42
Nova Euclid and Officer Wiley followed Belen Caldas down the hallway of the Eagle County Jail and Detention Facility, where Margie Brooksfield was being held. The guard accompanying them buzzed them through various grimy doors, his gut swinging ponderously. He trailed his riot baton across the bars as he walked, theklung-klung-klungsetting Euclid’s teeth on edge. The place smelled like a bathhouse: a mixture of sweat and cleaning solution. The murmuring of female voices—heard but never seen—echoed all around her, as she imagined the inmates were congregating somewhere in the mess hall for lunch.
It had taken a monumental effort to persuade Caldas to allow her to talk to her client, and only after assurances and strict conditions that Caldas had laid down. The lawyer had to be present, obviously. All questions had to be fielded through Caldas or prewritten and given to her. No recording. Finally, Caldas could end the interview at any time.
“Adewale know you’re here?” Caldas asked casually.
Euclid didn’t answer. Adewale did not, in fact, know she was here. A prosecutor visiting the defendant was highly unusual—it brought up serious impartiality concerns and safety issues. Adewale would never have agreed. But this was Euclid’s case, and in light of the new evidence and her own growing unease, she felt it was necessary. The investigation had tracked the money from Grooms’s account to a Portuguese national. Other than the amount that went to her daughter’s medical bills, she’d kept none of it. Plus, there had been another murder. One of CBI’s own, a technician named Reno. Euclid had to stop this before more peopledied. She had to get Brooksfield to tell her what she knew about Khachatryan and his shadowy operation, even if it meant some sort of plea deal.
They halted before a dark jail cell in a sunless part of the building, the guard crossing his arms and standing a distance away. Officer Wiley stepped forward, brushing his blond hair out of his eyes. Euclid had asked him along as a witness—she couldn’t very well call herself to the stand and become a witness to her own case. He smiled at her as he caught her gaze.
Euclid’s eyes strained as she peered inside the jail cell. She beheld a sight of misery as her eyes adjusted. A tin toilet squatted in one corner next to a sink with a broken handle and cracked porcelain. Brooksfield was curled on her side on a threadbare mattress. As she sat up, Euclid noted she had lost weight—her orange prison-issued uniform hanging loosely about her frame.
“No interview room?” asked Euclid.
“This will be a short visit,” Caldas said coldly.
Euclid supposed this was the best she was going to get. She approached the bars of the cell, Brooksfield’s wary eyes taking in her measure.
“Good morning, Margie. My name is Nova Euclid. I am the prosecutor assigned to your case. I imagine Ms. Caldas told you I would be visiting today?”
“I am aware.”
“Let’s get right into it, then. Where did you transfer Willy Grooms’s money after it left your account?”
Brooksfield’s eyes flicked to Caldas, who gave her a slight duck of her chin.
“An account of a nonprofit named Paradox.”
“Who runs Paradox?”
“I was never told.”
“Did you know where the money went after you transferred it into the Paradox account?”
“No.”
“You didn’t know a certain Javier Castillo was the custodian of the Paradox bank account?”
“No. His name wasn’t on the account. Just Paradox.” Brooksfield’s fingers played over hanging braids.
“Why did you lie the other day about not knowing Javi Castillo? We have proof that he visited your ranch the day before his murder.”
Brooksfield looked up at Euclid defiantly. “Thatwas Javi Castillo?” She seemed surprised. “I had no idea who that crazy man was. He never told me his name.”
Euclid stepped back in frustration and directed the next statement to Caldas. “I won’t be able to help if your client refuses to answer questions and lies.”
Caldas gave her a simpering smile. “Maybe you should be better at asking questions.” She tapped an invisible watch on her wrist.
“What happened when Castillo came to your ranch the morning before he was murdered?”
Margie Brooksfield stood and approached the bars and gripped them, her voice shaky. “I-I didn’t know that man was Castillo. I swear, he never told me his name. It was early in the morning and he was a stranger on our land, so I was nervous. Thought he might have been one of those protesters. Plus, he sounded nuts.”
“What did he say?”
“First, he claimed he was Willy’s friend. Said he was in Burns to help with the investigation. He began to interrogate me about Willy’s death, as if I had something to do with it. I told him just what I told the police—I had no idea.”
“What else did he say?” Euclid encouraged gently.
