The Guilty Plea by Robert Rotenberg Page A

T-shirt. Her arms were ringed with handmade bracelets.
    “My baby,” Raglan heard herself scream. She scooped up her youngest child. “I missed you so much.”
    “Where’s Daddy?” Dana narrowed her eyes at her mother.
    “He’s gone to work. We had a great vacation in Cape Cod. Went to see a Red Sox game.” Raglan felt the BlackBerry buzz in her back pocket. Must be Ralph Armitage yet again, she thought. “Where’s your bag?”
    “I want you to meet my counselor.” Dana pulled her sideways into the crowd.
    Raglan smiled when they found a tall young woman with a deep tan.
    “Hi, I’m Marcia.” She put her hand easily on Dana’s head. “Your daughter’s terrific. No one could beat her in an argument.”
    “That’s my girl.” The BlackBerry in her pocket buzzed again. Raglan ignored it.
    “She’s really proud of you, I’ll tell you that,” the counselor said.
    “I’m proud of her,” Raglan said. She was trying to remember the counselor’s name. Was it Marsha or Marlene? The phone buzzed a third time. What the hell was going on? Armitage must really be panicking about something.
    “Says you’re the most important lawyer in the city.”
    Didn’t say anything about what kind of mother I am, Raglan thought. “Her letters were all about you and the cabin. I know she’ll want to go back.”
    “For sure,” Dana said.
    It was worth all that money, Raglan thought as she located her daughter’s bag and hoisted it over her shoulder. Please don’t buzz again, she prayed silently to the phone in her pocket.
    “Time to get you in the bath,” she said as they tromped across the parking lot. A layer of sweat was covering her back.
    “Mom, aren’t you going to work?”
    “No.” Raglan tried not to sound too proud of herself. She opened the trunk and threw the bag in. It felt good to get the weight off her shoulders. “I bought some fresh corn for lunch.”
    “Hey, what’s this?” Dana said, slipping into the backseat and spying a baseball cap on the middle armrest. “The Red Sox.”
    “I got it for you at Fenway.” Raglan started the car. The air-conditioning needed to be fixed, but it would cost two thousand dollars. Instead, she rolled down the windows. The phone buzzed again in her back pocket. “I bought some wild blueberries and fresh peaches.” She put the car in gear.
    “Thanks,” Dana said, taking her camp hat off and twirling it in one hand. “And Mommy …”
    “What, sweetie?”
    “I don’t mind.” Dana plopped the Red Sox hat on her head backward. “You can answer your BlackBerry.”

16
    Dealing with the press was Ari Greene’s least favorite part of the job, but on a case like this it came with the territory. This morning, after getting Simon out of the house, he’d been able to avoid the media. But this afternoon, when he’d come back to the Wyler house with Kennicott to do the walk-through with Zeilinski, they’d had to run the gauntlet of the reporters and television crews teeming up against the police tape.
    Greene promised to make a statement when he came out. It was a good idea to say something to the press rather than remain silent and let them speculate.
    “Stand beside me,” Greene muttered to Kennicott as they exited Wyler’s front door. “Looks better if there’s more than one cop at the scene.” This summer, when gun violence in the city ramped up, the force had sent all the homicide detectives to media training. Most of it was common sense: look straight at the reporters when you answer their questions, be factual when you can, keep it short.
    “Detective Greene! Detective Greene!” reporters were shouting. He approached the yellow tape, in no particular hurry.
    “I’ll take questions now.” He held his hands up like a ringmaster at a circus quieting down a bunch of overexcited schoolchildren.
    After the media training session, Chief Charlton had taken Greene aside. “Forget all that crap. Reporters love two things—call them by their first