The Pact Read online

  THE HARTES' HOUSE WAS DECORATED, for the most part, in the serviceable New England WASP style that included spindly Chippendale furniture, threadbare antique carpets, and paintings of stiff-lipped subjects who were not related to the family. By contrast, the kitchen--where Jordan was currently sitting--looked as if several ethnic festivals had recently collided within it. Delft tiles decorated the splashboard of the sink; Colonial ladderback chairs offset a marble-topped ice cream parlor table; a shoji screen blocked off the doorway to the dining room. Rainbow-hued Zapotec Indian place mats surrounded a German Hofbrauhaus beer stein, which held a mismatched assortment of silverware and plastic utensils. The eclectic surroundings set off Gus Harte beautifully, Jordan thought, as he watched her pour him a glass of cold water. As for James--he turned his attention to the man, hands shoved in his pockets as he stared out the window at a bird feeder--well, he probably spent his time in the rest of the house.

  "There you go," Gus said, drawing up the second chair to the tiny round table. She frowned at its surface. "Do we need to move?" she asked. "There isn't much room here."

  They should have moved; Jordan had brought a crate full of papers. But there was something about being in one of the more staid, conservative rooms that didn't appeal to Jordan, not when it came to discussing a case that required nearly gymnastic flexibility. "This is fine," he said, steepling his hands. He looked from Gus to James. "I came today to talk about your testimonies."

  "Testimonies?"

  It had been Gus's question; Jordan let his eyes touch on her face. "Yes," he said. "We're going to need you as a character witness for Chris. Who knows him better than his own mother?"

  Gus nodded, her face pale. "What do I have to talk about?"

  Jordan smiled sympathetically. It was quite common for people to be afraid of going up on the stand; after all, every eye in the courtroom was focused on you. "Nothing you won't have heard before, Gus," he assured her. "We'll talk about the questions I'm going to put to you before the actual testimony. Basically we'll cover Chris's character, his interests, his relationship with Emily. Whether, in your esteemed opinion, your son could ever have committed murder."

  "But the attorney general--doesn't she get to ask questions too?"

  "She does," Jordan said smoothly, "but we can probably figure out what they're going to be."

  "What if she asks me if Chris was suicidal?" Gus blurted out. "I'd have to lie."

  "If she does, I'll object. On the grounds that you're not an expert in teen suicide. So then Barrie Delaney will rephrase, and ask whether Chris ever mentioned anything to you about killing himself, to which you'll simply say no."

  Jordan pivoted in his seat to address James, who was still looking out the window. "As for you, James, we're not going to use you as a character witness. What I'd like to get out of you is the possibility that Emily might have taken the gun herself. Did Emily know where the guns were kept in your household?"

  "Yes," James said softly.

  "And did she ever see you take one from the gun cabinet? Or Chris, for that matter?"

  "I'm sure she did," James said.

  "So is it possible, since you weren't there to actually see it happen, that it was Emily and not Chris who removed the Colt from the safe?"

  "It's possible," James said, and Jordan broke into a smile.

  "There," he said. "That's all you'll have to say."

  James lifted a finger and set a stained-glass angel sun catcher swinging in the window. "Unfortunately," he said, "I won't be taking the stand."

  "Excuse me?" Jordan sputtered. He'd believed, until this moment, that the Hartes would condone anything short of and possibly including bribery to get their son free. "You won't take the stand?"

  James shook his head. "I can't."

  "I see," Jordan said, although he didn't. "Could you tell me why?"

  The cuckoo clock on the wall came obscenely to life, its small dweller slipping out like a tongue seven consecutive times. "Actually," James said, "no."

  Jordan was the first to recover his voice. "You do understand that all the defense has to do to vindicate Chris is present a reasonable doubt. And that your testimony, as the owner of that gun, would almost singlehandedly do that."

  "I understand," James said. "And I refuse."

  "You bastard." Gus stood in front of the shoji screen, her arms crossed. "You selfish, rotten bastard." She walked up to her husband, so close her anger stirred the strands of his hair. "Tell him why you won't do it." James turned away. "Tell him!" She whipped around to face Jordan. "It has nothing to do with stage fright," she said tightly. "It's because if James gets up at the trial, he can't pretend that this was all a nasty nightmare. If he gets up at the trial, he's actively involved in defending his son ... which would mean there was a problem in the first place." She snorted in disgust, and James pushed past her and left the room.

  For a moment both Jordan and Gus were quiet. Then she sat down in the chair across from him once again, her hands toying with the collection of silverware in the beer mug, making it clink against the ceramic lip. "I can put him on the witness list," Jordan said, "in case he changes his mind."

  "He won't," Gus said. "But you can ask me the questions you were going to ask him."

  Surprised, Jordan lifted his brows. "You've seen Emily with Chris when he was getting into the gun cabinet?"

  "No," Gus said. "Actually, I don't even know where James keeps the key." She scrubbed her thumbnail over the engraved design of the mug. "But I'll say anything you need me to, for Chris."

  "Yes," Jordan murmured. "I imagine you would."

  THE UNWRITTEN RULE in the jail was that baby killers got no peace. If they were showering, you threw things into the stall. If they were shitting, you walked in on them. If they were sleeping, you woke them up.

  As the medium security ward population dwindled--supposedly, the huge influx occurred after the Christmas holiday--the two prisoners who'd shared a cell with Chris and Steve were moved out. One was transferred to maximum security for spitting at an officer. The other finished his sentence and was released. With these cellmates out of the picture, Hector began anew his campaign to make Steve pay for his crime.

  Unfortunately, Chris still shared the cell with Steve.

  One Monday when Chris was sleeping, Hector began to bang on the bars of the cell. Privacy was an illusion in jail, especially during times when they weren't locked down. But even if the door to a cell was open, you did not walk in uninvited. And if the inhabitants were asleep, you left them alone.

  Steve and Chris both sat up in bed at the sound of Hector, playing xylophone across the front of the cell with the legs of a bridge chair. "Oh," he said, grinning, when he saw them. "Were you guys sleeping?"

  "Jesus," Chris said, swinging his legs off the bunk. "What is with you?"

  "No, professor," Hector said. "What's with you?" He leaned across the threshold, his breath still stale with the night. "Guess now it makes sense. You compare notes?"

  Chris rubbed his eyes. "What the hell are you talking about?"

  Hector leaned even closer. "How long did you think it would take me to find out that you killed the girl 'cause she was having your kid?"

  "You motherfucker," Chris said, his hands flying of their own volition around Hector's neck. Behind him, he could feel Steve pulling at his shoulder, but he shook him off easily, putting all his strength and all his concentration into strangling the asshole in front of him who'd spoken such a filthy lie.

  It did not occur to him to wonder how this information had become public knowledge. Perhaps Jordan had mentioned it to the nurse, and an inmate had been washing the floors outside the medical office at the time. Maybe a guard had overheard. Maybe it had been leaked into the papers which were available for the inmates in the day room.

  "Chris," Steve said, the voice floating thin over his shoulder. "Let go." And suddenly Chris could not stand the fact that everyone in this--this hellhole--would be lumping him together with Steve. There