Free Proof of Intent by William J. Coughlin Page A

in front of the police station offended his sense of propriety and decency.
    â€œHold on, miss,” he said. “Hold on. Just, hey, just put your shirt on, we’ll get this whole thing squared away.”
    Back in the bullpen the prisoners were applauding and wolf-whistling. “I want
her
,” one of them yelled.
    â€œYo, yo,” another one yelled. “Yo, lady, come back here, reppasent
me
!”
    Back in the car, Lisa looked over at me and grinned. “So,” she said, “do I have the job?”
    â€œI have never been so mortified in my life,” I said.
    Her grin faded, and a shadow of hurt crept into her eyes.
    â€œFor chrissake, Lisa, this isn’t the Bronx. You don’t get things done around here by screaming at people and acting like a maniac.”
    â€œI got him out, didn’t I?”
    â€œYou’re lucky you didn’t get arrested. And what happens next time? After you’ve got everybody in the entire police department pissed off at you?”
    She stared out the window. After a minute I heard a sob break out of her. I looked over and her shoulders were heaving.
    â€œI don’t know what’s happening to me,” she said. “I don’t understand what . . .”
    I reached over, tried to put my hand on her shoulder. She squirmed away. I pulled my hand back. Again that inexplicable sense of shame washed over me, of responsibility for her troubles.
    Murder cases are unpredictable beasts. They can give you a sense of purpose, energize you, fill you up with hope and direction—or they can drag you down and grind you to dust. If I pulled Lisa into this case, I was taking a terrible risk. I wanted to think that she would rise to the challenge. Best-case scenario, the case could help her turn her life around. But with drunks, you never really know. I was in a bind. The case was about to take over my life. If I was going to be able to do anything for Lisa, I’d have to keep her in sight for a while. For all practical purposes, in sight meant in the case.
    â€œOne thing at a time, little one,” I said softly. Little one? My God, where had that come from? I’d called her that when she was just a baby, back when I had still been fitfully trying to be her father on a more or less full-time basis.
    She kept sobbing softly.
    â€œYou came to me because you want my help,” I said. “This is what I can do for you. A job, a place to stay.”
    She didn’t answer.
    â€œI could use your help,” I said. “But if you want to work for me, you do it clean and you do it sober. Period. You find a meeting, you work the program.”
    No answer.
    â€œOtherwise, go elsewhere.”
    For a long time she didn’t speak. We drove through Pickeral Point, past the salt factory, past the haggard old Masonic Lodge, and through the touristy downtown shopping district. Finally, as we were about to reach the office, she reached over and grabbed my hand where it rested on the steering wheel. She squeezed hard and didn’t let go. My heart leapt like a crazy little bird in my chest.
    Sure, I thought. The case. The case will bring us together. The case will make us better, stronger, closer. Murder trial as family therapy. Why not? But in the back of my mind something was saying that anything that morbidly ironic was probably too good to be true.

Twelve
    I found Lisa waiting in my living room the next morning. There were livid spots on each pale cheek, and her eyes were puffy. But she was clean, her hair was brushed, and she wore a blue power suit and sensible-looking pumps.
    â€œHow you feel, little one?” I said.
    â€œLike getting plastered.” She gave me a tight smile. “Look, Dad, I’m sorry I acted like such an idiot yesterday. I get stupid when I drink.”
    â€œDon’t we all.” I smiled awkwardly back at her. “Look, I guess you know what I’m embroiled in here,” I said after a