by Louise Penny
“I’m fine,” Reacher said. “A little hungry, maybe. It’s past lunchtime.”
“There’s a problem with that.”
“Is the chef out sick?”
“We don’t have a chef. We send out. To the diner down the block. Lunch is authorized up to four dollars. But that’s the county rate. You’re a state prisoner. We don’t know what they pay for lunch.”
“More, I hope.”
“But we need to know for sure. Otherwise we could get stuck with it.”
“Doesn’t Delaney know? Or Cook?”
“They left. They took their other suspect back to their HQ in Bangor.”
“How much do you spend on dinner?”
“Six and a half.”
“Breakfast?”
“You won’t be here for breakfast. You’re a state prisoner. Like the other guy. They’ll come get you tonight.”
An hour later the young cop came back again with a grilled cheese sandwich and a foam cup of Coke. Three bucks and change. Apparently Detective Aaron had said if the state paid less than that, he would cover the difference personally.
“Tell him thanks,” Reacher said. “And tell him to be careful. One favor for another.”
“Careful about what?”
“Which mast he nails his colors to.”
“What does that mean?”
“Either he’ll understand or he won’t.”
“You saying you didn’t do it?”
Reacher smiled. “I guess you heard that before.”
The young cop nodded. “Everyone says it. None of you ever did a damn thing. It’s what we expect.”
Then the guy walked away, and Reacher ate his meal and went back to waiting.
Another two hours later the young cop came back for the third time. He said, “The public defender is here. She’s going through the case on the phone with the state guys. They’re still in Bangor. They’re talking right now. She’ll be with you soon.”
Reacher said, “What’s she like?”
“She’s okay. One time my car got stole and she helped me out with the insurance company. She was in my sister’s class in high school.”
“How old is your sister?”
“Three years older than me.”
“And how old are you?”
“Twenty-four.”
“Did you get your money back for your car?”
“Some of it.”
Then the guy went and sat on the stool behind the booking table. To give the impression of proper prisoner care, Reacher supposed, while his lawyer was in the house. Reacher stayed where he was, on the bed. Just waiting.
Thirty minutes later the lawyer came in. She said hello to the cop at the desk, in a friendly way, like a person would, to an old high school classmate’s kid brother. Then she said something else, lawyerlike and quietly, about client confidentiality, and the guy got up and left the room. He closed the steel door behind him. The cell block went quiet. The lawyer looked in the bars at Reacher. Like a person at the zoo. Maybe at the gorilla house. She was medium height and medium weight, and she was wearing a black skirt suit. She had short brown hair with lighter streaks, and brown eyes, and a round face with a downturned mouth. Like an upside-down smile. As if she had suffered many disappointments in her life. She was carrying a leather briefcase too fat to zip. There was a yellow legal pad poking out the top. It was covered with handwritten notes.
She left the briefcase on the floor and went back and dragged the stool out from behind the booking table. She positioned it outside Reacher’s cage and climbed up on it and got comfortable, with her knees pressed tight together and the heels of her shoes hooked over the rail. Like a regular client meeting, one person either side of a desk or a table, except there was no desk or table. Just a wall of thick steel bars, closely spaced.
She said, “My name is Cathy Clark.”
Reacher said nothing.
She said, “I’m sorry I took so long to get here. I had a closing scheduled.”
Reacher said, “You do real estate too?”
“Most of the time.”
“How many criminal cases have you done?”
“One or two.”
“There’s a large percentage difference between one and two. How many exactly?”
“One.”
“Did you win?”
“No.”
Reacher said nothing.
She said, “You get who you get. That’s how it works. There’s a list. I was at the top today. Like the cab line at the airport.”
“Why aren’t we doing this in a conference room?”
She didn’t answer. Reacher got the impression she liked the bars. He got the impression she liked the separation. As if it made her safer.
He said, “Do you think I’m guilty?”
“Doesn’t matter what I think. It matters what I can do.”
“Which is?”
“Let’s talk,” she said. “You need to explain why you were there.”
“I have to be somewhere. They need to explain why I would have given up my co-conspirator. I delivered him right to them.”
“They think you were clumsy. You intended merely to grab the bag, and you knocked him over by mistake. They think he intended to keep on running.”
“Why were county detectives involved in a state operation?”
“Budgets,” she said. “Also sharing the credit, to keep everyone sweet.”
“I didn’t grab the bag.”
“They have four witnesses who say you bent down to it.”
Reacher said nothing.
She said, “Why were you there?”
“There were thirty people in that plaza. Why were any of them there?”
“The evidence shows the boy ran straight toward you. Not toward them.”
“Didn’t happen that way. I stepped into his path.”
“Exactly.”
“You think I’m guilty.”
“Doesn’t matter what I think,” she said again.
“What do they claim was in the bag?”
“They’re not saying yet.”
“Is that legal? Shouldn’t I know what I’m accused of?”
“I think it’s legal for the time being.”
“You think? I need more than that.”
“If you want a different lawyer, go right ahead and pay for one.”
Reacher said, “Is the kid in the sweatshirt talking yet?”
“He claims it was a simple robbery. He claims he thought the girl was using the bag as a purse. He claims he was hoping to get cash and credit cards. Maybe a cell phone. The state agents see that as a rehearsed cover story, just in case.”
“Why do they think I didn’t run too? Why would I stick around afterward?”
“Same thing,” she said. “A rehearsed cover story. As soon as it all went wrong. You saw them grab your pal, so you both switched to plan B, instantly. He was a mugger, you were helping law enforcement. He would get a trivial sentence, you would get a pat on the head. They anticipate a certain level of sophistication from both of you. Apparently this is a big deal.”
Reacher nodded. “How big of a deal, do you think?”
“It’s a major investigation. It’s been running a long time.”
“Expensive, do you think?”
“I imagine so.”
“At a time when budgets seem to be an issue.”
“Budgets are always an issue.”
“As are egos and reputations and performance reviews. Think about Delaney and Cook. Put yourself in their shoes. A long-running and expensive investigation falls apart due to random chance. They’re back to square one. Maybe worse than that. Maybe there’s no way back in. Lots of red faces all around. So what happens next?”
“I don’t know.”
“Human nature,” Reacher said. “First they shouted and cussed and punched the wall. Then their survival instinct kicked in. They looked for ways to cover their ass. They looked for ways to claim the operation was in fac
t a success all along. Agent Delaney said exactly that. They dreamed up the idea the kid was a part of the scam. Then they listened in when Aaron was talking to me. They heard me say I don’t live anywhere. I’m a vagrant, in Aaron’s own words. Which gave them an even better idea. They could make it a twofer. They could claim they bagged two guys and ripped the heart out of the whole damn thing. They could get pats on the back and letters of commendation after all.”
“You’re saying their case is invented.”
“I know it is.”
“That’s a stretch.”
“They double-checked with me. They made sure. They confirmed I don’t carry a cell phone. They confirmed no one keeps track of where I am. They confirmed I’m the perfect patsy.”
“You agreed with the idea the kid was more than a mugger.”
“As a hypothetical,” Reacher said. “And not very enthusiastically. Part of a professional discussion. They flattered me into it. They said I know how this stuff works. I was humoring them. They were making shit up, to cover their ass. I was being polite, I guess.”
“You said it was possible.”
“Why would I say that if I was involved?”
“They think it was a double bluff.”
“I’m not that smart,” Reacher said.
“They think you are. You were in an elite MP unit.”
“Wouldn’t that put me on their side?”
The lawyer said nothing. Just squirmed on her stool a little. Uneasiness, Reacher figured. Lack of sympathy. Distrust. Even revulsion, maybe. A desire to get away. Human nature. He knew how this stuff worked.
He said, “Check the timing on the tape. They heard me say I have no address, and the mental cogs started turning, and pretty soon after that they had hijacked the interview and were in the room with me. Then they left again later, just for a minute. For a private chat. They were confirming with each other whether they had enough. Whether they could make it work. They decided to go for it. They came back in and arrested me.”
“I can’t take that to court.”
“What can you take?”
“Nothing,” she said. “Best I can do is try for a plea bargain.”
“Are you serious?”
“Completely. You’re going to be charged with a very serious offense. They’re going to present a working theory to the court, and they’re going to back it up with eyewitness testimony from regular Maine folk, all of whom are either literally or figuratively friends and neighbors of the jury members. You’re an outsider with an incomprehensible lifestyle. I mean, where are you even from?”
“Nowhere in particular.”
“Where were you born?”
“West Berlin.”
“Are you German?”
“No, my father was a Marine. Born in New Hampshire. West Berlin was his duty station at the time.”
“So you’ve always been military?”
“Man and boy.”
“Not good. People thank you for your service, but deep down they think you’re all screwed up with trauma. There’s a substantial risk you’ll be convicted, and if you are, you’ll get a long custodial sentence. It will be far safer to plead guilty to a lesser offense. You’d be saving them the time and expense of a contested trial. That counts for a lot. It could be the difference between five years and twenty. As your lawyer I would be delinquent in my duty if I didn’t recommend it.”
“You’re recommending I do five years for an offense I didn’t commit?”
“Everyone says they’re innocent. Juries know that.”
“And lawyers?”
“Clients lie all the time.”
Reacher said nothing.
His lawyer said, “They want to move you to Warren tonight.”
“What’s in Warren?”
“The state pen.”
“Terrific.”
“I petitioned to have you kept here a day or two. More convenient for me.”
“And?”
“They refused.”
Reacher said nothing.
His lawyer said, “They’ll bring you back tomorrow morning for the arraignment. The courthouse is in this building.”
“So I’m going there and back in less than twelve hours? That’s not very efficient. I should stay here.”
“You’re in the system now. That’s how it works. Nothing will make sense ever again. Get used to it. We’ll discuss your plea in the morning. I suggest you think about it very seriously overnight.”
“What about bail?”
“How much can you pay?”
“About seventy bucks and change.”
“The court would regard that as an insult,” she said. “Better not to apply at all.”
Then she slid down off her stool and picked up her overstuffed bag and walked out of the room. Reacher heard the steel door open and close. The cell block went quiet again.
Ten minutes of your time. What’s the worst thing could happen?
Another hour went by, and then the young cop came back in. He said the state had authorized the same six dollars and fifty cents for dinner that the county would have spent. He said that would get most anything on the diner’s menu. He recited a list of possibilities, which was extensive. Reacher thought about it for a moment. Chicken pot pie, maybe. Or pasta. Or an egg salad. He mused out loud between those three alternatives. The cop recommended the chicken pie. He said it was good. Reacher took his word for it. Plus coffee, he added. Lots of it, he emphasized, a really serious quantity, in a flask to keep it warm. With a proper china cup and saucer. No cream, no sugar. The cop wrote it all down on a slip of paper with a stub of a pencil.
Then he said, “Was the public defender okay?”
“Sure,” Reacher said. “She seemed like a nice lady. Smart, too. She figures it’s all a bit of a misunderstanding. She figures those state guys get a bit overenthusiastic from time to time. Not like you county people. No common sense.”
The young cop nodded. “I guess it can be like that sometimes.”
“She says I’ll be out tomorrow, most likely. She says I should sit tight and trust the system.”
“That’s usually the best way,” the kid said. He tucked the slip of paper in his shirt pocket, and then he left the room.
Reacher stayed on his bed. He waited. He sensed the building grow quieter as the day watch went home and the night watch came in. Fewer people. Budgets. A rural county in an underpopulated part of the state. Then eventually the young cop came back with the food. His last duty of the day, almost certainly. He was carrying a tray with a china plate with a metal cover, and a white fluted fat-bellied plastic coffee flask, and a saucer topped with an upside-down cup, and a knife and a fork wrapped in a paper napkin.
The plastic flask was the key component. It made the whole assemblage too tall to fit through the horizontal pass-through slot in the bars. The kid couldn’t lay the flask down on its side on the tray. It would roll around and the coffee would spill out all over the pie. He couldn’t pass it upright on its own through a regular part of the bars because they were too close together for its fat-bellied shape.
The kid paused, unsure.
Twenty-four years old. A rookie. A guy who knew Reacher as nothing worse than a placid old man who spent all his time on his bed, apparently relaxed and resigned. No shouting, no yelling. No complaints. No bad temper.
Trusting the system.
No danger.
He would balance the tray one-handed on steepled fingers, like a regular waiter. He would take his keys off his belt. He would unlock the gate and slide it open with his toe. His holster was empty. No gun. Standard practice everywhere in the world. No prison guard was ever armed. To carry a loaded weapon among locked-up prisoners would be just asking for trouble. He would step into the cell. He would hook his keys back on his belt and juggle the tray back into two hands. He would turn away, toward the concrete desk.
Which relative positioning would offer a number of different opportunities.
Rea
cher waited.
But no.
The kid was the kind of rookie who got his car stolen, but he wasn’t totally dumb. He put the tray on the floor outside the cell, just temporarily, and he took the coffee pot off it, and the cup and saucer, and he placed them all on the tile on the wrong side of the bars, and then he picked up the tray again and fed it through the slot. Reacher took it. To get a drink, he would have to put his wrists between the bars and pour on the outside. The cup would fit back through. Maybe not on its saucer, but then, he wasn’t dining at the Ritz.
The kid said, “There you go.”
Not totally dumb.
“Thanks,” Reacher said anyway. “I appreciate it.”
The kid said, “Enjoy.”
Reacher didn’t. The pie was bad and the coffee was weak.
An hour later a different uniform came by to collect the empties. The night watch. Reacher said, “I need to see Detective Aaron.”
The new guy said, “He isn’t here. He went home.”
“Get him back. Right now. It’s important.”
The guy didn’t answer.
Reacher said, “If he finds out I asked but you didn’t call him, he’ll kick your ass. Or take your shield. I hear there are budget issues. My advice would be don’t give him an excuse.”
“What’s this all about?”
“A notch on his belt.”
“You going to confess?”
“Maybe.”
“You’re a state prisoner. We’re county. We don’t care what you did.”
“Call him anyway.”
The guy didn’t answer. Just carried the tray away and closed the steel door behind him.
The guy must have made the call, because Aaron showed up ninety minutes later. About halfway through the evening. He was wearing the same suit. He looked neither eager nor annoyed. Just neutral. Maybe a little curious. He looked in through the bars.
He said, “What do you want?”
Reacher said, “To talk about the case.”
“It’s a state matter.”
“Not if it was a simple mugging.”
“It wasn’t.”
“You believe that?”