Stephen Cannell - Three shirt deal

All of this directed exclusively to Secada. If I wanted this guy's attention, I was going to have to drop trou and expose myself.

"If the department ever knew we were over here, we'd both get in major trouble, so we're counting on your discretion," Scout said.

"I'm glad you came." He turned his heroic gaze out the window again. "I was part of that plea bargain. If what you're telling me checks out, then we've made a terrible mistake."

"And you're willing to admit it?" Secada asked. She leaned forward, showing him a nice swell of breasts.

"As you undoubtedly know, I'm running for mayor in a few months." More great Latino porcelain came on display. "There are those in my campaign who would say that to admit such an error would cause me problems politically, but I see it differently. A man has to have a code, a standard he lives up to. My job is to stand up for what's right. If I make a mistake, then I'm honor bound to admit it. If I sent this boy away on bad facts, then I damn sure should be the one to fix it." Somewhere up in heaven angels were singing.

"Thank you, sir," Secada said, smiling. Then she glanced at me and raised an impatient eyebrow, prompting me to say something.

"Thanks," I muttered.

He crossed to his desk and handed us each his card.

"My private line is on here. I suggest maybe you two should drop your investigation now and let me run with it. If you stay involved, you're gonna have more trouble with Jane. I'll try and help out there, but there's only so much I can do. She can be difficult sometimes."

We thanked him again and prepared to leave.

"So how do I reach you?" Tito said, addressing Secada again.

We both gave him our cards. Mine was going into some bottom desk drawer. Hers would undoubtedly end up in the glassine section of his wallet.

"I hope you can reopen this so Shane and I don't cook in the gravy," Scout said.

"I'll think of something. How 'bout if I tell PSB that we picked up some investigative discrepancies on this situation during a standard case review."

"That should work," Scout said, smiling widely at him.

"I'll be in touch," Tito promised and led us to the door. "Listen, Detectives, I want to tell you something. Even though the insubordination charge is a problem, I salute your dedication to the truth in this case. After the parade has passed and everything's been adjudicated, it's much easier to just look the other way. You did the hard thing, which is the right thing."

"We really appreciate your time, sir," Secada beamed. I felt a twinge of annoyance, or was it jealousy? "Tito," he reminded her. "Tito," she said.

And then, we were out of his office and standing in the hall. "What a doll," Scout enthused, "And he's still single." "Still got your wallet?"

"Come on, he's charming. This is just what we needed, Shane." "Yeah."

"Look at you. Why don't you smile? And what's with this black-on-black ensemble? You look like Steven Seagal. Who picked that outfit, for God's sake?" "This just feels way too easy," I said.

I left Secada in the parking lot. She seemed as if a great weight had just been lifted from her as she got into her slick-back and tooled off toward the Bradbury Building.

I guess I'm just such a natural skeptic that I couldn't accept a good break even when I got one. Or maybe it was that my luck had been running so cold, I couldn't quite believe in a crusader D. A. willing to flag a prosecutorial mistake on the eve of his own mayoral election, no matter how great his teeth or warm his smile.

Since I was already in Van Nuys, standing in the parking lot of the prosecutor's office, and had the name of Tru Hickman's court-appointed public defender in my file, I decided to look her up and see what light she could shed on this mess.

The Public Defenders Division is part of the prosecutor's office, so I found myself on the second floor of the same building I'd just exited. The P. D.'s office was a cluttered cube farm full of fresh-faced recent law school graduates. Tru had told me that his P. D. had red hair, braids, and freckles and looked like she just graduated from high school.

That pretty much fit my take when I located Yvoune Hope seated behind a battered metal desk that looked like it had been used to block a year's worth of slap shots from an NHL hockey team. She seemed implausibly young. Pippi Longstocking with a law degree. But that was only until you bothered to look deep into her blue-green eyes. They were tired, angry eyes that had seen enough misery to fill a prison.

"Truit Joseph Hickman confessed to killing his mother," she said after I told her why I was there.

"Miscarriage of justice," I said.

"Yep. We get a lot of that around here. John Dillinger, John Gotti, and Al Capone. They all got fucked by the system, too." A cynic. So young and her soul was already poisoned by her experiences.

"Take a look at some of this," I said, and pushed the folder I'd compiled across the desk at her.

Yvonne Hope didn't open it. "Lemme guess, rubber hoses in the I-room, right?"

"You shorten your last name from 'Hopeless'?"

"Don't be a smart-ass. I've been on this job for almost two years now. The average for P. D.'s in this meat house is eighteen months. The burnout rate is through the roof. You wanta know why?"

"Not really."

"I'll tell you anyway. Because just about everybody I represent is a scumbag liar. Including this guy." She tapped her short, chewed-nail ring finger on my folder. "I have baby-rapists and child molesters as clients. I have to try and get deals for people you wouldn't waste a bullet on. My job is to ignore the crime and save the criminal. It can warp you. Tru Hickman killed his mother. He copped to it. Now he's up in Corcoran and it's worse than he thought so he's had a change of heart. Next case. You got any idea how often I see that?"

"Listen, Yvonne. Can I call you that?"

"Vonnie."

I'm not some bleeding-heart, hand-wringing, social activist, Vonnie. I'm a homicide cop. I scrape dead people off the pavement for a living. If you want to compare battle scars, I bet, with my years on the job, I'll beat yours. I'm telling you, Lieutenant Devine and Tito Morales flushed this kid on bad evidence. Pardon me for saying it, but you were supposed to defend him and you let it happen."

She sat there, all hundred and six pounds of her, and looked at me with eyes that had been hardened to the approximate texture of pale, green marbles.

"Okay, I'm listening. But I'm a stone cold bitch so make it convincing."

I gave her the rest of it, stopping when I got to the bloody shoe prints.

"Did you ever finish the match on those prints? I can't find a record of it anywhere."

"Probably never happened," she said matter-of-factly. "After we dropped the special circumstances and he copped to the murder, the plea went to my division supervisor, got signed off on, and shipped to the prosecutor's floor upstairs to get executed."

"How about the lie detector test? Were you there when he took the poly?"

"No. He did that before he asked for an attorney, before I got the case."

"It's also nowhere to be found," I said. "You ever see it?"

"He confessed to the crime. What part of that sentence is confusing to you? The confession makes the damn poly irrelevant."

"Brian Devine told him he flunked the poly. He panicked. That's why he confessed. Don't tell me you've never seen that before. A ten-year veteran of Homicide is now standing here telling you the wrong guy is probably in jail. I think this VSL gangster, Mike Church, is the doer."

She sat behind her scarred metal desk, still clocking me with machine gunner's eyes. "Whatta you want?" she finally asked.

"You handled his case a year ago. I think it was a miscarriage of justice. I guess Pm over here attorney shopping. If I can get enough evidence to refile, how'd you like to have another swing at this? Go for a writ of habeas corpus and a new trial?"