“Okay, relax, I understand.” Gary’s voice softened. “You and Marcus are in a tough position. I don’t want to get in the middle. My only word of caution is that Jeffcoat could be manipulating you. He’s desperate right now, desperate to get anybody to help him, listen to him, or champion his defense. Don’t be his sucker.”

“I won’t,” Christine said, more confidently than she felt.

Chapter Thirty-nine

“I brought you some carbohydrates,” Christine said, leading with her pizza box as she entered the lawyer’s office, which was dark. Night had fallen outside the window, and his desk lamp had an old-fashioned green glass shade, which glowed in a homey, throwback way.

“Trying to get on my good side?” Griff looked up from his cluttered desk, his eyes pinkish with strain and his eyelids heavy behind his tortoiseshell glasses, which needed cleaning again. The sleeves of his oxford shirt were ringed with wrinkles, and his bow tie angled on a slant, like a stopped airplane propeller.

“Hoping for a raise.”

“Good luck. Though we did get paid.”

“Really, how?” Christine cleared a space on the desk for the brown bag containing sodas, napkins, and plates, and the pizza, which wreathed the air with delicious tomato-and-mozzarella smells.

“The girlfriend dropped it off.”

“Did you meet her?” Christine asked, intrigued.

“No. It came in while I was out. She left it at the front desk. They take hand-deliveries for me.” Griff dug through the papers on his desk, which was messier than before, and produced a white envelope.

“Can I see?”

“Here.” Griff handed her the envelope, which read F.X. Griffith, Esq., on the front, in handwriting. She opened it up and looked inside to see a cashier’s check made out to F.X. Griffith, Esq., for $2,500.

“A cashier’s check?” Christine said, surprised. “Did you ask her for this, as opposed to a personal check?”

“No.” Griff slid off his glasses, set them aside, and rubbed his eyes, then tugged the pizza box toward him. He opened the box, raising an unruly white eyebrow. “You ate three pieces? Sheesh. You can really pack it in.”

“Thanks.” Christine didn’t explain that she was eating for two, or that it was an excellent excuse. She set the check on the desk and sat down in one of the chairs.

“My wife ate like a pig, too.”

Christine ignored the “pig” part since he said it with affection. Kind of. “You didn’t mention a wife.”

“She’s dead,” Griff said matter-of-factly. “Five years ago. Pancreatic cancer.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. She’s in a better place, if you can imagine a better place than living with me.” Griff took out a gooey slice of pizza, and before she could stop him, he turned over one of the legal pads and plopped the slice on its cardboard back, using the pad for a plate.

“Griff, there’s a paper plate in the bag.”

“This is fine.”

“Napkins are in the bag, too, and a can of Coke.”

“You got kids?” Griff took a bite, chewing noisily.

“None, yet.” Christine felt her face flush, but Griff seemed not to notice, tearing into his pizza. Grease covered his lips almost immediately, but she didn’t remind him about the napkins. “You?”

“Six. Three girls, three boys, twenty-one grandkids. You’re married, aren’t you?”

“Yes.” Christine shifted forward in the seat, wanting to change the subject. “So I learned a lot tonight, and I want to fill you in. You can let me know if it helps the case.”

“Good.” Griff finally wiped his mouth. “You talk, so I can eat.”

Christine complied, telling him about the flip-flops and cigarette lighter, then that Linda Kent’s neighbor had seen Zachary at Robinbrecht’s on the Thursday before the murder. By the time she was finished, Griff was sipping his Coke, having gone through three slices of plain pizza and nine napkins, crumpled on top of his desk like greasy origami.

Christine asked, “So what do you think?”

“I think the pizza didn’t have enough cheese.” Griff sniffed. “Next time get double cheese.”

“I mean about what I found out. On balance, I think it helps us because it suggests that there was another person who might have done it.” Christine’s thoughts were racing. “And the cigarette lighter and the flip-flops show that Mrs. Kent could have let somebody into her apartment, somebody who killed her then carried her downstairs. What if that person was Gail’s killer? That’s very possible.”

“True.” Griff set down his Coke can.

“Is this where you say, ‘Good work’?”

“No, I never say that,” Griff answered, deadpan.

Christine chuckled. “You would be a bad teacher.”

“Luckily, I’m an excellent lawyer.” Griff blinked, eyeing Christine. “And you’re ignoring the fact that Jeffcoat lied to you about when he met Gail for the first time. The police now have a neighbor, an eyewitness, who placed him there earlier.”

“Maybe the neighbor was mistaken. They say eyewitness identifications aren’t as reliable as everybody used to think. I know I read that in an article, somewhere.”

“True, those articles come from cases that hold eyewitness identification as being unreliable in situations that are stressful, such as when somebody robs a bank and people at the bank were asked to describe the perpetrator. Those cases support the proposition that people do not make reliable eyewitness identifications when they are emotional or stressed.” Griff wiped his mouth. “That’s not the situation with the neighbor. You’re describing to me a woman who goes to put out the trash in her backyard. She looks up because she sees a handsome man calling on her neighbor. In addition, it sounds like the lighting was good. Interior lighting is a factor, as opposed to exterior or outside lighting, like from a streetlamp or moonlight.”

Christine swallowed hard. “Maybe Zachary didn’t lie, maybe he just misunderstood me. Or maybe he lied because he didn’t know me that well. I wasn’t working for his defense then. He’d just met me that day. Plus—”

“You’re making excuses for him.” Griff’s aged gaze bored into Christine.