The Guilty Plea by Robert Rotenberg Read Free Book Online

you never pushed yourself. I still remember it used to drive him crazy, that you were always late for things.”
    Kennicott had been famous in his family for always being tardy. “Meet Daniel, my great, always-late brother,” was how Michael used tointroduce him. The last time they spoke, Michael told him to be at the restaurant at seven-thirty. “And this time, surprise me. Be on time.” They had both laughed. He got there at ten to eight. Too late.
    “With no family, I’m sure it’s lonely.” Starr let go of his hand at last. “I know he’d be proud of you now.”
    “Thank you.” Kennicott took a step toward the door.
    Starr rustled the papers from the printer. They were in her other hand. “I’m going to get this order. Samantha won’t be able to see Simon for the next seventy-two hours.” She was all business now.
    “Why seventy-two?” he asked
    “Takes us through the funeral on Thursday.”
    “This investigation could last a long time.”
    “You’ll arrest her in a few days,” she said. “No judge will let her see Simon while she’s on trial for murder. Sam will try to con the jury, but it won’t work this time. Once she’s convicted this order will become permanent. I’m going to make sure she never sees her son again.”

10
    “Detective Greene just left,” Ted DiPaulo told Winston Feindel, who had picked up the phone on the first ring. “Terrance Wyler was stabbed seven times.”
    “More bad news on this end,” Feindel said. “Anita Starr, Terrance’s family lawyer, got an emergency order from the court prohibiting Samantha access to her son for the next seventy-two hours. Your client will not be pleased.”
    “That’s for sure.” DiPaulo thanked Feindel and hung up. Samantha was next door in Nancy Parish’s office, and he should have gone to get her. Instead he wandered over to the credenza and picked up the picture of himself and Olive.
    Late one night soon after Olive had been diagnosed with liver cancer, DiPaulo found himself sleepless, staring at the bookshelf in their living room. He pulled down his old college copy of the Elisabeth Kübler-Ross book On Death and Dying , wrapped himself in a Hudson’s Bay blanket, and read straight through until morning. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance: the five stages of dying. He had watched his wife go through them all.
    He realized that his clients went through the same process. And it could take weeks, sometimes months, to coax them out of denial, cushion their anger, reason through their bargaining, nurse them through depression, and push them to acceptance. That the rest of the suite was shabby did not bother him. It was the inner sanctum that needed to feel safe. How they were handled at the first meeting was crucial.
    When they came to see him they were almost always in shock. That’s why he’d set up his office so it oozed comfort. His wooden deskwas always clean, the window counter was covered with jade plants and small watercolors, and old film noir posters and artwork from various stages of his children’s lives lined the walls. Two upholstered clients’ chairs rotated so they could face each other. He insisted that clients sit in the far chair while he took the one closest to the door—never behind his desk, to start out.
    DiPaulo went down the hall to get Samantha. He didn’t have the luxury of time. If she had an alibi, he needed to hear it now. But what alibi could she have? After all, she’d brought the bloody knife with her to Feindel’s office.
    Sam followed him back to his office and flopped down into the chair closest to the door. She was the only client he’d ever had who didn’t take the seat by the window. “I don’t like to have my back to the wall,” she’d said at their first meeting. “I was attacked when I was a kid, in high school. I always have a Plan B.”
    He closed the door and gave her a glass of water. She placed it on the coaster on the edge of his desk.
    “You okay,