No Way Out by David Kessler Page A

you manage to overcome her objections? asked Martine over her hors d’oevres of Torchon of Duck Foie Gras with House Poached Adriatic Fig in Muscat Wine.
    A succession of light waves from the wrought iron candelabra rippled across the lace tablecloth. Ten minutes earlier, they had entered The Little Door. As they stepped through the wooden doors to the Patio, it had been like one of those movies where you pass through a gateway into another dimension. In an instant they had left the city behind them and entered a rustic world of bougainvilleas, ferns, a tiled fountain and a Koi pond. They could even see the moon through the open skylight.
    “I don’t want this to end up on the evening news,” said Alex.
    Martine made an up-and-sideways gesture with her right hand.
    “Strictly off the record.”
    This was one of Martine’s haunts. She had invited Alex here as a contrast to the slumming they had done last time, opposite the snooker hall. But Alex had no intention of letting her pick up the tab.
    “We used a bit of gentle persuasion.”
    He didn’t really feel comfortable telling her about the incident. It would probably make him sound like a bully. But the practice of law was a dirty business. They both knew that.
    “We?”
    Martine raised her eyebrows with a delicate smile as her hand – holding a piece of brioche toast – paused in mid-air, awaiting his answer.
    “Paul Sherman and I.”
    “You mean you blackmailed her?”
    “I prefer to call it bribery,” he said with a guilty smile, after a short pause.
    He attacked his own hors d’oevres of Farmers Market Butter Lettuce and Steamed Spring Vegetable, a light starter to allow room for his Filet Mignon and Roasted Fingerling Potatoes.
    “So what was the carrot?”
    This was a pun, alluding to piece of carrot poised at the end of his fork.
    “I sold it as a fight for a man’s right to a second chance.”
    His facial expression was nervous, as if he was expecting a torrent of skeptical laughter or a cutting verbal response. But Martine’s smile was both piercing and bewitching.
    “And what did Sherman use as the stick?”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Come off it Alex. You were playing Good Cop / Bad Cop.”
    He held up his hands in a gesture of helplessness, caught in the glare of Martine’s headlamps.
    “Okay,” he acknowledged reluctantly. “You’ve got me. We did a little arm twisting.”
    “That doesn’t surprise me. It must be pretty hard for her, with her lover working at a rape crisis center.”
    “That’s a personal matter, They’ll just have to work it out for themselves.”
    “You make it sound so easy. Imagine what it must be like for Eugenia Vance: one minute she’s doing her job, next minute she gets handed an injunction telling her she’s not allowed to have any contact with the victim.
    “I’m sorry. I may have sounded a bit callous. But the judge didn’t exactly have a choice. He had to do it to avoid a conflict of interest.”
    Martine’s face turned suddenly serious.
    “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”
    Alex had an uneasy feeling when he heard the words… and the tone.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “I also have a conflict of interest. I can’t cover the case and carry on going out with you.”
     

Friday, 12 June 2009 – 21:1500
    It was quite late when Andi arrived home. She had spent the day going over the case-file with Alex and then stayed on for a few hours after he left. It had been exhausting. They were racking their brains trying to figure out how they could refute the DNA evidence. All the other evidence could be effectively challenged and the seeds of reasonable doubt sown.
    But the DNA was a problem – a real problem. It couldn’t just be swept under the rug. In the past, they might have been able to attack the science itself or throw up smoke screens to confuse the jury. But post O. J. Simpson, that was no longer an option. Most defense ploys are like magicians tricks that succeed because of