“I didn’t eat here,” Doug tells him. “I came over to see you.” He pauses. “I wanted to wait for you to finish your dinner,” he says, letting Luke know he is being gracious.
“I appreciate that,” Luke says. You could’ve waited another day, he thinks; then you wouldn’t have seen me at all.
“I understand you’re taking on Joe Allison’s defense.”
Luke stares at him. “This is an improper discussion, which I’m sure you know,” he says evenly.
“I do know that. But I’d like to speak to you about it anyway.”
“No.”
Doug carries on. “You and I used to be friends, and now my daughter is dead and my marriage is over. Please let me talk to you for a minute—as two old friends. Off the record.”
They have drinks in a small private bar off the dining room that is empty except for them. “I’ll be straight and to the point,” Doug says. “I don’t want you taking this case.”
“I’m not the first lawyer you’ve said this to, am I?” Luke says, knowing the answer but wanting to hear how Lancaster handles it.
“As a matter of fact, you are.” Doug smiles tightly. “The others—there were three of them before you—I contacted through emissaries. But I felt I should speak to you directly.”
“I suppose I should be flattered, but I’m not.” This is bad, so bald-faced. The guy has big cojones, give him that. “Since we’re off the record, I should warn you that this is an obstruction of justice. You’d better watch your ass.”
“But since this conversation is off the record, it isn’t happening, is it?” Doug replies.
“It’s good seeing you again, Doug. I wish we could’ve met under better circumstances. But I have to be going.” He starts for the door.
Lancaster stops him. “What’s Allison paying you?”
He doesn’t know, Luke realizes. He doesn’t know I’m not taking the case.
“I heard between a hundred and two hundred thousand,” Doug says.
“That’s none of your business, and you know it.”
“Making sure my daughter’s killer is brought to justice is my business, Luke.” He’s a man who’s used to having his way. “Please don’t tell me otherwise.”
“We’re finished here, Doug.”
Lancaster stares at him. “Think about it, Luke. We’re friends. Joe Allison murdered my daughter, far beyond any doubt. Please don’t take this case.”
Luke doesn’t reply. He takes the elevator downstairs to the lobby.
“Excuse me. Are you Mr. Garrison?”
He turns. A young woman, obviously a hotel employee, comes to him from behind the check-in counter.
“Yes,” he answers.
“A gentleman asked me to give this to you,” she says with a practiced, sterile smile. And with that, she presses a legal-size envelope in his hand.
“What did he look like?” he starts to ask, but she’s already marching back to her workstation.
He hefts the envelope in his hand. It’s light. Crossing the room to a quiet corner, he sits down in a wicker chair and rips the envelope open.
The cashier’s check, signed by an officer of the issuing bank, is made out to Luke Garrison for $200,000. There’s no direct link from the check to Doug Lancaster.
Shoes in hand, he walks along East Beach at the water’s edge, feeling the cold, wet sand on his feet. The check is in his hip pocket. His first impulse was to rip it up and throw it away, but then he calmed down.
Two hundred K. A small fortune, although Doug Lancaster can easily afford it—he offered a larger amount as reward for finding his daughter, when there was still hope that she was alive. I could retire on that, given my present lifestyle, Luke daydreams. Stick the money in an offshore bank account, don’t even pay taxes. Live up north with Riva, do some light lawyering on the side, indulge myself in new and exciting hobbies while collecting dividend checks from the investments of the clandestine money.
He mulls over his options.
He can take the money and run. He was going to leave anyway; why not leave with two hundred thousand untraceable dollars in his pocket? That would be the most cynical choice, but so what? The law is a shitty business much of the time. Might as well make some money at it.
He can give the money back, and leave as planned. That would be the honorable thing to do. He’s been paid for his brief sojourn down here; he’s no better or worse off than he was a week ago.
The problem with that is, it isn’t true. He is worse off than before he came down, much worse. Regardless of whether he keeps Lancaster’s blood money or gives it back, he’s fucked here. They’re going to be laughing at him behind his back. The old king of the hill, now deposed, who’s afraid of taking on a tough case, a case he’s not assured of winning. That would be Ray Logan’s aria, and he’d sing it to the multitudes.
Doug Lancaster’s reaction figures to be more complex. If he keeps the money, he’ll be a serf, someone a rich man can buy off. Worse than that, he’ll be an outcast in his profession, a lawyer who would abandon a client for money.
If, on the other hand, he doesn’t take the money but simply leaves town, he’ll be just another putz who doesn’t have the smarts to come in out of the rain.
And then there’s Polly. They loved each other for a long time; part of him still loves her. Will he forever be incapable of being anywhere near where she is?
An hour ago it was all so clear.
He walks as far as Stearn’s Wharf. The wooden slats, wet from nighttime fog, feel slimy-slippery under his bare feet. He puts his shoes and socks back on, continues walking until he’s at the end of the pier, where he sits on a cold wooden bench and watches some Chicano kids fishing for perch.
The more he thinks about what Doug Lancaster did just now, the more enraged he feels. How dare that bastard try to buy him off? How dare he think he can? He was going to leave, yes, but not for money. Now it’s a cloud over his head, and it will not go away.
Before tonight he had options. Now, thanks to Doug Lancaster’s unyielding need to obliterate his daughter’s killer, he doesn’t. And no one except him will know why.
“I can’t come home tomorrow after all.”
A long silence on the other end of the line. Then: “Why?” She’s groggy from being woken up, he hears the fog in her voice.
“I’ve gotten boxed in here, Riva. I can’t leave now, not yet. It’s impossible to explain.”
“Give me an estimate.”
“I can’t.”
“So you’re staying. You’re taking that stupid loser case.”
“I have to.”
She starts to say “fuck you” and slam down the phone once and for all, but she doesn’t. “We’ll talk about this tomorrow,” she says instead.
This is a good woman. Better than he deserves. “I’ll call you.” He wonders how much blood she drew, biting her tongue.
The knocking at the door is soft at first, then louder. He sits up in bed, looking at his watch on the nightstand. A quarter to six. Who could this be? he wonders.
“Just a moment,” he calls out. Slipping into a pair of Levi’s, he stumbles to the door and opens it.
Riva’s standing there. He gapes at her.
“Aren’t you going to invite me in?” she asks. “Or do you have company?”
“Oh. Yeah, of course.” He moves aside so she can enter.
She stands in the middle of the small room, giving it the onceover. “Just like home,” she says wryly.
“Not hardly. What are you doing here?” Jesus, does she look good. It’s a long haul, she must have flown straight here as soon as she hung up.
She stares at him. “If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em. If that’s all right with you.”
He doesn’t deserve an act this kind, he thinks. But he’ll take it.
They undress, him the jeans, her everything she has on. Then they’re in bed, all over each other, and it isn’t the sex that matters, it’s the lovemaking.
Hours later. He goes out to Starbucks for coffee and scones. They sit up in bed, naked, drinking their lattes. He explains about what happened to change his mind, telling her everything, including the fiascos with Logan and Polly. She listens intently, quietly.
“You need help,” she informs him after he finishes his entire recitation.
“I know. There’s going to be a ton of investigative work, research—”
She shakes her head. “Up here.” She taps him on the temple.
“Yeah.” He leans over and kisses the nape of her neck. She scrunches her shoulders—she’s sensitive there. “I do,” he says.
She’s here for the duration. “Hershel’ll baby-sit the place till we get back. He’s done it before. The animals love him.” Hershel is one of their neighbors, an older man who’s grown dope going on thirty years now but is serious about taking care of business.
She’ll put her bail-bond business on hiatus, handle what she can by fax, long distance, and occasional trips back there. With her background, she can do basic investigative work for him. If she stumbles onto a piece of sleuthing that becomes too complex, involving special technology and so forth, they’ll hire out.
He doesn’t have a clue as to how he’s going to defend Allison, because (a) so far he hasn’t figured out a workable defense, and (b) he hasn’t tried to, because he wasn’t taking the case.
“You’ll figure something out,” she says.
“I’d better.”
“It’s your job,” she reassures him. “Dealing with all the back-stabbers in this town, plus your own demons, that’s going to be your real work. Work those things out, and Allison’s defense will take care of itself.”
He isn’t sure that he can handle either. But at least he isn’t alone now.
It feels good, her being here. Much better than he would have thought.
The meeting with Allison is almost anticlimactic—for Luke, if not for Allison, whose gratitude is almost embarrassing. “I can’t tell you how appreciative I am,” he gushes.
“We’ll see how you’re feeling about me in six months,” Luke says brusquely, jerking the prisoner back to earth. “Let’s start with the basics. How much money do you have?” He has a contract for Allison to sign. They’re in a lawyer-interview room. He shoves the contract across the table.
Allison, although taken aback by the aggressive questioning, answers gamely. “A little less than a hundred twenty-five grand, my bonus from NBC. They wanted it back, but I’d already cashed the check. I gave you five thousand as an advance, and I spent a few bucks before I was arrested.”
“No property, stocks, other investments?”
“About fifteen thousand in the market.”
“Cash it out. What about your car? What’s that worth?”
Allison gulps. “About forty thousand, although I owe twenty-five.”
“Sign it over to me. I’ll sell it. Whatever’s left goes in the kitty.”
Allison blanches. “I’m not going to have anything left,” he whines.
Luke rests his elbows on the table. “If you’re convicted, which is the odds-on choice right now, that isn’t going to matter, is it? Getting the best defense I can give you is going to cost money, more money than you have. So whatever you have, it’s mine now. To spend on your behalf.”
“What if there’s some left over afterwards?” Allison asks naively.
Luke roars, a real belly laugh. “There won’t be, don’t worry.” He doesn’t mention the two hundred thousand Doug Lancaster gave him. He’s still trying to figure out what to do about that. He wants to keep it—serve the bastard right. Riva isn’t sure. She isn’t averse to handling shady money, she lived with a drug dealer. But Luke isn’t that kind of man, and she doesn’t want him tarnished.
He laughed, talking to her about it. “From fearless prosecutor to small-time drug lawyer to a scofflaw pocketing a cool quarter-mil, almost. What could be more the American dream than that?”
“That isn’t you,” she said. “Not yet. Hopefully, never. I didn’t exchange one scumbag for another, Luke. Don’t you know that?”
Still, two hundred thousand undeclared and untraceable dollars is not small potatoes. She knows how to launder money, if that’s what they ultimately decide.
That’s for later. “I’m going to spend a few days going over the transcripts of your police interview,” Luke tells Allison. “Next week you’ll be formally arraigned—they’ve been waiting for you to get a lawyer. Then it begins.” He stands up, offers his hand. “Don’t ever lie to me,” he informs his fresh client again. “Do exactly what I tell you, always. And no matter what, never doubt me.”
Allison shakes Luke’s hand. Taking the proffered ballpoint, he signs the contract without reading it. “Whatever you say. My life’s in your hands.”
The last thing Luke wants to hear.
THREE
“HOW DO YOU PLEAD?”
“Not guilty, Your Honor.”
As Luke assumed, the courtroom is filled to capacity. There’s a large media contingent, with stringers and reporters from the national newspapers and television networks, whose trucks are parked outside on Anacapa Street, where the broadcast reporters will have the photogenic courthouse as a backdrop when they do their standups. Doug and Glenna Lancaster are there, of course, Doug sitting in the first spectator row behind the prosecution table, the ex-wife farther back. They are there as two separate entities with one common purpose, rather than as a team.
Doug Lancaster stares at Luke with unvarnished venom. Luke can’t blame him—he’s defending the man accused of kidnapping and murdering the Lancasters’ only child, and he’s sitting on two hundred thousand dollars of Doug’s money, money he was supposed to have left town with.
Too bad. He’s here to do a job. Glenna Lancaster, dressed all in black, no makeup, is also looking at him, but with more of a wary, suspicious gaze than one of hatred or anger. She shifts her focus to Joe Allison, a foot to Luke’s left at the defense table. She’s wearing her hair shorter than she used to, Luke notices. He’s also reminded of how attractive she is, and how tall—he’s over six feet, and she’s almost his height. From the pictures he’s seen of Emma, she looked a lot like her mother.
The rest of the audience are people who are interested in this case for what are, essentially, voyeuristic reasons. Many are lawyers Luke used to know, some of the best lawyers in town. They’re curious about his self-imposed exile, and whether he has anything left after his fall from grace. The fraternity of criminal-defense lawyers is a tight one, but none of these men and women are on Luke’s side. Even with the long hair and beard (he removed the earring), in this city Luke Garrison will always be the prosecutor.
Riva sits in the rear of the room scoping things out. She’s wearing a calf-length charcoal gray skirt slit to reveal most of her long, attractive thigh as she sits with one leg crossed over the other.
Luke’s only other ally, Judge De La Guerra, isn’t in attendance. He doesn’t want the situation to get any more inflamed than it already is, and he knows that if he came, it would be. Ray Logan and Doug Lancaster, among others, are royally pissed at him for having recruited Luke.
Nicole Rogers is not in the room. Luke finds that intriguing, even though he hasn’t met her yet.
Joe is seated, having made his plea. The accused is wearing a good suit. He’s had a haircut and looks much as he did when he was the Channel 8 news anchor: a decent, intelligent man, not a kidnapper/murderer. But Luke knows that won’t matter. In the hearts and minds of everyone in this room except him and Riva and maybe a few diehard contrarians, Allison has been tried, convicted, and sentenced to everlasting hell.
The case is being heard by Judge Prescott Ewing, the senior judge on the superior court bench. Like everyone else, he is mystified to see the county’s former star prosecutor—a man whose office tried scores of cases in his courtroom—standing before him at the table on the other side of the aisle.
When Luke came in yesterda
y to Ewing’s chambers for the prearraignment meeting along with Ray Logan, Ewing hadn’t been able to conceal his curiosity and dismay. “This has an otherworldly quality,” he remarked to Luke. He couldn’t help but ask, “Are you sure you want to do this?”
“I’m sure,” Luke had answered.
Ewing stares at the indictment in front of him. “How long will it take you to prepare your defense?” he asks Luke.
Without hesitation Luke answers, “Six months, Your Honor.”
Ray Logan, seated at the prosecution table, rises swiftly from his chair. “Six months?” He glares at Luke. “That’s ridiculous, Your Honor. The People are prepared to go to trial right now!”
Ewing turns to Luke. “Do you need that much time?” he asks skeptically.
“I just came into this, Your Honor,” Luke replies. “I don’t know yet. This is a capital case with the death penalty as an option,” he says forcefully. Putting a hand on his client’s shoulder, he stares at the judge. “A case of this importance should not be rushed to trial.”
The conviction and sentencing of the man wrongly sent to the gas chamber is still remembered, especially in the legal community. But that was when Luke was standing up for the People.
Things are different now. With scarcely a moment’s hesitation, the judge swings his gavel. “Four months,” he says abruptly. Looking to his clerk: “Schedule case number B-1694, People versus Joseph B. Allison.”
Outside the courtroom, in the Mexican-tiled hallways and the exterior garden courtyard, rumor and innuendo and gossip run rampant. Most of the people here have not seen Luke Garrison in three years, and his radical change, both in appearance and attitude, is disconcerting. A few of those emerging from the courtroom sidle near him as he stands outside the main courthouse door, exchange strained greetings as they pass.
“How are you?” he says to one and all, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Good to see you.” Rote salutations, recited mechanically. He doesn’t make real eye contact with anyone; there’s no one he wants to get close to. He’s already rebuffed the various reporters—he’ll hold a small press conference shortly, he tells them. Until then, no comment on anything.
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