The Pact (35 page)

THE TRUTH

And ever has it been that love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation.

-Kahul Gibran The Prophet

That a lie which is half a truth is ever the blackest of lies;

That a lie which is all a lie may be met and fought with outright;

But a lie which is part a truth is a harder matter to fight.

-Alfred, Lord Tennyson

The Grandmother

February 1998

All in all, the Honorable Leslie F. Puckett was not a bad draw for a trial judge. Three times in the past, as both prosecutor and defense attorney, Jordan had been involved in cases over which Puckett presided. Rumor had it that his severe approach and razor-sharp critiques of trial attorneys were grounded in his own insecurity about his given name-Leslie not being as masculine as he would have liked-but he dispensed barbs to both prosecution and defense with equanimity. That aside, the only caveat to a case with Judge Puckett was his affinity for almonds, which he kept in glass jars on his desk in both the courtroom and chambers, and cracked open loudly with his teeth.

Pretrial hearings were usually held in open court, but the severity of Chris's charge and the publicity it had attracted led everyone involved to believe the meeting was best conducted in the judge's chambers. Puckett, black robes fluttering around his ankles, strode into the room with Jordan and Barrie Delaney hurrying in his wake. All three sat down, and Puckett slid an almond out of the glass jar and popped it into his mouth.

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 the 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 Umine 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 breathlessly, sliding into the booth. She smiled at Michael, who was flicking the laminated menu with his thumbnail. “How is he today?”

“He's okay,” Michael said. “Looking forward to seeing you, I think.”

“Is he still sick?” Gus asked. “Last week he had that horrible cough.”

“It's much better,” Michael assured her. “He got some Robitussin from the commissary.” Gus settled her napkin on her lap, a thrill running through her chest and shoulders at the sight of him, like a schoolgirl with a crush. She had known Michael for twenty years, but was only beginning to really see him, as if this situation had not only changed her perception of her world, but also the people who inhabited it. How had she never noticed that Michael's voice could soothe so easily? That his hands seemed strong, his eyes kind? That he listened to her as if she were the only person in the room?

Gus was fully, guiltily aware of the fact that the conversation she was having with this man was the very conversation she should have been having with her husband. James still refused to talk about his son, as if Chris's name and the accusations against him were a great black bat, which once freed would spread its wings and shriek and refuse to go back from where it had come. She had begun to eagerly look forward to these weekly lunches, arranged around the visiting hours of the Grafton jail, because she'd have someone to speak to.

That it was Michael was sometimes odd. Since his wife had been Gus's best friend for-well, nearly forever-they knew a great deal about each other, secondhand. There were things that Melanie had told Gus about Michael, and things Melanie had told Michael about Gus. It made them uncomfortably intimate, brimming with knowledge of each other they otherwise should not have had.

“You look very nice today,” Michael said.

“Me?” Gus laughed. “Well, thank you. So do you.” She meant it. Michael's flannel shirts and faded jeans, chosen because of his messy profession, made Gus think of soft, overstuffed words, like comfort and nestle and snug.

“You dress up for your visits, don't you?”

“I suppose I do,” Gus said. She glanced down at her printed dress, and smiled. “I wonder who I'm trying to impress.”

“Chris,” Michael answered for her. “It's how you want him to remember you, in between.”

“And how would you know that?” Gus teased.

“Because I do the same thing when I go to Emily's grave,” he said. “Jacket and tie-can you imagine me in that?-just in case she's looking.”

Stricken, Gus lifted her face. “Oh, Michael,” she said. “I forget sometimes that this is so much worse for you.”

“I don't know,” Michael said. “At least it's over for me. For you, it's just beginning.” Gus ran her finger along the edge of her saucer. “How come I remember the two of them catching frogs and playing tag, like it was yesterday?”

“Because it was,” Michael answered quietly. “It wasn't all that long ago.” He glanced around the little deli. “I don't know how we got here,” he said. “Those days are so clear to me I can smell the grass I just mowed and see the pine tar streaking the back of Emily's legs. And then, bam. I'm visiting my daughter's grave and Chris in jail.”

Gus closed her eyes. “It was so easy then. It never crossed my mind that something like this would happen.”

“That's because it's not supposed to happen to people like us.”

“But it has. It is. How come?”

He shook his head. “I don't know. I keep asking myself that, thinking back. I figure it's like a root sticking out that I happened to miss the first time around, and can't help tripping over now.” He stared at Gus. “Kids like Emily and Chris don't just decide to kill themselves, do they?” Gus twisted her napkin. In spite of her newfound closeness to Michael, she had not confided that Chris had never been suicidal. In part, this was because she didn't want to betray her son's defense. And in part, because it would only reopen the healing wound in Michael's heart. “Do you remember,” she said, trying to change the direction of the conversation, “how Emily used to scream when they played tag? Chris would chase her and she'd shriek so loud that you'd come running from your house and I'd come running from mine?”

A smile wreathed Michael's face. “Yeah,” he said. “She made it sound like he was killing her.” As soon as the words were out, Gus's eyes flew to his. “I'm sorry,” he said, paling. “I... I didn't mean that.”

“I know.”

“Really.”

“It's okay,” Gus said. “I understand.”

Michael cleared his throat, visibly uncomfortable. “All right, then. What are we having?”

“The usual,” Gus said, brightening. “I still can't get over the fact that I found New York-style pastrami in Grafton County, New Hampshire.”

“Every cloud has a silver lining,” Michael said, waving over their waitress. They ordered, and then settled into conversation, steering clear of the landmine topics that had been laid down by unspoken agreement: Melanie, James, and what they had all once been to each other.