Daniel Palmer - Helpless

Tom had wanted to be well rested for this important meeting with Marvin, but he had slept fitfully since making his confession. The statute of limitations for Class A felonies in New Hampshire was six years, and Jill couldn’t be considered an accomplice to his crimes. Tom could justify it to himself all he wanted, Roland had left him no alternative, but it still didn’t make it any easier to burden Jill with his terrible secret.

At least they were speaking by phone now. She sounded happy to hear from him when he called. They kept their text message safety checks going, and with Vern’s help, they added a GPS tracking feature to her cell phone. Tom could monitor where Jill was at all times, but choked up when she told him that soon she’d be tracked back on Oak Street. She was thinking it was time to come home.

He’d also been thinking about Adriana. Tom had kept his distance to keep her—and himself—safe from Roland’s wrath. He hoped she didn’t think he was ignoring her or didn’t appreciate what she had done. It was up to Marvin to get Adriana her money back. Tom had faith that his attorney would do just that.

Tom followed the familiar route to Marvin’s office, pausing briefly to say a polite hello to his receptionist.

“Attorney Pressman is expecting you,” his receptionist said, motioning for Tom to go right in. She didn’t appear as nervous around Tom this time. Perhaps that was Marvin’s doing, Tom thought.

Tom entered Marvin’s office but couldn’t see his attorney anywhere. From behind Marvin’s desk, Tom heard a grunt, then Marvin’s labored counting.

“Eighteen… nineteen… twenty…”

“Marvin?” Tom called out.

“One hundred ten… one hundred eleven…”

Marvin popped up from behind his desk. He wore a tracksuit, not his usual attorney garb. His face was dotted with sweat, which he dabbed away with a white towel. “Tom,” he said with a bright smile on his face, “good to see you.”

Marvin came around his desk to shake Tom’s hand.

“You lost another pound,” Tom said.

“Two!” Marvin announced proudly. “But who’s counting? Okay, take a seat. We’ve much to discuss.”

Marvin walked over to his desk, where he proceeded to study a tall stack of folders like a Jenga master contemplating a move. His hand reached into the middle of a stack, and almost without looking, he extracted the folder that he’d sought.

Taking a seat at the conference table across from Tom, Marvin said, “The game plan is to go over the discovery with you. But first, how is Jill holding up?”

Tom nodded and tried to show Marvin his appreciation. “She’s fine,” he said. “We’ve been taking things day by day but talking at least once a night. She’s been staying with Vern and Sylvia Kalinowski. They have twin girls who are Jill’s age.”

“Good. That’s good to know.”

“How’s the salt intake?” Tom asked.

“Lower.”

“And you’re taking a protein with every workout?”

“That nut mix you gave me is a good one.”

“Soybeans, sunflower seeds, and almond slices. My favorite. We’re hitting that goal weight, Marvin.”

“First your case—”

“And I’m getting you a date with Rebecca Bartholomew.”

“I might write off half of my fee if you make that happen, buddy.”

“It’s a done deal. Just say the word.”

“I’ll say it in another fifteen pounds.”

“Ten,” Tom said.

“Ten it is.”

Marvin flipped through the pages of the open folder and scanned the documents within. “So, as we discussed, I waived your right to have a probable cause hearing in exchange for the D.A. speeding up my access to their discovery materials.”

“Is it unusual they’d agree to that?” Tom asked.

“No, not really. It’s sort of a ‘you scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours’ protocol that we use a lot. But it does tell me they’re eager to make a case and not at all worried about tipping their hand early.”

“Why do you say that?” Tom asked.

“The D.A. has a mountain of evidence,” Marvin said as he again sifted through the pages of an alarmingly thick set of papers. “They’ve got tons of computer forensic reports here, too. They even got the FBI involved.”

Tom nodded. “I told you about the agent who questioned me after my arrest,” he said.

“Right,” Marvin said. “I know that the D.A. had promised to crack down on teacher-student relationships, and I think they’re out to make a pretty big example out of you.”

“Well, what do we do now?” Tom asked.

Marvin picked up a pencil on his desk and twirled it between his fingers like a baton. “Tom, we need to think about a plea bargain before this goes to trial,” he said.

Tom shot Marvin a surprised look. “Doesn’t that mean pleading guilty?”

Marvin nodded. “That it does. But it also means keeping you out of prison for ten-plus years.”

“We haven’t even started to prepare for the trial,” Tom objected. “What the hell is in those discovery materials?”

“We’re going to try and prove to the jury the evidence against you was planted.”

“Right,” Tom said, acknowledging the defense strategy that he believed was not only the best, but also the truth.

“Well, the D.A. is going to try and prove, via your alleged relationship with Lindsey Wells, that you’re a sexual offender.”

“That’s insane,” Tom snapped, his eyes growing narrow. “Of course I’m not. In all my years as a teacher and coach, not once has anybody ever suspected me of that sort of thing.”

“Which is precisely why your involvement with Lindsey Wells is so critical to the prosecutor’s case. Lindsey will be proof to the jury that the evidence on the laptop wasn’t planted there. Once they think you’re having sex with a minor, a jury can be convinced of just about anything.”

“And why will they think I had a relationship with Lindsey in the first place?” Tom wanted to know.

“Well, according to the preliminary computer forensic audit, you’ve exchanged e-mails with Lindsey Wells. Graphic ones, at that.”

“E-mails?” Tom stammered. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about both of the state’s computer forensic specialists matching up IP addresses that link you and your laptop to Lindsey Wells’s home address.”

“That’s crazy. Lindsey’s just a kid. She’s my daughter’s best friend, for goodness’ sake!”

“And then there is this Leterg thing.”

“Yeah, you mentioned something about that to me. Explain that again,” Tom said.

“I had to research that myself. Leterg is ‘Gretel’ spelled backward. Every click on the Internet, every file sent or Web site accessed, is composed of broken-up data packets that originate from the sender and get reassembled by the receiver. IP addresses are what tell these broken-up data packets where to reassemble. Instead of leaving a single bread-crumb trail showing the actual route that the raw packets of data travel from point A to point B, Leterg manufactures bogus data routes, making it impossible for a computer forensic specialist to determine the exact path these data packets took.”

“And the state believes I know how to use this Leterg thing?”

“They were able to crack part of the Leterg encryption algorithm. Because of that… call it a ‘breakthrough’… the state now believes you’ve been collecting images of naked teenaged girls. The FBI has been cooperating with the Shilo and state police investigation. According to this affidavit,” Marvin said, holding up a piece of paper, “the FBI believes these multimedia format images were sent originally as text messages.”

“That’s ridiculous. The only text messages I send are to Jill!”