his peers. But they didn’t know everything, did they? There was a reason his DNA was under the dead woman’s nails.
Reasons and secrets, infidelity and death.
Adrian said no one knew he was sleeping with the victim, but was it really such a blur? What about Gideon’s father? If Adrian was sleeping with his wife, Robert Strange may have known. Sex. Betrayal. Wives had been murdered for less. If he framed her lover for the murder, it would be a neat little package: cheating wife dead, boyfriend locked away. But Robert Strange had an alibi. Beckett himself had verified it.
What about Adrian’s wife?
That was an interesting question. Did Catherine Wall know her husband was cheating? She was pregnant, possibly jealous. She wasn’t investigated because no one other than Adrian and his attorney knew about the affair.
What if that was not entirely true?
Against his own attorney’s advice, Adrian had refused to take the stand. Had he done so, he could have explained all the things that led to his conviction. He said he kept quiet because he didn’t wish to hurt his wife, and because no one would believe him, anyway. What if it was more than that? What if he didn’t want to implicate her? Take the stand against her?
Did Adrian go to prison to protect his wife?
If Catherine Wall knew of the affair, she had motive to kill Julia Strange. Did she have an alibi? Most likely, no one would ever know. The woman was gone, the case closed. So Elizabeth considered the crime itself. Manual strangulation took some strength. So did lifting bodies, posing them on altars. Could a woman do it?
Maybe.
If she was strong enough. Angry enough.
Maybe she had help.
Elizabeth watched Adrian, but he did not look up again. So, she scrubbed at her face and settled into the drudgery of court as first appearances took over. Prisoners met the judge, had their charges read, waited for lawyers to be appointed. She’d seen it a hundred times on a hundred different days. The first ripple came long before Adrian was even called. It started in front of the bar, and Elizabeth saw it like a breeze over grass. Heads came together; people muttered. She didn’t understand until the prosecutor leaned into his assistant and whispered, “What the hell is Crybaby Jones doing here?”
Elizabeth followed the stares and saw Faircloth Jones at a side door beyond the bar. He was frail but elegant, dressed in the same kind of bow tie and seersucker suit he’d worn for most of his fifty years in practice. He stood above a dark-wood cane and held perfectly still until even the judge turned his way. After that, the old lawyer had the stage, crossing the room as if he owned it, nodding at older lawyers, who grinned or nodded back or brooded over old cases and long-wounded pride. The younger lawyers nudged each other and leaned close, each one asking more or less the same question: Is that really Crybaby Jones? Elizabeth understood that, too. Faircloth Jones was the finest lawyer to come through the county; yet, he’d not been seen outside his own house in close to ten years. Even the judge accepted the impact of the old lawyer’s presence, leaning back in his chair and saying, “Okay. May as well deal with this, now. Mr. Jones.” He projected his voice at the row of seated lawyers. “Very nice to see you again.”
Faircloth stopped beside the first bench and seemed to bow without doing so. “The pleasure is entirely mine, Your Honor.”
“I’d rather not assume, but may I ask…?”
“Adrian Wall, Your Honor. Yes. I’d like to be noted as counsel of record.”
The DA rose, large and unhappy. “Your Honor, Attorney Jones hasn’t been seen in court for over ten years. I don’t even know if his license is current.”
“Let’s ask him, then. Mr. Jones?”
“My license is quite current, Your Honor.”
“There you are, Mr. DA. Quite current.” The judge glanced at the rowed prisoners, lifted a finger, and said, “Bailiff.”
Two bailiffs culled Adrian from the prisoner’s bench. He kept his head up this time and nodded at the old lawyer. Faircloth touched him once on the shoulder, then said, “I’d like to have these cuffs removed, if I may.”
The judge motioned again, and the DA could not hide his frustration. “Your Honor!”
The judge held up a hand and leaned forward. “It’s my understanding that the defendant is not before this court on a violent offense.”