Whatever that meant, Zach needed to never say it again. It was tantamount to a confession.
“Um, I wouldn’t—”
“I left her at that party, texted her after I was already gone. Because that’s what I do: leave. Leave it to Amanda to explain me. Leave it to her to build our life. And she always does.” He paused, sucked in some air. “Did. She always did. I probably never once said thank you, either.”
“No one is perfect,” I offered. “Especially no one who is married.”
He gave a grim smile. “We didn’t argue. I’ll give us that. We were not fighters. Our home life was pleasant. Case is a great kid. Were Amanda and I exceptionally close?” He shook his head. “Honestly, I always looked at marriage as a practical arrangement. And now my wife is dead, so that’s going to be the reason I did it, right? Because I’m detached? Unemotional? The asinine part is that I didn’t even have to leave that party. I left because I got bored. I went to go take a walk on the—”
My hand shot up like a traffic cop’s. “No, no. Don’t get into specifics.”
“But my story isn’t going to change, Lizzie. Because it’s not a story. It’s the truth.”
“It doesn’t matt—”
“I was on the Brooklyn Heights Promenade. Walking. By myself. The water, the lights of Manhattan. I used to go walking when we were in Philly all the time, remember?” Did I? I wasn’t sure. I was sure Zach was going to make for a frustrating client. He didn’t listen. “Anyway, I already told the police that’s where I was. I told them everything they wanted to know about the golf club, too. They were like, ‘Is that yours?’ And I was like, ‘Yeah, it’s—’”
“Zach!” I shouted so loud this time he flinched. “Seriously, stop it. This isn’t helping your situation.”
“But it was my house, of course it was my golf club,” he said defiantly. “I didn’t kill Amanda; why should I have to lie about anything?”
Ugh, admitting ownership of the alleged murder weapon to the police was a statement against penal interest. Admissible hearsay. I made a mental note to tell whatever attorney I eventually secured about the statements—dealing with them would need to be near the top of his list. I needed to get out of there before I did any more damage. I just needed enough information to get Zach a lawyer and to get that lawyer started on the bail appeal.
“Can we get back to the physical altercation with the officer? The alleged assault.” This, any lawyer would want to know about before taking Zach’s case.
“Obviously, I wasn’t the one who started it,” Zach said, motioning to himself, presumably to his slight stature, which, while significantly more solid than it had once been, still did not make him seem especially likely to pick a fight with a cop.
“The officer did?” I asked.
“I don’t know what you consider ‘starting it,’ but there was this one police officer who got in my face after the crime scene people got there, pointing at the golf club: ‘You hit your wife with that club, didn’t you? Why? She nagging you? Cheating? Maybe you grabbed one of your clubs to scare her. You swung it and next thing you know she’s down. You panic.’ He wouldn’t let up. And then somebody else started in, calling me a liar, saying that I was making up that I was out taking a walk. That it was a stupid lie. ‘You stupid?’ he kept saying over and over again.” This seemed exaggerated, but not totally impossible. Rattle the suspect by screaming at him: it was a thing that was done. “Anyway, then that plainclothes detective came over to my one side and was like, ‘Come on, let’s go outside to talk more about this.’ And I said, ‘I’m not leaving my wife.’ Then somebody on my other side grabbed my arm, and I jerked back. Hard, definitely. But it was a reflex.” He lifted his elbow and swung, demonstrating. “Anyway, I guess there was another officer behind me, and I ended up hitting him in the face.”
“And then they arrested you?”
“There was some back-and-forth first. An EMT looked at the cop’s nose, then everybody calmed down and it seemed like they were going to drop it,” Zach said. “Then the guy in the suit talked to the plainclothes detective—I didn’t hear what he said. But a minute later they arrested me for assaulting an officer.”
“But not murder?”
Zach shook his head. “Only the assault. I think even the cop I hit wanted to let me go, and he was the one bleeding. He kept saying, ‘The guy’s wife is dead.’ But I got the feeling the guy in the suit was looking for a reason to arrest me.”
Which, of course, would make sense. If you have reasonable cause to hold a murder suspect, you do. Period.
“Did you tell all of this to the lawyer who represented you at the arraignment?” I asked. “The public defender.”
Zach frowned uncertainly. “I’m not sure. Like I said, I wasn’t very clearheaded at the time.”
“It’s okay,” I said. “I can track down your public defender and ask him. Do you know his name?”
“Um, Adam,” he said. “Roth something. He has a new baby and lives on Staten Island. We talked about the ferry.”
I could picture a nervous junior public defender—the kind assigned to pick up cases at arraignment—going on and on about his personal life with a half-catatonic Zach.
“I’ll find him. If he’s already spoken with the DA, he may have a better lay of the land.”
“Does that mean you’ve changed your mind? That you’ll take my case?” Zach reached forward and gripped the small edge of the plexiglass frame in front of him.
“I am sorry, Zach,” I said, more firmly, but I hoped with kindness. “You really do need someone with extensive state felony experience. Murders, specifically. Someone who knows DNA, crime scene forensics, blood typing, and fingerprints. I know forensic accounting. I also don’t know any of the players in the Brooklyn DA’s office. A lot of what you need in these cases is back channel.”
“What I need is a fighter, Lizzie.” Zach’s eyes were fiery now. “My life is on the line.”
“I’m not a partner. I cannot bring in my own clients at Young & Crane. Period.”
“I can pay the fees, whatever they are.”
“You could probably buy our whole firm if you wanted to,” I said. “These decisions aren’t about fees.”
“Ah.” Zach nodded and sat back. “They don’t want their name associated with an accused murderer. I get it.”
“You know how these firms are. Their morality is arbitrary.”
“Hey, I wouldn’t want my company associated with any crime, much less a violent one. Beyond reproach, that’s the goal.”
“Five minutes remaining,” a voice over the loudspeaker called. “Visiting hours will conclude in five minutes. Please proceed to the nearest exit.”
I stood and lifted my pad. “I’ll make some calls. I’ll find you a fantastic defense lawyer, and I’ll get them up to speed. The priority is obviously getting you out on bail.” I studied his bruised face and damaged eye. “Anyway, I wouldn’t know who to ask at Young & Crane about taking on a case.”