Page 109 of The 1 Lawyer

Red unlocked a gun case, pulled a shotgun from the rack, and held it out to Jenny. She didn’t take it from him because another gun in the case had caught her eye, a twenty-gauge shotgun that was the most beautiful hunting gun she’d ever seen. The wooden stock was polished walnut with an elaborately engraved side plate; its barrels were buffed to a high sheen.

“Red, where on earth did you get that?” she asked reverently. She pointed up at the shotgun. He acknowledged it with a nod.

“Ain’t she a beauty? That’s a custom Perazzi, made in Italy. It’s not for sale, but you and me, we couldn’t afford it if it was. See the gold inlay in the side plate? Genuine gold, no kidding. That shotgun costs more than I make in a year. Heck, maybe two years.”

She leaned on the counter, longing to feel its weight and balance. “Can I hold it? Just for a second? I’ll be careful, I promise.”

He shut the case and turned the lock. “No, Jenny. You can try any gun in this place, but I can’t let you lay a hand on that one. It’s not mine.”

She was disappointed. “I’d be careful, Red. You know that.”

He looked adamant. She could tell that no amount of cajoling would change his mind. “You can’t even breathe on it, Jenny. That particular gun is part of a personal firearms collection. It’s here for yearly cleaning and maintenance, and they’re coming by any time to pick it up.”

He tucked the key into his pocket. “It’s the property of Hiram Caro.”

CHAPTER 86

JUDGE OSTROV-RONAI had called for lunch recess to end at exactly one o’clock. I made it back to court with five minutes to spare—and damp cuffs on my suit pants.

I had used the lunch break to drive to the boardwalk, sit in a secluded spot, and watch the water. I wanted to listen to the waves, breathe in the salty air; I’d hoped it would be a balm for my troubled spirit.

And it was. The water called to me. I kicked off my shoes, pulled off my socks, rolled up my pants, walked across the sand to the shoreline, and let the water rush up to cover my feet. It was restorative. But I stepped in too far and caught a wave that splashed almost up to my knees.

In the courtroom now, I inspected my pants, wondering whether the jury would notice the fabric was wet and wonder why. I was trying to dry them off with a handkerchief when Henry Gordon-James appeared at my counsel table.

I was surprised to see him standing so close. He hadn’t spoken directly to me since the trial began. I braced myself for a tirade or an angry confrontation. But when he spoke, his voice was soft, deliberately casual.

He said, “I really hate to admit being wrong.”

I stared at him, waiting for him to make his point. I knew this wasn’t idle conversation.

He continued. “I don’t like it, but the way things are shaping up, I might have to do that.”

Honestly, the silent treatment was preferable to mind games. “You’re speaking in riddles, Henry. If you’ve got something to say to me, just say it.”

He jammed his hands into his pockets. “They’re taking a close look at some old murder cases, some unsolved files. Gulfport PD and Biloxi PD are working together, along with the county sheriff’s department.”

“Great. Congratulations. Best of luck; hope they get to the bottom of whatever it is.”

He went on as if I hadn’t spoken. “There are some similarities in some of those cases, and they’re assessing them and also comparing them to the Iris Caro murder. Looking for a signature.”

His words kindled a spark of hope. My friends and I had been going through the same inquiry at my law office. I started to volunteer the information about the murder walls we’d constructed in my conference room, but something about the way his eyes bore down on me made me hesitate.

He said, “When you put it all together, all those pieces, it lends clarity. Shows the common denominator. Some of my best people in law enforcement are saying that you are the common thread. You’re the one responsible.”

I opened my mouth to protest. He spoke again before I had the chance.

“And you were right under my nose this whole time. I used to think that Daniel Caro was a cold bastard, an unfeeling predator. But you’re worse.”

During the conversation, the bailiffs had wandered back into court. We had an audience.

Gordon-James said, “You are a monster.”

CHAPTER 87

THAT NIGHT, I sat in my conference room with a list of witnesses that the DA had provided. I sifted through the prosecution file, trying to predict who Gordon-James would call the next day.

It was a guessing game that required my complete attention. I suspected that the DA would unleash the damning e-mails I’d supposedly sent to Rue after the murder that contained incriminating statements of criminal responsibility. They had one they’d purportedly found on my computer instructing her to put on her housekeeping uniform and get inside the Caros’ house to get the shoe I left behind.

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