Chapter 16: O say can you see...

Walker: “A rabbi, a priest, and a Lutheran minister walk into a bar.”

Pilar: “Is this some kind of joke?”

Walker and Pilar, holding hands, bowing, “Thank you, thank you. This ends our Kansas City engagement.” xxxxxxxxxx

Douglas ‘Duke’ Arlington. A new trial, his second, for the murder of Gustav Hindenburg in Ft. Payne, Alabama.

Different courtroom, different judge, different jurors, different defense attorneys. New evidence.

Ned Daniels and Hilary Dunne would reprise their prosecutor roles. Winter Jennings, State’s witness.

But it felt different this time around. Would be different.

Walker was just as focused on the process. Another first-appearance hearing. Another arraignment where Arlington pleaded, “Not Guilty.” No bail this time around. Not after his performance when he was bonded out last time. Performances. The two productions being the Hyder law office and the Wrigley garage. Arlington had been in jail since he was released from the prison hospital and wouldn’t be breathing non-penal air again. Ever. Fingers crossed.

One more preliminary hearing before the start of the trial. The Honorable Vivian H. Lauderdale presiding over the main event. ‘H’ for ‘hang ‘em high’, some of the court buffs enjoyed saying.

But Hilary told me, “Lauderdale is pretty down-the-middle. She’s not law-and-order. And she isn’t ‘oh, you poor dear — you had such a rough childhood.’ Fair to both sides.”

I thought, but didn’t say, “Isn’t this a slam-dunk case?” Yes, and no. The Feds would do it by the book, no matter how much evidence had been gathered. And, this time around, Arlington’s defender was even more formidable than Richard Hyder.

F. G. Longmire looked like the rawboned Wyoming rancher he was. He favored cowboy boots and fringed jackets. A briar pipe. His slow speech patterns, his slouchy gait, his rustic dress, had caused some prosecutors to underestimate him early in Longmire’s career. Not any more. Not Frank Gary Longmire.

He had prevailed in one murder case by bewitching three members of the jury into almost paranoid suspicions. That case — where a stone killer, Stubby Rollins had been, against all odds, acquitted — was now studied in every law school in the country.

Longmire had deftly skewed juror perceptions so that the prosecutor’s own investigator became a suspect. An alternative killer to Mr. Rollins. Gulp. Well, that wouldn’t happen with this investigator.

The defense strategy had so blindsided prosecutors around the country that some states changed their laws. One example:

“Evidence that another person had motive or opportunity to commit the charged crime, or had some remote connection to the victim or crime scene, is insufficient to raise the requisite reasonable doubt ... Evidence of alternative party culpability is relevant and admissible only if it links the alternate party to the actual perpetration of the crime.”

But Counselor Longmire would probably try something, something else, in Kansas City. I suppose there could always be a screwup. A funky juror, witnesses recanting, a major misstep by the People. Something. But Arlington would still have to answer for the murders of Richard Hyder and his defense team. xxxxxxxxxx

Pilar, innocence personified, “Winter, how are you doing with that writing site, what’s it called?”

Mindy, “Writing? Winter is writing something?”

Gregory, “Stories?”

Vanessa kept a straight face.

I said, “Oh that old thing. I’m finished with that. Almost.”

Pilar, “You stopped writing your little detective stories?”

“Yeah. Mostly.”

Mindy, “Where is it, that site?”

Pilar, “Yeah, what’s it called again?”

“Oh, Stories ... Something-Something. I don’t go there anymore. Hardly.”

Vanessa looked at me sympathetically. Hobo, skeptically. Shut up.

Pilar, “Papi, don’t you have it bookmarked? Mindy should check it out. Now that she’s in the movie business.”

Mindy, “Film. But I would like to read Winter’s work. Detective stories?”

I said, “That site is mostly science fiction. That’s why I never win any contests. Not that I pay the slightest attention to reader scores.”

Pilar, “All the high scores are sci fi?”

“All of ‘em. 100%. Almost.”

Pilar winked at Mindy, “Winter puts in a lot of sex.”

Gregory, “Really?”

“I had to. Several studies about that site have shown that they read at about a fourth grade level. On average.”

“So the sex... ?”

“Four-letter words.”

“Oh.”

Vanessa smiled at me, “Should we tell them?”

I tried casual on for size, “Oh, I don’t care. Go ahead.”

“Winter was offered $5,000 for an option on one of her stories.”

Walker, awe in his voice, spoke softly, “Winter.”

Mindy, who’s had a cup of coffee at UCLA, said, “How long?”

Vanessa, “Eighteen months.”

The veteran filmmaker nodded, “That’s not unreasonable. It takes time to put the financing together. Is it for film or television?”

I said, “They didn’t say. I think they’re more interested in the character than the story itself.”

Mindy, “Well, an experienced producer might option it for three to six months. Eighteen ... that means it’s someone without much in their portfolio.”

“Oh.”

“Not that that’s necessarily a bad thing. Everyone has to start somewhere.”

Pilar, “How did that producer even see your story?”

I said, “I don’t know for sure. I think maybe a reader sent her a link. But I’m not certain.”

Walker steady-gazed at me, amazed. As well he should be. Hey, great boobs, sure. But more too. Next, I’ll probably be listed in ‘Debrett’s’. Peerage/ Big print, no doubt. xxxxxxxxxx

I hadn’t seen Arlington for months and the prison toll was evident. He’d lost 30 or so pounds, was flabbier, less muscle tone. And he looked sickly with that jailhouse pallor. Faint scars from Adam’s fangs around his face.

I felt zero sympathy for the fucking killer.

Longmire had argued, unsuccessfully, for a change of venue. Too much publicity, tainted jury pool. He had also tried, unsuccessfully, to plead it down from murder to manslaughter. Ned Daniels wouldn’t budge.

This time around, I not only wasn’t nervous, I was looking forward to testifying. I had even toyed — gawd, how immature I can be — with the notion of asking the court’s permission to have my service dog, Adam, with me. An in-your-face to that murderous fuckwad.

But I am often tethered to reality and didn’t mention it to anyone. Would have been a hoot, though to see Arlington’s face when Adam padded silently in. xxxxxxxxxx

Pilar, since our Walker discussion, had been talking with me more. Opening up, sometimes even asking before doing. Neither of us mentioned the kindnesses that Vanessa and I had rendered when Lina and Pilar first arrived in Kansas City. After their harrowing trek from Hondo, Colombia to the Rio Grande and on to KC.

We had taken them in, given Lina a job at Euforia, let Pilar move in with Walker, found Lina an apartment in Brookside ... we had basically given them their start in America. Oh, and Bulldog had finessed their citizenship papers.

Yet I didn’t feel that Vanessa and I had all that much leverage when it came to Pilar and Walker. Most teenage romances falter, fade away — some relationships become hateful, even toxic.

I just didn’t want Walker hurt, what mother would? But, when I forced myself to curb my emotions, to look at it rationally, I knew I couldn’t protect him from everything. No parent could.

Still, I appreciated Pilar’s engagement, her recent openness.

But that didn’t stop me from saying, “No. Sorry, but no.”

Pilar shrugged, didn’t seem all that disappointed. “Okay.”

“I don’t have anything against anal sex. Boys and girls, boys and boys. But ... well, first of all, I don’t want Gregory losing that particularly cherry here. Not even with Walker.”

“And the other... ?”

“If Walker wants to be butt-fucked, fine. But I want him to come to that conclusion on his own. Not in the heat of the moment, not with pressure from two hotties — you and Mindy.”

“Okay, okay, it was just a thought.”

“Have you discussed it with Walker?”

“Oh, sure. He was ... interested. But only if you gave the okay.”

“Well ... no.”

“Whatever.” She’d been expecting the answer. The ‘no’.

But relationships — in general and specifically — have been on our minds lately. Not just sex, but capital R relationships. The kids were as shook up as Vanessa and I were when Bear told them about Alicia. Walker was particularly off balance because Bear had been one of his role models. Who, along with Daddy, had been sort of a father figure ever since Richie left me.

The four of us have had countless dinner table conversations about Bear, about Alicia. Of course, about Barry. The news was a double-barreled blast. The affair itself. And that it involved a woman.

I had been faithful to Richie even while he was cheating on me. But that marriage didn’t last long, not nearly so long as Bear and Barry had been together.

Oh well. Vanessa and Walker and Pilar and I will continue to talk it through. I’m looking forward to when we can sit down with Bear and Alicia. With Barry too.

I had made, Vanessa too, the mistake of thinking of Bear as ... I dunno, solid as a mountain. Immovable. He was always there for us, always dependable. Yet, as much in love with Barry as he was — and still is — Bear is human. Fallible.

His confession to us, well the reason for the confession, was almost sweet. Vanessa and I are his two best friends, “I couldn’t not tell you.” xxxxxxxxxx

Sometimes even the most rational of professional detectives, licensed, can get a little loopy. I had been considering dropping the attempted murder (of me) charges against Duke Arlington.

It would save the People considerable time and money and effort. And the truth was, Arlington would be facing either the death penalty or LWOP. Even if he weren’t tried for the Wrigley garage incident.

But I would have felt an illogical responsibility to Adam; as if not prosecuting the case would be somehow disloyal to the valiant war dog.

As it happened, Arlington’s attorney, F. G. Longmire, would eventually plead his client guilty to the attempted murder of one Winter Jennings. By that time it wouldn’t make any difference to Arlington; and Longmire had long since reached the point of diminishing returns so far as trial publicity was concerned. xxxxxxxxxx

The Wrigley girls were definitely the alphas in our loft, kids division. Mindy was the oldest of the four. And Pilar ... well, she was the strong-willed one. Walker and Gregory? Since there was pussy involved, I decided not to worry about them.

But one other relationship thing was nagging at me. And, like Daddy would have done, I decided to face it head-on. I called Clint, “Got room for a Kansas City bimbo this weekend?”

“I can rearrange my harem calendar.”

Which, as I thought about it on the airplane, was a sort of appropriate, ghoulish-humor wise. Since the purpose of my trip was to tell Clint about Chip.

Clint — his solidity always surprised me when I hadn’t seen him for a while — met me at Newark. We held hands in the cab to Alphabet City. Shower à deux. Bed, clean sheets, his thoughtful, slow tempo. Until I had adjusted to his size. Then ... zowie!

Cuddled against his chest, his thick arm around me, I felt ... protected. Safe.

“Clint, I met a guy back home. I’m going to start seeing him once in a while.”

He went still. Sighed. “Well.”

I didn’t make any excuses. Didn’t talk about long-distance relationships. He knew all about that. We lay there a long time, not talking. Then he said, “I made reservations at Gramercy.”

“I love that place. And we can walk. Shower time.”

It still amazes me how many people are out and about in Manhattan. It was almost 10 at night and there was laughter, teasing, spirited arguments ... a vibrant sidewalk scene.

We ate in the Tavern section, rather than the more formal Dining Room. Grilled Calamari, Mushroom Lasagne, Sea Bass. We shared three Farmstead Cheeses for dessert.

It became apparent that Clint had said all he had to say on the subject of my Kansas City beau. Which irritated the hell out of me. Why wouldn’t he react? Cry? Curse? He was so self-fucking-contained. Men. They can close up so tightly.

So naturally, I found myself over-explaining. “Look, it’s nothing serious. Just a ... a fling. I like him. He likes me.”

“All right.”

“Clint, you don’t need me to tell you how important you are in my life.”

He shrugged, Mr. Conversation.

I tried a different tact, “Look if you come to Kansas City — I want you to come to Kansas City — I’m all yours. I’ll drop everything to be with you. I mean ... well, it depends on work, but other than that...”

He nodded. Mr. Noncommittal. His silence was like a boulder.

I bit back a sharp retort. This was how breakups occurred. Permanent damage. I calmed myself.

We didn’t hold hands on the walk back to 3rd Avenue. xxxxxxxxxx

In preparation for the Arlington retrial, I was finally able to prevail on Sandy Seaver to provide a voluntary deposition for Judge Vivian Lauderdale. I told him, “It’ll be private — just you and Caitlin and me. The judge and her stenographer.”

“Why do it all?”

“Because Arlington now has a major league attorney. Because I’ll have to testify about my role in the case. Because I don’t know where Longmire will take me. How much I’ll be forced to reveal.”

Caitlin won the day, “Let’s do it, Sandy. Winter has kept up her end of the bargain.” I hadn’t told anyone about their secret. Well, Bulldog and Emile. That was like telling the wall.

As sympathetic as Judge Lauderdale was, it was still painful for me to listen to Caitlin’s account of her life in Southern California. Her tortured childhood, being tossed aside by her parents, the costly — in terms of money and emotional stress — transition toward her feminine self.

Tough for me, but I couldn’t begin to imagine how painful it was for the Seavers.

Sandy told his side in a tired monotone. Just the facts, ma’am.

No mention was made of blackmail. They could deny that; and from what Pat Hodges had told me, it would be impossible to prove. Too many variables when any pitcher took the mound. No money had changed hands, there was no trail to follow. If it came down to it ... Sandy’s word against an accused murderer’s. xxxxxxxxxx

F. G. Longmire didn’t buy new clothes for Duke Arlington to wear in court. Perhaps Longmire was looking for a sympathetic juror — Arlington had lost enough weight in prison that his suits and shirts were now a couple of sizes too large.

Longmire did win one pretrial point — he argued successfully against having his client handcuffed during the trial. The judge stationed an extra guard by the defense table. And two guards would escort Arlington whenever he entered and left the courtroom.

Jury selection in Judge Lauderdale’s courtroom had taken only a day and a half. Longmire quickly exhausted his allotted challenges and we were ready for opening statements right after lunch on Tuesday.

Walker was taking notes; I was in the Federal Courthouse, but not in court. I met with Ned and Hilary when there was a break and after court was gaveled for the day. I’d be testifying — well, I didn’t know exactly when. After that, I could watch the proceedings with Walker.

Ned Daniels had given his opening statement — short, to the point. He concluded, “We will prove, beyond any reasonable doubt, that the accused...” he turned and pointed, “Douglas Arlington, stabbed and killed Gustav Hindenburg.”

F. G. Longmire had reserved his own opening statement until it was the Defense’s time to present their side.

For now, Daniels began with the scene-setting stage. He called witnesses who testified to the knife purchase, the discovery of Hindenburg’s body. The video search at the K was particularly enthralling. Sandra Fleming’s cinematic panorama of the empty ballpark, the climb up the scoreboard ladder, opening compartment after compartment.

Longmire objected, mainly to interrupt the flow. But Ned and Hilary were building momentum.

After the scene-setters, Ned moved to what he called the hunter-gatherer stage. Crime-scene technicians, coroner’s investigator, fingerprint specialist, blood expert. They would construct the foundation for the lead investigator — me — to testify.

Ned actually had another detective — a sergeant in the DeKalb County Sheriff’s office — on his witness list. He separated my testimony from the sergeant’s in order to make it more difficult for Longmire to make one cohesive attack on the investigative segments of the case.

Even with objections from the Defense, it was a well-orchestrated minuet. Moving, inevitably, closer and closer to a conviction. Well, a hoped-for conviction on the part of the People.

Longmire didn’t object to any of the hunter-gatherer testimony. And asked very few questions on cross. In our evening postmortem, Hilary told me, “If he has anything, he’s saving it. He’ll do his counter-punching when it’s his turn. Try for a knockout punch.”

Counselor Longmire had known it was a dog of a case when he talked his way into representing Arlington. My testimony, the knives with Arlington’s prints and the one with Hindenburg’s blood ... well, I guess there were no guaranteed outcomes. Never eat your chicken wings before they’re fried, or whatever that saying was. Anything could happen in the emotional heat of a trial.

Longmire would defend his client aggressively and skillfully, drawing on his years of murder-trial experience. He’d look for a wedge, a technicality, a loopy juror ... anything.

But either way — guilty or innocent — Longmire would reap the benefits of the national media fascination. He would win, on a personal basis, no matter what.

Judge Lauderdale said, “Your witness, Mr. Longmire.”

When he turned his attention to me, sworn in and seated in the witness chair, his intelligent gray eyes turned raptor-like. Uh oh. Then I calmed myself, channeled my inner Matt Striker. I was prepared, rehearsed, was simply telling the truth.

He was questioning me on cross, but, with the judge’s permission, he stood in the well of the courtroom, directly in front of the jury. Ned called it ‘the proving ground’. Longmire was selling himself to the jurors, one by one. I just happened to be the one he had chosen to play off of.

He didn’t wear glasses, didn’t have any notes, just him against the Federal Government.

Longmire looked each juror in the eye as he grilled me. I had the odd sensation that the jury, not the Defense attorney, was questioning me.

“So, Ms. Jennings, acting as a private citizen — not in your capacity as a part-time consultant with the Feds — you followed another private citizen — Mr. Douglas Arlington — on three separate trips. To Arizona. To Texas. To Alabama.”

Still facing the jury, he shook his head, “A private citizen.”

I said, “Yes.” Volunteer nothing. Don’t be defensive. Speak the truth.

“And during this sneaky period you also arranged to develop a personal relationship with Mr. Arlington.”

“Yes.” Trying not to sound like a harlot.

Duke Arlington stared at me with hate-filled eyes. Heat seemed to emanate from him, from behind the Defense table.

Longmire sighed, shook his head sadly, looked from juror to juror, “I’ve seen obsessed women before. It’s tragic in a...”

Ned stood, “Objection.” Quiet voice. “Leading the witness.”

“Overruled.”

Longmire said, “Mr. Arlington was that rarest of American athletes, a man talented enough to become a major-league baseball player. One in a million. Then, remaining loyal to his sport, he became a scout, finding, developing, nurturing, young men. And he rose to the top of his field, vice president of the team’s entire scouting operation.”

He flipped the back of his fingers in my direction, “He would be quite the catch for a certain type of woman.”

Longmire was building a platform to impugn my testimony. To plant doubt in the narrative that Ned had laid out. Walker, of course, wanted to vault the wooden partition and throttle Longmire. But I’d been prepped. I ignored the imputed insults, the hinted-at aspersions. I stayed unruffled. And looked confidently serene. Heart-flutters didn’t show. Pretty sure.

Well, Counselor Longmire had been around long enough not to show any impatience with me, any disappointment that I didn’t rise to the bait. Besides he had been merely laying the groundwork for his primary Jennings goal — to uncover the details of why the fuck I’d been following his client.

Judge Graves had sealed the ‘blackmail’ portion of the earlier trial’s transcript. Ned Daniels had explained to me, “The Sixth Amendment guarantees a public trial, but it also guarantees a fair trial. Arlington went on that killing rampage before the Defense could pursue that line of inquiry.”

“The blackmail.”

“Right. So there was no sworn testimony other than your in-chambers remarks. No witnesses called. To have blackmail in the official transcript could end up being prejudicial against Arlington.”

“So Graves sealed the in-camera discussion.”

“Yeah, in essence he treated it like it was information exchanged in discovery. Not subject to First Amendment nor common-law right of access.”

“But Longmire can back me into that same corner.”

“Yeah, or you could hit him with that information up front.”

Now that Sandy and Caitlin Seaver had been deposed.

So when Longmire got around to asking me directly, I said, “I was under contract to investigate Douglas Arlington on suspicion of blackmail.”

Longmire gave the jurors a small smile, “Very convenient.”

He continued looking at them, one by one, and asked me, “Who is this mysterious person who hired you to birddog a private citizen?”

Ned rose again, “Your Honor?”


“Yes, Mr. Daniels.”

“Sidebar?”


“Chambers.”

This time I followed Ned and Hilary. Longmire followed us.

Defense and the People went back and forth for a few minutes until Judge Lauderdale held up her palm, “Enough.”

Longmire said, “Your Honor...”

“Enough. Mr. Longmire, I have determined that Ms. Jennings was employed by a ... reputable entity. Further, I have determined that her investigation of Arlington was legitimate. Ms. Jennings is a licensed private detective.”

“But...”

“In addition, I have deposed the party who was, indeed, being blackmailed by your client. If you insist, we can put the parties involved on the record, have them testify in open court.”

Longmire had a thoughtful look. Yes / no? Helpful / harmful?

I didn’t show it, but my heart was racing. Caitlin and Sandy.

“I reserve the right to recall the witness, but have no further questions at this time.”

I wondered how Bulldog Bannerman would feel being referred to a ‘reputable entity’. Probably wouldn’t care much one way or the other. xxxxxxxxxx

The remainder of the Duke Arlington trial seemed anticlimactic to me. And not just because I was done testifying. Longmire didn’t show it, but some of the air had gone out of his balloon. As we say in law school.

He was dutiful, arguing, sometimes brilliantly, but the case was just too solid. Arlington, glowering at me, didn’t burnish his own image with the jury.

Judge Lauderdale hadn’t imposed a gag order on talking to the media, so F. G. Longmire held impromptu press gaggles on the courthouse steps. He was masterful. Low key, confident, never promising victory, never proclaiming his client’s innocence, but always keeping the spotlight on himself.

Longmire’s trope was a familiar one, one that resonated with a good percentage of the populace — one man, courageously standing up to the weight and majesty of the entire Federal apparatus. xxxxxxxxxx

I called Chip, “Buy a girl a drink?”

“Anytime.”

“Unicorn Club. Ten.” Click.

Chip O’Grady looked properly preppy — blazer, chinos, white button-down. He fit right in with the Unicorn crowd. Looked good, in fact.

I was in a single malt phase and Bess Cuthbert brought us two beakers of Laphroaig. She looked Chip up and down, “Where’s Vanessa?”

“Babysitting Walker. He’s underage, you know.”

“Here’s what I know, he’s welcome under my skirts.”

“Begone.”

Chip watched her sashay away, hips telegraphing. Men.

He said, “I won’t ask you how the trial is going. You’re pretty close-mouthed.”

I grinned, “Oh?”

Chip laughed, “You know what I mean.”

“I’m Chatty Cathy tonight. I’m going to tell you about my boyfriend.”

He sat up.

“He’s a good guy. Great guy. Name not relevant, you don’t know him and he lives in New York.”

“Okay.”

“After my family, he’s Number One in my life.”

“I see.”

I touched the back of his hand, “Doesn’t mean I don’t have time for a Number Two.”

“Good. Great.”

Excellent. Chip wasn’t jealous. Or didn’t show it. He didn’t want to settle down with me any more than I did with him. His goal had been obvious from the start — pussy.

I said, “I would like to see your place. Not tonight, but one of these nights. After the trial is over.”

“I’ll call.”


“You better.”

Oh what a tangled web. I’m married — deliriously happy — to Vanessa. Yet, fell slowly, slowly, in love with Matt. Waited, teased, waited, finally decided I did want Clint.

So, what is Chip? A toy-boy? A fling? A local outlet for short-term fun? Yep.

But more too. I do like him. And I like the attention. So long as my family approves ... fuck. Is there anything I can’t rationalize? xxxxxxxxxx

Deep thoughts.

We were, as we so frequently did, sitting around our kitchen table. Talking, teasing, laughing.

Vanessa often uses us as taste-testers for Euforia. A new dish, a twist on a 1930s cocktail concoction, a different wine. This evening it was mixed nuts. She and Amelia Baxter are always experimenting with bar snacks. Lagniappes for the customers as well as palate pleasers.

Pilar nodded, “Nice and salty.”

Walker nodded, “You’ll sell more drinks.”

Gregory nodded. Three professional bartenders.

Vanessa had heated walnuts, pecans, almonds, pistachios, cashews, macadamia nuts, on a cookie sheet and sprinkled them with Slap Ya Mama. Original blend Cajun seasoning from Ville Platte, Louisiana.

The different sizes, shapes, and colors of the nuts looked inviting in the plain white bowl from Gump’s. Now in its final days in San Francisco.

I brought fresh beers for the table — Jam Band, berry ale from Kansas City’s own Boulevard Brewing Company.

Vanessa winked at me; she knew exactly what I was thinking as I watched the kids sip beer and taste the nuts. Pilar, like Vanessa and I did, took one nut at a time between her thumb and index finger. The boys — Walker and Gregory — scooped up a handful at a time and tunneled them into their mouths through a side opening in their fists.

Typical male behavior in any bar in middle America.

Vanessa and I had a further refinement. She and I nibbled, one by one, on the almonds first. Get them out of the way. Almonds are tasty enough on their own, but are bland in comparison to the other flavors. Small courtesy, improving the taste pool.

Pilar patted Gregory’s hand, “I’ve been thinking about anal sex.”

And we were off. xxxxxxxxxx

It was all over but the final clang of the cell door closing.

We’d had three note-takers in the Arlington jury. One-fourth of the total. Hilary had told me — but not before Walker had filled me in — that they had been scribbling away as the People presented. The Defense? Not so much attention.

F. G. Longmire had spun things as well as anyone could in the face of compelling, if not overwhelming, evidence. And his closing argument — sandwiched between the two given by Ned — was eloquent, passionate, and masterful.

But I’d had the feeling that we’d prevail, ever since the start of the trial. This time around, we didn’t need Mingo’s midnight knife photos. We had the actual knives. One knife especially. Arlington’s fingerprints, Hindenburg’s blood.

Longmire had strenuously argued for the charge to be dropped from murder to manslaughter. But Ned Daniels didn’t budge. The stolen heroin was mentioned by the Alabama police officer, but Arlington hadn’t been charged with armed robbery. However, the info was out there -- icing on the cake. Legal cake.

And we didn’t need the surreptitiously-obtained DNA results from Caitlin Seaver. She and Sandy had both been deposed, had admitted everything. Well, everything but the blackmail.

I guess, in a way, it had been a wasted effort on my part. Efforts. Yet, the photos gave me the confidence to pursue Arlington with full vigor. I knew, just knew, the bastard was guilty. And the DNA? Just confirmation of my Hemet yearbook conclusions. So ... superfluous activities so far as the actual trial. But the two sets of validation were personally helpful. Bolstering.