Robert Crais - The Two Minute Rule

“She treated me right, Chee. She went to bat for me with the AUSA, man. She helped me get a reduced charge.”

“That’s because you damn near gave yourself up, you dumb muthuhfuckuh! I remember that bitch runnin’ into the bank, Holman! She’s gonna set you up, homes! You even fart crooked this bitch gonna send you up!”

Holman decided not to mention that Pollard was no longer an agent. He had been disappointed when she told him, but he believed she would still have the connections and still be able to help him get answers.

He said, “Chee, listen, I gotta go. I have to meet her. You going to be able to help me with that money?”

Chee waved his hand again, axing away his disgust.

“Yeah, I’ll get you the money. Don’t mention my name to her, Holman. Do not let my name pass your lips in her presence, man. I don’t want her to know I’m alive.”

“I didn’t mention you ten years ago when they were sweating me, homes. Why would I mention you now?”

Chee looked embarrassed and waved his hand again as he left.

Holman familiarized himself with the Highlander and tried to figure out how to use the cell phone while he waited. When Chee returned, he handed Holman a plain white envelope and the driver’s license. Holman didn’t look in the envelope. He tucked it into the console, then looked at the license. It was a perfect California driver’s license, showing a seven-year expiration date and the state seal over Holman’s picture. A miniature version of his signature had been inserted beneath his address and description.

Holman said, “Damn, this looks real.”

“Is real, bro. That’s a legitimate Cal state driver’s license number straight up in the system. You get stopped, they run that license through DMV, it’s gonna show you at your address with a brand-new driving record as of today. The magnetic strip on back? It shows just what it’s supposed to show.”

“Thanks, man.”

“Give me the keys to that piece of shit you been driving. I’ll have a couple of boys bring it back.”

“Thanks, Chee. I really appreciate this.”

“Don’t mention my name to that cop, Holman. You keep me out of this.”

“You’re out of it, Chee. You were never in it.”

Chee put his hands on the Highlander’s door and leaned into the window, his eyes fierce.

“I’m just sayin’, is all. Don’t trust this woman, Holman. She put you in the joint once, bro. Don’t trust her.”

“I gotta go.”

Chee stepped back, watching Holman with disgusted eyes, and Holman heard him mutter.

“Hero Bandit, my goddamned ass.”

Holman pulled out into traffic, thinking he hadn’t been called the Hero Bandit in years.

HOLMAN ARRIVED fifteen minutes early and seated himself at a table with a clear view of the door. He wasn’t sure he would recognize Agent Pollard, but more importantly he wanted her to have an unobstructed view of him when she entered. He wanted her to feel safe.

The Starbucks was predictably crowded, but Holman knew this was one of her reasons for choosing it as their meeting place. She would feel safer with other people around and probably believed he would be intimidated by their proximity to the Federal Building.

Holman settled in, expecting her to be late. She would arrive late to establish her authority and to make sure he understood the power in this situation was hers. Holman didn’t mind. He had trimmed his hair that morning, shaved twice to get a close shave, and polished his shoes. He had handwashed his clothes the night before and rented Perry’s iron and ironing board for two dollars so he would appear as unthreatening as possible.

Holman was watching the entrance at twelve minutes after the hour when Agent Pollard finally entered. He wasn’t sure it was Pollard at first. The agent who arrested him had been bony and angular, with a thin face and light, short-cropped hair. This woman was heavier than he remembered, with dark hair to her shoulders. The longer hair was nice. She wore a straw-colored jacket over slacks and a dark shirt and sunglasses. Her expression gave her away. The serious game-face expression screamed FED. Holman wondered if she practiced it on the way over.

Holman placed his hands palms down on the table and waited for her to notice him. When she finally saw him Holman offered a smile, but she did not return it. She stepped between the people waiting for their lattes and approached the empty chair opposite him.

She said, “Mr. Holman.”

“Hi, Agent Pollard. Okay if I stand? It’d be polite, but I don’t want you to think I’m attacking you or anything. Could I get you a cup of coffee?”

Holman kept his hands on the table, letting her see them, and smiled again. She still didn’t return the smile or offer her hand. She took her seat, brusque and all business.

“You don’t have to stand and I don’t have time for the coffee. I want to make sure you understand the ground rules here-I’m happy you completed your term and you’re set up with a job and all that-congratulations. I mean that, Holman-congratulations. But I want you to understand-even though Ms. Manelli and Mr. Figg vouched for you, I’m here out of respect for your son. If you abuse that respect in any way, I’m gone.”

“Yes, ma’am. If you want to pat me down or anything, it’s okay.”

“If I thought you would try something like that I wouldn’t have come. Again, I’m sorry about your son. That’s a terrible loss.”

Holman knew he wouldn’t have long to make his case. Pollard was already antsy, and probably not happy she had agreed to see him. Cops never had contact with the criminals they arrested. It just wasn’t done. Most criminals-even true mental defectives-knew better than to seek out the officers who had arrested them, and those few who did usually found themselves rearrested or dead. During their one and only phone conversation, Pollard had tried to reassure him that the murder scenario the police described and their conclusions regarding Warren Juarez were reasonable, but she had had only a passing familiarity with the case and hadn’t been able to answer his torrent of questions or see the evidence he had amassed. Reluctantly, she had finally agreed to familiarize herself with the news reports and let him present his case in person. Holman knew she hadn’t agreed to see him because she believed the police might be wrong; she was doing it to help a grieving father with the loss of his son. She probably felt he had earned the face time for the way he went down, but the face time would be the end of her consideration. Holman knew he only had one shot, so he had saved his best hook for last, the hook he hoped she could not resist.

He opened the envelope in which he kept his growing collection of clippings and documents, and shook out the thick sheaf of papers.

He said, “Did you have a chance to review what happened?”

“Yes, I did. I read everything that appeared in the Times . Can I speak bluntly?”

“That’s what I want-to get your opinion.”

She settled back and laced her fingers in her lap, her body language telling him she wanted to get through this as quickly as possible. Holman wished she would take off the sunglasses.

“All right. Let’s start with Juarez. You described your conversation with Maria Juarez and expressed your doubt that Juarez would have killed himself after the murders, correct?”

“That’s right. Here’s a guy with a wife and kid, why would he kill himself like that?”

“If I had to guess, which is all I’m doing here, I’d say Juarez was huffing, living on crank, probably smoking the rock. Guys like this always get loaded before they pull the trigger. The drugs would contribute to paranoia and possibly even a psychotic break, which would explain the suicide.”