their next project. At 27, Melanie still carried within her the passion of youth and the certainty of her convictions. Dani hoped that didn’t change too quickly but knew it would, it must. Doubt was a necessary element of life, one often not appreciated until later in life. Only with doubt could one challenge his assumptions and ensure that his course was proper.
Dani handed Melanie the printout of People v. George Calhoun. “We’re considering taking his case and time is short. Less than six weeks until his scheduled execution. I’m going to head it up, and I’ve asked for you and Tommy on my team.”
Melanie shook her head. “Just six weeks? We’ve never turned around a conviction that quickly. Is it even possible?”
“Well, it’s not impossible. But no question it’ll be difficult.”
“What do you want me to do first?”
“Research everything you can about the case on Lexis/Nexis. I’ve overnighted a retainer letter to George, and when it’s returned we’ll fly out there, probably the beginning of next week. Is your schedule clear for this?”
“I … I can clear it. Nothing pressing right now.”
“What aren’t you telling me?”
The hint of a smile passed across Melanie’s face and abruptly disappeared as she resumed her professional pose. “It’s nothing. Next Tuesday is my one-year anniversary of dating Brad and we were going to celebrate at Per Se. It took forever to get reservations, but Brad will understand. I’m sure he will.”
Dani thought back on her courtship with Doug. The one-year anniversary of their first date had been a momentous occasion. It signified that they were a couple, not just a passing fling. Despite Melanie’s casual dismissal of her celebration plans, Dani appreciated how disappointed she was. “Okay. Read up on this case, see what you can find, and report back to me tomorrow.”
As Melanie left, Dani wondered whether Brad appreciated what a jewel she was. Certainly, her beauty must have dazzled him. Melanie was stunning. Her thick, shoulder-length strawberry-blond locks framed a perfectly oval face with thickly lashed eyes the color of an arctic glacier. Her body curved in all the right places, without an extraneous ounce of fat. She was more than her appearance, though. An assistant editor of the Yale Law Review, she graduated at the top of her class at the age of 22, having skipped two years of school. She could do anything, including clerking for a Supreme Court justice, but she had a fire burning within her that compelled her to right wrongs. Dani felt lucky to have her as part of her team.
CHAPTER
3
Driving to her home in Bronxville, a Westchester suburb a commuter’s distance from HIPP’s office, Dani’s thoughts lingered on George Calhoun. As usual, cars inched north on the FDR Drive in spurts of ten to twenty miles per hour. What should have been a thirty-minute drive home usually took an hour or more. When it snowed, it could take close to two hours. Dani supposed she could take the railroad into the city and then the subway, but she liked having her car with her in case a problem arose with Jonah and she needed to get home right away.
Before Jonah was born, she and Doug had lived in Brooklyn Heights, in a one-bedroom walk-up on the second floor. It was less expensive than Manhattan and an easy subway ride from the city. She loved living there. At night she and Doug would stroll over to the Promenade and gaze at the Manhattan skyline, the twin towers of the World Trade Center like two fists proclaiming the superiority of the city. She’d moved away before 9/11. After Jonah was born, they’d needed more room and bought a fixer-upper in Bronxville.
Dani passed the United Nations and saw a steady stream of traffic ahead. She slowly wound her way past the Queensboro Bridge, still graceful despite its advancing age, gradually picked up a little speed as she approached the Triboro Bridge, and had a reasonably smooth ride the rest of the trip home. She tuned the radio to a classic rock station. The pounding beats of Bon Jovi in the background didn’t stop her from mulling over George’s case. Inmates, guilty or not, regularly claimed innocence. It seemed strange, though, that he kept insisting the victim wasn’t his daughter. Was he delusional? Had he killed his daughter thinking she was someone else? Or was his wife delusional, imagining that George had killed Angelina?
She turned into her driveway a little after four o’clock—not bad time considering the traffic