Herb Cross, a slender African-American in his late thirties, led Amanda Jaffe up a narrow stairway to the second-floor office of Dr.
April Fairweather. Fairweather worked over a hardware store in a low-rent building on Stark. The stairwell was dingy and poorly lit, as was the hall in front of the doctor’s office. Herb had briefed Amanda on what little he had discovered about the therapist during the ride from their law office. Fairweather did not have a criminal record. She had a single credit card and never let the charges get too high.
Fairweather advertised herself as a consulting therapist and claimed to have a doctorate, but she was not licensed by any state agency.
Then again she didn’t have to be to practice her kind of New Age therapy. Fairweather lived in a cheap garden apartment in Beaverton, and Herb had talked to a few of her neighbors, but all he’d learned was that she never said more than an occasional hello. The investigator opened a wooden door with a frosted-glass window. On the other side was a small reception room. As Amanda closed the door, a short, mousy woman in a frayed gray business suit walked out of the interior office. Amanda noticed that Dr. Fairweather had not done much with her light brown hair. She didn’t see any jewelry, either. The lawyer concluded that the psychologist was not someone who gave a lot of thought to her looks. “Can I help you?” Fairweather asked as she eyed the investigator warily. She seemed frightened, so Amanda stepped forward and smiled. “I’m Amanda Jaffe, the attorney representing Daniel Ames. This is my associate, Herb Cross. If you have a few minutes we’d like to talk to you.” Fairweather grew rigid. “No, I can’t do that.” “I’m going to have a chance to talk to you in court, Dr. Fairweather,” Amanda pressed. “I might be able to save some time if we clear up a few things here.” “I’m not supposed to talk to you,”
Fairweather answered. Her shoulders hunched and her gaze drifted toward the floor. “Did the district attorney tell you that? Because you have the right to talk to anyone you want to. Talking to me would be the right thing to do.” “I don’t want to do that and I’d like you to go.” “Okay.” Amanda held out her card and Fairweather took it reluctantly. “If you change your mind please call me.” “That is one uptight lady,” Herb Cross said as soon as the door closed behind them.
“Yes, she is,” Amanda mused, “and I’d love to know why.”
On the way back to the office, Amanda and Cross brainstormed about ways to get through Fairweather’s armor. When they walked into the firm’s waiting room, the receptionist handed Amanda a small box wrapped in brown paper. FOR AMES BAIL HEARING was written on the paper in block letters with a Magic Marker. There was no return address.
“This isn’t how the DA’s office sends discovery,” Amanda said as she stripped away the wrapping paper. “Who brought it over?” “A messenger,” the receptionist answered. “Did he say who sent it?” “No.”
The box was cardboard without any markings. Amanda lifted the lid.
There was no note inside, but there was a videocassette. Moments later Herb Cross and Amanda Jaffe were sitting in the conference room in front of a VCR. A title informed the lawyer and the private investigator that they were going to see a speech that Dr. April Fairweather had given at a conference devoted to abuse survivors three years before. On the screen, a distinguished gentleman stepped behind a podium and introduced Dr. Fairweather in glowing terms. After the introduction Dr. Fairweather took the man’s place at the podium and began to speak. A few minutes into the tape, the investigator and the attorney turned to each other. “Is this for real?” Cross asked. “I certainly hope so,” Amanda answered.