The Devil's Interval Read Online Free PDF

front of a computer, harass writers about deadlines, and argue with the lawyers who never want us to say one single controversial thing to anybody about anything.”
    Isabella stood over me, and nudged the file back toward me with one, red-tennied toe. “How about this? Take the file home, read it through, look at the clips. Talk to some people at the magazine, see if the story appeals to anybody. Mrs. Plummer was a pretty high-profile player on the social scene—that’s got to be of some interest to your readers. We’re not asking for any favors with the information you find. We just think that if Small Town stirs the pot, something might happen. Right now, we’re only asking you to spend an hour reading the file. Then, give me a call.”
    Eleanor cleared her throat. “Travis Gifford was somebody’s baby boy once upon a time,” she whispered.
    â€œSuch a cheap shot,” I whispered back. I closed my eyes for a moment, willing that image of Grace to go away. Suppose it was one of my boys wrongly accused. Unthinkable. Too ridiculous to contemplate. I opened my eyes, picked up the file, and stood.
    â€œOkay, I’ll look at it and I’ll call you.”
    Isabella smiled, and pulled the red pencil out of her dark hair.
    â€œHere’s one of my lucky pencils. Just put a little check mark next to anything that puzzles you.”
    I looked at the pencil. It was a soft No. 1, and down its length, it read:
    â€œ Antes que te cases, mira lo que haces .”
    â€œBefore you get married, look what you’re doing?” I asked,puzzled.
    Isabella laughed, “It’s the Spanish equivalent, of ‘Look before you leap.’ The mom of a guy I dated in law school always used to say that. For a long time, I thought she was worried her precious hijo was going to marry me. Then, I figured out it was great advice for anyone nuts enough to go into criminal law.”
    â€œWhat do you think now?” I asked, standing up, tucking the file under my arm.
    â€œNow I’m convinced she was very worried he was going to marry me. But it’s still good counsel.”
    Eleanor walked me to the door.
    â€œThanks for coming, Maggie. We really appreciate your help.”
    â€œI’ve only agreed to look at this stuff, Eleanor. I haven’t said yes to anything else,” I reminded her.
    â€œI know,” she said. She reached over and gave my cloche a little tug, straightening it for me. “Very between-the-wars look,” she said. “I love your hats. They always make me feel as if I’m in a classic movie.”
    â€œMe, too,” I said. “I feel that way almost every day—only I don’t have a script and have to make up my own lines. Sometimes I’m not even sure I know what character I’m playing.”
    â€œToday,” said Eleanor, “you’ve gotten a chance to play the good guy.” She put her arms around me for a hug, and put her mouth close to my ear and said, “Just remember, the habeas clock is ticking.”
    As I drove home, a summary of how the death-penalty appeal process works rattled around in my head. Isabella and Eleanor had explained it in brief strokes, which, as Isabella pointed out, saved me hours of boredom the rest of them had to endure in law school.
    â€œCriminal law always looks so exciting in the movies,” I’d protested.
    They both laughed at my naïveté.
    â€œIt looks good in the movies because appeals only take 125 minutes, tops, from opening titles to end credits, the guy lawyers are handsome and sensitive, even when they haven’t slept for severaldays on end, and the women get to wear great clothes,” Eleanor had pointed out. “That does not happen in our world. Except for Isabella, who apparently doesn’t even own sweats.”
    Isabella ignored the jibe and moved onto Appeals 101 for me, explaining that there are two flavors, direct and habeas