He took a moment. 'I played squash with Wes this morning. Went over and picked him up at the hovel he calls home. You know what he told me? That you'd told Lydia you thought I was suicidal. That our marriage was on the rocks.' He leveled his gaze at her. 'Imagine my surprise to get it from Wes.'
He was being a good listener, leaning forward now, holding both her hands. He couldn't help but notice the hands. They really did age quicker than everything else – you couldn't fake hands. The hands gave her away.
He really wished she wouldn't cry, but she was. Not sobbing, but quiet tears. '… no looking ahead, no laughs.'
'I know,' he said. 'It's my fault, too. I suppose I let your depression get to me. I shouldn't have done that. I should have said something.'
'But you tried, and I pushed you away.'
'I still should have.'
'It wasn't you, Mark, it was-'
'Wait, wait. Let's stop who it was. It doesn't matter who it was. We're talking about it now. We'll fix it starting now, starting today.' He leaned over and kissed her. 'We've just gotten into some bad habits. You feel like a nightcap?'
She hesitated, then decided. 'Sure, I'd like one. One light drink isn't going to hurt me.'
'You're right.'
She held on to him. 'I love you, Mark. Let's make this work, okay?'
He kissed her again. 'It will. I promise.'
CHAPTER NINE
Wes Farrell exited the crowded elevator into the familiar hallway madness -cops, DAs, reporters, witnesses, prospective jurors, hangers on.
It was just after 8:00 a.m. and the various courtrooms wouldn't be called to order for at least another half-hour. Farrell knew that a lot of legal business got done here in these last thirty minutes – pleas were agreed to, witnesses prepped, lawyers hired and fired.
This was also the moment when negotiations about plea bargaining got down to tacks. If you were a defense attorney, as Wes was, and you had a losing case, you didn't really want to go to trial. But your client generally didn't like the prosecution's offer of jail-time -only ten years didn't tend to sound like a deal except when you compared it to the twenty-five you'd do if you got convicted. Maybe somebody's mind would change and your client would get off with a fine. Maybe world peace was just around the corner.
So you played the game and hung tough for your client, bluffing that you really would put the prosecutor's office through the time and expense of a jury trial. But at some point – such as now when you were in the hallway waiting for trial – this was when you folded your cards and took the plea.
But that wasn't Farrell's intention this morning. He wasn't here to run a bluff. He was here with the outrageous intention of talking the DA into dropping murder charges against Levon Copes right now or, failing that, deliver the message that Levon was prepared to go to trial. Of course, Levon had already pled not guilty at pre-trial, but that had been more or less pro forma.
This was different.
Wearing a black silk blouse and one of her trademark miniskirts, dark green today, Amanda Jenkins was leaning against the wall enjoying this morning's special entertainment. Decked out in fezzes and robes, a dozen or so representatives of the Moslem mosque were protesting the arrest of one of their members for bank robbery, and were performing a hucca – a ritual dance derived from the old whirling dervishes. They were jumping up and down and chanting, 'Just-us, just-us.' Several uniformed cops were available to maintain a semblance of order, but it probably wasn't going to get out of hand. These things happened every week in the Hall. To Farrell, it was almost more amazing that no one seemed to think it was that odd.
He came up to Jenkins. 'With a couple of instruments, they could take it on the road. It'd really go better with music, don't you think?'
She considered it seriously. 'Accordion and tuba. Alternating bass notes. Oom-pa, oom-pa. It's a good idea.'
They discussed variations on the theme until they located an empty bench far enough away to hear themselves talk, and Farrell went into his pitch.
'You can't be serious?' she said when he wrapped it up. 'You're saying you expect us to simply drop this?'
'Like the hot potato it is. I don't really expect it, but you don't have a case, and your boss seems to know it.'
'I'm sorry he gave you that impression and I'm sure he would be, too. I just talked to Art this morning before coming down here and he is totally committed to this prosecution.'
This was a lie, but Amanda delivered it straight.
'Murder One?'
She nodded. 'With Specials.' Meaning special circumstances – in this case murder in the course of a rape. The state was going to ask for LWOP – life in prison without the possibility of parole.
'So why are we having this discussion?'
Amanda straightened her skirt, pulling it down to within four inches of her knees, a move she was unaware of. It didn't escape Farrell's notice, however. Neither did the clearing of her throat. The woman was a nervous wreck. 'You called Art.'
'True. But then he called me back, said maybe we had something to talk about after all. If your best offer is life, I think all in all I owe it to my client to try to get a better deal.' He paused. 'Especially since you can't convict him, not on the discovery I've seen. He's gonna walk, Amanda, and you know it. Drysdale knows it. You guys fucked up.'
'We drop the Specials. You plead Murder One straight up, twenty-five to life.'
Farrell cast his gaze down the hallway, up to the ceiling. 'How can I phrase this? No chance.'
Amanda was trying to get some satisfaction out of this. Drysdale had told her she was going to have to drop the charges, an extraordinary, once-in-a-lifetime decision in a rape/murder case. This just didn't happen, ever. Except now, it was happening, and Amanda was in the middle of it.
The only chip the DA wanted to play was to use its slight remaining leverage, if any, to avoid embarrassment in the press. Jenkins, who took this stuff personally, was hoping to salvage a little more.
'Wes, your client killed this woman.'
'My client is innocent until you prove he's guilty.'
'Oh please, spare me. What do you think? Really?'
'I just said what I think.'
Jenkins took in a breath and held it for a long moment. 'Murder Two,' she said at last. 'Fifteen to life. He'll be out in twelve.'
Farrell crossed his arms, gave her a worldly look. 'Amanda, please.'
'What?'
'When's'the last time you went to a parole board hearing? Out walk five people who've read the police report, hate your client, and figure he's done it before. At least one is there from some victims' rights group. Your client comes in, says he's sorry – hell, he's really sorry – and they say thanks for your time, see you in another five years.'
Amanda repeated it. 'Still, he'll be out in twelve on Murder Two.'
'He'll be out in twelve weeks if we go to trial.'
'I guess we'll let the jury decide then. We're not going to simply drop these charges, Wes, and if we go to trial, it's One with Specials. That's putting your client at tremendous risk.'
Farrell nodded, stood up, grabbed his briefcase. 'I'll discuss it with him. See you in ten seconds.' He held out his hand. 'I'll be in touch.'
He'd gone about ten steps when the prosecutor called after him. 'Wes?'
He stopped and turned. He was almost tempted to go back and put an arm around her shoulder, tell her everything was going to be all right. This was just a job, a negotiation, nothing to take so seriously.
A vision of Sam from St Patrick's Day – when it had been personal to her, too. What was with all these women?
Amanda Jenkins's eyes showed her concern, even panic. The woman was deeply conflicted, but she forced a weak smile. 'Nothing,' she said, 'forget it.'
'I had to try, Art.'
'No, you didn't, Amanda.'
'Farrell's going to talk to Levon right now, this morning. Levon knows he did it. He's looking at LWOP if he doesn't plead. We've got some leverage her
e.'
'We don't have the evidence. Farrell appears to have a pretty good understanding of that.'
'He's got to convey our offer to Levon. If he takes it, we win. It was worth a try.'
Drysdale picked up the telephone on his desk. 'All right, you had your try. You got Farrell's number?'
She argued for another five minutes, but it did no good, so she made the call and told Farrell the People were moving to dismiss the charges on Levon Copes to permit the time for further investigation.
Victor Trang made Dooher drive half an hour out to Balboa Street to meet in some dive named Minh's, decorated mostly in yellowing strips of flypaper which hung from the ceiling.
Dooher hated the smell of the place. His Vietnam hitch had been the low point of his life, and since he'd returned he hadn't put much effort into developing any taste for the culture.
He didn't see Trang right away – Dooher had to walk along a counter and endure the suspicious eyes of the proprietor and of the four other customers who sat hunched over their bowls.
Trang sat in a booth at the back, papers scattered around him, his calculator on the table so he'd look busy. There was a cup of tea in front of him, and some dirty dishes still on the table, pushed to the side. He wore the same suit, the same skinny tie, as the last time they'd met.
Dooher slid in across from him and Trang, punching the damn little machine, held up a finger. He'd be with Mark in just a minute. Finally – a whirr of number-crunching – he looked up. There was a smile, but it lacked sincerity.
He began briskly enough. 'I'll be filing the amended complaint next Monday, which gives us a week to reach a settlement agreement, if you're still interested. If not, I'll go ahead sooner.'
Dooher tried to run his bluff. 'I did tell you that our offer expired the day after we met. When I didn't hear from you…'
'And yet you're here.'
'The Archbishop thought it was worth another try.'
Trang stared at the ceiling behind Dooher. At last, he put down his pencil, brought himself back to the table. 'Here's the situation, Mr Dooher. First, I'd appreciate it if you'd stop insulting me with this talk about the Archbishop's concern for my well-being. I've got a lawsuit that's going to do his diocese a lot of harm and incidentally might smear him with the runoff. He knows it, I know it, you know it.'
'All right.' Dooher wore his poker face. 'I didn't know you. I mean no insult. Some people hear the bluff and cave early.'
Trang seemed to accept that. He shuffled some of his papers around, appearing to look for something specific. Finding it, he pulled the page toward him and read a moment. 'I've got, let's see, twelve names here.'
'Twelve people? You're telling me Slocum was involved with twelve people?'
Trang's self-satisfied smile remained in place. It was getting to Dooher. 'I've got twelve people, so far, who are willing to allege a relationship with a priest in the Archdiocese. Three different parishes. It's a widespread problem, as my amended complaint contends. Clearly, there's a policy of toleration beginning at the very top…'
Dooher took the paper and glanced at the list. 'All of these names seem to be Asian.'
'That's correct. Most are Vietnamese.'
'An interesting coincidence.'
Trang shrugged. 'These refugees came to this country as displaced people. They turned to their spiritual advisers to help them through the many adjustments they had to make, and many of these advisers – these priests – betrayed them, took advantage of their weakness and vulnerability.' He shook his head at the tragic reality.
Dooher had a different interpretation. 'We'd depose every one of these women. You understand that?' – telling Trang what he suspected, that the charges were bogus. Trang had recruited a dozen liars to trade their accusations for a fee – some tiny fraction of the settlement he hoped to get.
But Trang had another card. 'They're not all women.' Another meaningless smile. 'This is San Francisco, after all.' So now Trang had priests seducing young men as well, with Flaherty consistently looking the other way. 'And of course there'd be depositions. My clients would want to reveal the whole truth, if only to warn others who might be in their positions.' He made a little clucking noise. 'This is the kind of story that will be all over the newspapers, though of course we'd try to contain that.'
This, Dooher knew, was the real issue. Trang was running a scam, pure and simple. He was threatening to foment a scandal, and what made it viable was that it wasn't all made up. Undoubtedly, Mrs Diep and perhaps her daughter had been wronged by Father Slocum. Perhaps there was another victim, maybe two.
But twelve! Magically appearing out of the woodwork within the last few weeks…?
Dooher didn't think so, but what he thought didn't matter much anymore. He had to contain this lunatic. It's what Flaherty expected him to do. It's what he got paid for. 'Let's talk about Mrs Diep for a moment, the suit that's already been filed. She's asking for-'
But Trang was shaking his head, interrupting. 'No, no, Mr Dooher. That is in the past. I've uncovered a widespread problem that would, frankly, benefit from a public forum. Your Archbishop may have meant well, but many people have been damaged. And I think as we proceed that many other victims will come forward. Don't you think that's likely? It's the way these things often go.'
Again, the smile.
Dooher knew he was right. Trang's plan was wonderful – he'd prime the pump with bogus victims, then, once the issue made the daily news, everyone who had ever been kissed by a priest was going to stand up and ask to join the party.
'Which is why we would prefer you not to proceed.'
A nod that perhaps Trang believed was dignified, magnanimous. He was going to be a good winner.
Dooher wasn't prepared to be a loser, however. Not to this little upstart gook. That wasn't going to happen. Not now. Not ever. 'The Archdiocese wants to redress the wrongs it may have inadvertently condoned, Mr Trang. That's why we're talking. These people,' he indicated the list on the table, 'now they may feel betrayed, but I don't think there's much of a case that they've been substantially damaged. Mrs Diep, yes. Her daughter, okay. We're prepared to give Mrs Diep her fifty thousand, with another fifty to be distributed among,' he paused, a look of distaste, 'among your other clients.'
Trang sucked on his front teeth. 'If you deduct my fees, that really satisfies no one completely. Thirty thousand among twelve people is an insult for what they've endured. You must know that. And Mrs Diep will still be out nearly twenty thousand in cash, plus the interest.'
Dooher held up a hand. 'We'll pay your fees on top.' This upped his offer to $135,000 or so. This situation was making his stomach churn with rage and impotence. Nearly three times what Trang had been asking only last week and-
And he was still shaking his head no. 'I don't think that figure addresses the seriousness of these charges, Mr Dooher, the sense my clients feel that there should be some punishment so that the Archbishop will think twice before allowing these betrayals to occur on his watch. A hundred thousand is a mere slap on the wrist. He'd never feel it.'
Swallowing his bile, Dooher folded his hands in front of him. 'What do you want, Trang?'
It was a simple question. Palms up, Trang came clean. 'The amended complaint asks for three million.'
Dooher kept his face impassive. This had become personal, Trang playing him like some fish. But he wasn't going to flop for him. He waited.
'Perhaps I could convince my clients that half of that figure would be a reasonable compensation for their suffering.'
A million five! Dooher knew that this wasn't close to what he'd been authorized to offer. And yet if he didn't get to some agreement they'd all have to go to court and the whole thing would become public. Even if most of Trang's clients were invented, the fallout would poison Flaherty. And Dooher would have failed in every respect. He could not let that happen.
'That's too much,' he snapped. He grabbed the paper again, ran his eyes down the list. 'I'll tell you what we will d
o, Mr Trang. Final offer, and subject to a confidentiality agreement, no press conferences…' He was showing his temper, and paused a fraction of a second for control. This was his last card and he knew he'd better play it. 'Six hundred thousand dollars.'
Trang showed nothing. It was as though Dooher hadn't said a word. He was in the middle of lifting his cup to his lips, and there wasn't even a pause. He drank, put the cup down. 'That is really excellent tea,' he said. Then, as though it were an afterthought, 'Six hundred thousand dollars.'
Dooher let him live a minute with the number. Then he said, 'A lot of money.' He didn't say, 'And two hundred grand for you, you slant-eyed little prick.' Which was what he was thinking.
'It is a lot of money,' Trang agreed, 'but it is also a long way from three million, or even one five. If I may, I'd like to take the offer under advisement. Speak to my clients.'
'Of course,' Dooher said, except he knew that Trang had nobody to discuss anything with. He decided he had to raise the stakes. 'But this offer expires at close of business today. Five o'clock.'
Trang digested that, then began gathering his papers, packing them into his briefcase. 'In that case, I'd better be on my way. It's going to be a busy day.'
The sun had come out for what seemed the first time this year, and that springtime sense of hope in the air prompted Christina to walk into Sam's office.
Her boss was sitting in the hard chair, tilted back, her eyes closed, her arms crossed over her chest, and her ankles crossed on her desk. Sensing a presence in the doorway, she opened her eyes.
'I hate all men,' she said. 'Well, I don't hate my brothers or my father, but all the other ones.'
Christina leaned against the door, smiling. 'How do you feel about volunteer rape counsellors?'
'I don't think they should be men.' Sam shook her head. 'I'm sorry about the other day. Sergeant Glitsky came by here and told me you 'd come down to his office, outside of office hours, doing your job.' She paused. 'I'm a jerk as a person and a lousy boss, aren't I?'
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