“Perhaps there’s more to the story, and he realized, after taking the stand, that the things he revealed could lead to other things being discovered that would point to some guilt of his own. Another benefit as far as your trial is concerned, James’s former testimony would only be hearsay and as such inadmissible as evidence. In other words, it doesn’t exist.”
Juliet wrapped her arms around herself, her lightweight suit insufficient in the warmth department.
“On the other hand, he won’t be here for your attorney to question, either. Which will make it more of a challenge to find whatever James might have hidden in his telling of the facts.”
He nodded. Rocked slowly and then stopped. She had a pretty good idea what he was waiting for. She wished there was a way to minimize the truth.
“And if I’m found guilty?”
“Due to the amount of money in question, you could be facing up to fourteen years in prison, per count, which the judge could rule to be served concurrently or consecutively. However, a maximum sentence on a first offense isn’t likely. It’ll depend a lot on the intent and motivation the attorneys leave with the jury.”
His shoulders sagged. “I could spend the rest of my life in prison.”
Damn fine job she’d done of lightening that load.
“However, since this is a first offense,” she added without validating the correctness of his math, “it’s within the judge’s power to sentence you to probation. Depending again on the facts that come out during the trial, which will indicate your potential risk of a repeat offense and consequent harm to the community.”
“Repeat offense.” His voice overflowed with disbelief. She couldn’t tell whether that was because the idea of finding himself in this position was ludicrous, or because he was an innocent man in shock.
“I can’t believe that anyone, seeing what you’ve done with this company in the last five years, will believe there’s much risk of that.”
She was going to remain neutral. It was the only smart, logical, safe choice. He was not a father to Mary Jane. He was only the biological contributor. A sweet memory from her youth. Whether or not he was being falsely accused was not her concern.
And if she told herself that often enough, she might eventually get the message.
“Ironic, isn’t it?” He turned to glance down at her with a crooked, humorless smile. “Just weeks ago, you were joking about my ever finding myself in need of a good attorney.”
She remembered. And she’d said it, at least in part, because he was the last person she’d ever expected to need a defense attorney.
“I told you to call.”
“You were James’s attorney. Does that preclude me from hiring you?”
His gaze was focused on the sidewalk again.
So was hers.
“There’d be confidentiality issues, but assuming his wife signed a waiver, they wouldn’t prevent me from taking your case.”
Her heart was pounding. He was going to ask her to represent him, and she felt she had to help him. And that she could. She also knew she was asking the impossible. Of herself. Of fate. And of an eight-year-old girl who did not deserve to have her life any more chaotic than it already was.
Whether or not she’d done right by this man in keeping her secret nine years before, there was someone else, equally important, to consider here. Mary Jane McNeil. Juliet’s nine-year-old choice had shaped Mary Jane’s life—and she couldn’t arbitrarily disrupt that life because of latent guilt.
But, God, she wished she knew what she should do.
“Would you be willing to take this case?”
She leaned forward, following the trail of a girl walking four various size dogs, all with leashes heading off in separate directions, alternately pulling her and tripping her. Either she was brand new to the job, or needed to find herself another career.
“It depends.”
“On what?” He sounded more curious than concerned at that point. Juliet supposed his senses, his emotions, were on overload.
She turned to look at him. “Are you guilty?”
He stared right back with unblinking eyes. “Do you need to ask?”
“If I’m going to be your attorney, I do.”
“I’m not guilty.”
Blake offered to order them something to eat. Telling herself she wasn’t agreeing to anything but an informal lunch, Juliet accepted. And joined him on the couch when the chicken-salad-on-wheat sandwiches arrived. Whether she took his case or not, whether she could get the waiver or not, there were some things she could advise him about, just as a friend. Things he would need to know to protect himself, rights most people never had reason to learn about.
Like the fact that he had a right to have copies of all documents the prosecutor was going to use against him, including the statements of all witnesses who would be called to testify.
He listened. Nodded. Ate slowly. Asked a couple of intelligent questions. He didn’t take notes.
And as soon as there was a break in her explanation, he changed the subject.
“You said earlier that Schuster’s meeting with the grand jury this morning was only part of the reason for your overreaction about speaking on the telephone. What was the rest?”
Juliet set her paper-wrapped, half-eaten sandwich on the table in front of her. “Had enough trial talk for now, huh?” she asked. There was more she could tell him to arm him for the fight ahead.
“I need to take this one step at a time,” he told her, his gaze open, honest. “Let’s see what the grand jury decides. Until then, there’s no point in getting in any deeper.”
I can’t handle any more right now, she translated. And understood.
Wadding up his empty paper, he took a long swig from the cola can he’d produced—one for each of them—from the small refrigerator. His throat was long, slender, as he tilted back his head. Slender yet strong. The muscles in his throat moved with each swallow.
Never, ever had Juliet been so intrigued by a throat.
“I imagine that it’s not often the accomplished Ms. Juliet McNeil overreacts,” he said, his expression less pinched as he leaned into the corner of the couch, one arm resting along the back, and raised an ankle to his knee. “I’d like to know what caused it.”
It wasn’t something she talked about. Not even with Marcie. They had spoken of it, of course. In the beginning, right after it had happened. And then Juliet had gone to counseling separate from the grief counseling they’d both had, and they’d never spoken of it again.
“The news about Eaton James really threw me.”
Putting her cola on the table, Juliet turned to face him.
“You’ve spent a lot of time with James lately. I imagine you got to know him well.”
Not that well. “He was a client. Nothing more.” She’d had so many she didn’t even remember them all. Or at least, not the specifics of each case. Some of them she did, of course. But if she didn’t stay detached she’d never be able to do her job.
“I just can’t stop thinking about his wife. She’s left, not only with an uncertain and perhaps insecure future, but with a lifetime of what-ifs and if-onlys.”
And those could kill a person. If she let them.
Blake’s eyes narrowed again, but with compassion rather than suspicion. “It sounds as though you know what you’re talking about.”
A memory surfaced. Briefly.