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“Not even a little.”
“You need a minute?”
“No, bring them in.”
This was going to be a long night.
I didn’t have to wait long; it seemed like they were all waiting for me to call them in. My associates sat around the dark oak table, while the students gathered near the back.
“Ben Walton, our new client,” I said, as I glanced over them.
I placed a picture of Ben Walton and wrote his name on the large window that overlooked all of Boston. Then, I began my ‘speech’.
“I was freshman in college when he was convicted. Which means most of you were in still in your preteens, but I’m sure if you’ve lived in the city, you know about the uproar that the death of Savannah Van Allen caused. As the story goes, Ben Walton kidnapped, raped and stabbed Mrs. Van Allen a total of fourteen times. She was later found in a motel room in Connecticut.”
“Witnesses had placed Ben Walton outside of her home the day before, and his DNA was found at the scene of the crime. The case was spun to make Ben Walton seem like an infatuated stalker who preyed on Mrs. Van Allen.”
“Makes sense,” Raymond spoke up, as he loosened his tie, “but why was he there? Why was his DNA in the motel room?”
“Because they were having an affair,” a voice called out from outside the office.
I would have recognized that voice anywhere.
As she walked into room, it felt like she was a whole foot taller. She took of her jacket and gloves, and dropped them onto the chair. She grabbed a folder off the table before making her way over to where I was.
“Is there any proof of that?” Vivian asked, as she rose her hand in the back.
“Yes. Me,” she said. Then looking to me, “It’s your case, but can I brief them?”
Could I deny her anything at this point?
Nodding, I handed her the marker and took a seat at the head of the table near Tristan.
“Ben Walton is my father,” she said, causing them to whisper, as she drew a timeline connecting to the photo on the window. “Unknown to many people, Ben Walton was once known as the fiction writer, Law Bonnet. He and my mother, Margaret Cunning, never formerly married—”
“Law Bonnet? The writer for the weekly Boston Noble Magazine, how is that possible?” Atticus cut in.
This was the first time that either of us had heard that bit of information.
“To avoid a scandal, the Boston Noble employed a ghost writer to take his place,” she said, marking that date further down the timeline be
fore walking back to the beginning.
“Each year the Boston Noble holds a large gala featuring anyone who had been on the cover. That year, Savannah Van Allen was not only on the cover twice, but she attended the gala. That was beginning of their six month affair.”
She marked the date on the timeline and turned to look for Savannah’s picture on the table. Finding it, I slid it over to her and she tacked it unto the timeline, “However this was never brought up or mentioned by either the prosecution or Ben Walton’s own defense.”
“Mistake on the line of the defense,” I stated out loud, and the students in the back wrote it down quickly.
“On the weekend of Savannah Van Allen’s murder, my father took me to the Woodstock Festival… most likely as cover for his affair.”
“You were what, probably six or seven at the time? No offence, but that’s a little young for you to be considered a credible witness or to provide him with a reliable alibi. Do you even remember that day? The prosecution will destroy you, and say that you either blacked out the memory of the murder, or that you were not aware when it was happening,” Vivian pointed out, much to her credit.
It was valid point. Children were horrible witnesses.
“You’re right,” she said, without even flinching. “For the most part, that day is a blur to me. I remember going to the fair, and I remember seeing the lights on the bridge as we were going back home. However, I wasn’t the only person there, so was Savannah Van Allen’s daughter.”
What? I sat up suddenly.
