Catch up on the previous chapters here
Ben’s lawyer took off his glasses—rimless, quite thin, possibly worn only for theatrics such as this—and took his time polishing them. Seriously, they didn’t merit all this attention. The flourish with the polishing cloth, the continued circular motions, the squint as he held them up to the light … pointless. Clearly the man needed a prop so he could do his thinking, and Ben didn’t feel all that reassured by a lawyer who needed props.
This wasn’t a courtroom. Surely his own client didn’t merit such a performance. Besides, he was court-appointed, so it wasn’t like he could use his faux-dirty glasses to pad his billable hours.
“Mr. Beckett …” Like he was a paying client with deep pockets. “What, exactly, is your goal here?”
He blinked, but that didn’t seem to work, so he blinked again.
“The assault charges will stick. We might be able to plead the sentence down on that one, but, since they’re after you for the others, I doubt they’ll be cooperative.” He sighed and checked his watch. “They don’t have any evidence tying you to the string of murders, so it’s unlikely they’ll charge you, but …”
But. Why was there a but?
“Your book.”
Ben blinked again, even though that hadn’t helped yet. “My book.”
“Your book doesn’t confess to any of the murders, but it does tie in the two they suspect were committed by the same person, so you’ve put yourself in a tough place there. Because most people would’ve read the newspapers and stopped at three.”
It wasn’t a confession. Obviously it wasn’t a confession. “The agents already suggested that I was just … perceptive. And those two have been solved.”
“By the local police,” his court-appointed shithead agreed, like he was just humoring him. “The FBI wasn’t involved back then, but now they know you’re name, and they really want to know why you beat up one of their own, so …”
“Past crimes—if they actually existed—can’t be brought up as proof of guilt for an alleged crime,” he protested.
“Mr. Beckett, your alleged past crimes form the motive for the one with which you will be charged, because they have plenty of proof for it. So either you and I need to come up with a reason for that attack that is not ‘Why yes, I killed the others for Lida-Rose Dawson and finally found a way to track her down,’ or you capitulate, tell them everything, and at least a chance to talk to her.”
He straightened his shoulders and felt something in his spine crackle. “I don’t think it’s fair to say those are my only options.”
“Oddly enough, the state of Michigan couldn’t care less about what you think is ‘fair.’”
“Now you just—”
He forgot himself. That was the only explanation for it: why he jumped to his feet, tipping the chair over behind him, and leaned across the table, and pointed directly at this shyster lawyer in a gesture that did indeed seem to be threatening.
That was why there was a guard on his feet, yelling something, and pointing a gun at him.
Wasn’t he allowed to speak to his lawyer alone? And, barring that, did the guards really need to have guns in here? Ben was already handcuffed—and raising those cuffed hands, thank you very much—and he wasn’t actually going to do anything to this lawyer, whatever the fuck his name was, who sat there across from him, polishing his glasses and checking his watch instead of helping.
And this, now? While Ben stood here with his hands in the air and a gun directed at his chest? The bastard sighed and checked his watch again. “I’ve got five more minutes for him, Hopkins, but I’m not going to complain if you decide he doesn’t deserve them.”
“Are you going to stay on that side of the table?” the guard more barked than asked.
Ben started to nod, then thought better of moving. “Yes.”
“When you right that chair, it’s not going to come more than one inch off the ground.”
He hesitated, but that seemed to be his cue to ] move, and he made sure the back legs didn’t actually lift at all.
“Now sit.”
He sat.
The guard holstered his weapon and retreated back to his stool in the corner. God, seriously? It was like a bad prison movie where they hadn’t bothered to consult with any actual prisons.
The lawyer raised an eyebrow. “Mr. Beckett? You had an opinion to express?”
Fuck him. The man clearly wanted to bait him and make him jump up again … and for Hopkins to fire this time. How fair could anything be when your own lawyer wanted you bleeding out on the cement floor? “If I say nothing, then all they’ve got me for is the assault charge.”
He nodded once. “Twenty years.”
“Twenty …?”
“Felony assault on a federal officer using a dangerous or deadly weapon, maximum sentence. And you know they’ll go for the maximum sentence.” He shrugged easily, because it wasn’t his neck in the noose. “And they’ll figure out any number of other charges they can heap on that one, just to be sure. Plus you’ll never see her. Ms. Dawson.”
He shook his head. “They can’t keep her away.”
“Ah, well, see …” Instead of polishing them, the man simply resettled his glasses on his nose. “They don’t have to approve her in the first place. Or allow her letters through.”
“They can’t stop me from calling her!” Except—damn it, he’d let it all get to him—he didn’t have her phone number.
The lawyer shrugged. “You put a federal agent in critical condition and you’ve failed to adequately explain the reason behind your actions. You’re clearly a danger to everyone around you. Have they allowed you the newspapers in here, Mr. Beckett?”
“The …?”
“Newspapers. Because you’re being painted as Norman Bates, and public opinion is clearly against you. Honestly, at this point … you’ve got nothing going for you.”
“What, so you think I should just … fake a confession to serial murder?” he snapped, heart pounding in his throat because he’d almost left out the word fake. He’d almost just said confess, and seriously, what was wrong with him? Why was this man getting to him so effectively?
Sighing, he put his legal pad—still virginal, since the idiot hadn’t even taken any notes—back in his briefcase and pushed the catches closed. “I’m saying that plea bargains only happen when you have something they want, so you need to think long and hard about whether you do, and what sort of future you envision for yourself, Mr. Beckett. Hopkins, he’s all yours.”
“Not that we want him,” the guard grumbled just loud enough for him to hear. It was supposed to provoke him—and at least he knew that, but it wasn’t worth going after some nothing guard, anyway. He followed the barked orders and, back in his cell, he lay on his bunk with his hands folded on his stomach, trying to think.
It was going wrong. All of it was going wrong. As soon as he’d come out of that back room with the lamp in his hands and seen the woman’s face, he knew it was going wrong.
Except apparently he hadn’t realized how wrong it was.
The damn lawyer was working against him. Trying to compel a confession. The man was supposed to be on his side, and it was his own damn fault he was a public defender. That wasn’t a position you just accidentally fell into, so it was a choice. Choice meant culpability meant fault. Ipso facto.
God, he had to get it together.
Everything was for her. He couldn’t help her if he was locked up in prison. And that meant …
Shit. It meant the lawyer might know what he was talking about. Plea bargaining meant trying to spend less time in prison, which was certainly Ben’s own personal goal, except the things they were asking him to plea in order to complete the bargain …
Right now, they had him for assault. With a deadly weapon, yes, fine, but that wasn’t serial murder. And he really, seriously doubted they’d get him for either the bus driver or Number 17, because those trials were over. People were already behind bars. Even if Ben came right out and said he did it—and proved it somehow—it wouldn’t be that easy. So maybe they’d be after him for the three, and even then …
Phillips. They’d laid down that photograph of Heidi Phillips and tried to pin that on him. Shit, he’d have to ask the dumbass lawyer about that—if they could really trace cell phone movements that far back. But even then, it wasn’t like she’d carried a GPS in her pocket. They could say she was in the range of whatever towers, but they couldn’t place her in his apartment.
That was the whole point. Nobody had ever been able to place them together. He figured she didn’t want anyone to know—that she was embarrassed to be seen with him—but that didn’t matter, because it got the result he wanted. Heidi suggested that the roommates should keep tabs on each other, which meant he’d known when the apartment was empty so he could check on his bugs. That right there—the whole relationship with Heidi—was the perfect example of doing something you didn’t like because it got you the results you needed.
But, if he did that this time … if he confessed and somehow managed to prove he was telling the truth … that didn’t guarantee him a single second with her. They were holding her up like a carrot, but he didn’t trust silver platters.
Ben frowned slightly, even though he was pretty sure there was a camera watching his every move and he really didn’t want to give them a thing. He was desperate, yes, but couldn’t he say the same thing about them? They’d thrown Phillips at him and flung all those unsubstantiated accusations.
Ever so conscientiously he smoothed out his forehead and let his thoughts continue to explore this new idea.
This is the end of Part Six.
Chapter Thirty-Nine – coming February 8
Rebecca Frost 