‘I haven’t spoken to Sofia yet. We’ll see what happens.’
‘Alrighty, good luck,’ he said, and with that he gestured to the tall cop who opened the interview room door and stood aside. Levy led his associate inside – a good-looking young man who was carrying a set of papers. I stepped closer so I could take a look at Alexandra Avellino.
Even as she sat behind the desk in the interview room, I could tell she was a tall young woman. Dyed blonde hair, but a good dye job in this case. There was a reddening around her eyes, and her lipstick had faded. Otherwise Alexandra looked fit and healthy, with a milky, almond skin tone. Given the circumstances, she looked well. A certain confidence in her expression. A woman who could handle herself, and others. I could smell some residue of perfume as the door opened.
The tall cop closed the door, stood with his back against it.
‘Okay, Eddie, this is Sofia,’ said Bukowski as he slid the key into the lock and opened the door.
I went inside.
Sofia Avellino looked smaller than her sister, but not by much. She had dark hair contrasting with a pale complexion. The eyes were the same. Both women had their father’s eyes – which were narrow, but bright and keen. She didn’t smile. Her lips were thinner than her sister’s, her nose too. They both looked the same age, and I seemed to recall that Frank’s daughters were born within a year of each other. I wasn’t sure how I knew that, but it was likely I’d seen them, or one of them, in a magazine or news article.
She looked at me suspiciously, but said nothing. Sitting opposite her was a lawyer I didn’t know, but he looked as rich and as successful as the others. He gathered up his papers, said, ‘You’re making a mistake not hiring me,’ and stormed out.
I ignored him, focused on the young woman in front of me.
‘Hi Sofia, my name is Eddie Flynn. I’m a defense attorney. Officer Bukowski told me you don’t have a lawyer. I’d like to talk to you a little and see if I can help. Would that be alright?’
She hesitated, nodded, and her fingers began drawing imaginary lines and circles on the table. I stepped closer and saw she was tracing the dents and scratches with her fingers, exploring the textures. A nervous response, somewhat childlike. She seemed to catch herself in the act, and put her hands beneath the table.
I sat down opposite her, kept my hands open and raised slightly. Body language cues to encourage her to talk.
‘Do you know why you’re here?’ I said.
She swallowed, nodded, and said, ‘My dad’s dead. My sister killed him. She says I did it, but I swear to you I didn’t. I couldn’t. She’s a lying, murdering bitch!’
Her hands flew up in the air and came down with slap on the table to punctuate the word ‘bitch.’
‘Okay, I know this sounds stupid, but I need you to stay calm. I’m here to help you if I can.’
‘Sergeant Bukowski said I should talk to the lawyers, but I shouldn’t make up my mind until I talked to you. I don’t know what I should do …’
She shook her head as tears formed in those eyes, which were much greener than I’d first thought. Looking away, she swallowed down a cry, her neck muscles standing out from her throat, and instead she took a big breath into her lungs. Closing her eyes, and letting the tears fall to the floor, she said, ‘I’m sorry. I can’t believe he’s gone. I can’t believe what she did to him.’
I nodded and said nothing while she drew her knees to her chest and hugged her legs. She cried and rocked back and forth gently.
‘I’m sorry about your father. Truly, I am. The truth of it is you are in the worst possible situation. The cops are coming after you, and probably your sister too. One or both of you could face a murder charge. Maybe I can help you? Maybe not. I only need one thing. I need to know that you didn’t kill your father,’ I said.
Sofia had been listening through the tears. She dried her face with a napkin, sniffed and began to bring herself down to a level where she could talk. If she was faking it, she was very good. I didn’t see an actress across the table. I saw a young woman in pain. That was real. That was true. But whether that pain was due to the death of her father, or the fear that she might have been found out as a killer, or some other reason, was not yet entirely clear.
‘Why are you asking me? The other lawyers didn’t ask me if I was guilty. Don’t you believe me?’
‘I ask all my clients the same question. The ones I believe are innocent, I fight for as hard as I can. If they tell me they didn’t do it, I can usually tell when they’re lying and then we part ways. If they hold up their hands and say they’re guilty, then I help them tell their story to the court, so the judge can understand why they did it, and what mercy or mitigation is appropriate. I don’t fight for murderers who want to get off. That’s not my beat.’
She appraised me anew, like I’d taken off some kind of camouflage and she was now looking at a real person.
‘I like that you asked me,’ she said. ‘I want you to be my lawyer. I didn’t kill my father. It was Alexandra. She did it.’
I took my time, watched her closely as she spoke. Truth was in her eyes, her voice, her face. No warning signs, no tells which could be indicative of a lie. I believed her.
Now it was time to go to work.
‘Tell me what happened,’ I said.
‘I was in Dad’s house in Franklin Street. I have my own place not far away, and I usually visit. More and more recently, since he became more forgetful. I went to the house and at first I didn’t think he was home—’
‘Stop, just a second, tell me how you got inside.’
‘I have keys. So does Alexandra.’
‘Okay, I’m sorry for interrupting. You said you didn’t think he was home …’
‘I got inside, and he wasn’t in the den. That’s where he normally hangs out, watching TV or working. He wasn’t there. I called upstairs and he didn’t answer. I thought maybe he’d gone out, so I fixed a drink from the bar in the den, finished it, and then I went upstairs.’
‘Why did you go upstairs?’
‘I heard a noise, so I thought he must be home and maybe he hadn’t heard me come in. I went up the first flight of stairs and he wasn’t on the first floor.’
‘What is on the first floor of the house?’
‘Three bedrooms and a gym. He wasn’t in the gym, and I didn’t check the bedrooms. No reason for him to be there. Then I heard the noise again, coming from the floor above.’
‘What was the noise?’ I asked.
‘I don’t know. It’s hard to describe. It sounded like a groan, or a moan, or something. Maybe someone talking. I don’t know, I can’t really remember. I remember I went upstairs to check on him. He’d been having memory lapses. They made him disorientated. Old age or, God forbid, the start of dementia or something. I thought maybe he’d fallen. I saw him lying on the bed in the master bedroom. The lights were off in the room, but I remember thinking it was weird. There was something not right about it.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I couldn’t really see him in the dark, but I saw one of his feet lying on the bed. He still wore his shoes. That was unusual. My dad was always giving me sass about lying on the couch with my boots on.’