The Pact Read online

  At the hideous crunch, Jordan looked at Barrie.

  Although attorneys were extremely formal in the courtroom, even the most cutthroat prosecutors and defense lawyers let their guard down outside. Jordan, as a former prosecutor, maintained a decent rapport with most of the assistant attorney generals. Barrie Delaney was another story. He'd never worked with her--she'd arrived at the AG's office after he'd left, with fists swinging--and she seemed to take it personally that Jordan had defected to the other side of the law. Hell, she seemed to take everything personally.

  She was sitting like a convent school girl, hands folded, black skirt tucked around her legs and a glazed smile on her face, even as Leslie Puckett spit out the almond shell into his palm.

  The judge shuffled papers on his desk. Jordan coughed to attract the prosecutor's attention. "Nice police work, Delaney," he said under his breath. "Nothing like a little coercion for my client."

  "Coercion!" she hissed at Jordan. "He wasn't even a suspect when he was in the hospital. That interview was totally aboveboard and you know it."

  "If it's totally aboveboard, how'd you know I was talking about that interview?"

  "McAfee," the judge said, "and Delaney. You two about finished?"

  The attorneys turned toward the desk. "Yes, Your Honor," they said in unison.

  "Good," he said sourly. "Now, what needs to be docketed?"

  "Well, Your Honor," Barrie jumped in, "we have a specialist looking at the blood spatters who needs some time; plus the DNA testing we're doing is backed up at the lab." She consulted her Filofax. "We'll be ready by the first of May."

  "Anything you're planning to hand in?"

  "Yes, Your Honor. Several motions in limine dealing with the defendant's so-called expert witnesses and other objectionable evidence."

  The judge plucked another almond from his jar and rolled it around on his tongue, turning to Jordan. "How about you?"

  "A motion to suppress an interview that was done in the hospital with my client which clearly violated his Miranda rights."

  "That's bullshit!" Barrie cried. "He could have walked away at any time."

  Jordan bared his teeth in a semblance of a smile. "Blatantly illegal," he said. "My client didn't feel much like walking away when he'd just suffered seventy stitches to close a scalp wound and was under the influence of various painkillers. And your detective damn well knew that."

  "Keep this up," the judge said, "and I won't have to read the motion."

  Jordan faced Puckett again. "I can have it for you in a week--"

  "Which I'll gladly respond to," Barrie added.

  "Waste of your time, Barrie," Jordan murmured. "Not to mention my client's."

  "You--"

  "Counselors!"

  Jordan cleared his throat. "My apologies, Your Honor. Ms. Delaney gets my dander up."

  "So I see," Puckett said. "You'll both have these motions to me by the end of next week?"

  "Not a problem," Jordan said.

  "Yes," Barrie nodded.

  "All right, then," Puckett said, spreading his hands over his calendar, as if to divine a date. "Let's start jury selection on May seventh."

  Jordan gathered up his briefcase and watched Barrie Delaney collect her files. He remembered that from being a prosecutor--the incredible number of files, with too little time to do justice to each case. For Chris Harte's sake, he hoped this still held true.

  Out of long habit, he held the door to chambers open for Ms. Delaney, although he personally rated her more on a par with a pit bull than a member of the fair sex. They walked down the hall of the courthouse, both furious and silent and filled with visions of winning. Then Barrie turned toward Jordan, blocking his progress. "If you want a plea," she said flatly, "we're offering manslaughter." Jordan crossed his arms. "Thirty to life," Barrie added.

  When Jordan didn't even blink, Barrie shook her head slowly. "Look, Jordan," she said. "He's going down, no matter what. You and I both know I've got the case locked up. You've seen the hard evidence--the fingerprints, the bullet, the trajectory through the head--and you and I both know she couldn't have shot herself like that. A jury isn't going to get far enough past those facts to even pay attention to whatever you're going to throw at them for a diversion. If you take thirty years, at least he'll be out before he's fifty."

  Jordan waited a moment, then uncrossed his arms. "Are you finished?"

  "Yes."

  "Good." He started walking down the hall again.

  Barrie ran after him. "So?"

  Jordan stopped. "So. The only reason I am even going to tell my client about that ridiculous heap of shit you just produced as an offer is because I'm obligated to." He stared at Barrie, a hint of a smile on his face. "I've been around a lot longer than you have," he said. "In fact, I used to be on your side. I used to play the game the same exact way you are, now. Which means that I also know you aren't nearly as convinced of a conviction as you say you are." He inclined his head briefly. "I'll talk to my client," he said, "but all the same, we'll be seeing you in court."

  WHEN JORDAN FINISHED TALKING, Chris drummed his fingers on the table. "Thirty years," he said, his voice breaking in spite of his tight rein of control. He looked up at his attorney. "How old are you?"

  "Thirty-eight," Jordan said, knowing exactly where this was leading.

  "That's, like, your whole life," Chris said. "And twice mine."

  "Still," Jordan pointed out, "it's about half a true life sentence. And there's parole."

  Chris stood and walked to the window. "What should I do?" he said softly.

  "I can't tell you," Jordan said. "I said there were three things you needed to decide by yourself. Whether or not to go to trial is one of them."

  Chris turned slowly. "If you were eighteen; if you were me--what would you do?"

  A grin crept across Jordan's face. "Do I have the same kick-ass lawyer?"

  "Sure," Chris laughed. "Be my guest."

  Jordan stood too, and settled his hands in his pockets. "I'm not going to tell you winning's a sure thing, because it's not. But I'm not going to tell you we're flat-out going to lose either. I can tell you, though, that if you take the plea bargain, you're going to spend thirty years wondering whether or not we could have beaten them."

  Chris nodded, but did not say anything, staring out at the vista of snow outside the jail. "You don't have to decide now," Jordan said. "Think it over."

  Chris splayed his hand on the cold glass, making a ghost of a shadow. "When is the trial supposed to start?"

  "May seventh," Jordan said. "Jury selection."

  Chris's shoulders began to shake, and Jordan moved toward him, alarmed that the thought of being incarcerated for three more months had set Chris over the edge. But when he touched his client's shoulder, he realized Chris was laughing. "Are you superstitious?" Chris said, wiping at his eyes.

  "Why?"

  "May seventh is Emily's birthday."

  "You're kidding," Jordan said, slack-jawed. He tried to imagine what Barrie Delaney would do when she pieced together that information. Probably wheel in a fucking ice cream cake for the jury to enjoy during her opening argument. He frantically tried to think of a motion he could file or a witness he could detain in order to request a continuance; he tried to evaluate how much of a bleeding heart Puckett could be.

  "Do it," Chris said, so softly that Jordan did not hear him at first.

  "What?"

  "The plea bargain." Chris's lips twitched. "Tell them to go to hell."

  THERE WAS NO WRITTEN RULE that said Gus and Michael had to keep their weekly lunches secret, hoarded like a smile at a funeral, but they did this all the same, furtively slipping inside the delicatessen as if they'd crossed enemy lines. In a way, it was like that--a battle--and they might as well have been spies, taking comfort from someone who had every reason to betray you the minute you turned your back. But in another, very elemental way, they might have been each other's lifeline.

  "Hi," Gus said breathless