Combined with the limp-wristed board of supervisors that governed the county, Petrelli had begun to think of himself in somewhat Cesarean terms, consistently filing the toughest charges against even minor infractions. The assistant Commonwealth’s attorneys who worked for him were well aware that the sole path to promotion lay in being equally intractable. It all played so well with the voters.
It didn’t, however, play very well with the police department. The chief, Warren Michaels, famously despised J. Daniel, and he encouraged his police officers to serve as a kind of Petrelli antidote, at least to the extent that they could. That cooperative attitude often inured to benefit German Culligan’s as a defense attorney. Certainly, he was hoping that would be the case today. The court had appointed him to represent a nut case named Ethan Falk, who’d apparently attacked a man without reason and stabbed him to death with a carving knife. Fifteen times.
The uniformed cop in the greeting window smiled as he approached. “Good afternoon, Counselor,” she said.
“Hello, Gloria. You’re looking well as always. I have appointment with Lieutenant Hackner and a Detective Pam Hastings.”
Gloria buzzed the security door. Culligan walked through it and into the hallway that led to the department’s administrative offices. Five years ago, the police department had relocated from its dingy digs near the old courthouse and into this brightly lit cube farm. Lots of blues and greens gave Culligan the feel that the county had spent a dollar or two on an industrial psychologist to design the décor, and he was certain that in ten years that same décor would make the place look dated as hell.
“Just wait in the conference room, Mr. Culligan,” Gloria said, but he was already on his way. He waited in the same conference room every time he visited. On the way, he stopped at the communal coffeepot and helped himself to a cup. Two sugars, and about a teaspoon of the white poison that they called creamer. Then he headed to the fishbowl that was the conference room.
The detective and her lieutenant arrived together after about five minutes. Culligan had known Jed Hackner for years, but Detective Hastings was a new face to him. Tall-ish and blond-ish, she looked a little like a cheerleader stuffed into pantsuit. He sensed that she knew that, thus explaining the hard set of her mouth and the stiffness of her bearing. Overcompensation.
After the obligatory dance of introductions, they got down to business. “How did you get this dog of a case, German?” Hackner asked.
“Beats me. However that happens. The judge spins the Rolodex and my card pops to the top.” As a sole practitioner, Culligan looked to court appointments the way senior citizens look at a Social Security check: Not really enough to live on, but a reliable source of cash. “How big a dog is it?”
Hackner deferred to Hastings. “We’ve got at least two dozen eyewitnesses who saw Ethan Falk race out of a coffee shop, tackle a man in the parking lot and stab him fifteen times.”
“Don’t forget about the confession,” Hackner prompted.
Hastings chuckled. “Oh, yeah. And he confessed to the whole thing.”
Culligan couldn’t keep himself from smiling. “I presume you jumped through all the proper hoops?”
“Mirandized him and everything,” Hastings said. “Twice, actually. Once when it was just the two of us, and then a second time in front of a witness.”
Culligan took a note, not that there was much to forget. “When I meet with Mr. . . .”
“Falk.” The cops said it together.
“When I meet with Mr. Falk, I’m not going to see a lot of bruising from where you beat the confession out of him?” He’d meant the statement as a joke, an allusion to the growing media-driven zeitgeist that badge-bearers were bad guys, but what he saw in their faces gave him pause. “What?”
“He attacked one of the cops downstairs as they were processing him,” Hackner said. “It got pretty violent. It took more than a couple of stick-hits to get him to settle down.”
“Bones broken?”
Hackner said, “Not that we know of.”
“Has he seen a doctor?”
“He refused,” Hastings said.
“But you offered medical treatment?”
“He refused,” she repeated. “We can show you the security tapes if you want.”
Culligan shook his head. “Maybe in time.” Unlike a few of his colleagues in the legal field, Culligan never saw the prosecution team as enemies. Adversaries in the courtroom, sure, but at least in Braddock County, everyone pulled on the same oar in favor of justice. Even J. Daniel Petrelli, though his version of justice always came with a harsh spin and five exclamation points.
“When he confessed, did he tell you why he attacked the guy?”
“Some bullshit story about a kidnapping when he was eleven years old,” Hackner said.
Culligan’s head snapped up. “I’m sorry, how old did you say Ethan is?”
“Twenty-three.”
“I don’t understand. Did the victim—what’s his name?”
“We don’t know,” Hackner said. “John Doe for now.”
“Did Mr. Doe just get out of prison or something? Was there a vendetta against him?”
“Not that we know of.”
Culligan put his pen down and shifted in his seat. “Please don’t be difficult. Why did Ethan allegedly kill a man twelve years after he was kidnapped?”
“That’s the bullshit part,” Hackner said. “There never was a kidnapping.”
“He made it up?”
“It’s not a complicated thing to look up kidnappings,” Hackner said. “He gave us a date and a place, and we checked both local and federal records, and there’s nothing there.”
“Why would he make something like that up?” Culligan asked. It made no sense.
Hackner rolled his eyes. “Maybe when you look down at yourself and you see your hands and legs covered in someone else’s blood, you feel the urge to make up a quick story. How the hell should I know?”
Culligan looked to Hastings, whose eyes were somewhere other than the conversation. “Is that what my client told you at the time of his arrest?” he asked. “That he was kidnapped?” If he didn’t have as solid a relationship with Hackner as he did, the lieutenant might have taken offense at being second-guessed. As it was, it was Hackner’s turn to look away. “Officer Hastings?”
She scowled as she inhaled deeply through her nose. “That is what he told me.”
“But?” There seemed clearly to be more.
“It was the way he told me,” she said. “He seemed genuinely flabbergasted to be put under arrest. Like killing the John Doe was the most obvious thing in the world.”
Culligan scratched the back of his head. It seemed that every new answer just deepened his sense of confusion. “What are you telling me?” he asked. “Or maybe what are you not telling me is the better question. I’m kind of lost here.”
“I’m telling you that I believe him.”
Culligan looked to Hackner. “You said no such kidnapping ever happened.”
“Let me re-state it then,” Hasting said. “I think that Ethan Falk really believes it happened.”
“Just as he might believe that he’s Santa Claus,” Hackner said. “Believing doesn’t make it true.”
Hastings would back down. “You asked.”
“Because I need to know.”
“He could be delusional, of course,” Hastings said. She seemed to be arguing with herself. “That’ll take a shrink to figure out. But I saw the raw emotion in the heat of the moment, and I’ll bet everything that if you could climb into his head and look around, you’ll see pictures that are scary as hell.”
Culligan looked over to Hackner, and then back to Hastings. “Okay, then. Anything else I need to know?”
“Nope,” Hackner said, and he stood. The meeting was over.
* * *
Ethan Falk did not look like a murderer. In Culligan’s experience, only sixty percent of criminals had the criminal look about them—a much
lower number than it used to be, now that tattoo sleeves were no longer the markers solely of prisoners and gang-bangers—but precious few had the look of innocence that this kid projected. He was terrified. And with good reason. Blood still seeped through the bandage on his cheek, and Culligan had seen raccoons with lighter coons-eyes than Ethan.
“I don’t belong here,” Ethan said after the introductions were finished. The guards had refused the attorney’s request to remove the shackles that held the kid’s hands to the chain around his waist.
“You killed a guy,” Culligan said. “He wasn’t shooting at you, and he wasn’t actually kidnapping you, your story notwithstanding.”
“But he—”
Culligan silenced him with a raised hand. “Nope, not yet,” he said. “I’ve heard what you told the police when you were arrested. What part of ‘you have a right to remain silent’ and ‘anything you say can and will be used against you in court’ confused you?”
“I needed to make them understand—”
“No, you didn’t.” Culligan wasn’t trying to be mean, but he needed to get his client to understand that admitting to a murder was not a trivial thing. “From this point forward, up until the day you step into a courtroom, everything that transpires will be driven by perceived facts. Right now, there’s a growing list of witnesses who saw you charge out of a coffee shop, tackle a guy who’s smaller than you, and then stab him about a million times. Are you following me so far?”
Ethan’s head twitched a noncommittal yes.
“I prefer verbal responses,” Culligan said.
“Yes, I’m following you.”
“Excellent. Because of the legions of eyewitnesses, your confession doesn’t do as much harm as it otherwise might have. But quit telling yourself that you don’t belong in jail. For now, here’s exactly where you belong. What you need to consider—the thought that needs to consume your heart and soul—is whether you ought to die by lethal injection. Or worse, in my personal opinion, whether you deserve to spend the rest of your life in prison.”
Ethan blanched—all but his eyes, which remained just as purple and bruised as they were before.
Culligan pressed on. “From this point forward, you have no friends in this place—except for me and one other, but I’ll get to her in a minute. Say as little as you can to as few people as possible when you’re in here. There are some biker dudes in this place who could eat you whole in one bite and not even burp. You don’t talk to them because they’re sensitive to nuances that haven’t even occurred to you.”
“I’ve been in jail before,” Ethan said somewhat defiantly.
“Have you, now. And is that a point of pride? I’ve seen your jacket, Ethan, and no you haven’t. The drunk tank ain’t what we in the business call real jail. You’re not getting out of here tomorrow, and you’re not getting out of here in a month. If everything goes right and with the gods smiling upon us, you might get out of here in twelve to fourteen months. That’s a long time to live with anybody, but when your roomies are mean sons of bitches who could kill you without breaking a sweat, the time gets particularly long.”
Ethan’s jaw set as a swell of anger returned color to his face.
“I’m not done yet,” Culligan said, sensing that the kid was about to say something. “That’s why you don’t talk to other inmates unless you have to. And in not talking to them, find a way to show respect. Don’t know what to tell you specifically on that one, but you’ll be happy if you figure it out. The other people you don’t talk to is anyone in a uniform. I’ll say it again. Anyone in a uniform. Good morning, please and thank you are fine, but ‘have a good day’ crosses the line. Everything you say and do in this place is on the record. It’s watched and it’s recorded. Whatever you confide and whoever you confide it to are all admissible in court.”
Concern returned to Ethan’s face. “Not this, right?”
“No, not this. Attorney-client privilege is still the rule. What you tell your psychologist is also protected.”
Confusion. “I don’t have a psychologist anymore.”
“Might not have been a bad continuing investment,” Culligan said. He tried selling the line with a smile, but it was too little too late. “Anyway, you’re going to.”
“I don’t want one.”
“Oh, yes, you do. Her name is Wendy Adams, and you’re going to tell her everything. Even stuff you don’t want to tell me, you want to tell her.”
“Why?”
“Because from where I sit, you being a little touched in the head is the most viable strategy to get you sprung before you’re eighty.”
“Not guilty by reason of insanity.”
Culligan weighed his answer. “I’m not sure if that’s what the exact wording would be, but that’s the general theme, yes.”
“So, I’ll spend the rest of my life with the world thinking I’m crazy?”
“Baby steps, Ethan. Consider the relative merits of people thinking you’re a bit psycho as opposed to being convinced that you’re a murderer.”
“But I’m not crazy.”
“And you say you’re not a murderer, either.” Culligan sensed that the conversation was turning darker than he wanted it to, so he waved the topic away as if shooing a fly. “Put all of that on a back burner. All of those considerations are for later. Wendy will be visiting you in the next couple of days. Just promise me you’ll talk to her.”
“I can’t afford to pay her.”
“Don’t worry about that. She’s done pro bono work for me before, and she’ll do it for me again. Won’t cost you a penny.”
Ethan scowled. “Why would someone do that for me?”
Culligan matched the angle of the kid’s head exactly. “Well, if it’s important, and you really need to know, she won’t do it for you. She’ll do it for me.”
“Why?”
Culligan waited for it.
“Oh. You two are . . . friends.”
Culligan let it go. “So, are we good? You’ll talk with Doctor Wendy when she shows up?”
A shrug, the ultimate gesture of noncommitment. “Sure.”
“Good. One last thing. The Commonwealth is likely to send a shrink of their own to evaluate you. Don’t know who it’s going to be, but whoever it is, they’ll give you some line about being on your side, and about being off the record, but don’t believe it.”
“The cops can lie to me in here and it’ll stand up in court?”
“Absolutely,” Culligan said. “Cops, guards, lawyers, psychologists, every one of them can lie, and everything you say will still be held against you.” He felt a pang of guilt and backed up a little. “Well, okay, the prosecution’s psychologist won’t reveal the specific things you say, but what they will do is report to the court whether or not, in their professional opinion, you are competent to stand trial.” He leaned in closer. “Hint: Everybody is always competent to stand trial in their eyes. And then that shrink will work with the prosecution on ways to counter everything and anything we try to put together for your defense.”
“So, what am I supposed to say?”
“You answer the questions that anyone else would answer, but if the shrink starts sniffing around the details of your past, or the kidnapping you allege, I need you to lock up and tell them you want to see your lawyer before you answer any questions.”
“And they’ll do that?”
“Yes. Well, they might sniff around your answer a couple of times, but once you invoke your right to speak to your lawyer, they’ll stop.”
“But you said they can lie.”
“Not about this.” Culligan smiled. “Yeah, I know,” he said. “It gets confusing.”
* * *
Jonathan Grave loved his office atop the converted firehouse in Fisherman’s Cove, Virginia. Featuring dark woods and leather furniture, it had the feel and the look of a gentlemen’s club. The windows looked out on the marina, where the masts of pleasure boats seemed to be engaged in a slow-motion sword fight. Down t
o the right, maybe four blocks from the front door, crews of commercial fishing vessels and dock workers toiled to keep the residents of Virginia’s Northern Neck—and parts beyond—stocked with seafood. Jonathan wished sometimes that he was more of a boat person than he was. It seemed wasteful to possess such a view yet enjoy so little of the activities. He found peace in the rhythms of the waves and the masts and in the foreverness of the horizon.
Much as he enjoyed the view of the world through the windows behind him, he desperately hated the view of the piles of papers that cluttered his desk. As president of Security Solutions, a major player in the world of high-end private investigations, he had to stay at least reasonably versed in the various ongoing investigations, and he most certainly had to sign all the checks, though even that was something of a formality.
While most of the administrative matters were handled by Venice Alexander, and most of the standard investigatory issues were expertly managed by Gail Bonneville—his one-time nemesis and subsequent lover (until they broke up—no awkwardness there!)— Jonathan had learned from his father a long time ago that one should never cede control of one’s money to a third party. It was one thing to write the checks—any bookkeeper could do that—but it was something else entirely to sign them. He kept that duty for himself.
And there were a lot of checks to be signed. Between the 0300 mission to rescue the Johnson girl, and an op right before that to separate a Mexican banker from some mean-spirited drug lords, he’d been away from the office for ten days, and he was shocked by the speed with which administrivia could stack. The good news was that Venice and Gail both had arranged their respective stacks of paper more or less in the order of their importance.
Security Solutions was in every sense a legitimate private investigation firm, providing confidential services to some of the world’s most recognizable companies, none of which knew anything about the covert side of the business which interested Jonathan infinitely more. The firm’s name was not well known to the private investigations industry, but it was known among the quarters where it mattered. Security Solutions specialized in obtaining the most sensitive kinds of information through means that were always successful and rarely discussed. That meant the kinds of fees that allowed him to pay his employees very, very well.
Time to Live: Part Five Page 10