Blood in the Water(22)

“Byron—”

“He scared you, didn’t he? Tell me. Did he confess his sins, darlin’? Whisper all the dirty little details?”

Her face had gone a feverish red.

Bullseye. The bastard had probably gotten off on it.

Jane cleared her throat. “I’m going to tell you a story, but it’s only that—a story. I’m not saying it has anything to do with the meeting I had yesterday.”

Byron wondered where this was going.

“When I was in law school, we studied an infamous incident in my legal ethics class. My professor split us into two groups and made the class argue both sides of the Buried Bodies Case.”

“Go on.”

“Back in the seventies, Robert Garrow, a career criminal who’d served time for rape, confessed to killing two women. His defense attorney, Frank Armani, listened as his client admitted to leaving their bodies in the woods. Due to ethical obligations, Armani was forced to keep his client’s secret.”

“Love the name.” Byron stroked the lapel of his suit. And the subtext of this conversation wasn’t lost him.

“Garrow had a lot of issues—drug use, prior offenses, and some mental health problems, so his recollections weren’t credible without confirmation.” Jane spoke stiffly as though giving a lecture. “Armani, being a dedicated defense attorney, confirmed the client’s story.”

“How’d he verify it?”

“Armani and his co-council went out to the woods and located the bodies. The young women’s parents were searching for them. Garrow had been brought in on other charges, so no one had connected them to the girls’ disappearance. Armani tried to secure a deal for his client with the prosecutor, using the location of the women’s bodies as leverage.”

“Sounds like Armani had a pair of heavy brass balls.”

“That’s one way of seeing it. The prosecutor refused to negotiate. Instead, he told reporters Armani knew where the girls were but wouldn’t tell him, so he could secure a sweet deal for his murderous client.”

“Sweet Jesus. I assume the villagers came after the attorney with pitchforks?”

“Pretty much, but Armani wouldn’t break. He declined to tell the prosecutor what he knew, even when they tried to have him disbarred for misconduct.”

“What happened to him?”

“Armani got death threats and the Garrow case nearly destroyed his legal practice. He even carried a shotgun in his truck to defend himself.”

“An attorney in such a tough spot needs protection, don’t you think?

Jane pressed her lips together. “I take your point.”

“What happened to ol’ Armani?”

“They didn’t disbar him because he’d followed the ethical standards, but I doubt his life was the same afterward.”

“And Garrow?”

“Garrow was charged with another crime and imprisoned. Later on, he was shot and killed by police when he escaped.”

“A fittin’ end.”

Jane took a sip of coffee. Maybe she was stalling for time. “People belittle my profession, but a defense attorney has a responsibility to be a zealous advocate for a client. That’s how the legal system works.” She shook her head. “The first time I heard about this case, I didn’t appreciate all the nuances. I’d originally sided with Armani—client-attorney privilege shouldn’t be breached for any reason. I thought about it as a laywer, not a person.”

“And now you ain’t so sure?”

“What if your morals bump up against the standards set by your profession? What if your heart tells you to do one thing and your head demands another?”

“I’ve faced that particular kind of dilemma before.” When he’d first started as a hitman, he hadn’t been able to compartmentalize his life and his work.

“What did you do?”

“What I had to do.” It’d been a long, painful ordeal, and he’d lost parts of his humanity in the process.

“Do you think Armani was right to protect his client’s privilege?”

“I think Armani made the choice he could ultimately live with. The question is, what can you live with?”

She sighed.

The silence stretched between them, and Byron let Jane sort out her thoughts.

“I stayed up all night thinking about my dilemma, and before you ask, I can’t tell you.”

He rolled his eyes. “Anythin’ you say to me, I’ll take to the grave, darlin’.”

“Which is usually my line, albeit without the homespun language.”

They gazed at one another, and if he wasn’t mistaken, there was a bit of affection in her eyes. Byron had the feeling he’d finally broken through her cool exterior—it was only a crack, but he’d take a crowbar to it and get her to trust him if it was the last thing he did.