Sense of Deception Read online

  Our new building was just off Sixth and Lamar in a hip and trendy section of town about a stone’s throw from the original Whole Foods.

  We’d signed a three-year lease on the seventh floor of a bright redbrick building with funky lime green trim. Our suite was a corner unit and I’d offered Candice the largest room, which was the actual corner on the east side. The door to her office was all glass, and I had to admit that she presented a fairly striking first impression for our clients, who walked into the entry and looked to their right to see Candice in there, surrounded by floor-to-ceiling windows and sparse but elegant furnishings, seated at a glass desk in a thousand-dollar suit and heels to die for.

  Meanwhile I camped out on the west side of the suite in a nearly equally roomy office with great light, a spectacular view, especially at night, and lots of privacy. The best part of the building was the rooftop patio, which had been covered with greenery to help reduce the heat coming off the building, which contributed to nightly temperatures in downtown Austin that, at times, hovered between “Are you freaking kidding me with this heat?” and “Hell no.”

  Candice peeled off to the right and I went to the left as we walked in the door, and I got busy checking my list of clients for the next day and returning e-mails. Candice waved at me about an hour later, indicating she had a meeting with a client. I got bored shortly after she left and on an impulse I got up from my desk and moved to my supply drawer in a credenza behind my desk. Getting out a fresh manila folder, I wrote Skylar’s name across it and sat back down in front of the computer. I started with Google, and quickly discovered that Noah Miller’s murder trial had been major news covered by every reporter in town. I read every single article, and it took me a while to get through it all, but I had a very good picture of Skylar’s background and the arguments presented at trial by the time I was finished.

  According to the reports, nine-year-old Noah and his mother had been living in a two-bedroom home in East Austin when one night in early July the police were called to the scene of a homicide at the home.

  When police arrived, they found Skylar at her neighbor’s house, covered in blood and hysterical. She claimed that she’d been awakened by a sound inside her home, and when she’d gone to investigate, she’d found Noah in his bedroom, on the floor, stabbed multiple times. As she’d collected him in her arms, she’d been attacked by an assailant who’d been hiding in the closet, and she managed to get away from him and run next door for help.

  Investigators noted at her trial that Skylar had acted suspiciously at the scene, that her hysteria had seemed “fabricated,” and she wasn’t consistent about the facts of that evening, leaving out some key details whenever she retold the story during her initial interview with police.

  Now, it’s been my experience that when you interview someone right after a traumatic event, they go into a mild form of shock, and their memory can get cluttered and jumbled and become a mess. That’s one of the reasons that eyewitness testimony has been shown over and over again to be pretty unreliable, but ten years ago the opinion that it couldn’t be counted on wasn’t nearly as well documented as it is now. Still, it irked me that the investigators had been so keen to point out the flaws in Skylar’s initial interviews. Of course she’d be all over the place. She’d just held her murdered son in her arms and been attacked herself by an intruder. But just as my opinion of her innocence was already formed, I suspected that at the time of the trial the investigators’ opinion of her guilt was pretty firm.

  The investigator on the stand went on to testify that there was no sign of forced entry into the Millers’ home, and no other evidence to indicate that an intruder had entered that night. What’s more, the kitchen knife that had been used to murder Noah had only her fingerprints on it, and some of those fingerprints were bloody, but others were not. The lab reported that a few of the fingerprints on the blade appeared “older” and a bit “smudged,” indicating the knife had come from the family home and had likely been used both before (i.e., in the kitchen as a utility knife) and during the murder.

  Witnesses came forward testifying to Skylar’s personal struggles with alcohol. Former friends and family lined up to state that Skylar was a fairly peaceful person when she was sober, but when she drank, she was verbally abusive and quick-tempered. Video was introduced at her trial depicting her destroying several hundred dollars’ worth of merchandise at a liquor store after being denied service due to obvious signs of intoxication.

  Her ex-husband testified that when Noah was just a toddler, he’d come home to find Skylar passed out on the couch while their son wandered the house without supervision. He reported that there were multiple times when Skylar had been neglectful of their son, and after the incident in which he’d witnessed her passed out and Noah unsupervised, he’d left Skylar, filing for divorce and asking for sole custody. He’d been granted that in 1998, just before Skylar went to prison for multiple DWI convictions.

  She was out of jail a year later, sober and apparently working to get her life back on track. She had completed an intense stay in rehab, was a nightly regular at her AA meetings, worked two jobs, and went back to court to win supervised visitation time with Noah. She was granted that, then allowed unsupervised time. During that time, Skylar was visited several times by a social worker, who would show up at her door unannounced and interview Noah to make sure he was being well cared for. The social worker then made recommendations to the court, and Skylar’s visitation was increased from one night per week to one night, plus every other weekend.

  Along the way Skylar completed her twelve steps, sponsored a few other AA members, went back to school, got her two-year degree, and began work as a medical biller. She did well enough to be able to support herself and work from her apartment, even saving up sufficient money to make a down payment on a home in East Austin. Finally, in October 2003 she must’ve found a very sympathetic judge because, in a move that reportedly stunned everyone, she was granted physical custody of Noah and he moved in with her permanently.

  A year later, Noah was dead.

  In their efforts to paint Skylar as the killer, the prosecution claimed that Skylar had fallen off the wagon and her son had discovered his mother’s drinking and probably threatened to tell his father. At the time, Skylar had been receiving a monthly support check from her ex, and it was a pretty good chunk of change. The prosecutor painted the picture of a drunken, abusive mother, who, fearing that a primary source of income was in jeopardy, lashed out at her nine-year-old son in a fit of drunken rage. Grabbing a knife from the kitchen, she’d stabbed Noah to death, then staged the mad dash to her neighbor’s house, where she’d invented the story of the intruder to cover up her crime.

  The most damning testimony had come from Skylar’s own mother, who’d all but nailed her daughter to the cross when she’d testified for the prosecution, stating that she’d worried for Noah’s safety from the moment Skylar was given full physical custody. She was quoted in one of the articles I read saying that, all her life, Skylar had made poor choices with the notable exception of her ex-husband, who’d been a wonderful and loving husband and father, but Skylar’s drinking and abuse had driven him away, and since then her mother had watched Skylar devolve into a secretive, conniving, mentally unbalanced alcoholic.

  Now, it was no secret my own parents and I weren’t exactly on speaking terms, but even I couldn’t imagine my mother getting up on the witness stand and testifying against me when the death penalty hung in the balance.

  The defense’s argument was that, since getting out of jail in 2000, Skylar had been a model citizen who’d turned herself around in an effort to win back her life, and custody of her son. Her attorney argued that even though Skylar was receiving enough money from her ex to live on, she hadn’t quit work as a medical biller, and often put in extra hours on the job after Noah went to bed. She wasn’t a cold-blooded killer, he’d argued. She was a model to struggling add
icts everywhere, an example of what you can achieve when you devote yourself to getting help and facing your demons head-on.

  In his closing arguments he’d further stated that it was a travesty of justice to charge her with murder—the murder of her son—given how hard she’d worked to get her life back on track. This was a son she loved. Fought for. Devoted all her efforts to. And on a hot, muggy night, he’d been taken away from her in the most heinous way when an unknown assailant had invaded her home and murdered her son in cold blood. Somehow the intruder had left behind no physical evidence—no DNA, no hair samples, no fingerprints, and no footprints anywhere inside the house or out. He’d been careful, her attorney had argued. He’d been good. Practiced even. And, most important, he’d been the one to kill Noah. And he was still out there. The police hadn’t been looking for him because they’d been lazy. They’d set their sights on Skylar from day one, and like old dogs with a new bone, they hadn’t let go. So the killer, this random, malicious psychopath, was still free while his client was being railroaded for the crime of loving her son enough to take back her life from the brink of ruin.

  I frowned as I read the closing statements from Skylar’s attorney. It was hard even for me to believe a random stranger had entered the Millers’ home, killed an innocent nine-year-old boy, and left no physical evidence of himself behind.

  Skylar hadn’t testified, and the defense had called precious few character witnesses. Only her neighbors, her AA sponsor, and the social worker who’d monitored her visits with Noah, and had helped her fight for physical custody of him the year before, had been willing to testify on her behalf. Furthermore, her attorney had tried to poke some holes in the prosecution’s case, but either he didn’t try very hard or his tactics hadn’t been very effective, because the jury had deliberated for all of three days and returned with a guilty verdict and a recommendation for life without parole, but the judge had apparently been swayed enough by the prosecution’s case to ignore the jury’s recommendation, and had ordered that she be put to death.

  I read all of this, pages and pages of articles, and at the end of it I sat back in my chair, closed my eyes, and pinched the bridge of my nose. I had a headache forming as the full weight of what I was up against settled onto my shoulders.

  “Rough day?”

  I jumped and maybe let out a small shriek. “Oh! Oscar, I didn’t hear you come in.”

  He was grinning. “Obviously,” he said, taking a seat in one of the chairs across from my desk. “You okay?”

  I nodded. “Yeah. It’s just this case I’m about to start work on. I knew I was probably facing an uphill battle, but I didn’t realize I’d be starting at base camp somewhere in the Himalayas.”

  “Fill me in?” he asked, taking a seat. I gave him the highlights of what I knew from everything I’d read online, which still took about twenty minutes to tell, and afterward he blew out a breath and said, “You sure can pick ’em, eh, Cooper?”

  “You’re not kidding.”

  “How long do we have to work on this case, again?”

  “Skylar’s appeal was postponed to the nineteenth, so . . . ten days from now.”

  Oscar shook his head. “Glad we’re not pressed for time.”

  “I told you this was gonna be a tough one.”

  “You did. Okay, so where did you want to start?”

  I sighed. “I was just thinking about that. The case was investigated by Austin PD. Feel like calling any of your buddies down there to ask about it?”

  He shrugged and, pulling out a small notebook from his shorts pocket, he started to scribble in it. “Couldn’t hurt,” he said. “I’ll try to get a copy of the murder file. I know a guy in the records room. He usually gets me what I need in exchange for a pizza and a cold six-pack of Tres Equis.”

  “Awesome,” I said, standing up and reaching for my purse. “Meanwhile I’m gonna pay a visit to a friend of mine.”

  Oscar cocked an eyebrow. “Who?”

  “A guy I have to convince owes me a favor.”

  “Does he?”

  “Not a chance.”

  “Who’s the guy and what’s the favor?”

  “An attorney who defended me last winter when Candice was accused of murder, and the favor I need is for him to drop everything and see if he’ll take Skylar’s case. Pro bono.”

  Oscar rose and gave my shoulder a pat. “Good luck, Cooper. You’re gonna need it.”

  “Aww, Oscar. You say the sweetest things.”

  “Hey, don’t forget, you still owe me some house-hunting time.”

  My radar pinged. “I’ve got your back, buddy. Not to worry.”

  We started to walk out together and Oscar said, “You really think you can find me a decent place to live?”

  “Yep.”

  Oscar was silent for a minute and then he said, “I was kinda thinking about getting a cat or something—you know, maybe to have someone greet me at the door when I get home.”

  “No,” I said, with a smirk.

  Oscar eyed me quizzically. “No?”

  “Your new girlfriend’s gonna be allergic to cats, Oscar. You’re better off getting a dog. Something small and cuddly. Girls love manly men with little dogs.”

  He laughed in surprise. “My new girlfriend? Is this anybody I know, Cooper?”

  I flashed him a smile. “Not yet, honey. But soon.”

  “How soon?”

  I held up my hand and began to count off on my fingers, “House, furniture, wardrobe, dog, girlfriend.”

  “In that order?”

  “In exactly that order, buddy.”

  He nodded. “I can live with that.”

  Chapter Five

  I drove to Calvin Douglas’s office, which was on the south side of downtown, not far from my office, just off Fourth Street. On the way I called to ask if he was (a) in and (b) available to see me on short notice. I was told by his very kind secretary that he was both in and available to meet with me.

  My lucky day.

  After parking in the lot, I hoofed it into Cal’s building, a swanky place full of marble and brass in the lobby. Cal’s office was up on the second floor, decorated in serious tones of darkest eggplant and forest green. Not my taste but still impressive.

  His secretary greeted me warmly and showed me right into Cal’s office, which wasn’t quite what I was expecting, as I’d never pegged the attorney for a minimalist.

  He sat in a fairly small room, behind a desk that seemed severe in both its form and function. The chairs in front of him were simple, made not so much for long visits but for short bursts of billable hours. After I sat down, I knew that most of his clients would start to feel uncomfortable about a half hour in, and be antsy to leave within an hour. I figured that was one way to keep everyone on schedule.

  On Cal’s desk were a large monitor and an equally impressive mountain of paperwork and manila folders. Behind him were shelves stuffed with law books that looked a bit too pristine to be real—I mean, who even uses law books anymore when everything is online these days? To the left of the room was a large steel filing cabinet, and one picture hung on the wall of a seagull soaring above the waves of a turbulent ocean. A poetically inspiring caption was written underneath.

  And that was pretty much it for decor. “So!” Cal said as he sat down after getting up to greet me. “This is a surprise. What brings you by?”

  I flashed him my best winning smile. “I need your help.”

  “With?”

  “Well, actually, it’s not me who needs your help. See, there’s a woman on death row who—”

  Cal held up his hand to interrupt me. “Hold it,” he said. “Hold it. Are you here about Skylar Miller?”

  I blinked. “Uh, yeah. How’d you know?”

  Cal pointed to himself. “Dutch called me yesterday to represent you if Schilling didn’
t let you out of the contempt charge. He then called me a little later and asked if I could pull any strings because they’d locked you up with a death row inmate.”

  I felt a thread of anger set into my shoulders, remembering the abrupt removal of Skylar from our shared jail. “And did you?”

  Cal said, “I made a call to Schilling’s clerk. He used to work for me before he took the job with Schilling, and he was willing to extend you a slight favor last night.” Cal paused to give me a meaningful look that told me that outing the judge had been a bit of a blessing to the clerk, who was in love with him. I wondered if he truly believed, now that things were out in the open, so to speak, that Schilling would leave his wife for the poor clerk, and I hoped he didn’t get his heart broken and lose his job at the same time, because that’s what was probably going to happen, and I felt for him.

  “Anyway,” Cal continued, “he made a few calls and they found a way to keep you isolated from the other prisoners.”

  I took a moment to breathe deeply. My hubby and Cal had simply made an effort to keep me as safe as possible, but it still irked me that Skylar had been sent away to spend the night at county in isolation when I was fairly certain at Mountain View they kept her in isolation too. She’d had a chance for a bit of respite from that lonely and possibly maddening experience, and the men in my life had taken it away from her unnecessarily. “She wasn’t a threat to me,” I told him levelly.

  Cal sighed. “You talked to her.” He said it more as a statement than as a question.

  I squinted at him. There was something about the way he was speaking that suggested that he had at least some familiarity with Skylar and her case. “I did,” I said. “Have you ever talked to her, Cal?”