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“I’m not turning myself in.”
“If you do—tonight, now—I’ll represent you. I’ll be right there with you every step of the way. Let them conduct their investigation, and then we’ll see just how badly the evidence is stacked against you. Rodarte has been known to exaggerate, to insinuate that he has more than he actually does, but we know he has the weapon and, coupled with the motive, it’s damn incriminating.
“It actually works in our favor that you left the money behind. You didn’t commit robbery, so it’s not a capital murder. I’ll argue like hell for the manslaughter charge. I’ll also file for change of venue. Get the trial out of Dallas.
“But wherever it’s conducted, you can bet the prosecutor will hammer home how defenseless Speakman was against you. He’ll paint you as a brute who attacked a man who couldn’t possibly fight back and win. He’ll make the jurors despise you, and any argument you put forth won’t change the indisputable fact that you were a football player and he was a paraplegic.
“Turn yourself in and let me take over your defense. The only time you have to speak is at your arraignment, when you plead not guilty. You don’t have to breathe a bloody word to Rodarte, the jury, nobody.”
Griff had listened patiently, but now he said, “And you think not talking will make me look innocent? Come on, Wyatt.”
“I believe in jurisprudence, in our system of justice.”
“Well, your perspective on it is different from mine. You promised me I’d get off with probation if I cooperated with the feds and told them what I knew about Vista’s operation. Look what happened to that.”
“That was different.”
“Right. We were dealing with the federal grand jury and what-ifs. This time Rodarte’s got my prints on the instrument that killed my lover
’s husband.”
Turner’s head dropped forward. He stood, a frown creasing his brow. Finally he raised his head. “I appeal to you once more, Griff. Give yourself up.”
“That’s the best you can do?”
“That’s it.”
Griff studied him a moment, then said softly, “You haven’t even asked me.”
“Asked you what?”
Snuffling a rueful laugh, Griff said, “Never mind. Have you heard from Jerry Arnold?”
“He called this afternoon. Kept saying, ‘Why would he do something like this?’ Stuff like that. You’ve lost another fan.”
Griff wasn’t surprised. “Well, thanks for the info. And the sandwich.” He turned toward the French doors.
“Griff, wait.”
“See ya, Turner.” He opened the door.
He heard the squeal of brakes as though a car had taken a corner too fast. He heard gunning engines, the whish of rubber on hot pavement. And in the house across the street, the front windows reflected colored lights. Red. Blue. White.
CHAPTER
27
TURNER RAISED HIS HANDS IN SURRENDER. SELF-DEFENSE maybe. “I had to call them, Griff. It’s for your own good.”
Griff sneered. “As counsel and friend, go fuck yourself.”
Then he was out the door. He skirted the swimming pool and used a lawn chair to help him vault the privacy fence. His knees took the brunt of the eight-foot drop to the ground on the other side. Another swimming pool. This one had the underwater light on. It felt like a searchlight, directed on him.
A searchlight made him think of a police helicopter, and that gave him the impetus to bust through the gate without fiddling with the latch. He ran through that yard, across the street, into the front yard of another house, where the sprinklers were on. His thrashing legs got wet, and so did the soles of his shoes, making them slippery.
Another freaking fence. “Shit!” Didn’t these people trust their own neighbors? He searched for the gate, which was hard to detect in the darkness. He found it, but it was locked from the inside. He backed up, threw himself against it. It didn’t budge.
He heard tires screeching, close enough for him to smell the smoking rubber.
