I whispered, “Let it ride.”
Milo yawned. Leah crossed her legs.
Graydon-Jones shook his head. Suddenly he laughed. “All on me, lovely, lovely. So what now, counselor, do I defend myself or keep that low profile and allow these arseholes to railroad me?”
Stratton said, “I need to conference with my client.”
Leah looked at her watch and clucked. “Last one,” she said, collecting her things.
Five minutes later, she and Milo were back in the room.
Stratton nodded at Graydon-Jones. Graydon-Jones was looking at Leah, not him.
Stratton said, “Chris?”
Graydon-Jones said, “First off, it’s all bloody lies. I didn’t strangle her, no one did.”
“We’ve got bones,” said Milo. “Cervical vertebrae that show evidence of—”
“I don’t care what the fuck you’ve got, no one strangled her! No one! She was hit! He hit her. In the jaw.”
Demonstrating an uppercut.
“In the bloody jaw,” he said.
“Who hit her?” said Milo.
“Curt, Curt.”
“Why?”
“Because she wouldn’t put out! He wanted her, and she wouldn’t, so he slammed her under her jaw and she fell back and hit her head and then he—did her. Then we couldn’t wake her up. I was there! You won’t find me making up stories and denying that! We were partying. The three of us.”
“Which three?”
“Curt, me, and her. Trafficant was entertaining his own fan club. Mellors was tagging after Lowell, as usual, bloody sycophant.”
“What about Spretzel?”
“I don’t know; I told you he was a faggot. Probably chasing boys.”
“Ah,” said Milo.
“Yes, I was with her, but I never hurt her. I did nothing other than make a little time with her.”
“What kind of time?” said Leah.
“Kissy-kissy, grope-grope. She was on my lap, the old trousers rubadub. I was the one she liked, my mustache—I had one back then—and my accent; she said it reminded her of Mick Jagger. She would have put out for me. It made Curt jealous.”
Touching his mouth, he spoke through his fingers.
“He was used to tarts, easy lays. “Slip ’em the ’ludes and you can slip ’em anything else,’ he always said. She wasn’t easy; she was a virgin, for God’s sake.” To Leah Schwartz: “Don’t look at me like that. You want the truth, I’m giving it to you. That’s the way things were back then—free love, no viruses, people doing their own thing.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” said Leah, inspecting her nails.
That inflamed him. “What were you doing back then?”
She looked up from her nails and smiled. “Going to school. Fourth grade.”
Graydon-Jones shut his mouth.
“Is that it?” said Milo. “That’s your story?”
“It’s the truth. Curt got all pissed because she wouldn’t climb off my lap into his. When he tried to put his tongue in her mouth, she turned her head and said “Yuck.’ Just like that. “Yuck.’ Like she’d tasted something bad. So he bopped her and she fell back. It all happened in one second. I’ll swear to it in court.”
“Chris,” said Stratton. To Leah: “I want it clear that my client’s statement by no means represents a formal offer to testify.”
Leah shrugged.
Milo leaned forward. “So that’s your story.”
“That’s what my client just said,” said Stratton.
“Then I’ll ask your client what I asked Mr. App this morning: If you had nothing to do with killing Karen, why get involved in the cover-up?”
Graydon-Jones chewed his lip. His hands played with one another. A full minute passed, then another.
Milo sat back.
Leah looked at her watch and got up. To Milo: “Win some, lose some.”
Graydon-Jones said, “I did it because Curt supported me.”
“Supported you how?” said Leah.
“Emotionally. Financially. The day before that bloody party, he promised to buy six of my sculptures. And to commission a huge atrium piece for his insurance company. I was a bleeding pauper. I hadn’t sold anything since arriving from England. If you were an artist, you’d understand. Curt offered to open up a whole new area of opportunity for me—I thought he was a true patron. It wasn’t as if he intended to kill her. She blew him off and he hit her—one of those stupid things. And nothing I did would bring her back. I figured, why should he be ruined because of something stupid like that?”