More Twisted

told my lawyer that right up front. But there’s nothing nobody can do about it. He said they can’t try me again. It’s called double jeopardy. Hey, their case wasn’t good enough to get me the first time, that ain’t my fault.”
    Lescroix’s skin crawled.
    Back to the blonde newscaster. “That very lawyer, Paul Lescroix, of New York City, created a stir in court earlier today when he suggested that Hamilton businessman Charles Cabot himself killed his wife because he was in love with another woman. Police, however, have discovered that the woman Lescroix accused Cabot of having an affair with is Sister Mary Helen Henstroth, a seventy-five-year-old nun who runs a youth center in Gilroy. Cabot and his wife frequently served as volunteers at the center and donated thousands of dollars to it.
    “Police also dispelled Lescroix’s other theory that Cabot might have killed his wife to take control of the company of which he is president. Even though he owned a minority of the shares, a review of the corporate documents revealed that Patricia Cabot and her father had voluntarily handed over one hundred percent voting control to Cabot after he paid back fifty thousand dollars her father had loaned him to start the business five years ago.
    “State prosecutors are looking into whether charges can be brought against Lescroix for defamation and misuse of the legal process.”
    Furious, Lescroix flung the remote control across the room. It shattered in a dozen pieces.
    The phone rang.
    “Mr. Lescroix, I’m with WPIJ news. Could you comment on the claim that you knowingly accused an innocent man—”
    “No.” Click .
    It rang again.
    “’Lo?”
    “I’m a reporter with the New York Times —”
    Click .
    “Yeah?”
    “This that gawdamn shyster? I find you I’m gonna—”
    Click .
    Lescroix unplugged the phone, stood and paced. Don’t panic. It’s no big deal. Everybody’d forget about it in a few days. This wasn’t his fault. His duty was to represent a client to the best of his ability. Though even as he tried to reassure himself, he was picturing the ethics investigation, explaining the matter to his clients, his golfing buddies, his girlfriends . . . .
    Pilsett. What an utter fool. He—
    Lescroix froze. On the TV screen was a man in his fifties. Unshaven. Rumpled white shirt. An unseen newscaster was asking him his reaction to the Pilsett verdict. But what had snagged Lescroix’s attention was the super at the bottom of the screen: James Pilsett, Uncle of Acquitted Suspect.
    It wasn’t the man who’d hired him, who’d been here in the room an hour ago to deliver his fee.
    “Wayl,” the uncle drawled. “Jurry wus alwus a problem. Weren’t never doing what he ought. Deserved ever’ lick he got. Him gitting off today . . . I don’ unnerstand that one bit. Don’ seem right to me.”
    Lescroix leapt to the desk and opened the envelope. The full amount of the rest of the fee was enclosed. But it wasn’t a check. It was cash, like the retainer. There was no note, nothing with a name on it.
    Who the hell was he?
    He plugged the phone in and dialed the Skyview Motel.
    The phone rang, rang, rang.
    Finally it was answered. “Hello?”
    “Jerry, it’s Lescroix. Listen to me—”
    “I’m sorry,” the man’s voice said. “Jerry’s tied up right now.”
    “Who’s this?”
    A pause.
    “Hello, counselor.”
    “Who are you?” Lescroix demanded.
    There was a soft chuckle on the other end. “Don’t you recognize me? And after our long talk in court this morning. I’m disappointed.”
    Cabot! It was Charles Cabot.
    How had he gotten to Jerry’s motel room? Lescroix was the only one who knew where the man was hiding out.
    “Confused, counselor?”
    But, no, Lescroix recalled, he wasn’t the only one who knew. He’d told the man impersonating Jerry’s uncle about the Skyview. “Who was he?” Lescroix whispered. “Who was the man who paid me?”
    “Can’t you guess?”
    “No.”
    But even as he said that, he understood. Lescroix closed his eyes. Sat on the bed. “Your father-in-law.”
    The rich businessman. Patricia’s father.
    I’m a firm believer in kin sticking together.  . . .
    “He hired me?”
    “We both did,” Cabot said.
    “To defend your wife’s killer? Why?”
    Cabot sighed. “Why do you think, counselor?”
    Slowly, Lescroix’s thoughts were forming—like ice on a November pond. He said, “Because there’s no death penalty in this