Ли Чайлд: No Middle Name

‘I can’t take that to court.’

‘What can you take?’

‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘Best I can do is try for a plea bargain.’

‘Are you serious?’

‘Completely. You’re going to be charged with a very serious offence. They’re going to present a working theory to the court, and they’re going to back it up with eyewitness testimony from regular Maine folk, all of whom are either literally or figuratively friends and neighbours of the jury members. You’re an outsider with an incomprehensible lifestyle. I mean, where are you even from?’

‘Nowhere in particular.’

‘Where were you born?’

‘West Berlin.’

‘Are you German?’

‘No, my father was a Marine. Born in New Hampshire. West Berlin was his duty station at the time.’

‘So you’ve always been military?’

‘Man and boy.’

‘Not good. People thank you for your service, but deep down they think you’re all screwed up with trauma. There’s a substantial risk you’ll be convicted, and if you are, you’ll get a long custodial sentence. It will be far safer to plead guilty to a lesser offence. You’d be saving them the time and expense of a contested trial. That counts for a lot. It could be the difference between five years and twenty. As your lawyer I would be delinquent in my duty if I didn’t recommend it.’

‘You’re recommending I do five years for an offence I didn’t commit?’

‘Everyone says they’re innocent. Juries know that.’

‘And lawyers?’

‘Clients lie all the time.’

Reacher said nothing.

His lawyer said, ‘They want to move you to Warren tonight.’

‘What’s in Warren?’

‘The state pen.’

‘Terrific.’

‘I petitioned to have you kept here a day or two. More convenient for me.’

‘And?’

‘They refused.’

Reacher said nothing.

His lawyer said, ‘They’ll bring you back tomorrow morning for the arraignment. The courthouse is in this building.’

‘So I’m going there and back in less than twelve hours? That’s not very efficient. I should stay here.’

‘You’re in the system now. That’s how it works. Nothing will make sense ever again. Get used to it. We’ll discuss your plea in the morning. I suggest you think about it very seriously overnight.’

‘What about bail?’

‘How much can you pay?’

‘About seventy bucks and change.’

‘The court would regard that as an insult,’ she said. ‘Better not to apply at all.’

Then she slid down off her stool and picked up her overstuffed bag and walked out of the room. Reacher heard the steel door open and close. The cell block went quiet again.

Ten minutes of your time. What’s the worst thing could happen?

Another hour went by, and then the young cop came back in. He said the state had authorized the same six dollars and fifty cents for dinner that the county would have spent. He said that would get most anything on the diner’s menu. He recited a list of possibilities, which was extensive. Reacher thought about it for a moment. Chicken pot pie, maybe. Or pasta. Or an egg salad. He mused out loud between those three. The cop recommended the chicken pie. He said it was good. Reacher took his word for it. Plus coffee, he added. Lots of it, he emphasized, a really serious quantity, in a flask to keep it warm. With a proper china cup and saucer. No cream, no sugar. The cop wrote it all down on a slip of paper with a stub of a pencil.

Then he said, ‘Was the public defender OK?’

‘Sure,’ Reacher said. ‘She seemed like a nice lady. Smart, too. She figures it’s all a bit of a misunderstanding. She figures those state guys get a bit over-enthusiastic from time to time. Not like you county people. No common sense.’

The young cop nodded. ‘I guess it can be like that sometimes.’

‘She says I’ll be out tomorrow, most likely. She says I should sit tight and trust the system.’

‘That’s usually the best way,’ the kid said. He tucked the slip of paper in his shirt pocket, and then he left the room.

Reacher stayed on his bed. He waited. He sensed the building grow quieter, as the day watch went home and the night watch came in. Fewer people. Budgets. A rural county in an underpopulated part of the state. Then eventually the young cop came back with the food. His last duty of the day, almost certainly. He was carrying a tray with a china plate with a metal cover, and a white fluted fat-bellied plastic coffee flask, and a saucer topped with an upside-down cup, and a knife and a fork wrapped in a paper napkin.

The plastic flask was the key component. It made the whole assemblage too tall to fit through the horizontal pass-through slot in the bars. The kid couldn’t lay the flask down on its side on the tray. It would roll around and the coffee would spill out all over the pie. He couldn’t pass it upright on its own through a regular part of the bars, because they were too close together for its fat-bellied shape.

The kid paused, unsure.

Twenty-four years old. A rookie. A guy who knew Reacher as nothing worse than a placid old man who spent all his time on his bed, apparently relaxed and resigned. No shouting, no yelling. No complaints. No bad temper.

Trusting the system.

No danger.

He would balance the tray one-handed on steepled fingers, like a regular waiter. He would take his keys off his belt. He would unlock the gate and slide it open with his toe. His holster was empty. No gun. Standard practice everywhere in the world. No prison guard was ever armed. To carry a loaded weapon among locked-up prisoners would be just asking for trouble. He would step into the cell. He would hook his keys back on his belt and juggle the tray back into two hands. He would turn away, towards the concrete desk.

Which relative positioning would offer a number of different opportunities.

Reacher waited.

But no.

The kid was the kind of rookie who got his car stolen, but he wasn’t totally dumb. He put the tray on the floor outside the cell, just temporarily, and he took the coffee pot off it, and the cup and saucer, and he placed them all on the tile the wrong side of the bars, and then he picked up the tray again and fed it through the slot. Reacher took it. To get a drink, he would have to put his wrists between the bars and pour on the outside. The cup would fit back through. Maybe not on its saucer, but then, he wasn’t dining at the Ritz.

The kid said, ‘There you go.’

Not totally dumb.

‘Thanks,’ Reacher said anyway. ‘I appreciate it.’

The kid said, ‘Enjoy.’

Reacher didn’t. The pie was bad and the coffee was weak.

An hour later a different uniform came by to collect the empties. The night watch. Reacher said, ‘I need to see Detective Aaron.’

The new guy said, ‘He isn’t here. He went home.’

‘Get him back. Right now. It’s important.’

The guy didn’t answer.

Reacher said, ‘If he finds out I asked but you didn’t call him, he’ll kick your ass. Or take your shield. I hear there are budget issues. My advice would be don’t give him an excuse.’

‘What’s this all about?’

‘A notch on his belt.’

‘You going to confess?’

‘Maybe.’

‘You’re a state prisoner. We’re county. We don’t care what you did.’

‘Call him anyway.’

The guy didn’t answer. Just carried the tray away and closed the steel door behind him.

The guy must have made the call, because Aaron showed up ninety minutes later. About halfway through the evening. He was wearing the same suit. He looked neither eager nor annoyed. Just neutral. Maybe a little curious. He looked in through the bars.

He said, ‘What do you want?’