"Then it's easy. The answer's no."
"Listen to what it is first, before you say no," says Harry.
Jonah starts to shake his head.
The worst thing going is a criminal client with a closed mind, one who can't appreciate the options, and doesn't want to look at the risks.
"The cops are telling us they have you nailed to the scene four ways," I tell him. "Hard physical evidence putting you there."
"Yeah, I know, the cigars. Harry told me. So what? I offered you one.
Gave one to that cop, Urower. I thought he was supposed to be helping us find Amanda; instead he's playing boy detective."
"Anybody else you gave them to?" says Harry.
"I don't know. I don't keep a list who I give cigars to."
"They tell me it's a rare brand," I say.
Jonah makes a face. "Montecristo A's. I don't know how rare."
"Contraband out of Cuba?"
"What is that supposed to mean? Like I was buyin' dope?"
"It means they were imported into the country illegally. In violation of a trade embargo," I tell him.
"They wanna put me in jail for that, too?"
"No," says Harry. "But it does make the cigars easier to trace.
Not a lot of people could afford them. They find a crushed box of Dutch Masters at the scene, it opens a larger realm of possibilities when it comes to suspects," says Harry.
"All I know is they tasted good," says Jonah. "I go to this guy's shop, he takes me in the back room, pulls a box out from under the counter. I tried one, and liked it, so I bought two boxes."
"How much?" says Harry.
"I can't remember the exact price."
"Guess? Round it off," says Harry.
"Maybe a thousand dollars, a box of twenty-five," says Jonah.
"That's pretty round," says Harry. "At that price you shouldn'ta been givin' 'em away, at least not without collateral." Harry turns to me.
"You can expect Ryan's gonna get into this big time in front of the jury. Conjure up images of Jonah standing over the body, lighting up with hundred-dollar bills," he says.
"According to the prosecutor, the cigar is not the only thing tying you to the scene," I tell Jonah. "He says they've got more, but he's not saying what it is. Not yet, anyway."
"I don't know what they could have, because I wasn't there.
Unless somebody's planting evidence," he says.
"Why would they do that?"
"I don't know."
"They're offering manslaughter," says Harry. "Paul thinks he might be able to get them down to two years." Jonah shoots him a look to kill, then turns it on me. "And you want me to take it?"
"I didn't say that."
"But you want me to think about it."
"Thinking would be nice," says Harry.
"In two years I'd die in this place," he says.
"They wouldn't keep you here," says Harry. "State prison."
"Oh, well. Wonderful. So I'm in prison when Amanda comes back." Harry and I look at each other.
Jonah catches the glance.
"You are gonna get her back?"
"We're trying," I tell him.
"I can't take the deal," he says. "Let 'em kill me. Put me to death," he says. He's rolling up his sleeves. Clearly he's already given some thought to the way in which they do this.
"You're being dramatic," I tell him. "No one's talking about the death penalty." "You said earlier the prosecutor was."
"He was being dramatic. They don't have a case."
"I'm not confessing to something I didn't do," he says.
"There is a chance," says Harry, "that we could argue selfdefense."
Harry looks to see if there's some change in Jonah's attitude or an alteration in his story.
The old man merely knits his eyebrows in question, furrowed gray crescents.
"We have reason to believe that the gun that killed Suade may have belonged to her," I tell him.
Jonah cocks his head.
"I don't understand. How did the killer get her gun?" he asks.
Harry and I look at each other, eyes meeting in the middle distance.
It's not likely Jonah would be asking this if he was there that night, unless he's a more practiced liar than we think.
"Our guess is she brought it, probably in her purse. She may have carried the gun as a matter of course."
"They found this gun? The police?"
"No. But we have a record of it. A serial number in her name, the same caliber as the murder weapon."
"So," says Harry. He's sitting on the edge of the table starting to speak with his hands, like maybe he has some Italian in him. "If Suade brought the gun into the car, and she pulls this thing out of her purse, maybe in the middle of an argument, whoever killed her might have grabbed the gun in self-defense. If it went off in the struggle, the whole thing could be viewed as an accident. Even justifiable homicide.
We could make out a case. Maybe walk that person out of here." He looks at Jonah with hopeful eyes, seeing if he'll bite.
"That's a good argument," says Jonah. "For whoever did it. But I can't help you. Because I don't know what happened that night.
You keep forgetting, I wasn't there." He says it with emphasis, and finally sits down. Jonah's last word on the subject.
Harry sighs deeply, then turns his attention to me. "We could still argue it as a theory," he says. "Some unknown perpetrator shot her in self-defense with her own gun. Not nearly as effective, I grant you, but at least it takes the sympathetic edge off the victim.
What do we care we end up acquitting somebody else," says Harry.
"It could drive a stake through the state's case."
"If we can even get it in," I tell him. "There's no witness putting her gun at the scene. From what we know, it's just missing."
"Yeah, I know. One of those matters of evidence," says Harry, "sound discretion of the trial court judge. And so far we don't know who that is."
"Frank Peltro," I say.
"When did you hear that?"
"Yesterday. Outside Ryan's office. Checked it with the court this morning. Peltro's the man. He drew the assignment from the presiding judge."
"Davidson?" I nod.
Harry rolls his eyes. "Not doing us any favors, is he? You'd think given his history with Suade, the suit against the county and all, Davidson woulda stayed out of it, let the Judicial Council appoint the judge or something."
"You'd think."
"What do you know about him?" says Jonah. "This judge?"
"Peltro?"
"Yeah."
"Former cop," says Harry. "Fourteen years on the force. Went to law school at night. Ten years with the DA's office. Won his place on the bench by election."
"He is well-thought-of," I tell Harry.
"So was Judge Parker, by everybody except the people he hung.
I grant you, he's the only man in this county wearing a robe who doesn't owe the governor squat," says Harry. "So we have an independent judge pulled himself up by the bootstraps is gonna make the arrangements on behalf of our client with the state's version of Dr. Kevorkian. You'll have to excuse me, but I don't see the benefit."
"He runs a tight ship in court. Not exactly what I would have hoped for," I tell him. "But there could be some benefits."
"Name one," says Harry.
"He knows where he came from. He also knows everybody else knows. A man that independent doesn't like to be predictable. Likely he's going to be leaning backwards just a little to make the playing field tilt away from his old friends. He also knows the games they play. How stuff leaks when it shouldn't."
"You're thinking Ryan's gonna try and run us into a ditch with publicity," says Harry.
"Wouldn't you? The prosecutors aren't likely to be able to pull the wool on Peltro. He knitted the stuff when he was there. Or, for that matter, bully him. It's not like he's gonna run scared in the next election.
There's something to be said for rugged individualism," I tell Harry.
"Especially in a case like this."
"I'd just as soon take my chances with a judge who worked for the ACLU, thank you," says Harry. "Maybe we should affidavit him.
Just to be safe."
"And draw what?" Harry gives me a shrug. The unknown.
"What's this affidavit?" says Jonah.
"We could bump the judge," says Harry. "We get one free shot.
We don't have to state any cause. We can remove him from the case."
"The downside," I tell him, "you may draw the wrath from the rest of the team. Whoever replaces him may take it out on us."
"The proverbial us," says Harry. "Meaning you." He's looking at Jonah.
I look at him, too. Once again, he's slumped at the table, his color not looking good, the pallor of a piece of faded parchment, his head on propped elbows. The doctor at the county medical center, the one who does jail rounds, has doubled the dosage of Jonah's blood pressure meds.
"Is there any way we can find out if suade had run-ins with the law?"
says Harry. "Maybe pulled the gun on somebody else? An arrest for brandishing--that would be nice," he says. Harry's thinking this could help wedge the door open to get Suade's gun into evidence.
"I already checked," I tell him. "There's nothing."
"I was going there," says Jonah.
He catches Harry and me musing about the law and the tactics of evidence as he says it, Harry stopping in mid-sentence.
"Going where?" I ask.
"To Suade's office," says Jonah. This is the first he has ever said about it.
"But I never got there. I stopped on the Strand to think. To clear my head. Ended up sitting there for three hours, staring at the ocean.
Wondering where Amanda was. If she was alive." His eyes come back to me.
"You haven't heard anything?" he says.
"No."
"You gotta find her."
"We're looking," says Harry.
We haven't told Jonah that Ontaveroz may be looking as well.
"Mary can take care of her. Be good for the two of 'em," he says.
"Specially if I'm not there." by the Time we got outside, it's dark except For a few yellow streetlamps and some traffic, shooting beams of light.
Harry is parked around the corner in another lot. His apartment is up on the hill, above Old Town, overlooking the freeway and Mission Bay.
"Heard my share of lying clients," he says, "but this doesn't sound like one of 'em. He never even took a whiff at the deal they offered. And the theory she was killed with her own gun. That's a get-outta-jail-free card. You notice he didn't blink."
"I noticed."
"So you believe him?" I don't answer.
"Thing that makes me believe him is the lame story," says Harry.
"Sitting on the beach looking at the ocean for three hours. Who in the hell's gonna shoot somebody, drive two miles, then sit in the sand and wait for the cops?"
"Somebody in shock," I tell him.
Harry chews on this for a second, dead silence.
"I think we play on her packin' a pistol for all its worth," he says.
"Let the jury dwell on the notion she got what she deserved." Harry's sold on the theory of self-defense, whether Jonah did it or not. "What do you think?"
"I think I'll have to call Ryan. Tell him it looks like we're gonna have to do the trial. I may wait a day or two."
"What? Make it look like Jonah considered it a little longer?"
"That, and try to slow the government steamroller from running up to speed."
"The minute they find out, they're gonna go for the jugular."
"At least we'll get the rest of their evidence."
"Yeah, probably dropped on us like bricks off a building," he says.
"Unless I miss my bet, we may have to read about it in the newspapers first." Harry's fishing in his pocket for his keys. "Wanna stop for a quick one? There's a little bar down in the gas lamp. A few blocks away"
he says.
"I can't. Got an early-morning arraignment, and the sitter's home with Sarah."
"We'll have to talk in the morning. Till then," he says, "keep a good thought." Harry strikes out for his car while I head toward the corner, walking past the county law library toward the trolley tracks on C
Street.
I wouldn't have noticed, except there is little or no traffic on Front Street at this time of night, and the car's engine starts almost on the precise beat of Harry's farewell. I hear the engine, a low rumble, panther growl in the night a half block behind me. The wheels rolling slowly at a walking pace, grinding gravel under tires a hundred feet before the driver turns on his lights.
For a second, I think maybe it's the Bob and Jack Show, Murphy's federal sources come to follow me to see where I might lead them.
But as I pass a car parked at the left-hand curb, one-way in this direction, I can see the reflection in its driver-side mirror. One of the headlights of the moving vehicle is either burned out or broken. The car's exterior has the look of a rolling wreck: it's not one of the dark sedans--Crown Victorias and big Buicks--favored by the federal motor pool. Still, its engine sounds souped, not like some junker.
I continue walking as if I'm oblivious. The feeling is that any glance, no matter how furtive, may force a hand. I cross the trolley tracks at a clip and saunter on along Front Street, up by the Greyhound bus depot.
Now at least there's more light, some activity at the corner.
Broadway has four lanes, two in each direction, and stoplights. Here the traffic is heavier. I stop at the light with a few characters milling around on the corner, and consider my options: go right toward the lot where my car is parked, which will put me in front of their vehicle as I cross toward the old courthouse, or go left. Left has more possibilities, the added advantage of forcing them to cross traffic to make a left turn up Broadway. This would put two lanes of opposing traffic on a busy street between us.
I hear the engine idling somewhere well back of the limit line.
Whoever is there is still behind me. Awkward to turn and look so I don't, but peripheral senses and the hair on the back of my neck tell me that the driver is boring holes through me with his eyes.
I stand at the light. A guy with a grizzled beard in a moth-eaten coat comes up. "Spare change?" he says. His palm, open and extended, looks as if it hasn't been washed in a month.