Jeffery Deaver - Twisted - The Collected Stories of Jeffery Deaver

The other one of the fivesome was Adele Viamonte, the assistant DA who’d been assigned to Tribow in the violent felonies division for the past year. She was almost ten years older than Tribow; she’d picked up her interest in law later in life after a successful first career: raising twin boys, now teenagers. Viamonte’s mind and tongue were as sharp as her confidence was solid. She now looked over Hartman’s tanned skin, taut belly, silvery hair, broad shoulders and thick neck. She then turned to his lawyer and asked, “So can we assume that this meeting with Mr. Hartman and his ego is over with?”

Hartman gave a faint, embarrassed laugh, as if a student had said something awkward in class, the put-down motivated solely because, the prosecutor guessed, Viamonte was a woman.

The defense lawyer repeated what he’d been saying all along. “My client isn’t interested in a plea bargain that involves jail time.”

Tribow echoed his own litany. “But that’s all we’re offering.”

“Then he wants to go to trial. He’s confident he’ll be found innocent.”

Tribow didn’t know how that was going to happen. Ray Hartman had shot a man in the head one Sunday afternoon last March. There was physical evidence — ballistics, gunpowder residue on his hand. There were witnesses who placed him at the scene, searching for the victim just before the death. There were reports of earlier threats by Hartman and statements of intent to cause the victim harm. There was a motive. While Danny Tribow was always guarded about the outcomes of the cases he prosecuted, this was as solid as any he’d ever had.

And so he tried one last time. “If you accept murder two I’ll recommend fifteen years.”

“No way,” Hartman responded, laughing at the absurdity of the suggestion. “You didn’t hear my shyster here. No jail time. I’ll pay a fine. I’ll pay a big goddamn fine. I’ll do community service. But no jail time.”

Daniel Tribow was a slight man, unflappable and soft-spoken. He would have looked right at home in a bow tie and suspenders. “Sir,” he said now, speaking directly to Hartman, “you understand I’m going to prosecute you for premeditated murder. In this state that’s a special circumstances crime — meaning I can seek the death penalty.”

“What I understand is that I don’t see much point in continuing this little get-together. I’ve got a lunch date waiting and, if you ask me, you boys and girls better bone up on your law — you sure as hell need to if you think you’re getting me convicted.”

“If that’s what you want, sir.” Tribow stood. He shook the lawyer’s hand though not the suspect’s. Adele Viamonte glanced at both lawyer and client as if they were clerks who’d short-changed her and remained seated, apparently struggling to keep from saying what she really felt.

When they were gone Tribow sat back in his chair. He spun to look out the window at the rolling countryside of suburbia, bright green with early summer colors. Tribow played absently with the only artwork in his office: a baby’s mobile of Winnie-the-Pooh characters, stuck to his chipped credenza top with a suction cup. It was his son’s — well, had been, when the boy, now ten, was an infant. When Danny Junior had lost interest in the mobile, his father didn’t have the heart to throw it away and brought it here to the office. His wife thought this was one of those silly things he did sometimes, like his infamous practical jokes or dressing up in costumes for his son’s parties. Tribow didn’t tell her that he wanted the toy here for one reason only: to remind him of his family during those long weeks preparing for and prosecuting cases, when it seemed that the only family he had were judges, jurors, detectives and colleagues.

He now mused, “I offer him ten years against a possible special-circumstances murder and he says he’ll take his chances? I don’t get it.”

Viamonte shook her head. “Nope. Doesn’t add up. He’d be out in seven. If he loses on special circumstances — and that’s likely — he could get the needle.”

“How ’bout the answer?” a man’s voice asked from the doorway.

“Sure.” Tribow spun around in the chair and nodded Richard Moyer, a senior county detective, into the room. “Only what’s the question?”

Moyer waved greetings to Viamonte and Wu and sat down in a chair, yawning excessively.

“So, Dick, bored with us already?” Wu asked wryly.

“Tired. Too many bad guys out there. Anyway, I overheard what you were saying — about Hartman. I know why he won’t take the plea.”

“Why’s that?”

“He can’t go into Stafford.” The main state prison, through which had passed a number of graduates of the Daniel Tribow School of Criminal Prosecution.

“Who wants to go to prison?” Viamonte asked.

“No, no, I mean he can’t. They’re already sharpening spoon handles and grinding down glass shivs, waiting for him.”

Moyer continued, explaining that two of the OC — organized crime — bosses that Hartman had snitched on were in Stafford now. “Word’s out that Hartman wouldn’t last a week inside.”

So that was why he’d killed the victim in this case, Jose Valdez. The poor man had been the sole witness against Hartman in an extortion case. If Hartman had been convicted of that he’d have gone to Stafford for at least six months — or, apparently, until he was murdered by fellow prisoners. That explained Valdez’s cold-blooded killing.

But Hartman’s reception in prison wasn’t Tribow’s problem. The prosecutor believed he had a simple task in life: to keep his county safe. This attitude was considerably different from many other prosecutors.’ They took it personally that criminals committed offenses, and went after them vindictively, full of rage. But to Danny Tribow, prosecuting wasn’t about being a gunslinger; it was simply making sure his county was safe and secure. He was far more involved in the community than a typical DA. He’d worked with congressmen and the courts, for instance, to support laws that made it easier to get restraining orders against abusive spouses and that established mandatory felony sentences for three-strikes offenders, anyone carrying a gun near a school or church, and drivers whose drinking resulted in someone’s death.

Getting Ray Hartman off the streets was nothing more than yet another brick in the wall of law and order, to which Tribow was so devoted.

This particular man’s conviction, however, was a very important brick. At various stages in his life Hartman had been through court-ordered therapy and though he’d always escaped with a diagnosis of sanity, the doctors had observed that he was close to being a sociopath, someone for whom human life meant little.

This was certainly reflected in his MO. He was a bully and petty thug who sold protection to and extorted recent immigrants like Jose Valdez. And Hartman would intimidate or murder anyone who threatened to testify against him. No one was safe.

“Hartman’s got money in Europe,” Tribow said to the cop. “Who’s watching him — to make sure he doesn’t head for the beach?” The suspect had been released on a $2 million bond, which he’d easily posted, and he’d had his passport lifted. But Tribow remembered the killer’s assured look not long before as he’d said, “You’re going to lose,” and wondered if Hartman conveyed a subconscious message that he was planning to jump bond.

But Detective Moyer — helping himself to the cookies that Tribow’s wife had once again sent her husband to work with — said, “We don’t have to worry. He’s got baby-sitters like you wouldn’t believe. Two, full-time. He steps over the county line or into an airport and, bang, he’s wearing bracelets. These oatmeal ones’re my favorite. Can I get the recipe?” He yawned again.