Стюарт Вудс - Shakeup

Maren laughed. “They might find that too appealing.”

“He’s still in the jury room,” Mark said. “What’s your preference?”

“Let’s offer Clark the immunity. We’ll see if he’s the tough Marine he likes to think he is.”

“I’ll go speak to his attorney.” They both hung up.

Mark Bernstein had been a classmate of Clark’s attorney, Jeff Goode, at Harvard Law, and they had never liked each other much. It gave Mark a little thrill to be able to convey this message. He held up five fingers and the questioning attorney announced a short break.

Jeff Goode had been waiting in an anteroom, since defense attorneys were not allowed in the jury room. Mark took a seat next to him at the table. “How goes it, Jeff?”

“That depends on whether you believe my client’s testimony.”

“I do believe him, when he says that answering truthfully might tend to incriminate him.”

“So, where do we stand?”

“We’re offering immunity,” Mark replied.

“Complete and total immunity?”

“Not for every misdeed in his miserable life; just for his actions with regard to his wife’s and Deana Carlyle’s murders, whatever they might have been.”

“So, you’ve chosen to go after Little Debby, have you?”

“That remains an option,” Mark said. “I’d rather convict her on the testimony of your client. You ought to be able to sell him that: he walks, and Little Debby doesn’t. What could be nicer?”

“In Donald’s eyes, it would be better if they both walked.”

“We both know that’s not going to happen,” Mark said.

“Okay, I’ll give it a whirl. Have the bailiff bring him in here, and don’t rush us.”

“Fine, take your time.” Mark opened a door and summoned the bailiff. “Good luck,” he said to Goode, and left the room.

Jeff Goode stood and shook his client’s hand. “How’s it going in there, Donald?”

“Pretty much as you said it would.”

“You know the press is going to tear you apart, don’t you?”

“What has to be has to be.”

“There’s always a way out, Donald, if you’re willing to pay the price.”

“What way? What price?”

“They’re going to offer you immunity for two murders — your wife’s and Deana Carlyle’s,” Goode said.

“To testify against Deborah?”

“To tell the truth. Which of the following two headlines would you rather see tomorrow morning? ‘CLARK LAWYERS UP, TAKES THE FIFTH ON MURDER CHARGE AND IS IMPRISONED FOR CONTEMPT,’ or ‘CLARK TESTIFIES AGAINST MURDERER AND WALKS FREE’? Those are the options.”

“What will they do with me, if I just refuse to testify?”

“The judge will jail you, until you relent.”

“For how long?”

“How long have you got to live?”

Clark blanched. “I don’t like the sound of that.”

“There’s another possible headline you should consider,” Goode said.

“What’s that?”

“‘CHIEF MYERS ACCEPTS IMMUNITY AND TESTIFIES AGAINST CLARK.’”

“She’d never do that to me.”

“You never know,” Goode said. “A year in federal lockup can soften the stiffest spines.”

“I could appeal, couldn’t I?”

“You’d lose.”

“It’s that definite?”

“It’s cut and dried. One of you is going to get a deal, and the other is going to prison. You’ve been given the first shot at deciding that it’s not going to be you.”

Clark stared at the wall and said nothing.

“What’s it going to be, Donald?”

“I need some time to think,” Clark replied.

“I can ask them to break for lunch. That’ll give you an hour, maybe an hour and a half.”

“Can I call Debby?”

“No. You’ll just have to sit in this room and think. I’ll bring you a sandwich.”

“Ham and cheese on rye, mustard, Diet Coke.”

“I’ll phone it in,” Goode said, rising. He left the room, and Mark Bernstein was leaning on the wall outside.

“What’s it going to be?” Mark asked.

“I gave it my best shot. Apparently, he doesn’t like making decisions on an empty stomach.”

“I’ll call lunch.”

“And I’ll get him a ham on rye with mustard,” Goode said. They went their separate ways.

Clark had been sitting alone for half an hour. He knew he was going to cave, and that annoyed him. He heard the door open behind him and turned to look that way.

An elderly black woman, pushing a cart of cleaning tools and supplies entered. “Cleaning lady... You mind?” she asked.

“Go ahead,” Clark replied and turned away from her.

A moment later, he heard a ratcheting noise, one that he remembered from the firing ranges of his youth. He was about to speak, when something hammered into his head and he collapsed into a pool of his own blood and brains.

Another shot was fired into his head, then the door opened and closed again.

Stone was walking back from the Grill, after lunch with a client, when his phone rang. “Yes?” he said and continued walking.

“It’s Dino. You want the latest news, or you want to see it on TV?”

“Dino, you know I hang on your every breath. What’s going on?”

“Donald Clark got offed while in a grand jury hearing.”

Stone was stunned. “While testifying? Who shot him, the prosecutor?”

“No, they were on a lunch break and Clark went to an adjoining room to meet with his attorney, who gave him the good news that the U.S. attorney was offering him immunity in the Carlyle case. He wanted to think it over, so the attorney left him alone while he ordered lunch.”

“So, he got more than he ordered, and in the federal courthouse?”

“He got a .22 slug in the back of the head, and an extra one for insurance.”

“Have we heard what Little Debby’s alibi is?”

“Not yet, but I’ll give ten-to-one odds that it will be a peach.”

“I’m not taking that bet,” Stone said.

“Anyway, an elderly black woman was seen in a nearby hallway, carrying a pail and a mop. You ever heard of Ma Barker?”

“A 1930s gang leader, wasn’t she?”

“Right. Also, the sobriquet of a certain middle-aged black woman who works as a hit man — excuse me, hit lady.”

“Is Ma Barker’s alibi a peach?”

“You bet your ass it is. She was at choir practice at her church.”

“Oh, that’s good in so many ways!”

“You are right! She can put twelve ladies and a reverend on the stand to testify to her presence.”

“Come on, nobody at a church choir practice would so blatantly lie for her.”

“Right, but the cops have spoken to the twelve ladies and the reverend that she named — who were not, of course, necessarily at the church. You can bet they were well paid, though, and Ma Barker, too.”

“That’s breathtaking.”

“Did I mention that the feds found a gray wig on fire in a trash can in the courthouse?”

“How about a weapon?”

“Nowhere in sight, and not in Ma Barker’s house, either. They got a warrant.”

“So everybody involved takes a walk?”

“Everybody but Donald Clark. He took a gurney to a slab downstairs.”

“What’s the old expression?”

“It couldn’t happen to a nicer guy?”

“That’s the one. My sentiments exactly.”

“Are you going to tell Art Jacoby?” Dino asked.

“No, I thought you’d like to do that.”

“No, I wouldn’t.”

“Well, I’m not going to tell him,” Stone said. “Let’s let him hear about it on the evening news. Talk to you later.” He hung up. The phone rang again before he could get it back into his pocket. “Yes?”

“Stone, it’s Art Jacoby; have you heard?”

“Yep.”