screams when she sees me. She's no beauty early in the morning either, but apparently I look worse. She responds to the crisis terrifically, getting cold rags to apply to my bruises and helping me to the couch.
The place is soon swarming with paramedics and police. The paramedics want to take me to the hospital, but I refuse. Nothing seems to be broken, although my entire body hurts like hell, and I just can't afford to give up the time. Instead they take me into the back office and attend to me, while the police survey the scene.
The paramedics finally finish, and I drag my bruised and bandaged body into the outer office. The only police officer left is Pete, who is on the phone. He signals for me to wait, mouthing that he's on an important call with his office.
I stagger to the couch and sit down, and after a few minutes Pete hangs up. Rather than come talk to me, he makes another call. I'm not paying much attention, until I hear part of it.
“I've got to stop at the cleaners, and I don't know if I'll have time to get the car washed. So figure me for about seven. Right. Goodbye.” I've been waiting for this?
He hangs up the phone and turns to me. “Okay. Talk to me,” he says.
“Talk to you? About what? About some seven-foot-eight, four-hundred-pound monster who beat the shit out of me? I don't think so. I admit it seemed important at the time, but it pales next to the possibility that you won't have time to get your goddamn car washed. That really puts everything into perspective.”