Chapter 4 - THE SECOND FRAME-UP
The police were already in the lobby.
Margaret wanted me to stay upstairs while her attorneys reviewed the warrant.
I refused.
Running would make me look guilty.
Again.
Two uniformed officers approached as soon as I stepped from the elevator.
Behind them stood Detective Marcus Wynn.
I remembered Wynn from my original case.
Back then, he had been a young patrol officer assigned to courtroom security.
Now he wore a detective's badge.
“Finnley Dennis?”
“You know who I am.”
He seemed uncomfortable.
“I need you to turn around.”
“Can I see the warrant?”
He showed it to me.
Signed at 8:02 that morning.
Probable cause based largely on testimony from Reagan Dennis.
According to the complaint, I had returned to the house at approximately 11:30 the previous night, forced open a side window, and stolen jewelry.
There was one problem.
At 11:30, I had been in Walter's garage.
“Check the cemetery cameras.”
Wynn frowned.
“What?”
“Pinecrest Cemetery. I stayed with Walter Briggs all night.”
“Your stepmother claims she saw you leaving.”
“She's lying.”
One officer moved behind me.
I looked at Wynn.
“Ask her how I entered.”
“Through a side window.”
“Then check whether my fingerprints are there.”
Wynn's jaw tightened.
“Finnley.”
“Check.”
People in the lobby were staring.
The ex-con.
The thief.
Back at it less than twenty-four hours after release.
I knew exactly how the story would look.
Then Margaret walked toward us carrying a folder.
“Detective Wynn.”
“Ma'am.”
“I am Margaret Lane, senior vice president of this institution.”
“I understand.”
“Mr. Dennis entered this bank at 6:51 this morning. Our security systems recorded him. Prior to that, one of our private drivers picked him up at 6:15 from Pinecrest Cemetery.”
I turned toward her.
She hadn't mentioned arranging a driver.
Margaret gave me the smallest look.
She was protecting me.
Wynn examined the documents.
“That doesn't address last night.”
“No,” Margaret replied. “But the cemetery has continuous exterior surveillance.”
He looked irritated.
“You already obtained footage?”
“My staff did.”
She handed him a printed timeline.
Finnley Dennis visible entering the caretaker's property at 9:17 p.m.
Finnley Dennis visible outside at 11:42 p.m., speaking with Walter Briggs.
Finnley Dennis visible again at 1:08 a.m.
There was no possible way I had been at Reagan's house eleven miles away.
Wynn looked from the paper to me.
The officers waiting behind him shifted awkwardly.
“Could someone else have used your vehicle?” he asked.
“I don't own a vehicle.”
That seemed to end it.
But Wynn wasn't ready to leave.
“Your stepmother said you threatened her.”
“I asked to see my father's room.”
“She says you said you'd take back everything she stole.”
“I didn't.”
“Did you enter the home?”
“No.”
He studied me.
Then Margaret said calmly, “Unless you intend to arrest Mr. Dennis despite video establishing his alibi, I suggest you leave.”
Wynn folded the warrant.
“We'll verify the footage.”
“Please do.”
He turned toward me.
“Don't leave Los Angeles.”
“Wasn't planning to.”
Once the police left, Margaret exhaled.
“That happened quickly.”
“They're scared.”
“Of what?”
I looked toward the flash drive upstairs.
“Whatever Dad left me.”
That afternoon, I went back to Pinecrest.
Walter confirmed police had already requested the video.
“They seemed surprised,” he said.
“I'm sure Reagan was too.”
Walter poured coffee.
I told him about Judge Hale.
For the first time, genuine fear crossed his face.
“You need a lawyer.”
“I had one.”
“And?”
“He told me to accept a plea agreement.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
“Find another.”
I thought about who could possibly take a case involving judicial corruption, corporate fraud, and a convicted felon nobody trusted.
Walter scratched his chin.
“There is somebody.”
“Who?”
“Your father mentioned a woman named Nora Bennett.”
I knew the name.
Everybody in Los Angeles legal circles did.
Nora Bennett was a civil-rights attorney who specialized in wrongful convictions.
She was aggressive, expensive, and constantly on television.
“She won't take my case.”
“Camden thought she might.”
“Why?”
Walter reached into a drawer.
“Because he already paid her.”
He handed me a business card.
On the back, Dad had written:
If Finnley returns, call her.
I made the call.
Nora agreed to meet that evening.
Her office was nothing like I expected.
No giant law firm.
No army of assistants.
Just a converted warehouse in downtown LA with exposed brick, books stacked everywhere, and three exhausted-looking young attorneys.
Nora Bennett was forty-four, sharp-eyed, and impatient.
She didn't shake my hand.
“Tell me why your father thought you were innocent.”
I placed the flash drive on her desk.
“Because he discovered who actually stole the money.”
Her expression didn't change.
“Who?”
“Judge Robert Hale.”
That got her attention.
“That's a serious accusation.”
“I have documents.”
“Documents can be forged.”
“I have recordings.”
“Recordings can be edited.”
“I have shell-company ownership records.”
She leaned back.
“Now we're getting somewhere.”
For two hours, we went through Dad's files.
Nora spoke less and less as we progressed.
Finally, she stopped at a transfer record.
“This isn't enough to prove Hale controlled the account.”
“Dad thought it was.”
“Your father wasn't a prosecutor.”
She opened another document.
“However, this is interesting.”
“What?”
“The company that received the money—Northstar Capital Holdings—was incorporated in Delaware.”
“I know.”
“The registered agent was changed six months before your arrest.”
“To who?”
Nora rotated the screen.
Hale Family Legal Trust.
I stared.
“That's him.”
“Maybe.”
“Who else?”
“A judge can share a surname.”
But Nora clearly agreed it mattered.
Then her phone rang.
She glanced at the number and frowned.
“Excuse me.”
She answered.
“Bennett.”
Silence.
Her face changed.
“Who is this?”
More silence.
Then she put the call on speaker.
A distorted male voice filled the room.
“Stop looking into Dennis.”
Nora's expression became almost amused.
“That's not how threats work. You're supposed to tell me what happens if I don't.”
The voice answered.
“You already know.”
The line disconnected.
Nora looked at me.
“Well.”
“You still want the case?”
She smiled for the first time.
“Now I do.”
Then one of her associates rushed into the office.
“Nora, turn on Channel Seven.”
The television mounted near the bookshelf flickered to life.
A reporter stood outside Pinecrest Cemetery.
Behind her were police cars.
My stomach dropped.
The headline read:
LOCAL CEMETERY GROUNDSKEEPER FOUND UNCONSCIOUS AFTER SUSPECTED ATTACK
Walter.
I ran toward the door.
Nora grabbed her keys.
“I'm coming.”
At Pinecrest, paramedics were loading Walter into an ambulance.
Blood covered one side of his face.
I tried to reach him.
A police officer blocked me.
“Family only.”
“He's my friend.”
Walter's eyes opened.
He saw me.
Then he raised one trembling hand.
“Finnley.”
The paramedic leaned closer.
Walter whispered something.
I moved around the officer.
“What?”
Walter looked terrified.
“Your father…”
His breath caught.
“What about him?”
Walter grabbed my sleeve with surprising strength.
“I saw him.”
My heart stopped.
“When?”
Walter struggled for air.
“Tonight.”
Before I could ask another question, the paramedics pulled me away.
The ambulance doors slammed shut.
I stood frozen beneath the cemetery lights.
May you like
My father hadn't been dead for a year.
According to Walter, he had been alive less than an hour ago.
