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Finley gritted her teeth. She really needed to turn that little voice off. It had become annoyingly more vocal of late.
Winthrop reached into the bag she’d placed in the chair next to her chair and retrieved a clear plastic sandwich-size bag. She placed it on the table and slid it toward Finley.
“We hired a forensic evidence team of our own. Nothing against the team from the police department, but I’m not one to leave things to chance. Our team found this hidden in a pair of Jarrod’s socks.”
“You hired a team,” Jack said, his tone reflecting his surprise at the development, “without discussing the move with me. I should remind you, Ellen, that every step you make is under scrutiny. Leaving your legal team in the dark is not a smart move.”
Well said, Finley thought but kept to herself. She and Jack should have been a part of the decision as well as any steps taken since making any discoveries.
“You’ll have to forgive me,” Winthrop said. “I’m accustomed to handling issues without hesitation or asking for permission.”
Jack made some response, but Finley focused on the bag. She picked it up and studied the device inside. Black, fairly small. “Is this some sort of eavesdropping device?” she asked when their back-and-forth lapsed. It resembled ones she had seen before.
“When placed very close to an electronic locking device,” Winthrop explained, “it copies the access code, which can be retrieved by whoever installed it.”
Aha. Finley had wondered if and when such a device would be found. This could potentially rule out Ellen and her partners as suspects by proving Grady had access to the home office and had possibly shared that access information with someone else. Such as Marsh or some other partner. Like the thus-far-unidentified J.Grady.
“This could be very helpful to our defense,” Jack said, still sounding annoyed, “but we’ll need to prove Grady purchased it.”
Winthrop reached into her bag once more and withdrew a single folded sheet of paper. She handed it to Jack.
Jack opened the document and had a look, then passed it to Finley. It was the copy of a receipt from a Nashville spy shop. Grady’s signature was sprawled across the bottom of the receipt. The receipt was dated one month ago. A copy of the credit card used was included on the single page.
“It’s difficult to believe we’d been married barely a month when he did this.” Winthrop turned away, blinking rapidly to fight the tears shining in her eyes.
“I think,” Jack said, “it’s safe to say he had this planned from the moment the two of you met. I apologize for my bluntness, but this is not the time to tiptoe around the details.”
Jack was right. Finley had believed that to be the case from the beginning. Grady had an agenda from the outset.
Like Derrick.
She pushed the thought away. “Let’s talk about some of the things that may come up at trial,” she suggested, “if it reaches that point.”
“Why would it?” Winthrop asked, seeming irritated that Finley would suggest as much.
“The district attorney’s office sometimes makes decisions that no one else understands.” Finley turned her hands up at Winthrop’s questioning look. “I was an ADA for four years. Decisions aren’t always based on the seemingly perfectly aligned evidence. There are times when a hunch or a gut feeling takes precedence.”
“What’s your gut feeling, Finley?” Winthrop stared directly into Finley’s eyes as she waited for the response.
Finley glanced at Jack; he gave her a nod. She turned back to their client. “My gut tells me you’re hiding something and your partners are helping you.”
Surprise flared in the other woman’s eyes.
“That said”—Jack grabbed the baton and ran with it—“we will do all within our power to prevent the case from moving to trial and to defend you if it does. Our only concern is that we may be blindsided in the courtroom if you are keeping anything from us. We can only properly defend what we know.”
Winthrop laughed softly. “You have my word that you have everything we know. And like this latest find”—she gestured to the device in the bag—“if we become aware of anything new, you will be the first to know.” She turned to Finley. “Do you not trust me, Finley? Or perhaps you see me as a fool for having fallen for a man so much younger.”
“As I’ve explained before,” Finley offered, not wanting to elevate the tension any further, “it’s my job to play devil’s advocate. To make sure nothing the police find can connect our client—you—to the crime.” She shrugged. “To analyze every explanation you provide for cracks a good detective can capitalize on. It’s not about whether I trust you or believe in your innocence or your intelligence level. My singular motive is keeping you from a murder charge.”
Winthrop nodded. “Your responses are always very specific and quite compelling, even if you didn’t answer my questions.”
Finley almost smiled. Touché. “I don’t know you well enough to trust you, Ellen. At this point, however, I have no reason not to trust you. As for your love life choices, I’m confident, considering my own history, that you understand I am the last person who should make judgment calls in that area.”
“I appreciate your candor.” Winthrop held Finley’s gaze a moment longer. “We’ve both suffered significantly at the hands of our relationship choices.”
“We have.” Finley decided they had reached a sort of breakthrough with this meeting. An understanding of sorts.
“Very well. I think we’re all on the same page,” Jack announced, closing the folder on his notes. “We will follow up on Lena Marsh, and we’ll continue to prompt Detective Ventura about finding the person who murdered your husband. If you haven’t already,” he suggested, “you should start making funeral arrangements. Any further delay will be perceived as uncaring or perhaps guilty. The world is watching right now, Ellen. Don’t give them anything to use against you.”
