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“Well finally, the oracle speaks. And isn’t that an eloquent statement?” the lawyer said with asperity. “Was he alive when you left him?”
“Which?”
Turner rubbed his high forehead as though to smooth out the worry lines. “Either.”
“Speakman was dead. Ruiz was adiós.”
“He escaped you?”
“He ran.”
“Did he see Speakman get stabbed?”
Griff didn’t respond.
“Did you…Was Ruiz also injured? Was that his blood on the rug and in the Honda?”
Griff was about to answer, then checked himself. “Are you my lawyer or not?”
Turner studied him for a moment, than asked quietly, “What about the money, Griff? The half million. And don’t play dumb, because your fingerprints were on the lid of the box. So, what was that about?”
“Beats me,” he replied laconically, with a shrug. “Speakman says, ‘Look in the box.’ I looked in the box. I guess he was showing off how rich he was.”
“It wasn’t for you?”
Griff looked at him as though that was the most preposterous thing he’d ever heard in his life.
“Rodarte suggested that Speakman was paying you off for something.”
Griff’s gut tightened. “Like what?”
“Something you had delivered. Or a service you’d performed for him.”
“Shit, Turner, where’s your brain? Where’s Rodarte’s? If that money had been for me, I sure as hell wouldn’t have left it behind. I’d have it and be living it up in some exotic locale, not bumming peanut butter sandwiches off you.”
The lawyer wasn’t fazed. “Lotta money, Griff. Large bills banded together. Stacked neatly in a box. Kind of like the take you got from Bandy for throwing the play-off game against the Skins.”
“I’m telling you—”
“Okay, okay. For now let’s say Speakman just liked keeping boxes of cash around and it had nothing to do with his murder. Rodarte doesn’t even need that element to get a conviction.” Turner stood, circled his chair, placed his hands on the back of it, as though he were about to address the court. “Listen to me, Griff. This is a prosecutor’s dream case. They’ve got hard evidence. They’ve got your DNA. And if Ruiz is alive—”
“He is. Or was last time I saw him.”
“And if he isn’t already back in Honduras—”
“El Salvador.”
“Whatever. If they can catch him, they’ll have an eyewitness in addition to the incriminating evidence. But,” he said, lightly slapping the leather chair back for emphasis, “on the positive side, you placed the 911 call, right?” Griff nodded. “So that suggests you didn’t want Speakman to die. It can be argued that Speakman invited you there, and if the jury buys that, then the next step is their believing that there was no premeditation on your part. You went to Speakman’s house at his invitation. He confronted you with the affair you were having—”
“Had.”
“Had with his wife. You argued. Something he said lit your fuse, next thing you know—”
“I picked up the letter opener on his desk and plunged it into his neck.”
Turner actually looked sad about it. “You’ve got a good chance of being charged with manslaughter, instead of murder one. That’s probably the best you’ll do on this one, and I’m telling you that both as counsel and as a friend.” He paused to let that sink in.
“I hate to paint such a bleak picture, but that’s how it is, Griff. And you’re only making yourself look guiltier by running. Turning yourself in to Rodarte will be rough. I’m not saying it won’t. But it’ll be much harder for you if you don’t.”
