Break and Enter Read Free Page A

it.”
    “Are you a good typist?”
    “About ninety-five words a minute.”
    The detective smiled thinly, perhaps embarrassed about his secretarial prowess. Peter knew how to redeem him.
    “Learned to type in the Army, is that right?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “So the statement is a fair and accurate transcription of your conversation?”
    “That is correct.”
    “Why wasn’t the confession videotaped?”
    “We were waiting to use the camera, but he started talking before we even got into the room and had the camera set up, and he just kept going, so I started typing as fast as I could.”
    “Is there anything particularly unusual about that procedure?”
    “No. We’ve used typed confessions a long time.” The detective allowed himself a tired opinion. “They work.”
    “Okay,” Peter said. “Did the defendant sign the statement?”
    “Yes. He signed every page.”
    “Did the defendant read the statement first?”
    “Yes.”
    “Can the defendant read?” A dumb question in light of Robinson’s education, but necessary.
    “I had him read the first couple of paragraphs aloud.”
    “I would like this marked Commonwealth’s exhibit.”
    “Does counsel for the defense have a copy?” the judge asked.
    Morgan searched his papers. “Uh, I had this a minute ago …” Morgan, a man who possessed an excited explosion of wiry black hair that lifted off his head, was as disorganized as he was righteous. Waiting, Peter put his hand in his pocket and felt the slip of paper with Janice’s number. Where in hell
was
she? Maybe the number was good for only a little while.
    “With the court’s indulgence, Your Honor, while he’s looking for his copy, I’d like to take a quick break.”
    Judge Scarletti sighed; another delay in a career of delays. He glanced at his watch.
    “I have no problem with that, Your Honor,” Morgan said, the epitome of strategic graciousness.
    “Gentlemen,” the judge said, smiling wearily, “just remember that you are younger than I am. I’m due to retire in a few years and I’d love to see the end of this trial.” He looked at Peter. “Ten minutes, Mr. Scattergood.”
    HE SLIPPED INTO A PHONE BOOTH at the end of the hall and dialed the number on the paper.
    “Hello?” came her voice.
    “Hi, it’s me.” He stared at the slip in his hand.
    “I called the courtroom during the lunch recess. They said you’d be back soon.”
    “What’s this number?”
    “Just where I am right now.”
    He ignored her answer. A good prosecutor got his information sideways when necessary. He wasn’t sure anymore what a good husband did.
    “What’s up? How’s the new place?” Too upbeat; she’d slaughter him.
    “I’ve been busy. Adjusting, you know.”
    “Good. You okay?”
    “I’m
fine,
Peter. You don’t have to worry about me.”
    He did worry about her, but he also worried about what he heard in her voice, which said,
Keep your distance.
    “There wasn’t any mail for you, but when I get some, what—”
    “It’s already being forwarded to me at work.”
    “Not to the apartment?”
    “No.”
    She was slipping away quickly, changing patterns, leaving him confused.
    “Can we talk tonight?”
    “I’d rather not, Peter. You know that.”
    “I’m just hanging in space, Janice.”
    She didn’t reply.
    “Will you be at this number tonight?”
    There was a long pause, and he knew she was considering the effect of her answer.
    “For a while. Bye.”
    Down the hall, he saw Berger schmoozing with a couple of detectives.
    “Hey!” he called, seeking relief.
    Berger, a small stick of a man with the temperamental energy of a squirrel, hurried over.
    “You talking to Janice? You have that look.”
    The call had made things worse. “Nobody else.”
    Berger’s eyes bulged at this information, as they bulged at everything.
    “You on for racquetball tomorrow night?” Peter asked.
    “I have to depose this woman out in Harrisburg. Your basic hospital bedside deposition—saw the