"He admitted killing her?"
"Not in so many words, but .. ." Ridgely paused.
"I'm sorry. I can't discuss this any further. We'll be going before a grand jury tomorrow. If an indictment is returned, I'll give you all the discovery the law allows, but I'm going to play this one by the book."
"Earl, we've known each other how long? I don't understand the problem in letting us know what you've got on Gary."
"The statutes say the defense isn't entitled to discovery until there's an indictment. I know that's not how this office usually does things. We've only got a handful of lawyers in the county and I know every one of them, so I usually bend the rules. But not this time. Not in this case."
Peter put his hand on Mancini's arm.
"I respect that, Mr. Ridgely. We can wait. I'd appreciate it if you'd let us know as soon as the grand jury votes and I'd also appreciate seeing the discovery as soon as possible."
Peter handed Ridgely his business card.
"Steve, why don't we let Mr. Ridgely get back to work?"
Mancini looked like he wanted to say something else, but he held it in. The two men shook hands with Ridgely and nodded at O'Shay. just before he left, Peter managed to flash a smile at Becky. She was standing so Ridgely could not see her and she returned the smile.
Peter's heart soared.
The door closed and Ridgely sat lost in thought. After a moment, he looked over at his deputy and said, "There's no way I can prosecute Gary Harmon. I know the family too well."
O'Shay had been hoping the district attorney would reach this decision. She had been very worried that he would want to prosecute Gary Harmon himself.
"You were at the wedding, weren't you?" he asked after a while.
O'Shay was ready for this. "Yes," she said, "but I don't know the Harmons and I only know Steve Mancini professionally."
Ridgely was a little put off by O'Shay's eagerness, but he understood it. Prosecuting a murder case was the ultimate challenge for a district attorney and the chance to do it in Whitaker was rare.
"I can ask the Attorney General for assistance. They provide help to. small counties in major cases."
Becky knew it was now or never. She pulled her chair up to the desk and leaned toward Ridgely.
"Earl, I can do this. You know I'm good. I'm running a ninety-five percent conviction rate."
"This is a murder case, Becky. What's the most complex case you've tried?"
"Peck, and I won. Three weeks, toe to toe with a hired un from Portland. I kicked his ass around the court room and you know it. Ask judge Kuffel."
"I don't have to. He went out of his way to tell me what a great job you did."
"Then you know I can try Harmon. Give me the chance."
Ridgely could not think of a reason to deny O'Shay the case.
"Harmon is yours," he said.
"Thank you. I'll never forget this."
"Before you prosecute Gary, I want you to be damn ertain he's the right man."
"De itely." O'Shay paused. She looked a little nervous when she asked, "What about the death penalty?"
Ridgely paled. He started to say something, then he c aught himself "I can't answer that question for the same reason I can't try the case. If you ask for the death penalty, it MUSE be your decision."
Becky nodded solemnly like a person beset by a moral quandary of epic proportions, but Becky O'Shay had decided she was going for the death penalty as soon as she realized that she had a chance to prosecute Gary Bar Mon. A lot of doors would open for a lawyer who was tough enough to successfully prosecute a death case.
Kevin Booth lived six miles outside of Whitaker at the end of a gravel road in a single-bedroom house that was little better than a shack. The paint on the outside of the house had been scarred by endless waves of windblown debris. A dismantled junket sat on blocks in the yard in front of a small, litter-filled garage. Booth's nearest neighbor was half a mile away. The view was brown flatlands and desolation, broken only by the wavering outline of another shack, a forlorn apparition abandoned long ago that served as a reminder of the inhospitable nature of the desert.
The inside of the house looked no better than the outside. Empty pizza boxes, crumpled cigarette packs and soiled skin magazines lay scattered around. In the kitchen, the rust-stained refrigerator was almost empty and dried soup congealed around the burners on the dilapidated stove.
Booth had staggered in around one and collapsed on his unmade bed. He was in such a deep sleep that the pounding on his front door did not arouse him immediately. When the din finally penetrated, he jerked awake, upsetting the lamp on his end table. It was pitch black in his room and his heart was beating so loudly that he could not distinguish between the two thumping sounds.
"One minute," he called out, but the pounding continued.
Booth swung his legs over the side of the bed. He was wearing boxer shorts and an undershirt. His mouth felt gummy. Awakening suddenly in the dark had disoriented him. The pills he'd taken before he went to sleep did not help. Booth fumbled for the switch on the lamp and had trouble finding it because the lamp was on its side.
"Just a minute," he yelled again.
This time the pounding stopped. Booth found the switch. The light hurt his eyes. He winced and groped around for his jeans, then pulled them on. After slipping into his sneakers, Booth staggered into the front room.
"Who is it?" he called through the door.
"Rafael Vargas," said a voice with a faint trace of Spain.
"Oh, shit," Booth said to himself.
"Open the fucking door," a deeper voice commanded.
The moment Booth opened the door he regretted it, but refusing to let the two men in would have been useless. The first man through the door could have eaten it if he wanted to. He wore a suit jacket over a tight black tee shirt that stretched across corded muscles. When he in oved, the jacket flapped back revealing the butt of a large handgun. The man wore his long hair tied back in a ponytail and a gold earring dangled from his left ear.
A jagged scar cut across his cheek, his nose was askew and his eyes were wild. As soon as he was inside, he searched the house.
Rafael Vargas was lean, wiry and obviously Latin. His amused smile revealed even, white teeth and there was a pencil-thin mustache over his upper lip.
'."Sit down, Kevin," Vargas commanded after he took the most comfortable chair in the shabby living room.
Booth sat on the couch across from his visitor.
"There's no one else here," Vargas's bodyguard said when he was finished searching. Vargas nodded, then turned his attention back to Booth.
"Did Chris explain what we want from you?" he asked.
Boot swa owe . He was sti groggy from the pills.
"When Mr. Vargas asks a question, he expects an answer ," the bodyguard said, taking a threatening step forward.
"Yeah," Booth answered quickly. "I'm just sleepy. It's three in the morning."
"Then you must wake up quickly, Kevin," Vargas said. "There are things to do."
"Uh, look, Mr. Vargas," Booth said anxiously, "I told Chris I didn't think I was right for this."
Vargas held up his hand and Booth froze.
"Look, amigo, Chris is hot. DEA is gonna have him under surveillance. He's smart enough to know that."
"I was arrested with Chris. They probably suspect me, too."
Vargas shook his head. "DEA forgot you the minute you left the courtroom."
"Right, but.. ."
"Kevin, wheels are in motion. It's too late to stop them from turning."
Vargas stood up. "I've got twenty kilos of cocaine in van parked out front. All you have to do is hold it for few days. Do you think you can do that?"
Booth felt the way he would have if Vargas had asked him to stand at ground zero on the day they dropped the A-bomb on Hiroshima.
"Twenty ... Mr. Vargas, I really don't want to be around twenty kilos of snow."
"There is nothing to worry about. We don't plan to leave the merchandise here for very long," Vargas said.
"Let's go to the van."
Booth got up quickly and Carlos and Vargas followed him outside. There was almost no moon and there was no light in the yard except for the headlights of a brown van and the light that filtered into the yard through the living room curtains. The only sound was Booth s breathing and his sneakers scraping across the dirt.
Booth stumbled on his way to the van, but neither man made any effort to catch him. Vargas found a flashlight in the glove compartment while Carlos opened the back of the van revealing two large, black plastic trashbags secured with ties.
"Take them out," Carlos commanded.
Booth grabbed the bags by their necks and pulled them out. As soon as he started for the garage, lights flooded the yard.
"Freeze! Federal agents!" shouted a man in a dark blue windbreaker. Stenciled on the back in yellow letters was DEA. Vargas dropped the flashlight and started to run, but two armed men appeared from the side of the garage. Carlos held his hands away from his body.
Booth froze.
"Drop the bags," commanded the man in the windbreaker. Booth complied instantly. One of the garbage bags broke and a fine white powder seeped out of the tear. Booth was slammed against the side of the van.
Rough hands frisked him, then his arms were wrenched behind him and metal cuffs were snapped on his wrists.
When he was jerked around, Booth found himself standing next to Vargas. The slender Hispanic said nothing until they were left alone for a moment while their captors conferred. As soon as the agents were far enough away, Vargas turned to Booth and whispered, "You are a dead man."
Kevin Booth looked worse than Steve Mancini had ever seen him. Not only was his acne acting up and his body odor more repulsive, but he appeared to be on the brink of a psychotic break. Sweat was pouring off Booth, he jerked around constantly and Mancini could swear that his client had not blinked once since he sat down.
"Kevin, Kevin. You've got to get ahold of yourself," Mancini cautioned.
"Ahold? What are you talking about? I was arrested with ten kilos of cocaine in each hand and Rafael Vargas, the executioner for one of Colombia's biggest drug cartels, has personally threatened to kill me. How can I get ahold of myself? You tell me."
"I admit you're in some serious shit here, but Vargas was probably venting his anger at you. These threats are made all the time and rarely carried out. And as far as the dope goes, you said you were forced to carry the bags. I'll explain that to the feds, we'll agree to cooperate in the prosecution of Vargas and .. ."
"No. No way will I testify against Rafael Vargas.
And, besides," Booth said in a suddenly subdued voice, "the feds aren't interested."
"How do you know?"
Booth ran his tongue across his lips. "I tried. When I was arrested, I begged them to let me cooperate. They sol id they didn't need me. They ... they said they were going to send me away forever and ... and nothin I could say would help."
"What happened exactly?" Mancini asked.
Booth told him. Mancini digested this information.
He looked at the case from the feds' point of view. The DEA must have been onto Vargas all along and followed him to Booth's home. Carlos and Vargas had probably been photographed loading the cocaine into the van and the three men had been caught red-handed. The case was open and shut. No search-and-seizure problems, no statements to be suppressed. just three amigos standing around with enough cocaine to get every man, woman, child and household pet in the state high.
Mancini shook his head solemnly. "This is going to be tough, Kevin. I'm going to have to work overtime to save your butt."
"You think you can win, Steve?" Booth pleaded, looking so pathetic that Mancini had to choke back a laugh.
"Didn't I take care of you the last time?"
"Yes. Yes you did," Booth responded eagerly.
"Now, with a case this big, I'll need twenty thousand up front," Mancini continued.
"Twenty ... The last time you only charged me seventy-five hundred."
"The last time we were in state court and you weren't caught with twenty kilos of snow. Fighting the feds is expensive. They have the resources of the entire government. I'm fighting Washington, D.C not some small town D.A."
"I don't have twenty thousand dollars," Booth said desperately.
"What about your parents?"
"My father ran off when I was two. I don't even remember him. And my mother," Booth said bitterly, "she's dead."
"Where did you get the dough last time?"
"Chris Mammon lent it to me."
"Well?" Mancini said with a shrug. "From what you've told me, you're in this scrape because of Mammon. Ask him to go your fee."
Booth hung his head. "I already called him. He won't talk to me."
Mancini sighed. "I want to help you, Kevin, but I can't work for free. Not on a case this big. You understand that, don't you?"
"You won so easy the last time. Can't you give me some credit? If you get me off I'll pay you double."
"No can do. Sorry, but I have an ironclad rule about fees in criminal cases."
Mancini looked at his watch. "Hey, I'm going to have to break this off. I'm due in court."
"Wait a minute. You can't just walk out on me."
"I'm afraid I have other clients, Kevin."
"Don't do this to me, man," Booth whined, "you gotta help."
"I really am due in court."
Mancini started to rap for the guard, but Booth grabbed him by the arm.
"I'll ... I'll tell the cops about you," Booth threatened.
Mancini did not move his arm. Instead he turned until his face was inches from Booth's.
"Oh, really?" Mancini said. "What exactly will you tell them?"
The former quarterback's bicep felt like steel through his suit jacket and Booth knew he had made a mistake.
"You ... you know," Booth stuttered.
"Let go of my arm, Kevin," Mancini said softly.
Booth's grip loosened. Mancini still did not move. Finally, Booth's eyes dropped and he released Mancini's arm. Mancini slowly lowered it.