Now You See Her Part 20

"But he didn't do this!" I yelled.

"But so what!" Charlie yelled back.

This was crazy. I'd come down here and risked everything to help out an innocent man, and I was getting resistance from both him and his lawyer.

I struggled to think up a way to inspire Charlie. I needed him on board. I couldn't do this alone. At least not without revealing the dangerous lie that was my life.

"And maybe he did do it. How do you know? Were you there?" Charlie said.

"I just know," I said.

"I get it," the Southern beach b.u.m lawyer said as he began tuning his steel guitar. "You're a psychic b.i.t.c.hy New York lawyer."

"Haven't you ever believed in anything?" I said. "Believed in something not for any reason, but just because you believed in it with every square inch of your body? That's how I feel about this case."

Charlie lifted a new can to his lips. He let out a breath before he lowered it. "And if you only believe, then fairies will sparkle magic dust on Justin's jail cell door and make it disappear," he said, angrily putting down the guitar. "Fine. You win. I guess you should go in and put on some coffee while I take a look at the old file yet again. Gee, this is going to be fun, dredging up my life's worst failure for the thousandth time."

I smiled as I walked past him toward his front door.

"New York City pain in my a.s.s," he mumbled as he opened the folder I'd brought. "Milk with two sugars, you hear me? And one of those doughnuts and... and I hate you, Nina, whatever the h.e.l.l your name is."

"I love you, too, Charlie," I whispered to myself as I found the kitchen.

Chapter 77.

CHARLIE AND I spent the rest of that Sat.u.r.day working our a.s.ses off. On a beat-up leather couch in Charlie's office, we went over Harris's trial transcript line by line. Later Charlie, humming, sitting behind his desk, spun a rugby ball as he drank coffee, nodding as he read to himself.

Charlie really had done one h.e.l.l of a job, I soon realized, as I turned the trial transcript and appeal pages. Pointed out inconsistencies. Objected to every cheap emotional trick the DA tried to pull. But the cards were stacked against Harris. The judge, more than the DA, seemed to want to convict Harris.

The worst of it was the excessive victim-impact testimony the judge had allowed during the sentencing portion of Harris's trial. A total of sixteen family members, friends, and cla.s.smates gave over three hours' worth of sobbing, heart-wrenching, emotional testimony as to the damage done by the loss of Foster. No wonder the jury had voted unanimously for the death penalty.

By the afternoon, we'd both pretty much gone over everything. We even got down on the Oriental carpet and arranged Foster's original 1994 homicide case file, compiled when her body was originally found, beside the 2001 file, begun when the case was reopened.

I stood there, rubbing my eyes. All the photos, evidence lists, time lines, alibis, and lab reports seemed like one giant postmodern art installation. One that was making my brain ache as I tried to make heads or tails of it.

I knew I needed to try everything to come up with a way to clear Harris, but after a while, even I was starting to lose hope. I yawned, fighting exhaustion. We needed something. Anything.

"Look at this girl, would you?" Charlie said, sadly shaking his head as he waved his hand over the list of Jump Killer victims. It felt like I'd just had a shot of espresso when I realized he was pointing at my picture.

"What a beautiful young woman," he said, suddenly looking at me. "She remind you of anyone?"

I stared back at him, wide-eyed.

He snapped his fingers. "Renee Zellweger," he said. "A young Renee Zellweger."

Renee Zellweger? I thought, relieved but suddenly frowning. Renee was OK, but how about a young Gisele Bundchen?

I jumped back as Charlie suddenly threw the rugby ball against the wall, almost knocking down his Harvard diploma.

"I got it!" he said, pacing back and forth. "I could slap myself. How could I be so stupid? Why the h.e.l.l didn't I see this before?"

"What? What?" I said, standing.

"The hairs. Where the h.e.l.l are the hairs?"

"What are you talking about, Charlie?"

Charlie knelt down and pointed to the evidence list from the 1994 file.

"Right here. Look. There were three hairs found on Foster's body underneath the paracord ligature she was bound with," he said, pointing at the original file.

"But here," he said, indicating the 2001 lab report, "there's no mention of them. They test the s.e.m.e.n found on the girl's panties, but not the hairs. Why not?"

"They forgot?" I offered.

"Maybe," Charlie said as he lifted his phone. "Or maybe they tested them and then deep-sixed the results when they came up inconclusive. Maybe the cops and DA conveniently left out the lab report when it didn't match."

"Who are you calling?" I said.

"The airport," Charlie said. "We need to be on the first flight up to Boca tomorrow morning to get our hands on those hair samples in the old case file. We need to have them tested. Maybe you should head back to your hotel and get some rest. I know I need some. The cops up in Boca are a real pain in the b.u.t.t. We're going to need to kick a.s.s. Speaking of a.s.s-kicking, I want to thank you for kicking mine."

"Anytime," I said. "That's what I'm here for."

Chapter 78.

I HARDLY RECOGNIZED CHARLIE when he picked me up in an airport taxi wearing a crisp blue serge suit.

"You own shoes? Wingtips? I'm in shock," I said.

"I shaved and even took a shower," he said as he lifted his bulging briefcase. "But if you tell anyone, I'll categorically deny it."

Our plane was on time, and so were we when we arrived at ten sharp at the Boca Raton PD station, about 150 miles to the north. We had an appointment to meet with the detectives who originally arrested Justin Harris, but we had to sit in the department's lobby for the better part of an hour before Person Crimes Unit Detectives Roberta Cantele and Brian Cogle buzzed us in.

Instead of going back to their office area, we were seated in an interview room by the front door, as if we were suspects.

"What's this about?" Cogle, a tall detective with a white goatee and a huge gut under his Cuban shirt, wanted to know.

"Didn't the DA tell you?" Charlie said. "We need to take a look at Tara Foster's original case file. The evidence envelopes, the whole nine."

"Why?" Cantele said.

"Because Justin Harris is about to be executed in five days, and we want to make sure it isn't a mistake," Charlie said.

"You G.o.dd.a.m.n defense liars, uh, I mean lawyers, never quit, do you?" Cogle said. "Are you aware that one of Harris's victims was the wife of Peter Fournier, Key West's chief of police? She was, like, twenty years old. That doesn't chill you?"

Peter was the police chief now? I tried not to pa.s.s out. That was unbelievable. Not to mention terrifying. As if I didn't feel paranoid enough coming down here.

"I know Fournier," Charlie said. "My taxes pay his salary, unfortunately. I saw his dumb a.s.s on the Today show on Thursday spouting all his victims' rights, fry Justin, Jump Killer c.r.a.p to Al Roker. I have no doubt his wife was killed by the Jump Killer. The problem is, and I know it's a hard one for you guys to follow, Justin Harris isn't the Jump Killer."

It felt like the wind had been knocked out of me.

Peter had been on the Today show? On Thursday?

I really had seen him in Grand Central Terminal!

Chapter 79.

"HARRIS IS THE MISTAKE," Cogle shot back. "And his murderous a.s.s is going to get corrected come Friday. This is bulls.h.i.t. You already had all the appeals you're going to get. Everything is in order."

"You wouldn't just be saying that because it'll be your job if we find something, would you?" Charlie said, taking out his cell. "You're not actually going to make me call the DA again, are you?"

"Fine," Cogle said, leaving.

"This is a wild goose chase, isn't it?" Detective Cantele said, drumming her fingers against the cheap office table as we sat there, waiting. "It's gotta suck knowing your boy is going down, and you couldn't stop it, huh, Baylor?"

Why don't you shut up, b.i.t.c.h, I wanted to say to the cop as Cogle came in with a bulky white evidence box.

Charlie threw open the lid and quickly flipped through the file folders. He lifted out a bag with a faded pair of panties in them and shoved them back into the box.

"Where are the hair samples?" he yelled at Cogle.

"Hair samples?" Cogle said, scratching his tilted head. "What do you mean?"

Charlie pointed at the evidence manifest.

"Right here. Evidence Sample D2. Hair sample found beneath the ligature."

Cogle hummed as he slowly flipped through the file folders. Finally he stopped and shrugged elaborately.

"What do you know? Must have gotten lost," he finally said. "Maybe a rat ate them or they evaporated. We are talking seventeen years, right? Was that all, or do you two need to use the restroom before you leave?"

Back out in the baking parking lot, Charlie seemed to have trouble opening our rental car. He suddenly threw the keys as hard as he could across the lot, then sat down on the concrete car stop beside it.

I sat down next to him, stewing in my own depressing thoughts.

Peter knew I was alive.

That was bad. About the worst thing possible. Was he still in New York? I thought about calling Emma and telling her to get out of the apartment, but then I remembered she was at her friend's in Brooklyn.

I wondered if I should go straight home and grab my daughter. I'd run once before. I could do it again. Throw a dart at a map and just go. Even if Peter was onto me, at least he didn't know about Emma.

I shouldn't have been surprised that Peter was chief of police now. He'd always been ambitious. But representing the Jump Killer victims' advocate group? What a G.o.dd.a.m.n bulls.h.i.t artist. He must have been thrilled all those years, thinking I was dead without having to kill me himself.

"The police destroyed that evidence, Nina," Charlie finally said. "They're laughing at us. They don't care that an innocent man is about to die. No one does. That's it, Nina. That's all she wrote. We're done. Justin's done. It's over. We have to accept the inevitable."

I sat there thinking about that. Maybe Charlie was right. Maybe I should just let Charlie and Justin figure it out. Every man, woman, and child for themselves.

But right there, among the cop cars, with tar sticking to my four-inch heels, my anger tipped the scales against my fear. I was tired of running. Tired of Peter. Tired of what I had become.

I wasn't going to run. I wasn't going to hide. I was going to do the right thing.

"Nothing's inevitable," I said as I finally stood. I held out my hand and helped Charlie back to his feet as well. "They won this battle. Now let's go and win the war."

Chapter 80.

AFTER WE FOUND the rental's keys (Charlie had flung them under one of the Boca PD cruisers), we drove to the parking lot of a nearby Burger King, where I proceeded to go through Charlie's messy files like I was possessed.

Alone and penniless, I had managed to raise a daughter in New York City with nothing but sheer will. I was p.i.s.sed off now. I was going to straighten out Justin's case if it killed me.

"What are you looking for now?" Charlie cried.

I pulled out a sheet of copy paper on which Charlie had typed, "HARRIS'S ALIBI INFO!" in big, bold letters across the top.

"This," I said.

I read that Harris's ex-fiancee's name was Fabiana Desmarais. She was a Haitian immigrant who lived in Princeton, Florida, a few miles north of the Homestead Correctional Inst.i.tution.

"How far away is Princeton from here?" I said. "We need to speak to Fabiana."

"Wait one second," Charlie said. "I tried that before the first habeas corpus appeal three years ago. Not only wouldn't Fabiana's mother let me speak to her, but she actually sicced her dog on me, a half-starved boxer with a bad att.i.tude."

"Hey, maybe you rub dogs the same way you rub people, Charlie," I said. "I'd like a shot at her."

"Oh, right," he said. "We'll use your secret weapon: charm. I forgot about the universal love all people have for pushy New York broads."