I sent the message and tried to figure out my next move. I had deliberately avoided asking for details—I needed to know what I was walking into.
Our communications should be protected by privilege, but I wasn’t about to rely on that, not in a situation like this.
If the idiot had only thought to encrypt his phone, this would’ve been a lot easier. My earlier instruction to password-protect his device had been more for my protection than his. Without encryption, it was probably already too late.
From now on, every employee would be required to encrypt their phone. I fully expected this would be the first—and last—time one of them contacted me for criminal defense.
“Okay. What’s next?” came Timothy’s text.
“Our communications should be privileged,” I replied, “assuming you want me to act as your lawyer. Are you officially retaining my services?”
His reply was instant: “Yes.”
“Normally, I’d require a retainer and a signed agreement, but we don’t have that kind of time. We’ll sort out the details later. I’m assuming you’re prepared to pay, correct?”
It might have sounded self-serving, but I wanted proof that an attorney-client relationship existed. What I’d already done was probably enough, but I preferred to be thorough.
“Be succinct in your next reply. Assume the cops are reading it—admit nothing.”
I waited.
After a minute or two, Timothy responded:
“My roommate is dead in his bed. Someone blew his brains out.”
