Page 31 of The Right to Remain

“Or a client who’s willing to tell me the truth,” said Jack.

“I take it from your reaction that you had none of this information.”

“None.Nada.”

“I knew it.”

“And how did you know?”

“The same way I know you forgot to take my homemade lasagna out of the freezer this morning and you’re feeding Righley something from the dark side for dinner.”

Righley had crawled under the picnic table and was suddenly in Jack’s lap. “Can I talk to Mommy now,please?”

Jack gave her a hug but stayed on the line. “My culinary coconspirator would like to speak to you before sentencing.”

“Okay, but before you go, I hope you’re not angry about this. I’m not telling you whether to keep this client or fire him. I just wanted you to have all the facts before this goes all the way to trial with you defending someone accused of killing a retired FBI agent.”

“I get it. And I’m not mad.”

“Good. Hey, could it possibly be that we’re finally getting the hang of this FBI-agent-married-to-criminal-defense-lawyer thing?”

“Could be,” he said, though he still wasn’t completely cool about Andie taking it upon herself to check up on his client. “I hope so.”

“Me too. Put Righley on.”

Jack seated Righley on the bench beside him and handed her the burner. Then he reached for his own cell phone and dialed Elliott’s number.

Chapter 11

Helena felt like she was on her own, but she was not alone.

She was the first witness of the morning session. Helena was represented by an excellent lawyer in Patricia Dubrow, but a grand jury witness had no right to have a lawyer in the room with her. Patricia was on the other side of the locked door, waiting in the hallway.

The grand jury room was exactly as Patricia had described it to her. It was inside the courthouse, but it seemed more like a library than a courtroom. There was no judicial bench and, of course, no judge. The room had no windows, so no one could see inside, and it had only one door—a door so heavy that no sound would travel beyond the four walls. Helena was seated not in a witness stand per se, but at a table in the middle of the room. Off to her side was a court reporter with her fingers resting on the stenographer keys, ready to take down every word, verbatim. Facing Helena, seated auditorium-style, were twenty-three grand jurors, each with a pen and a notepad to record their own version of events if they wished. An assistant state attorney was seated at the table to Helena’s left. Julianna Weller, the lead prosecutor, stood before her. Helena swore the familiar oath—administered by the prosecutor—and then Weller began her questioning on a cordial note.

“Mrs. Pollard, I want to express my deepest condolences to you and your son for your loss.”

“Thank you.”

“Before we begin, I will read into the record a sworn affidavit that we obtained voluntarily from a witness named Justin Arnold. Mr. Arnoldwas one of Mr. Pollard’s closest friends at Miami Senior High School. Very close friends, were they not, Mrs. Pollard?”

Helena was taken off guard, even though Patricia had explained beforehand that testifying before a grand jury was nothing like a courtroom trial. The prosecutor could offer hearsay testimony, ask about documents or testimony not yet in evidence, use leading questions—the formal rules of evidence were out the window, had there been a window.

“Owen and Justin were teammates on the high school football team, as I understand it,” said Helena.

“Thank you. I will offer the written affidavit into evidence, but I want to read it aloud for the benefit of the grand jury, and for the benefit of the witness, as well. Please listen closely Mrs. Pollard.”

Helena had met Justin at Owen’s thirtieth high school reunion. The affidavit was Justin’s recounting of a conversation at that event. As the prosecutor read Justin’s testimony into the record, Helena tried to listen. But, much in the way her attention had lagged watching two old high school football jocks recall their glory days, Helena’s mind began to wander. She was focused not on Owen’s conversation with Justin at the reunion, but her own conversation with Owen in his office, when the old football jock had lashed out at his son the ballet dancer for the last time. It had been the proverbial straw to break the camel’s back. Austen had endured enough. A week later, after Owen had left for work, Helena had taken matters into her own hands. In her mind’s eye, as the prosecutor continued to read aloud, she was back in Austen’s bedroom. It was morning—on the day of Owen’s death.

“Austen, honey, wake up.”

His eyes flittered open. “What time is it?”

“Six thirty.”

He groaned. “Mom, I don’t have school today.”

“You’re not going to school.”