“Yes, sir.” Bay’s automatic reply hid her consternation. Sixth cubicle. Six-six-six.
Her trepidation didn’t ease once she arrived at the designated spot. Not only was the man waiting for her a total stranger, he had all of the markings of a lawyer, the successful kind. She took in the educated, pampered face, the manicured hands, the salon-styled, flaxen hair and the suit she figured cost more than her court-appointed attorney had made handling her entire case, and considered doing an about-face. What stopped her were his eyes. He resented being here as much as she did the prospect of having to speak to him.
As curiosity won out over pride, she sat down and matched him stare for stare. What helped was that he was as fine-boned as he was fair—her male counterpart. He picked up his phone, then waited for her to reach for hers. That’s when she noticed the condition of her hands—black from grease and dirt. Certain that he’d noticed, she took her time to wipe them on her thighs, further staining the already soiled orange jumpsuit.
“I’m Lyle Gessler,” he snapped as soon as she brought the receiver against her left ear. “Mrs. Ridge-way sent me.”
All reluctance and embarrassment evaporated like summer drizzle on sun-baked Texas earth. If the name Ridgeway had clout in this state, it had double that with her. One thing she believed—the widow of oil tycoon Herman Ridgeway and daughter and sole heiress of the late grocery-distributor magnate Duncan Holt was the only reason she didn’t call Death Row home. For Madeleine Ridgeway, she would listen.
“As you know, Mrs. Ridgeway has continued to protest your situation.”
Continued? “She was supportive before and during the trial. But since…I couldn’t say.”
Mrs. Ridgeway had sent a note right after her arrest saying she would be following the trial and offer herself as a character witness for the defense, but Bay had refused for fear of public opinion turning on the good woman. Later she’d learned from her lawyer, court-appointed Mary Dish, that Mrs. Ridgeway had spoken to some influential political friends who had somehow convinced the D.A. that while a conviction was likely, a Murder One charge would be risky. For that, if nothing else, Bay would always be grateful.
“Then allow me to enlighten you. After saving you from a date with the Lethal Injection Boys, she expanded her own investigation—and at no small expense. It’s a result of that, the evidence we’ve unearthed, that I’m here. Your conviction has been vacated.”
Bay struggled to figure out what the hell that meant without looking like a fresh-hatched chick. She was sensitive about her lack of formal education. Schooling she had, having gone through the whole welding school apprenticeship and being mentored by some of the best journeymen in the business. But the rest of it, the college-range curriculum had been denied her. She’d used some of her time here trying to catch up, improving her reading skills and sense of history and politics, anything to fill the endless days; however, the sense of stigma remained.
“I don’t understand,” she admitted at last.
“We convinced the D.A. to agree with your defense attorney and request that your trial be set aside.”
He might as well have announced her the winner of a jackpot lottery. “How?” she whispered, surprised she could speak at all. She’d had a full trial, the whole gamut of legalities and jury and media humiliation.
“What does it matter? The point is you’re getting out.”
As much as she wanted to believe him, Bay stared at the stranger with the feminine nose and pinched lips reading him like a Times Square billboard. Not only didn’t he believe what he was spouting at her, not only didn’t he care if she did or not, he thought coming here undeserving of his time.
“Excuse me.” She gripped the phone tighter, aware that manners counted in such moments and that she had to hang on to what was left of hers. “I don’t mean any insult, and I am…I’m in shock. What I’m trying to say is that no one listened during the trial. What’s changed?”
“Facts.” The attorney focused on the unopened file before him. “It appears new evidence finally surfaced that was unknown at the time of the initial investigation. The deceased was recently discovered to have had a gambling problem. Apparently—”
“The deceased had a name. Glenn English.”
“—Mr. English’s debts,” Lyle Gessler continued frowning at the closed folder, “had gotten so out of control that a collector was sent after him.”
“Bull.” Bay would never have stood for that kind of behavior, and Glenn had known it because her father had been a compulsive gambler. Glenn had witnessed the worst of what that meant; in fact, he’d almost been as hurt by the effects of her father’s addiction as Bay was. They’d come a cold sweat away from losing the business and Bay the pitiful roof over her head. No way would Glenn have allowed himself to become consumed by the same weakness. He’d cared, cared too much.
“Look, I don’t specialize in appellate law, but Mrs. Ridgeway found someone who does. He, in turn, found the right investigators and we ended up with the testimony from a small-time crook by the name of George ‘Catfish’ Tarpley, who knew the hit man sent to settle things with Mr. English.”
“Hit man?”
Gessler stiffened and leaning back glanced around to see how much attention she’d attracted from the other booths. Satisfied that it wasn’t much, he whispered, “Do you mind? One Raymond Basque. Razor to those who use nicknames instead of Yellow Pages advertising.”
Ignoring the snide retort, Bay shot back, “Someone with the kind of debt you’re inferring would be warned several times, even at his place of business. I never saw or heard any—”
“Do you want to know why you’re getting out or not?”
There was no arguing with that. Bay nodded.
“Like Basque, Tarpley’s from Louisiana,” Gessler continued. “But he has a record here that should have been long enough to make him a permanent resident. Several weeks ago he was stopped in Houston for a traffic violation. Police found an unregistered handgun in the car, and he was also in illegal possession of prescription drugs. Needless to say, once he understood that this time he was facing Texas’s strikeout situation, he was anxious to plea bargain.”
If it happened, no doubt; but to Bay it sounded too pat. “The D.A. and a judge wouldn’t listen to me, why should they listen to a career criminal?”
“Because he helped close the book on Basque. Basque is dead…has been for over six years. He was found at DFW Airport with a single gunshot wound to the head the morning after fulfilling the contract on your friend. As luck would have it, at the time there was no reason to connect him to your friend’s murder because the Tyler police believed they had their killer.”
The whole story was insane, and yet Bay saw the way Fate had played nemesis in her life. “How much did Glenn owe?”
“I have no idea.”
“It cost him his life, what do you mean you don’t know? Ten thousand? Fifty?”
“I’m pleased to be able to say such things aren’t in my general area of expertise.”
Unfortunately, they were in hers. “Then let me enlighten you. To be worth the trouble of killing, Glenn would have to have been so deeply in debt he would be sweating blood by day and pissing it by night.” Bay had seen her father in that condition enough to know the signs. “He would have had a few scares, maybe a slashed tire or bashed headlight on a vehicle, and then if that didn’t get the message across, he would have had the crap beaten out of him. No way Glenn could have hidden all of that from me.”
Although he turned a sickly yellow against his flashy suit, Gessler managed his own share of sarcasm. “I’m sharing confidences and insights I doubt anyone else on the case would. Your protests and censure beg the question of why I’m wasting my time talking to you. Perhaps Mrs. Ridgeway needs to be informed