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As they turned another corner, someone darted up to them. He was around fifty and unhealthily thin, not much more than flesh on bone. He was also breathing erratically, like his lungs were unwilling to perform in synchronicity.
“Jack Lee?”
“Yes.”
“I saw you in court and wanted to talk to you,” said the man, gasping for air.
“Look, if you’re a reporter I—”
The man took a deep breath and said, “I’m Sam Randolph.”
“Oh, I didn’t recognize you. I’m truly sorry about your loss, sir.”
“I’ve spoken with Mr. Battle. He seems to think the evidence is incontrovertible.”
“Prosecutors always do. But that’s why we have trials.”
“I just want whoever did this to be punished.”
“So do we,” said Jack. “Only we don’t believe it was Mr. Washington.”
“Do you have any idea who it might be then?”
DuBose spoke up, “Mr. Randolph, with all due respect, we are in the middle of a murder trial. I’m sure you can understand that it would be against legal ethical standards and also against the interests of our client to discuss the case with you.”
He wheeled on her. “I’m not going running to Battle with whatever you tell me. My parents have been murdered!”
“Which makes it critical that we adhere to the rules governing legal proceedings.”
Randolph looked her over and his lips twisted. “You talk all high-and-mighty.”
“I speak, I would hope, like a lawyer, which I happen to be.”
He then glanced at Jack. “Is she the best you could do?”
Before Jack could say anything, Randolph turned and stalked off.
Jack said, “Do you think he was working for Battle?”
“I don’t know. I assume he stands to inherit a lot of wealth. So maybe he’s more worried about what we might find out during our investigation.”
“Meaning we have to prove Jerome’s innocence beyond any reasonable doubt?”
She gave him a patronizing look. “Welcome to my world, Jack.”
CHAPTER 30
CURTIS GATES WAS AN OLD-SCHOOL trusts and estates lawyer with the dour look and dusty, estate-box-littered office that stamped the breed of attorney who presided over death, taxes, and property with a certain grisly relish. In his sixties with thinning white hair, blotchy skin, rounded shoulders, and a thickish belly, he eyed Jack and DuBose, as though he was bewildered as to why they were sitting across from him.
“The will is to be read next week, and then only to the beneficiaries.”
He was interrupted by his secretary bringing in a pitcher of water and two glasses in response to Jack’s and DuBose’s requests. She poured out the drinks and exited, glancing at Gates with a dubious look as she nudged the door closed.
“I understand that, Mr. Gates,” said Jack. “But we need to know now because we have a case to try, and this information is pertinent.”
“What exactly are you implying?” said Gates, sliding his wire-rimmed specs onto his long, wrinkled brow.
“We just need to know where the estate is going. And if they left Jerome Washington—”
