Дэвид Балдаччи - Absolute Power

Jennifer sat in the small chair by the TV. Her short black skirt was matched by black heels and patterned black stockings. A white blouse was open at the collar where an emerald necklace fired dazzling color into the little room. A full-length sable was draped carefully on the sheet covering his ragged couch. She was clicking her nails against the TV set when he walked in. She looked at him without speaking. The thick ruby lips were set in a firm, vertical line.

“Hi, Jenn.”

“You’ve certainly been a very busy boy the last twenty-four hours, Jack.” She didn’t smile, her nails continued to click.

“Gotta keep hustling, you know that.”

He took off his coat, undid his tie and went into the kitchen for a beer. He reemerged, and sat across from her on the couch.

“Hey, got a new piece of business today.”

She reached in her handbag and tossed across the Post.

“I know.”

He looked down at the headlines.

“Your firm won’t let you do it.”

“Too bad, I already did it.”

“You know what I mean. What in God’s name has gotten into you?”

“Jenn, I know the guy, okay? I know him, he’s a friend of mine. I don’t believe he killed the woman, and I’m going to defend him. Lawyers do that every day in every place where there are lawyers, and in this country that’s basically everywhere.”

She leaned forward. “It’s Walter Sullivan, Jack. Think about what you’re doing.”

“I know it’s Walter Sullivan, Jenn. What? Luther Whitney doesn’t deserve a good defense because somebody says he killed Walter Sullivan’s wife? Excuse me but exactly where is that written?”

“Walter Sullivan is your client.”

“Luther Whitney is my friend and I’ve known him a lot longer than I’ve known Walter Sullivan.”

“Jack, the man you’re defending is a common criminal. He’s been in and out of jails all his life.”

“Actually he hasn’t been in prison for over twenty years.”

“He’s a convicted felon.”

“But he’s never been convicted of murder,” Jack fired back.

“Jack, there are more attorneys in this city than there are criminals. Why can’t another lawyer handle it?”

Jack looked at his beer. “You want one?”

“Answer my question.”

Jack stood up and hurled the beer bottle against the wall.

“Because he goddamn asked me!”

Jenn looked up at him, the frightened look that had crossed her face passing as soon as the glass fragments and beer hit the floor. She picked up her coat and put it on.

“You’re making a huge mistake and I hope you come to your senses before you do irreversible damage. My father almost had a coronary when he read that story.”

Jack put his hand on her shoulder, turned her face to his and said quietly, “Jenn, this is something I have to do. I would’ve hoped you could support me on this.”

“Jack, why don’t you stop drinking beer and start thinking about how you want to spend the rest of your life.”

When the door closed behind her, Jack slumped against it, rubbing his head until he thought the skin would start to peel away under the pressure his fingers were exerting.

He watched from the tiny, dirty window as the vanity plates disappeared into the blur of snow. He sat down, looked at the headlines again.

Luther wanted to cut a deal but there was no deal to cut. The stage was set. Everyone wanted to see this trial. The TV news had given a detailed analysis of the case; Luther’s photo must have been seen by several hundred million people. They already had public opinion polls about Luther’s guilt or innocence, and he was running far behind in all of them. And Gorelick was licking his chops thinking that this was the vehicle to catapult him into the Attorney General’s office in a few years. And in Virginia, Attorneys General often ran for, and won, the Governor’s Mansion.

Short, balding, big-voiced, Gorelick was as deadly as a rattler on speed. Dirty tactics, questionable ethics, just waiting to bury the knife in your back at the first opportunity. That was George Gorelick. Jack knew he was in for a long, tough fight.

And Luther wasn’t talking. He was scared. And what did Kate have to do with that fear? Nothing was adding up. And Jack was going to walk into court tomorrow and plead Luther not guilty when he had absolutely no way to prove that Luther wasn’t. But proof was the state’s job. The problem was they probably had just enough to put them over the top. Jack would peck and chip, but he had a three-time loser as a client, even though the record said Luther had remained clean for the last two decades. They wouldn’t care about that. Why should they? His guy made for the perfect ending to a tragic story. A poster boy for the three-strikes rule. Three heavies and your life is over, starring Luther Whitney.

He tossed the newspaper across the room and cleaned up the broken glass and spilled beer. He rubbed the back of his neck, felt the underused muscles in his arms and went to his bedroom and changed into sweats.

The YMCA was ten minutes away. Amazingly Jack found a parking space right in front and went inside. The black sedan behind him wasn’t as lucky. The driver had to circle the block several times and then pull down the street and park on the other side.

The driver wiped his passenger-side window clear and checked out the front of the Y. Then he made up his mind, climbed out of his car and ran to the steps. He looked around, glanced at the gleaming Lexus and then slowly walked inside.

Three pickup games later, the sweat was pouring down Jack’s body. He sat down on the bench as the teenagers continued to run up and down the court with the inexhaustible energy of youth. Jack groaned as one of the lanky black kids dressed in loose gym shorts, tank shirt and oversized sneakers tossed the ball at him. He tossed it back.

“Hey man, you tired?”

“No, just old.”

Jack stood up, rubbed the kinks out of his aching thighs and headed out.

As he was leaving the building he felt a hand on his shoulder.

Jack drove. He glanced at his new passenger.

Seth Frank looked over the interior of the Lexus. “I’ve heard great things about these cars. How much it run you, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Forty-nine-five, loaded.”

“Like hell! I don’t even come close to making that in a year.”

“Neither did I until recently.”

“Public defenders don’t make the big bucks, I’ve heard.”

“You heard right.”

The men fell silent. Frank knew he was breaking more rules than they probably had written down and Jack knew that too.

Finally Jack looked at him. “Look, Lieutenant, I’m assuming you didn’t just come out here to check my taste in automobiles. Is there something you want?”

“Gorelick’s got a winning case against your guy.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. I’m not throwing in the towel if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“You pleading him not guilty?”

“No, I’m gonna drive him down to the Greensville Correctional Center and inject the shit into him myself. Next question.”

Frank smiled. “Okay, I deserved that. I think you and I need to talk. Some things about this case don’t add up. Maybe it helps or hurts your guy, I don’t know. You willing to listen?”

“Okay, but don’t think this flow of information is going to be a two-way street.”

“I know a place where you can actually cut the meatloaf with a butter knife and the coffee’s passable.”

“Is it an out-of-the-way place? I don’t think you’d look good in a deputy’s uniform.”

Frank looked over at him, grinning. “Next question.”

Jack managed a smile and then drove home to change.