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and a moment later she reappeared with Burt DeVriess my nemesis, on whose
mercy I had come to throw myself.
 Hello, Doc, he said, giving me the simultaneous
hearty-handshake-and-shoulder-pat combination that was supposed to underscore
how very glad he was to see me.  What brings you clear up here?
 Could I speak with you about& something? I began awkwardly.
His eyes took on a startled expression, which he quickly masked.  Come with
me, he said, turning and heading back down the hallway. As I followed, I made
one final survey of my options, considering whether there might be some other
way to protect myself. I came up dry again, and again I cursed the
circumstances that had brought me to this.
Asking Burt DeVriess to represent me in a murder investigation might just be
the hardest request of my life. Although I had testified for him on one
occasion when Garland Hamilton s botched autopsy had caused DeVriess s client
to be wrongly accused of murder my feelings for Grease could best be described
as variations on a theme of loathing. DeVriess tended to defend the lowest of
the low: child molesters like Craig Willis; notorious drug dealers; even one
admitted serial killer. Cops and judges unanimously despised Grease. Yet his
powers of pretrial maneuvering, courtroom confrontation, and media
manipulation were so prodigious he nearly always succeeded in getting his
clients off scot-free, or with remarkably lenient sentences. The serial
killer s trial had ended in a hung jury, thanks largely to DeVriess s success
in having the man s confession suppressed. As a result, the only thing keeping
an admitted monster behind bars was a series of rape convictions.
It had run counter to every instinct I possessed to stop answering John
Evers s questions I d spent years talking with homicide detectives, answering
every question they asked as completely and candidly as possible. I told them
everything I knew about crime scenes, bodies, bones, time since death, and
manner of death. Tell the truth, and let the chips fall where they may: as a
forensic scientist, I had always lived by that creed. It had served me well,
and it had served the criminal justice system well. Now, I had forced myself
to say to a homicide detective,  I refuse to answer any more questions without
an attorney present. And now I had come to ask DeVriess to be that attorney.
Grease led me to an office walled in the same gleaming metal and frosted glass
as the entryway and opened the door for me. Inside was a huge desk sculpted of
similar materials. On its spotless glass top rested a sleek black phone, a
sleek black laptop, a sleek black notebook, and a sleek black fountain pen. He
ushered me in and closed the door, then motioned me toward a sleek chair of
chrome and black leather.
We eyed each other warily, each knowing perhaps a bit too much about the
other s business and sentiments. DeVriess spoke first.  What s on your mind?
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 I need an attorney, I said.  A criminal defense attorney. He waited. I
thought I saw his eyes glitter.  The medical examiner from Chattanooga was
killed sometime over the weekend. Her body was put at the Body Farm. The
police seem to think I killed her. Still he waited. He wasn t making this
easy for me.  I d like to hire you to represent me.
He smiled at that.  Bill Brockton, you are the last person on earth I would
have expected to find myself representing in a murder case.
 Well, I m as surprised as you are, I said.  Astonished to be suspected of
murder; amazed to be hiring you. But you have a remarkable track record. Good
as you are at getting guilty clients off, you should have a pretty easy time
representing an innocent man. As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I
regretted them.
DeVriess looked away, then back at me.  Why, you smug, self-righteous son of a
bitch, he said.  You have the nerve to look down on me, to judge me, while
you come to me for help in a murder case? I ought to throw you out right now.
I felt a rush of shame, mixed with fear.  You re right, I said.  I apologize.
That was rude.
 You re damn right it was rude, he said.  I do my best for every client I
have. When I was admitted to the Tennessee bar, I promised to represent my
clients to the best of my skill and abilities. Whether they re pure as virgins
or guilty as sin, it s my job, my duty, within the American legal system, to
fight like hell for my clients. You know why? Because the prosecution will
fight like hell to convict them, whether they re guilty or not. You ve seen
that yourself your DA friend Bob Roper tried to send Eddie Meacham to the
chair for killing Billy Ray Ledbetter, even though that was an accidental
death. If they decide they can convict you of this woman s murder, he ll try
to do the same to you. After that Meacham case, you, of all people, ought to
know better. Unless you re one of the twelve people in the jury box, or unless
you re God the Father Almighty, you have no right to judge me or my clients.
Now it was my turn to be mad. I had apologized, and sincerely, but instead of
accepting it, he had rubbed my nose in it and gotten up on his lawyerly high
horse.  You know, that all sounds really noble, Grease. But I sat across from
Susan Scott a few days ago as she howled like some dying animal. You remember
Susan Scott, don t you? Mother of Joey Scott, little kid who was raped by your
client Craig Willis? Joey Scott, who will spend years in therapy and still
never completely recover? You re telling me I have no right to judge Craig
Willis, a child molester caught in the act? You re saying I should feel a warm
glow of civic pride that you cut him loose to prey on other kids? And you ve
got the nerve to call me smug and self-righteous?
DeVriess s eyes flashed and his jaw muscles clenched and unclenched as if he
were attacking a piece of gristle. For a moment I thought he might actually
come across the desk at me. Finally he said,  Shit, Doc. Goddamnit. He looked
away, and when he looked back at me, I could see pain in his eyes.  There s [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]