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Circles And Convolutions by Margaret B. Davidson
"Did you kill her, Brad?"
"Come on, Tom. We're friends. You know me, man."
"I need the truth, so there'll be no surprises in court."
"I didn't kill my wife, Tom, and if you don't believe me I can always ask that partner of yours to defend me. Marv whatshisname. Never lost a case, has he?"
"Marv Miskin is a disgrace to the firm. He may be a master at convincing juries, but he's still a scumbag.You're better off with me."
"Yeah, well, I know you're way up there in the ethics department."
One of the many things I disliked about Brad was his sarcasm. He'd said we were friends, but that wasn't strictly true. We'd been neighbors for several years, feigning friendship because it was more convenient than animosity, given our proximity. And then there'd been Alicia.
***
The crime my client had been accused of was a particularly gruesome one. Alicia had been reported missing by Brad, and after an extensive search over several days her remains were found buried only two streets away in the Garnsey Road Arboretum. She'd been strangled, and hacked to pieces.
Brad had been charged, but the evidence was circumstantial. He'd had the opportunity, but no known motive. There'd been fresh dirt on the shovel in Brad's garage -- dirt that may or may not have come from the Arboretum. Analysis of that dirt had been conducted, but expert witnesses were unable to testify that it had not come from Brad's own back yard.
***
Brad had given me full credit for his acquittal.
"You were great, Tom. I'd never have gotten away with it without your help."
"What?"
"You knew all along I'd killed her, right?"
"You lied to me."
"You actually believed me? Well, what's the difference? Guilty or not, I was entitled to a defense."
"You murdered Alicia!"
"She was cheating on me, and when I find out with whom, the son-of-a-bitch is gonna pay, big time."
I decided to use the gun I already owned.
***
It was a cool spring night when I climbed through Brad's open bedroom window. Moonlight showed an unmoving lump beneath the blankets. I clicked off the safety on the gun, and took aim just as an arm flung out from the shape on the bed. There was a muted pop and a chunk of ceiling plaster hit the floor.
Brad and I scrabbled for the gun. I got to it first. Knocked Brad flat with my fist. He lay staring up at me, gasping. "I thought it might be you, you sanctimonious son-of-a-bitch. Couldn't keep your hands off my wife, all the time pretending to be the perfect pal." He sneered. "You knew I'd eventually figure it out, didn't you? It's you or me, buddy." He lunged. I pulled the trigger.
I'd taken the stairs two at a time; high-tailed it out of there. Too bad I'd panicked because I left Brad alive just long enough to breathe my name to the police when they'd barged into Brad's house fifteen minutes later. It seems they'd been alerted by a neighbor who'd been awakened by the sound of loud voices.
***
Now, sprawled on my bunk, the clang of the prison gates reverberating in my head, I try to calm myself and review my options. I jump up, start pacing.
The case against me isn't ironclad. It's true Brad gasped my name, but what does that mean? I was his friend, right? A facile attorney should be able to persuade a jury how heartwarming it was that Brad asked for his best buddy with his dying breath.
I know who would be most convincing in court, but the guy's hated my guts ever since I accused him of evidence-tampering in the Wilkinson case awhile back. Still, with sufficient groveling on my part, and the promise of payment of a hefty fee, Marv Miskin will agree to forget past differences.
As I make the necessary phone call, it occurs to me that Marv will, perhaps for the first time in his life, be doing the ethical thing. Haven't I, after all, only done the job the courts had failed to do?
THE END Margaret B. Davidson © 2008 |
