An Imperfect Process Page 5

  The words death row hit Rob like ice water, shattering his relaxed mood. "Are you sure your friend isn't indulging in wishful thinking about his innocence? Most convicts will swear on a stack of Bibles that they were railroaded."

  "Kendra says she was with him the night of the murder."

  "The police didn't believe her?"

  "They thought she was lying to protect her boyfriend. I'm sure that happens, but Kendra doesn't lie. If Kendra says he was with her, he was."

  So maybe this really was an innocent man wrongly convicted. "What was the case against Monroe?"

  "I haven't seen the files yet—this only just came up—but Kendra said that he was convicted on the testimony of the three eyewitnesses."

  His mouth twisted. "Eyewitness error is the most common cause of unjust conviction."

  "Yes, but it's awfully hard to disprove." Her arms tightened around her knees. "If a victim gets up on the witness stand and says, "That man there did it,' juries believe. A mistaken witness can send an innocent man to his death."

  "When a crime raises public outrage, everyone is desperate to see the killer punished," Rob said cynically. "It's too easy for police and prosecutors to settle for the first plausible suspect and not look any further."

  She studied his face. "You know something about crime and punishment."

  His gaze shifted away from her. 'I've done some reading." Which was true, though most of what he knew had been learned the hard way. "How will you go about this? As a capital case, I imagine it's been pretty thoroughly hashed over."

  "I'll start with getting the case files from the public defender's office. Then I'll try to interview everyone significant in the case—the defense lawyer, the prosecutor, the police, the eyewitnesses, and hope they're all still alive. I'll have to tear apart every shred of evidence and look for weaknesses."

  She halted. "No, that's not where to start. First I have to visit Monroe at the penitentiary. All I know about him is through Kendra. I want to meet him for myself, then find out if he wants me to act for him. I really can't do anything without his agreement."

  Rob's desire for detachment fought a brief but fierce battle with a compulsion to get involved in this case. "Take me with you. Maybe I can help with the investigation."

  "Why would you want to do that?" she asked, startled.

  "I don't like capital punishment," he said flatly. "How do you feel about it?"

  "Ambivalent." She frowned. "I don't clamor for blood, but some people have done such ghastly things that it's hard to be upset if they meet their maker prematurely."

  "By killing, society reduces itself to the level of a murderer. Not to mention the fact that innocent men die. Did you know that for every seven men executed, one is released from death row as completely innocent? A lot of prisoners have been freed when DNA evidence proved they didn't commit the crime. What does that imply about cases where there's no DNA to give absolute proof of guilt or innocence?"

  She stared at him. "One in eight? Really?"

  "So I've read. The figures aren't exact. Plenty of agencies keep track of crime and punishment, but not many track wrongful convictions."

  "Twelve percent. That's appalling." She swung from the window seat and began pacing the room. "If the percentage of wrong convictions holds across the board, that means tens of thousands of innocent people are in prison."

  He smiled without humor. "You wanted to do justice. The field is wide open."

  "I promised to look into this case for Kendra's sake, but if the problem of wrongful conviction is so widespread, there's even more reason to take it on." She gave a quick, impatient shake of her head. "Any thinking person recognizes that the system must occasionally fail and send an innocent man to jail, or worse, to the death chamber. But if mistakes are made on such a scale, it's... it's horrific."

  "You'll probably go home this afternoon and research to find if my figures are accurate," he predicted.

  She looked startled. "I'm that transparent?"

  "Lawyers believe in facts. Before you start a crusade, you're going to make sure that you're carrying the right banner."

  "Damn straight." She stopped pacing and studied his face with alarming intensity. "Rob, your desire to help an innocent man is obviously for real, but I have to ask if you have any experience as an investigator. Do you think you can handle an investigation with so much riding on it? There won't be time for second chances. If this kind of work is outside your experience, I can hire a professional investigator."

  Though he preferred not to discuss his past, it couldn't be avoided this time. "I was a military policeman in the Marines, and I was damned good at it. I had a knack for thinking sideways, so I was given the oddball cases. It's been a few years, but the basic cop skills of investigation, interviewing, and deduction were drummed into me pretty thoroughly. Maybe I can find some angles that no one else has."

  "You're hired. Not that there's any money in this." She smiled a little. "Between now and the time I leave my job, I'm going to be swamped, so it will be a godsend if you have skill and interest in this."

  "Thanks for letting me help." The words were inadequate for what he felt. Even to himself, he couldn't fully explain this urgent need to try to save a stranger. Changing the subject, he said, "You were interested in some remodeling before you move in?"

  "Bookcases, closet shelving, that sort of thing. One of the back rooms needs to be set up for equipment like copiers and printers." Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully as she shifted mental gears from justice to office space. "It might be good to install double doors between this office and the one behind. I can use the extra space as a library and conference room."

  "No problem. Do you want to think about what changes you'd like over the weekend, then give me a list so I can do an estimate?"

  "Will do. I want to move in as soon as I wind things up at Crouse, Resnick." Her gaze flicked upward. "Your apartment can't be very large. If you want to keep your office here or in the basement for the time being, feel free. There's plenty of space."

  He shook his head, both amused and bemused. "And you say I'm too trusting. What if I'm an ax murderer?"

  "If you are, I hope I remember the moves from my self- defense class." She crossed to the door. "But you don't look particularly crazed, and if you're around some of the time, it might discourage other ax murderers."

  A pragmatic lady. He followed her down the hall and into the former sanctuary. "What goes in here?"

  "Kendra's office, so she can keep an eye on the door, plus a sitting and gathering area. Maybe knee walls or portable cubicle dividers to give her some privacy. Her choice." Val moved into the center of the sanctuary, her gaze going to the stained-glass roundels. "I love this building so much. How can justice not be done here?"

  "Justice is good," he said softly. "Mercy is better."

  "So we're back to capital punishment." Her gaze was uncomfortably acute. "You're an interesting man, Rob Smith."

  "And the Chinese made interesting into a curse." He pulled a set of keys from his pocket. "Time to sign the contracts and make you the official tenant. Then you can come and go as you please."

  She grinned. "Don't forget that I'm supposed to give you a check."

  He snapped his fingers in mock surprise. "Oh, yeah. Money. I need to work on the business end of being a landlord. I'm better with studs and Sheetrock."

  She whipped out a business card and handed it to him. "If you need a lawyer, let me know. For landlords, special rates."

  They both chuckled, and to his relief, the mood lightened again. Signing the contracts took only a few minutes, after which he left Val to survey her new empire. Yet as he drove in toward the center of the city, he couldn't shake her from his thoughts.

  For years, he had passed through the world like a ghost, interacting mostly with things instead of people. Val Covington made him real.

  It was a damned uncomfortable feeling.

  Chapter 5

  After Rob left, Val measured rooms
and made notes, but her mind was churning. If he was right about how many innocent people were being sent to jail—and she suspected that he didn't make many mistakes—she had discovered a subject she could feel passionate about.

  Though grateful for Rob's investigative skills and desire to help, she wondered if more help would be needed. Maybe journalism students? At Northwestern University, a journalism professor and his students had done investigations that cleared so many men on death row that the Illinois governor put a moratorium on executions. But students would require some supervision, and she simply didn't have the time. She would give Rob a chance to show his stuff before she sought more volunteers.

  In the meantime, she had Crouse, Resnick work to finish. More briefs. Clients paying top dollar for her full attention. But today was Saturday, and she was entitled to have her own life for a few hours. That meant pricing equipment for her new office, then kicking back over dinner with a friend.

  After visiting an office furniture warehouse and a computer superstore, she headed for home, thinking again about her landlord. Definitely one of a kind. She would love to know more about his background, but wasn't quite rude enough to ask. She grinned. When she knew Rob better, then she would be rude.

  Their relationship was developing fast, albeit in unconventional ways. She was still surprised at her impulsive suggestion that he maintain his office in the church, but it was true that she had space to spare. It would be nice to have him around.

  Okay, Val, admit that you're attracted. She liked his mind, liked his solid, practical skills, liked that he cared about the fate of a condemned man he had never met.

  Not to mention that either he radiated sex appeal, or she had been celibate way too long. Maybe both.

  She realized that she was humming a song her mother sang as a lullaby, "If I Were a Carpenter," and smiled. How appropriate, for under the lilting words and melody it was a song about class. She was a Harvard-educated lawyer and Rob was a carpenter, remodeler, and ex-Marine. Was attraction doomed?

  Hell, no. Education was all very well, but in her experience, having a bright and active mind mattered more than having a diploma on the wall. And unless her judgment was way off, he was not unaware of her.

  Such a lovely combination of strength and practical skills and sharp mind and appealing textures. She would love to run her fingers through that thick, tawny beard....

  She cut off her thoughts before they could descend into X-rated territory. The fact that he was interesting and attractive didn't make him date material even though he was age appropriate, had no obvious vices, and she had always had a weakness for beards.

  But she had a longstanding rule not to date men she worked with, and since he was both landlord and potential investigator, a more intimate relationship had plenty of room to cause trouble if it didn't work out. Best to keep things on a professional level.

  On the other hand—as a lawyer, Val had a lot more than two hands—maybe she was trying to deny the possibility of romance because she had lost her nerve. It had been a long time since she had been in a real relationship.

  The last had been with Donovan, her friend Kate's once and present husband. He was a great guy who had treated her well, but in retrospect she realized that he hadn't really been emotionally available because he had never stopped loving Kate. Luckily, they had all managed to stay friends after Kate moved back to Baltimore and fell straight into her ex-husband's arms.

  The most intriguing man she had met since Donovan was Greg Marino, the cinematographer on Rainey's movie. Working as Rainey's assistant, Val had hung out with Greg during the shoot. He also had a delicious beard and was a real sweetie as well as very talented. He had asked her to be his date at the Academy Awards ceremony where he won an Oscar, which made for an unforgettable night. Yet though she had liked him immensely, there was no future for a show business gypsy and a conventional East Coaster like her.

  She sighed. Men. Now that she might actually have time for a real romance, she needed to figure out better ways to pick 'em.

  Pulling into the alley garage of her house started a welcome flow of relaxation through her. The Homeland neighborhood was one of Baltimore's best, with handsome, spacious houses and shady trees. Traditional center hall colonials predominated, but Val had fallen in love with this Tudor-style house the moment she saw it. Asymmetrical and finished with cream-colored stucco between herringbone beams, her home sat placidly under slanting slate roofs. Comfort with a dash of eccentricity—just her style.

  As a child she had loved her father's grand Connecticut house on the rare occasions when she visited. Not only were the grounds larger than some Baltimore parks and a lot better landscaped, but there were more bathrooms than residents.

  Her yearning to live in such a house had made her feel disloyal to the small row house she shared with her mother. The house was pleasant and wonderfully decorated by Callie, and Val had helped her mother buy it when the landlord decided to sell. But it would never be a Connecticut mansion.

  Her Homeland Tudor house wasn't a mansion either, but it was just right for her, and a reward for years of hard work. Since she was walking away from her law partnership income, maybe it would have been smarter to stay in her first home, a row house near Johns Hopkins University. The mortgage and running costs there were one heck of a lot lower, but she couldn't regret buying her dream house. If she ended up having to cut costs in other areas, so be it.

  A stop at a gourmet grocer on the way home provided the ingredients for dinner. The meal would be simple since her guest, Rachel Hamilton, had been a friend since first grade and formality was neither necessary nor desired.

  Val was looking forward to the evening. They hadn't managed to get together for months, and it would be fun to catch up. Rachel's good sense was always useful for keeping things in perspective. A pity she had wasted herself on medical school; she would have made a great judge. In fact, Rachel's father was a judge.

  The cats were waiting in the mudroom when she came in the rear door. The sleek black male, Damocles, waited aloofly while the calico lady, Lilith, twined suggestively around Val's ankles, gaze locked on the plastic shopping bags. "Don't pretend you're starving, Lilith. I saw you inhaling your breakfast." Val bent to stroke Lilith's head, skritched Damocles's neck so he wouldn't feel neglected, and headed for the kitchen.

  Some fast work resulted in marinara sauce with sliced Italian sausage gently simmering on the back burner, a table set with crystal and candles—why restrict elegance to dinners with men?—and a green salad chilling in the refrigerator next to a bottle of wine. Val was wrapping garlic bread in foil for heating when the doorbell rang.

  She skipped to the front door to admit her friend. Tall and serene, with short dark hair that fell naturally into soft waves, Rachel inspired confidence even when she looked exhausted, like this evening.

  She stepped into the vestibule and inhaled deeply. "Smells wonderful. How do you do it, Val? You're at least as busy as I am, but you still manage to be a domestic goddess."

  Val laughed. "I know where to buy good food made by other people to fill in whatever gaps I don't have time to fill myself. Come on in and have some wine and tell me what you've been up to."

  Over wine, pasta, and dessert, they talked with the ease of friends who can reconnect immediately no matter how long it has been since their last meeting. Afterward, they settled on the sun porch, which was cozier than the formal living room. Val curled up in her wing chair, Lilith on her lap, while Damocles sprawled across Rachel, who was conveniently wearing black so the fur wouldn't show.

  Having heard Val's story about how and why she was changing her career, Rachel said, "This must be a good decision. I haven't seen you so happy and excited for years."

  "I'm excited but scared, too." Val paused to clarify her qualms. "Up until now, sheer competitiveness kept me pointed in the right direction. Not only am I tackling professional areas where I don't know much, I have no idea how to manage leisure time. I'm too use
d to running like a gerbil on a wheel."

  Rachel took the disclosure calmly. She had always been the Mother Confessor of their group of friends. "Of course you're scared. Any life change worth doing is scary. But I think you'll be glad once you make the adjustment. You just have to trade some of the orderliness you like for more disorder."

  Val groaned. "It sounds awful when you put it that way."

  "Then impose order by making lists. You always enjoy that. What's on your list for using your new leisure time?"

  "I'd like to garden again," Val said thoughtfully. "Travel more, cook more, go antiquing. Heck, it would be heavenly to be able to loaf around the house with the cats guilt-free. But the biggie is relationships, of course. Friendships are plants that need watering with time and effort. I want to be able to have lunch with a friend without scheduling it a month in advance, and then having to cancel half the time."

  "I wonder if that's why most of my friends are people I've known for years. I haven't had time to develop new friendships." Rachel scratched Damocles under the chin. "Speaking of relationships, tell me about this landlord of yours. You get a feline gleam in your eyes when you mention him."

  Val made a face. "Is it that obvious?"

  "Crystal clear."

  "He's an interesting guy—the still-waters-run-deep sort. Very down-to-earth and practical, which should help in this death row investigation. He genuinely cares about saving Daniel Monroe's life, I think, so he'll do his best."

  "That's all very well, but is he attractive?"

  Val looked for a movie analogy from the years when the old gang watched films together every Sunday night. "Think of Charlton Heston as Ben-Hur after the Roman galley sinks and Chuck is rowing that raft. Lots of muscles and a blond beard."