Page 46 of Dead Mountain

“There’s no cell or data service in those mountains,” Nora said.

“Shit!” said Skip.

The lawyer nodded his agreement. “‘Shit’ is right. You can be sure the recording was erased long before they brought the phone back into cell range.”

“But even if you erase something, isn’t it still there?”

“Not if you know what you’re doing. I’m afraid we have to assume that video is gone forever.” He leaned forward. “And they have an unimpeachable witness in Deputy Baca, who’s no doubt going to testify as instructed. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but we’re in a tight place.”

“But I saw it,” said Nora. “I’m a witness.”

“You’re his sister. A jury is going to be skeptical of your testimony. And Skip, Hawley’s fall left a visible bruise on his shoulder. They’ve got photos and a hospital report. On top of that, a Torrance County jury is going to be in the pocket of that sheriff. They love him over there, at least most of them. The ones that don’t, well, they keep their heads down. Sheriff Hawley keeps getting reelected, year after year, and his buddies run that county like a good old boys’ club.”

Skip groaned. “I’m totally fucked.”

Lightfeather went on. “If we don’t play ball and plead out, they’ve threatened to add attempted murder to the charges.”

“Attempted murder? What the hell?”

“The sheriff claims his head hit a rock when he fell, and that he could have been killed. Is that true?”

Nora and Skip looked at each other. “There was a bit of rock sticking up from the ground,” Skip said. “But I don’t think it hit him. I don’t think it even glanced his head.”

“Attempted murder alone could bring you fifteen years—and since the supposed crime involved a law officer, the punishment could be escalated. We don’t know what Hawley’s hospital records will indicate, but he’s playing with a strong hand here, and the rest of the deck is stacked against us.”

“Fifteen years?” Skip groaned again. “This just gets worse and worse.” He gripped his head in his hands and rocked back and forth. “What do we do?”

“I’ve laid out the problem as baldly as I could. There’s still much I can do and much research to be done. The good news is we got you out on bail, despite their efforts to get pretrial detention. You can remain in your sister’s custody, go to and from work, even travel for work-related purposes—within the county, of course. No need for even an ankle bracelet.”

The steaks arrived, along with Nora’s salad. She had lost what little appetite she’d had. Skip was looking at his steak, a sick expression on his face. Lightfeather, on the other hand, immediately tucked into his. After a moment, he stopped and looked at the two of them.

“Bon appétit,” he said, finishing his martini and cutting a hunk of bloody meat. “One thing you learn as a defense attorney is to enjoy every moment you can . . . because you never know what tomorrow will bring.”

25

TOM GARDINER LOOKED around the den with curiosity. He hadn’t been in the O’Connell house for years. He could see that Harry’s widow had been busy since his death. The carpet, wood paneling, unassuming furniture, and paintings by local artists had been replaced with marble tiling, chrome, glass shelving, and a huge piece of abstract art set into a mirrored frame. The chairs and sofas were all of white leather, angular with low-set legs. Gingerly, Gardiner took a seat on a sofa next to Paul Tolland. The retired dental surgeon looked his way—slowly, like somebody waking from hibernation—and gave him a nod of welcome.

Gardiner didn’t imagine the den normally looked this way, with the tables gone and the seats arranged into something like a circle. But then, nothing about this meeting was normal. There was no potluck dinner, no small talk, just a hushed group of people sitting around restlessly in their chairs, waiting . . . for what? The friendly jocularity—forced or otherwise—was gone, and there was a feeling of trouble in the air.

Trouble, he decided, was the right word for it. He’d gotten the email just four hours earlier—it had come from Melody Ann, and he could hear her shrill voice in its capitalized letters. The group was to convene again, that very night, for an EMERGENCY MEETING!!!, as Melody Ann had described it in her online summons.

He had an inkling of what it was about. This had contributed to the vague sense of dread he’d felt on the way here—and what he saw around him did nothing to assuage it. Whether it was the recent events, the “reunion” a few days before, the tone of the email, or some combination of these, he could see in people’s faces a mixture of looks—confusion, dismay, apprehension, anger, belligerence, indignation.

Melody Ann O’Connell, as hostess, seated the last to arrive—Terry Van Gelder—then closed the door to the den. But instead of taking a seat, she remained standing, as if about to give a speech.

“I got a call,” she finally began, “from Cassy Wright around three this afternoon. The FBI had just left her and Cosmo’s house after delivering the news.” She paused a moment, then looked over at the Wrights, who were sitting together on a loveseat across from Gardiner. Now she came forward and stopped before the loveseat, stooping slightly and putting her hands on her knees, as one might when addressing a child, looking at Cassy Wright. “Would you like to tell the group what they said?”

Cassy, who was grasping a tissue in her hands, looked down. It was obvious what she and Cosmo had been told—why was it necessary for her to repeat it? The Manzano Families Memorial Association had been founded for emotional support, of course, along with advocacy and other things—but one thing it had never been was impromptu group therapy.

“Go ahead,” Melody Ann cooed comfortingly. “After all, you called me. You needed to talk. It will help if you tell the others.”

“I . . . ,” Cassy began, then stopped.

What was Melody Ann trying to accomplish? For the moment, however, she knew the most about this situation, so Gardiner forced himself to sit back and keep his mouth shut.

“They told me . . . ,” Cassy began again, dabbing her nose. “They told me one of the bodies they found . . . was Gordy.”

A low gasp rippled around the room: the news was no less horrifying for being expected. There was a momentary outpouring of condolence and sympathy. When that died down, Melody Ann resumed. “We’re all so, so sorry for your loss. But I hope it helps to remember this is exactly why this group was formed: to get you through such a trying time.”

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