Trophy Widow by Michael A. Kahn Page B

exonerated—but that was nothing more than a rationalization. I hadn’t been retained to clear her of the murder charge.
    Angela had seemed intrigued during our prison meeting when I pointed out the holes in the homicide investigation, but she’d by no means evinced a determination to clear herself of the criminal conviction. Perhaps she’d become reconciled to what she deemed to be immutable. And perhaps there was something more subtle afoot. Seeing what had happened to her since the murder trial, I could understand if she felt a tinge of ambivalence at the prospect of reopening the criminal case. She’d truly become, in the words of her estranged son, a trophy widow. Her role as celebrity martyr for various women’s and minority organizations depended upon her image as the abused and spurned first wife who’d finally turned on her tormentor. Her life behind bars had invested her with an esteem and dignity that had eluded her during marriage. Within the controlled and cloistered world of a women’s prison, Angela had become a saint—adored by the inmates that she tutored and counseled, honored by the prison administrators who bragged about her at national conventions, and fawned over by visiting members of the press. If it turned out she’d been innocent from the start, that she’d been framed, a mere pawn in someone else’s deadly game, how much of her new persona would she lose?
    But that was ultimately her decision, not mine. And it was purely conjectural at this point, I reminded myself. Angela had no decision to make—her appeals had run out and it would be years before she was eligible for parole. Talk of freedom was purely academic. But if she hadn’t killed Michael Green—if she’d been unjustly convicted—then I owed it to her to try to make an academic choice a real one.
    So I’d meet with Stanley Brod in the morning, and I’d give the names of Beverly’s three suspects to one of my investigators for a quick background check. If that uncovered anything, I’d follow the leads. And if not, then I’d worry about my other cases and wait for the circus train to arrive with Hefty Harvey, the Silver Fox, Hammerin’ Hank, and the rest of the clown patrol.

Chapter Nine
    None of them,” I repeated, shaking my head in outrage. “Not even a telephone interview.”
    â€œCan you blame them?” Benny took a long pull on his beer and reached for another handful of Welsh chips. “Would you want to spend time around a guy with a dick that looks like a Tootsie Roll pop on steroids?”
    â€œNo, but I’m not a cop investigating a homicide, Benny. These were people with serious grudges against Michael Green. No one talked to them.”
    It was two days after my night jog with Ozzie. Benny and I were at Llywelyn’s Pub in the Central West End, where we’d met for drinks after work. I was headed to a dinner meeting at the Jewish Federation and he was going downtown for a date with a woman lawyer from L.A. named Sheila who was in town for a closing. They’d met at a Practicing Law Institute program last summer, where Benny was supposed to participate in a panel discussion on recent developments in antitrust law. He claimed the two of them remained in his hotel room for all but one of the next thirty-six hours—the lone hour away being for his panel discussion. Of course, Benny claimed a lot of things, especially in the realm of his amatory abilities.
    â€œHey, Rachel, there are people out there with serious grudges against me, but no cops are talking to them.”
    â€œThat’s because you aren’t dead.”
    â€œI guess that’s a good point. So what’s your investigator found on Beverly’s three suspects?”
    â€œNot much yet.” I watched as he grabbed another enormous handful of Welsh chips and stuffed them in his mouth. “Benny, aren’t you supposed to be