See Jane Die Part 33

"Actually, I don't think I have much to do with this."

"You do." His tone took on an edge of urgency. "Don't set yourself up to be a victim. Fatalism can be

dangerous. Extremely-"

A clicking sound on the line indicated another call coming in. She interrupted her friend. "This might be Whit," she said. "I've got to go."

"Go on. Just be careful. I don't want anything to happen to you."

She picked up the incoming call. As she had hoped, it was the lawyer. "Thank G.o.d. What's happening?"

"I'm parking now. Buzz me up."

Jane met him at the door, b.u.t.terflies in her stomach.

"I met with the D.A.," he said without preamble. "They feel they have a good case."

"A good case! How can they-"

He held up a hand, stopping her. "Here's the long and short of it, Jane. The police believe Ian was having

an affair with Elle Vanmeer. They believe he killed her when she threatened to tell you about the relationship."

It took her a moment to find her breath. "That's ridiculous. It's not true."

"Apparently, they have evidence to support their claim of infidelity."

Jane stared at the man, feeling as if she had been dropped into somebody else's life. A stranger's nightmare. She shook her head, as much in denial of his words as in the way they made her feel. "That's not possible. What kind of evidence could they have?"

Instead of answering, he went on. "He killed his office manager after the police contacted her, to keep her quiet. A search of his financial records revealed that Ian is deeply in debt. His practice is insolvent and he has no a.s.sets to speak of. Did you know any of this?"

"Of course. He had to buy out of his partnership, then sank everything he had left into his new clinic."

"Which wasn't much. Basically, you funded the entire project. Correct?"

"Yes. But it was my idea. I urged him to open his own practice. I wanted to help him."

The attorney didn't comment on that. Instead, he met her eyes. "Are you absolutely certain Ian has been

faithful to you?" "Yes." She clasped her hands together. "Absolutely." "Good. Because the prosecution is going to paint him as an unfaithful, desperate husband. A husband who is dependent on his wife's money to keep him in his lavish lifestyle. Your support will be crucial to his defense."

She struggled to stay focused. The time had come to stop denying what was happening and get proactive. She wasn't going to wake up to discover this was a bad dream; it wasn't going to go away. They wanted a fight; she'd give them one. She hadn't come back from near death, hadn't lived through a dozen h.e.l.lish reconstructive surgeries only to roll over and let them steal her happiness from her.

"So what do I do next?" she asked.

"I've complied a list of the top criminal defense attorneys in the southeast. Two of the best are located

here in Dallas. I put them at the top of the list. I'd start there." He took an envelope from his breast pocket and handed it to her.

"I appreciate everything you've done, Whit. Truly."

"I'm still here for you, Jane. And for Ian. In fact, I took it upon myself to call Elton Crane, number one on that list. He's agreed to meet with you after lunch. I'll accompany you if you like."

"Yes," she said, grateful, "I would."

From the proliferation of TV shows that depicted the criminal attorney as slick, high-powered and handsome, she had expected the best defense attorney in Dallas to look, perhaps, like Richard Gere. Instead, Elton Crane looked part Santa Claus, part mad scientist. Although smartly and conservatively dressed, he sported a wild shock of thick white hair, wore gold-rimmed spectacles, and his broad, apple-cheeked face could only be described as cherubic.

"Mrs. Westbrook." He held out his hand. "It's good to meet you. I'm sorry for your troubles."

"I am as well, Mr. Crane. However, I can a.s.sure you, my husband is innocent."

"Elton," he corrected, waving her toward the chamois-colored leather couch in the conversation area at the rear of the office. The picture window behind the grouping afforded a panoramic view of Dallas. "May I call you Jane?"

"Please."

She crossed to the couch. Before she sat, she gazed out the window. Elton Crane's office was located in Fountain Place, one of the most recognizable and prestigious commercial addresses in downtown Dallas. From this vantage point she had a clear view of the Bank One Center towers.

The man's secretary entered, carrying a plate of chocolate chip cookies and coffee service. She deposited the tray on the coffee table. "May I serve?"

"Just leave it, Susan. Thank you."

Jane took a seat on the couch; Elton sat across from her. She refused both coffee and cookies. The b.u.t.terflies in her stomach precluded eating.

"I knew your grandmother," he said. "We sat together on the boards of several philanthropic organizations. Laurel Killian was a strong-willed woman."

"Some called her opinionated and immovable."

He laughed. "Yes, some did."

Jane shifted their conversation to the reason for this meeting, too agitated for small talk. "Has Whit filled you in on the details of Ian's arrest?"

"He did." His expression sobered. "As you're already aware, your husband is in serious trouble." He glanced toward Whit, who nodded. "They are accusing him of capital murder, which in Texas, among other things, means the first-degree murder of more than one person. A charge of capital murder makes Ian ineligible for bail and allows the state to request death."

It took a moment for the meaning of his words to register. When they did, her head went light, her limbs weak. Jane laid a hand on the arm of the couch to steady herself.

"You don't, you can't mean the...death sentence?"

"Yes," he said softly, expression sympathetic. "I'm sorry."

She had never thought much about capital punishment, had never pondered the moral ramifications of putting another human being to death, or actually asked herself whether she was for or against it.

She was against it now.

"In Texas...how-"

She bit the words back. Elton knew what she was asking. "Lethal injection," he supplied.

Jane cleared her throat, forcing the thought from her head. "Will the prosecutor...do you think he'll ask for the...for it?"

"Maybe, though I haven't a doubt when the charge comes in it will include what's called special circ.u.mstances."

"Special circ.u.mstances, I don't understand what that means."

"Are you familiar at all with the judicial process?"

She shook her head. "No. Sorry."

"There's no reason you should be." He smiled slightly. "Although, many people are fascinated by such things and consider themselves crime buffs. If you don't mind, I'll digress to explain?"

She indicated he should, and he began. "Ian has been arrested, but not yet formally charged. From arrest, the prosecution has forty-eight hours to present their case to the grand jury. They do this in the form of an indictment, a formal doc.u.ment charging someone, in this case Ian, with a crime. If the grand jury indicts, which I feel certain they will, the indictment is presented to the defense attorney. No less than two full days after, they will arraign Ian. At that time, they will charge him and hear his plea.

"What's included in the indictment is crucial. The prosecution can't change their mind later, they can't switch to a lesser charge- or a greater one for that matter. A defendant can only be convicted of the specific crime with which they were charged. Before indicting, the state carefully considers the evidence in an attempt to determine what charge they can get a conviction on. A savvy prosecutor includes every allowable charge in a murder indictment. For example, both murder in the first and second degree.

"To seek the death penalty the charge must include what's called special circ.u.mstances. In order to be death eligible, as it's termed, certain criterian must be met. This criteria varies from state to state but includes multiple murder, murder for financial gain, hate-crime murders, murders of police officers, witnesses, prosecutors and judges, murders that are particularly cruel, unusual or heinous, and the murder of a child under six years of age."

He paused, as if to give her time to absorb the information.

"The crimes Ian's being accused of fit several of those criteria Jane."

He handed her a box of tissues. She hadn't realized she was crying. She took several and dabbed at her eyes.

Whit spoke up. "Isn't there a chance the prosecution will decide to try the cases separately?"

"There is," the other attorney agreed. "The Vanmeer homicide could be argued to be a crime of pa.s.sion, carrying a charge of voluntary manslaughter. The Tanner homicide, on the other hand, was far more heinous and obviously premeditated."

Whit glanced at her. "A crime of pa.s.sion," he explained, "lacks two of the necessary elements of murder one, premeditation and malice aforethought."

"Exactly," Elton said. "If the state lumps the two cases together, they're taking a bit of a chance. If the jury can't convict on one, the other becomes suspect as well. There's no lesser charge for the jury to fall back on. However, my gut instinct here is that they're going to go with capital murder, that they're planning on building a carefully orchestrated case, linking the two crimes.

"So," Elton continued, "until the indictment comes in, let's consider the worst-case scenario for now-capital murder with special circ.u.mstances."

Jane listened to the men, struggling to focus on what they were saying and not on the denial that held her in its grip. To help Ian, she had to understand the process.

"The death penalty is not decided upon until after conviction," Elton continued, "during the sentencing phase of the trial. In Texas, the jury is asked to consider these questions when deciding if the death sentence is right and just. Did the defendant commit the murder deliberately and with expectation that the victim would die? Is there a probability that the defendant would pose a continuing threat to society? And was the conduct of the defendant an unreasonable response to provocation of the victim, if there was provocation? If the jury responds unanimously yes to all three of these, the trial judge must sentence the defendant to death."

"But he didn't do it," she said weakly. "It's a mistake-"

He leaned toward her, apple-cheeked and earnest. "Now for the good news, Jane. I don't have to prove your husband innocent. He is innocent unless the prosecution can prove him guilty beyond a shadow of a doubt. The burden of proof rests on them. All we need to do is weaken the prosecution's claims. Create doubt."

"How do you do that?" she asked, hopeful for the first time since Ian had been taken away in handcuffs.

"Examine the evidence, poke holes in it. Something I'm an expert in, particularly with circ.u.mstantial evidence. And from what I know of the case so far, they have nothing but circ.u.mstantial evidence against your husband. Yes, many a man has been convicted on that-and less-however, those men were not represented by me. Frankly, Jane, I'm the best defense money can buy."

She glanced at Whit, then back at Elton. "I'm very glad to hear that."

"A note of caution. The situation changes dramatically when there's physical evidence involved. Juries love physical evidence because it gives them something concrete to hang their verdict on. DNA from blood or other body fluids. Fingerprints. Eyewitnesses, hair or fiber."

"There won't be any of that," she said firmly, "because he didn't do it."

"Then that should make our work easy." He steepled his fingers, his broad, pleasant face inspiring trust. "But perhaps I'm jumping the gun here? Are you hiring me to represent your husband?"

Something about him made her like him, despite the grim news he had imparted. He simply looked honest. Trustworthy. How could this sprightly imp of a man lie? She would bet that quality was pure gold with juries. Her gut told her she and Ian would find no better lawyer to defend him.

"Absolutely. You've got the job."

"Shall I go over my fee schedule?"

"I don't care what your representation costs, Whit says you're the best and I trust him. I want my husband back."

"Very good, then." He stood. "It's time to get to work proving your husband not guilty."

TWENTY-SEVEN.

Thursday, October 23, 2003 3:30 p.m.

The Jesse Dawson State Jail, where Ian was being held, was a large, grim affair with keyhole windows and a noticeable absence of landscaping. In stark contrast to the deliberately imposing and beautiful red-brick-and-gla.s.s Frank Crowley Courts Building across the street, the jail looked both forlorn and frightening. The kind of place a parent pointed to and said "See that? Be good or you'll end up there."

The inside, Jane had learned, was just as grim; the officers manning the facility humorless, direct to the point of rudeness.

She rubbed her arms, chilled. She had voted to wait for Elton outside, despite the cold. She hated it in there. It had been oppressive and depressing. She had found herself growing angry.

Ian didn't belong there. She was going to get him out, no matter the cost.

Elton was with him now. He had expected their meeting would take thirty or forty minutes. When he emerged, it would be her turn. She was allowed a one-half-hour visit, once a week. They would be separated by gla.s.s and allowed only to communicate by phone, in the presence of a guard.