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And if Nick Morelli had been about to hurt Rob Jacobson—hurtus—even more when he got back on the stand, who had more motive to shut him up than my client?
Maybe,I think,he’s the one who’s going to end up dead in the water.
If he isn’t already, that is.
Sixteen
THEY ALLOWED ZOOM MEETINGSbetween lawyers and prisoners during COVID and are still allowing them, now that all these new variants seem to keep showing up and scaring everybody like it’s the beginning of the pandemic all over again. Just not scaring me the way it did at the time, not anymore. There’s no known vaccine for what is ailing me.
So now here Rob Jacobson is on my laptop screen, trying to act shocked about Nick Morelli. At this point I can’t tell whether or not it’s another pose from somebody who has been BS’ing people his whole life.
Maybe even me.
“What?” he says when I finish. Going for indignant now. “You think I’ve got a hit man on speed dial?”
“I don’t know, Rob. Do you?”
“You’re the one who’s such a bear on motive and opportunity,” he says. “Where’s my motive if I didn’t know what Morelli was going to say next?”
“Maybe you did know. And let’s face it, he’d said plenty already.”
He lets that one go.
Instead he says, “And where’s my opportunity from a jail cell?”
I sigh, loudly enough to rattle the windows.
“Rob. You’re rich as shit. And look at how easily you hired a hit man like me. Whether you did it or not, you had the meanstodo it.”
He shakes his head, as if somehow he’s going too fast for me.
“You have this all wrong,” he says.
“Do I?”
“I couldn’t wait for him to get back on the stand so you could rip him a new one. Why would I do anything to deprive you of the chance to do it and myselfof enjoying watching you do it? So I can set myself up to get charged for another murder after I’ve beaten the rap on this one? Give me some credit.”
I letthatgo. I am at my desk in the spare bedroom I use as a home office. Using a MacBook Pro I refuse to trade in, even as old as it is, and even though it’s as heavy as a block of concrete compared to the newer, lighter models. I used to joke that I’d die before my laptop did.
It seemed much funnier at the time.
“What else did Nick Morelli know about you and Laurel Gates?” I ask.
He smiles. Of course he has a mouthful of perfect white teeth. But every time he does smile like this, going for the big one, he reminds me of a coyote I ran into one night in the Springs, when I was making another training run on the trail. The coyote showed me his teeth that night, scaring the holy living hell out of me. There was a brief standoff, both of us frozen in place, only one of us scared out of her wits, until he ran off into the woods.
I remember that killer smile now.
“You mean you want me to share the real and intimate details of my relationship with Laurel?” Jacobson says.
I suspect that he’s playing. But I don’t give him the satisfaction of acting surprised. Just wait.
“Well, guess what? There aren’t any intimate details beyond the ones you know already.”
“You’re certain of that?”
“You have to believe me on this one.”
No, Rob. Actually I don’t.
