First Degree Read Online Free PDF Page B

to go lettuce-deprived. She’s even growing basil, and in a pathetic attempt to curry favor with her, I’ve forever sworn off store-bought basil.
    We’re having pasta tonight, some kind of red sauce with things in it. I don’t ask what those things are for fear that they’ll sound so healthful I won’t want to eat them. It’s delicious, and with the music and candles and Laurie as company, it should be perfect. It isn’t, because I’m still thinking about Geoffrey Stynes and his chilling confession this afternoon.
    I move it partially out of my mind, until Laurie mentions that she stopped into the office after I had left. “Edna told me somebody tried to hire you today, but you fought him off.”
    I try to smile and shrug it off. “You know Edna.”
    She does know Edna, but somehow that isn’t enough to get her to drop it. “She said you seemed upset.”
    I decide to try honesty. Who knows? Maybe it’ll work. “I didn’t like him. I didn’t like the case.”
    “Why?”
    I shake my head. “It’s privileged.”
    She nods, fully understanding and respecting the meaning of that. It bothers me, not being able to tell her something she would so desperately want to know, but I have no ethical choice.
    There are few, if any, things more vital to a defendant’s protection in our justice system than the attorney-client privilege. If an accused individual were unable to be honest with his attorney out of fear that his words would be revealed, it would cripple his chances of being adequately defended. I have never breached attorney-client privilege in my life, and I never will.
    Ironically, had I accepted Stynes as a client, I could have assigned Laurie to the case as my investigator and told her everything Stynes said. Once I turned him down, I clearly lost the ethical justification to assign an investigator.
    Besides, there really is no absolute guarantee that Stynes killed Dorsey. False confessions are amazingly commonplace. Of course, they’re usually made to the police, not to lawyers. And the confessors are most often losers and/or lunatics. On the surface at least, Stynes doesn’t fit the bill. Even more significant, the fact that he knew the composition of the flammable solution pretty much says it all.
    The guy did it.
    Laurie drops the issue, though she can tell that something is bothering me. Wild and crazy couple that we are, we decide to do what we often do after dinner: play Scrabble.
    Playing Scrabble against Laurie is very difficult for me. We take our glasses of wine and sit on the floor, and I almost instantly find that I can’t take my eyes off of her. She is beautiful in a casual, unassuming way, as if it takes no effort. And in her case it doesn’t. I have seen her after an exhausting run, after a shower, after making love, after a night’s sleep, after a tearful conversation, after a long day in the office, and even after a physical confrontation with a violent suspect. These observations have convinced me that they haven’t invented the “after” that could make Laurie look anything but wonderful.
    But if I’m looking at Laurie, then I can’t be looking at my tiles. This is an effective part of her plan, but it’s not nearly the most daunting part of her game. She is a woman with no Scrabble morals whatsoever; she’ll do anything it takes to win, and the rules are for her opponents to worry about.
    I usually lose by about fifty points, but tonight I’m actually ahead by seventeen. We’re about three-quarters of the way into the game, which means she simply will not take her turn unless and until she comes up with a great word. She will ponder and agonize over her decision until August if necessary, but will under no circumstances make anything other than the perfect move.
    About ten minutes have gone by, and I’m about to doze off, when she finally puts down her word. It lands on a triple word score, totals forty-eight points, and, if left unchallenged, will put her well into the