Джеймс Паттерсон - The Summer House

“I see,” Slate says, his hands folded over his belly. “You also had a Chinaman with you this morning, over at the Ralston jail. Where is he now?”

Allen has never served overseas in either Iraq or Afghanistan, but he’s sure the hair rising on the back of his neck is coming from knowing he and the others are under constant surveillance.

“He’s on other duties,” Allen says, still hating the coffee, wanting to correct this small-town, small-minded lawyer about using an ethnic slur to describe a fellow officer, but right now he needs information.

“Well, what can I do for you? What do you need to know?”

“I don’t know much about Georgia criminal law, so I’m looking for a quick guide,” Allen says. “I know it’s early, but do you anticipate indicting the four of them for first-degree murder or second-degree murder?”

Slate has a cheery smile on his face. “Neither.”

“Excuse me?” Allen asks, feeling warm, like the older man is enjoying putting him in his place.

“I guess you do need some guidance after all,” Slate says. “In Georgia, we don’t have first-degree or second-degree murder. We have malice murder, felony murder, and voluntary manslaughter, among others. Of course, it all depends on the grand jury meeting after the official arraignment for your Rangers.”

“When do you expect the arraignment?”

“Thursday or Friday of next week. Grand jury will take a bit longer.”

“On my flight down I read that most Georgia counties have grand juries that meet every Wednesday. True?”

Slate shakes his head. “Haven’t you figured out yet, we’re not a usual county? In Sullivan County we meet every six months for a grand jury.”

Allen is stunned. A half year wait for an indictment?

“For real?” he asks.

“Do I look like I’m joking, son?” Slate asks. “Nope. Six months is typical, though I imagine with a case like this one, we’ll be able to rearrange things, move it up some. In the meantime, those four fellas will have an opportunity to have a bond hearing, to see if they can be released prior to the indictment. Which I doubt. But any way you look at it, these fellas won’t be going to trial for a year to eighteen months. We’re a busy state down here.”

“I see,” Allen says.

Slate says, “Those four Rangers, they sure didn’t want to talk to you this morning.”

“That’s their right,” he says. “Since they were arrested outside their post, they’ll have to arrange for their own civilian defense.”

“But would you advise ’em if they asked?”

“Not me personally,” Allen says. “But I’m sure someone in JAG could lend assistance. But JAG lawyers are trained to deal with the military justice system, not the civilian system.”

“Sounds complicated,” Slate says.

“It can be,” Allen says.

Slate is still smiling, and then—like a flash of lightning illuminating a night landscape—the smile disappears and Slate frowns, his eyes narrowing and darkening, his fingers clasping tighter across his stomach.

“But know this, and know this well, and tell your boss, son, whoever the hell he or she might be,” Slate says, his voice low and steady. “Sheriff Emma Williams is one tough and smart investigator, a real bitch on wheels. If she’s arrested those four Rangers so quick after all those boys and girls and that baby was killed, then she’s got a solid case that she’s gonna give to me when the time is right.”

Allen stares quietly at the old man.

The district attorney says, “So, son, I’m gonna tell you this. It might take a year, eighteen months, or even two years, but I’m gonna find those Rangers guilty, and I’m gonna make sure they end up on death row and someday get a needle in their veins. You got that?”

“I got that,” Allen says.

“Good!” The smile returns, and Slate moves his chair forward. “Anything else?”

Allen stands up, reaches over, puts his barely touched coffee cup on the district attorney’s desk.

“Just one more thing,” Allen says. “I’m a commissioned officer in the United States Army and an attorney admitted to the New York and Virginia bar. Unless you spent some time wandering around Long Island thirty or so years ago and had a brief affair with my mother, don’t call me son, ever again.”

He turns and quickly walks out.

Chapter 17

LIEUTENANT JOHN HUANG is sitting on a park bench across the street from the Ralston Police Department, just waiting. It’s been several hours since he and Allen Pierce visited the police department’s jail and were turned away, and when Allen said he was going to visit the district attorney, John said he would stay behind.

“And do what?” Allen asked.

“Talk to the Rangers.”

“How?”

And John said, “By using my wily Asian ways. How else?”

The day has been long, sitting here in the shade, reading articles on his iPhone from back issues of Journal of Psychiatric Practice, and once going into the nearby small convenience store to grab lunch. The young lady wearing jeans and a blue smock with ADDY on her name tag took his money and passed over a wrapped ham-and-cheese sandwich and a bottle of Lipton iced tea, then she said, “Mind if I ask you a question?”

“Go ahead,” he said, knowing what was coming next.

“What are you?” she asked. “Huh? Do you mind? Japanese? Korean? What are you?”

He scooped up his lunch and change and said, “Californian.”

Now he waits.

Earlier and separated by thirty or so minutes, two different sets of dark-blue Ford vans pulled up across the street, with film crews and correspondents tumbling out and, nearly just as quickly, tumbling back in, having been turned away by the ever-vigilant jail attendant and bikini inspector.

John sips from the now-warm Lipton tea.

The guy was doing a pretty good job.

A white Dodge Ram pickup truck comes down the road, turns into the lot, stopping next to the red Dodge Colt. A tall, thin woman gets out, wearing the same type of uniform as the male attendant, and she sprints to the rear door of the jail.

John checks the time. It’s 5:10 in the afternoon.

He’s thinking someone’s late and—

There goes the bikini inspector, into his Colt, and his tires squeal as he gets out onto the main street, back into whatever Sunday afternoon life awaits him.

John dips into his soft leather briefcase and pulls out a necktie, which he quickly secures around his neck.

Now it’s time to get to work.

It feels good to walk across to the jail, stretching his legs, and he goes up to the familiar door with the sign and rings the doorbell, and rings it once more.

A shadow appears as before, but it’s the woman attendant now, red hair tousled, face flushed and perspiring, and she says, “How can I—”

He grabs the door, opens it wider. “Sorry I’m late,” he says. “I’m here to see Specialist Tyler.”

“Hey, uh, what—”

He pushes past her and says, “Is he ready? I won’t take long.”

The woman steps in front of him. “Hold on. Just who the hell are you?”

John lets her stand for a few seconds and then shapes his face into surprised anger. “You don’t know? Honestly? Before he went hunting today, Chief Kane told me it was going to be all arranged. Hold on.”

He grabs his regular wallet, takes out his Virginia driver’s license, flashes it in front of the poor young woman, and says, “I’m Dr. John Huang of the US Army Medical Corps. I flew in a while ago from Washington, DC. I’m here to personally interview the four Rangers, starting with Specialist Tyler.”

The woman bites her lower lip. John chose Tyler for a reason, for according to the briefing he received last night at the motel, Tyler is the youngest of the four.