Applaud the Hollow Ghost (17 page)

“Wait,” Casey said, obviously offended. “Hold on, Mr. Big Shot. I was just telling Lammy we're all in this together. Now you expect him and me to follow orders while you decide what we wanna see? What the hell kinda attitude is that?”

“Fine,” I said. Maybe Casey was a little strung out, just like me, but his Mr. Big Shot remark hit me hard. “Fine,” I repeated. “Decide for yourself.”

Casey took the kiddy porno books I shoved at him. “My God,” he said, and he handed them right back to me. “Get rid of 'em.”

“Oh no.” I snatched them out of his hand. “Not till
everybody
gets a look. Not just
Mr. Big Shot.
” I thrust the booklets over my shoulder. “Here, Lammy. I found these in your basement storage bin.”

“What?” Casey said. “You—”

“No,” Lammy said, shoving the books back almost as soon as he'd taken them.

“No, what?” I said.

“Not our bin. I got the only key. I don't wanna look at that kinda stuff.”

“Okay, then we all agree. I get rid of this shit.”

I went inside the store, bought a large manila envelope and stamps, and mailed the books to Barney Green, marked “Privileged.” He'd know by the writing on the envelope that it came from his former partner. He'd know who sent them by the handwritten address. He'd know to throw out the envelope and put the materials in his safe. He'd also know it was a serious federal crime to send child pornography through the mail, and almost as bad to keep it when it arrives. But we were all in this together. The more, the merrier. Who knows? Maybe it would come in handy if there were some identifiable fingerprints on the books—other than all of ours, of course.

We went to the coach house and crashed.

When I woke up it was nearly time for supper. Casey and Lammy had been to afternoon Mass and then to the store, and now they were making an omelet. I sat in the kitchen and saw how Lammy watched Casey with obvious respect, even awe, as the two of them chopped up onions and peppers.

I caught Lammy looking at me once, too. But what showed in his eyes then was more like fear, or suspicion.

CHAPTER
22

R
ENATA
C
ARROWAY CALLED THE
next morning—Monday. “Where's Lammy?”

“He's here,” I said. “We had a little trouble after you dropped me off Saturday night.”

“I know. I heard about that. Y'know, I asked you to stop interfering, and—”

I hung up the phone. I had to. The alternative was to say what I felt like saying, and Renata didn't deserve that. Besides, I figured she'd call right—

The phone rang and I picked it up. “Anyway,” Renata said, “I want to see Lammy. One o'clock in my office. Can he make it?”

“What's up?”

“They're offering a deal,” she said.

“What kind of a deal?”

“One o'clock. Can you get him here?”

It was a bitterly cold, brilliantly sunlit day. Lammy's left hand was still in a bandage, but the bruises on his face were fading, and his hair was starting to grow back. We drove along the lakefront toward downtown and I tried to make conversation, but to describe Lammy's responses as monosyllabic would exaggerate their eloquence.

At five after one the receptionist pointed to a tiny closet and Lammy and I were hanging up our coats when Renata came out to her waiting room. “I want to talk to you for a minute first, Mal.” We stepped just beyond the door to her inner offices and she closed it behind us. “What have you told him?”

“I told him you wanted to see him. Did I tell him there was an offer? No. Did I tell him he should plead guilty? No. Or plead not guilty? No. In other words, I haven't told him a goddamn thing. After all, you don't want me to inter—”

“Look,” she said, “I can see how heavily you're invested in this. Emotionally, I mean. I don't know why, and I don't need to know. In fact, Lammy's lucky you are. But he's an adult, and this decision has to be his, and his alone.”

“Whether you believe it or not, Lammy and I haven't talked about his case at all. I haven't even asked him whether he did it or not. As for making a plea, I agree it's up to him. But I want to be in the room when you explain it to him.”

She objected to that momentarily, but couldn't think of a really good argument. So the three of us ended up in her office, a rather odd melange of lawyerlike clutter—papers everywhere, thick file folders and large open books piled in precarious stacks—and decidedly feminine touches. Lammy and I sat on opposite ends of an overstuffed sofa that was loaded with embroidered pillows. Renata slipped her glasses on and leaned back against the front of her desk, legal pad in hand. She peered out through thick round lenses.

“Lammy,” she said, “Mr. Foley is helping me. Even with him present, everything we say here is privileged. That means neither he nor I can reveal it without your permission. Do you understand?”

“Yeah, I guess.” He sat with one hand resting on each thigh, his head tilted down toward the floor.

“I can ask Mr. Foley to leave if you prefer.”

“I … that's…” He lifted his bandaged left hand and placed it on top of his right hand. But that didn't help. It only made it more obvious that both hands were trembling. He didn't look up, but his head was bobbing in tiny nods.

“I understand,” I said. “I'll wait outside. That's okay.”

I left the office and went back to the waiting room. But it wasn't okay. I wanted Lammy to want me with him. I was trying to help him. And besides, I can't tolerate sitting in waiting rooms.

But I'd hardly sat down when Renata came out. “He had something he wanted to ask without your being there, Mal.” She smiled and I realized she didn't do that nearly often enough. “But now that that's over,” she said, “he wants you with him.”

I followed her back to her office. Lammy looked up at me. He didn't actually greet me, but he did look at me for a part of a second.

Renata picked her legal pad up from her desk again. “So, let's not waste any more time. Do you know what a plea bargain is, Lammy?” she said.

“Uh, I think so.”

“Most cases never go to trial,” she began, and while she explained how plea bargaining worked I thought of the defendants I'd represented when I had a license. Too many of them had been dealing with the criminal justice system since childhood, and knew how it worked—for better or for worse—just about as well as I did. “… state's attorney called this morning,” Renata was saying, “with a proposed plea agreement.”

“What's the plea?” I asked. Renata scowled at me. “Oh, sorry. I'll shut up.”

“The proposal is, Lammy, that you plead guilty to aggravated criminal sexual abuse. The aggravated criminal sexual
assault
charge will be dismissed and the state will recommend no jail time and a period of probation.”

“What's the difference between … between those two things you said?” Lammy asked.

“The definitions are very complicated, but
abuse
is a less serious crime than
assault.
”

“And they're both felonies,” I added, “so if I were you—”

“Please,” Renata said, and I clammed up again.

“So … would I just sign something?”

“You sign a written plea agreement,” Renata explained. “But then you appear before the judge and he'll ask you whether you understand the agreement and if you're entering the plea of your own free will. Things like that.”

“What if I say I didn't do it, but I signed 'cause I don't wanna go to jail?”

“Then the judge might vacate the plea and set the matter for trial. If you plead guilty, you're admitting you committed the crime.”

“So it's still the sex stuff? Just not as bad?”

“That's right. And you won't take a chance on going to jail.”

“What about my ma?”

“What?” Renata looked confused.

“My ma. What'll I tell
her?
”

“I don't know,” Renata said, “but if you get convicted of the sexual assault, it's not your mother who'll go to the penitentiary.”

I thought if his mother's behavior so far was any clue, she wouldn't even visit him. But I kept quiet.

“So,” Renata said, “what do you think?”

“I … uh…” Lammy looked my way, but I wasn't sure he saw me. He dropped his chin down to his chest again. “I guess…” His voice drifted off.

“Renata?” When she didn't tell me to shut up, I asked, “What about simple battery? A misdemeanor. Then he can get the record expunged later.”

She shook her head. “Not possible. Heffernan says he's gonna have the public and the media all over him as it is. And he's right.”

“You know why he's making the offer, don't you. Why don't you tell Lammy? It's because—”

“Wait, Mal,” she said. “No one's asked for your opinion, not yet. This is Lammy's decision, and so far he hasn't even asked
me
for an opinion.” She turned to Lammy. “Do you have any questions?”

“Well,” Lammy plucked at his pant leg with his right hand, “can you get me off? I mean, if I don't plead guilty and the little girl keeps saying I did it?”

“I don't know if the girl will testify. Even if she doesn't, they could put her previous statement into evidence. But all in all, the state doesn't have a strong case. We have a good chance at a not guilty. But I can't guarantee anything. And … there's something else, too, that—”

“Doesn't matter,” Lammy said. He was shaking his head from side to side. “Abuse … assault. I don't care.”

“What do you mean?” Renata asked.

“I mean I don't wanna say I'm guilty. I can't tell my ma and my sister I did that. And not the judge, either. 'Cause I didn't do it.”

I let out my breath and didn't realize until then I'd been holding it in. I was proud of Lammy, but scared for him, too. “Wait,” I said. “You said there was something else, Renata. What was that?”

“Heffernan told me that if Lammy didn't take the plea, they'd indict him.”

“What? They can't do that. He's already charged and out on bond.”

“He was charged under an information. They can seek a grand jury indictment, which they'll get. That won't improve their case any, but they can rearrest him on the indictment and—”

“Jail again?” Lammy's voice was strained, high-pitched.

“Rearrest him,” she continued, “and ask the judge to set another bond before he can be released again. They can do—”

“I don't wanna go back there,” Lammy was mumbling, as though speaking to himself. “It's bad there.”

“They can do that,” Renata continued, still looking at me as though she hadn't heard Lammy. “I've never heard of it being done, not in Cook County, anyway. But they can. And Heffernan says they will, unless he pleads—”

“Um … excuse me.” Lammy was standing, rubbing his right hand over the bandage on his left, as though he were washing it. His eyes were wide and he was looking toward the windows. “I gotta go,” he said.

“You just got here,” Renata said, “and we still have to decide—”

“No. I mean I gotta go to the bathroom.” He looked it, too.

“Oh, I'm sorry,” Renata said. “It's out in the hall. Get the key from the receptionist.”

When he was gone, Renata said, “I agree, Mal. Heffernan wouldn't make an offer if he didn't know he had an uphill battle—one he might well lose. I don't like to lead clients to decisions if I can help it, but I'm glad Lammy's not taking the deal. We're gonna win this goddamn case.”

“Yeah, but sending him back to jail. Did you see the panic in his eyes? Jesus.”

“I know, but—” Her phone rang and she picked it up. “Hello?” She listened, then looked at me with her hand over the receiver. “It's my daughter's nanny,” she said. “It'll just take a minute.”

The nanny must have been telling her something especially cute the baby had done. Renata was smiling nonstop now, and said, “Oh, really?” like every other doting mother, about five times. When the call was over, she set the phone down and stared at it for a few seconds.

When she looked up, though, she was all business again. “If that judge has any balls,” she said, “he'll rule that the previous bond is sufficient. But if he sets another bond … is there any more money?”

“I'm broke,” I said, and then remembered Gus. “Except I did just pick up a new client, with an offer I couldn't refuse. Or half an offer, anyway. I only get the other half if I get results.”

“I can win this case, you know. Even if Lammy doesn't make a very good witness, I—” Renata suddenly looked around her office as though something were missing. “I wonder what's taking him so long?” she said. “You better go check. He might be sick or something.”

I went up front and stopped at the receptionist's desk. “Do you have another key to the men's room?” I asked.

“No-o,” she said, and somehow I didn't like the way she dragged out the word and looked mystified. “Just the one. Why?”

“I need to get in there to check on Mr. Fleming. He may be sick.”

“Oh, he didn't take the key. Just grabbed his coat and left. He's gone. He was mumbling something about—”

By the time she got to what Lammy said, I was out in the hall, repeatedly punching the button like all those ignorant people who think they can make the elevator hurry up and get there.

The elevator didn't hurry. And when it took me down it stopped about five times, or fifteen times, on the way. Down in the lobby, and out on the street, there was no sign of Lammy in any direction. Running was a dumb thing for him to do, but somehow I found myself even a little more proud of him than I'd been when he announced he wouldn't plead guilty.