Free Proof of Intent by William J. Coughlin Page B

brief pause. “Miles Dane has just been charged with murder. What’s immediately in front of us is trying to get him out on bail. It’s going to be a tough sell, frankly. In Michigan it’s pretty much out of the question getting bail on a murder charge. But we’ll try anyway. After that we need to start investigating. We need to find out what evidence is out there that incriminates him and what we can do to undermine it. This is going to be a full court press. Lots of pressure, lots of exposure, lots of stress, cameras everywhere. We’re going to be under a microscope. It’ll be like nothing you’ve ever experienced. So let me ask you again. Are you sure you’re up for this?”
    She looked out the window for a moment. “Yes,” she said finally. “I think I need this.”

    First I met with Miles Dane at the courthouse in the cramped conference room next to Courtroom B. Despite the fact that it is used almost exclusively for meetings between defense lawyers and their clients, it is relatively pleasant. No concrete block walls, no toothpaste green institutional paint. There’s actually carpet on the floor, and the walls are the same wood paneling as in the courtroom. The only thing that might put you off is that there are no knobs or handles in the doors, and anchored on the floor under one side of the small conference table are two huge steel rings so that prisoners can be shackled to the floor.
    Miles was sitting disconsolately in the chair when the bailiff let me in. He was fully shackled and manacled, and the chain between his ankles was indeed looped through the ring in the floor. He wore the standard county-issue orange jumpsuit and orange plastic sandals with white socks.
    After the bailiff left, I sat down, set my briefcase on the floor. Lisa sat down beside me. I introduced her to Miles, then said, “How you holding up, pal?”
    He shook his head. His eyes were hollow and his dark hair unkempt. “I don’t know. I don’t know. They put me on suicide watch.”
    â€œShould they be worried about that?”
    Miles sighed. “I just . . . I just feel like, you know, I had this great run in life—and then the man upstairs said, ‘Okay, that’s good enough,’ and jerked the rug out from under me.”
    â€œI don’t know what I can tell you,” I said. “Other than the usual pointless platitudes. Chin up, that sort of thing.” Miles smiled without warmth.
    â€œIs there anything I can get you? Books, cigarettes, a radio, candy, anything like that?”
    â€œJust get me out of here.”
    â€œI’ll do what I can, but frankly I’m not hopeful.” I explained the near impossibility of his getting out on bail, then opened my briefcase. “There are some issues that I avoided talking about up to this point because I wasn’t sure which way the wind would blow. But at this point, unless you decide to plead guilty or unless somebody else pops up saying they committed the crime, this case will almost certainly go to trial. I hate like hell to have to deal with this issue, but we just have to get it out of the way.”
    â€œMoney,” Miles said.
    I nodded. “First, I’m sure it’s just a clerical thing, but Mrs. Fenton tells me that your retainer check bounced.”
    Miles looked off into the distance, not speaking.
    â€œMiles?” My eyebrows rose. “Miles, did you knowingly give me a bad check?”
    Miles still didn’t say anything.
    This was unexpected. I had assumed money would not be a problem for a famous writer. “Look, Miles, let me be straight with you here. If I’m going to represent you, we’re going to be working together very closely for a very long time. It is absolutely imperative that there be a bond of complete trust between us. If you’re experiencing financial difficulties, then I need to know that right this minute so we can