John Lescroart - Damage

Farrell cleared his throat. “I understood that the appeal wasn’t based on the evidence presented at the trial.” Farrell was referring to the two other women who testified they’d been raped by Ro.

Farrell knew that the successful appeal had been based on the fact that several members of the victim’s family had worn a button with a picture of a smiling Dolores Sandoval on it in the courtroom during the trial. This, the Ninth Circuit had ruled, must have hopelessly prejudiced the jury against the defendant. It was as wacky a decision as Farrell had ever heard, even from a court renowned for its bizarre rulings.

Cliff Curtlee waved off Farrell’s objection. “The evidence won’t hold up in a new trial. You read the old transcript, you’ll see. The two other so-called victims. Who are they? They shouldn’t have been allowed to testify at all. And Ro admits he had sex with the girl, but she wanted it, too. There’s no case anymore. There wasn’t any to begin with.”

“Well…”

Theresa cleared her throat again. “But whatever you decide on the trial, and I’m sure you’ll come to the right decision, at the very least you can recommend a bail figure.”

Here Farrell shook his head. “I don’t want to seem unsympathetic to your son’s situation, but I can’t do that. There’s no bail in a special circumstances case.”

“Ah.” The muscles in Theresa’s face couldn’t get traction and-perhaps to compensate for the lack of expression-she held up her index finger. “But that’s the whole point. It’s not a special circumstances case. It’s never been one.”

Farrell showed his confusion. “I’m sorry?”

“It was Sharron Pratt’s one concession to us. After all we’d done for her.” Cliff obviously didn’t harbor any warm feelings for the former DA who’d prosecuted their son.

Well practiced, possibly even rehearsed, Theresa picked up the thread. “The charges were rape and murder, not murder in the commission of rape.”

Farrell noted the logical impossibility. If her son did it, the crime had to be rape/murder. But evidently this hadn’t bothered Sharron Pratt. “So it wasn’t special circumstances,” Wes said.

In other words, it wasn’t a no-bail case.

Theresa bared her teeth slightly. “Exactly. So he was eligible for bail, and will be again this time.”

“And last time, was he in fact released on bail?”

“No,” Cliff said. “That fascist Thomasino”-a highly respected superior court judge-“denied the bail anyway.”

“He was prejudiced against Ro,” Theresa added. “All through the trial, every decision he made, it was obvious to everybody.”

“And so this time…?”

“This time,” Cliff said, “since bail is legally permissible, we’d just like to make a personal appeal to you, Wes, to step in if you catch wind of any early sign of judicial activism. At the very least, keep it away from Thomasino. Or maybe even put the word out that you’ll allow a reasonable bail before the matter even gets inside a courtroom.”

“It wouldn’t have to be a public statement,” Theresa said. “The important thing is the result.” And then, shifting into a less strident tone, she added, “Now that he’s out of prison, Wes, we’d just love to have our boy back with us at home.”

Farrell’s own personal idea of hell was to have any of his own three grown children come and stay with him and Sam for more than a long weekend, but here was a chance to sound cooperative, if not conciliatory, and maybe bring this uncomfortable interview to a close. “I understand how you can feel that way,” he said. “And I promise you I’ll review the case closely and do everything I can to address your concerns.”

Which, he knew, would be precious little.

But the finality in his tone conveyed his intended signal. Theresa smoothed her skirt and stood up. “That’s all we ask, Wes. Really.”

Cliff stared disconcertingly into Farrell’s eyes for another second or two-threatening?-but then he, too, got to his feet. “It’s good to know who your friends are,” he said. “And you know that the Courier ’s been good friends with a lot of politicians in this town.”

“Well, I’m not much of a politician, as the election made pretty clear,” Wes said. “But I do hope I can keep trying to do the right thing.”

Theresa took his proffered hand and gave him a prim little nod. “That’s all we can ask for. Thanks for sharing so much of your valuable time.”

“My pleasure. To both of you. My door’s always open.”

Just down the hallway from his own office, Farrell knocked on the open door of his chief assistant, Amanda Jenkins.

Despite a long history together-or maybe because of it-theirs was an awkward relationship. The conflict might have been purely endemic-Jenkins was historically prosecution and Farrell was dyed-in-the-wool defense. More personally, in the sensational murder case that had made his bones in the city, Farrell had gone head-to-head against Jenkins and beaten her in court, getting a clean acquittal for his client.

Then last year, Jenkins had been considering a run for district attorney herself. But the powers that had eventually settled on Wes Farrell as their candidate made it clear that they felt that she was a bit too much a one-trick pony-her issues were women’s issues, period. She was insufficiently left wing in other respects, believing, for example, that a period of house arrest was probably not the answer to violent crime. But in the immediate aftermath of Farrell’s victory, those same power brokers had promoted Jenkins’ cause as chief assistant-she had the prosecutorial chops, the administrative experience, the in-depth familiarity with the DA’s office personnel, and at least in feminist circles the correct politics. So now they were four days into their respective new jobs, and this was the first time Farrell had seen her since his inauguration ceremony.

Jenkins looked up from the pile of work surrounding her on her desk and straightened in her chair. “Sir?”

Farrell half turned as though looking around behind him. “There’s no ‘sir’ here, Amanda. It’s just me, Wes. I was ‘Wes’ when we were colleagues at the bar. And even running against each other. Remember?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Yes, Wes.”

She took a breath. “Okay. Wes.”

“Good. At ease.” He came into the room. “Got a sec? Mind if I get the door?”

Jenkins was a career prosecutor, always professionally turned out with the possible exception of the trademark short skirts she wore to accentuate her truly show-stopping legs. Now she threw a slightly harried look at her new boss and shrugged, indicating her workload, but then pushed her chair back a bit and linked her hands on her lap. At his service. “What’s up?”

Farrell closed the door and pulled a chair around. “I just had a chat with the Curtlees. Both of them.”

“That was fast,” she said, her eyes suddenly alive. “And let me guess. They wanted you to decline to retry Ro and, failing that, then let him out on bail.”

“You got a bug in my office?”

Jenkins was deaf to humor. “I hope you told them to take a flying.”

“Not in so many words. I said I’d look into the matter and try to do the right thing.”

“There’s nothing to look into. Their boy, Ro, is a monster.”

Farrell held up a hand, waiting while she huffed out a breath or two. “I’ve already done some looking. Since you prosecuted that case, I thought you could catch me up quicker than reading the transcript all the way through.”

Jenkins, smoldering, blew out again. “You see what they let him out on, those lunatics? The victim’s family wore badges with her picture on it, so quote federal constitutional error must have permeated the proceedings unquote. Have you ever heard such horseshit? I mean, even for the Ninth Circus, this is out there.”