Murder in Plain Sight

At least he could talk. His speech was formal, like that of the young pair in the buggy, and she remembered Trey’s doubts over her ability to represent the boy when she knew nothing of his culture.

That was ridiculous. The law was the law, no matter what the defendant’s background.

“Thomas, I want you to understand that anything you say to me is private. I can’t tell anyone, and you can trust me.”

His only answer was to stare at his hands—big hands, bony and strong. Strong enough to kill. Did he get any of this? She couldn’t be sure, and her frustration rose.

“Mrs. Morgan wants me to help you,” she tried again. “But I can only do that if you talk to me about what happened.”

He looked at her face then away again. “My parents—they would not want me to be involved with the law.”

Trey had said something like that, but she’d disregarded it. Apparently she should have paid more attention. “Mrs. Morgan spoke with them about hiring me, and they agreed. And I’m afraid it’s too late, anyway. You are already involved. The police believe you killed Cherry.”

There was no mistaking the emotion behind his expression now: fear. She expected a denial, but he was silent.

“Did you and Cherry see a lot of each other?”

He shrugged. “Sometimes at parties she would talk to me.”

“Were you dating? Did you go out just with her?”

He shook his head, the muscles in his face working.

“You were found alone with her. Did you go out together that night? Saturday night?”

Again he shook his head.

“Thomas, you were found with her. You must have gone out together, or how did you get there?”

“The other lawyer. He said not to talk to anyone. Not to answer questions.”

“He’s not representing you now. I am.”

His face took on a mulish expression. “Mr. Frost said not to talk to anyone. Not to answer questions. I know him.”

The implication was clear. Thomas didn’t know her. He didn’t trust her. Would it do any good if she could arrange for Mrs. Morgan to talk with him? She could imagine Trey’s reaction to that.

“Suppose I talk to Mr. Frost. If he tells you it’s all right, will you answer my questions?”

The big hands tightened briefly, then relaxed. He nodded.

She blew out a breath. Patience. Obviously that was what was required just now. Plenty of patience.

“All right, then. That’s what I’ll do. I’ll bring Mr. Frost to vouch for me.” She stood, repressing the instinct that wanted to demand answers, to move, to get on with the case. She could do nothing without her client’s trust.

He looked up at her, his eyes as wide and innocent as a child’s. “They took away my clothes.”

“I’m sorry. You will get them back, if…when you are released.”

“It is not proper. For an Amish man to be dressed this way.” He touched the front of the orange jumpsuit he wore. “Not proper,” he repeated.

“People who are being detained by the police are required to dress that way. I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do about it.”

“If you told them I need my clothes…”

“It wouldn’t do any good. They won’t change their minds.”

He just stared at her, eyes wide with expectation. She’d said he could trust her, but she couldn’t do the first thing he asked of her. Clearly he didn’t understand the situation he was in.

And just as clearly, she didn’t understand him. Trey had been right about her. She didn’t know enough to defend this boy.

TREY SAT IN THE TRUCK, waiting for the Langdon woman to come out of the red sandstone building that was the county jail. With those circular Norman towers, it looked more like a castle. Its builders had intended it to impress everyone who looked at it with the weight and majesty of the law. No doubt it intimidated a kid like Thomas.

With the radio on, he was treated to the views of the local station’s public, conveyed through the station’s call-in show. Opinion was running high—all of it against Thomas, it seemed. There were always those who harbored a prejudice against the Amish, just because they were different. Thomas’s arrest was feeding that feeling.

He switched the radio off. Neither Jessica Lang don nor his mother had a good grasp of the situation.

Trying to explain to his mother was useless. She wasn’t swayed by facts. She believed in Thomas, and she would do what she felt was right.

Jessica wasn’t in this for idealistic reasons, however. Worry tied his stomach in a knot. If Jessica thought this the sort of sensational case that would make her reputation, who knew what tactics she might resort to?

Was she that kind of person? His immediate impression had been of someone pretty hard-boiled, with her elegant clothing and her cool manner. But there had been a brief glimpse or two of someone not so easily categorized.

He didn’t think he liked that. He wanted to know where he was with people. And she’d challenged his opinion of what was best for his mother—he knew he didn’t like that. His mother could be devastated by this case, no matter how it turned out. Would Jessica even care?

His hands tightened on the steering wheel, and he deliberately forced himself to relax. Since Dad’s death, he’d been responsible—for his mother, for the family-owned businesses and rental properties, for all the people in the township who depended on the Morgan family. His thoughts flickered briefly to the office. He’d had to cancel a couple of appointments today, and no doubt there’d be more of that in coming days.

He couldn’t go to the office, deal with the day-to-day running of the family properties, handle the investments his grandfather and father had entrusted to his care and still deal with the ramifications of his mother’s interest in defending Thomas. So Morgan Enterprises would have to run along without him until this was settled.

In one way, he’d been preparing all his life for his role. It had governed his choice of summer jobs, his business major, even his Wharton MBA. He’d just never expected it to come so soon. He wasn’t ready. Maybe he’d never have been ready to lose his father, but to lose him that way…

Why, Dad? Why did you do it? How could the father I thought I knew do something like that?

He’d asked that question a thousand times. He’d never gotten an answer.

His gaze, idly scanning the street in front of the jail, suddenly sharpened. That dark blue van bore the logo of the local television station. The building entrance was out of his view from here, but the chance that the news crew camped out at the jail for any reason other than to cover the murder was nil.

He shoved the door open and slid out, worry and irritation edging his nerves. He reached the corner and stopped, stunned. Not only had the news crew clustered in front of the entrance, so had probably thirty or forty other people. A couple of them carried signs, leaving no doubt as to their opinion on Thomas’s guilt.

As if that wasn’t bad enough, the television news reporter was busy interviewing them. Anyone who hadn’t already thought it a good idea to voice their uninformed opinion would probably be inspired by the sight on the five-o’clock news.

The crowd blocked the steps. Unless someone warned Jessica, she’d walk out right into the arms of the television news reporter. Was it coincidence the news people were waiting at this precise moment? He doubted it. He moved faster. If he could get into the building, find Jessica, take her out another exit—

Too late. The heavy door in the front of the building moved, and Jessica came out. In an instant the reporter pounced, calling Jessica’s name.

Her name. He hadn’t even known that until she’d arrived. They’d been tipped off, then. By Jessica? If she wanted attention, there was no better way to get it.

The crowd, alerted by the reporter’s question, closed in, waving their signs. He had a glimpse of a startled face through the narrow glass slit in the door. It quickly vanished, to find help, he hoped.