Джон Гришэм - The Partner

The terms of the plea agreement were hammered out. The paperwork began with a joint motion to reduce the charges against Patrick. Then an agreed order to substitute new charges was prepared, followed by an agreed order accepting the guilty plea. In the course of the first meeting, Trussel spoke by phone to Sheriff Sweeney, Maurice Mast, Joshua Cutter, and Hamilton Jaynes in Washington. He also chatted twice with Karl Huskey, who was next door, just in case.

The two judges, along with Parrish, were subject to voter recall every four years in the general election. Trussel had never had an opponent and considered himself politically immune. Huskey was quitting. Parrish was sensitive, though being a good politician he presented the traditional facade of making the tough decisions without regard for public reaction. The three had been involved in politics for a long time, and each had learned a basic lesson: when contemplating an action which might be unpopular, do it quickly. Get it over with. Hesitation allows the issue to fester. The press grabs it, creates a controversy before the action, and certainly throws gasoline on the fire afterward.

The Clovis issue was simple, once Patrick explained it to everybody. He would submit the name of the victim, along with authorization from the family to dig up the grave, open the casket, look inside. If it was in fact empty, then the plea agreement would be complete. Since there would always be doubt until they opened the grave, if by some chance the casket was occupied, then the plea agreement would be ripped up and Patrick would still face capital murder charges. Patrick was supremely confident when he talked of the victim, and everyone believed without a doubt that the grave would be empty.

Sandy drove to the hospital, where he found his client in bed, surrounded by nurses as Dr. Hayani cleaned and dressed his burns. It was urgent, Sandy said, and Patrick apologized and asked them to leave. Alone, they walked through each motion and order, read every word aloud, then Patrick signed his approval.

Sandy noticed a cardboard box on the floor next to Patrick’s temporary desk. In it were some of the books he’d loaned his client. The client was already packing.

For Sandy, lunch was a quick sandwich at the hotel suite, eaten while standing and watching over the shoulder as a secretary retyped a document. Both paralegals and a second secretary were back in the office in New Orleans.

The phone rang, and Sandy grabbed it. The caller identified himself as Jack Stephano, from D.C.; maybe Sandy had heard of him. Yes, in fact, he had. Stephano was in the lobby downstairs and would like to talk for a few minutes. Certainly. Trussel had asked the lawyers to return around two.

They sat in the small den and looked at each other across a cluttered coffee table. “I’m here out of curiosity,” Stephano said, and Sandy didn’t believe him.

“Shouldn’t you start with an apology?” Sandy said.

“Yes, you’re right. My men got a little carried away down there, and, well, they shouldn’t have been so rough with your boy.”

“Is that your idea of an apology?”

“I’m sorry. We were wrong.” It lacked sincerity.

“I’ll pass it along to my client. I’m sure it’ll mean a lot to him.”

“Yes, well, moving along here, I, of course, no longer have a dog in this fight. My wife and I are on our way to Florida for a vacation, and I wanted to take this little detour. I’ll just be a minute.”

“Have they caught Aricia?” Sandy asked.

“Yes. Just hours ago. In London.”

“Good.”

“I no longer represent him, and I had nothing to do with all that Platt & Rockland business. I was hired after the money disappeared. My job was to find it. I tried, I got paid, I’ve closed the file.”

“So why this visit?”

“I’m extremely curious about something. We found Lanigan in Brazil only after someone squealed on him. Someone who knew him very well. Two years ago we were contacted by an Atlanta firm called the Pluto Group. They had a client from Europe who knew something about Lanigan, and this client wanted money. We happened to have some at the time, and so a relationship developed. The client would offer us a clue, we would agree to pay a reward, the money changed hands, and the client was always accurate. This person knew an awful lot about Lanigan — his movements, his habits, his aliases. It was all a setup — there was a brain at work. We knew what was coming, and, frankly, we were quite anxious. Finally, they popped the big one. For a million bucks, the client would tell us where he lived. They produced some very nice photos of Lanigan, one washing his car, a Volkswagen Beetle. We paid the money. We got Lanigan.

“So who was the client?” Sandy asked.

“That’s my question. It’s gotta be the girl, right?”

Sandy’s reaction was delayed a bit. He grunted as if to laugh, but there was no humor in it. It came back to him slowly, her story about using Pluto to monitor Stephano, who of course was searching for Patrick.

“Where is she now?” Stephano asked.

“I don’t know,” Sandy said. She was in London, but it was certainly none of his business.

“We paid a total of one million, one hundred and fifty thousand dollars to this mysterious client, and she, or he, delivered. Just like Judas.”

“It’s over. What do you want from me?”

“As I said, I’m just curious. One of these days, if you learn the truth, I’d appreciate a call. I have nothing to gain or lose, but I won’t rest well until I know if she took our money.”

Sandy made a vague promise to perhaps one day give a call if he learned the truth, and Stephano left.

Sheriff Raymond Sweeney got wind of the deal during lunch, and didn’t like it at all. He called Parrish and Judge Trussel, but both were too busy to talk to him. Cutter was out of the office.

Sweeney went to the courthouse to be seen. He parked himself in the hallway between the judges’ offices, so that if a deal was struck he would somehow be in the middle of it. He whispered with the bailiffs and deputies. Something was coming down.

The lawyers showed up around two with tight lips and solemn faces. They gathered in Trussel’s office behind a locked door. After ten minutes, Sweeney knocked on it. He crashed the meeting with a demand to know what was going on with his prisoner. Judge Trussel calmly explained that there would soon be a guilty plea, the result of a plea bargain, which, in his opinion, and in the collective opinions of everyone present, was in the best interests of justice.

Sweeney had his own opinion, which he readily shared. “It makes us look like fools. Folks out there are hot about this. You catch a rich crook, and he buys his way outta jail. What are we, a bunch of clowns?”

“What do you suggest, Raymond?” Parrish asked.

“I’m glad you asked. First, I’d put him in the county jail and let him sit for a while, same as all prisoners. Then I’d prosecute him to the fullest extent.”

“For what crime?”

“He stole the damned money, didn’t he? He burned up that dead body. Let the boy serve ten years in Parchman. That’s justice.”

“He didn’t steal the money here,” Trussel explained. “We have no jurisdiction. It was a federal matter, and the federal boys have already dismissed the charges.” Sandy was in a corner, his eyes fixed on a document.

“Then somebody screwed up, didn’t they?”

“It wasn’t us,” Parrish said quickly.

“That’s great. Go sell that to the people who elected you. Blame it on the feds because they don’t run for office. What about burning the corpse? He gets to walk after admitting he did it?”

“You think he should be prosecuted for it?” Trussel asked.