He took a tense breath and nodded. “What’re they doing about security for me in the jail?”
“They have to put you in maximum. But I’ll remind them how much it’ll cost if you so much as stub your toe.” I wanted to tell him not to worry, but that would be impossible-and insane. His life was going to be in constant jeopardy.
I went over to Little. “You’ve got special security arranged for him, I assume?”
Little scratched his round, balding head and spread his fingers along his chimney broom of a mustache. “Uh, yeah. I mean, we’re putting him in max.”
“That’s the least you can do. And right now, when things are hot and fresh, I’d advise you to do the most.” I drilled him with a look. “Because if anything happens to him…”
He gave me a heavily lidded glare. “I’ll see what I can do.” He walked away, trying to act like he was dusting me off, but I saw him pull out his cell phone.
By the time we left, the press had filled the entire street. The only free space was the area around the squad cars. And that was only because there were uniforms keeping them away. The cops marched Dale out as though he were Lee Harvey Oswald. All six of them. There was no way anyone within range could’ve gotten a shot at Dale without taking out an officer first. I appreciated the security, but I wasn’t sure whether they really thought they needed that much manpower or they just wanted to be on camera.
Dale was pretty well hidden inside the phalanx of uniforms-which was fine by me-but the press screamed out questions anyway.
“Are you pleading not guilty?”
“Did she try to break up with you? Is that why you killed her?”
“What’s your defense going to be?”
“Do you have an alibi?”
Then, one lone voice on the fringe called out, “How come they didn’t let you surrender at the station?”
I’d been walking behind the group of officers holding Dale, but now I stopped and turned to see who’d asked a sane question for a change. It seemed to have come from a tallish, slender guy with curly brown hair that looked like it hadn’t been combed since Kanye West dissed Taylor Swift at the Grammys. He was standing away from the crowd, off to my right. I fell back and waved him over. “Who are you?”
He jerked back as though I’d slapped him. “Who are you?”
Fair question. “I’m Dale Pearson’s lawyer.”
“You got a card?”
“Do you?”
He paused, then reached into his shirt pocket and handed me a business card that said his name was Trevor Skotler and he was a contributing reporter for Buzzworthy. I recognized the name. It was an online news mag that was starting to seriously encroach on Huffpo and the Daily Beast. This could be useful. I gave him my card. Then I told him how they’d done an end run so Dale wouldn’t have a chance to surrender.
