The Devil's Interval Read Online Free

bulbs were already showing some promise of color in her front flowerbed. The sun was doing its best, but March in San Francisco is still coat-and-gloves weather, even in the warm neighborhoods. The Inskeeps lived in leafy Forest Hills, an elegant but chilly part of the city, where old money and newer tech fortunes existed side by side. The Inskeeps’ elegance was somewhat compromised by the large bundle on the front steps awaiting diaper-recycling pickup.
    Eleanor flung the door open and pulled me inside. “Maggie! It’s great you’re here. Come in and warm up.”
    I followed her down the hall toward the living room, where Icould hear sounds of chamber music drifting through the doors. Inside was a fire in the fireplace and a tray of coffee and pain au chocolat on the table.
    Eleanor steered me to the couch, where a woman dressed in head-to-toe red raised a mug in greeting. Eleanor said, “Maggie Fiori, meet Isabella Fuentes.” She gestured at the pot. “Help yourself. Peet’s. Good and strong.”
    I poured, stirred, and settled in. No one spoke for a moment. “This is such a wonderful room, Eleanor,” I said.
    She grinned. “This is it. The one room free of baby clutter, work papers, and Edgar’s Oakland A’s paraphernalia. I just need one room that feels like this.”
    â€œI know what you mean,” I said. “It’s the dining room in our house. Just one room….” I glanced at Isabella. Eleanor laughed. “Isabella can’t participate in this conversation. She’s so tidy, so perfect, and a single mom, so there’s no pile of Sports Illustrated s or old sweatshirts hanging around.” Isabella did, indeed, look perfect. Snug red T-shirt, red jeans, red tennies. Her dark hair was piled on top of her head and skewered with a red pencil. The red was dramatic against her golden skin, glowing like a ripe Comice pear. She had the long limbs of a track star and Eurasian features. And while both Eleanor and I both had on lipstick, Isabella had what Calvin calls “twenty-minute” lips, carefully outlined in a darker color. She held a file on her lap, with not one messy spare piece of paper peeking out.
    â€œOkay,” I said. “Isabella, Eleanor hasn’t told me much. Why don’t you tell me about your client?”
    â€œHow much do you know about death-penalty appeals?” she asked.
    â€œVery little. Just what I read in the piece we did on you all for Small Town . And what I’ve seen in the movies. I’m sorry. I should know more.”
    â€œDon’t apologize. Most people know just what you know. And frankly, we don’t talk about our work all that much with outsiders.”
    â€œHow come?”
    Isabella sighed. “Where do you think ‘three strikes’ legislation came from? Most people think our system coddles criminals.”
    â€œIn the Bay Area?”
    â€œThe Bay Area is more liberal,” said Eleanor. “But it’s a finite piece of territory. Let’s remember,” she added, “what killed Rose Bird’s career on the California Supreme Court.”
    â€œShe was recalled, because…” I began.
    â€œBecause people knew she opposed the death penalty—and they didn’t like it.”
    â€œThat’s our reality,” said Isabella. “People don’t like lawyers in general, but they especially don’t like people like us. They think we’re conscienceless, amoral hired guns defending the scum of the earth, and we’re spending their money to do it.”
    â€œOkay, that’s a basic question,” I said. “Is it all taxpayer money funding your work? Don’t private attorneys ever handle death-penalty appeals?”
    â€œMaggie,” said Eleanor. “Get real. Death-penalty appeals take years and years. Virtually no one is rich enough to retain counsel in a capital case.”
    â€œSo it is taxpayer money