“I asked her that myself. She didn’t have much money and she felt intimidated by the legal machinations. Besides, the murder had left her drained of energy. What little she had went into rearing me.”
It was now clear to Alex why, since her earliest recollections, her grandmother had pushed her toward the legal profession. Because it was expected of her, Alex had excelled in school and had ultimately graduated from the University of Texas Law School in the top ten percent of her class. The law was the profession Merle had chosen for her, but thankfully it was a field that intrigued and delighted Alex. Her curious mind enjoyed delving into its intricacies. She was well prepared to do what she must.
“Grandmother was just a widow lady, left with a baby to raise,” she said, building her case. “There was precious little she could do about the judge’s ruling at Hicks’s competency hearing. With what money she had, she packed up, left town, and never went back.”
Greg consulted his wristwatch. Then, anchoring his cigarette between his lips, he stood up and pulled on his suit jacket. “I can’t reopen a murder case without a shred of evidence or probable cause. You know that. I didn’t snatch you out of law school ’cause you were stupid. Gotta confess, though, that your shapely ass had something to do with it.”
“Thanks.”
Her disgust was obvious and it wasn’t because of his sexism, which was so brassy she knew it was insincere. “Look, Alex, this isn’t a teensy-weensy favor you’re asking of me,” he said. “Because of who these guys are, we’re talking earth-shattering shit here. Before I stick my neck out, I’ve got to have more to go on than your hunch and Granny’s ramblings.”
She followed him to the door of his office. “Come on, Greg, spare me the legal lingo. You’re only thinking of yourself.”
“You’re goddamn right I am. Constantly.”
His admission left her no room to maneuver. “At least grant me permission to investigate this murder when I’m not actively involved in other cases.”
“You know what a backlog we’ve got. We can’t get all the cases to court as it is now.”
“I’ll work overtime. I won’t shirk my other responsibilities. You know I won’t.”
“Alex—”
“Please, Greg.” She could see that he wanted her to withdraw the request, but she wouldn’t capitulate to anything less than a definite no. Her preliminary research had piqued her interest as a prosecutor and litigator, and her desperate desire to prove her grandmother wrong and absolve herself of any guilt further motivated her undertakings. “If I don’t produce something soon, I’ll drop it and you’ll never hear of it again.”
He studied her intent face. “Why don’t you just work out your frustrations with hot, illicit screwing like everybody else? At least half the guys in town would accommodate you, married or single.” She gave him a withering look. “Okay, okay. You can do some digging, but only in your spare time. Come up with something concrete. If I’m going to win votes, I can’t look or act like a goddamn fool, and neither can anybody else in this office. Now I’m late for lunch. ’Bye.”
Her caseload was heavy, and the time she had had to spend on her mother’s murder had been limited. She read everything she could get her hands on—newspaper accounts, transcripts of Buddy Hicks’s hearing—until she had the facts memorized.
They were basic and simple. Mr. Bud Hicks, who was mentally retarded, had been arrested near the murder scene with the victim’s blood on his clothing. At the time of his arrest, he had had in his possession the surgical instrument with which he had allegedly killed the victim. He was jailed, questioned, and charged. Within days there was a hearing. Judge Joseph Wallace had declared Hicks incompetent to stand trial and had confined him to a state mental hospital.
It seemed like an open-and-shut case. Just when she had begun to believe that Greg was right, that she was on a wild-goose chase, she had discovered a curious glitch in the transcript of Hicks’s hearing. After following up on it, she had approached Greg again, armed with a signed affidavit.
“Well, I’ve got it.” Triumphantly, she slapped the folder on top of the others cluttering his desk.
Greg scowled darkly. “Don’t be so friggin’ cheerful, and for crissake, stop slamming things around. I’ve got a bitchin’ hangover.” He mumbled his words through a dense screen of smoke. He stopped puffing on the cigarette only long enough to sip at a steaming cup of black coffee. “How was your weekend?”
“Wonderful. Far more productive than yours. Read that.”
Tentatively, he opened the file and scanned the contents with bleary eyes. “Hmm.” His initial reading was enough to grab his attention. Leaning back in his chair and propping his feet on the corner of his desk, he reread it more carefully. “This is from the doctor at the mental hospital where this Hicks fellow is incarcerated?”
“Was. He died a few months ago.”
“Interesting.”
“Interesting?” Alex cried, disappointed with the bland assessment. She left her chair, circled it, and stood behind it, gripping the upholstered back in agitation. “Greg, Buddy Hicks spent twenty-five years in that hospital for nothing.”
“You don’t know that yet. Don’t jump to conclusions.”
“His last attending psychiatrist said that Buddy Hicks was a model patient. He never demonstrated any violent tendencies. He had no apparent sex drive, and in the doctor’s expert opinion, he was incapable of committing a crime like the one that cost my mother her life. Admit that it looks fishy.”
He read several other briefs, then muttered, “It looks fishy, but it’s sure as hell not a smoking gun.”
“Short of a miracle, I won’t be able to produce any concrete evidence. The case is twenty-five years old. All I can hope for is enough probable cause to bring it before a grand jury. A confession from the real killer—because I’m convinced, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Bud Hicks did not murder my mother—is a pipe dream. There’s also the slim possibility of smoking out an eyewitness.”
“Slim to none, Alex.”
“Why?”