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
'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
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