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“That’s my job, Charles. Let me do it.”
“It’s my reputation. I’m not leaving.”
“Your wife…” Jackson indicates, shifting his gaze to Mrs. Franklin whose eyes are too bright and breaths too rapid.
“Get someone to tend to her,” Franklin orders, then softens his tone when he takes his wife’s trembling hand in his. “It’s going to be alright, darling.”
Jackson’s face pinches with disapproval. Nevertheless, he picks up the phone on the credenza behind him. “Gretchen, Mrs. Franklin isn’t feeling well. Please see that she gets some tea and put her to rest in my office.”
Within moments, the assistant I’d met earlier arrives. Franklin whispers something to his wife. She nods obediently and allows Gretchen to take her arm and escort her out of the boardroom.
Both men turn to me. Their expressions are contemptuous. Undaunted, I pull out the photos from my file and place them on the table. Alden and Dwayde, side by side. Not an obvious match at first glance. But if you take a closer look, it’s undeniable.
“What does this prove?” Jackson dismisses the pictures with a shoo of his hand. “Alden is dead and buried. You’ve got no DNA. No evidence. And even if you did, it doesn’t implicate my clients. All you have is hearsay from a twelve-year-old boy who was told drug-induced fabrications by an unstable young woman. A judge would laugh you out of court.”
“Is that what your clients want—for this to go to court? To have their secrets exposed? For their grandson to lay out all the sordid details on record?”
“Our grandson has been fed lies. Joyce was a very sick girl.”
“That’s enough, Charles,” Jackson cautions again. “Let me do the talking.”
“I can speak for myself.” Franklin whirls on him in remonstrance. “I warned you of the risk of not being able to see our grandson. I told you that in Joyce’s state she may have lied to him about us and the Torreses could exploit that. We needed time with Dwayde to correct any misperceptions yet you advised against a court order, claiming that would make us look insensitive. Now look at where we are.”
“Charles,” he hisses in a stage whisper, “this is not the time or place to critique our legal strategy.”
“Don’t tell me about time or place. Just fix this.”
Jackson turns to me, his face flushed with embarrassment and annoyance. “Ms. Chase, might you give me a moment alone with my client?”
“Of course.” I have them rattled. “But for the record, Detective and Ms. Torres haven’t exploited anything. They only learned of Alden when I found Joyce and spoke with her. She enlightened me on the details of your clients’ horrific actions.”
The shock on their faces is priceless.
“You can’t really believe a thing she said!” Franklin recovers in outrage.
“Yes, I really can. Have a listen.” I pull out a copy of the recording. Then I walk out with my tote bag, leaving the USB on the table, along with the pictures of Alden and Dwayde.
Gretchen, who Jackson must have alerted, arrives to show me back to the lobby. On the way, I note the restroom across from the boardroomand the name plates. I wait until Gretchen disappears down the other corridor to ask the receptionist for the ladies’ room.
“Last door on your right.” Oblivious to my intention, she smiles and points a pink polished nail toward the hallway I’d just come from.
“Thank you.” With time being of the essence, I move quickly to the office with Jackson’s gold-plated name plaque.
Pouncing on a vulnerable, unsuspecting woman isn’t my typical style. But this woman, no matter her delicate condition, is as culpable as her husband. I turn the knob and peer inside. There’s a stately desk with two guest chairs, a built-in library filled with law books, and across from that a maroon leather couch.
Joan Franklin is lying there with her head propped up on the armrest, her stocking feet crossed at the ankles, one arm draped over her eyes and the other arm clutched across her waist as if she’s trying to hold herself together. This woman had once been a force. The Lady of the Manor, as Joyce had described her. Now a frail, shadowed version of herself.
“Mrs. Franklin?”
Her arm lifts, her eyes blink open. It takes a moment for awareness to dawn. Her gaze then jumps and her unpainted mouth starts pushing out quick, audible breaths. “Wh-where’s Charles?”
“He’s with Mr. Jackson. We need to talk.”
“N-no.” With effort, she swings her thin legs to the floor and sits up, pressing her fingers to her temples. “I-I’m not supposed to talk to you.”
“Is that what your husband said?”
“Charles knows wh-what’s best.”
