The Victim's Wife

  The Victim's Wife

  Mitch Turner Legal Thriller, Volume 2

  Dan Decker

  Published by Grim Archer Media, 2020.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  THE VICTIM'S WIFE

  First edition. December 15, 2020.

  Copyright © 2020 Dan Decker.

  Written by Dan Decker.

  Contents

  Contents

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

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  68

  69

  Books by Dan Decker

  About the Author

  Author’s Note

  For my family.

  1

  My phone rang.

  When I saw it was my receptionist’s line, I picked up the receiver and cradled it under my chin while continuing to type. I was working on a motion that had to be filed with the court before 5:00 PM.

  It took me a moment before I remembered the temporary employee’s name.

  “What do you need, Denise?” I asked while continuing to type to the end of the sentence I was working on.

  “I know you’re really busy right now, Mitch,” Denise said, “but we just had a woman walk in who seems like she might be a good fit for you. She’s looking for a criminal defense attorney.”

  I frowned, wishing Ellie had not called in sick. Ellie would’ve known how to handle this. She wouldn’t have bothered me because she would have known the importance of my current deadline. Instead, I was forced to suffer with an untrained temp. Denise seemed like a capable person, but I didn’t have time to deal with this today.

  I took a deep breath and let it out slowly, reminding myself that I tended to get snippy with people when I was working on a deadline.

  I can’t complain about Ellie taking the day anyway, I thought, she’s here every day. I could not remember the last time she had taken a day off. It was long overdue.

  Denise doesn’t need me snapping at her.

  I let out a long breath, mentally counting to ten. Ellie would have known to schedule an appointment for the potential client to come back later.

  I glanced at my watch, looked at my motion, and hesitated, unsure if I had time to take even fifteen minutes to meet with this person.

  On the other end of the line, I heard Denise turn her swivel chair away from the prospective client, cupping a hand around the receiver of the phone.

  “She’s in tears,” Denise whispered. “I think she needs some real help.”

  If Denise was hoping to convince me, she was going about it the wrong way. The last thing I needed right now was some random walk-in bubbling over with grief while I had a motion that I was concerned about getting filed.

  “Did she say what it was about?” I finally asked, trying to keep the irritation from showing in my voice but only half succeeding.

  “No, she didn’t.”

  I hesitated, wondering if I even wanted to take on another case at the moment. I had a full docket, so to speak, more work than I really needed. I supposed it was a good thing that I was so busy that I had the option of turning down cases.

  A sob came through the phone, and my heart wrenched.

  Why did I have to hear her cry?

  My instinct had been to tell Denise to send the person to somebody else, but that gut-wrenching sound was going to haunt me the rest of the afternoon unless I did something about it.

  I glanced at my watch again, and even though it was a significant motion that I still had not thoroughly researched, I knew now that my only way out was to meet with the woman and handle it from there. My conscience would not allow me to do otherwise at this point.

  “Mitch, are you there?” Denise asked.

  “Send her in. I’ll talk to her for a minute.”

  “Just one moment,” Denise chirped.

  I miss Ellie.

  My door opened as I hung up the phone.

  Denise practically bounced into my office. The young college kid was in her freshman year but determined to become an attorney. She probably felt like she was doing some good right now.

  I forced the irritation off my face, hoping that Denise had not noticed as I stood and went around to the other side of my desk while extending a hand to the woman who had just entered.

  “Welcome, have a seat,” I said, nodding to my guest chairs. She was a short woman, probably just a few inches above five feet. She had dark brown hair and a tan complexion. She was pretty and had only a few years on me. I wouldn’t put her past forty-five.

  The woman took my hand. It was moist as if she was nervous about meeting with me. She had taken control of the sobs, but her face was puffy. She did not look entirely comfortable and, after making brief eye contact, focused her attention on my office.

  I released her hand and walked around to the front of my desk, turning off my computer screen so she would have my full attention. I repressed a sigh as the motion I had been working on disappeared.

  Fifteen minutes, I thought to myself. I have to resolve this in fifteen minutes or less.

  I pulled out a fresh notepad from within a desk drawer and put a blue ballpoint pen on the paper before clasping my hands in front of me.

  She stared at the back of my computer, a faraway look on her face as she battled with her emotions.

  “How can I help?” I asked after the silence had started to become awkward. The woman looked like she was tearing up again. I was trying to bypass that so that I could get this over with. She had not looked at me once after taking a seat.

  When she finally did, I was afraid the dam was about to burst.

  “My husband is dead,” she barely managed to get the words out without breaking up.

  I was taken aback. It was the last thing I had expected her to say. I had thought she would tell me that her husband had been arrested. Or that her son was in jail. Or something like that.

  “I’m sorry that happened,” I said as sympathetically as I could. Did this woman understand that I was a criminal defense attorney? If Denise hadn’t been a temp, I would have sat her down and had a discussion. “When did that happen?”

  “He was killed late last night. He was at work.”

  I hesitated, uncertain how I fit into the picture or what I should say next. I regretted letting her into my office. If she had come on behalf of an incarcerated family member, looking for me to represent them in a pending criminal matter, it would have been a perfunctory conversation. I could have sent her on
her way after only a few minutes of discussion.

  The woman was now staring at the back of my computer again. I was starting to become impatient, which I did my best to fight, but my motion was waiting. I had professional responsibilities to fulfill.

  “I am sorry, ma’am,” I said as cautiously as I could, “but I believe you might be mistaken. Are you aware that I am a criminal defense attorney? Based on what you have told me, you should be looking to speak with a prosecutor.”

  “I spoke with her this morning, and she didn’t believe me.”

  Her?

  I knew of only one female prosecutor that would have been assigned this case. Every other senior prosecutor over there was male, a fact the local newspaper pointed out frequently.

  Cindy Seakowics. A former flame from more than a decade ago.

  “What did you tell... her?” I had almost said Cindy.

  “I told her that my husband’s murderer is not the man who killed him.”

  I hesitated, wondering if my ears were playing tricks on me. I ran through what she had said in my head, just to make sure I understood.

  “Are you telling me the person that killed your husband is not the murderer?”

  “Yes, Mr. Turner, that is exactly what I am telling you.

  2

  I studied the woman, trying to decide if she was crazy or if there was some other reason to explain her apparent nonsensical statement. Perhaps she was just saying this for dramatic effect to get my attention, or maybe she was just so grief-stricken that she didn’t understand what she was saying. Or, more likely, she was just so angry at her husband’s death that she was looking for anything to explain what had happened.

  Whatever the reason, she had piqued my interest.

  I glanced at my watch and reminded myself that I still had some research to finish for my motion that was due at the end of the day.

  Whenever I was presented with an interesting puzzle, it was easy for me to get distracted. This was something I knew about myself, so I took steps to mitigate it.

  A few possibilities could explain her wild claim. A conspiracy, a murder for hire plot, or something else along those lines.

  I assumed the question I wanted to ask her was evident on my face, but she appeared too distraught to notice my confusion.

  “Who murdered your husband if it wasn’t his killer?” I asked slowly, watching for any cues that she might have a mental issue that was not readily apparent.

  It’s always the simplest explanation that makes the most sense, I reminded myself.

  “It was one of my husband’s business partners, Vivian Fuger.”

  I leaned back in my chair and put my hands behind my head, never taking my eyes off her.

  “What makes you think this?” I asked, willing to ask her a few more questions before telling her that I wasn’t the solution to her problem.

  “They have had trouble running the business for some time now. The man who actually killed him was another business partner.”

  I frowned. “Is it your belief that your husband’s partners conspired to kill him?”

  “No, not at all. It’s difficult to explain, but Vivian, she kinda has a way with people, you know what I mean?”

  “I don’t. It might help if you explain.”

  “She is a skilled manipulator and can get people to do things for her, and sometimes they don’t realize what they are doing.”

  I thought I now understood. “Are you suggesting your husband was killed because she somehow manipulated the other man into doing it?”

  The woman nodded vigorously. “Yes. She is behind this, not him.” She paused for a moment. “Mason. Mason Harwood. That’s the man who killed my husband. The poor fool probably didn’t know what he was walking into when he entered my husband’s office.”

  The tears seemed to be drying up now, and I started to wonder if maybe this wasn’t just an act. I had known people who could cry on demand.

  Most were former clients.

  I didn’t trust a single one of them.

  I waited for her to elaborate, but she did not.

  What do I have to do, play twenty questions to get her to talk to me?

  I hesitated, trying to avoid glancing at my watch while reminding myself that she had been through a terrible ordeal and her behavior was in line with what one might expect. The silence became awkward, so I moved to fill it, going against my instincts to just wait her out.

  “How do you believe that this guy, Mason Harwood, was manipulated by the other partner, Vivian Fuger, was it?”

  “Yeah, that’s her name. I don’t know. I’m just confident that she had something to do with it. She can get under people’s skin, make them think things that aren’t rational. She then gets them to do her bidding.”

  “I’m not sure I see exactly where you’re going with this, at least for how it involves me. Let’s say for the sake of the argument that everything you’re telling me is true, and we assume that Vivian did, in fact, provoke Mason to kill your husband. What do you expect me to do about it?” I gave her a moment for the question to sink in. “You could try to bring a civil action against her, but you need a different type of attorney. I do have a partner who might be able to help you. He typically practices personal injury, but this could be up his alley. I can introduce you.”

  “Money? You think I’m here for money?” Her voice choked as she spoke. “I do not need money, Mr. Turner. I want my husband’s true murderer to go to jail. That is what I need. Vivian must be held accountable for her actions.”

  It appeared my message was not sinking in. “I understand how you feel, but what would you like me to do? Do you want to hire me as a consultant so I can tell you my thoughts on the criminal trial as it proceeds against Mason Harwood?”

  “I was hoping you could tell me my options.”

  The wheels in my brain were starting to move. This was a fascinating problem, to be sure. I liked puzzles that held my attention because they were challenging to solve. I glanced at my watch and saw that we had already been talking for ten minutes.

  Five more minutes, and then I must put her off, at least until this evening.

  “I came here because I saw your billboards,” she continued before I had a chance to speak up. “I know who you are, Mitch Turner. I’ve spoken with a past client. I know you do good work. You’re not just looking to make money. You want to make sure that justice is done. Please help me find justice.”

  I arched an eyebrow. I was about to ask who she had talked to, but she went on before I got a chance.

  “You think outside the box. That’s what I need.”

  I was not used to such flattery from potential clients. I leaned back in my chair. The flattery was affecting me, just as she intended. I put my hands behind my head and let out a long breath, trying to think how I could insert myself into the situation to benefit her.

  “I understand, I think, but I still don’t see what I can do to help you come to a resolution on this. I can’t prosecute a case against Vivian. I can’t enter as a third-party on a criminal case. If you’d like, I can give you the name of my private investigator. He could look into this. Perhaps he could turn up some evidence to back up your theory so you could take it to the police. If you have evidence in hand, they will be more likely to listen.”

  She slammed her hand down on my desk. “I need you to do this. You have a way of getting to the truth when others don’t. You believe other people’s stories even if they’re crazy. How much is it going to cost me? Money will not be a problem.”

  Crazy. That word stuck out to me. Maybe I do know the client. Something tickled the back of my mind.

  I thought of a recent case where a witness claimed that a ghost had killed the victim. It had not turned out that way, of course, but I had not dismissed the idea out of hand and had looked into it, eventually tracking down the real murderer.

  “I am not gonna mince words,” I said. “You are presenting me with an interesting situation.”

>   The first glimmer of hope crossed her face since entering my office. She saw an opportunity and was going to do her best to capitalize on it.

  “This is why I came to you. Money is no obstacle. Tell me how much you want. I will give it to you right now.”

  “Who did you speak to about me?”

  “I would rather not say, Mr. Turner. I’m convinced that you are going to find the truth and that nobody else will. Please help me.”

  I glanced at my watch, it was a couple of minutes past the time allotment that I had set aside for this discussion, but we were about to wrap up, so I didn’t mind we had gone over.

  “I’m not willing to commit to anything quite yet. How about we do this before we go down the rabbit hole? I will spend one hour of my own time to determine if there is any merit to your claim. I will call you back if I find it.

  “After that, we will talk options. I must warn you, for something like this, I’m going to require a hefty retainer. It could get costly.”

  “I await your call.” She pulled a card out of her purse and put it on my desk. “My name is Penny Moyer. Please don’t wait too long. Vivian will do everything she can to destroy any evidence left behind by this little charade of hers. I assure you that I will make it worth your while.” She studied me. “I’ll pay double your normal rate.”

  I tried my best to keep my face straight, but I was not sure I managed to do it as she walked out the door.

  3

  I waited for the front office door to shut before I dared to move. I had been tempted to take the case without any further research for the money alone. In all my years of practice, I had never had a prospective client offer to pay more than I asked, let alone suggest they would pay double my rate. She didn’t even know my rate when she suggested it.

  On rare occasions when I had obtained a successful result, a client might pay a bonus, but most seemed to feel like I had been fairly compensated, even though I had changed their life by keeping them out of prison.

  I knew the value of my services and made sure to price my fees accordingly, so I didn’t particularly care if somebody wasn’t grateful at the end. And there was always the problem of those who were found guilty.