John Lescroart - Guilt

This was different.

Wearing a black silk blouse and one of her trademark miniskirts, dark green today, Amanda Jenkins was leaning against the wall enjoying this morning's special entertainment. Decked out in fezzes and robes, a dozen or so representatives of the Moslem mosque were protesting the arrest of one of their members for bank robbery, and were performing a hucca – a ritual dance derived from the old whirling dervishes. They were jumping up and down and chanting, 'Just-us, just-us.' Several uniformed cops were available to maintain a semblance of order, but it probably wasn't going to get out of hand. These things happened every week in the Hall. To Farrell, it was almost more amazing that no one seemed to think it was that odd.

He came up to Jenkins. 'With a couple of instruments, they could take it on the road. It'd really go better with music, don't you think?'

She considered it seriously. 'Accordion and tuba. Alternating bass notes. Oom-pa, oom-pa. It's a good idea.'

They discussed variations on the theme until they located an empty bench far enough away to hear themselves talk, and Farrell went into his pitch.

'You can't be serious?' she said when he wrapped it up. 'You're saying you expect us to simply drop this?'

'Like the hot potato it is. I don't really expect it, but you don't have a case, and your boss seems to know it.'

'I'm sorry he gave you that impression and I'm sure he would be, too. I just talked to Art this morning before coming down here and he is totally committed to this prosecution.'

This was a lie, but Amanda delivered it straight.

'Murder One?'

She nodded. 'With Specials.' Meaning special circumstances – in this case murder in the course of a rape. The state was going to ask for LWOP – life in prison without the possibility of parole.

'So why are we having this discussion?'

Amanda straightened her skirt, pulling it down to within four inches of her knees, a move she was unaware of. It didn't escape Farrell's notice, however. Neither did the clearing of her throat. The woman was a nervous wreck. 'You called Art.'

'True. But then he called me back, said maybe we had something to talk about after all. If your best offer is life, I think all in all I owe it to my client to try to get a better deal.' He paused. 'Especially since you can't convict him, not on the discovery I've seen. He's gonna walk, Amanda, and you know it. Drysdale knows it. You guys fucked up.'

'We drop the Specials. You plead Murder One straight up, twenty-five to life.'

Farrell cast his gaze down the hallway, up to the ceiling. 'How can I phrase this? No chance.'

Amanda was trying to get some satisfaction out of this. Drysdale had told her she was going to have to drop the charges, an extraordinary, once-in-a-lifetime decision in a rape/murder case. This just didn't happen, ever. Except now, it was happening, and Amanda was in the middle of it.

The only chip the DA wanted to play was to use its slight remaining leverage, if any, to avoid embarrassment in the press. Jenkins, who took this stuff personally, was hoping to salvage a little more.

'Wes, your client killed this woman.'

'My client is innocent until you prove he's guilty.'

'Oh please, spare me. What do you think? Really?'

'I just said what I think.'

Jenkins took in a breath and held it for a long moment. 'Murder Two,' she said at last. 'Fifteen to life. He'll be out in twelve.'

Farrell crossed his arms, gave her a worldly look. 'Amanda, please.'

'What?'

'When's'the last time you went to a parole board hearing? Out walk five people who've read the police report, hate your client, and figure he's done it before. At least one is there from some victims' rights group. Your client comes in, says he's sorry – hell, he's really sorry – and they say thanks for your time, see you in another five years.'

Amanda repeated it. 'Still, he'll be out in twelve on Murder Two.'

'He'll be out in twelve weeks if we go to trial.'

'I guess we'll let the jury decide then. We're not going to simply drop these charges, Wes, and if we go to trial, it's One with Specials. That's putting your client at tremendous risk.'

Farrell nodded, stood up, grabbed his briefcase. 'I'll discuss it with him. See you in ten seconds.' He held out his hand. 'I'll be in touch.'

He'd gone about ten steps when the prosecutor called after him. 'Wes?'

He stopped and turned. He was almost tempted to go back and put an arm around her shoulder, tell her everything was going to be all right. This was just a job, a negotiation, nothing to take so seriously.

A vision of Sam from St Patrick's Day – when it had been personal to her, too. What was with all these women?

Amanda Jenkins's eyes showed her concern, even panic. The woman was deeply conflicted, but she forced a weak smile. 'Nothing,' she said, 'forget it.'

'I had to try, Art.'

'No, you didn't, Amanda.'

'Farrell's going to talk to Levon right now, this morning. Levon knows he did it. He's looking at LWOP if he doesn't plead. We've got some leverage here.'

'We don't have the evidence. Farrell appears to have a pretty good understanding of that.'

'He's got to convey our offer to Levon. If he takes it, we win. It was worth a try.'

Drysdale picked up the telephone on his desk. 'All right, you had your try. You got Farrell's number?'

She argued for another five minutes, but it did no good, so she made the call and told Farrell the People were moving to dismiss the charges on Levon Copes to permit the time for further investigation.

Victor Trang made Dooher drive half an hour out to Balboa Street to meet in some dive named Minh's, decorated mostly in yellowing strips of flypaper which hung from the ceiling.

Dooher hated the smell of the place. His Vietnam hitch had been the low point of his life, and since he'd returned he hadn't put much effort into developing any taste for the culture.

He didn't see Trang right away – Dooher had to walk along a counter and endure the suspicious eyes of the proprietor and of the four other customers who sat hunched over their bowls.

Trang sat in a booth at the back, papers scattered around him, his calculator on the table so he'd look busy. There was a cup of tea in front of him, and some dirty dishes still on the table, pushed to the side. He wore the same suit, the same skinny tie, as the last time they'd met.

Dooher slid in across from him and Trang, punching the damn little machine, held up a finger. He'd be with Mark in just a minute. Finally – a whirr of number-crunching – he looked up. There was a smile, but it lacked sincerity.

He began briskly enough. 'I'll be filing the amended complaint next Monday, which gives us a week to reach a settlement agreement, if you're still interested. If not, I'll go ahead sooner.'

Dooher tried to run his bluff. 'I did tell you that our offer expired the day after we met. When I didn't hear from you…'

'And yet you're here.'

'The Archbishop thought it was worth another try.'

Trang stared at the ceiling behind Dooher. At last, he put down his pencil, brought himself back to the table. 'Here's the situation, Mr Dooher. First, I'd appreciate it if you'd stop insulting me with this talk about the Archbishop's concern for my well-being. I've got a lawsuit that's going to do his diocese a lot of harm and incidentally might smear him with the runoff. He knows it, I know it, you know it.'

'All right.' Dooher wore his poker face. 'I didn't know you. I mean no insult. Some people hear the bluff and cave early.'

Trang seemed to accept that. He shuffled some of his papers around, appearing to look for something specific. Finding it, he pulled the page toward him and read a moment. 'I've got, let's see, twelve names here.'