Page 33 of The 1 Lawyer

Mason raised his eyebrows. “Strange that Harrison County let a homicide go unresolved. What did the police tell you? Why was no one prosecuted?”

Whitman said, “I kept calling them and asking that same question. They got to where they wouldn’t take my calls, wouldn’t return my messages. So I went over in person and asked the detective. He just told me to go home.”

Mason frowned. “Seriously? He really said that?”

Jenny wasn’t surprised. The detectives wouldn’t hesitate to give a poor Black shrimp-header the brush-off. Things hadn’t changed that much in Gulfport or Biloxi.

“Yeah, he told me it wasn’t going anywhere. They didn’t have leads. And I asked, didn’t they do that rape kit? But he said someone messed it up.”

Mason said, “What happened to the evidence?”

Jenny answered for Whitman. “Germain told me the sexual assault kit wasn’t properly stored, so the DNA sample was lost.”

“But that was two years ago,” Whitman said. “Now they know about Caro, what kind of man he is.”

Mason shook his head. He picked up a pen and tapped it on a legal pad while he regarded the man. At length, he said, “Mr. Whitman, I have to ask you: What do you want? What have you come here for today?”

Whitman shifted in the seat, looking uncomfortable. “I don’t understand.”

“When you hire an attorney, it’s because you want a remedy. Usually it’s money—damages. But I don’t think you can win a judgment against the Gulfport or Biloxi PD on these facts.”

“You think I want money?” Whitman’s eyes glinted with tears. He didn’t bother to wipe them away. “I want the police to open up that investigation and get some justice.” His voice rose. “How do I get them to do that? I hear all about Aurora Gates, it’s the same goddamn thing that got done to Desiree. I want Caro to go to trial for killing my wife. How can I make it happen?”

As Jenny waited for Mason to answer, she felt her stomach sink. Watching his expression, she knew what he would say. Still, she winced when he spoke the words.

“You can’t.”

CHAPTER 26

BETWEEN THE jabbering on the twenty-four-hour news channel and the rattle of the air compressor in my window unit, I almost missed the knock on the door of my hotel room.

I checked the time. It was past eleven o’clock, pretty late for a casual visit. The door to the room didn’t have a peephole, so I cracked it open.

Joey Roman shoved the door wide, came in, and kicked it shut with his booted foot. His voice was entirely cold when he said, “I’m here to give you a message.”

He delivered an uppercut straight to my gut. I dropped to the floor, unable to breathe. Roman stood over me, watching me writhe on the carpet. Then he took a half step back and kicked me in the nuts. “Mr. Caro gave strict orders that I couldn’t hit you in the face because he wants you to look presentable in court tomorrow. You need a full set of teeth.”

I rolled onto my side and curled up in a fetal position. In my agony, I heard high, keening noises. On some level, I was cognizant that the sounds were coming from my own throat.

Roman gazed down at me with professional interest. Then he walked to the bedside table, picked up the TV remote, and turned up the volume. He sat in the chair, propped his feet on the bed, and flipped through the channels while I convulsed on the floor.

When I’d recovered sufficiently to quit wailing, Roman muted the TV. “Penney, it looks to Hiram Caro like you picked the wrong line of work. You’re not tough enough for the law.”

I took a shallow breath and said, “Tell him I’m doing all I possibly can to show the jury his son’s not guilty. I swear to God.”

Roman leaned over me and said, “Jesus, Penney. You still don’t get it. Dr. Caro needs to walk out of that courtroom a free man whether he’s guilty or not.”

I stared up at him, praying that he wouldn’t choose to inflict another blow because I was physically incapable of fending it off. He frowned at me. “Do you understand, Penney?”

In a hoarse whisper, I said, “Yeah. You’ve made yourself absolutely clear.”

“That’s good. I’m relieved to hear it.” He opened one side of his jacket and displayed a handgun in a holster he wore on his belt. It seemed entirely possible that Hiram Caro had decided that the best way to guarantee a new trial was to kill the defense attorney.

He dropped the jacket, stepped over me, and made his way to the door. I followed him with my eyes. If he was done, I was a lucky man.

But then he delivered his parting words.

“Hey, Penney. I know where your wife lives. That’s a nice house you’ve got on St. Charles Street.”

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