A/N: My sincere apologies for not posting regular updates to this story. Eye problems are making it extremely difficult to read, let alone write. ~ D

CHAPTER 12

"Mr. Parrish, is it true that you are currently under investigation by the State Artist's Commission?"

Max Parrish had been called to the witness stand by Robert Norrell following the damaging testimony of security guard Frank Bossit, who confirmed the only person he saw entering the dining room while Lon Hawkes lay unconscious was the bride, Kaitlynn Parrish. Max was woozy with worry and sweating from the top of his sandy head to the tip of his toes.

Perry Mason leaned back in his chair. "Objection!"

Assistant District Attorney Robert Norrell bowed slightly toward Judge Macauley. "Goes toward motive, Your Honor."

"Overruled. Answer the question, Mr. Parrish."

Max shifted uncomfortably in the witness chair. "Yes, I am, but no formal charges –"

The A.D.A. held up his hand literally in Max's face. "Confine your answer to my questions, Mr. Parrish. Isn't it true the Commission is investigating allegations of embezzlement?"

Max tried to look beyond the D.A. to the Defense table, but Robert Norrell moved a step to the side. "Do I have to –"

"Answer the question," Norrell barked, assuming the mantle of judge as well as prosecutor.

Max visibly deflated. "Yes, it's true."

"Isn't it true that these allegations concern the embezzlement of over a quarter of a million dollars?"

"Your Honor, Defense will stipulate the fact that Mr. Parrish is under investigation," Perry interrupted in a mildly annoyed manner. "However, these allegations are nothing more than allegations. Defense would also like to point out Mr. Parrish is not on trial here."

Judge Macauley waved his hand. "Your observation is duly noted, Mr. Mason. Please get to the point of your examination, Mr. Norrell."

"Yes, Your Honor." Norrell turned his attention back to Max Parrish. "To the best of your knowledge was your daughter aware of these allegations?"

"Yes, she knew about them."

"And did she know about them on the day of the murder?"

"Yes." Max swiped the back of his hand over his forehead.

"Did you discuss them with her?"

"My daughter and I are very close. I have no secrets from her."

"I'll take that as a 'yes'," Norrell said snidely. "Did she express concern for you?"

"Yes, of course."

"What did Lon Hawkes do when he interrupted your daughter's wedding ceremony?"

"He barged in, was loud and insulting, and demanded to know why he wasn't invited."

Kaitlynn Parrish sniffled. Della handed her a tissue and patted her hand. Perry stared straight ahead.

"Didn't he also display an envelope?"

"Yes."

"Didn't he hold up this envelope and say 'this'll show people what kind of man you really are"? Isn't that what Lon Hawkes did, Mr. Parrish?"

Max passed his hand over his sweaty forehead. "Yes."

"And what was your daughter's reaction?"

Max felt ill and looked ill. "Kay was upset."

"Upset? Witnesses have testified that your daughter said she could kill Lon Hawkes." Robert Norrell feigned surprise. "Your daughter knew the bind you were in and suspected the contents of the envelope could destroy you."

Perry rose to his feet. "Objection, Your Honor. The People –"

Judge Macauley didn't allow Defense to complete the objection. "Sustained."

"She loves you," Norrell pressed on, "and would do anything for you."

"Objection!" Perry remained standing.

Norrell leaned closer to Max Parrish. "Would she kill to protect you, Mr. Parrish?"

Judge Macauley glared at the A.D.A. "Sustained! Defense's objection is sustained. Move on, Mr. Norrell."

Robert Norrell bowed deferentially at he backed away from the witness stand. "I have no further questions for this witness."

Perry sat down, fuming at Robert Norrell and disappointed in Max's obvious discomfort on the witness stand. "Defense has no questions."

A tiny sob escaped from behind the tissue Kaitlynn Parrish pressed against trembling lips. "I feel so bad for him," Kaitlynn whispered in agony, leaning toward Della for support.

Della patted her hand again, and glanced briefly behind her toward Laura Parrish, whose eyes shone with tears as her husband left the witness stand.

But it wasn't her husband's testimony that had her attention. Those eyes were riveted on Perry Mason.


A nagging sore shoulder prompted Harvey Sayers to make an appointment with his doctor.

A minefield of tumors discovered in his lungs forced his doctor to immediately admit Harvey to the hospital. The diagnosis: small cell lung cancer, an extremely aggressive form of the disease that had claimed the life of Hamilton Burger several years ago.

Thirteen days later brain scans showed that the cancer had followed a typical path and metastasized in his brain.

On day nineteen following diagnosis, tethered to oxygen, cognitive abilities beginning to fade, Harvey Sayers methodically signed document after document in the presence of solemn-faced college and law school buddies. Each document settling a portion of his estate, or planning his funeral, each shaky signature bringing him closer to accepting that he had merely days of life remaining, each application of Della Street's notary seal representing a virtual forged nail for his coffin.

After the last document was signed, there were very few words during hugs and unabashed tears from the gathering of several attorneys, a judge, an insurance executive, a newly ordained Catholic Bishop, and the confidential secretary of Perry Mason.

Murmured coaxing and the solicitous pressure of Della Street's hand on her arm finally convinced Pamela Sayers to get some rest in a bed instead of in the chair at her husband's bedside. "And you will eat a decent meal too," Della declared firmly as she led the glassy-eyed soon-to-be widowed Pamela from her husband's stuffy hospital room. "Perry will stay until we come back."

He shrugged out of his suit coat, draped it over the back of the lone chair in the room, and settled his long, large frame into it as best he could. The sound of medical devices beeping, whispering, and whooshing filled the silence between the two men, as he somberly studied the wasted form of his oldest friend in the world before shifting his gaze out the window.

"Drew the...short...straw, huh?" Harvey had rolled onto his hip and removed the oxygen mask.

He started at Harvey's breathless, raspy voice and smiled wanly. No, my friend, I'm afraid you drew the short straw and all I've been able to do is sit by your side these past nineteen days, fumbling with comforting words that should come more easily. "Della says I have to sit with you," he replied. "And I generally do what she tells me to do."

"Smart man." Harvey managed a smile before covering his nose and mouth with the oxygen mask. Up until yesterday in the wee hours of the morning he had managed fine with just an oxygen tube. The mask made it more difficult to communicate, and signaled another step down in his condition, as he could barely speak a dozen words without pausing for short gulps of oxygen. The original prognosis had been forty-five to sixty days, but everyone knew he would not make it to the lowest end of that range.

It was happening too quickly, and if anything, the past few years had shown him that he needed time to come to terms with losing friends and loved ones. Anita Brandis, wife of Jim Brandis and mother of nine children, died instantly at forty-two from a blood clot in the left-descending artery of her heart; Hamilton Burger fought lung cancer for eighteen months; good friend and former client Parker Benton languished for two days after suffering a massive stroke; and Dr. David Craig succumbed to injuries suffered in an automobile accident following eleven surgeries in ten days. Out of them all, Anita's instantaneous death was the most difficult for him to accept, because no one had a chance to say good-bye or tell her how much she meant to them.

"We need...to...to make a pact, Perry." Harvey, still propped on his hip, had removed the oxygen mask once again. "There's one more...thing to settle...before..." he held the mask to his nose and took a gulp. "Promise me."

He leaned forward and placed his hand on Harvey's shoulder, the shoulder that had been the indicator of what was invading his body. How many pacts had they made? Hundreds when they were kids, a dozen or so since graduating law school. "A pact about what, Harve?"

"Promise...my appointment. I...asked Governor to appoint you...to sit..."

"You want me to sit out the rest of your term?" Harvey had been appointed to the California Appellate Court by the Governor three years ago, something that he had taken great pride in and performed his duties admirably. The appointment literally saved his marriage, as Pamela had filed for divorce after several separations, but agreed to reconcile since the appointment would move them away from L.A. and the messiness of her husband's past.

Oxygen mask pressed to his face, Harvey nodded. "Yes," he said, voice muffled by the mask. "It's all set with...Governor. Promise...you'll do it. I trust you."

"Harve, I'm a trial attorney." His aspirations had always been relatively simple: have fun with the law and do the best job he could for his clients. By his own high standards he was successful at both aspirations, and being a judge, especially one tasked with deciding whether or not what another judge decided was correct, didn't interest him in the least.

"And I'm...was a divorce attorney. Just five years. Please."

Five years. In five years he would be sixty, an age when a lot of men considered retirement. He wondered if he would. Della maintained he would never retire, since he didn't particularly like to travel, and his sedentary 'hobbies' of watching movies, listening to music, and fishing wouldn't keep his agile mind occupied. He dreamt of experiencing the pure beauty of ninety feet from home plate to first base at all major league baseball parks with Della, which didn't necessarily have to be a retirement activity. If he was retired and the game in the final ballpark was over, what would he do then?

"Harve...I can't make a promise like that without talking to Della." He felt awful using Della as the reason he couldn't – or rather didn't want to – make a pact with Harvey.

Off came the mask again as Harvey leaned forward with great effort. "Please, Perry."

He looked into the pleading eyes of his friend since the age of seven – a true, generous friend who never ratted him out about the 'shrapnel' scar on the back of his leg that actually resulted from sitting on a milk bottle when he was nine; who introduced him to his first girlfriend in fifth grade; who took the blame for burying two cases of beer at the wrong beach for high school senior skip day; who helped him get a job in LA after the trouble in Stockton; who loaned him money to open his private practice; who believed deeply in love and marriage but struggled to sustain both; who would drop everything to help a friend in need; who most certainly didn't deserve to be lying in a hospital bed ravaged by cancer, begging his friend since the age of seven to carry on with what he considered to be his greatest achievement.

"My...dying wish. Promise. You...keep promises."

The words came out unexpectedly, from deep within his soul to placate his dying friend. "I promise, Harve. I'll sit out your term." He gently pushed Harvey back onto the hospital bed and placed the oxygen mask over his nose as the enormity of what he'd just agreed to shot from his heart to his brain. He couldn't renege, but he had to hedge a little. "I still need to talk to Della."

Harvey closed his eyes wearily. "Better talk...tonight."


Della watched Perry as he stirred cream into his coffee, and sat back contentedly in the private booth. "You look like the cat that ate the canary, Counselor."

Perry grinned delightedly. "I feel like that cat. In case you weren't listening in court, today was a good day for our client."

"I was listening, but I'm not so sure I share your enthusiasm."

"What?" He exclaimed in surprise. "How can you say that? The judge was completely sympathetic to Kaitlynn."

She spun her coffee cup on the saucer before replying. "At the expense of her father's reputation." Since their conversation, Della found herself becoming very protective of the young woman. The murder and Kaitlynn's arrest were traumatic enough, and dragging Max's business problems into the mix was like throwing gasoline on a fire. She hoped the resulting explosion wouldn't destroy the Parrish family.

"Baby, you know the strategy is to show Kaitlynn wasn't the only person to have a reason to want Lon Hawkes dead – or that she was the only one who could have possibly entered the den. Norrell tried to present Max's problems as a motive for Kaitlynn, and it backfired on him."

"I understand that," she said more irritably than intended. Robert Norrell had come across as unnecessarily bullying toward an obviously distraught parent, and the judge definitely took notice. "What I don't understand is how allowing the prosecution to degrade Max personally and professionally can possibly be advantageous to Kaitlynn's defense."

"I know you've never liked this particular legal strategy, but I have my reasons for employing it." He reached across the table and placed his hand over hers, stopping the spinning coffee cup. "You and Kaitlynn seem to be thick as thieves.

"She's a lovely young woman," Della replied evasively.

"She certainly is." His long fingers stroked hers gently, not fooled for a minute. His kindhearted girl had already swept Kaitlynn into her circle of 'children'. "I'm sorry if this is difficult for you."

"I can handle it," she replied breezily.

"I know you can." Della had always handled difficult situations he'd placed her in with grace and style, which didn't excuse him from recognizing his own insensitivity. "I'm apologizing for putting you in the position of having to handle it. I'll step aside if it's too difficult for you."

Her beautiful eyes looked directly into his. Bless his heart, he meant it. "That's a gallant statement, Galahad, and very much appreciated." She twined her fingers with his. "You know I won't allow you to do that. Kaitlynn needs you, and you need to do this for her."

She knew him so well. What had she told him over and over...he wasn't responsible for everyone whose lives touched his, even though he was hell-bent on accepting responsibility. He needed to help the family he cared for and she would stand with him, as always. Despite wounds of betrayal stripped raw by meeting the woman who thought she occupied a more important place in his life and heart than she actually did, Della Street would conquer all.

"Hannah Hawkes is on the People's witness list for tomorrow," he announced. It was unnecessary to acknowledge her comment, because they both knew she was right. "If it makes you feel any better, I plan to go after her more strenuously than Norrell went after Max."

She wrinkled her nose. "It doesn't."

"Until I can find more than the outline pieces of the puzzle, my dear, I'm afraid it's all we have. It's called raising doubt."

She eyed him shrewdly. "Isn't having Hannah describe everything her uncle did to her putting the deceased on trial? I think the judge might agree with me."

He flashed a grin. "I intend to ask for the widest possible latitude in regard to Hannah's testimony."

"In other words, you intend to throw Hannah to the wolves."

He withdrew his hand and sat back, exasperated by her Devil's Advocate posturing. Usually she easily followed his strategies to their intended end, but for some reason tonight was stubbornly refusing to. "In other words, I intend to defend my client by presenting alternate motives and suspects. I do this all the time – why does it suddenly bother you so much?"

She shook her head. "I don't know. Maybe it's because there isn't anyone involved in the case I want to be the real murderer."

"Not even Laura?"

"That's not funny, mister."

"Just trying to lighten the mood. You're a real bummer tonight."

She actually laughed. "Where did you get that?"

"From Gary. Young people these days speak in an entirely different language than we do."

She laughed again. "Our parents said the same thing about us."

"I suppose so. But I'm telling you, fer sure, like, our slang was like totally way more tubular. Fer sure, fer sure."

Her laughter filled the restaurant, and several diners turned to check out what was so funny. "Oh my God!" she exclaimed, wiping tears from her eyes, amazed that he could and actually would quote such a song. "I'm like totally freaking out right now. I might allow you to take me home and have your way with me."

He immediately signaled for the check.


Harvey Sayers lapsed into a coma within ten minutes of his wife returning from a two-hour nap and passed away two days later. Twenty-one days. The doctors had been much too optimistic with their prognosis.

His funeral was held at the Sayers estate, a casual nondenominational service delivered by Bishop Stefan Corro. Accustomed to and more comfortable with the pomp and circumstance of his own religion, Stefan floundered, letting the grieving gathering in on the secret that priests were mere humans.

Following a repast of hamburgers, baked beans, potato chips and onion dip, food specifically chosen by Harvey on fateful day nineteen, Pamela gave a tearful speech thanking everyone for their friendship and support, shared a few stories about her husband, and then announced that Perry Mason had graciously agreed to sit out Harvey's term on the Appellate Court in San Francisco.

Stunned beyond words, he looked down at Della, who stared right back up at him.

"Do you have something you'd like to share with the class?" she asked, raising one finely shaped eyebrow.

He cleared his throat. "We need to talk."