Her Best Defense

Chapter 4

Lisa was usually awake in the morning before her alarm went off. In fact, her alarm clock was merely a precautionary measure. So when it started buzzing somewhere in the background of a vague and shadowy dream, it took her a while to figure out what exactly was happening.

“Good Lord,” she said aloud, fumbling around on the night table until she found and stopped the noise of the alarm. What time was it, anyway, and how had she managed to sleep so late?

“First, some coffee,” she said as she padded down the stairs and into the kitchen.

Once she got the coffee brewing, she went to the front door. Finding the newspaper every morning was usually a new and interesting challenge. For whatever reason, the person who delivered her paper couldn’t quite seem to locate the front porch of her house. He could, however, find the bushes that ran under her living room window or the flower bed at the front corner of her property. As she opened the door, she wondered where the paper would be today.

It took only a moment to spot it. It was laid out neatly on the porch, her face peering up at her from the front page.

“What the hell…?”

Her picture was not the only one. Next to it was one of Glory and next to her was a picture of Chandler. The headline read Chicago Heiress Arrested For Murder.

“Oh, no!” Lisa practically shouted. This was not the kind of publicity she wanted or needed right now. She quickly retreated inside and went back to the kitchen where she could sit down and read the rest of the story.

Lisa laid the newspaper out on the table and poured a cup of freshly brewed coffee. She usually put a little cream in her coffee just to take the bite out of it first thing in the morning. This morning, however, she needed all the bite she could get. After a sip of the hot brew, she began to read.

The story started with Glory and Mateo and their “special” relationship. It stated that Mateo Ruiz had been the Witheringtons’ gardener and then intimated that pulling weeds and mowing lawns was not all he’d been paid to do.

“How clever,” Lisa said sarcastically. “And who in God’s name told the reporter that?”

It went on to describe the murder, and how and where Mateo’s body had been found; it even mentioned the fact that Mateo had been shot in the back. Next, there was a paragraph about the Witherington family’s wealth, reportedly derived from its import-export business. The final paragraph was about Lisa and her law firm.

“This is just great,” Lisa mumbled as she got up for another cup of coffee. How on earth did the press get wind of all of this so soon? Obviously Glory and Chandler were big news in the Chicago area—and a front yard homicide was probably the most sensational thing with which either of them had been involved. All Lisa could really be thankful for right now was that the story hadn’t mentioned Glory’s other run-ins with the law. Everything would eventually come out, but Lisa hoped that by then she would have been able to run a little interference. So far, all she was doing was running blind, and that was something she was going to have to change.

Lisa decided she’d better get into the office early on this sunny Saturday morning. She could imagine the kind of hoopla this front-page story could mean for the firm and she wanted to be prepared for the repercussions. However, she only made it to the top of the stairs before her telephone started ringing.

“Hello?” she said, grabbing the phone in her bedroom on the second ring.

“Hi, sugar plum.” It was her mother.

“Mom, it’s ten minutes after six. You never call this early unless something is wrong.”

“Nothing is wrong. I just saw your picture in the morning paper. Front page, no less.”

“Oh, that.”

“I take it this is a new case for you? When did you get this one? I thought you’d just finished up on another.”

“Mom, I’m usually juggling half a dozen cases and so is every other lawyer in the place. I did just finish up another, but Mr. Ludlow asked me personally to take this one. You just don’t refuse a senior partner. I do think one of the reasons he asked me to handle this was because he didn’t think it would go this far.”

“What do you mean? Mrs. Witherington is being accused of murder, isn’t she? Why wouldn’t it go to trial?”

“That’s just it. Mrs. Witherington didn’t do it. Someone else did. We were hoping to clear her name before it got that far. Actually, even before her arrest.”

“Well, honey, I’m no attorney, but it seems to me that if the police have enough evidence to arrest a person for murder, then they must know something.”

“The police can arrest anyone for anything, Mom. So far, all they have on Mrs. Witherington is circumstantial evidence and a coroner’s report. Look, Mom, I don’t mean to cut you short but I really need to get into the office early this morning. I’ll call you tonight. Okay?”

“Sure, honey. I’ll talk to you later. Have a good day.”

The next time the phone rang, Lisa was in the shower. Was it going to be like this all day? Was this what life was like for those attorneys who specialized in the biggest and most notorious high-profile cases?

“Maybe I’ll move over to penny-ante crimes and divorce cases,” she grumbled as the hot water from the shower ran down her face and body.

The phone wouldn’t stop ringing. Whoever was calling was persistent; maybe the call was from one of the firm’s partners. With a sudden sinking sensation, Lisa turned off the water, wrapped a towel around herself and ran for the phone.

“Lisa Jensen,” she said, striving to sound all business in case it was John Ludlow or one of the other partners.

“You been running?”

“What?”

“You’re out of breath.”

“What I am is wet. You got me out of the shower.” Kurt Sandoval was calling this early? What on earth for? Possibly to badger her about the headlines? “Shit,” she whispered.

“What was that?”

It suddenly occurred to her that the police could have released the story to the press, and she became stiff with righteous indignation.

“Did the department release the Witherington story?” she asked without answering his question.

“Not that I know of.”

“Well, somebody did it.”

“That seems rather apparent, doesn’t it?” Kurt drawled. “Actually, I called to find out if you might be the mouth that roared. Publicity is sometimes good for defense counsel.”

“I hardly think premature publicity is going to help Glory’s case,” she said with some sarcasm. “Besides, the entire article is slanted against her.”

“Oh, now I think that’s an exaggeration.”

“What I’d really like to know is why the reporter interviewed the prosecution attorneys and didn’t even try to make contact with me so I could present something positive about my client.”

“Do you have something positive to present?”

“Did you call at this most inconvenient time to insult my intelligence? Look, I’m dripping on the carpet. If you still feel the need to add insult to injury later on, call me at work.” Lisa slammed down the phone and ran back to the bathroom. She was seething on the inside and shivering on the outside.

Damn Sandoval and all married men who thought they were so damned cute that they could get away with anything, she thought resentfully as she turned on the hot water again.

Because it was a Saturday and everyone who had to go in to the firm on a weekend dressed casually, Lisa put on a pair of freshly cleaned and pressed jeans and an ivory-colored cotton sweater. High-heeled light tan leather boots, for which she’d paid a small fortune, and a luscious pink suede jacket completed her ensemble for the day.

But she didn’t waste time in admiring herself, and she gathered her purse and briefcase—in which she’d stashed the newspaper—and left the house to hurry to the nearest bus stop to catch a downtown bus.

The ride was about thirty minutes long and she noticed at least a dozen newspapers in the hands of wide-eyed passengers. Wishing she’d thought to put on a hat with a brim she could pull down over her face, she settled for her dark glasses and dug them out of her purse.

Then she thought of the case and the discomfort of unwanted publicity. Why in God’s name would anyone deliberately seek the public’s eye, she wondered uneasily. Obviously Sandoval had believed that was precisely what she’d done. He might flirt with her and even leer at her at times, but he sure as hell didn’t know her!

“And he never will,” she vowed, renewing her postdivorce pledge to never take up with a married man because of the pain it would cause his wife, which she’d felt firsthand with Bobby’s sexual escapades.

Lisa was at her desk, trying to better organize the notes she was amassing on Glory’s case. She also had a copy of the coroner’s autopsy report, and she studied again the few lines citing the cause of death. A .32 caliber slug had been removed from the body. The bullet had lodged in the upper torso and entered through the victim’s back.

Sitting there pondering the coroner’s learned opinion, it was clear that if Glory was as innocent as she proclaimed, then someone else had been at the Witherington home that night. It was time she visited the crime scene and met the household staff.

She pushed away from her desk and began returning items to her briefcase. Her intercom line buzzed and she picked up the phone. “Lisa here.”

“Larry here. How are you?”

“I’m fine, Larry, just miles away when the phone rang. Did you call for a reason? Oh, I just realized that you’re here at work.”

“Saturday is just another workday in this business, Lisa.”

“How true. So, are you on the trail of something interesting?”

“If you’ve got a few minutes, come on by Research, okay?”

“Will do. I have a phone call to make then I’ll be along. See ya.”

Lisa pushed Larry—along with his “questionable history” remarks about the Witheringtons, plus her avid curiosity about what gains he might have made—to the back burner and dialed the Witherington home. Waiting for someone to answer her call, she thought of how much more she would rather talk to Larry than to Glory. Oh, well.

A woman answered; Lisa identified herself and asked for Mrs. Witherington. In a minute, Glory’s voice said, “So, what’s up, kiddo?”

“Well, you sound in a good mood,” Lisa said.

“And you sound as though you disapprove.”

“Sorry, that wasn’t my intention. Glory, I’m leaving in a minute or two to pay you a visit. I would like to interview your household staff, view the crime scene and clear up a few more details with you.”

“Not today, Lisa. I have a tennis afternoon all planned for the country club.”

Lisa sucked in an irritated breath. “What time are you leaving? I can be there in twenty minutes.” A definite exaggeration. She couldn’t possibly get across the city in twenty minutes.

“Well, honestly,” Glory said impatiently, as though no one had ever opposed her on anything before. “I’m not leaving for another hour or so, but this whole thing is a terrible bother and an intrusion on my life. I’m already so tired of it I could spit.”

“Spit a bucketful if it makes you feel better, but I’ll be at your house very shortly.”

“Couldn’t you interview Maria at her home and then talk to whichever part-time maids she digs up for you to question without my being present?”

“No, Glory, it doesn’t work that way. I’ll see you soon. Goodbye.”

Unnerved and perplexed by Glory’s head-in-the-sand attitude, Lisa left her office and headed for the research department. She walked into the place and saw that Larry was the only employee working at a computer today.

He got up when she approached and moved a chair close to his desk. “Have a seat. Is that steam I see coming out of your ears?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised.” Lisa plopped down. “Glory Witherington just may be the death of me. I can’t tell if she’s simply stupid or so damned spoiled that no one has ever said no to her.”

“How about a soft drink or some coffee? Maybe some nice herbal tea?”

“If you had a tranquilizer, would you offer that?” Lisa drawled. “It would probably do me more good than all the tea in China.”

“No drugs in here.”

“I know, I’m just kidding. Okay, whiz kid, what did you dig up?”

“You know I’ve been coming up with bits of information that I hadn’t wanted to pass on without confirmation, but what I’ve found is some very interesting data on criminal connections to Chandler Witherington Sr. The apple doesn’t usually fall far from the tree, and maybe that murder had more to do with Chandler’s activities than with Glory’s.”

Lisa sat very still and absorbed the implications. If Chandler were connected to mob activities—hiding behind a legitimate import-export business—maybe he’d been the intended victim that night instead of poor Mateo Ruiz.

But wasn’t that theory just a little too farfetched to even consider? Chandler Witherington might be a total jerk in person, but around Chicago he was regarded as an upstanding member of society.

“Larry, I think that’s really reaching,” she said.

“Yes, I know it is. But it’s not impossible, either, Lisa.”

“No, nothing’s impossible. But have you found one single thing that links Chandler to the wrong side of the law?”

“No, but I have this gut feeling…”

Lisa got up from her chair. “Sometimes gut feelings are nothing but gas, my friend. But you’ve definitely piqued my curiosity…and my imagination. Dare I request that you continue searching and keep me informed? I have to run, Larry. I told Glory Witherington that I was on my way to her house, and I don’t want to disappoint her by being late.” Lisa smiled wryly. “I’m sure she would much rather that I disappear from the face of the earth than show up at her front door to ask more questions. Thanks for everything. Talk to you later.”

Her smile faded as she walked from Larry’s domain to her own. As she entered her office, the phone began ringing. She picked it up and said, “Lisa Jensen.”

“Well, and how do you like being the center of attention?”

It was John Ludlow. Lisa’s heart sank. “I had nothing to do with that article, Mr. Ludlow.”

“From its tone, I’m sure you didn’t. Do you have any idea who did?”

“None whatsoever.”

“Journalists are persistent busybodies, Lisa, but they can also be extremely helpful at times. The byline on the article is the name J.D. Fields. Do you know him or her?”

“No, but maybe I should meet him or her. What do you think?”

“In good time, Lisa, in good time. Leave it lie for now. It’s too soon. You don’t have a solid case for your client yet. When you do, perhaps before trial, perhaps immediately following, the opportunity will arise for you to set your worth before the public.”

“My worth?”

“Don’t sound so down in the mouth, Lisa. The firm knows your worth, and so should you.”

She felt the burden of her job suddenly increase tenfold upon her shoulders. Had Ludlow intended to remind her of her responsibility to the firm, or had his compliment been genuine?

God, did she know anything for certain anymore? Everything and everyone seemed to have a dozen sides.

She chose to accept Ludlow at face value. “Thank you for the call,” she said quietly. “I have an appointment with Glory Witherington and must leave soon if I’m to be on time.”

“Good, glad to hear it. Forget that article and have a good day, Lisa.”

She put down the telephone, took her things and departed her office, the firm and the Ridge Building. A long breath of fresh air helped clear her head, and she set off for the Witherington mansion with renewed determination.

Chapter 5

At the Westbrook Depot, Lisa detrained and hailed a cab for the rest of her journey into the land of wealth and privilege. She was amazed at the size of what people called houses in this neighborhood. Each estate she passed seemed grander than the last. Each “house” was surrounded by tall rock or block walls covered in greenery, with only the roofs showing above them. The actual homes could only be glimpsed through security gates that allowed visitors access to the grounds—by invitation only, of course. The Witherington mansion was no exception. The only difference between that stunning property and others in the neighborhood was the herd of reporters camped out on the street in front.

“Does someone famous live here?” the cab driver asked.

“In a manner of speaking,” Lisa said dryly. “Whatever you do, don’t stop.”

“I’ll do my best.”

The cab driver pulled up to the gate so that Lisa could speak through the intercom system that was connected to the house, her picture being snapped all the while her head was stuck out of the backseat window. Soon the gate swung open, and the drive up to the main house began. Lisa, trying to ignore the barrage of flashes and reporters shouting questions, took note of the absence of a keypad anywhere near the gate so that a code could be entered to gain entrance onto the estate grounds. That meant that each car coming in either had to be admitted by way of the intercom or had to be outfitted with some sort of device similar to a garage door opener. She made a mental note to ask Glory how many of these devices they owned and in whose possession they might be. Did she pass them out to prospective and current boyfriends, for instance?

The driveway was long and U-shaped. Near the house, the place where Mateo’s body had been found was cordoned off by yellow crime scene tape, and a chalk outline was still visible on the pavement and grass. What appeared to be bloodstains also remained.

“What the hell happened here, lady?” the cabbie asked. “Hey, is this the place where that rich broad murdered her boyfriend? Is that why all those reporters are out there?”

Oh, the power of the press, Lisa thought. To the driver she said nothing. She just threw some money at him and climbed out of the backseat.

“You want me to come back later and get you?” he asked, as she walked up to the large, elaborate front doors.

“I’ll call if I need you,” Lisa threw over her shoulder.

“Ask for Danny White,” he yelled out the window.

Lisa nodded but didn’t turn around. She was too interested in the crime scene at the moment and she certainly didn’t want the cab driver hanging around any longer than necessary, asking her questions she wasn’t going to answer. Soon she heard the cab moving back down the driveway.

Lisa rang the bell. In moments, one of the ornate doors opened and she found herself looking at a young Hispanic woman who appeared to be still in her teens.

“Are you Maria?” she asked.

“Oh, no,” the young woman said with a heavy accent. “Maria no feel well.”

“That will be all, Connie.” Glory seemed to appear out of thin air behind the young woman. “Come in, Lisa. Is this going to take long?” There was blatant impatience in her voice.

“It will take as long as it takes, Glory,” Lisa said, managing to keep the edge out of her voice. Obviously Glory was still planning on her tennis match, as she was dressed in a sleeveless white sweater with a long-sleeved white sweater wrapped around her shoulders, a white sweatband on each wrist, a pair of white tennis shoes and a short, short white skirt. Lisa couldn’t help wondering how she managed to have such a good tan at this time of year. Probably a tanning salon, but maybe she’d spent a month in the Caribbean. Oh, the advantages of great wealth, she thought with an inner sigh.

“Fine,” Glory huffed as she walked Lisa into a room that was easily recognizable as a library because of all of the beautifully bound books lining the walls. “We can sit in here.”

The room was exquisite; the whole house was beautiful. Spectacular, actually. Lisa had been in extraordinary homes before, but none quite like the Witherington mansion.

“Have a seat. Over there by the fireplace,” Glory said with a careless wave of her hand.

The fireplace was without flame or heat, neither of which was needed for temperature or atmosphere during this rather strained meeting. Not that it should be strained, Lisa thought, telling herself again, as she had on the train, to overlook Glory’s grating personality and behave with grace and unruffled professionalism.

Lisa chose one of the butter-soft leather chairs and set her briefcase down on the carpet next to it, thinking that Glory would immediately join her. Instead, Glory approached a few steps and asked, “What would you like to drink?”

“I would love a glass of cold water.”

“Now that’s exciting,” Glory drawled, and turned away to head over to the bar that Lisa had noticed, albeit with very little interest.

Now she took full note of it. The bar and six stools were constructed of an uncommon wood—to Lisa, at least—possibly imported from some far-off exotic place, elaborately carved and stained. The back bar was a series of glass-fronted shelves that suddenly showed their wares when the lights came on. Obviously Glory had hit a switch, and while Lisa watched, she poured some kind of amber liquor into a small glass and drank it in one swallow.

Lisa gaped but said nothing. She had no right to judge Glory, even though she would much rather have her client totally clearheaded while they talked.

Glory walked from the bar to Lisa’s chair carrying two glasses, one with water and ice chips, which she handed to Lisa, and the small shot glass, refilled of course, for herself. She sat nearby in another leather chair.