Ricky Lee flew out of the back door just as Kimo broke down the front.
“Stay,” I said.
Ricky ran around me and headed toward the trees, running like O. J. Simpson on one of his good days.
Kimo came lumbering over.
“Cuff these two!” I shouted, handed him the shotgun, and took off after Ricky Lee.
He had the advantage of youth, conditioning, and a head start. And he had not been banged around as often lately. But he was a city boy, not used to the ways of the jungle, and he tripped over a root about twenty yards in and sprawled into a muddy pit along a stream beneath an ohia tree.
“Easy, Ricky,” I said. “I want to see your hands.” I pointed the little revolver at him.
“You gonna shoot me? I'm unarmed.”
“You're an asshole, Ricky. It would be easy to shoot you.”
He sighed. And raised his hands.
“Get up,” I said, backing away. “Carefully.”
He did as he was told, keeping his hands away from his body. I had him walk ahead of me until we reached the clearing and I could turn him over.
Kimo put handcuffs on Ricky Lee and left him facedown on the lawn, next to the Flintstones. I stood over him while he went in and brought Donna from the bathroom. She seemed dazed but unhurt. She smiled when she saw me.
“I knew it would be you two. Thank you. How's David?” she asked.
“Fine,” said Kimo. “We'll take you to him. We're going to have you checked at the hospital anyway. You two can share a room overnight.”
“This creep locked me in the bathroom because I kept asking to go. I do that when I'm scared.”
“You're okay now.”
She looked around. “Where are we?”
“North shore.”
Sirens wailed in the distance. Kimo turned and listened to them getting louder. “That would be the cavalry,” he said.
“You have another set of handcuffs?”
Kimo looked stricken. “James.”
“No, me. I'll bet you that Detective Henderson will be here, along with the troops. Kind of embarrassing if you've got an armed prisoner, and without cuffs.” I handed over the little revolver.
“Consider yourself under arrest, Caine. And thank you. Thank you very much.”
“Glad I could help.”
“The main thing,” he said, “is that nobody got hurt.”
“Except for Ricky Lee.”
“He don't count,” said Kimo. “And he's oh for three with us.”
“So far,” I said, remembering the little man's temper.
Â
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Shirley Henderson did ride along with the troops. So did a couple of FBI agents who looked disappointed when we handed over four prisoners. All four were charged with a variety of crimes. The US Attorney would add still more when their cases were reviewed.
Henderson saw me standing apart from the group, walked right up to me, spun me around and threw the cuffs on my wrists.
“You are under arrest,” she said, her voice angry. “I am adding the charges of flight to avoid arrest, resisting arrest, and evidence tampering to go on top of the murder charge.”
I didn't expect to be treated like a hero, but I didn't expect the wrath with which she greeted me. I stood among the FBI field guys, with their dark blue jackets and baseball caps and their stubby little submachine guns, my hands cuffed behind me, and hoped they wouldn't think I was any kind of threat.
“And you,” she said to Kimo. “I am lodging an official protest about the way you treat felony suspects.”
“He needs medical attention,” said Kimo.
“He'll be checked out before we go and afterward. There's just enough time so we won't miss our flight tonight.”
“He saved me,” said Donna Wong.
“I'm sure he's charming, but he's going back with me. Can we have a ride to the hospital here? I've seen Oahu and I can go home now. As soon as possible.
“Come on, Mr. Caine,” she went on, tugging on my handcuffs. “They've got to out-process you and I don't know how long that'll take.” She stared at Kimo, who remained silent, but she spoke to me. “Maybe you should take a good look around. I think it's going to be a long time before you get back to Honolulu.”
I
didn't think about other people's worries over the course of the next three weeks. I forgot about Kimo's problems. I forgot about Donna Wong. I damn near forgot about my wounds. I didn't think about my boat. I didn't think of Hawaiian history, nor did I concern myself with the fallout resulting from angry young men filled with enthusiastic venom and the vigor of youth. Even though I spent the majority of my time lounging in a holding cell with three other once-and-future felons, and even though I seemed to have a lot of time on my hands, my mind didn't roam. I focused on the issues. I knew that my future lay in the tasks set before me. What happened now determined the rest of my life. I could only concentrate on what they'd laid out for me. Whoever “they” were. Whatever “it” was.
And besides, thinking of home was too painful. I didn't think I was tough enough to go there. I didn't need to be that tough. Not just yet.
Even though Chawlie provided an excellent attorney in California, I wished that Tala was at my side. I trusted her, and I knew how she approached the trial. But Tala was busy defending James Kahanamoku in Honolulu. I didn't know anything about Clifford Smith or his partner Andrew White, except that they were white-bread, white-shirt and Gucci-tie attorneys, who seemed to have been stamped from a mold at some Ivy League law school. They
appeared competent. And smart. And very organized. I wondered how they would stand up in front of a local jury whose majority would most likely be from the same minority as the woman whose death I stood accused of causing.
I should have known better. Smith and White were the front men, the fine-edged lawyers who talked to judges, who filed motions, who papered the case with endless pleas and prayers. In military terms they were the artillery. Their job was to soften up the opposition to make certain that the other side kept its head down before we engaged them in battle.
It wasn't until I'd been a guest of the City and County of San Francisco for more than a week that I met the litigator.
He was a small, wizened man of no particular age. He wore a bright red tartan tie and a threadbare suit in gray glen plaid. His shoes were old, but polished to a high sheen, and they did not have lifts. He stood flat-footed, and walked with certain steps. His eyes were small and dark and he wore thick, gold-rimmed glasses that shone like his shoes so that he sparkled top and bottom. His hair was thin and plastered against his freckled skull almost as an afterthought.
“How do you do, Mr. Caine?” he asked, extending his hand over the interview table. We were in one of the tiny rooms set aside for counsel and client. Everything was gray. The floor was gray painted concrete. The walls were cast concrete, finished and unpainted. The door and frame were painted gray. In this world the color of fog his bright red tie stood out like a rose in an ash heap.
“I am Albert Chen.”
“Mr. Chen,” I said, standing to shake his hand.
“Please sit, Mr. Caine.” When I sat he adjusted his glasses and opened his notebook and read a paragraph of notes. He nodded to himself, closed the notebook, and looked up at me, his eyes made enormous by the correction of his lenses.
“It says here that you wish us to file a motion for a speedy trial. Would you please explain?”
“I'm tired of sitting around here.”
He nodded. “Yes. So you would like to travel up the Sacramento River to a place where they will keep you for the rest of your life. Where will you go if you then tire of the state prison?”
He didn't expect an answer. He merely smiled. “You are not a criminal, Mr. Caine, despite what the prosecution says. You saved two people's lives that day at considerable risk to your own. They do not have much of a case, and I have spent a great deal of time trying to convince the District Attorney that this will not be one of those cases that he will point to with pride when he next comes up for reelection.”
He smiled to himself, as if relishing the thought. “The district attorney is an old friend and adversary. We view a lot of things the same way. I am pleased to inform you that he has familiarized himself with your case and he made me an offer that I am obligated to put in front of you.”
I nodded.
“The prosecution has agreed that they will not press first-degree murder charges if you plead to a lesser offense. They stipulated that you must agree to serve six months in the San Francisco County jail in return for a guilty plea to the lesser offense. You will be given credit for time served, both here and in Honolulu, and you will most likely be granted an early release. All considered, you would only serve three months, and you will have paid your debt to society. It will, however, still be a felony, with all that implies. I told them that I would report their most generous offer to you and ask for your opinion in the matter.”
“They want to drop the murder charge?”
“Yes. In return for a guilty plea of involuntary manslaughter.”
“That's a felony.”
“That is correct, Mr. Caine. You would be a convicted felon. You would lose your private investigator's license. You would lose your firearms and your license to carry them. Your retirement status as a United States naval officer would be jeopardized. You would not be allowed to enjoy many of the freedoms you previously enjoyed with equanimity.”
“I didn't kill anyone.”
“Nobody is saying that you did.”
I nodded. “You see the problem?”
He smiled and I saw a lot of gold fillings. “Of course. Do I take this as a negative response?”
“It's a âno.'”
“And you are aware that by turning down this most generous offer from the District Attorney you are placing yourself in dire jeopardy? Wait, don't answer yet! Are you aware that the district attorney still can try you for first-degree murder? And that your life may be forfeited if I am not up to my usual standard?”
“Is your usual standard very good?”
“My usual standard is excellent. If I say so myself.”
“I didn't kill that woman.”
“That is so.”
“It wasn't even an accident. I had nothing to do with it. The murderer was on a roof across the street. He was one of those idiots who start shooting innocent people in a public place.”
Chen looked at me from behind his thick lenses and said nothing. He knew the truth, apparently judging it to be impolitic to refute my version.
“I will not voluntarily put myself in prison for a crime I did not commit. These people are crazy.”
“The district attorney knows this. The facts of the case are very clear.”
“Then please tell the district attorney that I regretfully decline his offer.”
“You regretfully decline. Very well, I shall tell the district attorney that you cannot accept his kind and generous offer. And shall I tell him that we are ready for trial immediately on the murder charge?”
“You're ready?”
“I didn't say that. I merely asked if I should tell the government that we are ready for trial. There's a difference between reality and what you tell the government. Which is as it should be, as they have no compunction in lying to us.”
In spite of myself I smiled. I liked the man and felt comfortable
in his presence. This old gunslinger could outthink a platoon of government lawyers. I was sure he could even teach Tala Sufai a thing or two.
“There is already an attorney in Honolulu who knows this case.”
“Miss Sufai. Yes, I've spoken with her. She is an extremely bright strategist, and she seems to know her way around the courtroom, too. I read the transcripts of your hearings. I must tell you that I was impressed.”
“I know she isn't licensed to practice in California, but could she help you. She already knows the case.”
“You said that, Mr. Caine. And I would like to have her to sit by my side for the trial. She would be most helpful. We have ways to make it legal for her to become a temporary member of the California Bar, but it would take too much time to process the applications.”
“It's just the paperwork,” I said.
“Exactly. With the stroke of a pen Miss Sufai could become an honored member of the California Bar. But the time required is more than we have if you wish to proceed immediately.”
“And with the stroke of a pen a man can be charged with murder when all he did was defend himself.”
“Well said, Mr. Caine. I trust that you wouldn't mind if I use that analogy if and when I may find myself before a jury.”
I shook my head. “So you think we can win?”
He smiled. “I think we can win. Even without the formidable Miss Sufai. But it is never certain. There are twelve strangers walking around somewhere in this city who at this moment have never heard of you. Twelve men and women who will be hauled into court against their wishes and forced to sit and hear all kinds of tales told about you. And they will not be a happy lot. Nor will they be a particularly intelligent lot. Most of the really bright folk seemed to feel that they have a duty to find a way around jury duty. More's the pity, Mr. Caine, more's the pity. And yet, despite what I just said, those twelve people will somehow manage to figure
it out and they will get it right. Time after time the juries I encounter continue to get it right, even when you know that their entire collective intelligence is most likely approaching that of lemon yogurt. It is amazing, a freak of nature. It shouldn't work, but it does. The jury system, as flawed as it is, is the best system in the history of the world. You are in good hands, Mr. Caine.”
“I feel better already.”
He laughed, barking a long stream of
haw
s around the room. His laugh was infectious, and I found myself joining in.
“Very good, Mr. Caine. A man with a sense of humor will not be easily cowed. I am depending upon you not to be cowed. Is that understood?”
“Yes.”
“I thought it would be. You don't seem to be the kind of person who is frightened of anyone or anything. I've read about you, and your benefactor told me stories that would make exciting reading. It is too bad that you do not have a biographer. How is your health, by the way?”
“It's fine. They're taking good care of me here.”
“That is as it should be,” he said, smiling. “Now, I must go. I've got a message to deliver to the district attorney. I am going to have a little fun and deliver it personally.”
“Do you expect them to drop the charges?”
“Sadly, no. This is now a test of wills. The prosecution has ego involved. While it is necessary for trial lawyers to have a strong ego, it sometimes gets in the way of sound judgment. I think that is the case here. That detective, that Miss Henderson, bullied them into taking the case, based, I believe, solely upon your extremely violent history. They will have a very difficult time getting that into the record, however. And one word out of court and we shall change venue faster than the prosecution can blink.”
“So we'll go to trial. When?”
“We have a hearing tomorrow. I'll expect you to shave and look presentable. Not the pirate I see in front of me now. Shave
the beard. Shave it all off. You have a nice face and I believe that you should not hide it behind such a bushy monstrosity. And wear your best suit.”
“I'll shave.”
“Had it long?”
“Since ⦠I was in mourning.”
“The ancient Romans used to do that, grow a beard to demonstrate their mourning. Are you over it?”
“Over what?”
“Over what caused you to mourn?”
“Yes. Part of it.”
“Then shave it off and leave it off. At least during the trial. Afterward, when you're a free man again, you can grow hair down to your ankles for all I care.”
He looked expectant so I laughed politely.
“So be prepared for your hearing. Dress well, look smart, keep silent. You won't have to say anything. I'll do all the talking. You just have to sit there and not cause a disturbance. Can you do that?”
“I can do that.”
He smiled again. “Then I am blessed with the best kind of client.” He got up to leave and then he stopped. “
Second
best kind of client. Someone once said that the best kind of client is a scared millionaire.”
“I'm scared. And a millionaire is paying the bills.”
He nodded.
“Good enough.”