The Anonymous Client

cheeks were caked with tears.
    She was sitting in a chair in Fitzpatrick’s office. Fitzpatrick had lead her in and sat her down. She had come docilely, mechanically, without life or spirit. Now she sat, staring blankly ahead of her, as if she’d lost all will of her own, as if she were an automaton, just waiting to be told what to do next.
    “Marilyn,” Fitzpatrick said. “This is Steve Winslow. Douglas Kemper’s lawyer. The lawyer who spoke with you at your house. I’ve just had a long talk with him, and I think he can help us. Frankly, we need help.”
    Marilyn gave no sign of comprehension.
    Fitzpatrick leaned forward. “Do you hear what I’m saying? Do you understand?”
    Marilyn’s head nodded slightly. She said, softly, “Yes.”
    “Good,” Fitzpatrick said. “Mr. Winslow has just had a talk with Douglas Kemper. Now he needs to have a talk with you. I’m going to leave the two of you alone now. I want you to listen to him carefully and hear what he has to say.”
    Fitzpatrick didn’t push it by waiting for another response. He just nodded to Steve Winslow and eased himself out the door.
    Steve stood looking down at Marilyn Harding. This was it. This was his shot. He had to get her talking now, if he was going to do any good at all.
    The prospects didn’t look good. Despite Marilyn’s outward appearance of defeat, her jawline was still set firmly, her face was still hard, stubborn, defiant. Steve Winslow read it all in that set jaw. How could he get her talking? What could he say?
    Steve Winslow pulled up a chair, sat down, stretched, yawned, crossed his legs, leaned back, and said, “Douglas Kemper’s a jerk.”
    Marilyn Harding’s head snapped up. She stared at him, defiantly.
    “Yeah, I know,” Steve said. “I shouldn’t be saying things like that about my own client. But what the hell. You gotta call a spade a spade. The man’s a complete jerk. You know what he’s done?”
    Marilyn Harding just glared at him.
    Steve Winslow sat calmly and waited.
    Finally, Marilyn said, “What?”
    Bingo, Steve thought. He’d done it. He got her to say one word. Not a particularly illuminating one by any stretch of the imagination, but still a word. The next ones would come easier.
    “He’s talked,” Steve said. “He’s told his story. Don’t worry. Not to the press, not to the public. Just to me. Believe me, it’s going no further. I promise you that. There isn’t a lawyer alive that would let that story go any further.”
    There was another pause, then Marilyn said, “Why?”
    “If you heard it, you’d know. But you haven’t heard it, have you? No. Douglas hasn’t had a chance to lay that one on you. No, he’s had his own problems. Right now he’s facing a charge of perjury, but that’s the least of it. When I left him a little while ago, back in the lockup, his wife Phyllis was there posting his bail. Some woman, huh? Cold, practical, determined. Gonna get her husband out of the cooler. Stand by her man.” Winslow shook his head. “Poor Douglas. If I were him, I’d rather stay in jail. The talk I had with him was nothing. Imagine the interrogation he’s going through now.”
    Marilyn’s lower lip trembled. She controlled it.
    Steve Winslow sat, said nothing.
    Marilyn looked at him. “His story.”
    “What?” Steve said.
    “His story. He told you his story.”
    Steve shook his head. “Yeah. Bad news.”
    Marilyn glared at him. “Damn it, what’s his story?”
    “Oh,” Steve said. “Well, first of all, you have to remind yourself none of this is getting out. I’ve said it before, but it’s worth saying again, because I don’t want to have to scrape you off the ceiling. None of this is getting out. This is just what the young man has admitted to me, his lawyer, in a confidential communication. All right?”
    “Yes, yes,” Marilyn said, impatiently. “What is it?”
    “Well, he admits the affair. Blames no one, has no regrets. You two were victims of fate, etc., etc. Says Bradshaw made a blackmail approach to you, you paid him off, he found out, was horrified, and bought the bills back for twelve grand. Only Bradshaw switched bills on him, which is why the bills found on the body turned out to be yours.” Winslow shrugged. “No big deal. You knew all that. The cops don’t, but they can make a lot of inferences. Fortunately, inferences don’t stand up in court.
    “Now, here’s the bad part. Day of the murder. You called Kemper at work, hysterical,